13049	----	REVERIES OF A SCHOOLMASTER BY FRANCIS B. PEARSON STATE SUPERINTENDENT OF PUBLIC INSTRUCTION FOR OHIO AUTHOR OF "THE EVOLUTION OF THE TEACHER," "THE HIGH-SCHOOL PROBLEM," "THE VITALIZED SCHOOL." CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS CONTENTS CHAPTER I. IN MEDIAS RES II. RETROSPECT III. BROWN IV. PSYCHOLOGICAL V. BALKING VI. LANTERNS VII. COMPLETE LIVING VIII. MY SPEECH IX. SCHOOL-TEACHING X. BEEFSTEAK XI. FREEDOM XII. THINGS XIII. TARGETS XIV. SINNERS XV. HOEING POTATOES XVI. CHANGING THE MIND XVII. THE POINT OF VIEW XVIII. PICNICS XIX. MAKE-BELIEVE XX. BEHAVIOR XXI. FOREFINGERS XXII. STORY-TELLING XXIII. GRANDMOTHER XXIV. MY WORLD XXV. THIS OR THAT XXVI. RABBIT PEDAGOGY XXVII. PERSPECTIVE XXVIII. PURELY PEDAGOGICAL XXIX. LONGEVITY XXX. FOUR-LEAF CLOVER XXXI. MOUNTAIN-CLIMBING REVERIES OF A SCHOOLMASTER CHAPTER I IN MEDIAS RES I am rather glad now that I took a little dip (one could scarce call it a baptism) into the Latin, and especially into Horace, for that good soul gave me the expression _in medias res_. That is a forceful expression, right to the heart of things, and applies equally well to the writing of a composition or the eating of a watermelon. Those who have crossed the Channel, from Folkstone to Boulogne, know that the stanch little ship _Invicta_ had scarcely left dock when they were _in medias res_. They were conscious of it, too, if indeed they were conscious of anything not strictly personal to themselves. This expression admits us at once to the light and warmth (if such there be) of the inner temple nor keeps us shivering out in the vestibule. Writers of biography are wont to keep us waiting too long for happenings that are really worth our while. They tell us that some one was born at such a time, as if that were really important. Why, anybody can be born, but it requires some years to determine whether his being born was a matter of importance either to himself or to others. When I write my biographical sketch of William Shakespeare I shall say that in a certain year he wrote "Hamlet," which fact clearly justified his being born so many years earlier. The good old lady said of her pastor: "He enters the pulpit, takes his text, and then the dear man just goes everywhere preaching the Gospel." That man had a special aptitude for the _in medias res_ method of procedure. Many children in school who are not versed in Latin would be glad to have their teachers endowed with this aptitude. They are impatient of preliminaries, both in the school and at the dinner-table. And it is pretty difficult to discover just where childhood leaves off in this respect. So I am grateful to Horace for the expression. Having started right in the midst of things, one can never get off the subject, and that is a great comfort. Sometimes college graduates confess (or perhaps boast) that they have forgotten their Latin. I fear to follow their example lest my neighbor, who often drops in for a friendly chat, might get to wondering whether I have not also forgotten much of the English I am supposed to have acquired in college. He might regard my English as quite as feeble when compared with Shakespeare or Milton as my Latin when compared with Cicero or Virgil. So I take counsel with prudence and keep silent on the subject of Latin. When I am taking a stroll in the woods, as I delight to do in the autumn-time, laundering my soul with the gorgeous colors, the music of the rustling leaves, the majestic silences, and the sounds that are less and more than sounds, I often wonder, when I take one bypath, what experiences I might have had if I had taken the other. I'll never know, of course, but I keep on wondering. So it is with this Latin. I wonder how much worse matters could or would have been if I had never studied it at all. As the old man said to the young fellow who consulted him as to getting married: "You'll be sorry if you do, and sorry if you don't." I used to feel a sort of pity for my pupils to think how they would have had no education at all if they had not had me as their teacher; now I am beginning to wonder how much further along they might have been if they had had some other teacher. But probably most of the misfits in life are in the imagination, after all. We all think the huckleberries are more abundant on the other bush. Hoeing potatoes is a calm, serene, dignified, and philosophical enterprise. But at bottom it is much the same in principle as teaching school. In my potato-patch I am merely trying to create situations that are favorable to growth, and in the school I can do neither more nor better. I cannot cause either boys or potatoes to grow. If I could, I'd certainly have the process patented. I know no more about how potatoes grow than I do about the fourth dimension or the unearned increment. But they grow in spite of my ignorance, and I know that there are certain conditions in which they flourish. So the best I can do is to make conditions favorable. Nor do I bother about the weeds. I just centre my attention and my hoe upon loosening the soil and let the weeds look out for themselves. Hoeing potatoes is a synthetic process, but cutting weeds is analytic, and synthesis is better, both for potatoes and for boys. In good time, if the boy is kept growing, he will have outgrown his stone-bruises, his chapped hands, his freckles, his warts, and his physical and spiritual awkwardness. The weeds will have disappeared. The potato-patch is your true pedagogical laboratory and conservatory. If one cannot learn pedagogy there it is no fault of the potato-patch. Horace must have thought of _in medias res_ while hoeing potatoes. There is no other way to do it, and that is bed-rock pedagogy. Just to get right at the work and do it, that's the very thing the teacher is striving toward. Here among my potatoes I am actuated by motives, I invest the subject with human interest, I experience motor activities, I react, I function, and I go so far as to evaluate. Indeed, I run the entire gamut. And then, when I am lying beneath the canopy of the wide-spreading tree, I do a bit of research work in trying to locate the sorest muscle. And, as to efficiency, well, I give myself a high grade in that and shall pass _cum laude_ it the matter is left to me. If our grading were based upon effort rather than achievement, I could bring my aching back into court, if not my potatoes. But our system of grading in the schools demands potatoes, no matter much how obtained, with scant credit for backaches. We have farm ballads and farm arithmetics, but as yet no one has written for us a book on farm pedagogy. I'd do it myself but for the feeling that some Strayer, or McMurry, or O'Shea will get right at it as soon as he has come upon this suggestion. That's my one great trouble. The other fellow has the thing done before I can get around to it. I would have written "The Message to Garcia," but Mr. Hubbard anticipated me. Then, I was just ready to write a luminous description of Yellowstone Falls when I happened upon the one that DeWitt Talmage wrote, and I could see no reason for writing another. So it is. I seem always to be just too late. I wish now that I had written "Recessional" before Kipling got to it. No doubt, the same thing will happen with my farm pedagogy. If one could only stake a claim in all this matter of writing as they do in the mining regions, the whole thing would be simplified. I'd stake my claim on farm pedagogy and then go on hoeing my potatoes while thinking out what to say on the subject. Whoever writes the book will do well to show how catching a boy is analogous to catching a colt out in the pasture. Both feats require tact and, at the very least, horse-sense. The other day I wanted to catch my colt and went out to the pasture for that purpose. There is a hill in the pasture, and I went to the top of this and saw the colt at the far side of the pasture in what we call the swale--low, wet ground, where weeds abound. I didn't want to get my shoes soiled, so I stood on the hill and called and called. The colt looked up now and then and then went on with his own affairs. In my chagrin I was just about ready to get angry when it occurred to me that the colt wasn't angry, and that I ought to show as good sense as a mere horse. That reflection relieved the tension somewhat, and I thought it wise to meditate a bit. Here am I; yonder is the colt. I want him; he doesn't want me. He will not come to me; so I must go to him. Then, what? Oh, yes, native interests--that's it, native interests. I'm much obliged to Professor James for reminding me. Now, just what are the native interests of a colt? Why, oats, of course. So, I must return to the barn and get a pail of oats. An empty pail might do once, but never again. So I must have oats in my pail. Either a colt or a boy becomes shy after he has once been deceived. The boy who fails to get oats in the classroom to-day, will shy off from the teacher to-morrow. He will not even accept her statement that there is oats in the pail, for yesterday the pail was empty--nothing but sound. But even with pail and oats I had to go to the colt, getting my shoes soiled and my clothes torn, but there was no other way. I must begin where the colt (or boy) is, as the book on pedagogy says. I wanted to stay on the hill where everything was agreeable, but that wouldn't get the colt. Now, if Mr. Charles H. Judd cares to elaborate this outline, I urge no objection and shall not claim the protection of copyright. I shall be only too glad to have him make clear to all of us the pedagogical recipe for catching colts and boys. CHAPTER II RETROSPECT Mr. Patrick Henry was probably correct in saying that there is no way of judging the future but by the past, and, to my thinking, he might well have included the present along with the future. Today is better or worse than yesterday or some other day in the past, just as this cherry pie is better or worse than some past cherry pie. But even this pie may seem a bit less glorious than the pies of the past, because of my jaded appetite--a fact that is easily lost sight of. Folks who extol the glories of the good old times may be forgetting that they are not able to relive the emotions that put the zest into those past events. We used to go to "big meeting" in a two-horse sled, with the wagon-body half filled with hay and heaped high with blankets and robes. The mercury might be low in the tube, but we recked not of that. Our indifference to climatic conditions was not due alone to the wealth of robes and blankets, but the proximity of another member of the human family may have had something to do with it. If we could reconstruct the emotional life of those good old times, the physical conditions would take their rightful place as a background. If we could only bring back the appetite of former years we might find this pie better than the pies of old. The good brother who seems to think the textbooks of his boyhood days were better than the modern ones forgets that along with the old-time textbooks went skating, rabbit-hunting, snowballing, coasting, fishing, sock-up, bull-pen, two-old-cat, townball, and shinny-on-the-ice. He is probably confusing those majors with the text-book minor. His criticism of things and books modern is probably a voicing of his regret that he has lost his zeal for the fun and frolic of youth. If he could but drink a few copious drafts from the Fountain of Youth, the books of the present might not seem so inferior after all. The bread and apple-butter stage of our hero's career may seem to dim the lustre of the later porterhouse steak, but with all the glory of the halcyon days of yore it is to be noted that he rides in an automobile and not in an ox-cart, and prefers electricity to the good old oil-lamp. I concede with enthusiasm the joys of bygone days, and would be glad to repeat those experiences with sundry very specific reservations and exceptions. That thick bread with its generous anointing of apple butter discounted all the nectar and ambrosia of the books and left its marks upon the character as well as the features of the recipient. The mouth waters even now as I recall the bill of fare plus the appetite. But if I were going back to the good old days I'd like to take some of the modern improvements along with me. It thrills me to consider the modern school credits for home work with all the "57 varieties" as an integral feature of the good old days. Alas, how much we missed by not knowing about all this! What miracles might have been wrought had we and our teachers only known! Poor, ignorant teachers! Little did they dream that such wondrous things could ever be. Life might have been made a glad, sweet song for us had it been supplied with these modern attachments. I spent many weary hours over partial payments in Ray's Third Part, when I might have been brushing my teeth or combing my hair instead. Then, instead of threading the mazes of Greene's Analysis and parsing "Thanatopsis," I might just as well have been asleep in the haymow, where ventilation was super-abundant. How proudly could I have produced the home certificate as to my haymow experience and received an exhilarating grade in grammar! Just here I interrupt myself to let the imagination follow me homeward on the days when grades were issued. The triumphal processions of the Romans would have been mild by comparison. The arch look upon my face, the martial mien, and the flashing eye all betoken the real hero. Then the pride of that home, the sumptuous feast of chicken and angel-food cake, and the parental acclaim--all befitting the stanch upholder of the family honor. Of course, nothing like this ever really happened, which goes to prove that I was born years too early in the world's history. The more I think of this the more acute is my sympathy with Maud Muller. That girl and I could sigh a duet thinking what might have been. Why, I might have had my college degree while still wearing short trousers. I was something of an adept at milking cows and could soon have eliminated the entire algebra by the method of substitution. Milking the cows was one of my regular tasks, anyhow, and I could thus have combined business with pleasure. And if by riding a horse to water I could have gained immunity from the _Commentaries_ by one Julius Caesar, full lustily would I have shouted, _a la_ Richard III: "A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" One man advocates the plan of promoting pupils in the schools on the basis of character, and this plan strongly appeals to me as right, plausible, and altogether feasible. Had this been proposed when I was a schoolboy I probably should have made a few conditions, or at least have asked a few questions. I should certainly have wanted to know who was to be the judge in the matter, and what was his definition of character. Much would have depended upon that. If he had decreed that cruelty to animals indicates a lack of character and then proceeded to denominate as cruelty to animals such innocent diversions as shooting woodpeckers in a cherry-tree with a Flobert rifle, or smoking chipmunks out from a hollow log, or tying a strip of red flannel to a hen's tail to take her mind off the task of trying to hatch a door-knob, or tying a tin can to a dog's tail to encourage him in his laudable enterprise of demonstrating the principle of uniformly accelerated motion--if he had included these and other such like harmless antidotes for ennui in his category, I should certainly have asked to be excused from his character curriculum and should have pursued the even tenor of my ways, splitting kindling, currying the horse, washing the buggy, carrying water from the pump to the kitchen and saying, "Thank you," to my elders as the more agreeable avenue of promotion. If we had had character credits in the good old days I might have won distinction in school and been saved much embarrassment in later years. Instead of learning the latitude and longitude of Madagascar, Chattahoochee, and Kamchatka, I might have received high grades in geography by abstaining from the chewing of gum, by not wearing my hands in my trousers-pockets, by walking instead of ambling or slouching, by wiping the mud from my shoes before entering the house, by a personally conducted tour through the realms of manicuring, and by learning the position and use of the hat-rack. Getting no school credits for such incidental minors in the great scheme of life, I grew careless and indifferent and acquired a reputation that I do not care to dwell upon. If those who had me in charge, or thought they had, had only been wise and given me school credits for all these things, what a model boy I might have been! Why, I would have swallowed my pride, donned a kitchen apron, and washed the supper dishes, and no normal boy enjoys that ceremony. By making passes over the dishes I should have been exorcising the spooks of cube root, and that would have been worth some personal sacrifice. What a boon it would have been for the home folks too! They could have indulged their penchant for literary exercises, sitting in the parlor making out certificates for me to carry to my teacher next day, and so all the rough places in the home would have been made smooth. But the crowning achievement would have been my graduation from college. I can see the picture. I am husking corn in the lower field. To reach this field one must go the length of the orchard and then walk across the meadow. It is a crisp autumn day, about ten o'clock in the morning, and the sun is shining. The golden ears are piling up under my magic skill, and there is peace. As I take down another bundle from the shock I descry what seems to be a sort of procession wending its way through the orchard. Then the rail fence is surmounted, and the procession solemnly moves across the meadow. In time the president and an assortment of faculty members stand before me, bedight in caps and gowns. I note that their gowns are liberally garnished with Spanish needles and cockleburs, and their shoes give evidence of contact with elemental mud. But then and there they confer upon me the degree of bachelor of arts _magna cum laude_. But for this interruption I could have finished husking that row before the dinner-horn blew. CHAPTER III BROWN My neighbor came in again this evening, not for anything in particular, but unconsciously proving that men are gregarious animals. I like this neighbor. His name is Brown. I like the name Brown, too. It is easy to pronounce. By a gentle crescendo you go to the summit and then coast to the bottom. The name Brown, when pronounced, is a circumflex accent. Now, if his name had happened to be Moriarity I never could be quite sure when I came to the end in pronouncing it. I'm glad his name is not Moriarity--not because it is Irish, for I like the Irish; so does Brown, for he is married to one of them. Any one who has been in Cork and heard the fine old Irishman say in his musical and inimitable voice, "Tis a lovely dye," such a one will ever after have a snug place in his affections for the Irish, whether he has kissed the "Blarney stone" or not. If he has heard this same driver of a jaunting-car rhapsodize about "Shandon Bells" and the author, Father Prout, his admiration for things and people Irish will become well-nigh a passion. He will not need to add to his mental picture, for the sake of emphasis or color, the cherry-cheeked maids who lead their mites of donkeys along leafy roads, the carts heaped high with cabbages. Even without this addition he will become expansive when he speaks of Ireland and the Irish. But, as I was saying, Brown came in this evening just to barter small talk, as we often do. Now, in physical build Brown is somewhere between Falstaff and Cassius, while in mental qualities he is an admixture of Plato, Solomon, and Bill Nye. When he drops in we do not discuss matters, nor even converse; we talk. Our talk just oozes out and flows whither it wills, or little wisps of talk drift into the silences, and now and then a dash of homely philosophy splashes into the talking. Brown is a real comfort. He is never cryptic, nor enigmatic, at least consciously so, nor does he ever try to be impressive. If he were a teacher he would attract his pupils by his good sense, his sincerity, his simplicity, and his freedom from pose. I cannot think of him as ever becoming teachery, with a high-pitched voice and a hysteric manner. He has too much poise for that. He would never discuss things with children. He would talk with them. Brown cannot walk on stilts, nor has the air-ship the least fascination for him. One of my teachers for a time was Doctor T. C. Mendenhall, and he was a great teacher. He could sound the very depths of his subject and simply talk it. He led us to think, and thinking is not a noisy process. Truth to tell, his talks often caused my poor head to ache from overwork. But I have been in classes where the oases of thought were far apart and one could doze and dream on the journey from one to the other. Doctor Mendenhall's teaching was all white meat, sweet to the taste, and altogether nourishing. He is the man who made the first correct copy of Shakespeare's epitaph there in the church at Stratford-on-Avon. I sent a copy of Doctor Mendenhall's version to Mr. Brassinger, the librarian in the Memorial Building, and have often wondered what his comment was. He never told me. There are those "who, having eyes, see not." There had been thousands of people who had looked at that epitaph with the printed copy in hand, and yet had never noticed the discrepancy, and it remained for an American to point out the mistake. But that is Doctor Mendenhall's way. He is nothing if not thorough, and that proves his scientific mind. Well, Brown fell to talking about the Isle of Pines, in the course of our verbal exchanges, and I drew him out a bit, receiving a liberal education on the subjects of grapefruit, pineapples, and bananas. From my school-days I have carried over the notion that the Caribbean Sea is one of the many geographical myths with which the school-teacher is wont to intimidate boys who would far rather be scaring rabbits out from under a brush heap. But here sits a man who has travelled upon the Caribbean Sea, and therefore there must be such a place. Our youthful fancies do get severe jolts! From my own experience I infer that much of our teaching in the schools doesn't take hold, that the boys and girls tolerate it but do not believe. I cannot recall just when I first began to believe in Mt. Vesuvius, but I am quite certain that it was not in my school-days. It may have been in my teaching-days, but I'm not quite certain. I have often wondered whether we teachers really believe all we try to teach. I feel a pity for poor Sisyphus, poor fellow, rolling that stone to the top of the hill, and then having to do the work all over when the stone rolled to the bottom. But that is not much worse than trying to teach Caribbean Sea and Mt. Vesuvius, if we can't really believe in them. But here is Brown, metamorphosed into a psychologist who begins with the known, yea, delightfully known grapefruit which I had at breakfast, and takes me on a fascinating excursion till I arrive, by alluring stages, at the related unknown, the Caribbean Sea. Too bad that Brown isn't a teacher. Brown has the gift of holding on to a thing till his craving for knowledge is satisfied. Somewhere he had come upon some question touching a campanile or, possibly, _the_ Campanile, as it seemed to him. Nor would he rest content until I had extracted what the books have to say on the subject. He had in mind the Campanile at Venice, not knowing that the one beside the Duomo at Florence is higher than the one at Venice, and that the Leaning Tower at Pisa is a campanile, or bell-tower, also. When I told him that one of my friends saw the Campanile at Venice crumble to a heap of ruins on that Sunday morning back in 1907, and that another friend had been of the last party to go to the top of it the evening before, he became quite excited, and then I knew that I had succeeded in investing the subject with human interest, and I felt quite the schoolmaster. Nothing of this did I mention to Brown, for there is no need to exploit the mental machinery if only you get results. Many people who travel abroad buy postcards by the score, and seem to feel that they are the original discoverers of the places which these cards portray, and yet these very places were the background of much of their history and geography in the schools. Can it be that their teachers failed to invest these places with human interest, that they were but words in a book and not real to them at all? Must I travel all the way to Yellowstone Park to know a geyser? Alas! in that case, many of us poor school-teachers must go through life geyserless. Wondrous tales and oft heard I in my school-days of glacier, iceberg, canyon, snow-covered mountain, grotto, causeway, and volcano, but not till I came to Grindelwald did I really know what a glacier is. There's many a Doubting Thomas in the schools. CHAPTER IV PSYCHOLOGICAL The psychologist is so insistent in proclaiming his doctrine of negative self-feeling and positive self-feeling that one is impelled to listen out of curiosity, if nothing else. Then, just as you are beginning to get a little glimmering as to his meaning, another one begins to assail your ears with a deal of sesquipedalian English about the emotion of subjection and the emotion of elation. Just as I began to think I was getting a grip of the thing a college chap came in and proceeded to enlighten me by saying that these two emotions may be generated only by personal relations, and not by relations of persons and things. I was thinking of my emotion of subjection in the presence of an original problem in geometry, but this college person tells me that this negative self-feeling, according to psychology, is experienced only in the presence of another person. Well, I have had that experience, too. In fact, my negative self-feeling is of frequent occurrence. Jacob must have had a rather severe attack of the emotion of subjection when he was trying to escape from the wrath of Esau. But, after his experience at Bethel, where he received a blessing and a promise, there was a shifting from the negative self-feeling to the positive--from the emotion of subjection to that of elation. The stone which Jacob used that night as a pillow, so we are told, is called the Stone of Scone, and is to be seen in the body of the Coronation Chair in Westminster Abbey. The use of that stone as a part of the chair might seem to be a psychological coincidence, unless, indeed, we can conceive that the fabricators of the chair combined a knowledge of psychology and also of the Bible in its construction. It is an interesting conceit, at any rate, that the stone might bring to kings and queens a blessing and a promise, as it had done for Jacob, averting the emotion of subjection and perpetuating the emotion of elation. Now, there's Hazzard, the big, glorious Hazzard. I met him first on the deck of the S. S. _Campania_, and I gladly agreed to his proposal that we travel together. He is a large man (one need not be more specific) and a veritable steam-engine of activity and energy. It was altogether natural, therefore, that he should assume the leadership of our party of two in all matters touching places, modes of travel, hotels, and other details large and small, while I trailed along in his wake. This order continued for some days, and I, of course, experienced all the while the emotion of subjection in some degree. When we came to the Isle of Man we puzzled our heads no little over the curious coat of arms of that quaint little country. This coat of arms is three human legs, equidistant from one another. At Peel we made numerous inquiries, and also at Ramsey, but to no avail. In the evening, however, in the hotel at Douglas I saw a picture of this coat of arms, accompanied by the inscription, _Quocumque jeceris stabit_, and gave some sort of translation of it. Then and there came my emancipation, for after that I was consulted and deferred to during all the weeks we were together. It is quite improbable that Hazzard himself realized any change in our relations, but unconsciously paid that subtle tribute to my small knowledge of Latin. When we came to Stratford I did not call upon Miss Marie Corelli, for I had heard that she is quite averse to men as a class, and I feared I might suffer an emotional collapse. I was so comfortable in my newly acquainted emotion of elation that I decided to run no risks. When at length I resumed my schoolmastering I determined to give the boys and girls the benefit of my recent discovery. I saw that I must generate in each one, if possible, the emotion of elation, that I must so arrange school situations that mastery would become a habit with them if they were to become "masters in the kingdom of life," as my friend Long says it. I saw at once that the difficulties must be made only high enough to incite them to effort, but not so high as to cause discouragement. I recalled the sentence in Harvey's Grammar: "Milo began to lift the ox when he was a calf." After we had succeeded in locating the antecedent of "he" we learned from this sentence a lesson of value, and I recalled this lesson in my efforts to inculcate progressive mastery in the boys and girls of my school. I sometimes deferred a difficult problem for a few days till they had lifted the growing calf a few more times, and then returned to it. Some one says that everything is infinitely high that we can't see over, so I was careful to arrange the barriers just a bit lower than the eye-line of my pupils, and then raise them a trifle on each succeeding day. In this way I strove to generate the positive self-feeling so that there should be no depression and no white flag. And that surely was worth a trip to the Isle of Man, even if one failed to see one of their tailless cats. I had occasion or, rather, I took occasion at one time to punish a boy with a fair degree of severity (may the Lord forgive me), and now. I know that in so doing I was guilty of a grave error. What I interpreted as misconduct was but a straining at his leash in an effort to extricate himself from the incubus of the negative self-feeling. He was, and probably is, a dull fellow and realized that he could not cope with the other boys in the school studies, and so was but trying to win some notice in other fields of activity. To him notoriety was preferable to obscurity. If I had only been wise I would have turned his inclination to good account and might have helped him to self-mastery, if not to the mastery of algebra. He yearned for the emotion of elation, and I was trying to perpetuate his emotion of subjection. If Methuselah had been a schoolmaster he might have attained proficiency by the time he reached the age of nine hundred and sixty-eight years if he had been a close observer, a close student of methods, and had been willing and able to profit by his own mistakes. Friend Virgil says something like this: "They can because they think they can," and I heartily concur. Some one tells us that Kent in "King Lear" got his name from the Anglo-Saxon word can and he was aptly named, in view of Virgil's statement. But can I cause my boys and girls to think they can? Why, most assuredly, if I am any sort of teacher. Otherwise I ought to be dealing with inanimate things and leave the school work to those who can. I certainly can help young folks to shift from the emotion of subjection to the emotion of elation. I had a puppy that we called Nick and thought I'd like to teach him to go up-stairs. When he came to the first stair he cried and cowered and said, in his language, that it was too high, and that he could never do it. So, in a soothing way, I quoted Virgil at him and placed his front paws upon the step. Then he laughed a bit and said the step wasn't as high as the moon, after all. So I patted him and called him a brave little chap, and he gained the higher level. Then we rested for a bit and spent the time in being glad, for Nick and I had read our "Pollyanna" and had learned the trick of gladness. Well, before the day was over that puppy could go up the stairs without the aid of a teacher, and a gladder dog never was. If I had taken as much pains with that boy as I did with Nick I'd feel far more comfortable right now, and the boy would have felt more comfortable both then and after. O schoolmastering! How many sins are committed in thy name! I succeeded with the puppy, but failed with the boy. A boy does not go to school to study algebra, but studies algebra to learn mastery. I know this now, but did not know it then, more's the pity! I had another valuable lesson in this phase of pedagogy the day my friend Vance and I sojourned to Indianapolis to call upon Mr. Benjamin Harrison, who had somewhat recently completed his term as President of the United States. We were fortified with ample and satisfactory credentials and had a very fortunate introduction; but for all that we were inclined to walk softly into the presence of greatness, and had a somewhat acute attack of negative self-feeling. However, after due exchange of civilities, we succeeded somehow in preferring the request that had brought us into his presence, and Mr. Harrison's reply served to reassure us. Said he: "Oh, no, boys, I couldn't do that; last year I promised Bok to write some articles for his journal, and I didn't have any fun all summer." His two words, "boys" and "fun," were the magic ones that caused the tension to relax and generated the emotion of elation. We then sat back in our chairs and, possibly, crossed our legs--I can't be certain as to that. At any rate, in a single sentence this man had made us his co-ordinates and caused the negative self-feeling to vanish. Then for a good half-hour he talked in a familiar way about great affairs, and in a style that charmed. He told us of a call he had the day before from David Starr. Jordan, who came to report his experience as a member of the commission that had been appointed to adjudicate the controversy between the United States and England touching seal-fishing in the Behring Sea. It may be recalled that this commission consisted of two Americans, two Englishmen, and King Oscar of Sweden. Mr. Harrison told us quite frankly that he felt a mistake had been made in making up the commission, for, with two Americans and two Englishmen on the commission, the sole arbiter in reality was King Oscar, since the other four were reduced to the plane of mere advocates; but, had there been three Americans and two Englishmen, or two Americans and three Englishmen, the function of all would have been clearly judicial. Suffice it to say that this great man made us forget our emotion of subjection, and so made us feel that he would have been a great teacher, just as he was a great statesman. I shall always be grateful for the lesson he taught me and, besides, I am glad that the college chap came in and gave me that psychological massage. CHAPTER V BALKING When I write my book on farm pedagogy I shall certainly make large use of the horse in illustrating the fundamental principles, for he is a noble animal and altogether worthy of the fullest recognition. We often use the expression "horse-sense" somewhat flippantly, but I have often seen a driver who would have been a more useful member of society if he had had as much sense as the horses he was driving. If I were making a catalogue of the "lower animals" I'd certainly include the man who abuses a horse. Why, the celebrated German trick-horse, Hans, had even the psychologists baffled for a long time, but finally he taught them a big chapter in psychology. They finally discovered that his marvellous tricks were accomplished through the power of close observation. Facial expression, twitching of a muscle, movements of the head, these were the things he watched for as his cue in answering questions by indicating the right card. There was a teacher in our school once who wore old-fashioned spectacles. When he wanted us to answer a question in a certain way he unconsciously looked over his spectacles; but when he wanted a different answer he raised his spectacles to his forehead. So we ranked high in our daily grades, but met our Waterloo when the examination came around. That teacher, of course, had never heard of the horse Hans, and so was not aware that in the process of watching his movements we were merely proving that we had horse-sense. He probably attributed our ready answers to the superiority of his teaching, not realizing that our minds were concentrated upon the subject of spectacles. Of course, a horse balks now and then, and so does a boy. I did a bit of balking myself as a boy, and I am not quite certain that I have even yet become immune. Doctor James Wallace (whose edition of "Anabasis" some of us have read, halting and stumbling along through the parasangs) with three companions went out to Marathon one day from Athens. The distance, as I recall it, is about twenty-two miles, and they left early in the morning, so as to return the same day. Their conveyance was an open wagon with two horses attached. When they had gone a mile or two out of town one of the horses balked and refused to proceed. Then and there each member of the party drew upon his past experiences, seeking a panacea for the equine delinquency. One suggested the plan of building a fire under the recalcitrant horse, while another suggested pouring sand into his ears. Doctor Wallace discouraged these remedies as being cruel and finally told the others to take their places in the wagon and he would try the merits of a plan he had in mind. Accordingly, when they were seated, he clambered over the dash, walked along the wagon-pole, and suddenly plumped himself down upon the horse's back. Then away they went, John Gilpin like, Doctor Wallace's coat-tails and hair streaming out behind. There was no more balking in the course of the trip, and no one (save, possibly, the horse) had any twinges of conscience to keep him awake that night. The incident is brimful of pedagogy in that it shows that, in order to cure a horse of an attack of balking, you have but to distract his mind from his balking and get him to thinking of something else. Before this occurrence taught me the better way, I was quite prone, in dealing with a balking boy, to hold his mind upon the subject of balking. I told him how unseemly it was, how humiliated his father and mother would be, how he could not grow up to be a useful citizen if he yielded to such tantrums; in short, I ran the gamut of all the pedagogical bromides, and so kept his mind centred upon balking. Now that I have learned better, I strive to divert his mind to something eke, and may ask him to go upon some pleasant errand that he may gain some new experiences. When he returns he has forgotten that he was balking and recounts his experiences most delightfully. Ed was one of the balkiest boys I ever had in my school. His attacks would often last for days, and the more attention you paid to him the worse he balked. In the midst of one of these violent and prolonged attacks a lady came to school who, in the kindness of her generous nature, was proposing to give a boy Joe (now a city alderman) a Christmas present of a new hat. She came to invoke my aid in trying to discover the size of Joe's head. I readily undertook the task, which loomed larger and larger as I came fully to realize that I was the sole member of the committee of ways and means. In my dire perplexity I saw Ed grouching along the hall. Calling him to one side, I explained to the last detail the whole case, and confessed that I did not know how to proceed. At once his face brightened, and he readily agreed to make the discovery for me; and in half an hour I had the information I needed and Ed's face was luminous. Yes, Joe got the hat and Ed quit balking. If Doctor Wallace had not gone to Marathon that day I can scarcely imagine what might have happened to Ed; and Joe might not have received a new hat. I have often wondered whether a horse has a sense of humor. I know a boy has, and I very strongly suspect that the horse has. It was one of my tasks in boyhood to take the horses down to the creek for water. Among others we had a roan two-year-old colt that we called Dick, and even yet I think of him as quite capable of laughter at some of his own mischievous pranks. One day I took him to water, dispensing with the formalities of a bridle, and riding him down through the orchard with no other habiliments than a rope halter. In the orchard were several trees of the bellflower variety, whose branches sagged near to the ground. Dick was going along very decorously and sedately, as if he were studying the golden text or something equally absorbing, when, all at once, some spirit of mischief seemed to possess him and away he bolted, willy-nilly, right under the low-hanging branches of one of those trees. Of course, I was raked fore and aft, and, while I did not imitate the example of Absalom, I afforded a fairly good imitation, with the difference that, through many trials and tribulations, I finally reached the ground. Needless to say that I was a good deal of a wreck, with my clothing much torn and my hands and face not only much torn but also bleeding. After relieving himself of his burden, Dick meandered on down to the creek in leisurely fashion, where I came upon him in due time enjoying a lunch of grass. Walking toward the creek, sore in body and spirit, I fully made up my mind to have a talk with that colt that he would not soon forget. He had put shame upon me, and I determined to tell him so. But when I came upon him looking so lamblike in his innocence, and when I imagined that I heard him chuckle at my plight, my resolution evaporated, and I realized that in a trial of wits he had got the better of me. Moreover, I conceded right there that he had a right to laugh, and especially when he saw me so superlatively scrambled. He had beaten me on my own ground and convicted me of knowing less than a horse, so I could but yield the palm to him with what grace I could command. Many a time since that day have I been unhorsed, and by a mere boy who laughed at my discomfiture. But I learned my lesson from Dick and have always tried, though grimly, to applaud the victor in the tournament of wits. Only so could I hold the respect of the boy, not to mention my own. If a boy sets a trap for me and I walk into it, well, if he doesn't laugh at me he isn't much of a boy; and if I can't laugh with him I am not much of a schoolmaster. CHAPTER VI LANTERNS I may be mistaken, but my impression is that "The Light of the World," by Holman Hunt, is the only celebrated picture in the world of which there are two originals. One of these may be seen at Oxford and the other in St. Paul's, London. Neither is a copy of the other, and yet they are both alike, so far as one may judge without having them side by side. The picture represents Christ standing at a door knocking, with a lantern in one hand from which light is streaming. When I think of a lantern the mind instantly flashes to this picture, to Diogenes and his lantern, and to the old tin lantern with its perforated cylinder which I used to carry out to the barn to arrange the bed-chambers for the horses. All my life have I been hearing folks speak of the association of ideas as if one idea could conjure up innumerable others. The lantern that I carried to the barn never could have been associated with Diogenes if I had not read of the philosopher, nor with the picture at Oxford if I had never seen or heard of it. In order that we have association of ideas, we must first have the ideas, according to my way of thinking. Thus it chanced that when I came upon some reference to Holman Hunt and his great masterpiece, my mind glanced over to the cynical philosopher and his lantern. The more I ponder over that lantern the more puzzled I become as to its real significance. The popular notion is that it is meant to show how difficult it was in his day to find an honest man. But popular conceptions are sometimes superficial ones, and if Diogenes was the philosopher we take him to have been there must have been more to that lantern than the mere eccentricity of the man who carried it. If we could go back of the lantern we might find the cynic's definition of honesty, and that would be worth knowing. Back home we used to say that an honest man is one who pays his debts and has due respect for property rights. Perhaps Diogenes had gone more deeply into the matter of paying debts as a mark of honesty than those who go no further in their thinking than the grocer, the butcher, and the tax-man. This all tends to set me thinking of my own debts and the possibility of full payment. I'm just a schoolmaster and people rather expect me to be somewhat visionary or even fantastic in my notions. But, with due allowance for my vagaries, I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I am deeply in debt to somebody for the Venus de Milo. She has the reputation of being the very acme of sculpture, and certainly the Parisians so regard her or they would not pay her such a high tribute in the way of space and position. She is the focus of that whole wonderful gallery. No one has ever had the boldness to give her a place in the market quotations, but I can regale myself with her beauty for a mere pittance. This pittance does not at all cancel my indebtedness, and I come away feeling that I still owe something to somebody, without in the least knowing who it is or how I am to pay. I can't even have the poor satisfaction of making proper acknowledgment to the sculptor. I can acknowledge my obligation to Michael Angelo for the Sistine ceiling, but that doesn't cancel my indebtedness by any means. It took me fifteen years to find the Cumaean Sibyl. I had seen a reproduction of this lady in some book, and had become much interested in her generous physique, her brawny arms, her wide-spreading toes, and her look of concentration as she delves into the mysteries of the massive volume before her. Naturally I became curious as to the original, and wondered if I should ever meet her face to face. Then one day I was lying on my back on a wooden bench in the Sistine Chapel, having duly apologized for my violation of the conventions, when, wonder of wonders, there was the Cumaean Sibyl in full glory right before my eyes, and the quest of all those years was ended in triumph. True, the Sibyl does not compare in greatness with the "Creation of Adam" in one of the central panels, but for all that I was glad to have her definitely localized. I have never got it clearly figured out just how the letters of the alphabet were evolved, nor who did the work, but I go right on using them as if I had evolved them myself. They seem to be my own personal property, and I jostle them about quite careless of the fact that some one gave them to me. I can't see how I could get on without them, and yet I have never admitted any obligation to their author. The same is true of the digits. I make constant use of them, and sometimes even abuse them, as if I had a clear title to them. I have often wondered who worked out the table of logarithms, and have thought how much more agreeable life has been for many people because of his work. I know my own debt to him is large, and I dare say many others have a like feeling. Even the eighth-grade boys in the Castle Road school, London, share this feeling, doubtless, for in a test in arithmetic that I saw there I noted that in four of the twelve problems set for solution they had permission to use their table of logarithms. They probably got home earlier for supper by their use of this table. I hereby make my humble apologies to Mr. Thomas A. Edison for my thoughtlessness in not writing to him before this to thank him for his many acts of kindness to me. I have been exceedingly careless in the matter. I owe him for the comfort and convenience of this beautiful electric light, and yet have never mentioned the matter to him. He has a right to think me an ingrate. I have been so busy enjoying the gifts he has sent me that I have been negligent of the giver. As I think of all my debts to scientists, inventors, artists, poets, and statesmen, and consider how impossible it is for me to pay all my debts to all these, try as I may, I begin to see how difficult it was for Diogenes to find a man who paid all his debts in full. Hence, the lantern. It seems to me that, of the varieties of late potatoes the Carmen is the premier. Part of the charm of hoeing potatoes lies in anticipating the joys of the potato properly baked. Charles Lamb may write of his roast pig, and the epicures among the ancients may expatiate upon the glories of a dish of peacock's tongues and their other rare and costly edibles, but they probably never knew to what heights one may ascend in the scale of gastronomic joys in the immediate presence of a baked Carmen. When it is broken open the steam ascends like incense from an altar, while at the magic touch the snowy, flaky substance billows forth upon the plate in a drift that would inspire the pen of a poet. The further preliminaries amount to a ceremony. There can be, there must be no haste. The whole summer lies back of this moment. There on the plate are weeks of golden sunshine, interwoven with the singing of birds and the fragrance of flowers; and it were sacrilege to become hurried at the consummation. When the meat has been made fine the salt and pepper are applied, deliberately, daintily, and then comes the butter, like the golden glow of sunset upon a bank of flaky clouds. The artist tries in vain to rival this blending of colors and shades. But the supreme moment and the climax come when the feast is glorified and set apart by its baptism of cream. At such a moment the sense of my indebtedness to the man who developed the Carmen becomes most acute. If the leaders of contending armies could sit together at this table and join in this gracious ceremony, their rancor and enmity would cease, the protocol would be signed, and there would ensue a proclamation of peace. Then the whole world would recognize its debt to the man who produced this potato. Having eaten the peace-producing potato, I feel strengthened to make another trial at an interpretation of that lantern. I do not know whether Diogenes had any acquaintance with the Decalogue, but have my doubts. In fact, history gives us too few data concerning his attainments for a clear exposition of his character. But one may hazard a guess that he was looking for a man who would not steal, but could not find him. In a sense that was a high compliment to the people of his day, for there is a sort of stealing that takes rank among the fine arts. In fact, stealing is the greatest subject that is taught in the school. I cannot recall a teacher who did not encourage me to strive for mastery in this art. Every one of them applauded my every success in this line. One of my early triumphs was reciting "Horatius at the Bridge," and my teacher almost smothered me with praise. I simply took what Macaulay had written and made it my own. I had some difficulty in making off with the conjugation of the Greek verb, but the more I took of it the more my teacher seemed pleased. All along the line I have been encouraged to appropriate what others have produced and to take joy in my pilfering. Mr. Carnegie has lent his sanction to this sort of thing by fostering libraries. Shakespeare was arrested for stealing a deer, but extolled for stealing the plots of "Romeo and Juliet," "Comedy of Errors," and others of his plays. It seems quite all right to steal ideas, or even thoughts, and this may account again for the old man's lantern. But, even so, it would seem quite iconoclastic to say that education is the process of reminding people of their debts and of training them to steal. CHAPTER VII COMPLETE LIVING In my quiet way I have been making inquiries among my acquaintances for a long time, trying to find out what education really is. As a schoolmaster I must try to make it appear that I know. In fact, I am quite a Sir Oracle on the subject of education in my school. But, in the quiet of my den, after the day's work is done, I often long for some one to come in and tell me just what it is. I am fairly conversant with the multiplication table and can distinguish between active and passive verbs, but even with these attainments I somehow feel that I have not gone to the extreme limits of the meaning of education. In reality, I don't know what it is or what it is for. I do wish that the man who says in his book that education is a preparation for complete living would come into this room right now, sit down in that chair, and tell me, man to man, what complete living is. I want to know and think I have a right to know. Besides, he has no right to withhold this information from me. He had no right to get me all stirred up with his definition, and then go away and leave me dangling in the air. If he were here I'd ask him a few pointed questions. I'd ask him to tell me just how the fact that seven times nine is sixty-three is connected up with complete living. I'd want him to explain, too, what the binomial theorem has to do with complete living, and also the dative of reference. I got the notion, when I was struggling with that binomial theorem, that it would ultimately lead on to fame or fortune; but it hasn't done either, so far as I can make out. There was a time when I could solve an equation of three unknown quantities, and could even jimmy a quantity out from under a radical sign, and had the feeling that I was quite a fellow. Then one day I went into a bookstore to buy a book. I had quite enough money to pay for one, and had somehow got the notion that a boy of my attainments ought to have a book. But, in the presence of the blond chap behind the counter, I was quite abashed, for I did not in the least know what book I wanted. I knew it wasn't a Bible, for we had one at home, but further than that I could not go. Now, if knowing how to buy a book is a part of complete living, then, in that blond presence, I was hopelessly adrift. I had been taught that gambling is wrong, but there was a situation where I had to take a chance or show the white feather. Of course, I took the chance and was relieved of my money by a blond who may or may not have been able to solve radicals. I shall not give the title of the book I drew in that lottery, for this is neither the time nor the place for confessions. I was a book-agent for one summer, but am trying to live it down. Hoping to sell a copy of the book whose glowing description I had memorized, I called at the home of a wealthy farmer. The house was spacious and embowered in beautiful trees and shrubbery. There was a noble driveway that led up from the country road, and everything betokened great prosperity. Once inside the house, I took a survey of the fittings and could see at once that the farmer had lavished money upon the home to make it distinctive in the neighborhood as a suitable background for his wife and daughters. The piano alone must have cost a small fortune, and it was but one of the many instruments to be seen. There were carpets, rugs, and curtains in great profusion, and a bewildering array of all sorts of bric-a-brac. In time the father asked one of the daughters to play, and she responded with rather unbecoming alacrity. What she played I shall never know, but it seemed to me to be a five-finger exercise. Whatever it was, it was not music. I lost interest at once and so had time to make a more critical inspection of the decorations. What I saw was a battle royal. There was the utmost lack of harmony. The rugs fought the carpets, and both were at the throats of the curtains. Then the wall-paper joined in the fray, and the din and confusion was torture to the spirit. Even the furniture caught the spirit of discord and made fierce attacks upon everything else in the room. The reds, and yellows, and blues, and greens whirled and swirled about in such a dizzy and belligerent fashion that I wondered how the people ever managed to escape nervous prostration. But the daughter went right on with the five-finger exercise as if nothing else were happening. I shall certainly cite this case when the man comes in to explain what he means by complete living. This all reminds me of the man of wealth who thought it incumbent upon him to give his neighbors some benefit of his money in the way of pleasure. So he went to Europe and bought a great quantity of marble statuary and had the pieces placed in the spacious grounds about his home. When the opening day came there ensued much suppressed tittering and, now and then, an uncontrollable guffaw. Diana, Venus, Vulcan, Apollo, Jove, and Mercury had evidently stumbled into a convention of nymphs, satyrs, fairies, sprites, furies, harpies, gargoyles, giants, pygmies, muses, and fates. The result was bedlam. Parenthetically, I have often wondered how much money it cost that man to make the discovery that he was not a connoisseur of art, and also what process of education might have fitted him for a wise expenditure of all that money. So I go on wondering what education is, and nobody seems quite willing to tell me. I bought some wall-paper once, and when it had been hung there was so much laughter at my taste, or lack of it, that, in my chagrin, I selected another pattern to cover up the evidence of my ignorance. But that is expensive, and a schoolmaster can ill afford such luxurious ignorance. People were unkind enough to say that the bare wall would have been preferable to my first selection of paper, I was made conscious that complete living was impossible so long as that paper was visible. But even when the original had been covered up I looked at the wall suspiciously to see whether it would show through as a sort of subdued accusation against me. I don't pretend to know whether taste in the selection of wall-paper is inherent or acquired. If it can be acquired, then I wonder, again, just how cube root helps it along. I don't know what education is, but I do know that it is expensive. I had some pictures in my den that seemed well enough till I came to look at some others, and then they seemed cheap and inadequate. I tried to argue myself out of this feeling, but did not succeed. As a result, the old pictures have been supplanted by new ones, and I am poorer in consequence. But, in spite of my depleted purse, I take much pleasure in my new possessions and feel that they are indications of progress. I wonder, though, how long it will be till I shall want still other and better ones. Education may be a good thing, but it does increase and multiply one's wants. Then, in a brief time, these wants become needs, and there you have perpetual motion. When the agent came to me first to try to get me interested in an encyclopaedia I could scarce refrain from smiling. But later on I began to want an encyclopaedia, and now the one I have ranks as a household necessity the same as bathtub, coffee-pot, and tooth-brush. But, try as I may, I can't clearly distinguish between wants and needs. I see a thing that I want, and the very next day I begin to wonder how I can possibly get on without it. This must surely be the psychology of show-windows and show-cases. If I didn't see the article I should feel no want of it, of course. But as soon as I see it I begin to want it, and then I think I need it. The county fair is a great psychological institution, because it causes people to want things and then to think they need them. The worst of it is the less able I am to buy a thing the more I want it and seem to need it. I'd like to have money enough to make an experiment on myself just to see if I could ever reach the point, as did the Caliph, where the only want I'd have would be a want. Possibly, that's what the man means by complete living. I wonder. CHAPTER VIII MY SPEECH For some time I have had it in mind to make a speech. I don't know what I would say nor where I could possibly find an audience, but, in spite of all that, I feel that I'd like to try myself out on a speech. I can't trace this feeling back to its source. It may have started when I heard a good speech, somewhere, or, it may have started when I heard a poor one. I can't recall. When I hear a good speech I feel that I'd like to do as well; and, when I hear a poor one, I feel that I'd like to do better. The only thing that is settled, as yet, about this speech that I want to make is the subject, and even that is not my own. It is just near enough my own, however, to obviate the use of quotation-marks. The hardest part of the task of writing or speaking is to gain credit for what some one else has said or written, and still be able to omit quotation-marks. That calls for both mental and ethical dexterity of a high order. But to the speech. The subject is Dialectic Efficiency--without quotation-marks, be it noted. The way of it is this: I have been reading, or, rather, trying to read the masterly book by Doctor Fletcher Durell, whose title is "Fundamental Sources of Efficiency." This is one of the most recondite books that has come from the press in a generation, and it is no reflection upon the book for me to say that I have been trying to read it. It is so big, so deep, so high, and so wide that I can only splash around in it a bit. But "the water's fine." At any rate, I have been dipping into this book quite a little, and that is how I came upon the caption of my speech. Of course, I get the word "efficiency" from the title of the book, and, besides, everybody uses that word nowadays. Then, the author of this book has a chapter on "Dialectic," and so I combine these two words and thus get rid of the quotation-marks. And that certainly is an imposing subject for a speech. If it should ever be printed on a programme, it would prove awe-inspiring. Next to making a good speech, I'd like to be skilled in sleight-of-hand affairs. I'd like to fish up a rabbit from the depths of an old gentleman's silk tile, or extract a dozen eggs from a lady's hand-bag, or transmute a canary into a goldfish. I'd like to see the looks of wonder on the faces of the audience and hear them gasp. The difficulty with such a subject as I have chosen, though, is to fill the frame. I went into a shop in Paris once to make some small purchase, expecting to find a great emporium, but, to my surprise, found that all the goods were in the show-window. That's one trouble with my subject--all the goods seem to be in the show-window. But, I'll do the best I can with it, even if I am compelled to pilfer from the pages of the book. In the introduction of the speech I shall become expansive upon the term _Dialectic_, and try to impress my hearers (if there are any) with my thorough acquaintance with all things which the term suggests. If I continue expatiating upon the word long enough they may come to think that I actually coined the word, for I shall not emphasize Doctor Durell especially--just enough to keep my soul untarnished. In a review of this book one man translates the first word "luck." I don't like his word and for two reasons: In the first place, it is a short word, and everybody knows that long words are better for speechmaking purposes. If he had used the word "accidental" or "incidental" I'd think more of his translation and of his review. I'm going to use my word as if Doctor Durell had said _Incidental_. So much for the introduction; now for the speech. From this point forward I shall draw largely upon the book but shall so turn and twist what the doctor says as to make it seem my own. With something of a flourish, I shall tell how in the year 1856 a young chemist, named Perkin, while trying to produce quinine synthetically, hit upon the process of producing aniline dyes. His incidental discovery led to the establishment of the artificial-dye industry, and we have here an example of dialectic efficiency. This must impress my intelligent and cultured auditors, and they will be wondering if I can produce another illustration equally good. I can, of course, for this book is rich in illustrations. I can see, as it were, the old fellow on the third seat, who has been sitting there as stiff and straight as a ramrod, limber up just a mite, and with my next point I hope to induce him to lean forward an inch, at least, out of the perpendicular. Then I shall proceed to recount to them how Christopher Columbus, in an effort to circumnavigate the globe and reach the eastern coast of Asia, failed in this undertaking, but made a far greater achievement in the discovery of America. If, at this point, the old man is leaning forward two or three inches instead of one, I may ask, in dramatic style, where we should all be to-day if Columbus had reached Asia instead of America--in other words, if this principle of dialectic efficiency had not been in full force. Just here, to give opportunity for possible applause, I shall take the handkerchief from my pocket with much deliberation, unfold it carefully, and wipe my face and forehead as an evidence that dispensing second-hand thoughts is a sweat-producing process. Then, in a sort of sublimated frenzy, I shall fairly deluge them with illustrations, telling how the establishment of rural mail-routes led to improved roads and these, in turn, to consolidated schools and better conditions of living in the country; how the potato-beetle, which seems at first to be a scourge, was really a blessing in disguise in that it set farmers to studying improved methods resulting in largely increased crops, and how the scale has done a like service for fruit-growers; how a friend of mine was drilling for oil and found water instead, and now has an artesian well that supplies water in great abundance, and how one Mr. Hellriegel, back in 1886, made the incidental discovery that leguminous plants fixate nitrogen, and, hence, our fields of clover, alfalfa, cow-peas, and soybeans. It will not seem out of place if I recall to them how the Revolution gave us Washington, the Adamses, Hancock, Madison, Franklin, Jefferson, and Hamilton; how slavery gave us Clay, Calhoun, and Webster; and how the Civil War gave us Lincoln, Seward, Stanton, Grant, Lee, Sherman, Sheridan, and "Stonewall" Jackson. If there should, by chance, be any teachers present I'll probably enlarge upon this historical phase of the subject if I can think of any other illustrations. I shall certainly emphasize the fact that the incidental phases of school work may prove to be more important than the objects directly aimed at, that while the teacher is striving to inculcate a knowledge of arithmetic she may be inculcating manhood and womanhood, and that the by-products of her teaching may become world-wide influences. As a peroration, I shall expand upon the subject of pleasure as an incidental of work--showing how the mere pleasure-seeker never finds what he is seeking, but that the man who works is the one who finds pleasure. I think I shall be able to find some apt quotation from Emerson before the time for the speech comes around. If so, I shall use it so as to take their minds off the fact that I am taking the speech from Doctor Durell's book. CHAPTER IX SCHOOL-TEACHING The first school that I ever tried to teach was, indeed, fearfully and wonderfully taught. The teaching was of the sort that might well be called elemental. If there was any pedagogy connected with the work, it was purely accidental. I was not conscious either of its presence or its absence, and so deserve neither praise nor censure. I had one pupil who was nine years my senior, and I did not even know that he was retarded. I recall quite distinctly that he had a luxuriant crop of chin-whiskers but even these did not disturb the procedure of that school. We accepted him as he was, whiskers included, and went on our complacent way. He was blind in one eye and somewhat deaf, but no one ever thought of him as abnormal or subnormal. Even if we had known these words we should have been too polite to apply them to him. In fact, we had no black-list, of any sort, in that school. I have never been able to determine whether the absence of such a list was due to ignorance, or innocence, or both. So long as he found the school an agreeable place in which to spend the winter, and did not interfere with the work of others, I could see no good reason why he should not be there and get what he could from the lessons in spelling, geography, and arithmetic. I do not mention grammar for that was quite beyond him. The agreement of subject and verb was one of life's great mysteries to him. So I permitted him to browse around in such pastures as seemed finite to him, and let the infinite grammar go by default so far as he was concerned. I have but the most meagre acquaintance with the pedagogical dicta of the books--a mere bowing acquaintance--but, at that time, I had not even been introduced to any of these. But, as the saying goes, "The Lord takes care of fools and children," and, so, somehow, by sheer blind luck, I instinctively veered away from the Procrustean bed idea, and found some work for my bewhiskered disciple that connected with his native dispositions. Had any one told me I was doing any such things I think I should, probably, have asked him how to spell the words he was using. I only knew that this man-child was there yearning for knowledge, and I was glad to share my meagre store of crumbs with him. His gratitude for my small gifts was really pathetic, and right there I learned the joys of the teacher. That man sought me out on our way home from school and asked questions that would have puzzled Socrates, but forgot my ignorance of hard questions in his joy at my answers of easy ones. When some light would break in upon him he cavorted about me like a glad dog, and became a second Columbus, discovering a new world. I almost lose patience with myself, at times, when I catch myself preening my feathers before some pedagogical mirror, as if I were getting ready to appear in public as an accredited schoolmaster. At such a time, I long to go back to the country road and saunter along beside some pupil, either with or without whiskers, and give him of my little store without rules or frills and with no pomp or parade. In that little school at the crossroads we never made any preparation for some possible visitor who might come in to survey us or apply some efficiency test, or give us a rating either as individuals or as a school. We were too busy and happy for that. We kept right on at our work with our doors and our hearts wide open for every good thing that came our way, whether knowledge or people. As I have said, our work was elemental. I am glad I came across this little book of William James, "On Some of Life's Ideals," for it takes me back, inferentially, to that elemental school, especially in this paragraph which says: "Life is always worth living, if one have such responsive sensibilities. But we of the highly educated classes (so-called) have most of us got far, far away from Nature. We are trained to seek the choice, the rare, the exquisite exclusively and to overlook the common. We are stuffed with abstract conceptions, and glib with verbalities and verbosities; and in the culture of these higher functions the peculiar sources of joy connected with our simpler functions often dry up, and we grow stone-blind and insensible to life's more elementary and general goods and joys." I wish I might go home from school one evening by way of the top of Mt. Vesuvius, another by way of Mt. Rigi, and, another, by way of Lauterbrunnen. Then the next evening I should like to spend an hour or two along the borders of Yellowstone Canyon, and the next, watch an eruption or two of Old Faithful geyser. Then, on still another evening, I'd like to ride for two hours on top of a bus in London. I'd like to have these experiences as an antidote for emptiness. It would prepare me far better for to-morrow work than pondering Johnny's defections, or his grades, whether high or low, or marking silly papers with marks that are still sillier. I like Walt Whitman because he was such a sublime loafer. His loafing gave him time to grow big inside, and so, he had big elemental thoughts that were good for him and good for me when I think them over after him. If I should ever get a position in a normal school I'd want to give a course in William J. Locke's "The Beloved Vagabond," so as to give the young folks a conception of big elemental teaching. If I were giving a course in ethics, I'd probably select another book, but, in pedagogy, I'd certainly include that one. I'd lose some students, to be sure, for some of them would be shocked; but a person who is not big enough to profit by reading that book never ought to teach school--I mean for the school's sake. If we could only lose the consciousness of the fact that we are schoolmasters for a few hours each day, it would be a great help to us and to our boys and girls. I am quite partial to the "Madonna of the Chair," and wish I might visit the Pitti Gallery frequently just to gaze at her. She is so wholesome and gives one the feeling that a big soul looks out through her eyes. She would be a superb teacher. She would fill the school with her presence and still do it all unconsciously. The centre of the room would be where she happened to be. She would never be mistaken for one of the pupils. Her pupils would learn arithmetic but the arithmetic would be laden with her big spirit, and that would be better for them than the arithmetic could possibly be. If I had to be a woman I'd want to be such as this Madonna--serene, majestic, and big-souled. I have often wondered whether bigness of soul can be cultivated, and my optimism inclines to a vote in the affirmative. I spent a part of one summer in the pine woods far away from the haunts of men. When I had to leave this sylvan retreat it required eleven hours by stage to reach the railway-station. There for some weeks I lived in a log cabin, accompanied by a cook and a professional woodsman. I was not there to camp, to fish, or to loaf, and yet I did all these. There were some duties and work connected with the enterprise and these gave zest to the fishing and the loafing. Giant trees, space, and sky were my most intimate associates, and they told me only of big things. They had never a word to say of styles of clothing or becoming shades of neckwear or hosiery. In all that time I was never disturbed by the number and diversity of spoons and forks beside my plate at the dinner-table. Many a noble meal I ate as I sat upon a log supported in forked stakes, and many a big thought did I glean from the talk of loggers about me in their picturesque costumes. In the evening I sat upon a great log in front of the cabin or a friendly stump, and forgot such things as hammocks and porch-swings. Instead of gazing at street-lamps only a few yards away I was gazing at stars millions of miles away, and, somehow, the soul seemed to gain freedom. And I had luxury, too. I had a room with bath. The bath was at the stream some fifty yards away, but such discrepancies are minor affairs in the midst of such big elemental things as were all about me. My mattress was of young cherry shoots, and never did king have a more royal bed, or ever such refreshing sleep. And, while I slept, I grew inside, for the soft music of the pines lulled me to rest, and the subdued rippling of my bath-stream seemed to wash my soul clean. When I arose I had no bad taste in my mouth or in my soul, and each morning had for me the glory of a resurrection. My trees were there to bid me good morning, the big spaces spoke to me in their own inspiriting language, and the big sun, playing hide-and-seek among the great boles of the trees as he mounted from the horizon, gave me a panorama unrivalled among the scenes of earth. When I returned to what men called civilization, I experienced a poignant longing for my big trees, my sky, and my spaces, and felt that I had exchanged them for many things that are petty and futile. If my school were only out in the heart of that big forest, I feel that my work would be more effective and that I would not have to potter about among little things to obey the whims of convention and the dictates of technicalities, but that the soul would be free to revel in the truth that sky and space proclaim. I do hope I may never know so much about technical pedagogy that I shall not know anything else. This may be what those people mean who speak of the "revolt of the ego." CHAPTER X BEEFSTEAK I am just now quite in the mood to join the band; I mean the vocational-education band. The excitement has carried me off my feet. I can't endure the looks of suspicion or pity that I see on the faces of my colleagues. They stare at me as if I were wearing a tie or a hat or a coat that is a bit below standard. I want to seem, if not be, modern and up-to-date, and not odd and peculiar. So I shall join the band. I am not caring much whether I beat the drum, carry the flag, or lead the trick-bear. I may even ride in the gaudily painted wagon behind a spotted pony and call out in raucous tones to all and sundry to hurry around to the main tent to get their education before the rush. In times past, when these vocational folks have piped unto me I have not danced; but I now see the error of my ways and shall proceed at once to take dancing lessons. When these folks lead in the millennium I want to be sitting well up in front; and when they get the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow I want to participate in the distribution. I do hope, though, that I may not exhaust my resources on the band and have none left for the boys and girls. I hope I may not imitate Mark Twain's steamboat that stopped dead still when the whistle blew, because blowing the whistle required all the steam. I suspect that, like the Irishman, I shall have to wear my new boots awhile before I can get them on, for this new role is certain to entail many changes in my plans and in my ways of doing things. I can see that it will be a wrench for me to think of the boys and girls as pedagogical specimens and not persons. I have contracted the habit of thinking of them as persons, and it will not be easy to come to thinking of them as mere objects to practise on. The folks in the hospital speak of their patients as "cases," but I'd rather keep aloof from the hospital plan in my schoolmastering. But, being a member of the band, I suppose that I'll feel it my duty to conform and do my utmost to help prove that our cult has discovered the great and universal panacea, the balm in Gilead. As a member of the band, in good and regular standing, I shall find myself saying that the school should have the boys and girls pursue such studies as will fit them for their life-work. This has a pleasing sound. Now, if I can only find out, somehow, what the life-work of each one of my pupils is to be, I'll be all right, and shall proceed to fit each one out with his belongings. I have asked them to tell me what their life-work is to be, but they tell me they do not know. So I suspect that I must visit all their parents in order to get this information. Until I get this information I cannot begin on my course of study. If their parents cannot tell me I hardly know what I shall do, unless I have recourse to their maiden aunts. They ought to know. But if they decline to tell I must begin on a long series of guesses, unless, in the meantime, I am endowed with omniscience. This whole plan fascinates me; I dote upon it. It is so pliable, so dreamy, and so opalescent that I can scarce restrain my enthusiasm. But if I should fit one of my boys out with the equipment necessary for a blacksmith, and then he should become a preacher, I'd find the situation embarrassing. My reputation as a prophet would certainly decline. If I could know that this boy is looking forward to the ministry as his life-work, the matter would be simple. I'd proceed to fit him out with a fire-proof suit of Greek, Hebrew, and theology and have the thing done. But even then some of my colleagues might protest on the assumption that Greek and Hebrew are not vocational studies. The preacher might assert that they are vocational for his work, in which case I'd find myself in the midst of an argument. I know a young man who is a student in a college of medicine. He is paying his way by means of his music. He both plays and sings, and can thus pay his bills. In the college he studies chemistry, anatomy, and the like. I'm trying to figure out whether or not, in his case, either his music or his chemistry is vocational. I have been perusing the city directory to find out how many and what vocations there are, that I may plan my course of study accordingly when I discover what the life-work of each of my pupils is to be. If I find that one boy expects to be an undertaker he ought to take the dead languages, of course. If another boy expects to be a jockey he might take these same languages with the aid of a "pony." If a girl decides upon marriage as her vocation, I'll have her take home economics, of course, but shall have difficulty in deciding upon her other studies. If I omit Latin, history, and algebra, she may reproach me later on because of these omissions. She may find that such studies as these are essential to success in the vocation of wife and mother. She may have a boy of her own who will invoke her aid in his quest for the value of x, and a mother hesitates to enter a plea of ignorance to her own child. I can fit out the dancing-master easily enough, but am not so certain about the barber, the chauffeur, and the aviator. The aviator would give me no end of trouble, especially if I should deem it necessary to teach him by the laboratory method. Then, again, if one boy decides to become a pharmacist, I may find it necessary to attend night classes in this subject myself in order to meet the situation with a fair degree of complacency. Nor do I see my way clear in providing for the steeple-climber, the equilibrist, the railroad president, or the tea-taster. I'll probably have my troubles, too, with the novel-writer, the poet, the politician, and the bareback rider. But I must manage somehow if I hope to retain my membership in the band. I see that I shall have to serve quite an apprenticeship in the band before I write my treatise on the subject of pedagogical predestination. The world needs that essay, and I must get around to it just as soon as possible. Of course, that will be a great step beyond the present plan of finding out what a boy expects to do, and then teaching him accordingly. My predestination plan contemplates the process of arranging such a course of study for him as will make him what we want him to be. A naturalist tells me that when a queen bee dies the swarm set to work making another queen by feeding one of the common working bees some queen stuff. He failed to tell me just what this queen stuff is. That process of producing a queen bee is what gave me the notion as to my treatise. If the parents want their boy to become a lawyer I shall feed him lawyer stuff; if a preacher, then preacher stuff, and so on. This will necessitate a deal of research work, for I shall have to go back into history, first of all, to find out the course of study that produced Newton, Humboldt, Darwin, Shakespeare, Dante, Edison, Clara Barton, and the rest of them. If a roast-beef diet is responsible for Shakespeare, surely we ought to produce another Shakespeare, considering the excellence of the cattle we raise. I can easily discover the constituent elements of the beef pudding of which Samuel Johnson was so fond by writing to the old Cheshire Cheese in London. Of course, this plan of mine seems not to take into account the Lord's work to any large extent. But that seems to be the way of us vocationalists. We seem to think we can do certain things in spite of what the Lord has or has not done. The one danger that I foresee in all this work that I have planned is that it may produce overstimulation. Some one was telling me that the trees on the Embankment there in London are dying of arboreal insomnia. The light of the sun keeps them awake all day, and the electric lights keep them awake all night. So the poor things are dying from lack of sleep. Macbeth had some trouble of that sort, too, as I recall it. I'm going to hold on to the vocational stimulation unless I find it is producing pedagogical insomnia. Then I'll resign from the band and take a long nap. I'll continue to advocate pudding, pastry, and pie until I find that they are not producing the sort of men and women the world needs, and then I'll beat an inglorious retreat and again espouse the cause of orthodox beefsteak. CHAPTER XI FREEDOM I have often wondered what conjunction of the stars caused me to become a schoolmaster, if, indeed, the stars, lucky or otherwise, had anything to do with it. It may have been the salary that lured me, for thirty-five dollars a month bulks large on a boy's horizon. Possibly the fact that in those days there was no anteroom to the teaching business may have been the deciding factor. One had but to exchange his hickory shirt for a white one, and the trick was done. There was not even a fence between the corn-field and the schoolhouse. I might just as easily have been a preacher but for the barrier in the shape of a theological seminary, or a hod-carrier but for the barrier of learning how. As it was, I could draw my pay for husking corn on Saturday night, and begin accumulating salary as a schoolmaster on Monday. The plan was simplicity itself, and that may account for my choice of a vocation. I have sometimes tried to imagine myself a preacher, but with poor success. The sermon would bother me no little, to make no mention of the other functions. I think I never could get through with a marriage ceremony, and at a christening I'd be on nettles all the while, fearing the baby would cry and thus disturb the solemnity of the occasion and of the preacher. I'd want to take the baby into my own arms and have a romp with him--and so would forget about the baptizing. In casting about for a possible text for this impossible preacher, I have found only one that I think I might do something with. Hence, my preaching would endure but a single week, and even at that we'd have to have a song service on Sunday evening in lieu of a sermon. My one text would be: "Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free." I do not know how big truth is, but it must be quite extensive if science, mathematics, history, and literature are but small parts of it. I have never explored these parts very far inland, but they seem to my limited gaze to extend a long distance before me; and when I get to thinking that each of these is but a part of something that is called truth I begin to feel that truth is a pretty large affair. I suspect the text means that the more of this truth we know the greater freedom we have. My friend Brown has an automobile, and sometimes he takes me out riding. On one of these occasions we had a puncture, with the usual attendant circumstances. While Brown made the needful repairs, I sat upon the grassy bank. The passers-by probably regarded me as a lazy chap who disdained work of all sorts, and perhaps thought of me as enjoying myself while Brown did the work. In this they were grossly mistaken, for Brown was having the good time, while I was bored and uncomfortable. Why, Brown actually whistled as he repaired that puncture. He had freedom because he knew which tool to use, where to find it, and how to use it. But there I sat in ignorance and thraldom--not knowing the truth about the tools or the processes. In the presence of that episode I felt like one in a foreign country who is ignorant of the language, while Brown was the concierge who understands many languages. He knew the truth and so had freedom. I have often wondered whether men do not sometimes get drunk to win a respite from the thraldom and boredom of their ignorance of the truth. It must be a very trying experience not to understand the language that is spoken all about one. I have something of that feeling when I go into a drug-store and find myself in complete ignorance of the contents of the bottles because I cannot read the labels. I have no freedom because I do not know the truth. The dapper clerk who takes down one bottle after another with refreshing freedom relegates me to the kindergarten, and I certainly feel and act the part. I had this same feeling, too, when I was making ready to sow my little field with alfalfa. I wanted to have alfalfa growing in the field next to the road for my own pleasure and for the pleasure of the passers-by. A field of alfalfa is an ornament to any landscape, and I like to have my landscapes ornamental, even if I must pay for it in terms of manual toil. I had never even seen alfalfa seed and did not in the least know how to proceed in preparing the soil. If I ever expected to have any freedom I must first learn the truth, and a certain modicum of freedom necessarily precedes the joy of alfalfa. Thus it came to pass that I set about learning the truth. I had to learn about the nature of the soil, about drainage, about the right kinds of fertilizer, and all that, before I could even hitch the team to a plough. Some of this truth I gleaned from books and magazines, but more of it I obtained from my neighbor John, who lives about two hundred yards up the pike from my little place. John is a veritable encyclopedia of truth when it comes to the subject of alfalfa. There I would sit at the feet of this alfalfa Gamaliel. Be it said in favor of my reactions that I learned the trick of alfalfa and now have a field that is a delight to the eye. And I now feel qualified to give lessons in alfalfa culture to all and sundry, so great is my sense of freedom. I came upon a forlorn-looking woman once in a large railway-station who was in great distress. She wanted to get a train, but did not know through which gate to go nor where to obtain the necessary information. She was overburdened with luggage and a little girl was tugging at her dress and crying pitifully. That woman was as really in bondage as if she had been in prison looking out through the barred windows. When she had finally been piloted to the train the joy of freedom manifested itself in every lineament of her face. She had come to know the truth, and the truth had set her free. I know how she felt, for one night I worked for more than two hours on what, to me, was a difficult problem, and when at last I had it solved the manifestations of joy caused consternation to the family and damage to the furniture. I never was in jail for any length of time, but I think I know, from my experience with that problem, just how a prisoner feels when he is set free. The big out-of-doors must seem inexpressibly good to him. My neighbor John taught me how to spray my trees, and now, when I walk through my orchard and see the smooth trunks and pick the beautiful, smooth, perfect apples, I feel that sense of freedom that can come only through a knowledge of the truth. I haven't looked up the etymology of _grippe_, but the word itself seems to tell its own story. It seems to mean restriction, subjection, slavery. It certainly spells lack of freedom. I have seen many boys and girls who seemed afflicted with arithmetical, grammatical, and geographical grippe, and I have sought to free them from its tyranny and lead them forth into the sunlight and pure air of freedom. If I only knew just how to do this effectively I think I'd be quite reconciled to the work of a schoolmaster. CHAPTER XII THINGS I keep resolving and resolving to reform and lead the simple life, but something always happens that prevents the execution of my plans. When I am grubbing out willows along the ravine, the grubbing-hoe, a lunch-basket well filled, and a jug of water from the deep well up there under the trees seem to be the sum total of the necessary appliances for a life of usefulness and contentment. There is a friendly maple-tree near the scene of the grubbing activities, and an hour at noon beneath that tree with free access to the basket and the jug seems to meet the utmost demands of life. The grass is luxuriant, the shade is all-embracing, and the willows can wait. So, what additions can possibly be needed? I lie there in the shade, my hunger and thirst abundantly satisfied, and contemplate the results of my forenoon's toil with the very acme of satisfaction. There is now a large, clear space where this morning there was a jungle of willows. The willows have been grubbed out _imis sedibus_, as our friend Virgil would say it, and not merely chopped off; and the thoroughness of the work gives emphasis to the satisfaction. The overalls, the heavy shoes, and the sunshade hat all belong in the picture. But the entire wardrobe costs less than the hat I wear on Sunday. Then the comfort of these inexpensive habiliments! I need not be fastidious in such a garb, but can loll on the grass without compunction. When I get mud upon my big shoes I simply scrape it off with a chip, and that's all there is to it. The dirt on my overalls is honest dirt, and honestly come by, and so needs no apology. I can talk to my neighbor John of the big things of life and feel no shame because of overalls. Then, in the evening, when resting from my toil, I sit out under the leafy canopy and revel in the sounds that can be heard only in the country--the croaking of the frogs, the soft twittering of the birds somewhere near, yet out of sight, the cosey crooning of the chickens as they settle upon their perches for the night, and the lonely hooting of the owl somewhere in the big tree down in the pasture. I need not move from my seat nor barter my money for a concert in some majestic hall ablaze with lights when such music as this may be had for the listening. Under the magic of such music the body relaxes and the soul expands. The soft breezes caress the brow, and the moon makes shimmering patterns on the grass. But when I return to the town to resume my school-mastering, then the strain begins, and then the reign of complexities is renewed. When I am fully garbed in my town clothing I find myself the possessor of nineteen pockets. What they are all for is more than I can make out. If I had them all in use I'd have to have a detective along with me to help me find things. Out there on the farm two pockets quite suffice, but in the town I must have seventeen more. The difference between town and country seems to be about the difference between grubbing willows and schoolmastering. Among the willows I find two pockets are all I require; but among the children I must needs have nineteen, whether I have anything in them or not. One of these seems to be designed for a college degree; another is an efficiency pocket; another a discipline pocket; another a pocket for methods; another for professional spirit; another for loyalty to all the folks who are in need of loyalty, and so on. I really do not know all the labels. When I was examined for a license to teach they counted my pockets, and, finding I had the requisite nineteen, they bestowed upon me the coveted document with something approaching _eclat_. In my teaching I become so bewildered ransacking these pockets, trying to find something that will bear some resemblance to the label, that I come near forgetting the boys and girls. But they are very nice and polite about it, and seem to feel sorry that I must look after all my pockets when I'd so much rather be teaching. Out in the willow thicket I can go right on with my work without so much care or perplexity. Why, I don't need to do any talking out there, and so have time to do some thinking. But here I do so much talking that neither I nor my pupils have any chance for thinking. I know it is not the right way, but, somehow, I keep on doing it. I think it must be a bad habit, but I don't do it when I am grubbing willows. I seem to get to the bottom of things out there without talking, and I can't make out why I don't do the same here in the school. Out there I do things; in here I say things. I do wonder if there is any forgiveness for a schoolmaster who uses so many words and gets such meagre results. And then the words I use here are such ponderous things. They are not the sort of human, flesh-and-blood words that I use when talking to neighbor John as we sit on top of the rail fence. These all seem so like words in a book, as if I had rehearsed them in advance. It may be just the town atmosphere, but, whatever it is, I do wish I could talk to these children about decimals in the same sort of words that I use when I am talking with John. He seems to understand me, and I think they could. Possibly it is just the tension of town life. I know that I seem to get keyed up as soon as I come into the town. There are so many things here, and many of them are so artificial that I seem unable to relax as I do out there where there are just frogs, and moon, and chickens, and cows. When I am here I seem to have a sort of craze for things. The shop-windows are full of things, and I seem to want all of them. I know I have no use for them, and yet I get them. My neighbor Brown bought a percolator, and within a week I had one. I had gone on for years without a percolator, not even knowing about such a thing, but no sooner had Brown bought one than every sound I heard seemed to be inquiring: "What is home without a percolator?" So I go on accumulating things, and my den is a veritable medley of things. They don't make me any happier, and they are a great bother. There are fifty-seven things right here in my den, and I don't need more than six or seven of them. There are twenty-two pictures, large and small, in this room, but I couldn't have named five of them had I not just counted them. Why I have them is beyond my comprehension. I inveigh against the mania of people for drugs and narcotics, but my mania for things only differs in kind from theirs. I have a little book called "Things of the Mind," and I like to read it. Now, if my mind only had as many things in it as my den, I'd be a far more agreeable associate for Brown and my neighbor John. Or, if I were as careful about getting things for my mind as I am in accumulating useless bric-a-brac, it would be far more to my credit. If the germs that are lurking in and about these fifty-seven things should suddenly become as large as spiders, I'd certainly be the unhappy possessor of a flourishing menagerie, and I think my progress toward the simple life would be very promptly hastened. CHAPTER XIII TARGETS In my work as a schoolmaster I find it well to keep my mind open and not get to thinking that my way is the only way, or even the best way. I think I learn more from my boys and girls than they learn from me, and so long as I can keep an open mind I am certain to get some valuable lessons from them. I got to telling the college chap about a hen that taught me a good lesson, and the first thing I knew I was going to school to this college youth, and he was enlightening me on the subject of animal psychology, and especially upon the trial-and-error theory. That set me wondering how many trials and errors that hen made before she finally succeeded in surmounting that fence. At any rate, the hen taught me another lesson besides the lesson of perseverance. I have a high wire fence enclosing the chicken-yard, and in order to make steady the posts to which the gate is attached, I joined them at the top by nailing a board across. The hen that taught me the lesson must be both ambitious and athletic, for time after time have I found her outside the chicken-yard. I searched diligently for the place of exit, but could not find it. So, in desperation, I determined one morning to discover how that hen gained her freedom if it took all day. So I found a comfortable seat and waited. In an hour or so the hen came out into the open and took a survey of the situation. Then, presently, with skill born of experience, she sidled this way and that, advanced a little and then retreated until she found the exact location she sought, poised herself for a moment, and went sailing right over the board that connected the posts. Having made this discovery, I removed the board and used wire instead, and thus reduced the hen to the plane of obedience. Just as soon as the hen lacked something to aim at, she could not get over the wire barrier, and she taught me the importance of giving my pupils something to aim at. I like my boys and girls, and believe they are just as smart as any hen that ever was, and that, if I'll only supply things for them to aim at, they will go high and far. Every time I see that hen I am the subject of diverse emotions. I feel half angry at myself for being so dull that a mere hen can teach me, and then I feel glad that she taught me such a useful lesson. Before learning this lesson I seemed to expect my pupils to take all their school work on faith, to do it because I told them it would be good for them. But I now see there is a better way. In my boyhood days we always went to the county fair, and that was one of the real events of the year. On the morning of that day there was no occasion for any one to call me a second time. I was out of bed in a trice, at the first call, and soon had my chores done ready for the start. I had money in my pocket, too, for visions of pink lemonade, peanuts, ice-cream, candy, and colored balloons had lured me on from achievement to achievement through the preceding weeks, and thrift had claimed me for its own. So I had money because, all the while, I had been aiming at the county fair. We used to lay out corn ground with a single-shovel plough, and took great pride in marking out a straight furrow across the field. There was one man in the neighborhood who was the champion in this art, and I wondered how he could do it. So I set about watching him to try to learn his art. At either end of the field he had a stake several feet high, bedecked at the top with a white rag. This he planted at the proper distance from the preceding furrow and, in going across the field, kept his gaze fixed upon the white rag that topped the stake. With a firm grip upon the plough, and his eyes riveted upon the white signal, he moved across the field in a perfectly straight line. I had thought it the right way to keep my eyes fixed upon the plough until his practice showed me that I had pursued the wrong course. My furrows were crooked and zigzag, while his were straight. I now see that his skill came from his having something to aim at. I am trying to profit by the example of that farmer in my teaching. I'm all the while in quest of stakes and white rags to place at the other side of the field to direct the progress of the lads and lasses in a straight course, and raise their eyes away from the plough that they happen to be using. I want to keep them thinking of things that are bigger and further along than grades. The grades will come as a matter of course, if they can keep their eyes on the object across the field. I want them to be too big to work for mere grades. We never give prizes in our school, especially money prizes. It would seem rather a cheap enterprise to my fine boys and girls to get a piece of money for committing to memory the "Gettysburg Speech." We respect ourselves and Lincoln too much for that. It would grieve me to know that one of my girls could be hired to read a book for an hour in the evening to a sick neighbor. I want her to have her pay in a better and more enduring medium than that. I'd hope she would aim at something higher than that. If I can arrange the white rag, I know the pupils will do the work. There was Jim, for example, who said to his father that he just couldn't do his arithmetic, and wished he'd never have to go to school another day. When his father told me about it I began at once to hunt for a white rag. And I found it, too. We can generally find what we are looking for, if we look in dead earnest. Well, the next morning there was Jim in the arithmetic class along with Tom and Charley. I explained the absence of Harry by telling them about his falling on the ice the night before and breaking his right arm. I told them how he could get on well enough with his other studies, but would have trouble with his arithmetic because he couldn't use his arm. Now, Tom and Charley are quick in arithmetic, and I asked Tom to go over to Harry's after school and help with the arithmetic, and Charley to go over the next day, and Jim the third day. Now, anybody can see that white rag fluttering at the top of the stake across the field two days ahead. So, my work was done, and I went on with my daily duties. Tom reported the next day, and his report made our mouths water as he told of the good things that Harry's mother had set out for them to eat. The report of Charley the next day was equally alluring. Then Jim reported, and on his day that good mother had evidently reached the climax in culinary affairs. Jim's eyes and face shone as if he had been communing with the supernals. That was the last I ever heard of Jim's trouble with arithmetic. His father was eager to know how the change had been brought about, and I explained on the score of the angel-food cake and ice-cream he had had over at Harry's, with no slight mention of my glorious white rag. The books, I believe, call this social co-operation, or something like that, but I care little what they call it so long as Jim's all right. And he is all right. Why, there isn't money enough in the bank to have brought that look to Jim's face when he reported that morning, and any offer to pay him for his help to Harry, either in money or school credits, would have seemed an insult. My neighbor John tells me many things about sheep and the way to drive them. He says when he is driving twenty sheep along the road he doesn't bother about the two who frisk back to the rear of the flock so long as he keeps the other eighteen going along. He says those two will join the others, all in good time. That helped me with those three boys. I knew that Tom and Charley would go along all right, so asked them to go over to Harry's before I mentioned the matter to Jim. When I did ask him he came leaping and frisking into the flock as if he were afraid we might overlook him. What a beautiful straight furrow he ploughed, too. His arithmetic work now must make the angels smile. I shall certainly mention sheep, the hen, and the white rag in my book on farm pedagogy. CHAPTER XIV SINNERS I take unction to myself, sometimes, in the reflection that I have a soul to save, and in certain moments of uplift it seems to me to be worth saving. Some folks probably call me a sinner, if not a dreadful sinner, and I admit the fact without controversy. I do not have at hand a list of the cardinal sins, but I suspect I might prove an alibi as to some of them. I don't get drunk; I don't swear; I go to church; and I contribute, mildly, to charity. But, for all that, I'm free to confess myself a sinner. Yet, I still don't know what sin is, or what is the way of salvation either for myself or for my pupils. I grope around all the while trying to find this way. At times, I think they may find salvation while they are finding the value of _x_ in an algebraic equation, and possibly this is true. I cannot tell. If they fail to find the value of _x_, I fall to wondering whether they have sinned or the teacher that they cannot find _x_. I have attended revivals in my time, and have had good from them. In their pure and rarefied atmosphere I find myself in a state of exaltation. But I find myself in need of a continuous revival to keep me at my best. So, in my school work, I feel that I must be a revivalist or my pupils will sag back, just as I do. I find that the revival of yesterday will not suffice for to-day. Like the folks of old, I must gather a fresh supply of manna each day. Stale manna is not wholesome. I suspect that one of my many sins is my laziness in the matter of manna. I found the value of _x_ in the problem yesterday, and so am inclined to rest to-day and celebrate the victory. If I had to classify myself, I'd say that I am an intermittent. I eat manna one day, and then want to fast for a day or so. I suspect that's what folks mean by a besetting sin. During my fasting I find myself talking almost fluently about my skill and industry as a gatherer of manna, I suspect I am trying to make myself believe that I'm working in the manna field to-day, by keeping my mind on my achievement yesterday. That's another sin to my discredit, and another occasion for a revival. When I am fasting I do the most talking about how busy I am. If I were harvesting manna I'd not have time for so much talk. I should not need to tell how busy I am, for folks could see for themselves. I have tried to analyze this talk of mine about being so busy just to see whether I am trying to deceive myself or my neighbors. I fell to talking about this the other day to my neighbor John, and detected a faint smile on his face which I interpreted to be a query as to what I have to show for all my supposed industry. Well, I changed the subject. That smile on John's face made me think of revivals. I read Henderson's novel, "John Percyfield," and enjoyed it so much that when I came upon his other book, "Education and the Larger Life," I bought and read it. But it has given me much discomfort. In that book he says that it is immoral for any one to do less than his best. I can scarcely think of that statement without feeling that I ought to be sent to jail. I'm actually burdened with immorality, and find myself all the while between the "devil and the deep sea," the "devil" of work, and the "deep sea" of immorality. I suppose that's why I talk so much about being busy, trying to free myself from the charge of immorality. I think it was Virgil who said _Facilis descensus Averno_, and I suppose Mr. Henderson, in his statement, is trying to save me from the inconveniences of this trip. I suppose I ought to be grateful to him for the hint, but I just can't get any great comfort in such a close situation. I know I must work or go hungry, and I can stand a certain amount of fasting, but to be stamped as immoral because I am fasting rather hurts my pride. I'd much rather have my going hungry accounted a virtue, and receive praise and bouquets. When I am in a lounging mood it isn't any fun to have some Henderson come along and tell me that I am in need of a revival. A copy of "Baedeker" in hand, I have gone through a gallery of statues but did not find a sinner in the entire company. The originals may have been sinners, but not these marble statues. That is some comfort. To be a sinner one must be animate at the very least. I'd rather be a sinner, even, than a mummy or a statue. St. Paul wrote to Timothy: "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith." There was nothing of the mummy or the statue in him. He was just a straight-away sinful man, and a glorious sinner he was. I like to think of Titian and Michael Angelo. When their work was done and they stood upon the summit of their achievements they were up so high that all they had to do was to step right into heaven, without any long journey. Tennyson did the same. In his poem, "Crossing the Bar," he filled all the space, and so he had to cross over into heaven to get more room. And Riley's "Old Aunt Mary" was another one. She had been working out her salvation making jelly, and jam, and marmalade, and just beaming goodness upon those boys so that they had no more doubts about goodness than they had of the peach preserves they were eating. Why, there just had to be a heaven for old Aunt Mary. She gathered manna every day, and had some for the boys, too, but never said a word about being busy. When I was reading the _Georgics_ with my boys, we came upon the word _bufo_ (toad), and I told them with much gusto that that was the only place in the language where the word occurs. I had come upon this statement in a book that they did not have. Their looks spoke their admiration for the schoolmaster who could speak with authority. After they had gone their ways, two to Porto Rico, one to Chili, another to Brazil, and others elsewhere, I came upon the word _bufo_ again in Ovid. I am still wondering what a schoolmaster ought to do in a case like that. Even if I had written to all those fellows acknowledging my error, it would have been too late, for they would, long before, have circulated the report all over South America and the United States that there is but one toad in the Latin language. If I hadn't believed everything I see in print, hadn't been so cock-sure, and hadn't been so ready to parade borrowed plumage as my own, all this linguistic coil would have been averted. I suppose Mr. Henderson would send me to jail again for this. I certainly didn't do my best, and therefore I am immoral, and therefore a sinner; _quad erat demonstrandum_. So, I suppose, if I'm to save my soul, I must gather manna every day, and if I find the value of _x_ to-day, I must find the value of a bigger _x_ to-morrow. Then, too, I suppose I'll have to choose between Mrs. Wiggs and Emerson, between the Katzenjammers and Shakespeare, and between ragtime and grand opera. I am very certain growing corn gives forth a sound only I can't hear it. If my hearing were only acute enough I'd hear it and rejoice in it. It is very trying to miss the sound when I am so certain that it is there. The birds in my trees understand one another, and yet I can't understand what they are saying in the least. This simply proves my own limitations. If I could but know their language, and all the languages of the cows, the sheep, the horses, and the chickens, what a good time I could have with them. If my powers of sight and hearing were increased only tenfold, I'd surely find a different world about me. Here, again, I can't find the value of _x_, try as I will. The disquieting thing about all this is that I do not use to the utmost the powers I have. I could see many more things than I do if I'd only use my eyes, and hear things, too, if I'd try more. The world of nature as it reveals itself to John Burroughs is a thousand times larger than my world, no doubt, and this fact convicts me of doing less than my best, and again the jail invites me. CHAPTER XV HOEING POTATOES As I was lying in the shade of the maple-tree down there by the ravine, yesterday, I fell to thinking about my rights, and the longer I lay there the more puzzled I became. Being a citizen in a democracy, I have many rights that are guaranteed to me by the Constitution, notably life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. In my school I become expansive in extolling these rights to my pupils. But under that maple-tree I found myself raising many questions as to these rights, and many others. I have a right to sing tenor, but I can't sing tenor at all, and when I try it I disturb my neighbors. Right there I bump against a situation. I have a right to use my knife at table instead of a fork, and who is to gainsay my using my fingers? Queen Elizabeth did. I certainly have a right to lie in the shade of the maple-tree for two hours to-day instead of one hour, as I did yesterday. I wonder if reclining on the grass under a maple-tree is not a part of the pursuit of happiness that is specifically set out in the Constitution? I hope so, for I'd like to have that wonderful Constitution backing me up in the things I like to do. The sun is so hot and hoeing potatoes is such a tiring task that I prefer to lounge in the shade with my back against the Constitution. In thinking of the pursuit of happiness I am inclined to personify happiness and then watch the chase, wondering whether the pursuer will ever overtake her, and what he'll do when he does. I note that the Constitution does not guarantee that the pursuer will ever catch her--but just gives him an open field and no favors. He may run just as fast as he likes, and as long as his endurance holds out. I suspect that's where the liberty comes in. I wonder if the makers of the Constitution ever visualized that chase. If so, they must have laughed, at least in their sleeves, solemn crowd that they were. If I were certain that I could overtake happiness I'd gladly join in the pursuit, even on such a warm day as this, but the dread uncertainty makes me prefer to loll here in the shade. Besides, I'm not quite certain that I could recognize her even if I could catch her. The photographs that I have seen are so very different that I might mistake happiness for some one else, and that would be embarrassing. If I should conclude that I was happy, and then discover that I wasn't, I scarcely see how I could explain myself to myself, much less to others. So I shall go on hoeing my potatoes and not bother my poor head about happiness. It is just possible that I shall find it over there in the potato-patch, for its latitude and longitude have never been definitely determined, so far as I am aware. I know I shall find some satisfaction over there at work, and I am convinced that satisfaction and happiness are kinsfolk. Possibly my potatoes will prove the answer to some mother's prayer for food for her little ones next winter. Who knows? As I loosen the soil about the vines I can look down the vista of the months, and see some little one in his high chair smiling through his tears as mother prepares one of my beautiful potatoes for him, and I think I can detect some moisture in mother's eyes, too. It is just possible that her tears are the consecrated incense upon the altar of thanksgiving. I like to see such pictures as I ply my hoe, for they give me respite from weariness, and give fresh ardor to my hoeing. If each one of my potatoes shall only assuage the hunger of some little one, and cause the mother's eyes to distil tears of joy, I shall be in the border-land of happiness, to say the least. I had fully intended to exercise my inalienable rights and lie in the shade for two hours to-day, but when I caught a glimpse of that little chap in the high chair, and heard his pitiful plea for potatoes, I made for the potato-patch post-haste, as if I were responding to a hurry call. I suppose there is no more heart-breaking sound in nature than the crying of a hungry child. I have been whistling all the afternoon along with my hoeing, and now that I think of it, I must be whistling because my potatoes are going to make that baby laugh. Well, if they do, then I shall elevate the hoeing of potatoes to the rank of a privilege. Oh, I've read my "Tom Sawyer," and know about his enterprise in getting the fence whitewashed by making the task seem a privilege. But Tom was indulging in fiction, and hoeing potatoes is no fiction. Still those whitewash artists had something of the feeling that I experience right now, only there was no baby in their picture as there is in mine, and so I have the baby as an additional privilege. I wish I knew how to make all the school tasks rank as privileges to my boys and girls. If I could only do that, they would have gone far toward a liberal education. If I could only get a baby to crying somewhere out beyond cube root I'm sure they would struggle through the mazes of that subject, somehow, so as to get to the baby to change its crying into laughter. 'Tis worth trying. I wonder, after all, whether education is not the process of shifting the emphasis from rights to privileges. I have a right, when I go into the town, to keep my seat in the car and let the old lady use the strap. If I insist upon that right I feel myself a boor, lacking the sense and sensibilities of a gentleman. But when I relinquish my seat I feel that I have exercised my privilege to be considerate and courteous. I have a right to permit weeds and briers to overrun my fences, and the fences themselves to go to rack, and so offend the sight of my neighbors; but I esteem it a privilege to make the premises clean and beautiful, so as to add so much to the sum total of pleasure. I have a right to stay on my own side of the road and keep to myself; but it is a great privilege to go up for a half-hour's exchange of talk with my neighbor John. He always clears the cobwebs from my eyes and from my soul, and I return to my work refreshed. I have a right, too, to pore over the colored supplement for an hour or so, but when I am able to rise to my privileges and take the Book of Job instead, I feel that I have made a gain in self-respect, and can stand more nearly erect. I have a right, when I go to church, to sit silent and look bored; but, when I avail myself of the privilege of joining in the responses and the singing, I feel that I am fertilizing my spirit for the truth that is proclaimed. As a citizen I have certain rights, but when I come to think of my privileges my rights seem puny in comparison. Then, too, my rights are such cold things, but my privileges are full of sunshine and of joy. My rights seem mathematical, while my privileges seem curves of beauty. In his scientific laboratory at Princeton, on one occasion, the celebrated Doctor Hodge, in preparing for an experiment said to some students who were gathered about him: "Gentlemen, please remove your hats; I am about to ask God a question." So it is with every one who esteems his privileges. He is asking God questions about the glory of the sunrise, the fragrance of the flowers, the colors of the rainbow, the music of the brook, and the meaning of the stars. But I hear a baby crying and must get back to my potatoes. CHAPTER XVI CHANGING THE MIND I have been reading, in this book, of a man who couldn't change his mind because his intellectual wardrobe was not sufficient to warrant a change. I was feeling downright sorry for the poor fellow till I got to wondering how many people are feeling sorry for me for the same reason. That reflection changed the situation greatly, and I began to feel some resentment against the blunt statement in the book as being rather too personal. Just as I begin to think that we have standardized a lot of things, along comes some one in a book, or elsewhere, and completely upsets my fine and comforting theories and projects me into chaos again. No sooner do I get a lot of facts all nicely settled, and begin to enjoy complacency, than some disturber of the peace knocks all my facts topsy-turvy, and says they are not facts at all, but the merest fiction. Then I cry aloud with my old friend Cicero, _Ubinam gentium sumus_, which, being translated in the language of the boys, means, "Where in the world (or nation) are we at?" They are actually trying to reform my spelling. I do wish these reformers had come around sooner, when I was learning to spell _phthisic_, _syzygy_, _daguerreotype_, and _caoutchouc_. They might have saved me a deal of trouble and helped me over some of the high places at the old-fashioned spelling-bees. I have a friend who is quite versed in science, and he tells me that any book on science that is more than ten years old is obsolete. Now, that puzzles me no little. If that is true, why don't they wait till matters scientific are settled, and then write their books? Why write a book at all when you know that day after tomorrow some one will come along and refute all the theories and mangle the facts? These science chaps must spend a great deal of their time changing their intellectual clothing. It would be great fun to come back a hundred years from now and read the books on science, psychology, and pedagogy. I suppose the books we have now will seem like joke books to our great-grandchildren, if people are compelled to change their mental garments every day from now on. I wonder how long it will take us human coral insects, to get our building up to the top of the water. Whoever it was that said that consistency is a jewel would need to take treatment for his eyes in these days. If I must change my mental garb each day I don't see how I can be consistent. If I said yesterday that some theory of science is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then find a revision of the statement necessary to-day, I certainly am inconsistent. This jewel of consistency certainly loses its lustre, if not its identity, in such a process of shifting. I do hope these chameleon artists will leave us the multiplication table, the yardstick, and the ablative absolute. I'm not so particular about the wine-gallon, for prohibition will probably do away with that anyhow. When I was in school I could tell to a foot the equatorial and the polar diameter of the earth, and what makes the difference. Why, I knew all about that flattening at the poles, and how it came about. Then Mr. Peary went up there and tramped all over the north pole, and never said a word about the flattening when he came back. I was very much disappointed in Mr. Peary. I know, quite as well as I know my own name, that the length of the year is three hundred and sixty-five days, five hours, forty-eight minutes, and forty-eight seconds, and if I find any one trying to lop off even one second of my hard-learned year, I shall look upon him as a meddler. That is one of my settled facts, and I don't care to have it disturbed. If any one comes along trying to change the length of my year, I shall begin to tremble for the safety of the Ten Commandments. If I believe that a grasshopper is a quadruped, what satisfaction could I possibly take in discovering that he has six legs? It would merely disturb one of my settled facts, and I am more interested in my facts than I am in the grasshopper. The trouble is, though, that my neighbor John keeps referring to the grasshopper's six legs; so I suppose I shall, in the end, get me a grasshopper suit of clothes so as to be in the fashion. This discarding of my four-legged grasshopper and supplying myself with one that has six legs may be what the poet means when he speaks of our dead selves. He may refer to the new suit of mental clothing that I am supposed to get each day, to the change of mind that I am supposed to undergo as regularly as a daily bath. Possibly Mr. Holmes meant something like that when he wrote his "Chambered Nautilus." At each advance from one of these compartments to another, I suppose I acquire a new suit of clothes, or, in other words, change my mind. Let's see, wasn't it Theseus whose eternal punishment in Hades was just to sit there forever? That seems somewhat heavenly to me. But here on earth I suppose I must try to keep up with the styles, and change my mental gear day by day. I think I might come to enjoy a change of suits every day if only some one would provide them for me; but, if I must earn them myself, the case is different. I'd like to have some one bestow upon me a beautiful Greek suit for Monday, with its elegance, grace, and dignity, a Roman suit for Tuesday, a science suit for Wednesday, a suit of poetry for Thursday, and so on, day after day. But when I must read all of Homer before I can have the Greek suit, the price seems a bit stiff, and I'm not so avid about changing my mind. We had a township picnic back home, once, and it seemed to me that I was attending a congress of nations, for there were people there who had driven five or six miles from the utmost bounds of the township. That was a real mental adventure, and it took some time for me to adjust myself to my new suit. Then I went to the county fair, where were gathered people from all the townships, and my poor mind had a mighty struggle trying to grasp the immensity of the thing. I felt much the same as when I was trying to understand the mathematical sign of infinity. And when I came upon the statement, in my geography, that there are eighty-eight counties in our State, the mind balked absolutely and refused to go on. I felt as did the old gentleman who saw an aeroplane for the first time. After watching its gyrations for some time he finally exclaimed: "They ain't no sich thing." My college roommate, Mack, went over to London, once, on some errand, and of course went to the British Museum. Near the entrance he came upon the Rosetta Stone, and stood inthralled. He reflected that he was standing in the presence of a monument that marks the beginning of recorded history, that back of that all was dark, and that all the books in all the libraries emanate from that beginning. The thought was so big, so overmastering, that there was no room in his mind for anything else, so he turned about and left without seeing anything else in the Museum. Since then we have had many a big laugh together as he recounts to me his wonderful visit to the Rosetta Stone. I see clearly that in the presence of that modest stone he got all the mental clothing he could possibly wear at the time. Changing the mind sometimes seems to amount almost to surgery. Sometime, if I can get my stub pen limbered up I shall try my hand at writing a bit of a composition on the subject of "The Inequality of Equals." I know that the Declaration tells us that all men are born free and equal, and I shall explain in my essay that it means us to understand that while they are born equal, they begin to become unequal the day after they are born, and become more so as one changes his mind and the other one does not. I try, all the while, to make myself believe that I am the equal of my neighbor, the judge, and then I feel foolish to think that I ever tried it. The neighbors all know it isn't true, and so do I when I quit arguing with myself. He has such a long start of me now that I wonder if I can ever overtake him. One thing, though, I'm resolved upon, and that is to change my mind as often as possible. CHAPTER XVII THE POINT OF VIEW Just why a boy is averse to washing his neck and ears is one of the deep problems of social psychology, and yet the psychologists have veered away from the subject. There must be a reason, and these mind experts ought to be able and willing to find it, so as to relieve the anxiety of the rest of us. It is easy for me to say, with a full-arm gesture, that a boy is of the earth earthy, but that only begs the question, as full-arm gestures are wont to do. Many a boy has shed copious tears as he sat on a bench outside the kitchen door removing, under compulsion, the day's accumulations from his feet as a prerequisite for retiring. He would much prefer to sleep on the floor to escape the foot-washing ordeal. Why, pray, should he wash his feet when he knows full well that tomorrow night will find them in the same condition? Why all the bother and trouble about a little thing like that? Why can't folks let a fellow alone, anyhow? And, besides, he went in swimming this afternoon, and that surely ought to meet all the exactions of capricious parents. He exhibits his feet as an evidence of the virtue of going swimming, for he is arranging the preliminaries for another swimming expedition to-morrow. I recall very distinctly how strange it seemed that my father could sit there and calmly talk about being a Democrat, or a Republican, or a Baptist, or a Methodist, or about some one's discovering the north pole, or about the President's message when the dog had a rat cornered under the corn-crib and was barking like mad. But, then, parents can't see things in their right relations and proportions. And there sat mother, too, darning stockings, and the dog just stark crazy about that rat. 'Tis enough to make a boy lose faith in parents forevermore. A dog, a rat, and a boy--there's a combination that recks not of the fall of empires or the tottering of thrones. Even chicken-noodles must take second place in such a scheme of world activities. And yet a mother would hold a boy back from the forefront of such an enterprise to wash his neck. Oh, these mothers! I have read "Adam's Diary," by Mark Twain, in which he tells what events were forward in Eden on Monday, what on Tuesday, and so on throughout the week till he came to Sunday, and his only comment on that day was "Pulled through." In the New England Primer we gather the solemn information that "In Adam's fall, we sinned all." I admit the fact freely, but beg to be permitted to plead extenuating circumstances. Adam could go to church just as he was, but I had to be renovated and, at times, almost parboiled and, in addition to these indignities, had to wear shoes and stockings; and the stockings scratched my legs, and the shoes were too tight. If Adam could barely manage to pull through, just think of me. Besides, Adam didn't have to wear a paper collar that disintegrated and smeared his neck. The more I think of Adam's situation, the more sorry I feel for myself. Why, he could just reach out and pluck some fruit to help him through the services, but I had to walk a mile after church, in those tight shoes, and then wait an hour for dinner. And I was supposed to feel and act religious while I was waiting, but I didn't. If I could only have gone to church barefoot, with my shirt open at the throat, and with a pocket full of cookies to munch _ad lib_ throughout the services, I am sure that the spiritual uplift would have been greater. The soul of a boy doesn't expand violently when encased in a starched shirt and a paper collar, and these surmounted by a thick coat, with the mercury at ninety-seven in the shade. I think I can trace my religious retardation back to those hungry Sundays, those tight shoes, that warm coat, and those frequent jabs in my ribs when I fain would have slept. In my childhood there was such a host of people who were pushing and pulling me about in an effort to make me good that, even yet, I shy away from their style of goodness. The wonder is that I have any standing at all in polite and upright society. So many folks said I was bad and naughty, and applied so many other no less approbrious epithets to me that, in time, I came to believe them, and tried somewhat diligently to live up to the reputation they gave me. I recall that one of my aunts came in one day and, seeing me out in the yard most ingloriously tousled, asked my good mother: "Is that your child?" Poor mother! I have often wondered how much travail of spirit it must have cost her to acknowledge me as her very own. One thumb, one great toe, and an ankle were decorated with greasy rags, and I was far from being ornamental. I had been hulling walnuts, too, and my stained hands served to accentuate the human scenery. This same aunt had three boys of her own, later on, and a more disreputable-looking crew it would be hard to find. I confess that I took a deal of grim satisfaction in their dilapidated ensemble, just for my aunt's benefit, of course. They were fine, wholesome, natural boys in spite of their parentage, and I liked them even while I gloried in their cuts, bruises, and dirt. At that time I was wearing a necktie and had my shoes polished but, even so, I yearned to join with them in their debauch of sand, mud, and general indifference to convention. They are fine, upstanding young chaps now, and of course their mother thinks that her scolding, nagging, and baiting made them so. They know better, but are too kind and considerate to reveal the truth to their mother. Even yet I have something like admiration for the ingenuity of my elders in conjuring up spooks, hob-goblins, and bugaboos with which to scare me into submission. I conformed, of course, but I never gave them a high grade in veracity. I yielded simply to gain time, for I knew where there was a chipmunk in a hole, and was eager to get to digging him out just as soon as my apparent submission for a brief time had proved my complete regeneration. They used to tell me that children should be seen but not heard, and I knew they wanted to do the talking. I often wonder whether their notion of a good child would have been satisfactorily met if I had suddenly become paralyzed, or ossified, or petrified. In either of these cases I could have been seen but not heard. One day, not long ago, when I felt at peace with all the world and was comfortably free from care, a small, thumb-sucking seven-year-old asked: "How long since the world was born?" After I told him that it was about four thousand years he worked vigorously at his thumb for a time, and then said: "That isn't very long." Then I wished I had said four millions, so as to reduce him to silence, for one doesn't enjoy being routed and put to confusion by a seven-year-old. After quite a silence he asked again: "What was there before the world was born?" That was an easy one; so I said in a tone of finality: "There wasn't anything." Then I went on with my meditations, thinking I had used the soft pedal effectively. Silence reigned supreme for some minutes, and then was rudely shattered. His thumb flew from his mouth, and he laughed so lustily that he could be heard throughout the house. When his laughter had spent itself somewhat, I asked meekly: "What are you laughing at?" His answer came on the instant, but still punctuated with laughter: "I was laughing to see how funny it was when there wasn't anything." No wonder that folks want children to be seen but not heard. And some folks are scandalized because a chap like that doesn't like to wash his neck and ears. CHAPTER XVIII PICNICS The code of table etiquette in the days of my boyhood, as I now recall it, was expressed something like: "Eat what is set before you and ask no questions." We heeded this injunction with religious fidelity, but yearned to ask why they didn't set more before us. About the only time that a real boy gets enough to eat is when he goes to a picnic and, even there and then, the rounding out of the programme is connected with clandestine visits to the baskets after the formal ceremonies have been concluded. At a picnic there is no such expression as "from soup to nuts," for there is no soup, and perhaps no nuts, but there is everything else in tantalizing abundance. If I find a plate of deviled eggs near me, I begin with deviled eggs; or, if the cold tongue is nearer, I begin with that. In this way I reveal, for the pleasure of the hostesses, my unrestricted and democratic appetite. Or, in order to obviate any possible embarrassment during the progress of the chicken toward me, I may take a piece of pie or a slice of cake, thinking that they may not return once they have been put in circulation. Certainly I take jelly when it passes along, as well as pickles, olives, and cheese. There is no incongruity, at such a time, in having a slice of baked ham and a slice of angel-food cake on one's plate or in one's hands. They harmonize beautifully both in the color scheme and in the gastronomic scheme. At a picnic my boyhood training reaches its full fruition: "Eat what is set before you and ask no questions." These things I do. That's a good rule for reading, too, just to read what is set before you and ask no questions. I'm thinking now of the reader member of my dual nature, not the student member. I like to cater somewhat to both these members. When the reader member is having his inning, I like to give him free rein and not hamper him by any lock-step or stereotyped method or course. I like to lead him to a picnic table and dismiss him with the mere statement that "Heaven helps those who help themselves," and thus leave him to his own devices. If Southey's, "The Curse of Kehama," happens to be nearest his plate, he will naturally begin with that as I did with the deviled eggs. Or he may nibble at "The House-Boat on the Styx" while some one is passing the Shakespeare along. He may like Emerson, and ask for a second helping, and that's all right, too, for that's a nourishing sort of food. Having partaken of this generously, he will enjoy all the more the jelly when it comes along in the form of "Nonsense Anthology." The more I think of it the more I see that reading is very like a picnic dinner. It is all good, and one takes the food which is nearest him, whether pie or pickles. When any one asks me what I am reading, I become much embarrassed. I may be reading a catalogue of books at the time, or the book notices in some magazine, but such reading may not seem orthodox at all to the one who asks the question. My reading may be too desultory or too personal to be paraded in public. I don't make it a practice to tell all the neighbors what I ate for breakfast. I like to saunter along through the book just as I ride in a gondola when in Venice. I'm not going anywhere, but get my enjoyment from merely being on the way. I pay the gondolier and then let him have his own way with me. So with the book. I pay the money and then abandon myself to it. If it can make me laugh, why, well and good, and I'll laugh. If it causes me to shed tears, why, let the tears flow. They may do me good. If I ever become conscious of the number of the page of the book I am reading, I know there is something the matter with that book or else with me. If I ever become conscious of the page number in David Grayson's "Adventures in Contentment," or "The Friendly Road," I shall certainly consult a physician. I do become semiconscious at times that I am approaching the end of the feast, and feel regret that the book is not larger. I have spasms and enjoy them. Sometimes, I have a Dickens spasm, and read some of his books for the _n_th time. I have frittered away much time in my life trying to discover whether a book is worth a second reading. If it isn't, it is hardly worth a first reading, I don't get tired of my friend Brown, so why should I put Dickens off with a mere society call? If I didn't enjoy Brown I'd not visit him so frequently; but, liking him, I go again and again. So with Dickens, Mark Twain, and Shakespeare. The story goes that a second Uncle Remus was sitting on a stump in the depths of a forest sawing away on an old discordant violin. A man, who chanced to come upon him, asked what he was doing. With no interruption of his musical activities, he answered: "Boss, I'se serenadin' m' soul." Book or violin, 'tis all the same. Uncle Remus and I are serenading our souls and the exercise is good for us. I was laid by with typhoid fever for a few weeks once, and the doctor came at eleven o'clock in the morning and at five o'clock in the afternoon. If he happened to be a bit late I grew impatient, and my fever increased. He discovered this fact, and was no more tardy. He was reading "John Fiske" at the time, and Grant's "Memoirs," and at each visit reviewed for me what he had read since the previous visit. He must have been glad when I no longer needed to take my history by proxy, for I kept him up to the mark, and bullied him into reciting twice a day. I don't know what drugs he gave me, but I do know that "Fiske" and "Grant" are good for typhoid, and heartily commend them to the general public. I am rather glad now that I had typhoid fever. I listen with amused tolerance to people who grow voluble on the weather and their symptoms, and often wish they would ask me to prescribe for them. I'd probably tell them to become readers of William J. Locke. But, perhaps, their symptoms might seem preferable to the remedy. A neighbor came in to borrow a book, and I gave her "Les Miserables," which she returned in a day or so, saying that she could not read it. I knew that I had overestimated her, and that I didn't have a book around of her size. I had loaned my "Robin Hood," "Rudder Grange," "Uncle Remus," and "Sonny" to the children round about. I like to browse around among my books, and am trying to have my boys and girls acquire the same habit. Reading for pure enjoyment isn't a formal affair any more than eating. Sometimes I feel in the mood for a grapefruit for breakfast, sometimes for an orange, and sometimes for neither. I'm glad not to board at a place where they have standardized breakfasts and reading. If I feel in the mood for an orange I want an orange, even if my neighbor has a casaba melon. So, if I want my "Middlemarch," I'm quite eager for that book, and am quite willing for my neighbor to have his "Henry Esmond." The appetite for books is variable, the same as for food, and I'd rather consult my appetite than my neighbor when choosing a book as a companion through a lazy afternoon beneath the maple-tree, I refuse to try to supervise the reading of my pupils. Why, I couldn't supervise their eating. I'd have to find out whether the boy was yearning for porterhouse steak or ice-cream, first; then I might help him make a selection. The best I can do is to have plenty of steak, potatoes, pie, and ice-cream around, and allow him to help himself. CHAPTER XIX MAKE-BELIEVE The text may be found in "Over Bemerton's," by E. V. Lucas, and reads as follows: "A gentle hypocrisy is not only the basis but the salt of civilized life." This statement startled me a bit at first; but when I got to thinking of my experience in having a photograph of myself made I saw that Mr. Lucas has some warrant for his statement. There has been only one Oliver Cromwell to say: "Paint me as I am." The rest of us humans prefer to have the wart omitted. If my photograph is true to life I don't want it. I'm going to send it away, and I don't want the folks who get it to think I look like that. If I were a woman and could wear a disguise of cosmetics when sitting for a picture the case might not be quite so bad. The subtle flattery of the photograph is very grateful to us mortals whether we admit it or not. My friend Baxter introduced me once as a man who is not two-faced, and went on to explain that if I had had two faces I'd have brought the other instead of this one. And that's true. I expect the photographer to evoke another face for me, and hence my generous gift of money to him. I like that chap immensely. He takes my money, gives me another face, bows me out with the grace of a finished courtier, and never, by word or look, reveals his knowledge of my hypocrisy. As a boy I had a full suit of company manners which I wore only when guests were present, and so was always sorry to have guests come. I sat back on the chair instead of on its edge; I didn't swing my legs unless I had a lapse of memory; I said, "Yes, ma'am," and, "No, ma'am," like any other parrot, just as I did at rehearsal; and, in short, I was a most exemplary child save for occasional reactions to unlooked-for situations. The folks knew I was posing, and were on nettles all the while from fear of a breakdown; the guests knew I was posing, and I knew I was posing. But we all pretended to one another that that was the regular order of procedure in our house. So we had a very gratifying concert exercise in hypocrisy. We said our prayers that night just as usual. With such thorough training in my youth it is not at all strange that I now consider myself rather an adept in the prevailing social usages. At a musicale I applaud fit to blister my hands, even though I feel positively pugnacious. But I know the singer has an encore prepared, and I feel that it would be ungracious to disappoint her. Besides, I argue with myself that I can stand it for five minutes more if the others can. Professor James, I think it is, says that we ought to do at least one disagreeable thing each day as an aid in the development of character. Being rather keen on character development, I decide on a double dose of the disagreeable while opportunity favors. Hence my vigorous applauding. Then, too, I realize that the time and place are not opportune for an expression of my honest convictions; so I choose the line of least resistance and well-nigh blister my hands to emphasize my hypocrisy. At a formal dinner I have been known to sink so low into the depths of hypocrisy as to eat shrimp salad. But when one is sitting next to a lady who seems a confirmed celibate, and who seems to find nothing better than to become voluble on the subject of her distinguished ancestors, even shrimp salad has its uses. Now, under normal conditions my perverted and plebeian taste regards shrimp salad as a banality, but at that dinner I ate it with apparent relish, and tried not to make a wry face. But, worst of all, I complimented the hostess upon the excellence of the dinner, and extolled the salad particularly, although we both knew that the salad was a failure, and that the dinner itself convicted the cook of a lack of experience or else of a superfluity of potations. When the refreshments are served I take a thimbleful of ice-cream and an attenuated wafer, and then solemnly declare to the maid that I have been abundantly served. In the hallowed precincts that I call my den I could absorb nine rations such as they served and never bat an eye. And yet, in making my adieus to the hostess, I thank her most effusively for a delightful evening, refreshments included, and then hurry grumbling home to get something to eat. Such are some of the manifestations of social hypocrisy. These all pass current at their face value, and yet we all know that nobody is deceived. Still it is great fun to play make-believe, and the world would have convulsions if we did not indulge in these pleasing deceptions. In the clever little book "Molly Make-Believe" the girl pretends at first that she loves the man, and later on comes to love him to distraction, and she lived happy ever after, too. When, in my fever, I would ask about my temperature, the nurse would give a numeral about two degrees below the real record to encourage me, and I can't think that St. Peter will bar her out just for that. The psychologists give mild assent to the theory that a physical attitude may generate an emotion. If I assume a belligerent attitude, they claim that, in time, I shall feel really belligerent; that in a loafing attitude I shall presently be loafing; and that, if I assume the attitude of a listener, I shall soon be listening most intently. This seems to be justified by the experiences of Edwin Booth on the stage. He could feign fighting for a time, and then it became real fighting, and great care had to be taken to avert disastrous consequences when his sword fully struck its gait. I believe the psychologists have never fully agreed on the question whether the man is running from the bear because he is scared or is scared because he is running. I dare say Mr. Shakespeare was trying to express this theory when he said: "Assume a virtue, though you have it not." That's exactly what I'm trying to have my pupils do all the while. I'm trying to have them wear their company manners continually, so that, in good time, they will become their regular working garb. I'm glad to have them assume the attitudes of diligence and politeness, thinking that their attitudes may generate the corresponding emotions. It is a severe strain on a boy at times to seem polite when he feels like hurling missiles. We both know that his politeness is mere make-believe, but we pretend not to know, and so move along our ways of hypocrisy hoping that good may come. There is a telephone-girl over in the central station, wherever that is, who certainly is beautiful if the voice is a true index. Her tones are dulcet, and her voice is so mellow and well modulated that I visualize her as another Venus. I suspect that, when she began her work, some one told her that her tenure of position depended upon the quality of her voice. So, I imagine, she assumed a tonal quality of voice that was really a sublimated hypocrisy, and persisted in this until now that quality of voice is entirely natural. I can't think that Shakespeare had her specially in mind, but, if I ever have the good fortune to meet her, I shall certainly ask her if she reads Shakespeare. Now that I think of it, I shall try this treatment on my own voice, for it sorely needs treatment. Possibly I ought to take a course of training at the telephone-station. I am now thoroughly persuaded that Mr. Lucas gave expression to a great principle of pedagogy in what he said about hypocrisy, and I shall try to be diligent in applying it. If I can get my boys to assume an arithmetical attitude, they may come to have an arithmetical feeling, and that would give me great joy. I don't care to have them express their honest feelings either about me or the work, but would rather have them look polite and interested, even if it is hypocrisy. I'd like to have all my boys and girls act as if they consider me absolutely fair, just, and upright, as well as the most kind, courteous, generous, scholarly, skillful, and complaisant schoolmaster that ever lived, no matter what they really think. CHAPTER XX BEHAVIOR If I only knew how to teach English, I'd have far more confidence in my schoolmastering. But I don't seem to get on. The system breaks down too often to suit me. Just when I think I have some lad inoculated with elegant English through the process of reading from some classic, he says, "might of came," and I become obfuscated again. I have a book here in which I read that it is the business of the teacher so to organize the activities of the school that they will function in behavior. Well, my boys' behavior in the use of English indicates that I haven't organized the activities of my English class very effectively. I seem to be more of a success in a cherry-orchard than in an English class. My cherries are large and round, a joy to the eye and delightful to the taste. The fruit expert tells me they are perfect, and so I feel that I organized the activities in that orchard efficiently. In fact, the behavior of my cherry-trees is most gratifying. But when I hear my pupils talk or read their essays, and find a deal of imperfect fruit in the way of solecisms and misspelled words, I feel inclined to discredit my skill in organizing the activities in this human orchard. I think my trouble is (and it is trouble), that I proceed upon the agreeable assumption that my pupils can "catch" English as they do the measles if only they are exposed to it. So I expose them to the objective complement and the compellative, and then stand aghast at their behavior when they make all the mistakes that can possibly be made in using a given number of words. I have occasion to wonder whether I juggle these big words merely because I happen to see them in a book, or whether I am trying to be impressive. I recall how often I have felt a thrill of pride as I have ladled out deliberative subjunctives, ethical datives, and hysteron proteron to my (supposedly) admiring Latin pupils. If I were a soldier I should want to wear one of those enormous three-story military hats to render me tall and impressive. I have no desire to see a drum-major minus his plumage. The disillusionment would probably be depressing. Liking to wear my shako, I must continue to talk of objective complements instead of using simple English. I had watched men make a hundred barrels, but when I tried my skill I didn't produce much of a barrel. Then I knew making barrels is not violently infectious. But I suspect that it is quite the same as English in this respect. My behavior in that cooper-shop, for a time, was quite destructive of materials, until I had acquired skill by much practice. If I could only organize the activities in my English class so that they would function in such behavior as Lincoln's "Letter to Mrs. Bixby," I should feel that I might continue my teaching instead of devoting all my time to my cherry-orchard. Or, if I could see that my pupils were acquiring the habit of correct English as the result of my work, I'd give myself a higher grade as a schoolmaster. My neighbor over here teaches agriculture, and one of his boys produced one hundred and fifty bushels of corn on an acre of ground. That's what I call excellent behavior, and that schoolmaster certainly knows how to organize the activities of his class. My boy's yield of thirty-seven bushels, mostly nubbins, does not compare favorably with the yield of his boy, and I feel that I ought to reform, or else wear a mask. Here is my boy saying "might of came," and his boy is raising a hundred and fifty bushels of corn per acre. If I could only assemble all my boys and girls twenty years hence and have them give an account of themselves for all the years after they left school, I could grade them with greater accuracy than I can possibly do now. Of course, I'd simply grade them on behavior, and if I could muster up courage, I might ask them to grade mine. I wonder how I'd feel if I'd find among them such folks as Edison, Burbank, Goethals, Clara Barton, and Frances Willard. My neighbor John says the most humiliating experience that a man can have is to wear a pair of his son's trousers that have been cut down to fit him. I might have some such feelings as that in the presence of pupils who had made such notable achievements. But, should they tell me that these achievements were due, in some good measure, to the work of the school, well, that would be glory enough for me. One of my boys was telling me only yesterday of a bit of work he did the day before in the way of revealing a process in chemistry to a firm of jewellers and hearing the superintendent say that that bit of information is worth a thousand dollars to the establishment. If he keeps on doing things like that I shall grade his behavior one of these days. I suppose Mr. Goethals must have learned the multiplication table, once upon a time, and used it, too, in constructing the Panama Canal. He certainly made it effective, and the activities of that class in arithmetic certainly did function. I tell my boys that this multiplication table is the same one that Mr. Goethals has been using all the while, and then ask them what use they expect to make of it. One man made use of this table in tunnelling the Alps, and another in building the Brooklyn Bridge, and it seems to be good for many more bridges and tunnels if I can only organize the activities aright. I was standing in front of St. Marks, there in Venice, one morning, regaling myself with the beauty of the festive scene, and talking to a friend, when four of my boys came strolling up, and they seemed more my boys than ever before. What a reunion we had! The folks all about us didn't understand it in the least, but we did, and that was enough. I forgot my coarse clothes, my well-nigh empty pockets, my inability to buy the many beautiful things that kept tantalizing me, and the meagreness of my salary. These were all swallowed up in the joy of seeing the boys, and I wanted to proclaim to all and sundry; "These are my jewels." Those boys are noble, clean, upstanding fellows, and no schoolmaster could help being proud of them. Such as they nestle down in the heart of the schoolmaster and cause him to know that life is good. I was sorry not to be able to share my joy with my friend who stood near, but that could not be. I might have used words to him, but he would not have understood. He had never yearned over those fellows and watched them, day by day, hoping that they might grow up to be an honor to their school. He had never had the experience of watching from the schoolhouse window, fervently wishing that no harm might come to them, and that no shadows might come over their lives. He had never known the joy of sitting up far into the night to prepare for the coming of those boys the next day. He had never seen their eyes sparkle in the classroom when, for them, truth became illumined. Of course, he stood aloof, for he couldn't know. Only the schoolmaster can ever know how those four boys became the focus of all that wondrous beauty on that splendid morning. If I had had my grade-book along I would have recorded their grades in behavior, for as I looked upon those glorious chaps and heard them recount their experiences I had a feeling of exaltation, knowing that the activities of our school had functioned in right behavior. CHAPTER XXI FOREFINGERS This left forefinger of mine is certainly a curiosity. It looks like a miniature totem-pole, and I wish I had before me its life history. I'd like to know just how all these seventeen scars were acquired. It seems to have come in contact with about all sorts and sizes of cutlery. If only teachers or parents had been wise enough to make a record of all my bloodletting mishaps, with occasions, causes, and effects, that record would afford a fruitful study for students of education. The pity of it is that we take no account of such matters as phases or factors of education. We keep saying that experience is the best teacher, and then ignore this eloquent forefinger. I call that criminal neglect arising from crass ignorance. Why, these scars that adorn many parts of my body are the foot-prints of evolution, if, indeed, evolution makes tracks. The scars on the faces of those students at Heidelberg are accounted badges of honor, but they cannot compare with the big scar on my left knee that came to me as the free gift of a corn-knife. Those students wanted their scars to take home to show their mothers. I didn't want mine, and made every effort to conceal it, as well as the hole in my trousers. I got my scar as a warning. I profited by it, too, for never were there two cuts in exactly the same place. In fact, they were widely, if not wisely, distributed. They are the indices of the soaring sense of my youthful audacity. And yet neither parents nor teachers ever graded my scars. I recall quite distinctly that, at one time, I proclaimed boldly over one entire page of a copy-book, that knowledge is power, and became so enthusiastic in these numerous proclamations that I wrote on the bias, and zigzagged over the page with fine abandon. But no teacher ever even hinted to me that the knowledge I acquired from my contest with a nest of belligerent bumblebees had the slightest connection with power. When I groped my way home with both eyes swollen shut I was never lionized. Indeed, no! Anything but that! I couldn't milk the cows that evening, and couldn't study my lesson, and therefore, my newly acquired knowledge was called weakness instead of power. They did not seem to realize that my swollen face was prominent in the scheme of education, nor that bumblebees and yellow-jackets may be a means of grace. They wanted me to be solving problems in common (sometimes called vulgar) fractions. I don't fight bumblebees any more, which proves that my knowledge generated power. The emotions of my boyhood presented a scene of grand disorder, and those bumblebees helped to organize them, and to clarify and define my sense of values. I can philosophize about a bumblebee far more judicially now than I could when my eyes were swollen shut. I went to the town to attend a circus one day, and concluded I'd celebrate the day with eclat by getting my hair cut. At the conclusion of this ceremony the tonsorial Beau Brummel, in the most seductive tones, suggested a shampoo. I just couldn't resist his blandishments, and so consented. Then he suggested tonic, and grew quite eloquent in recounting the benefits to the scalp, and I took tonic. I felt quite a fellow, till I came to pay the bill, and then discovered that I had but fifteen cents left from all my wealth. That, of course, was not sufficient for a ticket to the circus, so I bought a bag of peanuts and walked home, five miles, meditating, the while, upon the problem of life. My scalp was all right, but just under that scalp was a seething, soundless hubbub. I learned things that day that are not set down in the books, even if I did get myself laughed at. When I get to giving school credits for home work I shall certainly excuse the boy who has had such an experience as that from solving at least four problems in vulgar fractions, and I shall include that experience in my definition of education, too. I have tried to back-track Paul Laurence Dunbar, now and then, and have found it good fun. Once I started with his expression, "the whole sky overhead and the whole earth underneath," and tried to get back to where that started. He must have been lying on his back on some grass-plot, right in the centre of everything, with that whole half-sphere of sky luring his spirit out toward the infinite, with a pillow that was eight thousand miles thick. If I had been his teacher I might have called him lazy and shiftless as he lay there, because he was not finding how to place a decimal point, I'm glad, on the whole, that I was not his teacher, for I'd have twinges of conscience every time I read one of his big thoughts. I'd feel that, while he was lying there growing big, I was doing my best to make him little. When I was lying on my back there in the Pantheon in Rome, looking up through that wide opening, and watching a moving-picture show that has no rival, the fleecy clouds in their ever-changing forms against that blue background of matchless Italian sky, those gendarmes debated the question of arresting me for disorderly conduct. My conduct was disorderly because they couldn't understand it. But, if Raphael could have risen from his tomb only a few yards away, he would have told those fellows not to disturb me while I was being so liberally educated. Then, that other time, when my friend Reuben and I stood on the very prow of the ship when the sea was rolling high, swinging us up into the heights, and then down into the depths, with the roar drowning out all possibility of talk--well, somehow, I thought of that copy-book back yonder with its message that "Knowledge is power." And I never think of power without recalling that experience as I watched that battle royal between the power of the sea and the power of the ship that could withstand the angry buffeting of the waves, and laugh in glee as it rode them down. I know that six times nine are fifty-four, but I confess that I forgot this fact out there on the prow of that ship. Some folks might say that Reuben and I were wasting our time, but I can't think so. I like, even now, to stand out in the clear during a thunder-storm. I want the head uncovered, too, that the wind may toss my hair about while I look the lightning-flashes straight in the eye and stand erect and unafraid as the thunder crashes and rolls and reverberates about me. I like to watch the trees swaying to and fro, keeping time to the majestic rhythm of the elements. To me such an experience is what my neighbor John calls "growing weather," and at such a time the bigness of the affair causes me to forget for the time that there are such things as double datives. One time I spent the greater part of a forenoon watching logs go over a dam. It seems a simple thing to tell, and hardly worth the telling, but it was a great morning in actual experience. In time those huge logs became things of life, and when they arose from their mighty plunge into the watery deeps they seemed to shake themselves free and laugh in their freedom. And there were battles, too. They struggled and fought and rode over one another, and their mighty collisions produced a very thunder of sound. I tried to read the book which I had with me, but could not. In the presence of such a scene one cannot read a book unless it is one of Victor Hugo's. That copy-book looms up again as I think of those logs, and I wonder whether knowledge is power, and whether experience is the best teacher. But, dear me! Here I've been frittering away all this good time, and these papers not graded yet! CHAPTER XXII STORY-TELLING My boys like to have me tell them stories, and, if the stories are true ones, they like them all the better. So I sometimes become reminiscent when they gather about me and let them lead me along as if I couldn't help myself when they are so interested. In this way I become one of them. I like to whittle a nice pine stick while I talk, for then the talk seems incidental to the whittling and so takes hold of them all the more. In the midst of the talking a boy will sometimes slip into my hand a fresh stick, when I have about exhausted the whittling resources of the other. That's about the finest encore I have ever received. A boy knows how to pay a compliment in a delicate way when the mood for compliments is on him, and if that mood of his is handled with equal delicacy great things may be accomplished. Well, the other day as I whittled the inevitable pine stick I let them lure from me the story of Sant. Now, Sant was my seatmate in the village school back yonder, and I now know that I loved him whole-heartedly. I didn't know this at the time, for I took him as a matter of course, just as I did my right hand. His name was Sanford, but boys don't call one another by their right names. They soon find affectionate nicknames. I have quite a collection of these nicknames myself, but have only a hazy notion of how or where they were acquired. When some one calls me by one of these names, I can readily locate him in time and place, for I well know that he must belong in a certain group or that name would not come to his lips. These nicknames that we all have are really historical. Well, we called him Sant, and that name conjures up before me one of the most wholesome boys I have ever known. He was brimful of fun. A heartier, more sincere laugh a boy never had, and my affection for him was as natural as my breathing. He knew I liked him, though I never told him so. Had I told him, the charm would have been broken. In those days spelling was one of the high lights of school work, and we were incited to excellence in this branch of learning by head tickets, which were a promise of still greater honor, in the form of a prize, to the winner. The one who stood at the head of the class at the close of the lesson received a ticket, and the holder of the greatest number of these tickets at the end of the school year bore home in triumph the much-coveted prize in the shape of a book as a visible token of superiority. I wanted that prize, and worked for it. Tickets were accumulating in my little box with exhilarating regularity, and I was nobly upholding the family name when I was stricken with pneumonia, and my victorious career had a rude check. My nearest competitor was Sam, who almost exulted in my illness because of the opportunity it afforded him for a rich harvest of head tickets. In the exuberance of his joy he made some remark to this effect, which Sant overheard. Up to this time Sant had taken no interest in the contests in spelling, but Sam's remark galvanized him into vigorous life, and spelling became his overmastering passion. Indeed, he became the wonder of the school, and in consequence poor Sam's anticipations were not realized. Day after day Sant caught the word that Sam missed, and thus added another ticket to his collection. So it went until I took my place again, and then Sant lapsed back into his indifference, leaving me to look after Sam myself. When I tried to face him down with circumstantial evidence he seemed pained to think that I could ever consider him capable of such designing. The merry twinkle in his eye was the only confession he ever made. Small wonder that I loved Sant. If I were writing a testimonial for myself I should say that it was much to my credit that I loved a boy like that. As a boy my risibilities were easily excited, and I'm glad that, even yet, I have not entirely overcome that weakness. If I couldn't have a big laugh, now and then, I'd feel that I ought to consult a physician. My boys and girls and I often laugh together, but never at one another. Sant had a deal of fun with my propensity to laugh. When we were conning our geography lesson, he would make puns upon such names as Chattahoochee and Appalachicola, and I would promptly explode. Then, enter the teacher. But I drop the mantle of charity over the next scene, for his school-teaching was altogether personal, and not pedagogical. He didn't know that puns and laughter were the reactions on the part of us boys that caused us to know the facts of the book. But he wanted us to learn those facts in his way, and not in our own. Poor fellow! _Requiescat in pace_, if he can. Sant was the first one of our crowd to go to college, and we were all proud of him, and predicted great things for him. We all knew he was brilliant and felt certain that the great ones in the college would soon find it out. And they did; for ever and anon some news would filter through to us that Sant was battening upon Latin, Greek, mathematics, science, and history. Of course, we gave all the credit to our little school, and seemed to forget that the Lord may have had something to do with it. When we proved by Sant's achievements that our school was _ne plus ultra_, I noticed that the irascible teacher joined heartily in the chorus. I intend to get all the glory I can from the achievements of my pupils, but I do hope that they may not be my sole dependence at the distribution of glory. Yes, Sant graduated, and his name was written high upon the scroll. But he could not deliver his oration, for he was sick, and a friend read it for him. And when he arose to receive his diploma he had to stand on crutches. They took him home in a carriage, and within a week he was dead. The fires of genius had burned brightly for a time and then went out in darkness, because his father and mother were first cousins. At the conclusion of this story, the boys were silent for a long time, and I knew the story was having its effect. Then there was a slight movement, and one of them put into my hand another pine stick. I whittled in silence for a time, and then told them of a woman I know who is well-known and highly esteemed in more than one State because of her distinctive achievements. One day I saw her going along the street leading by the hand a little four-year-old boy. He was the picture of health, and rollicked along as only such a healthy little chap can. He was eager to see all the things that were displayed in the windows, but to me he and the proud mother were the finest show on the street. She beamed upon him like another Madonna, and it seemed to me that the Master must have been looking at some such glorious child as that when he said; "Suffer the little children to come unto me." A few weeks later I was riding on the train with that mother, and she was telling me that the little fellow had been ill, and told how anxious she had been through several days and nights because the physicians could not discover the cause of his illness. Then she told how happy she was that he had about recovered, and how bright he seemed when she kissed him good-by that morning. I saw her several times that week and at each meeting she gave me good news of the little boy at home. Inside of another month that noble little fellow was dead. Apparently he was his own healthy, happy little self, and then was stricken as he had been before. The pastor of the church of which the parents are members told me of the death scene. It occurred at about one o'clock in the morning, and the mother was worn and haggard from anxiety and days of watching. The members of the family, the physician, and the pastor were standing around the bed, but the mother was on her knees close beside the little one, who was writhing in the most awful convulsions. Then the stricken mother looked straight into heaven and made a personal appeal to God to come and relieve the little fellow's sufferings. Again and again she prayed: "Oh, God, do come and take my little boy." And the Angel of Death, in answer to that prayer, came in and touched the baby, and he was still. The mother of that child may or may not know that the grandfather of that child came into that room that night, though he had been long in his grave, and murdered her baby--murdered him with tainted blood. That grandfather had not lived a clean life, and so broke a mother's heart and forced her in agony to pray for the death of her own child. When I had finished I walked quietly away, leaving the boys to their own thoughts, and as I walked I breathed the wish that my boys may live such clean, wholesome, upright, temperate lives that no child or grandchild may ever have occasion to reproach them, or point the finger of scorn at them, and that no mother may ever pray for death to come to her baby because of a taint in their blood. CHAPTER XXIII GRANDMOTHER My grandmother was about the nicest grandmother that a boy ever had, and in memory of her, I am quite partial to all the grandmothers. I like Whistler's portrait of his mother there in the Luxembourg--the serene face, the cap and strings, and the folded hands--because it takes me back to the days and to the presence of my grandmother. She got into my heart when I was a boy, and she is there yet; and there she will stay. The bread and butter that she somehow contrived to get to us boys between meals made us feel that she could read our minds. I attended a banquet the other night, but they had no such bread and butter as we boys had there in the shade of that apple-tree. It was real bread and real butter, and the appetite was real, too, and that helped to invest grandmother with a halo. Sometimes she would add jelly, and that caused our cup of joy to run over. She just could not bear a hungry look on the face of a boy, and when such a look appeared she exorcised it in the way that a boy likes. What I liked about her was that she never attached any conditions to her bread and butter--no, not even when she added jelly, but her gifts were as free as salvation. The more I think of the matter, the more I am convinced that her gifts were salvation, for I know, by experience, that a hungry boy is never a good boy, at least, not to excess. Whatever the vicissitudes of life might be to me, I knew that I had a city of refuge beside grandmother's big armchair, and when trouble came I instinctively sought that haven, often with rare celerity. In that hallowed place there could be no hunger, nor thirst, nor persecution. In that place there was peace and plenty, whatever there might be elsewhere. I often used to wonder how she could know a boy so well. I would be aching to go over to play with Tom, and the first thing I knew grandmother was sending me over there on some errand, telling me there was no special hurry about coming back. My father might set his foot down upon some plan of mine ever so firmly, but grandmother had only to smile at him and he was reduced to a degree of limpness that contributed to my escape. I have often wondered whether that smile on the face of grandmother did not remind him, of some of his own boyish pranks. We boys knew, somehow, what she expected of us, and her expectation was the measuring rod with which we tested our conduct. Boy-like, we often wandered away into a far country, but when we returned, she had the fatted calf ready for us, with never a question as to our travels abroad. In that way foreign travel lost something of its glamour, and the home life made a stronger appeal. She made her own bill of fare so appetizing that we lost all our relish for husks and the table companions connected with them. She never asked how or where we acquired the cherry-stains on our shirts, but we knew that she recognized cherry-stains when she saw them. The next day our shirts were innocent of foreign cherry-stains, and we experienced a feeling of righteousness. She made us feel that we were equal partners with her in the enterprise of life, and that hoeing the garden and eating the cookies were our part of the compact. When we went to stay with her for a week or two we carried with us a book or so of the lurid sort, but returned home leaving them behind, generally in the form of ashes. She found the book, of course, beneath the pillow, and replaced it when she made the bed, but never mentioned the matter to us. Then, in the afternoon, while we munched cookies she would read to us from some book that made our own book seem tame and unprofitable. She never completed the story, however, but left the book on the table where we could find it easily. No need to tell that we finished the story, without help, in the evening, and the next day cremated the other book, having found something more to our liking. One evening, as we sat together, she said she wished she knew the name of Jephthah's daughter, and then went on with her knitting as if she had forgotten her wish. At that age we boys were not specially interested in daughters, no matter whose they were; but that challenge to our curiosity was too much for us, and before we went to bed we knew all that is known of that fine girl. That was the beginning of our intimate, personal knowledge of Bible characters--Ruth, Esther, David, and the rest; but grandmother made us feel that we had known about them all along. I know, even yet, just how tall Ruth was, and what was the color of her eyes and hair; and Esther is the standard by which I measure all the queens of earth, whether they wear crowns or not. One day when we went over to play with Tom we saw a peacock for the first time, and at supper became enthusiastic over the discovery. In the midst of our rhapsodizing grandmother asked us if we knew how those beautiful spots came to be in the feathers of the peacock. We confessed our ignorance, and like Ajax, prayed for light. But we soon became aware that our prayer would not be answered until after the supper dishes had been washed. Our alacrity in proffering our services is conclusive evidence that grandmother knew about motivation whether she knew the word or not. We suggested the omission of the skillets and pans for that night only, but the suggestion fell upon barren soil, and the regular order of business was strictly observed. Then came the story, and the narrator made the characters seem lifelike to us as they passed in review. There were Jupiter and Juno; there were Argus with his hundred eyes, the beautiful heifer that was Io, and the crafty Mercury. In rapt attention we listened until those eyes of Argus were transferred to the feathers of the peacock. If Mercury's story of his musical pipe closed the eyes of Argus, grandmother's story opened ours wide, and we clamored for another, as boys will do. Nor did we ask in vain, and we were soon learning of the Flying Mercury, and how light and airy Mercury was, seeing that an infant's breath could support him. After telling of the wild ride of Phaeton and his overthrow, she quoted from John G. Saxe: "Don't set it down in your table of forces That any one man equals any four horses. Don't swear by the Styx! It is one of old Nick's Diabolical tricks To get people into a regular 'fix,' And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!" Be it said to our credit that after such an evening dish-washing was no longer a task, but rather a delightful prelude to another mythological feast. We wandered with Ulysses and shuddered at Polyphemus; we went in quest of the Golden Fleece, and watched the sack of Troy; we came to know Orpheus and Eurydice and Pyramus and Thisbe; and we sowed dragon's teeth and saw armed men spring up before us. Since those glorious evenings with grandmother the classic myths have been among my keenest delights. I read again and again Lowell's extravaganza upon the story of Daphne, and can hear grandmother's laugh over his delicious puns. I can hear her voice as she reads Shelley's musical Arethusa, and then turns to his Skylark to compare their musical qualities. I feel downright sorry for the boy who has no such grandmother to teach him these poems, but not more sorry than I do for those boys who took that Diamond Dick book with them when they went visiting. Even now, when people talk to me of omniscience I always think of grandmother. CHAPTER XXIV MY WORLD "The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be A pagan suckled in a creed out-worn-- So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; And hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn." --_Wordsworth_. I have heard many times that this is one of the best of Wordsworth's many sonnets, and in the matter of sonnets, I find myself compelled to depend upon others for my opinions. I'm sorry that such is the case, for I'd rather not deal in second-hand judgments if I could help it. About the most this sonnet can do for me is to make me wonder what my world is. I suppose that the size of my world is the measure of myself, and that in my schoolmastering I am simply trying to enlarge the world of my pupils. I saw a gang-plough the other day that is drawn by a motor, and that set me to thinking of ploughs in general and their evolution; and, by tracing the plough backward, I saw that the original one must have been the forefinger of some cave-dweller. When his forefinger got sore, he got a forked stick and used that instead; then he got a larger one and used both hands; then a still larger one, and used oxen as the motive power; and then he fitted handles to it, and other parts till he finally produced a plough. But the principle has not been changed, and the gang-plough is but a multifold forefinger. It is great fun to loose the tether of the mind and let it go racing along, in and out, till it runs to earth the original plough. Whether the solution is the correct one makes but little difference. If friend Brown cannot disprove my theory, I am on safe ground, and have my fun whether he accepts or rejects my findings. This is one way of enlarging one's world, I take it, and if this sort of thing is a part of the process of education, I am in favor of it, and wish I knew how to set my boys and girls going on such excursions. I wish I might have gone to school to Agassiz just to get my eyes opened. If I had, I'd probably assign to my pupils such subjects as the evolution of a snowflake, the travels of a sunbeam, the mechanism of a bird's wing, the history of a dewdrop, the changes in a blade of grass, and the evolution of a grain of sand. If I could only take them away from books for a month or so, they'd probably be able to read the books to better advantage when they came back. I'd like to take them on a walking trip over the Alps and through rural England and Scotland for a few weeks. If they could only gather broom, heather, shamrock, and edelweiss, they would be able to see clover, alfalfa, arbutus, and mignonette when they came back home. If they could see black robins in Wales and Germany, the robin redbreast here at home would surely be thought worthy of notice. If they could see stalactites and stalagmites in Luray Cave, their world would then include these formations. One of my boys was a member of an exploring expedition in the Andes, and one night they were encamped near a glacier. This glacier protruded into a lake, and on that particular night the end of that river of ice broke off and thus formed an iceberg. The glacier was nearly a mile wide, and when the end broke off the sound was such as to make the loudest thunder seem a whisper by comparison. It was a rare experience for this young fellow to be around where icebergs are made, and vicariously I shared his experience. I want to know the price of eggs, bacon, and coffee, but I need not go into camp on the price-list. Having purchased my bacon and eggs, I like to move along to where my friend is sitting, and hear him tell of his experiences with glaciers and icebergs, and so become inoculated with the world-enlarging virus. Or, if he comes in to share my bacon and eggs, these mundane delights lose none of their flavor by being garnished with conversation on Andean themes. I'm glad to have my friend push that greatest of monuments, "The Christ of the Andes," over into my world. I arise from the table feeling that I have had full value for the money I expended for eggs and bacon. I'd like to have in my world a liberal sprinkling of stars, for when I am looking at stars I get away from sordid things, for a time, and get my soul renovated. I think St. Paul must have been associating with starry space just before he wrote the last two verses of that eighth chapter of Romans. I can't see how he could have written such mighty thoughts if he had been dwelling upon clothes or symptoms. The reading of a patent-medicine circular is not specially conducive to thoughts of infinity. So I like, in my meditations, to take trips from star to star, and from planet to planet. I like to wonder whether these planets were rightly named--whether Venus is as beautiful as the name implies, and whether the Martians are really disciples of the warlike Mars. I like to drift along upon the canals on the planet Mars, with heroic Martians plying the oars. I have great fun on such spatial excursions, and am glad that I ever annexed these planets to my world. I can take these stellar companions with me to my potato-patch, and they help the day along. I want pictures in my world, too, and statues; for they show me the hearts of the artists, and that is a sort of baptism. Sometimes I grow a bit impatient to see how slowly some work of mine proceeds. Then I think of Ghiberti, who worked for forty-two years on the bronze doors of the Baptistry there in Florence, which Michael Angelo declared to be worthy of paradise. Then I reflect that it was worth a lifetime of work to win the praise of such as Angelo. This reflection calms me, and I plod on more serenely, glad of the fact that I can count Ghiberti and the bronze doors as a part of my world. When I can have Titian, Rembrandt, Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Raphael, and Rosa Bonheur around, I feel that I have good company and must be on my good behavior. If Corot, Reynolds, Leighton, Watts, and Landseer should be banished from my world I'd feel that I had suffered a great loss. I like to hobnob with such folks as these, both for my own pleasure and also for the reputation I gain through such associations. I must have people in my world, also, or it wouldn't be much of a world. And I must be careful in my selection of people, if I am to achieve any distinction as a world builder. I just can't leave Cordelia out, for she helps to make my world luminous. But she must have companions; so I shall select Antigone, Evangeline, Miranda, Mary, and Martha if she can spare the time. Among the male contingent I shall want Job, Erasmus, Petrarch, Dante, Goethe, Shakespeare, Milton, and Burns. I want men and women in whose presence I must stand uncovered to preserve my self-respect. I want big people, wise people, and dynamic people in my world, people who will teach me how to work and how to live. If I can get my world made and peopled to my liking, I shall refute Mr. Wordsworth's statement that the world is too much with us. If I can have the right sort of folks about me, they will see to it that I do not waste my powers, for I shall be compelled to use my powers in order to avert expulsion from their good company. If I get my world built to suit me, I shall have no occasion to imitate the poet's plaint. I suspect there is no better fun in life than in building a world of one's own. CHAPTER XXV THIS OR THAT One day in London a friend told me that on the market in that city they have eggs of five grades--new-laid eggs, fresh eggs, imported fresh eggs, good eggs, and eggs. A few days later we were in the Tate Gallery looking at the Turner collection when he told me a story of Turner. It seems that a friend of the artist was in his studio watching him at his work, when suddenly this friend said: "Really, Mr. Turner, I can't see in nature the colors that you portray on canvas." The artist looked at him steadily for a moment, and then replied: "Don't you wish you could?" Life, even at its best, certainly is a maze. I find myself in the labyrinth, all the while groping about, but quite unable to find the exit. Theseus was most fortunate in having an Ariadne to furnish him with the thread to guide him. But there seems to be no second Ariadne for me, and I must continue to grope with no thread to guide. There in the Tate Gallery I was standing enthralled before pictures by Watts and Leighton, and paying small heed to the Turners, when the story of my friend held a mirror before me, and as I looked I asked myself the question: "Don't you wish you could?" Those Barbizon chaps, artists that they were, used to laugh at Corot and tell him he was parodying nature, but he went right on painting the foliage of his trees silver-gray until, finally, the other artists discovered that he was the only one who was telling the truth on canvas. Every one of my dilemmas seems to have at least a dozen horns, and I stand helpless before them, fearful that I may lay hold of the wrong one. I was reading in a book the other day the statement of a man who says he'd rather have been Louis Agassiz than the richest man in America. In another little book, "The Kingdom of Light," the author, who is a lawyer, says that Concord, Massachusetts, has influenced America to a greater degree than New York and Chicago combined. I think I'll blot out the superlative degree in my grammar, for the comparative gives me all the trouble I can stand. Everything seems to be better or worse than something else, and there doesn't seem to be any best or worst. So I'll dispense with the superlative degree. Whether I buy new-laid eggs, or just eggs, I can't be certain that I have the best or the worst eggs that can be found. If I go over to Paris I may find other grades of eggs. Our Sunday-school teacher wanted a generous contribution of money one day, and, by way of causing purse-strings to relax, told of a boy who was putting aside choice bits of meat as he ate his dinner. Upon being asked by his father why he was doing so, he replied that he was saving the bits for Rover. He was reminded that Rover could do with scraps and bones, and that he himself should eat the bits he had put aside. When he went out to Rover with the plate of leavings, he patted him affectionately and said: "Poor doggie! I was going to bring you an offering to-day; but I guess you'll have to put up with a collection." I like Robert Burns and think his "To Mary in Heaven" is his finest poem. But the critics seem to prefer his "Highland Mary." So I suppose these critics will look at me, with something akin to pity in the look, and say: "Don't you wish you could?" Years ago some one planted trees about my house for shade, and selected poplar. Now the roots of these trees invade the cellar and the cistern, and prove themselves altogether a nuisance. Of course, I can cut out the trees, but then I should have no shade. That man, whoever he was, might just as well have planted elms or maples, but, by some sort of perversity or ignorance, planted poplars, and here am I, years afterward, in a state of perturbation about the safety of cellar and cistern on account of those pesky roots. I do wish that man had taken a course in arboriculture before he planted those trees. It might have saved me a deal of bother, and been no worse for him. Back home, after we had passed through the autograph-album stage of development, we became interested in another sort of literary composition. It was a book in which we recorded the names of our favorite book, author, poem, statesman, flower, name, place, musical instrument, and so on throughout an entire page. That experience was really valuable and caused us to do some thinking. It would be well, I think, to use such a book as that in the examination of teachers and pupils. I wish I might come upon one of the books now in which I set down the record of my favorites. It would afford me some interesting if not valuable information. If I were called upon to name my favorite flower now I'd scarcely know what to say. In one mood I'd certainly say lily-of-the-valley, but in another mood I might say the rose. I do wonder if, in those books back yonder, I ever said sunflower, dandelion, dahlia, fuchsia, or daisy. If I should find that I said heliotrope, I'd give my adolescence a pretty high grade. If I were using one of these books in my school, and some boy should name the sunflower as his favorite, I'd find myself facing a big problem to get him converted to the lily-of-the-valley, and I really do not know quite how I should proceed. It might not help him much for me to ask him: "Don't you wish you could?" If I should let him know that my favorite is the lily-of-the-valley, he might name that flower as the line of least resistance to my approval and a high grade, with the mental reservation that the sunflower is the most beautiful plant that grows. Such a course might gratify me, but it certainly would not make for his progress toward the lily-of-the-valley, nor yet for the salvation of his soul. I have a boy of my own, but have never had the courage to ask him what kind of father he thinks he has. He might tell me. Again I am facing a dilemma. Dilemmas are quite plentiful hereabouts. I must determine whether to regard him as an asset or a liability. But, that is not the worst of my troubles. I plainly see that sooner or later he is going to decide whether his father is an asset or a liability. We must go over our books some day so as to find out which of us is in debt to the other. I know that I owe him his chance, but parents often seem backward about paying their debts to their children, and I'm wondering whether I shall be able to cancel that debt, to his present and ultimate satisfaction. I'd be decidedly uncomfortable, years hence, to find him but "the runt of something good" because I had failed to pay that debt. When I was a lad they used to say that I was stubborn, but that may have been my unsophisticated way of trying to collect a debt. I take some comfort, in these later days, in knowing that the folks at home credit me with the virtue of perseverance, and I wish they had used the milder word when I was a boy. There is a picture show just around the corner, and I'm in a quandary, right now, whether to follow the crowd to that show or sit here and read Ruskin's "Sesame and Lilies." If I go to see the picture film I'll probably see an exhibition of cowboy equestrian dexterity, with a "happy ever after" finale, and may also acquire the reputation among the neighbors of being up to date. But, if I spend the evening with Ruskin, I shall have something worth thinking over as I go about my work to-morrow. So here is another dilemma, and there is no one to decide the matter for me. This being a free moral agent is not the fun that some folks try to make it appear. I don't really see how I shall ever get on unless I subscribe to Sam Walter Foss's lines: "No other song has vital breath Through endless time to fight with death, Than that the singer sings apart To please his solitary heart." CHAPTER XXVI RABBIT PEDAGOGY As I think back over my past life as a schoolmaster I keep wondering how many inebriates I have produced in my career. I'd be glad to think that I have not a single one to my discredit, but that seems beyond the wildest hope, considering the character of my teaching. I am a firm believer in temperance in all things; but, in the matter of pedagogy, my practice cannot be made to square with my theory. In fact, I find, upon reflection, that I have been teaching intemperance all the while. I'm glad the officers of my church do not know of my pedagogical practice. If they did, they would certainly take action against me, and in that case I cannot see what adequate defense I could offer. Being a schoolmaster, I could scarcely bring myself to plead ignorance, for such a plea as that might abrogate my license. So I shall just keep quiet and look as nearly wise as possible. It is embarrassing to me to reflect how long it has taken me to see the error of my practice. If I had asked one of my boys he could have told me of the better way. When we got the new desks in our school, back home, our teacher seemed very anxious to have them kept in their virgin state, and became quite animated as he walked up and down the aisle fulminating against the possible offender. In the course of his sulphury remarks he threatened condign punishment upon the base miscreant who should dare use his penknife on one of those desks. His address was equal to a course in "Paradise Lost," nor was it without its effect upon the audience. Every boy in the room felt in his pocket to make sure that it contained his knife, and every one began to wonder just where he would find the whetstone when he went home. We were all eager for school to close for the day that we might set about the important matter of whetting our knives. Henceforth wood-carving was a part of the regular order in our school, but it was done without special supervision. Of course, each boy could prove an alibi when his own desk was under investigation. It would not be seemly, in this connection, to give a verbatim report of the conversations of us boys when we assembled at our rendezvous after school. Suffice it to say that the teacher's ears must have burned. The consensus of opinion was that, if the teacher didn't want the desks carved, he should not have told us to carve them. We seemed to think that he had said, in substance, that he knew we were a gang of young rascallions, and that, if he didn't intimidate us, we'd surely be guilty of some form of vandalism. Then he proceeded to point out the way by suggesting penknives; and the trick was done. We were ever open to suggestions. We had another teacher whose pet aversion was match heads. Cicero and Demosthenes would have apologized to him could they have come in when he was delivering one of his eloquent orations upon this engaging theme. His vituperative vocabulary seemed unlimited, inexhaustible, and cumulative. He raved, and ranted, and exuded epithets with the most lavish prodigality. It seemed to us that he didn't care much what he said, if he could only say it rapidly and forcibly. In the very midst of an eloquent period another match head would explode under his foot, and that seemed to answer the purpose of an encore. The class in arithmetic did not recite that afternoon. There was no time for arithmetic when match heads were to the fore. I sometimes feel a bit guilty that I was admitted to such a good show on a free pass. The next day, of course, the Gatling guns resumed their activity; the girls screeched as they walked toward the water-pail to get a drink; we boys studied our geography lesson with faces garbed in a look of innocence and wonder; our mothers at home were wondering what had become of all the matches; and the teacher--but the less said of him the better. We boys needed only the merest suggestion to set us in motion, and like Dame Rumor in the Aeneid, we gathered strength by the going. One day the teacher became somewhat facetious and recounted a red-pepper episode in the school of his boyhood. That was enough for us; and the next day, in our school, was a day long to be remembered. I recall in the school reader the story of "Meddlesome Matty." Her name was really Matilda. One day her curiosity got the better of her, and she removed the lid from her grandmother's snuff-box. The story goes on to say: "Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth, and chin A dismal sight presented; And as the snuff got further in Sincerely she repented." Barring the element of repentance, the red pepper was equally provocative of results in our school. I certainly cannot lay claim to any great degree of docility, for, in spite of all the experiences of my boyhood, I fell into the evil ways of my teachers when I began my schoolmastering, and suggested to my pupils numberless short cuts to wrong-doing. I railed against intoxicants, and thus made them curious. That's why I am led to wonder if I have incited any of my boys to strong drink as my teachers incited me to desk-carving, match heads, and red pepper. I have come to think that a rabbit excels me in the matter of pedagogy. The tar-baby story that Joel Chandler Harris has given us abundantly proves my statement. The rabbit had so often outwitted the fox that, in desperation, the latter fixed up a tar-baby and set it up in the road for the benefit of the rabbit. In his efforts to discipline the tar-baby for impoliteness, the rabbit became enmeshed in the tar, to his great discomfort and chagrin. However, Brer Rabbit's knowledge of pedagogy shines forth in the following dialogue: W'en Brer Fox fine Brer Rabbit mixt up wid de Tar-Baby he feel mighty good, en he roll on de groun' en laff. Bimeby he up'n say, sezee: "Well, I speck I got you dis time, Brer Rabbit," sezee. "Maybe I ain't, but I speck I is. You been runnin' roun' here sassin' atter me a mighty long time, but I speck you done come ter de een' er de row. You bin cuttin' up yo' capers en bouncin' 'roun' in dis neighborhood ontwel you come ter b'leeve yo'se'f de boss er de whole gang. En den youer allers some'rs whar you got no bizness," sez Brer Fox, sezee. "Who ax you fer ter come en strike up a'quaintance wid dish yer Tar-Baby? En who stuck you up dar whar you is? Nobody in de roun' worril. You des tuck en jam yo'se'f on dat Tar-Baby widout watin' fer enny invite," sez Brer Fox, sezee, "en dar you is, en dar you'll stay twel I fixes up a bresh-pile and fires her up, kaze I'm gwineter bobby-cue you dis day, sho," sez Brer Fox, sezee. Den Brer Rabbit talk mighty 'umble. "I don't keer w'at you do wid me, Brer Fox," sezee, "so you don't fling me in dat brier-patch. Roas' me, Brer Fox," sezee, "but don't fling me in dat brier-patch," sezee. "Hit's so much trouble fer ter kindle a fier," sez Brer Fox, sezee, "dat I speck I'll hatter hang you," sezee. "Hang me des ez high as you please, Brer Fox," sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, "but do fer de Lord's sake don't fling me in dat brier-patch," sezee. "I ain't got no string," sez Brer Fos, sezee, "en now I speck I'll hatter drown you," sezee. "Drown me des ez deep ez you please, Brer Fox," sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, "but do don't fling me in dat brier-patch," sezee. "Dey ain't no water nigh," sez Brer Fox, sezee, "en now I speck I'll hatter skin you," sezee. "Skin me, Brer Fox," sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, "snatch out my eyeballs, t'ar out my years by de roots, en cut off my legs," sezee, "but do please, Brer Fox, don't fling me in dat brier-patch," sezee. Co'se Brer Fox wanter hurt Brer Rabbit bad ez he kin, so he cotch 'im by de behime legs en slung 'im right in de middle er de brier-patch. Dar wuz a considerbul flutter whar Brer Rabbit struck de bushes, en Brer Fox sorter hang 'roun' fer ter see w'at wuz gwineter happen. Bimeby he hear somebody call 'im, en way up de hill he see Brer Rabbit settin' cross-legged on a chinkapin log koamin' de pitch outen his har wid a chip. Den Brer Fox know dat he bin swop off mighty bad. Brer Rabbit was bleedzed fer ter fling back some er his sass, en he holler out: "Bred en bawn in a brier-patch, Brer Fox--bred en bawn in a brier-patch!" en wid dat he skip out des ez lively ez a cricket in de embers. CHAPTER XXVII PERSPECTIVE I wish I could ever get the question of majors and minors settled to my complete satisfaction. I thought my college course would settle the matter for all time, but it didn't. I suspect that those erudite professors thought they were getting me fitted out with enduring habits of majors and minors, but they seem to have made no allowance for changes of styles nor for growth. When I received my diploma they seemed to think I was finished, and would stay just as they had fixed me. They used to talk no little about finished products, and, on commencement day, appeared to look upon me as one of them. On the whole, I'm glad that I didn't fulfil their apparent expectations. I have never been able to make out whether their attentions, on commencement day, were manifestations of pride or relief. I can see now that I must have been a sore trial to them. In my callow days, when they occupied pedestals, I bent the knee to them by way of propitiating them, but I got bravely over that. At first, what they taught and what they represented were my majors, but when I came to shift and reconstruct values, some of them climbed down off their pedestals, and my knee lost some of its flexibility. We had one little professor who afforded us no end of amusement by his taking himself so seriously. The boys used to say that he wrote letters and sent flowers to himself. He would strut about the campus as proudly as a pouter-pigeon, never realizing, apparently, that we were laughing at him. At first, he impressed us greatly with his grand air and his clothes, but after we discovered that, in his case at least, clothes do not make the man, we refused to be impressed. He could split hairs with infinite precision, and smoke a cigarette in the most approved style, but I never heard any of the boys express a wish to become that sort of man. Had there occurred a meeting, on the campus, between him and Zeus he would have been offended, I am sure, if Zeus had failed to set off a few thunderbolts in his honor. We used to have at home a bantam rooster that could create no end of flutter in the chicken yard, and could crow mightily; but when I reflected that he could neither lay eggs nor occupy much space in a frying-pan, I demoted him, in my thinking, from major rank to a low minor, and awarded the palm to one of the less bumptious but more useful fowls. Our little professor had degrees, of course, and has them yet, I suspect; but no one ever discovered that he put them to any good use. For that reason we boys lost interest in the man as well as his garnishments. Our professor of chemistry was different. He was never on dress-parade; he did not pose; he was no snob. We loved him because he was so genuine. He had degrees, too, but they were so obscured by the man that we forgot them in our contemplation of him. We knew that they do not make degrees big enough for him. I often wonder what degrees the colleges would want to confer upon William Shakespeare if he could come back. Then, too, I often think what a wonderful letter Abraham Lincoln could and might have written to Mrs. Bixby, if he had only had a degree. Agassiz may have had degrees, but he didn't really need them. Like Browning, he was big enough, even lacking degrees, to be known without the identification of his other names. If people need degrees they ought to have them, especially if they can live up to them. Possibly the time may come when degrees will be given for things done, rather than for things hoped for; given for at least one stage of the journey accomplished rather than for merely packing a travelling-bag. If this time ever comes Thomas A. Edison will bankrupt the alphabet. In this coil of degrees and the absence of them, I become more and more confused as to majors and minors. There in college were those two professors both wearing degrees of the same size. Judged by that criterion they should have been of equal size and influence. But they weren't. In the one case you couldn't see the man for the degree; in the other you couldn't see the degree for the man. Small wonder that I find myself in such a hopeless muddle. I once thought, in my innocence, that there was a sort of metric scale in degrees--that an A.M. was ten times the size of an A.B.; that a Ph.D. was equal to ten A.M.'s; and that the LL.D. degree could be had only on the top of Mt. Olympus. But here I am, stumbling about among folks, and can't tell a Ph.D. from an A.B. I do wish all these degree chaps would wear tags so that we wayfaring folks could tell them apart. It would simplify matters if the railway people would arrange compartments on their trains for these various degrees. The Ph.D. crowd would certainly feel more comfortable if they could herd together, so that they need not demean themselves by associating with mere A.M.'s or the more lowly A.B.'s. We might hope, too, that by way of diversion they would put their heads together and compound some prescription by the use of which the world might avert war, reduce the high cost of living, banish a woman's tears, or save a soul from perdition. Be it said to my shame, that I do not know what even an A.B. means, much less the other degree hieroglyphics. Sometimes I receive a letter having the writer's name printed at the top with an A.B. annex; but I do not know what the writer is trying to say to me by means of the printing. He probably wants me to know that he is a graduate of some sort, but he fails to make it clear to me whether his degree was conferred by a high school, a normal school, a college, or a university. I know of one high school that confers this degree, as well as many normal schools and colleges. There are still other institutions where this same degree may be had, that freely admit that they are colleges, whether they can prove it or not. I'll be glad to send a stamped envelope for reply, if some one will only be good enough to tell me what A.B. does really mean. I do hope that the earth may never be scourged with celibacy, but the ever-increasing variety of bachelors, male and female, creates in me a feeling of apprehension. Nor can I make out whether a bachelor of arts is bigger and better than bachelors of science and pedagogy. The arts folks claim that they are, and proceed to prove it by one another. I often wonder what a bachelor of arts can do that the other bachelors cannot do, or _vice versa_. They should all be required to submit a list of their accomplishments, so that, when any of the rest of us want a bit of work done, we may be able to select wisely from among these differentiated bachelors. If we want a bridge built, a beefsteak broiled, a mountain tunnelled, a loaf of bread baked, a railroad constructed, a hat trimmed, or a book written, we ought to know which class of bachelors will serve our purpose best. Some one asked me just a few days ago to cite him to some man or woman who can write a prize-winning short story, but I couldn't decide whether to refer him to the bachelors of arts or the bachelors of pedagogy. I might have turned to the Litt.D.'s, but I didn't suppose they would care to bother with a little thing like that. In college I studied Greek and, in fact, won a gold medal for my agility in ramping through Mr. Xenophon's parasangs. That medal is lost, so far as I know, and no one now has the remotest suspicion that I ever even halted along through those parasangs, not to mention ramping, or that I ever made the acquaintance of ox-eyed Juno. But I need no medal to remind roe of those experiences in the Greek class. Every bluebird I see does that for me. The good old doctor, one morning in early spring, rhapsodized for five minutes on the singing of a bluebird he had heard on his way to class, telling how the little fellow was pouring forth a melody that made the world and all life seem more beautiful and blessed. We loved him for that, because it proved that he was a big-souled human being; and pupils like to discover human qualities in their teachers. The little professor may have heard the bluebird's singing, too; but if he did, he probably thought it was serenading him. If colleges of education and normal schools would select teachers who can delight in the song of a bluebird their academic attainments would be ennobled and glorified, and their students might come to love instead of fearing them. Only a man or a woman with a big soul can socialize and vitalize the work of the schools. The mere academician can never do it. The more I think of all these degree decorations in my efforts to determine what is major in life and what is minor, the more I think of George. He was an earnest schoolmaster, and was happiest when his boys and girls were around him, busy at their tasks. One year there were fourteen boys in his school, fifteen including himself, for he was one of them. The school day was not long enough, so they met in groups in the evening, at the various homes, and continued the work of the day. These boys absorbed his time, his strength, and his heart. Their success in their work was his greatest joy. Of those fourteen boys one is no more. Of the other thirteen one is a state official of high rank, five are attorneys, two are ministers of the Gospel, two are bankers, one is a successful business man, and two are engineers of prominence. George is the ideal of those men. They all say he gave them their start in the right direction, and always speak his name with reverence. George has these thirteen stars in his crown that I know of. He had no degrees, but I am thinking that some time he will hear the plaudit: "Well done, good and faithful servant." CHAPTER XXVIII PURELY PEDAGOGICAL It was a dark, cold, rainy night in November. The wind whistled about the house, the rain beat a tattoo against the window-panes and flooded the sills. The big base-burner, filled with anthracite coal, was illuminating the room through its mica windows, on all sides, and dispensing a warmth that smiled at the storm and cold outside. There was a book in the picture, also; and a pair of slippers; and a smoking-jacket; and an armchair. From the ceiling was suspended a great lamp that joined gloriously in the chorus of light and cheer. The man who sat in the armchair, reading the book, was a schoolmaster--a college professor to be exact. Soft music floated up from below stairs as a soothing accompaniment to his reading. Subconsciously, as he turned the pages, he felt a pity for the poor fellows on top of freight-trains who must endure the pitiless buffeting of the storm. He could see them bracing themselves against the blasts that tried to wrest them from their moorings. He felt a pity for the belated traveller who tries, well-nigh in vain, to urge his horses against the driving rain onward toward food and shelter. But the leaves of the book continued to turn at intervals; for the story was an engaging one, and the schoolmaster was ever responsive to well-told stories. It was nine o'clock or after, and the fury of the storm was increasing. As if responding to the challenge outside, he opened the draft of the stove and then settled back, thinking he would be able to complete the story before retiring. In the midst of one of the many compelling passages he heard a bell toll, or imagined he did. Brought to check by this startling sensation, he looked back over the page to discover a possible explanation. Finding none, he smiled at his own fancy, and then proceeded with his reading. But, again, the bell tolled, and he wondered whether anything he had eaten at dinner could be held responsible for the hallucination. Scarcely had he resumed his reading when the bell again tolled. He could stand it no longer, and must come upon the solution of the mystery. Bells do not toll at nine o'clock, and the weirdness of the affair disconcerted him. The nearer he drew to the foot of the stair, in his quest for information, the more foolish he felt his question would seem to the members of the family. But the question had scarce been asked when the boy of the house burst forth: "Yes, been tolling for half an hour." Meekly he asked: "Why are they tolling the bell?" "Child lost." "Whose child?" "Little girl belonging to the Norwegians who live in the shack down there by the woods." So, that was it! Well, it was some satisfaction to have the matter cleared up, and now he could go back to his book. He had noticed the shack in question, which was made of slabs set upright, with a precarious roof of tarred paper; and had heard, vaguely, that a gang of Norwegians were there to make a road through the woods to Minnehaha Falls. Beyond these bare facts he had never thought to inquire. These people and their doings were outside of his world. Besides, the book and the cheery room were awaiting his return. But the reading did not get on well. The tolling bell broke in upon it and brought before his mind the picture of a little girl wandering about in the storm and crying for her mother. He tried to argue with himself that these Norwegians did not belong in his class, and that they ought to look after their own children. He was under no obligations to them--in fact, did not even know them. They had no right, therefore, to break in upon the serenity of his evening. But the bell tolled on. If he could have wrenched the clapper from out that bell, the page of his book might not have blurred before his eyes. As the wind moaned about the house he thought he heard a child crying, and started to his feet. It was inconceivable, he argued, that he, a grown man, should permit such incidental matters in life to so disturb his composure. There were scores, perhaps hundreds, of children lost somewhere in the world, for whom regiments of people were searching, and bells were tolling, too. So why not be philosophical and read the book? But the words would not keep their places, and the page yielded forth no coherent thought. He could endure the tension no longer. He became a whirlwind--slamming the book upon the table, kicking off the slippers, throwing the smoking-jacket at random, and rushing to the closet for his gear. At ten o'clock he was ready--hip-boots, slouch-hat, rubber coat, and lantern, and went forth into the storm. Arriving at the scene, he took his place in the searching party of about twenty men. They were to search the woods, first of all, each man to be responsible for a space about two or three rods wide and extending to the road a half-mile distant. Lantern in hand, he scrutinized each stone and stump, hoping and fearing that it might prove to be the little one. In the darkness he stumbled over logs and vines, became entangled in briers and brambles, and often was deluged with water from trees as he came in contact with overhanging boughs. But his blood was up, for he was seeking a lost baby. When he fell full-length in the swale, he got to his feet the best he could and went on. Book and room were forgotten in the glow of a larger purpose. So for two hours he splashed and struggled, but had never a thought of abandoning the quest until the child should be found. At twelve o'clock they had reached the road and were about to begin the search in another section of the wood when the church-bell rang. This was the signal that they should return to the starting-point to hear any tidings that might have come in the meantime. Scarcely had they heard that a message had come from police headquarters in the city, and that information could be had there concerning a lost child when the schoolmaster called out: "Come on, Craig!" And away went these two toward the barn to arouse old "Blackie" out of her slumber and hitch her to a buggy. Little did that old nag ever dream, even in her palmiest days, that she could show such speed as she developed in that four-mile drive. The schoolmaster was too much wrought up to sit supinely by and see another do the driving; so he did it himself. And he drove as to the manner born. The information they obtained at the police station was meagre enough, but it furnished them a clew. A little girl had been found wandering about, and could be located on a certain street at such a number. The name of the family was not known. With this slender clew they began their search for the street and house. The map of streets which they had hastily sketched seemed hopelessly inadequate to guide them in and out of by-streets and around zigzag corners. They had adventures a plenty in pounding upon doors of wrong houses and thus arousing the fury of sleepy men and sleepless dogs. One of the latter tore away a quarter-section of the schoolmaster's rubber coat, and became so interested in this that the owner escaped with no further damage. After an hour filled with such experiences they finally came to the right house. Joy flooded their hearts as the man inside called out: "Yes, wait a minute." Once inside, questions and answers flew back and forth like a shuttle. Yes, a little girl--about five years old--light hair--braided and hanging down her back--check apron. "She's the one--and we want to take her home." Then the lady appeared, and said it was too bad to take the little one out into such a night. But the schoolmaster bore her argument down with the word-picture of the little one's mother pacing back and forth in front of the shack, her hair hanging in strings, her clothing drenched with rain and clinging to her body, her eyes upturned, and her face expressing the most poignant agony. When they left she had thus been pacing to and fro for seven hours and was, no doubt, doing so yet. The mother-heart of the woman could not withstand such an appeal, and soon she was busy in the difficult task of trying to get the little arms into the sleeves of dress and apron. Meanwhile, the two bedraggled men were on their knees striving with that acme of awkwardness of which only men are capable, to ensconce the little feet in stockings and shoes. The dressing of that child was worthy the brush of Raphael or the smile of angels. At three o'clock in the morning the schoolmaster stepped from the buggy and placed the sleeping baby in the mother's arms, and only the heavenly Father knows the language she spoke as she crooned over her little one. As the schoolmaster wended his way homeward, cold, hungry, and worn he was buoyant in spirit to the point of ecstasy. But he was chastened, for he had stood upon the Mount of Transfiguration and knew as never before that the mission of the schoolmaster is to find and restore the lost child. CHAPTER XXIX LONGEVITY I'm quite in the notion of playing a practical joke on Atropos, and, perhaps, on Methuselah, while I'm about it. I'm not partial to Atropos at the best. She's such a reckless, uppish, heedless sort of tyrant. She rushes into huts, palaces, and even into the grand stand, and lays about her with her scissors, snipping off threads with the utmost abandon. She wields her shears without any sort of apology or by your leave. Not even a check-book can stay her ravages. Her devastation knows neither ruth nor gentleness. I don't like her, and have no compunction about playing a joke at her expense. I don't imagine it will daunt her, in the least, but I can have my fun, at any rate. It is now just seven o'clock in the evening, and I shall not retire before ten o'clock at the earliest. So here are three good hours for me to dispose of; and I am the sole arbiter in the matter of disposing of them. My neighbor John has a cow, and he is applying the efficiency test to her. He charges her with every pound of corn, bran, fodder, and hay that she eats, and doctor's bills, too, I suppose, if there are any. Then he credits her with all the milk she furnishes. There is quite a book-account in her name, and John has a good time figuring out whether, judged by net results, she is a consumer or a producer. If I can resurrect sufficient mathematical lore, I think I shall try to apply this efficiency test to my three hours just to see if I can prove that hours are as important as cows. I ought to be able, somehow, to determine whether these hours are consumers or producers. I read a book the other evening whose title is "Stories of Thrift for Young Americans," and it made me feel that I ought to apply the efficiency test to myself, and repeat the process every waking hour of the day. But, in order to do this, I must apply the test to these three hours. In my dreamy moods, I like to personify an Hour and spell it with a capital. I like to think of an hour as the singular of Houri which the Mohammedans call nymphs of paradise, because they were, or are, beautiful-eyed. My Hour then becomes a goddess walking through my life, and, as the poet says, _et vera incessu patuit dea_. If I show her that I appreciate her she comes again just after the clock strikes, in form even more winsome than before, and smiles upon me as only a goddess can. Once, in a sullen mood, I looked upon her as if she were a hag. When she returned she was a hag; and not till after I had done full penance did she become my beautiful goddess again. A young man who had been spending the evening in the home of a neighbor complained that they did not play any games, and did nothing but talk. I could not ask what games he meant, fearing that I might smile in his face if he should say crokinole, tiddledy-winks, or button-button. Later on I learned that much of the talking was done that evening by a very cultivated man who has travelled widely and intelligently, and has a most engaging manner in his fluent discussions of art, literature, archaeology, architecture, places, and peoples. I was sorry to miss such an evening, and think I could forego tiddledywinks with a fair degree of amiability if, instead, I could hear such a man talk. I have seen people yawn in an art gallery. I fear to play tiddledywinks lest my hour may resume the guise of a hag. But that makes me think of Atropos again, and the joke I am planning to play on her. Still, I see that I shall not soon get around to that joke if I persist in these dim generalities, as a schoolmaster is so apt to do. Well, as I was saying, these three hours are at my disposal, and I must decide what to do with them here and now. In deciding concerning hours I must sit in the judgment-seat whether I like it or not. Tomorrow evening I shall have other three hours to dispose of the same as these, and the next evening three others, and my decision to-night may be far-reaching. In six days I shall have eighteen such hours, and in fifty weeks nine hundred. I suppose that a generous estimate of a college year would be ten hours a day for one hundred and eighty days, or eighteen hundred hours in all. I am quite aware that some college boys will feel inclined to apply a liberal discount to this estimate, but I am not considering those fellows who try to do a month's work in the week of examination, and spend their fathers' money for coaching. Now, if eighteen hundred hours constitute a college year then my nine hundred hours are one-half a college year, and it makes a deal of difference what I do with these three hours. If I had only started this joke on Atropos earlier and had applied these nine hundred hours on my college work, I could have graduated in three years instead of four, and that surely would have been in the line of efficiency. But in those days I was devoting more time and attention to Clotho than to Atropos. I would fain have ignored Lachesis altogether, but she made me painfully conscious of her presence, especially during the finals when, it seemed to me, she was unnecessarily diligent in her vocation. I could have dispensed with much of her torsion with great equanimity. I suppose that now I am trying to square accounts with her by playing this joke on her sister. So I have decided that I shall read a play of Shakespeare to-night, another one to-morrow evening, and continue this until I have read all that he wrote. In the fifty weeks of the year I can easily do this and then reread some of them many times. I ought to be able to commit to memory several of the plays, too, and that would be good fun. If those chaps back yonder could recite the Koran word for word I shall certainly be able to learn equally well some of these plays. It would be worth while to recite "King Lear," "Macbeth," "Othello," "Hamlet," "The Tempest," and "As You Like It," the last week of the year just before I take my vacation of two weeks. If I can recite even these six plays in those six evenings I shall feel that I did well in deciding for Shakespeare instead of tiddledywinks. Next year I shall read history, and that will be rare fun, too. In the nine hundred hours I shall certainly be able to read all of Fiske, Mommsen, Rhodes, Bancroft, McMaster, Channing, Bryce, Hart, Motley, Gibbon, and von Holst not to mention American statesmen. About the Ides of December I shall hold a levee and sit in state as the characters of history file by. I shall be able to call them all by name, to tell of the things they did and why they did them, and to connect their deeds with the world as it now is. I can't conceive of any picture-show equal to that, and all through my year with Shakespeare I shall be looking forward eagerly to my year with the historians. I plainly see that the neighbors will not need to bring in any playthings to amuse and entertain me, though, of course, I shall be grateful to them for their kindly interest. Then, the next year I shall devote to music, and if, by practising for nine hundred hours, I cannot acquire a good degree of facility in manipulating a piano or a violin, I must be too dull to ever aspire to the favor of Terpsichore. If I but measure up to my hopes during this year I shall be saved the expense of buying my music ready-made. The next year I shall devote to art, and by spending one entire evening with a single artist I shall thus become acquainted with three hundred of them. If I become intimate with this number I shall not be lonesome, even if I do not know the others. I think I shall give an art party at the holiday time of that year, and have three hundred people impersonate these artists. This will afford me a good review of my studies in art. It may diminish the gate receipts of the picture-show for a few evenings, but I suspect the world will be able to wag along. Then the next year I shall study poetry, the next astronomy, and the next botany. Thus I shall come to know the plants of earth, the stars of heaven, and the emotions of men. That ought to ward off ennui and afford entertainment without the aid of the saloon. In the succeeding twelve years I shall want to acquire as many languages, for I am eager to excel Elihu Burritt in linguistic attainments even if I must yield to him as a disciple of Vulcan. If I can learn a language and read the literature of that language each year, possibly some college may be willing to grant me a degree for work _in absentia_. If not, I shall poke along the best I can and try to drown my grief in more copious drafts of work. And I shall have quite enough to do, for mathematics, the sciences, and the arts and crafts all lie ahead of me in my programme. I plainly see that I have played my last game of tiddledywinks and solitaire. But I'll have fun anyhow. If I gain a half-year in each twelve-month as I have my programme mapped out, in seventy years I shall have a net gain of thirty-five years. Then, when Atropos comes along with her scissors to snip the thread, thinking I have reached my threescore and ten, I shall laugh in her face and let her know, between laughs, that I am really one hundred and five, and have played a thirty-five-year joke on her. Then I shall quote Bacon at her to clinch the joke: "A man may be young in years but old in hours if he have lost no time." CHAPTER XXX FOUR-LEAF CLOVER I have no ambition to become either a cynic, a pessimist, or an iconoclast. To aspire in either of these directions is bad for the digestion, and good digestion is the foundation and source of much that is desirable in human affairs. Introspection has its uses, to be sure, but the stomach should have exemption as an objective. A stomach is a valuable asset if only one is not conscious of it. One of the emoluments of schoolmastering is the opportunity it affords for communing with elect souls whose very presence is a tonic. Will is one of these. He has a way of shunting my introspection over to the track of the head or the heart. He just talks along and the first thing I know the heart is singing its way through and above the storm, while the head has been connected up to the heart, and they are doing team-work that is good for me and good for all who meet me. At church I like to have them sing the hymn whose closing couplet is: "I'll drop my burden at his feet And bear a song away." I come out strong in singing that couplet, for I like it. In a human sense, that is just what happens when I chat with Will for an hour. When I ask him for bread, he never gives me a stone. On the contrary, he gives me good, white bread, and a bit of cake, besides. In one of our chats the other day he was dilating upon Henry van Dyke's four rules, and very soon had banished all my little clouds and made my mental sky clear and bright. When I get around to evolving a definition of education I think I shall say that it is the process of furnishing people with resources for profitable and pleasant conversation. Why, those four rules just oozed into the talk, without any sort of flutter or formality, and made our chat both agreeable and fruitful. Henry Ward Beecher said many good things. Here is one that I caught in the school reader in my boyhood: "The man who carries a lantern on a dark night can have friends all about him, walking safely by the help of its rays and he be not defrauded." Education is just such a lantern and this schoolmaster, Will, knows how to carry it that it may afford light to the friends about him. Well, the first of van Dyke's rules is: "You shall learn to desire nothing in the world so much but that you can be happy without it." I do wonder if he had been reading in Proverbs: "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." Or he may have been reading the statement of St. Paul: "For I have learned, in whatever state I am, therewith to be content." Or, possibly, he may have been thinking of the lines of Paul Laurence Dunbar, "Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot, My garden makes a desert spot; Sometimes the blight upon the tree Takes all my fruit away from me; And then with throes of bitter pain Rebellious passions rise and swell-- But life is more than fruit or grain, And so I sing, and all is well." I am plebeian enough to be fond of milk and crackers as a luncheon; but I have just a dash of the patrician in my make-up and prefer the milk unskimmed. Sometimes, I find that the cream has been devoted to other, if not higher, uses and that my crackers must associate perforce with milk of cerulean hue. Such a situation is a severe test of character, and I am hoping that at such junctures along life's highway I may find some support in the philosophy of Mr. van Dyke. I suspect that he is trying to make me understand that happiness is subjective rather than objective--that happiness depends not upon what we have, but upon what we do with what we have. I couldn't be an anarchist if I'd try. I don't grudge the millionaire his turtle soup and caviar. But I do feel a bit sorry for him that he does not know what a royal feast crackers and unskimmed milk afford. If the king and the anarchist would but join me in such a feast I think the king would soon forget his crown and the anarchist his plots, and we'd be just three good fellows together, living at the very summit of life and wishing that all men could be as happy as we. The next rule is a condensed moral code: "You shall seek that which you desire only by such means as are fair and lawful, and this will leave you without bitterness toward men or shame before God." No one could possibly dissent from this rule, unless it might be a burglar. I know the grocer makes a profit on the things I buy from him, and I am glad he does. Otherwise, he would have to close his grocery and that would inconvenience me greatly. He thanks me when I pay him, but I feel that I ought to thank him for supplying my needs, for having his goods arranged so invitingly, and for waiting upon me so promptly and so politely. I can't really see how any customer can feel any bitterness toward him. He gives full weight, tells the exact truth as to the quality of the goods, and in all things is fair and lawful. I have no quarrel with him and cannot understand why others should, unless they are less fair, lawful, and agreeable than the grocer himself. I suspect that the grocer and the butcher take on the color of the glasses we happen to be wearing, and that Mr. van Dyke is admonishing us to wear clear glasses and to keep them clean. The third rule needs to be read at least twice if not oftener: "You shall take pleasure in the time while you are seeking, even though you obtain not immediately that which you seek; for the purpose of a journey is not only to arrive at the goal, but also to find enjoyment by the way." I have seen people rushing along in automobiles at the mad rate of thirty or forty miles an hour, missing altogether the million-dollar scenery along the way, in their haste to get to the end of their journey, where a five-cent bag of peanuts awaited them. Had I been riding in an automobile through the streets of Tacoma I might not have seen that glorious cluster of five beautiful roses on a single branch in that attractive lawn. Because of them I always think of Tacoma as the city of roses, for I stopped to look at them. I have quite forgotten the objective point of my stroll; I recollect the roses. When we were riding out from Florence on a tram-car to see the ancient Fiesole I plucked a branch from an olive-tree from the platform of the car. On that branch were at least a dozen young olives, the first I had ever seen. I have but the haziest recollection of the old theatre and the subterranean passages where Catiline and his crowd had their rendezvous; but I do recall that olive branch most distinctly. I cannot improve upon Doctor van Dyke's statement of the rule, but I can interpret it in terms of my own experiences by way of verifying it. I am sure he has it right. The fourth rule is worthy of meditation and prayer; "When you attain that which you have desired, you shall think more of the kindness of your fortune than of the greatness of your skill. This will make you grateful and ready to share with others that which Providence hath bestowed upon you; and truly this is both reasonable and profitable, for it is but little that any of us would catch in this world were not our luck better than our deserts." I shall omit the lesson in arithmetic to-morrow and have, instead, a lesson in life and living, using these four rules as the basis of our lesson. My boys and girls are to have many years of life, I hope, and I'd like to help them to a right start if I can. Some of my many mistakes might have been avoided if my teachers had given me some lessons in the art of living, for it is an art and must be learned. These rules would have helped, could I have known them. I am glad to know that my pupils have faith in me. When I pointed out a nettle to them one day, they avoided it; when I showed them a mushroom that is edible, they accepted the statement without question. So I'll see what I can do for them to-morrow with these four rules. Then, if we have time, we shall learn the lines of Mrs. Higginson: "I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst with snow, And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And one is for love, you know, And God put another in for luck-- If you search, you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong--and so, If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow." CHAPTER XXXI MOUNTAIN-CLIMBING Mountain-climbing is rare sport. And it is sport if only one has the courage to do it. We had gone to the top of Vesuvius on the funicular railway; but one man decided to make the climb. We forgot the volcano in our admiration of the climber. Foot by foot he made his way zigzagging this way and that, slipping, falling, and struggling till at last he reached the summit. Then, fifty throats poured forth a lusty cheer to do him honor. He was not good to look at, for his clothing was crumpled and soiled, the veins stood out on his neck, his hair was tousled, his face was red and streaming with sweat; yet, for all that, we cheered him and meant it, too. He acknowledged our applause in an honest, simple way, and then disappeared in the crowd. He was not posing as a heroic figure, but was just an honest mountain-climber who accepted the challenge of the mountain and won. In our cheering we did just what the world does: we gave the laurel wreath to the man who wins in a test of courage. I think "Excelsior" is pretty good stuff in the way of depicting mountain-climbing, and I always want to cheer that young chap as he fights his way toward the top. He could have stopped down there in the valley, where everything was snug and comfortable, but he chose to climb so as to have a look around. I thought of him one day at Scheidegg. There we were, nearly a mile and a half above sea-level, shivering in the midst of ice and snow in mid-July, but we had a look around that made us glad in spite of the cold. As Virgil says: "It will be pleasing to remember these things hereafter." I have often noticed that the old soldiers seem to recall the hardest marches, the most severe battles, and the greatest privations more vividly than their every-day experiences. So the mountain-climbing that I have been doing with my boys and girls stands out like a cameo in my retrospective view. Sometimes we looked back toward the valley, and it seemed so peaceful and beautiful that it caused the mountain before us to seem ominous. At such times, when courage seemed to be oozing, we needed to reinforce one another with words of cheer. The steep places seemed perilously rough at times, and I could hear a stifled sob somewhere in my little company. At such times I would urge myself along at a more rapid pace, that I might reach a higher level and call out to them in heartening tones to hurry on up to our resting-place. We would often sing a bit in the midst of our resting, and when the sob had been changed to a laugh I felt that life was well worth while. As we toiled upward I was ever on the lookout for a patch of sunlight in the midst of the shadows that it might lure them on. And it never failed. Like magic that sun-spot always quickened their pace, and they often hailed it with a shout. They would even race toward that sunny place, their weariness all gone. When a bird sang we always stopped to listen; and the song acted upon them as the music of a band acts upon drooping soldiers. On the next stage of the journey their eyes sparkled, and their step was more elastic. When one stumbled and fell, we helped him to his feet and praised his effort, wholly ignoring the fall. Sometimes one would become discouraged and would want to drop out of the company and return home. When this happened, we would gather about him and tell him how good it was to have him with us, how he helped us on, and how sorry we should be to have him absent when we reached the top. When he decided to keep on with us, we gave a mighty cheer and then went whistling on our upward way. We constantly vied with one another in discovering chaste bits of scenery along the way, and we were ever too generous to withhold praise or to appropriate to ourselves the credit that belonged to another. If one found the nest of a bird hidden away in the foliage, we all stopped in admiration. When another discovered a spring gushing out from beneath the rocks, we all refreshed ourselves with the limpid water and poured out our thanks to the discoverer. When a rare flower was found, we took time to examine it minutely till we all felt joy in the flower and in the finder. To us nothing was ever small or negligible that any one of our company discovered. If one started a song we all joined in heartily as if we had been waiting for that one to lead us in the singing. Thus each one, according to his gifts and inclinations, became a leader on one or another of the enterprises connected with our journey. So, in time, it seemed to us that the big tree came to meet us in order to give its kindly shade for our comfort; that the bird poured forth its song as a special gift to us to give us new courage; that the flower met us at the right time and place to smile its beauty into our lives; that each stream laughed its way to our feet to quench our thirst, and to share with us its coolness; that the mossy bank gave us a special invitation to enjoy its hospitality; that the cloud had heard our wishes and came to shield us from the sun, and that the path came forth from among the thickets to guide us on our way. Because we were winning, all nature seemed to be cheering us on as the people cheered the man at Vesuvius. Having reached the summit, we sat together in eloquent silence. We had toiled, and struggled, and suffered together, and so had learned to think and feel in unison. Our spirits had become fused in a common purpose, and we could sit in silence and not be abashed. We had become honest with our surroundings, honest with one another, and honest with ourselves, and so could smile at mere conventions and find joy in one another without words. We had encountered honest difficulties--rocks, trees, streams, sloughs, tangles, sand, and sun, and had overcome them by honest effort and so had achieved honesty. We had met and overcome big things, too, and in doing so had grown big. No longer did our hearts flutter in the presence of little things, for we had won poise and serenity. The fogs had been banished from our minds; our sight had become clear; our spirits had been enlarged; our courage had been made strong, and our faith was lifted up. A new horizon opened up before us that stretched on and on and made us know that life is a big thing. The sky became our companion with all its myriad stars; the sea became our neighbor with all the life it holds, and the landscape became our dooryard, with all its varied beauty and grandeur. The ships upon the sea and the trains upon the land became our messengers of service. The wires and the air sped our thoughts abroad and linked us to the world. We looked straight into the faces of the big elemental things of life and were not afraid. When we came back among our own people, they seemed to know that some change had taken place and loved us all the more. They came to us for counsel and comfort, paying silent tribute to the wisdom that had come to us from the mountain. They looked upon us not as superiors, but as larger equals. We had learned another language, but had not forgotten theirs. We nestled down in their affections and told them of our mountain, and they were glad. * * * * * And now I sit before the fire and watch the pictures in the flickering flames. In my reverie I see my boys and girls, companions in the mountain-climbing, going upon their appointed ways. I see them healing and comforting the sick, relieving distress, ministering to the needy, and supplanting darkness with light. I see them in their efforts to make the world better and more beautiful, and life more blessed. I see them bringing hope and courage and cheer into many lives. They are bringing the spirit of the mountain down into the valley, and men rejoice. Seeing them thus engaged, and hearing them singing as they go, I can but smile and smile. 
20132	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 20132-h.htm or 20132-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/1/3/20132/20132-h/20132-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/1/3/20132/20132-h.zip) THE WIZARD OF THE SEA or A Trip Under the Ocean by ROY ROCKWOOD Author of "A Schoolboy's Pluck," Etc. [Illustration] A. L. Burt Company, Publishers New York Copyright, 1900 by The Mershon Company [Illustration: IN FRONT OF HIM WAS A HUGE OCTOPUS. P. 112.] CONTENTS I. INTRODUCING OUR HEROES. 1 II. A TERRIFIC EXPLOSION. 8 III. THE GREAT FIGHT. 14 IV. ON THE ROAD. 20 V. HOKE UMMER'S TREACHERY. 26 VI. OUT ON THE BAY. 32 VII. A LIVELY ENCOUNTER. 46 VIII. MONT IS PUNISHED. 51 IX. DOCTOR HOMER WODDLE. 55 X. THE SUBMARINE TERROR. 61 XI. ON THE BACK OF THE MONSTER. 67 XII. INSIDE OF THE "SEARCHER." 74 XIII. THE OWNER OF THE SUBMARINE MONSTER. 81 XIV. THE ATTACK. 86 XV. PRISONERS. 91 XVI. THE MYSTERIES OF THE "SEARCHER." 98 XVII. THE DEVIL FISH. 106 XVIII. MONT IS LOST. 113 XIX. MONT'S PERIL. 120 XX. THE WRECKS. 128 XXI. ON LAND ONCE MORE. 132 XXII. FIGHTING THE SAVAGES. 141 XXIII. ELECTRIFYING THE SAVAGES. 149 XXIV. A PEARL WORTH A FORTUNE. 159 XXV. THE MAN OF MYSTERY. 169 XXVI. THROUGH THE EARTH. 177 XXVII. THE ESCAPE--CONCLUSION. 183 THE WIZARD OF THE SEA. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCING OUR HEROES. "Hip, hurrah! Hip, hurrah!" "Well, I declare; Mont Folsom, what is the matter with you?" "Matter? Nothing is the matter, Tom, only I'm going to a boarding school--just the best place on the face of the earth, too--Nautical Hall, on the seacoast." "Humph! I didn't know as how a boarding school was such a jolly place," grumbled old Tom Barnstable. "They'll cane ye well if ye git into mischief, lad." "Will they, Tom? What for? I never do any wrong," and Mont Folsom put on a very sober face. "Jest to hear the lad! Never do no mischief! Ha! ha! Why you're the wust boy in the town fer mischief, Mont--an' everybody knows it. A nautical school, did ye say. Maybe they'll take ye out in a ship some time in that case." "They do take the pupils out--every summer, so Carl Barnaby was telling me. He goes there, you know, and so does Link Harmer." "Then you an' Carl will make a team--an' Heaven help the folks as comes in your way," added Tom Barnstable decidedly. "But we are not so bad, I tell you, Tom," said Mont, but with a sly twinkle in his bright eyes. "Oh, no, not at all. But jest you tell me who drove the cow into Squire Borden's dining room and who stuffed the musical instruments of the brass band with sawdust at the Fourth of July celebration? You never do anything, you little innocent lamb!" And with a loud guffaw the old character sauntered down the street toward his favorite resort, the general store. Montrose Folsom continued on his way. He was a handsome youth of fifteen, tall and square-shouldered, with a taking way about him that had made him a host of friends. He was the only son of Mrs. Alice Folsom, a rich widow. A moment after leaving Tom Barnstable, Mont reached the home of his particular chum, Lincoln Harmer. Throwing open the gate, he espied Link in the barnyard, and made a rush forward. "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" "That settles it, Mont, you're going with me next term!" exclaimed Link, a bright fellow of our hero's age. "If I wasn't I'd sing a dirge instead of shouting, Link. Yes, it's all settled, and I'll be ready to start with you Monday." "Your mother has written to Captain Hooper?" "Yes, and got word back in to-day's mail." "Good!" "I'm to buy a lot of things down to Carley's store and then go home and start to pack up. Come on." Arm in arm, the two chums made their way to the large general store, where Tom Barnstable was again encountered. Here Mont purchased some extra underclothing his mother said he needed. While he was at this Tom Barnstable came close to him. "When are ye goin' away?" he asked. "Monday morning, six o'clock." "Don't fergit the old man, Mont. We've had lots of good times--fishin' an' huntin', ye know." That was Tom Barnstable, good-natured and willing to do, but an absolute beggar at the slightest chance. "I won't forget you, Tom, not I," said the merry-hearted lad. "Here you are," and he slipped a shining dollar into the man's hand. A moment later he called one of the store clerks aside. "Have you any of those April-fool cigars left?" he whispered. "Yes--just four." "I'll take them." The cigars bought and paid for, the boy put three of them in an inside pocket and then turned the fourth over to Tom Barnstable. "Here, Tom, put the pipe away and have a real Havana to celebrate the parting," he said, and the old man immediately did as requested. The cigar burnt all right for just half a minute. Then something began to bulge at the end. It kept growing larger and larger, forming into what is called a Pharaoh's serpent, three or four feet long. Tom Barnstable's eyes began to blaze. He stared at Mont wildly. "Who--what--what is that?" he stammered. "Great Scott! I've got 'em!" And, dashing the weed to the floor, he rushed from the country store, with the boys' laugh ringing in his ears. "He'll remember you now, no doubt of that!" said Link merrily. The day was Saturday, and it was a busy one for both Mont and Link, with packing trunks and bags, and getting ready otherwise. The Sabbath passed quietly enough, and five o'clock Monday morning found the two boys on their way to Nautical Hall. The run of the train was to New York, and here they fell in with their mutual chum, Carl Barnaby, a rich young fellow from their town, and several others who will be introduced as our story progresses. From the Metropolis the boys took another train directly for the seacoast. At Pemberton they had to change cars, and here they met several more scholars of Nautical Hall. "There is Ike Brosnan and Hoke Ummer!" cried Link. "Two of our fellows." The newcomers were quickly introduced. Ike Brosnan looked a whole-souled fellow and full of fun. Hoke Ummer, on the other hand, seemed of a decidedly sour turn of mind. "Hoke is a good deal of a bully," whispered Link, later on. "You want to steer clear of him." "Thanks; he'll not step on my toes," returned Mont firmly. "The first man who tries to haze or bully me will get his fingers burnt." "Oh, the boys will be sure to want a little fun. You mustn't be too particular." "I don't mean that--I mean they mustn't go too far," replied Mont. Little did he dream of all the hazings and larks to be played ere that school term should be over. The journey to the seacoast was devoid of any special incident. The ride on the train was magnificent, and all enjoyed it thoroughly. Towards nightfall a landing was made not many miles from Eagle Point. Here at the dock a long stage was in waiting to take them to the Hall. The four boys, along with a dozen others, got aboard, and they moved off rapidly for Nautical Hall, two miles distant. CHAPTER II. A TERRIFIC EXPLOSION. Nautical Hall was a large building of brick, stone, and wood situated at the top of a small hill. In front was a level parade ground, and to one side the grounds sloped down to the edge of a small bay, while at the other they were flanked by a heavy wood. The institution was owned and managed by Captain Hooper, an ex-army and -navy officer, who looked to the military drill of the boys and left the educational department to an able corps of assistants. With the assistants and the gallant captain himself we will become better acquainted as our tale proceeds. Mont soon became acquainted with nearly all of the one hundred and odd boys who attended Nautical Hall, and became the leader of a set composed of himself, Link Harmer, Barry Powell, another lively lad, Carl Barnaby, his old-time chum, Piggy Mumps, a fat youth, and Sam Schump, a German pupil, as good-natured as can possibly be imagined. As soon as the boys arrived they were assigned to their places. Mont was put in the room with the crowd above mentioned. This room connected with another, in which were installed the bully, Hoke Ummer; Bill Goul, his toady, and half a dozen of the bully's cronies. "This room will get into a free fight with that gang some day," was Barry Powell's comment, after Schump, the German boy, had related how the bully had treated him. "Dot's it, mine gracious," replied Sam Schump. "Ve vill git togedder an' show dem vot ve can do, aint it!" Several days were spent in getting ready for the term. Mont was placed in the first class, with twenty others, and he was likewise put in an awkward squad to learn the steps and manual of arms, for the boys had regular military and naval exercises. As luck would have it, our hero was placed under one of the assistant teachers, and fared very well, but poor Piggy Mumps was put in a squad under Hoke Ummer, who did all he could to make the fat boy miserable. "Eyes right! Eyes left! Front!" shouted Hoke. "Why don't you mind, you clown!" he added to poor Piggy, who was in a sweat to do as ordered. "Vot you say, eyes right an' den eyes left, ven da vos right?" asked Piggy innocently. "Silence! Eyes right! Eyes left! You clown, can't you twist your eyes, or are you too fat?" roared Hoke. "Ton't vos call me a clown, you--you unchentlemanly poy!" cried Piggy wrathfully, when without warning Hoke fell upon him and hit him a blow on the neck. This was too much for Piggy, and he ran out of the line and closed with the bully. But he was no match for the big boy, and Piggy would have been severely punished had not Hoke been caught by the shoulder and hurled backward against a wall. "Let him alone!" came in the voice of Mont. "You have no right to touch him, Hoke Ummer." "Haven't I, though?" sneered the bully. "Do you suppose I'm going to be made a fool of by a lump of fat like that? You clear out, or I'll give you a dose, too!" "You can try it on any time you please," replied our hero quietly. "A fight! A fight!" exclaimed half a dozen at once, and the awkward squad was broken up on the instant. "A fight?" repeated the bully. "He'll get a thrashing--that's all it will amount to. Come on down to the woods if you want to have it out." "I'm willing to meet you," returned Mont, and started along, followed by Piggy, Link, and a dozen others. But scarcely had the boys gone a rod before the belfry bell rang out loudly five times. That was the signal for assembly on the parade grounds. "Hullo, we can't go now!" cried Link. "Boys, you'll have to postpone that mill till later." "I'll meet you after assembly," growled Hoke Ummer, under his breath, as Captain Hooper put in an appearance. "I'll be ready any time," rejoined our hero. "Boys, we are to have visitors in fifteen minutes!" shouted out Captain Hooper. "Attention! The captains will form their companies on the campus and a salute will be fired as the visitors enter the grounds." Orders were quickly passed, and inside of five minutes the boy cadets were drawn up in long lines, with the officers of the two companies in their proper places. The visitors were old friends of the captain who had come to the Hall merely out of curiosity. As their carriages approached, a cannon was run out, and Link and several others were detailed to fire it off. Link chose Mont to assist, and before long all was in readiness to touch her off. "Here they come!" shouted somebody. "Stand ready to fire!" sang out Captain Hooper, in true military style. "Steady, boys, now--I expect all to make the best possible appearance. Fire!" Link touched the cannon off, while our hero and several others stood close at hand. Bang! The report was terrific. The old cannon was overcharged, and was blown into a thousand pieces, which flew in all directions. Both Link and Mont were hurled flat, and while the former was seen to stagger up again, our hero lay as one dead! CHAPTER III. THE GREAT FIGHT. "He is dead!" "Run for the doctor!" "A piece struck me, too!" "The cannon must have been overloaded!" Such were some of the cries which went up after the awful explosion. Captain Hooper stood close at hand, and instantly went to our hero's assistance. He caught the youth up in his arms and carried him to a shady spot. "Bring some water," he commanded, but water was already at hand. With it he bathed Mont's head. For a minute there was an intense silence. Then, with a quiver, the lad opened his eyes. "Wha--what---- Did the cannon burst?" he asked feebly. "Hurrah! He's all right!" shouted Link joyfully, and inside of five minutes more Mont stood up and gazed about him in wonder. But he was too weak to take part in the review, and while this went on sat in a rustic chair under the oak tree, with several of the lady visitors by his side. The reception to the guests over, the cadets were dismissed, and the crowd lost no time in dispersing. Link remained with his chum, and both walked towards the lake. "How do you feel?" asked Link anxiously. "Rather faint in the legs, to tell the truth," was the reply. "But I guess I'll soon get over it." "Ready to do that fighting?" demanded a rough voice at their elbow, and Hoke Ummer ranged up at their side. "For shame, Hoke, Mont isn't in condition, and you know it," said Link. "Oh, nonsense!" growled the bully. "That cannon affair was only a fake. He wasn't hurt a bit." This remark angered our hero, and, stepping up, he faced the bully defiantly. "I will fight you whenever you say," he said stoutly. A boy standing near heard the remark, and the news spread like magic. "A fight between Hoke and Mont. Come on down to the woods." The schoolboy cadets needed no second invitation. A score started from the campus instantly. They were about evenly divided as to who would win. The bully was known to be heavy and strong. Yet our hero had shown lots of pluck. In a corner of the grounds, shut out from view from the school windows by a belt of trees, the boys assembled to witness the conflict. Mont prepared for the encounter, assisted by Link. Ummer, satisfied of an easy victory, placed himself in the hands of his toady and backer, Bill Goul. When the combatants were declared ready they faced each other. As Hoke looked into the unflinching eyes of his opponent the smile of satisfaction he had worn for the past few hours suddenly faded. He could see he must do his best to win. "But I'll mash him, see if I don't," he said to his toadies. "That's right, Hoke!" "Show him what you can do." Mont said nothing. "He's a tough one," whispered Link. "Beware of a foul." "I'll have my eyes open." The boys took off their coats and vests. A ring was formed and our hero and the bully got into position. "Time!" cried one of the older boys, and the great fight began. At first Mont was cautious, for he wanted to take his opponent's measure, so to speak. Sure of victory, the bully rushed at him, and aimed a blow at Mont's nose. Our hero ducked, and Hoke's fist only sawed the air. "That was a clean duck." "Land him one, Hoke!" "Go for him, Folsom!" Around and around the ring went the two boys. Then the bully aimed another blow at our hero. As quick as a flash our hero warded it off. Then out shot his fist, and the bully of Nautical Hall got a crashing blow in the chin that knocked him clean off his feet. What a yell went up! "Hoke is knocked out!" "Did you ever see such a blow?" Wild with rage, the bully was assisted to his feet by several friends. The blood flowed from his chin and from a cut lip. "I'll show you yet!" he hissed, and again went at Mont. But our hero was cool and collected, while the bully was excited. The bully got in one little body blow, but that was all, while our hero fairly played all over his face. "Better give it up, Hoke!" "You are outclassed against Mont Folsom!" "Let me be!" howled the bully. With every blow that our hero delivered Ummer's anger increased. His reputation, he felt, was at stake. If he was beaten that would be the end of him, so far as bossing the boys was concerned. At last Mont hit him a stinging blow on the ear that caused him to roll over and over. CHAPTER IV. ON THE ROAD. The bully was knocked out completely, and had to acknowledge Mont the victor of the encounter. This he did with very bad grace, and a minute later sneaked off with his toady. "I'll get even for that," he growled. "He'll be sorry he ever tackled me." "You'll have to watch Hoke Ummer," said Link, some time later, when the crowd had dispersed. "He is a treacherous fellow." "I'll have my eyes open," returned our hero. Yet little did he dream of the dastardly way in which the bully would try to get even. It did not take Mont long to settle down at Nautical Hall. The fight had made him many friends, and established him as a sort of leader among a certain set. On the following Saturday Link proposed that he, Barry Powell, and Mont take a stroll down to the village. The others were willing, and soon the party was on the way. "I'll get some stuff for a midnight feast while I am at it," said Mont. Soon the school was left behind, and they came out on the village highway. "Hark!" cried Barry suddenly. "What is it?" demanded Mont. Barry was listening intently to a dull, heavy tramping sound, which was wafted faintly toward them on the breeze. "Do you hear that?" he asked excitedly. Link and Mont listened, and could distinctly hear a low thud, thud, thud in the distance. "What does it mean?" Link asked. "It means that a pair of ponies, or horses, have run away, and are coming along at a tearing gallop." As if in corroboration of Barry's words, at that moment a light phaeton, drawn by two high-spirited ponies, which were pounding along at the top of their speed, burst round the bend of the road. The vehicle was rocking from side to side, and every moment threatened to hurl it into one of the deep ditches which lined the road. As the boys gazed at the approaching carriage Mont's heart seemed to stand still. "Fellows!" he cried, "there is someone in the phaeton--a lady, I believe." "So there is!" gasped Link, in tones of horror. "What shall we do?" "We must stop them." With his face whiter than usual, and his lips tightly compressed, our hero ran down the road. "He is courting death," said his chum, beneath his breath, "but we may be of some use." And both started after their companion. Mont was running at the top of his speed, for he saw that the occupant of the carriage was only a young girl, and utterly helpless, and that every second's delay endangered her life. On and on he went, until he was within a score of yards of the maddened steeds. Then he planted himself firmly in the middle of the road and prepared for a spring. Fiercely the ponies dashed onward. Nearer and nearer they came, until it seemed they must inevitably trample him beneath their iron-shod hoofs. But our hero never wavered. Motionless he crouched there until the end of the pole almost touched his cheek. Then he leaped up and caught both the bridles in his strong, nervous grip. The ponies, with loud whinnies of rage, tossed up their heads and lifted him from his feet, but he clung tenaciously to them. They dragged him along the ground for a few yards, and then their speed began to slacken. Link now came up, and the vicious little brutes were brought to a standstill. Then Mont, thoroughly exhausted, sank in a heap upon the ground. As soon as the carriage was stopped in its wild career, a fair and beautiful girl sprang out. "Oh, is he very much hurt?" she cried, as she raised her clasped hands in despair. Our hero staggered to his feet, and as he gazed on the fairy-like form and sweet, delicate face his cheeks flushed and his heart beat quickly. "I am not hurt at all," he said stoutly, although his arms and legs and every portion of his body ached as though he had been upon the rack. "How can I thank you?" she exclaimed. "If it had not been for you, I shudder to think what might have happened. You saved my life." At this praise our hero blushed more than ever. "I require no thanks," he said. "I am rewarded enough by knowing I have been of some service to you, but I think you are scarcely strong enough to be trusted with such high-spirited animals." "My father would never have thought of such a thing," she replied. "He alighted at a cottage to visit one of his old friends, and while he was inside the ponies bolted. But here he comes, and I know he will be better able to thank you than I am." She pointed to the figure of a tall, elderly gentleman, of upright carriage and aristocratic bearing, who was coming up the road at a rapid pace. "It's Judge Moore," whispered Link; "he owns a fine place a couple of miles from here." In another moment our hero found himself being presented to the judge, who overwhelmed him with praise. "You must come and dine with us, you and your friends," said the judge; "there will only be myself and my daughter Alice. Nay, you must make no excuses. I shall call upon Captain Hooper and tell him all about it, and if ever you require a friend do not forget to come to me." Mont would have respectfully declined the invitation, but a glance from Alice Moore prevented him from doing so. He therefore thanked the judge for his kindness, and then the boys took their leave. Our hero simply raised his cap, but Alice put out her hand. "You will be certain to come?" she asked in a low tone. "Certain," he replied. The news of Mont's heroism spread through Nautical Hall, and he speedily found himself a decided hero. CHAPTER V. HOKE UMMER'S TREACHERY. Our hero succeeded on the following Monday in getting a quantity of cake, pie, and other stuff from town and hiding them in an unoccupied bedroom. He was also promised a dozen bottles of root beer and soda water, but these he was unable to smuggle into the school, owing to the watchfulness of Captain Hooper and his assistants. Accordingly, he hid the stuff in the bushes near the lake, and decided to go after it late at night. He unfolded his plan to Link, Barry, and Carl Barnaby, and this plan was overheard by Hoke Ummer. Next to the empty bedroom was a window overlooking the side playground. From this window Mont decided to reach the ground by aid of a long rope. This was the only way to get out, as after nine o'clock all the doors and windows below were locked in such a fashion they could not be opened. That evening our hero, with a light heart, repaired to the empty bedroom. Opening the boxful of stuff, he spread out upon a tablecloth of newspapers a prettily decorated ham, a couple of cold roast chickens, a fine apple pie, a quantity of mince pies, and a varied assortment of choice fruits and cake. All these arranged to his satisfaction, he looked at his watch, and then sat down and waited. It was just half-past eight, and in another half-hour servants and masters would all have retired for the night. After what appeared to the watcher to be an age the great school clock tolled solemnly out the hour of nine. Then Mont drew out a thick rope from beneath the bed and left the room. Soon he was at the window. Throwing up the lower sash, our hero fastened one end of the rope securely and threw the other out. "Just the right length," he said, and then he swung himself over the window sill. "I'll soon have the rest of the stuff up." The door of one of the spare bedrooms was opened, and Ummer stepped into the corridor. As the light of the moon fell upon his face it looked strangely white and ghastly. His lips were tightly compressed and his eyes had in them a horrible glare as he stepped stealthily but quickly to the window. Arrived there, he crouched low down that he might not be seen by any person outside. Then, with deft fingers, he untied the knot by which the rope was secured. There was heard a loud, wild cry, followed by a dull, heavy thud. Then all was still. The bully crept away along the corridor and down the stairs, his heart beating as though it would burst its bounds. A little before twelve o'clock that night several dark figures might have been seen stealing cautiously along the corridors. All these figures made their way to one common spot. This was the bedroom Mont had mentioned. Arrived there, they found everything prepared for the feast, but no host. "What a strange thing for Mont to do," said Carl Barnaby; "to invite us all here and not be present." "It isn't very gentlemanly of him," submitted Barry. "You talk like a fool," said Link. "Something must have happened to him." "I saw him at supper, and he was all right then." "Perhaps some of the tramps have waylaid him on the road," suggested another boy, who had been sitting very white and very quiet, in one corner of the room. Everyone turned to the speaker. "Mine cracious, dot's so," put in Sam Schump. "Besser we go an' see?" Without delay a search was begun. A rope was procured, and Link was the first person out of the window. "Hullo!" "What's up?" asked those above. "Bring a light. Mont has fallen and hurt himself." A light was quickly procured, and one after another the boys came down the rope. Our hero lay at the foot of a large lilac bush. It was this bush which had saved his life. When the rope gave way, had he fallen on the ground he would most likely have been killed. Link brought some water, and he was soon revived. In the meantime, from another window, overhead, Hoke Ummer watched proceedings. When he saw Mont get up his hateful face plainly showed his chagrin. "How was it you didn't fasten the rope tightly?" asked Link. "I thought I did," returned our hero. "In fact, I am certain I did," he added. "But it gave way and let you down." Our hero shook his head. He couldn't understand it at all. In a few minutes he was able to go with his friends and show them where the root-beer and soda-water bottles were hidden. Loaded down with the stuff, the crowd returned to the Hall, and the feast began. Nearly all of the boys of Mont's age had been invited in a general way, and a lively time was had for fully an hour. Hoke Ummer could not stand it to see his rival triumph over him, and so slipped down to the room occupied by Moses Sparks, one of the under teachers. "Mont Folsom and his crowd are having a feast in one of the upper rooms," he said. At once Moses Sparks prepared to investigate. The feast was at its height when a footstep was heard. "Scatter!" whispered Carl Barnaby, who caught the sounds first, and all of the boys hurried from the bedroom by side doors and managed to get to their own rooms. When Moses Sparks came up they seemed to be sleeping like so many lambs. "Ummer has been fooling me," muttered the under teacher. "Or else he was mistaken." And he went off and left the boys to finish the feast in peace. CHAPTER VI. OUT ON THE BAY. In a general way Mont suspected Hoke Ummer, not of the dastardly trick he had played, but of playing the sneak and telling Moses Sparks. "I'll get square," he said to Link and Carl. Out in the fields he had picked up a dead snake, and he now resolved to make use of it in a truly original manner. As soon as it was time to retire that night Mont slipped upstairs and into the dormitory occupied by Hoke Ummer, Goul, and their chums. He had the dead snake with him, and put the reptile in the bully's bed. Five minutes later he was in his own room awaiting developments. They were not long in coming. A murmur of voices ended in a wild shriek of terror. "A snake!" yelled Hoke. "It's in my bed! Save me! I'm a dead boy!" His cry aroused everyone, and soon Nautical Hall was in a commotion. "What's the matter with Hoke?" "He's got 'em bad!" "A snake!" roared the bully. "Take it away." He ran out into the corridor, and soon a crowd began to collect. In the meantime Mont slipped into the room and threw the dead reptile out of the window. Captain Hooper tried to get at the bottom of the affair, but failed. "You must have been dreaming, Ummer," he said at last, and sent all of the boys off to bed. During the following week Nautical Hall was closed up, and the schoolboy cadets marched to the head of the bay. Here they went into camp for a month, part of the time being spent on the bay and the ocean beyond in learning how to sail both large and small boats. The sailing of the boats particularly interested Mont and Carl Barnaby. Link did not care very much for the water, for when the sea was rough he was inclined to grow seasick. One day Mont and Carl obtained permission to hire a sloop at the town, and go out for an all-day cruise over the bay and back. They took with them a young fellow from Nautical Hall named John Stumpton, a handy lad who generally went by the name of Stump. Since Mont had arrived at the Hall, Stump had taken to him greatly, and would do almost anything that Mont asked of him. Stump was also a great friend to Carl. They sailed out of sight of the camp, and gradually crept up to a large excursion boat which was just leaving one of the docks of the town. The steamboat was overcrowded, every deck being full of humanity bent on having a good time. Some musicians were playing on the forward deck, and they drew quite close to hear what was going on. Suddenly a cry of horror arose. A young girl had been standing close to the rail on a camp chair at the bow of the boat. It was Alice Moore. As the steamboat swung around the girl lost her balance. She tried to save herself, and, failing, pitched headlong into the water. Our hero saw her go under the waves. "She'll be struck by the paddle wheel," he yelled, and then, splash! he was overboard himself. Bravely he struck out to save the maiden. The order was given to back the steamboat. The wheels churned up the water into a white foam, but still the momentum carried the large craft on. In the meantime our hero came up and struck out valiantly for the girl, who was now going down for a second time. "Save her! Save her!" shrieked Judge Moore, who was with his daughter. Half a dozen life-preservers were thrown overboard, but none came to where the girl could reach them. The judge wanted to join his daughter in the water. Strong hands held him back. "The young fellow will save her, judge." "He's a true hero!" Life-lines were thrown over, but even these did no good. The steamboat swung around, but the run of the water washed the girl closer and closer to the paddle wheel. She now came up a second time. Should she sink again all would be over. Mont was swimming with all the strength and skill at his command. At last he was within a yard of the struggling girl. The maiden threw up her hands and went under. As quick as a flash our hero dove down. A second passed. Then up came our hero with the girl clinging to his shoulder. But now the current was apparently too strong for both of them. "Help us--quick!" Carl and Stump heard the cry, and immediately put about in their sloop. Mont was swimming along on his side. The girl was too weak to support herself, and he was holding her up well out of the water. It took the sloop but a moment to run up alongside of the pair. Carl reached over and caught hold of the girl and placed her on deck. In the meantime our hero caught hold of a rope thrown by the old boatman and pulled himself up. A cheer arose from those on the excursion boat. "She is safe now, sure!" The girl was too exhausted to move, and Carl rubbed her hands and did what he could for her. Stump ran up alongside of the steamboat, and a little later the girl was placed on board. The judge clasped his child to his breast. "Go ahead," said Mont in a low voice. "I don't want the crowd to stare at me." "But the judge wants to thank you," began Carl; but our hero would not listen. He was too modest, and made Stump actually run away from the excursion boat. But five hundred people cheered Mont and waved their handkerchiefs. And this was not the end of the matter. The next day Judge Moore called at the camp, and insisted on presenting Mont with a gold watch and chain. With this gift came a sweet letter from Alice Moore which made our hero blush a good deal when he read it. After this, nearly a week passed without special incident. Link was called home on account of the death of a relative, and Mont and Carl became closer chums than ever. One day Hoke Ummer was caught abusing one of the small boys so greatly that the boy had to be placed under a doctor's care. The boy's father had Hoke arrested. The case, however, never came to trial. The consequence of the arrest was that the bully was dismissed from the school; and that was the last Mont saw of him. "We are well rid of him," he said, and Carl and the others agreed with him. One day Mont and Carl went out for an all-day cruise on the bay, taking John Stumpton with them. When the two schoolboys started out with the hired lad they did not intend to remain away longer than sunset, and not one of them dreamed of the marvelous adventures in store for each ere he should be permitted to see his native land again. The start was made in a fair breeze, and it looked so nice overhead that Mont proposed they take a short run directly into the ocean. "All right--I'll go you," answered Carl slangily, and away they skimmed. By noon they were almost out of sight of land, and while they were eating the repast Stump had prepared Carl proposed that they turn back. This was hardly accomplished when it suddenly grew dark, and they found themselves caught in a squall. "By gracious! I didn't bargain for this!" cried Carl. "If we don't take care, we'll go to the bottom!" "Don't worry--yet," answered Mont. "I guess we'll get back all right." Blacker and blacker grew the sky, until absolutely nothing could be seen. Every sail was closely reefed, and the boys strained their eyes to pierce the gloom which hung over them. Suddenly Stump set up a yell. "Look out; there is a ship!" He got no further. A large form loomed up in the darkness. There was one grinding, smashing crash, and then came a shock that split the light-built sloop from stem to stern. All of the boys were hurled into the boiling sea. But none was hurt; and, coming to the surface, all struggled to cling to the wreckage floating about, meanwhile crying loudly for help. When they were picked up they were thoroughly exhausted, and Carl lost his senses completely. The ship that had run them down was the _Golden Cross_. The captain's name was Savage, and he was bound for the Bermudas. He refused to stop anywhere to put the boys off, saying he had not the time to do so. In reality he was afraid he would be brought to account for wrecking the sloop. He would not believe that Mont and Carl were rich, and that their parents would willingly pay him for any trouble he might take on their behalf. "I'll keep 'em on board and make 'em work their passage," he said to his mate, a mean chap by the name of Slog. "We are rather short of hands." A night's rest did wonders for the boys. By morning the storm cleared off, and the _Golden Cross_ proceeded swiftly on her way, favored by a good breeze. Mont found himself in the ill-smelling forecastle. He was awfully hungry, and the first thing he did was to make his way to the cook's galley. The cook smiled as Mont appeared. "Got around, eh?" he said. "Good for you. I thought you would be sick for the rest of the trip after such an adventure." "I am pretty tough," answered Mont. "You look a bit like a sailor." "Oh, I know a thing or two about the water," replied Mont modestly. "But tell me," he went on, "what sort of a captain have you?" "Oh, he's a caution, and so is Slog, the first mate," laughed the cook. "The captain is the toughest man this line of ships ever had." "Humph! That's not encouraging," mused our hero. "Why do the owners keep him?" "Because he's clever. He may be out in all weather, but he's never lost a ship." "This seems like an old tub," observed Mont, looking around him. "Yes, she isn't worth much. She pitches and tosses in a gale awful. It's the oldest ship the firm's got." "Is it insured?" "Yes. I know the insurance is very heavy, and it wouldn't be a bad job for the owners if she went down," replied the cook. "Bad job for us, though," remarked Mont. "I don't want to be drowned." "Have you had any breakfast?" asked the cook good-naturedly. "Not a bit." "I don't expect the regular hands will give you a chance of getting much. There's Sam Holly and Jerry Dabble. One's a bully and the other's a sneak." "I haven't seen them yet." "Fight shy of both of them. They're no good. They'll make you and your chums do all the work, now you've come on board." "I'll bet a dollar they won't get a stroke of work out of me," returned Mont decidedly. "You will?" "Yes." "Well, you're a plucky lad," exclaimed the cook admiringly, "and from your size and looks I should think you could box." "Just a little bit," answered Mont smilingly. "The captain favors Jerry Dabble, and listens to all he says. He's a regular sneak. You look out for him." "I will." "Will you have a bit of breakfast along with me? I can give you a nice bit I've cut off the skipper's ham and a couple of eggs." "I'm with you," said Mont readily, "and I'll return your kindness on the first opportunity." In a moment our hero was supplied with a good breakfast, which was washed down with a cup of coffee. The sea was rather high, although the wind had gone down. It was not difficult to perceive, when Mont came to examine her, that the ship was a very old one and had seen her best days. Mont thought a trip to the Bermudas would be very nice, but at the same time he did not mean to be the captain's slave, or the first mate's either. He had not shipped with them, and they could not legally make him work, though he did not mind lending a hand if he was asked in a friendly manner. His mother would pay for his passage if she was asked. The officers evidently took him, Carl, and Stump to be three sons of fishermen, and had made up their minds to treat them accordingly. When he left the galley, Mont went to where the regular hands slept and messed, and where he and his companions had slept. There was a great outcry as he came in. "Leave off, I say," Carl was exclaiming; "I won't have it. Two of you onto me at once isn't fair." In a moment Mont was there. He found the two young men, Sam Holly and Jerry Dabble, standing over his chum with two ropes' ends, with which they were hitting him. "What are you licking him for?" asked Mont, his eyes flashing. "Because he won't get the breakfast," said Holly. "He's not your servant--why should he?" "He'll have to do it, or you will," said Sam the bully, setting his arms akimbo and staring impudently at Mont. "My good fellow," said the latter, "don't you make any error. Neither my friend nor myself means to do anything on board this ship unless we're asked civilly." Jerry Dabble laughed. "You're a fool to talk that way!" he roared. Mont immediately gave him a cuff on the ears which sent him rolling over a bunk. CHAPTER VII. A LIVELY ENCOUNTER. The two sailors were astonished beyond measure at Mont's quick action. "Good for you, Mont!" cried Carl Barnaby, while Stump grinned with intense delight. "I'll go and tell the captain," growled Jerry, as he got up slowly. Sam Holly, who was a thick-set, heavy-looking fellow, turned to Mont. "I have had enough of this nonsense. Do you mean to do your work or not?" "Certainly not; do it yourself." "Do you want a good hiding?" "You can't give it to me." "I can try, can't I?" said Holly. "So can any other fool; but it doesn't follow he will do it." "Look here, I've been two voyages before this. You're a green hand compared to me, and I'm boss here. We are short-handed. Do the work, and I'll make things easy for you; if not, it will be worse for you." "I'll chance that," said Mont. "Do you mean to risk a sound thrashing?" "Oh, yes, I'm game for a rough-and-tumble. It's sure to come sooner or later, and we may as well get it over at once." "Mind your eye, then," yelled Holly. His ugly face glowed with passion, and his great, stupid-looking ears seemed to stick out like cabbage leaves. "Come on," he said. "I'm ready," returned Mont. The fight commenced in the little cabin, and it was evident that the combatants were in earnest. Our hero found his opponent as strong as a young bull, but he had not very much skill. Parrying his blows and hitting hard when he had a good chance, Mont punished him severely. But he was knocked down first. "Will that do for you," said Holly, "or do you want any more?" "More, please," exclaimed Mont, getting up. And then he clipped Holly two heavy ones that knocked him nearly down a ladder. Holly foamed with rage. "Come on!" he exclaimed, in a husky voice. The fight continued for ten minutes, with varying success. At last Mont saw a good chance, and, pretending to strike Holly's face, he dropped his hand and hit him in the stomach. As the bully fell back, gasping for breath, Mont exclaimed: "How do you like it now, you bully? Do you want any more?" "Not this voyage," rejoined Holly dismally; "you're best man." "It's a pity you didn't find that out before," remarked Mont. "However, it's never too late to learn. Perhaps you will get our breakfast ready. I'm master now. Do you understand that, Mr. Bully?" "Don't crow. I'm licked this time, but my turn may come. Sit down and have your grub." Mont was quite satisfied with his victory. He shook hands with Holly, and they all sat down together, making a comfortable breakfast, though the fare was not luxurious. Carl and our hero went on deck afterward, and, hearing an altercation forward, ran in that direction. Captain Savage was beating a sailor with a marlinspike for some breach of discipline. The crew looked on without interfering. The sailor was a fine, handsome fellow, and in vain begged the tyrant to desist. The poor fellow's face was streaming with blood, and Mont's anger arose instantly. Rushing forward, he seized the captain's arm, and exclaimed: "Stop that--I won't have it!" The next moment he was alarmed at his rashness. Turning upon him with incredible fury, the captain exclaimed: "How dare you speak to me, youngster! I'll break every bone in your body!" At a sign from the first mate, on whose face sat a smile of malicious satisfaction, four men fell upon Mont, whose arms were pinioned, and he was thrown on his back, where he lay perfectly helpless. "Take him away," continued Captain Savage. "I will deal with him presently. It's a pity I took the young whelp on board; he should have drowned if I'd have known what he was made of." Strong arms lifted Mont up, and he was forced into a dark hole, near the cook's galley, where he was half stifled with the heat and smell of tar. Mont felt he was now in for it, and no mistake. CHAPTER VIII. MONT IS PUNISHED. "Hang the luck, anyway!" In a miserable state of mind, but still very angry, Mont sat down in his gloomy prison, and wondered what would happen next. An hour later the captain called up the first mate. "Let the prisoner be brought forward, and call the hands to witness punishment; muster them all. I mean to make an example." The mate summoned the crew, all of whom trooped forward with a sullen and discontented air. The first mate went to Mont, and personally conducted him on deck. "Now, my lad," said the captain, with a brutal air, "I'm going to let you know what discipline is. Strip!" Looking around him defiantly, Mont did not move. "Do you hear me?" thundered the captain. "Strip!" "Captain Savage," said Mont quietly, "I protest against this treatment. You saved my life and the lives of my companions, for which I thank you. We would leave your ship at once if we could. As it is, we are unwilling passengers." "You are a part of the crew, and must work out your passage." "Not at all. We have not signed articles, and you have no power over us so long as we conduct ourselves properly." "Why did you interfere between me and one of my crew? But I'll waste no words with you," replied the captain. "Tie him to the foremast." He caught up the rope's end and hit Mont a single blow. He was about to go on, when the sailors advanced in a body, and formed a line between him and Mont. "Back, you scoundrels! Back, mutinous dogs!" exclaimed the captain in a greater rage than ever. The solid line remained immovable, and Mont was set free. Both mates put themselves by the captain's side, as they feared a crisis was approaching, and they determined to side with the skipper. "Look'ee here, cappen," said an old, grizzled sailor. "I've shipped aboard o' many vessels, and I've seen a few skippers, but never the likes o' you. We don't want to do you no harm, but we aint a-goin' to stan' by and see that poor lad flogged half to death because he interfered for one o' us." "I'll have you all tried at the first port I come to!" exclaimed the captain. Slog, the mate, caught the captain's arm. "For Heaven's sake, go below, and leave them to me!" he said. "Not I. Where are my pistols? I'll shoot some of the dogs." "Be guided by me, sir. Let them alone this time, and tackle them one by one. If you don't, they'll do something desperate." The captain mumbled something which was inaudible. He was almost speechless with rage. Suddenly the voice of the lookout man rang out clearly: "A strange sail." "Where away?" asked the captain. "On the larboard bow, sir." The captain took his telescope, and began to examine the strange sail. Everyone crowded to the side to have a look, and every eye was soon searching the horizon. Even Mont shared the excitement. He had a pocket glass, and brought it into use. "Perhaps we'll be taken off," he said to Carl. "I sincerely hope so," replied his chum. "I've had enough of this ship." CHAPTER IX. DOCTOR HOMER WODDLE. It was soon discovered that the sail was nothing more or less than a man clinging to a chicken coop, who had taken off his shirt and hoisted it on high to attract attention. When he was neared, a boat was lowered, and the unfortunate man picked up and brought on board. He was a little, wiry man, about forty-five years of age, with sharp, intelligent face, and an expression of anything but good temper. "Which is the captain of this vessel?" he asked on coming aboard. "I am," replied Captain Savage. "You've been a long time picking me up. What do you mean by it?" said the little man. "That's a cool remark," said the captain, "considering we have, in all probability, saved your life." "And if you have, you only did your duty. Where is your cabin? Give me some fresh clothes immediately, and something to eat and drink." "You've got a nerve," said the captain, inclined to be angry. "I've a good mind never to save anyone again." "That will not matter much to me. You are not likely to save me twice." "Who are you?" "My name is Homer Woddle, sir." "You speak loud enough," replied the captain. "Bah! it's evident you are not a man of science, or you would have heard of me. I have written books, sir--books!" "What then?" "I am a famous man. My position in life is that of Secretary to the Society for the Exploration of the Unknown Parts of the World, sir, and I am making my third voyage." "How were you wrecked?" "That is the strangest thing. But give me to eat and drink, clothe me, and you shall hear." "Speak first, and then I'll think of it, Mr. Woddle," said the captain. The conversation was audible enough to be heard by all on board, who crowded round the speakers in a way that showed how severely discipline on board the ship had been interfered with by the late occurrence. "Well, well, well," cried the little man, irritably, "what a boy you are! I left Boston last week on board the _Comet_. Well, sir, that ship was fitted up at a great expense in order that we might make discoveries. Do you see?" "Not clearly as yet," answered the captain. "Tush, be quiet," exclaimed the irritable little man; "don't interrupt me. This morning about eight o'clock we were struck amidships, but below the water line, by a wonderful sea monster, which nearly cut us in two." "Did the ship sink?" "She did almost directly afterward. I seized a chicken coop, and here I am." "A monster cut you in two!" exclaimed the captain, opening his eyes. "What sort of a monster? Did you see it?" "We did for a few minutes. It was black and long, like a gigantic eel, and threw out phosphorescent light." "Then there was something electric about it?" remarked the first mate. "Undoubtedly." "That's a strange yarn," observed the captain. He took Dr. Homer Woddle, the Secretary of the Society for the Exploration of the Unknown Parts of the World, into his cabin, gave him dry clothes, and provided him with the best dinner the resources of the ship could afford. Mont had listened curiously to the conversation between Captain Savage and the newcomer. Taking Carl's arm, he said: "That's a wonderful yarn of that fellow who has just come on board." "Very." "I don't know what to make of it, exactly. A fish is a fish, and unless it has a big horn, it can't sink a ship." "Perhaps he's cracked." "Not he. I have heard of him. There is something in it. The man is sane enough. He has been wrecked, and he has told his story plainly enough, only I don't believe in the strange animal." "What is it, then?" "That's the mystery. There can't be any rocks in the middle of the sea. It isn't a rock." "Then it must be a wonderful fish." A couple of hours passed when Dr. Woddle came on deck, arm in arm with Captain Savage. After a time the scientist left the captain, and met Mont. "Nice weather, my lad," he exclaimed. "Who are you calling 'my lad'?" asked Mont. "You're one of the crew, I suppose, and you needn't be so snappish." "I'm a passenger," replied Mont, "and my name is Mont Folsom. Sorry I haven't got a card, but I was wrecked yesterday, and that will account for it. I and my companions come from Nautical Hall." "Indeed! I presume you were picked up as I was? Did you meet with the singular animal that destroyed my ship?" "Can't say I did. What was he like?" "A huge, long thing, covered with scales, half in, half out of the water." "Are we likely to meet with him again?" "I should think so," answered the scientist. "Look there!" "Where?" exclaimed Mont. "To the right. I don't understand those confounded sea terms, and I don't know larboard from starboard, but on my right is the creature." "The dreaded animal?" asked Mont, with a laugh. "Yes. Look!" Our hero followed the direction of the outstretched arm, and beheld a curious sight. Not far from the ship was a long, black-looking thing, lying like a great round log on the water. It was the submarine monster. CHAPTER X. THE SUBMARINE TERROR. Captain Savage at once came to the rail, and was soon busily engaged in looking at the wonderful creature which Homer Woddle declared had sunk the ship in which he had been sailing. The crew were much agitated, for seamen are at all times superstitious, and, never having heard of such a strange monster, they fancied its appearance boded no good. The monster, which had been perfectly inert up to this time, threw out a marvelous light, which illuminated the depths of the sea. The magnificent irradiation was evidently the result of electricity, and it revealed the shape of the strange fish, if fish it was, very distinctly. Its form was what we may call a lengthened oval, tapering off at the head and tail, which were under the water, only part of the scaly back being exposed to the air. Dr. Woddle called the captain. "Sir," he said, "the monster is again close to us. I ask you, in the interest of science, to capture it." "Who's going to do it, and how is it to be done?" said Captain Savage. "This thing is a scourge of the ocean. It destroys ships, therefore it is your duty to destroy it," persisted the man of science. "We will harpoon it, if you like, though I do not know why I should risk the lives of my crew. Where's Bowline? Pass the word for Bowline," said the captain. When Bill Bowline made his appearance he was trembling like a leaf. "Get your harpoon, my man," said the captain. "Not me, sir," said the sailor firmly. "I wouldn't harm a scale of the critter's back, were it ever so near. We shall all be sent to the bottom of the sea if I do." Turning to Homer Woddle, the captain said: "You see the feeling of my men; what can I do?" "I'll do it myself," said the man of science grandly. "If no one will attack this monster, the honor and the glory of the task shall belong to me. Give me a boat and loaded guns. It will be hard, indeed, if I cannot put a bullet in him, and lay the mighty brute low. Who will volunteer for this splendid task?" There was no response. "What! Are you all cowards? Will no one volunteer?" continued the man of science scornfully. Mont stepped forward. "I'm with you, sir!" he exclaimed. "Can't stand by and see a gentleman left alone. I'm not afraid of the creature." Carl, as a matter of course, took his place by our hero's side, and so did Stump. Where Mont went his devoted friend and equally attached follower felt bound to go as a matter of duty. "Three of you. Bravo!" cried the scientist. "Now, we are four, and we shall triumph. Lower a boat, if you please." The order was given to put the ship about, and a spot favorable for the enterprise being selected near the monster, a boat was lowered, into which the volunteers descended. Carl and Stump took the oars, Mont grasped the tiller, and Dr. Woddle stood in the bows with a loaded gun under each arm. "My four troublesome customers," said the captain, in a low tone to the first mate, "stand a very good chance of never returning." "It will be a cheap way to get rid of them, although it may cost us the boat," said the mate in the same tone. "Steady, my lads," said the scientist. "Easy all; keep the head before the wind, Mr. Folsom, if you please." "Steady she is," answered Mont. The boat stopped at a short distance from the monster, and Homer Woddle stood up, placed a gun to his shoulder, and fired. The ball struck the huge slumbering beast, but glided off its back as if it had struck a piece of polished steel. "Hard as the hide of a rhinoceros," said the man of science; "we must try again. Steady, boys." The monster, however, did not seem to approve of being shot at, and seemed to tremble violently for a moment. Then with incredible velocity it darted past the rowboat, which was upset in a moment, and proceeded to strike the ship. It struck the unfortunate vessel a terrific blow directly back of the bow. The crash was distinctly audible, and amid the noise of falling masts and flapping sails were heard the cries of the sailors and the moans of the dying. After the concussion the monster retired as it had come. A cloud obscured the surface of the ocean, and it was difficult to tell where it had gone, or what had become of the ship. Mont found himself struggling in the sea, and wondered what had become of his companions. "Hang those monsters of the deep," he said to himself; "I don't like them." Swimming gently, he got hold of one of the oars of the boat, and so kept himself afloat without much exertion. It was not a hopeful position to be in. Struggling alone in the middle of a vast ocean, ignorant of the fate of his companions, and doubtful of succor, it was not to be wondered at if he felt inclined to despair. Would he sink or swim? The question was, just then, a hard one to answer. CHAPTER XI. ON THE BACK OF THE MONSTER. Mont was alone on the ocean with nothing but water in sight. Yet his heart did not fail him. "Well," he said aloud, "I like adventures, and now I have met with a beautiful one. Perhaps I shall be picked up. Perhaps not." Five minutes passed. To our hero they seemed an age. "Hullo! Hi! What cheer? Ship ahoy!" he cried. He had scarcely closed his lips, after this appeal for help, when he felt his arm seized vigorously. "Who are you?" he asked. "If you will lean upon my shoulder," was the reply, "you will soon gain strength and swim better." "Is it you, Stump?" said Mont, recognizing the voice of his faithful friend. "At your service, Master Mont. I have been swimming about everywhere looking for you ever since that submarine beast swamped us. Ugh! What a terrible brute it is! It laughs at bullets, and cares no more for sinking a ship than I should for kicking over a stool." "Is no one saved?" "I can't tell any more than you; all I thought of was to swim after you." The situation was as terrible a one as can well be imagined. Those on board the vessel were in too much trouble, if they were yet living, to think of the perils of the others who had courted destruction by going in the boat to attack the monster. Nor would Captain Savage feel very friendly disposed toward them, because it was Dr. Woddle's shot that caused the slumbering creature to rush madly upon the vessel. Mont began to calculate the chances of safety. If the ship had not foundered the crew might lower another boat in the morning to search for them. The sun would not rise for about eight hours. Could they exist so long in the water without fainting or becoming cramped by the sluggish circulation of the blood? In vain he tried to pierce the dense darkness which surrounded them, for now the moon had disappeared, and bad weather seemed imminent again. About two o'clock in the morning our hero was seized with extreme fatigue; his limbs were a prey to an agonizing cramp. Stump put his arm around him, but he drew his breath with difficulty, and evidently required all his strength for himself. "Let me go, boy," said Mont; "save yourself." "Certainly not," said Stump quickly. "We're not going down just yet." At that moment the moon appeared again from under the edge of a thick cloud which had concealed it for a time, and the surface of the sea sparkled under its rays. This fortunate light put new strength into the boys, and Mont searched the horizon with eager, careful gaze. He saw the ship, or what appeared to be her, about two miles off, looking like a somber, inert mass, but there was no sign of a boat. At first he was inclined to cry for help, but of what use would it have been at that distance? "Here, this way! Hi! help, help!" shouted Stump. Was it one of those delusive sounds which the anxious mind sometimes conjures up, or did an answer really come to the lad's cry for help? "Did you hear anything?" asked Mont. "Yes, I thought so," said Stump, and he began to cry out again. "Help, help!" This time there was no mistake. A human voice clearly responded through the darkness. Stump lifted himself as high out of the water as he could, and taking a look, fell back exhausted, clinging desperately to the oar. "Did you see anything?" asked Mont anxiously. "Yes; don't talk, sir; we want all our strength." There was a hopeful ring in his voice which inspired Mont, who, however, fancied he heard the boy sigh almost directly afterward. He thought of the monster. Was it still near them? But, if so, whence came the voice? They began to swim with all the strength they had left, and after some minutes of continued exertion, for moving was a painful task in their state, Stump spoke again. "Are you far off?" he said. "Not far--push on," replied the voice, which Mont fancied he knew. Suddenly an outstretched hand seized him; he was pulled violently out of the water, just as his senses were going, and, after someone had rubbed his hands vigorously, he opened his eyes and murmured: "Stump." "Here, sir," replied the lad. By the rays of the moon our hero saw a figure which was not that of Stump, but which he recognized easily. "Dr. Woddle?" he said. "Right, my lad," answered the man of science. "Where is Carl?" "Here," answered our hero's chum. "The doctor and I stuck together, and our only concern has been for you." "Where are we?" asked Mont puzzled; "this thing I am sitting on seems firm enough." "It's a floating island," answered Woddle. A horrible thought crossed Mont's mind to which he could not give expression. "To put you out of your misery at once," continued Dr. Woddle, "we are on the back of the gigantic creature at whom I shot, and I know now why I did not kill him." "Why?" "Because he is ironclad, or something very like it. I can make no impression upon the scaly monster with my knife." These words produced a strange feeling in Mont's mind. He found that he was really with his friends on the back of the monster, which continued to float on the surface, after causing the partial destruction of the ship. He got up and stamped his foot. It was certainly a hard, impenetrable body, and not the soft substance of which all the marine inhabitants that he had heard of were made, such as whales, sharks, walruses, and the like. If anything, it more resembled a tortoise or an alligator. A hollow sound was emitted when it was struck, and it appeared to be made of cast-iron plates secured together. "What is your opinion of the creature, sir?" asked Mont. "You want my candid opinion as a man of science?" said the doctor. "Certainly, sir." "I should say, then, that this peculiarly constructed monster is the result of human hands and ingenuity." "In that case, it is not a monster at all." "By no means; I am very much in the dark at present, but I am positive that there is some wonderful mystery about this thing, which to my mind is a sort of submarine ship, ingeniously constructed to sail under the water for a time, and to come to the surface for a supply of fresh air from time to time. In short; an electric submarine boat." CHAPTER XII. INSIDE OF THE "SEARCHER." All three of the boys were greatly astonished. "It beats the Dutch!" cried Carl. "If that is so," said Mont, "there must be some internal mechanism to make it work about." "Evidently." "It gives no sign of life." "Not at present," answered the man of science. "But we have seen it move. It has appeared and disappeared. Consequently, it must have hidden machinery." "Of course." "So that we come to the conclusion, which is inevitable, that there must be a man or men inside to direct the ship." "Hurrah!" cried our hero; "I didn't think of that. We are saved if that is so, and it must be as you say." "Hum!" muttered the professor; "I don't know so much about that. If, when it makes a start, it glides along the surface of the water, we are all right; but if it goes down, we are lost." "I've got an idea," said Mont, after a pause. "We must knock at the door, and see if we can find anyone at home." His companions laughed. "I have searched carefully," said Carl, "but I can't find even a manhole." There was nothing to do but to wait until morning. Mont wanted to keep his feet warm, so he amused himself by kicking his heels upon the body beneath him. "I'll wake 'em up," he said. "They shan't sleep if they won't let me in." Their safety depended absolutely upon the caprice of the mysterious steersman who inhabited the ironclad, fish-shaped machine. It seemed to the professor that before those inside descended again they would have to open some hole to obtain air. All were now very tired, wet, and hungry, and soon a raging thirst began to attack them. Our hero fancied he heard vague sounds beneath him, but could not be sure. Who were the strange beings that lived in the floating iron shell? Kicking angrily upon the iron surface, Mont said: "You are very inhospitable inside. I am hungry and thirsty. Do you want me to die up here?" He had no sooner spoken than a flap beside him opened and a railing came up as if by magic. Half the body of a strong, wiry, thick-bearded man appeared. He held a curious wire net. The net fell over Mont's head, and he felt himself dragged over the railing and down into the interior of the iron shell. A cry of terror broke from his companions, answered by a smothered yell from Mont, as the flap fell back and shut out any further view of the interior. Our hero had vanished. This removal, so brutally executed, was accomplished with the rapidity of lightning. Dr. Woddle felt his hair stand on end, and as for Carl and Stump they were chilled to the marrow of their bones with fear. "What have they done with him?" Carl asked. "Your friend is the first victim," replied the professor. "Perhaps they mean to eat him. For my part, they may eat me as soon as they like; anything is preferable to this." "I wish I could get at them," replied Stump. "I'd soon have Master Mont out." The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the trap door opened again, and the servant was dragged down below in a similar manner. "Really this is very extraordinary," said the professor; "two of us are gone. We are no doubt in the hands of pirates, wretched rovers of the sea, who have brought science to their aid. It is to be hoped----" The door opened while he was speaking and a long arm twining round his waist dragged him too into the heart of this floating prison. His legs kicking up ludicrously in the air attracted the attention of Carl, who could not refrain from laughing, miserable though he was. "My turn next," muttered the youth. He was not long kept in suspense. The long net twined, snakelike, round him, and he too descended into the bowels of the infernal machine. Mont's experience was that of all of them. He had descended an iron ladder and was pushed into a room, the door of which shut to with a heavy bang. In ten minutes they were all together in the same compartment. The darkness of their prison was so intense as to prevent our hero seeing his hand before his face. Thus it was impossible to guess where they were, or even to tell if they were alone or not. "This is an outrage," said the doctor. "I protest against it. Is the author of a dozen immortal works to be treated like a naughty schoolboy?" "We're prisoners," remarked Mont, "and it's no use hallooing. They're not going to eat us. This isn't an oven, and I think we are better here than up above." "At least we had our liberty," continued the doctor, who was never satisfied or happy unless he was at work or grumbling. "I've got a knife," said Stump boldly, "and I'll stick the first that comes near me. It's a regular pig-sticker, my knife, and I'll bet they feel it." "Don't you do anything of the sort!" cried Mont. "You might get us all killed." "It's very hard if a poor boy can't do something." "You'll get it hot if anyone is listening to you. If you don't care for yourself, think of us." Stump grumbled inaudibly, and Mont began to take the dimensions of the prison in which they were. This he did by walking about, and he made it twenty feet long by ten wide. The walls were of iron, made of plates riveted together. Half an hour passed. At the expiration of that time, the cabin was illuminated by a flood of light so vivid and blinding that it was difficult to bear the intensity. Mont recognized the electric light that had floated round the ship when he first saw it. When he got used to its clear whiteness, he looked up and saw that it proceeded from a globe which hung from the ceiling. "Light at last; our captors are becoming more civil," said the doctor, rubbing his hands gayly. "It's about time, I think," answered our hero. They were not much better off, however, for the cabin only contained a table and five wooden stools, but the light was refreshing and made them more cheerful. Not a sound reached their ears; everywhere reigned the silence of the grave. Perhaps the ship had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, for it seemed to have the power of going where its strange owner wished. In a short time the door opened and two men appeared. "Visitors at last!" murmured Mont to himself. CHAPTER XIII. THE OWNER OF THE SUBMARINE MONSTER. Of the two who had entered one was a negro, with intelligent but flat face, and short, woolly hair. The other was a tall, handsome white man, with keen, searching eyes that looked into the very soul. He wore a thick mustache, whiskers, and beard, and appeared to be an American. He regarded the prisoners with a fixed gaze and said something to the negro in an unknown language, which was so sweet and soft that it seemed to be all vowels and no consonants. At length he fixed his eyes upon the doctor, who, as the eldest of the party, seemed to be the leader of it. The professor made a low bow. "I presume," he said, "that I am in the presence of the proprietor of this singular machine, and as I am a man of science I respect one who could conceive and carry out the idea of a submarine ship." There was no answer. "Permit me to tell you our history," continued the professor. Still no reply. "He's remarkably polite," remarked Mont. "Perhaps he don't understand our language." "Leave him to me," said the professor; "my name may have an effect upon him. I am Dr. Homer Woddle, Professor of Natural History, and Secretary to the Society for the Exploration of the Unknown Parts of the World. I have written valuable books, sir, which have been translated into foreign languages." The professor paused to look proudly around him. Nothing in the face of the man before them indicated that he understood one word. Undaunted by this silence, the doctor continued: "This, sir, is my friend Mr. Mont Folsom, this my friend Mr. Carl Barnaby. The lad is their servant." There was still no answer, and then the professor grew cross. He spoke in French, then in German, finally in Greek and Latin; but with the same disheartening effect. Not a muscle of the stranger's face moved. Turning to the right, he muttered some words in his incomprehensible language, and, without making any reassuring sign to the prisoners, turned on his heel and walked away, the door closing after him. "Well, I'm blowed!" said Mont. "This is a queer go, and no mistake." "I know one thing," said Carl; "that is, I am dying with hunger." "If they would only give me a saucepan and some fire," said Stump, "I'd make some soup." "How?" "I've got my boots, and the Unknown who came in let his sealskin cap fall. I picked it up and sneaked it. The two together wouldn't make bad soup." While he spoke the door opened again, and another negro entered with a tray upon which were four plates. A savory smell issued from them. Knives and forks were provided, and having placed the plates on the table the negro raised the covers. "Food!" said Mont; "that's good." "Not up to much, Master Mont, I'll bet," observed Stump. "What do you know about it?" "What can they give us? Porpoise stew, fillets of dogfish, or stewed shark. I'd rather have some salt junk on board the ship." The negro disappeared with the covers, and all but Stump sat down. "Fire away, Stump," said Mont, looking at the dishes. "After you; I can wait," replied the boy-of-all-work. "Sit down, I tell you. When people are shipwrecked they are all equal. Pitch in," answered Mont. Stump sat down. There was no bread, tea, or coffee, but a bottle of water supplied its place. It was difficult to say what the dinner consisted of. It was a mixture of fish and vegetable matter, but not an atom of meat. For some time no one spoke. The business of eating was all-absorbing, for one must eat, especially after a shipwreck. It was consoling to reflect they were not destined to die of hunger. "I think," exclaimed Stump, when he had finished his plate, "that they mean to fatten us before they kill us!" "Hold your tongue till you are spoken to," said Mont. "Yes, sir. I know I'm only an odd boy, but----" "Shut up, I tell you. I want to go to sleep." "Certainly, sir. Sorry I took the liberty, but if I don't talk to somebody I must talk to myself." "Try it on, that's all, and if you wake me when I'm asleep, I'll give you something for yourself. I'm just getting dry, and shall sleep like a top," answered our hero, throwing himself in a corner. The professor, who was worn out, had already chosen his corner. Carl followed his example, and soon all slept. CHAPTER XIV. THE ATTACK. How long he slept Mont did not know. He woke first, and saw his companions snoring like those who are over-tired. Nothing was changed in the apartment, except that the remains of the dinner had been removed. It was with difficulty that he managed to breathe, and he guessed that he had consumed all the oxygen in his prison. His lungs were oppressed, and the heavy air was not sufficient for proper respiration. While Mont was arranging his toilet a valve opened in the side of the room, and a fresh current of sea air swept into the cabin. Evidently the vessel had ascended to the surface of the ocean and taken in a fresh supply of air. The others, influenced by this invigorating atmosphere, woke up, and rubbing their eyes started to their feet. Stump looked at Mont and asked if he had slept well. "Pretty well. How are you, Mr. Professor?" "I breathe the sea air, and I am content," answered Dr. Woddle. "How long have we slept? It must be four-and-twenty hours, at least, for I am hungry again; I cannot tell to a certainty, for my watch has stopped." "There is one comfort," replied Mont, "we are not in the hands of cannibals, and we shall be well treated." "I don't know about that," said Stump. "They've got no fresh meat on board; all they gave us yesterday was fishy stuff; and four fine, fat, healthy fellows----" "Shut up, Stump," cried Mont; "how often am I to tell you to hold your tongue?" "I know I'm only an odd boy, but----" "Will you be quiet?" exclaimed our hero, taking up a stool threateningly. "All right; I won't say anything more." The doctor was very silent and thoughtful. Mont remarked this, and said: "How long do you think they will keep us here?" "I can't tell any more than you, Folsom," replied the professor. "But what is your opinion?" "Not a very encouraging one. We have by chance become possessed of an important secret. If the secret is worth more than our lives, we shall either be killed or kept prisoners." "Forever?" "Yes, forever," answered the professor gravely. "If the secret is not very serious, we may be landed on some island. I advise that we remain perfectly quiet and take things as they come." "May I say a word?" exclaimed Stump. "Well?" asked Mont. "I'll get out of this." "How? It is difficult to break out of a prison on earth, but to get out of one under the sea is impossible." "Suppose we kill our jailers and take the key? If four Americans aren't a match for a lot of niggers, and one Unknown who can't speak any language, and doesn't belong to any country at all, it's time we shut up shop!" went on Stump. At that moment the door opened, and the negro who had before appeared entered. Stump instantly threw himself upon him, and, seizing his throat with his two hands, held him so tightly as almost to strangle him. But being a powerful man, he soon disengaged himself, and a fearful struggle ensued between them. "Help, help!" cried the negro, in excellent English. Stump let go his hold at this, and fell back laughing. "So you can talk English!" he cried; "that's all right. I only flew at you to see what countryman you were. Now, then, tell us all about this ship, or I'll give you another dose." Putting his finger to his lips, the negro gave a peculiar whistle--prolonged and shrill. This was evidently a signal, for he had scarcely finished when the Unknown appeared on the threshold. He was followed by six powerful negroes, all armed to the teeth. It looked as if Mont and his friends were to be executed on the spot. CHAPTER XV. PRISONERS. For several minutes the master of the submarine monster gazed in silence at those in the iron-bound cabin. Stump stood shivering in a corner. "Please don't kill us!" he cried. "I--I--didn't mean any harm." The strange owner of the still stranger craft looked at Stump for a moment, and then smiled faintly. "Depart!" he cried to the negroes, and on the instant every one of the heavily armed men vanished. Sitting down on the edge of the table, with his arms crossed on his powerful chest, this strange being seemed plunged in deep thought. Our heroes regarded him with expectation, not unmixed with awe, for they were entirely in his power. Was he about to punish them for the indiscretion of one of their number? At length he spoke in English. "Gentlemen," he said, "you see I can speak your language. I did not answer you at first, because I was undecided what to do with you. I am well acquainted with the scientific works written by Dr. Woddle, and I esteem it an honor to have made his acquaintance." The professor bowed his acknowledgment of this compliment. "I am also glad to see two intelligent young gentlemen like Mr. Folsom and Mr. Barnaby." "You've forgotten me, sir," said Stump. "I'm only an odd boy, but----" The captain extended his arm, and the hired boy was silent. "I'm a man," he continued, "who has broken with society and renounced the world. Had you not molested me and fired at my vessel, I should not have crippled your ship and upset your boat. The attack came from your side." "But, sir," answered the professor, "we took your ship to be some unknown creature." "Possibly, but this creature had done you no harm. I saw you all take refuge outside, and I hesitated a long while what to do with you. I knew nothing of you. What were you to me? Why should I extend my hospitality to you? All that was necessary to break off your connection, was to give a signal to my engineers, and the _Searcher_, which is the name of my vessel, would have sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I had the right to do it." His hearers shuddered at this avowal. "It seems to me that we are to be prisoners?" observed the professor. "Certainly." "But this is an outrage!" exclaimed Mont. "I demand to be put on shore at the nearest port, or given up to the nearest ship we meet." "You will none of you ever see the earth again, or set foot upon it," replied the captain with much emphasis. "This floating prison is, then, our tomb--our coffin, in which we must live and die?" "Call it what you will," replied the captain. "You have obtained the secret of my existence. Do you think I could ever allow you to revisit the world, to let it be known through every newspaper how I pass my life?" "How are we to address you, sir?" "My name is Vindex. By my men I am called the Wizard of the Sea." "Very well, Captain Vindex of the _Searcher_," said Mont, "we must make the best of our situation, but I will never give my word that I will not attempt to escape." "I like you, boy, for your honesty," said the Wizard of the Sea, "though I warn you that if you are caught in the attempt, you will be instantly put to death." "To death? You dare not!" The captain laughed in a wild, weird manner. "Dare not!" he said. "Foolish lad, there are no laws for me. I am the sole master here. My black slaves only live to do my bidding. What is your life or death to me? I have no more to say at present. Follow this negro into another cabin, where a repast awaits you." He called to someone outside, and, bowing politely, went away, while the four companions were conducted to a dining room handsomely furnished and lighted by an electric lamp. Various preparations invited their attention. The dinner service was of silver, and everything denoted immense wealth on the part of the owner. The negro waited upon them attentively. "What's your name?" asked Mont. "Me name One, massa." "One!" "Yes, massa. There twelve slaves on board this ship, and all have figure names, me One, other nigger Two, other Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, and so on up to Twelve." "That's a queer idea," said our hero; "fancy calling out for your servant, and saying, 'Here, Nine, I want you,' or 'I say, Three, do this'!" "It is my opinion," exclaimed the professor, "that Captain Vindex is a very remarkable man--the most remarkable, in fact, that ever lived. He has invented a singular ship which can go under the sea at will, but why not? Was not the invention of steam engines laughed at, as well as the invention of gas? Who, a hundred years ago, would have believed in the electric telegraph, by means of which we send a message to the end of the earth in a minute?" "Very true," replied Mont. "And don't forget the telephone, and the submarine boat the government is trying to build. It's a pity a man of such genius should shut himself up like this, though." "It is a pity," answered the professor. "What's worse, though," remarked Carl, "is that he means to keep us as prisoners." "If he can," said Stump. "Don't you be so fast, Stump, my boy," said Mont. "Keep your mouth shut, or you may get into trouble." "Very sorry, but I don't like such goings-on, and wish I was back again on the shore." The negro handed the professor a fresh dish. "Will massa have some oysters stewed in whale's milk?" he asked; "or some jam made of sea anemones?" "I'd rather you'd not tell me what the dishes are; it will set me against them if you do," answered the professor with a wry face. When the repast was ended, Mont jumped up. "I feel better," he said. "Mister Number One." "Massa call me?" asked the black, who was clearing away. "Yes. Where are we now?" "We gone down, massa, and now we lie at the bottom of the sea." Mont regarded him with undisguised astonishment. The _Searcher_ was indeed a wonderful craft. CHAPTER XVI. THE MYSTERIES OF THE "SEARCHER." Many days passed. The lives of the captives were unvaried by any incident. They saw nothing of Captain Vindex; were well attended to, slept comfortably, and had nothing to complain of but their imprisonment. Books were freely supplied them, but they were not allowed to leave their cabins. At the expiration of a fortnight or thereabouts, as well as they could reckon, negro Number One entered their cabin after breakfast. Addressing Mont, the negro observed: "Massa Folsom to come to cappen's cabin." "Does he want me?" inquired Mont. "All right. Good-by, my friends," he added, "perhaps you will never see me again. I may be the first victim." "No fear!" exclaimed Carl. "We shan't be hurt if we keep quiet." "I'll suggest that you're the fattest, Carl, if there is any question of cooking one of us." "Then it won't be true, for you're as fat as a mole. Go on and be cooked first! I'll have a bit of you," answered Barnaby. Mont went away laughing. He was not really alarmed, for although he did not like Captain Vindex, he fancied he was safe as long as he did not irritate this strange being. The negro conducted him along a passage which opened into a magnificent library, full of books, which gave admittance to a drawing room furnished with all the taste that could be found in Paris or New York. The space within the ironclad shell had been made the most of, and no expense had been spared to make the cabin luxurious and well appointed. The walls were richly papered and covered with valuable paintings. The ceiling was frescoed, and works of art were everywhere to be seen. Rich couches and chairs invited rest, and the foot sank in the soft pile of a Turkey carpet. Captain Vindex arose as our hero entered. "Take a seat," he said, as the negro retired, closing the door after him. "I have taken an interest in you, Folsom." "Thank you," answered Mont coldly. The captain smiled, approached the end of the room, and, drawing back a curtain, revealed a splendid organ. "Do you like music?" he asked. "Very much," answered Mont. "Play us something. It will enliven me a bit. I feel awfully low, and I'll give you a game at dominoes or checkers afterwards, if you like." Captain Vindex smiled, and, sitting down, played Sousa's "Liberty Bell March" with great skill. "Thank you," said Mont, when he had finished. "Very fine. Now will you tell me how you manage for air?" "I will not trouble you with chemical details," answered the captain, "which you would not understand, but when I do not take in air at the surface, I have some compressed in the reservoir, which, by means of an apparatus, is wafted all over the ship." "And about light and moving about?" "That is the result of electricity, which I make myself. My motive power is electricity, and I can attain a speed of thirty miles an hour. The men of the world have not yet discovered half the value of electricity. My machinery is of the finest kind. If I want to sink to the bottom of the sea, I fill certain reservoirs I have with water; when I want to rise, I lighten the ship by letting out the water. In short, I have invented everything that is necessary for my safety and comfort." "Wonderful!" ejaculated Mont. "Your friend, the professor, would understand me, if I were to explain to him how everything were managed, but to you it all seems as strange as the first railway train did to the country people through whose districts it passed. Engineering science is yet in its infancy. The world has great discoveries to make. You are at present only on the threshold of the great unknown." "You work your ship with a screw, I suppose?" "Exactly. The helmsman sits in a cabin with a glass front, and the electric light illumines the sea for some distance, so that all is clear to him." "Where did you build this extraordinary vessel?" continued our hero. "On a desert island in the Pacific. I had the various parts brought in a vessel that belonged to me from various parts of the world, and the twelve negroes who are now with me were my only workmen." "You are rich, then?" "Money was never any object to me," replied the captain. "If I wanted gold even now, could I not obtain millions from the bottom of the sea out of ships that have sunk? And some day I shall find the great million-dollar pearl for which I am searching. The treasures of the deep are mine; I am the Wizard of the Sea." He spoke proudly, and his eyes dilated with rapture. "You like the sea?" "I love it. I revel in it. Look at the solitude and freedom I enjoy! What life can be comparable to mine?" "But you must feel weary at times," said Mont. "Never. I read, I think, and, when I want diversion, I shoot." "Where?" "In the submarine forests. I have invented a square case to strap on the back, which is attached to a mask covering the head, and this will contain enough compressed air to last for several hours' consumption, so that I can walk under the waves with ease and comfort." "And your guns?" "Are air guns, also my own invention. I have several, and each is prepared to fire twenty shots by a mere movement of the trigger, the requisite force of air being placed in a hollow of the butt end; but all these mysteries will become plain to you before you have been long with me," answered Captain Vindex. "What time is it?" asked Mont. Looking at his watch, the captain answered: "A quarter to twelve, or near midday." "If you want to give me a treat," said Mont, "I wish you would go up to the surface and let me have a look at the sea, and breathe the fresh air." "Certainly. Come with me to the engine room." Mont rose, and followed his conductor through several iron passages to the place where the machinery was fitted up. A negro saluted the captain. "Number Twelve," exclaimed the latter, "I wish to ascend." The engineer touched a valve, and a rush of water escaping was heard. The pumps were forcing out the water from the reservoirs. The _Searcher_ began to ascend. After a time she stopped suddenly. "We have arrived," said the captain. He led the way up a central spiral staircase, and, raising a small door, they emerged upon what may be called the deck, or what our hero and his companions had taken to be the back of the monster. Touching a spring, an iron railing sprang up, about five feet high. This prevented any danger of falling into the sea in rough weather, for it made a small inclosure about twenty feet by ten. Mont saw that the shape of the ship was something like a long cigar. The sea was calm and the sky clear; a light breeze fanned their cheeks as Mont opened his lungs to take in the inviting atmosphere. There was, however, nothing to be seen. All was one vast desert. The captain proceeded, armed with a sextant, to take the height of the sun, which would give him his latitude. He waited some minutes until the sun attained the edge of the horizon. Having calculated the longitude chronometrically, he said: "To-day I commence a voyage of exploration under the waves." "When you like," replied Mont; "anything for a little excitement." The captain conducted him downstairs again, the iron railing fell, the trapdoor closed overhead, and with a bow the strange being left him to join his companions. CHAPTER XVII. THE DEVIL FISH. "He's about half crazy!" Such was Mont's conclusion as he joined his companions. While Mont was telling the others of what he had seen, all were treated to a surprise. A panel in the wall slid back. A large sheet of very thick plate glass, quite transparent, was revealed to view almost immediately; a flood of electric light lit up the sea for some distance, and everything was as clear as daylight. It was as if they were looking at an immense aquarium. "The captain is giving us a surprise," remarked the professor; "this is charming." Innumerable fishes of various kinds, most of which were unknown, even to a naturalist of Dr. Woddle's standing, passed before them. Strange, wild, fierce-looking things, with wonderful tails and heads. Some looking unmistakably voracious, others being long and slimy like hideous snakes. They were doubtless attracted by the electric light. For two hours the four companions gazed at the ever-changing procession, without the least abatement of their delight. Presently the door opened, and a negro handed the professor a letter. He opened it and read its contents aloud. "Captain Vindex presents his compliments to Professor Woddle, and will be glad if he and his companions will accept an invitation to shoot in the weed forests under the sea to-morrow morning at ten o'clock." "I'll be hanged if I go!" exclaimed Stump. "Not if I know it. I'm safe here, but I don't want to be chawed up by some strange reptile." "Silence, boy!" said the professor. "Tell Captain Vindex," he continued, to the negro, "that we are much obliged to him for his invitation, which we gladly accept." The negro bowed and retired. At the time appointed the professor and the boys were conducted to a cabin, which may be called the dressing-room, or arsenal, of the _Searcher_. Hanging on the walls were numerous helmets, such as divers wear, and a number of guns reposed on hooks. At the last moment Stump had determined to accompany the party. Captain Vindex was already there, and received them graciously. "I wish you good-day, professor," he said; "and you, too, my boys. I think we shall enjoy some excellent sport among the sea otters and other animals worth killing. You, Dr. Woddle, will be able to add to your knowledge of natural history, for we are about to traverse a forest of remarkable seaweeds and plants, in which you will find all kinds of submarine life." "I am obliged to you for your kindness, sir, and put myself entirely at your disposal," replied the professor. At a signal from the captain, two negroes assisted our heroes to put on their apparel, and clothed them in thick waterproof made of India rubber, which formed trousers and vest, the trousers terminating in a pair of shoes with lead soles; a cuirass of leather protected the chest from the pressure of the water, and allowed the lungs full play. Supple gloves covered the hands, the helmet was then put on, and the knapsack of compressed air adjusted on the back. To each one was given a gun, the butt of which was of brass and hollow. Here was stored the compressed air which discharged the electric bullets, one of which fell into its proper place just as the other had been shot away. The whole mechanism was perfect. When all was ready they stepped into an empty cabin, the door closed behind them, and, touching a knob, the captain allowed the room to fill with water. Then he opened a door and they walked out into the sea. Each had an electric lamp fastened to the waist, which made their path clear and distinct, enabling them to see every object through the glass holes in their helmets. The captain walked in front with the professor. Carl and Mont were side by side, and Stump brought up the rear. Walking was not very difficult, and the supply of air, well charged with the oxygen necessary for prolonged respiration, was all that could be wished. It entered as it was required from the knapsack reservoir, and escaped when used through a turret at the top of the circular helmet. They proceeded along fine sand, covered with a variety of shells, for at least a mile, when they came to some rocks covered with beautiful anemones. Innumerable fish sported around them; long, writhing eels, of a prodigious size, with ugly, flat snake-like heads, glided away at their approach, and thousands of jelly fish danced about their heads. They were not at a great depth, and presumably were near some island, for Mont, looking up, saw the sun overhead, guessing the depth to be about thirty or forty feet. The sun's rays easily penetrated the waves, and made a kaleidoscope of colors inconceivably beautiful. If the party could have spoken they would have given vent to their admiration in no measured terms. The least sound was transmitted easily, showing that the sea is a better conductor of noise than land. By degrees the depth increased, and they must have been a hundred yards from the surface, as the pressure of the water increased. Mont suffered no inconvenience except a slight tingling in the ears and fingers. He moved with ease, and was intensely delighted with the wonderful bed of sea flowers which gave place to the fine sand they had been traversing. A dark mass extended itself before them; and Captain Vindex, extending his hand, indicated the beginning of the forest. It was composed of large seaweeds and plants, which extended in a straight manner, having no drooping branches; all were erect and motionless. When displaced by the hand they resumed a perpendicular position. They scarcely had any roots in the sand, and were evidently nourished by the water and not by the earth. Some were long and slender, others short and bushy, covered with blossoms of various colors; others, again, reached a height equal to our forest trees. They had not proceeded far through this dense jungle of weeds, among which it was difficult to pick a path, when the captain halted. In front of him was a huge octopus, or devil fish, over three feet in diameter, with long, terrible arms. It endeavored to seize the professor, who, sinking on his knees, shivered in silent terror! CHAPTER XVIII. MONT IS LOST. It looked as if Professor Woddle's last moment had come. In a moment more the devil fish had the shivering man in its fearful embrace. The captain and Mont, however, raised their guns, and with one shot left it convulsed in its dying agonies. As they continued to descend into a valley, bounded on each side by high rocks, the darkness increased, for the sun's rays could not penetrate more than a hundred and fifty yards. It was now that the electric lamps became of importance. As they got lower and lower, Mont felt an oppression about the head, and a great desire to sleep overcame him. He lagged behind the others, and with difficulty kept up with them. Several fine sea otters were seen in front, playing about amongst the weeds. The captain fired, and the others followed his example. Three fell dead, one of which Stump took up and threw over his shoulder. Suddenly Mont sank down on the ground and immediately fell asleep. His companions, in the eagerness of their chase after the game that had escaped, did not notice his absence. They had proceeded fully half a mile, when Barnaby, looking back, was unable to discover any trace of Mont. He at once ran to the captain and made signs, pointing to himself, the professor, and Stump, and pointing in different directions to intimate that Mont was lost. Captain Vindex at once comprehended his meaning. He retraced his steps, going carefully over the ground they had trodden. It was without success, for nowhere could they find the slightest trace of their unfortunate companion. Carl would have given worlds had he been able to speak. He was profoundly agitated, for it was horrible to think that his chum was lost under the sea, not knowing his way back to the _Searcher_, for they had come a roundabout way. Captain Vindex was also annoyed. If Mont chose he could climb up the rocks and reach the summit. There he might take off his helmet, and breathe the free air of heaven. But would he think of this? Perhaps in his confusion he would wander about in the effort to meet his companions, and at last be suffocated miserably. The supply of air with which each was provided was not sufficient to last more than five hours. Two of those hours' supply had been already consumed. It was necessary that Captain Vindex and those with him should think of returning to the ship. Making a sign, he led the way back. Carl felt inclined to stay and die in the attempt to find his friend. It would have been an immense relief to him to have said something, but not a sound could he make audible outside his helmet. With sad and weary steps they traversed the lovely valley, which had lost all its former attractions for the party. The forest was passed and the sand regained. They were not more than two miles from the _Searcher_. Carl determined to make a last effort. He seized the captain's arm and pointed pathetically, almost imploringly, to the dense mass of vegetation behind them. His mute appeal to go back after Mont was comprehended. But it was disregarded. Their own lives would have been in jeopardy had they turned back. The air in the reservoirs was becoming weak and impure. Shaking his head in a negative manner, the captain pursued his way. With a heavy heart Carl followed him, and in time the ship was reached. They entered the water room, closed the doors, and the captain touched a bell. Directly it sounded within the vessel, the pumps were heard at work, the water gradually lowered, and when it was all out they opened the inner door and regained the dressing-room. It was indeed a pleasure to have the helmets removed, for they had retained them so long that they were oppressed and ill. The captain was the first to speak. "I am very sorry for the misfortune that has happened," he exclaimed; "you must not think me hard-hearted because I returned." "But Mont will die," answered Carl; "he is lost, and does not know his way back." "His supply of air will last another hour and a half. There is yet hope." "What can we do?" "I will send out a party to search for him, and I will head it myself," replied Captain Vindex. At this generous offer Carl's heart was filled with fresh hope. The captain gave orders for three negroes to accompany him. They were soon dressed and supplied with air, Captain Vindex himself taking a fresh reservoir. Then the ceremony of going out was repeated, and, as the exploring party quitted the ship, all Carl could do was to pray fervently for their success. He, the professor, and Stump were very languid, and, in spite of their anxiety, they could not shake off the somnolent effects of their long walk. Each sank down on the floor of their cabin, and was soon fast asleep. How long they remained there they did not know. Barnaby awoke, feeling a hand laid on his shoulder. It was Captain Vindex. Springing to his feet in an instant, he said: "Have you found him? Where is Mont?" "Unhappily," said the captain, "we could find no trace of him." "Why did I let him go last? I ought to have had him in front of me," cried Carl angrily. "Poor Mont! he is lying at the bottom of the sea, and I shall never see him again. Never, never!" He covered his face with his hands, and the tears trickled down his cheeks. "I have dispatched another party to seek for him," exclaimed the captain; "I am too worn out to go with them this time. If they find the body, we may restore him to consciousness." "There is no hope," said Carl sadly; "you are the cause of his death. Why did you inclose us in this tomb, and then take one of us in the sea to die?" "Was it my fault? You are hasty, my boy, and do me great injustice. I am as much grieved as yourself, for I had begun to love that lad," said the captain feelingly. "We will mourn for him together; there is a silent friendship in grief. We are friends, for we have the same sorrow." In a few hours the searching party came back, weary and unsuccessful. They could see nothing of Mont. Everyone gave up all hope, and our hero was mourned for as one dead. CHAPTER XIX. MONT'S PERIL. "Where am I? Where are you, Carl?" After about an hour's sleep Mont was aroused by an acute sensation of pain in his right leg. Stretching out his hand, he encountered a slimy substance, and withdrew it very quickly. Leaning on his elbow, he saw by the light of his lamp that a strange fish, with a head like a frying-pan and a body resembling that of a codfish, was biting through his waterproof covering and trying to eat part of his leg. In an instant he seized his gun, and, firing at its eye, wounded it grievously, causing it to splash about and retreat into a mass of weeds, where its struggles continued for some time. For a moment Mont forgot where he was. But as his senses came back to him, he recollected everything, and, rising, looked about for his companions. As he could see nothing of them, a horrible fear took possession of him, and he trembled from head to foot. They had lost him in the depths of the ocean. Without an experienced guide like Captain Vindex, it was impossible for him to find his way back. The dangerous and perhaps fatal sleep which had overcome him must be fought against. For if it came on again he knew he must die. How much precious air had he not consumed already? To him, in his condition, air was life. He knew that he had only a supply for a limited period. The only course that remained open to him was to march as quickly as the dense mass of water would let him, and try to regain the _Searcher_. But though he turned round, he could not find the sandy plain they had first traversed on leaving the ship. The forest of sea weeds, rising straight as arrows on all sides of him, erect and motionless, grew dense; animal life was everywhere. Strange fishes glared at him, and seemed to mock his misery by their quick, darting movements and sportive gambols. He pushed his way fiercely through the vegetable growth, but only to become more entangled. All at once the ground became hilly, and it seemed as if he had come to the end of the valley and was ascending one of the sides. He pushed on, thinking he would give the world to be able to rise to the surface. If he could only penetrate that thick water and float on the top of the waves, breathing the free air of heaven, he would have gladly done so, even if he were to die an hour afterward. Gradually he quitted the forest, and the sun's rays began to be visible again. Decidedly he must be getting higher. Presently a great black mass appeared at his side. He could see that it was a ferocious shark, whose huge mouth seemed capable of engulfing him. Instinctively he threw himself on his back. The voracious creature had made a dart at him, but shot past, disappointed of its prey. If it had seized his arm or his leg, or even his head, one snap of its mouth would have been sufficient to cut off either. As the animal swam around him Mont pointed his gun and fired. The shot entered its stomach, but was not mortal. Another and another followed, and at last the vast mass floated slowly upward, showing that it was dead. Thanking Providence for this narrow escape, and congratulating himself on his presence of mind, our hero continued the ascent. The path became steep and rugged, and it was with difficulty that he made his way. He was evidently ascending the side of a rock, which became more precipitous as he went on. Where did it lead? Was it raised above the surface or did it fall short of it? If so, he would have his trouble for nothing. He breathed with an effort, and his breath grew shorter and shorter every moment, for he was making a great demand upon his reservoir of air while undergoing strong exertion. At length he had to stop. It seemed as if his strength were failing him. The sleepy feeling overtook him again, and he leaned back against the shining rock, which reflected the sun's rays. He was face to face with death. Not much longer would his lungs be supplied with breathing air. Suffocation threatened Mont with a painful end, yet he was so weak and prostrate that he seemed unable to make another effort. Every moment was of priceless value. At last he went on. How he did it he never knew; but he managed to climb the almost perpendicular rocks, which afforded little or no footing. At last the sun's rays were more vivid, and, with a feeling of wonder, Mont found himself moving with comparative ease. This was because he had reached the summit of the rock after climbing nearly two hundred and fifty yards. He was out of the water. With nervous hands he tore off his helmet, and, lying on his side, inhaled the air for a few minutes. "I am saved, saved!" cried Mont delightedly. He rose at length, and looked around him. The rock on which he was standing was a narrow, barren peak, which just rose above the surface, and that was all. The remainder of the ledge was under water. If he had not ascended in that place he must have died. Afar off was what appeared to be a small island. But whether it was an arid desert or not he was unable to tell. "Perhaps I shall die of hunger and thirst," he muttered; "but death is better here than in the forest under the sea." Sleep again overcame him, and he passed several hours in a deep slumber. With wakefulness came a horrible sensation of hunger and thirst. While he was gazing around him, with despair again attacking him, he saw something rise in the sea a short distance off. He thought he recognized the black back of the _Searcher_, and he was not mistaken. The trapdoor opened, and two men appeared on the platform. They were Captain Vindex and Professor Woddle. Mont tried to cry out, but only a feeble sound came from his lips. He, however, waved his hands, and the signal was seen. Soon the electric boat floated gently to the rock. He stepped on the platform, which was by this time crowded with the crew, Carl, and Stump. The next moment he was in the arms of kind friends. He sank fainting at their feet, and was carried below, where he remained some days before he entirely recovered his strength. Captain Vindex had entertained an idea that Mont might reach the surface by climbing up the rocks, although he scarcely dared to hold this opinion as a certainty. But when nothing could be seen of him below the surface, he resolved to look for him above. Consequently the _Searcher_ rose under his orders, with the happy result we have described. CHAPTER XX. THE WRECKS. When Mont was fully recovered, the negro Number One announced that they were going on a long voyage. "Massa say him start for, um South Pole," he said. "In one hour we be off, and travel for many week. Travel to the Pole." In effect, they soon heard the motion of the machinery, and the _Searcher_ began her long submarine cruise. For about a week they saw nothing of the captain. This mysterious man shut himself up and sought intercourse with no one. Every day, for some hours, the panel in their cabin slid back, and they enjoyed the treat of looking at the sea lighted by electricity. The direction of the _Searcher_ was southeast, and she kept at a depth of a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet. One day, while the electric ship was stopping to replenish her power, a curious incident happened. Stump was looking out of the window, and he suddenly exclaimed: "What is that, sir?" Everyone went to examine, and a ship dismantled was seen slowly sinking to the bottom. It had foundered a short time before with all hands. Several men were lashed to the riggings, and their agonized faces testified to their late sufferings. A shoal of sharks followed the sinking wreck with distended eyes, anticipating a feast of human flesh. As the hull passed the window, Mont read her name, which was the _Firefly_ of Savannah. This was not an isolated case, for they frequently saw wrecks, and remains of wrecks, such as cannons, anchors, chains, and decaying hulls. "Well, this is a lively existence," exclaimed Mont; "we eat nothing but fish, and see nothing but fish." "And wrecks," put in Carl. A heavy step was heard behind them, and all turned round, to see the captain. He placed his hand upon a map, and exclaimed: "Do you see this island--Malonon? It is where the gallant French explorer Posterri perished. We are close to it, and, if you please, gentlemen, you shall land and explore it for yourselves." This was good news. "But," said the professor, "if I remember rightly, it is inhabited by savages." "Certainly." "Shall we not be in danger?" "I fear nothing," said the captain. "I have braved danger among civilized nations, and I can afford to despise savages. If you do not wish it, however, I will continue my voyage." "Don't do that, sir," replied Mont. "I'll chance the niggers. Let us land. I know Carl and Stump would like it." "And you, Mr. Professor?" said the captain. "I, sir, will go anywhere in the interests of science," replied Homer Woddle, with a nervous tremor in his voice which showed he did not like savages. The news raised the boys' spirits to the highest pitch. After confinement on board the _Searcher_ the prospect of going on land was enchanting. No matter what danger they might encounter they were ready. Carl whispered that they might have a chance of escaping. Mont said nothing, but he was of the same opinion. CHAPTER XXI. ON LAND ONCE MORE. The party were allowed to go on shore without even promising to return, and the heart of each beat high with the prospect of liberty before them. Professor Woddle explained that they might traverse the country nearby, and so get to some port, but the journey would be perilous in the extreme. His advice was to camp in the wood, obtain fresh provisions, and await the course of events. Stump alone was in doubt. "The captain," he remarked, "is a wonderful man, and knows perfectly well what he is about. He has told us we shall never again set our feet on civilized ground, has he not?" "Yes. Everyone knows that," answered the professor. "He'll keep his word, and I'll bet a new hat we are on board again to-morrow, or perhaps to-day." "I'll take you," replied Mont, "though how the bet is to be paid I don't know, as there are no hat shops on board the boat." "I'd give something to find out all about our skipper," said Carl. "He is the most curious beggar I ever met. All four of us are not a match for him." "Speak for yourself, my young but still intelligent friend," answered the professor. "Time will show." "We'll have some fresh meat soon," observed Stump, "and if you'll trust the cooking to me, Master Mont, you shall have a dinner fit for a king in half an hour after running down the game." "A little venison or wild boar, which is pork, would be very acceptable," answered the professor; "and my knowledge of natural history enables me to tell you that we shall find both on this island which we are about to visit." "Roast pork--lovely! It makes my mouth water," said Stump. "Do you want to have the jaw all to yourself?" asked Mont. "Go and ask when the boat will be ready to take us ashore." Stump departed on his errand and found the boat already prepared for them. It was made of various pieces of wood, which were easily put together when it was wanted and taken apart when it was not required. It would hold half a dozen men, and floated by the side of the _Searcher_. Each of the four companions was provided with an electric gun containing the usual twenty shots. "A pleasant excursion, gentlemen," said the captain, as they emerged on the platform; "I hope you do not intend to deprive me for any length of time of the pleasure of your society." "Wouldn't do such a thing for worlds, sir," answered our hero. "You needn't return to-night, if you prefer camping out." "We didn't mean to," replied Mont. A peculiar smile crossed Captain Vindex's expressive face, as if he guessed what was passing in the youth's mind. "Remember one thing," he said; "be very careful of your ammunition." "Why?" "You will find out in time. All I have to say is, recollect my advice," was the answer. They got into the boat and rowed ashore, picking their way carefully through the coral reefs, and in five minutes the bottom of the boat grated upon a sandy beach. "Hurrah!" cried Mont, throwing up his cap; "land once more!" Stump, who was thoroughly familiar with all the tricks of boys, put down his hands and "turned a wheel," after which he stood on his head, to give expression to his delight. Huge forests stretched far inland, and raised their mighty heads a hundred feet from the earth. Palms, shrubs, and creepers were mingled with the trees in grand confusion, and this scene, in the glowing sunshine, was indescribably beautiful. The professor saw a cocoanut palm, and, knocking off some of the fruit, gave it to the boys, who pronounced it delicious. "Now," he said, "we will shoot something and dine as we have not dined for a long time." "I've some salt in my pocket, and Stump has knives," remarked Carl. "It looks to me," said Mont, "as if we were likely to have a sirloin of tiger for dinner; that forest ought to be full of wild beasts." "No matter," answered Carl, "anything's better than fish. Come on." They skirted the forest, fearing to enter it lest they might lose themselves in its dense interior. Keeping their guns ready for instant action, they proceeded about half a mile, when the professor held up his hand. In front of them was a large breadfruit tree, and under its branches was a wild boar, engaged in eating the tender fruit which had fallen to the ground. "Approach gently, and fire all together," said the professor. They did so, and four shots were discharged at the same time. The wild boar uttered a ferocious grunt, ran a few paces, and fell down dead. "What is it, sir?" asked Carl. "A wild boar; do you not see his tusks? Now, Stumpton, set to work, and cut a leg of pork off piggy. You, Folsom, make a fire with the dry wood; it will kindle when I rub two sticks together. You, Barnaby, gather some of this fruit." "Is it good to eat, sir?" "You will find it excellent. I recognize it as the breadfruit of the tropics, and, cut up in slices and toasted over the fire, nothing could be better for us with our roast pork," answered the professor. They were quickly at work. The fire was lighted, the leg of pork cut off and fixed to a tripod, the breadfruit toasted, and plates supplied by large palm leaves. Presently a delicious odor of roast pork spread itself around. After living so long on the peculiar fare provided by Captain Vindex, they enjoyed their dinner immensely; and, when they had satisfied their appetites, they sat down under the shade of a tree, sheltered from the noontide heat. "Now, sir," said Mont, "what are we to do?" "I have no wish to return to our floating prison," replied the professor. "The question is, shall we go back, or shall we try to make our way to some port, risking the dangers of the way, the chances of starvation?" "That does not appear likely," answered Mont, thinking of the roast pork and the breadfruit. "When our guns are empty, we may not find it so easy to kill game, however abundant it may be. The savages are another danger." "Put it to the vote, sir," said our hero. "Certainly; all you who wish to make an effort to escape from the thralldom in which we are held, hold up your hands." Every hand was extended. "To the contrary?" There was no response. "Not a hand," said the professor. "I may, then, conclude, that we are unanimous in our wish for freedom, and it is decided that we do not return to the _Searcher_." "Hurrah!" cried Stump, proceeding to stand on his head again. "If you don't stop those street-arab tricks," remarked Mont, "you'll have a fit, after such a meal as you've had." Stump resumed his natural position. "There's no lie, sir, about my having had a filler of pork," he replied. "But though I'm only an odd boy, I've got my feelings, and I'd as soon be a convict as in that there prison ship." "The youth is right," observed the professor mildly; "to live and die in that ship is an awful prospect, and I would rather herd with savages in their wilds than do it." And as if it was intended as an answer to his speech, an arrow flew over his head. Fortunately it missed its mark, and stuck quivering into the bark of the tree under which they were sitting. Everyone sprang to his feet, and stood, gun in hand, on the defensive. "Savages, by George!" exclaimed Mont. "Where?" asked the professor. "To the right, sir. Fire away, and chance it, or we shall all be killed." There was an instant discharge of firearms, and a scuffling was heard behind some cactus and mimosa bushes. A dozen savages, nearly naked, armed with spears and bows and arrows, were seen in a state of hesitation, whether to fly or stand their ground. Three of their number had fallen from the discharge, and one, who was mortally wounded, was crawling, in a slow, labored manner, into the bush to die. CHAPTER XXII. FIGHTING THE SAVAGES. "They are retreating!" cried Mont joyfully. "No! no! they are coming on again!" put in Carl, a few seconds later. "At 'em again, boys; let them have it," said the professor. "Hot and strong this time, sir," said Stump, advancing a step to take better aim. Again the bullets flew, and three more savages went down. The others turned to fly to the shelter of the neighboring forests. "Hurrah! they're bolting," said Mont. "But they've collared what was left of our bread, and the remains of the roast pork," said the hired boy angrily. "Oh, the varmints! I'll just give them something." He advanced to fire better. An aged chief, however, turned at this moment and discharged a parting shot which took effect in the calf of Stump's leg. "Oh, dear! I'm hit," he cried. "A great wooden skewer's stuck right in my leg, sir. Perhaps it's poisoned, sir. Oh, dear, but I wish it hadn't been me. There's the professor, now; he could have borne it better than me." "Thank you, my young friend," said the professor, "the calf of my leg is as susceptible to pain as yours; let us get away, as arrowheads are sharp, and in certain parts of the body mortal." "Where shall we go?" asked Mont. "We are not safe here. The savages will return in larger numbers directly, and we shall probably lose our lives, so I propose to seek our boat." "And go back to the _Searcher_?" asked Carl. "Yes." "Never! I for one will not go!" cried Carl. "And I can't crawl. I'm as lame as a dog," said Stump, half crying. "Roll, if you can't walk," said the professor jokingly. "Pull it out, sir. Give me a hand with it. It hurts awful." Mont advanced to the boy and seized the arrowhead, which he tugged at until, with a torrent of blood, it came out of the wound. It was with difficulty Stump managed to limp on one leg, and seemed very grateful when Mont bound up the wound and told him to lean on his shoulder. "My dear boy," said the professor, "discretion is the better part of valor. I am averse to the taking of human life, for I am a man of science and not a fighter. My advice is to check the advance of those bloodthirsty savages, and when your ammunition is spent, to run. As I am old, and not quick of foot, I will start at once." So saying, he ran with all speed to the boat. "Coward!" said Mont angrily. "What are we to do?" asked Carl blankly. "Follow him, I suppose," replied Mont. "Bring up the rear, Carl, while I help Stump along, and if the beasts show again, call us, and we will turn and fire." They began to beat a retreat in this order, and, fortunately, the natives did not again make an appearance. The half-mile was traversed quickly, Stump groaning dreadfully as he was forced along. When within a few paces of the boat awful yells were heard behind them. Turning to see from whence they proceeded, Mont saw a horde of savages in pursuit. The sands seemed to be alive with them. Evidently the defeated party had returned to obtain re-enforcements and apprise their companions of the slaughter which had taken place, urging them to avenge it. An army of at least three hundred wild-looking fiends were at their heels, and not a moment was to be lost. "Quick, for Heaven's sake!" said Professor Woddle. "The savages are upon us. Quick, boys, or we are lost!" The boys sprang into the boat, placing Stump in the bows, and pushed off. Carl and Mont plied the oars vigorously. Fortunately, when the savages reached the beach they were some distance out. A flight of arrows fell close to them without doing them any harm. At least a hundred of the natives plunged into the sea up to the waist, but they did not attempt to swim after the boat, which soon reached the _Searcher_. Mont expected to see someone, but the platform was deserted. Our hero at once went to the captain, being alarmed at the hostile attitude of the savages, whom he did not doubt were possessed of canoes and would make an attack upon the ship. He was annoyed at being obliged to take shelter so soon, but what could he do? All his hopes of liberty in flight were nipped in the bud. He began to see now that Captain Vindex knew the character of the coast, and had calculated well on their return to their captivity. Imprisonment with him was better than death or slavery among the savages of the island. The captain was sitting in front of the organ playing an exquisite air of Beethoven. Full of excitement, Mont had no time to listen. He touched him on the shoulder. The Wizard of the Sea seemed unconscious of his presence. "Captain," said our hero. The strange being shivered and turned round. "Ah," he cried, "'tis you, Mr. Folsom. Have you had good sport? You have returned sooner than I expected." "The sport was not bad," replied Mont, "but unfortunately we met with a troop of savages, who spoilt our fun." The captain smiled ironically. "Savages!" he repeated. "Were you surprised at meeting with them? Have you so little geographical knowledge that you do not know they swarm hereabouts?" "All I know is," replied Mont, "that if you don't want them on board the boat, you had better look out." "My dear fellow," said the captain, "I am not likely to trouble my head about such wretches." "But there are lots of them." "How many?" "Over three hundred, I should think, as well as I could count." "We have nothing to fear from them, nothing at all," said the captain. "Don't be alarmed." Without another word he turned again to the organ, and played a Scotch air which had an indescribable charm about it. He was plunged again in a reverie that Mont did not think it prudent to interrupt. He remounted to the platform without seeing a single negro. The most absolute want of precaution reigned on board the _Searcher_, and it looked as if no one knew that hundreds of howling savages were within five minutes' row of them. In the growing darkness, which came on while Mont was alone, he could see the forms of the natives running backward and forward on the beach. They were evidently planning an attack upon a large scale. What could account for the captain's strange apathy? After a time he forgot the natives in admiring the lovely night of the tropics. The zodiacal stars appeared, and the moon shone brightly amidst innumerable constellations of the zenith. He wished that the moon would light the _Searcher_ to the coral bed, and that they would sink to the bottom, where they would be safe from their enemies. Proceeding below again he sought his friends. The door giving access to the interior of the boat remained open, and he observed a slave standing at the bottom of the staircase as if on watch. Stump had his leg plastered up, and, though in pain, was much better. Strange to say, all were pleased to return to the boat, and to escape a fearful death of lifelong slavery among the savages, who are known to travelers as the Papouans. Mont slept badly, for he anticipated a night attack. CHAPTER XXIII. ELECTRIFYING THE SAVAGES. "What a sight! They are going to attack us, sure!" It was Mont who spoke, as at six o'clock in the morning he ascended to the platform. The morning mist had lifted, and he could see the land distinctly. The savages were very busy, and more numerous than they had been the night before. As well as he could calculate, he counted six or seven hundred of them. They were tall, handsome men, with an erect bearing, their features well chiseled. In their ears they wore rings of bone. Their arms were bows and arrows, spears, and shields made of the skins of fish stretched over a wooden frame or the back of the turtle. A chief rowed in a canoe toward the _Searcher_, keeping at a safe distance. He was adorned with a fantastic headdress of feathers and leaves, and seemed to be the king of the country. Having nothing better to do, Mont got a fishing line from the negro who usually attended upon him, and amused himself with catching some of the fish that swam round the ship. No one made any preparation to repel an attack of the Papouans, which alarmed Mont very much. He had, however, so much confidence in the sagacity of Captain Vindex that he believed he would not be caught asleep. For two hours he continued his sport with tolerable success, and was so wrapped up in it that he forgot the natives for the time. While he was engaged in pulling up a good bite, an arrow whizzed past him. Mont dropped his fish, and very nearly his line. "Bother the brutes!" he exclaimed; "can't they let a fellow fish in peace? Why doesn't the captain make a start and get away from them?" He was as eager now to leave the land as he had been the day before to reach it. It was clear that the Papouans were puzzled. They had seen European ships before, but what could they make of a long cylinder of iron, without masts, almost flush with the surface of the water, and no chimney like a steamer? But they gained confidence as they saw no attempt made to drive them away. They had seen some of their number killed by the air-guns, yet they had heard no noise. All at once a flotilla consisting of a score of canoes, full of savages, put off from the shore, and approached the ship. Mont at once sought refuge in the interior of the ship, and ran to apprise the captain of the formidable state affairs were assuming. Clearly no orders had been given to repel boarders. Knocking at the captain's door, he was told to enter. Captain Vindex was reading. "Do I disturb you?" asked Mont politely. "A little," replied the captain; "but I suppose you have good reason for seeking me?" "Rather," answered our hero. "We are surrounded by savages, and in a few minutes we shall have them on board." "Ah," said the captain, "they have got their canoes, I suppose?" "Heaps of them." "Then we must do something." "Shut up the shop," said Mont. "That is easily done," replied the captain, touching a bell, and adding: "In half a minute the trapdoor will be closed. You need not be afraid that they will break in." "No, but to-morrow we shall want air, and you must open the door again for your pumps to work." "Yes; our ship is like a great whale, and cannot live without air." "In a moment the Papouans will be on the top of us, and I don't suppose they will go away in a hurry," replied Mont. "You suppose they will take possession of the outside and keep it?" "Exactly." "Well, then," answered the captain calmly, "I don't see why they shouldn't. Why should I kill the poor creatures if I can help it? I know many savages in the civilized world whom I would cut off with more pleasure. Leave them to me. If it is necessary I will make a terrible example of them." "You have no cannon." "I shall not fire a shot, and I shall not wound them in any way, and yet they will fall like leaves in autumn. Go to your friends, and rest perfectly easy," said the captain. This was a dismissal, and, wondering much, Mont went away. As he sought his cabin he heard the fierce cries of the savages, who swarmed on the back of the iron ship like flies in summer. The night passed without any incident. Plenty of oxygen still passed through the ship, but it was time to renew the air, which was becoming impure. Breakfast was served in the morning, as usual. Eleven o'clock came, and the captain showed no signs of moving. This apathy appeared incomprehensible to Mont. Without any difficulty the vessel could have gone out to sea, risen in mid-ocean, and taken in fresh air. "It is very odd we don't move," he remarked. "I can't understand it," said the professor. "But everything is so remarkable on board this ship that I have ceased to wonder at anything." "I've had a taste of niggers, and don't want another," said Stump, who was lying on a mattress with his leg bound up. "Hark at the reptiles! What a thundering row they're kicking up!" remarked Mont. "I never heard such a racket," answered Carl; "our skipper must be out of his head not to start the vipers." The captain appeared in the doorway. There was a pleasant smile on his face, and he did not seem at all alarmed at the menacing aspect of affairs. "Gentlemen," he said, "we resume our voyage at twelve o'clock exactly." "It is now a quarter to," said the professor, regarding his chronometer. "Precisely. I shall open the flap, and take in air directly." "And the niggers?" said Mont. "The Papouans?" replied the captain, shrugging his shoulders. "Won't they get in?" "How?" "Easily enough, by walking down the ladder. They can do that when the flap is up, and can kill us all without any trouble." "Gentlemen," said Captain Vindex, "the Papouans will not descend the staircase, although the flap is open." They regarded this singular man in amazement. "You do not understand me," he continued. "Come to the bottom of the ladder, and you shall see." "Shall we take our guns?" asked the professor. "Not the slightest necessity." "At least your slaves are armed?" "They are all at their work; follow me," said the captain. They obeyed his order, and walked to the foot of the metal ladder. The captain folded his arms, and stood by the side of the professor. Mont and Carl were together. Even Stump had crawled along the passage to see what would happen. Captain Vindex made a sign to a slave, who, touching a spring, caused a trapdoor in the back of the _Searcher_ to fly open. The sunshine descended in a flood. Terrible cries of rage and triumph were heard, and a swarm of natives appeared on all sides. At least twenty made a rush at the ladder, brandishing their tomahawks and spears, while they uttered fierce yells and scraps of war songs. The first who grasped the railing, and placed his foot on the ladder, gave a bound back, and the most fearful shrieks burst from his quivering lips. A second, a third, and a fourth did the same. What invisible force was at work Mont did not know. He thought the days of magic and sorcery had returned. A score of Papouans tried to descend; but they had no sooner made the attempt than they instantly retreated, yelling dismally, and threw themselves into the sea. "Stunning," said Mont. "It's fine, but I don't know how you do it." The captain smiled. To get a better view, Mont put one foot on the staircase and one hand on the railing. He immediately withdrew them, uttering a cry which was loud enough to wake the dead. "Oh, oh!" he cried. "What's up?" exclaimed Carl, who could not help laughing. "I see the dodge now," said Mont; "it's an electric battery applied to the metal of the staircase, and whoever touches it has a shock. I've had it before at Coney Island, and at fairs. You pay a dime and get electrified." "Ah!" ejaculated the professor, upon whom a light began to dawn. "You are right," said the captain calmly. "I have connected the brass staircase with the powerful storage battery that gives us light and power, and the ignorant savages are frightened at they know not what. If they had persisted in their attempt to enter the ship I should have applied all my electrical force, and they would have fallen as dead as flies on a fly paper; but I did not wish to harm them. They are enemies unworthy of my hatred." The news of the dreadful and mysterious pains which they felt were spread by the shocked natives to their friends. Alarmed and horrified, they beat a precipitate retreat, swimming and rowing back to the shore. In half an hour the beach was deserted, and all flew away from the sea fiend whose nature they could not understand. "They take us for the Old Nick," said Mont. "Twelve o'clock," exclaimed the captain, who was always as punctual as fate; "I said we should sail at twelve." At this moment the engines began to revolve, and the _Searcher_ skimmed over the surface of the sea like a bird. The air was soon taken into the reservoirs, the flap or panel was closed, and sinking into the bosom of the waves, she glided along, moved by her powerful screw, like a big fish; only the helmsman, sitting in his solitary place of lookout, being responsible for her management. CHAPTER XXIV. A PEARL WORTH A FORTUNE. They traversed the ocean at a depth of about a hundred yards from the surface. The health of the captives continued good. Stump was the only grumbler; the others read and talked, resigning themselves to their fate, and waiting the next adventure which should befall them in their singular voyage. "I tell you what it is, sir," exclaimed Stump one day; "I wish I could get my fist near that there captain. If I wouldn't give him a knockout I'd let a whale come and eat me." "What have you to grumble at, my friend?" inquired Professor Woddle. "You are comfortably housed, well fed, and have a constant source of excitement in the movements of this remarkable ship." "Bother the ship. Why didn't she strike on a rock and bust up?" said Stump. "I'd rather be back to Nautical Hall any day than here." "Bide your time, my lad," continued the professor; "something will happen some day." "Very prob'ble, sir, but it's waiting for it to turn up as I don't like. Just shove me alongside of that blessed captain, and if I don't give him----" "Stump," interrupted Mont, "you shut up. I wouldn't mind being back to the Hall myself, but finding fault won't take us there." "Certainly, sir. I don't have much chance of talking. I shall forget my own language soon; but no matter, I am only a hired boy, I know, and, of course, shouldn't have no feelings." Mont took the trouble to pacify him, explaining that to provoke a quarrel with the captain would not in any way improve their position. On the contrary, it might deprive them of the little liberty and comforts they now enjoyed, and make their miserable condition much worse. Stump saw this and promised to be quiet. He was a strong lad for his age, as hard as iron, and brave as a young lion. "Just promise me this, sir," he said. "What?" "If I see a good chance of stepping it, you'll be with me?" "Like a shot. But we mustn't do anything rash, you know, Stump," replied Mont. "Captain Vindex is not to be trifled with. A man who can build a ship like this, make electricity take the place of steam, and so store the air as to make it sufficient for use for twenty-four hours, is one of those great spirits who think of everything, and with whom we cannot hope to cope on equal terms." "Don't know so much about that, sir," said Stump. "I once had a round with a professional boxer and laid him low in two minutes." Mont laughed, and the conversation dropped. The voyage continued to the Indian Sea, and was not remarkable for anything more exciting than the capture of several turtles in nets, and the shooting of various sea birds, which supplied an agreeable addition to the comforts of the table. In the Indian Sea they encountered hundreds of the nautilus tribe floating gracefully on the surface of the water, their tiny sails spread, catching the wind, and looking like little ships. One day Captain Vindex entered. "Would you like to see the banks upon which grow the oysters which contain the pearls?" asked the captain. "Under the sea?" said Mont. "An excursion, submarine?" said the professor. "Precisely so. Are you inclined to go?" "Very much, indeed," replied all in chorus, with the exception of Stump. "This is not the time of year for the pearl divers to be at work," said the captain, "though we may see one or two. I will bring the ship nearer land, and show you some of the treasures of the deep. They fish for pearls in the Gulf of Bengal, in the Indian seas, as well as those of China and Japan, off the coast of South America, and in the Gulf of Panama and that of California, but it is at Ceylon that they find the richest harvest." "That is a fact," said the professor; "the richest pearls, as you say, are found here." "Right," said the captain. "We, however, shall see more than any diver ever dreams of. Perhaps I shall find my pearl worth a million, for which I have searched so long. I shall be at your service, gentlemen, in a few hours." When the captain had departed the professor was very grave. Carl and Mont were delighted at the prospect of finding pearls, but Stump bit his nails in silence. "I'll take home a pearl or two for luck!" exclaimed Mont. "If you ever get home, sir," remarked Stump, half aloud. "You'll go with us, won't you?" asked Mont. "I'll go wherever you and Master Carl go, Master Mont," replied Stump, "because it's my duty to watch over you. But I aint going to have no sort of friendship with that captain, not by a jugful!" "He's all right, when you know him." "Is he? Then I don't want to know him." Turning to the professor, Mont exclaimed: "Shall we have good sport, sir?" "Most likely," answered Mr. Woddle. "Are there many sharks about?" "It is no use disguising the fact. The sea hereabouts swarms with them. I should not like to meet one under the waves. A pearl has been called by poets a tear of the sea, and anything more lovely around a maiden's neck cannot be conceived. I have a strong wish to hunt for those tears of the sea, and behold them growing in their shells, but Heaven protect us from the sharks." Stump disappeared for a brief space, and returned with a long harpoon. "What have you got there?" asked Mont. "It's a reg'lar pig-sticker, isn't it, sir?" remarked Stump, regarding it admiringly. "It does look as if it could give an ugly prod," remarked Carl. "They call it a harpoon; thing for sticking whales. Me and Number One, that's the nigger as waits on us, is friends, sir, and he's given me this to fight the darned sharkses with." "Bravo, Stump!" exclaimed Carl. "It would be 'Bravo Stump,' if I could rip up an inch or two of that captain, and seize the blessed ship!" rejoined the boy with a scowl. Mont said nothing in reply, but waited patiently for the signal which would summon him and his companions to the captain's side. It came an hour or two before daybreak. A negro summoned them to the platform, near which the boat attached to the ship was riding. It was manned by four men, and when all the party were on board the negroes began to row toward the island. At six o'clock the day broke. They were a few miles from the land, which was distinctly visible, with a few trees scattered here and there. The captain stood up in the boat, and narrowly regarded the sea. At last he gave a sign, and the anchor was lowered. "Here we are," said the captain. "Put on your divers' caps, gentlemen, and follow me." The heavy sea garments were quickly put on. The electric lamps were not needed, because the depth was not great. Besides, the electric light would attract the sharks, who were creatures they could not afford to despise. The only arm given to each of the party was a long, sharp knife. Captain Vindex set the example of springing into the sea, the others following him as soon as they were thoroughly equipped. The negroes remained in the boat awaiting their return. A depth of about three yards and a half did not give them a very great submersion. To be supplied with condensed air, to be armed, and well lighted up by the sun was delightful. They walked along the bottom of the sea, easily seeing the smallest object on all sides of them. After some little walking they came to several oyster banks, from which the shells containing the valuable pearls were dragged by the hands of the divers. There were millions of them, and the mine seemed inexhaustible. They could not stop to examine everything, for it was necessary to follow the captain everywhere. The road was uneven; sometimes Mont could raise his arm and put his hand out of the water; at others, he was descending a slope, and the sun's rays were not so vivid. Everything became more obscure, and great shells were seen sticking to curiously shaped rocks. After a time a large grotto appeared before them, dimly lighted. The captain entered, followed by the rest of the party, the professor eagerly taking note of everything. Stump carried his harpoon, which was a good deal longer than himself; and the two boys eagerly looked for pearls, as if they expected to find them lying at their feet. Descending an inclined plane, Captain Vindex stopped and pointed out an object which they had not hitherto perceived. It was an oyster of gigantic size. Lying alone upon the granite rock, it took up a large space, and never had the professor even heard of such a huge bivalve. The shells were open a little, as if the oyster was feeding, which enabled the captain to introduce his knife. Keeping the two shells open by both ends of his knife, he pushed back the flesh of the oyster and revealed a pearl as big as a small cocoanut. It was a pearl worth at least a hundred thousand dollars. CHAPTER XXV. THE MAN OF MYSTERY. Mont advanced to the oyster, and stretched out his hand as if he would have seized the pearl, but he was disappointed. By a sudden movement the captain withdrew his knife, and the two shells came together with a sharp snap. Satisfied with showing them this treasure of the deep, he turned round, and retraced his steps, leaving the precious pearl behind them. Incomprehensible man, he was now more than ever a mystery to our hero. He allowed them to seek and take numerous other pearls, but would not let them touch that he had shown them. Again they wandered along the bottom of the sea, beholding many things worthy of observation. Sometimes the bank was so shallow that their heads came above the water; at others they sank several yards below. Suddenly the captain stopped, and by a movement of his hand ordered the party to conceal themselves behind a projecting rock. He pointed to the liquid mass in front of them, and all followed with their eyes the direction indicated. About five yards off a shadow came between the party and the rays of the sun. Mont thought of the "sea butcher," as the divers of Ceylon call the shark, and trembled a little at the idea. But he deceived himself, for this time he had nothing to fear from the monster of the ocean. A living man, an Indian, as black as ink, shot through the water, doubtless an early fisher for pearls. The bottom of his canoe could be seen up above, a few feet beyond his head. Arriving at the bottom, which was about five yards deep, he fell on his knees, let go the stone he had held between his feet to sink with more rapidity, and began to rake up the oysters from the bank with both hands. A cord was around his waist, the other end being attached to his boat, and this he pulled at when he wanted to rise. To his loins was attached a little bag, into which he put the oysters as fast as he could gather them. The Indian did not see anyone, and if he had he would have been so alarmed at the strange spectacle of curious-looking beings walking at ease at the bottom of the sea that he would quickly have retired. Several times he remounted and plunged again, not getting more than a dozen oysters at each dip. It appeared as if he risked his life for very little return, as in a score of oysters he might not find a pearl worth having. All at once, while on his knees, he made a gesture of terror, and seized his rope to ascend to the surface. A gigantic mass appeared close to the wretched diver. It was a huge shark, which advanced diagonally toward him, his terrible jaws open wide. The Indian threw himself on one side and avoided the bite of the shark, but not the action of his tail. Mont thought he heard the jaws snap, but he had not much time to think, as he saw the diver thrown down by a blow of the animal's tail and stretched upon the ground. All this was done in a few seconds, and then the shark returned, lying upon his back, in order the better to bite and divide the Indian in halves. Mont was about to rush forward to attempt to save the miserable wretch's life, when he was pushed rudely back by Captain Vindex. In his hand he held a knife, and was evidently prepared to battle for his life against the shark. The latter, just about to seize the Indian and snap him up, perceived his new adversary and, replacing himself upon his belly, directed himself rapidly toward him. He waited coolly the attack of the shark, which was one of the largest of its species, and when it charged him, he stepped quickly aside and plunged his knife into its belly up to the hilt. Then commenced a fearful combat. The shark began to bleed dreadfully, tinging the sea in such a manner as to hide the two in a sea of blood. As the water cleared a little, Mont saw the captain, caught by one of the creature's fins, stabbing at it as fast as he could, but not being able to give it a deathblow. The shark lashed the sea with fury, and almost prevented the professor and his friends from keeping their footing, though they were some distance off. Neither the professor, Mont, nor Carl dared to go to the help of the captain, for it seemed as if the shark would bite them in two, and they lost their presence of mind for a time. But Mont soon recovered, and then, catching Stump's harpoon, he darted forward to do his best. With his teeth set, he precipitated himself toward the shark, and struck it a terrible blow in the flank. Again the sea was saturated with blood. The shark agitated the water with indescribable fury, for our hero had not missed his aim. It was the death agony of the monster. Stricken to the heart, he struggled gallantly, but was powerless for further evil. As the immense creature was dying, Mont pulled the captain from under him, and at the same moment the Indian, coming to himself, detached the stone from his feet and shot upward. Following the example of the pearl diver, the captain struck the ground with his heels, as did the others, and all were soon at the surface. The Indian had regained his canoe, but he was lying at the bottom in a half-fainting condition. Satisfying himself that the poor fellow would live, and was not seriously injured, the captain signaled to his companions to descend, leaving the Indian gazing at them with haggard eyes, thinking he had seen some supernatural beings. Walking as fast as they could along the bottom of the sea, they came in time to the anchor of their boat, reascended to the surface, and, taking their seats, removed their head-cases with a feeling of relief. The negroes immediately began to row back to the _Searcher_. Captain Vindex was the first to speak. "Thank you, my lad," he said, extending his hand to Mont. "It's nothing," rejoined our hero bluntly; "you saved my life when we were wrecked, and I have now saved yours with my harpoon. We are equal now, and I owe you nothing." A sickly smile sat on the captain's lips for a second, and that was all. "Lay to it!" he cried to his men. "Pull to the _Searcher_." At half-past eight in the morning they were again on board of the ship, having been absent a little more than three hours. To Mont the captain was more difficult to understand than ever. He had risked his own life to save that of a poor Indian whom he had never seen before, and was never likely to see again. This showed that he could not have a bad heart. His heart was not entirely dead, whatever his faults might be. As if the captain guessed Mont's thoughts, he observed to him at the bottom of the staircase on board the ship: "That Indian belonged to an oppressed race. I also am one of the oppressed, and to my last breath I shall continue to be so. You recognize now the bond of union between us?" CHAPTER XXVI. THROUGH THE EARTH. The ship again continued her way, traveling toward the Persian Gulf. If Captain Vindex wanted to visit Europe, it was clear that he would have to go around the Cape of Good Hope, but that did not appear to be his design. He went direct to the Red Sea, and, as the Isthmus of Suez was not then pierced by a canal, there was no outlet to the Mediterranean. This puzzled the professor very much. One morning the captain sought his prisoners, and said to the professor: "To-morrow we shall be in the Mediterranean." Mr. Woddle looked at him with astonishment. "Does that surprise you?" he continued, with a smile. "Certainly it does, though I thought I had given up being astonished since I have been on board your ship." "You are a man of science; why should you be astonished?" "Because you must travel with the speed of lightning almost to East Africa and round the Cape of Good Hope." "I did not say I was going to do so," replied the captain. "You can't go overland, since there is no canal through the Isthmus of Suez----" "But one can go under land," interrupted the captain. "Under land," answered the professor, holding up his hand. "Undoubtedly," said Captain Vindex calmly. "For a long while nature has made underneath this tongue of land what men are trying to do now on the surface." "Does there exist a passage?" "Yes, a passage or tunnel, which at fifty feet depth touches a solid rock." "How did you discover it--by chance?" "No," said the captain. "I guessed that such a tunnel existed, and I have been through it several times." "Well," said the professor, "we live to learn. Our fathers never dreamed of gas, of railways, of telegraphs, and I did not suspect the existence of your wonderful ship." "Shortly, my dear sir," said the captain, "your children--that is to say, the next generation--will travel through the air in flying machines; your railway engines will own electricity as their motive power. There is no end to scientific discovery; the world is in its infancy. We are just emerging from barbarism. Wait and watch, that's my motto. You must not be surprised at anything in these days." "You are right--we are on the march," said the professor. The day passed, and at half-past nine the _Searcher_ rose to the surface to receive her supply of air. Nothing disturbed the silence but the cry of the pelican and other birds of the night, with the occasional sound of the escaping steam of a steamer traveling toward the Far East. Mont could not rest below, and at once ascended to the platform to breath the fresh air. In the darkness he saw a pale light, discolored by the fog, which burned about a mile off. "A lighthouse," he said. The captain was by his side, and quietly replied: "It is the floating lightship of Suez." "We are near the mouth of the tunnel, I suppose? Is the entrance easy?" "No," said Captain Vindex, "it is difficult. I always steer the ship myself, and if you like to come into the wheelhouse with me I will show you the way. In a moment the _Searcher_ will sink, and we shall not rise till we are in the Mediterranean." Mont followed the captain into the pilot's cabin, which was at the bow of the vessel, the wheel working the rudder by long chains carried aft. The cabin measured six feet square, four round windows of thick plate-glass enabled the helmsman to see on all sides, and the electric light, thrown well forward, made everything as clear as day. A strong negro, with an eye like a hawk, was at the wheel, but he gave the spokes to the captain and fell back. "Now," exclaimed the Wizard of the Sea, "let us search for our passage." Electric wires communicated with the engine room, so it was easy to communicate directly with the engineers by pressing a knob of metal. Touching this knob, the speed of the screw lessened considerably. For about an hour the ship passed by a bank of sand, which was varied by rocks, on which Mont saw all kinds of sea weeds, coral formations, and curious fish agitating their fins in alarm at the apparition of the _Searcher_. At half-past ten a long and large gallery appeared in front, black and apparently deep. The ship entered this gloomy tunnel boldly, and an unaccustomed rushing sound made itself heard against the sides, which arose from the waters of the Red Sea rushing into the Mediterranean. Following the current with the speed of an arrow, the ship made its way, though the engines were reversed and the screw went backward to abate the velocity of its progress. A single false turn of the wheel, and the _Searcher_ would have been dashed to atoms against the ironlike rocks on each side, above, and below. Mont held his breath. He could see nothing but the foaming waters, made transparent by the electric light. Half an hour later the captain gave up the helm to the negro, and, turning to our hero, exclaimed: "We are in the Mediterranean." In less than half an hour the ship, carried by the current, had traversed the Isthmus of Suez. The next morning they came to the surface, and were able to breathe the fresh air again. Stump was in high spirits when he found that they were near civilization again, because he thought they had a chance of escaping, and this idea was always uppermost in his mind. He spoke to his companions about it, and they all agreed to follow him if a good opportunity offered. CHAPTER XXVII. THE ESCAPE--CONCLUSION. The ship traveled leisurely along the Mediterranean, often rising in sight of land and lying like a log upon the water. In the evening it was the custom of the prisoners to play at checkers, dominoes, or some game they liked; and after the fourth day in the Mediterranean, Stump, instead of putting the games on the table, shut the door, and, in a mysterious way, exclaimed: "I've squared the nigger!" "Which?" asked Mont. "Number One. He as waits upon us. His real name's Smunko. I've found that out. Me and he's firm friends. I've told him I want to bolt, and he says he shan't let on to the skipper, or any of them, though they are all a lot of spies." "Perhaps he's one, too," observed the professor, smiling. "Not he, sir," answered the boy; "Smunko's right enough. He's going to keep all the other chaps quiet, some dark night, when we are near the land. Then we are to go on the platform and swim for our lives." "A very good arrangement, if it can be carried out," remarked the professor. "But I fear your friend Smunko is not to be depended upon." Stump was indignant. "The fact is," went on the professor, "I don't want to discourage the lad, but I have no wish that he should do anything rash, and involve us in a mess. The captain might doom us to solitary confinement. At present we are treated liberally, if we are prisoners." "All right, sir," replied Stump, "I'll turn it up as far as you are concerned. If Master Mont likes to come with me, all well and good; if not he can let it alone. I know my game, and I mean to stick to it." "Don't show your nasty temper, Stump," said our hero. "Aint being cooped up here like a turkey in a pen, fatting for Christmas, enough to rile a bishop?" asked the boy. "But I shan't say no more. When all's ready I'll give you one more chance, and if you aint with me, I'm off alone." It was impossible to check Stump's will. The only one who had any influence over him was Mont. He was a boy rudely brought up, unaccustomed to control his passions, and having a decided character, but to our hero he was deeply attached. The next day the ship floated near an island, which the professor declared to be the Isle of Cyprus. In the evening Stump whispered to Mont: "Now, sir, all's ready. Smunko's piping off the other blacks; we're not a quarter of a mile from the land." Mont's heart beat high. "Tell the others," he said. "No; let you and I go together." "I can't leave Carl, and the professor is one of us." In this Mont was firm. He would not leave the _Searcher_ without Carl and the professor. So the two were told that all was ready. "Come on, now," said Mont. "We must not lose our chance." With the valuable pearls they had secured in the Indian Ocean in their pockets, the others followed Mont to the deck. All hearts beat loudly. "There is a boat!" whispered Carl. "Come on." He dropped into the sea, and the others did the same. Not far away floated a log, and to this they clung. They paddled with their hands, and were soon some distance away from the submarine monster. Then they cried for help. The boat they had seen came in their direction. They were seen, and the natives from the island let out a shout. Then suddenly Captain Vindex appeared on the deck of the _Searcher_. He shook his fist at the party. Stump laughed at him; the others waved him off. "She is going down!" cried Mont. "Quick, pull for the shore, before you are wrecked!" The natives did not like the looks of the strange submarine ship, and they pulled with all strength. By the agitation in the water the party knew the _Searcher_ was after them. But the shore was gained, and they were safe. Then came a fearful shock. In his eagerness to catch them Captain Vindex had allowed the _Searcher_ to run into the rocks. The submarine craft shot out of the water, and then---- Bang! Boom! Crash! It was as if heaven and earth were splitting in twain. The whole island shook, and all in the boat fell flat. The _Searcher_ had been blown to atoms. The air was filled with flying bits of iron and steel. Of course all on board were instantly killed. It was a long while before Mont and his companions recovered. "Out of it at last, thank Heaven!" murmured Professor Woddle, and all said "Amen." A month later the little party returned to the United States. Mont's widowed mother was overjoyed to see him alive, and Carl's parents were equally elated, and so were the many friends at Nautical Hall. The pearls were equally divided, and to-day all of the party are rich men. "But I wouldn't take another such trip," says Mont. "No, not to pick up all the hidden treasures of the ocean. After this I'm going to remain at Nautical Hall and take the balance of my sea training on land. I've had all I want of such submarine ships as the _Searcher_, and such mysterious men as was the Wizard of the Sea." * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 34, "slooop" changed to "sloop". (hire a sloop) Page 101, "life" changed to "lives". (lives of the) Page 103, "breath" changed to "breathe". (breathe the fresh) 
13522	----	Proofreading Team SUPERSEDED BY MAY SINCLAIR _Author of "The Divine Fire"_ 1906 PUBLISHERS' NOTE Miss Sinclair has expressed a desire to have this book republished in America, because she considers it the best of her work previous to "The Divine Fire." It originally appeared with another work in a volume entitled "Two Sides of a Question," a small imported edition of which is now exhausted. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. PROLOGUE.--MISS QUINCEY STOPS THE WAY II. HOUSEHOLD GODS III. INAUGURAL ADDRESSES IV. BASTIAN CAUTLEY, M.D. V. HEALERS AND REGENERATORS VI. SPRING FASHIONS VII. UNDER A BLUE MOON VIII. A PAINFUL MISUNDERSTANDING IX. THROUGH THE STETHOSCOPE X. MISS QUINCEY STANDS BACK XI. DR. CAUTLEY SENDS IN HIS BILL XII. EPILOGUE.--THE MAN AND THE WOMAN SUPERSEDED CHAPTER I Prologue.--Miss Quincey Stops the Way "Stand back, Miss Quincey, if you please." The school was filing out along the main corridor of St. Sidwell's. It came with a tramp and a rustle and a hiss and a tramp, urged to a trot by the excited teachers. The First Division first, half-woman, carrying itself smoothly, with a swish of its long skirts, with a blush, a dreamy intellectual smile, or a steadfast impenetrable air, as it happened to be more or less conscious of the presence of the Head. Then the Second Division, light-hearted, irrepressible, making a noise with its feet, loose hair flapping, pig-tails flopping to the beat of its march. Then the straggling, diminishing lines of the Third, a froth of white pinafores, a confusion of legs, black or tan, staggering, shifting, shuffling in a frantic effort to keep time. On it came in a waving stream; a stream that flickered with innumerable eyes, a stream that rippled with the wind of its own flowing, that flushed and paled and brightened as some flower-face was tossed upwards, or some crest, flame-coloured or golden, flung back the light. A stream that was one in its rhythm and in the sex that was its soul, obscurely or luminously feminine; it might have been a single living thing that throbbed and undulated, as girl after girl gave out the radiance and pulsation of her youth. The effect was overpowering; your senses judged St. Sidwell's by these brilliant types that gave life and colour to the stream. The rest were nowhere. So at least it seemed to Miss Cursiter, the Head. That tall, lean, iron-grey Dignity stood at the cross junction of two corridors, talking to Miss Rhoda Vivian, the new Classical Mistress. And while she talked she watched her girls as a general watches his columns wheeling into action. A dangerous spot that meeting of the corridors. There the procession doubles the corner at a swinging curve, and there, time it as she would, the little arithmetic teacher was doomed to fall foul of the procession. Daily Miss Quincey thought to dodge the line; daily it caught her at the disastrous corner. Then Miss Quincey, desperate under the eye of the Head, would try to rush the thing, with ridiculous results. And Fate or the Order of the day contrived that Miss Cursiter should always be there to witness her confusion. Nothing escaped Miss Cursiter; if her face grew tender for the young girls and the eight-year-olds, at the sight of Miss Quincey it stiffened into tolerance, cynically braced to bear. Miss Cursiter had an eye for magnificence of effect, and the unseemly impact of Miss Quincey was apt to throw the lines into disorder, demoralising the younger units and ruining the spectacle as a whole. To-day it made the new Classical Mistress smile, and somehow that smile annoyed Miss Cursiter. She, Miss Quincey, was a little dry, brown woman, with a soft pinched mouth, and a dejected nose. So small and insignificant was she that she might have crept along for ever unnoticed but for her punctuality in obstruction. As St. Sidwell's prided itself on the brilliance and efficiency of its staff, the wonder was how Miss Quincey came to be there, but there she had been for five-and-twenty years. She seemed to have stiffened into her place. Five-and-twenty years ago she had been arithmetic teacher, vaguely attached to the Second Division, and she was arithmetic teacher still. Miss Quincey was going on for fifty; she had out-lived the old Head, and now she was the oldest teacher there, twice as old as Miss Vivian, the new Classical Mistress, older, far older than Miss Cursiter. She had found her way into St. Sidwell's, not because she was brilliant or efficient, but because her younger sister Louisa already held an important post there. Louisa was brilliant and efficient enough for anybody, so brilliant and so efficient that the glory of it rested on her family. And when she married the Greek master and went away Juliana stayed on as a matter of course, wearing a second-hand aureole of scholarship and supporting a tradition. She stayed on and taught arithmetic for one thing. And when she was not teaching arithmetic, she was giving little dictations, setting little themes, controlling some fifty young and very free translators of _Le Philosophe sous les Toils_. Miss Quincey had a passion for figures and for everything that could be expressed in figures. Not a pure passion, nothing to do with the higher mathematics, which is the love of the soul, but an affection sadly alloyed with baser matter, with rods and perches, firkins and hogsheads, and articles out of the grocer's shop. Among these objects Miss Quincey's imagination ran voluptuous riot. But upon such things as history or poetry she had a somewhat blighting influence. The flowers in the school Anthology withered under her fingers, and the flesh and blood of heroes crumbled into the dust of dates. As for the philosopher under the roofs, who he was, and what was his philosophy, and how he ever came to be under the roofs at all, nobody in St. Sidwell's ever knew or ever cared to know; Miss Quincey had made him eternally uninteresting. Yet Miss Quincey's strength was in her limitations. It was the strength of unreasoning but undying conviction. Nothing could shake her belief in the supreme importance of arithmetic and the majesty of its elementary rules. Pale and persistent and intolerably meek, she hammered hard facts into the brain with a sort of muffled stroke, hammered till the hardest stuck by reason of their hardness, for she was a teacher of the old school. Thus in her own way she made her mark. Among the other cyphers, the irrelevant and insignificant figure of Miss Quincey was indelibly engraved on many an immortal soul. There was a curious persistency about Miss Quincey. Miss Quincey was not exactly popular. The younger teachers pronounced her cut and dried; for dryness, conscientiously acquired, passed for her natural condition. Nobody knew that it cost her much effort and industry to be so stiff and starched; that the starch had to be put on fresh every morning; that it was quite a business getting up her limp little personality for the day. In five-and-twenty years, owing to an incurable malady of shyness, she had never made friends with any of her pupils. Her one exception proved her rule. Miss Quincey seemed to have gone out of her way to attract that odious little Laura Lazarus, who was known at St. Sidwell's as the Mad Hatter. At fourteen, being still incapable of adding two and two together, the Mad Hatter had been told off into an idiot's class by herself for arithmetic; and Miss Quincey, because she was so meek and patient and persistent, was told off to teach her. The child, a queer, ugly little pariah, half-Jew, half-Cockney, held all other girls in abhorrence, and was avoided by them with an equal loathing. She seemed to have attached herself to the unpopular teacher out of sheer perversity and malignant contempt of public opinion. Abandoned in their corner, with their heads bent together over the sums, the two outsiders clung to each other in a common misery and isolation. Miss Quincey was well aware that she was of no account at St. Sidwell's. She supposed that it was because she had never taken her degree. To be sure she had never tried to take it; but it was by no means certain that she could have taken it if she had tried. She was not clever; Louisa had carried off all the brains and the honours of the family. It had been considered unnecessary for Juliana to develop an individuality of her own; enough for her that she belonged to Louisa, and was known as Louisa's sister. Louisa's sister was a part of Louisa; Louisa was a part of St. Sidwell's College, Regent's Park; and St. Sidwell's College, Regent's Park, was a part--no, St. Sidwell's was the whole; it was the glorious world. Miss Quincey had never seen, or even desired to see any other. That college was to her a place of exquisite order and light. Light that was filtered through the high tilted windows, and reflected from a prevailing background of green tiles and honey-white pine, from countless rows of shining desks and from hundreds of young faces. Light, the light of ideas, that streamed from the platform in the great hall where three times in the year Miss Cursiter gave her address to the students and teachers of St. Sidwell's. Now Miss Cursiter was a pioneer at war with the past, a woman of vast ambitions, a woman with a system and an end; and she chose her instruments finely, toiling early and late to increase their brilliance and efficiency. She was new to St. Sidwell's, and would have liked to make a clean sweep of the old staff and to fill their places with women like Rhoda Vivian, young and magnificent and strong. As it was, she had been weeding them out gradually, as opportunity arose; and the new staff, modern to its finger-tips, was all but complete and perfect now. Only Miss Quincey remained. St. Sidwell's in the weeding time had not been a bed of roses for Miss Cursiter, and Miss Quincey, blameless but incompetent, was a thorn in her side, a thorn that stuck. Impossible to remove Miss Quincey quickly, she was so very blameless and she worked so hard. She worked from nine till one in the morning, from two-thirty till four-thirty in the afternoon, and from six-thirty in the evening till any hour in the night. She worked with the desperate zeal of the superseded who knows that she holds her post on sufferance, the terrified tenacity of the middle-aged who feels behind her the swift-footed rivalry of youth. And the more she worked the more she annoyed Miss Cursiter. So now, above all the tramping and shuffling and hissing, you heard the self-restrained and slightly metallic utterance of the Head. "Stand back, Miss Quincey, if you please." And Miss Quincey stood back, flattening herself against the wall, and the procession passed her by, rosy, resonant, exulting, a triumph of life. CHAPTER II Household Gods Punctually at four-thirty Miss Quincey vanished from the light of St. Sidwell's, Regent's Park, into the obscurity of Camden Town. Camden Town is full of little houses standing back in side streets, houses with porticoed front doors monstrously disproportioned to their size. Nobody ever knocks at those front doors; nobody ever passes down those side streets if they can possibly help it. The houses are all exactly alike; they melt and merge into each other in dingy perspective, each with its slag-bordered six foot of garden uttering a faint suburban protest against the advances of the pavement. Miss Quincey lived in half of one of them (number ninety, Camden Street North) with her old aunt Mrs. Moon and their old servant Martha. She had lived there five-and-twenty years, ever since the death of her uncle. Tollington Moon had been what his family called unfortunate; that is to say, he had mislaid the greater portion of his wife's money and the whole of Juliana's and Louisa's; he, poor fellow, had none of his own to lose. Uncle Tollington, being the only male representative of the family, had been appointed to drive the family coach. He was a genial good-natured fellow and he cheerfully agreed, declaring that there was nothing in the world he liked better than driving; though indeed he had had but little practice in the art. So they started with a splendid flourishing of whips and blowing of horns; Tollington driving at a furious break-neck pace in a manner highly diverting and exhilarating to the ladies inside. The girls (they were girls in those days) sat tight and felt no fear, while Mrs. Moon, with her teeth shaking, explained to them the advantages of having so expert a driver on the box seat. Of course there came the inevitable smash at the corner. The three climbed out of that coach more dead than alive; but they uttered no complaints; they had had their fun; and in accidents of this kind the poor driver generally gets the worst of it. Mrs. Moon at any rate found consolation in disaster by steadily ignoring its most humiliating features. Secure in the new majesty of her widowhood, she faced her nieces with an unflinching air and demanded of them eternal belief in the wisdom and rectitude of their uncle Tollington. She hoped that they would never forget him, never forget what he had to bear, never forget all he had done for them. Her attitude reduced Juliana to tears; in Louisa it roused the instinct of revolt, and Louisa was for separating from Mrs. Moon. It was then, in her first difference from Louisa, that Miss Quincey's tender and foolish little face acquired its strangely persistent air. Hitherto the elder had served the younger; now she took her stand. She said, "Whatever we do, we must keep together"; and she professed her willingness to believe in her uncle Tollington and remember him for ever. To this Louisa, who prided herself on speaking the truth or at any rate her mind, replied that she wasn't likely to forget him in a hurry; that her uncle Tollington had ruined her life, and she did not want to be reminded of him any more than she could help. Moreover, she found her aunt Moon's society depressing. She meant to get on and be independent; and she advised Juliana to do the same. Juliana did not press the point, for it was a delicate one, seeing that Louisa was earning a hundred and twenty pounds a year and she but eighty. So she added her eighty pounds to her aunt's eighty and went to live with her in Camden Street North, while Louisa shrugged her shoulders and carried herself and her salary elsewhere. There was very little room for Mrs. Moon and Juliana at number ninety. The poor souls had crowded themselves out with relics of their past, a pathetic salvage, dragged hap-hazard from the wreck in the first frenzy of preservation. Dreadful things in marble and gilt and in _papier-maché_ inlaid with mother-o'-pearl, rickety work tables with pouches underneath them, banner-screens in silk and footstools in Berlin wool-work fought with each other and with Juliana for standing-room. For Juliana, with her genius for collision, was always knocking up against them, always getting in their way. In return, Juliana's place at an oblique angle of the fireside was disputed by a truculent cabinet with bandy legs. There was a never-ending quarrel between Juliana and that piece of furniture, in which Mrs. Moon took the part of the furniture. Her own world had shrunk to a square yard between the window and the fire. There she sat and dreamed among her household gods, smiling now and then under the spell of the dream, or watched her companion with critical disapproval. She had accepted Juliana's devotion as a proper sacrifice to the gods; but for Juliana, or Louisa for the matter of that, she seemed to have but little affection. If anything Louisa was her favourite. Louisa was better company, to begin with; and Louisa, with her cleverness and her salary and her general air of indifference and prosperity, raised no questions. Besides, Louisa was married. But Juliana, toiling from morning till night for her eighty pounds a year; Juliana, painful and persistent, growing into middle-age without a hope, Juliana was an incarnate reproach, a perpetual monument to the folly of Tollington Moon. Juliana disturbed her dream. But nobody else disturbed it, for nobody ever came to their half of the house in Camden Street North. Louisa used to come and go in a brief perfunctory manner; but Louisa had married the Greek professor and gone away for good, and her friends at St. Sidwell's were not likely to waste their time in cultivating Juliana and Mrs. Moon. The thing had been tried by one or two of the younger teachers who went in for all-round self-development and were getting up the minor virtues. But they had met with no encouragement and they had ceased to come. Then nobody came; not even the doctor or the clergyman. The two ladies were of one mind on that point; it was convenient for them to ignore their trifling ailments, spiritual or bodily. And as soon as they saw that the world renounced them they adopted a lofty tone and said to each other that they had renounced the world. For they were proud, Mrs. Moon especially so. Tollington Moon had married slightly, ever so slightly beneath him, the Moons again marking a faint descent from the standing of the Quinceys. But the old lady had completely identified herself, not only with the Moons, but with the higher branch, which she always spoke of as "_my_ family." In fact she had worn her connection with the Quinceys as a feather in her cap so long that the feather had grown, as it were, into an entire bird of paradise. And once a bird of paradise, always a bird of paradise, though it had turned on the world a somewhat dilapidated tail. So the two lived on together; so they had always lived. Mrs. Moon was an old woman before she was five-and-fifty; and before she was five-and-twenty Juliana's youth had withered away in the sour and sordid atmosphere born of perishing gentility and acrid personal remark. And their household gods looked down on them, miniatures and silhouettes of Moons and Quinceys, calm and somewhat contemptuous presences. From the post of honour above the mantelshelf, Tollington, attired as an Early Victorian dandy, splendid in velvet waistcoat, scarf and chain-pin, leaned on a broken column symbolical of his fortunes, and smiled genially on the ruin he had made. That was how Miss Quincey came to St. Sidwell's. And now she was five-and-forty; she had always been five-and-forty; that is to say, she had never been young, for to be young you must be happy. And this was so far an advantage, that when middle-age came on her she felt no difference. CHAPTER III Inaugural Addresses It was evening, early in the winter term, and Miss Cursiter was giving her usual inaugural address to the staff. Their number had increased so considerably that the little class-room was packed to overflowing. Miss Cursiter stood in the free space at the end, facing six rows of eager faces arranged in the form of a horse-shoe. She looked upon them and smiled; she joyed with the joy of the creator who sees his idea incarnate before him. A striking figure, Miss Cursiter. Tall, academic and austere; a keen eagle head crowned with a mass of iron-grey hair; grey-black eyes burning under a brow of ashen grey; an intelligence fervent with fire of the enthusiast, cold with the renunciant's frost. Such was Miss Cursiter. She was in splendid force to-day, grappling like an athlete with her enormous theme--"The Educational Advantages of General Culture." She delivered her address with an utterance rapid but distinct, keeping one eye on the reporter and the other on Miss Rhoda Vivian, M.A. She might well look to Rhoda Vivian. If she had needed a foil for her own commanding personality, she had found it there. But the new Classical Mistress was something more than Miss Cursiter's complement. Nature, usually so economical, not to say parsimonious, seemed to have made her for her own delight, in a fit of reckless extravagance. She had given her a brilliant and efficient mind in a still more brilliant and efficient body, clothed her in all the colours of life; made her a creature of ardent and elemental beauty. Rhoda Vivian had brown hair with sparkles of gold in it and flakes of red fire; her eyes were liquid grey, the grey of water; her lips were full, and they pouted a little proudly; it was the pride of life. And she had other gifts which did not yet appear at St. Sidwell's. There was something about her still plastic and unformed; you could not say whether it was the youth of genius, or only the genius of youth. But at three-and-twenty she had chosen her path, and gone far on it, and it had been honours all the way. She went up and down at St. Sidwell's, adored and unadoring, kindling the fire of a secret worship. In any other place, with any other woman at the head of it, such a vivid individuality might have proved fatal to her progress. But Miss Cursiter was too original herself not to perceive the fine uses of originality. All her hopes for the future were centred in Rhoda Vivian. She looked below that brilliant surface and saw in her the ideal leader of young womanhood. Rhoda was a force that could strike fire from a stone; what she wanted she was certain to get; she seemed to compel work from the laziest and intelligence from the dullest by the mere word of her will. What was more, her nature was too large for vanity; she held her worshippers at arm's length and consecrated her power of personal seduction to strictly intellectual ends. At the end of her first term her position was second only to the Head. If Miss Cursiter was the will and intelligence of St. Sidwell's, Rhoda Vivian was its subtle poetry and its soul. And Miss Cursiter meant to keep her there; being a woman who made all sacrifices and demanded them. So now, while Miss Cursiter stood explaining, ostensibly to the entire staff, the unique advantages of General Culture, it was to Rhoda Vivian as to a supreme audience that she addressed her deeper thought and her finer phrase. If Miss Cursiter had not had to consult her notes now and again, she must have seen that Rhoda Vivian's mind was wandering, that the Classical Mistress was if anything more interested in her companions than in the noble utterances of the Head. As her grey eyes swept the tiers of faces, they lingered on that corner where Miss Quincey seemed perpetually striving to suppress, consume, and utterly obliterate herself. And each time she smiled, as she had smiled earlier in the day when first she saw Miss Quincey. For Miss Quincey was there, far back in the ranks of the brilliant and efficient. Note-book on desk, she followed the quick march of thought with a fatigued and stumbling brain. She was painfully, ludicrously out of step; yet to judge by the light that shone now and then in her eyes, by the smile that played about the corners of her weak, tender mouth, she too had caught the sympathetic rapture, the intellectual thrill. Ready to drop was Miss Quincey, but she would not have missed that illuminating hour, not if you had paid her--three times her salary. It was her one glimpse of the larger life; her one point of contact with the ideal. Her pencil staggered over her note-book as Miss Cursiter flamed and lightened in her peroration. "We have looked at our subject in the light of the ideals by which and for which we live. Let us now turn to the practical side of the matter, as it touches our business and our bosoms. Do not say we have no room for poetry in our crowded days." A score of weary heads looked up; there was a vague inquiry in all eyes. "You have your evenings--all of you. Much can be done with evenings; if your training has done nothing else for you it has taught you the economy of time. You are tired in the evenings, yes. But the poets, Shakespeare, Tennyson, and Browning, are the great healers and regenerators of worn-out humanity. When you are faint and weary with your day's work, the best thing you can do is to rise and refresh yourselves at the living wells of literature." Long before the closing sentence Miss Quincey's MS. had become a sightless blur. But she had managed to jot down in her neat arithmetical way: "Poets = healers and regenerators." The address was printed and a copy was given to each member of the staff. Miss Quincey treasured up hers as a priceless scripture. Miss Quincey was aware of her shortcomings and had struggled hard to mend them, toiling pantingly after those younger ones who had attained the standard of brilliance and efficiency. She joined the Teachers' Debating Society. Not that she debated. She had once put some elementary questions in an inaudible voice, and had been requested to speak a little louder, whereupon she sank into her seat and spoke no more. But she heard a great deal. About the emancipation of women; about the women's labour market; about the doors that were now thrown open to women. She was told that all they wanted was a fair field and no favour. (The speaker, a rosy-cheeked child of one-and-twenty, was quite violent in her repudiation of favour.) And Miss Quincey believed it all, though she understood very little about it. But it was illumination, a new gospel to her, this doctrine of General Culture; it was the large easy-fitting formula which she had seemed to need. With touching simplicity she determined to follow the course recommended by the Head. Though by the time she had corrected some seventy manuscripts in marble-backed covers, and prepared her lesson for the next day, she had nothing but the fag-end of her brain to give to the healers and regenerators; as for rising, Miss Quincey felt much more like going to bed, and it was as much as she could do to drag her poor little body there. Still Miss Quincey was nothing if not heroic; night after night twelve o'clock would find her painfully trying to draw water from the wells of literature. She had begun upon Browning; set herself to read through the whole of _Sordello_ from beginning to end. It is as easy as a sum in arithmetic if you don't bother your head too much about the Guelphs and Ghibellines and the metaphors and things, and if you take it in short fits, say three pages every evening. Never any more, or you might go to sleep and forget all about it; never any less, or you would have bad arrears. As there are exactly two hundred and thirteen pages, she calculated that she would finish it in ten weeks and a day. There was no place for Miss Quincey and her pile of marble-backed exercise-books in the dim and dingy first-floor drawing-room (Mrs. Moon and the bandy-legged cabinet would have had something to say to that). All this terrific intellectual travail went on in a dimmer and dingier dining-room beneath it. Then one night, old Martha, disturbed by sounds that came from Miss Juliana's bedroom, groped her way fumblingly in and found Miss Juliana sitting up in her sleep and posing the darkness with a problem. "If," said Miss Juliana, "three men can finish one hundred and nineteen hogsheads of Browning in eight weeks, how long will it take seven women to finish a thousand and forty-five--forty-five--forty-five, if one woman works twice as hard as eleven men?" Martha shook her head and went fumbling back to bed again; and being a conscientious servant she said nothing about it for fear of frightening the old lady. About a fortnight later, Rhoda Vivian, sailing down the corridor, came upon the little arithmetic teacher all sick and tremulous, leaning up against the hot-water pipes beside a pile of exercise-books. The sweat streamed from her sallow forehead, and her face was white and drawn. She could give no rational account of herself, but offered two hypotheses as equally satisfactory; either she had taken a bad chill, or else the hot air from the water-pipes had turned her faint. Rhoda picked up the pile of exercise-books and led her into the dressing-room, and Miss Quincey was docile and ridiculously grateful. She was glad that Miss Vivian was going to take her home. She even smiled her little pinched smile and pressed Rhoda's hand as she said, "A friend in need is a friend indeed." Rhoda would have given anything to be able to return the pressure and the sentiment, but Rhoda was too desperately sincere. She was sorry for Miss Quincey; but all her youth, unfettered and unfeeling, revolted from the bond of friendship. So she only stooped and laced up the shabby boots, and fastened the thin cape by its solitary button. The touch of Miss Quincey's clothes thrilled her with a pang of pity, and she could have wept over the unutterable pathos of her hat. In form and substance it was a rock, beaten by the weather; its limp ribbons clung to it like seaweed washed up and abandoned by the tide. When Miss Quincey's head was inside it the hat seemed to become one with Miss Quincey; you could not conceive anything more melancholy and forlorn. Rhoda was beautifully attired in pale grey cloth. Rhoda wore golden sables about her throat, and a big black Gainsborough hat on the top of her head, a hat that Miss Quincey would have thought a little daring and theatrical on anybody else; but Rhoda wore it and looked like a Puritan princess. Rhoda's clothes were enough to show that she was a woman for whom a profession is a superfluity, a luxury. Rhoda sent for a hansom, and having left Miss Quincey at her home went off in search of a doctor. She had insisted on a doctor, in spite of Miss Quincey's protestations. After exploring a dozen dingy streets and conceiving a deep disgust for Camden Town, she walked back to find her man in the neighbourhood of St. Sidwell's. CHAPTER IV Bastian Cautley, M.D. It was half-past five and Dr. Bastian Cautley had put on his house jacket, loosened his waistcoat, settled down by his library fire with a pipe and a book, and was thanking Heaven that for once he had an hour to himself between his afternoon round and his time for consultation. He had been working hard ever since nine o'clock in the morning; but now nobody could have looked more superlatively lazy than Bastian Cautley as he stretched himself on two armchairs in an attitude of reckless ease. His very intellect (the most unrestful part of him) was at rest; all his weary being merged in a confused voluptuous sensation, a beatific state in which smoking became a higher kind of thinking, and thought betrayed an increasing tendency to end in smoke. The room was double-walled with book-shelves, and but for the far away underground humming of a happy maidservant the house was soundless. He rejoiced to think that there was not a soul in it above stairs to disturb his deep tranquility. At six o'clock he would have to take his legs off that chair, and get into a frock-coat; once in the frock-coat he would become another man, all patience and politeness. After six there would be no pipe and no peace for him, but the knocking and ringing at his front door would go on incessantly till seven-thirty. There was flattery in every knock, for it meant that Dr. Cautley was growing eminent, and that at the ridiculously early age of nine-and-twenty. There was a sharp ring now. He turned wearily in his chairs. "There's another damned patient," said Dr. Cautley. He was really so eminent that he could afford to think blasphemously of patients; and he had no love for those who came to consult him before their time. He sat up with his irritable nerves on edge. The servant was certainly letting somebody in, and from the soft rustling sounds in the hall he gathered that somebody was a woman; much patience and much politeness would then be required of him, and he was feeling anything but patient and polite. "Miss Rhoda Vivian" was the name on the card that was brought to him. He did not know Miss Rhoda Vivian. The gas-jets were turned low in the consulting-room; when he raised them he saw a beautiful woman standing by the fire in an attitude of impatience. He had kept her waiting; and it seemed that this adorable person knew the value of time. She was not going to waste words either. As it was impossible to associate her with the ordinary business of the place, he was prepared for her terse and lucid statement of somebody else's case. He said he would look round early in the morning (Miss Vivian looked dissatisfied); or perhaps that evening (Miss Vivian was dubious); or possibly at once (Miss Vivian smiled in hurried approval). She was eager to be gone. And when she had gone he stood deliberating. Miss Quincey was a pathological abstraction, Miss Vivian was a radiant reality; it was clear that Miss Quincey was not urgent, and that once safe in her bed she could very well wait till to-morrow; but when he thought of Miss Vivian he became impressed with the gravity and interest of Miss Quincey's case. While the doctor was making up his mind, little Miss Quincey, in her shabby back bedroom, lay waiting for him, trembling, fretting her nerves into a fever, starting at imaginary footsteps, and entertaining all kinds of dismal possibilities. She was convinced that she was going to die, or worse still, to break down, to be a perpetual invalid. She thought of several likely illnesses, beginning with general paralysis and ending with anemia of the brain. It _might_ be anemia of the brain, but she rather thought it would be general paralysis, because this would be so much the more disagreeable of the two. Anyhow Rhoda Vivian must have thought she was pretty bad or she would not have called in a doctor. To call in a doctor seemed to Miss Quincey next door to invoking Providence itself; it was the final desperate resort, implying catastrophe and the end of all things. Oh, dear! Miss Quincey wished he would come up if he was coming, and get it over. After all he did not keep her waiting long, and it was over in five minutes. And yet it was amazing the amount of observation, and insight, and solid concentrated thought the young man contrived to pack into those five minutes. Well--it seemed that it was not general paralysis this time, nor yet anemia of the brain; but he could tell her more about it in the morning. Meanwhile she had nothing to do but to do what he told her and stay where she was till he saw her again. And he was gone before she realized that he had been there. Again? So he was coming again, was he? Miss Quincey did not know whether to be glad or sorry. His presence had given her a rare and curiously agreeable sense of protection, but she had to think of the expense. She had to think too of what Mrs. Moon would say to it--of what she would say to him. Mrs. Moon had a good deal to say to it. She took Juliana's illness as a personal affront, as a deliberate back-handed blow struck at the memory of Tollington Moon. With all the base implications of her daily acts, Juliana had never attempted anything like this. "Capers and nonsense," she said, "Juliana has never had an illness in her life." She said it to Rhoda Vivian, the bold young person who had taken upon herself to bring the doctor into the house. Mrs. Moon spoke of the doctor as if he was a disease. Fortunately Miss Vivian was by when he endured the first terrifying encounter. Her manner suggested that she took him under her protection, stood between him and some unfathomable hostility. He found the Old Lady disentangling herself with immense dignity from her maze of furniture. Mrs. Moon was a small woman shrunk with her eighty years, shrunk almost to extinction in her black woollen gown and black woollen mittens. Her very face seemed to be vanishing under the immense shadow of her black net cap. Spirals of thin grey hair stuck flat to her forehead; she wore other and similar spirals enclosed behind glass in an enormous brooch; it was the hair of her ancestors, that is to say of the Quinceys. As the Old Lady looked at Cautley her little black eyes burned like pinpoints pierced in a paste-board mask. "I think you've been brought here on a wild goose chase, doctor," said she, "there is nothing the matter with my niece." He replied (battling sternly with his desire to laugh) that he would be delighted if it were so; adding that a wild goose chase was the sport he preferred to any other. Here he looked at Miss Vivian to the imminent peril of his self-control. Mrs. Moon's gaze had embraced them in a common condemnation, and the subtle sympathy of their youth linked them closer and made them one in their intimate appreciation of her. "Then you must be a very singular young man. I thought you doctors were never happy until you'd found some mare's nest in people's constitutions? You'd much better let well alone." "Miss Quincey is very far from well," said Cautley with recovered gravity, "and I rather fancy she has been let alone too long." Cautley thought that he had said quite enough to alarm any old lady. And indeed Mrs. Moon was slowly taking in the idea of disaster, and it sent her poor wits wandering in the past. Her voice sank suddenly from grating; antagonism to pensive garrulity. "I've no faith in medicine," she quavered, "nor in medical men either. Though to be sure my husband had a brother-in-law once on his wife's side, Dr. Quincey, Dr. Arnold Quincey, Juliana's father and Louisa's. He was a medical man. He wrote a book, I daresay you've heard of it; _Quincey on Diseases of the Heart_ it was. But he's dead now, of one of 'em, poor man. We haven't seen a doctor for five-and-twenty years." "Then isn't it almost time that you should see one now?" said he, cheerfully taking his leave. "I shall look round again in the morning." He looked round again in the morning and sat half an hour with Miss Quincey; so she had time to take a good look at him. He was very nice to look at, this young man. He was so clean-cut and tall and muscular; he had such an intellectual forehead; his mouth was so firm, you could trust it to tell no secrets; and his eyes (they were dark and deep set) looked as if they saw nothing but Miss Quincey. Indeed, at the moment he had forgotten all about Rhoda Vivian, and did see nothing but the little figure in the bed looking more like a rather worn and wizened child than a middle-aged woman. He was very gentle and sympathetic; but for that his youth would have been terrible to her. As it was, Miss Quincey felt a little bit in awe of this clever doctor, who in spite of his cleverness looked so young, and not only so young but so formidably fastidious and refined. She had not expected him to look like that. All the clever young men she had met had displayed a noble contempt for appearances. To be sure, Miss Quincey knew but little of the world of men; for at St. Sidwell's the types were limited to three little eccentric professors, and the plaster gods in the art studio. But for the gods she might just as well have lived in a nunnery, for whenever Miss Quincey thought of a man she thought of something like Louisa's husband, Andrew Mackinnon, who spoke with a strong Scotch accent, and wore flannel shirts with celluloid collars, and coats that hung about him all anyhow. But Dr. Cautley was not in the least like Andrew Mackinnon. He had a distinguished voice; his clothes fitted him to perfection; and his linen, irreproachable itself, reproved her silently. Her eyes left him suddenly and wandered about the room. She was full of little tremors and agitations; she wished that the towels wouldn't look so much like dish-cloths; she credited him with powers of microscopic observation, and wondered if he had noticed the stain on the carpet and the dust on the book-shelves, and if he would be likely to mistake the quinine tabloids for vulgar liver pills, or her bottle of hair-wash for hair-dye. Once released from its unnatural labours, her mind returned instinctively to the trivial as to its home. She glanced at her hat, perched conspicuously on the knob of the looking-glass, and a dim sense of its imperfections came over her and vanished as it came. Then she tried to compose herself for the verdict. It did not come all at once. First of all he asked her a great many questions about herself and her family, whereupon she gave him a complete pathological story of the Moons and Quinceys. And all the time he looked so hard at her that it was quite embarrassing. His eyes seemed to be taking her in (no other eyes had ever performed that act of hospitality for Miss Quincey). He pulled out a little book from his pocket and made notes of everything she said; Miss Quincey's biography was written in that little book (you may be sure nobody else had ever thought of writing it). And when he had finished the biography he talked to her about her work (nobody else had ever been the least interested in Miss Quincey's work). Then Miss Quincey sat up in bed and became lyrical as she described the delirious joy of decimals--recurring decimals--and the rapture of cube-root. She herself had never got farther than cube-root; but it was enough. Beyond that, she hinted, lay the infinite. And Dr. Cautley laughed at her defence of the noble science. Oh yes, he could understand its fascination, its irresistible appeal to the emotions; he only wished to remind her that it was the most debilitating study in the world. He refused to commit himself to any opinion as to the original strength and magnitude of Miss Quincey's brain; he could only assure her that the most powerful intellect in the world would break down if you kept it perpetually doing sums in arithmetic. It was the monotony of the thing, you see; year after year Miss Quincey had been ploughing up the same little patch of brain. No, certainly _not_--she mustn't think of going back to St. Sidwell's for another three months. Three months! Impossible! It was a whole term. Dr. Cautley scowled horribly and said that if she was ever to be fit for cube-root and decimals again, she positively and absolutely _must_. Whereupon Miss Quincey gave way to emotion. To leave St. Sidwell's, abandon her post for three months, she who had never been absent for a day! If she did that it would be all up with Miss Quincey; a hundred eager applicants were ready to fill her empty place. It was as if she heard the hungry, leaping pack behind her, the strong young animals trained for the chase; they came tearing on the scent, hunting her, treading her down. When Rhoda Vivian looked in after morning school, she found a flushed and embarrassed young man trying to soothe Miss Quincey, who paid not the least attention to him; she seemed to have shrunk into her bed, and lay there staring with dilated eyes like a hare crouched flat and trembling in her form. From the other side of the bed Dr. Cautley's helpless and desperate smile claimed Rhoda as his ally. It seemed to say, "For God's sake take my part against this unreasonable woman." Now no one (not even Miss Quincey) could realize the insecurity of Miss Quincey's position better than Rhoda, who was fathoms deep in the confidence of the Head. She happened to know that Miss Cursiter was only waiting for an opportunity like this to rid herself for ever of the little obstructive. She knew too that once they had ceased to fill their particular notch in it, the world had no further use for people like Miss Quincey; that she, Rhoda Vivian, belonged to the new race whose eternal destiny was to precipitate their doom. It was the first time that Rhoda had thought of it in that light; the first time indeed that she had greatly concerned herself with any career beside her own. She sat for a few minutes talking to Miss Quincey and thinking as she talked. Perhaps she was wondering how she would like to be forty-five and incompetent; to be overtaken on the terrible middle-way; to feel the hurrying generations after her, their breath on her shoulders, their feet on her heels; to have no hope; to see Mrs. Moon sitting before her, immovable and symbolic, the image of what she must become. They were two very absurd and diminutive figures, but they stood for a good deal. To Cautley, Rhoda herself as she revolved these things looked significant enough. Leaning forward, one elbow bent on her knee, her chin propped on her hand, her lips pouting, her forehead knit, she might have been a young and passionate Pallas, brooding tempestuously on the world. "Miss Vivian is on my side, I see. I'll leave her to do the fighting." And he left her. Rhoda's first movement was to capture Miss Quincey's hand as it wildly reconnoitred for a pocket handkerchief among the pillows. "Don't worry about it," she said, "I'll speak to Miss Cursiter." Dr. Cautley, enduring a perfunctory five minutes with Mrs. Moon, could hear Miss Vivian running downstairs and the front door opening and closing upon her. With a little haste and discretion he managed to overtake her before she had gone very far. He stopped to give his verdict on her friend. She had expected him. "Well," she asked, "it _is_ overwork, isn't it?" "Very much overwork; and no wonder. I knew she was a St. Sidwell's woman as soon as I saw her." "That was clever of you. And do you always know a St. Sidwell's woman when you see one?" "I do; they all go like this, more or less. It seems to me that St. Sidwell's sacrifices its women to its girls, and its girls to itself. I don't imagine you've much to do with the place, so you won't mind my saying so." Rhoda smiled a little maliciously. "You seem to take a great deal for granted. As it happens I am Classical Mistress there." Dr. Cautley looked at her and bit his lip. He was annoyed with himself for his blunder and with her for being anything but Rhoda Vivian--pure and simple. Rhoda laughed frankly at his confusion. "Never mind. Appearances are deceitful. I'm glad I don't look like it." "You certainly do not. Still, Miss Quincey is a warning to anybody." "She? She was never fit for the life." "No. Your race is to the swift and your battle to the strong." He was still looking at her as he spoke. She was looking straight before her, her nostrils slightly distended, her grey eyes wide, as if she sniffed the battle, saw the goal. "We must make her strong," said he. She had quickened her pace as if under a renewed impulse of energy and will. Suddenly at the door of the College she stopped and held out her hand. "You will look after her well, will you not?" Her voice was resonant on the note of appeal. Now you could withstand Rhoda in her domineering mood if you were strong enough and cool enough; but when she looked straight through your eyes in that way she was irresistible. Cautley did not attempt to resist her. He went on his way thinking how intolerable the question might have been in some one else's mouth; how suggestive of impertinent coquetry, the beautiful woman's assumption that he would do for her what he would not do for insignificant Miss Quincey. She had taken it for granted that his interest in Miss Quincey was supreme. CHAPTER V Healers and Regenerators Rhoda had spoken to Miss Cursiter. Nobody ever knew what she said to her, but the next day Miss Cursiter's secretary had the pleasure to inform Miss Quincey that she would have leave of absence for three months, and that her place would be kept for her. Miss Quincey had become a person of importance. Old Martha fumbled about, unnaturally attentive, even Mrs. Moon acknowledged Juliana's right to be ill if her foolish mind were set on it. There was nothing active or spontaneous in the Old Lady's dislike of her niece, it was simply a habit she had got. An agreeable sense of her dignity stole in on the little woman of no account. She knew and everybody knew that hers was no vulgar illness. It was brain exhaustion; altogether a noble and transcendental affair; Miss Quincey was a victim of the intellectual life. In all the five-and-twenty years she had worked there St. Sidwell's had never heard so much about Miss Quincey's brain. And on her part Miss Quincey was surprised to find that she had so many friends. Day after day the teachers left their cards and sympathy; the girls sent flowers with love; there were even messages of inquiry from Miss Cursiter. And not only flowers and sympathy, but more solid testimonials poured in from St. Sidwell's, parcels which by some curious coincidence contained everything that Dr. Cautley had suggested and Miss Quincey refused on the grounds that she "couldn't fancy it." For a long time Miss Quincey was supremely happy in the belief that these delicacies were sent by the Head; and she said to herself that one had only to be laid aside a little while for one's worth to be appreciated. It was as if a veil of blessed illusion had been spread between her and her world; and nobody knew whose fingers had been busy in weaving it so close and fine. Dr. Cautley came every day and always at the same time. At first he was pretty sure to find Miss Vivian, sitting with Miss Quincey or drinking tea in perilous intimacy with Mrs. Moon. Then came a long spell when, time it as he would, he never saw her at all. Rhoda had taken it into her head to choose six o'clock for her visits, and at six he was bound to be at home for consultations. But Rhoda or no Rhoda, he kept his promise. He was looking well after Miss Quincey. He would have done that as a matter of course; for his worst enemies--and he had several--could not say that Cautley ever neglected his poorer patients. Only he concentrated or dissipated himself according to the nature of the case, giving five minutes to one and twenty to another. When he could he gave half-hours to Miss Quincey. He was absorbed, excited; he battled by her bedside; his spirits went up and down with every fluctuation of her pulse; you would have thought that Miss Quincey's case was one of exquisite interest, rarity and charm, and that Cautley had staked his reputation on her recovery. When he said to her in his emphatic way, "We _must_ get you well, Miss Quincey," his manner implied that it would be a very serious thing for the universe if Miss Quincey did not get well. When he looked at her his eyes seemed to be taking her in, taking her in, seeing nothing in all the world but her. As it happened, sooner than anybody expected Miss Quincey did get well. Mrs. Moon was the first to notice that. She hailed Juliana's recovery as a sign of grace, of returning allegiance to the memory of Tollington Moon. "Now," said the Old Lady, "I hope we've seen the last of Dr. Cautley." "Of course we have," said Miss Quincey. She said it irritably, but everybody knows that a little temper is the surest symptom of returning health. "What should he come for?" "To run up his little bill, my dear. You don't imagine he comes for the pleasure of seeing _you_?" "I never imagine anything," said the little arithmetic teacher with some truth. But they had by no means seen the last of him. If the Old Lady's theory was correct, Cautley must have been the most grossly avaricious of young men. The length of his visits was infamous, their frequency appalling. He kept on coming long after Miss Quincey was officially and obviously well; and on the most trivial, the most ridiculous pretexts. It was "just to see how she was getting on," or "because he happened to be passing," or "to bring that book he told her about." He had prescribed a course of light literature for Miss Quincey and seemed to think it necessary to supply his own drugs. To be sure he brought a great many medicines that you cannot get made up at the chemist's, insight, understanding, sympathy, the tonic of his own virile youth; and Heaven only knows if these things were not the most expensive. All the time Miss Quincey was trying to keep up with the new standard imposed on the staff. Hitherto she had laboured under obvious disadvantages; now, in her leisurely convalescence, sated as she was with time, she wallowed openly and wantonly in General Culture. And it seemed that the doctor had gone in for General Culture too. He could talk to her for ever about Shakespeare, Tennyson and Browning. Miss Quincey was always dipping into those poets now, always drawing water from the wells of literature. By the way, she was head over heels in debt to _Sordello_, and was working double time to pay him off. She reported her progress with glee. It was "only a hundred and thirty-eight more pages, Dr. Cautley. In forty-six days I shall have finished _Sordello_." "Then you will have done what I never did in my whole life." It amused Cautley to talk to Miss Quincey. She wore such an air of adventure; she was so fresh and innocent in her excursions into the realms of gold; and when she sat handling her little bits of Tennyson and Browning as if they had been rare nuggets recently dug up there, what could he do but feign astonishment and interest? He had travelled extensively in the realms of gold. He was acquainted with all the poets and intimate with most; he knew some of them so well as to be able to make jokes at their expense. He was at home in their society. Beside his light-hearted intimacy Miss Cursiter's academic manner showed like the punctilious advances of an outsider. But he was terribly modern this young man. He served strange gods, healers and regenerators whose names had never penetrated to St. Sidwell's. Some days he was really dreadful; he shook his head over the _Idylls of the King_, made no secret of his unbelief in _The Princess_, and shamelessly declared that a great deal of _In Memoriam_ would go where Mendelssohn and the old crinolines have gone. Then something very much worse than that happened; Miss Quincey gave him a copy of the "Address to the Students and Teachers of St. Sidwell's," and it made him laugh. She pointed out the bit about the healers and regenerators, and refreshing yourself at the wells of literature. "That is a beautiful passage," said Miss Quincey. He laughed more than ever. "Oh yes, beautiful, beautiful. They're to do it in their evenings, are they? And when they're faint and weary with their day's work?" And he laughed again quite loud, laughed till Mrs. Moon woke out of a doze and started as if this world had come to an end and another one had begun. He was very sorry, and he begged a thousand pardons; but, really, that passage was unspeakably funny. He didn't know that Miss Cursiter had such a rich vein of humour in her. For the life of her Miss Quincey could not see what there was to laugh at, nor why she should be teased about Tennyson and bantered on the subject of Browning; but she enjoyed it all the same. He was so young; he was like a big schoolboy throwing stones into the living wells of literature and watching for the splash; it did her good to look at him. So she looked, smiling her starved smile and snatching a fearful joy from his profane conversation. There were moments when she asked herself how he came to be there at all; he was so out-of-place somehow. The Moons and Quinceys denounced him as a stranger and intruder; the very chairs and tables had memories, associations that rejected him; everything in the room suggested the same mystic antagonism; it was as if Mrs. Moon and all her household gods were in league against him. Oddly enough this attitude of theirs heightened her sense of intimacy with him, made him hers and no one else's for the time. The pleasure she took in his society had some of the peculiar private ecstasy of sin. And Mrs. Moon wondered what the young man was going to charge for that little visit; and what the total of his account would be. She said that if Juliana didn't give him a hint, she would be obliged to speak to him herself; and at that Juliana looked frightened and begged that Mrs. Moon would do nothing of the kind. "There will be no charge for friendly visits," said she; and she made a rapid calculation in the top of her head. Nineteen visits at, say, seven-and-six a visit, would come to exactly nine pounds nine and sixpence. And she smiled; possibly she thought it was worth it. And really those friendly visits had sometimes an ambiguous character; he dragged his profession into them by the head and shoulders. He had left off scribbling prescriptions, but he would tell her what to take in a light and literary way, as if it was just part of their very interesting conversation. Browning was bitter and bracing, he was like iron and quinine, and by the way she had better take a little of both. Then when he met her again he would ask, "Have you been taking any more Browning, Miss Quincey?" and while Miss Quincey owned with a blush that she had, he would look at her and say she wanted a change--a little Tennyson and a lighter tonic; strychnine and arsenic was the thing. And Mrs. Moon still wondered. "I never saw anything like the indelicacy of that young man," said she. "You're running up a pretty long bill, I can tell you." Oh, yes, a long, long bill; for we pay heavily for our pleasures in this sad world, Juliana! CHAPTER VI Spring Fashions Winter had come and gone, and spring found Miss Quincey back again at St. Sidwell's, the place of illumination; a place that knew rather less of her than it had known before. After five-and-twenty years of constant attendance she had only to be away three months to be forgotten. The new staff was not greatly concerned with Miss Quincey; it was always busy. As for the girls, they were wholly given over to the new worship of Rhoda Vivian; impossible to rouse them to the faintest interest in Miss Quincey. Her place had been kept for her by Rhoda. Rhoda had put out the strong young arm that she was so proud of, and held back for a little while Miss Quincey's fate; and now at all costs she was determined to stand between her and the truth. So Miss Quincey never knew that it was Rhoda who was responsible for the delicate attentions she had received during her illness; Rhoda who had bought and sent off the presents from St. Sidwell's; Rhoda who had conceived that pretty little idea of flowers "with love"; and Rhoda who had inspired the affectionate messages of the staff. (The Classical Mistress had to draw most extravagantly on her popularity in order to work that fraud.) Rhoda had taken her place, and it was not in Rhoda's power to give it back to her. But Miss Quincey never saw it; for a subtler web than that of Rhoda's spinning was woven about her eyes. Possibly in some impressive and inapparent way her unhappy little favourite Laura Lazarus may have been glad to see her back again, though the two queer creatures exchanged no greeting more intimate than an embarrassed smile. In this rapidly-advancing world the Mad Hatter alone remained where Miss Quincey had left her. She explained at some length how the figures twisted themselves round in her head and would never stay the same for a minute together. Miss Quincey listened patiently to this explanation; she was more indulgent, less persistent than before. Under that veil of illusion she herself had become communicative. She went up and down between the classes and poured out her soul as to an audience all interest, all sympathy. There was a certain monotony about her conversation since the epoch of her illness. It was, "Oh yes, I am quite well now, thank you. Dr. Cautley is so very clever. Dr. Cautley has taken splendid care of me. Dr. Cautley has been so very kind and attentive, I think it would be ungrateful of me if I had not got well. Dr. Cautley--" Perhaps it was just as well for Miss Quincey that the staff were too busy to attend to her. The most they noticed was that in the matter of obstruction Miss Quincey was not quite so precipitate as she had been. She offended less by violent contact and rebound than by drifting absently into the processions and getting mixed up with them. Rhoda saw a change in her; Rhoda was never too busy to spare a thought for Miss Quincey. "Yes," she said, "you _are_ better. Your eyes are brighter." "That," said Miss Quincey, with simple pride "is the arsenic. Dr. Cautley is giving me arsenic." Now arsenic (like happiness) has some curious properties. It looks most innocently like sugar, which it is not. A little of it goes a long way and undoubtedly acts as a tonic; a little more may undermine the stoutest constitution, and a little too much of it is a deadly poison and kills you. As yet Miss Quincey had only taken it in microscopic doses. Something had changed her; it may have been happiness, it may have been illusion; whatever it was Miss Quincey thought it was the arsenic--if it was not the weather, the very remarkable weather. For that year Spring came with a burst. Indeed there is seldom anything shy and tentative, anything obscure and gradual about the approaches of the London Spring. Spring is always in a hurry there, for she knows that she has but a short time before her; she has to make an impression and make it at once; so she works careless of delicacies and shades, relying on broad telling strokes, on strong outlines and stinging contrasts. She is like a clever artist handicapped with her materials. Only a patch of grass, a few trees and the sky; but you wake one morning and the boughs are drawn black and bold against the blue; and leaves are sharp as emeralds against the black; and the grass in the squares and the shrubs in the gardens repeat the same brilliant extravaganza; and it is all very eccentric and beautiful and daring. That is the way of a Cockney Spring, and when you are used to it the charm is undeniable. One day Miss Quincey walked in Camden Town and noted the singular caprices of the Spring. Strange longings, freaks of the blood and brain, stirred within her at this bursting of the leaf. They led her into Camden Road, into the High Street, to the great shops where the virginal young fashions and the artificial flowers are. At this season Hunter's window blooms out in blouses of every imaginable colour and texture and form. There was one, a silk one, of so discreet and modest a mauve that you could have called it lavender. To say that it caught Miss Quincey's eye would be to wrong that maidenly garment. There was nothing blatant, nothing importunate in its behaviour. Gently, imperceptibly, it stole into the field of vision and stood there, delicately alluring. It could afford to wait. It had not even any pattern to speak of, only an indefinable white something, a dice, a diaper, a sprig. It was the sprig that touched her, tempted her. Amongst the poorer ranks of Miss Quincey's profession the sumptuary laws are exceptionally severe. It is a crime, a treachery, to spend money on mere personal adornment. You are clothed, not for beauty's sake, but because the rigour of the climate and of custom equally require it. Miss Quincey's conscience pricked her all the time that she stood looking in at Hunter's window. Never before had she suffered so terrible a solicitation of the senses. It was as if all those dim and germinal desires had burst and blossomed in this sinful passion for a blouse. She resisted, faltered, resisted; turned away and turned back again. The blouse sat immovable on its wooden bust, absolute in its policy of reticence. Miss Quincey had just decided that it had a thought too much mauve in it, and was most successfully routing desire by depreciation of its object when a shopman stepped on to the stage, treading airily among the gauzes and the flowers. There was no artifice about the young man; it was in the dreamiest abstraction that he clasped that fair form round the collar and turned it to the light. It shuddered like a living thing; its violent mauve vanished in silver grey. The effect was irresistible. Miss Quincey was tempted beyond all endurance; and she fell. Once in possession of the blouse, its price, a guinea, paid over the counter, Miss Quincey was all discretion. She carried her treasure home in a pasteboard box concealed under her cape; lest its shameless arrival in Hunter's van should excite scandal and remark. That night, behind a locked door, Miss Quincey sat up wrestling and battling with her blouse. To Miss Quincey in the watches of the night it seemed that a spirit of obstinate malevolence lurked in that deceitful garment. Like all the things in Hunter's shop, it was designed for conventional well-rounded womanhood. It repudiated the very idea of Miss Quincey; in every fold it expressed its contempt for her person; its collar was stiff with an invincible repugnance. Miss Quincey had to take it in where it went out, and let it out where it went in, to pinch, pull, humour and propitiate it before it would consent to cling to her diminished figure. When all was done she wrapped it in tissue paper and hid it away in a drawer out of sight, for the very thought of it frightened her. But when next she went to look at it she hardly knew it again. The malignity seemed all smoothed out of it; it lay there with its meek sleeves folded, the very picture of injured innocence and reproach. Miss Quincey thought she might get reconciled to it in time. A day might even come when she would be brave enough to wear it. Not many days after, Miss Quincey might have been seen coming out of St. Sidwell's with a reserved and secret smile playing about her face; so secret and so reserved, that nobody, not even Miss Quincey, could tell what it was playing at. Miss Quincey was meditating an audacity. That night she took pen and paper up to her bedroom and sat down to write a little note. Sat down to write it and got up again; wrote it and tore it up, and sat down to write another. This she left open for such emendations and improvements as should occur to her in the night. Perhaps none did occur; perhaps she realized that a literary work loses its force and spontaneity in conscious elaboration; anyhow the note was put up just as it was and posted first thing in the morning at the pillar-box on her way to St. Sidwell's. Old Martha was cleaning the steps as Miss Quincey went out; but Miss Quincey carefully avoided looking Martha's way. Like the ostrich she supposed that if she did not see Martha, Martha could not see her. But Martha had seen her. She saw everything. She had seen the note open on Miss Juliana's table by the window in the bedroom when she was drawing up the blind; she had seen the silk blouse lying in its tissue paper when she was tidying Miss Juliana's drawer; and that very afternoon she discovered a certain cake deposited by Miss Juliana in the dining-room cupboard with every circumstance of secrecy and disguise. And Martha shook her old head and put that and that together, the blouse, the cake and the letter; though what connection there could possibly be between the three was more than Miss Juliana could have told her. Even to Martha the association was so singular that it pointed to some painful aberration of intellect on Miss Juliana's part. As in duty bound, Martha brought up her latest discovery and laid it before Mrs. Moon. Beyond that she said nothing, indeed there was nothing to be said. The cake (it was of the expensive pound variety, crowned with a sugar turret and surrounded with almond fortifications) spoke for itself, though in an unknown language. "What does that mean, Martha?" "Miss Juliana, m'm, I suppose." Martha pursed up her lips, suppressing the impertinence of her own private opinion and awaiting her mistress's with respect. No doubt she would have heard it but that Miss Juliana happened to come in at that moment, and Mrs. Moon's attention was distracted by the really amazing spectacle presented by her niece. And Miss Juliana, who for five-and-twenty years had never appeared in anything but frowsy drab or dingy grey, Miss Juliana flaunting in silk at four o'clock in the afternoon, Miss Juliana, all shining and shimmering like a silver and mauve chameleon, was a sight to take anybody's breath away. Martha dearly loved a scene, for to be admitted to a scene was to be admitted to her mistress's confidence; but the excellent woman knew her place, and before that flagrant apparition she withdrew as she would have withdrawn from a family scandal. Miss Quincey advanced timidly, for of course she knew that she had to cross that room under fire of criticism; but on the whole she was less abject than she might have been, for at the moment she was thinking of Dr. Cautley. He had actually accepted her kind invitation, and that fact explained and justified her; besides, she carried her Browning in her hand, and it made her feel decidedly more natural. Mrs. Moon restrained her feelings until her niece had moved about a bit, and sat down by her enemy the cabinet, and presented herself in every possible aspect. The Old Lady's eyes lost no movement of the curious figure; when she had taken it in, grasped it in all its details, she began. "Well, I declare, Juliana"--(five-and-twenty years ago she used to call her "Jooley," keeping the full name to mark disapproval or displeasure. Now it was always Juliana, so that Mrs. Moon seemed to be permanently displeased)--"whatever possessed you to make such an exhibition of yourself? (And will you draw your chair back--you're incommoding the cabinet.) I never saw anything so unsuitable and unbecoming in _my_ life--at this hour of the day too. Why, you're just like a whirligig out of a pantomime. If you think you can carry off that kind of thing you're very much mistaken." That did seem to be Miss Quincey's idea--to carry it off; to brazen it out; to sit down and read Browning as if there was nothing at all remarkable in her personal appearance. "And to choose lilac of all things in the world! You never could stand that shade at the best of times. Lilac! Why, I declare if it isn't mauve-pink." "Mauve-pink!" She had given voice to the fear that lay hidden in Miss Quincey's heart. A sensitive culprit caught in humiliating guilt could not look more cowed with self-consciousness than Miss Quincey at that word. Criminal and crime, Miss Quincey and her blouse, seemed linked in an awful bond of mutual abhorrence. The blouse shivered as Miss Quincey trembled in nervous agitation; as she went red and yellow by turns it paled and flushed its painful pink. They were blushing for each other. For it _was_ mauve-pink; she could see that well enough now. "Turn round!" Miss Quincey turned round. "Much too young for you! Why, bless me, if it doesn't throw up every bit of yellow in your face! If you don't believe me, look in the glass." Miss Quincey looked in the glass. It _did_ throw up the yellow tints. It threw everything up to her. If she had owned to a little fear of it before, it affected her now with positive terror. The thing was young, much too young; and it was brutal and violent in its youth. It was possessed by a perfect demon of juvenility; it clashed and fought with every object in the room; it made them all look old, ever so old, and shabby. And as Miss Quincey stood with it before the looking glass, it flared up and told her to her face that she was forty-five--forty-five, and looked fifty. "Louisa," murmured the Old Lady, "was the only one of our family who could stand pink." "I will give it to Louisa," cried Miss Quincey with a touch of passion. "Tchee--tchee!" At that idea the Old Lady chuckled in supreme derision. "Capers and nonsense! Louisa indeed! Much good it'll do Louisa when you've been and nipped all the shape out of it to suit yourself. However you came to be so skimpy and flat-chested is a mystery to me. All the Quinceys were tall, your uncle Tollington was tall, your father, he was tall; and your sister, well; I will say this for Louisa, she's as tall as any of 'em, and she has a _bust_." "Yes, I daresay it would have been very becoming to Louisa," said Miss Quincey humbly. "I--I thought it was lavender." "Lavender or no lavender, I'm surprised at you--throwing money away on a thing like that." "I can afford it," said Miss Quincey with the pathetic dignity of the turning worm. Now it was not worm-like subtlety that suggested that reply. It was positive inspiration. By those simple words Juliana had done something to remove the slur she was always casting on a certain character. Tollington Moon had not managed his nieces' affairs so badly after all if one of them could afford herself extravagances of that sort. The blouse therefore might be taken as a sign and symbol of his innermost integrity. So Mrs. Moon was content with but one more parting shot. "I don't say you can't afford the money, I say you can't afford the colour--not at your time of life." Two tears that had gathered in Miss Quincey's eyes now fell on the silk, deepening the mauve-pink to a hideous magenta. "I was deceived in the colour," she said as she turned from her tormentor. She toiled upstairs to the back bedroom and took it off. She could never wear it. It was waste--sheer waste; for no other woman could wear it either; certainly not Louisa; she had made it useless for Louisa by paring it down to her own ridiculous dimensions. Louisa was and always had been a head and shoulders taller than she was; and she had a bust. So Miss Quincey came down meek and meagre in the old dress that she served her for so many seasons, and she looked for peace. But that terrible old lady had not done with her yet, and the worst was still to come. No longer having any grievance against the blouse, Mrs. Moon was concentrating her attention on that more mysterious witness to Juliana's foolishness--the Cake. "And now," said she, pointing as she might have pointed to a monument, "will you kindly tell me the meaning of this?" "I expect--perhaps--it is very likely--that Dr. Cautley will come in to tea this afternoon." The Old Lady peered at Miss Quincey and her eyes were sharp as needles, needles that carried the thread of her thought pretty plainly too, but it was too fine a thread for Miss Quincey to see. Besides she was looking at the cake and almost regretting that she had bought it, lest he should think that it was eating too many of such things that had made her ill. "And what put that notion into your head, I should like to know?" "He has written to say so." "Juliana--you don't mean to tell me that he invited himself?" "Well, no. That is--it was an answer to my invitation." "_Your_ invitation? You were not content to have that man poking his nose in here at all hours of the day and night, but you must go out of your way to send him invitations?" "Dr. Cautley has been most kind and attentive, and--I thought--it was time we paid him some little attention." "Attention indeed! I should be very sorry to let any young man suppose that I paid any attention to him. I should have thought you'd have had a little more maidenly reserve. Besides, you know perfectly well that I don't enjoy my tea unless we have it by ourselves." Oh yes, she knew; they had been having it that way for five-and-twenty years. "As for that cake," continued the Old Lady, "it's ridiculous. Look at it. Why, you might just as well have ordered wedding cake at once. I tell you what it is, Juliana, you're getting quite flighty." Flighty? No mind but a feminine one, grown up and trained under the shadow of St. Sidwell's, could conceive the nature of Miss Quincey's feelings on being told that she was flighty. She herself made no attempt to express them. She sat down and gasped, clutching her Browning to give herself a sense of moral support. All the rest was intelligible, she had understood and accepted it; but to be told that she, a teacher in St. Sidwell's, was flighty--the charge was simply confusing to the intellect, and it left her dumb. Flighty? When Martha came in with the tea-tray and she had to order a knife for the cake and an extra cup for Dr. Cautley, she saw Mrs. Moon looking at Martha, and Martha looking at Mrs. Moon, and they seemed to be saying to each other, "How flighty Miss Juliana is getting." Flighty? The idea afflicted her to such a degree that when Dr. Cautley came she had not a word to say to him. For a whole week she had looked forward to this tea-drinking with tremors of joyous expectancy and palpitations of alarm. It was to have been one of those rare and solitary occasions that can only come once in a blue moon. The lump sum of pleasure that other people get spread for them more or less thickly over the surface of the years, she meant to take once for all, packed and pressed into one rapturous hour, one Saturday afternoon from four-thirty to five-thirty, the memory of it to be stored up and economised so as to last her life-time, thus justifying the original expense. She knew that success was doubtful, because of the uncertainty of things in general and of the Old Lady's temper in particular. And then she had to stake everything on his coming; and the chances, allowing for the inevitable claims on a doctor's time, were a thousand to one against it. She had nothing to go upon but the delicate incalculable balance of events. And now, when the blue moon had risen, the impossible thing happened, and the man had come, he might just as well, in fact a great deal better, have stayed away. The whole thing was a waste and failure from beginning to end. The tea was a waste and a failure, for Martha would bring it in a quarter of an hour too soon; the cake was a waste and a failure, for nobody ate any of it; and she was a waste and a failure--she hardly knew why. She cut her cake with trembling fingers and offered it, blushing as the gash in its side revealed the thoroughly unwholesome nature of its interior. She felt ashamed of its sugary artifice, its treacherously festive air, and its embarrassing affinity to bride's-cake. No wonder that he had no appetite for cake, and that Miss Quincey had no appetite for conversation. He tried to tempt her with bits of Browning, but she refused them all. She had lost her interest in Browning. He thought, "She is too tired to talk," and left half an hour sooner than he had intended. She thought, "He is offended. Or else--he thinks me flighty." And that was all. CHAPTER VII Under a Blue Moon It was early on another Saturday evening, a fortnight after that disastrous one, and Miss Quincey was taking the air in Primrose Hill Park. She was walking to keep herself warm, for the breeze was brisk and cool. There was a little stir and flutter in the trees and a little stir and flutter in her heart, for she had caught sight of Dr. Cautley in the distance. He was coming round the corner of one of the intersecting walks, coming at a frantic pace, with the tails of his frock-coat waving in the wind. He pulled himself up as he neared her and held out a friendly hand. "That's right, Miss Quincey. I'm delighted to see you out. You really are getting strong again, aren't you?" "Yes, thank you--very well, very strong." Was it her fancy, or did his manner imply that he wanted to sink that humiliating episode of the tea-party and begin again where they had left off? It might be so; his courtesy was so infinitely subtle. He had actually turned and was walking her way now. "And how is _Sordello?_" he asked, the tone of his inquiry suggesting that there was something seriously the matter with _Sordello_. "Getting on. Only fifty-six pages more." "You _are_ advancing, Miss Quincey--gaining on him by leaps and bounds. You're not overdoing it, I hope?" "Oh no, I read a little in the evenings--I have to keep up to the standard of the staff. Indeed," she added, turning with a sudden suicidal panic, "I ought to be at home and working now." "What? On a half-holiday? It _is_ a half-holiday?" "For some people--not for me." His eyes--she could not be mistaken--were taking her in as they had done before. "And why not for you? Do you know, you're looking horribly tired. Suppose we sit down a bit." Miss Quincey admitted that it would be very nice. "Hadn't you better put your cape on--the wind's changing." She obeyed him. "That's hardly a thick enough wrap for this weather, is it?" She assured him it was very warm, very comfortable. "Do you know what I would like to do with you, Miss Quincey?" "No." "I should like to pack you off somewhere--anywhere--for another three months' holiday." "Another three months! What would my pupils do, and what would Miss Cursiter say?" It was part of the illusion that she conceived herself to be indispensable to Miss Cursiter. "Confound Miss Cursiter!" Evidently he felt strongly on the subject of Miss Cursiter. He confounded her with such energy that the seat provided for them by the London County Council vibrated under it. He stared sulkily out over the park a moment; he gave his cuffs a hitch as if he were going to fight somebody, and then--he let himself go. At a blind headlong pace, lashing himself up as he went, falling furiously on civilization, the social order, women's education and women's labour, the system that threw open all doors to them, and let them be squeezed and trampled down together in the crush. He was ready to take the nineteenth century by the throat and strangle it; he squared himself against the universe. "What," said Miss Quincey, "do you not believe in equal chances for men and women?" She was eager to redeem herself from the charge of flightiness. "Equal chances? I daresay. But not unequal work. The work must be unequal if the conditions are unequal. It's not the same machine. To turn a woman on to a man's work is like trying to run an express train by clock-work, with a pendulum for a piston, and a hairspring for steam." Miss Quincey timidly hinted that the question was a large one, that there was another side to it. "Of course there is; there are fifty sides to it; but there are too many people looking at the other forty-nine for my taste. I loathe a crowd." Stirred by a faint _esprit de corps_ Miss Quincey asked him if he did not believe in the open door for women? He said, "It would be kinder to shut it in their faces." She threw in a word about the women's labour market--the enormous demand. He said that only meant that women's labour could be bought cheap and sold dear. She sighed. "But women must do something--surely you see the necessity?" He groaned. "Oh yes. It's just the necessity that I do see--the damnable necessity. I only protest against the preventable evil. If you must turn women into so many machines, for Heaven's sake treat them like machines. You don't work an engine when it's undergoing structural alterations--because, you know, you can't. Your precious system recognises no differences. It sets up the same absurd standard for every woman, the brilliant genius and the average imbecile. Which is not only morally odious but physiologically fatuous. There must be one of two results--either the average imbeciles are sacrificed by thousands to a dozen or so of brilliant geniuses, or it's the other way about." "Whichever way it is," said Miss Quincey, with her back, so to speak, to the wall, "it's all part of civilization, of our intellectual progress." "They're not the same thing. And it isn't civilization, it's intellectual savagery. It isn't progress either, it's a blind rush, an inhuman scrimmage--the very worst form of the struggle for existence. It doesn't even mean survival of the intellectually fittest. It develops monstrosities. It defeats its own ends by brutalising the intellect itself. And the worst enemies of women are women. I swear, if I were a woman, I'd rather do without an education than get it at that price. Or I'd educate myself. After all, that's the way of the fittest--the one in a thousand." "Do you not approve of educated women then?" Miss Quincey was quite shaken by this cataclysmal outbreak, this overturning and shattering of the old beacons and landmarks. He stared into the distance. "Oh yes, I approve of them when they are really educated--not when they are like that. You won't get the flower of womanhood out of a forcing-house like St. Sidwell's; though I daresay it produces pumpkins to perfection." What did he say to Miss Vivian then? Miss Quincey could not think badly of a system that could produce women like Miss Vivian. A cloud came over his angry eyes as they stared into the distance. "That's it. It hasn't produced them. They have produced it." Miss Quincey smiled. Evidently consistency was not to be expected of this young man. He was so young, and so irresponsible and passionate. She admired him for it; and not only for that; she admired him--she could not say exactly why, but she thought it was because he had such a beautiful, bumpy, intellectual forehead. And as she sat beside him and shook to that vibrating passion of his, she felt as if the blue moon had risen again and was shining through the trees of the park; and she was happy, absolutely, indubitably happy and safe; for she felt that he was her friend and her protector and the defender of her cause. It was for her that he raged and maddened and behaved himself altogether so unreasonably. Now as it happened, Cautley did champion certain theories which Miss Cursiter, when she met them, denounced as physiologist's fads. But it was not they, nor yet Miss Quincey, that accounted for his display of feeling. He was angry because he wanted to come to a certain understanding with the Classical Mistress; to come to it at once; and the system kept him waiting. It was robbing him of Rhoda, and Rhoda of her youth. Meanwhile Rhoda was superbly happy at St. Sidwell's, playing at being Pallas Athene; as for checking her midway in her brilliant career, that was not to be thought of for an instant. The flower of womanhood--it was the flower of life. He had never seen a woman so invincibly and superlatively alive. Cautley deified life; and in his creed, which was simplicity itself, life and health were one; health the sole source of strength, intelligence and beauty, of all divine and perfect possibilities. At least that was how he began. But three years' practice in London had somewhat strained the faith of the young devotee. He soon found himself in the painful position of a priest who no longer believes in his deity; overheard himself asking whether health was not an unattainable ideal; then declaring that life itself was all a matter of compromise; finally coming to the conclusion that the soul of things was Neurosis. Beyond that he refused to commit himself to any theory of the universe. He even made himself unpleasant. A clerical patient would approach him with conciliatory breadth, and say: "I envy you, Cautley; I envy your marvellous experience. Your opportunities are greater than mine. And sometimes, do you know, I think you see deeper into the work of the Maker." And Cautley would shrug his shoulders and smile in the good man's face, and say, "The Maker! I can only tell you I'm tired of mending the work of the Maker." Yet the more he doubted the harder he worked; though his world spun round and round, shrieking like a clock running down, and he had persuaded himself that all he could do was to wind up the crazy wheels for another year or so. Which all meant that Cautley was working a little too hard and running down himself. He had begun to specialize in gynecology and it increased his scepticism. Then suddenly, one evening, when he least looked for it, least wanted it, he saw his divinity incarnate. Rhoda had appealed to him as the supreme expression of Nature's will to live. That was the instantaneous and visible effect of her. Rhoda was the red flower on the tree of life. At St. Sidwell's, that great forcing-house, they might grow some vegetables to perfection; whether it was orchids or pumpkins he neither knew nor cared; but he defied them to produce anything like that. He was sorry for the vegetables, the orchids and the pumpkins; and he was sorry for Miss Quincey, who was neither a pumpkin nor an orchid, but only a harmless little withered leaf. Not a pleasant leaf, the sort that goes dancing along, all crisp and curly, in the arms of the rollicking wind; but the sort that the same wind kicks into a corner, to lie there till it rots and comes in handy as leaf mould for the forcing-house. Rhoda's friend was not like Rhoda; yet because the leaf may distantly suggest the rose, he liked to sit and talk to her and think about the most beautiful woman in the world. To any other man conversation with Miss Quincey would have been impossible; for Miss Quincey in normal health was uninteresting when she was not absurd. But to Cautley at all times she was simply heart-rending. For this young man with the irritable nerves and blasphemous temper had after all a divine patience at the service of women, even the foolish and hysterical; because like their Maker he knew whereof they were made. This very minute the queer meta-physical thought had come to him that somehow, in the infinite entanglement of things, such women as Miss Quincey were perpetually being sacrificed to such women as Rhoda Vivian. It struck him that Nature had made up for any little extra outlay in one direction by cruel pinching in another. It was part of her rigid economy. She was not going to have any bills running up against her at the other end of the universe. Nature had indulged in Rhoda Vivian and she was making Miss Quincey pay. He wondered if that notion had struck Rhoda Vivian too, and if she were trying to make up for it. He had noticed that Miss Quincey had the power (if you could predicate power of such a person), a power denied to him, of drawing out the woman-hood of the most beautiful woman in the world; some infinite tenderness in Rhoda answered to the infinite absurdity in her. He was not sure that her attitude to Miss Quincey was not the most beautiful thing about her. He had begun by thinking about the colour of Rhoda's eyes. He could not for the life of him remember whether they were blue or green, till something (Miss Quincey's eyes perhaps) reminded him that they were grey, pure grey, without a taint of green or a shadow of blue in them. That was what his mind was running on as he looked into the distance and Miss Quincey imagined that his bumpy intellectual forehead was bulging with great thoughts. And now Miss Quincey supplied a convenient pivot for the wild gyrations of his wrath. He got up and with his hands behind his back he seemed to be lashing himself into a fury with his coat-tail. "The whole thing is one-sided and artificial and absurd. Bad enough for men, but fatal for women. Any system that unfits them for their proper functions--" "And do we know--have we decided--yet--what they are?" Miss Quincey was anxious to sustain her part in the dialogue with credit. He stared, not at the distance but at her. "Why, surely," he said more gently, "to be women first--to be wives and mothers." She drew her cape a little closer round her and turned from him with half-shut eyes. She seemed at once to be protecting herself against his theory and blinding her sight to her own perishing and thwarted woman-hood. "All Nature is against it," he said. "Nature?" she repeated feebly. "Yes, Nature; and she'll go her own way in spite of all the systems that ever were. Don't you know---you are a teacher, so you ought to know--that overstrain of the higher faculties is sometimes followed by astonishing demonstrations on the part of Nature?" Miss Quincey replied that no cases of the kind had come under _her_ notice. "Well--your profession ought to go hand-in-hand with mine. If you only saw the half of what we see--But you only see the process; we get the results. By the way I must go and look at some of them." His words echoed madly in a feverish little brain, "Ought to go--hand-in-hand--hand-in-hand with mine." "Nature can be very cruel," said she. Something in her tone recalled him from his flight. He stood looking down at her, thoughtful and pitiful. "And Nature can be very kind; kinder than we are. You are a case in point. Nature is trying to make you well against your will. A little more rest--a little more exercise--a little more air--" She smiled. Yes, a little more of all the things she wanted and had never had. That was what her smile said in its soft and deprecating bitterness. He held out his hand, and she too rose, shivering a little in her thin dress. She was the first to hurry away. He looked after her small figure, noted her nervous gait and the agitated movement of her hand as the streamers on her poor cape flapped and fluttered, the sport of the unfeeling wind. CHAPTER VIII A Painful Misunderstanding And now, on early evenings and Saturday afternoons when the weather was fine, Miss Quincey was to be found in Primrose Hill Park. Not that anybody ever came to look for Miss Quincey. Nevertheless, whether she was walking up and down the paths or sitting on a bench, Miss Quincey had a certain expectant air, as if at any moment Dr. Cautley might come tearing round the corner with his coat-tails flying, or as if she might look up and find him sitting beside her and talking to her. But he did not come. There are some histories that never repeat themselves. And he had never called since that day--Miss Quincey remembered it well; it was Saturday the thirteenth of March. April and May went by; she had not seen him now for more than two months; and she began to think there must be a reason for it. At last she saw him; she saw him twice running. Once in the park where they had sat together, and once in the forked road that leads past that part of St. Sidwell's where Miss Cursiter and Miss Vivian lived in state. Each time he was walking very fast as usual, and he looked at her, but he never raised his hat; she spoke, but he passed her without a word. And yet he had recognised her; there could be no possible doubt of it. Depend upon it there was a reason for _that_. Miss Quincey was one of those innocent people who believe that every variety of human behaviour must have a reason (as if only two months ago she had not been favoured with the spectacle of an absolutely unreasonable young man). To be sure it was not easy to find one for conduct so strange and unprecedented, and in any case Miss Quincey's knowledge of masculine motives was but small. Taken by itself it might have passed without any reason, as an oversight, a momentary lapse; but coupled with his complete abandonment of Camden Street North it looked ominous indeed. Not that her faith in Bastian Cautley wavered for an instant. Because Bastian Cautley was what he was, he could never be guilty of spontaneous discourtesy; on the other hand, she had seen that he could be fierce enough on provocation; therefore, she argued, he had some obscure ground of offence against her. Miss Quincey passed a sleepless night reasoning about the reason, a palpitating never-ending night, without a doze or a dream in it or so much as the winking of an eyelid. She reasoned about it for a week between the classes, and in her spare time (when she had any) in the evening (thus running into debt to _Sordello_ again). At the end of the week Miss Quincey's mind seemed to have become remarkably lucid; every thought in it ground to excessive subtlety in the mill of her logic. She saw it all clearly. There had been some misunderstanding, some terrible mistake. She had forfeited his friendship through a blunder nameless but irrevocable. Once or twice she wondered if Mrs. Moon could be at the bottom of it--or Martha. Had her aunt carried out her dreadful threat of giving him a hint to send in his account? And had the hint implied that for the future all accounts with him were closed? Had he called on Mrs. Moon and been received with crushing hostility? Or had Martha permitted herself to say that she, Miss Quincey, was out when perhaps he knew for a positive fact that she was in? But she soon dismissed these conjectures as inadequate and fell back on her original hypothesis. And all the time the Old Lady's eyes, and her voice too, were sharper than ever; from the corner where she dreamed she watched Miss Quincey incessantly between the dreams. At times the Old Lady was shaken with terrible and mysterious mirth. Bastian Cautley began to figure fantastically in her conversation. Her ideas travelled by slow trains of association that started from nowhere but always arrived at Bastian Cautley as a terminus. If Juliana had a headache Mrs. Moon supposed that she wanted that young man to be dancing attendance on her again; if Juliana sighed she declared that Dr. Cautley was a faithless swain who had forsaken Juliana; if Martha brought in the tea-tray she wondered when Dr. Cautley was coming back for another slice of Juliana's wedding-cake. Mrs. Moon referred to a certain abominable piece of confectionery now crumbling away on a shelf in the sideboard, where, with a breach in its side and its sugar turret in ruins, it seemed to nod at Miss Quincey with all sorts of satirical suggestions. And when Louisa sent her accounts of Teenie who lisped in German, Alexander who wrote Latin letters to his father, and Mildred who refused to read the New Testament in anything but Greek, and Miss Quincey remarked that if she had children she wouldn't bring them up so, the Old Lady laughed--"Tchee--Tchee! We all know about old maids' children." Miss Quincey said nothing to that; but she hardened her heart against Louisa's children, and against Louisa's husband and Louisa. She couldn't think how Louisa could have married such a dreadful little man as Andrew Mackinnon, with his unmistakable accent and problematical linen. The gentle creature who had never said a harsh word to anybody in her life became mysteriously cross and captious. She hardened her heart even to little Laura Lazarus. And one morning when she came upon the Mad Hatter in her corner of the class-room, and found her adding two familiar columns of figures together and adding them all wrong, Miss Quincey was very cross and very captious indeed. The Mad Hatter explained at more length than ever that the figures twisted themselves about; they wouldn't stay still a minute so that she could hold them; they were always going on and on, turning over and over, and growing, growing, till there were millions, billions, trillions of them; oh, they were wonderful things those figures; you could go on watching them for ever if you were sharp enough; you could even--here Laura lowered her voice in awe of her own conception, for Laura was a mystic, a seer, a metaphysician, what you will--you could even think with them, if you knew how; in short you could do anything with them but turn them into sums. And as all this was very confusing to the intellect Miss Quincey became crosser than ever. And while Miss Quincey quivered all over with irritability, the Mad Hatter paid no heed whatever to her instructions, but thrust forward a small yellow face that was all nose and eyes, and gazed at Miss Quincey like one possessed by a spirit of divination. "Have you got a headache, Miss Quincey?" she inquired on hearing herself addressed for the third time as "Stupid child!" Miss Quincey relied tartly that no, she had not got a headache. The Mad Hatter appeared to be absorbed in tracing rude verses on her rough notebook with a paralytic pencil. "I'm sorry; because then you must be unhappy. When people are cross," she continued, "it means one of two things. Either their heads ache or they are unhappy. You must be very unhappy. I know all about it." The paralytic pencil wavered and came to a full stop. "You like somebody, and so somebody has made you unhappy." But for the shame of it, Miss Quincey could have put her head down on the desk and cried as she had seen the Mad Hatter cry over her sums, and for the same reason; because she could not put two and two together. And what Mrs. Moon saw, what Martha saw, what the Mad Hatter divined with her feverish, precocious brain, Rhoda Vivian could not fail to see. It was Dr. Cautley's business to look after Miss Quincey in her illness, and it was Rhoda's to keep an eye on her in her recovery, and instantly report the slightest threatening of a break-down. Miss Quincey's somewhat eccentric behaviour filled her with misgivings; and in order to investigate her case at leisure, she chose the first afternoon when Miss Cursiter was not at home to ask the little arithmetic teacher to lunch. After Rhoda's lunch, soothed with her sympathy and hidden, not to say extinguished, in an enormous chair, Miss Quincey was easily worked into the right mood for confidences; indeed she was in that state of mind when they rush out of their own accord in the utter exhaustion of the will. "Are you sure you are perfectly well?" so Rhoda began her inquiry. "Perfectly, perfectly--in myself," said Miss Quincey, "I think, perhaps--that is, sometimes I'm a little afraid that taking so much arsenic may have disagreed with me. You know it is a deadly poison. But I've left it off lately, so I ought to be better--unless perhaps I'm feeling the want of it." "You are not worrying about St. Sidwell's--about your work?" "It's not that--not that. But to tell you the truth, I _am_ worried, Rhoda. For some reason or other, my own fault, no doubt, I have lost a friend. It's a hard thing," said Miss Quincey, "to lose a friend." "Oh, I am sure--Do you mean Miss Cursiter?" "No, I do not mean Miss Cursiter." "Do you mean--me then? Not me?" "You, dear child? Never. To be plain--this is in confidence, Rhoda--I am speaking of Dr. Cautley." "Dr. Cautley?" "Yes. I do not know what I have done, or how I have offended him, but he has not been near me for over two months." "Perhaps he has been busy--in fact, I know he has." "He has always been busy. It is not that. It is something--well, I hardly care to speak of it, it has been so very painful. My dear"--Miss Quincey's voice sank to an awful whisper--"he has cut me in the street." "Oh, I know--he _will_ do it; he has done it to all his patients. He is so dreadfully absent-minded." If Miss Quincey had not been as guileless as the little old maid she was, she would have recognised these indications of intimacy; as it was, she said with superior conviction, "My dear, I _know_ Dr. Cautley. He has never cut me before, and he would not do it now without a reason. There has been some awful mistake. If I only knew what I had done!" "You've done nothing. I wouldn't worry if I were you." "I can't help worrying. You don't know, Rhoda. The bitter and terrible part of this friendship is, and always has been, that I am under obligations to Dr. Cautley. I owe everything to him; I cannot tell you what he has done for me, and here I am, not allowed, and I never shall be allowed, to do anything for him." A sob struggled in Miss Quincey's throat. Rhoda was silent. Did she know? Very dimly, with a mere intellectual perception, but still a great deal better than the little arithmetic teacher could have told her, she understood the desire of that innocent person, not for love, not for happiness, but just for leave to lay down her life for this friend, this deity of hers, to be consumed in sacrifice. And the bitter and terrible thing was that she was not allowed to do it. The friend had no use for the life, the deity no appetite for the sacrifice. "Don't think about it," she said; it seemed the best thing to say in the singular circumstances. "It will all come right." By this time Miss Quincey had got the better of the sob in her throat. "It may," she replied with dignity; "but I shall not be the first to make advances." "Advances? Rather not. But if I thought he was thinking things--he isn't, you know, he's not that sort; still, if I thought it I should have it out with him." "How could you have it--'out with him'?" "Oh I should just ask him what he thought of me; or better still, tell him what I thought of him." Miss Quincey shrank visibly from the bold suggestion. "Would you? Oh, that would never do. You won't mind my saying so, but I think it would look a little indelicate. Of course it would be very different if it were a woman; if it were you for instance." "I should do it any way. It's the straightest thing." "I daresay, dear, in your friendships it is. But I think you can hardly judge of this. You do not know Dr. Cautley as I do." "No," said Rhoda meekly, "perhaps I don't." Not for worlds would she have destroyed that beautiful illusion. "It has been," continued Miss Quincey, "a very peculiar, a very interesting relationship. Strange too--considering. If you had asked me six months ago I should have told you that the thing was impossible, or rather, that in nine cases out of ten--I mean I should have said it was highly improbable that Dr. Cautley would take the faintest interest in me, let alone like me." "He does like you, dear Miss Quincey, I know he does." "How do you know?" "He told me so." (Miss Quincey quivered and a faint flush worked up through the sallow of her cheek.) "And I'm sure he would be most distressed to think you were unhappy." "It is not unhappiness; certainly not unhappiness. On the contrary I have been happy, quite happy lately. And I think it has been bad for me. I wasn't used to it. Perhaps, if it had happened five-and-twenty years ago--Do not misunderstand me, I am merely speaking of friendship, dear; but it might--I mean I might--" Far back in the chair and favoured by Rhoda's silence, Miss Quincey dropped into a dream. Presently she woke up as it were with a start. "What am I thinking of? Let us be reasonable; let us reduce it to figures. Forty-five--thirty--he is thirty. Take twenty-five from thirty and five remain. Why, Rhoda, he would have been--" They looked at each other, but neither said: "He would have been five years old." Miss Quincey seemed quite prostrated by the result of her calculations. To everything that Rhoda could urge to soothe her she answered steadily: "You do not know him as I do." The voice was not Miss Quincey's voice; it was the monotonous, melancholy voice of the Fixed Idea. Her knowledge of him. After all, nothing could take from her the exquisite privacy of that possession. * * * * * "_Eros anikate machan_," said Rhoda. Miss Quincey was gone and the Classical Mistress was in school again, coaching a backward student through the "Antigone." "Oh Love, unconquered in fight. Love who--Love who fliest, who fliest about among things," said the student. And the teacher laughed. Laughed, for the entertaining blunder called up a vivid image of the god in Miss Quincey's drawing-room, fluttering about among the furniture and doing terrific damage with his wings. "What's wrong?" asked the student. "Oh nothing; only a slight confusion between flying about and falling upon. 'Oh Love who fallest on the prey'; please go on." "'Oh Love who fallest on the prey'--" The chorus mumbled and stumbled, and the student sighed heavily, for the Greek was hard. "He who has--he who has--Oh dear, I can't see any sense in these old choruses; I do hate them." "Still," said Rhoda sweetly, "you mustn't murder them. 'He who has love has madness.'" The chorus limped to its end and the student left the coach to some curious reflections. "_Eros anikate machan_!" "Oh Love, unconquered in fight!" It sang in her ears persistently, joyously, ironically--a wedding-song, a battle-song, a song of victory. Bastian Cautley was right when he said that the race was to the swift and the battle to the strong. How eager she had been for the fight, how mad for the crowded course! She had rushed on, heat after heat, outstripping all competitors and carrying off all the crowns and the judges' compliments at the end of the day. She loved the race for its own sake, this young athlete; and though she took the crowns and the compliments very much as a matter of course, she had come to look on life as nothing but an endless round of Olympic games. And just as she forgot each successive event in the excitement of the next, she also had forgotten the losers and those who were tumbled in the dust. Until she had seen Miss Quincey. Miss Quincey--so they had let her come to this among them all? They had left her so bare of happiness that the first man (it happened to be her doctor) who spoke two kind words to her became necessary to her existence. No, that was hardly the way to put it; it was underrating Bastian Cautley. He was the sort of man that any woman--But who would have thought it of Miss Quincey? And the really sad thing was that she did not think it of herself; it showed how empty of humanity her life had been. It was odd how these things happened. Miss Quincey was neither brilliant nor efficient, but she had made the most of herself; at least she had lived a life of grinding intellectual toil; the whole woman had seemed absorbed in her miserable arithmetical function. And yet at fifty (she looked fifty) she had contrived to develop that particular form of foolishness which it was Miss Cursiter's business to exterminate. There were some of them who talked as if the thing was done; as if competitive examinations had superseded the primitive rivalry of sex. Bastian Cautley was right. You may go on building as high as you please, but you will never alter the original ground-plan of human nature. And how she had scoffed at his "man's view"; how indignantly she had repulsed his suggestion that there was a side to the subject that her friends the idealists were much too ideal to see. Were they really, as Bastian Cautley put it, so engrossed in producing a new type that they had lost sight of the individual? Was the system so far in accordance with Nature that it was careless of the single life? Which was the only life open to most of them, poor things. And she had blundered more grossly than the system itself. What, after all, had she done for that innocent whom she had made her friend? She had taken everything from her. She had promised to keep her place for her at St. Sidwell's and was monopolising it herself. Worse than that, she had given her a friend with one hand and snatched him from her with the other. (If you came to think of it, it was hard that she who had so much already could have Bastian Cautley too, any day, to play with, or to keep--for her very own. There was not a bit of him that could by any possibility belong to Miss Quincey.) She had tried to stand between her and her Fate, and she had become her Fate. Worse than all, she had kept from her the knowledge of the truth--the truth that might have cured her. Of course she had done that out of consideration for Bastian Cautley. There it seemed that Rhoda's regard for his feelings ended. Though she admitted ten times over that he was right, she was by no means more disposed to come to an understanding with him on that account. On the contrary, when she saw him the very next evening (poor Bastian had chosen his moment indiscreetly) she endeavoured to repair her blunders by visiting them on his irreproachable head, dealing to him a certain painful, but not wholly unexpected back-hander in the face. She had done all she could for Miss Quincey. At any rate, she said to herself, she had spared her the final blow. CHAPTER IX Through the Stethoscope One morning the Mad Hatter was madder than ever. It was impossible to hold her attention. The black eyes blazed as they wandered, the paralytic pencil was hot in her burning fingers. When she laid it down towards the end of the morning and rested her head on her hands, Miss Quincey had not the heart to urge her to the loathsome toil. She let her talk. "Miss Quincey," said the Mad Hatter in a solemn whisper, "I'm going to tell you a secret. Do you see _her_?" She indicated Miss Rhoda Vivian with the point of her pencil. It was evident that Laura Lazarus did not adore the Classical Mistress, and Rhoda, sick of her worshippers, had found this attitude refreshing. Even now she bestowed a smile and a nod on the Mad Hatter that would have kept any other St. Sidwellite in a fortnight's ecstasy. "Laura, that is not the way to speak of your teachers." The child raised the Semitic arch of her eye-brows. Her face belonged to the type formed from all eternity for the expression of contempt. "She's not my teacher, thank goodness. Do you know what I'm going to be some day, when she's married and gone away? I'm going to be what she is--Classical Mistress. I shan't have to do any sums for that, you know. I shall only have to know Greek, and isn't it a shame, Miss Quincey, they won't let me learn it till I'm in the Fourth, and I never shall be. But--don't tell any one--they've stuck me here, behind her now, and when she's coaching that young idiot Susie Parker--" "Laura, that is not the way to speak of your school-fellows." "I know it isn't, but she _is_, you know. I've bought the books, and I get behind them and I listen hard, and I can read now. What's more, I've done a bit of a chorus. Look--" The pariah took a dirty bit of paper from the breast of her gown. "It goes, 'Oh Love unconquered in battle,' and it's simply splend_if_erous. Miss Quincey--when you like anything very much--or any_body_--it doesn't matter which--do you turn red all over? Do you have creeps all down your back? And do you feel it just here?" The child clapped her yellow claw to Miss Quincey's heart. "You _do_, you do, Miss Quincey; I can see it go thump, I can feel it go thud!" She gazed into the teacher's face, and again the power of divination was upon her. "Laura!" Miss Quincey gasped; for the Head had been looming in their neighbourhood, a deadly peril, and now she was sweeping down on them, smiling a dangerous smile. "Miss Quincey, I hope you've been making that child work," said she and passed on. "I _say_! She didn't see my verses, did she? You _won't_ let on that I wrote them?" "You'll never write verses," said Miss Quincey, deftly improving a bad occasion, "if you don't understand arithmetic. Why, it's the science of numbers. Come now, if ninety hogsheads--" "Oh-h! I'm so tired of hogsheads; mayn't it be firkins this time?" And, for fancy's sake, firkins Miss Quincey permitted it to be. Now Rhoda was responsible for much, but for what followed the Mad Hatter must, strictly speaking, be held accountable. Miss Quincey had never been greatly interested in the movements of her heart; but now that her attention had been drawn to them she admitted that it was beating in a very extraordinary way; there was a decided palpitation, a flutter. That night she lay awake and listened to it. It was going diddledy, diddledy, like the triplets in a Beethoven sonata (only that it had no idea of time); then it suddenly left off till she put her hand over it, when it gave a terrifying succession of runaway knocks. Then it pretended that it was going to stop altogether, and Miss Quincey implicitly believed it and prepared to die. Then its tactics changed; it seemed to have shifted its habitation; to be rising and rising, to be entangled with her collar-bone and struggling in her throat. Then it sank suddenly and lay like a lump of lead, dragging her down through the mattress, and through the bedstead, and through the floor, down to the bottom of all things. Miss Quincey did not mind much; she had been so unhappy. And then it gave an alarming double-knock at her ribs, and Miss Quincey came to life again as unhappy as ever. And of what it all meant Miss Quincey had no more idea than the man in the moon, though even the Mad Hatter could have told her. Her heart went through the same performance a second and a third night, and Miss Quincey said to herself that if it happened again she would have to send for Dr. Cautley. Nothing would have induced her to see him for a mere trifle, but pride was one thing and prudence was another. It did happen again, and she sent. She may have hoped that he would discover something wrong, being dimly conscious that her chance lay there, that suffering constituted the incontestable claim on his sympathy; most distinctly she felt the desire (monstrous of course in a woman of no account) to wear the aureole of pain for its own sake; to walk for a little while in the glory and glamour of death. She did not want or mean to give any trouble, to be a source of expense; she had saved a little money for the supreme luxury. But she had hardly entertained the idea for a moment when she dismissed it as selfish. It was her duty to live, for the sake of St. Sidwell's and of Mrs. Moon; and she was only calling Dr. Cautley in to help her to do it. But through it all the feeling uppermost was joy in the certainty that she would see him on an honourable pretext, and would be able to set right that terrible misunderstanding. She hardly expected him till late in the day; so she was a little startled, when she came in after morning school, to find Mrs. Moon waiting for her at the stairs, quivering with indignation that could have but one cause. He had lost no time in answering her summons. The drawing-room door was ajar; the Old Lady closed it mysteriously, and pushed her niece into the bedroom behind. "Will you tell me the meaning of this? _That man_ has been cooling his heels in there for the last ten minutes, and he says you sent for him. Is that the case?" Miss Quincey meekly admitted that it was, and entered upon a vague description of her trouble. "It's all capers and nonsense," said the Old Lady, "there's nothing the matter with your heart. You're just hysterical, and you just want--?" "I want to _know_, and Dr. Cautley will tell me." "Oh ho! I daresay he'll find some mare's nest fast enough, if you tell him where to look." Miss Quincey took off her hat and cape and laid them down with a sigh. She gave a terrified glance at the looking-glass and smoothed her thin hair with her hand. "Auntie--I must go. I can't keep him waiting any longer." "Go then--I won't stop you." She went trembling, followed so closely by Mrs. Moon that she looked like a prisoner conducted to the dock. "How will he receive me?" she wondered. He received her coldly and curtly. There was a hurry and abstraction in his manner utterly unlike his former leisurely sympathy. Many causes contributed to this effect; he was still all bruised and bleeding from the blow dealt to him by Rhoda's strong young arm; an epidemic had kept him on his legs all day and a great part of the night; his time had never been so valuable, and he had been obliged to waste ten minutes of it contemplating the furniture in that detestable drawing-room. He was worried and overworked, and Miss Quincey thought he was still offended; his very appearance made her argue the worst. No hope to-day of clearing up that terrible misunderstanding. She tremulously obeyed his first brief order, one by one undoing the buttons of her dress, laying bare her poor chest, all flat and formless as a child's. A momentary gentleness came over him as he adjusted the tubes of his stethoscope and began the sounding, backwards and forwards from heart to lungs, and from lungs to heart again; while the Old Lady looked on as merry as Destiny, and nodded her head and smiled, as much to say, "Tchee-tchee, what a farce it is!" He put up the stethoscope with a click. "There is nothing the matter with you." Mrs. Moon gave out a subdued ironical chuckle. Miss Quincey looked anxiously into his face. "Do you not think the heart--the heart is a little--?" He smiled and at the same time he sighed. "Heart's all right. But you've left off your tonic." She had, she was afraid that so much poison-- "Poison?" (He was not in the least offended.) "Do you mean the arsenic? There are some poisons you can't live without; but you must take them in moderation." "Will you--will you want to see me again?" "It will not be necessary." At that Mrs. Moon's chuckle broke all bounds and burst into a triumphant "Tchee-tchee-chee!" He went away under cover of it. It was her way of putting a pleasant face on the matter. She hardly waited till his back was turned before she delivered herself of that which was working within her. "I tell you what it is, Juliana; you're a silly woman." Miss Quincey looked up with a faint premonitory fear. Her fingers began nervously buttoning and unbuttoning her dress bodice; while half-dressed and shivering she waited the attack. "And a pretty exhibition you've made of yourself this day. Anybody might have thought you _wanted_ to let that young man see what was the matter with you." "So I did. He says there is nothing the matter with me." "Nothing the matter with you, indeed! _He_ knows well enough what's the matter with you." The victim was staring now, with terror in her tired eyes. Her mouth dropped open with the question her tongue refused to utter. "If you," continued Mrs. Moon, "had wanted to tell him plainly that you were in love with him, you couldn't have set about it better. I should have thought you'd have been ashamed to look him in the face--at your age. You're a disgrace to my family!" The poor fingers ceased their labour of buttoning and unbuttoning; Miss Quincey sat with her shoulders naked as it were to the lash. "There!" said Mrs. Moon with an air of drawing back the whip and putting it by for the present. "If I were you I'd cover myself up, and not sit there catching cold with my dress-body off." CHAPTER X Miss Quincey Stands Back As it happened on a Saturday morning she had plenty of time to think about it. All the afternoon and the evening and the night lay before her; she was powerless to cope with Sunday and the night beyond that. The remarkable revelation made to her by Mrs. Moon was so great a shock that her mind refused to realize it all at once. It was an outrage to all the meek reticences and chastities of her spirit. But she owned its truth; she saw it now, the thing they all had seen, that she only could not see. She had sinned the sin of sins, the sin of youth in middle-age. Now it was not imagination in Miss Quincey, so much as the tradition of St. Sidwell's, that gave her innocent affection the proportions of a crime. Miss Quincey had lived all her life in ignorance of her own nature, having spent the best part of five-and-forty years in acquiring other knowledge. She had nothing to go upon, for she had never been young; or rather she had treated her youth unkindly, she had fed it on saw-dust and given it nothing but arithmetic books to play with, so that its experiences were of no earthly use to her. And now, if they had only let her alone, she might have been none the wiser; her folly might have put on many quaint disguises, friendship, literary sympathy, intellectual esteem--there were a thousand delicate subterfuges and innocent hypocrisies, and under any one of them it might have crept about unchallenged in the shadows and blind alleys of thought. As love pure and simple, if it came to that, there was no harm in it. Many an old maid, older than she, has just such a secret folded up and put away all sweet and pure; the poor lady does not call it love, but remembrance, which is so to speak love laid in lavender; and she--who knows? She might have contrived a little shrine for it somewhere; she had always understood that love was a holy thing. Unfortunately, when a holy thing has been pulled about and dragged in the mud, it may be as holy as ever but it will never look the same. In Miss Quincey's case mortal passion had been shaken out of its sleep and forced to look at itself before it had time to put on a shred of immortality. In the sudden glare it stood out monstrous, naked and ashamed; she herself had helped to deprive it of all the delicacies and amenities that made it tolerable to thought. With her own hands she had delivered it up to the stethoscope. He knew, he knew. In the mad rush of her ideas one sentence detached itself from the torrent. "_He_ knows well enough what's the matter with you." The nature of the crime was such that there was no possibility or explanation or defence against the accuser whose condemnation weighed heaviest on her soul. He loomed before her, hovered over her, with the tubes of the heart-probing stethoscope in his ears (as a matter of fact they gave him a somewhat grotesque appearance, remotely suggestive of a Hindoo idol; but Miss Quincey had not noticed that); his bumpy forehead was terrible with intelligence; his eyes were cold and comprehensive; the smile of a foregone conclusion flickered on his lips. He must have known it all the time. There never had been any misunderstanding. That was the clue to his conduct; that was the reason why he had left off coming to the house; for he was the soul of delicacy and honour. And yet she had never said a word that might be interpreted--He must have seen it in her face, then,--that day--when she allowed herself to sit with him in the park. She remembered--things that he had said to her--did they mean that he had seen? She saw it all as he had seen it. "Delicacy" and "honour" indeed! Disgust and contempt would be more likely feelings. She lay awake all Saturday night and all Sunday night, until four o'clock on Monday morning; always reviewing the situation, always going over the same patch of ground in the desperate hope of finding some place where her self-respect could rest, and discovering nothing but the traces of her guilty feet. A subtler woman would have flourished lightly over the territory, till she had whisked away every vestige of her trail; another would have seen the humour of the situation and blown the whole thing into the inane with a burst of healthy laughter; but subtlety and humour were not Miss Quincey's strong points. She could do nothing but creep shivering to bed and lie there, face to face with her own enormity. On Monday morning and on many mornings after she crept out into the street stealthily, like a criminal seeking some shelter where she could hide her head. She acquired a habit--odd enough to the casual onlooker--of slinking cautiously round every turning and rushing every crossing in her abject terror of meeting Bastian Cautley. There was nobody to tell her that it would not matter if she did meet him; no cheerful woman of the world to smile in her frightened face and say: "My dear Miss Quincey, there is nothing remarkable in this. We all do it, sooner or later. Too late? Not a bit of it; better too late than never, and if it's that Cautley man I'm sure I don't wonder. I'm in love with him myself. Lost your self-respect, have you? Self-respect, indeed, why bless your soul, you are all the nicer for it. As for hiding your head I never heard such rubbish in my life. Nobody is looking at you--certainly not the Cautley man. In fact, to tell you the truth, at this moment he is particularly engaged in looking the other way." But Miss Quincey did not know that lady. She knew no one but Rhoda and Mrs. Moon; and if Mrs. Moon was too old, Rhoda was too young to take that view; besides, Mrs. Moon was not a woman of the world and no ridiculous delicacy prompted her to look the other way. In any case Juliana's state of mind, advertised as it was by her complexion and many eccentricities of behaviour, could not have escaped her notice. The Old Lady had reverted to her former humorous attitude, and was trying whether Juliana's state of mind would not yield to skilfully directed banter. In these tactics she was not left unsupported. Louisa had written a long letter about her husband and her children, with a postscript. "P.S.--I don't half like what you tell me about Juliana and Dr. C--. For goodness' sake don't encourage her in any of that nonsense. Sit on it. Laugh her out of it. I agree with you that it would be better if she cultivated her mind a little more. "P.P.S.--Andrew has just come in. He says we oughtn't to call her Juliana, but Fooliana." So laughed Louisa, the married woman. And Fooliana she was called. The joke was quite unworthy of the Greek Professor's reputation, but for Mrs. Moon's purposes he could hardly have made a better one. Louisa had put a terrible weapon into the Old Lady's hands. It was many weapons in one. It could be turned on in all its broad robust humour--"Fooliana!" Or refined away into a playful or delicate suggestion, pointed with an uplifted finger--"Fooli!" Or cut down and compressed into its essential meaning--"Fool!" But whichever missile came handy, the effect was much the same. Juliana's complexion grew redder or grayer, but her state of mind remained unchanged. Sometimes the Old Lady tried a graver method. "If you would cultivate your mind a little in the evenings you would have no time for all this nonsense." But Juliana had abandoned the cultivation of her mind. She made no attempt to pay off that small outstanding debt to _Sordello._ There was an end of the intellectual life; for the living wells of literature were tainted; Browning had become a bitter memory and Tennyson a shame. But if Miss Quincey had no heart for General Culture, she was busier than ever in the discharge of her regular duties. At the end of the midsummer term the pressure on the staff was heavy. Her work had grown with the growth of St. Sidwell's, and the pile of marble and granite copy-books rose higher than ever; it was monumental, and Miss Quincey was glad enough to bury her grief under it for a time. Indeed it looked as if in St. Sidwell's she had found the shelter where she could hide her head; and a very desirable shelter too, as long as Mrs. Moon continued in that lively temper. Gradually she began to realize that of all those five hundred pairs of eyes there was none that had discovered her secret; that not one of those busy brains was occupied with her affairs. It was a relief to lose herself among them all and be of no account again. In the corner behind Rhoda Vivian she and the Mad Hatter seemed to be clinging together more than ever in an ecstasy of isolation. After all, above the turmoil of emotion a little tremulous, attenuated ideal was trying to raise its head. Her duty. She dimly discerned a possibility of deliverance, of purification from her sin. Therefore she clung more desperately than ever to her post. Seeing that she had served the system for five-and-twenty years, it was hard if she could not get from it a little protection against her own weakness, if she could not claim the intellectual support it professed to give. It was the first time she had ever put it to the test. If she could only stay on another year or two-- And now at the very end of the midsummer term it really looked as if St. Sidwell's was anxious to keep her. Everybody was curiously kind; the staff cast friendly glances on her as she sat in her corner; Rhoda was almost passionate in her tenderness. Even Miss Cursiter seemed softened. She had left off saying "Stand back, Miss Quincey, if you please"; and Miss Quincey began to wonder what it all meant. She was soon to know. One night, the last of the term, the Classical Mistress was closeted with the Head. Rhoda, elbow-deep in examination papers, had been critically considering seventy variously ingenious renderings of a certain chorus, when the sudden rapping of a pen on the table roused her from her labours. "You must see for yourself, Rhoda, how we are placed. We must keep up to a certain standard of efficiency in the staff. Miss Quincey is getting past her work." (Rhoda became instantly absorbed in sharpening a pencil.) "For the last two terms she has been constantly breaking down; and now I'm very much afraid she is breaking-up." The Head remained solemnly unconscious of her own epigram. "No wonder," said Rhoda to herself, "first love at fifty is new wine in old bottles; everybody knows what happens to the bottles." The flush and the frown on the Classical Mistress's face might have been accounted for by the sudden snapping of the pencil. "You see," continued Miss Cursiter, as if defending herself from some accusation conveyed by the frown, "as it is we have kept her on a long while for her sister's sake." (A murmur from the Classical Mistress.) "Of course we must put it to her prettily, wrap it up--in tissue paper." (The Classical Mistress is still inarticulate.) "You are not giving me your opinion." "It seems to me I've said a great deal more than I've any right to say." "Oh you. We know all about that. I asked for your opinion." "And when I gave it you told me I was under an influence." "What if I did? And what if it were so?" "What indeed? You would get the benefit of two opinions instead of one." Now if Miss Cursiter were thinking of Dr. Cautley there was some point in what Rhoda said; for in the back of her mind the Head had a curious respect for masculine judgment. "There can be no two opinions about Miss Quincey." "I don't know. Miss Quincey," said Rhoda thoughtfully to her pencil, "is a large subject." "Yes, if you mean that Miss Quincey is a terrible legacy from the past. The question for me is--how long am I to let her hamper our future?" "The future? It strikes me that we're not within shouting distance of the future. We talk as if we could see the end, and we're nowhere near it, we're in all the muddle of the middle--that's why we're hampered with Miss Quincey and other interesting relics of the past." "We are slowly getting rid of them." At that Rhoda blazed up. She was young, and she was reckless, and she had too many careers open to her to care much about consequences. Miss Cursiter had asked for her opinion and she should have it with a vengeance. "It's not enough to get rid of them. We ought to provide for them. Who or what do we provide for, if it comes to that? We're always talking about specialisation, and the fact is we haven't specialised enough. Don't we give the same test papers to everybody?" "I shall be happy to set separate papers for each girl if you'll undertake to correct them." The more Rhoda fired the more Miss Cursiter remained cold. "That's just it--we couldn't if we tried. We know nothing about each girl. That's where we shall have to specialise in the future if we're to do any good. We've specialised enough with our teachers and our subjects; chipped and chopped till we can't divide them any more; and we've taken our girls in the lump. We know less about them than they do themselves. As for the teachers--" "Which by the way brings us back to Miss Quincey." "Everything brings us back to Miss Quincey. Miss Quincey will be always with us." "We must put younger women in her place." Rhoda winced as though Miss Cursiter had struck her. "They will soon grow old. Our profession is a cruel one. It uses up the finest and most perishable parts of a woman's nature. It takes the best years of her life--and throws the rest away." "Yet thousands of women are willing to take it up, and leave comfortable homes to do it too." "Yes," sighed Rhoda, "it's the rush for the open door." "My dear Rhoda, the women's labour market is the same as every other. The best policy is the policy of the open door. Don't you see that the remedy is to open it wider--wider!" "And when we've opened all the doors as wide as ever they'll go, what then? Where are we going to?" "I can't tell you." Miss Cursiter looked keenly at her. "Do you mean that you'll go no further unless you know?" Rhoda was silent. "There are faults in the system. I can see that as well as you, perhaps better. I am growing old too, Rhoda. But you are youth itself. It is women like you we want--to save us. Are you going to turn your back on us?" Miss Cursiter bore down on her with her steady gaze, a gaze that was a menace and an appeal, and Rhoda gave a little gasp as if for breath. "I can't go any farther." "Do you realize what this means? You are not a deserter from the ranks. It is the second in command going over to the enemy." The words were cold, but there was a fiery court-martial in Miss Cursiter's eyes that accused and condemned her. If Rhoda had been dashing her head against the barrack walls her deliverance was at hand. It seemed that she could never strike a blow for Miss Quincey without winning the battle for herself. "I can't help it," said she. "I hate it--I hate the system." "The system? Suppose you do away with it--do away with every woman's college in the kingdom--have you anything to put in its place?" "No. I have nothing to put in its place." "Ah," said Miss Cursiter, "you are older than I thought." Rhoda smiled. By this time, wrong or right, she was perfectly reckless. If everybody was right in rejecting Miss Quincey, there was rapture in being wildly and wilfully in the wrong. She had flung up the game. Miss Cursiter saw it. "I was right," said she. "You are under an influence, and a dangerous one." "Perhaps--but, influence for influence" (here Rhoda returned Miss Cursiter's gaze intrepidly), "I'm not far wrong. I honestly think that if we persist in turning out these intellectual monstrosities we shall hand over worse incompetents than Miss Quincey to the next generation." Rhoda was intrepid; all the same she reddened as she realized what a mouthpiece she had become for Bastian Cautley's theories and temper. "My dear Rhoda, you're an intellectual monstrosity yourself." "I know. And in another twenty years' time they'll want to get rid of _me_." "Of me too," thought the Head. Miss Cursiter felt curiously old and worn. She had invoked Rhoda's youth and it had risen up against her. Influence for influence, her power was dead. Rhoda had talked at length in the hope of postponing judgment in Miss Quincey's case; now she was anxious to get back to Miss Quincey, to escape judgment in her own. "And how about Miss Quincey?" she asked. Miss Cursiter had nothing to say about Miss Quincey. She had done with that section of her subject. She understood that Rhoda had said in effect, "If Miss Quincey goes, I go too." Nevertheless her mind was made up; in tissue paper, all ready for Miss Quincey. Unfortunately tissue paper is more or less transparent, and Miss Quincey had no difficulty in perceiving the grounds of her dismissal when presented to her in this neat way. Not even when Miss Cursiter said to her, at the close of the interview they had early the next morning, "For your own sake, dear Miss Quincey, I feel we must forego your valuable--most valuable services." Miss Cursiter hesitated, warned by something in the aspect of the tiny woman who had been a thorn in her side so long. Somehow, for this occasion, the most incompetent, most insignificant member of her staff had contrived to clothe herself with a certain nobility. She was undeniably the more dignified of the two. The Head, usually so eloquent at great moments, found actual difficulty in getting to the end of her next sentence. "What I was thinking of--really again entirely for your own sake--was whether it would not be better for you to take a little longer holiday. I do feel in your case the imperative necessity for rest. Indeed if you found that you _wished_ to retire at the end of the holidays--of course receiving your salary for the term--" Try as she would to speak as though she were conferring a benefit, the Head had the unmistakable air of asking a favour from her subordinate, of imploring her help in a delicate situation, of putting it to her honour. Miss Quincey's honour was more than equal to the demand made on it. She had sunk so low in her own eyes lately that she was glad to gain some little foothold for her poor pride. She faced Miss Cursiter bravely with her innocent dim eyes as she answered: "I am ready to go, Miss Cursiter, whenever it is most convenient to you; but I cannot think of taking payment for work I have not done." "My dear Miss Quincey, the rule is always a term's notice--or if--if any other arrangement is agreed upon, a term's salary. There can be no question--you must really allow me--" There Miss Cursiter's address failed her and her voice faltered. She had extracted the thorn; but it had worked its way deeper than she knew, and the operation was a painful one. A few compliments on the part of the Head, and the hope that St. Sidwell's would not lose sight of Miss Quincey altogether, and the interview was closed. It was understood by the end of the morning that Miss Quincey had sent in her resignation. The news spread from class to class--"Miss Quincey is going"--and was received by pupils and teachers with cries of incredulity. After all, Miss Quincey belonged to St. Sidwell's; she was part and parcel of the place; her blood and bones had been built into its very walls, and her removal was not to be contemplated without dismay. Why, what would a procession be like without Miss Quincey to enliven it? And so, as she went her last round, a score of hands that had never clasped hers in friendship were stretched out over the desks in a wild leave-taking; three girls had tears in their eyes; one, more emotional than the rest, sobbed audibly without shame. The staff were unanimous in their sympathy and regret. Rhoda withdrew hastily from the painful scene. Only the Mad Hatter in her corner made no sign. She seemed to take the news of Miss Quincey's departure with a resigned philosophy. "Well, little Classical Mistress," said Miss Quincey, "we must say good-bye. You know I'm going." The child nodded her small head. "Of course you're going. I might have known it. I did know it all along. You were booked to go." "Why, Laura?" Miss Quincey was mystified and a little hurt. "Because"--a sinister convulsion passed over the ugly little pariah face--"because"--the Mad Hatter had learnt the force of under-statement--"because I _like_ you." At that Miss Quincey broke down. "My dear little girl--I am going because I am too old to stay." "Write to me, dear," she said at the last moment; "let me know how you are getting on." But she never knew. The Mad Hatter did not write. In fact she never wrote anything again, not even verses. She was handed over next term to Miss Quincey's brilliant and efficient successor, who made her work hard, with the result that the Mad Hatter got ill of a brain fever just before the Christmas holidays and was never fit for any more work; and never became Classical Mistress or anything else in the least distinguished. But this is by the way. As the College clock struck one, Miss Quincey walked home as usual and went up into her bedroom without a word. She opened a drawer and took from it her Post Office Savings Bank book and looked over her account. There stood to her credit the considerable sum of twenty-seven pounds four shillings and eight pence. No, not quite that, for the blouse, the abominable blouse, had been paid for out of her savings and it had cost a guinea. Twenty-six pounds three shillings and eight pence was all that she had saved in five-and-twenty years. This, with the term's salary which Miss Cursiter had insisted on, was enough to keep her going for a year. And a year is a long time. She came slowly downstairs to the drawing-room where her aunt was dozing and dreaming in her chair. There still hung about her figure the indefinable dignity that had awed Miss Cursiter. If she was afraid of Mrs. Moon she was too proud to show her fear. "This morning," she said simply, "I received my dismissal." The old lady looked up dazed, not with the news but with her dream. Miss Quincey repeated her statement. "Do you mean you are not going back to that place there?" she asked mildly. "I am never going back." Still with dignity she waited for the burst of feeling she felt to be justifiable in the circumstances. None came; neither anger, nor indignation, nor contempt, not even surprise. In fact the Old Lady was smiling placidly, as she was wont to smile under the spell of the dream. Slowly, very slowly, it was dawning upon her that the reproach had been taken away from the memory of Tollington Moon. Henceforth his niece Miss Quincey would be a gentlewoman at large. At the same time it struck her that after all poor Juliana did not look so very old. "Very well then," said she, "if I were you I should put on that nice silk blouse in the evenings." CHAPTER XI Dr. Cautley Sends in his Bill "I wonder," Mrs. Moon observed suddenly one morning, "if that man is going to let his bill run on to the day of judgment?" The Old Lady had not even distantly alluded to Dr. Cautley for as many as ten months. After the great day of what she called Juliana's "resignation" she seemed to have tacitly agreed that since Juliana had spared her dream she would spare Juliana's. Did she not know, she too, that the dream is the reality? As Miss Quincey, gentlewoman at large, Juliana had a perfect right to set up a dream of her own; as to whether she was able to afford the luxury, Juliana was the best judge. Her present wonder, then, had no malignant reference; it was simply wrung from her by inexorable economy. Juliana's supplies were calculated to last a year; as it was the winter season that they had lately weathered, she was rather more than three-quarters of the way through her slender resources, and it behoved them to look out for bills ahead. And Mrs. Moon had always suspected that young man, not only of a passion for mare's-nesting, but of deliberately and systematically keeping back his accounts that he might revel in a larger haul. The remark, falling with a shock all the greater for a silence of ten months, had the effect of driving Juliana out of the room. Out of the room and out of the house, down High Street, where Hunter's shop was already blossoming in another spring; up Park Street and past the long wall of St. Sidwell's, till she found herself alone in Primrose Hill Park. The young day was so glorious that Miss Quincey had some thoughts of climbing Primrose Hill and sitting on the top; but after twenty yards or so of it she abandoned the attempt. For the last few months her heart had been the seat of certain curious sensations, so remarkably like those she had experienced in the summer that she took them for the same, and sternly resolved to suppress their existence by ignoring it. That, she understood, was the right treatment for hysteria. But this morning Miss Quincey's heart protested so violently against her notion of ascending Primrose Hill, threatening indeed to strangle her if she persisted in it, that Miss Quincey unwillingly gave in and contented herself with a seat in one of the lower walks of the park. There she leaned back and looked about her, but with no permanent interest in one thing more than another. Presently, as she settled down to quieter breathing, there came to her a strange sensation, that grew till it became an unusually vivid perception of the outer world; a perception mingled with a still stranger double vision, a sense that seemed to be born in the dark of the brain and to be moving there to a foregone conclusion. And all the time her eyes were busy, now with a bush of May in crimson blossom, now with the many-pointed leaves of a sycamore pricked against the blue; now with the straight rectangular paths that made the park an immense mathematical diagram. From where she sat her eyes swept the length of the wide walk that cuts the green from east to west. Far down at the west end was a seat, and she could see two people, a man and a woman, sitting on it; they must have been there a quarter of an hour or more; she had noticed them ever since she came into the park. They had risen, and her gaze left everything else to follow them; or rather, it went to meet them, for they had turned and were coming slowly eastward now. They had stopped; they were facing each other, and her gaze rested with them, fascinated yet uncertain. And now she could see nothing else; the park, with the regions beyond it and the sky above it, had become merely a setting for one man and one woman; the avenue, fresh strewn with red golden gravel, led up to them and ended there at their feet; a young poplar trembled in the wind and shook its silver green fans above them in delicate confusion. The next minute a light went up in that obscure and prophetic background of her brain; and she saw Rhoda Vivian and Bastian Cautley coming towards her, greeting her, with their kind faces shining. She rose, turned from them, and went slowly home. It was the last rent in the veil of illusion that Rhoda had spun so well. Up till then Miss Quincey had seen only half the truth. Now she had seen the whole, with all that Rhoda had disguised and kept hidden from her; the truth that kills or cures. Miss Quincey did not go out again that day, but sat all afternoon silent in her chair. Towards evening she became talkative and stayed up later than had been her wont since she recovered her freedom. She seemed to be trying to make up to her aunt for a want of sociability in the past. At eleven she got up and stood before the Old Lady in the attitude of a penitent. Apparently she had been seized with a mysterious impulse of confession. "Aunt," she said, "there's something I want to say to you." She paused, casting about in her mind for the sins she had committed. They were three in all. "I am afraid I have been very extravagant"--she was thinking of the blouse--"and--and very foolish"--she was thinking of Bastian Cautley--"and very selfish"--she was thinking of her momentary desire to die. "Juliana, if you're worrying about that money"--the Old Lady was thinking of nothing else--"don't. I've plenty for us both. As long as we can keep together I don't care what I eat, nor what I drink, nor what I put on my poor back. And if the worst comes to the worst I'll sell the furniture." It seemed to Miss Quincey that she had never known her aunt in all those five-and-twenty years; never known her until this minute. For perhaps, after all, being angry with Juliana was only Mrs. Moon's way of being sorry for her. But how was Juliana to know that? "Only," continued the Old Lady, "I won't part with your uncle's picture. Don't ask me to part with your uncle's picture." "You won't have to part with anything. I'll--I'll get something to do. I'm not worrying. There's nothing to worry about." She stooped down and tenderly kissed the wrinkled forehead. A vague fear clutched at the Old Lady's heart. "Then, Juliana, you are not well. Hadn't you better see"--she hesitated--pausing with unwonted delicacy for her words--"a doctor?" "I don't want to see a doctor. There is nothing the matter with me." And still insisting that there was nothing the matter with her, she went to bed. And old Martha had come with her early morning croak to call Miss Juliana; she had dumped down the hot-water can in the basin with a clash, pulled up the blind with a jerk, and drawn back the curtains with a clatter, before she noticed that Miss Juliana was up all the time. Up and dressed, and sitting in her chair by the hearth, warming her feet at an imaginary fire. She had been sitting up all night, for her bed was as Martha had left it the night before. Martha approached cautiously, still feeling her way, though there was no need for it, the room being full of light. She groped like a blind woman for Miss Juliana's forehead, laying her hand there before she looked into her face. After some fumbling futile experiments with brandy, a looking-glass and a feather, old Martha hid these things carefully out of sight; she disarranged the bed, turning back the clothes as they might have been left by one newly wakened and risen out of it; drew a shawl over the head and shoulders of the figure in the chair; pulled down the blind and closed the curtains till the room was dark again. Then she groped her way out and down the stairs to her mistress's door. There she stayed a moment, gathering her feeble wits together for the part she meant to play. She had made up her mind what she would do. So she called the Old Lady as usual; said she was afraid there was something the matter with Miss Juliana; thought she might have got up a bit too early and turned faint like. The Old Lady answered that she would come and see; and the two crept up the stairs, and went groping their way in the dark of the curtained room. Old Martha fumbled a long time with the blind; she drew back the curtains little by little, with infinite precaution letting in the light upon the fearful thing. But the Old Lady approached it boldly. "Don't you know me, Jooley dear?" she said, peering into the strange eyes. There was no recognition in them for all their staring. "Don't know _me_, m'm," said Martha soothingly; "seems all of a white swoon, don't she?" Martha was warming to her part. She made herself busy; she brought hot water bottles and eau de cologne; she spent twenty minutes chafing the hands and forehead and laying warmth to the feet, that the Old Lady might have the comfort of knowing that everything had been done that could be done. She shuffled off to find brandy, as if she had only thought of it that instant; and she played out the play with the looking-glass and the feather. The feather fluttered to the floor, and Martha ceased bending and peering, and looked at her mistress. "She's gone, m'm, I do believe." The Old Lady sank by the chair, her arms clinging to those rigid knees. "Jooley--Jooley--don't you _know_ me?" she cried, as if in a passion of affront. CHAPTER XII Epilogue.--The Man and the Woman By daylight there is neither glamour nor beauty in the great burying-ground of North London; you must go to it at evening, in the first fall of the summer dusk, to feel the fascination of that labyrinth of low graves, crosses and headstones, urns and sarcophagi, crowded in the black-green of the grass; of marble columns, granite pyramids and obelisks, massed and reared and piled in the grey of the air. It is nothing if not fantastic. Even by day that same mad grouping and jostling of monumental devices, gathered together from the ends of the world, gives to the place a cheerful half-pagan character; now, in its confusion and immensity, it might be some city of dreams, tossed up in cloud and foam and frozen into marble; some aerial half-way limbo where life slips a little from the living and death from the dead. For these have their own way here. No priest interferes with them, and whatever secular power ordains these matters is indulgent to its children. If one of them would have his horse or his dog carved on his tomb instead of an angel, or a pair of compasses instead of a cross, there is no one to thwart his fancy. He may even be humorous if he will. It is as if he implored us to laugh with him a little while though the jest be feeble, and not to chill him with so many tears. At twilight a man and a woman were threading their way through this cemetery, and as they went they smiled faintly at the memorial caprices of the living and the still quainter originalities of the dead. But on the whole they seemed to be trying not to look too happy. They said nothing to each other till they came to a mound raised somewhere in the borderland that divides the graves of the rich from the paupers' ground. There was just room for them to stand together on the boards that roofed in the narrow pit dug ready for the next comer. "If I believed in a Creator" (it was the man who spoke), "I should want to know what pleasure he found in creating that poor little woman." The woman did not answer as she looked at him. "Yet," he went on, "I'm selfish enough to be glad that she lived. If I had not known Miss Quincey, I should not have known you." "And I," said the woman, and her face was rosy under the touch of grief, "if I had not loved Miss Quincey, I could not have loved you." They seemed to think Miss Quincey had justified her existence. Perhaps she had. And the woman took the roses that she wore in her belt and laid them on the breast of the grave. She stood for a minute studying the effect with a shamefaced look, as if she had mocked the dead woman with flowers flung from her wedding-wreath of youth and joy. Then she turned to the man; the closing bell tolled, and they passed through the iron gates into the ways of the living. THE END 
13356	----	THE CAPTAIN'S TOLL-GATE By FRANK R. STOCKTON _With a Memorial Sketch by Mrs. Stockton_ 1903 CONTENTS I. OLIVE II. MARIA PORT III. MRS. EASTERFIELD IV. THE SON OF AN OLD SHIPMATE V. OLIVE PAYS TOLL VI. MR. CLAUDE LOCKER VII. THE CAPTAIN AND HIS GUEST GO FISHING AND COME HOME HAPPY VIII. CAPTAIN ASHER IS NOT IN A GOOD HUMOR IX. MISS PORT TAKES A DRIVE WITH THE BUTCHER X. MRS. EASTERFIELD WRITES A LETTER XI. MR. LOCKER IS RELEASED ON BAIL XII. MR. RUPERT HEMPHILL XIII. MR. LANCASTER'S BACKERS XIV. A LETTER FOR OLIVE XV. OLIVE'S BICYCLE TRIP XVI. MR. LANCASTER ACCEPTS A MISSION XVII. DICK IS NOT A PROMPT BEARER OF NEWS XVIII. WHAT OLIVE DETERMINED TO DO XIX. THE CAPTAIN AND DICK LANCASTER DESERT THE TOLL-GATE XX. MR. LOCKER DETERMINES TO RUSH THE ENEMY'S POSITION XXI. MISS RALEIGH ENJOYS A RARE PRIVILEGE XXII. THE CONFLICTING SERENADES XXIII. THE CAPTAIN AND MARIA XXIV. MR. TOM ARRIVES AT BROADSTONE XXV. THE CAPTAIN AND MR. TOM XXVI. A STOP AT THE TOLL-GATE XXVII. BY PROXY XXVIII. HERE WE GO! LOVERS THREE! XXIX. TWO PIECES OF NEWS XXX. BY THE SEA XXXI. AS GOOD AS A MAN XXXII. THE STOCK-MARKET IS SAFE XXXIII. DICK LANCASTER DOES NOT WRITE XXXIV. MISS PORT PUTS IN AN APPEARANCE XXXV. THE DORCAS ON GUARD XXXVI. COLD TINDER XXXVII. IN WHICH SOME GREAT CHANGES ARE RECORDED XXXVIII. "IT HAS JUST BEGUN!" LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Portrait of Frank B. Stockton _Etching by Jacques Reich from a photograph._ The Holt, Mr. Stockton's home near Convent, N.J. Claymont, Mr. Stockton's home near Charles Town, West Virginia. A corner in Mr. Stockton's study at Claymont. The upper terraces of Mr. Stockton's garden at Claymont. A MEMORIAL SKETCH As this--The Captain's Toll-Gate--is the last of the works of Frank R. Stockton that will be given to the public, it is fitting that it be accompanied by some account of the man whose bright spirit illumined them all. It is proper, also, that something be said of the stories themselves; of the circumstances in which they were written, the influences that determined their direction, and the history of their evolution. It seems appropriate that this should be done by the one who knew him best; the one who lived with him through a long and beautiful life; the one who walked hand in hand with him along the whole of a wonderful road of ever-changing scenes: now through forests peopled with fairies and dryads, griffins and wizards; now skirting the edges of an ocean with its strange monsters and remarkable shipwrecks; now on the beaten track of European tourists, sharing their novel adventures and amused by their mistakes; now resting in lovely gardens imbued with human interest; now helping the young to make happy homes for themselves; now sympathizing with the old as they look longingly toward a heavenly home; and, oftenest, perhaps, watching girls and young men as they were trying to work out the problems of their lives. All this, and much more, crowded the busy years until the Angel of Death stood in the path; and the journey was ended. In regard to the present story--The Captain's Toll-Gate--although it is now after his death first published, it was all written and completed by Mr. Stockton himself. No other hand has been allowed to add to, or to take from it. Mr. Stockton had so strong a feeling upon the literary ethics involved in such matters that he once refused to complete a book which a popular and brilliant author, whose style was thought to resemble his own, had left unfinished. Mr. Stockton regarded the proposed act in the light of a sacrilege. The book, he said, should be published as the author left it. Knowing this fact, readers of the present volume may feel assured that no one has been permitted to tamper with it. Although the last book by Mr. Stockton to be published, it is not the last that he wrote. He had completed The Captain's Toll-Gate, and was considering its publication, when he was asked to write another novel dealing with the buccaneers. He had already produced a book entitled Buccaneers and Pirates of our Coasts. The idea of writing a novel while the incidents were fresh in his mind pleased him, and he put aside The Captain's Toll-Gate, as the other book--Kate Bonnet--was wanted soon, and he did not wish the two works to conflict in publication. Steve Bonnet, the crazy-headed pirate, was a historical character, and performed the acts attributed to him. But the charming Kate, and her lover, and Ben Greenaway were inventions. Francis Richard Stockton, born in Philadelphia in 1834, was, on his father's side, of purely English ancestry; on his mother's side, there was a mixture of English, French, and Irish. When he began to write stories these three nationalities were combined in them: the peculiar kind of inventiveness of the French; the point of view, and the humor that we find in the old English humorists; and the capacity of the Irish for comical situations. Soon after arriving in this country the eldest son of the first American Stockton settled in Princeton, N.J., and founded that branch of the family; while the father, with the other sons, settled in Burlington County, in the same State, and founded the Burlington branch of the family, from which Frank R. Stockton was descended. On the female side he was descended from the Gardiners, also of New Jersey. His was a family with literary proclivities. His father was widely known for his religious writings, mostly of a polemical character, which had a powerful influence in the denomination to which he belonged. His half-brother (much older than Frank) was a preacher of great eloquence, famous a generation ago as a pulpit orator. When Frank and his brother John, two years younger, came to the age to begin life for themselves, they both showed such decided artistic genius that it was thought best to start them in that direction, and to have them taught engraving; an art then held in high esteem. Frank chose wood, and John steel engraving. Both did good work, but their hearts were not in it, and, as soon as opportunity offered, they abandoned engraving. John went into journalism; became editorially connected with prominent newspapers; and had won a foremost place in his chosen profession; when he was cut off by death at a comparatively early age. [Illustration: THE HOLT, MR STOCKTON'S HOME NEAR CONVENT. N.J.] Frank chose literature. He had, while in the engraving business, written a number of fairy tales, some of which had been published in juvenile magazines; also a few short stories, and quite an ambitious long story, which was published in a prominent magazine. He was then sufficiently well known as a writer to obtain without difficulty a place on the staff of Hearth and Home, a weekly New York paper, owned by Orange Judd, and conducted by Edward Eggleston. Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge had charge of the juvenile department, and Frank went on the paper as her assistant. Not long after Scribner's Monthly was started by Charles Scribner (the elder), in conjunction with Roswell Smith, and J.G. Holland. Later Mr. Smith and his associates formed The Century Company; and with this company Mr. Stockton was connected for many years: first on the Century Magazine, which succeeded Scribner's Monthly, and afterward on St. Nicholas, as assistant to Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, and, still later, when he decided to give up editorial work, as a constant contributor. After a few years he resigned his position in the company with which he had been so pleasantly associated in order to devote himself exclusively to his own work. By this time he had written and published enough to feel justified in taking, what seemed to his friends, a bold, and even rash, step, because so few writers then lived solely by the pen. He was never very strong physically; he felt himself unable to do his editorial work, and at the same time write out the fancies and stories with which his mind was full. This venture proved to be the wisest thing for him; and from that time his life was, in great part, in his books; and he gave to the world the novels and stories which bear his name. I have mentioned his fairy stories. Having been a great lover of fairy lore when a child, he naturally fell into this form of story writing as soon as he was old enough to put a story together. He invented a goodly number; and among them the Ting-a-Ling stories, which were read aloud in a boys' literary circle, and meeting their hearty approval, were subsequently published in The Riverside Magazine, a handsome and popular juvenile of that period; and, much later, were issued by Hurd & Houghton in a very pretty volume. In regard to these, he wrote long afterward as follows: "I was very young when I determined to write some fairy tales because my mind was full of them. I set to work, and in course of time produced several which were printed. These were constructed according to my own ideas. I caused the fanciful creatures who inhabited the world of fairy-land to act, as far as possible for them to do so, as if they were inhabitants of the real world. I did not dispense with monsters and enchanters, or talking beasts and birds, but I obliged these creatures to infuse into their extraordinary actions a certain leaven of common sense." It was about this time, while very young, that he and his brother became ambitious to write stories, poems, and essays for the world at large. They sent their effusions to various periodicals, with the result common to ambitious youths: all were returned. They decided at last that editors did not know a good thing when they saw it, and hit upon a brilliant scheme to prove their own judgment. One of them selected an extract from Paradise Regained (as being not so well known as Paradise Lost), and sent it to an editor, with the boy's own name appended, expecting to have it returned with some of the usual disparaging remarks, which they would greatly enjoy. But they were disappointed. The editor printed it in his paper, thereby proving that he did know a good thing if he did not know his Milton. Mr. Stockton was fond of telling this story, and it may have given rise to a report, extensively circulated, that he tried to gain admittance to periodicals for many years before he succeeded. This is not true. Some rebuffs he had, of course--some with things which afterward proved great successes--but not as great a number as falls to the lot of most beginners. The Ting-a-Ling tales proved so popular that Mr. Stockton followed them at intervals with long and short stories for the young which appeared in various juvenile publications, and were afterward published in book form--Roundabout Rambles. Tales out of School, A Jolly Fellowship, Personally Conducted, The Story of Viteau, The Floating Prince, and others. Some years later, after he had begun to write for older readers, he wrote a series of stories for St. Nicholas, ostensibly for children, but really intended for adults. Children liked the stories, but the deeper meaning underlying them all was beyond the grasp of a child's mind. These stories Mr. Stockton took very great pleasure in writing, and always regarded them as some of his best work, and was gratified when his critics wrote of them in that way. They have become famous, and have been translated into several languages, notably Old Pipes and the Dryad, The Bee Man of Orne, and The Griffin and the Minor Canon. This last story was suggested by Chester Cathedral, and he wrote it in that venerable city. The several tales were finally collected into a volume under the title: The Bee Man of Orne and Other Stories, which is included in the complete edition of his novels and stories. During the whole of his literary career Mr. Stockton was an occasional contributor of short stories and essays to The Youth's Companion. Mr. Stockton considered his career as an editor of great advantage to him as an author. In an autobiographical paper he writes: "Long-continued reading of manuscripts submitted for publication which are almost good enough to use, and yet not quite up to the standard of the magazine, can not but be of great service to any one who proposes a literary career. Bad work shows us what we ought to avoid, but most of us know, or think we know, what that is. Fine literary work we get outside the editorial room. But the great mass of literary material which is almost good enough to print is seen only by the editorial reader, and its lesson is lost upon him in a great degree unless he is, or intends to be, a literary worker." The first house in which we set up our own household goods stood in Nutley, N.J. We had with us an elderly _attaché_ of the Stockton family as maid-of-all-work; and to relieve her of some of her duties I went into New York, and procured from an orphans' home a girl whom Mr. Stockton described as "a middle-sized orphan." She was about fourteen years old, and proved to be a very peculiar individual, with strong characteristics which so appealed to Mr. Stockton's sense of humor that he liked to talk with her and draw out her opinions of things in general, and especially of the books she had read. Her spare time was devoted to reading books, mostly of the blood-curdling variety; and she read them to herself aloud in the kitchen in a very disjointed fashion, which was at first amusing, and then irritating. We never knew her real name, nor did the people at the orphanage. She had three or four very romantic ones she had borrowed from novels while she was with us, for she was very sentimental. Mr. Stockton bestowed upon her the name of Pomona, which is now a household word in myriads of homes. This extraordinary girl, and some household experiences, induced Mr. Stockton to write a paper for Scribner's Monthly which he called Rudder Grange. This one paper was all he intended to write, but it attracted immediate attention, was extensively noticed, and much talked about. The editor of the magazine received so many letters asking for another paper that Mr. Stockton wrote the second one; and as there was still a clamor for more, he, after a little time, wrote others of the series. Some time later they were collected in a book. For those interested in Pomona I will add, that while the girl was an actual personage, with all the characteristics given to her by her chronicler, the woman Pomona was a development in Mr. Stockton's mind of the girl as he imagined she would become, for the original passed out of our lives while still a girl. Rudder Grange was Mr. Stockton's first book for adult readers, and a good deal of comment has been made upon the fact that he had reached middle life when it was published. His biographers and critics assume that he was utterly unknown at that time, and that he suddenly jumped into favor, and they naturally draw the inference that he had until then vainly attempted to get before the public. This is all a misapprehension of the facts. It will be seen from what I have previously stated, that at this time he was already well known as a juvenile writer, and not only had no difficulty in getting his articles printed, but editors and publishers were asking him for stories. He had made but few slight attempts to obtain a larger audience. That he confined himself for so long a time to juvenile literature can be easily accounted for. For one thing, it grew out of his regular work of constantly catering for the young, and thinking of them. Then, again, editorial work makes urgent demands upon time and strength, and until freed from it he had not the leisure or inclination to fashion stories for more exacting and critical readers. Perhaps, too, he was slow in recognizing his possibilities. Certain it is that the public were not slow to recognize him. He did, however, experience difficulties in getting the collected papers of Rudder Grange published in book form. I will quote his own account, which is interesting as showing how slow he was to appreciate the fact that the public would gladly accept the writings of a humorist: "The discovery that humorous compositions could be used in journals other than those termed comic marked a new era in my work. Periodicals especially devoted to wit and humor were very scarce in those days, and as this sort of writing came naturally to me, it was difficult, until the advent of Puck, to find a medium of publication for writings of this nature. I contributed a good deal to this paper, but it was only partly satisfactory, for articles which make up a comic paper must be terse and short, and I wanted to write humorous tales which should be as long as ordinary magazine stories. I had good reason for my opinion of the gravity of the situation, for the editor of a prominent magazine declined a humorous story (afterward very popular) which I had sent him, on the ground that the traditions of magazines forbade the publication of stories strictly humorous. Therefore, when I found an editor at last who actually _wished_ me to write humorous stories, I was truly rejoiced. My first venture in this line was Rudder Grange. And, after all, I had difficulty in getting the series published in book form. Two publishers would have nothing to do with them, assuring me that although the papers were well enough for a magazine, a thing of ephemeral nature, the book-reading public would not care for them. The third publisher to whom I applied issued the work, and found the venture satisfactory." The book-reading public cared so much for this book that it would not remain satisfied with it alone. Again and again it demanded of the author more about Pomona, Euphemia, and Jonas. Hence The Rudder Grangers Abroad and Pomona's Travels. The most famous of Mr. Stockton's stories, The Lady or the Tiger?, was written to be read before a literary society of which he was a member. It caused such an interesting discussion in the society that he published it in the Century Magazine. It had no especial announcement there, nor was it heralded in any way, but it took the public by storm, and surprised both the editor and the author. All the world must love a puzzle, for in an amazingly short time the little story had made the circuit of the world. Debating societies everywhere seized upon it as a topic; it was translated into nearly all languages; society people discussed it at their dinners; plainer people argued it at their firesides; numerous letters were sent to nearly every periodical in the country; and public readers were expounding it to their audiences. It interested heathen and Christian alike; for an English friend told Mr. Stockton that in India he had heard a group of Hindoo men gravely debating the problem. Of course, a mass of letters came pouring in upon the author. A singular thing about this story has been the revival of interest in it that has occurred from time to time. Although written many years ago, it seems still to excite the interest of a younger generation; for, after an interval of silence on the subject of greater or less duration, suddenly, without apparent cause, numerous letters in relation to it will appear on the author's table, and "solutions" will be printed in the newspapers. This ebb and flow has continued up to the present time. Mr. Stockton made no attempt to answer the question he had raised. We both spent much time in the South at different periods. The dramatic and unconsciously humorous side of the negroes pleased his fancy. He walked and talked with them, saw them in their homes, at their "meetin's," and in the fields. He has drawn with an affectionate hand the genial, companionable Southern negro as he is--or rather as he was--for this type is rapidly passing away. Soon there will be no more of these "old-time darkies." They would be by the world forgot had they not been embalmed in literature by Mr. Stockton, and the best Southern writers. There is one other notable characteristic that should be referred to in writing of Mr. Stockton's stories--the machines and appliances he invented as parts of them. They are very numerous and ingenious. No matter how extraordinary might be the work in hand, the machine to accomplish the end was made on strictly scientific principles, to accomplish that exact piece of work. It would seem that if he had not been an inventor of plots he might have been an inventor of instruments. This idea is sustained by the fact that he had been a wood-engraver only a short time when he invented and patented a double graver which cuts two parallel lines at the same time. It is somewhat strange that more than one of these extraordinary machines has since been exploited by scientists and explorers, without the least suspicion on their part that the enterprising romancer had thought of them first. Notable among these may be named the idea of going to the north pole under the ice, the one that the center of the earth is an immense crystal (Great Stone of Sardis), and the attempt to manufacture a gun similar to the Peace Compeller in The Great War Syndicate. In all of Mr. Stockton's novels there were characters taken from real persons who perhaps would not recognize themselves in the peculiar circumstances in which he placed them. In the crowd of purely imaginative beings one could easily recognize certain types modified and altered. In The Casting away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine he introduced two delightful old ladies whom he knew, and who were never surprised at anything that might happen. Whatever emergency arose, they took it as a matter of course, and prepared to meet it. Mr. Stockton amused himself at their expense by writing this story. He was not at first interested in the Dusantes, and had no intention of ever saying anything further about them. When there was a demand for knowledge of the Dusantes Mr. Stockton did not heed it. He was opposed to writing sequels. But when an author of distinction, whose work and friendship he highly valued, wrote to him that if he did not write something about the Dusantes, and what they said when they found the board money in the ginger jar, he would do it himself, Mr. Stockton set himself to writing The Dusantes. I have been asked to give some account of the places in which Mr. Stockton's stories and novels were written, and their environments. Some of the Southern stories were written in Virginia, and, now and then, a short story elsewhere, as suggested by the locality, but the most of his work was done under his own roof-tree. He loved his home; it had to be a country home, and always had to have a garden. In the care of a garden and in driving, he found his two greatest sources of recreation. [Illustration: CLAYMONT, MR. STOCKTON'S HOME NEAR CHARLES TOWN, WEST VIRGINIA.] I have mentioned Nutley, which lies in New Jersey, near New York. His dwelling there was a pretty little cottage, where he had a garden, some chickens, and a cow. This was his home in his editorial days, and here Rudder Grange was written. It was a rented place. The next home we owned. It stood at a greater distance from New York, at the place called Convent, half-way between Madison and Morristown, in New Jersey. Here we lived a number of years after Mr. Stockton gave up editorial work; and here the greater number of his tales were written. It was a much larger place than we had at Nutley, with more chickens, two cows, and a much larger garden. Mr. Stockton dictated his stories to a stenographer. His favorite spot for this in summer was a grove of large fir-trees near the house. Here, in the warm weather, he would lie in a hammock. His secretary would be near, with her writing materials, and a book of her choosing. The book was for her own reading while Mr. Stockton was "thinking." It annoyed him to know he was being "waited for." He would think out pages of incidents, and scenes, and even whole conversations, before he began to dictate. After all had been arranged in his mind he dictated rapidly; but there often were long pauses, when the secretary could do a good deal of reading. In cold weather he had the secretary and an easy chair in the study--a room he had built according to his own fancy. A fire of blazing logs added a glow to his fancies. I may state here that we always spent a part of every winter in New York. A certain amount of city life was greatly enjoyed. Mr. Stockton thus secured much intellectual pleasure. He liked his clubs, and was fond of society, where he met men noted in various walks of life.[1] [Footnote 1: Edward Gary, the secretary of the Century Club, in the obituary notice of Mr. Stockton written by him for the club's annual report, says of Mr. Stockton as a member: "It was but a dozen years ago that Frank R. Stockton entered the fellowship of the Century, in which he soon became exceedingly at home, winning friends here, as he won them all over the land and in other lands, by the charm of his keen and kindly mind shining in all that he wrote and said. He had an extraordinary capacity for work and a rare talent for diversion, and the Century was honored by his well-earned fame, and fortunate in its share in his ever fresh and varying companionship."] I am now nearing the close of a life which had had its trials and disappointments, its struggles with weak health and with unsatisfying labor. But these mostly came in the earlier years, and were met with courage, an ever fresh-springing hope, and a buoyant spirit that would not be intimidated. On the whole, as one looks back through the long vista, much more of good than of evil fell to his lot. His life had been full of interesting experiences, and one of, perhaps, unusual happiness. At the last there came to pass the fulfilment of a dream in which he had long indulged. He became the possessor of a beautiful estate containing what he most desired, and with surroundings and associations dear to his heart. He had enjoyed The Holt, his New Jersey home, and was much interested in improving it. His neighbors and friends there were valued companions. But in his heart there had always been a longing for a home, not suburban--a place in the _real_ country, and with more land. Finally, the time came when he felt that he could gratify this longing. He liked the Virginia climate, and decided to look for a place somewhere in that State, not far from the city of Washington. After a rather prolonged search, we one day lighted upon Claymont, in the Shenandoah Valley. It won our hearts, and ended our search. It had absolutely everything that Mr. Stockton coveted. He bought it at once, and we moved into it as speedily as possible. Claymont is a handsome colonial residence, "with all modern improvements"--an unusual combination. It lies near the historic old town of Charles Town, in West Virginia, near Harpers Ferry. Claymont is itself an historic place. The land was first owned by "the Father of his Country." This great personage designed the house, with its main building, two cottages (or lodges), and courtyards, for his nephew Bushrod, to whom he had given the land. Through the wooded park runs the old road, now grass grown, over which Braddock marched to his celebrated "defeat," guided by the youthful George Washington, who had surveyed the whole region for Lord Fairfax. During the civil war the place twice escaped destruction because it had once been the property of Washington. But it was not for its historical associations, but for the place itself, that Mr. Stockton purchased it. From the main road to the house there is a drive of three-quarters of a mile through a park of great forest-trees and picturesque groups of rocks. On the opposite side of the house extends a wide, open lawn; and here, and from the piazzas, a noble view of the valley and the Blue Ridge Mountains is obtained. Besides the park and other grounds, there is a farm at Claymont of considerable size. Mr. Stockton, however, never cared for farming, except in so far as it enabled him to have horses and stock. But his soul delighted in the big, old terraced garden of his West Virginia home. Compared with other gardens he had had, the new one was like paradise to the common world. At Claymont several short stories were written. John Gayther's Garden was prepared for publication here by connecting stories previously published into a series, told in a garden, and suggested by the one at Claymont. John Gayther, however, was an invention. Kate Bonnet and The Captain's Toll-Gate were both written at Claymont. [Illustration: A CORNER IN MR. STOCKTON'S STUDY AT CLAYMONT. Showing the desk at which all his later books were written.] Mr. Stockton was permitted to enjoy this beautiful place only three years. They were years of such rare pleasure, however, that we can rejoice that he had so much joy crowded into so short a space of his life, and that he had it at its close. Truly life was never sweeter to him than at its end, and the world was never brighter to him than when he shut his eyes upon it. He was returning from a winter in New York to his beloved Claymont, in good health, and full of plans for the summer and for his garden, when he was taken suddenly ill in Washington, and died three days later, on April 20, 1902, a few weeks after Kate Bonnet was published in book form. Mr. Stockton passed away at a ripe age--sixty-eight years. And yet his death was a surprise to us all. He had never been in better health, apparently; his brain was as active as ever; life was dear to him; he seemed much younger than he was. He had no wish to give up his work; no thought of old age; no mental decay. His last novels, his last short stories, showed no falling-off. They were the equals of those written in younger years. Nor had he lost the public interest. He was always sure of an audience, and his work commanded a higher price at the last than ever before. His was truly a passing away. He gently glided from the homes he had loved to prepare here to one already prepared for him in heaven, unconscious that he was entering one more beautiful than even he had ever imagined. Mr. Stockton was the most lovable of men. He shed happiness all around him, not from conscious effort but out of his own bountiful and loving nature. His tender heart sympathized with the sad and unfortunate, but he never allowed sadness to be near, if it were possible to prevent it. He hated mourning and gloom. They seemed to paralyze him mentally until his bright spirit had again asserted itself, and he had recovered his balance. He usually looked either upon the best, or the humorous side of life. Pie won the love of every one who knew him--even that of readers who did not know him personally, as many letters testify. To his friends his loss is irreparable, for never again will they find his equal in such charming qualities of head and heart. [Illustration: THE UPPER TERRACES OF MR. STOCKTON'S GARDEN AT CLAYMONT.] This is not the place for a critical estimate of the work of Frank R. Stockton.[2] His stories are, in great part, a reflex of himself. The bright outlook on life; the courageous spirit; the helpfulness; the sense of the comic rather than the tragic; the love of domestic life; the sweetness of pure affection; live in his books as they lived in himself. He had not the heart to make his stories end unhappily. He knew that there is much of the tragic in human lives, but he chose to ignore it as far as possible, and to walk in the pleasant ways which are numerous in this tangled world. There is much philosophy underlying a good deal that he wrote, but it has to be looked for; it is not insistent, and is never morbid. He could not write an impure word, or express an impure thought, for he belonged to the "pure in heart," who, we are assured, "shall see God." [Footnote 2: I may, however, properly quote from the sketch prepared by Mr. Gary for the Century Club: "He brought to his later work the discipline of long and rather tedious labor, with the capital amassed by acute observation, on which his original imagination wrought the sparkling miracles that we know. He has been called the representative American humorist. He was that in the sense that the characters he created had much of the audacity of the American spirit, the thirst for adventures in untried fields of thought and action, the subconscious seriousness in the most incongruous situations, the feeling of being at home no matter what happens. But how amazingly he mingled a broad philosophy with his fun, a philosophy not less wise and comprehending than his fun was compelling! If his humor was American, it was also cosmopolitan, and had its laughing way not merely with our British kinsmen, but with alien peoples across the usually impenetrable barrier of translation. The fortune of his jesting lay not in his ears, but in the hearts of his hearers. It was at once appealing and revealing. It flashed its playful light into the nooks and corners of our own being, and wove close bonds with those at whom we laughed. There was no bitterness in it. He was neither satirist nor preacher, nor of set purpose a teacher, though it must be a dull reader that does not gather from his books the lesson of the value of a gentle heart and a clear, level outlook upon our perplexing world."] MARIAN E. STOCKTON. CLAYMONT, _May 15, 1903_. THE CAPTAIN'S TOLL-GATE _CHAPTER I_ _Olive._ A long, wide, and smoothly macadamized road stretched itself from the considerable town of Glenford onward and northward toward a gap in the distant mountains. It did not run through a level country, but rose and fell as if it had been a line of seaweed upon the long swells of the ocean. Upon elevated points upon this road, farm lands and forests could be seen extending in every direction. But there was nothing in the landscape which impressed itself more obtrusively upon the attention of the traveler than the road itself. White in the bright sunlight and gray under the shadows of the clouds, it was the one thing to be seen which seemed to have a decided purpose. Northward or southward, toward the gap in the long line of mountains or toward the wood-encircled town in the valley, it was always going somewhere. About two miles from the town, and at the top of the first long hill which was climbed by the road, a tall white pole projected upward against the sky, sometimes perpendicularly, and sometimes inclined at a slight angle. This was a turnpike gate or bar, and gave notice to all in vehicles or on horses that the use of this well-kept road was not free to the traveling public. At the approach of persons not known, or too well known, the bar would slowly descend across the road, as if it were a musket held horizontally while a sentinel demanded the password. Upon the side of the road opposite to the great post on which the toll-gate moved, was a little house with a covered doorway, from which toll could be collected without exposing the collector to sun or rain. This tollhouse was not a plain whitewashed shed, such as is often seen upon turnpike roads, but a neat edifice, containing a comfortable room. On one side of it was a small porch, well shaded by vines, furnished with a settle and two armchairs, while over all a large maple stretched its protecting branches. Back of the tollhouse was a neatly fenced garden, well filled with old-fashioned flowers; and, still farther on, a good-sized house, from which a box-bordered path led through the garden to the tollhouse. It was a remark that had been made frequently, both by strangers and residents in that part of the country, that if it had not been for the obvious disadvantages of a toll-gate, this house and garden, with its grounds and fields, would be a good enough home for anybody. When he happened to hear this remark Captain John Asher, who kept the toll-gate, was wont to say that it was a good enough home for him, even with the toll-gate, and its obvious disadvantages. It was on a morning in early summer, when the garden had grown to be so red and white and yellow in its flowers, and so green in its leaves and stalks, that the box which edged the path was beginning to be unnoticed, that a girl sat in a small arbor standing on a slight elevation at one side of the garden, and from which a view could be had both up and down the road. She was rather a slim girl, though tall enough; her hair was dark, her eyes were blue, and she sat on the back of a rustic bench with her feet resting upon the seat; this position she had taken that she might the better view the road. With both her hands this girl held a small telescope which she was endeavoring to fix upon a black spot a mile or more away upon the road. It was difficult for her to hold the telescope steadily enough to keep the object-glass upon the black spot, and she had a great deal of trouble in the matter of focusing, pulling out and pushing in the smaller cylinder in a manner which showed that she was not accustomed to the use of this optical instrument. "Field-glasses are ever so much better," she said to herself; "you can screw them to any point you want. But now I've got it. It is very near that cross-road. Good! it did not turn there; it is coming along the pike, and there will be toll to pay. One horse, seven cents." She put down the telescope as if to rest her arm and eye. Presently, however, she raised the glass again. "Now, let us see," she said, "Uncle John? Jane? or me?" After directing the glass to a point in the air about two hundred feet above the approaching vehicle, and then to another point half a mile to the right of it, she was fortunate enough to catch sight of it again. "I don't know that queer-looking horse," she said. "It must be some stranger, and Jane will do. No, a little boy is driving. Strangers coming along this road would not be driven by little boys. I expect I shall have to call Uncle John." Then she put down the glass and rubbed her eye, after which, with unassisted vision, she gazed along the road. "I can see a great deal better without that old thing," she continued. "There's a woman in that carriage. I'll go myself." With this she jumped down from the rustic seat, and with the telescope under her arm, she skipped through the garden to the little tollhouse. The name of this girl was Olive Asher. Captain John Asher, who took the toll, was her uncle, and she had now been living with him for about six weeks. Olive was what is known in certain social circles as a navy girl. About twenty years before she had come to her uncle's she had been born in Genoa, her father at the time being a lieutenant on an American war-vessel lying in the harbor of Villa Franca. Her first schooldays were passed in the south of France, and she spent some subsequent years in a German school in Dresden. Here she was supposed to have finished her education but when her father's ship was stationed on our Pacific coast and Olive and her mother went to San Francisco they associated a great deal with army people, and here the girl learned so much more of real life and her own country people that the few years she spent in the far West seemed like a post-graduate course, as important to her true education as any of the years she had spent in schools. After the death of her mother, when Olive was about eighteen, the girl had lived with relatives, East and West, hoping for the day when her father's three years' cruise would terminate, and she could go and make a home for him in some pleasant spot on shore. Now, in the course of these family visits she had come to stay with her father's brother, John Asher, who kept the toll-gate on the Glenford pike. Captain John Asher was an older man than his brother, the naval officer, but he was in the prime of life, and able to hold the command of a ship if he had cared to do it. But having been in the merchant service for a long time, and having made some money, he had determined to leave the sea and to settle on shore; and, finding this commodious house by the toll-gate, he settled there. There were some people who said that he had taken the position of toll-gate keeper because of the house, and there were others who believed that he had bought the house on account of the toll-gate. But no matter what people thought or said, the good captain was very well satisfied with his home and his official position. He liked to meet with people, and he preferred that they should come to him rather than that he should go to them. He was interested in most things that were going on in his neighborhood, and therefore he liked to talk to the people who were going by. Sometimes a good talking acquaintance or an interesting traveler would tie his horse under the shade of the maple-tree and sit a while with the captain on the little porch. Certain it was, it was the most hospitable toll-gate in that part of the country. There was a road which branched off from the turnpike, about a mile from the town, and which, after some windings, entered the pike again beyond the toll-gate, and although this road was not always in very good condition, it had seen a good deal of travel, which, in time, gave it the name of the shunpike. But since Captain Asher had lived at the toll-gate it was remarked that the shunpike was not used as much as in former times. There were penurious people who had once preferred to go a long way round and save money whose economical dispositions now gave way before the combined attractions of a better road, and a chat with Captain Asher. It had been predicted by some of her relatives that Olive would not be content with her life in her uncle's somewhat peculiar household. He was a bachelor, and seldom entertained company, and his ordinary family consisted of an elderly housekeeper and another servant. But Olive was not in the least dissatisfied. From her infancy up, she had lived so much among people that she had grown tired of them; and her good-natured uncle, with his sea stories, the garden, the old-fashioned house, the fields and the woods beyond, the little stream, which came hurrying down from the mountains, where she could fish or wade as the fancy pleased her, gave her a taste of some of the joys of girlhood which she had not known when she was really a girl. Another thing that greatly interested her was the toll-gate. If she had been allowed to do so, she would have spent the greater part of her time taking money, making change, and talking to travelers. But this her uncle would not permit. He did not object to her doing some occasional toll-gate work, and he did not wonder that she liked it, remembering how interesting it often was to himself, but he would not let her take toll indiscriminately. So they made a regular arrangement about it. When the captain was at his meals, or shaving, or otherwise occupied, old Jane attended to the toll-gate. At ordinary times, and when any of his special friends were seen approaching, the captain collected toll himself, but when women happened to be traveling on the road, then it was arranged that Olive should go to the gate. Two or three times it had happened that some young men of the town, hearing their sisters talk of the pretty girl who had taken their toll, had thought it might be a pleasant thing to drive out on the pike, but their money had always been taken by the captain, or else by the wooden-faced Jane, and nothing had come of their little adventures. The garden hedge which ran alongside the road was very high. _CHAPTER II_ _Maria Port._ Olive stood impatiently at the door of the little tollhouse. In one hand she held three copper cents, because she felt almost sure that the person approaching would give her a dime or two five-cent pieces. "I never knew horses to travel so slowly as they do on this pike!" she said to herself. "How they used to gallop on those beautiful roads in France!" In due course of time the vehicle approached near enough to the toll-gate for Olive to take an observation of its occupant. This was a middle-aged woman, dressed in black, holding a black fan. She wore a black bonnet with a little bit of red in it. Her face was small and pale, its texture and color suggesting a boiled apple dumpling. She had small eyes of which it can be said that they were of a different color from her face, and were therefore noticeable. Her lips were not prominent, and were closely pressed together as if some one had begun to cut a dumpling, but had stopped after making one incision. This somewhat somber person leaned forward in the seat behind her young driver, and steadily stared at Olive. When the horse had passed the toll-bar the boy stopped it so that his passenger and Olive were face to face and very near each other. "Seven cents, please," said Olive. The cleft in the dumpling enlarged itself, and the woman spoke. "Bless my soul," she said, "are you Captain Asher's niece?" "I am," said Olive in surprise. "Well, well," said the other, "that just beats me! When I heard he had his niece with him I thought she was a plain girl, with short frocks and her hair plaited down her back." Olive did not like this woman. It is wonderful how quickly likes and dislikes may be generated. "But you see I am not," she replied. "Seven cents, please." "Don't you suppose I know what the toll is?" said the woman in the carriage. "I'm sure I've traveled over this road often enough to know that. But what I'm thinkin' about is the difference between what I thought the captain's niece was and what she really is." "It does not make any difference what the difference is," said Olive, speaking quickly and with perhaps a little sharpness in her voice, "all I want is for you to pay me the toll." "I'm not goin' to pay any toll," said the other. Olive's face flushed. "Little boy," she exclaimed, "back that horse!" As the youngster obeyed her peremptory request Olive gave a quick jerk to a rope and brought down the toll-gate bar so that it stretched itself across the road, barely missing in its downward sweep the nose of the unoffending horse. "Now," said Olive, "if you are ready to pay your toll you can go through this gate, and if you are not, you can turn round and go back where you came from." "I'm not goin' to pay any toll," said the other, "and I don't want to go through the gate. I came to see Captain Asher.--Johnny, turn your horse a little and let me get out. Then you can stop in the shade of this tree and wait until I'm ready to go back.--I suppose the captain's in," she said to Olive, "but if he isn't, I can wait." "Oh, he's at home," said Olive, "and, of course, if I had known you were coming to see him, I would not have asked you for your toll. This way, please," and she stepped toward a gate in the garden hedge. "When I've been here before," said the visitor, "I always went through the tollhouse. But I suppose things is different now." "This is the entrance for visitors," said Olive, holding open the gate. Captain Asher had heard the voices, and had come out to his front door. He shook hands with the newcomer, and then turned to Olive, who was following her. "This is my niece, my brother Alfred's daughter," he said, "and Olive, let me introduce you to Miss Maria Port." "She introduced herself to me," said Miss Port, "and tried to get seven cents out of me by letting down the bar so that it nearly broke my horse's nose. But we'll get to know each other better. She's very different from what I thought she was." "Most people are," said Captain Asher, as he offered a chair to Miss Port in his parlor, and sat down opposite to her. Olive, who did not care to hear herself discussed, quietly passed out of the room. "Captain," said Miss Port, leaning forward, "how old is she, anyway?" "About twenty," was the answer. "And how long is she going to stay?" "All summer, I hope," said Captain John. "Well, she won't do it, I can tell you that," remarked Miss Port. "She'll get tired enough of this place before the summer's out." "We shall see about that," said the captain, "but she is not tired yet." "And her mother's dead, and she's wearin' no mournin'." "Why should she?" said the captain. "It would be a shame for a young girl like her to be wearing black for two years." "She's delicate, ain't she?" "I have not seen any signs of it." "What did her mother die of?" "I never heard," said the captain; "perhaps it was the bubonic plague." Miss Port pushed back her chair and drew her skirts about her. "Horrible!" she exclaimed. "And you let that child come here!" The captain smiled. "Perhaps it wasn't that," he said. "It might have been an avalanche, and that is not catching." Miss Port looked at him seriously. "It's a great pity she's so handsome," she said. "I don't think so; I am glad of it," replied the captain. Miss Port heaved a sigh. "What that girl is goin' to need," she said, "is a female guardeen." "Would you like to take the place?" asked the captain with a grin. At that instant it might have been supposed that a certain dumpling which has been mentioned was made of very red apples and that its covering of dough was somewhat thin in certain places. Miss Port's eyes were bent for an instant upon the floor. "That is a thing," she said, "which would need a great deal of consideration." A sudden thrill ran through the captain which was not unlike a moment in his past career when a gentle shudder had run through his ship as its keel grazed an unsuspected sand-bar, and he had not known whether it was going to stick fast or not; but he quickly got himself into deep water again. "Oh, she is all right," said he briskly; "she has been used to taking care of herself almost ever since she was born. And by the way, Miss Port, did you know that Mr. Easterfield is at his home?" Miss Port was not pleased with the sudden change in the conversation, and she remembered, too, that in other days it had been the captain's habit to call her Maria. "I did not know he had a home," she answered. "I thought it was her'n. But since you've mentioned it, I might as well say that it was about him I came to see you. I heard that he came to town yesterday, and that her carriage met him at the station, and drove him out to her house. I hoped he had stopped a minute as he drove through your toll-gate, and that you might have had a word with him, or at least a good look at him. Mercy me!" she suddenly ejaculated, as a look of genuine disappointment spread over her face; "I forgot. The coachman would have paid the toll as he went to town, and there was no need of stoppin' as they went back. I might have saved myself this trip." The captain laughed. "It stands to reason that it might have been that way," he said, "but it wasn't. He stopped, and I talked to him for about five minutes." The face of Miss Port now grew radiant, and she pulled her chair nearer to Captain Asher. "Tell me," said she, "is he really anybody?" "He is a good deal of a body," answered the captain. "I should say he is pretty nearly six feet high, and of considerable bigness." "Well!" exclaimed Miss Port, "I'd thought he was a little dried-up sort of a mummy man that you might hang up on a nail and be sure you'd find him when you got back. Did he talk?" "Oh, yes," said the captain, "he talked a good deal." "And what did he tell you?" "He did not tell me anything, but he asked a lot of questions." "What about?" said Miss Port quickly. "Everything. Fishing, gunning, crops, weather, people." "Well, well!" she exclaimed. "And don't you suppose his wife could have told him all that, and she's been livin' here--this is the second summer. Did he say how long he's goin' to stay?" "No." "And you didn't ask him?" "I told you he asked the questions," replied the captain. "Well, I wish I'd been here," Miss Port remarked fervently. "I'd got something out of him." "No doubt of that," thought the captain, but he did not say so. "If he expects to pass himself off as just a common man," continued Miss Port, "that's goin' to spend the rest of his summer here with his family, he can't do it. He's first got to explain why he never came near that young woman and her two babies for the whole of last summer, and, so far as I've heard, he was never mentioned by her. I think, Captain Asher, that for the sake of the neighborhood, if you don't care about such things yourself, you might have made use of this opportunity. As far as I know, you're the only person in or about Glenford that's spoke to him." The captain smiled. "Sometimes, I suppose," said he, "I don't say enough, and sometimes I say too much, but--" "Then I wish he'd struck you more on an average," interrupted Miss Port. "But there's no use talkin' any more about it. I hired a horse and a carriage and a boy to come out here this mornin' to ask you about that man. And what's come of it? You haven't got a single thing to tell anybody except that he's big." The captain changed the subject again. "How is your father?" he asked. "Pop's just the same as he always is," was the answer. "And now, as I don't want to lose the whole of the seventy-five cents I've got to pay, suppose you call in that niece of yours, and let me have a talk with her. Perhaps I can get something interesting out of her." The captain left the room, but he did not move with alacrity. He found Olive with a book in a hammock at the back of the house. When he told her his errand she sat up with a sudden bounce, her feet upon the ground. "Uncle," she said, "isn't that woman a horrid person?" The captain was a merry-minded man, and he laughed. "It is pretty hard for me to answer that question," said he; "suppose you go in and find out for yourself." Olive hesitated; she was a girl who had a very high opinion of herself and a very low opinion of such a person as this Miss Port seemed to be. Why should she go in and talk to her? Still undecided, she left the hammock and made a few steps toward the house. Then, with a sudden exclamation, she stopped and dropped her book. "Buggy coming," she exclaimed, "and that thing is running to take the toll!" With these words she started away with the speed of a colt. An approaching buggy was on the road; Miss Maria Port, walking rapidly, had nearly reached the back door of the tollhouse when Olive swept by her so closely that the wind of her fluttering garments almost blew away the breath of the elder woman. "Seven cents!" cried Olive, standing in the covered doorway, but she might have saved herself the trouble of repeating this formula, for the man in the buggy was not near enough to hear her. When Olive saw it was a man, she turned, and perceiving her uncle approaching the tollhouse, she hurried by him up the garden path, looking neither to the right nor to the left. "A pretty girl that is of yours!" exclaimed Miss Port. "She might just as well have slapped me in the face!" "But what were you going to do in here?" asked Captain Asher. "You know that's against the rules." "The rules be bothered," replied the irate Maria. "I thought it was Mr. Smiley. He's been away from his parish for a week, and there are a good many things I want to ask him." "Well, it is the Roman Catholic priest from Marlinsville," said Captain Asher, "and he wouldn't tell you anything if you asked him." The captain had a cheerful little chat with the priest, who was one of his most valued road friends; and when he returned to his garden he found Miss Port walking up and down the main path in a state of agitation. "I should think," said she, "that the company would have something to say about your takin' up your time talkin' to people on the road. I've heard that sometimes they get out, and spend hours talkin' and smokin' with you. I guess that's against the rules." "It is all right between the company and me," replied the captain. "You know I am a stockholder in a small way." "You are!" exclaimed Miss Port. "Well, I've got somethin' by comin' here, anyway." Stowing away this bit of information in regard to the captain's resources in her mind for future consideration, she continued: "I don't think much of that niece of your'n. Has she never lived anywhere where the people had good manners?" Olive, who had gone to her room in order to be out of the way of this queer visitor, now sat by an upper window, and it was impossible that she should fail to hear this remark, made by Miss Port in her most querulous tones. Olive immediately left the window, and sat down on the other side of the room. "Good manners!" she ejaculated, and fell to thinking. Her present situation had suddenly presented itself to her in a very different light from that in which she had previously regarded it. She was living in a very plain house in a very plain way, with a very plain uncle who kept a tollhouse; but she liked him; and, until this moment, she had liked the life. But now she asked herself if it were possible for her longer to endure it if she were to be condemned to intercourse with people like that thing down in the garden. If her uncle's other friends in Glenford were of that grade she could not stay here. She smiled in spite of her irritation as she thought of the woman's words--"Anywhere where the people had good manners." Good manners, indeed! She remembered the titled young officers in Germany with whom she had talked and danced when she was but seventeen years old, and who used to send her flowers. She remembered the people of rank in the army and navy and in the state who used to invite her mother and herself to their houses. She remembered the royal prince who had wished to be presented to her, and whose acquaintance she had declined because she did not like what she had heard of him. She remembered the good friends of her father in Europe and America, ladies and gentlemen of the army and navy. She remembered the society in which she had mingled when living with her Boston aunt during the past winter. Then she thought of Miss Port's question. Good manners, indeed! "Well," said the perturbed Maria, after having been informed by the captain that his niece was accustomed to move in the best circles, "I don't want to go into the house again, for if I was to meet her, I'm sure I couldn't keep my temper. But I'll say this to you, Captain Asher, that I pity the woman that's her guardeen. And now, if you'll help my boy turn round so he won't upset the carriage, I'll be goin'. But before I go I'll just say this, that if you'd been in the habit of takin' advantage of the chances that come to you, I believe that you'd be a good deal better off than you are now, even if you do own shares in the turnpike company." It was not difficult for the captain to recognize some of the chances to which she alluded; one of them she herself had offered him several times. "Oh, I am very well off as I am," he answered, "but perhaps some day I may have something to tell you of the Easterfields and about their doings up on the mountain." "About her doin's, you might as well say," retorted Miss Port. "No matter what you tell me, I don't believe a word about his ever doin' anything." With this she walked to the little phaeton, into which the captain helped her. "Uncle John," said Olive, a few minutes later, "are there many people like that in Glenford?" "My dear child," said the captain, "the people in Glenford, the most of them, I mean, are just as nice people as you would want to meet. They are ladies and gentlemen, and they are mighty good company. They don't often come out here, to be sure, but I know most of them, and I ought to be ashamed of myself that I have not made you acquainted with them before this. As to Maria Port, there is only one of her in Glenford, and, so far as I know, there isn't another just like her in the whole world. Now I come to think of it," he continued, "I wonder why some of the young people have not come out to call on you. But if that Maria Port has been going around telling them that you are a little girl in short frocks it is not so surprising." "Oh, don't bother yourself, Uncle John, about calls and society," said Olive. "If you can only manage that that woman takes the shunpike whenever she drives this way, I shall be perfectly satisfied with everything just as it is." _CHAPTER III_ _Mrs. Easterfield._ On the side of the mountain, a few miles to the west of the gap to which the turnpike stretched itself, there was a large estate and a large house which had once belonged to the Sudley family. For a hundred years or more the Sudleys had been important people in this part of the country, but it had been at least two decades since any of them had lived on this estate. Some of them had gone to cities and towns, and others had married, or in some other fashion had melted away so that their old home knew them no more. Although it was situated on the borders of the Southern country, the house, which was known as Broadstone, from the fact that a great flat rock on the level of the surrounding turf extended itself for many feet at the front of the principal entrance, was not constructed after ordinary Southern fashions. Some of the early Sudleys were of English blood and proclivities, and so it was partly like an English house; some of them had taken Continental ideas into the family, and there was a certain solidity about the walls; while here and there the narrowness of the windows suggested southern Europe. Some parts of the great stone walls had been stuccoed, and some had been whitewashed. Here and there vines climbed up the walls and stretched themselves under the eaves. As the house stood on a wide bluff, there was a lawn from which one could see over the tree tops the winding river sparkling far below. There were gardens and fields on the open slopes, and beyond these the forests rose to the top of the mountains. The ceilings of the house were high, and the halls and rooms were wide and airy; the trees on the edge of the woods seemed always to be rustling in a wind from one direction or another, and a lady; Mrs. Easterfield; who several years before had been traveling in that part of the country; declared that Broadstone was the most delightful place for a summer residence that she had ever seen, either in this country or across the ocean. So, with the consent and money of her husband, she had bought the estate the summer before the time of our story, and had gone there to live. Mr. Easterfield was what is known as a railroad man, and held high office in many companies and organizations. When his wife first went to Broadstone he was obliged to spend the summer in Europe, and had agreed with her that the estate on the mountains would be the best place for her and the two little girls while he was away. This state of affairs had occasioned a good deal of talk, especially in Glenford, a town with which the Easterfields had but little to do, and which therefore had theorized much in order to explain to its own satisfaction the conduct of a comparatively young married woman who was evidently rich enough to spend her summers at any of the most fashionable watering-places, but who chose to go with her young family to that old barracks of a house, and who had a husband who never came near her or his children, and who, so far as the Glenford people knew, she never mentioned. Mrs. Margaret Easterfield was a very fine woman, both to look at and to talk to, but she did not believe that her duty to her fellow-beings demanded that she should devote her first summer months at her new place to the gratification of the eyes and ears of her friends and acquaintances, so she had gone to Broadstone with her family--all females--with servants enough, and for the whole of the summer they had all been very happy. But this summer things were going to be a little different at Broadstone, for Mrs. Easterfield had arranged for some house parties. Her husband was very kind and considerate about her plans, and promised her that he would make one of the good company at Broadstone whenever it was possible for him to do so. So now it happened that he had come to see his wife and children and the house in which they lived; and, having had some business at a railroad center in the South, he had come through Glenford, which was unusual, as the intercourse between Broadstone and the great world was generally maintained through the gap in the mountains. With his wife by his side and a little girl on each shoulder, Mr. Tom Easterfield walked through the grounds and the gardens and out on the lawn, and looked down over the tops of the trees upon the river which sparkled far below, and he said to his wife that if she would let him do it he would send a landscape-gardener, with a great company of Italians, and they would make the place a perfect paradise in about five days. "It could be ruined a great deal quicker by an army of locusts," she said, "and so, if you do not mind, I think I will wait for the locusts." It was not time yet for any of the members of the house parties to make their appearance, and it was the general desire of his family that Mr. Easterfield should remain until some of the visitors arrived, but he could not gratify them. Three days after his arrival he was obliged to be in Atlanta; and so, soon after breakfast one fine morning, the Easterfield carriage drove over the turnpike to the Glenford station, Mr. and Mrs. Easterfield on the back seat, and the two little girls sitting opposite, their feet sticking out straight in front of them. When they stopped at the toll-gate Captain Asher came down to collect the toll--ten cents for two horses and a carriage. Olive was sitting in the little arbor, reading. She had noticed the approaching equipage and saw that there was a lady in it, but for some reason or other she was not so anxious as she had been to collect toll from ladies. If she could have arranged the matter to suit herself she would have taken toll from the male travelers, and her Uncle John might attend to the women; she did not believe that men would have such absurd ideas about people or ask ridiculous questions. There was no conversation at the gate on this occasion, for the carriage was a little late, but as it rolled on Mrs. Margaret said to Mr. Tom: "It seems to me as though I have just had a glimpse of Dresden. What do you suppose could have suggested that city to me?" Mr. Tom could not imagine, unless it was the dust. She laughed, and said that he had dust and ballast and railroads on the brain; and when the oldest little girl asked what that meant, Mrs. Margaret told her that the next time her father came home she would make him sit down on the floor and then she would draw on that great bald spot of his head, which they had so often noticed, a map of the railroad lines in which he was concerned, and then his daughters would understand why he was always thinking of railroad-tracks and that sort of thing with the inside of his head, which, as she had told them, was that part of a person with which he did his thinking. "Don't they sell some sort of annual or monthly tickets for this turnpike?" asked Mr. Tom. "If they do, you would save yourself the trouble of stopping to pay toll and make change." "I so seldom use this road," she said, "that it would not be worth while. One does not stop on returning, you know." But notwithstanding this speech, when Mrs. Easterfield returned from the Glenford station, one little girl sitting beside her and the other one opposite, both of them with their feet sticking out, she ordered her coachman to stop when he reached the toll-gate. Olive was still sitting in the arbor, reading. The captain was not visible, and the wooden-faced Jane, noticing that the travelers were a lady and two little girls, did not consider that she had any right to interfere with Miss Olive's prerogatives; so that young lady felt obliged to go to the toll-gate to see what was wanted. "You know you do not have to pay going back," she said. "I know that," answered Mrs. Easterfield, "but I want to ask about tickets or monthly payments of toll, or whatever your arrangements are for that sort of thing." "I really do not know," said Olive, "but I will go and ask about it." "But stop one minute," exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield, leaning over the side of the carriage. "Is it your father who keeps this toll-gate?" For some reason or other which she could not have explained to herself, Olive felt that it was incumbent upon her to assert herself, and she answered: "Oh, no, indeed. My father is Lieutenant-Commander Alfred Asher, of the cruiser Hopatcong." Without another word Mrs. Easterfield pushed open the door of the carriage and stepped to the ground, exclaiming: "As I passed this morning I knew there was something about this place that brought back to my mind old times and old friends, and now I see what it was; it was you. I caught but one glimpse of you and I did not know you. But it was enough. I knew your father very well when I was a girl, and later I was with him and your mother in Dresden. You were a girl of twelve or thirteen, going to school, and I never saw much of you. But it is either your father or your mother that I saw in your face as you sat in that arbor, and I knew the face, although I did not know who owned it. I am Mrs. Easterfield, but that will not help you to know me, for I was not married when I knew your father." Olive's eyes sparkled as she took the two hands extended to her. "I don't remember you at all," she said, "but if you are the friend of my father and mother--" "Then I am to be your friend, isn't it?" interrupted Mrs. Easterfield. "I hope so," answered Olive. "Now, then," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I want you to tell me how in the world you come to be here." There were two stools in the tollhouse, and Olive, having invited her visitor to seat herself on the better one, took the other, and told Mrs. Easterfield how she happened to be there. "And that handsome elderly man who took the toll this morning is your uncle?" "Yes, my father's only brother," said Olive. "A good deal older," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Oh, yes, but I do not know how much." "And you call him captain. Was he also in the navy?" "No," said Olive, "he was in the merchant service, and has retired. It seems queer that he should be keeping a toll-gate, but my father has often told me that Uncle John does not care for appearances, and likes to do things that please him. He likes to keep the tollhouse because it brings him in touch with the world." "Very sensible in him," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I think I would like to keep a toll-gate myself." Captain Asher had seen the carriage stop, and knew that Mrs. Easterfield was talking to Olive, but he did not think himself called upon to intrude upon them. But now it was necessary for him to go to the tollhouse. Two men in a buggy with a broken spring and a coffee bag laid over the loins of an imperfectly set-up horse had been waiting for nearly a minute behind Mrs. Easterfield's carriage, desiring to pay their toll and pass through. So the captain went out of the garden-gate, collected the toll from the two men, and directed them to go round the carriage and pass on in peace, which they did. Then Mrs. Easterfield rose from her stool, and approached the tollhouse door, and, as a matter of course, the captain was obliged to step forward and meet her. Olive introduced him to the lady, who shook hands with him very cordially. "I have found the daughter of an old friend," said she, and then they all went into the tollhouse again, where the two ladies reseated themselves, and after some explanatory remarks Mrs. Easterfield said: "Now, Captain Asher, I must not stay here blocking up your toll-gate all the morning, but I want to ask of you a very great favor. I want you to let your niece come and make me a visit. I want a good visit--at least ten days. You must remember that her father and I, and her mother, too, were very good friends. Now there are so many things I want to talk over with Miss Olive, and I am sure you will let me have her just for ten short days. There are no guests at Broadstone yet, and I want her. You do not know how much I want her." Captain Asher stood up tall and strong, his broad shoulders resting against the frame of the open doorway. It was a positive delight to him to stand thus and look at such a beautiful woman. So far as he could see, there was nothing about her with which to find fault. If she had been a ship he would have said that her lines were perfect, spars and rigging just as he would have them. In addition to her other perfections, she was large enough. The captain considered himself an excellent judge of female beauty, and he had noticed that a great many fine women were too small. With Olive's personal appearance he was perfectly satisfied, although she was slight, but she was young, and would probably expand. If he had had a daughter he would have liked her to resemble Mrs. Easterfield, but that feeling did not militate in the least against Olive. In his mind it was not necessary for a niece to be quite as large as a daughter ought to be. "But what does Olive say about it?" he asked. "I have not been asked yet," replied Olive, "but it seems to me that I--" "Would like to do it," interrupted Mrs. Easterfield. "Now, isn't that so, dear Olive?" The girl looked at the captain. "It depends upon what you say about it, Uncle John." The captain slightly knitted his brows. "If it were for one night, or perhaps a couple of days," he said, "it would be different. But what am I to do without Olive for nearly two weeks? I am just beginning to learn what a poor place my house would be without her." At this minute a man upon a rapidly trotting pony stopped at the toll-gate. "Excuse me one minute," continued the captain, "here is a person who can not wait," and stepping outside he said good morning to a bright-looking young fellow riding a sturdy pony and wearing on his cap a metal plate engraved "United States Rural Delivery." The carrier brought but one letter to the tollhouse, and that was for Captain Asher himself. As the man rode away the captain thought he might as well open his letter before he went back. This would give the ladies a chance to talk further over the matter. He read the letter, which was not long, put it in his pocket, and then entered the tollhouse. There was now no doubt or sign of disturbance on his features. "I have considered your invitation, madam," said he, "and as I see Olive wants to visit you, I shall not interfere." "Of course she does," cried Mrs. Easterfield, springing to her feet, "and I thank you ever and ever so much, Captain Asher. And now, my dear," said she to Olive, "I am going to send the carriage for you to-morrow morning." And with this she put her arm around the girl and kissed her. Then, having warmly shaken hands with the captain, she departed. "Do you know, Uncle John," said Olive, "I believe if you were twenty years older she would have kissed you." With a grim smile the captain considered; would he have been willing to accept those additional years under the circumstances? He could not immediately make up his mind, and contented himself with the reflection that Olive did not think him old enough for the indiscriminate caresses of young people. _CHAPTER IV_ _The Son of an Old Shipmate._ When Olive came down to breakfast the next morning she half repented that she had consented to go away and leave her uncle for so long a time. But when she made known her state of mind the captain laughed at her. "My child," said he, "I want you to go. Of course, I did not take to the notion at first, but I did not consider then what you will have to tell when you come home. The people of Glenford will be your everlasting debtors. It might be a good thing to invite Maria Port out here. You could give her the best time she ever had in her life, telling her about the Broadstone people." "Maria Port, indeed!" said Olive. "But we won't talk of her. And you really are willing I should go?" "I speak the truth when I say I want you to go," replied the captain. Whereupon Olive assured him that he was truly a good uncle. After the Easterfield carriage had rolled away with Olive alone on the back seat, waving her handkerchief, the captain requested Jane to take entire charge of the toll-gate for a time; and, having retired to his own room, he took from his pocket the letter he had received the day before. "I must write an answer to this," he said, "before the postman comes." The letter was from one of the captain's old shipmates, Captain Richard Lancaster, the best friend he had had when he was in the merchant service. Captain Lancaster had often been asked by his old friend to visit him at the toll-gate, but, being married and rheumatic, he had never accepted the invitation. But now he wrote that his son, Dick, had planned a holiday trip which would take him through Glenford, and that, if it suited Captain Asher, the father would accept for the son the long-standing invitation. Captain Lancaster wrote that as he could not go himself to his old friend Asher, the next best thing would be for his son to go, and when the young man returned he could tell his father all about Captain Asher. There would be something in that like old times. Besides, he wanted his former shipmate to know his son Dick, who was, in his eyes, a very fine young fellow. "There never was such a lucky thing in the world," said Captain Asher to himself, when he had finished rereading the letter. "Of course, I want to have Dick Lancaster's son here, but I could not have had him if Olive had been here. But now it is all right. The young fellow can stay here a few days, and he will be gone before she gets back. If I like him I can ask him to come again; but that's my business. Handsome women, like that Mrs. Easterfield, always bring good luck. I have noticed that many and many a time." Then he set himself to work to write a letter to invite young Richard Lancaster to spend a few days with him. For the rest of that day, and the greater part of the next, Captain Asher gave a great deal of thinking time to the consideration of the young man who was about to visit him, and of whom, personally, he knew very little. He was aware that Captain Lancaster had a son and no other children, and he was quite sure that this son must now be a grown-up young man. He remembered very well that Captain Lancaster was a fine young fellow when he first knew him, and he did not doubt at all that the son resembled the father. He did not believe that young Dick was a sailor, because he and old Dick had often said to each other that if they married their sons should not go to sea. Of course he was in some business; and Captain Lancaster ought to be well able to give him a good start in life; just as able as he himself was to give Olive a good start in housekeeping when the time came. "Now, what in the name of common sense," ejaculated Captain Asher, "did I think of that for? What has he to do with Olive, or Olive with him?" And then he said to himself, thinking of the young man in the bosom of his family and without reference to anybody outside of it: "Yes, his father must be pretty well off. He did a good deal more trading than ever I did. But after all, I don't believe he invested his money any better than I did mine, and it is just as like as not if we were to show our hands, that Olive would get as much as Dick's son. There it is again. I can't keep my mind off the thing." And as he spoke he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and began to stride up and down the garden walk; and as he did so he began to reproach himself. What right had he to think of his niece in that way? It was not doing the fair thing by her father, and perhaps by her, for that matter. For all he knew she might be engaged to somebody out West or down East, or in some other part of the world where she had lived. But this idea made very little impression on him. Knowing Olive as he did, he did not believe that she was engaged to anybody anywhere; he did not want to think that she was the kind of girl who would conceal her engagement from him, or who could do it, for that matter. But, everything considered, he was very glad Olive had gone to Broadstone, for, whatever the young fellow might happen to be, he wanted to know all about him before Olive met him. Captain Asher firmly believed that there was nothing of the matchmaker in his disposition, but notwithstanding this estimate of himself, he went on thinking of Olive and the son of his old shipmate, both separately and together. He had never said to anybody, nor intimated to anybody, that he was going to give any of his moderate fortune to his niece. In fact, before this visit to him he had not thought much about it, nor did it enter his mind that Olive's Boston aunt, her mother's sister, had favored this visit of the girl to her toll-gate uncle, hoping that he might think about it. In consequence of these cogitations, and in spite of the fact that he despised matchmaking, Captain Asher was greatly interested in the coming advent of his shipmate's son. When the same phaeton, the same horse, and the same boy that had brought Maria Port to the tollhouse, conveyed there a young man with two valises, one rather large, Captain Asher did not hurry from the house to meet his visitor. He had seen him coming, and had preferred to stand in his doorway and take a preliminary observation of him. Having taken this, Captain Asher was obliged to confess to himself that he was disappointed. The first cause of his disappointment was the fact that the young man wore a colored shirt and no vest, and a yellow leather belt. Now, Captain Asher for the greater part of his active life had worn colored shirts, sometimes very dark ones, with no vests, but he had not supposed that a young man coming to a house where there was a young lady accustomed to the best society would present himself in such attire. The captain instantly remembered that his visitor could not know that there was a young lady at the house, but this did not satisfy him. Such attire was not respectful, even to him. The leather belt especially offended him. The captain was not aware of the _negligé_ summer fashions for men which then prevailed. The next thing that disappointed him was that young Lancaster, seen across the garden, did not appear to be the strapping young fellow he had expected to see. He was moderately tall, and moderately broad, and handled his valise with apparent ease, but he did not look as though he were his father's son. Dick Lancaster had married the daughter of a captain when he was only a second mate, and that piece of good fortune had been generally attributed to his good looks. But these observations and reflections occupied a very short time, and Captain Asher walked quickly to meet his visitor. As he stepped out of the garden-gate he was disappointed again. The young man's trousers were turned up above his shoes. The weather was not wet, there was no mud, and if Dick Lancaster's son had not bought a pair of ready-made trousers that were too long for him, why should he turn them up in that ridiculous way? In spite of these first impressions, the captain gave his old friend's son a hearty welcome, and took him into the house. After dinner he subjected the young man to a crucial test; he asked him if he smoked. If the visitor had answered in the negative he would have dropped still further in the captain's estimation. It was not that the captain had any theories in regard to the sanitary advantages or disadvantages of tobacco; he simply remembered that nearly all the rascals with whom he had been acquainted had been eager to declare that they never used tobacco in any form, and that nearly all the good fellows he had known enjoyed their pipes. In fact, he could not see how good fellowship could be maintained without good talk and good tobacco, so he waited with an anxious interest for his guest's answer. "Oh, yes," said he, "I am fond of a smoke, especially in company," and so, having risen several inches in the good opinion of his host, he followed him to the little arbor in the garden. "Now, then," said Captain Asher, when his pipe was alight, "you have told me a great deal about your father, now tell me something about yourself. I do not even know what your business is." "I am Assistant Professor of Theoretical Mathematics in Sutton College," answered the young man. Captain Asher put down his pipe and gazed at his visitor across the arbor. This answer was so different from anything he had expected that for the moment he could not express his astonishment, and was obliged to content himself with asking where Sutton College was. "It is what they call a fresh-water college," replied the young man, "and I do not wonder that you do not know where it is. It is near our town. I graduated there and received my present appointment about three years ago. I was then twenty-seven." "Your father was good at mathematics," said Captain Asher. "He was a great hand at calculations, but he went in for practise, as I did, and not for theories. I suppose there are other professors who teach regular working mathematics." "Oh, yes," replied the young man, with a smile, "there is the Professor of Applied Mathematics, but of course the thorough student wants to understand the theories on which his practise is to be based." "I do not see why he should," replied the other. "If a good ship is launched for me, I don't care anything about the stocks she slides off of." "Perhaps not," said Lancaster, "but somebody has to think about them." In the afternoon Captain Asher showed his visitor his little farm, and took him out fishing. During these recreations he refrained, as far as possible, from asking questions, for he did not wish the young man to suppose that for any reason he had been sent there to undergo an examination. But in the evening he could not help talking about the college, not in reference to the work and life of the students, a subject that did not interest him, but in regard to the work and the prospects of the faculty. "What does your president teach?" he asked. "I believe all presidents have charge of some branch or other." "Oh, yes," said Lancaster, "our president is Professor of Mental and Moral Philosophy." "I thought it would be something of the kind," said the captain to himself. "Even the head Professor of Mathematical Theories would never get to the top of the heap. He is not useful enough for that." After he had gone to bed that night Captain Asher found himself laughing about the events of the day. He could not help it when he remembered how his mind had been almost constantly occupied with a consideration of his old shipmate's son with reference to his brother's daughter. And when he remembered that neither of these two young people had ever seen or heard of the other, it is not surprising that he laughed a little. "It's none of my business, anyway," thought the captain, "and I might as well stop bothering my head about it. I suppose I might as well tell him about Olive, for it is nothing I need keep secret. But first I'll see how long he is going to stay. It's none of his business, anyway, whether I have a niece staying with me or not." _CHAPTER V_ _Olive pays Toll._ It is needless to say that Olive was charmed with Broadstone; with its mistress; with the two little girls; with the woods; the river; the mountains; and even the sky; which seemed different from that same sky when viewed from the tollhouse. She was charmed also with the rest of the household, which was different from anything of that kind that she had known, being composed entirely, with the exception of some servants, of women and little girls. Olive, accustomed all her life to men, men, men, grew rapturous over this Amazonian paradise. "Don't be too enthusiastic," said Mrs. Easterfield; "for a while you may like fresh butter without salt, but the longing for the condiment will be sure to come." There was Mrs. Blynn, the widow of a clergyman, with dark-brown eyes and white hair, who was always in a good humor, who acted as the general manager of the household, and also as particular friend to any one in the house who needed her services in that way. Then there was Miss Raleigh, who was supposed to be Mrs. Easterfield's secretary. She was a slender spinster of forty or more, with sad eyes and very fine teeth. She had dyspeptic proclivities, and never differed with anybody except in regard to her own diet. She seldom wrote for Mrs. Easterfield, for that lady did not like her handwriting, and she did not understand the use of the typewriter; nor did she read to the lady of the house, for Mrs. Easterfield could not endure to have anybody read to her. But in all the other duties of a secretary she made herself very useful. She saw that the books, which every morning were found lying about the house, were put in their proper places on the shelves, and, if necessary, she dusted them; if she saw a book turned upside down she immediately set it up properly. She was also expected to exert a certain supervision over the books the little girls were allowed to look at. She was an excellent listener and an appropriate smiler; Mrs. Easterfield frequently said that she never knew Miss Raleigh to smile in the wrong place. She took a regular walk every day, eight times up and down the whole length of the lawn. Mrs. Easterfield gave herself almost entirely to the entertainment of her guest. They roamed over the grounds, they found the finest points of view, at which Olive was expert, being a fine climber, and they tramped for long distances along the edge of the woods, where together they killed a snake. Mrs. Easterfield also allowed Olive the great privilege of helping her work in her garden of nature. This was a wide bed which was almost entirely shaded by two large trees. The peculiarity about this bed was that its mistress carefully pulled up all the flowering plants and cultivated the weeds. "You see," said she to Olive, "I planted here a lot of flower-seeds which I thought would thrive in the shade, but they did not, and after a while I found that they were all spindling and puny-looking, while the weeds were growing as if they were out in the open sunshine, so I have determined to acknowledge the principle of the survival of the fittest, and whenever anything that looks like a flower shows itself I jerk it out. I also thin out all but the best weeds. I hoe and rake the others, and water them if necessary. Look at that splendid Jamestown weed--here they call it jimson weed--did you ever see anything finer than that with its great white blossoms and dark-green leaves? I expect it to be twice as large before the summer is over. And all these others. See how graceful they are, and what delicate flowers some of them have!" "I wonder," said Olive, "if I should have had the strength of mind to pull up my flowers and leave my weeds." "The more you think about it," said Mrs. Easterfield, "the more you like weeds. They have such fine physiques, and they don't ask anybody to do anything for them. They are independent, like self-made men, and come up of themselves. They laugh at disadvantages, and even bricks and flagstones will not keep them down." "But, after all," said Olive, "give me the flowers that can not take care of themselves." And she turned toward a bed of carnations, bright under the morning sun. "Do you suppose, little girl," said Mrs. Easterfield, following her, "that I do not like flowers because I do like weeds? Everything in its place; weeds are for the shady spots, but I keep my flowers out of such places. This flower, for instance," touching Olive on the cheek. "And now let us go into the house and see what pleasant thing we can find to do there." In the afternoon the two ladies went out rowing on the river, and Mrs. Easterfield was astonished at Olive's proficiency with the oar. She had thought herself a good oarswoman, but she was nothing to Olive. She good-naturedly acknowledged her inferiority, however. How could she expect to compete with a navy girl? she said. "Are you fond of swimming?" asked Olive, as she looked down into the bright, clear water. "Oh, very," said Mrs. Easterfield. "But I am not allowed to swim in this river. It is considered dangerous." Olive looked up in surprise. It seemed odd that there should be anything that this bright, free woman was not allowed to do, or that there should be anybody who would not allow it. Then followed some rainy days, and the first clear day Mrs. Easterfield told Olive that she would take her a drive in the afternoon. "I shall drive you myself with my own horses," she said, "but you need not be afraid, for I can drive a great deal better than I can row. We must lose no time in seizing all the advantages of this Amazonian life, for to-morrow some of our guests will arrive, the Foxes and Mr. Claude Locker." "Who are the Foxes?" asked Olive. "They are the pleasantest visitors that any one could have," was the answer. "They always like everything. They never complain of being cold, nor talk about the weather being hot. They are interested in all games, and they like all possible kinds of food that one can give them to eat. They are always ready to go to bed when they think they ought to, and sit up just as long as they are wanted. Of course, they have their own ideas about things, but they don't dispute. They take care of themselves all the morning, and are ready for anything you want to do in the afternoon or evening. They have two children at home, but they never talk about them unless they are particularly asked to do so. They know a great many people, and you can tell by the way they speak of them that they won't talk scandal about you. In fact, they are model guests, and they ought to open a school to teach the art of visiting." "And what about Mr. Claude Locker?" Mrs. Easterfield laughed. "Oh, he is different," she said; "he is so different from the Foxes that words would not describe it. But you won't be long in becoming acquainted with him." The road over which the two ladies drove that afternoon was a beautiful one, sometimes running close to the river under great sycamores, then making a turn into the woods and among the rocks. At last they came to a cross-road, which led away from the river, and here Mrs. Easterfield stopped her horses. "Now, Olive," said she, for she was now very familiar with her guest, "I will leave the return route to you. Shall we go back by the river road--and the scenery will be very different when going in the other direction--or shall we drive over to Glenford, and go home by the turnpike? That is a little farther, but the road is a great deal better?" "Oh, let us go that way," cried Olive. "We will go through Uncle John's toll-gate, and you must let me pay the toll. It will be such fun to pay toll to Uncle John, or old Jane." "Very well," said Mrs. Easterfield, "we will go that way." When the horses had passed through Glenford and had turned their heads homeward, they clattered along at a fine rate over the smooth turnpike, and Olive was in as high spirits as they were. "Whoever comes out to take toll," said she, "I intend to be treated as an ordinary traveler and nothing else. I have often taken toll, but I never paid it in my life. And they must take it--no gratis traveling for me. But I hope you won't mind stopping long enough for me to say a few words after I have transacted the regular business." "Oh, no," said Mrs. Easterfield, "you can chat as much as you like. We have plenty of time." Olive held in her hand a quarter of a dollar; she was determined they should make change for her, and that everything should be done properly. Dick Lancaster sat in the garden arbor, reading. He was becoming a little tired of this visit to his father's old friend. He liked Captain Asher and appreciated his hospitality, but there was nothing very interesting for him to do in this place, and he had thought that it might be a very good thing if the several days for which he had been invited should terminate on the morrow. There were some very attractive plans ahead of him, and he felt that he had now done his full duty by his father and his father's old friend. Captain Asher was engaged with some matters about his little farm, and Lancaster had asked as a favor that he might be allowed to tend the toll-gate during his absence. It would be something to do, and, moreover, something out of the way. When he perceived the approach of Mrs. Easterfield's carriage Lancaster walked down to the tollhouse, and stopped for a minute to glance over the rates of toll which were pasted up inside the door as well as out. The carriage stopped, and when a young man stepped out from the tollhouse Olive gave a sudden start, and the words with which she had intended to greet her uncle or old Jane instantly melted away. "Don't push me out of the carriage," said Mrs. Easterfield, good-naturedly, and she, too, looked at the young man. "For two horses and a vehicle," said Dick Lancaster, "ten cents, if you please." Olive made no answer, but handed him the quarter with which he retired to make change. Mrs. Easterfield opened her mouth to speak, but Olive put her finger on her lips and shook her head; the situation astonished her, but she did not wish to ask that stranger to explain it. Lancaster came out and dropped fifteen cents into Olive's hand. He could not help regarding with interest the occupants of the carriage, and Mrs. Easterfield looked hard at him. Suddenly Olive turned in her seat; she looked at the house, she looked at the garden, she looked at the little piazza by the side of the tollhouse. Yes, it was really the same place. For an instant she thought she might have been mistaken, but there was her window with the Virginia creeper under the sill where she had trained it herself. Then she made a motion to her companion, who immediately drove on. "What does this mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "Who is that young man? Why didn't you give me a chance to ask after the captain, even if you did not care to do so?" "I never saw him before!" cried Olive. "I never heard of him. I don't understand anything about it. The whole thing shocked me, and I wanted to get on." "I don't think it a very serious matter," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Some passer-by might have relieved your uncle for a time." "Not at all, not at all," replied Olive. "Uncle John would never give the toll-gate into the charge of a passer-by, especially as old Jane was there. I know she was there, for the basement door was open, and she never goes away and leaves it so. That man is somebody who is staying there. I saw an open book on the arbor bench. Nobody reads in that arbor but me." "And that young man apparently," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I agree with you that it is surprising." For some minutes Olive did not speak. "I am afraid," she said, presently, "that my uncle is not acting quite frankly with me. I noticed how willing he was that I should go to your house." "Perhaps he expected this person and wanted to get you out of the way," laughed Mrs. Easterfield. "Well, my dear, I do not believe your uncle is such a schemer. He does not look like it. Take my word for it, it will all be as simple as a-b-c when it is explained to you." But Olive could not readily take this view of the case, and the drive home was not nearly so pleasant as it would have been if her uncle or old Jane had taken her quarter and given her fifteen cents in change. That night, soon after the family at Broadstone had retired to their rooms, Olive knocked at the door of Mrs. Easterfield's chamber. "Do you know," she exclaimed, when she had been told to enter, "that a horrible idea has come into my head? Uncle John may have been taken sick, and that man looked just like a doctor. Old Jane was busy with uncle, and as the doctor had to wait, he took the toll. Oh, I wish we had asked! It was cruel in me not to!" "Now, that is all nonsense," said Mrs. Easterfield. "If anything serious is the matter with your uncle he most surely would have let you know, and, besides, both the doctors in Glenford are elderly men. I do not believe there is the slightest reason for your anxiety. But to make you feel perfectly satisfied, I will send a man to Glenford early in the morning. I want to send there anyway." "But I would not like my uncle to think that I was trying to find out anything he did not care to tell me," said Olive. "Oh, don't trouble yourself about that," answered Mrs. Easterfield. "I will instruct the man. He need not ask any questions at the toll-gate. But when he gets to Glenford he can find out everything about that young man without asking any questions. He is a very discreet person. And I am also a discreet person," she added, "and you shall have no connection with my messenger's errand." After breakfast the next morning Mrs. Easterfield took Olive aside. "My man has returned," she said; "he tells me that Captain Asher took the toll, and was smoking his pipe in perfect health. He also saw the young man, and his natural curiosity prompted him to ask about him in the town. He heard that he is the son of one of the captain's old shipmates who is making him a visit. Now I hope this satisfies you." "Satisfies me!" exclaimed Olive. "I should have been a great deal better satisfied if I had heard he was sick, provided it was nothing dangerous. I think my uncle is treating me shamefully. It is not that I care a snap about his visitor, one way or another, but it is his want of confidence in me that hurts me. Could he have supposed I should have wanted to stay with him if I had known a young man was coming?" "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I can not send anybody to find out what he supposed. But I am as certain as I can be certain of anything that there is nothing at all in this bugbear you have conjured up. No doubt the young man dropped in quite accidentally, and it was his bad luck that prevented him from dropping in before you left." Olive shook her head. "My uncle knew all about it. His manner showed it. He has treated me very badly." _CHAPTER VI_ _Mr. Claude Locker._ The Foxes arrived at Broadstone at the exact hour of the morning at which they had been expected. They always did this; even trains which were sometimes delayed when other visitors came were always on time when they carried the Foxes. They were both perfectly well and happy, as they always were. As rapidly as it was possible for human beings to do so they absorbed the extraordinary advantages of the house and it surroundings, and they said the right things in such a common-sense fashion that their hostess was proud that she owned such a place, and happy that she had invited them to see it. In their hearts they liked everything about the place except Olive, and they wondered how they were going to get along with such a glum young person, but they did not talk about her to Mrs. Easterfield; there was too much else. Mr. Claude Locker was expected on the train by which the Foxes had come, but he did not arrive; and this made it necessary to send again for him in the afternoon. Mrs. Easterfield tried very hard to cheer up Olive, and to make her entertain the Foxes in her usual lively way, but this was of no use; the young person was not in a good humor, and retired for an afternoon nap. But as this was an indulgence she very seldom allowed herself, it was not likely that she napped. Mr. Fox spoke to Mrs. Fox about her. "A queer girl," he said; "what do you suppose is the matter with her?" "The symptoms are those of green apples," replied Mrs. Fox, "and probably she will be better to-morrow." The carriage came back without Mr. Locker. But just as the soup-plates were being removed from the dinner-table he arrived in a hired vehicle, and appeared at the dining-room door with his hat in one hand, and a package in the other. He begged Mrs. Easterfield not to rise. "I will slip up to my room," said he, "if you have one for me, and when I come down I will greet you and be introduced." With this he turned and left the room, but was back in a moment. "It was a woman," he said, "who was at the bottom of it. It is always a woman, you know, and I am sure you will excuse me now that you know this. And you must let me begin wherever you may be in the dinner." "I have heard of Mr. Locker," said Mr. Fox, "but I never met him before. He must be very odd." "He admits that himself," said Mrs. Easterfield, "but he asserts that he spends a great deal of his time getting even with people." In a reasonable time Mr. Locker appeared and congratulated himself upon having struck the roast. "As a matter of fact," he said, "we will now all begin dinner together. What has gone before was nothing but overture. If I can help it I never get in until the beginning of the play." He bowed parenthetically as Mrs. Easterfield introduced him to the company; and, as she looked at him, Olive forgot for a moment her uncle and his visitor. "Don't send for soup, I beg of you," said Mr. Locker, as he took his seat. "I regard it as a rare privilege to begin with the inside cut of beef." Mr. Locker was not allowed to do all the talking; his hostess would not permit that; but under the circumstances he was allowed to explain his lateness. "You know I have been spending a week with the Bartons," he said, "and last night I came over from their house to the station in a carriage. There is a connecting train, but I should have had to take it very early in the evening, so I saved time by hiring a carriage." "Saved time?" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "I saved all the time from dinner until the Bartons went to bed, which would have been lost if I had taken the train. Besides, I like to travel in carriages. One is never too late for a carriage; it is always bound to wait for you." In the recesses of his mind Mr. Fox now said to himself, "This is a fool." And Mrs. Fox, in the recesses of her mind, remarked, "I am quite sure that Mr. Fox will look upon this young man as a fool." "I spent what was left of the night at a tavern near the station," continued Mr. Locker, "where I would have had to stay all night if I had not taken the carriage. And I should have been in plenty of time for the morning train if I had not taken a walk before breakfast. Apparently that is a part of the world where it takes a good deal longer to go back to a place than it does to get away from it." "But where did the woman come in?" asked Mrs. Easterfield. "Oh, she came in with some tea and sandwiches in the middle of the afternoon," said Mr. Locker. "I was waiting in the parlor of the tavern. She was fairly young, and as I ate she stood and talked. She talked about Horace Walpole." At this even Olive smiled. "It was odd, wasn't it?" continued Mr. Locker, glancing from one to the other. "But that is what she did. She had been reading about him in an old book. She asked me if I knew anything about him, and I told her a great deal. It was so very interesting to tell her, and she was so interested, that when the train arrived I was too much occupied to think that it might start again immediately, but it did that very thing, and so I was left. However, the Walpole young woman told me there was a freight-train along in about an hour, and so we continued our conversation. When this train came I asked the engineer how many cigars he would take to let me ride in the cab. He said half a dozen, but as I only had five, I promised to send him the other by mail. However, as I smoked two of his five, I suppose I ought to send him three." "This young man," said Mr. Fox to himself, "is trying to appear more of a fool than he really is." "I have no doubt," said Mrs. Fox to herself, "that Mr. Fox is of the opinion that this young man is making an effort to appear foolish." That evening was a dull one. Mrs. Easterfield did her best, Claude Locker did his best, and Mr. and Mrs. Fox did their best to make things lively, but their success was poor. Miss Raleigh, the secretary, sat ready to give an approving smile to any liveliness which might arise, and Mrs. Blynn, with the dark eyes and soft white hair, sat sewing and waiting; never before had it been necessary for her to wait for liveliness in Mrs. Easterfield's house. A mild rain somewhat assisted the dullness, for everybody was obliged to stay indoors. Early the next morning Olive Asher went down-stairs, and stood in the open doorway looking out upon the landscape, glowing in the sunshine and brighter and more odorous from the recent rain. Some time during the night this young woman had made up her mind to give no further thought to her uncle who kept the toll-gate. There was no earthly reason why he, or anything he wanted to do, or did not want to do, or did, should trouble and annoy her. A few months before she had scarcely known him, not having seen him since she was a girl; and, in fact, he was no more to her now than he was before she went to his house. If he chose to offer her any explanation of his strange conduct, that would be very well; if he did not choose, that would also be very well. The whole affair was of no consequence; she would drop it entirely from her mind. Olive's bounding spirits now rose very high, and when Claude Locker came in with his shoes soaked from a tramp in the wet grass she greeted him in such a way that he could scarcely believe she was the grumpy girl of the day before. As they went into breakfast Mrs. Fox remarked to her husband in a low voice that Miss Asher seemed to have recovered entirely from her indisposition. In the course of the morning Mr. Locker found an opportunity to speak in private with Mrs. Easterfield. "I am in great trouble," he said; "I want to marry Miss Asher." "You show unusual promptness," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Not at all," replied Locker. "This sort of thing is not unusual with me. My mind is a highly sensitive plate, and receives impressions almost instantaneously. If it were a large mind these impressions might be placed side by side, and each one would perhaps become indelible. But it is small, and each impression claps itself down on the one before. This last one, however, is the strongest of them all, and obliterates everything that went before." "It strikes me," said Mrs. Easterfield, "that if you were to pay more attention to your poems and less to young ladies it would be better." "Hardly," said Mr. Locker; "for it would be worse for the poems." The general appearance of Mr. Locker gave no reason to suppose that he would be warranted in assuming a favorable issue from any of the impressions to which his mind was so susceptible. He was small, rather awkwardly set up, his head was large, and the features of his face seemed to have no relation to each other. His nose was somewhat stubby, and had nothing to do with his mouth or eyes. One of his eyebrows was drawn down as if in days gone by he had been in the habit of wearing a single glass. The other brow was raised over a clear and wide-open light-blue eye. His mouth was large, and attended strictly to its own business. It transmitted his odd ideas to other people, but it never laughed at them. His chin was round and prominent, suggesting that it might have been borrowed from somebody else. His cheeks were a little heavy, and gave no assistance in the expression of his ideas. His profession was that of a poet. He called himself a practical poet, because he made a regular business of it, turning his poetic inspirations into salable verse with the facility and success, as he himself expressed it, of a man who makes boxes out of wood. Moreover, he sold these poems as readily as any carpenter sold his boxes. Like himself, Claude Locker's poems were always short, always in request, and sometimes not easy to understand. The poem he wrote that night was a word-picture of the rising moon entangled in a sheaf of corn upon a hilltop, with a long-eared rabbit sitting near by as if astonished at the conflagration. "A very interesting girl, that Miss Asher," said Mr. Fox to his wife that evening. "I do not know when I have laughed so much." "I thought you were finding her interesting," said Mrs. Fox. "To me it was like watching a game of roulette at Monte Carlo. It was intensely interesting, but I could not imagine it as having anything to do with me." "No, my dear," said Mr. Fox, "it could have nothing to do with you." After Mrs. Easterfield retired she sat for a long time, thinking of Olive. That young person and Mr. Locker had been boating that afternoon, and Olive had had the oars. Mr. Locker had told with great effect how she had pulled to get out of the smooth water, and how she had dashed over the rapids and between the rocks in such a way as to make his heart stand still. "I should like to go rowing with her every day," he had remarked confidentially. "Each time I started I should make a new will." "Why a new one?" Mrs. Easterfield had asked. "Each time I should take something more from my relatives to give to her," had been the answer. As she sat and thought, Mrs. Easterfield began to be a little frightened. She was a brave woman, but it is the truly brave who know when they should be frightened, and she felt her responsibility, not on account of the niece of the toll-gate keeper, but on account of the daughter of Lieutenant Asher, whom she had once known so well. The thing which frightened her was the possibility that before anybody would be likely to think of such a thing Olive might marry Claude Locker. He was always ready to do anything he wanted to do at any time; and for all Mrs. Easterfield knew, the girl might be of the same sort. But Mrs. Easterfield rose to the occasion. She looked upon Olive as a wild young colt who had broken out of her paddock, but she remembered that she herself had a record for speed. "If there is to be any running I shall get ahead of her," she said to herself, "and I will turn her back. I think I can trust myself for that." Olive slept the sound sleep of the young, but for all that she had a dream. She dreamed of a kind, good, thoughtful, and even affectionate, middle-aged man; a man who looked as though he might have been her father, and whom she was beginning to look upon as a father, notwithstanding the fact that she had a real father dressed in a uniform and on a far-away ship. She dreamed ever so many things about this newer, although elder, father, and her dream made her very happy. But in the morning when she woke her dream had entirely passed from her mind, and she felt just as much like a colt as when she had gone to bed. _CHAPTER VII_ _The Captain and his Guest go Fishing and come Home Happy._ When Dick Lancaster told Captain Asher he had taken toll from two ladies in a phaeton he was quite eloquent in his description of said ladies. He declared with an impressiveness which the captain had not noticed in him before that he did not know when he had seen such handsome ladies. The younger one, who paid the toll, was absolutely charming. She seemed a little bit startled, but he supposed that was because she saw a strange face at the toll-gate. Dick wanted very much to know who these ladies were. He had not supposed that he would find such stylish people, and such a handsome turnout in this part of the country. "Oh, ho," said Captain Asher, "do you suppose we are all farmers and toll-gate keepers? If you do, you are very much mistaken, although I must admit that the stylish people, as you call them, are scattered about very thinly. I expect that carriage was from Broadstone over on the mountain. Was the team dapple gray, pony built?" "Yes," said Lancaster. "Then it was Mrs. Easterfield driving some of her company. I have seen her with that team. And by George," he exclaimed, "I bet my head the other one was Olive! Of course it was. And she paid toll! Well, well, if that isn't a good one! Olive paying toll! I wish I had been here to take it! That truly would have been a lark!" Dick Lancaster did not echo this wish of his host. He was very glad, indeed, that the captain had not been at the toll-gate when the ladies passed through. Captain Asher was still laughing. "Olive must have been amazed," he said. "It was queer enough for her to go through my gate and pay toll, but to pay it to an Assistant Professor of Theoretical Mathematics was a good deal queerer. I can't imagine what she thought about it." "She did not know I am that!" exclaimed Dick Lancaster. "There is nothing of the professor in my outward appearance--at least, I hope not." "No, I don't think there is," replied the captain. "But she must have been amazed, all the same. I wish I had been here, or old Jane, anyway. But, of course, when a stranger showed himself she would not have said anything." "But who is Olive?" asked Lancaster. "She's my niece," said the captain. "I don't think I have mentioned her to you. She is on a visit to me, but just now she is staying at Broadstone. I suppose she will be there about a week longer." "It's odd he has not mentioned her to me," thought Lancaster, and then, as the captain went to ask old Jane if she had seen Olive pass, the young man retired to the arbor with a book which he did not read. His desire to inform his host that it would be necessary to take leave of him on the morrow had very much abated. It would be very pleasant, he thought, to be a visitor in a family of which that girl was a member. But if she were not to return for a week, how could he expect to stay with the captain so long? There would be no possible excuse for such a thing. Then he thought it would be very pleasant to be in a country of which that young woman was one of the inhabitants. Anyway, he hoped the captain would invite him to make a longer stay. The great blue eyes with which the young lady had regarded him as she paid the toll would not fade out of his mind. "She must have wondered who it was that took the toll," said old Jane. "And there wasn't no need of it, anyway. I could have took it as I always have took it when you was not here, and before either of them came." "Either of them" struck the captain's ear strangely. Here was this old woman coupling these two young people in her mind! The next morning Captain Asher sat on his little piazza, smoking his pipe and thinking about Olive driving through the gate and paying toll to a stranger. But he now considered the incident from a different point of view. Of course, Olive had been surprised when she had seen the young man, but she might also have wondered how he happened to be there and she not know of it. If he were staying long enough to be entrusted with toll-taking it might--in fact, the captain thought it probably would--appear very strange to her that she should not know of it. So now he asked himself if it would not be a good thing if he were to write her a little note in which he should mention Mr. Lancaster and his visit. In fact, he thought the best thing he could do would be to write her a playful sort of a note, and tell her that she should feel honored by having her toll taken up by a college professor. But he did not immediately write the note. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he had been at the toll-gate when Mrs. Easterfield's phaeton passed by. Captain Asher did not write his note at all. He did not know what to say; he did not want to make too much of the incident, for it was really a trifling matter, only worthy of being mentioned in case he had something more important to write about. But he had nothing more important; there was no reason why he should write to Olive during her short stay with Mrs. Easterfield. Besides, she would soon be back, and then he could talk to her; that would be much better. Now, two strong desires began to possess him; one was for Olive to come home; and the other for Dick Lancaster to go away. There had been moments when he had had a shadowy notion of bringing the two together, but this idea had vanished. His mind was now occupied very much with thoughts of his beautiful niece and very little with the young man in the colored shirt and turned-up trousers who was staying with him. Dick Lancaster, in his arbor, was also thinking a great deal about Olive, and very little about that stalwart sailor, her uncle. If he had merely seen the young woman, and had never heard anything about her, her face would have impressed him, but the knowledge that she was an inmate of the house in which he was staying could not fail to affect him very much. He was puzzling his mind about the girl who had given him a quarter of a dollar, and to whom he had handed fifteen cents in change. He wondered how such a girl happened to be living at such a place. He wondered if there were any possibility of his staying there, or in the neighborhood, until she should come back; he wondered if there were any way by which he could see her again. He might have wondered a good many other things if Captain Asher had not approached the arbor. The captain having been aroused from his mental contemplation of Olive by a man in a wagon, had glanced over at the arbor and had suddenly been struck with the conviction that that young man looked bored, and that, as his host, he was not doing the right thing by him. "Dick," said the captain, "let's go fishing. It's not late yet, and I'll put my mare to the buggy, and we can drive to the river. We will take something to eat with us, and make a day of it." Lancaster hesitated a moment; he had been thinking that the time had come when he should say something about his departure, but this invitation settled the matter for that day; and in half an hour the two had started away, leaving the toll-gate in charge of old Jane, who was a veteran in the business, having lived at the toll-gate years before the captain. As they drove along the smooth turnpike Lancaster remembered with great interest that this road led to the gap in the mountains; that the captain had told him Broadstone was not very far from the gap; and that the river was not very far from Broadstone; and his face glowed with interest in the expedition. But when, after a few miles, they turned into a plain country road which, as the captain informed him, led in a southeasterly direction, to a point on the river where black bass were to be caught and where a boat could be hired, the corners of Dick Lancaster's mouth began to droop. Of necessity that road must reach the river miles to the south of Broadstone. It was a very good day for fishing, and the captain was pleased to see that the son of his old shipmate was a very fair angler. Toward the close of the afternoon, with the conviction that they had had a good time and that their little expedition had been a success, the two fishermen set out for home with a basket of bass: some of them quite a respectable size; stowed away under the seat of the buggy. When they reached the turnpike the old mare, knowing well in which direction her supper lay, turned briskly to the left, and set out upon a good trot. But this did not last very long. To her great surprise she was suddenly pulled up short; a carriage with two horses which had been approaching had also stopped. On the back seat of this carriage sat Mrs. Easterfield; on one side of her was a little girl, and on the other side was another little girl, each with her feet stuck out straight in front of her. "Oh, Captain Asher," exclaimed the lady, with a most enchanting smile, "I am so glad to meet you. I was obliged to go to Glenford to take one of my little girls to the dentist, and I inquired for you each time I passed your gate." The captain was very glad he had been so fortunate as to meet her, and as her eyes were now fixed upon his companion, he felt it incumbent upon him to introduce Mr. Richard Lancaster, the son of an old shipmate. "But not a sailor, I imagine," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Oh, no," said the captain, "Mr. Lancaster is Assistant Professor of Theoretical Mathematics in Sutton College." Dick could not imagine why the captain said all this, and he flushed a little. "Sutton College?" said Mrs. Easterfield. "Then, of course, you know Professor Brent." "Oh, yes," said Lancaster. "He is our president." "I never met him," said she, "but he was a classmate of my husband, and I have often heard him speak of him. And now for my errand, Captain Asher. Isn't it about time you should be wanting to see your niece?" The captain's heart sank. Did she intend to send Olive home? "I always want to see her," he said, but without enthusiasm. "But don't you think it would be nice," said the lady, "if you were to come to lunch with us to-morrow? It was to ask you this that I inquired for you at the toll-gate." Now, this was another thing altogether, and the captain's earnest acceptance would have been more coherent if it had not been for the impatience of his mare. "And I want you to bring your friend with you," continued Mrs. Easterfield. "The invitation is for you both, of course." Dick's face said that this would be heavenly, but his mouth was more prudent. "It will be strictly informal," continued Mrs. Easterfield. "Only myself and family, three guests, and Olive. We shall sit down at one. Good-by." Mrs. Easterfield was entirely truthful when she said she was glad to meet the captain. Her anxiety about Olive and Claude Locker was somewhat on the increase. She was very well aware that the most dangerous thing for one young woman is one young man; and in thinking over this truism she had been impressed with the conviction that it was not well for Mr. Claude Locker to be the one man at Broadstone. Then, in thinking of possible young men, her mind naturally turned to the young man who was visiting Olive's uncle. She did not know anything about him, but he was a young man, and if he proved to be worth something, he could be asked to come again. So it was really to Dick Lancaster, and not to Captain Asher, that the luncheon invitation had been given. The appointment with the Glenford dentist had made it necessary for her to leave home that afternoon. To be sure, she had sent the Foxes with Olive and Claude Locker upon the drive through the gap, and, under ordinary circumstances, and with ordinary people, there would have been no reason for her to trouble herself about them, but neither the circumstances nor the people were ordinary, and she now felt anxious to get home and find out what Claude Locker and Olive had done with Mrs. and Mr. Fox. _CHAPTER VIII_ _Captain Asher is not in a Good Humor._ The next morning was very bright for Captain Asher; he was going to see Olive, and he did not know before how much he wished to see her. When Dick Lancaster came from the house to take his seat in the buggy the sight of the handsome suit of dark-blue serge, white shirt and collar, and patent-leather shoes, with the trousers hanging properly above them, placed Dick very much higher in the captain's estimation than the young man with the colored shirt and rolled-up trousers could ever have reached. The captain, too, was well dressed for the occasion, and Mrs. Easterfield had no reason whatever to be ashamed of these two gentlemen when she introduced them to her other visitors. She liked Professor Lancaster. Having lately had a good deal of Claude Locker, she was prepared to like a quiet and thoroughly self-possessed young man. Olive was the latest of the little company to appear, and when she came down she caused a genuine, though gentle sensation. She was most exquisitely dressed, not too much for a luncheon, and not enough for a dinner. This navy girl had not studied for nothing the art of dressing in different parts of the world. Her uncle regarded her with open-eyed astonishment. "Is this my brother's daughter?" he asked himself. "The little girl who poured my coffee in the morning and went out to take toll?" Olive greeted her uncle with absolute propriety, and made the acquaintance of Mr. Lancaster with a formal courtesy to which no objection could be made. Apparently she forgot the existence of Mr. Locker, and for the greater part of the meal she conversed with Mr. Fox about certain foreign places with which they were both familiar. The luncheon was not a success; there was a certain stiffness about it which even Mrs. Easterfield could not get rid of; and when the gentlemen went out to smoke on the piazza Olive disappeared, sending a message to Mrs. Easterfield that she had a bad headache and would like to be excused. Her excuse was a perfectly honest one, for she was apt to have a headache when she was angry; and she was angry now. The reason for her indignation was the fact that her uncle's visitor was an extremely presentable young man. Had it been otherwise, Olive would have given the captain a good scolding, and would then have taken her revenge by making fun of him and his shipmate's son. But now she felt insulted that her uncle should conceal from her the fact that he had an entirely proper young gentleman for a visitor. Could he think she would want to stay at his house to be with that young man? Was she a girl from whom the existence of such a person was to be kept secret? She was very angry, indeed, and her headache was genuine. Captain Asher was also angry. He had intended to take Olive aside and tell her all about Dick Lancaster, and how he had refrained from saying anything about him until he found out what sort of a young man he was. If, then, she saw fit to scold him, he was perfectly willing to submit, and to shake hands all around. But now he would have no chance to speak to her; she had not treated him properly, even if she had a headache. He admitted to himself that she was young and probably sensitive, but it was also true that he was sensitive, although old. Therefore, he was angry. Mrs. Easterfield was disturbed; she saw there was something wrong between Olive and her uncle, and she did not like it. She had invited Lancaster with an object, and she did not wish that other people's grievances should interfere with said object. Olive was grumpy up-stairs and Claude Locker was in the doleful dumps under a tree, and if these two should grump and dump together, it might be very bad; consequently, Mrs. Easterfield was more anxious than ever that there should be at least two young men at Broadstone. For this reason she asked Lancaster if he were fond of rowing; and when he said he was, she invited him to join them in a boat party the next day to help her and Olive pull the big family boat. Mr. Fox did not like rowing, and Mr. Locker did not know how. On the drive home Captain Asher and Lancaster did not talk much. Even the young man's invitation to the rowing party did not excite much interest in the captain. These two men were both thinking of the same girl; one pleasantly, and the other very unpleasantly. Dick was charmed with her, although he had had very little opportunity of becoming acquainted with her, but he hoped for better luck the next day. The captain did not know what to make of her. He felt sure that she was at fault, and that he was at fault, and he could not see how things could be made straight between them. Only one thing seemed plain to him, and this was that, with things as they were at present, she was not likely to come back to his house; and this would not be necessary; he knew very well that there were other places she could visit; and that early in the fall her father would be home. Dick Lancaster walked to Broadstone the next morning because Captain Asher was obliged to go to Glenford on business, but the young man did not in the least mind a six-mile walk on a fine morning. All the way to Glenford the captain thought of Olive; sometimes he wished she had never come to him. Even now, with Lancaster to talk to, he missed her grievously, and if she should not come back, the case would be a great deal worse than if she had never come at all. But one thing was certain: If she returned as the young lady with whom he had lunched at Broadstone, he did not want her. He felt that he had been in the wrong, that she had been in the wrong; and it seemed as if things in this world were gradually going wrong. He was not in a good humor. When he stopped his mare in front of a store, Maria Port stepped up to him and said: "How do you do, captain? What have you done with your young man?" The captain got down from his buggy, hitched his mare to a post, and then shook hands with Miss Port. "Dick Lancaster has gone boating to-day with the Broadstone people," he said. "What!" exclaimed Miss Port. "Gone there again already? Why it was only yesterday you took dinner with them." "Lunch," corrected the captain. "Well, you may call it what you please," said Maria, "but I call it dinner. And them two's together without you, that you tried so hard to keep apart!" "I did not try anything of the kind," said the captain a little sharply; "it just happened so." "Happened so!" exclaimed Miss Port. "Well, I must say, Captain Asher, that you've a regular genius for makin' things happen. The minute she goes, he comes. I wish I could make things happen that way." The captain took no notice of this remark, and moved toward the door of the store. "Look here, captain," continued Miss Port, "can't you come and take dinner with us? You haven't seen Pop for ever so long. It won't be lunch, though, but an honest dinner." The captain accepted the invitation; for old Mr. Port was one of his ancient friends; and then he entered the store. Miss Port was on the point of following him; she had something to say about Olive; but she stopped. "I'll keep that till dinner-time," she said to herself. Old Mr. Port had always been a very pleasant man to visit, and he had not changed now, although he was nearly eighty years old. He had been a successful merchant in the days when Captain Asher commanded a ship, and there was good reason to believe that a large measure of his success was due to his constant desire to make himself agreeable to the people with whom he came in business contact. He was just as agreeable to his friends, of whom Captain Asher was one of the oldest. The people of Glenford often puzzled themselves as to what sort of a woman Maria's mother could have been. None of them had ever seen her, for she had died years before old Mr. Port had come into that healthful region to reside; but all agreed that her parents must have been a strangely assorted pair, unless, indeed, as some of the wiser suggested, she got her disposition from a grandparent. "That navy niece of yours must be a wild girl," said Miss Port to the captain as she carved the beef. "Wild!" exclaimed the captain. "I never saw anything wild about her." "Perhaps not," said his hostess, "but there's others that have. It was only three days ago that she took that young man, that goggle-eyed one, out on the river in a boat, and did her best to upset him. Whether she stood up and made the boat rock while he clung to the side, or whether she bumped the boat against rocks and sand-bars, laughin' the louder the more he was frightened, I wasn't told. But she did skeer him awful. I know that." "You seem to know a good deal about what is going on at Broadstone," remarked the captain, somewhat sarcastically. "Indeed I do," said she; "a good deal more than they think. They've got such fine stomachs that they can't eat the beef they get at the gap, and Mr. Morris goes there three times a week, all the way from Glenford, to take them Chicago beef. The rest of the time they mostly eat chickens, I'm told." "And so your butcher takes meat and brings back news," said the captain. "The next time he passes the toll-gate I will tell him to leave the news with me, and I will see that it is properly distributed." And with this, he began to talk with Mr. Port. "Oh, you needn't be so snappish about her," insisted Maria. "If you are in that temper often, I don't wonder the young woman wanted to go away." The captain made no answer, but his glance at the speaker was not altogether a pleasant one. Old Mr. Port did not hear very well; but his eyesight was good, and he perceived from the captain's expression that his daughter had been saying something sharp. This he never allowed at his table; and, turning to her, he said gently, but firmly: "Maria, don't you think you'd better go up-stairs and go to bed?" "He's all the time thinkin' I'm a child," said Miss Maria, with a grin; "but how awfully he's mistook." Then she added: "Has that teacher got money enough to support a wife when he marries her? I don't suppose his salary amounts to much. I'm told it's a little bit of a college he teaches at." "I do not know anything about his salary," said the captain, and again attempted to continue the conversation with the father. But the daughter was not to be put down. "When is Olive Asher coming back to your house?" she asked. The captain turned upon her with a frown. "I did not say she was coming back at all," he snapped. Now old Mr. Port thought it time for him to interfere. To him Maria had always been a young person to be mildly counseled, but to be firmly punished if she did not obey said counsels. It was evident that she was now annoying his old friend; Maria had a great habit of annoying people, but she should not annoy Captain Asher. "Maria," said Mr. Port, "leave the table instantly, and go to bed." Miss Port smiled. She had finished her dinner, and she folded her napkin and dusted some crumbs from her lap. She always humored her father when he was really in earnest; he was very old and could not be expected to live much longer, and it was his daughter's earnest desire that she should be in good favor with him when he died. With a straight-cut smile at the captain, she rose and left the two old friends to their talk, and went out on the front piazza. There she saw Mr. Morris, the butcher, on his way home with an empty wagon. She stepped out to the edge of the sidewalk and stopped him. "Been to Broadstone?" she asked. "Yes," said the butcher with a sigh, and stopping his horse. Miss Port always wanted to know so much about Broadstone, and he was on his way to his dinner. "Well," said Miss Port, "what monkey tricks are going on there now? Has anybody been drowned yet? Did you see that young man that's stayin' at the toll-gate?" "Yes," said the butcher, "I saw him as I was crossing the bridge. He was in the big boat helping to row. Pretty near the whole family was in the boat, I take it." "That's like them, just like them!" she exclaimed. "The next thing we'll hear will be that they've all gone to the bottom together. I don't suppose one of them can swim. Was the captain's niece standin' up, or sittin' down?" "They were all sitting down," said the butcher, "and behaving like other people do in a boat." And he prepared to go on. "Stop one minute," said Miss Port. "Of course you are goin' out there day after to-morrow?" "No," said Mr. Morris. "I'm going to-morrow. They've ordered some extra things." Then he said, with a sort of conciliatory grin, "I'll get some more news, and have more time to tell it." "Now, don't be in such a hurry," said Miss Port, advancing to the side of the wagon. "I want very much to go to Broadstone. I've got some business with that Mrs. Blynn that I ought to have attended to long ago. Now, why can't I ride out with you to-morrow? That's a pretty broad seat you've got." The butcher looked at her in dismay. "Oh, I couldn't do that, Miss Port," he said. "I always have a heavy load, and I can't take passengers, too." "Now, what's the sense of your talkin' like that?" said Miss Port. "You've got a great big horse, and plenty of room, and would you have me go hire a carriage and a driver to go out there when you can take me just as well as not?" The butcher thought he would be very willing. He did not care for her society, and, moreover, he knew that both at Broadstone and in the town he would be ridiculed when it should be known that he had been taking Maria Port to drive. "Oh, I couldn't do it," he replied. "Of course, I'm willing to oblige--" "Oh, don't worry yourself any more, Mr. Morris," interrupted Miss Port. "I'm not askin' you to take me now, and I won't keep you from your dinner." The next morning as Mr. Morris, the butcher, was driving past the Port house at rather a rapid rate for a man with a heavy wagon, Miss Maria appeared at her door with her bonnet on. She ran out into the middle of the street, and so stationed herself that Mr. Morris was obliged to stop. Then, without speaking, she clambered up to the seat beside him. "Now, you see," said she, settling herself on the leather cushion, "I've kept to my part of the bargain, and I don't believe your horse will think this wagon is a bit heavier than it was before I got in. What's the name of the new people that's comin' to Broadstone?" _CHAPTER IX_ _Miss Port takes a Drive with the Butcher._ As the butcher and Miss Port drove out of town the latter did not talk quite so much as was her wont. She seemed to have something on her mind, and presently she proposed to Mr. Morris that he should take the shunpike for a change. "That would be a mile and a half out of my way!" he exclaimed. "I can't do it." "I should think you'd get awfully tired of this same old road," said she. "The easiest road is the one I like every time," said Mr. Morris, who was also not inclined to talk. Miss Port did not care to pass the toll-gate that day; she was afraid she might see the captain, and that in some way or other he would interfere with her trip, but fortune favored her, as it nearly always did. Old Jane came to the gate, and as this stolid old woman never asked any questions, Miss Port contented herself with bidding her good morning, and sitting silent during the process of making change. This self-restraint very much surprised old Jane, who straightway informed the captain that Miss Port was riding with the butcher to Broadstone--she knew it was Broadstone, for he had no other customers that way--and she guessed something must be the matter with her, for she kept her mouth shut, and didn't say nothing to nobody. As the wagon moved on Miss Port heaved a sigh. Fearful that she might see the captain somewhere, she had not even allowed herself to survey the premises in order to catch a glimpse of the shipmate's son. This was a rare piece of self-denial in Maria, but she could do that sort of thing on occasion. When the butcher's wagon neared the Broadstone house Miss Port promptly got down, and Mr. Morris went to the kitchen regions by himself. She never allowed herself to enter a house by the back or side door, so now she went to the front, where, disappointed at not seeing any of the family although she had made good use of her eyes, she was obliged to ask a servant to conduct her to Mrs. Blynn. Before she had had time to calculate the cost of the rug in the hall, or to determine whether the walls were calcimined or merely whitewashed, she found herself with that good lady. Miss Port's business with Mrs. Blynn indicated a peculiar intelligence on the part of the visitor. It was based upon very little; it had not much to do with anything; it amounted to almost nothing; and yet it appeared to contain certain elements of importance which made Mrs. Blynn give it her serious consideration. After she had talked and peered about as long as she thought was necessary, Maria said she was afraid Mr. Morris would be waiting for her, and quickly took her leave, begging Mrs. Blynn not to trouble herself to accompany her to the door. When she left the house Maria did not seek the butcher's wagon, but started out on a little tour of observation through the grounds. She was quite sure Mr. Morris was waiting for her, but for this she did care a snap of her finger; he would not dare to go and leave her. Presently she perceived a young gentleman approaching her, and she recognized him instantly--it was the goggle-eyed man who had been described to her. Stepping quickly toward Mr. Locker, she asked him if he could tell her where she could find Miss Asher; she had been told she was in the grounds. The young man goggled his eye a little more than usual. "Do you know her?" said he. "Oh, yes," replied Maria; "I met her at the house of her uncle, Captain Asher." "And, knowing her, you want to see her" Astonished, Miss Port replied, "Of course." "Very well, then," said he; "beyond that clump of bushes is a seat. She sits thereon. Accept my condolences." "I will remember every word of that," said Miss Port to herself, "but I haven't time to think of it now. He's just ravin'." Olive had just had an interview with Mr. Locker which, in her eyes, had been entirely too protracted, and she had sent him away. He had just made her an offer of marriage, but she had refused even to consider it, assuring him that her mind was occupied with other things. She was busy thinking of those other things when she heard footsteps near her. "How do you do" said Miss Port, extending her hand. Olive rose, but she put her hands behind her back. "Oh!" said Miss Port, dropping her hand, but allowing herself no verbal resentment. She had come there for information, and she did not wish to interfere with her own business. "I happened to be here," she said, "and I thought I'd come and tell you how your uncle is. He took dinner with us yesterday, and I was sorry to see he didn't have much appetite. But I suppose he's failin', as most people do when they get to his age. I thought you might have some message you'd like to send him." "Thank you," said Olive with more than sufficient coldness, "but I have no message." "Oh!" said Miss Port. "You're in a fine place here," she continued, looking about her, "very different from the toll-gate; and I expect the Easterfields has everything they want that money can more than pay for." Having delivered this little shot at the reported extravagance of the lady of the manor, she remarked: "I don't wonder you don't want to go back to your uncle, and run out to take the toll. It must have been a very great change to you if you're used to this sort of thing." "Who said I was not going back?" asked Olive sharply. "Your uncle," said Miss Port. "He told me at our house. Of course, he didn't go into no particulars, but that isn't to be expected, he's not the kind of man to do that." Olive stood and looked at this smooth-faced, flat-mouthed spinster. She was pale, she trembled a little, but she spoke no word; she was a girl who did not go into particulars, especially with a person such as this woman standing before her. Miss Port did not wish to continue the conversation; she generally knew when she had said enough. "Well," she remarked, "as you haven't no message to send to your uncle, I might as well go. But I did think that as I was right on my way, you'd have at least a word for him. Good mornin'." And with this she promptly walked away to join Mr. Morris, cataloguing in her mind as she went the foolish and lazy hammocks and garden chairs, the slow motions of a man who was sweeping leaves from the broad stone, and various other evidences of bad management and probable downfall which met her eyes in every direction. When Miss Port approached the toll-gate on her return she was very anxious to stop, and hoped that the captain would be at the gate. Fortune favored her again, and there he stood in the doorway of the little tollhouse. "Oh, captain," she exclaimed, extending herself somewhat over the butcher's knees in order to speak more effectively, "I've been to Broadstone, and I've seen your niece. She's dressed up just like the other fine folks there, and she's stiffer than any of them, I guess. I didn't see Mrs. Easterfield, although I did want to get a chance to tell her what I thought about her plantin' weeds in her garden, and spreadin' new kinds of seeds over this country, which goes to weeds fast enough in the natural way. As to your niece, I must say she didn't show me no extra civility, and when I asked her if she had any message for you, she said she hadn't a word to say." The captain was not in the least surprised to hear that Olive had not treated Miss Port with extra civility. He remembered his niece treating this prying gossip with positive rudeness, and he had been somewhat amused by it, although he had always believed that young people should be respectful to their elders. He did not care to talk about Olive with Miss Port, but he had to say something, and so he asked if she seemed to be having a good time. "If settin' behind bushes with young men, and goggle-eyed ones at that, is havin' a good time," replied Miss Port, "I'm sure she's enjoyin' herself." And then, as she caught sight of Lancaster: "I suppose that's the young man who's visitin' you. I hope he makes his scholars study harder than he does. He isn't readin' his book at all; he's just starin' at nothin'. You might be polite enough to bring him out and introduce him, captain," she added in a somewhat milder tone. The captain did not answer; in fact, he had not heard all that Miss Port had said to him. If Olive had refused to send him a word, even the slightest message, she must be a girl of very stubborn resentments, and he was sorry to hear it. He himself was beginning to get over his resentment at her treatment of him at the Broadstone luncheon, and if she had been of his turn of mind everything might have been smoothed over in a very short time. "Well?" remarked Maria in an inquiring tone. "Excuse me," said the captain, "what were you saying?" Miss Maria settled herself in her seat. "If you and that young man wastin' his time in the garden can't keep your wits from wool-gatherin'," said she, "I hope old Jane has got sense enough to go on with the housekeepin'. I'll call again when you've sent your young man away, and got your young woman back." Maria said little to the taciturn butcher on their way to Glenford, but she smiled a good deal to herself. For years it had been the desire of her life to go to live in the toll-gate--not with any idea of ousting Captain Asher--oh, no, by no means. Old Mr. Port could not live much longer, and his daughter would not care to reside in the Glenford house by herself. But the toll-gate would exactly suit her; there was life; there was passing to and fro; there was money enough for good living and good clothes without any encroachment on whatever her father might leave her; and, above all, there was the captain, good for twenty years yet, in spite of his want of appetite, which she had mentioned to his niece. This would be a settlement which would suit her in every way, but so long as that niece lived there, there would be no hope of it; even the shipmate's son would be in the way. But she supposed he would soon be off. _CHAPTER X_ _Mrs. Easterfield writes a Letter._ When Miss Port had left her, Olive was so much disturbed by what that placid spinster had told her that she totally forgot Claude Locker's proposal of marriage, as well as the other things she had been thinking about. These things had been not at all unpleasant; she had been thinking of her uncle and her return to the toll-gate house. Her visit to Broadstone was drawing to a close, and she was getting very tired of Mr. Locker and Mr. and Mrs. Fox. She found, now her anger had cooled down, that she was actually missing her uncle, and was thinking of him as of some one who belonged to her. Her own father had never seemed to belong to her; for periods of three years he was away on his ship; and, even when he had been on shore duty, she had sometimes been at school; and when she and her parents had been stationed somewhere together, the lieutenant had been a good deal away from home on this or that naval business. When a girl she had taken these absences as a matter of course, but since she had been living with her uncle her ideas on the subject had changed. She wanted now to be at home with him: and as Broadstone was so near the toll-gate she had no doubt that Mrs. Easterfield would sometimes want her to come to her when, perhaps, she would have different people staying with her. This was a very pleasant mental picture, and the more Olive had looked at it, the better she had liked it. As to the reconciliation with her uncle, it troubled her mind but little. So often had she been angry with people, and so often had everything been made all right again, that she felt used to the process. Her way was simple enough; when she was tired of her indignation she quietly dropped it; and then, taking it for granted that the other party had done the same, she recommenced her usual friendly intercourse, just as if there had never been a quarrel or misunderstanding. She had never found this method to fail--although, of course, it might easily have failed with one who was not Olive--and she had not the slightest doubt that if she wrote to her uncle that she was coming on a certain day, she would be gladly received by him when she should arrive. But now? After what that woman had told her, what now? If her uncle had said she was not coming back, there was an end to her mental pictures and her pleasant plans. And what a hard man he must be to say that! Slowly walking over the grass, Olive went to look for Mrs. Easterfield, and found her in her garden on her knees by a flower-bed digging with a little trowel. "Mrs. Easterfield," said she, "I am thinking of getting married." The elder lady sprang to her feet, dropping her trowel, which barely missed her toes. She looked frightened. "What?" she exclaimed. "To whom?" "Not to anybody in particular," replied Olive. "I am considering the subject in general. Let's go sit on that bench, and talk about it." A little relieved, Mrs. Easterfield followed her. "I don't know what you mean," she said, when they were seated. "Women don't think of marriage in a general way; they consider it in a particular way." "Oh, I am different," said Olive; "I am a navy girl, and more like a man. I have to look out for myself. I think it is time I was married, and therefore I am giving the subject attention. Don't you think that is prudent?" "And you say you have no particular leanings?" the other inquired. "None whatever," said Olive. "Mr. Locker proposed to me less than an hour ago, but I gave him no answer. He is too precipitate, and he is only one person, anyway." "You don't want to marry more than one person!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "No," said Olive, "but I want more than one to choose from." Mrs. Easterfield did not understand the girl at all. But this was not to be expected so soon; she must wait a little, and find out more. Notwithstanding her apparent indifference to Claude Locker, there was more danger in that direction than Mrs. Easterfield had supposed. A really persistent lover is often very dangerous, no matter how indifferent a young woman may be. "Have you been considering the professor?" she asked, with a smile. "I noticed that you were very gracious to him yesterday." "No, I haven't," said Olive. "But I suppose I might as well. I did try to make him have a good time, but I was still a little provoked and felt that I would like him to go back to my uncle and tell him that he had enjoyed himself. But now I suppose I must consider all the eligibles." "Why now?" asked Mrs. Easterfield quickly; "why now more than any previous time?" Olive did not immediately answer, but presently she said: "I am not going back to my uncle. There was a woman here just now--I don't know whether she was sent or not--who informed me that he did not expect me to return to his house. When my mother was living we were great companions for each other, but now you see I am left entirely alone. It will be a good while before father comes back, and then I don't know whether he can settle down or not. Besides, I am not very well acquainted with him, but I suppose that would arrange itself in time. So you see all I can do is to visit about until I am married, and therefore the sooner I am married and settled the better." "Perhaps this is a cold-blooded girl!" said Mrs. Easterfield to herself. "But perhaps it is not!" Then, speaking aloud, she said: "Olive Asher, were you ever in love?" The girl looked at her with reflective eyes. "Yes," she said. "I was once, but that was the only time." "Would you mind telling me about it?" asked Mrs. Easterfield. "Not at all," replied the girl. "I was between thirteen and fourteen, and wore short dresses, and my hair was plaited. My father was on duty at the Philadelphia Navy-Yard, and we lived in that city. There was a young man who used to come to bring messages to father; I think he was a clerk or a draftsman. I do not remember his name, except that his first name was Rupert, and father always called him by that. He was a beautiful man-boy or boy-man, however you choose to put it. His eyes were heavenly blue, his skin was smooth and white, his cheeks were red, and he had the most charming mouth I ever saw. He was just the right height, well shaped, and wore the most becoming clothes. I fell madly in love with him the second time I saw him, and continued so for a long time. I used to think about him and dream about him, and write little poems about him which nobody ever saw. I tried to make a sketch of his face once, but I failed and tore it up." "What did he do?" asked Mrs. Easterfield. "Nothing whatever," said Olive. "I never spoke to him, or he to me. I don't believe he ever noticed me. Whenever I could I went into the room where he was talking to father, but I was very quiet and kept in the background, and I do not think his eyes ever fell upon me. But that did not make any difference at all. He was beautiful above all other men in the world, and I loved him. He was my first, my only love, and it almost brings tears in my eyes now to think of him." "Then you really could love the right person if he were to come along," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Why do you think I couldn't? Of course I could. But the trouble is he doesn't come, so I must try to arrange the matter with what material I have." When Mrs. Easterfield left the garden she went rapidly to her room. There was a smile on her lips, and a light in her eye. A novel idea had come to her which amused her, pleased her, and even excited her. She sat down at her writing-table and began a letter to her husband. After an opening paragraph she wrote thus: "Is not Mr. Hemphill, of the central office of the D. and J., named Rupert? It is my impression that he is. You know he has been to our house several times to dinner when you invited railroad people, and I remember him very well. If his name is Rupert will you find out, without asking him directly, whether or not he was engaged about seven years ago at the navy-yard. I am almost positive I once had a conversation with him about the navy-yard and the moving of one of the great buildings there. If you find that he had a position there, don't ask him any more questions, and drop the subject as quickly as you can. But I then want you to send him here on whatever pretext you please--you can send me any sort of an important message or package--and if I find it desirable, I shall ask him to stay here a few days. These hard-worked secretaries ought to have more vacations. In fact, I have a very interesting scheme in mind, of which I shall say nothing now for fear you may think it necessary to reason about it. By the time you come it will have been worked out, and I will tell you all about it. Now, don't fail to send Mr. Hemphill as promptly as possible, if you find his name is Rupert, and that he has ever been engaged in the navy-yard." This letter was then sent to the post-office at the gap with an immediate-delivery stamp on it. When Mrs. Easterfield went down-stairs, her face still glowing with the pleasure given by the writing of her letter, she met Claude Locker, whose face did not glow with pleasure. "What is the matter with you?" she asked. "I feel like a man who has been half decapitated," said he. "I do not know whether the execution is to be arrested and my wound healed, or whether it is to go on and my head roll into the dust." "A horrible idea!" said Mrs. Easterfield. "What do you really mean?" "I have proposed to Miss Asher and I was treated with indifference, but have not been discarded. Don't you see that I can not live in this condition? I am looking for her." "It will be a great deal better for you to leave her alone," replied Mrs. Easterfield. "If she has any answer for you she will give it when she is ready. Perhaps she is trying to make up her mind, and you may spoil all by intruding yourself upon her." "That will not do at all," said Locker, "not at all. The more Miss Asher sees of me in an unengaged condition the less she will like me. I am fully aware of this. I know that my general aspect must be very unpleasant, so if I expect any success whatever, the quicker I get this thing settled the better." "Even if she refuses you," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Yes," he answered; "then down comes the axe again, away goes my head, and all is over! Then there is another thing," he said, without giving Mrs. Easterfield a chance to speak. "There is that mathematical person. When will he be here again?" "I do not know," replied Mrs. Easterfield; "he has merely a general invitation." "I don't like him," said Locker. "He has been here twice, and that is two times too many. I hate him." "Why so?" "Because he is unobjectionable," Locker answered, "and I am very much afraid Miss Asher likes unobjectionable people. Now I am objectionable--I know it--and the longer I remain unengaged the more objectionable I shall become. I wish you would invite nobody but such people as the Foxes." "Why?" "Because they are married," replied Locker. "But I must not wait here. Can you tell me where I shall be likely to find her?" "Yes," said Mrs. Easterfield, "she is with the Foxes, and they are married." _CHAPTER XI_ _Mr. Locker is released on Bail._ Nearly the whole of that morning Dick Lancaster sat in the arbor in the tollhouse garden, his book in his hand. Part of the time he was thinking about what he would like to do, and part of the time he was thinking about what he ought to do. He felt sure he had stayed with the captain as long as he had been expected to, but he did not want to go away. On the contrary, he greatly desired to remain within walking distance of Broadstone. He was in love with Olive. When he had seen her at luncheon, cold and reserved, he had been greatly impressed by her, and when he went out boating with her the next day he gave her his heart unreservedly. When people fell in love with Olive they always did it promptly. As he sat, with Olive standing near the footlights of his mental stage and the drop-curtain hanging between her and all the rest of the world, the captain strolled up to him. "Dick," said he, "somehow or other my tobacco does not taste as it ought to. Give me a pipeful of yours." When the captain had filled his pipe from Dick's bag he lighted it and gave a few puffs. "It isn't a bit better than mine," said he, "but I will keep on and smoke it. Dick, let's go and take a walk over the hills. I feel rather stupid to-day. And, by the way, I hope you will be able to stay with me for the rest of your vacation. Have you made plans to go anywhere else?" "No plans of the slightest importance," answered Lancaster with joyous vivacity. "I shall be delighted to stay." This prompt acceptance somewhat surprised the captain. He had spoken without premeditation, and without thinking of anything at all except that he did not want everybody to go away and leave him. He had begun to know something of the pleasures of family life; of having some one to sit at the table with him; to whom he could talk; on whom he could look. In fact, although he did not exactly appreciate such a state of things, some one he could love. He was getting really fond of Dick Lancaster. As for Olive, he did not know what to think of her; sometimes he was sure she was not coming back, and at other times he thought it likely he might get a letter that very day appointing the time for her return. He stood puffing his pipe and thinking about this after Dick had spoken. "But it does not matter," he said to himself, "which way it happens. If she doesn't come I want him here, and if she does come, he is good enough for anybody, and perhaps she may be pleased." And then he indulged in a little fragment of the dream which had come to him before; he saw two young people in a charming home, not at the toll-gate, and himself living with them. Plenty of money for all moderate needs, and all happy and satisfied. Then with a sigh he knocked the tobacco from his pipe and said to himself: "If I hear she is coming, I will let her know he is still here, and then she must judge for herself." As they walked together over the hills, Dick Lancaster was very anxious to know something about Olive's return, but he did not like to ask. The captain had been very reticent on the subject of his niece, and Dick was a gentleman. But to his surprise, and very much to his delight, the captain soon began to talk about Olive. He told Dick how his brother had entered the navy when the elder was first mate on a merchant vessel; how Alfred had risen in the service; had married; and how his wife and daughter had lived in various parts of the world. Then he spoke of a good many things he had heard about Olive, and other things he had found out since she had lived with him; and as he went on his heart warmed, and Dick Lancaster listened with as warm a heart as that from which the captain spoke. And thus they walked over the hills, this young man and this elderly man, each in love with the same girl. During all the walk Dick never asked when Miss Asher was coming back to the tollhouse, nor did Captain Asher make any remarks upon the subject. It was not really of vital importance to Dick, as Broadstone was so near, and it was of such vital importance to the captain that it was impossible for him to speak of it. The next day the bright-hearted Richard trod buoyantly upon the earth; he did not care to read; he did not want to smoke; and he was not much inclined to conversation; he was simply buoyant, and undecided. The captain looked at him and smiled. "Why don't you walk over to Broadstone?" he said. "It will do you good. I want you to stay with me, but I don't expect you to be stuck down to this tollhouse all day. I am going about the farm to-day, but I shall expect you to supper." When he was ready to start Dick Lancaster felt a little perplexed. His ideas of friendly civility impelled him to ask the captain if there was anything he could do for him, if there was any message or missive he could take to his niece, or anything he could bring from her, but he was prudent and refrained; if the captain wished service of this sort he was a man to ask for it. The first person Dick met at Broadstone was Mrs. Easterfield, cutting roses. "I am very glad to see you, Professor Lancaster," said she, as she put down her roses and her scissors. "Would you mind, before you enter into the general Broadstone society, sitting down on this bench and talking a little to me?" Dick could not help smiling. What man in the world, even if he were in love with somebody else, could object to sitting down by such a woman and talking to her? "What I am going to say," said Mrs. Easterfield, "is impertinent, unwarranted, and of an officious character. You and I know each other very slightly; neither of us has long been acquainted with Captain Asher, you have met his niece but twice, and I have never really known her until what you might call the other day. But in spite of all this, I propose that you and I shall meddle a little in their affairs. I have taken the greatest fancy to Miss Asher, and, if you can do it without any breach of confidence, I would like you to tell me if you know of any misunderstanding between her and her uncle." "I know of nothing of the kind," said Dick with great interest, "but I admit I thought there might be something wrong somewhere. He knew I was coming here to-day--in fact, he suggested it--but he sent Miss Asher no sort of message." "Can it be possible he is cherishing any hard feelings against her?" she remarked. "I should not have supposed he was that sort of man." "He is not that sort of man," said Dick warmly. "He was talking to me about her yesterday, and from what he said, I am sure he thinks she is the finest girl in the world." "I am glad to hear that," said she, "but it makes the situation more puzzling. Can it be possible that she is treating him badly?" "Oh, I could not believe that!" exclaimed Dick fervently. "I can not imagine such a thing." Mrs. Easterfield smiled. He had really known the girl but for one day, for the first meeting did not count; and here he was defending the absolute beauty of her character. But the assumption of the genus young man often overtops the pyramids. She now determined to take him a little more into her confidence. "Miss Asher has intimated to me that she does not expect to go back to her uncle's house, and this morning she made a reference to the end of her visit here, but I thought you might be able to tell me something about her uncle. If he really does not expect her back I want her to stay here." "Alas," said Dick, "I can not tell you anything. But of one thing I feel sure, and that is that he would like her to come back." "Well," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I am not going to let her go away at present, and if Captain Asher should say anything to you on the subject, you are at liberty to tell him that. From what you said the other day, I suppose you will soon be leaving this quiet valley for the haunts of men." "Oh, no," exclaimed Dick. "He wants me to stay with him as long as I can, and I shall certainly do it." "Now," said Mrs. Easterfield, rising, "I must go and finish cutting my roses. I think you will find everybody on the tennis grounds." Mrs. Easterfield had cut in all twenty-three roses when Claude Locker came to her from the house. His face was beaming, and he skipped over the short grass. "Congratulate me," he said, as he stepped before her. Mrs. Easterfield dropped her roses and her scissors and turned pale. "What do you mean?" she gasped. "Oh, don't be frightened," he said. "I have not been acquitted, but the execution has been stopped for the present, and I am out on bail. I really feel as though the wound in my neck had healed." "What stuff!" said Mrs. Easterfield, her color returning. "Try to speak sensibly." "Oh, I can do that," said Mr. Locker; "upon occasion I can do that very well. I proposed again to Miss Asher not twenty minutes ago. She gave me no answer, but she made an arrangement with me which I think is going to be very satisfactory; she said she could not have me proposing to her every time I saw her--it would attract attention, and in the end might prove annoying--but she said she would be willing to have me propose to her every day just before luncheon, provided I did not insist upon an answer, and would promise to give no indication whatever at any other time that I entertained any unusual regard for her. I agreed to this, and now we understand each other. I feel very confident and happy. The other person has no regular time for offering himself, and if any effort of mine can avail he shall not find an irregular opportunity." Mrs. Easterfield laughed. "Come pick up my roses," she said. "I must go in." "It is like making love," said Locker as he picked up the flowers, "charming, but prickly." At this moment he started. "Who is that?" he exclaimed. Mrs. Easterfield turned. "Oh, that is Monsieur Emile Du Brant. He is one of the secretaries of the Austrian legation. He is to spend a week with us. Suppose you take my flowers into the house and I will go to meet him." Claude Locker, his arms folded around a mass of thorny roses, and a pair of scissors dangling from one finger, stood and gazed with savage intensity at the dapper little man--black eyes, waxed mustache, dressed in the height of fashion--who, with one hand outstretched, while the other held his hat, advanced with smiles and bows to meet the lady of the house. Locker had seen him before; he had met him in Washington; and he had received forty dollars for a poem of which this Austrian young person was the subject. He allowed the lady and her guest to enter the house before him, and then, like a male Flora, he followed, grinding his teeth, and indulging in imprecations. "He will have to put on some other kind of clothes," he muttered, "and perhaps he may shave and curl his hair. That will give me a chance to see her before lunch. I do not know that she expected me to begin to-day, but I am going to do it. I have a clear field so far, and nobody knows what may happen to-morrow." As Locker stood in the hallway waiting for some one to come and take his flowers, or to tell him where to put them, he glanced out of the back door. There, to his horror, he saw that Mrs. Easterfield had conducted her guest through the house, and that they were now approaching the tennis ground, where Professor Lancaster and Miss Asher were standing with their rackets in their hands, while Mr. and Mrs. Fox were playing chess under the shade of a tree. "Field open!" he exclaimed, dropping the roses and the scissors. "Field clear! What a double-dyed ass am I!" And with this he rushed out to the tennis ground; Mrs. Easterfield did not play. Before Mrs. Easterfield returned to the house she stood for a moment and looked at the tennis players. "Olive and three young men," she said to herself; "that will do very well." A little before luncheon Claude Locker became very uneasy, and even agitated. He hovered around Olive, but found no opportunity to speak to her, for she was always talking to somebody else, mostly to the newcomer. But she was a little late in entering the dining-room, and Locker stepped up to her in the doorway. "Is this your handkerchief?" he asked. "No," said she, stopping; "isn't it yours?" "Yes," he replied, "but I had to have some way of attracting your attention. I love you so much that I can scarcely see the table and the people." "Thank you," she said, "and that is all for the next twenty-four hours." _CHAPTER XII_ _Mr. Rupert Hemphill._ That afternoon it rained, so that the Broadstone people were obliged to stay indoors. Dick Lancaster found Mr. Fox a very agreeable and well-informed man, and Mrs. Fox was also an excellent conversationalist. Mrs. Easterfield, who, after the confidences of the morning, could not help looking at him as something more than an acquaintance, talked to him a good deal, and tried to make the time pass pleasantly, at which business she was an adept. All this was very pleasant to Dick, but it did not compensate him for the almost entire loss of the society of Olive, who seemed to devote herself to the entertainment of the Austrian secretary. Mrs. Easterfield was very sorry that the young foreigner had come at this time, but he had been invited the winter before; the time had been appointed; and the visit had to be endured. When the rain had ceased, and Dick was about to take his leave, his hostess declared she would not let him walk back through the mud. "You shall have a horse," she said, "and that will insure an early visit from you, for, of course, you will not trust the animal to other hands than your own. I would ask you to stay, but that would not be treating the captain kindly." As Dick was mounting Mr. Du Brant was standing at the front door, a smile on his swarthy countenance. This smile said as plainly as words could have done so that it was very amusing to this foreign young man to see a person with rolled-up trousers and a straw hat mount upon a horse. Claude Locker, whose soul had been chafing all the afternoon under his banishment from the society of the angel of his life, was also at the front door, and saw the contemptuous smile. Instantly a new and powerful emotion swept over his being in the shape of a strong feeling of fellowship for Lancaster. It made his soul boil with indignation to see the sneer which the Austrian directed toward the young man, a thoroughly fine young man, who, by said foreigner's monkeyful impudence, and another's mistaken favor, had been made a brother-in-misfortune of himself, Claude Locker. "I will make common cause with him against the enemy," thought Locker. "If I should fail to get her I will help him to." And although Dick's brown socks were plainly visible as he cantered away, Mr. Locker looked after him as a gallant and honored brother-in-arms. That evening Claude Locker fought for himself and his comrade. He persisted in talking French with Mr. Du Brant; and his remarkable management of that language, in which ignorance and a subtle facility in intentional misapprehension were so adroitly blended that it was impossible to tell one from the other, amused Olive, and so provoked the Austrian that at last he turned away and began to talk American politics with Mr. Fox, which so elated the poet that the ladies of the party passed a merry evening. "Would you like me to take him out rowing to-morrow?" asked Claude apart to his hostess. "With you at the oars?" she asked. "Of course," said Locker. "I am amazed," said she, "that you should suspect me of such cold-blooded cruelty." "You know you don't want him here," said Claude. "His salary can not be large, and he must spend the greater part of it on clothes--and oil." "Is it possible," she asked, "that you look upon that young man as a rival?" "By no means," he replied; "such persons never marry. They only prevent other people from marrying anybody. Therefore it is that I remember what sort of a boatman I am." "My dear," said Mr. Fox, when he and his wife had retired to their room, "after hearing what that Austrian has to say of the American people, I almost revere Mr. Locker." "I heard some of his remarks," she said, "and I imagined they would have an effect of that kind upon you." When the Broadstone surrey came from the train the next morning it brought a gentleman. "What!" exclaimed Mrs. Fox, when from the other side of the lawn she saw him alight. "Another young man with a valise! It seems to me that this is an overdose!" "Overdoses," remarked Mr. Fox, "are often less dangerous than just enough poison." Mrs. Easterfield received this visitor at the door. She had been waiting for him, and did not wish him to meet anybody when she was not present. After offering his respectful salutations, Mr. Hemphill, Mr. Easterfield's secretary in the central office of the D. and J., delivered without delay a package of which he was the bearer, and apologized for his valise, stating that Mr. Easterfield had told him he must spend the night at Broadstone. "Most assuredly you would do that," said she, and to herself she added, "If I want you longer I will let you know." Mr. Rupert Hemphill was a very handsome man; his nose was fine; his eyes were dark and expressive; he wore silky side-whiskers, which, however, did not entirely conceal the bloom upon his cheeks; his teeth were very good; he was well shaped; and his clothes fitted him admirably. As has been said before, Mrs. Easterfield was exceedingly interested; she was even a little agitated, which was not common with her. She had Mr. Hemphill conducted to his room, and then she waited for him to come down; this also was not common with her. "Mr. Locker," she called from the open door, "do you know where Miss Asher is?" The poet stopped in his stride across the lawn, and approached the lady. "Oh, she is with the Du Brant," said he. "I have been trying to get in some of my French, but neither of them will rise to the fly. However, I am content; it is now three hours before luncheon, and if she has him to herself for that length of time, I think she will be thoroughly disgusted. Then it will be my time, as per agreement." Mrs. Easterfield was a little disappointed. She wanted Olive by herself, but she did not want to make a point of sending for her. But fortune favored her. "There she is," exclaimed Locker; "she is just going into the library. Let me go tell her you want her." "Not at all," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Don't put yourself into danger of breaking your word by seeing her alone before luncheon. I'll go to her." Mr. Locker continued his melancholy stroll, and Mrs. Easterfield entered the library. Olive must not be allowed to go away until the moment arrived which had been awaited with so much interest. "I am looking for a copy of _Tartarin sur les Alps_. I am sure I saw it among these French books," said Olive, on her knees before a low bookcase. "Would you believe it, Mr. Du Brant has never read it, and he seems to think so much of education." Mrs. Easterfield knew exactly where the book was, but she preferred to allow Olive to occupy herself in looking for it, while she kept her eyes on the hall. "Wait a moment, Olive," said she; "a visitor has just arrived, and I want to make him acquainted with you." Olive rose with a book in her hand, and Mrs. Easterfield presented Mr. Hemphill to Miss Asher. As she did so, Mrs. Easterfield kept her eyes steadily fixed upon the young lady's face. With a pleasant smile Olive returned Mr. Hemphill's bow. She was generally glad to make new acquaintances. "Mr. Hemphill is one of my husband's business associates," said Mrs. Easterfield, still with her eyes on Olive. "He has just come from him." "Did he send us this fine day by you?" said Olive. "If so, we are greatly obliged to him." The young man answered that, although he had not brought the day, he was delighted that he had come in company with it. "What atrocious commonplaces!" thought Mrs. Easterfield. "The girl does not know him from Adam!" Here was a disappointment; the thrill, the pallor, the involuntary start, were totally absent; and the first act of the little play was a failure. But Mrs. Easterfield hoped for better things when the curtain rose again. She conducted Mr. Hemphill to the Foxes and let Olive go away with her book; and, as soon as she had the opportunity, she read the letter from her husband. "With this I send you Mr. Hemphill," he wrote. "I don't know what you want to do with him, but you must take good care of him. He is a most valuable secretary, and an estimable young man. As soon as you have done with him please send him back." "I am glad he is estimable," said Mrs. Easterfield to herself. "That will make the matter more satisfactory to Tom when I explain it to him." When Dick Lancaster, properly booted and wearing a felt hat, returned the borrowed horse, he was met by Mr. Locker, who had been wandering about the front of the house, and when he had dismounted Dick was somewhat surprised by the hearty handshake he received. "I am sorry to have to tell you," said the poet, "that there is another one." "Another what?" asked Dick. "Another unnecessary victim," replied Locker. And with this he returned to the front of the house. At last Olive came down the stairs, and she was alone. Locker stepped quickly up to her. "If I should marry," he said, "would I be expected to entertain that Austrian?" She stopped, and gave the question her serious consideration. "I should think," she said, "that that would depend a good deal upon whom you should marry." "How can you talk in that way?" he exclaimed. "As if there were anything to depend upon!" "Nothing to depend upon," said Olive, slightly raising her eyebrows. "That is bad." And she went into the dining-room. The afternoon was an exceptionally fine one, but the party at Broadstone did not take advantage of it; there seemed to be a spirit of unrest pervading the premises, and when the carriage started on a drive along the river only Mr. and Mrs. Fox were in it. Mrs. Easterfield would not leave Olive and Mr. Hemphill, and she did not encourage them to go. Consequently there were three young men who did not wish to go. "It seems to me," said Mr. Fox, as they rolled away, "that a young woman, such as Miss Asher, has it in her power to interfere very much with the social feeling which should pervade a household like this. If she were to satisfy herself with attracting one person, all the rest of us might be content to make ourselves happy in such fashions as might present themselves." "The rest of us!" exclaimed Mrs. Fox. "Yes," replied her husband. "I mean you, and Mrs. Easterfield, and myself, and the rest. That young woman's indeterminate methods of fascination interfere with all of us." "I don't exactly see how they interfere with me," said Mrs. Fox rather stiffly. "If the carriage had been filled, as was expected," said her husband, "I might have had the pleasure of driving you in a buggy." She turned to him with a smile. "Immediately after I spoke," she said, "I imagined you might be thinking of something of that kind." Mrs. Easterfield was not a woman to wait for things to happen in their own good time. If possible, she liked to hurry them up. In this Olive and Hemphill affair there was really nothing to wait for; if she left them to themselves there would be no happenings. As soon as was possible, she took Olive into her own little room, where she kept her writing-table, and into whose sacred precincts her secretary was not allowed to penetrate. "Now, then," said she, "what do you think of Mr. Hemphill?" "I don't think of him at all," said Olive, a little surprised. "Is there anything about him to think of?" "He sat by you at luncheon," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I know that," said Olive, "and he was better than an empty chair. I hate sitting by empty chairs." "Olive," exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield with vivacity, "you ought to remember that young man!" "Remember him?" the girl ejaculated. "Certainly," said Mrs. Easterfield. "After what you told me about him, I expected you would recognize him the moment you saw him. But you did not know him; you did not do anything I expected you to do; and I was very much disappointed." "What are you talking about?" asked Olive. "I am talking about Mr. Hemphill; Mr. Rupert Hemphill; who, about seven years ago, was engaged in the Philadelphia Navy-Yard, and who came to your house on business with your father. From what you told me of him I conjectured that he might now be my husband's Philadelphia secretary, for his name is Rupert, and I had reason to believe that he was once engaged in the navy-yard. When I found out I was entirely correct in my supposition I had him sent here, and I looked forward with the most joyous anticipations to being present when you first saw him. But it was all a fiasco! I suppose some people might think I was unwarrantably meddling in the affairs of others, but as it was in my power to create a most charming romance, I could not let the opportunity pass." Olive did not hear a word of Mrs. Easterfield's latest remarks; her round, full eyes were fixed upon the wall in front of her, but they saw nothing. Her mind had gone back seven years. "Is it possible," she exclaimed presently, "that that is my Rupert, my beautiful Rupert of the roseate cheeks, the Rupert of my heart, my only love! The Endymion-like youth I watched for every day; on whom I gazed and gazed and worshiped and longed for when he had gone; of whom I dreamed; to whom my soul went out in poetry; whose miniature I would have painted on the finest ivory if I had known how to paint; and whose image thus created I would have worn next my heart to look at every instant I found myself alone, if it had not been that my dresses were all fastened down the back! I am going to him this instant! I must see him again! My Rupert, my only love!" And with this she started to the door. "Olive," cried Mrs. Easterfield, springing from her chair, "stop, don't you do that! Come back. You must not--" But the girl had flown down the stairs, and was gone. _CHAPTER XIII_ _Mr. Lancaster's Backers._ Olive found Mr. Hemphill under a tree upon the lawn. He was sitting on a low bench with one little girl upon each knee. He was not a stranger to the children, for they had frequently met him during their winter residences in cities. He was telling them a story when Olive approached. He made an attempt to rise, but the little girls would not let him put them down. "Don't move, Mr. Hemphill," said Olive; "I am going to sit down myself." And as she spoke she drew forward a low bench. "I am so glad to see you are fond of children, Mr. Hemphill," she continued; "you must have changed very much." "Changed!" he exclaimed. "I have always been fond of them." "Excuse me," said Olive, "not always. I remember a child you did not care for, on whom you did not even look, who was absolutely nothing to you, although you were so much to her." Mr. Hemphill stared. "I do not remember such a child," said he. "She existed," said Olive. "I was that child." And then she told him how she had seen him come to her father's house. Mr. Hemphill remembered Lieutenant Asher, he remembered going to his house, but he did not remember seeing there a little girl. "I was not so very little," said Olive; "I was fourteen, and I was just at an age to be greatly attracted by you. I thought you were the most beautiful young man I had ever beheld. I don't mind telling you, because I can not look upon you as a stranger, that I fell deeply in love with you." As Mr. Hemphill sat and listened to these words his face turned redder than the reddest rose, even his silky whiskers seemed to redden, his fine-cut red lips were parted, but he could not speak. The two little girls had been gazing earnestly at Olive. Now the elder one spoke. "I am in love," she said. "And so am I," piped up the younger one. "She's in love with Martha's little Jim," said the first girl, "but I am in love with Henry. He's eight. Both boys." "I wouldn't be in love with a girl," said the little one contemptuously. This interruption was a help to Mr. Hemphill, and his redness paled a little. "Of course you could not be expected to know anything of my feelings for you," said Olive, "and perhaps it is very well you did not, for business is business, and the feelings of girls should not be allowed to interfere with it. But my heart went out to you all the same. You were my first love." Now Mr. Hemphill crimsoned again worse than before. He had not yet spoken a word, and there was no word in the English language which he thought would be appropriate for the occasion. "You may think I am a little cruel to plump this sort of thing upon you," said Olive, "in such a sudden way, but I am not. All this was seven years ago, and a person of my age can surely speak freely of what happened seven years ago. I did not even know you when I met you, but Mrs. Easterfield told me about you, and now I remember everything, and I think it would have been inhuman if I had not told you of the part you used to play in my life. You have a right to know it." If Mr. Hemphill could have reddened any more he would have done so, but it was not possible. The thought flashed into his mind that it might be well to say something about her having found him very much changed, but in the next instant he saw that that would not do. How could he assume that he had ever been beautiful; how could he force her to say that he was not beautiful now, or that he still remained so? "I am very glad I have met you," said Olive, "and that I know who you are. And I am glad, too, to tell you that I forgive you for not taking notice of me seven years ago." "Is that all of your story?" asked the elder little girl. "Yes," said Olive, laughing, "that is all." "Well, then, let Mr. Hemphill go on with his," said she. "Oh, certainly," said Olive, jumping up; "and you must all excuse me for interfering with your story." Mr. Hemphill sat still, a little girl on each knee. He had not spoken a word since that beautiful girl had told him she had once loved him. And he could not speak now. "You look as if you had a plaster taken off," said the younger little girl. And, after waiting a moment for an answer, she slipped off his knee; the other followed; and the story was postponed. When Mrs. Easterfield heard Olive's account of this incident she was utterly astounded. "What sort of a girl are you" she exclaimed. "What are you going to do about it now?" "Do?" said Olive quietly. "I have done." Mrs. Easterfield was in a state of great perplexity. She had already asked Mr. Hemphill to stay until Saturday, three days off, and she could not tell him to go away, and the awkwardness of his remaining in the same house with Olive was something not easy to deal with. During Olive's interview with Mr. Hemphill and the little girls Claude Locker had been sitting alone at a distance, gazing at the group. He was waiting for an opportunity of social converse, for this was not forbidden him even if the time did not immediately precede the luncheon hour. He saw Hemphill's blazing face, and deeply wondered. If it had been the lady who had flushed he would have bounced upon the scene to defend her, but Olive was calm, and it was the conscious guilt of the man that made his face look like a freshly painted tin roof. This was an affair into which he had no right to intrude himself, and so he sat and sighed, and his heart grew heavy. How many ante-luncheon avowals would have to be made before she would take so much interest in him, one way or the other! Mr. Du Brant also sat at a distance. He was reading, or at least appearing to read; but he was so unaccustomed to holding a book in his hands that he did it very awkwardly, and Miss Raleigh, who was looking at him from the library window, made up her mind that if he dropped it, as she expected him to do, she would get the book and rub the dirt off the corners before it was put back into the bookcase. But when Olive left Mr. Hemphill she went so quickly into the house that the Austrian was unable to join her, and he, therefore, went to his room to prepare for dinner. Dick Lancaster had also been waiting, although not watching. He had hoped that he might have a chance for a little talk with Olive. But there was really no good reason to expect it, for he knew that two, and perhaps three, young men had stayed at home that afternoon in the hope that they might have the same opportunity. The odds against him were great. He began to think that perhaps he was engaged in a foolish piece of business, and was in danger of making himself disagreeably conspicuous. The other young men were guests at Broadstone, but if he came there every day as he had been doing, and as he wanted to do, it might be thought that he was taking advantage of Mrs. Easterfield's kindness. At that moment he heard the rustle of skirts, and, glancing up, saw Mrs. Easterfield, who was looking for him. Mrs. Easterfield's regard for Lancaster was growing, partly on account of the confidence she had already reposed in him. In her present state of mind she would have been glad to give him still more, for she did not know what to do about Olive and Mr. Hemphill, and there was no one with whom she could talk upon the subject; even if she had known Dick better her loyalty to Olive would have prevented that. "Have you found out anything about the captain and Olive?" she asked. "Has he spoken of her return?" "No," replied Dick; "he has not said a word on the subject, but I am very sure he would be overjoyed to have her come back. Every day when the postman arrives I believe he looks for a letter from her, and he shows that he feels it when he finds none. He is good-natured, and pleasant, but he is not as cheerful as when I first came." "Every day," said Mrs. Easterfield, as they walked together, "I love Olive more and more." "So do I," thought Dick. "But every day I understand her less and less," she continued. "She is truly a navy girl, and repose does not seem to be one of her characteristics. From what she has told me, I believe she has never lived in domestic peace and quiet until she came to stay with her uncle. It would delight me to see her properly married. I wish you would marry her." Dick stopped, and so did she, and they stood looking at each other. He did not redden, for he was not of the flushing kind; his face even grew a little hard. "Do you believe," said he, in a very different tone from his ordinary voice, "that I have the slightest chance?" "Of course I do," she answered. "I believe you have a very good chance, or I should not have spoken to you. I flatter myself that I have excellent judgment concerning young men, and I am very fond of Olive." "Mrs. Easterfield," exclaimed Dick, "you know I am in love with her. I suppose that has been easy enough to see, but it has all been very quick work with me; in fact, I have had very little to say to her, and have never said anything that could in the slightest degree indicate how I felt toward her. But I believe I loved her the second day I met her, and I am not sure it did not begin the day before." "I think that sort of thing is always quick work where Olive is concerned," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I think it likely that many young men have fallen in love with her, and that they have to be very lively if they want a chance to tell her so. But don't be jealous. I know positively that none of them ever had the slightest chance. But now all that is passed. I know she is tired of an unsettled life, and it is likely she may soon be thinking of marrying, and there will be no lack of suitors. She has them now. But I want her to marry you." "Mrs. Easterfield," exclaimed Dick, "you have known me but a very little while----" "Don't mention that," she interrupted. "I do quick work as well as other people. I never before engaged in any matchmaking business, but if this succeeds, I shall be proud of it to the end of my days. You are in love with Olive, and she is worthy of you. I want you to try to win her, and I will do everything I can to help you. Here is my hand upon it." As Dick held that hand and looked into that face a courage and a belief in himself came into his heart that had never been there before. By day and by night his soul had been filled with the image of Olive, but up to this moment he had not thought of marrying her. That was something that belonged to the future, not even considered in his state of inchoate adoration. But now that he had been told he had reason to hope, he hoped; and the fact that one beautiful woman told him he might hope to win another beautiful woman was a powerful encouragement. Henceforth he would not be content with simply loving Olive; if it were within his power he would win, he would have her. "You look like a soldier going forth to conquest," said Mrs. Easterfield with a smile. "And you," said he impulsively, "you not only look like, but you are an angel." This was pretty strong for the young professor, but the lady understood him. She was very glad, indeed, that he could express himself impulsively, for without that power he could not win Olive. As Dick started away from Broadstone on his walk to the toll-gate he heard quick steps behind him and was soon overtaken by Claude Locker. "Hello," said that young man, "if you are on your way home I am going to walk a while with you. I have not done a thing to-day." When Dick heard these words his heart sank. He was on his way home accompanied by Olive--Olive in his heart, Olive in his soul, Olive in his brain, Olive in the sky and all over the earth--how dared a common mortal intrude himself upon the scene? "There is another thing," said Locker, who was now keeping step with him. "My soul is filled with murderous intent. I thirst for human life, and I need the restraints of companionship." "Who is it you want to kill?" asked Dick coldly. "It is an Austrian," replied the other. "I will not say what Austrian, leaving that to your imagination. I don't suppose you ever killed an Austrian. Neither have I, but I should like to do it. It would be a novel and delightful experience." Dick did not think it necessary that he should be told more; he perfectly understood the state of the case, for it was impossible not to see that this young man was paying marked attention to Olive, while Mr. Du Brant was doing the same thing. But still it seemed well to say something, and he remarked: "What is the matter with the Austrian?" "He is in love with Miss Asher," said Locker, "and so am I. I am beginning to believe he is positively dangerous. I did not think so at first, but I do now. He has actually taken to reading. I know that man; I have often seen him in Washington. He was always running after some lady or other, but I never knew him to read before. It is a dangerous symptom. He reads with one eye, while the other sweeps the horizon to catch a glimpse of her. By the way, that would be a splendid idea for a district policeman; if he stood under a lamp-post in citizen's dress reading a book, no criminal would suspect his identity, and he could keep one eye on the printed page, and devote the other to the cause of justice. But to return to our sallow mutton, or black sheep, if you choose. That Austrian ought to be killed!" Dick smiled sardonically. "He is not your only obstacle," he said. "I know it," replied Locker. "There's that Chinese laundried fellow, smooth-finished, who came up this morning. He must be an old offender, for I saw her giving it to him hot this morning. I am sure she was telling him exactly what she thought of him, for he turned as red as a pickled beet. So he will have to scratch pretty hard if he expects to get into her good graces again, and I suppose that is what he came here for. But I am not so much afraid of him as I am of that Austrian. If he keeps on the literary lay, and reads books with her, looking up the words in the dictionary, it is dangerous." "I do not see," said Lancaster, somewhat loftily, "why you speak of these things to me." "Then I'll tell you," said Locker quickly. "I speak of them to you because you are just as much concerned in them as I am. You are in love with Miss Asher--anybody can see that--and, in fact, I should think you were a pretty poor sort of a fellow if you were not, after having seen and talked with her. Consequently that Austrian is just as dangerous to you as he is to me. And as I have chosen you for my brother-in-arms, it is right that I tell you everything I know." "Brother-in-arms?" ejaculated Dick. "That is what it is," said Locker, "and I will tell you how it came about. The Austrian looked upon you with scorn and contempt because you rode a horse wearing rolled-up trousers and low shoes. As you did not see him and could not return the contempt, I did it for you. Having done this, a fellow feeling for you immediately sprang up within me. That is what always happens, you know. After that the feeling became a good deal stronger, and I said to myself that if I found I could not get Miss Asher; and it's seventy-six I don't, for that's generally the state of my luck; I would help you to get her, partly because I like you, and partly because that Austrian must be ousted, no matter what happens or how it is done. So I became your brother-in-arms, and if I find I am out of the race, I am going to back you up just as hard as I can, and here's my hand upon it." Dick stopped as he had stopped half an hour before, and gazed upon his companion. "Now don't thank me," continued Locker, "or say anything nice, because if I find I can come in ahead of you I am going to do it. But if we work together, I am sure we need not be afraid of that Austrian, or of that fiery-faced model for a ready-made-clothes shop. It is to be either you or me--first place for me, if possible." Dick could not help laughing. "You are a jolly sort of a fellow," said he, "and I will be your brother-in-arms. But it is to be first place for me, if possible." And they shook hands upon the bargain. That evening Mr. Hemphill found Olive alone. "I have been trying to get a chance to speak to you, Miss Asher," said he. "I want to ask you to help me, for I do not know what in the world to do." Olive looked at him inquiringly. "Since you spoke to me this afternoon," he went on, "I have been in a state of most miserable embarrassment; I can not for the life of me decide what I ought to say or what I ought to do, or what I ought not to say or what I ought not to do. If I should pass over as something not necessary to take into consideration the--the--most unusual statement you made to me, it might be that you would consider me as a boor, a man incapable of appreciating the--the--highest honors. Then again, if I do say anything to show that I appreciate such honors, you may well consider me presumptuous, conceited, and even insulting. I thought a while ago that I would leave this house before it would be necessary for me to decide how I should act when I met you, but I could not do that. Explanations would be necessary, and I would not be able to make them, and so, in sheer despair, I have come to you. Whatever you say I ought to do I will do. Of myself, I am utterly helpless." Olive looked at him with serious earnestness. "You are in a queer position," she said, "and I don't wonder you do not know what to do. I did not think of this peculiar consequence which would result from my revelation. As to the revelation itself, there is no use talking about it; it had to be made. It would have been unjust and wicked to allow a man to live in ignorance of the fact that such a thing had happened to him without his knowing it. But I think I can make it all right for you. If you had known when you were very young, in fact, when you were in another age of man, that a young girl in short dresses was in love with you, would you have disdained her affection?" "I should say not!" exclaimed Rupert Hemphill, his eyes fixed upon the person who had once been that girl in short dresses. "Well, then," said Olive, "there could have been nothing for her to complain of, no matter what she knew or what she did not know, and there is nothing he could complain of, no matter what he knew or did not know. And as both these persons have passed entirely out of existence, I think you and I need consider them no longer. And we can talk about tennis or bass fishing, or anything we like. And if you are a fisherman you will be glad to hear that there is first-rate bass fishing in the river now, and that we are talking of getting up a regular fishing party. We shall have to go two or three miles below here where the water is deeper and there are not so many rocks." That night Mr. Hemphill dreamed hard of a girl who had loved him when she was little, and who continued to love him now that she had grown to be wonderfully handsome. He was going out to sail with her in a boat far and far away, where nobody could find them or bring them back. _CHAPTER XIV_ _A Letter for Olive._ The next morning, about an hour after breakfast, Mr. Du Brant proposed to Olive. He had received a letter the day before which made it probable that he might be recalled to Washington before the time which had been fixed for the end of his visit at Broadstone, and he consequently did not wish to defer for a moment longer than was necessary this most important business of his life. He told Miss Asher that he had never truly loved before; which was probably correct; and that as she had raised his mind from the common things of earth, upon which it had been accustomed to grovel, she had made a new man of him in an astonishingly short time; which, it is likely, was also true. He assured her that without any regard to outside circumstances, he could not live without her. If at any other time he had allowed his mind to dwell for a moment upon matrimony, he had thought of family, position, wealth, social station, and all that sort of thing, but now he thought of nothing but her, and he came to offer her his heart. In fact, the man was truly and honestly in love. Inwardly Olive smiled. "I can not ask him," she said to herself, "to say this again every day before dinner. He hasn't the wit of Claude Locker, and would not be able to vary his remarks; but I can not blast his hopes too suddenly, for, if I do that, he will instantly go away, and it would not be treating Mrs. Easterfield properly if I were to break up her party without her knowledge. But I will talk to her about it. And now for him.--Mr. Du Brant," she said aloud, speaking in English, although he had proposed to her in French, because she thought she could make her own language more impressive, "it is a very serious thing you have said to me, and I don't believe you have had time enough to think about it properly. Now don't interrupt. I know exactly what you would say. You have known me such a little while that even if your mind is made up it can not be properly made up, and therefore, for your own sake, I am going to give you a chance to think it all over. You must not say you don't want to, because I want you to; and when you have thought, and thought, and know yourself better--now don't say you can not know yourself better if you have a thousand years in which to consider it--for though you think that it is true it is not" "And if I rack my brains and my heart," interrupted Mr. Du Brant, "and find out that I can never change nor feel in any other way toward you than I feel now, may I then----" "Now, don't say anything about that," said Olive. "What I want to do now is to treat you honorably and fairly, and to give you a chance to withdraw if, after sober consideration, you think it best to do so. I believe that every young man who thinks himself compelled to propose marriage in such hot haste ought to have a chance to reflect quietly and coolly, and to withdraw if he wants to. And that is all, Mr. Du Brant. I must be off this minute, for Mrs. Easterfield is over there waiting for me." Mr. Du Brant walked thoughtfully away. "I do not understand," he said to himself in French, "why she did not tell me I need not speak to her again about it. The situation is worthy of diplomatic consideration, and I will give it that." From a distance Claude Locker beheld his Austrian enemy walking alone, and without a book. "Something has happened," he thought, "and the fellow has changed his tactics. Before, under cover of a French novel, he was a snake in the grass, now he is a snake hopping along on the tip of his tail. Perhaps he thinks this is a better way to keep a lookout upon her. I believe he is more dangerous than he was before, for I don't know whether a snake on tip tail jumps or falls down upon his victims." One thing Mr. Locker was firmly determined upon. He was going to try to see Olive as soon as it was possible before luncheon, and impress upon her the ardent nature of his feelings toward her; he did not believe he had done this yet. He looked about him. The party, excepting himself and Mr. Du Brant, were on the front lawn; he would join them and satirize the gloomy Austrian. If Olive could be made to laugh at him it would be like preparing a garden-bed with spade and rake before sowing his seeds. The rural mail-carrier came earlier than usual that day, and he brought Olive but one letter, but as it was from her father, she was entirely satisfied, and retired to a bench to read it. In about ten minutes after that she walked into Mrs. Easterfield's little room, the open letter in her hand. As Mrs. Easterfield looked up from her writing-table the girl seemed transformed; she was taller, she was straighter, her face had lost its bloom, and her eyes blazed. "Would you believe it!" she said, grating out the words as she spoke. "My father is going to be married!" Mrs. Easterfield dropped her pen, and her face lost color. She had always been greatly interested in Lieutenant Asher. "What!" she exclaimed. "He? And to whom?" "A girl I used to go to school with," said Olive, standing as if she were framed in one solid piece. "Edith Marshall, living in Geneva. She is older than I am, but we were in the same classes. They are to be married in October, and she is to sail for this country about the time his ship comes home. He is to be stationed at Governor's Island, and they are to have a house there. He writes, and writes, and writes, about how lovely it will be for me to have this dear new mother. Me! To call that thing mother! I shall have no mother, but I have lost my father." With this she threw herself upon a lounge, and burst into passionate tears. Mrs. Easterfield rose, and closed the door. Claude Locker had no opportunity to press his suit before luncheon, for Olive did not come to that meal; she had one of her headaches. Every one seemed to appreciate the incompleteness of the party, and even Mrs. Easterfield looked serious, which was not usual with her. Mr. Hemphill was much cast down, for he had made up his mind to talk to Olive in such a way that she should not fail to see that he had taken to heart her advice, and might be depended upon to deport himself toward her as if he had never heard the words she had addressed to him. He had prepared several topics for conversation, but as he would not waste these upon the general company, he indulged only in such remarks as were necessary to good manners. Mr. Du Brant talked a good deal in a perfunctory manner, but inwardly he was somewhat elated. "Her emotions must have been excited more than I supposed," he thought. "That is not a bad sign." Mrs. Fox was a little bit--a very little bit--annoyed because Mr. Fox did not make as many facetious remarks as was his custom. He seemed like one who, in a degree, felt that he lacked an audience; Mrs. Fox could see no good reason for this. When Mrs. Easterfield went up to Olive's room she found her bathing her eyes in cold water. "Will you lend me a bicycle" said Olive. "I am sure you have one." Mrs. Easterfield looked at her in amazement. "I want to go to my uncle," said Olive. "He is now all I have left in this world. I have been thinking, and thinking about everything, and I want to go to him. Whatever has come between us will vanish as soon as he sees me, I am sure of that. I do not know why he did not want me to come back to him, but he will want me now, and I should like to start immediately without anybody seeing me." "But a bicycle!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "You can't go that way. I will send you in the carriage." "No, no, no," cried Olive; "I want to go quietly. I want to go so that I can leave my wheel at the door and go right in. I have a short walking-skirt, and I can wear that. Please let me have the bicycle." Mrs. Easterfield made Olive sit down and she talked to her, but there was no changing the girl's determination to go to her uncle, to go alone, and to go immediately. _CHAPTER XV_ _Olive's Bicycle Trip._ Despite Olive's desire to set forth immediately on her bicycle trip, it was past the middle of the afternoon when she left Broadstone. She went out quietly, not by the usual driveway, and was soon upon the turnpike road. As she sped along the cool air upon her face refreshed her; and the knowledge that she was so rapidly approaching the dear old toll-gate, where, even if she did not find her uncle at the house, she could sit with old Jane until he came back, gave her strength and courage. Up a long hill she went, and down again to the level country. Then there was a slighter rise in the road, and when she reached its summit she saw, less than a mile away, the toll-gate surrounded by its trees, the thick foliage of the fruit-trees in the garden, the little tollhouse and the long bar, standing up high at its customary incline upon the opposite side of the road. Down the little hill she went; and then, steadily and swiftly, onward. Presently she saw that some one was on the piazza by the side of the tollhouse; his back was toward her, he was sitting in his accustomed armchair; she could not be mistaken; it was her uncle. Now and then, while upon the road, she had thought of what she should say when she first met him, but she had soon dismissed all ideas of preconceived salutations, or explanations. She would be there, and that would be enough. Her father's letter was in her pocket, and that was too much. All she meant to do was to glide up to that piazza, spring up the steps, and present herself to her uncle's astonished gaze before he had any idea that any one was approaching. She was within twenty feet of the piazza when she saw that her uncle was not alone; there was some one sitting in front of him who had been concealed by his broad shoulders. This person was a woman. She had caught sight of Olive, and stuck her head out on one side to look at her. Upon her dough-like face there was a grin, and in her eye a light of triumph. With one quick glance she seemed to say: "Ah, ha, you find me here, do you? What have you to say to that?" Olive's heart stood still. That woman, that Maria Port, sitting in close converse with her uncle in that public place where she had never seen any one but men! That horrid woman at such a moment as this! She could not speak to her; she could not speak to her uncle in her presence. She could not stop. With what she had on her mind, and with what she had in her pocket, it would be impossible to say a word before that Maria Port! Without a swerve she sped on, and passed the toll-gate. She only knew one thing; she could not stop. The wildest suspicions now rushed into her mind. Why should her uncle be thus exposing himself to the public gaze with Maria Port? Why did it give the woman such diabolical pleasure to be seen there with him? With a mind already prepared for such sickening revelations, Olive was convinced that it could mean nothing but that her uncle intended to marry Maria Port. What else could it mean? But no matter what it meant, she could not stop. She could not go back. On went her bicycle, and presently she gained sufficient command over herself to know that she should not ride into the town. But what else could she do? She could not go back while those two were sitting on the piazza. Suddenly she remembered the shunpike. She had never been on it, but she knew where it left the road, and where it reentered it. So she kept on her course, and in a few minutes had reached the narrow country road. There were ruts here and there, and sometimes there were stony places; there were small hills, mostly rough; and there were few stretches of smooth road; but on went Olive; sometimes trying with much effort to make good time, and always with tears in her eyes, dimming the roadway, the prospect, and everything in the world. "There now!" exclaimed Maria Port, springing to her feet. "What have you got to say to that? If that isn't brazen I never saw brass!" "What do you mean?" said the captain, rising in his chair. "Mean?" said Maria Port, leaning over the railing. "Look there! Do you see that girl getting away as fast as she can work herself? That's your precious niece, Olive Asher, scooting past us with her nose in the air as if we was sticks and stones by the side of the road. What have you got to say to that, Captain John, I'd like to know?" The captain ran down the path. "You don't mean to say that is Olive!" he cried. "That's who it is," answered Miss Port. "She looked me square in the face as she dashed by. Not a word for you, not a word for me. Impudence! That doesn't express it!" The captain paid no attention to her, but ran into the garden. Old Jane was standing near the house door. "Was that Miss Olive?" he cried. "Did you see her?" "Yes," said old Jane, "it was her. I saw her comin', and I came out to meet her. But she just shot through the toll-gate as if she didn't know there was a toll on bicycles." The captain stood still in the garden-path. He could not believe that Olive had done this to treat him with contempt. She must have heard some news. There must be something the matter. She was going into town at the top of her speed to send a telegram, intending to stop as she came back. She might have stopped anyway if it had not been for that good-for-nothing Maria Port. She hated Maria, and he hated her himself, at this moment, as she stood by his side, asking him what was the matter with him. "It's no more than you have to expect," said she. "She's a fine lady, a navy lady, a foreign lady, that's been with the aristocrats! She's got good clothes on that she never wore here, and where I guess she had a pretty stupid time, judgin' from how they carry on at that Easterfield place. Why in the world should she want to stop and speak to such persons as you and me?" The captain paid no attention to these remarks. "If she doesn't want to send a telegram, I don't see what she is going to town for in such a hurry. I suppose she thought she could get there sooner than a man could go on a horse," he said. "Telegram!" sneered Miss Port. "It's a great deal easier to send telegrams from the gap." "Then it is something worse," he thought. Perhaps she might be running away, though what in the world she was running from he could not imagine. Anyway, he must see her; he must find out. When she came back she must not pass again, and if she did not come back he must go after her. He ran to the road and put down the bar, calling to old Jane to come there and keep a sharp lookout. Then he quickly returned to the house. "What are you going to do" asked Miss Port. "I never saw a man in such a fluster." "If she does not come back very soon," said he, "I shall go to town after her." "Then I suppose I might as well be going myself," said she. "And by the way, captain, if you are going to town, why don't you take a seat in my carriage? Dear knows me and the boy don't fill it." But the captain would consider no such invitation. When he met Olive he did not want Maria Port to be along. He did not answer, and went into the house to make some change in his attire. Old Jane would not let Olive pass, and if he met her on the road or in the town he wanted to be well dressed. Miss Port still stood in the path by the house door. "That's not what I call polite," said she, "but he's awful flustered, and I don't mind." Far from minding, Maria was pleased; it pleased her to know that his niece's conduct had flustered him. The more that girl flustered him the better it would be, and she smiled with considerable satisfaction. If she could get that girl out of the way she believed she would find but little difficulty in carrying out her scheme to embitter the remainder of the good captain's life. She did not put it in that way to herself; but that was the real character of the scheme. Suddenly an idea struck her. It was of no use for her to stand and wait, for she knew she would not be able to induce the captain to go with her. It would be a great thing if she could, for to drive into town with him by her side would go far to make the people of Glenford understand what was going to happen. But, if she could not do this, she could do something else. If she started away immediately she might meet that Asher girl coming back, and it would be a very fine thing if she could have an interview with her before she saw her uncle. She made a quick step toward the house and looked in. The captain was not visible, but old Jane was standing near the back door of the tollhouse. The opportunity was not to be lost. "Good-by, John," said she in a soft tone, but quite loud enough for the old woman to hear. "I'll go home first, for I've got to see to gettin' supper ready for you. So good-by, John, for a little while." And she kissed her hand to the inside of the house. Then she hurried out of the gate; got into the little phaeton which was waiting for her under a tree; and drove away. She had come there that afternoon on the pretense of consulting the captain about her father's health, which she said disturbed her, and she had requested the privilege of sitting on the toll-gate piazza because she had always wanted to sit there, and had never been invited. The captain had not invited her then, but as she had boldly marched to the piazza and taken a seat, he had been obliged to follow. Captain Asher, wearing a good coat and hat, relieved old Jane at her post, and waited and waited for Olive to come back. He did not for a moment think she might return by the shunpike, for that was a rough road, not fit for a bicycle. And if she passed this way once, why should she object to doing it again? When more than time enough had elapsed for her return from the town, he started forth with a heavy heart to follow her. He told old Jane that if for any reason he should be detained in town until late, he would take supper with Mr. Port, and if, although he did not expect this, he should not come back that night, the Ports would know of his whereabouts. He did not take his horse and buggy because he thought it would be in his way. If he met Olive in the road he could more easily stop and talk to her if he were walking than if he had a horse to take care of. "I hope you're not runnin' after Miss Olive," said old Jane. The captain did not wish his old servant to imagine that it was necessary for him to run after his niece, and so he answered rather quickly: "Of course not." Then he set off toward the town. He did not walk very fast, for if he met Olive he would rather have a talk with her on the road than in Glenford. He walked on and on, not with his eyes on the smooth surface of the pike, but looking out afar, hoping that he might soon see the figure of a girl on a bicycle; and thus it was that he passed the entrance to the shunpike without noticing that a bicycle track turned into it. Olive struggled on, and the road did not improve. She worked hard with her body, but still harder with her mind. It seemed to her as though everything were endeavoring to crush her, and that it was almost succeeding. If she had been in her own room, seated, or walking the floor, indignation against her uncle would have given her the same unnatural vigor and energy which had possessed her when she read her father's letter; but it is impossible to be angry when one is physically tired and depressed, and this was Olive's condition now. Once she dismounted, sat down on a piece of rock, and cried. The rest was of service to her, but she could not stay there long; the road was too lonely. She must push on. So on she pressed, sometimes walking, and sometimes on her wheel, the pedals apparently growing stiffer at every turn. Slight mishaps she did not mind, but a fear began to grow upon her that she would never be able to reach Broadstone at all. But after a time--a very long time it seemed--the road grew more level and smooth; and then ahead she saw the white surface of the turnpike shining as it passed the end of her road. When she should emerge on that smooth, hard road it could not be long, even if she went slowly, before she reached home. She was still some fifty yards from the pike when she saw a man upon it, walking southward. As Dick Lancaster passed the end of the road he lifted his head, and looked along it. It was strange that he should do so, for since he had started on his homeward walk he had not raised his eyes from the ground. He had reached Broadstone soon after luncheon, before Olive had left on her wheel, and had passed rather a stupid time, playing tennis with Claude Locker, he had seen but little of Mrs. Easterfield, whose mind was evidently occupied. Once she had seemed about to take him into her confidence, but had suddenly excused herself, and had gone into the house. When the game was finished Locker advised him to go home. "She is not likely to be down until dinner time," he had said, "and this evening I'll defend our cause against those other fellows. I have several good things in my mind that I am sure will interest her, and I don't believe there's any use courting a girl unless you interest her." Lancaster had taken the advice, and had left much earlier than was usual. _CHAPTER XVI_ _Mr. Lancaster accepts a Mission._ When Dick Lancaster saw Olive he stopped with a start, and then ran toward her. "Miss Asher!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? What is the matter? You look pale." When she saw him coming Olive had dismounted, not with the active spring usual with her, but heavily and clumsily. She did not even smile as she spoke to him. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Lancaster," she said. "I am on my way back to Broadstone, and I would like to send a message to my uncle by you." "Back from where? And why on this road?" he was about to ask, but he checked himself. He saw that she trembled as she stood. "Miss Asher," said he, "you must stop and rest. Let me take your wheel and come over to this bank and sit down." She sat down in the shade and took off her hat; and for a moment she quietly enjoyed the cool breeze upon her head. He did not want to annoy her with questions, but he could not help saying: "You look very tired." "I ought to be tired," she answered, "for I have gone over a perfectly dreadful road. Of course, you wonder why I came this way, and the best thing for me to do is to begin at the beginning and to tell you all about it, so that you will know what I have been doing, and then understand what I would like you to do for me." So she told him all her tale, and, telling it, seemed to relieve her mind while her tired body rested. Dick listened with earnest avidity. He lost not the slightest change in her expression as she spoke. He was shocked when he heard of her father; he was grieved when he imagined how she must have felt when the news came to her; he was angry when he heard of the impertinent glare of Maria Port; and his heart was torn when he knew of this poor girl's disappointment, of her soul-harrowing conjectures, of her wearisome and painful progress along that rough road; of which progress she said but little, although its consequences he could plainly see. All these things showed themselves upon his countenance as he gazed upon her and listened, not only with his ears, but his heart. "I shall be more than glad," he said, when she had finished, "to carry any message, or to do anything you want me to do. But I must first relieve you of one of your troubles. Your uncle has not the slightest idea of marrying Miss Port. I don't believe he would marry anybody; but, of all women, not that vulgar creature. Let me assure you, Miss Asher, that I have heard him talk about her, and I know he has the most contemptuous opinion of her. I have heard him make fun of her, and I don't believe he would have anything to do with her if it were not for her father, who is one of his oldest friends." She looked at him incredulously. "And yet they were sitting close together," she said; "so close that at first I did not see her; apparently talking in the most private manner in a very public place. They surely looked very much like an engaged couple as I have noticed them. And old Jane has told me that everybody knows she is trying to trap him; and surely there is good reason to believe that she has succeeded." Dick shook his head. "Impossible, Miss Asher," he said. "He never would have such a woman. I know him well enough to be absolutely sure of that. Of course, he treats her kindly, and perhaps he is sociable with her. It is his nature to be friendly, and he has known her for a long time. But marry her! Never! I am certain, Miss Asher, he would never do that." "I wish I could believe it," said she. "I can easily prove it to you," he said. "I will take your message to your uncle, I will tell him all you want me to tell him, and then I will ask him, frankly and plainly, about Miss Port. I do not in the least object to doing it. I am well enough acquainted with him to know that he is a frank, plain man. I am sure he will be much amused at your supposition, and angry, too, when I tell him of the way that woman looked at you and so prevented you from stopping when you had come expressly to see him. Then I will immediately come to Broadstone to relieve your mind in regard to the Maria Port business, and to bring you whatever message your uncle has to send you." "No, no," said Olive, "you must not do that. It would be too much to come back to-day. You have relieved my mind somewhat about that woman, and I am perfectly willing to wait until to-morrow, when you can tell me exactly how everything is, and let me know when my uncle would like me to come and see him. I think it will be better next time not to take him by surprise. But I would be very, very grateful to you, Mr, Lancaster, if you would come as early in the morning as you can. I can wait very well until then, now that my mind is easier, but I am afraid that when to-morrow begins I shall be very impatient. My troubles are always worse in the morning. But you must not walk. My uncle has a horse and buggy. But perhaps it would be better to let Mrs. Easterfield send for you. I know she will be glad to do it." Dick assured her that he did not wish to be sent for; that he would borrow the captain's horse, and would be at Broadstone as early as was proper to make a visit. "Proper!" exclaimed Olive. "In a case like this any time is proper. In Mrs. Easterfield's name I invite you to breakfast. I know she will be glad to have me do it. And now I must go on. You are very, very good, and I am very grateful." Dick could not say that he was more grateful for being allowed to help her than she could possibly be for being helped, but his face showed it, and if she had looked at him she would have known it. "Miss Asher," he exclaimed as she rose, "your skirt is covered with dust. You must have fallen." "I did have one fall," she said, "but I was so worried I did not mind." "But you can not go back in that plight," he said; "let me dust your skirt." And breaking a little branch from a bush, he proceeded to make her look presentable. "And now," said he, when she had complimented him upon his skill, "I will walk with you to the entrance of the grounds. Perhaps as you are so tired," he said hesitatingly, "I can help you along, so that you will not have to work so hard yourself." "Oh, no," she answered; "that is not at all necessary. When I am on the turnpike I can go beautifully. I feel ever so much rested and stronger, and it is all due to you. So you see, although you will not go with me, you will help me very much." And she smiled as she spoke. He truly had helped her very much. Dick was unwilling that she should go on alone, although it was still broad daylight and there was no possible danger, and he was also unwilling because he wanted to go with her, but there was no use saying anything or thinking anything, and so he stood and watched her rolling along until she had passed the top of a little hill, and had departed from his view. Then he ran to the top of the little hill, and watched her until she was entirely out of sight. The rest of the way to the toll-gate seemed very short to Dick, but he had time enough to make up his mind that he would see the captain at the earliest possible moment; that he would deliver his message and the letter of Lieutenant Asher; that he would immediately bring up the matter of Maria Port and let the captain know the mischief that woman had done. Then, armed with the assurances the captain would give him, he would start for Broadstone after supper, and carry the good news to Olive. It would be a shame to let that dear girl remain in suspense for the whole night, when he, by riding, or even walking an inconsiderable number of miles, could relieve her. He found old Jane in the tollhouse. "Where is the captain" he asked. "The captain?" she repeated. "He's in town takin' supper with his sweetheart." Dick stared at her. "Perhaps you haven't heard that he's engaged to Maria Port," said the woman; "and I don't wonder you're taken back! But I suppose everybody will soon know it now, and the sooner the better, I say." "What are you talking about" exclaimed Dick. "You don't mean to tell me that the captain is going to marry Miss Port?" "Whether he wants to or not, he's gone so far he'll have to. I've knowed for a long time she's been after him, but I didn't think she'd catch him just yet." "I don't believe it." cried Dick. "It must be a mistake! How do you know it?" "Know!" said old Jane, who, ordinarily a taciturn woman, was now excited and inclined to volubility. "Don't you suppose I've got eyes and ears? Didn't I see them for ever and ever so long sittin' out on this piazza, where everybody could see 'em, a-spoonin' like a couple of young people? And didn't I see 'em tearin' themselves asunder as if they couldn't bear to be apart for an hour? And didn't I hear her tell him she was goin' home to get an extry good supper for him? And didn't I hear her call him 'dear John,' and kiss her hand to him. And if you don't believe me you can go into the kitchen and ask Mary; she heard the 'dear John' and saw the hand-kissin'. And then didn't he tell me he was goin' to the Ports' to supper, and if he stayed late and anybody asked for him--meaning you, most probable, and I think he might have left somethin' more of a message for you--that he was to be found with the Ports--with Maria most likely, for the old man goes to bed early?" Dick made no answer; he was standing motionless looking out upon the flowers in the garden. "And perhaps you haven't heard of Miss Olive comin' past on a bicycle," old Jane remarked. "I saw her comin', and I knew by the look on her face that it made her sick to see that woman sittin' here, and I don't blame her a bit. When he started so early for town I thought he might be intendin' to look for her, and yet be in time for the Ports' supper, but she didn't come back this way at all, and I expect she went home by the shunpike." "Which she did," said Dick, showing by this remark that he was listening to what the old woman was saying. "But he cut me mighty short when I asked him," continued old Jane. "I tried to ease his mind, but as I found his mind didn't need no easin', I minded my own business, just as he was mindin' his. And now, sir, you'll have to eat your supper alone this time." If Dick's supper had consisted of nectar and the brains of nightingales he would not have noticed it; and, until late in the evening, he sat in the arbor, anxiously waiting for the captain's return. About ten o'clock old Jane, sleepy from having sat up so long, called to him from the door that he might as well come in and let her lock up the house. The captain was not coming home that night. He had stayed with the Ports once before, when the old man was sick. "I guess he's got a better reason for stayin' tonight," she said. "It'll be a great card for that Maria when the Glenford people knows it, and they'll know it you may be sure, if she has to go and walk the soles of her feet off tellin' them. One thing's mighty sure," she continued. "I'm not goin' to stay here with her in the house. He'll have to get somebody else to help him take toll. But I guess she'll want to do that herself. Nothin' would suit her better than to be sittin' all day in the tollhouse talkin' scandal to everybody that goes by." _CHAPTER XVII_ _Dick is not a Prompt Bearer of News._ When the captain reached Glenford, and before he went to the Ports' he went to the telegraph-office, and made inquiries at various other places, but his niece had not been seen in town. He wandered about so long and asked so many questions that it was getting dark when he suddenly thought of the shunpike. He had not thought of it before, for it was an unfit road for bicycles, but now he saw that he had been a fool. That was the only way she could have gone back. Hurrying to a livery-stable, he hired a horse and buggy and a lantern, and drove to the shunpike. There he plainly saw the track of the bicycle as it had turned into that rough road. Then he drove on, examining every foot of the way, fearful that he might see, lying senseless by the side of the road, the figure of a girl, perhaps unconscious from fatigue, perhaps dead from an accident. When at last he emerged upon the turnpike he lost the track of the bicycle, but still he went on, all the way to Broadstone; a girl might be lying senseless by the side of the road, even on the pike, which at this time was not much frequented. Thus assuring himself that Olive had reached Broadstone in safety, or at least had not fallen by the way, he turned and drove back to town upon the pike, passing his own toll-gate, where the bar was always up after dark. He had promised to return the horse that night, and, as he had promised, he intended to do it. It was after nine o'clock when, returning from the livery-stable, he reached the Port house, and saw Maria sitting in the open doorway. She instantly ran out to meet him, asking him somewhat sharply why he had disappointed them. She had kept the supper waiting ever so long. He went in to see her father, who was sitting up for him, and she busied herself in getting him a fresh supper. Nice and hot the supper was, and although his answers to her questions had not been satisfactory, she concealed her resentment, if she had any. When the meal was over both father and daughter assured him that it was too late for him to go home that night, and that he must stay with them. Tired and troubled, Captain Asher accepted the invitation. As soon as he could get away from the Port residence the next morning Captain Asher went home. He had hoped he would have been able to leave before breakfast, but the solicitous Maria would not listen to this. She prepared him a most tempting breakfast, cooking some of the things with her own hands, and she was so attentive, so anxious to please, so kind in her suggestions, and in every way so desirous to make him happy through the medium of savory food and tender-hearted concern, that she almost made him angry. Never before, he thought, had he seen a woman make such a coddling fool of herself. He knew very well what it meant, and that provoked him still more. When at last he got away he walked home in a bad humor; he was even annoyed with Olive. Granting that what she had done was natural enough under the circumstances, and that she had not wished to stop when she saw him in company with a woman she did not like, he thought she might have considered him as well as herself. She should have known that it would give him great trouble for her to dash by in that way and neither stop nor come back to explain matters. She must have known that Maria Port was not going to stay always, and she might have waited somewhere until the woman had gone. If she had had the least idea of how much he wanted to see her she would have contrived some way to come back to him. But no, she went back to Broadstone to please herself, and left him to wander up and down the roads looking for her in the dark. When the captain met old Jane at the door of the tollhouse her salutation did not smooth his ruffled spirits, for she told him that she and Mr. Lancaster had sat up until nearly the middle of the night waiting for him, and that the poor young man must have felt it, for he had not eaten half a breakfast. The captain paid but little attention to these remarks and passed in, but before he crossed the garden he met Dick, who informed him that he had something very important to communicate. Important communications that must be delivered without a moment's loss of time are generally unpleasant, and knowing this, the captain knit his brows a little, but told Dick he would be ready for him as soon as he lighted his pipe. He felt he must have something to soothe his ruffled spirits while he listened to the tale of the woes of some one else. But at the moment he scratched his match to light his pipe his soul was illuminated by a flash of joy; perhaps Dick was going to tell him he was engaged to Olive; perhaps that was what she had come to tell him the day before. He had not expected to hear anything of this kind, at least not so soon, but it had been the wish of his heart--he now knew that without appreciating the fact--it had been the earnest wish of his heart for some time, and he stepped toward the little arbor with the alacrity of happy anticipation. As soon as they were seated Dick began to speak of Olive, but not in the way the captain had hoped for. He mentioned the great trouble into which she had been plunged, and gave the captain his brother's letter to read. When he had finished it the captain's face darkened, and his frown was heavy. "An outrageous piece of business," he said, "to treat a daughter in this way; to put a schoolmate over her head in the family! It is shameful! And this is what she was coming to tell me?" "Yes," said Dick, "that is it." Now there was another flash of joy in the captain's heart, which cleared up his countenance and made his frown disappear. "She was coming to me," he thought. "I was the one to whom she turned in her trouble." And it seemed to this good captain as if he had suddenly become the father of a grown-up daughter. "But what message did she send me?" he asked quickly. "Did she say when she was coming again?" Dick hesitated; Olive had said that she wanted her uncle to say when he wanted to see her, so that there should be no more surprising, but this request had been conditional. Dick knew that she did not want to come if her uncle were going to marry Miss Port; therefore it was that he hesitated. "Before we go any further," he said, "I think I would better mention a little thing which will make you laugh, but still it did worry Miss Asher, and was one reason why she went back to Broadstone without stopping." "What is it" asked the captain, putting down his pipe. Dick did not come out plainly and frankly, as he had told Olive he would do when he mentioned the Maria Port matter. In his own heart he could not help believing now that Olive's suspicions had had good foundations, and old Jane's announcements, combined with the captain's own actions in regard to the Port family, had almost convinced him that this miserable engagement was a fact. But, of course, he would not in any way intimate to the captain that he believed in such nonsense, and therefore, in an offhand manner, he mentioned Olive's absurd anxiety in regard to Miss Port. When the captain heard Dick's statement he answered it in the most frank and plain manner; he brought his big hand down on his knee and swore as if one of his crew had boldly contradicted him. He did not swear at anybody in particular; there was the roar and the crash of the thunder and the flash of the lightning, but no direct stroke descended upon any one. He was angry that such a repulsive and offensive thing as his marriage to Maria Port should be mentioned, or even thought of, but he was enraged when he heard that his niece had believed him capable of such disgusting insanity. With a jerk he rose to his feet. "I will not talk about such a thing as this," he said. "If I did I am sure I should say something hard about my niece, and I don't want to do that." With this he strode away, and proceeded to look after the concerns of his little farm. Old Jane came cautiously to Dick. "Did he tell you when it was going to be, or anything about it?" she asked. "No," said Dick, "he would not even speak of it." "I suppose he expects us to mind our own business," said she, "and of course we'll have to do it, but I can tell him one thing--I'm goin' to make it my business to leave this place the day before that woman comes here." Dejected and thoughtful, Dick sat in the arbor. Here was a state of affairs very different from what he had anticipated. He had not been able to hurry to her the evening before; he had not gone to breakfast as she had invited him; he had not started off early in the forenoon; and now he asked himself when should he go, or, indeed, why should he go at all? She had no anxieties he could relieve. Anything he could tell her would only heap more unhappiness upon her, and the longer he could keep his news from her the better it would be for her. Olive had not joined the Broadstone party at dinner the night before. She had been too tired, and had gone directly to her room, where, after a time, Mrs. Easterfield joined her; and the two talked late. One who had overheard their conversation might well have supposed that the elder lady was as much interested in Lieutenant Asher's approaching nuptials as was the younger one. When she was leaving Mrs. Easterfield said: "You have enough on your mind to give it all the trouble it ought to bear, and so I beg of you not to think for a moment of that absurd idea about your uncle's engagement. I never saw the woman, but I have heard of her; she is a professional scandal-monger; and Captain Asher would not think for a moment of marrying her. When Mr. Lancaster comes to-morrow you will hear that she was merely consulting him on business, and that you are to go to the toll-gate to-morrow as soon as you can. But remember, this time I am going to send you in the carriage. No more bicycles." In spite of this well-intentioned admonition, Olive did not sleep well, and dreamed all night of Miss Port in the shape of a great cat covered with feathers like a chicken, and trying to get a chance to jump at her. Very early she awoke, and looking at her clock, she began to calculate the hours which must pass before Mr. Lancaster could arrive. It was rather strange that of the two troubles which came to her as soon as she opened her eyes, the suspected engagement of her uncle pushed itself in front of the actual engagement of her father; the one was something she _knew_ she would have to make up her mind to bear; the other was something she _feared_ she would have to make up her mind to bear. _CHAPTER XVIII_ _What Olive determined to do._ Olive was very much disappointed at breakfast time, and as soon as she had finished that meal she stationed herself at a point on the grounds which commanded the entrance. People came and talked to her, but she did not encourage conversation, and about eleven o'clock she went to Mrs. Easterfield in her room. "He is not coming," she said. "He is afraid." "What is he afraid of?" asked Mrs. Easterfield. "He is afraid to tell me that the optimistic speculations with which he tried to soothe my mind arose entirely from his own imagination. The whole thing is exactly what I expected, and he hasn't the courage to come and say so. Now, really, don't you think this is the state of the case, and that if he had anything but the worst news to bring me he would have been here long ago?" Mrs. Easterfield looked very serious. "I would not give up," she said, "until I saw Mr. Lancaster and heard what he has to say." "That would not suit me," said Olive. "I have waited and waited just as long as I can. It is as likely as not that he has concluded that he can not do anything here which will be of service to any one, and has started off to finish his vacation at some place where people won't bother him with their own affairs. He told me when I first met him that he was on his way North. And now, would you like me to tell you what I have determined to do?" "I would," said Mrs. Easterfield, but her expression did not indicate that she expected Olive's announcement to give her any pleasure. "I have been considering it all the morning," said Olive, "and I have determined to marry without delay. The greatest object of my life at present is to write to my father that I am married. I don't wish to tell him anything until I can tell him that. I would also be glad to be able to send the same message to the toll-gate house, but I don't suppose it will make much difference there." "Do you think," said Mrs. Easterfield, "that my inviting you here made all this trouble?" "No," said Olive. "It was not the immediate cause, but uncle knows I do not like that woman, and she doesn't like me, and it would not have suited him to have me stay very much longer with him. I thought at first he was glad to have me go on account of Mr. Lancaster, but now I do not believe that had anything to do with it. He did not want me with him, and what that woman came here and told me about his not expecting me back again was, I now believe, a roundabout message from him." "Now, Olive," said Mrs. Easterfield, "it would be a great deal better for you to stop all this imagining until you hear from Mr. Lancaster, if you don't see him. Perhaps the poor young man has sprained his ankle, or was prevented in some ordinary way from coming. But what is this nonsense about getting married?" "There is no nonsense about it," said Olive. "I am going to marry, but I have not chosen any one yet." Mrs. Easterfield uttered an exclamation of horror. "Choose!" she exclaimed. "What have you to do with choosing? I don't think you are much like other girls, but I did think you had enough womanly qualities to make you wait until you are chosen." "I intend to wait until I am chosen," said Olive, "but I shall choose the person who is to choose me. I have always thought it absurd for a young woman to sit and wait and wait until some one comes and sees fit to propose to her. Even under ordinary circumstances, I think the young woman has not a fair chance to get what she wants. But my case is extraordinary, and I can't afford to wait; and as I don't want to go out into the world to look for a husband, I am going to take one of these young men here." "Olive," cried Mrs. Easterfield, "you don't mean you are going to marry Mr. Locker?" "You forget," said Olive, "that I told you I have not made up my mind yet. But although I have not come to a decision, I have a leaning toward one of them. The more I think of it the more I incline in the direction of my old love." "Mr. Hemphill!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "Olive, you are crazy, or else you are joking in a very disagreeable manner. There could be no one more unfit for you than he is." "I am not crazy, and I am not joking," replied the girl, "and I think Rupert would suit me very well. You see, I think a great deal more of Rupert than I do of Mr. Hemphill, although the latter gentleman has excellent points. He is commonplace, and, above everything else, I want a commonplace husband. I want some one to soothe me, and quiet me, and to give me ballast. If there is anything out of the way to be done I want to do it myself. I am sure he is in love with me, for his anxious efforts to make me believe that the frank avowal of my early affection had no effect upon him proves that he was very much affected. I believe that he is truly in love with me." Mrs. Easterfield's sharp eyes had seen this, and she had nothing to say. "I believe," continued Olive, "that a retrospect love will be a better foundation for conjugal happiness than any other sort of affection. One can always look back to it no matter what happens, and be happy in the memory of it. It would be something distinct which could never be interfered with. You can't imagine what an earnest and absorbing love I once had for that man!" Mrs. Easterfield sprang to her feet. "Olive Asher," she cried, "I can't listen to you if you talk in this way!" "Well, then," said Olive, "if you object so much to Rupert--you must not forget that it would be Rupert that I would really marry if I became the wife of Mr. Hemphill--do you advise me to take Mr. Locker? And I will tell you this, he is not to be rudely set aside; he has warm-hearted points which I did not suspect at first. I will tell you what he just said to me. As I was coming up-stairs he hurried toward me, and his face showed that he was very anxious to speak to me. So before he could utter a word, I told him that he was too early; that his hour had not yet arrived. Then that good fellow said to me that he had seen I was in trouble, and that he had been informed it had been caused by bad news from my family. He had made no inquiries because he did not wish to intrude upon my private affairs, and all he wished to say now was that while my mind was disturbed and worried he did not intend to present his own affairs to my attention, even though I had fixed regular times for his doing so. But although he wished me to understand that I need not fear his making love to me just at this time, he wanted me to remember that his love was still burning as brightly as ever, and would be again offered me just as soon as he would be warranted in doing so." "And what did you say to that?" asked Mrs. Easterfield. "I felt like patting him on the head," Olive answered, "but instead of doing that I shook his hand just as warmly as I could, and told him I should not forget his consideration and good feeling." Mrs. Easterfield sighed. "You have joined him fast to your car," she said, "and yet, even if there were no one else, he would be impossible." "Why so?" asked Olive quickly. "I have always liked him, and now I like him ever so much better. To be sure he is queer; but then he is so much queerer than I am that perhaps in comparison I might take up the part of commonplace partner. Besides, he has money enough to live on. He told me that when he first addressed me. He said he would never ask any woman to live on pickled verse feet, and he has also told me something of his family, which must be a good one." "Olive," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I don't believe at all in the necessity or the sense in your precipitating plans of marrying. It is all airy talk, anyway. You can't ask a man to step up and marry you in order that you may sit down and write a letter to your father. But if you are thinking of marrying, or rather of preparing to marry at some suitable time, why, in the name of everything that is reasonable, don't you take Mr. Lancaster? He is as far above the other young men you have met here as the mountains are above the plains; he belongs to another class altogether. He is a thoroughly fine young man, and has a most honorable profession with good prospects, and I know he loves you. You need not ask me how I know it--it is always easy for a woman to find out things like that. Now, here is a prospective husband for you whose cause I should advocate. In fact, I should be delighted to see you married to him. He possesses every quality which would make you a good husband." Olive smiled. "You seem to know a great deal about him," said she, "and I assure you that so far as he himself is concerned, I have no objections to him, except that I think he might have had the courage to come and tell me the truth this morning, whatever it is." "Perhaps he has not found out the truth yet," quickly suggested Mrs. Easterfield. Olive fixed her eyes upon her companion and for a few moments reflected, but presently she shook her head. "No, that can not be," she answered. "He would have let me know he had been obliged to wait. Oh, no, it is all settled, and we can drop that subject. But as for Mr. Lancaster, his connections would make any thought of him impossible. He, and his father, too, are both close friends of my uncle, and he would be a constant communication between me and that woman unless there should be a quarrel, which I don't wish to cause. No, I want to leave everything of that sort as far behind me as it used to be in front of me, and as Professor Lancaster is mixed up with it I could not think of having anything to do with him." Mrs. Easterfield was silent. She was trying to make up her mind whether this girl were talking sense or nonsense. What she said seemed to be extremely nonsensical, but as she said it, it was difficult to believe that she did not consider it to be entirely rational. "Well," said Olive, "you have objected to two of my candidates, and I positively decline the one you offer, so we have left only the diplomat. He has proposed, and he has not yet received a definite answer. You have told me yourself that he belongs to an aristocratic family in Austria, and I am sure that would be a grand match. We have talked together a great deal, and he seems to like the things I like. I should see plenty of court life and high society, for he will soon be transferred from this legation, and if I take him I shall go to some foreign capital. He is very sharp and ambitious, and I have no doubt that some day he will be looked upon as a distinguished foreigner. Now, as it is the ambition of many American girls to marry distinguished foreigners, this alliance is certainly worthy of due consideration." "Stuff!" said Mrs. Easterfield. Olive was not annoyed, and replied very quietly: "It is not stuff. You must know young women who have married foreigners and who did not do anything like so well as if they had married rising diplomats." Mrs. Blynn now knocked at the door on urgent household business. "I shall want to see you again about all this, Olive," said Mrs. Easterfield as they parted. "Of course," replied the girl, "whenever you want to." "Mrs. Blynn," said the lady of the house, "before you mention what you have come to talk about, please tell one of the men to put a horse to a buggy and come to the house. I want to send a message by him." The letter which was speedily on its way to Mr. Richard Lancaster was a very brief one. It simply asked the young gentleman to come to Broadstone, with bad news or good news, or without any news at all. It was absolutely necessary that the writer should see him, and in order that there might be no delay she sent a conveyance for him. Moreover, she added, it would give her great pleasure if Mr. Lancaster would come prepared to spend a couple of days at her house. She felt sure good Captain Asher would spare him for that short time. She believed that at this moment more gentlemen were needed at Broadstone, and, although she did not go on to say that she thought Dick was not having a fair chance at this very important crisis, that is what she expected the young man to understand. Just before luncheon, at the time when Claude Locker might have been urging his suit had he been less kind-hearted and generous, Olive found an opportunity to say a few words to Mrs. Easterfield. "A capital idea has come into my head," she said. "What do you think of holding a competitive examination among these young men?" "More stuff, and more nonsense!" ejaculated Mrs. Easterfield. "I never knew any one to trifle with serious subjects as you are trifling with your future." "I am not trifling," said Olive. "Of course, I don't mean that I should hold an examination, but that you should. You know that parents--foreign parents, I mean--make all sorts of examinations of the qualifications and merits of candidates for the hands of their daughters, and I should be very grateful if you would be at least that much of a mother to me." "No examination would be needed," said the other quickly; "I should decide upon Mr. Lancaster without the necessity of any questions or deliberations." "But he is not a candidate," said Olive; "he has been ruled out. However," she added with a little laugh, "nothing can be done just now, for they have not all entered themselves in the competition; Mr. Hemphill has not proposed yet." At that instant the rest of the family joined them on their way to luncheon. The meal was scarcely over when Olive disappeared up-stairs, but soon came down attired in a blue sailor suit, which she had not before worn at Broadstone, and although the ladies of that house had been astonished at the number of costumes this navy girl carried in her unostentatious baggage, this was a new surprise to them. "Mr. Hemphill and I are going boating," said Olive to Mrs. Easterfield. "Olive!" exclaimed the other. "What is there astonishing about it?" asked the girl. "I have been out boating with Mr. Locker, and it did not amaze you. You need not be afraid; Mr. Hemphill says he has had a good deal of practise in rowing, and if he does not understand the management of a boat I am sure I do. It is only for an hour, and we shall be ready for anything that the rest of you are going to do this afternoon." With this, away she went, skipping over the rocks and grass, down to the river's edge, followed by Mr. Hemphill, who could scarcely believe he was in a world of common people and common things, while he, in turn, was followed by the mental anathemas of a poet and a diplomat. _CHAPTER XIX_ _The Captain and Dick Lancaster desert the Toll-Gate._ When Captain Asher, in an angry mood, left his young friend and guest and went out into his barnyard and his fields in order to quiet his soul by the consideration of agricultural subjects, he met with but little success. He looked at his pigs, but he did not notice their plump condition; he glanced at his two cows, cropping the grass in the little meadow, but it did not impress him that they also were in fine condition; nor did he care whether the pasture were good or not. He looked at this; and he looked at that; and then he folded his arms and looked at the distant mountains. Suddenly he turned on his heel, walked straight to the stable, harnessed his mare to the buggy, and, without saying a word to anybody, drove out of the gate, and on to Glenford. Dick Lancaster, who was in the arbor, looked in amazement after the captain's departing buggy, and old Jane, with tears in her eyes, came out and spoke to him. "Isn't this dreadful" she said to him. "Supper with that woman and there all night, and back again as soon as he can get off this mornin'!" "Perhaps he is not going to her house," Dick suggested. "He may have business in town which he forgot yesterday." "If he'd had it he'd forgot it," replied the old woman. "But he hadn't none. He's gone to Maria Port's, and he may bring her back with him, married tight and fast, for all you or me knows. It would be just like his sailor fashion. When the captain's got anything to do he just does it sharp and quick." "I don't believe that," said Dick. "If he had had any such intention as that he certainly would have mentioned it to you or to me." The good woman shook her head. "When an old man marries a girl," she said, "she just leads him wherever she wants him to go, and he gives up everything to her, and when an old man marries a tough and seasoned and smoked old maid like Maria Port, she just drives him wherever she wants him to go, and he hasn't nothin' to say about it. It looks as if she told him to come in this mornin', and he's gone. It may be for a weddin', or it may be for somethin' else, but whatever it is, it'll be her way and not his straight on to the end of the chapter." Dick had nothing to answer. He was very much afraid that old Jane knew what she was talking about, and his mind was occupied with trying to decide what he, individually, ought to do about it. Old Jane was now obliged to go to the toll-gate to attend to a traveler, but when she came back she took occasion to say a few more words. "It's hard on me, sir," she said, "at my age to make a change. I've lived at this house, and I've took toll at that gate ever since I was a girl, long before the captain came here, and I've been with him a long time. My people used to own this house, but they all died, and when the place was sold and the captain bought it, he heard about me, and he said I should always have charge of the old toll-gate when he wasn't attendin' to it himself, just the same as when my father was alive and was toll-gate keeper, and I was helpin' him. But I've got to go now, and where I'm goin' to is more'n I know. But I'd rather go to the county poorhouse than stay here, or anywhere else, with Maria Port. She's a regular boa-constrictor, that woman is! She's twisted herself around people before this and squeezed the senses out of them; and that's exactly what she's doin' with the captain. If she could come here to live and bring her old father, and get him to sell the house in town and put the money in bank, and then if she could worry her husband and her father both to death, and work things so she'd be a widow with plenty of money and a good house and as much farm land as she wanted, and a toll-gate where she could set all day and take toll and give back lies and false witness as change, she'd be the happiest woman on earth." It had been long since old Jane had said as much at any one time to any one person, but her mind was stirred. Her life was about to change, and the future was very black to her. When dinner was ready the captain had not yet returned, and Dick ate his meal by himself. He was now beginning to feel used to this sort of thing. He had scarcely finished, and gone down to the garden-gate to look once more over the road toward Glenford, when the man in the buggy arrived, and he received Mrs. Easterfield's letter. He lost no moments in making up his mind. He would go to Broadstone, of course, and he did not think it at all necessary to stand on ceremony with the captain. The latter had gone off and left him without making any statement whatever, but he would do better, and he wrote a note explaining the state of affairs. As he was leaving old Jane came to bid him good-by. "I don't know," said she, "that you will find me here when you come back. The fact of it is I don't know nothin'. But one thing's certain, if she's here I ain't, and if she's too high and mighty to take toll in her honeymoon, the captain'll have to do it himself, or let 'em pass through free." Mrs. Easterfield was on the lawn when Lancaster arrived, and in answer to the involuntary glance with which Dick's eyes swept the surrounding space, even while he was shaking hands with her, she said: "No, she is not here. She has gone boating, and so you must come and tell me everything, and then we can decide what is best to tell her." For an instant Dick's soul demurred. If he told Olive anything he would tell her all he knew, and exactly what had happened. But he would not lose faith in this noble woman who was going to help him with Olive if she could. So they sat down, side by side, and he told her everything he knew about Captain Asher and Miss Port. "It does look very much as if he were going to marry the woman," said Mrs. Easterfield. Then she sat silent and looked upon the ground, a frown upon her face. Dick was also silent, and his countenance was clouded. "Poor Olive," he thought, "it is hard that this new trouble should come upon her just at this time." But Mrs. Easterfield said in her heart: "Poor fellow, how little you know what has come upon you! The woman who has turned her uncle from Olive has turned Olive from you." "Well," said the lady at length, "do you think it is worth while to say anything to her about it? She has already surmised the state of affairs, and, so far as I can see, you have nothing of importance to tell her." "Perhaps not," said Dick, "but as she sent me on a mission I want to make known to her the result of it so far as there has been any result. It will be very unpleasant, of course--it will be even painful--but I wish to do it all the same." "That is to say," said Mrs. Easterfield with a smile that was not very cheerful, "you want to be with her, to look at her and to speak to her, no matter how much it may pain her or you to do it." "That's it," answered Dick. Mrs. Easterfield sat and reflected. She very much liked this young man, and, considering herself as his friend, were there not some things she ought to tell him? She concluded that there were such things. "Mr. Lancaster," she said, "have you noticed that there are other young men in love with Miss Asher?" "I know there is one," said Dick, "for he told me so himself." "That was Claude Locker?" said she with interest. "And he promised," continued Dick, "that if he failed he would do all he could to help me. I can not say that this is really for love of me, for his avowed object is to prevent Mr. Du Brant from getting her. We assumed that he was her lover, although I do not know that there is any real ground for it." "There is very good ground for it," said she, "for he has already proposed to her. What do you think of that?" "It makes no difference to me," said Dick; "that is, if he has not been accepted. What I want is to find myself warranted in telling Miss Asher how I feel toward her; it does not matter to me how the rest of the world feels." "Then there is another," said Mrs. Easterfield, "with whom she is now on the river--Mr. Hemphill. He is in love with her; and as he can not stay here very long, I think he will soon propose." "I can not help it," said Dick; "I love her, and the great object of my life just at present is to tell her so. You said you would help me, and I hope you will not withdraw from that promise." "No, indeed," said she, "but I do not know her as well as I thought I did. But here she comes now, and without the young man. I hope she has not drowned him!" Without heeding anything that had just been said to him Dick kept his eyes fixed upon the sparkling girl who now approached them. Every step she made was another link in his chain; Mrs. Easterfield glanced at him and knew this. She pitied him for what he had to tell her now, and more for what he might have to hear from her at another time. But Olive saved Dick from any present ordeal. She stepped up to him and offered him her hand. "I do not wonder, Mr. Lancaster," she said, "that you did not want to come back and tell me your doleful story, but as I know what it is, we need not say anything about it now, except that I am ever so much obliged to you for all your kindness to me. And now I am going to ask another favor. Won't you let me speak to Mrs. Easterfield a few moments?" As soon as they were seated, with the door shut, Olive began. "Well," said she, "he has proposed." "Mr. Hemphill!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "Rupert," Olive answered, "yes, it is truly Rupert who proposed to me." "I declare," cried Mrs. Easterfield, "you come to me and tell me this as if it were a piece of glad news. Yesterday, and even this morning, you were plunged in grief, and now your eyes shine as if you were positively happy." "I have told you my aim and object in life," said the girl. "I am trying to do something, and to do it soon, and everything is going on smoothly. And as to being happy, I tell you, Mrs. Easterfield, there is no woman alive who could help being made happy by such a declaration as I have just received. No matter what answer she gave him, she would be bound to be happy." "Most other women would not have let him make it," said Mrs. Easterfield a little severely. "There is something in that," said Olive, "but they would not have the object in life I have. I may be unduly exalted, but you would not wonder at it if you had seen him and heard him. Mrs. Easterfield, that man loves me exactly as I used to love him, and he has told me his love just as I would have told him mine if I could have carried out the wish of my heart. His eyes glowed, his frame shook with the ardor of his passion. Two or three times I had to tell him that if he did not trim boat we should be upset. I never saw anything like his impassioned vehemence. It reminded me of Salvini. I never was loved like that before." "And what answer did you make to him?" asked Mrs. Easterfield, her voice trembling. "I did not make him any. It would not have been fair to the others or to myself to do that. I shall not swerve from my purpose, but I shall not be rash." Mrs. Easterfield rose suddenly and stepped to the open window; she could not sit still a moment longer; she needed air. "Olive," she said, "this is mad and wicked folly in you, and it is impertinent in him, no matter how much you encouraged him. I would like to send him back to his desk this minute. He has no right to come to his employer's house and behave in this manner." Olive did not get angry. "He is not impertinent," said she. "He knows nothing in this world but that I once loved him, and that now he loves me. Employer and employee are nothing to him. I don't believe he would go if you told him to, even if you could do such a thing, which I don't believe you would, for, of course, you would think of me as well as of him." "Olive Asher," cried Mrs. Easterfield in a voice which was almost a wail, "do you mean to say that you are to be considered in this matter, that for a moment you think of marrying this man?" "Yes," said Olive; "I do think of it, and the more I think of it the better I think of it. He is a good man; you have told me that yourself; and I can feel that he is good. I know he loves me. There can be no mistake about his words and his eyes. I feel as I never felt toward any other man, that I might become attached to him. And in my opinion a real attachment is the foundation of love, and you must never forget that I once loved him." The girl now stepped close to Mrs. Easterfield. "I am sorry to see those tears," she said; "I did not come here to make you unhappy." "But you have made me very unhappy," said the elder lady, "and I do not think I can talk any more about this now." When Olive had gone Mrs. Easterfield hurried down-stairs in search of Lancaster. She did not care what any one might think of her unconventional eagerness; she wanted to find him, and she soon succeeded. He was sitting in the shade with a book, which, when she approached him, she did not believe he was reading. "Yes," said she, as he started to his feet in evident concern, "I have been crying, and there is no use in trying to conceal it. Of course, it is about Olive, but I can not confide in you now, and I do not know that I have any right to do so, anyway. But I came here to beg you most earnestly not to propose to Miss Asher, no matter how good an opportunity you may have, no matter how much you want to do so, no matter how much hope may spring up in your heart." "Do you mean," said Dick, "that I must never speak to her? Am I too late? Is she lost to me?" "Not at all," said she, "you are not too late, but you may be too early. She is not lost to anybody, but if you should speak to her before I tell you to she will certainly be lost to you." _CHAPTER XX_ _Mr. Locker determines to rush the Enemy's Position._ The party at Broadstone was not in what might be called a congenial condition. There were among them elements of unrest which prevented that assimilation which is necessary to social enjoyment. Even the ordinarily placid Mr. Fox was dissatisfied. The trouble with him was--although he did not admit it--that he missed the company of Miss Asher. He had found her most agreeable and inspiriting, but now things had changed, and he did not seem to have any opportunity for the lively chats of a few days before. He remarked to his wife that he thought Broadstone was getting very dull, and he should be rather glad when the time came for them to leave. Mrs. Fox was not of his opinion; she enjoyed the state of affairs more than she had done when her husband had been better pleased. There was something going on which she did not understand, and she wanted to find out what it was. It concerned Miss Asher and one of the young men, but which one she could not decide. In any case it troubled Mrs. Easterfield, and that was interesting. Claude Locker seemed to be a changed man; he no longer made jokes or performed absurdities. He had become wonderfully vigilant, and seemed to be one who continually bided his time. He bided it so much that he was of very little use as a member of the social circle. Mr. Du Brant was also biding his time, but he did not make the fact evident. He was very vigilant also, but was very quiet, and kept himself in the background. He had seen Olive and Mr. Hemphill go out in the boat, but he determined totally to ignore that interesting occurrence. The moment he had an opportunity he would speak to Olive again, and the existence of other people did not concern him. Mr. Hemphill was walking by the river; Olive had not allowed him to come to the house with her, for his face was so radiant with the ecstasy of not having been discarded by her that she did not wish him to be seen. From her window Mrs. Easterfield saw this young man on his return from his promenade, and she knew it would not be many minutes before he would reach the house. She also saw the diplomat, who was glaring across the grounds at some one, probably Mr. Locker, who, not unlikely, was glaring back at him. She had come up-stairs to do some writing, but now she put down her pen and called to her secretary. "Miss Raleigh," said she, "it has been a good while since you have done anything for me." "Indeed it has," said the other with a sigh. "But I want you to do something this minute. It is strictly confidential business. I want you to go down on the lawn, or any other place where Miss Asher may be, and make yourself _mal à propos_. I am busy now, but I will relieve you before very long. Can you do that? Do you understand?" The aspect of the secretary underwent a total change. From a dull, heavy-eyed woman she became an intent, an eager emissary. Her hands trembled with the intensity of her desire to meddle with the affairs of others. "Of course I understand," she exclaimed, "and I can do it. You mean you don't want any of those young men to get a chance to speak to Miss Asher. Do you include Mr. Lancaster? Or shall I only keep off the others?" "I include all of them," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Don't let any of them have a chance to speak to her until I can come down. And hurry! Here is one coming now." Hurrying down-stairs, the secretary glanced into the library. There she saw Mrs. Fox in one armchair, and Olive in another, both reading. In the hall were the two little girls, busily engaged in harnessing two small chairs to a large armchair by means of a ball of pink yarn. Outside, about a hundred yards away, she saw Mr. Hemphill irresolutely approaching the house. Miss Raleigh's mind, frequently dormant, was very brisk and lively when she had occasion to waken it. She made a dive toward the children. "Dear little ones," she cried, "don't you want to come out under the trees and have the good Mr. Hemphill tell you a story? I know he wants to tell you one, and it is about a witch and two pussy-cats and a kangaroo. Come along. He is out there waiting for us." Down dropped the ball of yarn, and with exultant cries each little girl seized an outstretched hand of the secretary, and together they ran over the grass to meet the good Mr. Hemphill. Of course he was obliged to want to tell them a story; they expected it of him, and they were his employer's children. To be sure he had on mind something very practical and sensible he wished to say to Miss Olive, which had come to him during his solitary walk, and which he did not believe she would object to hearing, although he had said so much to her quite recently. As soon as he should begin to speak she would know that this was something she ought to know. It was about his mother, who had an income of her own, and did not in the least depend upon her son. Miss Olive would certainly agree with him that it was proper for him to tell her this. But the little girls seized his hands and led him away to a bench, where, having seated him almost forcibly, each climbed upon a knee. The good Mr. Hemphill sent a furtive glare after Miss Raleigh, who, with that smile of gentle gratification which comes to one after having just done a good deed to another, sauntered slowly away. "Don't come back again," cried out the older of the little girls. "He was put out in the last story, and we want this to be a long one. And remember, Mr, Rupert, it is to be about a witch and two pussy-cats--" "And a kangaroo," added the other. At the front door the secretary met Miss Asher, just emerging. "Isn't that a pretty picture" she said, pointing to the group under the trees. Olive looked at them and smiled. "It is beautiful," she said; "a regular family composition. I wish I had a kodak." "Oh, that would never do!" exclaimed Miss Raleigh. "He is just as sensitive as he can be, and, of course, it's natural. And the dear little things are so glad to get him to themselves so that they can have one of the long, long stories they like so much. May I ask what that is you are working, Miss Asher?" "It is going to be what they call a nucleus," said Olive, showing a little piece of fancy work. "You first crochet this, and then its ultimate character depends on what you may put around it. It may be a shawl, or a table cover, or even an apron, if you like crocheted aprons. I learned the stitch last winter. Would you like me to show it to you?" "I should like it above all things," said the secretary. And together they walked to a rustic bench quite away from the story-telling group. "So far I have done nothing but nucleuses," said Olive, as they sat down. "I put them away when they are finished, and then I suppose some time I shall take up one and make it into something." "Like those pastry shells," said Miss Raleigh, "which can be laid away and which you can fill up with preserves or jam whenever you want a pie. How many of these have you, Miss Asher?" "When this is finished there will be four," said Olive. At some distance, and near the garden, Dick Lancaster, strolling eastward, encountered Claude Locker, strolling westward. "Hello!" cried Locker. "I am glad to see you. Brought your baggage with you this time, I see. That means you are going to stay, of course." "A couple of days," replied Dick. "Well, a man can do a lot in that time, and you may have something to do, but I am not sure. No, sir," continued Locker, "I am not sure. I am on the point of making a demonstration in force. But the enemy is always presenting some new force. By enemy you understand me to mean that which I adore above all else in the world, but which must be attacked, and that right soon if her defenses are to be carried. Step this way a little, and look over there. Do you see that Raleigh woman sitting on a bench with her? Well, now, if I had not had such a beastly generous disposition I might be sitting on that bench this minute. I was deceived by a feint of the opposing forces this morning. I don't mean she deceived me. I did it myself. Although I had the right by treaty to march in upon her, I myself offered to establish a truce in order that she might bury her dead. I did not know who had been killed, but it looked as if there were losses of some kind. But it was a false alarm. The dead must have turned up only missing, and she was as lively as a cricket at luncheon, and went out in a boat with that tailor's model--sixteen dollars and forty-eight cents for the entire suit ready-made; or twenty-three dollars made to order." Dick smiled a little, but his soul rebelled within him. He regretted that he had given his promise to Mrs. Easterfield. What he wanted to do that moment was to go over to Captain Asher's niece and ask her to take a walk with him. What other man had a better right to speak to her than he had? But he respected his word; it would be very hard to break a promise made to Mrs. Easterfield; and he stood with his hands in his pockets, and his brows knit. "Now, I tell you what I am going to do," said Locker. "I am going to wait a little while--a very little while--and then I shall bounce over my earthworks, and rush her position. It is the only way to do it, and I shall be up and at her with cold steel. And now I will tell you what you must do. Just you hold yourself in reserve; and, if I am routed, you charge. You'd better do it if you know what's good for you, for that Austrian's over there pulverizing his teeth and swearing in French because that Raleigh woman doesn't get up and go. Now, I won't keep you any longer, but don't go far away. I can't talk any more, for I've got to have every eye fixed upon the point of attack." Dick looked at the animated face of his companion, and began to ask himself if the moment had not arrived when even a promise made to Mrs. Easterfield might be disregarded. Should he consent to allow his fate to depend upon the fortunes of Mr. Locker? He scorned the notion. It would be impossible for the girl who had talked so sweetly, so earnestly, so straight from her heart, when he had met her on the shunpike, to marry such a mountebank as this fellow, generous as he might be with that which could never belong to him. As to the diplomat, he did not condescend to bestow a thought upon such a black-pointed little foreigner. _CHAPTER XXI_ _Miss Raleigh enjoys a Rare Privilege._ Miss Raleigh was very attentive to the instructions given her by Miss Asher, and while she exhibited the fashion of the new stitch Olive reflected. "I wonder," she said to herself, "if Mrs. Easterfield has done this. It looks very much like it, and if she did I am truly obliged to her. There is nothing I want so much now as a rest, and I didn't want to stay in the house either. Miss Raleigh," said she, suddenly changing the subject, "were you ever in love?" The secretary started. "What do you mean by that?" she asked. "I don't mean anything," said Olive. "I simply wanted to know." "It is a queer question," said Miss Raleigh, her face changing to another shade of sallowness. "I know that," said Olive quickly, "but the answers to queer questions are always so much more interesting than those to any others. Don't you think so?" "Yes, they are," said Miss Raleigh thoughtfully, "but they are generally awfully hard to get. I have tried it myself." "Then you ought to have a fellow feeling for me," said Olive. "Well," said the other, looking steadfastly at her companion, "if you will promise to keep it all to yourself forever, I don't mind telling you that I was once in love. Would you like me to tell you who I was in love with?" "Yes," said Olive, "if you are willing to tell me." "Oh, I am perfectly willing," said the secretary. "It was Mr. Hemphill." Olive turned suddenly and looked at her in amazement. "Yes, it was Mr. Hemphill over there," said the other, speaking very tranquilly, as if the subject were of no importance. "You see, I have been living with the Easterfields for a long time, and in the winter we see a good deal of Mr. Hemphill. He has to come to the house on business, and often takes meals. He is Mr. Easterfield's private and confidential secretary. And, somehow or other, seeing him so often, and sometimes being his partner at cards when two were needed to make up a game, I forgot that I was older than he, and I actually fell in love with him. You see he has a good heart, Miss Asher; anybody could tell that from his way with children; and I have noticed that bachelors are often nicer with children than fathers are." "And he?" asked Olive. Miss Raleigh laughed a little laugh. "Oh, I did all the loving," she answered. "He never reciprocated the least little bit, and I often wondered why I adored him as much as I did. He was handsome, and he was good, and he had excellent taste; he was thoroughly trustworthy in his relations to the family, and I believe he would be equally so in all relations of life; but all that did not account for my unconquerable ardor, which was caused by a certain something which you know, Miss Asher, we can't explain." Olive tried hard not to allow any emotion to show itself in her face, but she did not altogether succeed. "And you still--" said she. "No, I don't," interrupted Miss Raleigh. "I love him no longer. There came a time when all my fire froze. I discovered that there was--" "I say, Miss Asher--" it was the voice of Claude Locker. Olive looked around at him. "Well?" said she. "Perhaps you have not noticed," said he, "that the tennis ground is now in the shade, and if you don't mind walking that way--" He said a good deal more which Miss Raleigh did not believe, understanding the young man thoroughly, and which Olive did not hear. Her mind was very busy with what she had just heard, which made a great impression on her. She did not know whether she was affronted, or hurt, or merely startled. Here was a man who loved her, a man she had loved, and one about whom she had been questioning herself as to the possibility of her loving him again. And here was a woman, a dyspeptic, unwholesome spinster, who had just said she had loved him. If Miss Raleigh had loved this man, how could she, Olive, love him? There was something repugnant about it which she did not attempt to understand. It went beyond reason. She felt it to be an actual relief to look up at Claude Locker, and to listen to what he was saying. "You mean," said she presently, "that you would like Miss Raleigh and me to come with you and play tennis." "I did not know Miss Raleigh played," he answered, "but I thought perhaps--" "Oh, no," said Olive. "I would not think of such a thing. In fact, Miss Raleigh and I are engaged. We are very busy about some important work." Mr. Locker gazed at the crocheted nucleus with an air of the loftiest disdain. "Of course, of course," said he, "but you really oblige me, Miss Asher, to speak very plainly and frankly and to say that I really do not care about playing tennis, but that I want to speak to you on a most important subject, which, for reasons that I will explain, must be spoken of immediately. So, if Miss Raleigh will be kind enough to postpone the little matter you have on hand--" Olive smiled and shook her head. "No, indeed, sir," she said; "I would not hurt a lady's feelings in that way, and moreover, I would not allow her to hurt her own feelings. It would hurt your feelings, Miss Raleigh, wouldn't it, to be sent away like a child who is not wanted?" "Yes," said the secretary, "I think it would." Mr. Locker listened in amazement. He had not thought the mature maiden had the nerve to say that. "Then again," said Olive, "this isn't the time for you to talk business with me, and you should not disturb me at this hour." "Oh," said Locker, bringing down the forefinger of his right hand upon the palm of his left, "that is a point, a very essential point. I voluntarily surrendered the period of discourse which you assigned to me for a reason which I now believe did not exist, and this is only an assertion of the rights vested in me by you." Miss Raleigh listened very attentively to these remarks, but could not imagine what they meant. Olive looked at him graciously. "Yes," she said, "you are very generous, but your period for discourse, as you call it, will have to be postponed." "But it can't be postponed," he answered. "If I could see you alone I could soon explain that to you. There are certain reasons why I must speak now." "I can't help it," said Olive. "I am not going to leave Miss Raleigh, and I am sure she does not want to leave me, so if you are obliged to speak you must speak before her." Mr. Locker gazed from one to the other of the two ladies who sat before him; each of them wore a gentle but determined expression. He addressed the secretary. "Miss Raleigh," said he, "if you understood the reason for my strong desire to speak in private with Miss Asher, perhaps you would respect it and give me the opportunity I ask for. I am here to make a proposition of marriage to this lady, and it is absolutely necessary that I make it without loss of time. Do you desire me to make it in your presence?" "I should like it very much," said Miss Raleigh. Mr. Locker gave her a look of despair, and turned to Olive. "Would you permit that?" he asked. "If it is absolutely necessary," she said, "I suppose I shall have to permit it." Mr. Locker had the soul of a lion in his somewhat circumscribed body, and he was not to be recklessly dared to action. "Very well, then," said he, "I shall proceed as if we were alone, and I hope, Miss Raleigh, you will at least see fit to consider yourself in a strictly confidential position." "Indeed I shall," she replied; "not one word shall ever--" "I hope not," interrupted Claude, "and I will add that if I should ever be accidentally present when a gentleman is about to propose to you, Miss Raleigh, I shall heap coals of fire upon your head by instantaneously withdrawing." The secretary was about to thank him, but Olive interrupted. "Now, Claude Locker," said she, "what can you possibly have to say to me that you have not said before?" "A good deal, Miss Asher, a good deal, although I don't wonder you suppose that no man could say more to you of his undying affection than I have already said. But, since I last spoke on the subject, I have been greatly impressed by the fact that I have not said enough about myself; that I have not made you understand me as I really am. I know very well that most people, and I suppose that at some time you have been among them, look upon me as a very frivolous young man, and not one to whom the right sort of a girl should give herself in marriage. But that is a mistake. I am as much to be depended upon as anybody you ever met. My apparently whimsical aspect is merely the outside--my shell, marked off in queer designs with variegated colors--but within that shell I am as domestic, as sober, and as surely to be found where I am expected to be as any turtle. This may seem a queer figure, but it strikes me as a very good one. When I am wanted I am there. You can always depend upon me." There was not a smile upon the face of either woman as he spoke. They were listening earnestly, and with the deepest interest. Miss Raleigh's eyes sparkled, and Olive seemed to be most seriously considering this new aspect in which Mr. Locker was endeavoring to place himself. "Perhaps you may think," Claude continued, "that you would not desire turtle-like qualities in a husband, you who are so bright, so bounding, so much like a hare, but I assure you, that is just the companion who would suit you. All day you might skip among the flowers, and in the fields, and wherever you were, you would always know where I was--making a steady bee-line for home; and you would know that I would be there to welcome you when you arrived." "That is very pretty!" said Miss Raleigh. And then she quickly added: "Excuse me for making a remark." "Now, Miss Asher," continued Locker, "I have tried, very imperfectly, I know, to make you see me as I really am, and I do hope you can put an end to this suspense which is keeping me in a nervous tingle. I can not sleep at night, and all day I am thinking what you will say when you do decide. You need not be afraid to speak out before Miss Raleigh. She is in with us now, and she can't get out. I would not press you for an answer at this moment, but there are reasons which I can not say anything about without meddling with other people's business. But my business with you is the happiness of my life, and I feel that I can not longer endure having it momentarily jeopardized." At the conclusion of this speech a faint color actually stole into Miss Raleigh's face, and she clasped her thin hands in the intensity of her approval. "Mr. Locker," said Olive, speaking very pleasantly, "if you had come to me to-day and had asked me for a decision based upon what you had already said to me, I think I might have settled the matter. But after what you have just told me, I can not answer you now. You give me things to think about, and I must wait." "Heavens" exclaimed Mr. Locker, clasping his hands. "Am I not yet to know whether I am to rise into paradise, or to sink into the infernal regions?" Olive smiled. "Don't do either, Mr. Locker," she said. "This earth is a very pleasant place. Stay where you are." He folded his arms and gazed at her. "It is a pleasant place," said he, "and I am mighty glad I got in my few remarks before you made your decision. I leave my love with you on approbation, and you may be sure I shall come to-morrow before luncheon to hear what you say about it." "I shall expect you," said Olive. And as she spoke her eyes were full of kind consideration. "Now, that's genuine," said Miss Raleigh, when Locker had departed. "If he had not felt every word he said he could not have said it before me." "No doubt you are right," said Olive. "He is very brave. And now you see this new line, which begins an entirely different kind of stitch!" In the middle distance Mr. Du Brant still strolled backward and forward, pulverizing his teeth and swearing in French. He seldom removed his eyes from Miss Asher, but still she sat on that bench and crocheted, and talked, and talked, and crocheted, with that everlasting Miss Raleigh! He had seen Locker with her, and he had seen him go; and now he hoped that the woman would soon depart. Then it would be his chance. The young Austrian had become most eager to make Olive his wife. He earnestly loved her; and, beyond that, he had come to see that a marriage with her would be most advantageous to his prospects. This beautiful and brilliant American girl, familiar with foreign life and foreign countries, would give him a position in diplomatic society which would be most desirable. She might not bring him much money; although he believed that all American girls had some money; but she would bring him favor, distinction, and, most likely, advancement. With such a wife he would be a welcome envoy at any court. And, besides, he loved her. But, alas, Miss Raleigh would not go away. About half an hour after Claude Locker left Olive he encountered Dick Lancaster. "Well," said he, "I charged. I was not routed, I can't say that I was even repulsed. But I was obliged to withdraw my forces. I shall go into camp, and renew the attack to-morrow. So, my friend, you will have to wait. I wish I could say that there is no use of your waiting, but I am a truthful person and can't do that." Lancaster was not pleased. "It seems to me," he said, "that you trifle with the most important affairs of life." "Trifle!" exclaimed Locker. "Would you call it trifling if I fail, and then to save her from a worse fate, were to back you up with all my heart and soul?" Dick could not help smiling. "By a worse fate," he said, "I suppose you mean--" "The Austrian," interrupted Locker. "Mrs. Easterfield has told me something about him. He may have a title some day, and he is about as dangerous as they make them. Instead of accusing me of trifling, you ought to go down on your knees and thank me for still standing between him and her." "That is a duty I would like to perform myself," said Dick. "Perhaps you may have a chance," sighed Locker, "but I most earnestly hope not. Look over there at that he-nurse. Those children have made him take them walking, and he is just coming back to the house." _CHAPTER XXII_ _The Conflicting Serenades._ Mrs. Easterfield worked steadily at her letter, feeling confident all the time that her secretary was attending conscientiously to the task which had been assigned to her, and which could not fail to be a most congenial one. One of the greatest joys of Miss Raleigh's life was to interfere in other people's business; and to do it under approval and with the feeling that it was her duty was a rare joy. The letter was to her husband, and Mrs. Easterfield was writing it because she was greatly troubled, and even frightened. In the indulgence of a good-humored and romantic curiosity to know whether or not a grown-up young woman would return to a sentimental attachment of her girlhood, she had brought her husband's secretary to the house with consequences which were appalling. If this navy girl she had on hand had been a mere flirt, Mrs. Easterfield, an experienced woman of society, might not have been very much troubled, but Olive seemed to her to be much more than a flirt; she would trifle until she made up her mind, but when she should come to a decision Mrs. Easterfield believed she would act fairly and squarely. She wanted to marry; and, in her heart, Mrs. Easterfield commended her; without a mother; now more than ever without a father; her only near relative about to marry a woman who was certainly a most undesirable connection; Olive was surely right in wishing to settle in life. And, if piqued and affronted by her father's intended marriage, she wished immediately to declare her independence, the girl could not be blamed. And, from what she had said of Mr. Hemphill, Mrs. Easterfield could not in her own mind dissent. He was a good young man; he had an excellent position; he fervently loved Olive; she had loved him, and might do it again. What was there to which she could object? Only this: it angered and frightened her to think of Olive Asher throwing herself away upon Rupert Hemphill. So she wrote a very strong letter to her husband, representing to him that the danger was very great and imminent, and that he was needed at Broadstone just as soon as he could get there. Business could be set aside; his wife's happiness was at stake; for if this unfortunate match should be made, it would be her doing, and it would cloud her whole life. Of herself she did not know what to do, and if she had known, she could not have done it. But if he came he would not only know everything, but could do anything. This indicated her general opinion of Mr. Tom Easterfield. "Now," said she to herself, as she fixed an immediate-delivery stamp upon the letter, "that ought to bring him here before lunch to-morrow." When Olive saw fit to go to her room Miss Raleigh felt relieved from guard, and went to Mrs. Easterfield to report. She told that lady everything that had happened, even including her own emotions at various points of the interview. The amazed Mrs. Easterfield listened with the greatest interest. "I knew Claude Locker was capable of almost any wild proceeding," she said, "but I did not think he would do that!" "There is one thing I forgot," said the secretary, "and that is that I promised Mr. Locker not to mention a word of what happened." "I am very glad," replied Mrs. Easterfield, "that you remembered that promise after you told me everything, and not before. You have done admirably so far." "And if I have any other opportunities of interpolating myself, so to speak," said Miss Raleigh, "shall I embrace them?" Mrs. Easterfield laughed. "I don't want you to be too obviously zealous," she answered. "I think for the present we may relax our efforts to relieve Miss Asher of annoyance." Mrs. Easterfield believed this. She had faith in Olive; and if that young woman had promised to give Claude Locker another hearing the next day she did not believe that the girl would give anybody else a positive answer before that time. Miss Raleigh went away not altogether satisfied. She did not believe in relaxed vigilance; for one thing, it was not interesting. Olive was surprised when she found that Mr. Lancaster was to stay to dinner, and afterward when she was informed that he had been invited to spend a few days, she reflected. It looked like some sort of a plan, and what did Mrs. Easterfield mean by it? She knew the lady of the house had a very good opinion of the young professor, and that might explain the invitation at this particular moment, but still it did look like a plan, and as Olive had no sympathy with plans of this sort she determined not to trouble her head about it. And to show her non-concern, she was very gracious to Mr. Lancaster, and received her reward in an extremely interesting conversation. Still Olive reflected, and was not in her usual lively spirits. Mr. Fox said to Mrs. Fox that it was an abominable shame to allow a crowd of incongruous young men to swarm in upon a country house party, and interfere seriously with the pleasures of intelligent and self-respecting people. That night, after Mrs. Easterfield had gone to bed, and before she slept, she heard something which instantly excited her attention; it was the sound of a guitar, and it came from the lawn in front of the house. Jumping up, and throwing a dressing-gown about her, she cautiously approached the open window. But the night was dark, and she could see nothing. Pushing an armchair to one side of the window, she seated herself, and listened. Words now began to mingle with the music, and these words were French. Now she understood everything perfectly. Mr. Du Brant was a musician, and had helped himself to the guitar in the library. From the position in which she sat Mrs. Easterfield could look upon a second-story window in a projecting wing of the house, and upon this window, which belonged to Olive's room, and which was barely perceptible in the gloom, she now fixed her eyes. The song and the thrumming went on, but no signs of life could be seen in the black square of that open window. Mrs. Easterfield was not a bad French scholar, and she caught enough of the meaning of the words to understand that they belonged to a very pretty love song in which the flowers looked up to the sky to see if it were blue, because they knew if it were the fair one smiled, and then their tender buds might ope; and, if she smiled, his heart implored that she might smile on him. There was a second verse, much resembling the first, except that the flowers feared that clouds might sweep the sky; and they lamented accordingly. Now, Mrs. Easterfield imagined that she saw something white in the depths of the darkness of Olive's room, but it did not come to the front, and she was very uncertain about it. Suddenly, however, something happened about which she could not be in the least uncertain. Above Olive's room was a chamber appropriated to the use of bachelor visitors, and from the window of this room now burst upon the night a wild, unearthly chant. It was a song with words but without music, and the voice in which it was shot out into the darkness was harsh, was shrill, was insolently blatant. And thus the clamorous singer sang: "My angel maid--ahoy! If aught should you annoy, By act or sound, From sky or ground, I then pray thee To call on me My angel maid--ahoy, My ange--my ange--l maid Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!" The music of the guitar now ceased, and no French words were heard. No ditty of Latin origin, be it ever so melodious and fervid, could stand against such a wild storm of Anglo-Saxon vociferation. Every ahoy rang out as if sea captains were hailing each other in a gale! "What lungs he has" thought Mrs. Easterfield, as she put her hand over her mouth so that no one should hear her laugh. At the open window, at which she still steadily gazed, she now felt sure she saw something white which moved, but it did not come to the front. A wave of half-smothered objurgation now rolled up from below; it was not to be readily caught, but its tone indicated rage and disappointment. But the guitar had ceased to sound, and the French love song was heard no more. A little irrepressible laugh came from somewhere, but who heard it beside herself Mrs. Easterfield could not know. Then all was still, and the insects of the night, and the tree frogs, had the stage to themselves. Early in the morning Miss Raleigh presented herself before Mrs. Easterfield to make a report. "There was a serenade last night," she said, "not far from Miss Asher's window. In fact, there were two, but one of them came from Mr. Locker's room, and was simply awful. Mr. Du Brant was the gentleman who sang from the lawn, and I was very sorry when he felt himself obliged to stop. I do not think very much of him, but he certainly has a pleasant voice, and plays well on the guitar. I think he must have been a good deal cut up by being interrupted in that dreadful way, for he grumbled and growled, and did not go into the house for some time. I am sure he would have been very glad to fight if any one had come down." "You mean," said Mrs. Easterfield, "if Mr. Locker had come." "Well," said the secretary, "if Mr. Hemphill had appeared I have no doubt he would have answered. Mr. Du Brant seemed to me ready to fight anybody." "How do you know so much about him?" asked Mrs. Easterfield. "And why did you think of Mr. Hemphill?" "Oh, he was looking out of his window," said Miss Raleigh. "He could not see, but he could hear." "I ask you again," said Mrs. Easterfield, "how do you know all this?" "Oh, I had not gone to bed, and, at the first sound of the guitar, I slipped on a waterproof with a hood, and went out. Of course, I wanted to know everything that was happening." "I had not the least idea you were such an energetic person," remarked Mrs. Easterfield, "and I think you were entirely too rash. But how about Mr. Lancaster? Do you know if he was listening?" Miss Raleigh stood silent for a moment, then she exclaimed: "There now, it is too bad! I entirely forgot him! I have not the slightest idea whether he was asleep or awake, and it would have been just as easy--" "Well, you need not regret it," said Mrs. Easterfield. "I think you did quite enough, and if anything of the kind occurs again I positively forbid you to go out of the house." "There is one thing we've got to look after," said Miss Raleigh, without heeding the last remark, "this may result in bloodshed." "Nonsense," said Mrs. Easterfield; "nothing of that kind is to be feared from the gentlemen who visit Broadstone." "Still," said Miss Raleigh, "don't you think it would be well for me to keep an eye on them?" "Oh, you may keep both eyes on them if you want to," said Mrs. Easterfield. Then she began to talk about something else, but, although she dismissed the matter so lightly, she was very glad at heart that she had sent for her husband. Things were getting themselves into unpleasant complications, and she needed Tom. There was a certain constraint at the breakfast table. Mr. Fox had heard the serenades, although his consort had slept soundly through the turmoil; and, while carefully avoiding any reference to the incidents of the night, he was anxiously hoping that somebody would say something about them. Mrs. Easterfield saw that Mr. Du Brant was in a bad humor, and she hoped he was angry enough to announce his early departure. But he contented himself with being angry, and said nothing about going away. Mr. Hemphill was serious, and looked often in the direction of Olive. As for Dick Lancaster, Miss Raleigh, whose eye was fixed upon him whenever it could be spared from the exigencies of her meal, decided that if there should be a fight he would be one of the fighters; his brow was dark and his glance was sharp; in fact, she was of the opinion that he glared. Claude Locker did not come to breakfast until nearly everybody had finished. His dreams had been so pleasant that he had overslept himself. In the eyes of Mrs. Easterfield Olive's conduct was positively charming. No one could have supposed that during the night she had heard anything louder than the ripple of the river. She talked more to Mr. Du Brant than to any one else, although she managed to draw most of the others into the conversation; and, with the assistance of the hostess, who gave her most good-humored help, the talk never flagged, although it did not become of the slightest interest to any one who engaged in it. They were all thinking about the conflict of serenades, and what might happen next. Shortly after breakfast Miss Raleigh came to Mrs. Easterfield. "Mr. Du Brant is with her," she said quickly, "and they are walking away. Shall I interpolate?" "No," said the other with a smile, "you can let them alone. Nothing will happen this morning, unless, indeed, he should come to ask for a carriage to take him to the station." Mrs. Easterfield was busy in her garden when Dick Lancaster came to her. "What a wonderfully determined expression you have!" said she. "You look as if you were going to jump on a street-car without stopping it!" "You are right," said he, "I am determined, and I came to tell you so. I can't stand this sort of thing any longer. I feel like a child who is told he must eat at the second table, and who can not get his meals until every one else is finished." "And I suppose," she said, "you feel there will be nothing left for you." "That is it," he answered, "and I don't want to wait. My soul rebels! I can't stand it!" "Therefore," she said, "you wish to appear before the meal is ready, and in that case you will get nothing." He looked at her inquiringly. "I mean," said she, "that if you propose to Miss Asher now you will be before your time, and she will decline your proposition without the slightest hesitation." "I do not quite understand that," said Dick. "Would she decline all others?" "I am afraid not." "But why do you except me?" asked Dick. "Surely she is not engaged. I know you would tell me at once if that were so." "It is not so," said Mrs. Easterfield. "Then I shall take my chances. With all this serenading and love-making going on around me and around the woman I love with all my heart. I can not stand and wait until I am told my time has come. The intensity and the ardor of my feelings for her give me the right to speak to her. Unless I know that some one else has stepped in before me and taken the place I crave, I have decided to speak to her just as soon as I can. But I thought it was due to you to come first and tell you." "Mr. Lancaster," said Mrs. Easterfield, speaking very quietly, "if you decide to go to Miss Asher and ask her to marry you, I know you will do it, for I believe you are a man who keeps his word to himself, but I assure you that if you do it you will never marry her. So you really need not bother yourself about going to her; you can simply decide to do it, and that will be quite sufficient; and you can stay here and hold these long-stemmed dahlias for me as I cut them." A troubled wistfulness showed itself upon the young man's face. "You speak so confidently," he said, "that I almost feel I ought to believe you. Why do you tell me that I am the only one of her suitors who would certainly be rejected if he offered himself?" Mrs. Easterfield dropped the long-stemmed dahlias she had been holding; and, turning her eyes full upon Lancaster, she said, "Because you are the only one of them toward whom she has no predilections whatever. More than that, you are the only one toward whom she has a positive objection. You are the only one who is an intimate friend of her uncle, and who would be likely, by means of that intimate friendship, to bring her into connection with the woman she hates, as well as with a relative she despises on account of his intended marriage with that woman." "All that should not count at all," cried Dick. "In such a matter as this I have nothing to do with Captain Asher! I stand for myself and speak for myself. What is his intended wife to me? Or what should she be to her?" "Of course," said Mrs. Easterfield, "all that would not count at all if Olive Asher loved you. But you see she doesn't. I have had it from her own lips that her uncle's intended marriage is, and must always be, an effectual barrier between you and her." "What" cried Dick. "Have you spoken to her of me? And in that way?" "Yes," said Mrs. Easterfield, "I have. I did not intend to tell you, but you have forced me to do it. You see, she is a young woman of extraordinary good sense. She believes she ought to marry, and she is going to try to make the very best marriage that she possibly can. She has suitors who have very strong claims upon her consideration--I am not going to tell you those claims, but I know them. Now, you have no claim--special claim, I mean--but for all this, I believe, as I have told you before, that you are the man she ought to marry, and I have been doing everything I can to make her cease considering them, and to consider you. And this is the way she came to give me her reasons for not considering you at all. Now the state of the case is plain before you." Dick bowed his head and fixed his eyes upon the dahlias on the ground. "Don't tread on the poor things," she said, "and don't despair. All you have to do is to let me put a curbed bit on you, and for you to consent to wear it for a little while. See," said she, moving her hands in the air, as if they were engaged upon the bridle of a horse, "I fasten this chain rather closely, and buckle the ends of the reins in the lowest curb. Now, you must have a steady hand and a resolute will until the time comes when the curb is no longer needed." "And do you believe that time will come?" he asked. "It will come," she said, "when two things happen; when she has reason to love you, and has no reason to object to you; and, in my opinion, that happy combination may arrive if you act sensibly." "But--" said Dick. At this moment a quick step was heard on the garden-path and they both turned. It was Olive. "Mr. Lancaster," she cried, "I want you; that is, if Mrs. Easterfield can spare you. We are making up a game of tennis. Mr. Du Brant and Mr. Hemphill are there, but I can not find Mr. Locker." Mrs. Easterfield could spare him, and Dick Lancaster, with the curbed chain pressing him very hard, walked away with Olive Asher. _CHAPTER XXIII_ _The Captain and Maria._ When the captain drove into Glenford on the day when his mind had been so much disturbed by Dick Lancaster's questions regarding a marriage between him and Maria Port, he stopped at no place of business, he turned not to the right nor to the left, but went directly to the house of his old friend with whom he had spent the night before. Mr. Simeon Port was sitting on his front porch, reading his newspaper. He looked up, surprised to see the captain again so soon. "Simeon," said the captain, "I want to see Maria. I have something to say to her." The old man laid down his newspaper. "Serious?" said he. "Yes, serious," was the answer, "and I want to see her now." Mr. Port reflected for a moment. "Captain," said he, "do you believe you have thought about this as much as you ought to?" "Yes, I have," replied the captain; "I've thought just as much as I ought to. Is she in the house?" Mr. Port did not answer. "Captain John," said he presently, "Maria isn't young, that's plain enough, considerin' my age; but she never does seem to me as if she'd growed up. When she was a girl she had ways of her own, and she could make water bile quick, and now she can make it bile just as quick as ever she did, and perhaps quicker. She's not much on mindin' the helm, Captain John, and there're other things about her that wouldn't be attractive to husbands when they come to find them out. And if I was you I'd take my time." "That's just what I intend to do," said the captain. "This is my time, and I am going to take it." Miss Port, who was busy in the back part of the house, heard voices, and now came forward. She was wiping her hands upon her apron, and one of them she extended to the captain. "I am glad to see you--John," she said, speaking in a very gentle voice, and hesitating a little at the last word. The captain looked at her steadfastly, and then, without taking her hand, he said: "I want to speak to you by yourself. I'll go into the parlor." She politely stepped back to let him pass her, and then her father turned quickly to her. "Did you expect to see him back so soon?" he asked. She smiled and looked down. "Oh, yes," said she, "I was sure he'd come back very soon." The old man heaved a sigh, and returned to his paper. Maria followed the captain. "John," said she, speaking in a low voice, "wouldn't you rather come into the dinin'-room? He's a little bit hard of hearin', but if you don't want him to hear anything he'll take in every word of it." "Maria Port," said the captain, speaking in a strong, upper-deck voice, "what I have to say I'll say here. I don't want the people in the street to hear me, but if your father chooses to listen I would rather he did it than not." She looked at him inquiringly. "Well," she answered, "I suppose he will have to hear it some time or other, and he might as well hear it now as not. He's all I've got in the world, and you know as well as I do that I run to tell him everything that happens to me as soon as it happens. Will you sit down?" "No," said the captain, "I can speak better standing. Maria Port, I have found out that you have been trying to make people believe that I am engaged to marry you." The smile did not leave Maria's face. "Well, ain't you?" said she. A look of blank amazement appeared on the face of the captain, but it was quickly succeeded by the blackness of rage. He was about to swear, but restrained himself. "Engaged to you?" he shouted, forgetting entirely the people in the street; "I'd rather be engaged to a fin-back shark!" The smile now left her face. "Oh, thank you very much," she said. "And this is what you meant by your years of devotion! I held out for a long time, knowing the difference in our ages and the habits of sailors, and now--just when I make up my mind to give in, to think of my father and not of myself, and to sacrifice my feelin's so that he might always have one of his old friends near him, now that he's got too feeble to go out by himself, and at his age you know as well as I do he ought to have somebody near him besides me, for who can tell what may happen, or how sudden--you come and tell me you'd rather marry a fish. I suppose you've got somebody else in your mind, but that don't make no difference to me. I've got no fish to offer you, but I have myself that you've wanted so long, and which now you've got." The angry captain opened his mouth to speak; he was about to ejaculate Woman! but his sense of propriety prevented this. He would not apply such an epithet to any one in the house of a friend. Wretch rose to his lips, but he would not use even that word; and he contented himself with: "You! You know just as well as you know you are standing there that I never had the least idea of marrying you. You know, too, that you have tried to make people think I had, people here in town and people out at my house, where you came over and over again pretending to want to talk about your father's health, when it did not need any more talking about than yours does. You know you have made trouble in my family; that you so disgusted my niece that she would not stop at my house, which had been the same thing as her home; you sickened my friends; and made my very servants ashamed of me; and all this because you want to marry a man who now despises you. I would have despised you long ago if I had seen through your tricks, but I didn't." There was a smile on Miss Port's face now, but it was not such a smile as that with which she had greeted the captain; it was a diabolical grin, brightened by malice. "You are perfectly right," she said; "everybody knows we are engaged to be married, and what they think about it doesn't matter to me the snap of my finger. The people in town all know it and talk about it, and what's more, they've talked to me about it. That niece of your'n knows it, and that's the reason she won't come near you, and I'm sure I'm not sorry for that. As for that old thing that helps you at the toll-gate, and as for the young man that's spongin' on you, I've no doubt they've got a mighty poor opinion of you. And I've no doubt they're right. But all that matters nothin' to me. You're engaged to be married to me; you know it yourself; and everybody knows it; and what you've got to do is to marry, or pay. You hear what I say, and you know what I'm goin' to stick to." It may be well for Captain Asher's reputation that he had no opportunity to answer Miss Port's remarks. At that instant Mr. Simeon Port appeared at the door which opened from the parlor on the piazza. He stepped quickly, his actions showing nothing of that decrepitude which his dutiful daughter had feared would prevent him from seeking the society of his friends. He fixed his eyes on his daughter and spoke in a loud, strong voice. "Maria," said he, "go to bed! I've heard what you've been saying, and I'm ashamed of you. I've been ashamed of you before, but now it's worse than ever. Go to bed, I tell you! And this time, go!" There was nothing in the world that Maria Port was afraid of except her father, and of him personally she had not the slightest dread. But of his dying without leaving her the whole of his fortune she had an abiding terror, which often kept her awake at night, and which sent a sickening thrill through her whenever a difficulty arose between her and her parent. She was quite sure what he would do if she should offend him sufficiently; he would leave her a small annuity, enough to support her; and the rest of his money would go to several institutions which she had heard him mention in this connection. If she could have married Captain Asher she would have felt a good deal safer; it would have taken much provocation to make her father leave his money out of the family if his old friend had been one of that family. Now, when she heard her father's voice, and saw his dark eyes glittering at her, she knew she was in great danger, and the well-known chill ran through her. She made no answer; she cared not who was present; she thought of nothing but that those eyes must cease to glitter, and that angry voice must not be heard again. She turned and walked to her room, which was on the same floor, across the hall. "And mind you go to bed!" shouted her father. "And do it regular. You're not to make believe to go to bed, and then get up and walk about as soon as my back is turned. I'm comin' in presently to see if you've obeyed me." She answered not, but entered her room, and closed the door after her. Mr. Port now turned to the captain. "I never could find out," he said, "where Maria got that mind of her'n. It isn't from my side, for my father and mother was as good people as ever lived, and it wasn't from her mother, for you knew her, and there wasn't anything of the kind about her." "No," said Captain Asher, "not the least bit of it." "It must have been from her grandmother Ellis," said the old man. "I never knew her, for she died before I was acquainted with the family, but I expect she died of deviltry. That's the only insight I can get into the reasons for Maria's havin' the mind she's got. But I tell you, Captain John, you've had a blessed escape! I didn't know she was in the habit of goin' out to your house so often. She didn't tell me that." "Simeon," said the captain, "I think I will go now. I have had enough of Maria. I don't suppose I'll hear from her very soon again." The old man smiled. "No," said he, "I don't think she'll want to trouble you any more." Miss Port, whose ear was at the keyhole of her door not twelve feet away, grinned malignantly. Soon after Captain Asher had gone Mr. Port walked to the door of his daughter's room, gave a little knock, and then opened the door a little. "You are in bed, are you?" said he. "Well, that's good for you. Turn down that coverlid and let me see if you've got your nightclothes on." She obeyed. "Very well," he continued; "now you stay there until I tell you to get up." Captain Asher went home, still in a very bad humor. He had ceased to be angry with Maria Port, he was done with her; and he let her pass out of his mind. But he was angry with other people, especially with Olive. She had allowed herself to have a most contemptuous opinion of him; she had treated him shamefully; and as he thought of her his indignation increased instead of diminishing. And young Lancaster had believed it! And old Jane! It was enough to make a stone slab angry, and the captain was not a stone slab. _CHAPTER XXIV_ _Mr. Tom arrives at Broadstone._ After the conclusion of the game of tennis in which Olive and three of her lovers participated, Claude Locker, returning from a long walk, entered the grounds of Broadstone. He had absented himself from that hospitable domain for purposes of reflection, and also to avoid the company of Mr. Du Brant. Not that he was afraid of the diplomat, but because of the important interview appointed for the latter part of the morning. He very much wished that no unpleasantness of any kind should occur before the time for that interview. Having found that he had given himself more time than was necessary for his reflections and his walk, he had rested in the shade of a tree and had written two poems. One of these was the serenade which he would have roared out on the night air on a very recent occasion if he had had time to prepare it. It was, in his opinion, far superior to the impromptu verses of which he had been obliged to make use, and it pleased him to think that if things should go well with him after the interview to which he was looking forward, he would read that serenade to its object, and ask her to substitute it in her memory for the inharmonic lines which he had used in order to smother the degenerate melody of a foreign lay. The other poem was intended for use in case his interview should not be successful. But on the way home Mr. Locker experienced an entire change of mind. He came to believe that it would be unwise for him to arrange to use either of those poems on that day. For all he knew, Miss Asher might like foreign degenerate lays, and she might be annoyed that he had interfered with one. He remembered that she had told him that if he had insisted on an immediate answer to his proposition it would have been very easy to give it to him. He realized what that meant; and, for all he knew, she might be quite as ready this morning to act with similar promptness. That Du Brant business might have settled her mind, and it would therefore be very well for him to be careful about what he did, and what he asked for. About half an hour before luncheon, when he neared the house and perceived Miss Asher on the lawn, it seemed to him very much as if she were looking for him. This he did not like, and he hurried toward her. "Miss Asher," said he, "I wish to propose an amendment." "To what?" asked Olive. "But first tell me where you have been and what you have been doing? You are covered with dust, and look as hot as if you had been pulling the boat against the rapids. I have not seen you the whole morning." "I have been walking," said he, "and thinking. It is dreadful hot work to think. That should be done only in winter weather." "It would be a woeful thing to take a cold on the mind," said Olive. "That is so!" he replied. "That is exactly what I am afraid of this morning, and that is the reason I want to propose my amendment. I beg most earnestly that you will not make this interview definitive. I am afraid if you do I may get chills in my mind, soul, and heart from which I shall never recover. I have an idea that the weather may not be as favorable as it was yesterday for the unveiling of tender emotions." "Why so?" asked Olive. "There are several reasons," returned Mr. Locker. "For one thing, that musical uproar last night. I have not heard anything about that, and I don't know where I stand." Olive laughed. "It was splendid," said she. "I liked you a great deal better after that than I did before." "Now tell me," he exclaimed hurriedly, "and please lose no time, for here comes a surrey from the station with a gentleman in it--do you like me enough better to give me a favorable answer, now, right here?" "No," said Olive. "I do not feel warranted in being so precipitate as that." "Then please say nothing on the subject," said Locker. "Please let us drop the whole matter for to-day. And may I assume that I am at liberty to take it up again to-morrow at this hour?" "You may," said Olive. "What gentleman is that, do you suppose?" "I know him," said Locker, "and, fortunately, he is married. He is Mr. Easterfield." "Here's papa! Here's papa!" shouted the two little girls as they ran out of the front door. "And papa," said the oldest one, "we want you to tell us a story just as soon as you have brushed your hair! Mr. Rupert has been telling us stories, but yours are a great deal better." "Yes," said the other little girl, "he makes all the children too good. They can't be good, you know, and there's no use trying. We told him so, but he doesn't mind." There was story-telling after luncheon, but the papa did not tell them, and the children were sent away. It was Mrs. Easterfield who told the stories, and Mr. Tom was a most interested listener. "Well," said he, when she had finished, "this seems to be a somewhat tangled state of affairs." "It certainly is," she replied, "and I tangled them." "And you expect me to straighten them?" he asked. "Of course I do," she replied, "and I expect you to begin by sending Mr. Hemphill away. You know I could not do it, but I should think it would be easy for you." "Would you object if I lighted a cigar?" he asked. "Of course not," she said. "Did you ever hear me object to anything of the kind?" "No," said he, "but I never have smoked in this room, and I thought perhaps Miss Raleigh might object when she came in to do your writing." "My writing!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "Now don't trifle! This is no time to make fun of me. Olive may be accepting him this minute." "It seems to me," said Mr. Easterfield, slowly puffing his cigar, "that it would not be such a very bad thing if she did. So far as I have been able to judge, he is my favorite of the claimants. Du Brant and I have met frequently, and if I were a girl I would not want to marry him. Locker is too little for Miss Asher, and, besides, he is too flighty. Your young professor may be good enough, but from my limited conversation with him at the table I could not form much of an opinion as to him one way or another. I have an opinion of Hemphill, and a very good one. He is a first-class young man, a rising one with prospects, and, more than that, I think he is the best-looking of the lot." "Tom," said Mrs. Easterfield, "do you suppose I sent for you to talk such nonsense as that? Can you imagine that my sense of honor toward Olive's parents would allow me even to consider a marriage between a high-class girl, such as she is--high-class in every way--to a mere commonplace private secretary? I don't care what his attributes and merits are; he is commonplace to the backbone; and he is impossible. If what ought to be a brilliant career ends suddenly in Rupert Hemphill I shall have Olive on my conscience for the rest of my life." "That settles it," said Mr. Tom Easterfield; "your conscience, my dear, has not been trained to carry loads, and I shall not help to put one on it. Hemphill is a good man, but we must rule him out." "Yes," said she, "Olive is a great deal more than good. He must be ruled out." "But I can't send him away this afternoon," Tom continued. "That would put them both on their mettle, and, ten to one, he would considerately announce his engagement before he left." "No," said she. "Olive is very sharp, and would resent that. But now that you are here I feel safe from any immediate rashness on their part." "You are right," said Mr. Tom. "My very coming will give them pause. And now I want to see the girl." "What for?" asked Mrs. Easterfield. "I want to get acquainted with her. I don't know her yet, and I can't talk to her if I don't know her." "Are you going to talk to her about Hemphill?" "Yes, for one thing," he answered. "Well," said she, "you will have to be very circumspect. She is both alert, and sensitive." "Oh, I'll be circumspect enough," he replied. "You may trust me for that." It was not long after this that Mrs. Easterfield, being engaged in some hospitable duties, sent Olive to show Mr. Tom the garden, and it was rather a slight to that abode of beauty that the tour of the rose-lined paths occupied but a very few minutes, when Mr. Easterfield became tired, and desired to sit down. Having seated themselves on Mrs. Easterfield's favorite bench, Olive looked up at her companion, and asked: "Well, sir, what is it you brought me here to say to me?" Mr. Tom laughed, and so did she. "If it is anything about the gentlemen who are paying their addresses to me, you may as well begin at once, for that will save time, and really an introduction is not necessary." Mr. Easterfield's admiration for this young lady, which had been steadily growing, was not decreased by this remark. "This girl," said he to himself, "deserves a nimble-witted husband. Hemphill would never do for her. It seems to me," he said aloud, "that we are already well enough acquainted for me to proceed with the remarks which you have correctly assumed I came here to make." "Yes," said she, "I have always thought that some people are born to become acquainted, and when they meet they instantly perceive the fact, and the thing is accomplished. They can then proceed." "Very well," said he, "we will proceed." "I suppose," said Olive, "that Mrs. Easterfield has explained everything, and that you agree with her and with me that it is a sensible thing for a girl in my position to marry, and, having no one to attend wisely to such a matter for me, that I should endeavor to attend to it myself as wisely as I can. Also, that a little bit of pique, caused by the fact that I am to have an old schoolfellow for a stepmother, is excusable." "And it is this pique which puts you in such a hurry? I did not exactly understand that." "Yes, it does," said she. "I very much wish to announce my own engagement, if not my marriage, before any arrangements shall be made which may include me. Do you think me wrong in this?" "No, I don't," said Mr. Easterfield. "If I were a girl in your place I think I would do the same thing myself." Olive's face expressed her gratitude. "And now," said she, "what do you think of the young men? I feel so well acquainted with you through Mrs. Easterfield that I shall give a great deal of weight to your opinion. But first let me ask you one thing: After what you have heard of me do you think I am a flirt?" Mr. Tom knitted his brows a little, then he smiled, and then he looked out over the flower-beds without saying anything. "Don't be afraid to say so if you think so," said she. "You must be perfectly plain and frank with me, or our acquaintanceship will wither away." Under the influence of this threat he spoke. "Well," said he, "I should not feel warranted in calling you a flirt, but it does seem to me that you have been flirting." "I think you are wrong, Mr. Easterfield," said Olive, speaking very gravely. "I never saw any one of these young men before I came here except Mr. Hemphill, and he was an entirely different person when I knew him before, and I have given no one of them any special encouragement. If Mr. Locker were not such an impetuous young man, I think the others would have been more deliberate, but as it was easy to see the state of his mind, and as we are all making but a temporary stay here, these other young men saw that they must act quickly, or not at all. This, while it was very amusing, was also a little annoying, and I should greatly have preferred slower and more deliberate movements on the part of these young men. But all my feelings changed when my father's letter came to me. I was glad then that they had proposed already." "That is certainly honest," said Mr. Tom. "Of course it is honest," replied Olive. "I am here to speak honestly if I speak at all. Now, don't you see that if under these peculiar circumstances one eligible young man had proposed to me I ought to have considered myself fortunate? Now here are three to choose from. Do you not agree with me that it is my duty to try to choose the best one of them, and not to discourage any until I feel very certain about my choice?" "That is business-like," said Mr. Easterfield; "but do you love any one of them?" "No, I don't," answered Olive, "except that there is a feeling in that direction in the case of Mr. Hemphill. I suppose Mrs. Easterfield has told you that when I was a schoolgirl I was deeply in love with him; and now, when I think of those old times, I believe it would not be impossible for those old sentiments to return. So there really is a tie between him and me; even though it be a slight one; which does not exist at all between me and any one of the others." For a moment neither of them spoke. "That is very bad, young woman," thought Mr. Tom. "A slight tie like that is apt to grow thick and strong suddenly." But he could not discourse about Mr. Hemphill; he knew that would be very dangerous. He would have to be considered, however, and much more seriously than he had supposed. "Well," said he, "I will tell you this: if I were a young man, unmarried, and on a visit to Broadstone at this time, I should not like to be treated as you are treating the young men who are here. It is all very well for a young woman to look after herself and her own interests, but I should be very sorry to have my fate depend upon the merits of other people. I may not be correct, but I am afraid I should feel I was being flirted with." "Well, then," said Olive, giving a quick, forward motion on the bench, "you think I ought to settle this matter immediately, and relieve myself at once from the imputation of trifling with earnest affection?" "Oh, no, no, no!" cried Mrs. Easterfield. "Not at all! Don't do anything rash!" Olive leaned back on the bench, and laughed heartily. "There is so much excellent advice in this world," she said, "which is not intended to be used. However, it is valuable all the same. And now, sir, what is it you would like me to do? Something plain; intended for every-day use." Mr. Tom leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "It does not appear to me," he said, "that you have told me very much I did not know before, for Mrs. Easterfield put the matter very plainly before me." "And it does not seem to me," said Olive, "that you have given me any definite counsel, and I know that is what you came here to do." "You are mistaken there," he said. "I came here to find out what sort of a girl you are; my counsels must depend on my discoveries. But there is one thing I want to ask you; you are all the time talking about three young men. Now, there are four of them here." "Yes," she answered quickly. "But only three of them have proposed; and, besides, if the other were to do so, he would have to be set aside for what I may call family reasons. I don't want to go into particulars because the subject is very painful to me." For a moment Mr. Tom did not speak. Then, determined to go through with what he had come to do, which was to make himself acquainted with this girl, he said: "I do not wish to discuss anything that is painful to you, but Mrs. Easterfield and I are very much disturbed for fear that in some way your visit to Broadstone created some misunderstanding or disagreeable feeling between you and your uncle. Now, would you mind telling me whether this is so, or not?" She looked at him steadily. "There is an unpleasant feeling between me and my uncle, but this visit has nothing to do with it. And I am going to tell you all about it. I hate to feel so much alone in the world that I can't talk to anybody about what makes me unhappy. I might have spoken to Mrs. Easterfield, but she didn't ask me. But you have asked me, and that makes me feel that I am really better acquainted with you than with her." This remark pleased Mr. Tom, but he did not think it would be necessary to put it into his report to his wife. He had promised to be very circumspect; and circumspection should act in every direction. "It is very hard for a girl such as I am," she continued, "to be alone in the world, and that is a very good reason for getting married as soon as I can." "And for being very careful whom you marry," interrupted Mr. Easterfield. "Of course," said she, "and I am trying very hard to be that. A little while ago I had a father with whom I expected to live and be happy, but that dream is over now. And then I thought I had an uncle who was going to be more of a father to me than my own father had ever been. But that dream is over, too." "And why?" asked Mr. Easterfield. "He is going to marry a woman," said Olive, "that is perfectly horrible, and with whom I could not live. And the worst of it all is that he never told me a word about it." As she said this Olive looked very solemn; and Mr. Tom, not knowing on the instant what would be proper to say, looked solemn also. "You may think it strange," said she, "that I talk in this way to you, but you came here to find out what sort of girl I am, and I am perfectly willing to help you do it. Besides, in a case like this, I would rather talk to a man than to a woman." Mr. Tom believed her, but he did not know at this stage of the proceedings what it would be wise to say. He was also fully aware that if he said the wrong thing it would be very bad, indeed. "Now, you see," said she, "there is another reason why I should marry as soon as possible. In my case most girls would take up some pursuit which would make them independent, but I don't like business. I want to be at the head of a household; and, what is more, I want to have something to do--I mean a great deal to do--with the selection of a husband." The conversation was taking a direction which frightened Mr. Tom. In the next moment she might be asking advice about the choice of a husband. It was plain enough that love had nothing to do with the matter, and Mr. Tom did not wish to act the part of a practical-minded Cupid. "And now let me ask a favor of you," said he. "Won't you give me time to think over this matter a little?" "That is exactly what I say to my suitors," said Olive, smiling. Mr. Tom smiled also. "But won't you promise me not to do anything definite until I see you again?" he asked earnestly. "That is not very unlike what some of my suitors say to me," she replied. "But I will promise you that when you see me again I shall still be heart-free." "There can be no doubt of that," Mr. Tom said to himself as they arose to leave the garden. "And, my young woman, you may deny being a flirt, but you permitted the addresses of two young men before you were upset by your father's letter. But I think I like flirts. At any rate, I can not help liking her, and I believe she has got a heart somewhere, and will find it some day." When Mr. Tom returned to the house he did not find his wife, for that lady was occupied somewhere in entertaining her guests. Now, although it might have been considered his duty to go and help her in her hospitable work, he very much preferred to attend to the business which she had sent for him to do. And walking to the stables, he was soon mounted on a good horse, and riding away southward on the smooth gray turnpike. _CHAPTER XXV_ _The Captain and Mr. Tom._ Captain Asher was standing at the door of the tollhouse when he saw Mr. Easterfield approaching. He recognized him, although he had had but one brief interview with him one day at the toll-gate some time before. Mr. Easterfield was a man absorbed in business, and the first summer Mrs. Easterfield was at Broadstone he was in Europe engaged in large and important affairs, and had not been at the summer home at all. And so far this summer, he had been there but once before, and then for only a couple of days. Now, as the captain saw the gentleman coming toward the toll-gate he had no reason for supposing that he would not go through it. Nevertheless, his mind was disturbed. Any one coming from Broadstone disturbed his mind. He had not quite decided whether or not to ask any questions concerning the late members of his household, when the horseman stopped at the gate, and handed him the toll. "Good morning, captain," said Mr. Easterfield cheerily, for he had heard much in praise of the toll-gate keeper from his wife. "Good morning, Mr. Easterfield," said the captain gravely. "I am glad I do not have to introduce myself," said Mr. Easterfield, "for I am only going through your gate as far as that tree to tie my horse. Then, if convenient to you, I should like to have a little talk with you." The captain's mind, which had been relieved when Mr. Easterfield paid his toll, now sank again. But he could not say a talk would be inconvenient. "If I had known that you were not going on," he said, "you need not have paid." "Like most people in this life," said Mr. Easterfield, "I pay for what I have already done, and not for what I am going to do. And now have you leisure, sir, for a short conversation?" The captain looked very glum. He felt not the slightest desire now to ask questions, and still less desire to be interrogated. However, he was not afraid of anything any one might say to him; and if a certain subject was broached, he had something to say himself. "Yes," said he; "do you prefer indoors or out of doors?" "Out of doors, if it suits," replied the visitor, "for I would like to take a smoke." "I am with you there," said the captain, as he led the way to the little arbor. Here Mr. Easterfield lighted a cigar, and the captain a pipe. "Now, sir," said the latter, when the tobacco in his bowl was in a satisfactory glow, "what is it you want to talk about?" He spoke as if he were behind entrenchments, and ready for an attack. "We have two of your guests with us," answered Mr. Easterfield, "Professor Lancaster, and your niece." "Oh," said the captain, evidently relieved. "I thought perhaps you had come to ask questions about some reports you may have heard in regard to me." "Not at all, not at all," said Mr. Easterfield. "I would not think of mentioning your private affairs, about which I have not the slightest right or wish to speak. But as we have apparently appropriated two of your young people, I think, and Mrs. Easterfield agrees with me, that it is but right you should be informed as to their health, and what they are doing." The captain puffed vigorously. "When is Dick Lancaster coming back" he asked. "I can't say anything about that," replied Mr. Easterfield, "for I am not master of ceremonies. We would like to keep him as long as we can, but, of course, your claims must be considered." "I should think so," remarked the captain. "Professor Lancaster is a remarkably fine young man," said the other, "and as he is a friend of yours, and as I should like him to be a friend of mine, it would give me pleasure to talk to you more about him. But I may as well confess that my real object in coming here is to talk about your niece. Of course, as I said before, it might appear that I have no right to meddle with your family affairs, but in this case I certainly think I am justified; for, as Mrs. Easterfield invited the young lady to leave you and to come to her, and as all that has happened to her has happened at our house, and in consequence of that invitation, I think that you, as her nearest accessible relative, should be told of what has occurred." The captain made no answer, but gazed steadily into the face of the speaker. "Therefore," continued Mr. Easterfield, "I will simply state that my wife and I have very good reason to believe that your niece is about to engage herself in marriage; and I will only add that we are very sorry, indeed, that this should have occurred under our roof." A sudden and curious change came over the face of the captain; a light sparkled in his eye, and a faint flush, as if of pleasure, was visible under his swarthy skin. He leaned toward his companion. "Is it Dick Lancaster?" he asked quickly. Mr. Easterfield answered gravely: "I wish it were, but I am very sorry to say it is not." The light went out of the captain's eye. He leaned back on his bench and the little flush in his cheeks was succeeded by a somber coldness. "Very good," said he; "I don't want to hear anything more about it, and, what is more, it would not be right for you to tell me, even if I did want to know. It is none of my business." "Now, really, Captain Asher," began Mr. Easterfield. "No, sir," the captain interrupted. "It is none of my business, and I don't want to hear anything about it. And now, sir, I would like to tell you something. It is something I thought you came here to ask about, and I did not like it, but now I want to tell you of my own free will, in confidence. That is to say, I don't want you to speak of it to anybody in your house. I suppose you have heard something about my intending to marry a woman in town?" "Yes," said Mr. Easterfield, "I can not deny that I have, but I considered it was entirely your own affair, and I had not--" "Of course," interrupted the captain, "and I want to tell you--but I don't want my niece to hear it as coming from me--that that whole thing is a most abominable lie! That woman has been trying to make people believe I am going to marry her, and she has made a good many believe it, but I would rather cut my throat than marry her. But I have told her what I think of her in a way she can not mistake. And that ends her! I tell you this, Mr. Easterfield, because I believe you are a good man, and you certainly seem to be a friendly man, and I would like you to know it. I would have liked very much to tell everybody, especially my own flesh and blood, but now I assure you, sir, I am too proud to have her know it through me. Let her go on and marry anybody she pleases, and let her think anything she pleases about me. She has been satisfied with her own opinion of me without giving me a chance to explain to her, or to tell her the truth, and now she can stay satisfied with it until somebody else sets her straight." "But this is very hard, captain," said Mr. Easterfield; "hard on you, hard on her, and hard on all of us, I may say." The captain made no answer to these words, and did not appear to hear them. "I tell you, Mr. Easterfield," he said presently, "that I did not know until now how much I cared for that girl. I don't mind saying this to you because you come to me like a friend, and I believe in you. Yes, sir, I did not know how much I cared for her, and it is pretty hard on me to find out how little she cares for me." "You are wrong there," said Mr. Easterfield. "My wife tells me that Miss Asher has frequently talked to her about you and her life here, and it is certain she has--" "Oh, that does not make any difference," interrupted the captain. "I am talking about things as they are now. It was all very well as long as things seemed to be going right, but I believe in people who stand by you when things seem to be going wrong, and who keep on standing by you until they know how they are going, and that is exactly what she did not do. Now, there was Dick Lancaster; he came to me and asked me squarely about that affair. To be sure, I cut him off short, for it angered me to think that he, or anybody else, should have such an idea of me, and, besides, it was none of his business. But it should have been her business; she ought to have made it her business; and, even if the thing had stood differently, I would have told her exactly how it did stand; and then she could have said to me what she thought about it, and what she was going to do. But instead of that, she just made up her mind about me, and away went everything. Yes, sir, everything. I can't tell you the plans I had made for her and for myself, and, I may say, for Dick Lancaster. If it suited her, I wanted her to marry him, and if it suited her I wanted to go and live with them in his college town, or any other place they might want to go. Again and again, after I knew Dick, have I gone over this thing and planned it out this way, and that way, but always with us three in the middle of everything. Do you see that?" continued the captain after a slight pause, as he drew from his pocket a dainty little pearl paper-cutter. "That belongs to her. She used to sit out here, and cut the leaves of books as she read them. I can see her little hand now as it went sliding along the edges of the pages. When she went away she left it on the bench, and I took it. And I've kept it in my pocket to take out when I sit here, and cut books with it when I have 'em. I haven't many books that ain't cut, but I've sat here and cut 'em till there wasn't any left. And then I cut a lot of old volumes of Coast Survey Reports. It is a foolish thing for an old man to do, but then--but then--well, you see, I did it." There was a choke in the captain's voice as he leaned over to put the paper-cutter in his pocket and to pick up his pipe, which he had laid on the bench beside him. Mr. Easterfield was touched and surprised. He would not have supposed the captain to be a man of such tender sentiment. And he took him at once to his heart. "It is a shame," his thoughts ran, "for this man to be separated from the niece he so loves. She is a cold-hearted girl, or she does not understand him. It must not be." Had he been a woman he would have said all this, but, being a man, he found it difficult to break the silence which followed the captain's last words. He did not know what to say, although he had no hesitation in making up his mind what he was going to do about it all. He arose. "Captain Asher," he said, "I have now told you what I thought you should know, and I must take my departure. I would not presume for a moment to offer you any advice in regard to your family affairs, but there is one thing Mrs. Easterfield and I will interfere with, if we can, for we feel that we have a right to do it, and that is any definite and immediate engagement of your niece. If she should promise herself in marriage at our house we shall feel that we are responsible for it, and that, in fact, we brought it about. Whether the match shall seem desirable to you or not, we do not wish to be answerable for it." "Oh, I need not be counted in at all," said the captain, who had recovered his composure. "It is her own affair. I suppose it was the news of her father's intended marriage that put her in such a hurry." "You are right," said Mr. Easterfield. "Just like her" the captain exclaimed. "And I don't blame her. I'm with her there" When Mr. Tom reached Broadstone he dismounted at the stable, and walked to the house. Nobody was to be seen on the grounds. It was a warm afternoon when those whose hearts were undisturbed by the turmoils of love were apt to be napping, and those who were in the tumultuous state of mind referred to, preferred to separate themselves from each other and the rest of the world until the cause of their inquietude should consider the heat of the summer day as sufficiently mitigated for her to appear again among her fellow beings. Mr. Easterfield did not care to meet any of his guests, and hoped to find his wife in her room, that he might report, and consult. But, as he approached the house, he saw at an upper window a female head. It stayed there just long enough for him to see that it was Olive's head; then it disappeared. When he reached the hall door there stood Olive. Mr. Tom was a little disappointed. He wanted to see his wife immediately, and then to see Olive. But he could not say so. "Well," said the girl, coming down the steps, "it looks as if we had arranged to meet. But although we didn't, let's take a little walk. I have something I want to say to you." Mr. Easterfield turned, and walked away from the house. He was a masterful man, and did not like to have his plans interfered with. Therefore he made a dash, and had the first word. "Miss Asher," said he, "I am glad to hear anything you have to say, but first you must really listen to me." Olive looked at him with surprise. She also was a masterful person, and not accustomed to be treated in this way. But he gave her no chance. "Miss Asher," said he, "I have come to you to speak for one of your lovers, the truest, best lover you ever had, and I believe, ever will have." Olive looked at him steadfastly, and her face grew hard. "Mr. Easterfield," she said, "this will not do. I have told you I will not have it. Mrs. Easterfield and you have been very good and kind, and I have told you everything, but you do not seem to remember one thing I have said. I will not have anybody forced upon me; no matter if he happens to be an angel from heaven, or no matter how much better he may be than anybody else on earth. I have my reasons for this determination. They are good reasons, and, above all, they are my reasons. I don't want you to think me rude, but if you persist in forcing that gentleman upon my attention, I shall have to request that the whole subject be dropped between us." "Who in the name of common sense do you think I am talking about?" exclaimed Mr. Tom. "Do you think I refer to Mr. Lancaster?" "I do," she said. "You know you would not come to plead the cause of any one of the others." He looked down at her half doubtfully, wondering a little how she would take what he was going to say. "You are mistaken," he said quietly. "I have nothing whatever to say about Mr. Lancaster. The lover I speak of is your uncle." Then her face turned red. "Why do you use that expression? Did he send you to say it?" "Not at all. I came of my own free will. I went to see Captain Asher immediately after I left you. Perhaps you are thinking that I have no right to intrude in your family affairs, but I do not mind your thinking that. I had a long talk with your uncle. I found that the uppermost sentiment of his soul was his love for you. You had come into his life like the break of day. Every little thing you had owned or touched was dear to him because it had been yours, or you had used it. All his plans in life had been remade in reference to you." They had stopped and were standing facing each other. They could not walk and talk as they were talking. "Yet, but," she exclaimed, her face pale and her eyes fixed steadfastly upon him, "but what of that--" "There are no yets and buts," he exclaimed, half angry with her that she hesitated. "I know what you were going to say, but that woman you have heard of is nothing to him. He hates her worse than you hate her. She has imposed upon you; how I know not; but she is an impostor." At this instant she seized him by the arm. "Mr. Easterfield," she cried, and as she spoke the tears were running down her cheeks, "please let me have a carriage--something covered! I would go on my wheel, for that would be quicker, but I don't want anybody to speak to me or see me! Will you have it brought to the back door, Mr. Easterfield, please? I will run to the house, and be waiting when it comes." She did not wait for him to answer. He did not ask her where she was going. He knew very well. She ran to the house, and he hurried to the stable. Having given his orders, Mr. Tom went in search of his wife. The moment had arrived when it was absolutely necessary to let her know what was going on. He found her in her own room. "Where on earth have you been?" she exclaimed. "I have been looking everywhere for you." In as few words as possible he told her where he had been, and what he had done. "And where are you going now?" she asked. "I am going to change my coat," said the good Mr. Tom. "After my ride to the toll-gate and back this jacket is too dusty for me to drive with her." "Drive with her" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "It will be very well for you to get rid of some of that dust, but when the carriage comes I will drive with Olive to see her uncle." And thus it happened that Mr. Tom stayed at home with the house party while the close carriage, containing his wife and that dear girl, Olive Asher, rolled swiftly southward over the smooth turnpike road. _CHAPTER XXVI_ _A Stop at the Toll-gate._ The four lovers at Broadstone walked, and wandered, and waited, after breakfast that morning, but only one of them knew definitely what he was waiting for, and that was Mr. Locker. He was waiting for half-past twelve o'clock, when he would join Miss Asher, if she gave him an opportunity; and he was sure she would give him one, for she was always to be trusted. He intended this interview to be decisive. It would not do for him to wait any longer; yes or no must be her word. She had been walking down by the river with the best clothes on the premises, and he now feared the owner of those clothes more than anybody else. He was a keen-sighted young man, for otherwise how could he have been a poet, and he assured himself that Miss Asher was taking Hemphill seriously. So Mr. Locker determined to charge the works of the enemy that day before luncheon. When the conflict was over his flag might float high and free or it might lie trampled in the dust, but the battle should be fought, and no quarter would be asked or given. As for Mr. Hemphill and Mr. Du Brant, they simply wandered, and waited, and bored the rest of the company. They did not care to do anything, for that might embarrass them in case Miss Asher appeared and wished to do something else; they did not want to stay in the house because she might show herself somewhere out of doors; they did not want to stay on the grounds because at any moment she might seat herself in the library with a book; above all things, they wanted to keep away from each other; and their indeterminate peregrinations made sick the souls of Mr. and Mrs. Fox. The diplomat did not know what he was going to do when he saw Miss Asher alone; everything would depend upon surrounding circumstances, for he was quick as well as wary, and could make up his mind on the instant. But good Rupert Hemphill had not even as much decision of purpose as this. He had already spent half an hour with the lady of his love, and he had not been very happy. Delighted that she had permitted him to join her, he had at once begun to speak of the one great object which dominated his existence, but she had earnestly entreated him not to do so. "It is such a pity," she had said, "for us never to talk of anything but that. There are so many things I like to talk about, especially the things of which I read. I am now reading Charles Lamb--that is, whenever I get a chance--and I don't believe anybody in these days ever does read the works of that dear old man. There is a complete set of his books in the library, and they do not look as if they had ever been opened. Did you ever read his little essays on Popular Fallacies? Some of them are just as true as they can be, although they seem like making fun, especially the one about the angry man being always in the wrong. I am inclined to side with the angry man. I know I am generally right when I am angry." Mr. Hemphill had not read these little essays, nor had he admitted that he had never read anything else by Mr. Lamb; but he had agreed that it was very common to be both angry and right. Then Olive had talked to him about other books, and his way had become very rough and exceedingly thorny, and he had wished he knew how to bring up the subject of some new figures in the German. But he had not succeeded in doing this. She had been in a bookish mood, and the mood had lasted until she had left him. Now he began to think that it would be better for him to give up wandering and waiting and go into the library and prepare himself for another talk with Olive, but he did not go; she might see him and suspect his design. He would wait until later. He took some books to his room. Dick Lancaster wandered and waited, but he was full of a purpose, although it was not exactly definite; he wanted to find Mrs. Easterfield and ask her to release him from his promise. He could not remain much longer at Broadstone, and Olive's morning walk with Hemphill had made him very nervous. She knew that these young men were in love with her, and he had a right to let her know that he was also. It might be imprudent for him to do this, but he could not see why it would not be as imprudent at any other time as now. Moreover, there might come no other time, and he had control of now. Mrs. Easterfield had not joined her guests because of her anxiety about Olive. Mr. Easterfield did not appear. For a time he was very particularly engaged in the garden. Mr. Fox grew very much irritated. "I tell you, my dear," said he, "every one who comes here makes this place more stupid and dull. I can't see exactly any reason for it, but these lovers are at the bottom of it. I hate lovers." "You should be very glad, my dear," replied Mrs. Fox, "that I was not of your opinion in my early life." But things changed for the better after a time. It is true that Mrs. Easterfield and Olive did not appear, but Mr. Easterfield showed himself, and did it with great advantage. The simple statement that his wife and Miss Asher had gone to make a call caused a feeling of relief to spread over the whole party. Until the callers returned there was no reason why they should not all enjoy themselves, and Mr. Easterfield was there to show them how to do it. As the Broadstone carriage rolled swiftly on there was not much conversation between its occupants. To the somewhat sensitive mind of Mrs. Easterfield it seemed that Olive was a little disappointed at the change of companions, but this may have been a mere fancy. The girl was so wrapped up in self-concentrated thought that it was not likely that she would have talked much to any one. Suddenly, however, Olive broke out: "Mr. Easterfield must be a thoroughly good man" she said. "He is," assented the other. "And you have always been entirely satisfied with him?" "Entirely," was the reply, without a smile. Now Olive turned her face toward her companion and laid her hand upon her arm. "You ought to be a happy woman," she said. "Now, what is this girl thinking of?" asked Mrs. Easterfield to herself. "Is she imagining that any one of the young fellows who are now besieging her can ever be to her what Tom is to me? Or is she making an ideal of my husband to the disparagement of her own lovers? Whichever way she thinks, she would better give up thinking." But the somewhat sensitive Mrs. Easterfield need not have troubled herself. The girl had already forgotten the good Mr. Tom, and her mind was intent upon getting to her uncle. "Will you please ask the man to stop," she said, "before he gets to the gate, and let me out? Then perhaps you will kindly drive on to the tollhouse and wait for me. I will not keep you waiting long." The carriage stopped, and Olive slipped out, and, before Mrs. Easterfield had any idea of what she was going to do, the girl climbed the rail fence which separated the road from the captain's pasture field. Between this field and the garden was a picket fence, not very high; and, toward a point about midway between the little tollhouse and the dwelling, Olive now ran swiftly. When she had nearly reached the fence she gave a great bound; put one foot on the upper rail to which the pickets were nailed; and then went over. What would have happened if the sharp pales had caught her skirts might well be imagined. But nothing happened. "That was a fine spring" said Mrs. Easterfield to herself. "She has seen him in the house, and wants to get there before he hears the carriage." Olive walked quietly through the garden to the house. She knew that her uncle was not at the gate, for from afar she had seen that the little piazza on which he was wont to sit was empty. She went noiselessly into the hall, and looked into the parlor. By a window in the back of the room she saw her uncle writing at a little table. With a rush of air she was at his side before he knew she was in the room. As he turned his head her arms were around his neck, and the pen in his hand made a great splotch of ink upon her white summer dress. "Now, uncle," she exclaimed, looking into his astonished face, "here I am and here I am going to stay! And if you want to know anything more about it, you will have to wait, for I am not going to make any explanations now. I am too happy to know that I have a dear uncle left to me in this world, and to know that we two are going to live together always to want to talk about whys and wherefores." "But, Olive" exclaimed the captain. "There are no buts," she interrupted. "Not a single but, my dear Uncle John! I have come back to stay with you, and that is all there is about it. Mrs. Easterfield is outside in her carriage, and I must go and send her away. But don't you come out, Uncle John; I have some things to say to her, and I will let you know when she is going." As Olive sped out of the room Captain Asher turned around in his chair and looked after her. Tears were running down his swarthy cheeks. He did not know how or why it had all happened. He only knew that Olive was coming back to live with him! Meantime old Jane was entertaining Mrs. Easterfield at the toll-gate, where no money was paid, but a great deal of information gained. The old woman had seen Miss Olive run into the house, and she was elated and excited, and consequently voluble. Mrs. Easterfield got the full account of the one-sided courtship of the captain and Miss Port. Even the concluding episode of Maria having been put to bed had somehow reached the ears of old Jane. It is really wonderful how secret things do become known, for not one of the three actors in that scene would have told it on any account. But old Jane knew it, and told it with great glee, to Mrs. Easterfield's intense enjoyment. Then she proceeded to praise Olive for the spirit she had shown under these trying circumstances; and, in this connection, naturally there came into the recital the spirit the old woman herself had shown under these same trying circumstances, and how she had got all ready to leave the minute the nuptial knot was tied and before that Maria Port could reach the toll-gate, although it was like tearing herself apart to leave the spot where she had lived so many years. "But," she concluded, "it is all right now. The captain tells me it's all a lie of her own makin'. She's good at that business, and if lies was salable she'd be rich." Just as the old woman reached this, what seemed to her unsophisticated mind, impossible business proposition, Olive appeared. Mrs. Easterfield was surprised to see her so soon, and, to tell the truth, a little disappointed. She had been greatly interested and amused by the old woman's rapid tale, which she would not interrupt, but had put aside in her mind several questions to ask, and one of them was in relation to her husband's late visit to the captain. She had had no detailed account from him, and she wondered how much this old body knew about it. She seemed to know pretty much everything. But Olive's appearance put an end to this absorbing conversation. "Has you come to stay, dearie?" eagerly asked old Jane, as Olive grasped her hand. "To be sure I have, Jane! I have come to stay forever!" "Thank goodness!" exclaimed the old woman. "How the captain will brighten up! But my! I must go and alter the supper!" "Mrs. Easterfield," said Olive, when the old woman had departed, "you will have to go back without me. I can not leave my uncle, and I am going to stay here right along. You must not think I am ungrateful to you, or unmindful of Mr. Easterfield's great kindness, but this is my place for the present. Some day I know you will be good enough to let me pay you another visit." "And what am I to do with all those young men?" asked Mrs. Easterfield mischievously. She would have added, "And one of them your future husband?" But she remembered the coachman. Olive laughed. "They will annoy you less when I am not there. If you will be so good as to ask your maid to pack up my belongings, I will send for my trunk." She glanced at the coachman. "Would you mind taking a little walk with me along the road?" "I shall be glad to do so," said Mrs. Easterfield, getting out of the carriage. "Now, my dear Mrs. Easterfield," said Olive when they were some distance from the toll-gate and the house, "I am going to ask you to add to all your kindness one more favor for me." "That has such an ominous sound," said Mrs. Easterfield, "that I am not disposed to promise beforehand." "It is about those three young men you mentioned." "I mentioned no number, and there are four." "In what I am going to ask of you one of them can be counted out. He is not in the affair. Only three are in this business. Won't you be so good as to decline them all for me? I know that you can do it better than I can. You have so much tact. And you must have done the thing many a time, and I have not done it once. I am very awkward; I don't know how; and, to confess the truth, I have put myself into a pretty bad fix." "Upon my word," cried Mrs. Easterfield, "that is a pretty thing for one woman to ask of another! "I know it is," said Olive, "and I would not ask it of anybody but the truest friend--of no one but you. But you see how difficult it is for me to attend to it. And it must be done. I have given up all idea of marrying, I am going to stay here, and when my father comes with his young lady he will find me settled and fixed, and he and she will have nothing to do with making plans for me. Now, dear Mrs. Easterfield, I know you will do this favor for me, and let me say that I wish you would be particularly gentle and pleasant in speaking to Mr. Locker. I think he is really a very kind and considerate young man. He certainly showed himself that way. I know you can talk so nicely to him that perhaps he will not mind very much. As for Mr. Du Brant, you can tell him plainly that I have carefully considered his proposition--and that is the exact truth--and that I find it will be wise for me not to accept it. He is a man of affairs, and will understand that I have given him a straightforward, practical answer, and he will be satisfied. You must not be sharp with Mr. Hemphill, as I know you will be inclined to be. Please remember that I was once in love with him, and respect my feelings as well as his. Besides, he is good, and he is in earnest, and he deserves fair treatment. I am sorry that I have worried you about him, and I will tell you now that I have found out he would not do at all. I found it out this morning when I was talking to him about books. His mind is neither broad nor cultivated." "I could have told you that," said Mrs. Easterfield, "and saved you all the trouble of taking that walk by the river." "And then there is one more thing," continued Olive; "it is about Professor Lancaster. I am sure you will agree with me that it will not do for him to come back here. I am just going to start housekeeping again. I've got the supper on my mind this minute. You can't imagine how everything has turned topsy-turvy since I left. I suppose he will be wanting to go North, anyway. In fact, he told me so." Mrs. Easterfield laughed. She did not believe that Mr. Lancaster would want to go North, or West, or East, although South might suit him. But she saw the point of Olive's request; it would be awkward to have him at the tollhouse. "Oh, I will take care of him," she said, "and he shall continue his vacation trip just as soon as Mr. Easterfield and I choose to give him up." "You see," said Olive in an explanatory way, "I have not anything in the world to do with him, but I thought he might want to come back to see uncle again. And, really," she added, speaking with a great deal of earnestness, "I don't want to be bothered with any more young men! And now I will call uncle. You know I had to say all these things to you immediately." Mrs. Easterfield walked quickly back to her carriage, but she did not wait to see Captain Asher. As a hostess it was necessary for her to hurry back home; and as a quick-witted, sensible woman she saw that it would be well to leave these two happy people to themselves. This was not the time for them to talk to her. So, when the captain, unwilling to wait any longer, appeared at the door of the house, these two dear friends had kissed and parted, and the carriage was speeding away. On her way home Mrs. Easterfield forgot her slight chagrin at what her husband had not done, in her joy at what he had accomplished. He had neglected to take her fully into his confidence, and had acted very much as if he had been a naval commander, who had cut his telegraphic connections in order not to be embarrassed by orders from the home government. But, on the other hand, he had saved her from the terrible shock of hearing Olive declare that she had just engaged herself to Rupert Hemphill. If it had not been for the extraordinary promptness of her good Tom--a style of action he had acquired in the railroad business--it would have been just as likely as not that Olive would have accepted that young man before she had had an opportunity of finding out his want of breadth and cultivation. _CHAPTER XXVII_ _By Proxy._ About half-past twelve Claude Locker made his appearance in the spacious hall. He looked out of the front door; he looked out of the back door; he peered into the parlor; he glanced up the stairway; and then he peeped into the library. He had not seen the lady of the house since her return, and he was waiting for Olive. This morning his fate was to be positively decided; he would take a position that would allow of no postponement; he would tell her plainly that a statement that she was not prepared to give him an answer that day would be considered by him as a final rejection. She must haul down her flag or he would surrender and present to her his sword. Claude Locker saw nothing of Miss Asher, but it was not long before the lady of the house came down-stairs. "Oh, Mr. Locker," she exclaimed, "I am so glad to see you! Come into the library, please." He hesitated a minute. "I beg your pardon," said he, "but I have an appointment--" "I know that," said she, "and you may be surprised to hear that it is with me and not with Miss Asher. Come in and I will tell you about it." Claude Locker actually ran after his hostess into the library, both of his eyes wide open. "And now," said she, "please sit down, and hear what I have to say." Locker seated himself on the edge of a chair; he did not feel happy; he suspected something was wrong. "Is she sick?" he asked. "Can't she come down?" "She is very well," was the reply, "but she is not here. She is with her uncle." "Then I am due at her uncle's house before one o'clock," said he. "No," she answered, "you are due here." He fixed upon her a questioning glance. "Miss Asher," she continued, "has deputed me to give you her answer. She can not come herself, but she does not forget her agreement with you." The young man still gazed steadfastly. "If it is to be a favorable decision," said he, "I hope you will be able to excuse any exuberance of demeanor on my part." Mrs. Easterfield smiled. "In that case," she said, "I do not suppose I should have been sent as an envoy." His brow darkened, and instinctively he struck one hand with the other. "That is exactly what I expected!" he exclaimed. "The signs all pointed that way. But until this moment, my dear madam, I hoped. Yes, I had presumed to hope that I might kindle in her heart a little nickering flame. I had tried to do this, and I had left but one small match head, which I intended to strike this day. But now I see I had a piece of the wrong end of the match. After this I must be content forever to stay in the cold." "I am glad you view the matter so philosophically," said Mrs. Easterfield, "and Olive particularly desired me to say--" "Don't call her Olive, if you please," he interrupted. "It is like speaking to me through the partly open door of paradise, through which I can not enter. Slam it shut, I beg of you, and talk over the top of the wall." "Miss Asher wants you to know," continued Mrs. Easterfield, "that while she has decided to decline your addresses, she is deeply grateful to you for the considerate way in which you have borne yourself toward her. I know she has a high regard for you, and that she will not forget your kindness." Mr. Locker put his hands in his pockets. "Do you know," said he, "as this thing had to be done, I prefer to have you do it than to have her do it. Well, it is done now! And so am I!" "You never did truly expect to get her, did you, Mr. Locker?" asked Mrs. Easterfield. "Never," he answered; "but I do not flinch at what may be impossibilities. Nobody, myself included, can imagine that I shall rival Keats, and yet I am always trying for it." "Is it Keats you are aiming at?" she said. "Yes," he replied; "it does not look like it, does it? But it is." "And you don't feel disheartened when you fail?" said she. Mr. Locker took his hands from his pockets, and folded his arms. "Yes, I do," he said; "I feel as thoroughly disheartened as I do now. But I have one comfort; Keats and Miss Asher dropped me; I did not drop them. So there is nothing on my conscience. And now tell me, is she going to take Lancaster? I hope so." "She could not do that," answered Mrs. Easterfield, "for I know he has not asked her." "Then he'd better skip around lively and do it," said Mr. Locker, "not only for his own sake, but for mine. If I should be cast aside for the Hemphill clothes I should have no faith in humanity. I would give up verse, and I would give up woman." "Don't be afraid of anything like that," said Mrs. Easterfield, laughing. "It may be somewhat of a breach of confidence, but I am going to tell you nevertheless; because I think you deserve it; that I am also deputed to decline the addresses of Mr. Hemphill, and Mr. Du Brant." "Hurrah!" cried Locker. "Mrs. Easterfield, I envy you; and if you don't feel like performing the rest of your mission, you can depute it to me. I don't know anything at this moment that would give me so much joy." "I would not be so disloyal or so cruel as that," said she. "But I shall not be in a hurry. I shall let them eat their lunch in peace and hope." "Not much peace," said he. "Her empty chair will put that to flight. I know how it feels to look at her empty chair." "Then you really love her?" said Mrs. Easterfield, much moved. "With every fiber," said he. Mrs. Easterfield found herself much embarrassed at the luncheon table. She had made her husband understand the state of affairs, but had not had time to enter into particulars with him, and she did not find it easy satisfactorily to explain to the company the absence of Miss Asher without calling forth embarrassing questions as to her return, and she wished carefully to avoid telling them that her guest was not coming back for the present. If she made this known then she feared there might be a scene at the table. Mr. Hemphill turned pale when, that afternoon, his hostess, in an exceedingly clear and plain manner, made known to him his fate. For a few moments he did not speak. Then he said very quietly: "If she had not, of her own accord, told me that she had once loved me, I should never have dared to say anything like that to her." "I do not think you need any excuse, Mr. Hemphill," said Mrs. Easterfield. "In fact, if you loved her, I do not see how you could help speaking after what she herself said to you." "That is true," he replied. "And I love her with all my heart!" "She ought never to have told you of that girlish fancy," said his hostess. "It was putting you in a very embarrassing position, and I am bound to say to you, Mr. Hemphill, that I also am very much to blame. Knowing all this, as I did, I should not have allowed you to meet her." "Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed Mr. Hemphill. "Don't say that! Not for the world would I give up the memory of hearing her say she once loved me! I don't care how many years ago it was. I am glad you let me come here. I am glad she told me. I shall never forget the happiness I have had in this house. And now, Mrs. Easterfield, let me ask you one thing--" At this moment Mrs. Easterfield, who was facing the door, saw her husband enter the hall, and by his manner she knew he was looking for her. "Excuse me," she said to Hemphill, "I will be back in an instant." And she ran out. "Tom," she cried, "you must go away. I can not see you now. I am very busy declining the addresses of a suitor, and can not be interrupted." Mr. Tom looked at her in surprise, although it was not often Mrs. Easterfield could surprise him. He saw that she was very much in earnest. "Well," said he, "if you are sure you are going to decline him I won't interrupt you. And when you have sealed his fate you will find me in my room. I want particularly to see you." Mrs. Easterfield went back to the library and Hemphill continued: "You need not answer if you do not think it is right," said he, "but do you believe at any time she thought seriously of me?" Mrs. Easterfield smiled as she answered: "Now, you see the advantage of an agent in such matters as this. You could not have asked her that question, or if you did she would not answer you. And now I am going to tell you that she did have some serious thought of you. Whatever encouragement she gave you, she treated you fairly. She is a very practical young woman--" "Excuse me," said Hemphill hurriedly, "but if you please, I would rather you did not tell me anything more. Sometimes it is not well to try to know too much. I can't talk now, Mrs. Easterfield, for I am dreadfully cut up, but at the same time I am wonderfully proud. I don't know that you can understand this." "Yes, I can," she said; "I understand it perfectly." "You are very kind," he said. As he was about to leave the room he stopped and turned to Mrs. Easterfield. "Is she going to marry Professor Lancaster?" he asked. "Really, Mr. Hemphill," she replied, "I can not say anything about that. I do not know any more than you do." "Well, I hope she may," he said. "It would be a burning shame if she were to accept that Austrian; and as for the other little man, he is too ugly. You must excuse me for speaking of your friends in this way, Mrs. Easterfield, but really I should feel dreadfully if I thought I had been set aside for such a queer customer as he is." Mrs. Easterfield did not laugh then; but when Hemphill had gone, and she had joined her husband, they had a good time together. "And so they all recommend Lancaster," said he. "So far," she answered; "but I have yet to hear what Mr. Du Brant has to say." "I think you have had enough of this discarding business," said Mr. Tom. "You would better leave Du Brant to me." "Oh, no," said she; "I promised Olive. And, besides, I think I like it." "I believe you do," said Mr. Tom. "And now I want to say something important. It is not right that Broadstone should be given up entirely to the affairs of Miss Asher and her lovers. I think, for instance, that our friend Fox looks very much dissatisfied." "That is because Olive is not here," she replied. "Not only that," he answered. "He loses her, and does not get anything else in her place. Now, we must make this house lively, as it ought to be. Let Du Brant off for to-day and let us make up a party to go out on the river. We will take two boats, and have some of the men to do the rowing. Postpone dinner so we can have a long afternoon." Mr. Du Brant did not go on the river excursion. He had some letters to write, and begged to be excused. He had not asked when Miss Asher was expected back, or anything about her return. He did not understand the state of affairs, and was afraid he might receive some misleading information. But if she should come that afternoon or the next day he determined to be on the spot. After that he might not be able to remain at Broadstone, and it would be a glorious opportunity for him if she should come back that afternoon. It was twilight when the boating party returned. Under the genial influence of Mr. Tom and his wife they had all enjoyed themselves as much as it was possible for them to do so without Olive. When Claude Locker, a little behind the others, reached the top of the hill he perceived, not far away, Mr. Du Brant strolling. These two had not spoken since the night of the interrupted serenade. Each of them had desired to avoid words or actions which might disturb the peace of this hospitable home, and consequently had very successfully succeeded in avoiding each other. But now Mr. Locker walked straight up to the secretary of legation, holding out his hand. "Now, Mr. Du Brant," said he, "since we are both in the same boat, let us shake hands and let bygones be bygones." But the young Austrian did not take the proffered hand. For a moment he looked as though he were about to turn away without taking any notice of Locker, but he had not the strength of mind to do this. He turned and remarked with a scowl: "What do you mean by same boat? I have nothing to do with you on the water or on the land!" Mr. Locker shrugged his shoulders. "So you have not been told," said he. "Told!" exclaimed Du Brant, now very much interested. "Told what?" "That you will have to find out," said the other. "It is not my business to tell you. But I don't mind saying that as I have been told I thought perhaps you might have been." "Told what?" exclaimed Mr. Du Brant again, stepping up closer to the other. "Don't shout so," said Locker; "they will think we are quarreling. Didn't I say I am not the person to tell you anything, and if you did not understand me I will say it again." For some seconds the Austrian looked steadily at his companion. Then he said, "Have you been refused by Miss Asher?" "Well," said Locker with a sigh, "as that is my business, I suppose I can talk about it if I want to. Yes, I have." Again Du Brant was silent for a time. "Did she tell you herself?" he asked. "No, she did not," was the answer. "She kindly sent me word by Mrs. Easterfield. I suppose your turn has not come yet. I was at the head of the list." And, fearing that if he stayed longer he might say too much, Mr. Locker walked slowly away, whistling disjointedly as he went. That evening Mrs. Easterfield discovered that she had been deprived of the anticipated pleasure of conveying to Mr. Du Brant the message which Olive had sent him. That gentleman, unusually polite and soft-spoken, found her by herself, and thus accosted her: "You must excuse me, madam, for speaking upon a certain subject without permission from you, but I have reason to believe that you are the bearer of a message to me from Miss Asher." "How in the world did you find that out?" she asked. "It was the--Locker," he answered. "I do not think it was his intention to inform me fully; he is not a master of words and expressions; he is a little blundering; but, from what he said, I supposed you were kind enough to be the bearer of such a message." "Yes," said Mrs. Easterfield; "not being able to be here herself, Miss Asher requested me to say to you that she must decline--" "Excuse me, madam," he interrupted, "but it is I who decline. I bear toward you, madam, the greatest homage and respect, but what I had the honor to say to Miss Asher I said to her alone, and it is only from her that it is possible for me to receive an answer. Therefore, madam, it is absolutely necessary that I decline to be a party to the interview you so graciously propose. It breaks my heart, my dear madam, even to seem unwilling to listen to anything you might deign to say to me, but in this case I must be firm, I must decline. Can you pardon me, dear madam, for speaking as I have been obliged to speak?" "Oh, of course," said Mrs. Easterfield. "And really, since you know so much, it is not necessary for me to tell you anything more." "Ah," said the diplomat, with a little bow and an incredulous expression, as if the lady could have no idea what he might yet know, "I am so much obliged to you! I am so thankful!" _CHAPTER XXVIII_ _Here we go! Lovers Three!_ The three discarded lovers of Broadstone--all discarded, although one of them would not admit it--would have departed the next day had not that day been Sunday, when there were no convenient trains. Mr. Du Brant was due in Washington; Mr. Hemphill was needed very much at his desk, especially since Mr. Easterfield had decided to spend a few days with his wife; and Claude Locker wanted to go. When he had finished the thing he happened to be doing it was his habit immediately to begin something else. All was at an end between him and Miss Asher. He acknowledged this, and he did not wish to stay at Broadstone. But, as it could not be helped, they all stayed over Sunday. Mr. Easterfield planned an early afternoon expedition to a mission church in the mountains; it would be a novel experience, and a delightful trip, and everybody must go. In the course of the morning Mr. Du Brant strolled in the eastern parts of the grounds, and Mr. Locker strolled over that portion of the lawn which lay to the west. Mr. Du Brant did not meet with any one with whom he cared to talk, but Mr. Locker was fortunate enough to meet Miss Raleigh. "I am glad to see you," said he; "you are the person above all other persons I wish to talk to." "It delights me to hear that," said the lady, her face showing that she spoke the truth. "Let us go over there and sit down," said he. "Now, then," he continued, "you were present, Miss Raleigh, at a very peculiar moment in my life, a momentous moment, I may say. You enjoyed a privilege--if you consider it such--not vouchsafed to many mortals." "I did consider it a privilege, you may be sure," exclaimed Miss Raleigh, "and I value it. You do not know how highly I value it!" "You heard me offer myself, body and soul, to the lady I loved. You were taken into our confidence, you saw me laid upon the table--" "Oh, dreadful!" cried the lady. "Don't put it that way." "Well, then," said he, "you saw me postponed for future consideration. You promised you would regard everything you heard as confidential; by so doing you enabled me to speak when otherwise I might not have dared to do so. I am deeply grateful to you; and, as you already know so much about my hopes and my aspirations, I think it right you should know all there is to know." The conscience of Miss Raleigh stirred itself very vigorously within her, and her voice was much subdued as she said: "I am sure you are very good." "Well, then," said Locker, "the proposal you heard me make has been declined. I am discarded; and not directly in a face-to-face interview, but through another by a message. It would have been inconvenient for Miss Asher personally to communicate the intelligence, so as Mrs. Easterfield was coming this way she kindly consented to convey the intelligence." "I declare," exclaimed Miss Raleigh, "I had not heard of that! Mrs. Easterfield made me her confidant in the early stages of this affair, or I should say, these affairs. But she has not told me that." "She will doubtless give herself that pleasure later," said Locker. "No," said she, "she will not think any more about it. I am of no further use. And may I ask if you know anything about the two other gentlemen?" "Both turned down," said Locker. "I might have supposed that," answered the lady; "for if Miss Asher would not take you she certainly would not be content with either of them." "With all my heart I thank you," said Locker warmly. "Such words are welcome to a wounded heart." For a moment Miss Raleigh was silent, then she remarked, "It is very hard to be discarded." "You are right there!" exclaimed Locker. "But how do you happen to know anything about it?" "I have been discarded myself," she answered. The larger eye of Mr. Locker grew still larger, the other endeavored to emulate its companion's size; and his mouth became a rounded opening. "Discarded?" he cried. "Yes," said she. The countenance of the young man was now bright with interest and curiosity. "I don't suppose it would be right to ask you," said he, "even although I have taken you so completely into my confidence--but, never mind. Don't think of it. Of course, I would not propose such a question." "Of course not," said she, "you are too manly for that." And then she was silent again. Naturally she hesitated to reveal the secrets of her heart, and to a gentleman with whom her acquaintance was of such recent date; but she earnestly wanted to repose confidence in another, as well as to receive it, and it was so seldom, so very seldom, that such an opportunity came to her. "I do not know," she said, "that I ought to, but still--" "Oh, don't, if you don't want to," said Locker. "But I think I do want to," she replied. "You are so kind, so good, and you have confided in me. Yes, I was once discarded, not exactly by word of mouth, or even by message, but still discarded." "A stranger to me, of course," said Locker, his whole form twisting itself into an interrogation-point. "No," said she, "and as I have begun I will go on. It was Mr. Hemphill." "What!" he exclaimed. "That--" "Yes, it was he," said she, speaking slowly, and in a low voice. "He was Mr. Easterfield's secretary and I was Mrs. Easterfield's secretary, and, of course, we were thrown much together. He has very good qualities; I do not hesitate now to say that; and they impressed themselves upon me. In every possible way I endeavored to make things pleasant for him. I do not believe that when he was at work he ever wanted a glass of cold water that he did not find it within reach. I early discovered that he was very fond of cold water." "A most commendable dissipation," interrupted Locker. "He had no dissipations," said Miss Raleigh. "His character was unimpeachable. In very many ways I was attracted to him, in very many ways I endeavored to make life pleasant for him; and I am afraid that sometimes I neglected Mrs. Easterfield's interests so that I might do little things for him, such as dusting, keeping his ink-pots full, providing fresh blotting-paper, and many other trifling services which devotion readily suggested." Locker heaved a sigh of commiseration which she mistook for one of sympathy. "I will not go into particulars," she continued, "but at last he discovered that--well, I will be plain with you--he discovered that I loved him. Then, sir--it is humiliating to me to say it, but I will not flinch--he discarded me. He did not use words, but his manner was sufficient. Never again did I go near his desk, never did I tender him the slightest service. It was a terrible blow! It was humiliating" "I should think so," said Locker, "from him" "But I will say no more," she remarked with a sigh. "I have told you what you have heard that you may understand how thoroughly I sympathize with you, for all is over with me in that direction, as I suppose all is over with you in your direction. And now I must go, for this long conference may be remarked. But before I go, I will say that if ever you--" "Oh, no, no, no!" interrupted Locker, "it would not do at all! I really have begun to believe that I was cut out for a bachelor." "What!" said Miss Raleigh, with great severity. "Do you suppose, sir, that I--" "Not at all, not at all" cried Locker. "Not for one moment do I suppose that you--" "If for one moment," said she, "I had imagined you would suppose--" "But I assure you, Miss Raleigh, I never did suppose that you would imagine I would think--but if you do suppose I thought you imagined I could possibly conceive--" "But I really did think," said Miss Raleigh, speaking more gently. "But if I was wrong--" "Nay, think no more about it," Locker interrupted, "and let us be friends again." He offered her his hand, which she shook warmly, and then departed. It had been arranged that Lancaster was not to leave Broadstone on the next day. He had expected to do so, but Mr. Easterfield had planned for a day's fishing for himself, Mr. Fox, and the professor, and he would not let the latter off. The ladies had accepted an invitation to luncheon that day; the next day some new visitors were expected; and in order not to interfere with Mr. Easterfield's plans, evidently intended to restore to Broadstone some of the social harmony which had recently been so disturbed, Dick consented to stay, although he really wanted to go. He could not forget that his vacation was passing. "Very well, then," Mrs. Easterfield remarked to him that Sunday evening, "if you must go on Tuesday, I suppose you must, although I think it would be better for you if I were to keep my eye on you for a little while longer." "Perhaps so," said Lancaster, "but the time has come when curb-bits, cages, and good advice are not for me. I must burst loose from everything and go my way, right or wrong, whatever it may be." "I see that," said she; "but if it had not been for the curbed bit and all that, you would be leaving this place a discarded lover, like the rest of them. They depart with their love-affairs finished forever, ended; you go as free to woo, to win, or to lose as you ever were. And you owe this entirely to me, so whatever else you do, don't sneer at my curbs and my cages; to them you owe your liberty." The professor fully appreciated everything she had done for him, and told her so earnestly and warmly. But she interrupted his grateful expressions. "It would have been very hard on me," she said, "if Olive had asked me to carry to you the news of your rejection. That is what I did for the others, I suppose you know." "Oh, yes," said Lancaster; "Locker told me." "I might have supposed that," said she. "And now I feel bound to tell you also, although it is not a message, that Olive does not expect to see you at her uncle's house. She infers that you are going to continue your vacation journey." "I have made my plans for my journey," said he, "and I do not think, Mrs. Easterfield, that you will care to have me talk them over with you." "No, indeed," she replied; "I do not want to hear a word about them, but I am going to give you one piece of advice, whether you like it or not. Don't be in a hurry to ask her to marry you. At this moment she does not want to marry anybody. Her position has entirely changed. She wanted to marry so that her plans might be settled before her father and his new wife arrive; and now she considers that they are settled. So be careful. It is true that the objections she formerly had to you are removed, but before you ask her to marry you, you should seriously ask yourself what reason there is she should do so. She does not know you very well; she is not interested in you; and I am very sure she is not in love with you. Now you know, for I have told you so, that I would be delighted to see you two married. I believe you would suit each other admirably, but although you may agree with me in this opinion, I am quite sure she does not; at least, not yet. Now, this is all I am going to say, except that you have my very best wishes that you may get her." "I shall never forget that," said he, "but I see I am not to be free from the memory, at least, of the curb and the cage." After breakfast on Monday the three discarded lovers departed in a dog-cart, Mr. Du Brant in front with the driver, and Claude Locker and Hemphill behind. For some minutes the party was silent. If circumstances had permitted they would have gone separately. As long as he could see the mansion of Broadstone, Claude Locker spoke no word. When the time had come to go he had not wanted to go. When taking leave of Dick Lancaster he had congratulated that favored young man upon the fact that he had not been rejected, and had assured him that if he had remained at Broadstone he would have done his best to back him up as he had said he would. Hemphill was not inclined to talk. Of course, Locker did not care to converse with the young diplomat, and consequently he found himself bored, and to relieve his feelings he burst into song. His words were impromptu, and although the verse was not very good, it was very impressive. It began as follows: "Here we go, Lovers three, All steeped deep In miseree." At this Mr. Hemphill turned and looked at him, while a deep grunt came from the front seat, but the singer kept on without much attention to meter, and none at all to tune. "This is so, Here we go, Flabbergasted, Hopes all blasted, Flags half-masted. While it lasted, We poor--" "Look here," cried Du Brant, turning round suddenly, "I beg you desist that. You are insulting. And what you say is not true, as regards me at least. You can sing for yourself." "Not true!" cried Locker. "Oh, ho, oh ho! Perhaps you have forgotten yourself, kind sir." This little speech seemed to make Du Brant very angry, and he fairly shouted at Locker: "No, I haven't forgotten myself, and I have not forgotten you! You have insulted me before, and I should like to make you pay for it! I should like to have satisfaction from you, sir" "That sounds well," cried Locker. "Do you mean to fight?" "I want the satisfaction due to a gentleman," answered the young Austrian. "Good," cried Locker, "that would suit me exactly. It would brighten me up. Let's do it now. I am not going to stop at Washington, and this is the only time I can give you. Driver, can we get to the station in time if we stop a little while?" The person addressed was a young negro who had become intensely interested in the conversation. "Oh, yes, sah," he answered. "We'll git dar twenty minutes before de train does, and if you takes half an hour I can whip up. That train's mostly late, anyway." "All right," cried Locker. "And now, sir, how shall we fight? What have you got to fight with?" "This is folly," growled Du Brant. "I have nothing to fight with. I do not fight with fists, like you Americans." "Haven't you a penknife" coolly asked Locker. "If not, I daresay Mr. Hemphill will lend you one." Du Brant now fairly trembled with anger. "When I fight," said he, "I fight like a gentleman; with a sword or a pistol." "I am sorry," said Locker, "but if I remembered to bring my sword and pistol I must have put them in the bottom of my trunk, and that has gone on to the station. Have you two pistols or swords with you? Or do you think you could get sufficient satisfaction out of a couple of piles of stones that we could hurl at each other?" Du Brant made no English answer to this, but uttered some savage remarks in French. "Do you understand what all that means?" inquired Locker of Hemphill, who had been quietly listening to what had been going on. "Yes," said the other, "he is cursing you up hill, and down dale." "Oh," said Locker, "it sounds to me as if he were calculating his last week's expenses. But when he gets to French cursing, I drop him. I can't fight him that way." The colored boy now showed that he was very much disappointed. He had expected the pleasure of a fight, and he was afraid he was going to lose it. "I tell you, sah," he said to Locker, "why don't you try kick-shins? Do you know what kick-shins is? You don't know what kick-shins is? Well, kick-shins is this: one fellow stands in front of the other fellow, and one takes hold of the collar of the other fellow, and the other fellow takes hold of his collar, and then they kicks each other's shins, and the one what squeals fust, he's licked, and the other one gits the gal. You've got pretty thin shoes, sah," addressing Du Brant, "and your feet ain't half as big as his'n, but your toes is more p'inted." "No kick-shins for me," said Locker. "I've got to be economical about my clothes." Du Brant's rage now became ungovernable. "Do you apologize," he cried, "or I take you by the throat, and I strangle you." Hemphill, who had been smiling mildly at the kick-shin proposition, now turned himself about. "You will not do that," he said, "and if you don't sit quiet and keep your mouth shut, I'll toss you out of this cart, and make you walk the rest of the way to the station." As Hemphill looked quite big and strong enough to execute this threat, and as he was too quiet a man to be ignored, Du Brant turned his face to the horse, and said no more. "I did not know you were such a trump" cried Locker. "Give me your hand. I should hate to be strangled by a foreigner!" When they took the train Du Brant went by himself into the smoking-car, and Locker and Hemphill had a seat together. "Do you know," said Locker, "I am beginning to like you, although I must admit that before this morning I can remember no feeling of the sort." "That is not surprising," said Hemphill. "A man is not generally fond of his rival." "We will let it go at that," said Locker, "we'll let it go at that! I should not wonder, if we had all stayed at Broadstone; and if the central object of interest had also remained; and, if I had failed, as I have failed, to make the proper impression; and if the professor, whom I promised to back up in case I should find myself out of the combat, should also have failed; I should not wonder if I had backed up you." _CHAPTER XXIX_ _Two Pieces of News._ It was nearly two weeks after Mrs. Easterfield drove away from the captain's toll-gate before she went back there again. There were many reasons for thus depriving herself of Olive's society. Mr. Tom had stayed with her for an unusually long time; a house full of visitors, mostly relatives, had succeeded the departed lovers, and Foxes; and, besides, Olive was so very busy and so very happy--as she learned from many little notes--cleaning the house from garret to cellar, and loving her uncle better every day, that it really would have been a misdemeanor to interfere with her ardent pursuits. But now Olive had written that she wanted to tell her a lot of things which could not go into a letter, and so the Broadstone carriage stopped again at the toll-gate. Two great things had Olive to tell, and she was really glad that her uncle was not at home so that she might get at once to the telling. In the first place, old Mr. Port was dead, and Captain Asher was in great trouble about this. Of course, he could not keep away from the deathbed of his old friend, nor could he neglect to do all honor to his memory, but it was a terrible thing for him to have to go into the house where Maria Port lived. After what had happened it was almost too much for his courage, although he was a brave man. But he had conquered his feelings, and he was there now. The funeral would be to-morrow. When Mrs. Easterfield heard all that Olive had to tell her about Maria Port, her heart went out to that brave man who kept the toll-gate. The next thing that Olive had to tell was that she had heard from her father, who wrote that he would soon arrive in this country; that he would then go West, where he would marry Olive's former schoolmate; and that, on their wedding tour, he would make a little visit at the tollhouse so that Olive might see her new mother. "Now, isn't this enough," cried Olive, "to make any girl spread her wings and fly to the ends of the earth? But I have no wings; they have all gone away in a dog-cart. But I don't feel about that as I used to feel," she continued, a little hardness coming into her face. "I am settled now just the same as if I were married, and father and Edith Malcolmsen may come just as soon as they please. They shall make no plans for me; I am going to stay here with Uncle John. This house is mine now, and I am seriously thinking of having it painted. I shall stay here just as if I were one of those trees, and my father and my new mother--" Here tears came into Olive's eyes and Mrs. Easterfield stopped her. "Olive," said she, "I will give you a piece of advice. When your father and his young wife come here, treat her exactly as if she were your old friend. If you do so I think you will get along very well. This is partly selfish advice, for I greatly desire the opportunity to treat your father hospitably. He was my friend when I was a girl, you remember, and I looked up to him with very great admiration." And so these two friends sat and talked, and talked, and talked until it was positively shameful, considering that the Broadstone horses were accustomed to be fed and watered at noon, and that the coachman was very hungry. When, at last, Mrs. Easterfield drove home, and it must have been three in the afternoon, she left Olive very much comforted, even in regard to the unfortunate obligations which had fallen upon her uncle. For now that her old father had gone, all intercourse with the Port woman would cease. But in her own mind Mrs. Easterfield was not so very much comforted. It was all well enough to talk about Olive and her uncle and the happiness and safety of the home he had given her, but that sort of thing could not last very long. He was an elderly man and she was a girl. In the natural course of events, she would probably be left alone while she was very young. She would then be alone, for her father's wife could never be a mother to her when he was at sea, and their home would never be a home for her when he was on shore. What Olive wanted, in Mrs. Easterfield's opinion, was a husband. An uncle, such as Captain Asher, was very charming, but he was not enough. During this pleasant afternoon, when Captain Asher was in town attending to some arrangements for the burial of Mr. Port, Miss Maria was sitting discreetly alone in her darkened chamber. She had a great many things to think about, and if she had allowed her conscience full freedom of action, there would have been much more upon her mind. She might have been troubled by the recollection that since her father's very determined treatment of her when she had endeavored to fix herself upon the affections of Captain Asher, she had so conducted herself toward her venerable parent that she had actually nagged the life out of him; and that had she been the dutiful daughter she ought to have been he might have been living yet. But thoughts of this nature were not common to Maria Port. She had made herself sure that the will was all right, and he was very old. There was a time for all things, and Maria was now about to begin life for herself. To her plans for this new life she now gave almost her sole attention. She had one great object in view which overshadowed everything else, and this was to marry Captain Asher. This she could have done before, she firmly believed, had it not been for her old father and that horrid girl, the captain's niece. As for the elderly man who kept the toll-gate she did not mind him. If not interfered with, she was sure she could make him marry her, and then the great ambition of her life would be satisfied. Unpretentious as was her establishment in town, she did not care to spend the money necessary to keep it up, and although she was often an unkind woman, she was not cruel enough to think of inflicting herself as a boarder upon any housewife in the town. No, the toll-gate was the home for her; and if Captain Asher chose to inflict himself upon her for a few years longer, she would try to endure it. One obstacle to her plans was now gone, and she must devote herself to the work of getting rid of the other one. While Olive Asher remained at the tollhouse there was no chance for her in that quarter. The funeral was over, and when the bereaved Miss Port took leave of Captain Asher she exhibited a quiet gratitude which was very becoming and suitable. During the short time when he had visited the house every day she had showed him no resentment on account of what had passed between them, and had treated him very much as if he had been one of her father's old friends with whom she was not very well acquainted and to whom she was indebted for various services connected with the sad occasion. When he took final leave of her he shook her hand, and as he did so he gave her a peculiar grasp which, in his own mind, indicated that he and she had now nothing more to do with each other, and that the acquaintance was adjourned without day. She bade him a simple farewell, and as he left the house she grinned at his broad back. This grin expressed, to herself at least, that the old and rather faulty acquaintance was at an end, and that the new connection which she intended to establish between herself and him would be upon an entirely different basis. He did not ask her if there was anything more that he could do for her, for he did not desire to mix himself up with her affairs, which he knew she was eminently able to manage for herself, and it was with a deep breath of relief that he got into his buggy and drove home to his toll-gate. _CHAPTER XXX_ _By the Sea._ When Lieutenant Asher and his bride arrived at his brother's toll-gate they were surprised as well as delighted by the cordiality of their greeting. Each of them had expected a little stiffness during the first interview, but there was nothing of the kind, although young Mrs. Asher was bound to admit, when she took time to think upon the subject, that Olive treated her exactly as if she had been a dear old schoolmate, and not at all as her father's wife. This made things very pleasant and easy at that time, she thought, although it might have to be corrected a little after a while. Things were all very pleasant, and there never had been so much talk at the tollhouse since the first stone of its foundation had been laid. The day after the arrival of the newly married couple Mrs. Easterfield called upon them, and invited the whole family to dinner. "I have never realized how much she must have thought of my parents!" said Olive to herself, as she gazed upon her father and Mrs. Easterfield. "They are so very glad to see each other!" She did not know that Lieutenant Asher had been to the present Mrs. Easterfield almost as much of a divinity as Mr. Hemphill had been to her girlish fancy; the difference being that the young cadet was well aware of the adoration of this child, not yet in long dresses, and greatly enjoyed and encouraged it. When, a few years later, the child heard of his marriage, she had outgrown the love with the lengthening of the skirts. But she had a tender recollection of it which she cherished. The dinner the next day was a great success, and after it the lieutenant and Mrs. Easterfield earnestly discussed Olive when they had the opportunity for a _tête-à-tête_. She was so much to each of them, and he was grateful that his daughter had fallen under the influence of this old friend, now a charming woman. "She is so beautiful," said the lady, "that she ought to be married as soon as possible to the most suitable bachelor in the United States." "Not so fast! Not so fast" said the lieutenant. "Edith and I are going to housekeeping very soon, and then we shall want Olive." Mrs. Easterfield smiled, but made no reply. When the lieutenant and his wife, with Olive, came a few days afterward to make their proper dinner call, he found an occasion to speak to their hostess. "Do you know," said he, "that this is a strange girl of mine?" She positively refuses to come and live with us. We had counted upon having her, and had made all our arrangements for it. She is as good and nice as she can be, but we can not move her." "You ought not to try," said Mrs. Easterfield; "it would be a shame for her to go away and leave her uncle. You have one young lady, and you should not ask for both. Olive must marry, and the captain must go and live with her." "Have you arranged all that?" said he. "I remember you were a great schemer when quite a little girl." "I am as great as ever," said she. "And I have selected the gentleman." "Oh, ho!" cried the lieutenant. "And is that all settled? Olive should have told me that." "She could not do it," said Mrs. Easterfield; "for it is not all settled. There are some obstacles in the way; and the greatest of them is that she does not love him." The lieutenant laughed. "Then that is settled. I know Olive." Mrs. Easterfield flushed, and then laughed. "I doubt that knowledge. It is certain you do not know me! The young man loves her with all his heart; there is no objection to him; and I am most earnestly in favor of the match." "Ah" said the lieutenant, with a bow; "if that is the case, I must get a pencil and paper and calculate what I can give her for her trousseau. I hope the wedding will not come off very soon, for I am decidedly short at present, on account of recent matrimonial expenses. Would you mind telling me his name? Is he naval?" "Oh, no," said she; "he is pedagogy." "What!" he cried, his eyes wide open. Then she laughed and told him all about Dick Lancaster. "Of course," concluded Mrs. Easterfield, "I can not ask you not to speak to _anybody_ about what I have told you, but I do hope you will prevent its getting to Olive's ears. I am afraid it would make a breach between us if she knew that I was trying to make a match for her. And, you see, that is exactly what I am doing." "And you are right," said the lieutenant; "and what is more, I am with you! You don't know," he added in a softer tone, "how grateful I am to you for your care of Olive now that my dear wife is gone!" For the moment he totally forgot that his dear wife had merely gone to the edge of the bluff with the captain and Olive to look at the river. That evening, as they sat together, Lieutenant Asher told his brother all that Mrs. Easterfield had confided to him about Dick Lancaster. The captain was delighted. "That is what I have wanted," he said, "almost from the beginning, and I want it more than ever now. I am getting to be an old fellow, and I want to see her settled before I sail." "You know, John," said the lieutenant, "that I find Olive is a little more of a girl of her own mind than she used to be. I don't believe she would rest quietly under the housekeeping of a girl so nearly her own age." The captain gave some vigorous puffs. "I should think not!" he said to himself. "Olive would have that young woman swabbing the decks before they had been out three days! You are right," said he aloud, "but we must all look out that Olive does not hear anything about this." It was not until they were continuing their bridal trip that Lieutenant Asher considered the subject of mentioning Dick Lancaster to his wife. Then, after considering it, he concluded not to do it. In the first place, he knew that he was getting to be a little bit elderly, and he did not care about discussing the perfections of the young man who had been selected as a suitable partner for his wife's school friend. This was all very foolish, of course, but people often are very foolish. Thus it was that Olive Asher never heard of the tripartite alliance between her father, her uncle, and her good friend at Broadstone. When Captain Asher learned, a few days after his brother had left, that the Broadstone family had gone to the seashore, he sat reflectively and asked himself if he were doing the right thing by Olive. The season was well advanced; it was getting very hot at the toll-gate, and at many other gates in that region; and this navy girl ought to have a breath of fresh air. It is wonderful that he had not thought of it before! At breakfast the next morning Olive stopped pouring coffee when he told her his plans to go to the sea. "With you, Uncle John!" she cried. "That would be better than anything in the world! You sail a boat?" she asked inquiringly. "Sail a boat!" roared the captain. "I have a great mind to kick over this table! My dear, I can sail a boat, keel uppermost, if the water's deep enough! Sail a boat!" he repeated. "I sailed a catboat from Boston to Egg Harbor before your mother was born. By the way, you seem very anxious about boat sailing. Are you afraid of the water?" She laughed gaily. "I deserve that," she said, "and I accept it. But perhaps I have done something that you never did. I have sailed a felucca." "Very good," said the captain; "if there's a felucca where we're going you can sail me in one." They went to a Virginia seaside resort, these two, and left old Jane in charge of the toll-gate. Early in the day after they arrived they went out to engage a boat. When they found one which suited the captain's critical eye, he said to the owner thereof: "I will take her for the morning, but I don't want anybody to sail me. I will do that myself." "I don't know about that," said the man; "when my boat goes out--" He stopped speaking suddenly and looked the captain over and over, up and down. "All right, sir," said he. "And you don't want nobody to manage the sheet?" "No," interpolated Olive, "I'll manage the sheet." So they went out on the bounding sea. And as the wind whistled the hat off her head so that she had to fling it into the bottom of the boat, Olive wished that her uncle kept a toll-gate on the sea. Then she could go out with him and stop the little boats and the great steamers, and make them drop seven cents or thirteen cents into her hands as she stood braced in the stern; and she was just beginning to wonder how she could toss up the change to them if they dropped her a quarter, when the captain began to sing Tom Bowline. He was just as gay-hearted as she was. It was about noon when they returned, for the captain was a very particular man and he had hired the boat only for the morning. Olive had scarcely taken ten steps up the beach before she found herself shaking hands with a young man. "How on earth!" she exclaimed. "It was not on earth at all," he said; "I came by water. I wanted to find out if what I had heard of the horrors of a coastwise voyage were true; and I found that it was absolutely correct." "But here!" she exclaimed. "Why here? You could not have known!" "Of course not," he answered; "if I had known I am sure I would have felt that I ought not to come. But I didn't know, and so you see I am as innocent as a butterfly. More innocent, in fact, for that little wagwings knows where he ought not to go, and he goes there all the same." Captain Asher was still at the boat, making some practical suggestions to her owner; who, being not yet forty, had many things to learn about the sails and rigging of a catboat. "Mr. Locker," said Olive, looking at him very intently, "did you come here to renew any of your previous performances?" "As a serenader?" said he. "Oh, no! But perhaps you mean as a love-maker?" "That is it," said Olive. Mr. Locker took off his hat, and rubbed his head. "No," said he, "I didn't; but I wish I could say I did. But that's impossible. I presume I am right in assuming this impossibility?" "Entirely," said Olive. "And, furthermore, I truly didn't know you were here. I think you may rest satisfied that that flame is out, although--By the way, I believe I could make some verses on that subject containing these lines: "'I do not want the flame, I better like the coal--' meaning, of course, that I hope our friendship may continue." She smiled. "There are no objections to that," she said. "Perhaps not, perhaps not," he said, clutching his chin with his hand; "but some other lines come into my head. Of course, he didn't want the coal to go out. "'He blew too hard, The flame revived.'" "That will do! That will do!" cried Olive. "I don't want any more of that poem." "And the result of it all," said he, "is only a burnt match." "Nothing but a bit of charcoal," added Olive. At this moment up came the captain. Olive had told him all about Mr. Locker, and he was not glad to see him. Olive noticed this, and she spoke quickly. "Here's Mr. Locker, uncle; he has dropped down quite accidentally at this place." "Oh" said the captain incredulously. "You know he used to like me too much. But he knows me better now." "Charming frankness of friendship!" said Locker. "And as I like him very much, I am glad he is here," continued Olive. The young man bowed in gratitude, but Olive's words embarrassed him somewhat, and he did not know exactly what would be suitable for him to say. So he took refuge in a change of subject. "Captain," said he, "can you fish?" A look of scornful amazement showed itself upon the old mariner's face. "I have tried it," said he. "And so have I," cried Locker, "but I never had any luck in fishing and--some other things. I am vilely unlucky. I expect that's because I don't know how to fish." "It is very likely," said Olive, "that your bad luck comes from not knowing where to fish." The young man took off his hat and held it for a little while, although the sun was very hot. During the course of that afternoon and evening Captain Asher grew to like Claude Locker. The young man told such gravely comical stories, especially about his experiences in boats and on the water, that the captain was very glad he had happened to drop down upon that especial watering-place. He wanted Olive to have some society besides his own, and a discarded lover was better than any other young man they might meet. He knew that Olive was a girl who would not go back on her word. _CHAPTER XXXI_ _As good as a Man._ The next day our three friends went fishing in a catboat belonging to the young seaman of forty, and they took their dinner with them, although Mr. Locker declared that he did not believe that he would want any. They had a good time on the water, for the captain had made careful inquiries about the best fishing grounds, and the mishaps of Locker were so numerous and so provocative of queer remarks from himself, that the captain and Olive sometimes forgot to pull up their fish, so preengaged were they in laughing. The sky was bright, the water smooth, and even Mr. Locker caught fish, although it might have been thought that he did everything possible to prevent himself doing so. When their boat ran up the beach late in the afternoon the captain and Olive were still laughing, and Mr. Locker was as sober as a soda-water fountain from which spouts such intermittent sparkle. Dear as was the toll-gate, this was a fine change from that quiet home. The next morning, upon the sand, Claude Locker approached Olive. "Would you like to decline my addresses for the second time?" he abruptly asked. "Of course not" she exclaimed. "Well, then," said he, extending his hand, "good-by!" "What are you talking about?" said Olive. "What does this mean?" "It means," said he, "that I have fallen in love with you again. I think I am rather worse than I was before. If I stay here I shall surely propose. Nothing can stop me--not even the presence of your uncle if it is impossible for me to see you alone--and, if you don't want any of that, it is necessary that I go, and go quickly." "Of course I don't want it," she said. "But why need you be so foolish? We were getting along so nicely as friends. I expected to have lots of fun here with you and uncle." "Fun!" groaned Locker. "It might have been fun for you and the captain, but what of the poor torn heart? I know I must go, and now. If I stay here five minutes longer I shall be at your feet, and it will be far better if I take to my own. Good-by!" And, with a warm grasp of her hand, he departed. Olive looked after him as he walked to the hotel. If he had known how much she regretted to see him go he would have come back, and all his troubles would have begun again. "Hello!" cried the captain when Locker had entered the house, "I was looking for you. We can run out, and have some fishing this morning. The tide will suit. You did so well yesterday that I think to-day. I can even teach you to take out a hook." "Take out a hook?" said Locker. "I have a hook within me which no man in this world, and but one woman, can take out. And as this she must not even be asked to do, I go. Farewell!" "What's the matter with the young man" asked the captain of Olive a little later. "Oh, he has fallen in love with me again," said Olive, with a sigh, "and, of course, that spoils everything. I wish people could be more sensible." The captain looked down upon her admiringly. "I don't see any hope for people," he said. And this was the first personal compliment he had ever paid his niece. When Claude Locker had gone, Olive missed him more than she thought she could miss anybody. Much of the life seemed to have gone out of the place, and the captain's high spirits waned as if he was suffering from the depression which follows a stimulant. "If that young fellow had been better-looking," said the captain, "if he had more solid sense, and a good business, with both his eyes alike, I might have been more willing to let him go." "If he had been all that," asked Olive with a smile, "why shouldn't you have been willing to let him stay?" The captain did not answer. No matter what young Locker might have been, he could never have been Dick Lancaster. "Uncle," said Olive that afternoon, "where shall we go next?" "I don't know," said he, "but let's go to-morrow. I don't believe I like so many strangers except when they pay toll." They traveled about a good deal; and in a general way enjoyed themselves; but they were both old travelers, and mere novelty was not enough for them. Each loved the company of the other, but each would have liked to have Locker along. It grieved Olive to think that she wanted him, or anybody, but she would not even try to deceive herself. The weather grew cooler, and she said to her uncle: "Let us go back to the toll-gate; it must be perfectly beautiful there now, with the mountains putting on their gold and red." So they started for home, planning for a stop in Washington on their way. Brightness and people were coming back to Washington. The air was cooler, and city life was stirring. Olive and her uncle stayed several days longer than they had intended; as most people do who visit Washington. On one of these days as they were returning to their hotel from the Smithsonian grounds, where they had been looking at autumn leaves from all quarters of this wide land; many of them unknown to them; they looked with interest from the shaded grounds on one side of the street to the great public building on the other side, which they were then passing, and at the broad steps ascending from the sidewalk to the basement floor. As they moved on thus slowly they noticed a man standing upon the upper steps of one of these stairs. His back was toward them; and, as their eyes fell upon him he stepped upon the upper sidewalk. He was walking with a cane which seemed to be rather short for him. He stood still for a moment, and appeared to be waiting for some one. Then, suddenly his whole frame thrilled with nervous action; he slightly lowered his head, and, in an instant, he brought his cane to his shoulder, as if it had been a gun. The captain had seen that sort of thing before. It was an air-gun. Without a word he made a dash at the man. He was elderly, but in a case like this he was swift. As he ran he glanced out in the direction in which the gun was aimed. Along the broad, sunlighted avenue a barouche was passing. On the back seat sat two gentlemen, well-dressed, erect. Even in a flash one would notice an air of dignity in their demeanor. There was not time to strike down the weapon, but before the man had heard steps behind him the captain gave him a tremendous blow between the shoulders which staggered him, and spoiled his aim. Then the captain seized the air-gun. There was a whiz, and a click on the pavement. Then the man turned. His black eyes flashed out of a swarthy face nearly covered with beard; his soft hat had fallen off when the captain struck him, and his black hair stood up like bristles on a shoe-brush. He was not a large man; he wore a loose woolen jacket; his sleeves were short, and his hands were hairy. All this Olive saw, for she had been quick to follow her uncle; but the captain, who firmly held the air-gun, saw nothing but the glaring face of a devil. The man jerked furiously at the gun, but the captain's grasp was too strong. Then the fellow released his hold upon the gun, and, with a savage fury, threw himself upon the older man. The two stood near the top of the steps, and the shock of the attack was so great that both fell, slipping down several of the stone steps. Olive tried to scream, but in her fright her voice utterly left her. She could not make a sound. As they lay upon the steps, the captain beneath, the man seized his victim by the neck with both hands, pressing his great thumbs deeply into his throat. Apparently he did not notice Olive. All the efforts of his devilish soul were bent upon stifling the voice and the life out of the witness of his attempted crime. Olive sprang down, and stood over the struggling men. Her uncle's eyes stared at her, and seemed bursting from his head. His face was growing dark. Again Olive tried to scream; and, in a frenzy, she seized the man to pull him from the captain. As she did so her hand fell upon something protruding under his woolen jacket. With a quick flash of instinct her sense of feeling recognized this thing. She jerked up the jacket, and there was the stock of a pistol protruding from his hip pocket. In an instant Olive drew it. A horrid sound issued from the mouth of Captain Asher; he was choking to death. In the same second that she heard it Olive thrust the muzzle of the pistol against the side of the man's head and pulled the trigger. The man's head fell forward and his hairy hands released their grip, but they still remained at the captain's throat. The latter gave a great gasp, and for an instant he turned his eyes full upon the face of his niece. Then his lids closed. Now there were footsteps, and, looking up, Olive saw a negro cabman in faded livery and an old silk hat, who stood staring. Before she could speak to him there came another man, a policeman, who, equally amazed, stared at the group below him. Only these two had heard the pistol shots. There were no other people passing on the avenue, and as it was past office hours there was no one in the great public building. Until they reached the top of the steps the policeman and cabman could see nothing. Now they stood astounded as they stared down upon an elderly man lying on his back on the steps; another man, apparently lifeless, lying on top of him with his hands upon his throat; and a girl standing a little below them with a smoking pistol in her hand. Before they had time to speak or move Olive called out, "Take that man off my uncle." In a moment the policeman, followed by the negro, ran down the steps and pulled the black-headed man off the captain, and the limp body slipped down several steps. The policeman now turned toward Olive. "Take this," she said, handing him the pistol. "I shot him. He was trying to kill my uncle." The two men raised the captain to a sitting position. He was now breathing, though in gasps, with his eyes opened. The policeman took the pistol, looked at it, then at Olive, then at the captain, and then down at the body on the steps. He was trying to get an idea of what had happened without asking. If the negro had not been present he might have asked questions, but this was an unusual situation, and he felt his responsibility, and his importance. Olive now stepped toward him, and in obedience to her quick gesture he bent his head, and she whispered something to him. Instantly he was quivering with excitement. He thrust the pistol into his pocket, and turned to the negro. "Run," said he, "and get your cab! Don't say a word to a soul and I will give you five dollars." The moment the negro had departed Olive said: "Pick up that air-gun. There, on the upper step." Then she went to her uncle and sat down by him. "Are you hurt?" she said. "Can you speak?" The captain put his arm around her shoulder, fixing a loving look upon her, and murmured, "You are as good as a man!" The policeman picked up the air-gun, and gazed upon it as if it had been a telegram in cipher from a detective. Then he tried to conceal it under his coat, but it was too long. "Let me have it," said Olive; "I will put it behind me." She had barely concealed it when the cab drove up. "Now," said the policeman, "you two must go with me. Can you walk, sir?" "Oh, yes," said the captain in a voice clear, but weak. Olive rose, holding the air-gun behind her, and the policeman and the cabman helped the captain to the carriage. Olive followed, and the policeman, actuated by some strong instinct, did not look around to see if she were doing so. He had no more idea that she would run away than that the stone steps would move. When he saw that she had taken the air-gun into the carriage with her, he closed the door. "Did your fall hurt you, uncle?" said Olive, looking anxiously into his face. "My throat hurts dreadfully," he said, "and I'm stiff. But I'll be stiffer to-morrow." The policeman picked up the hat of the black-haired man, and going down the steps, he placed it on his head. "Now help me up with this gentleman," he said to the cabman; "we must put him on the box-seat between us. Take him under the arms, and we'll carry him naturally. He must be awfully drunk!" So they lifted him up the steps, and, after much trouble, got him on the box-seat. Fortunately they were both big men. Then they drove away to police headquarters. The officer was the happiest policeman in Washington. This was the greatest piece of work he had known of during his service; and he was doing it all himself. With the exception of the driver, nobody else was mixed up in it in the least degree. What he was doing was not exactly right; it was not according to custom and regulation. He should have called for assistance, for an ambulance; but he had not, and his guardian angel had kept all foot-passengers from the steps of the public building. He did not know what it all meant, but he was doing it himself, and if that black driver should slip from his seat (of which he occupied a very small portion) and he should break his neck, the policeman would clutch the reins, and be happier than any man in Washington. There were very many people who looked at the drunken man who was being carried off by the policeman, but the cabman drove swiftly, and gave such people very little opportunity for close observation. _CHAPTER XXXII_ _The Stock-Market is Safe._ There was a great stir at the police station, but Olive and her uncle saw little of it. They were quickly taken to private rooms, where the captain was attended by a police surgeon. He had been bruised and badly treated, but his injuries were not serious. Olive was put in charge of a matron, who wondered greatly what brought her there. Very soon they were examined separately, and the tale of each of them was almost identical with that of the other; only Olive was able to tell more about the two gentlemen in the barouche, for she had been at her uncle's side, and there was nothing to obstruct her vision. When the examination was ended the police captain enjoined each of them to say no word to any living soul about what they had testified to him. This was a most important matter, and it was necessary that it be hedged around with the greatest secrecy. When Olive retired to her plain but comfortable cot she was tired and weak from the reaction of her restrained emotions, but she did not immediately go to sleep for thinking that she had killed a man. And yet for this killing there was not in this girl's mind one atom of regret. She was so grateful that she had been there, and had been enabled to do it. She had seen her uncle almost at his last gasp, and she had saved him from making that last gasp. Moreover, she had saved the life of the man who had saved the most important life in the land. She knew the face of the gentleman in the barouche who sat on the side nearest her; she knew what her uncle had done, and she was proud of him; she knew what she had done for him; and she regarded the black-haired man with the hairy hands no more than she would have regarded a wild beast who had suddenly sprung upon them. She thought of him, of course, with horror, but her feelings of thankfulness for her uncle's safety were far too strong. At last her grateful heart closed her eyes, and let her rest. There were no letters found on the body of the black-haired man which gave any clue to his name; but there were papers which showed that he was from southern France; that he was an anarchist; that he was in this country upon a mission; and that he had been for two weeks in Washington, waiting for an opportunity to fulfil that mission. Which opportunity had at last shown itself in front of him just as Captain John Asher rushed up behind him. This information was so important that extraordinary methods were pursued. Communications were immediately made with the State Department, and with the higher police authorities; and it was quickly determined that, whatever else might be done, the strictest secrecy must be enforced. The coroner's jury was carefully selected and earnestly admonished; and, early the next morning, when the captain and Olive were required to testify before it, they were made to understand how absolutely necessary it was they should say nothing except to answer the questions which were asked them. The coroner was eminently discreet in regard to his questions; and the verdict was that Olive was acting in her own defense as well as that of her uncle when she shot his assailant. Among the officials whose positions enabled them to know all these astonishing occurrences it was unanimously agreed that, so far as possible, everybody should be kept in ignorance of the crime which had been attempted, and of the deliverance which had taken place. Very early the next afternoon the air was filled with the cries of newsboys, and each paper that these boys sold contained a full and detailed account of a remarkable attempt by an unknown foreigner upon the life of Captain John Asher, a visitor in Washington, and the heroic conduct of his niece, Miss Olive Asher, who shot the murderous assailant with his own pistol. There were columns and columns of this story, but strange to say, in not one of the papers was there any allusion to the two gentlemen in the barouche, or to the air-gun. How this most important feature of the occurrence came to be omitted in all the accounts of it can only be explained by those who thoroughly understand the exigencies of the stock-market, and the probable effect of certain classes of news upon approaching political situations, and who have made themselves familiar with the methods by which the pervasive power of the press is sometimes curtailed. In the later afternoon editions there were portraits of Olive, and her uncle. Olive was broad-shouldered, with black hair and a determined frown, while the captain was a little man with a long beard. There were no portraits of the anarchist. He passed away from the knowledge of man, and no one knew even his name: his crime had blotted him out; his ambition was blotted out; even the evil of his example was blotted out. There was nothing left of him. When they were released from detention the captain and Olive quickly left the station--which they did without observation--and entered a carriage which was waiting for them a short distance away. The fact that another carriage with close-drawn curtains had stopped at the station about ten minutes before, and that a thickly veiled lady (the matron) and an elderly man with his collar turned up and his hat drawn down (one of the police officers in plain clothes) had entered the carriage and had been driven rapidly away had drawn off the reporters and the curiosity mongers on the sidewalk and had contributed very much to the undisturbed exit of Captain and Miss Asher. These two proceeded leisurely to the railroad-station, where they took a train which would carry them to the little town of Glenford. Their affairs at the hotel could be arranged by telegram. There were calls at that hotel during the rest of the day from people who knew Olive or her uncle; calls from people who wanted to know them; calls from people who would be contented even to look at them; calls from autograph hunters who would be content simply to send up their cards; quiet calls from people connected with the Government; and calls from eager persons who could not have told anybody what they wanted. To none of these could the head clerk give any satisfaction. He had not seen his guests since the day before, and he knew naught about them. When Miss Maria Port heard that that horrid girl, Olive Asher, had shot an anarchist, she stiffened herself to her greatest length, and let her head fall on the back of her chair. She was scarcely able to call to the small girl who endured her service to bring her some water. "Now all is over," she groaned, "for I can never marry a man whose niece's hands are dripping with blood. She will live with him, of course, for he is just the old fool to allow that, and anyway there is no other place for her to go except the almshouse--that is, if they'll take her in." And at the terrified girl, who tremblingly asked if she wanted any more water, she threw her scissors. The captain and his niece arrived early in the day at Glenford station. The captain engaged a little one-horse vehicle which had frequently brought people to the toll-gate, and informed the driver that there was no baggage. The man, gazing at Olive, but scarcely daring to raise his eyes to her face, proceeded with solemn tread toward his vehicle as if he had been leading the line in a funeral. As they drove through the town they were obliged to pass the house of Miss Maria Port. The door was shut, and the shutters were closed. She had had a terrible night, and had slept but little, but hearing the sound of wheels upon the street, she had bounced out of bed and had peered through the blinds. When she saw who it was she cursed them both. "That was the only thing," she snapped, "that could have kept me from gettin' him! So far as I know, that was the only thing!" When old Jane received the travelers at the toll-gate she warmly welcomed the captain, but she trembled before Olive. If the girl noticed the demeanor of the old woman, she pretended not to do so, and, speaking to her pleasantly, she passed within. "Will they hang her?" she said to the captain later. "What do you mean?" he shouted. "Have you gone crazy?" "The people in the town said they would," replied old Jane, beginning to cry a little. The captain looked at her steadily. "Did any particular person in the town say that?" "Yes, sir," she answered; "Miss Maria Port was the first to say it, so I've been told." "She is the one who ought to be hanged!" said the captain, speaking very warmly. "As for Miss Olive, she ought to have a monument set up for her. I'd do it myself if I had the money." Old Jane answered not, but in her heart she said: "But she killed a man! It is truly dreadful!" By nightfall of that day the two hotels of Glenford were crowded, the visitors being generally connected with newspapers. On the next day there was a great deal of travel on the turnpike, and old Jane was kept very busy, the captain having resigned the entire business of toll-taking to her. Everybody stopped, asked questions, and requested to see the captain; and many drove through and came back again, hoping to have better luck next time. But their luck was always bad; old Jane would say nothing; and the captain and Olive were not to be seen. The gate to the little front garden was locked, and there was no passing through the tollhouse. To keep people from getting over the fence a bulldog, which the captain kept at the barn, was turned loose in the yard. There were men with cameras who got into the field opposite the toll-gate, and who took views from up and down the road, but their work could not be prevented, and Olive and her uncle kept strictly indoors. It was on the afternoon of the second day of siege that the captain, from an upper window, discovered a camera on three legs standing outside of his grounds at a short distance from the house. A man was taking sight at something at the back of the house. Softly the captain slipped down into the back yard, and looking up he saw Olive sitting at a window, reading. With five steps the captain went into the house and then reappeared at the back door with a musket in his hand. The man had stepped to his pack at a little distance to get a plate. The captain raised his musket to his shoulder; Olive sprang to her feet at the sound of the report; old Jane in the tollhouse screamed; and the camera flew into splinters. After this there were no further attempts to take pictures of the inmates of the house at the toll-gate. After two days of siege the newspaper reporters and the photographers left Glenford. They could not afford to waste any more time. But they carried away with them a great many stories about the captain and his erratic niece, mostly gleaned from a very respectable elderly lady of the town by the name of Port. _CHAPTER XXXIII_ _Dick Lancaster does not Write._ On the third morning after their arrival at the toll-gate the captain and Olive ventured upon a little walk over the farm. It was very hard upon both of them to be shut up in the house so long. They saw no reporters, nor were there any men with cameras, but the scenery was not pleasant, nor was the air particularly exhilarating. They were not happy; they felt alone, as if they were in a strange place. Some of the captain's friends in the town came to the toll-gate, but there were not many, and Olive saw none of them. The whole situation reminded the girl of the death of her mother. As soon as it was known that the Ashers were at home there came letters from many quarters. One of these was from Mrs. Easterfield. She would be at Broadstone as soon as she could get her children started from the seashore. She longed to take Olive to her heart, but whether this was in commiseration or commendation was not quite plain to Olive. The letter concluded with this sentence: "There is something behind all this, and when I come you must tell me." Then there was one from her father in which he bemoaned what had happened. "That such a thing should have come to my daughter!" he wrote. "To my daughter!" There was a great deal more of it, but he said nothing about coming with his young wife to the toll-gate, and Olive's countenance was almost stern when she handed this letter to her uncle. Claude Locker wrote: "How I long, how I rage to write to you, or to go to you! But if I should write, it would be sure to give you pain, and if I should go to you I should also go crazy. Therefore, I will merely state that I love you madly; more now than ever before; and that I shall continue to do so for the rest of my life, no matter what happens to you, or to me, or to anybody. "Ever turned toward you, "CLAUDE LOCKER. "How I wish I had been there with a sledgehammer!" And then there were the newspapers. Many of these the captain had ordered by the Glenford bookseller, and a number were sent by friends, and some even by strangers. And so they learned what was thought of them over a wide range of country, and this publicity Olive found very hard to bear. It was even worse than the deed she was forced to do, and which gave rise to all this disagreeable publicity. That deed was done in the twinkling of an eye, and was the only thing that could be done; but all this was prolonged torture. Of course, the newspapers were not responsible for this. The transaction was a public one in as public a place as could possibly be selected, and it was clearly their duty to give the public full information in regard to it. They knew what had happened, and how could they possibly know what had not happened? Nor could they guess that this was of more importance than the happening. And so they all viewed the action from the point of view that a young woman had blown out a man's brains on the steps of the Treasury. It was a most unusual, exciting, and tragic incident, and in a measure, incomprehensible; and coming at a time when there was a dearth of news, it was naturally much exploited. Many of the papers recognized the fact that Miss Asher had done this deed to save her uncle's life, and applauded it, and praised her quick-wittedness and courage; but all this was spoiled for Olive by the tone of commiseration for her in which it was all stated. She did not see why she should be pitied. Rather should she be congratulated that she was, fortunately, on the spot. Other journals did not so readily give in to the opinion that it was an act of self-defense. It might be so; but they expressed strong disapproval of the legal action in this strange affair. A young woman, accompanied by a relative, had killed an unknown man. The action of the authorities in this case had been rapid and unsatisfactory. The person who had fired the fatal shot and her companion had been cleared of guilt upon their own testimony, and the cause of the man who died had no one to defend it. If two persons can kill a man, and then state to the coroner's jury that it was all right, and thereupon repair to their homes without further interference by the law, then had the cause of justice in the capital of the nation reached a very strange pass. Such were the views of the reputable journals. But there were some which fell into the captain's hands that were well calculated to arouse his ire. Such a sensational occurrence did not often come in their way, and they made the most of it. They scented the idea that the girl had killed an unknown man to save her uncle's life; blamed the authorities severely for not finding out who he was; suggested there must be a secret reason for this; and hinted darkly at a scandal connected with the affair, which, if investigated, would be found to include some well-known names. "This is outrageous!" cried the captain. "It is too abominable to be borne! Olive, why should we not tell the exact facts of this thing? We did agree--very willingly at the time--to keep the secret. But I am not willing now, and you are being sacrificed to the stock-market. That is the whole truth of it! If these editors knew the truth they would be chanting your praises. If that scoundrel had killed me, he would have killed you, and then he could have run away to go on with his President shooting. I am going to Washington this very day to tell the whole story. You shall not suffer that stocks may not fall and the political situation made alarming at election time. That is what it all means, and I won't stand it!" "You will only make things worse, uncle," said Olive. "Then the whole matter will be stirred up afresh. We will be summoned to investigations, and all sorts of disagreeable things. Every item of our lives will be in the papers, and some will be invented. It is very bad now, but in a little while the public will forget that a countryman and a country girl had a fracas in Washington. But the other thing will never be forgotten. It is very much better to leave it as it is." The captain, notwithstanding the presence of a lady, cursed the officials, the newspapers, the Government, and the whole country. "I am going to do it!" he cried vehemently. "I don't care what happens!" But Olive put her arms around him and coaxed him for her sake to let the matter rest. And, finally, the captain, grumblingly, assented. If Olive had been a girl brought up in a gentle-minded household, knowing nothing of the varied life she had lived when a navy girl; sometimes at this school and sometimes at that; sometimes in her native land, and sometimes in the midst of frontier life; sometimes with parents, and sometimes without them; and, had she been less aware from her own experiences and those of others, that this is a world in which you must stand up very stiffly if you do not want to be pushed down; she might have sunk, at least for a time, under all this publicity and blame. Even the praise had its sting. But she did not sink. The liveliness and the fun went out of her, and her face grew hard and her manner quiet. But she was not quiet within. She rebelled against the unfairness with which she was treated. No matter what the newspapers knew or did not know, they should have known, and should have remembered, that she had saved her uncle's life. If they had known more they would have been just and kind enough no doubt, but they ought to have been just and kind without knowing more. Captain Asher would now read no more papers. But Olive read them all. Letters still came; one of them from Mr. Easterfield. But every time a mail arrived there was a disappointment in the toll-gate household. The captain could scarcely refrain from speaking of his disappointment, for it was a true grief to him that Dick Lancaster had not written a word. Of course, Olive did not say anything upon the subject, for she had no right to expect such a letter, and she was not sure that she wanted one, but it was very strange that a person who surely was, or had been, somewhat interested in her uncle and herself should have been the only one among her recent associates who showed no interest whatever in what had befallen her. Even Mr. and Mrs. Fox had written. She wished they had not written, but, after all, stupidity is sometimes better than total neglect. "Olive," said the captain one pleasant afternoon, "suppose we take a drive to Broadstone? The family is not there, but it may interest you to see the place where I hope your friends will soon be living again. I can not bear to see you going about so dolefully. I want to brighten you up in some way." "I'd like it," said Olive promptly. "Let us go to Broadstone." At that moment they heard talking in the tollhouse; then there were some quick steps in the garden; and, almost immediately, Dick Lancaster was in the house and in the room where the captain and his niece were sitting. He stepped quickly toward them as they rose, and gave Olive his left hand because the captain had seized his right and would not let it go. "I have been very slow getting here," he said, looking from one to the other. "But I would not write, and I have been unconscionably delayed. I am so proud of you," he said, looking Olive full in the face, but still holding the captain by the hand. Olive's hand had been withdrawn, but it was very cheering to her to know that some one was proud of her. The captain poured out his delight at seeing the young professor--the first near friend he had seen since his adventure, and, in his opinion, the best. Olive said but little, but her countenance brightened wonderfully. She had always liked Mr. Lancaster, and now he showed his good sense and good feeling; for, while it was evidently on his mind, he made no allusion to anything they had done, or that had happened to them. He talked chiefly of himself. But the captain was not to be repressed, and his tone warmed up a little as he asked if Dick had been reading the newspapers. At this Olive left the room to make some arrangements for Mr. Lancaster's accommodation. Seizing this opportunity, Dick Lancaster stopped the captain, who he saw was preparing to go lengthily into the recent affair. "Yes, yes," he said, speaking quickly, "and my blood has run hot as I read those beastly papers. But let me say something to you while I can. I am deeply interested in something else just now. I came here, captain, to propose marriage to your niece. Have I your consent?" "Consent!" cried the captain. "Why, it is the clearest wish of my heart that you should marry Olive!" And seizing the young man by both arms, he shook him from head to foot. "Consent!" he exclaimed. "I should think so, I should think so! Will she take you, Dick? Is that--" "I don't know," said Lancaster, "I don't know. I am here to find out. But I hear her coming." The happy captain thought it full time to go away somewhere. He felt that he could not control his glowing countenance, and that he might say or do something which might be wrong. So he departed with great alacrity, and left the two young people to themselves. _CHAPTER XXXIV_ _Miss Port puts in an Appearance._ The captain clapped on his hat, and walked up the road toward Glenford. He was very much excited and he wanted to sing, but his singing days were over, and he quieted himself somewhat by walking rapidly. There was a buggy coming from town, but it stopped before it reached him and some one in it got out, while the vehicle proceeded slowly onward. The some one waited until the captain came up to her. It was Miss Maria Port. "How do you do?" she said, holding out her hand. "I was on my way to see you." The captain put both his hands in his pockets, and his face grew somewhat dark. "Why do you want to see me?" he asked. She looked at him steadily for a moment, and then answered, speaking very quietly. "I found that Mr. Lancaster had arrived in town, and had gone to your house, and that he was in such a hurry that he walked. So I immediately hired a buggy to come out here. I am very glad I met you." "But what in the name of common sense," exclaimed the captain, "did you come to see me for? What difference does it make to you whether Mr. Lancaster is here or not? What have you got to do with me and my affairs, anyway?" She smiled a smile which was very quiet and flat. "Now, don't get angry," she said. "We can talk over things in a friendly way just as well as not, and it will be a great deal better to do it. And I'd rather talk here in the public road than anywhere else; it's more private." "I don't want a word to say to you," said the captain, preparing to move on. "I have nothing at all to do with you." "Ah," said Miss Port, with another smile, "but I think you have. You've got to marry me, you know." Then the captain stopped suddenly. He opened his mouth, but he could find no immediate words. "Yes, indeed," said Miss Port, now speaking quietly; "and when I saw Mr. Lancaster had come to town, I knew that I must see you at once. Of course, he has come to take away your niece, and that's the best thing to be done, for she wouldn't want to keep on livin' here where so many people have known her. At first I thought that would be a very good thing, for you would be separated from her, and that's what you need and deserve. Young men are young men, and they are often a good deal kinder than they would be if they stopped to think. But a person of mature age is different. He would know what is due to himself and his standing in society. At least, that is what I did think. But it suddenly flashed on me that they might want to get away as quick as they could--which would be proper, dear knows--and it would be just like you to go with them. And so I came right out." The captain had listened to all this because he very much wanted to know what she had to say, but now he exclaimed: "Do you suppose I shall pay any attention to all the gossip about my affairs?" "Now, don't go on like that," said Miss Port; "it doesn't do any good, and if you'll only keep quiet, and think pleasantly about it, there will be no trouble at all. You know you've got to marry me; that's settled. Everybody knows about it, and has known about it for years. I didn't press the matter while father was alive because I knew it would worry him. But now I'm going to do it. Not in any anger or bad feelin', but gently, and as firmly as if I was that tree. I don't want to go to any law, but if I have to do it, I'll do it. I've got my proofs and my witnesses, and I'm all right. The people of your own house are witnesses. And there are ever so many more." "Woman!" cried the captain, "don't you say another word! And don't you ever dare to speak to me again! I'm not going away, and my niece is not going away; and I assure you that I hate and despise you so much that all the law in the world couldn't make me marry you. Although you know as well as I do that all you've been saying has no sense or truth in it." Miss Port did not get angry. With wonderful self-repression she controlled her feelings. She knew that if she lost that control there would be an end to everything. She grew pale, but she spoke more gently than before. "You know"--she was about to say "John," but she thought she would better not--"that what I say about determination and all that, I simply say because you do not come to meet me half-way, as I would have you do. All I want is to get you to acknowledge my rights, to defend me from ridicule. You know that I am now alone in the world, and have no one to look to but you--to whom I always expected to look when father died--and if you should carry out your cruel words, and should turn from me as if I was a stranger and a nobody, after all these years of visitin' and attention from you, which everybody knows about, and has talked about, I could never expect anybody else--you bein' gone--to step forward--" At this the face of the captain cleared, and as he gazed upon the unpleasant face and figure of this weather-worn spinster, the idea that any one with matrimonial intentions should "step forward," as she put it, struck him as being so extremely ludicrous that he burst out laughing. Then leaped into fire every nervelet of Miss Maria Port. "Laugh at me, do you?" cried she. "I'll give you something to laugh at! And if you 're going to stand up for that thing you have in your house, that murderess--" She said no more. The captain stepped up to her with a smothered curse so that she moved back, frightened. But he did nothing. He was too enraged to speak. She was a woman, and he could not strike her to the ground. Before her sallow venom he was helpless. He was a man and she was a woman, and he could do nothing at all. He was too angry to stay there another second, and, without a word, he left her, walking with great strides toward the town. Miss Maria Port stood looking after him, panting a little, for her excitement had been great. Then, with a yellow light in her eyes, she hurried toward her vehicle, which had stopped. As Captain Asher strode into town he asked himself over and over again what should he do? How should he punish this wildcat--this ruthless creature, who spat venom at the one he loved best in the world, and who threatened him with her wicked claws? In his mind he looked from side to side for help; some one must fight his battle for him; he could not fight a woman. He had not reached town when he thought of Mrs. Faulkner, the wife of the Methodist minister. He knew her; she and her husband had been among the friends who had come out to see him; and she was a woman. He would go directly to her, and ask her advice. The captain was not shown into the parlor of the parsonage, but into the minister's study, that gentleman being away. He heard a great sound of talking as he passed the parlor door, and it was not long before Mrs. Faulkner came in. He hesitated as she greeted him. "You have company," he said, "but can I see you for a very few minutes? It is important." "Of course you can," said she, closing the study door. "Our Dorcas Society meets here to-day, but we have not yet come to order. I shall be glad to hear what you have to say." So they sat down, and he told her what he had to say, and as she listened she grew very angry. When she heard the epithet which had been applied to Olive she sprang to her feet. "The wretch!" she cried. "Now, you see, Mrs. Faulkner," said the captain, "I can do nothing at all myself, and there is no way to make use of the law; that would be horrible for Olive, and it could not be done; and so I have come to ask help of you. I don't see that any other man could do more than I could do." Mrs. Faulkner sat silent for a few minutes. "I am so glad you came to me," she said presently. "I have always known Miss Port as a scandal-monger and a mischief-maker, but I never thought of her as a wicked woman. This persecution of you is shameful, but when I think of your niece it is past belief! You are right, Captain Asher; it must be a woman who must take up your cause. In fact," said she after a moment's thought, "it must be women. Yes, sir." And as she spoke her face flushed with enthusiasm. "I am going to take up your cause, and my friends in there, the ladies of the Dorcas Society, will stand by me, I know. I don't know what we shall do, but we are going to stand by you and your niece." Here was a friend worth having. The captain was very much affected, and was moved with unusual gratitude. He had been used to fighting his own battles in this world, and here was some one coming forward to fight for him. There came upon him a feeling that it would be a shame to let this true lady take up a combat which she did not wholly understand. He made up his mind in an instant that he would not care what danger might be threatened to other people, or to trade, or to society, he would be true to this lady, to Olive, and to himself. He would tell her the whole story. She should know what Olive had done, and how little his poor girl deserved the shameful treatment she had received. Mrs. Faulkner listened with pale amazement; she trembled from head to foot as she sat. "And you must tell no one but your husband," said the captain. "This is a state secret, and he must promise to keep it before you tell." She promised everything. She would be so proud to tell her husband. When the captain had gone, Mrs. Faulkner, in a very unusual state of mind, went into the parlor, took the chair, and putting aside all other business, told to the eagerly receptive members the story of Miss Port and Captain Asher. How she had persecuted him, and maligned him, and of the shameful way in which she had spoken of his niece. But not one word did she tell of the story of the two gentlemen in the barouche, and of the air-gun. She was wild to tell everything, but she was a good woman. "Now, ladies," said Mrs. Faulkner, "in my opinion, the thing for us to do is to go to see Maria Port; tell her what we think of her; and have all this wickedness stopped." Without debate it was unanimously agreed that the president's plan should be carried out. And within ten minutes the whole Dorcas Society of eleven members started out in double file to visit the house of Maria Port. _CHAPTER XXXV_ _The Dorcas on Guard._ Miss Port had not been home very long and was up in her bedroom, which looked out on the street, when she heard the sound of many feet, and, hurrying to the window, and glancing through the partly open shutters, she saw that a company of women were entering the gate into her front yard. She did not recognize them, because she was not familiar with the tops of their hats; and besides, she was afraid she might be seen if she stopped at the window; so she hurried to the stairway and listened. There were two great knocks at the door--entirely too loud--and when the servant-maid appeared she heard a voice which she recognized as that of Mrs. Faulkner inquiring for her. Instantly she withdrew into her chamber and waited, her countenance all alertness. When the maid came up to inform her that Mrs. Faulkner and a lot of ladies were down-stairs, and wanted to see her, Miss Port knit her brows, and shut her lips tightly. She could not connect this visit of so many Glenford ladies with anything definite; and yet her conscience told her that their business in some way concerned Captain Asher. He had had time to see them, and now they had come to see her; probably to induce her to relinquish her claims upon him. As this thought came into her mind she grew angry at their impudence, and, seating herself in a rocking-chair, she told the servant to inform the ladies that she had just reached home, and that it was not convenient for her to receive them at present. Mrs. Faulkner sent hack a message that, in that case, they would wait; and all the ladies seated themselves in the Port parlor. "The impudence!" said Miss Port to herself; "but if they like waitin,' they can wait, I guess they'll get enough of it!" So Maria Port sat in her room and the ladies sat in the parlor below; and they sat, and they sat, and they sat, and at last it began to grow dark. "I guess they'll be wantin' their suppers," said Maria, "but they'll go and get them without seein' me. It's no more convenient for me to go down now than when they first came." There had been, and there was, a great deal of conversation down in the parlor, but it was carried on in such a low tone that, to her great regret, Miss Port could not catch a word of it. "Now," said Mrs. Pilsbury, "I must go home, for my husband will want his supper and the children must be attended to." "And so must I," said Mrs. Barney and Mrs. Sloan. They would really like very much to stay and see what would happen next, but they had families. "Ladies," said Mrs. Faulkner, "of course, we can't all stay here and wait for that woman; but I propose that three of us shall stay and that the rest shall go home. I'll be one to stay. And then, in an hour three of you come back, and let us go and get our suppers. In this way we can keep a committee here all the time. All night, if necessary. When I come back I will bring a candlestick and some candles, for, of course, we don't want to light her lamps. If she should come down while I am away, I'd like some one to run over and tell me. It's such a little way." At this the ladies arose, and there was a great rustling and chattering, and the face of Miss Maria, in the room above, gleamed with triumph. "I knew I'd sit 'em out," said she; "they haven't got the pluck I've got." But when the servant came up and told her that "three of them ladies was a-sittin' in the parlor yet and said they was a-goin' to wait for her," she lost her temper. She sent down word that she didn't intend to see any of them, and she wanted them to go home. To this Mrs. Faulkner replied that they wished to see her, and that they would stay. And the committee continued to sit. Now Miss Port began to be seriously concerned. What in the world could these women want? They were very much in earnest; that was certain. Could it be possible that she had said more than she intended to Captain Asher, and that she had given him to understand that she would use any of these women as witnesses if she went to law? However, whatever they meant, she intended to sit them out. So she told her maid to make her some tea and to bring it up with some bread and butter and preserves, and a light. She also ordered her to be careful that the people in the parlor should see her as she went up-stairs. "I guess they'll know I'm in earnest when they see the tea," she said. "I've set out a mess of 'em, and it won't take long to finish up them three!" She partook of her refreshments, and she reclined in her rocking-chair, and waited for the hungry ones below to depart. "I'll give 'em half an hour," said she to herself. Before that time had elapsed she heard another stir below, and she exclaimed: "I knew it" and there were steps in the hallway, and some people went out. She sprang to her feet; she was about to run down-stairs and lock and bolt every door; but a sound arrested her. It was the talking of women in the parlor. She stopped, with her mouth wide open, and her eyes staring, and then the servant came up and told her that "them three had gone, and that another three had come back, and they had told her to say that they were goin' to stay in squads all night till she came down to see them." Miss Port sat down, her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hands. "It must be something serious," she thought. "The ladies of this town are not in the habit of staying out late unless it is to nurse bad cases, or to sit up with corpses." And then the idea struck her that probably there might be something the matter that she had not thought of. She had caused lots of mischief in her day, and it might easily be that she had forgotten some of it. But the more she thought about the matter, the more firmly she resolved not to go down and speak to the women. She would like to send for a constable and have them cleared out of the house, but she knew that none of the three constables in town would dare to use force with such ladies as Mrs. Faulkner and the members of the Dorcas Society. So she sat and waited, and listened, and grew very nervous, but was more obstinate now than ever, for she was beginning to be very fearful of what those women might have to say to her. She could "talk down one woman, but not a pack of 'em." Thus time passed on, with occasional reports from the servant until the latter fell asleep, and came up-stairs no more. There were sounds of footsteps in the street, and Miss Port put out her light, and went to the front shutters. Three women were coming in. They entered the house, and in a few minutes afterward three women went out. Miss Port stood up in the middle of the floor, and was almost inclined to tear her hair. "They're goin' to stay all night!" she exclaimed. "I really believe they 're goin' to stay all night!" For a moment she thought of rushing down-stairs and confronting the impertinent visitors, but she stopped; she was afraid. She did not know what they might say to her, and she went to the banisters and listened. They were talking; always in a low voice. It seemed to her that these people could talk forever. Then she began to think of her front door, which was open; but, of course, nobody could come while those creatures were in the parlor. But if she missed anything she'd have them brought up in court if it took every cent she had in the world and constables from some other town. She slipped to the back stairs, and softly called the servant, but there was no answer. She was afraid to go down, for the back door of the parlor commanded all the other rooms on that floor. Now she felt more terribly lonely and more nervous. If she had had a pistol she would have fired it through the floor. Then those women would run away, and she would fasten up the house. But there they sat, chatter, chatter, chatter, till it nearly drove her mad. She wished now she had gone down at first. After a time, and not a very long time, there were some steps in the street and in the yard, and more women came into the house, but, worse than that, the others stayed. Family duties were over now, and those impudent creatures could be content to stay the rest of the evening. For a moment the worried woman felt as if she would like to go to bed and cover up her head and so escape these persistent persecutors. But she shook her head. That would never do. She knew that when she awoke in the morning some of those women would still be in the parlor, and, to save her soul, she could not now imagine what it was that kept them there like hounds upon her track. It was now eleven o'clock. When had the Port house been open so late as that? The people in the town must be talking about it, and there would be more talking the next day. Perhaps it might be in the town paper. The morning would be worse than the night. She could not bear it any longer. There was now nothing to be heard in front but that maddening chatter in the parlor, and up the back stairs came the snores of the servant. She got a traveling-bag from a closet and proceeded to pack it; then she put on her bonnet and shawl and put into her bag all the money she had with her, trembling all the time as if she had been a thief: robbing her own house. She could not go down the back stairs, because, as has been said, she could have been seen from the parlor; but a carpenter had been mending the railing of a little piazza at the back of the house, and she remembered he had left his ladder. Down this ladder, with her bag in her hand, Miss Port silently moved. She looked into the kitchen; she could not see the servant, but she could hear her snoring on a bench. Clapping her hand over the girl's mouth, she whispered into her ear, and without a word the frightened creature sat up and followed Miss Port into the yard. "Now, then," said Miss Port, whispering as if she were sticking needles into the frightened girl, "I'm goin' away, and don't you ask no questions, for you won't get no answers. You just go to bed, and let them people stay in the parlor all night. They'll be able to take care of the house, I guess, and if they don't I'll make 'em suffer. In the morning you can see Mrs. Faulkner--for she's the ringleader--and tell her that you're goin' home to your mother, and that Miss Port expects her to pull down all the blinds in this house, and shut and bolt the doors. She is to see that the eatables is put away proper or else give to the poor--which will be you, I guess--and then she is to lock all the doors and take the front-door key to Squire Allen, and tell him I'll write to him. And what's more, you can say to the nasty thing that if I find anything wrong in my house, or anything missin', I 'll hold her and her husband responsible for it, and that I'm mighty glad I don't belong to their church." Then she slipped out of the back gate of the yard, and made her way swiftly to the railroad-station. There was a train for the north which passed Glenford at half-past twelve, and which could be flagged. There was one man at the station, and he was very much surprised to see Miss Port. "Is anything the matter?" he said. "Yes," she snapped, "there's some people sick, and I guess there'll be more of 'em a good deal sicker in the morning. I've got to go." "A case of pizenin'?" asked the man very earnestly. "Yes," said she, wrapping her shawl around her; "the worse kind of pizenin'!" Then she talked no more. The servant-girl slept late, and there were a good many ladies in the parlor when she came down. She did not give them a chance to ask her anything, but told her message promptly. It was a message pretty fairly remembered, although it had grown somewhat sharper in the night. When it was finished the girl added: "And I'm to have all the eatables in the house to take home to my mother, and Squire Allen is to pay me four dollars and seventy-five cents, which has been owin' to me for wages for ever so long." _CHAPTER XXXVI_ _Cold Tinder._ Olive and Dick Lancaster sat together in the captain's parlor. She was very quiet--she had been very quiet of late--but he was nervous. "It is very kind, Mr. Lancaster," said Olive, breaking the silence, "for you to come to see us instead of writing. It is so much pleasanter for friends--" "Oh, it was not kind," he said, interrupting her. "In fact, it was selfishness. And now I want to tell you quickly, Miss Asher, while I have the chance, the reason of my coming here to-day. It was not to offer you my congratulations or my sympathy, although you must know that I feel for you and your uncle as much in every way as any living being can feel. I came to offer my love. I have loved you almost ever since I knew you as much as any man can love a woman, and whenever I have been with you I could hardly hold myself back from telling you. But I was strong, and I did not speak, for I knew you did not love me." Olive was listening, looking steadily at him. "No," she said, "I did not love you." He paid no attention to this remark, as if it related to something which he knew all about, but went on, "I resolved to speak to you some time, but not until I had some little bit of a reason for supposing you would listen to me; but when I read the account of what you did in Washington, I knew you to be so far above even the girl I had supposed you to be; then my love came down upon me and carried me away. And all that has since appeared in the papers has made me so long to stand by your side that I could not resist this longing, and I felt that no matter what happened, I must come and tell you all." "And now?" asked Olive. "There is nothing more," said Dick. "I have told you all there is. I love you so truly that it seems to me as if I had been born, as if I had lived, as if I had grown and had worked, simply that I might be able to come to you and say, I love you. And now that I have told you this, I hope that I have not pained you." "You have not pained me," said Olive, "but it is right that I should say to you that I do not love you." She said this very quietly and gently, but there was sadness in her tones. Dick Lancaster sprang up, and stood before her. "Then let me love you" he cried. "Do not deny me that! Do not take the life out of me! the soul out of me! Do not turn me away into utter blackness! Do not say I shall not love you!" Olive's clear, thoughtful eyes were looking into his. "I believe you love me," she answered slowly. "I believe every word you say. But what I say is also true. I will admit that I have asked myself if I could love you. There was a time when I was in great trouble, when I believed that it might be possible for me to marry some one without loving him, but I never thought that about _you_. You were different. I could not have married you without loving you. I believe you knew that, and so you did not ask me." His voice was husky when he spoke again. "But you do not answer me," he said. "You have seen into my very soul. May I love you?" She still looked into his glowing eyes, but she did not speak. It was with herself she was communing, not with him. But there was something in the eyes which looked into his which made his heart leap, and he leaned forward. "Olive," he whispered, "can you not love me?" Her lips appeared as if they were about to move, but they did not, and in the next moment they could not. He had her in his arms. Poor foolish, lovely Olive! She thought she was so strong. She imagined that she knew herself so well. She had seen so much; she had been so far; she had known so many things and people that she had come to look upon herself as the decider of her own destiny. She had come to believe so much in herself and in her cold heart that she was not afraid to listen to the words of a burning heart! _Her_ heart could keep so cool! And now, in a flash, the fire had spread! The coolest hearts are often made of tinder. Poor foolish, lovely, happy Olive! She scarcely understood what had happened to her. She only knew that she had been born and had lived, and had grown, that he might come to her and say he loved her. What had she been thinking of all this time? "You are so quick," she said, as she put back some of her disheveled hair. "Dearest," he whispered, "it seems to me as if I had been so slow, so slow, so very slow!" It was a long time before Captain Asher returned, and when he entered the parlor he found these two still there. They had been sitting by the window, and when they came forward to meet him Dick's arm was around the waist of Olive. The captain looked at them for a moment, and then he gave a shout, and encircled them both in his great arms. When they were cool enough to sit down and Olive and Dick had ceased trying to persuade the captain that he was not the happiest of the three, Olive said to him: "I have told Dick everything--about the air-gun and all. Of course, he must know it." "And I have been looking at you," said Dick, putting his hand upon the captain's shoulder, "as the only hero I have ever met. Not only for what you have done, but for what you have refrained from doing." "Nonsense!" said the captain. "Olive now--" "Oh! Olive is Olive!" said Dick. And he did not mind in the least that the captain was present. * * * * * It was on the next afternoon that the Broadstone carriage stopped at the toll-gate. Mrs. Easterfield sprang out of it, asking for nobody, for she had spied Olive in the arbor. "It seems to me," she said, as she burst into tears and took the girl into her arms, "it does seem to me as if I were your own mother!" "The only one I have," said Olive, "and very dear!" It was some time after this that Mrs. Easterfield was calm enough to stop the flow of exciting conversation and to say to Olive, taking both her hands tenderly within her own: "My dear, we have been talking a great deal of sentiment, and now I want seriously to speak to you on a matter of business." "Business!" asked Olive in surprise. "Yes, it is really business from your point of view; and I have come round to that point of view myself. Olive, I want you to marry!" "Oh," said Olive, "that is it, is it? That is what you call business?" "Yes, dear; I am now looking at your future, and at marriage in the very sensible way you regarded those matters when you were staying with me." "But," said Olive, who could scarcely help laughing, "there was a good reason then for my being so sensible, and that reason no longer exists. I can now afford single-blessedness." "No, Olive, dear, you can not. Circumstances are all against that consummation. You are not made for that sort of thing. And your uncle is an old man, and even with him you need a young protector. I want you to marry Richard Lancaster. You know my heart has been set on it for some time, and now I urge it. You could never bring forth a single objection to him." "Except that I did not love him." "Neither did you love the young men you were considering as eligible. Now, do try to be a sensible girl." "Mrs. Easterfield, are you laughing at me?" asked Olive. "Far from it, my dear. I am desperately in earnest. You see, recent events--" "Dick Lancaster and I are engaged to be married," said Olive demurely, not waiting for the end of that sentence. "And," she added, laughing at Mrs. Easterfield's astonished countenance, "I have not yet considered whether or not it is sensible." After Mrs. Easterfield had given a half dozen kisses to partly express her pleasure, she said: "And where is he now? I must see him!" "He went back to his college late last night; it was impossible for him to stay here any longer at present." As Mrs. Easterfield was going away--she had waited and waited for the captain who had not come--Olive detained her. "You are so dear," she said, "that I must tell you a great thing." And then she told the story of the two men in the barouche. Mrs. Easterfield turned pale, and sat down again. She had actually lost her self-possession. She made Olive tell her the story over and over again. "It is too much," she said, "for one day. I am glad the captain is not here, I would not know what to say to him. I may tell Tom?" she said. "I must tell him; he will be silent as a rock." Olive smiled. "Yes, you may tell Tom," she said. "I have told Dick, but on no account must Harry ever know anything about it." Mrs. Easterfield looked at her in amazement. That the girl could joke at such a moment! When the captain came home Olive told him how she had entrusted the great secret to Mrs. Easterfield and her husband. "Well," said he, "I intended to tell you, but haven't had a chance yet, that I spoke of the matter to Mrs. Faulkner. So I have told two persons and you have told three, and I suppose that is about the proportion in which men and women keep secrets." _CHAPTER XXXVII_ _In which Some Great Changes are Recorded._ A few days after his return to his college Prof. Richard Lancaster found among his letters one signed "Your backer, Claude Locker." The letter began: "You owe her to me. You should never forget that. If I had done better no one can say what might have been the result. This proposition can not be gainsaid, for as no one ever saw me do better, how should anybody know? I knew I was leaving her to you. She might not have known it, but I did. I did not suppose it would come so soon, but I was sure it would ultimately come to pass. It has come to pass, and I feel triumphant. In the great race in which I had the honor to run, you made a most admirable second. The best second is he who comes in first. In order for a second to take first place it is necessary that the leader in the race, be that leader horse, man, or boat, should experience a change in conditions. I experienced such a change, voluntary or involuntary it is unnecessary to say. You came in first, and I congratulate you as no living being can congratulate you who has not felt for a moment or two that it was barely possible that he might, in some period of existence, occupy the position which you now hold. "Do not be surprised if you hear of my early marriage. Some woman no better-looking than I am may seek me out. If this should happen, and you know of it, please think of me with gratitude, and remember that I was once "Your backer, "CLAUDE LOCKER." Olive also received a letter from Mr. Locker, which ran thus: "Mrs. Easterfield told me. She wrote me a letter about it, and I think her purpose was to make me thoroughly understand that I was not in this matter at all. She did not say anything of the kind, but I think she thought it would be a dreadful thing, if by any act of mine, I should cause you to reconsider your arrangement with Professor Lancaster. I have written to the said professor, and have told him that it is not improbable that I shall soon marry. I don't know yet to what lady I shall be united, but I believe in the truth of the adage, 'that all things come to those who can not wait.' They are in such a hurry that they take what they can get. "If you do not think that this is a good letter, please send it back and I will write another. What I am trying to say is, that I would sacrifice my future wife, no matter who she may be, to see you happy. And now believe me always "Your most devoted acquaintance, "CLAUDE LOCKER. "P.S.--Wouldn't it be a glorious thing if you were to be married in church with all the rejected suitors as groomsmen and Lancaster as an old Roman conqueror with the captive princess tied behind!" Now that all the turmoil of her life was over, and Olive at peace with herself, her thoughts dwelt with some persistency upon two of her rejected suitors. Until now she had had but little comprehension of the love a man may feel for a woman--perhaps because she herself never loved--but now she looked back upon that period of her life at Broadstone with a good deal of compunction. At that time it had seemed to her that it really made very little difference to her three lovers which one she accepted, or if she rejected them all. But now she asked herself if it could be possible that Du Brant and Hemphill had for her anything of the feeling she now had for Dick Lancaster. (Locker did not trouble her mind at all.) If so, she had treated them with a cruel and shameful carelessness. She had really intended to marry one of them, but not from any good and kind feeling; she was actuated solely by pique and self-interest; and she had, perhaps, sacrificed honest love to her selfishness; and, what was worse, had treated it with what certainly appeared like contempt, although she certainly had not intended that. She felt truly sorry, and cast about in her mind for some means of reparation. She could think of but one way: to find for each of them a very nice girl--a great deal nicer than herself--and to marry them all with her blessing. But, unfortunately for this scheme, Olive had no girl friends. She had acquaintances "picked up here and there," as she said, but she knew very little about any of them, and not one of them had ever struck her as being at all angelic or superior in any way. Neither of the young men who were lying so heavily on her mind had written to any one, either at the toll-gate or at Broadstone, since the very public affair in which she had played a conspicuous part; and her consolation was that as each one had read that account he had said to himself: "I am thankful that girl did not accept me! What a fortunate escape!" But still she wished that she had behaved differently at Broadstone. She said nothing to any one of these musings, but she ventured one day to ask Mr. Easterfield how Mr. Hemphill was faring. His reply was only half satisfactory. He reported the young man as doing very well, and being well; he was growing fat, and that did not improve his looks; and he was getting more and more taciturn and self-absorbed. "Why was he taciturn?" Olive asked herself. "Was he brooding and melancholy?" She did not know anything about the fat, and what might be its primal cause; but her mind was not set at ease about him. Things went on quietly and pleasantly at the toll-gate, and at Broadstone. Dick came down as often as he could and spent a day or two (usually including a Sunday) with Olive and her uncle. It was now October, and colleges were in full tide. It was also the hunting season, and that meant that Mr. Tom would be at Broadstone for a couple of weeks, and Mrs. Easterfield said she must have Olive at that time. And, in order to make the house lively, she invited Lieutenant Asher and his wife at the same time, as Olive and her young stepmother were now very good friends. Then the captain invited his old friend Captain Lancaster, Dick's father, to visit him at the toll-gate. These were bright days for these old shipmates; and, strange to say, as they sat and puffed, they did not talk so much of things that had been, as they puffed and made plans of things which were to be. And these plans always concerned the niece of one, and the son of the other. Captain Asher was not at all satisfied with Dick's position in the college. He could not see how eminence awaited any young man who taught theories; he would like Dick's future to depend on facts. "Two and two make four," said he; "there is no need of any theory about that, and that's the sort of thing that suits me." Captain Lancaster smiled. He was a dry old salt, and listened more than he talked. "Just now," he remarked, "I guess Dick will stick to his theories, and for a while he won't be apt to give his mind to mathematics very much, except to that kind of figuring which makes him understand that one and one makes one." There was a thing the two old mates were agreed upon. No matter-what Dick's position might be in the college, his salary should be as large as that of any other professor. They could do it, and they would do it. They liked the idea, and they shook hands over it. Olive was greatly pleased with Captain Lancaster. "There is the scent of the sea about him," she wrote to Dick, "as there is about Uncle John and father, but it is different. It is constant and fixed, like the smell of salt mackerel. He would never keep a toll-gate; nor would he marry a young wife. Not that I object to either of these things, for if the one had not happened I would never have known you; and if the other had not happened, I might not have become engaged to you." The two captains dined at Broadstone while Olive was there, and Captain Lancaster highly approved of Mrs. Easterfield. All seafaring men did--as well as most other men. "It is a shame she had to marry a landsman," said Captain Lancaster, when he and Captain John had gone home. "It seems to me she would have suited you." "You might mention that the next time you go to her house," said Captain Asher. "I don't believe it has ever been properly considered." It was at this time that Olive's mind was set at rest about one of her discarded lovers. Mr. Du Brant wrote her a letter. "MY DEAR MISS ASHER--It is very long since I have had any communication with you, but this silence on my part has been the result of circumstances, and not owing, I assure you upon my honor, to any diminution of the great regard (to use a moderate term) which I feel for you. I had not the pleasure of seeing you when I left Broadstone, but our mutual friend, Mrs. Easterfield, told me you had sent to me a message. I firmly (but I trust politely) declined to receive it. And so, my dear Miss Asher, as the offer I made you then has never received any acknowledgment, I write now to renew it. I lay my heart at your feet, and entreat you to do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage. "And let me here frankly state that when first I read of your great deed--you are aware, of course, to what I refer--I felt I must banish all thought of you from my heart. Let me explain my position, I had just received news of the death of my uncle, Count Rosetra, and that I had inherited his title and estates. It is a noble name, and the estates are great. Could I confer these upon one who was being so publicly discussed--the actor in so terrible a drama? I owed more to society, and to my noble race, and to my country than I had done before becoming a noble. But ah, my torn heart! O Miss Asher, that heart was true to you through all, and has asserted itself in a vehement way. I recognized your deed as noble; I thought of your beauty and your intellect; of your attractive vivacity; of your manner and bearing, all so fine; and I realized how you would grace my title and my home; how you would help me to carry out the great ambitions I have. "Will you, lady, deign to accept my homage and my love? A favorable answer will bring me to make my personal solicitations. "Your most loving and faithful servant, "CHRISTIAN DU BRANT. "(Now Count Rosetra.)" "What a bombastic mixture!" thought Olive, as she read this effusion. "I wonder if there is any real love in it! If there is, it is so smothered it is easily extinguished." And she extinguished it; and thoughts of Count Rosetra troubled her no more. She did not show Dick this letter, but she thought it due to Mrs. Easterfield to read it to her. "He has got it into his head that an American woman, such as you, will make his house attractive to people he wants there," commented that lady. "You have not considered me at all, you ungrateful girl! Only think how I could have exploited 'my friend, the countess'! And what a fine place for me to visit!" It had been arranged by the two houses that Dick and Olive should be married in the early summer when the college closed; and Mrs. Easterfield had arranged in her own mind that the wedding should be in her city house. It would not be too late in the season for a stylish wedding--a thing Mrs. Easterfield had often wished she could arrange, and it was hopeless to think of waiting until her little ones could help her to this desire of her heart. She held this great secret in reserve, however, for a delightful surprise at the proper time. But she and Olive both had a wedding surprise before Olive's visit was finished. It was, in fact, the day before Olive's return to the toll-gate that Mr. Easterfield walked in upon them as they were sitting at work in Mrs. Easterfield's room. He had been unexpectedly summoned to the city three days before, and had gone with no explanation to his wife. She did not think much about it, as he was accustomed to going and coming in a somewhat erratic manner. "It seems to me," she said, looking at him critically after the first greetings, "that you have an important air." "I am the bearer of important news," he said, puffing out his cheeks. In answer to the battery of excited inquiries which opened upon him he finally said: "I was solemnly invited to town to attend a solemn function, and I solemnly went, and am now solemnly returned." "Pshaw!" said Mrs. Easterfield. "I don't believe it's anything." "A wedding is something. A very great something. It is a solemn thing; and made more solemn by the loss of my secretary." "What!" almost screamed his wife. "Mr. Hemphill?" "The very man. And, O Miss Olive, if you could but have seen him in his wedding-clothes your heart would have broken to think that you had lost the opportunity of standing by them at the altar." "But who was the bride?" asked Mrs. Easterfield impatiently. "Miss Eliza Grogworthy." "Now, Tom, I know you are joking! Why can't you be serious?" "I am as serious as were that couple. I have known her for some time, and she was very visible." "Why, she is old enough to be his mother!" "Not quite, my dear. In such a case as this, one must be particular about ages. She is a few years older than he is probably, but she is not bad looking, and a good woman with a nice big house and lots of money. He has walked out of my office into a fine position, and I unselfishly congratulated him with all my heart." "Poor Mr. Hemphill!" sighed Olive. She was thinking of the very young man she had sighed for when a very young girl. "He needs no pity," said Mr. Easterfield seriously. "I should not be surprised if he feels glad that he was not--well, we won't say what," he added, looking mischievously at Olive. "This is really a great deal better thing for him. He is not a favorite of my wife, but he is a thoroughly good fellow in his way, and I have always liked him. There were certain things necessary to him in this life, and he has got them. That can not be said about everybody by a long shot! No, he is to be congratulated." Olive was silent. She was trying to make up her mind that he was really to be congratulated, and to get rid of a lingering doubt. "Well, that is the end of him in our affairs!" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield. "Why didn't you tell us what you were going to town for?" "Because he asked me not to mention it to any one. And, besides, that is not all I went to town for." "Oh," said his wife, "any more weddings?" "No," said Mr. Easterfield, helping himself to an easy chair. "You know I have lately been so much with nautical people I have acquired a taste for the sea." "I did not know it," said his wife; "but what of it?" "Well, as Lieutenant Asher and his wife are here yet, and have no earthly reason for being anywhere in particular; and as Captain Asher seems to be tired of the toll-gate; and as Captain Lancaster doesn't care where he is; and as Miss Olive doesn't know what to do with herself until it is time for her to get married; and as you are always ready to go gadding; and as the children need bracing up; and as you can not get along without Miss Raleigh; and as Mrs. Blynn is a good housekeeper; and as I have an offer for renting our town house; I propose that we all go to sea together." The two ladies had listened breathlessly to these words, and now Olive sprang up in great excitement, and Mrs. Easterfield clapped her hands in delight. "How clever you are, Tom!" she exclaimed. "What a splendid idea! How can we go?" "I have leased a yacht, and we are going to the Mediterranean." _CHAPTER XXXVIII_ "_It has just Begun!_" This wonderful scheme which Mr. Easterfield had planned and carried out met with general favor. Perhaps if they had all been consulted before he made the plan there would have been many alterations, and discussions, and doubts. But the thing was done, and there was nothing to say but "Yes" or "No." The time had come for the house party at Broadstone to break up, and the lieutenant and Mrs. Asher had arranged to spend the next few months in the city, but they gladly accepted Mr. Easterfield's generous invitation and would return to the toll-gate alter a few weeks preparatory to sailing, that the party might get together, for Captain Lancaster was to remain at the tollhouse. Mr. Easterfield also invited Claude Locker "to make things lively in rough weather," and that young man accepted with much alacrity. Mrs. Easterfield was in such a state of delight that she nearly lost her self-possession. Sometimes, her husband told her, she scarcely spoke rationally. If she had been asked to wish anything that love or money could bring her, it would have been this very thing; but she would not have believed it possible. She was busy everywhere planning for everybody, and making out various lists. But, as she said, there is a little black spot in almost every joy. And her little black spot was Dick Lancaster. "Poor Professor Lancaster!" she said to her husband. "We to have such a great pleasure, and he shut up in close rooms! And Olive far away!" "Are you sure about Olive?" asked Mr. Easterfield. "She has never said positively that she is going. I most earnestly hope that she will not back out because Lancaster can not go. If she stays her uncle will stay." "And for that very reason she will go," said Mrs. Easterfield. "And I think Professor Lancaster will urge her to go. He is unselfish enough, I am sure, to wish her to have this great pleasure. And, talking of Olive, one thing is certain, Tom, we must be back early in the spring. There will be a great deal to do before the wedding. And, O Tom, I will tell you--but you must not tell any one, for I am keeping it for a surprise--I am going to give them a fine wedding. They will be married in church, of course, but the reception will be at our house. You will like that, I know." "Will there be good eating?" "Plenty of it." "Then I shall like it." All this was very well, but, nevertheless, this talk made the enthusiastic lady a little uneasy. It was true Olive had never said in words conclusively whether she would go or not. But she was extremely anxious that her father should go, and she implicitly followed Mrs. Easterfield's directions in making preparations for him, and was just as earnest in making her own; and her friend was certainly justified in thinking all this was a tacit consent. As for the two captains, they were so delighted at this heavenly prospect that they gave up talking about Dick and Olive, and read guide-books to each other, and studied maps, and sea-charts until their brains were nearly addled. They were a source of great amusement to the young people when Dick came for his frequent short visits. It was evident to all interested that Professor Lancaster approved of the expedition, for he entered heartily into all the talk about the various places to be visited, and all that was to be done on the vessel; and he did not bore them with any lamentations in regard to the coming separation between him and Olive. And, of course, every one respected his feelings, and said nothing to him about it. The weeks went by; all the preparations were made; and at last the time came when the company were to assemble at the toll-gate and Broadstone before the final plunge into the unknown. Olive wished to have them all to dinner on the first day of this short visit. "Our house is a little one," she said to Mrs. Easterfield, "but we can make it big enough. You know nautical people understand how to do that. What a jolly company we shall have! You know Dick will be there." "Yes, poor Dick!" sighed Mrs. Easterfield, when Olive had left. The Easterfields, with Lieutenant Asher and his wife, arrived very promptly at the toll-gate on that important day, and their drive through the bright, crisp air put them in a merry mood. They had hoped to bring Mr. Locker, but he had not arrived. They found two captains at the toll-gate in even merrier mood. Dick Lancaster was there, having arrived that morning, and they were none of them surprised that he looked serious. The ladies were not immediately asked to go up-stairs to remove their wraps, for Olive was not there to receive them. She soon, however, made her appearance in a lovely white dress that had been made for the trip under Mrs. Easterfield's supervision. Dick Lancaster immediately got up from his chair and joined her; and the Reverend Mr. Faulkner appeared from some mysterious place, and the astonished guests were treated to a very pretty marriage ceremony. It was soon over, and the two jolly captains laughed heartily at the bewilderment of the Broadstone party. And then there was a wild time of hand-shaking and congratulations and embracing. By his wife's orders, Mr. Tom kissed Olive, which seemed perfectly proper to everybody except Mrs. Lieutenant Asher. She was also a young bride, with no similar experiences. Later, when all were composed, Olive explained. "What has happened just now is all on account of Mr. Easterfield's invitation. I wrote immediately to Dick, and we settled it between us that he would ask for a vacation--they always give vacations when professors are married, and he knew of some one to take his place--and then we would be married, and ask Mr. and Mrs. Easterfield to invite us to take our wedding trip with them. Dick had to stay at the college until the last minute almost, and so we didn't say anything about the wedding--and we were both afraid of--well, we don't like a fuss--and so we planned this. And when Dick came he brought the license and Mr. Faulkner. And now I don't see how Mr. Easterfield can help inviting us." Mr. Easterfield was standing by his wife, and as Olive finished her explanation he took his wife's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze of sympathy; and that heroic woman never flinched; nor did she ever say one word about that pretty wedding she had planned for the spring. They had all nearly finished the fried chicken with white sauce, when Claude Locker arrived. He had missed the regular train and had come on a freight; had got a horse when he reached Broadstone. "I am more tired than if I had walked," he grumbled. "I am always in bad luck! I am an unlucky dog! But you are so good you will excuse me, Miss Asher." "That is not my name," said Olive gravely. And with both eyes of the same size, Mr. Locker looked around, wondering why everybody was laughing. "Let me introduce Mrs. Lancaster," said Dick with a bow. "Do you mean," cried Locker, starting up, "that this thing is really done?" "No," said Olive. "It has just begun." THE END 
10438	----	UP THE HILL AND OVER BY ISABEL ECCLESTONE MACKAY Author of "The House of Windows," etc. _The road runs back and the road runs on, But the air has a scent of clover_. _And another day brings another dawn, When we're up the hill and over_. TO MY MOTHER WHO MIGHT HAVE LIKED THIS BOOK HAD SHE LIVED TO READ IT CHAPTER I "From Wimbleton to Wombleton is fifteen miles, From Wombleton to Wimbleton is fifteen miles, From Wombleton to Wimbleton, From Wimbleton to Wombleton, From Wombleton--to Wimbleton--is fif--teen miles!" The cheery singing ended abruptly with the collapse of the singer upon a particularly inviting slope of grass. He was very dusty. He was very hot. The way from Wimbleton to Wombleton seemed suddenly extraordinarily long and tiresome. The slope was green and cool. Just below it slept a cool, green pool, deep, delicious--a swimming pool such as dreams are made of. If there were no one about--but there was some one about. Further down the slope, and stretched at full length upon it, lay a small boy. Near the small boy lay a packet of school books. The wayfarer's lips relaxed in an appreciative smile. "Little boy," he called, somewhat hoarsely on account of the dust in his throat, "little boy, can you tell me how far it is from here to Wimbleton?" Apparently the little boy was deaf. The questioner raised his voice, "or if you can oblige me with the exact distance to Wombleton," he went on earnestly, "that will do quite as well." No answer, civil or otherwise, from the youth by the pool. Only a convulsive wiggle intended to cover the undefended position of the school books. The traveller's smile broadened but he made no further effort toward sociability. Neither did he go away. To the dismayed eyes, watching through the cover of some long grass, he was clearly a person devoid of all fine feeling. Or perhaps he had never been taught not to stay where he wasn't wanted. Mebby he didn't even know that he _wasn't_ wanted. In order to remove all doubt as to the latter point, the small boy's head shot up suddenly out of the covering grass. "What d'ye want?" he asked forbiddingly. "Little boy," said the stranger, "I thank you. I want for nothing." The head collapsed, but quickly came up again. "Ain't yeh goin' anywhere?" asked a despairing voice. "I was going, little boy, but I have stopped." This was so true that the small boy sat up and scowled. "I judge," went on the other, "that I am now midway between Arden, otherwise, Wimbleton, and Arcady, sometime known as Wombleton. The question is, which way and how? A simple sum in arithmetic will--little boy, do not frown like that! The wind may change. Smile nicely, and I'll tell you something." Urged by necessity, the badgered one attempted to look pleasant. "That's better! Now, my cheerful child, what I really want to know is 'how many miles to Babylon?'" A reluctant grin showed that the small boy's early education had not been utterly neglected. "Aw, what yeh givin' us?" he protested sheepishly, "if it's Coombe you're lookin' for, it's 'bout a mile and a half down the next holler." "Holler?" the stranger's tone was faintly questioning. "Oh, I see. You mean 'hollow,' which being interpreted means 'valley,' which means, I fear, another hill. Little boy, do you want to carry a knapsack?" "Nope." "No? Strange that nobody seems to want to carry a knapsack. I least of all. Well," lifting the object with disfavour, "good-day to you. I perceive that you grow impatient for those aquatic pleasures for which you have temporarily abjured the more severe delights of scholarship. Little boy, I wish you a very good swim." "Gee," muttered the small boy, "gee, ain't he the word-slinger!" He returned to the pool but something of its charm was dissipated. Vague thoughts of school inspectors and retribution troubled its waters. Not that he was at all afraid of school inspectors, or that he really suspected the stranger of being one. Still, discretion is a wise thing and word-slinging is undoubtedly a form of art much used in high scholastic circles. Also there had been a remark about a simple sum in arithmetic which was, to say the least, disquieting. With a bursting sigh, the small sinner scrambled to his feet, reached for the hated books, and disappeared rapidly in the direction of the halls of learning. Meanwhile the stranger, unconscious of the moral awakening behind him, plodded wearily up the steep and sunny hill. As he is our hero we shall not describe him. There is no hurry, and there will be other occasions upon which he will appear to better advantage. At present let us be content with knowing that there was no reason for the hat and suit he wore save a mistaken idea of artistic suitability. "If I am going to be a tramp," he had said, "I want to look like a tramp." He didn't, but his hat and coat did. He felt like a tramp, though, if to feel like a tramp is to feel hot and sticky and hungry. Perhaps real tramps do not feel like this. Perhaps they enjoy walking. At any rate they do not carry knapsacks, but betray a touching faith in Providence in the matter of clean linen and tooth brushes. Before the top of the hill was reached, Dr. Callandar wished devoutly that in this last respect he had behaved like the real thing. In setting out to lead the simple life the ultimate is to be recommended--and knapsacks are not the ultimate. They are heavy things with the property of growing heavier, and prove of little use save to sit upon in damp places. The doctor's feelings in regard to his were intensified by an utter lack of dampness anywhere. The top of the hill was a sun-crowned eminence, blazingly, blisteringly, suffocatingly hot. The valley, spread out beneath him, was soaked in sunshine, a haze of heat quivered visibly above the roofs of the pretty town it cradled. There was a river and there were woods, but the trees hung motionless, and the river wound like a snake of brass among them. The doctor regarded both the knapsack and the prospect resentfully. He had hoped for a breeze upon the hill-top, and there was no breeze. Raising his hand to remove his hat, he noticed that the hand was trembling, and swore softly. The hand continued to tremble, and holding it out before him he watched it, interestedly, until a powerful will brought the quivering nerves into subjection. "Jove!" he muttered. "Not a moment too soon--this holiday!" Then, hat in hand, he started down the hill. It was a long hill, very long, much longer than it had any need or right to be. It had a twist in its nature which would not allow it to run straight. It meandered; it hesitated; it never knew its own mind, but twisted and turned and thought better of it a dozen times in half a mile. It was a hill with short cuts favourably known to small boys and to tramps with a distaste for highways; but this tramp, not being a real one, knew none of them, and was compelled to do exactly as the hill did. The result was, that when at last it slipped into the cool shade of a row of beeches at its base, its victim was as exhausted as itself. He was thirsty, too, and, worse still, he knew from a certain dizzy blindness that one of his bad headaches was coming on--and there still lay another mile between him and the town. Pressing his hand against his eyes to restore for the moment their normal clearness of vision, he saw, a short way down the road, a gate; and through the gate and behind some trees, the white gleam of a building. But better than all, he saw, between the gate and the building, a red pump! Then the blindness and pain descended again, and he stumbled on more by faith than by sight; blundering through the half-open gate, his precarious course directed wholly by the pump's exceeding redness, which shone like a beacon fire ahead. Fortunately, it was a real pump with real water and a sucker in good standing, warranted to need no priming. At the stroke of the red handle the good, cool water gurgled and arose with a delightful "plop!" It splashed from the spout freely upon the face and hands of the victim of the long hill--delicious, life-giving! The delight it brought seemed compensation almost for heat and pain and weariness. Callandar felt that if he could only let its sweetness stream indefinitely over his closed eyes it would wash away the blindness and the ache. Perhaps-- "I am afraid I cannot allow you to use this pump!" said a crisp voice primly. "This is not," with capital letters, "a Public Pump!" Callandar wiped the surplus water from his face and looked up. There, beside him in the yellow haze of his semi-blindness, stood the owner of the voice. She appeared to be clothed in white, tall and commanding. Surrounded by the luminous mist, her appearance was not unlike that of a cool and capable avenging angel. "This pump," went on the angel with nice precision, "is not for the use of pedestrians." "Ah!" said the pedestrian. "If you will continue down the road," the voice went on, "you will find, when you reach the town, a public pump. You may use that." The pedestrian, feeling dizzier than ever, sat down upon the pump platform. It was wet and cool. "The objection to that," he said wisely, "is simple. I cannot continue down the road." "I should like you to go at once," patiently. "There is a pump--" The pedestrian raised a deprecating hand. "Let us admit the pump! Doubtless the pump is there, but there is a pump here also, and a pump in the hand is worth two pumps, an ice-box and a John Collins in town. You doubtless know the situation created by Mahomet and the mountain? This is the same, with a difference. In this case the pump will not come to me and I cannot go to the pump. Therefore we both remain _in statu quo_. Do I make myself plain?" Apparently he did, for there was no answer. Logic, he concluded, had achieved its usual triumph. The avenging angel had withdrawn. Blissfully he stooped again, closing his eyes to the cool drip of the water, but scarcely had they felt its chill relief when a sharp bark caused them to fly open with disconcerting suddenness--the avenging angel had returned, and with her was an avenging dog! Seen through the mist, the dog appeared to be a bull pup of ferocious aspect. "I am sorry," the cool voice had no ruth in it, "but it is my duty not to allow tramps upon these grounds. If you will not go, I must ask the dog--" "ASK the dog!" In spite of his aching head the tramp (now no longer pedestrian) laughed weakly. "Oh, please don't ask him!" he entreated. "He looks too awfully willing! Besides, I begin to perceive that my presence is not desired. Naturally I scorn to remain." Very slowly he raised himself from the damp pump platform by means of the red pump-handle. In this manner he achieved an upright position without much difficulty and all might have gone well had he behaved like a proper tramp. But forgetting himself, under the tyranny of training and instinct, he attempted, in deference to the sex of the angel, to raise his hat (which was not on his head anyway). In so doing he released the red pump-handle, lost his balance, struggled wildly to regain it, and then collapsed with a terrible sense of failure and ignominy, right into the open jaws, as it were, of the avenging dog! CHAPTER II He had a fancy that something cool and kind was licking his hand.... It felt like the tongue of a friendly dog. He seemed to have been dreaming about dogs. Something soft and cold lay on his head. It felt like a wet handkerchief ... the pain had dulled to a slow throbbing ... if he opened his eyes he would know who licked his hand and what it was that lay upon his head ... on the other hand, opening his eyes might bring back the pain. It seemed hardly worth the risk ... still, he would very much like to know-- Without being able to decide the question, he fell asleep. When he awoke, his head was clear and the pain was gone. He felt no longer unbearably tired, but only comfortably weary, deliciously drowsy. Had he been at home in his own bed he would have turned over and gone cheerfully to sleep again. As it was, he opened his eyes with a zestful sense of curiosity. He was lying, very easily, upon soft grass. Above him spread the thick greenery of a giant maple; his head rested upon a cushion and close beside him, with comforting nose thrust into his open palm, lay a ferocious-looking bull pup. The pup grinned with delight at his tentative pat; barked fiercely, and then grinned again as if to say, "Don't mind me, it's only my fun!" There was a noise somewhere, a loud, cheerful noise--the noise of children playing. Not one child, nor two, but children--lots of them! This was perplexing; and another perplexing thing was the nearness of a white stoop which led up to the door of a white building; neither stoop nor building had he ever seen before. Again the dog barked, loudly, and as if in answer to the bark, the door above the stoop opened and a young girl came out. She cast a casual glance at him as he lay under the tree, and, settling herself daintily upon the white steps, opened a small basket and took from it a serviceable square of white damask and a lettuce sandwich. He could see the lettuce, crisp and green, peeping out at the edges. At the sight, he was conscious of a strange sensation; an almost forgotten feeling to which, for the moment, he could put no name. And then, as the girl bit into the sandwich, illumination came. He was _hungry_! But what an unkind, inconsiderate girl!--Another bite and the sandwich would be gone-- "I am awake," he suggested meekly. "So Buster said." The girl smiled approvingly at the dog. "Good Buster! You may come off guard, sir. Run away and get your lunch." With a delighted bark for thanks the bull pup trotted away. Callandar's sense of injury deepened. The girl had begun upon a second sandwich. Perhaps there were only two! "Are you hungry, Mr. Tramp?" asked the girl innocently. "I think," he said, pausing in order to give his words full weight, "I am starving!" Then, as the blissful meaning of this first feeling of healthy hunger dawned upon him, he added solemnly: "Thank the Lord!" "Yes?" There was a cool edge of surprise in the girl's voice. She proceeded thoughtfully with the second sandwich. "Yes. Hunger is a beautiful thing, a priceless possession. Money cannot buy it, skill cannot command it. The price of hunger is far above rubies." The girl looked down upon him and smiled. It was such a dear little smile that for a moment its recipient forgot about the disappearing sandwich. "I am so glad," she said warmly, "that you feel like that!" There was a slight pause. "Because," she went on, finishing the last bite of the second sandwich, "until now I had always thought that hunger wasn't a bit nice. Unless, of course, one has the power to gratify it." "Fortunately," said Callandar a little stiffly, "I have that power." The girl raised her eyebrows. They were long and straight and black, and she raised them charmingly. But she was a most unkind and heartless girl, for all that. Never while he lived would he ask her for a sandwich. With a comfortable feeling of security his hand felt for his well-filled pocketbook. It was gone! "By Jove!" Stronger ejaculation seemed forbidden by the Presence on the steps. He tapped all his pockets carefully. The pocketbook was in none of them--and he had used the last cent of loose change for a glass of milk for breakfast. "I suppose," the girl had apparently not noticed his sudden discomfiture, "that you mean you have money? But the nearest place where money would be of use is Coombe, and Coombe is a full mile away. It is a pity that my principles, and the principles of the school-board, should be all against the feeding of tramps. Otherwise I might offer you a sandwich." "You might," bitterly, "but I doubt it!" "Even now, putting the school-board aside, I might offer you one if you were to ask prettily and to apologise to me for making rather a fool of me this morning over there by the pump!" The pump! Why, of course, the pump! It all came back to him now--the pump, the avenging angel! (Had this been the avenging angel?) The avenging dog!--Oh, heaven, was _that_ the avenging dog? He burst into a boyish shout of laughter. "There are only two sandwiches left," she warned him. The doctor stopped laughing. "Oh, please!" he said. There was something very pleasant about him when he used that tone; a persuasive charm, a trace of command. The girl liked it--and passed a sandwich. "Anyway it was you who took for granted that I was a tramp," he smiled at her. "If I remember rightly I was hardly in a condition to contradict you. Not but that it was a natural conclusion. I am curious to know why you changed your mind." "Oh! as soon as you fainted I knew. Tramps don't faint!" "Not ever?" "Well--hardly ever! And besides--look at your hands!" The doctor looked, and blushed. "Dirty?" he ventured. "Not half dirty enough! And it wasn't only your hands. I noticed--oh! lots of things!" For no perceptible reason a tiny blush fluttered across the whiteness of her face like a roseleaf chased by the wind. The pleasure of watching it made the doctor forget to answer, and the girl went on: "I know lots more about you than that you aren't a tramp. I know what you are. You are a doctor!" triumphantly. "A Daniel come to judgment!" "Yes, a Daniel! Only I wouldn't have been quite so sure if you hadn't dropped this out of your pocket." With a gleeful laugh she held up a clinical thermometer. The doctor laughed also. "Men have been hanged on less evidence than that," he admitted. "All the same I don't know where it came from. Some one must have judged me capable of wanting to take my own temperature. Anything else?" "Only general deductions. You are a doctor, you are going to Coombe--deduction, you are the doctor who is going to buy out Dr. Simmonds's practice." Callandar scrambled up from his pillow with a look of delighted surprise on his face. "Why--so I am!" he exclaimed. "You say that as if you had just found it out." "Well, er--you see I had forgotten it--temporarily. My head, you know." The suspicion in the girl's eyes melted into sympathy. "I suppose you know," she said with quite a motherly air, "that old Doc. Simmonds hasn't really any practice to sell?" "No? That's bad. Hasn't he even a little one? You see" (the sympathy had been so pleasant that he felt he could do with a little more of it), "I could hardly manage a big one just now. As you may have noticed, my health is rather rocky. Got to lay up and all that--so it's just as well that old Simpkins' practice is on the ragged edge." "The name is Simmonds, not Simpkins," coldly. "Well, I didn't buy the name with the practice. My own name is Callandar. Much nicer, don't you think?" "I don't know. A well-known name is rather a handicap." This time the doctor was genuinely surprised. "A handicap? What do you mean?" "People will be sure to compare you with your famous namesake, Dr. Callandar, of Montreal. Everyone you meet," with a mischievous smile, "will say, 'Callandar--ah! no relation to Dr. Henry Callandar of Montreal, I suppose?' And then they will look sympathetic and you will want to slap them." "Dear me! I never thought of that! I had no idea that the Montreal man would be known up here. In the cities, perhaps, but not here." The girl raised her straight black brows in a way which expressed displeasure at his slighting tone. "You are mistaken," she said briefly. "I must go now. It is time to ring the bell. The children are running wild." For the first time the doctor began to take an intelligent interest in his surroundings, and saw that the tree, the white stoop and the small white building were situated in a little, quiet oasis separated by a low fence from the desert of a large yard containing the red pump. On the other side of the fence was pandemonium! "Why, it's a school!" he exclaimed. The school-mistress arose, daintily flicking the crumbs from her white piqué skirt. "District No. 15. The largest attendance of any in the county. I really must ring the bell." She flicked another invisible crumb. "I hope," she added slowly, "that I haven't discouraged you." "Oh, no! not at all. Quite the contrary. It seems unfortunate about the name, but perhaps I can live it down. It isn't as if I were just out of college, you know.--In fact," as if the thought had just come to him, "do I not seem to you to be a little old for--to be making a fresh start?" The girl's eyes looked at him very kindly. It was quite evident that she thought she understood the situation perfectly. "I shouldn't worry about that, if I were you," she said. "Young doctors are often no use at all. A great many people _prefer_ doctors to be older! I know, you see, for my father was a doctor. He was Dr. Coombe; for many years he was the only doctor here, the only doctor that counted," with a pretty air of pride. "The town was named after his father-I am Esther Coombe." The doctor acknowledged the introduction with a bow and a quick smile of gratitude. "You are really very kind, Miss Coombe," he said. "If--if I should take Dr. Spifkin's practice, I hope I may see you sometimes. It is not far from here, is it, to the town--pump?" Esther laughed. "No, but I do not live out here. I only teach here. We live in town, or almost in. You will pass the house on the way to the hotel. But before you go--" with a gleeful smile she handed him his lost pocketbook--"this fell out of your coat when I pull--helped you under the tree. I should have given it to you before, but I wanted you to understand just how far the blessing of hunger depends upon one's power to gratify it." They laughed together with a splendid sense of comradeship; then with a startled "I really must ring the bell!" she turned and ran up the steps. Smilingly he watched her disappear, waiting musingly until a sudden furious ringing told him that school was called. CHAPTER III Two sandwiches, an apple, and a glass of water may save a man from starvation, but they do not go far towards satisfying the reviving appetite of a convalescent. Walking with brisk step down the road, Callandar began to imagine the kind of meal he would order--a clear soup, broiled steak, crisp potatoes--a few little simple things like that! He fingered his pocketbook lovingly, glad that, for the first time in some months, he actually wanted something that money could buy. Now that noon was past, the intense heat of the morning was tempered by a breeze. It was still hot and his footsteps raised little cyclones of dust which flew along the road before him, but the oppression in the air was gone, and walking had ceased to be a weariness. The mile which separated him from Coombe appeared no longer endless, yet so insistent were the demands of his inner man that when a town-going farmer hailed him with the usual offer of a "lift," he accepted the invitation with alacrity. "Better," he murmured to himself, "the delights of rustic conversation with a good meal at the end thereof than lordly solitude and emptiness withal." But contrary to expectation the rustic declined to converse. He was a melancholy-looking man with a long jaw and eyes so deep-set that the observer took them on faith, and a nose which alone would have been sufficient to identify him. Beyond the first request to "step up," he vouchsafed no word and, save for an inarticulate gurgle to his horse, seemed lost in an ageless calm. His gaze was fixed upon some indefinite portion of the horse's back and he drove leaning forward in an attitude of complete bodily and mental relaxation. If his guest wished conversation it was apparent that he must set it going himself. "Very warm day!" said Callandar tentatively. "So-so." The farmer slapped the reins over the horse's flank, jerked them abruptly and murmured a hoarse "Giddap!" It was his method of encouraging the onward motion of the animal. "Is it always as warm as this hereabouts?" "No. Sometimes we get it a little cooler 'bout Christmas." The doctor flushed with annoyance and then laughed. "You see," he explained, "I'm new to this part of the country. But I always thought you had it cooler up here." The manner of the rustic grew more genial. "Mostly we do," he admitted; "but this here is a hot spell." Another long pause and then he volunteered suddenly: "You can mostly tell by Alviry. When she gets a sunstroke it's purty hot. I'm going for the doctor now." "Going for the doctor?" Callandar's gaze swept the peaceful figure with incredulous amusement. "Great Scott, man! Why don't you hurry? Can't the horse go any faster?" "Maybe," resignedly, "but he won't." "Make him, then! A sunstroke may be a very serious business. Your wife may be dead before you get back." The deep-set eyes turned to him slowly. There seemed something like a distant sparkle in their depths. "Don't get to worrying, stranger. It'll take more 'an a sunstroke to polish off Alviry." "Was she unconscious?" "Not so as you could notice." "But if it were a sunstroke--look here, I'll go with you myself. I am a doctor." "Kind of thought you might be," he responded genially. "Thinking of taking on old Doc. Simmonds's practice?" "I don't know. But if your wife--" The rustic shook his head. "No. You wouldn't do for Alviry. She said to get Doc. Parker, and a sunstroke ain't going to change her none. But if she likes your looks she'll probably try you next time. Tumble fond of experiments is Alviry--hi! giddap!" He slapped his horse more forcibly with the loose reins and settled into, mournful silence. "Going to put up at the Imperial?" he asked after a long and peaceful pause. "I want to put up somewhere where I can get a good meal and get it quickly." The mournful Jehu shook his head gloomily. "You won't get that at the Imperial." "Where had I better go?" "There ain't any other place to go--not to speak of." The doctor let fall a fiery exclamation. "What say?" "I said that it must be a queer town." "I'm a little hard of hearing, now and agin. But I gather you're not a church-going man. It's a great church-going place, is Coombe. Old Doc. Simmonds was a Methody. We were kind of hoping the next one might be a change. There's two churches of Presbyterians and they're tumble folk for hanging together." The doctor laughed. "Thanks for the tip. I'll remember. Coombe is considered a healthy place, isn't it?" "Danged healthy." The commiseration in the other's tone lent to the simple question such an obvious meaning that the doctor hardly knew whether to be amused or annoyed. "Heavens, man! I'm not an undertaker. I asked because I'm rather rocky myself. That is, partly, why I'm here." The mournful one nodded. "Good a reason as any," he assented sadly. "By the way--er--there used to be a Dr. Coombe here, didn't there? Didn't he live somewhere hereabouts?" The sad one turned his meditative eyes from their focus upon the horse's back and rested them upon the open and guileleas face by his side. Then from deep down in his brawny throat came a sudden sound. It was unmistakably a chuckle. Without the slightest trace of an accompanying smile, the sound was startling. "What's the matter?" asked the doctor irritably. "Nothing. Only when anybody's seen Esther, they always start asking about old Doc. Coombe. It gives them a kind of opening. Yes, that's the old Coombe place--over there. The one with the fir trees and the big elm by the gate." "A pleasant house," said Callandar in a detached voice. "So-so. The old Doc. uster putter around considerable. But they say his widow isn't doing much to keep it up. Tumble flighty woman, so they say. Young, you know, just about young enough to be the old Doc.'s daughter--" "But--" "Oh! Esther ain't her child. Esther's ma died when she was a baby. There is a child, though, Jane they call her, a pindling little thing. But p'r'aps you've met Jane too?" "I did not say--" "No, but I thought likely if you'd met one, you'd have met the other. Jane's nearly always hanging around Esther 'cept in school hours. Awful fond of Esther she is. Folks say that Esther's more of a mother to Jane than her own ma. But I dunno. Alviry says it's a shame the way Esther's put upon; all the cares of the house when she had ought to be playing with her dolls. Stepmother with 'bout as much sense as a fly. Old Aunt Amy, nice sort of soul but--" he touched his head significantly and heaved the heaviest sigh yet. "Do you mean to say that there is an aunt who isn't quite sane?" asked Callandar, surprised. "_I_ don't say so. Some folks does. Alviry says she's a whole lot wiser than some of the rest of us." From the tone of this remark it was evident that Alviry's observation had been intended personally. Callandar choked back a laugh. "What say?" asked the other suspiciously. "I said, rather hard luck for a young girl." The mournful one nodded and relapsed into melancholy. The doctor turned his attention to the house which a flicker of the whip had pointed out. It was long and low, with wide verandas and a somewhat neglected-looking lawn. At one side an avenue of lilacs curved, and on the other stood a stiff line of fir trees. The front of the house was well shaded by maples and near the gate stood a giant elm-tree, around the trunk of which ran a circular seat. It all looked cool, green and inviting. As the old horse walked sedately past, a woman's figure came out of one of the long windows and flung itself lightly, yet, even at that distance, with a certain suggestion of impatience, into one of the veranda chairs. "That'll be Mrs. Coombe now," volunteered his informant. "Tumble saucy way she has of flinging herself around--jes' like a young girl! Mebby you can see what sort of dress she's got on. Alviry'll be int'rested to know." "It's too far off," said Callandar, amused. "All I can see is that the lady is wearing something white." "Went out of weeds right on the dot, she did! It's not much over a year since the old Doc. died. Esther's still wearing some of her black, but jes' to wear them out, not as symbols. Mrs. Coombe's got a whole new outfit, Alviry says. Turrible extravagant! Folks says it takes Esther all her time paying for them with her school money. But I dunno. What say?" "I didn't say anything. But, since you ask, do you think all this is any of my business?" "Well, since you ask, it ain't. 'Tisn't my business either; but it kind of passes the time. Giddap!" Perhaps the old horse knew he was getting near the end of his journey for, contrary to expectation, he did "giddap" with a jerk which nearly unseated the doctor and caused a flicker of mild surprise to flit across the sad one's face. "Turrible fast horse, this," he confided, "all you got to do is to get him going." "Don't let me take you out of your way. If you'll tell me the direction--" "Sit still, stranger. I'm going right past the Imperial. Hardly any place in Coombe you can go without going past the Imperial. It's what you call a kind of newclus." As he spoke, the horse, now going at a fairly respectable rate, turned into the main street of the town; a main street, thriftily prosperous but now somewhat a-doze in the sun. Half-way down, the intelligent animal stopped with another jerk for which the doctor was equally ill-prepared. Before them stood a modest red brick building, three stories in height, with a narrow veranda running across the lowest story just one step up from the pavement. On the veranda were green chairs and in the chairs reclined such portion of the male Coombers as could do so without fear and without reproach. Along the top of the veranda was a large sign displaying the words, "HOTEL IMPERIAL." Callandar alighted nimbly from the democrat, that being the name of the light spring wagon in which he had travelled, and shook his good Samaritan by the hand. "Thank you very much," he said, "and I sincerely hope that the sunstroke will not have terminated fatally by the time you reach home." The deep-set eyes turned to him slowly and again he fancied a twinkle in their mournfulness. "If it does," said the sad one tranquilly, "it will be the first time it ever has--giddap!" As no one came forth to take his knapsack, Callandar slung it over his shoulder and entered the hotel. The parting remark of his conductor had left a smile upon his lips, which smile still lingered as he asked the sleepy-looking clerk for a room, and intimated that he would like lunch immediately. "Dining room closed," said that individual shortly. "What do you mean?" "Dining room closes at two; supper at six." "Do you mean to say that you serve nothing between the hours of two and six?" "Serve you a drink, if you like," with an understanding grin at his questioner's dusty knapsack. Forgetting that he had become a Presbyterian, the doctor made a few remarks, and from his manner of making them the clerk awoke to the fact that knapsacks do not a hobo make nor dusty coats a tramp. Now in Canada no one is the superior of any one else, but that did not make a bit of difference in the startling change of demeanour which overtook the clerk. He straightened up. He removed his toothpick. He arranged the register in his best manner and chose another nib for his pen. When Callandar had registered, the clerk was very sorry indeed that the hotel arrangements were rather arbitrary in the matter of meal hours. He was afraid that the kitchen fires were down and everything cold. Still if the gentleman would go to his room, he would see what could be done-- The gentleman went to his room; but in no enviable frame of mind. So wretched was his plight that he was not above valuing the covert sympathy of the small bell-boy who preceded him up the oilclothed stairs. He was a very round boy: round legs, round cheeks, round head and eyes so round that they must have been special eyes made on purpose. There was also a haunting resemblance to some other boy! Callandar taxed his memory, and there stole into it a vision of a pool with willows. He chuckled. "Boy," he said, "have you a little brother who is very fond of going to school?" "Nope," said the boy. (It seemed to be a family word.) "I've got a brother, but he don't sound like that." "You ought to be in school yourself, boy. What's your name?" "Zerubbabel Burk." "Is that all?" "Yep. Bubble for short." "Have you ever known what it is to be hungry?" "Three times a day, before meals!" "Well, I'm starving. Do you belong to the Boy Scouts?" "Betyerlife." "Well, look here. I am an army in distress. Commissariat cut off, extinction imminent! Now you go and bring in the provisions. And, as we believe in honourable warfare, pay for everything you get, but take no refusals--see?" He pressed a bill into the boy's ready hand and watched the light of understanding leap into the round eyes with pleasurable anticipation. "I get you, Mister! Here's your room, number fourteen." The boy disappeared while still the key with its long tin label was jingling in the lock. The doctor opened the door of room number fourteen and went in. Rooms, we contend, like people, should be considered in relation to that state in which it has pleased Providence to place them. To consider number fourteen in any environment save its own would be manifestly unfair since, in relation to all the other rooms at the Imperial, number fourteen was a good room, perhaps the very best. A description tempts us, but perhaps its best description is to be found in its effect upon Dr. Callandar. That effect was an immediate determination to depart by the next train, provided the next train did not leave before he had had something to eat. He was aroused from gloomy musings by a discreet tap announcing the return of the scouting party. The scouting party was piled with parcels up to its round eyes and from the parcels issued an odour so delicious that the doctor's depression vanished. "Good hunting, eh?" "Prime, sir. 'Tisn't store stuff, either! As soon as I see that look in your eye I remembered 'bout the tea-fight over at Knox's Church last night and how they'd be sure to be selling off what's left, for the benefit of the heathen." The boy gave the roundest wink Callandar had ever seen and deposited his parcels upon the bed. "They always have 'bout forty times as much's they can use. Course I didn't get you any _broken_ vittles," he added, noticing the alarm upon the doctor's face. "It's all as good as the best. Wait till you see!" He began to clear the wash-stand in a businesslike manner, talking all the time. "This here towel will do for a cloth. It's bran' clean--cross my heart! I borrowed a dish or two offen the church. They know me.... We'll put the chicken in the middle and the ham along at this end and the pie over there where it can't slip off--" "I don't like pie, boy." "I do. Pie's good for you. We'll put the beet salad by the chicken and the cabbage salad by the ham and the chow-chow betwixt 'em. Then the choc'late cake can go by the pie--" "Boy, I don't like chocolate cake." "Honest? Ah, you're kiddin' me! Really? Choc'late cake's awful good for you. I love chocolate cake. This here cake was made by Esther Coombe's Aunt Amy--it's a sure winner! Say, Mister, what do you like anyway?" "Ever so many more things than I did yesterday. By Jove, that chicken looks good!" "Yep. That's Mrs. Hallard's chicken. I thought you'd want the best. She ris' it herself. And made the stuffin' too." "Did she 'ris' the ham also?" "Nope. It's Miss Taylor's ham. Home cured. The minister thinks a whole lot of Miss Taylor's curin'. Ma thinks that if Miss Taylor wasn't quite so hombly, minister might ask her jest on account of the ham. You try it--wait a jiffy till I sneak some knives!" Callandar looked at the decorated wash-stand and felt better. He had forgotten all about the room, and when the knives came, in even less than the promised jiffy, he forgot everything but the varied excellences of the food before him. The chicken was a chicken such as one dreams of. The salads were delicious, the homemade bread and butter fresh and sweet; the ham might well cause feelings of a tender nature towards its curer! The chocolate cake? He thought he might try a small piece and, having tried, was willing to make the attempt on a larger scale. The boy was a most efficient waiter, discerning one's desires before they were expressed. But when they got to the pie, the doctor drew up another chair at the pie side of the table and waved the waiter into it. There was no false modesty about the boy; neither did he hold malice. If he had felt slightly aggrieved at not having been invited earlier, he forgot it after the first mouthful and for a time there was no further conversation in number fourteen. The doctor had temporarily discarded his theory that it is better to rise from the table feeling slightly hungry. The boy had never had so foolish a theory to discard. The chicken, the ham, the pie, disappeared as if conjured away. The boy grew rounder. "Boy," said the doctor at last, "hadn't you better stop? You are 'swelling wisibly afore my werry eyes!'" The boy shook his head, but presently he began to have intervals when he was able to speak. "Better plant all you can," he advised. "Ma says the grub here would kill a cat. I eat at home. Ma wouldn't risk my stomach here. It's fierce." "But I'll have to eat, boy. Isn't there another hotel?" "Yep; two. But you couldn't go to them. This here's the only decent one. Gave you a nice room anyway." He looked around admiringly. "Going to stay long?" "No--that is, yes--I don't know! How can I stay if I can't eat?" The boy picked his round white teeth thoughtfully with a pin. "You might get board somewheres." This was a new idea. "Why--so I might! Does Mrs. Hallard who raises chickens or Miss What's-her-name who cures ham, keep boarders?" "Nope. But they're not the only oysters in the soup--There's the bell! They never give a man a minute's peace. Say, if you don't really like that pie, don't waste it--see? Tell you about boarding-houses later." Callandar had to clear the table himself. This he did by the simple expedient of putting everything on top of everything else. But he did not waste anything, a precaution whose value he realised that night upon returning from the dining room where he had spent some time in looking at that repast known to the Imperial as supper. Bubble, the bell boy, found him with his mind made up. "Boy," he said, "you have saved my life. But I fear I can sojourn no longer in your delightful town. Find me the first train out in the morning.". The boy's face fell. "Ain't you going to stay? Why, it's all over town that you're the new doctor come to take old Doc. Simmonds's practice. Mournful Mark, that you drove up with, told it. He said he shouldn't wonder if you're real clever. Says he suspects you're an old friend of Doc. Coombe's folks--went to college with the doctor, mebby. Says that likely Alviry will have you next time she gets a stroke." "Tempting as the prospect is, boy, I fear ..." "Oh, dang it! There's the bell again." He darted out, bumped down the sounding stairs and, while the doctor was still considering the words of his ultimatum, appeared again at the door, this time decorously on duty. "A call for you, sir," said Bubble primly. "A--what?" "A call, sir. Mrs. Sykes wants to know if the new doctor will call 'round first thing in the morning to see Mrs. Sykes's Ann. She dunno, but she thinks it's smallpox." "Quit your fooling, boy." "Cross my heart, doctor!" "Smallpox?" "Oh!" cheerfully, "I don't cross my heart to that. Mrs. Sykes always thinks things is smallpox. Ann's had smallpox several times now. But the rest is on the level. What message, sir?" Callandar hesitated. (And while he hesitated the Fateful Sisters manipulated a great many threads very swiftly.) "What train ..." he began. (The Fateful Sisters slipped a bobbin through and tied a cunning knot.) Without knowing why, Callandar decided to stay. He laughed. Bubble stood eagerly expectant. "Tell Mrs. Sykes I'll come, and ..." but Bubble did not wait for the end of the message. CHAPTER IV Coombe is a pretty place. It has broad streets, quiet and tree-lined. It has sunny, empty lots where children play. No one is crowded or shut in. The houses stand in their own green lawns, and are comfortable and even picturesque. The Swiss chalet style has not yet come to Coombe, so the architecture, though plain, is not productive of nightmare. The roads are like country roads, soft and yellowish; green grass grows along the sides of many of them, and board sidewalks are still to be found, springy and easy to the tread. There is a main street with macadamised roadway and stone pavements, real flat stone, for they were laid before the appearance of the all-conquering cement. There is a postoffice with a tower and a clock, a courthouse with a fountain and a cannon, a park with a bandstand and a baseball diamond, a townhall with a belfry and no bell, an exhaustive array of churches, the Imperial Hotel, and the market. We mention the market last (as we were taught at school) because on account of its importance it ought to come first. When Dr. Callandar, having been efficiently valeted by Bubble, set out to pay his first professional call, he drew in deep breaths of the pleasant air with a feeling of well-being to which he had long been a stranger. He had slept. In spite of the room, in spite of the chocolate cake, in spite of the pie, he had slept. And that alone was enough to make the whole world over. It was still hot but with a heat different from the heat of yesterday. A little shower had fallen during the night. There was a sense of the north in the air, a light freshness, very invigorating. He liked the quiet shaded streets; the cannon by the courthouse amused him; the number of church steeples left him amazed. He felt as if he had stumbled into a dream-town and must walk carefully lest he stumble out. Bubble had given him very complete directions, indeed so minute were they that we will omit them lest some day you find the way yourself and drop in on Mrs. Sykes when she is not expecting company. But Dr. Callandar in his amused absorption had forgotten that he was going to Mrs. Sykes at all, when he was recalled to a sense of duty by a sharp hail from the corner house of a street he had just passed. Looking back, he saw, half-way down the road, a tall, red woman leaning over a gate, who, upon attracting his attention, began waving her arms frantically, after the manner of an old-fashioned signalman inviting a train to "Come on." Callandar's step quickened in spite of himself and he forgot his idle musings. "Land sakes! I thought you'd never get here!" exclaimed the red woman fervently. "I suppose that imp of a boy didn't direct you right. Lucky I knew you as soon as you passed the corner. Mark Morrison may be as useless as they make 'em, but he's got a fine gift for description. Come right in. I'm dreadful anxious about Ann. It don't seem like measles, and she's had chicken-pox twice, and if she's sickening for anything worse I want to know it. I ain't one of them optimists that won't believe they're sick till they're dead. Callandar's your name, Mark says--any chance of your being a cousin to Dr. Callandar of Montreal that cured Mrs. Sowerby?" "No, I am not that Dr. Callandar's cousin." "I told Mark 'twasn't likely--or you wouldn't be here. Not if he'd any family feeling. I'm a great believer in a man making his own stepping-stones anyway," she went on with a friendly smile; "we ought to rise up on ourselves, like the poet says, and not on our cousins." "A noble sentiment," said Callandar gravely, as he followed her up the walk, across a veranda so clean that one hesitated to step on it, and into a small hall, bare and spotless, where he was invited to hang up his hat. "You're younger than I expected," went on Mrs. Sykes kindly. "I hope you ain't entirely dependent on your practice in Coombe?" The amazed doctor was understood to murmur something about "private means." "That's good. You'd starve if you hadn't. Coombe's a terrible healthy place and poor Doc. Simmonds didn't pay a call a week. I just felt like some one ought to warn you. I despise folks who hold back from telling things because they ain't quite pleasant. Know the worst, I always say; it's better in the end. Of course, as Mark says, your being a Presbyterian will make considerable diff'rence. Some folks thought Doc. Simmonds was pretty nigh an infiddle!" Too overcome by his feelings to answer, Callandar followed her up the narrow stair and into a clean bright room with green-tinted walls and yellow matting on the floor. Mrs. Sykes waved a deprecatory hand, at once exhibiting and apologising for so much splendour. "This is the spare-room," she explained. "And there," pointing to the high, old-fashioned bed, "is Ann." Callandar crossed the immaculate matting gingerly, taking Ann on faith, as it were, for, from the door, no; Ann was visible, only a very small dent in the big whiteness of the bed. "Ann! Here's the doctor!" A small black head and a pair of frightened black eyes appeared for a moment as if by conjuration, and instantly vanished. "Ann!" said Mrs. Sykes more sternly. There was a squirming somewhere under the bedclothes, but nothing happened. "Great Scott!" exclaimed the doctor, "you've got the child in a feather-bed!" Mrs. Sykes beamed complacently. "Yes, I have. It may seem like taking a lot of trouble for nothing, but you never can tell. I ain't one of them that never prepares for anything. Jest as soon as Ann gets sick I move her right into the spare-room and put her into the best feathers. Then if she should be took sudden I wouldn't have anything to regret. The minister and the doctor can come in here any hour and find things as I could wish.... Ann! what do you mean by wiggling down like that? Ann--come up at once! The doctor wants to see your tongue." This time the note of command was effective. The black head came to the surface, again followed by the frightened eyes and plump little cheeks stained with feverish red. "Some cool water, if you please," ordered the doctor in his best professional manner. Mrs. Sykes opened her lips to ask why, but something caused her to shut them without asking. When she had left the room, Callandar leaned suddenly over and lifted Ann bodily out of the dent and placed her firmly upon a pillow. It was a very plump pillow, evidently filled with the "best feathers," but compared with the bed it was as a rock in an ocean. "Now," he said gravely, "you are safe, for the present. You are on an island; but be very careful not to slide off for if you do I may never be able to look at your tongue." The child's hands grasped the island convulsively. "Don't hold on like that," he warned. "You might tip." He leaned close so that she might see the smile in his eyes, "And if you tipped ..." The child gave a sudden delighted giggle. "I'd go right in over my head, wouldn't I?" "Yes. And next time you were rescued you might feel more inclined to tell your aunt what you had been eating before you became ill." Ann stopped giggling. "You don't need to tell _me_," went on the doctor, "because I know!" "How d'ye know?" "Magic. Be careful--you were nearly off that time! Does your aunt know anything about those things you ate?" "No." "Very well. But you must promise not to eat those particular things again. Not even when you get the chance." Then as he saw the woe upon her face, "At least, not in quantities!" "Cross my heart!" said Ann, relieved. "Here's the water," said Mrs. Sykes, returning. "Ann, get right back into bed. Do you want to get your death? Haven't I told you till I'm tired to keep your hands in? Is it measles, Doctor? She's subject to measles. Perhaps it's the beginning of scarlet fever. But if it's smallpox I want to know. No good ever comes of smoothing things over." The doctor smiled at Ann. "It isn't smallpox this time, Mrs. Sykes." "Did you look at them spots on the back of her neck?" "Yes. A little rash caused by indigestion. I wouldn't worry." "Don't mind me. I'm used to worrying. I don't dodge my troubles like some I know. Indigestion? It looks more like eczema. Eczema is a terrible trying thing. But if the child's got it I don't want it called indigestion to spare my feelings." "But it's not eczema! It's indigestion--and prickly heat. I'm afraid Ann's stomach has been giving trouble. It has been hotter than is usual here, I understand. Heat often upsets children. While I write out a prescription, you might bathe her face and hands." Mrs. Sykes gazed doubtfully at the water. "She was done once last night and once this morning just before you came in," she remarked in an injured tone. "But if you think she needs it again, this sort of water's no good. Nothing's ever any good for Ann except hot water and soap." The doctor looked up from his writing in surprise. Then as the meaning of the thing dawned upon him, he laughed heartily. "Oh, Ann's as clean as the veranda floor!" he explained. "This is just to cool her off. Let me show you--doesn't that feel nice, Ann?" "Lovely!" blissfully. Mrs. Sykes sniffed. "I suppose that's some new-fangled notion? I never heard before of cooling people off when they've got a fever. In my time, the hotter you were, the hotter you were made to be, till you got cool naturally. I suppose," with half-interested sarcasm, "that you'd give her cold water to drink if she asked for it?" "Certainly." "Well, I expect she knows better than to ask for it!" Feeling Ann's imploring gaze, Callandar resorted to diplomacy. "The fact is, Mrs. Sykes," he said pleasantly, "there really isn't very much wrong with Ann. You have been letting your forethought and your natural anxiety run away with you. There is not the slightest occasion for alarm. If there were, I should not dream of hiding it from one so well-prepared as yourself. As it is, you have taken a lot of needless trouble--this beautiful feather-bed, for example! I feel sure that Ann would do very well in her own bed." The victim of the feathers gave a relieved gasp which her aunt mistook for a sigh of regret. "Her own bed's well enough for anything ordinary," she admitted in a mollified tone. "Even if it is a store mattress." "Quite good enough. Many a little girl would be glad of it." The doctor's tone was virtuous. "If you will allow me, I shall carry her in now. You see, she is cooler already. By to-morrow, if she takes her medicine, she ought to be as well as ever." Ann's own room turned out to be on the shady side, and though not so grand as the spare-room, it was pleasantly cool. The little bed with the hard mattress and the snowy counterpane was infinitely to be preferred to the ocean of feathers, and the rescued maiden lay back on her smaller pillows with a sigh of gratitude. "Sure you won't tell?" she whispered as he laid her down. "Honour bright. Cross my heart! But you must take the medicine. It's nasty, but not too nasty, and you mustn't squeal--or it will be the spare-room again. Red cheeks and prickly heat are consequences, but feather-beds and medicine are retribution." "That's right, Doctor," said Mrs. Sykes, who had heard the last words. "There's nothing like a word about retribution when a person's sick. It helps 'em to realise their state. I don't hold with the light-minded that want to get away from retribution. Depend upon it, they're the very folks that's got it coming to them. Yes. No one needs to go around denying that there's a hell, if their feet are planted upon a rock and they know they're never going there. It's years now since I've looked hell in the face and turned my feet the other way. But I do say that if I'd decided to go straight ahead in the broad and easy path, I wouldn't try to shut my eyes to the end of it, like some folks! Are you putting up at the Imperial, Doctor?" "'Putting up' exactly expresses my condition." "Well, you may as well know at once that a doctor in a hotel will never get any forwarder in Coombe. You'll have to get boarding somewhere. Have you looked around yet?" "No. I--" "Then I don't mind telling you that the spare-room is to let and the little room down below that has a door of its own and seems made exactly for a doctor's office. I shouldn't mind letting you have them if you feel sure that the smells wouldn't get loose all through the house and in the cooking. There's a barn where you could keep your horse." "I haven't got a horse," protested Callandar feebly. "But of course you'll be getting one. A doctor has to have a horse. If you can't pay for it down, Mark knows some one who'd let you have a good one on time. You can trust Mark, if he _is_ mournful. Of course I don't say that these rooms are the only rooms to let in Coombe, but I do think they're about as good as you can get--being so near to Dr. Coombe's old house. People get used to coming for a doctor down this street." "But that was, over a year ago." "It takes more 'an a year for Coombe folks to change their ways. Only this day week I saw Bill Brooks tearing down this way on account of Mrs. Brooks' being took kind of unexpected, and Bill losing his head and forgetting all about Dr. Coombe being dead and Dr. Parker living on the other side of the town." "And you think that if I'd been here he would have 'tore' in here?" "If he hadn't I'd just have called out to him as he went by. He was that wild he'd have taken anybody." "I see," with humility. "I lost a good chance there!" "Well, if you live here you'll get others. Why, from the spare-room windows you can see the corner window down at the Coombe place. I could make out to let you have your meals, too. Only I'd expect you to be as reg'lar as Providence permitted. I know a doctor is bound to be more aggravating in that way than other folks, but if you'd be as regular as lay in you, I'd put up with it. 'Tisn't as if I wasn't always prepared. When will you want to move in?" "Really, I--I don't know--" The bewildered Callandar glanced for help to Ann, but met only clasped hands and an imploring stare. "I'll--I'll let you know," he faltered. Thinking it over afterwards, he could never understand why he did not promptly refuse to be coerced, but at the time surrender seemed the only natural thing. Besides, he couldn't stay another day at the Imperial. He had to go somewhere. Perhaps it was his destiny to secure Ann against further feather-beds. Anyway, he accepted it. "Oh, goody!" cried Ann, clapping her hands. "Ann! put your hands under those clothes. How often must I tell you that you'll get your death? If you like, Doctor, there's nothing to prevent your moving in to-morrow. I'll need a day to air the feather-tick and make some pie." The doctor was at last roused to action. "There are conditions," he said hastily. "If I come here, there is to be no feather-tick and no pie!" "No feather-bed?" in amazement. "No pie?" Ann's voice was a sorrowful whisper. "You see," Callandar explained, "I am here partly for my health. My health cannot lie on feather-beds nor eat pie--well, perhaps," with a glance at Ann, "an occasional pie may do no harm. But I shall send down some springs and a mattress. I have to use a special kind," hastily. "Oh! it's spinal trouble, is it?" Mrs. Sykes surveyed him commiseratingly. "You look straight enough. But land! You never can tell. Them spinal troubles are most deceiving. Terrible things they are, but they don't shorten life as quickly as some others. Not that that's a blessing! Mostly, folks as has them would be glad to go long before they are took. Still, it gives them some time to be prepared. I remember--" "I must go now, Mrs. Sykes. Give Ann some of the medicine as soon as it comes. It isn't exactly spinal trouble that is the matter with me, you know, but--er--I'll send down the kind of mattress I like. In fact, I shall probably wish to furnish my rooms myself. You won't mind, I'm sure." "Land sakes, no, I don't mind! Most doctors are finicky. Don't worry about the medicine. I'll see that Ann takes it." She watched him go with a glance in which satisfaction and foreboding mingled. "Poor young feller!" she mused. "He didn't like what I said about his spine a mite. Back troubles makes folks terrible touchy." CHAPTER V Two days after the installation of what Mrs. Sykes persisted in calling the "spinal mattress," Esther Coombe was late in getting home from school. As was usually the case when this happened, Jane, designated by mournful Mark as "the Pindling One," was sitting on the gatepost gazing disconsolately down the road. There were traces of tears upon her thin little face and the warmth of the hug which returned her sister's greeting was evidence of an unusually disturbed mind. "Why aren't you playing with the other children, Jane?" "I don't want to play, Esther. Timothy's dead." "Yes, I know, dear. But Fred has promised you a new puppy--" "I don't want a new puppy. I want Timothy." "But Timothy is so much happier, Jane. He was old, you know. In the Happy Hunting Grounds, he will be able to frisk about just like other dogs. Wouldn't you like an apple?" Jane considered this a moment and decided favourably. But her tale of woe was not yet complete. "Mother's ill again," she announced gloomily. "I mustn't play band or nail the slats on the rabbits' hutch. Aunt Amy gave me my dinner on the back porch. I liked that. I wouldn't go in the house, not till you came, Esther." The straight brows of the elder sister came together in a worried frown. "You know that is being silly, Jane." "I don't care." "You must learn to care. Run now and get the apple and ask Aunt Amy to wash your face." Jane tripped away obediently, her griefs assuaged by the mere telling of them, and Esther passed into the house by way of the veranda. It was a charming veranda, long and low, opening through French windows directly into the living room which, like itself, was long and low, and charming. There is a charm in rooms which can be felt but not described. It exists apart from the furnishings and even the occupants; it is an essence, haunting, intangible--the soul of the room! only there are many rooms which have no soul. Through the living room at the Elms vagrant breezes entered, loitered, and drifted out again, leaving behind them scents of sun-warmed flowers. The light there was soft and green. The comfortable chairs invited rest; the polished rosewood table, the bright piano shining in the brightest corner, the smooth old floor in whose rug the colours had long ceased to trouble, the general air of much used comfort, satisfied and refreshed. Esther loved the room. Her first childish memory was of the rosewood table shining like a pool in the lamplight and of her own wondering face reflected in it, with her father's laughing eyes behind. In every way it was associated with the beginnings of things. The magic of all music began for her in the sweet, thin notes of the old square piano; the key to fairy land lay hidden somewhere in that shelf of well-worn books. Yet to-night she entered with a hesitating step. It was obvious that she felt no pleasure in the cool greenness. The room was the same room but it was as if the expression on a well-known face had unaccountably changed and become forbidding. The girl sighed as she flung her hat upon a chair. "Esther," Jane's voice, somewhat obscured by the eating of the promised apple, came through the open window, "are you sure about Timothy being in the Happy Hunting Grounds?" "Of course, dear." "But he wasn't what you would call a Christian, Esther?" "He was a good dog." "Can Timothy chase chickens there?" "Probably." "And cats?" "Certainly cats." "Is that what happens to bad cats when they die?" Esther viewed this logical picture of everlastingly pursued cats with some dismay. "N-o. I don't suppose it would be real cats." "But Tim wouldn't chase anything but real cats." "Jane, I wish you wouldn't talk with your mouth full." Being thus reduced to giving up the argument or the apple, Jane abandoned the former. It was clear that Esther was not in the mood for argument. The child's quick observation had not failed to note the lagging step, nor the quick sigh. She nodded her head as if in answer to some spoken word. "Yes, I know. I feel like that, too. That's why I didn't come in before; that's why I'm not really in yet. It catches you by the throat and makes you breathe funny. What is it, Esther?" "Why--I don't know, Jane. It's loneliness I think--missing Dad." The child shook her head. But whatever her objection might have been it was beyond her power of expression. She slid off the veranda step and wandered back into the garden. There was another apple in the pocket of her apron, and apples are great comforters. Left alone, Esther with a resolutely cheerful air took down a blue bowl and proceeded to arrange therein the day's floral offerings. A sweet and crushed mixture they were, pansies, clove-pinks, mignonette, bleeding hearts, bachelors' buttons, all short stemmed and minus any saving touch of green, but true love offerings for all that. Wordless gifts most of them, prim little bunches, hot from tight clasping in chubby hands, shyly and swiftly deposited on "Teacher's desk" when the back of that divinity was turned. The blue bowl took kindly to them all, and as the girl's clever fingers settled and arranged the glowing chaos it seemed that with their crushed fragrance something of the lost spirit of the room came back. Just so had she arranged hundreds of times the sweet smelling miscellanies which had been her father's constant tribute from grateful patients. She had almost finished when the door opened to admit a little, grey wisp of a woman with a mild white face and large faded eyes which might once have been beautiful. She was dressed entirely in lavender, a fondness for this colour being one of the many harmless fancies born of a brain not quite normal. The rather expressionless face brightened at sight of the girl by the table. "Why, Esther--I didn't hear you come in. Have you put a mat under the bowl? See now! You have marked the table." Esther good humouredly reached for a table-mat, for the polish of this particular article of furniture was the pride of Aunt Amy's life. "It's all right, Auntie. It's not really a mark. Look, aren't they sweet? It is like one of father's posies. Is mother any better?" "The children must think a lot of you, Esther!" "Yes, although I think they would bring flowers to any one, bless 'em! Is mother--" "Your mother hasn't been down all day. I went up with her dinner but she didn't take any. She wouldn't answer." "Auntie, don't you think she ought to do something about these headaches?" "I don't know, Esther. She'll be all right to-morrow. She always is." "Yes. But they are getting more frequent, and you know--she is so different. She can't be well. Haven't you noticed it?" "No," vaguely. "Well, Jane has. So it can't just be imagination. She ought to consult a doctor." "She won't." "But it's absurd! What shall we do if she goes on like this? If there were only some one who would talk to her! She won't listen to me because she is older and married and--all that. All the same she doesn't seem older when she acts like this--like a child!" "Well, you know, Esther, there isn't any doctor here that your mother just fancies." The girl stooped lower over the blue bowl, perhaps to hide the little smile which crinkled up the corner of her mouth. The faint colour on her cheek may have been a reflection from the flowers. "Yes, but haven't you heard? There is a new doctor. He seems quite different--I mean they say he is awfully nice. Mrs. Sykes' Ann was telling me all about him. He is going to board with Mrs. Sykes. The child just worships him already. Perhaps mother might see him." "I shouldn't worry," said Aunt Amy placidly. "This pepper-grass will be very nice for tea. Did you tell Jane she might have two apples, Esther?" "No. I told her she might have one. But I don't suppose two will hurt her." Esther was used to Aunt Amy's inconsequences which made impossible the discussion of any subjects save the most trivial. But she sighed a little as she realised anew that there was no help here. "Jane is feeling badly about Timothy," she explained. "Don't you think we might have tea in here, Auntie? It is so cool." Aunt Amy, who had been anxiously rubbing an imaginary spot on the table, looked up with a startled air. "Oh, Esther!" she said, in the voice of a frightened child. Then with a child's obvious effort to control rising tears, "Of course, if you say so, Esther. But--but do you feel like risking the round table? Couldn't we have it on the little table in the corner?" The girl settled the last of her flowers and pushed back her hair with a worried gesture. A pang of mingled irritation and anxiety lent an edge of sharpness to her soft voice. "Auntie dear! I thought you had quite forgotten that fancy. You know it is only a fancy. Round tables are just like other tables. And you promised me--" "Yes, I know, but--" "Well, then, be sensible, dear. We shall have tea in here." Then seeing the real distress on the timid old face, the girl's mood softened. "No, we shan't," she declared gaily. "We'll have it as usual in the dining room. You will fix the pepper-grass and I shall set the table." But the end of Aunt Amy's vagaries was not yet. She hesitated, flushed and more timidly, yet as one who is compelled, begged for the task of setting the table herself. "For you know, Esther, the sprigged tea-set is so hurt if any one but me arranges it. Yes, of course, it is only a fancy, I know that. But the sprigged tea-set does feel so badly if I neglect it. All the pink in it fades quite out. You must have noticed it, Esther?" The girl sighed and gave in. Usually Aunt Amy's vagaries troubled her little. Disconcerting at first, they had quickly become a commonplace, for the coming of Aunt Amy to the doctor's household had been too great a blessing to invite criticism. Esther had soon learned to express no surprise when told that the sprigged china had a heart of extreme sensitiveness, and that the third step on the front stair disliked to be trodden upon, and that it was dangerous to sit with one's back to a window facing the east. All these and numberless other strange facts were part of Aunt Amy's twilight world. To her they were immensely important, but to the family the really important thing seemed that, with trifling exceptions, the new inmate of the household was gentle and kind; her housekeeping a miracle and her cooking a dream. In the years she had lived with them there had been but one serious thrill of anxiety, and that came when Dr. Coombe had discovered her endeavouring to infect Jane with her delusions. This had been strictly forbidden and the child's mind, duly warned, was soon safeguarded by her own growing comprehension. Jane quickly understood that it was foolish to shut the garden gate three times every time she came through it, and that no one save Aunt Amy thought it necessary to count all the boards in the sidewalk or to touch all the little posts under the balustrade as one came down stairs. Some of the prettier, more elusive fancies she may have retained, but, if so, they did her no harm. As for Aunt Amy herself, she lived her shadow-haunted life not unhappily. Dr. Coombe she had worshipped, yet his death had not affected her as much as might have been feared. Perhaps it was one of her compensations that death to her was not quite what it is to the more normal consciousness. It was noticeable that she always spoke of the doctor as if he were in the next room. Her devotion to him had been caused by his success in partially relieving her of the most distressing burden of her disordered brain--the delusion of persecution. Aunt Amy knew that somewhere there existed a mysterious power known vaguely as "They" who sought unceasingly to injure her. Of course it was only once in a while that "They" got a chance, for Aunt Amy was very clever in providing no opportunities. More than once had she outwitted "Them." Still, one must be always upon one's guard! From this harrowing delusion the doctor had done much to deliver her, indeed she had become more normal in every way under his care. It was only now, a year after his death, that Esther imagined sometimes that there was a slipping back-- The ill effects of sitting at a round table, for instance? It was a long time since this particular fancy had been spoken of and Esther had considered it gone altogether. Yet here it was, cropping out again and just at a time when other problems threatened. Things seemed determined to be difficult to-day. The fact was that Esther was suffering from the need of a confidant. Really worried as she felt about her step-mother's health, the burden of taking any determined action against the wishes of the patient herself was a serious one for a young girl. Yet in whom could she confide? Girl friends she had in plenty but not one whose judgment she could trust before her own. Had the minister been an older man or a man of different calibre she might have gone to him, but the idea of appealing to Mr. Macnair was distasteful. Neither among her father's friends was there one to whom she cared to go for advice concerning her father's widow. They had one and all disapproved, she knew, of the sudden second marriage and Dr. Coombe had never quite forgiven their disapproval. Often she felt like refusing the responsibility altogether. After all, her step-mother was a woman quite old enough to manage her own affairs. If she wished to foolishly imperil her health why need Esther care? Why indeed? But this train of reasoning never lasted long. Always there came a counter-question, "If you do not care, who will?" And the dearth of any answer settled the burden more firmly upon her rebellious shoulders. For one thing there was always the inner knowledge that Mary Coombe was weak and that she, Esther, was strong. She had always known this. Even when her father had brought home his pretty bride and Esther, a shy, silent child of eleven, had welcomed her, she had known that the newcomer was the weaker spirit. The bride had known it too. She had never attempted to control Esther, leaving the child entirely to her father--a bit of unwitting wisdom which did much to smooth daily life at the Elms. If the doctor saw his wife's weakness of character it is probable that it did not interfere with his love for her. Why need she be strong while he was strong enough for two? But he had forgotten one thing--the day when she would have to be strong alone! The realisation came to him upon his death-bed. Esther was sure of this. He could not speak, but she had read the message of his eyes, the appeal to the strength in her to help the other's weakness. No getting away from the solemn charge of that entreating look! * * * * * Esther was thinking of that look now, as she sat alone in the dusk of the veranda. Tea was over and Aunt Amy was putting Jane to bed. From her mother she had had no word. Blank silence had met her when she had taken the tea tray upstairs and called softly through the closed door. Mrs. Coombe was probably asleep. She would be better to-morrow; but before long she would be ill again, and the interval between the attacks was becoming shorter. There was anger as well as anxiety in the girl's mind. Her healthy and straightforward youth had little patience with her step-mother's unreasonable caprices. For her illness she had every sympathy, but for the morbid nervousness which seemed to accompany it, none at all. These constant headaches, the increasing nervous irritability from which Mrs. Coombe suffered lay like a shadow over the house. Yet the sufferer refused to take the obvious way of relief and persisted in her refusal with a stubbornness of which no one would have dreamed her light nature capable. Still, willing or unwilling, something must be done. Aunt Amy, too, was becoming more of an anxiety. Once or twice lately she had spoken of "Them," a sign of mental distress which Dr. Coombe had always treated with the utmost seriousness. Perhaps if a doctor were called in for Aunt Amy, Mrs. Coombe would lose her foolish dread of doctors and allow him to prescribe for her also. And if the new doctor were half as clever as Mrs. Sykes said he was--Esther's heart began to warm a little as her fancy pictured such a pleasant solution of all her problems. The little smile curved her lips again as she thought of the maple by the schoolhouse steps, and the lettuce sandwiches and--and everything. She closed her eyes and tried to recall his face as he had looked up at her. Instinctively she knew it for a good face, strong, humorous, kindly, but strong above all. And it was strength that Esther needed. When she went to bed that night her burden seemed a little lighter. I believe he can help me, she thought, and it isn't as if he were quite a stranger. After all, we had lunch together once! CHAPTER VI Undoubtedly Esther slept better that night for the thought of the new doctor. It cannot be said that the doctor slept better because of her. In fact he lay awake thinking of her. He did not want to think of her; he wanted to go to sleep. Twice only had he seen her. Once upon the occasion of the red pump and once when casually passing her on the main street. There was no reason why her white-rose face with its strange blue eyes and its smile-curved lips should float about in the darkness of Mrs. Sykes' best room. Yet there it was. It was the eyes, perhaps. The doctor admitted that they were peculiar eyes, startlingly blue. Dark blue in the shade of the lashes, flashing out light blue fire when the lashes lifted. But Mrs. Sykes' boarder did not want to think about eyes. He wanted to go to sleep. He did not want to think about hair either. Although Miss Coombe had very nice hair--cloudy hair, with little ways of growing about the temple and at the curve of the neck which a blind man could not help noticing. In the peaceful shadows of the room it seemed a still softer shadow framing the vivid girlish face. Still, on the whole, sleep would have been better company and when at last he did drop off he did not relish being wakened by the voice of Ann at his door. "Doc-ter, doc-ter! Are you awake? Can I come in?" "I am not awake. Go away." Ann's giggle came clearly through the keyhole. "You've got a visitor," she whispered piercingly through the same medium. "A man. A well man, not a sick one. He came on the train. He came on the milk train--" "You may come in, Ann." The doctor slipped on his dressing gown with a resigned sigh. "What man and why milk?" "I don't know. Aunt Sykes kept him on the veranda till she was sure he wasn't an agent. Now he's in the parlour. Aunt hopes you'll hurry, for you never can tell. He may be different from what he looks." "What does he look?" Ann's small hands made an expressive gesture which seemed to envisage something long and lean. "Queer--like that. He's not old, but he's bald. His eyes screw into you. His nose," another formative gesture, "is like that. A nawful big nose. He didn't tell his name." "If he looks like that, perhaps he hasn't any name. Perhaps he is a button-moulder. In fact I'm almost certain he is--other name Willits. Occupation, professor." "But if he is a button-maker, he can't be a professor," said Ann shrewdly. "Oh, yes he can. Button-moulding is what he professes. His line is a specialty in spoiled buttons. He makes them over." "Second-hand?" "Better than new." Ann fidgeted idly with the doctor's cuff-links and then with a flash of her odd childish comprehension, "You love him a lot, don't you?" she said jealously. The doctor adjusted a collar button. "England expects that every man shall deny the charge of loving another," he said, "but between you and me, I do rather like old Willits. You see I was rather a worn-out button once and he made me over. Where did you say he was?" "In the parlour--there's Aunt! She said I wasn't to stay. I'll get it." Indeed the voice of Mrs. Sykes could be heard on the stairs. "Ann! Where's that child? Doctor, you'd think that child had never been taught no manners. You'll have to take a firm stand with Ann, Doctor. Land Sakes, I don't want to make her out worse'n she is, but you might as well know that your life won't be worth living if you don't set on Ann." "All right, Mrs. Sykes. Painful as it may be, I shall do it. Are you sure it's safe to leave a stranger in the parlour?" Mrs. Sykes looked worried. "I hope to goodness it's all right, Doctor. He's been in the parlour half an hour. I don't think he's an agent, hasn't got a case or a book anywhere. But agents are getting cuter every day. Naturally I didn't like to go so far as to ask his name. And I'm not asking it now. Curiosity was never a fault of mine though I do say it. Still a woman does like to know who's setting in her front parlour." "And you shall," declared Callandar kindly. "Just hang on a few moments longer, dear Mrs. Sykes, and your non-existent but very justifiable curiosity shall be satisfied." The parlour at Mrs. Sykes opened to the right of the narrow hall. Its two windows, distinguished by eternally half-drawn blinds of yellow, looked out upon the veranda, permitting a decorous gloom to envelop the sacred precincts. Mrs. Sykes was too careful a housekeeper to take risks with her carpet and too proud of her possessions to care to hide their glories altogether; hence the blinds were never wholly drawn and never raised more than half way. In the yellow gloom, one might feast one's eyes at leisure upon the centre table, draped in red damask, mystic, wonderful, and on its wealth of mathematically arranged books, the Bible, the "Indian Mutiny" and "Water Babies" in blue and gold. This last had been a gift to Ann and was considered by Mrs. Sykes to be the height of foolishness. Still, a book is a book, especially when bound in blue and gold. Upon the gaily papered walls hung a framed silver name-plate and two pictures. One a gorgeously coloured print of the lamented Queen Victoria in a deep gold frame, and the other a representation of an entrancing allegorical theme entitled "The Two Paths," illustrating the ascent of the saint into heaven and the descent of the sinner into hell. At the top of this picture was the legend, "Which will you choose?"--implying a possible but regrettable lack of taste on the part of the chooser. Into this abode of the arts and muses came Callandar, alert and smiling. It was hardly his fault that he stumbled over the visitor who, whether in awe or fear of these unveiled splendours, had retreated as far as possible toward the door. "Don't mind me!" said the visitor meekly. "Willits! by Jove, I thought it would be you! Say, would you mind not sitting on that chair? It's just glued!" The visitor arose with conspicuous alacrity. He was a tall man with a domelike head, piercing eyes and formidable nose. Ann's description had been terribly accurate. He observed the tail of his coat carefully and finding no damage, seemed relieved. "Sit here," said Callandar affably. "And don't expect me to make you welcome, because you aren't. What misfortunate chance has brought you to Coombe?" "Neither fortune nor chance had anything at all to do with it," declared the visitor. "I followed your luggage. I wanted to see you." "Well, take a good look." "I think you can guess why." "Yes," with a sigh. "I was always a good guesser. And, frankly, Willits, I wish you hadn't." "I do not doubt it. But, first, is there any other place where we can talk?" "Don't you like this?" innocently. The Button-Moulder's look of surprised anguish was sufficient answer. Callandar laughed. "You always were a bit narrow in your views, Willits. How often have I impressed upon you that beauty depends upon understanding? I don't suppose you have even tried to understand this room? No? Will it help any if I tell you that Mrs. Sykes went without a spring bonnet that she might purchase the deep gold frame which enshrines Victoria the Good, or if I explain that Joseph Sykes, deceased, whose name you see yonder upon that engraved plate, was the most worthless rogue unhung. Yet the silver which displays--" "Not in the least," interrupted the other hastily. "The place is a nightmare. Nothing can excuse it! And you--how you stand it I cannot see." "My dear man, I don't stand it. I am not allowed to. It's only upon special occasions that any one is allowed to stand this room. You are a special occasion. But as you seem so unappreciative we can adjourn to my office if you wish." "You have an office?" "Certainly. A doctor has to have an office. This way." Callandar strode across the room and opened a door in the opposite wall. It led into another room, smaller, with no veranda in front of it, yet with a window looking toward the road and two side windows through which the after flush of sunrise streamed. Its door opened upon a small stone stoop set in the grass of the front lawn. The furniture of the room was plain, not to say severe. Cool matting covered the painted floor, hemstitched curtains of linen scrim hung at the windows. There was a businesslike desk, a couch, a reclining chair, a stool by the door; another chair, straight and uncompromising, behind the desk. That was all. Willits looked around him in a kind of dazed surprise. "Office!" he kept murmuring. "_Office_!" "All rather plain, you see," said Callandar regretfully. "But for a beginner with his way to make, not so bad. My patients, three up to date, quite understand and conceal their commiseration with perfect good breeding. Also, the room has natural advantages, it is in the nature of an annex, you see, with a door of its own. Quite cut off from the rest of the house save-for the door by which we entered, the parlour door, which Mrs. Sykes informs me I may lock if I choose although she feels sure that I know her too well to imagine any undue liberties being taken!" The Button-Moulder with a gesture of despair made as if to sit down upon the nearest chair, but was prevented with kindly firmness by his host. "Not that chair, please. It may not be quite dry. I glued--" The voice of the visitor suddenly returned. It was a very dry voice; threadlike, but determined. "Then if you will kindly find me a chair which you have not glued I shall sit down and dispose of a few burning thoughts. Callandar, as soon as you have finished playing the fool--" "Consider it finished, old man." "Then what does this, all this"--with a sweeping hand wave--"mean? You cannot seriously intend to stay here?" "Why not?" "Your question is absurd." "No, it isn't. Let it sink in. Why should I not stay here? Examine the facts. I am ordered change, rest, interest, good air--a year at least must elapse before I take up my life again. I must spend that year somewhere. Why not here? It is healthy, high, piney, quiet. I had become utterly tired of my tramping tour. All the good I can get from it I have got. Chance, or whatever you like to call it, leads me to this place. A place which needs a doctor and which this particular doctor needs. There is nothing absurd about it." The tall man observed his friend in interested silence. Apparently he required time to adjust his mind to the fact that Callandar was in earnest. The badinage he brushed aside. "Then you really intend--but how about this office? If it is not a torn-fool office, where does the necessary rest come in?" "Rest doesn't mean idleness. I should die of loafing. As a matter of fact since coming here I have rested as I have not rested for a year. Look at me! Can't you see it? Or is the renovation not yet visible to the naked eye? Great Scott! I don't need to vegetate in order to rest, do I?" "No." Another pause ensued during which the gimlet eyes of the professor were busy. Then he seemed suddenly to leap to the heart of the matter. "And--Lorna?" He asked crisply. It was the other's turn to be silent. He flushed, looked embarrassed, and drummed with his fingers upon the table. "Of course I have no right to ask," added Willits primly. "Yes, you have, old man. Every right. But I knew you had come to ask that question and I didn't like it. The answer is not a flattering one--to me. Nor is it what you expected. To be brief, Lorna won't have me. Refused me--flat!" Blank surprise portrayed itself upon the professor's face. "The devil she did!" "Confess now!" said Callandar, smiling. "You thought I was the one to blame? There was retributive justice in your eye, don't deny it!" "But, I don't understand! I thought--I was sure--" "I know. But she doesn't! Not in that way. As a sister--" "That's enough! I--Accept my apology. I feel very sorry, Henry." Again that look of embarrassment and guilt upon the doctor's face. "No. Don't feel sorry! See here, let's be frank about the whole thing. It was a mistake, from the very beginning, a mistake. Miss Sinnet, Lorna, is a girl in a thousand. But--I did not care for her as a man should care for the woman he makes his wife. Nor did she care for me--wait, I'm not denying that there was a chance. We were very congenial. She might have cared if--if I had cared more greatly." "Henry Callandar! Are you a cad?" "No. Merely a man speaking the exact truth. I thought I might risk it, with you. Lorna Sinnet is not a woman to give her love and take a half-love in return. She was more clear-sighted than you or I. We should both have been very miserable." Elliott Willits sighed. He was a very sensible man. He prided himself upon being devoid of sentiment, but even the most sensible of men, entirely devoid of sentiment, do not like to see their well laid plans go wrong. "Well," he said, "I was mistaken. Let us say no more about it." Callandar's eyes softened, melted into misty grey. He laid his arm affectionately over the other's thin shoulders. "Only this," he said. "That no man ever had a better friend! I know you, old Button-Moulder. I know your ambition to make of me a 'shining button on the vest of the world!' You thought that Lorna might help. But I failed you there. I'm sorry. That was really the bitterness of the whole thing---to fail you!" "You owe me nothing," gruffly. "Only my life--my sanity." "I shall doubt the latter if you stay here." "No, you will see it triumphantly vindicated. I tell you I am better already. Look at my hand! Do you remember how it shook the last time I held it out for you. A few more months of this and it will be steady as a rock. Ah! it's good to be feeling fit again! And it isn't only a physical improvement." His smile faded and rising he began to pace the room. "I doubt if even you fully understand the mental depression that was dragging me down. No wonder Lorna would have none of me! Strange, that I cannot understand my own case as I understand the cases of others. Do what I would, I could not heal myself, the soul of the matter persistently escaped me. I was beginning to be as much the victim of an obsession as any of the poor creatures whom I tried to cure." "You never told me of that." "No, I was afraid to speak of it. It would have made it seem more real. But I can tell you now, if you are sure you will not be bored." "I shall not be bored," said Willits quietly. CHAPTER VII "In order to make you understand, I'll have to go back," said the doctor musingly, "a long way back. Some of the story you already know, but now I want you to know it all. But first--when you found me in that hospital, a useless bit of human wreckage, and forced me back into life with your scorn of a coward and your cutting words, what did you think? What did I tell you? It is all hazy to me." "You told me very little. It was plain enough. You had come a bad cropper. Some girl, I gathered. You had lost her, you blamed yourself. You talked a great deal of nonsense. I inferred--the usual thing!" "You were mistaken. It was at once better and worse than that. But let's begin at the beginning. My father was a fairly wealthy man--but a dreamer. He made his money by a clever invention and lost it by an investment little short of idiotic. Like many unpractical men he had rather fancied himself as a man of business and the disillusion killed him. He--shot himself. My mother, my sister and myself were left, with nothing save a small sum in the bank and the deed of the modest house we lived in. Adela was twenty-one and I was nineteen. We sold the house, moved into rooms; Adela learned shorthand and went into an office. I wanted to do the same. But mother was adamant. I must finish my college course and take my degree; she and Adela could manage until I could make it up to them later. It was hard, but it seemed the only sensible thing to do-- "I faced the task of working my way through college with a thankful heart, for though I pretended that I did not care, it would have been a terrible thing to have given up my life's ambition. The thought of Adela trudging to the office hurt--it was the touch of the spur. I needn't tell you, you can guess how I worked! People were kind. One summer, old Doctor Inglis, whose amiable hobby it was to help young medical students, engaged me for the holidays as his chauffeur and general helper at a wage which would see me through my next term. It seemed an unusual piece of luck, for he lived only twenty miles from my mother's home and an electric tram connected the towns. One night I went with Adela to a Church Social--of all places--and that is where the story really begins, for it was at the Social that I met Molly Weston. It seemed the most casual of all accidents, for you can imagine that I did not frequent churches in those days, and Molly, too, had come there by chance. She was dressed in pink, her cheeks were pink, she wore a pink rose in her hair. She was the prettiest little fairy that ever smiled and pouted her way into a boy's heart. Before I left her I was madly in love--a boy's first headlong passion. Adela was amazed, teased me in her elderly sister way but never for a moment took it seriously. Molly was a mere bird of passage, an American girl staying with friends for a brief time, therefore my infatuation was a humorous thing. But it was not so simple as that. Molly stayed on, Dr. Inglis was indulgent, we met continually. If her friends knew of it they did not care. It was just a flirtation of their pretty guest's. As a serious factor I was quite beneath the horizon, a young fellow working his way through college, and with, later on, a mother and sister to support. "Molly understood the situation. At least she knew all the facts. I doubt if she ever understood them. She was one of those helpless, clinging girls who never seem to understand anything clearly. I remember well how I used to agonise in explanation, trying to make her see our difficulties and to face them with me. But when I had talked myself into helpless silence she would ruffle my hair and say, 'But you really do love me, don't you, Harry?' or 'I don't care what we have to do, so long as mother doesn't know.' "I soon found out that her one strong emotion was fear of her mother. She was fond of her but she feared her as weak natures fear the strong, especially when bound to them by ties of blood. I was allowed to see her photograph--the picture of a grim hard face instinct with an almost terrible strength. No wonder my pretty Molly was her slave. One would have deemed it impossible that they were mother and daughter. Molly, it appears, was like her father, and he, poor man, had been long dead. Molly would do anything, promise anything, if only her mother might not know. She had not the faintest scruple in deceiving her, but this I laid, and still lay, to the strength of her love for me. "She did love me. She must have loved me--else how could her timid nature have taken the risk it did? "Summer fled by like a flash. Molly stayed with her friends as long as she could find an excuse and then went on for a brief week in Toronto. It was the week, of course, that I returned to college. We hoped that she could extend her stay, but her mother wrote 'Come home,' and there was no appeal from that. Then I did a desperate thing. Without Molly's knowledge I wrote to her mother telling her that I loved her daughter and begging, as a man begs for his life, to be allowed to ask her to wait for me. The letter was a lie in that it concealed the fact that my love was already confessed but I felt it necessary to shield Molly. I received no answer to the letter, but Molly received a telegram, 'Come home at once.' "I can leave you to imagine the scene--my despair, Molly's tears! Never for an instant did she dream of disobeying and I--I felt that if she went I should lose her forever. "Willits, there is something in me, devil or angel, which will not give up. Nothing has ever conquered it yet and Molly was like wax in my hands--so long as 'Mother' need not know. I do not attempt to excuse myself; what I did was dastardly, but it did not seem so then. The night before she left, she stole away from home. I had a license and we were married by a Methodist minister. He knew neither of us and probably forgot the whole incident immediately. It was a marriage only in name for we said good-bye at Molly's door. She left next morning. I never saw her again." Into the silence which followed, the professor's words dropped dryly. "What was your idea in forcing a meaningless marriage?" "I loved her. I knew that it was the only way. Madly as I loved her, I knew that Molly was weak as water. I could not, would not, run the risk of letting her leave me without the legal tie. But I justified it to myself--I could have justified anything, I fear! I vowed a vow that she would be repaid for the waiting as never woman yet was paid. She wept on my shoulder and said, 'And you really do love me, Harry--and you'll swear mother need never know?' "I swore it. There were to be no letters. Molly was too terrified to write and still more terrified of receiving a letter. She would live in constant dread, she said, if there were a possibility of such a thing. Weak in everything else she was adamant in this. "I went back to work. I worked with the strength of ten. Health, comfort, pleasure, all were subordinated to the fever of work. I hoped that I might steal a glimpse of her sometimes. She promised to try to return to Toronto. But my letter must have alarmed the mother. I found out, indirectly, that shortly after her return, Mrs. Weston whisked her off to Europe. They were gone a year. When they returned I was in the far west with a government surveying party, earning something to help me with my last year's college expenses. When I was again in Toronto she had vanished. Gone, as I afterward learned, to stay with an aunt in California. Her mother, alive to danger, was not going to risk a meeting, and my vow to Molly left me helpless. But how I worked! "That last year things began to come my way. Adela married a fine young fellow, wealthy and generous. My mother went to live with them in their western home, Calgary, where they still are. Then Thomas Callandar, my mother's brother, who had never bothered about any of us living, died, and left me a handsome property, adding, as you already know, the condition that I take the family name. You remember that my father's name, the name under which I married Molly, was Chedridge. "Nothing now held me from Molly--in another month I would have my degree, and free and rich I could go to claim her. It seemed like a fairy tale! In my great happiness I broke my promise and wrote to her, to the California address, hoping to catch her there. In three weeks' time the letter came back from the dead letter office. I wrote again, this time to the Cleveland address, a short note only, telling her I was free at last. Then, next day, I followed the letter to Cleveland, wealth in one hand, the assurance of an honourable degree in the other. "I had no trouble in finding the house. It was one of a row of houses, nondescript but comfortable, in a pleasant street. It seemed familiar--I had seen Molly's snapshots of it often. I cannot tell you what it felt like to be really there--to walk down the street, up the path, up the steps to the veranda. I was trembling as with ague, I was chalk-white I knew--was I not in another moment to see my wife! "I could hear the electric bell tingle somewhere inside. Then an awful pause. What if they were not at home? What if they lived there no longer? I knew with a pang of fear that I could not bear another disappointment. "There was a sound in the hall, the door knob moved--the door opened. I gasped in the greatness of my relief for the face in the opening was undoubtedly the face of Molly's mother. They were at home. They must have had my letter--they must be expecting me-- "Something in the woman's face daunted me. It was deathly and strained. Surely she did not intend to continue her opposition? Yet it confused me. I forgot all that I had intended to say, I stammered: "'I am Henry Chedridge. I want to see Molly. I am rich, I have my degree--' "'You cannot see her!' she said. Just that! The door began to close. But I had myself in hand now. I laid hold of the door and spoke in a different tone. The tone of a master. "'This is foolish, Mrs. Weston. I thought you understood. I can and I will see your daughter. Molly is my wife!' "She gave way at that. The door opened wide, showing a long empty hall. The woman stood aside, made no effort to stop me, but looking me in the eyes she said: 'You come too late. Your wife is not here. Molly is dead!' "Then, in one second, it seemed that all the years of overwork, of mental strain and bodily deprivation rose up and took their due. I tried to speak, stuttered foolishly, and fell like dead over the door-sill of the house I was never to enter. "You know the rest, for you saved me. When I struggled back to life, without the will to live, you shamed and stung me into effort. You brought the new master-influence into my life, taught me that the old ambition, the old work-ardour was not dead. Those months with you in Paris, in Germany, in London at the feet of great men saw a veritable new birth. I ceased to be Henry Chedridge, lover, and became Henry Callandar, scientist. All this I owe to you." The other raised his hand. "No, not that. Some impulse I may have given you, but you have made yourself what you are. But--you have not told me all yet?" "No." Again the doctor began his uneasy pacing of the room. "The rest is harder to tell. It is not so clear. It has nothing to do with facts at all. It is just that when I first began to show signs of overwork this last time I became troubled with an idea, an obsession. It had no foundation. It persisted without reason. It was fast becoming unbearable!" He paused in his restless pacing and Willits' keen eyes noticed the look of strain which had aroused his alarm some months ago. Nevertheless he asked in his most matter-of-fact tone, "And the idea was--?" Callandar hesitated. "I can hardly speak of it yet in the past tense. The idea is--that Molly is not dead!" "Good Heavens!" ejaculated the professor, startled out of his calm. "But have you any reason to doubt? To--to base--" "None whatever. No enquiries which I have made cast doubt upon the mother's words. But on the other hand I have been unable to confirm them. I cannot find where my wife died--except that there is no record of her death in the Cleveland registries. She did not die in Cleveland." "But you have told me that they were seldom at home. That the mother was a great traveller." "Yes. The want of evidence in Cleveland proves nothing." "Did you feel any doubt at first?" "Absolutely none. The gloomy house, the empty hall, the white face and black dress of the woman in the door, the look of horror and anger in her eyes--yes, and a kind of grim triumph too--all served to drive the fatal message home. Dead!--There was death in the air of that house, death in the ghastly face--in the cruel, toneless words!--After my tedious recovery I made an effort to see Mrs. Weston, although I had conceived a horror of the woman, but she was gone. The house had been sold. I tried to trace her without result. She seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth." "And how long ago did the whole thing happen?" "Twelve years. I was twenty-three when I went to claim my bride. I am thirty-five now." "Dear me!" said the little man sincerely, "I have always thought you older than that! But twelve years is--twelve years! And you say this doubt is a very recent thing?" "Yes. I have told you the thing is absurd. But I can't help it." "Have you made any further enquiries?" "Yes, uselessly. There is a rumour that Mrs. Weston, too, is dead. A lady who used to know them tells me that she is certain she heard of her death--in England, she thinks, but upon being questioned was quite at sea as to where or when or even as to the original source of her information. She remembers 'hearing it' and that's all. Then I sought for the aunts, the maiden ladies whom Molly visited in California. They too are gone, the older died during the time I lay ill in the hospital. The younger one was not quite bright, I believe, and was taken away to live with some relatives in the East. It was not Molly's mother who fetched her. It was a man, a very kind man whom the old lady, my informant, had never seen before. She said he had a queer name. She could not remember it, but thought he was a physician. I imagine that the kind friend was an asylum doctor." "Very likely. And could your informant tell you nothing of the niece--if Molly had visited there?" "She remembered her last visit very well but her memories were of no value. She was a sweet, pretty child, she said, and she often wondered how she came to have such a homely mother. She evidently disliked Mrs. Weston very much, and when I asked her if she had ever heard of Molly's death she said no, but that she was not a bit surprised as she had always predicted that the pretty, little, white thing would be worried into an early grave. I noticed the word 'white' and asked her about it, for the Molly I knew had a lovely colour. Her memory became confused when I pressed her, but she seemed quite sure that the girl who came that winter with her mother was a very pale girl--looked as if she might have come south for her health." "All of which goes to prove--" "Yes--I know. Poor Molly! Poor little girl! I believe in my heart that our mad marriage killed her. Without me constantly with her, the fear of her mother, perhaps the doubt of me, the burden of the whole disastrous secret was too much. And it was my fault, Willits--all my fault!" He turned to the window to hide his working face. "Do you wonder," he added softly, "that her poor little wraith comes back to trouble me?" "Come, come, no need to be morbid! You made a mistake, but you have paid. As for the doubt which troubles you--it is but the figment of a tired brain. The mother could have had no possible reason for deceiving you. You were no longer an ineligible student--and the girl loved you. Besides, there was the legal tie. Would any woman condemn her daughter to a false position for life? And without reason? The idea is preposterous. Come now, admit it!" "Oh, I admit it! My reasoning powers are still unimpaired. But reason has nothing to do with that kind of mental torture. It is my soul that has been sick; it is my soul that must be cured. And to come back to the very point from which we started, I believe I shall find that cure here--in Coombe." "With Mrs. Sykes?" dryly. "Certainly. Mrs. Sykes is part of the cure." "And the other part?" "Oh--just everything. I hardly know why I like the place. But I do. Why analyse? I can sleep here. I wake in the morning like a man with the right to live, and for the first time in a year, Willits, a long torturing year, I am beginning to feel free of that oppression, that haunting sense that somewhere Molly is alive, that she needs me and that I cannot get to her. I had begun to fear that it would drive me mad. But, here, it is going. Yesterday I was walking down a country road and suddenly I felt free--exquisitely, gloriously free--the past wiped out! That--that was why I almost feared to see you, Elliott, you bring the past so close." The hands of the friends met in a firm handclasp. "Have it your own way," said the professor, smiling his grim smile. "Consider me silenced." The doctor's answer was cut off by the jingling entrance of Mrs. Sykes bearing before her a large tray upon which stood tall glasses, a beaded pitcher of ice cold lemonade and some cake with white frosting. "Seeing as it's so hot," said she amiably, "I thought a cold drink might cool you off some. Especially as breakfast will be five minutes late owing to the chicken. I thought maybe as you had a friend, doctor, a chicken--" "A chicken will be delicious," said the doctor, answering the question in her voice. "Mrs. Sykes, let me present Professor Willits; Willits, Mrs. Sykes! Let me take the tray." Mrs. Sykes shook hands cordially. "Land sakes!" she said. "I thought you were a priest! Not that I really suspicioned that the doctor, good Presbyterian as he is, would know any such. But priests is terrible wily. They deceive the very elect--and it's best to be prepared. As it is, any friend of the doctor's is a friend of mine. You're kindly welcome, I'm sure." "Thank you," said the professor limply. The doctor handed them each a glass and raised his own. "Let us drink," he said, "to Coombe. 'Coombe and the Soul cure!'" "Amen!" said Willits. "Land sakes!" said Mrs. Sykes. "I thought it was his spine!" CHAPTER VIII Zerubbabel Burk sat upon his stool of office in the doctor's consulting room, swinging his legs. Would-be discoverers of perpetual motion might have received many hints from Bubble, though he himself would have scorned to consider the swinging of legs as motion. He was under the delusion that he was sitting perfectly still. For the doctor was asleep. Asleep, at four o'clock on a glorious summer day! No wonder his friend and partner wore a tragic face. "Doesn't seem to care a hang if he never gets any patients!" mused Bubble, resentfully, stealing a half fond, half angry glance at the placid face of the sleeper. "Only two folks in all day and one a kid with a pin in its throat. And all he says is, 'Don't worry, son, we're getting on fine!' We'll go smash one of these days, that's what we'll do--just smash!" "Tap-tap" sounded the blinds which were drawn over the western windows. A pleasant little breeze was trying to come in. "Buzz" sounded a fly on the wall. Bubble arose noisily and killed it with a resounding "thwack." "Wake the doctor, would you?" he said. "Take that!" But even the pistol-like report which accompanied the fly's demise failed to ruffle the sleeper. Bubble returned disconsolate to his stool. "Smash," he repeated, "smash is the word. I see our finish." The pronoun which Bubble used nowadays was always "we." He belonged to the doctor body and soul, but it was no servile giving. The doctor also belonged to him, and it was with this privilege of ownership that he now found fault with his idol. Had any one else objected to the doctor's afternoon rest he would have found reason and excuse enough; but in his own heart he was puzzled. Such indifference to the appearances, such wilful disregard of "business" could hardly, he thought, be real; yet, for an imitation, it was remarkably well done. Bubble admired even while he deprecated. Why, he did not even go to church so that the minister might introduce him around as "Dr. Callandar, the new brother who has come amongst us." Neither did he walk down Main Street, nor show himself in public places. When he went walking he went early in the morning and directed his steps toward the country. About all the usual means of harmless and necessary advertising he did not seem to know Beans! Bubble looked disconsolately out of the window. There was Ann, now, coming across the yard. School must be out, and still the doctor slept. "Anybody in?" asked Ann in a stage whisper. "Not just now. Been very busy though. Doctor's resting. Stop that noise." "I'm not making any noise! He's part my doctor anyway. I'll make a noise if I like--" "No you won't, miss!" "But I don't _like_," added Ann with her impish smile. "If he's asleep what are you staying here for? Come on out." Bubble regarded the tempter with scornful amazement. "That's it!" he exclaimed, "jest like I always said, women haven't any sense of honour. What d'ye suppose I'm here for?" "Not just to swing your legs," placidly. "He doesn't need you when he's asleep, does he? Come on and let's get some water-cress. He'd like some for his tea--dinner I mean. Say, Bubble, why does he call it dinner?" "Because he comes from the city, Silly! They don't have any tea in the city. They have breakfast when they get up and lunch at noon and dinner about seven or eight or nine at night. Then if they get hungry before bed-time they have supper. The doctor says he never gets hungry after dinner so he don't have that." Ann considered this a moment. "They do so have tea!" she declared. "I heard Mrs. Andrew West telling about it. She said her sister in Toronto had a tea specially for her." "Oh," with superb disdain, "that's just for women. If they can't wait for dinner they get bread and butter and tea in the afternoon. But they have to eat it walking around and they only get it when they go out to call." Ann sighed. "I'd like to live in the city," she murmured. "Say, don't you feel as if you'd like a cookie right now?" Bubble squirmed. But his Spartan fortitude held. "In business hours? No, thank you. 'Tisn't professional. Look silly, wouldn't I, if one of our patients caught me eating?" "How many to-day?" "That'd be telling. 'Tisn't professional to tell. Doctor says if a man wants to succeed, he's got to be as dumb as a noyster in business!" "Pshaw!" said Ann, "Aunty'll tell. She always counts. Then you don't want a cookie?" "Well--later on--Cricky! here's some one coming! You scoot--pike it!" "I won't!" Ann stood her ground, peering eagerly around the rose bush. "It's only Esther Coombe. She'll be coming to see Aunt--no--she's coming here! Hi, Bubble, wake him up--quick!" "Hum, Hum!" said Bubble in a loud voice, rattling a chair. The sleeper made no movement. Ann, brave through anxiety, flew across the room and shook him with all the strength of her small hands. The heavy lids lifted and still Ann shook. "Is it an earthquake?" asked the victim politely. "No--it's a patient! Oh, do get up. Oh, goodness gracious, look at your hair!" The doctor passed his hand absently over a disordered head. "Yes," he said, "I have always thought that shaking is not good for hair. Dear me! I believe I have been asleep!" Ann threw him a glance of mingled admiration and reproach and vanished through the parlour door just as the step of the patient sounded upon the stone steps. "Why, Bubble Burk!" said a voice. "What are you doing here?" At the sound of the voice, sleep fled from the doctor's eyes. He arose precipitately. "I'm workin'," Bubble's voice was not as confident as usual. "This here is Dr. Callandar's office. Mrs. Sykes' visitors go round to the front door." "Oh! But it's the doctor I wish to see. Is he in?" Bubble was now plainly agitated. "If you'll just wait a moment, I'll--I'll see." Leaving Esther smiling upon the steps he disappeared into the shaded office and pulled up the blinds. The couch had been decorously straightened. The office was empty! Bubble gave a sigh of relief and his professional manner returned. "He isn't just what you might call in," he explained affably to Esther. "But he'll be down directly. Walk in." Esther walked in and took the seat which Bubble indicated. "Somebody sick over at your house?" with ill-concealed hope. Esther dimpled. "Not dangerously, thank you." "Then it's just tickets for the choir concert. I might have known. But you're too late. Doctor's got half a dozen already. He--" Further revelations were cut short by the entrance of the doctor himself. A doctor with sleep-cleared eyes, fresh collar, and newly brushed hair. A doctor who shook hands with his caller in a manner which even the professional Bubble felt to be irreproachable. "Bubble, you may go." With a grin of satisfied pride the junior partner departed, but once outside the gloomy expression returned. "It's only choir-tickets!" he told Ann, who was waiting around the corner of the house. "Come on--let's go fishin'." Inside the office Esther and the doctor looked at each other and smiled. He, because he felt like smiling; she, because she felt nervous. Yet it was not going to be as awkward as she had feared. With a decided sense of relief she realised that Dr. Callandar looked exactly like a doctor after all! Convention, even in clothes, has a calming effect. There was little of the weary tramp who had quenched his throat at the school pump in the well groomed and quietly capable looking doctor. With a notable decrease of tension Esther saw that the man before her was a stranger, a pleasant, professional stranger, with whom no embarrassment was possible. As for him he realised nothing except that Coombe was really a delightful place. He felt glad that he had stayed. "No one ill, I hope, Miss Coombe?" His tone, even, seemed to have lost the whimsical inflection of the tramp. "No, Doctor. Not ill exactly. It is Aunt Amy. We cannot understand just what is the matter. You see, Aunty imagines things. She is not quite like other people. Perhaps," with a quick smile as she thought of Mrs. Sykes, "perhaps you may have heard of her--of her fantastic ideas? They are really quite harmless and apart from them she is the most sensible person I know. But lately, just the other day, something happened--" He checked her with an almost imperceptible gesture. "Could you tell me about it from the beginning?" Esther looked troubled. "I do not know much about the beginning. You see, Aunt Amy is my step-mother's aunt, and I have only known her since she came to live with us shortly after my father's second marriage. But I know that she has been subject to delusions since she was a young girl. She was to have been married and on the wedding day her lover became ill with scarlet fever, a most malignant type. She also sickened with it a little later; it killed him and left her mentally twisted--as she is now. Her health is good and the--strangeness--is not very noticeable. It has usually to do with unimportant things. She is really," with a little burst of enthusiasm, "a Perfect Dear!" The doctor smiled. "And the new development?" "It is not exactly new. She has always had one delusion more serious than the others. She believes that she has enemies somewhere who would do her harm if they got the chance. She is quite vague as to who or what they are. She refers to them as 'They.' Once, when she came to us first, she was frightened of poison and, although my father, who had great influence over her, seemed to cure her of any active fear, for years she has persisted in a curious habit of drinking her coffee without setting down the cup. The idea seemed to be that if she let it out of her hands 'They,' the mysterious persecutors, might avail themselves of the opportunity to drug it. Does it sound too fantastic?" "No. It is not unusual--a fairly common delusion, in fact. There is a distinct type of brain trouble, one of whose symptoms is a conviction of persecution. The results are fantastic to a degree." Well, the day before yesterday Aunt Amy was drinking her coffee as usual, when she heard Jane scream in the garden. She is very fond of Jane, and it startled her so that she jumped up at once, forgetting all about the coffee, and ran out to see what was the matter. Jane had cut her finger and the tiniest scratch upsets poor Auntie terribly. She is terrified of blood. When she came back she felt faint and at once picked up the cup and drank the remaining coffee. I hoped she had not noticed the slip but she must have done so, subconsciously, for when I was helping her with the dishes she turned suddenly white--ghastly. She had just remembered! 'They've got me at last, Esther!' she said with a kind of proud despair. 'I've been pretty smart, but not quite smart enough.' I pretended not to understand and she explained quite seriously that while she had been absent in the garden 'They' had seen her half-filled cup and seized their opportunity. It was quite useless to point out that there was no one in the house but ourselves. She only said, 'Oh, "They" would not let me see them "They" are too smart for that.' Overwhelming smartness is one of the attributes of the mysterious 'They.' "I hoped that the idea would wear away but it didn't; it strengthened. In vain I pointed out that she was perfectly well, with no symptom of poisoning. She merely answered that naturally 'They' would be too smart to use ordinary poisons with symptoms. 'I shall just grow weaker and weaker,' she said, 'and in a week or a month I shall die!' I tried to laugh but I was frightened. Mother advised taking no notice at all and I have tried not to, but I can't keep it up. She is certainly weaker and so strange and hopeless. I am terrified. Can mind really affect matter, Doctor Callandar?" "No. As a scientific fact, it cannot. But it is true that certain states of mind and certain conditions of matter always correspond. Why this is so, no one knows, when we do know we shall hold the key to many mysteries. The understanding, even partial, of this correspondence will be a long step in a long new road. Meanwhile we speak loosely of mind influencing matter, ignoring the impossibility. And, however it happens, it is undoubtedly true that if we can, by mental suggestion, influence your Aunt's mind into a more healthy attitude the corresponding change will take place physically." "But I have tried to reason with her." "You can't reason with her. She is beyond mere reason. I might as well try to reason you out of your conviction that the sun is shining. A delusion like hers has all the stability of a perfectly sane belief." "Then what can we do?" "Since that delusion is a fact for her we must treat it as if it were a fact for us." "You mean we must pretend to believe that the danger is real?" "It is real. People have died before now of nothing save a fixed idea of death." "Oh!" "But don't worry. Aunt Amy is not going to die. When may I see her? If I come over in a half an hour will that be convenient?" Esther rose with relief. How kind he had been! How completely he had understood! She had been right, perfectly right, in coming to him. In spite of Mrs. Coombe's ridicule, Aunt Amy's need had been no fancy. And there was another thing; he was coming to the house. Her mother would see him--and presto! her prejudice against doctors would vanish--he would cure the headaches, and everything would be happy again. The doctor, watching keenly, thought that she must have been troubled greatly to show such evident relief. "One thing more," he said. "Was there, do you know, any history of insanity in your aunt's family?" The girl paled. The idea was a disturbing one. "Why--no--I think not. I never heard. You see, she is not my Aunt, really, but my step-mother's aunt. There was a brother, I think, who died in--in an institution. He was not quite responsible, but in his case it was drink. That is different, isn't it? Does it make any difference?" "No--only it may help me to understand the case. Good-afternoon." He watched her go, through a peep-hole made by Bubble in the blind. "Pretty, isn't she?" said a reflective voice below him. The doctor started. But it was only Mrs. Sykes who had stepped around the house corner to pluck some flowers from the bed beneath the window. As he did not answer, the voice continued, "That boy Burk has gone fishing. I told you you'd regret putting that new suit on to him, brass buttons and all! Not that I want to say anything against the lad and his mother a widow, but when a person's dealing with a limb of mischief a person ought to know what to expect. Anybody sick over at Esther's house?" The doctor, leaning against the door in deep reverie, did not seem to hear. Mrs. Sykes, after a suspicious glance, decided that perhaps he really had not heard, and proceeded. "Not that I'm asking out of curiosity, Land sakes! But I've got some black currant jelly that sick folks fancy. I could spare a jar as well as not." A pause. The flower picker bunched her flowers into a tight round knot which she surveyed with pride. "That step-mother of Esther's now," she said. "I don't hold much with her. Flighty, I call her. Delicate, too, if looks don't lie. Men are queer. The only thing queerer is women. What d'ye suppose a sensible middle-aged man like Doctor Coombe ever saw in that pretty doll? And what did she see in him--old enough to be her father? A queer match, I call it. But they do say that her side of it is easy explained. Anyway it must have been a trying thing when the doctor's gold mine didn't--" Mrs. Sykes' flow of words ceased abruptly, for rising from a last descent upon the rose bush she saw that her audience had vanished. "Dear me! I hope he didn't think I was trying to be curious," said Mrs. Sykes. CHAPTER IX It required some persuasion to induce Aunt Amy to consent to see the doctor. Doctors, she had found (with the single exception of Dr. Coombe), were terribly unreasonable. They asked all kinds of questions, and never believed a word of the answers. "And if I have a doctor," she declared tearfully, "I shall have to go to bed. And if I go to bed who will get supper? The sprigged tea-set--" "But you won't need to go to bed, Auntie. You aren't ill, you know; just a little bit upset. If you feel like lying down why not use the sofa in my room? And even if you do not wish to see the doctor for yourself," Esther's tone was reproachful, "think what a good opportunity it is for us to get an opinion about mother. Don't you remember saying just the other day that you thought mother was foolish to be so nervous about doctors?" "Yes, but she needn't stay in the room, need she, Esther? I don't want her in the room. She laughs. But I would like to lie on your sofa and if I must see him I had better wear my lavender cap." "Yes, dear, and you will not mind mother staying--" "But I do mind, Esther. And anyway she can't," triumphantly, "because she has gone out." "Gone out? Mother? But she knew the doctor was coming and she promised--" "Yes, I know. She said to tell you she had fully intended staying in until the doctor had been, but she had forgotten about the Ladies' Aid Meeting. She simply had to go to that. She said you could attend to the doctor quite as well as she could and that it was all nonsense anyway, because there was nothing whatever the matter with me." The faded eyes filled with tears again and Esther had much ado to prevent their imminent overflow. She settled Aunt Amy upon the couch and adjusted the lavender cap without further betrayal of her own feelings, but in her heart she was both angry and hurt. Her mother had known of the doctor's intended visit and had distinctly promised to remain in to receive him. What would Dr. Callandar think? It was most humiliating. The Ladies' Aid Meeting was plainly an excuse for a deliberate shirking of responsibility. Or, worse still, Mrs. Coombe, divining Esther's double motive, may have left the house purposely to escape seeing the doctor on her own account. Esther well knew the stubbornness of which she was capable upon this one question, and the cunningness of it was like her. She had made no objections; she had not troubled to refuse or to argue--she had simply gone out. Well, it was something to feel that she, Esther, had done what she could. At any rate, there was no time to worry, for the doctor was already coming up the walk. Esther hurried to the door. It relieved her to find that he seemed to expect her, and showed no offence on realising that the patient's nearest relative was not at home to receive him. Indeed, he seemed to think of no one save the patient herself. His manner, Esther thought, was perfect. Had she been a little older she might have suspected such perfection, deducing from it that Callandar, like herself, was subconsciously aware of an interest in the situation not altogether professional. But the girl made no deductions and certainly there was no trace of any embarrassment in the doctor's way with his patient. It took only a moment for Esther to decide that here, at least, she had done the right thing. She waited only long enough to see the frightened look in Aunt Amy's eyes replaced by one of timid confidence and then, murmuring an excuse, slipped away, leaving them together. Callandar also waited while the startled eyes grew quiet and then lifted the fluttering hand into his own firm one. "Creatures of habit, we doctors, aren't we?" he said, smiling. "Always taking people's temperatures." Aunt Amy ventured upon a vague answering smile. "I understand," continued the doctor, "that you have reason to fear that you have been poisoned?" The hand began to flutter again, but quieted as the pleasant, confident voice went on: "Your niece has told me something of the case but no details. Perhaps you can supply them for me. When exactly did it happen and what kind of poison was it?" The fluttering hand became quite still and the eyes of Aunt Amy slowly filled with a great amazement. Here was an unbelievable thing--a doctor who did not argue or deny or playfully scold her for "fancies." A doctor who took her seriously and showed every intention of believing what she said. No one, save Dr. Coombe, had ever done that-- "It is always best in these cases to get the details from the patient herself," went on the doctor, encouragingly. No, he was not laughing! Aunt Amy could detect nothing save the gravest of interest in his kindly eyes. An immense relief stole over her. A relief so great that Callandar, watching, felt his heart grow hot with pity. "Oh, doctor!" she cried feebly, "I--" a rush of easy tears drowned the rest of the sentence. Callandar let her cry. He knew the value of those tears. Presently when she grew more quiet he exchanged her soaking bit of cambric for his own more serviceable square. Aunt Amy dried her eyes on it and handed it back as simply as a child. "Pray excuse me," she begged, "but--the relief! I might have died if you had not come." She went on brokenly. "You see," dropping her voice, "my relatives are _queer_. They have strange ideas. When I know things quite well they tell me I am mistaken. Mary, my niece, laughs. Even Esther, who tries to help me, thinks I do not know what I am talking about. They all argue in the most absurd manner. If I do not pretend always that I agree with them I have no peace. Sometimes when I tell some of the things I know, Esther looks frightened and says I am not to tell Jane. So I try to keep everything to myself. I don't want the children to be frightened. They are young and ought to be happy. I was happy when I was young--at least, I think it was I. Sometimes I'm not sure whether it wasn't some other girl--I get confused--" "Don't worry about it," said the doctor calmly. "Or about Miss Esther either. I want to hear all about the poison." Aunt Amy remembered her precarious condition with a start. Her eyes grew vague. "I don't know how They put it in," she said. "I didn't see Them, you know. I left my cup of coffee standing while I went to find Jane. I heard her crying. She had cut her finger and when I had bound it up I felt faint, so I foolishly forgot and picked up the coffee and drank it. I wasn't quite myself or I should never have been so careless." The doctor seemed to appreciate this point. "Did you taste anything in the coffee?" he asked. "No. Of course They would be too clever for that!" "And when did you begin to feel ill?" "Just as soon as I remembered that I had forgotten to pour out a fresh cup." The naïveté of this statement was quite lost upon the eager speaker. Esther, who had re-entered the room, opened her lips to improve this opportunity for argument but, meeting the doctor's eye, refrained. Callandar took no notice of the significant admission. "Where do you feel the pain now?" he asked. Aunt Amy appeared disturbed. "Mostly in my head--I--I think." She moved restlessly. Callandar appeared to consider this. "But I suppose," he said thoughtfully, "that you really feel very little actual pain. None at all perhaps?" Aunt Amy admitted that she could not locate any particular pain. "Weakness is the predominating symptom," went on the doctor. "It is, in fact, a very simple case. All the more serious, of course, for being so simple, _if_ we did not understand it. But now that we know exactly what is wrong we need have no fear." Aunt Amy's vague eyes began to shine. "Shall we get the better of them again?" she asked eagerly. "We certainly shall," kindly. "Miss Esther, I am going to leave some medicine for your aunt; these little pink tablets. She must have one every two hours and two at bedtime. When she has taken them for two days I shall send something else. You will notice an improvement almost at once. Even in an hour or two, perhaps. By the end of the week all medicine may be discontinued." He crushed a little pink tablet in a spoon, mixed it with water, and watched the old lady while she eagerly swallowed it. "There!" he exclaimed. "That is the beginning! All we need now is a little rest and quiet. Nothing to excite the patient and a tablet regularly every two hours." He arose, affecting not to see Aunt Amy's grateful tears. "And of course," he added as if by an afterthought, "_They_ won't know anything about this. They will think that, having taken the coffee, the result is certain. They will take for granted that They have finished you, in fact! So cheer up, it is worth a little illness to be rid of the fear of Them forever." A lightning flash of hope lit up the worn face upon the pillow. "Oh, Doctor! Do you really think I am free?" "Sure of it." Aunt Amy sank back with a long sigh; her lined face grew suddenly peaceful. Esther, who had observed the little scene with wonder, said nothing, but taking the tablets, kissed her Aunt, and led the way out in silence. "Well?" As they stood together in the hall she could see the amused twinkle in the doctor's eye. "I don't like it! You lied to her!" "So I did," cheerfully. "These tablets," holding up the glass vial, "what are they?" "Tonic." "And the medicine which you are going to send later?" "More tonic." "But she thinks--you gave her to understand that they are the antidote for the poison which you know does not exist." "No. They are the antidote for a poison which does exist--medicine for a mind diseased." "It's--it's like taking advantage of a child." "So it is, exactly. I suppose you have never taken advantage of a child, for the child's good?" "Certainly not." "Never told one, gave one to understand, so to speak, that a kiss will cure a bumped head?" "That's different!" "Never told your school class during a thunderstorm that lightning never hurts good children?" "That's very different." "And yet all the time you know that lightning falls upon the just and unjust equally." Esther was silent. The doctor laughed. "I fear we are both sad story-tellers," he said gaily. "But in Aunt Amy's case the fibbing will all be charged to my account, you are merely the nurse. A nurse's duty is to obey orders and not frown (as you are doing now) upon the doctor. You will find that I shall effect a cure. Seriously, I do not believe that you have any idea of what that poor woman has been suffering. If the delusion of living in continual danger can be lifted in any way even for a time, it will make life over for her. You would not really allow a scruple to prevent some alleviation of your Aunt's condition, would you?" The girl's downcast eyes flashed up to his, startlingly blue. "No. I would not. I love her. I would tell all the fibs in the world to help her. But all the time I should have a queer idea that _I_ was doing wrong. It would be common sense against instinct." "Against prejudice," he corrected. "The prejudice which always insists that truth consists in a form of words." They were now in the cool green light of the living room. Esther stood with her back to the table, leaning slightly backward, supporting herself by one hand. She looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes. The doctor felt an impulse of irritation against the absent mother who let the girl outwear her strength. "My advice to you is not to worry," he said abruptly. "You are tired. More tired than a young girl of your age ought to be. You cannot teach those imps of Satan--I mean those charming children--all day and come back to home cares at night. Will it be possible for me to speak to Mrs. Coombe before I go?" Watching her keenly he saw that now he had touched the real cause of the trouble. "I am sorry," began Esther, but meeting his look, the prim words of conventional excuse halted. A little smile curled the end of her lips and she added, "Since she went out purposely to escape you, it is not likely." "Your mother went out to escape me?" in surprise. "In your capacity of doctor only. You see," with a certain childish naïveté, "she hasn't seen you yet. And mother dislikes doctors very much. Oh!" with a hot blush, "you will think we are a queer family, all of us!" "It is not at all queer to dislike doctors," he answered her cheerfully. "I dislike them myself. At the very best they are necessary evils." "Indeed no! And when one is ill it seems so foolish--" "Is Mrs. Coombe ill?" "I don't know. I think so. She has headaches. She is not at all like herself. I hoped so much that you would meet her this afternoon, and then she--she went out!" "And this is really what is troubling you, and not Aunt Amy?" "Yes. You see, Aunt Amy has been quite all right until the last two days. But mother--that has been troubling us a long time." "How long?" "Almost since father died--a year ago." "But--don't you think that if Mrs. Coombe were really ill her prejudice would disappear? People do not suffer from choice, usually." "No. That is just what puzzles me!" She did indeed look puzzled, very puzzled and very young. "If I could help you in any way?" suggested Callandar. "You may be worrying quite needlessly." "Do people ever consult you about their mothers behind their mother's back?" "Often. Why not?" "Only that it doesn't seem natural. Grown-up people--" "Are often just as foolish as anybody else!" "Besides, I doubt if I can make you understand." Now that the ice was broken Esther's voice was eager. "I know very little of the real trouble myself. It seems to be just a general state of health. But it varies so. Sometimes she seems quite well, bright, cheerful, ready for anything! Then again she is depressed, nervous, irritable. She has desperate headaches which come on at intervals. They are nervous headaches, she says, and are so bad that she shuts herself up in her room and will not let any of us in. She will not eat. I--I don't know very much about it, you see." "You know a little more than that, I think, perhaps when you know me better?--It is, after all, a matter of trusting one's doctor." "I do trust you. But feelings are so difficult to put into words. And the greatest dread I have about mother's illness is only a feeling, a feeling as if I knew, without quite knowing, that the trouble is deeper than appears. Jane feels it too, so it can't be all imagination. It is caused, I think, by a change in mother herself. She seems to be growing into another person--don't laugh!" "I am not laughing. Please go on." "Well, one thing more tangible is that the headaches, which seem to mark a kind of nervous crisis, are becoming more frequent. And the medicine--" "But you told me that she took no medicine!" "Did I? Then I am telling my story very badly. She has some medicine which she always takes. It is a prescription which my father gave her a few months before he died. She had a bad attack of some nervous trouble then which seems to have been the beginning of everything. But that time she recovered and it was not until after father's death that the headaches began again. Father's prescription must, long ago, have lost all effect, or why should the trouble get worse rather than better? But mother will not hear a word on the subject. She will take that medicine and nothing else." "Do you know what the medicine is?" "No. Father used to fill it for her himself. She says it is a very difficult prescription and she never has it filled in town, always in the city." "But why? Taylor, here, is quite capable of filling any prescription. He is a most capable dispenser." "Yes--I know. But mother will not believe it." "And you say it does her no good whatever?" "She thinks that it does. She has a wonderful belief in it. But she gets no better." The doctor looked very thoughtful. "She will not allow you to try any kind of compress for her head?" "No. She locks her door. And I am sure she suffers, for sometimes when I have gone up hoping to help I have heard such strange sounds, as if she were delirious. It frightens me!" "Does she talk of her illness?" "Never, and she is furious if I do. She says she is quite well and indeed no one would think that anything serious was wrong unless they lived in the house. Any one outside would be sure that I am worrying needlessly. Am I, do you think?" "I can't think until I know more. But from what you tell me, it looks as if this medicine she is taking might have something to do with it. If it does no good, it probably does harm. Perhaps it was never intended to be used as she is using it. Otherwise, as you say, the attacks would diminish. At the same time a blind faith in a certain medicine is not at all uncommon. One meets it constantly. Also the prejudice against consulting a physician. It is probable that Mrs. Coombe does not realise that she is steadily growing worse. Could you let me examine the medicine?" Esther hesitated. "It is kept locked up. But, I might manage it. If I asked her for it she would certainly refuse. I--I should hate to steal it," miserably. "I see. Well, try asking first. It is just a question of how far one has the right to interfere with another's deliberately chosen course of action. The medicine is probably injurious, even dangerous. I should warn her, at least. If she will do nothing and you still feel responsible I should say that you have a moral right to have your own mind reassured upon the matter." Esther smiled. "I believe I feel reassured already. Perhaps I have been foolishly apprehensive and it never occurred to me that the medicine might be at fault; at the worst I thought it might be useless, not harmful. If I could only manage to have you see it without _taking_ it! There must be a way. I'll think of something and let you know." "Do." The doctor picked up his hat for the second time. He was genuinely interested. He had not expected to find a problem of any complexity in sleepy Coombe. The cases of Aunt Amy and the peculiar Mrs. Coombe seemed to justify his staying on. It was pleasant also to help this charming young girl--although that, naturally, was a secondary consideration! Esther ran upstairs with a lightened heart. CHAPTER X "I really could not help being late, Esther! I tried to hurry them but Mrs. Lewis was there. You know what _she_ is!" Mrs. Coombe sank gracefully into a veranda chair. Out of the corners of her eyes she cast a swift glance at the face of her step-daughter and, as the girl was not looking, permitted herself a tiny smile of malicious amusement. She was a small woman but one in whom smallness was charm and not defect. Once she had been exceedingly pretty; she was moderately pretty still. The narrow oval of her face remained unspoiled but the small features, once delicately clear, appeared in some strange way to be blurred and coarsened. The fine grained skin which should have been delicate and firm had coarsened also and upon close inspection showed multitudes of tiny lines. Her fluffy hair was very fair, ashy fair almost, and would have been startlingly lovely only that it, too, was spoiled by a dryness and lack of gloss which spoke of careless treatment or ill health, or both. Still, at a little distance, Mary Coombe appeared a young and attractive woman. The surprise came when one looked into her eyes. Her eyes did not fit the face at all; they were old eyes, tired yet restless, and clouded with a peculiar film which robbed them of all depth. Curiously disturbing eyes they were, like windows with the blinds down! If her eyes were restless, her hands were restless too and she kept snapping the catch of her hand-bag with an irritating click as she spoke. "I know I ought to have been here when the doctor called to see Amy," she went on, "but I could not get away. Mrs. Lewis talked and talked. That woman is worse than Tennyson's brook. She makes me want to scream! I wonder," musingly, "what would happen if I should jump up some day and scream and scream? I think I'll try it." "Do!" "What did Doctor Paragon-what's-his-name say about Amy?" "He thinks we have been treating Aunt Amy wrongly. He thinks she should be humoured more. His name is Callandar." "Callandar? What an odd name! It sounds half-familiar. I must have heard it somewhere. There is a Dr. Callandar in Montreal, isn't there? A specialist or something." "I think this is the same man. But if it is he, doesn't want it known. He is here for his health, and he has never taken the trouble to correct the impression that he is a beginner working up a practice. I thought so myself at first." "At first?" "When I first saw him. I have met him several times." Mrs. Coombe was evidently not sufficiently interested to pursue the subject. "Whoever he is," she said fretfully, "I hope he is not going to allow Amy to fancy herself an invalid." "He is going to cure the fancy." "Oh!" dubiously. "Well, I hope he does! I find I must run over to Detroit for a few days." "What?" "It would be provoking to have her ill while I'm away. No one else can manage Jane properly while you're at school. Where is Jane?" "I don't know. You are not speaking seriously, are you?" "I certainly am. At a pinch I suppose I could take Jane with me. She needs new clothes. But I'd rather not bother with her. Her measure will do quite as well. I wish you would call her. I've got some butterscotch somewhere. Here it is." The restless hands fumbled in the hand-bag. "No, it isn't here, how odd! I promised Jane--" "Mother, when did you decide to go away?" "Some time ago. It doesn't matter, does it? I had a letter from Jessica Bremner to-day. She asks me to come at once. It's in this bag somewhere. I declare I never can find anything! Anyway, she wants me to come." "When did you get the letter?" "On the noon mail, of course." Esther turned away. She knew very well that there had been no letter from Detroit on the noon mail. But there seemed no use in saying so. These little "inaccuracies" were becoming common enough. At first Esther had exposed and laughed at them as merely humorous mistakes; but that attitude had long been replaced by a cold disgust which did not scruple to call things by their right names. She knew very well that Mary Coombe had developed the habit of lying. "You see," went on the prevaricator cheerfully, "it would be necessary to run down to Toronto soon anyway. I haven't a rag fit to wear and neither has Jane. But Detroit is better. Things are much cheaper across the line. And easy as anything to smuggle. All you need to do is to wear them once and swear they're old." "An oath is nothing? But where is the money coming from?" Mrs. Coombe shrugged her shoulders. "One can't get along without clothes! And even if I could, there is another reason for the trip. My medicine is almost finished. I can't risk being without that." It was the opportunity for which Esther had waited. She spoke eagerly. "Why not try getting it filled here? I'm sure they are as careful as possible at Taylor's." The hand-bag shut with a particularly emphatic click. Mrs. Coombe rose. "We have discussed that before," she said coldly. "It is a very particular prescription and hard to fill. As it means so much to me in my wretched health to have it exactly right, I am surprised at you, Esther!" Esther put the surprise aside. "You could get it by mail, couldn't you?" "I shall not try to get it by mail." "But Taylor's are absolutely reliable. Why not give them a chance? If it is not satisfactory I shall never say another word. It seems so senseless going to Detroit for a few drugs which may be had around the corner. Perhaps it is not as difficult to fill as you think. Let me show the prescription to Dr. Callandar--" She stopped suddenly for Mrs. Coombe had grown white, a pasty white, and she broke in upon the girl's suggestion with a little inarticulate cry of rage, so uncalled for, so utterly unexpected, that Esther was frightened. For a moment the film seemed brushed from the hazel eyes--the blinds were raised and angry fear peeped out. "You wouldn't dare!" The words were a mere breath. Then meeting the girl's look of blank amazement she caught herself from the brink of hysteria and added more calmly, "What an impossible suggestion! I need no second opinion upon the remedy which your father prescribed for me and I shall take none. As for the journey, I shall ask your advice when I wish it. At present I am capable of managing my own affairs. I shall come and go as I like." The would-be firm voice wavered wrathed badly toward the end of this defiance, but the widely opened eyes were still shining and as she turned to enter the house, Esther caught a look in them, a gleam of something very like hate. "So that is what comes of asking," said Esther sombrely. She did not follow her step-mother into the house but remained for a while on the veranda, thinking. It was clearly useless to reopen the subject of the prescription. For some reason Mrs. Coombe regarded it as a fetish. She would not trust it to Taylor's. She would not allow a doctor to see it; there remained only the suggestion of Dr. Callandar that it be inspected without her consent. Esther knew where the prescription was kept, but-- Women are supposed, by men, to have a defective sense of loyalty and it is a belief fairly well established, also among men, that there is a fundamental difference in the attitude of the sexes to that high thing called honour. Esther was both loyal and honourable. To deceive her step-mother, however good the motive, could not but be horrible to her and just now, being angry with a very young and healthy anger, she was less willing than ever to lose her own self-respect in the service of Mary Coombe. "I won't!" said Esther firmly, and went in to prepare Aunt Amy's supper. "I don't feel like I ought to be eating upstairs this way," fussed the invalid as Esther came in with the tray. "I am so much better. That medicine the doctor gave me helped me right away. He must be a very smart man, Esther." "It looks like it, Auntie." "I don't doubt I'll be around to-morrow just like he said. So I don't want you staying home from school. That girl you get to take your place is kind of cross with the children, isn't she?" "She is strict." "Well, don't get her. I don't like to think about the children being scared out of their lives on my account. So I'll just get up as usual. I could get up now if necessary. And my mind feels better." "Your _mind_?" Never before had Esther heard Aunt Amy refer to "her" mind as being in any way troublesome. "Yes. I suppose you never knew, but sometimes I have felt a little worried about my mind." "Whatever for?" The surprise which still lingered on the girl's voice was balm to Aunt Amy's soul. She laughed nervously. "Of course it was foolish," she said, "but really there have been times when I have felt--felt, I can hardly express it, but as if there were a little something _wrong_, you know. Did you ever guess that I felt like that, Esther?" "No, Auntie." Aunt Amy shivered. For a moment her faded eyes grew large and dark. "I'm glad you did not guess it. It is a dreadful feeling, like night and thunder and no place to go. A black feeling! I used to be afraid I might get caught in the blackness and never find a way out and then--" "And then what, dear?" "Why, then--I'd be mad, Esther!" "Oh, darling, how awful!" Esther's warm young arms clasped the trembling old creature close. "You must never, never be afraid again! Why didn't you tell me and let me help?" "I couldn't. You would not have believed me. And it would have frightened you. And you might have told Mary. If Mary knew of it she would be certain to be frightened and if she was frightened she would send me away. Then the darkness would get me." "It never shall, Auntie. No one shall ever send you away! And you won't be afraid any more, will you?" "No, not if you don't keep telling me that things I know aren't true. I know they are true, you see, but when you say they aren't it makes my head go round." "We'll be more careful, dear! And here is your medicine before you have your supper." Aunt Amy turned cheerfully to the supper tray. "Your mother need not be told about it," she observed. "She wouldn't understand. She was in a while ago to say she hoped I'd be better in the morning. She is going to the city. What she came for was to ask me to lend her my ruby ring. She never understands why I can't lend it to her. I told her she might have the string of pearls and the pearl brooch and the ring with the little diamonds and anything else except the ruby. You see, I might die before she got back, and I couldn't die without the ruby ring on my finger. I promised somebody--I can't remember whom--" "I know, dear, don't try to remember." "Mary says it is shameful waste to leave it lying shut up in the box in my drawer. But it has to lie there. If I took it out now it would stop shining immediately. And it must be all red and bright when I die, like a shining star in the dark. Then, afterwards, you can have it, Esther. You don't mind waiting, do you?" "Gracious! I hope I'll be an old woman before then! So old that I shan't care for ruby rings at all." Aunt Amy looked at the girl's pretty hand wistfully. "I'd like to give it to you right now, Esther. But you know how it is. I can't. If the red star did not shine I might lose my way. Some one told me--" "I know, Auntie. I quite understand. And you have given me so many pretty things that I don't need the ruby." "You may have anything else you want. But of course the ruby is the loveliest of all. If I could only remember who gave it to me--" "Perhaps you always had it," suggested Esther, hastily, for she knew quite well the tragic history of the ruby. "Perhaps. But I don't think so. I love it but I never dare to look at it. It makes the blackness come so near. Does it make you feel that way?" "No--I don't know--large jewels often give people strange feelings they say." "Do they?" hopefully. "Go and look at it now. Don't lift it out of the box. Just open the lid and look in. Perhaps you will feel something." Esther went obediently to the drawer where the beautiful jewel had lain ever since Aunt Amy's arrival. As no one outside knew of its existence it was considered quite safe to keep it in the house. The box lay in a corner under a spotless pile of sweet smelling handkerchiefs. Esther snapped open the lid of the case and looked in. She looked close, closer still, bending over the open drawer-- "Do you feel anything, Esther?" The girl's answer came, after a second's pause, in a strained voice. "The drawer is so dark, I can't tell!" "Take it to the window," said Aunt Amy. Esther lifted the case from the drawer and carried it into a better light. Her eyes were panic-stricken. For her indecision had been only a ruse to give herself time to think. She had known the moment she opened the case that the ruby was gone! "It does make me feel queer," she said, closing the case. "I'll put it away." "Is it a black feeling?" with interest. "I think it is." "Then you are kin to it," said Aunt Amy sagely. "Your mother never has any feeling about it at all. Except that she would like to wear it. She was looking at it when she was in. She was as cross as possible when I told her she could not take it with her." Esther gathered up the tea things without a word. Her curved mouth was set in a hard red line. At the door she paused and turning back as if upon impulse, said: "If it makes you feel like that, I would advise you not to look at it, Auntie. It will be quite safe. I'll see to that. I'll appoint myself 'Guardian of the Ring.'" CHAPTER XI Esther carried the tea-tray into the kitchen and stood for a moment beside the open window letting the sweet air from the garden cool the colour in her cheeks. Through the doorway into the hall she could see into the living room where Jane sat at the table in a little yellow pool of lamplight, busy with her school home work. Farther back, near the dusk of one of the veranda windows, Mrs. Coombe reclined in an easy chair. Her eyes were closed; in the half light she looked very pretty, very fragile; her relaxed pose suggested helplessness. Unconsciously Esther's innate strength answered to the call; her hard gaze softened. To apply the terms liar and thief to that dainty figure in the chair seemed little short of brutality. Mary was weak, that was all--just weak! At the sound of the girl's step in the doorway Mrs. Coombe opened her eyes. They were very filmy to-night, blank, contented. Her nervousness seemed to have left her. Perhaps she was half asleep, for she yawned, an open, ugly yawn, which she did not trouble to raise her hand to hide. "I have decided to take Jane with me, Esther." "I don't want to go," said Jane. "Well, you are going--that's enough." "If you have really decided to go," began Esther slowly, "I think you are wise to take Jane. We cannot tell yet just how Aunt Amy may be." The child returned to her book with a discontented sigh. Esther came nearer and spoke in a lower tone. "But before you go," she said, "please don't forget to replace Aunt Amy's ring. If she were to find it gone it would be no joke but a serious shock, as I suppose you know." Mrs. Coombe laughed. And Esther realised that a laugh was the last thing she had expected. For anger, evasion, denial, she had been prepared. Mary would probably storm and bluster in her ineffective way--and return the ring. Instead-- "How did you know I had it?" she asked good humouredly. "I saw that it was gone." "And the deduction was obvious? Well, this time you are right. I did take it. I expect I have a right to borrow my own Aunt's things if she is too mean to lend them. It's a shame of her to want to keep the only decent jewel we have shut up. Amy gets more selfish every day." "But you will put it back before she misses it?" Mrs. Coombe could see her step-daughter's face quite plainly and its expression made her wince, but she was reckless to-night. After all, why pretend? If Esther intended to eternally interfere with her affairs the sooner an open break came, the better. "Perhaps, perhaps not. Certainly not until I return from my visit." Esther fought down her rising dismay. "Mother, don't you understand what you are doing? The ring is Aunt Amy's You have no right to take it!" "I've a right if I choose to make one." "If Auntie finds out it is not in its box, we cannot tell what the effect may be!" "She needn't find out. What she doesn't know won't hurt her!" "But--it is stealing!" Mrs. Coombe laughed. "What a baby you are, Esther, for all your solemn eyes and grown-up airs. Stealing--the idea! Anyway you need not worry since you are not the thief." She yawned again, rose, and declared that she felt quite tired enough to go to bed. When she had gone, Jane left her lessons and came to her sister's side. "Esther, do I really have to go away with Mother?" "It looks like it, Janie. But you'll like it. Mrs. Bremner has a little girl." "I don't like little girls." "Then you ought to! The change will probably do you good." Jane looked dubious. "Things that I don't want never do me any good. Will you help me with my 'rithmetic?" "I will when I come back." "Where're you going?" "Out. I'll not be long. Answer Aunt Amy's bell if it rings, like a dear child." Esther's decision had been made, as many important decisions are, suddenly, and without conscious thought. All the puzzling over what was right and wrong seemed no longer necessary. Without knowing why, she knew that it had become imperative to get some good advice and get it at once. If she had been disturbed and uneasy before, she was frightened now. Something must be done, if not for Mary's sake at least for the sake of the honoured name she bore, and for Jane's sake! "Mother doesn't seem to _know_ when a thing is wrong any more!" was the burden of the girl's thought as she hurried upstairs. She knew where the prescription was kept--in a little drawer of her father's old desk, a drawer supposed to be secret. To-morrow Mary would take it away with her. Esther opened the drawer without allowing herself a moment for thought or regret. The paper was there, folded, in its usual place. With a sigh of relief she seized it, hurried to her own room for her hat and then out into the summer night. A brisk five minute walk brought her to Mrs. Sykes' gate, and there, for the first time, she hesitated. "Evening, Esther!" called Mrs. Sykes cheerfully from the veranda. "Come right along in. Mrs. Coombe told Ann you might be over to borrow the telescope valise if she decided to take Jane. Rather sudden, her going away, isn't it? Hadn't heard a word about it until the Ladies' Aid--come up and sit on the veranda and I'll get it." "I didn't come for the telescope," said Esther. "I came to see Dr. Callandar." "Oh," with renewed interest. "Well, he's in. At least he's in unless he went out while I was upstairs putting Ann to bed. That's his consulting room where the light is. It's got a door of its own so folks won't be tramping up the hall--but of course you know. You were here this afternoon. Funny, Mrs. Coombe going away with your poor Auntie sick and all! I suppose it _is_ your Auntie, since it can't be Jane or Mrs. Coombe?" "Yes, it is Aunt Amy. She has not been very well." "The heat, likely. Heat is hard on folks with weak heads. Not that your Auntie's head ever seems weaker than lots of other folks. Won't you come up and sit awhile?--Well, ring the bell." Mrs. Sykes voice trailed off indistinctly as Esther rounded the veranda corner and stood by the rose bush before the doctor's door. She pushed the new electric bell timidly. "You'll have to push harder than that!" called Mrs. Sykes. "It sticks some!" But the door had opened at once, letting out a flood of yellow light. "Miss Coombe--you?" "It's Esther Coombe come about her Aunt Amy," called the voice from the veranda. Hastily the doctor drew her in and closed the door with an emphatic bang. Then for the second time that day they looked into each other's eyes and laughed. "Do you think my patients will stand that?" he asked her ruefully. "Oh, we are used to Mrs. Sykes, we don't mind." "That's good! Ah, I see you have the mysterious prescription. It wasn't so hard after all, was it? Probably your mother was quite as anxious as you." "No, she refused to let me show it you. I took it. To-night was the only chance, for she is going away to-morrow and will take it with her." "And how about your Presbyterian conscience?" Still with a twinkle. "Silenced, for the present. But look at it quickly for the silence may not last. It seemed that I simply had to help mother, in spite of herself. And there was no other way. All the same I shall despise myself when I get time to think." The doctor took the paper with a smile. "When that time comes I shall argue with you, though argument rarely affects feeling. To my mind you are doing an eminently sensible thing." He opened the paper and peered at it under the lamp; looked quickly up at the girl's eager face and then from her to the paper again. "What is it?" she asked anxiously. "Why--I don't know. Where did you get this?" "In the secret drawer of father's desk." "Was the prescription always kept there?" "Yes." The doctor folded the paper again and handed it to her. "Does this look like the prescription?" "Yes, of course. It is the prescription." "I'm afraid not. Come and look." Esther seized the paper eagerly and saw--a neatly written recipe for salad dressing! Hot and cold with mortification, she stared at it blankly. "I have been nicely fooled," she said in a low voice. "Am I permitted to smile, or would it hurt your feelings?" "It is not at all funny! Of course the real prescription has been removed. She must have suspected. You see, I asked her to let me have it. Oh!" with sudden shame and anger. "She guessed that I might take it, don't you see?" "I am afraid you are right. But now at least I should think that you have done your whole duty. It would look as if Mrs. Coombe was herself aware of the inadvisability of continuing this prescription. Why else should she be so careful to prevent you showing it to me? At the same time she is determined to go on using it. We cannot prevent her." "Can we do nothing?" "When I see her I shall be better able to judge." "But she is going away." "Then we must wait. If it is, as I suspect, a case of disordered nerves aggravated by improper treatment, the instinct is strongly for concealment. Do you find, for instance, that Mrs. Coombe is not as frank in other matters as she used to be?" A shamed blush crimsoned the girl's cheek, but the doctor's tone was compelling and she answered in a low voice: "Yes, I think so." "Don't look like that. It is only a symptom of something rotten in the nervous system." "Isn't there such a thing as character?" bluntly. "As distinct from the nervous system? Some say not. But we do not need to venture such a devastating belief to know, well, that a dyspeptic is usually disagreeable. In potential character he may be equal to the cheeriest man who ever ate a hearty dinner. Think of Carlyle." "I don't like Carlyle." "But don't you admire him?" "No. Do you remember the story of the beggar who picked up his hat one day and instead of giving him sixpence, Carlyle said, 'Mon, ye may say ye hae picked up the hat of Thomas Carlyle.'" The doctor laughed. "Oh he had a guid conceit o' himself--must you go?" For Esther had risen. "Yes, thank you. Oh, please do not come with me. It is only a step. I'd much rather not. Mrs. Sykes would conclude that the whole family were in danger of immediate extinction." She was so evidently perturbed that the doctor laid down his hat, but for the first time it occurred to him that Mrs. Sykes was not an unmixed blessing. Esther was holding out her hand. "Then you think we can safely leave it until mother returns?" "I think we shall have to, and if things have been going on as long as you think, a week more or less will make no very material difference. In any case we cannot examine a lady by force or prevent her from getting a prescription until one knows it to be dangerous." "No, of course not. Good-night, and--thank you, Doctor!" "And I am not to be allowed to walk home with you?" "Truly, I would rather not." "Then good-night, and don't worry." He watched her flit down the dusky path, heard the click of the gate latch, and turned back into the office to wonder why it seemed suddenly bare and empty! CHAPTER XII Mrs. Coombe had been in the city a week when one morning Ann, who was feeling lonely without Jane, sat swinging upon the five-barred gate and whistling intermittently for Bubble. She had become very tired of waiting. She knew that Bubble could hear. The five-barred gate was within easy hearing distance of the house, and both doors and windows of the office were open. Therefore it became each moment more evident that the whistles were being deliberately ignored. "Horrid, nasty boy!" exclaimed Ann, climbing to a precarious seat on the highest of the five bars. "Well, if he waits until I come to get him, he'll--just wait!" It was very hot on the gate. The vacant field on the other side, where the Widow Peel pastured her cow, was hot, too, but if one cut across the field and circled the back of the Widow Peel's cottage one substantially lessened the distance between oneself and the cool deliciousness of the river. The Widow Peel was near-sighted and hardly ever noticed one rushing over her beds of lettuce and carrots and onions, or if she did, she could not "fit a name to 'em." Ann sighed and swung her brown legs. Should she or should she not go in search of Bubble? Going would mean a distasteful swallowing of proper pride; not going would mean--no Bubble. It would be a case of cutting off one's nose--Ann's small white teeth came together with a little click. "I'll go. But I'll pay him out afterwards." With this thoroughly feminine decision she tumbled off the gate, raced across the orchard and, having paused a moment to regain breath and poise, appeared casually at the office door. The office looked cool and empty; Bubble was not upon his official stool. Perhaps, after all, he had not heard the whistles! Perhaps-- "What d'ye want?" asked a gruff voice from behind the desk. Ann jumped, and then tried to look as if she hadn't. "I knew you were there!" she said. "But just you wait till the doctor catches you at it!" Mounting the step she frowned across at Bubble who, in the doctor's favourite attitude, was reclining in the doctor's chair. "I suppose you think you look like him, but you don't, nor act like him either. If he was sitting there and a lady came in, he'd be up too quick for anything. And if the lady was polite and stayed on the doorstep (just like I am) he would say, 'Pray come in, madam,' and then he'd set a chair and--" "Oh, cut it out!" Bubble's dignity collapsed with his attitude. The tilted chair came down with a bang and its occupant settled himself more naturally upon a corner of the desk. "Don't bother me! I can't come out. Doctor's away. Some one's got to attend to business. See those medicines? Well, don't you go handling them! This here is for Lizzie Stephens (measles), and that there is for Mrs. Nixon (twins). If they got mixed I'd be responsible. Run away!" "Where's the doctor?" asked Ann, ignoring. "The doctor is out. You needn't wait. He won't be back all day." "Where'd he go?" "Little girls mustn't ask questions!" Ann's small face wrinkled into an elfish grin. "I know where he's gone," she said slyly. "Yes, you do!" This sarcastic comment was Bubble's most emphatic negative. "Very well, then, I don't." Not to be outdone, Ann volunteered no further information. She sat down on the step and waited. Bubble busied himself with tying up the bottles. Presently he stepped out from behind the desk. "Think you can mind the office while I run around with these medicines?" he asked sternly. "Sure!" Ann's assent was placid. "What'll you say if any one comes and asks for the doctor--or me?" "You're out delivering medicines and the doctor's been called away very sudden." "What'll you tell them if they ask you what he's been called away to?" "Oh, I'll just say they needn't worry, 'tisn't anything catching." Bubble allowed his face to relax. He even displayed a grudging admiration for this feminine diplomacy. "And you wouldn't be telling lies, either," he remarked approvingly. "All the same," with a return to gloom, "we can't keep it a secret. Folks are bound to find out. You can bet your eyes on that!" Ann nodded. "I expect most of them know by now. Any one that wanted to could see them. _He_ didn't seem to care. They drove right down the main street and you could see the picnic basket sticking out at the side!" "O cricky! Isn't that just like him? You'd think he wanted the whole town to know he'd gone off picnicking with a girl. But I'd have thought Esther Coombe would have better sense!" "It wasn't Esther's fault. She couldn't act as if she was ashamed of him, could she? When a gentleman asks a lady to go out in his automobile she can't ask him to drive down the back streets." "If he had only taken her at night!" groaned the harassed junior partner. "But no, he must take a whole day off and him with two patients on his hands. Look at me! Have I ever asked off to go on any picnics? Not on your tintype. Business is business. Doctors can't fool round like other folks." Ann nodded agreement. Things were coming her way very nicely. She glanced at the wrathy Bubble out of the corners of her eyes. "I didn't think he'd be mean like that," she remarked craftily. "Like what? He isn't mean!" "To make you stay in all day." "He didn't. Not him! He gave me fifty cents and told me to take a day off. 'Just run around with the medicine, Bubble,' says he, 'and then you can hike it. I have a feeling in my bones,' he says, 'that nobody's going to die to-day.'" "Well, then--" "A man has a sense of duty for all that." "Well," rising with a dejected air, "if you're not coming, good-bye. It will be lovely paddling! Aunt's given me some lettuce sandwiches and two apple turnovers. One was for you, but I suppose I can eat them both. The sugar's leaked all round the edge--lovely!" The stern disciple of business watched her tie on her sun-bonnet with mingled feelings. It began to look as if she was really going! "Good-bye," said Ann. Bubble's red face grew a shade redder. "Just like a girl!" he said bitterly. "Because a man's got to deliver two medicine bottles, off she goes and won't wait for him. And the farthest I've got to go is over to Mrs. Nixon's. The whole thing won't take five minutes." Sun-bonnets are splendid things for hiding the face! Had Bubble seen that slow smile of victory there is no telling what might have happened. But he did not see it. And Ann was too good a general to exult openly. Her answer was carefully careless. "I'll wait--if you'll hurry up!" But the look which she threw after his hastily retreating figure was as old as Eve. Meanwhile the doctor and Esther, who had been so criminally careless of professional appearances as to drive down Main Street with a picnic basket protruding, were enjoying themselves with an enjoyment peculiar to careless people. Esther had forgotten about the pile of uncorrected school exercises which were supposed to form her Saturday's work; the doctor had forgotten about the measles and the twins. Rain had fallen in the night and the dust was laid, the trees were intensely green. Neither of them knew exactly how this pleasant thing had come about, although, as a matter of crude fact, Mrs. Sykes had played the part of the god from the machine. This energetic lady had made the doctor's professional career her peculiar care and it had occurred to her that, as a resident physician, he was disgracefully ignorant of the surrounding country. At the same moment she had remembered that to-morrow was Saturday, and that for trapesing the country and meandering around in outlandish places there was no one in town equal to Esther Coombe. "But," objected the doctor, "I hardly know Miss Coombe well enough to ask a favour of her." Mrs. Sykes opined that that didn't matter. "Land sakes," she declared, "it would be a nice state of affairs if one huming-being couldn't do a kindness to another without being acquainted a year or two." Besides, Esther, as the old doctor's daughter, might almost be said to have a duty toward the newcomer. Mrs. Sykes felt sure that Dr. Coombe would have insisted upon proper attentions being shown, since he was always "the politest man you ever saw, and terrible nice to strangers." Mrs. Sykes also, with the assistance of Aunt Amy, had provided the large basket. They might not need it all, but then again they might. It was best to be prepared. And, anyway, no one should ever say that she, Mrs. Sykes, "skimped" her boarders' meals. As for the big shawl, once belonging to a venerated ancestress, it is always safe to take a big shawl on a country trip even in June heat with the thermometer going up. The doctor agreed to everything, even the shawl. Whether one is taking a rest cure or not, it is distinctly pleasant to look forward to a day in the country with a lovely girl. Esther had taken his request quite simply. It seemed only natural to her that he should wish to explore, while the invitation to act as guide was frankly welcomed. Indeed her girlish gaiety in the prospect had shown very plainly that such holidays had been rare of late. School did not "keep" on Saturday, Jane was away, and Aunt Amy was so much better that she could leave her without misgiving. Bubble alone prophesied disaster, and at him they all laughed. There is a little folder published by the Town Council which gives a very good idea of the country around Coombe. We might quote this, but it will be much better for you to go some time and see things for yourself. Dr. Callandar saw a great deal that day, but was never very clear afterwards in his descriptions. It was rocky in spots, he knew, and wild and sweet and piney. And there were little lakes. He remembered the lakes particularly because--well, because of what came later. They had their lunch on the shores of a jewel-like bay, sitting upon the shawl of Mrs. Sykes' grandmother. Esther had many memories of the place. She had often camped there with her father. But it had been wilder then. Once a bear had come right up to the door of her tent. "By Jove!" said the doctor enviously, "what did you do?" "I said 'shoo'!" "And did he?" "Yes, he did. He was a nice bear, very obedient. Some days later father and I saw Mrs. Bear trot across the clearing with two baby bears behind. They were moving. I think Mr. Bear was looking for a house when he called on me." Altogether it was a magic day. There is an erroneous belief that magic has died out of the world. But in our hearts we all know better. Which of us has not lived through the magic hours of a magic day? Which of us does not know that land, unmapped, unnamed, a land whose sun is brighter, whose grass is greener, whose sky is bluer, and whose every road runs into a golden mist? Magic land it must be, for much seeking cannot find it. No one, not the wisest nor the best, may enter it at will; but for every one at some time the unseen gate swings open, birds sing, flowers bloom, the glory and the dream descend! Poor indeed, unutterably poor and cheated of his heritage is he who has not passed that way. They were not in love, of course. They were too happy for that. Love is the greatest thing in the world, but it is seldom quite happy. Esther and the doctor were not lovers but lingered in that deliciously unconscious state of "going-to-be-in-love-presently" which is nothing less than heavenly. Therefore they ate their lunch with appetite and laughed about the story of the bear. Both were surprised when the doctor's watch told them it was time to think of home. They came back very slowly along the shaded trail to where the car stood waiting in the brilliant light of the declining sun. "Just a moment," said the doctor, and cranked vigorously. A confusion of odd noises ensued, from which, somehow, the right noise did not emerge. "Just a moment," he repeated. "There appears to be something loose--or tight--or something. If you'll just sit out on the grass a moment, Miss Esther, I'll see what it is." Esther descended. The grass was just as pleasant to sit upon as the car seat and she knew nothing whatever about the tricky ways of motors. "Just a moment," said Callandar for the third time, and disappeared behind the bonnet. Fifteen minutes after, he reappeared with a very hot face decorated fantastically with black. "She's sulking," he announced gloomily. "Is she?" Esther's tone held nothing save placid amusement. "Just a moment." The doctor banged down the bonnet and effaced himself once more. This time under the body of the car. Motors are mysterious things. Why a well-treated, not to say pampered, car which some hours before had been left in perfect condition and excellent temper should abruptly turn stubborn and refuse to fulfil its chief end is a problem which we shall not attempt to solve. Every one who has ever owned a motor knows that these things be. The doctor, a modest man, considered himself a fair mechanician. In expansive moments he, who made nothing of his undoubted excellence in his own profession, was wont to boast that you couldn't teach him much about motors! He had laughed to scorn the remark of his Scotch chauffeur that "they things need a deal o' humourin'!" Humour a thing of cogs and screws? Absurd! One must master a motor, not humour her. Half an hour later he emerged from the car's eclipse and sank, a pitiable figure, upon the grass beside Esther. "Won't it go?" asked Esther dreamily. It had been very pleasant sitting there watching the sun set. The master of motors made a tragic gesture. "No," he said, "she won't." "Shake her," said Esther. Dr. Callandar pushed back his sweat-bedewed hair with fingers which left a fearsome streak above his left eyebrow. The girl laughed. But the doctor's decorated face was rueful. "Do you know, Miss Esther, I'm afraid it isn't a bit funny." His tone, too, was sober; and Esther, suddenly more fully alive to the situation, noticed that the hands clasped recklessly about the knees of once spotless trousers were shaking, just a little. He must be awfully tired! "That's because you can't see yourself. Give the motor a rest. There is plenty of time. Let's have tea here instead of on the way home. There is cold tea and chicken-loaf, bread and butter, and half a tart." The doctor brightened. "You may have the half-tart," he concluded generously. "And in return you will forgive me my pessimism. I believe I am hungry and thirsty and--if I could only swear I should be all right presently." Esther put her small fingers in her ears and directed an absorbed gaze toward the sunset. Callandar laughed. "All over!" he called. "Richard is himself again. And now we have got to be serious. Painful as it is, I admit defeat. I can't make that car budge an inch. It won't move. We can't push it. We have no other means of conveyance. Deduction--we must walk!" "Yes, only like most deductions, it doesn't get us anywhere. We _can't_ walk." "Not to Coombe of course. Merely to the nearest farm house." "There isn't any nearest farm house." "Then to the nearest common or garden house." "I thought we were going to be serious. Really, there is no house within reasonable walking distance. We are quite in the wilds here. Don't you remember the long stretches of waste land we came through? No one builds on useless ground. The nearest houses of any kind are over on the other side of the lake. The beach is good there and there are a few summer cottages and a boarding house. Farther in is the little railway station of Pine Lake--" "Jove! That's what we want! Why did you try to frighten me? Once let us reach the station and our troubles are over. There is probably an evening train into Coombe." "There is. But we shall never catch it. We are on the wrong side of the lake. We have no boat. There is a trail around but it is absolutely out of the question, too far and too rough, even if we knew it, which we do not. It would take a woodsman to follow it even in daylight." "But--" The doctor hesitated. He was beginning to feel seriously disturbed. It seemed impossible that they could be as isolated as Esther seemed to think. Distance is a small thing to a powerful motor eating up space with an effortless appetite, which deceives novice and expert alike. It is only when one looks back that one counts the miles. He remembered vaguely that the nearest house was a long way back. "I'll have another try," he answered soberly, "and in the meantime, think--think hard! There may be some place you have forgotten. If not, we are in rather a serious fix." "There are no bears now," said Esther. "There are gossips!" briefly. The girl laughed. The thought of possible gossip seemed to disturb her not at all. "Oh, it will be all right as soon as we explain," confidently. "But Aunt Amy will be terrified. If we could only get word to Aunt Amy! I don't mind so much about Mrs. Sykes, for she is always prepared for everything. She will comfort herself with remembering how she said when she saw it was going to be a lovely day: 'It may be a fine enough morning, Esther, but I have a feeling that something will happen before night. I have put in an umbrella in case of rain and a pair of rubbers and a rug and you'd better take my smelling salts. I hope you won't have an accident, I'm sure, but it's best to be forewarned.'" The doctor glanced up from his tinkering to join in her laugh. He felt ashamed of himself. The possibility of evil tongues making capital of their enforced position had certainly never entered into the thought of this smiling girl. Yet that such a possibility might exist in Coombe as well as in other places he did not doubt. And she was in his charge. The thought of her clear eyes looking upon the thing which she did not know enough to dread made him feel positively sick! When he spoke to her again there was a subtle change in his manner. He had become at once her senior, the physician, and man of the world. "Miss Esther," he said, leaving his futile tampering with the machine, "I can see no way out of this but one. I am a good walker and a fast one. I shall leave you here with the car and the rugs and a revolver (there is one in the tool box), and go back along the road. I shall walk until I come to somewhere and then get a carriage or wagon--also a chaperone--and come back for you. It is positively the only thing to do." Esther's charming mouth drooped delicately at the corners. "Oh no! That's not at all a nice plan. I'm afraid to stay here. Not of bears, but of tramps--or--or something." "Where there are no houses there will be no tramps." "There may be. You never can tell about tramps. And I couldn't shoot a tramp. The very best I could do would be to shoot myself--" "But--" "And I might bungle even that!" pathetically. "But, my dear girl--" "And anyway, I've thought of another plan. There is a place on the lake, on this side. Not a house exactly, but a log cabin, where old Prue lives. Did you ever hear of old Prue? She is a man-hater and a recluse and lives all by herself in the bush. It is a dreadful place and she keeps a fierce dog! But perhaps she keeps a boat, too. She must keep a boat," cheerfully, "because she lives right by the water and I know she fishes. If she would only let us have the boat! But I warn you she may refuse. She is like the witch in 'Hansel and Gretel.' Do you remember--" But at the first mention of the boat, the doctor had sprung to action and was now standing ready laden with the basket and the rug. With the air of a man who has never heard of "Hansel and Gretel" he slipped a most businesslike revolver into a pocket of his coat. "For the dog, if necessary," he said. "We must have that boat! Is it far?" "Quite a walk. About two miles through the bush. But I know the way and the trail is fairly good, or should be. It branches off from the one we took this morning." The sun was gone when they turned back into the woods but the wonderful after-light of the long Canadian sunset would be with them for a good time yet. There was no breeze to stir the trees, but the air had cooled. It was not unpleasantly hot, now, even in the thickest places. The doctor stepped out briskly. "Listen!" Esther paused with uplifted finger. The trees were very still but in the undergrowth the life of the woods was beginning to stir. Startled squirrels raced up the fallen logs, glancing backward with curious but resentful eyes. Hidden skirmishings and rustlings were everywhere and something brown and furry darted across the path with a faint cry. "Don't you feel as if you were in some fairy country?" asked the girl. "You can feel and hear them all about you though they keep well hidden. A million eager eyes are watching, Lilliputian armies lie in ambush beneath the leaves. How quiet they are now that we have stopped moving, but as soon as we go on the hurry and skurry will break out afresh! We are the invading army and the fairies fly to help the wood-folk protect their homes." As they branched into the deeper path the light grew dimmer. Outside, it would still be clear golden twilight but here the grey had come. And now the trees grew closer together and a whispering began--a weird and wonderful sighing from the soul of the forest; the old, primeval cry to the night and to the stars. It was almost dark when they reached the tiny clearing by the lake. Across the cleared space the water could be seen, faintly luminous, with the black square of the cabin outlined against it. There was no sign of life or light from the dark windows. A dog began to bark sharply. "He is chained!" said Callandar. "We are fortunate." "How can you tell?" "A free dog never barks in that tone. I think he has been a bad dog to-day. Killing chickens, perhaps, or chasing cats. A man-hater, like your old witch, is certain to have cats! I wonder where she is? Does she count going to bed at sundown as one of her endearing peculiarities?" "Quite the contrary, I imagine. Let's knock." They raced up the path to the door like children and struck some lusty blows. No one answered. The door was locked and every window was blank. "Knock again!" They knocked again, banged in fact, and then rattled the windows. "She could never sleep through all that racket!" said Callandar with conviction. "She must be out. Well, out or in, we've got to get that boat. Let's explore--this path ought to lead to the lake." "Shall we steal it?" in a delighted whisper. "We probably shall. You won't mind going to jail, I hope?" "Not at all!" The doctor was walking so rapidly that Esther was a little out of breath. "Only, the oars--are certain--to be locked--in the house!" she warned jerkily. "Then we shall serve sentence for house breaking also." "Oh, gracious!" Esther stumbled over the root of a tree and nearly fell. But the doctor only walked the faster. They scrambled together down the steep path and over the stretch of rocky beach to where the tiny float lay a black oblong on the water. The boat house was beside it. "Eureka!" cried the doctor, springing forward. But the door of the boat house was open and the boat was gone. CHAPTER XIII It is a fact infinitely to be regretted, but the doctor swore! "Well, did you _ever!_" exclaimed Esther. She was a little tired and more than a little excited, a condition which conduces to hysteria, and collapsing upon the end of the float she began to laugh. "I wish," said the doctor judicially, "that I knew exactly what you find to laugh at." "Oh, nothing! Your face--I think you looked so very murderous. And you did swear--didn't you?" "Beg your pardon, I'm sure," stiffly. For an instant they gazed resentfully at each other. The doctor was seriously worried. Esther felt extremely frivolous. But if he wanted to be stiff and horrid,--let him be stiff and horrid. "I declare you act as if it were my fault the old boat is gone!" she remarked aggrievedly. "Don't be silly!" An uncomfortable silence followed. Esther began to realise how tired she was. Callandar stared out gloomily over the darkening lake. "Anyway it's bad enough without your being cross," said Esther in a small voice. "Cross--my dear child! Did I seem cross? What a brute you must think me. But to get you into this infernal tangle!--If this old woman is out in the boat she'll have to come back some time. She can't stay out on the lake all night." Esther, who thought privately that this was exactly what the old woman might do, made no reply. She rather liked the tone of his apology and was feeling better. "Then there is the dog. If she is anywhere near, she will be sure to hear the dog. From the noise he is making she will deduce burglars and return to protect her property. As a man-hater she will have no fear of a mere burglar. Luckily for us, that dog has a carrying voice!" Scarcely had he spoken than the dog ceased to bark. "Shall I go and throw sticks at it?" asked Esther helpfully. "Hush! The dog must have heard something. Let's listen!" In the silence they listened intently. Certainly there was something, a faint indeterminate sound, a sound not in the bush but in the lake, a sound of disturbed water. "The dip of a paddle," whispered Callandar. "Some one is coming in a canoe. The dog heard it before we did--recognised it, too, probably. It must be the witch!" The dipping sound came nearer and presently there slipped from the shadow of the trees a darker shadow, moving. A canoe with one paddle was coming toward them. Esther with undignified haste scrambled up from the float, abandoning her position in the line of battle in favour of the doctor. The dog broke into a chorus of ear-splitting yelps of warning and welcome. The moving shadow loomed larger and a calm though harsh voice demanded, "Be quiet, General! Who is there?" "We are!" answered Callandar, stepping as far from the tree shadow as possible. "Picnickers from Coombe, in an unfortunate predicament. Our motor has broken down, and we want the loan of a boat to get over to Pine Lake station." As he spoke he was vividly conscious of Esther close behind. So near was she that he felt her warm breath on his neck. She was breathing quickly. Was the child really frightened? Instinctively he put out his hand, backward, and thrilled through every nerve when something cool and small and tremulous slipped into it. The canoe shot up to the float. "You can't get any boat here." There was no surprise or resentment in the harsh level voice. Only determination, final and unshakable. Esther felt the doctor's hand close around her own. Its clasp meant everything, reassurance, protection, strength. In the darkness she exulted and even ventured to frown belligerently in the direction of the disagreeable canoeist. They could see her plainly now. A tall woman in a man's coat with the sleeves rolled up displaying muscular arms. Her face, even in the half-light, looked harsh and gaunt. With a skill, which spoke of long practice, she sprang from the canoe, scarcely rocking it, and proceeded to tie the painter securely to a heavy ring in the float. Then she straightened herself and turned. "I'll loose the dog!" she announced calmly. Just that and no more! No arguments, no revilings, no display of any human quality. There was something uncanny in her ruthlessness. "If you do, it will be bad for the dog," said Callandar coldly. "Who are you who threaten decent people?" It was the tone of authority and for an instant she answered to it. Her harsh voice held a faint Scotch accent. "There'll be no decent people here at this hour o' the nicht. Be off. You'll get no boat. Nor the hussy either. The dog's well used to guarding it." "How dare you!" Esther was so angry at being called a hussy that she forgot how frightened she was and faced the woman boldly. But the old hard eyes stared straight into her young indignant ones and showed no softening. Next moment old Prue had pushed the girl aside and disappeared in the darkness of the wooded path. "Quick!" The doctor's tone was crisp and steady. "The canoe is our chance. Jump in, while I hold it--in the bow, anywhere!" "But the paddle! She has taken the paddle!" Even as she objected she obeyed. The frail craft rocked as she slid into it, careful only not to overbalance; next moment it rocked more dangerously and then settled evenly into the water under the doctor's added weight. "Sit tight!" Carefully he leaned over her, steadying the canoe with one hand on the float. In the other she saw the glint of a knife, felt the confining rope sever, felt the strong push which separated them from the float and then, just as a great dog, fiercely silent now, bounded from the path above, a paddle rose and dipped and they shot out into the lake. "If he follows and tries to overturn us I'll have to shoot him," said the doctor cheerfully. "But he won't. Hark to him!" The long bay of the baffled dog rose to the stars. "There was an extra paddle in the boat-house," he explained. "I took it out when we first came down--in case of accident. Old She-who-must-be-obeyed must have forgotten it. It is a spliced paddle but we shall manage excellently. Luckily I know how to use it. All I need now is direction. Lady, 'where lies the land to which this ship must go?'" "'Far, far away is all the seamen know,'" capped Esther, laughing. "But if you will keep on around that next point and then straight across I think we ought to get there--Oh, look! there is the moon! We had forgotten about the moon!" They had indeed forgotten the moon. And the moon had been part of their programme too. Both remembered at the same moment that, according to schedule, they were now supposed to be almost home, running down Coombe hill by moonlight. "This is much nicer," said Esther, comfortably. "But--" he did not finish his sentence. Why disturb her? Besides it certainly was much nicer! The forgotten moon bore them no malice. A soft radiance grew and spread around them, the whole sky and lake were faintly shining though the goddess herself had not yet topped the trees. The shadows were becoming blacker and more sharply defined. In front of them the point loomed, inky black. Like a bird of the night the little canoe shot towards it, skimmed its darkness and then slipped, effortless, into shining silver space. The smile of the moon! Pleasing old hypocrite! Always she smiles the same upon two in a canoe! They were paddling toward her so that her light fell full on the doctor's face--a clean cut, virile face, manly, stern, yet with a whimsical sweetness hidden somewhere. "How handsome he is!" thought Esther, exactly as the moon intended. "Strong, too," her thought added as the light picked out his well-set shoulders and the sweep of the arm which sped the paddle so lightly yet so strongly up and down. Clear, yet soft, the moon showed no touch of grey in the hair (although the grey was there) nor did she point out the markings which were the legacy of strenuous years. Seen so, he appeared no older than she who watched shyly from girlish eyes. With a little shiver of utmost content Esther settled herself against the thwart of the canoe. Manlike he did not know the meaning of that shiver. "Fool that I am!" he exclaimed. "You are cold, and behold we have left behind the shawl of Mrs. Sykes' grandmother!" "Indeed we have not! The dog would have torn it to bits. I assure you the shawl of the venerated ancestress was in the canoe before I was." "Then wrap yourself up. It is wonderful how cool the nights are." Esther was not cold. But it is sometimes pleasant to be commanded. This is what enables man to persist in a certain pleasing delusion regarding woman's natural attitude. When she occasionally pleases herself by a simulation of subjection he immediately thrills with pride, crying, "Aha! I have her mastered!" Of course he finds out his mistake later. It pleased Esther, though not cold, to wrap herself in the shawl and it pleased Callandar to see her do it. I assure you it left the whole question of the subjection of women quite untouched. The moon knew all about it but, feminine herself, she favoured the deception. Around the girl's dark head she drew a circle of light. The branching tendrils of her hair, all alive and fanlike now in the coolness of the night, made a nimbus of black and silver from which her shadowed face shone like a faint pure pearl. As he seemed younger, so did she seem older; under the moon she was no longer a child, but a woman with mysterious eyes. An impulse came to him--the rare impulse of confidence! Suddenly it seemed that what he had mistaken for self-sufficiency had been in reality loneliness. He had learned to live to himself not because he was of himself sufficient but because no one else, save the Button Moulder, had ever come within speaking distance. Lorna Sinnet, for all his admiration of her, had established no claim upon his confidence, yet now, with this young girl, whom he had known but a few weeks, a new need developed--a need to talk of himself! A primitive need indeed, but, like all primitive needs, compelling. We need not follow the history. Perhaps, reported, it would not seem very lucid. There were blanks, unsaid things, twists of phrase, eloquent nothings which, wonderfully understandable in themselves, do not report well. Somehow he must have made it plain, for Esther understood it and understood him, too, in a way which we, who have never sailed with him under the moon, cannot hope to do. Faults of expression are no hindrance to this kind of understanding. He did not talk well, was clumsy, not at all eloquent, but magically she reconstructed the hopes and dreams of his ambitious youth. From a few bald phrases she fashioned the thunderbolt which shattered them, saw him stunned, then alive again, struggling. With every ready imagination she leaped full upon the fires of an ambition which accepted no check but fed upon difficulty and overleapt obstacles. Between stories of his early college life, her sympathy sensed the deadly strain which his narrative missed and, long before he mentioned it, her foresight had descried the coming of hard won success. But the really vital thing, the core of the short history, she followed slowly word by word, anxiously. It told of wonders which she did not know--love, passion, despair! Now indeed he seemed to be speaking in a strange language--yet not strange entirely. She hid each broken phrase in her heart, knowing them rare, and wondering at the treasure entrusted to her. Some of her girlhood she left behind her as she listened. Something new, yet surely old, stirred faintly. What was this love he spoke of? The breath of bygone passion brushed across her untouched soul and left it trembling! Into the long silence which followed the story her voice drifted like a sigh. "If she could only have lived until you came!" It was of the girl wife she thought. Her heart was full of an aching pity for that other girl whom life had cheated of her sweetest gift. More than the man who had lived out a bitter expiation, did she pity her who had missed the fight, slipped out of the struggle. Death seemed to Esther such a terrible thing. The new life stirring in her shuddered at the thought of mortality. That breath of the divine which we name Love began already to proclaim itself immortal. Yet Molly, that other girl, had loved--and died. The doctor, too, was lost in self communings. Already, with the words not cold upon his lips, he was surprised that he had told the story. How could he? Why had he? That pitiful little story of Molly which had been too sacred for the touch of a word. Above all, why had the telling been a relief? It was a relief, he knew that. Somewhere, in the silver waters of Pine Lake he had buried a burden. He felt lighter, younger. Had his very love for Molly become a load whose proper name was remorse? Had his heart harboured regret and fear under the name of sorrow? Or had he never loved at all, never really sorrowed? Had the thing he called love been but a boy's hot passion caught in the grip of a man's awakening will, a mistake made irrevocable by a stubbornness of purpose which could not face defeat? Whatever it had been, it had come to be a burden. And the burden had lightened--it pressed no longer. In a word, he was free! He was his own man again, unafraid, able to look into his heart, to open all the windows--no dark corners, no haunting ghosts! He could enter now without the dread of echoing footsteps or wistful, half-heard whisperings. The shade of pretty, childish Molly would vex no more. The relief of it--the pain of it! It was like a new birth. Meanwhile the strong, sure strokes were bringing them swiftly nearer the opposite shore where yellow dots of light proclaimed the position of the summer cottages. One dot, larger, detached itself from the others and indicated the flare on the end of the landing float. Outlines began to be darkly discernible, the moon's silver mirror was shivered by lances of gold. Very soon their journey would be ended. The paddle dipped more slowly. Esther sighed, and sat up straighter. Considering all the trouble they had taken, neither of them seemed overjoyed to be so near the desired haven. "We are nearly there," said Callandar obviously. Esther looked backward over their shining wake. Something precious seemed to be slipping away on those fairy ripples. Yet all she could find to say was-- "We have come very fast. You must be tired." Strange little commonplaces, how they take their due of all the wonderful hours of life! Esther wriggled out of the shawl, smoothed her hair, arranged her ruffled collar. Callandar shipped his paddle and resumed his coat. "Where to, now?" he asked practically. "There is only one landing, we shall be right on it in a moment. Then--there are several of the cottagers whom I know. But I think Mrs. Burton will be the best. She has often asked me to visit her and is such a dear that the present unexpected arrival will not make me less welcome." "That's good! As for me, I'll make for the station and send the telegrams. They won't be seriously anxious yet, do you think? Then--there is a train I think you said?" "You have missed that. But there is a very early morning train, a milk train--O gracious!" Esther broke off with a start of genuine consternation. "To-morrow is Sunday!" "Naturally!" in surprise. "How horribly unfortunate! The milk train doesn't run on Sunday!" "Does the milk object to Sunday travelling?" "Don't joke!" forlornly. "It's dreadful that it should be Sunday. People will talk!" "Oh, will they?" The doctor was immensely surprised. "Why?" "Because it's Sunday." "What has Sunday got to do with it? They can't talk. Here you are safe and sound with your friend Mrs. Burton by 9 o'clock, an intensely respectable hour even in Coombe. What can they say?" "But it's Sunday! You will return home, by rail, on Sunday. Every one will know. Your breaking of the Sabbath will be put down to careless pleasuring. It will hurt your practice terribly!" Callandar laughed heartily. But before he could reply the quick bursting out of a blaze upon the shore startled them both. "What is it?" he asked apprehensively. "Only a bonfire! Some one is giving a bonfire party. It is quite the fashionable thing. There will be songs and speeches with lemonade and cake. Oh, hurry! We shall be in time for the programme." The mysterious woman, born of the moon, was gone. In her place was a rumple-haired, bright-eyed child. Callandar took up the paddle with a whimsical smile. "Sit still or you'll overturn the canoe!" he said warningly. And across the narrowing stretch of water floated the opening sentiments of the patriotic cottagers. "O Cana_dah_, our heritage, our love--" CHAPTER XIV Henry Callandar, resting neck-deep in the cool green swimming pool, tossed the wet hair out of his eyes and whistled ingratiatingly to a watching robin. A delightful sense of guilt enveloped him, for it was Sunday morning and, since his experience at Pine Lake a week ago, he had learned a little of what Sunday means in Coombe. Esther had been quite right in fearing that his return by train upon that sacred day might deal a severe blow to his prestige--at least until Mrs. Sykes had had time to explain to every one how unavoidable it had been--and he knew that if he were to be caught in his present delightful occupation his Presbyterian reputation might be considered lost forever. The robin twittered at him prettily but refused to be beguiled. Sunday bathing was not among its weaknesses. Presently it flew away. "Gone to tell the minister, I'll be bound!" murmured Callandar. "'Twill be a scandal in the kirk. I'll lose all my five patients. Horrid little bird!" Smiling, he drew himself from the embrace of the faintly shining water and retiring to the willow screen began to dress with that virtuous leisureliness which characterises those who rise before their fellows. He had the world to himself; a world of cool, sweet scents, pure light and Sabbath quiet--that wonderful quiet which seems a living thing with a personality of its own, so different is it from the ordinary quiet of work-a-day mornings. The primrose sky gave promise of a beautiful day. The blue grey vault overhead was already filling with shimmering golden light, the drooping willows and the dew-wet grass were stirring in the breeze of dawn, the voice of the water sang in the stillness. Callandar slipped his blue tie snugly under the collar of his white flannel shirt and sighed with the ecstasy of health renewed. A half-forgotten couplet hummed through his brain. "Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright! The bridal of the earth and sky--" "And it's a hymn, too, or I'm a Dutchman," he declared, much edified. "That proves that swimming on Sunday is quite compatible with proper orthodoxy of mind. Shouldn't wonder if the Johnnie who wrote that wrote it on Sunday morning after a dip. I'll tell Mrs. Sykes he did anyway--where in thunder did I put my boots?" The missing articles had apparently fulfilled the purpose of their being by walking away, or else the robin had collected them as evidence! Callandar chuckled at a whimsical vision of them in a church court, damningly marked "Exhibit 1." But as he searched for them the utter peace of the morning fled and suddenly he became conscious that he and the willows no longer divided the world between them. Some one was near. He felt eyes watching. The curious half-lost instinct which warns man of the approach of his kind, told him that he was no longer alone. The doctor fixed a stern eye on the screening willows. "Zerubbabel!" he commanded, "come out of there at once, sir!" A stirring in the bushes was the only answer. The doctor glanced at his bootless feet. "Bubble," more mildly, "if you want a swim--" "It isn't Bubble," said a meek voice, "it's me. Are you dressed enough for me to come out?" Without waiting for an answer the elfish face of Ann appeared through the willow tangle. "If you're looking for your boots," she remarked kindly, "they're hanging on that limb behind you." But boots no longer absorbed the doctor. "Come out of those willows, both of you!" "There's only me," still meekly. "And I didn't come to swim. I came for you. Honour bright! The Button Man's here." "What?" "Yes, he is. He came in a big grey car and was sitting on the doorstep when Aunt got up. He told her not to disturb you, but of course Aunt thought that you ought to know at once and when she found that you were gone"--a poignant pause! "Yes, when she found me gone--" "When she found you gone," slowly, "she said you must have been called up in the night to a patient!" "Did she really?" The doctor's laugh rang out. "And I hope the Lord will forgive her for such a nawful lie!" finished Ann piously. "He will, Ann, He will! You can depend on that. He has a proper respect for loyalty between friends. Did I understand you to say that you had seen my boots? Oh, yes, thanks! Now I wonder what can have brought our Button Man back so soon? He didn't by any chance say, I suppose?" "Him?" with scorn. "Not much fear! I'll do up your boots if you like." "Thanks, no. That would be using unseemly haste. Button-men who go visiting on Sunday must learn to wait. Don't you want to have a splash, Ann? I'll walk on slowly, you can easily catch me up!" The child looked enviously at the now sparkling water, but shook her head. "I'd love to. But I dasn't. Aunt always knows when I've been in. Even if I go and muddy myself afterwards, she knows. She says a little bird tells her." "A robin, I'll bet. I know that bird! Sanctimonious thing! He was watching me this morning and went off as fast as he knew how, to spread the news. Ann, you have lived in this remarkable town all your life. Can you tell me just why it is wicked to go swimming on Sunday?" Ann looked blank. "No. But it is. You're likely to get drowned any minute! Not but what I'd risk it if it wasn't for Aunt. I'm far more scared of Aunt than I am of God," she added reflectively. "Why, Ann! What do you mean?" "Well, you never can tell about God, but Aunt's a dead sure thing! If she says you'll get a smack for going in the river you'll get it--but God only drowns a few here and there, for examples like." "Look here!" Callandar paused in his stride and fixed her dark eyes by the sudden seriousness in his own. "You've got the thing all wrong. God doesn't drown people for swimming on Sunday. He isn't that sort at all. He--He--" the unaccustomed teacher of youth faltered hopelessly in his effort to instruct the budding mind, but Ann's eyes were questioning and at their bidding the essential truth of his own childhood came back to him. "God is Love," he declared firmly. "Great Scott! a person would think that we lived in the Dark Ages! Don't you let 'em frighten you, Ann. What are you allowed to do on Sunday anyway?" "Church," succinctly. "And Sunday-school and church and the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'" "Well, that's something. Jolly good book, the 'Pilgrim's Progress'!" "Yes," dubiously. "If it didn't use such a nawful lot of big words. And if he'd only get on a little faster. He was terrible slow." "So he was. Well, let us be merry while we can. I'll race you to the orchard gate." At the gate they paused to regain their lost breath and sense of decorum for, across the orchard, the veranda could be plainly seen with the trim figure of Professor Willits in close proximity to the taller and gaunter outline of Mrs. Sykes. With one of her shy quick gestures, the child slipped her fingers from the doctor's hold and sped away through the trees. Her friendship with Callandar was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to Ann, but she was not of the kind which parades intimacy. "Patient dead?" asked Willits dryly after they had shaken hands. "Patient?" Then, catching sight of the flaming red in the cheeks of his landlady, "Dead? Certainly not. Even my patients know better than to die on a morning like this. But whatever possessed you to disturb a righteous household? Mrs. Sykes, he doesn't deserve breakfast, but I do. When do you think--" "In just about five minutes, Doctor. Soon's I get the coffee boiling and the cream skimmed. I didn't know," with an anxiously reproving glance, "but what you might want to get washed up after you got in." "I--no, I think I'm quite clean enough, Mrs. Sykes. But it was very thoughtful of you to wait--" "Aunt, the coffee's boiling over!" The warning was distinctly audible and, with a gesture of one who abandons an untenable position, Mrs. Sykes retreated upon the kitchen. The visitor watched her flight with mild amaze. "I suppose I should seem curious if I were to ask why the excellent Mrs. Sykes imperils her immortal soul in your behalf? But why in the name of common sense is the peril necessary? It isn't a crime, is it, for a medical man to get up early and go for a swim?" "You forget what day it is," said Callandar solemnly. "Or rather, you never knew. I myself was not properly acquainted with Sunday until I came to this place. Your presence here is in itself a scandal. People do not visit upon the Seventh day in Coombe." "No? You should have informed me of the town's eccentricities. As it is, if my presence imperils your social standing you can seclude me until the next train." "Better than that," cheerfully, "I can take you to church." The alarmed look upon the professor's face was so enticing that Callandar continued with glee: "Why not? I have always thought your objection to church-going a blot upon an otherwise estimable character. Hitherto I have been too busy to attend to it, but now--" "Quit chaffing, Harry! I came up because I had to see you. You pay no attention to my letters. I never dreamed that you would stay a month in this backwater. What is wrong? What is the matter with you?" "Look at me--and ask those questions again." The keen eyes of the Button-Moulder looked deep into the doctor's steady ones. There was a slight pause. Then-- "Yes, I see what you mean. I saw it as you came across the orchard." The sharp voice softened. "My anxiety for your health could hardly survive the way in which you leaped that fence! But all this makes it only the more mysterious. Have you found the fountain of youth or--or what?" Callandar threw an affectionate arm over the other man's shoulders. "I _am_ young, amn't I! Trouble is, I didn't know it." He ruffled his hair at the side so that the grey showed plainly. "Terrible thing when one loses the realisation of youth! But I've had my lesson. I'll never be old again, never!" In spite of himself the professor's straight mouth curved a little. A spark of pride glowed in his cool eyes as he bent them upon the smiling face of his friend. Yet his tone was mocking as he said, "Then it is the fountain of youth? One is never too old to find that chimera." "It's not something that I've found, old cynic. It's something that I've lost. Look at me hard! Don't you notice something missing? Did you ever read the 'Pilgrim's Progress'?" "The Pilgrim's--" "Breakfast is ready!" called Ann, teetering on her toes in the doorway. "The Pil--" "And Aunt--says--will--you--please--come--at--once--so's--the coff--ee--won't--be--cold!" chanted Ann. "Yes, Ann. We're coming." "But I want to know--" "Old man, I'll tell you after breakfast. I want you to see me eat. I wish to demonstrate that there is no deception. A miracle has really happened. No one could observe me breakfasting and doubt it!" When they were seated he looked guilelessly into the still disapproving face of Mrs. Sykes. "Perhaps you are wondering, as I did, what has brought Professor Willits back to Coombe," he said, "but time and space mean little to professors, and the fact is that Willits has long wished to hear a sermon by the Reverend Mr. Macnair. He is coming with me this morning. Perhaps you hadn't better mention it, though. It might disturb Mr. Macnair to know that so eminent a critic was listening to him." The eminent critic frowned grimly and took a fourth cream biscuit without noticing it. "Not a mite!" declared Mrs. Sykes. "The man ain't born that can fluster Mr. Macnair. Nor yet the woman, unless it's Esther Coombe--Land sakes, Doctor! I forgot to tell you how that cup tips! Ann, get a clean table napkin. I hope your nice white pants ain't ruined, Doctor? I really ought to put that cup away but it's a good cup if it's held steady and I hate to waste good things. Last time it tipped was when the Ladies' Aid met here. Mrs. Coombe had it and the whole cup spilled right over her dress. I was that mortified! But she didn't seem to care. I can't imagine what's the matter with that woman. She's getting dreadful careless about her clothes. Next time I met her she wore that same dress, splash an' all! 'Tisn't as if she hadn't plenty of new things,--more than they can afford, if what folks say is true. You haven't met Mrs. Coombe yet, have you, Doctor?" "She is away from home." "Well, when you do meet her you'll see what I mean, or like as not you won't, being a man. Men never seem to see anything wrong with Mary Coombe. But Esther must feel dreadful mortified sometimes when her Ma forgets to get hooked up behind. Esther's as neat as a pin. Always was. Why, even when she got home last week after that awful time you and she had up at Pine Lake, and her having to stay overnight without so much as a clean collar, she walked in here as fresh as a daisy--won't you let me give you some more coffee, Professor?" "Thank you, yes. You were saying--" "Willits, do you think so much coffee is good for you?" "Land sakes, Doctor, my coffee won't hurt him! It never seems to trouble you any. As I was saying, one would almost have thought that what with picnicking in the bush all day and trapesing around in a canoe half the night and having to stay where she wasn't expected and wouldn't like to ask the loan of the flat-irons--" "Please, Mrs. Sykes, don't let Ann eat another biscuit. I don't want her to be ill just when I want a day off to take Willits to church. Willits, as your medical adviser, I forbid more coffee. He will really injure himself, Mrs. Sykes, if I do not take him away. He isn't used to breakfasts like this and his constitution won't stand it." Mrs. Sykes beamed graciously under this delicate compliment and confiscated Ann's latest biscuit with a ruthless hand. "If you gentlemen would like to sit in the parlour--" she offered graciously. But Callandar with equal graciousness declined. The office would do quite well enough. Willits might want to smoke. "And as it-seems that my watch has stopped," he added, "perhaps you would be so kind as to tell us when it is time to change for church." The professor settled himself primly upon the hardest chair which the office contained and refused a cigar. "You seem to have acquired a reprehensible habit of fooling, Henry," he said. "Your language also is strange. When, for instance, you say 'change for church,' to what sort of transformation do you refer?" Callandar chuckled. "Only to your clothes, old chap. Don't worry. You wouldn't expect me to go to church in flannels?" "I should not expect you to go to church at all." "Well, the fact is, old man, you are painfully ignorant. I do go to church, and the proper church costume for a professional man is a frock coat and silk hat. But as you are a traveller, and as you are not exactly a professional man, I shall not lose caste by taking you as you are." The imperturbable Willits waived the point. "I understood you to say, also, that your watch had stopped. Was that a joke?" "No such luck!" The doctor took out his watch and shook it. "Mainspring gone, I'm afraid!" "A month ago," said the professor, "if your watch had stopped you would have had a fit." "Really! Was I ever such an ass? Well, I'm not the slave of my watch any longer. Time goes softly in Coombe. Aren't you glad I'm not taking a fit?" "I am glad. But I want to understand." "Then let's return to the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' Ann and I were talking about it this morning. Do you remember the man with the pack on his back and how when he reached a certain spot the pack, seemingly without effort of his own, fell off and was seen no more?" Willits reflected. The doctor was thoroughly in earnest now. "I seem to recollect the incident to which you refer," he said after a pause. "If I remember rightly it is an allegory and is used in a definitely religious sense. The man with the pack meets a certain spiritual crisis. Do I understand that you--er--that you have experienced conversion? I am not guilty of speaking lightly of so important a matter, but I hardly know how to frame my question." The doctor tilted back his chair and looked dreamily out of the window. "I did not mean you to take my illustration literally. My religious beliefs are very much the same as they have always been. To a materialist like you they seem, I know, absurdly orthodox; to a church member in good standing they might seem fatally lax; but such as they are I have not changed them. Still, I was, as you know, a man with a burden. You may call the burden consequence or what you will, the name doesn't matter. The weight of that youthful, selfish, unpardonable act which bound a young girl to me without giving her the protection which that bond demanded, was always upon me, crushing out the joy of life. The news of her death made no difference, except to render me hopeless of ever making up to her for the wrong I had done. Her death did not set me free, it bound me closer. "I seemed like one caught in the tow of some swift tide, always fighting to get back, yet eternally being drawn away. The tide still flows out, for the tide of human life is the only tide which never returns, but I have ceased to struggle. I no longer look back. It is not that God has forgiven me (I have never been able to think of God as otherwise than forgiving), it is that I have forgiven myself." CHAPTER XV "It amounts to this, then," said Willits presently. "You are cured. The balance is swinging true again. It has taken a long time, but the cure is all the more complete for that. Now, when are you coming back to us?" Callandar did not answer. "You are needed. Not a day passes that your absence is not felt. You used to have a strong sense of responsibility toward your work. What has become of it?" "I have it still. I am not slighting my work by taking time to build myself into better shape for it." "But you will simply stagnate here!" querulously. "You are becoming slack already. You let your watch run down." The doctor laughed. "If many of my patients could do the same without worry they would not need a doctor. Half of the nervous trouble of the age can be ultimately traced to watches which won't run down. Leisure--unhurried leisure--that is what we want. We've got to have it!" "Piffle! I shall hear you talk about inviting your soul next." "Well, if I do he is in better shape to accept the invitation than he used to be." The professor's gesture was sufficiently expressive. "Very well. I give up. Remember, I advise against it. I think you are making a mistake!--I'll have that cigar now. I suppose one is allowed to smoke in the garden?" "Yes, do, that's a good fellow! I must run up and make myself presentable. I suppose you haven't seen Lorna lately?" "I have seen her very lately. She asked to be remembered." "Oh, you old prevaricator! Lorna never asked to be remembered in her life. What she really said was, 'If you see Harry give him my love!'" "If she did, you don't deserve it! Oh, boy," with sudden earnestness, "why will you make a fool of yourself? She's a woman in a thousand. Others see it if you don't. Since you've been away, MacGregor is paying her marked attention." "Good old Gregor!" The doctor's exclamation was one of pure pleasure. "And yet you say my absence isn't doing any good? Go along with you! Take your cigar and wait for me underneath the Bough. I'll not be long." He was long, however. The professor's cigar and his cogitations came to an end together without the promised reappearance. Even when he returned to the office it was empty except for Ann, who in the stiffest of starched muslin and whitest of stockings was spread out carefully upon the widest chair. Her black hair was parted as if by a razor blade and plastered tightly in slablike masses while the tension of the braids was such that they stuck out on either side of the small head like decorated sign posts. Weariness, disgust and defiance were painted visibly upon the elfish face. "This is the best chair!" said Ann politely, "but if you'll excuse me I shan't get up. Every time I sit down it makes a crease in a fresh place. By the time church is over I look like I was crumpled all over. It's the starch!" she added in sullen explanation. Willits, who liked children but did not understand them, essayed a mild joke. "Did you put some starch in your hair too?" Ann flushed scarlet with anger and mortification and made no answer. "It looked much nicer at breakfast," blundered on the professor genially. "If I were you I should unstarch it--" he paused abashed by the glare in Ann's black eyes and turned helplessly to Callandar, who had just come in, resplendent in faultless church attire. "Don't listen to him, Ann!" said the doctor. "Button moulders are so ignorant. They know absolutely nothing about hair or the necessity for special tidiness on Sundays. All the same, I'm afraid we shall have a headache if we don't let a reef out somewhere. Sit still a moment, Ann. I was always intended for a barber." To the fresh astonishment of Willits his friend's skilful hands busied themselves with the tightly drawn hair which, only too eager for freedom, soon fell into some of its usual curves. With a quick, shy gesture the child drew the adored hand to her lips and kissed it. Callandar turned a deep red. The professor chuckled, and Ann, furious at betraying herself before him, fled precipitately, the crackling starch of her stiff skirts rattling as she ran. For a moment Willits enjoyed his friend's embarrassment and then, as the probable meaning of the frock coat began to dawn upon him, his expression changed to one of apprehension. "You weren't in earnest about that church nonsense, were you?" "Certainly. If you need a clean collar take one of mine, and hurry up. The first bell has stopped ringing." "But I'm not going!" "Not if I ask you nicely?" "But why? What are you going for?" "Come and see." The shrewd eyes of the professor grew coldly thoughtful. "That is exactly what I shall do," he decided. From the home of Mrs. Sykes upon Duke Street to the First Presbyterian Church upon Oliver's Hill is a brisk walk of fifteen minutes. As Coombe lies in a valley, Oliver's Hill is not a hill, really, but a gentle eminence. It is a charming, tree-lined street bordered by the homes and gardens of the well-to-do. It is, in fact, _the_ street of Coombe, and to live upon Oliver's Hill is a social passport seldom mentioned but never ignored. As if social prominence were not enough, it had another claim upon the affections and memories of many, for up this hill every Sunday in a long and goodly stream poured the first Presbyterians who were not only the elect but also the elite of Coombe. To see Knox Church "come out" was one of the sights of the town and, decorously hidden behind a muslin curtain, a stranger might feast his eyes upon greatness unrebuked. It was said at one time that every silk hat in Coombe attended Knox Church, but this was vainglory, for it was afterwards proved that several repaired to St. Michael's and at least one to the Baptist tabernacle. With this explanation you will at once understand why the sidewalk was a few feet broader upon the church side of Oliver's Hill, and if this circumstance savours to you of ecclesiastical privilege we can only conclude that you are not Presbyterian, and request you not to be so narrow-minded. As the doctor and his half-reluctant friend turned at the foot of the hill they were immediately absorbed by the stream pressing upwards, for the last bell had already begun to ring. "We're all right," whispered Callandar encouragingly. "It rings for five minutes." The professor opened his lips to say something, but shut them with a snap. There was probably method in the doctor's madness but it was method which would never be disclosed through much questioning. With an expression of intense solemnity he fixed his eyes, gimlet-like, upon the middle button of the Sunday blouse of the lady in front of him and followed up the hill. To the absurdly low-toned remarks of his companion he vouchsafed no reply whatever. They entered the church to the subdued rustle of Sunday silks and the whisper of Sunday voices. At the door some one shook hands with Callandar and remarked in a ghostly whisper that it was a fine day. A grave young man, in black, led them to a pew half way down the aisle. Most of the pews were already full, the latest comers showing slight signs of hurry; and as they seated themselves the bell stopped and the organ began. There was a moment's expectant interval and then two doors, one at either side of the pulpit, opened simultaneously and the minister entered from one side, the choir from the other. Before the minister walked a very solemn man with abnormally long upper lip. This was Elder John MacTavish, a man of large substance, of great piety and poor digestion. It was upon this latter account that the doctor always observed him with peculiar interest, for had not Mrs. Sykes declared that if he should only be called in once to prescribe for John MacTavish's stomach his future in Coombe was secure? "Doctor Parker is doing him just no good at all," she reported. "So keep an eye on him. If he looks especially dour it's a good sign." "Would you say that he looks especially 'dour'?" whispered Callandar to Willits. "I should. Why?" "Oh, nothing--only it's a good sign! Hush!" When the minister has entered the pulpit at Knox Church there is a moment during which you may bow your head, or, if you consider this popish, you may cover your face with your gloved hand. It is a moment of severe quiet. One does not dare even to cough. Hence the doctor's warning "hush!" But this morning the quiet was rudely broken. Somewhere, just outside the open windows, sounded a laugh; a young, clear, unrestrained laugh, then the call of a sharp whistle, and next moment, through the doors not yet closed, hurtled something yellow and long-legged! With a joyous bark it rushed along the nearest aisle, across the front of the pulpit, down the other aisle and out at the door again. The congregation was amazed and grieved. Its serenity was shaken, even the minister seemed disturbed. Some younger members of the choir giggled. It was most unseemly. "Naughty dog!" said the voice outside the window. "Go home! Don't dare to lick my hand!" One of the choir members grew red in the face and choked. It was outrageous! And then, as if nothing at all had happened, the girl who had been the cause of the whole unfortunate incident entered and walked down the aisle. She appeared to be quite undisturbed; was, in fact, smiling. Every eye in the church followed her as, a little out of breath, a little flushed, with dark hair slightly disarranged as if from an exciting chase, she took her seat, unconscious, or careless, of them all. The minister, who had paused with almost reproachful obviousness, gave out the opening psalm and the congregation freed itself from embarrassment with an accustomed flutter of hymn-books. Going to church was somewhat interesting after all, thought Professor Willits. Then, in common with the rest of the congregation, he detached his eyes from the girl's exquisite profile and focused them upon the minister. Friends of the Rev. Angus Macnair asserted that he was a man in a thousand. For that matter he was a man in any number of thousands; for his was a personality, true to type, yet not likely to be duplicated. Born of a Highland Scotch father and a Lowland Scotch mother, he developed almost exclusively in his father's vein. Loyal in the extreme, narrow to fanaticism, passionate, emotional, yet trained to the cold control of a red Indian, he was a man of power, at once the victim and the triumph of his creed. Early in life he had come under a conviction of sin, had received assurance of forgiveness and of election and, before he had left the Public School, his Call had come. From that time forward he had burnt with a fierce fire of godliness which, together with a natural incapacity for seeing two sides to anything, had carried him safely through the manifold temptations to unbelief and heresy which beset a modern college education. Many wondered that a man so gifted should remain in Coombe, but the explanation is simple. He suited Coombe; the larger churches of the larger cities he did not suit. Lax opinions, heretical doctrines, outlooks appallingly wide were creeping in everywhere. It is safe to say that in most of the churches of his own faith he would have seemed bravely but hopelessly behind the times. But in Coombe he had found his place. Coombe was conservative. Coombe Presbyterians were still content to do without frills in the matter of doctrine. Coombe could still listen to hell fire and, if not unduly disturbed, did not at least smile behind its hand. Something of all this the Button-Moulder, student of men, felt as he watched the sombre yet glowing face of the preacher. The sermon that morning was one of a series dealing with the Commandments and the text was, "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour." The speaker had the scholar's power of concentration, the orator's power of delivery. He was both poignant and personal. He seemed to do everything save mention names. Some sinners in that congregation, thought Willits, had undoubtedly been bearing false witness, and were now listening to a few plain words! Cautiously he glanced around, almost expecting to see the tale of guilt and sorrow legibly imprinted upon some culprit's face. But no one seemed at all disturbed, save one old lady who glared back at him an unmistakable "Thou art the man!" The congregation sat, serenely, soberly attentive, testifying their entire agreement with the speaker by an occasional sigh or nod. The more fiery the preacher's denunciations, the more complacent his hearers. In astonishment Willits realised that, if appearances go for anything, no one in Knox Presbyterian Church had ever borne false witness against anybody! The collecting of the offering was somewhat of an anti-climax, as was also the anthem by the choir, the latter consisting of a complicated arrangement of the question, "If a man die shall he live again?" reiterated singly by all parts in succession, by duets and quartets and finally by the whole choir, without so much as a shadow of an answer appearing anywhere. Willits gave a long sigh as they stepped into the summer day again. It had not been uninteresting, but he was quite ready for lunch. The doctor, on the contrary, seemed unaccountably to linger. He even paused to talk to a fat lady in mauve velvet who had mauve cheeks to match. "So glad to see you in church, Doctor! Young men, you know, are inclined to be young men! And these nice days--very tempting, I'm sure! Is your friend a stranger?" Callandar gravely introduced Willits, who became immediately convinced that this mauve lady was the most unpleasant person he had ever seen and doubtless the very person to whom the minister had spoken in his sermon. Why had Callandar let him in for this? Why was he waiting around for anyway? There he was, shaking hands with some one else--this time it was the girl who had laughed. "May I present my friend, Professor Willits, Miss Coombe?" The girl extended a graceful hand and for an instant the professor was permitted a look into eyes which caused him to set his firm lips somewhat grimly. "And I know, Willits, you will be delighted to meet our pastor, Mr. Macnair." A spark began to glow in the professor's eye, but Callandar's face was guileless. The minister shook hands with professional heartiness, but his gaze, Willits thought, was wandering. He began to feel interested. "Very fine day," he remarked imperturbably. "Lovely, lovely," agreed the minister, still heartily. The mauve lady was waiting for the pastoral handshake, but he did not notice her. He was watching the dark girl talking to Callandar. "What is so rare as a day in June?" said Willits, with deliberate malice. "Ah, yes, very much so. Delighted to have met you. You will excuse me, I'm sure. Annabel," with an impatient glance toward a stout, awkward woman in the background, "if you are not quite ready I think Miss Coombe and I will walk on." He moved toward the dark girl as he spoke and Willits followed. "Then I'll have to come some other day to get the roses," they heard Callandar say. "But remember I haven't a single flower in the office. So it will have to be soon." "At any time," answered the girl, flushing slightly. "No flowers?" repeated the minister, a little fussily, "dear me, I will speak to my sister. Annabel will be delighted to send you any quantity, Doctor. You must really drop in to see our garden, some day. Sunday, of course, is a busy day with me. Come, Miss Esther. Good morning, Doctor. Good morning, Professor. Glad to see you at our services any time--" Bowing courteously, the minister moved away, followed perforce by Miss Coombe. (An invitation to lunch at the manse is an honour not to be trifled with.) Perforce also the doctor stood aside and Willits caught the look, half shy, half merry, which the girl threw him from the depths of her remarkable eyes. It was really quite interesting, and rather funny. Not often had he seen fair ladies carried off from under the nose of Henry Callandar. Transferring his glance quickly to the face of his friend, he hoped to surprise a look of chagrin upon his abashed countenance, but the countenance was not abashed, and the look which he did surprise there startled him considerably. Henry Callandar, of all men, to be looking after any girl with a look like that! Well, he had been invited to come and see. And he had seen. CHAPTER XVI As Esther walked away, demurely acquiescent, by the side of the Rev. Mr. Macnair she was conscious of a conflict of emotions. The sight of the doctor's disappointed face as he stood hat in hand, awoke regret and perhaps a trifle of girlish gratification. She had been sorry herself to miss that half hour among the roses but she was still too young and too happy to know how few are such hours, how irrevocable such losses. Also, it had seemed good to her maidenly pride that Dr. Callandar should know--well, that he should see--just exactly what he should know and see she did not formulate. But underneath her temporary disappointment she felt as light and glad as a bird in springtime. The minister was speaking, but he had been speaking for several moments before Esther's delighted flutter would permit of her listening to him. When at last her thoughts came back she noticed, with a happy-guilty start, that his tone was one of dignified reproof. "Naturally we all understand," he was saying, "at least I hope we all understand, that you are not primarily to blame. At the worst one can only impute carelessness--" "Oh, but it wasn't carelessness! You don't know Buster. He's the _cleverest_ dog! He hid. I had no idea that he was with me until he bounded past me at the church door. And though I whistled and tried to grab him he was in before I knew it. I'll make him sit up meekly and beg your pardon." A flush of what in a layman might have been anger crimsoned the minister's cheek. "You are well aware," stiffly, "that I am not referring to the incident of the dog." "To what then? I am sorry I wasn't listening but you seemed to be scolding and I couldn't think of anything else." Even the abstruse Mr. Macnair saw that her surprise was genuine. His tone grew gentler. "You are very young, Miss Esther. But since I must speak more plainly, I was referring to that mad escapade of a week ago. Don't misunderstand me, the blame undoubtedly rests upon the man who was thoughtless enough, selfish enough, to put you in such a position." "Whatever do you mean?" Esther was torn between anger and a desire to laugh. But seeing the earnestness in his face, anger predominated. "Can you possibly be referring to the breakdown of Dr. Callandar's motor?" she asked coldly. "I refer to the whole unfortunate adventure. If your step-mother had been at home I feel sure it would not have happened. She would never have permitted the excursion to take place." The girl's dark brows drew together in their own peculiar manner. "Let us be honest," she suggested. "You know quite well that my step-mother would not have bothered about it in the least." "I feel it my duty," went on the minister, "to tell you that there were some peculiar features in connection with the disablement of the motor. I understand from the mechanician who accompanied Dr. Callandar to the spot for the recovery of the machine that there was really very little the matter. A short ten minutes completed the necessary repairs." "Ten minutes? Oh, how silly he must have felt--the doctor I mean. After all the hours he spent and the things he said." She laughed with reminiscent amusement. "He threw the monkey wrench at it, too. And he thought he knew so much about motors!" Her companion observed her with sombre eyes. Was it possible that she had actually missed the point of his remark? "Can you understand," he said slowly, "how a man used to driving a motor car can have been entirely baffled by so slight an accident? To me it seems--odd!" "So Dr. Callandar thought, only he expressed it more forcibly." "And you?" "Well, I suppose I was heartless. But it was the funniest thing I ever saw!" Esther's laughter bubbled again. They were now at the manse gate. He saw that he must hasten. "My dear Miss Esther, let us be serious. I do not like to disturb your mind but I have a duty in this matter. Has it never occurred to you that this so-called accident may not have been so--so--er--entirely--er--irremediable, so to speak, as it was made to appear?" "Do you mean that he did it on purpose?" The tone was one of blank amazement. Esther's hand was upon the gate but forgot to press the latch. She was a quick brained girl and the insinuation in the minister's words had been patent. Yet that he should be capable of such an idea seemed incredible! Had he been looking at her he would have seen the clear red surge over her face from neck to brow and then recede, but not before it had lighted a danger spark in her eyes. "You did mean that!" She went on before he could answer. The scorn in her voice stung. But the Reverend Angus was not a coward. "That was my meaning. You are a young and inexperienced girl. You go upon an excursion with a man whom none of us know. An accident, a very peculiar accident, happens. You are led to believe that the damage is serious, but later, when the matter is investigated, it is found to have been trifling. What is the natural inference? What have you to say?" "It has been said before," calmly. "Well--" "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor." They faced each other, the man and the girl. And the man's eyes fell. "God forbid that I should do so," he murmured. Esther's face softened. Her anger was not proof against humility. "If you are really disturbed about it," she said slowly, "I can reassure you. You say that you do not know Dr. Callandar. But I do know him. The whole situation rests upon that. He is a man incapable of the caddish villainy you impute. Why he could not repair the car, I cannot say. I think," with a smile, "that he does not know quite as much about cars as he thinks he does. But he did his best, I know that! When we found his efforts useless we took the only course possible and made at once for the canoe. We had to steal it, you remember, but the doctor showed no faltering in that. He was also prepared to shoot the dog. And you have my word for it that he made no attempt to swamp the canoe or to otherwise complicate matters. I arrived at Mrs. Burton's by ten minutes past nine. She was delighted to see me. Dr. Callandar walked over to the station and sent telegrams to Aunt Amy and Mrs. Sykes. He returned to Coombe upon the morning train. I remained with Mrs. Burton and came back in time for school on the milk train Monday morning. That is the whole story of the adventure and, to be frank, I enjoyed it immensely." The minister shook his head, but he could say no more. His attitude had not changed, yet he felt a sense of shame before the straightforward honesty of Esther's outlook. She had no sense of the evil of the world. That very fact seemed to make the world less evil. "When will Mrs. Coombe be back?" he asked abruptly. Immediately the girl's frank look clouded. "I do not know," she said. "She hardly ever tells me when she is returning. She may be at home any day now. You know how impulsively she acts." "Yes--just so." The minister's manner was absent. "The fact is I wish very much to speak with your mother regarding a certain matter. Not the matter we have been discussing, we will say no more of that, but a matter of great importance to--er--to me. The importance is such indeed that I doubt if I am justified in delaying longer if you have no idea of when I may expect to see her." Had Esther been noticing she must have remarked the unusual agitation of his manner, but Esther was not noticing. "Is it anything you could discuss with me?" she asked innocently. "Mother cares less and less for business. Unless it is something quite private she will probably turn it over to me in any case." "But this is not--er--a matter of business. Not exactly. Not a business matter at all, in fact. It is a matter which--" "Oh, there you are!" Miss Annabel's voice was breathless but gratified and free from the faintest suspicion of having arrived, as usual, at exactly the wrong moment. "Are you showing Esther the new rose, Angus? Such a disappointment, Esther, my dear! I had quite made up my mind that it was to be red. It came out pink, and such a beautifully strong plant--such a waste! I simply can't make myself care for pink roses. They are so common. Was I very long? You must both be starved. I know I am. Won't you come upstairs, Esther, and put off your hat?" Esther intimated that she would. Just now, she had no desire for the further company of Mr. Macnair. She was conscious even of a faint stirring of dislike. Therefore the eagerness with which she followed Miss Annabel filled that good lady with hospitable reproach. "I didn't intend to be so long," she apologised, "but you know what choir-leaders are? And Angus won't speak to him. I can't make Angus out lately. Tell me," abruptly, as they stood in the cool front room with its closed green shutters, "did _you_ notice anything peculiar about Angus?" "No," in surprise, "is he peculiar?" "Quite. He's getting fussy. He never used to be fussy. The trouble was to induce him to be fussy enough. Except over church matters. But this morning he was just like an ordinary man. About his collar" (Miss Annabel had a fascinating habit of disjointing her sentences anywhere) "nothing suited him. And you know, Esther, what care I always take with his collars. He said they were too shiny. Of course they're shiny. Why not? He said he noticed that men weren't wearing shine on their collars now. Fancy that!" "Not really?" Esther's fresh laugh rang out. "Well, words to that effect. He asked me if I wanted to make him a laughing stock before the congregation. Did you ever? And he _banged the door_!" "Does he not bang doors usually?" "Never. And he banged it hard. It shook the house." "But people have to bang doors, hard, sometimes, even ministers. I wouldn't worry if I were you. It probably did him the world of good. As for the collars--he may have been noticing Dr. Callandar's. Mrs. Sykes says the doctor sends all his laundry to the city." "You don't say? And is it different from ours?" "I--yes, I think it does look different." "How did you happen to notice it? Oh, Esther, you aren't really carrying on with that strange young man, are you?" The girl's cheek flamed. The question, she knew, was void of offence. "Carrying on" meant nothing, but the homely phrase seemed suddenly very displeasing--horribly vulgar! Her very ears burned. What if, some time, he should hear a like phrase used to describe their wonderful friendship? The thought was acute discomfort. Oh, how mean and small and misunderstanding people were! She took off her hat and smoothed her hair without answering. But Miss Annabel was so used to having her anxious queries unanswered that she did not notice the lack. "I know you haven't, of course," she went on. "But Coombe is such a place for gossip. Ever since you and he had that smash-up with the automobile, people have kind of got it into their heads that you're keeping company. But I said to Mrs. Miller, 'I know Esther Coombe better than you do and it isn't at all likely that a girl who can pick and choose will go off with a stranger--even if he is a doctor. And,' I said, 'how do we know he is a doctor anyway?' Goodness knows he came into the place like a tramp. You've heard, haven't you, Esther, how he came into the Imperial with nothing but a knapsack and riding in Mournful Mark's democrat?" This time she did pause for an answer and Esther said "Yes," shortly. "Then that settles it. I knew you had some sense. Just like I said to Mrs. Miller. Next time I see her I'll tell her what you say. 'Tisn't as if we knew anything about the man. No wonder you feel vexed about it." "I hope you will not mention the subject at all." "Of course not. Except to tell them how silly they are. You're sure you didn't notice anything queer about Angus when you were walking home from church?" "Nothing at all." Yet, as she said it, it occurred to her that she had noticed something unusual in the minister's manner--an agitation, a lack of poise! "Perhaps he is disturbed about church matters," she suggested, thinking of the interrupted conversation about the important matter which was not business. "Why don't you ask him?" Miss Annabel shook her head. "Oh, I never ask him anything! But," cheerfully, "I almost always manage to find out. I'm rather good at finding out things. But this isn't a church matter. I know all the symptoms of that. This is different. It's--it's more human!" "Liver?" suggested Esther. "No. I know the symptoms of liver too, Esther! What if it should be _Love_!" The idea was so daring that Miss Macnair justly spoke it in italics. But the attitude of her listener was disappointing. Esther looked as if it might be quite a natural thing for the minister of Knox Church to fall in love. "Love!" she said the word caressingly. "Perhaps it is. They say love is a disturbing thing. But--does it usually make a man bang doors?" "It often turns a sensible man into a fool." Miss Annabel's tone held bitterness. "But what I can't discover is this! If Angus is in love, whom is he in love with?" The question was delivered with such force that Esther jumped. "I'm sure I don't know!" "Nor do I. And that is what I must find out. I have my suspicions. My dear, don't let me startle you, but have you ever thought that it might possibly be--your mother?" "Gracious! So it might! I never thought of it." "I have not been blind," went on Miss Annabel complacently. "I have noticed how often he calls at the Elms and how long he stays. Also how very considerate he is of Mrs. Coombe, how patient with Jane, how indulgent with you--" "Indulgent with me!" indignantly. "Why should he be 'indulgent' with me?" "Why, indeed," asked Miss Macnair pointedly, "unless on account of your mother?" Esther subdued a desire to laugh. Many little things, half-observed, seemed to fit in with Miss Annabel's theory. Yet, somehow, instinct told her that the theory was wrong. "I don't believe it," she declared finally. "At first I thought it possible but now I seem to know that we're on the wrong track. Mr. Macnair is not in love with mother, and as for mother--Oh, the thing is absurd! Aren't you awfully hungry, Miss Annabel?" CHAPTER XVII It was a curious luncheon party. The host was abstracted, nervous, far from being his usual bland self. The guest was subdued, silent, uneasy for no reason at all. The hostess, usually an ever-springing well of comment and question, had decided upon quiet dignity as the most fitting expression of sensibilities ignored by the banging of doors. "I think, Angus," she ventured once, "that you ought to remonstrate with Mr. McCandless in regard to 'If a man die.' An Easter Anthem is an Easter Anthem, but after five renderings it is hardly fair to expect the congregation to behave as if they had never heard it before." "Quite so," said the minister absently. "Then may I tell him myself that it is your special request--" "Certainly not. I wish you would not interfere, Annabel. The choir does very well. I think I have told you before that your continual desire for something novel in music has not my sympathy. I am not sure that I approve of this growing craze for anthems. They seem to me, sometimes, wholly unconnected with worship. We do not ask for new hymns every Sunday, nor do we ever become weary of the psalms. Indeed, familiarity seems often the measure of our affection." "Net with anthems," firmly. "Anthems are different. Aren't anthems different, Esther?" "I have known familiarity to breed something besides affection in the case of anthems," agreed Esther. In the ordinary course of things this remark would have aroused her host into delivering a neat and timely discourse upon the proper relation of music to the service of the Protestant Church and the tendency of the present age to unduly exalt the former at the expense of the latter. But to-day he merely upset the salt and looked things at the innocent salt-cellar which his conscience, or his cloth, did not allow him to utter. Miss Annabel raised her eyebrows at Esther in a significant way, telegraphing, "What did I tell you?" And Esther signaled back, "You were right. He is certainly not himself." Several other topics were introduced with no better result and every one felt relieved when lunch was over. "I think," said the Reverend Angus, as they arose, "that it is probably pleasanter in the garden." Esther glanced at Miss Annabel. She wanted very much to go home. Yet in Coombe it was distinctly bad mannered to leave hurriedly, after a meal. She thought of pleading a headache, but the excuse seemed too transparent and she could think of nothing better. Miss Annabel was unresponsive. Her host was already moving toward the door. Now he held it open for her. There was nothing to do but go. If she were clever she could keep the conversation in Miss Annabel's hands. But Miss Annabel's brother had other ideas. "I think," he suggested with the soft authority which in that house was law, "that as you are taking Mrs. Miller's class, Annabel, it might be well for you to look over the Sabbath School lesson. Our guest will excuse you, I know." "Why, I've hardly seen her at all, Angus." "There will be time later. I am sure Miss Esther understands." Esther understood very well and her heart sank. She was probably in for another scolding. However, as politeness required, she murmured that on no account would she wish to interfere with the proper religious instruction of Mrs. Miller's class. Miss Annabel looked rebellious, but as usual found discretion the better part and contented herself with another facial telegram to Esther: "Find out what is the matter with him." And Esther smiled and nodded: "I'll try." "Perhaps you would like to see the rose bush to which my sister referred," began the minister nervously as they stepped out upon the lawn. "It is a very fine rose, but pink, I regret to say, pink. It is unfortunate that Annabel should dislike pink so much. I think myself that a pink rose is very pretty. Something a little different from the red and white varieties." Esther murmured, "Naturally," and opened her strange eyes widely so that he could see the mischief which was like a blue flash in the depths of them. He coloured faintly. "I fear I am talking nonsense! The fact is that I am thinking of something else. Something so important that it occupies my mind completely. That is why, Esther, I wished to speak with you alone." The girl was thoroughly interested now. She was flattered also. Miss Annabel had been right. Something was troubling the minister. And she, Esther, was to be his confidant. To her untroubled, girlish conceit (girls are very wise!) it seemed natural enough. She had no doubt of her ability to help him. Therefore her face and her answering "Yes?" were warmly encouraging. It is a general belief that a woman always knows, instinctively, when a man is going to propose to her. She cannot be taken unawares; her flutter, her surprise, her hesitancy are assumed as being artistically suitable, but her unpreparedness is never bona fide. If this be the true psychology of the matter then Esther's case was the exception which proves the rule. No warning came to her, no intuition. She was still looking at the minister with that warm expression of impersonal interest, when, without further preliminaries, he began his halting avowal of love. Had the poor pink rose-bush suddenly flamed into crimson she could scarcely have been more surprised. She caught her breath with the shock of it! But shocks are quickly over. One adjusts one's self with incredible swiftness. A moment--and it seemed to Esther that she ought to have been expecting this. That she ought to have known it all along. Thousands of trifles mocked at her for her blindness, thousands of unheeded voices shrieked the truth into her opened ears. She felt miserably guilty. Not yet had she arrived at the stage when she could justify her blindness and deafness to herself. Later, she would understand how custom, the life-long habit of regarding the minister as a man apart, had helped to dull her perception. Later, common sense would prove her innocent of any wilful blunder. But just now, in her first bewilderment, it seemed that nothing could ever excuse that lack of understanding which had made this declaration possible! "I love you, Esther! I have loved you for two years." (It was like the Reverend Angus to refer to the exact period.) "You must have seen it. This can be no surprise to you. You may blame me in your heart for not speaking sooner. But you were young. There seemed time enough. Then, lately, when I saw that you were no longer a child, I decided to speak as soon as your mother should have returned. But to-day I felt that I could not wait longer. I must know at once--now! I must hear you say that you love me. That you will be my wife. You will--Esther?" His impassioned tones lingered on the name with ecstasy. The startled girl forced herself to look at him, a look swift as a swallow's dart, but in it she saw everything--the light on his face--the love in his eyes! And something else she saw, something of which she did not know the name but from which, not loving him, she shrank with an instinctive shiver of revolt. He seemed a different man. The minister, the teacher, was gone, and in his place stood the lover, the claimer. Yes--that was it. He claimed her, his glance, his voice--somewhere in the girl's heart a red spark of anger began to glow. She tried to speak, but he silenced her by a gesture. "No, do not answer yet. Although you must have known what I have felt for you, you are startled by my suddenness, I can see that. I have told you that it was not my intention to speak so soon. Circumstances have hurried me. I felt that I must have this settled. That--that episode of last week alone would have determined me. Things like that must not recur. I must have the right to advise, to--to protect you. You are so young. You do not know the world, its wickedness, its incredible vileness." His face was white with intense inward passion. "With me you will be safe. My God! to think of you at the mercy of that man--of any man! It stirs a madness of hate in me. Hate is a sin, I know, but God will understand--it is born of love, of my love for you." Again the girl tried to force some words from her trembling lips. And again he stopped her. "Do not speak yet. I apologise for my violence. Forgive it. We need not refer to this aspect of the matter again. Let us dwell only upon the sweeter idea of our love--for you do love me? You will love me--Esther?" But the time for speech had gone. To her own intense surprise and to the minister's consternation, Esther burst into tears. She was frightened, angry, stung with pity and a kind of horror. She felt herself honoured and insulted at the same time; and with this strange medley of emotions was a consciousness of youth and inexperience very different from the calm, untried confidence of a few minutes before. "Forgive me, forgive me!" pleaded the conscience stricken suitor. "I have been too sudden! I should have prepared you. I should have allowed you to see more plainly." With a lover's first, fond air of possession he attempted to take her hand. "Don't!" The word was sharp as a pistol shot. Esther's tears were suddenly stayed. Furtively she slipped the hand he had touched behind her. With the other she felt for her handkerchief and frankly wiped her eyes. "You startled me," she explained presently. "And I am so sorry, so very sorry! I never dreamed that you thought of me at all--in that way, any more than I have thought of you. You honour me very much. But it is impossible. Quite, quite impossible." "You mean my position here, as minister? Believe me, I have thought of all that. There may be difficulties but we will conquer them together. Nothing is impossible if you love me, dear." "Oh!" She turned wide blue eyes upon him. "That is just it. I do not love you." The blow fell swift, unerring, dealt by the mercilessly honest hand of youth. Esther's eyes were quite dry now. Her nervousness was passing. Regret and pity were merged in one overpowering, instinctive desire: the desire to show him beyond all manner of doubt that she repudiated that possessive touch upon her hand. "I could not ever possibly marry you," she said, as calmly as if she had been accustomed to dismissing suitors all her life. They were still standing by the rose-bush whose desperate fate it was to produce pink roses. With incredulous dismay, the minister saw her turn from him and take a step toward the house. She had refused him! She was leaving him! At any moment Annabel might finish her Sunday School lesson and come out upon the lawn--all his self-possession vanished like a puff of smoke. "Esther!" he cried, "Esther! wait. Give me a moment." She paused, but did not turn. "I think there is nothing more to say--I am very sorry." Sorry! She was sorry. This young girl upon whom he had set his desire, of whom he had felt so sure, to whom his love should have come as a crown, was sorry. King Cophetua, flouted by the beggar maid, could not have been more astonished, more deeply humiliated! But the greater wound was not to his pride. At any cost to his dignity and self-respect he could not let her go like this. His ministerial manner fell away, his readiness deserted him. In a moment he became all lover, pleading, entreating, with the one great abandon of his life, with the stammering eloquence of unspeakable desire! Slowly the girl turned to him. He saw her pure profile, then the full charm of her changing face. The blue eyes, widely open, were darker, lovelier than ever--Surely there was softening in their depths.... "Es--ther, Es--ther!" Miss Annabel's voice broke upon the tense moment with cheerful insistence, and Miss Annabel herself appeared at the turn of the walk, waving a slip of paper. She saw them at once. "You're wanted at home, Esther. Your mother's come back. To-day! Think of that! On the noon train. In face of the whole town. And all she said when Elder MacTavish met her coming up from the station was that she had forgotten it was Sunday. Fancy!" CHAPTER XVIII Perhaps never, in all her life of inopportune arrivals, had Miss Annabel been so truly welcome--or so bitterly resented! Esther turned to her with a heart-sob of relief, the minister walked away without a word. "Dear me! What's the matter?" said the good lady. "You seem all excited. Perhaps I shouldn't have shouted out the news so abruptly. But it never occurred to me that you might be startled. 'Tisn't as if your mother had been away a year. Jane's waiting for you down by the gate. Such a peculiar child! Nothing I could say will induce her to come in. Don't you find Jane is a peculiar child, Esther?" "Only a little shy," said Esther, quickening her steps. "Shy! Mercy, I shouldn't call her shy. That child has the self-possession of a Chinee! I hope you won't mind me saying it, but a little shyness is exactly what Jane needs." Esther, whose shaken nerves threatened hysterical laughter, made no reply to this, but hurried toward the small figure by the garden gate. "Oh, Jane!" she called, somewhat shakily. At her voice, the Shy One stopped kicking holes in the turf with the toes of her new boots and executing a bearlike rush, threw herself into her sister's arms. "I'm home, Esther! So's mother! And she says I don't have to go to Sunday School. That's why I didn't want to come in. Let's hurry before the minister comes." "Listen to that!" said Miss Annabel in indignation. "Any one would think my brother was an ogre. Angus! Why, he's gone! I thought he was following us." "I think Mr. Macnair went into the house." "Did he? What did I tell you? Perhaps my news surprised him as well as you. I thought he looked as pale as a plate. What do you think?" "I think it is none of our business." Miss Annabel gave her a shrewd look. "Perhaps not your business. You don't have to live with him. But I do. Well, good-bye, my dear. Tell your mother," significantly, "that I'll be over to see her soon." Both girls were relieved that the minister did not leave his study to say good-bye. They breathed more freely and their steps slackened as soon as the corner which hid the manse had been safely passed. "I've got new boots," began Jane. "See them? And Fred's new dog has got puppies! He calls her Pickles. She got the puppies this morning. Oh! they're darlings! But Fred is horrid. He says he is going to give me one for my own, to make up for Timothy. Just as if anything ever could! I never knew any one so heartless as Fred--except Job." "Job who?" It was a relief to Esther to let the childish chatter run on. "Why, _Job_. Job was just like Fred. When all his wives died and his little children and his cows, he felt bad, but when God gave him more wives and more children and lots of cows he was pleased as Punch. I always thought that so strange of God," in a reflective tone, "but I expect he knew what kind of man Job was and that he didn't have any real feelings. Do you think I ought to take the puppy, Esther? I shouldn't like to be like Job." "I think there is no danger, dear. But how is mother? Better?" "Was she sick?" in surprise. "Her headaches, you know." "Oh, yes. I don't know whether they are better or not," carelessly. "I didn't see much of mother while we were away. I played all day with Mrs. Bremner's little girl. Except when we went shopping. I think she must be better, for she did such lots of shopping." Esther smiled. "Not very much, I think, Janie. Shopping takes money." "But she did! I have lots and lots of new clothes. Only," discontentedly, "most of them don't fit. Mother could never be bothered trying them on. She's got some lovely things, too. Dresses and hats and piles of new shoes and heaps of silk stockings--" "Jane, why do you say 'lots' and 'piles' and 'heaps' when you know you are exaggerating?" But there was a note of anxiety in the reproof nevertheless. "I'm not exaggerating, Esther! She did. Even Miss Bremner asked her what she was going to do with them all." The elder girl's fingers tightened upon the small hand she held. Her red lips set themselves in a firm line. In face of a danger which she could see and measure Esther had courage enough. And she had faced this particular danger before. "Mother will tell me all about it, no doubt," she said calmly. "Did she get me something pretty, too?" "Yes. It's a surprise." "And when she got all the pretty things I suppose she told the clerks to charge them?" "Oh, no. She paid for them out of her purse." Esther was conscious of a swift reaction. The things were paid for. Of course Jane had exaggerated. Children have no sense of value. Some dainty things, Mrs. Coombe was sure to buy; but, as Esther well knew, her slender stock of money would hardly have run to "piles" and "heaps." And of course she had been unjust in fearing that Mary had gone into debt. They had one experience of that kind, an experience which had ended in a solemn promise that it would never happen again. Mary understood the position as well as she did. As the girl's thought trailed naturally into the problem paths of every day, her weeks of freedom, her new interests, the strange experience in the manse garden seemed already remote. With the little frown of accustomed perplexity slipping in between her straight, black brows, her deeper agitation quieted. The unusual has no antidote so effective as the commonplace. They found Mrs. Coombe waiting for them on the veranda. Lying back in the shade, in her white dress she looked very much at her ease. Yet a quick observer might have noticed a certain anxiety in the glance she tried to render merely welcoming. She was thinner than she had been; tired lines dragged at the corners of the pouting mouth and dark circles showed plainly through their dusting of pearl powder. Changes which creep in unnoticed when one sees a person every day are startlingly apparent when absence has forced a clearer focus. Esther had known that her step-mother had changed, was changing, but as she bent over her now, the extent of the change shocked her. With a tightening at her heart she wondered what her father would say if he could see the difference wrought by one short year. Pearl powder, lavishly used, is not becoming, especially when it sifts into multitudes of fine lines; nor can powder or anything else brighten a dull, yellowing skin which in health would still be delicately clear and firm. But the dulled eyes and the faded face were only the symptoms of the real change in Mary Coombe. The thing itself lay deeper. Striving to express a subtlety which would not lend itself to words, Esther had more than once told herself that her mother was "not the same woman." Yet it was only to-day, as she stooped to kiss her, that the startling, literal truth of the phrase struck home. The outside changes were nothing--it was the woman herself who had changed. "Well, Esther!" The sweet high voice with its impatient note was the same as ever. "Here we are home again. Fancy me forgetting it was Sunday! Wasn't it funny? We met old MacTavish coming up from the station (not a single cab down to meet the train, of course!) and he looked so shocked. Really, this place grows more insufferable every day. It seems to agree with you, though, you're looking awfully well. Amy looks well, too. The new doctor must be something of a wonder." "He is considered very clever. Aunt Amy is certainly better. Now that you are home you must let him see what he can do for you." Mrs. Coombe's pouting lips lengthened into a hard line. "I won't see a doctor. And that's flat." "Are you feeling better, then?" As was always the case, her mother's perversity dissipated Esther's sympathy and left her tone cold. It was all the colder probably because just at that moment she had noticed that the simple white frock Mrs. Coombe was wearing was not simple at all. The delicate embroidery on it was all hand work. And French embroidery is no inexpensive trifle. It was probably a new "best" gown; but if so, why had it been worn on the train, why was it soiled in places and carelessly put on? The skirt was not even, the collar, having lost a support, sagged at one side and just below the girdle belt there was a small, jagged rent. Esther noticed these details with vexation and discomfort, for it was part of the change in Mary Coombe that from being one of the most carefully gowned women in town she had become one of the most slovenly. All her natty, pretty, American "style" which the plainer Canadians had sometimes envied was gone. But this--this was worse than usual! The girl's quick eyes travelled downward, noting the increased signs of deterioration with something like distress. "Why, mother," she exclaimed involuntarily, "there is a hole in your stocking!" "Is there?" Mary Coombe thrust out a small and elegant foot clad in thinnest silk and shod with pretty slippers not very clean and turning over at the heel. "Dear me!" she said. "So there is. I need new slippers too. I quite forgot to get any." "Oh, mother!" Jane's cry was instant. "You got heaps. Tan ones and brown ones and white ones and black ones with silver buckles--" "Jane!" interrupted Esther, laughing. "Give your imagination a rest." "But you did, didn't you, mother?" "Did I? Why, yes--I did buy a few shoes. I had forgotten. The Customs man didn't find them either. Run and fetch me a clean white pair, Jane, and bring down the surprise we got for Esther--see how disapproving she looks. I declare, Esther, it would be just like you to make things disagreeable the moment I get home. I didn't charge a cent, if that's what you're afraid of." "I knew you wouldn't do that," gravely. "And of course I'm glad you got the things. But I can't see how you managed." "Oh, sales," vaguely. "Things are so cheap in Detroit and Jessica Bremner is a born shopper. She gets wonderful bargains. Anyway, I got them, and I'm not a cent in debt." "What's debt?" asked Jane. "Buying what you can't pay for, Janie." "Oh, mother paid for everything. I saw her. It's Mrs. Bremner that's in debt, isn't she, mother?" "Don't be silly, Jane, of course not. Jessica is far better off than we are." "But she only gave you half the money for the ring. I heard her say--" "Jane, get those slippers at once." "I'm going. But Mrs. Bremner said--" Mrs. Coombe's hand came down with stinging force upon the child's ear. "Will you obey me--or will you not?" Jane retired wailing and her mother sank back into her veranda chair, red spots burning through the powder on her cheeks. Esther sat very still for a moment, and then, without looking at the other, she asked in a low voice: "What did she mean?" "How should I know?" fretfully. "What ring did Mrs. Bremner give you money for? Did--you have to sell one of your rings?" "Yes, I did." "Which one?" "Oh, don't bother me, Esther." "But I want to know which one." "It was the big red one!" called Jane from the hallway, where she had waited, safely out of reach. Mary Coombe sprang up, fury blazing in her eyes, but Jane had fled, and Esther, cool and capable, was blocking the doorway. "Sit down, mother. I've got to know about this. What ring does she mean?" For an instant the older woman hesitated, then with a little shrug she turned back to the chair. The fury had died away as quickly as it had arisen. "I knew you would be disagreeable," she said. "And you were bound to hear about the ring some time. Jane is the most ungrateful child, and a little tell-tale; the makings of a regular little cat! I'm sure I spent her full share on her, and I've brought you something nice, too. Not that I expect to be thanked for it. Of course I had to have some money. I hadn't a rag to wear, not a rag. And I got everything ready made. It's cheaper. Anyway, I can't stand dressmakers any more. They paw one so. I can't bear to be touched, my wretched nerves! And I remembered the fuss you made about the bills last time. You know you did make a fuss, Esther, as if all your dear father left belonged to you and not to me--" "But what did you _do_?" "I'm telling you, amn't I? I sold the ring, of course." "Which ring?" "The ruby ring. It's the only one that is worth anything!" "You sold Aunt Amy's ring?" "If you wish to put it that way, yes. I consider it is as much my ring as hers. She is my aunt and it is understood that all her things will come to me. She has lived here ever since I was married and I think it's a funny thing if she can't help me out occasionally. I simply had to have money and the ruby was the only thing worth selling. Good Heavens! Don't look so crazy. One would think I had stolen it!" "You have." Again Mrs. Coombe arose; this time without flurry. The little excitement had done her good. The dull eyes were actually sparkling, the sallow cheeks were flushed. She looked just as she used to look in one of her little rages before the great change came. "That's enough, Esther. I'll take no more from you. I did what seemed to me right. If Amy were in her right mind I should not have had to take the ring, she would have offered it. Under the circumstances I did the only sensible thing. Amy will never discover the loss. I am getting a very good price for it from Jessica Bremner. It is a valuable jewel. She snatched at the chance of getting it." Behind its whiteness Esther's face seemed to glow with pale flame. "Is it possible that you have forgotten the history of that ring?" she asked. "That it was poor Auntie's engagement ring and that, although she can't remember anything about it, she knows it means something more than life to her. And that she always says that she cannot die without the ruby on her finger?" Mrs. Coombe looked uncomfortable, but kept her poise. "It's all rubbish. She'll forget all about it. Dying people don't think of ruby rings. And anyway, she will probably outlive all of us. If not--we can easily divert her attention." The girl looked at her step-mother in horror, half believing that this must be some cruel joke. The callousness of the words seemed unbelievable. But the reality of them could no longer be doubted and the pale glow died out of her face, leaving it white and hard. "I do not understand you," she said slowly. "Somehow you do not seem quite--human. But be sure of this, Aunt Amy shall have back her lover's ring. Jane says it has not all been paid for. How much did you receive?" "I shall not tell you. And I warn you, Esther, not to waste your money. If you buy it back, I shall sell it again." They were standing now facing each other. Esther took a step forward and looked down steadily into her step-mother's face. Her own curious eyes were wide open, they looked like blue stars, bright, cold and powerful as flame. "No! You shall not." For a space Mary Coombe met that sword-like look, then her weaker will gave way. Her eyes shifted and fell. Her hands began to pluck nervously at the embroidery of her dress. She laughed, a little, affected laugh with no mirth in it, turned and entered the house. CHAPTER XIX We have stated elsewhere that Coombe was conservative, but by this we do not mean to imply that it was benighted. Far from it! True, it talked a great deal before it ventured upon anything strange or new, referred constantly to the tax rate and ran no risks, but at the time of which we write it had decided to take a plebescite upon the matter of Local Option and, a little later, the council wished to go so far as to present Andrew MacCandless, who had served them five times as mayor, with an address and a purse of fifty dollars. The Presbyterian church, too, although still clinging to solid doctrine, was far removed from the tuning-fork stage. Through throes of terrible convulsion it had come to possess an organ, a paid soloist, and a Ladies' Aid, that insidious first thing in women's clubs. The first meeting of the Knox Church Ladies' Aid, after the return of Mrs. Coombe and Jane, was held for the purpose of putting together a quilt, not the old-fashioned kind, of course, but something quite new--an autograph quilt, very chaste. It was a large meeting and, providentially, Mrs. Coombe was late. I say providentially because, had she been early, it is difficult to imagine how her fellow members would have eased their minds of the load of comment justified by her indiscreet home-coming, and several other things equally painful but interesting. The Ladies' Aid had its printed constitution but it also had its unwritten laws and one of these laws was that strictest courtesy must always be observed. No member, whatever her failings, was ever discussed in meeting--when she was present. "What I cannot excuse," said Mrs. Bartley Simson, "is the tone of levity in which she answered Mr. MacTavish when he met her on the way from the station. It is possible that she had some good reason for coming on that particular train. I am not one of those who hold that nothing can ever justify Sunday travel. Exceptional cases must be allowed for. But the frivolity of her excuse nothing can justify." "Besides," said Miss Atkins, the secretary, "it was a--it sounded like--what I mean to say is that she could not possibly, _no one_ could possibly, have forgotten what day of the week it was." A subdued chorus of "Certainly not" and "Absurd" showed the trend of public opinion upon this point. "I once forgot that Wednesday was Thursday," said the youngest Miss Sinclair, who always stood for peace at any price. "Don't be silly, Jessie!" The elder Miss Sinclair, who believed in war with honour, jogged her sister's elbow none too gently. "That's a different thing altogether. For my own part," raising her voice, "I think that as a society we cannot be too careful how we minimise the fact itself. To us, as a society, it is the fact itself that matters, and not what Mrs. Coombe said about it. That, to a certain extent, may be her own affair. But I hold, and I say it without fear of successful contradiction, that no member of a community can disregard the Sabbath in a public way without affecting the community at large. That is why I feel justified in criticising Mrs. Coombe's behaviour. And I hope," here she raised a piercing eye and let it range triumphantly over the circle, "I sincerely hope that the minister has been told of this occurrence!" The meeting rustled with approbation. This, it felt, was something like a proper spirit. There was no compromise here. A thrill of conscious virtue, raised to the _n_th power, shot through the circle. "You think that Mr. Macnair ought to take cognizance of it officially?" asked Miss Atkins. (Being the secretary she used many beautiful words.) "I do." "But he and Mrs. Coombe are such friends!" objected the younger Miss Sinclair, who was a kindly creature. An electric silence fell upon the quilters. Every one looked toward the president. "I cannot allow such insinuations to be made at this meeting," said the President firmly. "But--but I did not insinuate anything!" stammered poor Miss Jessie who, severely jogged by her sister and transfixed by the President's eye, had turned the colour of the crimson square before her. "We all know," went on the President more mildly, "that Mr. Macnair calls fairly often at the Elms. We may even have heard rumours to the effect that he intends--I hardly know how to phrase it, but as our minister is unmarried and Mrs. Coombe is a widow you will understand what I mean. But, ladies, I may state on no less an authority than Miss Annabel that Mr. Macnair has no such intentions. There is absolutely nothing in it. His calls no doubt may be accounted for by the presence of--er--affliction in the house." "Do you mean Aunt Amy?" A younger woman with a clever and rather pretty face looked up. "Why, can't you see that there is a much simpler explanation than that?" It was certainly unfortunate that Mrs. Coombe should have chosen this moment to arrive. But the Ladies' Aid were used to interrupted statements. It was felt to be very convenient that one of the windows looked out directly upon the steps so that the meeting was never quite taken by surprise. A sudden pause there might be, but late arrivals had learned to expect that. It was the penalty for being late. "Dear Mrs. Coombe, so glad you have come!" said the hostess pleasantly. "No, you are not very late. We are only just beginning." Every one nodded and smiled. Chairs were moved and sewing shifted to provide space for the newcomer. A few left their work in order to shake hands and there was a general readjustment of everything, including topics of conversation. In the space of a few seconds it was noticed that Mrs. Coombe wore a new hat, a new gown, new slippers and silk stockings and that in spite of all these advantages they had never seen her look worse. "Dear Mrs. Coombe, I think your belt-pin has become--allow me!" Miss Milligan, dressmaker in private life, with a discreet swiftness, twitched the blouse and skirt into place and deftly fastened it. At the same time she closed a gap in the fastening of the blouse itself. Mary Coombe laughed. "Dear me! Am I undone? I must have forgotten to ask Amy to fix me. These blouses that fasten in the back are such a nuisance!" The President smiled politely, but with evident effort. Mrs. Coombe was a prominent member. Still, on principle, she, a president, could not be expected to approve of people who forgot to have themselves done up. Supposing the minister had been present! "What are we doing this afternoon?" asked the unconscious delinquent languidly. "Autograph quilts? I've got a lot of blocks for you--friends of mine in the city." She began to fumble in the pretty workbag she carried. "Gracious, I was sure I had them with me! Isn't that odd? I can't find them." "Let me look," suggested Miss Jessie Sinclair kindly. But the other snatched back the open bag with a gesture which was almost rude. "Oh, no--they are not there! I can't imagine what I have done with them." She looked up in a bewildered way. Indeed the perturbation was so out of proportion to the size of the calamity that the ladies questioned each other with their eyes. The President tapped with her thimble upon the quilting frame and every one became very busy. "I hope," she said, taking the conversation into her own hands for safe keeping, "that you found all well upon your return, Mrs. Coombe? I hardly ever seem to see Esther now. Did you know that we have been talking of changing our meeting to Saturday afternoon so that Esther and some more of our younger folk may join us? We thought that it would be so nice for them--and for us too," she finished graciously. Mrs. Coombe looked surprised. "I can hardly see Esther at a Ladies' Aid Meeting," she said. "Did she tell you she would come?" "No. We have not yet told any one of the proposed change. But we all felt--" "We all felt," interrupted Miss Sinclair, who was fairly sniffing the air with the spirit of glorious war, "that the less time our young girls have to go off philandering with young fools whom no one knows anything about, the better it will be for everybody concerned!" Mary looked up with an air of pleased surprise. "Has Esther been philandering?" she asked eagerly. The President frowned. This was hardly according to Hoyle. "I really think," began Miss Jessie Sinclair indignantly, "that Esther ought to be allowed to tell her mother--" "Gracious! Esther never tells me anything. And I'm dying to know. Who is the 'young fool'?--do tell me, somebody." Strangely enough, now that the way was open, no one seemed to have anything to say. "You've simply got to tell me now," urged Mary delightedly. "Unless it's only a silly bit of gossip." This fillip had the desired effect. Everybody began to talk at once and in five minutes Esther's step-mother knew all about the new doctor and the broken motor. When they paused for breath, she laughed softly. "It's the most amusing thing I've heard in ages. Fancy--Esther! Oh, it's delicious." She looked around the circle of surprised and disappointed faces and laughed again. "Oh, don't pretend! You know very well that you're not a bit shocked, really. And surely you don't think that I ought to scold Esther? Why," with a little flare of her old-time loyalty, "Esther is worth a dozen ordinary girls. I'd trust Esther with Apollo on a desert island. But I'll admit I'm rather anxious to see the young man. He must be rather nice if Esther agreed to show him around. As for the accident," she shrugged her shoulders, "I know enough about motors to know that that might happen any time." "You are right, of course," the President's tone was more cordial. "And anyway we have no right to discuss Esther's affairs. The reference to it grew out of the proposed change of meeting. And the change of meeting was thought of chiefly because when Mr. Macnair heard about the escapade he seemed much worried. Naturally, as he says, he carries all his young people on his heart, and Dr. Callandar being such a newcomer--" "Oh, yes, naturally." Mary Coombe's little gurgle of amusement had a note of cruelty in it, for she alone of all these women had guessed why the Rev. Angus Macnair should have taken Esther's escapade so much to heart. She knew, too, that the minister had no chance, but the idea of a rival was novel--and entertaining. Could Esther really have taken a fancy to this young doctor? Mary knew the Coombe gossips too well to take their chatter seriously, but there might be something in it. At any rate, there was enough to use as a conversational weapon against Esther. She was becoming a little nervous of Esther lately. The girl was positively growing up. Somehow, almost overnight it seemed, a new strength had come to her, a strength which her step-mother's weakness felt and resented. But now with this nice little story in reserve, things might be more even. Mary's eyes sparkled as she thought of some of the smart things she could say the next time Esther began to make a fuss about--about the matter of the ruby ring, for instance. Esther had been most disagreeable about that. Just as if any one could have foreseen that Amy would miss it so soon, or indeed at all, since it had been her fancy to keep it shut up in a stupid box. As a matter of fact, the affair of the ring had assumed the proportions of a small catastrophe. Aunt Amy had been feeling so much better that it had occurred to her to see if the ring were feeling better too. Only one peep she would take, hopeful that at last its strange enchantment might be past. If she could look into its depths without the blackness coming close she would know, with utter certainty, that Dr. Callandar's cleverness had circumvented the power of her old enemies. "They" would trouble her no more. But when, flushed with hope, she looked--the ring was gone! Esther, reading in the sitting room, was startled beyond words by the scream which rang through the house. She seemed to know at once what had happened and her gaze flew to her step-mother, laden with bitter reproach, before she sped up the stairs to Aunt Amy's room. The door was open and the tragedy was plain to see. Aunt Amy stood by the bureau with the empty box in her hand and on her face an expression so dreadful, so hopeless that, with a sob, the girl tried to crush it out against her breast. "What is it, dear? Don't look like that." "The ring, Esther! 'They' have taken the ring!" For an instant the girl hesitated, but common justice demanded that the sordid truth be told. "No, dear. The ring is safe. It was taken from the box, but in quite an ordinary, simple way. Don't tremble so! It is not lost. It is just as if I had gone to the box and borrowed it--" As she faltered, the poor woman raised her head in an agony of hope. "Have you got it, Esther? Oh, Esther, give it to me! I love you, Esther! You shall have it when I am dead. But I can't die without it. I promised somebody--I--I can't remember. Oh, Esther, don't keep it away from me--give it to me now!" Bitter, angry tears filled the girl's eyes as she took the pleading, fluttering hands in hers. "Don't, dear! Listen. It is quite safe. But I haven't got it. I promise you solemnly I will get it back. You'll believe me, won't you? You know I would not deceive you. And you won't be frightened? No one had anything to do with taking it but ourselves. I am going to tell you just how it happened--" "Don't bother. I'll tell her myself." In the doorway stood Mrs. Coombe, her eyes venomous with the anger of tortured nerves. Her high voice trembled on the verge of hysteria, yet she tried to speak with her usual mocking lightness. "There is no need to make a mystery of the thing, I'm sure. I took the ring because I was hard up--needed money at once. You understand what that means, I suppose, Amy? You never wore the ring, nor would you allow me to wear it. It was simply wasted lying in that silly box. My own jewelry is of much less value. Besides, I use it. One would have thought that you would be glad to assist in some way with the--er--household expenses. In any case, no such fuss is necessary, and I should advise you," her voice grew suddenly cold and menacing, "not to scream like that again. A few more such shrieks and--people will begin to wonder." Without so much as a glance at Esther she passed on to her own room. "Don't mind her!" The indignant girl tried to draw the trembling woman close. But Aunt Amy cowered away. Five minutes had undone the work of weeks. All the doctor's carefully laid foundations were crumbling. Esther, wrung with pity and remorse, stroked the grey hair in silence. She expected an outbreak of childish tears, but it did not come. Rather, the shivering grew less and presently Aunt Amy raised her head. "It was she--Mary--who took it?" she asked in a whisper. "Yes. But remember I have promised to get it back." Aunt Amy looked at her blankly. She did not seem to hear. "I never guessed it was Mary. Never! But now I know. I'll never be fooled again." "Know what?" asked Esther uneasily. There was a look in Aunt Amy's eyes which she disliked, a sly, cool look--more nearly mad than any look she had ever surprised there. "Tell me what it is that you know," she repeated coaxingly. But Aunt Amy would not tell. It was just as well, she thought, that Esther should not know that at last, after many years, she had found out the agent employed by "they" for her undoing. Ah, if she had only found out sooner. The ruby ring might still be shining in its box. But of course "they" knew that she would never suspect Mary, her own niece. They were so clever! But now she could be as clever as they--oh, very, very clever! "What did she mean about my screaming?" she asked, looking at Esther cunningly. "Nothing, nothing at all! Don't think of it." "But she did. I know what she meant. She meant that if I get--troublesome--she will shut me up!" "Nonsense!" declared Esther, thrilled to the heart with pity. "You must never think such a thought, dear. You shall never live anywhere but here with us. Why, you are our good angel, Auntie. We could never get on without you--you know that." Aunt Amy nodded, stroking the girl's soft hand with her work-worn one. "You are good and kind, Esther. I know you will take care of me, if you can. And I'm not afraid just now. It will be all right if I am clever. I must not be troublesome. If I am, she will put me away with the mad people. The people that make faces and scream. I never scream. Until to-day I haven't screamed for a long time. And I'll be more careful. Oh, I can be very careful, now that I know!" Again the strange mad look. It flitted across her lifted eyes like a dark shadow behind a window shade. And again Esther tried gently to question her, but Aunt Amy was "clever." She didn't intend that Esther should find out. The girl left her at last feeling both troubled and sad, but Mary Coombe laughed at her fears. She was in one of her most difficult moods. "It was all a tempest in a tea cup, as usual," she declared pettishly. "I do wish, Esther, that you would not be so disagreeable. She will have forgotten all about the ring by to-morrow. All she needs is a little plain speaking, and firmness." "Firmness! Cruelty, you mean. You terrified her." "Well, it had a good effect. She quieted down at once." "She is too quiet. It's that which troubles me. Surely you can see the damage that has been done? All her new cheerfulness is gone. She is back to where she was before the doctor helped her." "I never believed that any real improvement was possible. Insane people never recover." "She is not insane! How can you say so? But how shall we explain the change in her to Dr. Callandar? We can't tell him that--that you--" "Oh, don't mind me!" flippantly. "Anyway, the ring will soon be back, thank heaven! I have written to Mrs. Bremner." "You wrote to Jessica?" "Certainly. I told you I should. It was the only thing to do." Mary Coombe's rage flickered and sank before the quiet force in the girl's face and voice. With all the will in the world she was too weak to oppose this new strength in Esther. And before her mortified pride could frame a retort, the girl had left the room. It was of this quiet exit of Esther's that Mary was thinking as she sewed on the autograph quilt. Better than anything else it typified the change in the girl. It meant decision, and decision meant action. Mary shrugged her shoulders and frowned over the quilt. Yes, undoubtedly, Esther was getting troublesome. It might be well if she were married. CHAPTER XX Meanwhile, unconscious of her step-mother's troubled musings, Esther was loitering delightfully on her way from school. Aunt Amy, who never looked at a clock, but who always knew the time by what Jane called "magic," was beginning to wonder what had kept her. Strain her eyes as she would, there was no glint of a blue dress upon the long straight road, and Dr. Callandar, who in passing had stopped by the gate, declared that he had noticed a similar absence of that delectable colour between the cross roads and the school house. "I thought that I might meet her," he confessed ingenuously, "but when she was not in sight, I concluded that I was too late. Some of those angel children have probably had to be kept in. Could you make use of me instead? I run errands very nicely." "Oh, it isn't an errand." Aunt Amy smiled, for she liked Dr. Callandar and was always as simple as a child with him. His easy, courteous manner, which was the same to her as to every one else, helped her to be at once more like other people and more like herself. "It's a letter. I wanted Esther to read it to me. Of course I can read myself," as she saw his look of surprise, "but sometimes I do not read exactly what is written. My imagination bothers me. Do you ever have any trouble with your imagination, Doctor?" "I have known it to play me tricks." "But you can read a letter just as it's written, can't you?" "Yes. I can do that." "Then your imagination cannot be as large as mine. Mine is very large. It interferes with everything, even letters. When I read a letter myself I sometimes read things which aren't there. At least," with a faint show of doubt, "people say they aren't there." "In other words," said Callandar, "you read between the lines." Aunt Amy's plain face brightened. It was so seldom that any one understood. "Yes, that's it! You won't laugh at me when I tell you that everything, letters, handkerchiefs, dresses and everything belonging to people have a feeling in them--something that tells secrets? I can't quite explain." "I have heard very sensitive people express some such idea. It sounds very fascinating. I should like very much to hear about it." "Would you? You are sure you won't think me queer? My niece, Mary Coombe, does not like me to tell people about it. She has no imagination herself, none at all. She says it is all nonsense. But I think," shrewdly, "that she would like to know some of the things that I know. Won't you come in, Doctor? Come in and sit under the tree where it is cooler." The doctor's hesitation was but momentary. He was keenly interested. And at the back of his mind was the thought that Esther must certainly be along presently. Fate had not favoured him of late. He had not seen her for five days. It is foolish to leave meetings to fate anyway. Then, if another reason were needed it was probable that if he stayed he would meet Esther's mother. He was beginning to feel quite curious about Mrs. Coombe. "Thanks. I think I will come in. All the trees in Coombe are cool, but your elm is the coolest of them all. Let me arrange this cushion for you. Is that right?" He settled Aunt Amy comfortably upon the least sloping portion of the old circular bench and, not wishing to trust it with his own weight, sat down upon the grass at her feet. "Now," he said cheerfully, "let us have a regular psychic research meeting. Tell me all about it." "What's that?" suspiciously. "Psychic research? Oh, just finding out all about the queer things that happen to people." "Do queer things happen to other people besides me?" "Why, of course! Queer things happen to everybody." Aunt Amy seemed glad to know this. "They never talk about them," she said wistfully. "But, then, neither do I. Except to you. What was it you wanted me to tell you?" "Tell me what you mean when you say that you read in a letter what is not written there. You see I haven't much imagination myself and I don't understand it." "Neither do I," naively. "But it seems to be like this--take this letter, for instance, when I found it in--well, it doesn't matter where I found it--but as soon as I picked it up, I knew that it was a love letter. I felt it. It is an old letter, I think. And some one has been angry with it. See, it is all crumpled. But it is a real love letter. All the love is there yet. When I took it in my hands it all came out to me, sweet and strong. Like--like the scent of something keen, fragrant, on a swift wind. I can't explain it!" "You explain it very beautifully," gravely. "I can quite understand that love might be like that." "Can you?" with a pleased smile. "And can you understand how I feel it? I can feel things in people, too. Love and hate and envy and all kinds of things. I never say so. I used to, but people did not like it. They always looked queer, or got angry. They seemed to think I had no right to see inside of them. So I soon pretended not to see anything. But a letter doesn't mind. This one," swinging the crumpled paper swiftly close to his face, "is glad I found it. Can't you feel it yourself?" Callandar shook his head. "I am far too dull and commonplace for that!" He smiled. "But I have no doubt it is all there, just as you say. Why not? Our knowledge of such things is in its infancy." Aunt Amy stroked the paper with gentle fingers. "Yes, yes, it is all there," she murmured. "But I may have read it wrongly for all that. The written words I mean. I can't help reading what I feel. Once I felt a letter that was full of hate, dreadful! And I read quite shocking things in it. But when Esther read it, it was just a polite note, beginning 'Dear' and ending 'Your affectionate friend."' "It might have been very hateful for all that." "But no one knew it. That is why I am so anxious always to know if I read things right. Will you read this letter to me?" "With pleasure--if I may." "Oh, it doesn't belong to any one. It isn't Esther's because it's too old and it begins 'Dearest wife' and it isn't Mary's because it isn't Doctor Coombe's writing; so you see I thought it might not hurt anybody if I pretended it was mine." "No," gently, "I do not see why it would." "I never had a love letter of my own. Or if I did I cannot find it. The only thing I ever had with love in it was the ruby ring, and that--" She checked herself suddenly; her small face freezing into such a mask of tragedy that Callandar was alarmed. But to his quick "What is it?" she returned no answer and the expression passed as quickly as it had come. When he held out his hand for the letter, she seemed to have forgotten it. Her gaze had again grown restless and vague. It would do no good to question further, the rare hour of confession was past. "You both look very comfortable, I'm sure!" It was Esther's laughing voice. She had come so quietly that neither of them had heard her. Aunt Amy's vagueness vanished in a pleased smile and Callandar, as he sprang to open the gate, forgot all about the unread letter and everything else, save that she had come. Why was it, he wondered, that he could never recall her, save in dulled tints. Lovely as she had lingered in his memory, her living beauty was so much lovelier. There, in the shade of the elm, her blue dress flecked with gold, the warm pallor of heat upon her face, her hair lying close and heavy, a little pulse beating where the low collar softly disclosed the slim roundness of her white throat, she was not only beautiful, she was Beauty. She was not only Beauty, she was Herself, the one woman in the world! He acknowledged it now, with all humility. The girl greeted him quietly. She did not, as was her custom, look up at him with that sweet widening of the eyes which he had learned to hunger for. The truth was that she, too, was moving slowly toward her awakening. The days in which they had not met had been full of thoughts of him. Dreams had come to her, vague, delicious bits of fancy which had whispered in her ear and passed, leaving a new softness in her eyes, a new flush upon her cheek. There was about her a dewy freshness which seemed to brighten up the world. Vaguely her girl friends wondered what had "come over" Esther Coombe, and at home Aunt Amy's pathetic eyes followed her, dim with a half-memory of long past joy. But it was Mrs. Sykes' Ann who best expressed the change in her beauty when, one day, she said to Bubble: "Esther Coombe looks like she was all lighted up inside and when she walks you'd think the wind was blowing her." So it happened that while yesterday she might still have smiled into the doctor's eyes as she greeted him, to-day she shook hands without looking at his face at all. Callandar found himself remarking that it was a fine day. Esther said that it was beautiful--but dusty. A little rain would do good. She fanned herself with her broad hat, and stopped fanning to examine closely a tiny stain on the hem of her frock. "Dear me," she said, "I'm afraid it's axle grease! Mournful Mark gave me a lift this morning." "Oh, I hope not!" anxiously from Aunt Amy, and referring, presumably, to the grease. The doctor looked at the little stray curl on the nape of the graceful neck and wished--all the foolish things that lovers have wished since the world began. But he had a great longing to see her eyes. If he were to say sharply, "Look at me!" would she look up? Absurd idea! And anyway he couldn't say it, or anything else, for the first time in his life Henry Callandar was tongue-tied. Did she, too, feel strange? Was that why she kept her eyes so persistently lowered? No, it could hardly be that. She laughed and talked quite naturally--seemed entire mistress of herself. "I know I am late, Auntie. It's Friday, you know, and I walked slowly. I forgot that I had promised to help Jane wash the new pup. But there is time yet. Supposing we have tea, English fashion, out here. I'll tell mother--" "She is at the Ladies Aid, Esther." "Oh, yes. I forgot. Well, then you must entertain Dr. Callandar while I see about tea." "No tea for me, thanks," said the doctor hastily. He didn't know why he said it except that he wanted to say something, something which might make her look at him. But she did not look. His refusal lost him a cup of tea and gained him nothing whatever. "No tea?" Her tone was mildly wondering, but she was looking at Aunt Amy while she spoke. "I'm sorry you are in a hurry. Bubble said you were busy." "Not busy exactly. But it's office hours, you know. My partner grows quite waxy if I'm late, and I'm late now." "Another day, then?" Esther's tone was charmingly gracious, but she seemed to be addressing the gate post, as far as he could judge from the direction of her gaze. Callandar picked up his hat, gloomily. There was nothing to do now but take his leave. And if he had had any sense he might have been going to stay for tea. Office hours be hanged! "Thank you, another day I shall be delighted." He took the hand she offered and bowed over it. Delightful custom this of shaking hands! Esther's hand was cool as a wind-blown leaf. Would she actually say good-bye without looking at him? He held the hand firmly but she did not seem to be conscious that he held it. She was smiling at some children who were going by on the sidewalk. "Good-bye," said Callandar in a subdued voice. "Good-bye," said Esther sweetly. He dropped her hand, they bowed formally, and the foolish, poignant little tragedy of parting was over. Not once had they looked into each other's eyes. When he had gone Esther sank down upon the elm tree seat. "Oh, Auntie!" she said with a little sob in her voice. "I want--some tea!" Aunt Amy glanced irresolutely from the open letter in her hand to the girl's face, and decided to postpone the matter of the letter. "I'll get it, Esther. You sit here and rest." When she returned the girl seemed herself again. She took the tea-tray and kissed the bearer with a fervour born of remorse. "I am a Pig," she declared, "and you are a darling! Never mind, we'll even up some day." "When you have had your tea, Esther, I've got a letter I want you to read." "A letter? Who from? I mean, from whom? Gracious! I'll have to be more careful of the King's English, now that I'm a school teacher." "I don't know. It is signed just 'H' and it's written to 'Dearest wife.' You don't know who that could be, do you?" "Mother, perhaps?" "No. It's not in your father's writing and his name did not begin with 'H.'" "Where did you find it, dear?" "Up in an old trunk of your grandma's--I mean of Mary's mother's. One of the trunks that were sent here after she died. Mary asked me to put moth balls in it. This letter was all crushed up in a corner. I took it out to smooth it, because I knew it was a love letter. You don't think any one would mind?" "N--o." Esther, who knew Aunt Amy's feeling about love letters, could not find it in her heart to disagree. "I think we may fairly call it treasure-trove. It's only a note anyway." Her eyes ran swiftly over the two short paragraphs upon the open sheet. "Dearest wife:-- "At last I can call you 'wife' without fear. Our waiting is over. Brave girl! If it has been as long to you as to me, you have been brave indeed. But it is our day now. Even your mother cannot object any longer. I am coming for you to-morrow. Only one more day! "Dear, I think that in my wild impatience I did you wrong. But love does not blame love. No wife shall ever be so loved as you. May God forget me if I forget what you have done for me...." "What a strange letter!" Esther looked up wonderingly. "Is that all, Esther?" Aunt Amy's face was vaguely disappointed. "The one I read was much longer than that." "That is all that is written here, Auntie. But it is a beautiful letter. They had been separated, you see, and she had been brave and waited. One can imagine--" The click of the garden gate interrupted her. "Here's your mother," said Aunt Amy, in a flurried tone. "Don't let her--" "Is that the mail, Esther?" Mrs. Coombe's high voice held a fretful intonation. Aunt Amy seized the letter and hid it in her dress. "She shan't see it," she whispered childishly. "Is that the mail?" repeated Mrs. Coombe, coming up the walk. "No, there is no mail," said Esther, "No one has been to the post office. Perhaps Jane had better run down now." "But you had a letter," suspiciously. "I'm sure I saw it. Where is it?" "Don't be absurd, mother. I have no letter. Nor would I think it necessary to show it to you if I had. I am not a child." "You are a child. And let me tell you, a clandestine correspondence is something which I shall not tolerate. Let me see the letter." Esther was feeling too happy to be cross. Besides it was rather funny to be accused of clandestine correspondence. "I think I'll go and help Jane with the pup," she said cheerfully. "Too bad you didn't come in sooner, mother. Dr. Callandar was here." "Then you do refuse to show me the letter?" "If I had one I should certainly refuse to show it. Why do you let yourself get so excited, mother? You never used to act like this. It must be nerves. Every one notices how changed you are." She paused, arrested by the frightened look which replaced the futile anger on her step-mother's face. "I'm not different. Who says I am different? It is you who are trying to make a fuss. I'm sure I do not care about your letter. Why should I? Your father always seemed to think you needed no advice from any one. Only don't imagine that I am blind. I _saw_ you with a letter." Having triumphantly secured the last word, she turned to busy herself with the tea-tray, and Esther, knowing the uselessness of argument, went on toward the house. Aunt Amy attempted to follow but was stopped by Mary. "Amy, what did that doctor want here?" "He came to see me." Mary laughed. "Likely!" she said. "This tea is quite cold. Was it he who left the letter for Esther?" "Esther didn't have a letter. I had one." Again the incredulous laugh, and the dull red mounted into Aunt Amy's faded cheeks. She clutched the treasured letter tightly under her dress. This mocking woman should never see it! But as she turned again to leave her, another consideration appealed to her unstable mind. Mary suspected Esther--and nothing would annoy her more than to find herself mistaken. On impulse Aunt Amy flung the letter upon the tea-tray. "There it is. Read it, if you like. It has nothing to do with Esther. Or any one else. I found it in one of your mother's old trunks." Left alone, Mary Coombe drank her tea, which after all was not very cold. She was not really interested in the letter, now that she had got it. Had not a vagrant breeze tossed it, obtrusively, upon her lap, she would probably not have looked at it. Listlessly she picked it up, opened it, glanced at the firm, clear writing.... A sharp, tingling shock ran through her. It was as if some one had knocked, loudly, at dead of night at a closed door! That writing--how absurdly fanciful she was getting! "Dearest wife," she read, "at last I can call you 'wife' without fear"--the vagrant breeze, which had tossed the letter into her lap, tossed it off again. Her glance followed it, fascinated! Of course she had dreamed the writing? She had been terribly troubled by dreams of late. But what had Amy said about finding the paper in her mother's trunk? The whole thing was a fantastic nightmare. She had but to lean forward, pick up the letter, read it properly and laugh at her foolishness. But it was a long time before she found the strength to pick it up. When she did, she read it quietly to the end with its scrawled "H." Then she read it over again, word by word. Her expression was one of terror and amaze. When she had finished she looked up, over the pleasant garden, with blank eyes. Her face was ashen. "He came," she said aloud. "He came! But--_what did she tell him when he came_?" The garden had no answer to the question. Somewhere could be heard a girl's laugh and the sharp bark of a protesting puppy. Mary Coombe drew her hand across her eyes as if to clear them of film and, trying to rise, slipped down beside the elm-tree seat, a soft blot of whiteness on the green. They found her there when they had finished washing the puppy, but though she came quickly to herself under their eager ministrations, she would not tell them what had caused her sudden illness. To all their questionings she answered pettishly, "Nothing! Nothing but the heat." CHAPTER XXI When a man of thirty-five has at last shaken himself free from the burden of an unhappy love affair, he is not particularly disposed to welcome an emotional reawakening. He knows the pains and penalties too well; the fire of Spring, he has learned, can burn as well as brighten. Callandar thought that he had done with love, and a growing suspicion that love had not done with him brought little less than panic. Upon the occasion of Willits' second visit he had begun to realise his danger and the professor never guessed how nearly he had persuaded him to leave Coombe. Some deep instinct was urging flight, but the impulse had come just a little bit too late. He could not go, because he wanted so very much to stay. After Willits' departure he had deliberately tested himself. For five days he did not try to see Esther and upon the sixth he realised finally that seeing Esther was the only thing that mattered. Then had come the short interview under the elm tree--an interview which had shown him a new Esther, demure, adorable, with eyes which refused to look at him. He had come away from that meeting with a new pulse beating in his heart. To doubt was no longer possible. He loved her. But she? Lovers are proverbially modest, but their modesty is fear disguised. They hope so much that they fear to hope at all; it seemed impossible to Callandar that Esther should not love him and yet it seemed impossible that she should. Only one thing emerged clearly from the chaos--the immediate necessity of finding out. "Why don't you ask her?" demanded Common Sense in that wearily patient way with which Common Sense meets the vagaries of lovers. "But it is so soon," objected Caution, while Fear, aroused, whispered, "Be careful. Give her time." Even Mrs. Grundy made herself heard with her usual references to what people, represented by Mrs. Sykes, might say, adding scornfully, "Why, you haven't met the girl's mother yet. Don't make a fool of yourself, please." But over all these voices rose another voice, insistent, demanding to be satisfied. It might be premature, it might be all that was rash and foolish but he simply had to find out at once whether or not Esther Coombe loved him. His final decision came one morning when driving slowly home from an all night fight with death. He was tired but exultant, because he had won the fight, and life, which slips so easily away, seemed doubly precious. After all, he was no longer a boy. If life still held something beautiful for him, why should he wait? He had waited so many years already. Guiding the car with one hand, he slipped the other into his pocket and opening a small locket which he found there, gazed long and earnestly at the picture it contained. The face it showed him was a young face, fair, rounded, childish. Dear Molly! his thought of her was infinitely tender. He loved her all the more for the knowledge that he had not loved her enough. Well, he could never atone now. She was gone--slipped away, he thought, with but little more knowledge of living than the tiny baby he had just helped to bring into the world. Brushing away the mist which for a moment blurred his sight, Callandar kissed the picture gently and shut the case. The dawn was golden now. The motor began to gather speed. An early farmer getting into market with a load of hay, drew amiably to one side to let it pass. From a, wayside house came the cheerful noise of opening shutters; a milk cart rattled out of a nearby gate; the motor sped still faster--the new day was fairly begun. Early as it was, Mrs. Sykes was busy washing the veranda. This was a ritual, rigorously observed twice every day; in the morning with a pail and broom, in the evening with the hose. Par be it from us to malign the excellent Mrs. Sykes or to suggest that her opportune presence on the front steps was due to anything save the virtue of cleanliness. Mrs. Sykes, as she often said, couldn't abide curiosity. Still, it would be very interesting to know whether Amelia Hill's latest was a boy or a girl. Mrs. Hill had already been blessed with nine olive branches, all girls, and had confided to Mrs. Sykes that if the tenth presented no variation, she didn't know what on earth Hill would do--he having acted so kind of wild-like last time. Mrs. Sykes, unable to resist the trend of her nature, had advised that no variation could be looked for. "It may be," she had said, "but after a run of nine, it isn't to be expected. There's no denying that girls run in some families. I know jest how you feel, Mrs. Hill, and, if I could, I'd encourage you, for I'm a great believer in speaking the truth in kindness. But it's best to be prepared, and a girl it will be, you may be sure." "You are up early, Mrs. Sykes," said the doctor cheerfully. "Wait till I take the car around and I'll finish up those steps for you." "Land no! I won't let you, Doctor. You're clean tired out. I've got a cup of hot coffee waiting. I don't suppose, with Amelia laid aside, any of them Hills would think to give you so much as a bite. All girls too." "Not all girls now, Mrs. Sykes," said the doctor cheerfully. "A son and heir arrived this morning. Fine little fellow. They appear to be delighted." The discomfited prophet leaned against the door-post for support. "A boy? It can't be a boy! It doesn't stand to reason!" "It never does, Mrs. Sykes." "And I was so sure 'twould be another girl!" There was an infinitesimal pause during which Mrs. Sykes' whole outlook readjusted itself, and then with a heavy sigh she continued, "Poor Amelia Hill! She'll certainly have her troubles now. I shouldn't wonder a mite if it didn't live. Miracles like that seldom do. And if it does, it will be spoiled to death. No boy can come along after nine sisters and not be made a sissy of. Far better if it had been a girl in the first place. And yet I suppose Amelia's just as chirpy as possible? She never was one to look ahead to see what's coming." "Lucky for her!" murmured Callandar, as he picked his way over the shining wetness of the veranda. "And now, Mrs. Sykes, I want you to do me a favour. Don't go predicting to my patient that her boy baby will die, or if he doesn't it would be better for him if he did. A woman who has mothered nine children is entitled to a little peace of mind with the tenth. Don't you think so?" "Land sakes, yes. If you put it that way. But the shock will be all the worse when it comes. Still, if you want the poor thing left in a fool's paradise I don't object. Perhaps it would be a good thing to have the three littlest Hills over here to spend a week with Ann. I can stand them if you can." "Good idea!" Callandar smiled at her, but attempted no thanks. He had learned early that she was as shy about doing a kindness as a child who hides its face, while offering you half of its lolly-pop. "I'll fetch them. But some one will have to pick them out. Likely as not I'd bring the middle three instead." "They are dreadful similar," assented Mrs. Sykes, pouring coffee. "I don't know but what it was them Hill children that made me a suffragette!" "What?" Mrs. Sykes did not notice the unflattering (or flattering) surprise in the doctor's voice. "Yes. I think it was the Hill children as much as anything. There they are, nine of them, like as peas in a pod, and all healthy. I shouldn't wonder if the whole nine grows up--and what then? Amelia Hill just can't hope to marry nine of them. Three out of the bunch would be about her limit. And what are the others going to get? I say, give them the vote. Land sakes! Why not? I ain't one to refuse to others what I don't want myself." CHAPTER XXII Tired though he must have been, the doctor had never felt less like sleep. There was a fever in his blood which the cool quietness of the spare room could not soothe. The lavendered freshness of the bed invited in vain. Crossing to the western window, he threw up the blind and looked out to where, peeping out between roofs and trees, the gable window of the Elms glittered in the early sun. The morning breeze blew softly on his face, sweet with the scent of flowering pinks and mignonette. In the orchard all the birds were up and singing. Every blade of grass was gemmed with dew, sparkling through the yellow glory of dawn like diamonds through a primrose veil. But Callandar, usually so alive to every manifestation of beauty, saw nothing save the distant glitter of the gable window. The morning, in which he could hardly hope to see Esther, stretched before him intolerably long. Upon impulse he drew his desk to the window and, sitting down, began to write: "Dear Old Button-Moulder-- "Behold the faulty button about to be recast! This is to be a big day. I am writing you now because if she refuses me, I shan't be able to tell you of it, and if she accepts me I shan't have time. I fancy you know who she is, old man. I saw enlightenment grow in your eyes that day after church. I hardly knew it myself, then, but now I am sure. Do you remember that house we looked at one day? I have forgotten even the street, but we can find it again. It had a long sloping lawn, you remember, and stone steps and a beautiful panelled hall running straight through to a walled garden which might well have fallen there by some Arabian Nights enchantment. That is the house I mean to have for Esther. I can see her there quite plainly, in her blue dress, filling the rose bowl which stands upon the round table in a dusky corner of the hall. Over her shoulder, through the open door, glows the riotous colour of the garden. Her pure profile gleams like mother-o'-pearl against the dark panelling--say, Willits, just go and look up that house, will you? I am going to ask her to marry me. And I never knew before what a coward I am. Was there ever a chap named Callandar who quoted uppish remarks about being Captain of his Soul? If so, let me apologise for him. I think the chap who wrote those verses could never have been in love--or perhaps he wrote them after she said 'yes.' I'll telegraph the news. Don't expect me to write. And don't dare to come down to see me. H.C. "P.S.--I came upon a good thing the other day. It is by Galsworthy, the chap who writes English problem novels: "'If on a spring night I went by And God were standing there, What is the prayer that I would cry To Him? This is the prayer: O Lord of courage grave, O Master of this night of spring, Make firm in me a heart too brave To ask Thee anything!'" "Rather fine, don't you think? Or is it just a madness of pride? On second thought, I don't believe that I have arrived at the stage when I can do without God. H." He folded the letter, stamped and addressed it and placed it upon the table in the hall where Ann would find and post it. Then, lighting a cigar, he sat down beside the open window and began to wonder how the momentous meeting with Esther could be best arranged. Perhaps if he walked out to the schoolhouse and waited until lunch time? No, it was Saturday morning and there was no school. The obvious thing was to call at the house, but this, the doctor felt, was sure to be unsatisfactory. Not only was there Jane to think of and Aunt Amy--but there was also the as-yet-unknown Mrs. Coombe. The visit would almost certainly end in a formal call upon the family. He might perhaps send Bubble over with an invitation to go fishing. No, that was too risky. Esther might refuse to go fishing and that would be a bad omen. In a sudden spasm of nervousness Callandar threw the half-burned cigar out of the window and, following it with his eyes, was not sorry to be distracted by the sight of Ann in her night-dress, crying under the pear tree. Ann crying was an unusual sight, but Ann in a night-dress was almost unbelievable. The doctor knew at once that something serious must have happened and went down to see. The child looked up at his approach, all the natural impishness of her small face drowned in sorrow. In her open hand she held the body of a tiny bird, all that was left of a fledgling which had tried its wings too soon. "It toppled off and died," said Ann. "All its brothers and sisters flewed away." "Heartless things!" said Callandar, and then seeing that comfort was imperative he sat down beside the mourner and tried to do the proper thing. He explained to her that the dead bird was only one of a nest-full and that the dew was wet and that she was getting green stains on her nightie. He reminded her that birds' lives, for all their seeming brightness, are full of danger and trouble. Perhaps the baby bird was just as well out of it. At least it would never know the lack of a worm in season, nor the bitterness of early snow. This particular style of comfort he had found very effective in cases other than baby birds, but it didn't work with Ann. "I don't care," she sobbed, "it might have lived anyway. It never had a chance to live." Living, just living, was with Ann clearly the great thing to be desired. Callandar stopped comforting and took the child on his knee. "I believe you've got the right idea, little Ann," he said. "It isn't so much the sorrow that counts or the joy either, but just the living through it. We're bound to get somewhere if we keep on. Don't cry any more and we'll bury the little bird all done up in nice white fluffy cotton. As Mrs. Burns says when any one dies: 'It's such a comfort to have 'em put away proper.' And then after a while you and Bubble might go fishing." "I can't." Ann showed signs of returning tears. "If Aunt lets me go anywhere, I promised to go and help Esther Coombe pick daisies to fix the church for to-morrow." Here was chance being kind indeed! But the doctor dissembled his exultation. "Hum! too bad. Where did Miss Esther tell you to go?" he asked guilelessly. "To the meadow over against the school." "What time?" "Half past two." "Well, cheer up, I'll tell you what--I'll go and help Miss Esther pick the daisies. I can pick quite as fast as you. And I'll speak to Aunt Sykes and make it right with her. So if you run now and get dressed you and Bubble may go just as soon as you've had breakfast. And stay all day. Be sure you stay all day, mind." A good sound hug was the natural answer to this and when the conspirators met at breakfast everything had been satisfactorily arranged. Ann had her holiday and the doctor's way lay clear before him. For all his apparent ignorance Callandar knew that daisy field quite as well as Ann. It was wild and lonely, yet full of cosy nooks and hollows. Mild-eyed cows sometimes pastured there. It was a perfect paradise for meadow-larks. Could any man ask better than to meet the girl he loved in a field like that? "You're not eating a mite, Doctor." With a start, Callandar helped himself to marmalade. * * * * * So much for the morning of the eventful day. We have given it in detail because it was so commonplace, so empty of any incident which might have foreshadowed the happenings of the afternoon. Callandar was restless, but any man is restless under such circumstances. He found the morning long, but that was natural. Long afterwards he thought of its slow moving hours, lost in wonder that he should have caught no glimpse, heard no whisper, while all the time, through the beauty of the scented, summer day, the footsteps of inescapable fate drew so swiftly near. Fortunate indeed for us that the fragile house we dwell in is provided with no windows on the future side, and that the veil of the next moment is as impenetrable as the veil of years. What are they, anyway, these curious combinations of unforeseen incidents which under the name of "coincidence" startle us out of our dull acceptance of things? Can it be that, after all, space and circumstance are but pieces in a puzzle to which the key is lost, so that, playing blindly, we are startled by the _click_ which announces the falling of some corner of the puzzle into place? Or is it merely that we are all more closely linked than we know, and is "coincidence" but the flashing of one of numberless invisible links into the light of common day? Some day we shall know all about it; in the meantime a little wonder will do us good. It was, of course, coincidence that this afternoon Mary Coombe should offer to gather the marguerites for Esther and that, the Saturday help having failed to materialise, Esther was glad of the offer which left her free to help Aunt Amy in the kitchen. It was also coincidence that Mary should choose to wear her one blue dress and her shady hat which looked a little like Esther's. But, given these coincidences, it is easy to understand why the doctor, passing slowly by the field of marguerites, felt his heart bound at the supposed sight of Esther among the flowers. Now that the moment had really come, his restlessness fell from him. He felt cool, confident, happy! The world, the beautiful world, was gay in gold and green. Over the rise, half hidden by its gentle undulation, he caught the glint of a blue gown-- Running his car under the shade of some nearby trees, the doctor leapt the pasture fence in one fine bound. The blue figure among the daisies was stooping, her face hidden by a shady hat. No one else was in sight--just he and she in all the lovely, sunny, breeze-swept earth! He came towards her softly; called her name, but so low that she did not hear. Then a meadow-lark, disturbed, flew up with his piercing "sweet!" the stooping figure turned and he saw, in the clear sunlight, the face under the shady hat-- Had something in his brain snapped? Or was he living through a nightmare from which he would awake presently? The world, the daisy field, the figure in blue, himself, all seemed but baseless fabrics of some fantastic vision! For, by a strange enchantment, the face which should have been Esther's face was the face of Molly Weston, his lost wife! It could not be! But it was. Incredible the swiftness with which nature rights herself after a stunning shock. Only for a moment was Callandar left in his paradise of uncertainty. The next moment, he knew that he beheld no vision, knew it and accepted it as certainly and completely as if all his life had been but a preparation for the revelation. "You!" he said. It was only a whisper but it seemed to fill the universe. "You--Molly!" At the name, the hazel eyes which had met his so blankly sprang suddenly alive--recognition, knowledge, fear, entreaty, flashed across them in one moment's breathless space--then they grew blank again and Mary Coombe fell senseless beside her sheaf of daisies. CHAPTER XXIII Bending over the form of his lost wife, Henry Callandar forgot Esther. His mind, careful of its sanity, removed her instantly from the possibility of thought. She was gone--whisked away by some swift genie and, with her, vanished the world of blue and gold inhabited by lovers. There remained only that white, faded face among the daisies. With careful hands he removed the crushed hat and loosened the collar at the neck. It was Molly. Not a doubt of that. Not Molly as he remembered her but Molly from whom the years had taken more than their toll, giving but little in return. He could not think beyond this fact, as yet. And he felt nothing, nothing at all. Both heart and mind lay mercifully numb under the anaesthetic of the shock. Deftly he did the few things necessary to restore the swooning woman, noting with a doctor's eye the first faint flush of pink under the dead white nails, then the flutter of breath through the parted lips and the slow unclosing of the hazel eyes which, at sight of him, sprang widely, vividly into life. "Harry!" The name was the merest whisper and held a quiver of fear. He remembered, stolidly, that just so had she whispered it upon the evening of their hurried marriage. "Yes, Molly. It is all right. Don't be frightened!"--Just so had he soothed her. She closed her eyes a moment while strength came back and then, raising herself, slipped out of his arms with a little breathless movement of avoidance. She seemed indeed to cower away and the fear in her eyes hurt him with a physical pang. Instinctively he put out his hand to reassure her, repeating his entreaty that she should not be frightened. "But I am frightened!" Her voice was hoarse. "You terrified me! You had no right to come like that. You should have let me know--sent word--or--or something." "Sent word?" He repeated the words, in a dazed way. "How could I? How could I know?" "How could you come if you didn't know?" Already the miracle of readjustment which in women is so marvellously quick, had given back to Mary Coombe something of her natural manner. Besides, she had always known that some day he might find her--if he cared to look. "Why should you come at all?" she flashed, raising defiant eyes. "The time to come was long ago." "I did come." Callandar spoke slowly. "I came--" he paused, for how could he tell her that his coming had been to a house of death. The bald answer, the strangeness of his gaze stirred her fear again. For a moment they stared at each other, each busy with the shifting puzzle. Then her quicker intuition abandoned the mystery of the present meeting to straighten out the past. "Then you followed the letter?" "Yes, I followed the letter." "And you saw her--my mother?" "Yes, I saw your mother." Impulsively he moved toward her but she shrank back, plainly terrified. "Don't! I didn't know. I swear I did not know. I never saw the letter--until last night. And I don't understand. What--what did my mother tell you when you came?" "There was only one thing which would have kept me from you, Molly." "Only one thing? What?" she almost whispered. "She told me you were dead." The flash of understanding on her face showed that she, at least, had shifted part of the puzzle into place. "I see now," she said slowly, "I have wondered ever since I saw the letter. But I did not think she would go that far. Yet it was the simplest way. There was no date on the letter--but I guessed that it must have come too late." "Too late?" "Yes, or she would never have dared. Besides she might not have wanted to. She didn't know. I never had the courage to tell her. But if the letter had come in time--" She faltered, growing confused under his intense gaze. "In time for what?" he prompted patiently. She brushed the question aside. "Did you believe her when she said that?" "Yes. Why should I have doubted? It seemed to be the end. I fainted on the doorstep. A long illness followed, when it was at its worst a friend came--helped me to pull out. When I was well again, I searched for your mother, employed detectives, but we never found her. Neither did we find anything upon which to hang a doubt of what she had told me." "No. She was very clever." "But _why?_ For God's sake, why? Why should she lie to me? I had never harmed her. We were married. I could give you a home. She knew it. I told her. Why should she do this senseless, horrible thing?" She looked at him with wide eyes and stammered, "Don't--don't you know?" A sense of some hitherto undreamed horror came to him with that stammering whisper. The spur of it brought some of his firmness back. "I do not know. There must have been a reason. You must tell me." He forced her, through sheer will, to lift her eyes to his. They were startled and sullen. With a start he saw, what he had missed before, that this woman, his wife, was a stranger. But he had himself well in hand now and his gaze did not falter. There was no escaping its demands. Her answer came in a little burst of defiance. "Yes, there was a reason. You may as well know it. Your letter and your coming were both too late. I was married." The doctor was not quick enough for this-- "Yes, of course you were, but--" "Oh, not to you! Can't you understand? I was married to another man.... You need not look like that! What did you expect? I warned you. I knew I could never defy mother. I told you so. But you said it wouldn't be long--that she need never know. And I waited and waited. I could have married more than once but I wouldn't. I faced mother and said I wouldn't. But every time it was harder. I couldn't keep it up. And you didn't come. Then when he came and we thought he was so rich she made me marry him. She _made_ me. I thought you were never coming back anyway. I wrote you once telling you to come. You didn't answer." She paused breathless but he could find nothing to say. It seemed a small thing that the letter must have missed him somewhere, his whole mind was absorbed in trying to comprehend one stupendous fact. The puzzle had shifted into place indeed. "I thought you didn't care any more," her words raced as if eager to be done, "and mother gave me no peace. You will never understand how terrified I was of mother. And he seemed so kind and was going to be rich. He owned part of a gold mine--mother was sure it would mean millions. But it didn't. Mother was fooled there!" with a gleam of malice. "The mine turned out to be worthless--after we were married." Callandar drew a sharp breath and shook himself as if to throw off the horror of some enthralling nightmare. "You married him--this man--knowing that you were a wife already?" "A fine sort of wife!" He quivered at the coarseness of meaning in her tone. "We were never really married." "What do you mean?" "I mean that it was all a farce. What's a ceremony? For all I knew it wasn't even legal. When you did not answer my letter I thought that was what your silence meant. I asked a girl to ask her father who was a lawyer if a marriage was legal when the girl was under age and the parents didn't know about it. He said sometimes it wasn't." Callandar groaned. "And you married again--on that?" "Yes. I had to, anyway. I couldn't hold out against mother. I daren't tell her. She left us after the wedding, when the mine failed, and went back to Cleveland. It was there she must have got your letter, and the note I found last night. And when you came, she told you I was dead--to save the scandal. She was always different after that, though I never guessed why. It was a lie, you see, and mother was terrified of telling lies. It was the only thing she was afraid of. She believed that liars go to hell." The tone in which she spoke of the probable torment of her mother was quite without feeling. Callandar listened in fascinated wonder. Was this Molly?--Pretty, kind-hearted Molly? "I cannot understand," he said in a stifled voice. "It is all too horrible! This man you married--" "He is dead. He died a year ago. I thought at first that you must have found out and that was why you came. I should have died of fright if you had come while he was alive. He would never have understood--never! He didn't like mother but he wasn't afraid of her. And I think that at last he suspected that she had made me marry him for his money. But he was always good. At first I was afraid all the time--oh, it was dreadful! I think I have always been afraid--all my life--" Without warning she threw her hands out wildly and broke into choking sobs, crying with the abandon of a frightened child. Yet no one could have mistaken the impulse of her grief. It was for herself she wept. Was it possible that she was a child still? A child in spite of her woman's knowledge, and the dulled lustre of her hair? Callandar remembered grimly that Molly's views of right and wrong had always been peculiarly simple. She had never wished to do wrong, but when she had done it, it had never seemed so very wrong to her. Her greatest dread had always been the dread of other people's censure. "Don't cry," he said gently. She must have felt the change in his voice, for although her sobs redoubled she did not again shrink from the hand he laid upon her hair. It was all over. She had told him the truth. Surely he must see that he was the one to blame, not she. After a while she dried her eyes and looked up at him timidly but with restored confidence. "People need never know now!" she said more calmly. "People? Do people matter?" She picked a daisy and began nervously to strip it of its petals--a pang of agony caught at the man's heart. So, only that morning, had he imagined himself consulting the daisy oracle. "She loves me, she loves me not." Absolutely he put the memory from him. Molly was speaking. "People do matter. They make things so unpleasant. Not that I care as much about them as I used to; but still, one has to be careful. People are so prying, always wanting to know things," she glanced around nervously, "but let's not talk about them. I don't understand things yet. How did you find me, if you thought I was--dead?" "Accident, if there be such a thing. I was driving down the road. I am living in the town near here--in Coombe!" "But you can't! I live in Coombe. It is my home. There isn't a Chedridge in the place." "My name is not Chedridge now. I took my uncle's name when I inherited his money. I am called Henry Callandar." "Callandar!" Her voice rose shrilly on the word. "And you are living in Coombe? Why you are--you must be--Esther's Dr. Callandar!" The man went deathly white, yet his enormous self-control, the fruit of years, held him steady. Mary Coombe began to laugh weakly. "Why, of course, that explains it all, don't you see? Haven't you placed me yet? Esther is my step-daughter. The man I married was Doctor Coombe." "Good God!" The exclamation was revelation enough had Mary Coombe heard it. But she did not hear it; this new aspect of the situation had seemed to her so farcical that her laughter threatened to become hysterical. "Oh, it's so funny!" she gasped. It was certainly funny--such a good joke! The Doctor thought he might as well laugh too. But at the sound of his laughter, hers abruptly ceased. "Don't do that!" He tried to control himself. It was hard. He wanted to shriek with laughter. Esther's step-mother, the mysterious Mrs. Coombe, was Molly--his wife! Some mocking demon shouted into his ears the words he had intended to say to her when he came to tell her that he and Esther loved each other. He thought of his own high mood of the morning, of the tender regret which he had laid away with the dead of the dead past. It seemed as if all the world were rocking with diabolic laughter--Fate plans such amusing things! He caught himself up--madness lay that way. "Please don't laugh!" said Mrs. Coombe a trifle fretfully. "At least not so loudly. You startle me. My nerves are so wretched. And anyway it's more serious than you seem to think. We shall have to discuss ways of managing so that people will not know. Your being already acquainted with Esther will help. It will make your coming to the house quite natural. But it will be better to admit that we knew each other years ago, were boy and girl friends or something like that. Your change of name and my marriage will explain perfectly why we did not know each other until we met. Nobody will go behind that. They will think it quite romantic. The only one we need be afraid of is Esther. She is so quick to notice--" She did not know about Esther then? She had never guessed that the girl was more to him than a mere acquaintance. Thank God for that! And thank God, above all, that the worst had not happened--Esther herself did not know, would never know now-- "I believe it can come quite naturally after all," Mary went on more cheerfully. "No one will wonder at anything if we say we are old friends. And we can be specially careful with Esther. I wouldn't have her know for anything. She is like her father. She would never understand. She doesn't know what it is to be afraid, as I was afraid of my mother. Do you think it is wicked that sometimes I'm glad she is dead, mother, I mean?" He answered with an effort. "You used to be fond of your mother, Molly." "Oh, don't call me Molly. Call me Mary. It will sound much better. No one has ever heard me called Molly here. If Esther heard it she would wonder at once. You will be careful, won't you?" "Yes. I shall be careful." He had not heard what she said, save that she had mentioned Esther's name. Rather he was thinking with a gratitude which shook his very soul that fate had at least spared the innocent. Esther was safe. She did not love him. He felt sure of that now. Strange irony, that his deepest thankfulness should be that Esther did not love him. A small hand fell like a feather upon his arm. "Harry!" "Yes, Molly!" He looked down into her quivering face and saw in it, dimly, the face of the girl in his locket, not a mere outward semblance this time but the soul of Molly Weston, reaching out to him across the years. Her light touch on his arm was the very shackle of fate. Her glance claimed him. Nothing that she had done could modify that claim--the terrible claim of weakness upon the strength which has misled it. Vaguely he felt that this was the test, the ultimate test. If he failed now he was lost indeed. Something within him reached out blindly for the strength he had dreamed was his, found it, clutched it desperately--knew that it held firm. He took the slight figure in his arms, felt that it still trembled and said the most comforting thing he could think of. "Don't worry, Molly. No one will ever know." CHAPTER XXIV Ester was sitting upon the back porch, hulling strawberries and watching with absent amusement the tireless efforts of Jane to induce a very fat and entirely brainless pup to shake hands. It had been a busy day, for owing to the absence of the free and independent "Saturday Help" Esther had insisted upon helping Aunt Amy in the kitchen. Now the Saturday pies and cakes were accomplished and only the strawberries lay between Esther and freedom. She had intended, a little later, to walk out along the river road in search of marguerites, but when Mary, more than usually restless after her fainting spell of yesterday, had offered to go instead, she had not demurred. It would be quite as pleasant to take a book and sit out under the big elm. Esther was at that stage when everything seems to be for the best in this "best of all possible worlds." She was living through those suspended moments when life stands tiptoe, breathless with expectancy, yet calm with an assurance of joy to come. With the knowledge that Henry Callandar was not quite as other men, had come an intense, delicious shyness; the aloofness of the maiden who feels love near yet cannot, through her very nature, take one step to meet it. There was no hurry. She was surrounded with a roseate haze, lapped in deep content; for, while the doctor had learned nothing from their last meeting under the elm, Esther had learned everything. She had not seemed to look at him as they parted, yet she had known, oh, she had known very well, how he had looked at her! All she wanted, now, was to be alone with that look; to hold it there in her memory, not to analyse or question, but to glance at it shyly now and again, feeding with quick glimpses the new strange joy at the heart. "D'ye think He ever forgets to put brains into dogs?" asked Jane suddenly. "Oh, you silly thing, don't roll over like that! Stop wriggling and give me your paw!" "He, who?" vaguely. Jane made a disgusted gesture. "You're not listening, Esther! You know there is only one Person who puts brains into dogs!" "But Pickles is such a puppy, Jane. Give him time." "It's not age," gloomily. "It's stupidness. All puppies are stupid, but Pickles is the most abnormously stupid puppy I ever saw." Esther laughed. "Where did you get the word, ducky?" "From the doctor. It was something he said about Aunt Amy. Say, Esther, isn't he going to take you driving any more? I saw him going past this very afternoon. He turned down towards the river road. There was lots of room. Next time he takes you, may Pickles and me go too?" "Pickles and I, Jane." "Well, may we?" "I don't know. Perhaps. When did the doctor go past?" "Nearly two hours ago. I wonder if there's some one kick down there? Bubble says they're getting a tremenjous practice. I don't like Bubble any more. He thinks he's smart. I don't like Ann, either. I shan't ask her to my birthday party." "I thought you loved Ann." "Well, I don't. She thinks she's smart!" "Ann, too? Smartness must be epidemic." "It's all on account of the doctor," gloomily. "They can't get over having him boarding at their place. I told Ann that my own father was a doctor, but she said dead ones didn't count. Then I told her that my mother didn't have to keep boarders anyway." "That was a naughty, snobbish thing to say. I'm ashamed of you!" "What's 'snobbish'?" "What you said was snobbish. Think it over and find out." Jane was silent, apparently thinking it over. The fat pup, tired with unwonted mental exertions, curled up and went to sleep. Esther returned to her dreams. Then, into the warm hush of the late afternoon came the quick panting of a motor car. "There he is!" cried Jane excitedly. "Let's both run down to the gate to see him." "Jane!" Esther's cheeks were the colour of her ripest berry. "Jane, come here! I forbid you--Jane!" "He's stopping anyway. He'll be coming in. You had better take off that apron.--Oh, look! Some one's with him. Why," with some disappointment, "it's mother! He is letting her out. I don't believe he is coming in at all--let go! Esther, you pig, let me go!" She wriggled out of her sister's firm hold but not before the motor had started again; when she reached the gate it was out of sight. Mrs. Coombe surveyed her daughter coldly. "You are a very ill-mannered child," she said, and putting her aside walked slowly up the path and around the house to where Esther sat on the back porch. "Where are the daisies?" asked Esther, looking up from her berries. "The daisies?" vaguely. "Good gracious! I forgot all about the daisies." "Didn't you get any?" "Heaps, but the fact is I didn't bring them home. I felt so tired. I don't know how I should have managed to get home myself if Dr. Callandar hadn't picked me up." "Dr. Callandar?" Esther's voice was mildly questioning. "Yes, why not?" "I thought you had not met him." "Neither I had--at least I hadn't met him for a good many years." Mary gave a little excited laugh. "But that's the funny part of it--he is an old friend." Esther looked up with her characteristic widening of the eyes. The news was genuinely surprising. And how agitated her mother seemed! "It is really quite a remarkable coincidence," went on Mary nervously. "I was so surprised, startled indeed. Although it's pleasant, of course, to meet an old schoolmate." "You and Doctor Callandar schoolmates?" The eyes were very wide now. Mary grew more and more confused. "Yes--that is, not exactly. I mean his name wasn't Callandar then. His name was Chedridge. Did you never hear me speak of Harry Chedridge?" "Never." "Well, you never listen to half I say. And how was I to know that Doctor Callandar was the Harry Chedridge I used to know? He took the name of Callandar from an uncle--or something. Anyway it isn't his own." Esther hulled a particularly fine berry and carefully putting the hull in the pan, threw the berry away. "Curiouser and curiouser!" she said, quoting the immortal Alice. "Did you recognise him at once?" If it be possible for a lady of this enlightened age to simper, Mrs. Coombe simpered. "He recognised me at once!" with faint emphasis on the pronouns. The girl choked down a rising inclination to laugh. "Why shouldn't he? I suppose you haven't changed very much." "Hardly at all, he says; at least he says he would have known me anywhere. But it's quite a long time, you know, terribly long. I was a young girl then. Naturally, he was much older." "I should have thought so. That's why it seems queer--your having been schoolmates." Mrs. Coombe looked cross. "I did not mean schoolmates in that sense." "Oh, merely in a Pickwickian sense!" Esther's laugh bubbled out. Mary arose. She was afraid to risk more at present, until she had been to her room and--rested awhile. "You are rude, as usual," she said with dignity. "When I said that Dr. Callandar and I were schoolmates I meant simply that we were old friends, that we knew each other when we were both younger. I do not see anything at all humorous in the statement." "No, of course not!" with quick compunction. "It's quite lovely. Just like a book. Why didn't he come in?" The question was so cleverly casual that no one could have guessed the girl's consuming interest in the answer. But its cleverness had overshot the mark, for so colourless was the tone in which it was asked that Mary did not notice it at all. Instead she retreated steadily along her own line. "I hope I always treat your friends with proper courtesy, Esther. And I shall expect you to do the same with mine. Dr. Callandar is a very old friend indeed. Should he call to-night I wish you to receive him as such." "I'll try," said the girl demurely. The way of escape was now open, but Mrs. Coombe hesitated. She seemed to have something else to say. Something which did not come easily. "It's horrid living in a town like Coombe," she burst out. "People always want to know everything. We met the elder Miss Sinclair on the river road--you know what that means! If people ask you any question--or anything--you had better tell them at once that Dr. Callandar is not a stranger." "I should not dream of suppressing the fact." "You see," again that odd hesitation, "he may call--rather often. And--people talk so easily." Despite her care, Esther's sensitive face flamed in answer to the quickened beat of her heart. What an odd thing for her mother to say! What did she mean? Was it possible that he had already told her--asked her? Or had she merely guessed? There was a moment's pause, and then, "Let them talk!" said the girl softly. "It can't make any difference, to them, how often Dr. Callandar calls." Mrs. Coombe looked doubtful, hesitated once more, but finally turned away without speaking. As she went, she cast a careless glance at Aunt Amy, who stood just within the kitchen doorway, a curiously watchful look in her usually expressionless eyes. "Berries all ready, Auntie," said Esther cheerfully. "What's the matter with me as a Saturday Help?" But Aunt Amy did not smile as she usually did. "She's gone to get dressed," she said abruptly, indicating with a backward gesture Mrs. Coombe's retiring figure. "Well?" "For him. She's gone to get dressed for him." Esther was puzzled. "Why shouldn't she? Oh, I forget you didn't know! It's quite a romance. Mother used to know Dr. Callandar when she was a girl. 'We twa hae rin aboot the braes,' you know. Only it seems so funny. Fancy, Dr. Callandar and mother! But we shan't have to worry any more about her health. She can't possibly avoid him now." Aunt Amy was not listening. The curiously watchful look was still in her eyes and suddenly, apropos of nothing, she began to wring her hands in the strange, dumb way which always preceded one of her characteristic mental agonies,--agonies which, far beyond her understanding as they were, never failed to awake profound compassion in Esther. "What is it, dear?" she asked gently. "Are you not so well?" "Don't you ever feel things, Esther? Don't you ever sense things--coming?" "No, dear. And neither do you, when you are well. You are tired." She placed her hands firmly upon the locked hands of Aunt Amy and with tender force attempted to separate them. But Jane, who had been a silent but interested spectator, spoke eagerly. "Don't, Esther! Do let her tell us what is coming. You know she always tells right when she wrings her hands. Go on, Auntie--" "Jane, be quiet! I'll tell you why afterwards. Auntie dear, sit down." 'Aunt Amy's hands relaxed and the strange look faded. "It's nothing," she said. "It's gone! I must be more careful. Do not mention it to your mother, children. She might think me queer again, and I am not at all queer any more. You have noticed that I'm not, haven't you, Esther? I'll do anything you say, my dear." "Then lie out in the hammock while I get supper. The berries are all ready. Then we'll all get dressed. Jane may wear one of her new frocks and you shall wear your grey voile. It will be quite a party." "Will there be ice cream? Because if there isn't I don't want to get dressed," sighed Jane. "My new things don't fit. They look like bags." "It will soon be holidays and then I'll fix them for you." Jane laid a childish cheek to her sister's hand. "Nice Esther," she cooed. "I'm sorry I called you a pig." Then, in a change of tone as they left Aunt Amy resting in the hammock, "Esther, why is Auntie so afraid of mother lately? She says such queer things I don't know what she means." "Neither do I, dear. But I think it is just a passing fancy. She was very much hurt about the ring being sold. When she gets it back she will forget about it." "She looks at mother as if she hates her." "Oh, no!" in a startled tone. "How can you say such a thing, Jane?" "But she does. I've seen her. I don't blame her. I think it was horrid--" "That's enough. You know nothing about it. Little girls who do not understand have no right to criticise." "Fred says it was the most underhan--" "Jane, one word more and you shall have no berries to-night. Duck, don't you realise that you are speaking in a very unkind way of your own mother." The child's eyes filled with ready tears, but her little mouth was stubborn. "Auntie's more my mother, Esther, and so are you. And it was mean to take the ring and I don't care whether I have any berries or not." Supper was a very quiet meal that night. Mrs. Coombe, interrupted in the process of dressing, came down in an old kimono, but ate almost nothing, Jane was sullen, Aunt Amy silent and Esther happily oblivious to everything save her own happy thoughts. As soon as she could, she slipped away to her own room, and, choosing everything with care, began to dress herself as a maiden dresses for the eye of her lover. She was to be all in white, her dainty dress, her petticoats, stockings and shoes. White made her look younger than ever, absurdly young. He had never seen her all in white and she knew quite well how soft it made the shadows of her hair, how startlingly blue her eyes, how warm and living the ivory of her lovely neck. "Oh, I am glad I am pretty!" she whispered to her mirror. "Glad, glad!" Then with a laugh at her own childishness she "touched wood" to propitiate the jealous fates and ran down stairs to hide herself in the duskiest corner of the veranda. It was delightful there. The cooling air was sweet with the mingled perfumes of the garden border below, an early star had fallen, sparkling, upon the blue-grey train of departing day, a whispering breeze crept, soft-footed, through the shrubbery. Esther lay back in the long chair and closed her eyes. For thirty perfect moments she waited until the click of the garden gate announced his coming. Then she sprang up, smiling, blushing,--peering through the screen of vines-- A man was coming up the path. At first sight he seemed a stranger, some one who walked heavily, slowly--the doctor's step was quick and springing. Yet it was he! She drew back, shyly, yet looked again. Some one, in a pretty green silk gown, had slipped out from under the big elm and was meeting him with outstretched hands. "Mother," thought Esther, "how strange!" They had paused and were talking together. Mary's high, sweet laugh floated over the flowers, then her voice, a mere murmur. His voice, lower still. Then silence. They had turned back, together, down the lilac walk. Esther sat down again. She felt numb. She closed her eyes as she had done before. But all the dreams, all the happy thoughts were gone. She opened them abruptly to find Aunt Amy staring down upon her, dumbly, wringing her hands. In the warm summer air the girl shivered. "What is it?" she asked a little sharply. But Aunt Amy seemed neither to see nor hear her. She flitted by like some wandering grey moth into the dim garden, still wringing her hands. Esther sat up. "How utterly absurd," she said aloud. Indeed she felt heartily ashamed of herself. To behave like a foolish child, to startle Aunt Amy into a fit and all because her mother and Dr. Callandar had gone for a stroll down the lilac walk--the most natural thing in the world. They would return presently. She had only to wait. But the waiting was not quite the same. Those golden moments already sparkled in the past. Nothing could ever be quite the same as if he had come straight up the path to where she waited for him in the dusk. * * * * * In the living-room, Jane who had small patience with twilight, had lighted the lamp. Its shaded beams fell in golden bars across the veranda floor. The sky was full of stars, now, but the voice of the breeze was growing shrill, as if whistling up the rain. They were coming back along the side of the house. Esther rose quickly and slipped into the safety of the commonplace with Jane and the lighted lamp. Mrs. Coombe entered first, there was an instant to observe and wonder at her. She seemed a different woman, young, pretty, sparkling; even her hair seemed brighter. Behind her came Callandar and when Esther saw his face her heart seemed to stop. It was the face, almost, of a man of middle age, a firm, quiet face with cold eyes. "Esther!" Mrs. Coombe's voice held incipient reproof. The girl came forward and offered her hand. The doctor, this new doctor, took it, let it drop and said, "Good evening, Miss Esther," then turned to Jane with a politely worded message from Ann and Bubble. "You can tell them I won't go," said Jane crossly. "They think they are smart. Just because--" Esther slipped quietly from the room. In the hall outside she paused, breathless. She felt as if she had run a long way. Shame enveloped her, a shame whose cause she could not put into words. She only knew that she had, in the few seconds of that cold greeting, been profoundly humiliated. She quivered with the sting of unwarranted expectancy. But if this had been all, it would have been well. There was something else, some deeper pain surging through the smart of wounded pride, something which led her with blind steps into a dark corner of the stairs where she sat very quiet and still. Through the open front door, she could see the bars of lamplight on the deserted veranda, and hear from the open windows of the living-room a hum of conversation in which Jane seemed to be taking a leading part. Then came the tinkle of the old piano and Mary's voice, singing, or attempting to sing, for it was soon apparent that her voice sagged pitifully on the high notes. Presently Jane came out, banging the door. Jane's manners, Esther thought, were really very bad. She had probably banged the door because she had been sent to bed and she had probably been sent to bed because she had been saucy. Esther wondered what particular form her sauciness had taken, but when Jane called softly, "Esther!" she did not answer. She did not want to put Jane to bed to-night. The child flashed past her up the stairs and soon could be heard from an upstair window calling imperatively for Aunt Amy. But Aunt Amy, flitting through the dim garden wringing her hands, did not hear. Jane, much injured, went to bed by herself that night. In the lamp-lit room there was no more music. The murmur of voices grew less distinct. There were intervals of silence. (Only very old friends can support a silence gracefully--but of course these two were very old friends.) Esther wondered, idly, how it would be best to explain her absence to her mother. Toothache, perhaps? Not that the excuse mattered. Mary never listened to excuses. She would be cross and fretful anyway and complain that Esther never treated her friends with proper courtesy. The best thing she could do would be to go to bed. But she made no movement to go; the moments ticked by on the hall clock unnoticed. After a time, which might have been long or short, there was a stir in the room and her mother's voice called "Esther! Esther!" The girl stood up, smoothed her white dress, slipped out on to the veranda and into the garden. From there she answered the call. "Yes, Mother?" "Where are you? You sound as if you had been asleep. Doctor Callandar is going." Esther came lightly up the steps. "So soon?" "It is early," agreed Mrs. Coombe playfully, "but I can't keep him." Esther, herself in shadow, could see the doctor's face as he stood quietly beside his hostess. It was full of an endless weariness. Her pride melted. Impulsively she put out a warm hand-- "Good night, Miss Esther. How very sweet your garden is at night. But it feels as if our fine weather were over. The wind begins to blow like rain." Esther's hand dropped to her side. Perhaps he had not seen it in the dusk. CHAPTER XXV We all know that strange remoteness into which one wakes from out deep sleep. Though the eye be open, the Ego is not there to use it. For an immeasurable second, the awakener knows not who he is, nor why, nor where. Only there is, faintly perceptible, a reminiscent consciousness whether of joy or sorrow, a certain flavour of the soul, sweet or bitter, into which the Ego, slipping back, announces, "I am happy" or "I am miserable." Esther had not hoped to sleep that night but she did sleep and heavily. When she awoke it was to blankness, a cold throbbing blankness of undefined ill being. Then her Ego, with a sigh, came back from far places; the busy brain shot into focus; all the memories, fears, humiliation of the night before stood forth clear and poignant. She buried her face in the pillow. Yet, after the first rush of consciousness, there came a difference. There always is a difference between night and day thoughts. Fresh from its wonder-journey, the soul is braver in the morning, the brain is calmer, the spirit more hopeful. After a half-hour's self-examination with her face in the pillow Esther began to wonder if she had not been foolishly apprehensive and whether it were not possible that half her fears were bogies. The weight began to lighten, she breathed more freely. Looking over the rim of the sheltering pillow the morning seemed no longer hateful. Foremost of all comforting thoughts was the conviction that instinct must still be trusted against evidence. Through all her speculations as to the unexplained happenings of the previous day, she found that instinct held firmly to its former belief regarding the doctor's feelings toward herself. There are some things which one knows absolutely and Esther knew that Henry Callandar had looked upon her as a man looks upon the woman he loves. He had loved her that night when they paddled through the moonlight; he had loved her when he watched for her coming along the road, but most of all he had loved her when, under the eye of Aunt Amy, they had said good-bye at the garden gate. This much was sure, else all her instincts were foresworn. After this came chaos. She could not in any way read the riddle of his manner of last night. Had the sudden resumption of his old friendship with her mother absorbed his mind to the exclusion of everything else? Impossible, if he loved her. Had purely physical weariness or mental worry blotted her out completely for the time being? Impossible, if he loved her. Then what had happened? Doubtless it would all be simple enough when she understood. She sighed and raised her head from the pillow. At any rate it was morning. The day must be faced and lived through. Any one of its hours might bring happiness again. The rainstorm which had swept up during the night had passed, leaving the morning clean. She needed no recollection to tell her that it was Sunday. The Sabbath hush was on everything; no milkman's cans jingled down the street; no playing children called or shouted; there was a bell ringing somewhere for early service. Esther sighed again. She was sorry it was Sunday. Work-a-day times are easiest. A rich odour of coffee, insinuating itself through the half open door, testified mutely to the fact that Aunt Amy was getting breakfast. It was later than usual. After breakfast it would be time to dress for church. Every one in Coombe dressed for church. It was a sacred rite. One and all, they had clothes which were strictly Sabbatarian, known indeed by the name of Sunday Best. Esther's Sunday best was a blue, voile, a lovely blue, the colour of her eyes when in soft shadow. It was made with a long straight skirt slightly high at the waist, round neck and elbow sleeves and with it went soft, wrinkly gloves and a wide hat trimmed with cornflowers. She knew that she looked well in it--and the doctor would be in church. On this thought which flew into her mind like a swift swallow through an open window, her lethargy fled and in its place came nervous haste; a feverish impatience which brought her with a bound out of bed, flushed and eager. Philosophy is all very well but it never yet stilled the heart-beat of the young. Aunt Amy looked up in mild surprise as she hurried into the kitchen in time to butter toast and poach the eggs. "Why, Esther!" she said in her bewildered way. "I thought--I didn't think that you would get up this morning." "Why? I am perfectly well, Auntie. Where is mother?" "Oh, she's up! Picking flowers." Esther looked slightly surprised. It was not Mrs. Coombe's habit to rise early or to pick flowers, but before she had time to comment, Mary herself entered the kitchen with an armful of roses. "Hurry with your breakfast, Jane," she said, "I want you to take these over to the doctor's office. I wonder you have not sent some to the poor man before this, Esther. Mrs. Sykes' roses never amount to anything. Shall I pour the coffee? I suppose you felt that you did not know him well enough. But flowers sent in a neighbourly way would have been quite all right. If you weren't always so stiff, people would like you better. I felt quite ashamed of your behaviour last night. Of course it wasn't necessary for you to stay in the room _all_ the evening, but it was simply rude to run away as you did. You needn't make Jane an excuse. Jane could put herself to bed, for once." "I did--" began Jane, but catching sight of her sister's face, went no further. And Mrs. Coombe, who was always talkative when airing a grievance, paid no attention. "If you are feeling huffy about the motor breaking down, you'll just have to get over it," she went on. "It couldn't possibly have been Dr. Callandar's fault anyway." "I am quite sure that it wasn't." "Then don't sulk. He is rather fine looking, don't you think? Though as a boy he was almost ugly. It doesn't seem to matter in men--ugliness, I mean. And of course in those days he could not afford to dress; dress makes such a difference. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if his clothes are English made. That baggy look that isn't really baggy, you know. When I knew him his people were quite poor. Only a mother and sister. The father shot himself. People said suicide ran in that family. But Harry--Henry said that if it did, it was going to stop running. He said such odd things. I was staying with friends when I met him, at a church social. One meets all kinds at an affair like that. My friends didn't ask him to the party they gave for me. For although they were a very good family, the Chedridges, Henry was almost a hired man at that time, working for old Dr. Inglis, to put himself through college. His mother and sister never went out." "Were they both invalids?" "Don't be clever, Esther! I mean socially, of course. Jane, run up to my dresser and look in the second drawer on the right hand side and bring down my small photo case. I think I have a photo somewhere, not a very good one, but enough to show how homely he was.... Amy, aren't you going to eat any breakfast this morning?" Aunt Amy, who had been following her niece's unusual flow of talk with fascinated attention, returned with a start to her untasted egg. Esther tried to eat some toast and choked. In spite of all her resolutions she felt coldly and bitterly angry. That her mother should dare to gossip about him like that! That she should call him "ugly," that she should speak with that air of almost insolent proprietorship of those wonderful early years long, long before she, Esther, had come into his life at all, it was unendurable! Do not smile, sophisticated young person. When you are in love you will know, only too well, this jealousy of youless years; this tenderness for photos and trifling remembrances of the youth of the one you love. You will envy his very mother, who, presumably, knew him fairly well in the nursery, and that first dreadful picture of him in plaid dress and plastered hair will seem a sacred relic. In the meantime you may take my word for it, and try to understand how Esther felt as she bent, perforce, over the photo of a dark-browed lad whose very expression was in itself a valid protest against photography. "Ugly, wasn't he?" asked Mrs. Coombe. "Very," said Esther. "Perfectly fierce," said Jane, peering over her shoulder. "Really fierce, I mean, not slang. He looks as if he would love to bite somebody." "The photographer, probably." Esther shrugged her shoulders and laid the photo carelessly upon the table. So careless was she, in fact, that a sharp "Look out!" from Jane did not prevent a sudden jerk of her elbow upsetting her steaming cup of coffee right over the pictured face. With an angry exclamation, Mary sprang forward to rescue her property but Esther had already picked it up and was endeavouring to repair the damage with her table napkin. "Oh, do take care!" said Mary irritably. "Don't rub so _hard_--you'll rub all the film off--there! What did I tell you?" "Dear me! who would ever have dreamed it would rub off that easily?" Esther surveyed the crumpled bits of photo with convincing dismay. "Any one, with sense. It's ruined--how utterly stupid of you, Esther." Mary's voice quivered with anger. "You provoking thing! I believe you did it on purpose." The cold stare from the girl's eyes stopped her, but she added fretfully, "You are always doing things to annoy me. I can't think why, I'm sure." "She was trying to dry it," declared Jane, belligerently. "She didn't mean to hurt the old photo. Did you, darling?" "I can hardly see what my motive could have been," said Esther politely, rising from the table. She had deliberately tried to destroy the photograph and was exultantly glad that she had succeeded, yet, so quickly does the actress instinct develop under the spur of necessity, that her face and manner showed only amused tolerance of such a foolish suspicion. Later, the culprit smiled understandingly at her image in the mirror as she dressed for church. "I did not know I could be so catty," she told her reflection, "but I don't care. She hadn't any right to have that darling picture. Ugly, indeed!" The blue eyes snapped and then became reflective. "Only she didn't think it ugly any more than I did. It was just talk. She was certainly furious when the film rubbed off. I wonder--" She fastened the last dark tress of hair, still wondering. All the way to church she wondered, walking demurely with Jane up Oliver's Hill, while Mary, nervously gay, fluttered on a step or two ahead. Jane found her unresponsive that morning. The acquaintances they passed found her distant. They wondered if Esther Coombe were becoming "stuck up" since she had a school of her own? For although, as Miss Agnes Smith said, it is not quite the thing to do more than nod and smile on the way to church, one doesn't need to pass one's friends looking like an absent-minded funeral. Poor Esther! She saw nobody because she looked for only one. "Oh, Esther, Mrs. Sykes has a new bonnet. There she is, Esther, look!" "Very pretty," murmured Esther absently. Jane dropped her hand. "You're blind as well as deaf, Esther. It's perfectly, dreadfully awful, and you know it!" Thus abjured, Esther managed to look at Mrs. Sykes' bonnet. And, having looked, she laughed. Mrs. Sykes had certainly surpassed herself in bonnets. And poor Ann, her skirts were stiffer, her pig-tails tighter and her small face more mutinous than ever. The doctor was not of the party. Esther had known that, long before Jane had noticed the bonnet. Still, there was nothing in that. He did not always walk with Ann to church. He might not come up Oliver's Hill at all. He might come from the opposite direction. He might be in church already. Esther's step quickened. But she had no excuse for hurry. Unless one sang in the choir or were threatened with lateness it was not etiquette to push ahead of any one on Oliver's Hill. Decently and in order was the motto, so Esther was sharply reminded when she had almost trodden on the unhastening heels of Mrs. Elder MacTavish. Mrs. MacTavish turned in surprise but, seeing Esther, relaxed into the usual Sunday smile and bow. "Good morning, Esther. Good morning, Mrs. Coombe. Good morning, Jane. What perfect weather we are having. You are all well, I hope?" "Very well, thank you." "And dear Miss Amy?" "Very well indeed." "So sad that she never cares to come to church. But of course one understands. And it must be a satisfaction to you all that she keeps so well. I said to Mr. MacTavish only last night that I felt sure Dr. Callandar was not being called in professionally. That is the worst of being a doctor. One can hardly attend to one's social duties without arousing fear for the health of one's friends. Not that Dr. Callandar is overly sociable, usually." The last word, delivered as if by an afterthought, said everything which she wished it to say. Esther's lips shut tightly. Mary Coombe flushed. But she was quick to seize the opening nevertheless. "Such an odd thing, dear Mrs. MacTavish! Dr. Callandar turns out to be quite an old friend of--of my family. We knew each other as boy and girl. In his college days, you know." "How very pleasant. But I always understood your family lived in Cleveland. Did Dr. Callandar take his degree in the States?" "Oh, no, of course not, but I was visiting in Canada when we knew each other. Mutual friends and--and all that, you know." "Very romantic," said Mrs. MacTavish. Her tone was pleasantly cordial, yet there was a something, a tinge--her quick glance took in Mrs. Coombe's pretty dress and flowered hat, and the beginning of a smile moved her thin lips. She said nothing. But then she did not need to say anything. Mind reading is common with women. Mrs. Coombe was furious. Esther laughed suddenly, a bubbling, girlish laugh, and then pretended that she had laughed because Jane had stubbed her toe. Jane looked hurt, Mrs. Coombe suspicious and Mrs. MacTavish amused. So in anything but a properly Sabbatical frame of mind the little party arrived at the church door. Who does not know, if only in memory, that exquisite thrill of fear and expectation with which Esther entered the place which might contain the man she loved? Another moment, a breath, and she might see him!... And who has not known that stab of pain, that awful darkness of the spirit, which came upon her as, instantly, she knew that he was not there? He was not in the church. Mental telepathy is recognised as well by its absence as by its presence. Esther knew that the church was empty of her lover and that it would remain empty. He was not coming to church to-day. Fortunate indeed that Mrs. MacTavish was not looking, for the girl's lip quivered, an unnatural darkness deepened the blue of her eyes. Then, smiling, she followed her mother up the aisle. Girls are wonderfully brave and if language is given us to conceal our thoughts smiles are very convenient also. Mary Coombe settled herself with a flutter and a rustle, and then, behind the decorous shield of a hymn book, she whispered, "Did you see Dr. Callandar as we came in?" "No." "Look and see if he is here." The girl glanced perfunctorily around. "No," she said. Mrs. Coombe frowned. She was patiently annoyed and Esther felt cold anger stir again. What difference could the doctor's absence possibly make to Mary Coombe? The singing of the psalm and the reading were long drawn out wearinesses. Esther had not come to church to worship that morning. We do not comment upon her attitude. We merely state it. To-day, church, the service and all that it stood for had been absolutely outside of her emotions. Yet with the prayer came the thought of God and with the thought a thrill of angry fear--a fear which was an inevitable after effect of her very orthodox training. God, she felt dimly, did not like people to be very happy. He was a jealous God. He was probably angry now because she had come to church thinking more of Dr. Callandar than of Him. "Thou shalt have no other Gods before me!" Awful, mystical words! Did they mean that one couldn't have any human god at all? Not even a near, kind protecting god--like the doctor? It frightened her. She found herself explaining to God that her lover was not really a rival. That although she loved him so terribly it was in quite a different way and would never interfere with her religious duties. Then, feeling the futility of this, she pretended carelessness, trying to deceive God into the belief that she didn't think so very much of the doctor anyway. This was in the prayer, while she sat with her eyes decorously shaded by her hand. Above her in the pulpit, the minister in an ecstasy of petition set forth the needs of the church, the state and the individual. Esther did not hear a word until a sudden dropping of his voice forced a certain phrase upon her attention. He was praying, with an especial poignancy for "that blessing which maketh rich and addeth no sorrow." Was there such a blessing? A blessing which would make rich and add no sorrow? No wonder the minister prayed for it. To Esther, whose mind was saturated with the idea of God as the author of chastenings, the possibility came with a shock of joy. She, too, began to pray, and she prayed for one thing only, over and over--the blessing that maketh rich and addeth no sorrow. There was no need, she felt, to specify further. God was sure to guess what blessing she meant. A subdued rustle, a swaying as of barley in a gentle breeze and the prayer was over. Esther removed her hand from her eyes and looked up at the minister. For a tiny second his glance met hers. A thrill shot through her, a thrill of dismay. With all the force of a new idea, it came to her that she and he were in the same parlous case. He loved her, as she loved--somebody else. And that meant that he must suffer, suffer as she had suffered last night. Last week when he had told her of his love she had been surprised, sorry and a little angry. But last week he had spoken of unknown things. Love and suffering had been words to her then, now they were realities. Then, for she was learning quickly now, came another flash of enlightenment. They had been praying for the same thing. He, too, had prayed for the blessing which maketh rich--and he had meant _her_. She knew it. He had been asking God to give her to him. Horrible! Common sense shrank back before the invading flood of fear. What if God had listened? What if He had answered? Ministers, she knew, have great influence with God. What if He had said, "Yes"? What if all the trouble of last night, the blankness of to-day, were part of the answer? "Never! Never!" she said. She almost said it aloud, so real had her fear been. Her eyes, fixed upon the minister's face, were terrified, but her soul was strong. Fearful of blasphemy, yet brave, she faced the bogie of a God her thought had evoked, saying, "I make my own choice. Take my lover from me if you will--I shall never give myself to another." All this was very wrong, shocking even, especially in church. But it really happened and is apt to happen any Sunday in any church so long as human love rebels at the idea of a Divine love less tender than itself. Gradually the panic fear died down. Esther's sane and well-balanced nature began to assert itself. Some voice, small but insistent, began to say, "God is not like that," and she listened and was comforted. She had not yet come to the love which casts out fear, but she was done with the fear which casts out love. So that when on the church steps in the sunshine she felt Angus Macnair's hand tremble in hers, she was able to meet his eyes, straightly, understandingly, but unafraid. CHAPTER XXVI The manner in which Dr. Callandar spent that tragic Sunday is not clearly on record. We have watched Esther so closely that he has been permitted to escape our observation, and it would be manifestly unfair to expect any coherent account of the day from him. He knows that he went for a walk, early, and that he walked all day. He remembers once resting by the willow-fringed pool which had seen his introduction into Coombe, but he could not stay there. Between him and that hot June day lay the wreck of a world. Once he stumbled upon the Pine Lake road and followed it a little way. But here, too, memory came too close and drove him aside into the fields. There he tried to face his future fairly, under the calm sky. But it was hard work. With such a riot of feeling, it was difficult to think. His mind continually fell away into the contemplation of his own misery. It was a bad day, a day which left an ineffaceable mark. With night came the first sign of peace, or rather of capitulation. He fought no more because he realised that there was nothing for which to fight. There had never been, from the very first moment, a possibility of escape, the smallest ray of hope. Fate had met him squarely and the issue had never been in doubt. It was a "wonderful clear night of stars" when, having circled the town in his aimless wandering, he found himself opposite the schoolhouse gate and calm enough to allow his thoughts to dwell definitely upon Esther. She, at least, was safe, and the knowledge brought pure thankfulness. Not for anything in the world would he have had her entangled in this tragic coil. Leaning over the gate he saw the school steps, faintly white in the starlight. It needed small effort of imagination to see her there as he had seen her that first day--a happy girl, looking at him with the long, straight glance of unawakened youth. A great wave of protecting love went out to meet that vision. Self was lost in its immensity. As he had found her, so, please God, she was still and so he would leave her. Then, somewhere in the back of his brain, a question sprang to vivid life. Was she the same? He knew that all day he had been fighting back that question. Last night something had frightened him--something glimpsed for a moment in Esther's face when she had come in from the garden to say good-night. Fancy, perhaps, or a trick of the lamplight. She could not really have changed. He would not allow himself even to dream that she had changed. By this time she would know about himself and Mary--know all that any one was to know. He had insisted upon that. Mary had promised to tell her to-day that they were to be married soon. Next time he saw her she would look upon him with different eyes; eyes which would see not her sometime friend and companion but her step-mother's future husband. He must steel himself for this. Probably she would laugh a little. He hoped she would laugh. Last night she had looked so--she had not looked like laughter. If she should laugh it would answer the last doubt in his heart. He would know that she was free. Presently he felt himself to be unbearably weary. Physical needs, ignored all day, began to clamour. He must get home at once. No _outré_ proceedings must raise the easy breath of gossip. He must not flinch, he dared not run away, all must be done decently and in order. Let him only keep his head now--the bravest man need not look too far into the morrow. It must be late, he knew. The road into Coombe was deserted. All the buggies of the country folk returning from evening service had passed long ago and even the happy young couples indulging in a Sunday night "after church" flirtation had decorously sought their homes. He looked at his watch by the clear starlight. It was later even than he had thought. No need to avoid passing the Elms, now; they would all be asleep--he might perhaps be able to sleep himself if he knew that no light burned in Esther's window. There was no light in the house anywhere. It stood black in the shadow of its trees. The doctor found himself walking softly. His steps grew slower, paused. Irresistibly the "spirit in his feet" drew him to the closed gate from where he could see the black oblong of her window. "She is asleep," he thought. "Of course she is asleep. Thank God!" Then, on the instant of dropping his eyes from the window, he saw her. She was standing quite near, in the shadow of the elm. "Esther!" The one word leaped from his lips like a cry. "Yes, it is I," she said. She offered no word of explanation nor did any need of one occur to him. Moving from the shadow into the soft starlight she came toward him like the spirit of the night. But when she paused, so close that only the gate divided them, he saw that her eyes were wide and dark with trouble. "I am so glad you came. I wanted to see you. I--I could not sleep." She spoke with the direct simplicity of a child, yet nothing could have shown more plainly that she was a child no longer. All her pretty girlish hesitation, all her happy shyness had passed away on the breath of the great awakening. It was a woman who stood there, pale, remote, with a woman's question in her eyes. The keen shock of the change in her filled Callandar with rebellious joy; it would be pain presently, but, just for the moment, love exulted shamelessly, claiming her own. He tried to answer her but no words came. "You look very tired." She seemed not to notice his silence. "I must not keep you. But there is a question I want to ask. Mother told me to-night that you and she are to be married. Is it true?" How incredible she was, he thought. How perfect in her direct and simple dignity. Yet there had crept into her tone a wistfulness which broke his heart. "Yes. It is true." He could do no less than meet her on her own high ground. "She said," the girl's sweet, remote voice went on, "that you had loved each other all your lives. Is that true, too?" He had hoped that he might be spared the bitterness of this, but since only one answer was possible, "It is true," he said hoarsely, "it is true that we loved each other--long ago." "Long ago--and now?" He was to be spared nothing, it seemed. Her wide eyes searched his face. Lest she should read it too plainly, he bowed his head. Then suddenly, even as she drew back from him, hurt to the heart, some trick of moonlight on his half-hidden face, linked to swift memory, showed her another moonlight night, a canoe, a story told--and in a flash the miracle had happened. Intuition had leaped the gulf of his enforced silence--Esther knew. A great wonder grew in her eyes, an immense relief. "Why," she spoke whisperingly, "I see, I know! She, my mother, is the girl you told me of. The girl you married--" She did not need the confirmation of his miserable eyes. It was all quite plain. With a little broken sigh of understanding, she leaned her head against the gate post and, all child again, began to cry softly behind the shelter of her hands. "Esther!" He could say nothing, do nothing. He dared not even touch the dark, bent head. But we may well pity him as he watched her. The girl's sobbing wore itself out and presently she lifted tear-drenched eyes, like the blue of the sky after rain. Her tragic, unnatural composure had all been wept away. "I understand--now," she faltered. "Before, I didn't. I thought dreadful things. I thought that I--that you--oh, I couldn't bear the things I thought! But it's better now. You did love me--didn't you?" "Before God--yes!" She went on dreamily. "It would have been too terrible if you hadn't--if you had just pretended--had been amusing yourself--been false and base. But I felt all along that you were never that. I knew there must be some explanation and it didn't seem wrong to ask. Instead of pretending that I didn't know all the things you had not time to say. Forgive me for ever doubting that you were brave and good." "Spare me--" She was not yet old enough to understand the tragic appeal. For she leaned nearer, laying her soft hand over his clenched ones. "It is all so very, very sad," she said with quaint simplicity which was part of her, "but not so bad--oh, not nearly so bad as if you had been pretending--or I mistaken. Think!--How terrible to give one's love unworthily or unasked!" "But you do not love me," he burst out, "you cannot! You must not!" Never had he seen her eyes so sweet, so dark. "I do love you. And I honour you above all men." Before he could prevent her, she had stooped--her lips brushed his hand. "Oh, my Dear!"--He had reached the limit of his strength--instant flight alone remained if he would keep the precious flower of her trust. And she, too, was trembling. But in the soft starlight they looked into each other's eyes, and what they saw there helped. Their hands clasped, but in that moment of parting neither thought of self, so both were strong. CHAPTER XXVII Mrs. Sykes thought much about her boarder in those days and, for a wonder, said very little. Gossip as she was, she could, in the service of one she liked, be both wise and reticent. Perhaps she knew that oracles are valued partly for their silences. At any rate her prestige suffered nothing, for the less she said, the more certain Coombe became that she could, if she would, say a great deal. Of course her pretence of seeing nothing unusual in the doctor's engagement was simply absurd. Coombe felt sure that like the pig-baby in "Alice," she only did it "to annoy because she knows it teases." One by one the most expert gossips of the town charged down upon the doctor's landlady and one by one they returned defeated. "True about the doctor and Mary Coombe? Why, yes of course it's true. Land sakes, it's no secret." Mrs. Sykes would look at her visitor in innocent astonishment. "Queer? No. I don't see anything queer about it. Mary Coombe's a nice looking woman, if she is sloppy, and I guess she ain't any older than the doctor, if it comes to that. No, the doctor doesn't say much about it. He ain't a talking man. Sudden? Oh, I don't know. 'Tisn't as if they'd met like strangers. As you say, they _might_ have kept company before. But I never heard of it. I always forget, Mrs. MacTavish, if you take sugar? One spoon or two? As you say, old friends sometimes take up with old friends. But sometimes they don't. My Aunt Susan found her second in a man who used to weed their garden. But it's not safe to judge by that. Ann, hand Mrs. MacTavish this cup, and go tell Bubble Burk that if he doesn't stop aggravating that dog, it'll bite him some day, and nobody sorry." In this manner did Mrs. Sykes hold the fort. Not from her would Coombe hear of those "blue things of the soul" which her quick eye divined behind the quiet front of her favourite. But with the doctor himself she had no reserves, it being one of her many maxims that "what you up and say to a person's face doesn't hurt them any." The doctor was made well aware that her unvarnished opinion of his prospective marriage was at his disposal at any time. "I'm not one as gives advice that ain't asked," declared Mrs. Sykes with sincere self-deception. "But what sensible folks see in Mary Coombe I can't imagine. I may be biased, not having ever liked her from the very first, but being always willing to give her a chance--which I may say she never took. There's a verse in the Bible she reminds me of, 'Unstable as water'--Ann, what tribe was it that the Lord addressed them words to?" "I don't know, Aunt." "There, you see! She doesn't know! That's what happens along of all these Sunday Schools. In my day I'd be spanked and sent to bed if I didn't know every last thing about the tribes." "Ann and I will go and look it up," said the doctor hastily, hoping to escape; "it will be good discipline for both of us." "Land sakes! I'm not blaming you, Doctor. Naturally you haven't got your mind on texts, and I don't blame you about the other thing either. Men are awful easy taken in. My Aunt Susan used to say that the cleverer a man was the more he didn't understand a woman. Dr. Coombe was what you'd call clever, too, but it didn't help him any. Mind you, I'm not criticising, far from it, but I suppose a person may wonder what a man's eyes are for, without offence. No one knows better than you, Doctor, that I'm not an interfering woman and I'd never dream of saying a word against Mary Coombe to the face of her intended husband, but if I did say anything it would have to be the truth and the truth is that a more thorough-paced bit of uselessness I never saw." "Mrs. Sykes," the doctor's voice was dangerously quiet, "am I to understand that you are tired of your boarder?" Mrs. Sykes jumped. "Land, Doctor, don't get ruffled! I'm real sorry if I've hurt your feelings. I didn't mean to say a word when I set out. My tongue just runs away. And naturally you have to stand up for Mrs. Coombe. I see that. That'll be the last you'll hear from me and 'tisn't as if I'd ever turn around and say 'I told you so' afterwards." This was _amende honorable_ and the doctor received it as such; but when he had gone into his office leaving his breakfast almost untouched, Mrs. Sykes shook her head gloomily. "You needn't tell me!" she murmured, oblivious of the fact that no one was telling her anything. "You needn't tell me!" Then, with rare self-reproach, "Perhaps I hadn't ought to have said so much, but such blindness is enough to provoke a saint. If he'd any eyes--couldn't he see Esther?" Mrs. Sykes sighed as she emptied the doctor's untasted cup. More frankly disconsolate, though not so outspoken, were Ann and Bubble. Not only did they dislike the bride elect but they objected to marriage in general. "A honeymoon will put the kibosh on this here practice, sure," moaned Bubble. "Look at me. I'm not thinking of getting married, am I? No, and I'm never going to get married either." "I am," said Ann, "and I'm going to have ten sons and the first one is going to be called 'Henry' after the doctor." "Huh!" said Bubble, "bet you it isn't. Bet you go and call it after its father. They all do." "No chance! Bet you I won't. I wouldn't call it 'Zerubbabel' for anything." For an instant they glared at each other, and then as the awful implication dawned upon Bubble his round face grew crimson and his voice thrilled with just resentment. "Well, if you think you're going to marry me, Miss Ann, you're jolly well mistaken." "Will if I like," said Ann, retiring into her sun-bonnet. Upon the whole, however, their affection for the doctor kept them friendly. Both children felt that something was wrong somewhere. Their idol was not happy. Bubble whispered to Ann of long hours when the doctor sat in his office with an open book before him, a book the pages of which were never turned. Ann told of weary walks when she trotted along by his side, wholly forgotten. Only between themselves did they ever speak of the change in him, and Henry Callandar was well repaid for the careless kindness of his brighter hours by a faithful guardianship, a quick-eyed consideration and a stout line of defence which protected his privacy and ignored his moods without his ever being aware of such a service. Esther he seldom saw. She was remarkably clever, he thought, with a tinge of bitterness, in arranging duties and pleasures which would take her out of his way. It was better so, of course. It was the worst of injustice to feel hurt with her for doing what of all things he would have had her do. But one doesn't reason about these things, one feels. Sometimes he wondered if that midnight interview with her at the gate had ever really taken place--or had it been midsummer madness, too sweet to exist even in memory? Certainly, in the Esther he saw now there was nothing of the Esther of the stars. She wore her mask well. School had closed for the holidays and the summer gaieties of Coombe were in full swing. Esther boated, picnicked, played croquet and tennis. If there was any change in her at all it showed only in a kind of feverish gaiety which seemed to wear her strength. She was certainly thinner. Callandar ventured to suggest to Mary that she was looking far from well. But Mary laughed at the idea. She was very much annoyed with Esther. The girl appeared to care nothing at all for the great event, refused to discuss it, declined absolutely to put herself out in the slightest for the entertainment of her mother's prospective husband, seemed to avoid him in fact. Moreover, she openly expressed her intention of leaving home immediately after the wedding. Mrs. Coombe was afraid people would talk. Of them all, Aunt Amy was the only one who understood. How her poor, unsound brain arrived at the knowledge we cannot say. Perhaps Esther was more careless in her presence, dropping her mask almost as if alone, or perhaps Aunt Amy's strange psychic insight took no note of masks, or perhaps--account for it as you will, Aunt Amy knew! Esther and Dr. Callandar loved each other, and Mary stood between. This latter fact was not at all surprising to Aunt Amy. Was it not the special delight of the mysterious "They" to bring misery to all Aunt Amy loved, and was not Mary their accredited agent? The affair of the ruby ring had proved her that, though no one else must guess it. What would come of it all, Aunt Amy could not tell. Wring her hands as she might she could not see into the future. Often she would mutter a little as she went about her work, or stand still staring, straining into the dark. No one noted any difference in her save Jane, for Jane was as yet happily free to observe. The others, caught up in the whirl of their own destinies, saw nothing save the problems in their own anxious hearts. "Esther," said Jane one evening, "Aunt Amy is odder and odder and you don't seem to care a bit." Esther, who was preparing to go to a garden party, turned back, a little startled. "What do you mean, Jane?" "I don't know. Can't you see that she isn't happy?" "But she is better. She never complains. She almost never fancies things now." "She goes into corners and stares--and she wrings her hands." "But she always did that, duck." Jane was not equal to a more lucid explanation. "It's not the same," she insisted. "I know it isn't. Esther, when you go away, will you take Aunt Amy and me?" "How could I, dear? Your home is here. And you like Dr. Callandar, don't you?" "I used to. But he never plays with the pup any more. He's different. And you're different and mother's different. I don't want to live with mother. That was a fib I told you the other day about the cut on my head. I didn't fall and hurt it. It was mother She threw her clothes brush at me." "Jane!" There was pure horror in her sister's voice. "Yes, she did. I went into her room when she was taking some medicine in a glass and I asked her what it was. Honest, Esther, that is all I did. And she screamed at me--and threw the brush." Esther came back into the room and sat down. "When was this?" in businesslike tones. Jane considered. "It was that day she wasn't down stairs at all, and sent word to Dr. Callandar not to come--three days ago I think." "Yes, I remember. O Janie dear, it looks as if things were going to be bad again! It must have been one of her very bad headaches. She was probably in great pain. Of course she did not mean to throw the brush Are you sure it was medicine she was taking?" "It was something in a glass," vaguely, "she was mixing it--look out, Esther! You are spoiling your new gloves." The girl threw the crumpled gloves aside and drawing the child to her knee kissed her gently. "It seems to me," she said slowly, "that big sister has been losing her eyes lately. She must find them again; it isn't going to help to be a selfish pig." "Help what, Esther?" Esther's only answer was another kiss, but when she had hurried out of the room, Jane found something round and wet upon her hand. CHAPTER XXVIII Jane was still looking at the wet place on her hand when the doctor entered. "Esther's been crying," she told him. In her voice was the awe which children feel at the phenomenon of tears in grown-ups. Callandar felt his heart contract--Esther crying! But he could not question the child. "I don't know why," went on Jane obligingly. "Esther's so strange lately. Every one is strange. You are strange too. Am I strange?" "A little," said Callandar gravely. "Perhaps it's catching? Do you want mother? She is upstairs and her door is locked. Perhaps she'll be down in a little while. She said Esther was to stay in and entertain you, but Esther wouldn't. She has gone to a garden party. I'll entertain you if you like." "That will be very nice." "Shall I play for you on the piano?" "Thanks. And you won't mind if I sit in the corner here and close my eyes, until your mother comes?" "No. You may go quite to sleep if you wish. I'm not sensitive about my playing. Bubble says you are nearly always tired now. He says you have such a 'normous practice that you hardly ever get a wink of sleep. That's what makes you look so kind of hollow-eyed, Bubble says." "So Bubble has been diagnosing my case, has he?" "Oh, he doesn't talk about professional cases usually. He said that about you because Mrs. Atkins said that being engaged didn't seem to agree with you. She said she was just as glad you didn't take a fancy to her Gracie if prospective matteromony made you look like the dead march in Saul." "Observing woman!" "What," resumed Jane, "is a dead march in Saul?" "It is a musical composition." Jane considered this and then dismissed it with a shrug. "It sounded as if it was something horrid. Mrs. Atkins thinks she's smart. Anyway, I didn't tell mother." "Well, suppose you run now and tell her that I am here." "Can't. The door is locked." "Then let us have some of the music you promised. I'll sit here and wait." Strange to say, Jane's music was not unsoothing. She had a smooth, light touch and the little airs she played tinkled sweetly enough from the old piano. The weary, nerve-wrung man was more than half asleep when she grew tired of playing and slipped off to bed without disturbing him. The moments ticked themselves away on the big hall clock. Mrs. Coombe did not come, nor did the doctor waken. He was aroused an hour later by a voice upon the veranda. It was Esther's voice and in response to it he heard a deeper murmur, a man's voice without doubt. There was a moment or two of low-toned talk, then "Good-night," and the girl came in alone. She did not see him as she came slowly across to the table. He thought she looked grave and sad, older too--but, so dear! With a weary gesture she began to pull off her long gloves. "Who was it with you, Esther?" He tried hard to make the inquiry, so devouringly eager, sound carelessly casual. She looked up with a start. "Oh--I didn't see you, Doctor! Mr. Macnair was with me. Did you wish to see him?" She could play at the game of carelessness better than he. "Where is mother?" she added quickly. "In her room, I think. Esther, are you going to marry Macnair?" The girl slipped off her second glove, blew gently into its fingers, smoothed them and laid it with nice care upon the table beside its fellow. "I do not know." He realised with a shock that he had expected an indignant denial. "You do not love him!" "No. Not now. He knows that. And I do not expect ever to love him. But perhaps, after a long while, if I could make him happy--it is so terrible not to be happy," she finished pathetically. Callandar could have groaned aloud; the danger was so clear. And how could he, of all men, warn her. Yet he must try. He came quickly across to where she stood and compelled her gaze to his. "Do not make that mistake, Esther! It is fatal. Try to believe that in spite of--of everything, I am speaking disinterestedly. You are young and the young hate suffering. You would marry him, out of pity. But I tell you that no man's happiness comes to him that way. You will have sacrificed yourself to no purpose. The risk is too awful. Wait. Time is kind. You will know it, some day. But even though you do not believe it now--wait. Wait forever, rather than marry a man to whom you cannot give your heart." "That is your advice?" She spoke heavily. "You would like some day to see me marry a man I could--love?" "Yes, a thousand times yes!" "I shall think over what you say." She was still gravely controlled but it was a control which would not last much longer. She glanced around the empty room with a quick caught breath. "Why are you left all alone?" "Is a keeper necessary?" Then, ashamed of his irritation and willing to end a scene which threatened to make things harder for both of them, he added in his ordinary tone, "I really do not know who is responsible for such unparalleled neglect. Jane played me to sleep, I fancy. She said her mother was upstairs but would be down presently. It must be late. I had better go." "Wait a moment, I will see if there is any message from mother." As she left the room her light scarf slipped from her shoulders and fell softly across his arm. Callandar crushed it passionately to his lips and then, folding it carefully, laid it beside the gloves upon the table. Even the scarf was not for him. Aunt Amy, passing through the hall on her way upstairs, saw the dumb caress and shivered anew at the mysterious power of "They" which could tear such a man as Callandar from the woman he loved. Esther was gone only a moment and when she returned she brought with her a change of atmosphere. Something had banished every trace of self-consciousness from her manner. She looked anxious but it was an anxiety with which no embarrassment mingled. "Doctor," she said at once, "mother seems to be ill. The door is locked and she did not answer my knocking. Yet she is not asleep. I could hear her talking. I think you ought to come up." An indescribable look flitted across the doctor's face. He looked at the girl a moment in measuring silence and then pointed to a chair. "Sit down," he said briefly, "I thought that this would come. I have been afraid of it for some time. Is it possible that you have no suspicion at all in regard to these peculiar--illnesses--of your mother's?" The startled wonder in her eyes was answer enough even without the quick, "What do you mean?" Callandar's face grew gravely compassionate. "I think you ought to know," he said. "I have put off saying anything because I was not absolutely sure myself. And I have never had quite the right opportunity of finding out. But I have had fears for some time now that your mother is in the habit of taking some drug which--well, which is certainly not good for her. Do not look so frightened. It may not be serious. Do you remember when you first consulted me about your mother and how we both agreed that the medicine she was taking for her nervous attacks might be harmful? I was suspicious then, but there was little to go on, only her fear of any one seeing the prescription, and a few general symptoms which might be due to various causes. Since then I--I have noticed things which have made me anxious. I think for her own sake as well as yours and mine, the sooner the truth is known the better. Are you sure the door is locked?" "Yes," the girl's voice was tense, "but the window is open. It opens on the top of the veranda. You could enter there." "If that is the only way, I must take it. I thought, I hoped that if things were as I feared she would tell me herself, but she never has. It is useless, now, to hope for her confidence. The instinct is so strongly for concealment. We must help her in spite of herself." "Hurry then! I shall wait here. You will call me if necessary?" She did not ask him exactly what it was that he feared nor did he tell her, but for the first time in many weeks they were able to look at each other as comrades look. The eruption of the old trouble into the new obscured the latter so that, for the time at least, the sick woman behind the locked door held first place in both their thoughts. It seemed to Esther that she waited a long time before the summons came. Then she heard him call, "Esther!" It was a doctor's call, cool, passionless, commanding. She flew up the stairs, closing Jane's door as she hurried by. The door to her mother's room was open. It was brightly lighted. The shade of the lamp had been removed and its garish yellow fell full upon the bed and the strange figure which lay there. Mary Coombe had apparently thrown herself down fully dressed--but in what a costume! Surely no nightmare held anything more bizarre. Esther had no time to notice details but she remembered afterwards how the feet were clothed in different coloured stockings and that while one displayed a gaily buckled slipper, the other was carefully laced into a tan walking boot. Just now she could see nothing but the face, for the greatest shock was there. It did not look like Mary's face at all--it was strange, old, yellow and repulsive. Her unbrushed, lustreless hair hung about it in a dull mat, one of her hands was clutched in it--the hand was dirty. A terrible thought struck every vestige of colour from Esther's cheek. Her terrified gaze swept over the disordered room, up to the face of the man who stood there so silently, then down again to the inert woman upon the bed. Once, not long ago, she had seen a drunken man asleep upon the roadside grass--like this. "Is it--is it drink?" The words were a whisper of horror. The doctor shook his head. "I wish it were. I wish it were only that. Have you never heard of the drug habit--morphia, opium? That is what we have to fight--and it is what I feared." "Oh!" It was a breath of relief. To Esther, who knew nothing of drugs, or drug habits, the truth seemed less awful than the thing she had imagined. "Is--is it serious?" she asked timidly. The doctor smiled grimly. "You will see. No need to frighten you now. But it will be a fight from this on." He threw a light coverlet over the helpless figure and replacing the shade on the lamp, turned down the flaring wick. "I will tell you what I can, but at present it is very little. Probably this began long ago, before your father's death. In the first place there may have been a prescription--I think you said she had had an illness in which she suffered greatly. The drug, opium in some form probably, may have been given to reduce the pain--and continued after need for it was gone without knowledge of its dangerous qualities. Nervous people form the habit very quickly. Then--I am only guessing--as the amount contained in the original prescription ceased to produce the desired effect, she may have found out what drug it was that her appetite craved. If she saw the danger then, it was already too late. She could not give up voluntarily and was compelled to go on, shutting her eyes to the inevitable consequences, if indeed she ever clearly knew them." "But now that you know? It ought not to be hard to help her now that you know. There are other drugs--" "Yes. There is a frying-pan and a fire. In fact I fear that she has already tried that expedient herself. Some of the symptoms point to cocaine. No, our best hope is in the decreasing dose with proper auxiliary treatment. I cannot tell yet how serious the case may be. At any rate there must be an end of the mystery. Every one in the house must know, even Jane; for in this fight ignorance means danger. But," he hesitated and his face grew dark, "you cannot realise what this is going to mean. It is my burden, not yours. At least I have the right to save you that. We must have a nurse--" A little eager cry burst from her. "Oh, no! Not that! You wouldn't do that. You can't mean not to let me help." "You do not know--" "I do not care what it means. But if you won't let me help, if you shut me out--" Her voice quivered dangerously, but with a spark of her old fire she recovered herself. "You cannot," she added more firmly, "because it is my burden as well as yours. Whatever she is to you, she was my father's wife and I am responsible to him. Unless extra help is really needed, no nurse shall take my place." "Very well," quietly. "Call Aunt Amy, then, and search the room. She will sleep for a long time yet. When she wakes there must be no more of the drug within her reach. I must find out the amount to which she has been accustomed and arrange a decreasing dose. But if you are to be a nurse, you know, you must expect a bad time. It will not be easy." Esther's reply was to call Aunt Amy and while the doctor explained to the bewildered old lady the danger in which her niece stood and the absolute importance of keeping all "medicine" away from her, Esther quietly and swiftly searched the room. Boxes and drawers she unlocked and opened, the dresser, the writing-table, the bureau, the long unused sewing basket, all were examined without success. But in the locked box which contained her father's portrait, she made another discovery which woke a little throb of angry pity in her heart. There, still wrapped in its carelessly torn off postal wrappings, lay the box containing the ruby ring which Jessica Bremner had returned. Mary must have got it from the post herself and had immediately hidden it, careless of the fact that all Esther's careful savings had been necessary to make the return possible. Without comment she slipped the ring into the bosom of her dress. "Have you found anything?" "Nothing yet." Aunt Amy took a fascinated step nearer the figure on the bed. If Callandar could have intercepted the look she cast upon it he might have been warned of the subtle change which had taken place in her of late, but the doctor had turned to help Esther. Aunt Amy could gaze undisturbed. "She looks like Richard," said Aunt Amy suddenly. "Do you remember Richard?" She brushed her hand over her eyes in a painful effort of memory. "He was a bad man, a very bad man." "She means her brother Richard," explained Esther. "He has been dead for ages. I believe he was not a family ornament." "Just like Richard," murmured Aunt Amy again with a quickly checked chuckle. "But you ought to be glad of that. You won't have to marry her now. You can marry Esther." If a shell had burst in the quiet room, it could scarcely have caused more consternation. The doctor's stern face quivered, Esther's searching hand dropped paralysed. Here was a danger indeed! Was their secret really so patent? Or had it been but a vagrant guess of a clouded mind? Callandar recovered himself first. Without glancing at the girl he walked quietly over to the bed and placing his hand upon Aunt Amy's shoulder compelled wavering eyes to his. "Aunt Amy, you must never say that again." He spoke with the crisp incisiveness of a master, but for once his subject did not immediately respond. With a sulky look she tried to wrench herself free. "Why?" she questioned. But Callandar knew his business too well to argue. "You must never say it again," he repeated. "You--must--never--say--it--again!" The poor, weak lips began to quiver. Her own boldness had frightened her quite as much as his vehemence. Her eyes fluttered and fell. "Very well, Doctor," she answered meekly. They searched now in silence and presently Esther emerged from the closet with a pair of dainty slippers in her hand. "I think I have found something," she said. "There are three pairs of party slippers and the toes of them are all stuffed with these." She handed the doctor a package of innocent looking tablets done up in purplish blue paper. Callandar glanced at them, shook them out and counted their number. "You are sure you have them all?" "I can find no trace of more." "Then I think we have a strong fight coming--but a good hope, too." CHAPTER XXIX Miss A. Milligan stood before the door of her select dressmaking parlours, meditatively picking her teeth with a needle. We hasten to observe that her teeth were quite clean and that this was merely a harmless habit denoting intense mental concentration. Miss Milligan was tall and full of figure with an elegant waist and a bust so like a pin-cushion that it fulfilled the duties of that article admirably. Her small bright eyes set in a wide expanse of face suggested nothing so much as currants in an underdone bun, and just now, as she watched the graceful figure of Mrs. Coombe, bride to be, disappear around the corner, they gave the impression of having been poked too far in while the bun was soft. The door of Miss Milligan's select parlours did not open upon the main street, it being far from her desire to attract promiscuous trade. The parlours, indeed, were situated upon one of the "nicest" streets in Coombe and occupied a corner lot, so that a splendid view down two of the most genteel residential streets was obtainable from their windows. The only sign of business anywhere was a board of chaste design over the doorway, bearing the simple legend, "A. MILLIGAN." Even the word "Dressmaker" was considered superfluous. Also there was one window, near the door, which from time to time displayed wonderfully coloured plates of terribly twisting and elegantly elongated females purporting to be the very latest from Paris (_France_). Mrs. Coombe was getting some "things" made at Miss Milligan's. It had been rumoured at first that she had contemplated running down to Toronto and Detroit, buying most of her trousseau there, but for some unexplained reason the plan had been given up. Doctor Callandar, it appeared, believed in patronising local tradesmen and had been sufficiently ungallant to veto the Detroit visit altogether. Everybody wondered why Mary Coombe stood it. Surely it was bad enough when a man sets up to be a domestic tyrant after marriage. They were surprised at Dr. Callandar--they hadn't thought it of him. "It is women like Mary Coombe who submit tamely to such indignities," declared the eldest Miss Sinclair, "who have held back the emancipation of women from the beginning of time." "She looks so poorly, too," agreed Miss Jessie. "I am sure she needs a change. I should think that Esther would insist upon it." But Esther appeared in all things to back up Dr. Callandar. People admitted that they were disappointed in Esther and only hoped that the day would never come when she would be sorry. For if all the world loves a lover, all the world is indulgent to a prospective bride and any one could see that this particular bride was being denied her proper privileges. Any one would think she was a child and not to be trusted alone. Esther went with her everywhere, simply everywhere. Of course it was sweet of Esther to be so attentive, but people didn't wonder that her mother didn't like it. Such were the current comments of the town, sent out somewhat in the nature of feelers, for behind them all, Coombe, having a very sensitive nose for gossip, was uneasily aware that their cleverest investigators were not yet in possession of the root of the matter. Every one seemed to know everything, and yet--no wonder that Miss Milligan picked her teeth in agonies of mental tumult at finding herself sole possessor of a satisfactory explanation which she was bound in honour not to disclose. Mrs. Coombe had just been in. She had been having a "first fitting" and in the privacy of the fitting room she had been perfectly frank with Miss Milligan. She had told Miss Milligan "things." She had told her things which would move a heart of stone, regardless of the fact that Miss Milligan's heart was made of the softest of soft materials and beat warmly under her spiky pin cushion. The fact that her eyes were hard and black had nothing to do with it; mistakes in eyes occur constantly in the best regulated families. At this very moment when her eyes were more like currants than ever she was making up her mind that, come what might, doctors or no doctors, she was not going to see a fellow creature put upon. For, you see, Mrs. Coombe, poor little thing, had confided in Miss Milligan. She had told her all about it, and like most mysteries, it had turned out to be very simple. It seemed that Dr. Callandar, such a perfectly charming man in most respects, had a most absurd prejudice against patent medicines. This prejudice, common to the medical profession on account of patents interfering with profits, was, in Dr. Callandar's case, almost an obsession. Miss Milligan, being a sensible person, knew very well that there are patents _and_ patents. Some of them are frauds, of course, but there are others which are better than any prescription that any doctor ever wrote. Miss Milligan did not speak from hearsay, she had had an extensive experience the results of which lent themselves to conversational effort. Therefore it is easy to see how she understood and sympathised at once when Mrs. Coombe told her of a remedy which she had found to be quite excellent but which the doctor absolutely forbade her to use. "Not that he means to be inconsiderate, dear Miss Milligan, only he is so very sure of his own point of view. Doctors have to be firm of course. But you can see it is rather hard on me. The trouble is that I cannot obtain the remedy I need in Coombe. It is a remedy very little known and useful only in obscure nerve troubles. I have been in the habit of getting it from a certain firm in Detroit, not a very well-known firm, and now, of course, that is impossible--without upsetting the doctor, which I hesitate to do." Miss Milligan was of the opinion that a little upsetting was just what the doctor required. "No--o." The visitor shook her head. She could not bring her mind to it. She would prefer to suffer herself. But did not Miss Milligan think that, in face of such an unreasonable and violent prejudice, a little innocent strategy might be justified? Miss Milligan thought so, very emphatically. Mrs. Coombe sighed. "I do so want to look well for the wedding, you know. And really, nothing seems to help me like my own particular medicine. It is hard, very hard, to be without it." Miss Milligan did not doubt it. It seemed, to her, a perfect shame. But had Mrs. Coombe ever tried "Peebles' Perfect Pick-me-ups" for the nerves? They were certainly very excellent. Yes. Mrs. Coombe had heard of them and no doubt they were very good for some people. But constitutions differ so. On the whole she felt sure that even "Peebles' Perfect Pick-me-ups" would not suit her nearly as well as her own particular remedy. It was at this point that Miss Milligan stopped fitting and began to pick her teeth, a sign, as we have before stated, of great mental activity. If nothing would suit Mrs. Coombe but this one medicine and if the medicine could be obtained in Detroit and if Mrs. Coombe had the correct address--why not write for it? It was a brilliant idea, but Mrs. Coombe shook her head. She had the address, naturally, and she had also thought of writing, but it would be of no use. Esther and the doctor actually watched her mail. "Incredible!" "Oh, not in any offensive way. They did not mean to be tyrannous. They were quite convinced that patent medicines were very injurious. But women suffering from nerves (like yourself, dear Miss Milligan) know that relief is often found in the least likely places and from remedies not mentioned in the Materia Medica." Miss Milligan knew that very well. And people are so hard to convince. When Mrs. Barker, over the hill, had first recommended that new blood-purifier to Miss Milligan, Miss Milligan had laughed. But after taking only six bottles she had thanked Mrs. Barker with tears in her eyes. "And I must say," added she in a burst of virtuous indignation, "that if I were going to Detroit to-morrow I would bring you back all the patent medicine you wanted, Mrs. Coombe, and be very glad to do it." This was most satisfactory save for one small fact, namely that Miss Milligan was not going to Detroit to-morrow. Mrs. Coombe thanked her very much and raised her arm (which shook sadly) while Miss Milligan pinned in the underarm seam. "Even as it is," went on Miss Milligan, "I don't see why--a little higher please, and turn a trifle to the light, thank you!--I don't see why it can't be done. Nobody inspects my mail, thank heaven! and one address is as good to a druggist as another." What a bright idea! Strange that it had never occurred to Mrs. Coombe to arrange things so easily. It was very, very clever and kind of Miss Milligan to think of it. But--people might talk! Think how upset the doctor would be if their innocent little plot were spoken of abroad. People are so unkind, quite horrid in fact. And as Esther and the doctor were doing it all for her good they would naturally hate to have their actions misunderstood. Of course, Mrs. Coombe knew that Miss Milligan herself would never mention it to a soul. She felt quite sure of that, still--as it did not appear how the little plot could be spread abroad under those circumstances unless the lay-figure in the corner should become communicative, Mrs. Coombe's sentence remained plaintively unfinished. Miss Milligan, in spite of its being so very unnecessary, found herself promising solemnly never to mention it. As the whole thing was entirely unpremeditated it seemed like a special piece of good luck that Mrs. Coombe should have at that moment in her pocket a note to the druggists (who were not called druggists, exactly) and that all she needed to do was to add Miss Milligan's address, and hand to that lady sufficient money to secure a postal note as an enclosure. She did this very quickly and the whole little affair was satisfactorily disposed of when Esther was seen coming hurriedly down the street. "I thought," said Esther, who entered a little out of breath and with a worried pucker between her eyes, "I thought that I would just run in and see how the linings look." "You can never tell anything from linings," said Miss Milligan in an injured tone. "Gracious! I don't suppose any one would ever want a dress if they went by the way the linings look. I always advise my customers never to look in the glass until I get to the material, what with seams on the wrong side and all!" "There is really nothing at all to see as yet," assented Mrs. Coombe crossly. Esther seated herself by the open window. "Very well," she said quietly. "I won't look. I'll just wait." Mrs. Coombe shrugged her shoulders and displaced a pin or two. There was an injured look upon her face and Miss Milligan, replacing the pins, wondered how it is that nice girls like Esther Coombe never see when they're not wanted. The fitting went quickly forward. Mrs. Coombe seemed to have lost all her genial expansiveness. Miss Milligan's pins had overflowed from her pin-cushion into her mouth and Esther, who appeared tired, gazed steadily out of the window. Only the humming of the machines in the adjoining workroom and the subdued talk and laughter of Miss Milligan's young ladies saved the silence from becoming oppressive. Occasionally, when her supply of pins became exhausted, Miss Milligan would contribute a cooing murmur to the effect that it did "set beautiful across the shoulders" or that "the long line over the hip was quite elegant." Without doubt the atmosphere had changed with the coming of Esther. Mrs. Coombe became each moment more fidgety, she became, in fact, jerky! Her hands twitched, her head twitched, she could not stand still and suddenly she twitched herself out of Miss Milligan's hands altogether and flinging herself into a chair declared that she couldn't stand any more fitting that day. Even Miss Milligan's black currant eyes could see that her nerves were terribly wrong--she looked ghastly, poor thing! And all on account of a silly prejudice regarding patent medicines. Esther, who exhibited no surprise at her mother's sudden collapse, helped Miss Milligan to unpin the linings. "My mother has been a little longer than usual without her tonic," she calmly explained. "The other fittings can wait," and quickly, yet without flurry, she found Mary's hat, bag, gloves and parasol and picked up her handkerchief which she had flung upon the floor. Mrs. Coombe accepted these services without thanks, indulging indeed in a little spiteful laugh which Miss Milligan obligingly attributed to her poor nerves. Things had come to a pretty pass indeed, thought the sympathetic dressmaker, when a grown woman is obliged to have her medicine chosen for her like a baby. As she stood in the doorway watching the two ladies out of sight, a just indignation grew within the breast so strongly fortified outside, so vulnerable within; and without even waiting to call her giggling young ladies to order, she pinned on her hat and departed to send Mrs. Coombe's postal note to the Detroit druggist, who, oddly enough, was not a druggist at all. CHAPTER XXX Esther and her step-mother set out upon their homeward walk in silence. The older woman's face was drawn and bitter, Esther's thoughtful and sad. Though there seemed no reason for haste, Mrs. Coombe's steps grew constantly quicker until she was hurrying breathlessly. More than once the girl glanced at her anxiously as if about to speak, yet hesitating. Then when the walk threatened to become a run she laid a detaining hand upon her arm. "If you walk so very rapidly, mother, people will notice." It was the only argument which never failed of effect. Mrs. Coombe's steps slackened. "Besides," went on Esther eagerly, "every moment is a gain. Ten minutes more will make this the longest interval yet. Don't you think you could try...." "No!" The word was only a gasp and the face Mary turned for a moment on the girl was livid. The eyes shone with hate. "You--you beast!" she muttered chokingly. Esther turned a shade paler, but otherwise gave no sign that she had heard. "Mother, just try, you are doing so well, so splendidly. The doctor says ..." "Be quiet--be quiet! I hate him. I won't try. I won't be tortured--oh, why can't you all leave me alone!" She began to sob and moan under her breath, careless even of a possible passerby. Fortunately there was no one, and they were already within sight of home. Esther, very white, supported the shaking woman with her arm and they hurried on together. At the door she would still have accompanied her but Mary flung herself angrily from her hold and ran up the stairs with sudden feverish strength. Esther turned into the living room and dropped into the nearest chair. She was still sitting there without having removed either hat or gloves when, a little later, Callandar entered. "Well, nurse," with a faint smile, "how are things to-day?" His quick eye had noticed in a moment the girl's closed eyes and listless attitude, but nothing in his tone betrayed it. "Very well, I think, until a little while ago. We were late in getting home from the dressmaker's--" "I see. You look rather done up. The fact is you are overdoing things. Rather foolish, don't you think?" "No," stubbornly. "I am all right." "You are exhausted and there is no need. Things are going well. The dose is steadily diminishing, more quickly than she suspects. It looks as if we might begin to breathe again. It is a great gain to feel reasonably sure that she has no more of the stuff hidden anywhere. If she had, she would have used it during that last crisis." The girl in the chair winced. She hated even to think of the night to which his words referred. "Yes," she said, "but--but there won't be any more times like that, will there?" "Yes," grimly. "We are not through yet. But every crisis will be a little easier--if things go as they are going." Esther sighed. "It is very terrible, isn't it?" she said. "And really it doesn't seem fair, for it wasn't her fault; in the beginning she didn't know. And she does suffer so." "We must not think of it in that way. It helps more to think of the suffering she is escaping. What she is going through now is saving her, body and soul. It is taking her out of torment and leading her back to life, and sanity. You don't know, but I do, and any struggle, any suffering is mild compared to the horrors before her if she kept on. She was taking some cocaine too. The word means nothing to you, but to a physician it spells hell. So you see--it gives one strength." Esther sat up and straightened her collar. "I'm ashamed of myself," she said. "No wonder you want another nurse. But I won't resign yet. And I wanted to ask you--do you think it is necessary now to be with her whenever she goes out? She hates it so. I think she is getting to hate me, too. Where could she possibly get the stuff? None of our local stores would sell it without a prescription." "I know. But in a case like this you can never be sure of anything. No, we must not relax in the slightest. Even as it is, I am continually afraid." He began to pace the room restlessly. "There may be a weak spot somewhere, some loop-hole we have forgotten. I think the druggists are safe and the mail is watched. That last supply, you are sure it was all destroyed?" "Yes, I burned it. At least I gave it to Aunt Amy to burn. I couldn't leave mother." "Well, let us call Aunt Amy, and make sure. I believe I am foolishly nervous, but--" without finishing his sentence the doctor walked to the door and waited there until Aunt Amy answered his call. "Auntie," said Esther, "you remember the little package I gave you that night when mother was so ill? It was done up in purplish blue paper." "Yes, Esther." "Do you remember what you did with it, dear?" Aunt Amy looked frightened. "I--I don't know. I've a very good memory, Esther. But somehow I'm not quite sure." "You will remember presently," said Callandar kindly. "We want to be quite sure that it was destroyed. You know, I explained to you, that Mary must take no more of that medicine. It is very dangerous...." "What does it do?" unexpectedly. "It is a kind of poison. It makes people very ill, so ill that in time they die." "Mary likes it. She says it makes her nerves better and puts her to sleep." "When did she say that?" "When she asked me if I had any." The doctor and the girl exchanged a quick look. "And you gave her some?" "Oh, no, I couldn't. I had burned it in the stove--I remember now." They both drew a breath of intense relief. But when she had left them, Callandar looked very sober. "There, you see," he said, "was a possibility we had overlooked." "Yes, and it would have been my fault. I should have made sure long ago. It is hard to get out of the habit of taking things for granted." "Yet it is the one thing we must never do. In this we must trust no one, and nothing. Then we shall win. If there is no relapse now, the worst, the slowest part, is over. Soon you will be free, dear girl--and God bless you forever for what you have been to her and to me." She answered him only with a wistful smile and when he had gone, she sighed. She would be free soon, he said. Strange that he could not see that it was her freedom that she dreaded. Hard as it had been, hard as it was, there was a still harder time coming--the time when she would be free--free, to leave forever the man she loved. The present with its load of duty and anxiety, the constant strain of watching, its bearing of poor Mary's thousand ingratitudes seemed dear and desirable when she thought of the black gulf of separation at the end of the tortuous way. But of course he could not guess. How could he? Men are so different from women. She knew, though, that she was coming to the end of her strength. Not even the doctor guessed how great the strain of those past weeks had been. When Mary had awakened to find that her secret was discovered she had been like a mad thing. There had been rage, tears, protestations, hysterical denials--finally confession and anguished promises. That she had never realised the reality of her danger, nor the extent of her servitude was plain. It seemed easy enough to promise. Esther and the doctor were making a terrible fuss about nothing, as usual. She grew sulky under Callandar's warnings and her fury knew no bounds when she found that certain of her hidden stores had been confiscated. She demanded that the supply be left in her hands; was not her promise enough? But all this was before she knew what denial meant, before she realised that the way back along the path she had trodden so easily was thick-set with suffering; that every backward inch must be fought for with agony and tears. Then she had broken down altogether, had raved and pleaded. The very knowledge of the depth to which she had fallen, threatened to send her deeper still. Callandar soon realised that if she were to be saved it must be in spite of herself. There were but two points of strength in her weak nature; one the newly awakened, yet capricious passion for himself, and the other that ruling terror of her life, which of all her inherent safeguards was the last to give way under the assaults of the drug, namely, "What will people say?" but neither of these, nor both of them together, could stand for a moment before the terrible appetite when once its craving was denied. Twice she failed her helpers just when they were beginning to hope. In her first search Esther had not exhausted the hiding places of the poison and, to retain the temptation by her, Mary had lied and lied again. Twice when the crises of her desire had come upon her she had given way, helplessly, completely; and twice they had begun all over again. The third time she had not been able to procure the drug, had been compelled to fight through on the decreasing dose which the doctor had allowed. No wonder Esther shuddered when she thought of that night! Yet at the time she had stood beside the moaning woman, white and firm, when even Callandar had staggered for a moment from the room. Next morning they had taken heart of hope again. Undoubtedly Mary had exhausted the supply, and the possibility of its being replenished seemed remote. It was only a matter of time now; of care, of unremitting, yet gentle vigilance and Mary would be cured. The bride could go to her husband, clean and in her right mind. And Esther would be free. Strangely enough, it was Mary herself who objected to a hastening of their remarriage. Perhaps in spite of her inevitable deterioration there was that in her still which forbade her going to him as she was. Perhaps it was only another and more obscure effect of the drug; some downward instinct which made her dread the putting of herself within the circle of her husband's strength. She would fight her fight outside. Why? Was it because she would conquer of herself, or because she did not really wish to conquer at all? To Esther, Mary's refusal came as a reprieve. But to Callandar it was but a lengthening out of torture. Man's love must always, in its essence, be different from woman's; though many women seem incapable of recognising this fact. To Esther, now that she had put aside her first half-understood glimpse of passion, it was sweet to be near him, to hear his voice, to touch his hand and, above all, to spend her strength in his service. But to him the strain was almost intolerable. The sight of her, the touch of her, the whole soul-shattering nearness of her beauty meant constant conflict; all the fiercer since it must be unsuspected. Willits, the only man who had been told the truth, watched the fight with admiration, sharply touched with anxiety. Expert in the moulding of buttons, he knew very well that Callandar was drawing rather recklessly upon his newly acquired strength. If the tension did not slacken soon there might be another physical breakdown, and then--Willits shrugged his shoulders. It would be entirely too bad if this very fine button were to be spoiled after all. His heart was sore for his friend. "You see," Callandar had written in one of his rare letters, "it was a right instinct which warned me that no man escapes the consequences of his own acts. There did come a short, golden time when I put the voice of instinct behind me and dared to think that I, at least, had shaken myself free. Closing the door of yesterday, I boldly knocked open the door of to-morrow--and lo, to-morrow and yesterday were one! "I know, now, that even had poor Mary been dead, as I believed, the payment would have been exacted in some other way. When my brain is clear enough to think, I have flashes of thankfulness that payment is permitted to take the form of expiation. I can save Mary, and I will. In some strange and rather dreadful way her need is my salvation. "I have said nothing of Esther. How can I? The other day I heard Miss Sinclair say that Esther Coombe was losing all her good looks. 'Thin as a rail, and peeked as a pin' were the words she used. To me she has never been so lovely. She is thinner; there are hollows in her cheeks; her lips are no longer a thread of scarlet. The transparent lids of her deep, wonderful eyes droop often and her hair seems to have lost its life and hangs soft and very close to her face. I love her. I love her as a man loves a woman, as a knight loves his lady, as a Catholic loves the Madonna! This terrible strain must soon be over for her. I am doing all in my power to hurry on the marriage. She is young. She is bound to forget. When she leaves here she goes out of my life--and may God speed her! "She is to go to Toronto. Lorna Sinnet has good friends there and they will take her into their circle. She will begin to taste a fuller life, and as her interests expand the old wound will heal. She will find happiness yet. When Mary recovers, she and I will return to Montreal. I am quite fit now. I feel that I can never work hard enough. Mary will like the excitement of city life, and I rely upon you and Lorna to make our coming as easy as possible. How is Lorna? A talk with her will be a tonic. "Does not all this sound admirably lucid and sensible? I want you to see that I am not losing my hold--that I have finally faced down the problem of the future. And there is one thing that has come to me out of all this, a wonderful thing; I have forgotten Fear. It seems to me that all my life I have lived in fear. Now I am not afraid...." It was when Bubble was entering the post office for the purpose of posting this letter that he met Miss Milligan, coming out. Miss Milligan was evidently in a hurry, so great a hurry that she had not time to question Bubble upon affairs in general as was her usual custom. Instead she asked him to do something for her. It was a trifling service, only to deliver to Mrs. Coombe a small postal packet which she held in her hand. "It will only take you a few moments, Zerubbabel," she said. "I was going to deliver it myself but Mrs. Stanton wants a fitting right away. I ought not to have come down to the post at all. But I promised Mrs. Coombe--does Dr. Callandar permit you to run messages in your spare time?" "Sure," declared the youth, "only I don't get much spare time. The doctor's terrible busy. Since we got the phone in, it's ringing all the time! But I guess I can slip over to Mrs. Coombe's or if I see Jane I can give the parcel to her." "No!" Miss Milligan seemed struck with a sudden hesitancy. "You must not give it to Jane, you must give it to Mrs. Coombe. Dear me, I believe I had better take it myself." Without listening to the boy's polite protests she hurried off again. Bubble gazed after her with relieved astonishment. "Guess it must be something for the wedding," declared he, sapiently. CHAPTER XXXI The next day was the day of the Presbyterian Sunday school picnic. It was bound to be beautiful weather, because it always was. The Presbyterians seemed to have an understanding with Providence to that effect. But Jane, who must have been born a sceptic, was up very early just to see that there was no mistake. There was a hint, just a hint, of autumn in the air. On the window-sill lay a golden leaf. It was the forerunner. The garden lay quiet, brooding; the rising sun shone softly through a yellow haze. Jane shivered deliciously in her thin night gown. It was going to be a perfectly glorious, scrumptious day. She leaned farther out to make sure that the leaves of the small silver maple beneath her window were not turned wrong side up--a sure sign of rain. And as she looked, she noticed a curious thing--the side door was open. Somebody else must be up. If it were Esther, Jane decided that she would call "Boo" very loudly and surprise her; but it was her mother and not Esther who came out of the open door. Jane drew back, watching through the curtains. She thought her mother looked very pretty in her dressing gown with her hair down and her bare feet thrust into pink satin mules. It was a pity, Jane thought, that she wasn't as nice as she looked. And how curiously she was acting. She was actually climbing up the little ladder which led to the bird house by the side of the lawn. Jane knew there was nothing at all in the bird house, for she herself had placed the ladder there the day before. Whatever was she doing? Jane giggled, for one of Mary's slippers had fallen off leaving her foot bare. But she didn't seem to care. She was putting her hand far into the bird house. Jane watched the hand carefully to see what it might bring out. But it came out empty. Mary hurriedly climbed down the ladder, picked up her slipper, glanced quickly around the empty garden and ran back into the house closing the door without a sound. Jane was puzzled. What had her mother hoped to find in the bird house? She crept back into bed, wondering, and just as she was slipping off to sleep, the solution came. "She was hiding something," thought Jane, sleepily, "and when I get up I'll find out what it is." Little things are the levers which move the big things of life. Had it been any other day save the day of the picnic, Jane would certainly have found out what Mary hid in the bird house and many things might have been different. But there was so much to do that morning and Ann and Bubble came over before Jane finished breakfast so that in the delightful hurry of getting ready and packing baskets, she forgot all about it. There was a disappointment, too, at the last moment, for just when they were all ready and the doctor had come with the motor, Mrs. Coombe decided that she really did not feel equal to going and that meant that Esther had to stay behind. Jane showed signs of tears. Ann and Bubble protested volubly. Even the doctor did his best to change Mary's decision. "You really ought to come, Mary," he said, "the drive alone will do you good, and if you get tired of it, I can bring you home early." He looked at her rather anxiously as he spoke but she did not seem ill. She looked better than usual for her eyes were brighter and her face was faintly flushed. "No, I won't come to-day. I'm tired. There is not the slightest need for Esther to stay. I am going to stay in my room with a good book." "Oh, Esther, do come! Oh, Esther, you promised!" Thus Ann and Bubble, while Jane pulled at her frock. Mary looked on with a slightly acid smile. The doctor drew her aside. "Won't you come?" he asked patiently. "You see how disappointed the children are." "Yes, about Esther. And Esther does not need to stay. It's absurd. Are you never going to trust me?" "You know it isn't you that we distrust. It is something stronger than you, or any of us. Mary, be patient, just a little longer. You want to be free, don't you?" She hid the glitter in her eyes, against his coat. "Yes, of course. Only don't ask me to go to-day. It excites me. I want to be quiet." "Very well, and you promise--" "Yes, I'll promise anything. And if Esther stays I'll be decent to her. Though why you bother about her so much, I don't see. She is nothing to you." "She is very much to you," sternly. "Yes--a spy! Oh, well, don't let's quarrel. Be sure to be back early for the supper party to-night. Mr. Macnair and Annabel are invited. You can bring them with you in the motor. It is just as well Esther isn't going. There'll be lots of little things to attend to." "That's settled then." Knowing that further persuasion was useless, he kissed her and turned to quiet the eager children. * * * * * Almost she held her breath as she watched him go. Her small hands twisted, a pulse beat visibly in her temple, her lips worked, she shook from head to foot. Nevertheless she stood there, controlling herself, until the motor horn had honked its farewell to a chorus of children's laughter. Then, as one released from some desperate strain, she turned and fled to her room.... "Mother!" Esther came in slowly, unpinning her hat. There was no answer to her call. But she had not expected any. In her sulky moods Mrs. Coombe often went for days without speaking to her step-daughter. When the girl saw that she had gone to her room she was rather relieved than otherwise; it meant at least a peaceful afternoon. Mary, in her room, was considered safe and all that Esther need do was to be ready in order to accompany her if she decided to go out. She was not disappointed at missing the picnic. It was getting rather hard to be gay. And it would be nice to have everything ready when the party returned. It was a quietly beautiful afternoon and as the girl went about her simple tasks she was not unhappy. Already she was learning the great lesson which many more fortunate lovers miss, that the rarest fragrance of love lies in its bestowal. That is why love is of all things most securely ours. Once she called up to the blowing curtains of Mrs. Coombe's window. "Mother, won't you come and help me with the flowers?" But no hand pushed the curtain aside, nor did she receive any answer. Perhaps Mary was really asleep. In that case she was sure to be amiable at supper time. Everything was daintily ready and Esther had had time to slip on her prettiest frock when the "honk" of the returning motor brought a faint colour into her pale cheeks. "Dear me, you've got quite a colour, Esther," said Miss Annabel Macnair in a slightly injured voice. She had come intending to tell Esther how badly she was looking and to recommend a tonic. "I don't see why you didn't come to the picnic." "Oh, Esther," Jane's plain little face was radiant, "you missed it! It was the nicest picnic yet. I won one race and Bubble won another, and Ann won't speak to either of us. She says she hates her aunt because she'd have won a race too if she hadn't had so much starch in her petticoats. But Mrs. Sykes says she wouldn't be a mite surprised if Ann has a bad heart--not a wicked heart, just a bad one, the kind that makes you drop down dead. Some of Ann's folks died of bad hearts, Mrs. Sykes says. But the doctor says it's all nonsense. He agreed with Ann that it wasn't anything but petticoats--Oh, say! how pretty the table looks. Did mother say you could use the best china?" "Seeing that it's Esther's china on her own mother's side, I guess she can use it if she likes," said Aunt Amy, mildly belligerent. "I thought you might want to set the table before we got home, Esther, and I was so afraid you might forget and use the sprigged tea set. But the doctor said you'd be sure not to." "That's one of her queer notions, I suppose?" said Miss Annabel in a stage whisper plainly heard by every one. "How odd! Can you come upstairs with me, Esther? I want to speak to you most particularly and I haven't seen you for ages. "Not that I haven't tried," she continued in her jerky way as they went up the stairs together; "but you seem to be always with your mother. Going to lose her soon. Natural enough. I said to Mrs. Miller, 'There's real devotion.' Possible to overdo it though. Marriage is terribly trying. For relatives. But long engagements are worse. How was it you didn't get to the picnic?" Esther murmured that she hadn't quite felt like going to the picnic. "Well, you didn't miss much. Even Angus wasn't as cheerful as usual. Inclined to be moody. And that brings me to what I wanted to tell you. Remember that last time you had lunch with us?" "Yes." "Remember me saying that I never ask questions, but that I always find out? Well--I have." "Have what?" asked Esther, who had not been following. "Found out. Found out what is the matter with my brother. Exactly what I thought. He is the victim of an unhappy attachment. Unreciprocated!" "But--" "You remember you laughed at me, Esther. Suggested liver. And when I mentioned your mother you almost convinced me that I was wrong. Although I am never wrong. It _is_ your mother, Esther. My poor brother, brokenhearted, quite--utterly!" This was so amazing that Esther waited for more. "I suppose he felt certain of her until Dr. Callandar stepped in. Could hardly believe it. When I told him of your mother's reputed engagement he was not in the least disturbed. Said 'Pshaw!' Couldn't imagine such a possibility. I said, 'I assure you it is the truth, Angus,' and he merely remarked, 'Well, what if it is?' in a most matter of fact way. Quite calm!" "And you think--" "My dear, I am sure. All put on. To deceive me. Although I never am deceived. So I waited. And then one night last week I happened to get home from a business session of the Ladies' Aid, early. I went in quietly. Angus was in his study, without a light, but the door was a little bit open, and I could hear his voice quite plainly. He was praying--" "Oh, please--" "My dear, I couldn't help hearing. I didn't listen. I was rooted to the spot. Positively! He--" "You must not tell me, Miss Annabel, I won't listen." "Very well, my dear. Perhaps you are right. Couldn't tell you his very words anyway. I cannot remember them. He was very eloquent, terribly worked up! And he was praying for Her. That's what he called your mother, just Her. It sounded almost--almost popish, you know! Then suddenly he stopped as if something had cut him off--sharp. There was a silence. So long I began to be frightened and then he cried out loud, 'Not for me! Not for me!' It was dreadful! But it proves my point, I think. Why, my dear, whatever is the matter?" Esther, leaning against the window frame, was sobbing weakly. "Dear me! I had no idea you would feel it so badly. Take a sip of water--do!" Esther struggled to regain her self-control. "It seems so--sad," she faltered. "Yes, of course. It is sad. And I have great sympathy with my poor brother," went on Miss Annabel pinning down her hair net. "But do you know, I sometimes think," she hesitated and a slow blush arose in her middle-aged cheek, "I sometimes think that people in love aren't to be pitied after all. Though it is hardly a thought to express to a young girl like you. "You know," she went on awkwardly as Esther still made no remark, "they feel a great deal, of course, but it must be so very _interesting_. A little cold cream for my nose, Esther. If I leave it until I get home I shall certainly peel." Esther provided the cream and a powder puff. She felt sick at heart. Her calmer world of the afternoon burst like a bubble leaving only a tear behind. The vision of Angus Macnair in the dark study reaching out frantic hands for the thing he knew could never be his, seemed a last touch of unendurable irony. Surely some one, somewhere, must be moved to dreadful mirth at these blunders of the fates. From the echo of such laughter commonplace was the only refuge. Esther bathed her eyes and called to Jane to let her mother know that supper was ready. The sounds of the child's cheerful tattoos upon Mrs. Coombe's door accompanied them down the stairs, but when they had waited a few minutes, Jane came quietly into the room alone. "Mother doesn't answer me, Esther." Miss Annabel looked surprised, then curious. Esther felt her face flame. It was really too bad of Mary to make things so much harder than she need. Her refusal to answer could only mean that she had determined to be thoroughly disagreeable; and with company in the house. But her annoyance was abruptly checked by the effect of the news upon the doctor. It was not annoyance she read in his eyes. It was dismay. With a murmured sentence, which may or may not have been excuse, he turned from the room. "I am so sorry," explained Esther smoothly. "Mother is not at all well, one of her old headaches. The doctor has gone up to see if he can be of any use." Miss Annabel shook her head gloomily. "Mark my words," she said, "your mother ought to take those headaches of hers more seriously. A headache seems a little thing, but I know of a case--" With Esther's sympathetic encouragement the good lady launched upon a recital of melancholy happenings more or less connected with headaches which occupied her attention very pleasantly and prevented any one else from saying anything until the return of the awaited guest. He came in looking as usual and bearing an apology from the hostess for her sudden indisposition. "Nothing at all serious," he added lightly. "It is possible that she may join us later." But it was noticeable that as he spoke he did not look at Esther nor could her anxious glance read the impassive sternness of his face. It was not a successful meal. In spite of the pretty table, the dainty food, the well kept up fire of conversation, the beautiful evening out of doors, the softly shaded light inside, from first to last the supper was a nightmare. Of what avail the careful pretence that nothing was wrong? A very miasma of dread enveloped that table, a thing so palpable that Miss Annabel found herself starting at a sound, the minister's ready tongue faltered on a favourite phrase, Esther's clear voice grew blurred, Aunt Amy wrung her hands, Jane's eyes were wide with unchildlike care. Only Callandar seemed undisturbed, courteous, interested. It was a relief to them all when after an uncomfortable half-hour with coffee on the veranda the minister suddenly remembered a forgotten committee meeting and hurried Miss Annabel away with half her parting words unspoken. The doctor, still courteous and interested, walked down with them to the gate. He would wait, he said, a little longer to see how Mrs. Coombe found herself. Esther carried off a subdued and silent Jane to bed. "Esther," whispered Jane as her sister bent to kiss her, "why do lovely, lovely days always end so badly?" "They don't, Janie." The child sighed. "Mine do. I never had a perfect day in all my life." "You will have. Every one has perfect days--sometime." "Have you, Esther?" "Yes, dear." Jane looked up sleepily. "Perhaps mine will come to-morrow!" Esther went slowly down stairs and out into the garden. Callandar was coming up the path from the gate. He walked slowly. When they met, he no longer avoided her glance. "Well?" She had no need to ask. Yet she did ask, falteringly. "We have failed," he said briefly. The quiet hopelessness of his voice left no room for argument. Esther opened her lips to protest, but found nothing to say. "She has outwitted us," he went on. "How? who can say? They have the cunning of the devil! There is only one thing to do now. Only one way--" "You mean?--" "The wedding must take place at once. I suppose the farce is really necessary. But there must be no more delay. Only the unsparing use of a husband's authority can save her now. I shall take her away. I must be with her day and night. In France there is a place I know, beautiful, isolated. I shall take her there. If all else fails there is the treatment of hypnotic suggestion. But--I shall not fail, I dare not!" Blindly she put out her hand--he clasped it gently--yet not as if he knew whose hand it was. Then, laying it aside, he passed by, and, leaving her sobbing in the dusk, went on into the house and up the stairs to the closed room. CHAPTER XXXII It became quickly known in Coombe that, owing to Mrs. Coombe's delicate health, the wedding would take place much sooner than had been expected. A sea voyage, it was conceded, was the necessary thing and as Dr. Callandar would not allow his fiancée to go away alone it seemed only fair that he should make haste to go with her. Comment on all these points was much more restrained than usual because, just at this time, Coombe withstood the shock of finding out that Dr. Callandar was no less than Dr. Henry Chedridge Callandar of Montreal. No, not his brother, nor his cousin, but the man himself! Of course Coombe had suspected this all along. Never for a moment had it been really deceived. Over and over again it had said: "My dear, that young man is not a mere local practitioner, mark my words!" From the first, Coombe had observed the marks of true distinction in him. He was so odd! He seemed to care nothing at all for appearances, and, as everybody knows, this comfortable attitude of mind is the privilege of the famous few. Besides, there was the matter of the marriage. Coombe had been right in thinking that Mary Coombe had not gone into the matter blindfold. She had known very well upon which side her bread was buttered, and as to her giving way to his whims in the absurd way she did--that, too, was understandable under the circumstances. What puzzled Coombe, now, was how she had managed it. She was not pretty, at least not very pretty. She was not young, at least only comparatively young. And goodness knows, she was not clever! Hardly a mother in Coombe but had at least one daughter prettier, younger and cleverer; a daughter, in fact, who could give Mary Coombe aces and kings and still win out. Why had the doctor not been attached to one of these? It was incomprehensible. Even if, through a misplaced devotion to his profession, he had determined to marry into a doctor's family--there was Esther! Esther Coombe was a fine girl and quite nice looking before she had begun to "go off." Even as it was she had more to recommend her than her step-mother. There seemed to be a general impression that all men are fools. "If they would only let some woman with sense choose their wives for them," declared the eldest Miss Sinclair in a burst of confidence, "they might get along fairly well. But if ever a man gets married to the right woman, it happens by accident." Nevertheless, at a special meeting of the Ladies' Aid, called for the purpose, it was decided to give the bride a present. They had not intended to do it for fear of establishing a precedent. But when it came out who Dr. Callandar was, it hardly seemed right to let one of their best known members go from them to a more exalted sphere in a city (which many of them might, from time to time, feel inclined to visit) without showing her by some small token how very highly she was held in their regard. Every one could see the sense of this and the vote was unanimous. In regard to the nature of the gift there was more diversity of opinion, but it was finally decided that, as the value of this kind of thing lies not in the gift but in the spirit of the giving, a brown jar with the word "Biscuits" in silver lettering would do very well. Carving knives were thought of but as Mrs. Atkins very fitly said, "Everybody is sure to give carving knives"--a phenomenon which all the ladies accepted as a commonplace. Of the prospective bride herself, Coombe saw little. She remained very much at home. She had lost much of her spasmodic energy, was inclined to be moody and even rude. Her state of health accounted naturally for this and also for the arrival of a new inmate at the Elms, a cool and capable looking person who was discovered, after much amazed enquiry, to be a trained nurse. Not a hospital nurse exactly but a kind of special nurse whose duties included massage, and the giving of certain baths and things which the doctor thought strengthening. Her name was Miss Philps. Coombe never got behind that. No one could ever boast that she knew more of Miss Philps than her name. She was, and remains to this day, a mystery. There are people like that, although this was Coombe's first experience of one. Miss Philps was not a recluse. Everywhere Mrs. Coombe went, Miss Philps went too. Even Esther was not more assiduous in her attentions. She was not a silent person either, far from it. She bubbled over with precise and cheerful comment, she appeared to talk even more than was absolutely necessary and it was only upon her departure that her entertainers noticed that she had said nothing at all. A very baffling person to deal with. Coombe could not manage to "take to" her at all and great sympathy was felt for Mrs. Coombe when she was reported to have said to Miss Milligan that going out with Miss Philps felt exactly like a jail delivery--whatever that might be! But if Miss Philps was not appreciated at large it was different in her own immediate circle. She had not been at the Elms a day before Esther recognised the doctor's wisdom in getting her. She was discreet, capable, kindly. The burden upon the girl's shoulders grew momentarily lighter. Miss Philps, with her matter of fact cheeriness, her strength and her experience, was exactly what that house of overstrained nerves needed. "Dear me," she said, "you're all as fidgety as corn in a popper. And no need for it. I've nursed dozens worse than your mother, Miss Esther, and had them right as a trivet before I got through. As long as we can keep her hands off the stuff--and that's what I'm here for. So don't worry!" Esther drew a deep breath. It was certainly good to feel the strain lifting, to have time for dreams again. The time was so pitifully short now. Two more weeks and she would leave Coombe behind her. The old life would be definitely over and done with. Looking back, she could see that it had been a happy life, and the future looked so dark. In youth, all life's happenings seem so terribly final. Every parting feels like a parting forever. Esther felt quite sure that she would never return to Coombe. In the week before the wedding, freed from her continual attendance upon her mother, she unobtrusively paid farewell to all her old haunts and favourite places. It was a sweet sadness. She did not taste the sweet, but it was there. As one grows older, one does not linger over sad moments. It is because the sweet has vanished, only the bitter remains. But in untried youth sadness has a touch of beauty, a glamour of romance which shrouds its deepest pain. It is as if something within us, infinitely wise, were smiling, knowing well that for the young there is always to-morrow. The maple by the schoolhouse turned early that year. When Esther, in her pilgrimage, came to say good-bye it welcomed her with all the glory of autumn. Against its greener brothers it stood out, naming, defiant. Beside it, the red pump seemed no longer red. Red and yellow, its falling leaves tossed themselves into the girl's lap as she sat upon the porch steps. It is almost certain that, as Esther gathered them, she compared her sad heart to a leaf which had fluttered from the tree of happy life. There seemed no outlook for her. She could not see through winter into spring. The school children with their new teacher (whom Esther could not help but feel was sadly incompetent) had all gone home and it was very quiet on the porch steps. She closed her eyes and dreamed and clearly through her dream she heard, as she had heard that first morning in early summer, a determinedly cheerful, yet husky, voice singing. Some one was coming down the hill. "From Wimbleton to Wombleton is fifteen miles; From Wombleton to Wimbleton is fifteen miles; From Wimbleton to Wombleton, from Wombleton to Wimbleton, From Wimbleton to Wombleton,--" The song trailed off into silence as it had done before. The girl's closed eyes smarted with tears--"Oh, it is a very long way!" she murmured, and burying her face in fallen leaves she felt that at last she knew the meaning of despair. But though his voice had echoed through Esther's dream, Callandar was not on the long hill nor anywhere near it. Unlike Esther, he paid no farewells during these last days. He avoided the hill particularly and drove past the schoolhouse seldom and always at top speed. If the sight of the turning maples moved him at all it was not because he compared his lost happiness to a fallen leaf. Callandar was long past such gentle sadnesses as these. Every day he filled as full of work as possible. He walked far and hard in hope of tiring himself into dreamless sleep at night. And every day his face grew older, greyer, more sternly set. At the very last, and as if inspired by some special imp of the perverse, Mary declared that she must have a church wedding. Opposition was useless. With all the distorted force of her drug-ridden brain, she desired this one thing. She wept, she coaxed, she raved. Every woman, she stormed, had a right to a proper wedding. She had always been cheated, she had been a pawn shoved about at the bidding of others, her own wishes never consulted. Was there any reason, any reason at all, why she should not be properly married in the church? He ventured quietly to remind her that there were peculiar circumstances in the case. But she burst out at that. He was ashamed of her. Ashamed of his own wife. If there were peculiar circumstances whose fault were they? Not hers, surely? Would she be where she was now if he had not neglected her all those years? Anyway, peculiar circumstances or not, she would be married decently or she would not be married at all. With set lips, the doctor gave in. Opposition maddened her, and, after all, one farce more or less could not matter much. "Very well," he said, "make your own arrangements." Immediately, Mary became amiable. She was quite polite to Miss Philps, almost pleasant to Esther. Into the preparations for the wedding she entered with some of her old spasmodic energy. The occasion, she determined, should be a talked of one in Coombe. She made plans, a fresh one every day, and talked of them continually. Only--there was one plan of which she did not speak. There was one unsaid thing which matured quietly, covered by the noise of much talking. Yet this plan more than any other would have to do with the success of her last appearance in Coombe. It would be foolish indeed, she decided, to let any promise, however well-meant, stand in the way of this success. She could not, and would not, face a crowded church feeling as she felt now. That was absurd! She would need some little stimulant to help her carry it off. A very slightly increased dose would do it. Only sufficient to banish that horrible craving, to give her a long, satisfying sleep and then just a touch more, very little, to brace her in the morning. Enough to send warm tingling thrills of well being through her tired body, to brighten her eyes, to clear her brain and steady her shaking nerves--to make her young again, young and a bride. Only this once! Never again. Of what use to continue the sophistries which justified her treachery to herself! Perhaps of the three it was she who suffered most during that last week. She lived in an agony of anticipation, a hell of desire for which a sane pen has no description. Yet no one must suspect that she anticipated or desired anything--not the cool-eyed Miss Philps, not Esther, not the doctor, not even Jane. The mask must not slip for one single moment. So far, they suspected nothing; but they were always on their guard, always. A careless look, an unconsidered movement might betray her, and then--! She raved in her room sometimes when she thought of a possible balking of her purpose. She was very clever. She still had self-control when it was necessary to have it in the furtherance of the one devouring passion. Only when she was quite alone did she ever give way. The doctor thought her wonderfully docile and took heart of hope. A month or two alone with her in Prance and all would be well. In the meantime, patience! Naturally she was full of childish whims. He smiled at her indulgently when she asked him to request Miss Philps to stay outside of the fitting room at Miss Milligan's. "For you know," she said, "it is bad luck, very bad luck, for any person to see one, in one's wedding gown before the proper time. And anyway," the grey eyes filled with easy tears, "I'm sure it isn't good for me never to be trusted, not even with silly Miss Milligan." The plea seemed genuine. It was like Mary to be concerned about the wedding-dress superstition. And what possible danger could there be? Miss Milligan in all probability had never heard the fatal names of opium and cocaine save as unpleasant things associated with Chinese and tooth-drawing. It was absurd to imagine Mary coming to harm there. From this you will see that, upon the occasion of the last discovery, Mary had lied desperately and well. The "cache" in the bird-house had been found, but Miss Milligan's name had never been connected in the most remote way with that relapse. Mary had sworn that the new supply had not been new at all but had formed part of an old cache which she had hidden, in a place which even she had forgotten, all quite accidentally. And although many supplementary enquiries were made, the real truth had remained undiscovered. So in the simplest way in the world, Mary secured several uninterrupted "fittings" with Miss Milligan while the excellent Miss Philps sat without and waited. "This is positively the last time I shall have to trouble you, dear Miss Milligan," said her customer sweetly. "Of course, as soon as we are married, I am going to tell Dr. Callandar all about it and when he sees how very much better my medicine has made me, he will be quite ready to withdraw his objections. In the meantime I am sure you feel, as I do, that our little ruse has been quite justifiable!" Miss Milligan did. She felt quite proud of her part in it. It is something to help a fellow woman and still more to get the better of a fellow man. Especially such a celebrated man as Dr. Callandar! She would order the fresh supply at once, that very afternoon, by the first mail. And as soon as the packet came she would see that Mrs. Coombe had it in person. "There is certain to be a few last touches necessary to the dress after it has been sent home," she remarked with a smile of truly Machiavellian subtlety. "Yes!" said Mary. "That night--after the dress comes home!" She spoke sharply, unnaturally. Her face turned a dull, pasty white. She shook so that Miss Milligan was thoroughly frightened. But presently she controlled herself and forced a pathetic smile. "You see, dear Miss Milligan, how much I need it." "Indeed a blind bat could see that!" said the dressmaker pityingly. "Shall I call the nurse?" But Mrs. Coombe would not hear of Miss Milligan calling the nurse! CHAPTER XXXIII It is the onlooker who sees most of the game and Aunt Amy was an ideal onlooker. Always self-effacing and silent, she was now more silent and self-effacing still. Consequently the principal actors tended to forget their parts when in her presence. No one explained anything to Aunt Amy but no one concealed anything from her. She simply "didn't matter." So far as the playing out of the little drama was concerned, Aunt Amy was supposed to be safely off the stage. She looked and listened, had her strange flashes of psychic insight and came to her own conclusions about it all, quite undisturbed by facts as they appeared to others. Her conclusions were very simple. Esther loved the doctor. The doctor loved Esther. That, in spite of this, Callandar was deliberately planning to marry Mary she considered a purely arbitrary matter arranged by those mysteriously malignant powers known as "They." Callandar, himself, had clearly no choice, Esther was helpless, and Mary triumphed easily and inevitably because Mary was one of "Them" herself. Aunt Amy had become firmly convinced of this latter fact. Everything went to prove it--the theft of the ring, the threat to shut her (Amy) up, the easy triumph over Esther, and a thousand and one trifles all "confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ." Of course it would be impossible to make this clear to Esther or the doctor. Amy realised that and did not try. But in her own mind she thought of it continually. And her little pile of proof mounted higher day by day. Esther, absorbed in the care of her step-mother, was not even aware that Aunt Amy noticed her growing listlessness, her heavy eyes, her fits of brooding. She did not know that a silent foot paused before her closed door, listening. All she knew was that it was relief unspeakable to be with Aunt Amy, to let drop the mask of cheerful energy without fear of questioning or of wonder. Aunt Amy didn't matter. Mary, too, felt that it was needless to hoodwink Amy. No need to pretend with her. She might show herself as irritable, as conscienceless, as nerve-racked and disagreeable as she chose without fear of displaying "symptoms." Aunt Amy was not looking for symptoms, indeed Mary thought she grew more stupid daily. After her marriage something would really have to be done about Amy. She hoped the doctor wouldn't be silly about it. Even Dr. Callandar was not careful to hide his burden from those faded eyes. He was more self-conscious even with Ann or Bubble than he was with her. What matter if she did see his mouth harden or his eyes burn?--Poor Aunt Amy, such things could have no meaning for her. She was a soul apart. A soul apart indeed, how far apart none of them quite realised; yet near enough to love--and hate. As the days went by and Esther drooped like a graceful plant athirst for water there grew in Aunt Amy's twisted brain a slow corroding anger. The timid, bitter anger of a weak nature which is often more deadly than the lordly passion of the strong. If she could only do something. If she could only outwit "Them"! She would do anything at all, if she could only find the thing to do. It was terrible to be so helpless. It was maddening to have to be so careful. Yet careful she must be, she never forgot that. Often as she went about the house or stood in the sunny kitchen rolling out her flaky pie-crust, she pondered over ways and means. But none seemed suitable. Some of her plans were fantastic to a degree, but she always had sense enough to reject them in the end. In her planning she was conscious of no sense of right or wrong but only of suitability. There could be no question of right or wrong in dealing with "Them." They were outside the pale. No. What she wanted was something simple and effective. A little poison, now--in a pie? But Amy knew nothing of poison, nor how to obtain any, nor how to use it effectively in a pie when once obtained. She might consult the doctor perhaps? But something warned Aunt Amy that the doctor would not take kindly to the idea of a little poison in a pie. So this beautiful scheme had to be given up. She sighed. "What a big sigh, Auntie!" Esther, who was sitting at the table peeling apples, looked up questioningly. "A penny for your thoughts." A look of cunning came over Aunt Amy's face. And instead of speaking her real thoughts she said, "I was thinking of weddings, Esther." "But why the sigh?" "I don't like weddings. Once there was a young girl going to be married. She was very happy. She was so happy that she was afraid to look at her own face in the glass. And it was eleven o'clock on Tuesday. I mean she was waiting for eleven o'clock on Tuesday. She was to be married then. But just one minute before the time, something happened--the clock stopped, I think. Anyway eleven o'clock on Tuesday never came. So she could not get married. And she grew old and her flowers fell to pieces. It was very sad." "Poor Auntie!" Aunt Amy moved uneasily. "Do you know who the girl was, Esther?" "Don't you know, Auntie?" "No, that is, I am never sure. Sometimes I think I used to know her. But she's gone. I never see her now. I'd like to find her if I could." "You will find her some day, Auntie. Try not to fret about it." It was seldom indeed that Aunt Amy spoke even thus vaguely of that other self of hers which she had lost in the tragedy of her youth. Esther's heart was full of pity as she listened. What was her own trouble compared to this? She at least would have her memories. "There is just one chance," went on Aunt Amy, now gently excited. She had never spoken of this chance before but she felt that Esther might like to hear of it. "Just one chance! You see, the world being round--the world is round, isn't it, Esther?" "Yes." "Well, the world being round there is a chance that, if she waits long enough, eleven o'clock on Tuesday may come around again. Then if she is ready and if she has the ring he gave her, the red ring, and if they are both very quick they may be married after all." "Oh, Aunt Amy, _dear_! That is why you love the ruby ring?" But the old lady's memory was clouding again. She looked bewildered and would say no more. Esther kissed her with new tenderness. "I am so glad you have it safely back," she whispered. "You need never be afraid of losing it again." Aunt Amy found it hard to make the pies that morning. She was enveloped in a deep sadness, a sadness which in some misunderstood way seemed inseparable from the idea of that lost friend of hers, the girl-bride whose marriage hour had never struck. It seemed to Aunt Amy that the girl had been waiting a very long time and was tired. Even if the world were round, it was a very big world and eleven o'clock on Tuesday took a wearisome time to travel around it. She could not understand why she should feel so terribly sorry for the waiting girl, but she did. A hot tear fell into the pie-crust. That would never do! The pie-maker furtively dried her eyes and came back to the consideration of more immediate problems. It may seem strange that no one noticed the morbid state of Aunt Amy at this time. But it would have been more strange if any one had noticed it. Of outward signs there were practically none. Even the silent hand-wringing had ceased. She ceased to rebuke Jane for stepping upon the third stair; she ceased to talk of the peculiarities inherent in sprigged china. She was more and more careful not to mention "Them," and, as always, her housekeeping was a wonder and a delight. She even offered to make Mary's wedding-cake. An offer which Mary received graciously. No one could make fruit cake like Aunt Amy and if it proved too big for the house oven the baker could bake it in his. Jane was delighted. She told Bubble that it was to be a "hugeous" cake, the like of which was never seen in Coombe and she defied Ann to produce any relative or ancestor whatever whose wedding-cake had even faintly approached such dimensions. Ann retorted that big wedding-cakes were vulgar and that her Aunt Sykes did not think it proper for a widow woman to have a wedding-cake at all. The making of the cake was a great mental help to Aunt Amy. It seemed to ease her mind and aid her to think clearly. She thought of many things as she prepared the materials, made most clever plans. That all the plans had to do with the preventing of the marriage and the final circumventing of "Them" goes without saying. There was one especially good plan which came to her while she stoned the raisins. Still another, while the currants were being looked over, and a third, more brilliant than either, while she chopped the candied peel. The trouble was that when she came to mix all her ingredients into the batter, her plans began to mix up too, until all was hopeless confusion. It was most disheartening! And the wedding, now, only a few days off. She wanted to go away into a corner and wring her hands, but if she did, some one might notice--and then "They" would have the chance they were looking for. Aunt Amy was too clever for that! CHAPTER XXXIV The day before the wedding, the wedding dress came home. No one had seen it. Mary's superstition in regard to this point was indulgently smiled at by everybody. "But hadn't I better see it on you just once," suggested Esther. "Some trifle may have been forgotten and a missing hook and eye might spoil the effect of the whole thing." "Oh, I have thought of that. Miss Milligan is going to run in after supper to see that everything is right. Then if anything is needed she can attend to it at once. Of course, it doesn't matter about Miss Milligan seeing it--for bad luck I mean." "How about me?" asked Callandar, smiling. "You!" with a playful shriek, "you would be worse than anybody. You would hoodoo it entirely!" "How about little girls?" asked Jane coaxingly. Mary turned suddenly peevish. "Don't bother me, Jane. I shall not let any one see it and that's enough." But their combined suggestions had disturbed her, and it was only upon their serious assurance that of course her wishes would be respected that her amiability returned. Yet it was apparent that she felt rather worried about the dress herself for she had worked herself into a small fever of nervous anxiety before the promised appearance of Miss Milligan for the last fitting. When at last that lady arrived, a trifle late, and very much out of breath, Mary would hardly let her say good evening to the others, before hurrying her upstairs. "And I think," said she hesitatingly, "that I shan't come down again to-night. I am tired. If the doctor calls in, tell him that I am trying to get a good rest for to-morrow. Good night, Miss Philps. Good night, Esther!" To the girl's astonishment she kissed her. A light, hot kiss which fell on her cheek like a fleck of glowing ash. Yet it was a real kiss and may have meant that the giver was not ungrateful. Jane, too, had a good night kiss that night; but Aunt Amy had already gone upstairs. * * * * * "Well?" They were safely in the upstairs room now and the door was closed. "I've got it. It came on the afternoon mail. I went down to the post office specially. I knew you kind of counted on it for to-morrow." With the glee of a child playing conspirator Miss Milligan dived into the recesses of the reticule she carried. "Here it is. No, that's peppermints. But it's here somewhere--" "Oh, hurry!" Mary almost snatched the packet from the friendly hand. At sight of it she turned deathly white and began to shake as she had shaken that day in the fitting-room. But this time she recovered quickly, almost before Miss Milligan had noticed it. "Thank you so much," she said. With the last effort of her self-control she forced herself to place the packet upon the dresser. She wanted to snatch at it to tear it open, to scream with the relief of the tablets in her hand, but she did none of these things. Instead she thanked Miss Milligan again and proceeded to talk of other things, anything that would do to fill up the short time necessary to conceal the real purpose of the visit so that Esther and Miss Philps would not suspect--never for a moment suspect! "Do you think we really need try on the dress?" asked the conscientious Miss Milligan. Mrs. Coombe thought not. It was quite all right, she felt sure of that. And really she was a little tired. It had been a trying day. She moistened her lips and tried to smile, keeping her eyes well away from the tempting heaven in the little pasteboard box. Would the woman never go! Fortunately Miss Milligan was a lady who prided herself upon her good sense and also upon her proper pride. She always knew, she declared, when she was not wanted, and, strange as it may seem, it began to dawn upon her that this was one of those rare occasions. Mrs. Coombe was very pleasant, of course, but Miss Milligan missed something, a certain cordiality which might have tempted her to prolong her stay. She was not offended, for if she considered that her self-denying journeys to the post office were meeting with less than their just deserts, she was not a woman to insist upon gratitude where gratitude was not freely given. She stayed therefore no longer than the fiction of dress-fitting required and then with a somewhat strained "good night" passed down the stairs and out of the house. Mary waited, rigid as a statue, until she heard the front gate close, then, the last defence down, she sprang to the dressing table--tearing off the paper from the package as a puppy dog might tear the covering from a bone. A glass of water stood ready. Her shaking hands reached for it, counted the number of tablets and slipped them in. Then, with a long breath of relief, the tension relaxed. She raised her eyes, triumphing eyes, to the mirror and saw--Aunt Amy watching her from the doorway. She had forgotten to lock the door! But it was only Aunt Amy. Fear and relief came in almost the same breath. She steadied herself against the dresser. "Shut the door!" Aunt Amy obeyed. But she shut herself inside the door. "What do you want?" Mary never wasted words on Amy--"Ah!" With a motion so swift that it seemed like a conjuror's miracle, Aunt Amy had slipped from her stand by the door, snatched up the open box, and was back again before the choking cry on the other's lips had formed itself. "Esther says you musn't take these," said Aunt Amy in her colourless voice. For a second Mary hesitated. If she made the murderous spring which every baffled nerve in her tortured body urged her to make, Amy would scream. A scream would mean, Miss Philps--Esther--the doctor: agony and defeat. With a mighty effort she held herself. She tried to speak quietly. "Don't be a fool, Amy. This is some medicine the doctor gave me himself. Hand it to me at once." Aunt Amy smiled. It was a sly little smile. It made Mary want to rave, for it said more plainly than words that Aunt Amy knew. Swiftly she changed her tactics. Her face softened, became gentle, entreating-- "Amy--dear. I am only going to use a little. If you love me, give me the box." Useless! Aunt Amy still smiled. She put the box behind her. With her other hand she felt for the door knob. "Amy, give it to me! What have I ever done to you?" "You stole my ring." In exactly the same tone she might have said, "You are a murderess." The ring! Mary had forgotten the ring. Wait, perhaps it was not hopeless even yet. Amy placed an absurd value on that ring--and she, Mary, had the gem in her possession. She did not know that Esther had found and restored it. To her it was still in the box at the bottom of her drawer. A dazzling plan flashed through her excited brain. She would bribe Amy with the ring. The thought nerved her. "Do you really want your ring back?" she asked sweetly. Aunt Amy paused with her hands on the door knob. "I have it back." "Oh, no. You haven't. It is in a box in my drawer." "It is not. Esther gave it to me!" But there was a spark of fear in Amy's eyes. Contradiction so easily confused her. _Had_ Esther given her the ring? She felt oddly uncertain. Mary laughed, and the laugh increased Aunt Amy's confusion. After all it was quite possible that Mary had taken the ring again. It had been locked away and hidden, but locks and hiding-places were never an obstacle to "Them." "I've got it safe enough!" taunted Mary, tormentingly. The spark of fear flamed. Amy took a swift step forward. "Give it to me!" "Give me the box--and I will." Aunt Amy had ceased to care about the box. Almost she placed it in the outstretched hand, then, with quick cunning, caught it back. "The ring first." Mary shrugged her shoulders. She felt cool enough now. It was going to be easy. She turned to the bureau and began to pull things out of the drawer, scattering them anywhere. She could not remember exactly where she had put the ring. As she searched, she talked. "There is nothing to be tragic about," she said. "I intended to give you your ring anyway--some day. And the medicine is nothing that will hurt. It is only something to make me sleep so that I shan't look a sight to-morrow. I am taking only a little. No one will know. I shall not even oversleep. But if Esther or any of them knew, they would make a fuss. You must promise not to tell them--before I give you the ring. Just tell Esther that I do not want to be disturbed early. I'll wake myself, in plenty of time for the wedding." "In plenty of time for the wedding!" For a moment Amy wondered what it was about the phrase which sounded familiar? Then she seemed to see, as in a dream, the vision of a young girl all in white, with flowers in her hands, sitting alone in a room waiting, watching a clock--a clock which never quite came round to the hour of eleven on Tuesday. Time has a great deal to do with weddings, evidently. People who wish to be married must be ready at the fateful moment, otherwise they have to wait--forever, perhaps. "Plenty of time"--suddenly a flash of direct inspiration seemed to coordinate her scattered faculties. She saw clearly a plan, a beautiful, simple plan to prevent the marriage. What if Mary should _not_ wake in plenty of time for the wedding? What if the hour, the wedding hour, should not find her ready? The thing was so simple! If one tablet would make Mary sleep, two would make her sleep longer. For the moment she forgot even the ruby ring in her childish pleasure at such a clever idea. Her worn face was lit by a satisfied smile as she swiftly, quietly dropped more tablets from the box into the glass--one--two--she was not quite sure how many! "Here is the ring," said Mary turning at last from the disturbed drawer with a cardboard box in her hand. It was the box from which Esther had taken the ring long before, but Mary was in too great a hurry to open it. She did not doubt that it contained the ring. For once in her life Mary thought she was playing fair. They completed the exchange in silence, Mary wondering a little at the pleasant change which she saw in Amy's face. But she was too hurried to enquire into the cause of it. She hardly waited to hear her promise not to tell Esther but fairly pushed her from the room. Then, secure behind her locked door, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead and sank exhausted into the nearest chair. When her strength came back her first care was to hide the remaining tablets in a safe place in her travelling bag, she never intended to use them again, never! But it would do no harm to feel that she could trust herself to leave them alone, as of course she could. Then she loosened her hair, not pausing to brush it, and, slipping off her dress, wrapped herself in a certain flowered dressing gown. Not one of the dainty new ones, but a gown whose lace was yellowed and torn, a gown which felt like an old friend but which, after to-night, she would wear no more-- Listen! Was that some one at the door? Only Miss Philps calling good-night. Mary answered "Good-night" in a sleepy voice, and the step passed on. It left her shaking like a leaf in the wind. What else indeed was she? A fluttering, fading leaf shaken in the teeth of a wind of dread and mad desire. All was quiet now. She would be disturbed no more that night. Her shaking hands rattled the spoon which stirred the mixture in the glass. The familiar motion quieted her. Here, right in her hands, was peace, rest, a swift and magical release from the torment of appetite denied. To-morrow--but why think of to-morrow? She might be stronger then. Everything might be easier. All she really needed was a long night's sleep. She turned out the light and throwing up the blind stood for a moment looking out into the soft moonlight. The moon was clear. It would be a beautiful day for the wedding! Smiling, she picked up the glass and with a whispered, "Here's to the bride!" raised it to her eager lips and drank. * * * * * Silence settled down upon the Elms. There was a harvest moon that night, a glorious rounded moon more golden than silver. The garden slumbered, wrapped in mellow light, even the shadows gleamed faintly luminous. The breeze, roaming at will, shook drowsy perfume from the lingering flowers, but for all it aped the summer it was unmistakably an autumn breeze, melancholy, earth-scented. It stirred the curtains at Mary's window; rustled through the great bowlful of crimson leaves upon Esther's writing table and softly stirred the dark hair of the girl as she sat with her face hidden in her curved arms. For a very long time she sat there while the moon looked in and looked away again and who can tell what her thoughts were, or if she thought at all. By and by she rose and went to the window, looking out to where a month ago she had stood by the garden gate under the stars. It was drenched with moonlight now and the shadow under the elm tree was dark. What was that? A darker shadow in the shadow? Esther's hand caught at the curtain, her heart gave a great leap and then grew still. She knew who stood there. This was the good-bye he could not speak. Tears fell unheeded down the girl's pale cheeks. If during those last days she had had any doubt of the love which loyalty to Mary had helped him hide so well, they were all swept away now. A warm spot grew and glowed in her heart and a line from that old immortal love lyric which she had learned in her school days came back vivid with eternal truth. "I had not loved thee, dear, so much Loved I not honour more." CHAPTER XXXV It was a perfect day for the wedding. Autumn at her brightest and gayest before her new bright robes began to brown. Soft air, mellow sun, cool-lipped breeze, horizon veiled in tinted mist--a gem of a day, the jewel of a season. "Them as has, gets," murmured Mrs. Sykes, gloomily, as she tied on her Sunday bonnet. She rather resented the kindness of nature upon this present occasion. A nice rain would have suited her mood better. Nevertheless, much as her mind misgave her in regard to the wedding, she was early on her way to the Elms to see if she could help. "They're sure to be flustrated," she told herself. "Aunt Amy's just as likely as not to lose what little bit of head she has and hired help are broken reeds. Esther will have the brunt of it. She'll be glad enough to see me, I'll be bound." Do not imagine that Mrs. Sykes was curious. Curiosity was a failing which she systematically repudiated. But she was a very helpful person and it was wonderful how many opportunities of helpfulness she found upon solemn or joyous occasions. If, while helping, her ears were open, and her eyes shrewd, can she be blamed for that? There may be people with ears who hear not but they do not live in Coombe. The only difficulty is to manage to be, like Mr. Micawber, on the spot. Mrs. Sykes was early, but not too early. When she slipped in at the side door there was already a stir of unusual movement in the house but the final flutter was still measurably distant. Jane dashed past with crimped hair and white ribbons flying. Miss Philps, very stately in a new gown, was arranging flowers in geometrical patterns. Dr. Callandar, self-possessed as ever, talked upon the veranda with Professor Willits who had arrived the night before. Aunt Amy was busy in the kitchen. Esther, flushed and excited, with eyes that flashed blue fire, seemed everywhere at once. "Oh, Mrs. Sykes," she exclaimed, "how nice of you to come! Won't you please get Jane and tie her up--her ribbons, I mean? It is almost time to dress." "Would you like me to assist?" asked Miss Philps, looking up from a geometrical pattern. "Oh, thanks, Miss Philps. There are some hooks I cannot manage. But mother will probably need a lot of help. I thought you were with her now." "No. She has not yet sent for me." Miss Philps drew out her watch and consulted it. "Dear me!" with slight surprise, "it is much later than I thought. Perhaps I had better go up." Esther looked worried. "I believe you had--if she hurries at the last she will be terribly excited. Aunt Amy told me she wished particularly not to be disturbed this morning, but surely she has forgotten how late it is getting." "I'll go up," said Miss Philps. "It's time for her tonic anyway, and we must persuade her to eat something. When you are ready for me to hook your dress, call. I can easily manage you both." This is all that Mrs. Sykes heard, for just then Jane flew by again like a returning comet and had to be captured and properly tied up. Mrs. Sykes, as she admitted herself, was no hand at fancy fixings but she was painstaking and conscientious and the bow-tying absorbed all her energies. She was getting on very well and had almost succeeded in adjusting the last bow when a cry from the room above startled her into the tying of a double knot. "What was that?" It was not a loud cry--but there was something in it which brought Mrs. Sykes' heart leaping into her throat, which sent Esther reeling against the stair baluster, which brought the doctor, white-faced from the veranda--it was the kind of cry which carries in its note the psychic essence of terror and disaster. Mrs. Sykes for all her iron nerve felt suddenly faint. Jane began to cry. The doctor and Esther had raced up the stairs. But there was no repetition of the cry. Instead there was silence. Then a murmur of voices and sounds of ordered activity overhead. Clearly something had happened. But what? Mrs. Sykes wanted very much to go and see. But the glimpse she had caught of Callandar's eyes as he sprang to the stair, the look of white horror in Esther's face as she followed him, and above all, that strange terrifying Something in the cry she had heard seemed to discourage enquiry. The good lady turned her attention to the comforting of Jane. After all, if she waited long enough she could hardly help hearing all about it. At first hand, too. It seemed a long time that she waited. Miss Philps came up and down the stairs several times but she did not appear to see Mrs. Sykes. Jane stopped crying and wandered out into the garden. Still Mrs. Sykes waited and presently Aunt Amy came in, looking quite excited and asked eagerly what time it was. Mrs. Sykes told her, adding with asperity that these were fine goings-on, and that they'd all be late for the wedding if they didn't hurry up. "Yes, I think they will. I'm almost sure they will," said Aunt Amy, and she laughed as a child laughs when it is greatly pleased. "Dear me, she is much madder than I thought," murmured Mrs. Sykes. "Whatever is the matter? What are they doing?" she asked in a louder tone. Aunt Amy raised a finger, "Hush! she's asleep. Let us tidy up the room. I don't think she is going to wake up for a long time yet. And then she'll have to wait till the world goes round again." "Well of all the--" began Mrs. Sykes, but she was interrupted by the entrance of Professor Willits. With the virtuous air of one who strictly minds her own business she began to tie her bonnet strings. "Don't go, Mrs. Sykes," said the professor gravely. "I think--I'm afraid you may be needed." "I hope nothing serious has happened?" faltered Mrs. Sykes, now thoroughly disturbed, but he did not seem to hear her. He was listening intently to the sounds overhead. They were very slight sounds now and presently they ceased altogether. Willits looked more anxious. Then, in the midst of a new, heavier silence, Dr. Callandar himself came down the stairs. At first sight he appeared almost as usual. He did not notice Mrs. Sykes but went straight across the room to Willits. "Nothing--any use--" he began haltingly. Then suddenly the words ceased to come. His lips moved but there was no sound. With an expression of intense surprise he lifted his hand to his head, and swayed awkwardly into the nearest chair. "Land sakes, look out! he's going to fall," cried Mrs. Sykes in terror. "Breakdown," said the professor briefly. "I expected something of the kind. Help me to get him to the car." "Oh, Land, Land," moaned; Mrs. Sykes, "whatever"--but realising that the time for questioning was not yet, she did what she was told without more words. "Better send for Dr. Parker," said Willits crisply to Miss Philps who had come in quietly. "Better tell the minister, too. Keep the little girl down stairs. I'll be back as soon as I can. Mrs. Sykes, I shall want you to come with me." "Oh, Land--" but she got no further, the car was off like the wind. Later when the doctor had been put to bed like a child and telegrams dispatched which would bring a specialist and a nurse on the afternoon train, the good lady drew a long breath and decided that she couldn't "last out" a moment longer. Drawing Willits from the room her questions burst forth in their unstemmed torrent. The tall man listened at first in bewilderment. Then, as the true inwardness of the case dawned on him, a look which was almost admiration came over his angular countenance. "Why, Mrs. Sykes," he said, "is it possible that you do not know? I would have told you before but I took your knowledge for granted. The poor lady whom my friend was to marry was found dead in her bed. She died during the night. An overdose of sleeping powder." CHAPTER XXXVI Autumn that year was short and golden. Winter came early. In November it stormed, thawed, stormed again and began to freeze in earnest. The frost bit deeply but one night when its grip was sure, the temperature rose a little and snow began to fall. For days and nights it snowed, softly, steadily, without wind, and then the clouds parted and the sun shone out--a far off sun in a sky as blue as summer and cold as polar seas. The air tingled and snapped with frost. In the azure cup of the sunlit sky it sparkled like golden wine, and, like wine, it thrilled and strengthened. People stamped their feet and beat their hands to keep warm but smiled the while and murmured: "Glorious!" So much for the weather--since it was the weather which became the main factor in helping Coombe forget the tragedy at the Elms. Wonder is no nine-day affair in Coombe. One sensation is carefully conserved until the next one comes along, but in this case the early winter with its complete change of interests, its sleighing, skating and snow-shoeing, its reawakening of business and social bustle proved a distraction almost as effective as battle, murder or sudden death. The talk died down, the interest slackened, and the principal actors were once more permitted to become normal persons living in a normal world. For a time it had seemed that this desired condition would never be obtained. Coombe had felt the breath of a mystery. It was supposed to know everything and suspected that it knew nothing--a state of things aggravating to any well regulated community. There had been an inquest, of course, and at the inquest the whole sad affair was supposed to have been made plain. It was simplicity itself. Simplicity, in fact, was its most annoying characteristic. Mrs. Coombe, it appeared, had been for a long time somewhat of a sufferer from an obscure trouble, referred to generally as "nerves." For the relief of this trouble, one of whose symptoms was insomnia, she had, from time to time, had recourse to narcotics which, as everyone knows, are dangerous, if not, as many thought, positively immoral. Undoubtedly the poor lady had died from an overdose. It was easy, the coroner said, for a sympathetic mind to reconstruct the details of the terrible occurrence. It was the night before the wedding and the deceased had retired early. Miss Milligan, who had run in for a last look at the wedding gown, and who had been the very last person to see and speak with her, deposed that she had appeared more than ordinarily tired and seemed anxious to be alone. Asked if she detected any other signs of disordered nerves the witness had said, no. The deceased had not appeared worried about anything? No. The wedding gown had been quite satisfactory? Quite. No more questions were asked and Miss Milligan had not thought it necessary to go into the matter of the getting of the nerve tonic. The dead woman's harmless little deception was safe in her hands. It hadn't anything to do with the case anyway. Although in her own heart Miss Milligan blamed Dr. Callandar severely for not allowing the poor woman to use her tonic constantly. Had he done so the final tragedy might never have happened. Needless to say this good lady never knew what she had done. The fact that Mary Coombe had been a drug victim under treatment did not come out at the inquest. The coroner knew, but he was a sensible man and a very kind one. It hardly needed the logical arguments of Miss Philps or the heart-broken entreaties of Esther to convince him that knowledge of this fact was not for the general public. The only legally necessary information was the cause of death and that was simple enough. Easily understood, too, for given a tendency to sleeplessness and the excitement incident to a wedding, what more natural than that the excited bride should have sought relief in her customary sleeping draught. The mistake, the taking of a lethal dose, was, as all such mistakes are, inexplicable. Did her hand shake? Had she miscounted the number of tablets? Had she, in her nervous state, deliberately risked a larger dose whose danger she did not realise? These questions would never be answered. She had been alone in her room, nor was there a thread of evidence upon which to hang a theory. Esther, the nurse, Jane, Dr. Callandar (poor man!) had noticed nothing out of the ordinary when they had parted from her that last time. Aunt Amy's evidence was not taken. No one thought to question her and she volunteered no information. Of all the household at the Elms she was least disturbed by the tragedy, but, naturally, one does not expect the mentally weak to realise sorrow like ordinary people. This exemption was, as many did not fail to remark, one of their compensations. So in this, as in other things, Aunt Amy did not matter. She went her quiet way undisturbed, the one contented and peaceful person in that house of shock and horror. Why, then, since all was so plain, did Coombe scent a mystery? It would be hard to say. Perhaps the curious behaviour of Dr. Callandar was partly responsible. When the news of his sudden breakdown became known the first natural comment was, "So, you see, he did love her after all." But, upon longer consideration this did not seem to meet the case. A man may be genuinely in love with a woman and yet not be stricken, as had the doctor, by her sudden death. Dimly, Coombe felt that there must be a cause behind the cause. Miss Sinclair, the eldest, even went so far as to quote Shakespeare to the effect that "men have died and the worms have eaten them, but not for love." True, the doctor was not dead but his illness was proving a very long and stubborn one. In its early stages he had been taken away to Toronto for special treatment and had been quite unable to see any one, even the minister, before he left. Mrs. Sykes alone, with the exception of the trained nurses, had laid eyes on him since his sudden collapse on the day of the wedding. And Mrs. Sykes, miraculously, had nothing to say. It was rumoured, however, that his brain was affected, that he was paralysed, that he was deaf and blind, that he was dying of slow decline. Somehow the town felt that Mary Coombe, living or dead, did not loom large enough as a cause of such disintegration. Esther's actions, too, were part of the puzzle. It had been confidently supposed that she would go away at once for a rest and change. Every one knew that the Hollises had offered to take her with them on a long trip to the Pacific Coast. But Esther had declined to go. She declined to go anywhere. Worn out as she was with strain and grief, she persisted in disregarding the advice of everybody. ("So headstrong in a young girl! But Doctor Coombe, her father, was always like that.") Apparently she intended to go on exactly as if nothing had happened and to all arguments said nothing save, "I think it will be best," or, "I am not fit for strange scenes just now," or something equally futile. Coombe was quite annoyed with Esther--so stubborn! Only to Miss Annabel did the girl attempt to justify her attitude when that kind soul had exhausted persuasion and was inclined to feel both worried and hurt. "Don't you see," she explained haltingly, "I can't go away. I don't want to. I can't make the effort. Here every one understands and will make allowances. I want to be quiet, to rest, to think. I want to get back to where I was before--if I can." "Before what, my dear?" "Before--everything! I can't explain. But I know it is the only way I shall ever be content. I want to take my school again and to go on working and looking after Jane and Aunt Amy. Although," with a little smile, "it is really Auntie who looks after Jane and me. Won't you help me, dear Miss Annabel? I am quite sure that this is the only thing to do." "You are a strange girl, Esther. One would think you would be crazy to get away. Look at Angus! He's going. He has suddenly found out that a trip to the Holy Land is necessary if one is to speak intelligently upon many portions of the Bible. Absurd! But I never let him dream that I know that isn't his reason. And I hope you won't. It is all over now and the sooner he forgets the better. But I think even you are convinced, now, that I was right about--you know to what I refer!" Esther murmured something indistinguishable and Miss Annabel departed much pleased with her own perspicacity. And she did help. She let it be known at the Ladies' Aid that she quite understood Esther and approved of her. After all, it was senseless to run away from trouble since trouble can run so much faster. And it was natural and right of Esther to feel that nowhere could she find so much sympathy and consideration as in her own town. Travelling was fatiguing anyway. As for the school, that was easily arranged. A little discreet wire pulling and Esther was once more established as school mistress of District Number Fifteen. People shook their heads, but by the time of the first snowstorm they had ceased to prophesy nervous prostration, and by the time sleighing was fairly established they were ready to admit that the girl had acted sensibly after all. No one guessed that there was another reason for Esther's refusal to go away. It was a simple reason and had to do with the fact that in Coombe the mails were sure and regular. Travellers miss letters and strange addresses are uncertain at best, but in Coombe there was small chance of any untoward accident befalling a certain weekly letter in the handwriting of Professor Willits. Esther lived upon these letters. Brief and dry though they were, they formed the motive power of her life and indeed it was from one of them that she had received the impetus which roused her from her first trance of grief and horror. "My dear young lady (Willits had written). "I believe that there are times when the truth is a good thing. It might be tactful to pretend that I do not know the real reason of Calendar's collapse but it would also be foolish. I think he is going to pull through. Now the question is--how about you? Are you going to be able to do your part? "Let me be more explicit. It may be a long time before our friend is thoroughly re-established in health but it is quite probable that he will be well enough, and determined enough, to face some of his problems in the spring. He will turn to you. Are you going to be able to help him? When he comes to you will he find a silly, nervous girl, all horrors and regrets and useless might-have-beens or will he find you strong and sane, healthily poised, ready to face the future and let the dead past go? For the past is dead--believe me! "You have seemed to me to be an excellently normal young person, but no doubt the shock and trouble of late events have done much to disturb your normality. Can you get it back? On the answer to that, depends Callandar's future. I shall keep you informed, weekly, of his progress." Esther had thought deeply over this letter. Its brief, stern truth was exactly the tonic she needed. Like a strong hand it reached down into her direful pit of morbid musings, and, clinging to it, she struggled back into the sunlight. Above all and in spite of everything, she must not fail the man she loved! At first she had to fight with terrors. She feared she knew not what. The vision of Mary upon the bed, still and ghastly in the golden light of morning, came back to shake her heart. The memory of Callandar's face, of the frantic struggle to drag the dead woman back to life, made many a night hideous. The endless questioning, Could it have been prevented? Could I have done more? tortured her, but by and by, as she faced them bravely, these terrors lost their baleful power. Her youth and common-sense triumphed. The school helped. One cannot continue very morbid with a roomful of happy, noisy children to teach and keep in order. Jane's need of her helped, for she, dared not give way to brooding when the child was near. Aunt Amy helped--perhaps most of all. She was a constant wonder to the girl, so cheerful was she, so thoughtful of others, so forgetful of herself. Her little fancies seemed to have ceased to fret her, there was a new peace in her faded eyes. Sometimes as she went about the house she would sing a little, in a high thready voice, bits from songs that were popular in her youth. "The Blue Alsatian Mountains" or "When You and I Were Young, Maggie" or "Darling Nellie Grey." She told Esther that it was because she felt "safe." "The blackness hardly ever comes now," she said. "I don't think 'They' will bother me any more." "Why?" asked Esther, curious. But Aunt Amy did not seem to know why--or if she knew she never told. CHAPTER XXXVII A robin hopped upon the window sill of School-house Number Fifteen and peered cautiously into the room. He had no business there during lesson hours and the arrival of Mary's little lamb could not have been more disturbing. The children whispered, fidgeted, shuffled their feet and banged their slates. "Perhaps they do not know it is spring," thought the robin and ruffling his red breast and swelling his throat he began to tell them. "It is spring! It is spring! It is spring!" The effect was electrical. Even the tall young teacher turned from her rows of figures on the blackboard. "Come out! come out! come out!" sang the robin. The teacher tapped sharply for order and the robin flew away. But the mischief was done. It was useless to tell them, "Only ten minutes more." Ten minutes--as well say ten years. The little fat boy in the front seat began to cry. A long sigh passed over the room. Ten minutes? The teacher consulted her watch, hesitated, and was lost. "Close books," she ordered. "Attention. Ready--March." The jostling lines scrambled in some kind of order to the door and then broke into joyous riot. It was spring--and school was out! Their teacher followed more slowly, pausing on the steps to breathe long and deeply the sweet spring air. In a corner by the steps there was still a tiny heap of shrinking snow, but in the open, the grass was green as emerald, violets and wind flowers pushed through the tangle of last year's leaves. The trees seemed shrouded in a fairy mist of green. Robins were everywhere. The girl upon the steps was herself a vision of spring--the embodiment of youth and beautiful life. Coombe folks admitted that Esther Coombe had "got back her looks." Had they been less cautious they might have said much more, for the subtle change which had come to Esther, the change which marks the birth of womanhood, had left her infinitely more lovely. From the pocket of the light coat she wore she brought forth a handful of crumbs and scattered them for the saucy robins and then, unwilling to hasten, sat down upon the steps to watch their cheerful wrangling. Peeling for more crumbs she drew out a letter--a single sheet covered with the crabbed handwriting of Professor Willits. At sight of it a soft flush stole over her face. She forgot the crumbs and the robins for, although her letter was two days old and she knew exactly what it contained, the very sight of the written words was joy to her. Like all Willits' notes it was short and to the point. "Our friend has gone," she read. "We wanted to keep him for a month yet, but the robins called too loudly. He left no word of his destination, only a strange note saying that at last he was up the hill and over. May he find happiness, dear lady, on the other side." One thing I notice--this recovery of his is different from his former recovery. If I were not afraid of lapsing into sentiment, I should say that he has achieved a soul cure. The morbid spot which troubled him so long is healed. A psychologist might explain it, but you and I must accept the result and be thankful. It is as if his subconscious self had removed a barrier and signalled 'Line clear--go ahead.' It is more than I had ever dared to hope. Your friend, E.P. Willits. "P.S.: Are you ready?" Esther looked at the postscript and smiled--that slow smile which lifted the corner of her lips so deliciously. "May we wait for you, Teacher?" "Not to-day, dears." The children moved regretfully away. Presently the school yard was deserted. The busy robins had finished quarrelling over their crumbs and were holding a caucus around the red pump. In the quietness could be heard the gurgle of the spring rivulets on the hill. Was there another sound on the hill, too? A far off whistling mingled with the gurgling water and twittering birds? Esther's hand tightened upon the letter--she leaned forward, listening intently. How loud the birds were! How confusing the sound of water! But now she caught the whistling again-- "_From Wimbleton to Wombleton is fifteen miles_"-- The familiar words formed themselves upon the girl's lips before the message of the tune reached her brain and brought her, breathless, to her feet. He was coming--so soon! Panic seized her. Her hand flew to her heart--she would hide in the school-room, anywhere! Then she remembered Willits' postscript, the postscript which she had thought so needless. Her hand fell to her side. The panic died. Next moment, head high and eyes smiling, she walked down to the gate. He was coming along the road under the budding elms--hatless, carrying a knapsack. His tweeds were splashed with mud from the spring roads, his face was thin, his hair was almost grey. Yet he came on like a conqueror and there was nothing old or tired in the bound wherewith he leaped the gate he would not pause to open. "Esther!" She looked up into his eyes and found them shadowless. Her own eyes veiled themselves, Neither found anything to say. But overhead a robin burst into heavenly song. 
15099	----	THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER A Story of Backwoods Life in Indiana REVISED with an introduction and Notes on the District by the Author, EDWARD EGGLESTON With Character Sketches by F. OPPER and other Illustrations by W.E.B. STARKWEATHER GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 1871 AS A PEBBLE CAST UPON A GREAT CAIRN, THIS EDITION IS INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, WHOSE CORDIAL ENCOURAGEMENT TO MY EARLY STUDIES OF AMERICAN DIALECT IS GRATEFULLY REMEMBERED. THE AUTHOR. PREFACE TO THE LIBRARY EDITION. BEING THE HISTORY OF A STORY. "THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-MASTER" was written and printed in the autumn of 1871. It is therefore now about twenty-one years old, and the publishers propose to mark its coming of age by issuing a library edition. I avail myself of the occasion to make some needed revisions, and to preface the new edition with an account of the origin and adventures of the book. If I should seem to betray unbecoming pride in speaking of a story that has passed into several languages and maintained an undiminished popularity for more than a score of years, I count on receiving the indulgence commonly granted to paternal vanity when celebrating the majority of a first-born. With all its faults on its head, this little tale has become a classic, in the bookseller's sense at least; and a public that has shown so constant a partiality for it has a right to feel some curiosity regarding its history. I persuade myself that additional extenuation for this biography of a book is to be found in the relation which "The Hoosier School-Master" happens to bear to the most significant movement in American literature in our generation. It is the file-leader of the procession of American dialect novels. Before the appearance of this story, the New England folk-speech had long been employed for various literary purposes, it is true; and after its use by Lowell, it had acquired a standing that made it the classic _lingua rustica_ of the United States. Even Hoosiers and Southerners when put into print, as they sometimes were in rude burlesque stories, usually talked about "huskin' bees" and "apple-parin' bees" and used many other expressions foreign to their vernacular. American literature hardly touched the speech and life of the people outside of New England; in other words, it was provincial in the narrow sense. I can hardly suppose that "The Hoosier School-Master" bore any causative relation to that broader provincial movement in our literature which now includes such remarkable productions as the writings of Mr. Cable, Mr. Harris, Mr. Page, Miss Murfree, Mr. Richard Malcom Johnson, Mr. Howe, Mr. Garland, some of Mrs. Burnett's stories and others quite worthy of inclusion in this list. The taking up of life in this regional way has made our literature really national by the only process possible. The Federal nation has at length manifested a consciousness of the continental diversity of its forms of life. The "great American novel," for which prophetic critics yearned so fondly twenty years ago, is appearing in sections. I may claim for this book the distinction, such as it is, of being the first of the dialect stories that depict a life quite beyond New England influence. Some of Mr. Bret Harte's brief and powerful tales had already foreshadowed this movement toward a larger rendering of our life. But the romantic character of Mr. Harte's delightful stories and the absence of anything that can justly be called dialect in them mark them as rather forerunners than beginners of the prevailing school. For some years after the appearance of the present novel, my own stories had to themselves the field of provincial realism (if, indeed, there be any such thing as realism) before there came the succession of fine productions which have made the last fourteen years notable. Though it had often occurred to me to write something in the dialect now known as Hoosier--the folk-speech of the southern part of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois of forty years ago--I had postponed the attempt indefinitely, probably because the only literary use that had been made of the allied speech of the Southwest had been in the books of the primitive humorists of that region. I found it hard to dissociate in my own mind the dialect from the somewhat coarse boisterousness which seemed inseparable from it in the works of these rollicking writers. It chanced that in 1871 Taine's lectures on "Art in the Netherlands," or rather Mr. John Durand's translation of them, fell into my hands as a book for editorial review. These discourses are little else than an elucidation of the thesis that the artist of originality will work courageously with the materials he finds in his own environment. In Taine's view, all life has matter for the artist, if only he have eyes to see. Many years previous to the time of which I am now speaking, while I was yet a young man, I had projected a lecture on the Hoosier folk-speech, and had even printed during the war a little political skit in that dialect in a St. Paul paper. So far as I know, nothing else had ever been printed in the Hoosier. Under the spur of Taine's argument, I now proceeded to write a short story wholly in the dialect spoken in my childhood by rustics on the north side of the Ohio River. This tale I called "The Hoosier School-Master." It consisted almost entirely of an autobiographical narration in dialect by Mirandy Means of the incidents that form the groundwork of the present story. I was the newly installed editor of a weekly journal, _Hearth and Home_, and I sent this little story in a new dialect to my printer. It chanced that one of the proprietors of the paper saw a part of it in proof. He urged me to take it back and make a longer story out of the materials, and he expressed great confidence in the success of such a story. Yielding to his suggestion, I began to write this novel from week to week as it appeared in the paper, and thus found myself involved in the career of a novelist, which had up to that time formed no part of my plan of life. In my inexperience I worked at a white-heat, completing the book in ten weeks. Long before these weeks of eager toil were over, it was a question among my friends whether the novel might not write _finis_ to me before I should see the end of it. The sole purpose I had in view at first was the resuscitation of the dead-and-alive newspaper of which I had ventured to take charge. One of the firm of publishers thought much less favorably of my story than his partner did. I was called into the private office and informed with some severity that my characters were too rough to be presentable in a paper so refined as ours. I confess they did seem somewhat too robust for a sheet so anæmic as _Hearth and Home_ had been in the months just preceding. But when, the very next week after this protest was made, the circulation of the paper increased some thousands at a bound, my employer's critical estimate of the work underwent a rapid change--a change based on what seemed to him better than merely literary considerations. By the time the story closed, at the end of fourteen instalments, the subscription list had multiplied itself four or five fold. It is only fair to admit, however, that the original multiplicand had been rather small. Papers in Canada and in some of the other English colonies transferred the novel bodily to their columns, and many of the American country papers helped themselves to it quite freely. It had run some weeks of its course before it occurred to any one that it might profitably be reprinted in book form. The publishers were loath to risk much in the venture. The newspaper type was rejustified to make a book page, and barely two thousand copies were printed for a first edition. I remember expressing the opinion that the number was too large. "The Hoosier School-Master" was pirated with the utmost promptitude by the Messrs. Routledge, in England, for that was in the barbarous days before international copyright, when English publishers complained of the unscrupulousness of American reprinters, while they themselves pounced upon every line of American production that promised some shillings of profit. "The Hoosier School-Master" was brought out in England in a cheap, sensational form. The edition of ten thousand has long been out of print. For this large edition and for the editions issued in the British colonies and in continental Europe I have never received a penny. A great many men have made money out of the book, but my own returns have been comparatively small. For its use in serial form I received nothing beyond my salary as editor. On the copyright edition I have received the moderate royalty allowed to young authors at the outset of their work. The sale of the American edition in the first twenty years amounted to seventy thousand copies. The peculiarity of this sale is its steadiness. After twenty years, "The Hoosier School-Master" is selling at the average rate of more than three thousand copies per annum. During the last half-dozen years the popularity of the book has apparently increased, and its twentieth year closed with a sale of twenty-one hundred in six months. Only those who are familiar with the book trade and who know how brief is the life of the average novel will understand how exceptional is this long-continued popularity. Some of the newspaper reviewers of twenty years ago were a little puzzled to know what to make of a book in so questionable a shape, for the American dialect novel was then a new-comer. But nothing could have given a beginner more genuine pleasure than the cordial commendation of the leading professional critic of the time, the late Mr. George Ripley, who wrote an extended review of this book for the _Tribune_. The monthly magazines all spoke of "The Hoosier School-Master" in terms as favorable as it deserved. I cannot pretend that I was content with these notices at the time, for I had the sensitiveness of a beginner. But on looking at the reviews in the magazines of that day, I am amused to find that the faults pointed out in the work of my prentice hand are just those that I should be disposed to complain of now, if it were any part of my business to tell the reader wherein I might have done better. _The Nation_, then in its youth, honored "The Hoosier School-Master" by giving it two pages, mostly in discussion of its dialect, but dispensing paradoxical praise and censure in that condescending way with which we are all familiar enough. According to its critic, the author had understood and described the old Western life, but he had done it "quite sketchily, to be sure." Yet it was done "with essential truth and some effectiveness." The critic, however instantly stands on the other foot again and adds that the book "is not a captivating one." But he makes amends in the very next sentence by an allusion to "the faithfulness of its transcript of the life it depicts," and then instantly balances the account on the adverse side of the ledger by assuring the reader that "it has no interest of passion or mental power." But even this fatal conclusion is diluted by a dependent clause. "Possibly," says the reviewer, "the good feeling of the intertwined love story may conciliate the good-will of some of the malcontent." One could hardly carry further the fine art of oscillating between moderate commendation and parenthetical damnation--an art that lends a factitious air of judicial impartiality and mental equipoise. Beyond question, _The Nation_ is one of the ablest weekly papers in the world; the admirable scholarship of its articles and reviews in departments of special knowledge might well be a subject of pride to any American. But its inadequate reviews of current fiction add nothing to its value, and its habitual tone of condescending depreciation in treating imaginative literature of indigenous origin is one of the strongest discouragements to literary production. The main value of good criticism lies in its readiness and penetration in discovering and applauding merit not before recognized, or imperfectly recognized. This is a conspicuous trait of Sainte-Beuve, the greatest of all newspaper critics. He knew how to be severe upon occasion, but he saw talent in advance of the public and dispensed encouragement heartily, so that he made himself almost a foster-father to the literature of his generation in France. But there is a class of anonymous reviewers in England and America who seem to hold a traditional theory that the function of a critic toward new-born talent is analogous to that of Pharaoh toward the infant Jewish population[1]. During the first year after its publication "The Hoosier School-Master" was translated into French and published in a condensed form in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. The translator was the writer who signs the name M. Th. Bentzon, and who is well known to be Madame Blanc. This French version afterward appeared in book form in the same volume with one of Mr. Thomas Bailey Aldrich's stories and some other stories of mine. In this latter shape I have never seen it. The title given to the story by Madame Blanc was "Le Maître d'École de Flat Creek." It may be imagined that the translator found it no easy task to get equivalents in French for expressions in a dialect new and strange. "I'll be dog-on'd" appears in French as "devil take me" ("_diable m'emporte_"), which is not bad; the devil being rather a jolly sort of fellow, in French. "The Church of the Best Licks" seems rather unrenderable, and I do not see how the translator could have found a better phrase for it than "_L'Eglise des Raclées_" though "_raclées_" does not convey the double sense of "licks." "_Jim epelait vite comme l'eclair_" is not a good rendering of "Jim spelled like lightning," since it is not the celerity of the spelling that is the main consideration. "_Concours d'epellation_" is probably the best equivalent for "spelling-school," but it seems something more stately in its French dress. When Bud says, with reference to Hannah, "I never took no shine that air way," the phrase is rather too idiomatic for the French tongue, and it becomes "I haven't run after that hare" ("_Je n'ai pas chassé ce lièvre-la_"). Perhaps the most sadly amusing thing in the translation is the way the meaning of the nickname Shocky is missed in an explanatory foot-note. It is, according to the translator, an abbreviation or corruption of the English word "shocking," which expresses the shocking ugliness of the child--"_qui exprime la laideur choquante de l'enfant_." A German version of "The Hoosier School-Master" was made about the time of the appearance of the French translation, but of this I have never seen a copy. I know of it only from the statement made to me by a German professor, that he had read it in German before he knew any English. What are the equivalents in High German for "right smart" and "dog-on" I cannot imagine. Several years after the publication of "The Hoosier School-Master" it occurred to Mr. H. Hansen, of Kjöge, in Denmark, to render it into Danish. Among the Danes the book enjoyed a popularity as great, perhaps, as it has had at home. The circulation warranted Mr. Hansen and his publisher in bringing out several other novels of mine. The Danish translator was the only person concerned in the various foreign editions of this book who had the courtesy to ask the author's leave. Under the old conditions in regard to international copyright, an author came to be regarded as one not entitled even to common civilities in the matter of reprinting his works--he was to be plundered without politeness. As I look at the row of my books in the unfamiliar Danish, I am reminded of that New England mother who, on recovering her children carried away by the Canadian Indians, found it impossible to communicate with a daughter who spoke only French and a son who knew nothing but the speech of his savage captors. Mr. Hansen was thoughtful enough to send me the reviews of my books in the Danish newspapers; and he had the double kindness to translate these into English and to leave out all but those that were likely to be agreeable to my vanity. Of these I remember but a single sentence, and that because it was expressed with felicity. The reviewer said of the fun in "The Hoosier School-Master:" "This is humor laughing to keep from bursting into tears." A year or two before the appearance of "The Hoosier School-Master," a newspaper article of mine touching upon American dialect interested Mr. Lowell, and he urged me to "look for the foreign influence" that has affected the speech of the Ohio River country. My reverence for him as the master in such studies did not prevent me from feeling that the suggestion was a little absurd. But at a later period I became aware that North Irishmen used many of the pronunciations and idioms that distinctly characterized the language of old-fashioned people on the Ohio. Many Ulster men say "wair" for were and "air" for are, for example. Connecting this with the existence of a considerable element of Scotch-Irish names in the Ohio River region, I could not doubt that here was one of the keys the master had bidden me look for. While pursuing at a later period a series of investigations into the culture-history of the American people in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, I became much interested in the emigration to America from the north of Ireland, a movement that waxed and waned as the great Irish-linen industry of the last century declined or prospered. The first American home of these Irish was Pennsylvania. A portion of them were steady-going, psalm-singing, money-getting people, who in course of time made themselves felt in the commerce, politics, and intellectual life of the nation. There was also a dare-devil element, descended perhaps from those rude borderers who were deported to Ireland more for the sake of the peace of North Britain than for the benefit of Ireland. In this rougher class there was perhaps a larger dash of the Celtic fire that came from the wild Irish women whom the first Scotch settlers in Ulster made the mothers of their progeny. Arrived in the wilds of Pennsylvania, these Irishmen built rude cabins, planted little patches of corn and potatoes, and distilled a whiskey that was never suffered to grow mellow. The forest was congenial to men who spent much the larger part of their time in boisterous sport of one sort or another. The manufacture of the rifle was early brought to Lancaster, in Pennsylvania, direct from the land of its invention by Swiss emigrants, and in the adventurous Scotch-Irishman of the Pennsylvania frontier the rifle found its fellow. Irish settlers became hunters of wild beasts, explorers, pioneers, and warriors against the Indians, upon whom they avenged their wrongs with relentless ferocity. Both the Irish race and the intermingled Pennsylvania Dutch were prolific, and the up-country of Pennsylvania soon overflowed. Emigration was held in check to the westward for a while by the cruel massacres of the French and Indian wars, and one river of population poured itself southward into the fertile valleys of the Virginia mountain country; another and larger flood swept still farther to the south along the eastern borders of the Appalachian range until it reached the uplands of Carolina. When the militia of one county in South Carolina was mustered during the Revolution, it was found that every one of the thirty-five hundred men enrolled were natives of Pennsylvania. These were mainly sons of North Irishmen, and from the Carolina Irish sprang Calhoun, the most aggressive statesman that has appeared in America, and Jackson, the most brilliant military genius in the whole course of our history. Before the close of the Revolution this adventurous race had begun to break over the passes of the Alleghanies into the dark and bloody ground of Kentucky and Tennessee. Soon afterward a multitude of Pennsylvanians of all stocks--the Scotch-Irish and those Germans, Swiss, and Hollanders who are commonly classed together as the Pennsylvania Dutch, as well as a large number of people of English descent--began to migrate down the Ohio Valley. Along with them came professional men and people of more or less culture, chiefly from eastern Virginia and Maryland. There came also into Indiana and Illinois, from the border States and from as far south as North Carolina and Tennessee, a body of "poor whites." These semi-nomadic people, descendants of the colonial bond-servants, formed, in the second quarter of the nineteenth century, the lowest rank of Hoosiers. But as early as 1845 there was a considerable exodus of these to Missouri. From Pike County, in that State, they wended their way to California, to appear in Mr. Bret Harte's stories as "Pikes." The movement of this class out of Indiana went on with augmented volume in the fifties. The emigrants of this period mostly sought the States lying just west of the Mississippi, and the poorer sort made the trip in little one-horse wagons of the sorriest description, laden mainly with white-headed children and followed by the yellow curs that are the one luxury indispensable to a family of this class. To this migration and to a liberal provision for popular education Indiana owes a great improvement in the average intelligence of her people. As early as 1880, I believe, the State had come to rank with some of the New England States in the matter of literacy. The folk-speech of the Ohio River country has many features in common with that of the eastern Middle States, while it received but little from the dignified eighteenth-century English of eastern Virginia. There are distinct traces of the North-Irish in the idioms and in the peculiar pronunciations. One finds also here and there a word from the "Pennsylvania Dutch," such as "waumus" for a loose jacket, from the German _wamms_, a doublet, and "smearcase" for cottage cheese, from the German _schmierkäse_. The only French word left by the old _voyageurs_, so far as I now remember, is "cordelle," to tow a boat by a rope carried along the shore. Substantially the same folk-speech exists wherever the Pennsylvania migration formed the main element of the primitive settlement. I have heard the same dialect in the South Carolina uplands that one gets from a Posey County Hoosier, or rather that one used to get in the old days before the vandal school-master had reduced the vulgar tongue to the monotonous propriety of what we call good English. In drawing some of the subordinate characters in this tale a little too baldly from the model, I fell into an error common to inexperienced writers. It is amusing to observe that these portrait characters seem the least substantial of all the figures in the book. Dr. Small is a rather unrealistic villain, but I knew him well and respected him in my boyish heart for a most exemplary Christian of good family at the very time that, according to testimony afterward given, he was diversifying his pursuits as a practising physician by leading a gang of burglars. More than one person has been pointed out as the original of Bud Means, and I believe there are one or two men each of whom flatters himself that he posed for the figure of the first disciple of the Church of the Best Licks. Bud is made up of elements found in some of his race, but not in any one man. Not dreaming that the story would reach beyond the small circulation of _Hearth and Home_, I used the names of people in Switzerland and Decatur counties, in Indiana, almost without being aware of it. I have heard that a young man bearing the surname given to one of the rudest families in this book had to suffer many gibes while a student at an Indiana college. I here do public penance for my culpable indiscretion. "Jeems Phillips," name and all, is a real person whom at the time of writing this story I had not seen since I was a lad of nine and he a man of nearly forty. He was a mere memory to me, and was put into the book with some slighting remarks which the real Jeems did not deserve. I did not know that he was living, and it did not seem likely that the story would have vitality enough to travel all the way to Indiana. But the portion referring to Phillips was transferred to the county paper circulating among Jeems' neighbors. For once the good-natured man was, as they say in Hoosier, "mad," and he threatened to thrash the editor. "Do you think he means you?" demanded the editor. "To be sure he does," said the champion speller. "Can you spell?" "I can spell down any master that ever came to our district," he replied. As time passed on, Phillips found himself a lion. Strangers desired an introduction to him as a notability, and invited the champion to dissipate with them at the soda fountain in the village drug store. It became a matter of pride with him that he was the most famous speller in the world. Two years ago, while visiting the town of my nativity, I met upon the street the aged Jeems Phillips, whom I had not seen for more than forty years. I would go far to hear him "spell down" a complacent school-master once more. The publication of this book gave rise to an amusing revival of the spelling-school as a means of public entertainment, not in rustic regions alone, but in towns also. The furor extended to the great cities of New York and London, and reached at last to farthest Australia, spreading to every region in which English is spelled or spoken. But the effect of the chapter on the spelling-school was temporary and superficial; the only organization that came from the spelling-school mania, so far as I know, was an association of proof-readers in London to discuss mooted points. The sketch of the Church of the Best Licks, however, seems to have made a deep and enduring impression upon individuals and to have left some organized results. I myself endeavored to realize it, and for five years I was the pastor of a church in Brooklyn, organized on a basis almost as simple as that in the Flat Creek school-house. The name I rendered into respectable English, and the Church of the Best Licks became the Church of Christian Endeavor. It was highly successful in doing that which a church ought to do, and its methods of work have been widely copied. After my work as a minister had been definitely closed, the name and the underlying thought of this church were borrowed for a young people's society; and thus the little story of good endeavor in Indiana seems to have left a permanent mark on the ecclesiastical organization of the time. If any one, judging by the length of this preface, should conclude that I hold my little book in undue esteem, let him know that I owe it more than one grudge. It is said that Thomas Campbell, twenty years after the appearance of his best-known poem, was one day introduced as "the author of 'The Pleasures of Hope.'" "Confound 'The Pleasures of Hope,'" he protested; "can't I write anything else?" So, however much I may prefer my later work, more carefully wrought in respect of thought, structure, and style, this initial novel, the favorite of the larger public, has become inseparably associated with my name. Often I have mentally applied Campbell's imprecation on "The Pleasures of Hope" to this story. I could not write in this vein now if I would, and twenty-one years have made so many changes in me that I dare not make any but minor changes in this novel. The author of "The Hoosier School-Master" is distinctly not I; I am but his heir and executor; and since he is a more popular writer than I, why should I meddle with his work? I have, however, ventured to make some necessary revision of the diction, and have added notes, mostly with reference to the dialect. A second grudge against this story is that somehow its readers persist in believing it to be a bit of my own life. Americans are credulous believers in that miracle of the imagination whom no one has ever seen in the flesh--the self-made man. Some readers of "The Hoosier School-Master" have settled it for a certainty that the author sprang from the rustic class he has described. One lady even wrote to inquire whether my childhood were not represented in Shocky, the little lad out of the poor-house. A biographical sketch of me in Italian goes so far as to state that among the hard resorts by which I made a living in my early life was the teaching of a Sunday-school in Chicago. No one knows so well as I the faults of immaturity and inexperience that characterize this book. But perhaps after all the public is right in so often preferring an author's first book. There is what Emerson would have called a "central spontaneity" about the work of a young man that may give more delight to the reader than all the precision of thought and perfection of style for which we strive as life advances. JOSHUA'S ROCK ON LAKE GEORGE, 1892. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Since writing the passage in the text, I have met with the following in _The Speaker_, of London: "Everybody knows that when an important work is published in history, philosophy, or any branch of science, the editor of a respectable paper employs an expert to review it; . . . indeed, the more abstruse the subject of the book, the more careful and intelligent you will find the review. . . . It is equally well known that works of fiction and books of verse are not treated with anything like the same care. . . . A good poem, play, or novel is at least as fine an achievement as a good history; yet the history gets the benefit of an expert's judgment and two columns of thoughtful pimse or censure, while the poem, play, or novel is treated to ten skittish lines by the hack who happens to be within nearest call when the book comes in."] PART OF THE PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. I may as well confess, what it would be affectation to conceal, that I am more than pleased with the generous reception accorded to this story as a serial in the columns of _Hearth and Home_. It has been in my mind since I was a Hoosier boy to do something toward describing life in the back-country districts of the Western States. It used to be a matter of no little jealousy with us, I remember, that the manners, customs, thoughts, and feelings of New England country people filled so large a place in books, while our life, not less interesting, not less romantic, and certainly not less filled with humorous and grotesque material, had no place in literature. It was as though we were shut out of good society. And, with the single exception of Alice Gary, perhaps, our Western writers did not dare speak of the West otherwise than as the unreal world to which Cooper's lively imagination had given birth. I had some anxiety lest Western readers should take offence at my selecting what must always seem an exceptional phase of life to those who have grown up in the more refined regions of the West. But nowhere has the School-master been received more kindly than in his own country and among his own people. Some of those who have spoken generous words of the School-master and his friends have suggested that the story is an autobiography. But it is not, save in the sense in which every work of art is an autobiography: in that it is the result of the experience and observation of the writer. Readers will therefore bear in mind that not Ralph nor Bud nor Brother Sodom nor Dr. Small represents the writer, nor do I appear, as Talleyrand said of Madame de Staël, "disguised as a woman," in the person of Hannah or Mirandy. Some of the incidents have been drawn from life; none of them, I believe, from my own. I should like to be considered a member of the Church of the Best Licks, however. It has been in my mind to append some remarks, philological and otherwise, upon the dialect, but Professor Lowell's admirable and erudite preface to the Biglow Papers must be the despair of every one who aspires to write on Americanisms. To Mr. Lowell belongs the distinction of being the only one of our most eminent authors and the only one of our most eminent scholars who has given careful attention to American dialects. But while I have not ventured to discuss the provincialisms of the Indiana backwoods, I have been careful to preserve the true _usus loquendi_ of each locution. BROOKLYN, December, 1871. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I PAGE A Private Lesson from a Bulldog . . . 37 CHAPTER II. A Spell Coming. . . . . . . . . . . . 52 CHAPTER III. Mirandy, Hank, and Shocky . . . . . . 57 CHAPTER IV. Spelling Down the Master. . . . . . . 70 CHAPTER V. The Walk Home . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 CHAPTER VI. A Night at Pete Jones's . . . . . . . 97 CHAPTER VII Ominous Remarks of Mr. Jones. . . . . 105 CHAPTER VIII. The Struggle in the Dark. . . . . . . 109 CHAPTER IX. Has God Forgotten Shocky? . . . . . . 114 CHAPTER X. The Devil of Silence. . . . . . . . . 118 CHAPTER XI. Miss Martha Hawkins . . . . . . . . . 125 CHAPTER XII. The Hardshell Preacher. . . . . . . . 133 CHAPTER XIII. A Struggle for the Mastery. . . . . . 143 CHAPTER XIV. A Crisis with Bud . . . . . . . . . . 150 CHAPTER XV. The Church of the Best Licks. . . . . 157 CHAPTER XVI. The Church Militant . . . . . . . . . 163 CHAPTER XVII. A Council of War. . . . . . . . . . . 169 CHAPTER XVIII. Odds and Ends . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 CHAPTER XIX. Face to Face. . . . . . . . . . . . . 180 CHAPTER XX. God Remembers Shocky. . . . . . . . . 185 CHAPTER XXI. Miss Nancy Sawyer . . . . . . . . . . 192 CHAPTER XXII. Pancakes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195 CHAPTER XXIII. A Charitable Institution. . . . . . . 203 CHAPTER XXIV The Good Samaritan. . . . . . . . . . 212 CHAPTER XXV. Bud Wooing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215 CHAPTER XXVI. A Letter and its Consequences . . . . 220 CHAPTER XXVII. A Loss and a Gain . . . . . . . . . . 224 CHAPTER XXVIII. The Flight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228 CHAPTER XXIX. The Trial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234 CHAPTER XXX. "Brother Sodom" . . . . . . . . . . . 249 CHAPTER XXXI. The Trial Concluded . . . . . . . . . 254 CHAPTER XXXII. After the Battle. . . . . . . . . . . 269 CHAPTER XXXIII. Into the Light. . . . . . . . . . . . 274 CHAPTER XXXIV. "How it Came Out" . . . . . . . . . . 278 The Hoosier School-Master. CHAPTER I A PRIVATE LESSON FROM A BULLDOG. "Want to be a school-master, do you? You? Well, what would _you_ do in Flat Crick deestrick, _I'd_ like to know? Why, the boys have driv off the last two, and licked the one afore them like blazes. You might teach a summer school, when nothin' but children come. But I 'low it takes a right smart _man_ to be school-master in Flat Crick in the winter. They'd pitch you out of doors, sonny, neck and heels, afore Christmas." The young man, who had walked ten miles to get the school in this district, and who had been mentally reviewing his learning at every step he took, trembling lest the committee should find that he did not know enough, was not a little taken aback at this greeting from "old Jack Means," who was the first trustee that he lighted on. The impression made by these ominous remarks was emphasized by the glances which he received from Jack Means's two sons. The older one eyed him from the top of his brawny shoulders with that amiable look which a big dog turns on a little one before shaking him. Ralph Hartsook had never thought of being measured by the standard of muscle. This notion of beating education into young savages in spite of themselves dashed his ardor. He had walked right to where Jack Means was at work shaving shingles in his own front yard. While Mr. Means was making the speech which we have set down above, and punctuating it with expectorations, a large brindle bulldog had been sniffing at Ralph's heels, and a girl in a new linsey-woolsey dress, standing by the door, had nearly giggled her head off at the delightful prospect of seeing a new school-teacher eaten up by the ferocious brute. The disheartening words of the old man, the immense muscles of the young man who was to be his rebellious pupil, the jaws of the ugly bulldog, and the heartless giggle of the girl, gave Ralph a delightful sense of having precipitated himself into a den of wild beasts. Faint with weariness and discouragement, and shivering with fear, he sat down on a wheelbarrow. "You, Bull!" said the old man to the dog, which was showing more and more a disposition to make a meal of the incipient pedagogue, "you, Bull! git aout[2], you pup!" The dog walked sullenly off, but not until he had given Ralph a look full of promise of what he meant to do when he got a good chance. Ralph wished himself back in the village of Lewisburg, whence he had come. "You see," continued Mr. Means, spitting in a meditative sort of a way, "you see, we a'n't none of your saft sort in these diggings. It takes a _man_ to boss this deestrick. Howsumdever, ef you think you kin trust your hide in Flat Crick school-house I ha'n't got no 'bjection. But ef you git licked, don't come on us. Flat Crick don't pay no 'nsurance, you bet! Any other trustees? Wal, yes. But as I pay the most taxes, t'others jist let me run the thing. You can begin right off a Monday. They a'n't been no other applications. You see, it takes grit to apply for this school. The last master had a black eye for a month. But, as I wuz sayin', you can jist roll up and wade in. I 'low you've got spunk, maybe, and that goes for a heap sight more'n sinnoo with boys. Walk in, and stay over Sunday with me. You'll hev' to board roun', and I guess you better begin here." Ralph did not go in, but sat out on the wheelbarrow, watching the old man shave shingles, while the boys split the blocks and chopped wood. Bull smelled of the new-comer again in an ugly way, and got a good kick from the older son for his pains. But out of one of his red eyes the dog warned the young school-master that _he_ should yet suffer for all kicks received on his account. "Ef Bull once takes a holt, heaven and yarth can't make him let go," said the older son to Ralph, by way of comfort. It was well for Ralph that he began to "board roun'" by stopping at Mr. Means's. Ralph felt that Flat Creek was what he needed. He had lived a bookish life; but here was his lesson in the art of managing people, for he who can manage the untamed and strapping youths of a winter school in Hoopole County has gone far toward learning one of the hardest of lessons. And in Ralph's time, things were worse than they are now. The older son of Mr. Means was called Bud Means. What his real name was, Ralph could not find out, for in many of these families the nickname of "Bud" given to the oldest boy, and that of "Sis," which is the birth-right of the oldest girl, completely bury the proper Christian name. Ralph saw his first strategic point, which was to capture Bud Means. After supper, the boys began to get ready for something. Bull stuck up his ears in a dignified way, and the three or four yellow curs who were Bull's satellites yelped delightedly and discordantly. "Bill," said Bud Means to his brother, "ax the master ef he'd like to hunt coons. I'd like to take the starch out uv the stuck-up feller." "'Nough said[3]," was Bill's reply. "You durn't[4] do it," said Bud. "I don't take no sech a dare[5]," returned Bill, and walked down to the gate, by which Ralph stood watching the stars come out, and half wishing he had never seen Flat Creek. "I say, mister," began Bill, "mister, they's a coon what's been a eatin' our chickens lately, and we're goin' to try to ketch[6] the varmint. You wouldn't like to take a coon hunt nor nothin', would you?" "Why, yes," said Ralph, "there's nothing I should like better, if I could only be sure Bull wouldn't mistake me for the coon." And so, as a matter of policy, Ralph dragged his tired legs eight or ten miles, on hill and in hollow, after Bud, and Bill, and Bull, and the coon. But the raccoon[7] climbed a tree. The boys got into a quarrel about whose business it was to have brought the axe, and who was to blame that the tree could not be felled. Now, if there was anything Ralph's muscles were good for, it was climbing. So, asking Bud to give him a start, he soon reached the limb above the one on which the raccoon was. Ralph did not know how ugly a customer a raccoon can be, and so got credit for more courage than he had. With much peril to his legs from the raccoon's teeth, he succeeded in shaking the poor creature off among the yelping brutes and yelling boys. Ralph could not help sympathizing with the hunted animal, which sold its life as dearly as possible, giving the dogs many a scratch and bite. It seemed to him that he was like the raccoon, precipitated into the midst of a party of dogs who would rejoice in worrying _his_ life out, as Bull and his crowd were destroying the poor raccoon. When Bull at last seized the raccoon and put an end to it, Ralph could not but admire the decided way in which he did it, calling to mind Bud's comment, "Ef Bull once takes a holt, heaven and yarth[8] can't make him let go." But as they walked home, Bud carrying the raccoon by the tail, Ralph felt that his hunt had not been in vain. He fancied that even red-eyed Bull, walking uncomfortably close to his heels, respected him more since he had climbed that tree. "Purty peart kind of a master," remarked the old man to Bud, after Ralph had gone to bed. "Guess you better be a little easy on him. Hey?" But Bud deigned no reply. Perhaps because he knew that Ralph heard the conversation through the thin partition. Ralph woke delighted to find it raining. He did not want to hunt or fish on Sunday, and this steady rain would enable him to make friends with Bud. I do not know how he got started, but after breakfast he began to tell stories. Out of all the books he had ever read he told story after story. And "old man Means," and "old _Miss_ Means," and Bud Means, and Bill Means, and Sis Means listened with great eyes while he told of Sinbad's adventures, of the Old Man of the Sea, of Robinson Crusoe, of Captain Gulliver's experiences in Liliput, and of Baron Munchausen's exploits. Ralph had caught his fish. The hungry minds of these backwoods people were refreshed with the new life that came to their imaginations in these stories. For there was but one book in the Means library, and that, a well-thumbed copy of "Captain Riley's Narrative," had long since lost all freshness. "I'll be dog-on'd[9]," said Bill, emphatically, "ef I hadn't 'ruther hear the master tell them whoppin' yarns than to go to a circus the best day I ever seed!" Bill could pay no higher compliment. What Ralph wanted was to make a friend of Bud. It's a nice thing to have the seventy-four-gun ship on your own side, and the more Hartsook admired the knotted muscles of Bud Means the more he desired to attach him to himself. So, whenever he struck out a peculiarly brilliant passage, he anxiously watched Bud's eye. But the young Philistine kept his own counsel. He listened, but said nothing, and the eyes under his shaggy brows gave no sign. Ralph could not tell whether those eyes were deep and inscrutable or only stolid. Perhaps a little of both. When Monday morning came, Ralph was nervous. He walked to school with Bud. "I guess you're a little skeered by what the old man said, a'n't you?" Ralph was about to deny it, but on reflection concluded that it was best to speak the truth. He said that Mr. Means's description of the school had made him feel a little down-hearted. "What will you do with the tough boys? You a'n't no match for 'em." And Ralph felt Bud's eyes not only measuring his muscles, but scrutinizing his countenance. He only answered: "I don't know." "What would you do with me, for instance?" and Bud stretched himself up as if to shake out the reserve power coiled up in his great muscles. "I sha'n't have any trouble with you." "Why, I'm the wust chap of all. I thrashed the last master, myself." And again the eyes of Bud Means looked out sharply from his shadowing brows to see the effect of this speech on the slender young man. "You won't thrash me, though," said Ralph. "Pshaw! I 'low I could whip you in an inch of your life with my left hand, and never half try," said young Means, with a threatening sneer. "I know that as well as you do." "Well, a'n't you afraid of me, then?" and again he looked sidewise at Ralph. "Not a bit," said Ralph, wondering at his own courage. They walked on in silence a minute. Bud was turning the matter over. "Why a'n't you afraid of me?" he said presently. "Because you and I are going to be friends." "And what about t'others?" "I am not afraid of all the other boys put together." "You a'n't! The mischief! How's that?" "Well, I'm not afraid of them because you and I are going to be friends, and you can whip all of them together. You'll do the fighting and I'll do the teaching." The diplomatic Bud only chuckled a little at this; whether he assented to the alliance or not Ralph could not tell. When Ralph looked round on the faces of the scholars--the little faces full of mischief and curiosity, the big faces full of an expression which was not further removed than second-cousin from contempt--when when young Hartsook looked into these faces, his heart palpitated with stage-fright. There is no audience so hard to face as one of school-children, as many a man has found to his cost. Perhaps it is that no conventional restraint can keep down their laughter when you do or say anything ridiculous. Hartsook's first day was hurried and unsatisfactory. He was not of himself, and consequently not master of anybody else. When evening came, there were symptoms of insubordination through the whole school. Poor Ralph was sick at heart. He felt that if there had ever been the shadow of an alliance between himself and Bud, it was all "off" now. It seemed to Hartsook that even Bull had lost his respect for the teacher. Half that night the young man lay awake. At last comfort came to him. A reminiscence of the death of the raccoon flashed on him like a vision. He remembered that quiet and annihilating bite which Bull gave. He remembered Bud's certificate, that "Ef Bull once takes a holt, heaven and yarth can't make him let go." He thought that what Flat Creek needed was a bulldog. He would be a bulldog, quiet, but invincible. He would take hold in such a way that nothing should make him let go. And then he went to sleep. In the morning Ralph got out of bed slowly. He put his clothes on slowly. He pulled on his boots in a bulldog mood. He tried to move as he thought Bull would move if he were a man. He ate with deliberation, and looked everybody in the eyes with a manner that made Bud watch him curiously. He found himself continually comparing himself with Bull. He found Bull possessing a strange fascination for him. He walked to school alone, the rest having gone on before. He entered the school-room preserving a cool and dogged manner. He saw in the eyes of the boys that there was mischief brewing. He did not dare sit down in his chair for fear of a pin. Everybody looked solemn. Ralph lifted the lid of his desk. "Bow-wow! wow-wow!" It was the voice of an imprisoned puppy, and the school giggled and then roared. Then everything was quiet. The scholars expected an outburst of wrath from the teacher. For they had come to regard the whole world as divided into two classes, the teacher on the one side representing lawful authority, and the pupils on the other in a state of chronic rebellion. To play a trick on the master was an evidence of spirit; to "lick" the master was to be the crowned hero of Flat Creek district. Such a hero was Bud Means; and Bill, who had less muscle, saw a chance to distinguish himself on a teacher of slender frame. Hence the puppy in the desk. Ralph Hartsook grew red in the face when he saw the puppy. But the cool, repressed, bulldog mood in which he had kept himself saved him. He lifted the dog into his arms and stroked him until the laughter subsided. Then, in a solemn and set way, he began: "I am sorry," and he looked round the room with a steady, hard eye--everybody felt that there was a conflict coming--"I am sorry that any scholar in this school could be so mean"--the word was uttered with a sharp emphasis, and all the big boys felt sure that there would be a fight with Bill Means, and perhaps with Bud--"could be so _mean_--as to--shut up his _brother_ in such a place as that!" There was a long, derisive laugh. The wit was indifferent, but by one stroke Ralph had carried the whole school to his side. By the significant glances of the boys, Hartsook detected the perpetrator of the joke, and with the hard and dogged look in his eyes, with just such a look as Bull would give a puppy, but with the utmost suavity in his voice, he said: "William Means, will you be so good as to put this dog out of doors?" FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 2: _Aout_ is not the common form of _out_, as it is in certain rustic New England regions. The vowel is here drawn in this way for imperative emphasis, and it occurs as a consequence of drawling speech.] [Footnote 3: "_'Nough said_" is more than enough said for the French translator, who takes it apparently for a sort of barbarous negative and renders it, "I don't like to speak to him." I need hardly explain to any American reader that _enough said_ implies the ending of all discussion by the acceptance of the proposition or challenge.] [Footnote 4: _Durn't, daren't, dasent, dursent_, and _don't dast_ are forms of this variable negative heard in the folk-speech of various parts of the country. The tenses of this verb seem to have got hopelessly mixed long ago, even in literary use, and the speech of the people reflects the historic confusion.] [Footnote 5: _To take a dare_ is an expression used in senses diametrically opposed. Its common sense is that of the text. The man who refuses to accept a challenge is said to take a dare, and there is some implication of cowardice in the imputation. On the other hand, one who accepts a challenge is said also to take the dare.] [Footnote 6: Most bad English was once good English. _Ketch_ was used by writers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries for _catch_. A New Hampshire magistrate in the seventeenth century spells it _caitch_, and probably pronounced it in that way. _Ketch_, a boat, was sometimes spelled _catch_ by the first American colonists, and the far-fetched derivation of the word from the Turkish may be one of the fancies of etymologists.] [Footnote 7: The derivation of _raccoon_ from the French _raton_, to which Mr. Skeat gives currency, still holds its place in some of our standard dictionaries. If American lexicographers would only read the literature of American settlement they would know that Mr. Skeat's citation of a translation of Buffon is nearly two centuries too late. As early as 1612 Captain John Smith gives _aroughcune_ as the aboriginal Virginia word, and more than one New England writer used _rackoon_ a few years later.] [Footnote 8: This prefixed _y_ is a mark of a very illiterate or antique form of the dialect. I have known _piece yarthen_ used for "a piece of earthen" [ware], the preposition getting lost in the sound of the _y_. I leave it to etymologists to determine its relation to that ancient prefix that differentiates _earn_ in one sense from _yearn_. But the article before a vowel may account for it if we consider it a corruption. "The earth" pronounced in a drawling way will produce _the yearth_. In the New York Documents is a letter from one Barnard Hodges, a settler in Delaware in the days of Governor Andros, whose spelling indicates a free use of the parasitic _y_. He writes "yunless," "yeunder" (under), "yunderstanding," "yeundertake," and "yeouffeis" (office).] [Footnote 9: Like many of the ear-marks of this dialect, the verb "dog-on" came from Scotland, presumably by the way of the north of Ireland. A correspondent of _The Nation_ calls attention to the use of "dagon" as Scotch dialect in Barrie's "Little Minister," a recent book. On examining that story, I find that the word has precisely the sense of our Hoosier "dog-on," which is to be pronounced broadly as a Hoosier pronounces dog--"daug-on." If Mr. Barrie gives his _a_ the broad sound, his "dagon" is nearly identical with "dog-on." Here are some detached sentences from "The Little Minister:" "Beattie spoke for more than himself when he said: 'Dagon that Manse! I never gie a swear but there it is glowering at me.'" "'Dagon religion,' Rob retorted fiercely; 't spoils a' thing.'" "There was some angry muttering from the crowd, and young Charles Yuill exclaimed, 'Dagon you, would you lord it ower us on week-days as well as on Sabbaths?'" "'Have you on your Sabbath shoon or have you no on your Sabbath shoon?' 'Guid care you took I should ha'e the dagont things on!' retorted the farmer." It will be seen that "dagont," as used above, is the Scotch form of "dog-oned." But Mr. Barrie uses the same form apparently for "dog-on it" in the following passage: "Ay, there was Ruth when she was na wanted, but Ezra, dagont, it looked as if Ezra had jumped clean out o' the Bible!" Strangely enough, this word as a verb is not to be found in Jamieson's dictionary of the Scottish dialect, but Jamieson gives "dugon" as a noun. It is given in the supplement to Jamieson, however, as "dogon," but still as a noun, with an ancient plural _dogonis_. It is explained as "a term of contempt." The example cited by Jamieson is Hogg's "Winter Tales," I. 292, and is as follows: "What wad my father say if I were to marry a man that loot himsel' be thrashed by Tommy Potts, a great supple wi' a back nae stiffer than a willy brand? . . . When one comes to close quarters wi' him he's but a dugon." Halliwell and Wright give _dogon_ as a noun, and mark it Anglo-Norman, but they apparently know it only from Jamieson and the supplement to Jamieson, where _dogguin_ is cited from Cotgrave as meaning "a filthie old curre," and _doguin_ from Roquefort, defined by "brutal, currish" [hargneux]. A word with the same orthography, _doguin_, is still used in French for puppy. It is of course a question whether the noun _dogon_ and its French antecedents are connected with the American verb _dog-on_. It is easy to conceive that such an epithet as _dogon_ might get itself mixed up with the word dog, and so become an imprecation. For instance, a servant in the family of a friend of mine in Indiana, wishing to resign her place before the return of some daughters of the house whom she had never seen, announced that she was going to leave "before them dog-on girls got home." Here the word might have been the old epithet, or an abbreviated participle. _Dogged_ is apparently a corruption of dog-on in the phrase "I'll be dogged." I prefer _dog-on_ to _dogone_, because in the dialect the sense of setting a dog on is frequently present to the speaker, though far enough away from the primitive sense of the word; perhaps.] CHAPTER II. A SPELL COMING. There was a moment of utter stillness; but the magnetism of Ralph's eye was too much for Bill Means. The request was so polite, the master's look was so innocent and yet so determined. Bill often wondered afterward that he had not "fit" rather than obeyed the request. But somehow he put the dog out. He was partly surprised, partly inveighed, partly awed into doing just what he had not intended to do. In the week that followed, Bill had to fight half a dozen boys for calling him "Puppy Means." Bill said he wished he'd licked the master on the spot. 'Twould 'a' saved five fights out of the six. And all that day and the next, the bulldog in the master's eye was a terror to evil-doers. At the close of school on the second day Bud was heard to give it as his opinion that "the master wouldn't be much in a tussle, but he had a heap of thunder and lightning in him." Did he inflict corporal punishment? inquires some philanthropic friend. Would you inflict corporal punishment if you were tiger-trainer in Van Amburgh's happy family? But poor Ralph could never satisfy his constituency in this regard. "Don't believe he'll do," was Mr. Pete Jones's comment to Mr. Means. "Don't thrash enough. Boys won't l'arn 'less you thrash 'em, says I. Leastways, mine won't. Lay it on good is what I says to a master. Lay it on good. Don't do no harm. Lickin' and l'arnin' goes together. No lickin', no l'arnin', says I. Lickin' and l'arnin,' lickin' and larnin', is the good ole way." And Mr. Jones, like some wiser people, was the more pleased with his formula that it had an alliterative sound. Nevertheless, Ralph was master from this time until the spelling-school came. If only it had not been for that spelling-school! Many and many a time after the night of the fatal spelling-school Ralph used to say, "If only it had not been for that spelling-school!" There had to be a spelling-school. Not only for the sake of my story, which would not have been worth the telling if the spelling-school had not taken place, but because Flat Creek district had to have a spelling-school. It is the only public literary exercise known in Hoopole County. It takes the place of lyceum lecture and debating club. Sis Means, or, as she wished now to be called, Mirandy Means, expressed herself most positively in favor of it. She said that she 'lowed the folks in that district couldn't in no wise do without it. But it was rather to its social than to its intellectual benefits that she referred. For all the spelling-schools ever seen could not enable her to stand anywhere but at the foot of the class. There is one branch diligently taught in a backwoods school. The public mind seems impressed with the difficulties of English orthography, and there is a solemn conviction that the chief end of man is to learn to spell. "'Know Webster's Elementary' came down from Heaven," would be the backwoods version of the 'Greek saying but that, unfortunately for the Greeks, their fame has not reached so far. It often happens that the pupil does not know the meaning of a single word in the lesson. This is of no consequence. What do you want to know the meaning of a word for? Words were made to be spelled, and men were probably created that they might spell them. Hence the necessity for sending a pupil through the spelling-book five times before you allow him to begin to read, or indeed to do anything else. Hence the necessity for those long spelling-classes at the close of each forenoon and afternoon session of the school, to stand at the head of which is the cherished ambition of every scholar. Hence, too, the necessity for devoting the whole of the afternoon session of each Friday to a "spelling-match." In fact, spelling is the "national game" in Hoopole County. Baseball and croquet matches are as unknown as Olympian chariot-races. Spelling and shucking[10] are the only public competitions. So the fatal spelling-school had to be appointed for the Wednesday of the second week of the session, just when Ralph felt himself master of the situation. Not that he was without his annoyances. One of Ralph's troubles in the week before the spelling-school was that he was loved. The other that he was hated. And while the time between the appointing of the spelling tournament and the actual occurrence of that remarkable event is engaged in elapsing, let me narrate two incidents that made it for Ralph a trying time. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 10: In naming the several parts of the Indian corn and the dishes made from it, the English language was put to many shifts. Such words as _tassel_ and _silk_ were poetically applied to the blossoms; _stalk_, _blade_, and _ear_ were borrowed from other sorts of corn, and the Indian tongues were forced to pay tribute to name the dishes borrowed from the savages. From them we have _hominy_, _pone_, _supawn_, and _succotash_. For other nouns words were borrowed from English provincial dialects. _Shuck_ is one of these. On the northern belt, shucks are the outer covering of nuts; in the middle and southern regions the word is applied to what in New England is called the husks of the corn. _Shuck_, however, is much more widely used than _husk_ in colloquial speech--the farmers in more than half of the United States are hardly acquainted with the word _husk_ as applied to the envelope of the ear. _Husk_, in the Middle States, and in some parts of the South and West, means the bran of the cornmeal, as notably in Davy Crockett's verse: "She sifted the meal, she gimme the hus'; She baked the bread, she gimme the crus'; She b'iled the meat, she gimme the bone; She gimme a kick and sent me home." In parts of Virginia, before the war, the word _husk_ or _hus'_ meant the cob or spike of the corn. "I smack you over wid a cawn-hus'" is a threat I have often heard one negro boy make to another. _Cob_ is provincial English for ear, and I have known "a cob of corn" used in Canada for an ear of Indian corn. While writing this note "a cob of Indian corn "--meaning an ear--appears in the report of an address by a distinguished man at a recent meeting of the Royal Geographical Society. A lady tells me that she met, in the book of an English traveller, the remarkable statement that "the Americans are very fond of the young grain called cob." These Indian-corn words have reached an accepted meaning after a competition. To _shell_ corn, among the earliest settlers of Virginia, meant to take it out of the envelope, which was presumably called the shell. The analogy is with the shelling of pulse.] CHAPTER III. MIRANDY, HANK, AND SHOCKY. Mirandy had nothing but contempt for the new master until he developed the bulldog in his character. Mirandy fell in love with the bulldog. Like many other girls of her class, she was greatly enamored with the "subjection of women," and she stood ready to fall in love with any man strong enough to be her master. Much has been said of the strong-minded woman. I offer this psychological remark as a contribution to the natural history of the weak-minded woman. It was at the close of that very second day on which Ralph had achieved his first victory over the school, and in which Mirandy had been seized with her desperate passion for him, that she told him about it. Not in words. We do not allow _that_ in the most civilized countries, and still less would it be tolerated in Hoopole County. But Mirandy told the master the fact that she was in love with him, though no word passed her lips. She walked by him from school. She cast at him what are commonly called sheep's-eyes. Ralph thought them more like calf's eyes. She changed the whole tone of her voice. She whined ordinarily. Now she whimpered. And so by ogling him, by blushing at him, by tittering at him, by giggling at him, by snickering at him, by simpering at him, by making herself tenfold more a fool even than nature had made her, she managed to convey to the dismayed soul of the young teacher the frightful intelligence that he was loved by the richest, the ugliest, the silliest, the coarsest, and the most entirely contemptible girl in Flat Creek district. Ralph sat by the fire the next morning trying to read a few minutes before school-time, while the boys were doing the chores and the bound girl was milking the cows, with no one in the room but the old woman. She was generally as silent as Bud, but now she seemed for some unaccountable reason disposed to talk. She had sat down on the broad hearth to have her usual morning smoke; the poplar table, adorned by no cloth, stood in the middle of the floor; the unwashed blue teacups sat in the unwashed blue saucers; the unwashed blue plates kept company with the begrimed blue pitcher. The dirty skillets by the fire were kept in countenance by the dirtier pots, and the ashes were drifted and strewn over the hearth-stones in a most picturesque way. "You see," said the old woman, knocking the residuum from her cob pipe, and chafing some dry leaf between her withered hands preparatory to filling it again, "you see, Mr. Hartsook, my ole man's purty well along in the world. He's got a right smart lot of this world's plunder[11], one way and another." And while she stuffed the tobacco into her pipe Ralph wondered why she should mention it to him. "You see, we moved in here nigh upon twenty-five years ago. 'Twas when my Jack, him as died afore Bud was born, was a baby. Bud'll be twenty-one the fif' of next June." Here Mrs. Means stopped to rake a live coal out of the fire with her skinny finger, and then to carry it in her skinny palm to the bowl--or to the _hole_--of her cob pipe. When she got the smoke a-going, she proceeded: "You see, this yere bottom land was all Congress land[12] in them there days, and it sold for a dollar and a quarter, and I says to my ole man, 'Jack,' says I, 'Jack, do you git a plenty while you're a-gittin'. Git a plenty while you're a-gittin',' says I, 'fer 'twon't never be no cheaper'n 'tis now,' and it ha'n't been; I knowed 'twouldn't," and Mrs. Means took the pipe from her mouth to indulge in a good chuckle at the thought of her financial shrewdness. "'Git a plenty while you're a-gittin' says I. I could see, you know, they was a powerful sight of money in Congress land. That's what made me say, 'Git a plenty while you're a-gittin'.' And Jack, he's wuth lots and gobs of money, all made out of Congress land. Jack didn't git rich by hard work. Bless you, no! Not him. That a'n't his way. Hard work a'n't, you know. 'Twas that air six hundred dollars he got along of me, all salted down into Flat Crick bottoms at a dollar and a quarter a' acre, and 'twas my sayin' 'Git a plenty while you're a gittin'' as done it." And here the old ogre laughed, or grinned horribly, at Ralph, showing her few straggling, discolored teeth. Then she got up and knocked the ashes out of her pipe, and laid the pipe away and walked round In front of Ralph. After adjusting the chunks[13] so that the fire would burn, she turned her yellow face toward Ralph, and scanning him closely came out with the climax of her speech in the remark: "You see as how, Mr. Hartsook, the man what gits my Mirandy'll do well. Flat Crick land's wuth nigt upon a hundred a' acre." This gentle hint came near knocking Ralph down. Had Flat Creek land been worth a hundred times a hundred dollars an acre, and had he owned five hundred times Means's five hundred acres, he would have given it all just at that moment to have annihilated the whole tribe of Meanses. Except Bud. Bud was a giant, but a good-natured one. He thought he would except Bud from the general destruction. As for the rest, he mentally pictured to himself the pleasure of attending their funerals. There was one thought, however, between him and despair. He felt confident that the cordiality, the intensity, and the persistency of his dislike of Sis Means were such that he should never inherit a foot of the Flat Creek bottoms. But what about Bud? What if he joined the conspiracy to marry him to this weak-eyed, weak-headed wood-nymph, or backwoods nymph? If Ralph felt it a misfortune to be loved by Mirandy Means, he found himself almost equally unfortunate in having incurred the hatred of the meanest boy in school. "Hank" Banta, low-browed, smirky, and crafty, was the first sufferer by Ralph's determination to use corporal punishment, and so Henry Banta, who was a compound of deceit and resentment, never lost an opportunity to annoy the young school-master, who was obliged to live perpetually on his guard against his tricks. One morning, as Ralph walked toward the school-house, he met little Shocky. What the boy's first name or last name was the teacher did not know. He had given his name as Shocky, and all the teacher knew was that he was commonly called Shocky, that he was an orphan, that he lived with a family named Pearson over in Rocky Hollow, and that he was the most faithful and affectionate child in the school. On this morning that I speak of, Ralph had walked toward the school early to avoid the company of Mirandy. But not caring to sustain his dignity longer than was necessary, he loitered along the road, admiring the trunks of the maples, and picking up a beech-nut now and then. Just as he was about to go on toward the school, he caught sight of little Shocky running swiftly toward him, but looking from side to side, as if afraid of being seen. [Illustration: BETSY SHORT] "Well, Shocky, what is it?" and Ralph put his hand kindly on the great bushy head of white hair from which came Shocky's nickname. Shocky had to pant a minute. "Why, Mr. Hartsook," he gasped, scratching his head, "they's a pond down under the school-house," and here Shocky's breath gave out entirely for a minute. "Yes, Shocky, I know that. What about it? The trustees haven't come to fill it up, have they?" "Oh! no, sir; but Hank Banta, you know--" and Shocky took another breathing spell, standing as dose to Ralph as he could, for poor Shocky got all his sunshine from the master's presence. "Has Henry fallen in and got a ducking, Shocky?" "Oh! no, sir; he wants to git you in, you see." "Well, I won't go in, though, Shocky." "But, you see, he's been and gone and pulled back the board that you have to step on to git ahind your desk; he's been and gone and pulled back the board so as you can't help a-tippin' it up, and a-sowsin' right in ef you step there." "And so you came to tell me." There was a huskiness in Ralph's voice. He had, then, one friend in Flat Creek district--poor little Shocky. He put his arm around Shocky just a moment, and then told him to hasten across to the other road, so as to come back to the school-house in a direction at right angles to the master's approach. But the caution was not needed. Shocky had taken care to leave in that way, and was altogether too cunning to be seen coming down the road with Mr. Hartsook. But after he got over the fence to go through the "sugar camp" (or sugar _orchard_, as they say at the East), he stopped and turned back once or twice, just to catch one more smile from Ralph. And then he hied away through the tall trees, a very happy boy, kicking and ploughing the brown leaves before him in his perfect delight, saying over and over again: "How he looked at me! how he did look!" And when Ralph came up to the school-house door, there was Shocky sauntering along from the other direction, throwing bits of limestone at fence rails, and smiling still clear down to his shoes at thought of the master's kind words. "What a quare boy Shocky is!" remarked Betsey Short, with a giggle. "He just likes to wander round alone. I see him a-comin' out of the sugar camp just now. He's been in there half an hour." And Betsey giggled again; for Betsey Short could giggle on slighter provocation than any other girl on Flat Creek. When Ralph Hartsook, with the quiet, dogged tread that he was cultivating, walked into the school-room, he took great care not to seem to see the trap set for him; but he carelessly stepped over the board that had been so nicely adjusted. The boys who were Hank's confidants in the plot were very busy over their slates, and took pains not to show their disappointment. The morning session wore on without incident. Ralph several times caught two people looking at him. One was Mirandy. Her weak and watery eyes stole loving glances over the top of her spelling-book, which she would not study. Her looks made Ralph's spirits sink to forty below zero, and congeal. But on one of the backless little benches that sat in the middle of the school-room was little Shocky, who also cast many love glances at the young master; glances as grateful to his heart as Mirandy's ogling--he was tempted to call it ogring--was hateful. "Look at Shocky," giggled Betsey Short, behind her slate. "He looks as if he was a-goin' to eat the master up, body and soul." And so the forenoon wore on as usual, and those who laid the trap had forgotten it, themselves. The morning session was drawing to a close. The fire in the great old fire-place had burnt low. The flames, which seemed to Shocky to be angels, had disappeared, and now the bright coals, which had played the part of men and women and houses in Shocky's fancy, had taken on a white and downy covering of ashes, and the great half-burnt back-log lay there smouldering like a giant asleep in a snow-drift. Shocky longed to wake him up. As for Henry Banta, he was too much bothered to get the answer to a "sum" he was doing, to remember anything about his trap. In fact, he had quite forgotten that half an hour ago in the all-absorbing employment of drawing ugly pictures on his slate and coaxing Betsey Short to giggle by showing them slyly across the school-room. Once or twice Ralph had been attracted to Betsey's extraordinary fits of giggling, and had come so near to catching Hank that the boy thought it best not to run any further risk of the beech switches, four or five feet long, laid up behind the master in sight of the school as a prophylactic. Hence his application just now to his "sum" in long division, and hence his puzzled look, for, idler that he was, his "sums" did not solve themselves easily. As usual in such cases, he came up in front of the master's desk to have the difficulty explained. He had to wait a minute until Ralph got through with showing Betsey Short, who had been seized with a studying fit, and who could hardly give any attention to the teacher's explanations, she did want to giggle so much! Not at anything in particular, but just at things in general. While Ralph was "doing" Betsey's "sum" for her, he was solving a much more difficult question. A plan had flashed upon him, but the punishment seemed a severe one. He gave it up once or twice, but he remembered how turbulent the Flat Creek elements were; and had he not inly resolved to be as unrelenting as a bulldog? He fortified himself by recalling again the oft-remembered remark of Bud, "Ef Bull wunst takes a holt, heaven and yarth can't make him let go." And so he resolved to give Hank and the whole school one good lesson. "Just step round behind me, Henry, and you can see how I do this," said Ralph. Hank was entirely off his guard, and, with his eyes fixed upon the slate on the teacher's desk, he sidled round upon the broad loose board misplaced by his own hand, and in an instant the other end of the board rose up in the middle of the school-room, almost striking Shocky in the face, while Henry Banta went down into the ice-cold water beneath the school-house. "Why, Henry!" cried Ralph, jumping to his feet with well-feigned surprise. "How _did_ this happen?" him by the fire. Betsey Short giggled. Shocky was so tickled that he could hardly keep his seat. The boys who were in the plot looked very serious indeed. Ralph made some remarks by way of improving the occasion. He spoke strongly of the utter meanness of the one who could play so heartless a trick on a schoolmate. He said that it was as much thieving to get your fun at the expense of another as to steal his money. And while he talked, all eyes were turned on Hank--all except the eyes of Mirandy Means. They looked simperingly at Ralph. All the rest looked at Hank. The fire had made his face very red. Shocky noticed that. Betsey Short noticed it, and giggled. The master wound up with an appropriate quotation from Scripture. He said that the person who displaced that board had better not be encouraged by the success--he said _success_ with a curious emphasis--of the present experiment to attempt another trick of the kind. For it was set down in the Bible that if a man dug a pit for the feet of another he would be very likely to fall in it himself. Which made all the pupils look solemn, except Betsey Short, who giggled. And Shocky wanted to. And Mirandy cast an expiring look at Ralph. And if the teacher was not love-sick, he certainly was sick of Mirandy's love. [Illustration: HANK BANTA'S IMPROVED PLUNGE BATH] When school was "let out," Ralph gave Hank every caution that he could about taking cold, and even lent him his overcoat, very much against Hank's will. For Hank had obstinately refused to go home before the school was dismissed. Then the master walked out in a quiet and subdued way to spend the noon recess in the woods, while Shocky watched his retreating footsteps with loving admiration. And the pupils not in the secret canvassed the question of who moved the board. Bill Means said he'd bet Hank did it, which set Betsey Short off in an uncontrollable giggle. And Shocky listened innocently. But that night Bud said slyly: "Thunder and lightning! what a manager you _air_, Mr. Hartsook!" To which Ralph returned no reply except a friendly smile. Muscle paid tribute to brains that time. But Ralph had no time for exultation; for just here came the spelling-school. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 11: This word _plunder_ is probably from Pennsylvania, as it is exactly equivalent to the German word _plunder_, in the sense of household effects, the original meaning of the word in German. Any kind of baggage may be called _plunder_, but the most accepted sense is household goods. It is quite seriously used. I have seen bills of lading on the Western waters certifying that A.B. had shipped "1 lot of plunder;" that is, household goods. It is here used figuratively for goods in general.] [Footnote 12: _Congress land_ was the old designation for land owned by the government. Under the Confederation, the Congress was the government, and the forms of speech seem to have long retained the notion that what belonged to the United States was the property of Congress.] [Footnote 13: The commonest use of the word _chunk_ in the old days was for the ends of the sticks of cord-wood burned in the great fireplaces. As the sticks burned in two, the chunks fell down or rolled back on the wall side of the andirons. By putting the chunks together, a new fire was set a-going without fresh wood. This use of the word is illustrated in a folk-rhyme or nursery jingle of the country which has neither sense nor elegance to recommend it: "Old Mother Hunk She got drunk And fell in the fire And kicked up a chunk." ] CHAPTER IV. SPELLING DOWN THE MASTER. "I 'low," said Mrs. Means, as she stuffed the tobacco into her cob pipe after supper on that eventful Wednesday evening: "I 'low they'll app'int the Squire to gin out the words to-night. They mos' always do, you see, kase he's the peartest[14] _ole_ man in this deestrick; and I 'low some of the young fellers would have to git up and dust ef they would keep up to him. And he uses sech remarkable smart words. He speaks so polite, too. But laws! don't I remember when he was poarer nor Job's turkey? Twenty year ago, when he come to these 'ere diggings, that air Squire Hawkins was a poar Yankee school-master, that said 'pail' instid of bucket, and that called a cow a 'caow,' and that couldn't tell to save his gizzard what we meant by '_low_[15] and by _right smart_[16]. But he's larnt our ways now, an' he's jest as civilized as the rest of us. You would-n know he'd ever been a Yankee. He didn't stay poar long. Not he. He jest married a right rich girl! He! he!" And the old woman grinned at Ralph, and then at Mirandy, and then at the rest, until Ralph shuddered. Nothing was so frightful to him as to be fawned on by this grinning ogre, whose few lonesome, blackish teeth seemed ready to devour him. "He didn't stay poar, you bet a hoss!" and with this the coal was deposited on the pipe, and the lips began to crack like parchment as each puff of smoke escaped. "He married rich, you see," and here another significant look at the young master, and another fond look at Mirandy, as she puffed away reflectively. "His wife hadn't no book-larnin'. She'd been through the spellin'-book wunst, and had got as fur as 'asperity' on it a second time. But she couldn't read a word when she was married, and never could. She warn't overly smart. She hadn't hardly got the sense the law allows. But schools was skase in them air days, and, besides, book-larnin' don't do no good to a woman. Makes her stuck up. I never knowed but one gal in my life as had ciphered into fractions, and she was so dog-on stuck up that she turned up her nose one night at a apple-peelin' bekase I tuck a sheet off the bed to splice out the table-cloth, which was rather short. And the sheet was mos' clean too. Had-n been slep on more'n wunst or twicet. But I was goin' fer to say that when Squire Hawkins married Virginny Gray he got a heap o' money, or, what's the same thing mostly, a heap o' good land. And that's better'n book-larnin', says I. Ef a gal had gone clean through all eddication, and got to the rule of three itself, that would-n buy a feather-bed. Squire Hawkins jest put eddication agin the gal's farm, and traded even, an' ef ary one of 'em got swindled, I never heerd no complaints." And here she looked at Ralph in triumph, her hard face splintering into the hideous semblance of a smile. And Mirandy cast a blushing, gushing, all-imploring, and all-confiding look on the young master. "I say, ole woman," broke in old Jack, "I say, wot is all this 'ere spoutin' about the Square fer?" and old Jack, having bit off an ounce of "pigtail," returned the plug to his pocket. As for Ralph, he fell into a sort of terror. He had a guilty feeling that this speech of the old lady's had somehow committed him beyond recall to Mirandy. He did not see visions of breach-of-promise suits. But he trembled at the thought of an avenging big brother. "Hanner, you kin come along, too, ef you're a mind, when you git the dishes washed," said Mrs. Means to the bound girl, as she shut and latched the back door. The Means family had built a new house in front of the old one, as a sort of advertisement of bettered circumstances, an eruption of shoddy feeling; but when the new building was completed, they found themselves unable to occupy it for anything else than a lumber room, and so, except a parlor which Mirandy had made an effort to furnish a little (in hope of the blissful time when somebody should "set up" with her of evenings), the new building was almost unoccupied, and the family went in and out through the back door, which, indeed, was the front door also, for, according to a curious custom, the "front" of the house was placed toward the south, though the "big road" (Hoosier for _highway_) ran along the north-west side, or, rather, past the north-west corner of it. When the old woman had spoken thus to Hannah and had latched the door, she muttered, "That gal don't never show no gratitude fer favors;" to which Bud rejoined that he didn't think she had no great sight to be pertickler thankful fer. To which Mrs. Means made no reply, thinking it best, perhaps, not to wake up her dutiful son on so interesting a theme as her treatment of Hannah. Ralph felt glad that he was this evening to go to another boarding place. He should not hear the rest of the controversy. Ralph walked to the school-house with Bill. They were friends again. For when Hank Banta's ducking and his dogged obstinacy in sitting in his wet clothes had brought on a serious fever, Ralph had called together the big boys, and had said: "We must take care of one another, boys. Who will volunteer to take turns sitting up with Henry?" He put his own name down, and all the rest followed. "William Means and myself will sit up to-night," said Ralph. And poor Bill had been from that moment the teacher's friend. He was chosen to be Ralph's companion. He was Puppy Means no longer! Hank could not be conquered by kindness, and the teacher was made to feel the bitterness of his resentment long after. But Bill Means was for the time entirely placated, and he and Ralph went to spelling-school together. Every family furnished a candle. There were yellow dips and white dips, burning, smoking, and flaring. There was laughing, and talking, and giggling, and simpering, and ogling, and flirting, and courting. What a full-dress party is to Fifth Avenue, a spelling-school is to Hoopole County. It is an occasion which is metaphorically inscribed with this legend: "Choose your partners." Spelling is only a blind in Hoopole County, as is dancing on Fifth Avenue. But as there are some in society who love dancing for its own sake, so in Flat Creek district there were those who loved spelling for its own sake, and who, smelling the battle from afar, had come to try their skill in this tournament, hoping to freshen the laurels they had won in their school-days. "I 'low," said Mr. Means, speaking as the principal school trustee, "I 'low our friend the Square is jest the man to boss this 'ere consarn to-night. Ef nobody objects, I'll app'int him. Come, Square, don't be bashful. Walk up to the trough, fodder or no fodder, as the man said to his donkey." There was a general giggle at this, and many of the young swains took occasion to nudge the girls alongside them, ostensibly for the purpose of making them see the joke, but really for the pure pleasure of nudging. The Greeks figured Cupid as naked, probably because he wears so many disguises that they could not select a costume for him. The Squire came to the front. Ralph made an inventory of the agglomeration which bore the name of Squire Hawkins, as follows: 1. A swallow-tail coat of indefinite age, worn only on state occasions^ when its owner was called to figure in his public capacity. Either the Squire had grown too large or the coat too small. 2. A pair of black gloves, the most phenomenal, abnormal, and unexpected apparition conceivable in Flat Creek district, where the preachers wore no coats in the summer, and where a black glove was never seen except on the hands of the Squire. 3. A wig of that dirty, waxen color so common to wigs. This one showed a continual inclination to slip off the owner's smooth, bald pate, and the Squire had frequently to adjust it. As his hair had been red, the wig did not accord with his face, and the hair ungrayed was doubly discordant with a countenance shrivelled by age. 4. A semicircular row of whiskers hedging the edge of the jaw and chin. These were dyed a frightful dead-black, such a color as belonged to no natural hair or beard that ever existed. At the roots there was a quarter of an inch of white, giving the whiskers the appearance of having been stuck on. 5. A pair of spectacles "with tortoise-shell rim." Wont to slip off. 6. A glass eye, purchased of a peddler, and differing in color from its natural mate, perpetually getting out of focus by turning in or out. 7. A set of false teeth, badly fitted, and given to bobbing up and down. 8. The Squire proper, to whom these patches were loosely attached. It is an old story that a boy wrote home to his father begging him to come West, because "mighty mean men get into office out here." But Ralph concluded that some Yankees had taught school in Hoopole County who would not have held a high place in the educational institutions of Massachusetts. Hawkins had some New England idioms, but they were well overlaid by a Western pronunciation. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, shoving up his spectacles, and sucking his lips over his white teeth to keep them in place, "ladies and gentlemen, young men and maidens, raley I'm obleeged to Mr. Means fer this honor," and the Squire took both hands and turned the top of his head round half an inch. Then he adjusted his spectacles. Whether he was obliged to Mr. Means for the honor of being compared to a donkey was not clear. "I feel in the inmost compartments of my animal spirits a most happifying sense of the success and futility of all my endeavors to sarve the people of Flat Creek deestrick, and the people of Tomkins township, in my weak way and manner." This burst of eloquence was delivered with a constrained air and an apparent sense of a danger that he, Squire Hawkins, might fall to pieces in his weak way and manner, and of the success and futility of all attempts at reconstruction. For by this time the ghastly pupil of the left eye, which was black, was looking away round to the left, while the little blue one on the right twinkled cheerfully toward the front. The front teeth would drop down so that the Squire's mouth was kept nearly closed, and his words whistled through. "I feel as if I could be grandiloquent on this interesting occasion," twisting his scalp round, "but raley I must forego any such exertions. It is spelling you want. Spelling is the corner-stone, the grand, underlying subterfuge, of a good eddication. I put the spellin'-book prepared by the great Daniel Webster alongside the Bible. I do, raley. I think I may put it ahead of the Bible. For if it wurn't fer spellin'-books and sich occasions as these, where would the Bible be? I should like to know. The man who got up, who compounded this work of inextricable valoo was a benufactor to the whole human race or any other." Here the spectacles fell off. The Squire replaced them in some confusion, gave the top of his head another twist, and felt of his glass eye, while poor Shocky stared in wonder, and Betsey Short rolled from side to side in the effort to suppress her giggle. Mrs. Means and the other old ladies looked the applause they could not speak. "I app'int Larkin Lanham and Jeems Buchanan fer captings," said the Squire. And the two young men thus named took a stick and tossed it from hand to hand to decide which should have the "first choice." One tossed the stick to the other, who held it fast just where he happened to catch it. Then the first placed his hand above the second, and so the hands were alternately changed to the top. The one who held the stick last without room for the other to take hold had gained the lot. This was tried three times. As Larkin held the stick twice out of three times, he had the choice. He hesitated a moment. Everybody looked toward tall Jim Phillips. But Larkin was fond of a venture on unknown seas, and so he said, "I take the master," while a buzz of surprise ran round the room, and the captain of the other side, as if afraid his opponent would withdraw the choice, retorted quickly, and with a little smack of exultation and defiance in his voice, "And _I_ take Jeems Phillips." And soon all present, except a few of the old folks, found themselves ranged in opposing hosts, the poor spellers lagging in, with what grace they could, at the foot of the two divisions. The Squire opened his spelling-book and began to give out the words to the two captains, who stood up and spelled against each other. It was not long until Larkin spelled "really" with one _l_, and had to sit down in confusion, while a murmur of satisfaction ran through the ranks of the opposing forces. His own side bit their lips. The slender figure of the young teacher took the place of the fallen leader, and the excitement made the house very quiet. Ralph dreaded the loss of prestige he would suffer if he should be easily spelled down. And at the moment of rising he saw in the darkest corner the figure of a well-dressed young man sitting in the shadow. Why should his evil genius haunt him? But by a strong effort he turned his attention away from Dr. Small, and listened carefully to the words which the Squire did not pronounce very distinctly, spelling them with extreme deliberation. This gave him an air of hesitation which disappointed those on his own side. They wanted him to spell with a dashing assurance. But he did not begin a word until he had mentally felt his way through it. After ten minutes of spelling hard words Jeems Buchanan, the captain on the other side, spelled "atrocious" with an _s_ instead of a _c_, and subsided, his first choice, Jeems Phillips, coming up against the teacher. This brought the excitement to fever-heat. For though Ralph was chosen first, it was entirely on trust, and most of the company were disappointed. The champion who now stood up against the school-master was a famous speller. Jim Phillips was a tall, lank, stoop-shouldered fellow who had never distinguished himself in any other pursuit than spelling. Except in this one art of spelling he was of no account. He could not catch well or bat well in ball. He could not throw well enough to make his mark in that famous West ern game of bull-pen. He did not succeed well in any study but that of Webster's Elementary. But in that he was--to use the usual Flat Creek locution--in that he was "a boss." This genius for spelling is in some people a sixth sense, a matter of intuition. Some spellers are born, and not made, and their facility reminds one of the mathematical prodigies that crop out every now and then to bewilder the world. Bud Means, foreseeing that Ralph would be pitted against Jim Phillips, had warned his friend that Jim could "spell like thunder and lightning," and that it "took a powerful smart speller" to beat him, for he knew "a heap of spelling-book." To have "spelled down the master" is next thing to having whipped the biggest bully in Hoopole County, and Jim had "spelled down" the last three masters. He divided the hero-worship of the district with Bud Means. For half an hour the Squire gave out hard words. What a blessed thing our crooked orthography is! Without it there could be no spelling-schools. As Ralph discovered his opponent's mettle he became more and more cautious. He was now satisfied that Jim would eventually beat him. The fellow evidently knew more about the spelling-book than old Noah Webster himself. As he stood there, with his dull face and long sharp nose, his hands behind his back, and his voice spelling infallibly, it seemed to Hartsook that his superiority must lie in his nose. Ralph's cautiousness answered a double purpose; it enabled him to tread surely, and it was mistaken by Jim for weakness. Phillips was now confident that he should carry off the scalp of the fourth school-master before the evening was over. He spelled eagerly, confidently, brilliantly. Stoop-shouldered as he was, he began to straighten up. In the minds of all the company the odds were in his favor. He saw this, and became ambitious to distinguish himself by spelling without giving the matter any thought. Ralph always believed that he would have been speedily defeated by Phillips had it not been for two thoughts which braced him. The sinister shadow of young Dr. Small sitting in the dark corner by the water-bucket nerved him. A victory over Phillips was a defeat to one who wished only ill to the young school-master. The other thought that kept his pluck alive was the recollection of Bull. He approached a word as Bull approached the raccoon. He did not take hold until he was sure of his game. When he took hold, it was with a quiet assurance of success. As Ralph spelled in this dogged way for half an hour the hardest words the Squire could find, the excitement steadily rose in all parts of the house, and Ralph's friends even ventured to whisper that "maybe Jim had cotched his match, after all!" But Phillips never doubted of his success. "Theodolite," said the Squire. "T-h-e, the o-d, od, theod, o, theodo, l-y-t-e, theodolite," spelled the champion. "Next," said the Squire, nearly losing his teeth In his excitement. Ralph spelled the word slowly and correctly, and the conquered champion sat down In confusion. The excitement was so great for some minutes that the spelling was suspended. Everybody In the house had shown sympathy with one or the other of the combatants, except the silent shadow in the corner. It had not moved during the contest, and did not show any interest now in the result. "Gewhilliky crickets! Thunder and lightning! Licked him all to smash!" said Bud, rubbing his hands on his knees, "That beats my time all holler!" And Betsey Short giggled until her tuck-comb fell out, though she was on the defeated side. Shocky got up and danced with pleasure. But one suffocating look from the aqueous eyes of Mirandy destroyed the last spark of Ralph's pleasure in his triumph, and sent that awful below-zero feeling all through him. "He's powerful smart, is the master," said old Jack to Mr. Pete Jones. "He'll beat the whole kit and tuck of 'em afore he's through. I know'd he was smart. That's the reason I tuck him," proceeded Mr. Means. "Yaas, but he don't lick enough. Not nigh," answered Pete Jones. "No lickin', no larnin', says I." It was now not so hard. The other spellers on the opposite side went down quickly under the hard words which the Squire gave out. The master had mowed down all but a few, his opponents had given up the battle, and all had lost their keen interest in a contest to which there could be but one conclusion, for there were only the poor spellers left. But Ralph Hartsook ran against a stump where he was least expecting it. It was the Squire's custom, when one of the smaller scholars or poorer spellers rose to spell against the master, to give out eight or ten easy words, that they might have some breathing-spell before being slaughtered, and then to give a poser or two which soon settled them. He let them run a little, as a cat does a doomed mouse. There was now but one person left on the opposite side, and, as she rose in her blue calico dress, Ralph recognized Hannah, the bound girl at old Jack Means's. She had not attended school in the district, and had never spelled in spelling-school before, and was chosen last as an uncertain quantity. The Squire began with easy words of two syllables, from that page of Webster, so well known to all who ever thumbed it, as "baker," from the word that stands at the top of the page. She spelled these words in an absent and uninterested manner. As everybody knew that she would have to go down as soon as this preliminary skirmishing was over, everybody began to get ready to go home, and already there was the buzz of preparation. Young men were timidly asking girls if "they could see them safe home," which was the approved formula, and were trembling in mortal fear of "the mitten." Presently the Squire, thinking it time to close the contest, pulled his scalp forward, adjusted his glass eye, which had been examining his nose long enough, and turned over the leaves of the book to the great words at the place known to spellers as "incomprehensibility," and began to give out those "words of eight syllables with the accent on the sixth." Listless scholars now turned round, and ceased to whisper, in order to be in at the master's final triumph. But to their surprise "ole Miss Meanses' white nigger," as some of them called her in allusion to her slavish life, spelled these great words with as perfect ease as the master. Still not doubting the result, the Squire turned from place to place and selected all the hard words he could find. The school became utterly quiet, the excitement was too great for the ordinary buzz. Would "Meanses' Hanner" beat the master? beat the master that had laid out Jim Phillips? Everybody's sympathy was now turned to Hannah. Ralph noticed that even Shocky had deserted him, and that his face grew brilliant every time Hannah spelled a word. In fact, Ralph deserted himself. As he saw the fine, timid face of the girl so long oppressed flush and shine with interest; as he looked at the rather low but broad and intelligent brow and the fresh, white complexion and saw the rich, womanly nature coming to the surface under the influence of applause and sympathy--he did not want to beat. If he had not felt that a victory given would insult her, he would have missed intentionally. The bulldog, the stern, relentless setting of the will, had gone, he knew not whither. And there had come in its place, as he looked in that face, a something which he did not understand. You did not, gentle reader, the first time it came to you. The Squire was puzzled. He had given out all the hard words in the book. He again pulled the top of his head forward. Then he wiped his spectacles and put them on. Then out of the depths of his pocket he fished up a list of words just coming into use in those days--words not in the spelling-book. He regarded the paper attentively with his blue right eye. His black left eye meanwhile fixed itself in such a stare on Mirandy Means that she shuddered and hid her eyes in her red silk handkerchief. "Daguerreotype," sniffed the Squire. It was Ralph's turn. "D-a-u, dau--" "Next." And Hannah spelled it right. Such a buzz followed that Betsey Short's giggle could not be heard, but Shocky shouted: "Hanner beat! my Hanner spelled down the master!" And Ralph went over and congratulated her. And Dr. Small sat perfectly still in the corner. And then the Squire called them to order, and said: "As our friend Hanner Thomson is the only one left on her side, she will have to spell against nearly all on t'other side. I shall therefore take the liberty of procrastinating the completion of this interesting and exacting contest until to-morrow evening. I hope our friend Hanner may again carry off the cypress crown of glory. There is nothing better for us than healthful and kindly simulation." Dr. Small, who knew the road to practice, escorted Mirandy, and Bud went home with somebody else. The others of the Means family hurried on, while Hannah, the champion, stayed behind a minute to speak to Shocky. Perhaps it was because Ralph saw that Hannah must go alone that he suddenly remembered having left something which was of no consequence, and resolved to go round by Mr. Means's and get it. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 14: _Peart_ or peert is only another form of the old word _pert_--probably an older form. Bartlett cites an example of _peart_ as far back as Sir Philip Sidney; and Halliwell finds it in various English dialects. Davies, afterward president of Princeton College, describes Dr. Lardner, in 1754, as "a little pert old gent." I do not know that Dr. Daries pronounced his _pert_ as though it were _peart_, but he uses it in the sense it has in the text, viz., bright-witted, intelligent. The general sense of _peart_ is lively, either in body or mind.] [Footnote 15: Mr. Lowell suggested to me in 1869 that this word _'low_ has no kinship with _allow_, but is an independent word for which he gave a Low Latin original of similar sound. I have not been able to trace any such word, but Mr. Lowell had so much linguistic knowledge of the out-of-the-way sort that it may be worth while to record his impression. Bartlett is wrong in defining this word, as he is usually in his attempts to explain dialect outside of New England. It does not mean "to declare, assert, maintain," etc. It is nearly the equivalent of _guess_ in the Northern and Middle States, and of _reckon_ in the South. It agrees precisely with the New England _calk'late_. Like all the rest of these words it may have a strong sense by irony. When a man says, "I 'low that is a purty peart sort of a hoss," he understates for the sake of emphasis. It is rarely or never _allow_, but simply _'low_. In common with _calk'late_, it has sometimes a sense of purpose or expectation, as when a man says, "I 'low to go to town to-morry."] [Footnote 16: No phrase of the Hoosier and South-western dialect is such a stumbling-block to the outsider as _right smart_. The writer from the North or East will generally use it wrongly. Mrs. Stowe says, "I sold right smart of eggs," but the Hoosier woman as I knew her would have said "a right smart lot of eggs" or "a right smart of eggs," using the article and understanding the noun. A farmer omitting the preposition boasts of having "raised right smart corn" this year. No expression could have a more vague sense than this. In the early settlement of Minnesota it was a custom of the land officers to require a residence of about ten days on "a claim" in order to the establishment of a pre-emption right. One of the receivers at a land office under Buchanan's administration was a German of much intelligence who was very sensitive regarding his knowledge of English. "How long has the claimant lived on his claim?" he demanded of a Hoosier witness. "Oh, a right smart while," was the reply. The receiver had not the faintest notion of the meaning of the answer, but fearing to betray his ignorance of English he allowed the land to be entered, though the claimant had spent but about two hours in residing on his quarter-section.] CHAPTER V. THE WALK HOME. You expect me to describe that walk. You have had enough of the Jack Meanses and the Squire Hawkinses, and the Pete Joneses, and the rest. You wish me to tell you now of this true-hearted girl and her lover; of how the silvery moonbeams came down in a shower--to use Whittier's favorite metaphor--through the maple boughs, flecking the frozen ground with light and shadow. You would have me tell of the evening star, not yet gone down, which shed its benediction on them. But I shall do no such thing. For the moon was not shining, neither did the stars give their light. The tall, black trunks of the maples swayed and shook in the wind, which moaned through their leafless boughs. Novelists always make lovers walk in the moonlight. But if love is not, as the cynics believe, all moonshine, it can at least make its own light. Moonlight is never so little needed or heeded, never so much of an impertinence, as in a love-scene. It was at the bottom of the first hollow beyond the school-house that Ralph overtook the timid girl walking swiftly through the dark. He did not ask permission to walk with her. Love does not go by words, and there are times when conventionality is impossible. There are people who understand one another at once. When one soul meets another, it is not by pass-word, nor by hailing sign, nor by mysterious grip that they recognize. The subtlest freemasonry in the world is this freemasonry of the spirit. Ralph and Hannah knew and trusted. Ralph had admired and wondered at the quiet drudge. But it was when, in the unaccustomed sunshine of praise, she spread her wings a little, that he loved her. He had seen her awake. You, Miss Amelia, wish me to repeat all their love-talk. I am afraid you'd find it dull. Love can pipe through any kind of a reed. Ralph talked love to Hannah when he spoke of the weather, of the crops, of the spelling-school. Weather, crops, and spelling-school--these were what his words would say if reported. But below all these commonplaces there vibrated something else. One can make love a great deal better when one doesn't speak of love. Words are so poor! Tones and modulations are better. It is an old story that Whitefield could make an audience weep by his way of pronouncing the word Mesopotamia. A lover can sound the whole gamut of his affection in saying Good-morning. The solemnest engagements ever made have been without the intervention of speech. And you, my Gradgrind friend, you think me sentimental. Two young fools they were, walking so slowly though the night was sharp, dallying under the trees, and dreaming of a heaven they could not have realized if all their wishes had been granted. Of course they were fools! Either they were fools to be so happy, or else some other people are fools not to be. After all, dear Gradgrind, let them be. There's no harm in it. They'll get trouble enough before morning. Let them enjoy the evening. I am not sure but these lovers whom we write down fools are the only wise people after all. Is it not wise to be happy? Let them alone. For the first time in three years, for the first time since she had crossed the threshold of "Old Jack Means" and come under the domination of Mrs. Old Jack Means, Hannah talked cheerfully, almost gayly. It was something to have a companion to talk to. It was something to be the victor even in a spelling-match, and to be applauded even by Flat Creek. And so, chatting earnestly about the most uninteresting themes, Ralph courteously helped Hannah over the fence, and they took the usual short-cut through the "blue-grass pasture." There came up a little shower, hardly more than a sprinkle, but then It was so nice to have a shower just as they reached the box-elder tree by the spring! It was so thoughtful in Ralph to suggest that the shade of a box-elder is dense, and that Hannah might take cold! And it was so easy for Hannah to yield to the suggestion! Just as though she had not milked the cows in the open lot in the worst storms of the last three years! And just as though the house were not within a stone's-throw! Doubtless it was not prudent to stop here. But let us deal gently with them. Who would not stay in an earthy paradise ten minutes longer, even though it did make purgatory the hotter afterward? And so Hannah stayed. "Tell me your circumstances," said Ralph, at last. "I am sure I can help you in something." "No, no! you cannot," and Hannah's face was clouded. "No one can help me. Only time and God. I must go, Mr. Hartsook." And they walked on to the front gate in silence and in some constraint. But still in happiness. As they came to the gate, Dr. Small pushed past them in his cool, deliberate way, and mounted his horse. Ralph bade Hannah good-night, having entirely forgotten the errand which had been his excuse to himself for coming out of his way. He hastened to his new home, the house of Mr. Pete Jones, the same who believed in the inseparableness of "lickin' and larnin'." "You're a purty gal, a'n't you? You're a purty gal, a'n't you? _You_ air! Yes, you _air_" and Mrs. Means seemed so impressed with Hannah's prettiness that she choked on it, and could get no further. "A purty gal! you! Yes! you air a mighty purty gal!" and the old woman's voice rose till it could have been heard half a mile. "To be a-santerin' along the big road after ten o'clock with the master! Who knows whether he's a fit man fer anybody to go with? Arter all I've been and gone and done fer you! That's the way you pay me! Disgrace me! Yes, I say disgrace me! You're a mean, deceitful thing. Stuck up bekase you spelt the master down. Ketch _me_ lettin' you got to spellin'-school to-morry night! Ketch ME! Yes, ketch ME, I say!" "Looky here, marm," said Bud, "it seems to me you're a-makin' a blamed furss about nothin'. Don't yell so's they'll hear you three or four mile. You'll have everybody 'tween here and Clifty waked up." For Mrs. Means had become so excited over the idea of being caught allowing Hannah to go to spelling-school that she had raised her last "Ketch me!" to a perfect whoop. "That's the way I'm treated," whimpered the old woman, who knew how to take the "injured innocence" dodge as well as anybody. "That's the way I'm treated. You allers take sides with that air hussy agin your own flesh and blood. You don't keer how much trouble I have. Not you. Not a dog-on'd bit. I may be disgraced by that air ongrateful critter, and you set right here in my own house and sass me about it. A purty fellow you air! An' me a-delvin' and a-drudgin' fer you all my born days. A purty son, a'n't you?" Bud did not say another word. He sat in the chimney-corner and whistled "Dandy Jim from Caroline." His diversion had produced the effect he sought: for while his tender-hearted mother poured her broadside into his iron-clad feelings, Hannah had slipped up the stairs to her garret bedroom, and when Mrs. Means turned from the callous Bud to finish her assault upon the sensitive girl, she could only gnash her teeth in disappointment. Stung by the insults to which she could not grow insensible, Hannah lay awake until the memory of that walk through the darkness came into her soul like a benediction. The harsh voice of the scold died out, and the gentle and courteous voice of Hartsook filled her soul. She recalled piece by piece the whole conversation--all the commonplace remarks about the weather; all the insignificant remarks about the crops; all the unimportant words about the spelling-school. Not for the sake of the remarks. Not for the sake of the weather. Not for the sake of the crops. Not for the sake of the spelling-school. But for the sake of the undertone. And then she traveled back over the three years of her bondage and forward over the three years to come, and fed her heart on the dim hope of rebuilding in some form the home that had been so happy. And she prayed, with more faith than ever before, for deliverance. For love brings faith. Somewhere on in the sleepless night she stood at the window. The moon was shining now, and there was the path through the pasture, and there was the fence, and there was the box-elder. She sat there a long time. Then she saw someone come over the fence and walk to the tree, and then on toward Pete Jones's. Who could it be? She thought she recognized the figure. But she was chilled and shivering, and she crept back again into bed, and dreamed not of the uncertain days to come, but of the blessed days that were past--of a father and a mother and a brother in a happy home. But somehow the school-master was there too. CHAPTER VI. A NIGHT AT PETE JONES'S. When Ralph got to Pete Jones's he found that sinister-looking individual in the act of kicking one of his many dogs out of the house. "Come in, stranger, come in. You'll find this 'ere house full of brats, but I guess you kin kick your way around among 'em. Take a cheer. Here, git out! go to thunder with you!" And with these mild imperatives he boxed one of his boys over in one direction and one of his girls over in the other. "I believe in trainin' up children to mind when they're spoke to," he said to Ralph apologetically. But it seemed to the teacher that he wanted them to mind just a little before they were spoken to. "P'raps you'd like a bed. Well, jest climb up the ladder on the outside of the house. Takes up a thunderin' sight of room to have a stairs inside, and we ha'n't got no room to spare. You'll find a bed in the furdest corner. My Pete's already got half of it, and you can take t'other half. Ef Pete goes to takin' his half in the middle, and tryin' to make you take yourn on both sides, jest kick him." In this comfortless bed "in the furdest corner," Ralph found sleep out of the question. Pete took three-fourths of the bed, and Hannah took all of his thoughts. So he lay, and looked out through the cracks in the "clapboards" (as they call rough shingles in the old West) at the stars. For the clouds had now broken away. And he lay thus recounting to himself, as a miser counts the pieces that compose his hoard, every step of that road from the time he had overtaken Hannah in the hollow to the fence. Then he imagined again the pleasure of helping her over, and then he retraced the ground to the box-elder tree at the spring, and repeated to himself the conversation until he came to the part in which she said that only time and God could help her. What did she mean? What was the hidden part of her life? What was the connection between her and Shocky? Hours wore on, and still the mind of Ralph Hartsook went back and traveled the same road, over the fence, past the box-elder, up to the inexplicable part of the conversation, and stood bewildered with the same puzzling questions about the bound girl's life. At last he got up, drew on his clothes, and sat down on the top of the ladder, looking down over the blue-grass pasture which lay on the border between the land of Jones and the land of Means. The earth was white with moonlight. He could not sleep. Why not walk? It might enable him to sleep. And once determined on walking, he did not hesitate a moment as to the direction in which he should walk. The blue-grass pasture (was it not like unto the garden of Eden?) lay right before him. That box-elder stood just in sight. To spring over the fence and take the path down the hill and over the brook was as quickly done as decided upon. To stand again under the box-elder, to climb again over the farther fence, and to walk down the road toward the school-house was so easy and so delightful that it was done without thought. For Ralph was an eager man--when he saw no wrong in anything that proposed itself, he was wont to follow his impulse without deliberation. And this keeping company with the stars, and the memory of a delightful walk, were so much better than the commonplace Flat Creek life that he threw himself into his night excursion with enthusiasm. At last he stood in the little hollow where he had joined Hannah. It was the very spot at which Shocky, too, had met him a few mornings before. He leaned against the fence and tried again to solve the puzzle of Hannah's troubles. For that she had troubles he did not doubt. Neither did he doubt that he could help her if he could discover what they were. But he had no clue. In the midst of This meditations he heard the thud of horses' hoofs coming down the road. Until that moment he had not felt his own loneliness. He shrank back into the fence-corner. The horsemen were galloping. There were three of them, and there was one figure that seemed familiar to Ralph. But he could not tell who it was. Neither could he remember having seen the horse, which was a sorrel with a white left forefoot and a white nose. The men noticed him and reined up a little. Why he should have been startled by the presence of these men he could not tell, but an indefinable dread seized him. They galloped on, and he stood still shivering with a nervous fear. The cold seemed to have got into his bones. He remembered that the region lying on Flat Creek and Clifty Creek had the reputation of being infested with thieves, who practiced horse-stealing and house-breaking. For ever since the day when Murrell's confederate bands were paralyzed by the death of their leader, there have still existed gangs of desperadoes in parts of Southern Indiana and Illinois, and in Iowa, Missouri, Kentucky, and the Southwest. It is out of these materials that border ruffianism has grown, and the nine members of the Reno band who were hanged two or three years ago by lynch law[17], were remains of the bad blood that came into the West in the days of Daniel Boone. Shall I not say that these bands of desperadoes still found among the "poor whitey, dirt-eater" class are the outcroppings of the bad blood sent from England in convict-ships? Ought an old country to sow the fertile soil of a colony with such noxious seed? Before Ralph was able to move, he heard the hoofs of another horse striking upon the hard ground in an easy pace. The rider was Dr. Small. He checked his horse in a cool way, and stood still a few seconds while he scrutinized Ralph. Then he rode on, keeping the same easy gait as before, Ralph had a superstitious horror of Henry Small. And, shuddering with cold, he crept like a thief over the fence, past the tree, through the pasture, back to Pete Jones's, never once thinking of the eyes that looked out of the window at Means's. Climbing the ladder, he got into bed, and shook as with the ague. He tried to reason himself out of the foolish terror that possessed him, but he could not. Half an hour later he heard a latch raised. Were the robbers breaking into the house below? He heard a soft tread upon the floor. Should he rise and give the alarm? Something restrained him. He reflected that a robber would be sure to stumble over some of the "brats." So he lay still and finally slumbered, only awakening when the place in which he slept was full of the smoke of frying grease from the room below. At breakfast Pete Jones scowled. He was evidently angry about something. He treated Ralph with a rudeness not to be overlooked, as if he intended to bring on a quarrel. Hartsook kept cool, and wished he could drive from his mind all memory of the past night. Why should men on horseback have any significance to him? He was trying to regard things in this way, and from a general desire to keep on good terms with his host he went to the stable to offer his services in helping to feed the stock. "Don't want no saft-handed help!" was all he got in return for his well-meant offer. But just as he turned to leave the stable he saw what made him tremble again. There was the same sorrel horse with a white left forefoot and a white nose. To shake off his nervousness, Ralph started to school before the time. But, plague upon plagues! Mirandy Means, who had seen him leave Pete Jones's, started just in time to join him where he came into the big road. Ralph was not in a good humor after his wakeful night, and to be thus dogged by Mirandy did not help the matter. So he found himself speaking crabbedly to the daughter of the leading trustee, in spite of himself. "Hanner's got a bad cold this mornin' from bein' out last night, and she can't come to spellin'-school to-night," began Mirandy, in her most simpering voice. Ralph had forgotten that there was to be another spelling-school. It seemed to him an age since the orthographical conflict of the past night. This remark of Mirandy's fell upon his ear like an echo from the distant past. He had lived a lifetime since, and was not sure that he was the same man who was spelling for dear life against Jim Phillips twelve hours before. But he was sorry to hear that Hannah had a cold. It seemed to him, in his depressed state, that he was to blame for it. In fact, it seemed to him that he was to blame for a good many things. He seemed to have been committing sins in spite of himself. Broken nerves and sleepless nights often result in a morbid conscience. And what business had he to wander over this very road at two o'clock in the morning, and to see three galloping horsemen, one of them on a horse with a white left forefoot and a white nose? What business had he watching Dr. Small as he went home from the bedside of a dying patient near daylight in the morning? And because he felt guilty he felt cross with Mirandy, and to her remark about Hannah he only replied that "Hannah was a smart girl." "Yes," said Mirandy, "Bud thinks so." "Does he?" said Ralph. "I should say so. What's him and her been a-courtin' fer for a year ef he didn't think she was smart? Marm don't like it; but ef Bud and her does, and they seem to, I don't see as it's marm's lookout." When one is wretched, there is a pleasure in being entirely wretched. Ralph felt that he must have committed some unknown crime, and that some Nemesis was following him. Was Hannah deceitful? At least, if she were not, he felt sure that he could supplant Bud. But what right had he to supplant Bud? "Did you hear the news?" cried Shocky, running out to meet him. "The Dutchman's house was robbed last night." Ralph thought of the three men on horseback, and to save his life he could not help associating Dr. Small with them. And then he remembered the sorrel horse with the left forefoot and muzzle white, and he recalled the sound he had heard as of the lifting of a latch. And it really seemed to him that in knowing what he did he was in some sense guilty of the robbery. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 17: Written in 1871.] CHAPTER VII. OMINOUS REMARKS OF MR. JONES. The school-master's mind was like ancient Gaul--divided into three parts. With one part he mechanically performed his school duties. With another he asked himself, What shall I do about the robbery? And with the third he debated about Bud and Hannah. For Bud was not present, and it was clear that he was angry, and there was a storm brewing. In fact, it seemed to Ralph that there was a storm brewing all round the sky. For Pete Jones was evidently angry at the thought of having been watched, and it was fair to suppose that Dr. Small was not in any better humor than usual. And so, between Bud's jealousy and revenge and the suspicion and resentment of the men engaged in the robbery at "the Dutchman's" (as the only German in the whole region was called), Ralph's excited nerves had cause for tremor. At one moment he would resolve to have Hannah at all costs. In the next his conscience would question the rightfulness of the conclusion. Then he would make up his mind to tell all he knew about the robbery. But if he told his suspicions about Small, nobody would believe him. And if he told about Pete Jones, he really could tell only enough to bring vengeance upon himself. And how could he explain his own walk through the pasture and down the road? What business had he being out of bed at two o'clock in the morning? The circumstantial evidence was quite as strong against him as against the man on the horse with the white left forefoot and the white nose. Suspicion might fasten on himself. And then what would be the effect on his prospects? On the people at Lewisburg? On Hannah? It is astonishing how much instruction and comfort there is in a bulldog. This slender school-master, who had been all his life repressing the animal and developing the finer nature, now found a need of just what the bulldog had. And so, with the thought of how his friend the dog would fight in a desperate strait, he determined to take hold of his difficulties as Bull took hold of the raccoon. Moral questions he postponed for careful decision. But for the present he set his teeth together in a desperate, bulldog fashion, and he set his feet down slowly, positively, bulldoggedly. After a wretched supper at Pete Jones's he found himself at the spelling-school, which, owing to the absence of Hannah, and the excitement about the burglary, was a dull affair. Half the evening was spent in talking in little knots. Pete Jones had taken the afflicted "Dutchman" under his own particular supervision. "I s'pose," said Pete, "that them air fellers what robbed your house must a come down from Jinkins Run. They're the blamedest set up there I ever see." "Ya-as," said Schroeder, "put how did Yinkins vellers know dat I sell te medder to te Shquire, hey? How tid Yinkins know anyting 'bout the Shquire's bayin' me dree huntert in te hard gash--hey?" "Some scoundrels down in these 'ere parts is a-layin' in with Jinkins Run, I'll bet a hoss," said Pete. Ralph wondered whether he'd bet the one with the white left forefoot and the white nose. "Now," said Pete, "ef I could find the feller that's a-helpin' them scoundrels rob us folks, I'd help stretch him to the neardest tree." "So vood I," said Schroeder. "I'd shtretch him dill he baid me my dree huntert tollars pack, so I vood." And Betsey Short, who had found the whole affair very funny, was transported with a fit of tittering at poor Schroeder's English. Ralph, fearing that his silence would excite suspicion, tried to talk. But he could not tell what he knew, and all that he said sounded so hollow and hypocritical that it made him feel guilty. And so he shut his mouth, and meditated profitably on the subject of bull dogs. And when later he overheard the garrulous Jones declare that he'd bet a hoss he could p'int out somebody as know'd a blamed sight more'n they keerd to tell, he made up his mind that if it came to p'inting out he should try to be even with Jones. CHAPTER VIII. THE STRUGGLE IN THE DARK It was a long, lonesome, fearful night that the school-master passed, lying with nerves on edge and eyes wide open in that comfortless bed in the "furdest corner" of the loft of Pete Jones's house, shivering with cold, while the light snow that was falling sifted in upon the ragged patch-work quilt that covered him. Nerves broken by sleeplessness imagine many things, and for the first hour Ralph felt sure that Pete would cut his throat before morning. And you, friend Callow, who have blunted your palate by swallowing the Cayenne pepper of the penny-dreadfuls, you wish me to make this night exciting by a hand-to-hand contest between Ralph and a robber. You would like it better if there were a trap-door. There's nothing so convenient as a trap-door, unless it be a subterranean passage. And you'd like something of that sort just here. It's so pleasant to have one's hair stand on end, you know, when one is safe from danger to one's self. But if you want each individual hair to bristle with such a "Struggle in the Dark," you can buy trap-doors and subterranean passages dirt cheap at the next news-stand. But it was, indeed, a real and terrible "Struggle in the Dark" that Ralph fought out at Pete Jones's. When he had vanquished his fears of personal violence by reminding himself that it would be folly for Jones to commit murder in his own house, the question of Bud and Hannah took the uppermost place in his thoughts. And as the image of Hannah spelling against the master came up to him, as the memory of the walk, the talk, the box-elder tree, and all the rest took possession of him, it seemed to Ralph that his very life depended upon his securing her love. He would shut his teeth like the jaws of a bulldog, and all Bud's muscles should not prevail over his resolution and his stratagems. It was easy to persuade himself that this was right. Hannah ought not to throw herself away on Bud Means. Men of some culture always play their conceit off against their consciences. To a man of literary habits it usually seems to be a great boon that he confers on a woman when he gives her his love. Reasoning thus, Ralph had fixed his resolution, and if the night had been shorter, or sleep possible, the color of his life might have been changed. But some time along in the tedious hours came the memory of his childhood, the words of his mother, the old Bible stories, the aspiration after nobility of spirit, the solemn resolutions to be true to his conscience. These angels of the memory came flocking back before the animal, the bull-doggedness, had "set," as workers in plaster say. He remembered the story of David and Nathan, and it seemed to him that he, with all his abilities and ambitions and prospects, was about to rob Bud of the one ewe-lamb, the only thing he had to rejoice in in his life. In getting Hannah, he would make himself unworthy of Hannah. And then there came to him a vision of the supreme value of a true character; how it was better than success, better than to be loved, better than heaven. And how near he had been to missing it! And how certain he was, when these thoughts should fade, to miss it! He was as one fighting for a great prize who feels his strength failing and is sure of defeat. This was the real, awful "Struggle in the Dark." A human soul fighting with heaven in sight, but certain of slipping inevitably into hell! It was the same old battle. The Image of God fought with the Image of the Devil. It was the same fight that Paul described so dramatically when he represented the Spirit as contending with the Flesh. Paul also called this dreadful something the Old Adam, and I suppose Darwin would call it the remains of the Wild Beast. But call it what you will, it is the battle that every well-endowed soul must fight at some point. And to Ralph it seemed that the final victory of the Evil, the Old Adam, the Flesh, the Wild Beast, the Devil, was certain. For, was not the pure, unconscious face of Hannah on the Devil's side? And so the battle had just as well be given up at once, for it must be lost in the end. But to Ralph, lying there in the still darkness, with his conscience as wide awake as if it were the Day of Doom, there seemed something so terrible in this overflow of the better nature which he knew to be inevitable as soon as the voice of conscience became blunted, that he looked about for help. He did not at first think of God; but there came into his thoughts the memory of a travel-worn Galilean peasant, hungry, sleepy, weary, tempted, tried, like other men, but having a strange, divine Victory in him by which everything evil was vanquished at his coming. He remembered how He had reached out a Hand to every helpless one, how He was the Helper of every weak one. And out of the depths of his soul he cried to the Helper, and found comfort. Not victory, but, what is better, strength. And so, without a thought of the niceties of theological distinctions, without dreaming that it was the beginning of a religious experience, he found what he needed, help. And the Helper gave His beloved sleep. CHAPTER IX. HAS GOD FORGOTTEN SHOCKY? "Pap wants to know ef you would spend to-morry and Sunday at our house?" said one of Squire Hawkins's girls, on the very next evening, which was Friday. The old Squire was thoughtful enough to remember that Ralph would not find it very pleasant "boarding out" all the time he was entitled to spend at Pete Jones's. For in view of the fact that Mr. Pete Jones sent seven children to the school, the "master" in Flat Creek district was bound to spend two weeks in that comfortable place, sleeping in a preoccupied bed, in the "furdest corner," with insufficient cover, under an insufficient roof, and eating floating islands of salt pork fished out of oceans of hot lard. Ralph was not slow to accept the relief offered by the hospitable justice of the peace, whose principal business seemed to be the adjustment of the pieces of which he was composed. And as Shocky traveled the same road, Ralph took advantage of the opportunity to talk with him. The master could not dismiss Hannah wholly from his mind. He would at least read the mystery of her life, if Shocky could be prevailed on to furnish the clue. "Poor old tree!" said Shocky, pointing to a crooked and gnarled elm standing by itself in the middle of a field. For when the elm, naturally the most graceful of trees, once gets a "bad set," it can grow to be the most deformed. This solitary tree had not a single straight limb. "Why do you say 'poor old tree'?" asked Ralph. "'Cause it's lonesome. All its old friends is dead and chopped down, and there's their stumps a-standin' jes like grave-stones. It _must_ be lonesome. Some folks says it don't feel, but I think it does. Everything seems to think and feel. See it nodding its head to them other trees in the woods? and a-wantin' to shake hands! But it can't move. I think that tree must a growed in the night." "Why, Shocky?" "'Cause it's so crooked," and Shocky laughed at his own conceit; "must a growed when they was no light so as it could see how to grow." And then they walked on in silence a minute. Presently Shocky began looking up into Ralph's eyes to get a smile. "I guess that tree feels just like me. Don't you?" "Why, how do you feel?" "Kind o' bad and lonesome, and like as if I wanted to die, you know. Felt that way ever sence they put my father into the graveyard, and sent my mother to the poor-house and Hanner to ole Miss Means's. What kind of a place is a poor-house? Is it a poorer place than Means's? I wish I was dead and one of them clouds was a-carryin' me and Hanner and mother up to where father's gone, you know! I wonder if God forgets all about poor folks when their father dies and their mother gits into the poor-house? Do you think He does? Seems so to me. Maybe God lost track of my father when he come away from England and crossed over the sea. Don't nobody on Flat Creek keer fer God, and I guess God don't keer fer Flat Creek. But I would, though, ef he'd git my mother out of the poor-house and git Hanner away from Means's, and let me kiss my mother every night, you know, and sleep on my Hanner's arm, jes like I used to afore father died, you see." Ralph wanted to speak, but he couldn't. And so Shocky, with his eyes looking straight ahead, and as if forgetting Ralph's presence, told over the thoughts that he had often talked over to the fence-rails and the trees. "It was real good in Mr. Pearson to take me, wasn't it? Else I'd a been bound out tell I was twenty-one, maybe, to some mean man like Ole Means. And I a'n't but seven. And it would take me fourteen years to git twenty-one, and I never could live with my mother again after Hanner gets done her time. 'Cause, you see, Hanner'll be through in three more year, and I'll be ten and able to work, and we'll git a little place about as big as Granny Sanders's, and--" Ralph did not hear another word of what Shocky said that afternoon. For there, right before them, was Granny Sanders's log-cabin, with its row of lofty sunflower stalks, now dead and dry, in front, with its rain-water barrel by the side of the low door, and its ash-barrel by the fence. In this cabin lived alone the old and shriveled hag whose hideousness gave her a reputation for almost supernatural knowledge. She was at once doctress and newspaper. She collected and disseminated medicinal herbs and personal gossip. She was in every regard indispensable to the intellectual life of the neighborhood. In the matter of her medical skill we cannot express an opinion, for her "yarbs" are not to be found in the pharmacopoeia of science. What took Ralph's breath was to find Dr. Small's fine, faultless horse standing at the door. What did Henry Small want to visit this old quack for? CHAPTER X. THE DEVIL OF SILENCE. Ralph had reason to fear Small, who was a native of the same village of Lewisburg, and some five years the elder. Some facts in the doctor's life had come into Ralph's possession in such a way as to confirm life-long suspicion without giving him power to expose Small, who was firmly intrenched in the good graces of the people of the county-seat village of Lewisburg, where he had grown up, and of the little cross-roads village of Clifty, where his "shingle" now hung. Small was no ordinary villain. He was a genius. Your ordinary hypocrite talks cant. Small talked nothing. He was the coolest, the steadiest, the most silent, the most promising boy ever born in Lewisburg. He made no pretensions. He set up no claims. He uttered no professions. He went right on and lived a life above reproach. Your vulgar hypocrite makes long prayers in prayer-meeting. Small did nothing of the sort. He sat still in prayer-meeting, and listened to the elders as a modest young man should. Your commonplace hypocrite boasts. Small never alluded to himself, and thus a consummate egotist got credit for modesty. It is but an indifferent trick for a hypocrite to make temperance speeches. Dr. Small did not even belong to a temperance society. But he could never be persuaded to drink even so much as a cup of tea. There was something sublime in the quiet voice with which he would say, "Cold water, if you please," to a lady tempting him with smoking coffee on a cold morning. There was no exultation, no sense of merit in the act. Everything was done in a modest and matter-of-course way beautiful to behold. And his face was a neutral tint. Neither face nor voice expressed anything. Only a keen reader of character might have asked whether all there was in that eye could live contented with this cool, austere, self-contained life; whether there would not be somewhere a volcanic eruption. But if there was any sea of molten lava beneath, the world did not discover it. Wild boys were sick of having Small held up to them as the most immaculate of men[18]. Ralph had failed to get two schools for which he had applied, and had attributed both failures to certain shrugs of Dr. Small. And now, when he found Small at the house of Granny Sanders, the center of intelligence as well as of ignorance for the neighborhood, he trembled. Not that Small would say anything. He never said anything. He damned people by a silence worse than words. Granny Sanders was not a little flattered by the visit. "Why, doctor, howdy, howdy! Come in, take a cheer. I am glad to see you. I 'lowed you'd come. Old Dr. Flounder used to say he larnt lots o' things of me. But most of the doctors sence hez been kinder stuck up, you know. But I know'd you fer a man of intelligence." Meantime, Small, by his grave silence and attention, had almost smothered the old hag with flattery. "Many's the case I've cured with yarbs and things. Nigh upon twenty year ago they was a man lived over on Wild Cat Run as had a breakin'-out on his side. 'Twas the left side, jes below the waist. Doctor couldn't do nothin'. 'Twas Doctor Peacham. He never would have nothin' to do with 'ole woman's cures.' Well, the man was goin' to die. Everybody seed that. And they come a-drivin' away over here all the way from the Wild Cat. Think of that air! I never was so flustered. But as soon as I laid eyes on that air man, I says, says I, that air man, says I, has got the shingles, says I. I know'd the minute I seed it. And if they'd gone clean around, nothing could a saved him. I says, says I, git me a black cat. So I jist killed a black cat, and let the blood run all over the swellin'. I tell you, doctor, they's nothin' like it. That man was well in a month." [Illustration: MRS. MEANS] "Did you use the blood warm?" asked Small, with a solemnity most edifying. These were almost the only words he had uttered since he entered the cabin. "Laws, yes; I jest let it run right out of the cat's tail onto the breakin'-out. And fer airesipelus, I don't know nothin' so good as the blood of a black hen." "How old?" asked the doctor. "There you showed yer science, doctor! They's no power in a pullet. The older the black hen the better. And you know the cure fer rheumatiz?" And here the old woman got down a bottle of grease. "That's ile from a black dog. Ef it's rendered right, it'll knock the hind sights off of any rheumatiz you ever see. But it must be rendered in the dark of the moon. Else a black dog's ile a'n't worth no more nor a white one's." And all this time Small was smelling of the uncorked bottle, taking a little on his finger and feeling of it, and thus feeling his way to the heart--drier than her herbs--of the old witch. And then he went round the cabin gravely, lifting each separate bunch of dried yarbs from its nail, smelling of it, and then, by making an interrogation-point of his silent face, he managed to get a lecture from her on each article in her _materia medica_> with the most marvelous stories illustrative of their virtues. When the Granny had got her fill of his silent flattery, he was ready to carry forward his main purpose. There was something weird about this silent man's ability to turn the conversation as he chose to have it go. Sitting by the Granny's tea-table, nibbling corn-bread while he drank his glass of water, having declined even her sassafras, he ceased to stimulate her medical talk and opened the vein of gossip. Once started, Granny Sanders was sure to allude to the robbery. And once on the robbery the doctor's course was clear. "I 'low somebody not fur away is in this 'ere business!" Not by a word, nor even by a nod, but by some motion of the eyelids, perhaps, Small indicated that he agreed with her. "Who d'ye s'pose 'tis?" But Dr. Small was not in the habit of supposing. He moved his head in a quiet way, just the least perceptible bit, but so that the old creature understood that he could give light if he wanted to. "I dunno anybody that's been 'bout here long as could be suspected." Another motion of the eyelids indicated Small's agreement with this remark. "They a'n't nobody come in here lately 'ceppin' the master." Small looked vacantly at the wall. "But I low he's allers bore a tip-top character." The doctor was too busy looking at his corn-bread to answer this remark even by a look. "But I think these oversmart young men'll bear looking arter, _I_ do." Dr. Small raised his eyes and let them _shine_ an assent. That was all. "Shouldn't wonder ef our master was overly fond of gals." Doctor looks down at his plate. "Had plenty of sweethearts afore he walked home with Hanner Thomson t'other night, I'll bet." Did Dr. Small shrug his shoulder? Granny thought she detected a faint motion of the sort, but she could not be sure. "And I think as how that a feller what trifles with gals' hearts and then runs off ten miles, maybe a'n't no better'n he had orter be. That's what I says, says I." To this general remark Dr. Small assented in his invisible--shall I say _intangible_?--way. "I allers think, maybe, that some folks has found it best to leave home and go away. You can't never tell. But when people is a-bein' robbed it's well to lookout. Hey?" "I think so," said Small quietly, and, having taken his hat and bowed a solemn and respectful adieu, he departed. He had not spoken twenty words, but he had satisfied the news-monger of Flat Creek that Ralph was a bad character at home and worthy of suspicion of burglary. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 18: The original from which this character was drawn is here described accurately. The author now knows that such people are not to be put into books. They are not realistic enough.] CHAPTER XI MISS MARTHA HAWKINS. "It's very good for the health to dig in the elements. I was quite emaciated last year at the East, and the doctor told me to dig in the elements. I got me a florial hoe and dug, and it's been most excellent for me[19]." Time, the Saturday following the Friday on which Ralph kept Shocky company as far as the "forks" near Granny Sanders's house. Scene, the Squire's garden. Ralph helping that worthy magistrate perform sundry little jobs such as a warm winter day suggests to the farmer. Miss Martha Hawkins, the Squire's niece, and his housekeeper in his present bereaved condition, leaning over the palings--pickets she called them--of the garden fence, talking to the master. Miss Hawkins was recently from Massachusetts. How many people there are in the most cultivated communities whose education is partial! "It's very common for school-master to dig in the elements at the East," proceeded Miss Martha. Like many other people born in the celestial empires (of which there are three--China, Virginia, Massachusetts), Miss Martha was not averse to reminding outside barbarians of her good fortune in this regard. It did her good to speak of the East. Now Ralph was amused with Miss Martha. She really had a good deal of intelligence despite her affectation, and conversation with her was both interesting and diverting. It helped him to forget Hannah, and Bud, and the robbery, and all the rest, and she was so delighted to find somebody to make an impression on that she had come out to talk while Ralph was at work. But just at this moment the school-master was not so much interested in her interesting remarks, nor so much amused by her amusing remarks, as he should have been. He saw a man coming down the road riding one horse and leading another, and he recognized the horses at a distance. It must be Bud who was riding Means's bay mare and leading Bud's roan colt. Bud had been to mill, and as the man who owned the horse-mill kept but one old blind horse himself, it was necessary that Bud should take two. It required three horses to run the mill; the old blind one could have ground the grist, but the two others had to overcome the friction of the clumsy machine. But it was not about the horse-mill that Ralph was thinking nor about the two horses. Since that Wednesday evening on which he escorted Hannah home from the spelling-school he had not seen Bud Means. If he had any lingering doubts of the truth of what Mirandy had said, they had been dissipated by the absence of Bud from school. "When I was to Bosting--" Miss Martha was _to_ Boston only once in her life, but as her visit to that sacred city was the most important occurrence of her life, she did not hesitate to air her reminiscences of it frequently. "When I was to Bosting," she was just saying, when, following the indication of Ralph's eyes, she saw Bud coming up the hill near Squire Hawkins's house. Bud looked red and sulky, and to Ralph's and Miss Martha Hawkins's polite recognitions he returned only a surly nod. They both saw that he was angry. Ralph was able to guess the meaning of his wrath. Toward evening Ralph strolled through the Squire's cornfield toward the woods. The memory of the walk with Hannah was heavy upon the heart of the young master, and there was comfort in the very miserableness of the cornstalks with their disheveled blades hanging like tattered banners and rattling discordantly in the rising wind. Wandering without purpose, Ralph followed the rows of stalks first one way and then the other in a zigzag line, turning a right angle every minute or two. At last he came out in a woods mostly of beech, and he pleased his melancholy fancy by kicking the dry and silky leaves before him in billows, while the soughing of the wind through the long, vibrant boughs and slender twigs of the beech forest seemed to put the world into the wailing minor key of his own despair. What a fascination there is in a path come upon suddenly without a knowledge of its termination! Here was one running in easy, irregular curves through the wood, now turning gently to the right in order to avoid a stump, now swaying suddenly to the left to gain an easier descent at a steep place, and now turning wantonly to the one side or the other, as if from very caprice in the man who by idle steps unconsciously marked the line of the foot-path at first. Ralph could not resist the impulse--who could?--to follow the path and find out its destination, and following it he came presently into a lonesome hollow, where a brook gurgled among the heaps of bare limestone rocks that filled its bed. Following the path still, he came upon a queer little cabin built of round logs, in the midst of a small garden-patch inclosed by a brush fence. The stick chimney, daubed with clay and topped with a barrel open at both ends, made this a typical cabin. [Illustration: CAPTAIN PEARSON] It flashed upon Ralph that this place must be Rocky Hollow, and that this was the house of old John Pearson, the one-legged basket-maker, and his rheumatic wife--the house that hospitably sheltered Shocky. Following his impulse, he knocked and was admitted, and was not a little surprised to find Miss Martha Hawkins there before him. "You here, Miss Hawkins?" he said when he had returned Shocky's greeting and shaken hands with the old couple. "Bless you, yes," said the old lady. "That blessed gyirl"--the old lady called her a girl by a sort of figure of speech perhaps--"that blessed gyirl's the kindest creetur you ever saw--comes here every day, most, to cheer a body up with somethin' or nuther." Miss Martha blushed, and said "she came because Rocky Hollow looked so much like a place she used to know at the East. Mr. and Mrs. Pearson were the kindest people. They reminded her of people she knew at the East. When she was to Bosting--" Here the old basket-maker lifted his head from his work, and said: "Pshaw! that talk about kyindness" (he was a Kentuckian and said _kyindness_) "is all humbug. I wonder so smart a woman as you don't know better. You come nearder to bein kyind than anybody I know; but, laws a me! we're all selfish akordin' to my tell." "You wasn't selfish when you set up with my father most every night for two weeks," said Shocky as he handed the old man a splint. "Yes, I was, too!" This in a tone that made Ralph tremble. "Your father was a miserable Britisher. I'd fit red-coats, in the war of eighteen-twelve, and lost my leg by one of 'em stickin' his dog-on'd bagonet right through it, that night at Lundy's Lane; but my messmate killed him though which is a satisfaction to think on. And I didn't like your father 'cause he was a Britisher. But ef he'd a died right here in this free country, 'though nobody to give him a drink of water, blamed ef I wouldn't a been ashamed to set on the platform at a Fourth of July barbecue, and to hold up my wooden leg fer to make the boys cheer! That was the selfishest thing I ever done. We're all selfish akordin' to my tell." "You wasn't selfish when you took me that night, you know," and Shocky's face beamed with gratitude. "Yes, I war, too, you little sass-box! What did I take you fer? Hey? Bekase I didn't like Pete Jones nor Bill Jones. They're thieves, dog-on 'em!" Ralph shivered a little. The horse with the white forefoot and white nose galloped before his eyes again. "They're a set of thieves. That's what they air." "Please, Mr. Pearson, be careful. You'll get into trouble, you know, by talking that way," said Miss Hawkins. "You're just like a man that I knew at the East." "Why, do you think an old soldier like me, hobbling on a wooden leg, is afraid of them thieves? Didn't I face the Britishers? Didn't I come home late last Wednesday night? I rather guess I must a took a little too much at Welch's grocery, and laid down in the middle of the street to rest. The boys thought 'twas funny to crate[20] me. I woke up kind o' cold, 'bout one in the mornin.' 'Bout two o'clock I come up Means's hill, and didn't I see Pete Jones, and them others that robbed the Dutchman, and somebody, I dunno who, a-crossin' the blue-grass paster _towards_ Jones's?" (Ralph shivered.) "Don't shake your finger at me, old woman. Tongue is all I've got to fight with now; but I'll fight them thieves tell the sea goes dry, I will. Shocky, gim me a splint." "But you wasn't selfish when you tuck me. Shocky stuck to his point most positively. "Yes, I was, you little tow-headed fool! I didn't take you kase I was good, not a bit of it. I hated Bill Jones what keeps the poor-house, and I knowed him and Pete would get you bound to some of their click, and I didn't want no more thieves raised; so when your mother hobbled, with you a-leadin' her, poor blind thing! all the way over here on that winter night, and said, 'Mr. Pearson, you're all the friend I've got, and I want you to save my boy,' why, you see I was selfish as ever I could be in takin' of you. Your mother's cryin' sot me a-cryin' too. We're all selfish in everything, akordin' to my tell. Blamed ef we ha'n't, Miss Hawkins, only sometimes I'd think you was real benev'lent ef I didn't know we war all selfish." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 19: Absurd as this speech seems, it is a literal transcript of words spoken in the author's presence by a woman who, like Miss Hawkins, was born in Massachusetts.] [Footnote 20: When the first edition of this book appeared, the critic who analyzed the dialect in _The Nation_ confessed that he did not know what to "crate" meant. It was a custom in the days of early Indiana barbarism for the youngsters of a village, on spying a sleeping drunkard, to hunt up a "queensware crate"--one of the cages of round withes in which crockery was shipped. This was turned upside down over the inebriate, and loaded with logs or any other heavy articles that would make escape difficult when the poor wretch should come to himself. It was a sort of rude punishment for inebriety, and it afforded a frog-killing delight to those who executed justice.] CHAPTER XII. THE HARDSHELL PREACHER. "They's preachin' down to Bethel Meetin'-house to-day," said the Squire at breakfast. Twenty years In the West could not cure Squire Hawkins of saying "to" for "at." "I rather guess as how the old man Bosaw will give pertickeler fits to our folks to-day." For Squire Hawkins, having been expelled from the "Hardshell" church of which Mr. Bosaw was pastor, for the grave offense of joining a temperance society, had become a member of the "Reformers," the very respectable people who now call themselves "Disciples," but whom the profane will persist in calling "Campbellites." They had a church in the village of Clifty, three miles away. I know that explanations are always abominable to story readers, as they are to story writers, but as so many of my readers have never had the inestimable privilege of sitting under the gospel as it is ministered in enlightened neighborhoods like Flat Creek, I find myself under the necessity--need-cessity the Rev. Mr. Bosaw would call it--of rising to explain. Some people think the "Hardshells" a myth, and some sensitive Baptist people at the East resent all allusion to them. But the "Hardshell Baptists," or, as they are otherwise called, the "Whisky Baptists," and the "Forty-gallon Baptists," exist in all the old Western and South-western States. They call themselves "Anti-means Baptists" from their Antinomian tenets. Their confession of faith is a caricature of Calvinism, and is expressed by their preachers about as follows: "Ef you're elected, you'll be saved; ef you a'n't, you'll be damned. God'll take keer of his elect. It's a sin to run Sunday-schools, or temp'rince s'cieties, or to send missionaries. You let God's business alone. What is to be will be, and you can't hender it." This writer has attended a Sunday-school, the superintendent of which was solemnly arraigned and expelled from the Hardshell Church for "meddling with God's business" by holding a Sunday-school. Of course the Hardshells are prodigiously illiterate, and often vicious. Some of their preachers are notorious drunkards. They sing their sermons out sometimes for three hours at a stretch[21]. Ralph found that he was to ride the "clay-bank mare," the only one of the horses that would "carry double," and that consequently he would have to take Miss Hawkins behind him. If it had been Hannah instead, Ralph might not have objected to this "young Lochinvar" mode of riding with a lady on "the croup," but Martha Hawkins was another affair. He had only this consolation; his keeping the company of Miss Hawkins might serve to disarm the resentment of Bud. At all events, he had no choice. What designs the Squire had in this arrangement he could not tell; but the clay-bank mare carried him to meeting on that December morning, with Martha Hawkins behind. And as Miss Hawkins was not used to this mode of locomotion, she was in a state of delightful fright every time the horse sank to the knees in the soft, yellow Flat Creek clay. "We don't go to church so at the East," she said. "The mud isn't so deep at the East. When I was to Bosting--" but Ralph never heard what happened when she was to Bosting, for just as she said Bosting the mare put her foot into a deep hole molded by the foot of the Squire's horse, and already full of muddy water. As the mare's foot went twelve inches down into this track, the muddy water spurted higher than Miss Hawkins's head, and mottled her dress with golden spots of clay. She gave a little shriek, and declared that she had never "seen it so at the East." The journey seemed a little long to Ralph, who found that the subjects upon which he and Miss Hawkins could converse were few; but Miss Martha was determined to keep things going, and once, when the conversation had died out entirely, she made a desperate effort to renew it by remarking, as they met a man on horseback, "That horse switches his tail just as they do at the East. When I was to Bosting I saw horses switch their tails just that way." What surprised Ralph was to see that Flat Creek went to meeting. Everybody was there--the Meanses, the Joneses, the Bantas, and all the rest. Everybody on Flat Creek seemed to be there, except the old wooden-legged basket-maker. His family was represented by Shocky, who had come, doubtless, to get a glimpse of Hannah, not to hear Mr. Bosaw preach. In fact, few were thinking of the religious service. They went to church as a common resort to hear the news, and to find out what was the current sensation. On this particular morning there seemed to be some unusual excitement. Ralph perceived it as he rode up. An excited crowd, even though it be at a church-door on Sunday morning, can not conceal its agitation. Ralph deposited Miss Hawkins on the stile, and then got down himself, and paid her the closest attention to the door. This attention was for Bud's benefit. But Bud only stood with his hands in his pockets, scowling worse than ever. Ralph did not go in at the door. It was not the Flat Creek custom. The men gossiped outside, while the women chatted within. Whatever may have been the cause of the excitement, Ralph could not get at it. When he entered a little knot of people they became embarrassed, the group dissolved, and its component parts joined other companies. What had the current of conversation to do with him? He overheard Pete Jones saying that the blamed old wooden leg was in it anyhow. He'd been seen goin' home at two in the mornin'. And he could name somebody else ef he choosed. But it was best to clean out one at a time. And just then there was a murmur: "Meetin's took up." And the masculine element filled the empty half of the "hewed-log" church. When Ralph saw Hannah looking utterly dejected, his heart smote him, and the great struggle set in again. Had it not been for the thought of the other battle, and the comforting presence of the Helper, I fear Bud's interests would have fared badly. But Ralph, with the spirit of a martyr, resolved to wait until he knew what the result of Bud's suit should be, and whether, indeed, the young Goliath had prior claims, as he evidently thought he had. He turned hopefully to the sermon, determined to pick up any crumbs of comfort that might fall from Mr. Bosaw's meager table. In reporting a single specimen passage of Mr. Bosaw's sermon, I shall not take the liberty which Thucydides and other ancient historians did, of making the sermon and putting it into the hero's mouth, but shall give that which can be vouched for. "You see, my respective hearers," he began--but alas! I can never picture to you the rich red nose, the see sawing gestures, the nasal resonance, the sniffle, the melancholy minor key, and all that. "My respective hearers-ah, you see-ah as how-ah as my tex'-ah says that the ox-ah knoweth his owner-ah, and-ah the ass-ah his master's crib-ah. A-h-h! Now, my respective hearers-ah, they're a mighty sight of resemblance-ah atwext men-ah and oxen-ah" [Ralph could not help reflecting that there was a mighty sight of resemblance between some men and asses. But the preacher did not see this analogy. It lay too close to him], "bekase-ah, you see, men-ah is mighty like oxen-ah. Fer they's a tremengious defference-ah atwixt defferent oxen-ah, jest as thar is atwext defferent men-ah; fer the ox knoweth-ah his owner-ah, and the ass-ah, his master's crib-ah. Now, my respective hearers-ah" [the preacher's voice here grew mellow, and the succeeding sentences were in the most pathetic and lugubrious tones], "you all know-ah that your humble speaker-ah has got-ah jest the best yoke of steers-ah in this township-ah." [Here Betsey Short shook the floor with a suppressed titter.] "They a'n't no sech steers as them air two of mine-ah in this whole kedentry-ah. Them crack oxen over at Clifty-ah ha'n't a patchin' to mine-ah. Fer the ox knoweth his owner-ah and the ass-ah his master's crib-ah. "Now, my respective hearers-ah, they's a right smart sight of defference-ah atwext them air two oxen-ah, jest like they is atwext defferent men-ah. Fer-ah" [here the speaker grew earnest, and sawed the air, from this to the close, in a most frightful way], "fer-ah, you see-ah, when I go out-ah in the mornin'-ah to yoke-ah up-ah them air steers-ah, and I says-ah, 'Wo, Berry-ah! _Wo, Berry-ah!_ WO, BERRY-AH', why Berry-ah jest stands stock still-ah and don't hardly breathe-ah while I put on the yoke-ah, and put in the bow-ah, and put in the key-ah, fer, my brethering-ah and sistering-ah, the ox knoweth his owner-ah, and the ass-ah his master's crib-ah. Hal-le-lu-ger-ah! "But-ah, my hearers-ah, but-ah when I stand at t'other eend of the yoke-ah, and say, 'Come, Buck-ah! _Come, Buck-ah!_ COME, BUCK-AH! COME, BUCK-AH!' why what do you think-ah? Buck-ah, that ornery ole Buck-ah, 'stid of comin' right along-ah and puttin' his neck under-ah, acts jest like some men-ah what is fools-ah. Buck-ah jest kinder sorter stands off-ah, and kinder sorter puts his head down-ah this 'ere way-ah, and kinder looks mad-ah, and says, Boo-_oo_-OO-OO-ah!" Alas! Hartsook found no spiritual edification there, and he was in no mood to be amused. And so, while the sermon drew on through two dreary hours, he forgot the preacher in noticing a bright green lizard which, having taken up its winter quarters behind the tin candlestick that hung just back of the preacher's head, had been deceived by the genial warmth coming from the great box-stove, and now ran out two or three feet from his shelter, looking down upon the red-nosed preacher in a most confidential and amusing manner. Sometimes he would retreat behind the candlestick, which was not twelve inches from the preacher's head, and then rush out again. At each reappearance Betsey Short would stuff her handkerchief into her mouth and shake in a most distressing way. Shocky wondered what the lizard was winking at the preacher about. And Miss Martha thought that it reminded her of a lizard that she see at the East, the time she was to Bosting, in a jar of alcohol in the Natural History Rooms. The Squire was not disappointed in his anticipation that Mr. Bosaw would attack his denomination with some fury. In fact, the old preacher outdid himself in his violent indignation at "these people that follow Campbell-ah, that thinks-ah that obejience-ah will save 'em-ah and that belongs-ah to temp'rince societies-ah and Sunday-schools-ah, and them air things-ah, that's not ortherized in the Bible-ah, but comes of the devil-ah, and takes folks as belongs to 'em to hell-ah." As they came out the door Ralph rallied enough to remark: "He did attack your people, Squire." "Oh, yes," said the Squire. "Didn't you see the Sarpent inspirin' him?" But the long, long hours were ended and Ralph got on the clay-bank mare and rode up alongside the stile whence Miss Martha mounted. And as he went away with a heavy heart, he overheard Pete Jones call out to somebody: "We'll tend to his case & Christmas." Christmas was two days off. And Miss Martha remarked with much trepidation that poor Pearson would have to leave. She'd always been afraid that would be the end of it. It reminded her of something she heard at the East, the time she was down to Bosting. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 21: Even the Anti-means Baptists have suffered from the dire spirit of the age. They are to-day a very respectable body of people calling themselves "Primitive Baptists." Perhaps the description in the text never applied to the whole denomination, but only to the Hardshells of certain localities. Some of these intensely conservative churches, I have reason to believe, were always composed of reputable people. But what is said above is not in the least exaggerated as a description of many of the churches in Indiana and Illinois. Their opposition to the temperance reformation was both theoretical and practical. A rather able minister of the denomination whom I knew as a boy used to lie in besotted drunkenness by the roadside. I am sorry to confess that he once represented the county in the State legislature. The piece of a sermon given in this chapter was heard near Cairo, Illinois, in the days before the war. Most of the preachers were illiterate farmers. I have heard one of them hold forth two hours at a stretch. But even in that day there were men among the Hardshells whose ability and character commanded respect. This was true, especially in Kentucky, where able men like the two Dudleys held to the Antinomian wing of their denomination. But the Hardshells are perceptibly less hard than they were. You may march at the rear of the column among Hunkers and Hardshells if you will, but you are obliged to march. Those who will not go voluntarily, the time-spirit, walking behind, prods onward with a goad.] CHAPTER XIII. A STRUGGLE FOR THE MASTERY The school had closed on Monday evening as usual. The boys had been talking in knots all day. Nothing but the bulldog in the slender, resolute young master had kept down the rising storm. A teacher who has lost moral support at home, can not long govern a school. Ralph had effectually lost his popularity in the district, and the worst of it was that he could not divine from just what quarter the ill wind came, except that he felt sure of Small's agency in it somewhere. Even Hannah had slighted him, when he called at Means's on Monday morning to draw the pittance of pay that was due him. He had expected a petition for a holiday on Christmas day. Such holidays are deducted from the teacher's time, and it is customary for the boys to "turn out" the teacher who refuses to grant them, by barring him out of the school-house on Christmas and New Year's morning. Ralph had intended to grant a holiday if it should be asked, but it was not asked. Hank Banta was the ringleader in the disaffection, and he had managed to draw the surly Bud, who was present this morning, into it. It is but fair to say that Bud was in favor of making a request before resorting to extreme measures, but he was overruled. He gave it as his solemn opinion that the master was mighty peart, and they would be beat anyhow some way, but he would lick the master fer two cents ef he warn't so slim that he'd feel like he was fighting a baby. And all that day things looked black. Ralph's countenance was cold and hard as stone, and Shocky trembled where he sat. Betsey Short tittered rather more than usual. A riot or a murder would have seemed amusing to her. School was dismissed, and Ralph, instead of returning to the Squire's, set out for the village of Clifty, a few miles away. No one knew what he went for, and some suggested that he had "sloped." But Bud said "he warn't that air kind. He was one of them air sort as died in their tracks, was Mr. Hartsook. They'd find him on the ground nex' morning, and he lowed the master war made of that air sort of stuff as would burn the dog-on'd ole school-house to ashes, or blow it into splinters, but what he'd beat. Howsumdever he'd said he was a-goin' to help, and help he would; but all the sinno in Golier wouldn't be no account again the cute they was in the head of the master." But Bud, discouraged as he was with the fear of Ralph's "cute," went like a martyr to the stake and took his place with the rest in the school-house at nine o'clock at night. It may have been Ralph's intention to preoccupy the school-house, for at ten o'clock Hank Banta was set shaking from head to foot at seeing a face that looked like the master's at the window. He waked up Bud and told him about it. "Well, what are you a-tremblin' about, you coward?" growled Bud. "He won't shoot you; but he'll beat you at this game, I'll bet a hoss, and me, too, and make us both as 'shamed of ourselves as dogs with tin-kittles to their tails. You don't know the master, though he did duck you. But he'll larn you a good lesson this time, and me too, like as not." And Bud soon snored again, but Hank shook with fear every time he looked at the blackness outside the windows. He was sure he heard foot-falls. He would have given anything to have been at home. When morning came, the pupils began to gather early. A few boys who were likely to prove of service in the coming siege were admitted through the window, and then everything was made fast, and a "snack" was eaten. "How do you 'low he'll get in?" said Hank, trying to hide his fear. "How do I 'low?" said Bud. "I don't 'low nothin' about it. You might as well ax me where I 'low the nex' shootin' star is a-goin' to drap. Mr. Hartsook's mighty onsartin. But he'll git in, though, and tan your hide fer you, you see ef he don't. _Ef_ he don't blow up the school-house with gunpowder!" This last was thrown in by way of alleviating the fears of the cowardly Hank, for whom Bud had a great contempt. The time for school had almost come. The boys inside were demoralized by waiting. They began to hope that the master had "sloped." They dreaded to see him coming. "I don't believe he'll come," said Hank, with a cold shiver. "It's past school-time." "Yes, he will come, too," said Bud. "And he 'lows to come in here mighty quick. I don't know how. But he'll be a-standin' at that air desk when it's nine o'clock. I'll bet a thousand dollars on that. _Ef_ he don't take it into his head to blow us up!" Hank was now white. Some of the parents came along, accidentally of course, and stopped to see the fun, sure that Bud would thrash the master if he tried to break in. Small, on the way to see a patient perhaps, reined up in front of the door. Still no Ralph. It was just five minutes before nine. A rumor now gained currency that he had been seen going to Clifty the evening before, and that he had not come back, though in fact Ralph had come back, and had slept at Squire Hawkins's. "There's the master," cried Betsey Short, who stood out in the road shivering and giggling alternately. For Ralph at that moment emerged from the sugar-camp by the school-house, carrying a board. "Ho! ho!" laughed Hank, "he thinks he'll smoke us out. I guess he'll find us ready." The boys had let the fire burn down, and there was now nothing but hot hickory coals on the hearth. "I tell you he'll come in. He didn't go to Clifty fer nothing" said Bud, who sat still on one of the benches which leaned against the door. "I don't know how, but they's lots of ways of killing a cat besides chokin' her with butter. He'll come in--_ef_ he don't blow us all sky-high!" Ralph's voice was now heard, demanding that the door be opened. "Let's open her," said Hank, turning livid with fear at the firm, confident tone of the master. Bud straightened himself up. "Hank, you're a coward. I've got a mind to kick you. You got me into this blamed mess, and now you want to craw-fish. You jest tech one of these 'ere fastenings, and I'll lay you out flat of your back afore you can say Jack Robinson." The teacher was climbing to the roof with the board in hand. "That air won't win," laughed Pete Jones outside. He saw that there was no smoke. Even Bud began to hope that Ralph would fail for once. The master was now on the ridge-pole of the school-house. He took a paper from his pocket, and deliberately poured the contents down the chimney. Mr. Pete Jones shouted "Gunpowder!" and set off down the road to be out of the way of the explosion. Dr. Small remembered, probably, that his patient might die while he sat here, and started on. But Ralph emptied the paper, and laid the board over the chimney. What a row there was inside! The benches that were braced against the door were thrown down, and Hank Banta rushed out, rubbing his eyes, coughing frantically, and sure that he had been blown up. All the rest followed, Bud bringing up the rear sulkily, but coughing and sneezing for dear life. Such a smell of sulphur as came from that school-house! Betsey had to lean against the fence to giggle. [Illustration: FIRE AND BRIMSTONE] As soon as all were out, Ralph threw the board off the chimney, leaped to the ground, entered the school-house, and opened the windows. The school soon followed him, and all was still. "Would he thrash?" This was the important question in Hank Banta's mind. And the rest looked for a battle with Bud. "It is just nine o'clock," said Ralph, consulting his watch, "and I'm glad to see you all here promptly. I should have given you a holiday if you had asked me like gentlemen yesterday. On the whole, I think I shall give you a holiday, anyhow. The school is dismissed." And Hank felt foolish. And Bud secretly resolved to thrash Hank or the master, he didn't care which. And Mirandy looked the love she could not utter. And Betsey giggled. CHAPTER XIV. A CRISIS WITH BUD. Ralph sat still at his desk. The school had gone. All at once he became conscious that Shocky sat yet in his accustomed place upon the hard, backless bench. "Why, Shocky, haven't you gone yet?" "No--sir--I was waitin' to see if you warn't a-goin', too--I--" "Well?" "I thought it would make me feel as if God warn't quite so fur away to talk to you. It did the other day." The master rose and put his hand on Shocky's head. Was it the brotherhood in affliction that made Shocky's words choke him so? Or, was it the weird thoughts that he expressed? Or, was it the recollection that Shocky was Hannah's brother? Hannah so far, far away from him now! At any rate, Shocky, looking up for the smile on which he fed, saw the relaxing of the master's face, that had been as hard as stone, and felt just one hot tear on his hand. "P'r'aps God's forgot you, too," said Shocky in a sort of half soliloquy. "Better get away from Flat Creek. You see God forgets everybody down here. 'Cause 'most everybody forgets God, 'cept Mr. Bosaw, and I 'low God don't no ways keer to be remembered by sich as him. Leastways I wouldn't if I was God, you know. I wonder what becomes of folks when God forgets 'em?" And Shocky, seeing that the master had resumed his seat and was looking absently into the fire, moved slowly out the door. "Shocky!" called the master. The little poet came back and stood before him. "Shocky, you mustn't think God has forgotten you. God brings things out right at last." But Ralph's own faith was weak, and his words sounded hollow and hypocritical to himself. Would God indeed bring things out right? He sat musing a good while, trying to convince himself of the truth of what he had just been saying to Shocky--that God would indeed bring things out right at last. Would it all come out right if Bud married Hannah? Would it all come out right if he were driven from Flat Creek with a dark suspicion upon his character? Did God concern himself with these things? Was there any God? It was the same old struggle between Doubt and Faith. And when Ralph looked up, Shocky had departed. In the next hour Ralph fought the old battle of Armageddon. I shall not describe it. You will fight it in your own way. No two alike. The important thing is the End. If you come out as he did, with the doubt gone and the trust in God victorious, it matters little just what shape the battle may take. Since Jacob became Israel there have never been two such struggles alike, save in that they all end either in victory or in defeat. It was after twelve o'clock on that Christmas day when Ralph put his head out the door of the school-house and called out: "Bud, I'd like to see you." Bud did not care to see the master, for he had inly resolved to "thrash him" and have done with him. But he couldn't back out, certainly not in sight of the others who were passing along the road with him. "I don't want the rest of you," said Ralph in a decided way, as he saw that Hank and one or two others were resolved to come also. "Thought maybe you'd want somebody to see far play," said Hank as he went off sheepishly. "If I did, you would be the last one I should ask," said Ralph. "There's no unfair play in Bud, and there is in you." And he shut the door. "Now, looky here, Mr. Ralph Hartsook," said Bud. "You don't come no gum games over me with your saft sodder and all that. I've made up my mind. You've got to promise to leave these 'ere digging, or I've got to thrash you." "You'll have to thrash me, then," said Ralph, turning a little pale, but remembering the bulldog. "But you'll tell me what It's all about, won't you?" "You know well enough. Folks says you know more 'bout the robbery at the Dutchman's than you orter. But I don't believe them. Fer them as says it is liars and thieves theirselves. 'Ta'n't fer none of that. And I shan't tell you what it _is_ fer. So now, if you won't travel, why, take off your coat and git ready fer a thrashing." The master took off his coat and showed his slender arms. Bud laid his off, and showed the physique of a prize-fighter. "You a'n't a-goin to fight _me_?" said Bud. "Not unless you make me." "Why I could chaw you all up." "I know that." "Well, you're the grittiest feller I ever did see, and ef you'd jest kep off of my ground I wouldn't a touched you. But I a'n't a-goin' to be cut out by no feller a livin' 'thout thrashin' him in an inch of his life. You see I wanted to git out of this Flat Crick way. We're a low-lived set here in Flat Crick. And I says to myself, I'll try to be somethin' more nor Pete Jones, and dad, and these other triflin', good-fer-nothin' ones 'bout here. And when you come I says, There's one as'll help me. And what do you do with yor book-larnin' and town manners but start right out to git away the gal that I'd picked out, when I'd picked her out kase I thought, not bein' Flat Crick born herself, she might help a feller to do better! Now I won't let nobody cut me out without givin' 'em the best thrashin' it's in these 'ere arms to give." "But I haven't tried to cut you out." "You can't fool _me_." "Bud, listen to me, and then thrash me if you will. I went with that girl once. When I found you had some claims, I gave her up. Not because I was afraid of you, for I would rather have taken the worst thrashing you can give me than give her up. But I haven't spoken to her since the night of the first spelling-school." "You lie!" said Bud, doubling his fists. Ralph grew red. "You was a-waitin' on her last Sunday right afore my eyes, and a-tryin' to ketch my attention too. So when you're ready say so." "Bud, there is some misunderstanding." Hartsook spoke slowly and felt bewildered. "I tell you that I did not speak to Hannah last Sunday, and you know I didn't." "Hanner!" Bud's eyes grew large. "Hanner!" Here he gasped for breath, and looked around, "Hanner!" He couldn't get any further than the name at first. "Why, plague take it, who said Hanner?" "Mirandy said you were courting Hannah," said Ralph, feeling round in a vague way to get his ideas together. "Mirandy! Thunder! You believed Mirandy! Well! Now, looky here, Mr. Hartsook, ef you was to say that my sister lied, I'd lick you till yer hide wouldn't hold shucks. But _I_ say, a-twix you and me and the gate-post, don't you never believe nothing that Mirandy Means says. Her and marm has set theirselves like fools to git you. Hanner! Well, she's a mighty nice gal, but you're welcome to _her_. I never tuck no shine that air way. But I was out of school last Thursday and Friday a-shucking corn to take to mill a-Saturday. And when I come past the Squire's and seed you talking to a gal as is a gal, you know"--here Bud hesitated and looked foolish--"I felt hoppin' mad." Bud put on his coat. Ralph put on his coat. Then they shook hands and Bud went out. Ralph sat looking into the fire. There was no conscientious difficulty now in the way of his claiming Hannah. The dry forestick lying on the rude stone andirons burst into a blaze. The smoldering hope In the heart of Ralph Hartsook did the same. He could have Hannah If he could win her. But there came slowly back the recollection of his lost standing in Flat Creek. There was circumstantial evidence against him. It was evident that Hannah believed something of this. What other stones Small might have put in circulation he did not know. Would Small try to win Hannah's love to throw it away again, as he had done with others? At least he would not spare any pains to turn the heart of the bound girl against Ralph. The bright flame on the forestick, which Ralph had been watching, flickered and burned low. CHAPTER XV. THE CHURCH OF THE BEST LICKS. Just as the flame on the forestick, which Ralph had watched so intensely, flickered and burned low, and just as Ralph with a heavy but not quite hopeless heart rose to leave, the latch lifted and Bud re-entered. "I wanted to say something," he stammered, "but you know it's hard to say it. I ha'n't no book-larnin to speak of, and some things is hard to say when a man ha'n't got book-words to say 'em with. And they's some things a man can't hardly ever say anyhow to anybody." Here Bud stopped. But Ralph spoke in such a matter-of-course way in reply that he felt encouraged to go on. "You gin up Hanner kase you thought she belonged to me. That's more'n I'd a done by a long shot. Now, arter I left here jest now, I says to myself, a man what can gin up his gal on account of sech a feeling fer the rights of a Flat Cricker like me, why, dog-on it, says I, sech a man is the man as can help me do better. I don't know whether you're a Hardshell or a Saftshell, or a Methodist, or a Campbellite, or a New Light, or a United Brother, or a Millerite, or what-not. But I says, the man what can do the clean thing by a ugly feller like me, and stick to it, when I was jest ready to eat him up, is a kind of a man to tie to." Here Bud stopped in fright at his own volubility, for he had run his words off like a piece learned by heart, as though afraid that if he stopped he would not have courage to go on. Ralph said that he did not belong to any church, and he was afraid he couldn't do Bud much good. But his tone was full of sympathy, and, what is better than sympathy, a yearning for sympathy. "You see," said Bud, "I wanted to git out of this low-lived, Flat Crick way of livin'. We're a hard set down here, Mr. Hartsook. And I'm gittin' to be one of the hardest of 'em. But I never could git no good out of Bosaw with his whisky and meanness. And I went to the Mount Tabor church concert. I heard a man discussin' baptism, and regeneration, and so on. That didn't seem no cure for me, I went to a revival over at Clifty. Well, 'twarn't no use. First night they was a man that spoke about Jesus Christ in sech a way that I wanted to foller him everywhere. But I didn't feel fit. Next night I come back with my mind made up that I'd try Jesus Christ, and see ef he'd have me. But laws! they was a big man that night that preached hell. Not that I don't believe they's a hell. They's plenty not a thousand miles away as deserves it, and I don't know as I'm too good for it myself. But he pitched it at us, and stuck it in our faces in sech a way that I got mad. And I says, Well, ef God sends me to hell he can't make me holler 'nough nohow. You see my dander was up. And when my dander's up, I wouldn't gin up fer the devil his-self. The preacher was so insultin' with his way of doin' it. He seemed to be kind of glad that we was to be damned, and he preached somethin' like some folks swears. It didn't sound a bit like the Christ the little man preached about the night afore. So what does me and a lot of fellers do but slip out and cut off the big preacher's stirrups, and hang 'em on to the rider of the fence, and then set his hoss loose! And from that day, sometimes I did, and sometimes I didn't, want to be better. And to-day it seemed to me that you must know somethin' as would help me." Nothing is worse than a religious experience kept ready to be exposed to the gaze of everybody, whether the time is appropriate or not. But never was a religious experience more appropriate than the account which Ralph gave to Bud of his Struggle in the Dark. The confession of his weakness and wicked selfishness was a great comfort to Bud. "Do you think that Jesus Christ would--would--well, do you think he'd help a poor, unlarnt Flat Cricker like me?" "I think he was a sort of a Flat Creeker himself," said Ralph, slowly and very earnestly. "You don't say?" said Bud, almost getting off his seat. "Why, you see the town he lived in was a rough place. It was called Nazareth, which meant 'Bush-town.'" "You don't say?" "And he was called a Nazarene, which was about the same as 'backwoodsman.'" And Ralph read the different passages which he had studied at Sunday-school, illustrating the condescension of Jesus, the stories of the publicans, the harlots, the poor, who came to him. And he read about Nathanael, who lived only six miles away, saying, 'Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?'" "Jus' what Clifty folks says about Flat Crick," broke in Bud. "Do you think I could begin without being baptized?" he added presently. "Why not? Let's begin now to do the best we can, by his help." "You mean, then, that I'm to begin now to put in my best licks for Jesus Christ, and that he'll help me?" This shocked Ralph's veneration a little. But it was the sincere utterance of an earnest soul. It may not have been an orthodox start, but it was the one start for Bud. And there be those who have repeated with the finest æsthetic appreciation the old English liturgies who have never known religious aspiration so sincere as that of this ignorant young Hercules, whose best confession was that he meant hereafter "to put in his best licks for Jesus Christ." And there be those who can define repentance and faith to the turning of a hair who never made so genuine a start for the kingdom of Heaven as Bud Means did. Ralph said yes, that he thought that was just it. At least, he guessed if there was something more, the man that was putting in his best licks would be sure to find it out. "Do you think he'd help a feller? Seems to me it would be number one to have God help you. Not to help you fight other folks, but to help you when it comes to fighting the devil inside. But you see I don't belong to no church" "Well, let's you and me have one right off. Two people that help one another to serve God make a church." I am afraid this ecclesiastical theory will not be considered orthodox. It was Ralph's, and I write it down at the risk of bringing him into condemnation. But other people before the days of Bud and Ralph have discussed church organization when they should have been doing Christian work. For both of them had forgotten the danger that hung over the old basket-maker, until Shocky burst into the school-house, weeping. Indeed, the poor, nervous little frame was ready to go into convulsions. "Miss Hawkins--" Bud started at mention of the name. "Miss Hawkins has just been over to say that a crowd is going to tar and feather Mr. Pearson to-night. And--" here Shocky wept again. "And he won't run, but he's took up the old flintlock, and he'll die in his tracks." CHAPTER XVI. THE CHURCH MILITANT. Bud was doubly enlisted on the side of John Pearson, the basket-maker. In the first place, he knew that this persecution of the unpopular old man was only a blind to save somebody else; that they were thieves who cried, "Stop thief!" And he felt consequently that this was a chance to put his newly-formed resolutions into practice. The Old Testament religious life, which consists in fighting the Lord's enemies, suited Bud's temper and education. It might lead to something better. It was the best possible to him, now. But I am afraid I shall have to acknowledge that there was a second motive that moved Bud to this championship. The good heart of Martha Hawkins having espoused the cause of the basket-maker, the heart of Bud Means could not help feeling warmly on the same side. Blessed is that man in whose life the driving of duty and the drawing of love impel the same way! But why speak of the driving of duty? For already Bud was learning the better lesson of serving God for the love of God. The old basket-maker was the most unpopular man in Flat Creek district. He had two great vices. He would go to Clifty and have a "spree" once in three months. And he would tell the truth in a most unscrupulous manner. A man given to plain speaking was quite as objectionable in Flat Creek as he would have been in France under the Empire, the Commune, or the Republic, and almost as objectionable as he would be in any refined community in America. People who live in glass houses have a horror of people who throw stones. And the old basket-maker, having no friends, was a good scape-goat. In driving him off, Pete Jones would get rid of a dangerous neighbor and divert attention from himself. The immediate crime of the basket-maker was that he had happened to see too much. "Mr. Hartsook," said Bud, when they got out into the road, "you'd better go straight home to the Squire's. Bekase ef this lightnin' strikes a second time it'll strike awful closte to you. You hadn't better be seen with us. Which way did you come, Shocky?" "Why, I tried to come down the holler, but I met Jones right by the big road, and he sweared at me and said he'd kill me ef I didn't go back and stay. And so I went back to the house and then slipped out through the graveyard. You see I was bound to come ef I got skinned. For Mr. Pearson's, stuck to me and I mean to stick to him, you see." Bud led Shocky through the graveyard. But when they reached the forest path from the graveyard he thought that perhaps it was not best to "show his hand," as he expressed it, too soon. "Now, Shocky," he said, "do you run ahead and tell the ole man that I want to see him right off down by the Spring-in-rock. I'll keep closte behind you, and ef anybody offers to trouble you, do you let off a yell and I'll be thar in no time." When Ralph left the school-house he felt mean. There were Bud and Shocky gone on an errand of mercy, and he, the truant member of the Church of the Best Licks, was not with them. The more he thought of it the more he seemed to be a coward, and the more he despised himself; so, yielding as usual to the first brave impulse, he leaped nimbly over the fence and started briskly through the forest in a direction intersecting the path on which were Bud and Shocky. He came in sight just in time to see the first conflict of the Church in the Wilderness with her foes. For Shocky's little feet went more swiftly on their eager errand than Bud had anticipated. He got farther out of Bud's reach than the latter intended he should, and he did not discover Pete Jones until Pete, with his hog-drover's whip, was right upon him. Shocky tried to halloo for Bud, but he was like one in a nightmare. The yell died into a whisper which could not have been heard ten feet. I shall not repeat Mr. Jones's words. They were frightfully profane. But he did not stop at words. He swept his whip round and gave little Shocky one terrible cut. Then the voice was released, and the piercing cry of pain brought Bud down the path flying. "You good-for-nothing scoundrel," growled Bud, "you're a coward and a thief to be a-beatin' a little creetur like him!" and with that Bud walked up on Jones, who prudently changed position in such a way as to get the upper side of the hill. "Well, I'll gin you the upper side, but come on," cried Bud, "ef you a'n't afeared to fight somebody besides a poor little sickly baby or a crippled soldier. Come on!" [Illustration: Bud Means comes to the rescue of Shocky.] Pete was no insignificant antagonist. He had been a great fighter, and his well-seasoned arms were like iron. He had not the splendid set of Bud, but he had more skill and experience in the rude tournament of fists to which the backwoods is so much given. Now, being out of sight of witnesses and sure that he could lie about the fight afterward, he did not scruple to take advantages which would have disgraced him forever if he had taken them in a public fight on election day or at a muster. He took the uphill side, and he clubbed his whip-stalk, striking Bud with all his force with the heavy end, which, coward-like, he had loaded with lead. Bud threw up his strong left arm and parried the blow, which, however, was so fierce that it fractured one of the bones of the arm. Throwing away his whip Pete rushed upon Bud furiously, intending to overpower him, but Bud slipped quickly to one side and let Jones pass down the hill, and as Jones came up again Means dealt him one crushing blow that sent him full length upon the ground. Nothing but the leaves saved him from a most terrible fall. Jones sprang to his feet more angry than ever at being whipped by one whom he regarded as a boy, and drew a long dirk-knife. But he was blind with rage, and Bud dodged the knife, and this time gave Pete a blow on the nose which marred the homeliness of that feature and doubled the fellow up against a tree ten feet away. Ralph came in sight in time to see the beginning of the fight, and he arrived on the ground just as Pete Jones went down under the well-dealt blow from the only remaining fist of Bud Means. While Ralph examined Bud's disabled left arm Pete picked himself up slowly, and, muttering that he felt "consid'able shuck up like," crawled away like a whipped puppy. To every one whom he met, Pete, whose intellect seemed to have weakened in sympathy with his frame, remarked feebly that he was consid'able shuck up like, and vouchsafed no other explanation. Even to his wife he only said that he felt purty consid'able shuck up like, and that the boys would have to get on to-night without him. There are some scoundrels whose very malignity is shaken out of them for the time being by a thorough drubbing. "I'm afraid you're going to have trouble with your arm, Bud," said Ralph tenderly. "Never mind; I put in my best licks fer _Him_ that air time, Mr. Hartsook." Ralph shivered a little at thought of this, but if it was right to knock Jones down at all, why might not Bud do it "heartily as unto the Lord?" Gideon did not feel any more honest pleasure in chastising the Midianites than did Bud in sending Pete Jones away purty consid'able shuck up like. CHAPTER XVII. A COUNCIL OF WAR. Shocky, whose feet had flown as soon as he saw the final fall of Pete Jones, told the whole story to the wondering and admiring ears of Miss Hawkins, who unhappily could not remember anything at the East just like it; to the frightened ears of the rheumatic old lady who felt sure her ole man's talk and stubbornness would be the ruin of him, and to the indignant ears of the old soldier who was hobbling up and down, sentinel-wise, in front of his cabin, standing guard over himself. "No, I won't leave," he said to Ralph and Bud. "You see I jest won't. What would Gin'ral Winfield Scott say ef he knew that one of them as fit at Lundy's Lane backed out, retreated, run fer fear of a passel of thieves? No, sir; me and the old flintlock will live and die together. I'll put a thunderin' charge of buckshot into the first one of them scoundrels as comes up the holler. It'll be another Lundy's Lane. And you, Mr. Hartsook, may send Scott word that ole Pearson, as fit at Lundy's Lane under him, died a-fightin' thieves on Rocky Branch, in Hoopole Kyounty, State of Injeanny." And the old man hobbled faster and faster, taxing his wooden leg to the very utmost, as if his victory depended on the vehemence with which he walked his beat. Mrs. Pearson sat wringing her hands and looking appealingly at Martha Hawkins, who stood in the door, in despair, looking appealingly at Bud. Bud was stupefied by the old man's stubbornness and his own pain, and in his turn appealed mutely to the master, in whose resources he had boundless confidence. Ralph, seeing that all depended on him, was taxing his wits to think of some way to get round Pearson's stubbornness. Shocky hung to the old man's coat and pulled away at him with many entreating words, but the venerable, bare-headed sentinel strode up and down furiously, with his flintlock on his shoulder and his basket-knife in his belt. Just at this point somebody could be seen indistinctly through the bushes coming up the hollow. "Halt!" cried the old hero. "Who goes there?" "It's me, Mr. Pearson. Don't shoot me, please." It was the voice of Hannah Thomson. Hearing that the whole neighborhood was rising against the benefactor of Shocky and of her family, she had slipped away from the eyes of her mistress, and run with breathless haste to give warning in the cabin on Rocky Branch. Seeing Ralph, she blushed, and went into the cabin. "Well," said Ralph, "the enemy is not coming yet. Let us hold a council of war." This thought came to Ralph like an inspiration. It pleased the old man's whim, and he sat down on the door-step. "Now, I suppose," said Ralph, "that General Winfield Scott always looked into things a little before he went into a fight. Didn't he?" "_To_ be sure," assented the old man. "Well," said Ralph. "What is the condition of the enemy? I suppose the whole neighborhood's against us." "_To_ be sure," said the old man. The rest were silent, but all felt the statement to be about true. "Next," said Ralph, "I suppose General Winfield Scott would always inquire into the condition of his own troops. Now let us see. Captain Pearson has Bud, who is the right wing, badly crippled by having his arm broken in the first battle." (Miss Hawkins looked pale.) "_To_ be sure," said the old man. "And I am the left wing, pretty good at giving advice, but very slender in a fight." "_To_ be sure," said the old man. "And Shocky and Miss Martha and Hannah good aids, but nothing in a battle." "_To_ be sure," said the basket-maker, a little doubtfully. "Now let's look at the arms and accouterments, I think you call them. Well, this old musket has been loaded--" "This ten year," said the old lady. "And the lock is so rusty that you could not cock it when you wanted to take aim at Hannah." The old man looked foolish, and muttered "_To_ be sure." "And there isn't another round of ammunition in the house." The old man was silent. "Now let us look at the incumbrances. Here's the old lady and Shocky. If you fight, the enemy will be pleased. It will give them a chance to kill you. And then the old lady will die and they will do with Shocky as they please." "_To_ be sure," said the old man reflectively. "Now," said Ralph, "General Winfield Scott, under such circumstances, would retreat in good order. Then, when he could muster his forces rightly, he would drive the enemy from his ground." "To be sure," said the old man. "What ort I to do?" "Have you any friends?" "Well, yes; ther's my brother over in Jackson Kyounty. I mout go there." "Well," said Bud, "do you just go down to Spring-in-rock and stay there. Them folks won't be here tell midnight. I'll come fer you at nine with my roan colt, and I'll set you down over on the big road on Buckeye Run. Then you can git on the mail-wagon that passes there about five o'clock in the mornin', and go over to Jackson County and keep shady till we want you to face the enemy and to swear agin some folks. And then well send fer you." "To be sure," said the old man in a broken voice. "I reckon General Winfield Scott wouldn't disapprove of such a maneuver as that thar." Miss Martha beamed on Bud to his evident delight, for he carried his painful arm part of the way home with her. Ralph noticed that Hannah looked at _him_ with a look full of contending emotions. He read admiration, gratitude, and doubt in the expression of her face, as she turned toward home. "Well, good-by, ole woman," said Pearson, as he took up his little handkerchief full of things and started for his hiding-place; "good-by. I didn't never think I'd desart you, and ef the old flintlock hadn't a been rusty, I'd a staid and died right here by the ole cabin. But I reckon 'ta'n't best to be brash[22]." And Shocky looked after him, as he hobbled away over the stones, more than ever convinced that God had forgotten all about things on Flat Creek. He gravely expressed his opinion to the master the next day. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 22: The elaborate etymological treatment of this word in its various forms in our best dictionary is a fine illustration of the fact that something more than scholarship is needed for penetrating the mysteries of current folk-speech. _Brash_--often _bresh_--in the sense of refuse boughs of trees, is only another form of _brush_; the two are used as one word by the people. _Brash_ in the sense of brittle has no conscious connection with the noun in popular usage, but it is accounted by the people the same word as _brash_ in the sense of rash or impetuous. The suggestion in the Century Dictionary that the words spelled _brash_ are of modern formation violates the soundest canon of antiquarian research, which is that a word phrase or custom widely diffused among plain or rustic people is of necessity of ancient origin. Now _brash_, the adjective, exists in both senses in two or three of the most widely separated dialects of the United States, and hence must have come from England. Indeed, it appears in Wright's Dictionary of Provincial English in precisely the sense it has in the text.] CHAPTER XVIII. ODDS AND ENDS. The Spring-in-rock, or, as it was sometimes, by a curious perversion, called, the "rock-in-spring," was a spring running out of a cave-like fissure in a high limestone cliff. Here the old man sheltered himself on that dreary Christmas evening, until Bud brought his roan colt to the top of the cliff above, and he and Ralph helped the old man up the cliff and into the saddle. Ralph went back to bed, but Bud, who was only too eager to put in his best licks, walked by the side of old John Pearson the six miles over to Buckeye Run, and at last, after eleven o'clock, he deposited him in a hollow sycamore by the road, there to wait the coming of the mail-wagon that would carry him into Jackson County. "Good-by," said the basket-maker, as Bud mounted the colt to return. "Ef I'm wanted jest send me word, and I'll make a forrard movement any time. I don't like this 'ere thing of running off in the night-time. But I reckon General Winfield Scott would a ordered a retreat ef he'd a been in my shoes. I'm lots obleeged to you. Akordin' to my tell, we're all of us selfish in everything; but I'll be dog-on'd ef I don't believe you and one or two more is exceptions." Whether it was that the fact that Pete Jones had got consid'able shuck up demoralized his followers, or whether it was that the old man's flight was suspected, the mob did not turn out in very great force, and the tarring was postponed indefinitely, for by the time they came together it became known somehow that the man with a wooden leg had outrun them all. But the escape of one devoted victim did not mollify the feelings of the people toward the next one. By the time Bud returned his arm was very painful, and the next day he went under Dr. Small's treatment to reduce the fracture. Whatever suspicions Bud might have of Pete Jones, he was not afflicted with Ralph's dread of the silent young doctor. And if there was anything Small admired it was physical strength and courage. Small wanted Bud on his side, and least of all did he want him to be Ralph's champion. So that the silent, cool, and skillful doctor went to work to make an impression on Bud Means. Other influences were at work upon him also. Mrs. Means volleyed and thundered in her usual style about his "takin' up with a one-legged thief, and runnin' arter that master that was a mighty suspicious kind of a customer, akordin' to her tell. She'd allers said so. Ef she'd a been consulted he wouldn't a been hired. He warn't fit company fer nobody." And old Jack Means 'lowed Bud must want to have _their_ barns burnt like some other folkses had been. Fer his part, he had sense enough to know they was some people as it wouldn't do to set a body's self agin. And as fer him, he didn't butt his brains out agin a buckeye-tree. Not when he was sober. And so they managed, during Bud's confinement to the house, to keep him well supplied with all the ordinary discomforts of life. But one visit from Martha Hawkins, ten words of kindly inquiry from her, and the remark that his broken arm reminded her of something she had seen at the East and something somebody said the time she was to Bosting, were enough to repay the champion a thousand fold for all that he suffered. Indeed, that visit, and the recollection of Ralph's saying that Jesus Christ was a sort of a Flat Creeker himself, were manna in the wilderness to Bud. Poor Shocky was sick. The excitement had been too much for him, and though his fever was very slight it was enough to produce just a little delirium. Either Ralph or Miss Martha was generally at the cabin. "They're coming," said Shocky to Ralph, "they're coming. Pete Jones is a-going to bind me out for a hundred years. I wish Hanner would hold me so's he couldn't. God's forgot all about us here in Flat Creek, and there's nobody to help it." And he shivered at every sudden sound. He was never free from this delirious fright except when the master held him tight in his arms. He staggered around the floor, the very shadow of Shocky, and was so terrified by the approach of darkness that Ralph staid in the cabin on Wednesday night and Miss Hawkins staid on Thursday night. On Friday, Bud sent a note to Ralph, askin him to come and see him. "You see, Mr. Hartsook, I ha'n't forgot what was said about puttin' in our best licks for Jesus Christ. I've been a-trying to read some about him while I set here. And I read where he said somethin about doing fer the least of his brethren being as the same like as if it was done fer Jesus Christ his-self. Now there's Shocky. I reckon, p'r'aps, as anybody is a little brother of Jesus Christ, it is that Shocky. Pete Jones and his brother Bill is determined to have him back there to-morry. Bekase you see, Pete's one of the County Commissioners and to-morry's the day that they bind out. He wants to bind out that boy jes' to spite ole Pearson and you and me. You see, the ole woman's been helped by the neighbors, and he'll claim Shocky to be a pauper, and they a'n't no human soul here as dares to do a thing con_tra_ry to Pete. Couldn't you git him over to Lewisburg? I'll lend you my roan colt." Ralph thought a minute. He dared not take Shocky to the uncle's where he found his only home. But there was Miss Nancy Sawyer, the old maid who was everybody's blessing. He could ask her to keep him. And, at any rate, he would save Shocky somehow. As he went out in the dusk, he met Hannah in the lane. CHAPTER XIX. FACE TO FACE. In the lane, in the dark, under the shadow of the barn, Ralph met Hannah carrying her bucket of milk (they have no pails in Indiana)[23]. He could see only the white foam on the milk, and Hannah's white face. Perhaps it was well that he could not see how white Hannah's face was at that moment when a sudden trembling made her set down the heavy bucket. At first neither spoke. The recollection of all the joy of that walk together in the night came upon them both. And a great sense of loss made the night seem supernaturally dark to Ralph. Nor was it any lighter in the hopeless heart of the bound girl. The presence of Ralph did not now, as before, make the darkness of her life light. "Hannah--" said Ralph presently, and stopped. For he could not finish the sentence. With a rush there came upon him a consciousness of the suspicions that filled Hannah's mind. And with it there came a feeling of guilt. He saw himself from her stand-point, and felt a remorse almost as keen as it could have been had he been a criminal. And this sudden and morbid sense of his guilt as it appeared to Hannah paralyzed him. But when Hannah lifted her bucket with her hand, and the world with her heavy heart, and essayed to pass him, Ralph rallied and said: "_You_ don't believe all these lies that are told about me." "I don't believe anything, Mr. Hartsook; that is, I don't want to believe anything against you. And I wouldn't mind anything they say if it wasn't for two things"--here she stammered and looked down. "If it wasn't for what?" said Ralph with a spice of indignant denial in his voice. Hannah hesitated, but Ralph pressed the question with eagerness. "I saw you cross that blue-grass pasture the night--the night that you walked home with me." She would have said the night of the robbery, but her heart smote her, and she adopted the more kindly form of the sentence. Ralph would have explained, but how? "I did cross the pasture," he began, "but--" Just here it occurred to Ralph that there was no reason for his night excursion across the pasture. Hannah again took up her bucket, but he said: "Tell me what else you have against me." "I haven't anything against you. Only I am poor and friendless, and you oughtn't to make my life any heavier. They say that you have paid attention to a great many girls. I don't know why you should want to trifle with me." Ralph answered her this time. He spoke low. He spoke as though he were speaking to God. "If any man says that I ever trifled with any woman, he lies. I have never loved but one, and you know who that is. And God knows." "I don't know what to say, Mr. Hartsook." Hannah's voice was broken. These solemn words of love were like a river in the desert, and she was like a wanderer dying of thirst. "I don't know, Mr. Hartsook. If I was alone, it wouldn't matter. But I've got my blind mother and my poor Shocky to look after. And I don't want to make mistakes. And the world is so full of lies I don't know what to believe. Somehow I can't help believing what you say. You seem to speak so true. But--" "But what?" said Ralph. "But you know how I saw you just as kind to Martha Hawkins on Sunday as--as--" "Han--ner!" It was the melodious voice of the angry Mrs. Means, and Hannah lifted her pail and disappeared. Standing in the shadow of his own despair, Ralph felt how dark a night could be when it had no promise of morning. And Dr. Small, who had been stabling his horse just inside the barn, came out and moved quietly into the house just as though he had not listened intently to every word of the conversation. As Ralph walked away he tried to comfort himself by calling to his aid the bulldog in his character. But somehow it did not do him any good. For what is a bulldog but a stoic philosopher? Stoicism has its value, but Ralph had come to a place where stoicism was of no account. The memory of the Helper, of his sorrow, his brave and victorious endurance, came when stoicism failed. Happiness might go out of life, but in the light of Christ's life happiness seemed but a small element anyhow. The love of woman might be denied him, but there still remained what was infinitely more precious and holy, the love of God. There still remained the possibility of heroic living. Working, suffering, and enduring still remained. And he who can work for God and endure for God, surely has yet the best of life left. And, like the knights who could find the Holy Grail only in losing themselves, Hartsook, in throwing his happiness out of the count, found the purest happiness, a sense of the victory of the soul over the tribulations of life. The man who knows this victory scarcely needs the encouragement of the hope of future happiness. There is a real heaven in bravely lifting the load of one's own sorrow and work. And it was a good thing for Ralph that the danger hanging over Shocky made immediate action necessary. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 23: The total absence of the word _pail_ not only from the dialect, but even from cultivated speech in the Southern and Border States until very recently, is a fact I leave to be explained on further investigation. The word is an old one and a good one, but I fancy that its use in England could not have been generally diffused in the seventeenth century. So a Hoosier or a Kentuckian never _pared_ an apple, but _peeled_ it. Much light might be thrown on the origin and history of our dialects by investigating their deficiencies.] CHAPTER XX. GOD REMEMBERS SHOCKY. At four o'clock the next morning, in the midst of a driving snow, Ralph went timidly up the lane toward the homely castle of the Meanses. He went timidly, for he was afraid of Bull. But he found Bud waiting for him, with the roan colt bridled and saddled. The roan colt was really a large three-year-old, full of the finest sort of animal life, and having, as Bud declared, "a mighty sight of hoss sense fer his age." He seemed to understand at once that there was something extraordinary on hand when he was brought out of his comfortable quarters at four in the morning in the midst of a snow-storm. Bud was sure that the roan colt felt his responsibility. In the days that followed, Ralph often had occasion to remember this interview with Bud, who had risked much in bringing his fractured arm out into the cold, damp air. Jonathan never clave to David more earnestly than did Bud this December morning to Ralph. "You see, Mr. Hartsook," said Bud, "I wish I was well myself. It's hard to set still. But it's a-doing me a heap of good. I'm like a boy at school. And I'm a-findin' out that doing one's best licks fer others ain't all they is of it, though it's a good part. I feel like as if I must git Him, you know, to do lots for me. They's always some sums too hard fer a feller, and he has to ax the master to do 'em, you know. But see, the roan's a-stomping round. He wants to be off. Do you know I think that hoss knows something's up? I think he puts in his best licks fer me a good deal better than I do fer Him." Ralph pressed Bud's right hand. Bud rubbed his face against the colt's nose and said: "Put in your best licks, old fellow." And the colt whinnied. How a horse must want to speak! For Bud was right. Men are gods to horses, and they serve their deities with a faithfulness that shames us. Then Ralph sprang into the saddle, and the roan, as if wishing to show Bud his willingness, broke into a swinging gallop, and was soon lost to the sight of his master in the darkness and the snow. When Bud could no more hear the sound of the roan's footsteps he returned to the house, to lie awake picturing to himself the journey of Ralph with Shocky and the roan colt. It was a great comfort to Bud that the roan, which was almost a part of himself, represented him in this ride. And he knew the roan well enough to feel sure that he would do credit to his master. "He'll put in his best licks," Bud whispered to himself many a time before daybreak. The ground was but little frozen, and the snow made the roads more slippery than ever. But the rough-shod roan handled his feet dexterously and with a playful and somewhat self-righteous air, as though he said: "Didn't I do it handsomely that time?" Down slippery hills, through deep mud-holes covered with a slender film of ice he trod with perfect assurance. And then up over the rough stones of Rocky Hollow, where there was no road at all, he picked his way through the darkness and snow. Ralph could not tell where he was at last, but gave the reins to the roan, who did his duty bravely, and not without a little flourish, to show that he had yet plenty of spare power. A feeble candle-ray, making the dense snow-fall visible, marked for Ralph the site of the basket-maker's cabin. Miss Martha had been admitted to the secret, and had joined in the conspiracy heartily, without being able to recall anything of the kind having occurred at the East, and not remembering having seen or heard of anything of the sort the time she was to Bosting. She had Shocky all ready, having used some of her own capes and shawls to make him warm. Miss Martha came out to meet Ralph when she heard the feet of the roan before the door. "O Mr. Hartsook! is that you? What a storm. This is jest the way it snows at the East. Shocky's all ready. He didn't know a thing about it tell I waked him this morning. Ever since that he's been saying that God hasn't forgot, after all. It's made me cry more'n once." And Shocky kissed Mrs. Pearson, and told her that when he got away from Flat Creek he'd tell God all about it, and God would bring Mr. Pearson back again. And then Martha Hawkins lifted the frail little form, bundled in shawls, in her arms, and brought him out into the storm; and before she handed him up he embraced her, and said: "O Miss Hawkins! God ha'n't forgot me, after all. Tell Hanner that He ha'n't forgot. I'm going to ask him to git her away from Means's and mother out of the poor-house. I'll ask him just as soon as I get to Lewisburg." Ralph lifted the trembling form into his arms, and the little fellow only looked up in the face of the master and said: "You see, Mr. Hartsook, I thought God had forgot. But he ha'n't." And the words of the little boy comforted the master also. God had not forgotten him, either! From the moment that Ralph took Shocky into his arms, the conduct of the roan colt underwent an entire revolution. Before that he had gone over a bad place with a rush, as though he were ambitious of distinguishing himself by his brilliant execution. Now he trod none the less surely, but he trod tenderly. The neck was no longer arched. He set himself to his work as steadily as though he were twenty years old. For miles he traveled on in a long, swinging walk, putting his feet down carefully and firmly. And Ralph found the spirit of the colt entering into himself. He cut the snow-storm with his face, and felt a sense of triumph over all his difficulties. The bulldog's jaws had been his teacher, and now the steady, strong, and conscientious legs of the roan inspired him. Shocky had not spoken. He lay listening to the pattering music of the horse's feet, doubtless framing the footsteps of the roan colt into an anthem of praise to the God who had not forgot. But as the dawn came on, making the snow whiter, he raised himself and said half-aloud, as he watched the flakes chasing one another in whirling eddies, that the snow seemed to be having a good time of it. Then he leaned down again on the master's bosom, full of a still joy, and only roused himself from his happy reverie to ask what that big, ugly-looking house was. "See, Mr. Hartsook, how big it is, and how little and ugly the windows is! And the boards is peeling off all over it, and the hogs is right in the front yard. It don't look just like a house. It looks dreadful. What is it?" Ralph had dreaded this question. He did not answer it, but asked Shocky to change his position a little, and then he quickened the pace of the horse. But Shocky was a poet, and a poet understands silence more quickly than he does speech. The little fellow shivered as the truth came to him. "Is that the poor-house?" he said, catching his breath. "Is my mother in that place? _Won't_ you take me in there, so as I can just kiss her once? 'Cause she can't see much, you know. And one kiss from me will make her feel so good. And I'll tell her that God ha'n't forgot." He had raised up and caught hold of Ralph's coat. Ralph had great difficulty in quieting him. He told him that if he went in there Bill Jones might claim that he was a runaway and belonged there. And poor Shocky only shivered and said he was cold. A minute later, Ralph found that he was shaking with a chill, and a horrible dread came over him. What if Shocky should die? It was only a minute's work to get down, take the warm horse-blanket from under the saddle, and wrap it about the boy, then to strip off his own overcoat and add that to it. It was now daylight, and finding, after he had mounted, that Shocky continued to shiver, he put the roan to his best speed for the rest of the way, trotting up and down the slippery hills, and galloping away on the level ground. How bravely the roan laid himself to his work, making the fence-corners fly past in a long procession! But poor little Shocky was too cold to notice them, and Ralph shuddered lest Shocky should never be warm again, and spoke to the roan, and the roan stretched out his head, and dropped one ear back to hear the first word of command, and stretched the other forward to listen for danger, and then flew with a splendid speed down the road, past the patches of blackberry briars, past the elderberry bushes, past the familiar red-haw tree in the fence-corner, over the bridge without regard to the threat of a five-dollar fine, and at last up the long lane into the village, where the smoke from the chimneys was caught and whirled round with the snow. CHAPTER XXI. MISS NANCY SAWYER. In a little old cottage in Lewisburg, on one of the streets which was never traveled except by a solitary cow seeking pasture or a countryman bringing wood to some one of the half-dozen families living in it, and which in summer was decked with a profusion of the yellow and white blossoms of the dog-fennel--in this unfrequented street, so generously and unnecessarily broad, lived Miss Nancy Sawyer and her younger sister Semantha. Miss Nancy was a providence, one of those old maids that are benedictions to the whole town; one of those in whom the mother-love, wanting the natural objects on which to spend itself, overflows all bounds and lavishes itself on every needy thing, and grows richer and more abundant with the spending, a fountain of inexhaustible blessing. There is no nobler life possible to any one than to an unmarried woman. The more shame that some choose a selfish one, and thus turn to gall all the affection with which they are endowed. Miss Nancy Sawyer had been Ralph's Sunday-school teacher, and it was precious little, so far as information went, that he learned from her; for she never could conceive of Jerusalem as a place in any essential regard very different from Lewisburg, where she had spent her life. But Ralph learned from her what most Sunday-school teachers fail to teach, the great lesson of Christianity, by the side of which all antiquities and geographies and chronologies and exegetics and other niceties are as nothing. And now he turned the head of the roan toward the cottage of Miss Nancy Sawyer as naturally as the roan would have gone to his own stall in the stable at home. The snow had gradually ceased to fall, and was eddying round the house, when Ralph dismounted from his foaming horse, and, carrying the still form of Shocky as reverently as though it had been something heavenly, knocked at Miss Nancy Sawyer's door. With natural feminine instinct that lady started back when she saw Hartsook, for she had just built a fire in the stove, and she now stood at the door with unwashed face and uncombed hair. "Why, Ralph Hartsook, where did you drop down from--and what have you got?" "I came from Flat Creek this morning, and I brought you a little angel who has got out of heaven, and needs some of your motherly care." Shocky was brought in. The chill shook him now by fits only, for a fever had spotted his cheeks already. "Who are you?" said Miss Nancy, as she unwrapped him. "I'm Shocky, a little boy as God forgot, and then thought of again." CHAPTER XXII. PANCAKES. Half an hour later, Ralph, having seen Miss Nancy Sawyer's machinery of warm baths and simple remedies safely in operation, and having seen the roan colt comfortably stabled, and rewarded for his faithfulness by a bountiful supply of the best hay and the promise of oats when he was cool--half an hour later Ralph was doing the most ample, satisfactory, and amazing justice to his Aunt Matilda's hot buckwheat-cakes and warm coffee. And after his life in Flat Creek, Aunt Matilda's house did look like paradise. How white the table-cloth, how bright the coffee-pot, how clean the wood-work, how glistening the brass door-knobs, how spotless everything that came under the sovereign sway of Mrs. Matilda White! For in every Indiana village as large as Lewisburg, there are generally a half-dozen women who are admitted to be the best housekeepers. All others are only imitators. And the strife is between these for the pre-eminence. It is at least safe to say that no other in Lewisburg stood so high as an enemy to dirt, and as a "rat, roach, and mouse exterminator," as did Mrs. Matilda White, the wife of Ralph's maternal uncle, Robert White, Esq., a lawyer in successful practice. Of course no member of Mrs. White's family ever stayed at home longer than was necessary. Her husband found his office--which he kept in as bad a state as possible in order to maintain an equilibrium in his life--much more comfortable than the stiffly clean house at home. From the time that Ralph had come to live as a chore-boy at his uncle's, he had ever crossed the threshold of Aunt Matilda's temple of cleanliness with a horrible sense of awe. And Walter Johnson, her son by a former marriage, had--poor, weak-willed fellow!--been driven into bad company and bad habits by the wretchedness of extreme civilization. And yet he showed the hereditary trait, for all the genius which Mrs. White consecrated to the glorious work of making her house too neat to be habitable, her son Walter gave to tying exquisite knots in his colored cravats and combing his oiled locks so as to look like a dandy barber. And she had no other children. The kind Providence that watches over the destiny of children takes care that very few of them are lodged in these terribly clean houses. But Walter was not at the table, and Ralph had so much anxiety lest his absence should be significant of evil, that he did not venture to inquire after him as he sat there between Mr. and Mrs. White disposing of Aunt Matilda's cakes with an appetite only justified by his long morning's ride and the excellence of the brown cakes, the golden honey, and the coffee, enriched, as Aunt Matilda's always was, with the most generous cream. Aunt Matilda was so absorbed in telling of the doings of the Dorcas Society that she entirely forgot to be surprised at the early hour of Ralph's arrival. When she had described the number of the garments finished to be sent to the Five Points Mission, or the Home for the Friendless, or the South Sea Islands, I forget which, Ralph thought he saw his chance, while Aunt Matilda was in a benevolent mood, to broach a plan he had been revolving for some time. But when he looked at Aunt Matilda's immaculate--horribly immaculate--housekeeping, his heart failed him, and he would have said nothing had she not inadvertently opened the door herself. "How did you get here so early, Ralph?" and Aunt Matilda's face was shadowed with a coming rebuke. "By early rising," said Ralph. But, seeing the gathering frown on his aunt's brow, he hastened to tell the story of Shocky as well as he could. Mrs. White did not give way to any impulse toward sympathy until she learned that Shocky was safely housed with Miss Nancy Sawyer. "Yes, Sister Sawyer has no family cares," she said by way of smoothing her slightly ruffled complacency, "she has no family cares, and she can do those things. Sometimes I think she lets people impose on her and keep her away from the means of grace, and I spoke to our new preacher about it the last time he was here, and asked him to speak to Sister Sawyer about staying away from the ordinances to wait on everybody, but he is a queer man, and he only said that he supposed Sister Sawyer neglected the inferior ordinances that she might attend to higher ones. But I don't see any sense in a minister of the gospel calling prayer-meeting a lower ordinance than feeding catnip-tea to Mrs. Brown's last baby. But hasn't this little boy--Shocking, or what do you call him?--got any mother?" "Yes," said Ralph, "and that was just what I was going to say." And he proceeded to tell how anxious Shocky was to see his half-blind mother, and actually ventured to wind up his remarks by suggesting that Shocky's mother be invited to stay over Sunday in Aunt Matilda's house. "Bless my stars!" said that astounded saint, "fetch a pauper here? What crazy notions you have got! Fetch her here out of the poor-house? Why, she wouldn't be fit to sleep in my--" here Aunt Matilda choked. The bare thought of having a pauper in her billowy beds, whose snowy whiteness was frightful to any ordinary mortal, the bare thought of the contagion of the poor-house taking possession of one of her beds, smothered her. "And then you know sore eyes are very catching." Ralph boiled a little. "Aunt Matilda, do you think Dorcas was afraid of sore eyes?" It was a center shot, and the lawyer-uncle, lawyerlike, enjoyed a good hit. And he enjoyed a good hit at his wife best of all, for he never ventured on one himself. But Aunt Matilda felt that a direct reply was impossible. She was not a lawyer but a woman, and so dodged the question by making a counter-charge. "It seems to me, Ralph, that you have picked up some very low associates. And you go around at night, I am told. You get over here by daylight, and I hear that you have made common cause with a lame soldier who acts as a spy for thieves, and that your running about of night is likely to get you into trouble." Ralph was hit this time. "I suppose," he said, "that you've been listening to some of Henry Small's lies." "Why, Ralph, how you talk! The worst sign of all is that you abuse such a young man as Dr. Small, the most exemplary Christian young man in the county. And he is a great friend of yours, for when he was here last week he did not say a word against you, but looked so sorry when your being in trouble was mentioned. Didn't he, Mr. White?" Mr. White, as in duty bound, said yes, but he said yes in a cool, lawyerlike way, which showed that he did not take quite so much stock in Dr. Small as his wife did. This was a comfort to Ralph, who sat picturing to himself the silent flattery which Dr. Small's eyes paid to his Aunt Matilda, and the quiet expression of pain that would flit across his face when Ralph's name was mentioned. And never until that moment had Hartsook understood how masterful Small's artifices were. He had managed to elevate himself in Mrs. White's estimation and to destroy Ralph at the same time, and had managed to do both by a contraction of the eyebrows! But the silence was growing painful and Ralph thought to break it and turn the current of talk from himself by asking after Mrs. White's son. "Where is Walter?" "Oh! Walter's doing well. He went down to Clifty three weeks ago to study medicine with Henry Small. He seems so fond of the doctor, and the doctor is such an excellent man, you know, and I have strong hopes that Wallie will be led to see the error of his ways by his association with Henry. I suppose he would have gone to see you but for the unfavorable reports that he heard. I hope, Ralph, you too will make the friendship of Dr. Small. And for the sake of your poor, dead mother"--here Aunt Matilda endeavored to show some emotion--"for the sake of your poor dead mother--" But Ralph heard no more. The buckwheat-cakes had lost their flavor. He remembered that the colt had not yet had his oats, and so, in the very midst of Aunt Matilda's affecting allusion to his mother, like a stiff-necked reprobate that he was, Ralph Hartsook rose abruptly from the table, put on his hat, and went out toward the stable. "I declare," said Mrs. White, descending suddenly from her high moral stand-point, "I declare that boy has stepped right on the threshold of the back-door," and she stuffed her white handkerchief into her pocket, and took down the floor-cloth to wipe off the imperceptible blemish left by Ralph's boot-heels. And Mr. White followed his nephew to the stable to request that he would be a little careful what he did about anybody in the poor-house, as any trouble with the Joneses might defeat Mr. White's nomination to the judgeship of the Court of Common Pleas. CHAPTER XXIII. A CHARITABLE INSTITUTION. When Ralph got back to Miss Nancy Sawyer's, Shocky was sitting up in bed talking to Miss Nancy and Miss Semantha. His cheeks were a little flushed with fever and the excitement of telling his story; theirs were wet with tears. "Ralph," whispered Miss Nancy, as she drew him into the kitchen, "I want you to get a buggy or a sleigh, and go right over to the poor-house and fetch that boy's mother over here. It'll do me more good than any sermon I ever heard to see that boy in his mother's arms to-morrow. We can keep the old lady over Sunday." Ralph was delighted, so delighted that he came near kissing good Miss Nancy Sawyer, whose plain face was glorified by her generosity. But he did not go to the poor-house immediately. He waited until he saw Bill Jones, the Superintendent of the Poor-House, and Pete Jones, the County Commissioner, who was still somewhat shuck up, ride up to the court-house. Then he drove out of the village, and presently hitched his horse to the poor-house fence, and took a survey of the outside. Forty hogs, nearly ready for slaughter, wallowed in a pen in front of the forlorn and dilapidated house; for though the commissioners allowed a claim for repairs at every meeting, the repairs were never made, and it would not do to scrutinize Mr. Jones's bills too closely, unless you gave up all hope of renomination to office. One curious effect of political aspirations in Hoopole County, was to shut the eyes that they could not see, to close the ears that they could not hear, and to destroy the sense of smell. But Ralph, not being a politician, smelled the hog-pen without and the stench within, and saw everywhere the transparent fraud, and heard the echo of Jones's cruelty. A weak-eyed girl admitted him, and as he did not wish to make his business known at once, he affected a sort of idle interest in the place, and asked to be allowed to look round. The weak-eyed girl watched him. He found that all the women with children, twenty persons in all, were obliged to sleep in one room, which, owing to the hill-slope, was partly under ground, and which had but half a window for light, and no ventilation, except the chance draft from the door. Jones had declared that the women with children must stay there--"he warn't goin' to have brats a-runnin' over the whole house." Here were vicious women and good women, with their children, crowded like chickens in a coop for market. And there were, as usual in such places, helpless, idiotic women with illegitimate children. Of course this room was the scene of perpetual quarreling and occasional fighting. In the quarters devoted to the insane, people slightly demented and raving maniacs were in the same rooms, while there were also those utter wrecks which sat in heaps on the floor, mumbling and muttering unintelligible words, the whole current of their thoughts hopelessly muddled, turning around upon itself in eddies never ending. "That air woman," said the weak-eyed girl, "used to holler a heap when she was brought in here. But Pap knows how to subjue 'em. He slapped her in the mouth every time she hollered. She don't make no furss now, but jist sets down that way all day, and keeps a-whisperin'." Ralph understood it. When she came in she was the victim of mania; but she had been beaten into hopeless idiocy. Indeed this state of incurable imbecility seemed the end toward which all traveled. Shut in these bare rooms, with no treatment, no exercise, no variety, and meager food, cases of slight derangement soon grew into chronic lunacy. One young woman, called Phil, a sweet-faced person, apparently a farmer's wife, came up to Ralph and looked at him kindly, playing with the buttons on his coat in a childlike simplicity. Her blue-drilling dress was sewed all over with patches of white, representing ornamental buttons. The womanly instinct toward adornment had in her taken this childish turn. "Don't you think they ought to let me go home?" she said with a sweetness and a wistful, longing, home-sick look, that touched Ralph to the heart. He looked at her, and then at the muttering crones, and he could see no hope of any better fate for her. She followed him round the barn-like rooms, returning every now and then to her question. "Don't you think I might go home now?" The weak-eyed girl had been called away for a moment, and Ralph stood looking into a cell, where there was a man with a gay red plume in his hat and a strip of red flannel about his waist. He strutted up and down like a drill-sergeant. "I am General Andrew Jackson," he began. "People don't believe it, but I am. I had my head shot off at Bueny Visty, and the new one that growed on isn't nigh so good as the old one; it's tater on one side[24]. That's why they take advantage of me to shut me up. But I know some things. My head is tater on one side, but it's all right on t'other. And when I know a thing in the left side of my head, I know it. Lean down here. Let me tell you something out of the left side. Not out of the tater side, mind ye. I wouldn't a told you if he hadn't locked me up fer nothing. _Bill Jones is a thief_! He sells the bodies of the dead paupers, and then sells the empty coffins back to the county agin. But that a'n't all--" Just then the weak-eyed girl came back, and, as Ralph moved away, General Jackson called out: "That a'n't all. I'll tell the rest another time. And that a'n't out of the tater side, you can depend on that. That's out of the left side. Sound as a nut on that side!" But Ralph began to wonder where he should find Hannah's mother. "Don't go in there," cried the weak-eyed girl, as Ralph was opening a door. "Ole Mowley's in there, and she'll cuss you." "Oh! well, if that's all, her curses won't hurt," said Hartsook, pushing open the door. But the volley of blasphemy and vile language that he received made him stagger. The old hag paced the floor, abusing everybody that came in her way. And by the window, in the same room, feeling the light that struggled through the dusty glass upon her face, sat a sorrowful, intelligent Englishwoman. Ralph noticed at once that she was English, and in a few moments he discovered that her sight was defective. Could it be that Hannah's mother was the room-mate of this loathsome creature, whose profanity and obscenity did not intermit for a moment? Happily the weak-eyed girl had not dared to brave the curses of Mowley. Ralph stepped forward to the woman by the window, and greeted her. "Is this Mrs. Thomson?" "That is my name, sir," she said, turning her face toward Ralph, who could not but remark the contrast between the thorough refinement of her manner and her coarse, scant, unshaped pauper-frock of blue drilling. "I saw your daughter yesterday." "Did you see my boy?" There was a tremulousness in her voice and an agitation in her manner which disclosed the emotion she strove in vain to conceal. For only the day before Bill Jones had informed her that Shocky would be bound out on Saturday, and that she would find that goin' agin him warn't a payin' business, so much as some others he mout mention. Ralph told her about Shocky's safety. _I_ shall not write down the conversation here. Critics would say that it was an overwrought scene. As if all the world were as cold as they! All I can tell is that this refined woman had all she could do to control herself in her eagerness to get out of her prison-house, away from the blasphemies of Mowley, away from the insults of Jones, away from the sights and sounds and smells of the place, and, above all, her eagerness to fly to the little shocky-head from whom she had been banished for two years. It seemed to her that she could gladly die now, if she could die with that flaxen head upon her bosom. And so, in spite of the opposition of Bill Jones's son, who threatened her with every sort of evil if she left, Ralph wrapped Mrs. Thomson's blue drilling in Nancy Sawyer's shawl, and bore the feeble woman off to Lewisburg. And as they drove away, a sad, childlike voice cried from the gratings of the upper window, "Good-by! good-by!" Ralph turned and saw that it was Phil, poor Phil, for whom there was no deliverance[25]. And all the way back Ralph pronounced mental maledictions on the Dorcas Society, not for sending garments to the Five Points or the South Sea Islands, whichever it was, but for being so blind to the sorrow and poverty within its reach. He did not know, for he had not read the reports of the Boards of State Charities, that nearly all alms-houses are very much like this, and that the State of New York is not better in this regard than Indiana. And he did not know that it is true in almost all other counties, as it was in his own, that "Christian" people do not think enough of Christ to look for him in these lazar-houses. And while Ralph denounced the Dorcas Society, the eager, hungry heart of the mother ran, flew toward the little white-headed boy. No, I can not do it; I can not tell you about that meeting. I am sure that Miss Nancy Sawyer's tea tasted exceedingly good to the pauper, who had known nothing but cold water for years, and that the bread and butter were delicious to a palate that had eaten poor-house soup for dinner, and coarse poor-house bread and vile molasses for supper, and that without change for three years. But I can not tell you how it seemed that evening to Miss Nancy Sawyer, as the poor English lady sat in speechless ecstacy, rocking in the old splint-bottomed rocking-chair in the fire-light, while she pressed to her bosom with all the might of her enfeebled arms, the form of the little Shocky, who half-sobbed and half-sang, over and over again, "God ha'n't forgot us, mother; God ha'n't forgot us." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 24: Some time after this book appeared Dr. Brown-Séquard announced his theory of the dual brain. A writer in an English magazine called attention to the fact that the discovery had been anticipated by an imaginative writer, and cited the passage in the text as proving that the author of "The Hoosier School-Master" had outrun Dr. Brown-Séquard in perceiving the duality of the brain. It is a matter for surprise that an author, even an "imaginative" one, should have made so great a discovery without suspecting its meaning until it was explained by some one else.] [Footnote 25: The reader may be interested to know that "Phil" was drawn from the life, as was old Mowley and in part "General Jackson" also. Between 1867 and 1870, I visited many jails and poor-houses with philanthropic purpose, publishing the results of my examination in some cases in _The Chicago Tribune_. Some of the abuses pointed out were reformed, others linger till this day, I believe.] CHAPTER XXIV. THE GOOD SAMARITAN. The Methodist church to which Mrs. Matilda White and Miss Nancy Sawyer belonged was the leading one in Lewisburg, as it was in most county-seat villages in Indiana. If I may be permitted to express my candid and charitable opinion of the difference between the two women, I shall have to use the old Quaker locution, and say that Miss Sawyer was a Methodist and likewise a Christian; Mrs. White was a Methodist, but I fear she was not likewise. As to the first part of this assertion, there was no room to doubt Miss Nancy's piety. She could get happy in class-meeting (for who had a better right?), and could witness a good experience in the quarterly love-feast. But it is not upon these grounds that I base my opinion of Miss Nancy. Do not even the Pharisees the same? She never dreamed that she had any right to speak of "Christian Perfection" (which, as Mrs. Partington said of total depravity, is an excellent doctrine if it is lived up to); but when a woman's heart is full of devout affections and good purposes, when her head devises liberal and Christlike things, when her hands are always open to the poor and always busy with acts of love and self-denial, and when her feet are ever eager to run upon errands of mercy, why, if there be anything worthy of being called Christian Perfection in this world of imperfection, I do not know why such an one does not possess it. What need of analyzing her experiences _in vacuo_ to find out the state of her soul? How Miss Nancy managed to live on her slender income and be so generous was a perpetual source of perplexity to the gossips of Lewisburg. And now that she declared that Mrs. Thomson and Shocky should not return to the poor-house there was a general outcry from the whole Committee of Intermeddlers that she would bring herself to the poor-house before she died. But Nancy Sawyer was the richest woman in Lewisburg, though nobody knew it, and though she herself did not once suspect it. How Miss Nancy and the preacher conspired together, and how they managed to bring Mrs. Thomson's case up at the time of the "Sacramental Service" in the afternoon of that Sunday in Lewisburg, and how the preacher made a touching statement of it just before the regular "Collection for the Poor" was taken, and how the warm-hearted Methodists put in dollars instead of dimes while the Presiding Elder read those passages about Zaccheus and other liberal people, and how the congregation sang "He dies, the Friend of sinners dies" more lustily than ever, after having performed this Christian act--how all this happened I can not take up the reader's time to tell. But I can assure him that the nearly blind English woman did not room with blasphemous old Mowley any more, and that the blue-drilling pauper frock gave way to something better, and that grave little Shocky even danced with delight, and declared that God hadn't forgot, though he'd thought that He had. And Mrs. Matilda White remarked that it was a shame that the collection for the poor at a Methodist sacramental service should be given to a woman who was a member of the Church of England, and like as not never soundly converted! And Shocky slept in his mother's arms and prayed God not to forget Hannah, while Shocky's mother knit stockings for the store day and night, and day and night she prayed and hoped. CHAPTER XXV. BUD WOOING. The Sunday that Ralph spent in Lewisburg, the Sunday that Shocky spent in an earthly paradise, the Sunday that Mrs. Thomson spent with Shocky instead of old Mowley, the Sunday that Miss Nancy thought was "just like heaven," was also an eventful Sunday with Bud Means. He had long adored Miss Martha in his secret heart, but, like many other giants, while brave enough to face and fight dragons, he was a coward in the presence of the woman that he loved. Let us honor him for it. The man who loves a woman truly, reverences her profoundly and feels abashed in her presence. The man who is never abashed in the presence of womanhood, the man who tells his love without a tremor, is a shallow egotist. Bud's nature was not fine. But it was deep, true, and manly. To him Martha Hawkins was the chief of women. What was he that he should aspire to possess her? And yet on that Sunday, with his crippled arm carefully bound up, with his cleanest shirt, and with his heavy boots freshly oiled with the fat of the raccoon, he started hopefully through fields white with snow to the house of Squire Hawkins. When he started his spirits were high, but they descended exactly in proportion to his proximity to the object of his love. He thought himself not dressed well enough He wished his shoulders were not so square, and his arms not so stout. He wished that he had book-larnin' enough to court in nice, big words. And so, by recounting his own deficiencies, he succeeded in making himself feel weak, and awkward, and generally good-for-nothing, by the time he walked up between the rows of dead hollyhocks to the Squire's front door, to tap at which took all his remaining strength. Miss Martha received her perspiring lover most graciously, but this only convinced Bud more than ever that she was a superior being. If she had slighted him a bit, so as to awaken his combativeness, his bashfulness might have disappeared. It was in vain that Martha inquired about his arm and complimented his courage. Bud could only think of his big feet, his clumsy hands, and his slow tongue. He answered in monosyllables, using his red silk handkerchief diligently. "Is your arm improving?" asked Miss Hawkins. "Yes, I think it is," said Bud, hastily crossing his right leg over his left, and trying to get his fists out of sight. "Have you heard from Mr. Pearson?" "No, I ha'n't," answered Bud, removing his right foot to the floor again, because it looked so big, and trying to push his left hand into his pocket. "Beautiful sunshine, isn't it?" said Martha. "Yes, 'tis," answered Bud, sticking his right foot up on the rung of the chair and putting his right hand behind him. "This snow looks like the snow we have at the East," said Martha. "It snowed that way the time I was to Bosting." "Did it?" said Bud, not thinking of the snow at all nor of Boston, but thinking how much better he would have appeared had he left his arms and legs at home. "I suppose Mr. Hartsook rode your horse to Lewisburg?" "Yes, he did;" and Bud hung both hands at his side. "You were very kind." This set Bud's heart a-going so that he could not say anything, but he looked eloquently at Miss Hawkins, drew both feet under the chair, and rammed his hands into his pockets. Then, suddenly remembering how awkward he must look, he immediately pulled his hands out again, and crossed his legs. There was a silence of a few minutes, during which Bud made up his mind to do the most desperate thing he could think of--to declare his love and take the consequences. "You see, Miss Hawkins," he began, forgetting boots and fists in his agony, "I thought as how I'd come over here to-day, and"--but here his heart failed him utterly--"and--see--you." "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Means." "And I thought I'd tell you"--Martha was sure it was coming now, for Bud was in dead earnest--"and I thought I'd just like to tell you, ef I only know'd jest how to tell it right"--here Bud got frightened, and did not dare close the sentence as he had intended--"I thought as how you might like to know--or ruther I wanted to tell you--that--the--that I--that we--all of us--think--that--I--that we are going to have a spellin'-school a Chewsday night." "I'm real glad to hear it," said the bland but disappointed Martha. "We used to have spelling-schools at the East." But Miss Martha could not remember that they had them "to Bosting." Hard as it is for a bashful man to talk, it is still more difficult for him to close the conversation. Most men like to leave a favorable impression, and a bashful man is always waiting with the forlorn hope that some favorable turn in the talk may let him out without absolute discomfiture. And so Bud stayed a long time, and how he ever did get away he never could tell. CHAPTER XXVI. A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. "SQUAR HAUKINS "this is too Lett u no that u beter be Keerful hoo yoo an yore familly tacks cides with fer peepl wont Stan it too hev the Men wat's sportin the wuns wat's robin us, sported bi yor Fokes kepin kumpne with 'em, u been a ossifer ov the Lau, yor Ha wil bern as qick as to an yor Barn tu, so Tak kere. No mor ad pressnt." This letter accomplished its purpose. The Squire's spectacles slipped off several times while he read it. His wig had to be adjusted. If he had been threatened personally he would not have minded it so much. But the hay stacks were dearer to him than the apple of his glass eye. The barn was more precious than his wig. And those who hoped to touch Bud in a tender place through this letter knew the Squire's weakness far better than they knew the spelling-book. To see his new red barn with its large "Mormon" hay-press inside, and the mounted Indian on the vane, consumed, was too much for the Hawkins heart to stand. Evidently the danger was on the side of his niece. But how should he influence Martha to give up Bud? Martha did not value the hay-stacks half so highly as she did her lover. Martha did not think the new red barn, with the great Mormon press inside and the galloping Indian on the vane, worth half so much as a moral principle or a kind-hearted action. Martha, bless her! would have sacrificed anything rather than forsake the poor. But Squire Hawkins's lips shut tight over his false teeth in a way that suggested astringent purse-strings, and Squire Hawkins could not sleep at night if the new red barn, with the galloping Indian on the vane, were in danger. Martha must be reached somehow. So, with many adjustings of that most adjustable wig? with many turnings of that reversible glass eye? the Squire managed to frighten Martha by the intimation that he had been threatened, and to make her understand, what it cost her much to understand, that she must turn the cold shoulder to chivalrous, awkward Bud, whom she loved most tenderly, partly, perhaps, because he did not remind her of anybody she had ever known at the East. Tuesday evening was the fatal time. Spelling-school was the fatal occasion. Bud was the victim. Pete Jones had his revenge. For Bud had been all the evening trying to muster courage enough to offer himself as Martha's escort. He was not encouraged by the fact that he had spelled even worse than usual, while Martha had distinguished herself by holding her ground against Jeems Phillips for half an hour. But he screwed his courage to the sticking place, not by quoting to himself the adage, "Faint heart never won fair lady," which, indeed, he had never heard, but by reminding himself that "ef you don't resk notin' you'll never git nothin'." So, when the spelling-school had adjourned, he sidled up to her, and, looking dreadfully solemn and a little foolish, he said: "Kin I see you safe home?" And she, with a feeling that her uncle's life was in danger, and that his salvation depended upon her resolution--she, with a feeling that she was pronouncing sentence of death on her own great hope, answered huskily: "No, I thank you." If she had only known that it was the red barn with the Indian on top that was in danger, she would probably have let the galloping brave take care of himself. It seemed to Bud, as he walked home mortified, disgraced, disappointed, hopeless, that all the world had gone down in a whirlpool of despair. "Might a knowed it," he said to himself. "Of course, a smart gal like Martha a'n't agoin' to take a big, blunderin' fool that can't spell in two syllables. What's the use of tryin'? A Flat Cricker Is a Flat Cricker. You can't make nothin' else of him, no more nor you can make a Chiny hog into a Berkshire." CHAPTER XXVII. A LOSS AND A GAIN. Dr. Small, silent, attentive, assiduous Dr. Small, set himself to work to bind up the wounded heart of Bud Means, even as he had bound up his broken arm. The flattery of his fine eyes, which looked at Bud's muscles so admiringly, which gave attention to his lightest remark, was not lost on the young Flat Creek Hercules. Outwardly at least Pete Jones showed no inclination to revenge himself on Bud. Was it respect for muscle, or was it the influence of Small? At any rate, the concentrated extract of the resentment of Pete Jones and his clique was now ready to empty itself upon the head of Hartsook. And Ralph found himself in his dire extremity without even the support of Bud, whose good resolutions seemed to give way all at once. There have been many men of culture and more favorable surroundings who have thrown themselves away with less provocation. As it was, Bud quit school, avoided Ralph, and seemed more than ever under the influence of Dr. Small, besides becoming the intimate of Walter Johnson, Small's student and Mrs. Matilda White's son. They made a strange pair--Bud with his firm jaw and silent, cautious manner, and Walter Johnson with his weak chin, his nice neck-ties, and general dandy appearance. To be thus deserted in his darkest hour by his only friend was the bitterest ingredient in Ralph's cup. In vain he sought an interview. Bud always eluded him. While by all the faces about him Ralph learned that the storm was getting nearer and nearer to himself. It might delay. If it had been Pete Jones alone, it might blow over. But Ralph felt sure that the relentless hand of Dr. Small was present in all his troubles. And he had only to look into Small's eye to know how inextinguishable was a malignity that burned so steadily and so quietly. But there is no cup of unmixed bitterness. With an innocent man there is no night so dark that some star does not shine. Ralph had one strong sheet-anchor. On his return from Lewisburg on Monday Bud had handed him a note, written on common blue foolscap, in round, old-fashioned hand. It ran: "Dear Sir: Anybody who can do so good a thing as you did for our Shocky, can not be bad. I hope you will forgive me. All the appearances in the world, and all that anybody says, can not make me think you anything else but a good man. I hope God will reward you. You must not answer this, and you hadn't better see me again, or think any more of what you spoke about the other night. I shall be a slave for three years more, and then I must work for my mother and Shocky; but I felt so bad to think that I had spoken so hard to you, that I could not help writing this. Respectfully, "HANNAH THOMSON. "To MR. R. HARTSOOK, ESQ." Ralph read it over and over. What else he did with it I shall not tell. You want to know whether he kissed it, and put it into his bosom. Many a man as intelligent and manly as Hartsook has done quite as foolish a thing as that. You have been a little silly perhaps--if it is silly--and you have acted in a sentimental sort of a way over such things. But it would never do for me to tell you what Ralph did. Whether he put the letter into his bosom or not, he put the words into his heart, and, metaphorically speaking, he shook that little blue billet, written on coarse foolscap paper--he shook that little letter full of confidence, in the face and eyes of all the calamities that haunted him. If Hannah believed in him, the whole world might distrust him. When Hannah was in one scale and the whole world in the other, of what account was the world? Justice may be blind, but all the pictures of blind cupids in the world can not make Love blind. And it was well that Ralph weighed things in this way. For the time was come in which he needed all the courage the blue billet could give him. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE FLIGHT. About ten days after Ralph's return to Flat Creek things came to a crisis. The master was rather relieved at first to have the crisis come. He had been holding juvenile Flat Creek under his feet by sheer force of will. And such an exercise of "psychic power" is very exhausting. In racing on the Ohio the engineer sometimes sends the largest of the firemen to hold the safety valve down, and this he does by hanging himself to the lever by his hands. Ralph felt that he had been holding the safety-valve down, and that he was so weary of the operation that an explosion would be a real relief. He was a little tired of having everybody look on him as a thief. It was a little irksome to know that new bolts were put on the doors of the houses in which he had staid. And now that Shocky was gone, and Bud had turned against him, and Aunt Matilda suspected him, and even poor, weak, exquisite Walter Johnson would not associate with him, he felt himself an outlaw indeed. He would have gone away to Texas or the new gold fields in California had It not been for one thing. That letter on blue foolscap paper kept a little warmth in his heart. His course from school on the evening that something happened lay through the sugar-camp. Among the dark trunks of the maples, solemn and lofty pillars, he debated the case. To stay, or to flee? The worn nerves could not keep their present tension much longer. It was just by the brook, or, as they say in Indiana, the "branch[26]," that something happened which brought him to a sudden decision. Ralph never afterward could forget that brook. It was a swift-running little stream, that did not babble blatantly over the stones. It ran through a thicket of willows, through the sugar-camp, and out into Means's pasture. Ralph had just passed through the thicket, had just crossed the brook on the half-decayed log that spanned it, when, as he emerged from the water-willows on the other side, he started with a sudden shock. For there was Hannah, with a white, white face, holding out a little note folded like an old-fashioned thumb-paper. "Go quick!" she stammered as she slipped it Into Ralph's hand, inadvertently touching his fingers with her own--a touch that went tingling through the school-master's nerves. But she had hardly said the words until she was gone down the brookside path and over into the pasture. A few minutes afterward she drove the cows up into the lot and meekly took her scolding from Mrs. Means for being gone sech an awful long time, like a lazy, good-fer-nothin piece of goods that she was. Ralph opened the thumb-paper note, written on a page torn from an old copy-book, in Bud's "hand-write" and running: "Mr. Heartsook "deer Sur: "I Put in my best licks, taint no use. Run fer yore life. A plans on foot to tar an fether or wuss to-night. Go rite off. Things is awful juberous[27]. "BUD." The first question with Ralph was whether he could depend on Bud. But he soon made up his mind that treachery of any sort was not one of his traits. He had mourned over the destruction of Bud's good resolutions by Martha Hawkins's refusal, and being a disinterested party he could have comforted Bud by explaining Martha's "mitten." But he felt sure that Bud was not treacherous. It was a relief, then, as he stood there to know that the false truce was over, and worst had come to worst. His first impulse was to stay and fight. But his nerves were not strong enough to execute so foolhardy a resolution. He seemed to see a man behind every maple-trunk. Darkness was fast coming on, and he knew that his absence from supper at his boarding-place could not fail to excite suspicion. There was no time to be lost. So he started. Once run from a danger, and panic is apt to ensue. The forest; the stalk-fields, the dark hollows through which he passed, seemed to be peopled with terrors. He knew Small and Jones well enough to know that every avenue of escape would be carefully picketed. So there was nothing to do but to take the shortest path to the old trysting place, the Spring-in-rock. Here he sat and shook with terror. Angry with himself, he inly denounced himself for a coward. But the effect was really a physical one. The chill and panic now were the reaction from the previous strain. For when the sound of his pursuers' voices broke upon his ears early in the evening, Ralph shook no more; the warm blood set back again toward the extremities, and his self-control returned when he needed it. He gathered some stones about him, as the only weapons of defense at hand. The mob was on the cliff above. But he thought that he heard footsteps in the bed of the creek below. If this were so, there could be no doubt that his hiding-place was suspected. "O Hank!" shouted Bud from the top of the cliff to some one in the creek below, "be sure to look at the Spring-in-rock--I think he's there." This hint was not lost on Ralph, who speedily changed his quarters by climbing up to a secluded, shelf-like ledge above the spring. He was none too soon, for Pete Jones and Hank Banta were soon looking all around the spring for him, while he held a twenty-pound stone over their heads ready to drop upon them in case they should think of looking on the ledge above. When the crowd were gone Ralph knew that one road was open to him. He could follow down the creek to Clifty, and thence he might escape. But, traveling down to Clifty, he debated whether it was best to escape. To flee was to confess his guilt, to make himself an outlaw, to put an insurmountable barrier between himself and Hannah, whose terror-stricken and anxious face as she stood by the brook-willows haunted him now, and was an involuntary witness to her love. Long before he reached Clifty his mind was made up not to flee another mile. He knocked at the door of Squire Underwood. But Squire Underwood was also a doctor, and had been called away. He knocked at the door of Squire Doolittle. But Squire Doolittle had gone to Lewisburg. He was about to give up all hope of being able to surrender himself to the law when he met Squire Hawkins, who had come over to Clifty to avoid responsibility for the ill-deeds of his neighbors which he was powerless to prevent. "Is that you, Mr. Hartsook?" "Yes, and I want you to arrest me and try me here in Clifty." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 26: I have already mentioned the absence of _pail_ and _pare_ from the ancient Hoosier folk-speech. _Brook_ is likewise absent. The illiterate Indiana countryman before the Civil War, let us say, had no pails, pared no apples, husked no corn, crossed no brooks. The same is true, I believe, of the South generally. As the first settlers on the Southern coast entered the land by the rivers, each smaller stream was regarded as a branch of the larger one. A small stream was therefore called a _branch_. The word brook was probably lost in the first generation. But a small stream is often called a _run_ in the Middle and Southern belt. Halliwell gives _rundel_ as used with the same signification in England, and he gives _ryn_ in the same sense from an old manuscript.] [Footnote 27: _Juberous_ is in none of the vocabularies that I have seen. I once treated this word in print as an undoubted corruption of _dubious_, and when used subjectively it apparently feels the influence of dubious, as where one says: "I feel mighty juberous about it." But it is much oftener applied as in the text to the object of fear, as "The bridge looks kind o' juberous." Halliwell gives the verb _juberd_ and defines it as "to jeopard or endanger." It is clearly a dialect form of _jeopard_, and I make no doubt that _juberous_ is a dialect variation of _jeopardous_, occasionally used as a form of _dubious_.] CHAPTER XXIX. THE TRIAL. The "prosecuting attorney" (for so the State's attorney is called in Indiana) had been sent for the night before. Ralph refused all legal help. It was not wise to reject counsel, but all his blood was up, and he declared that he would not be cleared by legal quibbles. If his innocence were not made evident to everybody, he would rather not be acquitted on a preliminary examination. He would go over to the circuit court and have the matter sifted to the bottom. But he would have been pleased had his uncle offered his counsel, though he would have declined it. He would have felt better to have had a letter from home somewhat different from the one he received from his Aunt Matilda by the hand of the prosecuting attorney. It was not very encouraging or very sympathetic, though it was very characteristic. "Dear Ralph: "This is what I have always been afraid of. I warned you faithfully the last time I saw you. My skirts are clear of your blood, I can not consent for your uncle to appear as your counsel or to go your bail. You know how much it would injure him in the county, and he has no right to suffer for your evil acts. O my dear nephew! for the sake of your poor, dead mother--" We never shall know what the rest of that letter was. Whenever Aunt Matilda got to Ralph's poor, dead mother in her conversation Ralph ran out of the house. And now that his poor, dead mother was again made to do service in his aunt's pious rhetoric, he landed the letter on the hot coals before him, and watched it vanish into smoke with a grim satisfaction. Ralph was a little afraid of a mob. But Clifty was better than Flat Creek, and Squire Hawkins, with all his faults, loved justice, and had a profound respect for the majesty of the law, and a profound respect for his own majesty when sitting as a court representing the law. Whatever maneuvers he might resort to in business affairs in order to avoid a conflict with his lawless neighbors, he was courageous and inflexible on the bench. The Squire was the better part of him. With the co-operation of the constable, he had organized a _posse_ of men who could be depended on to enforce the law against a mob. By the time the trial opened in the large school-house in Clifty at eleven o'clock, all the surrounding country had emptied its population into Clifty, and all Flat Creek was on hand ready to testify to something. Those who knew the least appeared to know the most, and were prodigal of their significant winks and nods. Mrs. Means had always suspected him. She seed some mighty suspicious things about him from the word go. She'd allers had her doubts whether he was jist the thing, and ef her ole man had axed her, liker-n not he never'd a been hired. She'd seed things with her own livin' eyes that beat all she ever seed in all her born days. And Pete Jones said he'd allers knowed ther warn't no good in sech a feller. Couldn't stay abed when he got there. And Granny Sanders said, Law's sakes! nobody'd ever a found him out ef it hadn't been fer her. Didn't she go all over the neighborhood a-warnin' people? Fer her part, she seed straight through that piece of goods. He was fond of the gals, too! Nothing was so great a crime in her eyes as to be fond of the gals. The constable paid unwitting tribute to William the Conquerer by crying Squire Hawkins's court open with an Oyez! or, as he said, "O yes!" and the Squire asked Squire Underwood, who came in at that minute, to sit with him. From the start, it was evident to Ralph that the prosecuting attorney had been thoroughly posted by Small, though, looking at that worthy's face, one would have thought him the most disinterested and philosophical spectator in the court-room. Bronson, the prosecutor, was a young man, and this was his first case since his election. He was very ambitious to distinguish himself, very anxious to have Flat Creek influence on his side in politics; and, consequently, he was very determined to send Ralph Hartsook to State prison, justly or unjustly, by fair means or foul. To his professional eyes this was not a question of right and wrong, not a question of life or death to such a man as Ralph. It was George H. Bronson's opportunity to distinguish himself. And so, with many knowing and confident nods and hints, and with much deference to the two squires, he opened the case, affecting great indignation at Ralph's wickedness, and uttering Delphic hints about striped pants and shaven head, and the grating of prison-doors at Jeffersonville. "And, now, if the court please, I am about to call a witness whose testimony is very important indeed. Mrs. Sarah Jane Means will please step forward and be sworn." This Mrs. Means did with alacrity. She had met the prosecutor, and impressed him with her dark hints. She was sworn. "Now, Mrs. Means, have the goodness to tell us what you know of the robbery at the house of Peter Schroeder, and the part defendant had in it." "Well, you see, I allers suspected that air young man--" Here Squire Underwood stopped her, and told her that she must not tell her suspicions, but facts. "Well, it's facts I am a-going to tell," she sniffed indignantly. "It's facts that I mean to tell." Here her voice rose to a keen pitch, and she began to abuse the defendant. Again and again the court insisted that she must tell what there was suspicious about the school-master. At last she got it out. "Well, fer one thing, what kind of gals did he go with? Hey? Why, with my bound gal, Hanner, a-loafin' along through the blue-grass paster at ten o'clock, and keepin' that gal that's got no protector but me out that a-way, and destroyin' her character by his company, that a'n't fit fer nobody." Here Bronson saw that he had caught a tartar. He said he had no more questions to ask of Mrs. Means, and that, unless the defendant wished to cross-question her, she could stand aside. Ralph said he would like to ask her one question. "Did I ever go with your daughter Miranda?" "No, you didn't," answered the witness, with a tone and a toss of the head that let the cat out, and set the court-room in a giggle. Bronson saw that he was gaining nothing, and now resolved to follow the line which Small had indicated. Pete Jones was called, and swore point-blank that he heard Ralph go out of the house soon after he went to bed, and that he heard him return at two in the morning. This testimony was given without hesitation, and made a great impression against Ralph in the minds of the justices. Mrs. Jones, a poor, brow-beaten woman, came on the stand in a frightened way, and swore to the same lies as her husband. Ralph cross-questioned her, but her part had been well learned. There, seemed now little hope for Ralph. But just at this moment who should stride into the school-house but Pearson, the one-legged old soldier basket-maker? He had crept home the night before, "to see ef the ole woman didn't want somethin'," and hearing of Ralph's arrest, he concluded that the time for him to make "a forrard movement" had come, and so he determined to face the foe. "Looky here, Squar," he said, wiping the perspiration from his brow, "looky here. I jes want to say that I kin tell as much about this case as anybody." "Let us hear it, then," said Bronson, who thought he would nail Ralph now for certain. So, with many allusions to the time he fit at Lundy's Lane, and some indignant remarks about the pack of thieves that driv him off, and a passing tribute to Miss Martha Hawkins, and sundry other digressions, in which he had to be checked, the old man told how he'd drunk whisky at Welch's store that night, and how Welch's whisky was all-fired mean, and how it allers went straight to his head, and how he had got a leetle too much, and how he had felt kyinder gin aout by the time he got to the blacksmith's shop, and how he had laid down to rest, and how as he s'posed the boys had crated him, and how he thought it war all-fired mean to crate a old soldier what fit the Britishers, and lost his leg by one of the blamed critters a-punchin' his bagonet[28] through it; and how when he woke up it was all-fired cold, and how he rolled off the crate and went on to_wurds_ home, and how when he got up to the top of Means's hill he met Pete Jones and Bill Jones, and a slim sort of a young man, a-ridin'; and how he know'd the Joneses by ther hosses, and some more things of that kyind about 'em; but he didn't know the slim young man, tho' he tho't he might tell him ef he seed him agin kase he was dressed up so slick and town-like. But blamed ef he didn't think it hard that a passel o thieves sech as the Joneses should try to put ther mean things on to a man like the master, that was so kyind to him and to Shocky, tho', fer that matter, blamed ef he didn't think we was all selfish, akordin' to his tell. Had seed somebody that night a-crossin' over the blue-grass paster. Didn't know who in thunder 'twas, but it was somebody a-makin' straight fer Pete Jones's. Hadn't seed nobody else, 'ceptin' Dr. Small, a short ways behind the Joneses. Hannah was now brought on the stand. She was greatly agitated, and answered with much reluctance. Lived at Mr. Means's. Was eighteen years of age in October. Had been bound to Mrs. Means three years ago. Had walked home with Mr. Hartsook that evening, and, happening to look out of the window toward morning, she saw some one cross the pasture. Did not know who it was. Thought it was Mr. Hartsook. Here Mr. Bronson (evidently prompted by a suggestion that came from what Small had overheard when he listened in the barn) asked her if Mr. Hartsook had ever said anything to her about the matter afterward. After some hesitation, Hannah said that he had said that he crossed the pasture. Of his own accord? No, she spoke of it first. Had Mr. Hartsook offered any explanations? No, he hadn't. Had he ever paid her any attention afterward? No. Ralph declined to cross-question Hannah. To him she never seemed so fair as when telling the truth so sublimely. Bronson now informed the court that this little trick of having the old soldier happen in, in the flick of time, wouldn't save the prisoner at the bar from the just punishment which an outraged law visited upon such crimes as his. He regretted that his duty as a public prosecutor caused it to fall to his lot to marshal the evidence that was to blight the prospects and blast the character, and annihilate for ever, so able and promising a young man, but that the law knew no difference between the educated and the uneducated, and that for his part he thought Hartsook a most dangerous foe to the peace of society. The evidence already given fastened suspicion upon him. The prisoner had not yet been able to break its force at all. The prisoner had not even dared to try to explain to a young lady the reason for his being out at night. He would now conclude by giving the last touch to the dark evidence that would sink the once fair name of Ralph Hartsook in a hundred fathoms of infamy. He would ask that Henry Banta be called. Hank came forward sheepishly, and was sworn. Lived about a hundred yards from the house that was robbed. He seen ole man Pearson and the master and one other feller that he didn't know come away from there together about one o'clock. He heerd the horses kickin', and went out to the stable to see about them. He seed two men come out of Schroeder's back door and meet one man standing at the gate. When they got closter he knowed Pearson by his wooden leg and the master by his hat. On cross-examination he was a little confused when asked why he hadn't told of it before, but said that he was afraid to say much, bekase the folks was a-talkin' about hanging the master, and he didn't want no lynchin'. The prosecution here rested, Bronson maintaining that there was enough evidence to justify Ralph's committal to await trial. But the court thought that as the defendant had no counsel and offered no rebutting testimony, it would be only fair to hear what the prisoner had to say in his own defense. All this while poor Ralph was looking about the room for Bud. Bud's actions had of late been strangely contradictory. But had he turned coward and deserted his friend? Why else did he avoid the session of the court? After asking himself such questions as these, Ralph would wonder at his own folly. What could Bud do if he were there? There was no human power that could prevent the victim of so vile a conspiracy as this, lodging in that worst of State prisons at Jeffersonville, a place too bad for criminals. But when there is no human power to help, how naturally does the human mind look for some divine intervention on the side of Right! And Ralph's faith in Providence looked in the direction of Bud. But since no Bud came, he shut down the valves and rose to his feet, proudly, defiantly, fiercely calm. "It's of no use for me to say anything. Peter Jones has sworn to a deliberate falsehood, and he knows it. He has made his wife perjure her poor soul that she dare not call her own." Here Pete's fists clenched, but Ralph in his present humor did not care for mobs. The spirit of the bulldog had complete possession of him. "It is of no use for me to tell you that Henry Banta has sworn to a lie, partly to revenge himself on me for punishments I have given him, and partly, perhaps, for money. The real thieves are in this court-room. I could put my finger on them." "_To_ be sure," responded the old basket-maker. Ralph looked at Pete Jones, then at Small. The fiercely calm look attracted the attention of the people. He knew that this look would probably cost him his life before the next morning. But he did not care for life. "The testimony of Miss Hannah Thomson is every word true, I believe that of Mr. Pearson to be true. The rest is false. But I can not prove it. I know the men I have to deal with. I shall not escape with State prison. They will not spare my life. But the people of Clifty will one day find out who are the thieves." Ralph then proceeded to tell how he had left Pete Jones's, Mr. Jones's bed being uncomfortable; how he had walked through the pasture; how he had seen three men on horseback: how he had noticed the sorrel with the white left forefoot and white nose; how he had seen Dr. Small; how, after his return, he had heard some one enter the house, and how he had recognized the horse the next morning. "There," said Ralph desperately, leveling his finger at Pete, "there is a man who will yet see the inside of a penitentiary, I shall not live to see it, but the rest of you will." Pete quailed. Ralph's speech could not of course break the force of the testimony against him. But it had its effect, and it had effect enough to alarm Bronson, who rose and said: "I should like to ask the prisoner at the bar one question." "Ask me a dozen," said Hartsook, looking more like a king than a criminal. "Well, then, Mr. Hartsook. You need not answer unless you choose; but what prompted you to take the direction you did in your walk on that evening?" This shot brought Ralph down. To answer this question truly would attach to friendless Hannah Thomson some of the disgrace that now belonged to him. "I decline to answer," said Ralph. "Of course, I do not want the prisoner to criminate himself," said Bronson significantly. During this last passage Bud had come in, but, to Ralph's disappointment he remained near the door, talking to Walter Johnson, who had come with him. The magistrates put their heads together to fix the amount of bail, and, as they differed, talked for some minutes. Small now for the first time thought best to make a move in his own proper person. He could hardly have been afraid of Ralph's acquittal. He may have been a little anxious at the manner in which he had been mentioned, and at the significant look of Ralph, and he probably meant to excite indignation enough against the school-master to break the force of his speech, and secure the lynching of the prisoner, chiefly by people outside his gang. He rose and asked the court in gentlest tones to hear him. He had no personal interest in this trial, except his interest in the welfare of his old schoolmate, Mr. Hartsook. He was grieved and disappointed to find the evidence against him so damaging and he would not for the world add a feather to it, if it were not that his own name had been twice alluded to by the defendant, and by his friend, and perhaps his confederate, John Pearson. He was prepared to swear that he was not over in Flat Creek the night of the robbery later than ten o'clock, and while the statements of the two persons alluded to, whether maliciously intended or not, could not implicate him at all, he thought perhaps this lack of veracity in their statements might be of weight in determining some other points. He therefore suggested--he could only suggest, as he was not a party to the case in any way--that his student, Mr. Walter Johnson, be called to testify as to his--Dr. Small's--exact whereabouts on the night in question. They were together in his office until two, when he went to the tavern and went to bed. Squire Hawkins, having adjusted his teeth, his wig, and his glass eye, thanked Dr. Small for a suggestion so valuable, and thought best to put John Pearson under arrest before proceeding further. Mr. Pearson was therefore arrested, and was heard to mutter something about a "passel of thieves," when the court warned him to be quiet. Walter Johnson was then called. But before giving his testimony, I must crave the reader's patience while I go back to some things which happened nearly a week before and which will serve to make it intelligible. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 28: This form, _bagonet_, is not in the vocabularies, but it was spoken as I have written it. The Century Dictionary gives _bagnet_, and Halliwell and Wright both give _baginet_ with the _g_ soft apparently, though neither the one nor the other is very explicit in distinguishing transcriptions from old authors from phonetic spellings of dialect forms. I fancy that this _bagonet_ is impossible as a corruption of _bayonet_, and that it points to some other derivation of that word than the doubtful one from _Bayonne_.] CHAPTER XXX. "BROTHER SODOM." In order to explain Walter Johnson's testimony and his state of mind, I must carry the reader back nearly a week. The scene was Dr. Small's office. Bud and Walter Johnson had been having some confidential conversation that evening, and Bud had got more out of his companion than that exquisite but weak young man had intended. He looked round in a frightened way. "You see," said Walter, "if Small knew I had told you that, I'd get a bullet some night from somebody. But when you're initiated it'll be all right. Sometimes I wish I was out of it. But, you know, Small's this kind of a man. He sees through you. He can look through a door"--and there he shivered, and his voice broke down into a whisper. But Bud was perfectly cool, and doubtless it was the strong coolness of Bud that made Walter, who shuddered at a shadow, come to him for sympathy and unbosom himself of one of his guilty secrets. "Let's go and hear Brother Sodom preach to-night," said Bud. "No, I don't like to." "He don't scare you?" There was just a touch of ridicule in Bud's voice. He knew Walter, and he had not counted amiss when he used this little goad to prick a skin so sensitive. "Brother Sodom" was the nickname given by scoffers to the preacher--Mr. Soden--whose manner of preaching had so aroused Bud's combativeness, and whose saddle-stirrups Bud had helped to amputate. For reasons of his own, Bud thought best to subject young Johnson to the heat of Mr. Soden's furnace. Peter Cartwright boasts that, on a certain occasion, he "shook his brimstone wallet" over the people. Mr. Soden could never preach without his brimstone wallet. There are those of refinement so attenuated that they will not admit that fear can have any place in religion. But a religion without fear could never have evangelized or civilized the West, which at one time bade fair to become a perdition as bad as any that Brother Sodom ever depicted. And against these on the one side, and the Brother Sodoms on the other, I shall interrupt my story to put this chapter under shelter of that wise remark of the great Dr. Adam Clark, who says "The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, the terror of God confounds the soul;" and that other saying of his: "With the _fear_ of God the love of God is ever consistent; but where the _terror_ of the Lord reigns, there can neither be _fear, faith_, nor _love_; nay, nor _hope_ either." And yet I am not sure that even the Brother Sodoms were made in vain. On this evening Mr. Soden was as terrible as usual. Bud heard him without flinching. Small, who sat farther forward, listened with pious approval. Mr. Soden, out of distorted figures pieced together from different passages of Scripture, built a hell, not quite, Miltonic, nor yet Dantean, but as Miltonic and Dantean as his unrefined imagination could make it. As he rose toward his climax of hideous description, Walter Johnson trembled from head to foot and sat close to Bud. Then, as burly Mr. Soden, with great gusto, depicted materialistic tortures that startled the nerves of everybody except Bud, Walter wanted to leave, but Bud would not let him. For some reason he wished to keep his companion in the crucible as long as possible. "Young man!" cried Mr. Soden, and the explosive voice seemed to come from the hell that he had created--"young man! you who have followed the counsel of evil companions"--here he paused and looked about, as if trying to find the man he wanted, while Walter crept up close to Bud and shaded his face--"I mean you who have chosen evil pursuits and who can not get free from bad habits and associations that are dragging you down to hell! You are standing on the very crumbling brink of hell to-night. The smell of the brimstone is on your garments; the hot breath of hell is in your face! The devils are waiting for you! Delay and you are damned! You may die before daylight! You may never get out that door! The awful angel of death is just ready to strike you down!" Here some shrieked with terror, others sobbed, and Brother Sodom looked with approval on the storm he had awakened. The very harshness of his tone, his lofty egotism of manner, that which had roused all Bud's combativeness, shook poor Walter as a wind would shake a reed. In the midst of the general excitement he seized his hat and hastened out the door. Bud followed, while Soden shot his lightnings after them, declaring that "young men who ran away from the truth would dwell in torments forever." Bud had not counted amiss when he thought that Mr. Soden's preaching would be likely to arouse so mean-spirited a fellow as Walter. So vivid was the impression that Johnson begged Bud to return to the office with him. He felt sick, and was afraid that he should die before morning. He insisted that Bud should stay with him all night. To this Means readily consented, and by morning he had heard all that the frightened Walter had to tell. And now let us return to the trial, where Ralph sits waiting the testimony of Walter Johnson, which is to prove his statement false. CHAPTER XXXI. THE TRIAL CONCLUDED. I do not know how much interest the "gentle reader" may feel in Bud. But I venture to hope that there are some Buddhists among my readers who will wish the contradictoriness of his actions explained. The first dash of disappointment had well-nigh upset him. And when a man concludes to throw overboard his good resolutions, he always seeks to avoid the witness of those resolutions. Hence Bud, after that distressful Tuesday evening on which Miss Martha had given him "the sack," wished to see Ralph less than any one else. And yet when he came to suspect Small's villainy, his whole nature revolted at it. But having broken with Ralph, he thought it best to maintain an attitude of apparent hostility, that he might act as a detective, and, perhaps, save his friend from the mischief that threatened him. As soon as he heard of Ralph's arrest he determined to make Walter Johnson tell his own secret in court, because he knew that it would be best for Ralph that Walter should tell it. Bud's telling at second-hand would not be conclusive. And he sincerely desired to save Walter from prison. For Walter Johnson was the victim of Dr. Small, or of Dr. Small and such novels as "The Pirate's Bride," "Claude Duval," "The Wild Rover of the West Indies," and the cheap biographies of such men as Murrell. Small found him with his imagination inflamed by the history of such heroes, and opened to him the path to glory for which he longed. The whole morning after Ralph's arrest Bud was working on Walter's conscience and his fears. The poor fellow, unable to act for himself, was torn asunder between the old ascendency of Small and the new ascendency of Bud Means. Bud finally frightened him, by the fear of the penitentiary, into going to the place of trial. But once inside the door, and once in sight of Small, who was more to him than God, or, rather, more to him than the devil--for the devil was Walter's God, or, perhaps, I should say, Walter's God was a devil--once in sight of Small, he refused to move an inch farther. And Bud, after all his perseverance, was about to give up in sheer despair. Fortunately, just at that moment Small's desire to relieve himself from the taint of suspicion and to crush Ralph as completely as possible, made him overshoot the mark by asking that Walter be called to the stand, as we have before recounted. He knew that he had no tool so supple as the cowardly Walter. In the very language of the request, he had given Walter an intimation of what he wanted him to swear to. Walter listened to Small's words as to his doom. He felt that he should die of indecision. The perdition of a man of his stamp is to have to make up his mind. Such men generally fall back on some one more positive, and take all their resolutions ready-made. But here Walter must decide for himself. For the constable was already calling his name; the court, the spectators, and, most of all, Dr. Small, were waiting for him. He moved forward mechanically through the dense crowd, Bud following part of the way to whisper, "Tell the truth or go to penitentiary." Walter shook and shivered at this. The witness with difficulty held up his hand long enough to be sworn. "Please tell the court," said Bronson, "whether you know anything of the whereabouts of Dr. Small on the night of the robbery at Peter Schroeder's." Small had detected Walter's agitation, and, taking alarm, had edged his way around so as to stand full in Walter's sight, and there, with keen, magnetic eye on the weak orbs of the young man, he was able to assume his old position, and sway the fellow absolutely. "On the night of the robbery"--Walter's voice was weak, but he seemed to be reading his answer out of Small's eyes--"on the night of the robbery Dr. Small came home before--" here the witness stopped and shook and shivered again. For Bud, detecting the effect of Small's gaze, had pushed his great hulk in front of Small, and had fastened his eyes on Walter with a look that said, "Tell the truth or go to penitentiary." "I can't, I can't. O God! What shall I do?" the witness exclaimed, answering the look of Bud. For it seemed to him that Bud had spoken. To the people and the court this agitation was inexplicable. Squire Hawkins's wig got awry, his glass eye turned in toward his nose, and he had great difficulty in keeping his teeth from falling out. The excitement became painfully intense. Ralph was on his feet, looking at the witness, and feeling that somehow Bud and Dr. Small--his good angel and his demon--were playing an awful game, or which he was the stake. The crowd swayed to and fro, but remained utterly silent, waiting to hear the least whisper from the witness, who stood trembling a moment with his hands over his face, and then fainted. The fainting of a person in a crowd is a signal for everybody else to make fools of themselves. There was a rush toward the fainting man, there was a cry for water. Everybody asked everybody else to open the window, and everybody wished everybody else to stand back and give him air. But nobody opened the window, and nobody stood back. The only perfectly cool man in the room was Small. With a quiet air of professional authority he pushed forward and felt the patient's pulse, remarking to the court that he thought it was a sudden attack of fever with delirium. When Walter revived, Dr. Small would have removed him, but Ralph insisted that his testimony should be heard. Under pretense of watching his patient, Small kept close to him. And Walter began the same old story about Dr. Small's having arrived at the office before eleven o'clock, when Bud came up behind the doctor and fastened his eyes on the witness with the same significant look, and Walter, with visions of the penitentiary before him halted, stammered, and seemed about to faint again. "If the court please," said Bronson, "this witness is evidently intimidated by that stout young man," pointing to Bud. "I have seen him twice interrupt witness's testimony by casting threatening looks at him, I trust the court will have him removed from the court-room." After a few moments' consultation, during which Squire Hawkins held his wig in place with one hand and alternately adjusted his eye and his spectacles with the other, the magistrates, who were utterly bewildered by the turn things were taking, decided that It could do no harm, and that it was best to try the experiment of removing Bud. Perhaps Johnson would then be able to get through with his testimony. The constable therefore asked Bud if he would please leave the room. Bud cast one last look at the witness and walked out like a captive bear. Ralph stood watching the receding form of Bud. The emergency had made him as cool as Small ever was. Bud stopped at the door, where he was completely out of sight of the witness, concealed by the excited spectators, who stood on the benches to see what was going on in front. "The witness will please proceed," said Bronson. "If the court please"--it was Ralph who spoke--"I believe I have as much at stake in this trial as any one. That witness is evidently intimidated. But not by Mr. Means. I ask that Dr. Small be removed out of sight of the witness." "A most extraordinary request, truly." This was what Small's bland countenance said; he did not open his lips. "It's no more than fair," said Squire Hawkins, adjusting his wig, "that the witness be relieved of everything that anybody might think affects his veracity in this matter." Dr. Small, giving Walter one friendly, appealing look, moved back by the door, and stood alongside Bud, as meek, quiet, and disinterested as any man in the house. "The witness will now proceed with his testimony." This time it was Squire Hawkins who spoke. Bronson had been attacked with a suspicion that this witness was not just what he wanted, and had relapsed into silence. Walter's struggle was by no means ended by the disappearance of Small and Bud. There came the recollection of his mother's stern face--a face which had never been a motive toward the right, but only a goad to deception. What would she say if he should confess? Just as he had recovered himself, and was about to repeat the old lie which had twice died upon his lips at the sight of Bud's look, he caught sight of another face, which made him tremble again. It was the lofty and terrible countenance of Mr. Soden. One might have thought, from the expression it wore, that the seven last vials were in his hands, the seven apocalyptic trumpets waiting for his lips, and the seven thunders sitting upon his eyebrows. The moment that Walter saw him he smelled the brimstone on his own garments, he felt himself upon the crumbling brink of the precipice, with perdition below him. Now I am sure that "Brother Sodoms" were not made wholly in vain. There are plenty of mean-spirited men like Walter Johnson, whose feeble consciences need all the support they can get from the fear of perdition, and who are incapable of any other conception of it than a coarse and materialistic ones Let us set it down to the credit of Brother Sodom, with his stiff stock, his thunderous face, and his awful walk, that his influence over Walter was on the side of truth. "Please proceed," said Squire Hawkins to Walter. The Squire's wig lay on one side, he had forgotten to adjust his eye, and he leaned forward, tremulous with interest. "Well, then," said Walter, looking not at the court nor at Bronson nor at the prisoner, but furtively at Mr. Soden--"well, then, if I must"--and Mr. Soden's awful face seemed to answer that he surely must--"well, then, I hope you won't send me to prison"--this to Squire Hawkins, whose face reassured him--"but, oh! I don't see how I can!" But one look at Mr. Soden assured him that he could and that he must, and so, with an agony painful to the spectators, he told the story in driblets. How, while yet in Lewisburg, he had been made a member of a gang of which Small was chief; how they concealed from him the names of all the band except six, of whom the Joneses and Small were three. Here there was a scuffle at the door. The court demanded silence. "Dr. Small's trying to git out, plague take him," said Bud, who stood with his back planted against the door. "I'd like the court to send and git his trunk afore he has a chance to burn up all the papers that's in it." "Constable, you will arrest Dr. Small, Peter Jones, and William Jones. Send two deputies to bring Small's trunk into court," said Squire Underwood. The prosecuting attorney was silent. Walter then told of the robbery at Schroeder's, told where he and Small had whittled the fence while the Joneses entered the house, and confirmed Ralph's story by telling how they had seen Ralph in a fence-corner, and how they had met the basket-maker on the hill. "_To_ be sure," said the old man, who had not ventured to hold up his head, after he was arrested, until Walter began his testimony. Walter felt inclined to stop, but he could not do it, for there stood Mr. Soden, looking to him like a messenger from the skies, or the bottomless pit, sent to extort the last word from his guilty soul He felt that he was making a clean breast of it--at the risk of perdition, with the penitentiary thrown in, if he faltered. And so he told the whole thing as though it had been the day of doom, and by the time he was through, Small's trunk was in court. Here a new hubbub took place at the door. It was none other than the crazy pauper, Tom Bifield, who personated General Andrew Jackson in the poor-house. He had caught some inkling of the trial, and had escaped in Bill Jones's absence. His red plume was flying, and in his tattered and filthy garb he was indeed a picturesque figure. "Squar," said he, elbowing his way through the crowd, "I kin tell you sornethin'. I'm Gineral Andrew Jackson. Lost my head at Bueny Visty. This head growed on. It a'n't good fer much. One side's tater. But t'other's sound as a nut. Now, I kind give you information." Bronson, with the quick perceptions of a politician, had begun to see which way future winds would probably blow. "If the court please," he said, "this man is not wholly sane, but we might get valuable information out of him. I suggest that his testimony be taken for what it is worth." "No, you don't swar me," broke in the lunatic. "Not if I knows myself. You see, when a feller's got one side of his head tater, he's mighty onsartain like. You don't swar me, fer I can't tell what minute the tater side'll begin to talk. I'm talkin' out of the lef' side now, and I'm all right. But you don't swar me. But ef you'll send some of your constables out to the barn at the pore-house and look under the hay-mow in the north-east corner, you'll find some things maybe as has been a-missin' fer some time. And that a'n't out of the tater side, nuther." Meantime Bud did not rest. Hearing the nature of the testimony given by Hank Banta before he entered, he attacked Hank and vowed he'd send him to prison if he didn't make a clean breast. Hank was a thorough coward, and, now that his friends were prisoners, was ready enough to tell the truth if he could be protected from prosecution. Seeing the disposition of the prosecuting attorney, Bud got from him a promise that he would do what he could to protect Hank. That worthy then took the stand, confessed his lie, and even told the inducement which Mr. Pete Jones had offered him to perjure himself. "_To_ be sure," said Pearson. Squire Hawkins, turning his right eye upon him, while the left looked at the ceiling, said: "Be careful, Mr. Pearson, or I shall have to punish you for contempt." "Why, Squar, I didn't know 'twas any sin to hev a healthy contemp' fer sech a thief as Jones!" The Squire looked at Mr. Pearson severely, and the latter, feeling that he had committed some offense without knowing it, subsided into silence. Bronson now had a keen sense of the direction of the gale. "If the court please," said he, "I have tried to do my duty in this case. It was my duty to prosecute Mr. Hartsook, however much I might feel assured that he was innocent, and that he would be able to prove his innocence. I now enter a _nolle_ in his case and that of John Pearson, and I ask that this court adjourn until to-morrow, in order to give me time to examine the evidence in the case of the other parties under arrest. I am proud to think that my efforts have been the means of sifting the matter to the bottom, of freeing Mr. Hartsook from suspicion, and of detecting the real criminals." "Ugh!" said Mr. Pearson, who conceived a great dislike to Bronson. "The court," said Squire Hawkins, "congratulates Mr. Hartsook on his triumphant acquittal. He is discharged from the bar of this court, and from the bar of public sentiment, without a suspicion of guilt. Constable, discharge Ralph Hartsook and John Pearson." Old Jack Means, who had always had a warm side for the master, now proposed three cheers for Mr. Hartsook, and they were given with a will by the people who would have hanged him an hour before. Mrs. Means gave it as her opinion that "Jack Means allers wuz a fool!" "This court," said Dr. Underwood, "has one other duty to perform before adjourning for the day. Recall Hannah Thomson." "I jist started her on ahead to git supper and milk the cows," said Mrs. Means. "A'n't a-goin' to have her loafin' here all day." "Constable, recall her. This court can not adjourn until she returns!" Hannah had gone but a little way, and was soon in the presence of the court, trembling for fear of some new calamity. "Hannah Thomson"--it was Squire Underwood who spoke--"Hannah Thomson, this court wishes to ask you one or two questions." "Yes, sir," but her voice died to a whisper. "How old did you say you were? "Eighteen, sir, last October." "Can you prove your age?" "Yes, sir--by my mother." "For how long are you bound to Mr. Means?" "Till I'm twenty-one." "This court feels in duty bound to inform you that, according to the laws of Indiana, a woman is of age at eighteen, and as no indenture could be made binding after you had reached your majority, you are the victim of a deception. You are free, and if it can be proven that you have been defrauded by a willful deception, a suit for damages will lie." "Ugh!" said Mrs. Means. "You're a purty court, a'n't you, Dr. Underwood?" "Be careful, Mrs. Means, or I shall have to fine you for contempt of court." But the people, who were in the cheering humor, cheered Hannah and the justices, and then cheered Ralph again. Granny Sanders shook hands with him, and allers knowed he'd come out right. It allers 'peared like as if Dr. Small warn't jist the sort to tie to, you know. And old John Pearson went home, after drinking two or three glasses of Welch's whisky, keeping time to an imaginary triumphal march, and feeling prouder than he had ever felt since he fit the Britishers under Scott at Lundy's Lane. He told his wife that the master had jist knocked the hind-sights offen that air young lawyer from Lewisburg. Walter was held to bail that he might appear as a witness, and Ralph might have sent his aunt a Roland for an Oliver. But he only sent a note to his uncle, asking him to go Walter's bail. If he had been resentful, he could not have wished for a more complete revenge than the day had brought. CHAPTER XXXII. AFTER THE BATTLE. Nothing can be more demoralizing in the long run than lynch law. And yet lynch law often originates in a burst of generous indignation which is not willing to suffer a bold oppressor to escape by means of corrupt and cowardly courts. It is oftener born of fear. Both motives powerfully agitated the people of the region round about Clifty as night drew on after Ralph's acquittal. They were justly indignant that Ralph had been made the victim of such a conspiracy, and they were frightened at the unseen danger to the community from such a band as that of Small's. It was certain that they did not know the full extent of the danger as yet. And what Small might do with a jury, or what Pete Jones might do with a sheriff, was a question. I must not detain the reader to tell how the mob rose. Nobody knows how such things come about. Their origin is as inexplicable as that of an earthquake. But, at any rate, a rope was twice put round Small's neck during that night, and both times Small was saved only by the nerve and address of Ralph, who had learned how unjust mob law may be. As for Small, he neither trembled when they were ready to hang him, nor looked relieved when he was saved, nor showed the slightest flush of penitence or gratitude. He bore himself in a quiet, gentlemanly way throughout, like the admirable villain that he was. He waived a preliminary examination the next day; his father went his bail, and he forfeited bail and disappeared from the county and from the horizon of my story. Two reports concerning Small have been in circulation--one that he was running a faro-bank in San Francisco, the other that he was curing consumption in New York by some quack process. If this latter were true, it would leave it an open question whether Ralph did well to save him from the gallows. Pete Jones and Bill, as usually happens to the rougher villains, went to prison, and when their terms had expired moved to Pike County, Missouri. But it is about Hannah that you wish to hear, and that I wish to tell. She went straight from the court room to Flat Creek, climbed to her chamber, packed in a handkerchief all her earthly goods, consisting chiefly of a few family relics, and turned her back on the house of Means forever. At the gate she met the old woman, who shook her fist in the girl's face and gave her a parting benediction in the words: "You mis'able, ongrateful critter you, go 'long. I'm glad to be shed of you!" At the barn she met Bud, and he told her good-by with a little huskiness in his voice, while a tear glistened in her eyes. Bud had been a friend in need, and such a friend one does not leave without a pang. "Where are you going? Can I--" "No, no!" And with that she hastened on, afraid that Bud would offer to hitch up the roan colt. And she did not want to add to his domestic unhappiness by compromising him in that way. It was dusk and was raining when she left. The hours were long, the road was lonely, and after the revelations of that day it did not seem wholly safe. But from the moment that she found herself free, her heart had been ready to break with an impatient homesickness. What though there might be robbers in the woods? What though there were ten rough miles to travel? What though the rain was in her face? What though she had not tasted food since the morning of that exciting day? Flat Creek and bondage were behind; freedom, mother, Shocky, and home were before her, and her feet grew lighter with the thought. And if she needed any other joy, it was to know that the master was clear. And he would come? And so she traversed the weary distance, and so she inquired and found the house, the beautiful, homely old house of beautiful, homely old Nancy Sawyer, and knocked, and was admitted, and fell down, faint and weary, at her blind mother's feet, and laid her tired head in her mother's lap and wept and wept like a child, and said, "O mother! I'm free! I'm free!" while the mother's tears baptized her face, and the mother's trembling fingers combed out her tresses. And Shocky stood by her and cried: "I knowed God wouldn't forget you, Hanner!" Hannah was ready now to do anything by which she could support her mother and Shocky. She was strong, and inured to toil. She was willing and cheerful, and she would gladly have gone to service if by that means she could have supported the family. And, for that matter her mother was already able nearly to support herself by her knitting. But Hannah had been carefully educated when young, and at that moment the old public schools were being organized into a graded school, and the good minister, who shall be nameless, because he is, perhaps, still living in Indiana, and who in Methodist parlance was called "the preacher-in-charge of Lewisburg Station"--this good minister and Miss Nancy Sawyer got Hannah a place as teacher in the primary department. And then a little house with four rooms was rented, and a little, a very little furniture was put into it, and the old sweet home was established again. The father was gone, never to come back again. But the rest were here. And somehow Hannah kept waiting for somebody else to come. CHAPTER XXXIII. INTO THE LIGHT. For two weeks longer Ralph taught at the Flat Creek school-house. He was everybody's hero. And he was Bud's idol. He did what he could to get Bud and Martha together, and though Bud always "saw her safe home" after this, and called on her every Sunday evening, yet, to save his life, he could not forget his big fists and his big feet long enough to say what he most wanted to say, and what Martha most wanted him to say. At the end of two weeks Ralph found himself exceedingly weary of Flat Creek, and exceedingly glad to hear from Mr. Means that the school-money had "gin out." It gave him a good excuse to return to Lewisburg, where his heart and his treasure were. A certain sense of delicacy had kept him from writing to Hannah just yet. When he got to Lewisburg he had good news. His uncle, ashamed of his previous neglect, and perhaps with an eye to his nephew's growing popularity, had got him the charge of the grammar department in the new graded school in the village. So he quietly arranged to board at a boarding-house. His aunt could not have him about, of which fact he was very glad. She could not but feel, she said, that he might have taken better care of Walter than he did, when they were only four miles apart. He did not hasten to call on Hannah. Why should he? He sent her a message, of no consequence in itself, by Nancy Sawyer. Then he took possession of his school; and then, on the evening of the first day of school, he went, as he had appointed to himself, to see Hannah Thomson. And she, with some sweet presentiment, had got things ready by fixing up the scantily-furnished room as well as she could. And Miss Nancy Sawyer, who had seen Ralph that afternoon, had guessed that he was going to see Hannah. It's wonderful how much enjoyment a generous heart can get out of the happiness of others. Is not that what He meant when he said of such as Miss Sawyer that they should have a hundred-fold in this life for all their sacrifices? Did not Miss Nancy enjoy a hundred weddings and have the love of five hundred children? And so Miss Nancy just happened over at Mrs. Thomson's humble home, and, just in the most matter-of-course way, asked that lady and Shocky to come over to her house. Shocky wanted Hannah to come too. But Hannah blushed a little, and said that she would rather not. And when she was left alone, Hannah fixed her hair two or three times, and swept the hearth, and moved the chairs first one way and then another, and did a good many other needless things. Needless: for a lover, if he be a lover, does not see furniture or dress. And then she sat down by the fire, and tried to sew, and tried to look unconcerned, and tried to feel unconcerned, and tried not to expect anybody, and tried to make her heart keep still. And tried in vain. For a gentle rap at the door sent her pulse up twenty beats a minute and made her face burn. And Hartsook was for the first time, abashed in the presence of Hannah. For the oppressed girl had, in two weeks, blossomed out into the full-blown woman. And Ralph sat down by the fire, and talked of his school and her school, and everything else but what he wanted to talk about. And then the conversation drifted back to Flat Creek, and to the walk through the pasture, and to the box-elder tree, and to the painful talk in the lane. And Hannah begged to be forgiven, and Ralph laughed at the idea that she had done anything wrong. And she praised his goodness to Shocky, and he drew her little note out of--But I agreed not tell you where he kept it. And then she blushed, and he told how the note had sustained him, and how her white face kept up his courage in his flight down the bed of Clifty Creek. And he sat a little nearer, to show her the note that he had carried in his bosom--I have told it! And--but I must not proceed. A love-scene, ever so beautiful in itself, will not bear telling. And so I shall leave a little gap just here, which you may fill up as you please. . . . Somehow, they never knew how, they got to talking about the future instead of the past, after that, and to planning their two lives as one life. And . . . And when Miss Nancy and Mrs. Thomson returned later in the evening, Ralph was standing by the mantel-piece, but Shocky noticed that his chair was close to Hannah's. And good Miss Nancy Sawyer looked in Hannah's face and was happy. CHAPTER XXXIV. "HOW IT CAME OUT" We are all children in reading stories. We want more than all else to know how it all came out at the end, and, if our taste is not perverted, we like it to come out well. For my part, ever since I began to write this story, I have been anxious to know how it was going to come out. Well, there were very few invited. It took place at ten in the morning. The "preacher-in-charge" came, of course. Miss Nancy Sawyer was there. But Ralph's uncle was away, and Aunt Matilda had a sore throat and couldn't come. Perhaps the memory of the fact that she had refused Mrs. Thomson, the pauper, a bed for two nights, affected her throat. But Miss Nancy and her sister were there, and the preacher. And that was all, besides the family, and Bud and Martha. Of course Bud and Martha came. And driving Martha to a wedding in a "jumper" was the one opportunity Bud needed. His hands were busy, his big boots were out of sight, and it was so easy to slip from Ralph's love affair to his own, that Bud somehow, in pulling Martha Hawkins's shawl about her, stammered out half a proposal, which Martha, generous soul, took for the whole ceremony, and accepted. And Bud was so happy that Ralph guessed from his face and voice that the agony was over, and Bud was betrothed at last to the "gal as was a gal." And after Ralph and Hannah were married--there was no trip, Ralph only changed his boarding-place and became head of the house at Mrs. Thomson's thereafter--after it was all over, Bud came to Mr. Hartsook, and, snickering just a little, said as how as him and Martha had fixed it all up, and now they wanted to ax his advice; and Martha proud but blushing, came up and nodded assent. Bud said as how as he hadn't got no book-larnin' nor nothin', and as how as he wanted to be somethin', and put in his best licks fer Him, you know'. And that Marthy, she was of the same way of thinkin', and that was a blessin'. And the Squire was a-goin' to marry agin', and Marthy would ruther vacate. And his mother and Mirandy was sech as he wouldn't take no wife to. And he thought as how Mr. Hartsook might think of some way or some place where he and Marthy mout make a livin' fer the present, and put in their best licks fer Him, you know. Ralph thought a moment. He was about to make an allusion to Hercules and the Augean stables, but he remembered that Bud would not understand it, though it might remind Martha of something she had seen at the East, the time she was to Bosting. "Bud, my dear friend," said Ralph, "it looks a little hard to ask you to take a new wife"--here Bud looked admiringly at Martha--"to the poor-house. But I don't know anywhere where you can do so much good for Christ as by taking charge of that place, and I can get the appointment for you. The new commissioners want just such a man." "What d'ye say, Marthy?" said Bud. "Why, somebody ought to do for the poor, and I should like to do it." And so Hercules cleaned the Augean stables. And so my humble, homely Hoosier story of twenty years ago[29] draws to a close, and not without regret I take leave of Ralph and Hannah; and Shocky, and Bud, and Martha, and Miss Nancy, and of my readers. * * * * * P.S.--A copy of the Lewisburg _Jeffersonian_ came into my hands to-day, and I see by its columns that Ralph Hartsook is principal of the Lewisburg Academy. It took me some time, however, to make out that the sheriff of the county, Mr. Israel W. Means, was none other than my old friend Bud, of the Church of the Best Licks. I was almost as much puzzled over his name as I was when I saw an article in a city paper, by Prof. W.J. Thomson, on Poor-Houses. I should not have recognized the writer as Shocky, had I not known that Shocky has given his spare time to making outcasts feel that God has not forgot. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 29: Written in 1871.] THE END 
16287	----	#TALKS TO TEACHERS# ON PSYCHOLOGY: AND TO STUDENTS ON SOME OF LIFE'S IDEALS, By WILLIAM JAMES #NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY# #1925# #COPYRIGHT, 1899, 1900# #BY WILLIAM JAMES# #PRESS OF GEO. H. ELLIS CO. (INC.) BOSTON# PREFACE. In 1892 I was asked by the Harvard Corporation to give a few public lectures on psychology to the Cambridge teachers. The talks now printed form the substance of that course, which has since then been delivered at various places to various teacher-audiences. I have found by experience that what my hearers seem least to relish is analytical technicality, and what they most care for is concrete practical application. So I have gradually weeded out the former, and left the latter unreduced; and now, that I have at last written out the lectures, they contain a minimum of what is deemed 'scientific' in psychology, and are practical and popular in the extreme. Some of my colleagues may possibly shake their heads at this; but in taking my cue from what has seemed to me to be the feeling of the audiences I believe that I am shaping my book so as to satisfy the more genuine public need. Teachers, of course, will miss the minute divisions, subdivisions, and definitions, the lettered and numbered headings, the variations of type, and all the other mechanical artifices on which they are accustomed to prop their minds. But my main desire has been to make them conceive, and, if possible, reproduce sympathetically in their imagination, the mental life of their pupil as the sort of active unity which he himself feels it to be. _He_ doesn't chop himself into distinct processes and compartments; and it would have frustrated this deeper purpose of my book to make it look, when printed, like a Baedeker's handbook of travel or a text-book of arithmetic. So far as books printed like this book force the fluidity of the facts upon the young teacher's attention, so far I am sure they tend to do his intellect a service, even though they may leave unsatisfied a craving (not altogether without its legitimate grounds) for more nomenclature, head-lines, and subdivisions. Readers acquainted with my larger books on Psychology will meet much familiar phraseology. In the chapters on habit and memory I have even copied several pages verbatim, but I do not know that apology is needed for such plagiarism as this. The talks to students, which conclude the volume, were written in response to invitations to deliver 'addresses' to students at women's colleges. The first one was to the graduating class of the Boston Normal School of Gymnastics. Properly, it continues the series of talks to teachers. The second and the third address belong together, and continue another line of thought. I wish I were able to make the second, 'On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings,' more impressive. It is more than the mere piece of sentimentalism which it may seem to some readers. It connects itself with a definite view of the world and of our moral relations to the same. Those who have done me the honor of reading my volume of philosophic essays will recognize that I mean the pluralistic or individualistic philosophy. According to that philosophy, the truth is too great for any one actual mind, even though that mind be dubbed 'the Absolute,' to know the whole of it. The facts and worths of life need many cognizers to take them in. There is no point of view absolutely public and universal. Private and uncommunicable perceptions always remain over, and the worst of it is that those who look for them from the outside never know _where_. The practical consequence of such a philosophy is the well-known democratic respect for the sacredness of individuality,--is, at any rate, the outward tolerance of whatever is not itself intolerant. These phrases are so familiar that they sound now rather dead in our ears. Once they had a passionate inner meaning. Such a passionate inner meaning they may easily acquire again if the pretension of our nation to inflict its own inner ideals and institutions _vi et armis_ upon Orientals should meet with a resistance as obdurate as so far it has been gallant and spirited. Religiously and philosophically, our ancient national doctrine of live and let live may prove to have a far deeper meaning than our people now seem to imagine it to possess. CAMBRIDGE, MASS., March, 1899. CONTENTS. TALKS TO TEACHERS. I. PSYCHOLOGY AND THE TEACHING ART The American educational organization,--What teachers may expect from psychology,--Teaching methods must agree with psychology, but cannot be immediately deduced therefrom,--The science of teaching and the science of war,--The educational uses of psychology defined,--The teacher's duty toward child-study. II. THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS Our mental life is a succession of conscious 'fields,'--They have a focus and a margin,--This description contrasted with the theory of 'ideas,'--Wundt's conclusions, note. III. THE CHILD AS A BEHAVING ORGANISM Mind as pure reason and mind as practical guide,--The latter view the more fashionable one to-day,--It will be adopted in this work,--Why so?--The teacher's function is to train pupils to behavior. IV. EDUCATION AND BEHAVIOR Education defined,--Conduct is always its outcome,--Different national ideals: Germany and England. V. THE NECESSITY OF REACTIONS No impression without expression,--Verbal reproduction,--Manual training,--Pupils should know their 'marks'. VI. NATIVE AND ACQUIRED REACTIONS The acquired reactions must be preceded by native ones,--Illustration: teaching child to ask instead of snatching,--Man has more instincts than other mammals. VII. WHAT THE NATIVE REACTIONS ARE Fear and love,--Curiosity,--Imitation,--Emulation,--Forbidden by Rousseau,--His error,--Ambition, pugnacity, and pride. Soft pedagogics and the fighting impulse,--Ownership,--Its educational uses,--Constructiveness,--Manual teaching,--Transitoriness in instincts,--Their order of succession. VIII. THE LAWS OF HABIT Good and bad habits,--Habit due to plasticity of organic tissues,--The aim of education is to make useful habits automatic,--Maxims relative to habit-forming: 1. Strong initiative,--2. No exception,--3. Seize first opportunity to act,--4. Don't preach,--Darwin and poetry: without exercise our capacities decay,--The habit of mental and muscular relaxation,--Fifth maxim, keep the faculty of effort trained,--Sudden conversions compatible with laws of habit,--Momentous influence of habits on character. IX. THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS A case of habit,--The two laws, contiguity and similarity,--The teacher has to build up useful systems of association,--Habitual associations determine character,--Indeterminateness of our trains of association,--We can trace them backward, but not foretell them,--Interest deflects,--Prepotent parts of the field,--In teaching, multiply cues. X. INTEREST The child's native interests,--How uninteresting things acquire an interest,--Rules for the teacher,--'Preparation' of the mind for the lesson: the pupil must have something to attend with,--All later interests are borrowed from original ones. XI. ATTENTION Interest and attention are two aspects of one fact,--Voluntary attention comes in beats,--Genius and attention,--The subject must change to win attention,--Mechanical aids,--The physiological process,--The new in the old is what excites interest,--Interest and effort are compatible,--Mind-wandering,--Not fatal to mental efficiency. XII. MEMORY Due to association,--No recall without a cue,--Memory is due to brain-plasticity,--Native retentiveness,--Number of associations may practically be its equivalent,--Retentiveness is a fixed property of the individual,--Memory _versus_ memories,--Scientific system as help to memory,--Technical memories,--Cramming,--Elementary memory unimprovable,--Utility of verbal memorizing,--Measurements of immediate memory,--They throw little light,--Passion is the important factor in human efficiency,--Eye-memory, ear-memory, etc.,--The rate of forgetting, Ebbinghaus's results,--Influence of the unreproducible,--To remember, one must think and connect. XIII. THE ACQUISITION OF IDEAS Education gives a stock of conceptions,--The order of their acquisition,--Value of verbal material,--Abstractions of different orders: when are they assimilable,--False conceptions of children. XIV. APPERCEPTION Often a mystifying idea,--The process defined,--The law of economy,--Old-fogyism,--How many types of apperception?--New heads of classification must continually be invented,--Alteration of the apperceiving mass,--Class names are what we work by,--Few new fundamental conceptions acquired after twenty-five. XV. THE WILL The word defined,--All consciousness tends to action,--Ideo-motor action,--Inhibition,--The process of deliberation,--Why so few of our ideas result in acts,--The associationist account of the will,--A balance of impulses and inhibitions,--The over-impulsive and the over-obstructed type,--The perfect type,--The balky will,--What character building consists in,--Right action depends on right apperception of the case,--Effort of will is effort of attention: the drunkard's dilemma,--Vital importance of voluntary attention,--Its amount may be indeterminate,--Affirmation of free-will,--Two types of inhibition,--Spinoza on inhibition by a higher good,--Conclusion. TALKS TO STUDENTS. I. THE GOSPEL OF RELAXATION II. ON A CERTAIN BLINDNESS IN HUMAN BEINGS III. WHAT MAKES A LIFE SIGNIFICANT? * * * * * TALKS TO TEACHERS I. PSYCHOLOGY AND THE TEACHING ART In the general activity and uprising of ideal interests which every one with an eye for fact can discern all about us in American life, there is perhaps no more promising feature than the fermentation which for a dozen years or more has been going on among the teachers. In whatever sphere of education their functions may lie, there is to be seen among them a really inspiring amount of searching of the heart about the highest concerns of their profession. The renovation of nations begins always at the top, among the reflective members of the State, and spreads slowly outward and downward. The teachers of this country, one may say, have its future in their hands. The earnestness which they at present show in striving to enlighten and strengthen themselves is an index of the nation's probabilities of advance in all ideal directions. The outward organization of education which we have in our United States is perhaps, on the whole, the best organization that exists in any country. The State school systems give a diversity and flexibility, an opportunity for experiment and keenness of competition, nowhere else to be found on such an important scale. The independence of so many of the colleges and universities; the give and take of students and instructors between them all; their emulation, and their happy organic relations to the lower schools; the traditions of instruction in them, evolved from the older American recitation-method (and so avoiding on the one hand the pure lecture-system prevalent in Germany and Scotland, which considers too little the individual student, and yet not involving the sacrifice of the instructor to the individual student, which the English tutorial system would seem too often to entail),--all these things (to say nothing of that coeducation of the sexes in whose benefits so many of us heartily believe), all these things, I say, are most happy features of our scholastic life, and from them the most sanguine auguries may be drawn. Having so favorable an organization, all we need is to impregnate it with geniuses, to get superior men and women working more and more abundantly in it and for it and at it, and in a generation or two America may well lead the education of the world. I must say that I look forward with no little confidence to the day when that shall be an accomplished fact. No one has profited more by the fermentation of which I speak, in pedagogical circles, than we psychologists. The desire of the schoolteachers for a completer professional training, and their aspiration toward the 'professional' spirit in their work, have led them more and more to turn to us for light on fundamental principles. And in these few hours which we are to spend together you look to me, I am sure, for information concerning the mind's operations, which may enable you to labor more easily and effectively in the several schoolrooms over which you preside. Far be it from me to disclaim for psychology all title to such hopes. Psychology ought certainly to give the teacher radical help. And yet I confess that, acquainted as I am with the height of some of your expectations, I feel a little anxious lest, at the end of these simple talks of mine, not a few of you may experience some disappointment at the net results. In other words, I am not sure that you may not be indulging fancies that are just a shade exaggerated. That would not be altogether astonishing, for we have been having something like a 'boom' in psychology in this country. Laboratories and professorships have been founded, and reviews established. The air has been full of rumors. The editors of educational journals and the arrangers of conventions have had to show themselves enterprising and on a level with the novelties of the day. Some of the professors have not been unwilling to co-operate, and I am not sure even that the publishers have been entirely inert. 'The new psychology' has thus become a term to conjure up portentous ideas withal; and you teachers, docile and receptive and aspiring as many of you are, have been plunged in an atmosphere of vague talk about our science, which to a great extent has been more mystifying than enlightening. Altogether it does seem as if there were a certain fatality of mystification laid upon the teachers of our day. The matter of their profession, compact enough in itself, has to be frothed up for them in journals and institutes, till its outlines often threaten to be lost in a kind of vast uncertainty. Where the disciples are not independent and critical-minded enough (and I think that, if you teachers in the earlier grades have any defect--the slightest touch of a defect in the world--it is that you are a mite too docile), we are pretty sure to miss accuracy and balance and measure in those who get a license to lay down the law to them from above. As regards this subject of psychology, now, I wish at the very threshold to do what I can to dispel the mystification. So I say at once that in my humble opinion there _is_ no 'new psychology' worthy of the name. There is nothing but the old psychology which began in Locke's time, plus a little physiology of the brain and senses and theory of evolution, and a few refinements of introspective detail, for the most part without adaptation to the teacher's use. It is only the fundamental conceptions of psychology which are of real value to the teacher; and they, apart from the aforesaid theory of evolution, are very far from being new.--I trust that you will see better what I mean by this at the end of all these talks. I say moreover that you make a great, a very great mistake, if you think that psychology, being the science of the mind's laws, is something from which you can deduce definite programmes and schemes and methods of instruction for immediate schoolroom use. Psychology is a science, and teaching is an art; and sciences never generate arts directly out of themselves. An intermediary inventive mind must make the application, by using its originality. The science of logic never made a man reason rightly, and the science of ethics (if there be such a thing) never made a man behave rightly. The most such sciences can do is to help us to catch ourselves up and check ourselves, if we start to reason or to behave wrongly; and to criticise ourselves more articulately after we have made mistakes. A science only lays down lines within which the rules of the art must fall, laws which the follower of the art must not transgress; but what particular thing he shall positively do within those lines is left exclusively to his own genius. One genius will do his work well and succeed in one way, while another succeeds as well quite differently; yet neither will transgress the lines. The art of teaching grew up in the schoolroom, out of inventiveness and sympathetic concrete observation. Even where (as in the case of Herbart) the advancer of the art was also a psychologist, the pedagogics and the psychology ran side by side, and the former was not derived in any sense from the latter. The two were congruent, but neither was subordinate. And so everywhere the teaching must _agree_ with the psychology, but need not necessarily be the only kind of teaching that would so agree; for many diverse methods of teaching may equally well agree with psychological laws. To know psychology, therefore, is absolutely no guarantee that we shall be good teachers. To advance to that result, we must have an additional endowment altogether, a happy tact and ingenuity to tell us what definite things to say and do when the pupil is before us. That ingenuity in meeting and pursuing the pupil, that tact for the concrete situation, though they are the alpha and omega of the teacher's art, are things to which psychology cannot help us in the least. The science of psychology, and whatever science of general pedagogics may be based on it, are in fact much like the science of war. Nothing is simpler or more definite than the principles of either. In war, all you have to do is to work your enemy into a position from which the natural obstacles prevent him from escaping if he tries to; then to fall on him in numbers superior to his own, at a moment when you have led him to think you far away; and so, with a minimum of exposure of your own troops, to hack his force to pieces, and take the remainder prisoners. Just so, in teaching, you must simply work your pupil into such a state of interest in what you are going to teach him that every other object of attention is banished from his mind; then reveal it to him so impressively that he will remember the occasion to his dying day; and finally fill him with devouring curiosity to know what the next steps in connection with the subject are. The principles being so plain, there would be nothing but victories for the masters of the science, either on the battlefield or in the schoolroom, if they did not both have to make their application to an incalculable quantity in the shape of the mind of their opponent. The mind of your own enemy, the pupil, is working away from you as keenly and eagerly as is the mind of the commander on the other side from the scientific general. Just what the respective enemies want and think, and what they know and do not know, are as hard things for the teacher as for the general to find out. Divination and perception, not psychological pedagogics or theoretic strategy, are the only helpers here. But, if the use of psychological principles thus be negative rather than positive, it does not follow that it may not be a great use, all the same. It certainly narrows the path for experiments and trials. We know in advance, if we are psychologists, that certain methods will be wrong, so our psychology saves us from mistakes. It makes us, moreover, more clear as to what we are about. We gain confidence in respect to any method which we are using as soon as we believe that it has theory as well as practice at its back. Most of all, it fructifies our independence, and it reanimates our interest, to see our subject at two different angles,--to get a stereoscopic view, so to speak, of the youthful organism who is our enemy, and, while handling him with all our concrete tact and divination, to be able, at the same time, to represent to ourselves the curious inner elements of his mental machine. Such a complete knowledge as this of the pupil, at once intuitive and analytic, is surely the knowledge at which every teacher ought to aim. Fortunately for you teachers, the elements of the mental machine can be clearly apprehended, and their workings easily grasped. And, as the most general elements and workings are just those parts of psychology which the teacher finds most directly useful, it follows that the amount of this science which is necessary to all teachers need not be very great. Those who find themselves loving the subject may go as far as they please, and become possibly none the worse teachers for the fact, even though in some of them one might apprehend a little loss of balance from the tendency observable in all of us to overemphasize certain special parts of a subject when we are studying it intensely and abstractly. But for the great majority of you a general view is enough, provided it be a true one; and such a general view, one may say, might almost be written on the palm of one's hand. Least of all need you, merely _as teachers_, deem it part of your duty to become contributors to psychological science or to make psychological observations in a methodical or responsible manner. I fear that some of the enthusiasts for child-study have thrown a certain burden on you in this way. By all means let child-study go on,--it is refreshing all our sense of the child's life. There are teachers who take a spontaneous delight in filling syllabuses, inscribing observations, compiling statistics, and computing the per cent. Child-study will certainly enrich their lives. And, if its results, as treated statistically, would seem on the whole to have but trifling value, yet the anecdotes and observations of which it in part consist do certainly acquaint us more intimately with our pupils. Our eyes and ears grow quickened to discern in the child before us processes similar to those we have read of as noted in the children,--processes of which we might otherwise have remained inobservant. But, for Heaven's sake, let the rank and file of teachers be passive readers if they so prefer, and feel free not to contribute to the accumulation. Let not the prosecution of it be preached as an imperative duty or imposed by regulation on those to whom it proves an exterminating bore, or who in any way whatever miss in themselves the appropriate vocation for it. I cannot too strongly agree with my colleague, Professor Münsterberg, when he says that the teacher's attitude toward the child, being concrete and ethical, is positively opposed to the psychological observer's, which is abstract and analytic. Although some of us may conjoin the attitudes successfully, in most of us they must conflict. The worst thing that can happen to a good teacher is to get a bad conscience about her profession because she feels herself hopeless as a psychologist. Our teachers are overworked already. Every one who adds a jot or tittle of unnecessary weight to their burden is a foe of education. A bad conscience increases the weight of every other burden; yet I know that child-study, and other pieces of psychology as well, have been productive of bad conscience in many a really innocent pedagogic breast. I should indeed be glad if this passing word from me might tend to dispel such a bad conscience, if any of you have it; for it is certainly one of those fruits of more or less systematic mystification of which I have already complained. The best teacher may be the poorest contributor of child-study material, and the best contributor may be the poorest teacher. No fact is more palpable than this. So much for what seems the most reasonable general attitude of the teacher toward the subject which is to occupy our attention. II. THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS I said a few minutes ago that the most general elements and workings of the mind are all that the teacher absolutely needs to be acquainted with for his purposes. Now the _immediate_ fact which psychology, the science of mind, has to study is also the most general fact. It is the fact that in each of us, when awake (and often when asleep), _some kind of consciousness is always going on_. There is a stream, a succession of states, or waves, or fields (or of whatever you please to call them), of knowledge, of feeling, of desire, of deliberation, etc., that constantly pass and repass, and that constitute our inner life. The existence of this stream is the primal fact, the nature and origin of it form the essential problem, of our science. So far as we class the states or fields of consciousness, write down their several natures, analyze their contents into elements, or trace their habits of succession, we are on the descriptive or analytic level. So far as we ask where they come from or why they are just what they are, we are on the explanatory level. In these talks with you, I shall entirely neglect the questions that come up on the explanatory level. It must be frankly confessed that in no fundamental sense do we know where our successive fields of consciousness come from, or why they have the precise inner constitution which they do have. They certainly follow or accompany our brain states, and of course their special forms are determined by our past experiences and education. But, if we ask just _how_ the brain conditions them, we have not the remotest inkling of an answer to give; and, if we ask just how the education moulds the brain, we can speak but in the most abstract, general, and conjectural terms. On the other hand, if we should say that they are due to a spiritual being called our Soul, which reacts on our brain states by these peculiar forms of spiritual energy, our words would be familiar enough, it is true; but I think you will agree that they would offer little genuine explanatory meaning. The truth is that we really _do not know_ the answers to the problems on the explanatory level, even though in some directions of inquiry there may be promising speculations to be found. For our present purposes I shall therefore dismiss them entirely, and turn to mere description. This state of things was what I had in mind when, a moment ago, I said there was no 'new psychology' worthy of the name. _We have thus fields of consciousness_,--that is the first general fact; and the second general fact is that the concrete fields are always complex. They contain sensations of our bodies and of the objects around us, memories of past experiences and thoughts of distant things, feelings of satisfaction and dissatisfaction, desires and aversions, and other emotional conditions, together with determinations of the will, in every variety of permutation and combination. In most of our concrete states of consciousness all these different classes of ingredients are found simultaneously present to some degree, though the relative proportion they bear to one another is very shifting. One state will seem to be composed of hardly anything but sensations, another of hardly anything but memories, etc. But around the sensation, if one consider carefully, there will always be some fringe of thought or will, and around the memory some margin or penumbra of emotion or sensation. In most of our fields of consciousness there is a core of sensation that is very pronounced. You, for example, now, although you are also thinking and feeling, are getting through your eyes sensations of my face and figure, and through your ears sensations of my voice. The sensations are the _centre_ or _focus_, the thoughts and feelings the _margin_, of your actually present conscious field. On the other hand, some object of thought, some distant image, may have become the focus of your mental attention even while I am speaking,--your mind, in short, may have wandered from the lecture; and, in that case, the sensations of my face and voice, although not absolutely vanishing from your conscious field, may have taken up there a very faint and marginal place. Again, to take another sort of variation, some feeling connected with your own body may have passed from a marginal to a focal place, even while I speak. The expressions 'focal object' and 'marginal object,' which we owe to Mr. Lloyd Morgan, require, I think, no further explanation. The distinction they embody is a very important one, and they are the first technical terms which I shall ask you to remember. * * * * * In the successive mutations of our fields of consciousness, the process by which one dissolves into another is often very gradual, and all sorts of inner rearrangements of contents occur. Sometimes the focus remains but little changed, while the margin alters rapidly. Sometimes the focus alters, and the margin stays. Sometimes focus and margin change places. Sometimes, again, abrupt alterations of the whole field occur. There can seldom be a sharp description. All we know is that, for the most part, each field has a sort of practical unity for its possessor, and that from this practical point of view we can class a field with other fields similar to it, by calling it a state of emotion, of perplexity, of sensation, of abstract thought, of volition, and the like. Vague and hazy as such an account of our stream of consciousness may be, it is at least secure from positive error and free from admixture of conjecture or hypothesis. An influential school of psychology, seeking to avoid haziness of outline, has tried to make things appear more exact and scientific by making the analysis more sharp. The various fields of consciousness, according to this school, result from a definite number of perfectly definite elementary mental states, mechanically associated into a mosaic or chemically combined. According to some thinkers,--Spencer, for example, or Taine,--these resolve themselves at last into little elementary psychic particles or atoms of 'mind-stuff,' out of which all the more immediately known mental states are said to be built up. Locke introduced this theory in a somewhat vague form. Simple 'ideas' of sensation and reflection, as he called them, were for him the bricks of which our mental architecture is built up. If I ever have to refer to this theory again, I shall refer to it as the theory of 'ideas.' But I shall try to steer clear of it altogether. Whether it be true or false, it is at any rate only conjectural; and, for your practical purposes as teachers, the more unpretending conception of the stream of consciousness, with its total waves or fields incessantly changing, will amply suffice.[A] [A] In the light of some of the expectations that are abroad concerning the 'new psychology,' it is instructive to read the unusually candid confession of its founder Wundt, after his thirty years of laboratory-experience: "The service which it [the experimental method] can yield consists essentially in perfecting our inner observation, or rather, as I believe, in making this really possible, in any exact sense. Well, has our experimental self-observation, so understood, already accomplished aught of importance? No general answer to this question can be given, because in the unfinished state of our science, there is, even inside of the experimental lines of inquiry, no universally accepted body of psychologic doctrine.... "In such a discord of opinions (comprehensible enough at a time of uncertain and groping development), the individual inquirer can only tell for what views and insights he himself has to thank the newer methods. And if I were asked in what for me the worth of experimental observation in psychology has consisted, and still consists, I should say that it has given me an entirely new idea of the nature and connection of our inner processes. I learned in the achievements of the sense of sight to apprehend the fact of creative mental synthesis.... From my inquiry into time-relations, etc.,... I attained an insight into the close union of all those psychic functions usually separated by artificial abstractions and names, such as ideation, feeling, will; and I saw the indivisibility and inner homogeneity, in all its phases, of the mental life. The chronometric study of association-processes finally showed me that the notion of distinct mental 'images' [_reproducirten Vorstellungen_] was one of those numerous self-deceptions which are no sooner stamped in a verbal term than they forthwith thrust non-existent fictions into the place of the reality. I learned to understand an 'idea' as a process no less melting and fleeting than an act of feeling or of will, and I comprehended the older doctrine of association of 'ideas' to be no longer tenable.... Besides all this, experimental observation yielded much other information about the span of consciousness, the rapidity of certain processes, the exact numerical value of certain psychophysical data, and the like. But I hold all these more special results to be relatively insignificant by-products, and by no means the important thing."--_Philosophische Studien_, x. 121-124. The whole passage should be read. As I interpret it, it amounts to a complete espousal of the vaguer conception of the stream of thought, and a complete renunciation of the whole business, still so industriously carried on in text-books, of chopping up 'the mind' into distinct units of composition or function, numbering these off, and labelling them by technical names. III. THE CHILD AS A BEHAVING ORGANISM I wish now to continue the description of the peculiarities of the stream of consciousness by asking whether we can in any intelligible way assign its _functions_. It has two functions that are obvious: it leads to knowledge, and it leads to action. Can we say which of these functions is the more essential? An old historic divergence of opinion comes in here. Popular belief has always tended to estimate the worth of a man's mental processes by their effects upon his practical life. But philosophers have usually cherished a different view. "Man's supreme glory," they have said, "is to be a _rational_ being, to know absolute and eternal and universal truth. The uses of his intellect for practical affairs are therefore subordinate matters. 'The theoretic life' is his soul's genuine concern." Nothing can be more different in its results for our personal attitude than to take sides with one or the other of these views, and emphasize the practical or the theoretical ideal. In the latter case, abstraction from the emotions and passions and withdrawal from the strife of human affairs would be not only pardonable, but praiseworthy; and all that makes for quiet and contemplation should be regarded as conducive to the highest human perfection. In the former, the man of contemplation would be treated as only half a human being, passion and practical resource would become once more glories of our race, a concrete victory over this earth's outward powers of darkness would appear an equivalent for any amount of passive spiritual culture, and conduct would remain as the test of every education worthy of the name. It is impossible to disguise the fact that in the psychology of our own day the emphasis is transferred from the mind's purely rational function, where Plato and Aristotle, and what one may call the whole classic tradition in philosophy had placed it, to the so long neglected practical side. The theory of evolution is mainly responsible for this. Man, we now have reason to believe, has been evolved from infra-human ancestors, in whom pure reason hardly existed, if at all, and whose mind, so far as it can have had any function, would appear to have been an organ for adapting their movements to the impressions received from the environment, so as to escape the better from destruction. Consciousness would thus seem in the first instance to be nothing but a sort of super-added biological perfection,--useless unless it prompted to useful conduct, and inexplicable apart from that consideration. Deep in our own nature the biological foundations of our consciousness persist, undisguised and undiminished. Our sensations are here to attract us or to deter us, our memories to warn or encourage us, our feelings to impel, and our thoughts to restrain our behavior, so that on the whole we may prosper and our days be long in the land. Whatever of transmundane metaphysical insight or of practically inapplicable æsthetic perception or ethical sentiment we may carry in our interiors might at this rate be regarded as only part of the incidental excess of function that necessarily accompanies the working of every complex machine. I shall ask you now--not meaning at all thereby to close the theoretic question, but merely because it seems to me the point of view likely to be of greatest practical use to you as teachers--to adopt with me, in this course of lectures, the biological conception, as thus expressed, and to lay your own emphasis on the fact that man, whatever else he may be, is primarily a practical being, whose mind is given him to aid in adapting him to this world's life. In the learning of all matters, we have to start with some one deep aspect of the question, abstracting it as if it were the only aspect; and then we gradually correct ourselves by adding those neglected other features which complete the case. No one believes more strongly than I do that what our senses know as 'this world' is only one portion of our mind's total environment and object. Yet, because it is the primal portion, it is the _sine qua non_ of all the rest. If you grasp the facts about it firmly, you may proceed to higher regions undisturbed. As our time must be so short together, I prefer being elementary and fundamental to being complete, so I propose to you to hold fast to the ultra-simple point of view. The reasons why I call it so fundamental can be easily told. First, human and animal psychology thereby become less discontinuous. I know that to some of you this will hardly seem an attractive reason, but there are others whom it will affect. Second, mental action is conditioned by brain action, and runs parallel therewith. But the brain, so far as we understand it, is given us for practical behavior. Every current that runs into it from skin or eye or ear runs out again into muscles, glands, or viscera, and helps to adapt the animal to the environment from which the current came. It therefore generalizes and simplifies our view to treat the brain life and the mental life as having one fundamental kind of purpose. Third, those very functions of the mind that do not refer directly to this world's environment, the ethical utopias, æsthetic visions, insights into eternal truth, and fanciful logical combinations, could never be carried on at all by a human individual, unless the mind that produced them in him were also able to produce more practically useful products. The latter are thus the more essential, or at least the more primordial results. Fourth, the inessential 'unpractical' activities are themselves far more connected with our behavior and our adaptation to the environment than at first sight might appear. No truth, however abstract, is ever perceived, that will not probably at some time influence our earthly action. You must remember that, when I talk of action here, I mean action in the widest sense. I mean speech, I mean writing, I mean yeses and noes, and tendencies 'from' things and tendencies 'toward' things, and emotional determinations; and I mean them in the future as well as in the immediate present. As I talk here, and you listen, it might seem as if no action followed. You might call it a purely theoretic process, with no practical result. But it _must_ have a practical result. It cannot take place at all and leave your conduct unaffected. If not to-day, then on some far future day, you will answer some question differently by reason of what you are thinking now. Some of you will be led by my words into new veins of inquiry, into reading special books. These will develop your opinion, whether for or against. That opinion will in turn be expressed, will receive criticism from others in your environment, and will affect your standing in their eyes. We cannot escape our destiny, which is practical; and even our most theoretic faculties contribute to its working out. These few reasons will perhaps smooth the way for you to acquiescence in my proposal. As teachers, I sincerely think it will be a sufficient conception for you to adopt of the youthful psychological phenomena handed over to your inspection if you consider them from the point of view of their relation to the future conduct of their possessor. Sufficient at any rate as a first conception and as a main conception. You should regard your professional task as if it consisted chiefly and essentially in _training the pupil to behavior_; taking behavior, not in the narrow sense of his manners, but in the very widest possible sense, as including every possible sort of fit reaction on the circumstances into which he may find himself brought by the vicissitudes of life. The reaction may, indeed, often be a negative reaction. _Not_ to speak, _not_ to move, is one of the most important of our duties, in certain practical emergencies. "Thou shalt refrain, renounce, abstain"! This often requires a great effort of will power, and, physiologically considered, is just as positive a nerve function as is motor discharge. IV. EDUCATION AND BEHAVIOR In our foregoing talk we were led to frame a very simple conception of what an education means. In the last analysis it consists in the organizing of _resources_ in the human being, of powers of conduct which shall fit him to his social and physical world. An 'uneducated' person is one who is nonplussed by all but the most habitual situations. On the contrary, one who is educated is able practically to extricate himself, by means of the examples with which his memory is stored and of the abstract conceptions which he has acquired, from circumstances in which he never was placed before. Education, in short, cannot be better described than by calling it _the organization of acquired habits of conduct and tendencies to behavior_. To illustrate. You and I are each and all of us educated, in our several ways; and we show our education at this present moment by different conduct. It would be quite impossible for me, with my mind technically and professionally organized as it is, and with the optical stimulus which your presence affords, to remain sitting here entirely silent and inactive. Something tells me that I am expected to speak, and must speak; something forces me to keep on speaking. My organs of articulation are continuously innervated by outgoing currents, which the currents passing inward at my eyes and through my educated brain have set in motion; and the particular movements which they make have their form and order determined altogether by the training of all my past years of lecturing and reading. Your conduct, on the other hand, might seem at first sight purely receptive and inactive,--leaving out those among you who happen to be taking notes. But the very listening which you are carrying on is itself a determinate kind of conduct. All the muscular tensions of your body are distributed in a peculiar way as you listen. Your head, your eyes, are fixed characteristically. And, when the lecture is over, it will inevitably eventuate in some stroke of behavior, as I said on the previous occasion: you may be guided differently in some special emergency in the schoolroom by words which I now let fall.--So it is with the impressions you will make there on your pupil. You should get into the habit of regarding them all as leading to the acquisition by him of capacities for behavior,--emotional, social, bodily, vocal, technical, or what not. And, this being the case, you ought to feel willing, in a general way, and without hair-splitting or farther ado, to take up for the purposes of these lectures with the biological conception of the mind, as of something given us for practical use. That conception will certainly cover the greater part of your own educational work. If we reflect upon the various ideals of education that are prevalent in the different countries, we see that what they all aim at is to organize capacities for conduct. This is most immediately obvious in Germany, where the explicitly avowed aim of the higher education is to turn the student into an instrument for advancing scientific discovery. The German universities are proud of the number of young specialists whom they turn out every year,--not necessarily men of any original force of intellect, but men so trained to research that when their professor gives them an historical or philological thesis to prepare, or a bit of laboratory work to do, with a general indication as to the best method, they can go off by themselves and use apparatus and consult sources in such a way as to grind out in the requisite number of months some little pepper-corn of new truth worthy of being added to the store of extant human information on that subject. Little else is recognized in Germany as a man's title to academic advancement than his ability thus to show himself an efficient instrument of research. In England, it might seem at first sight as if the higher education of the universities aimed at the production of certain static types of character rather than at the development of what one may call this dynamic scientific efficiency. Professor Jowett, when asked what Oxford could do for its students, is said to have replied, "Oxford can teach an English gentleman how to _be_ an English gentleman." But, if you ask what it means to 'be' an English gentleman, the only reply is in terms of conduct and behavior. An English gentleman is a bundle of specifically qualified reactions, a creature who for all the emergencies of life has his line of behavior distinctly marked out for him in advance. Here, as elsewhere, England expects every man to do his duty. V. THE NECESSITY OF REACTIONS If all this be true, then immediately one general aphorism emerges which ought by logical right to dominate the entire conduct of the teacher in the classroom. _No reception without reaction, no impression without correlative expression_,--this is the great maxim which the teacher ought never to forget. An impression which simply flows in at the pupil's eyes or ears, and in no way modifies his active life, is an impression gone to waste. It is physiologically incomplete. It leaves no fruits behind it in the way of capacity acquired. Even as mere impression, it fails to produce its proper effect upon the memory; for, to remain fully among the acquisitions of this latter faculty, it must be wrought into the whole cycle of our operations. Its _motor consequences_ are what clinch it. Some effect due to it in the way of an activity must return to the mind in the form of the _sensation of having acted_, and connect itself with the impression. The most durable impressions are those on account of which we speak or act, or else are inwardly convulsed. The older pedagogic method of learning things by rote, and reciting them parrot-like in the schoolroom, rested on the truth that a thing merely read or heard, and never verbally reproduced, contracts the weakest possible adhesion in the mind. Verbal recitation or reproduction is thus a highly important kind of reactive behavior on our impressions; and it is to be feared that, in the reaction against the old parrot-recitations as the beginning and end of instruction, the extreme value of verbal recitation as an element of complete training may nowadays be too much forgotten. When we turn to modern pedagogics, we see how enormously the field of reactive conduct has been extended by the introduction of all those methods of concrete object teaching which are the glory of our contemporary schools. Verbal reactions, useful as they are, are insufficient. The pupil's words may be right, but the conceptions corresponding to them are often direfully wrong. In a modern school, therefore, they form only a small part of what the pupil is required to do. He must keep notebooks, make drawings, plans, and maps, take measurements, enter the laboratory and perform experiments, consult authorities, and write essays. He must do in his fashion what is often laughed at by outsiders when it appears in prospectuses under the title of 'original work,' but what is really the only possible training for the doing of original work thereafter. The most colossal improvement which recent years have seen in secondary education lies in the introduction of the manual training schools; not because they will give us a people more handy and practical for domestic life and better skilled in trades, but because they will give us citizens with an entirely different intellectual fibre. Laboratory work and shop work engender a habit of observation, a knowledge of the difference between accuracy and vagueness, and an insight into nature's complexity and into the inadequacy of all abstract verbal accounts of real phenomena, which once wrought into the mind, remain there as lifelong possessions. They confer precision; because, if you are _doing_ a thing, you must do it definitely right or definitely wrong. They give honesty; for, when you express yourself by making things, and not by using words, it becomes impossible to dissimulate your vagueness or ignorance by ambiguity. They beget a habit of self-reliance; they keep the interest and attention always cheerfully engaged, and reduce the teacher's disciplinary functions to a minimum. Of the various systems of manual training, so far as woodwork is concerned, the Swedish Sloyd system, if I may have an opinion on such matters, seems to me by far the best, psychologically considered. Manual training methods, fortunately, are being slowly but surely introduced into all our large cities. But there is still an immense distance to traverse before they shall have gained the extension which they are destined ultimately to possess. * * * * * No impression without expression, then,--that is the first pedagogic fruit of our evolutionary conception of the mind as something instrumental to adaptive behavior. But a word may be said in continuation. The expression itself comes back to us, as I intimated a moment ago, in the form of a still farther impression,--the impression, namely, of what we have done. We thus receive sensible news of our behavior and its results. We hear the words we have spoken, feel our own blow as we give it, or read in the bystander's eyes the success or failure of our conduct. Now this return wave of impression pertains to the completeness of the whole experience, and a word about its importance in the schoolroom may not be out of place. It would seem only natural to say that, since after acting we normally get some return impression of result, it must be well to let the pupil get such a return impression in every possible case. Nevertheless, in schools where examination marks and 'standing' and other returns of result are concealed, the pupil is frustrated of this natural termination of the cycle of his activities, and often suffers from the sense of incompleteness and uncertainty; and there are persons who defend this system as encouraging the pupil to work for the work's sake, and not for extraneous reward. Of course, here as elsewhere, concrete experience must prevail over psychological deduction. But, so far as our psychological deduction goes, it would suggest that the pupil's eagerness to know how well he does is in the line of his normal completeness of function, and should never be balked except for very definite reasons indeed. Acquaint them, therefore, with their marks and standing and prospects, unless in the individual case you have some special practical reason for not so doing. VI. NATIVE REACTIONS AND ACQUIRED REACTIONS We are by this time fully launched upon the biological conception. Man is an organism for reacting on impressions: his mind is there to help determine his reactions, and the purpose of his education is to make them numerous and perfect. _Our education means, in short, little more than a mass of possibilities of reaction,_ acquired at home, at school, or in the training of affairs. The teacher's task is that of supervising the acquiring process. This being the case, I will immediately state a principle which underlies the whole process of acquisition and governs the entire activity of the teacher. It is this:-- _Every acquired reaction is, as a rule, either a complication grafted on a native reaction, or a substitute for a native reaction, which the same object originally tended to provoke._ _The teacher's art consists in bringing about the substitution or complication, and success in the art presupposes a sympathetic acquaintance with the reactive tendencies natively there_. Without an equipment of native reactions on the child's part, the teacher would have no hold whatever upon the child's attention or conduct. You may take a horse to the water, but you cannot make him drink; and so you may take a child to the schoolroom, but you cannot make him learn the new things you wish to impart, except by soliciting him in the first instance by something which natively makes him react. He must take the first step himself. He must _do_ something before you can get your purchase on him. That something may be something good or something bad. A bad reaction is better than no reaction at all; for, if bad, you can couple it with consequences which awake him to its badness. But imagine a child so lifeless as to react in _no_ way to the teacher's first appeals, and how can you possibly take the first step in his education? To make this abstract conception more concrete, assume the case of a young child's training in good manners. The child has a native tendency to snatch with his hands at anything that attracts his curiosity; also to draw back his hands when slapped, to cry under these latter conditions, to smile when gently spoken to, and to imitate one's gestures. Suppose now you appear before the child with a new toy intended as a present for him. No sooner does he see the toy than he seeks to snatch it. You slap the hand; it is withdrawn, and the child cries. You then hold up the toy, smiling and saying, "Beg for it nicely,--so!" The child stops crying, imitates you, receives the toy, and crows with pleasure; and that little cycle of training is complete. You have substituted the new reaction of 'begging' for the native reaction of snatching, when that kind of impression comes. Now, if the child had no memory, the process would not be educative. No matter how often you came in with a toy, the same series of reactions would fatally occur, each called forth by its own impression: see, snatch; slap, cry; hear, ask; receive, smile. But, with memory there, the child, at the very instant of snatching, recalls the rest of the earlier experience, thinks of the slap and the frustration, recollects the begging and the reward, inhibits the snatching impulse, substitutes the 'nice' reaction for it, and gets the toy immediately, by eliminating all the intermediary steps. If a child's first snatching impulse be excessive or his memory poor, many repetitions of the discipline may be needed before the acquired reaction comes to be an ingrained habit; but in an eminently educable child a single experience will suffice. One can easily represent the whole process by a brain-diagram. Such a diagram can be little more than a symbolic translation of the immediate experience into spatial terms; yet it may be useful, so I subjoin it. [Illustration: FIGURE 1. THE BRAIN-PROCESSES BEFORE EDUCATION.] Figure 1 shows the paths of the four successive reflexes executed by the lower or instinctive centres. The dotted lines that lead from them to the higher centres and connect the latter together, represent the processes of memory and association which the reactions impress upon the higher centres as they take place. [Illustration: FIGURE 2. THE BRAIN-PROCESS AFTER EDUCATION.] In Figure 2 we have the final result. The impression _see_ awakens the chain of memories, and the only reactions that take place are the _beg_ and _smile_. The thought of the _slap_, connected with the activity of Centre 2, inhibits the _snatch_, and makes it abortive, so it is represented only by a dotted line of discharge not reaching the terminus. Ditto of the _cry_ reaction. These are, as it were, short-circuited by the current sweeping through the higher centres from _see_ to _smile_. _Beg_ and _smile_, thus substituted for the original reaction _snatch_, become at last the immediate responses when the child sees a snatchable object in some one's hands. The first thing, then, for the teacher to understand is the native reactive tendencies,--the impulses and instincts of childhood,--so as to be able to substitute one for another, and turn them on to artificial objects. * * * * * It is often said that man is distinguished from the lower animals by having a much smaller assortment of native instincts and impulses than they, but this is a great mistake. Man, of course, has not the marvellous egg-laying instincts which some articulates have; but, if we compare him with the mammalia, we are forced to confess that he is appealed to by a much larger array of objects than any other mammal, that his reactions on these objects are characteristic and determinate in a very high degree. The monkeys, and especially the anthropoids, are the only beings that approach him in their analytic curiosity and width of imitativeness. His instinctive impulses, it is true, get overlaid by the secondary reactions due to his superior reasoning power; but thus man loses the _simply_ instinctive demeanor. But the life of instinct is only disguised in him, not lost; and when the higher brain-functions are in abeyance, as happens in imbecility or dementia, his instincts sometimes show their presence in truly brutish ways. I will therefore say a few words about those instinctive tendencies which are the most important from the teacher's point of view. VII. WHAT THE NATIVE REACTIONS ARE First of all, _Fear_. Fear of punishment has always been the great weapon of the teacher, and will always, of course, retain some place in the conditions of the schoolroom. The subject is so familiar that nothing more need be said about it. The same is true of _Love_, and the instinctive desire to please those whom we love. The teacher who succeeds in getting herself loved by the pupils will obtain results which one of a more forbidding temperament finds it impossible to secure. Next, a word might be said about _Curiosity_. This is perhaps a rather poor term by which to designate the _impulse toward better cognition_ in its full extent; but you will readily understand what I mean. Novelties in the way of sensible objects, especially if their sensational quality is bright, vivid, startling, invariably arrest the attention of the young and hold it until the desire to know more about the object is assuaged. In its higher, more intellectual form, the impulse toward completer knowledge takes the character of scientific or philosophic curiosity. In both its sensational and its intellectual form the instinct is more vivacious during childhood and youth than in after life. Young children are possessed by curiosity about every new impression that assails them. It would be quite impossible for a young child to listen to a lecture for more than a few minutes, as you are now listening to me. The outside sights and sounds would inevitably carry his attention off. And, for most people in middle life, the sort of intellectual effort required of the average schoolboy in mastering his Greek or Latin lesson, his algebra or physics, would be out of the question. The middle-aged citizen attends exclusively to the routine details of his business; and new truths, especially when they require involved trains of close reasoning, are no longer within the scope of his capacity. The sensational curiosity of childhood is appealed to more particularly by certain determinate kinds of objects. Material things, things that move, living things, human actions and accounts of human action, will win the attention better than anything that is more abstract. Here again comes in the advantage of the object-teaching and manual training methods. The pupil's attention is spontaneously held by any problem that involves the presentation of a new material object or of an activity on any one's part. The teacher's earliest appeals, therefore, must be through objects shown or acts performed or described. Theoretic curiosity, curiosity about the rational relations between things, can hardly be said to awake at all until adolescence is reached. The sporadic metaphysical inquiries of children as to who made God, and why they have five fingers, need hardly be counted here. But, when the theoretic instinct is once alive in the pupil, an entirely new order of pedagogic relations begins for him. Reasons, causes, abstract conceptions, suddenly grow full of zest, a fact with which all teachers are familiar. And, both in its sensible and in its rational developments, disinterested curiosity may be successfully appealed to in the child with much more certainty than in the adult, in whom this intellectual instinct has grown so torpid as usually never to awake unless it enters into association with some selfish personal interest. Of this latter point I will say more anon. _Imitation_. Man has always been recognized as the imitative animal _par excellence_. And there is hardly a book on psychology, however old, which has not devoted at least one paragraph to this fact. It is strange, however, that the full scope and pregnancy of the imitative impulse in man has had to wait till the last dozen years to become adequately recognized. M. Tarde led the way in his admirably original work, "Les Lois de l'Imitation"; and in our own country Professors Royce and Baldwin have kept the ball rolling with all the energy that could be desired. Each of us is in fact what he is almost exclusively by virtue of his imitativeness. We become conscious of what we ourselves are by imitating others--the consciousness of what the others are precedes--the sense of self grows by the sense of pattern. The entire accumulated wealth of mankind--languages, arts, institutions, and sciences--is passed on from one generation to another by what Baldwin has called social heredity, each generation simply imitating the last. Into the particulars of this most fascinating chapter of psychology I have no time to go. The moment one hears Tarde's proposition uttered, however, one feels how supremely true it is. Invention, using the term most broadly, and imitation, are the two legs, so to call them, on which the human race historically has walked. Imitation shades imperceptibly into _Emulation_. Emulation is the impulse to imitate what you see another doing, in order not to appear inferior; and it is hard to draw a sharp line between the manifestations of the two impulses, so inextricably do they mix their effects. Emulation is the very nerve of human society. Why are you, my hearers, sitting here before me? If no one whom you ever heard of had attended a 'summer school' or teachers' institute, would it have occurred to any one of you to break out independently and do a thing so unprescribed by fashion? Probably not. Nor would your pupils come to you unless the children of their parents' neighbors were all simultaneously being sent to school. We wish not to be lonely or eccentric, and we wish not to be cut off from our share in things which to our neighbors seem desirable privileges. In the schoolroom, imitation and emulation play absolutely vital parts. Every teacher knows the advantage of having certain things performed by whole bands of children at a time. The teacher who meets with most success is the teacher whose own ways are the most imitable. A teacher should never try to make the pupils do a thing which she cannot do herself. "Come and let me show you how" is an incomparably better stimulus than "Go and do it as the book directs." Children admire a teacher who has skill. What he does seems easy, and they wish to emulate it. It is useless for a dull and devitalized teacher to exhort her pupils to wake up and take an interest. She must first take one herself; then her example is effective, as no exhortation can possibly be. Every school has its tone, moral and intellectual. And this tone is a mere tradition kept up by imitation, due in the first instance to the example set by teachers and by previous pupils of an aggressive and dominating type, copied by the others, and passed on from year to year, so that the new pupils take the cue almost immediately. Such a tone changes very slowly, if at all; and then always under the modifying influence of new personalities aggressive enough in character to set new patterns and not merely to copy the old. The classic example of this sort of tone is the often quoted case of Rugby under Dr. Arnold's administration. He impressed his own character as a model on the imagination of the oldest boys, who in turn were expected and required to impress theirs upon the younger set. The contagiousness of Arnold's genius was such that a Rugby man was said to be recognizable all through life by a peculiar turn of character which he acquired at school. It is obvious that psychology as such can give in this field no precepts of detail. As in so many other fields of teaching, success depends mainly on the native genius of the teacher, the sympathy, tact, and perception which enable him to seize the right moment and to set the right example. Among the recent modern reforms of teaching methods, a certain disparagement of emulation, as a laudable spring of action in the schoolroom, has often made itself heard. More than a century ago, Rousseau, in his '�mile,' branded rivalry between one pupil and another as too base a passion to play a part in an ideal education. "Let �mile," he said, "never be led to compare himself to other children. No rivalries, not even in running, as soon as he begins to have the power of reason. It were a hundred times better that he should not learn at all what he could only learn through jealousy or vanity. But I would mark out every year the progress he may have made, and I would compare it with the progress of the following years. I would say to him: 'You are now grown so many inches taller; there is the ditch which you jumped over, there is the burden which you raised. There is the distance to which you could throw a pebble, there the distance you could run over without losing breath. See how much more you can do now!' Thus I should excite him without making him jealous of any one. He would wish to surpass himself. I can see no inconvenience in this emulation with his former self." Unquestionably, emulation with one's former self is a noble form of the passion of rivalry, and has a wide scope in the training of the young. But to veto and taboo all possible rivalry of one youth with another, because such rivalry may degenerate into greedy and selfish excess, does seem to savor somewhat of sentimentality, or even of fanaticism. The feeling of rivalry lies at the very basis of our being, all social improvement being largely due to it. There is a noble and generous kind of rivalry, as well as a spiteful and greedy kind; and the noble and generous form is particularly common in childhood. All games owe the zest which they bring with them to the fact that they are rooted in the emulous passion, yet they are the chief means of training in fairness and magnanimity. Can the teacher afford to throw such an ally away? Ought we seriously to hope that marks, distinctions, prizes, and other goals of effort, based on the pursuit of recognized superiority, should be forever banished from our schools? As a psychologist, obliged to notice the deep and pervasive character of the emulous passion, I must confess my doubts. The wise teacher will use this instinct as he uses others, reaping its advantages, and appealing to it in such a way as to reap a maximum of benefit with a minimum of harm; for, after all, we must confess, with a French critic of Rousseau's doctrine, that the deepest spring of action in us is the sight of action in another. The spectacle of effort is what awakens and sustains our own effort. No runner running all alone on a race-track will find in his own will the power of stimulation which his rivalry with other runners incites, when he feels them at his heels, about to pass. When a trotting horse is 'speeded,' a running horse must go beside him to keep him to the pace. As imitation slides into emulation, so emulation slides into _Ambition_; and ambition connects itself closely with _Pugnacity_ and _Pride_. Consequently, these five instinctive tendencies form an interconnected group of factors, hard to separate in the determination of a great deal of our conduct. The _Ambitious Impulses_ would perhaps be the best name for the whole group. Pride and pugnacity have often been considered unworthy passions to appeal to in the young. But in their more refined and noble forms they play a great part in the schoolroom and in education generally, being in some characters most potent spurs to effort. Pugnacity need not be thought of merely in the form of physical combativeness. It can be taken in the sense of a general unwillingness to be beaten by any kind of difficulty. It is what makes us feel 'stumped' and challenged by arduous achievements, and is essential to a spirited and enterprising character. We have of late been hearing much of the philosophy of tenderness in education; 'interest' must be assiduously awakened in everything, difficulties must be smoothed away. _Soft_ pedagogics have taken the place of the old steep and rocky path to learning. But from this lukewarm air the bracing oxygen of effort is left out. It is nonsense to suppose that every step in education _can_ be interesting. The fighting impulse must often be appealed to. Make the pupil feel ashamed of being scared at fractions, of being 'downed' by the law of falling bodies; rouse his pugnacity and pride, and he will rush at the difficult places with a sort of inner wrath at himself that is one of his best moral faculties. A victory scored under such conditions becomes a turning-point and crisis of his character. It represents the high-water mark of his powers, and serves thereafter as an ideal pattern for his self-imitation. The teacher who never rouses this sort of pugnacious excitement in his pupils falls short of one of his best forms of usefulness. The next instinct which I shall mention is that of _Ownership_, also one of the radical endowments of the race. It often is the antagonist of imitation. Whether social progress is due more to the passion for keeping old things and habits or to the passion of imitating and acquiring new ones may in some cases be a difficult thing to decide. The sense of ownership begins in the second year of life. Among the first words which an infant learns to utter are the words 'my' and 'mine,' and woe to the parents of twins who fail to provide their gifts in duplicate. The depth and primitiveness of this instinct would seem to cast a sort of psychological discredit in advance upon all radical forms of communistic utopia. Private proprietorship cannot be practically abolished until human nature is changed. It seems essential to mental health that the individual should have something beyond the bare clothes on his back to which he can assert exclusive possession, and which he may defend adversely against the world. Even those religious orders who make the most stringent vows of poverty have found it necessary to relax the rule a little in favor of the human heart made unhappy by reduction to too disinterested terms. The monk must have his books: the nun must have her little garden, and the images and pictures in her room. In education, the instinct of ownership is fundamental, and can be appealed to in many ways. In the house, training in order and neatness begins with the arrangement of the child's own personal possessions. In the school, ownership is particularly important in connection with one of its special forms of activity, the collecting impulse. An object possibly not very interesting in itself, like a shell, a postage stamp, or a single map or drawing, will acquire an interest if it fills a gap in a collection or helps to complete a series. Much of the scholarly work of the world, so far as it is mere bibliography, memory, and erudition (and this lies at the basis of all our human scholarship), would seem to owe its interest rather to the way in which it gratifies the accumulating and collecting instinct than to any special appeal which it makes to our cravings after rationality. A man wishes a complete collection of information, wishes to know more about a subject than anybody else, much as another may wish to own more dollars or more early editions or more engravings before the letter than anybody else. The teacher who can work this impulse into the school tasks is fortunate. Almost all children collect something. A tactful teacher may get them to take pleasure in collecting books; in keeping a neat and orderly collection of notes; in starting, when they are mature enough, a card catalogue; in preserving every drawing or map which they may make. Neatness, order, and method are thus instinctively gained, along with the other benefits which the possession of the collection entails. Even such a noisome thing as a collection of postage stamps may be used by the teacher as an inciter of interest in the geographical and historical information which she desires to impart. Sloyd successfully avails itself of this instinct in causing the pupil to make a collection of wooden implements fit for his own private use at home. Collecting is, of course, the basis of all natural history study; and probably nobody ever became a good naturalist who was not an unusually active collector when a boy. _Constructiveness_ is another great instinctive tendency with which the schoolroom has to contract an alliance. Up to the eighth or ninth year of childhood one may say that the child does hardly anything else than handle objects, explore things with his hands, doing and undoing, setting up and knocking down, putting together and pulling apart; for, from the psychological point of view, construction and destruction are two names for the same manual activity. Both signify the production of change, and the working of effects, in outward things. The result of all this is that intimate familiarity with the physical environment, that acquaintance with the properties of material things, which is really the foundation of human _consciousness_. To the very last, in most of us, the conceptions of objects and their properties are limited to the notion of what we can _do with them_. A 'stick' means something we can lean upon or strike with; 'fire,' something to cook, or warm ourselves, or burn things up withal; 'string,' something with which to tie things together. For most people these objects have no other meaning. In geometry, the cylinder, circle, sphere, are defined as what you get by going through certain processes of construction, revolving a parallelogram upon one of its sides, etc. The more different kinds of things a child thus gets to know by treating and handling them, the more confident grows his sense of kinship with the world in which he lives. An unsympathetic adult will wonder at the fascinated hours which a child will spend in putting his blocks together and rearranging them. But the wise education takes the tide at the flood, and from the kindergarten upward devotes the first years of education to training in construction and to object-teaching. I need not recapitulate here what I said awhile back about the superiority of the objective and experimental methods. They occupy the pupil in a way most congruous with the spontaneous interests of his age. They absorb him, and leave impressions durable and profound. Compared with the youth taught by these methods, one brought up exclusively by books carries through life a certain remoteness from reality: he stands, as it were, out of the pale, and feels that he stands so; and often suffers a kind of melancholy from which he might have been rescued by a more real education. There are other impulses, such as love of approbation or vanity, shyness and secretiveness, of which a word might be said; but they are too familiar to need it. You can easily pursue the subject by your own reflection. There is one general law, however, that relates to many of our instinctive tendencies, and that has no little importance in education; and I must refer to it briefly before I leave the subject. It has been called the law of transitoriness in instincts. Many of our impulsive tendencies ripen at a certain period; and, if the appropriate objects be then and there provided, habits of conduct toward them are acquired which last. But, if the objects be not forthcoming then, the impulse may die out before a habit is formed; and later it may be hard to teach the creature to react appropriately in those directions. The sucking instincts in mammals, the following instinct in certain birds and quadrupeds, are examples of this: they fade away shortly after birth. In children we observe a ripening of impulses and interests in a certain determinate order. Creeping, walking, climbing, imitating vocal sounds, constructing, drawing, calculating, possess the child in succession; and in some children the possession, while it lasts, may be of a semi-frantic and exclusive sort. Later, the interest in any one of these things may wholly fade away. Of course, the proper pedagogic moment to work skill in, and to clench the useful habit, is when the native impulse is most acutely present. Crowd on the athletic opportunities, the mental arithmetic, the verse-learning, the drawing, the botany, or what not, the moment you have reason to think the hour is ripe. The hour may not last long, and while it continues you may safely let all the child's other occupations take a second place. In this way you economize time and deepen skill; for many an infant prodigy, artistic or mathematical, has a flowering epoch of but a few months. One can draw no specific rules for all this. It depends on close observation in the particular case, and parents here have a great advantage over teachers. In fact, the law of transitoriness has little chance of individualized application in the schools. Such is the little interested and impulsive psychophysical organism whose springs of action the teacher must divine, and to whose ways he must become accustomed. He must start with the native tendencies, and enlarge the pupil's entire passive and active experience. He must ply him with new objects and stimuli, and make him taste the fruits of his behavior, so that now that whole context of remembered experience is what shall determine his conduct when he gets the stimulus, and not the bare immediate impression. As the pupil's life thus enlarges, it gets fuller and fuller of all sorts of memories and associations and substitutions; but the eye accustomed to psychological analysis will discern, underneath it all, the outlines of our simple psychophysical scheme. Respect then, I beg you, always the original reactions, even when you are seeking to overcome their connection with certain objects, and to supplant them with others that you wish to make the rule. Bad behavior, from the point of view of the teacher's art, is as good a starting-point as good behavior. In fact, paradoxical as it may sound to say so, it is often a better starting-point than good behavior would be. The acquired reactions must be made habitual whenever they are appropriate. Therefore Habit is the next subject to which your attention is invited. VIII. THE LAWS OF HABIT It is very important that teachers should realize the importance of habit, and psychology helps us greatly at this point. We speak, it is true, of good habits and of bad habits; but, when people use the word 'habit,' in the majority of instances it is a bad habit which they have in mind. They talk of the smoking-habit and the swearing-habit and the drinking-habit, but not of the abstention-habit or the moderation-habit or the courage-habit. But the fact is that our virtues are habits as much as our vices. All our life, so far as it has definite form, is but a mass of habits,--practical, emotional, and intellectual,--systematically organized for our weal or woe, and bearing us irresistibly toward our destiny, whatever the latter may be. Since pupils can understand this at a comparatively early age, and since to understand it contributes in no small measure to their feeling of responsibility, it would be well if the teacher were able himself to talk to them of the philosophy of habit in some such abstract terms as I am now about to talk of it to you. I believe that we are subject to the law of habit in consequence of the fact that we have bodies. The plasticity of the living matter of our nervous system, in short, is the reason why we do a thing with difficulty the first time, but soon do it more and more easily, and finally, with sufficient practice, do it semi-mechanically, or with hardly any consciousness at all. Our nervous systems have (in Dr. Carpenter's words) _grown_ to the way in which they have been exercised, just as a sheet of paper or a coat, once creased or folded, tends to fall forever afterward into the same identical folds. Habit is thus a second nature, or rather, as the Duke of Wellington said, it is 'ten times nature,'--at any rate as regards its importance in adult life; for the acquired habits of our training have by that time inhibited or strangled most of the natural impulsive tendencies which were originally there. Ninety-nine hundredths or, possibly, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousandths of our activity is purely automatic and habitual, from our rising in the morning to our lying down each night. Our dressing and undressing, our eating and drinking, our greetings and partings, our hat-raisings and giving way for ladies to precede, nay, even most of the forms of our common speech, are things of a type so fixed by repetition as almost to be classed as reflex actions. To each sort of impression we have an automatic, ready-made response. My very words to you now are an example of what I mean; for having already lectured upon habit and printed a chapter about it in a book, and read the latter when in print, I find my tongue inevitably falling into its old phrases and repeating almost literally what I said before. So far as we are thus mere bundles of habit, we are stereotyped creatures, imitators and copiers of our past selves. And since this, under any circumstances, is what we always tend to become, it follows first of all that the teacher's prime concern should be to ingrain into the pupil that assortment of habits that shall be most useful to him throughout life. Education is for behavior, and habits are the stuff of which behavior consists. To quote my earlier book directly, the great thing in all education is to _make our nervous system our ally instead of our enemy_. It is to fund and capitalize our acquisitions, and live at ease upon the interest of the fund. _For this we must make automatic and habitual, as early as possible, as many useful actions as we can_, and as carefully guard against the growing into ways that are likely to be disadvantageous. The more of the details of our daily life we can hand over to the effortless custody of automatism, the more our higher powers of mind will be set free for their own proper work. There is no more miserable human being than one in whom nothing is habitual but indecision, and for whom the lighting of every cigar, the drinking of every cup, the time of rising and going to bed every day, and the beginning of every bit of work are subjects of express volitional deliberation. Full half the time of such a man goes to the deciding or regretting of matters which ought to be so ingrained in him as practically not to exist for his consciousness at all. If there be such daily duties not yet ingrained in any one of my hearers, let him begin this very hour to set the matter right. In Professor Bain's chapter on 'The Moral Habits' there are some admirable practical remarks laid down. Two great maxims emerge from the treatment. The first is that in the acquisition of a new habit, or the leaving off of an old one, we must take care to _launch ourselves with as strong and decided an initiative as possible_. Accumulate all the possible circumstances which shall reinforce the right motives; put yourself assiduously in conditions that encourage the new way; make engagements incompatible with the old; take a public pledge, if the case allows; in short, envelope your resolution with every aid you know. This will give your new beginning such a momentum that the temptation to break down will not occur as soon as it otherwise might; and every day during which a breakdown is postponed adds to the chances of its not occurring at all. I remember long ago reading in an Austrian paper the advertisement of a certain Rudolph Somebody, who promised fifty gulden reward to any one who after that date should find him at the wine-shop of Ambrosius So-and-so. 'This I do,' the advertisement continued, 'in consequence of a promise which I have made my wife.' With such a wife, and such an understanding of the way in which to start new habits, it would be safe to stake one's money on Rudolph's ultimate success. The second maxim is, _Never suffer an exception to occur till the new habit is securely rooted in your life_. Each lapse is like the letting fall of a ball of string which one is carefully winding up: a single slip undoes more than a great many turns will wind again. Continuity of training is the great means of making the nervous system act infallibly right. As Professor Bain says:-- "The peculiarity of the moral habits, contradistinguishing them from the intellectual acquisitions, is the presence of two hostile powers, one to be gradually raised into the ascendant over the other. It is necessary above all things, in such a situation, never to lose a battle. Every gain on the wrong side undoes the effect of many conquests on the right. The essential precaution, therefore, is so to regulate the two opposing powers that the one may have a series of uninterrupted successes, until repetition has fortified it to such a degree as to enable it to cope with the opposition, under any circumstances. This is the theoretically best career of mental progress." A third maxim may be added to the preceding pair: _Seize the very first possible opportunity to act on every resolution you make, and on every emotional prompting you may experience in the direction of the habits you aspire to gain._ It is not in the moment of their forming, but in the moment of their producing motor effects, that resolves and aspirations communicate the new 'set' to the brain. No matter how full a reservoir of maxims one may possess, and no matter how good one's sentiments may be, if one have not taken advantage of every concrete opportunity to act, one's character may remain entirely unaffected for the better. With good intentions, hell proverbially is paved. This is an obvious consequence of the principles I have laid down. A 'character,' as J.S. Mill says, 'is a completely fashioned will'; and a will, in the sense in which he means it, is an aggregate of tendencies to act in a firm and prompt and definite way upon all the principal emergencies of life. A tendency to act only becomes effectively ingrained in us in proportion to the uninterrupted frequency with which the actions actually occur, and the brain 'grows' to their use. When a resolve or a fine glow of feeling is allowed to evaporate without bearing practical fruit, it is worse than a chance lost: it works so as positively to hinder future resolutions and emotions from taking the normal path of discharge. There is no more contemptible type of human character than that of the nerveless sentimentalist and dreamer, who spends his life in a weltering sea of sensibility, but never does a concrete manly deed. This leads to a fourth maxim. _Don't preach too much to your pupils or abound in good talk in the abstract_. Lie in wait rather for the practical opportunities, be prompt to seize those as they pass, and thus at one operation get your pupils both to think, to feel, and to do. The strokes of _behavior_ are what give the new set to the character, and work the good habits into its organic tissue. Preaching and talking too soon become an ineffectual bore. * * * * * There is a passage in Darwin's short autobiography which has been often quoted, and which, for the sake of its bearing on our subject of habit, I must now quote again. Darwin says: "Up to the age of thirty or beyond it, poetry of many kinds gave me great pleasure; and even as a schoolboy I took intense delight in Shakespeare, especially in the historical plays. I have also said that pictures formerly gave me considerable, and music very great delight. But now for many years I cannot endure to read a line of poetry. I have tried lately to read Shakespeare, and found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me. I have also almost lost my taste for pictures or music.... My mind seems to have become a kind of machine for grinding general laws out of large collections of facts; but why this should have caused the atrophy of that part of the brain alone, on which the higher tastes depend, I cannot conceive.... If I had to live my life again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every week; for perhaps the parts of my brain now atrophied would thus have been kept alive through use. The loss of these tastes is a loss of happiness, and may possibly be injurious to the intellect, and more probably to the moral character, by enfeebling the emotional part of our nature." We all intend when young to be all that may become a man, before the destroyer cuts us down. We wish and expect to enjoy poetry always, to grow more and more intelligent about pictures and music, to keep in touch with spiritual and religious ideas, and even not to let the greater philosophic thoughts of our time develop quite beyond our view. We mean all this in youth, I say; and yet in how many middle-aged men and women is such an honest and sanguine expectation fulfilled? Surely, in comparatively few; and the laws of habit show us why. Some interest in each of these things arises in everybody at the proper age; but, if not persistently fed with the appropriate matter, instead of growing into a powerful and necessary habit, it atrophies and dies, choked by the rival interests to which the daily food is given. We make ourselves into Darwins in this negative respect by persistently ignoring the essential practical conditions of our case. We say abstractly: "I mean to enjoy poetry, and to absorb a lot of it, of course. I fully intend to keep up my love of music, to read the books that shall give new turns to the thought of my time, to keep my higher spiritual side alive, etc." But we do not attack these things concretely, and we do not begin _to-day. _We forget that every good that is worth possessing must be paid for in strokes of daily effort. We postpone and postpone, until those smiling possibilities are dead. Whereas ten minutes a day of poetry, of spiritual reading or meditation, and an hour or two a week at music, pictures, or philosophy, provided we began _now_ and suffered no remission, would infallibly give us in due time the fulness of all we desire. By neglecting the necessary concrete labor, by sparing ourselves the little daily tax, we are positively digging the graves of our higher possibilities. This is a point concerning which you teachers might well give a little timely information to your older and more aspiring pupils. According as a function receives daily exercise or not, the man becomes a different kind of being in later life. We have lately had a number of accomplished Hindoo visitors at Cambridge, who talked freely of life and philosophy. More than one of them has confided to me that the sight of our faces, all contracted as they are with the habitual American over-intensity and anxiety of expression, and our ungraceful and distorted attitudes when sitting, made on him a very painful impression. "I do not see," said one, "how it is possible for you to live as you do, without a single minute in your day deliberately given to tranquillity and meditation. It is an invariable part of our Hindoo life to retire for at least half an hour daily into silence, to relax our muscles, govern our breathing, and meditate on eternal things. Every Hindoo child is trained to this from a very early age." The good fruits of such a discipline were obvious in the physical repose and lack of tension, and the wonderful smoothness and calmness of facial expression, and imperturbability of manner of these Orientals. I felt that my countrymen were depriving themselves of an essential grace of character. How many American children ever hear it said by parent or teacher, that they should moderate their piercing voices, that they should relax their unused muscles, and as far as possible, when sitting, sit quite still? Not one in a thousand, not one in five thousand! Yet, from its reflex influence on the inner mental states, this ceaseless over-tension, over-motion, and over-expression are working on us grievous national harm. I beg you teachers to think a little seriously of this matter. Perhaps you can help our rising generation of Americans toward the beginning of a better set of personal ideals.[B] [B] See the Address on the Gospel of Relaxation, later in this volume. * * * * * To go back now to our general maxims, I may at last, as a fifth and final practical maxim about habits, offer something like this: _Keep the faculty of effort alive in you by a little gratuitous exercise every day._ That is, be systematically heroic in little unnecessary points, do every day or two something for no other reason than its difficulty, so that, when the hour of dire need draws nigh, it may find you not unnerved and untrained to stand the test. Asceticism of this sort is like the insurance which a man pays on his house and goods. The tax does him no good at the time, and possibly may never bring him a return. But, if the fire _does_ come, his having paid it will be his salvation from ruin. So with the man who has daily inured himself to habits of concentrated attention, energetic volition, and self-denial in unnecessary things. He will stand like a tower when everything rocks around him, and his softer fellow-mortals are winnowed like chaff in the blast. * * * * * I have been accused, when talking of the subject of habit, of making old habits appear so strong that the acquiring of new ones, and particularly anything like a sudden reform or conversion, would be made impossible by my doctrine. Of course, this would suffice to condemn the latter; for sudden conversions, however infrequent they may be, unquestionably do occur. But there is no incompatibility between the general laws I have laid down and the most startling sudden alterations in the way of character. New habits _can_ be launched, I have expressly said, on condition of there being new stimuli and new excitements. Now life abounds in these, and sometimes they are such critical and revolutionary experiences that they change a man's whole scale of values and system of ideas. In such cases, the old order of his habits will be ruptured; and, if the new motives are lasting, new habits will be formed, and build up in him a new or regenerate 'nature.' All this kind of fact I fully allow. But the general laws of habit are no wise altered thereby, and the physiological study of mental conditions still remains on the whole the most powerful ally of hortatory ethics. The hell to be endured hereafter, of which theology tells, is no worse than the hell we make for ourselves in this world by habitually fashioning our characters in the wrong way. Could the young but realize how soon they will become mere walking bundles of habits, they would give more heed to their conduct while in the plastic state. We are spinning our own fates, good or evil, and never to be undone. Every smallest stroke of virtue or of vice leaves its never-so-little scar. The drunken Rip Van Winkle, in Jefferson's play, excuses himself for every fresh dereliction by saying, "I won't count this time!" Well, he may not count it, and a kind Heaven may not count it; but it is being counted none the less. Down among his nerve-cells and fibres the molecules are counting it, registering and storing it up to be used against him when the next temptation comes. Nothing we ever do is, in strict scientific literalness, wiped out. Of course, this has its good side as well as its bad one. As we become permanent drunkards by so many separate drinks, so we become saints in the moral, and authorities and experts in the practical and scientific spheres, by so many separate acts and hours of work. Let no youth have any anxiety about the upshot of his education, whatever the line of it may be. If he keep faithfully busy each hour of the working day, he may safely leave the final result to itself. He can with perfect certainty count on waking up some fine morning to find himself one of the competent ones of his generation, in whatever pursuit he may have singled out. Silently, between all the details of his business, the _power of judging_ in all that class of matter will have built itself up within him as a possession that will never pass away. Young people should know this truth in advance. The ignorance of it has probably engendered more discouragement and faint-heartedness in youths embarking on arduous careers than all other causes put together. IX. THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS In my last talk, in treating of Habit, I chiefly had in mind our _motor_ habits,--habits of external conduct. But our thinking and feeling processes are also largely subject to the law of habit, and one result of this is a phenomenon which you all know under the name of 'the association of ideas.' To that phenomenon I ask you now to turn. You remember that consciousness is an ever-flowing stream of objects, feelings, and impulsive tendencies. We saw already that its phases or pulses are like so many fields or waves, each field or wave having usually its central point of liveliest attention, in the shape of the most prominent object in our thought, while all around this lies a margin of other objects more dimly realized, together with the margin of emotional and active tendencies which the whole entails. Describing the mind thus in fluid terms, we cling as close as possible to nature. At first sight, it might seem as if, in the fluidity of these successive waves, everything is indeterminate. But inspection shows that each wave has a constitution which can be to some degree explained by the constitution of the waves just passed away. And this relation of the wave to its predecessors is expressed by the two fundamental 'laws of association,' so-called, of which the first is named the Law of Contiguity, the second that of Similarity. The _Law of Contiguity_ tells us that objects thought of in the coming wave are such as in some previous experience were _next_ to the objects represented in the wave that is passing away. The vanishing objects were once formerly their neighbors in the mind. When you recite the alphabet or your prayers, or when the sight of an object reminds you of its name, or the name reminds you of the object, it is through the law of contiguity that the terms are suggested to the mind. The _Law of Similarity_ says that, when contiguity fails to describe what happens, the coming objects will prove to _resemble_ the going objects, even though the two were never experienced together before. In our 'flights of fancy,' this is frequently the case. If, arresting ourselves in the flow of reverie, we ask the question, "How came we to be thinking of just this object now?" we can almost always trace its presence to some previous object which has introduced it to the mind, according to one or the other of these laws. The entire routine of our memorized acquisitions, for example, is a consequence of nothing but the Law of Contiguity. The words of a poem, the formulas of trigonometry, the facts of history, the properties of material things, are all known to us as definite systems or groups of objects which cohere in an order fixed by innumerable iterations, and of which any one part reminds us of the others. In dry and prosaic minds, almost all the mental sequences flow along these lines of habitual routine repetition and suggestion. In witty, imaginative minds, on the other hand, the routine is broken through with ease at any moment; and one field of mental objects will suggest another with which perhaps in the whole history of human thinking it had never once before been coupled. The link here is usually some _analogy_ between the objects successively thought of,--an analogy often so subtle that, although we feel it, we can with difficulty analyze its ground; as where, for example, we find something masculine in the color red and something feminine in the color pale blue, or where, of three human beings' characters, one will remind us of a cat, another of a dog, the third perhaps of a cow. * * * * * Psychologists have of course gone very deeply into the question of what the causes of association may be; and some of them have tried to show that contiguity and similarity are not two radically diverse laws, but that either presupposes the presence of the other. I myself am disposed to think that the phenomena of association depend on our cerebral constitution, and are not immediate consequences of our being rational beings. In other words, when we shall have become disembodied spirits, it may be that our trains of consciousness will follow different laws. These questions are discussed in the books on psychology, and I hope that some of you will be interested in following them there. But I will, on the present occasion, ignore them entirely; for, as teachers, it is the _fact_ of association that practically concerns you, let its grounds be spiritual or cerebral, or what they may, and let its laws be reducible, or non-reducible, to one. Your pupils, whatever else they are, are at any rate little pieces of associating machinery. Their education consists in the organizing within them of determinate tendencies to associate one thing with another,--impressions with consequences, these with reactions, those with results, and so on indefinitely. The more copious the associative systems, the completer the individual's adaptations to the world. The teacher can formulate his function to himself therefore in terms of 'association' as well as in terms of 'native and acquired reaction.' It is mainly that of _building up useful systems of association_ in the pupil's mind. This description sounds wider than the one I began by giving. But, when one thinks that our trains of association, whatever they may be, normally issue in acquired reactions or behavior, one sees that in a general way the same mass of facts is covered by both formulas. It is astonishing how many mental operations we can explain when we have once grasped the principles of association. The great problem which association undertakes to solve is, _Why does just this particular field of consciousness, constituted in this particular way, now appear before my mind?_ It may be a field of objects imagined; it may be of objects remembered or of objects perceived; it may include an action resolved on. In either case, when the field is analyzed into its parts, those parts can be shown to have proceeded from parts of fields previously before consciousness, in consequence of one or other of the laws of association just laid down. Those laws _run_ the mind: interest, shifting hither and thither, deflects it; and attention, as we shall later see, steers it and keeps it from too zigzag a course. To grasp these factors clearly gives one a solid and simple understanding of the psychological machinery. The 'nature,' the 'character,' of an individual means really nothing but the habitual form of his associations. To break up bad associations or wrong ones, to build others in, to guide the associative tendencies into the most fruitful channels, is the educator's principal task. But here, as with all other simple principles, the difficulty lies in the application. Psychology can state the laws: concrete tact and talent alone can work them to useful results. Meanwhile it is a matter of the commonest experience that our minds may pass from one object to another by various intermediary fields of consciousness. The indeterminateness of our paths of association _in concreto_ is thus almost as striking a feature of them as the uniformity of their abstract form. Start from any idea whatever, and the entire range of your ideas is potentially at your disposal. If we take as the associative starting-point, or cue, some simple word which I pronounce before you, there is no limit to the possible diversity of suggestions which it may set up in your minds. Suppose I say 'blue,' for example: some of you may think of the blue sky and hot weather from which we now are suffering, then go off on thoughts of summer clothing, or possibly of meteorology at large; others may think of the spectrum and the physiology of color-vision, and glide into X-rays and recent physical speculations; others may think of blue ribbons, or of the blue flowers on a friend's hat, and proceed on lines of personal reminiscence. To others, again, etymology and linguistic thoughts may be suggested; or blue may be 'apperceived' as a synonym for melancholy, and a train of associates connected with morbid psychology may proceed to unroll themselves. In the same person, the same word heard at different times will provoke, in consequence of the varying marginal preoccupations, either one of a number of diverse possible associative sequences. Professor Münsterberg performed this experiment methodically, using the same words four times over, at three-month intervals, as 'cues' for four different persons who were the subjects of observation. He found almost no constancy in their associations taken at these different times. In short, the entire potential content of one's consciousness is accessible from any one of its points. This is why we can never work the laws of association forward: starting from the present field as a cue, we can never cipher out in advance just what the person will be thinking of five minutes later. The elements which may become prepotent in the process, the parts of each successive field round which the associations shall chiefly turn, the possible bifurcations of suggestion, are so numerous and ambiguous as to be indeterminable before the fact. But, although we cannot work the laws of association forward, we can always work them backwards. We cannot say now what we shall find ourselves thinking of five minutes hence; but, whatever it may be, we shall then be able to trace it through intermediary links of contiguity or similarity to what we are thinking now. What so baffles our prevision is the shifting part played by the margin and focus--in fact, by each element by itself of the margin or focus--in calling up the next ideas. For example, I am reciting 'Locksley Hall,' in order to divert my mind from a state of suspense that I am in concerning the will of a relative that is dead. The will still remains in the mental background as an extremely marginal or ultra-marginal portion of my field of consciousness; but the poem fairly keeps my attention from it, until I come to the line, "I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time." The words 'I, the heir,' immediately make an electric connection with the marginal thought of the will; that, in turn, makes my heart beat with anticipation of my possible legacy, so that I throw down the book and pace the floor excitedly with visions of my future fortune pouring through my mind. Any portion of the field of consciousness that has more potentialities of emotional excitement than another may thus be roused to predominant activity; and the shifting play of interest now in one portion, now in another, deflects the currents in all sorts of zigzag ways, the mental activity running hither and thither as the sparks run in burnt-up paper. * * * * * One more point, and I shall have said as much to you as seems necessary about the process of association. You just saw how a single exciting word may call up its own associates prepotently, and deflect our whole train of thinking from the previous track. The fact is that every portion of the field _tends_ to call up its own associates; but, if these associates be severally different, there is rivalry, and as soon as one or a few begin to be effective the others seem to get siphoned out, as it were, and left behind. Seldom, however, as in our example, does the process seem to turn round a single item in the mental field, or even round the entire field that is immediately in the act of passing. It is a matter of _constellation_, into which portions of fields that are already past especially seem to enter and have their say. Thus, to go back to 'Locksley Hall,' each word as I recite it in its due order is suggested not solely by the previous word now expiring on my lips, but it is rather the effect of all the previous words, taken together, of the verse. "Ages," for example, calls up "in the foremost files of time," when preceded by "I, the heir of all the"--; but, when preceded by "for I doubt not through the,"--it calls up "one increasing purpose runs." Similarly, if I write on the blackboard the letters A B C D E F,... they probably suggest to you G H I.... But, if I write A B A D D E F, if they suggest anything, they suggest as their complement E C T or E F I C I E N C Y. The result depending on the total constellation, even though most of the single items be the same. My practical reason for mentioning this law is this, that it follows from it that, in working associations into your pupils' minds, you must not rely on single cues, but multiply the cues as much as possible. Couple the desired reaction with numerous constellations of antecedents,--don't always ask the question, for example, in the same way; don't use the same kind of data in numerical problems; vary your illustrations, etc., as much as you can. When we come to the subject of memory, we shall learn still more about this. So much, then, for the general subject of association. In leaving it for other topics (in which, however, we shall abundantly find it involved again), I cannot too strongly urge you to acquire a habit of thinking of your pupils in associative terms. All governors of mankind, from doctors and jail-wardens to demagogues and statesmen, instinctively come so to conceive their charges. If you do the same, thinking of them (however else you may think of them besides) as so many little systems of associating machinery, you will be astonished at the intimacy of insight into their operations and at the practicality of the results which you will gain. We think of our acquaintances, for example, as characterized by certain 'tendencies.' These tendencies will in almost every instance prove to be tendencies to association. Certain ideas in them are always followed by certain other ideas, these by certain feelings and impulses to approve or disapprove, assent or decline. If the topic arouse one of those first ideas, the practical outcome can be pretty well foreseen. 'Types of character' in short are largely types of association. X. INTEREST At our last meeting I treated of the native tendencies of the pupil to react in characteristically definite ways upon different stimuli or exciting circumstances. In fact, I treated of the pupil's instincts. Now some situations appeal to special instincts from the very outset, and others fail to do so until the proper connections have been organized in the course of the person's training. We say of the former set of objects or situations that they are _interesting_ in themselves and originally. Of the latter we say that they are natively uninteresting, and that interest in them has first to be acquired. No topic has received more attention from pedagogical writers than that of interest. It is the natural sequel to the instincts we so lately discussed, and it is therefore well fitted to be the next subject which we take up. Since some objects are natively interesting and in others interest is artificially acquired, the teacher must know which the natively interesting ones are; for, as we shall see immediately, other objects can artificially acquire an interest only through first becoming associated with some of these natively interesting things. The native interests of children lie altogether in the sphere of sensation. Novel things to look at or novel sounds to hear, especially when they involve the spectacle of action of a violent sort, will always divert the attention from abstract conceptions of objects verbally taken in. The grimace that Johnny is making, the spitballs that Tommy is ready to throw, the dog-fight in the street, or the distant firebells ringing,--these are the rivals with which the teacher's powers of being interesting have incessantly to cope. The child will always attend more to what a teacher does than to what the same teacher says. During the performance of experiments or while the teacher is drawing on the blackboard, the children are tranquil and absorbed. I have seen a roomful of college students suddenly become perfectly still, to look at their professor of physics tie a piece of string around a stick which he was going to use in an experiment, but immediately grow restless when he began to explain the experiment. A lady told me that one day, during a lesson, she was delighted at having captured so completely the attention of one of her young charges. He did not remove his eyes from her face; but he said to her after the lesson was over, "I looked at you all the time, and your upper jaw did not move once!" That was the only fact that he had taken in. Living things, then, moving things, or things that savor of danger or of blood, that have a dramatic quality,--these are the objects natively interesting to childhood, to the exclusion of almost everything else; and the teacher of young children, until more artificial interests have grown up, will keep in touch with her pupils by constant appeal to such matters as these. Instruction must be carried on objectively, experimentally, anecdotally. The blackboard-drawing and story-telling must constantly come in. But of course these methods cover only the first steps, and carry one but a little way. Can we now formulate any general principle by which the later and more artificial interests connect themselves with these early ones that the child brings with him to the school? Fortunately, we can: there is a very simple law that relates the acquired and the native interests with each other. _Any object not interesting in itself may become interesting through becoming associated with an object in which an interest already exists. The two associated objects grow, as it were, together: the interesting portion sheds its quality over the whole; and thus things not interesting in their own right borrow an interest which becomes as real and as strong as that of any natively interesting thing._ The odd circumstance is that the borrowing does not impoverish the source, the objects taken together being more interesting, perhaps, than the originally interesting portion was by itself. This is one of the most striking proofs of the range of application of the principle of association of ideas in psychology. An idea will infect another with its own emotional interest when they have become both associated together into any sort of a mental total. As there is no limit to the various associations into which an interesting idea may enter, one sees in how many ways an interest may be derived. You will understand this abstract statement easily if I take the most frequent of concrete examples,--the interest which things borrow from their connection with our own personal welfare. The most natively interesting object to a man is his own personal self and its fortunes. We accordingly see that the moment a thing becomes connected with the fortunes of the self, it forthwith becomes an interesting thing. Lend the child his books, pencils, and other apparatus: then give them to him, make them his own, and notice the new light with which they instantly shine in his eyes. He takes a new kind of care of them altogether. In mature life, all the drudgery of a man's business or profession, intolerable in itself, is shot through with engrossing significance because he knows it to be associated with his personal fortunes. What more deadly uninteresting object can there be than a railroad time-table? Yet where will you find a more interesting object if you are going on a journey, and by its means can find your train? At such times the time-table will absorb a man's entire attention, its interest being borrowed solely from its relation to his personal life. _From all these facts there emerges a very simple abstract programme for the teacher to follow in keeping the attention of the child: Begin with the line of his native interests, and offer him objects that have some immediate connection with these_. The kindergarten methods, the object-teaching routine, the blackboard and manual-training work,--all recognize this feature. Schools in which these methods preponderate are schools where discipline is easy, and where the voice of the master claiming order and attention in threatening tones need never be heard. _Next, step by step, connect with these first objects and experiences the later objects and ideas which you wish to instill. Associate the new with the old in some natural and telling way, so that the interest, being shed along from point to point, finally suffuses the entire system of objects of thought._ This is the abstract statement; and, abstractly, nothing can be easier to understand. It is in the fulfilment of the rule that the difficulty lies; for the difference between an interesting and a tedious teacher consists in little more than the inventiveness by which the one is able to mediate these associations and connections, and in the dulness in discovering such transitions which the other shows. One teacher's mind will fairly coruscate with points of connection between the new lesson and the circumstances of the children's other experience. Anecdotes and reminiscences will abound in her talk; and the shuttle of interest will shoot backward and forward, weaving the new and the old together in a lively and entertaining way. Another teacher has no such inventive fertility, and his lesson will always be a dead and heavy thing. This is the psychological meaning of the Herbartian principle of 'preparation' for each lesson, and of correlating the new with the old. It is the psychological meaning of that whole method of concentration in studies of which you have been recently hearing so much. When the geography and English and history and arithmetic simultaneously make cross-references to one another, you get an interesting set of processes all along the line. * * * * * If, then, you wish to insure the interest of your pupils, there is only one way to do it; and that is to make certain that they have something in their minds _to attend with_, when you begin to talk. That something can consist in nothing but a previous lot of ideas already interesting in themselves, and of such a nature that the incoming novel objects which you present can dovetail into them and form with them some kind of a logically associated or systematic whole. Fortunately, almost any kind of a connection is sufficient to carry the interest along. What a help is our Philippine war at present in teaching geography! But before the war you could ask the children if they ate pepper with their eggs, and where they supposed the pepper came from. Or ask them if glass is a stone, and, if not, why not; and then let them know how stones are formed and glass manufactured. External links will serve as well as those that are deeper and more logical. But interest, once shed upon a subject, is liable to remain always with that subject. Our acquisitions become in a measure portions of our personal self; and little by little, as cross-associations multiply and habits of familiarity and practice grow, the entire system of our objects of thought consolidates, most of it becoming interesting for some purposes and in some degree. An adult man's interests are almost every one of them intensely artificial: they have slowly been built up. The objects of professional interest are most of them, in their original nature, repulsive; but by their connection with such natively exciting objects as one's personal fortune, one's social responsibilities, and especially by the force of inveterate habit, they grow to be the only things for which in middle life a man profoundly cares. But in all these the spread and consolidation have followed nothing but the principles first laid down. If we could recall for a moment our whole individual history, we should see that our professional ideals and the zeal they inspire are due to nothing but the slow accretion of one mental object to another, traceable backward from point to point till we reach the moment when, in the nursery or in the schoolroom, some little story told, some little object shown, some little operation witnessed, brought the first new object and new interest within our ken by associating it with some one of those primitively there. The interest now suffusing the whole system took its rise in that little event, so insignificant to us now as to be entirely forgotten. As the bees in swarming cling to one another in layers till the few are reached whose feet grapple the bough from which the swarm depends; so with the objects of our thinking,--they hang to each other by associated links, but the _original_ source of interest in all of them is the native interest which the earliest one once possessed. XI. ATTENTION Whoever treats of interest inevitably treats of attention, for to say that an object is interesting is only another way of saying that it excites attention. But in addition to the attention which any object already interesting or just becoming interesting claims--passive attention or spontaneous attention, we may call it--there is a more deliberate attention,--voluntary attention or attention with effort, as it is called,--which we can give to objects less interesting or uninteresting in themselves. The distinction between active and passive attention is made in all books on psychology, and connects itself with the deeper aspects of the topic. From our present purely practical point of view, however, it is not necessary to be intricate; and passive attention to natively interesting material requires no further elucidation on this occasion. All that we need explicitly to note is that, the more the passive attention is relied on, by keeping the material interesting; and the less the kind of attention requiring effort is appealed to; the more smoothly and pleasantly the classroom work goes on. I must say a few more words, however, about this latter process of voluntary and deliberate attention. One often hears it said that genius is nothing but a power of sustained attention, and the popular impression probably prevails that men of genius are remarkable for their voluntary powers in this direction. _But a little introspective observation will show any one that voluntary attention cannot be continuously sustained,--that it comes in beats._ When we are studying an uninteresting subject, if our mind tends to wander, we have to bring back our attention every now and then by using distinct pulses of effort, which revivify the topic for a moment, the mind then running on for a certain number of seconds or minutes with spontaneous interest, until again some intercurrent idea captures it and takes it off. Then the processes of volitional recall must be repeated once more. Voluntary attention, in short, is only a momentary affair. The process, whatever it is, exhausts itself in the single act; and, unless the matter is then taken in hand by some trace of interest inherent in the subject, the mind fails to follow it at all. The sustained attention of the genius, sticking to his subject for hours together, is for the most part of the passive sort. The minds of geniuses are full of copious and original associations. The subject of thought, once started, develops all sorts of fascinating consequences. The attention is led along one of these to another in the most interesting manner, and the attention never once tends to stray away. In a commonplace mind, on the other hand, a subject develops much less numerous associates: it dies out then quickly; and, if the man is to keep up thinking of it at all, he must bring his attention back to it by a violent wrench. In him, therefore, the faculty of voluntary attention receives abundant opportunity for cultivation in daily life. It is your despised business man, your common man of affairs, (so looked down on by the literary awarders of fame) whose virtue in this regard is likely to be most developed; for he has to listen to the concerns of so many uninteresting people, and to transact so much drudging detail, that the faculty in question is always kept in training. A genius, on the contrary, is the man in whom you are least likely to find the power of attending to anything insipid or distasteful in itself. He breaks his engagements, leaves his letters unanswered, neglects his family duties incorrigibly, because he is powerless to turn his attention down and back from those more interesting trains of imagery with which his genius constantly occupies his mind. Voluntary attention is thus an essentially instantaneous affair. You can claim it, for your purposes in the schoolroom, by commanding it in loud, imperious tones; and you can easily get it in this way. But, unless the subject to which you thus recall their attention has inherent power to interest the pupils, you will have got it for only a brief moment; and their minds will soon be wandering again. To keep them where you have called them, you must make the subject too interesting for them to wander again. And for that there is one prescription; but the prescription, like all our prescriptions, is abstract, and, to get practical results from it, you must couple it with mother-wit. The prescription is that _the subject must be made to show new aspects of itself; to prompt new questions; in a word, to change_. From an unchanging subject the attention inevitably wanders away. You can test this by the simplest possible case of sensorial attention. Try to attend steadfastly to a dot on the paper or on the wall. You presently find that one or the other of two things has happened: either your field of vision has become blurred, so that you now see nothing distinct at all, or else you have involuntarily ceased to look at the dot in question, and are looking at something else. But, if you ask yourself successive questions about the dot,--how big it is, how far, of what shape, what shade of color, etc.; in other words, if you turn it over, if you think of it in various ways, and along with various kinds of associates,--you can keep your mind on it for a comparatively long time. This is what the genius does, in whose hands a given topic coruscates and grows. And this is what the teacher must do for every topic if he wishes to avoid too frequent appeals to voluntary attention of the coerced sort. In all respects, reliance upon such attention as this is a wasteful method, bringing bad temper and nervous wear and tear as well as imperfect results. The teacher who can get along by keeping spontaneous interest excited must be regarded as the teacher with the greatest skill. There is, however, in all schoolroom work a large mass of material that must be dull and unexciting, and to which it is impossible in any continuous way to contribute an interest associatively derived. There are, therefore, certain external methods, which every teacher knows, of voluntarily arousing the attention from time to time and keeping it upon the subject. Mr. Fitch has a lecture on the art of securing attention, and he briefly passes these methods in review; the posture must be changed; places can be changed. Questions, after being answered singly, may occasionally be answered in concert. Elliptical questions may be asked, the pupil supplying the missing word. The teacher must pounce upon the most listless child and wake him up. The habit of prompt and ready response must be kept up. Recapitulations, illustrations, examples, novelty of order, and ruptures of routine,--all these are means for keeping the attention alive and contributing a little interest to a dull subject. Above all, the teacher must himself be alive and ready, and must use the contagion of his own example. But, when all is said and done, the fact remains that some teachers have a naturally inspiring presence, and can make their exercises interesting, while others simply cannot. And psychology and general pedagogy here confess their failure, and hand things over to the deeper springs of human personality to conduct the task. * * * * * A brief reference to the physiological theory of the attentive process may serve still further to elucidate these practical remarks, and confirm them by showing them from a slightly different point of view. What is the attentive process, psychologically considered? Attention to an object is what takes place whenever that object most completely occupies the mind. For simplicity's sake suppose the object be an object of sensation,--a figure approaching us at a distance on the road. It is far off, barely perceptible, and hardly moving: we do not know with certainty whether it is a man or not. Such an object as this, if carelessly looked at, may hardly catch our attention at all. The optical impression may affect solely the marginal consciousness, while the mental focus keeps engaged with rival things. We may indeed not 'see' it till some one points it out. But, if so, how does he point it out? By his finger, and by describing its appearance,--by creating a premonitory image of _where_ to look and of _what_ to expect to see. This premonitory image is already an excitement of the same nerve-centres that are to be concerned with the impression. The impression comes, and excites them still further; and now the object enters the focus of the field, consciousness being sustained both by impression and by preliminary idea. But the maximum of attention to it is not yet reached. Although we see it, we may not care for it; it may suggest nothing important to us; and a rival stream of objects or of thoughts may quickly take our mind away. If, however, our companion defines it in a significant way, arouses in the mind a set of experiences to be apprehended from it,--names it an enemy or as a messenger of important tidings,--the residual and marginal ideas now aroused, so far from being its rivals, become its associates and allies. They shoot together into one system with it; they converge upon it; they keep it steadily in focus; the mind attends to it with maximum power. The attentive process, therefore, at its maximum may be physiologically symbolized by a brain-cell played on in two ways, from without and from within. Incoming currents from the periphery arouse it, and collateral currents from the centres of memory and imagination re-enforce these. In this process the incoming impression is the newer element; the ideas which re-enforce and sustain it are among the older possessions of the mind. And the maximum of attention may then be said to be found whenever we have a systematic harmony or unification between the novel and the old. It is an odd circumstance that neither the old nor the new, by itself, is interesting: the absolutely old is insipid; the absolutely new makes no appeal at all. The old _in_ the new is what claims the attention,--the old with a slightly new turn. No one wants to hear a lecture on a subject completely disconnected with his previous knowledge, but we all like lectures on subjects of which we know a little already, just as, in the fashions, every year must bring its slight modification of last year's suit, but an abrupt jump from the fashion of one decade into another would be distasteful to the eye. The genius of the interesting teacher consists in sympathetic divination of the sort of material with which the pupil's mind is likely to be already spontaneously engaged, and in the ingenuity which discovers paths of connection from that material to the matters to be newly learned. The principle is easy to grasp, but the accomplishment is difficult in the extreme. And a knowledge of such psychology as this which I am recalling can no more make a good teacher than a knowledge of the laws of perspective can make a landscape painter of effective skill. A certain doubt may now occur to some of you. A while ago, apropos of the pugnacious instinct, I spoke of our modern pedagogy as being possibly too 'soft.' You may perhaps here face me with my own words, and ask whether the exclusive effort on the teacher's part to keep the pupil's spontaneous interest going, and to avoid the more strenuous path of voluntary attention to repulsive work, does not savor also of sentimentalism. The greater part of schoolroom work, you say, must, in the nature of things, always be repulsive. To face uninteresting drudgery is a good part of life's work. Why seek to eliminate it from the schoolroom or minimize the sterner law? A word or two will obviate what might perhaps become a serious misunderstanding here. It is certain that most schoolroom work, till it has become habitual and automatic, is repulsive, and cannot be done without voluntarily jerking back the attention to it every now and then. This is inevitable, let the teacher do what he will. It flows from the inherent nature of the subjects and of the learning mind. The repulsive processes of verbal memorizing, of discovering steps of mathematical identity, and the like, must borrow their interest at first from purely external sources, mainly from the personal interests with which success in mastering them is associated, such as gaining of rank, avoiding punishment, not being beaten by a difficulty and the like. Without such borrowed interest, the child could not attend to them at all. But in these processes what becomes interesting enough to be attended to is not thereby attended to _without effort_. Effort always has to go on, derived interest, for the most part, not awakening attention that is _easy_, however spontaneous it may now have to be called. The interest which the teacher, by his utmost skill, can lend to the subject, proves over and over again to be only an interest sufficient _to let loose the effort_. The teacher, therefore, need never concern himself about _inventing_ occasions where effort must be called into play. Let him still awaken whatever sources of interest in the subject he can by stirring up connections between it and the pupil's nature, whether in the line of theoretic curiosity, of personal interest, or of pugnacious impulse. The laws of mind will then bring enough pulses of effort into play to keep the pupil exercised in the direction of the subject. There is, in fact, no greater school of effort than the steady struggle to attend to immediately repulsive or difficult objects of thought which have grown to interest us through their association as means, with some remote ideal end. The Herbartian doctrine of interest ought not, therefore, in principle to be reproached with making pedagogy soft. If it do so, it is because it is unintelligently carried on. Do not, then, for the mere sake of discipline, command attention from your pupils in thundering tones. Do not too often beg it from them as a favor, nor claim it as a right, nor try habitually to excite it by preaching the importance of the subject. Sometimes, indeed, you must do these things; but, the more you have to do them, the less skilful teacher you will show yourself to be. Elicit interest from within, by the warmth with which you care for the topic yourself, and by following the laws I have laid down. If the topic be highly abstract, show its nature by concrete examples. If it be unfamiliar, trace some point of analogy in it with the known. If it be inhuman, make it figure as part of a story. If it be difficult, couple its acquisition with some prospect of personal gain. Above all things, make sure that it shall run through certain inner changes, since no unvarying object can possibly hold the mental field for long. Let your pupil wander from one aspect to another of your subject, if you do not wish him to wander from it altogether to something else, variety in unity being the secret of all interesting talk and thought. The relation of all these things to the native genius of the instructor is too obvious to need comment again. One more point, and I am done with the subject of attention. There is unquestionably a great native variety among individuals in the type of their attention. Some of us are naturally scatterbrained, and others follow easily a train of connected thoughts without temptation to swerve aside to other subjects. This seems to depend on a difference between individuals in the type of their field of consciousness. In some persons this is highly focalized and concentrated, and the focal ideas predominate in determining association. In others we must suppose the margin to be brighter, and to be filled with something like meteoric showers of images, which strike into it at random, displacing the focal ideas, and carrying association in their own direction. Persons of the latter type find their attention wandering every minute, and must bring it back by a voluntary pull. The others sink into a subject of meditation deeply, and, when interrupted, are 'lost' for a moment before they come back to the outer world. The possession of such a steady faculty of attention is unquestionably a great boon. Those who have it can work more rapidly, and with less nervous wear and tear. I am inclined to think that no one who is without it naturally can by any amount of drill or discipline attain it in a very high degree. Its amount is probably a fixed characteristic of the individual. But I wish to make a remark here which I shall have occasion to make again in other connections. It is that no one need deplore unduly the inferiority in himself of any one elementary faculty. This concentrated type of attention is an elementary faculty: it is one of the things that might be ascertained and measured by exercises in the laboratory. But, having ascertained it in a number of persons, we could never rank them in a scale of actual and practical mental efficiency based on its degrees. The total mental efficiency of a man is the resultant of the working together of all his faculties. He is too complex a being for any one of them to have the casting vote. If any one of them do have the casting vote, it is more likely to be the strength of his desire and passion, the strength of the interest he takes in what is proposed. Concentration, memory, reasoning power, inventiveness, excellence of the senses,--all are subsidiary to this. No matter how scatter-brained the type of a man's successive fields of consciousness may be, if he really _care_ for a subject, he will return to it incessantly from his incessant wanderings, and first and last do more with it, and get more results from it, than another person whose attention may be more continuous during a given interval, but whose passion for the subject is of a more languid and less permanent sort. Some of the most efficient workers I know are of the ultra-scatterbrained type. One friend, who does a prodigious quantity of work, has in fact confessed to me that, if he wants to get ideas on any subject, he sits down to work at something else, his best results coming through his mind-wanderings. This is perhaps an epigrammatic exaggeration on his part; but I seriously think that no one of us need be too much distressed at his own shortcomings in this regard. Our mind may enjoy but little comfort, may be restless and feel confused; but it may be extremely efficient all the same. XII. MEMORY We are following a somewhat arbitrary order. Since each and every faculty we possess is either in whole or in part a resultant of the play of our associations, it would have been as natural, after treating of association, to treat of memory as to treat of interest and attention next. But, since we did take the latter operations first, we must take memory now without farther delay; for the phenomena of memory are among the simplest and most immediate consequences of the fact that our mind is essentially an associating machine. There is no more pre-eminent example for exhibiting the fertility of the laws of association as principles of psychological analysis. Memory, moreover, is so important a faculty in the schoolroom that you are probably waiting with some eagerness to know what psychology has to say about it for your help. In old times, if you asked a person to explain why he came to be remembering at that moment some particular incident in his previous life, the only reply he could make was that his soul is endowed with a faculty called memory; that it is the inalienable function of this faculty to recollect; and that, therefore, he necessarily at that moment must have a cognition of that portion of the past. This explanation by a 'faculty' is one thing which explanation by association has superseded altogether. If, by saying we have a faculty of memory, you mean nothing more than the fact that we can remember, nothing more than an abstract name for our power inwardly to recall the past, there is no harm done: we do have the faculty; for we unquestionably have such a power. But if, by faculty, you mean a principle of _explanation of our general power to recall_, your psychology is empty. The associationist psychology, on the other hand, gives an explanation of each particular fact of recollection; and, in so doing, it also gives an explanation of the general faculty. The 'faculty' of memory is thus no real or ultimate explanation; for it is itself explained as a result of the association of ideas. Nothing is easier than to show you just what I mean by this. Suppose I am silent for a moment, and then say in commanding accents: "Remember! Recollect!" Does your faculty of memory obey the order, and reproduce any definite image from your past? Certainly not. It stands staring into vacancy, and asking, "What kind of a thing do you wish me to remember?" It needs in short, a _cue_. But, if I say, remember the date of your birth, or remember what you had for breakfast, or remember the succession of notes in the musical scale; then your faculty of memory immediately produces the required result: the _'cue'_ determines its vast set of potentialities toward a particular point. And if you now look to see how this happens, you immediately perceive that the cue is something _contiguously associated_ with the thing recalled. The words, 'date of my birth,' have an ingrained association with a particular number, month, and year; the words, 'breakfast this morning,' cut off all other lines of recall except those which lead to coffee and bacon and eggs; the words, 'musical scale,' are inveterate mental neighbors of do, ré, mi, fa, sol, la, etc. The laws of association govern, in fact, all the trains of our thinking which are not interrupted by sensations breaking on us from without. Whatever appears in the mind must be _introduced_; and, when introduced, it is as the associate of something already there. This is as true of what you are recollecting as it is of everything else you think of. Reflection will show you that there are peculiarities in your memory which would be quite whimsical and unaccountable if we were forced to regard them as the product of a purely spiritual faculty. Were memory such a faculty, granted to us solely for its practical use, we ought to remember easiest whatever we most _needed_ to remember; and frequency of repetition, recency, and the like, would play no part in the matter. That we should best remember frequent things and recent things, and forget things that are ancient or were experienced only once, could only be regarded as an incomprehensible anomaly on such a view. But if we remember because of our associations, and if these are (as the physiological psychologists believe) due to our organized brain-paths, we easily see how the law of recency and repetition should prevail. Paths frequently and recently ploughed are those that lie most open, those which may be expected most easily to lead to results. The laws of our memory, as we find them, therefore are incidents of our associational constitution; and, when we are emancipated from the flesh, it is conceivable that they may no longer continue to obtain. We may assume, then, that recollection is a resultant of our associative processes, these themselves in the last analysis being most probably due to the workings of our brain. Descending more particularly into the faculty of memory, we have to distinguish between its potential aspect as a magazine or storehouse and its actual aspect as recollection now of a particular event. Our memory contains all sorts of items which we do not now recall, but which we may recall, provided a sufficient cue be offered. Both the general retention and the special recall are explained by association. An educated memory depends on an organized system of associations; and its goodness depends on two of their peculiarities: first, on the persistency of the associations; and, second, on their number. Let us consider each of these points in turn. First, the persistency of the associations. This gives what may be called the _quality of native retentiveness_ to the individual. If, as I think we are forced to, we consider the brain to be the organic condition by which the vestiges of our experience are associated with each other, we may suppose that some brains are 'wax to receive and marble to retain.' The slightest impressions made on them abide. Names, dates, prices, anecdotes, quotations, are indelibly retained, their several elements fixedly cohering together, so that the individual soon becomes a walking cyclopædia of information. All this may occur with no philosophic tendency in the mind, no impulse to weave the materials acquired into anything like a logical system. In the books of anecdotes, and, more recently, in the psychology-books, we find recorded instances of monstrosities, as we may call them, of this desultory memory; and they are often otherwise very stupid men. It is, of course, by no means incompatible with a philosophic mind; for mental characteristics have infinite capacities for permutation. And, when both memory and philosophy combine together in one person, then indeed we have the highest sort of intellectual efficiency. Your Walter Scotts, your Leibnitzes, your Gladstones, and your Goethes, all your folio copies of mankind, belong to this type. Efficiency on a colossal scale would indeed seem to require it. For, although your philosophic or systematic mind without good desultory memory may know how to work out results and recollect where in the books to find them, the time lost in the searching process handicaps the thinker, and gives to the more ready type of individual the economical advantage. The extreme of the contrasted type, the type with associations of small persistency, is found in those who have almost no desultory memory at all. If they are also deficient in logical and systematizing power, we call them simply feeble intellects; and no more need to be said about them here. Their brain-matter, we may imagine, is like a fluid jelly, in which impressions may be easily made, but are soon closed over again, so that the brain reverts to its original indifferent state. But it may occur here, just as in other gelatinous substances, that an impression will vibrate throughout the brain, and send waves into other parts of it. In cases of this sort, although the immediate impression may fade out quickly, it does modify the cerebral mass; for the paths it makes there may remain, and become so many avenues through which the impression may be reproduced if they ever get excited again. And its liability to reproduction will depend of course upon the variety of these paths and upon the frequency with which they are used. Each path is in fact an associated process, the number of these associates becoming thus to a great degree a substitute for the independent tenacity of the original impression. As I have elsewhere written: Each of the associates is a hook to which it hangs, a means to fish it up when sunk below the surface. Together they form a network of attachments by which it is woven into the entire tissue of our thought. The 'secret of a good memory' is thus the secret of forming diverse and multiple associations with every fact we care to retain. But this forming of associations with a fact,--what is it but thinking _about_ the fact as much as possible? Briefly, then, of two men with the same outward experiences, _the one who thinks over his experiences most_, and weaves them into the most systematic relations with each other, will be the one with the best memory. But, if our ability to recollect a thing be so largely a matter of its associations with other things which thus becomes its cues, an important pædagogic consequence follows. _There can be no improvement of the general or elementary faculty of memory: there can only be improvement of our memory for special systems of associated things_; and this latter improvement is due to the way in which the things in question are woven into association with each other in the mind. Intricately or profoundly woven, they are held: disconnected, they tend to drop out just in proportion as the native brain retentiveness is poor. And no amount of training, drilling, repeating, and reciting employed upon the matter of one system of objects, the history-system, for example, will in the least improve either the facility or the durability with which objects belonging to a wholly disparate system--the system of facts of chemistry, for instance--tend to be retained. That system must be separately worked into the mind by itself,--a chemical fact which is thought about in connection with the other chemical facts, tending then to stay, but otherwise easily dropping out. We have, then, not so much a faculty of memory as many faculties of memory. We have as many as we have systems of objects habitually thought of in connection with each other. A given object is held in the memory by the associates it has acquired within its own system exclusively. Learning the facts of another system will in no wise help it to stay in the mind, for the simple reason that it has no 'cues' within that other system. We see examples of this on every hand. Most men have a good memory for facts connected with their own pursuits. A college athlete, who remains a dunce at his books, may amaze you by his knowledge of the 'records' at various feats and games, and prove himself a walking dictionary of sporting statistics. The reason is that he is constantly going over these things in his mind, and comparing and making series of them. They form for him, not so many odd facts, but a concept-system, so they stick. So the merchant remembers prices, the politician other politicians' speeches and votes, with a copiousness which astonishes outsiders, but which the amount of thinking they bestow on these subjects easily explains. The great memory for facts which a Darwin or a Spencer reveal in their books is not incompatible with the possession on their part of a mind with only a middling degree of physiological retentiveness. Let a man early in life set himself the task of verifying such a theory as that of evolution, and facts will soon cluster and cling to him like grapes to their stem. Their relations to the theory will hold them fast; and, the more of these the mind is able to discern, the greater the erudition will become. Meanwhile the theorist may have little, if any, desultory memory. Unutilizable facts may be unnoted by him, and forgotten as soon as heard. An ignorance almost as encyclopedic as his erudition may coexist with the latter, and hide, as it were, within the interstices of its web. Those of you who have had much to do with scholars and _savants_ will readily think of examples of the class of mind I mean. The best possible sort of system into which to weave an object, mentally, is a _rational_ system, or what is called a 'science.' Place the thing in its pigeon-hole in a classificatory series; explain it logically by its causes, and deduce from it its necessary effects; find out of what natural law it is an instance,--and you then know it in the best of all possible ways. A 'science' is thus the greatest of labor-saving contrivances. It relieves the memory of an immense number of details, replacing, as it does, merely contiguous associations by the logical ones of identity, similarity, or analogy. If you know a 'law,' you may discharge your memory of masses of particular instances, for the law will reproduce them for you whenever you require them. The law of refraction, for example: If you know that, you can with a pencil and a bit of paper immediately discern how a convex lens, a concave lens, or a prism, must severally alter the appearance of an object. But, if you don't know the general law, you must charge your memory separately with each of the three kinds of effect. A 'philosophic' system, in which all things found their rational explanation and were connected together as causes and effects, would be the perfect mnemonic system, in which the greatest economy of means would bring about the greatest richness of results. So that, if we have poor desultory memories, we can save ourselves by cultivating the philosophic turn of mind. There are many artificial systems of mnemonics, some public, some sold as secrets. They are all so many devices for training us into certain methodical and stereotyped _ways of thinking_ about the facts we seek to retain. Even were I competent, I could not here go into these systems in any detail. But a single example, from a popular system, will show what I mean. I take the number-alphabet, the great mnemonic device for recollecting numbers and dates. In this system each digit is represented by a consonant, thus: 1 is _t_ or _d_; 2, _n_; 3, _m_; 4, _r_; 5, _l_; 6, _sh, j, ch_, or _g_; 7, _c, k, g_, or _qu_; 8, _f_ or _v_; 9, _b_ or _p_; 0, _s, c_, or _z_. Suppose, now, you wish to remember the velocity of sound, 1,142 feet a second: _t, t, r, n_, are the letters you must use. They make the consonants of _tight run_, and it would be a 'tight run' for you to keep up such a speed. So 1649, the date of the execution of Charles I., may be remembered by the word _sharp_, which recalls the headsman's axe. Apart from the extreme difficulty of finding words that are appropriate in this exercise, it is clearly an excessively poor, trivial, and silly way of 'thinking' about dates; and the way of the historian is much better. He has a lot of landmark-dates already in his mind. He knows the historic concatenation of events, and can usually place an event at its right date in the chronology-table, by thinking of it in a rational way, referring it to its antecedents, tracing its concomitants and consequences, and thus ciphering out its date by connecting it with theirs. The artificial memory-systems, recommending, as they do, such irrational methods of thinking, are only to be recommended for the first landmarks in a system, or for such purely detached facts as enjoy no rational connection with the rest of our ideas. Thus the student of physics may remember the order of the spectral colours by the word _vibgyor_ which their initial letters make. The student of anatomy may remember the position of the Mitral valve on the Left side of the heart by thinking that L.M. stands also for 'long meter' in the hymn-books. You now see why 'cramming' must be so poor a mode of study. Cramming seeks to stamp things in by intense application immediately before the ordeal. But a thing thus learned can form but few associations. On the other hand, the same thing recurring on different days, in different contexts, read, recited on, referred to again and again, related to other things and reviewed, gets well wrought into the mental structure. This is the reason why you should enforce on your pupils habits of continuous application. There is no moral turpitude in cramming. It would be the best, because the most economical, mode of study if it led to the results desired. But it does not, and your older pupils can readily be made to see the reason why. It follows also, from what has been said, that _the popular idea that 'the Memory,' in the sense of a general elementary faculty, can be improved by training, is a great mistake_. Your memory for facts of a certain class can be improved very much by training in that class of facts, because the incoming new fact will then find all sorts of analogues and associates already there, and these will keep it liable to recall. But other kinds of fact will reap none of that benefit, and, unless one have been also trained and versed in _their_ class, will be at the mercy of the mere crude retentiveness of the individual, which, as we have seen, is practically a fixed quantity. Nevertheless, one often hears people say: "A great sin was committed against me in my youth: my teachers entirely failed to exercise my memory. If they had only made me learn a lot of things by heart at school, I should not be, as I am now, forgetful of everything I read and hear." This is a great mistake: learning poetry by heart will make it easier to learn and remember other poetry, but nothing else; and so of dates; and so of chemistry and geography. But, after what I have said, I am sure you will need no farther argument on this point; and I therefore pass it by. But, since it has brought me to speak of learning things by heart, I think that a general practical remark about verbal memorizing may now not be out of place. The excesses of old-fashioned verbal memorizing, and the immense advantages of object-teaching in the earlier stages of culture, have perhaps led those who philosophize about teaching to an unduly strong reaction; and learning things by heart is now probably somewhat too much despised. For, when all is said and done, the fact remains that verbal material is, on the whole, the handiest and most useful material in which thinking can be carried on. Abstract conceptions are far and away the most economical instruments of thought, and abstract conceptions are fixed and incarnated for us in words. Statistical inquiry would seem to show that, as men advance in life, they tend to make less and less use of visual images, and more and more use of words. One of the first things that Mr. Galton discovered was that this appeared to be the case with the members of the Royal Society whom he questioned as to their mental images. I should say, therefore, that constant exercise in verbal memorizing must still be an indispensable feature in all sound education. Nothing is more deplorable than that inarticulate and helpless sort of mind that is reminded by everything of some quotation, case, or anecdote, which it cannot now exactly recollect. Nothing, on the other hand, is more convenient to its possessor, or more delightful to his comrades, than a mind able, in telling a story, to give the exact words of the dialogue or to furnish a quotation accurate and complete. In every branch of study there are happily turned, concise, and handy formulas which in an incomparable way sum up results. The mind that can retain such formulas is in so far a superior mind, and the communication of them to the pupil ought always to be one of the teacher's favorite tasks. In learning 'by heart,' there are, however, efficient and inefficient methods; and, by making the pupil skilful in the best method, the teacher can both interest him and abridge the task. The best method is of course not to 'hammer in' the sentences, by mere reiteration, but to analyze them, and think. For example, if the pupil should have to learn this last sentence, let him first strip out its grammatical core, and learn, "The best method is not to hammer in, but to analyze," and then add the amplificative and restrictive clauses, bit by bit, thus: "The best method is of course not to hammer in _the sentences_, but to analyze _them and think_." Then finally insert the words '_by mere reiteration_,' and the sentence is complete, and both better understood and quicker remembered than by a more purely mechanical method. * * * * * In conclusion, I must say a word about the contributions to our knowledge of memory which have recently come from the laboratory-psychologists. Many of the enthusiasts for scientific or brass-instrument child-study are taking accurate measurements of children's elementary faculties, and among these what we may call _immediate memory_ admits of easy measurement. All we need do is to exhibit to the child a series of letters, syllables, figures, pictures, or what-not, at intervals of one, two, three, or more seconds, or to sound a similar series of names at the same intervals, within his hearing, and then see how completely he can reproduce the list, either directly, or after an interval of ten, twenty, or sixty seconds, or some longer space of time. According to the results of this exercise, the pupils may be rated in a memory-scale; and some persons go so far as to think that the teacher should modify her treatment of the child according to the strength or feebleness of its faculty as thus made known. Now I can only repeat here what I said to you when treating of attention: man is too complex a being for light to be thrown on his real efficiency by measuring any one mental faculty taken apart from its consensus in the working whole. Such an exercise as this, dealing with incoherent and insipid objects, with no logical connection with each other, or practical significance outside of the 'test,' is an exercise the like of which in real life we are hardly ever called upon to perform. In real life, our memory is always used in the service of some interest: we remember things which we care for or which are associated with things we care for; and the child who stands at the bottom of the scale thus experimentally established might, by dint of the strength of his passion for a subject, and in consequence of the logical association into which he weaves the actual materials of his experience, be a very effective memorizer indeed, and do his school-tasks on the whole much better than an immediate parrot who might stand at the top of the 'scientifically accurate' list. This preponderance of interest, of passion, in determining the results of a human being's working life, obtains throughout. No elementary measurement, capable of being performed in a laboratory, can throw any light on the actual efficiency of the subject; for the vital thing about him, his emotional and moral energy and doggedness, can be measured by no single experiment, and becomes known only by the total results in the long run. A blind man like Huber, with his passion for bees and ants, can observe them through other people's eyes better than these can through their own. A man born with neither arms nor legs, like the late Kavanagh, M.P.--and what an icy heart his mother must have had about him in his babyhood, and how 'negative' would the laboratory-measurements of his motor-functions have been!--can be an adventurous traveller, an equestrian and sportsman, and lead an athletic outdoor life. Mr. Romanes studied the elementary rate of apperception in a large number of persons by making them read a paragraph as fast as they could take it in, and then immediately write down all they could reproduce of its contents. He found astonishing differences in the rapidity, some taking four times as long as others to absorb the paragraph, and the swiftest readers being, as a rule, the best immediate recollectors, too. But not,--and this is my point,--_not_ the most _intellectually capable subjects_, as tested by the results of what Mr. Romanes rightly names 'genuine' intellectual work; for he tried the experiment with several highly distinguished men in science and literature, and most of them turned out to be slow readers. In the light of all such facts one may well believe that the total impression which a perceptive teacher will get of the pupil's condition, as indicated by his general temper and manner, by the listlessness or alertness, by the ease or painfulness with which his school work is done, will be of much more value than those unreal experimental tests, those pedantic elementary measurements of fatigue, memory, association, and attention, etc., which are urged upon us as the only basis of a genuinely scientific pedagogy. Such measurements can give us useful information only when we combine them with observations made without brass instruments, upon the total demeanor of the measured individual, by teachers with eyes in their heads and common sense, and some feeling for the concrete facts of human nature in their hearts. Depend upon it, no one need be too much cast down by the discovery of his deficiency in any elementary faculty of the mind. What tells in life is the whole mind working together, and the deficiencies of any one faculty can be compensated by the efforts of the rest. You can be an artist without visual images, a reader without eyes, a mass of erudition with a bad elementary memory. In almost any subject your passion for the subject will save you. If you only care enough for a result, you will almost certainly attain it. If you wish to be rich, you will be rich; if you wish to be learned, you will be learned; if you wish to be good, you will be good. Only you must, then, _really_ wish these things, and wish them with exclusiveness, and not wish at the same time a hundred other incompatible things just as strongly. One of the most important discoveries of the 'scientific' sort that have recently been made in psychology is that of Mr. Galton and others concerning the great variations among individuals in the type of their imagination. Every one is now familiar with the fact that human beings vary enormously in the brilliancy, completeness, definiteness, and extent of their visual images. These are singularly perfect in a large number of individuals, and in a few are so rudimentary as hardly to exist. The same is true of the auditory and motor images, and probably of those of every kind; and the recent discovery of distinct brain-areas for the various orders of sensation would seem to provide a physical basis for such variations and discrepancies. The facts, as I said, are nowadays so popularly known that I need only remind you of their existence. They might seem at first sight of practical importance to the teacher; and, indeed, teachers have been recommended to sort their pupils in this way, and treat them as the result falls out. You should interrogate them as to their imagery, it is said, or exhibit lists of written words to their eyes, and then sound similar lists in their ears, and see by which channel a child retains most words. Then, in dealing with that child, make your appeals predominantly through that channel. If the class were very small, results of some distinctness might doubtless thus be obtained by a painstaking teacher. But it is obvious that in the usual schoolroom no such differentiation of appeal is possible; and the only really useful practical lesson that emerges from this analytic psychology in the conduct of large schools is the lesson already reached in a purely empirical way, that the teacher ought always to impress the class through as many sensible channels as he can. Talk and write and draw on blackboard, permit the pupils to talk, and make them write and draw, exhibit pictures, plans, and curves, have your diagrams colored differently in their different parts, etc.; and out of the whole variety of impressions the individual child will find the most lasting ones for himself. In all primary school work this principle of multiple impressions is well recognized, so I need say no more about it here. This principle of multiplying channels and varying associations and appeals is important, not only for teaching pupils to remember, but for teaching them to understand. It runs, in fact, through the whole teaching art. One word about the unconscious and unreproducible part of our acquisitions, and I shall have done with the topic of memory. Professor Ebbinghaus, in a heroic little investigation into the laws of memory which he performed a dozen or more years ago by the method of learning lists of nonsense syllables, devised a method of measuring the rate of our forgetfulness, which lays bare an important law of the mind. His method was to read over his list until he could repeat it once by heart unhesitatingly. The number of repetitions required for this was a measure of the difficulty of the learning in each particular case. Now, after having once learned a piece in this way, if we wait five minutes, we find it impossible to repeat it again in the same unhesitating manner. We must read it over again to revive some of the syllables, which have already dropped out or got transposed. Ebbinghaus now systematically studied the number of readings-over which were necessary to revive the unhesitating recollection of the piece after five minutes, half an hour, an hour, a day, a week, a month, had elapsed. The number of rereadings required he took to be a measure of the _amount of forgetting_ that had occurred in the elapsed interval. And he found some remarkable facts. The process of forgetting, namely, is vastly more rapid at first than later on. Thus full half of the piece seems to be forgotten within the first half-hour, two-thirds of it are forgotten at the end of eight hours, but only four-fifths at the end of a month. He made no trials beyond one month of interval; but, if we ourselves prolong ideally the curve of remembrance, whose beginning his experiments thus obtain, it is natural to suppose that, no matter how long a time might elapse, the curve would never descend quite so low as to touch the zero-line. In other words, no matter how long ago we may have learned a poem, and no matter how complete our inability to reproduce it now may be, yet the first learning will still show its lingering effects in the abridgment of the time required for learning it again. In short, Professor Ebbinghaus's experiments show that things which we are quite unable definitely to recall have nevertheless impressed themselves, in some way, upon the structure of the mind. We are different for having once learned them. The resistances in our systems of brain-paths are altered. Our apprehensions are quickened. Our conclusions from certain premises are probably not just what they would be if those modifications were not there. The latter influence the whole margin of our consciousness, even though their products, not being distinctly reproducible, do not directly figure at the focus of the field. The teacher should draw a lesson from these facts. We are all too apt to measure the gains of our pupils by their proficiency in directly reproducing in a recitation or an examination such matters as they may have learned, and inarticulate power in them is something of which we always underestimate the value. The boy who tells us, "I know the answer, but I can't say what it is," we treat as practically identical with him who knows absolutely nothing about the answer at all. But this is a great mistake. It is but a small part of our experience in life that we are ever able articulately to recall. And yet the whole of it has had its influence in shaping our character and defining our tendencies to judge and act. Although the ready memory is a great blessing to its possessor, the vaguer memory of a subject, of having once had to do with it, of its neighborhood, and of where we may go to recover it again, constitutes in most men and women the chief fruit of their education. This is true even in professional education. The doctor, the lawyer, are seldom able to decide upon a case off-hand. They differ from other men only through the fact that they know how to get at the materials for decision in five minutes or half an hour: whereas the layman is unable to get at the materials at all, not knowing in what books and indexes to look or not understanding the technical terms. Be patient, then, and sympathetic with the type of mind that cuts a poor figure in examinations. It may, in the long examination which life sets us, come out in the end in better shape than the glib and ready reproducer, its passions being deeper, its purposes more worthy, its combining power less commonplace, and its total mental output consequently more important. Such are the chief points which it has seemed worth while for me to call to your notice under the head of memory. We can sum them up for practical purposes by saying that the art of remembering is the art of _thinking_; and by adding, with Dr. Pick, that, when we wish to fix a new thing in either our own mind or a pupil's, our conscious effort should not be so much to _impress_ and _retain_ it as to _connect_ it with something else already there. The connecting _is_ the thinking; and, if we attend clearly to the connection, the connected thing will certainly be likely to remain within recall. I shall next ask you to consider the process by which we acquire new knowledge,--the process of 'Apperception,' as it is called, by which we receive and deal with new experiences, and revise our stock of ideas so as to form new or improved conceptions. XIII. THE ACQUISITION OF IDEAS The images of our past experiences, of whatever nature they may be, visual or verbal, blurred and dim, vivid and distinct, abstract or concrete, need not be memory images, in the strict sense of the word. That is, they need not rise before the mind in a marginal fringe or context of concomitant circumstances, which mean for us their _date_. They may be mere conceptions, floating pictures of an object, or of its type or class. In this undated condition, we call them products of 'imagination' or 'conception.' Imagination is the term commonly used where the object represented is thought of as an individual thing. Conception is the term where we think of it as a type or class. For our present purpose the distinction is not important; and I will permit myself to use either the word 'conception,' or the still vaguer word 'idea,' to designate the inner objects of contemplation, whether these be individual things, like 'the sun' or 'Julius Cæsar,' or classes of things, like 'animal kingdom,' or, finally, entirely abstract attributes, like 'rationality' or 'rectitude.' The result of our education is to fill the mind little by little, as experiences accrete, with a stock of such ideas. In the illustration I used at our first meeting, of the child snatching the toy and getting slapped, the vestiges left by the first experience answered to so many ideas which he acquired thereby,--ideas that remained with him associated in a certain order, and from the last one of which the child eventually proceeded to act. The sciences of grammar and of logic are little more than attempts methodically to classify all such acquired ideas and to trace certain laws of relationship among them. The forms of relation between them, becoming themselves in turn noticed by the mind, are treated as conceptions of a higher and more abstract order, as when we speak of a syllogistic relation' between propositions, or of four quantities making a 'proportion,' or of the 'inconsistency' of two conceptions, or the 'implication' of one in the other. So you see that the process of education, taken in a large way, may be described as nothing but the process of acquiring ideas or conceptions, the best educated mind being the mind which has the largest stock of them, ready to meet the largest possible variety of the emergencies of life. The lack of education means only the failure to have acquired them, and the consequent liability to be 'floored' and 'rattled' in the vicissitudes of experience. In all this process of acquiring conceptions, a certain instinctive order is followed. There is a native tendency to assimilate certain kinds of conception at one age, and other kinds of conception at a later age. During the first seven or eight years of childhood the mind is most interested in the sensible properties of material things. _Constructiveness_ is the instinct most active; and by the incessant hammering and sawing, and dressing and undressing dolls, putting of things together and taking them apart, the child not only trains the muscles to co-ordinate action, but accumulates a store of physical conceptions which are the basis of his knowledge of the material world through life. Object-teaching and manual training wisely extend the sphere of this order of acquisition. Clay, wood, metals, and the various kinds of tools are made to contribute to the store. A youth brought up with a sufficiently broad basis of this kind is always at home in the world. He stands within the pale. He is acquainted with Nature, and Nature in a certain sense is acquainted with him. Whereas the youth brought up alone at home, with no acquaintance with anything but the printed page, is always afflicted with a certain remoteness from the material facts of life, and a correlative insecurity of consciousness which make of him a kind of alien on the earth in which he ought to feel himself perfectly at home. I already said something of this in speaking of the constructive impulse, and I must not repeat myself. Moreover, you fully realize, I am sure, how important for life,--for the moral tone of life, quite apart from definite practical pursuits,--is this sense of readiness for emergencies which a man gains through early familiarity and acquaintance with the world of material things. To have grown up on a farm, to have haunted a carpenter's and blacksmith's shop, to have handled horses and cows and boats and guns, and to have ideas and abilities connected with such objects are an inestimable part of youthful acquisition. After adolescence it is rare to be able to get into familiar touch with any of these primitive things. The instinctive propensions have faded, and the habits are hard to acquire. Accordingly, one of the best fruits of the 'child-study' movement has been to reinstate all these activities to their proper place in a sound system of education. _Feed_ the growing human being, feed him with the sort of experience for which from year to year he shows a natural craving, and he will develop in adult life a sounder sort of mental tissue, even though he may seem to be 'wasting' a great deal of his growing time, in the eyes of those for whom the only channels of learning are books and verbally communicated information. It is not till adolescence is reached that the mind grows able to take in the more abstract aspects of experience, the hidden similarities and distinctions between things, and especially their causal sequences. Rational knowledge of such things as mathematics, mechanics, chemistry, and biology, is now possible; and the acquisition of conceptions of this order form the next phase of education. Later still, not till adolescence is well advanced, does the mind awaken to a systematic interest in abstract human relations--moral relations, properly so called,--to sociological ideas and to metaphysical abstractions. This general order of sequence is followed traditionally of course in the schoolroom. It is foreign to my purpose to do more than indicate that general psychological principle of the successive order of awakening of the faculties on which the whole thing rests. I have spoken of it already, apropos of the transitoriness of instincts. Just as many a youth has to go permanently without an adequate stock of conceptions of a certain order, because experiences of that order were not yielded at the time when new curiosity was most acute, so it will conversely happen that many another youth is spoiled for a certain subject of study (although he would have enjoyed it well if led into it at a later age) through having had it thrust upon him so prematurely that disgust was created, and the bloom quite taken off from future trials. I think I have seen college students unfitted forever for 'philosophy' from having taken that study up a year too soon. In all these later studies, verbal material is the vehicle by which the mind thinks. The abstract conceptions of physics and sociology may, it is true, be embodied in visual or other images of phenomena, but they need not be so; and the truth remains that, after adolescence has begun, "words, words, words," must constitute a large part, and an always larger part as life advances, of what the human being has to learn. This is so even in the natural sciences, so far as these are causal and rational, and not merely confined to description. So I go back to what I said awhile ago apropos of verbal memorizing. The more accurately words are learned, the better, if only the teacher make sure that what they signify is also understood. It is the failure of this latter condition, in so much of the old-fashioned recitation, that has caused that reaction against 'parrot-like reproduction' that we are so familiar with to-day. A friend of mine, visiting a school, was asked to examine a young class in geography. Glancing, at the book, she said: "Suppose you should dig a hole in the ground, hundreds of feet deep, how should you find it at the bottom,--warmer or colder than on top?" None of the class replying, the teacher said: "I'm sure they know, but I think you don't ask the question quite rightly. Let me try." So, taking the book, she asked: "In what condition is the interior of the globe?" and received the immediate answer from half the class at once: "The interior of the globe is in a condition of _igneous fusion_." Better exclusive object-teaching than such verbal recitations as that; and yet verbal reproduction, intelligently connected with more objective work, must always play a leading, and surely _the_ leading, part in education. Our modern reformers, in their books, write too exclusively of the earliest years of the pupil. These lend themselves better to explicit treatment; and I myself, in dwelling so much upon the native impulses, and object-teaching, and anecdotes, and all that, have paid my tribute to the line of least resistance in describing. Yet away back in childhood we find the beginnings of purely intellectual curiosity, and the intelligence of abstract terms. The object-teaching is mainly to _launch_ the pupils, with some concrete conceptions of the facts concerned, upon the more abstract ideas. To hear some authorities on teaching, however, you would suppose that geography not only began, but ended with the school-yard and neighboring hill, that physics was one endless round of repeating the same sort of tedious weighing and measuring operation: whereas a very few examples are usually sufficient to set the imagination free on genuine lines, and then what the mind craves is more rapid, general, and abstract treatment. I heard a lady say that she had taken her child to the kindergarten, "but he is so bright that he saw through it immediately." Too many school children 'see' as immediately 'through' the namby-pamby attempts of the softer pedagogy to lubricate things for them, and make them interesting. Even they can enjoy abstractions, provided they be of the proper order; and it is a poor compliment to their rational appetite to think that anecdotes about little Tommies and little Jennies are the only kind of things their minds can digest. But here, as elsewhere, it is a matter of more or less; and, in the last resort, the teacher's own tact is the only thing that can bring out the right effect. The great difficulty with abstractions is that of knowing just what meaning the pupil attaches to the terms he uses. The words may sound all right, but the meaning remains the child's own secret. So varied forms of words must be insisted on, to bring the secret out. And a strange secret does it often prove. A relative of mine was trying to explain to a little girl what was meant by 'the passive voice': "Suppose that you kill me: you who do the killing are in the active voice, and I, who am killed, am in the passive voice." "But how can you speak if you're killed?" said the child. "Oh, well, you may suppose that I am not yet quite dead!" The next day the child was asked, in class, to explain the passive voice, and said, "It's the kind of voice you speak with when you ain't quite dead." In such a case as this the illustration ought to have been more varied. Every one's memory will probably furnish examples of the fantastic meaning which their childhood attached to certain verbal statements (in poetry often), and which their elders, not having any reason to suspect, never corrected. I remember being greatly moved emotionally at the age of eight by the ballad of Lord Ullin's Daughter. Yet I thought that the staining of the heather by the blood was the evil chiefly dreaded, and that, when the boatman said, "I'll row you o'er the ferry. It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady," he was to receive the lady for his pay. Similarly, I recently found that one of my own children was reading (and accepting) a verse of Tennyson's In Memoriam as "Ring out the _food_ of rich and poor, Ring in _redness_ to all mankind," and finding no inward difficulty. The only safeguard against this sort of misconceiving is to insist on varied statement, and to bring the child's conceptions, wherever it be possible, to some sort of practical test. Let us next pass to the subject of Apperception. XIV. APPERCEPTION 'Apperception' is a word which cuts a great figure in the pedagogics of the present day. Read, for example, this advertisement of a certain text-book, which I take from an educational journal:-- #WHAT IS APPERCEPTION?# For an explanation of Apperception see Blank's PSYCHOLOGY, Vol. ---- of the ---- Education Series, just published. The difference between Perception and Apperception is explained for the teacher in the preface to Blank's PSYCHOLOGY. Many teachers are inquiring, "What is the meaning of Apperception in educational psychology?" Just the book for them is Blank's PSYCHOLOGY in which the idea was first expounded. The most important idea in educational psychology is Apperception. The teacher may find this expounded in Blank's PSYCHOLOGY. The idea of Apperception is making a revolution in educational methods in Germany. It is explained in Blank's PSYCHOLOGY, Vol. ---- of the ---- Education Series, just published. Blank's PSYCHOLOGY will be mailed prepaid to any address on receipt of $1.00. Such an advertisement is in sober earnest a disgrace to all concerned; and such talk as it indulges in is the sort of thing I had in view when I said at our first meeting that the teachers were suffering at the present day from a certain industrious mystification on the part of editors and publishers. Perhaps the word 'apperception' flourished in their eyes and ears as it nowadays often is, embodies as much of this mystification as any other single thing. The conscientious young teacher is led to believe that it contains a recondite and portentous secret, by losing the true inwardness of which her whole career may be shattered. And yet, when she turns to the books and reads about it, it seems so trivial and commonplace a matter,--meaning nothing more than the manner in which we receive a thing into our minds,--that she fears she must have missed the point through the shallowness of her intelligence, and goes about thereafter afflicted with a sense either of uncertainty or of stupidity, and in each case remaining mortified at being so inadequate to her mission. Now apperception is an extremely useful word in pedagogics, and offers a convenient name for a process to which every teacher must frequently refer. But it verily means nothing more than the act of taking a thing into the mind. It corresponds to nothing peculiar or elementary in psychology, being only one of the innumerable results of the psychological process of association of ideas; and psychology itself can easily dispense with the word, useful as it may be in pedagogics. The gist of the matter is this: Every impression that comes in from without, be it a sentence which we hear, an object of vision, or an effluvium which assails our nose, no sooner enters our consciousness than it is drafted off in some determinate direction or other, making connection with the other materials already there, and finally producing what we call our reaction. The particular connections it strikes into are determined by our past experiences and the 'associations' of the present sort of impression with them. If, for instance, you hear me call out A, B, C, it is ten to one that you will react on the impression by inwardly or outwardly articulating D, E, F. The impression arouses its old associates: they go out to meet it; it is received by them, recognized by the mind as 'the beginning of the alphabet.' It is the fate of every impression thus to fall into a mind preoccupied with memories, ideas, and interests, and by these it is taken in. Educated as we already are, we never get an experience that remains for us completely nondescript: it always _reminds_ of something similar in quality, or of some context that might have surrounded it before, and which it now in some way suggests. This mental escort which the mind supplies is drawn, of course, from the mind's ready-made stock. We _conceive_ the impression in some definite way. We dispose of it according to our acquired possibilities, be they few or many, in the way of 'ideas.' This way of taking in the object is the process of apperception. The conceptions which meet and assimilate it are called by Herbart the 'apperceiving mass.' The apperceived impression is engulfed in this, and the result is a new field of consciousness, of which one part (and often a very small part) comes from the outer world, and another part (sometimes by far the largest) comes from the previous contents of the mind. I think that you see plainly enough now that the process of apperception is what I called it a moment ago, a resultant of the association of ideas. The product is a sort of fusion of the new with the old, in which it is often impossible to distinguish the share of the two factors. For example, when we listen to a person speaking or read a page of print, much of what we think we see or hear is supplied from our memory. We overlook misprints, imagining the right letters, though we see the wrong ones; and how little we actually hear, when we listen to speech, we realize when we go to a foreign theatre; for there what troubles us is not so much that we cannot understand what the actors say as that we cannot hear their words. The fact is that we hear quite as little under similar conditions at home, only our mind, being fuller of English verbal associations, supplies the requisite material for comprehension upon a much slighter auditory hint. In all the apperceptive operations of the mind, a certain general law makes itself felt,--the law of economy. In admitting a new body of experience, we instinctively seek to disturb as little as possible our pre-existing stock of ideas. We always try to name a new experience in some way which will assimilate it to what we already know. We hate anything _absolutely_ new, anything without any name, and for which a new name must be forged. So we take the nearest name, even though it be inappropriate. A child will call snow, when he sees it for the first time, sugar or white butterflies. The sail of a boat he calls a curtain; an egg in its shell, seen for the first time, he calls a pretty potato; an orange, a ball; a folding corkscrew, a pair of bad scissors. Caspar Hauser called the first geese he saw horses, and the Polynesians called Captain Cook's horses pigs. Mr. Rooper has written a little book on apperception, to which he gives the title of "A Pot of Green Feathers," that being the name applied to a pot of ferns by a child who had never seen ferns before. In later life this economical tendency to leave the old undisturbed leads to what we know as 'old fogyism.' A new idea or a fact which would entail extensive rearrangement of the previous system of beliefs is always ignored or extruded from the mind in case it cannot be sophistically reinterpreted so as to tally harmoniously with the system. We have all conducted discussions with middle-aged people, overpowered them with our reasons, forced them to admit our contention, and a week later found them back as secure and constant in their old opinion as if they had never conversed with us at all. We call them old fogies; but there are young fogies, too. Old fogyism begins at a younger age than we think. I am almost afraid to say so, but I believe that in the majority of human beings it begins at about twenty-five. In some of the books we find the various forms of apperception codified, and their subdivisions numbered and ticketed in tabular form in the way so delightful to the pedagogic eye. In one book which I remember reading there were sixteen different types of apperception discriminated from each other. There was associative apperception, subsumptive apperception, assimilative apperception, and others up to sixteen. It is needless to say that this is nothing but an exhibition of the crass artificiality which has always haunted psychology, and which perpetuates itself by lingering along, especially in these works which are advertised as 'written for the use of teachers.' The flowing life of the mind is sorted into parcels suitable for presentation in the recitation-room, and chopped up into supposed 'processes' with long Greek and Latin names, which in real life have no distinct existence. There is no reason, if we are classing the different types of apperception, why we should stop at sixteen rather than sixteen hundred. There are as many types of apperception as there are possible ways in which an incoming experience may be reacted on by an individual mind. A little while ago, at Buffalo, I was the guest of a lady who, a fortnight before, had taken her seven-year-old boy for the first time to Niagara Falls. The child silently glared at the phenomenon until his mother, supposing him struck speechless by its sublimity, said, "Well, my boy, what do you think of it?" to which, "Is that the kind of spray I spray my nose with?" was the boy's only reply. That was his mode of apperceiving the spectacle. You may claim this as a particular type, and call it by the Greek name of rhinotherapeutical apperception, if you like; and, if you do, you will hardly be more trivial or artificial than are some of the authors of the books. M. Perez, in one of his books on childhood, gives a good example of the different modes of apperception of the same phenomenon which are possible at different stages of individual experience. A dwelling-house took fire, and an infant in the family, witnessing the conflagration from the arms of his nurse, standing outside, expressed nothing but the liveliest delight at its brilliancy. But, when the bell of the fire engine was heard approaching, the child was thrown by the sound into a paroxysm of fear, strange sounds being, as you know, very alarming to young children. In what opposite ways must the child's parents have apperceived the burning house and the engine respectively! The self-same person, according to the line of thought he may be in, or to his emotional mood, will apperceive the same impression quite differently on different occasions. A medical or engineering expert retained on one side of a case will not apperceive the facts in the same way as if the other side had retained him. When people are at loggerheads about the interpretation of a fact, it usually shows that they have too few heads of classification to apperceive by; for, as a general thing, the fact of such a dispute is enough to show that neither one of their rival interpretations is a perfect fit. Both sides deal with the matter by approximation, squeezing it under the handiest or least disturbing conception: whereas it would, nine times out of ten, be better to enlarge their stock of ideas or invent some altogether new title for the phenomenon. Thus, in biology, we used to have interminable discussion as to whether certain single-celled organisms were animals or vegetables, until Haeckel introduced the new apperceptive name of Protista, which ended the disputes. In law courts no _tertium quid_ is recognized between insanity and sanity. If sane, a man is punished: if insane, acquitted; and it is seldom hard to find two experts who will take opposite views of his case. All the while, nature is more subtle than our doctors. Just as a room is neither dark nor light absolutely, but might be dark for a watchmaker's uses, and yet light enough to eat in or play in, so a man may be sane for some purposes and insane for others,--sane enough to be left at large, yet not sane enough to take care of his financial affairs. The word 'crank,' which became familiar at the time of Guiteau's trial, fulfilled the need of a _tertium quid_. The foreign terms 'déséquilibré,' 'hereditary degenerate,' and 'psychopathic' subject, have arisen in response to the same need. The whole progress of our sciences goes on by the invention of newly forged technical names whereby to designate the newly remarked aspects of phenomena,--phenomena which could only be squeezed with violence into the pigeonholes of the earlier stock of conceptions. As time goes on, our vocabulary becomes thus ever more and more voluminous, having to keep up with the ever-growing multitude of our stock of apperceiving ideas. In this gradual process of interaction between the new and the old, not only is the new modified and determined by the particular sort of old which apperceives it, but the apperceiving mass, the old itself, is modified by the particular kind of new which it assimilates. Thus, to take the stock German example of the child brought up in a house where there are no tables but square ones, 'table' means for him a thing in which square corners are essential. But, if he goes to a house where there are round tables and still calls them tables, his apperceiving notion 'table' acquires immediately a wider inward content. In this way, our conceptions are constantly dropping characters once supposed essential, and including others once supposed inadmissible. The extension of the notion 'beast' to porpoises and whales, of the notion 'organism' to society, are familiar examples of what I mean. But be our conceptions adequate or inadequate, and be our stock of them large or small, they are all we have to work with. If an educated man is, as I said, a group of organized tendencies to conduct, what prompts the conduct is in every case the man's conception of the way in which to name and classify the actual emergency. The more adequate the stock of ideas, the more 'able' is the man, the more uniformly appropriate is his behavior likely to be. When later we take up the subject of the will, we shall see that the essential preliminary to every decision is the finding of the right _names_ under which to class the proposed alternatives of conduct. He who has few names is in so far forth an incompetent deliberator. The names--and each name stands for a conception or idea--are our instruments for handling our problems and solving our dilemmas. Now, when we think of this, we are too apt to forget an important fact, which is that in most human beings the stock of names and concepts is mostly acquired during the years of adolescence and the earliest years of adult life. I probably shocked you a moment ago by saying that most men begin to be old fogies at the age of twenty-five. It is true that a grown-up adult keeps gaining well into middle age a great knowledge of details, and a great acquaintance with individual cases connected with his profession or business life. In this sense, his conceptions increase during a very long period; for his knowledge grows more extensive and minute. But the larger categories of conception, the sorts of thing, and wider classes of relation between things, of which we take cognizance, are all got into the mind at a comparatively youthful date. Few men ever do acquaint themselves with the principles of a new science after even twenty-five. If you do not study political economy in college, it is a thousand to one that its main conceptions will remain unknown to you through life. Similarly with biology, similarly with electricity. What percentage of persons now fifty years old have any definite conception whatever of a dynamo, or how the trolley-cars are made to run? Surely, a small fraction of one per cent. But the boys in colleges are all acquiring these conceptions. There is a sense of infinite potentiality in us all, when young, which makes some of us draw up lists of books we intend to read hereafter, and makes most of us think that we can easily acquaint ourselves with all sorts of things which we are now neglecting by studying them out hereafter in the intervals of leisure of our business lives. Such good intentions are hardly ever carried out. The conceptions acquired before thirty remain usually the only ones we ever gain. Such exceptional cases of perpetually self-renovating youth as Mr. Gladstone's only prove, by the admiration they awaken, the universality of the rule. And it may well solemnize a teacher, and confirm in him a healthy sense of the importance of his mission, to feel how exclusively dependent upon his present ministrations in the way of imparting conceptions the pupil's future life is probably bound to be. XV. THE WILL Since mentality terminates naturally in outward conduct, the final chapter in psychology has to be the chapter on the will. But the word 'will' can be used in a broader and in a narrower sense. In the broader sense, it designates our entire capacity for impulsive and active life, including our instinctive reactions and those forms of behavior that have become secondarily automatic and semi-unconscious through frequent repetition. In the narrower sense, acts of will are such acts only as cannot be inattentively performed. A distinct idea of what they are, and a deliberate _fiat_ on the mind's part, must precede their execution. Such acts are often characterized by hesitation, and accompanied by a feeling, altogether peculiar, of resolve, a feeling which may or may not carry with it a further feeling of effort. In my earlier talks, I said so much of our impulsive tendencies that I will restrict myself in what follows to volition in this narrower sense of the term. All our deeds were considered by the early psychologists to be due to a peculiar faculty called the will, without whose fiat action could not occur. Thoughts and impressions, being intrinsically inactive, were supposed to produce conduct only through the intermediation of this superior agent. Until they twitched its coat-tails, so to speak, no outward behavior could occur. This doctrine was long ago exploded by the discovery of the phenomena of reflex action, in which sensible impressions, as you know, produce movement immediately and of themselves. The doctrine may also be considered exploded as far as ideas go. The fact is that there is no sort of consciousness whatever, be it sensation, feeling, or idea, which does not directly and of itself tend to discharge into some motor effect. The motor effect need not always be an outward stroke of behavior. It may be only an alteration of the heart-beats or breathing, or a modification in the distribution of blood, such as blushing or turning pale; or else a secretion of tears, or what not. But, in any case, it is there in some shape when any consciousness is there; and a belief as fundamental as any in modern psychology is the belief at last attained that conscious processes of any sort, conscious processes merely as such, _must_ pass over into motion, open or concealed. The least complicated case of this tendency is the case of a mind possessed by only a single idea. If that idea be of an object connected with a native impulse, the impulse will immediately proceed to discharge. If it be the idea of a movement, the movement will occur. Such a case of action from a single idea has been distinguished from more complex cases by the name of 'ideo-motor' action, meaning action without express decision or effort. Most of the habitual actions to which we are trained are of this ideo-motor sort. We perceive, for instance, that the door is open, and we rise and shut it; we perceive some raisins in a dish before us, and extend our hand and carry one of them to our mouth without interrupting the conversation; or, when lying in bed, we suddenly think that we shall be late for breakfast, and instantly we get up with no particular exertion or resolve. All the ingrained procedures by which life is carried on--the manners and customs, dressing and undressing, acts of salutation, etc.--are executed in this semi-automatic way unhesitatingly and efficiently, the very outermost margin of consciousness seeming to be concerned in them, while the focus may be occupied with widely different things. But now turn to a more complicated case. Suppose two thoughts to be in the mind together, of which one, A, taken alone, would discharge itself in a certain action, but of which the other, B, suggests an action of a different sort, or a consequence of the first action calculated to make us shrink. The psychologists now say that the second idea, B, will probably arrest or _inhibit_ the motor effects of the first idea, A. One word, then, about 'inhibition' in general, to make this particular case more clear. One of the most interesting discoveries of physiology was the discovery, made simultaneously in France and Germany fifty years ago, that nerve currents do not only start muscles into action, but may check action already going on or keep it from occurring as it otherwise might. _Nerves of arrest_ were thus distinguished alongside of motor nerves. The pneumogastric nerve, for example, if stimulated, arrests the movements of the heart: the splanchnic nerve arrests those of the intestines, if already begun. But it soon appeared that this was too narrow a way of looking at the matter, and that arrest is not so much the specific function of certain nerves as a general function which any part of the nervous system may exert upon other parts under the appropriate conditions. The higher centres, for example, seem to exert a constant inhibitive influence on the excitability of those below. The reflexes of an animal with its hemispheres wholly or in part removed become exaggerated. You all know that common reflex in dogs, whereby, if you scratch the animal's side, the corresponding hind leg will begin to make scratching movements, usually in the air. Now in dogs with mutilated hemispheres this scratching reflex is so incessant that, as Goltz first described them, the hair gets all worn off their sides. In idiots, the functions of the hemispheres being largely in abeyance, the lower impulses, not inhibited, as they would be in normal human beings, often express themselves in most odious ways. You know also how any higher emotional tendency will quench a lower one. Fear arrests appetite, maternal love annuls fear, respect checks sensuality, and the like; and in the more subtile manifestations of the moral life, whenever an ideal stirring is suddenly quickened into intensity, it is as if the whole scale of values of our motives changed its equilibrium. The force of old temptations vanishes, and what a moment ago was impossible is now not only possible, but easy, because of their inhibition. This has been well called the 'expulsive power of the higher emotion.' It is easy to apply this notion of inhibition to the case of our ideational processes. I am lying in bed, for example, and think it is time to get up; but alongside of this thought there is present to my mind a realization of the extreme coldness of the morning and the pleasantness of the warm bed. In such a situation the motor consequences of the first idea are blocked; and I may remain for half an hour or more with the two ideas oscillating before me in a kind of deadlock, which is what we call the state of hesitation or deliberation. In a case like this the deliberation can be resolved and the decision reached in either of two ways:-- (1) I may forget for a moment the thermometric conditions, and then the idea of getting up will immediately discharge into act: I shall suddenly find that I have got up--or (2) Still mindful of the freezing temperature, the thought of the duty of rising may become so pungent that it determines action in spite of inhibition. In the latter case, I have a sense of energetic moral effort, and consider that I have done a virtuous act. All cases of wilful action properly so called, of choice after hesitation and deliberation, may be conceived after one of these latter patterns. So you see that volition, in the narrower sense, takes place only when there are a number of conflicting systems of ideas, and depends on our having a complex field of consciousness. The interesting thing to note is the extreme delicacy of the inhibitive machinery. A strong and urgent motor idea in the focus may be neutralized and made inoperative by the presence of the very faintest contradictory idea in the margin. For instance, I hold out my forefinger, and with closed eyes try to realize as vividly as possible that I hold a revolver in my hand and am pulling the trigger. I can even now fairly feel my finger quivering with the tendency to contract; and, if it were hitched to a recording apparatus, it would certainly betray its state of tension by registering incipient movements. Yet it does not actually crook, and the movement of pulling the trigger is not performed. Why not? Simply because, all concentrated though I am upon the idea of the movement, I nevertheless also realize the total conditions of the experiment, and in the back of my mind, so to speak, or in its fringe and margin, have the simultaneous idea that the movement is not to take place. The mere presence of that marginal intention, without effort, urgency, or emphasis, or any special reinforcement from my attention, suffices to the inhibitive effect. And this is why so few of the ideas that flit through our minds do, in point of fact, produce their motor consequences. Life would be a curse and a care for us if every fleeting fancy were to do so. Abstractly, the law of ideo-motor action is true; but in the concrete our fields of consciousness are always so complex that the inhibiting margin keeps the centre inoperative most of the time. In all this, you see, I speak as if ideas by their mere presence or absence determined behavior, and as if between the ideas themselves on the one hand and the conduct on the other there were no room for any third intermediate principle of activity, like that called 'the will.' If you are struck by the materialistic or fatalistic doctrines which seem to follow this conception, I beg you to suspend your judgment for a moment, as I shall soon have something more to say about the matter. But, meanwhile yielding one's self to the mechanical conception of the psychophysical organism, nothing is easier than to indulge in a picture of the fatalistic character of human life. Man's conduct appears as the mere resultant of all his various impulsions and inhibitions. One object, by its presence, makes us act: another object checks our action. Feelings aroused and ideas suggested by objects sway us one way and another: emotions complicate the game by their mutual inhibitive effects, the higher abolishing the lower or perhaps being itself swept away. The life in all this becomes prudential and moral; but the psychologic agents in the drama may be described, you see, as nothing but the 'ideas' themselves,--ideas for the whole system of which what we call the 'soul' or character' or 'will' of the person is nothing but a collective name. As Hume said, the ideas are themselves the actors, the stage, the theatre, the spectators, and the play. This is the so-called 'associationist' psychology, brought down to its radical expression: it is useless to ignore its power as a conception. Like all conceptions, when they become clear and lively enough, this conception has a strong tendency to impose itself upon belief; and psychologists trained on biological lines usually adopt it as the last word of science on the subject. No one can have an adequate notion of modern psychological theory unless he has at some time apprehended this view in the full force of its simplicity. Let us humor it for a while, for it has advantages in the way of exposition. _Voluntary action, then, is at all times a resultant of the compounding of our impulsions with our inhibitions._ From this it immediately follows that there will be two types of will, in one of which impulsions will predominate, in the other inhibitions. We may speak of them, if you like, as the precipitate and the obstructed will, respectively. When fully pronounced, they are familiar to everybody. The extreme example of the precipitate will is the maniac: his ideas discharge into action so rapidly, his associative processes are so extravagantly lively, that inhibitions have no time to arrive, and he says and does whatever pops into his head without a moment of hesitation. Certain melancholiacs furnish the extreme example of the over-inhibited type. Their minds are cramped in a fixed emotion of fear or helplessness, their ideas confined to the one thought that for them life is impossible. So they show a condition of perfect 'abulia,' or inability to will or act. They cannot change their posture or speech or execute the simplest command. The different races of men show different temperaments in this regard. The Southern races are commonly accounted the more impulsive and precipitate: the English race, especially our New England branch of it, is supposed to be all sicklied over with repressive forms of self-consciousness, and condemned to express itself through a jungle of scruples and checks. The highest form of character, however, abstractly considered, must be full of scruples and inhibitions. But action, in such a character, far from being paralyzed, will succeed in energetically keeping on its way, sometimes overpowering the resistances, sometimes steering along the line where they lie thinnest. Just as our extensor muscles act most truly when a simultaneous contraction of the flexors guides and steadies them; so the mind of him whose fields of consciousness are complex, and who, with the reasons for the action, sees the reasons against it, and yet, instead of being palsied, acts in the way that takes the whole field into consideration,--so, I say, is such a mind the ideal sort of mind that we should seek to reproduce in our pupils. Purely impulsive action, or action that proceeds to extremities regardless of consequences, on the other hand, is the easiest action in the world, and the lowest in type. Any one can show energy, when made quite reckless. An Oriental despot requires but little ability: as long as he lives, he succeeds, for he has absolutely his own way; and, when the world can no longer endure the horror of him, he is assassinated. But not to proceed immediately to extremities, to be still able to act energetically under an array of inhibitions,--that indeed is rare and difficult. Cavour, when urged to proclaim martial law in 1859, refused to do so, saying: "Any one can govern in that way. I will be constitutional." Your parliamentary rulers, your Lincoln, your Gladstone, are the strongest type of man, because they accomplish results under the most intricate possible conditions. We think of Napoleon Bonaparte as a colossal monster of will-power, and truly enough he was so. But, from the point of view of the psychological machinery, it would be hard to say whether he or Gladstone was the larger volitional quantity; for Napoleon disregarded all the usual inhibitions, and Gladstone, passionate as he was, scrupulously considered them in his statesmanship. A familiar example of the paralyzing power of scruples is the inhibitive effect of conscientiousness upon conversation. Nowhere does conversation seem to have flourished as brilliantly as in France during the last century. But, if we read old French memoirs, we see how many brakes of scrupulosity which tie our tongues to-day were then removed. Where mendacity, treachery, obscenity, and malignity find unhampered expression, talk can be brilliant indeed. But its flame waxes dim where the mind is stitched all over with conscientious fear of violating the moral and social proprieties. The teacher often is confronted in the schoolroom with an abnormal type of will, which we may call the 'balky will.' Certain children, if they do not succeed in doing a thing immediately, remain completely inhibited in regard to it: it becomes literally impossible for them to understand it if it be an intellectual problem, or to do it if it be an outward operation, as long as this particular inhibited condition lasts. Such children are usually treated as sinful, and are punished; or else the teacher pits his or her will against the child's will, considering that the latter must be 'broken.' "Break your child's will, in order that it may not perish," wrote John Wesley. "Break its will as soon as it can speak plainly--or even before it can speak at all. It should be forced to do as it is told, even if you have to whip it ten times running. Break its will, in order that its soul may live." Such will-breaking is always a scene with a great deal of nervous wear and tear on both sides, a bad state of feeling left behind it, and the victory not always with the would-be will-breaker. When a situation of the kind is once fairly developed, and the child is all tense and excited inwardly, nineteen times out of twenty it is best for the teacher to apperceive the case as one of neural pathology rather than as one of moral culpability. So long as the inhibiting sense of impossibility remains in the child's mind, he will continue unable to get beyond the obstacle. The aim of the teacher should then be to make him simply forget. Drop the subject for the time, divert the mind to something else: then, leading the pupil back by some circuitous line of association, spring it on him again before he has time to recognize it, and as likely as not he will go over it now without any difficulty. It is in no other way that we overcome balkiness in a horse: we divert his attention, do something to his nose or ear, lead him round in a circle, and thus get him over a place where flogging would only have made him more invincible. A tactful teacher will never let these strained situations come up at all. You perceive now, my friends, what your general or abstract duty is as teachers. Although you have to generate in your pupils a large stock of ideas, any one of which may be inhibitory, yet you must also see to it that no habitual hesitancy or paralysis of the will ensues, and that the pupil still retains his power of vigorous action. Psychology can state your problem in these terms, but you see how impotent she is to furnish the elements of its practical solution. When all is said and done, and your best efforts are made, it will probably remain true that the result will depend more on a certain native tone or temper in the pupil's psychological constitution than on anything else. Some persons appear to have a naturally poor focalization of the field of consciousness; and in such persons actions hang slack, and inhibitions seem to exert peculiarly easy sway. But let us now close in a little more closely on this matter of the education of the will. Your task is to build up a _character_ in your pupils; and a character, as I have so often said, consists in an organized set of habits of reaction. Now of what do such habits of reaction themselves consist? They consist of tendencies to act characteristically when certain ideas possess us, and to refrain characteristically when possessed by other ideas. Our volitional habits depend, then, first, on what the stock of ideas is which we have; and, second, on the habitual coupling of the several ideas with action or inaction respectively. How is it when an alternative is presented to you for choice, and you are uncertain what you ought to do? You first hesitate, and then you deliberate. And in what does your deliberation consist? It consists in trying to apperceive the ease successively by a number of different ideas, which seem to fit it more or less, until at last you hit on one which seems to fit it exactly. If that be an idea which is a customary forerunner of action in you, which enters into one of your maxims of positive behavior, your hesitation ceases, and you act immediately. If, on the other hand, it be an idea which carries inaction as its habitual result, if it ally itself with _prohibition_, then you unhesitatingly refrain. The problem is, you see, to find the right idea or conception for the case. This search for the right conception may take days or weeks. I spoke as if the action were easy when the conception once is found. Often it is so, but it may be otherwise; and, when it is otherwise, we find ourselves at the very centre of a moral situation, into which I should now like you to look with me a little nearer. The proper conception, the true head of classification, may be hard to attain; or it may be one with which we have contracted no settled habits of action. Or, again, the action to which it would prompt may be dangerous and difficult; or else inaction may appear deadly cold and negative when our impulsive feeling is hot. In either of these latter cases it is hard to hold the right idea steadily enough before the attention to let it exert its adequate effects. Whether it be stimulative or inhibitive, it is _too reasonable_ for us; and the more instinctive passional propensity then tends to extrude it from our consideration. We shy away from the thought of it. It twinkles and goes out the moment it appears in the margin of our consciousness; and we need a resolute effort of voluntary attention to drag it into the focus of the field, and to keep it there long enough for its associative and motor effects to be exerted. Every one knows only too well how the mind flinches from looking at considerations hostile to the reigning mood of feeling. Once brought, however, in this way to the centre of the field of consciousness, and held there, the reasonable idea will exert these effects inevitably; for the laws of connection between our consciousness and our nervous system provide for the action then taking place. Our moral effort, properly so called, terminates in our holding fast to the appropriate idea. If, then, you are asked, "_In what does a moral act consist_ when reduced to its simplest and most elementary form?" you can make only one reply. You can say that _it consists in the effort of attention by which we hold fast to an idea_ which but for that effort of attention would be driven out of the mind by the other psychological tendencies that are there. _To think_, in short, is the secret of will, just as it is the secret of memory. This comes out very clearly in the kind of excuse which we most frequently hear from persons who find themselves confronted by the sinfulness or harmfulness of some part of their behavior. "I never _thought_," they say. "I never _thought_ how mean the action was, I never _thought_ of these abominable consequences." And what do we retort when they say this? We say: "Why _didn't_ you think? What were you there for but to think?" And we read them a moral lecture on their irreflectiveness. The hackneyed example of moral deliberation is the case of an habitual drunkard under temptation. He has made a resolve to reform, but he is now solicited again by the bottle. His moral triumph or failure literally consists in his finding the right _name_ for the case. If he says that it is a case of not wasting good liquor already poured out, or a case of not being churlish and unsociable when in the midst of friends, or a case of learning something at last about a brand of whiskey which he never met before, or a case of celebrating a public holiday, or a case of stimulating himself to a more energetic resolve in favor of abstinence than any he has ever yet made, then he is lost. His choice of the wrong name seals his doom. But if, in spite of all the plausible good names with which his thirsty fancy so copiously furnishes him, he unwaveringly clings to the truer bad name, and apperceives the case as that of "being a drunkard, being a drunkard, being a drunkard," his feet are planted on the road to salvation. He saves himself by thinking rightly. Thus are your pupils to be saved: first, by the stock of ideas with which you furnish them; second, by the amount of voluntary attention that they can exert in holding to the right ones, however unpalatable; and, third, by the several habits of acting definitely on these latter to which they have been successfully trained. In all this the power of voluntarily attending is the point of the whole procedure. Just as a balance turns on its knife-edges, so on it our moral destiny turns. You remember that, when we were talking of the subject of attention, we discovered how much more intermittent and brief our acts of voluntary attention are than is commonly supposed. If they were all summed together, the time that they occupy would cover an almost incredibly small portion of our lives. But I also said, you will remember, that their brevity was not in proportion to their significance, and that I should return to the subject again. So I return to it now. It is not the mere size of a thing which, constitutes its importance: it is its position in the organism to which it belongs. Our acts of voluntary attention, brief and fitful as they are, are nevertheless momentous and critical, determining us, as they do, to higher or lower destinies. The exercise of voluntary attention in the schoolroom must therefore be counted one of the most important points of training that take place there; and the first-rate teacher, by the keenness of the remoter interests which he is able to awaken, will provide abundant opportunities for its occurrence. I hope that you appreciate this now without any further explanation. I have been accused of holding up before you, in the course of these talks, a mechanical and even a materialistic view of the mind. I have called it an organism and a machine. I have spoken of its reaction on the environment as the essential thing about it; and I have referred this, either openly or implicitly, to the construction of the nervous system. I have, in consequence, received notes from some of you, begging me to be more explicit on this point; and to let you know frankly whether I am a complete materialist, or not. Now in these lectures I wish to be strictly practical and useful, and to keep free from all speculative complications. Nevertheless, I do not wish to leave any ambiguity about my own position; and I will therefore say, in order to avoid all misunderstanding, that in no sense do I count myself a materialist. I cannot see how such a thing as our consciousness can possibly be _produced_ by a nervous machinery, though I can perfectly well see how, if 'ideas' do accompany the workings of the machinery, the _order_ of the ideas might very well follow exactly the _order_ of the machine's operations. Our habitual associations of ideas, trains of thought, and sequences of action, might thus be consequences of the succession of currents in our nervous systems. And the possible stock of ideas which a man's free spirit would have to choose from might depend exclusively on the native and acquired powers of his brain. If this were all, we might indeed adopt the fatalist conception which I sketched for you but a short while ago. Our ideas would be determined by brain currents, and these by purely mechanical laws. But, after what we have just seen,--namely, the part played by voluntary attention in volition,--a belief in free will and purely spiritual causation is still open to us. The duration and amount of this attention _seem_ within certain limits indeterminate. We _feel_ as if we could make it really more or less, and as if our free action in this regard were a genuine critical point in nature,--a point on which our destiny and that of others might hinge. The whole question of free will concentrates itself, then, at this same small point: "Is or is not the appearance of indetermination at this point an illusion?" It is plain that such a question can be decided only by general analogies, and not by accurate observations. The free-willist believes the appearance to be a reality: the determinist believes that it is an illusion. I myself hold with the free-willists,--not because I cannot conceive the fatalist theory clearly, or because I fail to understand its plausibility, but simply because, if free will _were_ true, it would be absurd to have the belief in it fatally forced on our acceptance. Considering the inner fitness of things, one would rather think that the very first act of a will endowed with freedom should be to sustain the belief in the freedom itself. I accordingly believe freely in my freedom; I do so with the best of scientific consciences, knowing that the predetermination of the amount of my effort of attention can never receive objective proof, and hoping that, whether you follow my example in this respect or not, it will at least make you see that such psychological and psychophysical theories as I hold do not necessarily force a man to become a fatalist or a materialist. Let me say one more final word now about the will, and therewith conclude both that important subject and these lectures. There are two types of will. There are also two types of inhibition. We may call them inhibition by repression or by negation, and inhibition by substitution, respectively. The difference between them is that, in the case of inhibition by repression, both the inhibited idea and the inhibiting idea, the impulsive idea and the idea that negates it, remain along with each other in consciousness, producing a certain inward strain or tension there: whereas, in inhibition by substitution, the inhibiting idea supersedes altogether the idea which it inhibits, and the latter quickly vanishes from the field. For instance, your pupils are wandering in mind, are listening to a sound outside the window, which presently grows interesting enough to claim all their attention. You can call the latter back again by bellowing at them not to listen to those sounds, but to keep their minds on their books or on what you are saying. And, by thus keeping them conscious that your eye is sternly on them, you may produce a good effect. But it will be a wasteful effect and an inferior effect; for the moment you relax your supervision the attractive disturbance, always there soliciting their curiosity, will overpower them, and they will be just as they were before: whereas, if, without saying anything about the street disturbances, you open a counter-attraction by starting some very interesting talk or demonstration yourself, they will altogether forget the distracting incident, and without any effort follow you along. There are many interests that can never be inhibited by the way of negation. To a man in love, for example, it is literally impossible, by any effort of will, to annul his passion. But let 'some new planet swim into his ken,' and the former idol will immediately cease to engross his mind. It is clear that in general we ought, whenever we can, to employ the method of inhibition by substitution. He whose life is based upon the word 'no,' who tells the truth because a lie is wicked, and who has constantly to grapple with his envious and cowardly and mean propensities, is in an inferior situation in every respect to what he would be if the love of truth and magnanimity positively possessed him from the outset, and he felt no inferior temptations. Your born gentleman is certainly, for this world's purposes, a more valuable being than your "Crump, with his grunting resistance to his native devils," even though in God's sight the latter may, as the Catholic theologians say, be rolling up great stores of 'merit.' Spinoza long ago wrote in his Ethics that anything that a man can avoid under the notion that it is bad he may also avoid under the notion that something else is good. He who habitually acts _sub specie mali_, under the negative notion, the notion of the bad, is called a slave by Spinoza. To him who acts habitually under the notion of good he gives the name of freeman. See to it now, I beg you, that you make freemen of your pupils by habituating them to act, whenever possible, under the notion of a good. Get them habitually to tell the truth, not so much through showing them the wickedness of lying as by arousing their enthusiasm for honor and veracity. Wean them from their native cruelty by imparting to them some of your own positive sympathy with an animal's inner springs of joy. And, in the lessons which you may be legally obliged to conduct upon the bad effects of alcohol, lay less stress than the books do on the drunkard's stomach, kidneys, nerves, and social miseries, and more on the blessings of having an organism kept in lifelong possession of its full youthful elasticity by a sweet, sound blood, to which stimulants and narcotics are unknown, and to which the morning sun and air and dew will daily come as sufficiently powerful intoxicants. I have now ended these talks. If to some of you the things I have said seem obvious or trivial, it is possible that they may appear less so when, in the course of a year or two, you find yourselves noticing and apperceiving events in the schoolroom a little differently, in consequence of some of the conceptions I have tried to make more clear. I cannot but think that to apperceive your pupil as a little sensitive, impulsive, associative, and reactive organism, partly fated and partly free, will lead to a better intelligence of all his ways. Understand him, then, as such a subtle little piece of machinery. And if, in addition, you can also see him _sub specie boni_, and love him as well, you will be in the best possible position for becoming perfect teachers. #TALKS TO STUDENTS# I. THE GOSPEL OF RELAXATION I wish in the following hour to take certain psychological doctrines and show their practical applications to mental hygiene,--to the hygiene of our American life more particularly. Our people, especially in academic circles, are turning towards psychology nowadays with great expectations; and, if psychology is to justify them, it must be by showing fruits in the pedagogic and therapeutic lines. The reader may possibly have heard of a peculiar theory of the emotions, commonly referred to in psychological literature as the Lange-James theory. According to this theory, our emotions are mainly due to those organic stirrings that are aroused in us in a reflex way by the stimulus of the exciting object or situation. An emotion of fear, for example, or surprise, is not a direct effect of the object's presence on the mind, but an effect of that still earlier effect, the bodily commotion which the object suddenly excites; so that, were this bodily commotion suppressed, we should not so much _feel_ fear as call the situation fearful; we should not feel surprise, but coldly recognize that the object was indeed astonishing. One enthusiast has even gone so far as to say that when we feel sorry it is because we weep, when we feel afraid it is because we run away, and not conversely. Some of you may perhaps be acquainted with the paradoxical formula. Now, whatever exaggeration may possibly lurk in this account of our emotions (and I doubt myself whether the exaggeration be very great), it is certain that the main core of it is true, and that the mere giving way to tears, for example, or to the outward expression of an anger-fit, will result for the moment in making the inner grief or anger more acutely felt. There is, accordingly, no better known or more generally useful precept in the moral training of youth, or in one's personal self-discipline, than that which bids us pay primary attention to what we do and express, and not to care too much for what we feel. If we only check a cowardly impulse in time, for example, or if we only _don't_ strike the blow or rip out with the complaining or insulting word that we shall regret as long as we live, our feelings themselves will presently be the calmer and better, with no particular guidance from us on their own account. Action seems to follow feeling, but really action and feeling go together; and by regulating the action, which is under the more direct control of the will, we can indirectly regulate the feeling, which is not. Thus the sovereign voluntary path to cheerfulness, if our spontaneous cheerfulness be lost, is to sit up cheerfully, to look round cheerfully, and to act and speak as if cheerfulness were already there. If such conduct does not make you soon feel cheerful, nothing else on that occasion can. So to feel brave, act as if we _were_ brave, use all our will to that end, and a courage-fit will very likely replace the fit of fear. Again, in order to feel kindly toward a person to whom we have been inimical, the only way is more or less deliberately to smile, to make sympathetic inquiries, and to force ourselves to say genial things. One hearty laugh together will bring enemies into a closer communion of heart than hours spent on both sides in inward wrestling with the mental demon of uncharitable feeling. To wrestle with a bad feeling only pins our attention on it, and keeps it still fastened in the mind: whereas, if we act as if from some better feeling, the old bad feeling soon folds its tent like an Arab, and silently steals away. The best manuals of religious devotion accordingly reiterate the maxim that we must let our feelings go, and pay no regard to them whatever. In an admirable and widely successful little book called 'The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life,' by Mrs. Hannah Whitall Smith, I find this lesson on almost every page. _Act_ faithfully, and you really have faith, no matter how cold and even how dubious you may feel. "It is your purpose God looks at," writes Mrs. Smith, "not your feelings about that purpose; and your purpose, or will, is therefore the only thing you need attend to.... Let your emotions come or let them go, just as God pleases, and make no account of them either way.... They really have nothing to do with the matter. They are not the indicators of your spiritual state, but are merely the indicators of your temperament or of your present physical condition." But you all know these facts already, so I need no longer press them on your attention. From our acts and from our attitudes ceaseless inpouring currents of sensation come, which help to determine from moment to moment what our inner states shall be: that is a fundamental law of psychology which I will therefore proceed to assume. * * * * * A Viennese neurologist of considerable reputation has recently written about the _Binnenleben_, as he terms it, or buried life of human beings. No doctor, this writer says, can get into really profitable relations with a nervous patient until he gets some sense of what the patient's _Binnenleben_ is, of the sort of unuttered inner atmosphere in which his consciousness dwells alone with the secrets of its prison-house. This inner personal tone is what we can't communicate or describe articulately to others; but the wraith and ghost of it, so to speak, are often what our friends and intimates feel as our most characteristic quality. In the unhealthy-minded, apart from all sorts of old regrets, ambitions checked by shames and aspirations obstructed by timidities, it consists mainly of bodily discomforts not distinctly localized by the sufferer, but breeding a general self-mistrust and sense that things are not as they should be with him. Half the thirst for alcohol that exists in the world exists simply because alcohol acts as a temporary anæsthetic and effacer to all these morbid feelings that never ought to be in a human being at all. In the healthy-minded, on the contrary, there are no fears or shames to discover; and the sensations that pour in from the organism only help to swell the general vital sense of security and readiness for anything that may turn up. Consider, for example, the effects of a well-toned _motor-apparatus_, nervous and muscular, on our general personal self-consciousness, the sense of elasticity and efficiency that results. They tell us that in Norway the life of the women has lately been entirely revolutionized by the new order of muscular feelings with which the use of the _ski_, or long snow-shoes, as a sport for both sexes, has made the women acquainted. Fifteen years ago the Norwegian women were even more than the women of other lands votaries of the old-fashioned ideal of femininity, 'the domestic angel,' the 'gentle and refining influence' sort of thing. Now these sedentary fireside tabby-cats of Norway have been trained, they say, by the snow-shoes into lithe and audacious creatures, for whom no night is too dark or height too giddy, and who are not only saying good-bye to the traditional feminine pallor and delicacy of constitution, but actually taking the lead in every educational and social reform. I cannot but think that the tennis and tramping and skating habits and the bicycle-craze which are so rapidly extending among our dear sisters and daughters in this country are going also to lead to a sounder and heartier moral tone, which will send its tonic breath through all our American life. I hope that here in America more and more the ideal of the well-trained and vigorous body will be maintained neck by neck with that of the well-trained and vigorous mind as the two coequal halves of the higher education for men and women alike. The strength of the British Empire lies in the strength of character of the individual Englishman, taken all alone by himself. And that strength, I am persuaded, is perennially nourished and kept up by nothing so much as by the national worship, in which all classes meet, of athletic outdoor life and sport. I recollect, years ago, reading a certain work by an American doctor on hygiene and the laws of life and the type of future humanity. I have forgotten its author's name and its title, but I remember well an awful prophecy that it contained about the future of our muscular system. Human perfection, the writer said, means ability to cope with the environment; but the environment will more and more require mental power from us, and less and less will ask for bare brute strength. Wars will cease, machines will do all our heavy work, man will become more and more a mere director of nature's energies, and less and less an exerter of energy on his own account. So that, if the _homo sapiens_ of the future can only digest his food and think, what need will he have of well-developed muscles at all? And why, pursued this writer, should we not even now be satisfied with a more delicate and intellectual type of beauty than that which pleased our ancestors? Nay, I have heard a fanciful friend make a still further advance in this 'new-man' direction. With our future food, he says, itself prepared in liquid form from the chemical elements of the atmosphere, pepsinated or half-digested in advance, and sucked up through a glass tube from a tin can, what need shall we have of teeth, or stomachs even? They may go, along with our muscles and our physical courage, while, challenging ever more and more our proper admiration, will grow the gigantic domes of our crania, arching over our spectacled eyes, and animating our flexible little lips to those floods of learned and ingenious talk which will constitute our most congenial occupation. I am sure that your flesh creeps at this apocalyptic vision. Mine certainly did so; and I cannot believe that our muscular vigor will ever be a superfluity. Even if the day ever dawns in which it will not be needed for fighting the old heavy battles against Nature, it will still always be needed to furnish the background of sanity, serenity, and cheerfulness to life, to give moral elasticity to our disposition, to round off the wiry edge of our fretfulness, and make us good-humored and easy of approach. Weakness is too apt to be what the doctors call irritable weakness. And that blessed internal peace and confidence, that _acquiescentia in seipso_, as Spinoza used to call it, that wells up from every part of the body of a muscularly well-trained human being, and soaks the indwelling soul of him with satisfaction, is, quite apart from every consideration of its mechanical utility, an element of spiritual hygiene of supreme significance. And now let me go a step deeper into mental hygiene, and try to enlist your insight and sympathy in a cause which I believe is one of paramount patriotic importance to us Yankees. Many years ago a Scottish medical man, Dr. Clouston, a mad-doctor as they call him there, or what we should call an asylum physician (the most eminent one in Scotland), visited this country, and said something that has remained in my memory ever since. "You Americans," he said, "wear too much expression on your faces. You are living like an army with all its reserves engaged in action. The duller countenances of the British population betoken a better scheme of life. They suggest stores of reserved nervous force to fall back upon, if any occasion should arise that requires it. This inexcitability, this presence at all times of power not used, I regard," continued Dr. Clouston, "as the great safeguard of our British people. The other thing in you gives me a sense of insecurity, and you ought somehow to tone yourselves down. You really do carry too much expression, you take too intensely the trivial moments of life." Now Dr. Clouston is a trained reader of the secrets of the soul as expressed upon the countenance, and the observation of his which I quote seems to me to mean a great deal. And all Americans who stay in Europe long enough to get accustomed to the spirit that reigns and expresses itself there, so unexcitable as compared with ours, make a similar observation when they return to their native shores. They find a wild-eyed look upon their compatriots' faces, either of too desperate eagerness and anxiety or of too intense responsiveness and good-will. It is hard to say whether the men or the women show it most. It is true that we do not all feel about it as Dr. Clouston felt. Many of us, far from deploring it, admire it. We say: "What intelligence it shows! How different from the stolid cheeks, the codfish eyes, the slow, inanimate demeanor we have been seeing in the British Isles!" Intensity, rapidity, vivacity of appearance, are indeed with us something of a nationally accepted ideal; and the medical notion of 'irritable weakness' is not the first thing suggested by them to our mind, as it was to Dr. Clouston's. In a weekly paper not very long ago I remember reading a story in which, after describing the beauty and interest of the heroine's personality, the author summed up her charms by saying that to all who looked upon her an impression as of 'bottled lightning' was irresistibly conveyed. Bottled lightning, in truth, is one of our American ideals, even of a young girl's character! Now it is most ungracious, and it may seem to some persons unpatriotic, to criticise in public the physical peculiarities of one's own people, of one's own family, so to speak. Besides, it may be said, and said with justice, that there are plenty of bottled-lightning temperaments in other countries, and plenty of phlegmatic temperaments here; and that, when all is said and done, the more or less of tension about which I am making such a fuss is a very small item in the sum total of a nation's life, and not worth solemn treatment at a time when agreeable rather than disagreeable things should be talked about. Well, in one sense the more or less of tension in our faces and in our unused muscles is a small thing: not much mechanical work is done by these contractions. But it is not always the material size of a thing that measures its importance: often it is its place and function. One of the most philosophical remarks I ever heard made was by an unlettered workman who was doing some repairs at my house many years ago. "There is very little difference between one man and another," he said, "when you go to the bottom of it. But what little there is, is very important." And the remark certainly applies to this case. The general over-contraction may be small when estimated in foot-pounds, but its importance is immense on account of its _effects on the over-contracted person's spiritual life_. This follows as a necessary consequence from the theory of our emotions to which I made reference at the beginning of this article. For by the sensations that so incessantly pour in from the over-tense excited body the over-tense and excited habit of mind is kept up; and the sultry, threatening, exhausting, thunderous inner atmosphere never quite clears away. If you never wholly give yourself up to the chair you sit in, but always keep your leg- and body-muscles half contracted for a rise; if you breathe eighteen or nineteen instead of sixteen times a minute, and never quite breathe out at that,--what mental mood _can_ you be in but one of inner panting and expectancy, and how can the future and its worries possibly forsake your mind? On the other hand, how can they gain admission to your mind if your brow be unruffled, your respiration calm and complete, and your muscles all relaxed? Now what is the cause of this absence of repose, this bottled-lightning quality in us Americans? The explanation of it that is usually given is that it comes from the extreme dryness of our climate and the acrobatic performances of our thermometer, coupled with the extraordinary progressiveness of our life, the hard work, the railroad speed, the rapid success, and all the other things we know so well by heart. Well, our climate is certainly exciting, but hardly more so than that of many parts of Europe, where nevertheless no bottled-lightning girls are found. And the work done and the pace of life are as extreme an every great capital of Europe as they are here. To me both of these pretended causes are utterly insufficient to explain the facts. To explain them, we must go not to physical geography, but to psychology and sociology. The latest chapter both in sociology and in psychology to be developed in a manner that approaches adequacy is the chapter on the imitative impulse. First Bagehot, then Tarde, then Royce and Baldwin here, have shown that invention and imitation, taken together, form, one may say, the entire warp and woof of human life, in so far as it is social. The American over-tension and jerkiness and breathlessness and intensity and agony of expression are primarily social, and only secondarily physiological, phenomena. They are _bad habits_, nothing more or less, bred of custom and example, born of the imitation of bad models and the cultivation of false personal ideals. How are idioms acquired, how do local peculiarities of phrase and accent come about? Through an accidental example set by some one, which struck the ears of others, and was quoted and copied till at last every one in the locality chimed in. Just so it is with national tricks of vocalization or intonation, with national manners, fashions of movement and gesture, and habitual expressions of face. We, here in America, through following a succession of pattern-setters whom it is now impossible to trace, and through influencing each other in a bad direction, have at last settled down collectively into what, for better or worse, is our own characteristic national type,--a type with the production of which, so far as these habits go, the climate and conditions have had practically nothing at all to do. This type, which we have thus reached by our imitativeness, we now have fixed upon us, for better or worse. Now no type can be _wholly_ disadvantageous; but, so far as our type follows the bottled-lightning fashion, it cannot be wholly good. Dr. Clouston was certainly right in thinking that eagerness, breathlessness, and anxiety are not signs of strength: they are signs of weakness and of bad co-ordination. The even forehead, the slab-like cheek, the codfish eye, may be less interesting for the moment; but they are more promising signs than intense expression is of what we may expect of their possessor in the long run. Your dull, unhurried worker gets over a great deal of ground, because he never goes backward or breaks down. Your intense, convulsive worker breaks down and has bad moods so often that you never know where he may be when you most need his help,--he may be having one of his 'bad days.' We say that so many of our fellow-countrymen collapse, and have to be sent abroad to rest their nerves, because they work so hard. I suspect that this is an immense mistake. I suspect that neither the nature nor the amount of our work is accountable for the frequency and severity of our breakdowns, but that their cause lies rather in those absurd feelings of hurry and having no time, in that breathlessness and tension, that anxiety of feature and that solicitude for results, that lack of inner harmony and ease, in short, by which with us the work is so apt to be accompanied, and from which a European who should do the same work would nine times out of ten be free. These perfectly wanton and unnecessary tricks of inner attitude and outer manner in us, caught from the social atmosphere, kept up by tradition, and idealized by many as the admirable way of life, are the last straws that break the American camel's back, the final overflowers of our measure of wear and tear and fatigue. The voice, for example, in a surprisingly large number of us has a tired and plaintive sound. Some of us are really tired (for I do not mean absolutely to deny that our climate has a tiring quality); but far more of us are not tired at all, or would not be tired at all unless we had got into a wretched trick of feeling tired, by following the prevalent habits of vocalization and expression. And if talking high and tired, and living excitedly and hurriedly, would only enable us to _do_ more by the way, even while breaking us down in the end, it would be different. There would be some compensation, some excuse, for going on so. But the exact reverse is the case. It is your relaxed and easy worker, who is in no hurry, and quite thoughtless most of the while of consequences, who is your efficient worker; and tension and anxiety, and present and future, all mixed up together in our mind at once, are the surest drags upon steady progress and hindrances to our success. My colleague, Professor Münsterberg, an excellent observer, who came here recently, has written some notes on America to German papers. He says in substance that the appearance of unusual energy in America is superficial and illusory, being really due to nothing but the habits of jerkiness and bad co-ordination for which we have to thank the defective training of our people. I think myself that it is high time for old legends and traditional opinions to be changed; and that, if any one should begin to write about Yankee inefficiency and feebleness, and inability to do anything with time except to waste it, he would have a very pretty paradoxical little thesis to sustain, with a great many facts to quote, and a great deal of experience to appeal to in its proof. Well, my friends, if our dear American character is weakened by all this over-tension,--and I think, whatever reserves you may make, that you will agree as to the main facts,--where does the remedy lie? It lies, of course, where lay the origins of the disease. If a vicious fashion and taste are to blame for the thing, the fashion and taste must be changed. And, though it is no small thing to inoculate seventy millions of people with new standards, yet, if there is to be any relief, that will have to be done. We must change ourselves from a race that admires jerk and snap for their own sakes, and looks down upon low voices and quiet ways as dull, to one that, on the contrary, has calm for its ideal, and for their own sakes loves harmony, dignity, and ease. So we go back to the psychology of imitation again. There is only one way to improve ourselves, and that is by some of us setting an example which the others may pick up and imitate till the new fashion spreads from east to west. Some of us are in more favorable positions than others to set new fashions. Some are much more striking personally and imitable, so to speak. But no living person is sunk so low as not to be imitated by somebody. Thackeray somewhere says of the Irish nation that there never was an Irishman so poor that he didn't have a still poorer Irishman living at his expense; and, surely, there is no human being whose example doesn't work contagiously in _some_ particular. The very idiots at our public institutions imitate each other's peculiarities. And, if you should individually achieve calmness and harmony in your own person, you may depend upon it that a wave of imitation will spread from you, as surely as the circles spread outward when a stone is dropped into a lake. Fortunately, we shall not have to be absolute pioneers. Even now in New York they have formed a society for the improvement of our national vocalization, and one perceives its machinations already in the shape of various newspaper paragraphs intended to stir up dissatisfaction with the awful thing that it is. And, better still than that, because more radical and general, is the gospel of relaxation, as one may call it, preached by Miss Annie Payson Call, of Boston, in her admirable little volume called 'Power through Repose,' a book that ought to be in the hands of every teacher and student in America of either sex. You need only be followers, then, on a path already opened up by others. But of one thing be confident: others still will follow you. And this brings me to one more application of psychology to practical life, to which I will call attention briefly, and then close. If one's example of easy and calm ways is to be effectively contagious, one feels by instinct that the less voluntarily one aims at getting imitated, the more unconscious one keeps in the matter, the more likely one is to succeed. _Become the imitable thing_, and you may then discharge your minds of all responsibility for the imitation. The laws of social nature will take care of that result. Now the psychological principle on which this precept reposes is a law of very deep and wide-spread importance in the conduct of our lives, and at the same time a law which we Americans most grievously neglect. Stated technically, the law is this: that _strong feeling about one's self tends to arrest the free association of one's objective ideas and motor processes_. We get the extreme example of this in the mental disease called melancholia. A melancholic patient is filled through and through with intensely painful emotion about himself. He is threatened, he is guilty, he is doomed, he is annihilated, he is lost. His mind is fixed as if in a cramp on these feelings of his own situation, and in all the books on insanity you may read that the usual varied flow of his thoughts has ceased. His associative processes, to use the technical phrase, are inhibited; and his ideas stand stock-still, shut up to their one monotonous function of reiterating inwardly the fact of the man's desperate estate. And this inhibitive influence is not due to the mere fact that his emotion is _painful_. Joyous emotions about the self also stop the association of our ideas. A saint in ecstasy is as motionless and irresponsive and one-idea'd as a melancholiac. And, without going as far as ecstatic saints, we know how in every one a great or sudden pleasure may paralyze the flow of thought. Ask young people returning from a party or a spectacle, and all excited about it, what it was. "Oh, it was _fine_! it was _fine_! it was _fine_!" is all the information you are likely to receive until the excitement has calmed down. Probably every one of my hearers has been made temporarily half-idiotic by some great success or piece of good fortune. "_Good_! GOOD! GOOD!" is all we can at such times say to ourselves until we smile at our own very foolishness. Now from all this we can draw an extremely practical conclusion. If, namely, we wish our trains of ideation and volition to be copious and varied and effective, we must form the habit of freeing them from the inhibitive influence of reflection upon them, of egoistic preoccupation about their results. Such a habit, like other habits, can be formed. Prudence and duty and self-regard, emotions of ambition and emotions of anxiety, have, of course, a needful part to play in our lives. But confine them as far as possible to the occasions when you are making your general resolutions and deciding on your plans of campaign, and keep them out of the details. When once a decision is reached and execution is the order of the day, dismiss absolutely all responsibility and care about the outcome. _Unclamp_, in a word, your intellectual and practical machinery, and let it run free; and the service it will do you will be twice as good. Who are the scholars who get 'rattled' in the recitation-room? Those who think of the possibilities of failure and feel the great importance of the act. Who are those who do recite well? Often those who are most indifferent. _Their_ ideas reel themselves out of their memory of their own accord. Why do we hear the complaint so often that social life in New England is either less rich and expressive or more fatiguing than it is in some other parts of the world? To what is the fact, if fact it be, due unless to the over-active conscience of the people, afraid of either saying something too trivial and obvious, or something insincere, or something unworthy of one's interlocutor, or something in some way or other not adequate to the occasion? How can conversation possibly steer itself through such a sea of responsibilities and inhibitions as this? On the other hand, conversation does flourish and society is refreshing, and neither dull on the one hand nor exhausting from its effort on the other, wherever people forget their scruples and take the brakes off their hearts, and let their tongues wag as automatically and irresponsibly as they will. They talk much in pedagogic circles to-day about the duty of the teacher to prepare for every lesson in advance. To some extent this is useful. But we Yankees are assuredly not those to whom such a general doctrine should be preached. We are only too careful as it is. The advice I should give to most teachers would be in the words of one who is herself an admirable teacher. Prepare yourself in the _subject so well that it shall be always on tap_: then in the classroom trust your spontaneity and fling away all further care. My advice to students, especially to girl-students, would be somewhat similar. Just as a bicycle-chain may be too tight, so may one's carefulness and conscientiousness be so tense as to hinder the running of one's mind. Take, for example, periods when there are many successive days of examination impending. One ounce of good nervous tone in an examination is worth many pounds of anxious study for it in advance. If you want really to do your best in an examination, fling away the book the day before, say to yourself, "I won't waste another minute on this miserable thing, and I don't care an iota whether I succeed or not." Say this sincerely, and feel it; and go out and play, or go to bed and sleep, and I am sure the results next day will encourage you to use the method permanently. I have heard this advice given to a student by Miss Call, whose book on muscular relaxation I quoted a moment ago. In her later book, entitled 'As a Matter of Course,' the gospel of moral relaxation, of dropping things from the mind, and not 'caring,' is preached with equal success. Not only our preachers, but our friends the theosophists and mind-curers of various religious sects are also harping on this string. And with the doctors, the Delsarteans, the various mind-curing sects, and such writers as Mr. Dresser, Prentice Mulford, Mr. Horace Fletcher, and Mr. Trine to help, and the whole band of schoolteachers and magazine-readers chiming in, it really looks as if a good start might be made in the direction of changing our American mental habit into something more indifferent and strong. Worry means always and invariably inhibition of associations and loss of effective power. Of course, the sovereign cure for worry is religious faith; and this, of course, you also know. The turbulent billows of the fretful surface leave the deep parts of the ocean undisturbed, and to him who has a hold on vaster and more permanent realities the hourly vicissitudes of his personal destiny seem relatively insignificant things. The really religious person is accordingly unshakable and full of equanimity, and calmly ready for any duty that the day may bring forth. This is charmingly illustrated by a little work with which I recently became acquainted, "The Practice of the Presence of God, the Best Ruler of a Holy Life, by Brother Lawrence, being Conversations and Letters of Nicholas Herman of Lorraine, Translated from the French."[C] I extract a few passages, the conversations being given in indirect discourse. Brother Lawrence was a Carmelite friar, converted at Paris in 1666. "He said that he had been footman to M. Fieubert, the Treasurer, and that he was a great awkward fellow, who broke everything. That he had desired to be received into a monastery, thinking that he would there be made to smart for his awkwardness and the faults he should commit, and so he should sacrifice to God his life, with its pleasures; but that God had disappointed him, he having met with nothing but satisfaction in that state...." [C] Fleming H. Revell Company, New York. "That he had long been troubled in mind from a certain belief that he should be damned; that all the men in the world could not have persuaded him to the contrary; but that he had thus reasoned with himself about it: _I engaged in a religious life only for the love of God, and I have endeavored to act only for Him; whatever becomes of me, whether I be lost or saved, I will always continue to act purely for the love of God. I shall have this good at least, that till death I shall have done all that is in me to love Him_.... That since then he had passed his life in perfect liberty and continual joy." "That when an occasion of practising some virtue offered, he addressed himself to God, saying, 'Lord, I cannot do this unless thou enablest me'; and that then he received strength more than sufficient. That, when he had failed in his duty, he only confessed his fault, saying to God, 'I shall never do otherwise, if You leave me to myself; it is You who must hinder my failing, and mend what is amiss.' That after this he gave himself no further uneasiness about it." "That he had been lately sent into Burgundy to buy the provision of wine for the society, which was a very unwelcome task for him, because he had no turn for business, and because he was lame, and could not go about the boat but by rolling himself over the casks. That, however, he gave himself no uneasiness about it, nor about the purchase of the wine. That he said to God, 'It was his business he was about,' and that he afterward found it well performed. That he had been sent into Auvergne, the year before, upon the same account; that he could not tell how the matter passed, but that it proved very well." "So, likewise, in his business in the kitchen (to which he had naturally a great aversion), having accustomed himself to do everything there for the love of God, and with prayer upon all occasions, for his grace to do his work well, he had found everything easy during fifteen years that he had been employed there." "That he was very well pleased with the post he was now in, but that he was as ready to quit that as the former, since he was always pleasing himself in every condition, by doing little things for the love of God." "That the goodness of God assured him he would not forsake him utterly, and that he would give him strength to bear whatever evil he permitted to happen to him; and, therefore, that he feared nothing, and had no occasion to consult with anybody about his state. That, when he had attempted to do it, he had always come away more perplexed." The simple-heartedness of the good Brother Lawrence, and the relaxation of all unnecessary solicitudes and anxieties in him, is a refreshing spectacle. * * * * * The need of feeling responsible all the livelong day has been preached long enough in our New England. Long enough exclusively, at any rate,--and long enough to the female sex. What our girl-students and woman-teachers most need nowadays is not the exacerbation, but rather the toning-down of their moral tensions. Even now I fear that some one of my fair hearers may be making an undying resolve to become strenuously relaxed, cost what it will, for the remainder of her life. It is needless to say that that is not the way to do it. The way to do it, paradoxical as it may seem, is genuinely not to care whether you are doing it or not. Then, possibly, by the grace of God, you may all at once find that you _are_ doing it, and, having learned what the trick feels like, you may (again by the grace of God) be enabled to go on. And that something like this may be the happy experience of all my hearers is, in closing, my most earnest wish. II. ON A CERTAIN BLINDNESS IN HUMAN BEINGS Our judgments concerning the worth of things, big or little, depend on the _feelings_ the things arouse in us. Where we judge a thing to be precious in consequence of the _idea_ we frame of it, this is only because the idea is itself associated already with a feeling. If we were radically feelingless, and if ideas were the only things our mind could entertain, we should lose all our likes and dislikes at a stroke, and be unable to point to any one situation or experience in life more valuable or significant than any other. Now the blindness in human beings, of which this discourse will treat, is the blindness with which we all are afflicted in regard to the feelings of creatures and people different from ourselves. We are practical beings, each of us with limited functions and duties to perform. Each is bound to feel intensely the importance of his own duties and the significance of the situations that call these forth. But this feeling is in each of us a vital secret, for sympathy with which we vainly look to others. The others are too much absorbed in their own vital secrets to take an interest in ours. Hence the stupidity and injustice of our opinions, so far as they deal with the significance of alien lives. Hence the falsity of our judgments, so far as they presume to decide in an absolute way on the value of other persons' conditions or ideals. Take our dogs and ourselves, connected as we are by a tie more intimate than most ties in this world; and yet, outside of that tie of friendly fondness, how insensible, each of us, to all that makes life significant for the other!--we to the rapture of bones under hedges, or smells of trees and lamp-posts, they to the delights of literature and art. As you sit reading the most moving romance you ever fell upon, what sort of a judge is your fox-terrier of your behavior? With all his good will toward you, the nature of your conduct is absolutely excluded from his comprehension. To sit there like a senseless statue, when you might be taking him to walk and throwing sticks for him to catch! What queer disease is this that comes over you every day, of holding things and staring at them like that for hours together, paralyzed of motion and vacant of all conscious life? The African savages came nearer the truth; but they, too, missed it, when they gathered wonderingly round one of our American travellers who, in the interior, had just come into possession of a stray copy of the New York _Commercial Advertiser_, and was devouring it column by column. When he got through, they offered him a high price for the mysterious object; and, being asked for what they wanted it, they said: "For an eye medicine,"--that being the only reason they could conceive of for the protracted bath which he had given his eyes upon its surface. The spectator's judgment is sure to miss the root of the matter, and to possess no truth. The subject judged knows a part of the world of reality which the judging spectator fails to see, knows more while the spectator knows less; and, wherever there is conflict of opinion and difference of vision, we are bound to believe that the truer side is the side that feels the more, and not the side that feels the less. Let me take a personal example of the kind that befalls each one of us daily:-- Some years ago, while journeying in the mountains of North Carolina, I passed by a large number of 'coves,' as they call them there, or heads of small valleys between the hills, which had been newly cleared and planted. The impression on my mind was one of unmitigated squalor. The settler had in every case cut down the more manageable trees, and left their charred stumps standing. The larger trees he had girdled and killed, in order that their foliage should not cast a shade. He had then built a log cabin, plastering its chinks with clay, and had set up a tall zigzag rail fence around the scene of his havoc, to keep the pigs and cattle out. Finally, he had irregularly planted the intervals between the stumps and trees with Indian corn, which grew among the chips; and there he dwelt with his wife and babes--an axe, a gun, a few utensils, and some pigs and chickens feeding in the woods, being the sum total of his possessions. The forest had been destroyed; and what had 'improved' it out of existence was hideous, a sort of ulcer, without a single element of artificial grace to make up for the loss of Nature's beauty. Ugly, indeed, seemed the life of the squatter, scudding, as the sailors say, under bare poles, beginning again away back where our first ancestors started, and by hardly a single item the better off for all the achievements of the intervening generations. Talk about going back to nature! I said to myself, oppressed by the dreariness, as I drove by. Talk of a country life for one's old age and for one's children! Never thus, with nothing but the bare ground and one's bare hands to fight the battle! Never, without the best spoils of culture woven in! The beauties and commodities gained by the centuries are sacred. They are our heritage and birthright. No modern person ought to be willing to live a day in such a state of rudimentariness and denudation. Then I said to the mountaineer who was driving me, "What sort of people are they who have to make these new clearings?" "All of us," he replied. "Why, we ain't happy here, unless we are getting one of these coves under cultivation." I instantly felt that I had been losing the whole inward significance of the situation. Because to me the clearings spoke of naught but denudation, I thought that to those whose sturdy arms and obedient axes had made them they could tell no other story. But, when _they_ looked on the hideous stumps, what they thought of was personal victory. The chips, the girdled trees, and the vile split rails spoke of honest sweat, persistent toil and final reward. The cabin was a warrant of safety for self and wife and babes. In short, the clearing, which to me was a mere ugly picture on the retina, was to them a symbol redolent with moral memories and sang a very pæan of duty, struggle, and success. I had been as blind to the peculiar ideality of their conditions as they certainly would also have been to the ideality of mine, had they had a peep at my strange indoor academic ways of life at Cambridge. * * * * * Wherever a process of life communicates an eagerness to him who lives it, there the life becomes genuinely significant. Sometimes the eagerness is more knit up with the motor activities, sometimes with the perceptions, sometimes with the imagination, sometimes with reflective thought. But, wherever it is found, there is the zest, the tingle, the excitement of reality; and there _is_ 'importance' in the only real and positive sense in which importance ever anywhere can be. Robert Louis Stevenson has illustrated this by a case, drawn from the sphere of the imagination, in an essay which I really think deserves to become immortal, both for the truth of its matter and the excellence of its form. "Toward the end of September," Stevenson writes, "when school-time was drawing near, and the nights were already black, we would begin to sally from our respective villas, each equipped with a tin bull's-eye lantern. The thing was so well known that it had worn a rut in the commerce of Great Britain; and the grocers, about the due time, began to garnish their windows with our particular brand of luminary. We wore them buckled to the waist upon a cricket belt, and over them, such was the rigor of the game, a buttoned top-coat. They smelled noisomely of blistered tin. They never burned aright, though they would always burn our fingers. Their use was naught, the pleasure of them merely fanciful, and yet a boy with a bull's-eye under his top-coat asked for nothing more. The fishermen used lanterns about their boats, and it was from them, I suppose, that we had got the hint; but theirs were not bull's-eyes, nor did we ever play at being fishermen. The police carried them at their belts, and we had plainly copied them in that; yet we did not pretend to be policemen. Burglars, indeed, we may have had some haunting thought of; and we had certainly an eye to past ages when lanterns were more common, and to certain story-books in which we had found them to figure very largely. But take it for all in all, the pleasure of the thing was substantive; and to be a boy with a bull's-eye under his top-coat was good enough for us. "When two of these asses met, there would be an anxious 'Have you got your lantern?' and a gratified 'Yes!' That was the shibboleth, and very needful, too; for, as it was the rule to keep our glory contained, none could recognize a lantern-bearer unless (like the polecat) by the smell. Four or five would sometimes climb into the belly of a ten-man lugger, with nothing but the thwarts above them,--for the cabin was usually locked,--or chose out some hollow of the links where the wind might whistle overhead. Then the coats would be unbuttoned, and the bull's-eyes discovered; and in the chequering glimmer, under the huge, windy hall of the night, and cheered by a rich steam of toasting tinware, these fortunate young gentlemen would crouch together in the cold sand of the links, or on the scaly bilges of the fishing-boat, and delight them with inappropriate talk. Woe is me that I cannot give some specimens!... But the talk was but a condiment, and these gatherings themselves only accidents in the career of the lantern-bearer. The essence of this bliss was to walk by yourself in the black night, the slide shut, the top-coat buttoned, not a ray escaping, whether to conduct your footsteps or to make your glory public,--a mere pillar of darkness in the dark; and all the while, deep down in the privacy of your fool's heart, to know you had a bull's-eye at your belt, and to exult and sing over the knowledge. "It is said that a poet has died young in the breast of the most stolid. It may be contended rather that a (somewhat minor) bard in almost every case survives, and is the spice of life to his possessor. Justice is not done to the versatility and the unplumbed childishness of man's imagination. His life from without may seem but a rude mound of mud: there will be some golden chamber at the heart of it, in which he dwells delighted; and for as dark as his pathway seems to the observer, he will have some kind of bull's-eye at his belt." ... "There is one fable that touches very near the quick of life,--the fable of the monk who passed into the woods, heard a bird break into song, hearkened for a trill or two, and found himself at his return a stranger at his convent gates; for he had been absent fifty years, and of all his comrades there survived but one to recognize him. It is not only in the woods that this enchanter carols, though perhaps he is native there. He sings in the most doleful places. The miser hears him and chuckles, and his days are moments. With no more apparatus than an evil-smelling lantern, I have evoked him on the naked links. All life that is not merely mechanical is spun out of two strands,--seeking for that bird and hearing him. And it is just this that makes life so hard to value, and the delight of each so incommunicable. And it is just a knowledge of this, and a remembrance of those fortunate hours in which the bird _has_ sung to _us_, that fills us with such wonder when we turn to the pages of the realist. There, to be sure, we find a picture of life in so far as it consists of mud and of old iron, cheap desires and cheap fears, that which we are ashamed to remember and that which we are careless whether we forget; but of the note of that time-devouring nightingale we hear no news." ... "Say that we came [in such a realistic romance] on some such business as that of my lantern-bearers on the links, and described the boys as very cold, spat upon by flurries of rain, and drearily surrounded, all of which they were; and their talk as silly and indecent, which it certainly was. To the eye of the observer they _are_ wet and cold and drearily surrounded; but ask themselves, and they are in the heaven of a recondite pleasure, the ground of which is an ill-smelling lantern." "For, to repeat, the ground of a man's joy is often hard to hit. It may hinge at times upon a mere accessory, like the lantern; it may reside in the mysterious inwards of psychology.... It has so little bond with externals ... that it may even touch them not, and the man's true life, for which he consents to live, lie together in the field of fancy.... In such a case the poetry runs underground. The observer (poor soul, with his documents!) is all abroad. For to look at the man is but to court deception. We shall see the trunk from which he draws his nourishment; but he himself is above and abroad in the green dome of foliage, hummed through by winds and nested in by nightingales. And the true realism were that of the poets, to climb after him like a squirrel, and catch some glimpse of the heaven in which he lives. And the true realism, always and everywhere, is that of the poets: to find out where joy resides, and give it a voice far beyond singing." "For to miss the joy is to miss all. In the joy of the actors lies the sense of any action. That is the explanation, that the excuse. To one who has not the secret of the lanterns the scene upon the links is meaningless. And hence the haunting and truly spectral unreality of realistic books.... In each we miss the personal poetry, the enchanted atmosphere, that rainbow work of fancy that clothes what is naked and seems to ennoble what is base; in each, life falls dead like dough, instead of soaring away like a balloon into the colors of the sunset; each is true, each inconceivable; for no man lives in the external truth among salts and acids, but in the warm, phantasmagoric chamber of his brain, with the painted windows and the storied wall."[D] [D] 'The Lantern-bearers,' in the volume entitled 'Across the Plains.' Abridged in the quotation. These paragraphs are the best thing I know in all Stevenson. "To miss the joy is to miss all." Indeed, it is. Yet we are but finite, and each one of us has some single specialized vocation of his own. And it seems as if energy in the service of its particular duties might be got only by hardening the heart toward everything unlike them. Our deadness toward all but one particular kind of joy would thus be the price we inevitably have to pay for being practical creatures. Only in some pitiful dreamer, some philosopher, poet, or romancer, or when the common practical man becomes a lover, does the hard externality give way, and a gleam of insight into the ejective world, as Clifford called it, the vast world of inner life beyond us, so different from that of outer seeming, illuminate our mind. Then the whole scheme of our customary values gets confounded, then our self is riven and its narrow interests fly to pieces, then a new centre and a new perspective must be found. The change is well described by my colleague, Josiah Royce:-- "What, then, is our neighbor? Thou hast regarded his thought, his feeling, as somehow different from thine. Thou hast said, 'A pain in him is not like a pain in me, but something far easier to bear.' He seems to thee a little less living than thou; his life is dim, it is cold, it is a pale fire beside thy own burning desires.... So, dimly and by instinct hast thou lived with thy neighbor, and hast known him not, being blind. Thou hast made [of him] a thing, no Self at all. Have done with this illusion, and simply try to learn the truth. Pain is pain, joy is joy, everywhere, even as in thee. In all the songs of the forest birds; in all the cries of the wounded and dying, struggling in the captor's power; in the boundless sea where the myriads of water-creatures strive and die; amid all the countless hordes of savage men; in all sickness and sorrow; in all exultation and hope, everywhere, from the lowest to the noblest, the same conscious, burning, wilful life is found, endlessly manifold as the forms of the living creatures, unquenchable as the fires of the sun, real as these impulses that even now throb in thine own little selfish heart. Lift up thy eyes, behold that life, and then turn away, and forget it as thou canst; but, if thou hast _known_ that, thou hast begun to know thy duty."[E] [E] The Religious Aspect of Philosophy, pp. 157-162 (abridged). * * * * * This higher vision of an inner significance in what, until then, we had realized only in the dead external way, often comes over a person suddenly; and, when it does so, it makes an epoch in his history. As Emerson says, there is a depth in those moments that constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other experiences. The passion of love will shake one like an explosion, or some act will awaken a remorseful compunction that hangs like a cloud over all one's later day. This mystic sense of hidden meaning starts upon us often from non-human natural things. I take this passage from 'Obermann,' a French novel that had some vogue in its day: "Paris, March 7.--It was dark and rather cold. I was gloomy, and walked because I had nothing to do. I passed by some flowers placed breast-high upon a wall. A jonquil in bloom was there. It is the strongest expression of desire: it was the first perfume of the year. I felt all the happiness destined for man. This unutterable harmony of souls, the phantom of the ideal world, arose in me complete. I never felt anything so great or so instantaneous. I know not what shape, what analogy, what secret of relation it was that made me see in this flower a limitless beauty.... I shall never enclose in a conception this power, this immensity that nothing will express; this form that nothing will contain; this ideal of a better world which one feels, but which it would seem that nature has not made."[F] [F] De Sénancour: Obermann, Lettre XXX. Wordsworth and Shelley are similarly full of this sense of a limitless significance in natural things. In Wordsworth it was a somewhat austere and moral significance,--a 'lonely cheer.' "To every natural form, rock, fruit, or flower, Even the loose stones that cover the highway, I gave a moral life: I saw them feel Or linked them to some feeling: the great mass Lay bedded in some quickening soul, and all That I beheld respired with inward meaning."[G] [G] The Prelude, Book III. "Authentic tidings of invisible things!" Just what this hidden presence in nature was, which Wordsworth so rapturously felt, and in the light of which he lived, tramping the hills for days together, the poet never could explain logically or in articulate conceptions. Yet to the reader who may himself have had gleaming moments of a similar sort the verses in which Wordsworth simply proclaims the fact of them come with a heart-satisfying authority:-- "Magnificent The morning rose, in memorable pomp, Glorious as ere I had beheld. In front The sea lay laughing at a distance; near The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds, Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light; And in the meadows and the lower grounds Was all the sweetness of a common dawn,-- Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds, And laborers going forth to till the fields." "Ah! need I say, dear Friend, that to the brim My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows Were then made for me; bond unknown to me Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly, A dedicated Spirit. On I walked, In thankful blessedness, which yet survives."[H] [H] The Prelude, Book IV. As Wordsworth walked, filled with his strange inner joy, responsive thus to the secret life of nature round about him, his rural neighbors, tightly and narrowly intent upon their own affairs, their crops and lambs and fences, must have thought him a very insignificant and foolish personage. It surely never occurred to any one of them to wonder what was going on inside of _him_ or what it might be worth. And yet that inner life of his carried the burden of a significance that has fed the souls of others, and fills them to this day with inner joy. Richard Jefferies has written a remarkable autobiographic document entitled The Story of my Heart. It tells, in many pages, of the rapture with which in youth the sense of the life of nature filled him. On a certain hill-top he says:-- "I was utterly alone with the sun and the earth. Lying down on the grass, I spoke in my soul to the earth, the sun, the air, and the distant sea, far beyond sight.... With all the intensity of feeling which exalted me, all the intense communion I held with the earth, the sun and sky, the stars hidden by the light, with the ocean,--in no manner can the thrilling depth of these feelings be written,--with these I prayed as if they were the keys of an instrument.... The great sun, burning with light, the strong earth,--dear earth,--the warm sky, the pure air, the thought of ocean, the inexpressible beauty of all filled me with a rapture, an ecstasy, an inflatus. With this inflatus, too, I prayed.... The prayer, this soul-emotion, was in itself, not for an object: it was a passion. I hid my face in the grass. I was wholly prostrated, I lost myself in the wrestle, I was rapt and carried away.... Had any shepherd accidentally seen me lying on the turf, he would only have thought I was resting a few minutes. I made no outward show. Who could have imagined the whirlwind of passion that was going on in me as I reclined there!"[I] [I] _Op. cit._, Boston, Roberts, 1883, pp. 5, 6. Surely, a worthless hour of life, when measured by the usual standards of commercial value. Yet in what other _kind_ of value can the preciousness of any hour, made precious by any standard, consist, if it consist not in feelings of excited significance like these, engendered in some one, by what the hour contains? Yet so blind and dead does the clamor of our own practical interests make us to all other things, that it seems almost as if it were necessary to become worthless as a practical being, if one is to hope to attain to any breadth of insight into the impersonal world of worths as such, to have any perception of life's meaning on a large objective scale. Only your mystic, your dreamer, or your insolvent tramp or loafer, can afford so sympathetic an occupation, an occupation which will change the usual standards of human value in the twinkling of an eye, giving to foolishness a place ahead of power, and laying low in a minute the distinctions which it takes a hard-working conventional man a lifetime to build up. You may be a prophet, at this rate; but you cannot be a worldly success. Walt Whitman, for instance, is accounted by many of us a contemporary prophet. He abolishes the usual human distinctions, brings all conventionalisms into solution, and loves and celebrates hardly any human attributes save those elementary ones common to all members of the race. For this he becomes a sort of ideal tramp, a rider on omnibus-tops and ferry-boats, and, considered either practically or academically, a worthless, unproductive being. His verses are but ejaculations--things mostly without subject or verb, a succession of interjections on an immense scale. He felt the human crowd as rapturously as Wordsworth felt the mountains, felt it as an overpoweringly significant presence, simply to absorb one's mind in which should be business sufficient and worthy to fill the days of a serious man. As he crosses Brooklyn ferry, this is what he feels:-- Flood-tide below me! I watch you, face to face; Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face to face. Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes! how curious you are to me! On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose; And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose. Others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross from shore to shore; Others will watch the run of the flood-tide; Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east; Others will see the islands large and small; Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high. A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them, Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring in of the flood-tide, the falling back to the sea of the ebb-tide. It avails not, neither time or place--distance avails not. Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt; Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd; Just as you are refresh'd by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh'd; Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet was hurried; Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the thick-stemmed pipes of steamboats, I looked. I too many and many a time cross'd the river, the sun half an hour high; I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls--I saw them high in the air, with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies, I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong shadow, I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south. Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at anchor, The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars; The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening; The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store-houses by the docks; On the neighboring shores, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high ... into the night, Casting their flicker of black ... into the clefts of streets. These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you.[J] [J] 'Crossing Brooklyn Ferry' (abridged). And so on, through the rest of a divinely beautiful poem. And, if you wish to see what this hoary loafer considered the most worthy way of profiting by life's heaven-sent opportunities, read the delicious volume of his letters to a young car-conductor who had become his friend:-- "NEW YORK, Oct. 9, 1868. "_Dear Pete_,--It is splendid here this forenoon--bright and cool. I was out early taking a short walk by the river only two squares from where I live.... Shall I tell you about [my life] just to fill up? I generally spend the forenoon in my room writing, etc., then take a bath fix up and go out about twelve and loafe somewhere or call on someone down town or on business, or perhaps if it is very pleasant and I feel like it ride a trip with some driver friend on Broadway from 23rd Street to Bowling Green, three miles each way. (Every day I find I have plenty to do, every hour is occupied with something.) You know it is a never ending amusement and study and recreation for me to ride a couple of hours on a pleasant afternoon on a Broadway stage in this way. You see everything as you pass, a sort of living, endless panorama--shops and splendid buildings and great windows: on the broad sidewalks crowds of women richly dressed continually passing, altogether different, superior in style and looks from any to be seen anywhere else--in fact a perfect stream of people--men too dressed in high style, and plenty of foreigners--and then in the streets the thick crowd of carriages, stages, carts, hotel and private coaches, and in fact all sorts of vehicles and many first class teams, mile after mile, and the splendor of such a great street and so many tall, ornamental, noble buildings many of them of white marble, and the gayety and motion on every side: you will not wonder how much attraction all this is on a fine day, to a great loafer like me, who enjoys so much seeing the busy world move by him, and exhibiting itself for his amusement, while he takes it easy and just looks on and observes."[K] [K] Calamus, Boston, 1897, pp. 41, 42. Truly a futile way of passing the time, some of you may say, and not altogether creditable to a grown-up man. And yet, from the deepest point of view, who knows the more of truth, and who knows the less,--Whitman on his omnibus-top, full of the inner joy with which the spectacle inspires him, or you, full of the disdain which the futility of his occupation excites? When your ordinary Brooklynite or New Yorker, leading a life replete with too much luxury, or tired and careworn about his personal affairs, crosses the ferry or goes up Broadway, _his_ fancy does not thus 'soar away into the colors of the sunset' as did Whitman's, nor does he inwardly realize at all the indisputable fact that this world never did anywhere or at any time contain more of essential divinity, or of eternal meaning, than is embodied in the fields of vision over which his eyes so carelessly pass. There is life; and there, a step away, is death. There is the only kind of beauty there ever was. There is the old human struggle and its fruits together. There is the text and the sermon, the real and the ideal in one. But to the jaded and unquickened eye it is all dead and common, pure vulgarism, flatness, and disgust. "Hech! it is a sad sight!" says Carlyle, walking at night with some one who appeals to him to note the splendor of the stars. And that very repetition of the scene to new generations of men in _secula seculorum_, that eternal recurrence of the common order, which so fills a Whitman with mystic satisfaction, is to a Schopenhauer, with the emotional anæsthesia, the feeling of 'awful inner emptiness' from out of which he views it all, the chief ingredient of the tedium it instils. What is life on the largest scale, he asks, but the same recurrent inanities, the same dog barking, the same fly buzzing, forevermore? Yet of the kind of fibre of which such inanities consist is the material woven of all the excitements, joys, and meanings that ever were, or ever shall be, in this world. To be rapt with satisfied attention, like Whitman, to the mere spectacle of the world's presence, is one way, and the most fundamental way, of confessing one's sense of its unfathomable significance and importance. But how can one attain to the feeling of the vital significance of an experience, if one have it not to begin with? There is no receipt which one can follow. Being a secret and a mystery, it often comes in mysteriously unexpected ways. It blossoms sometimes from out of the very grave wherein we imagined that our happiness was buried. Benvenuto Cellini, after a life all in the outer sunshine, made of adventures and artistic excitements, suddenly finds himself cast into a dungeon in the Castle of San Angelo. The place is horrible. Rats and wet and mould possess it. His leg is broken and his teeth fall out, apparently with scurvy. But his thoughts turn to God as they have never turned before. He gets a Bible, which he reads during the one hour in the twenty-four in which a wandering ray of daylight penetrates his cavern. He has religious visions. He sings psalms to himself, and composes hymns. And thinking, on the last day of July, of the festivities customary on the morrow in Rome, he says to himself: "All these past years I celebrated this holiday with the vanities of the world: from this year henceforward I will do it with the divinity of God. And then I said to myself, 'Oh, how much more happy I am for this present life of mine than for all those things remembered!'"[L] [L] Vita, lib. 2, chap. iv. But the great understander of these mysterious ebbs and flows is Tolstoï. They throb all through his novels. In his 'War and Peace,' the hero, Peter, is supposed to be the richest man in the Russian empire. During the French invasion he is taken prisoner, and dragged through much of the retreat. Cold, vermin, hunger, and every form of misery assail him, the result being a revelation to him of the real scale of life's values. "Here only, and for the first time, he appreciated, because he was deprived of it, the happiness of eating when he was hungry, of drinking when he was thirsty, of sleeping when he was sleepy, and of talking when he felt the desire to exchange some words.... Later in life he always recurred with joy to this month of captivity, and never failed to speak with enthusiasm of the powerful and ineffaceable sensations, and especially of the moral calm which he had experienced at this epoch. When at daybreak, on the morrow of his imprisonment, he saw [I abridge here Tolstoï's description] the mountains with their wooded slopes disappearing in the grayish mist; when he felt the cool breeze caress him; when he saw the light drive away the vapors, and the sun rise majestically behind the clouds and cupolas, and the crosses, the dew, the distance, the river, sparkle in the splendid, cheerful rays,--his heart overflowed with emotion. This emotion kept continually with him, and increased a hundred-fold as the difficulties of his situation grew graver.... He learnt that man is meant for happiness, and that this happiness is in him, in the satisfaction of the daily needs of existence, and that unhappiness is the fatal result, not of our need, but of our abundance.... When calm reigned in the camp, and the embers paled, and little by little went out, the full moon had reached the zenith. The woods and the fields roundabout lay clearly visible; and, beyond the inundation of light which filled them, the view plunged into the limitless horizon. Then Peter cast his eyes upon the firmament, filled at that hour with myriads of stars. 'All that is mine,' he thought. 'All that is in me, is me! And that is what they think they have taken prisoner! That is what they have shut up in a cabin!' So he smiled, and turned in to sleep among his comrades."[M] [M] La Guerre et la Paix, Paris, 1884, vol. iii. pp. 268, 275, 316. The occasion and the experience, then, are nothing. It all depends on the capacity of the soul to be grasped, to have its life-currents absorbed by what is given. "Crossing a bare common," says Emerson, "in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear." Life is always worth living, if one have such responsive sensibilities. But we of the highly educated classes (so called) have most of us got far, far away from Nature. We are trained to seek the choice, the rare, the exquisite exclusively, and to overlook the common. We are stuffed with abstract conceptions, and glib with verbalities and verbosities; and in the culture of these higher functions the peculiar sources of joy connected with our simpler functions often dry up, and we grow stone-blind and insensible to life's more elementary and general goods and joys. The remedy under such conditions is to descend to a more profound and primitive level. To be imprisoned or shipwrecked or forced into the army would permanently show the good of life to many an over-educated pessimist. Living in the open air and on the ground, the lop-sided beam of the balance slowly rises to the level line; and the over-sensibilities and insensibilities even themselves out. The good of all the artificial schemes and fevers fades and pales; and that of seeing, smelling, tasting, sleeping, and daring and doing with one's body, grows and grows. The savages and children of nature, to whom we deem ourselves so much superior, certainly are alive where we are often dead, along these lines; and, could they write as glibly as we do, they would read us impressive lectures on our impatience for improvement and on our blindness to the fundamental static goods of life. "Ah! my brother," said a chieftain to his white guest, "thou wilt never know the happiness of both thinking of nothing and doing nothing. This, next to sleep, is the most enchanting of all things. Thus we were before our birth, and thus we shall be after death. Thy people,... when they have finished reaping one field, they begin to plough another; and, if the day were not enough, I have seen them plough by moonlight. What is their life to ours,--the life that is as naught to them? Blind that they are, they lose it all! But we live in the present."[N] [N] Quoted by Lotze, Microcosmus, English translation, vol. ii. p. 240. The intense interest that life can assume when brought down to the non-thinking level, the level of pure sensorial perception, has been beautifully described by a man who _can_ write,--Mr. W.H. Hudson, in his volume, "Idle Days in Patagonia." "I spent the greater part of one winter," says this admirable author, "at a point on the Rio Negro, seventy or eighty miles from the sea." ... "It was my custom to go out every morning on horseback with my gun, and, followed by one dog, to ride away from the valley; and no sooner would I climb the terrace, and plunge into the gray, universal thicket, than I would find myself as completely alone as if five hundred instead of only five miles separated me from the valley and river. So wild and solitary and remote seemed that gray waste, stretching away into infinitude, a waste untrodden by man, and where the wild animals are so few that they have made no discoverable path in the wilderness of thorns.... Not once nor twice nor thrice, but day after day I returned to this solitude, going to it in the morning as if to attend a festival, and leaving it only when hunger and thirst and the westering sun compelled me. And yet I had no object in going,--no motive which could be put into words; for, although I carried a gun, there was nothing to shoot,--the shooting was all left behind in the valley.... Sometimes I would pass a whole day without seeing one mammal, and perhaps not more than a dozen birds of any size. The weather at that time was cheerless, generally with a gray film of cloud spread over the sky, and a bleak wind, often cold enough to make my bridle-hand quite numb.... At a slow pace, which would have seemed intolerable under other circumstances, I would ride about for hours together at a stretch. On arriving at a hill, I would slowly ride to its summit, and stand there to survey the prospect. On every side it stretched away in great undulations, wild and irregular. How gray it all was! Hardly less so near at hand than on the haze-wrapped horizon where the hills were dim and the outline obscured by distance. Descending from my outlook, I would take up my aimless wanderings again, and visit other elevations to gaze on the same landscape from another point; and so on for hours. And at noon I would dismount, and sit or lie on my folded poncho for an hour or longer. One day in these rambles I discovered a small grove composed of twenty or thirty trees, growing at a convenient distance apart, that had evidently been resorted to by a herd of deer or other wild animals. This grove was on a hill differing in shape from other hills in its neighborhood; and, after a time, I made a point of finding and using it as a resting-place every day at noon. I did not ask myself why I made choice of that one spot, sometimes going out of my way to sit there, instead of sitting down under any one of the millions of trees and bushes on any other hillside. I thought nothing about it, but acted unconsciously. Only afterward it seemed to me that, after having rested there once, each time I wished to rest again, the wish came associated with the image of that particular clump of trees, with polished stems and clean bed of sand beneath; and in a short time I formed a habit of returning, animal like, to repose at that same spot." "It was, perhaps, a mistake to say that I would sit down and rest, since I was never tired; and yet, without being tired, that noon-day pause, during which I sat for an hour without moving, was strangely grateful. All day there would be no sound, not even the rustling of a leaf. One day, while _listening_ to the silence, it occurred to my mind to wonder what the effect would be if I were to shout aloud. This seemed at the time a horrible suggestion, which almost made me shudder. But during those solitary days it was a rare thing for any thought to cross my mind. In the state of mind I was in, thought had become impossible. My state was one of _suspense_ and _watchfulness_; yet I had no expectation of meeting an adventure, and felt as free from apprehension as I feel now while sitting in a room in London. The state seemed familiar rather than strange, and accompanied by a strong feeling of elation; and I did not know that something had come between me and my intellect until I returned to my former self,--to thinking, and the old insipid existence [again]." "I had undoubtedly _gone back_; and that state of intense watchfulness or alertness, rather, with suspension of the higher intellectual faculties, represented the mental state of the pure savage. He thinks little, reasons little, having a surer guide in his [mere sensory perceptions]. He is in perfect harmony with nature, and is nearly on a level, mentally, with the wild animals he preys on, and which in their turn sometimes prey on him."[O] [O] _Op. cit._, pp. 210-222 (abridged). For the spectator, such hours as Mr. Hudson writes of form a mere tale of emptiness, in which nothing happens, nothing is gained, and there is nothing to describe. They are meaningless and vacant tracts of time. To him who feels their inner secret, they tingle with an importance that unutterably vouches for itself. I am sorry for the boy or girl, or man or woman, who has never been touched by the spell of this mysterious sensorial life, with its irrationality, if so you like to call it, but its vigilance and its supreme felicity. The holidays of life are its most vitally significant portions, because they are, or at least should be, covered with just this kind of magically irresponsible spell. * * * * * And now what is the result of all these considerations and quotations? It is negative in one sense, but positive in another. It absolutely forbids us to be forward in pronouncing on the meaninglessness of forms of existence other than our own; and it commands us to tolerate, respect, and indulge those whom we see harmlessly interested and happy in their own ways, however unintelligible these may be to us. Hands off: neither the whole of truth nor the whole of good is revealed to any single observer, although each observer gains a partial superiority of insight from the peculiar position in which he stands. Even prisons and sick-rooms have their special revelations. It is enough to ask of each of us that he should be faithful to his own opportunities and make the most of his own blessings, without presuming to regulate the rest of the vast field. III. WHAT MAKES A LIFE SIGNIFICANT In my previous talk, 'On a Certain Blindness,' I tried to make you feel how soaked and shot-through life is with values and meanings which we fail to realize because of our external and insensible point of view. The meanings are there for the others, but they are not there for us. There lies more than a mere interest of curious speculation in understanding this. It has the most tremendous practical importance. I wish that I could convince you of it as I feel it myself. It is the basis of all our tolerance, social, religious, and political. The forgetting of it lies at the root of every stupid and sanguinary mistake that rulers over subject-peoples make. The first thing to learn in intercourse with others is non-interference with their own peculiar ways of being happy, provided those ways do not assume to interfere by violence with ours. No one has insight into all the ideals. No one should presume to judge them off-hand. The pretension to dogmatize about them in each other is the root of most human injustices and cruelties, and the trait in human character most likely to make the angels weep. Every Jack sees in his own particular Jill charms and perfections to the enchantment of which we stolid onlookers are stone-cold. And which has the superior view of the absolute truth, he or we? Which has the more vital insight into the nature of Jill's existence, as a fact? Is he in excess, being in this matter a maniac? or are we in defect, being victims of a pathological anæsthesia as regards Jill's magical importance? Surely the latter; surely to Jack are the profounder truths revealed; surely poor Jill's palpitating little life-throbs _are_ among the wonders of creation, _are_ worthy of this sympathetic interest; and it is to our shame that the rest of us cannot feel like Jack. For Jack realizes Jill concretely, and we do not. He struggles toward a union with her inner life, divining her feelings, anticipating her desires, understanding her limits as manfully as he can, and yet inadequately, too; for he is also afflicted with some blindness, even here. Whilst we, dead clods that we are, do not even seek after these things, but are contented that that portion of eternal fact named Jill should be for us as if it were not. Jill, who knows her inner life, knows that Jack's way of taking it--so importantly--is the true and serious way; and she responds to the truth in him by taking him truly and seriously, too. May the ancient blindness never wrap its clouds about either of them again! Where would any of _us_ be, were there no one willing to know us as we really are or ready to repay us for _our_ insight by making recognizant return? We ought, all of us, to realize each other in this intense, pathetic, and important way. If you say that this is absurd, and that we cannot be in love with everyone at once, I merely point out to you that, as a matter of fact, certain persons do exist with an enormous capacity for friendship and for taking delight in other people's lives; and that such persons know more of truth than if their hearts were not so big. The vice of ordinary Jack and Jill affection is not its intensity, but its exclusions and its jealousies. Leave those out, and you see that the ideal I am holding up before you, however impracticable to-day, yet contains nothing intrinsically absurd. We have unquestionably a great cloud-bank of ancestral blindness weighing down upon us, only transiently riven here and there by fitful revelations of the truth. It is vain to hope for this state of things to alter much. Our inner secrets must remain for the most part impenetrable by others, for beings as essentially practical as we are are necessarily short of sight. But, if we cannot gain much positive insight into one another, cannot we at least use our sense of our own blindness to make us more cautious in going over the dark places? Cannot we escape some of those hideous ancestral intolerances and cruelties, and positive reversals of the truth? For the remainder of this hour I invite you to seek with me some principle to make our tolerance less chaotic. And, as I began my previous lecture by a personal reminiscence, I am going to ask your indulgence for a similar bit of egotism now. A few summers ago I spent a happy week at the famous Assembly Grounds on the borders of Chautauqua Lake. The moment one treads that sacred enclosure, one feels one's self in an atmosphere of success. Sobriety and industry, intelligence and goodness, orderliness and ideality, prosperity and cheerfulness, pervade the air. It is a serious and studious picnic on a gigantic scale. Here you have a town of many thousands of inhabitants, beautifully laid out in the forest and drained, and equipped with means for satisfying all the necessary lower and most of the superfluous higher wants of man. You have a first-class college in full blast. You have magnificent music--a chorus of seven hundred voices, with possibly the most perfect open-air auditorium in the world. You have every sort of athletic exercise from sailing, rowing, swimming, bicycling, to the ball-field and the more artificial doings which the gymnasium affords. You have kindergartens and model secondary schools. You have general religious services and special club-houses for the several sects. You have perpetually running soda-water fountains, and daily popular lectures by distinguished men. You have the best of company, and yet no effort. You have no zymotic diseases, no poverty, no drunkenness, no crime, no police. You have culture, you have kindness, you have cheapness, you have equality, you have the best fruits of what mankind has fought and bled and striven for tinder the name of civilization for centuries. You have, in short, a foretaste of what human society might be, were it all in the light, with no suffering and no dark corners. I went in curiosity for a day. I stayed for a week, held spell-bound by the charm and ease of everything, by the middle-class paradise, without a sin, without a victim, without a blot, without a tear. And yet what was my own astonishment, on emerging into the dark and wicked world again, to catch myself quite unexpectedly and involuntarily saying: "Ouf! what a relief! Now for something primordial and savage, even though it were as bad as an Armenian massacre, to set the balance straight again. This order is too tame, this culture too second-rate, this goodness too uninspiring. This human drama without a villain or a pang; this community so refined that ice-cream soda-water is the utmost offering it can make to the brute animal in man; this city simmering in the tepid lakeside sun; this atrocious harmlessness of all things,--I cannot abide with them. Let me take my chances again in the big outside worldly wilderness with all its sins and sufferings. There are the heights and depths, the precipices and the steep ideals, the gleams of the awful and the infinite; and there is more hope and help a thousand times than in this dead level and quintessence of every mediocrity." Such was the sudden right-about-face performed for me by my lawless fancy! There had been spread before me the realization--on a small, sample scale of course--of all the ideals for which our civilization has been striving: security, intelligence, humanity, and order; and here was the instinctive hostile reaction, not of the natural man, but of a so-called cultivated man upon such a Utopia. There seemed thus to be a self-contradiction and paradox somewhere, which I, as a professor drawing a full salary, was in duty bound to unravel and explain, if I could. So I meditated. And, first of all, I asked myself what the thing was that was so lacking in this Sabbatical city, and the lack of which kept one forever falling short of the higher sort of contentment. And I soon recognized that it was the element that gives to the wicked outer world all its moral style, expressiveness and picturesqueness,--the element of precipitousness, so to call it, of strength and strenuousness, intensity and danger. What excites and interests the looker-on at life, what the romances and the statues celebrate and the grim civic monuments remind us of, is the everlasting battle of the powers of light with those of darkness; with heroism, reduced to its bare chance, yet ever and anon snatching victory from the jaws of death. But in this unspeakable Chautauqua there was no potentiality of death in sight anywhere, and no point of the compass visible from which danger might possibly appear. The ideal was so completely victorious already that no sign of any previous battle remained, the place just resting on its oars. But what our human emotions seem to require is the sight of the struggle going on. The moment the fruits are being merely eaten, things become ignoble. Sweat and effort, human nature strained to its uttermost and on the rack, yet getting through alive, and then turning its back on its success to pursue another more rare and arduous still--this is the sort of thing the presence of which inspires us, and the reality of which it seems to be the function of all the higher forms of literature and fine art to bring home to us and suggest. At Chautauqua there were no racks, even in the place's historical museum; and no sweat, except possibly the gentle moisture on the brow of some lecturer, or on the sides of some player in the ball-field. Such absence of human nature _in extremis_ anywhere seemed, then, a sufficient explanation for Chautauqua's flatness and lack of zest. But was not this a paradox well calculated to fill one with dismay? It looks indeed, thought I, as if the romantic idealists with their pessimism about our civilization were, after all, quite right. An irremediable flatness is coming over the world. Bourgeoisie and mediocrity, church sociables and teachers' conventions, are taking the place of the old heights and depths and romantic chiaroscuro. And, to get human life in its wild intensity, we must in future turn more and more away from the actual, and forget it, if we can, in the romancer's or the poet's pages. The whole world, delightful and sinful as it may still appear for a moment to one just escaped from the Chautauquan enclosure, is nevertheless obeying more and more just those ideals that are sure to make of it in the end a mere Chautauqua Assembly on an enormous scale. _Was im Gesang soll leben muss im Leben untergehn_. Even now, in our own country, correctness, fairness, and compromise for every small advantage are crowding out all other qualities. The higher heroisms and the old rare flavors are passing out of life.[P] [P] This address was composed before the Cuban and Philippine wars. Such outbursts of the passion of mastery are, however, only episodes in a social process which in the long run seems everywhere tending toward the Chautauquan ideals. With these thoughts in my mind, I was speeding with the train toward Buffalo, when, near that city, the sight of a workman doing something on the dizzy edge of a sky-scaling iron construction brought me to my senses very suddenly. And now I perceived, by a flash of insight, that I had been steeping myself in pure ancestral blindness, and looking at life with the eyes of a remote spectator. Wishing for heroism and the spectacle of human nature on the rack, I had never noticed the great fields of heroism lying round about me, I had failed to see it present and alive. I could only think of it as dead and embalmed, labelled and costumed, as it is in the pages of romance. And yet there it was before me in the daily lives of the laboring classes. Not in clanging fights and desperate marches only is heroism to be looked for, but on every railway bridge and fire-proof building that is going up to-day. On freight-trains, on the decks of vessels, in cattle-yards and mines, on lumber-rafts, among the firemen and the policemen, the demand for courage is incessant; and the supply never fails. There, every day of the year somewhere, is human nature _in extremis_ for you. And wherever a scythe, an axe, a pick, or a shovel is wielded, you have it sweating and aching and with its powers of patient endurance racked to the utmost under the length of hours of the strain. As I awoke to all this unidealized heroic life around me, the scales seemed to fall from my eyes; and a wave of sympathy greater than anything I had ever before felt with the common life of common men began to fill my soul. It began to seem as if virtue with horny hands and dirty skin were the only virtue genuine and vital enough to take account of. Every other virtue poses; none is absolutely unconscious and simple, and unexpectant of decoration or recognition, like this. These are our soldiers, thought I, these our sustainers, these the very parents of our life. Many years ago, when in Vienna, I had had a similar feeling of awe and reverence in looking at the peasant-women, in from the country on their business at the market for the day. Old hags many of them were, dried and brown and wrinkled, kerchiefed and short-petticoated, with thick wool stockings on their bony shanks, stumping through the glittering thoroughfares, looking neither to the right nor the left, bent on duty, envying nothing, humble-hearted, remote;--and yet at bottom, when you came to think of it, bearing the whole fabric of the splendors and corruptions of that city on their laborious backs. For where would any of it have been without their unremitting, unrewarded labor in the fields? And so with us: not to our generals and poets, I thought, but to the Italian and Hungarian laborers in the Subway, rather, ought the monuments of gratitude and reverence of a city like Boston to be reared. * * * * * If any of you have been readers of Tolstoï, you will see that I passed into a vein of feeling similar to his, with its abhorrence of all that conventionally passes for distinguished, and its exclusive deification of the bravery, patience, kindliness, and dumbness of the unconscious natural man. Where now is _our_ Tolstoï, I said, to bring the truth of all this home to our American bosoms, fill us with a better insight, and wean us away from that spurious literary romanticism on which our wretched culture--as it calls itself--is fed? Divinity lies all about us, and culture is too hidebound to even suspect the fact. Could a Howells or a Kipling be enlisted in this mission? or are they still too deep in the ancestral blindness, and not humane enough for the inner joy and meaning of the laborer's existence to be really revealed? Must we wait for some one born and bred and living as a laborer himself, but who, by grace of Heaven, shall also find a literary voice? And there I rested on that day, with a sense of widening of vision, and with what it is surely fair to call an increase of religious insight into life. In God's eyes the differences of social position, of intellect, of culture, of cleanliness, of dress, which different men exhibit, and all the other rarities and exceptions on which they so fantastically pin their pride, must be so small as practically quite to vanish; and all that should remain is the common fact that here we are, a countless multitude of vessels of life, each of us pent in to peculiar difficulties, with which we must severally struggle by using whatever of fortitude and goodness we can summon up. The exercise of the courage, patience, and kindness, must be the significant portion of the whole business; and the distinctions of position can only be a manner of diversifying the phenomenal surface upon which these underground virtues may manifest their effects. At this rate, the deepest human life is everywhere, is eternal. And, if any human attributes exist only in particular individuals, they must belong to the mere trapping and decoration of the surface-show. Thus are men's lives levelled up as well as levelled down,--levelled up in their common inner meaning, levelled down in their outer gloriousness and show. Yet always, we must confess, this levelling insight tends to be obscured again; and always the ancestral blindness returns and wraps us up, so that we end once more by thinking that creation can be for no other purpose than to develop remarkable situations and conventional distinctions and merits. And then always some new leveller in the shape of a religious prophet has to arise--the Buddha, the Christ, or some Saint Francis, some Rousseau or Tolstoï--to redispel our blindness. Yet, little by little, there comes some stable gain; for the world does get more humane, and the religion of democracy tends toward permanent increase. This, as I said, became for a time my conviction, and gave me great content. I have put the matter into the form of a personal reminiscence, so that I might lead you into it more directly and completely, and so save time. But now I am going to discuss the rest of it with you in a more impersonal way. Tolstoï's levelling philosophy began long before he had the crisis of melancholy commemorated in that wonderful document of his entitled 'My Confession,' which led the way to his more specifically religious works. In his masterpiece 'War and Peace,'--assuredly the greatest of human novels,--the rôle of the spiritual hero is given to a poor little soldier named Karataïeff, so helpful, so cheerful, and so devout that, in spite of his ignorance and filthiness, the sight of him opens the heavens, which have been closed, to the mind of the principal character of the book; and his example evidently is meant by Tolstoï to let God into the world again for the reader. Poor little Karataïeff is taken prisoner by the French; and, when too exhausted by hardship and fever to march, is shot as other prisoners were in the famous retreat from Moscow. The last view one gets of him is his little figure leaning against a white birch-tree, and uncomplainingly awaiting the end. "The more," writes Tolstoï in the work 'My Confession,' "the more I examined the life of these laboring folks, the more persuaded I became that they veritably have faith, and get from it alone the sense and the possibility of life.... Contrariwise to those of our own class, who protest against destiny and grow indignant at its rigor, these people receive maladies and misfortunes without revolt, without opposition, and with a firm and tranquil confidence that all had to be like that, could not be otherwise, and that it is all right so.... The more we live by our intellect, the less we understand the meaning of life. We see only a cruel jest in suffering and death, whereas these people live, suffer, and draw near to death with tranquillity, and oftener than not with joy.... There are enormous multitudes of them happy with the most perfect happiness, although deprived of what for us is the sole good of life. Those who understand life's meaning, and know how to live and die thus, are to be counted not by twos, threes, tens, but by hundreds, thousands, millions. They labor quietly, endure privations and pains, live and die, and throughout everything see the good without seeing the vanity. I had to love these people. The more I entered into their life, the more I loved them; and the more it became possible for me to live, too. It came about not only that the life of our society, of the learned and of the rich, disgusted me--more than that, it lost all semblance of meaning in my eyes. All our actions, our deliberations, our sciences, our arts, all appeared to me with a new significance. I understood that these things might be charming pastimes, but that one need seek in them no depth, whereas the life of the hard-working populace, of that multitude of human beings who really contribute to existence, appeared to me in its true light. I understood that there veritably is life, that the meaning which life there receives is the truth; and I accepted it."[Q] [Q] My Confession, X. (condensed). In a similar way does Stevenson appeal to our piety toward the elemental virtue of mankind. "What a wonderful thing," he writes,[R] "is this Man! How surprising are his attributes! Poor soul, here for so little, cast among so many hardships, savagely surrounded, savagely descended, irremediably condemned to prey upon his fellow-lives,--who should have blamed him, had he been of a piece with his destiny and a being merely barbarous? ... [Yet] it matters not where we look, under what climate we observe him, in what stage of society, in what depth of ignorance, burdened with what erroneous morality; in ships at sea, a man inured to hardship and vile pleasures, his brightest hope a fiddle in a tavern, and a bedizened trull who sells herself to rob him, and he, for all that, simple, innocent, cheerful, kindly like a child, constant to toil, brave to drown, for others;... in the slums of cities, moving among indifferent millions to mechanical employments, without hope of change in the future, with scarce a pleasure in the present, and yet true to his virtues, honest up to his lights, kind to his neighbors, tempted perhaps in vain by the bright gin-palace,... often repaying the world's scorn with service, often standing firm upon a scruple;... everywhere some virtue cherished or affected, everywhere some decency of thought and courage, everywhere the ensign of man's ineffectual goodness,--ah! if I could show you this! If I could show you these men and women all the world over, in every stage of history, under every abuse of error, under every circumstance of failure, without hope, without help, without thanks, still obscurely fighting the lost fight of virtue, still clinging to some rag of honor, the poor jewel of their souls." [R] Across the Plains: "Pulvis et Umbra" (abridged). All this is as true as it is splendid, and terribly do we need our Tolstoïs and Stevensons to keep our sense for it alive. Yet you remember the Irishman who, when asked, "Is not one man as good as another?" replied, "Yes; and a great deal better, too!" Similarly (it seems to me) does Tolstoï overcorrect our social prejudices, when he makes his love of the peasant so exclusive, and hardens his heart toward the educated man as absolutely as he does. Grant that at Chautauqua there was little moral effort, little sweat or muscular strain in view. Still, deep down in the souls of the participants we may be sure that something of the sort was hid, some inner stress, some vital virtue not found wanting when required. And, after all, the question recurs, and forces itself upon us, Is it so certain that the surroundings and circumstances of the virtue do make so little difference in the importance of the result? Is the functional utility, the worth to the universe of a certain definite amount of courage, kindliness, and patience, no greater if the possessor of these virtues is in an educated situation, working out far-reaching tasks, than if he be an illiterate nobody, hewing wood and drawing water, just to keep himself alive? Tolstoï's philosophy, deeply enlightening though it certainly is, remains a false abstraction. It savors too much of that Oriental pessimism and nihilism of his, which declares the whole phenomenal world and its facts and their distinctions to be a cunning fraud. * * * * * A mere bare fraud is just what our Western common sense will never believe the phenomenal world to be. It admits fully that the inner joys and virtues are the _essential_ part of life's business, but it is sure that _some_ positive part is also played by the adjuncts of the show. If it is idiotic in romanticism to recognize the heroic only when it sees it labelled and dressed-up in books, it is really just as idiotic to see it only in the dirty boots and sweaty shirt of some one in the fields. It is with us really under every disguise: at Chautauqua; here in your college; in the stock-yards and on the freight-trains; and in the czar of Russia's court. But, instinctively, we make a combination of two things in judging the total significance of a human being. We feel it to be some sort of a product (if such a product only could be calculated) of his inner virtue _and_ his outer place,--neither singly taken, but both conjoined. If the outer differences had no meaning for life, why indeed should all this immense variety of them exist? They _must_ be significant elements of the world as well. Just test Tolstoï's deification of the mere manual laborer by the facts. This is what Mr. Walter Wyckoff, after working as an unskilled laborer in the demolition of some buildings at West Point, writes of the spiritual condition of the class of men to which he temporarily chose to belong:-- "The salient features of our condition are plain enough. We are grown men, and are without a trade. In the labor-market we stand ready to sell to the highest bidder our mere muscular strength for so many hours each day. We are thus in the lowest grade of labor. And, selling our muscular strength in the open market for what it will bring, we sell it under peculiar conditions. It is all the capital that we have. We have no reserve means of subsistence, and cannot, therefore, stand off for a 'reserve price.' We sell under the necessity of satisfying imminent hunger. Broadly speaking, we must sell our labor or starve; and, as hunger is a matter of a few hours, and we have no other way of meeting this need, we must sell at once for what the market offers for our labor. "Our employer is buying labor in a dear market, and he will certainly get from us as much work as he can at the price. The gang-boss is secured for this purpose, and thoroughly does he know his business. He has sole command of us. He never saw us before, and he will discharge us all when the débris is cleared away. In the mean time he must get from us, if he can, the utmost of physical labor which we, individually and collectively, are capable of. If he should drive some of us to exhaustion, and we should not be able to continue at work, he would not be the loser; for the market would soon supply him with others to take our places. "We are ignorant men, but so much we clearly see,--that we have sold our labor where we could sell it dearest, and our employer has bought it where he could buy it cheapest. He has paid high, and he must get all the labor that he can; and, by a strong instinct which possesses us, we shall part with as little as we can. From work like ours there seems to us to have been eliminated every element which constitutes the nobility of labor. We feel no personal pride in its progress, and no community of interest with our employer. There is none of the joy of responsibility, none of the sense of achievement, only the dull monotony of grinding toil, with the longing for the signal to quit work, and for our wages at the end. "And being what we are, the dregs of the labor-market, and having no certainty of permanent employment, and no organization among ourselves, we must expect to work under the watchful eye of a gang-boss, and be driven, like the wage-slaves that we are, through our tasks. "All this is to tell us, in effect, that our lives are hard, barren, hopeless lives." And such hard, barren, hopeless lives, surely, are not lives in which one ought to be willing permanently to remain. And why is this so? Is it because they are so dirty? Well, Nansen grew a great deal dirtier on his polar expedition; and we think none the worse of his life for that. Is it the insensibility? Our soldiers have to grow vastly more insensible, and we extol them to the skies. Is it the poverty? Poverty has been reckoned the crowning beauty of many a heroic career. Is it the slavery to a task, the loss of finer pleasures? Such slavery and loss are of the very essence of the higher fortitude, and are always counted to its credit,--read the records of missionary devotion all over the world. It is not any one of these things, then, taken by itself,--no, nor all of them together,--that make such a life undesirable. A man might in truth live like an unskilled laborer, and do the work of one, and yet count as one of the noblest of God's creatures. Quite possibly there were some such persons in the gang that our author describes; but the current of their souls ran underground; and he was too steeped in the ancestral blindness to discern it. If there _were_ any such morally exceptional individuals, however, what made them different from the rest? It can only have been this,--that their souls worked and endured in obedience to some inner _ideal_, while their comrades were not actuated by anything worthy of that name. These ideals of other lives are among those secrets that we can almost never penetrate, although something about the man may often tell us when they are there. In Mr. Wyckoff's own case we know exactly what the self-imposed ideal was. Partly he had stumped himself, as the boys say, to carry through a strenuous achievement; but mainly he wished to enlarge his sympathetic insight into fellow-lives. For this his sweat and toil acquire a certain heroic significance, and make us accord to him exceptional esteem. But it is easy to imagine his fellows with various other ideals. To say nothing of wives and babies, one may have been a convert of the Salvation Army, and had a nightingale singing of expiation and forgiveness in his heart all the while he labored. Or there might have been an apostle like Tolstoï himself, or his compatriot Bondareff, in the gang, voluntarily embracing labor as their religious mission. Class-loyalty was undoubtedly an ideal with many. And who knows how much of that higher manliness of poverty, of which Phillips Brooks has spoken so penetratingly, was or was not present in that gang? "A rugged, barren land," says Phillips Brooks, "is poverty to live in,--a land where I am thankful very often if I can get a berry or a root to eat. But living in it really, letting it bear witness to me of itself, not dishonoring it all the time by judging it after the standard of the other lands, gradually there come out its qualities. Behold! no land like this barren and naked land of poverty could show the moral geology of the world. See how the hard ribs ... stand out strong and solid. No life like poverty could so get one to the heart of things and make men know their meaning, could so let us feel life and the world with all the soft cushions stripped off and thrown away.... Poverty makes men come very near each other, and recognize each other's human hearts; and poverty, highest and best of all, demands and cries out for faith in God.... I know how superficial and unfeeling, how like mere mockery, words in praise of poverty may seem.... But I am sure that the poor man's dignity and freedom, his self-respect and energy, depend upon his cordial knowledge that his poverty is a true region and kind of life, with its own chances of character, its own springs of happiness and revelations of God. Let him resist the characterlessness which often goes with being poor. Let him insist on respecting the condition where he lives. Let him learn to love it, so that by and by, [if] he grows rich, he shall go out of the low door of the old familiar poverty with a true pang of regret, and with a true honor for the narrow home in which he has lived so long."[S] [S] Sermons. 5th Series, New York, 1893, pp. 166, 167. The barrenness and ignobleness of the more usual laborer's life consist in the fact that it is moved by no such ideal inner springs. The backache, the long hours, the danger, are patiently endured--for what? To gain a quid of tobacco, a glass of beer, a cup of coffee, a meal, and a bed, and to begin again the next day and shirk as much as one can. This really is why we raise no monument to the laborers in the Subway, even though they be our conscripts, and even though after a fashion our city is indeed based upon their patient hearts and enduring backs and shoulders. And this is why we do raise monuments to our soldiers, whose outward conditions were even brutaller still. The soldiers are supposed to have followed an ideal, and the laborers are supposed to have followed none. You see, my friends, how the plot now thickens; and how strangely the complexities of this wonderful human nature of ours begin to develop under our hands. We have seen the blindness and deadness to each other which are our natural inheritance; and, in spite of them, we have been led to acknowledge an inner meaning which passeth show, and which may be present in the lives of others where we least descry it. And now we are led to say that such inner meaning can be _complete_ and _valid for us also_, only when the inner joy, courage, and endurance are joined with an ideal. * * * * * But what, exactly, do we mean by an ideal? Can we give no definite account of such a word? To a certain extent we can. An ideal, for instance, must be something intellectually conceived, something of which we are not unconscious, if we have it; and it must carry with it that sort of outlook, uplift, and brightness that go with all intellectual facts. Secondly, there must be _novelty_ in an ideal,--novelty at least for him whom the ideal grasps. Sodden routine is incompatible with ideality, although what is sodden routine for one person may be ideal novelty for another. This shows that there is nothing absolutely ideal: ideals are relative to the lives that entertain them. To keep out of the gutter is for us here no part of consciousness at all, yet for many of our brethren it is the most legitimately engrossing of ideals. Now, taken nakedly, abstractly, and immediately, you see that mere ideals are the cheapest things in life. Everybody has them in some shape or other, personal or general, sound or mistaken, low or high; and the most worthless sentimentalists and dreamers, drunkards, shirks and verse-makers, who never show a grain of effort, courage, or endurance, possibly have them on the most copious scale. Education, enlarging as it does our horizon and perspective, is a means of multiplying our ideals, of bringing new ones into view. And your college professor, with a starched shirt and spectacles, would, if a stock of ideals were all alone by itself enough to render a life significant, be the most absolutely and deeply significant of men. Tolstoï would be completely blind in despising him for a prig, a pedant and a parody; and all our new insight into the divinity of muscular labor would be altogether off the track of truth. But such consequences as this, you instinctively feel, are erroneous. The more ideals a man has, the more contemptible, on the whole, do you continue to deem him, if the matter ends there for him, and if none of the laboring man's virtues are called into action on his part,--no courage shown, no privations undergone, no dirt or scars contracted in the attempt to get them realized. It is quite obvious that something more than the mere possession of ideals is required to make a life significant in any sense that claims the spectator's admiration. Inner joy, to be sure, it may _have_, with its ideals; but that is its own private sentimental matter. To extort from us, outsiders as we are, with our own ideals to look after, the tribute of our grudging recognition, it must back its ideal visions with what the laborers have, the sterner stuff of manly virtue; it must multiply their sentimental surface by the dimension of the active will, if we are to have _depth_, if we are to have anything cubical and solid in the way of character. The significance of a human life for communicable and publicly recognizable purposes is thus the offspring of a marriage of two different parents, either of whom alone is barren. The ideals taken by themselves give no reality, the virtues by themselves no novelty. And let the orientalists and pessimists say what they will, the thing of deepest--or, at any rate, of comparatively deepest--significance in life does seem to be its character of _progress_, or that strange union of reality with ideal novelty which it continues from one moment to another to present. To recognize ideal novelty is the task of what we call intelligence. Not every one's intelligence can tell which novelties are ideal. For many the ideal thing will always seem to cling still to the older more familiar good. In this case character, though not significant totally, may be still significant pathetically. So, if we are to choose which is the more essential factor of human character, the fighting virtue or the intellectual breadth, we must side with Tolstoï, and choose that simple faithfulness to his light or darkness which any common unintellectual man can show. * * * * * But, with all this beating and tacking on my part, I fear you take me to be reaching a confused result. I seem to be just taking things up and dropping them again. First I took up Chautauqua, and dropped that; then Tolstoï and the heroism of common toil, and dropped them; finally, I took up ideals, and seem now almost dropping those. But please observe in what sense it is that I drop them. It is when they pretend _singly_ to redeem life from insignificance. Culture and refinement all alone are not enough to do so. Ideal aspirations are not enough, when uncombined with pluck and will. But neither are pluck and will, dogged endurance and insensibility to danger enough, when taken all alone. There must be some sort of fusion, some chemical combination among these principles, for a life objectively and thoroughly significant to result. Of course, this is a somewhat vague conclusion. But in a question of significance, of worth, like this, conclusions can never be precise. The answer of appreciation, of sentiment, is always a more or a less, a balance struck by sympathy, insight, and good will. But it is an answer, all the same, a real conclusion. And, in the course of getting it, it seems to me that our eyes have been opened to many important things. Some of you are, perhaps, more livingly aware than you were an hour ago of the depths of worth that lie around you, hid in alien lives. And, when you ask how much sympathy you ought to bestow, although the amount is, truly enough, a matter of ideal on your own part, yet in this notion of the combination of ideals with active virtues you have a rough standard for shaping your decision. In any case, your imagination is extended. You divine in the world about you matter for a little more humility on your own part, and tolerance, reverence, and love for others; and you gain a certain inner joyfulness at the increased importance of our common life. Such joyfulness is a religious inspiration and an element of spiritual health, and worth more than large amounts of that sort of technical and accurate information which we professors are supposed to be able to impart. To show the sort of thing I mean by these words, I will just make one brief practical illustration and then close. We are suffering to-day in America from what is called the labor-question; and, when you go out into the world, you will each and all of you be caught up in its perplexities. I use the brief term labor-question to cover all sorts of anarchistic discontents and socialistic projects, and the conservative resistances which they provoke. So far as this conflict is unhealthy and regrettable,--and I think it is so only to a limited extent,--the unhealthiness consists solely in the fact that one-half of our fellow-countrymen remain entirely blind to the internal significance of the lives of the other half. They miss the joys and sorrows, they fail to feel the moral virtue, and they do not guess the presence of the intellectual ideals. They are at cross-purposes all along the line, regarding each other as they might regard a set of dangerously gesticulating automata, or, if they seek to get at the inner motivation, making the most horrible mistakes. Often all that the poor man can think of in the rich man is a cowardly greediness for safety, luxury, and effeminacy, and a boundless affectation. What he is, is not a human being, but a pocket-book, a bank-account. And a similar greediness, turned by disappointment into envy, is all that many rich men can see in the state of mind of the dissatisfied poor. And, if the rich man begins to do the sentimental act over the poor man, what senseless blunders does he make, pitying him for just those very duties and those very immunities which, rightly taken, are the condition of his most abiding and characteristic joys! Each, in short, ignores the fact that happiness and unhappiness and significance are a vital mystery; each pins them absolutely on some ridiculous feature of the external situation; and everybody remains outside of everybody else's sight. Society has, with all this, undoubtedly got to pass toward some newer and better equilibrium, and the distribution of wealth has doubtless slowly got to change: such changes have always happened, and will happen to the end of time. But if, after all that I have said, any of you expect that they will make any _genuine vital difference_ on a large scale, to the lives of our descendants, you will have missed the significance of my entire lecture. The solid meaning of life is always the same eternal thing,--the marriage, namely, of some unhabitual ideal, however special, with some fidelity, courage, and endurance; with some man's or woman's pains.--And, whatever or wherever life may be, there will always be the chance for that marriage to take place. Fitz-James Stephen wrote many years ago words to this effect more eloquent than any I can speak: "The 'Great Eastern,' or some of her successors," he said, "will perhaps defy the roll of the Atlantic, and cross the seas without allowing their passengers to feel that they have left the firm land. The voyage from the cradle to the grave may come to be performed with similar facility. Progress and science may perhaps enable untold millions to live and die without a care, without a pang, without an anxiety. They will have a pleasant passage and plenty of brilliant conversation. They will wonder that men ever believed at all in clanging fights and blazing towns and sinking ships and praying hands; and, when they come to the end of their course, they will go their way, and the place thereof will know them no more. But it seems unlikely that they will have such a knowledge of the great ocean on which they sail, with its storms and wrecks, its currents and icebergs, its huge waves and mighty winds, as those who battled with it for years together in the little craft, which, if they had few other merits, brought those who navigated them full into the presence of time and eternity, their maker and themselves, and forced them to have some definite view of their relations to them and to each other."[T] [T] Essays by a Barrister, London, 1862, p. 318. In this solid and tridimensional sense, so to call it, those philosophers are right who contend that the world is a standing thing, with no progress, no real history. The changing conditions of history touch only the surface of the show. The altered equilibriums and redistributions only diversify our opportunities and open chances to us for new ideals. But, with each new ideal that comes into life, the chance for a life based on some old ideal will vanish; and he would needs be a presumptuous calculator who should with confidence say that the total sum of significances is positively and absolutely greater at any one epoch than at any other of the world. I am speaking broadly, I know, and omitting to consider certain qualifications in which I myself believe. But one can only make one point in one lecture, and I shall be well content if I have brought my point home to you this evening in even a slight degree. _There are compensations_: and no outward changes of condition in life can keep the nightingale of its eternal meaning from singing in all sorts of different men's hearts. That is the main fact to remember. If we could not only admit it with our lips, but really and truly believe it, how our convulsive insistencies, how our antipathies and dreads of each other, would soften down! If the poor and the rich could look at each other in this way, _sub specie æternatis_, how gentle would grow their disputes! what tolerance and good humor, what willingness to live and let live, would come into the world! THE END. 
21315	----	The King's Sons, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ This is a very short book, and it does not contain any of the usual nail-biting Fenn-style situations. But it is very good at what it does, which is to tell a story about King Ethelwulf of Wessex and his four sons, each of whom in turn became King. The story concentrates on the youngest of the sons, Alfred, who became known as Alfred the Great during his reign. The four boys have a tutor, Father Swythe, but only Alfred is interested in what the monk has to teach. At this point we get a very interesting lesson on how the great illustrated manuscripts were made, how the ink and the colours were made, and how the pens and brushes were made. Father Swythe later became Bishop of Winchester, and was known as Swithun. He was canonised, and somehow there has grown a legend that if it rains on Saint Swithun's day it will rain for forty days after that. He is portrayed as rather a portly monk in this story, but his effigy in Winchester Cathedral shows him as a very slight man. There is another story about him which makes him out to be rather a small man, who couldn't reach the key-hole of the cathedral, which obligingly slid down for him. Anyway, the story is a good one, and you will enjoy it. This website is called Athelstane, after Alfred's grandson, so we were interested to transcribe this story. NH ________________________________________________________________________ THE KING'S SONS, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. SONS OF THE KING. The sun shone down hotly on the hill-side, and that hill was one of a range of smooth rolling downs that ought to have been called ups and downs, from the way they seemed to rise and fall like the sea on a fine calm day. Not quite, for at such a time the sea looks as blue as the sky above it, while here on this particular hot day, though the sky was as blue as a sapphire stone, the hills were of a beautiful soft green, the grass being short and soft, and as velvety as if Nature had been all over it regularly with her own particular mowing-machine. But the only mowing that had been done to that grass was by the cropping teeth of the many flocks of sheep whose fleeces dotted the downs with soft white where they nibbled away, watched by the shepherds in their long smock frocks with turn-down collars and pleatings and gatherings on breast and back, and slit up at the sides from the bottom so as to give the men's legs room to move freely when they ran after a restive sheep to hook him with the long crook they carried and bring him kicking and struggling by hook or by crook to the grass. It was just over a thousand years ago, and, in spite of all the changes fashion has made, plenty of shepherds and farm labourers still wear the simple old Saxon dress then worn by King Ethelwulf's serfs, though without the girdle worn then. There were four boys on the steepest slope of that hill-side--four fair-haired, sun-browned, hearty-looking boys--and they wore smock frocks, belted in at the waist, of fine, soft, woollen material, woven out of the fleeces of the sheep; for they were King's sons, the sons of the King whose flocks were feeding on the hill-side in Berkshire, where he had his Court. It was as peaceful there as it was soft and beautiful; for though news came from time to time of the cruel acts of the fierce Norsemen who had come across the sea in their great row and sailing galleys full of fighting-men, they were far away from the King's home, so that Queen Osburga felt no anxiety about her boys being out on the downs at play, enjoying themselves and growing strong. This she loved to see; though, being a very learned woman herself in days when noble people thought no shame to have to say: "I cannot read or write," she sighed to find how very little her four sons cared for such things as gave her delight. They all loved to be out in the open air along with Cerda, the Saxon jarl, one of the King's chief fighting-men, who urged them to learn how to use the broadsword. After setting one of the men to make swords for the boys--not of hard cutting steel, but of good tough ash-wood--and then matching them two against two, he would sit and roar with laughter at the blows they gave and took. "Well done! At him again!" he cried. "Another wound; but it will not bleed." It was Cerda, too, who had bows and arrows made for the boys, whilst King Ethelwulf would look on, sometimes smiling and sometimes sighing, for he cared nothing for these things. "But we must have fighting-men, Swythe," he said, to a little plump, rosy-looking monk in a long gown held tightly to his waist by a knotted rope, which cut in a good way, for the monk was very fat. "Oh, but fighting's bad, sir, very bad," said the monk, passing one of his hands round and round over his shining, closely-shaven crown. "Very bad," said King Ethelwulf. "I hate it; but you know what the Danes have done to so many of your holy house--killing, burning, and carrying off everything that is good." The monk screwed up his face, shook his head, and sighed, while the rosy little man looked so droll that the King smiled. "Look here, Swythe," he said, "suppose a horde of the savage wretches came up here to plunder my pleasant home, what would you do?" "Hah!" said the monk. "I am a man of peace, sir; I should run away." "And leave the Queen and my boys and me to be killed or taken prisoners?" "Hah! No," said the monk. "I couldn't do that. I'm afraid I should take the biggest staff I could lift--or a sword--or an axe--and--and if either of the wretches tried to touch our good Queen or either of my dear boys I should hit him as hard as ever I could." "With the club?" said the King. "No; I should strike him down with the axe, sir." "But you might kill him, Swythe." "And if I did, sir," said the little monk fiercely, "it would be a good thing too; for these Norsemen are wicked pagans, come to kill and slay." "You see, we must have fighting-men, Swythe," said the King; and then he turned to the Queen, who was listening to what they said. "Hah! yes, sir," said the monk, with a sigh. "I suppose we must; and it does my heart good to see how clever the young Princes are with sword and bow; but they spend too much time learning to fight. If they would only spend half the time learning with me!" "Yes, it would be good," said Queen Osburga sadly. "But they don't," continued the monk. "There's only young Alured-- Alfred, as you call him--who will learn at all, and he is nearly as idle as his brothers." "You cannot say that they are idle," said the Queen, smiling gently. "Well, perhaps not idle, my daughter," said the monk, shaking his head, "because they do work hard to learn what Jarl Cerda teaches them." "Yes," said King Ethelwulf, "they are apt to learn how to fight; but you must make them learned, as kings should be, so as to rule wisely and well when the Danes have killed me and they are called upon to reign." "The Danes never shall kill you, sir," cried the little monk fiercely, "so long as I can stand in their way." The little group now separated, for the King and Queen had many duties to perform in connection with state affairs, and the little monk had to prepare the lessons for the boys. And that's how matters were on that bright sunny day when King Ethelwulf's sons lay out on the steep hill-side--Bald, Bert, Red, and Fred--four as crisp and tongue-tripping names as four bright Saxon English boys could own, but each with the addition of Athel or Ethel before, except the youngest, in whose name it shortened into Al; and these were their titles, because each was a Prince. CHAPTER TWO. "BOYS WILL BE BOYS." One of the boys' amusements had been for one to shoot an arrow as high up as he could, and for his brothers to follow and try and hit the first one sent. Fine practice this in marksmanship, but unsatisfactory and tiring after a few tries, for the arrows flew far, and this time they had brought no young serfs' sons to retrieve the arrows, one of which took a long time to find. But it was found at last, just as the head of a man appeared above the distant ridge; and the boys stopped to look, the head being followed by the shoulders and breast of the man, while behind him there was a fringe of something bright and shimmering in the sunshine. The next minute the boys began to run, for they saw that the object first seen was a mounted man, and what followed the heads of spears borne by a party of quite a hundred men, whose leader had been seen first owing to his being mounted upon an active little horse. "Where's Cerda going?" shouted one of the boys. "There's a fight somewhere," said another. And the other two joined in, crying together: "Let's go and see." So, in a state of wild excitement and wonder that they had not heard the news of danger before, the boys raced to head off the body of armed men, the first up being greeted by the big bluff leader with a cheery shout. "What now? What now?" he cried. "Have you boys come to tell us that we are too late, and that the enemy are all slain? Who was it found the Norsemen's ship?" "Then the Danes have landed?" cried the eldest boy excitedly. "Yes," cried his brother. "I knew that was it." "Yes, that's it, boy," said the leader, dragging at his horse's head, for the animal was impatient to go on. "Where are they?" cried the youngest boy, with his cheeks flushing and eyes sparkling. "A day's journey away, my boy. The people over Farringdon way have asked for help, and the King sends me." "That's right," cried the boy who had last spoken. "We'll go with you." The leader smiled and shook his head, and the band of fine-looking, picked men indulged in a hearty laugh. "What are you mocking and gibing at?" cried the youngest boy fiercely. "Do you think that because I and my brothers are young we cannot fight?" "Yes," cried the eldest brother; "we can shoot an arrow with any of you. Pick out your four best men, Jarl Cerda, and we'll shoot against them." "Yes," said another. "You know we can shoot well." "Do I not?" said the jarl; "for I taught you." "Yes, yes; they can all shoot well," came in concert. "Oh, yes, they can shoot," said the leader; "but I have no time to prove it." "Of course not," cried Alfred. "Never mind that. Lead on." "I'm afraid we should never catch the Danes if you boys came," said the jarl solemnly. "Why?" cried Bald, the eldest. "Yes, why shouldn't we?" cried Ethelred. "Don't ask him," said Alfred, frowning. "Why?" "Look at his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He's laughing at us." The big jarl's shoulders began to shake, and his lids half-closed in his mirth, while the eyes of all four boys flashed in their anger. "Why, of course I'm laughing, my boys," he said; "but it's not out of a desire to mock at you. I know you, my brave little fellows, and I hope to come back safe, and to see you all grow up to stark men who will deal well with the Norsemen. But you must wait a bit." "No, no," cried Alfred. "We can stand back and shoot." "So can the Danes, my boy; and their arrows are sharp." "But we can shoot sharper and quicker than they," said Ethelred. "Oh, do take us, Jarl Cerda." "No, my boy," said the stout Saxon noble firmly; "I cannot take you. The King stood by and picked out my men, and he said I was to take these and no more. Would you have me give pain to our good Queen Osburga by breaking the King's commands?" "No," said Alfred, with a quick, old-fashioned look. "We cannot do that, boys." "Come, that's bravely spoken, Alfred, boy; I like that," said the jarl, leaning down from his horse to pat the youngest boy on the shoulder. "Look here, if I come back safely after beating the Danes I'll bring you one of their winged helmets for a prize." "You will?" cried Alfred. "I promise you I will, my boy," cried the big Saxon noble, "and trophies for your brothers too.--There, we must go on. Good-bye, my brave boys. Give them a shout, my lads." The men waved sword and spear in the air as they marched off and Alfred and his brothers stood watching them till the last twinkling spear had disappeared in the distance, and then the boys turned away with a sigh. "Oh, I wish I was a man!" said Alfred sadly. "No use to wish," said the next brother. "Here, let's go on down the stream to get some fish." The disappointment was soon forgotten, and the boys dashed off downhill as hard as they could go, neither of them hearing a shout, nor seeing the little monk come panting up, to stand gazing ruefully after them and wiping the great drops of perspiration off his face and head. "Oh, dear!" he said; "it's a fine thing to be young and strong, and--" He paused for a few moments to look down at his plump proportions. "--And light," he added sadly. "I can't run as they do." He stood perfectly still as he spoke, watching the deep crease in the valley, whose bottom was hidden by clumps of willow and beds of reeds with their dark purply waving blooms. "I suppose I must go after them," he sighed. "What can they want down there?" The little monk sighed again and then started off to follow the boys, trying hard to walk slowly and steadily; but it was all in vain. The hill-side sloped very steeply to the broad bed of willows and reeds far below, making the way very bad for so heavy and inactive a man. Worse still: walking over the short grass in the hot sun had made the bottoms of the monk's sandals as slippery as glass, and so it was that before he had gone far down the slope he began to talk to himself, at first slowly--then quickly--then in a loud excited way--and lastly he uttered a shout and a cry for help. "Here," he said, at first, "I want to go down slowly. It's too hot to walk fast. Steady! Why, I am going faster!" Then there was a minute's pause, and the monk cried excitedly: "I don't want to run." Then: "Oh, dear me, however am I to stop myself?" And directly after: "Oh, do stop me, somebody, or I shall be broken all to bits." And lastly: "Here, help, help, help!" Then there was a loud crashing sound, some water flew up, the monk uttered a final "Oh!" and lay perfectly still, listening, for all at once a familiar voice cried: "Oh, come here, quick! A sheep has gone plosh into the pool." Boys were as much boys then as they are now, for directly after these words were uttered Alfred--the Little then--came hurrying as fast as the water would let him wade--splash, splash, splash!--from where he and his brothers had been busily making a dam across the little stream to turn the rushing water aside into another channel so as to leave the unfortunate trout helpless and ready for capture, and as soon as he caught sight of his teacher lying perfectly still he burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "Come and look! Come and look!" he shouted. His brothers wanted no further telling, but came splashing up out of the stream to the open shallow muddy bed where the reeds grew, and as soon as they saw the monk's condition they began to indulge in a bare-legged triumphal war-dance, shrieking with laughter the while. "Bad boys; bad, thoughtless, wicked boys!" grunted Father Swythe; but he lay perfectly still with arms and legs spread apart as far as they would go. "Why don't you stand up and walk out?" cried Fred, at last, taking compassion on his tutor's awkward plight. "Because I'm so heavy, boy: I should sink." "Oh, no. It isn't deep there. I've often waded about there to look for moorhens' nests." "Yes, my boy; but you're young and light. I'm very heavy." "Yes," cried one of the others, in high delight; "there's an arrow depth of water where you are, and quite a bow length of thick mud under that." "Oh, dear!" groaned the monk; "don't laugh at me, my boys. Can't you help me out?" "Yes, I'll get you out," cried Alfred, and he waded towards his unfortunate tutor, trampling the reeds down with his bare feet, but sinking in up to his knees at every step. "Mind you don't get into a hole, Fred!" cried Bald. "Mind the big luces!" shouted Bert. "There's a monster lives among those reeds." "Oh, they all swam away when Father Swythe fell in," cried Red. "You have got to mind your toes. The big eels are down amongst the mud." The monk groaned at this, and raised his dripping hands above the water, to grasp with each a handful of reeds. "The eels will go deeper into the mud," said Alfred sturdily. "Now then, catch hold of my hands, and I'll pull you out." The monk raised one hand very cautiously, and Alfred seized it tightly and began to back, pulling with all his might; but he pulled in vain, for he did not move his tutor an inch. "Here, I know," cried Alfred. "You two come and join hands and pull." "I'm afraid I'm too heavy," said Father Swythe. "I shan't help," said Bald maliciously. "Let him stop where he is." The monk groaned again, and the three boys outside the reeds laughed with malicious glee. "If we pull him out he'll only take us back and begin to teach us to read." "Yes, yes, yes," sighed Father Swythe; "I came to fetch you in. The Queen sent me." "Then we won't help you," said Bert; laughing. "Let's go and finish getting our fish, and then go back. When they ask where he is we'll tell them, and then some of the shepherds can come with wattle hurdles and get him out." "Oh, dear!" groaned the monk. "After all my teaching, for you boys to be as bad as this! Why, if you leave me I shall be drowned!" "Oh, no," said Red merrily. "You've only to keep holding your face up." "Yes," said Bert; "and that will send your legs down till you'll be standing up in the mud and water." "And all the big flies and things will come and buzz about and settle on your crown. Come along, Fred, and finish the dam." "If we finish the dam," said Alfred seriously, "all the water will run in here and make it deeper." "Well, then he can swim out. You can swim, can't you?" "No, no, no," said the monk sadly. "I never learned." "What a pity!" said Red, laughing. "You ought to have learned to swim instead of learning so much Latin," cried Bert. "There isn't time to learn everything, my boys," said the monk sadly. "I'm obliged to try and teach you all: the King and Queen sent for me that I might. Please help me out." "We're not going to," cried Bald. "Come along, boys. He ought to have learned to swim." Bald began to move away, and the monk groaned again. "Come along, Fred," cried Bert, and the monk turned his head sidewise so as to look piteously at the youngest boy. "No, I'm not coming. I'm going to stop and help Father Swythe." "Hah!" sighed the monk, and he squeezed Alfred's hand. "No, you're not," cried Bald fiercely; "you're coming with us. Come along. He will not sink." "I shan't come!" said Alfred sturdily. "What? Here, boys, let's fetch him out." There was a rush made towards where the boy stood knee-deep, and he snatched his hand free from the monk's grasp, turned half-round, stooped a little, and as his eldest brother came wading in among the reeds he scooped up the water and saluted him with a heavy shower right in the face, drenching him so that he turned tail and hurried back, the other two laughingly backing out of reach. "Oh, you!" shouted. Bald. "Come out, or I'll hold you right under the water till you can't breathe." "Come along then," cried Alfred boldly, and he sent another shower of water after his brother, wetting him behind now. "You'll be just as wet as I shall first." "You come out!" "I shan't! You come here, if you dare!" "Come and help me, boys," cried Bald; but the others only laughed. "Come yourself, if you dare! Father Swythe will help me, and we'll duck you." "Urrr!" growled Bald, stamping with rage. Then: "Never mind, boys: let them stop together. Give him a Latin lesson, Father Swythe." "You stop a moment, all three of you," cried Alfred sharply. "You're not going away to leave Father Swythe like this. Go and fetch the big fir-pole that we laid across to begin the dam. If that's laid down here Father Swythe can pull himself out." "Fetch it yourself!" cried Bald angrily. "We're not your serfs." "I'm going to stop with Father Swythe," cried Alfred. "Good boy! good boy!" whispered the monk. "And look here," cried Alfred angrily: "it's cruel and wicked not to help him, and if you don't go I shall tell mother, and father will have you all punished severely." "Tell, if you dare!" cried Bald, wringing out some of the water from the front of his tunic-like gown. "Come along, boys, and we'll get the fish without him." Bald started off back to the stream, and the others followed him, the monk watching with piteous eyes till they were out of sight, when he turned his doleful, wrinkled face to his young companion, to tell him what he already knew. "They're gone," he said sadly. "Yes," said Alfred, laughing; "but only to fetch the fir-pole." "Do you think so?" sighed the monk. "Yes; they're afraid of my telling mother and making her angry. She doesn't like us to do cruel things: she'd tell us we were like the Danes. They'll come back soon with the pole, and then if you hold one end we can pull the other and draw you out. But I say, Father Swythe, you're big and strong. Don't you think if you were to try, you could get out on to the grass? Try and struggle out before they come back." "But if I began to sink--" "Then I should run and shout to the shepherds to come and pull you out." "But I shouldn't like you to leave me to sink alone, my boy." "It would be a long, long time before you were regularly mired," said the boy. "Now, you try! Give me both hands." Father Swythe did as he was told, and, while his young companion threw himself back and dragged, the monk kicked and struggled bravely, and with such good effect that, to the surprise of both, he glided slowly through the reeds, and in less than a minute he sat up panting on the short grass, with the water streaming from the front of his gown. "That was very brave and nice of you, my boy," he said, as he rose to his feet, "and I shall never forget it." "Oh, it was easy enough!" said Fred, laughing. "There, let's go over the hill, and when the boys come back they'll begin poking the pole about down among the reeds, and think we're both smothered. No: here they come. Look, they're bringing the pole." Surely enough they were; but the monk did not stop. He began trudging up hill through the hot sunshine so as to get back to take off his wet cassock and put on an old one that was dry, Fred choosing to stay with him and to talk about the bees and birds and flowers they passed, of which the monk could talk in an interesting way, even though it was a thousand years ago. As for the three others, they threw down the pole as soon as they saw that the monk was safe, and then followed at a distance to the big castle-like house--the palace in which the King dwelt; but there was very little reading that afternoon; for there was too much to say about the fresh attack made by the Danes, who had come up the river and landed, to ravage the country. Ethelwulf, who was not a very warlike King, was very anxious as to the result of the fight, and was busy getting more men together by means of his jarls or chiefs, so as to go to the help of those who had already set out. In fact, instead of studying Latin and learning to write, the boys stood about learning something of the art of war, and what was to be done to defend their country when an invading enemy was ravaging the land. CHAPTER THREE. FRED IS LEFT BEHIND. Time went on, and King Ethelwulf gathered and led off to the assistance of Jarl Cerda all the fighting-men he could assemble, as a wounded messenger had arrived from that noble, asking the King for more help, for he was sore pressed by the enemy. The Danes, he sent word, were in great force, and more and more of their war-galleys kept coming up the river, the occupants slaying and destroying wherever they landed. It was an anxious time for Queen Osburga, whose eyes often looked red as if she had been weeping, while her cheeks grew white and thin, and she shut herself up a great deal, so that no one should see her. The men-folk had nearly all departed from the place, and there was no one to exercise authority, so, as soon as the four boys had recovered from their disappointment at not being allowed to go with the little army their father led, they began to look upon it as a free and jovial time in which they could do whatever pleased them most, and this they did to such an extent that poor Swythe's face became full of lines, and after trying in vain to make his pupils continue their studies, and putting up with a great amount of disobedience on their part, he began to reproach them in his mild way. He was one of the gentlest and most amiable of men, but the wilfulness of the boys had at length compelled him to protest. "It seems so shocking," he said, rather piteously. "I only beg and pray of you all, now that the King is at the war and our dear lady the Queen in such sorrow and trouble, to try your best to get on with your lessons, so that the King may feel proud of his sons when he returns. Ethelbald laughs and mocks at me; Ethelbert says he will not study; Ethelred follows his example; and Alfred, of whom I expected better things, has just told me he does not mind a bit what I say, and that he will do just as he likes." "And so he shall!" said Bald boldly. "That is, he shall do as I like. Father has gone to fight the Danes, and while he's away, as I am the eldest, I shall act in his place, and shall expect everyone to obey me as if I were King." "Oh, no, no, no," cried Swythe, looking shocked. "Our dear lady Osburga is Queen, and everyone must obey her." "Do not speak of that to me!" cried Ethelbald. "She is only a woman, and cannot manage the men. Why, if father should be killed--" "Which Heaven forbid!" cried Swythe, with a look of horror on his face. "Oh, dear me, Ethelbald, what a thing for you to say! Shocking, my dear boy." "I don't want him to be killed," cried Bald. "Of course not. But if he should be killed I shall become King directly, and I shall order everybody to do what I like, and no one will dare to say a word. The first thing I shall do," he continued, with a laugh, "will be to send old Swythe away, so that there will be no more learning Latin, boys, and no crabbing fingers up to hold tens." The three brothers said something with a shout which in those days answered to "Hooray!" and then Alfred, who had shouted the loudest, being the youngest and ready to think brother Bald's words very brave and fine, suddenly began to feel uncomfortable; for he had a certain amount of fear of the monk his master, and felt a kind of shrinking from rebelling against his authority. He glanced sidewise at Father Swythe and saw that his eyes glimmered in a peculiar way as if water was rising in them. Directly afterwards his heart felt a little sore, and a sense of shame began to trouble him, for there was no mistake: Father Swythe's eyes were wet and his voice sounded hoarse and strange as he said sadly: "You would not send me away, Ethelbald? I have always tried to do my duty to the young sons of my lord the King and have tried to make them grow into scholarly princes fit to rule the land." "Bah! We do not want to be scholarly!" cried Bald scornfully. "We want to learn to be brave soldiers, so that we can go forth and beat the Danes." "Yes," said the monk sadly; "but, my boys, the warrior who's a scholar as well is more brave and noble and merciful, and his name is one that lives longer in the land. Ah, well, you have made me very sad. I had hoped that I had done something to make the sons of my dear lady the Queen love me; but if they do not it would be better perhaps that I should go back to my cell at the old abbey, where I could be happy with my parchments and my pens." The old monk sighed and turned away; he appeared to have received a shock which had broken his heart. The three elder boys were laughing and joking about the matter, and suddenly Ethelbald cried out: "Come along, boys! Bows and arrows. I saw a roebuck feeding outside the oak wood. Here, we'll take spears with us too to-day. Let old Swythe teach the swineherds' boys to read Latin instead of minding the little pigs hunting for acorns." "No spears left!" said Bert. "The men took them all when they went away!" said Red. "Then let's go without!" said Bald. Alfred said nothing; he was watching the monk going slowly and sadly away, and somehow the little figure did not look comic to him then, even if it was short and plump and round. "Where's Fred?" cried Bald the next minute, when the boys were getting their bows and quivers. His brothers could not tell him where Alfred was; so after a few moments pause, Ethelbald said: "Never mind: let's go without him. Hers too young and weak to do what we do. Let him stay behind and learn Latin with old Swythe." "He did go out after him," said Bert. "Yes, I saw him. I remember now," cried Red. His last words were almost smothered by his eldest brother, who raised to his lips a curling cow-horn tipped with a copper mouthpiece and strengthened with a ring at the head end. He proceeded to blow into it, but failed to produce anything more huntsman-like than a kind of bray such as might be uttered by a jackass suffering from a sore-throat. But it was good enough to send all the dogs about the place frantic, and away the three boys went, followed by a pack of hounds, some of which would have been as ready to tackle wolf or boar as to dash after the lordly stag or the big-eyed, prong-horned, graceful roes of which there were many about the forest lands which surrounded the King's home. Alfred, from one of the upper windows, saw them go away in triumph and longed to join them; but he did not do so, for there was sorrow in his heart, and for the first time in his young life he had begun to think deeply about the words spoken by his brother and those uttered so sadly and reproachfully by the simple-hearted, gentle monk. CHAPTER FOUR. A BEE IN HIS CELL. It was in the afternoon of that same day that young Alfred loitered about the place feeling very lonely and miserable and, truth to tell, repentant because he had not joined his brothers in the glorious chase they must be having. Taken altogether, he felt very miserable. But he was not alone in that, for, going to the window, he saw Father Swythe walking slowly down the garden amongst the Queen's flower and herb beds, with his head bowed down and his hands behind him, looking unhappy in the extreme. Alfred turned away, feeling guilty, and went into another room, when, to his surprise, he came suddenly upon Osburga, his mother, seated alone by her embroidery-frame, her needle and silk in her hands, but not at work. She was sitting back thinking, with the tears slowly trickling down her cheeks. Alfred felt that this was a most miserable day, and, with his heart feeling more sore than ever, he crept softly behind his mother's chair and, quite unobserved, sank down upon his knees to lay his brown and ruddy cheek against her hand. The Queen started slightly, and then, raising her hand, she laid it upon Alfred's fair, curly locks and began to smoothe them. "Why are you crying, mother?" whispered the boy at last, as he felt that he must say something, although he knew perfectly well the reason of his mother's sorrow. "I am crying, Fred," she said, in a deep sad voice, "because the days go by and no messenger comes to tell me how the King your father fares; and more tears came, my boy, because now that I am in such pain and sorrow I find that my sons, instead of trying to be wise and thoughtful of their duties, grow more wild and wilful every day." Alfred drew a deep catching breath which was first cousin to a sob, and the Queen went on: "I want them to grow up wise and good, and I find that not only do they think of nothing except their own selfish ends, but they behave ill to one of the gentlest, kindest, and best of men--one who is as wise and learned as he is modest and womanly at heart. It makes mine sore, my son, at such a time as this, for there is nothing better nor greater than wisdom, my boy, and he who possesses it leads a double life whose pleasures are without end. But I am in no mood to scold and reproach you, Fred. You are the youngest and least to blame. Still, I had looked for better things of you all than that I should hear that you openly defy Father Swythe, and have made him come to me to say that he can do no more, and to ask to be dismissed. There, Fred, leave me now. I will talk to your brothers when they return from the chase." Alfred's lips were apart, ready to utter words of repentance; but they seemed to stick on the way, leaving him dumb. Feeling more miserable than ever, he stole out, looking guilty and wretched, and went straight into the garden for a reason of his own. But it was not to pick flowers or to gather fruit. He wanted to see the gentle old monk; for he felt as if he could say to him what he could not utter to the Queen. But there was another disappointment awaiting him. Swythe was not there, and the boy stamped his foot angrily. "Oh," he said, half aloud and angrily, "how unlucky I am!" Just then there came as if out of one of the low windows looking upon the garden a deep-toned sound such as might have been made by a very big and musical bee, and the boy's face brightened as he turned and made for the door, crossed the hall, and then went down a stone passage, to stop at a door, whose latch he lifted gently, and looked in, letting out at once the full deep tones he had heard in the garden floating out of the open window. There was Swythe sitting at a low table beneath the window with his back to him, singing a portion of a chant whose sweet deep tones seemed to chain the boy to the spot, as he listened with a very pleasurable sensation, and watched the monk busily turning a big flattened pebble stone round and round as if grinding something black upon a square of smoothly-polished slab. Alfred watched eagerly, and his eyes wandered about the cell-like room devoted to Swythe--a very plain and homely place, with a stool or two and a large table beneath the window, while one side was taken up by the simple pallet upon which the monk slept. All at once the chanting ceased, the grinding came to an end, and, as if conscious of someone being in the room, the monk turned his head, saw Alfred watching him, and smiled sadly. "Ah, my son," he said; "back from the chase so soon?" "No," said Alfred huskily. "I did not go." "Not go?" said the monk, in surprise. "How was that? Ah! I see," he continued, for the boy was silent, "you and Ethelbald have quarrelled." "No, indeed," cried Alfred, and then he stopped. The monk went on without looking, passing the pebble slowly round and round upon the slab, grinding up what looked like thin glistening black paste. "Then why did you stay behind?" said the monk gravely. "Because--because--because--oh, don't ask me!" cried the boy passionately. Swythe fixed his eyes gently and kindly upon the boy, and left off grinding. "Tell me why, Fred, my son," he said softly. "Because of what Bald said and what you said; and then I went in and saw my mother, and she is so unhappy; and--and--" Then, with a wild and passionate outburst, the boy made a dash at the old man and caught him by the shoulder, as he cried: "Oh, Father Swythe, I do want to learn to read and to write, and be what you said. Please forgive me and help me, and I will try so hard--so very, very hard!" "My son!" cried the monk, in a choking voice, and, as the boy was drawn tightly to the old man's breast and he hid his face so that his tears should not be seen, something fell pat upon the back of his head, making him look up quickly, to see that he need not feel ashamed of his own, for his tutor's tears were falling slowly, though there was a contented look in the old man's face. "Yes," he said, smiling, "you have made me cry, my boy; but it is because you have made me happy. You have taught me that I have touched your young heart and opened the bright well-spring of the true and good that is in your nature. Fred, my boy," he continued, "you are too young to know it, so I will tell you: my son, you have just done something that is very brave and true." "I?" cried the boy passionately, as he turned away his head. "I have behaved ill to you who have always been so kind and good, and made my mother weep for me when she is in such dreadful trouble without." "And then, my boy, you have come straight to me, your teacher--the poor, weak, humble servant of his master, who has always striven to lead you in the right way--and thrown yourself upon my breast and owned your fault. That is what I mean by saying you have done a very brave thing, my boy. There, and so you will try now?" The last words came with a bright and cheerful ring, as Swythe released the boy and sat back smiling at him and looking proudly into his eyes. "And so you want to learn to read and write and grow into a wise man who may some day rule over this land?" "Oh, I want to learn!" cried the boy, dashing away his last tears. "I want to be wise and great; but oh, no: I don't want to rule and be King. I want father to live till I am quite an old man." "I hope he will!" said Swythe, smiling, and nodding his head pleasantly, as the boy hurriedly turned the conversation by asking: "What are you doing there?" "Making some fresh ink, my boy," was the reply. "Ink? How?" "Hah!" cried the monk, chuckling pleasantly; "now the vessel is opened and eager for the knowledge to be poured in. Question away, Fred, my son, and mine shall be the task to pour the wisdom in--as far as I have it," he added, with a sigh. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Alfred stood at the great entrance late that afternoon when the loud barking of the dogs told of the young hunters' return, and as soon as they came in sight Red cried: "There, I told you so; Fred's along with old Swythe." For the monk was standing by the boy's side, waiting to see what success the young hunters had achieved. They looked to see their brother disappointed and ready to upbraid them with going and leaving him behind; but they were surprised, for the boy saluted them with: "Well, where's the fat buck?" "Oh," said Bald shortly, "we had a splendid run, but the dogs were so stupid that he managed to get away. But you ought to have been there: it was grand." "Was it?" said Alfred coolly. The news did not seem to trouble him in the least. He noticed, though, that the three boys were so tired out that not one of them seemed to care for his supper, and directly after they went off to bed. CHAPTER FIVE. BEGINNING TO BE GREAT. The boys had some fresh plan for the next day, and when Alfred went up to bed they were all whispering eagerly; but as soon as their brother entered the room they pretended to be asleep. Alfred said nothing till he was undressed and about to get into his bed, and then he only wished them good night. There was no reply, and the boy felt hurt; but just then he recollected something which made him clap his right hand first to his cheek and then to his forehead, as if he fully expected to find both places still wet and warm. They felt still as if his mother's lips had but just left them. From that moment Alfred lay quite still in the darkness, feeling very happy and contented, till all at once a long-drawn restful sigh escaped his lips, and he was just dropping off to sleep when he awoke again and lay listening, for his three brothers, believing that he had gone off to sleep, began talking again in an eager whisper, but what about he could not tell, till all at once Red said something about "otters." They were going to have a grand otter hunt up the little Wantage stream with the dogs; and for a few moments a feeling of bitter disappointment came over the boy, for he had looked forward to the day when that hunt would take place. He felt better when he recalled the Queen's words as he wished her good night. They were: "I am so glad, Fred, my boy. You have made me feel very happy." "Father Swythe must have told her what I said," thought Alfred, and in another minute he was asleep. The next morning after breakfast the boy did not feel half so brave, and he was thinking of how he could get away to the monk's quiet cell-like room without his brothers seeing him; but he was spared from all trouble in that way, for the monk came up to him smiling. "I'm going to speak to your brothers, Fred," he said. "I told the Queen that you had promised to try very hard, and she said she was very glad, but she would be so much happier if your brothers came too; so I am going to ask them to come. Do you know where they are?" "Out in the broad courtyard," said Alfred quickly; but Father Swythe shook his head. "No," he said; "I came across just now, and they were not there." At that moment the distant barking of a dog was heard; followed by a yelping chorus which made the boy run to the window and look out, to catch sight of three figures and some half-dozen dogs disappearing over the hill slope. "I think they have gone after the otters with the dogs," said Alfred sadly. "Oh, I see," said the monk; "and you feel dull because you are not with them?" Alfred was too honest to deny it. "Never mind, boy," said the little monk cheerily; "come to my room, and we'll finish making the ink, and then you can learn to read the letters as I make them, while I write out a poem for the Queen; and then I'll get out the red and blue and yellow, and the thin leaves of gold, and we'll try and make a beautiful big letter like those in the Queen's book, and finish it off with some gold." "But you can't do that?" cried Alfred, interested at once. "Perhaps not so well as in the Queen's beautiful book; but come and see." The boy eagerly took hold of the monk's hand, and they were soon seated at the little table in Swythe's room, with the light shining full upon the slate slab, the pebble grinder, and the black patch. "You said that was ink yesterday," said the boy, as Swythe gave the pebble a few turns round, and then looked to see if the ink was of the right thickness, which it was not, so a feather was dipped in a water-jug, and a few drops allowed to fall upon the black patch. "There," said Swythe, "a good writer makes all his own ink. Now you grind that up till it is well mixed. Gently," cried Swythe; "that ink is too precious to be spread all over the slab. Grind it round and round. That's the way! That will do!" As he spoke, Swythe took a thin-bladed knife and a good-sized, nicely-cleaned fresh-water mussel-shell, and let the boy carefully scrape up all the ink from the slab and place it in the shell. "That's well done!" he said. "Now we'll write a line of letters." "Yes," cried the boy; "let me write them." "I wish you could, Fred, my boy," said the monk, smiling; "but you must first learn." "That's what I want to do," cried the boy eagerly. "But how am I to learn?" "By watching me. Now see." Swythe rose from the table and opened a box, out of which he took a crisp clean piece of nearly transparent sheepskin and a couple of quill pens, sat down again, and then from another box he drew out a piece of lead and a flat ruler--not a lead-pencil such as is now used, but a little pointed piece of ordinary lead--with which he deftly made a few straight lines across the parchment, and then very carefully drew a beautiful capital A, which he finished off with scrolls and turns and tiny vine-leaves with a running stalk and half-a-dozen tendrils. "But you have put no grapes," cried Alfred. "Give me time," said Swythe good-humouredly, and directly after he faintly sketched in a bunch of grapes, broad at the top and growing narrower till it ended in one grape alone. "Oh, I wish I could do that!" cried Alfred eagerly. "But I could never do it so well!" "I'm going to persevere till I make you do it better," said Swythe. "Now we'll leave that for a bit and begin a Latin lesson." Alfred sighed and looked longingly at the faint initial letter. But his interest was taken up directly, for Swythe took up one of his quill pens, examined it, and then, after giving the ink a stir, dipped in his pen and tried it. The next minute, while the boy sat resting his chin upon his hands, it seemed as if beautifully-formed tiny letters kept on growing out of the pen, running off at the point, and standing one after another in a row, almost exactly the same size, till four words stood out clearly upon the cream-coloured parchment. As he formed the letters with his clever white fingers, Swythe repeated the name of each, pausing a little to give finish and effect as well as sound to the words he formed, till he had, after beginning some little distance in, made so many words upon one of the faintly-drawn lines and reaching right across the parchment. "It's wonderful!" cried Alfred. "I could never do that!" "It is not wonderful, and you soon will be able to do it," said Swythe; "but let's say all those words over again letter by letter, and then the words." "They are Latin?" asked the boy. "Yes," said Swythe, "and you are going to learn them so as to know them next time you see them." Alfred shook his head, but he managed to repeat the Latin words straightforward, and after a while pick them out when asked. Then the monk proceeded to get out his colours so as to ornament the big initial letter of what Alfred had learned in Latin as well as in English was "The History of the Good King Almon." Then came the most interesting part of the lesson, for, after Swythe had placed his colours ready--red, yellow, and blue--all in powders ground up so fine that it was necessary to shut out the breeze which came in at the window, Alfred learned how the monk made his brushes, by taking a tuft of badger's hair and tying up one end carefully with a very fine thread of flax. "Now watch me," said the old man, and Alfred looked closely while Swythe took a duck's quill out of a bunch, cut off the hollow part, and then lightly cut off the end where it had grown from the duck's wing. Then the tuft of badger's hair was held by its tied end and passed through the monk's lips so as to bring the hairs together to a point, which was carefully pushed into the most open part of the quill and screwed round till the whole of the tuft was inside. Then a thrust with a thin piece of wood sent the hairs right through, all but the tied-up ends; and Swythe held his work up in triumph--a complete little paint-brush. "How clever!" cried the boy eagerly; "but how did you get that badger's hair?" "Saved," said Swythe, "when the dogs killed that badger last year." "And the ducks' quills?" "I picked them up when the ducks were plucked by the scullion." "You did not tell me how you made that black paint." "By holding a piece of slate over the burning wick of the lamp till there was plenty of soot to be scraped off and mixed up with gum water made from plum-tree gum, the same as I am going to use to mix up these colours, you see." As he spoke Swythe took a clean mussel-shell and placed in it a tiny portion of scarlet powder. "That's a pretty colour!" said the boy. "What is it?" "The colour made by burning some quicksilver and brimstone together in a very hot fire till it is red, and afterwards I grind it up into fine dust. Now," he said, "I'm going to mix this up with gum; and then we'll paint all the back of the parchment behind the big letter red." Alfred watched the monk's clever touches with the point of his little brush till there was a great square patch upon which the letter seemed to stand. "Beautiful!" cried Alfred. "Now it's done!" "Oh, no," said Swythe; "that's the beginning! Now we'll paint the scroll." "Why do you say _we_" said the boy. "It is you." "It's we, because you are helping me," said the monk. "Very soon you will be doing letters like this, and then I shall help you." Alfred sighed. "Are you going to paint that scroll red too?" "No: purple," was the reply, and Swythe took up another little packet, which he opened slowly. "Why, that's blue," cried Alfred. "Wait a moment!" said Swythe, taking up another clean mussel-shell, into which he put a tiny patch of the bright blue dust. "Now you shall see it turn purple." Taking up the brush, whose hairs were thickly covered with red paint, he poured a few drops of gum water into the shell amongst the blue powder, mixed all together with the red brush, and to the boy's great delight a beautiful purple was the result. Then the leaves that had been sketched in had to be done, and while the boy wondered another shell was taken, the brush carefully washed, and a little of the blue dust was mixed with some yellow, when there was a brilliant green, which the monk made brighter or darker by adding more yellow or more blue. The big ornamental letter was now becoming very bright and gay, Alfred looking upon it as finished; but Swythe went on. "It's very wonderful!" said the boy. "You seem as if you can make any colours out of red, yellow, and blue." "So will you soon!" said Swythe, smiling, and still painting away, till at the end of a couple of hours, which seemed to have passed away like magic, the monk began to carefully clean his brush with water. "That's done now!" cried Alfred, with a sigh of as much sorrow as pleasure, for he felt it to be a pity that the task was finished. "But do you know, Father Swythe," he continued, as he held his head on one side and looked critically at the staring white letter with its beautiful ornamentation, "I think if I could paint and painted that letter I shouldn't have left it all white like that." "What would you have done, then?" "I should have painted it deep yellow like a buttercup--a good sunny yellow, to look like gold." "Well done!" cried the monk. "Why, that's exactly what it is going to be. It isn't finished, but I'm not going to paint it yellow. I'm going to paint it red first." "I don't think I shall like that," said the boy, shaking his head. "Wait and see!" said the monk, and once more mixing up a little red with gum he carefully painted the white letter scarlet, and held it up. "There!" cried the boy triumphantly; "it looks now almost like the back patch, and you've spoiled it all." "Umph!" grunted the monk, re-opening the window and laying his work in the sun to dry. "Wait a bit." "Yes, I'll wait," said the boy, watching the shiny wet paint turn more and more dull; "but I don't like it." Swythe washed his brush carefully again, and as soon as the paint was dry went carefully over the letter part with gum, so delicately that the red colour was not disturbed nor the background smeared. "Yes," said the boy, still watching; "that looks a little better, because it looks shiny, but it was better white. Do paint it yellow now." "I told you I'm going to make it yellow," said Swythe, laying his work well out in the sunshine to get thoroughly dry. Then, taking it from the window-sill and shutting out the breeze again, Swythe placed his work ready and took out, from a snug corner, a tiny book made by sewing together about half-a-dozen leaves of parchment, and upon opening this very carefully Alfred saw within a piece of brilliant shining gold. "Oh, how beautiful!" cried Alfred, making a dart at it with his hand. But, as if he expected this, Swythe put out his own hand and caught his pupil's just in time, creating such a breeze, though, that the very thin gold leaf rose up at the corner and fell over, doubling nearly in half. "There, you see how fine it is!" cried Swythe. "I'm very sorry--I did not know," said the boy sadly; and then he looked on in wonder, for the monk bent down, gave a gentle puff with his breath, and the gold was blown up, to fall back into its place. "Why, I thought it would be quite hard and heavy," said Alfred. "And it's twenty times as thin as the parchment!" said Swythe. "Now then, suppose we make the letter of gold." Alfred did not speak, but watched with breathless interest while the monk took his knife and carefully cut a long strip off one edge of the gold leaf, and then, dividing it in four, took it up bit by bit on the blade, and laid the pieces along the letter, cutting off edges and scraps that were not wanted, and covering up bare places so carefully and with such great pains that at last there was not a trace left of the gummed letter, a rough, rugged gold one being left in its place. "There!" cried Swythe, when he had covered the last speck, and all was gold leaf; but Alfred shook his head. "It looks very beautiful," he said; "but I don't like it. The edges are all rugged and rough." "So they are!" replied Swythe, and, taking now a clean dry brush, he began to smoothe and dab and press gently till there was not a trace left of where the scraps of gold joined or lay one over the other, all becoming strong and perfect excepting the edges, where the gold lay loose, till, quite satisfied with his work, the monk passed his brush briskly over the letter, carrying off every scrap of gold outside the gummed letter, and leaving this clean, smooth, and glistening. "Oh, Father Swythe," cried Alfred, clapping his hands, "you are clever! It's beautiful!" "You like it, then, my boy?" said the old man gravely. "You shall soon be able to do that with your light fingers." The boy looked down at his hands and then took up the pen the monk had laid down, dipped it in the ink, and tried to make a letter. "Well done," said Swythe, smiling; "that is something like O. Now make another, and try if you can make it worse than the last." The boy looked up at him sharply. "You are laughing at me!" he said. "Well, if I am, it is only to make you try and do better. Go on again!" The boy hesitated before looking hard at the letter he had tried to imitate, and then tried once more. "Ever so much better!" cried the monk. "Come to me every day, and try like that, and in a very short time you will be able to read and write." CHAPTER SIX. THE GREAT WHITE HORSE. Encouraged by these words of the monk and the smiles and praises of the Queen, Alfred made rapid progress, which, oddly enough, grew quicker still from the way in which Bald and his brothers ridiculed him and laughed at his attempts, for their gibes angered him, but only made him work the harder, and with results which Swythe told the Queen were wonderful. Six long weary weeks had passed away since Ethelwulf had gone with his little army against the Danes, and only once had news been received, so that Queen Osburga's face grew whiter, thinner, and more sad day by day, till one evening when, after a long hard day's work with the monk, the pair went up to the top of the highest hill near to watch for the appearance of a messenger. Swythe could see no sign of anything. "There is no news," he said sadly. "Let us go back. The Queen is waiting to hear what we have found." "There is news," cried the boy excitedly. "I can see the points of spears right away there in the valley. Look, the sun shines upon them and makes them glitter." "Yes, I see now," cried Swythe excitedly. "Quick, let's try and run, boy. The Danes! The Danes! We must get the Queen away into the woods so as to be safe." "Why not stop in the big house, and shut up every window and door? We must fight. You can fight, Father Swythe?" "I, my boy?" said the monk sadly. "Yes, with my tongue. No, I am only a man of peace. All we can do is to fly for our lives. There are not twenty strong fighting-men, Fred, my son, and those who are coming against us must, from the spears and shining iron caps with wings like the Norsemen wear, be quite a thousand. Quick! You can go faster than I. Run on first and warn the good Queen that it is time to fly!" Alfred nodded his head quickly and started off to run; but at that moment it struck him that it would be foolish to run and give the alarm without being sure. The monk had declared the force to be the enemy, but the boy wished to see for himself, and, darting sidewise, he ran down the hill, bearing to his right, till by stooping he could keep under cover of the gorse-bushes and approach quite near to the coming army. It was a daring thing to do, for it might have ended in being made a prisoner without the chance of giving the alarm; but the brave act turned out to be quite wise, for when at last the boy had drawn near to the great body of armed men and crouched lower till he found a place through which he could peer cautiously, he sprang to his feet with a shout of joy. For there in front rode his father, King Ethelwulf, mounted upon a sturdy horse, but so changed that he hardly knew him, for he was wearing a Danish helmet ornamented with a pair of grey gull's wings, half-opened and pointed back, while in his left hand he carried a Danish shield painted with a black raven, and in his right was a shining double battle-axe. Alfred's cry was answered by a shout from the men, and Ethelwulf rode forward to meet his son, who grasped his extended hands and sprang up to sit in front of him upon the horse. "Your mother--Osburga?" said the King hoarsely. "Ill, father, because you do not come," cried the boy excitedly. "Hah! Then she will soon be well," said the King, with a sigh of content. "Yonder is plump little Swythe coming to welcome me, I see," he continued; "but where are your brothers?" "I don't know, father," replied the boy, innocently enough. "They have not come back from hunting, I think." King Ethelwulf frowned, but said no more then, contenting himself with pressing forward to give his hand to Swythe, who had followed the boy as soon as he saw him change his course; and soon after the King's heart was gladdened by seeing Osburga with her train of women and serfs coming to meet them, answering the Saxon soldiers' cheers. But Bald, Bert, and Red had even then not come back from the chase. That night the King told of the great victory which he had at last gained over the Danish invaders, who had been defeated with great slaughter near Farringdon, and it was in memory of that victory that the King returned to the battlefield with his men on a peaceful errand, and that was to use the spade instead of the battle-axe and sword, while they cut down through the green turf on one hill-side, right down to the clean, white, glistening chalk, after the lines had been marked out and the shape cleverly designed, working for weeks and weeks till there, on the slope they had carved out a huge white horse over a hundred yards in length--the Great White Horse of the Berkshire downs, which has remained as if galloping along until this day. Year after year the scouring of that horse, as it is called, takes place, when men go and clear out the brown earth that has crumbled through frost and rain into the ditch-like lines which mark the horse's shape on the green hill-side, and make it stand out white and clear as ever. No one will think it strange after what has been told that the youngest of those four boys grew up under Swythe's teaching wise and learned, and as brave as, or braver than, either of his three brothers, who, when at last King Ethelwulf died, succeeded in turn to be King of England. They each sat on the throne--Ethelbald, Ethelbert, and Ethelred; but their reigns were short, for in twenty years they too had passed away, to be succeeded by the strong, brave, and learned man who drove the Danish' invaders finally from the shores of England, or forced them to become peaceful workers of the soil. He was the brave warrior who never knew what it was to be conquered, but tried again and again till the enemy fled before him and his gallant men. Old chronicles tell many stories of his deeds--stories that have grown old and old--and they tell too that the studious boy's teacher Swythe became Bishop of Winchester and was called a saint, while old writers have worked up a legend about the rain christening the apples on Saint Swithin's Day, and when it does, keeping on sprinkling them for forty days more; but, like many other stories, that one is not at all true, as any young reader may find out by watching the weather year by year. But that does not matter to us, who have to deal with Alfred the Little, and who willingly agree that as he grew up he was worthily given the name of Alfred the Great. 
18936	----	Little Journeys To the Homes of Great Teachers Elbert Hubbard Memorial Edition Printed and made into a Book by The Roycrofters, who are in East Huron, Erie County, New York Wm. H. Wise & Co. New York Copyright, 1916, By The Roycrofters CONTENTS MOSES 9 CONFUCIUS 41 PYTHAGORAS 69 PLATO 97 KING ALFRED 123 ERASMUS 149 BOOKER T. WASHINGTON 183 THOMAS ARNOLD 217 FRIEDRICH FROEBEL 245 HYPATIA 269 SAINT BENEDICT 293 MARY BAKER EDDY 327 [Illustration: MOSES] MOSES And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you. And God said, moreover, unto Moses: Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, The Lord God of your Fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you: this is my name forever, and this is my memorial unto all generations. --_Exodus iii: 14, 15_ MOSES Moses was the world's first great teacher. He is still one of the world's great teachers. Seven million people yet look to his laws for special daily guidance, and more than two hundred millions read his books and regard them as Holy Writ. And these people as a class are of the best and most enlightened who live now or who have ever lived. Moses did not teach of a life after this--he gives no hint of immortality--all of his rewards and punishments refer to the present. If there is a heaven for the good and a hell for the bad, he did not know of them. The laws of Moses were designed for the Now and the Here. Many of them ring true and correct even today, after all this interval of more than three thousand years. Moses had a good knowledge of physiology, hygiene, sanitation. He knew the advantages of cleanliness, order, harmony, industry and good habits. He also knew psychology, or the science of the mind: he knew the things that influence humanity, the limits of the average intellect, the plans and methods of government that will work and those which will not. He was practical. He did what was expedient. He considered the material with which he had to deal, and he did what he could and taught that which his people would and could believe. The Book of Genesis was plainly written for the child-mind. The problem that confronted Moses was one of practical politics, not a question of philosophy or of absolute or final truth. The laws he put forth were for the guidance of the people to whom he gave them, and his precepts were such as they could assimilate. It were easy to take the writings of Moses as they have come down to us, translated, re-translated, colored and tinted with the innocence, ignorance and superstition of the nations who have kept them alive for thirty-three centuries, and then compile a list of the mistakes of the original writer. The writer of these records of dreams and hopes and guesses, all cemented with stern commonsense, has our profound reverence and regard. The "mistakes" lie in the minds of the people who, in the face of the accumulated knowledge of the centuries, have persisted that things once written were eternally sufficient. In point of time there is no teacher within many hundred years following him who can be compared with him in originality and insight. Moses lived fourteen hundred years before Christ. The next man after him to devise a complete code of conduct was Solon, who lived seven hundred years after. A little later came Zoroaster, then Confucius, Buddha, Lao-tsze, Pericles, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle--contemporaries, or closely following each other, their philosophy woven and interwoven by all and each and each by all. Moses, however, stands out alone. That he did not know natural history as did Aristotle, who lived a thousand years later, is not to his discredit, and to emphasize the fact were irrelevant. Back of it all lies the undisputed fact that Moses led a barbaric people out of captivity and so impressed his ideals and personality upon them that they endure as a distinct and peculiar people, even unto this day. He founded a nation. And chronologically he is the civilized world's first author. Moses was a soldier, a diplomat, an executive, a writer, a teacher, a leader, a prophet, a stonecutter. Beside all these he was a farmer--a workingman, one who when forty years of age tended flocks and herds for a livelihood. Every phase of the outdoor life of the range was familiar to him. And the greatness of the man is revealed in the fact that his plans and aspirations were so far beyond his achievements that at last he thought he had failed. Exultant success seems to go with that which is cheap and transient. All great teachers have, in their own minds, been failures--they saw so much further than they were able to travel. * * * * * All ancient chronology falls easily into three general divisions: the fabulous, the legendary, and the probable or natural. In the understanding of history, psychology is quite as necessary as philology. To reject anything that has a flaw in it is quite as bad as to have that excess of credulity which swallows everything presented. It is not necessary to throw away the fabulous nor deny the legendary. But it is certainly not wise to construe the fabulous as the actual and maintain the legendary as literally true. Things may be true allegorically and false literally, and to be able to distinguish the one from the other, and prize each in its proper place, is the mark of wisdom. If, however, we were asked to describe the man Moses to a jury of sane, sensible, intelligent and unprejudiced men and women, and show why he is worthy of the remembrance of mankind, we would have to eliminate the fabulous, carefully weigh the traditional, and rest our argument upon records that are fair, sensible and reasonably free from dispute. The conclusions of professional retainers, committed before they begin their so-called investigations to a literal belief in the fabulous, should be accepted with great caution. For them to come to conclusions outside of that which they have been taught, is not only to forfeit their social position, but to lose their actual means of livelihood. Perhaps the truth in the final summing up can best be gotten from those who have made no vows that they will not change their opinions, and have nothing to lose if they fail occasionally to gibe with the popular. On a certain occasion after Colonel Ingersoll had delivered his famous lecture entitled, "Some Mistakes of Moses," he was entertained by a local club. At the meeting, which was of the usual informal kind known as "A Dutch Feed," a young lawyer made bold to address the great orator thus: "Colonel Ingersoll, you are a lover of freedom--with you the word liberty looms large. All great men love liberty, and no man lives in history, respected and revered, save as he has sought to make men free. Moses was a lover of liberty. Now, wouldn't it be gracious and generous in you to give Moses, who in some ways was in the same business as yourself, due credit as a liberator and law-giver and not emphasize his mistakes to the total exclusion of his virtues?" Colonel Ingersoll listened--he was impressed by the fairness of the question. He listened, paused and replied: "Young man, you have asked a reasonable question, and all you suggest about the greatness of Moses, in spite of his mistakes, is well taken. The trouble in your logic lies in the fact that you do not understand my status in this case. You seem to forget that I am not the attorney for Moses. He has more than two million men looking after his interests. I am retained on the other side!" Like unto Colonel Ingersoll, I am not an attorney for Moses. I desire, however, to give a fair, clear and judicial account of the man. I will attempt to present a brief for the people, and neither prosecute nor defend. I will simply try to picture the man as he once existed, nothing extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice. As the original office of the State's Attorney was rather to protect the person at the bar than to indict him, so will I try to bring out the best in Moses, rather than hold up his mistakes and raise a laugh by revealing his ignorance. Modesty, which is often egotism turned wrong side out, might here say, "Oh, Moses requires no defense at this late day!" But Moses, like all great men, has suffered at the hands of his friends. To this man has been attributed powers which no human being ever possessed. Moses lived thirty-three hundred years ago. In one sense thirty-three centuries is a very long time. All is comparative--children regard a man of fifty as "awful old." I have seen several persons who have lived a hundred years, and they didn't consider a century long, "and thirty-five isn't anything," said one of them to me. Geologically, thirty-three centuries is only an hour ago. It does not nearly take us back to the time when men of the Stone Age hunted the hairy mammoth in what is now Nebraska, nor does thirty-three centuries give us any glimpse of the time when tropical animals, plants and probably men lived and flourished at the North Pole. Egyptian civilization, at the time of Moses, was more than three thousand years old. Egypt was then in the first stage of senility, entering upon her decline, for her best people had settled in the cities, and this completes the cycle and spells deterioration. She had passed through the savage, barbaric, nomadic and agricultural stages and was living on her unearned increment, a part of which was Israelitish labor. Moses looked at the Pyramids, which were built more than a thousand years before his birth, and asked in wonder about who built them, very much as we do today. He listened for the Sphinx to answer, but she was silent, then as now. The date of the exodus has been fixed as having probably occurred during the reign of the Great Pharaoh, Mineptah, or the nineteenth Egyptian Dynasty. The date is, say, fourteen hundred years before Christ. An inscription has recently been found which seems to show that Joseph settled in Egypt during the reign of Mineptah, but the best scholars now have gone back to the conclusions I have stated. At the time of the Pharaohs, Egypt was the highest civilized country on earth. It had a vast system of canals, an organized army, a goodly degree of art, and there were engineers and builders of much ability. Philosophy, poetry and ethics were recognized, prized and discussed. The storage of grain by the government to bank against famine had been practised for several hundred years. There were also treasure-cities built to guard against fire, thieves or destruction by the elements. It will thus be seen that foresight, thrift, caution, wisdom, played their parts. The Egyptians were not savages. * * * * * About five hundred years before the birth of Moses there lived in Arabia a powerful Sheik or Chief, known as Abraham. This man had a familiar spirit, or guide, or guardian-angel known as Yaveh or Jehovah. All of the desert tribes had such tutelary gods; and all of these gods were once men of power who lived on earth. The belief in special gods has often been held by very great men: Socrates looked to his "demon" for guidance; Themistocles consulted his oracle; a President of the United States visited a clairvoyant, who consented to act as a medium and interpret the supernatural. This idea, which is a variant of ancestor worship, still survives, and very many good people do not take journeys or make investments until they believe they are being dictated to by Shakespeare, Emerson, Beecher or Phillips Brooks. These people also believe that there are bad spirits to which we must not harken. Abraham was led by Jehovah; what Jehovah told him to do he did; when Jehovah told him to desist or change his plans, he obeyed. Jehovah promised him many things, and some of these promises were fulfilled. Whether these tutelary gods or controlling spirits had any actual existence outside of the imagination of the people who believed in them--whether they were merely pictures thrown upon the screen by a subconscious spiritual stereopticon--is not the question now under discussion. Something must be left for a later time: the fact remains that special providences are yet relied upon by sincere and intelligent people. Abraham had a son named Isaac. And Isaac was the father of Jacob, or Israel, "the Soldier of God," so called on account of his successful wrestling with the angel. And Jacob was the father of twelve sons. All of these people believed in Jehovah, the god of their tribe; and while they did not disbelieve in the gods of the neighboring tribes, they yet doubted their power and had grave misgivings as to their honesty. Therefore, they had nothing to do with them, praying to their own god only and looking to him for support. They were the chosen people of Jehovah, just as the Babylonians were the chosen people of Baal; the Canaanites the chosen people of Ishitar; the Moabites the chosen people of Chemos; the Ammonites the chosen people of Rimmon. Now Joseph was the favorite son of Jacob, and his brethren were naturally jealous of him. So one day out on the range they sold him into slavery to a passing caravan, and went home and told their father the boy was dead, having been killed by a wild beast. To make the matter plausible they took the coat of Joseph and smeared it with the blood of a goat which they had killed. Nowadays, the coat would have been sent to a chemist's laboratory and the blood-spots tested to see whether it was the blood of beast or human. But Jacob believed the story and mourned his son as dead. Now Joseph was taken to Egypt and there arose to a position of influence and power through his intelligence and diligence. How eventually his brethren, starving, came to him for food, there being a famine in their own land, is one of the most natural and beautiful stories in all literature. It is a folklore legend, free from the fabulous, and has all the corroborating marks of the actual. For us it is history undisputed, unrefuted, because it is so natural. It could all easily happen in various parts of the world even now. It shows the identical traits of human nature that are alive and pulsing today. Joseph having made himself known to his brethren induced some of them and their neighbors to come down into Egypt, where the pasturage was better and the water more sure, and settle there. The Bible tells us that there were seventy of these settlers and gives us their names. These emigrants, called Israelites, or Children of Israel, account for the presence of the enslaved people whom Moses led out of captivity three hundred years later. One thing seems quite sure, and that is that they were a peculiar people then, with the pride of the desert in their veins, for they stood socially aloof and did not mix with the Egyptians. They still had their own god and clung to their own ways and customs. That very naive account in the first chapter of Exodus of how they had two midwives, "and the name of one was Shiphrah and the other Puah," is as fine in its elusive exactitude as an Uncle Remus story. Children always want to know the names of people. These two Hebrew midwives were bribed by the King of Egypt--ruler over twenty million people--in person, to kill all the Hebrew boy babies. Then the account states that Jehovah was pleased with these Hebrew women who proved false to their master, and Jehovah rewarded them by giving them houses. This order to kill the Hebrew children must have gone into execution, if at all, about the time of the birth of Moses, because Aaron, the brother of Moses, and three years older, certainly was not killed. Whether Moses was the son of Pharaoh's daughter, his father an Israelite, or both of his parents were Israelites, is problematic. Royal families are not apt to adopt an unknown waif into the royal household and bring him up as their royal own, especially if this waif belongs to what is regarded as an inferior race. The tie of motherhood is the only one that could over-rule caste and override prejudice. If the daughter of Pharaoh, or more properly "the Pharaoh," were the mother of Moses, she had a better reason for hiding him in the bulrushes than did the daughter of a Levite, for the order to kill these profitable workers is extremely doubtful. The strength, skill and ability of the Israelites formed a valuable acquisition to the Egyptians, and what they wanted was more Israelites, not fewer. Judging from the statement that there were only two midwives, there were only a few hundred Israelites--perhaps between one and two thousand, at most. So leaving the legend of the childhood of Moses with just enough mystery mixed in it to give it a perpetual piquancy, we learn that he was brought up an Egyptian, as the son of Pharaoh's daughter, and that it was she who gave him his name. Philo and Josephus give various sidelights on the life and character of Moses. The Midrash or Commentaries on the History of the Jews, composed, added to or modified by many men, extending over a period of twenty centuries, also add their weight, even though the value of these Commentaries is conjectural. Egyptian accounts of Moses and the Israelites come to us through Hellenic sources, and very naturally are not complimentary. These picture Moses, or Osarsiph, as they call him, as an agitator, an undesirable citizen, who sought to overturn the government, and failing in this, fled to the desert with a few hundred outlaws. They managed to hold out against the forces sent to capture them, were gradually added to by other refugees, and through the organizing genius of Moses were rounded into a strong tribe. That Moses was their supreme ruler, and that to better hold his people in check he devised a religious ritual for them, and impressed his god, Jehovah, upon them, almost to the exclusion of all other gods, and thus formed them into a religious whole, is beyond question. No matter what the cause of the uprising, or who was to blame for it, the fact is undisputed that Moses led a revolt in Egypt, and the people he carried with him in this exodus formed the nucleus of the Hebrew Nation. And further, the fact is beyond dispute that the personality of Moses was the prime cementing factor in the making of the nation. The power, poise, patience and unwavering self-reliance of the man, through his faith in the god Jehovah, are all beyond dispute. Things happen because the man makes them happen. * * * * * The position of the Israelites in Egypt was one of voluntary vassalage. The government was a feudal monarchy. The Israelites had come into Egypt of their own accord, but had never been admitted into the full rights of citizenship. This exclusion by the Egyptians had no doubt tended to fix the Children of Israel in their religious beliefs, and on the other hand, their proud and exclusive nature had tended to keep them from a full fellowship with the actual owners of the land. The Egyptians never attempted to traffic in them as they did in slaves of war, being quite content to use them as clerks, laborers and servants, paying them a certain wage, and also demanding an excess of labor in lieu of taxation. In other words, they worked out their "road-tax," which no doubt was excessive. Many years later, Athens and also Rome had similar "slaves," some of whom were men of great intellect and worth. If one reads the works of modern economic prophets, it will be seen that wage-workers in America are often referred to as "slaves" or "bondmen," terms which will probably give rise to confusion among historians to come. Moses was brought up in the court of the king, and became versed in all the lore of the Egyptians. We are led to suppose that he also looked like an Egyptian, as we are told that people seeing him for the first time, he being a stranger to them, went away and referred to him as "that Egyptian." He was handsome, commanding, silent by habit and slow of speech, strong as a counselor, a safe man. That he was a most valuable man in the conduct of Egyptian official affairs, there is no doubt. And although he was nominally an Egyptian, living with the Egyptians, adopting their manners and customs, yet his heart was with "his brethren," the Israelites, who he saw were sore oppressed through governmental exploitation. Moses knew that a government which does not exist for the purpose of adding to human happiness has no excuse for being. And once when he was down among his own people he saw an Egyptian taskmaster or foreman striking an Israelitish workman, and in wrath he arose and killed the oppressor. The only persons who were witnesses to this affair were two Hebrews. The second day after the fight, when Moses was attempting to separate two Hebrews who had gotten into an altercation with each other, they taunted him by saying, "Who gavest thee to be a ruler over us?--wilt thou also kill us as thou didst the Egyptian?" This gives us a little light upon the quality and character of the people with whom Moses had to deal. It also shows that the ways of the reformer and peacemaker are not flower-strewn. The worst enemies of a reformer are not the Egyptians--he has also to deal with the Israelites. I once heard Terence V. Powderly, who organized the Knights of Labor--the most successful labor organization ever formed--say, "Any man who devotes his life to helping laboring men will be destroyed by them." And then he added, "But this should not deter us from the effort to benefit." As the Hebrew account plainly states that the killing of all the male Hebrew children was carried out with the connivance of Hebrew women who pretended to be ministering to the Hebrew mothers, so was the flight of Moses from Egypt caused by the Hebrews, who turned informants and brought him into disgrace with Pharaoh, who sought his life. Very naturally, the Egyptians deny and have always denied that the order to kill children was ever issued by a Pharaoh. They also point to the fact that the Israelites were a source of profit--a valuable asset to the Egyptians. And moreover, the proposition that the Egyptians killed the children to avoid trouble is preposterous, since no possible act that man can commit would so arouse sudden rebellion and fan into flame the embers of hate as the murder of the young. If the Egyptians had attempted to carry out any such savage cruelty, they would not only have had to fight the Israelitish men, but the outraged mothers as well. The Egyptians were far too wise to invite the fury of frenzied motherhood. To have done this would have destroyed the efficiency of the entire Hebrew population. An outraged and heartbroken people do not work. When one person becomes angry with another, his mental processes work overtime making up a list of the other's faults and failings. When a people arise in revolt they straightway prepare an indictment against the government against which they revolted, giving a schedule of outrages, insults, plunderings and oppressions. This is what is politely called partisan history. "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was a literary indictment of the South by featuring its supposed brutalities. And the attitude of the South is mirrored in a pretty parable concerning a Southern girl who came North on a visit, and seeing in print the words "damned Yankee," innocently remarked that she always thought they were one word. A description of the enemy, made by a person or a people, must be taken cum grano Syracuse. * * * * * When Moses fled, after killing the Egyptian, he went northward and east into the land of the Midianites, who were also descendants of Abraham. At this time he was forty years of age, and still unmarried, his work in the Egyptian Court having evidently fully absorbed his time. It is a pretty little romance, all too brief in its details, of how the tired man stopped at a well, and the seven daughters of Jethro came to draw water for their flocks. Certain shepherds came also and drove the girls away, when Moses, true to his nature, took the part of the young ladies, to the chagrin and embarrassment of the male rustics who had left their manners at home. The story forms a melodramatic stage-setting which the mummers have not been slow to use, representing the seven daughters as a ballet, the shepherds as a male chorus, and Moses as basso-profundo and hero. We are told that the girls went home and told their father of the chivalrous stranger they had met, and he, with all the deference of the desert, sent for him "that he might eat bread." Very naturally Moses married one of the girls. And Moses tended the flocks of Jethro, his father-in-law, taking the herds a long distance, living with them and sleeping out under the stars. Now Jethro was the chief of his tribe. Moses calls him a "priest," but he was a priest only incidentally, as all the Arab chiefs were. The clergy originated in Egypt. Before the Israelites were in Goshen, the "sacra," or sacred utensils, belonged to the family; and the head of the tribe performed the religious rites, propitiating the family deity, or else delegated some one else to do so. This head of the tribe, or chief, was called a "Cohen"; and the man who assisted him, or whom he delegated, was called a "Levi." The plan of making a business of being a "Levi" was borrowed from the Egyptians, who had men set apart, exclusively, to deal in the mysterious. Moses calls himself a Levi, or Levite. After the busy life he had led, Moses could not settle down to the monotonous existence of a shepherd. It is probable that then he wrote the Book of Job, the world's first drama and the oldest book of the Bible. Moses was full of plans. Very naturally he prayed to the Israelitish god, and the god harkened unto his prayer and talked to him. The silence, the loneliness, the majesty of the mountains, the great stretches of shining sand, the long peaceful nights, all tend to hallucinations. Sheepmen are in constant danger of mental aberration. Society is needed quite as much as solitude. From talking with God, Moses desired to see Him. One day, from the burning red of an acacia-tree, the Lord called to him, "Moses, Moses!" And Moses answered, "Here am I!" Moses was a man born to rule--he was a leader of men--and here at middle life the habits of twenty-five years were suddenly snapped and his occupation gone. He yearned for his people, and knowing their unhappy lot, his desire was to lead them out of captivity. He knew the wrongs the Egyptian government was visiting upon the Israelites. Rameses the Second was a ruler with the builder's eczema: always and forever he made gardens, dug canals, paved roadways, constructed model tenements, planned palaces, erected colossi. He was a worker, and he made everybody else work. It was in this management of infinite detail that Moses had been engaged; and while he entered into it with zest, he knew that the hustling habit can be overdone and its votaries may become its victims--not only that, but this strenuous life may turn freemen into serfs, and serfs into slaves. And now Rameses was dead, and the proud, vain, fretful and selfish Mineptah ruled in his place. It was worse with the Israelites than ever! The more Moses thought of it the more he was convinced that it was his duty to go back to Egypt and lead his people out of bondage. He himself, having been driven out, made the matter a burning one with him: he had lost his place in the Egyptian Court, but he would get it back and hold it under better conditions than ever before! He heard the "Voice"! All strong people hear the Voice calling them. And harkening to the Inner Voice is simply doing what you want to do. "Moses, Moses!" And Moses answered, "Lord, here am I." The laws of Moses still influence the world, but not even the orthodox Jews follow them literally. We bring our reason to bear upon the precepts of Moses, and those which are not for us we gently pass over. In fact, the civil laws of most countries prohibit many of the things which Moses commanded. For instance, the eighteenth verse of the twenty-second chapter of Exodus says, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Certainly no Jewish lawyer nor Rabbi, in any part of the world, advocates the killing of persons supposed to be witches. We explain that in this instance the inspired writer lapsed and merely mirrored the ignorance of his time. Or else we fall back upon the undoubted fact that various writers and translators have tampered with the original text--this must be so, since the book written by Moses makes record of his death. But when we find passages in Moses requiring us to benefit our enemies, we say with truth that this was the first literature to express for us the brotherhood of man. "Thou shalt take no gift: for the gift blindeth the wise and perverteth the words of the righteous." Here we get Twentieth-Century Wisdom. And very many passages as fine and true can be found, which prove for us beyond cavil that Moses was right a part of the time, and to say this of any man, living or dead, is a very great compliment. In times of doubt the Jewish people turn to the Torah, or Book of the Law. This book has been interpreted by the Rabbis, or the learned men, and to meet the exigencies of living under many conditions, it has been changed, enlarged and augmented. In these changes the people were not consulted. Very naturally it was done secretly, for inspired men must be well dead before the many accept their edict. To be alive is always more or less of an offense, especially if you be a person and not a personage. The murmurings against Moses during his lifetime often broke into a rumble and a roar. The mob accused him of taking them out into the wilderness to perish. To get away from the constant bickering and criticisms of the little minds, Moses used to go up into the mountains alone to find rest, and there he communicated with his god. It was surely a great step in advance when all the Elohims were combined into one Supreme Elohim that was everywhere present and ruled the world. Instead of dozens of little gods, jealous, jangling, fearful, fretful, fussy, boastful, changing walking-sticks to serpents, or doing other things quite as useless, it was a great advance to have one Supreme Being, dispassionate, a God of Love and Justice, "with whom can be no variation, neither shadow that is cast by turning." This gradual ennobling of the conception of Divinity reveals the extent to which man is ennobling his own nature. Up to within a very few years God had a rival in the Devil, but now the Devil lives only as a pleasantry. Until the time of Moses, the God of Sinai was only the God of the Hebrew people, and this accounts for His violence, wrath, jealousy, and all of those qualities which went to make up a barbaric chief, including the tendency of His sons and servants to make love to the daughters of earth. It is probable that the idea of God--in opposition to a god, one of many gods--was a thought that grew up very gradually in the mind of Moses. The ideal grew, and Moses grew with the ideal. Then from God being a Spirit, to being Spirit, is a natural, easy and beautiful evolution. The thought of angels, devils, heavenly messengers, like Gabriel and the Holy Ghost, constantly surrounding the Throne, is a suggestion that comes from the court of the absolute monarch. The Trinity is the oligarchy refined, and the one son who gives himself as a sacrifice for all the people who have offended the monarch is the retreating vision of that night of ignorance when all nations sought to appease the wrath of their god by the death of human beings. God to us is Spirit, realized everywhere in unfolding Nature. We are a part of Nature--we, too, are Spirit. When Moses commands his people that they must return the stray animal of their enemy to its rightful owner, we behold a great man struggling to benefit humanity by making them recognize the laws of Spirit. We are all one family--we can not afford to wrong or harm even an enemy. Instead of thousands of warring, jarring families or tribes, we have now a few strong federations of States, or countries, which, if they would make war on one another, would today quickly face a larger foe. Already the idea of one government for all the world is taking form--there must be one Supreme Arbiter, and all this monstrous expense of money and flesh and blood and throbbing hearts for purposes of war, must go, just as we have sent to limbo the jangling, jarring, jealous gods. Also, the better sentiment of the world will send the czars, emperors, kings, grand dukes, and the greedy grafters of so-called democracy, into the dust-heap of oblivion, with all the priestly phantoms that have obscured the sun and blackened the sky. The gods have gone, but MAN IS HERE. * * * * * The plagues that befell the Egyptians were the natural ones to which Egypt was liable: drought, flood, flies, lice, frogs, disease. The Israelites very naturally declared that these things were sent as a punishment by the Israelitish god. I remember a farmer, in my childhood days, who was accounted by his neighbors as an infidel. He was struck by lightning and instantly killed, while standing in his doorway. The Sunday before, this man had worked in the fields, and just before he was killed he had said, "dammit," or something quite as bad. Our preacher explained at length that this man's death was a "judgment." Afterward, when our church was struck by lightning, it was regarded as an accident. Ignorant and superstitious people always attribute special things to special causes. When the grasshoppers overran Kansas in Eighteen Hundred Eighty-five, I heard a good man from the South say it was a punishment on the Kansans for encouraging Old John Brown. The next year the boll-weevil ruined the cotton crop, and certain preachers in the North, who thought they knew, declared it was the lingering wrath of God on account of slavery. Three nations unite to form our present civilization. These are the Greek, the Roman and the Judaic. The lives of Perseus, Romulus and Moses all teem with the miraculous, but if we accept the supernatural in one we must in all. Which of these three great nations has contributed most to our well-being is a question largely decided by temperament; but just now the star of Greece seems to be in the ascendant. We look to art for solace. Greece stands for art; Rome for conquest; Judea for religion. And yet Moses was a lover of beauty, and the hold he had upon his people was quite as much through training them to work as through his moral teaching. Indeed, his morality was expediency--which is reason enough according to modern science. When he wants them to work, he says, "Thus saith the Lord," just the same as when he wishes to impress upon them a thought. No one can read the twenty-sixth, twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth chapters of Exodus without being impressed with the fact that the man who wrote them had in him the spirit of the Master Workman--a King's Craftsman. His carving the ten commandments on tablets of stone also shows his skill with mallet and chisel, a talent he had acquired in Egypt, where Rameses the Second had thousands of men engaged in sculpture and in making inscriptions in stone. Several chapters in Exodus might have been penned by Albrecht Durer or William Morris. The commandment, "Thou shalt not make unto thyself any graven image," was unmistakably made merely to correct a local evil: the tendency to worship the image instead of the thing it symbolized. People who do not contribute to the creation of an object fall easy victims to this error. With all the stern good sense that Moses revealed, it is but fair to assume that he did not mean the command to be perpetual. It was only through so much moving about that the Jews seemed to lose their art spirit. And certainly the flame of art in the Jewish heart has never died out, even though at times it has smoldered, for wherever there has been peace and security for the Jews, they have not been slow to evolve the talent which creates. History teems with the names of Jews who, in music, painting, poetry and sculpture, have devoted their days to beauty. And the germ of genius is seen in many of the Jewish children who attend the manual-training and art schools of America. Art has its rise in the sense of sublimity. It seems at times to be a fulfilment of the religious impulse. The religion which balks at work, stopping at prayer and contemplation, is a form of arrested development. The number of people in the exodus was probably two or three thousand. Renan says that one century only elapsed between the advent of Joseph into Egypt and the revolt. Very certain it was not a great number that went forth into the desert. A half-million women could not have borrowed jewelry of their neighbors--the secret could not have been kept. And in the negotiations between Moses and the King, it will be remembered that Moses asked only for the privilege of going three days' journey into the wilderness to make sacrifices. It was a kind of picnic or religious campmeeting. A vast multitude could not have taken part in any such exercise. We also hear of their singing their gratitude on account of reaching Elim, where there were "twelve springs and seventy palm-trees." Had there been several million people, as we have been told, the insignificant shade of seventy trees would have meant nothing to them. The distance from Goshen in Egypt to Canaan in Palestine was about one hundred seventy-five miles. But by the circuitous route they traveled it was nearly a thousand miles. It took forty years to make the passage, for the way had to be fought through the country of foes who very naturally sought to block the way. Quick transportation was out of the question. The rate of speed was about twenty-five miles a year. Here was a people without homes, or fixed habitation, beset on every side with the natural dangers of the desert, and compelled to face the fury of the inhabitants whose lands they overran, fearful, superstitious, haunted by hunger, danger and doubt. By night a man sent ahead with a lantern on a pole led the way; by day a cavalcade that raised a cloud of dust. One was later sung by the poets as a pillar of fire, and the other a cloud. Chance flocks of quail blown by a storm into their midst were regarded as a miracle; the white exuding wax of the manna-plant was told of as "bread"--or more literally food. Those who had taken part in the original exodus were nearly all dead--their children and grandchildren survived, desert born and savage bred. Canaan was not the land flowing with milk and honey that had been described. Milk and honey are the results of labor applied to land. Moses knew this and tried to teach this great truth. He was true to his divine trust. Through doubt, hardship, poverty, misunderstanding, he held high the ideal--they were going to a better place. At last, worn by his constant struggle, aged one hundred twenty, "his eye not dim nor his natural force abated"--for only those live long who live well--Moses went up into the mountain to find solace in solitude as was his custom. His people waited for him in vain--he did not return. Alone there with his God he slept and forgot to awaken. His pilgrimage was done. "And no man knoweth his grave even unto this day." History is very seldom recorded on the spot--certainly it was not then. Centuries followed before fact, tradition, song, legend and folklore were fused into the form we call Scripture. But out of the fog and mist of that far-off past there looms in heroic outline the form and features of a man--a man of will, untiring activity, great hope, deep love, a faith which at times faltered, but which never died. Moses was the first man in history who fought for human rights and sought to make men free, even from their own limitations. "And there arose not a prophet since Israel like unto Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face." [Illustration: CONFUCIUS] CONFUCIUS The highest study of all is that which teaches us to develop those principles of purity and perfect virtue which Heaven bestowed upon us at our birth, in order that we may acquire the power of influencing for good those amongst whom we are placed, by our precepts and example; a study without an end--for our labors cease only when we have become perfect--an unattainable goal, but one that we must not the less set before us from the very first. It is true that we shall not be able to reach it, but in our struggle toward it we shall strengthen our characters and give stability to our ideas, so that, whilst ever advancing calmly in the same direction, we shall be rendered capable of applying the faculties with which we have been gifted to the best possible account. --_"The Annals" of Confucius_ CONFUCIUS The Chinese comprise one-fourth of the inhabitants of the earth. There are four hundred millions of them. They can do many things which we can not do, and we can do a few things which they have not yet been able to do; but they are learning from us, and possibly we would do well to learn from them. In China there are now trolley-cars, telephone-lines, typewriters, cash-registers and American plumbing. China is a giant awaking from sleep. He who thinks that China is a country crumbling into ruins has failed to leave a call at the office and has overslept. The West can not longer afford to ignore China. And not being able to waive her, perhaps the next best thing is to try to understand her. The one name that looms large above any other name in China is Confucius. He of all men has influenced China most. One-third of the human race love and cherish his memory, and repeat his words as sacred writ. Confucius was born at a time when one of those tidal waves of reason swept the world--when the nations were full of unrest, and the mountains of thought were shaken with discontent. It was just previous to the blossoming of Greece. Pericles was seventeen years old when Confucius died. Themistocles was preparing the way for Pericles; for then was being collected the treasure of Delos, which made Phidias and the Parthenon possible. During the life of Confucius lived Leonidas, Miltiades, Cyrus the Great, Cambyses, Darius, Xerxes. And then quite naturally occurred the battles of Marathon, Salamis and Thermopylæ. Then lived Buddha-Gautama, Lao-tsze, Ezekiel, Daniel, Haggai, Zechariah, Pythagoras, Pindar, �schylus and Anacreon. The Chinese are linked to the past by ties of language and custom beyond all other nations. They are a peculiar people, a chosen people, a people set apart. Just when they withdrew from the rest of mankind and abandoned their nomadic habits, making themselves secure against invasion by building a wall one hundred feet high, and settled down to lay the foundations of a vast empire, we do not know. Some historians have fixed the date about ten thousand years before Christ--let it go at that. There is a reasonably well-authenticated history of China that runs back twenty-five hundred years before Christ, while our history merges into mist seven hundred fifty years before the Christian era. The Israelites wandered; the Chinese remained at home. Walls have this disadvantage: they keep people in as well as shut the barbarians out. But now there are vast breaches in the wall, through which the inhabitants ooze, causing men from thousands of miles away to cry in alarm, "the Yellow Peril!" And also through these breaches, Israelites, Englishmen and Yankees enter fearlessly, settle down in heathen China, and do business. It surely is an epoch, and what the end will be few there are who dare forecast. * * * * * This then is from the pen of Edward Carpenter, the Church of England curate who was so great a friend and admirer of our own Walt Whitman that he made a trip across the sea to join hands with him in preaching the doctrine of democracy and the religion of humanity. In the interior of China, along low-lying plains and great river-valleys, and by lake-sides, and far away up into hilly and even mountainous regions, Behold! an immense population, rooted in the land, rooted in the clan and the family, The most productive and stable on the whole Earth. A garden one might say--a land of rich and recherche crops, of rice and tea and silk and sugar and cotton and oranges; Do you see it?--stretching away endlessly over river-lines and lakes, and the gentle undulations of the low-lands, and up the escarpments of the higher hills; The innumerable patchwork of civilization--the poignant verdure of the young rice; the somber green of orange-groves; the lines of tea-shrubs, well hoed, and showing the bare earth beneath; the pollard mulberries; the plots of cotton and maize and wheat and yam and clover; the little brown and green tiled cottages with spreading recurbed eaves, the clumps of feathery bamboo, or of sugar-canes; The endless silver threads of irrigation canals and ditches, skirting the hills for scores and hundreds of miles, tier above tier, and serpentining down to the lower slopes and plains-- The accumulated result, these, of centuries upon centuries of ingenious industry, and innumerable public and private benefactions, continued from age to age; The grand canal of the Delta plain extending, a thronged waterway, for seven hundred miles, with sails of junks and bankside villages innumerable; The chain-pumps, worked by buffaloes or men, for throwing the water up slopes and hillsides, from tier to tier, from channel to channel; The endless rills and cascades flowing down again into pockets and hollows of verdure, and on fields of steep and plain; The bits of rock and wildwood left here and there, with the angles of Buddhist or Jain temples projecting from among the trees; The azalea and rhododendron bushes, and the wild deer and pheasants unharmed; The sounds of music and the gong--the Sin-fa sung at eventide--and the air of contentment and peace pervading; A garden you might call the land, for its wealth of crops and flowers, A town almost for its population. A population denser, on a large scale, than anywhere else on earth-- Five or six acre holdings, elbowing each other, with lesser and larger, continuously over immense tracts, and running to plentiful market centers; A country of few roads, but of innumerable footpaths and waterways. Here, rooted in the land, and rooted in the family, each family clinging to its portion of ancestral earth, each offshoot of the family desiring nothing so much as to secure its own patrimonial field, Each member of the family answerable primarily to the family assembly for his misdeeds or defalcations, All bound together in the common worship of ancestors, and in reverence for the past and its sanctioned beliefs and accumulated prejudices and superstitions; With many ancient, wise, simple customs and ordinances, coming down from remote centuries, and the time of Confucius, This vast population abides--the most stable and the most productive in the world. * * * * * And Government touches it but lightly--can touch it but lightly. With its few officials (only some twenty-five thousand for the whole of its four hundred millions), and its scanty taxation (about one dollar per head), and with the extensive administration of justice and affairs by the clan and the family--little scope is left for government. The great equalized mass population pursues its even and accustomed way, nor pays attention to edicts and foreign treaties, unless these commend themselves independently; Pays readier respect, in such matters, to the edicts and utterances of its literary men, and the deliberations of the Academy. * * * * * And religious theorizing touches it but lightly--can touch it but lightly. Established on the bedrock of actual life, and on the living unity and community of present, past and future generations. Each man stands bound already, and by the most powerful ties, to the social body--nor needs the dreams and promises of Heaven to reassure him. And all are bound to the Earth. Rendering back to it as a sacred duty every atom that the Earth supplies to them (not insensately sending it in sewers to the sea), By the way of abject commonsense they have sought the gates of Paradise--and to found on human soil their City Celestial! The first general knowledge of Confucius came to the Western world in the latter part of the Sixteenth Century from Jesuit missionaries. Indeed, it was they who gave him the Latinized name of "Confucius," the Chinese name being Kung-Fu-tsze. So impressed were these missionaries by the greatness of Confucius that they urged upon the Vatican the expediency of placing his name upon the calendar of Saints. They began by combating his teachings, but this they soon ceased to do, and the modicum of success which they obtained was through beginning each Christian service by the hymn which may properly be called the National Anthem of China. Its opening stanza is as follows: Confucius! Confucius! Great was our Confucius! Before him there was no Confucius, Since him there was no other. Confucius! Confucius! Great was our Confucius! The praise given by these early Jesuits to Confucius was at first regarded at Rome as apology for the meager success of their ministrations. But later scientific study of Chinese literature corroborated all that the Jesuit Fathers proclaimed for Confucius, and he stands today in a class with Socrates and the scant half-dozen whom we call the saviors of the world. Yet Confucius claimed no "divine revelation," nor did he seek to found a religion. He was simply a teacher, and what he taught was the science of living--living in the present, with the plain and simple men and women who make up the world, and bettering our condition by bettering theirs. Of a future life he said he knew nothing, and concerning the supernatural he was silent, even rebuking his disciples for trying to pry into the secrets of Heaven. The word "God" he does not use, but his recognition of a Supreme Intelligence is limited to the use of a word which can best be translated "Heaven," since it tokens a place more than it does a person. Constantly he speaks of "doing the will of Heaven." And then he goes on to say that "Heaven is speaking through you," "Duty lies in mirroring Heaven in our acts," and many other such New-Thought aphorisms or epigrams. That the man was a consummate literary stylist is beyond doubt. He spoke in parables and maxims, short, brief and musical. He wrote for his ear, and always his desire, it seems, was to convey the greatest truth in the fewest words. The Chinese, even the lowly and uneducated, know hundreds of Confucian epigrams, and still repeat them in their daily conversation or in writing, just as educated Englishmen use the Bible and Shakespeare for symbol. Minister Wu, in a lecture delivered in various American cities, compared Confucius with Emerson, showing how in many ways these two great prophets paralleled each other. Emerson, of all Americans, seems the only man worthy of being so compared. The writer who lives is the man who supplies the world with portable wisdom--short, sharp, pithy maxims which it can remember, or, better still, which it can not forget. Confucius said, "Every truth has four corners: as a teacher I give you one corner, and it is for you to find the other three." The true artist in words or things is always more or less impressionistic--he talks in parables, and it is for the hearer to discover the meaning for himself. An epigram is truth in a capsule. The disadvantage of the epigram is the temptation it affords to good people to explain it to the others who are assumed to be too obtuse to comprehend it alone. And since explanations seldom explain, the result is a mixture or compound that has to be spewed utterly or taken on faith. Confucius is simple enough until he is explained. Then we evolve sects, denominations and men who make it their profession to render moral calculi opaque. China, being peopled by human beings, has suffered from this tendency to make truth concrete, just as all the rest of the world has suffered. Truth is fluid and should be allowed to flow. Ankylosis of a fact is superstition. Confucius was a free-trader. * * * * * China has always been essentially feudal in her form of government. China is made up of a large number of States, each presided over by a prince or governor, and these States are held together by a rather loose federal government, the Emperor being the supreme ruler. State rights prevail. State may fight with State, or States may secede--it isn't of much moment. They are glad enough, after a few years, to get back, like boys who run away from home, or farmhands who quit work in a tantrum. The Chinese are very patient--they know that time cures all things, a truth the West has not yet learned. States that rebel, like individuals who place themselves beyond the protection of all, assume grave responsibilities. The local prince usually realizes the bearing of the Social Contract--that he holds his office only during good behavior, and that his welfare and the welfare of his people are one. Heih, the father of Confucius, was governor of one of these little States, and had impoverished himself in an effort to help his people. Heih was a man of seventy, wedded to a girl of seventeen, when their gifted son was born. When the boy was three years old the father died, and the lad's care and education depended entirely on the mother. This mother seems to have been a woman of rare mental and spiritual worth. She deliberately chose a life of poverty and honest toil for herself and child, rather than allow herself to be cared for by rich kinsmen. The boy was brought up in a village, and he was not allowed to think himself any better than the other village children, save as he proved himself so. He worked in the garden, tended the cattle and goats, mended the pathways, brought wood and water, and waited on his elders. Every evening his mother used to tell him of the feats of strength of his father, of his heroic qualities in friendship, of deeds of valor, of fidelity to trusts, of his absolute truthfulness, and his desire for knowledge in order that he might better serve his people. The coarse, plain fare, the long walks across the fields, the climbing of trees, the stooping to pull the weeds in the garden, the daily bath in the brook, all combined to develop the boy's body to a splendid degree. He went to bed at sundown, and at the first flush of dawn was up that he might see the sunrise. There were devotional rites performed by the mother and son, morning and evening, which consisted in the playing upon a lute and singing or chanting the beauty and beneficence of creation. Confucius, at fifteen, was regarded as a phenomenal musician, and the neighbors used to gather to hear him perform. At nineteen he was larger, stronger, comelier, more skilled, than any other youth of his age in all the country round. The simple quality of his duties as a prince can be guessed when we are told that his work as keeper of the herds required him to ride long distances on horseback to settle difficulties between rival herders. The range belonged to the State, and the owners of goats, sheep and cattle were in continual controversies. Montana and Colorado will understand this matter. Confucius summoned the disputants and talked to them long about the absurdity of quarreling and the necessity of getting together in complete understanding. Then it was that he first put forth his best-known maxim: "You should not do to others that which you would not have others do to you." This negative statement of the Golden Rule is found expressed in various ways in the writings of Confucius. A literal interpretation of the Chinese language is quite impossible, as the Chinese have single signs or symbols that express a complete idea. To state the same matter, we often use a whole page. Confucius had a single word which expressed the Golden Rule in such a poetic way that it is almost useless to try to convey it to people of the West. This word, which has been written into English as "Shu," means: My heart responds to yours, or my heart's desire is to meet your heart's desire, or I wish to do to you even as I would be done by. This sign, symbol or word Confucius used to carve in the bark of trees by the roadside. The French were filled with a like impulse when they cut the words Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, over the entrances to all public buildings. Confucius had his symbol of love and friendship painted on a board, which he stuck into the ground before the tent where he lodged; and finally it was worked upon a flag by some friends and presented to him, and became his flag of peace. His success in keeping down strife among the herders, and making peace among his people, soon gave him a fame beyond the borders of his own State. As a judge he had the power to show both parties where they were wrong, and arranged for them a common meeting-ground. His qualifications as an arbiter were not, however, limited to his powers of persuasion--he could shoot an arrow farther and hurl a spear with more accuracy than any man he ever met. Very naturally there are a great number of folklore stories concerning his prowess, some of which make him out a sort of combination Saint George and William Tell, with the added kingly graces of Alfred the Great. Omitting the incredible, we are willing to believe that this man had a giant's strength, but was great enough not to use it like a giant. We are willing to believe that when attacked by robbers, he engaged them in conversation and that, seated on the grass, he convinced them they were in a bad business. Also, he did not later hang them, as did our old friend Julius Cæsar under like conditions. When twenty-seven he ceased going abroad to hold court and settle quarrels, but sending for the disputants, they came, and he gave them a course of lectures in ethics. In a week, by a daily lesson of an hour's length, they were usually convinced that to quarrel is very foolish, since it reduces bodily vigor, scatters the mind, and disturbs the secretions, so the man is the loser in many ways. This seems to us like a very queer way to hold court, but Confucius maintained that men should learn to govern their tempers, do equity, and thus be able to settle their own disputes, and this without violence. "To fight decides who is the stronger, the younger and the more skilful in the use of arms, but it does not decide who is right. That is to be settled by the Heaven in your own heart." To let the Heaven into your heart, to cultivate a conscience so sensitive that it can conceive the rights of the other man, is to know wisdom. To decide specific cases for others he thought was to cause them to lose the power of deciding for themselves. When asked what a just man should do when he was dealing with one absolutely unjust, he said, "He who wrongs himself sows in his own heart nettles." And when some of his disciples, after the Socratic method, asked him how this helped the injured man, he replied, "To be robbed or wronged is nothing unless you continue to remember it." When pushed still further, he said, "A man should fight, only when he does so to protect himself or his family from bodily harm." Here a questioner asked, "If we are to protect our persons, must we not learn to fight?" And the answer comes, "The just man, he who partakes moderately of all good things, is the only man to fear in a quarrel, for he is without fear." Over and over is the injunction in varying phrase, "Abolish fear--abolish fear!" When pressed to give in one word the secret of a happy life, he gives a word which we translate, "Equanimity." The mother of Confucius died during his early manhood. For her he ever retained the most devout memories. Before going on a journey he always visited her grave, and on returning, before he spoke to any one, he did the same. On each anniversary of her death he ate no food and was not to be seen by his pupils. This filial piety, which is sometimes crudely and coarsely called "ancestor worship," is something which for the Western world is rather difficult to appreciate. But in it there is a subtle, spiritual significance, suggesting that it is only through our parents that we are able to realize consciousness or personal contact with Heaven. These parents loved us into being, cared for us with infinite patience in infancy, taught us in youth, watched with high hope our budding manhood; and as reward and recognition for the service rendered us, the least we can do is to remember them in all our prayers and devotions. The will of Heaven used these parents for us, therefore parenthood is divine. That this ancestor worship is beautiful and beneficial is quite apparent, and rightly understood no one could think of it as "heathendom." Confucius used to chant the praises of his mother, who brought him up in poverty, thus giving a close and intimate knowledge of a thousand things from which princes, used to ease and luxury, are barred. So close was he to nature and the plain people that he ordered that all skilful charioteers in his employ should belong to the nobility. This giving a title or degree to men of skill--men who can do things--we regard as essentially a modern idea. China, I believe, is the first country in the world to use the threads of a moth or worm for fabrics. The patience and care and inventive skill required in first making silk were very great. But it gives us an index to invention when we hear that Confucius regarded the making of linen, using the fiber of a plant, as a greater feat than utilizing the strands made by the silkworm. Confucius had a sort of tender sentiment toward the moth, similar to the sentiments which our vegetarian friends have toward killing animals for food. Confucius wore linen in preference to silk, for sentimental reasons. The silkworm dies at his task of making himself a cocoon, so to evolve in a winged joy, but falls a victim of man's cupidity. Likewise, Confucius would not drink milk from a cow until her calf was weaned, because to do so were taking an unfair advantage of the maternal instincts of the cow. It will thus be seen that Confucius had a very fair hold on the modern idea which we call "Monism," or "The One." He, too, said, "All is one." In his attitude toward all living things he was ever gentle and considerate. No other prophet so much resembles Confucius in doctrine as Socrates. But Confucius does not suffer from the comparison. He had a beauty, dignity and grace of person which the great Athenian did not possess. Socrates was more or less of a buffoon, and to many in Athens he was a huge joke--a town fool. Confucius combined the learning and graces of Plato with the sturdy, practical commonsense of Socrates. No one ever affronted or insulted him; many did not understand him, but he met prince or pauper on terms of equality. In his travels Confucius used often to meet recluses or monks--men who had fled the world in order to become saints. For these men Confucius had more pity than respect. "The world's work is difficult, and to live in a world of living, striving and dying men and women requires great courage and great love. Now we can not all run away, and for some to flee from humanity and to find solace in solitude is only another name for weakness." This sounds singularly like our Ralph Waldo who says, "It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinions; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the Great Man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude." Confucius is the first man in point of time to proclaim the divinity of service, the brotherhood of man, and the truth that in useful work there is no high nor low degree. In talking to a group of young men he says: "When I was keeper of the herds I always saw to it that all of my cattle were strong, healthy and growing, that there was water in abundance and plenty of feed. When I had charge of the public granaries I never slept until I knew that all was secure and cared for against the weather, and my accounts as true and correct as if I were going on my long journey to return no more. My advice is to slight nothing, forget nothing, never leave things to chance, nor say, 'Nobody will know--this is good enough.'" In all of his injunctions Confucius never has anything in mind beyond the present life. Of a future existence he knows nothing, and he seems to regard it as a waste of energy and a sign of weakness to live in two worlds at a time. "Heaven provides us means of knowing all about what is best here, and supplies us in abundance every material thing for present happiness, and it is our business to realize, to know, to enjoy." He taught rhetoric, mathematics, economics, the science of government and natural history. And always and forever running through the fabric of his teaching was the silken thread of ethics--man's duty to man, man's duty to Heaven. Music was to him a necessity, since "it brings the mind in right accord with the will of Heaven." Before he began to speak he played softly on a stringed instrument which perhaps would compare best with our guitar, but it was much smaller, and this instrument he always carried with him, suspended from his shoulder by a silken sash. Yet with all of his passion for music, he cautioned his disciples against using it as an end. It was merely valuable as an introduction to be used in attuning the mind and heart to an understanding of great truth. Confucius was seventy-two years old at his death. During his life his popularity was not great. When he passed away his followers numbered only about three thousand persons, and his "disciples," or the teachers who taught his philosophy, were seventy in number. There is no reason to suppose that Confucius assumed that a vast number of people would ever ponder his words or regard him as a prophet. At the time that Confucius lived, also lived Lao-tsze. As a youth Confucius visited Lao-tsze, who was then an old man. Confucius often quotes his great contemporary and calls himself a follower of Lao-tsze. The difference, however, between the men is marked. Lao-tsze's teachings are full of metaphysics and strange and mystical curiosities, while Confucius is always simple, lucid and practical. * * * * * Confucius has been revered for twenty centuries, revered simply as a man, not as a god or as a divinely appointed savior. He offered no reward of heaven, nor did he threaten non-believers with hell. He claimed no special influence nor relationship to the Unseen. In all his teachings he was singularly open, frank and free from all mystery or concealment. In reference to the supernatural he was an agnostic. He often said, "I do not know." He was always an inquirer, always a student, always open to conviction. History affords no instance of another individual who has been so well and so long loved, who still holds his place, and who, so far as his reasoning went, is unassailed and unassailable. Even the two other great religions in China that rival Confucianism--Buddhism and Taoism (the religion of Lao-tsze)--do not renounce Confucius: they merely seek to amend and augment him. During his lifetime Confucius made many enemies by his habit of frankly pointing out the foibles of society and the wrongs visited upon the people by officials who pretended to serve them. Of hypocrisy, selfishness, vanity, pretense, he was severe in his denunciation. Politicians at that time had the very modern habit of securing the office and then leaving all the details of the work to menials, they themselves pocketing the perquisites. As Minister of State, Confucius made himself both feared and detested on account of his habit of summoning the head of the office before him and questioning him concerning his duties. In fact, this insistence that those paid by the State should work for the State caused a combination to be formed against him, which finally brought about his deposition and exile, two things which troubled him but little, since one gave him leisure and the other opportunity for travel. The personal followers of Confucius did not belong to the best society; but immediately after his death, many who during his life had scorned the man made haste to profess his philosophy and decorate their houses with his maxims. Humanity is about the same, whether white or yellow, the round world over, and time modifies it but little. It will be recalled how John P. Altgeld was feared and hated by both press and pulpit, especially in the State and city he served. But rigor mortis had scarcely seized upon that slight and tired body before the newspapers that had disparaged the man worst were vying with one another in glowing eulogies and warm testimonials to his honesty, sincerity, purity of motive and deep insight. A personality which can neither be bribed, bought, coerced, flattered nor cajoled is always regarded by the many--especially by the party in power--as "dangerous." Vice, masked as virtue, breathes easier when the honest man is safely under the sod. The plain and simple style of Confucius' teaching can be gathered by the following sayings, selected at random from the canonical books of Confucianism, consisting of the teachings of the great master which were gathered together and grouped by his disciples and followers after his death: The men of old spoke little. It would be well to imitate them, for those who talk much are sure to say something it would be better to have left unsaid. Let a man's labor be proportioned to his needs. For he who works beyond his strength does but add to his cares and disappointments. A man should be moderate even in his efforts. Be not over-anxious to obtain relaxation or repose. For he who is so, will get neither. Beware of ever doing that which you are likely, sooner or later, to repent of having done. Do not neglect to rectify an evil because it may seem small, for, though small at first, it may continue to grow until it overwhelms you. As riches adorn a house, so does an expanded mind adorn and tranquillize the body. Hence it is that the superior man will seek to establish his motives on correct principles. The cultivator of the soil may have his fill of good things, but the cultivator of the mind will enjoy a continual feast. It is because men are prone to be partial toward those they love, unjust toward those they hate, servile toward those above them, arrogant to those below them, and either harsh or over-indulgent to those in poverty and distress, that it is so difficult to find any one capable of exercising a sound judgment with respect to the qualities of others. He who is incapable of regulating his own family can not be capable of ruling a nation. The superior man will find within the limits of his own home, a sufficient sphere for the exercise of all those principles upon which good government depends. How, indeed, can it be otherwise, when filial piety is that which should regulate the conduct of a people toward their prince; fraternal affection, that which should regulate the relations which should exist between equals, and the conduct of inferiors toward those above them; and paternal kindness, that which should regulate the bearing of those in authority toward those over whom they are placed? Be slow in speech, but prompt in action. He whose principles are thoroughly established will not be easily led from the right path. The cautious are generally to be found on the right side. By speaking when we ought to keep silence, we waste our words. If you would escape vexation, reprove yourself liberally and others sparingly. There is no use attempting to help those who can not help themselves. Make friends with the upright, intelligent and wise; avoid the licentious, talkative and vain. Disputation often breeds hatred. Nourish good principles with the same care that a mother would bestow on her newborn babe. You may not be able to bring them to maturity, but you will nevertheless be not far from doing so. The decrees of Heaven are not immutable, for though a throne may be gained by virtue, it may be lost by vice. There are five good principles of action to be adopted: To benefit others without being lavish; to encourage labor without being harsh; to add to your resources without being covetous; to be dignified without being supercilious; and to inspire awe without being austere. Also, we should not search for love or demand it, but so live that it will flow to us. Personal character can only be established on fixed principles, for if the mind be allowed to be agitated by violent emotions, to be excited by fear, or unduly moved by the love of pleasure, it will be impossible for it to be made perfect. A man must reason calmly, for without reason he would look and not see, listen and not hear. When a man has been helped around one corner of a square, and can not manage by himself to get around the other three, he is unworthy of further assistance. [Illustration: PYTHAGORAS] PYTHAGORAS Consult and deliberate before you act, that thou mayest not commit foolish actions. For 't is the part of a miserable man to speak and to act without reflection. But do that which will not afflict thee afterwards, nor oblige thee to repentance. --_Pythagoras_ PYTHAGORAS With no desire to deprive Mr. Bok of his bread, I wish to call attention to Pythagoras, who lived a little more than five hundred years before Christ. Even at that time the world was old. Memphis, which was built four thousand years ago, had begun to crumble into ruins. Troy was buried deep in the dust which an American citizen of German birth was to remove. Nineveh and Babylon were dying the death that success always brings, and the star of empire was preparing to westward wend its way. Pythagoras ushered in the Golden Age of Greece. All the great writers whom he immediately preceded, quote him and refer to him. Some admire him; others are loftily critical; most of them are a little jealous; and a few use him as a horrible example, calling him a poseur, a pedant, a learned sleight-of-hand man, a bag of books. Trial by newspaper was not invented in the time of Pythagoras; but personal vilification has been popular since Balaam talked gossip with his vis-a-vis. Anaxagoras, who gave up his wealth to the State that he might be free, and who was the teacher of Pericles, was a pupil of Pythagoras, and used often to mention him. In this way Pericles was impressed by the Pythagorean philosophy, and very often quotes it in his speeches. Socrates gave Pythagoras as an authority on the simple life, and stated that he was willing to follow him in anything save his injunction to keep silence. Socrates wanted silence optional; whereas Pythagoras required each of his pupils to live for a year without once asking a question or making an explanation. In aggravated cases he made the limit five years. In many ways Pythagoras reminds us of our friend Muldoon, both being beneficent autocrats, and both proving their sincerity by taking their own medicine. Pythagoras said, "I will never ask another to do what I have not done, and am not willing to do myself." To this end he was once challenged by his three hundred pupils to remain silent for a year. He accepted the defi, not once defending himself from the criticisms and accusations that were rained upon him, not once complaining, nor issuing an order. Tradition has it, however, that he made averages good later on, when the year of expiation was ended. There are two reasonably complete lives of Pythagoras, one by Diogenes Laertius, and another by Iamblichus. Personally, I prefer the latter, as Iamblichus, as might be inferred from his name, makes Pythagoras a descendant of �neas, who was a son of Neptune. This is surely better than the abrupt and somewhat sensational statement to the effect that his father was Apollo. * * * * * The birthplace of Pythagoras was Samos, an isle of Greece. He was born of wealthy but honest parents, who were much in love with each other--a requisite, says Pythagoras, for parentage on its highest plane. It is probable that Pythagoras was absolutely correct in his hypothesis. That he was a very noble specimen of manhood--physically and mentally--there is no doubt. He was tall, lithe, dignified, commanding and silent by nature, realizing fully that a handsome man can never talk as well as he looks. He was quite aware of his physical graces, and in following up the facts of his early life, he makes the statement that his father was a sea-captain and trader. He then incidentally adds that the best results are obtained for posterity where a man is absent from his family eleven months in the year. This is an axiom agreed upon by many modern philosophers, few of whom, however, live up to their ideals. Aristophanes, who was on friendly terms with some of the disciples of Pythagoras, suggested in one of his plays that the Pythagorean domestic time-limit should be increased at least a month for the good of all concerned. Plato, Xenophon and Aristotle make frequent references to Pythagoras. In order to impress men like these, the man must have taught a very exalted philosophy. In truth, Pythagoras was a teacher of teachers. And like all men who make a business of wisdom he sometimes came tardy off, and indulged in a welter of words that wrecked the original idea--if there were one. There are these three: Knowledge, Learning, Wisdom. And the world has until very recent times assumed that they were practically one and the same thing. Knowledge consists of the things we know, not the things we believe or the things we assume. Knowledge is a personal matter of intuition, confirmed by experience. Learning consists largely of the things we memorize and are told by persons or books. Tomlinson of Berkeley Square was a learned man. When we think of a learned man, we picture him as one seated in a library surrounded by tomes that top the shelves. Wisdom is the distilled essence of what we have learned from experience. It is that which helps us to live, work, love and make life worth living for all we meet. Men may be very learned, and still be far from wise. Pythagoras was one of those strange beings who are born with a desire to know, and who finally comprehending the secret of the Sphinx, that there is really nothing to say, insist on saying it. That is, vast learning is augmented by a structure of words, and on this is built a theogony. Practically he was a priest. Worked into all priestly philosophies are nuggets of wisdom that shine like stars in the darkness and lead men on and on. All great religions have these periods of sanity, otherwise they would have no followers at all. The followers, understanding little bits of this and that, hope finally to understand it all. Inwardly the initiates at the shrine of their own conscience know that they know nothing. When they teach others they are obliged to pretend that they, themselves, fully comprehend the import of what they are saying. The novitiate attributes his lack of perception to his own stupidity, and many great teachers encourage this view. "Be patient, and you shall some day know," they say, and smile frigidly. And when credulity threatens to balk and go no further, magic comes to the rescue and the domain of Hermann and Kellar is poached upon. Mystery and miracle were born in Egypt. It was there that a system was evolved, backed up by the ruler, of religious fraud so colossal that modern deception looks like the bungling efforts of an amateur. The government, the army, the taxing power of the State, were sworn to protect gigantic safes in which was hoarded--nothing. That is to say, nothing but the pretense upon which cupidity and self-hypnotized credulity battened and fattened. All institutions which through mummery, strange acts, dress and ritual, affect to know and impart the inmost secrets of creation and ultimate destiny, had their rise in Egypt. In Egypt now are only graves, tombs, necropolises and silence. The priests there need no soldiery to keep their secrets safe. Ammon-Ra, who once ruled the universe, being finally exorcised by Yaveh, is now as dead as the mummies who once were men and upheld his undisputed sway. * * * * * The Egyptians guarded their mysteries with jealous dread. We know their secret now. It is this--there are no mysteries. That is the only secret upon which any secret society holds a caveat. Wisdom can not be corraled with gibberish and fettered in jargon. Knowledge is one thing--palaver another. The Greek-letter societies of our callow days still survive in bird's-eye, and next to these come the Elks, who take theirs with seltzer and a smile, as a rare good joke, save that brotherhood and good-fellowship are actually a saving salt which excuses much that would otherwise be simply silly. All this mystery and mysticism was once official, and later, on being discarded by the authorities, was continued by the students as a kind of prank. Greek-letter societies are the rudimentary survivals of what was once an integral part of every college. Making dead languages optional was the last convulsive kick of the cadaver. And now a good many colleges are placing the seal of their disapproval on secret societies among the students; and the day is near when the secret society will not be tolerated, either directly or indirectly, as a part of the education of youth. All this because the sophomoric mind is prone to take its Greek-letter mysteries seriously, and regard the college curriculum as a joke of the faculty. If knowledge were to be gained by riding a goat, any petty crossroads, with its lodge-room over the grocery, would contain a Herbert Spencer; and the agrarian mossbacks would have wisdom by the scruff and detain knowledge with a tail-hold. There can be no secrets in life and morals, because Nature has so provided that every beautiful thought you know and every precious sentiment you feel, shall shine out of your face so that all who are great enough may see, know, understand, appreciate and appropriate. You can keep things only by giving them away. When Pythagoras was only four or five years old, his mother taught him to take his morning bath in the cold stream, and dry his baby skin by running in the wind. As he ran, she ran with him, and together they sang a hymn to the rising sun, that for them represented the god Apollo. This mother taught him to be indifferent to cold, heat, hunger, to exult in endurance, and to take a joy in the glow of the body. So the boy grew strong and handsome, and proud; and perhaps it was in those early years, from the mother herself, that he gathered the idea, afterward developed, that Apollo had appeared to his mother, and so great was the beauty of the god that the woman was actually overcome, it being the first god at which she had ever had a good look. The ambition of a great mother centers on her son. Pythagoras was filled with the thought that he was different, peculiar, set apart to teach the human race. Having compassed all there was to learn in his native place, and, as he thought, being ill appreciated, he started for Egypt, the land of learning. The fallacy that knowledge was a secret to be gained by word of mouth and to be gotten from books existed then as now. The mother of Pythagoras wanted her son to comprehend the innermost secrets of the Egyptian mysteries. He would then know all. To this end she sold her jewels, in order that her son might have the advantages of an Egyptian education. Women were not allowed to know the divine secrets--only just a few little ones. This woman wanted to know, and she said her son would learn, and tell her. The family had become fairly rich by this time, and influential. Letters were gotten from the great ones of Samos to the Secretary of State in Egypt. And so Pythagoras, aged twenty, "the youth with the beautiful hair," went on his journey to Egypt and knocked boldly at the doors of the temples at Memphis, where knowledge was supposed to be in stock. Religion then monopolized all schools and continued to do so for quite some time after Pythagoras was dead. He was turned away with the explanation that no foreigner could enter the sacred portals--that the initiates must be those born in the shadows of the temples and nurtured in the faith from infancy by holy virgins. Pythagoras still insisted, and it was probably then that he found a sponsor who made for him the claim that he was a son of Apollo. And the holy men peeped out of their peep-holes in holy admiration for any one who could concoct as big a lie as they themselves had ever invented. The boy surely looked the part. Perhaps, at last, here was one who was what they pretended to be! Frauds believe in frauds, and rogues are more easily captured by roguery than are honest men. His admittance to the university became a matter of international diplomacy. At last, being too hard-pressed, the wise ones who ran the mystery monopoly gave in, and Pythagoras was informed that at midnight of a certain night, he should present himself, naked, at the door of a certain temple and he would be admitted. On the stroke of the hour, at the appointed time, Pythagoras, the youth with the beautiful hair, was there, clothed only in his beautiful hair. He knocked on the great, bronze doors, but the only answer was a faint, hollow echo. Then he got a stone and pounded, but still no answer. The wind sprang up fresh and cold. The young man was chilled to the bone, but still he pounded and then called aloud demanding admittance. His answer now was the growling and barking of dogs, within. Still he pounded! After an interval a hoarse voice called out through a little slide, ordering him to be gone or the dogs would be turned loose upon him. He demanded admittance. "Fool, do you not know that the law says these doors shall admit no one except at sunrise?" "I only know that I was told to be here at midnight and I would be admitted." "All that may be true, but you were not told when you would be admitted--wait, it is the will of the gods." So Pythagoras waited, numbed and nearly dead. The dogs which he had heard had, in some way, gotten out, and came tearing around the corner of the great stone building. He fought them with desperate strength. The effort seemed to warm his blood, and whereas before he was about to retreat to his lodgings he now remained. The day broke in the east, and gangs of slaves went by to work. They jeered at him and pelted him with pebbles. Suddenly across the desert sands he saw the faint pink rim of the rising sun. On the instant the big bronze doors against which he was leaning swung suddenly in. He fell with them, and coarse, rough hands seized his hair and pulled him into the hall. The doors swung to and closed with a clang. Pythagoras was in dense darkness, lying on the stone floor. A voice, seemingly coming from afar, demanded, "Do you still wish to go on?" And his answer was, "I desire to go on." A black-robed figure, wearing a mask, then appeared with a flickering light, and Pythagoras was led into a stone cell. His head was shaved, and he was given a coarse robe and then left alone. Toward the end of the day he was given a piece of black bread and a bowl of water. This he was told was to fortify him for the ordeal to come. What that ordeal was we can only guess, save that it consisted partially in running over hot sands where he sank to his waist. At a point where he seemed about to perish a voice called loudly, "Do you yet desire to go on?" And his answer was, "I desire to go on." Returning to the inmost temple he was told to enter a certain door and wait therein. He was then blindfolded and when he opened the door to enter, he walked off into space and fell into a pool of ice-cold water. While floundering there the voice again called, "Do you yet desire to go on?" And his answer was, "I desire to go on." At another time he was tied upon the back of a donkey and the donkey was led along a rocky precipice, where lights danced and flickered a thousand feet below. "Do you yet want to go on?" called the voice. And Pythagoras answered, "I desire to go on." The priests here pushed the donkey off the precipice, which proved to be only about two feet high, the gulf below being an illusion arranged with the aid of lights that shone through apertures in the wall. These pleasing little diversions Pythagoras afterward introduced into the college which he founded, so to teach the merry freshmen that nothing, at the last, was as bad as it seemed, and that most dangers are simply illusions. The Egyptians grew to have such regard for Pythagoras that he was given every opportunity to know the inmost secrets of the mysteries. He said he encompassed them all, save those alone which were incomprehensible. This was probably true. The years spent in Egypt were not wasted--he learned astronomy, mathematics, and psychology, a thing then not named, but pretty well understood--the management of men. It was twenty years before Pythagoras returned to Samos. His mother was dead, so she passed away in ignorance of the secrets of the gods--which perhaps was just as well. Samos now treated Pythagoras with great honor. Crowds flocked to his lectures, presents were given him, royalty paid him profound obeisance. But Samos soon tired of Pythagoras. He was too austere, too severe; and when he began to rebuke the officials for their sloth and indifference, he was invited to go elsewhere and teach his science of life. And so he journeyed into Southern Italy, and at Crotona built his Temple to the Muses and founded the Pythagorean School. He was the wisest as well as the most learned man of his time. * * * * * Some unkind person has said that Pythagoras was the original charter member of the Jesuits Society. The maxim that the end justifies the means was the cornerstone of Egyptian theology. When Pythagoras left Egypt he took with him this cornerstone as a souvenir. That the priests could hold their power over the masses only through magic and miracle was fully believed, and as a good police system the value of organized religion was highly appreciated. In fact, no ruler could hold his place, unsupported by the priest. Both were divine propositions. One searches in vain for simple truth among the sages, solons, philosophers, poets and prophets that existed down to the time of Socrates. Truth for truth's sake was absolutely unimagined; freethought was unguessed. Expediency was always placed before truth. Truth was furnished with frills--the people otherwise would not be impressed. Chants, robes, ritual, processions, banging of bells, burning of incense, strange sounds, sights and smells: these were considered necessary factors in teaching divine truth. To worship with a noise seems to us a little like making love with a brass band. Pythagoras was a very great man, but for him to eliminate theological chaff entirely was impossible. So we find that when he was about to speak, red fire filled the building as soon as he arose. It was all a little like the alleged plan of the late Reverend T. DeWitt Talmage, who used to have an Irishman let loose a white pigeon from the organ-loft at an opportune time. When Pythagoras burned the red fire, of course the audience thought a miracle was taking place, unable to understand a simple stage-trick which all the boys in the gallery who delight in "Faust" now understand. However, the Pythagorean School had much virtue on its side, and made a sincere and earnest effort to solve certain problems that yet are vexing us. The Temple of the Muses, built by Pythagoras at Crotona, is described by Iamblichus as a stone structure with walls twenty feet thick, the light being admitted only from the top. It was evidently constructed after the Egyptian pattern, and the intent was to teach there the esoteric doctrine. But Pythagoras improved upon the Egyptian methods and opened his temple on certain days to all and any who desired to come. Then at times he gave lectures to women only, and then to men only, and also to children, thus showing that modern revival methods are not wholly modern. These lectures contain the very essence of Pythagorean philosophy, and include so much practical commonsense that they are still quoted. These are some of the sayings that impressed Socrates, Pericles, Aristotle and Pliny. What the Egyptians actually taught we really do not know--it was too gaseous to last. Only the good endures. Says Pythagoras: Cut not into the grape. Exaltation coming from wine is not good. You hope too much in this condition, so are afterwards depressed. Wise men are neither cast down in defeat nor exalted by success. Eat moderately, bathe plentifully, exercise much in the open air, walk far, and climb the hills alone. Above all things, learn to keep silence--hear all and speak little. If you are defamed, answer not back. Talk convinces no one. Your life and character proclaim you more than any argument you can put forth. Lies return to plague those who repeat them. The secret of power is to keep an even temper, and remember that no one thing that can happen is of much moment. The course of justice, industry, courage, moderation, silence, means that you shall receive your due of every good thing. The gods may be slow, but they never forget. It is not for us to punish men nor avenge ourselves for slights, wrongs and insults--wait, and you will see that Nemesis unhorses the man intent on calumny. A woman's ornaments should be modesty, simplicity, truth, obedience. If a woman would hold a man captive she can only do it by obeying him. Violent women are even more displeasing to the gods than violent men--both are destroying themselves. Strife is always defeat. Debauchery, riot, splendor, luxury, are attempts to get a pleasure out of life that is not our due, and so Nemesis provides her penalty for the idle and gluttonous. Fear and honor the gods. They guide our ways and watch over us in our sleep. After the gods, a man's first thought should be of his father and mother. Next to these his wife, then his children. So great was this power of Pythagoras over the people that many of the women who came, hearing his discourse on the folly of pride and splendor, threw off their cloaks, and left them with their rings, anklets and necklaces on the altar. With these and other offerings Pythagoras built another temple, this time to Apollo, and the Temple to the Muses was left open all the time for the people. His power over the multitude alarmed the magistrates, so they sent for him to examine him as to his influence and intents. He explained to them that as the Muses were never at variance among themselves, always living in subjection to Apollo, so should magistrates agree among themselves and think only of being loyal to the king. All royal edicts and laws are reflections of divine law, and therefore must be obeyed without question. And as the Muses never interrupt the harmony of Heaven, but in fact add to it, so should men ever keep harmony among themselves. All officers of the government should consider themselves as runners in the Olympian games, and never seek to trip, jostle, harass or annoy a rival, but run the race squarely and fairly, satisfied to be beaten if the other is the stronger and better man. An unfair victory gains only the anger of the gods. All disorders in the State come from ill education of the young. Children not brought up to be patient, to endure, to work, to be considerate of their elders and respectful to all, grow diseased minds that find relief at last in anarchy and rebellion. So to take great care of children in their infancy, and then leave them at puberty to follow their own inclinations, is to sow disorder. Children well loved and kept close to their parents grow up into men and women who are an ornament to the State and a joy to the gods. Lawless, complaining, restless, idle children grieve the gods and bring trouble upon their parents and society. The magistrates were here so pleased, and satisfied in their own minds that Pythagoras meant the State no harm, that they issued an order that all citizens should attend upon his lectures at least once a week, and take their wives and children with them. They also offered to pay Pythagoras--that is, put him on the payroll as a public teacher--but he declined to accept money for his services. In this, Iamblichus says, he was very wise, since by declining a fixed fee, ten times as much was laid upon the altar of the Temple of the Muses, and not knowing to whom to return it, Pythagoras was obliged to keep it for himself and the poor. * * * * * Churchmen of the Middle Ages worked the memory of Pythagoras great injustice by quoting him literally in order to prove how much they were beyond him. Symbols and epigrams require a sympathetic hearer, otherwise they are as naught. For instance, Pythagoras remarks, "Sit thou not down upon a bushel measure." What he probably meant was, get busy and fill the measure with grain rather than use it for a seat. "Eat not the heart"--do not act so as to harrow the feelings of your friends, and do not be morbid. "Never stir the fire with a sword"--do not inflame people who are wrathful. "Wear not the image of God upon your jewelry"--do not make religion a proud or boastful thing. "Help men to a burden, but never unburden them." This saying was used by Saint Francis to prove that the pagan philosophers had no tenderness, and that the humanities came at a later date. We can now easily understand that to relieve men of responsibilities is no help; rather do we grow strong by carrying burdens. "Leave not the mark of the pot upon the ashes"--wipe out the past, forget it, look to the future. "Feed no animal that has crooked claws"--do not encourage rogues by supplying them a living. "Eat no fish whose fins are black"--have nothing to do with men whose deeds are dark. "Always have salt upon your table"--this seems the original of "cum grano salis" of the Romans. "Leave the vinegar at a distance"--keep sweet. "Speak not in the face of the sun"--even Erasmus thought this referred to magic. To us it is quite reasonable to suppose that it meant, "do not talk too much in public places." "Pick not up what falls from the table"--Plutarch calls this superstition, but we can just as easily suppose it was out of consideration for cats, dogs or hungry men. The Bible has a command against gleaning too closely, and leaving nothing for the traveler. "When making sacrifice, never pare your nails"--that is to say, do one thing at a time: wind not the clock at an inopportune time. "Eat not in the chariot"--when you travel, travel. "Feed not yourself with your left hand"--get your living openly and avoid all left-handed dealings. And so there are hundreds of these Pythagorean sayings that have vexed our classic friends for over two thousand years. All Greek scholars who really pride themselves on their scholarship have taken a hand at them, and agitated the ether just as the members of the Kokomo Woman's Club discuss obscure passages in Bliss Carman or Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Learned people are apt to comprehend anything but the obvious. * * * * * The School of Pythagoras grew until it became the chief attraction of Crotona. The size of the town was doubled through the pilgrims who came to study music, mathematics, medicine, ethics and the science of government. The Pythagorean plan of treating the sick by music was long considered as mere incantation, but there is a suspicion now that it was actual science. Once there was a man who rode a hobby all his life; and long after he was dead, folks discovered it was a real live horse and had carried the man long miles. Pythagoras reduced the musical scale to a mathematical science. In astronomy he anticipated Copernicus, and indeed, it was cited as the chief offense of Copernicus that he had borrowed from a pagan. Copernicus, it seems, set the merry churchmen digging into Greek literature to find out just how bad Pythagoras was. This did the churchmen good, but did not help the cause of Copernicus. Pythagoras for a time sought to popularize his work, but he soon found to his dismay that he was attracting cheap and unworthy people, who came not so much out of a love of learning as to satisfy a morbid curiosity and gain a short cut to wisdom. They wanted secrets, and knowing that Pythagoras had spent twenty years in Egypt, they came to him, hoping to get them. Said Pythagoras, "He who digs, always finds." At another time, he put the same idea reversely, thus, "He who digs not, never finds." Pythagoras was well past forty when he married a daughter of one of the chief citizens of Crotona. It seems that, inspired by his wife, who was first one of his pupils and then a disciple, he conceived a new mode of life, which he thought would soon overthrow the old manner of living. Pythagoras himself wrote nothing, but all his pupils kept tablets, and Athens in the century following Pythagoras was full of these Pythagorean notebooks, and these supply us the scattered data from which his life was written. Pythagoras, like so many other great men, had his dream of Utopia: it was a college or, literally, "a collection of people," where all were on an equality. Everybody worked, everybody studied, everybody helped everybody, and all refrained from disturbing or distressing any one. It was the Oneida Community taken over by Brook Farm and fused into a religious and scientific New Harmony by the Shakers. One smiles to see the minute rules that were made for the guidance of the members. They look like a transcript from a sermon by John Alexander Dowie, revised by the shade of Robert Owen. This Pythagorean Community was organized out of a necessity in order to escape the blow-ins who sailed across from Greece intent on some new thing, but principally to get knowledge and a living without work. And so Pythagoras and his wife formed a close corporation. For each member there was an initiation, strict and severe, the intent of which was absolutely to bar the transient triflers. Each member was to turn over to the Common Treasury all the money and goods he had of every kind and quality. They started naked, just as did Pythagoras when he stood at the door of the temple in Egypt. Simplicity, truth, honesty and mutual service were to govern. It was an outcrop of the monastic impulse, save that women were admitted, also. Unlike the Egyptians, Pythagoras believed now in the equality of the sexes, and his wife daily led the women's chorus, and she also gave lectures. The children were especially cared for by women set apart as nurses and teachers. By rearing perfect children, it was hoped and expected to produce in turn a perfect race. The whole idea was a phase of totemism and tabu. That it flourished for about thirty years is very certain. Two sons and a daughter of Pythagoras grew to maturity in the college, and this daughter was tried by the Order on the criminal charge of selling the secret doctrines of her father to outsiders. One of the sons it seems made trouble, also, in an attempt to usurp his father's place and take charge of affairs, as "next friend." One generation is about the limit of a Utopian Community. When those who have organized the community weaken and one by one pass away, and the young assume authority, the old ideas of austerity are forgotten and dissipation and disintegration enter. So do we move in circles. The final blow to the Pythagorean College came through jealousy and misunderstanding of the citizens outside. It was the old question of Town versus Gown. The Pythagoreans numbered nearly three hundred people. They held themselves aloof, and no doubt had an exasperating pride. No strangers were ever allowed inside the walls--they were a law unto themselves. Internal strife and tales told by dissenters excited the curiosity, and then the prejudice, of the townspeople. Then the report got abroad that the Pythagoreans were collecting arms and were about to overthrow the local government and enslave the officials. On a certain night, led by a band of drunken soldiers, a mob made an assault upon the college. The buildings were fired, and the members were either destroyed in the flames or killed as they rushed forth to escape. Tradition has it that Pythagoras was later seen by a shepherd on the mountains, but the probabilities are that he perished with his people. But you can not dispose of a great man by killing him. Here we are reading, writing and talking yet of Pythagoras. [Illustration: PLATO] PLATO How well I remember the aged poet Sophocles, when in answer to the question, "How does love suit with age, Sophocles--are you still the man you were?" "Peace," he replied; "most gladly have I escaped that, and I feel as if I had escaped from a mad and furious master." That saying of his has often come into my mind since, and seems to me still as good as at the time when I heard him. For certainly old age has a great sense of calm and freedom; when the passions relax their hold, then, as Sophocles says, you have escaped from the control not of one master only, but of many. And of these regrets, as well as of the complaint about relations, Socrates, the cause is to be sought, not in men's ages, but in their characters and tempers; for he who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but he who is of an opposite disposition will find youth and age equally a burden. --_The Republic_ PLATO A thinking man is one of the most recent productions evolved from Nature's laboratory. The first man of brains to express himself about the world in an honest, simple and natural way, just as if nothing had been said about it before, was Socrates. Twenty-four centuries have passed since Socrates was put to death on the charge of speaking disrespectfully of the gods and polluting the minds of the youths of Athens. During ten of these centuries that have passed since then, the race lost the capacity to think, through the successful combination of the priest and the soldier. These men blocked human evolution. The penalty for making slaves is that you become one. To suppress humanity is to suppress yourself. The race is one. So the priests and the soldiers who in the Third Century had a modicum of worth themselves, sank and were submerged in the general slough of superstition and ignorance. It was a panic that continued for a thousand years, all through the endeavor of faulty men to make people good by force. At all times, up to within our own decade, frank expression on religious, economic and social topics has been fraught with great peril. Even yet any man who hopes for popularity as a writer, orator, merchant or politician, would do well to conceal studiously his inmost beliefs. On such simple themes as the taxation of real estate, regardless of the business of the owner, and a payment of a like wage for a like service without consideration of sex, the statesman who has the temerity to speak out will be quickly relegated to private life. Successful merchants depending on a local constituency find it expedient to cater to popular superstitions by heading subscription-lists for the support of things in which they do not believe. No avowed independent thinker would be tolerated as chief ruler of any of the so-called civilized countries. The fact, however, that the penalty for frank expression is limited now to social and commercial ostracism is very hopeful--a few years ago it meant the scaffold. We have been heirs to a leaden legacy of fear that has well-nigh banished joy and made of life a long nightmare. In very truth, the race has been insane. Hallucinations, fallacies, fears, have gnawed at our hearts, and men have fought men with deadly frenzy. The people who interfered, trying to save us, we have killed. Truly did we say, "There is no health in us," which repetition did not tend to mend the malady. We are now getting convalescent. We are hobbling out into the sunshine on crutches. We have discharged most of our old advisers, heaved the dulling and deadly bottles out of the windows, and are intent on studying and understanding our own case. Our motto is twenty-four centuries old--it is simply this: KNOW THYSELF. * * * * * Socrates was a street preacher, with a beautiful indifference as to whether people liked him or not. To most Athenians he was the town fool. Athens was a little city (only about one hundred fifty thousand), and everybody knew Socrates. The popular plays caricatured him; the topical songs misquoted him; the funny artists on the street-corners who modeled things in clay, while you waited, made figures of him. Everybody knew Socrates--I guess so! Plato, the handsome youth of nineteen, wearing a purple robe, which marked him as one of the nobility, paused to listen to this uncouth man who gave everything and wanted nothing. Ye gods! But it is no wonder they caricatured him--he was a temptation too great to resist. Plato smiled--he never laughed, being too well-bred for that. Then he sighed, and moved a little nearer in. "Individuals are nothing. The State is all. To offend the State is to die. The State is an organization and we are members of it. The State is only as rich as its poorest citizen. We are all given a little sample of divinity to study, model and marvel at. To understand the State you must KNOW THYSELF." Plato lingered until the little crowd had dispersed, and when the old man with the goggle-eyes and full-moon face went shuffling slowly down the street, he approached and asked him a question. This man Socrates was no fool--the populace was wrong--he was a man so natural and free from cant that he appeared to the triflers and pretenders like a pretender, and they asked, "Is he sincere?" What Plato was by birth, breeding and inheritance, Socrates was by nature--a noble man. Up to this time the ambition of Plato had been for place and power--to make the right impression on the people in order to gain political preferment. He had been educated in the school of the Sophists, and his principal studies were poetry, rhetoric and deportment. And now straightway he destroyed the manuscript of his poems, for in their writing he had suddenly discovered that he had not written what he inwardly believed was true, but simply that which he thought was proper and nice to say. In other words, his literature had been a form of pretense. Daily thereafter, where went Socrates there went Plato. Side by side they sat on the curb--Socrates talking, questioning the bystanders, accosting the passers-by; Plato talking little, but listening much. Socrates was short, stout and miles around. Plato was tall, athletic and broad-shouldered. In fact, the word, "plato," or "platon," means broad, and it was given him as a nickname by his comrades. His correct name was Aristocles, but "Plato" suited him better, since it symbols that he was not only broad of shoulder, but likewise in mind. He was not only noble by birth, but noble in appearance. Emerson calls him the universal man. He absorbed all the science, all the art, all the philosophy of his day. He was handsome, kindly, graceful, gracious, generous, and lived and died a bachelor. He never collided with either poverty or matrimony. * * * * * Plato was twenty-eight years old when Socrates died. For eight years they had been together daily. After the death of Socrates, Plato lived for forty-six years, just to keep alive the name and fame of the great philosopher. Socrates comes to us through Plato. Various other contemporaries mention Socrates and quote him, some to his disadvantage, but it was left for Plato to give us the heart of his philosophy, and limn his character for all time in unforgetable outline. Plato is called the "Pride of Greece." His contribution to the wealth of the world consists in the fact that he taught the joys of the intellect--the supreme satisfaction that comes through thinking. This is the pure Platonic philosophy: to find our gratifications in exalted thought and not in bodily indulgence. Plato's theory that five years should be given in early manhood to abstract thought, abstaining from all practical affairs, so as to acquire a love for learning, has been grafted upon a theological stalk and comes down to our present time. It has, however, now been discarded by the world's best thinkers as a fallacy. The unit of man's life is the day, not the month or year, much less a period of five years. Each day we must exercise the mind, just as each day we must exercise the body. We can not store up health and draw upon it at will over long-deferred periods. The account must be kept active. To keep physical energy we must expend physical energy every day. The opinion of Herbert Spencer that thought is a physical function--a vibration set up in a certain area of brain-cells--is an idea never preached by Plato. The brain, being an organ, must be used, not merely in one part for five years to the exclusion of all other parts, but all parts should be used daily. To this end the practical things of life should daily engage our attention, no less than the contemplation of beauty as manifest in music, poetry, art or dialectics. The thought that every day we should look upon a beautiful picture, read a beautiful poem, or listen for a little while to beautiful music, is highly scientific, for this contemplation and appreciation of harmony is a physical exercise as well as a spiritual one, and through it we grow, develop, evolve. That we could not devote five years of our time to purely esthetic exercises, to the exclusion of practical things, without very great risk, is now well known. And when I refer to practical affairs, I mean the effort which Nature demands we should put forth to get a living. Every man should live like a poor man, regardless of the fact that he may have money. Nature knows nothing of bank-balances. In order to have an appetite for dinner, you must first earn your dinner. If you would sleep at night, you must first pay for sweet sleep by physical labor. * * * * * Plato was born on the Island of �gina, where his father owned an estate. His mother was a direct descendant of Solon, and his father, not to be outdone, traced to Codrus. The father of Socrates was a stonecutter and his mother a midwife, so very naturally the son had a beautiful contempt for pedigree. Socrates once said to Plato, "Anybody can trace to Codrus--by paying enough to the man who makes the family-tree." This seems to show that genealogy was a matter of business then as now, and that nothing is new under the sun. Yet with all his contempt for heredity, we find Socrates often expressing pride in the fact that he was a "native son," whereas Plato, Aspasia, the mother of Themistocles, and various other fairly good people, were Athenian importations. Socrates belonged to the leisure class and had plenty of time for extended conversazione, so just how much seriousness we should mix in his dialogues is still a problem. Each palate has to season to suit. Also, we can never know how much is Socrates and how much essence of Plato. Socrates wrote nothing, and Plato ascribes all of his wisdom to his master. Whether this was simple prudence or magnanimity is still a question. The death of Socrates must have been a severe blow to Plato. He at once left Athens. It was his first intention never to return. He traveled through the cities of Greece, Southern Italy and down to Egypt, and everywhere was treated with royal courtesies. After many solicitations from Dionysius, Tyrant of Syracuse, he went to visit that worthy, who had a case of philosophic and literary scabies. Dionysius prided himself on being a Beneficent Autocrat, with a literary and artistic attachment. He ruled his people, educated them, cared for them, disciplined them. Some people call this slavery; others term it applied socialism. Dionysius wanted Syracuse to be the philosophic center of the world, and to this end Plato was importuned to make Syracuse his home and dispense his specialty--truth. This he consented to do. It was all very much like the arrangement between Mæcenas and Horace, or Voltaire and Frederick the Great. The patron is a man who patronizes--he wants something, and the particular thing that Dionysius wanted was to have Plato hold a colored light upon the performances of His Altruistic, Beneficent, Royal Jackanapes. But Plato was a simple, honest and direct man: he had caught the habit from Socrates. Charles Ferguson says that the simple life does not consist in living in the woods and wearing overalls and sandals, but in getting the cant out of one's cosmos and eliminating the hypocrisy from one's soul. Plato lived the simple life. When he spoke he stated what he thought. He discussed exploitation, war, taxation, and the Divine Right of Kings. Kings are very unfortunate--they are shut off and shielded from truth on every side. They get their facts at second hand and are lied to all day long. Consequently they become in time incapable of digesting truth. A court, being an artificial fabric, requires constant bracing. Next to capital, nothing is so timid as a king. Heine says that kings have to draw their nightcaps on over their crowns when they go to bed, in order to keep them from being stolen, and that they are subject to insomnia. Walt Whitman, with nothing to lose--not even a reputation or a hat--was much more kingly walking bareheaded past the White House than Nicholas of Russia or Alfonso of Spain can ever possibly be. Dionysius thought that he wanted a philosophic court, but all he wanted was to make folks think he had a philosophic court. Plato supplied him the genuine article, and very naturally Plato was soon invited to vacate. After he had gone, Dionysius, fearful that Plato would give him a bad reputation in Athens--somewhat after the manner and habit of the "escaped nun"--sent a fast-rowing galley after him. Plato was arrested and sold into slavery on his own isle of �gina. This all sounds very tragic, but the real fact is it was a sort of comedy of errors--as a king's doings are when viewed from a safe and convenient distance. De Wolf Hopper's kings are the real thing. Dionysius claimed that Plato owed him money, and so he got out a body-attachment, and sold the philosopher to the highest bidder. This was a perfectly legal proceeding, being simply peonage, a thing which exists in some parts of the United States today. I state the fact without prejudice, merely to show how hard custom dies. Plato was too big a man conveniently either to secrete or kill. Certain people in Athens plagiarized Doctor Johnson who, on hearing that Goldsmith had debts of several thousand pounds, in admiration exclaimed, "Was ever poet so trusted before!" Other good friends ascertained the amount of the claim and paid it, just as Colonel H. H. Rogers graciously cleared up the liabilities of Mark Twain, after the author of "Huckleberry Finn" had landed his business craft on a sandbar. And so Plato went free, arriving back in Athens, aged forty, a wiser and a better man than when he left. * * * * * Nothing absolves a reputation like silence and absence, or what the village editors call "the grim reaper." To live is always more or less of an offense, especially if you have thoughts and express them. Athens exists, in degree, because she killed Socrates, just as Jerusalem is unforgetable for a similar reason. The South did not realize that Lincoln was her best friend until the assassin's bullet had found his brain. Many good men in Chicago did not cease to revile their chiefest citizen, until the ears of Altgeld were stopped and his hands stiffened by death. The lips of the dead are eloquent. Plato's ten years of absence had given him prestige. He was honored because he had been the near and dear friend of Socrates, a great and good man who was killed through mistake. Most murders and killings of men, judicial and otherwise, are matters of misunderstandings. Plato had been driven out of Syracuse for the very reasons that Socrates had been killed at Athens. And now behold, when Dionysius saw how Athens was honoring Plato, he discovered that it was all a mistake of his bookkeeper, so he wrote to Plato to come back and all would be forgiven. * * * * * Those who set out to live the Ideal Life have a hard trail to travel. The road to Jericho is a rocky one--especially if we are a little in doubt as to whether it really is the road to Jericho or not. Perhaps if we ever find the man who lives the Ideal Life he will be quite unaware of it, so occupied will he be in his work--so forgetful of self. Time had taught Plato diplomacy. He now saw that to teach people who did not want to be taught was an error in judgment for which one might forfeit his head. Socrates was the first Democrat: he stood for the demos--the people. Plato would have done the same, but he saw that the business was extra hazardous, to use the phrase of our insurance friends. He who works for the people will be destroyed by the people. Hemlock is such a rare and precious commodity that few can afford it; the cross is a privilege so costly that few care to pay the price. The genius is a man who first states truths; and all truths are unpleasant on their first presentation. That which is uncommon is offensive. "Who ever heard anything like that before?" ask the literary and philosophic hill tribes in fierce indignation. Says James Russell Lowell, "I blab unpleasant truths, you see, that none may need to state them after me." Plato was a teacher by nature: this was his business, his pastime, and the only thing in life that gave him joy. But he dropped back to the good old ways of making truth esoteric as did the priests of Egypt, instead of exoteric as did Socrates. He founded his college in the grove of his old friend Academus, a mile out of Athens on the road to Eleusis. In honor of Academus the school was called "The Academy." It was secluded, safe, beautiful for situation. In time Plato bought a tract of land adjoining that of Academus, and this was set apart as the permanent school. All the teaching was done out of doors, master and pupils seated on the marble benches, by the fountain-side, or strolling through the grounds, rich with shrubs and flowers and enlivened by the song of birds. The climate of Athens was about like that of Southern California, where the sun shines three hundred days in the year. Plato emphasized the value of the spoken word over the written, a thing he could well afford to do, since he was a remarkably good writer. This for the same reason that the only man who can afford to go ragged is the man with a goodly bank-balance. The shibboleth of the modern schools of oratory is, "We grow through expression." And Plato was the man who first said it. Plato's teaching was all in the form of the "quiz," because he believed that truth was not a thing to be acquired from another--it is self-discovery. Indeed, we can imagine it was very delightful--this walking, strolling, lying on the grass, or seated in semicircles, indulging in endless talk, easy banter, with now and then a formal essay read to start the vibrations. Here it was that Aristotle came from his wild home in the mountains of Macedonia, to remain for twenty years and to evolve into a rival of the master. We can well imagine how Aristotle, the mountain-climber and horseman, at times grew heartily tired of the faultily faultless garden with its high wall and graveled walks and delicate shrubbery, and shouted aloud in protest, "The whole world of mountain, valley and plain should be our Academy, not this pent-up Utica that contracts our powers." Then followed an argument as to the relative value of talking about things or doing them, or Poetry versus Science. Poetry, philosophy and religion are very old themes, and they were old even in Plato's day; but natural science came in with Aristotle. And science is only the classification of the common knowledge of the common people. It was Aristotle who named things, not Adam. He contended that the classification and naming of plants, rocks and animals was quite as important as to classify ideas about human happiness and make guesses at the state of the soul after death. Of course he got himself beautifully misunderstood, because he was advocating something which had never been advocated before. In this lay his virtue, that he outran human sympathy, even the sympathy of the great Plato. Yet for a while the unfolding genius of this young barbarian was a great joy to Plato, as the earnest, eager intellect of an ambitious pupil always is to his teacher. Plato was great in speculation; Aristotle was great in observation. Well has it been said that it was Aristotle who discovered the world. And Aristotle in his old age said, "My attempts to classify the objects of Nature all came through Plato's teaching me first how to classify ideas." And forty years before this Plato had said, "It was Socrates who taught me this game of the correlation and classification of thoughts." * * * * * The writings of Plato consist of thirty-five dialogues, and one essay which is not cast in the dramatic form--"The Apology." These dialogues vary in length from twenty pages, of, say, four hundred words each, to three hundred pages. In addition to these books are many quotations from Plato and references to him by contemporary writers. Plato's work is as impersonal as that of Shakespeare. All human ideas, shades of belief, emotions and desires pass through the colander of his mind. He allows everybody to have his say. What Plato himself thought can only be inferred, and this each reader does for himself. We construct our man Plato in our own image. A critic's highest conception of Plato's philosophy is the highest conception of the critic's own. We, however, are reasonably safe in assuming that Plato's own ideas were put into the mouth of Socrates, for the one intent of Plato's life was to redeem Socrates from the charges that had been made against him. The characters Shakespeare loved are the ones that represent the master, not the hated and handmade rogues. Plato's position in life was that of a spectator rather than that of an actor. He stood and saw the procession pass by, and as it passed, commented on it. He charged his pupils no tuition and accepted no fees, claiming that to sell one's influence or ideas was immoral. It will be remembered that Byron held a similar position at the beginning of his literary career, and declared i' faith, he "would not prostitute his genius for hire." He gave his poems to the world. Later, when his income was pinched, he began to make bargains with Barabbas and became an artist in per centum, collecting close, refusing to rhyme without collateral. Byron's humanity is not seriously disputed. Plato also was human. He had a fixed income and so knew the worthlessness of riches. He issued no tariff, but the goodly honorarium left mysteriously on a marble bench by a rich pupil he accepted, and for it gave thanks to the gods. He said many great things, but he never said this: "I would have every man poor that he might know the value of money." "The Republic" is the best known and best read of any of Plato's dialogues. It outlines an ideal form of government where everybody would be healthy, happy and prosperous. It has served as inspiration to Sir Thomas More, Erasmus, Jean Jacques Rousseau, William Morris, Edward Bellamy, Brigham Young, John Humphrey Noyes and Eugene Debs. The sub-division of labor, by setting apart certain persons to do certain things--for instance, to care for the children--has made its appeal to Upton Sinclair, who jumped from his Utopian woodshed into a rubber-plant and bounced off into oblivion. Plato's plan was intended to relieve marriage from the danger of becoming a form of slavery. The rulers, teachers and artists especially were to be free, and the State was to assume all responsibilities. The reason is plain: he wanted them to reproduce themselves. But whether genius is an acquirement or a natural endowment he touches on but lightly. Also, he seemingly did not realize "that no hovel is safe from it." If all marriage-laws were done away with, Plato thought that the men and women who were mated would still be true to each other, and that the less the police interfered in love-relations, the better. In one respect at least, Plato was certainly right: he advocated the equality of the sexes, and declared that no woman should be owned by a man nor forced into a mode of life, either by economic exigency or marriage, that was repulsive to her. Also, that her right to bear children or not should be strictly her own affair, and to dictate to a mother as to who should father her children tended to the production of a slavish race. The eugenics of "The Republic" were tried for thirty years by the Oneida Community with really good results, but one generation of communal marriages was proved to be the limit, a thing Plato now knows from his heights in Elysium, but which he in his bachelor dreams on earth did not realize. In his division of labor each was to do the thing he was best fitted to do, and which he liked to do. It was assumed that each person had a gift, and that to use this gift all that was necessary was to give him an opportunity. That very modern cry of "equality of opportunity" harks back to Plato. The monastic impulse was a very old thing, even in the time of Plato. The monastic impulse is simply cutting for sanctuary when the pressure of society gets intense--a getting rid of the world by running away from it. This usually occurs when the novitiate has exhausted his capacity for sin, and so tries saintship in the hope of getting a new thrill. Plato had been much impressed by the experiments of Pythagoras, who had actually done the thing of which Plato only talked. Plato now picked the weak points in the Pythagorean philosophy and sought, in imagination, to construct a fabric that would stand the test of time. However, all Utopias, like all monasteries and penitentiaries, are made up of picked people. The Oneida Community was not composed of average individuals, but of people who were selected with great care, and only admitted after severe tests. And great as was Plato, he could not outline an ideal plan of life except for an ideal people. To remain in the world of work and share the burdens of all--to ask for nothing which other people can not have on like terms--not to consider yourself peculiar, unique and therefore immune and exempt--is now the ideal of the best minds. We have small faith in monasticism or monotheism, but we do have great faith in monism. We believe in the Solidarity of the Race. We must all progress together. Whether Pythagoras, John Humphrey Noyes and Brigham Young were ahead of the world or behind it is really not to the point--the many would not tolerate them. So their idealism was diluted with danger until it became as somber, sober and slaty-gray as the average existence, and fades as well as shrinks in the wash. A private good is no more possible for a community than it is for an individual. We help ourselves only as we advance the race--we are happy only as we minister to the whole. The race is one, and this is monism. And here Socrates and Plato seemingly separate, for Socrates in his life wanted nothing, not even joy, and Plato's desire was for peace and happiness. Yet the ideal of justice in Plato's philosophy is very exalted. No writer in that flowering time of beauty and reason which we call "The Age of Pericles" exerted so profound an influence as Plato. All the philosophers that follow him were largely inspired by him. Those who berated him most were, very naturally, the ones he had most benefited. Teach a boy to write, and the probabilities are that his first essay, when he has cut loose from his teacher's apron-strings and starts a brownie bibliomag, will be in denunciation of the man who taught him to push the pen and wield the Faber. Xenophon was more indebted, intellectually, to Plato than to any other living man, yet he speaks scathingly of his master. Plutarch, Cicero, Iamblichus, Pliny, Horace and all the other Roman writers read Plato religiously. The Christian Fathers kept his work alive, and passed it on to Dante, Petrarch and the early writers of the Renaissance, so all of their thought is well flavored with essence of Plato. Well does Addison put into the mouth of Cato those well-known words: It must be so--Plato, thou reasonest well!-- Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'T is the divinity that stirs within us; 'T is heaven itself, that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. All of that English group of writers in Addison's day knew their Plato, exactly as did Cato and the other great Romans of near two thousand years before. From Plato you can prove that there is a life after this for each individual soul, as Francis of Assisi proved, or you can take your Plato, as did Hume, and show that man lives only in his influence, his individual life returning to the mass and becoming a part of all the great pulsing existence that ebbs and flows through plant and tree and flower and flying bird. And today we turn to Plato and find the corroboration of our thought that to live now and here, up to our highest and best, is the acme of wisdom. We prepare to live by living. If there is another world we better be getting ready for it. If heaven is an Ideal Republic it is founded on unselfishness, truth, reciprocity, equanimity and co-operation, and only those will be at home there who have practised these virtues here. Man was made for mutual service. This way lies Elysium. Plato was a teacher of teachers, and like every other great teacher who has ever lived, his soul goes marching on, for to teach is to influence, and influence never dies. Hail, Plato! [Illustration: KING ALFRED] KING ALFRED A saint without superstition, a scholar without ostentation, a warrior who fought only in defense of his country, a conqueror whose laurels were never stained with cruelty, a prince never cast down by adversity, nor lifted up to insolence in the hour of triumph--there is no other name in English history to compare with his. --_Freeman_ KING ALFRED Julius Cæsar, the greatest man of initiative the world has ever seen, had a nephew known as Cæsar Augustus. The grandeur that was Rome occurred in the reign of Augustus. It was Augustus who said, "I found your city mud and I left it marble!" The impetus given to the times by Julius Cæsar was conserved by Augustus. He continued the work his uncle had planned, but before he had completed it, he grew very weary, and the weariness he expressed was also the old age of the nation. There was lime in the bones of the boss. When Cæsar Augustus said, "Rome is great enough--here we rest," he merely meant that he had reached his limit, and had had enough of road-building. At the boundaries of the Empire and the end of each Roman road he set up a statue of the god Terminus. This god gave his blessing to those going beyond, and a welcome to those returning, just as the Stars and Stripes welcome the traveler coming to America from across the sea. This god Terminus also supplied the world, especially the railroad world, a word. Julius Cæsar reached his terminus and died, aged fifty-six, from compulsory vaccination. Augustus, aged seventy-seven, died peacefully in bed. The reign of Augustus marks the crest of the power of Rome, and a crest is a place where no man nor nation stays--when you reach it, you go over and down on the other side. When Augustus set up his Termini, announcing to all mankind that this was the limit, the enemies of Rome took courage and became active. The Goths and Vandals, hanging on the skirts of Rome, had learned many things, and one of the things was that, for getting rich quick, conquest is better than production. The barbarians, some of whom evidently had a sense of humor, had a way of picking up the Termini and carrying them inward, and finally they smashed them entirely, somewhat as country boys, out hunting, shoot railroad-signs full of holes. * * * * * In the Middle Ages the soldier was supreme, and in the name of protecting the people he robbed the people, a tradition much respected, but not in the breach. To escape the scourge of war, certain families and tribes moved northward. It was fight and turmoil in Southern Europe that settled Norway, Sweden and Denmark, and produced the Norsemen. And in making for themselves a home in the wilderness, battling with the climate and unkind conditions, there was evolved a very strong and sturdy type of man. On the north shore of the Baltic dwelt the Norsemen. Along the southern shore were scattered several small tribes or families who were not strong enough in numbers to fight the Goths, and so sought peace with them, and were taxed--or pillaged--often to the point of starvation. They were so poor and insignificant that the Romans really never heard of them, and they never heard of the Romans, save in myth and legend. They lived in caves and rude stone huts. They fished, hunted, raised goats and farmed, and finally, about the year Three Hundred, they secured horses, which they bought from the Goths, who stole them from the Romans. Their Government was the Folkmoot, the germ of the New England Town Meeting. All the laws were passed by all the people, and in the making of these laws, the women had an equal voice with the men. When important steps were to be taken where the interests of the whole tribe were at stake, great deference was paid to the opinions of the mothers. For the mother spoke not only for herself, but for her children. The mother was the home-maker. The word "wife" means weaver; and this deference to the one member of the family who invented, created, preparing both the food and the clothing, is a marked Teutonic instinct. Its survival is seen yet in the sturdy German of the middle class, who takes his wife and children with him when he goes to the concert or to the beer-garden. So has he always taken his family with him on his migrations; whereas the Greeks and the Romans left their women behind. South America was colonized by Spanish men. And the Indians and the Negroes absorbed the haughty grandee, yet preserved the faults and failings of both. The German who moves to America comes to stay--his family is a part of himself. The Italian comes alone, and his intent is to make what he can and return. This is a modified form of conquest. The Romans who came to Brittany in Cæsar's time were men. Those who remained "took to themselves wives among the daughters of Philistia," as strong men ever are wont to do when they seek to govern savage tribes. And note this--instead of raising the savages or barbarians to their level, they sink to theirs. The child takes the status of the mother. The white man who marries an Indian woman becomes an Indian and their children are Indians. With the Negro race the same law holds. The Teutonic races have conquered the world because they took their women with them on their migrations, mental and physical. And the moral seems to be this, that the men who progress financially, morally and spiritually are those who do not leave their women-folk behind. * * * * * When we think of the English, we usually have in mind the British Isles. But the original England was situated along the southern shore of the Baltic Sea. This was the true Eng-Land, the land of the Engles or Angles. To one side lay Jute-Land, the home of the Jutes. On the other was Saxony, where dwelt the Saxons. Jute-Land still lives in Jutland; the land of the Saxons is yet so indicated on the map; but Eng-Land was transported bodily a thousand miles, and her original territory became an abandoned farm where barbarians battled. And now behold how England has diffused herself all over the world, with the British Isles as a base of supplies, or a radiating center. Behind this twenty miles of water that separates Calais and Dover she found safety and security, and there her brain and brawn evolved and expanded. So there are now Anglo-Americans, Anglo-Africans, Anglo-Indians, Anglo-Australians, and Anglo-New-Zealanders. As the native Indians of America and the Maoris of New Zealand have given way before the onward push and persistence of the English, so likewise did the ancient Britons give way and were absorbed by the Anglo-Saxons; and then the Saxons, being a little too fine for the stern competitor, allowed the Engles to take charge. And as Dutch, Germans, Slavs and Swedes are transformed with the second generation into English-Americans when they come to America, so did the people from Eng-Land fuse Saxons, Norsemen, Jutes, Celts and Britons into one people and fix upon them the indelible stamp of Eng-Land. Yet it is obvious that the characters of the people of England have been strengthened, modified and refined by contact with the various races she has met, mixed with and absorbed. To influence others is to grow. Had England been satisfied to people and hold the British Isles, she would ere this have been outrun and absorbed by Spain or France. To stand still is to retreat. It is the same with men as it is with races. England's Colonies have been her strength. They have given her poise, reserve, ballast--and enough trouble to prevent either revolution, stagnation or introspection. Nations have their periods of youth, manhood and old age. Whether England is now passing into decline, living her life in her children, the Colonies, might be indelicate to ask. Perhaps as Briton, Celt, Jute and Saxon were fused to make that hardy, courageous, restless and sinewy man known as the Englishman, so are the English, the Dutch, the Swede, the German, the Slav, transplanted into America, being fused into a composite man who shall surpass any type that the world has ever seen. In the British Isles, just as in the great cities, mankind gets pot-bound. In the newer lands, the roots strike deep into the soil, and find the sustenance the human plant requires. Walls keep folks in as well as shut other folks out. The British Isles, rock-faced and sea-girted, shut out the enemies of England without shutting the English in. A country surrounded by the sea produces sailors, and England's position bred a type of man that made her mistress of the seas. As her drum-taps, greeting the rising sun, girdle the world, so do her lighthouses flash protection to the mariner wherever the hungry sea lies in wait along rocky coasts, the round world over. England has sounded the shallows, marked the rocks and reefs, and mapped the coasts. The first settlement of Saxons in Britain occurred in the year Four Hundred Forty-nine. They did not come as invaders, as did the Romans five hundred years before; their numbers were too few, and their arms too crude to mean menace to the swarthy, black-haired Britons. These fair stranger-folk were welcomed as curiosities and were allowed to settle and make themselves homes. Word was sent back to Saxony and Jute-Land and more settlers came. In a few years came a shipload of Engles, with their women and children, red-haired, freckled, tawny. They tilled the soil with a faith and an intelligence such as the Britons never brought to bear: very much as the German settlers follow the pioneers and grow rich where the Mudsock fails. Naturally the fair-haired girls found favor in the sight of the swarthy Britons. Marriages occurred, and a new type of man-child appeared as the months went by. More Engles came. A century passed, and the coast, from Kent to the Firth of Forth, was dotted with the farms and homes of the people from the Baltic. There were now occasional protests from the original holders, and fights followed, when the Britons retreated before the strangers, or else were very glad to make terms. Victory is a matter of staying-power. The Engles had come to stay. But a new enemy had appeared--the Norsemen or Danes. These were sea-nomads who acknowledged no man as master. Rough, bold, laughing at disaster, with no patience to build or dig or plow, they landed but to ravish, steal and lay waste, and then boarded their craft, sailing away, joying in the ruin they had wrought. The next year they came back. The industry and the thrift of the Engles made Britain a land of promise, a storehouse where the good things of life could be secured much more easily than by creating or producing them. And so now, before this common foe, the Britons, Jutes, Celts, Saxons and Engles united to punish and expel the invaders. The calamity was a blessing--as most calamities are. From being a dozen little kingdoms, Britain now became one. A "Cyng," or captain, was chosen--an Engle, strong of arm, clear of brain, blue of eye, with long yellow hair. He was a man who commanded respect by his person and by his deeds. His name was Egbert. King Alfred, or Elfred, was born at Wantage, Berkshire, in the year Eight Hundred Forty-nine. He was the grandson of Egbert, a great man, and the son of Ethelwulf, a man of mediocre qualities. Alfred was shrewd enough to inherit the courage and persistence of his grandfather. Our D. A. R. friends are right and Mark Twain is wrong--it is really more necessary to have a grandfather than a father. English civilization begins with Alfred. If you will refer to the dictionary you will find that the word "civilization" simply means to be civil. That is, if you are civilized you are gentle instead of violent--gaining your ends by kindly and persuasive means, instead of through coercion, intimidation and force. Alfred was the first English gentleman, and let no joker add "and the last." Yet it is needless and quite irrelevant to say that civilized people are not always civil; nor are gentlemen always gentle--so little do words count. Many gentlemen are only gents. Alfred was civil and gentle. He had been sent to Rome in his boyhood, and this transplantation had done him a world of good. Superior men are always transplanted men: people who do not travel have no perspective. To stay at home means getting pot-bound. You neither search down in the soil for color and perfume nor reach out strong toward the sunshine. It was only a few years before the time of Alfred that a Christian monk appeared at Edin-Borough, and told the astonished Engles and Saxons of the gentle Jesus, who had been sent to earth by the All-Father to tell men they should love their enemies and be gentle and civil and not violent, and should do unto others as they would be done by. The natural religion of the Great Spirit which the ancient Teutonic people held had much in it that was good, but now they were prepared for something better--they had the hope of a heaven of rest and happiness after death. Christianity flourishes best among a downtrodden, poor, subdued and persecuted people. Renan says it is a religion of sorrow. And primitive Christianity--the religion of conduct--is a beautiful and pure doctrine that no sane person ever flouted or scoffed. The parents of Alfred, filled with holy zeal, allowed one of the missionary monks to take the boy to Rome. The idea was that he should become a bishop in the Church. Ethelred, the elder brother of Alfred, had succeeded Ethelwulf, his father, as King. The Danes had overrun and ravished the country. For many years these marauding usurpers had fed their armies on the products of the land. And now they had more than two-thirds of the country under their control, and the fear that they would absolutely subjugate the Anglo-Saxons was imminent. Ethelwulf gave up the struggle in despair and died. Ethelred fell in battle. And as the Greeks of old in their terror cast around for the strongest man they could find to repel the Persian invaders, and picked on the boy Alexander, so did the Anglo-Saxons turn to Alfred, the gentle and silent. He was only twenty-three years old. In build he was slight and slender, but he had given token of his courage for four years, fighting with his brother. He had qualities that were closely akin to those of both Alexander and Cæsar. He had a cool, clear and vivid intellect and he had invincible courage. But he surpassed both of the men just named in that he had a tender, sympathetic heart. The Danes were overconfident, and had allowed their discipline to relax. Alfred had at first evidently encouraged them in their idea that they had won, for he struck feebly and then withdrew his army to the marshes, where the Danish horsemen could not follow. The Danes went into winter quarters, fat and feasting. Alfred made a definite plan for a campaign, drilled his men, prayed with them, and filled their hearts with the one idea that they were going forth to certain victory. And to victory they went. They fell upon the Danes with an impetuosity as unexpected as it was invincible, and before they could get into their armor, or secure their horses, they were in a rout. Every timid Engle and Saxon now took heart--it was the Lord's victory--they were fighting for home--the Danes gave way. This was not all accomplished quite as easily as I am writing it, but difficulties, deprivations and disaster only brought out new resources in Alfred. He was as serenely hopeful as was Washington at Valley Forge, and his soldiers were just as ragged. He, too, like Thomas Paine, cried, "These are the times that try men's souls--be grateful for this crisis, for it will give us opportunity to show that we are men." He had aroused his people to a pitch where the Danes would have had to kill them all, or else give way. As they could not kill them they gave way. Napoleon at twenty-six was master of France and had Italy under his heel, and so was Alfred at the same age supreme in Southern Britain--including Wessex and Mercia. He rounded up the enemy, took away their weapons, and then held a revival-meeting, asking everybody to come forward to the mourners'-bench. There is no proof that he coerced them into Christianity. They were glad to accept it. Alfred seemed to have the persuasive power of the Reverend Doctor Torrey. Guthrum, the Danish King, who had come over to take a personal hand in the looting, was captured, baptized, and then Alfred stood sponsor for him and gave him the name of Ethelstan. He was made a bishop. This acceptance of Christianity by the leaders of the Danes broke their fierce spirit, and peace followed. Alfred told the soldiers to use their horses to plow the fields. The two armies that had fought each other now worked together at road-making and draining the marshes. Some of the Danes fled in their ships, but very many remained and became citizens of the country. The Danish names are still recognizable. Names beginning with the aspirate, say Herbert, Hulett, Hubbard, Hubbs, Harold, Hancock, are Danish, and are the cause of that beautiful muddling of the "H" that still perplexes the British tongue, the rule governing which is to put it on where it is not needed and leave it off where it is. The Danes called the Engles, "Hengles," and the Engles called a man by the name of Henry, "Enry." In saving Wessex, Alfred saved England for the English people; for it was from Wessex, as a center, that his successors began the task of reconquering England from the Danes. * * * * * With the rule of Alfred begins the England that we know. As we call Herodotus the father of history, so could we, with equal propriety, call Asser, who wrote in the time of Alfred, the father of English history. The oldest English book is the "Life of Alfred" by Asser the monk. That Asser was a dependent on his subject and very much in love with him, doubtless gave a very strong bias to the book. That it is right in the main, although occasionally wrong as to details, is proved by various corroborating records. The king's word in Alfred's time was law, and Alfred proved his modesty by publicly proclaiming that a king was not divine, but only a man, and therefore a king's edicts should be endorsed by the people in Folkmoot. Here we get the genesis of popular government, and about the only instance that I can recall where a very strong man acting as chief ruler renounced a part of his power to the people, of his own accord. Kings usually have to be trimmed, and it is revolution that does the shearing. It is the rule that men do not relinquish power of their own accord--they have to be disannexed from it. Alfred, however, knew the popular heart--he was very close to the common people. He had slept on the ground with his soldiers, fared at table with the swineherd's family, tilled the soil with the farmer folk. His heart went out to humanity. He did not overrate the average mind, nor did he underrate it. He had faith in mankind, and knew that at the last power was with the people. He did not say, "Vox populi, vox Dei," but he thought it. Therefore he set himself to educating the plain people. He prophesied a day when all grown men would be able to read and write, and when all would have an intelligent, personal interest in the government. There have been periods in English history when Britain lagged woefully behind, for England has had kings who forgot the rights of mankind, and instead of seeking to serve their people, have battened and fattened upon them. They governed. George the Third thought that Alfred was a barbarian, and spoke of him with patronizing pity. Alfred introduced the system of trial by jury, although the fact has been pointed out that he did not originate it. It goes back to the hardy Norseman who acknowledged no man as master, harking back to a time when there was no law, and to a people whose collective desire was supreme. In fact, it has its origin in "Lynch Law," or the rule of the Vigilantes. From a village turning loose on an offender and pulling him limb from limb, a degree of deliberation comes in and a committee of twelve are selected to investigate the deed and report their verdict. The jury system began with pirates and robbers, but it is no less excellent on that account, and we might add that freedom also began with pirates and robbers, for they were the people who cried, "We acknowledge no man as master." The early Greeks had trials by jury--Socrates was tried by a jury of five hundred citizens. But let the fact stand that Alfred was the man who first introduced the jury system into England. He had absolute power. He was the sole judge and ruler, but on various occasions he abdicated the throne and said: "I do not feel able to try this man, for as I look into my heart I see that I am prejudiced. Neither will I name men to try him, for in their selection I might also be prejudiced. Therefore let one hundred men be called, and from these let twelve be selected by lot, and they shall listen to the charges and weigh the defense, and their verdict shall be mine." We sometimes say that English Common Law is built on the Roman Law, but I can not find that Alfred ever studied the Roman Law, or ever heard of the Justinian Code, or thought it worth while to establish a system of jurisprudence. His government was of the simplest sort. He respected the habits, ways and customs of the common people, and these were the Common Law. If the people had a footpath that was used by their children and their parents and their grandparents, then this path belonged to the people, and Alfred said that even the King could not take it from them. This deference to the innocent ways, habits and natural rights of the people mark Alfred as supremely great, because a great man is one great in his sympathies. Alfred had the imagination to put himself in the place of the lowly and obscure. The English love of law, system and order dates from Alfred. The patience, kindliness, good-cheer and desire for fair play were his, plus. He had poise, equanimity, unfaltering faith and a courage that never grew faint. He was as religious as Cromwell, as firm as Washington, as stubborn as Gladstone. In him were combined the virtues of the scholar and patriot, the efficiency of the man of affairs with the wisdom of the philosopher. His character, both public and private, is stainless, and his whole life was one of enlightened and magnanimous service to his country. * * * * * In the age of Augustus there was one study that was regarded as more important than all others, and this was rhetoric, or the art of the rhetor. The rhetor was a man whose business it was to persuade or convince. The public forum has its use in the very natural town-meeting, or the powwow of savages. But in Rome it had developed and been refined to a point where the public had no voice, although the boasted forum still existed. The forum was monopolized by the professional orators hired by this political clique or that. It was about like the political "forum" in America today. The greatest man in Rome was the man who could put up the greatest talk. So all Roman mammas and matrons had their boys study rhetoric. The father of Seneca had a school of oratory where rich Roman youths were taught to mouth in orotund and gesticulate in curves. He must have been a pretty good teacher, for he had two extraordinary sons, one of whom is mentioned in the Bible, and a most exemplary daughter. Oratory as an end we now regard as an unworthy art. The first requisite is to feel deeply--to have a message--and then if you are a person of fair intelligence and in good health, you'll impress your hearers. But to hire out to impress people with another's theme is to be a pettifogger, and the genus pettifogger has nearly had his day. History moves in circles. The Chicago Common Council, weary of rhetoric, has recently declined to listen to paid attorneys; but any citizen who speaks for himself and his neighbors can come before the Council and state his case. Chief Justice Fuller has given it as his opinion that there will come a day in America when damage-cases will be taken care of by an automatic tribunal, without the help of lawyers. And as a man fills out a request for a money-order at the Post-Office, so will he file his claim for damages, and it will have attention. The contingent fee will yet be a misdemeanor. Also, it will be possible for plain citizens to be able to go before a Court of Equity and be heard without regard to law and precedent and attorney's quillets and quibbles, which so often hamper justice. Justice should be cheap and easy, instead of costly and complex. Evidently the Chief Justice had in mind the usages in the time of King Alfred, when the barrister was an employee of the court, and his business was to get the facts and then explain them to the King in the fewest possible words. Alfred considered a paid advocate, or even a counselor, as without the pale, and such men were never allowed at court. If the barrister accepted a fee from a man suing for justice, he was disbarred. Finally, however, the practise of feeing in order to renew the zeal of a barrister grew so that it had to be tolerated, because things we can't suppress we license, and a pocket was placed on each barrister's back between his shoulders where he could not reach it without taking off his gown, and into this pocket clients were allowed slyly to slip such gratuities as they could afford. But the general practise of the client paying the barrister, instead of the court, was not adopted for several hundred years later, and then it was regarded as an expeditious move to keep down litigation and punish the client for being fool enough not to settle his own troubles. In England the rudimentary pocket still survives, like the buttons on the back of a coat, which were once used to support the sword-belt. In America we have done away with wigs and gowns for attorneys, but attorneys are still regarded as attaches of the court, even though one-half of them, according to Judge DeCourcy of Boston, are engaged most of the time in attempts to bamboozle and befog the judge and jury and defeat the ends of justice. Likewise, we still use the word "Court," signifying the place where lives royalty, even for the dingy office of a country J. P., where sawdust spittoons are the bric-a-brac and patent-office reports loom large, and justice is dispensed with. We now also commonly call the man "the Court." * * * * * Alfred was filled with a desire to educate, and to this end organized a school at the Ox Ford, where his friend Asser taught. This school was the germ of the University of Oxford. Attached to this school was a farm, where the boys were taught how to sow and plant and reap to the best advantage. Here they also bred and raised horses and cattle, and the care of livestock was a part of the curriculum. It was the first College of Agriculture. It comes to us as somewhat of a surprise to see how we are now going back to simplicity, and the agricultural college is being given the due and thoughtful consideration which it deserves. Twenty years ago our agricultural college was considered more or less of a joke, but now that which adds greatly to the wealth of the nation, and the happiness and well-being of the people, is looked upon as worthy of our support and highest respect. Up to the time of Alfred, England had no navy. For the government to own ships seemed quite preposterous, since the people had come to England to stay, and were not marauders intent on exploitation and conquest, like the Norsemen. But after Alfred had vanquished the Danes and they had settled down as citizens, he took their ships, refitted them, built more and said: "No more marauders shall land on these shores. If we are threatened we will meet the enemy on the sea." In a few years along came a fleet of marauding Norse. The English ships on the lookout gave the alarm, and England's navy put out to meet them. The enemy were taken by surprise, and the fate that five hundred years later was to overtake the Spanish Armada, was theirs. From that time to this, England has had a navy that has gradually grown in power. Let no one imagine that peace and rest came to Alfred. His life was a battle, for not only did he have to fight the Danes, but he had to struggle with ignorance, stupidity and superstition at home. To lead men out of captivity is a thankless task. They always ask when you take away their superstition, "What are you going to give us in return?" They do not realize that superstition is a disease, and that to give another disease in return is not nice, necessary or polite. Alfred died, at the age of fifty-two, worn out with his ceaseless labors of teaching, building, planning, inventing and devising methods and means for the betterment and benefit of his people. After his death, the Danes were successful, and Canute became King of England. But he was proud to be called an Englishman, and declared he was no longer a Dane. And so England captured him. Then came the Norman William, claiming the throne by right of succession, and successfully battling for it; but the English people reckoned the Conqueror as of their own blood--their kith and kin--and so he was. He issued an edict forbidding any one to call him or his followers "Norman," "Norse" or "Norsemen," and declared there was a United England. And so he lived and died an Englishman; and after him no ruler, these nine hundred years, has ever sat on the throne of the Engles by right of conquest. Both Canute and William recognized and prized the worth of Alfred's rule. The virtues of Alfred are the virtues that have made it possible for the Teutonic tribes to girdle the globe. It was Alfred who taught the nobility of industry, service, education, patience, loyalty, persistence, and the faith and hope that abide. By pen, tongue, and best of all by his life, Alfred taught the truths which we yet hold dear. And by this sign shall ye conquer! [Illustration: ERASMUS] ERASMUS We see not a few mortals who, striving to emulate this divine virtue with more zeal than success, fall into a feeble and disjointed loquacity, obscuring the subject and burdening the wretched ears of their hearers with a vacant mass of words and sentences crowded together beyond all possibility of enjoyment. And writers who have tried to lay down the principles of this art have gained no other result than to display their own poverty while expounding abundance. --_Erasmus on "Preaching"_ ERASMUS Erasmus was born in Fourteen Hundred Sixty-six, and died in Fifteen Hundred Thirty-six. No thinker of his time influenced the world more. He stood at a pivotal point, and some say he himself was the intellectual pivot of the Renaissance. The critics of the times were unanimous in denouncing him--which fact recommends him to us. Several Churchmen, high in power, live in letters for no other reason than because they coupled their names with that of Erasmus by reviling him. Let the critics take courage--they may outwit oblivion yet, even though they do nothing but carp. Only let them be wise, and carp, croak, cough, cat-call and sneeze at some one who is hitching his wagon to a star. This way immortality lies. Erasmus was a monk who flocked by himself, and found diversion in ridiculing monkery. Also, he was the wisest man of his day. Wisdom is the distilled essence of intuition, corroborated by experience. Learning is something else. Usually, the learned man is he who has delved deep and soared high. But few there be who dive, that fish the murex up. Among those who soar, the ones who come back and tell us of what they have seen, are few. Like Lazarus, they say nothing. Erasmus had a sense of humor. Humor is a life-preserver and saves you from drowning when you jump off into a sea of sermons. A theologian who can not laugh is apt to explode--he is very dangerous. Erasmus, Luther, Beecher, Theodore Parker, Roger Williams, Joseph Parker--all could laugh. Calvin, Cotton Mather and Jonathan Edwards never gurgled in glee, nor chortled softly at their own witticisms--or those of others. Erasmus smiled. He has been called the Voltaire of his day. What Rousseau was to Voltaire, Luther was to Erasmus. Well did Diderot say that Erasmus laid the egg which Luther hatched. Erasmus wrote for the educated, the refined, the learned--Luther made his appeal to the plain and common mind. Luther split the power of the Pope. Erasmus thought it a calamity to do so, because he believed that strife of sects tended to make men lose sight of the one essential in religion--harmony--and cause them simply to struggle for victory. Erasmus wanted to trim the wings of the papal office and file its claws--Luther would have destroyed it. Erasmus considered the Church a very useful and needful organization--for social reasons. It tended to regulate life and conduct and made men "decentable." It should be a school of ethics, and take a leading part in every human betterment. Man being a gregarious animal, the congregation is in the line of natural desire. The excuse for gathering together is religion--let them gather. The Catholic Church is not two thousand years old--it is ten thousand years old and goes back to Egypt. The birth of Jesus formed merely a psychosis in the Church's existence. Here he parted company with Luther, who was a dogmatist and wanted to debate his ninety-five theses. Erasmus laughed at all religious disputations and called them mazes that led to cloudland. Very naturally, people said he was not sincere, since the mediocre mind never knows that only the paradox is true. Hence Erasmus was hated by Catholics and denounced by Protestants. The marvel is that the men with fetters and fagots did not follow him with a purpose. Fifty years later he would have been snuffed out. But at that time Rome was so astonished to think that any one should criticize her that she lost breath. Besides, it was an age of laughter, of revolt, of contests of wit, of love-bouts and love-scrapes, and the monks who lapsed were too many to discipline. Everybody was busy with his own affairs. Happy time! Erasmus was part and parcel of the Italian Renaissance. Over his head blazes, in letters that burn, the unforgetable date, Fourteen Hundred Ninety-two. He was a part of the great unrest, and he helped cause the great unrest. Every great awakening, every renaissance, is an age of doubt. An age of conservatism is an age of moss, of lichen, of rest, rust and ruin. We grow only as we question. As long as we are sure that the present order is perfect, we button our collars behind, a thing which Columbus, Luther, Melanchthon, Erasmus, Michelangelo, Leonardo and Gutenberg, who all lived at this one time, never did. The year of Fourteen Hundred Ninety-two, like the year Seventeen Hundred Seventy-six, was essentially "infidelic," just as the present age is constructively iconoclastic. We are tearing down our barns to build greater. The railroadman who said, "I throw an engine on the scrap-heap every morning before breakfast," expressed a great truth. We are discarding bad things for good ones, and good things for better ones. * * * * * Rotterdam has the honor of being the birthplace of Erasmus. A storm of calumny was directed at him during his life concerning the irregularity of his birth. "He had no business to be born at all," said a proud prelate, as he gathered his robes close around his prebendal form. But souls knock at the gates of life for admittance, and the fact that a man exists is proof of his right to live. The word "illegitimate" is not in the vocabulary of God. If you do not know that, you have not read His instructive and amusing works. The critics variously declared the mother of Erasmus was a royal lady, a physician's only daughter, a kitchen-wench, a Mother Superior--all according to the prejudices preconceived. In one sense she was surely a Mother Superior--let the lies neutralize one another. The fact is, we do not know who the mother of Erasmus was. All we know is that she was the mother of Erasmus. Here history halts. Her son once told Sir Thomas More that she was married to a luckless nobody a few months after the birth of her first baby, and amid the cares of raising a goodly brood of nobodies on a scant allowance of love and rye-bread, she was glad to forget her early indiscretions. Not so the father. The debated question of whether a man really has any parental love is answered here. The father of Erasmus was Gerhard von Praet, and the child was called Gerhard Gerhards--or the son of Gerhard. The father was a man of property and held office under the State. At the time of the birth of the illustrious baby, Gerhard von Praet was not married, and it is reasonable to suppose that the reason he did not wed the mother of his child was because she belonged to a different social station. In any event the baby was given the father's name, and every care and attention was paid the tiny voyager. This father was as foolish as most fond mothers, for he dreamed out a great career for the motherless one, and made sundry prophecies. At six years of age the child was studying Latin, when he should have been digging in a sand-pile. At eight he spoke Dutch and French, and argued with his nurse in Greek as to the value of buttermilk. In the meantime the father had married and settled down in honorable obscurity as a respectable squire. Another account has it that he became a priest. Anyway, the little maverick was now making head alone in a private school. When the lad was thirteen the father died, leaving a will in which he provided well for the child. The amount of property which by this will would have belonged to our hero when he became of age would have approximated forty thousand dollars. Happily, the trustees of the fund were law-wolves. They managed to break the will, and then they showed the court that the child was a waif, and absolutely devoid of legal rights of any and every kind. He was then committed to an orphan asylum to be given "a right religious education." It's a queer old world, Terese, and what would have become of Gerhard Gerhards had he fallen heir to his father's titles and estate, no man can say. He might have accumulated girth and become an honored burgomaster. As it was he became powder-monkey to a monk, and scrubbed stone floors and rushed the growler for cowled and pious prelates. Then he did copying for the Abbe, and proved himself a boy from Missouri Valley. He was small, blue-eyed, fair-haired, slender, slight, with a long nose and sharp features. "With this nose," said Albrecht Durer, many years later, "he successfully hunted down everything but heresy." At eighteen he became a monk and proudly had his flaxen poll tonsured. His superior was fond of him, and prophesied that he would become a bishop or something. Children do not suffer much, nor long. God is good to them. They slide into an environment and accept it. This child learned to dodge the big bare feet of the monks--got his lessons, played a little, worked his wit against their stupidity, and actually won their admiration--or as much of it as men who are alternately ascetics and libertines can give. It was about this time that the lad was taunted with having no name. "Then I'll make one for myself," was his proud answer. Having entered now upon his novitiate, he was allowed to take a new name, and being dead to the world, the old one was forgotten. They called him Brother Desiderius, or the Desired One. He then amended this Latin name with its Greek equivalent, Erasmus, which means literally the Well-Beloved. As to his pedigree, or lack of it, he was needlessly proud. It set him apart as different. He had half-brothers and half-sisters, and these he looked upon as strangers. When they came to see him, he said, "There is no relationship between souls save that of the spirit." His sense of wit came in when he writes to a friend: "Two parents are the rule; no parents the exception; a mother but no father is not uncommon; but I had a father and never had a mother. I was nursed by a man, and educated by monks, all of which shows that women are more or less of a superfluity in creation. God Himself is a man. He had one son, but no daughters. The cherubim are boys. All of the angels are masculine, and so far as Holy Writ informs us, there are no women in heaven." That it was a woman, however, to whom Erasmus wrote this, lets him out on the severity of the argument. He was a joker. And while women did not absorb much of his time, we find that on his travels he often turned aside to visit with intellectual women--no other kind interested him, at all. * * * * * To belong to a religious order is to be owned by it. You trade freedom for protection. The soul of Erasmus revolted at life in a monastery. He hated the typical monks--their food, their ways of life, their sophistry, their stupidity. To turn glutton and welcome folly as a relief from religion, he said, was the most natural thing in the world, when men had once started in to lead an unnatural life. Good food, daintily served, only goes with a co-ed mental regimen. Men eat with their hands, out of a pot, unless women are present to enforce the decencies. Women alone are a little more to be pitied than men alone, if 't were possible. Through emulation does the race grow. Sex puts men and women on their good behavior. Man's desire for power has caused him to enslave himself. Writes Erasmus, "In a monastery, no one is on his good behavior, except when there are visitors, but I am told that this is so in families." The greasy, coarse cooking brought on a nice case of dyspepsia for poor Erasmus--a complaint from which he was never free as long as he lived. His system was too fine for any monastic general trough, but he found a compensation in having his say at odd times and sundry. At one time we hear of his printing on a card this legend, "If I owned hell and a monastery, I would sell the monastery and reside in hell." Thereby did Erasmus supply General Tecumseh Sherman the germ of a famous orphic. Sherman was a professor in a college at Baton Rouge before the War, and evidently had moused in the Latin classics to a purpose. Connected with the monastery where Erasmus lived was a printing-outfit. Our versatile young monk learned the case, worked the ink-balls, manipulated the lever, and evidently dispelled, in degree, the monotony of the place by his ready pen and eloquent tongue. When he wrote, he wrote for his ear. All was tested by reading the matter aloud. At that time great authors were not so wise or so clever as printers, and it fell to the lot of Erasmus to improve upon the text of much of the copy that was presented. Erasmus learned to write by writing; and among modern prose-writers he is the very first who had a distinct literary style. His language is easy, fluid, suggestive. His paragraphs throw a shadow, and are pregnant with meaning beyond what the lexicon supplies. This is genius--to be bigger than your words. If Erasmus had been possessed of a bit more patience and a jigger of diplomacy, he would have been in line for a bishopric. That thing which he praised so lavishly, Folly, was his cause of failure and also his friend. At twenty-six he was the best teacher and the most clever scholar in the place. Also, he was regarded as a thorn in the side of the monkery, since he refused to take it seriously. He protested that no man ever became a monk of his own accord--he was either thrust into a religious order by unkind kinsmen or kicked into it by Fate. And then comes the Bishop of Cambray, with an attack of literary scabies, looking for a young religieux who could correct his manuscript. The Bishop was going to Paris after important historical facts, and must have a competent secretary. Only a proficient Latin and Greek scholar would do. The head of the monastery recommended Erasmus, very much as Artemus Ward volunteered all of his wife's relatives for purposes of war. Andrew Carnegie once, when about to start for Europe, said to his ironmaster, Bill Jones, "I am never so happy or care-free, Bill, as when on board ship, headed for Europe, and the shores of Sandy Hook fade from sight." And Bill solemnly replied, "Mr. Carnegie, I can truthfully say for myself and fellow-workers, that we are never so happy and care-free as when you are on board ship, headed for Europe." Very properly Mr. Carnegie at once raised Bill's salary five thousand a year. The Carthusian Brothers parted with Erasmus in pretended tears, but the fact was they were more relieved than bereaved. And then began the travels of Erasmus. The Bishop was of middle age, with a dash of the cavalier in his blood, which made him prefer a saddle to the cushions of a carriage. And so they started away on horseback, the Bishop ahead, followed at a discreet distance by Erasmus, his secretary; and ten paces behind with well-loaded panniers, rode a servant as rearguard. To be free and face the world and on a horse! Erasmus lifted up his heart in a prayer of gratitude. He said that it was the first feeling of thankfulness he had ever experienced, and it was the first thing which had ever come to him worth gratitude. And so they started for Paris. Erasmus looked back and saw the monastery, where he had spent ten arduous years, fade from view. It was the happiest moment he had ever known. The world lay beyond. * * * * * The Bishop of Cambray introduced Erasmus to a mode of life for which he was eminently fitted. It consisted in traveling, receiving honors, hospitality and all good things in a material way, and giving his gracious society in return. Doors flew open on the approach of the good Bishop. Everywhere he went a greeting was assured. He was a Churchman--that was enough. Erasmus shared in the welcomes, for he was handsome in face and figure, had a ready tongue, and could hold his own with the best. Europe was then dotted with monasteries, nunneries and other church institutions. Their remains are seen there yet--one is really never out of sight of a steeple. But the exclusive power of the Church is gone, and in many places there are only ruins where once were cloisters, corridors, chapels, halls and gardens teeming with life and industry. The "missions" of California were founded on the general plan of the monasteries of Europe. They afforded a lodging for the night--a resting-place for travelers--and were a radiatory center of education--at least all of the education that then existed. In California these "missions" were forty miles apart--one day's journey. In France, Italy and Germany they were, say, ten miles apart. Between them, trudged or rode on horseback or in carriages, a picturesque array of pilgrims, young and old, male and female. To go anywhere and be at home everywhere, this was the happy lot of a church dignitary. The parts in church institutions were interchangeable; and by a system of migration, life was made agreeable, and reasonable honesty was assured. I have noticed that certain Continental banking institutions, with branches in various cities, keep their cashiers rotating. The idea was gotten from Rome. Rome was very wise--her policies were the crystallizations of the world-wisdom of centuries. The church-militant battle-cry, "The world for Christ," simply means man's lust for ownership, with Christ as an excuse. If ever there was a man-made institution, it is the Church. To control mankind has been her desire, and the miracle is that, with a promise of heaven, a threat of hell, and a firm grip on temporal power--social and military--she was ever induced partially to loosen her grip. To such men as Savonarola, Luther and Erasmus, do we owe our freedom. These men cared more for truth than for power, and their influence was to disintegrate the ankylosis of custom and make men think. And a thought is mental dynamite. No wonder the Church has always feared and hated a thinker! The Bishop of Cambray was not a thinker. Fenelon, who was later to occupy his office, was to make the bishopric of Cambray immortal. Conformists die, but heretics live on forever. They are men who have redeemed the cross and rendered the gallows glorious. * * * * * And so the Bishop of Cambray and his little light-haired secretary fared forth to fame and fortune--the Bishop to be remembered because he had a secretary, and the secretary to be remembered because he grew into a great teacher. At each stopping-place the Bishop said mass--the workers, students and novitiates quitting their tasks to hear the words of encouragement from the lips of the great man. Occasionally Erasmus was pushed forward to say a few words, by the Bishop, who had to look after his own personal devotions. The assembled friends liked the young man--he was so bright and witty and free from cant. They even laughed out loud, and so, often two smiles were made to grow where there were no smiles before. Leisurely they rode--stopping at times for several days at places where the food and drink were at their best, and the society sulphide. At nunneries and monasteries were always guest-chambers for the great, and they were usually occupied. Thus it was that every church-house was a sort of university, depending of course on the soul-size of the Superior or Abbe. These constant journeyings and pilgrimages served in lieu of the daily paper, the Western Union Telegraph, and the telephone. Things have slipped back, I fear me, for now Mercury merely calls up his party on the long-distance, instead of making a personal visit--the Angel Gabriel as well. We save time, but we miss the personal contact. The monastic impulse was founded on a human need. Like most good things, it has been sadly perverted; but the idea of a sanctuary for stricken souls--a place of refuge, where simplicity, service and useful endeavor rule--will never die from out the human heart. The hospice stands for hospitality, but we have now only a hotel and a hospital. The latter stands for iodoform, carbolic acid and formaldehyde; the former often means gold, glitter, gluttony and concrete selfishness, with gout on one end, paresis at the other and Bright's Disease between. The hospice was a part of the monastery. It was a home for the homeless. There met men of learning--men of wit--men of brains and brawn. You entered and were at home. There was no charge--you merely left something for the poor. Any man who has the courage, and sufficient faith in humanity to install the hospice system in America will reap a rich reward. If he has the same faith in his guests that Judge Lindsey has in his bad boys, he will succeed; but if he hesitates, defers, doubts, and begins to plot and plan, the Referee in Bankruptcy will beckon. The early universities grew out of the monastic impulse. Students came and went, and the teachers were a part of a great itinerancy. Man is a migratory animal. His evolution has come about through change of environment. Transplantation changes weeds into roses, and the forebears of all the products of our greenhouses and gardens once grew in hedgerows or open fields, choked by unkind competition or trampled beneath the feet of the heedless. The advantage of university life is in the transplantation. Get the boy out of his home environment; sever the cord that holds him to his "folks"; let him meet new faces, see new sights, hear new sermons, meet new teachers, and his efforts at adjustment will work for growth. Alexander Humboldt was right--one year at college is safer than four. One year inspires you--four may get you pot-bound with pedant prejudice. The university of the future will be industrial--all may come and go. All men will be university men, and thus the pride in an imaginary proficiency will be diluted to a healthful attenuation. To work and to be useful--not merely to memorize and recite--will be the only initiation. The professors will be interchangeable, and the rotation of intellectual crops will work for health, harmony and effectiveness. The group, or college, will be the unit, not the family. The college was once a collection of men and women grouped for a mutual intellectual, religious or economic good. To this group or college idea will we return. Man is a gregarious animal, and the Christ-thought of giving all, and receiving all, some day in the near future will be found practical. The desire for exclusive ownership must be sloughed. Universities devoted to useful work--art in its highest sense: head, hand and heart--will yet dot the civilized world. The hospice will return higher up the scale, and the present use of the word "hospitality" will be drowned in its pink tea, choked with cheese-wafers, rescued from the nervous clutch of the managing mama, and the machinations of the chaperone. A society built on the sands of silliness must give way to the universal university, and the strong, healthful, helpful, honest companionship and comradeship of men and women prevail. * * * * * The objective point of the Bishop was the University of Paris. Here in due time, after their lingering ride from Holland, the Bishop and his secretary arrived. They settled down to literary work; and in odd hours the beauty and wonder of Paris became familiar to Erasmus. The immediate task completed, the Bishop proposed going home, and thought, of course, his secretary was a fixture and would go with him. But Erasmus had evolved ideas concerning his own worth. He had already collected quite a little circle of pupils about him, and these he held by his glowing personality. At this time the vow of poverty was looked upon lightly. And anyway, poverty is a comparative term. There were monks who always trudged afoot with staff and bag, but not so our Erasmus. He was Bishop of the Exterior. The Bishop of Cambray, on parting with Erasmus, thought so much of him that he presented him with the horse he rode. Erasmus used to take short excursions about Paris, taking with him a student and often two, as servants or attendants. Teaching then was mostly on an independent basis, each pupil picking his tutors and paying them direct. Among other pupils whom Erasmus had at Paris was a young Englishman by the name of Lord Mountjoy. A great affection arose between these two, and when Lord Mountjoy returned to England he was accompanied by Erasmus. At London, Erasmus met on absolute equality many of the learned men of England. We hear of his dining at the house of the Lord Mayor of London, and there meeting Sir Thomas More and crossing swords with that worthy in wordy debate. Erasmus seems to have carried the "New Humanism" into England. It has been said that the world was discovered in Fourteen Hundred Ninety-two, but Man was not discovered until Seventeen Hundred Seventy-six. This is hardly literal truth, since in Fourteen Hundred Ninety-two, there was a theologico-scientific party of young men in all of the European Universities who were reviving the Greek culture, and with it arose the idea of the dignity and worth of Man. To this movement Erasmus brought the enthusiasm of his nature. Perhaps he did as much as any other to fan the embers which grew into a flame called "The Reformation." He constantly ridiculed the austerities, pedantry, priggishness and sciolism of the old-time Churchmen, and when a new question came up, he asked, "What good is there in it?" Everything was tested by him in the light of commonsense. What end does it serve and how is humanity to be served or benefited by it? Thus the good of humanity, not the glory of God, was the shibboleth of this rising party. Erasmus gave lectures and taught at Cambridge, Oxford and London. Italy had been the objective point of his travels, but England had, for a time, turned him aside. In the year Fifteen Hundred, Erasmus landed at Calais, saddled his horse, and started southward, visiting, writing, teaching, lecturing, as he went. The stimulus of meeting new people and seeing new scenes, all tended toward intellectual growth. The genius monk made mendicancy a fine art, and Erasmus was heir to most of the instincts of the order. His associations with the laity were mostly with the nobility or those with money. He was not slow in asking for what he wanted, whether it was a fur-lined cloak, a saddle, top riding-boots, a horse, or a prayer-book. He made no apologies--but took as his divine right all that he needed. And he justified himself in taking what he needed by the thought that he gave all he had. He supplied Sir Thomas More the germ of "Utopia," for Erasmus pictured again and again an ideal society where all would have enough, and none suffer from either want or surfeit--a society in which all would be at home wherever they went. Had Erasmus seen fit to make England his home, his head, too, would have paid the forfeit, as did the head that wrote "Utopia." What an absurd use to make of a head--to separate it from the man's body! Italy received Erasmus with the same royal welcome that England had supplied. Scholars who knew the Greek and Roman classics were none too common. Most monks stopped with the writings of the saints, as South Americans balk at long division. Erasmus could illumine an initial, bind a book, give advice to printers, lecture to teachers, give lessons on rhetoric and oratory, or entertain the ladies with recitations from the Iliad and the Odyssey. So he went riding back and forth, stopping at cities and towns, nunneries and monasteries, until his name became a familiar one to every scholar of England, Germany and Italy. Scholarly, always a learner, always a teacher, gracious, direct, witty, men began to divide on an Erasmus basis. There were two parties: those for Erasmus and those against him. In Fifteen Hundred Seventeen, came Luther with his bombshells of defiance. This fighting attitude was far from Erasmus--his weapons were words. Between bouts with prelates, Luther sent a few thunderbolts at Erasmus, accusing him of vacillation and cowardice. Erasmus replied with dignity, and entered into a lengthy dispute with Melanchthon, Luther's friend, on the New Humanism which was finding form in revolution. Erasmus prophesied that by an easy process of evolution, through education, the monasteries would all become schools and workshops. He would not destroy them, but convert them into something different. He fell into disfavor with the Catholics, and was invited by Henry the Eighth to come to England and join the new religious regime. But this English Catholicism was not to the liking of Erasmus. What he desired was to reform the Church, not to destroy it or divide it. His affairs were becoming critical: monasteries where he had once been welcomed now feared to have him come near, lest they should be contaminated and entangled. It was rumored that warrants of arrest were out. He was invited to go to Rome and explain his position. Erasmus knew better than to acknowledge receipt of the letter. He headed his horse for Switzerland, the land of liberty. At Basel he stopped at the house of Froben, the great printer and publisher. He put his horse in the barn, unsaddled him, and said, "Froben, I've come to stay." * * * * * I was mousing around the other day in a book that is somewhat disjointed and disconnected, and yet interesting--"The Standard Dictionary"--when I came across the word "scamp." It is a handy word to fling, and I am not sure but that it has been gently tossed once or twice in my direction. Condemnation is usually a sort of subtle flattery, so I'm not sad. To scamp means to cut short, to be superficial, slipshod, careless, indifferent--to say, "Let 'er go, who cares--this is good enough!" If anybody ever was a stickler for honest work, I am that bucolic party. I often make things so fine that only one man out of ten thousand can buy them, and I have to keep 'em myself. You know that, when you get an idea in your head, how everything you read contains allusions to the same thing. Knowledge is mucilaginous. Well, next day after I was looking up that pleasant word "scamp," I was reading in the Amusing Works of Erasmus, when I ran across the word again, but spelled in Dutch, thus, "schamp." Now Erasmus was a successful author, and he was also the best authority on paper, inks, bindings, and general bookmaking in Italy, Holland or Germany. Being a lover of learning, and listening to the lure of words, he never wallowed in wealth. But in his hunt for ideas he had a lot of fun. Kipling says, "There is no hunt equal to a man hunt." But Kip is wrong--to chase a thought is twice the sport. Erasmus chased ideas, and very naturally the preachers chased Erasmus--out of England, through France, down to Italy and then he found refuge at Basel with Froben, the great Printer and Publisher. Up in Frankfort was a writer-printer, who, not being able to answer the arguments of Erasmus, called him bad names. But this gentle pen-pusher in Frankfort, who passed his vocabulary at Froben's proofreader, Erasmus in time calls a "schamp," because he used cheap paper, cheap ink and close margins. Soon after, the word was carried to England and spelled "scamp"--a man who cheats in quality, weight, size and count. But the first use merely meant a printer who scamps his margins and so cheats on paper. I am sorry to see that Erasmus imitated his enemies and at times was ambidextrous in the use of the literary stinkpot. His vocabulary was equal to that of Muldoon. Erasmus refers to one of his critics as a "scenophylax-stikken," and another he calls a "schnide enchologion-schistosomus." And perhaps they may have been--I really do not know. But as an authority on books Erasmus can still be read. He it was who fixed the classic page margin--twice as wide at the top as on the inside; twice as wide at the outside as the top; twice as wide at the bottom as at the side. And any printer who varies from this displays his ignorance of proportion. Erasmus says, "To use poor paper marks the decline of taste, both in printer and in patron." After the death of Erasmus, Froben's firm failed because they got to making things cheap. "Compete in quality, not in price," was the working motto of Erasmus. All of the great bookmaking centers languished when they began to scamp. That worthy wordissimus at Frankfort who called Erasmus names gave up business and then the ghost, and Erasmus wrote his epitaph, and thus supplied Benjamin Franklin an idea--"Here lies an old book, its cover gone, its leaves torn, the worms at work on its vitals." The wisdom of doing good work still applies, just as it did in the days of Erasmus. Erasmus proved a very valuable acquisition to Froben. He became general editor and literary adviser of this great publishing-house, which was then the most important in the world. Besides his work as editor, Erasmus also stood sponsor for numerous volumes which we now know were written by literary nobodies, his name being placed on the title-page for commercial reasons. At that time and for two hundred years later, the matter of attributing a book to this man or that was considered a trivial affair. Piracies were prevalent. All printers revised the work of classic authors if they saw fit, and often they were specially rewarded for it by the Church. It was about this time that some one slipped that paragraph into the works of Josephus about Jesus. The "Annals" of Tacitus were similarly doctored, if in fact they were not written entire, during the Sixteenth Century. It will be remembered that the only two references in contemporary literature to Jesus are those in Josephus and Tacitus, and these the Church proudly points to yet. During the last few years of his life Erasmus accumulated considerable property. By his will he devised that this money should go to educate certain young men and women, grandchildren and nephews and nieces of his old friend, Johann Froben. He left no money for masses, after the usual custom of Churchmen, and during his last illness was not attended by a priest. For several years before his death he made no confessions and very seldom attended church service. He said, "I am much more proud of being a printer than a priest." A statue of Erasmus in bronze adorns one of the public squares in Rotterdam, and Basel and Freiburg have honored themselves, and him also, in like manner. As a sample of the subtle and keen literary style of Erasmus, I append the following from "In Praise of Folly:" The happiest times of life are youth and old age, and this for no reason but that they are the times most completely under the rule of folly, and least controlled by wisdom. It is the child's freedom from wisdom that makes it so charming to us; we hate a precocious child. So women owe their charm, and hence their power, to their "folley," that is, to their obedience to the impulse. But if, perchance, a woman wants to be thought wise, she only succeeds in being doubly a fool, as if one should train a cow for the prize-ring, a thing wholly against Nature. A woman will be a woman, no matter what mask she wear, and she ought to be proud of her folly and make the most of it. Is not Cupid, that first father of all religion, is not he stark blind, that he can not himself distinguish of colors, so he would make us as mope-eyed in judging falsely of all love concerns, and wheedle us into a thinking that we are always in the right? Thus every Jack sticks to his own Jill; every tinker esteems his own trull; and the hobnailed suitor prefers Joan the milkmaid before any of milady's daughters. These things are true, and are ordinarily laughed at, and yet, however ridiculous they seem, it is hence only that all societies receive their cement and consolidation. Fortune we still find favoring the blunt, and flushing the forward; strokes smooth up fools, crowning all their undertakings with success; but wisdom makes her followers bashful, sneaking and timorous, and therefore you commonly see that they are reduced to hard shifts; must grapple with poverty, cold and hunger; must lie recluse, despised, and unregarded; while fools roll in money, are advanced to dignities and offices, and in a word have the whole world at command. If any one thinks it happy to be a favorite at court, and to manage the disposal of places and preferments, alas, this happiness is so far from being attainable by wisdom, that the very suspicion of it would put a stop to advancement. Has any man a mind to raise himself a good estate? Alas, what dealer in the world would ever get a farthing, if he be so wise as to scruple at perjury, blush at a lie, or stick at a fraud and overreaching? It is the public charter of all divines, to mold and bend the sacred oracles till they comply with their own fancy, spreading them (as Heaven by its Creator) like a curtain, closing together, or drawing them back, as they please. Thus, indeed, Saint Paul himself minces and mangles some citations he makes use of, and seems to wrest them to a different sense from what they were first intended for, as is confessed by the great linguist, Saint Hieron. Thus when that apostle saw at Athens the inscription of the altar, he draws from it an argument for the proof of the Christian religion; but leaving out great parts of the sentence, which perhaps if fully recited might have prejudiced his cause, he mentions only the last two words, namely, "To the Unknown God"; and this, too, not without alteration, for the whole inscription runs thus: "To the Gods of Asia, Europe, and Africa, to all Foreign and Unknown Gods." 'T is an imitation of the same pattern, I will warrant you, that our young divines, by leaving out four or five words in a place and putting a false construction on the rest, can make any passage serviceable to their own purpose; though from the coherence of what went before, or follows after, the genuine meaning appears to be either wide enough, or perhaps quite contradictory to what they would thrust and impose upon it. In which knack the divines are grown now so expert that the lawyers themselves begin to be jealous of an encroachment on what was formerly their sole privilege and practise. And indeed what can they despair of proving, since the forementioned commentator did upon a text of Saint Luke put an interpretation no more agreeable to the meaning or the place than one contrary quality is to another. But because it seemed expedient that man, who was born for the transaction of business, should have so much wisdom as should fit and capacitate him for the discharge of his duty herein, and yet lest such a measure as is requisite for this purpose might prove too dangerous and fatal, I was advised with for an antidote, and prescribed this infallible receipt of taking a wife, a creature so harmless and silly, and yet so useful and convenient, as might mollify and make pliable the stiffness and morose humor of man. Now that which made Plato doubt under what genus to rank woman, whether among brutes or rational creatures, was only meant to denote the extreme stupidness and Folly of that sex, a sex so unalterably simple that for any one of them to thrust forward and reach at the name of wise, is but to make themselves the more remarkable fools, such an endeavor being but a swimming against the stream, nay, the turning the course of Nature, the bare attempting whereof is as extravagant as the effecting of it is impossible: for as it is a trite proverb, that an ape will be an ape, though clad in purple, so a woman will be a woman, that is, a fool, whatever disguise she takes up. And yet there is no reason women should take it amiss to be thus charged, for if they do but rightly consider, they will find to Folly they are beholden for those endowments wherein they so far surpass and excel Man; as first for their unparalleled beauty, by the charm whereof they tyrannize over the greatest of tyrants; for what is it but too great a smatch of wisdom that makes men so tawny and thick-skinned, so rough and prickly-bearded, like an emblem of winter or old age, while women have such dainty, smooth cheeks, such a low, gentle voice, and so pure a complexion, as if Nature had drawn them for a standing pattern of all symmetry and comeliness? Besides, what greater or juster aim and ambition have they than to please their husbands? In order whereunto they garnish themselves with paint, washes, curls, perfumes, and all other mysteries of ornament; yet, after all, they become acceptable to them only for their Folly. Wives are always allowed their humor, yet it is only in exchange for titillation and pleasure, which indeed are but other names for Folly; as none can deny, who consider how a man must dandle, and kittle, and play a hundred little tricks for his helpmate. But now some blood-chilled old men, that are more for wine than wenching, will pretend that in their opinion the greatest happiness consists in feasting and drinking. Grant it be so; yet certainly in the most luxurious entertainments it is Folly must give the sauce and relish to the daintiest delicacies; so that if there be no one of the guests naturally fool enough to be played upon by the rest, they must procure some comical buffoon, that by his jokes and flouts and blunders shall make the whole company split themselves with laughing; for to what purpose were it to be stuffed and crammed with so many dainty bits, savory dishes, and toothsome rarities, if after all this epicurism, the eyes, the ears, and the whole mind of man, were not so well foisted and relieved with laughing, jesting, and such like divertisements, which, like second courses, serve for the promoting of digestion? And as to all those shoeing-horns of drunkenness, the keeping every one his man, the throwing high jinks, the filling of bumpers, the drinking two in a hand, the beginning of mistresses' healths; and then the roaring out of drunken catches, the calling in a fiddler, the leading out every one his lady to dance, and such like riotous pastimes--these were not taught or dictated by any of the wise men of Greece, but of Gotham rather, being my invention, and by me prescribed as the best preservative of health: each of which, the more ridiculous it is, the more welcome it finds. And indeed, to jog sleepingly through the world, in a dumpish, melancholy posture, can not properly be said to live. [Illustration: BOOKER T. WASHINGTON] BOOKER T. WASHINGTON There is something in human nature which always makes people reward merit, no matter under what color of skin merit is found. I have found, too, that it is the visible, the tangible, that goes a long way in softening prejudices. The actual sight of a good house that a Negro has built is ten times more potent than pages of discussion about a house that he ought to build, or perhaps could build. The individual who can do something that the world wants done will, in the end, make his way regardless of his race. --_Booker T. Washington_ BOOKER T. WASHINGTON This is a story about a Negro. The story has the peculiarity of being true. The man was born a slave in Virginia. His mother was a slave, and was thrice sold in the market-place. This man is Booker T. Washington. The name Booker was a fanciful one given to the lad by playmates on account of his love for a certain chance dog-eared spelling-book. Before this he was only Mammy's Pet. The T. stood for nothing, but later a happy thought made it Taliaferro. Most Negroes, fresh from slavery, stood sponsor to themselves, and chose the name Washington; if not this, then Lincoln, Clay or Webster. This lad when but a child, being suddenly asked for his name, exclaimed, "Washington," and stuck to it. The father of this boy was a white man; but children always take the status of the mother, so Booker T. Washington is a Negro, and proud of it, as he should be, for he is standard by performance, even if not by pedigree. This Negro's father is represented by the sign _x_. By remaining in obscurity the fond father threw away his one chance for immortality. We do not even know his name, his social position, or his previous condition of turpitude. We assume he was happily married and respectable. Concerning him legend is silent and fable dumb. As for the child, we are not certain whether he was born in Eighteen Hundred Fifty-eight or Eighteen Hundred Fifty-nine, and we know not the day or the month. There were no signs in the East. The mother lived in a log cabin of one room, say ten by twelve. This room was also a kitchen, for the mother was cook to the farmhands of her owner. There were no windows and no floor in the cabin save the hard-trodden clay. There were a table, a bench and a big fireplace. There were no beds, and the children at night simply huddled and cuddled in a pile of straw and rags in the corner. Doubtless they had enough food, for they ate the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table--who, by the way, wasn't so very rich. One of the earliest recollections of Black Baby Booker was of being awakened in the middle of the night by his mother to eat fried chicken. Imagine the picture--it is past midnight. No light in the room save the long, flickering streaks that dance on the rafters. Outside the wind makes mournful, sighing melody. In the corner huddled the children, creeping close together with intertwining arms to get the warmth of each little half-naked body. The dusky mother moves swiftly, deftly, half-frightened at her task. She has come in from the night with a chicken! Where did she get it? Hush! Where do you suppose oppressed colored people get chickens? She picks the bird--prepares it for the skillet--fries it over the coals. And then when it is done just right, Maryland style, this mother full of mother-love, an ingredient which God never omits, shakes each little piccaninny into wakefulness, and gives him the forbidden dainty--drumstick, wishbone, gizzard, white meat, or the part that went through the fence last--anything but the neck. Feathers, bones, waste are thrown into the fireplace, and what the village editor calls the "devouring element" hides all trace of the crime. Then all lie down to sleep, until the faint flush of pink comes into the East, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the mountain-tops. * * * * * This ex-slave remembers a strange and trying time, when all of the colored folk on the plantation were notified to assemble at the "big house." They arrived and stood around in groups, waiting and wondering, talking in whispers. The master came out, and standing on the veranda read from a paper in a tremulous voice. Then he told them that they were all free, and shook hands with each. Everybody cried. However, they were very happy in spite of the tears, for freedom to them meant heaven--a heaven of rest. Yet they bore only love towards their former owners. Most of them began to wander--they thought they had to leave their old quarters. In a few days the wisest came back and went to work just as usual. Booker T.'s mother quit work for just half a day. But in a little while her husband arrived--a colored man to whom she had been married years before, and who had been sold and sent away. Now he came and took her and the little monochrome brood, and they all started away for West Virginia, where they heard that colored men were hired to work in coalmines and were paid wages in real money. It took months and months to make the journey. They carried all their belongings in bundles. They had no horses--no cows--no wagon--they walked. If the weather was pleasant they slept out of doors; if it rained they sought a tobacco-shed, a barn, or the friendly side of a straw-stack. For food they depended on a little cornmeal they carried, with which the mother made pone-cakes in the ashes of a campfire. Kind colored people on the way replenished the meal-bag, for colored people are always generous to the hungry and needy if they have anything to be generous with. Then Providence sent stray, ownerless chickens their way, at times, just as the Children of Israel were fed on quails in the wilderness. Once they caught a 'possum--and there was a genuine banquet, where the children ate until they were as tight as drums. Finally they reached the promised land of West Virginia, and at the little village of Maiden, near Charleston, they stopped, for here were the coal mine and the salt-works where colored men were hired and paid in real money. Booker's stepfather found a job, and he also found a job for little Booker. They had nothing to live on until pay-day, so the kind man who owned the mine allowed them to get things at the store on credit. This was a brand-new experience--and no doubt they bought a few things they did not need, for prices and values were absolutely out of their realm. Besides, they did not know how much wages they were to get, neither could they figure the prices of the things they bought. At any rate, when pay-day came they were still in debt, so they saw no real money--certainly little Booker at this time of his life never did. * * * * * General Lewis Ruffner owned the salt-works and the coalmine where little Booker worked. He was stern, severe, strict. But he believed Negroes were human beings, and there were those then who disputed the proposition. Ruffner organized a night-school for his helpers, and let a couple of his bookkeepers teach it. At this time there was not a colored person in the neighborhood who could spell cat, much less write his name. A few could count five. Booker must have been about ten years old when one day he boasted a bit of his skill in mathematics. The foreman told him to count the loads of coal as they came out of the mine. The boy started in bravely, "One--two--three--four--dere goes one, dere goes anoder, anoder, anoder, anoder, anoder!" The foreman laughed. The boy was abashed, then chagrined. "Send me to the night-school and in a month I'll show you how to count!" The foreman wrote the lad an order which admitted him to the night-school. But now there was another difficulty--the boy worked until nine o'clock at night, the last hour's work being to sweep out the office. The night-school began at nine o'clock and it was two miles away. The lad scratched his head and thought and thought. A great idea came to him--he would turn the office clock ahead half an hour. He could then leave at nine o'clock, and by running part of the way could get to school at exactly nine o'clock. The scheme worked for two days, when one of the clerks in the office said that a spook was monkeying with the clock. They tried the plan of locking the case, and all was well. Booker must have been about twelve years old, goin' on thirteen, when one day as he lay on his back in the coalmine, pushing out the broken coal with his feet, he overheard two men telling of a very wonderful school where colored people were taught to read, write and cipher--also, how to speak in public. The scholars were allowed to work part of the time to pay for their board. The lad crawled close in the darkness and listened to the conversation. He caught the names "Hampton" and "Armstrong." Whether Armstrong was the place and Hampton was the name of the man, he could not make out, but he clung to the names. Here was a school for colored people--he would go there! That night he told his mother about it. She laughed, patted his kinky head, and indulged him in his dream. She was only a poor black woman; she could not spell ab, nor count to ten, but she had a plan for her boy--he would some day be a preacher. This was the very height of her imagination--a preacher! Beyond this there was nothing in human achievement. The night-school came after a day of fourteen hours' work. Little Booker sat on a bench, his feet dangling about a foot from the floor. As he sat there one night trying hard to drink in knowledge, he went to sleep. He nodded, braced up, nodded again, and then pitched over in a heap on the floor, to the great amusement of the class, and his own eternal shame. The next day, however, as he was feeling very sorrowful over his sad experience, he heard that Mrs. Ruffner wanted a boy for general work at the big house. Here was a chance. Mrs. Ruffner was a Vermont Yankee, which meant that she had a great nose for dirt, and would not stand for a "sassy nigger." Her reputation had gone abroad, and of how she pinched the ears of her "help," and got them up at exactly a certain hour, and made them use soap and water at least once a day, and even compelled them to use a toothbrush; all this was history, well defined. Booker said he could please her, even if she was a Yankee. He applied for the job and got it, with wages fixed at a dollar a week, with a promise of twenty-five cents extra every week, if he did his work without talking back and breaking a tray of dishes. * * * * * "Genius! No hovel is safe from it!" says Whistler. Genius consists in doing the right thing without being told more than three times. Booker silently studied the awful Yankee woman to see what she really wanted. He finally decided that she desired her servants to have clean skins, fairly neat clothing, do things promptly, finish the job and keep still when they had nothing to say. He set himself to please her--and he did. She loaned him books, gave him a lead-pencil, and showed him how to write with a pen without smearing his hands and face with ink. He told her of his dream and asked about Armstrong and Hampton. She told him that Armstrong was the man and Hampton the place. At last he got her consent to leave and go to Hampton. When he started she gave him a comb, a toothbrush, two handkerchiefs and a pair of shoes. He had been working for her for a year, and she thought, of course, he saved his wages. He never told her that his money had gone to keep the family, because his stepfather had been on a strike and therefore out of work. So the boy started away for Hampton. It was five hundred miles away. He didn't know how far five hundred miles is--nobody does unless he has walked it. He had three dollars, so he gaily paid for a seat in the stage. At the end of the first day he was forty miles from home and out of money. He slept in a barn, and a colored woman handed him a ham-bone and a chunk of bread out of the kitchen-window, and looked the other way. He trudged on east--always and forever east--towards the rising sun. He walked weeks--months--years, he thought. He kept no track of the days. He carried his shoes as a matter of economy. Finally he sold the shoes for four dollars to a man who paid him ten cents cash down, and promised to pay the rest when they should meet at Hampton. Nearly forty years have passed and they have never met. On he walked--on and on--east, and always forever east. He reached the city of Richmond, the first big city he had ever seen. The wide streets--the sidewalks--the street-lamps entranced him. It was just like heaven. But he was hungry and penniless, and when he looked wistfully at a pile of cold fried chicken on a street-stand and asked the price of a drumstick, at the same time telling he had no money, he discovered he was not in heaven at all. He was called a lazy nigger and told to move on. Later he made the discovery that a "nigger" is a colored person who has no money. He pulled the piece of rope that served him for a belt a little tighter, and when no one was looking, crawled under a sidewalk and went to sleep, disturbed only by the trampling overhead. When he awoke he saw he was near the dock, where a big ship pushed its bowsprit out over the street. Men were unloading bags and boxes from the boat. He ran down and asked the mate if he could help. "Yes!" was the gruff answer. He got in line and went staggering under the heavy loads. He was little, but strong, and best of all, willing, yet he reeled at the work. "Have you had any breakfast? Yes, you liver-colored boy--you, I say, have you had your breakfast?" "No, sir," said the boy; "and no supper last night nor dinner yesterday!" "Well, I reckoned as much. Now you take this quarter and go over to that stand and buy you a drumstick, a cup of coffee and two fried cakes!" The lad didn't need urging. He took the money in his palm, went over to the man who the night before had called him a lazy nigger, and showing the silver, picked out his piece of chicken. The man hastened to wait on him, and said it was a fine day and hoped he was well. * * * * * Arriving at Hampton, this colored boy, who had tramped the long, weary miles, stood abashed before the big brick building which he knew was Hampton Institute. He was so little--the place was so big--by what right could he ask to be admitted? Finally he boldly entered, and in a voice meant to be firm, but which was very shaky, said, "I am here!" and pointed to the bosom of his hickory shirt. The Yankee woman motioned him to a chair. Negroes coming there were plentiful. Usually they wanted to live the Ideal Life. They had a call to preach--and the girls wanted to be music-teachers. The test was simple and severe: would they and could they do one useful piece of work well? Booker sat and waited, not knowing that his patience was being put to the test. Then Miss Priscilla, in a hard, Neill Burgess voice, "guessed" that the adjoining recitation-room needed sweeping and dusting. She handed Booker a broom and dust-cloth, motioned to the room, and went away. Oho! Little did she know her lad. The colored boy smiled to himself--sweeping and dusting were his specialties--he had learned the trade from a Yankee woman from Vermont! He smiled. Then he swept that room--moved every chair, the table, the desk. He dusted each piece of furniture four times. He polished each rung and followed around the baseboard on hands and knees. Miss Priscilla came back--pushed the table around and saw at once that the dirt had not been concealed beneath it. She took out her handkerchief and wiped the table top, then the desk. She turned, looked at the boy, and her smile met his half-suppressed triumphant grin. "You'll do," she said. * * * * * General Samuel C. Armstrong, the founder of Hampton Institute, and the grandfather of Tuskegee, was a white man who fought the South valiantly and well. He seems about the only man in the North who, at the close of the war, clearly realized that the war had just begun--that the real enemies were not subdued, and that these enemies were ignorance, superstition and incompetence. The pitiable condition of four million human beings, flung from slavery into freedom, thrown upon their own resources, with no thought of responsibility, and with no preparation for the change, meant for them only another kind of slavery. General Armstrong's heart went out to them--he desired to show them how to be useful, helpful, self-reliant, healthy. For the whites of the South he had only high regard and friendship. He, of all men, knew how they had suffered from the war--and he realized also that they had fought for what they believed was right. In his heart there was no hate. He resolved to give himself--his life--his fortune--his intellect--his love--his all, for the upbuilding of the South. He saw with the vision of a prophet that indolence and pride were the actual enemies of white and black alike. The blacks must be taught to work--to know the dignity of human labor--to serve society--to help themselves by helping others. He realized that there are no menial tasks--that all which serves is sacred. And this is the man who sowed the seeds of truth in the heart of the nameless black boy--Booker Washington. Armstrong's shibboleth, too, was, "With malice toward none, but with charity for all, let us finish the work God has given us to do." * * * * * I do not know very much about this subject of education, yet I believe I know as much about what others know about it as most people. I have visited the principal colleges of America and Europe, and the methods of Preparatory and High Schools are to me familiar. I know the night-schools of the cities, the "Ungraded Rooms," the Schools for Defectives, the educational schemes in prisons, the Manual-Training Schools, the New Education (first suggested by Socrates) as carried out by G. Stanley Hall, John Dewey, and dozens of other good men and women in America. I am familiar with the School for the Deaf at Malone, New York, and the School for the Blind at Batavia, where even the sorely stricken are taught to be self-sufficient, self-supporting and happy. I have tumbled down the circular fire-escape at Lapeer with the inmates of the Home of Epileptics, and heard the shouts of laughter from lips that never laughed before. I have seen the Jewish Manual Training School of Chicago transform Russian refugees into useful citizens--capable, earnest and excellent. I know a little about Swarthmore, Wellesley, Vassar, Radcliffe, and have put my head into West Point and Annapolis, and had nobody cry, "Genius!" Of Harvard, Yale and Princeton I know something, having done time in each. I have also given jobs to graduates of Oxford, Cambridge and Heidelberg, to my sorrow and their chagrin. This does not prove that graduates of the great universities are, as a rule, out of work, or that they are incompetent. It simply means that it is possible for a man to graduate at these institutions and secure his diploma and yet be a man who has nothing the world really wants, either in way of ideas or services. The reason that my "cum laude" friends did not like me, and the cause of my having to part with them--getting them a little free transportation from your Uncle George--was not because they lacked intelligence, but because they wanted to secure a position, while I simply offered them a job. They were like Cave-of-the-Winds of Oshkosh, who is an ice-cutter in August, and in winter is an out-of-door horticulturist--a hired man is something else. As a general proposition, I believe this will not now be disputed: the object of education is that a man may benefit himself by serving society. To benefit others, you must be reasonably happy: there must be animation through useful activity, good-cheer, kindness and health--health of mind and health of body. And to benefit society you must also have patience, persistency, and a firm determination to do the right thing, and to mind your own business so that others, too, may mind theirs. Then all should be tinctured with a dash of discontent with past achievements, so you will constantly put forth an effort to do more and better work. When what you have done in the past looks large to you, you haven't done much today. So there you get the formula of Education: health and happiness through useful activity--animation, kindness, good-cheer, patience, persistency, willingness to give and take, seasoned with enough discontent to prevent smugness, which is the scum that grows over every stagnant pond. Of course no college can fill this prescription--no institution can supply the ingredients--all that the college can do is to supply the conditions so that these things can spring into being. Plants need the sunlight--mushrooms are different. The question is, then, what teaching concern in America supplies the best quality of actinic ray? And I answer, Tuskegee is the place, and Booker Washington is the man. "What!" you exclaim. "The Ideal School a school for Negroes, instituted by a Negro, where only Negroes teach, and only Negroes are allowed to enter as students?" And the answer is, "Exactly so." At Tuskegee there are nearly two thousand students, and over one hundred fifty teachers. There are two classes of students--"day-school" and "night-school" students. The night-school students work all day at any kind of task they are called upon to do. They receive their board, clothing and a home--they pay no tuition, but are paid for their labor, the amount being placed to their credit, so when fifty dollars is accumulated they can enter as "day students." The "day students" make up the bulk of the scholars. Each pays fifty dollars a year. These all work every other day at manual labor or some useful trade. Tuskegee has fully twice as many applicants as it can accommodate; but there is one kind of applicant who never receives any favor. This is the man who says he has the money to pay his way, and wishes to take the academic course only. The answer always is: "Please go elsewhere--there are plenty of schools that want your money. The fact that you have money will not exempt you here from useful labor." This is exactly what every college in the world should say. The Tuskegee farm consists of about three thousand acres. There are four hundred head of cattle, about five hundred hogs, two hundred horses, great flocks of chickens, geese, ducks and turkeys, and many swarms of bees. It is the intention to raise all the food that is consumed on the place, and to manufacture all supplies. There are wagon-shops, a sawmill, a harness-shop, a shoe-shop, a tailor-shop, a printing-plant, a model laundry, a canning establishment. Finer fruit and vegetables I have never seen, and the thousands of peach, plum and apple trees, and the vast acreage of berries that have been planted, will surely some day be a goodly source of revenue. The place is religious, but not dogmatically so--the religion being merely the natural safety-valve for emotion. At Tuskegee there is no lacrimose appeal to confess your sins--they do better--they forget them. I never heard more inspiring congregational singing, and the use of the piano, organ, orchestra and brass band are important factors in the curriculum. In the chapel I spoke to an audience so attentive, so alert, so receptive, so filled with animation, that the whole place looked like a vast advertisement for Sozodont. No prohibitive signs are seen at Tuskegee. All is affirmative, yet it is understood that some things are tabu--tobacco, for instance, and strong drink, of course. We have all heard of Harvard Beer and Yale Mixture, but be it said in sober justice, Harvard runs no brewery, and Yale has no official brand of tobacco. Yet Harvard men consume much beer, and many men at Yale smoke. And if you want to see the cigarette-fiend on his native heath, you'll find him like the locust on the campus at Cambridge and New Haven. But if you want to see the acme of all cigarette-bazaars, just ride out of Boylston Street, Boston, any day at noon, and watch the boys coming out of the Institute of Technology. I once asked a Tech Professor if cigarette-smoking was compulsory in his institution. "Yes," he replied; "but the rule is not strictly enforced, as I know three students who do not smoke." Tuskegee stands for order, system, cleanliness, industry, courtesy and usefulness. There are no sink-holes around the place, no "back yards." Everything is beautiful, wholesome and sanitary. All trades are represented. The day is crammed so full of work from sunrise to sunset that there is no time for complaining, misery or faultfinding--three things that are usually born of idleness. At Tuskegee there are no servants. All of the work is done by the students and teachers--everybody works--everybody is a student, and all are teachers. We are all teachers, whether we will it or not--we teach by example, and all students who do good work are good teachers. When the Negro is able to do skilled work, he ceases to be a problem--he is a man. The fact that Alexandre Dumas was a Negro does not count against him in the world's assize. The old-time academic college, that cultivated the cerebrum and gave a man his exercise in an indoor gymnasium, or not at all, has ruined its tens of thousands. To have top--head and no lungs--is not wholly desirable. The student was made exempt from every useful thing, just as the freshly freed slave hoped and expected to be, and after four years it was often impossible for him to take up the practical lessons of life. He had gotten used to the idea of one set of men doing all the work and another set of men having the culture. To a large degree he came to regard culture as the aim of life. And when a man begins to pride himself upon his culture, he hasn't any to speak of. Culture must be merely incidental, and to clutch it is like capturing a butterfly: you do not secure the butterfly at all--you get only a grub. Let us say right here that there is only one way in which a Negro, or a white man, can ever make himself respected. Statute law will not do it; rights voted him by the State are of small avail; making demands will not secure the desired sesame. If we ever gain the paradise of freedom it will be because we have earned it--because we deserve it. A make-believe education may suffice for a white man--especially if he has a rich father, but a Negro who has to carve out his own destiny must be taught order, system, and quiet, persistent, useful effort. A college that has its students devote one-half their time to actual, useful work is so in line with commonsense that we are amazed that the idea had to be put into execution by the ex-slave as a life-saver for his disenfranchised race. Our great discoveries are always accidents: we work for one thing and get another. I expect that the day will come, and erelong, when the great universities of the world will have to put the Tuskegee Idea into execution in order to save themselves from being distanced by the Colored Race. If life were one thing and education another, it might be all right to separate them. Culture of the head over a desk, and indoor gymnastics for the body, are not the ideal, and that many succeed in spite of the handicap is no proof of the excellence of the plan. Ships that go around the world accumulate many barnacles, but barnacles as a help to the navigator are an iridescent dream. A little regular manual labor, rightly mixed with the mental, eliminates draw-poker, highballs, brawls, broils, Harvard Beer, Yale Mixture, Princeton Pinochle, Chippee dances, hazing, roistering, rowdyism and the bulldog propensity. The Heidelberg article of cocked hat and insolent ways is not produced at Tuskegee. At Tuskegee there is no place for those who lie in wait for insults and regard scrapping as a fine art. As for college athletics at the Orthodox Universities, only one man out of ten ever does anything at it anyway--the college man who needs the gymnasium most is practically debarred from everything in it and serves as a laughing-stock whenever he strips. Coffee, cocaine, bromide, tobacco and strong drink often serve in lieu of exercise and ozone, and Princeton winks her woozy eye in innocency. Freedom can not be bestowed--it must be achieved. Education can not be given--it must be earned. Lincoln did not free the slaves--he only freed himself. The Negroes did not know they were slaves, and so they had no idea of what freedom meant. Until a man wants to be free, each kind of freedom is only another form of slavery. Booker Washington is showing the colored man how to secure a genuine freedom through useful activity. To get freedom you must shoulder responsibility. If college education were made compulsory by the State, and one-half of the curriculum consisted of actual, useful manual labor, most of our social ills would be solved, and we would be well out on the highway towards the Ideal City. Without animation, man is naught--nothing is accomplished, nothing done. People who inspire other people have animation plus. And animation plus is ecstasy. In ecstasy the spirit rushes out, runs over and saturates all. Oratory is an ecstasy that inundates the hearer and makes him ride upon the crest of another's ideas. Art is born of ecstasy--art is ecstasy in the concrete. Beautiful music is ecstasy expressed in sound, regulated into rhythm, cadence and form. "Statuary is frozen music," said Heine. A man who is not moved into ecstasy by ecstasy is hopeless. A people that has not the surging, uplifting, onward power that ecstasy gives, is decadent--dead. The Negro is easily moved to ecstasy. Very little musical training makes him a power in song. At Tuskegee the congregational singing is a feature that, once heard, is never to be forgotten. Fifteen hundred people lifting up their hearts in an outburst of emotion--song! Fifteen hundred people of one mind, doing anything in unison--do you know what it means? Ecstasy is essentially a matter of sex. In art and religion sex can not be left out of the equation. The simple fact that in forty years the Negro race in America has increased from four million to ten million tells of their ecstasy as a people. "Only happy beings reproduce themselves," says Darwin. Depress your animal and it ceases to breed; so there are a whole round of animals that do not reproduce in captivity. But in slavery or freedom the Negro sings, and reproduces--he is not doomed nor depressed--his soul arises superior to circumstance. Without animation, education is impossible. And the problem of the educator is to direct this singing, flowing, moving spirit of the hive into useful channels. Education is simply the encouragement of right habits--the fixing of good habits until they become a part of one's nature, and are exercised automatically. The man who is industrious by habit is the only man who wins. The man who is not industrious except when driven to it, or when it occurs to him, accomplishes little. Man gets his happiness by doing: and work to a slave is always distasteful. The power of mimicry and imitation is omitted--the owner does not work--the strong man does not work. Ergo--to grow strong means to cease work. To be strong means to be free--to be free means no work! It has been a frightfully bad education that the Negro has had--work distasteful, and work disgraceful! And the slave-owner suffered most of all, for he came to regard work as debasing. And now a Negro is teaching the Negro that work is beautiful--that work is a privilege--that only through willing service can he ever win his freedom. Architecture is fixed ecstasy, inspired always by a strong man who gives a feeling of security. Athens was an ecstasy in marble. Tuskegee is an ecstasy in brick and mortar. Don't talk about the education of the Negro! The experiment has really never been tried, except spasmodically, of educating either the whites or the blacks in the South--or elsewhere. A Negro is laying hold upon the natural ecstasy of the Negro, and directing it into channels of usefulness and excellence. Can you foretell where this will end--this formation of habits of industry, sobriety and continued, persistent effort towards the right? Booker Washington, child of a despised race, has done and is doing what the combined pedagogic and priestly wisdom of ages has failed to do. He is the Moses who by his example is leading the children of his former oppressors out into the light of social, mental, moral and economic freedom. I am familiar in detail with every criticism brought against Tuskegee. On examination these criticisms all reduce themselves down to three: 1. A vast sum of money has been collected by Booker Washington for his own aggrandizement and benefit. 2. Tuskegee is a show-place where all the really good work is done by picked men from the North. 3. Booker Washington is a tyrant, a dictator and an egotist. If I were counsel for Tuskegee--as I am not--I would follow the example of the worthy accusers, and submit the matter without argument. Booker Washington can afford to plead guilty to every charge; and he has never belittled himself by answering his accusers. But let the facts be known, that this man has collected upward of six million dollars, mostly from the people of the North, and has built up the nearest perfect educational institution in the world. It is probably true that many of his teachers and best workers are picked people--but they are Negroes, and were selected by a Negro. The great general reveals his greatness in the selection of his generals: it was the marshals whom Napoleon appointed who won for him his victories; but his spirit animated theirs, and he chose them for this one reason--he could dominate them. He infused into their souls a goodly dash of his own enthusiasm. Booker Washington is a greater general than Napoleon. For the Tuskegee idea no Waterloo awaits. And as near as I can judge, Booker Washington's most noisy critics are merely camp-followers. That the man is a tyrant and a dictator there is no doubt. He is a beneficent tyrant, but a tyrant still, for he always, invariably, has his own way in weighty matters--in trivialities others can have theirs. And as for dictatorship, the man who advances on chaos and transforms it into cosmos is perforce a dictator and an egotist. Booker Washington believes he is in the right, and he makes no effort to conceal the fact that he is on earth. In him there is no disposition to run and peep about, and find himself a dishonorable grave. All live men are egotists, and they are egotists just in proportion as they have life. Dead men are not egotists. Booker Washington has life in abundance, and through him I truly believe runs the spirit of Divinity, if ever a living man had it. A man like this is the instrument of Deity. Tuskegee Institute has applications ahead all the time, from all over America, for competent colored men and women who can take charge of important work and do it. Dressmakers, housekeepers, cooks, farmers, stockmen, builders, gardeners, are in demand. The world has never yet had enough people to bear its burdens. Recently we have heard much of the unemployed, but a very little search will show that the people out of work are those of bad habits, which make them unreliable and untrustworthy. The South, especially, needs the willing worker and the practical man. And best of all the South knows it, and stands ready to pay for the service. A few years ago there was a fine storm of protest from Northern Negroes to the effect that Booker Washington was endeavoring to limit the Negro to menial service--that is, thrust him back into servility. The first ambition of the Negro was to get an education so that he might become a Baptist preacher. To him, education meant freedom from toil, and of course we do not have to look far to see where he got the idea. Then when Tuskegee came forward and wanted to make blacksmiths, carpenters and brick-masons out of black men, there was a cry, "If this means education, we will none of it--treason, treason!" It was assumed that the Negro who set other Negroes to work was not their friend. This phase of the matter requires neither denial nor apology. We smile and pass on. In Eighteen Hundred Seventy-seven, the Negro was practically disenfranchised throughout the South, by being excluded from the primaries. He had no recognized ticket in the field. For both the blacks and the whites this has been well. To most of the blacks freedom meant simply exemption from work. So there quickly grew up a roistering, turbulent, idle and dangerous class of black men who were used by the most ambitious of their kind for political ends. To preserve the peace of the community, the whites were forced to adopt heroic measures, with the result that we now have the disenfranchised Negro. Early in the Eighties, Booker Washington realized that, politically, there was no hope for his race. He saw, however, that commerce recognized no color line. We would buy, sell and trade with the black man on absolute equality. Life-insurance companies would insure him, banks would receive his deposits, and if honest and competent, would loan him money. If he could shoe a horse, we waived his complexion; and in every sort and kind of craftsmanship he stood on absolute equality with the whites. The only question ever asked was, "Can you do the work?" And Booker Washington set out to help the Negro win success for himself by serving society through becoming skilled in doing useful things. And so it became Head, Hand and Heart. The manual was played off against the intellectual. But over and beyond the great achievement of Booker Washington in founding and carrying to a successful issue the most complete educational scheme of this age, or any other, stands the man himself. He is one without hate, heat or prejudice. No one can write on the lintels of his doorpost the word, "Whim." He is half-white, but calls himself a Negro. He sides with the disgraced and outcast black woman who gave him birth, rather than with the respectable white man who was his sire. He rides in the Jim Crow cars, and on long trips, if it is deemed expedient to use a sleeping-car, he hires the stateroom, so that he may not trespass or presume upon those who would be troubled by the presence of a colored man. Often in traveling he goes for food and shelter to the humble home of one of his own people. At hotels he receives and accepts, without protest or resentment, the occasional contumely of the inferior whites--whites too ignorant to appreciate that one of God's noblemen stands before them. For the whites of the South he has only words of kindness and respect; the worst he says about them is that they do not understand. His modesty, his patience, his forbearance, are sublime. He is a true Fabian--he does what he can, like the royal Roycroft opportunist that he is. Every petty annoyance is passed over; the gibes and jeers and the ingratitude of his own race are forgotten. "They do not understand," he calmly says. He does his work. He is respected by the best people of North and South. He has the confidence of the men of affairs--he is a safe man. [Illustration: THOMAS ARNOLD] THOMAS ARNOLD Let me mind my own personal work; keep myself pure and zealous and believing; laboring to do God's will in this fruitful vineyard of young lives committed to my charge, as my allotted field, until my work be done. --_Thomas Arnold_ THOMAS ARNOLD Thomas Arnold was born in Seventeen Hundred Ninety-five, and died in Eighteen Hundred Forty-two. His life was short, as men count time, but he lived long enough to make for himself a name and a fame that are both lasting and luminous. Though he was neither a great writer nor a great preacher, yet there were times when he thought he was both. He was only a schoolteacher. However, he was an artist in schoolteaching, and art is not a thing--it is a way. It is the beautiful way--the effective way. Schoolteachers have no means of proving their prowess by conspicuous waste, and no time to convince the world of their excellence through conspicuous leisure; consequently, for histrionic purposes, a schoolteacher's cosmos is a plain, slaty gray. Schoolteachers do not wallow in wealth nor feed fat at the public trough. No one ever accuses them of belonging to the class known as the predatory rich, nor of being millionaire malefactors. They have to do their work every day at certain hours and dedicate its results to time. For many years Thomas Arnold has been known as the father of his son. Several great men have been thus overshadowed. The father of Disraeli, for instance, was favored by fame and fortune, until his gifted son moved into the limelight, and after that Pater shone mostly in a reflected glory. Jacopo Bellini was the greatest painter in Venice until his two sons, Gian and Gentile, surpassed him, and history writes him down as the father of the Bellinis. Lyman Beecher was regarded as America's greatest preacher until Henry Ward moved the mark up a few notches. The elder Pitt was looked upon as a genuine statesman until his son graduated into the Cabinet, and then "the terrible cornet of horse" became known as the father of Pitt. Now that both are dust, and we are getting the proper perspective, we see that "the great commoner" was indeed a great man, and so they move down the corridors of time together, arm in arm, this father and son. That excellent person who carried the gripsacks of greatness so long that he thought the luggage was his own, Major James B. Pond, launched at least one good thing. It was this: "Matthew Arnold gave fifty lectures in America, and nobody ever heard one of them; those in his audience who could no longer endure the silence slipped quietly out." Matthew Arnold was a critic and writer who, having secured a tuppence worth of success through being the son of his father, and thus securing the speaker's eye, finally got an oratorical bee in his bonnet and went a-barnstorming. He cultivated reserve and indifference, both of which he was told were necessary factors of success in a public speaker. And this is true. But they will not make an orator, any more than long hair, a peculiar necktie, and a queer hat will float a poet on the tide of time safely into the Hall of Fame. Matthew Arnold cultivated repose, but instead of convincing the audience that he had power, he only made them think he was sleepy. Major Pond, having lived much with orators, and thinking the trick easy, tried oratory on his own account, and succeeded as well as did Matthew Arnold. No one ever heard Major Pond: his voice fell over the footlights, dead, into the orchestra; only those with opera-glasses knew he was talking. But to be unintelligible is not a special recommendation. Men may be moderate for two reasons--through excess of feeling and because they are actually dull. Matthew Arnold has slipped back into his true position--that of a man of letters. The genius is a man of affairs. Humanity is the theme, not books. Books are usually written about the thoughts of men who wrote books. Books die and disintegrate, but humanity is an endless procession, and the souls that go marching on are those who fought for freedom, not those who speculate on abstrusities. The credential of Thomas Arnold to immortality is not that he was the father of Matthew and eight other little Arnolds, but it lies in the fact that he fought for a wider horizon in life through education. He lifted his voice for liberty. He believed in the divinity of the child, not in its depravity. Arnold of Rugby was a teacher of teachers, as every great teacher is. The pedagogic world is now going back to his philosophy, just as in statesmanship we are reverting to Thomas Jefferson. These men who spoke classic truth, not transient--truth that fits in spite of fashion, time and place--are the true prophets of mankind. Such was Thomas Arnold! * * * * * If Thomas Arnold had been just a little bigger, the world probably would never have heard of him, for an interdict would have been placed upon his work. The miracle is that, as it was, the Church and the State did not snuff him out. He stood for sweet reasonableness, but unintentionally created much opposition. His life was a warfare. Yet he managed to make himself acceptable to a few; so for fourteen years this head master of a preparatory school for boys lived his life and did his work. He sent out his radiating gleams, and grew straight in the strength of his spirit, and lived out his life in the light. His sudden death sanctified and sealed his work before he was subdued and ironed out by the conventions. Happy Arnold! If he had lived, he might have met the fate of Arnold of Brescia, who was also a great teacher. Arnold of Brescia was a pupil of Abelard, and was condemned by the Church as a disturber of the peace for speaking in eulogy of his master. Later, he attacked the profligacy of the idle prelates, as did Luther, Savonarola and all the other great church-reformers. When ordered into exile and silence, he still protested his right to speak. He was strangled on order of the Pope, his body burned, and the ashes thrown into the Tiber. The Baptists, I believe, claim Arnold of Brescia as the forerunner of their sect, and certain it is that he was of the true Roger Williams type. Thomas Arnold, too, was filled with a passion for righteousness. His zeal for the upright, manly life constituted his strength. Of course he would not have been executed, as was Arnold of Brescia--the times had changed--he would simply have been shelved, pooh-poohed, deprived of his living and socially Crapseyized. Death saved him--aged forty-seven--and his soul goes marching on! * * * * * The parents of Thomas Arnold belonged to the great Middle Class--that class which Disraeli said never did any thinking on its own account, but to the best of its ability deferred to and imitated the idle rich in matters of religion, education and politics. Doctor Johnson maintained that if members of the Middle Class worked hard and economized, it was in the hope that they might leave money and name for their children and make them exempt from all useful effort. "To indict a class," said Burke, "is neither reasonable nor right." But certain it is that a vast number of fairly intelligent people in England and elsewhere regard the life of the "aristocracy" as very desirable and beautiful. To this end they want their boys to become clergymen, lawyers, doctors or army officers. "Only two avenues of honor are open to aspiring youth in England," said Gladstone--"the Army and the Church." The father of Thomas Arnold was Collector of Customs at Cowes, Isle of Wight. Holding this petty office under the Government, with a half-dozen men at his command, we can easily guess his caliber, habits, belief and mode of life. He was respectable; and to be respectable, a Collector of Customs must be punctilious in Church matters, in order to be acceptable to Church people, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. The parents of Thomas Arnold very naturally centered their ambitions for him on the Church, as he was not very strong. When the child was only six years old, the father died from "spasm of the heart." At this time the boy had begun to take Latin, and his education was being looked after by a worthy governess, who daily drilled his mental processes and took him walking, leading him by the hand. On Sundays he wore a wide, white collar, shiny boots and a stiff hat. The governess cautioned him not to soil his collar, nor to get mud on his boots. In later years he told how he looked covetously at the boys who wore neither hats nor boots, and who did not have a governess. His mother had a fair income, and so this prim, precise, exact and crystallized mode of education was continued. Out of her great love for her child, the mother sent him away from home when he was eight years old. Of course there were tears on both sides; but now a male man must educate him, and women were to be dropped out of the equation--this that the evil in the child should be curbed, his spirit chastened, and his mind disciplined. The fact that a child rather liked to be fondled by his mother, or that his mother cared to fondle him, was proof of total depravity on the part of both. The Reverend Doctor Griffiths, who took charge of the boy for two years, was certainly not cruel, but at the same time he was not exactly human. In Nature we never hear of a she-lion sending her cubs away to be looked after by a denatured lion. It is really doubtful whether you could ever raise a lion to lionhood by this method. Some goat would come along and butt the life out of him, even after he had evolved whiskers and a mane. After two years with Doctor Griffiths, young Arnold was sent to Manchester, where he remained in a boys' boarding-house from his tenth to his fourteenth year. To the teachers here--all men--he often paid tribute, but uttered a few heretical doubts as to whether discipline as a substitute for mother-love was not an error of pious but overzealous educators. At sixteen years of age he was transferred to Corpus Christi College at Oxford. In Eighteen Hundred Fifteen, being then twenty years of age, he was elected a Fellow of Oriel College, and there he resided until he was twenty-four. He was a prizeman in Latin, Greek and English, and was considered a star scholar--both by himself and by others. Ten years afterwards he took a backward glance, and said: "At twenty-two I was proud, precise, stiff, formal, uncomfortable, unhappy, and unintentionally made everybody else unhappy with whom I came in contact. The only people I really mixed with were those whose lives were dedicated to the ablative." When twenty-four he was made a deacon and used to read prayers at neighboring chapels, for which service he was paid five shillings. Being now thrown on his own resources, he did the thing a prizeman always does: he showed others how. As a tutor he was a success: more scholars came to him than he could really take care of. But he did not like the work, since all the pupil desired, and all the parents desired, was that he should help the backward one get his marks, and glide through the eye of a needle into pedagogic paradise. At twenty-six he was preaching, teaching and writing learned essays about things he did not understand. From this brief sketch it will be seen that the early education of Thomas Arnold was of the kind and type that any fond parent of the well-to-do Middle Class would most desire. He had been shielded from all temptations of the world; he could do no useful thing with his hands; his knowledge of economics--ways and means--was that of a child; of the living present he knew little, but of the dead past he assumed and believed he knew much. It was purely priestly, institutional education. It was the kind of education that every well-to-do Briton would like to have his sons receive. It was, in short, England's Ideal. * * * * * Rugby Grammar School was endowed in Sixteen Hundred Fifty-three by one Laurence Sherif, a worthy grocer. The original gift was comparatively small, but the investment being in London real estate, has increased in value until it yields now an income of about thirty-five thousand dollars a year. In the time of Arnold there were about three hundred pupils. It is not a large school now; there are high schools in a hundred cities of America that surpass it in many ways. Rugby's claim to special notice lies in its traditions--the great men who were once Rugby boys, and the great men who were Rugby teachers. Also, in the fact that Thomas Hughes wrote a famous story called, "Tom Brown at Rugby." Rugby Grammar School was one hundred twenty-five years old when Sir Joshua Reynolds commissioned Lord Cornwallis to go to America and fetch George Washington to England, that Sir Joshua might paint his portrait. For a hundred years prior to the time of Arnold, there had not been a perceptible change in the methods of teaching. The boys were herded together. They fought, quarreled, divided into cliques; the big boys bullied the little ones. Fagging was the law; so the upper forms enslaved the lower ones. There was no home life, and the studies were made irksome and severe, purposely, as it was thought that pleasant things were sinful. If any better plan could have been devised to make study absolutely repulsive, so the student would shun it as soon as he was out of school, we can not guess it. The system was probably born of inertia on the part of the teachers. The pastor who pushes through his prescribed services, with mind on other things, and thus absolves his conscience for letting his congregation go drifting straight to Gehenna, was duplicated in the teacher. He did his duty--and nothing more. Selfishness, heartlessness and brutality manipulated the birch. Head was all; heart and hand nothing. This was schoolteaching. As a punishment for failure to memorize lessons, there were various plans to disgrace and discourage the luckless ones. Standing in the corner with face to the wall, and the dunce-cap, had given place to a system of fines, whereby "ten lines of Vergil for failure to attend prayers," and ten more for failure to get the first, often placed the boy in hopeless bankruptcy. If he was a fag, or slave of a higher-form boy, cleaning the other's boots, scrubbing stairs, running on foolish and needless errands, getting cuffs and kicks by way of encouragement, he saw his fines piling up and no way ever to clear them off and gain freedom by promotion. Viewed from our standpoint, the thing has a ludicrous bouffe air that makes us smile. But to the boy caught in the toils it was tragic. To work and evolve in an environment of such brutality was impossible to certain temperaments. Success lay in becoming calloused and indifferent. If the boy of gentle habits and slight physical force did not sink into mental nothingness, he was in danger of being bowled over by disease and death. Indeed, the physical condition of the pupils was very bad: smallpox, fevers, consumption, and breaking out with sores and boils, were common. Thomas Arnold was thirty-three years old when he was called as head master to Rugby. He was married, and babies were coming along with astonishing regularity. He had taken priestly orders and was passing rich on one hundred pounds a year. Poverty and responsibility had given him ballast, and love for his own little brood had softened his heart and vitalized his soul. As a writer and speaker he had made his presence felt at various college commencements and clergymen's meetings. He had challenged the brutal, indifferent, lazy and so-called disciplinary methods of teaching. And so far as we know, he is the first man in England to declare that the teacher should be the foster-parent of the child, and that all successful teaching must be born of love. The well-upholstered conservatives twiddled their thumbs, coughed, and asked: "How about the doctrine of total depravity? Do you mean to say that the child should not be disciplined? What does Solomon say about the use of the rod? Does the Bible say that the child is good by nature?" But Thomas Arnold could not explain all he knew. Moreover, he did not wish to fight the Church--he believed in the Church--to him it was a divine institution. But there were methods and practises in the Church that he would have liked to forget. "My sympathies go out to inferiority," he said. The weakling often needed encouragement, not discipline. The bad boy must be won, not suppressed. In one of these conferences of clergymen, Arnold said: "I once chided a pupil, a little, pale, stupid boy--undersized and seemingly half-sick--for not being able to recite his very simple lesson. He looked up at me and said with a touch of spirit: 'Sir, why do you get angry with me? Do you not know I am doing the best I can?'" One of the clergymen present asked Arnold how he punished the boy for his impudence. And Arnold replied: "I did not punish him--he had properly punished me. I begged his pardon." The idea of a teacher begging the pardon of a pupil was a brand-new thing. Several clergymen present laughed--one scowled--two sneezed. But a Bishop, shortly after this, urged the name of Thomas Arnold as master of Rugby, and added to his recommendation this line: "If elected to the office he will change the methods of schoolteaching in every public school in England." The ayes had it, and Arnold was called to Rugby. The salary was so-so, the pupils between two and three hundred in number--many were home on sick-leave--the Sixth Form was in charge. The genius of Arnold was made manifest, almost as soon as he went to Rugby, by the way in which he managed the boys who bullied the whole school, and what is worse, did it legally. Fagging was official. The Sixth Form was composed of thirty boys who stood at the top, and these boys ran the school. They were boys who, by reason of their size, strength, aggressiveness and mental ability, got the markings that gave them this autocratic power. They were now immune from authority--they were free. In a year they would gravitate to the University. We can hardly understand now how a bully could get markings through his bullying propensities; but a rudimentary survival of the idea may yet be seen in big football-players, who are given good marks, and very gentle mental massage in class. If the same scholars were small and skinny, they would certainly be plucked. The faculty found freedom in shifting responsibility for discipline to the Sixth Form. Read the diary of Arnold, and you will be amazed on seeing how he fought against taking from the Sixth Form the right to bodily chastise any scholar in the school that the king of the Sixth Form declared deserved it. If a teacher thought a pupil needed punishment, he turned the luckless one over to the Sixth Form. Can we now conceive of a system where the duty of certain scholars was to whip other scholars? Not only to whip them, but to beat them into insensibility if they fought back? Such was schoolteaching in the public schools of England in Eighteen Hundred Thirty. Against this brutality there was now a growing sentiment--a piping voice bidding the tide to stay! But now that Arnold was in charge of Rugby, he got the ill-will of his directors by declaring that he did not intend to curtail the powers of the Sixth Form--he proposed to civilize it. To try out the new master, the Sixth Form, proud in their prowess, sent him word that if he interfered with them in any way, they would first "bust up the school," and then resign in a body. Moreover, they gave it out that if any pupil complained to the master concerning the Sixth Form, the one so complaining would be taken out by night and drowned in the classic Avon. There were legends among the younger boys of strange disappearances, and these were attributed to the swift vengeance of "The Bloody Sixth." Above the Sixth Form there was no law. Every scholar took off his hat to a "Sixth." A Sixth uncovered to nobody, and touched his cap only to a teacher. And custom had become so rooted that the Sixth Form was regarded as a sort of police necessity--a caste which served the school just as the Army served the Church. To reach the Sixth Form were paradise--it meant liberty and power--liberty to do as you pleased, and power to punish all who questioned your authority. To uproot the power of the Sixth Form was the intent of a few reformers in pedagogics. There were two ways to deal with the boys of the Sixth--fight them or educate them. Arnold called the Rugby Sixth together and assured them that he could not do without their help. He needed them: he wanted to make Rugby a model school, a school that would influence all England--would they help him? The dogged faces before him showed signs of interest. He continued, without waiting for their reply, to set before them his ideal of an English Gentleman. He persuaded them, melted them by his glowing personality, shook hands with each, and sent them away. The next day he again met them in the same intimate way, and one of the boys made bold to assure him that if he wanted anybody licked--pupils or teachers--they stood ready to do his bidding. He thanked the boy, but assured him that he was of the opinion that it would not be necessary to do violence to any one; he was going to unfold to them another way--a new way, which was very old, but which as yet England had not tried. * * * * * The great teacher is not the one who imparts the most facts--he is the one who inspires by supplying a nobler ideal. Men are superior or inferior just in the ratio that they possess certain qualities. Truth, honor, frankness, health, system, industry, kindliness, good-cheer and a spirit of helpfulness are so far beyond any mental acquisition that comparisons are not only odious, but absurd. Arnold inspired qualities, and in this respect his work at Rugby forms a white milestone on the path of progress in pedagogy. To an applicant for a position as teacher, Arnold wrote: What I want is a man who is a Christian and a gentleman, an active man, and one who has commonsense, and understands boys. I do not so much care about scholarship, as he will have immediately under him the lowest forms in the school, but yet, on second thought, I do care about it very much, because his pupils may be in the highest forms; and besides, I think that even the elements are best taught by a man who has a thorough knowledge of the matter. However, if one must give way, I prefer activity of mind and an interest in his work to high scholarship; for the one may be acquired far more easily than the other. I should wish it also to be understood that the new master may be called upon to take boarders in his house, it being my intention for the future to require this of all masters as I see occasion, that so in time the school-barracks may die a natural death. With this to offer, I think I have a right to look rather high for the man whom I fix upon, and it is my great object to get here a society of intelligent, gentlemanly and active men, who may permanently keep up the character of the school, and if I were to break my neck tomorrow, carry it on. Ideas are in the air, and great inventions are worked out in different parts of the world at the same time. Rousseau had written his "Emile," but we are not aware that Arnold ever read it. And if he had, he probably would have been shocked, not inspired, by its almost brutal frankness. The French might read it--the English could not. Pestalozzi was working out his ideas in Switzerland, and Froebel, an awkward farmer lad in Germany, was dreaming dreams that were to come true. But Thomas Arnold caught up the threads of feeling in England and expressed them in the fabric of his life. His plans were scientific, but his reasons, unlike those of Pestalozzi, will not always stand the test of close analysis. Arnold was true to the Church, but he found it convenient to forget much for which the Church stood. He went back to a source nearer the fountainhead. All reforms in organized religion lie in returning to the primitive type. The religion of Jesus was very simple; that of a modern church dignitary is very complex. One can be understood; the other has to be explained and expounded, and usually several languages are required. Arnold would have his boys evolve into Christian gentlemen. And his type of English gentleman he did not get out of books on theology--it was his own composite idea. But having once evolved it, he cast around to justify it by passages of Scripture. This was beautiful, too, but from our standpoint it wasn't necessary. From his it was. A gentleman to him was a man who looked for the best in other people, and not for their faults; who overlooked slights; who forgot the good he had done; who was courteous, kind, cheerful, industrious and clean inside and out; who was slow to wrath, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord. And the "Lord" to Arnold was embodied in Church and State. Arnold used to say that schoolteaching should not be based upon religion, but it should be religion. And to him religion and conduct were one. That he reformed Rugby through the Sixth Form is a fact. He infused into the big boys the thought that they must help the little ones; that for a first offense a lad must never be punished; that he should have the matter fully explained to him, and be shown that he should do right because it is right, and not for fear of punishment. The Sixth Form was taught to unbend its dignity and enter into fellowship with its so-called inferiors. To this end Arnold set the example of playing cricket with the "scrubs." He never laughed at a poor player nor at a poor scholar. He took dull pupils into his own house, and insisted that his helpers, the other teachers, should do the same. He showed the Sixth Form how much better it was to take the part of the weak, and stop bullying the lower forms, than to set the example of it in the highest. Before Arnold had been at Rugby a year, the Sixth Form had resolved itself into a Reception Committee that greeted all newcomers, got them located, introduced them to the other boys, showed them the sights, and looked after their wants like big brothers or foster-fathers. Christianity to Arnold was human service. In his zeal to serve, to benefit, to bless, to inspire, he never tired. Such a disposition as this is contagious. In every big business or school, there is one man's mental attitude that animates the whole institution. Everybody partakes of it. When the leader gets melancholia, the shop has it--the whole place becomes tinted with ultra-marine. The best helpers begin to get out, and the honeycombing process of dissolution is on. A school must have a soul, just as surely as a shop, a bank, a hotel, a store, a home, or a church has to have. When an institution grows so great that it has no soul--simply a financial head and a board of directors--dry-rot sets in and disintegration in a loose wrapper is at the door. This explains why the small colleges are the best, when they are: there is a personality about them, an animating spirit that is pervasive and preservative. Thomas Arnold was not a man of vast learning, nor could one truthfully say he had a surplus of intellect; but he had soul, plus. He never sought to save himself. He gave himself to the boys of Rugby. His heart went out to them, he believed in them--and he believed them even when they lied, and he knew they lied. He knew that humanity was sound at heart; he believed in the divinity of mankind, and tried hard to forget the foolish theology that taught otherwise. Like Thomas Jefferson, who installed the honor system in the University of Virginia, he trusted young men. He made his appeal to that germ of goodness which is in every human soul. In some ways he anticipated Ben Lindsey in his love for the boy, and might have conjured forth from his teeming brain the Juvenile Court, and thus stopped the creation of criminals, had his life not been consumed in a struggle with stupidity and pedantry gone to seed that cried to him, "Oh, who ever heard of such a thing as that!" The Kindergarten utilizes the propensity to play; and Arnold utilizes the thirst for authority. Altruism is flavored with a desire for approbation. The plan of self-government by means of utilizing the Sixth Form was quite on the order of our own "George Junior Republic." "A school," he said, "should be self-governing and cleanse itself from that which is harmful." And again he says: "If a pupil can gratify his natural desire for approbation by doing that which is right, proper and best, he will work to this end instead of being a hero by playing the rowdy. It is for the scholars to set the seal of their approval on character, and they will do so if we as teachers speak the word. If I find a room in a tumult, I blame myself, not the scholars. It is I who have failed, not they. Were I what I should be, every one of my pupils would reflect my worth. I key the situation, I set the pace, and if my soul is in disorder, the school will be in confusion." Nothing is done without enthusiasm. It is heart that wins, not head, the round world over. And yet head must systematize the promptings of the heart. Arnold had a way of putting soul into a hand-clasp. His pupils never forgot him. Wherever they went, no matter how long they lived, they proclaimed the praises of Arnold of Rugby. How much this earnest, enthusiastic, loving and sincere teacher has influenced civilization, no man can say. But this we know, that since his day there has come about a new science of teaching. The birch has gone with the dunce-cap. The particular cat-o'-nine-tails that was burned in the house of Thomas Arnold as a solemn ceremony, when the declaration was made, "Henceforth I know my children will do right!" has found its example in every home of Christendom. We no longer whip children. Schools are no longer places of dread, pain and suffering, and we as teachers are repeating with Friedrich Froebel the words of the Nazarene, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." Also, we say with Thomas Arnold: "The boy is father to the man. A race of gentlemen can only be produced by fostering in the boy the qualities that make for health, strength and a manly desire to bless, benefit and serve the race." [Illustration: FRIEDRICH FROEBEL] FRIEDRICH FROEBEL The purpose of the Kindergarten is to provide the necessary and natural help which poor mothers require who have to be about their work all day, and must leave their children to themselves. The occupations pursued in the Kindergarten are the following: free play of a child by itself; free play of several children by themselves; associated play under the guidance of a teacher; gymnastic exercises; several sorts of handiwork suited to little children; going for walks; learning music, both instrumental and vocal; learning the repetition of poetry; story-telling; looking at really good pictures; aiding in domestic occupations; gardening. --_Froebel_ FRIEDRICH FROEBEL Friedrich Froebel was born in a Thuringian village, April Twenty-first, Seventeen Hundred Eighty-two. His father was pastor of the Lutheran Church. When scarcely a year old his mother died. Erelong a stepmother came to fill her place--but didn't. This stepmother was the kind we read about in the "Six Best Sellers." Her severity, lack of love, and needlessly religious zeal served the future Kindergartner a dark background on which to paint a joyous picture. Froebel was educated by antithesis. His home was the type etched so unforgetably by Colonel Ed. Howe in his "Story of a Country Town," which isn't bad enough to be one of the Six Best Sellers. At the age of ten, out of pure pity, young Friedrich was rescued from the cuckoo's nest by an uncle who had a big family of his own and love without limit. There was a goodly brood left, so little Friedrich, slim, slender, yellow, pensive and sad, was really never missed. The uncle brought the boy up to work, but treated him like a human being, answering his questions, even allowing him to have stick horses and little log houses and a garden of his own. At fifteen his nature had begun to awaken, and the uncle, harkening to the boy's wish, apprenticed him for two years to a forester. The young man's first work was to make a list of the trees in a certain tract and approximate their respective ages. The night before his work began he lay awake thinking of the fun he was going to have at the job. In after-years he told of this incident in showing that it was absurd to try to divorce work from play. The two years as forester's apprentice, from fifteen to seventeen, were really better for him than any university could have been. His stepmother's instructions had mostly been in the line of prohibition. From earliest babyhood he had been warned to "look out." When he went on the street it was with a prophecy that he would get run over by a cart, or stolen by the gypsies, or fall off the bridge and be drowned. The idea of danger had been dinged into his ears so that fear had become a part of the fabric of his nature. Even at fifteen, he took pains to get out of the woods before sundown to avoid the bears. At the same time his intellect told him there were no bears there. But the shudder habit was upon him. Yet by degrees the work in the woods built up his body and he grew to be at home in the forest, both day and night. His duties taught him to observe, to describe, to draw, to investigate, to decide. Then it was transplantation, and perhaps the best of college life consists in taking the youth out of the home environment and supplying him new surroundings. Forestry in America is a brand-new science. To clear the ground has been our desire, and so to strip, burn and destroy, saving only such logs as appealed to us for "lumber," was the desideratum. But now we are seriously considering the matter of tree-planting and tree-preservation, and perhaps it would be well to ask ourselves if two years at forestry, right out of doors, in contact with Nature, wrestling with the world of wood, rock, plant and living things, wouldn't be better for the boy than double the time in stuffy dormitories and still more stuffy recitation-rooms--listening to stuffy lectures about things that are foreign to life. I would say that a boy is a savage, but I do not care to give offense to fond mammas. To educate him in the line of his likes, as the race has been educated, seems sensible and right. How would Yellowstone Park answer for a National University, with Captain Jack Crawford, William Muldoon, John Burroughs, John Dewey, Stanley Hall and a mixture of men of these types, for a faculty? Froebel thought his two years in the forest saved him from consumption, and perhaps from insanity, for it taught him to look out, not in, and to lend a hand. At times he was a little too sentimental, as it was, and a trifle more of morbidity and sensitiveness would have ruined his life, absolutely. The woods and God's great out-of-doors gave him balance and ballast, good digestion and sweet sleep o' nights. The two years past, he went to Jena, where he had an elder brother. This brother was a star scholar, and Friedrich looked up to him as a pleiad of pedagogy. He became a professor in a Jena preparatory school and then practised medicine; but he never had the misfortune to affront public opinion, and so oblivion lured and won him, and took him as her own. At Jena poor Froebel did not make head. His preparatory work hadn't prepared him. He floundered in studies too deep for one of his age, then followed some foolish advice and hired a tutor to help him along. Then he fell down, was plucked, got into debt, and also into the "carcer," where he boarded for nine weeks at the expense of the State. In the carcer he didn't catch up with his studies, quite naturally, and the imprisonment almost broke his health. Had he been in the carcer for dueling, he would have emerged a hero. But debt meant that he had neither money nor friends. When he was given his release, as an economic move, he slipped away between two days and made his way to the Forestry Office, where he applied for a job as laborer. He got it. In a few days he was promoted to chief of apprentices. Forestry meant a certain knowledge of surveying, and this Froebel soon acquired. Then came map-making, and that was only fun. From map-making to architecture is but a step, and Froebel quit the woods to work as assistant to an architect at ten pounds a year and found, it was confining work, and a trifle more exacting than he had expected--it required a deal of mathematics, and mathematics was Froebel's short suit. Froebel was disappointed and so was his employer--when something happened. It usually does in books, and in life, always. * * * * * Genius has its prototype. Before Froebel comes Pestalozzi, the Swiss, who studied theology and law, and then abandoned them both as futile to human evolution, and turned his attention to teaching. Pestalozzi was inspired by Jean Jacques Rousseau, and read his "Emile" religiously. To teach by natural methods and mix work and study, and make both play, was his theme. Pestalozzi believed in teaching out of doors, because children are both barbaric and nomadic--they want to go somewhere. His was the Aristotle method, as opposed to those of the closet and the cloister. But he made the mistake of saying that teaching should be taken out of the hands and homes of the clergy, and then the clergy said a few things about him. Pestalozzi at first met with very meager encouragement. Only poor and ignorant people entrusted their children to his care, and some of the parents were actually paid in money for the services of the children. The thought that the children were getting an education and being useful at the same time was quite beyond their comprehension. Pestalozzi educated by stealth. At first he took several boys and girls of eight, ten or twelve years of age, and had them work with him in his garden. They cared for fowls, looked after the sheep, milked the cows. The master worked with them, and as they worked they talked. Going to and from their duties, Pestalozzi would call their attention to the wild birds, and to the flowers, plants and weeds. They would draw pictures of things, make collections of leaves and flowers, and keep a record of their observations and discoveries. Through keeping these records they learned to read and write and acquired the use of simple mathematics. Things they did not understand they would read about in the books found in the teacher's library. But books were secondary and quite incidental in the scheme of study. When work seemed to become irksome they would all stop and play games. At other times they would sit and just talk about what their work happened to suggest. If the weather was unpleasant, there was a shop where they made hoes and rakes and other tools they needed. They also built bird-houses, and made simple pieces of furniture, so all the pupils, girls and boys, became more or less familiar with carpenter's and blacksmith's tools. They patched their shoes, mended their clothing, and at times prepared their own food. Pestalozzi found that the number of pupils he could look after in this way was not more than ten. But to his own satisfaction, at least, he proved that children taught by his method surpassed those who were given the regular set courses of instruction. His chief difficulties lay in the fact that the home did not co-operate with the school, and that there was always a tendency to "return to the blanket." Pestalozzi wrote accounts of his experiments and emphasized his belief that we should educate through the child's natural activities; also that all growth should be pleasurable. His shibboleth was, "From within, out." He thought education was a development and not an acquirement. One of Pestalozzi's little pamphlets fell into the hands of Friedrich Froebel, architect's assistant, at Frankfort. Froebel was twenty-two years old, and Fate had tossed him around from one thing to another since babyhood. All of his experiences had been of a kind that prepared his mind for the theories that Pestalozzi expressed. Besides that, architecture had begun to pall upon him. "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach." This was said in derision, but it holds a grain of truth. Froebel had a great desire to teach. Now, in Frankfort there was a Model School or a school for teachers, of which one Herr Gruner was master. This school was actually carrying out some of the practical methods suggested by Pestalozzi. Quite by accident Gruner and Froebel met. Gruner wanted a teacher who could teach by the Pestalozzi methods. Froebel straightway applied to Herr Gruner for the position. He was accepted as a combination janitor and instructor and worked for his board and ten marks, or two and a half dollars a week. The good-cheer and enthusiasm of Froebel won Gruner's heart. Together they discussed Pestalozzi and his works, read all that he had written, and opened up a correspondence with the great man. This led to an invitation that Froebel should visit him at his farm-school, near Yverdon, in Switzerland. Gruner supplied Froebel the necessary money to replace his very seedy clothes for something better, and the young man started away. It was a walk of more than two hundred miles, but youth and enthusiasm count such a tramp as an enjoyable trifle. Froebel wore his seedy clothes and carried his good ones, and so he appeared before the master spick and span. Pestalozzi was sixty years old at this time, and his hopes for the "new method" were still high. He had met opposition, ridicule and indifference, and had spent most of his little fortune in the fight, but he was still at it and resolved to die in the harness. Froebel was not disappointed in Pestalozzi, and certainly Pestalozzi was delighted and a bit amused at the earnestness of the young man. Pestalozzi was working in a very economical way, but all the place lacked Froebel, in his exuberant imagination, made good. Froebel found much, for he had brought much with him. * * * * * Froebel returned to Frankfort from his visit to Pestalozzi, full of enthusiasm, and that is the commodity without which no teacher succeeds. Gruner allowed him to gravitate. And soon Froebel's room was the central point of interest for the whole school. But trouble was ahead for Froebel. He had no college degrees. His pedagogic pedigree was very short. He hoped to live down his university record, but it followed him. Gruner's school was under government inspection, and the gentlemen with double chins, who came from time to time to look the place over, asked who this enthusiastic young person was, and why had the worthy janitor and ex-forester been so honored by promotion. In truth, during his life, Froebel never quite escaped the taunt that he was not an educated man. That is to say, no college had ever supplied him an alphabetic appendage. He had been a forester, a farmer, an architect, a guardian for boys and a teacher of women, but no institution had ever said officially he was fit to teach men. Gruner tried to explain that there are two kinds of teachers: people who are teachers by nature, and those who have acquired the methods by long study. The first, having little to learn, and a love for the child, with a spontaneous quality of giving their all, succeed best. But poor Gruner's explanation did not explain. Then the matter was gently explained to Froebel, and he saw that in order to hold a place as teacher he must acquire a past. "Time will adjust it," he said, and started away on a second visit to Pestalozzi. His plan was to remain with the master long enough so he could secure a certificate of proficiency. Again Pestalozzi welcomed the young man, and he slipped easily into the household and became both pupil and teacher. His willingness to work--to do the task that lay nearest him--his good-nature, his gratitude, won all hearts. At this time the plan of sending boys to college with a tutor who was both a companion and a teacher, was in vogue with those who could afford it. It will be remembered that William and Alexander von Humboldt received their early education in this way--going with their tutor from university to university, teacher and pupils entering as special students, getting into the atmosphere of the place, soaking themselves full of it, and then going on. And now behold, through Gruner or Pestalozzi or both, a woman of wealth with three boys to educate applied to Froebel to come over into Macedonia and help her. It was in Eighteen Hundred Seven that Froebel became tutor in the Von Holzhausen family. He was twenty-five years old, and this was his first interview with wealth and leisure. That he was hungry enough to appreciate it need not be emphasized. He got goodly glimpses of Gottingen, Berlin, and was long enough at Jena to rub the blot off the 'scutcheon. A stay at Weimar, in the Goethe country, completed the four years' course. The boys had grown to men, and proved their worth in after-years; but whether they had gotten as much from the migrations as their teacher is very doubtful. He was ripe for opportunity--they had had a surfeit of it. Then came war. The order to arms and the rush of students to obey their country's call caught Froebel in the patriotic vortex, and he enlisted with his pupils. His service was honorable, even if not brilliant, and it had this advantage: the making of two friends, companions in arms, who caught the Pestalozzian fever, and lived out their lives preaching and teaching "the new method." These men were William Middendorf and Henry Langenthal. This trinity of brothers evolved a bond as beautiful as it is rare in the realm of friendship. Forty years after their first meeting, Middendorf gave an oration over the dead body of Froebel that lives as a classic, breathing the love and faith that endure. And then Middendorf turned to his work, and dared prison and disgrace by upholding the Kindergarten System and the life and example of his dear, dead friend. The Kindergarten Idea would probably have been buried in the grave with Froebel--interred with his bones--were it not for Middendorf and Langenthal. * * * * * The first Kindergarten was established in Eighteen Hundred Thirty-six, at Blankenburg, a little village near Keilhau. Froebel was then fifty-four years old, happily married to a worthy woman who certainly did not hamper his work, even if she did not inspire it. He was childless, that all children might call him father. The years had gone in struggles to found Normal Schools in Germany after the Pestalozzian and Gruner methods. But disappointment, misunderstanding and stupidity had followed Froebel. The set methods of the clergy, accusations of revolution and heresy, tilts with pious pedants as to the value of dead languages, all combined with his own lack of business shrewdness, had wrecked his various ventures. Froebel's argument that women were better natural teachers than men on account of the mother-instinct, brought forth a retort from a learned monk to the effect that it was indelicate if not sinful for an unmarried female, who was not a nun, to study the natures of children. Parents with children old enough to go to school would not entrust their darlings with the teaching experimenter--this on the advice of their pastors. Middendorf and Langenthal were still with him, partners in the disgrace or failure, for none was willing to give up the fight for education by the natural methods. A great thought and a great word came to them, all at once--out on the mountain-side! Begin with the children before the school age, and call it the Kindergarten! Hurrah! They shouted for joy, and ran down the hill to tell Frau Froebel. The schools they had started before had been called, "The Institution for Teaching According to the Pestalozzi Method and the Natural Activities of the Child," "Institution for the Encouragement and Development of the Spontaneous Activities of the Pupil," and "Friedrich Froebel's School for the Growth of the Creative Instinct Which Makes for a Useful Character." A school with such names, of course, failed. No one could remember it long enough to send his child there--it meant nothing to the mind not prepared for it. What's in a name? Everything. Books sell or become dead stock on the name. Commodities the same. Railroads must have a name people are not afraid to pronounce. The officers of the law came and asked to see Froebel's license for manufacturing. Others asked as to the nature of his wares, and one dignitary called and asked, "Is Herr Pestalozzi in?" The Kindergarten! The new name took. The children remembered it. Overworked mothers liked the word and were glad to let the little other-mothers take the children to the Kindergarten, certainly. Froebel had grown used to disappointments--he was an optimist by nature. He saw the good side of everything, including failure. He made the best of necessity. And now it was very clear to him that education must begin "a hundred years before the child is born." He would reach the home and the mother through the children. "It will take three generations to prove the truth of the Kindergarten Idea," he said. And so the songs, the gifts, the games--all had to be invented, defended, tried and tried again. Pestalozzi had a plan for teaching the youth; now a plan had to be devised for teaching the child. Love was the keystone, and joy, unselfishness and unswerving faith in the Natural or Divine impulses of humanity crowned the structure. * * * * * Froebel invented the schoolma'am. That is, he discovered the raw product and adapted it. He even coined the word, and it struck the world as being so very funny that we forthwith adopted it as a term of provincial pleasantry and quasi-reproach. The original term used was "school mother," but when it reached these friendly shores we translated it "schoolmarm." Then we tittered, also sneezed. Froebel died in Eighteen Hundred Fifty-two. His first Kindergarten was not a success until he was nearly sixty years old, but the idea had been perfecting itself in his mind more or less unconsciously for over thirty years. He had been thinking, writing, working, experimenting all these years on the subject of education, and he had become well-nigh discouraged. He had observed that six was the "school age." That is, no child could go to school until he was six years old--then his education began. But Froebel had been teaching in a country school and boarding 'round, and he had discovered that long before this the child had been learning by observing and playing, and that these were formative influences, quite as potent as actual school. In the big families where Froebel boarded, he noticed that the older girls took charge of the younger ones. So, often a girl of ten, with dresses to her knees, carried one baby in her arms and two toddled behind her, and this child of ten was really the other-mother. The true mother worked in the fields or toiled at her housework, and the little other-mother took the children out to play and thus amused them while the mother worked. The desire of Froebel was to educate the race, but what are a few hours a day in a schoolroom with a totally unsympathetic home environment! To reach and interest the mother in the problem of education was well-nigh impossible. Toil, deprivation, poverty, had killed all the romance and enthusiasm in her heart. She was the victim of arrested development; but the little other-mother was a child, impressionable, immature, and she could be taught. The home must co-operate with the school, otherwise all the school can teach will be forgotten in the home. Froebel saw, too, that often the little other-mother was so overworked in the care of her charges that she was taken from school. Besides, the idea was abroad that education was mostly for boys, anyway. And here Froebel stepped in and proved himself a law-breaker, just as Ben Lindsey was when he inaugurated the juvenile court and waived the entire established legal procedure, even to the omission of swearing his witnesses, and believed in the little truant even though he lied. Froebel told the little other-mothers to come to school anyway and bring the babies with them. And then he set to work showing these girls how to amuse, divert and teach the babies. And he used to say the babies taught him. Some of these half-grown girls showed a rare adaptability as teachers. They combined mother-love and the teaching instinct. Froebel utilized their services in teaching others in order that he might teach them. He saw that the teacher is the one who gets the most out of the lessons, and that the true teacher is a learner. These girl teachers he called school-mothers, and thus was evolved the word and the person. Froebel founded the first normal and model school for the education of women as teachers, and this was less than a hundred years ago. The years went by and the little mothers had children of their own, and these children were the ones that formed the first actual, genuine kindergarten. Also, these were the mothers who formed the first mothers' clubs. And it was the success of these clubs that attracted the attention of the authorities, who could not imagine any other purpose for a club than to hatch a plot against the government. Anyway, a system which taught that women were just as wise, just as good and just as capable as men--just as well fitted by nature to teach--would upset the clergy. If women can break into the school, they will also break into the church. Moreover, the encouragement of play was atrocious. Mein Gott, or words to that effect, play in a schoolroom! Why, even a fool would know that that is the one thing that stood in the way of education, the one fly in the pedagogic ointment. If Mynheer Froebel would please invent a way to do away with play in schoolrooms, he would be given a pension. The idea that children were good by nature was rank heresy. Where does the doctrine of regeneration come in, and how about being born again! The natural man is at enmity toward God. We are conceived in sin and born in iniquity. The Bible says it again and again. And here comes a man who thinks he knows more than all the priests and scholars who have ever lived, and fills the heads of fool women with the idea that they are born to teach instead of to work in the fields and keep house and wait on men. Mein Gott in Himmel, the women know too much, already! If this thing keeps on, men will have to get off the earth, and women and children will run the world, and do it by means of play. Aha! What does Solomon say? Spare the rod and spoil the child. Aber nicht, say these girls. This thing has got to stop before Germany becomes the joke of mankind--the cat-o'-nine-tails for anybody who uses the word kindergarten! * * * * * "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." Had the man who uttered these words been given a little encouragement, he probably would have inaugurated a child-garden and provided a place and environment where little souls could have bloomed and blossomed. He was by nature a teacher, and his best pupils were women and children. Male men are apt to think they already know and so are immune from ideas. Jerusalem, nineteen hundred years ago, was about where Berlin was in Eighteen Hundred Fifty. In both instances the proud priest and the aristocrat-soldier were supreme. And both were quite satisfied with their own mental attainments and educational methods. They were sincere. It was a very similar combination that crucified Jesus to that which placed an interdict on Friedrich Froebel, making the Kindergarten a crime, and causing the speedy death of one of the gentlest, noblest, purest men who have ever blessed this earth. Froebel was just seventy when he passed out. "His eye was not dimmed nor his natural force abated"--he was filled with enthusiasm and hope as never before. His ideas were spreading--success, at last, was at the door, he had interested the women and proved the fitness of women to teach--his mothers' clubs were numerous--love was the watchword. And in the midst of this flowering time, the official order came, without warning, apology or explanation, and from which there was no appeal. The same savagery, chilled with fear, that sent Richard Wagner into exile, crushed the life and broke the heart of Friedrich Froebel. But these names now are the pride and glory of the land that once scorned them. Men who govern should be those with a reasonable doubt concerning their own infallibility, and an earnest faith in men, women and children. To teach is better than to rule. We are all children in the Kindergarten of God. [Illustration: HYPATIA] HYPATIA Neo-Platonism is a progressive philosophy, and does not expect to state final conditions to men whose minds are finite. Life is an unfoldment, and the further we travel the more truth we can comprehend. To understand the things that are at our door is the best preparation for understanding those that lie beyond. --_Hypatia_ HYPATIA The father of Hypatia was Theon, a noted mathematician and astronomer of Alexandria. He would have been regarded as a very great man had he not been cast into the shadow by his daughter. Let male parents beware. At that time, astronomy and astrology were one. Mathematics was useful, not for purposes of civil engineering, but principally in figuring out where a certain soul, born under a given planet, would be at a certain time in the future. No information comes to us about the mother of Hypatia--she was so busy with housework that her existence is a matter of assumption or a priori reasoning; thus, given a daughter, we assume the existence of a mother. Hypatia was certainly the daughter of her father. He was her tutor, teacher, playmate. All he knew he taught to her, and before she was twenty she had been informed by him of a fact which she had previously guessed--that considerable of his so-called knowledge was conjecture. Theon taught his daughter that all systems of religion that pretend to teach the whole truth were to a great degree false and fraudulent. He explained to her that his own profession of astronomy and astrology was only for other people. By instructing her in all religions she grew to know them comparatively, and so none took possession of her to the exclusion of new truth. To have a religion thrust upon you, and be compelled to believe in it or suffer social ostracism, is to be cheated of the right to make your own. In degree it is letting another live your life. A child does not need a religion until he is old enough to evolve it, and then he must not be robbed of the right of independent thinking by having a fully-prepared plan of salvation handed out to him. The brain needs exercise as much as the body, and vicarious thinking is as erroneous as vicarious exercise. Strength comes from personal effort. To think is natural, and if not intimidated or coerced the man will evolve a philosophy of life that is useful and beneficent. Religious mania is a result of dwelling on a borrowed religion. If let alone no man would become insane on religious topics, for the religion he would evolve would be one of joy, laughter and love, not one of misery or horror. The religion that contemplates misery and woe is one devised by priestcraft for a purpose, and that purpose is to rule and rob. From the blunt ways of the road we get a polite system of intimidation which makes the man pay. It is robbery reduced to a system, and finally piously believed in by the robbers, who are hypnotized into the belief that they are doing God's service. "All formal dogmatic religions are fallacious and must never be accepted by self-respecting persons as final," said Theon to Hypatia. "Reserve your right to think, for even to think wrongly is better than not to think at all." Theon gave lectures, and had private classes in esoterics, wherein the innermost secrets of divinity were imparted. Also, he had a plan for the transmutation of metals and a recipe for perpetual youth. When he had nothing else to do, he played games with his daughter. At twenty-one Hypatia had mastered the so-called art of Rhetoric, or the art of expression by vocal speech. It will be remembered that the Romans considered rhetoric, or the art of the rhetor, or orator, as first in importance. To impress people by your personal presence they regarded as the gift of gifts. This idea seems to have been held by the polite world up to the Italian Renaissance, when the art of printing was invented and the written word came to be regarded as more important than the spoken. One lives, and the other dies on the air, existing only in memory, growing attenuated and diluted as it is transferred. The revival of sculpture and painting also helped oratory to take its proper place as one of the polite arts, and not a thing to be centered upon to the exclusion of all else. Theon set out to produce a perfect human being; and whether his charts, theorems and formulas made up a complete law of eugenics, or whether it was dumb luck, this we know: he nearly succeeded. Hypatia was five feet nine, and weighed one hundred thirty-five pounds. This when she was twenty. She could walk ten miles without fatigue; swim, row, ride horseback and climb mountains. Through a series of gentle calisthenics invented by her father, combined with breathing exercises, she had developed a body of rarest grace. Her head had corners, as once Professor O. S. Fowler told us that a woman's head must have, if she is to think and act with purpose and precision. So having evolved this rare beauty of face, feature and bodily grace, combined with superior strength and vitality, Hypatia took up her father's work and gave lectures on astronomy, mathematics, astrology and rhetoric, while he completed his scheme for the transmutation of metals. Hypatia's voice was flute-like, and used always well within its compass, so as never to rasp or tire the organs. Theon knew the proper care of nose and throat, a knowledge which with us moderns is all too rare. Hypatia told of and practised the vocal ellipse, the pause, the glide, the slide and the gentle, deliberate tones that please and impress. That the law of suggestion was known to her was very evident, and certain it is that she practised hypnotism in her classes, and seemed to know as much about the origin of the mysterious agent as we do now, even though she never tagged or labeled it. One very vital thought she worked out was, that the young mind is plastic, impressionable and accepts without question all that it is told. The young receive their ideas from their elders, and ideas once impressed upon this plastic plate of the mind can not be removed. Said Hypatia: "Fables should be taught as fables, myths as myths, and miracles as poetic fancies. To teach superstitions as truths is a most terrible thing. The child-mind accepts and believes them, and only through great pain and perhaps tragedy can he be in after-years relieved of them. In fact, men will fight for a superstition quite as quickly as for a living truth--often more so, since a superstition is so intangible you can not get at it to refute it, but truth is a point of view, and so is changeable." Gradually, over the mind of the beautiful and gifted Hypatia, there came stealing a doubt concerning the value of her own acquirements, since these were "acquirements," and not evolutions or convictions gathered from experience, but things implanted upon her plastic mind by her father. In this train of thought Hypatia had taken a step in advance of her father, for he seems to have had a dogmatic belief in a few things incapable of demonstration; but these things he taught to the plastic mind, just the same as the things he knew. Theon was a dogmatic liberal. Possibly the difference between an illiberal Unitarian and a liberal Catholic is microscopic. Hypatia clearly saw that knowledge is the distilled essence of our intuitions, corroborated by experience. But belief is the impress made upon our minds when we are under the spell of or in subjection to another. These things caused the poor girl many unhappy hours, which fact, in itself, is proof of her greatness. Only superior people have a capacity for doubting. Probably not one person in a million ever gets away far enough from his mind to take a look at it, and see the wheels go round. Opinions become ossified and the man goes through life hypnotizing others, never realizing for an instant that in youth he was hypnotized and that he has never been able to cast off the hypnosis. This is what our pious friends mean when they say, "Give me the child until he is ten years old and you may have him afterward." That is, they can take the child in his plastic age and make impressions on his mind that are indelible. Reared in an orthodox Jewish family a child will grow up a dogmatic Jew, and argue you on the Talmud six nights and days together. Catholic, Presbyterian, Baptist, the same. I once knew an Arapahoe Indian who was taken to Massachusetts when four years old. He grew up not only with New England prejudices, but with a New England accent, and saved his pennies to give to missionaries that they might "convert" the Red Men. When the suspicion seized upon the soul of Hypatia that her mind was but a wax impression taken from her father's, she began to make plans to get away from him. Her efforts at explanations were futile, but when placed upon the general ground that she wished to travel, see the world and meet people of learning and worth, her father acquiesced and she started away on her journeyings. He wanted to go, too, but this was the one thing she did not desire, and he never knew nor could know why. She spent several months at Athens, where her youth, beauty and learning won her entry into the houses of the most eminent. It was the same at Rome and in various other cities of Italy. Money may give you access to good society, but talent is always an open sesame. She traveled like a princess and was received as one, yet she had no title nor claim to nobility nor station. Beauty of itself is not a credential--rather it is an object of suspicion, unless it goes with intellect. Hypatia gave lectures on mathematics; and there was a fallacy abroad then as there is now that the feminine mind is not mathematical. That the great men whom Hypatia met in each city were first amazed and then abashed by her proficiency in mathematics is quite probable. Some few male professors being in that peculiar baldheaded hypnotic state when feminine charms dazzle and lure, listened in rapture as Hypatia dissolved logarithms and melted calculi, and not understanding a word she said, declared that she was the goddess Minerva, reincarnated. Her coldness on near approach confirmed their suspicions. * * * * * Just how long a time Hypatia spent upon her pilgrimage, visiting all of the great living philosophers, we do not know. Some accounts have it one year, others ten. Probably the pilgrimages were extended over a good many years, and were not continuous. Several philosophers proved their humanity by offering to marry her, and a prince or two did likewise, we are credibly informed. To these persistent suitors, however, Hypatia gently broke the news that she was wedded to truth, which is certainly a pretty speech, even if it is poor logic. The fact was, however, that Hypatia never met a man whose mind matched her own, otherwise logic would have bolstered love, instead of discarding it. Travel, public speaking and meeting people of note form a strong trinity of good things. The active mind is the young mind, and it is more than the dream of a poet which declares that Hypatia was always young and always beautiful, and that even Father Time was so in love with her that he refused to take toll from her, as he passed with his hourglass and scythe. In degree she had followed the example of her great prototype, Plotinus, and had made herself master of all religions. She knew too much of all philosophies to believe implicitly in any. Alexandria was then the intellectual center of the world. People who resided there called it the hub of the universe. It was the meeting-place of the East and the West. And Hypatia, with her Thursday lectures, was the chief intellectual factor of Alexandria. Her philosophy she called Neo-Platonism. It was Plato distilled through the psychic alembic of Hypatia. Just why the human mind harks back and likes to confirm itself by building on another, it would be interesting to inquire. To explain Moses; to supply a key to the Scriptures; to found a new School of Philosophy on the assumption that Plato was right, but was not understood until the Then and There, is alluring. And now the pilgrims came from Athens, and Rome, and the Islands of the Sea to sit at the feet of Hypatia. * * * * * Hypatia was born in the year Three Hundred Seventy, and died in Four Hundred Thirty. She exerted an influence in Alexandria not unlike that which Mrs. Eddy exerted in Boston. She was a person who divided society into two parts: those who regarded her as an oracle of light, and those who looked upon her as an emissary of darkness. Strong men paid her the compliment of using immoderate language concerning her teaching. But whether they spoke ill or well of her matters little now. The point is this: they screeched, sneezed, or smiled on those who refused to acknowledge the power of Hypatia. Some professors of learning tried to waive her; priests gently pooh-poohed her; and some elevated an eyebrow and asked how the name was spelled. Others, still, inquired, "Is she sincere?" She was the Ralph Waldo Emerson of her day. Her philosophy was Transcendentalism. In fact, she might be spoken of as the original charter member of the Concord School of Philosophy. Her theme was the New Thought, for New Thought is the oldest form of thought of which we know. Its distinguishing feature is its antiquity. Socrates was really the first to express the New Thought, and he got his cue from Pythagoras. The ambition of Hypatia was to revive the flowering-time of Greece, when Socrates and Plato walked arm in arm through the streets of Athens, followed by the greatest group of intellectuals the world has ever seen. It was charged against Hypatia that Aspasia was her ideal, and that her ambition was to follow in the footsteps of the woman who was beloved by Pericles. If so, it was an ambition worthy of a very great soul. Hypatia, however, did not have her Pericles, and never married. That she should have had love experiences was quite natural, and that various imaginary romances should have been credited to her was also to be expected. Hypatia was nearly a thousand years removed from the time of Pericles and Aspasia, but to bridge the gulf of time with imagination was easy. Yet Hypatia thought that the New Platonism should surpass the old, for the world had had the Age of Augustus to build upon. Hypatia's immediate prototype was Plotinus, who was born two hundred four years after Christ, and lived to be seventy. Plotinus was the first person to use the phrase "Neo-Platonism," and so the philosophy of Hypatia might be called "The New Neo-Platonism." To know but one religion is not to know that one. In fact, superstition consists in this one thing--faith in one religion, to the exclusion of all others. To know one philosophy is to know none. They are all comparative, and each serves as a small arc of the circle. A man living in a certain environment, with a certain outlook, describes the things he sees; and out of these, plus what he imagines, is shaped his philosophy of life. If he is repressed, suppressed, frightened, he will not see very much, and what he does see will be out of focus. Spiritual strabismus and mental myopia are the results of vicarious peeps at the universe. All formal religions have taught that to look for yourself was bad. The peephole through the roof of his garret cost Copernicus his liberty, but it was worth the price. Plotinus made a study of all philosophies--all religions. He traveled through Egypt, Greece, Assyria, India. He became an "adept", and discovered how easily the priest drifts into priestcraft, and fraud steps in with legerdemain and miracle to amend the truth. As if to love humanity were not enough to recommend the man, they have him turn water into wine and walk on the water. Out of the labyrinth of history and speculation Plotinus returned to Plato as a basis or starting-point for all of the truth which man can comprehend. Plotinus believed in all religions, but had absolute faith in none. It will be remembered that Aristotle and Plato parted as to the relative value of poetry and science--science being the systematized facts of Nature. Plotinus comes in and says that both were right, and each was like every good man who exaggerates the importance of his own calling. In his ability to see the good in all things, Hypatia placed Plotinus ahead of Plato, but even then she says: "Had there been no Plato, there would have been no Plotinus; although Plotinus surpassed Plato, yet it is plain that Plato, the inspirer of Plotinus and so many more, is the one man whom philosophy can not spare. Hail, Plato!!" * * * * * The writings of Hypatia have all disappeared, save as her words come to us, quoted by her contemporaries. If the Essays of Emerson should all be swept away, the man would still live in the quotations from his pen, given to us by every writer of worth who has put pencil to paper during the last fifty years. So lives Sappho, and thus did Charles Kingsley secure the composite of the great woman who lives and throbs through his book. Legend pictures her as rarely beautiful, with grace, poise and power, plus. She was sixty when she died. History kindly records it forty-five--and all picture her as a beautiful and attractive woman to the last. The psychic effects of a gracefully-gowned first reader, with sonorous voice, using gesture with economy, and packing the pauses with feeling, have never been fully formulated, analyzed and explained. Throngs came to hear Hypatia lecture--came from long distances, and listened hungrily, and probably all they took away was what they brought, except a great feeling of exhilaration and enthusiasm. To send the hearer away stepping light, and his heart beating fast--this is oratory--which isn't so much to bestow facts, as it is to impart a feeling. This Hypatia surely did. Her theme was Neo-Platonism. "Neo" means new, and all New Thought harks back to Plato, who was the mouthpiece of Socrates. "Say what you will, you'll find it all in Plato." Neo-Platonism is our New Thought, and New Thought is Neo-Platonism. There are two kinds of thought: New Thought and Secondhand Thought. New Thought is made up of thoughts you, yourself, think. The other kind is supplied to you by jobbers. The distinguishing feature of New Thought is its antiquity. Of necessity it is older than Secondhand Thought. All genuine New Thought is true for the person who thinks it. It only turns sour and becomes error when not used, and when the owner forces another to accept it. It then becomes a secondhand revelation. All New Thought is revelation, and secondhand revelations are errors half-soled with stupidity and heeled with greed. Very often we are inspired to think by others, but in our hearts we have the New Thought; and the person, the book, the incident, merely remind us that it is already ours. New Thought is always simple; Secondhand Thought is abstruse, complex, patched, peculiar, costly, and is passed out to be accepted, not understood. That no one comprehends it is often regarded as a recommendation. For instance, "Thou shalt not make unto thyself any graven image," is Secondhand Thought. The first man who said it may have known what it meant, but surely it is nothing to us. However, that does not keep us from piously repeating it, and having our children memorize it. We model in clay or wax, and carve if we can, and give honors to those who do, and this is well. This commandment is founded on the fallacy that graven images are gods, whatever that is. The command adds nothing to our happiness, nor does it shape our conduct, nor influence our habits. Everybody knows and admits its futility, yet we are unable to eliminate it from our theological system. It is strictly secondhand--worse, it is junk. Conversely, the admonition, "Be gentle and keep your voice low," is New Thought, since all but savages know its truth, comprehend its import, and appreciate its excellence. Dealers in Secondhand Thought always declare that theirs is the only genuine, and that all other is spurious and dangerous. Dealers in New Thought say, "Take this only as it appeals to you as your own--accept it all, or in part, or reject it all--and in any event, do not believe it merely because I say so." New Thought is founded on the laws of your own nature, and its shibboleth is, "Know Thyself." Secondhand Thought is founded on authority, and its war-cry is, "Pay and Obey." New Thought offers you no promise of paradise or eternal bliss if you accept it; nor does it threaten you with everlasting hell, if you don't. All it offers is unending work, constant effort, new difficulties; beyond each success is a new trial. Its only satisfactions are that you are allowing your life to unfold itself according to the laws of its nature. And these laws are divine, therefore you yourself are divine, just as you allow the divine to possess your being. New Thought allows the currents of divinity to flow through you unobstructed. Secondhand Thought affords no plan of elimination; it tends to congestion, inflammation, disease and disintegration. New Thought holds all things lightly, gently, easily--even thought. It works for a healthy circulation, and tends to health, happiness and well-being now and hereafter. It does not believe in violence, force, coercion or resentment, because all these things react on the doer. It has faith that all men, if not interfered with by other men, will eventually evolve New Thought, and do for themselves what is best and right, beautiful and true. Secondhand Thought has always had first in its mind the welfare of the dealer. The rights of the consumer, beyond keeping him in subjection, were not considered. Indeed, its chief recommendation has been that "it is a good police system." New Thought considers only the user. To "Know Thyself" is all there is of it. When a creator of New Thought goes into the business of retailing his product, he often forgets to live it, and soon is transformed into a dealer in Secondhand Thought. That is the way all purveyors in secondhand revelation begin. In their anxiety to succeed, they call in the police. The blessing that is compulsory is not wholly good, and any system of morals which has to be forced on us is immoral. New Thought is free thought. Its penalty is responsibility. You either have to live it, or else lose it. Its reward is Freedom. * * * * * It was only a little more than a hundred years before the time of Hypatia that the Roman Empire became Christian. When Constantine embraced Christianity, all of his loyal subjects were from that moment Christians--Christians by edict, but Pagans by character, for the natures of men can not be changed by the passing of a resolution. From that time every Pagan temple became a Christian church, and every Pagan priest a Christian preacher. Alexandria was under the rule of a Roman Prefect, or Governor. It had been the policy of Rome to exercise great tolerance in religious matters. There was a State Religion, to be sure, but it was for the nobility or those who helped make the State possible. To look after the thinking of the plain people was quite superfluous--they were allowed their vagaries. The Empire had been bold, brazen, cruel, coercive in its lust for power, but people who paid were reasonably safe. And now the Church was coming into competition with the State and endeavoring to reduce spoliation to a system. To keep the people down and under by mental suppression--by the engine of superstition--were cheaper and more effective than to employ force or resort to the old-time methods of shows, spectacles, pensions and costly diversions. When the Church took on the functions of the State, and sought to substitute the gentle Christ for Cæsar, she had to recast the teachings of Christ. Then for the first time coercion and love dwelt side by side. "Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels," and like passages were slipped into the Scriptures as matters of wise expediency. This was continued for many hundred years, and was considered quite proper and legitimate. It was slavery under a more subtle form. The Bishop of Alexandria clashed with Orestes the Prefect. To hold the people under by psychologic methods was better than the old plans of alternate bribery and force--so argued the Bishop. Orestes had come under the spell of Hypatia, and the Republic of Plato was saturating his mind. "To rule by fettering the mind through fear of punishment in another world is just as base as to use force," said Hypatia in one of her lectures. Orestes sat in the audience and as she spoke the words he clapped his hands. The news was carried to the Bishop, who gently declared that he would excommunicate him. Orestes sent word back that the Emperor should be informed of how this Bishop was misusing his office by making threats of where he could land people he did not like, in another world. Neither the Bishop nor the Prefect could unseat each other--both derived their power from the Emperor. For Orestes to grow interested in the teachings of Hypatia, instead of siding with the Bishop, was looked upon by the loyalists as little short of treason. Orestes tried to defend himself by declaring that the policy of the Cæsars had always been one of great leniency toward all schools of philosophy. Then he quoted Hypatia to the effect that a fixed, formal and dogmatic religion would paralyze the minds of men and make the race, in time, incapable of thought. Therefore, the Bishop should keep his place, and not try to usurp the functions of the police. In fact, it was better to think wrongly than not to think at all. We learn to think by thinking, and if the threats of the Bishop were believed at all, it would mean the death of science and philosophy. The Bishop made answer by declaring that Hypatia was endeavoring to found a Church of her own, with Pagan Greece as a basis. He intimated, too, that the relationship of Orestes with Hypatia was very much the same as that which once existed between Cleopatra and Mark Antony. He called her "that daughter of Ptolemy," and by hints and suggestions made it appear that she would, if she could, set up an Egyptian Empire in this same city of Alexandria where Cleopatra once so proudly reigned. The excitement increased. The followers of Hypatia were necessarily few in numbers. They were thinkers--and to think is a task. To believe is easy. The Bishop promised his followers a paradise of ease and rest. He also threatened disbelievers with the pains of hell. A promise on this side--a threat on that! Is it not a wonder that a man ever lived who put his honest thought against such teaching when launched by men clothed in almost absolute authority! Hypatia might have lived yesterday, and her death at the hands of a mob was an accident that might have occurred in Boston, where a respectable company once threw a rope around the neck of a good man and ran him through streets supposed to be sacred to liberty and free speech. A mob is made up of cotton waste, saturated with oil, and a focused idea causes spontaneous combustion. Let a fire occur in almost any New York State village, and the town turns wrecker, and loot looms large in the limited brain of the villager. Civilization is a veneer. When one sees emotionalism run riot at an evangelistic revival, and five thousand people are trooping through an undesirable district at midnight, how long, think you, would a strong voice of opposition be tolerated? Hypatia was set upon by a religious mob as she was going in her carriage from her lecture-hall to her home. She was dragged to a near-by church with the intent of making her publicly recant, but the embers became a blaze, and the blaze became a conflagration, and the leaders lost control. The woman's clothes were torn from her back, her hair torn from her head, her body beaten to a pulp, dismembered, and then to hide all traces of the crime and distribute the guilt so no one person could be blamed, a funeral-pyre quickly consumed the remains of what but an hour before had been a human being. Daylight came, and the sun's rays could not locate the guilty ones. Orestes made a report of the affair, resigned his office, asked the Government at Rome to investigate, and fled from the city. Had Orestes endeavored to use his soldiery against the Bishop, the men in the ranks would have revolted. The investigation was postponed from time to time for lack of witnesses, and finally it was given out by the Bishop that Hypatia had gone to Athens, and there had been no mob and no tragedy. The Bishop nominated a successor to Orestes, and the new official was confirmed. Dogmatism as a police system was supreme. It continued until the time of Dante, or the Italian Renaissance. The reign of Religious Dogmatism was supreme for well-nigh a thousand years--we call it the Dark Ages. [Illustration: SAINT BENEDICT] SAINT BENEDICT If any pilgrim monk come from distant parts, if with wish as a guest to dwell in the monastery, and will be content with the customs which he finds in the place, and do not perchance by his lavishness disturb the monastery, but is simply content with what he finds: he shall be received, for as long a time as he desires. If, indeed, he find fault with anything, or expose it, reasonably, and with the humility of charity, the Abbot shall discuss it prudently, lest perchance God had sent for this very thing. But, if he have been found gossipy and contumacious in the time of his sojourn as guest, not only ought he not to be joined to the body of the monastery, but also it shall be said to him, honestly, that he must depart. If he does not go, let two stout monks, in the name of God, explain the matter to him. --_St. Benedict_ SAINT BENEDICT As the traveler journeys through Southern Italy, Sicily and certain parts of what was Ancient Greece, he will see broken arches, parts of viaducts, and now and again a single, beautiful column pointing to the sky. All about is the desert or solitary pastures, and only this white milestone, marking the path of the centuries and telling in its own silent, solemn and impressive way of a day that is dead. In the Fifth Century a monk called Simeon the Syrian, and known to us as Simeon Stylites, having taken the vow of chastity, poverty and obedience, began to fear greatly lest he might not be true to his pledge. And that he might live absolutely beyond reproach, always in public view, free from temptation, and free from the tongue of scandal, he decided to live in the world, and still not be of it. To this end he climbed to the top of a marble column, sixty feet high, and there on the capstone he lived a life beyond reproach. Simeon was then twenty-four years old. The environment was circumscribed, but there was outlook, sunshine, ventilation--three good things. But beyond these the place had certain disadvantages. The capstone was a little less than three feet square, so Simeon could not lie down. He slept sitting, with his head bowed between his knees, and indeed, in this posture he passed most of his time. Any recklessness in movement, and he would have slipped from his perilous position and been dashed to death upon the stones beneath. As the sun arose he stood up, just for a few moments, and held his arms out in greeting, blessing and prayer. Three times during the day did he thus stretch his cramped limbs, and pray with his face to the East. At such times those who stood near shared in his prayers, and went away blessed and refreshed. How did Simeon get to the top of the column? Well, his companions at the monastery, a mile away, said he was carried there in the night by a miraculous power; that he went to sleep in his stone cell and awoke on the pillar. Other monks said that Simeon had gone to pay his respects to a fair lady, and in wrath God had caught him and placed him on high. The probabilities are, however, Terese, as viewed by an unbeliever, that he shot a line over the column with a bow and arrow and then drew up a rope ladder and ascended with ease. However, in the morning the simple people of the scattered village saw the man on the column. All day he stayed there. The next day he was still there. The days passed, with the scorching heat of the midday sun, and the cool winds of the night. Still Simeon kept his place. The rainy season came on. When the nights were cold and dark, Simeon sat there with bowed head, and drew the folds of his single garment, a black robe, over his face. Another season passed; the sun again grew warm, then hot, and the sand-storms raged and blew, when the people below almost lost sight of the man on the column. Some prophesied he would be blown off, but the morning light revealed his form, naked from the waist up, standing with hands outstretched to greet the rising sun. Once each day, as darkness gathered, a monk came with a basket containing a bottle of goat's milk and a little loaf of black bread, and Simeon dropped down a rope and drew up the basket. Simeon never spoke, for words are folly, and to the calls of saint or sinner he made no reply. He lived in a perpetual attitude of adoration. Did he suffer? During those first weeks he must have suffered terribly and horribly. There was no respite nor rest from the hard surface of the rock, and aching muscles could find no change from the cramped and perilous position. If he fell, it was damnation for his soul--all were agreed as to this. But man's body and mind accommodate themselves to almost any condition. One thing at least, Simeon was free from economic responsibilities, free from social cares and intrusion. Bores with sad stories of unappreciated lives and fond hopes unrealized, never broke in upon his peace. He was not pressed for time. No frivolous dame of tarnished fame sought to share with him his perilous perch. The people on a slow schedule, ten minutes late, never irritated his temper. His correspondence never got in a heap. Simeon kept no track of the days, having no engagements to meet, or offices to perform, beyond the prayers at morn, midday and night. Memory died in him, the hurts became calluses, the world-pain died out of his heart, to cling became a habit. Language was lost in disuse. The food he ate was minimum in quantity; sensation ceased, and the dry, hot winds reduced bodily tissue to a dessicated something called a saint--loved, feared and reverenced for his fortitude. This pillar, which had once graced the portal of a pagan temple, again became a place of pious pilgrimage, and people flocked to Simeon's rock, so that they might be near when he stretched out his black, bony hands to the East, and the spirit of Almighty God, for a space, hovered close around. So much attention did the abnegation of Simeon attract that various other pillars, marking the ruins of art and greatness gone, in that vicinity, were crowned by pious monks. Their thought was to show how Christianity had triumphed over heathenism. Imitators were numerous. About that time the Bishops in assembly asked, "Is Simeon sincere?" To test the matter of Simeon's pride, he was ordered to come down from his retreat. As to his chastity, there was little doubt, and his poverty was beyond question; but how about obedience to his superiors? The order was shouted up to him in a Bishop's voice--he must let down his rope, draw up a ladder, and descend. Straightway Simeon made preparation to obey. And then the Bishops relented and cried, "We have changed our minds, and now order you to remain!" Simeon lifted his hands in adoration and thankfulness and renewed his lease. And so he lived on and on and on--he lived on the top of that pillar, never once descending, for thirty years. All of his former companions grew a-weary; one by one they died, and the monastery-bells tolled their requiem as they were laid to rest. Did Simeon hear the bells and say, "Soon it will be my turn"? Probably not. His senses had flown, for what good were they! The young monk who now at eventide brought the basket with the bottle of goat's milk and the loaf of dry bread was born since Simeon had taken his place on the pillar. "He has always been there," the people said, and crossed themselves hurriedly. But one evening when the young monk came with his basket, no line was dropped from above. He waited and then called aloud, but all in vain. When sunrise came, there sat the monk, his face between his knees, the folds of his black robe drawn over his head. But he did not rise and lift his hands in prayer. All day he sat there, motionless. The people watched in whispered silence. Would he arise at sundown and pray, and with outstretched hands bless the assembled pilgrims? But as they watched a vulture came sailing slowly through the blue ether, and circled nearer and nearer; and off on the horizon was another--and still another, circling nearer and nearer. * * * * * In humanity's march of progress there are a vanguard and a rearguard. The rearguard dwindles away into a mob of camp-followers, who follow for diversion and to escape starvation. Both the vanguard and the rearguard are out of step with the main body, and therefore both are despised by the many who make up the rank and file. And yet, out of pity, the main body supplies ambulances and "slum-workers," who aim to do "good"--but this good is always for the rearguard and the camp-followers, never for those who lead the line of march, and take the risk of ambush and massacre. But this scorn of the vanguard has its recompense--often delayed, no doubt--but those who compose it are the only ones whom history honors and Clio crowns. If they get recognition in life, it is wrung tardily from an ungrateful and ungracious world. And this is the most natural thing in the world, and it would be a miracle if it were otherwise, for the very virtue of the vanguard consists in that their acts outrun human sympathy. Benedict was a scout of civilization. In his day he led the vanguard. He found the prosperous part of the world given over to greed and gluttony. The so-called religious element was in partnership with fraud, superstition, ignorance, incompetence, and an asceticism like that of Simeon Stylites, leading to nothing. Men know the good and grow through experience. To realize the worthlessness of place and position and of riches, you must have been at some time in possession of these. Benedict was born into a rich Roman family, in the year Four Hundred Eighty. His parents wished to educate him for the law, so he would occupy a position of honor in the State. But at sixteen years of age, at that critical time when nerves are vibrating between manhood and youth, Benedict cut the umbilical domestic cord, and leaving his robes of purple and silken finery, suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a note which was doubtless meant to be reassuring and which was quite the reverse, for it failed to tell where his mail should be forwarded. He had gone to live with a hermit in the fastnesses of the mountains. He had desired to do something peculiar, strange, unusual, unique and individual, and now he had done it. Back of it all was the Cosmic Urge, with a fair slip of a girl, and meetings by stealth in the moonlight; and then those orders from his father to give up the girl, which he obeyed with a vengeance. Monasticism is a reversal or a misdirection of the Cosmic Urge. The will brought to bear in fighting temptation might be a power for good, if used in co-operation with Nature. But Nature to the priestly mind has always been bad. The worldly mind was one that led to ruin. To be good by doing good was an idea the monkish mind had not grasped. His way of being good was to be nothing, do nothing--just resist. Successfully to fight temptation, the Oriental Monk regarded as an achievement. One day, out on that perilous and slippery rock on the mountain-side, Benedict ceased saluting the Holy Virgin long enough to conceive a thought. It was this: To be acceptable to God, we must do something in the way of positive good for man. To pray, to adore, to wander, to suffer, is not enough. We must lighten the burdens of the toilers and bring a little joy into their lives. Suffering has its place, but too much suffering would destroy the race. Only one other man had Benedict ever heard of, who put forth this argument, and that was Saint Jerome; and many good men in the Church regarded Saint Jerome as little better than an infidel. Saint Jerome was a student of the literature of Greece and Rome--"Pagan Books," they were called, "rivals of the Bible." Saint Anthony had renounced and denounced these books and all of the learning of Paganism. Saint Anthony, the father of Christian Monasticism, dwelt on the terrible evils of intellectual pride, and had declared that the joys of the mind were of a more subtle and devilish character than those of the flesh. Anthony, assisted by inertia, had won the ear of the Church; and dirt, rags and idleness had come to be regarded as sacred things. Benedict took issue with Anthony. * * * * * The Monastic Impulse is a protest against the Cosmic Urge, or reproductive desire. Necessarily, the Cosmic Urge is older than the Monastic Impulse; and beyond a doubt it will live to dance on the grave of its rival. The Cosmic Urge is the creative instinct. It includes all planning, purpose, desire, hope, unrest, lust and ambition. In its general sense, it is Unfulfilled Desire. It is the voice constantly crying in the ears of success, "Arise and get thee hence, for this is not thy rest." It is the dissatisfaction with all things done--it is our Noble Discontent. In its first manifestation it is sex. In its last refinement it means the love of man and woman, with the love of children, the home-making sense, and an appreciation of art, music and science--which is love with seeing eyes--as natural results. Deity creates through its creatures, of which man is the highest type. But man, evolving a small spark of intellect, sits in judgment on his Creator, and finds the work bad. Of all the animals, man is the only one so far known that criticizes his environment, instead of accepting it. And we do this because, in degree, we have abandoned intuition before we have gotten control of intellect. The Monastic Instinct is the disposition ever to look outside of ourselves for help. We expect the Strong Man to come and give us deliverance from our woes. All nations have legends of saviors and heroes who came and set the captives free, and who will come again in greater glory and mightier power and even release the dead from their graves. The Monastic Impulse is based on world-weariness, with disappointed love, or sex surfeit, which is a phase of the same thing, as a basis. Its simplest phase is a desire for solitude. "Mon" means one, and monasticism is simply living alone, apart from the world. Gradually it came to mean living alone with others of a like mind or disposition. The clan is an extension of the family, and so is originally a monastic impulse. The Group Idea is a variant of monasticism, but if it includes men and women, it always disintegrates with the second generation, if not before, because the Cosmic Urge catches the members, and they mate, marry and swing the circle. Ernst Haeckel has recently intimated his belief that monogamy, with its exclusive life, is a diluted form of monasticism. And his opinion seems to be that, in order to produce the noblest race possible, we must have a free society, with a State that reverences and respects maternity and pensions any mother who personally cares for her child. Monasticism and enforced monogamy often carry a disrespect, if not a positive contempt, for motherhood, especially free motherhood. We breed from the worst, under the worst conditions, and as punishment God has made us a race of scrubs. If we had deliberately set about to produce the worst, we could not do better. It will at once be seen that a penalized free motherhood is exactly like the Monastic Impulse--a protest and a revolt from the Cosmic Urge. Hence Ernst Haeckel, harking back to Schopenhauer, declares that we must place a premium upon parenthood, and the State must subsidize all mothers, visiting them with tenderness, gentleness, sanctity and respect, before we shall be able to produce a race of demigods. The Church has aureoled and sainted the men and women who have successfully fought the Cosmic Urge. Emerson says, "We are strong as we ally ourselves with Nature, and weak as we fight against her or disregard her." Thus does Emerson place himself squarely in opposition to the Church, for the Church has ever looked upon Nature as a lure and a menace to holy living. Now, is it not possible that the prevalency of the Monastic Impulse is proof that it is in itself a movement in the direction of Nature? Possibly its error lies in swinging out beyond the norm. A few great Churchmen have thought so. And the greatest and best of them, so far as I know, was Benedict. Through his efforts, monasticism was made a power for good, and for a time, at least, it served society and helped humanity on its way. That the flagellants, anchorites, or monks with iron collars, and Simeon Stylites living his life perched on a pillar, benefited the human race--no one would now argue. Simeon was simply trying to please God--to secure salvation for his soul. His assumption was that the world was base and bad. To be pure in heart you must live apart from it. His persistence was the only commendable thing about him, and this was the persistence of a diseased mind. It was beautiful just as the persistence of cancer is beautiful. Benedict, while agreeing that the world was bad, yet said that our business was to make it better, and that everything we did which was done merely to save our own souls, was selfish and unworthy. He advocated that, in order to save our own souls, we should make it our business to save others. Also, to think too much about your own soul was to have a soul not worth saving. If this life is a preparation for another, as Simeon thought, he was not preparing himself for a world where we would care to go. The only heaven in which any sane man or woman, be he saint or sinner, would care to live, would be one whose inhabitants would be at liberty to obey the Cosmic Urge just as freely as the Monastic Impulse, and where one would be regarded as holy as the other. So thought Saint Benedict. * * * * * There is a natural law, well recognized and defined by men who think, called the Law of Diminishing Returns, sometimes referred to as the Law of Pivotal Points. A man starts in to take systematic exercise, and he finds that his strength increases. He takes more exercise and keeps on until he gets "stale"--that is, he becomes sore and lame. He has passed the Pivotal Point and is getting a Diminishing Return. In running a railroad-engine a certain amount of coal is required to pull a train of given weight a mile, say at the rate of fifty miles an hour. You double the amount of your coal, and simple folks might say you double your speed, but railroad men know better. The double amount of coal will give you only about sixty miles instead of fifty. Increase your coal and from this on you get a Diminishing Return. If you insist on eighty miles an hour, you get your speed at a terrific cost and a terrible risk. Another case: Your body requires a certain amount of food--the body is an engine; food is fuel; life is combustion. Better the quality and quantity of your food, and up to a certain point you increase your strength. Go on increasing your food and you get death. Loan money at five per cent and your investment is reasonably secure and safe. Loan money at ten per cent and you do not double the returns; on the contrary, you have taken on so much risk. Loan money at twenty per cent and you will probably lose it; for the man who borrows at twenty per cent does not intend to pay if he can help it. The Law of Diminishing Returns was what Oliver Wendell Holmes had in mind when he said, "Because I like a pinch of salt in my soup is no reason I wish to be immersed in brine." Churches, preachers and religious denominations are good things in their time and place, and up to a certain point. Whether for you the church has passed the Pivotal Point is for you yourself to decide. But remember this, because a thing is good up to a certain point, or has been good, is no reason why it should be perpetuated. The Law of Diminishing Returns is the natural refutation of the popular fallacy that because a thing is good you can not get too much of it. It is this law that Abraham Lincoln had in mind when he said, "I object to that logic which seeks to imply that because I wish to make the negro free, I desire a black woman for a wife." Benedict had spent five years in resistance before it dawned upon him that Monasticism carried to a certain point was excellent and fraught with good results, but beyond that it rapidly degenerated. To carry the plan of simplicity and asceticism to its summit and not go beyond was now his desire. To withdraw from society he felt was a necessity, for the petty and selfish ambitions of Rome were revolting. But the religious life did not for him preclude the joys of the intellect. In his unshaven and unshorn condition, wearing a single garment of goatskin, he dared not go back to his home. So he proceeded to make himself acceptable to decent people. He made a white robe, bathed, shaved off his beard, had his hair cut, and putting on his garments, went back to his family. The life in the wilderness had improved his health. He had grown in size and strength and he now, in his own person, proved that a religious recluse was not necessarily unkempt and repulsive. His people greeted him as one raised from the dead. Crowds followed him wherever he went. He began to preach to them and to explain his position. Some of his old school associates came to him. As he explained his position, it began more and more to justify itself in his mind. Things grow plain as we analyze them to others--by explaining to another the matter becomes luminous to ourselves. To purify the monasteries and carry to them all that was good and beautiful in the classics, was the desire of Benedict. His wish was to reconcile the learning of the past with Christianity, which up to that time had been simply ascetic. It had consisted largely of repression, suppression and a killing-out of all spontaneous, happy, natural impulses. Very naturally, he was harshly criticized, and when he went back to the cave where he had dwelt and tried to teach some of his old companions how to read and write, they flew first at him, and then from him. They declared that he was the devil in the guise of a monk; that he wished to live both as a monk and as a man of the world--that he wanted to eat his cake and still keep it. By a sort of divine right he took control of affairs, and insisted that his companions should go to work with him, and plant a garden and raise vegetables and fruits, instead of depending upon charity or going without. The man who insists that all folks shall work, be they holy or secular, learned or illiterate, always has a hard road to travel. Benedict's companions declared that he was trying to enslave them, and one of them brewed a poison and substituted it for the simple herb tea that Benedict drank. Being discovered, the man and his conspirators escaped, although Benedict offered to forgive and forget if they would go to work. Benedict adhered to his new inspiration with a persistency that never relaxed--the voice of God had called to him that he must clear the soil of the brambles and plant gardens. The thorn-bush through which he had once rolled his naked body, he now cut down and burned. He relaxed the vigils and limited the prayers and adorations to a few short exercises just before eating, sleeping and going to work. He divided the day into three parts--eight hours for work, eight hours for study, eight hours for sleep. Then he took one-half hour from each of these divisions for silent prayer and adoration. He argued that good work was a prayer, and that one could pray with his heart and lips, even as his hands swung the ax, the sickle or the grub-hoe. All that Benedict required of others, he did himself, and through the daily work he evolved a very strong and sturdy physique. From the accounts that have come to us he was rather small in stature, but in strength he surpassed any man in his vicinity. Miraculous accounts of his physical strength were related, and in the minds of his simple followers he was regarded as more than a man, which shows us that the ideals of what a man should be, or might be, were not high. We are told that near Benedict's first monastery there was a very deep lake, made in the time of Nero by damming up a mountain stream. Along this lake the brambles and vines had grown in great confusion. Benedict set to work to clear the ground from this lake to his monastery, half a mile up the hillside. One day a workman dropped an ax into the lake. Benedict smiled, his lips moved in prayer and the ax came to the surface. The story does not say that Benedict dived to the bottom and brought up the ax, which he probably did. The next day the owner of the ax fell into the water, and the story goes that Benedict walked out on the water and brought the man in on his shoulders. We who do not believe that the age of miracles has passed, can well understand how Benedict was an active, agile and strong swimmer, and that through the natural powers which he evolved by living a sane and simple life, he was able to perform many feats which peasants round about considered miraculous. Benedict had what has been called the Builder's Itch. He found great joy in planning, creating and constructing. He had an eye for architecture and landscape-gardening. He utilized the materials of old Roman temples to construct Christian churches, and from the same quarry he took stone and built a monastery. A Roman ruin had a lure for him. It meant building possibilities. He stocked the lake with fish, and then made catches that rivaled the parable of the loaves and fishes. Only the loaves of Benedict were made from the wheat he himself raised, and the people he fed were the crowds who came to hear him preach the gospel he himself practised--the gospel of work, moderation and the commonsense exercise of head, hand and heart. * * * * * To Benedict came twelve disciples. But further applications becoming numerous, to meet the pressure Benedict kept organizing them into groups of twelve, appointing a superior over each group. In order to prove his sense of equality, he had but eleven besides himself in the monastery. He recognized that leadership was a necessity; but the clothes he wore were no better than, and the food he ate no different from, what the others had. Yet to enforce discipline, rules were made and instant obedience was exacted. Benedict took his turn at waiting on the table and doing the coarsest tasks. Were it not for the commonsense methods of life, and the element of human service, the Christian monastery and probably Christianity itself would not have survived. The dogma of religion was made acceptable by blending it with a service for humanity. And even to this day the popular plan of proving the miracles of the Old Testament to have been actual occurrences is to point to the schools, hospitals and orphan asylums that Christian people have provided. In the efforts of Benedict to combine the life of unselfish service with intellectual appreciation of classic literature, he naturally was misunderstood. Several times he came near having serious collisions with the authorities of the Church at Rome. His preaching attracted the jealous attention of certain churchmen, but as he was not a priest, the Pope refused to take notice of his supposed heresies. An effort was made to compel him to become a priest, but Benedict refused on the plea that he was not worthy. The fact was, however, that he did not wish to be bound by the rules of the Church. In one sense, his was a religion inside a religion, and a slight accident might have precipitated an opposition denomination, just as the Protestant issue of Luther was an accident, and the Methodism of the Wesleys, another. Several times the opposition, in the belief that Benedict was an enemy of the Church, went so far as to try to kill him. And once a few pious persons in Rome induced a company of wanton women to go out to Benedict's monastery and disport themselves through his beautiful grounds. This was done with two purposes in view; one was to work the direct downfall of the Benedictines, with the aid of the trulls, and the other was to create a scandal among the visitors, who would carry the unsavory news back to Rome and supply the gossips raw stock. Benedict was so deeply grieved by the despicable trick that he retired to his former home, the cave in the hillside, and there remained without food for a month. But during this time of solitude his mind was busy with new plans. He now founded Monte Cassino. The site is halfway between Rome and Naples, and the white, classic lines of the buildings can be seen from the railroad. There on the crags, from out of a mass of green, has been played out for more than a thousand years the drama of religious life. Death by fire and sword has been the fate of many of the occupants. But the years went by, new men came, the ruins were repaired, and again the cloisters were trodden by pious feet of holy men. Goths, Lombards, Saracens, Normans, Spaniards, Teutons, and finally came Napoleon Bonaparte, who confiscated the property, making the place his home for a brief space. Later he relented and took it from the favorite upon whom he had bestowed it and gave it back to the Church. It then remained a Benedictine monastery until the edict of Eighteen Hundred Sixty-six, which, with the help of Massini and Garibaldi, made the monastery in Italy a thing of the past. The place is now a school--a school with a co-ed proviso. Thus passes away the glory of the world, in order that a greater glory shall appear. Six hundred years before Benedict's day, on the site of the cloister of Monte Cassino stood a temple to Apollo, and just below was a grove sacred to Venus. Two hundred years before Benedict's time the Goths had done their work so well that even the walls of the temple to Apollo were razed, and the sacred grove became the home of wild beasts. To this deserted place came Benedict and eleven men, filled with a holy zeal to erect on this very spot an edifice worthy of the living God. Here the practical builder and the religious dreamer combined. If you are going to build a building, why not build upon the walls already laid and with blocks ready hewn and fashioned! The Monte Cassino monastery of Benedict rivaled in artistic beauty the temple that it replaced. Man is a building animal, and the same Creative Energy that impelled the Greeks and later the Romans to plan, devise, toil and build, now played through the good monk Benedict. His desire to create was a form of the great Cosmic Urge, that lives eternally and is building in America a finer, better and nobler religion than the world has ever seen--a Religion of Humanity--a religion of which at times Benedict caught vivid passing glimpses, as one sees at night the landscape brilliantly illumined by the lightning's flash. * * * * * The motto of Benedict was "Ecce Labora." These words were carved on the entrance to every Benedictine Monastery. The monastic idea originated in the Orient, where Nature placed no special penalty on idleness. Indeed, labor may have been a curse in Asia. Morality is crystallized expediency, and both, as we are told, are matters of geography, as well as time. And truth it is, that north of the Mediterranean idleness is the curse, not labor. The rule of Benedict was not unlike that of the Shakers, for near every monastery was a nunnery. The association of men and women, although quite limited, was better for both than their absolute separation, as with the Trappists, who regard it as a sin even to look upon the face of a woman. The thrift and industry of the Benedictines was worthy of Ann Lee and our friends at Lebanon. A man who works eight hours, with fair intelligence, and does not set out to make consumption and waste the business of his life, grows rich. Thoreau was right--an hour a day will support you. But Thoreau was wrong in supposing men work only to get food, clothing and shelter. To work only an hour a day is to evolve into a loafer. We work not to acquire, but to become. The group idea, cemented by able leadership and a religious concept, is always successful. The Mormons, Quakers, Harmonyites, Economites, and the Oneida Community, all grew very rich, and surpassed their neighbors not only in point of money, but in health, happiness, intelligence and general mental grasp. Brook Farm failed for lack of a leader with business instinct; but as it was, it divided up among its members a rich legacy of spiritual and mental assets. In family life, or what is called "Society," there is a constant danger through rivalry, not in well-doing or in human service, but in conspicuous waste and conspicuous leisure. The religious rite of feet-washing is absolutely lost, both as a rite and as an idea. In truth, "good society" is essentially predatory in its instincts. In communal life, or the life of a group, service and not waste is the watchword. This must be so, since every group, at its beginning, is held together through the thought of service. To meet and unite on a basis of jealous rivalry and sharp practise is unthinkable, for these are the things that disintegrate the group. It is an economic law that a group founded upon and practising the idea of each member giving all, wins all. Benedict's idea of "Ecce labora" made every Benedictine monastery a center of wealth. Work stops bickering, strife and undue waste. It makes for health and strength. The reward of work is not immunity from toil, but more work--an increased capacity for effort. De Tocqueville gave this recipe for success: Subdue yourself--Devote yourself. That is to say, subdue the ego to a point where it gets its gratification in concentrating on unselfish service. He who does this always succeeds, for not only is he engaged upon a plan of life in which there is little competition, but he is working in line with a divine law, the law of mutuality, which provides that all the good you do to others, you do for yourself. Benedictine monasticism leads straight to wealth and great power. The Abbot of the group became a Baron. "I took the vow of poverty, and it led to an income of twenty thousand pounds a year. I took the vow of obedience and find myself ruler of fifty towns and villages." These are the words which Sir Walter Scott puts into the mouth of an Abbot, who became a Baron through the simple law of which I have hinted. And in his novel of "The Abbot," Sir Walter gives a tragic picture of how power and wealth can be lost as well as won. Feudalism began with the rule of the monastery. Benedict was one of the world's great Captains of Industry. And like all great entrepreneurs, he won through utilizing the efforts of others. In picking his Abbots, or the men to be "father" of each particular group, he showed rare skill. These men learned from him and he learned from them. One of his best men was Cassiodorus, the man who evolved the scheme of the scriptorium. "To study eight hours a day was not enough," said Cassiodorus. "We should copy the great works of literature so that every monastery shall have a library as good as that which we have at Monte Cassino." He himself was an expert penman, and he set himself the task of teaching the monks how to write as well as how to read. "To write beautifully is a great joy to our God," he said. Benedict liked the idea, and at once put it into execution. Cassiodorus is the patron saint of every maker of books who loves his craft. The systematic work of the scriptorium originated in the brain of Cassiodorus, and he was appointed by Benedict to go from one monastery to another and inform the Abbot that a voice had come from God to Benedict saying that these precious books must be copied, and presented to those who would prize them. Cassiodorus had been a secretary of state under the Emperor Theodoric, and he had also been a soldier. He was seventy years of age when he came under the influence of Benedict, through a chance visit to Monte Cassino. Benedict at first ordered him to take an ax and work with the servants at grubbing out underbrush and preparing a field for planting. Cassiodorus obeyed, and soon discovered that there was a joy in obedience he had before never guessed. His name was Brebantus Varus, but on his declaring he was going to remain and work with Benedict, he was complimented by being given the name of Cassiodorus, suggested by the word Cassinum or Cassino. Cassiodorus lived to be ninety-two, and was one of the chief factors, after Benedict himself, in introducing the love of art and beauty among the Benedictines. Near Monte Cassino was a nunnery presided over by Scholastica, the twin sister of Benedict. Renan says that the kinship of Scholastica and Benedict was a spiritual tie, not one of blood. If so, we respect it none the less. Saint Gregory tells of the death of Benedict thus: Benedict was at the end of his career. His interview with Totila took place in Five Hundred Forty-two, in the year which preceded his death; and from his earliest days of the following year, God prepared him for his last struggle, by requiring from him the sacrifice of the most tender affection he had retained on earth. The beautiful and touching incident of the last meeting of Benedict and his twin sister, Scholastica, is a picture long to remember. At the window of his cell, three days after her death, Benedict had a vision of his dear sister's soul entering heaven in the form of a snowy dove. He immediately sent for the body and placed it in a sepulcher which he had already prepared for himself, that death might not separate those whose souls had always been united in God. The death of his sister was the signal of departure for himself. He survived her forty days. He announced his death to several of his monks, then far from Monte Cassino. A violent fever having seized him, he caused himself on the sixth day of his sickness to be carried to the chapel of Saint John the Baptist; he had before ordered the tomb in which his sister already slept to be opened. There, supported in the arms of his disciples, he received the holy Viaticum, then placing himself at the side of the open grave, but at the foot of the altar, and with his arms extended towards heaven, he died, standing, muttering a last prayer. Such a victorious death became that great soldier of God. He was buried by the side of his beloved Scholastica, in a sepulcher made on the spot where stood the altar of Apollo, which had been replaced by another to our beloved Savior. In the very year, and at the same time, that Justinian and Theodora were preparing the Justinian Code, Benedict was busy devising "The Monastic Rules." Benedict did not put his rules forth as final, but explained that they were merely expedient for their time and place. In this he was singularly modest. If one can divest himself of the thought that there was anything "holy" or "sacred" about these communal groups called "monasteries," and then read these rules, he will see that they were founded on a good knowledge of economics and a very stern commonsense. Humanity was the same a thousand years ago that it is now. Benedict had to fight inertia, selfishness and incipient paranoia, just as does the man who tries to introduce practical socialism today. A few extracts from this very remarkable Book of Rules will show the shrewd Connecticut wisdom of Benedict. To hold the dowdy, indifferent, slipshod and underdone in their proper places, so they could not disturb or destroy the peace, policy and prosperity of the efficient, was the task of Benedict. Benedict says: "Written and formal rules are necessary only because we are all faulty men, with a tendency towards selfishness and disorder. When men become wise, and also unselfish, there will be no need of rules and laws." The Book of Rules by Benedict is a volume of more than twenty thousand words. Its scope reveals an insight that will appeal to all who have had to do with socialistic experiments, not to mention the management of labor-unions. Benedict was one of the industrial leaders of the world. His life was an epoch, and his influence still abides. [Illustration: MARY BAKER EDDY] MARY BAKER EDDY The chief stones in the temple of Christian Science are to be found in the following postulates: that Life is God, good and not evil; that Soul is sinless, not to be found in the body; that Spirit is not and can not be materialized; that Life is not subject to death; that the spiritual real man has no consciousness of material life or death. --_Mary Baker Eddy_ MARY BAKER EDDY Let the fact be here stated that Mary Baker Eddy was the founder of Christian Science. This woman lived long and well. She was alert, earnest, highly intelligent, receptive. She was ever discovering. We know this because she put out a new message every little while, or modified an old one, having come in the meantime into a position to get a nearer and clearer view of the fact. The last edition of "Science and Health" is a different book from the first one. Christian Science is not a fixed, formed, fossilized, ossified structure. Possibly it may become so. But the probabilities are it will grow, expand, advance. Life and growth consist in eliminating dead matter and evolving new tissue. The institution, commercial, artistic, social, political, religious, that has ceased to grow has begun to disintegrate. Christian Scientists do not flee the world, renouncing and denouncing it. As a people they are well, happy, hopeful, enthusiastic and successful. I am fairly well informed on the history of all great religions. In degree I know the character of intellect possessed by the folks who make or made up their membership. And my opinion is, that no religion that has ever existed contained so large a percentage of intelligent people, competent, safe and sane, as does Christian Science. There is an adage to the effect that a prophet is not without honor save in his own country. In the case of Mary Baker Eddy, the adage just quoted goes awry. Mrs. Eddy as long as she lived, retained the good-will of Concord, Boston and Brookline, where she chose to make her home. Very many of the leading men and women of each of these cities are Christian Scientists. The Christian Science Church at Concord cost upwards of two hundred thousand dollars, and was the gift of Mrs. Eddy. Over the entrance, cut deep in granite, are the words, "Presented by Mary Baker Eddy, Discoverer and Founder of Christian Science." As to the argument that the truths of Christian Science have always been known and practised by a few, Mrs. Eddy issued her direct challenge. In all of her literature she set out the unqualified statement that she was "The Discoverer and the Founder." She was never apologetic; she assumed no modesty she did not feel; she spoke as one having authority, as did Moses of old, "Thus saith the Lord!" She entered into no joint debates; she did not answer back. This intense conviction which admits of no parley was one of the secrets of her power. For many years the Billingsgate Calendar was directed at her upon every possible occasion. But Mrs. Eddy won out, and legislation and courts were compelled to whistle in their hounds. Your right to keep well in your own way is now fully recognized. Doctors are not liable when they give innocent sweetened water and call it medicine, nor do we place Christian Scientists on trial if their patients die, any more than we do the M. D.'s. In fact, Mrs. Eddy influenced both of the so-called sciences of medicine and theology. Even those who are perfectly willing to deny her, and noisily discard her tenets, are debtors to her. Homeopathy modified the dose of all the Allopaths; and Christian Science has attenuated the Hahnemannian theory of attenuations, it having been found that the blank tablet often cures quite as effectively as the one that is medicated. Christian Science does not shout, rant, defy nor preach. It is poised, silent, sure, and the flagellants, like the dervishes, are noticeable by their absence. The Reverend Billy Sunday is not a Christian Scientist. The Christian Scientist does not cut into the grape; specialize on the elevated spheroid; devote his energies to bridge whist; cultivate the scandal microbe; join the anvil chorus, nor shake the red rag of wordy warfare. He is diligent in business, fervent in spirit, and accepts what comes without protest, finding it good. Mary Baker Eddy lived a human life. Through her manifold experiences she gathered gear--she was a very great and wise woman. She was so great that she kept her own counsel, received no visitors, made no calls, had no Thursday, wrote no letters, and even never went to the church that she presented to her native town. Mrs. Eddy's step was ever light, her form erect--a slender, handsome, queenly woman. When she passed on, in December, Nineteen Hundred Ten, in her ninetieth year, she looked scarce more than sixty. Her face showed experience, but not extreme age. The day I saw her, a few years before her death, she was dressed all in white satin and looked like a girl going to a ball. Her eyes were not dimmed nor her face wrinkled. Her hat was a milliner's dream; her gloves came to the elbow and were becomingly wrinkled; her form was the form of Bernhardt. Her secretary stood by the carriage-door, his head bared. He did not offer his hand to the lady nor seek to assist her into the carriage. He knew his business--a sober, silent, muscular, bronzed, farmer-like man, who evidently saw everything and nothing. He closed the carriage-door and took his seat by the side of the driver, who wore no livery. The men looked like brothers. The big, brown horses started slowly away; they wore no blinders nor check-reins--they, too, had banished fear. The coachman drove with a loose rein. The next day I waited in Concord to see Mrs. Eddy again. At exactly two-fifteen the big, brown, slow-going horses turned into Main Street. Drays pulled in to the curb, automobiles stopped, people stood on the street corners, and some--the pilgrims--uncovered. Mrs. Eddy sat back in the carriage, holding in her white-gloved hands a big spray of apple-blossoms, the same half-smile of satisfaction on her face--the smile of Pope Leo the Thirteenth. The woman was a veritable queen, and some of her devotees, not without reason, called her the Queen of the World. Some doubtless prayed to her--and may yet, for that matter. Mrs. Eddy was married three times. First, to Colonel George W. Glover, an excellent and worthy man, who was the father of her only child, a son. On the death of Glover, the child was taken by Glover's mother and secreted so effectually that his mother did not see him until he was thirty-four years old, and the father of a family. Her second husband was Daniel Patterson, who was not only a rogue but also a fool--a flashy one, who turned the head of a lone, lorn young widow, who certainly was not infallible in judgment. In two years the wife got a divorce from him, on the grounds of cruelty and desertion, at Salem, Massachusetts. Her third marital venture was Doctor Asa G. Eddy, a practising physician--a man of much intelligence and worth. From him Mrs. Eddy learned that the Science of Medicine was not much of a science after all. Mrs. Eddy used to say that her husband was her first convert; certain it is that Dr. Eddy gave up his practise to assist his wife in putting before the world the unreality of disease. That he did not fully grasp the idea is shown by the fact that he died of pneumonia. This, however, did not shake the faith of Mrs. Eddy in the doctrine that sickness was an error of mortal mind. For a good many years Mrs. Eddy drove the memory of her two good husbands tandem, hitched by a hyphen, thus: Mary Baker Glover-Eddy. Many a woman has joined her own name to that of her husband, but what woman ever before so honored the two men she had loved by coupling their names! Getting married is a bad habit, Mrs. Eddy would probably have said, but you have to get married to find it out. In Eighteen Hundred Seventy-nine, Mrs. Eddy organized the First Church of Christ, Scientist, in Boston, and became its pastor. In Eighteen Hundred Eighty-one, being then sixty years of age, she founded the Massachusetts Metaphysical College, in Boston. For fifteen years she had been speaking in public, affirming that health was our normal condition and that as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he. From her forty-fifth to her sixtieth year she was glad to speak for what was offered, although I believe that even then she had discarded the good old priestly plan of taking up a collection. The Metaphysical College was started to prepare students for teaching Mrs. Eddy's doctrines. The business ability of the woman was shown in thus organizing and allowing no one to teach who was not duly prepared. These students were obliged to pay a good stiff tuition, which fact made them appreciative. In turn they went out and taught; all students paid the tidy sum of one hundred dollars for the lessons, which fee was later cut to fifty. Salvation may be free, but Christian Science costs money. The theological genus piker, with his long, wrinkled, black coat, his collar buttoned behind, and his high hat, has been eliminated. Mrs. Eddy was manager of the best-methodized institution in the world, save only the Roman Catholic Church and the Standard Oil Company. How many million copies of "Science and Health" have been sold, no man can say. What percentage of the money from the lessons went to Mrs. Eddy, only an Armstrong Committee could ascertain, and really it was nobody's business but hers. That Mrs. Eddy had some very skilful helpers goes without saying. But here is the point--she selected them, and reigned supreme. That the student who paid fifty dollars got his money's worth, I have no doubt. Not that he understood the lessons, but he received a feeling of courage and a oneness with the whole which caused health to flow through his veins and his heart to beat with joy. The lesson might have been to him a jumble of words, but he lived in hopes that he would soon grow to a point where the lines were luminous. In the meantime, all he knew was that whereas he was once lame he could now walk. Even the most bigoted and prejudiced now agree that the cures of Christian Science are genuine. People who think they have trouble have it, and it is the same with pain. Imagination is the only sure-enough thing in the world. Mrs. Eddy's doctrines abolish pain and therefore abolish poverty, for poverty, in America at least, is a disease. Mrs. Eddy's chief characteristics were: First, Love of Beauty as manifest in bodily form, dress and surroundings. Second, A zeal for system, order and concentrated effort on the particular business she undertakes. Third, A dignity, courage, self-sufficiency and self-respect that comes from a belief in her own divinity. Fourth, An economy of time, money, materials, energy and emotion that wastes nothing, but which continually conserves and accumulates. Fifth, A liberality, when advisable, which is only possible to those who also economize. Sixth, Yankee shrewdness, great commonsense, all flavored with a dash of mysticism and indifference to physical scientific accuracy. In other words, Christian Science is a woman's science--she knows! And it is good because it is good--this is a science sound enough for anybody--I guess so! Christian Science is scientific, but not for the reasons that its promoters maintain. Male Christian Scientists do not growl and kick the cat. Women Christian Scientists do not nag. Christian Scientists do not have either the grouch or the meddler's itch. Among them there are no dolorosos, grumperinos or beggars. They respect all other denominations, having a serene faith that all will yet see the light--that is to say, adopt their doctrines. The most radical among old-school doctors could not deny that Mrs. Eddy's own life was conducted on absolutely scientific lines. She never answered the telephone, never fussed nor fumed. She hired big, safe people and paid them a big wage. She gave her coachman fifty dollars a week, and her cook in proportion, and thus secured people who gave her peace. She went to bed with the birds and awoke with the dawn. At seven o'clock she was at her desk, dictating answers to the very few letters her secretary deemed it advisable she should see. She had breakfast at nine o'clock--ate anything she liked, taking her time and fletcherizing. After breakfast she worked upon her manuscripts until it was time for the daily ride. At four o'clock she dined--two meals a day being the rule. If, however, she cared to dissipate a little and eat three meals a day, she was not afraid to do so. She knew her horses and cows and sheep by name, and gave requests as to their care, holding that the laws of mind obtain as to dumb animals the same as man. Dogs she did not care for, and if she ever had an aversion it would have been cats. Her servants she called "My helpers." Christian Scientists very naturally believe in the equality of the sexes. When girl babies are born to them they bless God, just the same as when boy babies are born. In truth they bless God for everything, for to them all is beautiful and all is good. Paid preachers they do not have; they do not believe in priests or certain men who are nearer to God than others. All have access to Eternal Truth, and thus is the ecclesiastic excluded. To eliminate the theological middleman is well, and as for the Church itself, surely Mrs. Eddy eliminated it also; for she never entered a church, or at least not more than once a year, and then it was only in deference to the architect. A Church! Is it necessary? For herself Mrs. Eddy said, No. But as for others, she said, Yes, a church is good for those who need it. Mrs. Eddy was the most successful author in the world, or, indeed, that the world has ever seen. No other writer ever made so much money as she, none is more devoutly read. Shakespeare, with his fortune of a quarter of a million dollars, fades into comparative failure; and Arthur Brisbane, with his salary of seventy-five thousand a year, is an office-boy compared with this regal woman, who gave fifty thousand dollars a year for good roads. * * * * * The valuable truths and distinguishing features of Christian Science are not to be found in Mrs. Eddy's books, but in Mrs. Eddy's life. She was a much bigger woman than she was a writer. Emerson says that every great institution is the lengthened shadow of a single man. Every great business enterprise has a soul--one man's spirit animates, pervades and tints the whole. You can go into any hotel or store, and behold! the nature or character of the owner or manager is everywhere proclaimed. You do not have to see the man, and the bigger the institution the less need is there for the man to show himself. His work proclaims him, just as a farmer's livestock all moo, whinny and squeal his virtues--or lack of them. As a boy of ten I learned to know all of our neighbors by their horses. The horses of a drunkard, blanketless, hungry, shivering, outside of the village tavern, do they not proclaim the poor, despised owner within? You can walk through the passenger-coaches of a train made up at a terminal and read the character unmistakably of the general passenger-agent. The soul of John Wesley ran through Methodism and made it what it was. The Lutheranism of Luther yet lives; Calvinism the same; and the soul of John Knox still goes marching on, carrying the Presbyterian banner. Every religion partakes of the nature of its founder, until this religion is mixed with that of another and its character lost, as happened to the religion of Christ when it was launched by Paul and was finally fused with Paganism by the Roman Emperor, Constantine. Christian Science is as yet the lengthened shadow of Mary Baker Eddy. Her own immediate, personal pupils are still teaching, and her life and characteristics impressed upon them are given out to each and all. Every phase of life is solved by answering the question, "What would Mrs. Eddy do?" Mrs. Eddy's ideas about dress, housekeeping, business, food, health, the management of servants, the care of children--all are blended into a composite, and this composite is the Christian Scientist as we see and know him. The fact that Mrs. Eddy was methodical, industrious, economical, persevering, courageous, hopeful, helpful, neat in her attire and smiling, makes all Christian Scientists exactly so. She did not play cards and indulge in the manifold silliness of so-called good society, and neither do they. Indeed, that one thing which has been referred to as "the plaster-of-Paris smile," the one feature in Christian Science to which many good people object, is the direct legacy of Mrs. Eddy to her pupils. "Science and Health" says nothing about it; no edict has been put forth recommending it; but all good Christian Scientists take it on--the smile that refuses to vacate the premises. And to some it is certainly very becoming. Mrs. Eddy's self-reliant, silent, smiling personality has given the key to conduct for the hundreds of thousands of people who love her and revere her memory. Mrs. Eddy was a rare good listener. She did not argue. Once upon a time, indeed, she was guilty of waving the red flag of wordy warfare; but the passing of the years brought her wisdom, and then her only answer to impatience was the quiet smile. As for eating, her table always had enough, but it stopped short of surfeit; the service was dainty, and all these things are now seen in the homes of Christian Scientists. Always in the home of a good Christian Scientist the bathroom is as complete as the library, and both are models of good housekeeping, seemingly always in order for the inspection committee. Mrs. Eddy did not say much about hot water, soap and clean towels; but the idea, regardless of the non-existence of matter, is fixed in the consciousness of every Christian Scientist that absolute bodily cleanliness, fresh linen and fresh air are not only next to godliness, but elements of it. All of which you could never work out of "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" in a lifetime of study, any more than you could mine and smelt the Westminster Catechism out of the Bible. The vital truths of right living come to us as a precious heritage from the character of this great woman. She, herself, perhaps may not have known this; but before she wrote her book and formulated her religion, she lived her life. Her book was an endeavor to explain her life, and as her life grew better, stronger and more refined, she changed her book. Her book reacted on her life, and the person who got the most good out of "Science and Health" was Mary Baker Eddy herself. "Science and Health" is mystical and beautifully human. The author's oar often fails to catch the water. For instance, she tries to show that animal magnetism, spiritualism, mental science, theosophy, agnosticism, pantheism and infidelity are all bad things and opposed to the science of "true being." This statement presupposes that animal magnetism, infidelity, theosophy and agnosticism are specific entities or things, whereas they are only labels that are clapped quite indiscriminately on empty casks or full ones; and the contents of the casks may be sea-water or wine, and are really unknown to both mortal and divine mind, whatever these things are. Theosophists like Annie Besant, Spiritualists like Alfred Russel Wallace, Agnostics like Huxley and Ingersoll, are very noble and beautiful people. They are good neighbors and useful citizens. "Science and Health" is an attempt to catch and hold in words the secrets of an active, honest, healthful, seeking, restless, earnest life, and as such is more or less of a failure. Our actions are right, but our reasons seldom are. Christian Science as a plan of life, embodying the great yet simple virtues, is beautiful. "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" does not explain the Scriptures. The book, as an attempt to explain and crystallize truth, is a failure. It ranks with that great mass of literature, written and copied at such vast pains and expense, bearing the high-sounding title, "Writings of the Saints." * * * * * All publishers are familiar with inspired manuscripts. Such work always has one thing in common--unintelligibility. Good literature is lucid to the average mind. In fact, that is its distinguishing feature. We understand what the man means. No able writer uses the same word over and over with varying sense. Alfred Henry Lewis and William Marion Reedy use the mortal mind, and their work is understandable. You can sit in judgment on their conclusions and weigh, sift and decide for yourself. They make an appeal to your intellect. But you can not sit in judgment on "Science and Health," because its language is not the language we use in our common, every-day intercourse with one another. It speaks of Christ as a person, a principle, a spirit, a motive; as "Truth"; as one who was born of one parent or no parents; who lived, died, or never lived, never was born, and can not die. Metaphysics is an attempt to explain a thing and thereby evade the trouble of understanding it. You throw the burden of proof on the other fellow--and make him believe he does not comprehend because he is too stupid. This is not fair! Language is simply an agreement between people that certain vocal sounds, or written symbols, shall stand for certain ideas, thoughts or things. Inspired writers string intelligent words together in an unintelligent manner, and thereby give the reader an opportunity to read anything into them that his preconceived thoughts may dictate. Metaphysical gibberish is a rudimentary survival of the practise of reading to the people in a dead language. The doctors continue the plan by writing prescriptions in Latin. I once worked in a studio where the boys scraped their palette-knives on a convenient board. One day we took the board out and had it framed under glass, with a double, deep-shadow box. We gave it the best place in the studio and labeled it, "A Sunset at Sea--an Impression in Monochrome." The picture attracted much attention and great admiration from certain symbolists. It also created so much controversy that we were obliged to take it down in the interests of amity. To assume that God inspired the Scriptures, and did the work so ill that, after more than two thousand years, it was necessary to inspire another person to make a "Key" to them, is hardly worthy of our serious attention. If God, being all-wise, all-powerful and all-loving, turns author, why does He produce work so muddy that it requires a "Key"? Individuals may use a code that requires a "Key," because they wish to keep their matter secret from others. There may be for them a penalty on truth, but why Deity should write in a secret language, and then wait two thousand years before making the matter plain, and then to one single woman in Boston, is incomprehensible. What the world wants now is a Key to "Science and Health." In reading a book, the question that interests us is not, "Is it inspired?" but, "Is it true?" Mrs. Eddy's ranks are recruited almost entirely from Orthodox Christianity. On page six hundred eight of "Science and Health," pocket edition of Nineteen Hundred Six, a lawyer gives testimony to the good he has gotten from Christian Science, and explains that he has long been a member of the Episcopal Church. He is delighted to know that he has not had to relinquish any of his old faith, but has simply kept the old and added to it the new. This explains, in great degree, the popularity of Christian Science. People cling to the religious superstitions into which they were born. Mrs. Eddy's recruits were not from theosophy, spiritualism, agnosticism, unitarianism, universalism or infidelity. You can't give a freethinker a book with a statement of what he must find in it. He has acquired the habit of thinking for himself. Mrs. Eddy had no faith in Darwin, Spencer or Haeckel. She quoted Moses, Jesus and Paul to disprove the evolutionists, sat back and smiled content, innocently unaware that citations from Scriptures are in no sense proof to free minds. All of the Bible she wished to waive, she did. The cruelty and bestiality of Jehovah were nothing to her. Her "Key" does not unlock the secrets of Deuteronomy and Leviticus, nor does it shed light on the doctrines of eternal punishment, the vicarious atonement, or the efficacy of baptism as a saving ordinance. Explanations about mortal mind, divine mind and human mind, citing specific errors of the human mind, with a calm codicil to the effect that the human mind has no existence, are not what you might call illuminating literature. The stuff is simply "inspired." Mrs. Eddy was very wise in not allowing her "readers" or followers to sermonize or explain her writings. These writings are simply to be read. And so the hearers sit steeped in mist and wrapped in placidity, returning to their work rested and refreshed, without being influenced in any way, save by the soothing calm of forceful fog and mental vacuity. The rest and relief from all thought is good. The related experiences of Christian Scientists are the things that convince and carry weight, not "Science and Health." "Science and Health" was made to sell. It was not given to you to be understood: it was to be bought and believed. If you doubt any portion of it, at once you are told that this is the work of your mortal mind, which is filled with error. Good Christian Scientists do not try to understand "Science and Health"--they just accept and believe it. "It is inspired," they say, "so it must be true--you will know when you are worthy to know." And so we see our old friend Intellectual Tyranny come back in another form, not with cowl and cape, but tricked out with feminine finery and jewelry and gems that lure and dazzle. There is one thing quite as valuable as health, and that is intellectual integrity. To say, "Oh, 'Science and Health' is certainly inspired--just see how old Mrs. Johnson was cured of the rheumatism!" is not reasoning. And it has given the scoffers excuse for calling it woman's logic. Such reasoning is on the plane of, "Why, Jesus must have been the only begotten son of God, born of a virgin, for if you don't believe it, just see the hospitals, orphan asylums and homes for the aged that Christianity has built!" Mrs. Johnson was surely cured of the rheumatism all right, but that does not prove that Mrs. Eddy is correct in her claim that Eve was made from Adam's rib; that agamogenesis is a fact in Nature; that to till the soil will not always be necessary; that human life in these bodies will have no end; and that an absent person can poison your health and happiness through malicious animal magnetism; or that a good person can give you absent treatment and cure your indigestion. I agree with Mrs. Eddy as to the necessity of eliminating a medical fetish, but I disagree with her about religiously preserving a theological one. I have read "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" for twenty years, and I have also read the Scriptures for a much longer period. Also, I have lived in the same house for many months with very intelligent Christian Scientists. And after mature consideration I regard both the Scriptures and "Science and Health" as largely made up of the errors of mortal mind. My intuitions are just as valuable to me as Mrs. Eddy's were to her. My conscience is quite as sacred to me as hers was to her. And in being an agnostic I object to being classed as blind, stubborn, wilful, malicious and degenerate. We should honor our Creator by cleaving to the things that seem to us to be true, and not abandon the rudder of our minds to any man or any woman, be they living or dead. Let us not be dishonest with ourselves, even to rid us of our physical diseases. As for health, I have all of it that Christian Science ever gave or can give. I have no "testimony" of healing to relate, for I have never been sick an hour. And I think I know how I have kept well. I make no secret of it. It is all very simple--nothing miraculous. My knowledge of how to keep well is not inspired knowledge, save as all men are inspired who study and know the Laws of Nature. Health, after all, is largely a matter of habit. * * * * * Back of the reading-desks, in the "Mother Church," at Boston, are quotations from Paul and Mrs. Eddy, side by side. But the quotation from Paul, which is behind the desk of the woman reader, is not this: "Let women keep silence in the churches." Mrs. Eddy believed the Scriptures are all true, word for word. Yet when she quoted Paul she picked the thing she wanted and avoided all that did not apply to her case. Personally, I like the plan. I do it myself. But I do not believe the Scriptures are inspired by an all-wise Deity. So far as I know, all books were written by men, and very often by faulty, human men at that. Mrs. Eddy's "Key" does not unlock anything; and she did not try to unlock any passages except the passages that seemingly had a bearing on her belief. That is, Mrs. Eddy believed things first, and then skirmished for proof. This is a very old plan. Says Shakespeare: "In religion what damned error but some somber brow will bless it and approve it with a text, hiding the grossness thereof with fair ornament." Let no one read "Science and Health" in the hope of finding in it simple and sensible statements concerning life and its duties. They are not there. I append a few quotations, and in mentioning the page I refer to the pocket or "Oxford" edition of Nineteen Hundred Six. On page one hundred eighty-three of "Science and Health" I find, "The Scriptures inform us that sin, or error, first caused the condemnation of man to till the ground, and indicate that obedience to God will remove this necessity." Mrs. Eddy evidently believed that work is a punishment, and that the day will come when God will remove the necessity of farming and making garden. Can a sane person reply to such lack of logic? On page five hundred forty-seven is this: "If one of the statements in this book is true, every one must be true, for not one departs from its system and rule. You can prove for yourself, dear reader, the Science of healing, and so ascertain if the author has given you the correct interpretation of Scripture." This is evidently inspired by Paul's quibble, "If the dead rise not from the grave, then is our religion vain." Lincoln once referred to this kind of reasoning by saying, "I object to the assumption that my ambition is to have my son marry a negress, simply because I am struggling for emancipation." Mrs. Eddy may heal you, but that does not prove that her interpretation of Scripture is true. Because this happens, that does not necessarily follow. Neither, because a thing precedes a thing or goes with a thing, is the thing the cause of the thing. On page five hundred fifty-three is this: "Adam was created before Eve. Herein it is seen that the maternal egg never brought forth Adam. Eve was formed from Adam's rib, not from a fetal ovum." In reading things like this in "Science and Health," let us not be too severe on Mrs. Eddy, but just bear in mind that such silly superstitions and barbaric folklore are yet officially believed by all orthodox clergymen and members of orthodox churches. You can accept a belief in Adam's fall and the vicarious atonement and still make money and have good health. Page one hundred two: "The mild forms of animal magnetism are disappearing, and its aggressive features are coming to the front. The looms of crime, hidden in the dark recesses of mortal thought, are every hour weaving webs more complicated and subtle. So secret are its present methods that they ensnare the age into indolence, and produce the very apathy on this subject which the criminal desires." This passage reveals the one actually dangerous thing in Christian Science--the fallacy that one mind can weave a web that will work the undoing of another. This is the basis of a belief in witchcraft, and justifies the hangings at Salem. On page one hundred three I find this: "As used in Christian Science, animal magnetism or hypnotism is the specific term for error, or mortal mind." "It is the false belief that mind is in matter, and both evil and good; that evil is as real as goodness, and more powerful. This belief has not one quality of truth or good. It is either ignorant or malicious. The malicious form of animal magnetism ultimates in moral idiocy. The truths of immortal mind sustain man; and they annihilate the fables and mortal mind, whose flimsy and gaudy pretensions, like silly moths, singe their own wings and fall into dust. In reality there is no mortal mind, and consequently no transference of mortal thought and will-power." Page five hundred two: "Spiritually followed, the book of Genesis is the history of the untrue image of God, named a sinful mortal. This deflection of being, rightly viewed, serves the spiritual actuality of man, as given in the first chapter of Genesis. When the crude forms of human thought take on higher symbols and significations, the scientifically Christian views of the universe will appear, illuminating time with the glory of eternity." I append these two passages simply as samples of "inspired literature." Any one who tries to understand such printed matter is headed for Bloomingdale. You must leave it alone absolutely or else accept it and read it with your mental eyes closed, mumbling it with your lips, and let your mind roam like a priest reading his breviary in the smoking-apartment of a Pullman car. The question then arises, "Was Mrs. Eddy sincere in putting forth such writings?" And the answer is, she was most certainly sincere, and she was certainly sane. She was an honest woman. But she was not a clear or logical thinker, except on matters of finance and business, and consequently she did not give forth a clear expression when she essayed philosophy. In order to write lucidly you must think lucidly. Mrs. Eddy had no sense of literary values. She was absolutely devoid of humor, and humor is only the ability to detect a little thing from a big one--to perceive a wrong adjustment from a right one. Style in literature is taste. But the lack of style, taste and humor is general in mankind. The world has produced only a few great thinkers, and one of them was Darwin, a name which Mrs. Eddy mentioned in "Science and Health" with reproach. Great writers are even more rare than great thinkers, because to write one must have the ability not only to think clearly, but the knack or technical skill to use the right word, the luminous word, and so arrange, paragraph and punctuate them that your meaning will be clear to average minds. To say that Mrs. Eddy was not a thinker nor a writer, is not an indictment of the woman, although it may be a reflection on the mental processes of the people who think she was. To say that there are two million people reading Mrs. Eddy, also proves nothing, since numbers are no vindication. Over a hundred million people have kissed the big toe of Saint Peter in Rome. And surely the Roman Catholic Church contains a vast number of highly educated people. The things you do not know, you do not know. And Mrs. Eddy, knowing nothing of literary style, knew nothing of literary art. Her prose and her poetry are worse than ordinary. All inspirational poetry I ever read is rot, and all inspired paintings I ever saw are daubs. Mrs. Eddy should not be blamed for her limitations. Many people who are great in certain lines labor under the hallucination that they are also great in others. Matthew Arnold was a great writer, and he also thought he was a great orator. But when he spoke, his words simply fell over the footlights into the orchestra and died there. He could not reach the front row. Most comedians want to play Hamlet, and all of us have heard girls attempt to sing who thought they could sing, and who were encouraged in the hallucination by their immediate kinsfolk. Mrs. Eddy thought she could write, and unfortunately she was corroborated in her error by the applause of people who, not being able to read her book, kindly attributed the inability to their own limitations and not to hers, being prompted in this by the suggestion oft repeated by Mrs. Eddy, herself. The resemblance of Mrs. Eddy's thought to that of Jesus was never noticed until Mrs. Eddy first explained the matter. Mrs. Eddy was by no means insane. Swedenborg was a civil engineer and a mathematician. He wrote forty books that are nearly as opaque as "Science and Health." If you write stupidly enough, some one will surely throw up his cap and cry "Great!" And others will follow the example and take up the shout, because it is much easier, as Doctor Johnson affirmed, to praise a book than to read and understand it. The custom of reading to a congregation in a dead or foreign language, which the listeners do not understand, has never caused any general protest from the listeners. The scoffers are the only ones who have ever noticed the incongruity, and they do not count, since they probably would not attend, anyway. Next to reading from a book written in the dead language, is to read from a book that is unintelligible. To listen to such makes no tax upon the intellect, and with the right accessories is soporific, restful, pleasing and to be commended. If it does not supply an idea, it at least imparts a feeling. Mrs. Eddy's success in literature arose from the extreme muddiness of her thinking and her opacity in expression. If she had written fairly well, her mediocrity would have been apparent to every one; but writing absolutely without rhyme or reason, we bow before her supreme assurance. The strongest element in men is inertia--we agree rather than fight about it. We want health--and health is what Mrs. Eddy gives to us--therefore, "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" is the greatest book in the whole world. Sancta simplicitas! Why not, indeed! * * * * * People turn to Mrs. Eddy's book for relief just exactly as they formerly went to the doctor for the same reason. In addition to bodily health, Mrs. Eddy gives joy, hope, worldly success; and even superior minds, seeing these practical results of Christian Science, move in the line of least resistance and are quite willing to accept the book, not troubled at all about its medieval reasoning. In Ungania is a very great merchant who, not content with having the biggest store in the Kingdom, aspires to the biggest University. The fact that the higher criticism is to him only a trivial matter, and really unworthy of the serious attention of a busy man, simply reveals human limitation. The specialist is created at a terrific cost, and that a person will be practical, shrewd, diplomatic and wise in managing the buying public and an army of employees, and yet know and love Walt Whitman, is too much to expect. This keen and successful merchant, an absolute tyrant in certain ways, has his soft side and many pleasant qualities. Why any one should ever question the literal truth of the Bible is beyond his comprehension. He is convinced that "Leaves of Grass" is an obscene book, never having read it; yet he knows nothing about the third, eleventh and thirteenth chapters of Second Samuel, having read the Book all his life. He has a pitying, patronizing smile for any one who suggests that David was a very faulty man, and that possibly Solomon was not the wisest person that ever lived. "What difference does it make, anyway?" he testily asks. If you work for him you have to agree with him, or else be very silent as to what you actually believe. We often find an avowed and reiterated love for Jesus, the non-resistant, going hand in hand with a passion for war, a miser's greed, a lust for power and a thirst for revenge. There may be a prating about righteousness while the hand of the man is feeling for his sword-hilt, and his eye is locating your jugular. The Ten Commandments are all rescinded in war time. The New York "Evening Post" noted the peculiar fact that nine out of ten of the delegates at The Hague International Peace Conference were theological heretics. As a rule, Orthodox Christians stand for war, and also for capital punishment. How do we explain these inconsistencies? We do not try to: they are simply facts in the partial development of the race. Why millionaires should patronize the memory of Jesus is something no one can understand, save that things work by antithesis. Mrs. Eddy was of the same shrewd, practical type as the merchant prince just mentioned. She was the greatest woman-general of her day and generation. She possessed all the qualities that go to make successful leadership. She was self-reliant, proud, arrogant, implacable in temper, rapid in decision, unbending, shrewd, diplomatic--and a good hater. At times she dismissed her critics with simply a look. No man could dictate to her, and few dared make suggestions in her presence. To move her, the matter had to be brought to her attention in a way that led her to believe that she had discovered it herself. And of course all the credit went to her. In all Christian Science churches are various selections from her writings, and beneath every one is her name. "Thou shalt have no other gods before me!" is the one controlling edict breathed forth by her life and words. One of her orders was that whenever one of her hymns was announced, always and forever it must be stated that it was written by Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy. Always and forever, the "student" giving testimony refers, in terms of lavish praise and fulsome adulation, to "Our Blessed Teacher, Guide and Exemplar, Mary Baker Eddy." God Almighty and Jesus occupy secondary positions in all Christian Science meetings. Mrs. Eddy is mentioned five times to where they are once. And I would not criticize this if Mrs. Eddy had but regarded Jesus as simply a great man in history and "God" as an abstract term referring to the Supreme Intelligence in Nature. But to her, God and Jesus were persons who dictated books, and very frequently she was careful to explain that her method of healing was exactly the same as that practised by Jesus. Side by side with His words are hers. Passages from the Bible are read alternately with passages from "Science and Health." If both were regarded as mere literature, this would be pardonable, but when we are told that both are "sacred" writ, and "damned be he who dares deny or doubt," we are simply lost in admiration for the supreme egotism of the lady. To get mad about it were vain--let us all smile. Surely the imagination that can trace points of resemblance between Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy and Jesus, the lowly peasant of Nazareth, is admirable. Jesus was a communist in principle, having nothing, giving everything. He carried neither scrip nor purse. He wrote nothing. His indifference to place, pelf and power is His distinguishing characteristic. Mrs. Eddy's love of power was the leading motive of her life; her ability to bargain was beautiful; her resorts to law and the subtleties of legal aid were all strictly modern; and the way she tied up the title to her writings by lead-pipe-cinched copyrights reveals the true instincts of Connecticut. This jealousy of her rights and the safeguarding of her interests were among the emphatic features of her life, and set her apart as the antithesis of Jesus. There is one character in history, however, to whom Mrs. Eddy bore a close resemblance--and that is Julius Cæsar, who was educated for the priesthood, became a priest, and was Pope of Rome before he ventured into fighting and politics as a business. Mrs. Eddy's faith in herself, her ability to decide, her quick intuitions, the method and simplicity of her life, her passion for power, her pleasure in authorship--all these were the traits which exalted the name and fame of Cæsar. The inventor of the calendar ordered that it should be known as the "Julian Calendar," and it is so called, even unto this day. Once Carlyle sat smoking with Milburn, the blind preacher. They had been discussing the historicity of Jesus. Then they sat smoking in silence. Finally, Tammas the Techy knocked the ashes out of his long clay t. d. and muttered, half to himself and half to Milburn, "Ah, a great mon, a great mon--but he had his limitations!" The same remark can truthfully be applied to Mrs. Eddy. And about the only point that Jesus and Mrs. Eddy have in common is this matter mentioned by Carlyle. The superior shrewdness and the keen business instinct of Mrs. Eddy are seen in the use of the words "Christian" and "Science." The sub-title, "With Key to the Scriptures," is particularly alluring. And the use of the Oxford binding was the crowning stroke of commercial insight. Surely Mrs. Eddy must command our profound respect. She was undoubtedly a very great business genius, to say the very least. * * * * * When John Henry Newman became a Catholic, he gave as a reason for his decision that he had found no place in literature or art to rest his head. His reward for not finding a place in literature or art for his head was the red hat. Let the followers of Mrs. Eddy take comfort in that their great teacher had plenty of high precedent for believing that Adam was created by fiat, and Eve was made from his rib, all the fiat being used; that Joshua commanded the sun to stand still and it obeyed, even when the order should have been given to the earth; that Lazarus was raised from the dead after his body had become putrid; that witchcraft is a fact in Nature; and that children can be born with the aid of one parent a little better than in the old-fashioned way--parthenogenesis, I think they call it. These inconsistencies of absolute absurdity, existing side by side with great competence and sanity, are to be found everywhere in history. Mrs. Eddy excited the envy of the medical world in her demonstration that good health and happiness are the sure results of getting rid of the doctor habit; but they got even with her when she said that virgin motherhood would yet become the rule, and tilling of the soil would cease to be a necessity. Saint Augustine thought, as did most of the early Churchmen, that to do evil that good might follow was not only justifiable, but highly meritorious. So they preached hagiology to scare people into the narrow path of rectitude. Chapman, Alexander, Torrey, Billy Sunday and most other professional evangelists believe in and practise the same doctrine. The literary conscience was a thing known in Greece, but only recently, say within two hundred years, has it been again manifest, and as yet it is rare. It consists in the scorn and absolute refusal to write a line except that which stands for truth. The artistic conscience that refuses to paint for hire or model on order is the same. Wagner, Millet, Rembrandt, William Morris and Ruskin are examples of men who were incapable of anything but their highest and best creative work, and refused to truckle to the mercenary horde. Such men may be without conscience in a business way. And a person may be absolutely moral in all his acts of life, except in writing and talking, and here he may be slipshod and uncertain. Mrs. Eddy was beautifully lacking in the literary conscience, just as much so as was Gladstone when he attempted to reply to Ingersoll in "The North American Review," and resorted to sophistry and evasion in lieu of logic. Absolute truth to Gladstone was a matter of indifference--expediency was his shibboleth. Truth to Mrs. Eddy was also a secondary matter; the only things that really mattered were Health and Success. Health and Success are undoubtedly great things and well worthy of possession, but I wish to secure them only through the expression of truth. If you gag my tongue, chain my pen and cry, "Believe and you will have Health," I would say, "Give me liberty or give me death!" Christian Scientists ask you to buy Mrs. Eddy's book, "Science and Health." When the volume is handed you, you are promised health and success if you believe its every word; and if you don't, you are threatened with "moral idiocy." It is the old promise of Paradise and the threat of Hell in a new guise. As for me, I decline the book. * * * * * Stephen Girard was a great merchant who had a great love of truth; but if he had been in a retail business, his zeal for truth might have been slightly modified. As a rule, the world of humanity can be divided into two parts: the practical men and the searchers for truth. Usually the latter have nothing to lose but their head. Spinoza, Galileo, Bruno, Thomas Paine, Walt Whitman, Henry Thoreau, Bronson Alcott, are the pure type. Then come Theodore Parker and Ralph Waldo Emerson, crowded out of their pulpits, scorned by their Alma Mater, pitied by the public--yet holding true to their course. And lo! they grew rich; whereas, if they had stuck close to the shore and safety, they would have been drowned in the shallows of oblivion. On the other hand, we find in, say, the directorate of the Standard Oil Company, many men who are zealous members of the orthodox churches, giving large sums in support of the "gospel," and taking an active interest in its promulgation. All of them say, with the late Mr. Morgan, "My mother's religion is good enough for me." So here we get practical shrewdness combined with minds that, so far as abstract truth is concerned, are simply prairie-dog towns. These men belong to a type that will cling to error as long as it is soft, easy and popular. Most certainly these men are not fools--they are highly competent and useful in their way. But as for superstition, they find it soothing; it saves the trouble of thinking, and all their energies are needed in business. Religion, to them, is a social diversion, with a chance of salvation on the side. Inertia does not grip them when it comes to commerce--but in religion it does. Lincoln once said that there was just one thing, and only one thing, that God Almighty could not understand: and that was the workings of the mind of an intelligent American juror. Herbert Spencer says that Sir Isaac Newton was one of the six best educated men the world has seen. He was the first man to resolve light into its constituent elements. Voltaire says that when Newton discovered the Law of Gravitation he excited the envy of the scientific world. "But," adds Voltaire, "when he wrote a book on the Bible prophecies, the men of science got even with him." Sir Isaac Newton defended the literal inspiration of the Scriptures and was a consistent member of the Church of England. Doctor Johnson was unhappy all day if he didn't touch every tenth picket of the fence with his cane as he walked downtown. Blackstone, the great legal commentator, believed in witchcraft, and bolstered his belief by citing the Scriptural text, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live"--thus proving Moses a party to the superstition. Sir Matthew Hale, Chief Justice of England, did the same. Gladstone was a great statesman, and yet he believed in the Mosaic account of Creation, just as did Mary Baker Eddy. John Adams was a rebel from political slavery, but lived and died a worthy Churchman, subsisting on canned theology--and canned in England, at that. Franklin and Jefferson were rebels from both political and theological despotism, but looked leniently on leeches and apothecaries. Herbert Spencer had a free mind as regards religion, politics, economics and sociology; yet he was a bachelor, lived in the city, belonged to a club, played billiards and smoked cigars. Physical health was out of his reach, and with all his vast knowledge, he never knew why. All through history we find violence and gentleness, ignorance and wisdom, folly and shrewdness side by side in the same person. The one common thing in humanity is inconsistency. To account for it were vain. We know only that it is. * * * * * The very boldness of Mrs. Eddy's claims created an impetus that carried conviction. The woman certainly believed in herself, and she also believed in the Power, of which she was a necessary part, that works for righteousness. She repudiated the supernatural, not by denying "miracles," but by holding that the so-called miracles of the Bible really occurred and were perfectly natural--all according to Natural Law, which is the Divine Law. And the explanation of this Divine Law was her particular business. Thus did she win to her side those who were too timid in constitution to forsake forms and ceremonies and stand alone on the broad ground of Rationalism. Christian Science is not a religion of fight, stress and struggle. Isn't it better to relax and rest and allow Divinity to flow through us, than to sit on a sharp rail and call the passer-by names in falsetto? May Irwin's motto, "Don't Argufy," isn't so bad as a working maxim, after all. All Christian denominations are very much alike. Their differences are microscopic, and recognized only by those who are immersed in them. Martin Luther only softened the expression of the Roman Catholic Church--he did not change its essence. Benjamin Franklin declared that he could not tell the difference between a Catholic and an Episcopalian. But Christian Science is a complete departure from all other denominations, and while professing to be Christian, is really something else, or if it is Christian, then orthodoxy is not. Christian Science strikes right at the root of orthodoxy, since it divides the power of Jesus with Mary Baker Eddy and affirms that Jesus was not "The Savior," but A Savior. This is the position of Thomas Paine, and all other good radicals. Christian Science places Mrs. Eddy's work right alongside of the Bible. No denomination has ever put out a volume stating that the book was required in order to make the Bible intelligible. No denomination has ever put forth a person as the equal of Jesus. This has only been done by unbelievers, atheists and free-thinkers. Christianity is at last attacked in its own house and by its own household. It is thoroughly understood and admitted everywhere that there are two kinds of Christianity. One is the kind taught by the Nazarene; and the other is the institutional variety, made up of denominations which hold millions upon millions of dollars' worth of property without taxation, and parade their ritual with rich and costly millinery. The one was lived by a Man who had not where to lay His head; and the other is an acquirement taken over from pagan Rome, and continued largely in its pagan form even unto this day. Christian Science is neither one nor the other, and the obvious pleasantry that it is neither Christian nor scientific is a jest in earnest. Christian Science is a modern adaptation of all that is best in the simplicity and asceticism of Jesus, the commonsense philosophy of Benjamin Franklin, the mysticism of Swedenborg, and the bold pronunciamento of Robert Ingersoll. It is a religion of affirmation with a denial-of-matter attachment. It is a religion of this world. Jesus was a Man of Sorrows but Mary Baker Eddy was a Daughter of Joy. And as the universal good sense of mankind holds that the best preparation for a life to come, if there is one, is to make the best of this, Christian Science is meeting with a fast-growing popular acceptance. The decline of the old orthodoxy is owing to its clinging to the fallacy that the world's work is base, and Nature is a trickster luring us to our doom. Mrs. Eddy reconciled the old idea with the new and made it mentally palatable. And this is the reason why Christian Science is going to sweep the earth and in twenty years will have but one competitor, the Roman Catholic faith. Orthodoxy, blind, blundering, stubborn, senile, is tottering--the undertaker is at the door. Indeed, the old idea of our orthodox friends that they were preparing to die, was literally true. The undertaker's name and business address attached to the front of many a city church is a sign too subtle to overlook. Not only was the undertaker a partner of the priest, but he is now foreclosing his claim. Christian Science is not final. After it has lived its day, another religion will follow, and that is the Religion of Commonsense, the esoteric religion which Mrs. Eddy herself lived and practised. As for her believers, she gave them the religion of a Book--two Books, the Bible and "Science and Health." They want form and ritual and temples. She gave them these things, just as doctors give sweetened water to people who still demand medicine; and as if to supply the zealous converts, just out of orthodoxy, their fill of ecclesiastic husks, she built fine churches--churches rivaling the far-famed San Salute of Venice. Let them have their wish! Paganism is in their blood--they are even trying to worship her! Let them go on and eventually they will pray not in temples nor on this or that mountain, but in spirit and in truth, just as did Mrs. Eddy, one of the world's most successful women. * * * * * Christian Science is orthodox Christianity, minus medical fetish and the fear that a belief in sin, sickness, death and eternal punishment naturally lends, plus the joy of a natural, healthy, human life. The so-called rational Christian sects preserve their Devil in the form of a Doctor, and Hell in the shape of a Hospital. My hope and expectation is that Christian Science will become a Rational Religion instead of a one-man institution, or a religion of authority, such as it now is. Its superstitious features have doubtless been strong factors in its rapid growth--serving as stays or stocks to aid in the launching. But now, the sooner the ship floats free the better. Christian Scientists, being men and women, can not continue to grow if fettered with an Index Expurgatorius and mandatory edicts and encyclicals. That which binds and manacles must go--the good will remain. Christian Science brings good news, and good news is always curative. Mrs. Eddy animated her patients with a new thought--the thought of harmony, the denial of disease, and the affirmation that God is good and life is beautiful. The animation thus produced is in itself the most powerful healing principle known to science. Life is born of love. Joy is a prophylactic. Christian Science comes to the "student" as a great flood of light. His circulation becomes normal, his muscles relax, the nerves rest, digestion acts, elimination takes place--and the person is well. Fear has congested the organs--love, hope and faith place them in an attitude so Nature plays through them. The patient is healed. In it there is neither mystery nor miracle. It is all very simple. Let us rid ourselves of a belief in the strange and occult! The Christian Science organization is an expediency. It is an intellectual crutch. The book is a necessity. It is a scaffolding. Yet he who mistakes the scaffolding for the edifice is a specialist in scaffolding. Truth can never be caught and crystallized in a formula. Also this: truth can never be monopolized by an "ite" or an "ist." Eventually the label will be eliminated with the scaffolding, and the lumber of ritual and rite will have to go. We will live truth instead of talking about it. Among Christian Scientists there are no drunkards, paupers or gamblers. Also, there are no sick people. To them sickness is a disgrace. Orthodox Christians get sick and gratify their sense of approbation by receiving pastoral calls and visits from the doctor and neighbors. The biblical injunction to visit the sick was never followed by Mrs. Eddy--she always decided for herself just what injunctions should be waived and what followed. Those which she did not like she interpreted spiritually or else glided over. The biblical statement that man's days are few and full of trouble, and also the assertion that man is prone to wickedness as the sparks fly upwards, are both very conveniently glossed. Christian Scientists know the rules of health, just as most people do; but what is more, they follow them, thus avoiding the disgrace of being pointed out. They have made sickness not only tabu, but invalidism ridiculous. When things become absurd and preposterous, we abandon them. Unpopularity can do what logic is helpless to bring about. The reasoning of Christian Scientists is bad, but their intuitions are right. While denying the existence of matter, no people on earth are as canny, save possibly the Quakers. A bank-balance to a Christian Scientist is no barren ideality. It is like falsehood to a Jesuit--a very present help in time of trouble. Sin, to them, consists in making too much fuss about life and talking about death. Do what you want and forget it. Quit talking about the weather, night air, miasma. Knowingly or unknowingly Christian Scientists cultivate resiliency. They are proof against drafts and microbes. Eat what you like, but not too much of it. Be moderate. Christian Scientists get their joy out of their work. This is essentially hygienic. They breathe deeply, eat moderately, bathe plentifully, work industriously--and smile. This is all sternly scientific. It can never be argued down. No school of medicine has ever offered a prophylactic equal to work and good-cheer, and no system of religion has ever offered a working formula for health, happiness and success equal to that launched by Mrs. Eddy. The science of medicine is a science of palliation. Christian Scientists avoid the cause of sickness, and thus keep well. There is no vitality in drugs. Nature cures--obey her. In this matter of bodily health just a few plain rules suffice. And these rules, fairly followed, soon grow into a pleasurable habit. Fortunately, we do not have to oversee our digestion, our circulation, the work of the millions of pores that form the skin, or the action of the nerves. Folks who get fussy about their digestion and assume personal charge of their nerves have "nerves" and are apt to have no digestion. "I have a pain in my side," said the woman who had no money to the busy doctor. "Forget it," was the curt advice. Get the Health Habit, and forget it. This is the quintessence of Christian Science. Your mental attitude controls your body. Happiness is your health. There is no devil but fear. As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he. * * * * * SO HERE ENDETH "LITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES OF GREAT TEACHERS," BEING VOLUME TEN OF THE SERIES, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD; EDITED AND ARRANGED BY FRED BANN; BORDERS AND INITIALS BY ROYCROFT ARTISTS, AND PRODUCED BY THE ROYCROFTERS, AT THEIR SHOPS, WHICH ARE IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW YORK, MCMXXII 
21219	----	A VOICE in the WILDERNESS A NOVEL BY GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL AUTHOR OF MARCIA SCHUYLER, ETC. GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS--NEW YORK Published by Arrangement with Harper and Brothers Made in the United States of America ------------------------------------------------------------------------ A Voice in the Wilderness Copyright, 1916, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America Published September, 1916 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS CHAPTER I With a lurch the train came to a dead stop and Margaret Earle, hastily gathering up her belongings, hurried down the aisle and got out into the night. It occurred to her, as she swung her heavy suit-case down the rather long step to the ground, and then carefully swung herself after it, that it was strange that neither conductor, brakeman, nor porter had come to help her off the train, when all three had taken the trouble to tell her that hers was the next station; but she could hear voices up ahead. Perhaps something was the matter with the engine that detained them and they had forgotten her for the moment. The ground was rough where she stood, and there seemed no sign of a platform. Did they not have platforms in this wild Western land, or was the train so long that her car had stopped before reaching it? She strained her eyes into the darkness, and tried to make out things from the two or three specks of light that danced about like fireflies in the distance. She could dimly see moving figures away up near the engine, and each one evidently carried a lantern. The train was tremendously long. A sudden feeling of isolation took possession of her. Perhaps she ought not to have got out until some one came to help her. Perhaps the train had not pulled into the station yet and she ought to get back on it and wait. Yet if the train started before she found the conductor she might be carried on somewhere and be justly blame her for a fool. There did not seem to be any building on that side of the track. It was probably on the other, but she was standing too near the cars to see over. She tried to move back to look, but the ground sloped and she slipped and fell in the cinders, bruising her knee and cutting her wrist. In sudden panic she arose. She would get back into the train, no matter what the consequences. They had no right to put her out here, away off from the station, at night, in a strange country. If the train started before she could find the conductor she would tell him that he must back it up again and let her off. He certainly could not expect her to get out like this. She lifted the heavy suit-case up the high step that was even farther from the ground than it had been when she came down, because her fall had loosened some of the earth and caused it to slide away from the track. Then, reaching to the rail of the step, she tried to pull herself up, but as she did so the engine gave a long snort and the whole train, as if it were in league against her, lurched forward crazily, shaking off her hold. She slipped to her knees again, the suit-case, toppled from the lower step, descending upon her, and together they slid and rolled down the short bank, while the train, like an irresponsible nurse who had slapped her charge and left it to its fate, ran giddily off into the night. The horror of being deserted helped the girl to rise in spite of bruises and shock. She lifted imploring hands to the unresponsive cars as they hurried by her--one, two, three, with bright windows, each showing a passenger, comfortable and safe inside, unconscious of her need. A moment of useless screaming, running, trying to attract some one's attention, a sickening sense of terror and failure, and the last car slatted itself past with a mocking clatter, as if it enjoyed her discomfort. Margaret stood dazed, reaching out helpless hands, then dropped them at her sides and gazed after the fast-retreating train, the light on its last car swinging tauntingly, blinking now and then with a leer in its eye, rapidly vanishing from her sight into the depth of the night. She gasped and looked about her for the station that but a short moment before had been so real to her mind; and, lo! on this side and on that there was none! The night was wide like a great floor shut in by a low, vast dome of curving blue set with the largest, most wonderful stars she had ever seen. Heavy shadows of purple-green, smoke-like, hovered over earth darker and more intense than the unfathomable blue of the night sky. It seemed like the secret nesting-place of mysteries wherein no human foot might dare intrude. It was incredible that such could be but common sage-brush, sand, and greasewood wrapped about with the beauty of the lonely night. No building broke the inky outlines of the plain, nor friendly light streamed out to cheer her heart. Not even a tree was in sight, except on the far horizon, where a heavy line of deeper darkness might mean a forest. Nothing, absolutely nothing, in the blue, deep, starry dome above and the bluer darkness of the earth below save one sharp shaft ahead like a black mast throwing out a dark arm across the track. As soon as she sighted it she picked up her baggage and made her painful way toward it, for her knees and wrist were bruised and her baggage was heavy. A soft drip, drip greeted her as she drew nearer; something plashing down among the cinders by the track. Then she saw the tall column with its arm outstretched, and looming darker among the sage-brush the outlines of a water-tank. It was so she recognized the engine's drinking-tank, and knew that she had mistaken a pause to water the engine for a regular stop at a station. Her soul sank within her as she came up to the dripping water and laid her hand upon the dark upright, as if in some way it could help her. She dropped her baggage and stood, trembling, gazing around upon the beautiful, lonely scene in horror; and then, like a mirage against the distance, there melted on her frightened eyes a vision of her father and mother sitting around the library lamp at home, as they sat every evening. They were probably reading and talking at this very minute, and trying not to miss her on this her first venture away from the home into the great world to teach. What would they say if they could see their beloved daughter, whom they had sheltered all these years and let go forth so reluctantly now, in all her confidence of youth, bound by almost absurd promises to be careful and not run any risks. Yet here she was, standing alone beside a water-tank in the midst of an Arizona plain, no knowing how many miles from anywhere, at somewhere between nine and ten o'clock at night! It seemed incredible that it had really happened! Perhaps she was dreaming! A few moments before in the bright car, surrounded by drowsy fellow-travelers, almost at her journey's end, as she supposed; and now, having merely done as she thought right, she was stranded here! She rubbed her eyes and looked again up the track, half expecting to see the train come back for her. Surely, surely the conductor, or the porter who had been so kind, would discover that she was gone, and do something about it. They couldn't leave her here alone on the prairie! It would be too dreadful! That vision of her father and mother off against the purple-green distance, how it shook her! The lamp looked bright and cheerful, and she could see her father's head with its heavy white hair. He turned to look at her mother to tell her of something he read in the paper. They were sitting there, feeling contented and almost happy about her, and she, their little girl--all her dignity as school-teacher dropped from her like a garment now--she was standing in this empty space alone, with only an engine's water-tank to keep her from dying, and only the barren, desolate track to connect her with the world of men and women. She dropped her head upon her breast and the tears came, sobbing, choking, raining down. Then off in the distance she heard a low, rising howl of some snarling, angry beast, and she lifted her head and stood in trembling terror, clinging to the tank. That sound was coyotes or wolves howling. She had read about them, but had not expected to experience them in such a situation. How confidently had she accepted the position which offered her the opening she had sought for the splendid career that she hoped was to follow! How fearless had she been! Coyotes, nor Indians, nor wild cowboy students--nothing had daunted her courage. Besides, she told her mother it was very different going to a town from what it would be if she were a missionary going to the wilds. It was an important school she was to teach, where her Latin and German and mathematical achievements had won her the place above several other applicants, and where her well-known tact was expected to work wonders. But what were Latin and German and mathematics now? Could they show her how to climb a water-tank? Would tact avail with a hungry wolf? The howl in the distance seemed to come nearer. She cast frightened eyes to the unresponsive water-tank looming high and dark above her. She must get up there somehow. It was not safe to stand here a minute. Besides, from that height she might be able to see farther, and perhaps there would be a light somewhere and she might cry for help. Investigation showed a set of rude spikes by which the trainmen were wont to climb up, and Margaret prepared to ascend them. She set her suit-case dubiously down at the foot. Would it be safe to leave it there? She had read how coyotes carried off a hatchet from a camping-party, just to get the leather thong which was bound about the handle. She could not afford to lose her things. Yet how could she climb and carry that heavy burden with her? A sudden thought came. Her simple traveling-gown was finished with a silken girdle, soft and long, wound twice about her waist and falling in tasseled ends. Swiftly she untied it and knotted one end firmly to the handle of her suit-case, tying the other end securely to her wrist. Then slowly, cautiously, with many a look upward, she began to climb. It seemed miles, though in reality it was but a short distance. The howling beasts in the distance sounded nearer now and continually, making her heart beat wildly. She was stiff and bruised from her falls, and weak with fright. The spikes were far apart, and each step of progress was painful and difficult. It was good at last to rise high enough to see over the water-tank and feel a certain confidence in her defense. But she had risen already beyond the short length of her silken tether, and the suit-case was dragging painfully on her arm. She was obliged to steady herself where she stood and pull it up before she could go on. Then she managed to get it swung up to the top of the tank in a comparatively safe place. One more long spike step and she was beside it. The tank was partly roofed over, so that she had room enough to sit on the edge without danger of falling in and drowning. For a few minutes she could only sit still and be thankful and try to get her breath back again after the climb; but presently the beauty of the night began to cast its spell over her. That wonderful blue of the sky! It hadn't ever before impressed her that skies were blue at night. She would have said they were black or gray. As a matter of fact, she didn't remember to have ever seen so much sky at once before, nor to have noticed skies in general until now. This sky was so deeply, wonderfully blue, the stars so real, alive and sparkling, that all other stars she had ever seen paled before them into mere imitations. The spot looked like one of Taylor's pictures of the Holy Land. She half expected to see a shepherd with his crook and sheep approaching her out of the dim shadows, or a turbaned, white-robed David with his lifted hands of prayer standing off among the depths of purple darkness. It would not have been out of keeping if a walled city with housetops should be hidden behind the clumps of sage-brush farther on. 'Twas such a night and such a scene as this, perhaps, when the wise men started to follow the star! But one cannot sit on the edge of a water-tank in the desert night alone and muse long on art and history. It was cold up there, and the howling seemed nearer than before. There was no sign of a light or a house anywhere, and not even a freight-train sent its welcome clatter down the track. All was still and wide and lonely, save that terrifying sound of the beasts; such stillness as she had not ever thought could be--a fearful silence as a setting for the awful voices of the wilds. The bruises and scratches she had acquired set up a fine stinging, and the cold seemed to sweep down and take possession of her on her high, narrow seat. She was growing stiff and cramped, yet dared not move much. Would there be no train, nor any help? Would she have to sit there all night? It looked so very near to the ground now. Could wild beasts climb, she wondered? Then in the interval of silence that came between the calling of those wild creatures there stole a sound. She could not tell at first what it was. A slow, regular, plodding sound, and quite far away. She looked to find it, and thought she saw a shape move out of the sage-brush on the other side of the track, but she could not be sure. It might be but a figment of her brain, a foolish fancy from looking so long at the huddled bushes on the dark plain. Yet something prompted her to cry out, and when she heard her own voice she cried again and louder, wondering why she had not cried before. "Help! Help!" she called; and again: "Help! Help!" The dark shape paused and turned toward her. She was sure now. What if it were a beast instead of a human! Terrible fear took possession of her; then, to her infinite relief, a nasal voice sounded out: "Who's thar?" But when she opened her lips to answer, nothing but a sob would come to them for a minute, and then she could only cry, pitifully: "Help! Help!" "Whar be you?" twanged the voice; and now she could see a horse and rider like a shadow moving toward her down the track. CHAPTER II The horse came to a standstill a little way from the track, and his rider let forth a stream of strange profanity. The girl shuddered and began to think a wild beast might be preferable to some men. However, these remarks seemed to be a mere formality. He paused and addressed her: "Heow'd yeh git up thar? D'j'yeh drap er climb?" He was a little, wiry man with a bristly, protruding chin. She could see that, even in the starlight. There was something about the point of that stubby chin that she shrank from inexpressibly. He was not a pleasant man to look upon, and even his voice was unprepossessing. She began to think that even the night with its loneliness and unknown perils was preferable to this man's company. "I got off the train by mistake, thinking it was my station, and before I discovered it the train had gone and left me," Margaret explained, with dignity. "Yeh didn't 'xpect it t' sit reound on th' plain while you was gallivantin' up water-tanks, did yeh?" Cold horror froze Margaret's veins. She was dumb for a second. "I am on my way to Ashland station. Can you tell me how far it is from here and how I can get there?" Her tone was like icicles. "It's a little matter o' twenty miles, more 'r less," said the man protruding his offensive chin. "The walkin's good. I don't know no other way from this p'int at this time o' night. Yeh might set still till th' mornin' freight goes by an' drap atop o' one of the kyars." "Sir!" said Margaret, remembering her dignity as a teacher. The man wheeled his horse clear around and looked up at her impudently. She could smell bad whisky on his breath. "Say, you must be some young highbrow, ain't yeh? Is thet all yeh want o' me? 'Cause ef 'tis I got t' git on t' camp. It's a good five mile yet, an' I 'ain't hed no grub sence noon." The tears suddenly rushed to the girl's eyes as the horror of being alone in the night again took possession of her. This dreadful man frightened her, but the thought of the loneliness filled her with dismay. "Oh!" she cried, forgetting her insulted dignity, "you're not going to leave me up here alone, are you? Isn't there some place near here where I could stay overnight?" "Thur ain't no palace hotel round these diggin's, ef that's what you mean," the man leered at her. "You c'n come along t' camp 'ith me ef you ain't too stuck up." "To camp!" faltered Margaret in dismay, wondering what her mother would say. "Are there any ladies there?" A loud guffaw greeted her question. "Wal, my woman's thar, sech es she is; but she ain't no highflier like you. We mostly don't hev ladies to camp, But I got t' git on. Ef you want to go too, you better light down pretty speedy, fer I can't wait." In fear and trembling Margaret descended her rude ladder step by step, primitive man seated calmly on his horse, making no attempt whatever to assist her. "This ain't no baggage-car," he grumbled, as he saw the suit-case in her hand. "Well, h'ist yerself up thar; I reckon we c'n pull through somehow. Gimme the luggage." Margaret stood appalled beside the bony horse and his uncouth rider. Did he actually expect her to ride with him? "Couldn't I walk?" she faltered, hoping he would offer to do so. "'T's up t' you," the man replied, indifferently. "Try 't an' see!" He spoke to the horse, and it started forward eagerly, while the girl in horror struggled on behind. Over rough, uneven ground, between greasewood, sage-brush, and cactus, back into the trail. The man, oblivious of her presence, rode contentedly on, a silent shadow on a dark horse wending a silent way between the purple-green clumps of other shadows, until, bewildered, the girl almost lost sight of them. Her breath came short, her ankle turned, and she fell with both hands in a stinging bed of cactus. She cried out then and begged him to stop. "L'arned yer lesson, hev yeh, sweety?" he jeered at her, foolishly. "Well, get in yer box, then." He let her struggle up to a seat behind himself with very little assistance, but when she was seated and started on her way she began to wish she had stayed behind and taken any perils of the way rather than trust herself in proximity to this creature. From time to time he took a bottle from his pocket and swallowed a portion of its contents, becoming fluent in his language as they proceeded on their way. Margaret remained silent, growing more and more frightened every time the bottle came out. At last he offered it to her. She declined it with cold politeness, which seemed to irritate the little man, for he turned suddenly fierce. "Oh, yer too fine to take a drap fer good comp'ny, are yeh? Wal, I'll show yeh a thing er two, my pretty lady. You'll give me a kiss with yer two cherry lips before we go another step. D'yeh hear, my sweetie?" And he turned with a silly leer to enforce his command; but with a cry of horror Margaret slid to the ground and ran back down the trail as hard as she could go, till she stumbled and fell in the shelter of a great sage-bush, and lay sobbing on the sand. The man turned bleared eyes toward her and watched until she disappeared. Then sticking his chin out wickedly, he slung her suit-case after her and called: "All right, my pretty lady; go yer own gait an' l'arn yer own lesson." He started on again, singing a drunken song. Under the blue, starry dome alone sat Margaret again, this time with no friendly water-tank for her defense, and took counsel with herself. The howling coyotes seemed to be silenced for the time; at least they had become a minor quantity in her equation of troubles. She felt now that man was her greatest menace, and to get away safely from him back to that friendly water-tank and the dear old railroad track she would have pledged her next year's salary. She stole softly to the place where she had heard the suit-case fall, and, picking it up, started on the weary road back to the tank. Could she ever find the way? The trail seemed so intangible a thing, her sense of direction so confused. Yet there was nothing else to do. She shuddered whenever she thought of the man who had been her companion on horseback. When the man reached camp he set his horse loose and stumbled into the door of the log bunk-house, calling loudly for something to eat. The men were sitting around the room on the rough benches and bunks, smoking their pipes or stolidly staring into the dying fire. Two smoky kerosene-lanterns that hung from spikes driven high in the logs cast a weird light over the company, eight men in all, rough and hardened with exposure to stormy life and weather. They were men with unkempt beards and uncombed hair, their coarse cotton shirts open at the neck, their brawny arms bare above the elbow, with crimes and sorrows and hard living written large across their faces. There was one, a boy in looks, with smooth face and white skin healthily flushed in places like a baby's. His face, too, was hard and set in sternness like a mask, as if life had used him badly; but behind it was a fineness of feature and spirit that could not be utterly hidden. They called him the Kid, and thought it was his youth that made him different from them all, for he was only twenty-four, and not one of the rest was under forty. They were doing their best to help him get over that innate fineness that was his natural inheritance, but although he stopped at nothing, and played his part always with the ease of one old in the ways of the world, yet he kept a quiet reserve about him, a kind of charm beyond which they had not been able to go. He was playing cards with three others at the table when the man came in, and did not look up at the entrance. The woman, white and hopeless, appeared at the door of the shed-room when the man came, and obediently set about getting his supper; but her lifeless face never changed expression. "Brung a gal 'long of me part way," boasted the man, as he flung himself into a seat by the table. "Thought you fellers might like t' see 'er, but she got too high an' mighty fer me, wouldn't take a pull at th' bottle 'ith me, 'n' shrieked like a catamount when I kissed 'er. Found 'er hangin' on th' water-tank. Got off 't th' wrong place. One o' yer highbrows out o' th' parlor car! Good lesson fer 'er!" The Boy looked up from his cards sternly, his keen eyes boring through the man. "Where is she now?" he asked, quietly; and all the men in the room looked up uneasily. There was that tone and accent again that made the Boy alien from them. What was it? The man felt it and snarled his answer angrily. "Dropped 'er on th' trail, an' threw her fine-lady b'longin's after 'er. 'Ain't got no use fer thet kind. Wonder what they was created fer? Ain't no good to nobody, not even 'emselves." And he laughed a harsh cackle that was not pleasant to hear. The Boy threw down his cards and went out, shutting the door. In a few minutes the men heard two horses pass the end of the bunk-house toward the trail, but no one looked up nor spoke. You could not have told by the flicker of an eyelash that they knew where the Boy had gone. She was sitting in the deep shadow of a sage-bush that lay on the edge of the trail like a great blot, her suit-case beside her, her breath coming short with exertion and excitement, when she heard a cheery whistle in the distance. Just an old love-song dating back some years and discarded now as hackneyed even by the street pianos at home; but oh, how good it sounded! From the desert I come to thee! The ground was cold, and struck a chill through her garments as she sat there alone in the night. On came the clear, musical whistle, and she peered out of the shadow with eager eyes and frightened heart. Dared she risk it again? Should she call, or should she hold her breath and keep still, hoping he would pass her by unnoticed? Before she could decide two horses stopped almost in front of her and a rider swung himself down. He stood before her as if it were day and he could see her quite plainly. "You needn't be afraid," he explained, calmly. "I thought I had better look you up after the old man got home and gave his report. He was pretty well tanked up and not exactly a fit escort for ladies. What's the trouble?" Like an angel of deliverance he looked to her as he stood in the starlight, outlined in silhouette against the wide, wonderful sky: broad shoulders, well-set head, close-cropped curls, handsome contour even in the darkness. There was about him an air of quiet strength which gave her confidence. "Oh, thank you!" she gasped, with a quick little relieved sob in her voice. "I am so glad you have come. I was--just a little--frightened, I think." She attempted to rise, but her foot caught in her skirt and she sank wearily back to the sand again. The Boy stooped over and lifted her to her feet. "You certainly are some plucky girl!" he commented, looking down at her slender height as she stood beside him. "A 'little frightened,' were you? Well, I should say you had a right to be." "Well, not exactly frightened, you know," said Margaret, taking a deep breath and trying to steady her voice. "I think perhaps I was more mortified than frightened, to think I made such a blunder as to get off the train before I reached my station. You see, I'd made up my mind not to be frightened, but when I heard that awful howl of some beast--And then that terrible man!" She shuddered and put her hands suddenly over her eyes as if to shut out all memory of it. "More than one kind of beasts!" commented the Boy, briefly. "Well, you needn't worry about him; he's having his supper and he'll be sound asleep by the time we get back." "Oh, have we got to go where he is?" gasped Margaret. "Isn't there some other place? Is Ashland very far away? That is where I am going." "No other place where you could go to-night. Ashland's a good twenty-five miles from here. But you'll be all right. Mom Wallis 'll look out for you. She isn't much of a looker, but she has a kind heart. She pulled me through once when I was just about flickering out. Come on. You'll be pretty tired. We better be getting back. Mom Wallis 'll make you comfortable, and then you can get off good and early in the morning." Without an apology, and as if it were the common courtesy of the desert, he stooped and lifted her easily to the saddle of the second horse, placed the bridle in her hands, then swung the suit-case up on his own horse and sprang into the saddle. CHAPTER III He turned the horses about and took charge of her just as if he were accustomed to managing stray ladies in the wilderness every day of his life and understood the situation perfectly; and Margaret settled wearily into her saddle and looked about her with content. Suddenly, again, the wide wonder of the night possessed her. Involuntarily she breathed a soft little exclamation of awe and delight. Her companion turned to her questioningly: "Does it always seem so big here--so--limitless?" she asked in explanation. "It is so far to everywhere it takes one's breath away, and yet the stars hang close, like a protection. It gives one the feeling of being alone in the great universe with God. Does it always seem so out here?" He looked at her curiously, her pure profile turned up to the wide dome of luminous blue above. His voice was strangely low and wondering as he answered, after a moment's silence: "No, it is not always so," he said. "I have seen it when it was more like being alone in the great universe with the devil." There was a tremendous earnestness in his tone that the girl felt meant more than was on the surface. She turned to look at the fine young face beside her. In the starlight she could not make out the bitter hardness of lines that were beginning to be carved about his sensitive mouth. But there was so much sadness in his voice that her heart went out to him in pity. "Oh," she said, gently, "it would be awful that way. Yes, I can understand. I felt so, a little, while that terrible man was with me." And she shuddered again at the remembrance. Again he gave her that curious look. "There are worse things than Pop Wallis out here," he said, gravely. "But I'll grant you there's some class to the skies. It's a case of 'Where every prospect pleases and only man is vile.'" And with the words his tone grew almost flippant. It hurt her sensitive nature, and without knowing it she half drew away a little farther from him and murmured, sadly: "Oh!" as if he had classed himself with the "man" he had been describing. Instantly he felt her withdrawal and grew grave again, as if he would atone. "Wait till you see this sky at the dawn," he said. "It will burn red fire off there in the east like a hearth in a palace, and all this dome will glow like a great pink jewel set in gold. If you want a classy sky, there you have it! Nothing like it in the East!" There was a strange mingling of culture and roughness in his speech. The girl could not make him out; yet there had been a palpitating earnestness in his description that showed he had felt the dawn in his very soul. "You are--a--poet, perhaps?" she asked, half shyly. "Or an artist?" she hazarded. He laughed roughly and seemed embarrassed. "No, I'm just a--bum! A sort of roughneck out of a job." She was silent, watching him against the starlight, a kind of embarrassment upon her after his last remark. "You--have been here long?" she asked, at last. "Three years." He said it almost curtly and turned his head away, as if there were something in his face he would hide. She knew there was something unhappy in his life. Unconsciously her tone took on a sympathetic sound. "And do you get homesick and want to go back, ever?" she asked. His tone was fairly savage now. "No!" The silence which followed became almost oppressive before the Boy finally turned and in his kindly tone began to question her about the happenings which had stranded her in the desert alone at night. So she came to tell him briefly and frankly about herself, as he questioned--how she came to be in Arizona all alone. "My father is a minister in a small town in New York State. When I finished college I had to do something, and I had an offer of this Ashland school through a friend of ours who had a brother out here. Father and mother would rather have kept me nearer home, of course, but everybody says the best opportunities are in the West, and this was a good opening, so they finally consented. They would send post-haste for me to come back if they knew what a mess I have made of things right at the start--getting out of the train in the desert." "But you're not discouraged?" said her companion, half wonderingly. "Some nerve you have with you. I guess you'll manage to hit it off in Ashland. It's the limit as far as discipline is concerned, I understand, but I guess you'll put one over on them. I'll bank on you after to-night, sure thing!" She turned a laughing face toward him. "Thank you!" she said. "But I don't see how you know all that. I'm sure I didn't do anything particularly nervy. There wasn't anything else to do but what I did, if I'd tried." "Most girls would have fainted and screamed, and fainted again when they were rescued," stated the Boy, out of a vast experience. "I never fainted in my life," said Margaret Earle, with disdain. "I don't think I should care to faint out in the vast universe like this. It would be rather inopportune, I should think." Then, because she suddenly realized that she was growing very chummy with this stranger in the dark, she asked the first question that came into her head. "What was your college?" That he had not been to college never entered her head. There was something in his speech and manner that made it a foregone conclusion. It was as if she had struck him forcibly in his face, so sudden and sharp a silence ensued for a second. Then he answered, gruffly, "Yale," and plunged into an elaborate account of Arizona in its early ages, including a detailed description of the cliff-dwellers and their homes, which were still to be seen high in the rocks of the cañons not many miles to the west of where they were riding. Margaret was keen to hear it all, and asked many questions, declaring her intention of visiting those cliff-caves at her earliest opportunity. It was so wonderful to her to be actually out here where were all sorts of queer things about which she had read and wondered. It did not occur to her, until the next day, to realize that her companion had of intention led her off the topic of himself and kept her from asking any more personal questions. He told her of the petrified forest just over some low hills off to the left; acres and acres of agatized chips and trunks of great trees all turned to eternal stone, called by the Indians "Yeitso's bones," after the great giant of that name whom an ancient Indian hero killed. He described the coloring of the brilliant days in Arizona, where you stand on the edge of some flat-topped mesa and look off through the clear air to mountains that seem quite near by, but are in reality more than two hundred miles away. He pictured the strange colors and lights of the place; ledges of rock, yellow, white and green, drab and maroon, and tumbled piles of red boulders, shadowy buttes in the distance, serrated cliffs against the horizon, not blue, but rosy pink in the heated haze of the air, and perhaps a great, lonely eagle poised above the silent, brilliant waste. He told it not in book language, with turn of phrase and smoothly flowing sentences, but in simple, frank words, as a boy might describe a picture to one he knew would appreciate it--for her sake, and not because he loved to put it into words; but in a new, stumbling way letting out the beauty that had somehow crept into his heart in spite of all the rough attempts to keep all gentle things out of his nature. The girl, as she listened, marveled more and more what manner of youth this might be who had come to her out of the desert night. She forgot her weariness as she listened, in the thrill of wonder over the new mysterious country to which she had come. She forgot that she was riding through the great darkness with an utter stranger, to a place she knew not, and to experiences most dubious. Her fears had fled and she was actually enjoying herself, and responding to the wonderful story of the place with soft-murmured exclamations of delight and wonder. From time to time in the distance there sounded forth those awful blood-curdling howls of wild beasts that she had heard when she sat alone by the water-tank, and each time she heard a shudder passed through her and instinctively she swerved a trifle toward her companion, then straightened up again and tried to seem not to notice. The Boy saw and watched her brave attempts at self-control with deep appreciation. But suddenly, as they rode and talked, a dark form appeared across their way a little ahead, lithe and stealthy and furry, and two awful eyes like green lamps glared for an instant, then disappeared silently among the mesquite bushes. She did not cry out nor start. Her very veins seemed frozen with horror, and she could not have spoken if she tried. It was all over in a second and the creature gone, so that she almost doubted her senses and wondered if she had seen aright. Then one hand went swiftly to her throat and she shrank toward her companion. "There is nothing to fear," he said, reassuringly, and laid a strong hand comfortingly across the neck of her horse. "The pussy-cat was as unwilling for our company as we for hers. Besides, look here!"--and he raised his hand and shot into the air. "She'll not come near us now." "I am not afraid!" said the girl, bravely. "At least, I don't think I am--very! But it's all so new and unexpected, you know. Do people around here always shoot in that--well--unpremeditated fashion?" They laughed together. "Excuse me," he said. "I didn't realize the shot might startle you even more than the wildcat. It seems I'm not fit to have charge of a lady. I told you I was a roughneck." "You're taking care of me beautifully," said Margaret Earle, loyally, "and I'm glad to get used to shots if that's the thing to be expected often." Just then they came to the top of the low, rolling hill, and ahead in the darkness there gleamed a tiny, wizened light set in a blotch of blackness. Under the great white stars it burned a sickly red and seemed out of harmony with the night. "There we are!" said the Boy, pointing toward it. "That's the bunk-house. You needn't be afraid. Pop Wallis 'll be snoring by this time, and we'll come away before he's about in the morning. He always sleeps late after he's been off on a bout. He's been gone three days, selling some cattle, and he'll have a pretty good top on." The girl caught her breath, gave one wistful look up at the wide, starry sky, a furtive glance at the strong face of her protector, and submitted to being lifted down to the ground. Before her loomed the bunk-house, small and mean, built of logs, with only one window in which the flicker of the lanterns menaced, with unknown trials and possible perils for her to meet. CHAPTER IV When Margaret Earle dawned upon that bunk-room the men sat up with one accord, ran their rough, red hands through their rough, tousled hair, smoothed their beards, took down their feet from the benches where they were resting. That was as far as their etiquette led them. Most of them continued to smoke their pipes, and all of them stared at her unreservedly. Such a sight of exquisite feminine beauty had not come to their eyes in many a long day. Even in the dim light of the smoky lanterns, and with the dust and weariness of travel upon her, Margaret Earle was a beautiful girl. "That's what's the matter, father," said her mother, when the subject of Margaret's going West to teach had first been mentioned. "She's too beautiful. Far too beautiful to go among savages! If she were homely and old, now, she might be safe. That would be a different matter." Yet Margaret had prevailed, and was here in the wild country. Now, standing on the threshold of the log cabin, she read, in the unveiled admiration that startled from the eyes of the men, the meaning of her mother's fears. Yet withal it was a kindly admiration not unmixed with awe. For there was about her beauty a touch of the spiritual which set her above the common run of women, making men feel her purity and sweetness, and inclining their hearts to worship rather than be bold. The Boy had been right. Pop Wallis was asleep and out of the way. From a little shed room at one end his snoring marked time in the silence that the advent of the girl made in the place. In the doorway of the kitchen offset Mom Wallis stood with her passionless face--a face from which all emotions had long ago been burned by cruel fires--and looked at the girl, whose expression was vivid with her opening life all haloed in a rosy glow. A kind of wistful contortion passed over Mom Wallis's hopeless countenance, as if she saw before her in all its possibility of perfection the life that she herself had lost. Perhaps it was no longer possible for her features to show tenderness, but a glow of something like it burned in her eyes, though she only turned away with the same old apathetic air, and without a word went about preparing a meal for the stranger. Margaret looked wildly, fearfully, around the rough assemblage when she first entered the long, low room, but instantly the boy introduced her as "the new teacher for the Ridge School beyond the Junction," and these were Long Bill, Big Jim, the Fiddling Boss, Jasper Kemp, Fade-away Forbes, Stocky, Croaker, and Fudge. An inspiration fell upon the frightened girl, and she acknowledged the introduction by a radiant smile, followed by the offering of her small gloved hand. Each man in dumb bewilderment instantly became her slave, and accepted the offered hand with more or less pleasure and embarrassment. The girl proved her right to be called tactful, and, seeing her advantage, followed it up quickly by a few bright words. These men were of an utterly different type from any she had ever met before, but they had in their eyes a kind of homage which Pop Wallis had not shown and they were not repulsive to her. Besides, the Boy was in the background, and her nerve had returned. The Boy knew how a lady should be treated. She was quite ready to "play up" to his lead. It was the Boy who brought the only chair the bunk-house afforded, a rude, home-made affair, and helped her off with her coat and hat in his easy, friendly way, as if he had known her all his life; while the men, to whom such gallant ways were foreign, sat awkwardly by and watched in wonder and amaze. Most of all they were astonished at "the Kid," that he could fall so naturally into intimate talk with this delicate, beautiful woman. She was another of his kind, a creature not made in the same mold as theirs. They saw it now, and watched the fairy play with almost childish interest. Just to hear her call him "Mr. Gardley"!--Lance Gardley, that was what he had told them was his name the day he came among them. They had not heard it since. The Kid! Mr. Gardley! There it was, the difference between them! They looked at the girl half jealously, yet proudly at the Boy. He was theirs--yes, in a way he was theirs--had they not found him in the wilderness, sick and nigh to death, and nursed him back to life again? He was theirs; but he knew how to drop into her world, too, and not be ashamed. They were glad that he could, even while it struck them with a pang that some day he would go back to the world to which he belonged--and where they could never be at home. It was a marvel to watch her eat the coarse corn-bread and pork that Mom Wallis brought her. It might have been a banquet, the pleasant way she seemed to look at it. Just like a bird she tasted it daintily, and smiled, showing her white teeth. There was nothing of the idea of greediness that each man knew he himself felt after a fast. It was all beautiful, the way she handled the two-tined fork and the old steel knife. They watched and dropped their eyes abashed as at a lovely sacrament. They had not felt before that eating could be an art. They did not know what art meant. Such strange talk, too! But the Kid seemed to understand. About the sky--their old, common sky, with stars that they saw every night--making such a fuss about that, with words like "wide," "infinite," "azure," and "gems." Each man went furtively out that night before he slept and took a new look at the sky to see if he could understand. The Boy was planning so the night would be but brief. He knew the girl was afraid. He kept the talk going enthusiastically, drawing in one or two of the men now and again. Long Bill forgot himself and laughed out a hoarse guffaw, then stopped as if he had been choked. Stocky, red in the face, told a funny story when commanded by the Boy, and then dissolved in mortification over his blunders. The Fiddling Boss obediently got down his fiddle from the smoky corner beside the fireplace and played a weird old tune or two, and then they sang. First the men, with hoarse, quavering approach and final roar of wild sweetness; then Margaret and the Boy in duet, and finally Margaret alone, with a few bashful chords on the fiddle, feeling their way as accompaniment. Mom Wallis had long ago stopped her work and was sitting huddled in the doorway on a nail-keg with weary, folded hands and a strange wistfulness on her apathetic face. A fine silence had settled over the group as the girl, recognizing her power, and the pleasure she was giving, sang on. Now and then the Boy, when he knew the song, would join in with his rich tenor. It was a strange night, and when she finally lay down to rest on a hard cot with a questionable-looking blanket for covering and Mom Wallis as her room-mate, Margaret Earle could not help wondering what her mother and father would think now if they could see her. Would they not, perhaps, almost prefer the water-tank and the lonely desert for her to her present surroundings? Nevertheless, she slept soundly after her terrible excitement, and woke with a start of wonder in the early morning, to hear the men outside splashing water and humming or whistling bits of the tunes she had sung to them the night before. Mom Wallis was standing over her, looking down with a hunger in her eyes at the bright waves of Margaret's hair and the soft, sleep-flushed cheeks. "You got dretful purty hair," said Mom Wallis, wistfully. Margaret looked up and smiled in acknowledgment of the compliment. "You wouldn't b'lieve it, but I was young an' purty oncet. Beats all how much it counts to be young--an' purty! But land! It don't last long. Make the most of it while you got it." Browning's immortal words came to Margaret's lips-- Grow old along with me, The best is yet to be, The last of life for which the first was made-- but she checked them just in time and could only smile mutely. How could she speak such thoughts amid these intolerable surroundings? Then with sudden impulse she reached up to the astonished woman and, drawing her down, kissed her sallow cheek. "Oh!" said Mom Wallis, starting back and laying her bony hands upon the place where she had been kissed, as if it hurt her, while a dull red stole up from her neck over her cheeks and high forehead to the roots of her hay-colored hair. All at once she turned her back upon her visitor and the tears of the years streamed down her impassive face. "Don't mind me," she choked, after a minute. "I liked it real good, only it kind of give me a turn." Then, after a second: "It's time t' eat. You c'n wash outside after the men is done." That, thought Margaret, had been the scheme of this woman's whole life--"After the men is done!" So, after all, the night was passed in safety, and a wonderful dawning had come. The blue of the morning, so different from the blue of the night sky, was, nevertheless, just as unfathomable; the air seemed filled with straying star-beams, so sparkling was the clearness of the light. But now a mountain rose in the distance with heliotrope-and-purple bounds to stand across the vision and dispel the illusion of the night that the sky came down to the earth all around like a close-fitting dome. There were mountains on all sides, and a slender, dark line of mesquite set off the more delicate colorings of the plain. Into the morning they rode, Margaret and the Boy, before Pop Wallis was yet awake, while all the other men stood round and watched, eager, jealous for the handshake and the parting smile. They told her they hoped she would come again and sing for them, and each one had an awkward word of parting. Whatever Margaret Earle might do with her school, she had won seven loyal friends in the camp, and she rode away amid their admiring glances, which lingered, too, on the broad shoulders and wide sombrero of her escort riding by her side. "Wal, that's the end o' him, I 'spose," drawled Long Bill, with a deep sigh, as the riders passed into the valley out of their sight. "H'm!" said Jasper Kemp, hungrily. "I reck'n _he_ thinks it's jes' th' beginnin'!" "Maybe so! Maybe so!" said Big Jim, dreamily. The morning was full of wonder for the girl who had come straight from an Eastern city. The view from the top of the mesa, or the cool, dim entrance of a cañon where great ferns fringed and feathered its walls, and strange caves hollowed out in the rocks far above, made real the stories she had read of the cave-dwellers. It was a new world. The Boy was charming. She could not have picked out among her city acquaintances a man who would have done the honors of the desert more delightfully than he. She had thought him handsome in the starlight and in the lantern-light the night before, but now that the morning shone upon him she could not keep from looking at him. His fresh color, which no wind and weather could quite subdue, his gray-blue eyes with that mixture of thoughtfulness and reverence and daring, his crisp, brown curls glinting with gold in the sunlight--all made him good to look upon. There was something about the firm set of his lips and chin that made her feel a hidden strength about him. When they camped a little while for lunch he showed the thoughtfulness and care for her comfort that many an older man might not have had. Even his talk was a mixture of boyishness and experience and he seemed to know her thoughts before she had them fully spoken. "I do not understand it," she said, looking him frankly in the eyes at last. "How ever in the world did one like _you_ get landed among all those dreadful men! Of course, in their way, some of them are not so bad; but they are not like you, not in the least, and never could be." They were riding out upon the plain now in the full afternoon light, and a short time would bring them to her destination. A sad, set look came quickly into the Boy's eyes and his face grew almost hard. "It's an old story. I suppose you've heard it before," he said, and his voice tried to take on a careless note, but failed. "I didn't make good back there"--he waved his hand sharply toward the East--"so I came out here to begin again. But I guess I haven't made good here, either--not in the way I meant when I came." "You can't, you know," said Margaret. "Not here." "Why?" He looked at her earnestly, as if he felt the answer might help him. "Because you have to go back where you didn't make good and pick up the lost opportunities. You can't really make good till you do that _right where you left off_." "But suppose it's too late?" "It's never too late if we're in earnest and not too proud." There was a long silence then, while the Boy looked thoughtfully off at the mountains, and when he spoke again it was to call attention to the beauty of a silver cloud that floated lazily on the horizon. But Margaret Earle had seen the look in his gray eyes and was not deceived. A few minutes later they crossed another mesa and descended to the enterprising little town where the girl was to begin her winter's work. The very houses and streets seemed to rise briskly and hasten to meet them those last few minutes of their ride. Now that the experience was almost over, the girl realized that she had enjoyed it intensely, and that she dreaded inexpressibly that she must bid good-by to this friend of a few hours and face an unknown world. It had been a wonderful day, and now it was almost done. The two looked at each other and realized that their meeting had been an epoch in their lives that neither would soon forget--that neither wanted to forget. CHAPTER V Slower the horses walked, and slower. The voices of the Boy and girl were low when they spoke about the common things by the wayside. Once their eyes met, and they smiled with something both sad and glad in them. Margaret was watching the young man by her side and wondering at herself. He was different from any man whose life had come near to hers before. He was wild and worldly, she could see that, and unrestrained by many of the things that were vital principles with her, and yet she felt strangely drawn to him and wonderfully at home in his company. She could not understand herself nor him. It was as if his real soul had looked out of his eyes and spoken, untrammeled by the circumstances of birth or breeding or habit, and she knew him for a kindred spirit. And yet he was far from being one in whom she would have expected even to find a friend. Where was her confidence of yesterday? Why was it that she dreaded to have this strong young protector leave her to meet alone a world of strangers, whom yesterday at this time she would have gladly welcomed? Now, when his face grew thoughtful and sad, she saw the hard, bitter lines that were beginning to be graven about his lips, and her heart ached over what he had said about not making good. She wondered if there was anything else she could say to help him, but no words came to her, and the sad, set look about his lips warned her that perhaps she had said enough. He was not one who needed a long dissertation to bring a thought home to his consciousness. Gravely they rode to the station to see about Margaret's trunks and make inquiries for the school and the house where she had arranged to board. Then Margaret sent a telegram to her mother to say that she had arrived safely, and so, when all was done and there was no longer an excuse for lingering, the Boy realized that he must leave her. They stood alone for just a moment while the voluble landlady went to attend to something that was boiling over on the stove. It was an ugly little parlor that was to be her reception-room for the next year at least, with red-and-green ingrain carpet of ancient pattern, hideous chromos on the walls, and frantically common furniture setting up in its shining varnish to be pretentious; but the girl had not seen it yet. She was filled with a great homesickness that had not possessed her even when she said good-by to her dear ones at home. She suddenly realized that the people with whom she was to be thrown were of another world from hers, and this one friend whom she had found in the desert was leaving her. She tried to shake hands formally and tell him how grateful she was to him for rescuing her from the perils of the night, but somehow words seemed so inadequate, and tears kept crowding their way into her throat and eyes. Absurd it was, and he a stranger twenty hours before, and a man of other ways than hers, besides. Yet he was her friend and rescuer. She spoke her thanks as well as she could, and then looked up, a swift, timid glance, and found his eyes upon her earnestly and troubled. "Don't thank me," he said, huskily. "I guess it was the best thing I ever did, finding you. I sha'n't forget, even if you never let me see you again--and--I hope you will." His eyes searched hers wistfully. "Of course," she said. "Why not?" "I thank you," he said in quaint, courtly fashion, bending low over her hand. "I shall try to be worthy of the honor." And so saying, he left her and, mounting his horse, rode away into the lengthening shadows of the afternoon. She stood in the forlorn little room staring out of the window after her late companion, a sense of utter desolation upon her. For the moment all her brave hopes of the future had fled, and if she could have slipped unobserved out of the front door, down to the station, and boarded some waiting express to her home, she would gladly have done it then and there. Try as she would to summon her former reasons for coming to this wild, she could not think of one of them, and her eyes were very near to tears. But Margaret Earle was not given to tears, and as she felt them smart beneath her lids she turned in a panic to prevent them. She could not afford to cry now. Mrs. Tanner would be returning, and she must not find the "new schoolma'am" weeping. With a glance she swept the meager, pretentious room, and then, suddenly, became aware of other presences. In the doorway stood a man and a dog, both regarding her intently with open surprise, not unmixed with open appraisement and a marked degree of admiration. The man was of medium height, slight, with a putty complexion; cold, pale-blue eyes; pale, straw-colored hair, and a look of self-indulgence around his rather weak mouth. He was dressed in a city business suit of the latest cut, however, and looked as much out of place in that crude little house as did Margaret Earle herself in her simple gown of dark-blue crêpe and her undeniable air of style and good taste. His eyes, as they regarded her, had in them a smile that the girl instinctively resented. Was it a shade too possessive and complacently sure for a stranger? The dog, a large collie, had great, liquid, brown eyes, menacing or loyal, as circumstances dictated, and regarded her with an air of brief indecision. She felt she was being weighed in the balance by both pairs of eyes. Of the two the girl preferred the dog. Perhaps the dog understood, for he came a pace nearer and waved his plumy tail tentatively. For the dog she felt a glow of friendliness at once, but for the man she suddenly, and most unreasonably, of course, conceived one of her violent and unexpected dislikes. Into this tableau bustled Mrs. Tanner. "Well, now, I didn't go to leave you by your lonesome all this time," she apologized, wiping her hands on her apron, "but them beans boiled clean over, and I hed to put 'em in a bigger kettle. You see, I put in more beans 'count o' you bein' here, an' I ain't uset to calca'latin' on two extry." She looked happily from the man to the girl and back again. "Mr. West, I 'spose, o' course, you interjuced yerself? Bein' a preacher, you don't hev to stan' on ceremony like the rest of mankind. You 'ain't? Well, let me hev the pleasure of interjucin' our new school-teacher, Miss Margaret Earle. I 'spect you two 'll be awful chummy right at the start, both bein' from the East that way, an' both hevin' ben to college." Margaret Earle acknowledged the bow with a cool little inclination of her head. She wondered why she didn't hate the garrulous woman who rattled on in this happy, take-it-for-granted way; but there was something so innocently pleased in her manner that she couldn't help putting all her wrath on the smiling man who came forward instantly with a low bow and a voice of fulsome flattery. "Indeed, Miss Earle, I assure you I am happily surprised. I am sure Mrs. Tanner's prophecy will come true and we shall be the best of friends. When they told me the new teacher was to board here I really hesitated. I have seen something of these Western teachers in my time, and scarcely thought I should find you congenial; but I can see at a glance that you are the exception to the rule." He presented a soft, unmanly white hand, and there was nothing to do but take it or seem rude to her hostess; but her manner was like icicles, and she was thankful she had not yet removed her gloves. If the reverend gentleman thought he was to enjoy a lingering hand-clasp he was mistaken, for the gloved finger-tips merely touched his hand and were withdrawn, and the girl turned to her hostess with a smile of finality as if he were dismissed. He did not seem disposed to take the hint and withdraw, however, until on a sudden the great dog came and stood between them with open-mouthed welcome and joyous greeting in the plumy, wagging tail. He pushed close to her and looked up into her face insistently, his hanging pink tongue and wide, smiling countenance proclaiming that he was satisfied with his investigation. Margaret looked down at him, and then stooped and put her arms about his neck. Something in his kindly dog expression made her feel suddenly as if she had a real friend. It seemed the man, however, did not like the situation. He kicked gingerly at the dog's hind legs, and said in a harsh voice: "Get out of the way, sir. You're annoying the lady. Get out, I say!" The dog, however, uttered a low growl and merely showed the whites of his menacing eyes at the man, turning his body slightly so that he stood across the lady's way protectingly, as if to keep the man from her. Margaret smiled at the dog and laid her hand on his head, as if to signify her acceptance of the friendship he had offered her, and he waved his plume once more and attended her from the room, neither of them giving further attention to the man. "Confound that dog!" said Rev. Frederick West, in a most unpreacher-like tone, as he walked to the window and looked out. Then to himself he mused: "A pretty girl. A _very pretty_ girl. I really think it'll be worth my while to stay a month at least." Up in her room the "very pretty girl" was unpacking her suit-case and struggling with the tears. Not since she was a wee little girl and went to school all alone for the first time had she felt so very forlorn, and it was the little bare bedroom that had done it. At least that had been the final straw that had made too great the burden of keeping down those threatening tears. It was only a bare, plain room with unfinished walls, rough woodwork, a cheap wooden bed, a bureau with a warped looking-glass, and on the floor was a braided rug of rags. A little wooden rocker, another small, straight wooden chair, a hanging wall-pocket decorated with purple roses, a hanging bookshelf composed of three thin boards strung together with maroon picture cord, a violently colored picture-card of "Moses in the Bulrushes" framed in straws and red worsted, and bright-blue paper shades at the windows. That was the room! How different from her room at home, simply and sweetly finished anew for her home-coming from college! It rose before her homesick vision now. Soft gray walls, rose-colored ceiling, blended by a wreath of exquisite wild roses, whose pattern was repeated in the border of the simple curtains and chair cushions, white-enamel furniture, pretty brass bed soft as down in its luxurious mattress, spotless and inviting always. She glanced at the humpy bed with its fringed gray spread and lumpy-looking pillows in dismay. She had not thought of little discomforts like that, yet how they loomed upon her weary vision now! The tiny wooden stand with its thick, white crockery seemed ill substitute for the dainty white bath-room at home. She had known she would not have her home luxuries, of course, but she had not realized until set down amid these barren surroundings what a difference they would make. Going to the window and looking out, she saw for the first tune the one luxury the little room possessed--a view! And such a view! Wide and wonderful and far it stretched, in colors unmatched by painter's brush, a purple mountain topped by rosy clouds in the distance. For the second time in Arizona her soul was lifted suddenly out of itself and its dismay by a vision of the things that God has made and the largeness of it all. CHAPTER VI For some time she stood and gazed, marveling at the beauty and recalling some of the things her companion of the afternoon had said about his impressions of the place; then suddenly there loomed a dark speck in the near foreground of her meditation, and, looking down annoyed, she discovered the minister like a gnat between the eye and a grand spectacle, his face turned admiringly up to her window, his hand lifted in familiar greeting. Vexed at his familiarity, she turned quickly and jerked down the shade; then throwing herself on the bed, she had a good cry. Her nerves were terribly wrought up. Things seemed twisted in her mind, and she felt that she had reached the limit of her endurance. Here was she, Margaret Earle, newly elected teacher to the Ashland Ridge School, lying on her bed in tears, when she ought to be getting settled and planning her new life; when the situation demanded her best attention she was wrought up over a foolish little personal dislike. Why did she have to dislike a minister, anyway, and then take to a wild young fellow whose life thus far had been anything but satisfactory even to himself? Was it her perverse nature that caused her to remember the look in the eyes of the Boy who had rescued her from a night in the wilderness, and to feel there was far more manliness in his face than in the face of the man whose profession surely would lead one to suppose he was more worthy of her respect and interest? Well, she was tired. Perhaps things would assume their normal relation to one another in the morning. And so, after a few minutes, she bathed her face in the little, heavy, iron-stone wash-bowl, combed her hair, and freshened the collar and ruffles in her sleeves preparatory to going down for the evening meal. Then, with a swift thought, she searched through her suit-case for every available article wherewith to brighten that forlorn room. The dainty dressing-case of Dresden silk with rosy ribbons that her girl friends at home had given as a parting gift covered a generous portion of the pine bureau, and when she had spread it out and bestowed its silver-mounted brushes, combs, hand-glass, and pretty sachet, things seemed to brighten up a bit. She hung up a cobweb of a lace boudoir cap with its rose-colored ribbons over the bleary mirror, threw her kimono of flowered challis over the back of the rocker, arranged her soap and toothbrush, her own wash-rag and a towel brought from home on the wash-stand, and somehow felt better and more as if she belonged. Last she ranged her precious photographs of father and mother and the dear vine-covered church and manse across in front of the mirror. When her trunks came there would be other things, and she could bear it, perhaps, when she had this room buried deep in the home belongings. But this would have to do for to-night, for the trunk might not come till morning, and, anyhow, she was too weary to unpack. She ventured one more look out of her window, peering carefully at first to make sure her fellow-boarder was not still standing down below on the grass. A pang of compunction shot through her conscience. What would her dear father think of her feeling this way toward a minister, and before she knew the first thing about him, too? It was dreadful! She must shake it off. Of course he was a good man or he wouldn't be in the ministry, and she had doubtless mistaken mere friendliness for forwardness. She would forget it and try to go down and behave to him the way her father would want her to behave toward a fellow-minister. Cautiously she raised the shade again and looked out. The mountain was bathed in a wonderful ruby light fading into amethyst, and all the path between was many-colored like a pavement of jewels set in filigree. While she looked the picture changed, glowed, softened, and changed again, making her think of the chapter about the Holy City in Revelation. She started at last when some one knocked hesitatingly on the door, for the wonderful sunset light had made her forget for the moment where she was, and it seemed a desecration to have mere mortals step in and announce supper, although the odor of pork and cabbage had been proclaiming it dumbly for some time. She went to the door, and, opening it, found a dark figure standing in the hall. For a minute she half feared it was the minister, until a shy, reluctant backwardness in the whole stocky figure and the stirring of a large furry creature just behind him made her sure it was not. "Ma says you're to come to supper," said a gruff, untamed voice; and Margaret perceived that the person in the gathering gloom of the hall was a boy. "Oh!" said Margaret, with relief in her voice. "Thank you for coming to tell me. I meant to come down and not give that trouble, but I got to looking at the wonderful sunset. Have you been watching it?" She pointed across the room to the window. "Look! Isn't that a great color there on the tip of the mountain? I never saw anything like that at home. I suppose you're used to it, though." The boy came a step nearer the door and looked blankly, half wonderingly, across at the window, as if he expected to see some phenomenon. "Oh! _That!_" he exclaimed, carelessly. "Sure! We have them all the time." "But that wonderful silver light pouring down just in that one tiny spot!" exclaimed Margaret. "It makes the mountain seem alive and smiling!" The boy turned and looked at her curiously. "Gee!" said he, "I c'n show you plenty like that!" But he turned and looked at it a long, lingering minute again. "But we mustn't keep your mother waiting," said Margaret, remembering and turning reluctantly toward the door. "Is this your dog? Isn't he a beauty? He made me feel really as if he were glad to see me." She stooped and laid her hand on the dog's head and smiled brightly up at his master. The boy's face lit with a smile, and he turned a keen, appreciative look at the new teacher, for the first time genuinely interested in her. "Cap's a good old scout," he admitted. "So his name is Cap. Is that short for anything?" "Cap'n." "Captain. What a good name for him. He looks as if he were a captain, and he waves that tail grandly, almost as if it might be a badge of office. But who are you? You haven't told me your name yet. Are you Mrs. Tanner's son?" The boy nodded. "I'm just Bud Tanner." "Then you are one of my pupils, aren't you? We must shake hands on that." She put out her hand, but she was forced to go out after Bud's reluctant red fist, take it by force in a strange grasp, and do all the shaking; for Bud had never had that experience before in his life, and he emerged from it with a very red face and a feeling as if his right arm had been somehow lifted out of the same class with the rest of his body. It was rather awful, too, that it happened just in the open dining-room door, and that "preacher-boarder" watched the whole performance. Bud put on an extra-deep frown and shuffled away from the teacher, making a great show of putting Cap out of the dining-room, though he always sat behind his master's chair at meals, much to the discomfiture of the male boarder, who was slightly in awe of his dogship, not having been admitted into friendship as the lady had been. Mr. West stood back of his chair, awaiting the arrival of the new boarder, an expectant smile on his face, and rubbing his hands together with much the same effect as a wolf licking his lips in anticipation of a victim. In spite of her resolves to like the man, Margaret was again struck with aversion as she saw him standing there, and was intensely relieved when she found that the seat assigned to her was on the opposite side of the table from him, and beside Bud. West, however, did not seem to be pleased with the arrangement, and, stepping around the table, said to his landlady: "Did you mean me to sit over here?" and he placed a possessive hand on the back of the chair that was meant for Bud. "No, Mister West, you jest set where you ben settin'," responded Mrs. Tanner. She had thought the matter all out and decided that the minister could converse with the teacher to the better advantage of the whole table if he sat across from her. Mrs. Tanner was a born match-maker. This she felt was an opportunity not to be despised, even if it sometime robbed the Ridge School of a desirable teacher. But West did not immediately return to his place at the other side of the table. To Margaret's extreme annoyance he drew her chair and waited for her to sit down. The situation, however, was somewhat relieved of its intimacy by a sudden interference from Cap, who darted away from his frowning master and stepped up authoritatively to the minister's side with a low growl, as if to say: "Hands off that chair! That doesn't belong to you!" West suddenly released his hold on the chair without waiting to shove it up to the table, and precipitately retired to his own place. "That dog's a nuisance!" he said, testily, and was answered with a glare from Bud's dark eyes. Bud came to his seat with his eyes still set savagely on the minister, and Cap settled down protectingly behind Margaret's chair. Mrs. Tanner bustled in with the coffee-pot, and Mr. Tanner came last, having just finished his rather elaborate hair-comb at the kitchen glass with the kitchen comb, in full view of the assembled multitude. He was a little, thin, wiry, weather-beaten man, with skin like leather and sparse hair. Some of his teeth were missing, leaving deep hollows in his cheeks, and his kindly protruding chin was covered with scraggy gray whiskers, which stuck out ahead of him like a cow-catcher. He was in his shirt-sleeves and collarless, but looked neat and clean, and he greeted the new guest heartily before he sat down, and nodded to the minister: "Naow, Brother West, I reckon we're ready fer your part o' the performance. You'll please to say grace." Mr. West bowed his sleek, yellow head and muttered a formal blessing with an offhand manner, as if it were a mere ceremony. Bud stared contemptuously at him the while, and Cap uttered a low rumble as of a distant growl. Margaret felt a sudden desire to laugh, and tried to control herself, wondering what her father would feel about it all. The genial clatter of knives and forks broke the stiffness after the blessing. Mrs. Tanner bustled back and forth from the stove to the table, talking clamorously the while. Mr. Tanner joined in with his flat, nasal twang, responding, and the minister, with an air of utter contempt for them both, endeavored to set up a separate and altogether private conversation with Margaret across the narrow table; but Margaret innocently had begun a conversation with Bud about the school, and had to be addressed by name each time before Mr. West could get her attention. Bud, with a boy's keenness, noticed her aversion, and put aside his own backwardness, entering into the contest with remarkably voluble replies. The minister, if he would be in the talk at all, was forced to join in with theirs, and found himself worsted and contradicted by the boy at every turn. Strange to say, however, this state of things only served to make the man more eager to talk with the lady. She was not anxious for his attention. Ah! She was coy, and the acquaintance was to have the zest of being no lightly won friendship. All the better. He watched her as she talked, noted every charm of lash and lid and curving lip; stared so continually that she finally gave up looking his way at all, even when she was obliged to answer his questions. Thus, at last, the first meal in the new home was concluded, and Margaret, pleading excessive weariness, went to her room. She felt as if she could not endure another half-hour of contact with her present world until she had had some rest. If the world had been just Bud and the dog she could have stayed below stairs and found out a little more about the new life; but with that oily-mouthed minister continually butting in her soul was in a tumult. When she had prepared for rest she put out her light and drew up the shade. There before her spread the wide wonder of the heavens again, with the soft purple of the mountain under stars; and she was carried back to the experience of the night before with a vivid memory of her companion. Why, just _why_ couldn't she be as interested in the minister down there as in the wild young man? Well, she was too tired to-night to analyze it all, and she knelt beside her window in the starlight to pray. As she prayed her thoughts were on Lance Gardley once more, and she felt her heart go out in longing for him, that he might find a way to "make good," whatever his trouble had been. As she rose to retire she heard a step below, and, looking down, saw the minister stalking back and forth in the yard, his hands clasped behind, his head thrown back raptly. He could not see her in her dark room, but she pulled the shade down softly and fled to her hard little bed. Was that man going to obsess her vision everywhere, and must she try to like him just because he was a minister? So at last she fell asleep. CHAPTER VII The next day was filled with unpacking and with writing letters home. By dint of being very busy Margaret managed to forget the minister, who seemed to obtrude himself at every possible turn of the day, and would have monopolized her if she had given him half a chance. The trunks, two delightful steamer ones, and a big packing-box with her books, arrived the next morning and caused great excitement in the household. Not since they moved into the new house had they seen so many things arrive. Bud helped carry them up-stairs, while Cap ran wildly back and forth, giving sharp barks, and the minister stood by the front door and gave ineffectual and unpractical advice to the man who had brought them. Margaret heard the man and Bud exchanging their opinion of West in low growls in the hall as they entered her door, and she couldn't help feeling that she agreed with them, though she might not have expressed her opinion in the same terms. The minister tapped at her door a little later and offered his services in opening her box and unstrapping her trunks; but she told him Bud had already performed that service for her, and thanked him with a finality that forbade him to linger. She half hoped he heard the vicious little click with which she locked the door after him, and then wondered if she were wicked to feel that way. But all such compunctions were presently forgotten in the work of making over her room. The trunks, after they were unpacked and repacked with the things she would not need at once, were disposed in front of the two windows with which the ugly little room was blessed. She covered them with two Bagdad rugs, relics of her college days, and piled several college pillows from the packing-box on each, which made the room instantly assume a homelike air. Then out of the box came other things. Framed pictures of home scenes, college friends and places, pennants, and flags from football, baseball, and basket-ball games she had attended; photographs; a few prints of rare paintings simply framed; a roll of rose-bordered white scrim like her curtains at home, wherewith she transformed the blue-shaded windows and the stiff little wooden rocker, and even made a valance and bed-cover over pink cambric for her bed. The bureau and wash-stand were given pink and white covers, and the ugly walls literally disappeared beneath pictures, pennants, banners, and symbols. When Bud came up to call her to dinner she flung the door open, and he paused in wide-eyed amazement over the transformation. His eyes kindled at a pair of golf-sticks, a hockey-stick, a tennis-racket, and a big basket-ball in the corner; and his whole look of surprise was so ridiculous that she had to laugh. He looked as if a miracle had been performed on the room, and actually stepped back into the hall to get his breath and be sure he was still in his father's house. "I want you to come in and see all my pictures and get acquainted with my friends when you have time," she said. "I wonder if you could make some more shelves for my books and help me unpack and set them up?" "Sure!" gasped Bud, heartily, albeit with awe. She hadn't asked the minister; she had asked _him_--_Bud!_ Just a boy! He looked around the room with anticipation. What wonder and delight he would have looking at all those things! Then Cap stepped into the middle of the room as if he belonged, mouth open, tongue lolling, smiling and panting a hearty approval, as he looked about at the strangeness for all the world as a human being might have done. It was plain he was pleased with the change. There was a proprietary air about Bud during dinner that was pleasant to Margaret and most annoying to West. It was plain that West looked on the boy as an upstart whom Miss Earle was using for the present to block his approach, and he was growing most impatient over the delay. He suggested that perhaps she would like his escort to see something of her surroundings that afternoon; but she smilingly told him that she would be very busy all the afternoon getting settled, and when he offered again to help her she cast a dazzling smile on Bud and said she didn't think she would need any more help, that Bud was going to do a few things for her, and that was all that was necessary. Bud straightened up and became two inches taller. He passed the bread, suggested two pieces of pie, and filled her glass of water as if she were his partner. Mr. Tanner beamed to see his son in high favor, but Mrs. Tanner looked a little troubled for the minister. She thought things weren't just progressing as fast as they ought to between him and the teacher. Bud, with Margaret's instructions, managed to make a very creditable bookcase out of the packing-box sawed in half, the pieces set side by side. She covered them deftly with green burlap left over from college days, like her other supplies, and then the two arranged the books. Bud was delighted over the prospect of reading some of the books, for they were not all school-books, by any means, and she had brought plenty of them to keep her from being lonesome on days when she longed to fly back to her home. At last the work was done, and they stood back to survey it. The books filled up every speck of space and overflowed to the three little hanging shelves over them; but they were all squeezed in at last except a pile of school-books that were saved out to take to the school-house. Margaret set a tiny vase on the top of one part of the packing-case and a small brass bowl on the top of the other, and Bud, after a knowing glance, scurried away for a few minutes and brought back a handful of gorgeous cactus blossoms to give the final touch. "Gee!" he said, admiringly, looking around the room. "Gee! You wouldn't know it fer the same place!" That evening after supper Margaret sat down to write a long letter home. She had written a brief letter, of course, the night before, but had been too weary to go into detail. The letter read: DEAR MOTHER AND FATHER,--I'm unpacked and settled at last in my room, and now I can't stand it another minute till I talk to you. Last night, of course, I was pretty homesick, things all looked so strange and new and different. I had known they would, but then I didn't realize at all how different they would be. But I'm not getting homesick already; don't think it. I'm not a bit sorry I came, or at least I sha'n't be when I get started in school. One of the scholars is Mrs. Tanner's son, and I like him. He's crude, of course, but he has a brain, and he's been helping me this afternoon. We made a bookcase for my books, and it looks fine. I wish you could see it. I covered it with the green burlap, and the books look real happy in smiling rows over on the other side of the room. Bud Tanner got me some wonderful cactus blossoms for my brass bowl. I wish I could send you some. They are gorgeous! But you will want me to tell about my arrival. Well, to begin with, I was late getting here [Margaret had decided to leave out the incident of the desert altogether, for she knew by experience that her mother would suffer terrors all during her absence if she once heard of that wild adventure], which accounts for the lateness of the telegram I sent you. I hope its delay didn't make you worry any. A very nice young man named Mr. Gardley piloted me to Mrs. Tanner's house and looked after my trunks for me. He is from the East. It was fortunate for me that he happened along, for he was most kind and gentlemanly and helpful. Tell Jane not to worry lest I'll fall in love with him; he doesn't live here. He belongs to a ranch or camp or something twenty-five miles away. She was so afraid I'd fall in love with an Arizona man and not come back home. Mrs. Tanner is very kind and motherly according to her lights. She has given me the best room in the house, and she talks a blue streak. She has thin, brown hair turning gray, and she wears it in a funny little knob on the tip-top of her round head to correspond with the funny little tuft of hair on her husband's protruding chin. Her head is set on her neck like a clothes-pin, only she is squattier than a clothes-pin. She always wears her sleeves rolled up (at least so far she has) and she always bustles around noisily and apologizes for everything in the jolliest sort of way. I would like her, I guess, if it wasn't for the other boarder; but she has quite made up her mind that I shall like him, and I don't, of course, so she is a bit disappointed in me so far. Mr. Tanner is very kind and funny, and looks something like a jack-knife with the blades half-open. He never disagrees with Mrs. Tanner, and I really believe he's in love with her yet, though they must have been married a good while. He calls her "Ma," and seems restless unless she's in the room. When she goes out to the kitchen to get some more soup or hash or bring in the pie, he shouts remarks at her all the time she's gone, and she answers, utterly regardless of the conversation the rest of the family are carrying on. It's like a phonograph wound up for the day. Bud Tanner is about fourteen, and I like him. He's well developed, strong, and almost handsome; at least he would be if he were fixed up a little. He has fine, dark eyes and a great shock of dark hair. He and I are friends already. And so is the dog. The dog is a peach! Excuse me, mother, but I just must use a little of the dear old college slang somewhere, and your letters are the only safety-valve, for I'm a schoolmarm now and must talk "good and proper" all the time, you know. The dog's name is Captain, and he looks the part. He has constituted himself my bodyguard, and it's going to be very nice having him. He's perfectly devoted already. He's a great, big, fluffy fellow with keen, intelligent eyes, sensitive ears, and a tail like a spreading plume. You'd love him, I know. He has a smile like the morning sunshine. And now I come to the only other member of the family, the boarder, and I hesitate to approach the topic, because I have taken one of my violent and naughty dislikes to him, and--awful thought--mother! father! _he's a minister!_ Yes, he's a _Presbyterian minister_! I know it will make you feel dreadfully, and I thought some of not telling you, but my conscience hurt me so I had to. I just can't _bear_ him, so there! Of course, I may get over it, but I don't see how ever, for I can't think of anything that's more like him than _soft soap_! Oh yes, there is one other word. Grandmother used to use it about men she hadn't any use for, and that was "squash." Mother, I can't help it, but he does seem something like a squash. One of that crook-necked, yellow kind with warts all over it, and a great, big, splurgy vine behind it to account for its being there at all. Insipid and thready when it's cooked, you know, and has to have a lot of salt and pepper and butter to make it go down at all. Now I've told you the worst, and I'll try to describe him and see what you think I'd better do about it. Oh, he isn't the regular minister here, or missionary--I guess they call him. He's located quite a distance off, and only comes once a month to preach here, and, anyhow, _he's_ gone East now to take his wife to a hospital for an operation, and won't be back for a couple of months, perhaps, and this man isn't even taking his place. He's just here for his health or for fun or something, I guess. He says he had a large suburban church near New York, and had a nervous breakdown; but I've been wondering if he didn't make a mistake, and it wasn't the church had the nervous breakdown instead. He isn't very big nor very little; he's just insignificant. His hair is like wet straw, and his eyes like a fish's. His hand feels like a dead toad when you have to shake hands, which I'm thankful doesn't have to be done but once. He looks at you with a flat, sickening grin. He has an acquired double chin, acquired to make him look pompous, and he dresses stylishly and speaks of the inhabitants of this country with contempt. He wants to be very affable, and offers to take me to all sorts of places, but so far I've avoided him. I can't think how they ever came to let him be a minister--I really can't! And yet, I suppose it's all my horrid old prejudice, and father will be grieved and you will think I am perverse. But, really, I'm sure he's not one bit like father was when he was young. I never saw a minister like him. Perhaps I'll get over it. I do sometimes, you know, so don't begin to worry yet. I'll try real hard. I suppose he'll preach Sunday, and then, perhaps, his sermon will be grand and I'll forget how soft-soapy he looks and think only of his great thoughts. But I know it will be a sort of comfort to you to know that there is a Presbyterian minister in the house with me, and I'll really try to like him if I can. There's nothing to complain of in the board. It isn't luxurious, of course, but I didn't expect that. Everything is very plain, but Mrs. Tanner manages to make it taste good. She makes fine corn-bread, almost as good as yours--not quite. My room is all lovely, now that I have covered its bareness with my own things, but it has one great thing that can't compare with anything at home, and that is its view. It is wonderful! I wish I could make you see it. There is a mountain at the end of it that has as many different garments as a queen. To-night, when sunset came, it grew filmy as if a gauze of many colors had dropped upon it and melted into it, and glowed and melted until it turned to slate blue under the wide, starred blue of the wonderful night sky, and all the dark about was velvet. Last night my mountain was all pink and silver, and I have seen it purple and rose. But you can't think the wideness of the sky, and I couldn't paint it for you with words. You must see it to understand. A great, wide, dark sapphire floor just simply ravished with stars like big jewels! But I must stop and go to bed, for I find the air of this country makes me very sleepy, and my wicked little kerosene-lamp is smoking. I guess you would better send me my student-lamp, after all, for I'm surely going to need it. Now I must turn out the light and say good night to my mountain, and then I will go to sleep thinking of you. Don't worry about the minister. I'm very polite to him, but I shall never--_no, never_--fall in love with _him_--tell Jane. Your loving little girl, MARGARET. CHAPTER VIII Margaret had arranged with Bud to take her to the school-house the next morning, and he had promised to have a horse hitched up and ready at ten o'clock, as it seemed the school was a magnificent distance from her boarding-place. In fact, everything seemed to be located with a view to being as far from everywhere else as possible. Even the town was scattering and widespread and sparse. When she came down to breakfast she was disappointed to find that Bud was not there, and she was obliged to suffer a breakfast tête-à-tête with West. By dint, however, of asking him questions instead of allowing him to take the initiative, she hurried through her breakfast quite successfully, acquiring a superficial knowledge of her fellow-boarder quite distant and satisfactory. She knew where he spent his college days and at what theological seminary he had prepared for the ministry. He had served three years in a prosperous church of a fat little suburb of New York, and was taking a winter off from his severe, strenuous pastoral labors to recuperate his strength, get a new stock of sermons ready, and possibly to write a book of some of his experiences. He flattened his weak, pink chin learnedly as he said this, and tried to look at her impressively. He said that he should probably take a large city church as his next pastorate when his health was fully recuperated. He had come out to study the West and enjoy its freedom, as he understood it was a good place to rest and do as you please unhampered by what people thought. He wanted to get as far away from churches and things clerical as possible. He felt it was due himself and his work that he should. He spoke of the people he had met in Arizona as a kind of tamed savages, and Mrs. Tanner, sitting behind her coffee-pot for a moment between bustles, heard his comments meekly and looked at him with awe. What a great man he must be, and how fortunate for the new teacher that he should be there when she came! Margaret drew a breath of relief as she hurried away from the breakfast-table to her room. She was really anticipating the ride to the school with Bud. She liked boys, and Bud had taken her fancy. But when she came down-stairs with her hat and sweater on she found West standing out in front, holding the horse. "Bud had to go in another direction, Miss Earle," he said, touching his hat gracefully, "and he has delegated to me the pleasant task of driving you to the school." Dismay filled Margaret's soul, and rage with young Bud. He had deserted her and left her in the hands of the enemy! And she had thought he understood! Well, there was nothing for it but to go with this man, much as she disliked it. Her father's daughter could not be rude to a minister. She climbed into the buckboard quickly to get the ceremony over, for her escort was inclined to be too officious about helping her in, and somehow she couldn't bear to have him touch her. Why was it that she felt so about him? Of course he must be a good man. West made a serious mistake at the very outset of that ride. He took it for granted that all girls like flattery, and he proceeded to try it on Margaret. But Margaret did not enjoy being told how delighted he was to find that instead of the loud, bold "old maid" he had expected, she had turned out to be "so beautiful and young and altogether congenial"; and, coolly ignoring his compliments, she began a fire of questions again. She asked about the country, because that was the most obvious topic of conversation. What plants were those that grew by the wayside? She found he knew greasewood from sage-brush, and that was about all. To some of her questions he hazarded answers that were absurd in the light of the explanations given her by Gardley two days before. However, she reflected that he had been in the country but a short time, and that he was by nature a man not interested in such topics. She tried religious matters, thinking that here at least they must have common interests. She asked him what he thought of Christianity in the West as compared with the East. Did he find these Western people more alive and awake to the things of the Kingdom? West gave a startled look at the clear profile of the young woman beside him, thought he perceived that she was testing him on his clerical side, flattened his chin in his most learned, self-conscious manner, cleared his throat, and put on wisdom. "Well, now, Miss Earle," he began, condescendingly, "I really don't know that I have thought much about the matter. Ah--you know I have been resting absolutely, and I really haven't had opportunity to study the situation out here in detail; but, on the whole, I should say that everything was decidedly primitive; yes--ah--I might say--ah--well, crude. Yes, _crude_ in the extreme! Why, take it in this mission district. The missionary who is in charge seems to be teaching the most absurd of the old dogmas such as our forefathers used to teach. I haven't met him, of course. He is in the East with his wife for a time. I am told she had to go under some kind of an operation. I have never met him, and really don't care to do so; but to judge from all I hear, he is a most unfit man for a position of the kind. For example, he is teaching such exploded doctrines as the old view of the atonement, the infallibility of the Scriptures, the deity of Christ, belief in miracles, and the like. Of course, in one sense it really matters very little what the poor Indians believe, or what such people as the Tanners are taught. They have but little mind, and would scarcely know the difference; but you can readily see that with such a primitive, unenlightened man at the head of religious affairs, there could scarcely be much broadening and real religious growth. Ignorance, of course, holds sway out here. I fancy you will find that to be the case soon enough. What in the world ever led you to come to a field like this to labor? Surely there must have been many more congenial places open to such as you." He leaned forward and cast a sentimental glance at her, his eyes looking more "fishy" than ever. "I came out here because I wanted to get acquainted with this great country, and because I thought there was an opportunity to do good," said Margaret, coldly. She did not care to discuss her own affairs with this man. "But, Mr. West, I don't know that I altogether understand you. Didn't you tell me that you were a Presbyterian minister?" "I certainly did," he answered, complacently, as though he were honoring the whole great body of Presbyterians by making the statement. "Well, then, what in the world did you mean? All Presbyterians, of course, believe in the infallibility of the Scriptures and the deity of Jesus--and the atonement!" "Not necessarily," answered the young man, loftily. "You will find, my dear young lady, that there is a wide, growing feeling in our church in favor of a broader view. The younger men, and the great student body of our church, have thrown to the winds all their former beliefs and are ready to accept new light with open minds. The findings of science have opened up a vast store of knowledge, and all thinking men must acknowledge that the old dogmas are rapidly vanishing away. Your father doubtless still holds to the old faith, perhaps, and we must be lenient with the older men who have done the best they could with the light they had; but all younger, broad-minded men are coming to the new way of looking at things. We have had enough of the days of preaching hell-fire and damnation. We need a religion of love to man, and good works. You should read some of the books that have been written on this subject if you care to understand. I really think it would be worth your while. You look to me like a young woman with a mind. I have a few of the latest with me. I shall be glad to read and discuss them with you if you are interested." "Thank you, Mr. West," said Margaret, coolly, though her eyes burned with battle. "I think I have probably read most of those books and discussed them with my father. He may be old, but he is not without 'light,' as you call it, and he always believed in knowing all that the other side was saying. He brought me up to look into these things for myself. And, anyhow, I should not care to read and discuss any of these subjects with a man who denies the deity of my Saviour and does not believe in the infallibility of the Bible. It seems to me you have nothing left--" "Ah! Well--now--my dear young lady--you mustn't misjudge me! I should be sorry indeed to shake your faith, for an innocent faith is, of course, a most beautiful thing, even though it may be unfounded." "Indeed, Mr. West, that would not be possible. You could not shake my faith in my Christ, because _I know Him_. If I had not ever felt His presence, nor been guided by His leading, such words might possibly trouble me, but having seen 'Him that is invisible,' _I know_." Margaret's voice was steady and gentle. It was impossible for even that man not to be impressed by her words. "Well, let us not quarrel about it," he said, indulgently, as to a little child. "I'm sure you have a very charming way of stating it, and I'm not sure that it is not a relief to find a woman of the old-fashioned type now and then. It really is man's place to look into these deeper questions, anyway. It is woman's sphere to live and love and make a happy home--" His voice took on a sentimental purr, and Margaret was fairly boiling with rage at him; but she would not let her temper give way, especially when she was talking on the sacred theme of the Christ. She felt as if she must scream or jump out over the wheel and run away from this obnoxious man, but she knew she would do neither. She knew she would sit calmly through the expedition and somehow control that conversation. There was one relief, anyway. Her father would no longer expect respect and honor and liking toward a minister who denied the very life and foundation of his faith. "It can't be possible that the school-house is so far from the town," she said, suddenly looking around at the widening desert in front of them. "Haven't you made some mistake?" "Why, I thought we should have the pleasure of a little drive first," said West, with a cunning smile. "I was sure you would enjoy seeing the country before you get down to work, and I was not averse myself to a drive in such delightful company." "I would like to go back to the school-house at once, please," said Margaret, decidedly, and there was that in her voice that caused the man to turn the horse around and head it toward the village. "Why, yes, of course, if you prefer to see the school-house first, we can go back and look it over, and then, perhaps, you will like to ride a little farther," he said. "We have plenty of time. In fact, Mrs. Tanner told me she would not expect us home to dinner, and she put a very promising-looking basket of lunch under the seat for us in case we got hungry before we came back." "Thank you," said Margaret, quite freezingly now. "I really do not care to drive this morning. I would like to see the school-house, and then I must return to the house at once. I have a great many things to do this morning." Her manner at last penetrated even the thick skin of the self-centered man, and he realized that he had gone a step too far in his attentions. He set himself to undo the mischief, hoping perhaps to melt her yet to take the all-day drive with him. But she sat silent during the return to the village, answering his volubility only by yes or no when absolutely necessary. She let him babble away about college life and tell incidents of his late pastorate, at some of which he laughed immoderately; but he could not even bring a smile to her dignified lips. He hoped she would change her mind when they got to the school building, and he even stooped to praise it in a kind of contemptuous way as they drew up in front of the large adobe building. "I suppose you will want to go through the building," he said, affably, producing the key from his pocket and putting on a pleasant anticipatory smile, but Margaret shook her head. She simply would not go into the building with that man. "It is not necessary," she said again, coldly. "I think I will go home now, please." And he was forced to turn the horse toward the Tanner house, crestfallen, and wonder why this beautiful girl was so extremely hard to win. He flattered himself that he had always been able to interest any girl he chose. It was really quite a bewildering type. But he would win her yet. He set her down silently at the Tanner door and drove off, lunch-basket and all, into the wilderness, vexed that she was so stubbornly unfriendly, and pondering how he might break down the dignity wherewith she had surrounded herself. There would be a way and he would find it. There was a stubbornness about that weak chin of his, when one observed it, and an ugliness in his pale-blue eye; or perhaps you would call it a hardness. CHAPTER IX She watched him furtively from her bedroom window, whither she had fled from Mrs. Tanner's exclamations. He wore his stylish derby tilted down over his left eye and slightly to one side in a most unministerial manner, showing too much of his straw-colored back hair, which rose in a cowlick at the point of contact with the hat, and he looked a small, mean creature as he drove off into the vast beauty of the plain. Margaret, in her indignation, could not help comparing him with the young man who had ridden away from the house two days before. And he to set up to be a minister of Christ's gospel and talk like that about the Bible and Christ! Oh, what was the church of Christ coming to, to have ministers like that? How ever did he get into the ministry, anyway? Of course, she knew there were young men with honest doubts who sometimes slid through nowadays, but a mean little silly man like that? How ever did he get in? What a lot of ridiculous things he had said! He was one of those described in the Bible who "darken counsel with words." He was not worth noticing. And yet, what a lot of harm he could do in an unlearned community. Just see how Mrs. Tanner hung upon his words, as though they were law and gospel! How _could_ she? Margaret found herself trembling yet over the words he had spoken about Christ, the atonement, and the faith. They meant so much to her and to her mother and father. They were not mere empty words of tradition that she believed because she had been taught. She had lived her faith and proved it; and she could not help feeling it like a personal insult to have him speak so of her Saviour. She turned away and took her Bible to try and get a bit of calmness. She fluttered the leaves for something--she could not just tell what--and her eye caught some of the verses that her father had marked for her before she left home for college, in the days when he was troubled for her going forth into the world of unbelief. As ye have therefore received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk ye in him: Rooted and built up in him, and established in the faith, as ye have been taught, abounding therein with thanksgiving. Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ. For in him dwelleth all the fullness of the Godhead bodily.... How the verses crowded upon one another, standing out clearly from the pages as she turned them, marked with her father's own hand in clear ink underlinings. It almost seemed as if God had looked ahead to these times and set these words down just for the encouragement of his troubled servants who couldn't understand why faith was growing dim. God knew about it, had known it would be, all this doubt, and had put words here just for troubled hearts to be comforted thereby. For I know whom I have believed [How her heart echoed to that statement!], and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day. And on a little further: Nevertheless the foundation of God standeth sure, having this seal, The Lord knoweth them that are his. There was a triumphant look to the words as she read them. Then over in Ephesians her eye caught a verse that just seemed to fit that poor blind minister: Having the understanding darkened, being alienated from the life of God through the ignorance that is in them, because of the blindness of their heart. And yet he was set to guide the feet of the blind into the way of life! And he had looked on her as one of the ignorant. Poor fellow! He couldn't know the Christ who was her Saviour or he never would have spoken in that way about Him. What could such a man preach? What was there left to preach, but empty words, when one rejected all these doctrines? Would she have to listen to a man like that Sunday after Sunday? Did the scholars in her school, and their parents, and the young man out at the camp, and his rough, simple-hearted companions have to listen to preaching from that man, when they listened to any? Her heart grew sick within her, and she knelt beside her bed for a strengthening word with the Christ who since her little childhood had been a very real presence in her life. When she arose from her knees she heard the kitchen door slam down-stairs and the voice of Bud calling his mother. She went to her door and opened it, listening a moment, and then called the boy. There was a dead silence for an instant after her voice was heard, and then Bud appeared at the foot of the stairs, very frowning as to brow, and very surly as to tone: "What d'ye want?" It was plain that Bud was "sore." "Bud,"--Margaret's voice was sweet and a bit cool as she leaned over the railing and surveyed the boy; she hadn't yet got over her compulsory ride with that minister--"I wanted to ask you, please, next time you can't keep an appointment with me don't ask anybody else to take your place. I prefer to pick out my own companions. It was all right, of course, if you had to go somewhere else, but I could easily have gone alone or waited until another time. I'd rather not have you ask Mr. West to go anywhere with me again." Bud's face was a study. It cleared suddenly and his jaw dropped in surprise; his eyes fairly danced with dawning comprehension and pleasure, and then his brow drew down ominously. "I never ast him," he declared, vehemently. "He told me you wanted him to go, and fer me to get out of the way 'cause you didn't want to hurt my feelings. Didn't you say nothing to him about it at all this morning?" "No, indeed!" said Margaret, with flashing eyes. "Well, I just thought he was that kind of a guy. I told ma he was lying, but she said I didn't understand young ladies, and, of course, you didn't want me when there was a man, and especially a preacher, round. Some preacher he is! This 's the second time I've caught him lying. I think he's the limit. I just wish you'd see our missionary. If he was here he'd beat the dust out o' that poor stew. _He's_ some man, he is. He's a regular white man, _our missionary_! Just you wait till _he_ gets back." Margaret drew a breath of relief. Then the missionary was a real man, after all. Oh, for his return! "Well, I'm certainly very glad it wasn't your fault, Bud. I didn't feel very happy to be turned off that way," said the teacher, smiling down upon the rough head of the boy. "You bet it wasn't my fault!" said the boy, vigorously. "I was sore's a pup at you, after you'd made a date and all, to do like that; but I thought if you wanted to go with that guy it was up to you." "Well, I didn't and I don't. You'll please understand hereafter that I'd always rather have your company than his. How about going down to the school-house some time to-day? Have you time?" "Didn't you go yet?" The boy's face looked as if he had received a kingdom, and his voice had a ring of triumph. "We drove down there, but I didn't care to go in without you, so we came back." "Wanta go now?" The boy's face fairly shone. "I'd love to. I'll be ready in three minutes. Could we carry some books down?" "Sure! Oh--gee! That guy's got the buckboard. We'll have to walk. Doggone him!" "I shall enjoy a walk. I want to find out just how far it is, for I shall have to walk every day, you know." "No, you won't, neither, 'nless you wanta. I c'n always hitch up." "That'll be very nice sometimes, but I'm afraid I'd get spoiled if you babied me all the time that way. I'll be right down." They went out together into the sunshine and wideness of the morning, and it seemed a new day had been created since she got back from her ride with the minister. She looked at the sturdy, honest-eyed boy beside her, and was glad to have him for a companion. Just in front of the school-house Margaret paused. "Oh, I forgot! The key! Mr. West has the key in his pocket! We can't get in, can we?" "Aw, we don't need a key," said her escort. "Just you wait!" And he whisked around to the back of the building, and in about three minutes his shock head appeared at the window. He threw the sash open and dropped out a wooden box. "There!" he said, triumphantly, "you c'n climb up on that, cantcha? Here, I'll holdya steady. Take holta my hand." And so it was through the front window that the new teacher of the Ridge School first appeared on her future scene of action and surveyed her little kingdom. Bud threw open the shutters, letting the view of the plains and the sunshine into the big, dusty room, and showed her the new blackboard with great pride. "There's a whole box o' chalk up on the desk, too; 'ain't never been opened yet. Dad said that was your property. Want I should open it?" "Why, yes, you might, and then we'll try the blackboard, won't we?" Bud went to work gravely opening the chalk-box as if it were a small treasure-chest, and finally produced a long, smooth stick of chalk and handed it to her with shining eyes. "You try it first, Bud," said the teacher, seeing his eagerness; and the boy went forward awesomely, as if it were a sacred precinct and he unworthy to intrude. Shyly, awkwardly, with infinite painstaking, he wrote in a cramped hand, "William Budlong Tanner," and then, growing bolder, "Ashland, Arizona," with a big flourish underneath. "Some class!" he said, standing back and regarding his handiwork with pride. "Say, I like the sound the chalk makes on it, don't you?" "Yes, I do," said Margaret, heartily, "so smooth and business-like, isn't it? You'll enjoy doing examples in algebra on it, won't you?" "Good night! Algebra! Me? No chance. I can't never get through the arithmetic. The last teacher said if he'd come back twenty years from now he'd still find me working compound interest." "Well, we'll prove to that man that he wasn't much of a judge of boys," said Margaret, with a tilt of her chin and a glint of her teacher-mettle showing in her eyes. "If you're not in algebra before two months are over I'll miss my guess. We'll get at it right away and show him." Bud watched her, charmed. He was beginning to believe that almost anything she tried would come true. "Now, Bud, suppose we get to work. I'd like to get acquainted with my class a little before Monday. Isn't it Monday school opens? I thought so. Well, suppose you give me the names of the scholars and I'll write them down, and that will help me to remember them. Where will you begin? Here, suppose you sit down in the front seat and tell me who sits there and a little bit about him, and I'll write the name down; and then you move to the next seat and tell me about the next one, and so on. Will you?" "Sure!" said Bud, entering into the new game. "But it ain't a 'he' sits there. It's Susie Johnson. She's Bill Johnson's smallest girl. She has to sit front 'cause she giggles so much. She has yellow curls and she ducks her head down and snickers right out this way when anything funny happens in school." And Bud proceeded to duck and wriggle in perfect imitation of the small Susie. Margaret saw the boy's power of imitation was remarkable, and laughed heartily at his burlesque. Then she turned and wrote "Susie Johnson" on the board in beautiful script. Bud watched with admiration, saying softly under his breath; "Gee! that's great, that blackboard, ain't it?" Amelia Schwartz came next. She was long and lank, with the buttons off the back of her dress, and hands and feet too large for her garments. Margaret could not help but see her in the clever pantomime the boy carried on. Next was Rosa Rogers, daughter of a wealthy cattleman, the pink-cheeked, blue-eyed beauty of the school, with all the boys at her feet and a perfect knowledge of her power over them. Bud didn't, of course, state it that way, but Margaret gathered as much from his simpering smile and the coy way he looked out of the corner of his eyes as he described her. Down the long list of scholars he went, row after row, and when he came to the seats where the boys sat his tone changed. She could tell by the shading of his voice which boys were the ones to look out for. Jed Brower, it appeared, was a name to conjure with. He could ride any horse that ever stood on four legs, he could outshoot most of the boys in the neighborhood, and he never allowed any teacher to tell him what to do. He was Texas Brower's only boy, and always had his own way. His father was on the school board. Jed Brower was held in awe, even while his methods were despised, by some of the younger boys. He was big and powerful, and nobody dared fool with him. Bud did not exactly warn Margaret that she must keep on the right side of Jed Brower, but he conveyed that impression without words. Margaret understood. She knew also that Tad Brooks, Larry Parker, Jim Long, and Dake Foster were merely henchmen of the worthy Jed, and not negligible quantities when taken by themselves. But over the name of Timothy Forbes--"Delicate Forbes," Bud explained was his nickname--the boy lingered with that loving inflection of admiration that a younger boy will sometimes have for a husky, courageous older lad. The second time Bud spoke of him he called him "Forbeszy," and Margaret perceived that here was Bud's model of manhood. Delicate Forbes could outshoot and outride even Jed Brower when he chose, and his courage with cattle was that of a man. Moreover, he was good to the younger boys and wasn't above pitching baseball with them when he had nothing better afoot. It became evident from the general description that Delicate Forbes was not called so from any lack of inches to his stature. He had a record of having licked every man teacher in the school, and beaten by guile every woman teacher they had had in six years. Bud was loyal to his admiration, yet it could be plainly seen that he felt Margaret's greatest hindrance in the school would be Delicate Forbes. Margaret mentally underlined the names in her memory that belonged to the back seats in the first and second rows of desks, and went home praying that she might have wisdom and patience to deal with Jed Brower and Timothy Forbes, and through them to manage the rest of her school. She surprised Bud at the dinner-table by handing him a neat diagram of the school-room desks with the correct names of all but three or four of the scholars written on them. Such a feat of memory raised her several notches in his estimation. "Say, that's going some! Guess you won't forget nothing, no matter how much they try to make you." CHAPTER X The minister did not appear until late in the evening, after Margaret had gone to her room, for which she was sincerely thankful. She could hear his voice, fretful and complaining, as he called loudly for Bud to take the horse. It appeared he had lost his way and wandered many miles out of the trail. He blamed the country for having no better trails, and the horse for not being able to find his way better. Mr. Tanner had gone to bed, but Mrs. Tanner bustled about and tried to comfort him. "Now that's too bad! Dearie me! Bud oughta hev gone with you, so he ought. Bud! _Oh_, Bud, you 'ain't gonta sleep yet, hev you? Wake up and come down and take this horse to the barn." But Bud declined to descend. He shouted some sleepy directions from his loft where he slept, and said the minister could look after his own horse, he "wasn'ta gonta!" There was "plentya corn in the bin." The minister grumbled his way to the barn, highly incensed at Bud, and disturbed the calm of the evening view of Margaret's mountain by his complaints when he returned. He wasn't accustomed to handling horses, and he thought Bud might have stayed up and attended to it himself. Bud chuckled in his loft and stole down the back kitchen roof while the minister ate his late supper. Bud would never leave the old horse to that amateur's tender mercies, but he didn't intend to make it easy for the amateur. Margaret, from her window-seat watching the night in the darkness, saw Bud slip off the kitchen roof and run to the barn, and she smiled to herself. She liked that boy. He was going to be a good comrade. The Sabbath morning dawned brilliantly, and to the homesick girl there suddenly came a sense of desolation on waking. A strange land was this, without church-bells or sense of Sabbath fitness. The mountain, it is true, greeted her with a holy light of gladness, but mountains are not dependent upon humankind for being in the spirit on the Lord's day. They are "continually praising Him." Margaret wondered how she was to get through this day, this dreary first Sabbath away from her home and her Sabbath-school class, and her dear old church with father preaching. She had been away, of course, a great many times before, but never to a churchless community. It was beginning to dawn upon her that that was what Ashland was--a churchless community. As she recalled the walk to the school and the ride through the village she had seen nothing that looked like a church, and all the talk had been of the missionary. They must have services of some sort, of course, and probably that flabby, fish-eyed man, her fellow-boarder, was to preach; but her heart turned sick at thought of listening to a man who had confessed to the unbeliefs that he had. Of course, he would likely know enough to keep such doubts to himself; but he had told her, and nothing he could say now would help or uplift her in the least. She drew a deep sigh and looked at her watch. It was late. At home the early Sabbath-school bells would be ringing, and little girls in white, with bunches of late fall flowers for their teachers, and holding hands with their little brothers, would be hurrying down the street. Father was in his study, going over his morning sermon, and mother putting her little pearl pin in her collar, getting ready to go to her Bible class. Margaret decided it was time to get up and stop thinking of it all. She put on a little white dress that she wore to church at home and hurried down to discover what the family plans were for the day, but found, to her dismay, that the atmosphere below-stairs was just like that of other days. Mr. Tanner sat tilted back in a dining-room chair, reading the weekly paper, Mrs. Tanner was bustling in with hot corn-bread, Bud was on the front-door steps teasing the dog, and the minister came in with an air of weariness upon him, as if he quite intended taking it out on his companions that he had experienced a trying time on Saturday. He did not look in the least like a man who expected to preach in a few minutes. He declined to eat his egg because it was cooked too hard, and poor Mrs. Tanner had to try it twice before she succeeded in producing a soft-boiled egg to suit him. Only the radiant outline of the great mountain, which Margaret could see over the minister's head, looked peaceful and Sabbath-like. "What time do you have service?" Margaret asked, as she rose from the table. "Service?" It was Mr. Tanner who echoed her question as if he did not quite know what she meant. Mrs. Tanner raised her eyes from her belated breakfast with a worried look, like a hen stretching her neck about to see what she ought to do next for the comfort of the chickens under her care. It was apparent that she had no comprehension of what the question meant. It was the minister who answered, condescendingly: "Um! Ah! There is no church edifice here, you know, Miss Earle. The mission station is located some miles distant." "I know," said Margaret, "but they surely have some religious service?" "I really don't know," said the minister, loftily, as if it were something wholly beneath his notice. "Then you are not going to preach this morning?" In spite of herself there was relief in her tone. "Most certainly not," he replied, stiffly. "I came out here to rest, and I selected this place largely because it was so far from a church. I wanted to be where I should not be annoyed by requests to preach. Of course, ministers from the East would be a curiosity in these Western towns, and I should really get no rest at all if I had gone where my services would have been in constant demand. When I came out here I was in much the condition of our friend the minister of whom you have doubtless heard. He was starting on his vacation, and he said to a brother minister, with a smile of joy and relief, 'No preaching, no praying, no reading of the Bible for six whole weeks!'" "Indeed!" said Margaret, freezingly. "No, I am not familiar with ministers of that sort." She turned with dismissal in her manner and appealed to Mrs. Tanner. "Then you really have no Sabbath service of any sort whatever in town?" There was something almost tragic in her face. She stood aghast at the prospect before her. Mrs. Tanner's neck stretched up a little longer, and her lips dropped apart in her attempt to understand the situation. One would scarcely have been surprised to hear her say, "Cut-cut-cut-ca-daw-cut?" so fluttered did she seem. Then up spoke Bud. "We gotta Sunday-school, ma!" There was pride of possession in Bud's tone, and a kind of triumph over the minister, albeit Bud had adjured Sunday-school since his early infancy. He was ready now, however, to be offered on the altar of Sunday-school, even, if that would please the new teacher--and spite the minister. "I'll take you ef you wanta go." He looked defiantly at the minister as he said it. But at last Mrs. Tanner seemed to grasp what was the matter. "Why!--why!--why! You mean preaching service!" she clucked out. "Why, yes, Mr. West, wouldn't that be fine? You could preach for us. We could have it posted up at the saloon and the crossings, and out a ways on both trails, and you'd have quite a crowd. They'd come from over to the camp, and up the cañon way, and roundabouts. They'd do you credit, they surely would, Mr. West. And you could have the school-house for a meeting-house. Pa, there, is one of the school board. There wouldn't be a bit of trouble--" "Um! Ah! Mrs. Tanner, I assure you it's quite out of the question. I told you I was here for absolute rest. I couldn't think of preaching. Besides, it's against my principles to preach without remuneration. It's a wrong idea. The workman is worthy of his hire, you know, Mrs. Tanner, the Good Book says." Mr. West's tone took on a self-righteous inflection. "Oh! Ef that's all, that 'u'd be all right!" she said, with relief. "You could take up a collection. The boys would be real generous. They always are when any show comes along. They'd appreciate it, you know, and I'd like fer Miss Earle here to hear you preach. It 'u'd be a real treat to her, her being a preacher's daughter and all." She turned to Margaret for support, but that young woman was talking to Bud. She had promptly closed with his offer to take her to Sunday-school, and now she hurried away to get ready, leaving Mrs. Tanner to make her clerical arrangements without aid. The minister, meantime, looked after her doubtfully. Perhaps, after all, it would have been a good move to have preached. He might have impressed that difficult young woman better that way than any other, seeing she posed as being so interested in religious matters. He turned to Mrs. Tanner and began to ask questions about the feasibility of a church service. The word "collection" sounded good to him. He was not averse to replenishing his somewhat depleted treasury if it could be done so easily as that. Meantime Margaret, up in her room, was wondering again how such a man as Mr. West ever got into the Christian ministry. West was still endeavoring to impress the Tanners with the importance of his late charge in the East as Margaret came down-stairs. His pompous tones, raised to favor the deafness that he took for granted in Mr. Tanner, easily reached her ears. "I couldn't, of course, think of doing it every Sunday, you understand. It wouldn't be fair to myself nor my work which I have just left; but, of course, if there were sufficient inducement I might consent to preach some Sunday before I leave." Mrs. Tanner's little satisfied cluck was quite audible as the girl closed the front door and went out to the waiting Bud. The Sunday-school was a desolate affair, presided over by an elderly and very illiterate man, who nursed his elbows and rubbed his chin meditatively between the slow questions which he read out of the lesson-leaf. The woman who usually taught the children was called away to nurse a sick neighbor, and the children were huddled together in a restless group. The singing was poor, and the whole of the exercises dreary, including the prayer. The few women present sat and stared in a kind of awe at the visitor, half belligerently, as if she were an intruder. Bud lingered outside the door and finally disappeared altogether, reappearing when the last hymn was sung. Altogether the new teacher felt exceedingly homesick as she wended her way back to the Tanners' beside Bud. "What do you do with yourself on Sunday afternoons, Bud?" she asked, as soon as they were out of hearing of the rest of the group. The boy turned wondering eyes toward her. "Do?" he repeated, puzzled. "Why, we pass the time away, like 'most any day. There ain't much difference." A great desolation possessed her. No church! Worse than no minister! No Sabbath! What kind of a land was this to which she had come? The boy beside her smelled of tobacco smoke. He had been off somewhere smoking while she was in the dreary little Sunday-school. She looked at his careless boy-face furtively as they walked along. He smoked, of course, like most boys of his age, probably, and he did a lot of other things he ought not to do. He had no interest in God or righteousness, and he did not take it for granted that the Sabbath was different from any other day. A sudden heart-sinking came upon her. What was the use of trying to do anything for such as he? Why not give it up now and go back where there was more promising material to work upon and where she would be welcome indeed? Of course, she had known things would be discouraging, but somehow it had seemed different from a distance. It all looked utterly hopeless now, and herself crazy to have thought she could do any good in a place like this. And yet the place needed somebody! That pitiful little Sunday-school! How forlorn it all was! She was almost sorry she had gone. It gave her an unhappy feeling for the morrow, which was to be her first day of school. Then, all suddenly, just as they were nearing the Tanner house, there came one riding down the street with all the glory of the radiant morning in his face, and a light in his eyes at seeing her that lifted away her desolation, for here at last was a friend! She wondered at herself. An unknown stranger, and a self-confessed failure so far in his young life, and yet he seemed so good a sight to her amid these uncongenial surroundings! CHAPTER XI This stranger of royal bearing, riding a rough Western pony as if it were decked with golden trappings, with his bright hair gleaming like Roman gold in the sun, and his blue-gray eyes looking into hers with the gladness of his youth; this one who had come to her out of the night-shadows of the wilderness and led her into safety! Yes, she was glad to see him. He dismounted and greeted her, his wide hat in his hand, his eyes upon her face, and Bud stepped back, watching them in pleased surprise. This was the man who had shot all the lights out the night of the big riot in the saloon. He had also risked his life in a number of foolish ways at recent festal carouses. Bud would not have been a boy had he not admired the young man beyond measure; and his boy worship of the teacher yielded her to a fitting rival. He stepped behind and walked beside the pony, who was following his master meekly, as though he, too, were under the young man's charm. "Oh, and this is my friend, William Tanner," spoke Margaret, turning toward the boy loyally, (Whatever good angel made her call him William? Bud's soul swelled with new dignity as he blushed and acknowledged the introduction by a grin.) "Glad to know you, Will," said the new-comer, extending his hand in a hearty shake that warmed the boy's heart in a trice. "I'm glad Miss Earle has so good a protector. You'll have to look out for her. She's pretty plucky and is apt to stray around the wilderness by herself. It isn't safe, you know, boy, for such as her. Look after her, will you?" "Right I will," said Bud, accepting the commission as if it were Heaven-sent, and thereafter walked behind the two with his head in the clouds. He felt that he understood this great hero of the plains and was one with him at heart. There could be no higher honor than to be the servitor of this man's lady. Bud did not stop to question how the new teacher became acquainted with the young rider of the plains. It was enough that both were young and handsome and seemed to belong together. He felt they were fitting friends. The little procession walked down the road slowly, glad to prolong the way. The young man had brought her handkerchief, a filmy trifle of an excuse that she had dropped behind her chair at the bunk-house, where it had lain unnoticed till she was gone. He produced it from his inner pocket, as though it had been too precious to carry anywhere but over his heart, yet there was in his manner nothing presuming, not a hint of any intimacy other than their chance acquaintance of the wilderness would warrant. He did not look at her with any such look as West had given every time he spoke to her. She felt no desire to resent his glance when it rested upon her almost worshipfully, for there was respect and utmost humility in his look. The men had sent gifts: some arrow-heads and a curiously fashioned vessel from the cañon of the cave-dwellers; some chips from the petrified forest; a fern with wonderful fronds, root and all; and a sheaf of strange, beautiful blossoms carefully wrapped in wet paper, and all fastened to the saddle. Margaret's face kindled with interest as he showed them to her one by one, and told her the history of each and a little message from the man who had sent it. Mom Wallis, too, had baked a queer little cake and sent it. The young man's face was tender as he spoke of it. The girl saw that he knew what her coming had meant to Mom Wallis. Her memory went quickly back to those few words the morning she had wakened in the bunk-house and found the withered old woman watching her with tears in her eyes. Poor Mom Wallis, with her pretty girlhood all behind her and such a blank, dull future ahead! Poor, tired, ill-used, worn-out Mom Wallis! Margaret's heart went out to her. "They want to know," said the young man, half hesitatingly, "if some time, when you get settled and have time, you would come to them again and sing? I tried to make them understand, of course, that you would be busy, your time taken with other friends and your work, and you would not want to come; but they wanted me to tell you they never enjoyed anything so much in years as your singing. Why, I heard Long Jim singing 'Old Folks at Home' this morning when he was saddling his horse. And it's made a difference. The men sort of want to straighten up the bunk-room. Jasper made a new chair yesterday. He said it would do when you came again." Gardley laughed diffidently, as if he knew their hopes were all in vain. But Margaret looked up with sympathy in her face, "I'll come! Of course I'll come some time," she said, eagerly. "I'll come as soon as I can arrange it. You tell them we'll have more than one concert yet." The young man's face lit up with a quick appreciation, and the flash of his eyes as he looked at her would have told any onlooker that he felt here was a girl in a thousand, a girl with an angel spirit, if ever such a one walked the earth. Now it happened that Rev. Frederick West was walking impatiently up and down in front of the Tanner residence, looking down the road about that time. He had spent the morning in looking over the small bundle of "show sermons" he had brought with him in case of emergency, and had about decided to accede to Mrs. Tanner's request and preach in Ashland before he left. This decision had put him in so self-satisfied a mood that he was eager to announce it before his fellow-boarder. Moreover, he was hungry, and he could not understand why that impudent boy and that coquettish young woman should remain away at Sunday-school such an interminable time. Mrs. Tanner was frying chicken. He could smell it every time he took a turn toward the house. It really was ridiculous that they should keep dinner waiting this way. He took one more turn and began to think over the sermon he had decided to preach. He was just recalling a particularly eloquent passage when he happened to look down the road once more, and there they were, almost upon him! But Bud was no longer walking with the maiden. She had acquired a new escort, a man of broad shoulders and fine height. Where had he seen that fellow before? He watched them as they came up, his small, pale eyes narrowing under their yellow lashes with a glint of slyness, like some mean little animal that meant to take advantage of its prey. It was wonderful how many different things that man could look like for a person as insignificant as he really was! Well, he saw the look between the man and maiden; the look of sympathy and admiration and a fine kind of trust that is not founded on mere outward show, but has found some hidden fineness of the soul. Not that the reverend gentleman understood that, however. He had no fineness of soul himself. His mind had been too thoroughly taken up with himself all his life for him to have cultivated any. Simultaneous with the look came his recognition of the man or, at least, of where he had last seen him, and his little soul rejoiced at the advantage he instantly recognized. He drew himself up importantly, flattened his chin upward until his lower lip protruded in a pink roll across his mouth, drew down his yellow brows in a frown of displeasure, and came forward mentor-like to meet the little party as it neared the house. He had the air of coming to investigate and possibly oust the stranger, and he looked at him keenly, critically, offensively, as if he had the right to protect the lady. They might have been a pair of naughty children come back from a forbidden frolic, from the way he surveyed them. But the beauty of it was that neither of them saw him, being occupied with each other, until they were fairly upon him. Then, there he stood offensively, as if he were a great power to be reckoned with. "Well, well, well, Miss Margaret, you have got home at last!" he said, pompously and condescendingly, and then he looked into the eyes of her companion as if demanding an explanation of _his_ presence there. Margaret drew herself up haughtily. His use of her Christian name in that familiar tone annoyed her exceedingly. Her eyes flashed indignantly, but the whole of it was lost unless Bud saw it, for Gardley had faced his would-be adversary with a keen, surprised scrutiny, and was looking him over coolly. There was that in the young man's eye that made the eye of Frederick West quail before him. It was only an instant the two stood challenging each other, but in that short time each knew and marked the other for an enemy. Only a brief instant and then Gardley turned to Margaret, and before she had time to think what to say, he asked: "Is this man a friend of yours, Miss _Earle_?" with marked emphasis on the last word. "No," said Margaret, coolly, "not a friend--a boarder in the house." Then most formally, "Mr. West, my _friend_ Mr. Gardley." If the minister had not been possessed of the skin of a rhinoceros he would have understood himself to be dismissed at that; but he was not a man accustomed to accepting dismissal, as his recent church in New York State might have testified. He stood his ground, his chin flatter than ever, his little eyes mere slits of condemnation. He did not acknowledge the introduction by so much as the inclination of his head. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his whole attitude was one of righteous belligerence. Gardley gazed steadily at him for a moment, a look of mingled contempt and amusement gradually growing upon his face. Then he turned away as if the man were too small to notice. "You will come in and take dinner with me?" asked Margaret, eagerly. "I want to send a small package to Mrs. Wallis if you will be so good as to take it with you." "I'm sorry I can't stay to dinner, but I have an errand in another direction and at some distance. I am returning this way, however, and, if I may, will call and get the package toward evening." Margaret's eyes spoke her welcome, and with a few formal words the young man sprang on his horse, said, "So long, Will!" to Bud, and, ignoring the minister, rode away. They watched him for an instant, for, indeed, he was a goodly sight upon a horse, riding as if he and the horse were utterly one in spirit; then Margaret turned quickly to go into the house. "Um! Ah! Miss Margaret!" began the minister, with a commandatory gesture for her to stop. Margaret was the picture of haughtiness as she turned and said, "Miss _Earle_, if you please!" "Um! Ah! Why, certainly, Miss--ah--_Earle_, if you wish it. Will you kindly remain here for a moment? I wish to speak with you. Bud, you may go on." "I'll go when I like, and it's none of your business!" muttered Bud, ominously, under his breath. He looked at Margaret to see if she wished him to go. He had an idea that this might be one of the times when he was to look after her. She smiled at him understandingly. "William may remain, Mr. West," she said, sweetly. "Anything you have to say to me can surely be said in his presence," and she laid her hand lightly on Bud's sleeve. Bud looked down at the hand proudly and grew inches taller enjoying the minister's frown. "Um! Ah!" said West, unabashed. "Well, I merely wished to warn you concerning the character of that person who has just left us. He is really not a proper companion for you. Indeed, I may say he is quite the contrary, and that to my personal knowledge--" "He's as good as you are and better!" growled Bud, ominously. "Be quiet, boy! I wasn't speaking to you!" said West, as if he were addressing a slave. "If I hear another word from your lips I shall report it to your father!" "Go 's far 's you like and see how much I care!" taunted Bud, but was stopped by Margaret's gentle pressure on his arm. "Mr. West, I thought I made you understand that Mr. Gardley is my friend." "Um! Ah! Miss Earle, then all I have to say is that you have formed a most unwise friendship, and should let it proceed no further. Why, my dear young lady, if you knew all there is to know about him you would not think of speaking to that young man." "Indeed! Mr. West, I suppose that might be true of a good many people, might it not, _if we knew all there is to know about them_? Nobody but God could very well get along with some of us." "But, my dear young lady, you don't understand. This young person is nothing but a common ruffian, a gambler, in fact, and an habitué at the saloons. I have seen him myself sitting in a saloon at a very late hour playing with a vile, dirty pack of cards, and in the company of a lot of low-down creatures--" "May I ask how you came to be in a saloon at that hour, Mr. West?" There was a gleam of mischief in the girl's eyes, and her mouth looked as if she were going to laugh, but she controlled it. The minister turned very red indeed. "Well, I--ah--I had been called from my bed by shouts and the report of a pistol. There was a fight going on in the room adjoining the bar, and I didn't know but my assistance might be needed!" (At this juncture Bud uttered a sort of snort and, placing his hands over his heart, ducked down as if a sudden pain had seized him.) "But imagine my pain and astonishment when I was informed that the drunken brawl I was witnessing was but a nightly and common occurrence. I may say I remained for a few minutes, partly out of curiosity, as I wished to see all kinds of life in this new world for the sake of a book I am thinking of writing. I therefore took careful note of the persons present, and was thus able to identify the person who has just ridden away as one of the chief factors in that evening's entertainment. He was, in fact, the man who, when he had pocketed all the money on the gaming-table, arose and, taking out his pistol, shot out the lights in the room, a most dangerous and irregular proceeding--" "Yes, and you came within an ace of being shot, pa says. The Kid's a dead shot, he is, and you were right in the way. Served you right for going where you had no business!" "I did not remain longer in that place, as you may imagine," went on West, ignoring Bud, "for I found it was no place for a--for--a--ah--minister of the gospel; but I remained long enough to hear from the lips of this person with whom you have just been walking some of the most terrible language my ears have ever been permitted to--ah--witness!" But Margaret had heard all that she intended to listen to on that subject. With decided tone she interrupted the voluble speaker, who was evidently enjoying his own eloquence. "Mr. West, I think you have said all that it is necessary to say. There are still some things about Mr. Gardley that you evidently do not know, but I think you are in a fair way to learn them if you stay in this part of the country long. William, isn't that your mother calling us to dinner? Let us go in; I'm hungry." Bud followed her up the walk with a triumphant wink at the discomfited minister, and they disappeared into the house; but when Margaret went up to her room and took off her hat in front of the little warped looking-glass there were angry tears in her eyes. She never felt more like crying in her life. Chagrin and anger and disappointment were all struggling in her soul, yet she must not cry, for dinner would be ready and she must go down. Never should that mean little meddling man see that his words had pierced her soul. For, angry as she was at the minister, much as she loathed his petty, jealous nature and saw through his tale-bearing, something yet told her that his picture of young Gardley's wildness was probably true, and her soul sank within her at the thought. It was just what had come in shadowy, instinctive fear to her heart when he had hinted at his being a "roughneck," yet to have it put baldly into words by an enemy hurt her deeply, and she looked at herself in the glass half frightened. "Margaret Earle, have you come out to the wilderness to lose your heart to the first handsome sower of wild oats that you meet?" her true eyes asked her face in the glass, and Margaret Earle's heart turned sad at the question and shrank back. Then she dropped upon her knees beside her gay little rocking-chair and buried her face in its flowered cushions and cried to her Father in heaven: "Oh, my Father, let me not be weak, but with all my heart I cry to Thee to save this young, strong, courageous life and not let it be a failure. Help him to find Thee and serve Thee, and if his life has been all wrong--and I suppose it has--oh, make it right for Jesus' sake! If there is anything that I can do to help, show me how, and don't let me make mistakes. Oh, Jesus, Thy power is great. Let this young man feel it and yield himself to it." She remained silently praying for a moment more, putting her whole soul into the prayer and knowing that she had been called thus to pray for him until her prayer was answered. She came down to dinner a few minutes later with a calm, serene face, on which was no hint of her recent emotion, and she managed to keep the table conversation wholly in her own hands, telling Mr. Tanner about her home town and her father and mother. When the meal was finished the minister had no excuse to think that the new teacher was careless about her friends and associates, and he was well informed about the high principles of her family. But West had retired into a sulky mood and uttered not a word except to ask for more chicken and coffee and a second helping of pie. It was, perhaps, during that dinner that he decided it would be best for him to preach in Ashland on the following Sunday. The young lady could be properly impressed with his dignity in no other way. CHAPTER XII When Lance Gardley came back to the Tanners' the sun was preparing the glory of its evening setting, and the mountain was robed in all its rosiest veils. Margaret was waiting for him, with the dog Captain beside her, wandering back and forth in the unfenced dooryard and watching her mountain. It was a relief to her to find that the minister occupied a room on the first floor in a kind of ell on the opposite side of the house from her own room and her mountain. He had not been visible that afternoon, and with Captain by her side and Bud on the front-door step reading _The Sky Pilot_ she felt comparatively safe. She had read to Bud for an hour and a half, and he was thoroughly interested in the story; but she was sure he would keep the minister away at all costs. As for Captain, he and the minister were sworn enemies by this time. He growled every time West came near or spoke to her. She made a picture standing with her hand on Captain's shaggy, noble head, the lace of her sleeve falling back from the white arm, her other hand raised to shade her face as she looked away to the glorified mountain, a slim, white figure looking wistfully off at the sunset. The young man took off his hat and rode his horse more softly, as if in the presence of the holy. The dog lifted one ear, and a tremor passed through his frame as the rider drew near; otherwise he did not stir from his position; but it was enough. The girl turned, on the alert at once, and met him with a smile, and the young man looked at her as if an angel had deigned to smile upon him. There was a humility in his fine face that sat well with the courage written there, and smoothed away all hardness for the time, so that the girl, looking at him in the light of the revelations of the morning, could hardly believe it had been true, yet an inner fineness of perception taught her that it was. The young man dismounted and left his horse standing quietly by the roadside. He would not stay, he said, yet lingered by her side, talking for a few minutes, watching the sunset and pointing out its changes. She gave him the little package for Mom Wallis. There was a simple lace collar in a little white box, and a tiny leather-bound book done in russet suède with gold lettering. "Tell her to wear the collar and think of me whenever she dresses up." "I'm afraid that'll never be, then," said the young man, with a pitying smile. "Mom Wallis never dresses up." "Tell her I said she must dress up evenings for supper, and I'll make her another one to change with that and bring it when I come." He smiled upon her again, that wondering, almost worshipful smile, as if he wondered if she were real, after all, so different did she seem from his idea of girls. "And the little book," she went on, apologetically; "I suppose it was foolish to send it, but something she said made me think of some of the lines in the poem. I've marked them for her. She reads, doesn't she?" "A little, I think. I see her now and then read the papers that Pop brings home with him. I don't fancy her literary range is very wide, however." "Of course, I suppose it is ridiculous! And maybe she'll not understand any of it; but tell her I sent her a message. She must see if she can find it in the poem. Perhaps you can explain it to her. It's Browning's 'Rabbi Ben Ezra.' You know it, don't you?" "I'm afraid not. I was intent on other things about the time when I was supposed to be giving my attention to Browning, or I wouldn't be what I am to-day, I suppose. But I'll do my best with what wits I have. What's it about? Couldn't you give me a pointer or two?" "It's the one beginning: "Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand Who saith, 'A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!'" He looked down at her still with that wondering smile. "Grow old along with you!" he said, gravely, and then sighed. "You don't look as if you ever would grow old." "That's it," she said, eagerly. "That's the whole idea. We don't ever grow old and get done with it all, we just go on to bigger things, wiser and better and more beautiful, till we come to understand and be a part of the whole great plan of God!" He did not attempt an answer, nor did he smile now, but just looked at her with that deeply quizzical, grave look as if his soul were turning over the matter seriously. She held her peace and waited, unable to find the right word to speak. Then he turned and looked off, an infinite regret growing in his face. "That makes living a different thing from the way most people take it," he said, at last, and his tone showed that he was considering it deeply. "Does it?" she said, softly, and looked with him toward the sunset, still half seeing his quiet profile against the light. At last it came to her that she must speak. Half fearfully she began: "I've been thinking about what you said on the ride. You said you didn't make good. I--wish you would. I--I'm sure you could--" She looked up wistfully and saw the gentleness come into his face as if the fountain of his soul, long sealed, had broken up, and as if he saw a possibility before him for the first time through the words she had spoken. At last he turned to her with that wondering smile again. "Why should you care?" he asked. The words would have sounded harsh if his tone had not been so gentle. Margaret hesitated for an answer. "I don't know how to tell it," she said, slowly. "There's another verse, a few lines more in that poem, perhaps you know them?-- 'All I never could be, All, men ignored in me, This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.' I want it because--well, perhaps because I feel you are worth all that to God. I would like to see you be that." He looked down at her again, and was still so long that she felt she had failed miserably. "I hope you will excuse my speaking," she added. "I--It seems there are so many grand possibilities in life, and for you--I couldn't bear to have you say you hadn't made good, as if it were all over." "I'm glad you spoke," he said, quickly. "I guess perhaps I have been all kinds of a fool. You have made me feel how many kinds I have been." "Oh no!" she protested. "You don't know what I have been," he said, sadly, and then with sudden conviction, as if he read her thoughts: "You _do_ know! That prig of a parson has told you! Well, it's just as well you should know. It's right!" A wave of misery passed over his face and erased all its brightness and hope. Even the gentleness was gone. He looked haggard and drawn with hopelessness all in a moment. "Do you think it would matter to me--_anything_ that man would say?" she protested, all her woman's heart going out in pity. "But it was true, all he said, probably, and more--" "It doesn't matter," she said, eagerly. "The other is true, too. Just as the poem says, 'All that man ignores in you, just that you are worth to God!' And you _can_ be what He meant you to be. I have been praying all the afternoon that He would help you to be." "Have you?" he said, and his eyes lit up again as if the altar-fires of hope were burning once more. "Have you? I thank you." "You came to me when I was lost in the wilderness," she said, shyly. "I wanted to help _you_ back--if--I might." "You will help--you have!" he said, earnestly. "And I was far enough off the trail, too, but if there's any way to get back I'll get there." He grasped her hand and held it for a second. "Keep up that praying," he said. "I'll see what can be done." Margaret looked up. "Oh, I'm so glad, so glad!" He looked reverently into her eyes, all the manhood in him stirred to higher, better things. Then, suddenly, as they stood together, a sound smote their ears as from another world. "Um! Ah!--" The minister stood within the doorway, barred by Bud in scowling defiance, and guarded by Cap, who gave an answering growl. Gardley and Margaret looked at each other and smiled, then turned and walked slowly down to where the pony stood. They did not wish to talk here in that alien presence. Indeed, it seemed that more words were not needed--they would be a desecration. So he rode away into the sunset once more with just another look and a hand-clasp, and she turned, strangely happy at heart, to go back to her dull surroundings and her uncongenial company. "Come, William, let's have a praise service," she said, brightly, pausing at the doorway, but ignoring the scowling minister. "A praise service! What's a praise service?" asked the wondering Bud, shoving over to let her sit down beside him. She sat with her back to West, and Cap came and lay at her feet with the white of one eye on the minister and a growl ready to gleam between his teeth any minute. There was just no way for the minister to get out unless he jumped over them or went out the back door; but the people in the doorway had the advantage of not having to look at him, and he couldn't very well dominate the conversation standing so behind them. "Why, a praise service is a service of song and gladness, of course. You sing, don't you? Of course. Well, what shall we sing? Do you know this?" And she broke softly into song: "When peace like a river attendeth my way; When sorrows like sea-billows roll; Whatever my lot Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well with my soul." Bud did not know the song, but he did not intend to be balked with the minister standing right behind him, ready, no doubt, to jump in and take the precedence; so he growled away at a note in the bass, turning it over and over and trying to make it fit, like a dog gnawing at a bare bone; but he managed to keep time and make it sound a little like singing. The dusk was falling fast as they finished the last verse, Margaret singing the words clear and distinct, Bud growling unintelligibly and snatching at words he had never heard before. Once more Margaret sang: "Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide! When other refuge fails and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!" Out on the lonely trail wending his way toward the purple mountain--the silent way to the bunk-house at the camp--in that clear air where sound travels a long distance the traveler heard the song, and something thrilled his soul. A chord that never had been touched in him before was vibrating, and its echoes would be heard through all his life. On and on sang Margaret, just because she could not bear to stop and hear the commonplace talk which would be about her. Song after song thrilled through the night's wideness. The stars came out in thick clusters. Father Tanner had long ago dropped his weekly paper and tilted his chair back against the wall, with his eyes half closed to listen, and his wife had settled down comfortably on the carpet sofa, with her hands nicely folded in her lap, as if she were at church. The minister, after silently surveying the situation for a song or two, attempted to join his voice to the chorus. He had a voice like a cross-cut saw, but he didn't do much harm in the background that way, though Cap did growl now and then, as if it put his nerves on edge. And by and by Mr. Tanner quavered in with a note or two. Finally Margaret sang: "Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear, It is not night if Thou art near, Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes." During this hymn the minister had slipped out the back door and gone around to the front of the house. He could not stand being in the background any longer; but as the last note died away Margaret arose and, bidding Bud good night, slipped up to her room. There, presently, beside her darkened window, with her face toward the mountain, she knelt to pray for the wanderer who was trying to find his way out of the wilderness. CHAPTER XIII Monday morning found Margaret at the school-house nerved for her new task. One by one the scholars trooped in, shyly or half defiantly, hung their hats on the hooks, put their dinner-pails on the shelf, looked furtively at her, and sank into their accustomed seats; that is, the seats they had occupied during the last term of school. The big boys remained outside until Bud, acting under instructions from Margaret--after she had been carefully taught the ways of the school by Bud himself--rang the big bell. Even then they entered reluctantly and as if it were a great condescension that they came at all, Jed and "Delicate" coming in last, with scarcely a casual glance toward the teacher's desk, as if she were a mere fraction in the scheme of the school. She did not need to be told which was Timothy and which was Jed. Bud's description had been perfect. Her heart, by the way, instantly went out to Timothy. Jed was another proposition. He had thick, overhanging eyebrows, and a mouth that loved to make trouble and laugh over it. He was going to be hard to conquer. She wasn't sure the conquering would be interesting, either. Margaret stood by the desk, watching them all with a pleasant smile. She did not frown at the unnecessary shuffling of feet nor the loud remarks of the boys as they settled into their seats. She just stood and watched them interestedly, as though her time had not yet come. Jed and Timothy were carrying on a rumbling conversation. Even after they took their seats they kept it up. It was no part of their plan to let the teacher suppose they saw her or minded her in the least. They were the dominating influences in that school, and they wanted her to know it, right at the start; then a lot of trouble would be saved. If they didn't like her and couldn't manage her they didn't intend she should stay, and she might as well understand that at once. Margaret understood it fully. Yet she stood quietly and watched them with a look of deep interest on her face and a light almost of mischief in her eyes, while Bud grew redder and redder over the way his two idols were treating the new teacher. One by one the school became aware of the twinkle in the teacher's eyes, and grew silent to watch, and one by one they began to smile over the coming scene when Jed and Timothy should discover it, and, worst of all, find out that it was actually directed against them. They would expect severity, or fear, or a desire to placate; but a twinkle--it was more than the school could decide what would happen under such circumstances. No one in that room would ever dare to laugh at either of those two boys. But the teacher was almost laughing now, and the twinkle had taken the rest of the room into the secret, while she waited amusedly until the two should finish the conversation. The room grew suddenly deathly still, except for the whispered growls of Jed and Timothy, and still the silence deepened, until the two young giants themselves perceived that it was time to look up and take account of stock. The perspiration by this time was rolling down the back of Bud's neck. He was about the only one in the room who was not on a broad grin, and he was wretched. What a fearful mistake the new teacher was making right at the start! She was antagonizing the two boys who held the whole school in their hands. There was no telling what they wouldn't do to her now. And he would have to stand up for her. Yes, no matter what they did, he would stand up for her! Even though he lost his best friends, he must be loyal to her; but the strain was terrible! He did not dare to look at them, but fastened his eyes upon Margaret, as if keeping them glued there was his only hope. Then suddenly he saw her face break into one of the sweetest, merriest smiles he ever witnessed, with not one single hint of reproach or offended dignity in it, just a smile of comradeship, understanding, and pleasure in the meeting; and it was directed to the two seats where Jed and Timothy sat. With wonder he turned toward the two big boys, and saw, to his amazement, an answering smile upon their faces; reluctant, 'tis true, half sheepish at first, but a smile with lifted eyebrows of astonishment and real enjoyment of the joke. A little ripple of approval went round in half-breathed syllables, but Margaret gave no time for any restlessness to start. She spoke at once, in her pleasantest partnership tone, such as she had used to Bud when she asked him to help her build her bookcase. So she spoke now to that school, and each one felt she was speaking just to him especially, and felt a leaping response in his soul. Here, at least, was something new and interesting, a new kind of teacher. They kept silence to listen. "Oh, I'm not going to make a speech now," she said, and her voice sounded glad to them all. "I'll wait till we know one another before I do that. I just want to say how do you do to you, and tell you how glad I am to be here. I hope we shall like one another immensely and have a great many good times together. But we've got to get acquainted first, of course, and perhaps we'd better give most of the time to that to-day. First, suppose we sing something. What shall it be? What do you sing?" Little Susan Johnson, by virtue of having seen the teacher at Sunday-school, made bold to raise her hand and suggest, "Thar-thpangle Banner, pleath!" And so they tried it; but when Margaret found that only a few seemed to know the words, she said, "Wait!" Lifting her arm with a pretty, imperative gesture, and taking a piece of chalk from the box on her desk, she went to the new blackboard that stretched its shining black length around the room. The school was breathlessly watching the graceful movement of the beautiful hand and arm over the smooth surface, leaving behind it the clear, perfect script. Such wonderful writing they had never seen; such perfect, easy curves and twirls. Every eye in the room was fastened on her, every breath was held as they watched and spelled out the words one by one. "Gee!" said Bud, softly, under his breath, nor knew that he had spoken, but no one else moved. "Now," she said, "let us sing," and when they started off again Margaret's strong, clear soprano leading, every voice in the room growled out the words and tried to get in step with the tune. They had gone thus through two verses when Jed seemed to think it was about time to start something. Things were going altogether too smoothly for an untried teacher, if she _was_ handsome and unabashed. If they went on like this the scholars would lose all respect for him. So, being quite able to sing a clear tenor, he nevertheless puckered his lips impertinently, drew his brows in an ominous frown, and began to whistle a somewhat erratic accompaniment to the song. He watched the teacher closely, expecting to see the color flame in her cheeks, the anger flash in her eyes; he had tried this trick on other teachers and it always worked. He gave the wink to Timothy, and he too left off his glorious bass and began to whistle. But instead of the anger and annoyance they expected, Margaret turned appreciative eyes toward the two back seats, nodding her head a trifle and smiling with her eyes as she sang; and when the verse was done she held up her hand for silence and said: "Why, boys, that's beautiful! Let's try that verse once more, and you two whistle the accompaniment a little stronger in the chorus; or how would it do if you just came in on the chorus? I believe that would be more effective. Let's try the first verse that way; you boys sing during the verse and then whistle the chorus just as you did now. We really need your voices in the verse part, they are so strong and splendid. Let's try it now." And she started off again, the two big astonished fellows meekly doing as they were told, and really the effect was beautiful. What was their surprise when the whole song was finished to have her say, "Now everybody whistle the chorus softly," and then pucker up her own soft lips to join in. That completely finished the whistling stunt. Jed realized that it would never work again, not while she was here, for she had turned the joke into beauty and made them all enjoy it. It hadn't annoyed her in the least. Somehow by that time they were all ready for anything she had to suggest, and they watched again breathlessly as she wrote another song on the blackboard, taking the other side of the room for it, and this time a hymn--"I Need Thee Every Hour." When they began to sing it, however, Margaret found the tune went slowly, uncertainly. "Oh, how we need a piano!" she exclaimed. "I wonder if we can't get up an entertainment and raise money to buy one. How many will help?" Every hand in the place went up, Jed's and Timothy's last and only a little way, but she noted with triumph that they went up. "All right; we'll do it! Now let's sing that verse correctly." And she began to sing again, while they all joined anxiously in, really trying to do their best. The instant the last verse died away, Margaret's voice took their attention. "Two years ago in Boston two young men, who belonged to a little group of Christian workers who were going around from place to place holding meetings, sat talking together in their room in the hotel one evening." There was instant quiet, a kind of a breathless quiet. This was not like the beginning of any lesson any other teacher had ever given them. Every eye was fixed on her. "They had been talking over the work of the day, and finally one of them suggested that they choose a Bible verse for the whole year--" There was a movement of impatience from one back seat, as if Jed had scented an incipient sermon, but the teacher's voice went steadily on: "They talked it over, and at last they settled on II Timothy ii:15. They made up their minds to use it on every possible occasion. It was time to go to bed, so the man whose room adjoined got up and, instead of saying good night, he said, 'Well, II Timothy ii:15,' and went to his room. Pretty soon, when he put out his light, he knocked on the wall and shouted 'II Timothy ii:15,' and the other man responded, heartily, 'All right, II Timothy ii:15.' The next morning when they wrote their letters each of them wrote 'II Timothy ii:15' on the lower left-hand corner of the envelope, and sent out a great handful of letters to all parts of the world. Those letters passed through the Boston post-office, and some of the clerks who sorted them saw that queer legend written down in the lower left-hand corner of the envelope, and they wondered at it, and one or two wrote it down, to look it up afterward. The letters reached other cities and were put into the hands of mail-carriers to distribute, and they saw the queer little sentence, 'II Timothy ii:15,' and they wondered, and some of them looked it up." By this time the entire attention of the school was upon the story, for they perceived that it was a story. "The men left Boston and went across the ocean to hold meetings in other cities, and one day at a little railway station in Europe a group of people were gathered, waiting for a train, and those two men were among them. Pretty soon the train came, and one of the men got on the back end of the last car, while the other stayed on the platform, and as the train moved off the man on the last car took off his hat and said, in a good, loud, clear tone, 'Well, take care of yourself, II Timothy ii:15,' and the other one smiled and waved his hat and answered, 'Yes, II Timothy ii:15.' The man on the train, which was moving fast now, shouted back, 'II Timothy ii:15,' and the man on the platform responded still louder, waving his hat, 'II Timothy ii:15,' and back and forth the queer sentence was flung until the train was too far away for them to hear each other's voices. In the mean time all the people on the platform had been standing there listening and wondering what in the world such a strange salutation could mean. Some of them recognized what it was, but many did not know, and yet the sentence was said over so many times that they could not help remembering it; and some went away to recall it and ask their friends what it meant. A young man from America was on that platform and heard it, and he knew it stood for a passage in the Bible, and his curiosity was so great that he went back to his boarding-house and hunted up the Bible his mother had packed in his trunk when he came away from home, and he hunted through the Bible until he found the place, 'II Timothy ii:15,' and read it; and it made him think about his life and decide that he wasn't doing as he ought to do. I can't tell you all the story about that queer Bible verse, how it went here and there and what a great work it did in people's hearts; but one day those Christian workers went to Australia to hold some meetings, and one night, when the great auditorium was crowded, a man who was leading the meeting got up and told the story of this verse, how it had been chosen, and how it had gone over the world in strange ways, even told about the morning at the little railway station when the two men said good-by. Just as he got to that place in his story a man in the audience stood up and said: 'Brother, just let me say a word, please. I never knew anything about all this before, but I was at that railway station, and I heard those two men shout that strange good-by, and I went home and read that verse, and it's made a great difference in my life.' "There was a great deal more to the story, how some Chicago policemen got to be good men through reading that verse, and how the story of the Australia meetings was printed in an Australian paper and sent to a lady in America who sent it to a friend in England to read about the meetings. And this friend in England had a son in the army in India, to whom she was sending a package, and she wrapped it around something in that package, and the young man read all about it, and it helped to change his life. Well, I thought of that story this morning when I was trying to decide what to read for our opening chapter, and it occurred to me that perhaps you would be interested to take that verse for our school verse this term, and so if you would like it I will put it on the blackboard. Would you like it, I wonder?" She paused wistfully, as if she expected an answer, and there was a low, almost inaudible growl of assent; a keen listener might almost have said it had an impatient quality in it, as if they were in a hurry to find out what the verse was that had made such a stir in the world. "Very well," said Margaret, turning to the board; "then I'll put it where we all can see it, and while I write it will you please say over where it is, so that you will remember it and hunt it up for yourselves in your Bibles at home?" There was a sort of snicker at that, for there were probably not half a dozen Bibles, if there were so many, represented in that school; but they took her hint as she wrote, and chanted, "II Timothy ii:15, II Timothy ii:15," and then spelled out after her rapid crayon, "Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed." They read it together at her bidding, with a wondering, half-serious look in their faces, and then she said, "Now, shall we pray?" The former teacher had not opened her school with prayer. It had never been even suggested in that school. It might have been a dangerous experiment if Margaret had attempted it sooner in her program. As it was, there was a shuffling of feet in the back seats at her first word; but the room, grew quiet again, perhaps out of curiosity to hear a woman's voice in prayer: "Our Heavenly Father, we want to ask Thee to bless us in our work together, and to help us to be such workmen that we shall not need to be ashamed to show our work to Thee at the close of the day. For Christ's sake we ask it. Amen." They did not have time to resent that prayer before she had them interested in something else. In fact, she had planned her whole first day out so that there should not be a minute for misbehavior. She had argued that if she could just get time to become acquainted with them she might prevent a lot of trouble before it ever started. Her first business was to win her scholars. After that she could teach them easily if they were once willing to learn. She had a set of mental arithmetic problems ready which she propounded to them next, some of them difficult and some easy enough for the youngest child who could think, and she timed their answers and wrote on the board the names of those who raised their hands first and had the correct answers. The questions were put in a fascinating way, many of them having curious little catches in them for the scholars who were not on the alert, and Timothy presently discovered this and set himself to get every one, coming off victorious at the end. Even Jed roused himself and was interested, and some of the girls quite distinguished themselves. When a half-hour of this was over she put the word "TRANSFIGURATION" on the blackboard, and set them to playing a regular game out of it. If some of the school-board had come in just then they might have lifted up hands of horror at the idea of the new teacher setting the whole school to playing a game. But they certainly would have been delightfully surprised to see a quiet and orderly room with bent heads and knit brows, all intent upon papers and pencils. Never before in the annals of that school had the first day held a full period of quiet or orderliness. It was expected to be a day of battle; a day of trying out the soul of the teacher and proving whether he or she were worthy to cope with the active minds and bodies of the young bullies of Ashland. But the expected battle had been forgotten. Every mind was busy with the matter in hand. Margaret had given them three minutes to write as many words as they could think of, of three letters or more, beginning with T, and using only the letters in the word she had put on the board. When time was called there was a breathless rush to write a last word, and then each scholar had to tell how many words he had, and each was called upon to read his list. Some had only two or three, some had ten or eleven. They were allowed to mark their words, counting one for each person present who did not have that word and doubling if it were two syllables, and so on. Excitement ran high when it was discovered that some had actually made a count of thirty or forty, and when they started writing words beginning with R every head was bent intently from the minute time was started. Never had three minutes seemed so short to those unused brains, and Jed yelled out: "Aw, gee! I only got three!" when time was called next. It was recess-time when they finally finished every letter in that word, and, adding all up, found that Timothy had won the game. Was that school? Why, a barbecue couldn't be named beside it for fun! They rushed out to the school-yard with a shout, and the boys played leap-frog loudly for the first few minutes. Margaret, leaning her tired head in her hands, elbows on the window-seat, closing her eyes and gathering strength for the after-recess session, heard one boy say: "Wal, how d'ye like 'er?" And the answer came: "Gee! I didn't think she'd be that kind of a guy! I thought she'd be some stiff old Ike! Ain't she a peach, though?" She lifted up her head and laughed triumphantly to herself, her eyes alight, herself now strengthened for the fray. She wasn't wholly failing, then? After recess there was a spelling-match, choosing sides, of course, "Because this is only the first day, and we must get acquainted before we can do real work, you know," she explained. The spelling-match proved an exciting affair also, with new features that Ashland had never seen before. Here the girls began to shine into prominence, but there were very few good spellers, and they were presently reduced to two girls--Rosa Rogers, the beauty of the school, and Amanda Bounds, a stolid, homely girl with deep eyes and a broad brow. "I'm going to give this as a prize to the one who stands up the longest," said Margaret, with sudden inspiration as she saw the boys in their seats getting restless; and she unpinned a tiny blue-silk bow that fastened her white collar. The girls all said "Oh-h-h!" and immediately every one in the room straightened up. The next few minutes those two girls spelled for dear life, each with her eye fixed upon the tiny blue bow in the teacher's white hands. To own that bow, that wonderful, strange bow of the heavenly blue, with the graceful twist to the tie! What delight! The girl who won that would be the admired of all the school. Even the boys sat up and took notice, each secretly thinking that Rosa, the beauty, would get it, of course. But she didn't; she slipped up on the word "receive," after all, putting the i before the e; and her stolid companion, catching her breath awesomely, slowly spelled it right and received the blue prize, pinned gracefully at the throat of her old brown gingham by the teacher's own soft, white fingers, while the school looked on admiringly and the blood rolled hotly up the back of her neck and spread over her face and forehead. Rosa, the beauty, went crestfallen to her seat. It was at noon, while they ate their lunch, that Margaret tried to get acquainted with the girls, calling most of them by name, to their great surprise, and hinting of delightful possibilities in the winter's work. Then she slipped out among the boys and watched their sports, laughing and applauding when some one made a particularly fine play, as if she thoroughly understood and appreciated. She managed to stand near Jed and Timothy just before Bud rang the bell. "I've heard you are great sportsmen," she said to them, confidingly. "And I've been wondering if you'll teach me some things I want to learn? I want to know how to ride and shoot. Do you suppose I could learn?" "Sure!" they chorused, eagerly, their embarrassment forgotten. "Sure, you could learn fine! Sure, _we'll learn_ you!" And then the bell rang and they all went in. The afternoon was a rather informal arrangement of classes and schedule for the next day, Margaret giving out slips of paper with questions for each to answer, that she might find out just where to place them; and while they wrote she went from one to another, getting acquainted, advising, and suggesting about what they wanted to study. It was all so new and wonderful to them! They had not been used to caring what they were to study. Now it almost seemed interesting. But when the day was done, the school-house locked, and Bud and Margaret started for home, she realized that she was weary. Yet it was a weariness of success and not of failure, and she felt happy in looking forward to the morrow. CHAPTER XIV The minister had decided to preach in Ashland, and on the following Sabbath. It became apparent that if he wished to have any notice at all from the haughty new teacher he must do something at once to establish his superiority in her eyes. He had carefully gone over his store of sermons that he always carried with him, and decided to preach on "The Dynamics of Altruism." Notices had been posted up in saloons and stores and post-office. He had made them himself after completely tabooing Mr. Tanner's kindly and blundering attempt, and they gave full information concerning "the Rev. Frederick West, Ph.D., of the vicinity of New York City, who had kindly consented to preach in the school-house on 'The Dynamics of Altruism.'" Several of these elaborately printed announcements had been posted up on big trees along the trails, and in other conspicuous places, and there was no doubt but that the coming Sabbath services were more talked of than anything else in that neighborhood for miles around, except the new teacher and her extraordinary way of making all the scholars fall in love with her. It is quite possible that the Reverend Frederick might not have been so flattered at the size of his audience when the day came if he could have known how many of them came principally because they thought it would be a good opportunity to see the new teacher. However, the announcements were read, and the preacher became an object of deep interest to the community when he went abroad. Under this attention he swelled, grew pleased, bland, and condescending, wearing an oily smile and bowing most conceitedly whenever anybody noticed him. He even began to drop his severity and silence at the table, toward the end of the week, and expanded into dignified conversation, mainly addressed to Mr. Tanner about the political situation in the State of Arizona. He was trying to impress the teacher with the fact that he looked upon her as a most insignificant mortal who had forfeited her right to his smiles by her headstrong and unseemly conduct when he had warned her about "that young ruffian." Out on the trail Long Bill and Jasper Kemp paused before a tree that bore the Reverend Frederick's church notice, and read in silence while the wide wonder of the desert spread about them. "What d'ye make out o' them cuss words, Jap?" asked Long Bill, at length. "D'ye figger the parson's goin' to preach on swearin' ur gunpowder?" "Blowed ef I know," answered Jasper, eying the sign ungraciously; "but by the looks of him he can't say much to suit me on neither one. He resembles a yaller cactus bloom out in a rain-storm as to head, an' his smile is like some of them prickles on the plant. He can't be no 'sky-pilot' to me, not just yet." "You don't allow he b'longs in any way to _her_?" asked Long Bill, anxiously, after they had been on their way for a half-hour. "B'long to _her_? Meanin' the schoolmarm?" "Yes; he ain't sweet on her nor nothin'?" "Wal, I guess not," said Jasper, contentedly. "She's got eyes sharp's a needle. You don't size her up so small she's goin' to take to a sickly parson with yaller hair an' sleek ways when she's seen the Kid, do you?" "Wal, no, it don't seem noways reasonable, but you never can tell. Women gets notions." "She ain't that kind! You mark my words, _she ain't that kind_. I'd lay she'd punch the breeze like a coyote ef he'd make up to her. Just you wait till you see him. He's the most no-'count, measleyest little thing that ever called himself a man. My word! I'd like to see him try to ride that colt o' mine. I really would. It would be some sight for sore eyes, it sure would." "Mebbe he's got a intellec'," suggested Long Bill, after another mile. "That goes a long ways with women-folks with a education." "No chance!" said Jasper, confidently. "'Ain't got room fer one under his yaller thatch. You wait till you set your lamps on him once before you go to gettin' excited. Why, he ain't one-two-three with our missionary! Gosh! I wish _he'd_ come back an' see to such goin's-on--I certainly do." "Was you figgerin' to go to that gatherin' Sunday?" "I sure was," said Jasper. "I want to see the show, an', besides, we might be needed ef things got too high-soundin'. It ain't good to have a creature at large that thinks he knows all there is to know. I heard him talk down to the post-office the day after that little party we had when the Kid shot out the lights to save Bunchy from killin' Crapster, an' it's my opinion he needs a good spankin'; but I'm agoin' to give him a fair show. I ain't much on religion myself, but I do like to see a square deal, especially in a parson. I've sized it up he needs a lesson." "I'm with ye, Jap," said Long Bill, and the two rode on their way in silence. Margaret was so busy and so happy with her school all the week that she quite forgot her annoyance at the minister. She really saw very little of him, for he was always late to breakfast, and she took hers early. She went to her room immediately after supper, and he had little opportunity for pursuing her acquaintance. Perhaps he judged that it would be wise to let her alone until after he had made his grand impression on Sunday, and let her "make up" to him. It was not until Sunday morning that she suddenly recalled that he was to preach that day. She had indeed seen the notices, for a very large and elaborate one was posted in front of the school-house, and some anonymous artist had produced a fine caricature of the preacher in red clay underneath his name. Margaret had been obliged to remain after school Friday and remove as much of this portrait as she was able, not having been willing to make it a matter of discipline to discover the artist. In fact, it was so true to the model that the young teacher felt a growing sympathy for the one who had perpetrated it. Margaret started to the school-house early Sunday morning, attended by the faithful Bud. Not that he had any more intention of going to Sunday-school than he had the week before, but it was pleasant to be the chosen escort of so popular a teacher. Even Jed and Timothy had walked home with her twice during the week. He did not intend to lose his place as nearest to her. There was only one to whom he would surrender that, and he was too far away to claim it often. Margaret had promised to help in the Sunday-school that morning, for the woman who taught the little ones was still away with her sick neighbor, and on the way she persuaded Bud to help her. "You'll be secretary for me, won't you, William?" she asked, brightly. "I'm going to take the left-front corner of the room for the children, and seat them on the recitation-benches, and that will leave all the back part of the room for the older people. Then I can use the blackboard and not disturb the rest." "Secretary?" asked the astonished Bud. He was, so to speak, growing accustomed to surprises. "Secretary" did not sound like being "a nice little Sunday-school boy." "Why, yes! take up the collection, and see who is absent, and so on. I don't know all the names, perhaps, and, anyhow, I don't like to do that when I have to teach!" Artful Margaret! She had no mind to leave Bud floating around outside the school-house, and though she had ostensibly prepared her lesson and her blackboard illustration for the little children, she had hidden in it a truth for Bud--poor, neglected, devoted Bud! The inefficient old man who taught the older people that day gathered his forces together and, seated with his back to the platform, his spectacles extended upon his long nose, he proceeded with the questions on the lesson-leaf, as usual, being more than ordinarily unfamiliar with them; but before he was half through he perceived by the long pauses between the questions and answers that he did not have the attention of his class. He turned slowly around to see what they were all looking at, and became so engaged in listening to the lesson the new teacher was drawing on the blackboard that he completely forgot to go on, until Bud, very important in his new position, rang the tiny desk-bell for the close of school, and Margaret, looking up, saw in dismay that she had been teaching the whole school. While they were singing a closing hymn the room began to fill up, and presently came the minister, walking importantly beside Mr. Tanner, his chin flattened upward as usual, but bent in till it made a double roll over his collar, his eyes rolling importantly, showing much of their whites, his sermon, in an elaborate leather cover, carried conspicuously under his arm, and the severest of clerical coats and collars setting out his insignificant face. Walking behind him in single file, measured step, just so far apart, came the eight men from the bunk-house--Long Bill, Big Jim, Fiddling Boss, Jasper Kemp, Fade-away Forbes, Stocky, Croaker, and Fudge; and behind them, looking like a scared rabbit, Mom Wallis scuttled into the back seat and sank out of sight. The eight men, however, ranged themselves across the front of the room on the recitation-bench, directly in front of the platform, removing a few small children for that purpose. They had been lined up in a scowling row along the path as the minister entered, looking at them askance under his aristocratic yellow eyebrows, and as he neared the door the last man followed in his wake, then the next, and so on. Margaret, in her seat half-way back at the side of the school-house near a window, saw through the trees a wide sombrero over a pair of broad shoulders; but, though she kept close watch, she did not see her friend of the wilderness enter the school-house. If he had really come to meeting, he was staying outside. The minister was rather nonplussed at first that there were no hymn-books. It almost seemed that he did not know how to go on with divine service without hymn-books, but at last he compromised on the long-meter Doxology, pronounced with deliberate unction. Then, looking about for a possible pipe-organ and choir, he finally started it himself; but it is doubtful whether any one would have recognized the tune enough to help it on if Margaret had not for very shame's sake taken it up and carried it along, and so they came to the prayer and Bible-reading. These were performed with a formal, perfunctory style calculated to impress the audience with the importance of the preacher rather than the words he was speaking. The audience was very quiet, having the air of reserving judgment for the sermon. Margaret could not just remember afterward how it was she missed the text. She had turned her eyes away from the minister, because it somehow made her feel homesick to compare him with her dear, dignified father. Her mind had wandered, perhaps, to the sombrero she had glimpsed outside, and she was wondering how its owner was coming on with his resolves, and just what change they would mean in his life, anyway. Then suddenly she awoke to the fact that the sermon had begun. CHAPTER XV "Considered in the world of physics," began the lordly tones of the Reverend Frederick, "dynamics is that branch of mechanics that treats of the effects of forces in producing motion, and of the laws of motion thus produced; sometimes called kinetics, opposed to statics. It is the science that treats of the laws of force, whether producing equilibrium or motion; in this sense including both statics and kinetics. It is also applied to the forces producing or governing activity or movement of any kind; also the methods of such activity." The big words rolled out magnificently over the awed gathering, and the minister flattened his chin and rolled his eyes up at the people in his most impressive way. Margaret's gaze hastily sought the row of rough men on the front seat, sitting with folded arms in an attitude of attention, each man with a pair of intelligent eyes under his shaggy brows regarding the preacher as they might have regarded an animal in a zoo. Did they understand what had been said? It was impossible to tell from their serious faces. "Philanthropy has been called the dynamics of Christianity; that is to say, it is Christianity in action," went on the preacher. "It is my purpose this morning to speak upon the dynamics of altruism. Now altruism is the theory that inculcates benevolence to others in subordination to self-interest; interested benevolence as opposed to disinterested; also, the practice of this theory." He lifted his eyes to the audience once more and nodded his head slightly, as if to emphasize the deep truth he had just given them, and the battery of keen eyes before him never flinched from his face. They were searching him through and through. Margaret wondered if he had no sense of the ridiculous, that he could, to such an audience, pour forth such a string of technical definitions. They sounded strangely like dictionary language. She wondered if anybody present besides herself knew what the man meant or got any inkling of what his subject was. Surely he would drop to simpler language, now that he had laid out his plan. It never occurred to her that the man was trying to impress _her_ with his wonderful fluency of language and his marvelous store of wisdom. On and on he went in much the same trend he had begun, with now and then a flowery sentence or whole paragraph of meaningless eloquence about the "brotherhood of man"--with a roll to the r's in brotherhood. Fifteen minutes of this profitless oratory those men of the wilderness endured, stolidly and with fixed attention; then, suddenly, a sentence of unusual simplicity struck them and an almost visible thrill went down the front seat. "For years the church has preached a dead faith, without works, my friends, and the time has come to stop preaching faith! I repeat it--fellow-men. I repeat it. The time has come _to stop preaching faith_ and begin to do good works!" He thumped the desk vehemently. "Men don't need a superstitious belief in a Saviour to save them from their sins; they need to go to work and save themselves! As if a man dying two thousand years ago on a cross could do any good to you and me to-day!" It was then that the thrill passed down that front line, and Long Bill, sitting at their head, leaned slightly forward and looked full and frowning into the face of Jasper Kemp; and the latter, frowning back, solemnly winked one eye. Margaret sat where she could see the whole thing. Immediately, still with studied gravity, Long Bill cleared his throat impressively, arose, and, giving the minister a full look in the eye, of the nature almost of a challenge, he turned and walked slowly, noisily down the aisle and out the front door. The minister was visibly annoyed, and for the moment a trifle flustered; but, concluding his remarks had been too deep for the rough creature, he gathered up the thread of his argument and proceeded: "We need to get to work at our duty toward our fellow-men. We need to down trusts and give the laboring-man a chance. We need to stop insisting that men shall believe in the inspiration of the entire Bible and get to work at something practical!" The impressive pause after this sentence was interrupted by a sharp, rasping sound of Big Jim clearing his throat and shuffling to his feet. He, too, looked the minister full in the face with a searching gaze, shook his head sadly, and walked leisurely down the aisle and out of the door. The minister paused again and frowned. This was becoming annoying. Margaret sat in startled wonder. Could it be possible that these rough men were objecting to the sermon from a theological point of view, or was it just a happening that they had gone out at such pointed moments. She sat back after a minute, telling herself that of course the men must just have been weary of the long sentences, which no doubt they could not understand. She began to hope that Gardley was not within hearing. It was not probable that many others understood enough to get harm from the sermon, but her soul boiled with indignation that a man could go forth and call himself a minister of an evangelical church and yet talk such terrible heresy. Big Jim's steps died slowly away on the clay path outside, and the preacher resumed his discourse. "We have preached long enough of hell and torment. It is time for a gospel of love to our brothers. Hell is a superstition of the Dark Ages. _There is no hell!_" Fiddling Boss turned sharply toward Jasper Kemp, as if waiting for a signal, and Jasper gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Whereupon Fiddling Boss cleared his throat loudly and arose, faced the minister, and marched down the aisle, while Jasper Kemp remained quietly seated as if nothing had happened, a vacancy each side of him. By this time the color began to rise in the minister's cheeks. He looked at the retreating back of Fiddling Boss, and then suspiciously down at the row of men, but every one of them sat with folded arms and eyes intent upon the sermon, as if their comrades had not left them. The minister thought he must have been mistaken and took up the broken thread once more, or tried to, but he had hopelessly lost the place in his manuscript, and the only clue that offered was a quotation of a poem about the devil; to be sure, the connection was somewhat abrupt, but he clutched it with his eye gratefully and began reading it dramatically: "'Men don't believe in the devil now As their fathers used to do--'" But he had got no further when a whole clearing-house of throats sounded, and Fade-away Forbes stumbled to his feet frantically, bolting down the aisle as if he had been sent for. He had not quite reached the door when Stocky clumped after him, followed at intervals by Croaker and Fudge, and each just as the minister had begun: "Um! Ah! To resume--" And now only Jasper Kemp remained of the front-seaters, his fine gray eyes boring through and through the minister as he floundered through the remaining portion of his manuscript up to the point where it began, "And finally--" which opened with another poem: "'I need no Christ to die for me.'" The sturdy, gray-haired Scotchman suddenly lowered his folded arms, slapping a hand resoundingly on each knee, bent his shoulders the better to pull himself to his feet, pressing his weight on his hands till his elbows were akimbo, uttered a deep sigh and a, "Yes--well--_ah_!" With that he got to his feet and dragged them slowly out of the school-house. By this time the minister was ready to burst with indignation. Never before in all the bombastic days of his egotism had he been so grossly insulted, and by such rude creatures! And yet there was really nothing that could be said or done. These men appeared to be simple creatures who had wandered in idly, perhaps for a few moments' amusement, and, finding the discourse above their caliber, had innocently wandered out again. That was the way it had been made to appear. But his plans had been cruelly upset by such actions, and he was mortified in the extreme. His face was purple with his emotions, and he struggled and spluttered for a way out of his trying dilemma. At last he spoke, and his voice was absurdly dignified: "Is there--ah--any other--ah--auditor--ah--who is desirous of withdrawing before the close of service? If so he may do so now, or--ah--" He paused for a suitable ending, and familiar words rushed to his lips without consciousness for the moment of their meaning--"or forever after hold their peace--ah!" There was a deathly silence in the school-house. No one offered to go out, and Margaret suddenly turned her head and looked out of the window. Her emotions were almost beyond her control. Thus the closing eloquence proceeded to its finish, and at last the service was over. Margaret looked about for Mom Wallis, but she had disappeared. She signed to Bud, and together they hastened out; but a quiet Sabbath peace reigned about the door of the school-house, and not a man from the camp was in sight; no, nor even the horses upon which they had come. And yet, when the minister had finished shaking hands with the worshipful women and a few men and children, and came with Mr. Tanner to the door of the school-house, those eight men stood in a solemn row, four on each side of the walk, each holding his chin in his right hand, his right elbow in his left hand, and all eyes on Jasper Kemp, who kept his eyes thoughtfully up in the sky. "H'w aire yeh, Tanner? Pleasant 'casion. Mind steppin' on a bit? We men wanta have a word with the parson." Mr. Tanner stepped on hurriedly, and the minister was left standing nonplussed and alone in the doorway of the school-house. CHAPTER XVI "Um! Ah!" began the minister, trying to summon his best clerical manner to meet--what? He did not know. It was best to assume they were a penitent band of inquirers for the truth. But the memory of their recent exodus from the service was rather too clearly in his mind for his pleasantest expression to be uppermost toward these rough creatures. Insolent fellows! He ought to give them a good lesson in behavior! "Um! Ah!" he began again, but found to his surprise that his remarks thus far had had no effect whatever on the eight stolid countenances before him. In fact, they seemed to have grown grim and menacing even in their quiet attitude, and their eyes were fulfilling the promise of the look they had given him when they left the service. "What does all this mean, anyway?" he burst forth, suddenly. "Calm yourself, elder! Calm yourself," spoke up Long Bill. "There ain't any occasion to get excited." "I'm not an elder; I'm a minister of the gospel," exploded West, in his most pompous tones. "I should like to know who you are and what all this means?" "Yes, parson, we understand who you are. We understand quite well, an' we're agoin' to tell you who we are. We're a band of al-tru-ists! That's what we are. We're _altruists_!" It was Jasper Kemp of the keen eyes and sturdy countenance who spoke. "And we've come here in brotherly love to exercise a little of that dynamic force of altruism you was talkin' about. We just thought we'd begin on you so's you could see that we got some works to go 'long with our faith." "What do you mean, sir?" said West, looking from one grim countenance to another. "I--I don't quite understand." The minister was beginning to be frightened, he couldn't exactly tell why. He wished he had kept Brother Tanner with him. It was the first time he had ever thought of Mr. Tanner as "brother." "We mean just this, parson; you been talkin' a lot of lies in there about there bein' no Saviour an' no hell, ner no devil, an' while we ain't much credit to God ourselves, bein' just common men, we know all that stuff you said ain't true about the Bible an' the devil bein' superstitions, an' we thought we better exercise a little of that there altruism you was talkin' about an' teach you better. You see, it's real brotherly kindness, parson. An' now we're goin' to give you a sample of that dynamics you spoke about. Are you ready, boys?" "All ready," they cried as one man. There seemed to be no concerted motion, nor was there warning. Swifter than the weaver's shuttle, sudden as the lightning's flash, the minister was caught from where he stood pompously in that doorway, hat in hand, all grandly as he was attired, and hurled from man to man. Across the walk and back; across and back; across and back; until it seemed to him it was a thousand miles all in a minute of time. He had no opportunity to prepare for the onslaught. He jammed his high silk hat, wherewith he had thought to overawe the community, upon his sleek head, and grasped his precious sermon-case to his breast; the sermon, as it well deserved, was flung to the four winds of heaven and fortunately was no more--that is, existing as a whole. The time came when each of those eight men recovered and retained a portion of that learned oration, and Mom Wallis, not quite understanding, pinned up and used as a sort of shrine the portion about doubting the devil; but as a sermon the parts were never assembled on this earth, nor could be, for some of it was ground to powder under eight pairs of ponderous heels. But the minister at that trying moment was too much otherwise engaged to notice that the child of his brain lay scattered on the ground. Seven times he made the round up and down, up and down that merciless group, tossed like a thistle-down from man to man. And at last, when his breath was gone, when the world had grown black before him, and he felt smaller and more inadequate than he had ever felt in his whole conceited life before, he found himself bound, helplessly bound, and cast ignominiously into a wagon. And it was a strange thing that, though seemingly but five short minutes before the place had been swarming with worshipful admirers thanking him for his sermon, now there did not seem to be a creature within hearing, for he called and cried aloud and roared with his raucous voice until it would seem that all the surrounding States might have heard that cry from Arizona, yet none came to his relief. They carried him away somewhere, he did not know where; it was a lonely spot and near a water-hole. When he protested and loudly blamed them, threatening all the law in the land upon them, they regarded him as one might a naughty child who needed chastisement, leniently and with sorrow, but also with determination. They took him down by the water's side and stood him up among them. He began to tremble with fear as he looked from one to another, for he was not a man of courage, and he had heard strange tales of this wild, free land, where every man was a law unto himself. Were they going to drown him then and there? Then up spoke Jasper Kemp: "Mr. Parson," he said, and his voice was kind but firm; one might almost say there was a hint of humor in it, and there surely was a twinkle in his eye; but the sternness of his lips belied it, and the minister was in no state to appreciate humor--"Mr. Parson, we've brought you here to do you good, an' you oughtn't to complain. This is altruism, an' we're but actin' out what you been preachin'. You're our brother an' we're tryin' to do you good; an' now we're about to show you what a dynamic force we are. You see, Mr. Parson, I was brought up by a good Scotch grandmother, an' I know a lie when I hear it, an' when I hear a man preach error I know it's time to set him straight; so now we're agoin' to set you straight. I don't know where you come from, nor who brang you up, nor what church set you afloat, but I know enough by all my grandmother taught me--even if I hadn't been a-listenin' off and on for two years back to Mr. Brownleigh, our missionary--to know you're a dangerous man to have at large. I'd as soon have a mad dog let loose. Why, what you preach ain't the gospel, an' it ain't the truth, and the time has come for you to know it, an' own it and recant. Recant! That's what they call it. That's what we're here to see 't you do, or we'll know the reason why. That's the _dynamics_ of it. See?" The minister saw. He saw the deep, muddy water-hole. He saw nothing more. "Folks are all too ready to believe them there things you was gettin' off without havin' 'em _preached_ to justify 'em in their evil ways. We gotta think of those poor ignorant brothers of ours that might listen to you. See? That's the _altruism_ of it!" "What do you want me to do?" The wretched man's tone was not merely humble--it was abject. His grand Prince Albert coat was torn in three places; one tail hung down dejectedly over his hip; one sleeve was ripped half-way out. His collar was unbuttoned and the ends rode up hilariously over his cheeks. His necktie was gone. His sleek hair stuck out in damp wisps about his frightened eyes, and his hat had been "stove in" and jammed down as far as it would go until his ample ears stuck out like sails at half-mast. His feet were imbedded in the heavy mud on the margin of the water-hole, and his fine silk socks, which had showed at one time above the erstwhile neat tyings, were torn and covered with mud. "Well, in the first place," said Jasper Kemp, with a slow wink around at the company, "that little matter about hell needs adjustin'. Hell ain't no superstition. I ain't dictatin' what kind of a hell there is; you can make it fire or water or anything else you like, but _there is a hell_, an' _you believe in it_. D'ye understand? We'd just like to have you make that statement publicly right here an' now." "But how can I say what I don't believe?" whined West, almost ready to cry. He had come proudly through a trial by Presbytery on these very same points, and had posed as being a man who had the courage of his convictions. He could not thus easily surrender his pride of original thought and broad-mindedness. He had received congratulations from a number of noble martyrs who had left their chosen church for just such reasons, congratulating him on his brave stand. It had been the first notice from big men he had ever been able to attract to himself, and it had gone to his head like wine. Give that up for a few miserable cowboys! It might get into the papers and go back East. He must think of his reputation. "That's just where the dynamics of the thing comes in, brother," said Jasper Kemp, patronizingly. "We're here to _make_ you believe in a hell. We're the force that will bring you back into the right way of thinkin' again. Are you ready, boys?" The quiet utterance brought goose-flesh up to West's very ears, and his eyes bulged with horror. "Oh, that isn't necessary! I believe--yes, I believe in hell!" he shouted, as they seized him. But it was too late. The Rev. Frederick West was plunged into the water-hole, from whose sheep-muddied waters he came up spluttering, "Yes, I believe in _hell_!" and for the first time in his life, perhaps, he really did believe in it, and thought that he was in it. The men were standing knee-deep in the water and holding their captive lightly by his arms and legs, their eyes upon their leader, waiting now. Jasper Kemp stood in the water, also, looking down benevolently upon his victim, his chin in his hand, his elbow in his other hand, an attitude which carried a feeling of hopelessness to the frightened minister. "An' now there's that little matter of the devil," said Jasper Kemp, reflectively. "We'll just fix that up next while we're near his place of residence. You believe in the devil, Mr. Parson, from now on? If you'd ever tried resistin' him I figger you'd have b'lieved in him long ago. But _you believe in him_ from _now on_, an' you _don't preach against him any more_! We're not goin' to have our Arizona men gettin' off their guard an' thinkin' their enemy is dead. There _is_ a devil, parson, and you believe in him! Duck him, boys!" Down went the minister into the water again, and came up spluttering, "Yes, I--I--I--believe--in-the--devil." Even in this strait he was loath to surrender his pet theme--no devil. "Very well, so far as it goes," said Jasper Kemp, thoughtfully. "But now, boys, we're comin' to the most important of all, and you better put him under about three times, for there mustn't be no mistake about this matter. You believe in the Bible, parson--_the whole Bible_?" "Yes!" gasped West, as he went down the first time and got a mouthful of the bitter water, "I believe--" The voice was fairly anguished. Down he went again. Another mouthful of water. "_I believe in the whole Bible!_" he screamed, and went down the third time. His voice was growing weaker, but he came up and reiterated it without request, and was lifted out upon the mud for a brief respite. The men of the bunk-house were succeeding better than the Presbytery back in the East had been able to do. The conceit was no longer visible in the face of the Reverend Frederick. His teeth were chattering, and he was beginning to see one really needed to believe in something when one came as near to his end as this. "There's just one more thing to reckon with," said Jasper Kemp, thoughtfully. "That line of talk you was handin' out about a man dyin' on a cross two thousand years ago bein' nothin' to you. You said you _an' me_, but you can speak for _yourself_. We may not be much to look at, but we ain't goin' to stand for no such slander as that. Our missionary preaches all about that Man on the Cross, an' if you don't need Him before you get through this little campaign of life I'll miss my guess. Mebbe we haven't been all we might have been, but we ain't agoin' to let you ner no one else go back on that there Cross!" Jasper Kemp's tone was tender and solemn. As the minister lay panting upon his back in the mud he was forced to acknowledge that at only two other times in his life had a tone of voice so arrested his attention and filled him with awe; once when as a boy he had been caught copying off another's paper at examination-time, and he had been sent to the principal's office; and again on the occasion of his mother's funeral, as he sat in the dim church a few years ago and listened to the old minister. For a moment now he was impressed with the wonder of the Cross, and it suddenly seemed as if he were being arraigned before the eyes of Him with Whom we all have to do. A kind of shame stole into his pale, flabby face, all the smugness and complacence gone, and he a poor wretch in the hands of his accusers. Jasper Kemp, standing over him on the bank, looking down grimly upon him, seemed like the emissary of God sent to condemn him, and his little, self-centered soul quailed within him. "Along near the end of that discourse of yours you mentioned that sin was only misplaced energy. Well, if that's so there's a heap of your energy gone astray this mornin', an' the time has come for you to pay up. Speak up now an' say what you believe or whether you want another duckin'--an' it'll be seven times this time!" The man on the ground shut his eyes and gasped. The silence was very solemn. There seemed no hint of the ridiculous in the situation. It was serious business now to all those men. Their eyes were on their leader. "Do you solemnly declare before God--I s'pose you still believe in a God, as you didn't say nothin' to the contrary--that from now on you'll stand for that there Cross and for Him that hung on it?" The minister opened his eyes and looked up into the wide brightness of the sky, as if he half expected to see horses and chariots of fire standing about to do battle with him then and there, and his voice was awed and frightened as he said: "I do!" There was silence, and the men stood with half-bowed heads, as if some solemn service were being performed that they did not quite understand, but in which they fully sympathized. Then Jasper Kemp said, softly: "Amen!" And after a pause: "I ain't any sort of a Christian myself, but I just can't stand it to see a parson floatin' round that don't even know the name of the firm he's workin' for. Now, parson, there's just one more requirement, an' then you can go home." The minister opened his eyes and looked around with a frightened appeal, but no one moved, and Jasper Kemp went on: "You say you had a church in New York. What was the name and address of your workin'-boss up there?" "What do you mean? I hadn't any boss." "Why, him that hired you an' paid you. The chief elder or whatever you called him." "Oh!" The minister's tone expressed lack of interest in the subject, but he answered, languidly, "Ezekiel Newbold, Hazelton." "Very good. Now, parson, you'll just kindly write two copies of a letter to Mr. Ezekiel Newbold statin' what you've just said to us concernin' your change of faith, sign your name, address one to Mr. Newbold, an' give the duplicate to me. We just want this little matter put on record so you can't change your mind any in future. Do you get my idea?" "Yes," said the minister, dispiritedly. "Will you do it?" "Yes," apathetically. "Well, now I got a piece of advice for you. It would be just as well for your health for you to leave Arizona about as quick as you can find it convenient to pack, but you won't be allowed to leave this town, day or night, cars or afoot, until them there letters are all O.K. Do you get me?" "Yes," pathetically. "I might add, by way of explainin', that if you had come to Arizona an' minded your own business you wouldn't have been interfered with. You mighta preached whatever bosh you darned pleased so far as we was concerned, only you wouldn't have had no sorta audience after the first try of that stuff you give to-day. But when you come to Arizona an' put your fingers in other folks' pie, when you tried to 'squeal' on the young gentleman who was keen enough to shoot out the lights to save a man's life, why, we 'ain't no further use for you. In the first place, you was all wrong. You thought the Kid shot out the lights to steal the gamin'-money; but he didn't. He put it all in the hands of the sheriff some hours before your 'private information' reached him through the mail. You thought you were awful sharp, you little sneak! But I wasn't the only man present who saw you put your foot out an' cover a gold piece that rolled on the floor just when the fight began. You thought nobody was a-lookin', but you'll favor us, please, with that identical gold piece along with the letter before you leave. Well, boys, that'll be about all, then. Untie him!" In silence and with a kind of contemptuous pity in their faces the strong men stooped and unbound him; then, without another word, they left him, tramping solemnly away single file to their horses, standing at a little distance. Jasper Kemp lingered for a moment, looking down at the wretched man. "Would you care to have us carry you back to the house?" he asked, reflectively. "No!" said the minister, bitterly. "No!" And without another word Jasper Kemp left him. Into the mesquite-bushes crept the minister, his glory all departed, and hid his misery from the light, groaning in bitterness of spirit. He who had made the hearts of a score of old ministers to sorrow for Zion, who had split in two a pleasantly united congregation, disrupted a session, and brought about a scandalous trial in Presbytery was at last conquered. The Rev. Frederick West had recanted! CHAPTER XVII When Margaret left the school-house with Bud she had walked but a few steps when she remembered Mom Wallis and turned back to search for her; but nowhere could she find a trace of her, and the front of the school-house was as empty of any people from the camp as if they had not been there that morning. The curtain had not yet risen for the scene of the undoing of West. "I suppose she must have gone home with them," said the girl, wistfully. "I'm sorry not to have spoken with her. She was good to me." "You mean Mom Wallis?" said the boy. "No, she ain't gone home. She's hiking 'long to our house to see you. The Kid went along of her. See, there--down by those cottonwood-trees? That's them." Margaret turned with eagerness and hurried along with Bud now. She knew who it was they called the Kid in that tone of voice. It was the way the men had spoken of and to him, a mingling of respect and gentling that showed how much beloved he was. Her cheeks wore a heightened color, and her heart gave a pleasant flutter of interest. They walked rapidly and caught up with their guests before they had reached the Tanner house, and Margaret had the pleasure of seeing Mom Wallis's face flush with shy delight when she caught her softly round the waist, stealing quietly up behind, and greeted her with a kiss. There had not been many kisses for Mom Wallis in the later years, and the two that were to Margaret Earle's account seemed very sweet to her. Mom Wallis's eyes shone as if she had been a young girl as she turned with a smothered "Oh!" She was a woman not given to expressing herself; indeed, it might be said that the last twenty years of her life had been mainly of self-repression. She gave that one little gasp of recognition and pleasure, and then she relapsed into embarrassed silence beside the two young people who found pleasure in their own greetings. Bud, boy-like, was after a cottontail, along with Cap, who had appeared from no one knew where and was attending the party joyously. Mom Wallis, in her big, rough shoes, on the heels of which her scant brown calico gown was lifted as she walked, trudged shyly along between the two young people, as carefully watched and helped over the humps and bumps of the way as if she had been a princess. Margaret noticed with a happy approval how Gardley's hand was ready under the old woman's elbow to assist her as politely as he might have done for her own mother had she been walking by his side. Presently Bud and Cap returned, and Bud, with observant eye, soon timed his step to Margaret's on her other side and touched her elbow lightly to help her over the next rut. This was his second lesson in manners from Gardley. He had his first the Sunday before, watching the two while he and Cap walked behind. Bud was learning. He had keen eyes and an alert brain. Margaret smiled understandingly at him, and his face grew deep red with pleasure. "He was bringin' me to see where you was livin'," explained Mom Wallis, suddenly, nodding toward Gardley as if he had been a king. "We wasn't hopin' to see you, except mebbe just as you come by goin' in." "Oh, then I'm so glad I caught up with you in time. I wouldn't have missed you for anything. I went back to look for you. Now you're coming in to dinner with me, both of you," declared Margaret, joyfully. "William, your mother will have enough dinner for us all, won't she?" "Sure!" said Bud, with that assurance born of his life acquaintance with his mother, who had never failed him in a trying situation so far as things to eat were concerned. Margaret looked happily from one of her invited guests to the other, and Gardley forgot to answer for himself in watching the brightness of her face, and wondering why it was so different from the faces of all other girls he knew anywhere. But Mom Wallis was overwhelmed. A wave of red rolled dully up from her withered neck in its gala collar over her leathery face to the roots of her thin, gray hair. "Me! Stay to dinner! Oh, I couldn't do that nohow! Not in these here clo'es. 'Course I got that pretty collar you give me, but I couldn't never go out to dinner in this old dress an' these shoes. I know what folks ought to look like an' I ain't goin' to shame you." "Shame me? Nonsense! Your dress is all right, and who is going to see your shoes? Besides, I've just set my heart on it. I want to take you up to my room and show you the pictures of my father and mother and home and the church where I was christened, and everything." Mom Wallis looked at her with wistful eyes, but still shook her head. "Oh, I'd like to mighty well. It's good of you to ast me. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. 'Sides, I gotta go home an' git the men's grub ready." "Oh, can't she stay this time, Mr. Gardley?" appealed Margaret. "The men won't mind for once, will they?" Gardley looked into her true eyes and saw she really meant the invitation. He turned to the withered old woman by his side. "Mom, we're going to stay," he declared, joyously. "She wants us, and we have to do whatever she says. The men will rub along. They all know how to cook. Mom, _we're going to stay_." "That's beautiful!" declared Margaret. "It's so nice to have some company of my own." Then her face suddenly sobered. "Mr. Wallis won't mind, will he?" And she looked with troubled eyes from one of her guests to the other. She did not want to prepare trouble for poor Mom Wallis when she went back. Mom Wallis turned startled eyes toward her. There was contempt in her face and outraged womanhood. "Pop's gone off," she said, significantly. "He went yist'day. But he 'ain't got no call t' mind. I ben waitin' on Pop nigh on to twenty year, an' I guess I'm goin' to a dinner-party, now 't I'm invited. Pop 'd better _not_ mind, I guess!" And Margaret suddenly saw how much, how very much, her invitation had been to the starved old soul. Margaret took her guests into the stiff little parlor and slipped out to interview her landlady. She found Mrs. Tanner, as she had expected, a large-minded woman who was quite pleased to have more guests to sit down to her generous dinner, particularly as her delightful boarder had hinted of ample recompense in the way of board money; and she fluttered about, sending Tanner after another jar of pickles, some more apple-butter, and added another pie to the menu. Well pleased, Margaret left Mrs. Tanner and slipped back to her guests. She found Gardley making arrangements with Bud to run back to the church and tell the men to leave the buckboard for them, as they would not be home for dinner. While this was going on she took Mom Wallis up to her room to remove her bonnet and smooth her hair. It is doubtful whether Mom Wallis ever did see such a room in her life; for when Margaret swung open the door the poor little woman stopped short on the threshold, abashed, and caught her breath, looking around with wondering eyes and putting out a trembling hand to steady herself against the door-frame. She wasn't quite sure whether things in that room were real, or whether she might not by chance have caught a glimpse into heaven, so beautiful did it seem to her. It was not till her eyes, in the roving, suddenly rested on the great mountain framed in the open window that she felt anchored and sure that this was a tangible place. Then she ventured to step her heavy shoe inside the door. Even then she drew her ugly calico back apologetically, as if it were a desecration to the lovely room. But Margaret seized her and drew her into the room, placing her gently in the rose-ruffled rocking-chair as if it were a throne and she a queen, and the poor little woman sat entranced, with tears springing to her eyes and trickling down her cheeks. Perhaps it was an impossibility for Margaret to conceive what the vision of that room meant to Mom Wallis. The realization of all the dreams of a starved soul concentrated into a small space; the actual, tangible proof that there might be a heaven some day--who knew?--since beauties and comforts like these could be real in Arizona. Margaret brought the pictures of her father and mother, of her dear home and the dear old church. She took her about the room and showed her the various pictures and reminders of her college days, and when she saw that the poor creature was overwhelmed and speechless she turned her about and showed her the great mountain again, like an anchorage for her soul. Mom Wallis looked at everything speechlessly, gasping as her attention was turned from one object to another, as if she were unable to rise beyond her excitement; but when she saw the mountain again her tongue was loosed, and she turned and looked back at the girl wonderingly. "Now, ain't it strange! Even that old mounting looks diffrunt--it do look diffrunt from a room like this. Why, it looks like it got its hair combed an' its best collar on!" And Mom Wallis looked down with pride and patted the simple net ruffle about her withered throat. "Why, it looks like a picter painted an' hung up on this yere wall, that's what that mounting looks like! It kinda ain't no mounting any more; it's jest a picter in your room!" Margaret smiled. "It is a picture, isn't it? Just look at that silver light over the purple place. Isn't it wonderful? I like to think it's mine--my mountain. And yet the beautiful thing about it is that it's just as much yours, too. It will make a picture of itself framed in your bunk-house window if you let it. Try it. You just need to let it." Mom Wallis looked at her wonderingly. "Do you mean," she said, studying the girl's lovely face, "that ef I should wash them there bunk-house winders, an' string up some posy caliker, an' stuff a chair, an' have a pin-cushion, I could make that there mounting come in an' set fer me like a picter the way it does here fer you?" "Yes, that's what I mean," said Margaret, softly, marveling how the uncouth woman had caught the thought. "That's exactly what I mean. God's gifts will be as much to us as we will let them, always. Try it and see." Mom Wallis stood for some minutes looking out reflectively at the mountain. "Wal, mebbe I'll try it!" she said, and turned back to survey the room again. And now the mirror caught her eye, and she saw herself, a strange self in a soft white collar, and went up to get a nearer view, laying a toil-worn finger on the lace and looking half embarrassed at sight of her own face. "It's a real purty collar," she said, softly, with a choke in her voice. "It's too purty fer me. I told him so, but he said as how you wanted I should dress up every night fer supper in it. It's 'most as strange as havin' a mounting come an' live with you, to wear a collar like that--me!" Margaret's eyes were suddenly bright with tears. Who would have suspected Mom Wallis of having poetry in her nature? Then, as if her thoughts anticipated the question in Margaret's mind, Mom Wallis went on: "He brang me your little book," she said. "I ain't goin' to say thank yeh, it ain't a big-'nuf word. An' he read me the poetry words it says. I got it wropped in a hankercher on the top o' the beam over my bed. I'm goin' to have it buried with me when I die. Oh, I _read_ it. I couldn't make much out of it, but I read the words thorough. An' then _he_ read 'em--the Kid did. He reads just beautiful. He's got education, he has. He read it, and he talked a lot about it. Was this what you mean? Was it that we ain't really growin' old at all, we're jest goin' on, _gettin_' there, if we go right? Did you mean you think Him as planned it all wanted some old woman right thar in the bunk-house, an' it's _me_? Did you mean there was agoin' to be a chanct fer me to be young an' beautiful somewheres in creation yit, 'fore I git through?" The old woman had turned around from looking into the mirror and was facing her hostess. Her eyes were very bright; her cheeks had taken on an excited flush, and her knotted hands were clutching the bureau. She looked into Margaret's eyes earnestly, as though her very life depended upon the answer; and Margaret, with a great leap of her heart, smiled and answered: "Yes, Mrs. Wallis, yes, that is just what I meant. Listen, these are God's own words about it: 'For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us.'" A kind of glory shone in the withered old face now. "Did you say them was God's words?" she asked in an awed voice. "Yes," said Margaret; "they are in the Bible." "But you couldn't be sure it meant _me_?" she asked, eagerly. "They wouldn't go to put _me_ in the Bible, o' course." "Oh yes, you could be quite sure, Mrs. Wallis," said Margaret, gently. "Because if God was making you and had a plan for you, as the poem says, He would be sure to put down something in His book about it, don't you think? He would want you to know." "It does sound reasonable-like now, don't it?" said the woman, wistfully. "Say them glory words again, won't you?" Margaret repeated the text slowly and distinctly. "Glory!" repeated Mom Wallis, wonderingly. "Glory! Me!" and turned incredulously toward the glass. She looked a long tune wistfully at herself, as if she could not believe it, and pulled reproachfully at the tight hair drawn away from her weather-beaten face. "I useta have purty hair onct," she said, sadly. "Why, you have pretty hair now!" said Margaret, eagerly. "It just wants a chance to show its beauty, Here, let me fix it for dinner, will you?" She whisked the bewildered old woman into a chair and began unwinding the hard, tight knot of hair at the back of her head and shaking it out. The hair was thin and gray now, but it showed signs of having been fine and thick once. "It's easy to keep your hair looking pretty," said the girl, as she worked. "I'm going to give you a little box of my nice sweet-smelling soap-powder that I use to shampoo my hair. You take it home and wash your hair with it every two or three weeks and you'll see it will make a difference in a little while. You just haven't taken time to take care of it, that's all. Do you mind if I wave the front here a little? I'd like to fix your hair the way my mother wears hers." Now nothing could have been further apart than this little weather-beaten old woman and Margaret's gentle, dove-like mother, with her abundant soft gray hair, her cameo features, and her pretty, gray dresses; but Margaret had a vision of what glory might bring to Mom Wallis, and she wanted to help it along. She believed that heavenly glory can be hastened a good deal on earth if one only tries, and so she set to work. Glancing out the window, she saw with relief that Gardley was talking interestedly with Mr. Tanner and seemed entirely content with their absence. Mom Wallis hadn't any idea what "waving" her hair meant, but she readily consented to anything this wonderful girl proposed, and she sat entranced, looking at her mountain and thrilling with every touch of Margaret's satin fingers against her leathery old temples. And so, Sunday though it was, Margaret lighted her little alcohol-lamp and heated a tiny curling-iron which she kept for emergencies. In a few minutes' time Mom Wallis's astonished old gray locks lay soft and fluffy about her face, and pinned in a smooth coil behind, instead of the tight knot, making the most wonderful difference in the world in her old, tired face. "Now look!" said Margaret, and turned her about to the mirror. "If there's anything at all you don't like about it I can change it, you know. You don't have to wear it so if you don't like it." The old woman looked, and then looked back at Margaret with frightened eyes, and back to the vision in the mirror again. "My soul!" she exclaimed in an awed voice. "My soul! It's come a'ready! Glory! I didn't think I could look like that! I wonder what Pop 'd say! My land! Would you mind ef I kep' it on a while an' wore it back to camp this way? Pop might uv come home an' I'd like to see ef he'd take notice to it. I used to be purty onct, but I never expected no sech thing like this again on earth. Glory! Glory! Mebbe I _could_ get some glory, _too_." "'The glory that shall be revealed' is a great deal more wonderful than this," said Margaret, gently. "This was here all the time, only you didn't let it come out. Wear it home that way, of course, and wear it so all the time. It's very little trouble, and you'll find your family will like it. Men always like to see a woman looking her best, even when she's working. It helps to make them good. Before you go home I'll show you how to fix it. It's quite simple. Come, now, shall we go down-stairs? We don't want to leave Mr. Gardley alone too long, and, besides, I smell the dinner. I think they'll be waiting for us pretty soon. I'm going to take a few of these pictures down to show Mr. Gardley." She hastily gathered a few photographs together and led the bewildered little woman down-stairs again, and out in the yard, where Gardley was walking up and down now, looking off at the mountain. It came to Margaret, suddenly, that the minister would be returning to the house soon, and she wished he wouldn't come. He would be a false note in the pleasant harmony of the little company. He would be disagreeable to manage, and perhaps hurt poor Mom Wallis's feelings. Perhaps he had already come. She looked furtively around as she came out the door, but no minister was in sight, and then she forgot him utterly in the look of bewildered astonishment with which Gardley was regarding Mom Wallis. He had stopped short in his walk across the little yard, and was staring at Mom Wallis, recognition gradually growing in his gaze. When he was fully convinced he turned his eyes to Margaret, as if to ask: "How did you do it? Wonderful woman!" and a look of deep reverence for her came over his face. Then suddenly he noticed the shy embarrassment on the old woman's face, and swiftly came toward her, his hands outstretched, and, taking her bony hands in his, bowed low over them as a courtier might do. "Mom Wallis, you are beautiful. Did you know it?" he said, gently, and led her to a little stumpy rocking-chair with a gay red-and-blue rag cushion that Mrs. Tanner always kept sitting by the front door in pleasant weather. Then he stood off and surveyed her, while the red stole into her cheeks becomingly. "What has Miss Earle been doing to glorify you?" he asked, again looking at her earnestly. The old woman looked at him in awed silence. There was that word again--glory! He had said the girl had glorified her. There was then some glory in her, and it had been brought out by so simple a thing as the arrangement of her hair. It frightened her, and tears came and stood in her tired old eyes. It was well for Mom Wallis's equilibrium that Mr. Tanner came out just then with the paper he had gone after, for the stolidity of her lifetime was about breaking up. But, as he turned, Gardley gave her one of the rarest smiles of sympathy and understanding that a young man can give to an old woman; and Margaret, watching, loved him for it. It seemed to her one of the most beautiful things a young man had ever done. They had discussed the article in the paper thoroughly, and had looked at the photographs that Margaret had brought down; and Mrs. Tanner had come to the door numberless times, looking out in a troubled way down the road, only to trot back again, look in the oven, peep in the kettle, sigh, and trot out to the door again. At last she came and stood, arms akimbo, and looked down the road once more. "Pa, I don't just see how I can keep the dinner waitin' a minute longer, The potatoes 'll be sp'iled. I don't see what's keepin' that preacher-man. He musta been invited out, though I don't see why he didn't send me word." "That's it, likely, Ma," said Tanner. He was growing hungry. "I saw Mis' Bacon talkin' to him. She's likely invited him there. She's always tryin' to get ahead o' you, Ma, you know, 'cause you got the prize fer your marble cake." Mrs. Tanner blushed and looked down apologetically at her guests. "Well, then, ef you'll just come in and set down, I'll dish up. My land! Ain't that Bud comin' down the road, Pa? He's likely sent word by Bud. I'll hurry in an' dish up." Bud slid into his seat hurriedly after a brief ablution in the kitchen, and his mother questioned him sharply. "Bud, wher you be'n? Did the minister get invited out?" The boy grinned and slowly winked one eye at Gardley. "Yes, he's invited out, all right," he said, meaningly. "You don't need to wait fer him. He won't be home fer some time, I don't reckon." Gardley looked keenly, steadily, at the boy's dancing eyes, and resolved to have a fuller understanding later, and his own eyes met the boy's in a gleam of mischief and sympathy. It was the first time in twenty years that Mom Wallis had eaten anything which she had not prepared herself, and now, with fried chicken and company preserves before her, she could scarcely swallow a mouthful. To be seated beside Gardley and waited on like a queen! To be smiled at by the beautiful young girl across the table, and deferred to by Mr. and Mrs. Tanner as "Mrs. Wallis," and asked to have more pickles and another helping of jelly, and did she take cream and sugar in her coffee! It was too much, and Mom Wallis was struggling with the tears. Even Bud's round, blue eyes regarded her with approval and interest. She couldn't help thinking, if her own baby boy had lived, would he ever have been like Bud? And once she smiled at him, and Bud smiled back, a real boy-like, frank, hearty grin. It was all like taking dinner in the Kingdom of Heaven to Mom Wallis, and getting glory aforetime. It was a wonderful afternoon, and seemed to go on swift wings. Gardley went back to the school-house, where the horses had been left, and Bud went with him to give further particulars about that wink at the dinner-table. Mom Wallis went up to the rose-garlanded room and learned how to wash her hair, and received a roll of flowered scrim wherewith to make curtains for the bunk-house. Margaret had originally intended it for the school-house windows in case it proved necessary to make that place habitable, but the school-room could wait. And there in the rose-room, with the new curtains in her trembling hands, and the great old mountain in full view, Mom Wallis knelt beside the little gay rocking-chair, while Margaret knelt beside her and prayed that the Heavenly Father would show Mom Wallis how to let the glory be revealed in her now on the earth. Then Mom Wallis wiped the furtive tears away with her calico sleeve, tied on her funny old bonnet, and rode away with her handsome young escort into the silence of the desert, with the glory beginning to be revealed already in her countenance. Quite late that evening the minister returned. He came in slowly and wearily, as if every step were a pain to him, and he avoided the light. His coat was torn and his garments were mud-covered. He murmured of a "slight accident" to Mrs. Tanner, who met him solicitously in a flowered dressing-gown with a candle in her hand. He accepted greedily the half a pie, with cheese and cold chicken and other articles, she proffered on a plate at his door, and in the reply to her query as to where he had been for dinner, and if he had a pleasant time, he said: "Very pleasant, indeed, thank you! The name? Um--ah--I disremember! I really didn't ask--That is--" The minister did not get up to breakfast, In fact, he remained in bed for several days, professing to be suffering with an attack of rheumatism. He was solicitously watched over and fed by the anxious Mrs. Tanner, who was much disconcerted at the state of affairs, and couldn't understand why she could not get the school-teacher more interested in the invalid. On the fourth day, however, the Reverend Frederick crept forth, white and shaken, with his sleek hair elaborately combed to cover a long scratch on his forehead, and announced his intention of departing from the State of Arizona that evening. He crept forth cautiously to the station as the shades of evening drew on, but found Long Bill awaiting him, and Jasper Kemp not far away. He had the two letters ready in his pocket, with the gold piece, though he had entertained hopes of escaping without forfeiting them, but he was obliged to wait patiently until Jasper Kemp had read both letters through twice, with the train in momentary danger of departing without him, before he was finally allowed to get on board. Jasper Kemp's parting word to him was: "Watch your steps spry, parson. I'm agoin' to see that you're shadowed wherever you go. You needn't think you can get shy on the Bible again. It won't pay." There was menace in the dry remark, and the Reverend Frederick's professional egotism withered before it. He bowed his head, climbed on board the train, and vanished from the scene of his recent discomfiture. But the bitterest thing about it all was that he had gone without capturing the heart or even the attention of that haughty little school-teacher. "And she was such a pretty girl," he said, regretfully, to himself. "Such a _very_ pretty girl!" He sighed deeply to himself as he watched Arizona speed by the window. "Still," he reflected, comfortably, after a moment, "there are always plenty more! What was that remarkably witty saying I heard just before I left home? 'Never run after a street-car or a woman. There'll be another one along in a minute.' Um--ah--yes--very true--there'll be another one along in a minute." CHAPTER XVIII School had settled down to real work by the opening of the new week. Margaret knew her scholars and had gained a personal hold on most of them already. There was enough novelty in her teaching to keep the entire school in a pleasant state of excitement and wonder as to what she would do next, and the word had gone out through all the country round about that the new teacher had taken the school by storm. It was not infrequent for men to turn out of their way on the trail to get a glimpse of the school as they were passing, just to make sure the reports were true. Rumor stated that the teacher was exceedingly pretty; that she would take no nonsense, not even from the big boys; that she never threatened nor punished, but that every one of the boys was her devoted slave. There had been no uprising, and it almost seemed as if that popular excitement was to be omitted this season, and school was to sail along in an orderly and proper manner. In fact, the entire school as well as the surrounding population were eagerly talking about the new piano, which seemed really to be a coming fact. Not that there had been anything done toward it yet, but the teacher had promised that just as soon as every one was really studying hard and doing his best, she was going to begin to get them ready for an entertainment to raise money for that piano. They couldn't begin until everybody was in good working order, because they didn't want to take the interest away from the real business of school; but it was going to be a Shakespeare play, whatever that was, and therefore of grave import. Some people talked learnedly about Shakespeare and hinted of poetry; but the main part of the community spoke the name joyously and familiarly and without awe, as if it were milk and honey in their mouths. Why should they reverence Shakespeare more than any one else? Margaret had grown used to seeing a head appear suddenly at one of the school-room windows and look long and frowningly first at her, then at the school, and then back to her again, as if it were a nine days' wonder. Whoever the visitor was, he would stand quietly, watching the process of the hour as if he were at a play, and Margaret would turn and smile pleasantly, then go right on with her work. The visitor would generally take off a wide hat and wave it cordially, smile back a curious, softened smile, and by and by he would mount his horse and pass on reflectively down the trail, wishing he could be a boy and go back again to school--such a school! Oh, it was not all smooth, the way that Margaret walked. There were hitches, and unpleasant days when nothing went right, and when some of the girls got silly and rebellious, and the boys followed in their lead. She had her trials like any teacher, skilful as she was, and not the least of them became Rosa Rogers, the petted beauty, who presently manifested a childish jealousy of her in her influence over the boys. Noting this, Margaret went out of her way to win Rosa, but found it a difficult matter. Rosa was proud, selfish, and unprincipled. She never forgave any one who frustrated her plans. She resented being made to study like the rest. She had always compelled the teacher to let her do as she pleased and still give her a good report. This she found she could not do with Margaret, and for the first time in her career she was compelled to work or fall behind. It presently became not a question of how the new teacher was to manage the big boys and the bad boys of the Ashland Ridge School, but how she was to prevent Rosa Rogers and a few girls who followed her from upsetting all her plans. The trouble was, Rosa was pretty and knew her power over the boys. If she chose she could put them all in a state of insubordination, and this she chose very often during those first few weeks. But there was one visitor who did not confine himself to looking in at the window. One morning a fine black horse came galloping up to the school-house at recess-time, and a well-set-up young man in wide sombrero and jaunty leather trappings sprang off and came into the building. His shining spurs caught the sunlight and flashed as he moved. He walked with the air of one who regards himself of far more importance than all who may be watching him. The boys in the yard stopped their ball-game, and the girls huddled close in whispering groups and drew near to the door. He was a young man from a ranch near the fort some thirty miles away, and he had brought an invitation for the new school-teacher to come over to dinner on Friday evening and stay until the following Monday morning. The invitation was from his sister, the wife of a wealthy cattleman whose home and hospitality were noted for miles around. She had heard of the coming of the beautiful young teacher, and wanted to attach her to her social circle. The young man was deference itself to Margaret, openly admiring her as he talked, and said the most gracious things to her; and then, while she was answering the note, he smiled over at Rosa Rogers, who had slipped into her seat and was studiously preparing her algebra with the book upside down. Margaret, looking up, caught Rosa's smiling glance and the tail end of a look from the young man's eyes, and felt a passing wonder whether he had ever met the girl before. Something in the boldness of his look made her feel that he had not. Yet he was all smiles and deference to herself, and his open admiration and pleasure that she was to come to help brighten this lonely country, and that she was going to accept the invitation, was really pleasant to the girl, for it was desolate being tied down to only the Tanner household and the school, and she welcomed any bit of social life. The young man had light hair, combed very smooth, and light-blue eyes. They were bolder and handsomer than the minister's, but the girl had a feeling that they were the very same cold color. She wondered at her comparison, for she liked the handsome young man, and in spite of herself was a little flattered at the nice things he had said to her. Nevertheless, when she remembered him afterward it was always with that uncomfortable feeling that if he hadn't been so handsome and polished in his appearance he would have seemed just a little bit like that minister, and she couldn't for the life of her tell why. After he was gone she looked back at Rosa, and there was a narrowing of the girl's eyes and a frown of hate on her brows. Margaret turned with a sigh back to her school problem--what to do with Rosa Rogers? But Rosa did not stay in the school-house. She slipped out and walked arm in arm with Amanda Bounds down the road. Margaret went to the door and watched. Presently she saw the rider wheel and come galloping back to the door. He had forgotten to tell her that an escort would be sent to bring her as early on Friday afternoon as she would be ready to leave the school, and he intimated that he hoped he might be detailed for that pleasant duty. Margaret looked into his face and warmed to his pleasant smile. How could she have thought him like West? He touched his hat and rode away, and a moment later she saw him draw rein beside Rosa and Amanda, and presently dismount. Bud rang the bell just then, and Margaret went back to her desk with a lingering look at the three figures in the distance. It was full half an hour before Rosa came in, with Amanda looking scared behind her; and troubled Margaret watched the sly look in the girl's eyes and wondered what she ought to do about it. As Rosa was passing out of the door after school she called her to the desk. "You were late in coming in after recess, Rosa," said Margaret, gently. "Have you any excuse?" "I was talking to a friend," said Rosa, with a toss of her head which said, as plainly as words could have done, "I don't intend to give an excuse." "Were you talking to the gentleman who was here?" "Well, if I was, what is that to you, Miss Earle?" said Rosa, haughtily. "Did you think you could have all the men and boys to yourself?" "Rosa," said Margaret, trying to speak calmly, but her voice trembling with suppressed indignation, "don't talk that way to me. Child, did you ever meet Mr. Forsythe before?" "I'm not a child, and it's none of your business!" flouted Rosa, angrily, and she twitched away and flung herself out of the school-house. Margaret, trembling from the disagreeable encounter, stood at the window and watched the girl going down the road, and felt for the moment that she would rather give up her school and go back home than face the situation. She knew in her heart that this girl, once an enemy, would be a bitter one, and this her last move had been a most unfortunate one, coming out, as it did, with Rosa in the lead. She could, of course, complain to Rosa's family, or to the school-board, but such was not the policy she had chosen. She wanted to be able to settle her own difficulties. It seemed strange that she could not reach this one girl--who was in a way the key to the situation. Perhaps the play would be able to help her. She spent a long time that evening going over the different plays in her library, and finally, with a look of apology toward a little photographed head of Shakespeare, she decided on "Midsummer-Night's Dream." What if it was away above the heads of them all, wouldn't a few get something from it? And wasn't it better to take a great thing and try to make her scholars and a few of the community understand it, rather than to take a silly little play that would not amount to anything in the end? Of course, they couldn't do it well; that went without saying. Of course it would be away beyond them all, but at least it would be a study of something great for her pupils, and she could meantime teach them a little about Shakespeare and perhaps help some of them to learn to love his plays and study them. The play she had selected was one in which she herself had acted the part of Puck, and she knew it by heart. She felt reasonably sure that she could help some of the more adaptable scholars to interpret their parts, and, at least, it would be good for them just as a study in literature. As for the audience, they would not be critics. Perhaps they would not even be able to comprehend the meaning of the play, but they would come and they would listen, and the experiment was one worth trying. Carefully she went over the parts, trying to find the one which she thought would best fit Rosa Rogers, and please her as well, because it gave her opportunity to display her beauty and charm. She really was a pretty girl, and would do well. Margaret wondered whether she were altogether right in attempting to win the girl through her vanity, and yet what other weak place was there in which to storm the silly little citadel of her soul? And so the work of assigning parts and learning them began that very week, though no one was allowed a part until his work for the day had all been handed in. At noon Margaret made one more attempt with Rosa Rogers. She drew her to a seat beside her and put aside as much as possible her own remembrance of the girl's disagreeable actions and impudent words. "Rosa," she said, and her voice was very gentle, "I want to have a little talk with you. You seem to feel that you and I are enemies, and I don't want you to have that attitude. I hoped we'd be the best of friends. You see, there isn't any other way for us to work well together. And I want to explain why I spoke to you as I did yesterday. It was not, as you hinted, that I want to keep all my acquaintances to myself. I have no desire to do that. It was because I feel responsible for the girls and boys in my care, and I was troubled lest perhaps you had been foolish--" Margaret paused. She could see by the bright hardness of the girl's eyes that she was accomplishing nothing. Rosa evidently did not believe her. "Well, Rosa," she said, suddenly, putting an impulsive, kindly hand on the girl's arm, "suppose we forget it this time, put it all away, and be friends. Let's learn to understand each other if we can, but in the mean time I want to talk to you about the play." And then, indeed, Rosa's hard manner broke, and she looked up with interest, albeit there was some suspicion in the glance. She wanted to be in that play with all her heart; she wanted the very showiest part in it, too; and she meant to have it, although she had a strong suspicion that the teacher would want to keep that part for herself, whatever it was. But Margaret had been wise. She had decided to take time and explain the play to her, and then let her choose her own part. She wisely judged that Rosa would do better in the part in which her interest centered, and perhaps the choice would help her to understand her pupil better. And so for an hour she patiently stayed after school and went over the play, explaining it carefully, and it seemed at one time as though Rosa was about to choose to be Puck, because with quick perception she caught the importance of that character; but when she learned that the costume must be a quiet hood and skirt of green and brown she scorned it, and chose, at last, to be Titania, queen of the fairies. So, with a sigh of relief, and a keen insight into the shallow nature, Margaret began to teach the girl some of the fairy steps, and found her quick and eager to learn. In the first lesson Rosa forgot for a little while her animosity and became almost as one of the other pupils. The play was going to prove a great means of bringing them all together. Before Friday afternoon came the parts had all been assigned and the plans for the entertainment were well under way. Jed and Timothy had been as good as their word about giving the teacher riding-lessons, each vying with the other to bring a horse and make her ride at noon hour, and she had already had several good lessons and a long ride or two in company with both her teachers. The thirty-mile ride for Friday, then, was not such an undertaking as it might otherwise have been, and Margaret looked forward to it with eagerness. CHAPTER XIX The little party of escort arrived before school was closed on Friday afternoon, and came down to the school-house in full force to take her away with them. The young man Forsythe, with his sister, the hostess herself, and a young army officer from the fort, comprised the party. Margaret dismissed school ten minutes early and went back with them to the Tanners' to make a hurried change in her dress and pick up her suit-case, which was already packed. As they rode away from the school-house Margaret looked back and saw Rosa Rogers posing in one of her sprite dances in the school-yard, saw her kiss her hand laughingly toward their party, and saw the flutter of a handkerchief in young Forsythe's hand. It was all very general and elusive, a passing bit of fun, but it left an uncomfortable impression on the teacher's mind. She looked keenly at the young man as he rode up smiling beside her, and once more experienced that strange, sudden change of feeling about him. She took opportunity during that long ride to find out if the young man had known Rosa Rogers before; but he frankly told her that he had just come West to visit his sister, was bored to death because he didn't know a soul in the whole State, and until he had seen her had not laid eyes on one whom he cared to know. Yet while she could not help enjoying the gay badinage, she carried a sense of uneasiness whenever she thought of the young girl Rosa in her pretty fairy pose, with her fluttering pink fingers and her saucy, smiling eyes. There was something untrustworthy, too, in the handsome face of the man beside her. There was just one shadow over this bit of a holiday. Margaret had a little feeling that possibly some one from the camp might come down on Saturday or Sunday, and she would miss him. Yet nothing had been said about it, and she had no way of sending word that she would be away. She had meant to send Mom Wallis a letter by the next messenger that came that way. It was all written and lying on her bureau, but no one had been down all the week. She was, therefore, greatly pleased when an approaching rider in the distance proved to be Gardley, and with a joyful little greeting she drew rein and hailed him, giving him a message for Mom Wallis. Only Gardley's eyes told what this meeting was to him. His demeanor was grave and dignified. He acknowledged the introductions to the rest of the party gracefully, touched his hat with the ease of one to the manner born, and rode away, flashing her one gleam of a smile that told her he was glad of the meeting; but throughout the brief interview there had been an air of question and hostility between the two men, Forsythe and Gardley. Forsythe surveyed Gardley rudely, almost insolently, as if his position beside the lady gave him rights beyond the other, and he resented the coming of the stranger. Gardley's gaze was cold, too, as he met the look, and his eyes searched Forsythe's face keenly, as though they would find out what manner of man was riding with his friend. When he was gone Margaret had the feeling that he was somehow disappointed, and once she turned in the saddle and looked wistfully after him; but he was riding furiously into the distance, sitting his horse as straight as an arrow and already far away upon the desert. "Your friend is a reckless rider," said Forsythe, with a sneer in his voice that Margaret did not like, as they watched the speck in the distance clear a steep descent from the mesa at a bound and disappear from sight in the mesquite beyond. "Isn't he fine-looking? Where did you find him, Miss Earle?" asked Mrs. Temple, eagerly. "I wish I'd asked him to join us. He left so suddenly I didn't realize he was going." Margaret felt a wondering and pleasant sense of possession and pride in Gardley as she watched, but she quietly explained that the young stranger was from the East, and that he was engaged in some kind of cattle business at a distance from Ashland. Her manner was reserved, and the matter dropped. She naturally felt a reluctance to tell how her acquaintance with Gardley began. It seemed something between themselves. She could fancy the gushing Mrs. Temple saying, "How romantic!" She was that kind of a woman. It was evident that she was romantically inclined herself, for she used her fine eyes with effect on the young officer who rode with her, and Margaret found herself wondering what kind of a husband she had and what her mother would think of a woman like this. There was no denying that the luxury of the ranch was a happy relief from the simplicity of life at the Tanners'. Iced drinks and cushions and easy-chairs, feasting and music and laughter! There were books, too, and magazines, and all the little things that go to make up a cultured life; and yet they were not people of Margaret's world, and when Saturday evening was over she sat alone in the room they had given her and, facing herself in the glass, confessed to herself that she looked back with more pleasure to the Sabbath spent with Mom Wallis than she could look forward to a Sabbath here. The morning proved her forebodings well founded. Breakfast was a late, informal affair, filled with hilarious gaiety. There was no mention of any church service, and Margaret found it was quite too late to suggest such a thing when breakfast was over, even if she had been sure there was any service. After breakfast was over there were various forms of amusement proposed for her pleasure, and she really felt very much embarrassed for a few moments to know how to avoid what to her was pure Sabbath-breaking. Yet she did not wish to be rude to these people who were really trying to be kind to her. She managed at last to get them interested in music, and, grouping them around the piano after a few preliminary performances by herself at their earnest solicitation, coaxed them into singing hymns. After all, they really seemed to enjoy it, though they had to get along with one hymn-book for the whole company; but Margaret knew how to make hymn-singing interesting, and her exquisite voice was never more at its best than when she led off with "My Jesus, as Thou Wilt," or "Jesus, Saviour, Pilot Me." "You would be the delight of Mr. Brownleigh's heart," said the hostess, gushingly, at last, after Margaret had finished singing "Abide With Me" with wonderful feeling. "And who is Mr. Brownleigh?" asked Margaret. "Why should I delight his heart?" "Why, he is our missionary--that is, the missionary for this region--and you would delight his heart because you are so religious and sing so well," said the superficial little woman. "Mr. Brownleigh is really a very cultured man. Of course, he's narrow. All clergymen are narrow, don't you think? They have to be to a certain extent. He's really _quite_ narrow. Why, he believes in the Bible _literally_, the whale and Jonah, and the Flood, and making bread out of stones, and all that sort of thing, you know. Imagine it! But he does. He's sincere! Perfectly sincere. I suppose he has to be. It's his business. But sometimes one feels it a pity that he can't relax a little, just among us here, you know. We'd never tell. Why, he won't even play a little game of poker! And he doesn't smoke! _Imagine_ it--_not even when he's by himself_, and _no one would know_! Isn't that odd? But he can preach. He's really very interesting; only a little too Utopian in his ideas. He thinks everybody ought to be good, you know, and all that sort of thing. He really thinks it's possible, and he lives that way himself. He really does. But he is a wonderful person; only I feel sorry for his wife sometimes. She's quite a cultured person. Has been wealthy, you know. She was a New York society girl. Just imagine it; out in these wilds taking gruel to the dirty little Indians! How she ever came to do it! Of course she adores him, but I can't really believe she is happy. No woman could be quite blind enough to give up everything in the world for one man, no matter how good he was. Do you think she could? It wasn't as if she didn't have plenty of other chances. She gave them all up to come out and marry him. She's a pretty good sport, too; she never lets you know she isn't perfectly happy." "She _is_ happy; mother, she's happier than _anybody_ I ever saw," declared the fourteen-year-old daughter of the house, who was home from boarding-school for a brief visit during an epidemic of measles in the school. "Oh yes, she manages to make people think she's happy," said her mother, indulgently; "but you can't make me believe she's satisfied to give up her house on Fifth Avenue and live in a two-roomed log cabin in the desert, with no society." "Mother, you don't know! Why, _any_ woman would be satisfied if her husband adored her the way Mr. Brownleigh does her." "Well, Ada, you're a romantic girl, and Mr. Brownleigh is a handsome man. You've got a few things to learn yet. Mark my words, I don't believe you'll see Mrs. Brownleigh coming back next month with her husband. This operation was all well enough to talk about, but I'll not be surprised to hear that he has come back alone or else that he has accepted a call to some big city church. And he's equal to the city church, too; that's the wonder of it. He comes of a fine family himself, I've heard. Oh, people can't keep up the pose of saints forever, even though they do adore each other. But Mr. Brownleigh _certainly is_ a good man!" The vapid little woman sat looking reflectively out of the window for a whole minute after this deliverance. Yes, certainly Mr. Brownleigh was a good man. He was the one man of culture, education, refinement, who had come her way in many a year who had patiently and persistently and gloriously refused her advances at a mild flirtation, and refused to understand them, yet remained her friend and reverenced hero. He was a good man, and she knew it, for she was a very pretty woman and understood her art well. Before the day was over Margaret had reason to feel that a Sabbath in Arizona was a very hard thing to find. The singing could not last all day, and her friends seemed to find more amusements on Sunday that did not come into Margaret's code of Sabbath-keeping than one knew how to say no to. Neither could they understand her feeling, and she found it hard not to be rude in gently declining one plan after another. She drew the children into a wide, cozy corner after dinner and began a Bible story in the guise of a fairy-tale, while the hostess slipped away to take a nap. However, several other guests lingered about, and Mr. Temple strayed in. They sat with newspapers before their faces and got into the story, too, seeming to be deeply interested, so that, after all, Margaret did not have an unprofitable Sabbath. But altogether, though she had a gay and somewhat frivolous time, a good deal of admiration and many invitations to return as often as possible, Margaret was not sorry when she said good night to know that she was to return in the early morning to her work. Mr. Temple himself was going part way with them, accompanied by his niece, Forsythe, and the young officer who came over with them. Margaret rode beside Mr. Temple until his way parted from theirs, and had a delightful talk about Arizona. He was a kindly old fellow who adored his frivolous little wife and let her go her own gait, seeming not to mind how much she flirted. The morning was pink and silver, gold and azure, a wonderful specimen of an Arizona sunrise for Margaret's benefit, and a glorious beginning for her day's work in spite of the extremely early hour. The company was gay and blithe, and the Eastern girl felt as if she were passing through a wonderful experience. They loitered a little on the way to show Margaret the wonders of a fern-plumed cañon, and it was almost school-time when they came up the street, so that Margaret rode straight to the school-house instead of stopping at Tanners'. On the way to the school they passed a group of girls, of whom Rosa Rogers was the center. A certain something in Rosa's narrowed eyelids as she said good morning caused Margaret to look back uneasily, and she distinctly saw the girl give a signal to young Forsythe, who, for answer, only tipped his hat and gave her a peculiar smile. In a moment more they had said good-by, and Margaret was left at the school-house door with a cluster of eager children about her, and several shy boys in the background, ready to welcome her back as if she had been gone a month. In the flutter of opening school Margaret failed to notice that Rosa Rogers did not appear. It was not until the roll was called that she noticed her absence, and she looked uneasily toward the door many times during the morning, but Rosa did not come until after recess, when she stole smilingly in, as if it were quite the thing to come to school late. When questioned about her tardiness she said she had torn her dress and had to go home and change it. Margaret knew by the look in her eyes that the girl was not telling the truth, but what was she to do? It troubled her all the morning and went with her to a sleepless pillow that night. She was beginning to see that life as a school-teacher in the far West was not all she had imagined it to be. Her father had been right. There would likely be more thorns than roses on her way. CHAPTER XX The first time Lance Gardley met Rosa Rogers riding with Archie Forsythe he thought little of it. He knew the girl by sight, because he knew her father in a business way. That she was very young and one of Margaret's pupils was all he knew about her. For the young man he had conceived a strong dislike, but as there was no reason whatever for it he put it out of his mind as quickly as possible. The second time he met them it was toward evening and they were so wholly absorbed in each other's society that they did not see him until he was close upon them. Forsythe looked up with a frown and a quick hand to his hip, where gleamed a weapon. He scarcely returned the slight salute given by Gardley, and the two young people touched up their horses and were soon out of sight in the mesquite. But something in the frightened look of the girl's eyes caused Gardley to turn and look after the two. Where could they be going at that hour of the evening? It was not a trail usually chosen for rides. It was lonely and unfrequented, and led out of the way of travelers. Gardley himself had been a far errand for Jasper Kemp, and had taken this short trail back because it cut off several miles and he was weary. Also, he was anxious to stop in Ashland and leave Mom Wallis's request that Margaret would spend the next Sabbath at the camp and see the new curtains. He was thinking what he should say to her when he saw her in a little while now, and this interruption to his thoughts was unwelcome. Nevertheless, he could not get away from that frightened look in the girl's eyes. Where could they have been going? That fellow was a new-comer in the region; perhaps he had lost his way. Perhaps he did not know that the road he was taking the girl led into a region of outlaws, and that the only habitation along the way was a cabin belonging to an old woman of weird reputation, where wild orgies were sometimes celebrated, and where men went who loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. Twice Gardley turned in his saddle and scanned the desert. The sky was darkening, and one or two pale stars were impatiently shadowing forth their presence. And now he could see the two riders again. They had come up out of the mesquite to the top of the mesa, and were outlined against the sky sharply. They were still on the trail to old Ouida's cabin! With a quick jerk Gardley reined in his horse and wheeled about, watching the riders for a moment; and then, setting spurs to his beast, he was off down the trail after them on one of his wild, reckless rides. Down through the mesquite he plunged, through the darkening grove, out, and up to the top of the mesa. He had lost sight of his quarry for the time, but now he could see them again riding more slowly in the valley below, their horses close together, and even as he watched the sky took on its wide night look and the stars blazed forth. Suddenly Gardley turned sharply from the trail and made a detour through a grove of trees, riding with reckless speed, his head down to escape low branches; and in a minute or two he came with unerring instinct back to the trail some distance ahead of Forsythe and Rosa. Then he wheeled his horse and stopped stock-still, awaiting their coming. By this time the great full moon was risen and, strangely enough, was at Gardley's back, making a silhouette of man and horse as the two riders came on toward him. They rode out from the cover of the grove, and there he was across their path. Rosa gave a scream, drawing nearer her companion, and her horse swerved and reared; but Gardley's black stood like an image carved in ebony against the silver of the moon, and Gardley's quiet voice was in strong contrast to the quick, unguarded exclamation of Forsythe, as he sharply drew rein and put his hand hastily to his hip for his weapon. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Forsythe"--Gardley had an excellent memory for names--"but I thought you might not be aware, being a new-comer in these parts, that the trail you are taking leads to a place where ladies do not like to go." "Really! You don't say so!" answered the young man, insolently. "It is very kind of you, I'm sure, but you might have saved yourself the trouble. I know perfectly where I am going, and so does the lady, and we choose to go this way. Move out of the way, please. You are detaining us." But Gardley did not move out of the way. "I am sure the lady does not know where she is going," he said, firmly. "I am sure that she does not know that it is a place of bad reputation, even in this unconventional land. At least, if she knows, I am sure that _her father_ does not know, and I am well acquainted with her father." "Get out of the way, sir," said Forsythe, hotly. "It certainly is none of your business, anyway, whoever knows what. Get out of the way or I shall shoot. This lady and I intend to ride where we please." "Then I shall have to say you _cannot_," said Gardley; and his voice still had that calm that made his opponent think him easy to conquer. "Just how do you propose to stop us?" sneered Forsythe, pulling out his pistol. "This way," said Gardley, lifting a tiny silver whistle to his lips and sending forth a peculiar, shrilling blast. "And this way," went on Gardley, calmly lifting both hands and showing a weapon in each, wherewith he covered the two. Rosa screamed and covered her face with her hands, cowering in her saddle. Forsythe lifted his weapon, but looked around nervously. "Dead men tell no tales," he said, angrily. "It depends upon the man," said Gardley, meaningly, "especially if he were found on this road. I fancy a few tales could be told if you happened to be the man. Turn your horses around at once and take this lady back to her home. My men are not far off, and if you do not wish the whole story to be known among your friends and hers you would better make haste." Forsythe dropped his weapon and obeyed. He decidedly did not wish his escapade to be known among his friends. There were financial reasons why he did not care to have it come to the ears of his brother-in-law just now. Silently in the moonlight the little procession took its way down the trail, the girl and the man side by side, their captor close behind, and when the girl summoned courage to glance fearsomely behind her she saw three more men riding like three grim shadows yet behind. They had fallen into the trail so quietly that she had not heard them when they came. They were Jasper Kemp, Long Bill, and Big Jim. They had been out for other purposes, but without question followed the call of the signal. It was a long ride back to Rogers's ranch, and Forsythe glanced nervously behind now and then. It seemed to him that the company was growing larger all the time. He half expected to see a regiment each time he turned. He tried hurrying his horse, but when he did so the followers were just as close without any seeming effort. He tried to laugh it all off. Once he turned and tried to placate Gardley with a few shakily jovial words: "Look here, old fellow, aren't you the man I met on the trail the day Miss Earle went over to the fort? I guess you've made a mistake in your calculations. I was merely out on a pleasure ride with Miss Rogers. We weren't going anywhere in particular, you know. Miss Rogers chose this way, and I wanted to please her. No man likes to have his pleasure interfered with, you know. I guess you didn't recognize me?" "I recognized you," said Gardley. "It would be well for you to be careful where you ride with ladies, especially at night. The matter, however, is one that you would better settle with Mr. Rogers. My duty will be done when I have put it into his hands." "Now, my good fellow," said Forsythe, patronizingly, "you surely don't intend to make a great fuss about this and go telling tales to Mr. Rogers about a trifling matter--" "I intend to do my duty, Mr. Forsythe," said Gardley; and Forsythe noticed that the young man still held his weapons. "I was set this night to guard Mr. Rogers's property. That I did not expect his daughter would be a part of the evening's guarding has nothing to do with the matter. I shall certainly put the matter into Mr. Rogers's hands." Rosa began to cry softly. "Well, if you want to be a fool, of course," laughed Forsythe, disagreeably; "but you will soon see Mr. Rogers will accept my explanation." "That is for Mr. Rogers to decide," answered Gardley, and said no more. The reflections of Forsythe during the rest of that silent ride were not pleasant, and Rosa's intermittent crying did not tend to make him more comfortable. The silent procession at last turned in at the great ranch gate and rode up to the house. Just as they stopped and the door of the house swung open, letting out a flood of light, Rosa leaned toward Gardley and whispered: "Please, Mr. Gardley, don't tell papa. I'll do _anything_ in the world for you if you won't tell papa." He looked at the pretty, pitiful child in the moonlight. "I'm sorry, Miss Rosa," he said, firmly. "But you don't understand. I must do my duty." "Then I shall hate you!" she hissed. "Do you hear? I shall _hate_ you forever, and you don't know what that means. It means I'll take my _revenge_ on you and on _everybody you like_." He looked at her half pityingly as he swung off his horse and went up the steps to meet Mr. Rogers, who had come out and was standing on the top step of the ranch-house in the square of light that flickered from a great fire on the hearth of the wide fireplace. He was looking from one to another of the silent group, and as his eyes rested on his daughter he said, sternly: "Why, Rosa, what does this mean? You told me you were going to bed with a headache!" Gardley drew his employer aside and told what had happened in a few low-toned sentences; and then stepped down and back into the shadow, his horse by his side, the three men from the camp grouped behind him. He had the delicacy to withdraw after his duty was done. Mr. Rogers, his face stern with sudden anger and alarm, stepped down and stood beside his daughter. "Rosa, you may get down and go into the house to your own room. I will talk with you later," he said. And then to the young man, "You, sir, will step into my office. I wish to have a plain talk with you." A half-hour later Forsythe came out of the Rogers house and mounted his horse, while Mr. Rogers stood silently and watched him. "I will bid you good evening, sir," he said, formally, as the young man mounted his horse and silently rode away. His back had a defiant look in the moonlight as he passed the group of men in the shadow; but they did not turn to watch him. "That will be all to-night, Gardley, and I thank you very much," called the clear voice of Mr. Rogers from his front steps. The four men mounted their horses silently and rode down a little distance behind the young man, who wondered in his heart just how much or how little Gardley had told Rosa's father. The interview to which young Forsythe had just been subjected had been chastening in character, of a kind to baffle curiosity concerning the father's knowledge of details, and to discourage any further romantic rides with Miss Rosa. It had been left in abeyance whether or not the Temples should be made acquainted with the episode, dependent upon the future conduct of both young people. It had not been satisfactory from Forsythe's point of view; that is, he had not been so easily able to disabuse the father's mind of suspicion, nor to establish his own guileless character as he had hoped; and some of the remarks Rogers made led Forsythe to think that the father understood just how unpleasant it might become for him if his brother-in-law found out about the escapade. This is why Archie Forsythe feared Lance Gardley, although there was nothing in the least triumphant about the set of that young man's shoulders as he rode away in the moonlight on the trail toward Ashland. And this is how it came about that Rosa Rogers hated Lance Gardley, handsome and daring though he was; and because of him hated her teacher, Margaret Earle. An hour later Lance Gardley stood in the little dim Tanner parlor, talking to Margaret. "You look tired," said the girl, compassionately, as she saw the haggard shadows on the young face, showing in spite of the light of pleasure in his eyes. "You look _very_ tired. What in the world have you been doing?" "I went out to catch cattle-thieves," he said, with a sigh, "but I found there were other kinds of thieves abroad. It's all in the day's work. I'm not tired now." And he smiled at her with beautiful reverence. Margaret, as she watched him, could not help thinking that the lines in his face had softened and strengthened since she had first seen him, and her eyes let him know that she was glad he had come. "And so you will really come to us, and it isn't going to be asking too much?" he said, wistfully. "You can't think what it's going to be to the men--to _us_! And Mom Wallis is so excited she can hardly get her work done. If you had said no I would be almost afraid to go back." He laughed, but she could see there was deep earnestness under his tone. "Indeed I will come," said Margaret. "I'm just looking forward to it. I'm going to bring Mom Wallis a new bonnet like one I made for mother; and I'm going to teach her how to make corn gems and steamed apple dumplings. I'm bringing some songs and some music for the violin; and I've got something for you to help me do, too, if you will?" He smiled tenderly down on her. What a wonderful girl she was, to be willing to come out to the old shack among a lot of rough men and one uncultured old woman and make them happy, when she was fit for the finest in the land! "You're _wonderful_!" he said, taking her hand with a quick pressure for good-by. "You make every one want to do his best." He hurried out to his horse and rode away in the moonlight. Margaret went up to her "mountain window" and watched him far out on the trail, her heart swelling with an unnamed gladness over his last words. "Oh, God, keep him, and help him to make good!" she prayed. CHAPTER XXI The visit to the camp was a time to be remembered long by all the inhabitants of the bunk-house, and even by Margaret herself. Margaret wondered Friday evening, as she sat up late, working away braiding a lovely gray bonnet out of folds of malines, and fashioning it into form for Mom Wallis, why she was looking forward to the visit with so much more real pleasure than she had done to the one the week before at the Temples'. And so subtle is the heart of a maid that she never fathomed the real reason. The Temples', of course, was interesting and delightful as being something utterly new in her experience. It was comparatively luxurious, and there were pleasant, cultured people there, more from her own social class in life. But it was going to be such fun to surprise Mom Wallis with that bonnet and see her old face light up when she saw herself in the little folding three-leaved mirror she was taking along with her and meant to leave for Mom Wallis's log boudoir. She was quite excited over selecting some little thing for each one of the men--books, pictures, a piece of music, a bright cushion, and a pile of picture magazines. It made a big bundle when she had them together, and she was dubious if she ought to try to carry them all; but Bud, whom she consulted on the subject, said, loftily, it "wasn't a flea-bite for the Kid; he could carry anything on a horse." Bud was just a little jealous to have his beloved teacher away from home so much, and rejoiced greatly when Gardley, Friday afternoon, suggested that he come along, too. He made quick time to his home, and secured a hasty permission and wardrobe, appearing like a footman on his father's old horse when they were half a mile down the trail. Mom Wallis was out at the door to greet her guest when she arrived, for Margaret had chosen to make her visit last from Friday afternoon after school, until Monday morning. It was the generosity of her nature that she gave to her utmost when she gave. The one fear she had entertained about coming had been set at rest on the way when Gardley told her that Pop Wallis was off on one of his long trips, selling cattle, and would probably not return for a week. Margaret, much as she trusted Gardley and the men, could not help dreading to meet Pop Wallis again. There was a new trimness about the old bunk-house. The clearing had been cleaned up and made neat, the grass cut, some vines set out and trained up limply about the door, and the windows shone with Mom Wallis's washing. Mom Wallis herself was wearing her best white apron, stiff with starch, her lace collar, and her hair in her best imitation of the way Margaret had fixed it, although it must be confessed she hadn't quite caught the knack of arrangement yet. But the one great difference Margaret noticed in the old woman was the illuminating smile on her face. Mom Wallis had learned how to let the glory gleam through all the hard sordidness of her life, and make earth brighter for those about her. The curtains certainly made a great difference in the looks of the bunk-house, together with a few other changes. The men had made some chairs--three of them, one out of a barrel; and together they had upholstered them roughly. The cots around the walls were blazing with their red blankets folded smoothly and neatly over them, and on the floor in front of the hearth, which had been scrubbed, Gardley had spread a Navajo blanket he had bought of an Indian. The fireplace was piled with logs ready for the lighting at night, and from somewhere a lamp had been rigged up and polished till it shone in the setting sun that slanted long rays in at the shining windows. The men were washed and combed, and had been huddled at the back of the bunk-house for an hour, watching the road, and now they came forward awkwardly to greet their guest, their horny hands scrubbed to an unbelievable whiteness. They did not say much, but they looked their pleasure, and Margaret greeted every one as if he were an old friend, the charming part about it all to the men being that she remembered every one's name and used it. Bud hovered in the background and watched with starry eyes. Bud was having the time of his life. He preferred the teacher's visiting the camp rather than the fort. The "Howdy, sonny!" which he had received from the men, and the "Make yourself at home, Bill" from Gardley, had given him great joy; and the whole thing seemed somehow to link him to the teacher in a most distinguishing manner. Supper was ready almost immediately, and Mom Wallis had done her best to make it appetizing. There was a lamb stew with potatoes, and fresh corn bread with coffee. The men ate with relish, and watched their guest of honor as if she had been an angel come down to abide with them for a season. There was a tablecloth on the old table, too--a _white_ tablecloth. It looked remarkably like an old sheet, to be sure, with a seam through the middle where it had been worn and turned and sewed together; but it was a tablecloth now, and a marvel to the men. And the wonder about Margaret was that she could eat at such a table and make it seem as though that tablecloth were the finest damask, and the two-tined forks the heaviest of silver. After the supper was cleared away and the lamp lighted, the gifts were brought out. A book of Scotch poetry for Jasper Kemp, bound in tartan covers of the Campbell clan; a small illustrated pamphlet of Niagara Falls for Big Jim, because he had said he wanted to see the place and never could manage it; a little pictured folder of Washington City for Big Jim; a book of old ballad music for Fiddling Boss; a book of jokes for Fade-away Forbes; a framed picture of a beautiful shepherd dog for Stocky; a big, red, ruffled denim pillow for Croaker, because when she was there before he was always complaining about the seats being hard; a great blazing crimson pennant bearing the name HARVARD in big letters for Fudge, because she had remembered he was from Boston; and for Mom Wallis a framed text beautifully painted in water-colors, done in rustic letters twined with stray forget-me-nots, the words, "Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Margaret had made that during the week and framed it in a simple raffia braid of brown and green. It was marvelous how these men liked their presents; and while they were examining them and laughing about them and putting their pictures and Mom Wallis's text on the walls, and the pillow on a bunk, and the pennant over the fireplace, Margaret shyly held out a tiny box to Gardley. "I thought perhaps you would let me give you this," she said. "It isn't much; it isn't even new, and it has some marks in it; but I thought it might help with your new undertaking." Gardley took it with a lighting of his face and opened the box. In it was a little, soft, leather-bound Testament, showing the marks of usage, yet not worn. It was a tiny thing, very thin, easily fitting in a vest-pocket, and not a burden to carry. He took the little book in his hand, removed the silken rubber band that bound it, and turned the leaves reverently in his fingers, noting that there were pencil-marks here and there. His face was all emotion as he looked up at the giver. "I thank you," he said, in a low tone, glancing about to see that no one was noticing them. "I shall prize it greatly. It surely will help. I will read it every day. Was that what you wanted? And I will carry it with me always." His voice was very earnest, and he looked at her as though she had given him a fortune. With another glance about at the preoccupied room--even Bud was busy studying Jasper Kemp's oldest gun--he snapped the band on the book again and put it carefully in his inner breast-pocket. The book would henceforth travel next his heart and be his guide. She thought he meant her to understand that, as he put out his hand unobtrusively and pressed her fingers gently with a quick, low "Thank you!" Then Mom Wallis's bonnet was brought out and tied on her, and the poor old woman blushed like a girl when she stood with meek hands folded at her waist and looked primly about on the family for their approval at Margaret's request. But that was nothing to the way she stared when Margaret got out the threefold mirror and showed her herself in the new headgear. She trotted away at last, the wonderful bonnet in one hand, the box in the other, a look of awe on her face, and Margaret heard her murmur as she put it away: "Glory! _Me!_ Glory!" Then Margaret had to read one or two of the poems for Jasper Kemp, while they all sat and listened to her Scotch and marveled at her. A woman like that condescending to come to visit them! She gave a lesson in note-reading to the Fiddling Boss, pointing one by one with her white fingers to the notes until he was able to creep along and pick out "Suwanee River" and "Old Folks at Home" to the intense delight of the audience. Margaret never knew just how it was that she came to be telling the men a story, one she had read not long before in a magazine, a story with a thrilling national interest and a keen personal touch that searched the hearts of men; but they listened as they had never listened to anything in their lives before. And then there was singing, more singing, until it bade fair to be morning before they slept, and the little teacher was weary indeed when she lay down on the cot in Mom Wallis's room, after having knelt beside the old woman and prayed. The next day there was a wonderful ride with Gardley and Bud to the cañon of the cave-dwellers, and a coming home to the apple dumplings she had taught Mom Wallis to make before she went away. All day Gardley and she, with Bud for delighted audience, had talked over the play she was getting up at the school, Gardley suggesting about costumes and tree boughs for scenery, and promising to help in any way she wanted. Then after supper there were jokes and songs around the big fire, and some popcorn one of the men had gone a long ride that day to get. They called for another story, too, and it was forthcoming. It was Sunday morning after breakfast, however, that Margaret suddenly wondered how she was going to make the day helpful and different from the other days. She stood for a moment looking out of the clear little window thoughtfully, with just the shadow of a sigh on her lips, and as she turned back to the room she met Gardley's questioning glance. "Are you homesick?" he asked, with a sorry smile. "This must all be very different from what you are accustomed to." "Oh no, it isn't that." She smiled, brightly. "I'm not a baby for home, but I do get a bit homesick about church-time. Sunday is such a strange day to me without a service." "Why not have one, then?" he suggested, eagerly. "We can sing and--you could--do the rest!" Her eyes lighted at the suggestion, and she cast a quick glance at the men. Would they stand for that sort of thing? Gardley followed her glance and caught her meaning. "Let them answer for themselves," he said quickly in a low tone, and then, raising his voice: "Speak up, men. Do you want to have church? Miss Earle here is homesick for a service, and I suggest that we have one, and she conduct it." "Sure!" said Jasper Kemp, his face lighting. "I'll miss my guess if she can't do better than the parson we had last Sunday. Get into your seats, boys; we're goin' to church." Margaret's face was a study of embarrassment and delight as she saw the alacrity with which the men moved to get ready for "church." Her quick brain turned over the possibility of what she could read or say to help this strange congregation thus suddenly thrust upon her. It was a testimony to her upbringing by a father whose great business of life was to preach the gospel that she never thought once of hesitating or declining the opportunity, but welcomed it as an opportunity, and only deprecated her unreadiness for the work. The men stirred about, donned their coats, furtively brushing their hair, and Long Bill insisted that Mom Wallis put on her new bonnet; which she obligingly did, and sat down carefully in the barrel-chair, her hands neatly crossed in her lap, supremely happy. It really was wonderful what a difference that bonnet made in Mom Wallis. Gardley arranged a comfortable seat for Margaret at the table and put in front of her one of the hymn-books she had brought. Then, after she was seated, he took the chair beside her and brought out the little Testament from his breast-pocket, gravely laying it on the hymn-book. Margaret met his eyes with a look of quick appreciation. It was wonderful the way these two were growing to understand each other. It gave the girl a thrill of wonder and delight to have him do this simple little thing for her, and the smile that passed between them was beautiful to see. Long Bill turned away his head and looked out of the window with an improvised sneeze to excuse the sudden mist that came into his eyes. Margaret chose "My Faith looks up to Thee" for the first hymn, because Fiddling Boss could play it, and while he was tuning up his fiddle she hastily wrote out two more copies of the words. And so the queer service started with a quaver of the old fiddle and the clear, sweet voices of Margaret and Gardley leading off, while the men growled on their way behind, and Mom Wallis, in her new gray bonnet, with her hair all fluffed softly gray under it, sat with eyes shining like a girl's. So absorbed in the song were they all that they failed to hear the sound of a horse coming into the clearing. But just as the last words of the final verse died away the door of the bunk-house swung open, and there in the doorway stood Pop Wallis! The men sprang to their feet with one accord, ominous frowns on their brows, and poor old Mom Wallis sat petrified where she was, the smile of relaxation frozen on her face, a look of fear growing in her tired old eyes. Now Pop Wallis, through an unusual combination of circumstances, had been for some hours without liquor and was comparatively sober. He stood for a moment staring amazedly at the group around his fireside. Perhaps because he had been so long without his usual stimulant his mind was weakened and things appeared as a strange vision to him. At any rate, he stood and stared, and as he looked from one to another of the men, at the beautiful stranger, and across to the strangely unfamiliar face of his wife in her new bonnet, his eyes took on a frightened look. He slowly took his hand from the door-frame and passed it over his eyes, then looked again, from one to another, and back to his glorified wife. Margaret had half risen at her end of the table, and Gardley stood beside her as if to reassure her; but Pop Wallis was not looking at any of them any more. His eyes were on his wife. He passed his hand once more over his eyes and took one step gropingly into the room, a hand reached out in front of him, as if he were not sure but he might run into something on the way, the other hand on his forehead, a dazed look in his face. "Why, Mom--that ain't really--_you_, now, _is_ it?" he said, in a gentle, insinuating voice like one long unaccustomed making a hasty prayer. The tone made a swift change in the old woman. She gripped her bony hands tight and a look of beatific joy came into her wrinkled face. "Yes, it's really _me_, Pop!" she said, with a kind of triumphant ring to her voice. "But--but--you're right _here_, ain't you? You ain't _dead_, an'--an'--gone to--gl-oo-ry, be you? You're right _here_?" "Yes, I'm right _here_, Pop. I ain't dead! Pop--glory's _come to me_!" "Glory?" repeated the man, dazedly. "Glory?" And he gazed around the room and took in the new curtains, the pictures on the wall, the cushions and chairs, and the bright, shining windows. "You don't mean it's _heav'n_, do you, Mom? 'Cause I better go back--_I_ don't belong in heav'n. Why, Mom, it can't be glory, 'cause it's the same old bunk-house outside, anyhow." "Yes, it's the same old bunk-house, and it ain't heaven, but it's _goin_' to be. The glory's come all right. You sit down, Pop; we're goin' to have church, and this is my new bonnet. _She_ brang it. This is the new school-teacher, Miss Earle, and she's goin' to have church. She done it _all_! You sit down and listen." Pop Wallis took a few hesitating steps into the room and dropped into the nearest chair. He looked at Margaret as if she might be an angel holding open the portal to a kingdom in the sky. He looked and wondered and admired, and then he looked back to his glorified old wife again in wonder. Jasper Kemp shut the door, and the company dropped back into their places. Margaret, because of her deep embarrassment, and a kind of inward trembling that had taken possession of her, announced another hymn. It was a solemn little service, quite unique, with a brief, simple prayer and an expository reading of the story of the blind man from the sixth chapter of John. The men sat attentively, their eyes upon her face as she read; but Pop Wallis sat staring at his wife, an awed light upon his scared old face, the wickedness and cunning all faded out, and only fear and wonder written there. In the early dawning of the pink-and-silver morning Margaret went back to her work, Gardley riding by her side, and Bud riding at a discreet distance behind, now and then going off at a tangent after a stray cottontail. It was wonderful what good sense Bud seemed to have on occasion. The horse that Margaret rode, a sturdy little Western pony, with nerve and grit and a gentle common sense for humans, was to remain with her in Ashland, a gift from the men of the bunk-house. During the week that followed Archie Forsythe came riding over with a beautiful shining saddle-horse for her use during her stay in the West; but when he went riding back to the ranch the shining saddle-horse was still in his train, riderless, for Margaret told him that she already had a horse of her own. Neither had Margaret accepted the invitation to the Temples' for the next week-end. She had other plans for the Sabbath, and that week there appeared on all the trees and posts about the town, and on the trails, a little notice of a Bible class and vesper-service to be held in the school-house on the following Sabbath afternoon; and so Margaret, true daughter of her minister-father, took up her mission in Ashland for the Sabbaths that were to follow; for the school-board had agreed with alacrity to such use of the school-house. CHAPTER XXII Now when it became noised abroad that the new teacher wanted above all things to purchase a piano, and that to that end she was getting up a wonderful Shakespeare play in which the scholars were to act upon a stage set with tree boughs after the manner of some new kind of players, the whole community round about began to be excited. Mrs. Tanner talked much about it. Was not Bud to be a prominent character? Mr. Tanner talked about it everywhere he went. The mothers and fathers and sisters talked about it, and the work of preparing the play went on. Margaret had discovered that one of the men at the bunk-house played a flute, and she was working hard to teach him and Fiddling Boss and Croaker to play a portion of the elfin dance to accompany the players. The work of making costumes and training the actors became more and more strenuous, and in this Gardley proved a fine assistant. He undertook to train some of the older boys for their parts, and did it so well that he was presently in the forefront of the battle of preparation and working almost as hard as Margaret herself. The beauty of the whole thing was that every boy in the school adored him, even Jed and Timothy, and life took on a different aspect to them in company with this high-born college-bred, Eastern young man who yet could ride and shoot with the daringest among the Westerners. Far and wide went forth the fame of the play that was to be. The news of it reached to the fort and the ranches, and brought offers of assistance and costumes and orders for tickets. Margaret purchased a small duplicator and set her school to printing tickets and selling them, and before the play was half ready to be acted tickets enough were sold for two performances, and people were planning to come from fifty miles around. The young teacher began to quake at the thought of her big audience and her poor little amateur players; and yet for children they were doing wonderfully well, and were growing quite Shakespearian in their manner of conversation. "What say you, sweet Amanda?" would be a form of frequent address to that stolid maiden Amanda Bounds; and Jed, instead of shouting for "Delicate" at recess, as in former times, would say, "My good Timothy, I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow; by his best arrow with the golden head"--until all the school-yard rang with classic phrases; and the whole country round was being addressed in phrases of another century by the younger members of their households. Then Rosa Rogers's father one day stopped at the Tanners' and left a contribution with the teacher of fifty dollars toward the new piano; and after that it was rumored that the teacher said the piano could be sent for in time to be used at the play. Then other contributions of smaller amounts came in, and before the date of the play had been set there was money enough to make a first payment on the piano. That day the English exercise for the whole school was to compose the letter to the Eastern piano firm where the piano was to be purchased, ordering it to be sent on at once. Weeks before this Margaret had sent for a number of piano catalogues beautifully illustrated, showing by cuts how the whole instruments were made, with full illustrations of the factories where they were manufactured, and she had discussed the selection with the scholars, showing them what points were to be considered in selecting a good piano. At last the order was sent out, the actual selection itself to be made by a musical friend of Margaret's in New York, and the school waited in anxious suspense to hear that it had started on its way. The piano arrived at last, three weeks before the time set for the play, which was coming on finely now and seemed to the eager scholars quite ready for public performance. Not so to Margaret and Gardley, as daily they pruned, trained, and patiently went over and over again each part, drawing all the while nearer to the ideal they had set. It could not be done perfectly, of course, and when they had done all they could there would yet be many crudities; but Margaret's hope was to bring out the meaning of the play and give both audience and performers the true idea of what Shakespeare meant when he wrote it. The arrival of the piano was naturally a great event in the school. For three days in succession the entire school marched in procession down to the incoming Eastern train to see if their expected treasure had arrived, and when at last it was lifted from the freight-car and set upon the station platform the school stood awe-struck and silent, with half-bowed heads and bated breath, as though at the arrival of some great and honorable guest. They attended it on the roadside as it was carted by the biggest wagon in town to the school-house door; they stood in silent rows while the great box was peeled off and the instrument taken out and carried into the school-room; then they filed in soulfully and took their accustomed seats without being told, touching shyly the shining case as they passed. By common consent they waited to hear its voice for the first time. Margaret took the little key from the envelope tied to the frame, unlocked the cover, and, sitting down, began to play. The rough men who had brought it stood in awesome adoration around the platform; the silence that spread over that room would have done honor to Paderewski or Josef Hoffman. Margaret played and played, and they could not hear enough. They would have stayed all night listening, perhaps, so wonderful was it to them. And then the teacher called each one and let him or her touch a few chords, just to say they had played on it. After which she locked the instrument and sent them all home. That was the only afternoon during that term that the play was forgotten for a while. After the arrival of the piano the play went forward with great strides, for now Margaret accompanied some of the parts with the music, and the flute and violin were also practised in their elfin dance with much better effect. It was about this time that Archie Forsythe discovered the rehearsals and offered his assistance, and, although it was declined, he frequently managed to ride over about rehearsal time, finding ways to make himself useful in spite of Margaret's polite refusals. Margaret always felt annoyed when he came, because Rosa Rogers instantly became another creature on his arrival, and because Gardley simply froze into a polite statue, never speaking except when spoken to. As for Forsythe, his attitude toward Gardley was that of a contemptuous master toward a slave, and yet he took care to cover it always with a form of courtesy, so that Margaret could say or do nothing to show her displeasure, except to be grave and dignified. At such times Rosa Rogers's eyes would be upon her with a gleam of hatred, and the teacher felt that the scholar was taking advantage of the situation. Altogether it was a trying time for Margaret when Forsythe came to the school-house. Also, he discovered to them that he played the violin, and offered to assist in the orchestral parts. Margaret really could think of no reason to decline this offer, but she was sadly upset by the whole thing. His manner to her was too pronounced, and she felt continually uncomfortable under it, what with Rosa Rogers's jealous eyes upon her and Gardley's eyes turned haughtily away. She planned a number of special rehearsals in the evenings, when it was difficult for Forsythe to get there, and managed in this way to avoid his presence; but the whole matter became a source of much vexation, and Margaret even shed a few tears wearily into her pillow one night when things had gone particularly hard and Forsythe had hurt the feelings of Fiddling Boss with his insolent directions about playing. She could not say or do anything much in the matter, because the Temples had been very kind in helping to get the piano, and Mr. Temple seemed to think he was doing the greatest possible kindness to her in letting Forsythe off duty so much to help with the play. The matter became more and more of a distress to Margaret, and the Sabbath was the only day of real delight. The first Sunday after the arrival of the piano was a great day. Everybody in the neighborhood turned out to the Sunday-afternoon class and vesper service, which had been growing more and more in popularity, until now the school-room was crowded. Every man from the bunk-house came regularly, often including Pop Wallis, who had not yet recovered fully from the effect of his wife's new bonnet and fluffy arrangement of hair, but treated her like a lady visitor and deferred to her absolutely when he was at home. He wasn't quite sure even yet but he had strayed by mistake into the outermost courts of heaven and ought to get shooed out. He always looked at the rose-wreathed curtains with a mingling of pride and awe. Margaret had put several hymns on the blackboard in clear, bold printing, and the singing that day was wonderful. Not the least part of the service was her own playing over of the hymns before the singing began, which was listened to with reverence as if it had been the music of an angel playing on a heavenly harp. Gardley always came to the Sunday services, and helped her with the singing, and often they two sang duets together. The service was not always of set form. Usually Margaret taught a short Bible lesson, beginning with the general outline of the Bible, its books, their form, substance, authors, etc.--all very brief and exceedingly simple, putting a wide space of music between this and the vesper service, into which she wove songs, bits of poems, passages from the Bible, and often a story which she told dramatically, illustrating the scripture read. But the very Sunday before the play, just the time Margaret had looked forward to as being her rest from all the perplexities of the week, a company from the fort, including the Temples, arrived at the school-house right in the midst of the Bible lesson. The ladies were daintily dressed, and settled their frills and ribbons amusedly as they watched the embarrassed young teacher trying to forget that there was company present. They were in a distinct sense "company," for they had the air, as they entered, of having come to look on and be amused, not to partake in the worship with the rest. Margaret found herself trembling inwardly as she saw the supercilious smile on the lips of Mrs. Temple and the amused stares of the other ladies of the party. They did not take any notice of the other people present any more than if they had been so many puppets set up to show off the teacher; their air of superiority was offensive. Not until Rosa Rogers entered with her father, a little later, did they condescend to bow in recognition, and then with that pretty little atmosphere as if they would say, "Oh, you've come, too, to be amused." Gardley was sitting up in front, listening to her talk, and she thought he had not noticed the strangers. Suddenly it came to her to try to keep her nerve and let him see that they were nothing to her; and with a strong effort and a swift prayer for help she called for a hymn. She sat coolly down at the piano, touching the keys with a tender chord or two and beginning to sing almost at once. She had sent home for some old hymn-books from the Christian Endeavor Society in her father's church, so the congregation were supplied with the notes and words now, and everybody took part eagerly, even the people from the fort condescendingly joining in. But Gardley was too much alive to every expression on that vivid face of Margaret's to miss knowing that she was annoyed and upset. He did not need to turn and look back to immediately discover the cause. He was a young person of keen intuition. It suddenly gave him great satisfaction to see that look of consternation on Margaret's face. It settled for him a question he had been in great and anxious doubt about, and his soul was lifted up with peace within him. When, presently, according to arrangement, he rose to sing a duet with Margaret, no one could have possibly told by so much as the lifting of an eyelash that he knew there was an enemy of his in the back of the room. He sang, as did Margaret, to the immediate audience in front of him, those admiring children and adoring men in the forefront who felt the school-house had become for them the gate of heaven for the time being; and he sang with marvelous feeling and sympathy, letting out his voice at its best. "Really," said Mrs. Temple, in a loud whisper to the wife of one of the officers, "that young man has a fine voice, and he isn't bad-looking, either. I think he'd be worth cultivating. We must have him up and try him out." But when she repeated this remark in another stage whisper to Forsythe he frowned haughtily. The one glimpse Margaret caught of Forsythe during that afternoon's service was when he was smiling meaningly at Rosa Rogers; and she had to resolutely put the memory of their look from her mind or the story which she was about to tell would have fled. It was the hunger in Jasper Kemp's eyes that finally anchored Margaret's thoughts and helped her to forget the company at the back of the room. She told her story, and she told it wonderfully and with power, interpreting it now and then for the row of men who sat in the center of the room drinking in her every word; and when the simple service was concluded with another song, in which Gardley's voice rang forth with peculiar tenderness and strength, the men filed forth silently, solemnly, with bowed heads and thoughtful eyes. But the company from the fort flowed up around Margaret like flood-tide let loose and gushed upon her. "Oh, my dear!" said Mrs. Temple. "How beautifully you do it! And such attention as they give you! No wonder you are willing to forego all other amusements to stay here and preach! But it was perfectly sweet the way you made them listen and the way you told that story. I don't see how you do it. I'd be scared to death!" They babbled about her awhile, much to her annoyance, for there were several people to whom she had wanted to speak, who drew away and disappeared when the new-comers took possession of her. At last, however, they mounted and rode away, to her great relief. Forsythe, it is true, tried to make her go home with them; tried to escort her to the Tanners'; tried to remain in the school-house with her awhile when she told him she had something to do there; but she would not let him, and he rode away half sulky at the last, a look of injured pride upon his face. Margaret went to the door finally, and looked down the road. He was gone, and she was alone. A shade of sadness came over her face. She was sorry that Gardley had not waited. She had wanted to tell him how much she liked his singing, what a pleasure it was to sing with him, and how glad she was that he came up to her need so well with the strangers there and helped to make it easy. But Gardley had melted away as soon as the service was over, and had probably gone home with the rest of the men. It was disappointing, for she had come to consider their little time together on Sunday as a very pleasant hour, this few minutes after the service when they would talk about real living and the vital things of existence. But he was gone! She turned, and there he was, quite near the door, coming toward her. Her face lighted up with a joy that was unmistakable, and his own smile in answer was a revelation of his deeper self. "Oh, I'm so glad you are not gone!" she said, eagerly. "I wanted to tell you--" And then she stopped, and the color flooded her face rosily, for she saw in his eyes how glad he was and forgot to finish her sentence. He came up gravely, after all, and, standing just a minute so beside the door, took both her hands in both his. It was only for a second that he stood so, looking down into her eyes. I doubt if either of them knew till afterward that they had been holding hands. It seemed the right and natural thing to do, and meant so much to each of them. Both were glad beyond their own understanding over that moment and its tenderness. It was all very decorous, and over in a second, but it meant much to remember afterward, that look and hand-clasp. "I wanted to tell you," he said, tenderly, "how much that story did for me. It was wonderful, and it helped me to decide something I have been perplexed over--" "Oh, I am glad!" she said, half breathlessly. So, talking in low, broken sentences, they went back to the piano and tried over several songs for the next Sunday, lingering together, just happy to be there with each other, and not half knowing the significance of it all. As the purple lights on the school-room wall grew long and rose-edged, they walked slowly to the Tanner house and said good night. There was a beauty about the young man as he stood for a moment looking down upon the girl in parting, the kind of beauty there is in any strong, wild thing made tame and tender for a great love by a great uplift. Gardley had that look of self-surrender, and power made subservient to right, that crowns a man with strength and more than physical beauty. In his fine face there glowed high purpose, and deep devotion to the one who had taught it to him. Margaret, looking up at him, felt her heart go out with that great love, half maiden, half divine, that comes to some favored women even here on earth, and she watched him down the road toward the mountain in the evening light and marveled how her trust had grown since first she met him; marveled and reflected that she had not told her mother and father much about him yet. It was growing time to do so; yes--_it was growing time_! Her cheeks grew pink in the darkness and she turned and fled to her room. That was the last time she saw him before the play. CHAPTER XXIII The play was set for Tuesday. Monday afternoon and evening were to be the final rehearsals, but Gardley did not come to them. Fiddling Boss came late and said the men had been off all day and had not yet returned. He himself found it hard to come at all. They had important work on. But there was no word from Gardley. Margaret was disappointed. She couldn't get away from it. Of course they could go on with the rehearsal without him. He had done his work well, and there was no real reason why he had to be there. He knew every part by heart, and could take any boy's place if any one failed in any way. There was nothing further really for him to do until the performance, as far as that was concerned, except be there and encourage her. But she missed him, and an uneasiness grew in her mind. She had so looked forward to seeing him, and now to have no word! He might at least have sent her a note when he found he could not come. Still she knew this was unreasonable. His work, whatever it was--he had never explained it very thoroughly to her, perhaps because she had never asked--must, of course, have kept him. She must excuse him without question and go on with the business of the hour. Her hands were full enough, for Forsythe came presently and was more trying than usual. She had to be very decided and put her foot down about one or two things, or some of her actors would have gone home in the sulks, and Fiddling Boss, whose part in the program meant much to him, would have given it up entirely. She hurried everything through as soon as possible, knowing she was weary, and longing to get to her room and rest. Gardley would come and explain to-morrow, likely in the morning on his way somewhere. But the morning came and no word. Afternoon came and he had not sent a sign yet. Some of the little things that he had promised to do about the setting of the stage would have to remain undone, for it was too late now to do it herself, and there was no one else to call upon. Into the midst of her perplexity and anxiety came the news that Jed on his way home had been thrown from his horse, which was a young and vicious one, and had broken his leg. Jed was to act the part of Nick Bottom that evening, and he did it well! Now what in the world was she to do? If only Gardley would come! Just at this moment Forsythe arrived. "Oh, it is you, Mr. Forsythe!" And her tone showed plainly her disappointment. "Haven't you seen Mr. Gardley to-day? I don't know what I shall do without him." "I certainly have seen Gardley," said Forsythe, a spice of vindictiveness and satisfaction in his tone. "I saw him not two hours ago, drunk as a fish, out at a place called Old Ouida's Cabin, as I was passing. He's in for a regular spree. You'll not see him for several days, I fancy. He's utterly helpless for the present, and out of the question. What is there I can do for you? Present your request. It's yours--to the half of my kingdom." Margaret's heart grew cold as ice and then like fire. Her blood seemed to stop utterly and then to go pounding through her veins in leaps and torrents. Her eyes grew dark, and things swam before her. She reached out to a desk and caught at it for support, and her white face looked at him a moment as if she had not heard. But when in a second she spoke, she said, quite steadily: "I thank you, Mr. Forsythe; there is nothing just at present--or, yes, there is, if you wouldn't mind helping Timothy put up those curtains. Now, I think I'll go home and rest a few minutes; I am very tired." It wasn't exactly the job Forsythe coveted, to stay in the school-house and fuss over those curtains; but she made him do it, then disappeared, and he didn't like the memory of her white face. He hadn't thought she would take it that way. He had expected to have her exclaim with horror and disgust. He watched her out of the door, and then turned impatiently to the waiting Timothy. Margaret went outside the school-house to call Bud, who had been sent to gather sage-brush for filling in the background, but Bud was already out of sight far on the trail toward the camp on Forsythe's horse, riding for dear life. Bud had come near to the school-house door with his armful of sage-brush just in time to hear Forsythe's flippant speech about Gardley and see Margaret's white face. Bud had gone for help! But Margaret did not go home to rest. She did not even get half-way home. When she had gone a very short distance outside the school-house she saw some one coming toward her, and in her distress of mind she could not tell who it was. Her eyes were blinded with tears, her breath was constricted, and it seemed to her that a demon unseen was gripping her heart. She had not yet taken her bearings to know what she thought. She had only just come dazed from the shock of Forsythe's words, and had not the power to think. Over and over to herself, as she walked along, she kept repeating the words: "I _do not_ believe it! It is _not_ true!" but her inner consciousness had not had time to analyze her soul and be sure that she believed the words wherewith she was comforting herself. So now, when she saw some one coming, she felt the necessity of bringing her telltale face to order and getting ready to answer whoever she was to meet. As she drew nearer she became suddenly aware that it was Rosa Rogers coming with her arms full of bundles and more piled up in front of her on her pony. Margaret knew at once that Rosa must have seen Forsythe go by her house, and had returned promptly to the school-house on some pretext or other. It would not do to let her go there alone with the young man; she must go back and stay with them. She could not be sure that if she sent Rosa home with orders to rest she would be obeyed. Doubtless the girl would take another way around and return to the school again. There was nothing for it but to go back and stay as long as Rosa did. Margaret stooped and, hastily plucking a great armful of sage-brush, turned around and retraced her steps, her heart like lead, her feet suddenly grown heavy. How could she go back and hear them laugh and chatter, answer their many silly, unnecessary questions, and stand it all? How could she, with that great weight at her heart? She went back with a wonderful self-control. Forsythe's face lighted, and his reluctant hand grew suddenly eager as he worked. Rosa came presently, and others, and the laughing chatter went on quite as Margaret had known it would. And she--so great is the power of human will under pressure--went calmly about and directed here and there; planned and executed; put little, dainty, wholly unnecessary touches to the stage; and never let any one know that her heart was being crushed with the weight of a great, awful fear, and yet steadily upborne by the rising of a great, deep trust. As she worked and smiled and ordered, she was praying: "Oh, God, don't let it be true! Keep him! Save him! Bring him! Make him true! I _know_ he is true! Oh, God, bring him safely _soon_!" Meantime there was nothing she could do. She could not send Forsythe after him. She could not speak of the matter to one of those present, and Bud--where was Bud? It was the first time since she came to Arizona that Bud had failed her. She might not leave the school-house, with Forsythe and Rosa there, to go and find him, and she might not do anything else. There was nothing to do but work on feverishly and pray as she had never prayed before. By and by one of the smaller boys came, and she sent him back to the Tanners' to find Bud, but he returned with the message that Bud had not been home since morning; and so the last hours before the evening, that would otherwise have been so brief for all there was to be done, dragged their weary length away and Margaret worked on. She did not even go back for supper at the last, but sent one of the girls to her room for a few things she needed, and declined even the nice little chicken sandwich that thoughtful Mrs. Tanner sent back along with the things. And then, at last, the audience began to gather. By this time her anxiety was so great for Gardley that all thought of how she was to supply the place of the absent Jed had gone from her mind, which was in a whirl. Gardley! Gardley! If only Gardley would come! That was her one thought. What should she do if he didn't come at all? How should she explain things to herself afterward? What if it had been true? What if he were the kind of man Forsythe had suggested? How terrible life would look to her! But it was not true. No, it was not true! She trusted him! With her soul she trusted him! He would come back some time and he would explain all. She could not remember his last look at her on Sunday and not trust him. He was true! He would come! Somehow she managed to get through the terrible interval, to slip into the dressing-room and make herself sweet and comely in the little white gown she had sent for, with its delicate blue ribbons and soft lace ruffles. Somehow she managed the expected smiles as one and another of the audience came around to the platform to speak to her. There were dark hollows under her eyes, and her mouth was drawn and weary, but they laid that to the excitement. Two bright-red spots glowed on her cheeks; but she smiled and talked with her usual gaiety. People looked at her and said how beautiful she was, and how bright and untiring; and how wonderful it was that Ashland School had drawn such a prize of a teacher. The seats filled, the noise and the clatter went on. Still no sign of Gardley or any one from the camp, and still Bud had not returned! What could it mean? But the minutes were rushing rapidly now. It was more than time to begin. The girls were in a flutter in one cloak-room at the right of the stage, asking more questions in a minute than one could answer in an hour; the boys in the other cloak-room wanted all sorts of help; and three or four of the actors were attacked with stage-fright as they peered through a hole in the curtain and saw some friend or relative arrive and sit down in the audience. It was all a mad whirl of seemingly useless noise and excitement, and she could not, no, she _could not_, go on and do the necessary things to start that awful play. Why, oh, _why_ had she ever been left to think of getting up a play? Forsythe, up behind the piano, whispered to her that it was time to begin. The house was full. There was not room for another soul. Margaret explained that Fiddling Boss had not yet arrived, and caught a glimpse of the cunning designs of Forsythe in the shifty turning away of his eyes as he answered that they could not wait all night for him; that if he wanted to get into it he ought to have come early. But even as she turned away she saw the little, bobbing, eager faces of Pop and Mom Wallis away back by the door, and the grim, towering figure of the Boss, his fiddle held high, making his way to the front amid the crowd. She sat down and touched the keys, her eyes watching eagerly for a chance to speak to the Boss and see if he knew anything of Gardley; but Forsythe was close beside her all the time, and there was no opportunity. She struck the opening chords of the overture they were to attempt to play, and somehow got through it. Of course, the audience was not a critical one, and there were few real judges of music present; but it may be that the truly wonderful effect she produced upon the listeners was due to the fact that she was playing a prayer with her heart as her fingers touched the keys, and that instead of a preliminary to a fairy revel the music told the story of a great soul struggle, and reached hearts as it tinkled and rolled and swelled on to the end. It may be, too, that Fiddling Boss was more in sympathy that night with his accompanist than was the other violinist, and that was why his old fiddle brought forth such weird and tender tones. Almost to the end, with her heart sobbing its trouble to the keys, Margaret looked up sadly, and there, straight before her through a hole in the curtain made by some rash youth to glimpse the audience, or perhaps even put there by the owner of the nose itself, she saw the little, freckled, turned-up member belonging to Bud's face. A second more and a big, bright eye appeared and solemnly winked at her twice, as if to say, "Don't you worry; it's all right!" She almost started from the stool, but kept her head enough to finish the chords, and as they died away she heard a hoarse whisper in Bud's familiar voice: "Whoop her up, Miss Earle. We're all ready. Raise the curtain there, you guy. Let her rip. Everything's O. K." With a leap of light into her eyes Margaret turned the leaves of the music and went on playing as she should have done if nothing had been the matter. Bud was there, anyway, and that somehow cheered her heart. Perhaps Gardley had come or Bud had heard of him--and yet, Bud didn't know he had been missing, for Bud had been away himself. Nevertheless, she summoned courage to go on playing. Nick Bottom wasn't in this first scene, anyway, and this would have to be gone through with somehow. By this time she was in a state of daze that only thought from moment to moment. The end of the evening seemed now to her as far off as the end of a hale old age seems at the beginning of a lifetime. Somehow she must walk through it; but she could only see a step at a time. Once she turned half sideways to the audience and gave a hurried glance about, catching sight of Fudge's round, near-sighted face, and that gave her encouragement. Perhaps the others were somewhere present. If only she could get a chance to whisper to some one from the camp and ask when they had seen Gardley last! But there was no chance, of course! The curtain was rapidly raised and the opening scene of the play began, the actors going through their parts with marvelous ease and dexterity, and the audience silent and charmed, watching those strangers in queer costumes that were their own children, marching around there at their ease and talking weird language that was not used in any class of society they had ever come across on sea or land before. But Margaret, watching her music as best she could, and playing mechanically rather than with her mind, could not tell if they were doing well or ill, so loudly did her heart pound out her fears--so stoutly did her heart proclaim her trust. And thus, without a flaw or mistake in the execution of the work she had struggled so hard to teach them, the first scene of the first act drew to its close, and Margaret struck the final chords of the music and felt that in another minute she must reel and fall from that piano-stool. And yet she sat and watched the curtain fall with a face as controlled as if nothing at all were the matter. A second later she suddenly knew that to sit in that place calmly another second was a physical impossibility. She must get somewhere to the air at once or her senses would desert her. With a movement so quick that no one could have anticipated it, she slipped from her piano-stool, under the curtain to the stage, and was gone before the rest of the orchestra had noticed her intention. CHAPTER XXIV Since the day that he had given Margaret his promise to make good, Gardley had been regularly employed by Mr. Rogers, looking after important matters of his ranch. Before that he had lived a free and easy life, working a little now and then when it seemed desirable to him, having no set interest in life, and only endeavoring from day to day to put as far as possible from his mind the life he had left behind him. Now, however, all things became different. He brought to his service the keen mind and ready ability that had made him easily a winner at any game, a brave rider, and a never-failing shot. Within a few days Rogers saw what material was in him, and as the weeks went by grew to depend more and more upon his advice in matters. There had been much trouble with cattle thieves, and so far no method of stopping the loss or catching the thieves had been successful. Rogers finally put the matter into Gardley's hands to carry out his own ideas, with the men of the camp at his command to help him, the camp itself being only a part of Rogers's outlying possessions, one of several such centers from which he worked his growing interests. Gardley had formulated a scheme by which he hoped eventually to get hold of the thieves and put a stop to the trouble, and he was pretty sure he was on the right track; but his plan required slow and cautious work, that the enemy might not suspect and take to cover. He had for several weeks suspected that the thieves made their headquarters in the region of Old Ouida's Cabin, and made their raids from that direction. It was for this reason that of late the woods and trails in the vicinity of Ouida's had been secretly patrolled day and night, and every passer-by taken note of, until Gardley knew just who were the frequenters of that way and mostly what was their business. This work was done alternately by the men of the Wallis camp and two other camps, Gardley being the head of all and carrying all responsibility; and not the least of that young man's offenses in the eyes of Rosa Rogers was that he was so constantly at her father's house and yet never lifted an eye in admiration of her pretty face. She longed to humiliate him, and through him to humiliate Margaret, who presumed to interfere with her flirtations, for it was a bitter thing to Rosa that Forsythe had no eyes for her when Margaret was about. When the party from the fort rode homeward that Sunday after the service at the school-house, Forsythe lingered behind to talk to Margaret, and then rode around by the Rogers place, where Rosa and he had long ago established a trysting-place. Rosa was watching for his passing, and he stopped a half-hour or so to talk to her. During this time she casually disclosed to Forsythe some of the plans she had overheard Gardley laying before her father. Rosa had very little idea of the importance of Gardley's work to her father, or perhaps she would not have so readily prattled of his affairs. Her main idea was to pay back Gardley for his part in her humiliation with Forsythe. She suggested that it would be a great thing if Gardley could be prevented from being at the play Tuesday evening, and told what she had overheard him saying to her father merely to show Forsythe how easy it would be to have Gardley detained on Tuesday. Forsythe questioned Rosa keenly. Did she know whom they suspected? Did she know what they were planning to do to catch them, and when? Rosa innocently enough disclosed all she knew, little thinking how dishonorable to her father it was, and perhaps caring as little, for Rosa had ever been a spoiled child, accustomed to subordinating everything within reach to her own uses. As for Forsythe, he was nothing loath to get rid of Gardley, and he saw more possibilities in Rosa's suggestion than she had seen herself. When at last he bade Rosa good night and rode unobtrusively back to the trail he was already formulating a plan. It was, therefore, quite in keeping with his wishes that he should meet a dark-browed rider a few miles farther up the trail whose identity he had happened to learn a few days before. Now Forsythe would, perhaps, not have dared to enter into any compact against Gardley with men of such ill-repute had it been a matter of money and bribery, but, armed as he was with information valuable to the criminals, he could so word his suggestion about Gardley's detention as to make the hunted men think it to their advantage to catch Gardley some time the next day when he passed their way and imprison him for a while. This would appear to be but a friendly bit of advice from a disinterested party deserving a good turn some time in the future and not get Forsythe into any trouble. As such it was received by the wretch, who clutched at the information with ill-concealed delight and rode away into the twilight like a serpent threading his secret, gliding way among the darkest places, scarcely rippling the air, so stealthily did he pass. As for Forsythe, he rode blithely to the Temple ranch, with no thought of the forces he had set going, his life as yet one round of trying to please himself at others' expense, if need be, but please himself, _anyway_, with whatever amusement the hour afforded. At home in the East, where his early life had been spent, a splendid girl awaited his dilatory letters and set herself patiently to endure the months of separation until he should have attained a home and a living and be ready for her to come to him. In the South, where he had idled six months before he went West, another lovely girl cherished mementoes of his tarrying and wrote him loving letters in reply to his occasional erratic epistles. Out on the Californian shore a girl with whom he had traveled West in her uncle's luxurious private car, with a gay party of friends and relatives, cherished fond hopes of a visit he had promised to make her during the winter. Innumerable maidens of this world, wise in the wisdom that crushes hearts, remembered him with a sigh now and then, but held no illusions concerning his kind. Pretty little Rosa Rogers cried her eyes out every time he cast a languishing look at her teacher, and several of the ladies of the fort sighed that the glance of his eye and the gentle pressure of his hand could only be a passing joy. But the gay Lothario passed on his way as yet without a scratch on the hard enamel of his heart, till one wondered if it were a heart, indeed, or perhaps only a metal imitation. But girls like Margaret Earle, though they sometimes were attracted by him, invariably distrusted him. He was like a beautiful spotted snake that was often caught menacing something precious, but you could put him down anywhere after punishment or imprisonment and he would slide on his same slippery way and still be a spotted, deadly snake. When Gardley left the camp that Monday morning following the walk home with Margaret from the Sabbath service, he fully intended to be back at the school-house Monday by the time the afternoon rehearsal began. His plans were so laid that he thought relays from other camps were to guard the suspected ground for the next three days and he could be free. It had been a part of the information that Forsythe had given the stranger that Gardley would likely pass a certain lonely crossing of the trail at about three o'clock that afternoon, and, had that arrangement been carried out, the men who lay in wait for him would doubtless have been pleased to have their plans mature so easily; but they would not have been pleased long, for Gardley's men were so near at hand at that time, watching that very spot with eyes and ears and long-distance glasses, that their chief would soon have been rescued and the captors be themselves the captured. But the men from the farther camp, called "Lone Fox" men, did not arrive on time, perhaps through some misunderstanding, and Gardley and Kemp and their men had to do double time. At last, later in the afternoon, Gardley volunteered to go to Lone Fox and bring back the men. As he rode his thoughts were of Margaret, and he was seeing again the look of gladness in her eyes when she found he had not gone yesterday; feeling again the thrill of her hands in his, the trust of her smile! It was incredible, wonderful, that God had sent a veritable angel into the wilderness to bring him to himself; and now he was wondering, could it be that there was really hope that he could ever make good enough to dare to ask her to marry him. The sky and the air were rare, but his thoughts were rarer still, and his soul was lifted up with joy. He was earning good wages now. In two more weeks he would have enough to pay back the paltry sum for the lack of which he had fled from his old home and come to the wilderness. He would go back, of course, and straighten out the old score. Then what? Should he stay in the East and go back to the old business wherewith he had hoped to make his name honored and gain wealth, or should he return to this wild, free land again and start anew? His mother was dead. Perhaps if she had lived and cared he would have made good in the first place. His sisters were both married to wealthy men and not deeply interested in him. He had disappointed and mortified them; their lives were filled with social duties; they had never missed him. His father had been dead many years. As for his uncle, his mother's brother, whose heir he was to have been before he got himself into disgrace, he decided not to go near him. He would stay as long as he must to undo the wrong he had done. He would call on his sisters and then come back; come back and let Margaret decide what she wanted him to do--that is, if she would consent to link her life with one who had been once a failure. Margaret! How wonderful she was! If Margaret said he ought to go back and be a lawyer, he would go--yes, even if he had to enter his uncle's office as an underling to do it. His soul loathed the idea, but he would do it for Margaret, if she thought it best. And so he mused as he rode! When the Lone Fox camp was reached and the men sent out on their belated task, Gardley decided not to go with them back to meet Kemp and the other men, but sent word to Kemp that he had gone the short cut to Ashland, hoping to get to a part of the evening rehearsal yet. Now that short cut led him to the lonely crossing of the trail much sooner than Kemp and the others could reach it from the rendezvous; and there in cramped positions, and with much unnecessary cursing and impatience, four strong masked men had been concealed for four long hours. Through the stillness of the twilight rode Gardley, thinking of Margaret, and for once utterly off his guard. His long day's work was done, and though he had not been able to get back when he planned, he was free now, free until the day after to-morrow. He would go at once to her and see if there was anything she wanted him to do. Then, as if to help along his enemies, he began to hum a song, his clear, high voice reaching keenly to the ears of the men in ambush: "'Oh, the time is long, mavourneen, Till I come again, O mavourneen--'" "And the toime 'll be longer thun iver, oim thinkin', ma purty little voorneen!" said an unmistakable voice of Erin through the gathering dusk. Gardley's horse stopped and Gardley's hand went to his revolver, while his other hand lifted the silver whistle to his lips; but four guns bristled at him in the twilight, the whistle was knocked from his lips before his breath had even reached it, some one caught his arms from behind, and his own weapon was wrenched from his hand as it went off. The cry which he at once sent forth was stifled in its first whisper in a great muffling garment flung over his head and drawn tightly about his neck. He was in a fair way to strangle, and his vigorous efforts at escape were useless in the hands of so many. He might have been plunged at once into a great abyss of limitless, soundless depths, so futile did any resistance seem. And so, as it was useless to struggle, he lay like one dead and put all his powers into listening. But neither could he hear much, muffled as he was, and bound hand and foot now, with a gag in his mouth and little care taken whether he could even breathe. They were leading him off the trail and up over rough ground; so much he knew, for the horse stumbled and jolted and strained to carry him. To keep his whirling senses alive and alert he tried to think where they might be leading him; but the darkness and the suffocation dulled his powers. He wondered idly if his men would miss him and come back when they got home to search for him, and then remembered with a pang that they would think him safely in Ashland, helping Margaret. They would not be alarmed if he did not return that night, for they would suppose he had stopped at Rogers's on the way and perhaps stayed all night, as he had done once or twice before. _Margaret!_ When should he see Margaret now? What would she think? And then he swooned away. When he came somewhat to himself he was in a close, stifling room where candle-light from a distance threw weird shadows over the adobe walls. The witch-like voices of a woman and a girl in harsh, cackling laughter, half suppressed, were not far away, and some one, whose face was covered, was holding a glass to his lips. The smell was sickening, and he remembered that he hated the thought of liquor. It did not fit with those who companied with Margaret. He had never cared for it, and had resolved never to taste it again. But whether he chose or not, the liquor was poured down his throat. Huge hands held him and forced it, and he was still bound and too weak to resist, even if he had realized the necessity. The liquid burned its way down his throat and seethed into his brain, and a great darkness, mingled with men's wrangling voices and much cursing, swirled about him like some furious torrent of angry waters that finally submerged his consciousness. Then came deeper darkness and a blank relief from pain. Hours passed. He heard sounds sometimes, and dreamed dreams which he could not tell from reality. He saw his friends with terror written on their faces, while he lay apathetically and could not stir. He saw tears on Margaret's face; and once he was sure he heard Forsythe's voice in contempt: "Well, he seems to be well occupied for the present! No danger of his waking up for a while!" and then the voices all grew dim and far away again, and only an old crone and the harsh girl's whisper over him; and then Margaret's tears--tears that fell on his heart from far above, and seemed to melt out all his early sins and flood him with their horror. Tears and the consciousness that he ought to be doing something for Margaret now and could not. Tears--and more darkness! CHAPTER XXV When Margaret arrived behind the curtain she was aware of many cries and questions hurled at her like an avalanche, but, ignoring them all, she sprang past the noisy, excited group of young people, darted through the dressing-room to the right and out into the night and coolness. Her head was swimming, and things went black before her eyes. She felt that her breath was going, going, and she must get to the air. But when she passed the hot wave of the school-room, and the sharp air of the night struck her face, consciousness seemed to turn and come back into her again; for there over her head was the wideness of the vast, starry Arizona night, and there, before her, in Nick Bottom's somber costume, eating one of the chicken sandwiches that Mrs. Tanner had sent down to her, stood Gardley! He was pale and shaken from his recent experience; but he was undaunted, and when he saw Margaret coming toward him through the doorway with her soul in her eyes and her spirit all aflame with joy and relief, he came to meet her under the stars, and, forgetting everything else, just folded her gently in his arms! It was a most astonishing thing to do, of course, right there outside the dressing-room door, with the curtain just about to rise on the scene and Gardley's wig was not on yet. He had not even asked nor obtained permission. But the soul sometimes grows impatient waiting for the lips to speak, and Margaret felt her trust had been justified and her heart had found its home. Right there behind the school-house, out in the great wide night, while the crowded, clamoring audience waited for them, and the young actors grew frantic, they plighted their troth, his lips upon hers, and with not a word spoken. Voices from the dressing-room roused them. "Come in quick, Mr. Gardley; it's time for the curtain to rise, and everybody is ready. Where on earth has Miss Earle vanished? Miss Earle! Oh, Miss Earle!" There was a rush to the dressing-room to find the missing ones; but Bud, as ever, present where was the most need, stood with his back to the outside world in the door of the dressing-room and called loudly: "They're comin', all right. Go on! Get to your places. Miss Earle says to get to your places." The two in the darkness groped for each other's hands as they stood suddenly apart, and with one quick pressure and a glance hurried in. There was not any need for words. They understood, these two, and trusted. With her cheeks glowing now, and her eyes like two stars, Margaret fled across the stage and took her place at the piano again, just as the curtain began to be drawn; and Forsythe, who had been slightly uneasy at the look on her face as she left them, wondered now and leaned forward to tell her how well she was looking. He kept his honeyed phrase to himself, however, for she was not heeding him. Her eyes were on the rising curtain, and Forsythe suddenly remembered that this was the scene in which Jed was to have appeared--and Jed had a broken leg! What had Margaret done about it? It was scarcely a part that could be left out. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner and offered to take it? He could have bluffed it out somehow--he had heard it so much--made up words where he couldn't remember them all, and it would have been a splendid opportunity to do some real love-making with Rosa. Why hadn't he thought of it? Why hadn't Rosa? Perhaps she hadn't heard about Jed soon enough to suggest it. The curtain was fully open now, and Bud's voice as Peter Quince, a trifle high and cracked with excitement, broke the stillness, while the awed audience gazed upon this new, strange world presented to them. "Is all our company here?" lilted out Bud, excitedly, and Nick Bottom replied with Gardley's voice: "You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip." Forsythe turned deadly white. Jasper Kemp, whose keen eye was upon him, saw it through the tan, saw his lips go pale and purple points of fear start in his eyes, as he looked and looked again, and could not believe his senses. Furtively he darted a glance around, like one about to steal away; then, seeing Jasper Kemp's eyes upon him, settled back with a strained look upon his face. Once he stole a look at Margaret and caught her face all transfigured with great joy; looked again and felt rebuked somehow by the pureness of her maiden joy and trust. Not once had she turned her eyes to his. He was forgotten, and somehow he knew the look he would get if she should see him. It would be contempt and scorn that would burn his very soul. It is only a maid now and then to whom it is given thus to pierce and bruise the soul of a man who plays with love and trust and womanhood for selfishness. Such a woman never knows her power. She punishes all unconscious to herself. It was so that Margaret Earle, without being herself aware, and by her very indifference and contempt, showed the little soul of this puppet man to himself. He stole away at last when he thought no one was looking, and reached the back of the school-house at the open door of the girls' dressing-room, where he knew Titania would be posing in between the acts. He beckoned her to his side and began to question her in quick, eager, almost angry tones, as if the failure of their plans were her fault. Had her father been at home all day? Had anything happened--any one been there? Did Gardley come? Had there been any report from the men? Had that short, thick-set Scotchman with the ugly grin been there? She must remember that she was the one to suggest the scheme in the first place, and it was her business to keep a watch. There was no telling now what might happen. He turned, and there stood Jasper Kemp close to his elbow, his short stature drawn to its full, his thick-set shoulders squaring themselves, his ugly grin standing out in bold relief, menacingly, in the night. The young man let forth some words not in a gentleman's code, and turned to leave the frightened girl, who by this time was almost crying; but Jasper Kemp kept pace with Forsythe as he walked. "Was you addressing me?" he asked, politely; "because I could tell you a few things a sight more appropriate for you than what you just handed to me." Forsythe hurried around to the front of the school-house, making no reply. "Nice, pleasant evening to be _free_," went on Jasper Kemp, looking up at the stars. "Rather onpleasant for some folks that have to be shut up in jail." Forsythe wheeled upon him. "What do you mean?" he demanded, angrily, albeit he was white with fear. "Oh, nothing much," drawled Jasper, affably. "I was just thinking how much pleasanter it was to be a free man than shut up in prison on a night like this. It's so much healthier, you know." Forsythe looked at him a moment, a kind of panic of intelligence growing in his face; then he turned and went toward the back of the school-house, where he had left his horse some hours before. "Where are you going?" demanded Jasper. "It's 'most time you went back to your fiddling, ain't it?" But Forsythe answered him not a word. He was mounting his horse hurriedly--his horse, which, all unknown to him, had been many miles since he last rode him. "You think you have to go, then?" said Jasper, deprecatingly. "Well, now, that's a pity, seeing you was fiddling so nice an' all. Shall I tell them you've gone for your health?" Thus recalled, Forsythe stared at his tormentor wildly for a second. "Tell her--tell her"--he muttered, hoarsely--"tell her I've been taken suddenly ill." And he was off on a wild gallop toward the fort. "I'll tell her you've gone for your health!" called Jasper Kemp, with his hands to his mouth like a megaphone. "I reckon he won't return again very soon, either," he chuckled. "This country's better off without such pests as him an' that measley parson." Then, turning, he beheld Titania, the queen of the fairies, white and frightened, staring wildly into the starry darkness after the departed rider. "Poor little fool!" he muttered under his breath as he looked at the girl and turned away. "Poor, pretty little fool!" Suddenly he stepped up to her side and touched her white-clad shoulder gently. "Don't you go for to care, lassie," he said in a tender tone. "He ain't worth a tear from your pretty eye. He ain't fit to wipe your feet on--your pretty wee feet!" But Rosa turned angrily and stamped her foot. "Go away! You bad old man!" she shrieked. "Go away! I shall tell my father!" And she flouted herself into the school-house. Jasper stood looking ruefully after her, shaking his head. "The little de'il!" he said aloud; "the poor, pretty little de'il. She'll get her dues aplenty afore she's done." And Jasper went back to the play. Meantime, inside the school-house, the play went gloriously on to the finish, and Gardley as Nick Bottom took the house by storm. Poor absent Jed's father, sent by the sufferer to report it all, stood at the back of the house while tears of pride and disappointment rolled down his cheeks--pride that Jed had been so well represented, disappointment that it couldn't have been his son up there play-acting like that. The hour was late when the play was over, and Margaret stood at last in front of the stage to receive the congratulations of the entire countryside, while the young actors posed and laughed and chattered excitedly, then went away by two and threes, their tired, happy voices sounding back along the road. The people from the fort had been the first to surge around Margaret with their eager congratulations and gushing sentiments: "So sweet, my dear! So perfectly wonderful! You really have got some dandy actors!" And, "Why don't you try something lighter--something simpler, don't you know. Something really popular that these poor people could understand and appreciate? A little farce! I could help you pick one out!" And all the while they gushed Jasper Kemp and his men, grim and forbidding, stood like a cordon drawn about her to protect her, with Gardley in the center, just behind her, as though he had a right there and meant to stay; till at last the fort people hurried away and the school-house grew suddenly empty with just those two and the eight men behind; and by the door Bud, talking to Pop and Mom Wallis in the buckboard outside. Amid this admiring bodyguard at last Gardley took Margaret home. Perhaps she wondered a little that they all went along, but she laid it to their pride in the play and their desire to talk it over. They had sent Mom and Pop Wallis home horseback, after all, and put Margaret and Gardley in the buckboard, Margaret never dreaming that it was because Gardley was not fit to walk. Indeed, he did not realize himself why they all stuck so closely to him. He had lived through so much since Jasper and his men had burst into his prison and freed him, bringing him in hot haste to the school-house, with Bud wildly riding ahead. But it was enough for him to sit beside Margaret in the sweet night and remember how she had come out to him under the stars. Her hand lay beside him on the seat, and without intending it his own brushed it. Then he laid his gently, reverently, down upon hers with a quiet pressure, and her smaller fingers thrilled and nestled in his grasp. In the shadow of a big tree beside the house he bade her good-by, the men busying themselves with turning about the buckboard noisily, and Bud discreetly taking himself to the back door to get one of the men a drink of water. "You have been suffering in some way," said Margaret, with sudden intuition, as she looked up into Gardley's face. "You have been in peril, somehow--" "A little," he answered, lightly. "I'll tell you about it to-morrow. I mustn't keep the men waiting now. I shall have a great deal to tell you to-morrow--if you will let me. Good night, _Margaret_!" Their hands lingered in a clasp, and then he rode away with his bodyguard. But Margaret did not have to wait until the morrow to hear the story, for Bud was just fairly bursting. Mrs. Tanner had prepared a nice little supper--more cold chicken, pie, doughnuts, coffee, some of her famous marble cake, and preserves--and she insisted on Margaret's coming into the dining-room and eating it, though the girl would much rather have gone with her happy heart up to her own room by herself. Bud did not wait on ceremony. He began at once when Margaret was seated, even before his mother could get her properly waited on. "Well, we had _some ride_, we sure did! The Kid's a great old scout." Margaret perceived that this was a leader. "Why, that's so, what became of you, William? I hunted everywhere for you. Things were pretty strenuous there for a while, and I needed you dreadfully." "Well, I know," Bud apologized. "I'd oughta let you know before I went, but there wasn't time. You see, I had to pinch that guy's horse to go, and I knew it was just a chance if we could get back, anyway; but I had to take it. You see, if I could 'a' gone right to the cabin it would have been a dead cinch, but I had to ride to camp for the men, and then, taking the short trail across, it was some ride to Ouida's Cabin!" Mrs. Tanner stepped aghast as she was cutting a piece of dried-apple pie for Margaret. "Now, Buddie--mother's boy--you don't mean to tell me _you_ went to _Ouida's Cabin_? Why, sonnie, that's an _awful place_! Don't you know your pa told you he'd whip you if you ever went on that trail?" "I should worry, Ma! I _had_ to go. They had Mr. Gardley tied up there, and we had to go and get him rescued." "_You_ had to go, Buddie--now what could _you_ do in that awful place?" Mrs. Tanner was almost reduced to tears. She saw her offspring at the edge of perdition at once. But Bud ignored his mother and went on with his tale. "You jest oughta seen Jap Kemp's face when I told him what that guy said to you! Some face, b'lieve me! He saw right through the whole thing, too. I could see that! He ner the men hadn't had a bite o' supper yet; they'd just got back from somewheres. They thought the Kid was over here all day helping you. He said yesterday when he left 'em here's where he's a-comin'"--Bud's mouth was so full he could hardly articulate--"an' when I told 'em, he jest blew his little whistle--like what they all carry--three times, and those men every one jest stopped right where they was, whatever they was doin'. Long Bill had the comb in the air gettin' ready to comb his hair, an' he left it there and come away, and Big Jim never stopped to wipe his face on the roller-towel, he just let the wind dry it; and they all hustled on their horses fast as ever they could and beat it after Jap Kemp. Jap, he rode alongside o' me and asked me questions. He made me tell all what the guy from the fort said over again, three or four times, and then he ast what time he got to the school-house, and whether the Kid had been there at all yest'iday ur t'day; and a lot of other questions, and then he rode alongside each man and told him in just a few words where we was goin' and what the guy from the fort had said. Gee! but you'd oughta heard what the men said when he told 'em! Gee! but they was some mad! Bimeby we came to the woods round the cabin, and Jap Kemp made me stick alongside Long Bill, and he sent the men off in different directions all in a _big_ circle, and waited till each man was in his place, and then we all rode hard as we could and came softly up round that cabin just as the sun was goin' down. Gee! but you'd oughta seen the scairt look on them women's faces; there was two of 'em--an old un an' a skinny-looking long-drink-o'-pump-water. I guess she was a girl. I don't know. Her eyes looked real old. There was only three men in the cabin; the rest was off somewheres. They wasn't looking for anybody to come that time o' day, I guess. One of the men was sick on a bunk in the corner. He had his head tied up, and his arm, like he'd been shot, and the other two men came jumping up to the door with their guns, but when they saw how many men _we_ had they looked awful scairt. _We_ all had _our_ guns out, too!--Jap Kemp gave me one to carry--" Bud tried not to swagger as he told this, but it was almost too much for him. "Two of our men held the horses, and all the rest of us got down and went into the cabin. Jap Kemp, sounded his whistle and all our men done the same just as they went in the door--some kind of signals they have for the Lone Fox Camp! The two men in the doorway aimed straight at Jap Kemp and fired, but Jap was onto 'em and jumped one side and our men fired, too, and we soon had 'em tied up and went in--that is, Jap and me and Long Bill went in, the rest stayed by the door--and it wasn't long 'fore their other men came riding back hot haste; they'd heard the shots, you know--and some more of _our_ men--why, most twenty or thirty there was, I guess, altogether; some from Lone Fox Camp that was watching off in the woods came and when we got outside again there they all were, like a big army. Most of the men belonging to the cabin was tied and harmless by that time, for our men took 'em one at a time as they came riding in. Two of 'em got away, but Jap Kemp said they couldn't go far without being caught, 'cause there was a watch out for 'em--they'd been stealing cattle long back something terrible. Well, so Jap Kemp and Long Bill and I went into the cabin after the two men that shot was tied with ropes we'd brung along, and handcuffs, and we went hunting for the Kid. At first we couldn't find him at all. Gee! It was something fierce! And the old woman kep' a-crying and saying we'd kill her sick son, and she didn't know nothing about the man we was hunting for. But pretty soon I spied the Kid's foot stickin' out from under the cot where the sick man was, and when I told Jap Kemp that sick man pulled out a gun he had under the blanket and aimed it right at me!" "Oh, mother's little Buddie!" whimpered Mrs. Tanner, with her apron to her eyes. "_Aw, Ma_, cut it out! _he_ didn't _hurt_ me! The gun just went off crooked, and grazed Jap Kemp's hand a little, not much. Jap knocked it out of the sick man's hand just as he was pullin' the trigger. Say, Ma, ain't you got any more of those cucumber pickles? It makes a man mighty hungry to do all that riding and shooting. Well, it certainly was something fierce--Say, Miss Earle, you take that last piece o' pie. Oh, g'wan! _Take_ it! _You_ worked hard. No, I don't want it, really! Well, if you won't take it _anyway_, I might eat it just to save it. Got any more coffee, Ma?" But Margaret was not eating. Her face was pale and her eyes were starry with unshed tears, and she waited in patient but breathless suspense for the vagaries of the story to work out to the finish. "Yes, it certainly was something fierce, that cabin," went on the narrator. "Why, Ma, it looked as if it had never been swept under that cot when we hauled the Kid out. He was tied all up in knots, and great heavy ropes wound tight from his shoulders down to his ankles. Why, they were bound so tight they made great heavy welts in his wrists and shoulders and round his ankles when we took 'em off; and they had a great big rag stuffed into his mouth so he couldn't yell. Gee! It was something fierce! He was 'most dippy, too; but Jap Kemp brought him round pretty quick and got him outside in the air. That was the worst place I ever was in myself. You couldn't breathe, and the dirt was something fierce. It was like a pigpen. I sure was glad to get outdoors again. And then--well, the Kid came around all right and they got him on a horse and gave him something out of a bottle Jap Kemp had, and pretty soon he could ride again. Why, you'd oughta seen his nerve. He just sat up there as straight, his lips all white yet and his eyes looked some queer; but he straightened up and he looked those rascals right in the eye, and told 'em a few things, and he gave orders to the other men from Lone Fox Camp what to do with 'em; and he had the two women disarmed--they had guns, too--and carried away, and the cabin nailed up, and a notice put on the door, and every one of those men were handcuffed--the sick one and all--and he told 'em to bring a wagon and put the sick one's cot in and take 'em over to Ashland to the jail, and he sent word to Mr. Rogers. Then we rode home and got to the school-house just when you was playing the last chords of the ov'rtcher. Gee! It was some fierce ride and some _close shave_! The Kid he hadn't had a thing to eat since Monday noon, and he was some hungry! I found a sandwich on the window of the dressing-room, and he ate it while he got togged up--'course I told him 'bout Jed soon's we left the cabin, and Jap Kemp said he'd oughta go right home to camp after all he had been through; but he wouldn't; he said he was goin' to _act_. So 'course he had his way! But, gee! You could see it wasn't any cinch game for him! He 'most fell over every time after the curtain fell. You see, they gave him some kind of drugged whisky up there at the cabin that made his head feel queer. Say, he thinks that guy from the fort came in and looked at him once while he was asleep. He says it was only a dream, but I bet he did. Say, Ma, ain't you gonta give me another doughnut?" In the quiet of her chamber at last, Margaret knelt before her window toward the purple, shadowy mountain under the starry dome, and gave thanks for the deliverance of Gardley; while Bud, in his comfortable loft, lay down to his well-earned rest and dreamed of pirates and angels and a hero who looked like the Kid. CHAPTER XXVI The Sunday before Lance Gardley started East on his journey of reparation two strangers slipped quietly into the back of the school-house during the singing of the first hymn and sat down in the shadow by the door. Margaret was playing the piano when they came in, and did not see them, and when she turned back to her Scripture lesson she had time for but the briefest of glances. She supposed they must be some visitors from the fort, as they were speaking to the captain's wife----who came over occasionally to the Sunday service, perhaps because it afforded an opportunity for a ride with one of the young officers. These occasional visitors who came for amusement and curiosity had ceased to trouble Margaret. Her real work was with the men and women and children who loved the services for their own sake, and she tried as much as possible to forget outsiders. So, that day everything went on just as usual, Margaret putting her heart into the prayer, the simple, storylike reading of the Scripture, and the other story-sermon which followed it. Gardley sang unusually well at the close, a wonderful bit from an oratorio that he and Margaret had been practising. But when toward the close of the little vesper service Margaret gave opportunity, as she often did, for others to take part in sentence prayers, one of the strangers from the back of the room stood up and began to pray. And such a prayer! Heaven seemed to bend low, and earth to kneel and beseech as the stranger-man, with a face like an archangel, and a body of an athlete clothed in a brown-flannel shirt and khakis, besought the Lord of heaven for a blessing on this gathering and on the leader of this little company who had so wonderfully led them to see the Christ and their need of salvation through the lesson of the day. And it did not need Bud's low-breathed whisper, "The missionary!" to tell Margaret who he was. His face told her. His prayer thrilled her, and his strong, young, true voice made her sure that here was a man of God in truth. When the prayer was over and Margaret stood once more shyly facing her audience, she could scarcely keep the tremble out of her voice: "Oh," said she, casting aside ceremony, "if I had known the missionary was here I should not have dared to try and lead this meeting to-day. Won't you please come up here and talk to us for a little while now, Mr. Brownleigh?" At once he came forward eagerly, as if each opportunity were a pleasure. "Why, surely, I want to speak a word to you, just to say how glad I am to see you all, and to experience what a wonderful teacher you have found since I went away; but I wouldn't have missed this meeting to-day for all the sermons I ever wrote or preached. You don't need any more sermon than the remarkable story you've just been listening to, and I've only one word to add; and that is, that I've found since I went away that Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, is just the same Jesus to me to-day that He was the last time I spoke to you. He is just as ready to forgive your sin, to comfort you in sorrow, to help you in temptation, to raise your body in the resurrection, and to take you home to a mansion in His Father's house as He was the day He hung upon the cross to save your soul from death. I've found I can rest just as securely upon the Bible as the word of God as when I first tested its promises. Heaven and earth may pass away, but His word shall _never_ pass away." "_Go to it!_" said Jasper Kemp under his breath in the tone some men say "Amen!" and his brows were drawn as if he were watching a battle. Margaret couldn't help wondering if he were thinking of the Rev. Frederick West just then. When the service was over the missionary brought his wife forward to Margaret, and they loved each other at once. Just another sweet girl like Margaret. She was lovely, with a delicacy of feature that betokened the high-born and high-bred, but dressed in a dainty khaki riding costume, if that uncompromising fabric could ever be called dainty. Margaret, remembering it afterward, wondered what it had been that gave it that unique individuality, and decided it was perhaps a combination of cut and finish and little dainty accessories. A bit of creamy lace at the throat of the rolling collar, a touch of golden-brown velvet in a golden clasp, the flash of a wonderful jewel on her finger, the modeling of the small, brown cap with its two eagle quills--all set the little woman apart and made her fit to enter any well-dressed company of riders in some great city park or fashionable drive. Yet here in the wilderness she was not overdressed. The eight men from the camp stood in solemn row, waiting to be recognized, and behind them, abashed and grinning with embarrassment, stood Pop and Mom Wallis, Mom with her new gray bonnet glorifying her old face till the missionary's wife had to look twice to be sure who she was. "And now, surely, Hazel, we must have these dear people come over and help us with the singing sometimes. Can't we try something right now?" said the missionary, looking first at his wife and then at Margaret and Gardley. "This man is a new-comer since I went away, but I'm mighty sure he is the right kind, and I'm glad to welcome him--or perhaps I would better ask if he will welcome me?" And with his rare smile the missionary put out his hand to Gardley, who took it with an eager grasp. The two men stood looking at each other for a moment, as rare men, rarely met, sometimes do even on a sinful earth; and after that clasp and that look they turned away, brothers for life. That was a most interesting song rehearsal that followed. It would be rare to find four voices like those even in a cultivated musical center, and they blended as if they had been made for one another. The men from the bunk-house and a lot of other people silently dropped again into their seats to listen as the four sang on. The missionary took the bass, and his wife the alto, and the four made music worth listening to. The rare and lovely thing about it was that they sang to souls, not alone for ears, and so their music, classical though it was and of the highest order, appealed keenly to the hearts of these rough men, and made them feel that heaven had opened for them, as once before for untaught shepherds, and let down a ladder of angelic voices. "I shall feel better about leaving you out here while I am gone, since they have come," said Gardley that night when he was bidding Margaret good night. "I couldn't bear to think there were none of your own kind about you. The others are devoted and would do for you with their lives if need be, as far as they know; but I like you to have _real friends_--real _Christian_ friends. This man is what I call a Christian. I'm not sure but he is the first minister that I have ever come close to who has impressed me as believing what he preaches, and living it. I suppose there are others. I haven't known many. That man West that was here when you came was a mistake!" "He didn't even preach much," smiled Margaret, "so how could he live it? This man is real. And there are others. Oh, I have known a lot of them that are living lives of sacrifice and loving service and are yet just as strong and happy and delightful as if they were millionaires. But they are the men who have not thrown away their Bibles and their Christ. They believe every promise in God's word, and rest on them day by day, testing them and proving them over and over. I wish you knew my father!" "I am going to," said Gardley, proudly. "_I_ am going to him just as soon as I have finished my business and straightened out my affairs; and I am going to tell him _everything_--with your permission, Margaret!" "Oh, how beautiful!" cried Margaret, with happy tears in her eyes. "To think you are going to see father and mother. I have wanted them to know the real you. I couldn't half _tell_ you, the real you, in a letter!" "Perhaps they won't look on me with your sweet blindness, dear," he said, smiling tenderly down on her. "Perhaps they will see only my dark, past life--for I mean to tell your father everything. I'm not going to have any skeletons in the closet to cause pain hereafter. Perhaps your father and mother will not feel like giving their daughter to me after they know. Remember, I realize just what a rare prize she is." "No, father is not like that, Lance," said Margaret, with her rare smile lighting up her happy eyes. "Father and mother will understand." "But if they should not?" There was the shadow of sadness in Gardley's eyes as he asked the question. "I belong to you, dear, anyway," she said, with sweet surrender. "I trust you though the whole world were against you!" For answer Gardley took her in his arms, a look of awe upon his face, and, stooping, laid his lips upon hers in tender reverence. "Margaret--you wonderful Margaret!" he said. "God has blessed me more than other men in sending you to me! With His help I will be worthy of you!" Three days more and Margaret was alone with her school work, her two missionary friends thirty miles away, her eager watching for the mail to come, her faithful attendant Bud, and for comfort the purple mountain with its changing glory in the distance. A few days before Gardley left for the East he had been offered a position by Rogers as general manager of his estate at a fine salary, and after consultation with Margaret he decided to accept it, but the question of their marriage they had left by common consent unsettled until Gardley should return and be able to offer his future wife a record made as fair and clean as human effort could make it after human mistakes had unmade it. As Margaret worked and waited, wrote her charming letters to father and mother and lover, and thought her happy thoughts with only the mountain for confidant, she did not plan for the future except in a dim and dreamy way. She would make those plans with Gardley when he returned. Probably they must wait some time before they could be married. Gardley would have to earn some money, and she must earn, too. She must keep the Ashland School for another year. It had been rather understood, when she came out, that if at all possible she would remain two years at least. It was hard to think of not going home for the summer vacation; but the trip cost a great deal and was not to be thought of. There was already a plan suggested to have a summer session of the school, and if that went through, of course she must stay right in Ashland. It was hard to think of not seeing her father and mother for another long year, but perhaps Gardley would be returning before the summer was over, and then it would not be so hard. However, she tried to put these thoughts out of her mind and do her work happily. It was incredible that Arizona should have become suddenly so blank and uninteresting since the departure of a man whom she had not known a few short months before. Margaret had long since written to her father and mother about Gardley's first finding her in the desert. The thing had become history and was not likely to alarm them. She had been in Arizona long enough to be acquainted with things, and they would not be always thinking of her as sitting on stray water-tanks in the desert; so she told them about it, for she wanted them to know Gardley as he had been to her. The letters that had traveled back and forth between New York and Arizona had been full of Gardley; and still Margaret had not told her parents how it was between them. Gardley had asked that he might do that. Yet it had been a blind father and mother who had not long ago read between the lines of those letters and understood. Margaret fancied she detected a certain sense of relief in her mother's letters after she knew that Gardley had gone East. Were they worrying about him, she wondered, or was it just the natural dread of a mother to lose her child? So Margaret settled down to school routine, and more and more made a confidant of Bud concerning little matters of the school. If it had not been for Bud at that time Margaret would have been lonely indeed. Two or three times since Gardley left, the Brownleighs had ridden over to Sunday service, and once had stopped for a few minutes during the week on their way to visit some distant need. These occasions were a delight to Margaret, for Hazel Brownleigh was a kindred spirit. She was looking forward with pleasure to the visit she was to make them at the mission station as soon as school closed. She had been there once with Gardley before he left, but the ride was too long to go often, and the only escort available was Bud. Besides, she could not get away from school and the Sunday service at present; but it was pleasant to have something to look forward to. Meantime the spring Commencement was coming on and Margaret had her hands full. She had undertaken to inaugurate a real Commencement with class day and as much form and ceremony as she could introduce in order to create a good school spirit; but such things are not done with the turn of a hand, and the young teacher sadly missed Gardley in all these preparations. At this time Rosa Rogers was Margaret's particular thorn in the flesh. Since the night that Forsythe had quit the play and ridden forth into the darkness Rosa had regarded her teacher with baleful eyes. Gardley, too, she hated, and was only waiting with smoldering wrath until her wild, ungoverned soul could take its revenge. She felt that but for those two Forsythe would still have been with her. Margaret, realizing the passionate, untaught nature of the motherless girl and her great need of a friend to guide her, made attempt after attempt to reach and befriend her; but every attempt was met with repulse and the sharp word of scorn. Rosa had been too long the petted darling of a father who was utterly blind to her faults to be other than spoiled. Her own way was the one thing that ruled her. By her will she had ruled every nurse and servant about the place, and wheedled her father into letting her do anything the whim prompted. Twice her father, through the advice of friends, had tried the experiment of sending her away to school, once to an Eastern finishing school, and once to a convent on the Pacific coast, only to have her return shortly by request of the school, more wilful than when she had gone away. And now she ruled supreme in her father's home, disliked by most of the servants save those whom she chose to favor because they could be made to serve her purposes. Her father, engrossed in his business and away much of the time, was bound up in her and saw few of her faults. It is true that when a fault of hers did come to his notice, however, he dealt with it most severely, and grieved over it in secret, for the girl was much like the mother whose loss had emptied the world of its joy for him. But Rosa knew well how to manage her father and wheedle him, and also how to hide her own doings from his knowledge. Rosa's eyes, dimples, pink cheeks, and coquettish little mouth were not idle in these days. She knew how to have every pupil at her feet and ready to obey her slightest wish. She wielded her power to its fullest extent as the summer drew near, and day after day saw a slow torture for Margaret. Some days the menacing air of insurrection fairly bristled in the room, and Margaret could not understand how some of her most devoted followers seemed to be in the forefront of battle, until one day she looked up quickly and caught the lynx-eyed glance of Rosa as she turned from smiling at the boys in the back seat. Then she understood. Rosa had cast her spell upon the boys, and they were acting under it and not of their own clear judgment. It was the world-old battle of sex, of woman against woman for the winning of the man to do her will. Margaret, using all the charm of her lovely personality to uphold standards of right, truth, purity, high living, and earnest thinking; Rosa striving with her impish beauty to lure them into _any_ mischief so it foiled the other's purposes. And one day Margaret faced the girl alone, looking steadily into her eyes with sad, searching gaze, and almost a yearning to try to lead the pretty child to finer things. "Rosa, why do you always act as if I were your enemy?" she said, sadly. "Because you are!" said Rosa, with a toss of her independent head. "Indeed I'm not, dear child," she said, putting out her hand to lay it on the girl's shoulder kindly. "I want to be your friend." "I'm not a child!" snapped Rosa, jerking her shoulder angrily away; "and you can _never_ be my friend, because I _hate_ you!" "Rosa, look here!" said Margaret, following the girl toward the door, the color rising in her cheeks and a desire growing in her heart to conquer this poor, passionate creature and win her for better things. "Rosa, I cannot have you say such things. Tell me why you hate me? What have I done that you should feel that way? I'm sure if we should talk it over we might come to some better understanding." Rosa stood defiant in the doorway. "We could never come to any better understanding, Miss Earle," she declared in a cold, hard tone, "because I understand you now and I hate you. You tried your best to get my friend away from me, but you couldn't do it; and you would like to keep me from having any boy friends at all, but you can't do that, either. You think you are very popular, but you'll find out I always do what I like, and you needn't try to stop me. I don't have to come to school unless I choose, and as long as I don't break your rules you have no complaint coming; but you needn't think you can pull the wool over my eyes the way you do the others by pretending to be friends. I won't be friends! I hate you!" And Rosa turned grandly and marched out of the school-house. Margaret stood gazing sadly after her and wondering if her failure here were her fault--if there was anything else she ought to have done--if she had let her personal dislike of the girl influence her conduct. She sat for some time at her desk, her chin in her hands, her eyes fixed on vacancy with a hopeless, discouraged expression in them, before she became aware of another presence in the room. Looking around quickly, she saw that Bud was sitting motionless at his desk, his forehead wrinkled in a fierce frown, his jaw set belligerently, and a look of such, unutterable pity and devotion in his eyes that her heart warmed to him at once and a smile of comradeship broke over her face. "Oh, William! Were you here? Did you hear all that? What do you suppose is the matter? Where have I failed?" "You 'ain't failed anywhere! You should worry 'bout her! She's a nut! If she was a boy I'd punch her head for her! But seeing she's only a girl, _you should worry_! She always was the limit!" Bud's tone was forcible. He was the only one of all the boys who never yielded to Rosa's charms, but sat in glowering silence when she exercised her powers on the school and created pandemonium for the teacher. Bud's attitude was comforting. It had a touch of manliness and gentleness about it quite unwonted for him. It suggested beautiful possibilities for the future of his character, and Margaret smiled tenderly. "Thank you, dear boy!" she said, gently. "You certainly are a comfort. If every one was as splendid as you are we should have a model school. But I do wish I could help Rosa. I can't see why she should hate me so! I must have made some big mistake with her in the first place to antagonize her." "Naw!" said Bud, roughly. "No chance! She's just a _nut_, that's all. She's got a case on that Forsythe guy, the worst kind, and she's afraid somebody 'll get him away from her, the poor stew, as if anybody would get a case on a tough guy like that! Gee! You should worry! Come on, let's take a ride over t' camp!" With a sigh and a smile Margaret accepted Bud's consolations and went on her way, trying to find some manner of showing Rosa what a real friend she was willing to be. But Rosa continued obdurate and hateful, regarding her teacher with haughty indifference except when she was called upon to recite, which she did sometimes with scornful condescension, sometimes with pert perfection, and sometimes with saucy humor which convulsed the whole room. Margaret's patience was almost ceasing to be a virtue, and she meditated often whether she ought not to request that the girl be withdrawn from the school. Yet she reflected that it was a very short time now until Commencement, and that Rosa had not openly defied any rules. It was merely a personal antagonism. Then, too, if Rosa were taken from the school there was really no other good influence in the girl's life at present. Day by day Margaret prayed about the matter and hoped that something would develop to make plain her way. After much thought in the matter she decided to go on with her plans, letting Rosa have her place in the Commencement program and her part in the class-day doings as if nothing were the matter. Certainly there was nothing laid down in the rules of a public school that proscribed a scholar who did not love her teacher. Why should the fact that one had incurred the hate of a pupil unfit that pupil for her place in her class so long as she did her duties? And Rosa did hers promptly and deftly, with a certain piquant originality that Margaret could not help but admire. Sometimes, as the teacher cast a furtive look at the pretty girl working away at her desk, she wondered what was going on behind the lovely mask. But the look in Rosa's eyes, when she raised them, was both deep and sly. Rosa's hatred was indeed deep rooted. Whatever heart she had not frivoled away in wilfulness had been caught and won by Forsythe, the first grown man who had ever dared to make real love to her. Her jealousy of Margaret was the most intense thing that had ever come into her life. To think of him looking at Margaret, talking to Margaret, smiling at Margaret, walking or riding with Margaret, was enough to send her writhing upon her bed in the darkness of a wakeful night. She would clench her pretty hands until the nails dug into the flesh and brought the blood. She would bite the pillow or the blankets with an almost fiendish clenching of her teeth upon them and mutter, as she did so: "I hate her! I _hate_ her! I could _kill_ her!" The day her first letter came from Forsythe, Rosa held her head high and went about the school as if she were a princess royal and Margaret were the dust under her feet. Triumph sat upon her like a crown and looked forth regally from her eyes. She laid her hand upon her heart and felt the crackle of his letter inside her blouse. She dreamed with her eyes upon the distant mountain and thought of the tender names he had called her: "Little wild Rose of his heart," "No rose in all the world until you came," and a lot of other meaningful sentences. A real love-letter all her own! No sharing him with any hateful teachers! He had implied in her letter that she was the only one of all the people in that region to whom he cared to write. He had said he was coming back some day to get her. Her young, wild heart throbbed exultantly, and her eyes looked forth their triumph malignantly. When he did come she would take care that he stayed close by her. No conceited teacher from the East should lure him from her side. She would prepare her guiles and smile her sweetest. She would wear fine garments from abroad, and show him she could far outshine that quiet, common Miss Earle, with all her airs. Yet to this end she studied hard. It was no part of her plan to be left behind at graduating-time. She would please her father by taking a prominent part in things and outdoing all the others. Then he would give her what she liked--jewels and silk dresses, and all the things a girl should have who had won a lover like hers. The last busy days before Commencement were especially trying for Margaret. It seemed as if the children were possessed with the very spirit of mischief, and she could not help but see that it was Rosa who, sitting demurely in her desk, was the center of it all. Only Bud's steady, frowning countenance of all that rollicking, roistering crowd kept loyalty with the really beloved teacher. For, indeed, they loved her, every one but Rosa, and would have stood by her to a man and girl when it really came to the pinch, but in a matter like a little bit of fun in these last few days of school, and when challenged to it by the school beauty who did not usually condescend to any but a few of the older boys, where was the harm? They were so flattered by Rosa's smiles that they failed to see Margaret's worn, weary wistfulness. Bud, coming into the school-house late one afternoon in search of her after the other scholars had gone, found Margaret with her head down upon the desk and her shoulders shaken with soundless sobs. He stood for a second silent in the doorway, gazing helplessly at her grief, then with the delicacy of one boy for another he slipped back outside the door and stood in the shadow, grinding his teeth. "Gee!" he said, under his breath. "Oh, gee! I'd like to punch her fool head. I don't care if she is a girl! She needs it. Gee! if she was a boy wouldn't I settle her, the little darned mean sneak!" His remarks, it is needless to say, did not have reference to his beloved teacher. It was in the atmosphere everywhere that something was bound to happen if this strain kept up. Margaret knew it and felt utterly inadequate to meet it. Rosa knew it and was awaiting her opportunity. Bud knew it and could only stand and watch where the blow was to strike first and be ready to ward it off. In these days he wished fervently for Gardley's return. He did not know just what Gardley could do about "that little fool," as he called Rosa, but it would be a relief to be able to tell some one all about it. If he only dared leave he would go over and tell Jasper Kemp about it, just to share his burden with somebody. But as it was he must stick to the job for the present and bear his great responsibility, and so the days hastened by to the last Sunday before Commencement, which was to be on Monday. CHAPTER XXVII Margaret had spent Saturday in rehearsals, so that there had been no rest for her. Sunday morning she slept late, and awoke from a troubled dream, unrested. She almost meditated whether she would not ask some one to read a sermon at the afternoon service and let her go on sleeping. Then a memory of the lonely old woman at the camp, and the men, who came so regularly to the service, roused her to effort once more, and she arose and tried to prepare a little something for them. She came into the school-house at the hour, looking fagged, with dark circles under her eyes; and the loving eyes of Mom Wallis already in her front seat watched her keenly. "It's time for _him_ to come back," she said, in her heart. "She's gettin' peeked! I wisht he'd come!" Margaret had hoped that Rosa would not come. The girl was not always there, but of late she had been quite regular, coming in late with her father just a little after the story had begun, and attracting attention by her smiles and bows and giggling whispers, which sometimes were so audible as to create quite a diversion from the speaker. But Rosa came in early to-day and took a seat directly in front of Margaret, in about the middle of the house, fixing her eyes on her teacher with a kind of settled intention that made Margaret shrink as if from a danger she was not able to meet. There was something bright and hard and daring in Rosa's eyes as she stared unwinkingly, as if she had come to search out a weak spot for her evil purposes, and Margaret was so tired she wanted to lay her head down on her desk and cry. She drew some comfort from the reflection that if she should do so childish a thing she would be at once surrounded by a strong battalion of friends from the camp, who would shield her with their lives if necessary. It was silly, of course, and she must control this choking in her throat, only how was she ever going to talk, with Rosa looking at her that way? It was like a nightmare pursuing her. She turned to the piano and kept them all singing for a while, so that she might pray in her heart and grow calm; and when, after her brief, earnest prayer, she lifted her eyes to the audience, she saw with intense relief that the Brownleighs were in the audience. She started a hymn that they all knew, and when they were well in the midst of the first verse she slipped from the piano-stool and walked swiftly down the aisle to Brownleigh's side. "Would you please talk to them a little while?" she pleaded, wistfully. "I am so tired I feel as if I just couldn't, to-day." Instantly Brownleigh followed her back to the desk and took her place, pulling out his little, worn Bible and opening it with familiar fingers to a beloved passage: "'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'" The words fell on Margaret's tired heart like balm, and she rested her head back against the wall and closed her eyes to listen. Sitting so away from Rosa's stare, she could forget for a while the absurd burdens that had got on her nerves, and could rest down hard upon her Saviour. Every word that the man of God spoke seemed meant just for her, and brought strength, courage, and new trust to her heart. She forgot the little crowd of other listeners and took the message to herself, drinking it in eagerly as one who has been a long time ministering accepts a much-needed ministry. When she moved to the piano again for the closing hymn she felt new strength within her to bear the trials of the week that were before her. She turned, smiling and brave, to speak to those who always crowded around to shake hands and have a word before leaving. Hazel, putting a loving arm around her as soon as she could get up to the front, began to speak soothingly: "You poor, tired child!" she said; "you are almost worn to a frazzle. You need a big change, and I'm going to plan it for you just as soon as I possibly can. How would you like to go with us on our trip among the Indians? Wouldn't it be great? It'll be several days, depending on how far we go, but John wants to visit the Hopi reservation, if possible, and it'll be so interesting. They are a most strange people. We'll have a delightful trip, sleeping out under the stars, you know. Don't you just love it? I do. I wouldn't miss it for the world. I can't be sure, for a few days yet, when we can go, for John has to make a journey in the other direction first, and he isn't sure when he can return; but it might be this week. How soon can you come to us? How I wish we could take you right home with us to-night. You need to get away and rest. But your Commencement is to-morrow, isn't it? I'm so sorry we can't be here, but this other matter is important, and John has to go early in the morning. Some one very sick who wants to see him before he dies--an old Indian who didn't know a thing about Jesus till John found him one day. I suppose you haven't anybody who could bring you over to us after your work is done here to-morrow night or Tuesday, have you? Well, we'll see if we can't find some one to send for you soon. There's an old Indian who often comes this way, but he's away buying cattle. Maybe John can think of a way we could send for you early in the week. Then you would be ready to go with us on the trip. You would like to go, wouldn't you?" "Oh, so much!" said Margaret, with a sigh of wistfulness. "I can't think of anything pleasanter!" Margaret turned suddenly, and there, just behind her, almost touching her, stood Rosa, that strange, baleful gleam in her eyes like a serpent who was biding her time, drawing nearer and nearer, knowing she had her victim where she could not move before she struck. It was a strange fancy, of course, and one that was caused by sick nerves, but Margaret drew back and almost cried out, as if for some one to protect her. Then her strong common sense came to the rescue and she rallied and smiled at Rosa a faint little sorry smile. It was hard to smile at the bright, baleful face with the menace in the eyes. Hazel was watching her. "You poor child! You're quite worn out! I'm afraid you're going to be sick." "Oh no," said Margaret, trying to speak cheerfully; "things have just got on my nerves, that's all. It's been a particularly trying time. I shall be all right when to-morrow night is over." "Well, we're going to send for you very soon, so be ready!" and Hazel followed her husband, waving her hand in gay parting. Rosa was still standing just behind her when Margaret turned back to her desk, and the younger girl gave her one last dagger look, a glitter in her eyes so sinister and vindictive that Margaret felt a shudder run through her whole body, and was glad that just then Rosa's father called to her that they must be starting home. Only one more day now of Rosa, and she would be done with her, perhaps forever. The girl was through the school course and was graduating. It was not likely she would return another year. Her opportunity was over to help her. She had failed. Why, she couldn't tell, but she had strangely failed, and all she asked now was not to have to endure the hard, cold, young presence any longer. "Sick nerves, Margaret!" she said to herself. "Go home and go to bed. You'll be all right to-morrow!" And she locked the school-house door and walked quietly home with the faithful Bud. The past month had been a trying time also for Rosa. Young, wild, and motherless, passionate, wilful and impetuous, she was finding life tremendously exciting just now. With no one to restrain her or warn her she was playing with forces that she did not understand. She had subjugated easily all the boys in school, keeping them exactly where she wanted them for her purpose, and using methods that would have done credit to a woman of the world. But by far the greatest force in her life was her infatuation for Forsythe. The letters had traveled back and forth many times between them since Forsythe wrote that first love-letter. He found a whimsical pleasure in her deep devotion and naïve readiness to follow as far as he cared to lead her. He realized that, young as she was, she was no innocent, which made the acquaintance all the more interesting. He, meantime, idled away a few months on the Pacific coast, making mild love to a rich California girl and considering whether or not he was ready yet to settle down. In the mean time his correspondence with Rosa took on such a nature that his volatile, impulsive nature was stirred with a desire to see her again. It was not often that once out of sight he looked back to a victim, but Rosa had shown a daring and a spirit in her letters that sent a challenge to his sated senses. Moreover, the California heiress was going on a journey; besides, an old enemy of his who knew altogether too much of his past had appeared on the scene; and as Gardley had been removed from the Ashland vicinity for a time, Forsythe felt it might be safe to venture back again. There was always that pretty, spirited little teacher if Rosa failed to charm. But why should Rosa not charm? And why should he not yield? Rosa's father was a good sort and had all kinds of property. Rosa was her father's only heir. On the whole, Forsythe decided that the best move he could make next would be to return to Arizona. If things turned out well he might even think of marrying Rosa. This was somewhat the train of thought that led Forsythe at last to write to Rosa that he was coming, throwing Rosa into a panic of joy and alarm. For Rosa's father had been most explicit about her ever going out with Forsythe again. It had been the most relentless command he had ever laid upon her, spoken in a tone she hardly ever disobeyed. Moreover, Rosa was fearfully jealous of Margaret. If Forsythe should come and begin to hang around the teacher Rosa felt she would go wild, or do something terrible, perhaps even kill somebody. She shut her sharp little white teeth fiercely down into her red under lip and vowed with flashing eyes that he should never see Margaret again if power of hers could prevent it. The letter from Forsythe had reached her on Saturday evening, and she had come to the Sunday service with the distinct idea of trying to plan how she might get rid of Margaret. It would be hard enough to evade her father's vigilance if he once found out the young man had returned; but to have him begin to go and see Margaret again was a thing she could not and would not stand. The idea obsessed her to the exclusion of all others, and made her watch her teacher as if by her very concentration of thought upon her some way out of the difficulty might be evolved; as if Margaret herself might give forth a hint of weakness somewhere that would show her how to plan. To that intent she had come close in the group with the others around the teacher at the close of meeting, and, so standing, had overheard all that the Brownleighs had said. The lightning flash of triumph that she cast at Margaret as she left the school-house was her own signal that she had found a way at last. Her opportunity had come, and just in time. Forsythe was to arrive in Arizona some time on Tuesday, and wanted Rosa to meet him at one of their old trysting-places, out some distance from her father's house. He knew that school would just be over, for she had written him about Commencement, and so he understood that she would be free. But he did not know that the place he had selected to meet her was on one of Margaret's favorite trails where she and Bud often rode in the late afternoons, and that above all things Rosa wished to avoid any danger of meeting her teacher; for she not only feared that Forsythe's attention would be drawn away from her, but also that Margaret might feel it her duty to report to her father about her clandestine meeting. Rosa's heart beat high as she rode demurely home with her father, answering his pleasantries with smiles and dimples and a coaxing word, just as he loved to have her. But she was not thinking of her father, though she kept well her mask of interest in what he had to say. She was trying to plan how she might use what she had heard to get rid of Margaret Earle. If only Mrs. Brownleigh would do as she had hinted and send some one Tuesday morning to escort Miss Earle over to her home, all would be clear sailing for Rosa; but she dared not trust to such a possibility. There were not many escorts coming their way from Ganado, and Rosa happened to know that the old Indian who frequently escorted parties was off in another direction. She could not rest on any such hope. When she reached home she went at once to her room and sat beside her window, gazing off at the purple mountains in deep thought. Then she lighted a candle and went in search of a certain little Testament, long since neglected and covered with dust. She found it at last on the top of a pile of books in a dark closet, and dragged it forth, eagerly turning the pages. Yes, there it was, and in it a small envelope directed to "Miss Rosa Rogers" in a fine angular handwriting. The letter was from the missionary's wife to the little girl who had recited her texts so beautifully as to earn the Testament. Rosa carried it to her desk, secured a good light, and sat down to read it over carefully. No thought of her innocent childish exultation over that letter came to her now. She was intent on one thing--the handwriting. Could she seize the secret of it and reproduce it? She had before often done so with great success. She could imitate Miss Earle's writing so perfectly that she often took an impish pleasure in changing words in the questions on the blackboard and making them read absurdly for the benefit of the school. It was such good sport to see the amazement on Margaret's face when her attention would be called to it by a hilarious class, and to watch her troubled brow when she read what she supposed she had written. When Rosa was but a little child she used to boast that she could write her father's name in perfect imitation of his signature; and often signed some trifling receipt for him just for amusement. A dangerous gift in the hands of a conscienceless girl! Yet this was the first time that Rosa had really planned to use her art in any serious way. Perhaps it never occurred to her that she was doing wrong. At present her heart was too full of hate and fear and jealous love to care for right or wrong or anything else. It is doubtful if she would have hesitated a second even if the thing she was planning had suddenly appeared to her in the light of a great crime. She seemed sometimes almost like a creature without moral sense, so swayed was she by her own desires and feelings. She was blind now to everything but her great desire to get Margaret out of the way and have Forsythe to herself. Long after her father and the servants were asleep Rosa's light burned while she bent over her desk, writing. Page after page she covered with careful copies of Mrs. Brownleigh's letter written to herself almost three years before. Finally she wrote out the alphabet, bit by bit as she picked it from the words, learning just how each letter was habitually formed, the small letters and the capitals, with the peculiarities of connection and ending. At last, when she lay down to rest, she felt herself capable of writing a pretty fair letter in Mrs. Brownleigh's handwriting. The next thing was to make her plan and compose her letter. She lay staring into the darkness and trying to think just what she could do. In the first place, she settled it that Margaret must be gotten to Walpi at least. It would not do to send her to Ganado, where the mission station was, for that was a comparatively short journey, and she could easily go in a day. When the fraud was discovered, as of course it would be when Mrs. Brownleigh heard of it, Margaret would perhaps return to find out who had done it. No, she must be sent all the way to Walpi if possible. That would take at least two nights and the most of two days to get there. Forsythe had said his stay was to be short. By the time Margaret got back from Walpi Forsythe would be gone. But how manage to get her to Walpi without her suspicions being aroused? She might word the note so that Margaret would be told to come half-way, expecting to meet the missionaries, say at Keams. There was a trail straight up from Ashland to Keams, cutting off quite a distance and leaving Ganado off at the right. Keams was nearly forty miles west of Ganado. That would do nicely. Then if she could manage to have another note left at Keams, saying they could not wait and had gone on, Margaret would suspect nothing and go all the way to Walpi. That would be fine and would give the school-teacher an interesting experience which wouldn't hurt her in the least. Rosa thought it might be rather interesting than otherwise. She had no compunctions whatever about how Margaret might feel when she arrived in that strange Indian town and found no friends awaiting her. Her only worry was where she was to find a suitable escort, for she felt assured that Margaret would not start out alone with one man servant on an expedition that would keep her out overnight. And where in all that region could she find a woman whom she could trust to send on the errand? It almost looked as though the thing were an impossibility. She lay tossing and puzzling over it till gray dawn stole into the room. She mentally reviewed every servant on the place on whom she could rely to do her bidding and keep her secret, but there was some reason why each one would not do. She scanned the country, even considering old Ouida, who had been living in a shack over beyond the fort ever since her cabin had been raided; but old Ouida was too notorious. Mrs. Tanner would keep Margaret from going with her, even if Margaret herself did not know the old woman's reputation. Rosa considered if there were any way of wheedling Mom Wallis into the affair, and gave that up, remembering the suspicious little twinkling eyes of Jasper Kemp. At last she fell asleep, with her plan still unformed but her determination to carry it through just as strong as ever. If worst came to worst she would send the half-breed cook from the ranch kitchen and put something in the note about his expecting to meet his sister an hour's ride out on the trail. The half-breed would do anything in the world for money, and Rosa had no trouble in getting all she wanted of that commodity. But the half-breed was an evil-looking fellow, and she feared lest Margaret would not like to go with him. However, he should be a last resort. She would not be balked in her purpose. CHAPTER XXVIII Rosa awoke very early, for her sleep had been light and troubled. She dressed hastily and sat down to compose a note which could be altered slightly in case she found some one better than the half-breed; but before she was half through the phrasing she heard a slight disturbance below her window and a muttering in guttural tones from a strange voice. Glancing hastily out, she saw some Indians below, talking with one of the men, who was shaking his head and motioning to them that they must go on, that this was no place for them to stop. The Indian motioned to his squaw, sitting on a dilapidated little moth-eaten burro with a small papoose in her arms and looking both dirty and miserable. He muttered as though he were pleading for something. We believe that God's angels follow the feet of little children and needy ones to protect them; does the devil also send his angels to lead unwary ones astray, and to protect the plan's of the erring ones? If so then he must have sent these Indians that morning to further Rosa's plans, and instantly she recognized her opportunity. She leaned out of her window and spoke in a clear, reproving voice: "James, what does he want? Breakfast? You know father wouldn't want any hungry person to be turned away. Let them sit down on the bench there and tell Dorset I said to give them a good hot breakfast, and get some milk for the baby. Be quick about it, too!" James started and frowned at the clear, commanding voice. The squaw turned grateful animal eyes up to the little beauty in the window, muttering some inarticulate thanks, while the stolid Indian's eyes glittered hopefully, though the muscles of his mask-like countenance changed not an atom. Rosa smiled radiantly and ran down to see that her orders were obeyed. She tried to talk a little with the squaw, but found she understood very little English. The Indian spoke better and gave her their brief story. They were on their way to the Navajo reservation to the far north. They had been unfortunate enough to lose their last scanty provisions by prowling coyotes during the night, and were in need of food. Rosa gave them a place to sit down and a plentiful breakfast, and ordered that a small store of provisions should be prepared for their journey after they had rested. Then she hurried up to her room to finish her letter. She had her plan well fixed now. These strangers should be her willing messengers. Now and then, as she wrote she lifted her head and gazed out of the window, where she could see the squaw busy with her little one, and her eyes fairly glittered with satisfaction. Nothing could have been better planned than this. She wrote her note carefully: DEAR MARGARET [she had heard Hazel call Margaret by her first name, and rightly judged that their new friendship was already strong enough to justify this intimacy],--I have found just the opportunity I wanted for you to come to us. These Indians are thoroughly trustworthy and are coming in just the direction to bring you to a point where we will meet you. We have decided to go on to Walpi at once, and will probably meet you near Keams, or a little farther on. The Indian knows the way, and you need not be afraid. I trust him perfectly. Start at once, please, so that you will meet us in time. John has to go on as fast as possible. I know you will enjoy the trip, and am so glad you are coming. Lovingly, HAZEL RADCLIFFE BROWNLEIGH. Rosa read it over, comparing it carefully with the little yellow note from her Testament, and decided that it was a very good imitation. She could almost hear Mrs. Brownleigh saying what she had written. Rosa really was quite clever. She had done it well. She hastily sealed and addressed her letter, and then hurried down to talk with the Indians again. The place she had ordered for them to rest was at some distance from the kitchen door, a sort of outshed for the shelter of certain implements used about the ranch. A long bench ran in front of it, and a big tree made a goodly shade. The Indians had found their temporary camp quite inviting. Rosa made a detour of the shed, satisfied herself that no one was within hearing, and then sat down on the bench, ostensibly playing with the papoose, dangling a red ball on a ribbon before his dazzled, bead-like eyes and bringing forth a gurgle of delight from the dusky little mummy. While she played she talked idly with the Indians. Had they money enough for their journey? Would they like to earn some? Would they act as guide to a lady who wanted to go to Walpi? At least she wanted to go as far as Keams, where she might meet friends, missionaries, who were going on with her to Walpi to visit the Indians. If they didn't meet her she wanted to be guided all the way to Walpi? Would they undertake it? It would pay them well. They would get money enough for their journey and have some left when they got to the reservation. And Rosa displayed two gold pieces temptingly in her small palms. The Indian uttered a guttural sort of gasp at sight of so much money, and sat upright. He gasped again, indicating by a solemn nod that he was agreeable to the task before him, and the girl went gaily on with her instructions: "You will have to take some things along to make the lady comfortable. I will see that those are got ready. Then you can have the things for your own when you leave the lady at Walpi. You will have to take a letter to the lady and tell her you are going this afternoon, and she must be ready to start at once or she will not meet the missionary. Tell her you can only wait until three o'clock to start. You will find the lady at the school-house at noon. You must not come till noon--" Rosa pointed to the sun and then straight overhead. The Indian watched her keenly and nodded. "You must ask for Miss Earle and give her this letter. She is the school-teacher." The Indian grunted and looked at the white missive in Rosa's hand, noting once more the gleam of the gold pieces. "You must wait till the teacher goes to her boarding-house and packs her things and eats her dinner. If anybody asks where you came from you must say the missionary's wife from Ganado sent you. Don't tell anybody anything else. Do you understand? More money if you don't say anything?" Rosa clinked the gold pieces softly. The strange, sphinx-like gaze of the Indian narrowed comprehensively. He understood. His native cunning was being bought for this girl's own purposes. He looked greedily at the money. Rosa had put her hand in her pocket and brought out yet another gold piece. "See! I give you this one now"--she laid one gold piece in the Indian's hand--"and these two I put in an envelope and pack with some provisions and blankets on another horse. I will leave the horse tied to a tree up where the big trail crosses this big trail out that way. You know?" Rosa pointed in the direction she meant, and the Indian looked and grunted, his eyes returning to the two gold pieces in her hand. It was a great deal of money for the little lady to give. Was she trying to cheat him? He looked down at the gold he already held. It was good money. He was sure of that. He looked at her keenly. "I shall be watching and I shall know whether you have the lady or not," went on the girl, sharply. "If you do not bring the lady with you there will be no money and no provisions waiting for you. But if you bring the lady you can untie the horse and take him with you. You will need the horse to carry the things. When you get to Walpi you can set him free. He is branded and he will likely come back. We shall find him. See, I will put the gold pieces in this tin can." She picked up a sardine-tin that lay at her feet, slipped the gold pieces in an envelope from her pocket, stuffed it in the tin, bent down the cover, and held it up. "This can will be packed on the top of the other provisions, and you can open it and take the money out when you untie the horse. Then hurry on as fast as you can and get as far along the trail as possible to-night before you camp. Do you understand?" The Indian nodded once more, and Rosa felt that she had a confederate worthy of her need. She stayed a few minutes more, going carefully over her directions, telling the Indian to be sure his squaw was kind to the lady, and that on no account he should let the lady get uneasy or have cause to complain of her treatment, or trouble would surely come to him. At last she felt sure she had made him understand, and she hurried away to slip into her pretty white dress and rose-colored ribbons and ride to school. Before she left her room she glanced out of the window at the Indians, and saw them sitting motionless, like a group of bronze. Once the Indian stirred and, putting his hand in his bosom, drew forth the white letter she had given him, gazed at it a moment, and hid it in his breast again. She nodded her satisfaction as she turned from the window. The next thing was to get to school and play her own part in the Commencement exercises. The morning was bright, and the school-house was already filled to overflowing when Rosa arrived. Her coming, as always, made a little stir among admiring groups, for even those who feared her admired her from afar. She fluttered into the school-house and up the aisle with the air of a princess who knew she had been waited for and was condescending to come at all. Rosa was in everything--the drills, the march, the choruses, and the crowning oration. She went through it all with the perfection of a bright mind and an adaptable nature. One would never have dreamed, to look at her pretty dimpling face and her sparkling eyes, what diabolical things were moving in her mind, nor how those eyes, lynx-soft with lurking sweetness and treachery, were watching all the time furtively for the appearance of the old Indian. At last she saw him, standing in a group just outside the window near the platform, his tall form and stern countenance marking him among the crowd of familiar faces. She was receiving her diploma from the hand of Margaret when she caught his eye, and her hand trembled just a quiver as she took the dainty roll tied with blue and white ribbons. That he recognized her she was sure; that he knew she did not wish him to make known his connection with her she felt equally convinced he understood. His eye had that comprehending look of withdrawal. She did not look up directly at him again. Her eyes were daintily downward. Nevertheless, she missed not a turn of his head, not a glance from that stern eye, and she knew the moment when he stood at the front door of the school-house with the letter in his hand, stolid and indifferent, yet a great force to be reckoned with. Some one looked at the letter, pointed to Margaret, called her, and she came. Rosa was not far away all the time, talking with Jed; her eyes downcast, her cheeks dimpling, missing nothing that could be heard or seen. Margaret read the letter. Rosa watched her, knew every curve of every letter and syllable as she read, held her breath, and watched Margaret's expression. Did she suspect? No. A look of intense relief and pleasure had come into her eyes. She was glad to have found a way to go. She turned to Mrs. Tanner. "What do you think of this, Mrs. Tanner? I'm to go with Mrs. Brownleigh on a trip to Walpi. Isn't that delicious? I'm to start at once. Do you suppose I could have a bite to eat? I won't need much. I'm too tired to eat and too anxious to be off. If you give me a cup of tea and a sandwich I'll be all right. I've got things about ready to go, for Mrs. Brownleigh told me she would send some one for me." "H'm!" said Mrs. Tanner, disapprovingly. "Who you goin' with? Just _him_? I don't much like _his_ looks!" She spoke in a low tone so the Indian would not hear, and it was almost in Rosa's very ear, who stood just behind. Rosa's heart stopped a beat and she frowned at the toe of her slipper. Was this common little Tanner woman going to be the one to balk her plans? Margaret raised her head now for her first good look at the Indian, and it must be admitted a chill came into her heart. Then, as if he comprehended what was at stake, the Indian turned slightly and pointed down the path toward the road. By common consent the few who were standing about the door stepped back and made a vista for Margaret to see the squaw sitting statue-like on her scraggy little pony, gazing off at the mountain in the distance, as if she were sitting for her picture, her solemn little papoose strapped to her back. Margaret's troubled eyes cleared. The family aspect made things all right again. "You see, he has his wife and child," she said. "It's all right. Mrs. Brownleigh says she trusts him perfectly, and I'm to meet them on the way. Read the letter." She thrust the letter into Mrs. Tanner's hand, and Rosa trembled for her scheme once more. Surely, surely Mrs. Tanner would not be able to detect the forgery! "H'm! Well, I s'pose it's all right if she says so, but I'm sure I don't relish them pesky Injuns, and I don't think that squaw wife of his looks any great shakes, either. They look to me like they needed a good scrub with Bristol brick. But then, if you're set on going, you'll go, 'course. I jest wish Bud hadn't 'a' gone home with that Jasper Kemp. He might 'a' gone along, an' then you'd 'a' had somebody to speak English to." "Yes, it would have been nice to have William along," said Margaret; "but I think I'll be all right. Mrs. Brownleigh wouldn't send anybody that wasn't nice." "H'm! I dun'no'! She's an awful crank. She just loves them Injuns, they say. But I, fer one, draw the line at holdin' 'em in my lap. I don't b'lieve in mixin' folks up that way. Preach to 'em if you like, but let 'em keep their distance, I say." Margaret laughed and went off to pick up her things. Rosa stood smiling and talking to Jed until she saw Margaret and Mrs. Tanner go off together, the Indians riding slowly along behind. Rosa waited until the Indians had turned off the road down toward the Tanners', and then she mounted her own pony and rode swiftly home. She rushed up to her room and took off her fine apparel, arraying herself quickly in a plain little gown, and went down to prepare the provisions. There was none too much time, and she must work rapidly. It was well for her plans that she was all-powerful with the servants and could send them about at will to get them out of her way. She invented a duty for each now that would take them for a few minutes well out of sight and sound; then she hurried together the provisions in a basket, making two trips to get them to the shelter where she had told the Indian he would find the horse tied. She had to make a third trip to bring the blankets and a few other things she knew would be indispensable, but the whole outfit was really but carelessly gotten together, and it was just by chance that some things got in at all. It was not difficult to find the old cayuse she intended using for a pack-horse. He was browsing around in the corral, and she soon had a halter over his head, for she had been quite used to horses from her babyhood. She packed the canned things, tinned meats, vegetables, and fruit into a couple of large sacks, adding some fodder for the horses, a box of matches, some corn bread, of which there was always plenty on hand in the house, some salt pork, and a few tin dishes. These she slung pack fashion over the old horse, fastened the sardine-tin containing the gold pieces where it would be easily found, tied the horse to a tree, and retired behind a shelter of sage-brush to watch. It was not long before the little caravan came, the Indians riding ahead single file, like two graven images, moving not a muscle of their faces, and Margaret a little way behind on her own pony, her face as happy and relieved as if she were a child let out from a hard task to play. The Indian stopped beside the horse, a glitter of satisfaction in his eyes as he saw that the little lady had fulfilled her part of the bargain. He indicated to the squaw and the lady that they might move on down the trail, and he would catch up with them; and then dismounted, pouncing warily upon the sardine-tin at once. He looked furtively about, then took out the money and tested it with his teeth to make sure it was genuine. He grunted his further satisfaction, looked over the pack-horse, made more secure the fastenings of the load, and, taking the halter, mounted and rode stolidly away toward the north. Rosa waited in her covert until they were far out of sight, then made her way hurriedly back to the house and climbed to a window where she could watch the trail for several miles. There, with a field-glass, she kept watch until the procession had filed across the plains, down into a valley, up over a hill, and dropped to a farther valley out of sight. She looked at the sun and drew a breath of satisfaction. She had done it at last! She had got Margaret away before Forsythe came! There was no likelihood that the fraud would be discovered until her rival was far enough away to be safe. A kind of reaction came upon Rosa's overwrought nerves. She laughed out harshly, and her voice had a cruel ring to it. Then she threw herself upon the bed and burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and so, by and by, fell asleep. She dreamed that Margaret had returned like a shining, fiery angel, a two-edged sword in her hand and all the Wallis camp at her heels, with vengeance in their wake. That hateful little boy, Bud Tanner, danced around and made faces at her, while Forsythe had forgotten her to gaze at Margaret's face. CHAPTER XXIX To Margaret the day was very fair, and the omens all auspicious. She carried with her close to her heart two precious letters received that morning and scarcely glanced at as yet, one from Gardley and one from her mother. She had had only time to open them and be sure that all was well with her dear ones, and had left the rest to read on the way. She was dressed in the khaki riding-habit she always wore when she went on horseback; and in the bag strapped on behind she carried a couple of fresh white blouses, a thin, white dress, a little soft dark silk gown that folded away almost into a cobweb, and a few other necessities. She had also slipped in a new book her mother had sent her, into which she had had as yet no time to look, and her chessmen and board, besides writing materials. She prided herself on having got so many necessaries into so small a compass. She would need the extra clothing if she stayed at Ganado with the missionaries for a week on her return from the trip, and the book and chessmen would amuse them all by the way. She had heard Brownleigh say he loved to play chess. Margaret rode on the familiar trail, and for the first hour just let herself be glad that school was over and she could rest and have no responsibility. The sun shimmered down brilliantly on the white, hot sand and gray-green of the greasewood and sage-brush. Tall spikes of cactus like lonely spires shot up now and again to vary the scene. It was all familiar ground to Margaret around here, for she had taken many rides with Gardley and Bud, and for the first part of the way every turn and bit of view was fraught with pleasant memories that brought a smile to her eyes as she recalled some quotation of Gardley's or some prank of Bud's. Here was where they first sighted the little cottontail the day she took her initial ride on her own pony. Off there was the mountain where they saw the sun drawing silver water above a frowning storm. Yonder was the group of cedars where they had stopped to eat their lunch once, and this water-hole they were approaching was the one where Gardley had given her a drink from his hat. She was almost glad that Bud was not along, for she was too tired to talk and liked to be alone with her thoughts for this few minutes. Poor Bud! He would be disappointed when he got back to find her gone, but then he had expected she was going in a few days, anyway, and she had promised to take long rides with him when she returned. She had left a little note for him, asking him to read a certain book in her bookcase while she was gone, and be ready to discuss it with her when she got back, and Bud would be fascinated with it, she knew. Bud had been dear and faithful, and she would miss him, but just for this little while she was glad to have the great out-of-doors to herself. She was practically alone. The two sphinx-like figures riding ahead of her made no sign, but stolidly rode on hour after hour, nor turned their heads even to see if she were coming. She knew that Indians were this way; still, as the time went by she began to feel an uneasy sense of being alone in the universe with a couple of bronze statues. Even the papoose had erased itself in sleep, and when it awoke partook so fully of its racial peculiarities as to hold its little peace and make no fuss. Margaret began to feel the baby was hardly human, more like a little brown doll set up in a missionary meeting to teach white children what a papoose was like. By and by she got out her letters and read them over carefully, dreaming and smiling over them, and getting precious bits by heart. Gardley hinted that he might be able very soon to visit her parents, as it looked as though he might have to make a trip on business in their direction before he could go further with what he was doing in his old home. He gave no hint of soon returning to the West. He said he was awaiting the return of one man who might soon be coming from abroad. Margaret sighed and wondered how many weary months it would be before she would see him. Perhaps, after all, she ought to have gone home and stayed them out with her mother and father. If the school-board could be made to see that it would be better to have no summer session, perhaps she would even yet go when she returned from the Brownleighs'. She would see. She would decide nothing until she was rested. Suddenly she felt herself overwhelmingly weary, and wished that the Indians would stop and rest for a while; but when she stirred up her sleepy pony and spurred ahead to broach the matter to her guide he shook his solemn head and pointed to the sun: "No get Keams good time. No meet Aneshodi." "Aneshodi," she knew, was the Indians' name for the missionary, and she smiled her acquiescence. Of course they must meet the Brownleighs and not detain them. What was it Hazel had said about having to hurry? She searched her pocket for the letter, and then remembered she had left it with Mrs. Tanner. What a pity she had not brought it! Perhaps there was some caution or advice in it that she had not taken note of. But then the Indian likely knew all about it, and she could trust to him. She glanced at his stolid face and wished she could make him smile. She cast a sunny smile at him and said something pleasant about the beautiful day, but he only looked her through as if she were not there, and after one or two more attempts she fell back and tried to talk to the squaw; but the squaw only looked stolid, too, and shook her head. She did not seem friendly. Margaret drew back into her old position and feasted her eyes upon the distant hills. The road was growing unfamiliar now. They were crossing rough ridges with cliffs of red sandstone, and every step of the way was interesting. Yet Margaret felt more and more how much she wanted to lie down and sleep, and when at last in the dusk the Indians halted not far from a little pool of rainwater and indicated that here they would camp for the night, Margaret was too weary to question the decision. It had not occurred to her that she would be on the way overnight before she met her friends. Her knowledge of the way, and of distances, was but vague. It is doubtful if she would have ventured had she known that she must pass the night thus in the company of two strange savage creatures. Yet, now that she was here and it was inevitable, she would not shrink, but make the best of it. She tried to be friendly once more, and offered to look out for the baby while the squaw gathered wood and made a fire. The Indian was off looking after the horses, evidently expecting his wife to do all the work. Margaret watched a few minutes, while pretending to play with the baby, who was both sleepy and hungry, yet held his emotions as stolidly as if he were a grown person. Then she decided to take a hand in the supper. She was hungry and could not bear that those dusky, dirty hands should set forth her food, so she went to work cheerfully, giving directions as if the Indian woman understood her, though she very soon discovered that all her talk was as mere babbling to the other, and she might as well hold her peace. The woman set a kettle of water over the fire, and Margaret forestalled her next movement by cutting some pork and putting it to cook in a little skillet she found among the provisions. The woman watched her solemnly, not seeming to care; and so, silently, each went about her own preparations. The supper was a silent affair, and when it was over the squaw handed Margaret a blanket. Suddenly she understood that this, and this alone, was to be her bed for the night. The earth was there for a mattress, and the sage-brush lent a partial shelter, the canopy of stars was overhead. A kind of panic took possession of her. She stared at the squaw and found herself longing to cry out for help. It seemed as if she could not bear this awful silence of the mortals who were her only company. Yet her common sense came to her aid, and she realized that there was nothing for it but to make the best of things. So she took the blanket and, spreading it out, sat down upon it and wrapped it about her shoulders and feet. She would not lie down until she saw what the rest did. Somehow she shrank from asking the bronze man how to fold a blanket for a bed on the ground. She tried to remember what Gardley had told her about folding the blanket bed so as best to keep out snakes and ants. She shuddered at the thought of snakes. Would she dare call for help from those stolid companions of hers if a snake should attempt to molest her in the night? And would she ever dare to go to sleep? She remembered her first night in Arizona out among the stars, alone on the water-tank, and her first frenzy of loneliness. Was this as bad? No, for these Indians were trustworthy and well known by her dear friends. It might be unpleasant, but this, too, would pass and the morrow would soon be here. The dusk dropped down and the stars loomed out. All the world grew wonderful, like a blue jeweled dome of a palace with the lights turned low. The fire burned brightly as the man threw sticks upon it, and the two Indians moved stealthily about in the darkness, passing silhouetted before the fire this way and that, and then at last lying down wrapped in their blankets to sleep. It was very quiet about her. The air was so still she could hear the hobbled horses munching away in the distance, and moving now and then with the halting gait a hobble gives a horse. Off in the farther distance the blood-curdling howl of the coyotes rose, but Margaret was used to them, and knew they would not come near a fire. She was growing very weary, and at last wrapped her blanket closer and lay down, her head pillowed on one corner of it. Committing herself to her Heavenly Father, and breathing a prayer for father, mother, and lover, she fell asleep. It was still almost dark when she awoke. For a moment she thought it was still night and the sunset was not gone yet, the clouds were so rosy tinted. The squaw was standing by her, touching her shoulder roughly and grunting something. She perceived, as she rubbed her eyes and tried to summon back her senses, that she was expected to get up and eat breakfast. There was a smell of pork and coffee in the air, and there was scorched corn bread beside the fire on a pan. Margaret got up quickly and ran down to the water-hole to get some water, dashing it in her face and over her arms and hands, the squaw meanwhile standing at a little distance, watching her curiously, as if she thought this some kind of an oblation paid to the white woman's god before she ate. Margaret pulled the hair-pins out of her hair, letting it down and combing it with one of her side combs; twisted it up again in its soft, fluffy waves; straightened her collar, set on her hat, and was ready for the day. The squaw looked at her with both awe and contempt for a moment, then turned and stalked back to her papoose and began preparing it for the journey. Margaret made a hurried meal and was scarcely done before she found her guides were waiting like two pillars of the desert, but watching keenly, impatiently, her every mouthful, and anxious to be off. The sky was still pink-tinted with the semblance of a sunset, and Margaret felt, as she mounted her pony and followed her companions, as if the day was all turned upside down. She almost wondered whether she hadn't slept through a whole twenty-four hours, and it were not, after all, evening again, till by and by the sun rose clear and the wonder of the cloud-tinting melted into day. The road lay through sage-brush and old barren cedar-trees, with rabbits darting now and then between the rocks. Suddenly from the top of a little hill they came out to a spot where they could see far over the desert. Forty miles away three square, flat hills, or mesas, looked like a gigantic train of cars, and the clear air gave everything a strange vastness. Farther on beyond the mesas dimly dawned the Black Mountains. One could even see the shadowed head of "Round Rock," almost a hundred miles away. Before them and around was a great plain of sage-brush, and here and there was a small bush that the Indians call "the weed that was not scared." Margaret had learned all these things during her winter in Arizona, and keenly enjoyed the vast, splendid view spread before her. They passed several little mud-plastered hogans that Margaret knew for Indian dwellings. A fine band of ponies off in the distance made an interesting spot on the landscape, and twice they passed bands of sheep. She had a feeling of great isolation from everything she had ever known, and seemed going farther and farther from life and all she loved. Once she ventured to ask the Indian what time he expected to meet her friends, the missionaries, but he only shook his head and murmured something unintelligible about "Keams" and pointed to the sun. She dropped behind again, vaguely uneasy, she could not tell why. There seemed something so altogether sly and wary and unfriendly in the faces of the two that she almost wished she had not come. Yet the way was beautiful enough and nothing very unpleasant was happening to her. Once she dropped the envelope of her mother's letter and was about to dismount and recover it. Then some strange impulse made her leave it on the sand of the desert. What if they should be lost and that paper should guide them back? The notion stayed by her, and once in a while she dropped other bits of paper by the way. About noon the trail dropped off into a cañon, with high, yellow-rock walls on either side, and stifling heat, so that she felt as if she could scarcely stand it. She was glad when they emerged once more and climbed to higher ground. The noon camp was a hasty affair, for the Indian seemed in a hurry. He scanned the horizon far and wide and seemed searching keenly for some one or something. Once they met a lonely Indian, and he held a muttered conversation with him, pointing off ahead and gesticulating angrily. But the words were unintelligible to Margaret. Her feeling of uneasiness was growing, and yet she could not for the life of her tell why, and laid it down to her tired nerves. She was beginning to think she had been very foolish to start on such a long trip before she had had a chance to get rested from her last days of school. She longed to lie down under a tree and sleep for days. Toward night they sighted a great blue mesa about fifty miles south, and at sunset they could just see the San Francisco peaks more than a hundred and twenty-five miles away. Margaret, as she stopped her horse and gazed, felt a choking in her heart and throat and a great desire to cry. The glory and awe of the mountains, mingled with her own weariness and nervous fear, were almost too much for her. She was glad to get down and eat a little supper and go to sleep again. As she fell asleep she comforted herself with repeating over a few precious words from her Bible: "The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him and delivereth them. Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee because he trusteth in Thee. I will both lay me down in peace and sleep, for Thou Lord only makest me to dwell in safety...." The voice of the coyotes, now far, now near, boomed out on the night; great stars shot dartling pathways across the heavens; the fire snapped and crackled, died down and flickered feebly; but Margaret slept, tired out, and dreamed the angels kept close vigil around her lowly couch. She did not know what time the stars disappeared and the rain began to fall. She was too tired to notice the drops that fell upon her face. Too tired to hear the coyotes coming nearer, nearer, yet in the morning there lay one dead, stretched not thirty feet from where she lay. The Indian had shot him through the heart. Somehow things looked very dismal that morning, in spite of the brightness of the sun after the rain. She was stiff and sore with lying in the dampness. Her hair was wet, her blanket was wet, and she woke without feeling rested. Almost the trip seemed more than she could bear. If she could have wished herself back that morning and have stayed at Tanners' all summer she certainly would have done it rather than to be where and how she was. The Indians seemed excited--the man grim and forbidding, the woman appealing, frightened, anxious. They were near to Keams Cañon. "Aneshodi" would be somewhere about. The Indian hoped to be rid of his burden then and travel on his interrupted journey. He was growing impatient. He felt he had earned his money. But when they tried to go down Keam's Cañon they found the road all washed away by flood, and must needs go a long way around. This made the Indian surly. His countenance was more forbidding than ever. Margaret, as she watched him with sinking heart, altered her ideas of the Indian as a whole to suit the situation. She had always felt pity for the poor Indian, whose land had been seized and whose kindred had been slaughtered. But this Indian was not an object of pity. He was the most disagreeable, cruel-looking Indian Margaret had ever laid eyes on. She had felt it innately the first time she saw him, but now, as the situation began to bring him out, she knew that she was dreadfully afraid of him. She had a feeling that he might scalp her if he got tired of her. She began to alter her opinion of Hazel Brownleigh's judgment as regarded Indians. She did not feel that she would ever send this Indian to any one for a guide and say he was perfectly trustworthy. He hadn't done anything very dreadful yet, but she felt he was going to. He had a number of angry confabs with his wife that morning. At least, he did the confabbing and the squaw protested. Margaret gathered after a while that it was something about herself. The furtive, frightened glances that the squaw cast in her direction sometimes, when the man was not looking, made her think so. She tried to say it was all imagination, and that her nerves were getting the upper hand of her, but in spite of her she shuddered sometimes, just as she had done when Rosa looked at her. She decided that she must be going to have a fit of sickness, and that just as soon as she got in the neighborhood of Mrs. Tanner's again she would pack her trunk and go home to her mother. If she was going to be sick she wanted her mother. About noon things came to a climax. They halted on the top of the mesa, and the Indians had another altercation, which ended in the man descending the trail a fearfully steep way, down four hundred feet to the trading-post in the cañon. Margaret looked down and gasped and thanked a kind Providence that had not made it necessary for her to make that descent; but the squaw stood at the top with her baby and looked down in silent sorrow--agony perhaps would be a better name. Her face was terrible to look upon. Margaret could not understand it, and she went to the woman and put her hand out sympathetically, asking, gently: "What is the matter, you poor little thing? Oh, what is it?" Perhaps the woman understood the tenderness in the tone, for she suddenly turned and rested her forehead against Margaret's shoulder, giving one great, gasping sob, then lifted her dry, miserable eyes to the girl's face as if to thank her for her kindness. Margaret's heart was touched. She threw her arms around the poor woman and drew her, papoose and all, comfortingly toward her, patting her shoulder and saying gentle, soothing words as she would to a little child. And by and by the woman lifted her head again, the tears coursing down her face, and tried to explain, muttering her queer gutturals and making eloquent gestures until Margaret felt she understood. She gathered that the man had gone down to the trading-post to find the "Aneshodi," and that the squaw feared that he would somehow procure firewater either from the trader or from some Indian he might meet, and would come back angrier than he had gone, and without his money. If Margaret also suspected that the Indian had desired to get rid of her by leaving her at that desolate little trading-station down in the cañon until such time as her friends should call for her, she resolutely put the thought out of her mind and set herself to cheer the poor Indian woman. She took a bright, soft, rosy silk tie from her own neck and knotted it about the astonished woman's dusky throat, and then she put a silver dollar in her hand, and was thrilled with wonder to see what a change came over the poor, dark face. It reminded her of Mom Wallis when she got on her new bonnet, and once again she felt the thrill of knowing the whole world kin. The squaw cheered up after a little, got sticks and made a fire, and together they had quite a pleasant meal. Margaret exerted herself to make the poor woman laugh, and finally succeeded by dangling a bright-red knight from her chessmen in front of the delighted baby's eyes till he gurgled out a real baby crow of joy. It was the middle of the afternoon before the Indian returned, sitting crazily his struggling beast as he climbed the trail once more. Margaret, watching, caught her breath and prayed. Was this the trustworthy man, this drunken, reeling creature, clubbing his horse and pouring forth a torrent of indistinguishable gutturals? It was evident that his wife's worst fears were verified. He had found the firewater. The frightened squaw set to work putting things together as fast as she could. She well knew what to expect, and when the man reached the top of the mesa he found his party packed and mounted, waiting fearsomely to take the trail. Silently, timorously, they rode behind him, west across the great wide plain. In the distance gradually there appeared dim mesas like great fingers stretching out against the sky; miles away they seemed, and nothing intervening but a stretch of varying color where sage-brush melted into sand, and sage-brush and greasewood grew again, with tall cactus startling here and there like bayonets at rest but bristling with menace. The Indian had grown silent and sullen. His eyes were like deep fires of burning volcanoes. One shrank from looking at them. His massive, cruel profile stood out like bronze against the evening sky. It was growing night again, and still they had not come to anywhere or anything, and still her friends seemed just as far away. Since they had left the top of Keams Cañon Margaret had been sure all was not right. Aside from the fact that the guide was drunk at present, she was convinced that there had been something wrong with him all along. He did not act like the Indians around Ashland. He did not act like a trusted guide that her friends would send for her. She wished once more that she had kept Hazel Brownleigh's letter. She wondered how her friends would find her if they came after her. It was then she began in earnest to systematically plan to leave a trail behind her all the rest of the way. If she had only done it thoroughly when she first began to be uneasy. But now she was so far away, so many miles from anywhere! Oh, if she had not come at all! And first she dropped her handkerchief, because she happened to have it in her hand--a dainty thing with lace on the edge and her name written in tiny script by her mother's careful hand on the narrow hem. And then after a little, as soon as she could scrawl it without being noticed, she wrote a note which she twisted around the neck of a red chessman, and left behind her. After that scraps of paper, as she could reach them out of the bag tied on behind her saddle; then a stocking, a bedroom slipper, more chessmen, and so, when they halted at dusk and prepared to strike camp, she had quite a good little trail blazed behind her over that wide, empty plain. She shuddered as she looked into the gathering darkness ahead, where those long, dark lines of mesas looked like barriers in the way. Then, suddenly, the Indian pointed ahead to the first mesa and uttered one word--"Walpi!" So that was the Indian village to which she was bound? What was before her on the morrow? After eating a pretense of supper she lay down. The Indian had more firewater with him. He drank, he uttered cruel gutturals at his squaw, and even kicked the feet of the sleeping papoose as he passed by till it awoke and cried sharply, which made him more angry, so he struck the squaw. It seemed hours before all was quiet. Margaret's nerves were strained to such a pitch she scarcely dared to breathe, but at last, when the fire had almost died down, the man lay quiet, and she could relax and close her eyes. Not to sleep. She must not go to sleep. The fire was almost gone and the coyotes would be around. She must wake and watch! That was the last thought she remembered--that and a prayer that the angels would keep watch once again. When she awoke it was broad daylight and far into the morning, for the sun was high overhead and the mesas in the distance were clear and distinct against the sky. She sat up and looked about her, bewildered, not knowing at first where she was. It was so still and wide and lonely. She turned to find the Indians, but there was no trace of them anywhere. The fire lay smoldering in its place, a thin trickle of smoke curling away from a dying stick, but that was all. A tin cup half full of coffee was beside the stick, and a piece of blackened corn bread. She turned frightened eyes to east, to west, to north, to south, but there was no one in sight, and out over the distant mesa there poised a great eagle alone in the vast sky keeping watch over the brilliant, silent waste. CHAPTER XXX When Margaret was a very little girl her father and mother had left her alone for an hour with a stranger while they went out to make a call in a strange city through which they were passing on a summer trip. The stranger was kind, and gave to the child a large green box of bits of old black lace and purple ribbons to play with, but she turned sorrowfully from the somber array of finery, which was the only thing in the way of a plaything the woman had at hand, and stood looking drearily out of the window on the strange, new town, a feeling of utter loneliness upon her. Her little heart was almost choked with the awfulness of the thought that she was a human atom drifted apart from every other atom she had ever known, that she had a personality and a responsibility of her own, and that she must face this thought of herself and her aloneness for evermore. It was the child's first realization that she was a separate being apart from her father and mother, and she was almost consumed with the terror of it. As she rose now from her bed on the ground and looked out across that vast waste, in which the only other living creature was that sinister, watching eagle, the same feeling returned to her and made her tremble like the little child who had turned from her box of ancient finery to realize her own little self and its terrible aloneness. For an instant even her realization of God, which had from early childhood been present with her, seemed to have departed. She could not grasp anything save the vast empty silence that loomed about her so awfully. She was alone, and about as far from anywhere or anything as she could possibly be in the State of Arizona. Would she ever get back to human habitations? Would her friends ever be able to find her? Then her heart flew back to its habitual refuge, and she spoke aloud and said, "God is here!" and the thought seemed to comfort her. She looked about once more on the bright waste, and now it did not seem so dreary. "God is here!" she repeated, and tried to realize that this was a part of His habitation. She could not be lost where God was. He knew the way out. She had only to trust. So she dropped upon her knees in the sand and prayed for trust and courage. When she rose again she walked steadily to a height a little above the camp-fire, and, shading her eyes, looked carefully in every direction. No, there was not a sign of her recent companions. They must have stolen away in the night quite soon after she fell asleep, and have gone fast and far, so that they were now beyond the reach of her eyes, and not anywhere was there sign of living thing, save that eagle still sweeping in great curves and poising again above the distant mesa. Where was her horse? Had the Indians taken that, too? She searched the valley, but saw no horse at first. With sinking heart she went back to where her things were and sat down by the dying fire to think, putting a few loose twigs and sticks together to keep the embers bright while she could. She reflected that she had no matches, and this was probably the last fire she would have until somebody came to her rescue or she got somewhere by herself. What was she to do? Stay right where she was or start out on foot? And should she go backward or forward? Surely, surely the Brownleighs would miss her pretty soon and send out a search-party for her. How could it be that they trusted an Indian who had done such a cruel thing as to leave a woman unprotected in the desert? And yet, perhaps, they did not know his temptation to drink. Perhaps they had thought he could not get any firewater. Perhaps he would return when he came to himself and realized what he had done. And now she noticed what she had not seen at first--a small bottle of water on a stone beside the blackened bread. Realizing that she was very hungry and that this was the only food at hand, she sat down beside the fire to eat the dry bread and drink the miserable coffee. She must have strength to do whatever was before her. She tried not to think how her mother would feel if she never came back, how anxious they would be as they waited day by day for her letters that did not come. She reflected with a sinking heart that she had, just before leaving, written a hasty note to her mother telling her not to expect anything for several days, perhaps even as much as two weeks, as she was going out of civilization for a little while. How had she unwittingly sealed her fate by that! For now not even by way of her alarmed home could help come to her. She put the last bit of hard corn bread in her pocket for a further time of need, and began to look about her again. Then she spied with delight a moving object far below her in the valley, and decided it was a horse, perhaps her own. He was a mile away, at least, but he was there, and she cried out with sudden joy and relief. She went over to her blanket and bags, which had been beside her during the night, and stood a moment trying to think what to do. Should she carry the things to the horse or risk leaving them here while she went after the horse and brought him to the things? No, that would not be safe. Some one might come along and take them, or she might not be able to find her way back again in this strange, wild waste. Besides, she might not get the horse, after all, and would lose everything. She must carry her things to the horse. She stooped to gather them up, and something bright beside her bag attracted her. It was the sun shining on the silver dollar she had given to the Indian woman. A sudden rush of tears came to her eyes. The poor creature had tried to make all the reparation she could for thus hastily leaving the white woman in the desert. She had given back the money--all she had that was valuable! Beside the dollar rippled a little chain of beads curiously wrought, an inanimate appeal for forgiveness and a grateful return for the kindness shown her. Margaret smiled as she stooped again to pick up her things. There had been a heart, after all, behind that stolid countenance, and some sense of righteousness and justice. Margaret decided that Indians were not all treacherous. Poor woman! What a life was hers--to follow her grim lord whither he would lead, even as her white sister must sometimes, sorrowing, rebelling, crying out, but following! She wondered if into the heart of this dark sister there ever crept any of the rebellion which led some of her white sisters to cry aloud for "rights" and "emancipation." But it was all a passing thought to be remembered and turned over at a more propitious time. Margaret's whole thoughts now were bent on her present predicament. The packing was short work. She stuffed everything into the two bags that were usually hung across the horse, and settled them carefully across her shoulders. Then she rolled the blanket, took it in her arms, and started. It was a heavy burden to carry, but she could not make up her mind to part with any of her things until she had at least made an effort to save them. If she should be left alone in the desert for the night the blanket was indispensable, and her clothes would at least do to drop as a trail by which her friends might find her. She must carry them as far as possible. So she started. It was already high day, and the sun was intolerably hot. Her heavy burden was not only cumbersome, but very warm, and she felt her strength going from her as she went; but her nerve was up and her courage was strong. Moreover, she prayed as she walked, and she felt now the presence of her Guide and was not afraid. As she walked she faced a number of possibilities in the immediate future which were startling, and to say the least, undesirable. There were wild animals in this land, not so much in the daylight, but what of the night? She had heard that a woman was always safe in that wild Western land; but what of the prowling Indians? What of a possible exception to the Western rule of chivalry toward a decent woman? One small piece of corn bread and less than a pint of water were small provision on which to withstand a siege. How far was it to anywhere? It was then she remembered for the first time that one word--"Walpi!" uttered by the Indian as he came to a halt the night before and pointed far to the mesa--"Walpi." She lifted her eyes now and scanned the dark mesa. It loomed like a great battlement of rock against the sky. Could it be possible there were people dwelling there? She had heard, of course, about the curious Hopi villages, each village a gigantic house of many rooms, called pueblos, built upon the lofty crags, sometimes five or six hundred feet above the desert. Could it be that that great castle-looking outline against the sky before her, standing out on the end of the mesa like a promontory above the sea, was Walpi? And if it was, how was she to get up there? The rock rose sheer and steep from the desert floor. The narrow neck of land behind it looked like a slender thread. Her heart sank at thought of trying to storm and enter, single-handed, such an impregnable fortress. And yet, if her friends were there, perhaps they would see her when she drew near and come to show her the way. Strange that they should have gone on and left her with those treacherous Indians! Strange that they should have trusted them so, in the first place! Her own instincts had been against trusting the man from the beginning. It must be confessed that during her reflections at this point her opinion of the wisdom and judgment of the Brownleighs was lowered several notches. Then she began to berate herself for having so easily been satisfied about her escort. She should have read the letter more carefully. She should have asked the Indians more questions. She should, perhaps, have asked Jasper Kemp's advice, or got him to talk to the Indian. She wished with all her heart for Bud, now. If Bud were along he would be saying some comical boy-thing, and be finding a way out of the difficulty. Dear, faithful Bud! The sun rose higher and the morning grew hotter. As she descended to the valley her burdens grew intolerable, and several times she almost cast them aside. Once she lost sight of her pony among the sage-brush, and it was two hours before she came to him and was able to capture him and strap on her burdens. She was almost too exhausted to climb into the saddle when all was ready; but she managed to mount at last and started out toward the rugged crag ahead of her. The pony had a long, hot climb out of the valley to a hill where she could see very far again, but still that vast emptiness reigned. Even the eagle had disappeared, and she fancied he must be resting like a great emblem of freedom on one of the points of the castle-like battlement against the sky. It seemed as if the end of the world had come, and she was the only one left in the universe, forgotten, riding on her weary horse across an endless desert in search of a home she would never see again. Below the hill there stretched a wide, white strip of sand, perhaps two miles in extent, but shimmering in the sun and seeming to recede ahead of her as she advanced. Beyond was soft greenness--something growing--not near enough to be discerned as cornfields. The girl drooped her tired head upon her horse's mane and wept, her courage going from her with her tears. In all that wide universe there seemed no way to go, and she was so very tired, hungry, hot, and discouraged! There was always that bit of bread in her pocket and that muddy-looking, warm water for a last resort; but she must save them as long as possible, for there was no telling how long it would be before she had more. There was no trail now to follow. She had started from the spot where she had found the horse, and her inexperienced eyes could not have searched out a trail if she had tried. She was going toward that distant castle on the crag as to a goal, but when she reached it, if she ever did, would she find anything there but crags and lonesomeness and the eagle? Drying her tears at last, she started the horse on down the hill, and perhaps her tears blinded her, or because she was dizzy with hunger and the long stretch of anxiety and fatigue she was not looking closely. There was a steep place, a sharp falling away of the ground unexpectedly as they emerged from a thicket of sage-brush, and the horse plunged several feet down, striking sharply on some loose rocks, and slipping to his knees; snorting, scrambling, making brave effort, but slipping, half rolling, at last he was brought down with his frightened rider, and lay upon his side with her foot under him and a sensation like a red-hot knife running through her ankle. Margaret caught her breath in quick gasps as they fell, lifting a prayer in her heart for help. Then came the crash and the sharp pain, and with a quick conviction that all was over she dropped back unconscious on the sand, a blessed oblivion of darkness rushing over her. When she came to herself once more the hot sun was pouring down upon her unprotected face, and she was conscious of intense pain and suffering in every part of her body. She opened her eyes wildly and looked around. There was sage-brush up above, waving over the crag down which they had fallen, its gray-greenness shimmering hotly in the sun; the sky was mercilessly blue without a cloud. The great beast, heavy and quivering, lay solidly against her, half pinning her to earth, and the helplessness of her position was like an awful nightmare from which she felt she might waken if she could only cry out. But when at last she raised her voice its empty echo frightened her, and there, above her, with wide-spread wings, circling for an instant, then poised in motionless survey of her, with cruel eyes upon her, loomed that eagle--so large, so fearful, so suggestive in its curious stare, the monarch of the desert come to see who had invaded his precincts and fallen into one of his snares. With sudden frenzy burning in her veins Margaret struggled and tried to get free, but she could only move the slightest bit each time, and every motion was an agony to the hurt ankle. It seemed hours before she writhed herself free from that great, motionless horse, whose labored breath only showed that he was still alive. Something terrible must have happened to the horse or he would have tried to rise, for she had coaxed, patted, cajoled, tried in every way to rouse him. When at last she crawled free from the hot, horrible body and crept with pained progress around in front of him, she saw that both his forelegs lay limp and helpless. He must have broken them in falling. Poor fellow! He, too, was suffering and she had nothing to give him! There was nothing she could do for him! Then she thought of the bottle of water, but, searching for it, found that her good intention of dividing it with him was useless, for the bottle was broken and the water already soaked into the sand. Only a damp spot on the saddle-bag showed where it had departed. Then indeed did Margaret sink down in the sand in despair and begin to pray as she had never prayed before. CHAPTER XXXI The morning after Margaret's departure Rosa awoke with no feelings of self-reproach, but rather a great exultation at the way in which she had been able to get rid of her rival. She lay for a few minutes thinking of Forsythe, and trying to decide what she would wear when she went forth to meet him, for she wanted to charm him as she had never charmed any one before. She spent some time arraying herself in different costumes, but at last decided on her Commencement gown of fine white organdie, hand-embroidered and frilled with filmy lace, the product of a famous house of gowns in the Eastern city where she had attended school for a while and acquired expensive tastes. Daintily slippered, beribboned with coral-silk girdle, and with a rose from the vine over her window in her hair, she sallied forth at last to the trysting-place. Forsythe was a whole hour late, as became a languid gentleman who had traveled the day before and idled at his sister's house over a late breakfast until nearly noon. Already his fluttering fancy was apathetic about Rosa, and he wondered, as he rode along, what had become of the interesting young teacher who had charmed him for more than a passing moment. Would he dare to call upon her, now that Gardley was out of the way? Was she still in Ashland or had she gone home for vacation? He must ask Rosa about her. Then he came in sight of Rosa sitting picturesquely in the shade of an old cedar, reading poetry, a little lady in the wilderness, and he forgot everything else in his delight over the change in her. For Rosa had changed. There was no mistake about it. She had bloomed out into maturity in those few short months of his absence. Her soft figure had rounded and developed, her bewitching curls were put up on her head, with only a stray tendril here and there to emphasize a dainty ear or call attention to a smooth, round neck; and when she raised her lovely head and lifted limpid eyes to his there was about her a demureness, a coolness and charm that he had fancied only ladies of the city could attain. Oh, Rosa knew her charms, and had practised many a day before her mirror till she had appraised the value of every curving eyelash, every hidden dimple, every cupid's curve of lip. Rosa had watched well and learned from all with whom she had come in contact. No woman's guile was left untried by her. And Rosa was very sweet and charming. She knew just when to lift up innocent eyes of wonder; when to not understand suggestions; when to exclaim softly with delight or shrink with shyness that nevertheless did not repulse. Forsythe studied her with wonder and delight. No maiden of the city had ever charmed him more, and withal she seemed so innocent and young, so altogether pliable in his hands. His pulses beat high, his heart was inflamed, and passion came and sat within his handsome eyes. It was easy to persuade her, after her first seemingly shy reserve was overcome, and before an hour was passed she had promised to go away with him. He had very little money, but what of that? When he spoke of that feature Rosa declared she could easily get some. Her father gave her free access to his safe, and kept her plentifully supplied for the household use. It was nothing to her--a passing incident. What should it matter whose money took them on their way? When she went demurely back to the ranch a little before sunset she thought she was very happy, poor little silly sinner! She met her father with her most alluring but most furtive smile. She was charming at supper, and blushed as her mother used to do when he praised her new gown and told her how well she looked in it. But she professed to be weary yet from the last days of school--to have a headache--and so she went early to her room and asked that the servants keep the house quiet in the morning, that she might sleep late and get really rested. Her father kissed her tenderly and thought what a dear child she was and what a comfort to his ripening years; and the house settled down into quiet. Rosa packed a bag with some of her most elaborate garments, arrayed herself in a charming little outfit of silk for the journey, dropped her baggage out of the window; and when the moon rose and the household were quietly sleeping she paid a visit to her father's safe, and then stole forth, taking her shadowy way to the trail by a winding route known well to herself and secure from the watch of vigilant servants who were ever on the lookout for cattle thieves. Thus she left her father's house and went forth to put her trust in a man whose promises were as ropes of sand and whose fancy was like a wave of the sea, tossed to and fro by every breath that blew. Long ere the sun rose the next morning the guarded, beloved child was as far from her safe home and her father's sheltering love as if alone she had started for the mouth of the bottomless pit. Two days later, while Margaret lay unconscious beneath the sage-brush, with a hovering eagle for watch, Rosa in the streets of a great city suddenly realized that she was more alone in the universe than ever she could have been in a wide desert, and her plight was far worse than the girl's with whose fate she had so lightly played. Quite early on the morning after Rosa left, while the household was still keeping quiet for the supposed sleeper, Gardley rode into the inclosure about the house and asked for Rogers. Gardley had been traveling night and day to get back. Matters had suddenly arranged themselves so that he could finish up his business at his old home and go on to see Margaret's father and mother, and he had made his visit there and hurried back to Arizona, hoping to reach Ashland in time for Commencement. A delay on account of a washout on the road had brought him back two days late for Commencement. He had ridden to camp from a junction forty miles away to get there the sooner, and this morning had ridden straight to the Tanners' to surprise Margaret. It was, therefore, a deep disappointment to find her gone and only Mrs. Tanner's voluble explanations for comfort. Mrs. Tanner exhausted her vocabulary in trying to describe the "Injuns," her own feeling of protest against them, and Mrs. Brownleigh's foolishness in making so much of them; and then she bustled in to the old pine desk in the dining-room and produced the letter that had started Margaret off as soon as commencement was over. Gardley took the letter eagerly, as though it were something to connect him with Margaret, and read it through carefully to make sure just how matters stood. He had looked troubled when Mrs. Tanner told how tired Margaret was, and how worried she seemed about her school and glad to get away from it all; and he agreed that the trip was probably a good thing. "I wish Bud could have gone along, though," he said, thoughtfully, as he turned away from the door. "I don't like her to go with just Indians, though I suppose it is all right. You say he had his wife and child along? Of course Mrs. Brownleigh wouldn't send anybody that wasn't perfectly all right. Well, I suppose the trip will be a rest for her. I'm sorry I didn't get home a few days sooner. I might have looked out for her myself." He rode away from the Tanners', promising to return later with a gift he had brought for Bud that he wanted to present himself, and Mrs. Tanner bustled back to her work again. "Well, I'm glad he's got home, anyway," she remarked, aloud, to herself as she hung her dish-cloth tidily over the upturned dish-pan and took up her broom. "I 'ain't felt noways easy 'bout her sence she left, though I do suppose there ain't any sense to it. But I'm _glad he's back_!" Meantime Gardley was riding toward Rogers's ranch, meditating whether he should venture to follow the expedition and enjoy at least the return trip with Margaret, or whether he ought to remain patiently until she came back and go to work at once. There was nothing really important demanding his attention immediately, for Rogers had arranged to keep the present overseer of affairs until he was ready to undertake the work. He was on his way now to report on a small business matter which he had been attending to in New York for Rogers. When that was over he would be free to do as he pleased for a few days more if he liked, and the temptation was great to go at once to Margaret. As he stood waiting beside his horse in front of the house while the servant went to call Rogers, he looked about with delight on the beauty of the day. How glad he was to be back in Arizona again! Was it the charm of the place or because Margaret was there, he wondered, that he felt so happy? By all means he must follow her. Why should he not? He looked at the clambering rose-vine that covered one end of the house, and noticed how it crept close to the window casement and caressed the white curtain as it blew. Margaret must have such a vine at her window in the house he would build for her. It might be but a modest house that he could give her now, but it should have a rose-vine just like that; and he would train it round her window where she could smell the fragrance from it every morning when she awoke, and where it would breathe upon her as she slept. Margaret! How impatient he was to see her again! To look upon her dear face and know that she was his! That her father and mother had been satisfied about him and sent their blessing, and he might tell her so. It was wonderful! His heart thrilled with the thought of it. Of course he would go to her at once. He would start as soon as Rogers was through with him. He would go to Ganado. No, Keams. Which was it? He drew the letter out of his pocket and read it again, then replaced it. The fluttering curtain up at the window blew out and in, and when it blew out again it brought with it a flurry of papers like white leaves. The curtain had knocked over a paper-weight or vase or something that held them and set the papers free. The breeze caught them and flung them about erratically, tossing one almost at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, thinking it might be of value to some one, and caught the name "Margaret" and "Dear Margaret" written several times on the sheet, with "Walpi, Walpi, Walpi," filling the lower half of the page, as if some one had been practising it. And because these two words were just now keenly in his mind he reached for the second paper just a foot or two away and found more sentences and words. A third paper contained an exact reproduction of the letter which Mrs. Tanner had given him purporting to come from Mrs. Brownleigh to Margaret. What could it possibly mean? In great astonishment he pulled out the other letter and compared them. They were almost identical save for a word here and there crossed out and rewritten. He stood looking mutely at the papers and then up at the window, as though an explanation might somehow be wafted down to him, not knowing what to think, his mind filled with vague alarm. Just at that moment the servant appeared. "Mr. Rogers says would you mind coming down to the corral. Miss Rosa has a headache, and we're keeping the house still for her to sleep. That's her window up there--" And he indicated the rose-bowered window with the fluttering curtain. Dazed and half suspicious of something, Gardley folded the two letters together and crushed them into his pocket, wondering what he ought to do about it. The thought of it troubled him so that he only half gave attention to the business in hand; but he gave his report and handed over certain documents. He was thinking that perhaps he ought to see Miss Rosa and find out what she knew of Margaret's going and ask how she came in possession of this other letter. "Now," said Rogers, as the matter was concluded, "I owe you some money. If you'll just step up to the house with me I'll give it to you. I'd like to settle matters up at once." "Oh, let it go till I come again," said Gardley, impatient to be off. He wanted to get by himself and think out a solution of the two letters. He was more than uneasy about Margaret without being able to give any suitable explanation of why he should be. His main desire now was to ride to Ganado and find out if the missionaries had left home, which way they had gone, and whether they had met Margaret as planned. "No, step right up to the house with me," insisted Rogers. "It won't take long, and I have the money in my safe." Gardley saw that the quickest way was to please Rogers, and he did not wish to arouse any questions, because he supposed, of course, his alarm was mere foolishness. So they went together into Rogers's private office, where his desk and safe were the principal furniture, and where no servants ventured to come without orders. Rogers shoved a chair for Gardley and went over to his safe, turning the little nickel knob this way and that with the skill of one long accustomed, and in a moment the thick door swung open and Rogers drew out a japanned cash-box and unlocked it. But when he threw the cover back he uttered an exclamation of angry surprise. The box was empty! CHAPTER XXXII Mr. Rogers strode to the door, forgetful of his sleeping daughter overhead, and thundered out his call for James. The servant appeared at once, but he knew nothing about the safe, and had not been in the office that morning. Other servants were summoned and put through a rigid examination. Then Rogers turned to the woman who had answered the door for Gardley and sent her up to call Rosa. But the woman returned presently with word that Miss Rosa was not in her room, and there was no sign that her bed had been slept in during the night. The woman's face was sullen. She did not like Rosa, but was afraid of her. This to her was only another of Miss Rosa's pranks, and very likely her doting father would manage to blame the servants with the affair. Mr. Rogers's face grew stern. His eyes flashed angrily as he turned and strode up the stairs to his daughter's room, but when he came down again he was holding a note in his trembling hand and his face was ashen white. "Read that, Gardley," he said, thrusting the note into Gardley's hands and motioning at the same time for the servants to go away. Gardley took the note, yet even as he read he noticed that the paper was the same as those he carried in his pocket. There was a peculiar watermark that made it noticeable. The note was a flippant little affair from Rosa, telling her father she had gone away to be married and that she would let him know where she was as soon as they were located. She added that he had forced her to this step by being so severe with her and not allowing her lover to come to see her. If he had been reasonable she would have stayed at home and let him give her a grand wedding; but as it was she had only this way of seeking her happiness. She added that she knew he would forgive her, and she hoped he would come to see that her way had been best, and Forsythe was all that he could desire as a son-in-law. Gardley uttered an exclamation of dismay as he read, and, looking up, found the miserable eyes of the stricken father upon him. For the moment his own alarm concerning Margaret and his perplexity about the letters was forgotten in the grief of the man who had been his friend. "When did she go?" asked Gardley, quickly looking up. "She took supper with me and then went to her room, complaining of a headache," said the father, his voice showing his utter hopelessness. "She may have gone early in the evening, perhaps, for we all turned in about nine o'clock to keep the house quiet on her account." "Have you any idea which way they went, east or west?" Gardley was the keen adviser in a crisis now, his every sense on the alert. The old man shook his head. "It is too late now," he said, still in that colorless voice. "They will have reached the railroad somewhere. They will have been married by this time. See, it is after ten o'clock!" "Yes, if he marries her," said Gardley, fiercely. He had no faith in Forsythe. "You think--you don't think he would _dare_!" The old man straightened up and fairly blazed in his righteous wrath. "I think he would dare anything if he thought he would not be caught. He is a coward, of course." "What can we do?" "Telegraph to detectives at all points where they would be likely to arrive and have them shadowed. Come, we will ride to the station at once; but, first, could I go up in her room and look around? There might be some clue." "Certainly," said Rogers, pointing hopelessly up the stairs; "the first door to the left. But you'll find nothing. I looked everywhere. She wouldn't have left a clue. While you're up there I'll interview the servants. Then we'll go." As he went up-stairs Gardley was wondering whether he ought to tell Rogers of the circumstance of the two letters. What possible connection could there be between Margaret Earle's trip to Walpi with the Brownleighs and Rosa Rogers's elopement? When you come to think of it, what possible explanation was there for a copy of Mrs. Brownleigh's letter to blow out of Rosa Rogers's bedroom window? How could it have got there? Rosa's room was in beautiful order, the roses nodding in at the window, the curtain blowing back and forth in the breeze and rippling open the leaves of a tiny Testament lying on her desk, as if it had been recently read. There was nothing to show that the owner of the room had taken a hasty flight. On the desk lay several sheets of note-paper with the peculiar watermark. These caught his attention, and he took them up and compared them with the papers in his pocket. It was a strange thing that that letter which had sent Margaret off into the wilderness with an unknown Indian should be written on the same kind of paper as this; and yet, perhaps, it was not so strange, after all. It probably was the only note-paper to be had in that region, and must all have been purchased at the same place. The rippling leaves of the Testament fluttered open at the fly-leaf and revealed Rosa's name and a date with Mrs. Brownleigh's name written below, and Gardley took it up, startled again to find Hazel Brownleigh mixed up with the Rogers. He had not known that they had anything to do with each other. And yet, of course, they would, being the missionaries of the region. The almost empty waste-basket next caught his eye, and here again were several sheets of paper written over with words and phrases, words which at once he recognized as part of the letter Mrs. Tanner had given him. He emptied the waste-basket out on the desk, thinking perhaps there might be something there that would give a clue to where the elopers had gone; but there was not much else in it except a little yellowed note with the signature "Hazel Brownleigh" at the bottom. He glanced through the brief note, gathered its purport, and then spread it out deliberately on the desk and compared the writing with the others, a wild fear clutching at his heart. Yet he could not in any way explain why he was so uneasy. What possible reason could Rosa Rogers have for forging a letter to Margaret from Hazel Brownleigh? Suddenly Rogers stood behind him looking over his shoulder. "What is it, Gardley? What have you found? Any clue?" "No clue," said Gardley, uneasily, "but something strange I cannot understand. I don't suppose it can possibly have anything to do with your daughter, and yet it seems almost uncanny. This morning I stopped at the Tanners' to let Miss Earle know I had returned, and was told she had gone yesterday with a couple of Indians as guide to meet the Brownleighs at Keams or somewhere near there, and take a trip with them to Walpi to see the Hopi Indians. Mrs. Tanner gave me this letter from Mrs. Brownleigh, which Miss Earle had left behind. But when I reached here and was waiting for you some papers blew out of your daughter's window. When I picked them up I was startled to find that one of them was an exact copy of the letter I had in my pocket. See! Here they are! I don't suppose there is anything to it, but in spite of me I am a trifle uneasy about Miss Earle. I just can't understand how that copy of the letter came to be here." Rogers was leaning over, looking at the papers. "What's this?" he asked, picking up the note that came with the Testament. He read each paper carefully, took in the little Testament with its fluttering fly-leaf and inscription, studied the pages of words and alphabet, then suddenly turned away and groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "What is it?" asked Gardley, awed with the awful sorrow in the strong man's attitude. "My poor baby!" groaned the father. "My poor little baby girl! I've always been afraid of that fatal gift of hers. Gardley, she could copy any handwriting in the world perfectly. She could write my name so it could not be told from my own signature. She's evidently written that letter. Why, I don't know, unless she wanted to get Miss Earle out of the way so it would be easier for her to carry out her plans." "It can't be!" said Gardley, shaking his head. "I can't see what her object would be. Besides, where would she find the Indians? Mrs. Tanner saw the Indians. They came to the school after her with the letter, and waited for her. Mrs. Tanner saw them ride off together." "There were a couple of strange Indians here yesterday, begging something to eat," said Rogers, settling down on a chair and resting his head against the desk as if he had suddenly lost the strength to stand. "This won't do!" said Gardley. "We've got to get down to the telegraph-office, you and I. Now try to brace up. Are the horses ready? Then we'll go right away." "You better question the servants about those Indians first," said Rogers; and Gardley, as he hurried down the stairs, heard groan after groan from Rosa's room, where her father lingered in agony. Gardley got all the information he could about the Indians, and then the two men started away on a gallop to the station. As they passed the Tanner house Gardley drew rein to call to Bud, who hurried out joyfully to greet his friend, his face lighting with pleasure. "Bill, get on your horse in double-quick time and beat it out to camp for me, will you?" said Gardley, as he reached down and gripped Bud's rough young paw. "Tell Jasper Kemp to come back with you and meet me at the station as quick as he can. Tell him to have the men where he can signal them. We may have to hustle out on a long hunt; and, Bill, keep your head steady and get back yourself right away. Perhaps I'll want you to help me. I'm a little anxious about Miss Earle, but you needn't tell anybody that but old Jasper. Tell him to hurry for all he's worth." Bud, with his eyes large with loyalty and trouble, nodded understandingly, returned the grip of the young man's hand with a clumsy squeeze, and sprang away to get his horse and do Gardley's bidding. Gardley knew he would ride as for his life, now that he knew Margaret's safety was at stake. Then Gardley rode on to the station and was indefatigable for two hours hunting out addresses, writing telegrams, and calling up long-distance telephones. When all had been done that was possible Rogers turned a haggard face to the young man. "I've been thinking, Gardley, that rash little girl of mine may have got Miss Earle into some kind of a dangerous position. You ought to look after her. What can we do?" "I'm going to, sir," said Gardley, "just as soon as I've done everything I can for you. I've already sent for Jasper Kemp, and we'll make a plan between us and find out if Miss Earle is all right. Can you spare Jasper or will you need him?" "By all means! Take all the men you need. I sha'n't rest easy till I know Miss Earle is safe." He sank down on a truck that stood on the station platform, his shoulders slumping, his whole attitude as of one who was fatally stricken. It came over Gardley how suddenly old he looked, and haggard and gray! What a thing for the selfish child to have done to her father! Poor, silly child, whose fate with Forsythe would in all probability be anything but enviable! But there was no time for sorrowful reflections. Jasper Kemp, stern, alert, anxious, came riding furiously down the street, Bud keeping even pace with him. CHAPTER XXXIII While Gardley briefly told his tale to Jasper Kemp, and the Scotchman was hastily scanning the papers with his keen, bright eyes, Bud stood frowning and listening intently. "Gee!" he burst forth. "That girl's a mess! 'Course she did it! You oughta seen what all she didn't do the last six weeks of school. Miss Mar'get got so she shivered every time that girl came near her or looked at her. She sure had her goat! Some nights after school, when she thought she's all alone, she just cried, she did. Why, Rosa had every one of those guys in the back seat acting like the devil, and nobody knew what was the matter. She wrote things on the blackboard right in the questions, so's it looked like Miss Mar'get's writing; fierce things, sometimes; and Miss Mar'get didn't know who did it. And she was as jealous as a cat of Miss Mar'get. You all know what a case she had on that guy from over by the fort; and she didn't like to have him even look at Miss Mar'get. Well, she didn't forget how he went away that night of the play. I caught her looking at her like she would like to murder her. _Good night!_ Some look! The guy had a case on Miss Mar'get, all right, too, only she was onto him and wouldn't look at him nor let him spoon nor nothing. But Rosa saw it all, and she just hated Miss Mar'get. Then once Miss Mar'get stopped her from going out to meet that guy, too. Oh, she hated her, all right! And you can bet she wrote the letter! Sure she did! She wanted to get her away when that guy came back. He was back yesterday. I saw him over by the run on that trail that crosses the trail to the old cabin. He didn't see me. I got my eye on him first, and I chucked behind some sage-brush, but he was here, all right, and he didn't mean any good. I follahed him awhile till he stopped and fixed up a place to camp. I guess he must 'a' stayed out last night--" A heavy hand was suddenly laid from behind on Bud's shoulder, and Rogers stood over him, his dark eyes on fire, his lips trembling. "Boy, can you show me where that was?" he asked, and there was an intensity in his voice that showed Bud that something serious was the matter. Boylike he dropped his eyes indifferently before this great emotion. "Sure!" "Best take Long Bill with you, Mr. Rogers," advised Jasper Kemp, keenly alive to the whole situation. "I reckon we'll all have to work together. My men ain't far off," and he lifted his whistle to his lips and blew the signal blasts. "The Kid here 'll want to ride to Keams to see if the lady is all safe and has met her friends. I reckon mebbe I better go straight to Ganado and find out if them mission folks really got started, and put 'em wise to what's been going on. They'll mebbe know who them Injuns was. I have my suspicions they weren't any friendlies. I didn't like that Injun the minute I set eyes on him hanging round the school-house, but I wouldn't have stirred a step toward camp if I'd 'a' suspected he was come fur the lady. 'Spose you take Bud and Long Bill and go find that camping-place and see if you find any trail showing which way they took. If you do, you fire three shots, and the men 'll be with you. If you want the Kid, fire four shots. He can't be so fur away by that time that he can't hear. He's got to get provisioned 'fore he starts. Lead him out, Bud. We 'ain't got no time to lose." Bud gave one despairing look at Gardley and turned to obey. "That's all right, Bud," said Gardley, with an understanding glance. "You tell Mr. Rogers all you know and show him the place, and then when Long Bill comes you can take the cross-cut to the Long Trail and go with me. I'll just stop at the house as I go by and tell your mother I need you." Bud gave one radiant, grateful look and sprang upon his horse, and Rogers had hard work to keep up with him at first, till Bud got interested in giving him a detailed account of Forsythe's looks and acts. In less than an hour the relief expedition had started. Before night had fallen Jasper Kemp, riding hard, arrived at the mission, told his story, procured a fresh horse, and after a couple of hours, rest started with Brownleigh and his wife for Keams Cañon. Gardley and Bud, riding for all they were worth, said little by the way. Now and then the boy stole glances at the man's face, and the dead weight of sorrow settled like lead, the heavier, upon his heart. Too well he knew the dangers of the desert. He could almost read Gardley's fears in the white, drawn look about his lips, the ashen circles under his eyes, the tense, strained pose of his whole figure. Gardley's mind was urging ahead of his steed, and his body could not relax. He was anxious to go a little faster, yet his judgment knew it would not do, for his horse would play out before he could get another. They ate their corn bread in the saddle, and only turned aside from the trail once to drink at a water-hole and fill their cans. They rode late into the night, with only the stars and their wits to guide them. When they stopped to rest they did not wait to make a fire, but hobbled the horses where they might feed, and, rolling quickly in their blankets, lay down upon the ground. Bud, with the fatigue of healthy youth, would have slept till morning in spite of his fears, but Gardley woke him in a couple of hours, made him drink some water and eat a bite of food, and they went on their way again. When morning broke they were almost to the entrance of Keams Cañon and both looked haggard and worn. Bud seemed to have aged in the night, and Gardley looked at him almost tenderly. "Are you all in, kid?" he asked. "Naw!" answered Bud, promptly, with an assumed cheerfulness. "Feeling like a four-year-old. Get on to that sky? Guess we're going to have some day! Pretty as a red wagon!" Gardley smiled sadly. What would that day bring forth for the two who went in search of her they loved? His great anxiety was to get to Keams Cañon and inquire. They would surely know at the trading-post whether the missionary and his party had gone that way. The road was still almost impassable from the flood; the two dauntless riders picked their way slowly down the trail to the post. But the trader could tell them nothing comforting. The missionary had not been that way in two months, and there had been no party and no lady there that week. A single strange Indian had come down the trail above the day before, stayed awhile, picked a quarrel with some men who were there, and then ridden back up the steep trail again. He might have had a party with him up on the mesa, waiting. He had said something about his squaw. The trader admitted that he might have been drunk, but he frowned as he spoke of him. He called him a "bad Indian." Something unpleasant had evidently happened. The trader gave them a good, hot dinner, of which they stood sorely in need, and because they realized that they must keep up their strength they took the time to eat it. Then, procuring fresh horses, they climbed the steep trail in the direction the trader said the Indian had taken. It was a slender clue, but it was all they had, and they must follow it. And now the travelers were very silent, as if they felt they were drawing near to some knowledge that would settle the question for them one way or the other. As they reached the top at last, where they could see out across the plain, each drew a long breath like a gasp and looked about, half fearing what he might see. Yes, there was the sign of a recent camp-fire, and a few tin cans and bits of refuse, nothing more. Gardley got down and searched carefully. Bud even crept about upon his hands and knees, but a single tiny blue bead like a grain of sand was all that rewarded his efforts. Some Indian had doubtless camped here. That was all the evidence. Standing thus in hopeless uncertainty what to do next, they suddenly heard voices. Something familiar once or twice made Gardley lift his whistle and blow a blast. Instantly a silvery answer came ringing from the mesa a mile or so away and woke the echoes in the cañon. Jasper Kemp and his party had taken the longer way around instead of going down the cañon, and were just arriving at the spot where Margaret and the squaw had waited two days before for their drunken guide. But Jasper Kemp's whistle rang out again, and he shot three times into the air, their signal to wait for some important news. Breathlessly and in silence the two waited till the coming of the rest of the party, and cast themselves down on the ground, feeling the sudden need of support. Now that there was a possibility of some news, they felt hardly able to bear it, and the waiting for it was intolerable, to such a point of anxious tension were they strained. But when the party from Ganado came in sight their faces wore no brightness of good news. Their greetings were quiet, sad, anxious, and Jasper Kemp held out to Gardley an envelope. It was the one from Margaret's mother's letter that she had dropped upon the trail. "We found it on the way from Ganado, just as we entered Steamboat Cañon," explained Jasper. "And didn't you search for a trail off in any other direction?" asked Gardley, almost sharply. "They have not been here. At least only one Indian has been down to the trader's." "There was no other trail. We looked," said Jasper, sadly. "There was a camp-fire twice, and signs of a camp. We felt sure they had come this way." Gardley shook his head and a look of abject despair came over his face. "There is no sign here," he said. "They must have gone some other way. Perhaps the Indian has carried her off. Are the other men following?" "No, Rogers sent them in the other direction after his girl. They found the camp all right. Bud tell you? We made sure we had found our trail and would not need them." Gardley dropped his head and almost groaned. Meanwhile the missionary had been riding around in radiating circles from the dead camp-fire, searching every step of the way; and Bud, taking his cue from him, looked off toward the mesa a minute, then struck out in a straight line for it and rode off like mad. Suddenly there was heard a shout loud and long, and Bud came riding back, waving something small and white above his head. They gathered in a little knot, waiting for the boy, not speaking; and when he halted in their midst he fluttered down the handkerchief to Gardley. "It's hers, all right. Gotter name all written out on the edge!" he declared, radiantly. The sky grew brighter to them all now. Eagerly Gardley sprang into his saddle, no longer weary, but alert and eager for the trail. "You folks better go down to the trader's and get some dinner. You'll need it! Bud and I'll go on. Mrs. Brownleigh looks all in." "No," declared Hazel, decidedly. "We'll just snatch a bite here and follow you at once. I couldn't enjoy a dinner till I know she is safe." And so, though both Jasper Kemp and her husband urged her otherwise, she would take a hasty meal by the way and hurry on. But Bud and Gardley waited not for others. They plunged wildly ahead. It seemed a long way to the eager hunters, from the place where Bud had found the handkerchief to the little note twisted around the red chessman. It was perhaps nearly a mile, and both the riders had searched in all directions for some time before Gardley spied it. Eagerly he seized upon the note, recognizing the little red manikin with which he had whiled away an hour with Margaret during one of her visits at the camp. The note was written large and clear upon a sheet of writing-paper: "I am Margaret Earle, school-teacher at Ashland. I am supposed to be traveling to Walpi, by way of Keams, to meet Mr. and Mrs. Brownleigh of Ganado. I am with an Indian, his squaw and papoose. The Indian said he was sent to guide me, but he is drunk now and I am frightened. He has acted strangely all the way. I do not know where I am. Please come and help me." Bud, sitting anxious like a statue upon his horse, read Gardley's face as Gardley read the note. Then Gardley read it aloud to Bud, and before the last word was fairly out of his mouth both man and boy started as if they had heard Margaret's beloved voice calling them. It was not long before Bud found another scrap of paper a half-mile farther on, and then another and another, scattered at great distances along the way. The only way they had of being sure she had dropped them was that they seemed to be the same kind of paper as that upon which the note was written. How that note with its brave, frightened appeal wrung the heart of Gardley as he thought of Margaret, unprotected, in terror and perhaps in peril, riding on she knew not where. What trials and fears had she not already passed through! What might she not be experiencing even now while he searched for her? It was perhaps two hours before he found the little white stocking dropped where the trail divided, showing which way she had taken. Gardley folded it reverently and put it in his pocket. An hour later Bud pounced upon the bedroom slipper and carried it gleefully to Gardley; and so by slow degrees, finding here and there a chessman or more paper, they came at last to the camp where the Indians had abandoned their trust and fled, leaving Margaret alone in the wilderness. It was then that Gardley searched in vain for any further clue, and, riding wide in every direction, stopped and called her name again and again, while the sun grew lower and lower and shadows crept in lurking-places waiting for the swift-coming night. It was then that Bud, flying frantically from one spot to another, got down upon his knees behind a sage-bush when Gardley was not looking and mumbled a rough, hasty prayer for help. He felt like the old woman who, on being told that nothing but God could save the ship, exclaimed, "And has it come to that?" Bud had felt all his life that there was a remote time in every life when one might need to believe in prayer. The time had come for Bud. * * * * * Margaret, on her knees in the sand of the desert praying for help, remembered the promise, "Before they call I will answer, and while they are yet speaking I will hear," and knew not that her deliverers were on the way. The sun had been hot as it beat down upon the whiteness of the sand, and the girl had crept under a sage-bush for shelter from it. The pain in her ankle was sickening. She had removed her shoe and bound the ankle about with a handkerchief soaked with half of her bottle of witch-hazel, and so, lying quiet, had fallen asleep, too exhausted with pain and anxiety to stay awake any longer. When she awoke again the softness of evening was hovering over everything, and she started up and listened. Surely, surely, she had heard a voice calling her! She sat up sharply and listened. Ah! There it was again, a faint echo in the distance. Was it a voice, or was it only her dreams mingling with her fancies? Travelers in deserts, she had read, took all sorts of fancies, saw mirages, heard sounds that were not. But she had not been out long enough to have caught such a desert fever. Perhaps she was going to be sick. Still that faint echo made her heart beat wildly. She dragged herself to her knees, then to her feet, standing painfully with the weight on her well foot. The suffering horse turned his anguished eyes and whinnied. Her heart ached for him, yet there was no way she could assuage his pain or put him out of his misery. But she must make sure if she had heard a voice. Could she possibly scale that rock down which she and her horse had fallen? For then she might look out farther and see if there were any one in sight. Painfully she crawled and crept, up and up, inch by inch, until at last she gained the little height and could look afar. There was no living thing in sight. The air was very clear. The eagle had found his evening rest somewhere in a quiet crag. The long corn waved on the distant plain, and all was deathly still once more. There was a hint of coming sunset in the sky. Her heart sank, and she was about to give up hope entirely, when, rich and clear, there it came again! A voice in the wilderness calling her name: "Margaret! Margaret!" The tears rushed to her eyes and crowded in her throat. She could not answer, she was so overwhelmed; and though she tried twice to call out, she could make no sound. But the call kept coming again and again: "Margaret! Margaret!" and it was Gardley's voice. Impossible! For Gardley was far away and could not know her need. Yet it was his voice. Had she died, or was she in delirium that she seemed to hear him calling her name? But the call came clearer now: "Margaret! Margaret! I am coming!" and like a flash her mind went back to the first night in Arizona when she heard him singing, "From the Desert I Come to Thee!" Now she struggled to her feet again and shouted, inarticulately and gladly through her tears. She could see him. It was Gardley. He was riding fast toward her, and he shot three shots into the air above him as he rode, and three shrill blasts of his whistle rang out on the still evening air. She tore the scarf from her neck that she had tied about it to keep the sun from blistering her, and waved it wildly in the air now, shouting in happy, choking sobs. And so he came to her across the desert! He sprang down before the horse had fairly reached her side, and, rushing to her, took her in his arms. "Margaret! My darling! I have found you at last!" She swayed and would have fallen but for his arms, and then he saw her white face and knew she must be suffering. "You are hurt!" he cried. "Oh, what have they done to you?" And he laid her gently down upon the sand and dropped on his knees beside her. "Oh no," she gasped, joyously, with white lips. "I'm all right now. Only my ankle hurts a little. We had a fall, the horse and I. Oh, go to him at once and put him out of his pain. I'm sure his legs are broken." For answer Gardley put the whistle to his lips and blew a blast. He would not leave her for an instant. He was not sure yet that she was not more hurt than she had said. He set about discovering at once, for he had brought with him supplies for all emergencies. It was Bud who came riding madly across the mesa in answer to the call, reaching Gardley before any one else. Bud with his eyes shining, his cheeks blazing with excitement, his hair wildly flying in the breeze, his young, boyish face suddenly grown old with lines of anxiety. But you wouldn't have known from his greeting that it was anything more than a pleasure excursion he had been on the past two days. "Good work, Kid! Whatcha want me t' do?" It was Bud who arranged the camp and went back to tell the other detachments that Margaret was found; Bud who led the pack-horse up, unpacked the provisions, and gathered wood to start a fire. Bud was everywhere, with a smudged face, a weary, gray look around his eyes, and his hair sticking "seven ways for Sunday." Yet once, when his labors led him near to where Margaret lay weak and happy on a couch of blankets, he gave her an unwonted pat on her shoulder and said in a low tone: "Hello, Gang! See you kept your nerve with you!" and then he gave her a grin all across his dirty, tired face, and moved away as if he were half ashamed of his emotion. But it was Bud again who came and talked with her to divert her so that she wouldn't notice when they shot her horse. He talked loudly about a coyote they shot the night before, and a cottontail they saw at Keams, and when he saw that she understood what the shot meant, and there were tears in her eyes, he gave her hand a rough, bear squeeze and said, gruffly: "You should worry! He's better off now!" And when Gardley came back he took himself thoughtfully to a distance and busied himself opening tins of meat and soup. In another hour the Brownleighs arrived, having heard the signals, and they had a supper around the camp-fire, everybody so rejoiced that there were still quivers in their voices; and when any one laughed it sounded like the echo of a sob, so great had been the strain of their anxiety. Gardley, sitting beside Margaret in the starlight afterward, her hand in his, listened to the story of her journey, the strong, tender pressure of his fingers telling her how deeply it affected him to know the peril through which she had passed. Later, when the others were telling gay stories about the fire, and Bud lying full length in their midst had fallen fast asleep, these two, a little apart from the rest, were murmuring their innermost thoughts in low tones to each other, and rejoicing that they were together once more. CHAPTER XXXIV They talked it over the next morning at breakfast as they sat around the fire. Jasper Kemp thought he ought to get right back to attend to things. Mr. Rogers was all broken up, and might even need him to search for Rosa if they had not found out her whereabouts yet. He and Fiddling Boss, who had come along, would start back at once. They had had a good night's rest and had found their dear lady. What more did they need? Besides, there were not provisions for an indefinite stay for such a large party, and there were none too many sources of supply in this region. The missionary thought that, now he was here, he ought to go on to Walpi. It was not more than two hours' ride there, and Hazel could stay with the camp while Margaret's ankle had a chance to rest and let the swelling subside under treatment. Margaret, however, rebelled. She did not wish to be an invalid, and was very sure she could ride without injury to her ankle. She wanted to see Walpi and the queer Hopi Indians, now she was so near. So a compromise was agreed upon. They would all wait in camp a couple of days, and then if Margaret felt well enough they would go on, visit the Hopis, and so go home together. Bud pleaded to be allowed to stay with them, and Jasper Kemp promised to make it all right with his parents. So for two whole, long, lovely days the little party of five camped on the mesa and enjoyed sweet converse. It is safe to say that never in all Bud's life will he forget or get away from the influences of that day in such company. Gardley and the missionary proved to be the best of physicians, and Margaret's ankle improved hourly under their united treatment of compresses, lotions, and rest. About noon on Saturday they broke camp, mounted their horses, and rode away across the stretch of white sand, through tall cornfields growing right up out of the sand, closer and closer to the great mesa with the castle-like pueblos five hundred feet above them on the top. It seemed to Margaret like suddenly being dropped into Egypt or the Holy Land, or some of the Babylonian excavations, so curious and primitive and altogether different from anything else she had ever seen did it all appear. She listened, fascinated, while Brownleigh told about this strange Hopi land, the strangest spot in America. Spanish explorers found them away back years before the Pilgrims landed, and called the country Tuscayan. They built their homes up high for protection from their enemies. They lived on the corn, pumpkins, peaches, and melons which they raised in the valley, planting the seeds with their hands. It is supposed they got their seeds first from the Spaniards years ago. They make pottery, cloth, and baskets, and are a busy people. There are seven villages built on three mesas in the northern desert. One of the largest, Orabi, has a thousand inhabitants. Walpi numbers about two hundred and thirty people, all living in this one great building of many rooms. They are divided into brotherhoods, or phratries, and each brotherhood has several large families. They are ruled by a speaker chief and a war chief elected by a council of clan elders. Margaret learned with wonder that all the water these people used had to be carried by the women in jars on their backs five hundred feet up the steep trail. Presently, as they drew nearer, a curious man with his hair "banged" like a child's, and garments much like those usually worn by scarecrows--a shapeless kind of shirt and trousers--appeared along the steep and showed them the way up. Margaret and the missionary's wife exclaimed in horror over the little children playing along the very edge of the cliffs above as carelessly as birds in trees. High up on the mesa at last, how strange and weird it seemed! Far below the yellow sand of the valley; fifteen miles away a second mesa stretching dark; to the southwest, a hundred miles distant, the dim outlines of the San Francisco peaks. Some little children on burros crossing the sand below looked as if they were part of a curious moving-picture, not as if they were little living beings taking life as seriously as other children do. The great, wide desert stretching far! The bare, solid rocks beneath their feet! The curious houses behind them! It all seemed unreal to Margaret, like a great picture-book spread out for her to see. She turned from gazing and found Gardley's eyes upon her adoringly, a tender understanding of her mood in his glance. She thrilled with pleasure to be here with him; a soft flush spread over her cheeks and a light came into her eyes. They found the Indians preparing for one of their most famous ceremonies, the snake dance, which was to take place in a few days. For almost a week the snake priests had been busy hunting rattlesnakes, building altars, drawing figures in the sand, and singing weird songs. On the ninth day the snakes are washed in a pool and driven near a pile of sand. The priests, arrayed in paint, feathers, and charms, come out in line and, taking the live snakes in their mouths, parade up and down the rocks, while the people crowd the roofs and terraces of the pueblos to watch. There are helpers to whip the snakes and keep them from biting, and catchers to see that none get away. In a little while the priests take the snakes down on the desert and set them free, sending them north, south, east, and west, where it is supposed they will take the people's prayers for rain to the water serpent in the underworld, who is in some way connected with the god of the rain-clouds. It was a strange experience, that night in Walpi: the primitive accommodations; the picturesque, uncivilized people; the shy glances from dark, eager eyes. To watch two girls grinding corn between two stones, and a little farther off their mother rolling out her dough with an ear of corn, and cooking over an open fire, her pot slung from a crude crane over the blaze--it was all too unreal to be true. But the most interesting thing about it was to watch the "Aneshodi" going about among them, his face alight with warm, human love; his hearty laugh ringing out in a joke that the Hopis seemed to understand, making himself one with them. It came to Margaret suddenly to remember the pompous little figure of the Rev. Frederick West, and to fancy him going about among these people and trying to do them good. Before she knew what she was doing she laughed aloud at the thought. Then, of course, she had to explain to Bud and Gardley, who looked at her inquiringly. "Aw! Gee! _Him?_ _He_ wasn't a minister! He was a _mistake_! Fergit him, the poor simp!" growled Bud, sympathetically. Then his eyes softened as he watched Brownleigh playing with three little Indian maids, having a fine romp. "Gee! he certainly is a peach, isn't he?" he murmured, his whole face kindling appreciatively. "Gee! I bet that kid never forgets that!" The Sunday was a wonderful day, when the missionary gathered the people together and spoke to them in simple words of God--their god who made the sky, the stars, the mountains, and the sun, whom they call by different names, but whom He called God. He spoke of the Book of Heaven that told about God and His great love for men, so great that He sent His son to save them from their sin. It was not a long sermon, but a very beautiful one; and, listening to the simple, wonderful words of life that fell from the missionary's earnest lips and were translated by his faithful Indian interpreter, who always went with him on his expeditions, watching the faces of the dark, strange people as they took in the marvelous meaning, the little company of visitors was strangely moved. Even Bud, awed beyond his wont, said, shyly, to Margaret: "Gee! It's something fierce not to be born a Christian and know all that, ain't it?" Margaret and Gardley walked a little way down the narrow path that led out over the neck of rock less than a rod wide that connects the great promontory with the mesa. The sun was setting in majesty over the desert, and the scene was one of breathless beauty. One might fancy it might look so to stand on the hills of God and look out over creation when all things have been made new. They stood for a while in silence. Then Margaret looked down at the narrow path worn more than a foot deep in the solid rock by the ten generations of feet that had been passing over it. "Just think," she said, "of all the feet, little and big, that have walked here in all the years, and of all the souls that have stood and looked out over this wonderful sight! It must be that somehow in spite of their darkness they have reached out to the God who made this, and have found a way to His heart. They couldn't look at this and not feel Him, could they? It seems to me that perhaps some of those poor creatures who have stood here and reached up blindly after the Creator of their souls have, perhaps, been as pleasing to Him as those who have known about Him from childhood." Gardley was used to her talking this way. He had not been in her Sunday meetings for nothing. He understood and sympathized, and now his hand reached softly for hers and held it tenderly. After a moment of silence he said: "I surely think if God could reach and find me in the desert of my life, He must have found them. I sometimes think I was a greater heathen than all these, because I knew and would not see." Margaret nestled her hand in his and looked up joyfully into his face. "I'm so glad you know Him now!" she murmured, happily. They stood for some time looking out over the changing scene, till the crimson faded into rose, the silver into gray; till the stars bloomed out one by one, and down in the valley across the desert a light twinkled faintly here and there from the camps of the Hopi shepherds. They started home at daybreak the next morning, the whole company of Indians standing on the rocks to send them royally on their way, pressing simple, homely gifts upon them and begging them to return soon again and tell the blessed story. A wonderful ride they had back to Ganado, where Gardley left Margaret for a short visit, promising to return for her in a few days when she was rested, and hastened back to Ashland to his work; for his soul was happy now and at ease, and he felt he must get to work at once. Rogers would need him. Poor Rogers! Had he found his daughter yet? Poor, silly child-prodigal! But when Gardley reached Ashland he found among his mail awaiting him a telegram. His uncle was dead, and the fortune which he had been brought up to believe was his, and which he had idly tossed away in a moment of recklessness, had been restored to him by the uncle's last will, made since Gardley's recent visit home. The fortune was his again! Gardley sat in his office on the Rogers ranch and stared hard at the adobe wall opposite his desk. That fortune would be great! He could do such wonderful things for Margaret now. They could work out their dreams together for the people they loved. He could see the shadows of those dreams--a beautiful home for Margaret out on the trail she loved, where wildness and beauty and the mountain she called hers were not far away; horses in plenty and a luxurious car when they wanted to take a trip; journeys East as often as they wished; some of the ideal appliances for the school that Margaret loved; a church for the missionary and convenient halls where he could speak at his outlying districts; a trip to the city for Mom Wallis, where she might see a real picture-gallery, her one expressed desire this side of heaven, now that she had taken to reading Browning and had some of it explained to her. Oh, and a lot of wonderful things! These all hung in the dream-picture before Gardley's eyes as he sat at his desk with that bit of yellow paper in his hand. He thought of what that money had represented to him in the past. Reckless days and nights of folly as a boy and young man at college; ruthless waste of time, money, youth; shriveling of soul, till Margaret came and found and rescued him! How wonderful that he had been rescued! That he had come to his senses at last, and was here in a man's position, doing a man's work in the world! Now, with all that money, there was no need for him to work and earn more. He could live idly all his days and just have a good time--make others happy, too. But still he would not have this exhilarating feeling that he was supplying his own and Margaret's necessities by the labor of hand and brain. The little telegram in his hand seemed somehow to be trying to snatch from him all this material prosperity that was the symbol of that spiritual regeneration which had become so dear to him. He put his head down on his clasped hands upon the desk then and prayed. Perhaps it was the first great prayer of his life. "O God, let me be strong enough to stand this that has come upon me. Help me to be a man in spite of money! Don't let me lose my manhood and my right to work. Help me to use the money in the right way and not to dwarf myself, nor spoil our lives with it." It was a great prayer for a man such as Gardley had been, and the answer came swiftly in his conviction. He lifted up his head with purpose in his expression, and, folding the telegram, put it safely back into his pocket. He would not tell Margaret of it--not just yet. He would think it out--just the right way--and he did not believe he meant to give up his position with Rogers. He had accepted it for a year in good faith, and it was his business to fulfil the contract. Meantime, this money would perhaps make possible his marriage with Margaret sooner than he had hoped. Five minutes later Rogers telephoned to the office. "I've decided to take that shipment of cattle and try that new stock, provided you will go out and look at them and see that everything is all O. K. I couldn't go myself now. Don't feel like going anywhere, you know. You wouldn't need to go for a couple of weeks. I've just had a letter from the man, and he says he won't be ready sooner. Say, why don't you and Miss Earle get married and make this a wedding-trip? She could go to the Pacific coast with you. It would be a nice trip. Then I could spare you for a month or six weeks when you got back if you wanted to take her East for a little visit." Why not? Gardley stumbled out his thanks and hung up the receiver, his face full of the light of a great joy. How were the blessings pouring down upon his head these days? Was it a sign that God was pleased with his action in making good what he could where he had failed? And Rogers! How kind he was! Poor Rogers, with his broken heart and his stricken home! For Rosa had come home again a sadder, wiser child; and her father seemed crushed with the disgrace of it all. Gardley went to Margaret that very afternoon. He told her only that he had had some money left him by his uncle, which would make it possible for him to marry at once and keep her comfortably now. He was to be sent to California on a business trip. Would she be married and go with him? Margaret studied the telegram in wonder. She had never asked Gardley much about his circumstances. The telegram merely stated that his uncle's estate was left to him. To her simple mind an estate might be a few hundred dollars, enough to furnish a plain little home; and her face lighted with joy over it. She asked no questions, and Gardley said no more about the money. He had forgotten that question, comparatively, in the greater possibility of joy. Would she be married in ten days and go with him? Her eyes met his with an answering joy, and yet he could see that there was a trouble hiding somewhere. He presently saw what it was without needing to be told. Her father and mother! Of course, they would be disappointed! They would want her to be married at home! "But Rogers said we could go and visit them for several weeks on our return," he said; and Margaret's face lighted up. "Oh, that would be beautiful," she said, wistfully; "and perhaps they won't mind so much--though I always expected father would marry me if I was ever married; still, if we can go home so soon and for so long--and Mr. Brownleigh would be next best, of course." "But, of course, your father must marry you," said Gardley, determinedly. "Perhaps we could persuade him to come, and your mother, too." "Oh no, they couldn't possibly," said Margaret, quickly, a shade of sadness in her eyes. "You know it costs a lot to come out here, and ministers are never rich." It was then that Gardley's eyes lighted with joy. His money could take this bugbear away, at least. However, he said nothing about the money. "Suppose we write to your father and mother and put the matter before them. See what they say. We'll send the letters to-night. You write your mother and I'll write your father." Margaret agreed and sat down at once to write her letter, while Gardley, on the other side of the room, wrote his, scratching away contentedly with his fountain-pen and looking furtively now and then toward the bowed head over at the desk. Gardley did not read his letter to Margaret. She wondered a little at this, but did not ask, and the letters were mailed, with special-delivery stamps on them. Gardley awaited their replies with great impatience. He filled in the days of waiting with business. There were letters to write connected with his fortune, and there were arrangements to be made for his trip. But the thing that occupied the most of his time and thought was the purchase and refitting of a roomy old ranch-house in a charming location, not more than three miles from Ashland, on the road to the camp. It had been vacant for a couple of years past, the owner having gone abroad permanently and the place having been offered for sale. Margaret had often admired it in her trips to and from the camp, and Gardley thought of it at once when it became possible for him to think of purchasing a home in the West. There was a great stone fireplace, and the beams of the ceilings and pillars of the porch and wide, hospitable rooms were of tree-trunks with the bark on them. With a little work it could be made roughly but artistically habitable. Gardley had it cleaned up, not disturbing the tangle of vines and shrubbery that had had their way since the last owner had left them and which had made a perfect screen from the road for the house. Behind this screen the men worked--most of them the men from the bunk-house, whom Gardley took into his confidence. The floors were carefully scrubbed under the direction of Mom Wallis, and the windows made shining. Then the men spent a day bringing great loads of tree-boughs and filling the place with green fragrance, until the big living-room looked like a woodland bower. Gardley made a raid upon some Indian friends of his and came back with several fine Navajo rugs and blankets, which he spread about the room luxuriously on the floor and over the rude benches which the men had constructed. They piled the fireplace with big logs, and Gardley took over some of his own personal possessions that he had brought back from the East with him to give the place a livable look. Then he stood back satisfied. The place was fit to bring his bride and her friends to. Not that it was as it should be. That would be for Margaret to do, but it would serve as a temporary stopping-place if there came need. If no need came, why, the place was there, anyway, hers and his. A tender light grew in his eyes as he looked it over in the dying light of the afternoon. Then he went out and rode swiftly to the telegraph-office and found these two telegrams, according to the request in his own letter to Mr. Earle. Gardley's telegram read: Congratulations. Will come as you desire. We await your advice. Have written.--FATHER. He saddled his horse and hurried to Margaret with hers, and together they read: Dear child! So glad for you. Of course you will go. I am sending you some things. Don't take a thought for us. We shall look forward to your visit. Our love to you both.--MOTHER. Margaret, folded in her lover's arms, cried out her sorrow and her joy, and lifted up her face with happiness. Then Gardley, with great joy, thought of the surprise he had in store for her and laid his face against hers to hide the telltale smile in his eyes. For Gardley, in his letter to his future father-in-law, had written of his newly inherited fortune, and had not only inclosed a check for a good sum to cover all extra expense of the journey, but had said that a private car would be at their disposal, not only for themselves, but for any of Margaret's friends and relatives whom they might choose to invite. As he had written this letter he was filled with deep thanksgiving that it was in his power to do this thing for his dear girl-bride. The morning after the telegrams arrived Gardley spent several hours writing telegrams and receiving them from a big department store in the nearest great city, and before noon a big shipment of goods was on its way to Ashland. Beds, bureaus, wash-stands, chairs, tables, dishes, kitchen utensils, and all kinds of bedding, even to sheets and pillow-cases, he ordered with lavish hand. After all, he must furnish the house himself, and let Margaret weed it out or give it away afterward, if she did not like it. He was going to have a house party and he must be ready. When all was done and he was just about to mount his horse again he turned back and sent another message, ordering a piano. "Why, it's _great_!" he said to himself, as he rode back to his office. "It's simply great to be able to do things just when I need them! I never knew what fun money was before. But then I never had Margaret to spend it for, and she's worth the whole of it at once!" The next thing he ordered was a great easy carriage with plenty of room to convey Mother Earle and her friends from the train to the house. The days went by rapidly enough, and Margaret was so busy that she had little time to wonder and worry why her mother did not write her the long, loving, motherly good-by letter to her little girlhood that she had expected to get. Not until three days before the wedding did it come over her that she had had but three brief, scrappy letters from her mother, and they not a whole page apiece. What could be the matter with mother? She was almost on the point of panic when Gardley came and bundled her on to her horse for a ride. Strangely enough, he directed their way through Ashland and down to the station, and it was just about the time of the arrival of the evening train. Gardley excused himself for a moment, saying something about an errand, and went into the station. Margaret sat on her horse, watching the oncoming train, the great connecting link between East and West, and wondered if it would bring a letter from mother. The train rushed to a halt, and behold some passengers were getting off from a private car! Margaret watched them idly, thinking more about an expected letter than about the people. Then suddenly she awoke to the fact that Gardley was greeting them. Who could they be? There were five of them, and one of them looked like Jane! Dear Jane! She had forgotten to write her about this hurried wedding. How different it all was going to be from what she and Jane had planned for each other in their dear old school-day dreams! And that young man that Gardley was shaking hands with now looked like Cousin Dick! She hadn't seen him for three years, but he must look like that now; and the younger girl beside him might be Cousin Emily! But, oh, who were the others? _Father!_ And MOTHER! Margaret sprang from her horse with a bound and rushed into her mother's arms. The interested passengers craned their necks and looked their fill with smiles of appreciation as the train took up its way again, having dropped the private car on the side track. Dick and Emily rode the ponies to the house, while Margaret nestled in the back seat of the carriage between her father and mother, and Jane got acquainted with Gardley in the front seat of the carriage. Margaret never even noticed where they were going until the carriage turned in and stopped before the door of the new house, and Mrs. Tanner, furtively casting behind her the checked apron she had worn, came out to shake hands with the company and tell them supper was all ready, before she went back to her deserted boarding-house. Even Bud was going to stay at the new house that night, in some cooked-up capacity or other, and all the men from the bunk-house were hiding out among the trees to see Margaret's father and mother and shake hands if the opportunity offered. The wonder and delight of Margaret when she saw the house inside and knew that it was hers, the tears she shed and smiles that grew almost into hysterics when she saw some of the incongruous furnishings, are all past describing. Margaret was too happy to think. She rushed from one room to another. She hugged her mother and linked her arm in her father's for a walk across the long piazza; she talked to Emily and Dick and Jane; and then rushed out to find Gardley and thank him again. And all this time she could not understand how Gardley had done it, for she had not yet comprehended his fortune. Gardley had asked his sisters to come to the wedding, not much expecting they would accept, but they had telegraphed at the last minute they would be there. They arrived an hour or so before the ceremony; gushed over Margaret; told Gardley she was a "sweet thing"; said the house was "dandy for a house party if one had plenty of servants, but they should think it would be dull in winter"; gave Margaret a diamond sunburst pin, a string of pearls, and an emerald bracelet set in diamond chips; and departed immediately after the ceremony. They had thought they were the chief guests, but the relief that overspread the faces of those guests who were best beloved by both bride and groom was at once visible on their departure. Jasper Kemp drew a long breath and declared to Long Bill that he was glad the air was growing pure again. Then all those old friends from the bunk-house filed in to the great tables heavily loaded with good things, the abundant gift of the neighborhood, and sat down to the wedding supper, heartily glad that the "city lady and her gals"--as Mom Wallis called them in a suppressed whisper--had chosen not to stay over a train. The wedding had been in the school-house, embowered in foliage and all the flowers the land afforded, decorated by the loving hands of Margaret's pupils, old and young. She was attended by the entire school marching double file before her, strewing flowers in her way. The missionary's wife played the wedding-march, and the missionary assisted the bride's father with the ceremony. Margaret's dress was a simple white muslin, with a little real lace and embroidery handed down from former generations, the whole called into being by Margaret's mother. Even Gardley's sisters had said it was "perfectly dear." The whole neighborhood was at the wedding. And when the bountiful wedding-supper was eaten the entire company of favored guests stood about the new piano and sang "Blest Be the Tie that Binds"--with Margaret playing for them. Then there was a little hurry at the last, Margaret getting into the pretty traveling dress and hat her mother had brought, and kissing her mother good-by--though happily not for long this time. Mother and father and the rest of the home party were to wait until morning, and the missionary and his wife were to stay with them that night and see them to their car the next day. So, waving and throwing kisses back to the others, they rode away to the station, Bud pridefully driving the team from the front seat. Gardley had arranged for a private apartment on the train, and nothing could have been more luxurious in traveling than the place where he led his bride. Bud, scuttling behind with a suit-case, looked around him with all his eyes before he said a hurried good-by, and murmured under his breath: "Gee! Wisht I was goin' all the way!" Bud hustled off as the train got under way, and Margaret and Gardley went out to the observation platform to wave a last farewell. The few little blurring lights of Ashland died soon in the distance, and the desert took on its vast wideness beneath a starry dome; but off in the East a purple shadow loomed, mighty and majestic, and rising slowly over its crest a great silver disk appeared, brightening as it came and pouring a silver mist over the purple peak. "My mountain!" said Margaret, softly. And Gardley, drawing her close to him, stooped to lay his lips upon hers. "My darling!" he answered. THE END 
21050	----	The Master of the Shell By Talbot Baines Reed ________________________________________________________________________ I did find the start of this book to be rather annoying, for it can never have been realistic that a school would advertise for a form-master and house-master. Even in those days it would have been absolutely normal that a house-master would undergo a long period as a junior master before even being asked to take a house at some time in the future. This would be something like five years on the staff, and then a further ten years before actually taking charge of a house. As for being Master of the Shell, again, there would be a period of probation while a young man was learning the ropes about teaching, before he would become head of a Block, such as Shell. In my school there was a Shell, but it was rather a side alley, rather than the broad avenue leading to the Sixth Form. It was usual for the Head of a Block to be a man who had done his fifteen years as a house master, and who had therefore been on the staff for thirty years or more. One last point about appointing a young master to a school: he would be expected to play a full part in sport or other outdoor activities. Our hero had indeed been an Oxford Blue, and he could have got a job on the basis of this and his academic record. But he would never have been accepted if he mentioned that he was planning soon to marry, for the school needed him heart and soul as a bachelor for at least five years. On the other hand it was quite desirable that he should marry before becoming a house master, though on the whole the most excellent house masters are the unmarried ones. It takes quite a few chapters to get past the welter of nineteenth century school-boy slang before we get to any decisive fresh action. There was another house-master, who was an exceedingly nasty man. Some of the boys lay a trap for him, catch him, tie him up with a rope, and leave him for the night in the boot box, after which none of the boys will admit to this misdemeanour. By chance the hero, Mr Railsford, finds out who did it, but under circumstances which make it impossible for him to tell anyone. The nasty man tries to pin the deed on him, and it comes to the point where he has to resign rather than tell. Luckily he is saved at the very last moment, so late that his cab has arrived to take him to the station. When all is revealed, it is the nasty man that has to resign. We are left to presume that the school continued harmoniously for many a year, with Railsford still a house master, and Master of the Shell. N.H. ________________________________________________________________________ THE MASTER OF THE SHELL BY TALBOT BAINES REED CHAPTER ONE. TWICE ACCEPTED. The reader is requested kindly to glance through the following batch of letters, which, oddly enough, are all dated September 9th, 18---: Number 1.--William Grover, M.A., Grandcourt School, to Mark Railsford, M.A., Lucerne. "Grandcourt, _September_ 9th. "Dear Railsford,--I suppose this will catch you at Lucerne, on your way back to England. I was sorry to hear you had been seedy before you left London. Your trip is sure to have done you good, and if you only fell in with pleasant people I expect you will have enjoyed yourself considerably. What are you going to do when you get home--still follow the profession of a gentleman at large, or what? Term opened here again last week, and the Sixth came back to-day. I'm getting more reconciled to the place by this time; indeed, there is no work I like better than teaching, and if I was as certain it was as good for the boys as it is congenial to me I should be perfectly contented. My fellow-masters, with an exception or two, are good fellows, and let me alone. The exceptions are harder to get on with. "As for the boys, I have a really nice lot in my house. One or two rowdies, who give me some bother, and one or two cads, with whom I am at war; but the rest are a festive, jovial crew, who tolerate their master when he lets them have their own way, and growl when he doesn't; who work when they are so disposed, and drop idle with the least provocation; who lead me many a weary dance through the lobbies after the gas is out, and now and then come and make themselves agreeable in my rooms when I invite them. "I fancied when I came here I should get lots of time to myself--enough perhaps to write my book on Comparative Political Economy. Vain hope! I haven't time to turn round. If my days were twenty-six hours I should scarcely then do all I ought to do here. Ponsford is getting old, and leaves the executive to his lieutenants. He sits aloft like Zeus, hurls a thunderbolt now and then, and for the rest acts as a supreme court of appeal. Bickers, my opposite neighbour, is still a thorn in my side. I don't know how it is, I try all I know, but I can't get on with him, and have given him up. Moss, I believe, who is Master of the Shell and head of a house, has come to the end of his endurance, and there is some talk of his throwing up his place here. It would be a pity in many ways, and it might be hard to get a good man in his place. "By the way, if there is a vacancy, why should not you enter the lists? I see you smile at the idea of anyone exchanging the profession of gentleman at large for that of Master of the Shell. But it's worth a thought, any how. Let us know where and how you are; and if you can run down this way for a Sunday, do, and make glad the heart of your friend,-- "W. Grover." No. 2.--Arthur Herapath, Esquire, Lucerne, to Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, Grandcourt. "Dear Dig,--Here's a game! The gov's been and lost a lot of the luggage, and ma won't go home without it, so we're booked here for a week more. He's written to Ponsford to say I can't turn up till next week, and says I'm doing some of the mug, so as not to be all behind. Jolly good joke of the gov.'s, isn't it? Catch me mugging here! "Stunning place, this! We went a picnic to--I say, by the way, while I remember it, do you know it's all a howling cram about William Tell? There never was such a chap! This is the place he used to hang out in, and everyone says it's all my eye what the history says about him. You'd better let Moss know. Tell him, from inquiries made by me on the spot, I find it's all humbug, and he'd better get some chap to write a new history who knows something about it. I was asking Railsford--by the way, he's a stunning chap. We ran up against him on the Saint Gothard, and he's been with us ever since. No end of a cheese! Rowed in the Cambridge boat three years ago, Number 4, when Oxford won by two feet. He says when you're rowing in a race you see nothing but the fellow's back in front of you. He's 6 feet 2, and scales 12 stone 14 pounds. That's why they put him Number 4; but he rowed stroke in his college boat. He's having a lot of fag about our luggage, but I'm in no hurry for it to turn up. "How are all the fellows? I guess I'm missing a lot of fun this week. Get some of them to keep something; till I come back. How's Tilbury? By the way, who am I stuck with this term? I don't want to get chummed again with that young ass Simson. Tell Moss that. Any more rows with Bickers's lot? There will be when I come back! I've got half a dozen of them in my eye. Gov. says I'll have to wake up this term. What a go! If I don't scrape into the Shell at Christmas, he says he'll know the reason why! So look out for no-larks. "This fellow Railsford's put me up to a thing or two about mugging. He was a hot man at Cambridge, and says he knew Grover. He's gone with Daisy up a mountain to-day. Wanted to take me, too, but I told them I didn't see it. I tried it once, that was enough for me! Ta-ta, old man; keep your pecker up till I come, and then mind your eye! "Yours truly,-- "A. Herapath, Ll.D." Number 3.--From Miss Daisy Herapath to Miss Emily Sherriff. "Lucerne, _Tuesday_. "My Dearest Milly,--We are in _such_ trouble! Two of our boxes have been lost between Como and here. One of them contained my new black grenadine with the Spanish lace. I have positively nothing to wear; and had to appear at _table d'hote_ in my blue serge and one of mamma's shawls. Just imagine! It is such a sad end to our holiday. I am longing to get home. Travelling abroad is all very nice, but one gets tired of it. I feel I shall like to settle down in town once more. "Poor papa has had so much trouble with the boxes, and must, have spent pounds in telegrams. It was really Arthur's fault. He sent the porter who was booking the luggage for us to get him some chocolate from the buffet, and the consequence was the train went off before all the boxes were put in the van. Dear Milly, _never_ travel abroad with your young brother! "I have been quite lazy about sketching the last few days. I can't tell you how lovely some of the sunsets have been. It is the regular thing to sit out in the hotel grounds and watch them. I wish so often you could be here to share my pleasure, for papa and mamma are afraid to sit out, and Arthur is so unpoetical! There are a great many Americans here. The fashion of short steeves seems quite to be coming in again! I shall have to get mine altered as soon as I come home. Some of our party went up the Rigi to-day. The view from the top was beautiful; but the place is spoiled by the crowds of people who go up. I so much prefer the quieter excursions. "I must go to bed now, dearest Milly. It will be lovely to see you soon. When one is away from home, one feels more than ever how nice it would be to have one's friends always about one. (What a lot of `ones'!) "Ever your very loving friend,-- "Daisy. "P.S.--We met the Thompsons at Como. Did you know Edith was to be married this autumn, quite quietly, in the country? The Walkleys are here, and one or two other people we know. Arthur has struck up with a Cambridge fellow, named Railsford, whom we met on the Saint Gothard, and who took _so_ much trouble about the luggage. It is so nice for Arthur to have a companion. Dearest Milly, he (M.R.) was one of the party who went up the Rigi to-day; he speaks German so well, and is so attentive to mamma. Don't be too horribly curious, darling; I'll tell you _everything_ when I get home. (He is _so_ good and handsome!)" Number 4.--Francis Herapath, Esquire, Merchant, to James Blake, Esquire, Solicitor. "_Private and Confidential_. "Dear Blake,--Being detained here owing to a miscarriage of some of our luggage, I write this instead of waiting till I see you, as it may be another week before we are home. "During our travels my daughter has become engaged to a Mr Mark Railsford, apparently a very desirable and respectable young man. You will wonder why I trouble you about such a very domestic detail. The young gentleman was very frank and straightforward in making his proposal, and volunteered that if I desired to make any inquiries, he was quite sure that you, his late father's solicitor, would answer any questions. I have no doubt, from the readiness with which he invited the inquiry and his satisfaction in hearing that you and I were old friends, that you will have nothing to say which will alter my favourable impression. Still, as my child's happiness is at stake, I have no right to omit any opportunity of satisfying myself. Anything you may have to say I shall value and treat as confidential. "I understand Mr R., under his father's will, has a small property; but of course it will be necessary for him now to find some occupation, which with his abilities I have no doubt he will easily do. As usual, the young people are in a hurry to know their fate, so it will be a charity to them to reply as soon as convenient. Excuse the trouble I am giving you, and, with kind regards to Mrs B. and your sister,-- "Believe me, yours faithfully,-- "Fras. Herapath." Number 5.--Mark Railsford to William Grover, Grandcourt. "Lucerne, _September_ 9th, 18---. "Dear Grover,--You have often in your lighter moods laughed at the humble individual who addresses you. Laugh once again. The fact is, I am engaged. I can fancy I see you reeling under this blow! I have been reeling under it for thirty-six hours. "It's partly your fault. Coming over the Saint Gothard a week ago, I fell in with a family party, Herapath by name; father, mother, boy and girl. They had come part of the way by train, and were driving over the top. The boy and I walked, and I discovered he was at Grandcourt, and of course knew you, though he's not in your house, but Moss's. That's how _you_ come to be mixed up in it. During the last hour or so Miss H--- walked with us, and before we reached the Devil's Bridge my fate was sealed. "The ladies were in great distress about some lost luggage--lost by the kind offices of the boy--and I went back to Como to look for it. It lost me two days, and I never found it. However, I found the brightest pair of blue eyes when I got back. I will draw you no portraits, you old scoffer; but I challenge you to produce out of your own imagination anything to match it. I don't mind confessing to you that I feel half dazed by it all at present, and have to kick myself pretty often to make sure it is not a dream. The father, whom I bearded yesterday, nods his head and will say `Yes' as soon as he's looked into my credentials. Meanwhile I am tolerated, and dread nothing except the premature turning up of the lost luggage. "But, to be practical for once in my life. Amongst much that is delightfully vague and dreamy, one thing stands out very clear in my own mind at present. I must do something. My loafing days are over. The profession of a gentleman at large, with which you twit me, I hereby renounce. She will back me up in any honest work--she says so. I've confessed the way I wasted the last three years. She said she is glad she did not know me then. Oh my, William, it is all very well for you to scoff. I'm not ashamed to tell you what it is that has brought me to my senses. Don't scoff, but help a lame dog over a stile. My object in life is to have an object in life at present. Give me your counsel, and deserve the benediction of someone besides your friend, M.R." The patient reader must infer what he can from these five letters. They are copied word for word from the original documents, and speak for themselves. I am unable to say whether the luggage was found--whether Miss Daisy got her sleeves altered to her liking--whether Arthur found any "fun" left on his arrival, a fortnight late, at Grandcourt, or how soon Mr Blake's reply to the father's letter reached Lucerne. All these momentous questions the reader can settle for himself as well as I can for him. He will at any rate be able to understand that when one day in October a telegram reached Railsford from Grandcourt with the brief announcement--"Vacancy here; see advertisement _Athenaeum_! am writing"--it created no small stir in the manly breast of the worthy to whom it was directed. He went at once to Westbourne Park and held a cabinet council with his chief adviser, and again, on returning home, called his sisters into consultation. He wrote to his college tutor, drew up a most elegant letter to the governors, read a few chapters of _Tom Brown's Schooldays_, and then waited impatiently for Grover's promised letter. "You will have guessed," said that letter, when it arrived, "from my telegram that Moss has resigned, and that there will be a vacancy for a house-master and Master of the Shell here at Christmas. You know how I would like to see you appointed. But--" "But what?" inquired someone who read the letter over the reader's shoulder. "I should not be your friend if I represented this place as a bed of roses, especially Moss's house. You'll have hard work to hold your own with the boys, and harder still with some of the masters. You will get more criticism than backing-up from head-quarters. Still it is a splendid opening for a man of courage like you; and all the school would profit by your success. Talk to Podmore about it; he'll give you good advice. So will Weston. Of course I can do nothing at all but look on sympathetically, and, if you try for the place and succeed, promise you at least one hearty welcome." "It seems pretty clear it won't be child's play," said Railsford, folding up the letter. "It would not suit you if it was," replied his adviser. This brave speech went far to make up Railsford's mind. In the house at Westbourne Park, particularly, the career opening before our hero was hailed with eager enthusiasm. "Dear Arthur" was in Moss's house, and at Christmas he would get his remove to the Shell. In both capacities he would have the protecting interest of his prospective brother-in-law, spread like an aegis over his innocent head. "It really seems almost a providential arrangement," said Mrs Herapath. "I am sure it will be a great thing for Arthur," said Daisy. "It makes one believe there's some truth in the saying that every man has his niche waiting for him somewhere in life," moralised Mr Herapath. That evening a letter came from Arthur to Daisy. The boy, of course, knew nothing of Railsford's candidature. "Such a flare-up!" wrote the youth. "Moss has got kicked out! He's jacked it up, and is going at Christmas. Jolly good job! He shouldn't have stopped the roast potatoes in the dormitories. Bickers's fellows have them; they can do what they like! Dig and I did the two mile spin in 11.19, but there was too much slush to put it on. All I can say is, I hope we'll get a fellow who is not a cad after Moss, especially as he will be Master of the Shell, and I'll get a dose of him both ways after Christmas. We mean not to let him get his head up like Moss did; we're going to take it out of him at first, and then he'll cave in and let us do as we like afterwards. Dig and I will get a study after Christmas. I wish you'd see about a carpet, and get the gov. to give us a picture or two; and we've got to get a rig-out of saucepans and kettles and a barometer and a canary, and all that. The room's 15 feet by 9, so see the carpet's the right size. Gedge says Turkey carpets are the best, so we'll have a Turkey. How's Railsford? Are you and he spoons still? Dig and the fellows roared when I told them about catching you two that time at Lucerne in the garden. You know, when I thought the window was being smashed? Could you lend me a bob's worth of stamps till Christmas? I'll pay you back. Dig says he once had a cousin who went spoons on a chap. He says it was an awful game to catch them at it. So, you see, we've lots to sympathise about. Love to all. "I am, yours truly,-- "Arthur. "P.S.--Don't forget the stamps. Two bob's worth will do as well." Daisy laughed and cried over this outrageous epistle, and hesitated about showing it to Mark. However, that happy youth only laughed, and produced half a crown, which he begged Daisy to add to her own contribution. "That's the sort of Young England I like!" said he. "It will be like a canter on a breezy moor to come in contact with fresh life and spirit like this, after wasting my time here for three years." "I expect you will find it breezy," said Daisy, recovering her smiles. "Arthur is a dreadful boy; it _will_ be so good for him to have you." At the end of a fortnight came a summons to Railsford, as one of six selected candidates, to appear and show himself to the governors. He had expected thus much of success, but the thought of the other five rendered him uncomfortable as he leaned back in the railway carriage and hardened himself for the ordeal before him. Grover had deemed it prudent not to display any particular interest in his arrival, but he contrived to pay a flying visit to his hotel that evening. "There's only one fellow likely to run you close--an Oxford man, first- class in classics, and a good running-man in his day. I think when they see you they'll prefer you. They will have the six up in alphabetical order, so you'll come last. That's a mercy. Take a tip from me, and don't seem too anxious for the place, it doesn't pay; and keep in with Ponsford." "Will he be there? Oh, of course. What sort of men are the governors?" "Very harmless. They'll want to know your character and your creed, and that sort of thing, and will leave all the rest to Ponsford." Next morning at 11.30 Railsford sat with his five fellow-martyrs in the ante-room of the governors' hall at Grandcourt. They talked to one another, these six unfortunates, about the weather, about the Midland Railway, about the picture on the wall. They watched one another as, in obedience to the summons from within, they disappeared one by one through the green baize door, and emerged a quarter or half an hour later with tinged cheeks, and taking up their hats, vanished into the open-air. Railsford was the only one left to witness the exit of the fifth candidate. Then the voice from within called, "Come in, Mr Railsford," and he knew his turn was come. It was less terrible than he expected. Half a score of middle-aged gentlemen round a table, some looking at him, some reading his testimonials, and one or two putting questions. Most of them indulgent to his embarrassment and even sharing it. Dr Ponsford, however, massive, stern, with his shaggy eyebrows and pursed mouth, was above any such weakness. "What have you been doing since you left college?" demanded he, presently fixing the candidate with his eyes. It was a home question. Railsford answered it honestly, if hesitatingly. "I was unfortunately not under the necessity of working," he added, after going through the catalogue of his abortive studies, "that is, not for my livelihood." Some of the governors nodded their heads a little, as though they recognised the misfortune of such a position. "And what places you under that necessity now?" "I do not expect to remain a bachelor always, sir." Here a governor chuckled. "Ha, ha! Hymen comes to the rescue. Wonderful the revolutions he makes in young fellows' lives." The governor had left school fifty-five years ago, and was rather proud to have remembered who Hymen was. The doctor waited with chilling patience till the interruption was over. "You feel yourself competent to take charge of a house of forty to fifty boys, do you? as well as to conduct a class of seventy?" "I have thought over the matter, and tried to realise the duties, and think I can succeed." "Quite right; I like that. No brag," said another of the governors, in an aside. "Your temper is good, is it? you are not likely to fall out with your fellow-masters, are you?" "Yes, that's important," interjected a governor. "I believe I am good-tempered and patient." "Well, Mr Railsford, you may retire. If you are not busy elsewhere, you can remain a short time in the outer room." Railsford retired, and for an interminable half-hour kicked his heels in the ante-chamber. He got to hate the picture on the wall and the ruthless ticking of the clock in the hall outside. Presently the door opened and his name was called. This time the spokesman was the chairman of the governors. "We have been through your testimonials a second time, Mr Railsford, and are satisfied with them, both those which refer to your scholarship and those which relate to your character and other qualifications. We are also glad to know from you that you have fully considered the responsibilities of this very important post, and are prepared to enter upon them in a firm yet conciliatory spirit. The governors and head- master agree with me in considering that, taken as a whole, your qualifications are higher than those of the other candidates, and they, therefore, have agreed to appoint you to the vacant post. I trust it may result in our mutual satisfaction and the good of the school." CHAPTER TWO. "VENI, VIDI, --" If a light heart and faith in one's own good luck are omens of success, Mark Railsford undoubtedly entered on his new duties at Grandcourt under the most favourable of auspices. It would not have been to his discredit if his light heart had acknowledged even slightly the weight of the responsibility it was undertaking. But, as a matter of fact, it was all the lighter for that very responsibility. The greater the task, he argued, the greater the achievement; and the greater the achievement, the greater the triumph. A less sanguine hero might have been daunted by the pictures with which his nervous friends did their best to damp his ardour. Grover, delighted as he was at the success of his friend's application, took care to keep the rocks ahead well above the surface in all his letters and conversations. Railsford laughed him pleasantly to scorn. Grover's was not the only attempt made to intimidate our hero. A week or so before he entered upon his duties, a nervous-looking man called to see him. It was Mr Moss, the late master. "I hear you have been appointed to my house," he said, by way of explanation, "and I thought it would be only friendly to call and tell you the sort of thing you are to expect when you go there." "Thanks, very much," said Railsford, with a smile of the corner of his mouth. "You may be made of cast iron, or be possessed of the patience of a Job," began this cheery adviser. "If so, you're all right. I wasn't either." "Did you find the boys unmanageable?" "No--not more than other boys--all boys, of course, are the sworn foes of law and order, and nobody imagines anything else. No, your difficulties, if you have anything like my luck, will be more with your colleagues than your subjects." "And how do they make themselves objectionable?" asked the new master, rather contemptuously. Mr Moss did not miss the tone of this question, and fired up himself. "Of course, if _you_ don't mind being systematically snubbed at head- quarters--thwarted and slandered by your fellow-masters--baulked in every attempt to improve the condition either of your house or the school--and misrepresented and undermined in your influence among your boys, you may go up and enjoy it. I didn't. That's why I left." "At any rate, I have one friend among the masters--Grover." "Oh, poor Grover. He is the only master who can get on at all, and he does so by effacing himself on every possible occasion, and agreeing with everybody." "Not a very noble character to hear of one's friend," said Railsford, who was beginning to get tired of this jeremiad. "I don't blame him; he can stand more than you or I can." "That, I suppose, is meant for a compliment to me?" said Railsford, laughing. "You think, then, I would be wise to back out before it is too late?" "I don't say that, only--" "Only you pity me. Thanks, very much." That evening Railsford sent a line to Grover:-- "Tell me in two words why Moss left Grandcourt." A telegram came next morning, "Incompatibility of temper." Whereat the new master chuckled, and dismissed the lugubrious ex-master and his friendly warnings from his mind. But although the gloomy prognostications of his Job's comforters failed in the least to depress his spirits, one very small cloud hovered occasionally on the horizon. This was the attitude of his worthy and respected prospective pupil and brother-in-law, Arthur Herapath. That young gentleman, who had been prudently kept in the dark while term lasted, was, as may be imagined, considerably astounded on arriving home to be met with the news that the new master of the Shell at Grandcourt was to be Mark Railsford. "What a lark!" he exclaimed. Now, genial as the remark was, the tone in which it was uttered was not calculated to inspire confidence in the breasts of those to whom it was addressed. There was more of enjoyment in it than respect. Yet boys will be boys, and who can gauge the depths of a nature below the smiles that ripple on the surface? It was little incidents like these which occasionally suggested to Railsford, far more forcibly than the lugubrious warnings of his officious friends, that the task before him at Grandcourt would tax his powers considerably. But, on the whole, he rejoiced that all would not be plain-sailing at first, and that there was no chance of his relapsing immediately into the condition of a humdrum pedagogue. The Christmas holidays slipped away only too fast for Arthur and for Daisy. Mark, much as he felt the approaching separation from his betrothed, could not suppress a slight feeling of exultation as the day drew near when he was to "go, see, and conquer" at Grandcourt. His three idle years made the prospect of hard work now welcome; and the importance which everyone else attached to his new duties made him doubly keen for a fray on which so many eyes were turned. Dr Ponsford had suggested, in terms which amounted to a mandate, that the new master might find it convenient to arrive at Grandcourt a day before the school returned, in order to take possession of his quarters and acquaint himself with the details of his coming duties. This arrangement was not altogether satisfactory, for it deprived Mark of the pleasure of his future brother-in-law's escort, which was a great loss, and also of the prospect of finding Grover at his journey's end, on which he had reckoned with some confidence. However, it was only the difference of a day, and during that day he would at least do his utmost to make a favourable impression on his chief. So, with a heart full of confidence, and a cab full of luggage, he set out gaily on his new career. "Good-bye, Mark. You'll be good to my son, I know," said Mrs Herapath. "Good-bye, my boy; take care of your health," said Mr Herapath. "Good-bye, Mark," said Daisy. "Ta-ta, old man," called Arthur. "See you to-morrow." This last greeting, strange as it may seem, recurred to Railsford's memory more frequently than any of the others during the course of the long railway journey to Grandcourt. It took all sorts of forms as the day wore on. At first it seemed only a fraternal _au revoir_, then it became a rather serious promise, and finally sounded in his ears rather like a menace. Here was he, going down like a prince to his coronation, and his subjects would "see him to-morrow." It had never occurred to him before that these subjects might have something to say to the ordering of the new kingdom, and that he should have to reckon with them, as well as they with him. The idea was not altogether comfortable, and he tried to shelve it. Of course he would get on with them. They would look up to him, and they would discover that his interests and theirs were the same. He was prepared to go some way to meet them. It would be odd if they would not come the rest to meet him. He turned his mind to other subjects. Still he wished he could be quite sure that Arthur's innocent "see you again to-morrow" had no double meaning for him. The railway took him as far as Blankington Junction, about five miles from Grandcourt; and, as it would be some time before a Grandcourt train came up, he decided, after seeing his effects into a cab, to take advantage of the fine, frosty afternoon, and complete his journey on foot. He was, in fact, beginning to grow a little depressed, and the exercise would brace him up. He had, foolishly enough, looked forward to a somewhat different kind of advent, dropping, perhaps, with some little _eclat_ on a school where Arthur had already proclaimed his fame among the boys, and where Grover had prepared him a welcome among the masters. Compared with that, this solitary backstairs arrival seemed tame and dispiriting, and he half regretted that he had not postponed his coming till to-morrow, even in the face of Dr Ponsford's suggestion. A mile from Grandcourt he caught sight of the square red ivy-covered brick tower of the school among the trees. Even in winter it looked warm and picturesque. It was growing dark when he passed the lodge, and crossed the playing-field towards the school-house. The cabman was awaiting him in the square. "Never gave me your name," explained he, "and nobody knows nothink about you here. Five miles is seven-and-six, and luggage is two bob more, and waiting another 'alf-hour's a crown,--namely, twelve shillings, and thank you, mister." Railsford rang the bell at the porter's lodge. A small child of eight appeared. "Where's your father?" asked the new master. "Yout," replied the girl. "Well, your mother?" "Please, she's--she's in the churchyard along of my Aunt Sally." "Well, run and-- You mean she's dea--?" The child nodded before he had finished his sentence. "Is there anyone about?" inquired the perplexed new-comer. "There's Mrs 'Astings, doing the floors in Bickers's." Mrs Hastings was duly summoned, and arrived with her broom and kneeling-pad. "My good woman, can you tell me the fare from Blankington here?" The lady looked perplexed, then embarrassed, then angry. "And you fetched me over from Bickers's--me, with my lame foot, over the cobbles--to ask me that! You oughter be ashamed of yerself, young man. Ask the cabman; he knows." It was hopeless. Railsford assisted to unload the cab, and meekly gave the cabman the fare demanded. "I am Mr Railsford, the new master," said he presently, overtaking Mrs Hastings, as she hobbled back in dudgeon to her work; "which are my rooms?" "I'm sure I don't know. You're a day too early. All the rooms is up, and it will take us all our times to get them done against the school comes back to-morrow." "It is an extraordinary thing," said Railsford, who began to feel his dignity somewhat put upon, "that Dr Ponsford should tell me to come to- day, and that no preparations--" "'Tain't got to do with me. You'd best go to the doctor's house, out of that gate, across the little square, the house on the far side of the chapel." Railsford, leaving his luggage stacked on the pavement outside the porter's lodge, started off with flushed cheeks to the lion's den. The doctor, said the maid, was in, but was at dinner. The gentleman had better call again in half an hour. So Railsford, in the closing twilight, took a savage walk round the school precincts, in no mood to admire the natural beauties of the place, or to indulge in any rhapsodies at this near view of the scene of his coming triumphs. In half an hour he returned, and was shown into the doctor's study. "How do you do, Mr ---;" here the doctor took up his visitor's card to refresh his memory--"Mr Railsford?" "I was afraid, sir," said Mark, "I had mistaken your letter about coming to-day; there appears to be no one--no one who can--I have been unable to ascertain where I am to go." The doctor waited patiently for the end of this lucid explanation. "I rather wonder it did not suggest itself to you to call on me for information." Railsford wondered so too, and felt rather sheepish. "Your train must have been late. I expected you an hour ago." "I think we were up to time. I walked from Blankington here." "Really--I wish I had known of your intention." "I trust," said Railsford, struck by a horrible suspicion, "you were not waiting dinner for me." "Not in the least," said the doctor, with a grim smile; "but I had calculated on taking you round before nightfall. We must defer our visit till the morning. Talking of dinner," he added, "you will be ready for something after your journey, will you not?" As Railsford was nearly famishing, he could only colour up and reply-- "Thank you." The doctor rang the bell. "See that Mr Railsford gets dinner. I have to go out," he added, "but you will, no doubt, make yourself at home;" and the great man withdrew, leaving the new master in a very crestfallen and disturbed state of mind. If this was a sample of the sympathy he might expect at head-quarters, Moss's prognostications, after all, were not quite baseless. He made the best of his solitary dinner, and then sallied out in the dark to try to find the porter's lodge once more and rescue his luggage. That functionary was still absent, and Mark was compelled himself to haul his belongings in under cover, and leave word with the little girl that they were to be taken over to Mr Railsford's rooms as soon as her father came in. Then taking with him a bag which contained what he wanted for the night, he returned to the head-master's house and made a point of retiring to rest before his host reappeared on the scene. Once more luck was against him. "You vanished early last night," said the doctor, blandly, at breakfast next morning. "I brought Mr Roe in to supper, thinking you and he might like a chat about the work in the Shell, about which he could have given you some useful hints. However, early hours are very commendable." "I am extremely sorry," faltered Railsford. "I had no idea you would be home so early. I should have liked to meet Mr Roe so much." "Take some more coffee?" said the doctor. After breakfast Mark was conducted in state to his house. The floors were all damp and the carpets up; beds and washstands were piled up in the passages, and nowhere was a fire to be seen. "There are your rooms," said the doctor, pointing out a suite of three apartments opening one into the other, at the present time reeking of soft-soap and absolutely destitute of furniture. "You will find them comfortable and central. The inner room is the bedroom, the middle your private sitting-room, and this larger one the house-parlour. Now we will go to the dormitories and studies. You understand your head boys-- those in the Sixth and Fifth--have a study to themselves; the Shell have studies in pairs, and the junior school-work in the common room. But all these points you will make yourself familiar with very shortly. As a house-master, you will of course be responsible for everything that takes place in the house--the morals, work and play of the boys are under your supervision. You have four Sixth-form boys in the house, who are prefects under you, and in certain matters exercise an authority of their own without appeal to you. But you quite understand that you must watch that this is not abused. The house dame, Mrs Farthing, superintends everything connected with the boy's wardrobes, but is under your direction in other matters. I shall introduce you to her as we go down. "I refer you to the school time-table for particulars as to rising, chapel, preparation, and lights out, and so forth. Discipline on all these points is essential. Cases of difficulty may be referred to a session of the other masters, or in extreme cases to me; but please remember I do not invite consultation in matters of detail. A house- master may use the cane in special cases, which must be reported through the masters' session to me. So much for your house duties. "As Master of the Shell, you preside at morning school there every day, and, as you know, have to teach classics, English, and divinity. In the afternoon the boys are taken by the French, mathematical, and chemical masters. But you are nominally responsible for the whole, and any case of insubordination or idleness during afternoon school will be reported to you by the master in charge, and you must deal with it as though you had been in charge at the time. "Now come and make Mrs Farthing's acquaintance." Mrs Farthing, a lean, wrathful-looking personage, stood in the midst of a wilderness of sheets and blankets, and received her new superior with a very bad grace. She looked him up and looked him down, and then sniffed. "Very good, Mr Railsford; we shall become better acquainted, I've no doubt." Railsford shuddered at the prospect; and finding that his luggage was still knocking about at the porter's lodge, he made further expedition in search of it, and at last, with superhuman efforts, succeeded in getting it transferred to his quarters, greatly to the disgust of Mrs Hastings, who remarked in an audible aside to her fellow-scrubber, Mrs Willis, that people ought to keep their dirty traps to themselves till the place is ready for them. After which Railsford deemed it prudent to take open-air exercise, and await patiently the hour when his carpets should be laid and Grandcourt should wake up into life for the new term. CHAPTER THREE. OPENING DAY. The combined labours of Mesdames Farthing, Hastings, Wilson, and their myrmidons had barely reached a successful climax that afternoon, in the rescue of order out of the chaos which had reigned in Railsford's house, when the first contingent of the Grandcourtiers arrived in the great square. Railsford, who had at last been permitted to take possession of his rooms and to unstrap his boxes, looked down from his window with some little curiosity at the scene below. The solemn quadrangle, which an hour ago had looked so ghostly and dreary, was now alive with a crowd of boys, descending headlong from the inside and outside of four big omnibuses, hailing one another boisterously, scrambling for their luggage, scrimmaging for the possession of Mrs Farthing's or the porter's services, indulging in horseplay with the drivers, singing, hooting, challenging, rejoicing, stamping, running, jumping, kicking--anything, in fact, but standing still. In their own opinion, evidently, they were the lords and masters of Grandcourt. They strutted about with the airs of proprietors, and Railsford began to grow half uneasy lest any of them should detect him at the window and demand what right _he_ had there. The scene grew more and more lively. A new cavalcade discharged its contents on the heels of the first, and upon them came cabs top-heavy with luggage, and a stampede of pedestrians who had quitted the omnibuses a mile from home and run in, and one or two on tricycles, and one hero in great state on horseback. Cheers, sometimes yells, greeted each arrival; and when presently there lumbered up some staid old four- wheeler with a luckless new boy on board, the demonstration became most imposing. "_See you to-morrow_!" thought Railsford to himself, as he peered down. Suddenly an unwonted excitement manifested itself. This was occasioned by an impromptu race between two omnibuses and a hansom cab, which, having been all temporarily deserted by their rightful Jehus, had been boarded by three amateur charioteers and set in motion. The hero in charge of the hansom cab generously gave his more heavily-weighted competitors a start of fifty yards; and, standing up in his perch, shook his reins defiantly and smacked his whip, to the infinite delight of everyone but the licenced gentleman who was the nominal proprietor of the vehicle. Of the omnibuses, one got speedily into difficulties, owing to the charioteer getting the reins a trifle mixed and thereby spinning his vehicle round in a semicircle, and bringing it up finally in the middle of the lawn, where he abruptly vacated his post and retired into private life. The other omnibuses had a more glorious career. The horses were spirited, and entered into the fun of the thing almost as much as their driver. Railsford long remembered the picture which this youthful hero presented; with his face flushed, his head bare, his sandy hair waving in the breeze, his body laid back at an obtuse angle, as he tugged with both hands at the reins. The cab behind came on apace, its jaunty Jehu flourishing his whip and shouting loudly to his opponent to keep his right side. The crowd forgot everything else, and flocked across the grass with loud cheers for the champions. "Wire in, hansom," shouted some. "Stick to it, Dig," cried others. How the mad career might have ended no one could tell; but at each corner the cab closed in ominously with its clumsy competitor, whose horses were fast getting beyond the control of their driver, while the vehicle they were dragging rocked and yawed behind them like a tug in a gale. Railsford was meditating a descent on to the scene, with a view to prevent a catastrophe, if possible, when a shout of laughter greeted the appearance on the scene of the lawful master of the omnibus, in headlong pursuit of his property. By an adroit cut across the grass this outraged gentleman succeeded in overtaking the vehicle and boarding it by the step behind; and then, amid delighted shouts of "Whip behind, Dig!" the spectators watched the owner skip up the steps and along the top, just as "Dig," having received timely warning of his peril, dropped the reins and skipped the contrary way along the top and down the back stairs, depositing himself neatly on _terra firma_, where, with admirable _sang-froid_, he joined the spectators and triumphed in the final pulling up of the omnibus, and the consequent abandonment of the race by the indignant hero of the hansom cab, who protested in mock heroics that he was winning hand over hand, and would have licked the 'bus to fits if Dig hadn't funked it. In the altercation which ensued the company generally took no part, and returned, braced up and fortified by their few minutes' sport, to the serious business of identifying and extricating their luggage from the general _melee_, and conveying themselves and their belongings into winter quarters. The new master was impressed by what he had seen--not altogether unfavourably. True, it upset in a moment all his dreams of carrying Grandcourt by the quiet magic of his own influence to the high level he had arranged for it. Still, the race had been a pretty one while it lasted, and both competitors had handled the ribbons well. They would be the sort of boys to take to him--an old 'Varsity Blue; and he would meet them half-way. Railsford's house should get a name for pluck and _esprit de corps_; and Railsford and his boys should show the way to Grandcourt! How Dr Ponsford and the "session of masters" would follow their lead it did not at present enter into the head of the vain young man to settle. A knock came at his door as he stood lost in these pleasing reflections, and Grover entered. "Here you are, then, old man," said he--"an old stager already. It was a great disappointment I could not be here when you got down." "I wish you had. I have had not exactly a gay time of it." And he related his experiences. Grover laughed. "That's Ponsford all over," said he. "He's a fine fellow, but a bear. How do you like your quarters?" "I've only just got into them, and really haven't had time to look round. And, to tell the truth, for the last ten minutes or so I've been so interested in the scene below that I had forgotten what I was doing. There was a most amusing chariot race between a cab and an omnibus." Grover looked serious. "I know," said he. "I'm afraid there will be trouble about that. It's as well, perhaps, you are not expected to know the chief offenders. One or two of them belong to your house." Railsford looked uncomfortable. It had not occurred to him till now that the proceeding which had so moved his interest and amusement was a breach of discipline. "I hope I shall not be called upon to deal with it," said he. "No. I hear Ponsford has the matter in hand himself." And the friends went on to talk of other matters. After a while Grover hastened away to his own house, leaving Railsford somewhat uneasy in his mind. If Dr Ponsford were to question him on the subject of the chariot race, he felt that he would be seriously compromised at the outset of his career. He knew at least the nickname of one of the delinquents; and had actually, by standing and watching the contest without protest, been an accessory to the offence. He busied himself forthwith in his unpacking, and studiously avoided the window until daylight departed, and the court below became silent and deserted. Just about four o'clock another knock sounded at his door, and Arthur Herapath presented himself, leading by the arm the tawny-haired hero of the chariot race. "What cheer, Marky?" cried the brother-in-law to be. "Here we are. Had a spiffing spin up from the station, hadn't we, Dig? This it Dig, you know, Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, M.P., A.S.S., and nobody knows what else. He and I have bagged Sykes' old room, just over here." Railsford in his shirt-sleeves, and hemmed round by his luggage, looked up rather blankly at this friendly oration. However, his dignity came to his rescue. "How are you both? I hope we're to have a good steady term, my boys. Go to your study now--later on we must have a talk." Arthur looked at his friend and winked; Sir Digby was visibly agitated, and grinned vehemently at a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. "All serene," said the former. "By the way, Daisy was all right when I left her, and sent her love and a--" "Do you hear me, Arthur? Go to your study." "Oh, all right--but there was a message from the gov. I was to be sure and give you directly I saw you. He says I can have a bob a week pocket-money, and you're to give it to me, and he'll owe it to you at the end of the term. I'd like the first now, please." "Go immediately to your room," shouted Railsford, as near to losing his temper as his future brother-in-law had ever seen him. "How dare you disobey me?" "Well, but it was a message from the gov., and--I say, Dig," added he, turning to his friend with a nudge, "you cut when Mark tells you." Dig departed, and Railsford weakly fell in with the arrangement of the junior, and allowed him to remain and deliver the rest of his domestic messages. "Now, look here, Arthur," said the master, closing the door and facing his unabashed future kinsman, "we must come to an understanding at once. During term time I forbid you to mention Daisy's name, either to me or anybody else, unless I wish it--" The boy whistled. "What, have you had a row, then? Is it all broken off? My eye, what will--" "Rubbish!" said Mark, scarcely able to keep grave; "it's neither one nor the other. But I don't choose you should talk of her, and I insist on being obeyed." "Jolly rough not to be able to talk about one's own sister!" interposed the innocent. "Of course, I mean not in connection with me," said Railsford. "And another thing, you must not call me Mark, but Mr Railsford, while term lasts." "All serene, Mr Railsford, old man! Jolly stiff, though, between brothers, isn't it?" "You must treat me as if I were merely your master, and no other relative." "How queer! Mayn't I even be fond of you?" "Yes, as your master. I count on you, mind, to set a specially good example to the other boys, and back me up in every way you can. You will be able to do a great deal if you only try." "I'm game! Am I to be made a prefect, I say, Mark--Mr Railsford, I mean?" "And remember," said Mark, ignoring the question, "that we are here to work, and not to--to drive omnibuses." Arthur brightened up suddenly. "You saw the race, then? Stunning spurt round the last lap, only Dig hadn't any stay in him, and the cab had the inside berth. I say, don't let anybody know it was Dig, will you? He'd get in rather a mess, and he's going to put it on hard this term to make up." Could anything be more hopeless than the task of impressing this simple- minded youth with a sense of his duty and deportment towards the new Master of the Shell? Railsford gave the attempt up, and the school-bell happily intervened to make a diversion. "That's for dinner. It's generally at two, you know; but on opening day it's 4.30," said the boy. "We shall have to cut, or we shall be gated, I say." "Well, you must show me the way," said Mark. "I'm ready." "You'll have to wear your cap and gown, though," replied Arthur, "or you'll get in a row." Railsford hastened to rectify the omission, and next moment was standing in the great square beside his lively young pilot, amid a crowd of boys hastening towards the school hall. "We'd better do a trot," said the boy. "We shall do it all right, I think," said the master, whose dignity revolted against any motion more rapid than quick walking. Arthur, trotting at his side and encouraging him from time to time to "put it on," detracted a little from the solemnity of the procession. The bell was just ceasing to ring as they entered the hall, and for the first time Railsford found himself in the presence of the assembled school. Arthur had darted off to his own table, leaving his companion to find his way to the masters' table at the head of the hall, where all his colleagues were already in their places, standing for grace. Railsford, considerably flurried, slipped into the place which Grover had reserved for him just as the head boy present began to recite the Latin collect, and became painfully aware that his already damaged character for punctuality was by no means enhanced in the severe eyes of Dr Ponsford. The new master glanced round a little nervously at his colleagues. Grover introduced him to a few of the nearest, some of whom received him with a friendly greeting, others eyed him doubtfully, and one or two bristled up grimly. The _eclat_ of his first appearance at Grandcourt had paled somewhat, and he was thankful to have Grover to talk to and keep him in countenance. "Tell me who some of these men are," he whispered. "Which is Roe?" "On the other side of me. He has the house next to mine. You, I, Roe, and Bickers have the four sides of the Big Square." "Which is Bickers?" "The man with the black beard--last but one on the other side." Railsford gave a furtive look down the table, and encountered the eyes of Mr Bickers fixed discontentedly on him. A lightning flash at midnight will often reveal minute details of a scene or landscape which in the ordinary glare of day might pass unnoticed by the observer. So it was in this sudden chance encounter of glances. It lasted not a moment, but it was a declaration of war to the knife on one side, hurled back defiantly on the other. "Not a bad fellow if you don't stroke him the wrong way," said Grover. "Oh," said Railsford, in a tone which made his friend start. "Who is beyond him?" "Lablache, the French master; not very popular, I fancy." And so on, one master after another was pointed out, and Railsford formed his own opinions of each, and began to feel at home with several of them already. But whenever his eyes turned towards the end of the table they invariably encountered those of Bickers. There was not much general conversation at the masters' table. Dr Ponsford rarely encouraged it, and resented it when it arose without his initiative. The buzz and clatter at the boys' tables, however, growing occasionally to a hubbub, amply made up for any sombreness in the meal elsewhere; and Railsford, having exhausted his inquiries, and having failed to engage one of his neighbours in conversation, resigned himself to the enjoyment of the animated scene. He was not long in discovering the whereabouts of his youthful kinsman, whose beaming face shone out from the midst of a bevy of particular friends, while ever and again above the turmoil, like a banner in the breeze, waved the tawny mane of Sir Digby Oakshott. It amused Railsford to watch the group, and when now and then they looked his way, to speculate on what was the subject of their conversation. Perhaps Arthur had been telling them of the new master's athletic achievements at Cambridge, and how he had rowed his boat to the head of the river; or possibly he had been describing to them some of the big football-matches which he, Mark, had taken his young friend to see during the holidays; or maybe they were laying down some patriotic plan for the future good of Railsford's house. His heart warmed to the boys as he watched them. It was a pity, perhaps, he could not catch their actual words. "Seems jolly green," said Dig. "So he is. Blushes like a turkey-cock when you talk about spoons. Never mind, he's bound to be civil to us this term, eh, Dig? We've got the whip hand of him, I guess, over that summer-house business at Lucerne." Here Dig laughed. "Shut up! He'll hear!" "What's the joke?" demanded a bullet-headed, black-eyed boy who sat near. "What, didn't I tell you, Dimsdale? Keep it close, won't you? You see that chap with the eyeglass next to Grover. That's Railsford, our new master--Marky, I call him. He's engaged to Daisy, you know, my sister. Regular soup-ladles they are." Here Dig once more laughed beyond the bounds of discretion. "What an ass you are, Dig!" expostulated Arthur; "you'll get us in no end of a mess." "Awfully sorry--I can't help. Tell Dimsdale about--you know." "Don't go spreading it, though," said Arthur, shutting his eyes to the fact that he was confiding his secret to the greatest gossip in Grandcourt, and that one or two other heads were also craned forward to hear the joke. "I caught them going it like one o'clock in the hotel garden at Lucerne--it was the first time I twigged what was up; and what do you think he called my sister?" "What?" they all demanded. "Keep it close, I say. Ha, ha!--give you a guess all round; Dig knows." "Pussy cat," suggested one. "Jumbo," suggested another. "Cherubim," suggested a third. Arthur shook his head triumphantly. "Out of it, all of you. You can tell 'em, Dig." Dig composed his features once or twice to utter the word, but as many times broke down. At last in high falsetto he got it out,-- "Chuckey!" The laugh which greeted this revelation penetrated to the upper region, and caused Dr Ponsford to rise on his seat and look in the direction of the uproar. At the same moment the Sixth-Form boy at the head of the table left his place and bore down on the offenders. "_Cave_!" muttered Arthur, purple in the face; "here's Ainger." Instantly the party was thoroughly buried in its bread and cheese. "Was that you, Oakshott, making that row?" "I was only saying something to Herapath," replied the innocent; "I'm sure _I_ didn't make a row." "Don't tell falsehoods. Do fifty lines, and next time you'll be sent up." "That's a nice lark," muttered the baronet as the senior retired. "It was you chaps made the row, and I get potted for it. But I say," added he, as if such a mishap were the most common of incidents, "that isn't a bad joke, is it? Fancy calling Herapath's sister--" "_Cave_, shut up!" exclaimed Arthur, dealing his friend a ferocious kick under the table; "they've got their eyes on us. Don't play the fool, Dig." Railsford was aroused from the pleasant contemplation of this little comedy by a general rising, in the midst of which the doctor, followed by his staff, filed out of the hall into the governor's room adjoining, which was ordinarily used as a masters' withdrawing-room. Here Railsford underwent the ordeal of a series of introductions, some of which gave him pleasure, some disappointment, some misgivings, and one at least roused his anger. "Mr Bickers," said Dr Ponsford, "let me introduce Mr Railsford. You will be neighbours, and ought to be friends." "I am proud to know Mr Railsford," said Mr Bickers, holding out his hand; "Grandcourt, I am sure, is fortunate." Railsford flushed up at the tone in which this greeting was offered; and touching the proffered hand hurriedly, said, with more point than prudence-- "I heard of Mr Bickers from my predecessor, Mr Moss." It was some satisfaction to see Mr Bickers flush in his turn, as he replied, with a hardly concealed sneer-- "Ah, poor Moss! He was a great flatterer. You must not believe half he says about his absent friends." "Railsford," said Grover, taking his friend by the arm, and anxious to interrupt what promised to be an uncomfortable dialogue, "I must introduce you to Roe. He had charge of the Shell for some years, and can give you some hints which will be useful to you. You'll like him." Railsford did like him. Mr Roe was one of the best masters at Grandcourt, and his university career had been as brilliant in athletics, and more brilliant in scholarship, than his younger colleagues. He had a quiet voice and manly bearing, which bespoke a vast fund of power latent beneath the surface; and Railsford, for once in his life, experienced the novel sensation of standing in the presence of a superior. Mr Roe accepted Mark's apologies for his non-appearance the evening before with great good-humour, and invited him to his rooms to spend an evening and talk over school-work. "You are not likely to have much leisure at first. I wish you had a quieter house; but a little good government and sympathy will go a long way towards bringing it up to the mark. As to the Shell, you will find that pretty easy. It wants more management than teaching--at least, I found so. If once the boys can be put on the right track, they will go pretty much of their own accord. It's easier to guide them than drive them; don't you think so?" "I have no experience yet; but that is my idea, certainly." "Then you'll succeed. Have you been introduced to Monsieur Lablache? This is Mr Railsford, the new Master of the Shell, monsieur." Monsieur shrugged himself ceremoniously. He had a big moustache, which curled up in an enigmatical way when he smiled; and Railsford was at a loss whether to like him or dislike him. "We shall be friends, Meester Railsford, I hope," said the foreigner; "I have much to do wiz ze young gentlemen of the Sell. Helas! they try my patience; but I like them, Meester Railsford, I like them." "I only wish I knew whether I liked you," inwardly ejaculated the new master, as he smiled in response to the confession. A bell put an end to further conference, and Mark went off in a somewhat excited state of mind to his own house. Mr Roe's few words stuck in his mind--especially one of them. What did he mean by classing sympathy and good government together in the way he had? How can you reduce a disorderly house to order by sympathy? However, he had no leisure for guessing riddles that night. CHAPTER FOUR. A FRIENDLY CHAT. If Mark Railsford had been left with no better guide to his new duties and responsibilities than the few hurried utterances given by Dr Ponsford during their tour through the premises that morning, his progress would have been very slow and unsatisfactory. It was part of the doctor's method never to do for anyone, colleague or boy, what they could possibly do for themselves. He believed in piling up difficulties at the beginning of an enterprise, instead of making smooth the start and saving up the hard things for later on. If a master of his got through his first term well, he would be pretty sure to turn out well in future. But meanwhile he got as little help from head-quarters as possible, and had to make all his discoveries, arrange his own methods, reap his own experiences for himself. Grover had good reason to know the doctor's peculiarity in this respect, and took care to give his friend a few hints about starting work, which otherwise he might never have evolved out of his own consciousness. Amongst other things he advised that he should, as soon as possible, make the acquaintance of the head boys of his house, and try to come to a good understanding with them as to the work and conduct of the term. Accordingly four polite notes were that evening handed by the house- messenger to Messrs. Ainger, Barnworth, Stafford, and Felgate, requesting the pleasure of their company at 7.30 in the new master's rooms. The messenger had an easy task, for, oddly enough, he found the four gentlemen in question assembled in Ainger's study. They were, in fact, discussing their new house-master when his four little missives were placed in their hands. "What's the joke now, Mercury?" asked Barnworth. The messenger, who certainly was not nicknamed Mercury on account of the rapidity of his motions or the volatility of his spirits, replied, "I dunno; but I don't see why one letter shouldn't have done for the lot of yer. He's flush with his writing-paper if he isn't with his pounds, shillings and pence!" "Oh, he's not tipped you, then? Never mind, I'm sure it wasn't your fault!" Mercury, in private, turned this little sally over in his mind, and came to the conclusion that Mr Barnworth was not yet a finished pupil in manners. Meanwhile the four letters were being opened and perused critically. "`_Dear Ainger_'--one would think he'd known me all my life!" said Ainger. "`_I shall be so glad if you will look in at my rooms_,'" read Barnworth. "He evidently wants my opinion on his wall-paper." "`_At 7.30, for a few minutes' chat_'--nothing about tea and toast, though," said Stafford. "`_Believe me, yours very truly, M. Railsford_.' So I do believe you, my boy!" said Felgate. "Are you going, you fellows?" "Must," said Ainger; "it's a mandate, and there's no time to get a doctor's certificate." "What does he want to chat about, I wonder?" said Stafford. "The weather, of course!" growled Barnworth; "what else is there?" Stafford coloured up as usual when anyone laughed at him. "He wants to get us to take the oath of allegiance, you fellows," said Felgate. "`Will you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly,' that's what he means. I think we'd better not go." Ainger laughed rather spitefully. "It strikes me he'll find us four fairly tough flies. I mean to go. I want to see what he's like; I'm not at all sure that I like him." "Poor beggar!" murmured Barnworth. "Now my doubt is whether he likes me. He ought to, oughtn't he, Staff?" "Why, yes!" replied that amiable youth; "he doesn't look as if he was very particular." "Oh, thanks, awfully!" replied Barnworth. The amiable coloured up more than ever. "I really didn't mean that," he said, horrified at his unconscious joke. "I mean he doesn't seem strict, or as if he'd be hard to get on with." "I hope he's not," said Ainger, with a frown. "We had enough of that with Moss." "Well," said Felgate, "if you are going, I suppose I must come too; only take my advice, and don't promise him too much." Railsford meanwhile had transacted a good deal of business of a small kind on his own account. He had quelled a small riot in the junior preparation room, and intercepted one or two deserters in the act of quitting the house after hours. He had also gone up to inspect the dormitories, lavatories, and other domestic offices; and on his way down he had made glad the hearts of his coming kinsman and the baronet by a surprise visit in their study. He found them actively unpacking a few home treasures, including a small hamper full of ham, a pistol, some boxing-gloves, and a particularly fiendish-looking bull-dog. The last- named luxury was the baronet's contribution to the common store, and, having been forgotten for some hours in the bustle of arrival, was now removed from his bandbox in a semi-comatose state. "Hullo!" said Railsford, whose arrival coincided with the unpacking of this natural history curiosity, "what have you got there?" Oakshott's impulse, on hearing this challenge, had been to huddle his unhappy booty back into the bandbox; but, on second thoughts, he set it down on the mat, and gazing at it attentively, so as not to commit himself to a too hasty opinion, observed submissively that it was a dog. It is melancholy to have to record failure, in whatever sphere or form; but truth compels us to state that at this particular moment Mark Railsford blundered grievously. Instead of deciding definitely there and then on his own authority whether dogs were or were not _en regle_ in Railsford's house, he halted and hesitated. "That's against rules, isn't it?" said he. "Against rules!" said Arthur, crimson in the face--"against rules! Why, Dig and I had one a year ago, only he died, poor beast; he had a mill with a rat, and the rat got on to his nose, and punished him before--" "Yes," said the master; "but I shall have to see whether it's allowed to keep a dog. Meanwhile you must see he does not make a noise or become a nuisance." "All serene," replied Dig, who had already almost come to regard the new master as a sort of brother-in-law of his own; "he's a great protection against rats and thieves. My mother gave him to me--didn't she, Smiley?" Smiley was at that moment lying on his back all of a heap, with his limp legs lifted appealingly in the air, and too much occupied in gasping to vouchsafe any corroboration of his young master's depositions. Railsford departed, leaving the whole question in an unsettled condition, and not altogether satisfied with himself. He knew, the moment he was outside the door, what he ought to have said; but that was very little consolation to him. Nor was it till he was back in his own room that he remembered he had not taken exception to the pistol. Of course, having looked at it and said nothing, its owner would assume that he did not disapprove of it. And yet he really could not sit down and write, "Dear Grover,--Please say by bearer if pistols and bull-dogs are allowed? Yours truly, M.R." It looked too foolish. Of course, when he saw them written down on paper he knew they were not allowed; and yet it would be equally foolish now to go back to the study and say he had decided without inquiry that they were against rules. He was still debating this knotty point when a knock at the door apprised him that his expected guests had arrived. Alas! blunder number two trod hard on the heels of number one! He had no tea or coffee, not even a box of biscuits, to take off the edge of the interview and offer a retreat for his own inevitable embarrassment and the possible shyness of his visitors. The arrangements for that reception were as formal as the invitations had been. Was it much wonder if the conference turned out stiff and awkward? In the first place, as all four entered together, and none of them were labelled, he was quite at a loss to know their names. And it is a chilling beginning to a friendly chat to have to inquire the names of your guests. He shook hands rather nervously all round; and then, with an heroic effort at ease and freedom, said, singling out Felgate for the experiment-- "Let me see, you are Ainger, are you not?" It was a most unfortunate shot; for nothing could have been less complimentary to the jealous and quick-tempered captain of the house than to be mistaken for his self-conceited and unstable inferior, with whom, he was in the habit of congratulating himself, he had little or nothing in common. "No, sir," said Felgate, omitting, however, to confess his own name, or point out the lawful owner of the name of Ainger. The master tried to smile at his own dilemma, and had the presence of mind not to plunge further into the quicksands. "Which of you is Ainger?" he inquired. "I am, sir," replied the captain haughtily. "Thank you," said Mark, and could have eaten the word and his tongue into the bargain the moment he had spoken. This was blunder number three, and the worst yet! For so anxious was he to clear himself of the reproach of abasing himself before his head boys, that his next inquiries were made brusquely and snappishly. "And Barnworth?" "I am, sir." "And Stafford?" "I am, sir." "And Felgate?" "I am, sir." That was all over. The master smiled. The boys looked grave. "Won't you sit down?" said the former, drawing his own chair up to the hearth and poking the fire. Ainger and Felgate dropped into two seats, and Stafford, after a short excursion to a distant corner, deposited himself on another. Barnworth--there being no more chairs in the room--sat as gracefully as he could on the corner of the table. "I thought it would be well," began Railsford, still dallying with the poker--"won't you bring your chair in nearer, Stafford?" Stafford manoeuvred his chair in between Ainger and Felgate. "I thought it would not be a bad thing--haven't you a chair, Barnworth? dear me! I'll get one out of the bedroom!" And in his flurry he went off, poker in hand, to the cubicle. "What a day we're having!" murmured Barnworth. Stafford giggled just as Railsford re-entered. It was awkward, and gave the new master a very unfavourable impression of the most harmless boy in his house. "Now," said he, beginning on a new tack, "I am anxious to hear from you something about the state of the house. You're my police, you know," he added with a friendly smile. Stafford was the only one who smiled in response, and then ensued a dead silence. "What do you think, Ainger? Do things seem pretty right?" "Yes," said Ainger laconically. "Have you noticed anything, Barnworth?" "There's a draught in the big dormitory, sir," replied Barnworth seriously. "Indeed, we must have that seen to. Of course, what I mean is as to the conduct of the boys, and so on. Are the rules pretty generally obeyed?" It was Stafford's turn, and his report was disconcerting too. "No, sir, not very much." The new master put down the poker. "I am sorry to hear that; for discipline must be maintained. Can you suggest anything to improve the state of the house?" "No, sir," replied Felgate. This was getting intolerable. The new master's patience was oozing away, and his wits, strange to say, were coming in. "This is rather damping," he said. "Things seem pretty right, there's a draught in the big dormitory, the rules are not very much obeyed, and nothing can be suggested to improve matters." The four sat silent--the situation was quite as painful to them as to Mark. The latter grew desperate. "Now," said he, raising his voice in a way which put up Ainger's back. "You four boys are in the Sixth, and I understand that the discipline of the house is pretty much in your hands. I shall have to depend on you; and if things go wrong, of course I shall naturally hold you responsible." Ainger flushed up at this; while Stafford, on whom the master's eyes were fixed, vaguely nodded his head. "I am very anxious for the house to get a good name for order, and work--and," added he, "I hope we shall be able to do something at sports, too." Here, at least, the master expected he would meet with a response. But Ainger, the boy chiefly interested in sports, was sulking; and Barnworth, who also was an athlete, was too absorbed in speculating what remark was maturing itself in Felgate's mind to heed what was being said. "I suppose the house has an eleven--for instance?" "Yes, generally," said Stafford. Felgate now came in with his remark. "Something ought to be done to prevent our house being interfered with by Mr Bickers," said he; "there are sure to be rows while that lasts." "Oh," said Railsford, who had heard rumours of this feud already; "how are we interfered with?" "Oh, every way," replied Ainger; "but we needn't trouble you about that, sir. We can take care of ourselves." "But I should certainly wish to have any difficulty put right," said the new master, "especially if it interferes with the discipline of the house." "It will never be right as long as Mr Bickers stays at Grandcourt," blurted Stafford; "he has a spite against everyone of our fellows." "You forget you are talking of a colleague of mine, Stafford," said Railsford, whom a sense of duty compelled to stand up even for a master whom he felt to be an enemy. "I can't suppose one master would willingly do anything to injure the house of another." Ainger smiled in a manner which offended Railsford considerably. "I am sorry to find," he said, rather more severely, "that my head boys, who ought to aim at the good of their house, are parties to a feud which, I am sure, can do nobody any good. I must say I had hoped better things." Ainger looked up quickly. "I am quite willing to resign the captaincy, sir, if you wish it." "By no means," said Railsford, a little alarmed at the length to which his protest had carried him, and becoming more conciliatory. "All I request is that you will do your best to heal the feud, so that we may have no obstacle in the way of the order of our own house. You may depend on me to co-operate in whatever tends in that direction, and I look to you to take the lead in bringing the house up to the mark and keeping it there." At this particular juncture further conference was entirely suspended by a most alarming and fiendish disturbance in the room above. It was not an earthquake, for the ground beneath them neither shook nor trembled; it was not a dynamite explosion, for the sounds were dull and prolonged; it was not a chimney-stack fallen, for the room above was two storeys from the roof. Besides, above the uproar rose now and then the shrill yapping of a dog, and sometimes human voices mingled with the din. Railsford looked inquiringly at his prefects. "What is that?" he said. "Some one in the room above, sir," replied Barnworth. "It was Sykes' study last term," added he, consulting Ainger. "Who's got it this time?" "Nobody said anything to me about it," said the house-captain. "The room above this is occupied by Herapath and Oakshott," interposed Railsford. The captain made an exclamation. "Did they get your leave, sir?" "Not exactly; they told me they were going to have the study this term, and I concluded it was all right. Is it not so?" "They are Shell boys, and have no business on that floor. All the Shell boys keep on the second floor. Of course, they'll say they've got leave." "I'm afraid they will think so. Is there any other claimant to the study?" "No; not that I know of." "Perhaps they had better remain for the present," said the master. "But I cannot imagine what the noise is about. Will you see, Ainger, as you go up?" This was a broad hint that the merry party was at an end, and no one was particularly sorry. "Wait a second in my room, you fellows," said Ainger, on the stairs, "while I go and shut up this row." The mystery of this disorder was apparent as soon as he opened the door. The double study, measuring fifteen feet by nine, was temporarily converted into a football field. The tables and chairs were piled on one side "in touch"; one goal was formed by the towel-horse, the other drawn in chalk on the door. The ball was a disused pot-hat of the baronet's, and the combatants were the two owners of the study _versus_ their cronies and fellow "Shell-fish"--Tilbury, of the second eleven, and Dimsdale, the gossip. There had been some very fine play on both sides, and a maul in goal at the towel-horse end, in which the dog had participated, and been for a considerable period mistaken for the ball. _Hinc illae lacrymae_. At the moment when Ainger looked in, Herapath's side had scored 35 goals against their adversaries' 29. The rules were strict Rugby, and nothing was wanted to complete the sport but an umpire. The captain arrived in the nick of time. "Offside, Dim!--wasn't he, Ainger? That's a place-kick for us! Hang the dog! Get out, Smiley; go and keep goal. See fair play, won't you, Ainger?" To this impudent request Ainger replied by impounding the ball. "Stop this row!" he said peremptorily. "Tilbury and Dimsdale, you get out of here, and write fifty lines each for being off your floor after eight." "We only came to ask Herapath what Latin we've to do this term; and there's no preparation for to-morrow." "Well, if this is your way of finding out about your Latin, you know just as much up-stairs as down here. Be off; and mind I have the lines before dinner to-morrow." The two champions retired disconcerted, leaving the captain to deal with the arch offenders. "First of all," said he, "what business have you in this study?" "Oh, Railsford knows we're here; we told him, and he didn't object." "Don't you know you ought to come to the prefects about it?" Oddly enough, both the boys had completely forgotten. "Besides," explained Dig, "as Railsford and Herapath are sort of brother-in-laws, you know, we thought it was all right." The reason did not appear very obvious; but the information was interesting. "Oh, that's it, is it?" asked the captain. "What relation is he to you?" "He's spoons on my sister Daisy." The captain laughed. "I hope she's like her brother," said he. The two culprits laughed vociferously. It was worth anything to them to get the captain in a good-humour. "Well, if that's the case," said Ainger, "I shan't have anything to do with you. You've no right on this floor; you know that. If he chooses to let you be, he'll have to keep you in order. I don't pity him in the room underneath." "I say, do you think he could hear us easily--when we were playing?" "Oh, no, not at all," said the captain, laughing. "Really! I say, Ainger, perhaps we'd better have a study up-stairs, after all." "Thanks; not if I know it. You might pitch over my head instead of his. I suppose, too, he's allowed you to set up that dog?" "Yes; it's a present from Dig's mother. I say, he's not a bad-looking beast, is he?" "Who? Dig? Not so very," said the captain, quite relieved to be able to wash his hands of this precious couple. He departed, leaving the two worthies in a state of bewildered jubilation. "What a splendid lark!" exclaimed Arthur. "We shall be able to do just what we like all the term. There! we're in luck. Mark thinks Ainger's looking after us; and Ainger will think Mark's looking after us; and, Diggy, my boy, nobody will look after us except Smiley--eh, old dog?" Smiley, who had wonderfully recovered since an hour ago, here made a playful run at the speaker's heels under the belief that the football had recommenced; and the heart-rending yelps which Railsford heard in the room below a few moments later were occasioned by an endeavour to detach the playful pet's teeth from the trouser-ends of his owner's friend. The Master of the Shell retired to bed that night doubtful about his boys, and doubtful about himself. He was excellent at shutting stable doors after the abstraction of the horses, and could see a blunder clearly after it had been committed. Still, hope sprang eternal in the breast of Mark Railsford. He would return to the charge to-morrow, and the next day, and the next. Meanwhile he would go to sleep. The discussion in the captain's room had not been unanimous. "Well," said Felgate, when Ainger returned, "how do you like him?" "I don't fancy I shall get on with him." "Poor beggar!" drawled Barnworth. "I thought he might have been a good deal worse, myself." "So did I," said Stafford. "He was quite shy." "No wonder, considering who his visitors were. We were all shy, for the matter of that." "And I," said Felgate, "intend to remain shy. I don't like the animal. He's too fussy for me." "Just what he ought to be, but isn't. He'll let things go on, and make us responsible. Cool cheek!" said Ainger. "However, the row overhead will wake him up now and then. Fancy, young Herapath, unless he's making a joke, which isn't much in his line, says Railsford's engaged to his sister; and on that account the young beggar and his precious chum get leave to have Sykes' study and do what they like. They may, for all I shall interfere. If it's a family affair, you don't catch me poking my nose into it!" "Engaged, is he?" cried Felgate, laughing. "What a joke!" "It's nothing to do with us," said Barnworth, "whether he is or not." "Unless he goes in for favouritism; which it seems he is doing," said Ainger. "Well, even so, you've washed your hands of young Herapath, and he's a lucky chap. But having done so, I don't see what it matters to us how many wives or sweethearts he has." "It seems to me," said Ainger, who was still discontented, "we shall get no more backing from him than we did from Moss. I don't care twopence about that young ass Herapath; but if the house is to go on as it was last term, and we are to be interfered with by Bickers and nobody to stand up for us, we may as well shut up at once, and let him appoint new prefects." "Yes, but are you sure he won't back us up?" drawled Barnworth. "I'm not a betting man, like Stafford, but I have a notion he'll come out on our side." Ainger grunted sceptically, and announced that he had to unpack; whereat his comrades left him. Few persons at Grandcourt gave the captain of Railsford's house credit for being as honest as he was short-tempered, and as jealous for the honour of his house as he was short-sighted as to the best means of securing it. And yet Ainger was all this; and when he went to bed that night Railsford himself did not look forward more anxiously to the opening term than did his first lieutenant. CHAPTER FIVE. ARTHUR AND THE BARONET SETTLE DOWN FOR THE TERM. The reader is not to imagine that Railsford's house contained nobody but the four prefects of the Sixth-form and the sedate tenants of the study immediately over the master's head, who belonged to the Shell. On the contrary, the fifty boys who made up the little community were fully representative of all grades and classes of Grandcourt life. There was a considerable substratum of "Babies" belonging to the junior forms, who herded together noisily and buzzed like midges in every hole and corner of the house. Nor were Herapath and Oakshott, with their two cronies, by any means the sole representatives of that honourable fraternity known as the Shell, too mature for the junior school, and yet too juvenile for the upper forms. A score at least of Railsford's subjects belonged to this noble army, and were ready to wage war with anybody or anything--for a consideration. Still ascending in the scale, came a compact phalanx of Fifth-form heroes, counting some of the best athletes of the second eleven and fifteen, and yet not falling in with the spirited foreign policy so prevalent in the rest of the house. On an emergency they could and would turn out, and their broad backs and sturdy arms generally gave a good account of themselves. But as a general rule they grieved their friends by an eccentric habit of "mugging," which, as anybody knows, is a most uncomfortable and alarming symptom in a boy of a house such as Railsford's. True, there were among them a few noble spirits who never did a stroke of work unless under compulsion; but as a rule the Fifth- form fellows in Railsford's lay under the imputation of being studious, and took very little trouble to clear their characters. Only when the school sports came round, or the house matches, their detractors used to forgive them. The four prefects, to whom the reader has been already introduced, divided among them the merits and shortcomings of their juniors. Ainger and Felgate, though antagonistic by nature, were agreed as to an aggressive foreign policy; while Barnworth and of course the amiable Stafford considered there was quite enough work to do at home without going afield. Yet up to the present these four heroes had been popular in their house--Barnworth was the best high jumper Grandcourt had had for years, and Ainger was as steady as a rock at the wickets of the first eleven, and was reported to be about to run Smedley, the school captain, very close for the mile at the spring sports. Stafford, dear fellow that he was, was not a particularly "hot" man at anything, but he would hold the coat of anyone who asked him, and backed everybody up in turn, and always cheered the winner as heartily as he condoled with the loser. Felgate was one of those boys who could do better than they do, and whose unsteadiness is no one's fault but their own. His ways were sometimes crooked, and his professions often exceeded his practice. He meant well sometimes, and did ill very often; and, in short, was just the kind of fellow for the short-tempered, honest Ainger cordially to dislike. Such was the miscellaneous community which Mark Railsford found himself called upon to govern. It was not worse than a good many masters' houses, and had even its good points. And yet just now it was admitted to be in a bad way. The doctor had his eye on it, and there is nothing more adverse to reform than the consciousness that one has a bad name. The late master, Mr Moss, moreover, had notoriously found the place too hot for him, and had given it up. That again tells against the reputation of a house. And, lastly, although it had a few good scholars and athletes, who won laurels for the school, there seemed not enough of them to do anything for the house, which had steadily remained at the bottom of the list for general proficiency for several terms. If you inquired how all this came about, you would hear all sorts of explanations, but the one which found most favour in the delinquent house itself was summed up in the single word "Bickers." The origin of the deadly feud between the boys of Railsford's and the master of the adjoining house was a mystery passing the comprehension even of such as professed to understand the ins and outs of juvenile human nature. It had grown up like a mushroom, and no one exactly remembered how it began. Mr Bickers, some years ago, had been a candidate for the Mastership of the Shell, but had been passed over in favour of Mr Roe. And ever since, so report went, he had been actuated by a fiendish antipathy to the boys who "kept" in the house of his rival. He had worried Mr Moss out of the place, and the boys of the two houses, quick to take up the feuds of their chiefs, had been in a state of war for months. Not that Mr Bickers was a favourite in his own house. He was not, any more than Mr Moss had been in his. But any stick is good enough to beat a dog with, and when Mr Bickers's boys had a mind to "go for" Moss's boys, they espoused the cause of Bickers, and when Mr Moss's boys went out to battle against those of Bickers's house, their war-cry was "Moss." Much legend had grown up round the feud; but if anyone had had patience to examine it to the bottom he would probably have found the long and short to be that Mr Bickers, being unhappily endowed with a fussy disposition and a sour and vindictive temper, had incurred the displeasure of the boys of his rival's house, and not being the man to smooth away a bad impression, had aggravated it by resenting keenly what he considered to be an unjust prejudice against himself. This little digression may enable the reader, if he has had the patience to wade through it, to form an idea of the state of parties in that particular section of Grandcourt which chiefly came under Railsford's observation. With Roe's and Grover's houses on the other side of the big square, his boys had comparatively little to do as a house, while with the remote communities in the little square they had still less in common. But to return to our story. The first week of the next term was one of the busiest Mark Railsford ever spent. His duties in the Shell began on the second day, and the opening performance was not calculated to elate his spirit. The sixty or seventy prodigies of learning who assembled there came from all houses. A few were bent seriously on work and promotion, the majority were equally in different about the one and the other, and the remainder were professional idlers--most successful in their profession. Such were the hopeful materials which Railsford was expected to inspire with a noble zeal in the pursuit of classics, history, and divinity. It would have bets as easy--at least, so it seemed to the master--to instruct he monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens. The few workers (scarcely one of whom, by the way, was in his own house) formed a little _coterie_ apart, and grabbed up whatever morsels of wisdom and learning their master could afford to let drop in the midst of his hand-to-hand combat with the forces of anarchy and lethargy. But he had little to say to them. His appeals were addressed to the body of gaping, half- amused, half-bored loungers in the middle of the room, who listened pleasantly and forgot instantaneously; who never knew where to go on, and had an inveterate knack of misunderstanding the instructions for next day's work. They endured their few morning hours in the Shell patiently, resignedly, and were polite enough to yawn behind their books. They were rarely put out by their own mistakes, and when occasionally the master dropped upon them with some penalty or remonstrance, they deemed it a pity that anyone should put himself so much about on their account. Railsford was baffled. There seemed more hope in the turbulent skirmishers at the back of the room, who at least could now and then be worked upon by thunder, and always, in theory, acknowledged that lessons were things to be learned. On the first day the "muggers" knew their task well, and Railsford glowed with hope as he expressed his approbation. But when he came to the gapers his spirits sunk to zero. They had unfortunately mistaken the passage, or else the page was torn out of their book, or else they had been prevented by colds or sprained wrists or chilblains from learning it. When told to construe a passage read out not two minutes before by one of the upper boys, they knew nothing about it, and feared it was too hard for their overwrought capacities; and when pinned down where they sat to the acquirement of some short rule or passage, they explained sorrowfully that that had not been Mr Moss's method. In divinity they raised discussions on questions of dogma, and so subtly evaded challenge on questions of Greek Testament construction and various readings. In history they fell back on a few stock answers, which rarely possessed the merit of having any connection with the questions which they pretended to satisfy. But the gapers were men of peace, after all. They rarely insisted upon their own opinion, nor did it offend them to be told they were wrong. The noisier element were less complacent; it is true, they never did a lesson through, or construed a sentence from one end to the other. Still, when they took the trouble to "mug" a question up, they expected to be believed. It hurt them a good deal to be informed that they knew nothing; and to detain them or set them impositions because of a difference of opinion on an historical, classical, or theological question seemed grossly unjust. When, for instance, Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, on an early day of the term, publicly stated that the chief features of Cromwell's character was a large mouth and a wart on the nose, he was both hurt and annoyed to be ordered peremptorily to remain for an hour after class and write out pages 245 to 252, inclusive, of the School History. He had no objection, as he confided to his friend and comforter, Arthur Herapath, Esquire, to the Master of the Shell entertaining his own opinions as to the character of the personage in question. But he believed in the maxim "give and take," and just as he would cheerfully have received anything Mr Railsford might have to say on the subject, he at least expected that his own statement should be received in an equally candid spirit, particularly (as he was anxious to point out) since he had personally inspected a portrait of Cromwell not long ago, and verified the existence of the two features alleged. Sir Digby, indeed, deserved some little commiseration. He had come up to Grandcourt this term pledged to the hilt to work hard and live virtuously. He had produced and proudly hung in a conspicuous place in his study a time-table, beautifully ruled and written in red and black ink, showing how each hour of every day in the week was to be spent in honest toil and well-earned sport. He had explained to his friend the interesting fact that a duplicate of this table had been presented to his mother, who thereby would be able to tell at any moment how her dear son was occupied. "Let's see," said he, proudly, taking out his watch. "7.15. Now what am I doing at 7.15 on Thursdays? French preparation. There you are! So if she's thinking about me now she knows what I'm up to." "But you're not doing French preparation," suggested Arthur. "Of course I'm not, you ass. How could I when I lent Dimsdale my book? Besides, we've not started yet. I've got about a million lines to write. Do you know, I'm certain it was Bickers got me into that row about the omnibus; I saw him looking on. I say, that was a stunning lark, wasn't it? I'd have won too if Riggles had kept his right side. Look here, I say, I'd better do some lines now; lend us a hand, there's a good chap. Wouldn't it be a tip if old Smiley could write; we could keep him going all day long!" Master Oakshott had, in fact, become considerably embarrassed at the beginning of the term by one or two accidents, which conspired to put off the operation of the time-table for a short period. The doctor had received information through some channel of the famous chariot race on opening day, and had solaced the defeated champion with a caning (which he did not mind) and five hundred lines of Virgil (which he greatly disliked). In addition to that, Digby had received fifty lines from Ainger for pea-shooting, which, not being handed in by the required time, had doubled and trebled, and bade fair to become another five hundred before they were done. And now he had received from Railsford--from his beloved friend's future brother-in-law--seven pages of School History to write out, of which he had accomplished one during the detention hour, and had solemnly undertaken to complete the other six before to-morrow. It spoke a good deal for the forbearance and good spirits of the unfortunate baronet that he was not depressed by his misfortunes. Arthur, too, had come up with every idea of conducting himself as a model boy, and becoming a great moral support to his future brother-in- law. It had pained him somewhat to find that relative was not always as grateful for his countenance as he should have been. Still, he bore him no malice. The time would come when the elder would cry aloud to the younger for aid, and he should get it. Meanwhile, on this particular evening, Arthur found himself too busy, getting the new study into what he termed ship-shape order, to be able to adopt his friend's suggestion about the lines. His idea of ship- shape did not in every particular correspond with the ordinary acceptation of the term. He had brought down in his trunk several fine works of art, selected chiefly from the sporting papers, and representing stirring incidents in the lives of the chief prize- fighters. These, after endeavouring to take out a few of the creases contracted in the journey, he displayed over the fireplace and above the door, attaching them to the wall by means of garden nails, which had an awkward way of digging prodigious holes in the plaster and never properly reaching the laths behind. Most of the pictures consequently required frequent re-hanging, and by the end of the evening looked as if they, like the shady characters painted on them, had been in the wars. Then Arthur had produced with some pride a small set of bookshelves, which packed away into a wonderfully small space, but which, when fitted together, were large enough to accommodate as many books as he possessed. The fitting together, however, was not very successful. Some of the screws were lost, and had to be replaced by nails, and having used the side-pieces for the shelves, and the shelves for the sides, he and Dig had a good deal of trouble with a saw and a cunningly constructed arrangement of strings to reduce the fabric into the similitude of a bookcase. When at last it was done and nailed to the wall, it exhibited a tendency to tilt forward the moment anything touched it, and pitch its contents on to the floor. After much thought it occurred to Herapath that if they turned it upside down this defect would operate in the other direction, and hold the books securely against the wall. So, having wrenched the nails out, and been fortunate enough to find a space on the wall not gaping with wounds in the plaster, they re-erected it inversely. But, alas! although the top shelf now tilted back at the wall, the bottom shelf swung forward an inch or two and let its contents out behind with the same regularity and punctuality with which it had previously ejected them in front. Dig pronounced it a rotten concern, and voted for smashing it up; but Herapath, more dauntless, determined on one further effort. He began to drive a large nail vehemently into the floor immediately under the refractory bookcase, and then, tying a string round the bottom shelf, he hitched the other end round the nail and drew the fabric triumphantly into the wall. It was a complete success. Even Dig applauded, and cried out to his friend that another inch would make a job of it. Another inch did make a job of it, for just as the bottom shelf closed in the top gave a spring forward, pulling the nail along with it, and burying the two mechanics under a cascade of books, plaster, and shattered timber. Arthur and Dig sat on the floor and surveyed the ruin stolidly, while Smiley, evidently under the delusion that the whole entertainment had been got up for his amusement, barked vociferously, and, seizing a _Student's Gibbon_ in his teeth, worried it, in the lightness of his heart, like a rat. At this juncture the door opened, and Railsford, with alarm in his face, entered. "Whatever _is_ the matter?" he exclaimed. It was an excellent cue for the two boys, who forthwith began to rub their arms and shoulders, and make a demonstration of quiet suffering. "This horrid bookcase won't stick up!" said Arthur. "We were trying to put the things tidy, and it came down." "It's a pretty good weight on a fellow's arm!" said the baronet, rubbing his limb, which had really been grazed in the downfall. "It is a very great noise on the top of my head," said the master. "I dare say it was an accident, but you two will have to be a great deal quieter up here, or I shall have to interfere." "We really couldn't help it, Mark--I mean Rails--I mean Mr Railsford," said Arthur, in an injured tone. "There's Dig will get into no end of a row, as it is. He was writing out that imposition for you, and now he's hurt his arm through helping me--brick that he is! I suppose you won't mind if I finish the lines for him?" Arthur was staking high, and would have been sadly disconcerted had his kinsman taken him at his word. "Is your arm really hurt, Oakshott?" inquired the master. "Oh no; not much," said Digby, wincing dramatically, and putting on an air of determined defiance to an inward agony. "I dare say I can manage, after a rest. We had taken some of the books out, so I only had the bookcase and three shelf-loads of books on the top of me! That wasn't so much!" "How much have you written?" demanded the master. "Two pages, please, sir." "This time I will let that do." "Thanks, awfully!" broke in Arthur; "you're a brick! Dig'll never do it again, will you, Dig?" "I could do it, you know, if you really wanted," said Dig, feeling up and down his wounded limb. "That will do!" said Mark, who had already begun to have a suspicion that he had been "done." "Clear up this mess, and don't let me hear any more noise overhead." When he had gone, the friends embraced in a gust of jubilation. "No end of a notion of yours!" said Dig. "That leaves the lines for the doctor and the others for Ainger. He'll keep. We'll have him in to tea and dose him with marmalade, and square him up. But, there, I must do the doctor's lines, or I shall catch it!" And so, despite his wounded arm, he set to work, aided by his friend, and worked off about half the penalty, by which time his arm and elbow were very sore indeed. Dimsdale, who came in later, was bribed with an invitation to jam breakfast in the morning, to help with the remainder, and the same inducement prevailed upon Tilbury. So that by a fine co- operative effort Dig stood clear with the doctor before night was over, and considered himself entitled to a little rest, which he forthwith proceeded to take. The breakfast-party next morning was a great success on the whole. It was a little marred by the fact that whereas covers were laid for four, just fourteen guests turned up. This was partly Arthur's fault, for, having sallied forth with an invitation in his pocket to anyone who would help his friend out with a few lines, he had dropped them about in a good many other quarters. He had secured the attendance of Simson and Maple of the Shell, and of Bateson and Jukes of the Babies, and, with a view to ingratiate himself with some of his neighbours on the first floor, he had bidden to the banquet Wake, Ranger, Wignet, and Sherriff of the Fifth, and actually prevailed upon Stafford to lend the dignity of a Sixth-form patronage to the _reunion_. These heroes were naturally a little disgusted on turning up at the rendezvous to find the room crowded, with scarcely standing space to space, by a troop of hungry and noisy juniors. The good hosts perspired with the heat of the room, and, as guest after guest crowded in, began to look a little anxious at the modest fare on the table, and speculate mentally on how far one loaf, one pot of jam, four pats of butter, a pint coffee-pot, and three-and-a-half tea-cups would go round the lot. At length, when Stafford arrived, and could not get in at the door for the crush, despair seized them. "You kids had better hook it," said Arthur, to half a dozen of the juniors, who had squeezed themselves into a front rank near the table. "There's not room to-day. Come to-morrow." Loud were the complaints, not unmingled with threatenings and gibes, of these disappointed Babies. "What a horrible shame!" exclaimed Jukes, in a very audible voice. "We were here first." "Do you hear?--cut!" repeated the host. "Come, along," said Bateson; "what's the use of bothering about a crumb and a half a-piece? I never saw such a skinny spread in all my days." And in the ten years which comprehended Master Bateson's "days" he had had a little experience of that sort of thing. The company being now reduced to eight, to wit, Stafford, the four Fifth-form boys, the two hosts, and Dimsdale, assumed more manageable proportions. There was room at least to move an arm or a leg, and even to shut the door. But when it came to taking seats, it still became evident that the table could by no possibility hold more than six. Another crisis thereupon arose. Dimsdale was regretfully dismissed, and departed scarlet in the face, promising, as he slammed the door, to show "up" his hosts. These amiable worthies, much distressed, and not a whit cooler that the room was now comparatively empty, smiled feebly at this threat, and arranged to sit on one another's laps, so as to bring the company finally down to the capabilities of the table. But at this juncture Stafford, who had grown tired of waiting, and evidently saw little prospect of conviviality in the entertainment, remembered that he had some work to do before morning school, and rose to leave. "Why, we've not begun yet," gasped his hosts. "I really must go. Thanks for asking me. I've enjoyed it so much," said the amiable prefect, departing. "Look here, I say," expostulated Arthur, "you might stay. I'll get some eggs, or a herring, if you'll stop." But the guest of the morning was beyond reach of these blandishments, and with muttered reflections on human depravity generally, the hosts took a seat at each end of the festive board, and bade the four Fifth- form fellows fall to. They had already done so. One had cut the loaf, another had meted out the jam, another had poured out the coffee, and another had distributed the butter. "Have some coffee?" said Wake, pleasantly, to Dig; "very good stuff." "Thanks," said Dig, trying to look grateful. "I'll wait till there's a cup to spare." "If you're putting on the eggs," said Ranger, confidentially, to Arthur, "keep mine on an extra fifteen seconds, please. I like them a little hardish." "Awfully sorry," said Arthur, with a quaver in his voice; "jolly unlucky, but we're out of eggs. Got none in the place." "Oh, never mind," said Ranger, reassuringly. "The herrings will do quite as well. Stafford may not fancy them, but we do, don't we, you chaps?" "Rather," said Sheriff, thoughtfully scooping out the last remnants of the jam from the pot. Arthur looked at the baronet and the baronet looked at Arthur. Things were growing desperate, and at all risks a diversion must be made. What could they do? Dig had a vague idea of creating a scare that Smiley had gone mad; but as the animal in question was at that moment peacefully reposing on the hearth, there seemed little probability of this panic "taking." Then he calculated the possibilities of secretly cutting away one leg of the table, and so covering the defects of the meal by an unavoidable catastrophe. But he had not his penknife about him, and the two table-knives were in use. Arthur at this point came gallantly and desperately to the rescue. "I say, you fellows," began he, ignoring the hint about the herrings, "do you want to know a regular lark?" "Ha, ha!" laughed Oakshott, not having the least idea what his friend was going to say, but anxious to impress upon his guests that the joke was to be a good one. "What is it?" asked Wignet, who never believed in anyone else's capacities for story-telling. "Why," said Arthur, getting up a boisterous giggle, "you know Railsford, the new master?" "Of course. What about him?" "Well--keep it dark, you know. Shut up, Dig, and don't make me laugh, I say--there's such a grand joke about him." "Out with it," said the guests, who were beginning to think again about the herrings. "Well, this fellow--I call him Marky, you know--Mark's engaged to my sister, and--" "Ha ha ha!" chimed in Dig. "And--he calls her `_Chuckey_,' I heard him. Oh, my wig!" This last exclamation was caused by his looking up and catching sight of Railsford standing at the door. The Master of the Shell had in fact called up in a friendly way to ask how Sir Digby Oakshott's arm was after the accident of the previous night. CHAPTER SIX. WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY THE MICE WILL PLAY. If Railsford had entertained any lurking hope that his private affairs were sacred in the hands of his prospective kinsman, the little incident recorded at the close of the last chapter did away with the last remnant of any such delusion. He did not say anything about it. He was punctilious to a degree in anything which affected his honour; and as what he had overheard on the occasion in question had been part of a private conversation not intended for his ears, he felt himself unable to take any notice of it. Still, it was impossible for him to regard the faithless Arthur with quite as brotherly an eye as before; and the manner in which that young gentleman avoided him for the next few days, and hung out signals of distress in his presence, showed pretty plainly that these silent reproaches were not being thrown away. Of course Arthur did every imaginable thing to make matters worse in the house, by way of proving his contrition. He besought Wake not to let the story go about, greatly to the amusement of that young humourist, who had already heard it from half a dozen sources since the beginning of the term. He threatened Dimsdale with all sorts of penalties if he spread the secret any further. Dimsdale, who had long ago informed everyone of his acquaintance, cheerfully promised it should go no further. So anxious was Arthur to make up for his offence, that when one or two fellows spoke to him about it, and asked him if it was true that Railsford and his sister were going to be married, he prevaricated and hedged till he got hopelessly out of his depth. "Married!" he would reply, scornfully, "fiddlesticks! I tell you there's nothing in it--all jaw! Who told you they were going to be married?" From utterances like these an impression got abroad in some quarters that Railsford wanted to marry "Chuckey," but "Chuckey" wouldn't have him. So the last end of the story was worse than the first. Railsford, however, did not hear this latest version of his own romance; and, indeed, had plenty of other things just, at this time to occupy his attention. Much to his own satisfaction, he received a polite note from Smedley, the captain of the school, to inform him that he had been elected a vice-president of the Athletic Union, and expressing a hope that he would favour the treasurer with the annual subscription now due, and attend a committee on Saturday evening in Mr Roe's house to arrange about the spring sports. Both requests he gladly complied with. Previous to the meeting he had been present as umpire at a football-match in the meadows between the first twelve against the next twenty. It was a finely-contested battle, and his opinion of Grandcourt rose as he stood and looked on. It had not occurred to him till he was about to start that his two principal prefects would of course be members of the committee in whose deliberations he was to take part. But he considered he might safely leave the control of the house during his short absence to the keeping of Stafford and Felgate, who, though neither of them the kind of boy to inspire much confidence, had at least the title to be considered equal to the task. After all, it was only for an hour. Possibly no one would know of his absence, and on this the first occasion of his being present at a meeting in whose objects he had so much interest, he felt that his duty to the school had as much claim on him as his duty to his house. So he ran the risk, and went quietly out at the appointed time, in the comfortable assurance that his house was absorbed in preparation, and would never miss him. The meeting came up to his expectations. He was the only master present, and as such was voted to the chair. He made a little speech he had got ready in case of need, lauding up athletics to the skies, and confessing his own sympathy and enthusiasm for whatever tended towards the physical improvement of Grandcourt. The boys cheered him at every sentence, and when Smedley afterwards welcomed him in the name of the boys, and said they were all proud to have an old "Blue" among their masters, he received quite a small ovation. Then the meeting went heartily to work over the business of the sports. After an hour and a half's steady work the programme was arranged, the date was fixed, the expenses were estimated, and the vote of thanks was given to the chairman. "Would you mind umpiring again next Saturday, sir?" asked Smedley, as they parted. "With all the pleasure in the world--any time," said the master, only wishing he could play in the fifteen himself. Railsford's house, meanwhile, had celebrated the temporary absence of its ruler in strictly orthodox fashion. Scarcely had he departed, flattering himself that the deluded mice were still under the spell of the cat's presence in their neighbourhood, when the word went round like wildfire, "Coast's clear!" Arthur and the baronet heard it in their study, and flung their books to the four winds and rushed howling down to the common room. The Babies heard it, and kicked over their forms, and executed war-dances in the passages. The Fifth-form "muggers" heard it, and barricaded their doors and put cotton-wool in their ears. Stafford and Felgate heard it, and shrugged their shoulders and wondered when the other prefects would be back. "There's nobody about. Come on. We can kick up as much row as we like!" shouted the high-principled Arthur. "Who cares for my spooney old brother-in-law, Marky?" The shout of laughter which followed this noble appeal suddenly dropped into a deadly silence as the lank form of Mr Bickers appeared in the doorway. Arthur rapidly lost himself in the crowd. The two prefects, with flushed faces, elbowed their way into the room as though just arrived to quell the uproar. A few boys snatched up books and flopped down at their desks. But Mr Bickers had too keen an eye to let himself be imposed upon. He had witnessed the scene from a window in his own house, and surmising by the noise that no authority was present to deal with the disorder, had taken upon himself to look in in a friendly way and set things right. "Silence!" he cried, closing the door behind him, and walking two steps into the room. "Where is Mr Railsford?" "Out, sir," said Stafford. "And the prefects?" "Felgate and I are prefects, sir. The other two are out." "And you two have allowed this noise and disorder to go on for half an hour?" "We were going to stop it," said Felgate, faltering. "By looking on and applauding?" responded the master. "You forget that from one of my windows everything that goes on here is plainly visible, including those who stand at the door and look on when they ought to know better. Go to your rooms, you two." "We are in charge of the house, sir," mildly protested Felgate. "_I_ am in charge of the house," thundered Mr Bickers. "Obey me, and go." They withdrew, chafing, crestfallen, and very uncomfortable. "Now," said Mr Bickers, when the door was again closed, "Arthur Herapath, come here." Mr Bickers's knowledge of the names of the boys in other houses was quite phenomenal. Arthur, with hanging head and thumping heart, slunk forward. "So, sir," said Mr Bickers, fixing him with his eye, "you are the model boy whom I heard proclaiming as I came in that you could make as much noise as you liked, and called your absent master by an insulting name." "Please, sir," pleaded the unlucky Arthur, "I didn't mean it to be insulting. I only called him Marky, because he's my brother-in-law--I mean he's going to be." "That's right, Mr Bickers," said the baronet, nobly backing up his friend; "he's spoo-- I mean he's engaged to Daisy, Herapath's sister." "Silence, sir," said the master with a curl of his lips. "Herapath, come here, and hold out your hand." So saying, he took up a ruler from a desk close at hand. "Please, sir," expostulated Arthur--he didn't mind a cane, but had a rooted objection to rulers--"I really didn't--" "Hold out your hand, sir!" There was no denying Mr Bickers. Arthur held out his hand, and was there and then, before half his house, admonished six times consecutively, with an emphasis which brought the tears fairly into his hardened eyes. "Now go, all of you, to your studies, and continue your preparation. I shall remain in the house till Mr Railsford returns, and report what has occurred to him." When half an hour later the Master of the Shell, full of his athletic prospects, returned to his quarters, he was gratified as well as surprised by the dead silence which reigned, His astonishment was by no means diminished when on entering the common room he encountered Mr Bickers pacing up and down the floor amidst the scared juniors there assembled. Railsford, with all his follies, was a man of quick perception, and took in the whole situation at a glance. He understood why Mr Bickers was there, and why the place was so silent. Still more, he perceived that his own authority in the house had suffered a shock, and that a lesson was being read him by the man whom, of all his colleagues, he disliked the most. "Good-evening," said Mr Bickers, with a show of friendliness. Mark nodded. "I am glad to be able to render up your house to you in rather better order than I found it. If you'll take my advice, Railsford, you will not venture out, in the evening specially, leaving no one in authority. It is sure to be taken advantage of." Railsford bit his lips. "I ought to be much obliged to you," said he coldly. "As it happens, I did not venture out without leaving anyone in authority." "If you mean Stafford and--what is his name?--Felgate--I can't congratulate you on your deputies. They were, in fact, aiding and abetting the disorder, and I have sent them to their rooms as incompetent. I would advise you to relieve them of their office as soon as you can." "Thank you for your advice," said Railsford, whose blood was getting up. "I will make my own arrangements in my own house." "Of course, my dear fellow," replied Bickers, blandly, "but you should really find two better men than those. There was no attempt to stop the disorder (which had been going on for half an hour) when I arrived. I had to castigate one of the ringleaders myself--Herapath by name, claiming kinship with you, by the way. I'm not sure that you ought not to report him to Dr Ponsford." It was all Railsford could do to listen quietly to this speech, drawled out slowly and cuttingly by his rival. He made a desperate effort to control himself, as he replied-- "Don't you think, Mr Bickers, you might with advantage go and see how your own house is getting on in your absence?" Mr Bickers smiled. "Happily, I have responsible prefects. However, now you are back--and if you are not going out again--I will say good-night." Railsford said "Good-night," and disregarding the proffered hand of his colleague, walked moodily up to his own room. He may be excused if he was put out and miserable. He was in the wrong, and he knew it. And yet the manner in which the rebuke had been administered was such as no man of spirit could cheerfully endure. The one idea in his mind was, not how to punish the house for its disorder, but how to settle scores with Bickers for restoring order; not how to admonish the incompetent prefects, but how to justify them against their accuser. He sent for the four prefects to his room before bed hour. Ainger and Barnworth, it was plain to see, had been informed of all that had happened, and were in a more warlike mood even than their two companions. "I hear," said Railsford, "that there was a disturbance in the house while I was away for a short time this evening. Ainger and Barnworth of course were out too, but I should like to hear from you, Stafford and Felgate, what it was all about." Stafford allowed Felgate to give his version; which was, like most of Felgate's versions, decidedly apocryphal. "There was rather a row, sir," said he, "among some of the juniors. Some of them were wrestling, I fancy. As soon as we saw what was going on, Stafford and I came to stop it, when Mr Bickers turned up and sent us to our rooms. We told him we had been left in charge by you, but he would not listen." "Very annoying!" said the master. "It's rather humiliating to our house, sir," said Ainger, "if our prefects are not to be allowed to deal with our own fellows." "I agree with you," said Mark, warmly. "I have no reason whatever for doubting that they can and will do their duty when--" He had intended to say "when they are not interfered with," but deemed it more prudent to say, "when occasion requires." "We could easily have stopped the row, sir," said Stafford, "if we had been allowed to do so." "I have no doubt of it," said the master. "I am glad to have had this little explanation. The honour of our house is of common interest to all of us." A week ago this speech would have seemed a mere commonplace exhortation, but under present circumstances it had a double meaning for those present. "He's a brick," said Ainger, as they returned to their studies. "He means to back us up, after all, and pay Bickers out." "What surprises me," said Barnworth, "is that Stafford, the bull-dog, did not invite the intruder out into the square and impress the honour of our house with two black marks on each of his eyes." "I'm just as glad," said Felgate, "it's all happened. We shouldn't have got Railsford with us if--" "If you'd done your duty, and stopped the row the moment it began," said Ainger; who, with all his jealousy for his house, had no toleration for humbug, even in a prefect whose cause he espoused. So Railsford's house went to bed that night in a warlike mood. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE SESSION OF MASTERS AND AN OUTRAGE. It is to be feared that Mark Railsford, Moral Science man though he was, had yet to learn the art of applying his philosophy to his own circumstances, or he would never have committed the serious error, on the day following the event recorded in the last chapter, of writing the following foolish note to Mr Bickers:-- "_February_ 1. "Sir,--Referring to the unpleasant topic of our conversation last night, I have since consulted my prefects on the matter, and made other inquiries as to what took place here during my temporary absence at the athletic meeting. The report I have received, and which I am disposed to credit, differs materially from your own version. In any case, allow me to say that I require no assistance in the management of my house. When I do, I shall ask for it. Meanwhile I shall continue to consider the interference of anyone, whatever his motives, as an impertinence which I, although the junior master at Grandcourt, shall have no hesitation in resenting to the utmost of my power. I trust these few lines may obviate any future misunderstanding on a point about which I feel very strongly. "Yours, etcetera, "M. Railsford." Mr Bickers was hardly the man to neglect the opportunity afforded by this letter for a crushing reply; and accordingly he spend a pleasant hour that same afternoon in concocting the following polite rejoinder:-- "_February_ 1. "Dear Railsford,--Many thanks for your note just to hand. I can quite believe that the version of yesterday's proceedings which you are disposed to credit, given by your prefects (two of whom were absent, and the other two participators in the disturbance), differs materially from my own. Such diversities of opinion are not uncommon in my experience. As to the management of your house, I assure you in what I did yesterday I had no intention of assisting you. In fact, you were not there to assist. It was because you were not, that my duty to the school suggested that I should attempt to do what you would have done infinitely better, I am aware, had you been on the spot. Under similar circumstances I should do the same again, in face of the uncomfortable knowledge that thereby I should be guilty of an impertinence to the junior master at Grandcourt. It is kind of you to take steps to make your meaning quite clear on this matter. May I suggest that we refer the matter to the session of masters, or, if you prefer it, to Dr Ponsford? I believe the masters meet to-night. Unless I hear from you, I shall conclude you are as anxious as I am to have the matter thoroughly gone into by a competent tribunal, to obviate any future misunderstanding on a point on which you naturally feel strongly. "Believe me, my dear Railsford, "Yours, very truly, "T. Bickers." Mark was entertaining company when this uncomfortable letter arrived, in the person of Monsieur Lablache, the French master. It would be difficult to say what there was in the unpopular foreigner which attracted the Master of the Shell. It may have been a touch of Quixotic chivalry which led him to defy all the traditions of the place and offer his friendship to the best-hated person in Grandcourt; or it may have been a feeling that monsieur was hardly judged by his colleagues and pupils. However it was, during the short time the term had run, the two men had struck up an acquaintance which perplexed a great many spectators and displeased a great many more. "I think you should be careful with Lablache," said Grover to his friend. "Not that I know anything against him, but his reputation in the school is rather doubtful." "I suppose the reputation of all detention masters is doubtful," said Railsford, laughing; "yours or mine would be if we had his work to do. But a man is innocent till he is proved guilty in England, isn't he?" "Quite so," said Grover. "I don't want to set you against him, for, as I say, I know nothing of him. All I mean, is, that you must be prepared to share a little of his unpopularity if you take up with him. That's all." "I'll take my chance of that," said Railsford. The first time Monsieur Lablache appeared in Railsford's house, in response to an invitation from the new master to come and take coffee, there was considerable excitement in the house. The juniors considered their liberty was at stake, and hissed their master's guest down the corridors. The Shell boys presumed still further, and raised a cry of "Turn him out!" and some even attempted to hustle him and trip him upon the stairs. But the most curious incident of that untriumphal progress was when Munger, the cad of the Fifth, confronted monsieur in the lobby outside Railsford's room with the shout, "He's going to raise money on his old clothes at last!" The brutal words (for monsieur was very shabbily attired) were scarcely uttered when Railsford's door suddenly opened and Munger was sent reeling across the lobby under a blow which echoed through the house. The Master of the Shell, white with rage, stood there with a look on his face which sent the few loiterers packing to their dens, and made Munger only sorry the wall against which he staggered did not open and let him through. "Come here, you--you boy!" Munger advanced, scarcely less pale than his master. "Apologise to Monsieur Lablache--here, down on your knees--for behaving like a blackguard, and saying what you did!" "No, it is no matter," began monsieur, with a shrug, when Mark checked him by a gesture almost as intimidating as that by which he had just summoned the offender. "You hear me?" he said to the boy. Munger went down on his knees and repeated whatever he was told; and would have called himself by still worse names, had he been requested. It didn't matter much to Munger! "Now tell me your name?" "Munger." "Your form?" "Fifth." The master turned on his heel and ushered his guest into the room, leaving Munger to rub his cheek, and wonder to himself how he ever came to stand being knocked about in the way he had been that afternoon. This had happened a day or two ago. Since then, whatever the house thought, no one was bold enough to molest the French master publicly in Railsford's, unless it was perfectly certain Mr Railsford was out of the way. It would be a mistake to say the two masters had become devoted friends. Monsieur Lablache's chief attraction in Railsford's eyes was that he was looked down upon by the other masters, and persecuted by the boys; while the French master was so unused to notice of any kind, that he felt a trifle suspicious that the kindness of his new acquaintance might be in some way a snare. However, a little mutual mistrust sometimes paves the way to a good deal of mutual confidence; and after a few days the two men had risen considerably in one another's esteem. When Railsford, on the evening in question, crushed Mr Bickers's note up in his hand, with an angry exclamation, monsieur said-- "_Voila, mon cher_ Railsford, you do not get always _billets-doux_?" Monsieur had heard, of course, as everyone else had, of the new master's matrimonial prospects. "No," said Railsford, gloomily; "not always," and he pitched Mr Bickers's letter into the grate as he spoke. "Perhaps," said monsieur, "you do not always write them. I advise you to not answer that letter." "Why?" said Railsford, "how do you know what that letter is?" "I do not know; but I think that it does need no answer." Railsford laughed. "You are setting up as a soothsayer, monsieur. Suppose I tell you that letter does need an answer, quickly?" "Then, I say, somebody else will answer it better than you will." Railsford picked the crushed-up letter off the coals just in time to save it from the flames. "How should you answer it, monsieur?" Monsieur slowly unfolded the paper and smoothed it out. "Meester Beekaire!" said he, with a twist of his moustache, as he recognised the writing. "You mean that I read it?" "Certainly, if you like." The Frenchman read the document through, and then pitched it back into the fire. "Well?" said Railsford. "Well, my good friend, it seems you do not know Meester Beekaire as well as others." "Is that all?" said Railsford, a little nettled. "The masters' meeting is to-night, is it not?" "So he says." "You shall go?" "Of course." "It will not be pleasant times for you, for you will need to make speeches, my good friend." "Look here," said Railsford, who was getting a little impatient of these enigmatical utterances, "I fancied you could give me some advice; if you can't, let us talk about something more pleasant." "I do give you advice. I say to you, go to the meeting, and say you did wrong, and will not do it again--" "What!" thundered Mark, in a voice which made Arthur and the baronet in the room overhead jump out of their chairs. "My kind Railsford, it is only my advice. You have been in the wrong. I say to you, as a brave man, do not make yourself more wrong. Meester Beekaire would help you very much to make yourself more wrong. Do not let him help you, I say." Unpalatable as it was, there was some force in his visitor's advice, which Railsford was bound to admit. Poor monsieur was not a shining example of successful dealing with his fellow-masters. Still, out of the mouth of the simple one may sometimes hear a home truth. The masters' session was a periodical conference of the Grandcourt masters, half social, half business, for the purpose of talking over matters of common school interest, discussing points of management, and generally exchanging ideas on what was passing in the little world of which they were the controllers. Dr Ponsford rarely, if ever, put in an appearance on such occasions; he had the greatest faith in holding himself aloof from detail, and not making himself too accessible either to master or boy. Only when the boys could not settle a matter for themselves, or the masters could not settle it for them, he interfered and settled it without argument and without appeal. It was never pleasant when the doctor had to be called in, and the feeling against such a step contributed very largely to the success of the school's self-government. Railsford by this time knew most of his fellow-masters to speak to, but this was the first occasion on which he had met them in their corporate capacity, and had he not been personally interested in the proceedings he would felt a pleasant curiosity in the deliberations of this august body. Mr Bickers was already there, and nodded in a most friendly way to the Master of the Shell on his arrival. Grover and Mr Roe welcomed their new colleague warmly, and began at once to compare notes as to school- work. A few minutes later Monsieur Lablache, a little smarter than usual, came in, and having bowed to the company generally--a salute which no one seemed to observe--subsided on a retired seat. Railsford, to the regret perhaps of some of his friends, presently walked across and took a seat beside him, and the meeting began. "Before we come to business," began Mr Roe, who by virtue of his seniority occupied the chair, "I am sure the meeting would wish me to express their pleasure at seeing Mr Railsford among us for the first time, and to offer him a hearty welcome to Grandcourt." "Hear, hear," said Grover and others, amongst whom Mr Bickers's voice was conspicuous. Railsford felt uncomfortable thus to become an object of general notice, and coloured up as he nodded his acknowledgments to the chairman. "They do not know of your scrape," said monsieur, cheerfully. "I would tell them about it, my good friend, before Meester Beekaire makes his little speech." Railsford glared round at his companion, and felt his heart thumping at the prospect of the task before him. "There are one or two matters," began Mr Roe, "to bring before--" Railsford rose to his feet and said, "Mr Roe, and gentlemen--" There was a dead silence at this unexpected interruption, broken only by an encouraging cheer from Mr Bickers. Supposing the new master was about to acknowledge the compliment just paid him by a set speech, Mr Roe put down his agenda paper and said, "Mr Railsford." "If you will allow me," began Mark, rather breathlessly, "I would like to refer to a matter which personally concerns myself. I should not venture to do it in this way, immediately after your kind welcome, if I did not feel it to be my duty. Yesterday, gentlemen, an unfortunate incident occurred in my house--(`Hear, hear,' and a smile from Mr Bickers). I went--" "Excuse me," said the chairman, "may I explain to Mr Railsford, as he is a new member here, that our practice is invariably to take up any questions in order of the seniority of the masters present. Mr Smith, I believe, has a motion on the paper--" Poor Railsford subsided, full of confusion, stripped of his good resolutions, abusing himself for his folly, and wishing Monsieur Lablache and his advice at the bottom of the sea. What Mr Smith and the other masters who followed had to say he neither heard nor cared. His determination to admit his own error had oozed away, and he resolved that if his story was to be kept waiting, it should be none the sweeter, when it did come, for the delay. Several topics were discussed pleasantly, with a view to elicit the opinion of the meeting on small questions of policy and discipline. Presently Mr Roe turned to Bickers. "I think you said you had some question to ask, Mr Bickers?" "Oh, well, yes. Mine's quite a hypothetical point, though," began Mr Bickers, airily. "I just wanted to ask, supposing one of us becomes aware of a riot in a neighbouring house, during the absence of the master of that house, and ascertains, moreover, that the prefects on duty, so far from making any attempt to control the disorder, are participating in it, I presume there can be no question that it would be the duty of anyone of us to interfere in such a case? It's quite a hypothetical case, mind, but it might occur." "Certainly, I should say, if you were quite sure the proper house authorities were not there to enforce order," said Mr Roe. "Of course," said Grover; "but it's rather an unlikely case, isn't it?" "It occurred in my house last night," broke in Railsford, hotly. "I was at the Athletic Union, and two of my prefects; the other two were left in charge. Mr Bickers took upon himself to interfere in my absence, and I have written to tell him that I consider his action impertinent, and resent it. In reply, he writes--" "A _private_ letter," interposed Mr Bickers hurriedly, evidently not relishing the prospect of having his effusion read. "It was not marked `private,' but I can quite understand the writer would not like to hear it read aloud here. All I wish to say is that his hypothetical case is no more hypothetical than his interference was in the affairs of my house; and that if he asks my opinion on the matter, I shall tell him he would do better to mind his own business!" Railsford sat down, very hot, and painfully conscious that he had not exhibited the moderation and temper which he had promised himself to observe. An embarrassed silence ensued. Mr Roe, a man of peace, frowned, and turned inquiringly to Bickers. Bickers stroked his beard and smiled, and said nothing. "Do you wish to say anything?" asked the chairman. "By no means. Mr Railsford has said all I could wish said far more eloquently than I could. Shall we go on to the next business, Mr Chairman?" As for Railsford, the further proceeding had no interest for him, and he vanished the moment the meeting was over, without speaking to anyone. As Mr Bickers walked off towards his house, he really felt a little sorry for his fellow-master, who had let himself down by so paltry an exhibition of temper thus early in his career. However, no doubt he would take to heart to-night's lesson, and do himself more justice in future. Mr Bickers, in the fulness of his heart, took a little round of the big square on his way home, with the double intent of giving himself the air, and perchance intercepting, for the good of the school, one or more youthful night-birds in their truant excursions. This was a kind of sport in which Mr Bickers was particularly successful, and which, therefore (as became a successful sportsman), he rather enjoyed. To his credit be it said, he was strictly impartial in his dealings; whether the culprit belonged to his own house (as often happened) or to another's, he was equally down upon him, and was never known to relax his penalties for the most plausible excuse set up by his ingenious victims. To-night it seemed as if he would return without a "bag" at all, and he was about to resign himself to his disappointment, when his quick eyes detected in the darkness a hovering shadow moving ahead of him in the direction of Railsford's house. It vanished almost immediately, but not before the master had caught a faintly uttered "Hist!" which betrayed that he had to deal with more than one truant. He quickened his pace a little, and came once more in view of the phantom slinking along by the wall at a pace which was not quite a run. Rather to Mr Bickers's surprise the fugitive passed the door of Railsford's, and made straight on towards the chapel, slackening pace as he did so. "A decoy," said the knowing master to himself. "Employed to draw me on while the rest make good their retreat. There is a touch of generosity in the decoy which one is bound to admire; but on this occasion, my young friend, you are dealing with rather too aged a bird to be caught--" At this moment he had come up to the door of Railsford's, and before his soliloquy had been able to advance by another word he seemed to see sparks before his eyes, while at the same moment his feet went from under him, and something was drawn over his head. The bag, or whatever it was, was capacious; for the neck of it descended to his waist, and closed by the magic of a slip-knot round his mouth and elbows before he had the presence of mind to shout or throw out his arms. To complete his misfortune, as he tried to raise himself, another noose was snugly cast around his feet, and thus gagged and pinioned, silently, rapidly, and dexterously, Mr Bickers found himself in a situation in which, he could positively aver, he had never stood--or lain--before. The thought did flash through his sack-enveloped head, that his assailants, whoever they were, must have rehearsed this little comedy carefully and diligently for a day or two, in order to arrive at the perfection displayed in the present performance. He also made a mental calculation that three, possibly four, fellow-beings were engaged on the job, of whom two were strong, and two were small; one of the latter possibly being the decoy whom he had so lately apostrophised. Not a syllable was uttered during the ceremony; and the victim recognising his position, had the good sense to remain cool and not waste his time and dignity in a fruitless struggle. The pinioning being complete, and a small hole being considerately opened in the sack in the region of the nose for purposes of respiration, he was hauled up one or two steps, dragged one or two feet, deposited on the board floor of the shoe-cupboard, and, after a few mild and irresolute kicks, left to his own meditations, the last sound which penetrated into the sack being the sharp turning of a key on the outside of his dungeon door. "So," soliloquised Mr Bickers, after discovering that he was unhurt, though uncomfortably cramped, "our friend Railsford is having one lodger more than the regulation number to-night. This will make another hypothetical case for the next session of masters!" CHAPTER EIGHT. THE DOCTOR HAS A WORD OR TWO WITH RAILSFORD'S HOUSE. Railsford's house was not famous for early risers. The chapel-bell in winter began to ring at 7.30, and "call-over" was at 7.45. Between these two periods, but chiefly at the 7.45 end, most of the rising in the house was accomplished. Master Simson, the Shell-fish, was in for the hundred yards under fourteen at the sports; and being a shy youth who did not like to practise in public, he had determined to rise before the lark and take a furtive spin round the school track while his schoolfellows and enemies slept. It was a cold, raw morning, and before he was fully arrayed in his flannels he had had more than one serious idea of relapsing into bed. Be it said to his credit, he resisted the temptation, and gallantly finished his toilet, putting on an extra "sweater" and pea-jacket to boot--for he had seven pounds to run off between now and the sports. He peered out of the window; it was dark, but a patter on the panes showed him that a light sleet was falling outside. If so, being of a frugal mind, he would not run in his new shoes, but in his old boots. Now, his old boots were in the cupboard under the staircase by the front door. And the reader understands at last why it is I have taken so much trouble to describe Master Simson's movements on this particular morning. It was so rare an event for any boy to be up at six o'clock on a winter morning in Railsford's, that no one had ever thought about making a rule to prevent the early birds leaving the house at that hour, if they could succeed in getting out. Simson, who had interest with the cook, believed he could get an _exeat_ through the kitchen window; meanwhile he must get his boots. He armed himself with a match--the last one in the box--and quietly felt his way along the corridor and down the stairs. There was a glimmer of light from under the maids' door as he passed, which told him they were up and that he would not have long to wait downstairs. At the foot of the stairs he turned sharp round, and following the wall with his hand, came at length on the familiar handle of the "boot-box." To his surprise the door was locked, but the key was on the outside. "A sell if I hadn't been able to get in," said he to himself, opening the door. Now Simson, like a cautious youth, aware of the frailty of matches, wisely resolved to penetrate as far as possible into the interior of the cupboard, in the direction in which he knew his particular boots to be, before striking a light. But at the first step he tripped on something and fell prostrate over a human carcase, which emitted a muffled gasp and moved heavily as he tumbled upon it. Then there went up a yell such as curdled the blood of half Railsford's as they lay in their beds, and made the domestics up- stairs cling to one another in terror, as if their last moment had come. Simson, with every hair on his head erect, made a frantic dive out of that awful den, banging the door and locking it behind him in a frenzy of fright. Then he dashed up-stairs, and plunged, as white as his shirt, into the dormitory. Another yell signalised his arrival. Not his, this time, but the joint performance of the other occupants of the room, who, sitting up with their chins on their knees, half petrified by the horror of the first shriek, now gave themselves up for lost when the door broke open in the dark, and a gasping something staggered into the room. "There's some--bo--dy been mur--dered," gasped Simson, "in the bo--ot- box!" Everybody was on his feet in a moment. "Murdered?" "Yes," said Simson, wonderfully comforted by the noise and general panic. "I got up early, you know, to have a grind on the track, and went to get my boots, and--I--I fell over it!" "Over what?" "The bo--od--y," whispered Simson. "Has anybody got a light?" shouted Arthur. But at that moment a light appeared at the door, and Ainger came in. "What's all this row--what's the matter?" "Simson says somebody's been murdered in the boot-box," replied Arthur. "I say, hadn't we better go and see?" It was a practical suggestion. The corridor was already full of half- dressed inquirers, and a moment later Mr Railsford's door opened. The story was repeated to him. "Come with me, Ainger," said he, quietly; "the rest of you return to your dormitories, and remain there." Arthur, seized by a noble desire not to leave his future kinsman unprotected in such an hour of peril, elected to disregard this last order, and, accompanied by his henchman, followed the candle at a respectful distance down the stairs. "There's no blood on the stairs," observed the baronet, in a whisper. "They've left the key in the door," muttered Arthur. "Hold the light," said Railsford, turning the key, and entering. Prostrate on the ground, bound hand and foot, and enveloped down to the waist in a sack, lay the figure of a man, motionless, but certainly not dead, for sounds proceeded from the depths of the canvas. In a moment Railsford had knelt and cut the cords round the prisoner's feet and hands, while Ainger drew the sack from the head. Arthur gave a whistle of consternation as the features of Mr Bickers came to light, pale and stern. The sudden sight of Medusa's head could hardly have had a more petrifying effect. The victim himself was the first to recover. Stretching his arms and legs in relief, he sat up, and coolly said,-- "Thank you." "Whatever does all this mean?" exclaimed Railsford, helping him to rise, for he was very stiff and cramped. "That I cannot say. Kindly reach my hat, Ainger." "Who has done this?" "That, too, I cannot say. I can walk, thank you." "Won't you come to my room and have something? You really must," said Railsford, taking his arm. Mr Bickers disengaged his arm, and said coldly, "Thank you, no; I will go to my own, if you will open the door." Arthur at this moment came up officiously with a glass of water, which Mr Bickers drank eagerly, and then, declining one last offer of assistance, went slowly out towards his own house. Railsford retired to his room and threw himself into his chair in a state of profound dejection. Mysterious as the whole affair was, one or two things were clear. The one was that his house was disgraced by this criminal and cowardly outrage, the other was that the situation was made ten times more difficult on account of the already notorious feud between himself and the injured master. His high hopes were once more dashed to the ground, and this time, it almost seemed, finally. Mark Railsford was no coward, yet for half an hour that morning he wished he might be well out of Grandcourt for ever. Then, having admitted cooler counsels, he dressed and went to the captain's study. "Call the other prefects here, Ainger. I want to talk to you." The seniors were not far off, and speedily assembled. "First of all," said the master, who perceived at a glance that it was not necessary for him to explain the gravity of the situation, "can any of you give me any information about this disgraceful affair?" "None, sir," said Ainger, a little nettled at the master's tone; "we have talked it over, and, as far as we are concerned, it's a complete mystery." "Have you any reason to suspect anybody?" "None at all, sir." "You know, all of you, I needn't tell you, that the credit of the house is at stake--in fact, it's gone till we find the offenders. Mr Bickers will naturally report the matter to Dr Ponsford, and I am going to the doctor for the same purpose. I wished to consult you before taking any step, because this is a matter in which we must work together." "Certainly, sir," said Ainger, speaking for the rest. "What I mean is, that no personal feeling must come between us and the duty we all owe to Grandcourt to see this wrong put right; you understand me?" "Yes," said the downright Ainger; "we none of us like Mr Bickers, but we must find out the fellows who scragged him, all the same." "Exactly; and I am glad to hear you say that. There is one other matter. Two of you, Stafford and Felgate, recently felt specially aggrieved by something which Mr Bickers said to you. You must forget all that now, and remember only that your duty to the whole school requires that you should do everything in your power to help to put an end to this scandal." "Of course we shall," said Felgate, curtly, in a tone which Railsford did not consider particularly encouraging. However, having opened his mind to his lieutenants, he went away straight to the doctor's. Mr Bickers was leaving just as he entered, and Railsford read in his looks, as he brushed past, no great encouragement to hope that things would soon be made right. "Mr Bickers," said he, advancing almost in front of his colleague, "I _must_ tell you how distressed I am at what has occurred. I--" "Yes, it _is_ trying for you," said the injured master, drily. "Excuse me, though; I want my breakfast." It was not easy to feel cordial sympathy with a man like this. However, there was nothing for it but to go and lay his case before the doctor, and Railsford entered accordingly. Dr Ponsford was at breakfast, and asked his visitor to take a seat. "You have come to tell me that Mr Bickers's assailants are discovered?" said he. "I wish I could," said Railsford. "I have only had time to speak to my prefects." "Two of whom are not to be trusted, and profess a personal spite against Mr Bickers." This was just like the doctor. He gave other people information and never wanted any himself. "I know, of course, what you refer to. I have not myself found any reason to consider Felgate or Stafford untrustworthy. Mr Bickers says--" "I know what Mr Bickers says; but what do you say?" "Well, sir, frankly, I do not feel quite sure of Felgate; and Stafford is too amiable to say `no' to anybody." "Now let me hear about the affair this morning." Railsford gave a careful account of the discovery of Mr Bickers in the boot-box, and was conscious that the doctor, although he gave little sign of it, was not quite blind to the unfortunate position in which he, as the new master of the offending house, was placed. "Have a call-over of your house at ten o'clock, Mr Railsford. I will come." This announcement was about as cheerful a one in Grandcourt as an appointment made by the Court of the Inquisition would have been, once upon a time, in Spain, Railsford rose to go. "You had better stop and have breakfast here," said the doctor, ringing the bell for another cup. During the meal no further reference was made to the event of the morning, but Railsford was drawn out as to his work and the condition of his house generally, and was painfully aware that the doctor was making the best of his time to reckon him up. He only wished he could guess the verdict. But on this point he received no light, and went off presently charged with the unpleasant task of summoning his house to answer for themselves at the bar of the head- master. It was a curious spectacle, the crowd of boys which assembled in the common room that morning at Railsford's. Some were sulky, and resented this jumbling of the innocent and guilty. Some were so anxious to appear guileless and gay, that they overdid it and compromised themselves in consequence. Some were a little frightened lest an all- round flogging should be proposed. Some whispered mysteriously, and looked askance at one or two fellows who had been "mentioned" as possibly implicated. Some, like Arthur and the baronet, with Simson squeezed in between them, looked knowing and important, as though horses and chariots would not drag their secret out of them. Ainger looked pale, and his big chest went up and down in a manner which those who knew him felt to be ominous. Stafford looked alternately solemn and sneering, according as he turned to the captain or Felgate. And Barnworth alone looked comfortable, and, apparently, had not an idea what all the excitement was about. At ten o'clock Railsford entered in his cap and gown, and Ainger immediately began to call over the roll. Every one answered to his name except Maple of the Shell, who was away at his father's funeral, and Tomkins the Baby, who had been so scared by the whole affair, that he had turned sick during breakfast, and retired--with the dame's permission--to bed. During the call-over the doctor had entered and seated himself at the master's desk. His quick eye took in each boy as he uttered his "Adsum," dwelling longer on some than on others, and now and then turning his glance to the master and senior prefect. When it was all over and Ainger had handed in the list, the head-master took his eyeglass from his eye, laid the list on the desk before him, and said-- "Boys, this is an unusual and unpleasant visit. You know the object of it; you know the discredit which at present lies on your house and on Grandcourt, and you know what your duty is in the matter. If any boy here does not know what I mean, let him stand up." It was as much as the life of anybody present was worth to respond to this challenge. One or two who could never hear a good story too often would not have objected if somebody else had demanded further information. But for their own part, their discretion outdid their curiosity, and they retained their seats amidst a dead silence. "Very well. Now I will put a question to you as a body. It is a very serious question, and one which no honest boy here, if he is able to answer it, can afford to evade. A great deal more depends on your answer than the mere expulsion of one or more wrong-doers. You boys are the guardians of the honour of your house. The only honourable thing at a time like this is to speak the truth, whatever the consequences. The question I ask is this-- Was any boy here concerned in the outrage on Mr Bickers? or does any boy know who was? I will wait for two minutes, that you may understand the importance of the question, before I call for an answer." Dead silence. The boys for the most part looked straight before them with heightened colour, and watched the slow progress of the minute-hand of the clock. "I repeat the question now," said the doctor, when the allotted time had run--"Was any boy here concerned in the outrage on Mr Bickers? or does any boy know who was? If so, let him stand up." The silence which followed was broken to some by the thumping of their own hearts. But no one rose; and a sense of relief came to all but Railsford, who felt his spirits sink as the prospect of a near end to his trouble receded. "Every boy here," said the doctor, slowly, "denies all knowledge of the affair?" Silence gave consent. "Then," continued the head-master, more severely, putting up his eyeglass, and handing the list to Ainger, "I shall put the question to each boy separately. Call over the list, and let each boy come up and answer." Ainger began by calling out his own name, and forthwith walked up to the master's desk. "Do you know anything whatever of this affair?" asked the doctor, looking him full in the face. "No, sir," said Ainger, returning the look, after his fashion, half defiantly. The next name was called, and its owner marched up to the desk and uttered his denial. Railsford, as he stood scanning keenly the face of each boy in turn, felt that he was watching the action of some strange machine. First Ainger's clear voice. Then the short "Adsum," and the footsteps up to the desk. Then the doctor's stern question. Then the quick look-up and the half-defiant "No, sir," (for they all caught up the captain's tone). And, finally, the retreating footsteps, and the silence preceding the next name. There was no sign of faltering; and, wherever the secret lurked, Railsford saw little chance of it leaking out. A few boys, indeed, as was natural, gave their replies after their own fashion. Barnworth looked bored, and answered as though the whole performance was a waste of time. Arthur Herapath was particularly knowing in his tone, and accompanied his disclaimer with an embarrassing half-wink at his future kinsman. Felgate said "No" without the "sir," and swaggered back to his place with an ostentatious indifference which did not go unnoted. The baronet, who was nothing if not original, said nothing, but shook his head. "Reply to the question, sir!" thundered the doctor, ominously. Whereat Sir Digby, losing his head, said, "No, thank you, sir," and retired, amid some confusion. Simson, when interrogated, mildly added to his "No, sir" the explanatory sentence, "except finding him there when I went for my boots"; and Munger, the cad, added to his answer, "but I'll try to find out," with a leer and an oily smile, which Ainger felt strongly tempted to acknowledge by a kick as he passed back to his place. Stafford, painfully aware that he was one of the "mentioned" ones, looked horribly confused and red as he answered to his name, and satisfied several of the inexpert ones present that it was hardly necessary to look further for one of the culprits. So the call-over passed, and when once more Ainger handed in the list Railsford seemed further than ever from seeing light through the cloud which enveloped it. The doctor's brow darkened as he took once more his glass from his eye. "This is very serious," said he, slowly. "When I came here it was with the painful feeling that the house contained boys so cowardly and unprincipled as to waylay a defenceless man in the dark, and to treat him as Mr Bickers has been treated. But it is tenfold worse to believe that it contains boys cowardly enough to involve the whole house in their own disgrace and punishment. (Sensation.) I will not mince matters. Your house is deeply disgraced, and cannot pretend to rank any longer with the other houses, who at least have a good name, until you have yourselves made this matter right. It rests with you to retrieve your credit. Meanwhile--" Everybody took a long breath. The occasion was as when the judge puts on the black cap before passing sentence of death. "Meanwhile the house will cease to dine in Hall, but will dine in this room at one o'clock daily; and on Saturdays, instead of taking the half- holiday in the afternoon, you will take it in the morning, and assemble for school at twelve o'clock. I still trust that there may be sufficient self-respect among you to make this change only of slight duration; or that," and here the doctor's tone grew bitter, and his mouth gathered sarcastically--"at least self-interest may come to your assistance, and make it possible to return to the old order." And he stalked from the room. "Let us off easy, eh?" said the baronet. "Easy?" fumed Arthur; "he might as well have given us a bit of rope a- piece and told us to go and hang ourselves! Look at Ainger; do you suppose _he_ thinks we've been let off easy?" The captain's face left no doubt on that question. CHAPTER NINE. AINGER HAS A CRUMPET FOR TEA, AND SMEDLEY SINGS A SONG. Railsford for a brief moment had shared the opinion of his distinguished pupil, that the doctor had let the house off easily. But two minutes' reflection sufficed to undeceive him. The house was to dine daily at one o'clock in Railsford's. That meant that they were to be cut off from all association with the rest of the school out of school hours, and that just when all the rest turned out into the playing-fields they were to sit down at their disgraced board. The half-holiday regulation was still worse. For that meant nothing short of the compulsory retirement of his boys from all the clubs, and, as far as athletics went, their total exclusion from every match or contest open to the whole school. The house was slower at taking in the situation of affairs than the master. With the exception of Ainger, on whom the full significance of the doctor's sentence had flashed from the first, there was a general feeling of surprise that so big a "row" should be followed by so insignificant a retribution. "Who cares what time we have dinner," said Munger to some of his admirers, "as long as we get it after all? Now if old Punch (this was an irreverent corruption of the head-master's name current in certain sets at Grandcourt)--if old Punch had stopped our grub one day a week--" "Besides," broke in another, "we'll get things hotter than when we dined in hall." "A precious sight hotter," said Arthur, wrathfully. "What are we to do at beagle-time to-morrow? Just when the hounds start we've got to turn in to dinner. Bah!" This was the first practical illustration of the inconvenience of the new _regime_, and it instantly suggested others. "We'll be stumped," said Tilbury, "if this goes on after cricket starts--it'll be all up with any of us getting into one of the School matches." "I suppose," said Ranger of the Fifth, "this will knock all of us out of the sports, too?" Fellows looked blank at the suggestion. Yet a moment's reflection showed that Ranger was right. One o'clock was the daily training hour in the playing-fields, and Saturday afternoon four weeks hence was the date fixed for the School sports. It took some days for Railsford's house to accommodate itself to the new order of things imposed upon it. Indeed, it took twenty-four hours for Grandcourt generally to comprehend the calamity which had befallen the disgraced house. When one o'clock arrived on the first afternoon, and neither Ainger, Wake, Wignet, Tilbury, Herapath, nor the other familiar frequenters of the playing-field, put in an appearance, speculation began to pass about as to the cause of their absence. Some of Bickers's boys knew there had been a "howling shine" about something. But it was not till Smedley, impatient to settle some question relating to the sports, sent his fag to fetch Ainger that it became generally known what had happened. The fag returned with an important face. "Such a go!" said he, in reply to his chief's inquiry; "there's a feast going on at Railsford's! Smelt fine! I saw them through the door, but couldn't go in, because Railsford was there. Ainger and all the lot were tucking in. The beef was just going in, so they've only just started." "Jolly shame!" said someone who overheard this announcement; "we never get feasts in our house! I suppose Railsford thinks he'll get his chaps in a good-humour by it. It's not fair unless everybody does it." "It'll be hall-time before they've done. We'd better not wait," said one of the Sixth. "I wonder what it all means?" "I heard Ponsford had been down rowing them about something this morning--something some of them had been doing to Bickers, I believe." "Very likely; Bickers looked as green as a toad this morning, didn't he, Branscombe?" "He did look fishy," said Branscombe, shortly, "but I say, Smedley, hadn't we better measure off without Ainger, and get him to see if he approves afterwards?" So the work went on without the representatives of Railsford's house, and the bell rang for school-dinner before any of the missing ones had put in an appearance. The mystery was heightened when in Hall the fifty seats usually occupied by Railsford's boys stood empty; and no inquiry was made from the masters' table as to the cause of the defection. It was noticed that Mr Railsford himself was not present, and that Mr Bickers still looked upset and out of sorts. "Have you any idea what the row is?" said Smedley to Branscombe as the company stood round the tables, waiting for the doctor. "How should I know? You'd better go and ask up there." Smedley did. As the doctor entered, he marched up to meet him, and said,-- "None of Mr Railsford's house are here yet, sir." "Quite right. Call silence for grace and begin," said the doctor, slowly. For the rest of the day Railsford's seemed to be playing hide and seek with the rest of the school, and it was not till late in the evening that the mystery was cleared up. "Come and let's see what it's all about," said Smedley to Branscombe. Both the seniors had been fretting all the afternoon with a sense of something gone wrong at Grandcourt, the former with just a little indignation that he, the captain of the school, should be kept in the dark, along with everybody else, on the subject. "I ought to work," said Branscombe; "you go and _tell_ me what's up." "Why, I thought you were as anxious as anyone to know?" "So I am," said Branscombe, who to do him justice looked thoroughly worried; "but you know while there's this row on between the two houses I--I don't care to go over there without being asked." "_I_ asked you, didn't I?" said Smedley. "You're not afraid of being eaten up, are you? Never mind. I'll brave the wild beasts myself, and let you know how I get on." It was the rule at Grandcourt that after dark no boy from one house might enter another without permission. Smedley therefore went straight to Railsford. "May I go and see Ainger, please, sir?" "Certainly. And, Smedley," said the master, as the captain retired, "look in here for a moment as you go out. I want to see you about the sports." Smedley found Ainger alone, and heard from him a full, true, and particular account of the day's events. The captain's wrath was unbounded. "What!" he exclaimed, "cut all of you out of the sports and everything! I say, Ainger, it must be stopped, I tell you. I'll go to the doctor." "Might as well go to the unicorn over the gate," said Ainger. "Can't you find the fellows?" "That's just it. There's not even a fellow in the house I can suspect so far." "You feel sure it's one of your fellows?" "It couldn't be anyone else. Roe's and Grover's fellows never come over our side, and never have anything to do with Bickers. And it's hardly likely any of Bickers's fellows would have done it. In fact, ever since Bickers came in here the other night and thrashed one of our fellows, the two houses have been at daggers drawn." "So Branscombe said. He didn't seem to care about coming in with me. I asked him." "I don't wonder. Some of the young fools down there would give him a hot reception for no other reason than that he belongs to Bickers's house." "I don't fancy he's proud of that distinction," said Smedley, laughing. "But, I say, can't anything be done?" "Nothing; unless Railsford can do anything." "Railsford asked me to go in and see him. Come, too, old man." But Railsford had nothing to suggest. He explained dejectedly the effect of the doctor's sentence. It meant that his house was out of everything in the playing-fields; and that, as for himself, he was as much excluded as his boys. And he confirmed Ainger's opinion that it was utterly useless to appeal further to the doctor. "It would be only fair, sir," said Smedley, "for you to take back the prize and subscription you offered for the sports." "Certainly not, my dear fellow," said the master. "If I cannot take part in the sports in person, at least I would like to have some finger in the pie." That was all that passed. "I like Railsford," said Smedley; "he's genuinely cut up." "It's awfully rough on him," replied Ainger. The two friends said good-bye. "By the way, Smedley," said Ainger, calling the captain back, "I may as well tell you, we are going to have our revenge for all this." "What!" said Smedley, rather alarmed. "Surely you're not going to--" "To roast the doctor? No. But we're going to make this the crack house of the school in spite of him." Smedley laughed. "Good! You've a busy time before you, old man. I'll promise to keep it dark--ha! ha!" "You may think it a joke, dear old chap," said Ainger, standing at the door and watching his retreating figure, "but even the captain of Grandcourt will have to sit up by-and-by." Smedley, the brave and impetuous, walked straight from Railsford's to the doctor's. He knew his was a useless mission, but he wasn't going to shirk it. The doctor would snub him and tell him to mind his own affairs; "but"--so said the hero to himself--"what do I care? I'll tell him a piece of my mind, and if he like to tell me a piece of his, that's only fair. Here goes!" The doctor was engaged in his study, said the servant; but if Mr Smedley would step into the drawing-room he would come in a few minutes. Smedley stepped into the dimly-lighted drawing-room accordingly, which, to his consternation, he found already had an occupant. The doctor's niece was at the piano. Smedley, for once in a way, behaved like a coward, and having advanced a step or two into the room, suddenly turned tail and retreated. "Don't go, Mr Smedley," said a pleasant voice behind him. "Uncle will be here in a minute." "Oh, I--good-evening, Miss Violet. I'm afraid of--" "Not of me, are you? I'll go if you like," said she, laughing, "and then you'll have the room to yourself." "Oh no, please. I didn't mean that. Won't you play or sing something, Miss Violet?" So Miss Violet sang "Cherry Ripe," and then, the doctor not having yet put in an appearance, Smedley asked if she would mind playing the accompaniment of "Down among the Dead Men," as he would like to try it over. The young lady cheerfully complied, and when presently the head-master stalked into the room he was startled, and possibly a little amused, to be met with the defiant shout of his head boy,-- "And he that will this health deny, Down among the dead men--down among the--" He was shaking his fist above his head, after the fashion of the song at the school suppers, when he suddenly stopped short at the sight of the doctor, and realised the horror of the situation. "Go on, Mr Smedley," said Miss Violet, "finish the verse. We shan't be a moment, uncle." But Smedley could as soon have finished that verse as fly up the chimney. So the doctor's niece finished it for him, and then, with a "Good-night, Mr Smedley; thank you very much for the song," she tripped out of the room, leaving the hero to his fate. It was not a very terrible fate after all. "You and my niece have been having quite a concert," said the doctor. "I hope I did not disturb you, sir. Miss Violet was so kind as to play some accompaniments for me while I was waiting for you." "You want to see me. What is it, Smedley?" Smedley till this moment had forgotten the object of his delicate mission, and now, suddenly recalled to business, felt less taste than ever for his task. Still he must go through with it. "It was about Mr Railsford's house, sir." "That, Smedley, is not a subject for discussion." "I know, sir. All I mean is that the whole school will suffer." "That increases the responsibility of those who can rectify all by owning their misconduct." "Won't it be possible to make some exceptions, sir? Our School sports will go all to pieces without Ainger and Barnworth and some of their fellows." "You must see they do not go to pieces, Smedley," said the doctor; "it would be unworthy of the school if they did. As for Mr Railsford's boys, I have said what I had to say to them, and have nothing more to add." "But Mr Railsford himself, sir," began the captain, desperately playing his last card; "we hoped he--" "It is a most unfortunate thing for everyone," said the doctor--"I include myself and you and Mr Railsford. We are called upon to make a sacrifice, and there should be no question about our being willing, all of us, to make it for the good of the school. Good-night, Smedley, good-night." Smedley walked back, humming "Cherry Ripe" to himself, and feeling decidedly depressed about things in general. CHAPTER TEN. ARTHUR PUTS TWO AND TWO TOGETHER. Sir Digby Oakshott, of Oakshott Park, Baronet, was down on his luck. His heart had been set on saving his house single-handed by a brilliant discovery of the miscreants to whom it owed its present disgrace. It had been a busy week for him. He had had three or four fights a day with outraged suspects, and had not invariably got the best of them. Besides, in his devotion to the public service his private duties had been neglected, and the pile of impositions had grown with compound interest. Worst of all, his own familiar friend had lifted up his heel against him, and had openly gibed at his efforts. This was "the most unkindest cut of all," and Sir Digby felt it deeply. "What's the use of going on fooling?" said Arthur, one evening, when the tension was becoming acute. "Why can't you shut up making an ass of yourself?" "Look here, Arthur, old man," said the baronet deprecatingly, "I don't want to be jawed by you. It's no business of yours." "What I can't make out," pursued his friend sarcastically, "is why you haven't tried to smell the chaps out by means of Smiley. Now, if you let Smiley have a good sniff of that bit of rope on your watch-chain, and then turn him out into the square, he'd ferret them out for you." "I tell you what, old man, if it's coming to a regular row between us two, hadn't you better say so at once, and get done with it?" "Who says anything about a row? All I say is, you're in a precious good way of getting yourself kicked round the house, the way you're going on; and I don't much mind if I'm asked to lead off." "You'd better try to kick me, that's all," said Dig. "I'll see what I can do for you some day. But, I say, Dig, can't you see what a howling ass you're making of yourself?" "No, I don't know so much about asses as you do," responded Dig. "Daresay not. If you were in the company of one all day long, as I am, you'd soon throw it up. I tell you, my--" Here the speaker suddenly broke off and looked affectionately at the troubled face of his old chum. "Look here, Dig, old man, I don't want to have a row with you, no more do you. I vote we don't." "Hang a row," said Dig. "But it seems to me, Arthur, you don't care twopence whether the chap's found out or not." Arthur's face clouded over. "Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't. I don't see we're called upon to show them up." "But look what a mess the house is in till they're bowled out. We'll never get hold of a bat all the season." "Jolly bad luck, I know, but we must lump it, Dig. You must drop fooling about with your clues. Don't get in a wax, now. I've got my reasons." "Whatever do you mean? Do you know who it was, then? Come in! Who's there?" The intruder was the Baby Jukes, who carried half a dozen letters in his hand, one of which he presented to the two chums. "One for you," said he. "They're all the same. Wake gave Bateson and me a penny a-piece for writing them out, and we knocked off twenty. He says he'd have sent you one a-piece, only he knows you've not two ideas between you. Catch hold." And he departed, smiling sweetly, with his tongue in his cheek, just in time to avoid a Caesar flung by the indignant baronet at his head. "Those kids are getting a drop too much," said Dig. "They've no more respect for their betters than Smiley has. What's this precious letter?" The letter was addressed to "Messrs. Herapath and Oakshott," and was signed by Wake of the Fifth, although written in the inelegant hand of Master Jukes the Baby. "`Central Criminal Court, Grandcourt. The assizes will open this evening in the forum at 6.30 sharp. You are hereby summoned on urgent business. Hereof fail not at your peril.'" "What do that mean?" again inquired Dig. "What right has Wake to threaten us?" "Don't you see, Wake, whose father is a pettifogging lawyer, is going to get up a make-believe law court--I heard him talk about it last term-- instead of the regular debating evening. The best of it is, we kids shall all be in it, instead of getting stuck on the back bench to clap, as we generally are." "He's no business to tell us to fail not at our peril," growled Dig. "What will they do?" "Try somebody for murder, perhaps, or--why, of course!" exclaimed Arthur, "they'll have somebody tried for that Bickers row!" "By the way," said Dig, returning to the great question on his mind, "you never told me if you really knew who did it." Arthur's face clouded again. "How should I know?" said he shortly. "What's the use of talking about it?" There was something mysterious in Herapath's manner which disturbed his friend. It was bad enough not to be backed up in his own schemes, but to feel that his chum knew something that he did not, was very hard on Sir Digby. Now he recalled it, Arthur had all along been somewhat reserved about the business. He had made sport of other fellows' theories, but he had never disclosed his own. Yet it was evident he had his own ideas on the subject. Was it come to this, that after all these terms of confidence and alliance, a petty secret was to come between them and cloud the hitherto peaceful horizon of their fellowship? Digby, perhaps, did not exactly put the idea into these poetical words, but the matter troubled him quite as much. Now, it is my intention, at this place, generously to disclose to the reader what was hidden from Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, and from everyone else at Grandcourt--namely, that Arthur Herapath was fully persuaded in his own mind that he knew the name of the arch offender in the recent outrage, and was resolved through thick and thin to shield him from detection. He was perfectly aware that in so doing he made himself an accessory after the fact, but that was a risk he was prepared to run. Only it decided him to keep his knowledge to himself. Arthur was not a particularly sharp boy. His qualities were chiefly of the bull-dog order. He did not take things in with the rapidity of some fellows, but when he did get his teeth into a fact he held on like grim death. So it was now. In the first excitement of the discovery he had been as much at sea and as wild in his conjectures as anybody. But after a little he stumbled upon a piece of evidence which gave him a serious turn, and had kept him serious ever since. On the morning of the discovery, Arthur, being in the neighbourhood of the "boot-box," thought he would have a look round. There was no fear of his mistaking the place; he had been there before, and seen Mr Bickers come out of the sack. Everything was pretty much as it had been left. The sack lay in the corner where it had been thrown, and the cord, all except the piece which the baronet had secured, was there too. On the dusty floor could clearly be perceived the place where Mr Bickers had rolled about in his uncomfortable shackles during the night, and on the ledge of the dim window which let light into the boot-box from the lobby still stood the tumbler which Arthur himself had officiously fetched an hour or two ago. One or two things occurred to Arthur which had not previously struck him. One was that the door of the boot-box was a very narrow one, and, closing-to by a spring, it would either have had to be held open or propped open while Mr Bickers was being hauled in by his captors. He found that to hold it open wide he would have to get behind it and shut himself up between it and the stairs. Most likely, all hands being required for securing the victim, the captors would have taken the precaution to prop the door open by some means, so as to be ready for their deep-laid and carefully prepared scheme. So Arthur groped about and discovered a twisted-up wedge of paper, which, by its battered look and peculiar shape, had evidently been stuck at some time under the door to keep it from closing-to. He quietly pocketed this prize, on the chance of its being useful, and after possessing himself of the sack and cord, and two wax vestas lying on the floor, one of which had been lit and the other had not, he prepared to quit the scene. As he was going up-stairs he caught sight of one other object--not, however, on the floor, but on the ledge of the cornice above the door. This was a match-box of the kind usually sold by street arabs for a halfpenny. Arthur tried to reach it, but could not get at it even by jumping. "The fellow who put that there must have been over six feet," said he to himself. With some trouble he got a stick and tipped the box off the ledge, and as he did so it occurred to him that, whereas the dust lay a quarter of an inch thick on the ledge, and whereas the match-box had no similar coating of dust, but was almost clean, it must have been put up there recently. He opened the box and looked inside. It contained wax vestas, with curiously coloured purple heads, which on examination corresponded exactly with the matches he had picked up on the floor of the boot-box. "Oh," said Arthur to himself, very red in the face, "here's a go!" and he bolted up to his room. Dig, as it happened, was out, not altogether to his chum's regret, who set himself, with somewhat curious agitation, to examine his booty. First of all he examined once more the match-box, and satisfied himself that there was no doubt about the identity of its contents with the stray vestas he had picked up. The result was decisive. The box had been placed above the door very recently by someone who, unless he stood on a form or climbed on somebody else's back, must have been more than six feet high. No one puts matches above doors by accident. Whoever put it there must have meant it--and more than that, must have opened it and dropped one out inside the boot-box. "Now," considered the astute Arthur, "it was pitch dark when Bickers was collared; lights were out, and the fellows thought they'd have a glim handy in case of need. They struck one and spilt one, and shoved the box up there, in case they should want it again. I say! what a clever chap I am! The tall chap this box belongs to did the job, eh?" An expert might possibly find a flaw in this clue, but Arthur was a little proud of himself. Next he spread out the sack and inspected the cord. There was not much to help him here, one would suppose, and yet Arthur, being once on a good tack, thought it worth his while to look closely at these two relics. The sack was not the ordinary type of potato-sack which most people associate with the term, but more like a large canvas pillow-case, such as some article of furniture might be packed in, or which might be used to envelop a small bath and its contents on a railway journey. Arthur perceived that it had been turned inside out, and took the trouble to reverse it. It was riddled with holes, some of them to admit the running cords which had closed round the neck and elbows of the unfortunate Mr Bickers, and some, notably that in the region of the nose, made hastily, with the motive of giving the captive a little ventilation. Arthur could not help thinking, as he turned the sack outside in, that it would have been nicer for Mr Bickers to have the comparatively clean side of the canvas next to his face instead of the very grimy and travel-stained surface which had fallen to his lot. But these speculations gave place to other emotions as he discovered two black initials painted on the canvas, and still legible under their covering of dirt and grease. There was no mistaking them, and Arthur gave vent to a whistle of consternation as he deciphered an "M.R." Now, as Arthur and everybody else knows, "M.R." _may_ mean Midland Railway, but the Midland Railway is not six feet two inches, and does not carry wax vestas about him, or drop them on the floor of the boot- box. Arthur gaped at those initials for fully three minutes, and then hurriedly hid the sack away in the cupboard. He had still one more point to clear up. He pulled the wedge of paper out of his pocket and began nervously to unroll it. It was frayed and black where the door had ground it against the floor; but, on beginning to open it, it turned out to be a portion of a torn newspaper. It was a _Standard_ of February 4--two days ago--and Arthur whistled again and turned pale as he saw a stamp and a postmark on the front page, and read a fragment of the address--"...ford, Esquire, Grandcourt." "That settles it clean!" he muttered to himself. "I say! who'd have thought it!" Then he sat down and went over the incidents of the last twenty-four hours. Last night--it is sad to have to record it--Arthur had been out in the big square at half-past nine, when he should have been in bed. He had been over to find a ball which he had lost during the morning while playing catch with Dig out of the window. On his way back--he remembered it now--he had had rather a perilous time. First of all he had nearly run into the arms of Branscombe, the captain of Bickers's house, who was inconveniently prowling about at the time, probably in search of some truant of his own house. Then in doubling to avoid this danger he had dimly sighted Mr Bickers himself, taking a starlight walk on Railsford's side of the square. Finally, in his last bolt home, he had encountered Railsford stalking moodily under the shadow of his own house, and too preoccupied to notice, still less to challenge, the truant. All this Arthur remembered now, and, carrying his mind a day or two further back, he recalled Mr Bickers's uninvited visit to the house-- Arthur had painful cause to remember it--and Railsford's evident resentment of the intrusion, and the threatenings of slaughter which had been bandied about between the two houses ever since. "Why," said Arthur to himself, "it's as clear as a pikestaff. I see it all now. Bickers said it was about a quarter to ten when he was collared. No fellows would be about then, and certainly no one would know that he would be passing our door, except Marky. Marky must have been actually hanging about for him when I passed! What a pity I didn't stop to see the fun! Yes, he'd got his sack ready, and had jammed the door open with this paper, and got his matches handy. Bickers would never see him till he came close up, and then Marky would have the sack on in two twos before he could halloa. My eye! I would never have believed it of Marky. Served Bickers right, of course, and it'll be a lesson to him; but it'll be hot for Marky if he's found out. Bickers says there may have been more than one fellow on the job, but I don't fancy it. If Mark had had anybody, he'd have got me to help him, because it would be all in the family, and I'd be bound to keep it dark. Wouldn't he turn green if he knew I'd twigged him! Anyhow, I'll keep it as close as putty now, and help him worry through. Very knowing of him to go with a candle and let him out this morning, and look so struck all of a heap. He took me in regularly." Arthur said this to himself in a tone which implied that if Mark had been able to take _him_ in, it was little to be wondered at that all the rest of the house had been hoodwinked. "Hard luck," thought he condescendingly. "I daren't tell Dig. He's such a gossip, it would be all over the place in a day. Wonder if I'd best let Marky know I've spotted him? Think not. He wouldn't like it, and as long as he's civil I'll back him up for Daisy's sake." Then, having stumbled on to the thought of home, it occurred to him that since the opening day, when he had sent a postcard to announce his arrival, he had not yet troubled his relatives with a letter this term. It was a chance, while he was in the humour, to polish them off now; so he took up his pen, and thus discoursed to his indulgent sister:-- "Dear Da,--Mark's all right so far. He doesn't hit it with a lot of the chaps, and now and then we hate him, but he lets Dig and me alone, and doesn't interfere with Smiley. I hope you and he keep it up, because it would make me look rather foolish if it was all off, especially as Dimsdale and one or two of the chaps happen to have heard about it, and have bets on that it won't last over the summer holidays. "I'm getting on very well, and working hard at French. _Je suis allant a commencer translater une chose par Moliere le prochain term si je suis bon_. There's a howling row on in the house just now. Bickers got nobbled and sacked the other night, and shoved in the boot-box, and nobody knows who did it. I've a notion, but I'm bound to keep it dark for the sake of a mutual friend. It would be as rough as you like for him if it came out. But I believe in _assistant un boiteux chien au travers de la stile_; so I'm keeping it all dark. Ponsford has been down on us like a sack of coals. They've shoved forward our dinner-hour to one o'clock, so we're regularly dished over the sports, especially as Saturday afternoon has been changed into morning. The house will go to the dogs now, _mais que est les odds si longtemps que vous etes heureuses_? Dig sends his love. He and I remember the loved ones at home, and try to be good. By the way, do you think pater could go another five bob? I'm awfully hard up, my dear Daisy, and should greatly like not to get into evil ways and borrow from Dig. Can you spare me a photograph to stick up on the mantelpiece to remind me of you always? You needn't send a cabinet one, because they cost too much. I'd sooner have a _carte-de-visite_ and the rest in stamps, if you don't mind. I'm doing my best to give Marky a leg-up. I could get him into a row and a half if I liked, but for your sake I'm keeping it all dark. I hope you'll come down soon. It will be an awful game if you do, and I'll promise to keep the fellows from grinning. _Maintenant, il faut que je close haut. Donnez mon amour a mere et pere, et esperant que vous etes tout droit, souvenez me votre aimant frere_, Arthur Herapath. _Dig envoie son amour a tous_." Daisy might have been still more affected by this brotherly effusion than she was, had not she received a letter by the same post from Mark himself, telling her of his later troubles, and containing a somewhat more explicit narrative of recent events than had been afforded in the letter of his prospective brother-in-law. "I am, I confess, almost at a loss," said he. "I do not like to believe that anyone in the house can have the meanness to involve us all in this misfortune by his own guilty silence. ... Much depends now on the spirit which my prefects show. I believe, myself, that if they take a proper view of the situation, we may weather the storm. But the new order of things hits them harder than anyone else, for it excludes them from football, cricket, and the sports; and I fear it is too much to expect that they will even try to make the best of it! I begin to feel that a master, after all, if he is to do any good, must be a sort of head boy himself, and I would be thankful if my seniors let me into their confidence, and we were not always dealing with one another at arm's length. All this, I fear, is uninteresting to you; but it means a good deal to me. The flighty Arthur does not appear to be much cast down by our troubles. I wish I could help him to a little of the ballast he so greatly needs. But, although I am the master of this house, I seem scarcely ever to see him. I hear him, though. I hear him this minute. He and his chum occupy the room over me, and when they execute a war dance--which occurs on an average six times a day--it makes me tremble for my ceiling. I have a notion Arthur spends his weekly allowance rather recklessly, and am thinking of suggesting to your father that a reduction might be judicious," etcetera, etcetera. Had Railsford guessed, as he wrote these rather despondent lines, that his youthful kinsman in the room above was hugging himself for his own astuteness in tracking out his (Railsford's) villainy, he might perhaps have regarded the situation of affairs as still less cheerful. As it was, after the first discovery, the hope had begun to dawn upon the Master of the Shell, as it had already dawned on Barnworth, that some good might even result from the present misfortunes of the house. And as the days passed, he became still more confirmed in the hope, and, with his usual sanguine temper, thought he could see already Railsford's house starting on a new career and turning its troubles to credit. Alas! Mark Railsford had rough waters still to pass through. And the house, before it was to start on its new career, had several little affairs to wind up and dispose of. Among others, the Central Criminal Court Assizes were coming on, and the boys were summoned, "at their peril," not to fail in appearing on the occasion. CHAPTER ELEVEN. A "CAUSE CELEBRE." Wake, of the Fifth, was one of those restless, vivacious spirits who, with no spare time on their hands, contrive to accomplish as much as any ordinary half-dozen people put together. He formed part of the much- despised band of fellows in his form contemptuously termed "muggers." In other words, he read hard, and took no part in the desultory amusements which consumed the odd moments of so many in the house. And yet he was an excellent cricketer and runner, as the school was bound to acknowledge whenever it called out its champions to do battle for it in the playing-fields. More than that, if anyone wanted anything doing in the way of literary sport--in the concoction of a squib or the sketching of a caricature-- Wake was always ready to take the work upon himself, and let who liked take the credit. He had a mania for verses and epigrams; he was reputed a bit of a conjuror, and no one ever brought a new puzzle to Grandcourt which Wake, of Railsford's, could not, sooner or later, find out. Among other occupations, Wake had for some time past acted as secretary for the House Discussion Society--an old institution which for years had droned along to the well-known tunes--"That Wellington was a greater man than Napoleon," "That Shakespeare was a greater poet than Homer," "That women's rights are not desirable," "That the execution of Charles the First was unjustifiable," etcetera, etcetera. But when, six months ago, Trill, of the Sixth, the old secretary, left Grandcourt, and Wake, at the solicitation of the prefects (who lacked the energy to undertake the work themselves), consented to act as secretary, the society entered upon a new career. The new secretary alarmed his patrons by his versatility and energy. The old humdrum questions vanished almost completely from the programme, and were replaced by such interesting conundrums as "Is life worth living?" "Ought the _Daily News_ to be taken in at the school library?" "What is a lie?" and so on. Beyond that, he boldly appropriated evenings for other purposes than the traditional debate. On one occasion he organised a highly successful reading of _Coriolanus_, in which the juniors, to their vast delight, were admitted to shout as citizens. Another evening was given to impromptu speeches, every member who volunteered being called upon to draw a subject out of a hat and make a speech upon it there and then. And more than once the order of the day was readings and recitations, in which the younger members were specially encouraged to take part, and stood up gallantly to be shot at by their critical seniors. Whatever might be said of this novel departure from old tradition, no one could deny that the Discussion Society had looked up wonderfully during the last six months. The forum was generally crowded, and everyone, from prefect to Baby, took more or less interest in the proceedings. No one, after the first few meetings, questioned Wake's liberty to arrange what programme he liked, and the house was generally kept in a pleasant flutter of curiosity as to what the volatile secretary would be up to next. The "Central Criminal Court" was his latest invention, and it need scarcely be said the idea, at the present juncture, was so startling that a quarter of an hour before the hour of meeting the forum was packed to its fullest extent, and it was even rumoured that Mr Railsford had promised to look in during the evening. It was evident directly to the juniors that the proceedings had been carefully thought out and settled by the secretary, in consultation with some of the wise heads of the house. The room was arranged in close imitation of a court of justice. The bench was a chair raised on two forms at one end; the witness-box and the dock were raised spaces railed off by cord from the rest of the court. Rows of desks represented the seats of the counsel, and two long forms, slightly elevated above the level of the floor, were reserved for the accommodation of the jury. The general public and witnesses-in-waiting were relegated to the rear of the court. The question was, as everyone entered, Who is who? Who is to be the judge, and who is to be the prisoner, and who are to be the counsel? This natural inquiry was answered after the usual style of the enterprising secretary. Every one on entering was asked to draw out of a hat a folded slip of paper, which assigned to him the part he was to play, the only parts reserved from the lot being that of judge, which of course was to be filled by Ainger, and that of senior counsels for the prosecution and defence, which were undertaken respectively by Barnworth and Felgate. It was suspected later on that a few of the other parts were also prearranged, but no one could be quite sure of this. "What are you?" said Dig, pulling a long face over his piece of paper. "I'm junior counsel for the defence," said Arthur proudly. "What are you?" "A wretched witness," said the baronet. "What a spree! Won't I pull you inside out when I get you in the box, my boy!" There was a call for order, and Ainger, mounting the bench, said,-- "This is quite an experiment, you fellows. It may be a failure, or it may go off all right. It depends on how we do our best. The idea is that a prisoner is to be tried for murder (delight among the juniors). Barnworth, who is the counsel for the prosecution, has prepared the story, and Felgate has been told what the line to be taken against the prisoner is, so that he might prepare his defence. These are the only two who know exactly what they are to do beforehand. All the rest will have to act according to the papers they have drawn. Who has drawn prisoner?" Amid much laughter Stafford blushingly owned the soft impeachment, and was called upon to enter the dock, which he did, looking rather uncomfortable, and as if he half repented his consent to take a part in the proceedings. "Now," proceeded Ainger, consulting a paper, "the twelve jurymen are to go into the box there." The twelve boys with "Jury" on their papers obeyed. They were a motley crew, some being Fifth-form boys, some Shell-fish, and some Babies. And by the odd irony of fate, the one who had drawn the "foreman's" ticket was Jukes, the Baby. "Now the witnesses go to the back seats there. You'll find on each the name you will be called by, and a short note of what your evidence is to be. You will have to listen very carefully to Barnworth's story, so as to know exactly what it's all about." There was a laugh at this. Some thought it a trifle queer that witnesses should have to learn what their evidence was to be from notes given them in court and from counsel's speech. But they were young, and did not know much of law courts. "Of course you must not show one another your notes," said Ainger; "that would spoil all." "Ta-ta," said the baronet rather dismally to his chum; "they call me Tomkins!" "The junior counsel for the prosecution, of course, are to sit behind Barnworth, and for the defence behind Felgate. You must listen carefully, as you may have to help in the cross-examination. The rest of the public go to the back; and now we are ready to begin. Usher, call silence in the court." Tilbury, whose proud office it was to act in this capacity, shouted, "Order, there! shut up!" in a loud voice. Wake, who acted as clerk, read out the name of the case, "Regina _versus_ Bolts." The jury answered to their names and promised to bring in a true verdict. The prisoner was called upon to plead guilty or not guilty, and answered, "Not guilty"; and then Barnworth rose and opened the case for the prosecution. "My lord, and gentlemen of the jury," he began; "the prisoner at the bar is charged with the wilful murder of John Smith, on the night of Tuesday, February 4." This was interesting, for Tuesday, February 4, was the date of the Bickers affair. "I shall, as briefly as possible, narrate the circumstances of this unfortunate affair. The prisoner, Thomas Bolts, is a workman in the employ of a large firm of engineers in this neighbourhood, in which the murdered man was also engaged as a foreman and overseer. It is unnecessary, gentlemen of the jury, to explain to you that the works in question are divided into several distinct departments, or shops. I need not describe them all, but two of them were the screw department and the boiler department. Smith was foreman and overseer of the screw department, while the prisoner was one of the skilled workmen in the boiler department. For some time past ill-feeling had existed between the men of the boiler department and the deceased on account of his interference with them; and this ill-feeling appears to have culminated a few days before the murder, on account of an intrusion made by Smith into the boiler department, and the alleged assault of one of the men there employed." Every one saw now what was coming, and pricked up his ears in anticipation. Ainger, who had had as little idea of the turn things were going to take as anybody else, grew fidgety, and wished Wake had shown more discretion. But it was too late to stop the case now. "This assault occurred, I believe, on the 2nd of February." "No, the 3rd--the day before," whispered Ranger, who acted as junior counsel for the prosecution. "I am obliged to my learned friend for correcting me. This occurred on the 3rd, the day before the murder. Now, gentlemen of the jury, I ask your attention to the occurrences which followed. At the time of the assault the prisoner, in the absence of the head foreman, was acting as overseer of his shop, and witnesses will prove that he protested against the behaviour of the deceased, and was in consequence insulted by Smith. I mention this to show that a personal grudge existed between the two men." Stafford, whose _role_ as prisoner may or may not have been the result of mere accident, began not to like the turn things were taking. "On the 4th everything went well till the evening, although, it is stated, a formal complaint of Smith's interference was made through the regular, foreman of the boiler-shop, as will appear in evidence. In the evening of that day--that is, about eight o'clock--a meeting of the heads of the various departments was held in a distant part of the works, which was attended by Smith as well as the other foremen. The meeting lasted till 9.30, and Smith was last seen proceeding to his own quarters, in the neighbourhood of the boiler-shop. "On the morning of the 5th, a workman named Simple, on entering the coal-cellar under the stairs of the boiler-shed, stumbled against a human body, and being frightened, gave an alarm. The foreman of the boiler department, accompanied by the prisoner and one or two other men, proceeded to the spot, and found the body of the deceased lying on the floor among the coals, enveloped in a sack, and bound hand and foot. He was alive at the time, and on being released stated that on passing the door of the boiler-shed, on the previous evening, he had been seized from behind by some person unknown, and after being bound in the sack had been dragged into the cellar and shut up there for the night. He was much exhausted when found, and on the evening of the 5th succumbed to the injuries he had received." Some of the juniors breathed again. It was _very_ like the story of Mr Bickers, only Mr Bickers was alive and kicking still. It was much more satisfactory for the present purposes to have the fellow out of the way. "Now, gentlemen of the jury," proceeded Barnworth, putting his hands in his pockets and addressing himself particularly to Jukes, the Baby, "I ask your particular attention to a few facts. At the time of the murder the prisoner, who is usually working in his own shop, was observed to be absent, and no satisfactory account can be given of his whereabouts. Further than that, a witness will prove to you that after the quarrel on the previous day he was heard to say that he would pay the deceased out. It will also be proved that on the same afternoon he procured several yards of cord from a neighbouring shop, which the maker will identify as very like the cord used for binding the murdered man. Finally, on an inquiry made by the head of the firm, on a question being put to each man in the boiler department in succession, it was observed that the accused gave his replies with evident confusion and alarm. For these reasons, gentlemen of the jury, and others which will come out in evidence, I shall ask you by your verdict to find the prisoner guilty of the wilful murder of John Smith." This seemed a very strong case, and one or two of the jury rather wondered that the judge did not at once direct them to bring in a verdict of "Guilty." However, as it appeared to be the usual thing to hear evidence, they waited. The first witness called was Job Walker, and, in response to the call, Blyth of the Fifth stepped into the box. His evidence related to the feud between the murdered, man and the men in the boiler-shop; and he gave an account of the intrusion of Smith on the night of the 3rd and of the quarrel which ensued. Blyth, in fact, related what had happened in the common room at Railsford's that evening, only changing names and places in accordance with Barnworth's story. When his examination in chief was concluded, Felgate rose and said,-- "I have one or two questions to ask you, Mr Job Walker. You say you were in the boiler-shop during the whole of the evening in question. Where was the proper foreman of the shop at the time?" "He was out." "Was work going on as usual in his absence?" "Pretty much." "What do you mean by pretty much? Were _you_ working yourself?" Great delight of the juniors, for Blyth had been one of the chief rioters. "Well," said he, "perhaps I was a little slack." (Laughter.) "Who was in charge of the shop at the time?" "The prisoner and another workman called Flounders." "And pray were they `slack,' too, as you call it?" "Yes--they were no good at all." (Laughter.) "Were you present when the proper foreman returned?" "Yes, I was." "Did he say anything to the prisoner?" "He seemed in a great rage." "Did they come to blows?" "No--but I shouldn't have been surprised if they had." "That will do, Mr Job Walker." Barnworth asked another question before Mr Walker stepped down. "Did you notice what took place between the prisoner and the deceased?" "Yes. The deceased, when he came in, told the prisoner he was no good, and sent him to his place and took charge of the shop. The prisoner was very angry, and said he would like to pay Smith out." The general opinion was that Blyth had acquitted himself well, and he was cheered by the public as he stood down. Timothy Simple was next called, and Simson, rather pale and scared- looking, answered to the name. The examination of this witness was left to Ranger, who got him to narrate the circumstances of his finding the body of the "deceased" on the morning of the 5th. The unfortunate youth seemed to forget that the trial was a mock one, and coloured up and stammered and corrected himself, as if the life of a fellow-being actually depended on his evidence. Felgate, after a hurried communication from his junior, only asked a very few questions in cross-examination. "Did you observe if the body was lying with its head to the door or its feet?" "I really couldn't say. It was so dark, and I was so horrified." "Was the key of the cellar always on the outside of the door?" "Yes, generally; it must have been, because I locked it behind me when I ran out." "Who would be the last person at night to go to the cellar? Would the foreman go round and lock up?" "I don't know; I suppose so." "You wouldn't swear that the foreman did not usually keep the key at night in his own room?" "No--that is, yes. Do you mean I wouldn't swear he did, or didn't?" "You would not swear he did not keep it?" "I don't know." "But you wouldn't swear he didn't?" "I couldn't, because if I don't know--" "If you don't know you couldn't swear he didn't do it. Come, tell the jury, Yes, or No, Mr Simple; it is an important question." Simson looked up and down. Half a dozen friends were winking at him suggestively from different parts of the court, and he couldn't make out their meaning. At length he perceived Munger nodding his head, and as Munger had lent him a crib to Ovid the day before, he decided to refer to him. "Yes," he said. "I thought so," said Felgate. "Why could you not say that before, Mr Simple?" And Simson descended from his perch amid laughter and jeers, not quite sure whether he had not committed a crime beside which the offence of the prisoner at the bar was a trifle. "Call William Tomkins," said Barnworth. William Tomkins was called, and Dig, with his tawny mane more than usually dishevelled, and an excited look on his face, entered the box. He glared round him defiantly, and then dug his hands into his pockets and waited for his questions. "Your name is William Tomkins?" began Barnworth. "Sir William Tomkins, Baronet," said the witness, amidst laughter. "To be sure, I beg your pardon, Sir William. And what are you, pray?" "A baronet." (Loud laughter.) "A baronet in reduced circumstances, I fear. You work in the boiler department of this factory?" "All right, go on." Here the judge interposed. "The witness must remember that he is bound to answer questions properly. Unless he does so I shall order him to be removed." This somewhat damped the defiant tone of Digby, and he answered the further questions of counsel rather more amiably. These had reference to the discovery of the body on the morning of the 5th, with the details of which the reader is already acquainted. The public began to get a little tired of this constant repetition of the same story, and were about to vote the proceedings generally slow, when a double event served to rouse their flagging attention. Mr Railsford entered the court as a spectator, and was accommodated with a seat on the bench, beside the judge. At the same moment, Barnworth, having ended his questions, Arthur Herapath, junior counsel for the defence, rose to his feet, and said,-- "Now, Sir William Tomkins, Baronet, have the goodness to look at me and answer a few questions. I would advise you to be careful." The baronet replied by putting his tongue in his cheek, and giving a pantomimic wave of his fist in the direction of the learned counsel. "Now, Sir William Tomkins, Baronet, how old are you, my lad?" "Find out," said Sir William hotly. "That's what I mean to do. Answer me, sir, or I'll get the beak to run you in for contempt of court." "Come and do it," said the witness, red in the face. Here the judge again interposed. "The learned junior must confine himself to the case before us, or I shall have to ask Mr Felgate to conduct the cross-examination." "All serene, my lord," rejoined the learned junior, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. "Of course, if your lordship think the question's not important I won't press it against your lordship's desire. I'm obliged to your lordship for your lordship's advice, and I'll pull your nose, Dimsdale"--this was in a parenthesis--"if you don't shut up. Now, Sir William Tomkins, Baronet, you say you saw the prisoner pulled out of the sack?" "I never said anything of the sort." "My lord, I must ask your lordship to commit this man for perjury. He's telling crackers." "I think he said he saw the murdered man pulled out of the sack," said the judge. "That's what I said. How came you to say you didn't, eh, sir? Didn't I tell you to be careful or you'd get your hair combed a way you don't fancy? Now, what I want to know is, what's the width of the door of the cellar?" "Look here," said the witness, "if you want to make an ass of yourself you'd better shut up. What's that got to do with it?" "It's quite a proper question," said the judge. "There you are!" said Arthur, delighted. "I'm obliged to your lordship for your lordship's remarks. Now, Sir William Thingamy, what do you mean, sir, by refusing to answer the question? I've a good mind to ask his lordship to send you to penal servitude. Now, what about the door?" "I don't know anything about it, and I don't care." "Ha! ha! You'll _have_ to care, my boy. Could two chaps go through it together?" "Come and try," said the baronet, snorting with wrath. "You must answer the question, witness," said the judge. "No; _he_ knows two chaps couldn't. He measured it himself and found it was only twenty-eight inches wide." "Who measured it?" asked one of the jury. "Why, Herapath, that idiot there." Arthur was somewhat sobered by this piece of evidence, as well as by a significant consultation on the bench, which he rather feared might relate to his conduct of the case. "That's what I wanted to get at," said he. "Now, Sir William, what's the _height_ of that door, eh?" "What's the good of asking me when you measured it yourself, you duffer? Didn't you tell me yourself it was seven feet two to the top of the ledge?" "There you are! Keep your hair on! That's what I wanted! Seven foot two. Now suppose you were told a box of wax lights was found stuck upon that ledge, and that two of the matches out of it were found on the floor of the boot-box--cellar, I mean--what should you think?" "It is hardly evidence, is it, to ask a witness what he would think?" suggested Barnworth. "Oh, isn't it? Easy a bit, and you'll see what we're driving at, your lordship! I'll trouble your lordship to ask the learned chap not to put me off my run. Come, Mr What's-your-name, what should you think?" Dig mused a bit, and then replied, "I should think it was a little queer." "Of course you would! So it _is_ a little queer," said Arthur, winking knowingly at his future brother-in-law. "Now, could _you_ reach up to the top of that ledge, my little man?" "You be blowed!" responded the baronet, who resented this style of address. "That means you couldn't. When you're about four feet higher than you are you'll be able to do it. Now could the prisoner reach up to it?" "No, no more could you, with your boots and three-and-sixpenny Sunday tile on!" "Order in the court! Really, your lordship, your lordship ought to sit on this chap. Perhaps your lordship's friend on your lordship's right would kindly give him a hundred lines when next he comes across him. Now, Mr Baron, and Squire, and Knight of the Shire, and all the rest of it, I want to know if there's any chap in our house--I mean the boiler- shop--could reach up there? Mind your eye, now!" "Ainger could by jumping." "I didn't ask you anything about jumping, you duffer! How tall would a chap need to be to reach up there?" "About double your measure--over six foot." "There you are! Now is there any chap in our boiler-shop over six feet?" "No." "I knew you'd say that. Think again. What about the foreman?" and he gave a side inclination of his head towards the unconscious Railsford. "Oh, him! Yes, _he's_ over six foot." "Go down two places, for saying _him_ instead of _he_. There you are, my lord, we've got it at last. Bowled the chap out clean, first ball. That's our case, only there's plenty more to be got out first. We'll trouble your lordship to bring the chap in not guilty, when it's all done." And he nodded knowingly to the jury. Railsford had sat and listened to all this in a state of the completest mystification. Not having heard Barnworth's opening statement, he had no glimmer of a suspicion that the _cause celebre_ occupying the attention of this august assembly was anything but a pleasant fiction from beginning to end, and he had been wondering to himself whether such performances, conducted in the irregular style which he had witnessed, could be of any good. However, coming as a guest (for the master of the house was always a visitor on such occasions), he deemed it best not to interfere just then. He would give Arthur a little friendly advice as to the conduct of a junior counsel later on. But he was the only unconscious person in the court. The listeners had been quick to pick up the drift of Barnworth's opening story, and equally quick to detect the line of defence taken up by Felgate and his vivacious junior. They kept their eyes fixed most of the time on Railsford, to note how he took it; and when Arthur reached his triumphant climax, some among the juniors fully expected to see their master fall on his knees and plead guilty before the whole court. Instead of that he laughed, and, turning to the judge, said, in an audible voice,-- "This seems very amusing, but it's all Hebrew to me. Is this the end?" "I think we've had nearly enough for to-night," said Ainger, who himself felt rather uneasy lest matters should go any further. Not that he laid any stress on Arthur's wonderful discovery--that merely amused him; but he foresaw a danger of the tone of the proceedings becoming offensive, and considered it better to interpose while yet there was time. "Gentlemen," he said, "as far as the case has gone I think I may say it has been ably conducted and patiently listened to. As our time is nearly up I adjourn the hearing till a future occasion." "Jolly hard luck," said Arthur to his senior. "I'd got plenty more to come out." "You've done quite enough for one evening," said Felgate, grinning, "the rest will keep." CHAPTER TWELVE. THROWING DOWN THE GAUNTLET. Arthur's great hit at the Central Criminal Court was the topic in the junior circles at Railsford's for some days. It was hardly to be expected that Sir Digby Oakshott would share in the general admiration which fell to his friend's lot. That young baronet had a painful sense of having come off second best at the trial, and the relations between the friends became considerably strained in consequence. What made it harder for Dig was that Arthur had suddenly gained quite a prestige among the lower boys of the house, who, without being too curious, arrived at the conclusion that he knew a thing or two about Railsford in connection with the row about Bickers, and was keeping it dark. Strangely enough, from the same cause, Railsford himself leapt into sudden popularity with his juniors. For if he, argued they, was the man who paid out Bickers for them, then, although it put them to a little inconvenience, they were resolved as one man to back their hero up, and cover his retreat to the best of their ability. The master himself was considerably surprised at the sudden outburst of affection towards himself. He hoped it meant that his influence was beginning to tell home on the minds of his youthful charges; and he wrote cheerfully to Daisy about it, and said he had scarcely hoped in so short a time to have made so many friends among his boys. "Tell you what," said Arthur one evening, after discussing the virtues of his future kinsman with some of the Shell, "it wouldn't be a bad dodge to get up a testimonial for Marky. I know a stunning dodge for raising the wind." "Good idea," said Tilbury, "I'm game." "Let's give it him soon, to get him in a good-humour, next week," suggested someone. "No, we'd better do it just before the Easter holidays," replied Arthur; "that'll start him well for next term." That evening the differences between the two friends were patched up. Dig, under a pledge of secrecy, was initiated into the whole mystery of the sack, and the wedge of paper, and the wax vestas, promising on his part to respect his friend's reputation in the matter of the "fifty-six billion Snowball." The baronet was fully impressed with the importance of his friend's disclosures. "It's a regular case," said he. "I never thought it of him. We must keep it dark and give him a leg out." "I fancy so," said Arthur. "It's a sort of family affair, you see. It's half a pity he can't know that we've bowled him out and are sticking to him. But I suppose it's best not to let him suspect it." "No--better keep it all dark. He'll know all about it some day." And the two confederates went to bed happy that night, in the consciousness that they were restored to one another's confidence, and that they were standing between their miscreant "kinsman" and the punishment which properly belonged to his crime. On the following morning a notice appeared on the common room door, signed by Ainger, summoning the house to meet after tea on particular business. The important business had no connection with the _affaire Bickers_, but was the captain's first move towards pulling up the house to the proud position he designed for it. "Now, you fellows," said he, in the course of a short spirited speech, "I needn't tell you that our house is down on its luck this term. (Cheers.) We are in the black books of the doctor, as you know--and we can't well help it. Somebody in the house thinks fit to tell a lie, and gets us all into trouble; but we aren't going down on our knees to that person or any other sneak to help us when we mean to help ourselves. (Loud cheers.) Now this is one way I propose we help ourselves. We are, you all know, cut out of the sports, and school cricket, and all that sort of thing. (Shame!) Very well; but they can't prevent our getting up house sports of our own, and a house eleven, and showing that we aren't going to be put down. (Applause.) I mean to train hard myself, and run the mile if I can in quicker time than Smedley or anyone else in the School sports; and unless I'm mistaken Barnworth means to show that Railsford's house can jump an inch higher than any other house at Grandcourt, even though we don't get a prize for it (tremendous cheers); and I am not so sure if Wake doesn't press their second man pretty close. (Bravo, Wake!) You youngsters will have to do your share. We want a Railsford's fellow to lick the time of every event in the School sports. (Loud cheers.) We may not be able to do it in all; but we'll know the reason why, if we don't. (So we will!) You'll have to sit up, some of you, if you're going to do it. But of course you'll do that. (Rather!) Railsford's sports will be held this day three weeks--just a week after the School sports. So we shall know what we've got to beat. That's one thing I've got to say. Every boy here should enter for some event or other, and see he wins it. (Applause.) The next thing is this. Cricket is coming on; it begins the Saturday after the sports. We aren't going to be done out of our cricket to please anybody! (Tremendous enthusiasm and waving of caps.) We intend to turn out as stiff a house eleven as ever played in the fields, and some fine day you fellows will see Railsford's play the School and win. (Applause.) Yes, and we'll have a second eleven, too. (Rather! from the juniors.) Mr Railsford is going to back us up. (Cheers.) He played in his college eleven at Cambridge, and he's promised to give up all his Saturdays to the end of the term to coach us. (Three cheers for Railsford.) Now the last thing--" "Whatever else can there be?" said the baronet, in a perspiration of fervour. "Some of you may open your eyes when I mention it, but I know you won't funk it. We mean to get hold of all the School prizes at Grandcourt this term, if we can. (Sensation.) Yes, you may gape, but it's a fact! Of course, I can't beat Smedley for the gold medal. (Yes, have a try!) Rather! I mean to try; and Smedley will have to put on steam. (Loud cheers.) Then Stafford is going to cut out Branscombe--(Boo-hoo!)--for the Melton Scholarship, and Barnworth will get the vacant Cavendish Scholarship, and Wake and Ranger and Sherriff and Wignet are going to walk off with all the Fifth-form prizes; and Herapath will pull off the Swift Exhibition, and Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet.--(tremendous cheers)--will win the Shell History medal." "I say!" said the baronet, mopping his face vehemently; "that's the first I've heard about that!" "Yes, and our Babies are going to show the way, too!" continued the captain; "and on prize-day we'll crowd up and cheer them when they toddle up to take their prizes. (Laughter and cheers.) That's all I want to say. (Laughter and applause.) Some of you will say I'm cracked. (No!) I'm not! Railsford's is going in and going to win, and if you all back up--(So we will I)--we shall do it easily. (Cheers.) Don't let us brag too much. The school will find out what we are up to soon enough without our blowing trumpets. Oh, there's one thing more," continued the captain--"positively the last--(laughter)--about this row we're all in. It was a caddish thing, whoever did it, to maul a man about in the dark when he couldn't defend himself--(cheers)--and a low thing, whoever did it, to tell a lie about it. (Cheers.) But my advice is, let the beggar alone. He's an enemy to our house, but we aren't going to make ourselves miserable on his account. Let him alone. Don't go poking and sniffing about to try to smell him out. (Arthur blushed violently here.) Think of something better. In spite of him we're going to make Railsford's the cock house at Grandcourt! That will be the best way to pay him out, and it will take us all our time to do it, without dirtying our fingers over him." Ainger concluded amidst a burst of cheers which quite took him aback, and the meeting dispersed enthusiastically to talk over the wonderful programme, and take the first steps towards carrying it out. The captain's words came upon most of the fellows as a surprise that there could be any other way out of their present misfortunes than by submitting to them tamely and giving up the glory of their house as a bad job. The audacious proposal first took their breath away, and then took possession of them. They would have their revenge; and here was a way open to them. It scarcely occurred to any but the experienced seniors that there would be any difficulty in making Ainger's bold predictions true. Arthur for instance, having heard it publicly announced that he was about to win the Swift Exhibition, thought and behaved as if the prize were already in his hands. "Twenty pounds a-year for three years," said he complacently, to his ally. "Not a bad pot. Tell you what, Dig, well get a tandem tricycle, my boy, with the first year's money. Hope they'll pay it in advance, don't you? then we can get it after break-up, and have some ripping spins in the summer holidays. Better fun than fooling about in Switzerland with Marky and Daisy. We'll either get that, or I know a jolly little boat Punter has for sale at Teddington, with a towing-line and double sculls, and a locker under the stern seat for grub. He wanted £22 for it, but I expect he'll come down the £2 for ready money. Perhaps it would be better to buy it this summer, and get the tricycle with next year's money. I've a good mind to write to Punter to-night." "Hadn't you better get the Exhibition first?" suggested the baronet. "Of course I mean to get it," said Arthur, rather nettled; "I fancy Ainger's as good a judge of what a chap can do in that line as you are." "I don't know," replied Dig; "he said _I_ was going to get the History Medal, but I'm not so sure if I shall." "Well, I did think he was letting out a bit when he said that," replied Arthur, with a chuckle. "Never mind, we'll go halves in the Exhibition." It must be admitted that the prospect of his coming academical success did not appreciably affect Arthur Herapath's studies during the present term. Four-and-a-half months is a long time to look ahead in a schoolboy's career; and, as it happened, the captain's speech had suggested other matters in the immediate future, which for the time being absorbed not only Arthur's attention but everyone else's. That evening, a list of events for the House sports was exhibited on the common room door, with space below each for the names of intending competitors. It was noticed that the list corresponded in every particular with the list of the School sports to be held a week earlier, and that the compiler (who was detected by the handwriting to be Barnworth) had already written in brackets the names of those who had entered for each of the events in the School sports. Every one, therefore, in Railsford's, could see, not only what he was going in for, but who the competitors were whom he was expected to beat. A good beginning had already been made before the list came under the notice of the juniors. For the High Jump, which this year, for some reason or other, had been looked forward to as one of the principal events, the signature of Barnworth stood boldly underneath the dreaded names of Smedley and Clipstone. More than that, Wake, too, had entered himself in the lists against these great competitors. The entries for the Mile were scarcely less interesting. Smedley was to run for the School, and, still more formidable, the long-legged Branscombe. Against them now appeared the names of Ainger and Stafford, and the plucky Ranger of the Fifth, and so on down the list, for all the big events, the prefects and the redoubtable Fifth-form "muggers" of Railsford's had set their challenge, and the hearts of the juniors swelled big within them as they crowded round the board to write their names against the lesser contests. Arthur and the baronet adopted the simple and modest method of entering themselves for everything; and it was not till Maple hinted something about the entrance fees mounting up to about a sovereign a-piece that they drew in their horns and limited their ambitions to the long jump under fifteen, the junior hurdle race, and the quarter-mile under sixteen. The other Shell-fish followed suit. Tilbury, of course, put himself down for throwing the cricket-ball under fifteen. Indeed, some of his admirers thought he might even venture to throw against the seniors; only Felgate already had his name down for that event. Dimsdale undertook the hundred yards under fifteen against several strong opponents; and, on the whole, among them, the boys of the Shell contrived to make a strong show on the list for every event within their reach. When the turn came for the Babies, they evinced equal spirit, and divided the list among them with a fierceness which augured ill for the Babies of the other houses whose claims they challenged. Ainger and Barnworth strolled down later on to examine the list, and now suggested a few alterations. The baronet for instance, was called upon to enter for the second class of kicking the football contest, and Arthur was moved from the quarter-mile to the half-mile, because a good man was wanted there to beat Smythe, of the School-House, whereas Sherriff could very well be trusted to take care of the quarter-mile for Railsford's house. Mr Railsford presently arrived on the scene, and went into the whole programme enthusiastically, and in a way which won him friends among the boys, more even than his reputed authorship of the Bickers outrage had lately done. He invited any boys who chose during the next few days to try over their event in his presence, and suggested that a record of the times should be carefully kept, with a view to ensure that each trial should beat the last. More than that, he offered a prize for the best all-round record in the house; and proposed that, although they were not rich enough to give prizes for each event, any boy who beat the School record in his competition should receive back his entrance fee. This practical suggestion gave much satisfaction. "Of course," said he, to one or two of those round him, "it is harder to run against time than against another fellow. You must make up your minds for that; and I would advise you to try to get the two best in our house to enter for each event, so as to get the spur of a close race. Our times are sure to be the better for it." Boys liked him for that word "our." It sounded like a common cause, and they were quick to hail the first symptom of such feeling in a master. The next fortnight witnessed a smart athletic fever in the house. Of course, it soon spread abroad what Railsford's was up to, and the School form generally improved in consequence. In fact, when the day arrived for the School sports, it was generally felt that Grandcourt had rarely come on to the ground better up to the mark. Alas! Grandcourt came on to the ground in two halves, and on two different days. When the boys of the school-House, Roe's, Bickers's, and Grover's turned out to the starting-post, Railsford's, chafing like greyhounds in the leash, turned in to their penitential dinner. "Never mind," said Ainger, as the distant shouts were wafted from the playing-fields into the common room, "it will be our turn to-day week!" CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A FLY IN THE OINTMENT. Ainger's prediction that the house was not likely to get much backing-up in its new efforts from Felgate, looked likely enough to be fulfilled. While everyone else was full of athletic and scholastic fervour, he remained listless and even sulky. Some said it was because Ainger had proposed the great scheme, and Felgate disdained to play second riddle even to the captain. Others said it was because he could not win anything even if he tried. Others darkly hinted that he was one of the authors of the house's present disgrace; and others whispered that there was no love lost between Railsford and his fourth prefect. In this last conjecture the gossips were right. Felgate and the Master of the Shell had not hit it from the first day of their acquaintance; and within the last few days an occurrence had taken place which had brought the two into violent collision. Railsford on leaving his room one afternoon had been attracted by the noise of groans and weeping at the far end of the passage. Going in the direction of the melancholy sounds, he discovered Bateson, the Baby, with a face as white as a sheet, huddled up all of a heap, the picture of misery and tribulation. "What is the matter?" inquired the master. The sufferer did not hear him at first; but on a repetition of the question he looked up and groaned. "Oh, I'm dying! I'm so ill! Oh, what _shall I_ do?" Railsford was alarmed. The boy looked so white, and trembled all over. He stooped down to lift him up; but Bateson blubbered. "Don't touch me, please. Oh, I'm dying!" and rolled over, groaning. It was no time for parleying. Railsford lifted him up in his arms and looked at him. There were beads of perspiration on his face, and a flavour of strong tobacco about his jacket. Bateson had been smoking. The master carried him downstairs and out into the square, where he set him on his feet. The cool air instantly revived the unhappy boy, and what it left undone a short and sharp fit of sickness completed. "You're better now," said Railsford, when this little ceremony was over. Bateson was fain to admit it. "How many more cigars have you got about you?" inquired the master, as he stalked with the delinquent at his heels into his room, and closed the door. The Baby was pale this time with terror, not with tobacco. He tremblingly turned out his trousers pockets, and produced a big cigar of which about a quarter had been consumed. "That's all, really, sir," he faltered. Railsford took the cigar and sniffed it. In his old college days he would not like to say he had not smoked as good a one himself. "Very well," said he, handing it back to the astonished Baby. "Now, Bateson, sit down on that chair. Here are some matches. You must finish this cigar to the end before you leave this room." The wretched Bateson turned green and began to howl. "Oh no, please sir! Don't say that, sir! It will kill me! Please, Mr Railsford!" Railsford quietly lit a match, and handed it to the boy. Bateson fairly went down on his knees, and grovelled at the master's feet. "Oh, Mr Railsford! I'll promise never to touch one again--I really will if you'll only let me off. I should die if you made me. Oh, please!" Railsford blew out the match and told the boy to get up. "I never did it before," whimpered Bateson--it was hardly necessary to say that. "I didn't know it was any harm. Felgate said it would do me good. Please, Mr Railsford, may I put it in the fire? I'll never touch such a beastly thing again." And as Railsford said nothing to prevent it, he flung the origin of his evils into the fire. "Now go to your room," said the master. "And don't be so foolish again." Bateson departed, marvelling that he had not been thrashed for his crime, but pretty effectually cured of any ambition to renew his narcotic experiments. Railsford, had he been anyone else but Master of the House, would have enjoyed this little adventure. As it was, he did not like it, for it could scarcely end where it had. He astonished Felgate that evening by a visit to his study. "Felgate," said he, "I wish to know your reason for giving Bateson a cigar to smoke." "I give Bateson a cigar, sir?" "Do you deny it, Felgate?" demanded the master sternly. "Oh," said the prefect, with a forced laugh, "I believe there was some joke about a cigar. He had a great fancy to try one." A scornful look came into Railsford's face as he said, "Do you really suppose, Felgate, any good is gained by not telling the truth at once?" "The truth, sir?" said Felgate, firing up as uncandid persons always do when their veracity is questioned. "I don't understand you, sir." "You understand me perfectly," said Railsford. "You know that it is against rules for boys to smoke here." "I wasn't smoking," said Felgate. "No. You encouraged another boy to do what you dared not do yourself; that is hardly creditable in a prefect." Felgate shifted his ground. "There's nothing wrong in smoking," said he; "lots of fellows do it." "I do it myself," said Railsford bluntly, "but what has that to do with this matter? You, as a monitor, are on your honour to observe the rules of the school, and see that others observe them. You break them yourself, and encourage others to break them. Is there nothing wrong in that?" Felgate said nothing, and jauntily took up a book. "Put down that book, and bring me all the cigars or tobacco you have, at once." Railsford said this quietly and firmly. He had lost his shy, hesitating manner with his prefects; and now, when, for the first time, he was in collision with one of their number, he showed himself a stronger man than Felgate, at any rate, had given him credit for being. The prefect looked for a moment as if he would resist. Then he sullenly went to his locker and produced a case containing four cigars. "These are all you have?" Felgate nodded. "They are confiscated by the rules of the school," said Railsford. "They will be returned to you after breaking-up. I wish I were able to return them to you now, and rely on your honour not to repeat your offence." "I don't want them back," said Felgate, with a sneer. "You may smoke them yourself, sir." He repented of the insult before it had left his lips. Railsford, however, ignored it, and quietly taking the cigars from the case, took them away with him, leaving the case on the table. Felgate's impulse was to follow him and apologise for his ill-bred words. But his evil genius kept him back; and before bed-time arrived he not only repented of his repentance, but reproached himself for not saying a great deal more than he had. Felgate had a wonderful gift of self-delusion. He knew he had acted wrongly and meanly. "And yet," he argued, "smoking is no crime, and if the school rules make it one, it doesn't follow that I'm a sinner if I have a whiff now and then. He admits he smokes himself. He doesn't call himself a sinner. Easy enough for him to be high and mighty. One law for him and another for me." Poor young Bateson had a sorry time of it for the next week. In his terror at the prospect of having to smoke that awful cigar to the bitter end, he had scarcely known what he was saying; and it was not until Felgate charged him with being a sneak that he realised he had said anything to compromise his senior. Felgate was not one of the vulgar noisy sort of bullies, but a good deal worse. He made the wretched Baby's life miserable with all sorts of exquisite torture. He hounded him on to break rules, and then caught him red-handed, and held over his head threats of exposure and punishment. He passed the word round the house that the boy was a tell-tale, and little was the mercy poor Bateson got either from friend or foe when that became known. Nor did Felgate, in his revengeful whims, omit the orthodox functions of the bully. Only he took care to perform such ceremonies in private, for fear of a mishap. But in these precautions he unluckily reckoned without his host. Railsford, after what had happened, was hardly likely to consider Bateson's lot a happy one, and kept a sharp look-out to prevent any mischief coming to the luckless Baby on account of his confessions. For some days, no sign of any such trouble came under the master's notice; and he was beginning to congratulate himself that Felgate had taken a proper view of his delinquencies, and was taking the only manly course of making amends, when the smouldering fires broke out unexpectedly and fiercely. Master Bateson was one of those practical young gentlemen who believe in having a shilling's worth for a shilling; and when after a day or two he heard himself called a sneak from every corner of the house, it occurred to him, "What's the use of being called a sneak if I'm not one?" Whereupon he marched off to Railsford, and informed him that Felgate had twice screwed his arm; once made him catch hold of a poker at the hot end--the proof whereof he bore on his hand--had once made him stand in the corner on one foot for the space of an hour by the clock; and had half a dozen times threatened him that unless he did something wrong he would accuse him of theft or some other horrible crime to the doctor. By reason of which ill-usage and threats, he, the deponent, went in bodily fear of his life. "Oh, and please, Mr Railsford, be sure and not let him know I told you, or he'll kill me!" Railsford had another uncomfortable interview with Felgate after this. Felgate as usual began by impugning the junior's veracity, but on the master's proposing to send for the boy, and let him repeat his story there and then, he sullenly admitted that he might have played practical jokes on his tender person of the kind suggested. When Railsford said the matter was a serious one, the prefect smiled deprecatingly, and said it was not pleasant to him to be spoken to in this manner, and that if Mr Railsford wished to punish him he would be glad to have it over and done with. Railsford said that the question in his mind was whether he would allow Felgate to continue a prefect of the house. Whereupon Felgate promptly changed colour and dropped his sneer entirely. "I'm sure," said he, "I had no intention of hurting him. I may have been a trifle inconsiderate, but I didn't suppose--he didn't complain to me, so I could hardly know he minded it." "I can have very little confidence in a prefect who acts as you have done, Felgate." "You may depend on me, sir, not to touch him again." "I want to depend on more than that," said the master. "As a prefect, you hold a position of influence in the house. If that influence is badly used--" "I don't think you will have to complain any more," said Felgate. "I sincerely hope not--for you may be sure another offence of this kind could not possibly be passed over. For the present I shall say no more about this, and shall do my best to treat you with the same confidence as heretofore. Just now we need all to work together for the good of our house and the school; and the boys are sure to look to the prefects to help them. Good-night, Felgate." The grimace with which the prefect returned the salute, after the door closed, might have convinced Railsford, had he seen it, that he had done no good either to himself, the house, or the prefect by his leniency. As it was, he was destined to make the discovery later on. Felgate, to all appearances, resumed his old ways in the house. He let young Bateson alone, and kept to himself his feud with the master. He even attempted to pretend a languid interest in the new ambitions of his fellow-prefects, and at Ainger's request entered his name for one of the events in the sports list. Railsford observed with some relief that he appeared to recognise the force of the rebuke which had been administered him, and with characteristic hopefulness was tempted to look upon the incident as ended. It was by no means ended. Felgate, to all appearance docile and penitent, nursed his wrath within him, and kept his eye open, with all the keenness of a sportsman, to the slightest opening for a revenge. In a quiet way he continued to do a great deal in the house to thwart the spirit of enterprise which was at present knitting all factions together. He sneered in a superior way at the enthusiasm all round him, and succeeded in making one or two of the fellows a little ashamed of their own eagerness. The funds for Railsford's testimonial came in slowly. The result of a fortnight's hard work was only four shillings and threepence, and to get even that wretched sum Arthur had made himself temporary enemies all over the house. He wrote an urgent letter to Daisy, to "shell out" something, and strove to work on the feelings of his parents to assist him to do honour to their future son-in-law. Meanwhile he conceived the wild project of approaching the prefects on the subject. Unluckily for everybody, he made his first attempt with Felgate. "A testimonial for Marky?" inquired that worthy. "What for?" "Well, you know he's been pretty civil since he came, and he's backed us up in that row about Bickers, you know. We thought we'd get him a ring, you know. He's spoons on my sister Daisy, and Dig and I thought it would fetch him if we stuck `Chuckey'--that's the pet name he calls her--on it. Don't you think it would be a good dodge? He'd be sure to be pleased if he saw your name on the list of subscribers, Felgate." "I'm certain of that," said Felgate, laughing, "and if only I'd got any tin I'd be delighted. By the way, I fancy I did see a sixpence kicking about somewhere." "Thanks, awfully. That'll be a stunning lift. He's sure to be extra civil to you after it." "Oh, I see. Bribery, is it?" said Felgate, laughing. "And what particular reason have you for getting Mr Chuckey a testimonial?" "Ha, ha!" said Arthur, who felt bound to laugh at the senior's joke. "Jolly good name for him. Oh, some of the fellows think he's backed us up, you know, about Bickers and all that. Thanks awfully for the sixpence, Felgate. I'll be sure and stick your name at the top of the list. I say, when's that trial adjourned to?" "I don't know. By the way, youngster, what a smart barrister you made that evening. Where did you pick it all up?" "Oh, I don't know," said Arthur, feeling rather flattered. "Dig and I went and heard a chap tried at the Old Bailey once. It was rather slow. But, I say, do you really think I doubled up Dig well? He was awfully wild." "I don't wonder. You did it splendidly. Whatever put all the things into your head?" "Oh, I don't know," said Arthur, getting a little "tilted" with all this flattery from a senior. "It was a notion I had." "Not half a bad notion," said Felgate, beginning to think the game was worth following up. "Not one fellow in a dozen would have thought about that match-box up on the ledge." "That's just it. It must have been a tall chap to put it up there." "Of course, unless someone got on a chair." "I thought of that," responded Arthur grandly; "only there were one or two other things to come out if I'd had time. I say, do you know when it's adjourned to?" "I don't know. I hope not for long. I'd like to hear what else you've got. I could never make up such things to save my life." "Perhaps I didn't make them up," said Arthur, who felt that for once in a way thorough justice was being done to his own cleverness. "You don't mean you can produce the actual match-box? Why, you ought to be made Attorney-General or Lord Chancellor." "Can't I, though, I can!" said Arthur, "and something else too. Suppose we'd found the door was kept open with a wedge of paper addressed in a certain handwriting to a certain name--eh? and suppose the sack had the initials on it of the same fellow that the paper and match-box belonged to--eh? That would make a pretty hot case for our side, wouldn't it?" "My word, youngster; you're a sharp one. But I suppose it's all make- up!" "Not a bit of it," said Arthur, flushed by his triumph. "I'll believe it when I see it," said Felgate sceptically. "I'll show it you now," said Arthur, "if you'll promise to keep it dark. I'm not making up a bit of it." "If you aren't, all I can say is--Where are they?" "Come and see," said Arthur, leading the way to his study. Dig was out on leave in the village. "There you are," said Arthur, when he had opened his locker and produced the precious relics. "There's the match-box. Have you ever seen any others of the same kind? I have." "I fancy I saw one once," said Felgate. "Belonging to a fellow six foot two who could reach up to the ledge?" Felgate nodded. "Now look at that paper--a bit of the _Standard_: there's part of the address. I fancy I know my sister Daisy's fist when I see it. There you are! That was screwed up to jam open the door to keep it from sliding-to. Six foot two again. Then there's the sack--precious like an M and an R those two letters, aren't they? and M R is precious like the initials of six foot two again. I don't blame him if he did scrag old Bickers--very good job; and as it happens, it don't hurt our house very much now we're going to get all the sports; and I'm booked for the Swift Exhibition--£20 a-year for three years. We mean to back him up, and that's one reason why we're going to give him the testimonial-- though none of the chaps except Dig knows about these things. I say, be sure you keep it quiet, Felgate, won't you? I trust you not to tell anybody a word about it." "Don't you be afraid of me, youngster," said Felgate. "I'd advise you to take good care of those things. We'll have some fun with them when the trial comes on again. Don't go saying too much about it till then. Did I give you the sixpence? No? There it is. Put it down from `A Friend.' I must go now, young 'un." He departed, leaving Arthur to pack up his treasures, amid some misgivings lest the sixpence in his hand was after all hardly worth the secret he had bought it with. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. CHALLENGING THE RECORD. On the Monday before Railsford's sports, Ainger and Barnworth sat rather dismally conning a document which lay on the table between them. It was Smedley's report of the School sports held the Saturday before, and was sufficiently alarming to dishearten any ordinary reader. "`The Mile Race. Smedley 1, Branscombe 2. Time 4 minutes 50 seconds.' Whew!" said Ainger, "I can't beat that; 4.52 is the shortest I've done it in, and I doubt if I could do that again." "Fiddlesticks! If you don't do it in 4.48 you deserve to be sent home to the nursery. But do you see Branscombe gave up before the end? That's odd. I rather thought he was the better man of the two." "Branscombe seems to be down on his luck altogether this term," said Ainger. "I fancy he hasn't a very sweet time at Bickers's." "But he ought to have won the mile, for all that. He's got the longest legs in Grandcourt, and used to have the best wind." "Gone stale," said Ainger, "and growing too fast. Why, he must be as tall as Railsford already; and he's good for an inch or so more." "Poor beggar! But what about the high jump?" "High jump? Smedley and Clipstone a tie, 5 feet 4½." "Thank you," said Barnworth. "I may as well scratch at once. I once jumped that, but that was in the days of my youth." "Fiddlesticks! If you don't clear 5 feet 5, you deserve to be sent home to a daily governess," said Ainger, laughing. "And, by the way, I hear Wake has been jumping finely lately. Mind he doesn't do it for you." "Wake had better mind his own business," responded Barnworth. "I, a prefect and a very great person in this house, should greatly resent it if a Fifth-form fellow beat me at the jump. Upon my word I'd give him 100 lines." "`Cricket-ball. Clipstone 77 yards.' What a poor throw! Felgate is sure to beat that, at any rate." "Not if he can help," said Barnworth. "In fact, if I were you, I would either scratch him, or see someone else is in too, to make sure of it. Unless you do, we lose it." "Do you mean he'd throw short on purpose?" "My dear fellow, you are just beginning to perceive what anybody who isn't a born simpleton would have seen for himself a week ago." Ainger's brow clouded. "I'll enter myself, then," said he. "No you won't; enter Stafford. Stafford won't get the mile, which you will. A little success may keep him with us; otherwise the odds are he may go over to the enemy--_alias_ your friend Felgate." Ainger wrote Stafford's name down there and then. In this way the two friends went through the list. It was a strong record to beat, and if they were doubtful of themselves they were still more doubtful of some of their juniors. For instance, Arthur, if he meant to win the long jump under sixteen, would have to clear 15 feet 8 inches; and Dimsdale, to secure the 100 yards under fifteen, would have to do it in 13 seconds. Tilbury was safe for the cricket-ball in his class; and Arthur, if he took care, might beat Smith's record for the Shell half-mile. Most of the other events were decidedly doubtful, and it was evident the week which remained would need to be used well, if the ambitious attempt of Railsford's house was to succeed. By no means the least interested peruser of the list when presently it was posted up on the common room door Railsford himself. For a week or two past he had been as nearly happy as he could be in the congenial work of training and encouraging the youthful athletes of his house. He had felt drawn to them and they to him by quite a new bond of sympathy. He spared himself in nothing for the common cause, and his enthusiasm was, as might be expected, contagious. "There are one or two of these records we shall not beat," said the master to Ainger; "but the majority of them we should be able to manage." He spoke so hopefully that Ainger's spirits went up decidedly. A final overhaul of the list was made, and the times registered compared with the times on the School list. In one or two cases Railsford advised that a second man should be run with a good start, in order to force the pace, and through one or two names belonging to hopeless triflers or malcontents he quietly passed his pencil. "I see Stafford has entered for the cricket-ball," said he, "as well as Felgate; how is that?" "We should lose the cricket-ball otherwise," said Ainger. "Felgate may do his best if someone is against him, but he won't if he's the only man in for us. He has no interest in sports." Railsford's face clouded. "Is Stafford the best man to enter? Should not you or Barnworth go in?" "I think not, sir. Stafford made some good practice yesterday, and can beat the School record as it is." During the next few days every spare moment at Railsford's house was used in preparing for the great trial of Saturday. Nor, strange to say, did the school-work suffer in consequence. The idlers in the Shell, being in the way of spurts, took a sudden spurt of interest in class-- partly for fear of being excluded by detention or otherwise from Saturday's celebration, and partly because the healthy condition of their bodies had begotten for the time being a healthier condition of mind. Arthur and the baronet actually knew their syntax for two days running, and the astounding phenomenon of a perfectly empty detention- room occurred on both the Friday and the Saturday. The latter event was specially satisfactory to Railsford, as he was able to secure the services of Monsieur Lablache as assistant-judge--not exactly a popular appointment, but, failing any better, one which fellows had to make the best of. The house rose that Saturday morning with a full sense of the crisis which was upon it. Despite Felgate's sneers, and the jealous ridicule which floated in from outside on their efforts, they felt that they stood face to face with a great chance. Their reputation as a house was on its trial; they were boycotted by the doctor, and held up as a warning to evil-doers. They resolved to make themselves a warning to good and evil-doers alike that day, and show the doctor and everyone else that the spirit was not yet knocked out of them. The half-holiday at Railsford's, as we have said, began under the new _regime_ immediately after breakfast, and ended at one o'clock, so that the farce of morning school did not interpose to chill the ardour of the combatants. The whole house assembled in flannels in honour of the occasion. The weather was very much like what the School had had a week ago; if anything, the ground was hardly in quite as good condition. At any rate, it was felt that, as far as externals went, the test between the two days' performances would be a fair one. True, there was something a little chilly about the empty field. The usual inspiriting crowd of partisan spectators was absent, and the juniors of Railsford, who usually had to fight for front places, felt it a little dismal when they discovered that they could occupy any position they liked--even the ladies' stand. Arthur was very angry with himself for not getting Daisy down for the occasion. Her presence would have lent undoubted prestige both to himself and Dig, as well as to Railsford; and if she could have given the prizes afterwards it would have been a magnificent family affair. He bemoaned this omission to Railsford himself as he walked down with him to the fields. However, just before proceedings begun, the wished- for excitement was supplied by three most unexpected arrivals on the course. The first was that of the doctor's niece, who, having watched the School sports a week ago with great interest, and being secretly rather sorry for the misfortunes which had over taken Railsford's house, saw no reason why she should not take her accustomed place in the stand to-day. The boys were just in the mood to appreciate this little act of chivalry, and as she shyly walked up to the pavilion, they welcomed her with a cheer which brought the blushes to her cheeks and a smile of half-frightened pleasure to her lips. Boys who had seen her every day for the last three months in chapel suddenly discovered that she was simply charming; they greeted her much as mortals in distress would greet the apparition of the good fairy, and fifty champions there and then were ready to do battle for her, and only wished they had the chance. The excitement of this arrival was hardly passed when another figure appeared on the scene, hardly less important or less popular. This was no other than Smedley, the School captain, who had asked and obtained special leave from Mr Roe to be present as representing the school on the occasion. He was still indignant at the disabilities imposed upon the rival house; and though he by no means wished it success in its ambitious project of beating the School record, his sense of fair play told him that if no one was on the ground to represent the other houses, they would compete at a disadvantage. If it went out that the School captain had been present, everyone, at any rate, would have to admit there had been fair play and no opening for dispute, whatever the result might be. So Smedley, although it might be to see his own record beaten, came down to the fields that morning. There was a little uncertainty as to his reception at first, for Railsford's was in an Ishmaelitish mood, and was ready to call everybody an enemy who wasn't on its side. But when Ainger was heard to say-- "Hurrah! he's a regular brick to come and back us up like this!" everybody jumped to the correct view of Smedley's motives, and cheered him scarcely less enthusiastically than they had just now cheered their "Queen of Love and Beauty." "I only wish he was in his flannels," said Arthur, "and would run the mile against us. It would be something like to lick him off his own stride." Arthur was rather proud of his athletic slang. What he meant was that he would sooner see Ainger win the mile against Smedley himself than against Smedley's time. "Never mind, he's going to be the judge, do you see? I say, old man, you and I'll have to sit up now." This was the universal effect of the captain's presence. Perhaps he hardly realised himself what an advantage his presence was conferring on his rivals. The first event on the programme was the Babies' hundred yards, for which our friends Bateson and Jukes were entered, with the serious record of twenty-two seconds to beat. They were both a little pale and nervous with the excitement of opening the ball, and looked round wistfully, first at Railsford, then at Smedley, where he stood, watch in hand, at the winning-post, and then up at the ladies' stand. "Now, youngsters," said Railsford, "do your very best. You ought both of you to run it under twenty seconds. Are you ready now? Off!" The flood-gates were opened now; and from this moment till the end of the sports Railsford's kept up a continual roar. Both Bateson and Jukes had little difficulty in registering a double victory for their house. Bateson covered the ground in nineteen seconds and Jukes in twenty-one. While the cheers for this initial victory were in full cry, the third of that morning's apparitions came upon the scene. This was no other than Mr Bickers, at sight of whom a chill fell upon the assembly. What did he want there? Hadn't he done them harm enough? Who asked him to come? Why wasn't he making his own fellows miserable instead of coming here and spoiling their fun? Mr Bickers, after looking round him, and taking in the scene generally, walked up to the ladies' stand. Fellows dropped back sullenly to make room for him, although one or two pretended not to notice him and continued to stand and shout "Bateson!" "Jukes," until he pushed them aside. "Good-morning, Miss Violet," said he, lifting his hat. "I did not expect to see you here." "Didn't you, Mr Bickers? I'm going to see all the events. They have just run the first race, and Bateson and Jukes have both beaten the boy in your house who won last week. Haven't you a programme? Mr Railsford will give you one." "Thank you. I'm not staying long. It will be rather dull for you, will it not?" "Dull!" said Miss Phyllis, laughing. "_I_ don't think it dull, thank you." Mr Bickers walked slowly into the enclosure, watched by everyone. Railsford greeted him with a nod, and then walked off to the starting- post to prepare for the next race. The prefects of the house looked another way, and Smedley was busy comparing his watch with that of monsieur. "Smedley," said Mr Bickers, "how come you to be here? You ought to be in your house." "I have an _exeat_, sir," said the captain. "From the doctor?" "From Mr Roe." "Mr Roe can scarcely be aware that I have refused a similar application to boys in my own house." Smedley made no reply to this observation, about which he had nothing to say. "You had better go in, Smedley. I will explain to Mr Roe." Smedley looked at him in blank astonishment. It sounded more like a jest than sober earnest. "I have my master's _exeat_" he said; "if he or the doctor cancels it I shall go in at once, sir." It was Mr Bickers's turn to stare now. He had overdone it for once in a way. His genius for interference had carried him a step too far; and with a "Very good, Smedley," in terms which were meant to be ominous, he turned away and proceeded to where Railsford was. It was to speak to Railsford that he had come out into the fields that morning. His interviews with Miss Violet and the captain had been by the way. Railsford was busy marshalling the competitors for the Shell quarter-mile, of whom there was an unusual number. He was too much engrossed to notice Mr Bickers until that gentleman called him by name. "I want a word with you, Railsford," said Mr Bickers. "Now then, toe the line and be ready. Be careful about fouling. Are you ready?" "Railsford, I want a word with you." Railsford looked sharply round and perceived who the intruder was. "I can't speak to you now, Mr Bickers, I'm busy. Now, boys, are you all ready? Off!" And he started to run beside the race. Mr Bickers put as cheerful a face on this little rebuff as he could, and presently walked across to the winning-post to make another attempt. The race had been well won by Tilbury, who had beaten the School record hollow, and shown himself a long way ahead of his fellow-runners. He of course came in for an ovation, which included a "Well run" from Smedley, and a "Bravo, indeed" from Railsford, which he valued specially. It was while he was receiving these friendly greetings that Mr Bickers once more approached Railsford. "Now you have a moment or two to spare," he began. "I've not a moment to spare," said Railsford, irritated. "What do you want?" "I want you to look at this letter. It concerns you." And he produced an envelope from his pocket. "Give it to me," said Railsford. "I'll read it when I have time." "No, thank you. I want you to--" "Ring the bell for the high jump," said Railsford, turning his back. At the signal the whole company closed in a solid phalanx round the poles. For the high jump was one of the great events of the day. Mr Bickers became mixed up in the crowd, and saw that it was hopeless to attempt further parley. He turned on his heel, and the fellows made a lane for him to pass out. As he got clear, and began slowly to retreat to his own house, the boys raised a loud defiant cheer. But whether this was to hail his departure or to greet the appearance of Barnworth and Wake, ready stripped for the fray, it would be difficult to say. But whichever it was, Mr Bickers seemed by no means discomfited. He turned and caught sight of the head and shoulders of his rival towering among his boys, and he smiled to himself and tapped the letter in his hand. "Not a moment to spare!" said he to himself. "Good. We can wait. You may not be in such a hurry to get rid of me when you do read it; and your dear boys may change their minds about their hero, too," added he, as a fresh cheer, mingled with a "Huzza for Railsford," was wafted across the fields. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. MR. BICKERS PREFERS THE DOOR TO THE WINDOW. The history of the great events of Railsford's sports were so faithfully chronicled at the time by Arthur Herapath in a long letter to his sister Daisy, that it would be presumption on my part, with that valuable document lying before me, to attempt to narrate in my own words what has been so much more vivaciously described by my young friend. Arthur was great at letter-writing, especially to his sister. And there is small doubt that, with the aid of a slang dictionary and a little imagination on her own part, that sympathetic young person was usually able to catch the drift of her young brother's rollicking lucubrations. "Dear Da. Thanks awfully for the bob." A good many of Arthur's letters began with this curious observation. Whether this particular "bob" had reference to Railsford's testimonial or not, the writer cannot speak positively. "We had a ripping time at our sports, and licked all the records but three. No end of a crow for us. The School's tearing its hair all over the place, and our fellows have been yelling for two days without stopping. It's a jolly good job that row about Bickers came on when it did, as our chaps would never have pulled themselves together as they did without it. Nobody wants to find the chap out now; so your particular is all serene up to now, and I don't mean to drip and spoil his game." (We wonder what Daisy made of this curious sentence when she read it!) "Dig and I were awfully riled we hadn't got you down for the sports, and I wanted Marky to wire up for you and put them off till you came. As it was, it didn't matter a bit, for Miss Violet showed up like a trump as she is, and backed us up; so it's just as well you hadn't come. Violet nodded to me! She's the most beautiful girl in the world. Smedley turned up too; brickish, wasn't it? Bickers of course came, and tried to spoil our sports, but Marky gave him a flea in his ear, and Dig and I howled; so he didn't stay long. "Bateson and Jukes pulled off the kids' hundred yards; and jolly cocky they were, I can tell you. Bateson's the sneak I told you of. "Tilbury won the Shell quarter-mile. Dig and I were in for it, but we wanted to save ourselves for the long jump and hurdles, so we ran easy, and Tilbury did it hands down. "Ah, Da, really you should have been there to see the high jump! Smedley and Clipstone tied 5 4½ last week for the School. No end of a jump to beat; and Dig and I were in a blue funk about our men. Barnworth and Wake were the only two entered;--dark horses both; at least _I_ didn't know what either of them could do. I heard Ainger tell Violet he thought we'd pull it off, so I perked up. They started at 4 foot 10. Wake muffed his first jump, and we gave ourselves up for gone 'coons. However, he hopped over second try. They went up by inches to five feet. My word! you should have seen the way Violet clapped! They'd have been cads if they hadn't gone over, with her backing them up like that. Wake's got the rummiest jump you ever saw. He runs sideways at the bar, and sort of lies down on his back on it as he goes over. You'd think he'd muff it every time, but just as he looks like done for, he kicks up his foot and clears. Barnworth takes it straight--skips up to the bar and goes over like a daisy, without seeming to try. "At 5 foot 1, Wake mulled twice, and we thought he was out of it. But the third time he got over finely with a good inch to spare. It got precious ticklish after this; and no one said a word till each Jump was done: and then we let out. Violet stood up and looked as if she'd got a ten-pound note on the event. At 5 foot 3 Barnworth came a cropper; and I fancy he must have screwed his foot. Anyhow, he had to sit a minute before he tried again. Then he went over like a shot--and you may guess we yelled. Five foot 3½. Both of them mulled the first--but Barnworth cleared easily second shot. We fancied Wake would too, but he missed both his other chances, and so got out of it. Awfully good jump this for a Fifth-form chap. "Barnworth pulled himself together after that, and cleared the 5 foot 3½ and 5 foot 4 first go. Then came the tug. The bar went up to 5 4½, Smedley's jump, and you might have heard a fly cough. We were pretty nervous, I can tell you, and it would have done you good to see Violet standing up and holding her breath. Barnworth was the only chap that didn't seem flurried. Smedley and Marky both looked blue, and poor Froggy looked as if he was going to blubber. "My wig! Daisy, if you'd heard the yell when the beggar cleared the bar first shot! Dig and I went mad; and somebody had to clout us on the head before we could take it in that the fun wasn't over. Of course it was not. _Pas un morceau de il_--we'd tied them; but we'd still to lick them. "`Bravo, Barnworth,' yells Violet. `Go it, old kangaroo,' howls Dig. `Take your time and tuck in that shoe-lace,' says Marky. `A million to one on our man,' says I; and then up goes the bar to 5 foot 5; and then you could have heard a caterpillar wink. Old Barnworth looked a little green himself this time; and didn't seem in a hurry to begin. He muffed his first jump, and we all thought the game was up. But no! The beggar hopped over second time as easily as I could hop 3 feet. My word, it was a hop! Dig stood on his head and I could have done so too, only Violet was looking. She was no end glad. _Elle est une brique et une demie_! So's Smedley; for though it was his jump was beaten, he cheered as loud as anybody. I forgive him the licking he gave me last term. Marky made a regular ass of himself, he was so pleased. Every one wanted Barnworth to go on, but he wouldn't, as he had a race to come on. "Then came the Shell hurdles, 120 yards, ten flights. Dig and I were in, and had to beat 19½ seconds. I felt jolly miserable, I can tell you, at the start, and that ass Dig made it all the worse by fooling about just to show off, and making believe to spar at me, when he was shaking in his shoes all the time; Marky wasn't much better, for he came and said, `You'll have to run your very best to win it.' As if we didn't know that! He don't deserve a testimonial for doing a thing like that. Next that ass Smedley went and made up to Violet just when she wanted to back us up, and I don't believe she saw a bit of the race till the finish. It was enough to make any chap blue. Then monsieur started us, and kept us waiting a whole minute (it seemed like an hour) while the second hand of his wretched watch was getting round. And then he started us in such a rotten way that it wasn't till I saw Dig running that I took in we were off, and coming up to the first hurdle. But soon the fellows began to yell, and I felt better. "Dig had the pull of me at the start, but I got up to him at the third hurdle. He missed a step in landing, and that put him out, and we went over the fourth and fifth neck and neck. Then I saw Violet stand up, out of the corner of my left eye; and Smedley began to look at us too. After that it was all right. At the sixth hurdle we both rose together, and then I heard a crack and a grunt behind me, and knew poor old Dig had come a cropper. Of course I had no time to grin, as I had my time to beat. But it was very lonely doing those next three hurdles. I didn't know how I was going, only I could swear I'd been twenty seconds long before I got to the eighth. I nearly mulled the ninth, and lost a step after the jump. That made me positive I'd not beaten my time; and I had half a mind to pull up, I was so jolly miserable. However, the fellows were still yelling, so I pulled myself together and went at the last hurdle viciously and got clean over, and then put it on all I could to the winning-post. I guessed I'd done it in thirty seconds, and wished there was a pit I could tumble into at the end. "Then Marky came and patted me on the back. `Splendid, old fellow,' said he. `How do you mean?' said I; `ain't I licked into a cocked hat?' `You've done it in nineteen seconds,' said he. `Go on!' said I. And then the other fellows came up and cheered, and then Violet called out, `Bravo, Herapath,' and Ainger said, `Run indeed, young 'un.' So I had to believe it; and I can tell you I was a bit pleased. _J'etais un morceau plaise_. "I was sorry for old Dig, but he won the Shell wide jump directly afterwards. I made a mess of the half-mile. I ought to have got it from Smythe, of the School-house; but all I could do was to dead heat his time. I suppose I was fagged after the hurdles. Tilbury had it all his own way with the Shell cricket-ball, and Stafford got the senior throw. Felgate was in against him--rather a decent chap, one of our prefects; had me to tea in his room the other day. He and Marky don't hit it. He was lazy, and didn't bother himself. Fellows said he could easily have licked the School record if he'd tried; but he didn't; and Stafford missed it by a few inches. So that event we lost. Jolly sell, _joli vendre_. "Never mind, we got the mile, and that was the crackest thing of all. We had to beat Smedley and Branscombe, both--only Branscombe--he's Bickers's prefect--didn't run it out last week. Smedley's time was 4.50. Ainger and Stafford ran for us; and Ranger was put on the track with 200 yards start to force the pace. "Stafford was out of it easily; but Ranger stuck to it like a Trojan. The first lap he was still a hundred yards to the good, and going like steam. Ainger ran finely, and overhauled him gradually. Still he had about twenty yards to the good at the beginning of the last lap. Then it was fine to see Ainger tuck in his elbows and let himself out. A quarter of a mile from home Ranger was clean out of it, regularly doubled up; but Ainger kept on steadily for a couple of hundred yards. "Then, my word, he spurted right away to the finish! You never saw such a rush up as it was! The fellows _yelled_, I can let you know. Every one knew that it was our event the second the spurt began, and when he got up to the tape and `4.42' was shouted out, it was a sight to see the state we were in. It's the best mile we ever did at Grandcourt, and even Smedley, though he was a bit riled, I fancy, at his licking, said he couldn't have done it in the time if he'd tried. "I send you Dig's programme, with the times all marked. You'll see we won them all except the senior cricket-ball, half-mile, and senior hundred. It's a rattling good score for us, I can tell you; and we cheered Marky like one o'clock. It was an awful sell Violet couldn't give away our prizes; but she shied at it. I suppose old Pony would have gruffed at her. She is the most beautiful girl in the world. "You needn't go telling the _mater_, but I was off my feed a whole day after the sports. How soon do fellows get money enough to marry? If I get the Swift Scholarship I shall have £20 a-year for three years-- something to start with. I wish you'd come down and give me a leg-up. I'm afraid that cad Smedley's got his eye on her. His father's only a doctor. We're better off than that, besides being chummy with a baronet. Hullo! there's the bell for cubicles. Ta, ta. _Je suis tres miserable_. Your aff. A.H." Little dreaming of the sad blight which had come over his future young kinsman's life, Railsford was sitting in his room that Sunday evening, feeling rather more than usually comfortable. He had some cause to be pleased. His house had done better than anyone expected. They had beaten all the records but three, and, without being specially conceited, Railsford took to himself the credit of having done a good deal to bring about this satisfactory result. "Curious," said he to himself, "that in all probability, if that affair of Bickers's had not happened, we might never have risen as a house; indeed, it's almost a mercy the culprit has never been discovered, for we should have then been plunged back into the current, and the work of pulling ourselves together might never have been done. It's odd that, as time goes on, there is not even a hint or a suspicion who did it. There's only one boy in the house I'm not sure of, and he is too great a coward to be a ruffian. Well, well, we have the cricket season and the exams, coming on. If only we do as well in them as we've done in the sports, it will not be altogether against us if the mystery remains a mystery a little longer." Whereupon the door opened and Mr Bickers stepped in. Railsford had completely forgotten the episode in the fields the previous day; he scarcely recollected that Mr Bickers had been present at the sports, and was delightfully oblivious to the fact that he, Railsford, had either slighted or offended his colleague. He wondered what was the occasion of the present visit, and secretly resolved to keep both his temper and his head if he could. "Good-evening," said he, with a friendly smile. "I'm just going to have my coffee; won't you have a cup too, Bickers?" Mr Bickers took no notice of this hospitable invitation, but closed the door behind him and said, "I want a few words with you, Mr Railsford." "Certainly? I've nothing to do-- Won't you take a seat?" Mr Bickers took a seat, a little disconcerted by Railsford's determined good-humour. He had not counted upon that. "The last time I saw you you were hardly so polite," said he, with a sneer. "When was that? I'm very sorry if I was rude; I had no intention, I assure you." Railsford began to feel a little like the lamb in the fable. This wolf had evidently come bent on a quarrel, and Railsford, lamb and all as he was, would have liked to oblige him. But he was quick enough to see-- with the memory of more than one failure to warn him--that his only chance with Mr Bickers was, at all costs, not to quarrel. "You are fortunate in your short memory; it is a most convenient gift." "It's one, at any rate, I would like to cultivate with regard to any unpleasantness there may have been between you and me, Bickers," said Railsford. This was not a happy speech, and Mr Bickers accepted it with a laugh. "Quite so; I can understand that. It happens, however, that I have come to assist in prolonging your memory with regard to that unpleasantness. I'm sorry to interfere with your good intentions, but it cannot be helped this time." "Really," said Railsford, feeling his patience considerably taxed, "all this is very perplexing. Would you mind coming to the point at once, Bickers?" "Not at all. When I saw you yesterday I asked you to look at a letter I had with me." "Oh, yes; I remember now. I was greatly taken up with the sports, and had no time then. I felt sure you would understand." "I understood perfectly. I have brought the letter for you now," and he held it out. Railsford took it with some curiosity, for Mr Bickers's manner, besides being offensive, was decidedly mysterious. "Am I to read it?" "Please." The letter was a short one, written in an evidently disguised hand: "Sir,--The name of the person who maltreated you lately is perfectly well-known in Railsford's house. No one knows his name better than Mr Railsford himself. But as the house is thriving by what has occurred, it is to nobody's interest to let out the secret. The writer of this knows what he is speaking about, and where to find the proofs.--A Friend." Railsford read this strange communication once or twice, and then laughed. "It's amusing, isn't it?" sneered Mr Bickers. "It's absurd!" said Railsford. "I thought you would say so," said Bickers, taking back the letter and folding it up. "For all that, I should like to know the name of the person referred to." "You surely do not mean, Bickers, that you attach any importance to a ridiculous joke like that?" "I attach just the importance it deserves, Railsford." "Then I would put it in the fire, Bickers." Mr Bickers's face darkened. Long ere now he had calculated on reducing the citadel of his adversary's good-humour, and now that it still held out, he felt his own self-possession deserting him. "Allow me to tell you, Railsford, that I believe what that letter states!" "Do you really? I hope when I tell you that every word of it which relates to myself is a grotesque falsehood, you will alter your opinion." "Even that would not convince me," said Bickers. Railsford stared at him blankly. He had surely misunderstood his words. "I said," he repeated, and there was a tremor of excitement in his voice, which afforded his enemy the keenest pleasure--"I said that every word in that letter which refers to me is false. You surely don't believe it after that?" "I said," repeated Mr Bickers, with a fine sneer, "that even that would not convince me." Surely the longed-for explosion would come now! He saw Railsford's face flush and his eyes flash. But before the furious retort escaped from his lips, a wise whisper from somewhere fell between them and robbed the wolf of his prey. "Then," said the Master of the Shell, forcing his lips to a smile, "there is not much to be gained by prolonging this interview, is there?" Mr Bickers was deeply mortified. There was nothing for it now but for him to assume the _role_ of aggressor. He would so much have preferred to be the aggrieved. "Yes, Railsford," said he, rising from his chair and standing over his enemy. "I dare you to say that you neither know nor suspect the person who assaulted me!" Railsford felt devoutly thankful he had kept his head. He now dug his hands into his pockets, stretched himself, and replied,-- "You may very safely do that, Bickers." It was hard lines for poor Bickers, this. He had worked so hard to get himself an adversary; and here was all his labour being lost! "You're paltering," snarled he. "I dare you to say you did not do the cowardly deed yourself!" Railsford could not imagine how he had ever been so foolish as to be in a rage with the fellow. He laughed outright at the last piece of bluster. Bickers was now fairly beside himself, or he would never have done what he did. He struck Railsford where he sat a blow on the mouth, which brought blood to his lips. This surely was the last card, and Railsford in after years never knew exactly how it came about that he did not fly there and then at his enemy's throat, and shake him as a big dog shakes a rat. It may have been he was too much astonished to do anything of the sort; or it may have been that he, the stronger man of the two, felt a sort of pity for the poor bully, which kept him back. At any rate, his good genius befriended him this time, and saved him both his dignity and his moral vantage. He put his handkerchief to his lips for a moment, and then said quietly-- "There are two ways of leaving this room, Bickers: the door and the window. I advise you to choose the door." Mr Bickers was too cowed by his own act to keep up the contest, and hating himself at that moment almost as much--but not quite--as he hated his enemy, he slunk out of the door and departed to his own house. Railsford sat where he was, and stared at the door by which his visitor had left, in a state of bewildered astonishment. The more Railsford thought the matter over, the less he liked it. For it convinced him that there was someone desirous of doing him an injury by means of the very master who was already predisposed to believe evil of him. It was rather a damper after the glorious result of the sports, and Railsford tried to laugh it off and dismiss the whole matter from his mind. "At least," said he to himself, "if the accusation comes in no more likely a form than I have seen to-night, I can afford to disregard it. But though Bickers made a fool of himself for once in a way, it does not at all follow that he will not return to the attack, and that I may actually have to answer to Grandcourt the charges of that precious letter. It's too absurd, really!" CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE TESTIMONIAL. As the reader may suppose, the sympathetic soul of Miss Daisy Herapath was considerably moved by the contents of her brother's letter, which we gave in the last chapter. She naturally took an interest in the welfare and doings of Railsford's house; and as she heard quite as often from the master as she did from his pupil, she was able to form a pretty good, all-round opinion on school politics. Arthur's lively account of the House sports had delighted her. Not that she understood all the obscure terms which embellished it; but it was quite enough for her that the house had risen above its tribulations and rewarded its master and itself by these brilliant exploits in the fields. But when Arthur passed from public to personal matters, his sister felt rather less at ease. She much disliked the barefaced proposal for the testimonial, and had told her brother as much more than once. On the whole, she decided to send Arthur's letter and its enclosure to Railsford, and confide her perplexities to him. Railsford perused the "dear boy's" florid effusion with considerable interest, particularly, I grieve to say, certain portions of it, which if Daisy had been as wise as she was affectionate, she would have kept to herself. When people put notes into circulation, it's not the fault of those into whose hands they come if they discover in them beauties unsuspected by the person for whose benefit they were issued. Railsford saw a great deal more in Arthur's letter than Daisy had even suspected. A certain passage, which had seemed mere mysterious jargon to her, had a pretty plain meaning for him, especially after the interview last Sunday with Mr Bickers. "It's a jolly good job that row about Bickers came on when it did. ... Nobody wants to find the chap out now, so your particular is all serene up to now, and I don't mean to drip and spoil his game." What could this mean except that Arthur, somehow or other, knew a secret respecting the Bickers affair which he was keeping to himself, presumably in the interests of Railsford? Could this mysterious hint have any connection with the false rumour which had reached Bickers and magnified itself in his mind to such an uncomfortable extent? Railsford resolved to delight the heart of his young relative by a friendly visit, and make a reconnaissance of the position. He had a very good pretext in the anxious solicitude expressed in Daisy's letter for the health and appetite of her love-tossed brother. He would make it his business to inquire how the sufferer did. Waiting, therefore, until a preternatural stillness in the room above assured him that Dig was out of the way, the Master of the Shell went up-stairs and ushered himself into Arthur's study. "Hard at work, I see," said Railsford cheerily. "How are you getting on?" "All serene, thanks," replied Arthur. "That is, not very well." "Have you stuck fast in your translations? Let me look." "Oh no. I'm not doing my exercise," said Arthur, in alarm. "I'm only looking up some words. Do you want to see Dig? He's gone to Wake's room." "No, I came to see you. I heard you'd been out of sorts. Are you all right now? Was it the sports knocked you up?" "No--that is, yes, they did a bit, I think," said Arthur. It was the sports which had done it, though not in the way "Marky" fancied. "Well, we mustn't have you laid up, must we? We want you for the Swift Scholarship, you know." "Oh, all right, sir, I'm going to mug hard for that after Easter, really." "Why put it off till then? You may come to my room any evening you like. I shall generally have time enough." This invitation did not fascinate the boy as it deserved to do. "I fancy I'd work steadier here," said he. "Besides, Dig and I use the same books." "Well, the first thing is to get yourself all right. What's troubling you, Arthur?" This was a startling question, and Arthur felt himself detected. "I suppose you've heard. Keep it quiet, I say." "What is it? Keep what quiet?" "Why, about _her_, you know. I say, Marky--I mean Mr Railsford--could you ever give me a leg-up with her? If you asked her to your room one day, you know I could come too, and do my work." Railsford laughed. "I thought you could do your work better here; besides, you and Oakshott use the same books." "Oakshott be hanged! I mean--I say, Marky, do you think I've a chance? I know Smedley's--" Railsford's experience in cases of this sort was limited, but he was philosopher enough to know that some distempers need to be taken seriously. "Look here, Arthur," said he gravely, "the best thing you can do is to go straight over to Dr Ponsford's and ask to see him, and tell him exactly how matters stand. Remind him that you're just fifteen, and in the Shell, and that your income is a shilling a week. You need not tell him you were detained two afternoons this week, because he will probably find that out for himself by looking at monsieur's books. If he says he will be delighted to accept your offer, then I promise to back you up. Let me see, I know the doctor's at home this evening; it's not 7.30 yet, so you'll have time, if you go at once, to catch him before his tea. I'll wait here till you come back." Arthur's face underwent a wonderful change as the master quietly uttered these words. It began by lengthening, and growing a little pale; then it grew troubled, then bewildered, then scarlet, and finally, when he had ended, it relaxed into a very faint smile. "I think I'll wait a bit," said he gravely. "Very well, only let me hear the result when you do go." "I think I may as well start work for the Swift to-night," said he, "if you don't mind." "By all means, my boy. Come along to my room and we'll look through the list of subjects." Arthur, before the task was half over, had recovered his spirits and advanced far in the esteem of his future kinsman. "Awfully brickish of you, sir," he said. "It wouldn't be a bad score for our house if we got all the prizes at the exams, would it?" "Not at all. But we mustn't be too confident." "Jolly lucky we're cut off from the rest of the chaps, isn't it? It makes us all sit up." "That state of things may end any time, you know," said the master. "But we must `sit up' all the same." "Oh, but it won't come out till the exams, are over, will it?" "How do I know?" Arthur glanced up at his kinsman, and inwardly reflected what a clever chap he was to ask such a question in such a way. "Oh, all right. All I meant was, it wouldn't suit our book, would it, to let it out just yet?" "It's not a question of what suits anyone. It's a question of what is right. And if anybody in the house knows anything I don't, he ought to speak, whatever it costs." "There's an artful card," thought Arthur to himself, and added aloud-- "I don't fancy any fellow knows anything you don't, Marky--I mean Mr Railsford. _I_ don't." "Don't you? Do you know," said the master, "I have sometimes had an impression you did. I am quite relieved to hear it, Arthur." "Oh, you needn't be afraid of me," said Arthur, lost in admiration for the cleverness of his future brother-in-law. "I'm safe, never you fear." "It's a strange mystery," said Railsford, "but sooner or later we shall know the meaning of it." "Later the better," put in Arthur, with a wink. "I don't envy the feelings of the culprit, whoever he is; for he is a coward as well as a liar." "No, more do I, Perhaps you're too down on him, though. Never mind, he's safe enough, for you and me." "You have an odd way of talking, Arthur, which doesn't do you justice. As I said, you have more than once made me wonder whether you were not keeping back something about this wretched affair which I ought to know." "Honour bright, I know a jolly lot less about it than you; so you really needn't be afraid of me; and Dig's safe too. Safe as a door-nail." Railsford was able to write home on the following Sunday that Arthur had quite recovered his appetite, and that the "low" symptoms to which Dig had darkly referred had vanished altogether. Indeed, Arthur on this occasion developed that most happy of all accomplishments, the power of utterly forgetting that he had done or said anything either strange in itself or offensive to others. He was hail-fellow-well-met with the boys he had lately kicked and made miserable; he did not know what you were talking about when you reminded him that a day or two ago he had behaved like a cad to you; and, greatest exploit of all, he had the effrontery to charge Dig with being "spoons" on Violet, and to hold him up to general ridicule in consequence! "How much have you really got for the testimonial?" said Dig one morning. "Eleven and six," said Arthur dismally; "not a great lot, but enough for a silver ring." "Not with Daisy's name on it." "No, we'll have to drop that, unless we can scratch it on." "We'll have a try. When shall we give it?" "To-morrow's Rag Sunday, isn't it? Let's give it him to-night--after tea. I'll write out a list of the chaps, and you can get up an address, unless Felgate will come and give him a speech." "Think he will? All serene. We'll give the fellows the tip, and do the thing in style. Hadn't you better cut and get the ring, I say?" Arthur cut, armed with an _exeat_, and made the momentous purchase. The fancy stationer of whom he bought the ring assured him it was solid silver, and worth a good deal more than the 10 shillings 6 pence he asked. The other shilling Arthur invested in a box wherein to put it, and returned to school very well satisfied with his bargain. He and Dig spent an anxious hour trying to scratch the letters with a pin on the inner surface; and to Arthur belonged the credit of the delicate suggestion that instead of writing the term of endearment in vulgar English they should engrave it in Classic Greek, thus: _chuki_. The result was on the whole satisfactory; and when the list of contributors was emblazoned on a sheet of school paper, and Sir Digby Oakshott's address (for Felgate declined the invitation to make a speech) had been finally revised and corrected, the prospects of the ceremonial seemed very encouraging. Arthur and Dig, once more completely reconciled, went through the farce of house tea that evening in the common room with considerable trepidation. They had a big job on hand, in which they were to be the principal actors, and when the critical time comes at last, we all know how devoutly we wish it had forgotten us! But everything had been carefully arranged, and everyone had been told what to expect. It was therefore impossible to back out, and highly desirable, as they _were_ in for it, to do it in good style. As the clock pointed to the fatal hour, Dig sharply rattled his spoon against the side of his empty cup. At the expected signal, about a dozen boys, the contributors to the testimonial, rose to their feet, and turned their eyes on Arthur. Railsford, at the head of the table, mistook the demonstration for a lapse of good manners, and was about to reprimand the offenders, when by a concerted movement the deputation stepped over their forms and advanced on the master in a compact phalanx. Arthur and Dig, both a little pale and dry about the lips, marched at their head. "What is all this?" inquired Railsford. Arthur and Dig replied by a rather ceremonious bow, in which the deputation followed them; and then the latter carefully cleared his throat. "We, the undersigned, boys in your house," he began, reading from the paper before him in a somewhat breathless way, "beg to present you with a small token of our esteem--[Go on, hand it up, Arthur], and hope you will like it, and that it will fit, and trust that the name graven within will suggest pleasant memories in which we all join. The letters are in the Greek character. We hope we shall all enjoy our holidays, and come back better in mind and body. You may rely on us to back you up, and to keep dark things you would not like to have mentioned.-- Signed, with kind regards, Daisy Herapath (a most particular friend), J. Felgate (prefect), Arthur Herapath (treasurer), Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet (secretary), Bateson and Jukes (Babies), Maple, Simson, Tilbury, and Dimsdale (Shell), Munger (Fifth), Snape (Baby in Bickers's house)." It spoke a good deal for Mark Railsford that under the first shock of this startling interview, he did not bowl over the whole deputation like so many ninepins and explode before the assembled house. As it was he was too much taken aback to realise the position for a minute or so; and by that time the baronet's address was half read. He grimly waited for the end of it, studiously ignoring the box which Arthur held out, opened, to fascinate him with its charms. When the reading was done, he wheeled round abruptly in his chair, in a manner which made the deputation stagger back a pace; and said-- "You mean it kindly, no doubt; but I don't want a present and can't take one. It was foolish of you to think of such a thing. Don't let it occur again. I'm vexed with you, and shall have to speak to some of you privately about it. Go to your rooms." "What's to become of the ring!" said Dig disconsolately, as he and Arthur sat and cooled themselves in their study. "Mr Trinket won't take it back. He'd no business to cut up rough like that." "Fact is," replied Arthur, "Marky's got to draw the line somewhere. He knows he's in a jolly row about that business, you know, and he doesn't want a testimonial for it. I don't blame him. I'll get Daisy to buy the ring in the holidays, and we can have the fellows to a blow-out next term with the money." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE SECRET OUT. "If you please, sir, would you mind coming to see one of the young gentlemen in our house before you start? He don't seem himself." The speaker was Mrs Phillips, the dame of Bickers's house, and the individual she addressed was Mark Railsford, who, with his portmanteau on the steps beside him, was impatiently awaiting the cab which should take him from Grandcourt for the Easter holidays. The place was as empty and deserted as on that well-remembered day when he came down-- could it be only the beginning of this present term?--to enter upon his new duties at the school. The boys, as was their wont, had almost without exception left by the eight o'clock train, Arthur and Dig being among the foremost. The few who had remained to finish their packing had followed by the ten o'clock. The doctor and his niece had left for town last night; the other masters had made an early start that morning; and Railsford, junior master, and consequently officer of the guard for the day, imagined himself, as he stood there with his portmanteau about two o'clock, the "last of the Mohicans." "Who is it?" he said, as the cab rumbled through the gateway. "It's Mr Branscombe, sir. He overslep' hisself, as the way of speaking is, and as there was no call-over, and all the young gentlemen were in a rush, nobody noticed it. But when I went to make the beds, I finds him still in 'is, and don't like the looks of 'im. Anyhow, sir, if you'd come and take a look at him--" Railsford looked up at the school clock. He could catch the 2.30 train if he left in five minutes. If he lost that train he would have to wait till six. He told the cabman to put the portmanteau on the top, and wait for him at the door of Bickers's house, and then walked after Mrs Phillips, rather impatiently. He had never set foot in Mr Bickers's house before, and experienced a curious sensation as he crossed the threshold of his enemy's citadel. Suppose Mr Bickers should return and find him there--what a pretty situation! "Up-stairs, sir, this way," said Mrs Phillips, leading him up to the prefects' cubicles. She opened the door at the end, and ushered him into the house-captain's study. On his low narrow camp bed lay Branscombe, flushed, with eyes closed, tossing and moaning, and now and then talking to himself, Railsford started as his eyes fell on him. "He's ill!" he whispered to Mrs Phillips. "That's what I thought," observed the sagacious dame. Railsford knew little enough about medicine, and had never been ill himself in his life. But as he lifted the hot hand which lay on the coverlet, and marked the dry parched lips, and listened to the laboured breathing, he knew that he was in the presence of a grave illness of some kind. "Go and fetch Dr Clarke at once, Mrs Phillips," said he, "and tell the cabman on your way down not to wait." Branscombe opened his eyes and clutched greedily at the tumbler Railsford offered. But his throat was too sore to allow him to drain it, and he gave it back with a moan. Then he dozed off fitfully, and recommenced his tossing. "Where are they all?" he asked, again opening his eyes. He scarcely seemed to take in who Railsford was. "They went by the ten o'clock train," said Railsford. "Why didn't they call me? Where's Clipstone?" "You weren't very well. You had better lie quiet a little," said Railsford. The invalid made no attempt to get up, but lay back on the pillow and moaned. "Open the window," said he, "the room's so hot." Railsford made believe to obey him, and waited anxiously for the doctor. It seemed as if he would never arrive. It was a strange position for the Master of the Shell, here at the bedside of the captain of his rival's house, the only occupant with him of the great deserted school. He had reckoned on spending a very different day. He was to have seen Daisy once more that afternoon, and the foolish young couple had been actually counting the minutes till the happy meeting came round. By this time he would have been in the train whizzing towards her, with all the troubles of the term behind him, and all the solaces of the vacation ahead. To-morrow, moreover, was the day of the University Boat-Race, and he, an old "Blue," had in his pocket at that moment a ticket for the steamer which was to follow the race. He was to have met scores of friends and fought again scores of old battles, and to have dined with the crews in the evening! What was to become of all these plans now? He was absolutely a prisoner at this poor fellow's bedside. He did not know his address at home, or where to send for help. Besides, even if he could discover it, it would be twenty-four hours at least before he could hand over his charge into other hands. These selfish regrets, however, only flashed through Railsford's mind to be again dismissed. He was a brave man, and possessed the courage which, when occasion demands, can accept a duty like a man. After all, was it not a blessing his cab had not come five minutes earlier than it had? Suppose this poor sufferer had been left with no better guardian than the brusque Mrs Phillips, with her scruples about "catching" disorders? The doctor's trap rattled up to the door at last. He was one of those happy sons of Aesculapius who never pull long faces, but always say the most alarming things in the most delightful way. "Ah," said he, hardly glancing at the patient, and shaking hands airily with Railsford, "this is a case of the master being kept in, and sending to the doctor for his _exeat_, eh? Sorry I can't give it to you at present, my dear fellow; rather a bad case." "What is it?" asked Railsford. "Our old friend, diphtheria; knowing young dog, to put it off till breaking-up day. What an upset for us all if he'd come out with it yesterday! Not profitable from my point of view, but I daresay the boys will have it more comfortably at home than here, after all. This must have been coming on for some time. How long has he been feverish?" "I don't know. I only found him like this half an hour ago, and want your advice what to do." The doctor, almost for the first time, looked at the restless invalid on the bed and hummed. "Dr Ponsford has gone to the Isle of Wight, I hear," said he. "I really don't know where he's gone," said Railsford impatiently. "I wish _I_ could get a holiday. That's the worst of my kind of doctor--people take ill so promiscuously. As sure as we say we'll go off for a week, some aggravating patient spits blood and says, `No, you don't.' I think you should send for this boy's mother, do you know." "I don't know her address. Is he so very ill, then?" "Well, of the two, I think you should telegraph rather than write. It might be more satisfaction to you afterwards. Have you no way of finding where he lives? Looked in his pockets? There may be a letter there." It was not an occasion for standing on ceremony, and Railsford, feeling rather like a pickpocket, took down the jacket from the peg and searched it. There was only one letter in the pocket, written in a female hand. It was dated "Sunday," but bore no address further than "London, N." on the postmark. "Pity," said the doctor pleasantly. "Of course you have had diphtheria yourself?" "No." "H'm, I can hardly advise you to leave him till somebody comes to relieve guard. But it's doubtful whether he will be well in time to nurse you. You should send for your own folk in time." If this doctor had not been Railsford's only support at present, he would have resented this professional flippancy more than he did. "I'm not afraid," said he. "I shall try to find out where his people live. Meanwhile would it be well to send a trained nurse here; or can I manage myself?" "Quite straightforward work," said the doctor, "if you like it. I've known cases no worse than this finish up in three days, or turn the corner in seven. You mustn't be surprised if he gets a great deal worse at night. He's a bit delirious already." Then the doctor went into a few details as to the medicine and method of nursing. The most important thing was to discover, if possible, the address of the patient's parents, and summon them. He approached the bed in the vague hope that Branscombe might be able to help him. But the sufferer, though he opened his eyes, seemed not to know him, and muttered to himself what sounded more like Greek verse than English. In desperation Railsford summoned Mrs Phillips. She, cautious woman, with a son of her own, would by no means come into the room, but stood at the door with a handkerchief to her mouth. "Have you any idea where his home is?" "No. Hasn't he labelled his box?" "He does not seem to have begun to pack at all. Do you know the doctor's address?" "No, he said no letters were to be forwarded. You'll excuse me, Mr Railsford, but as you are taking charge, I should like to be spared away an hour or so. I feel so upset, like. A bit of fresh air would be the very thing for me." She was evidently in such a panic on her own account, and so nervous of her proximity even to Railsford, that he saw it was little use to object. "You must be back in two hours, without fail," said he; "I may want you to go for the doctor again." She went; and Railsford, as he listened to the clatter of her boots across the quadrangle, felt more than ever utterly alone. He set himself to clear the room as far as possible of all unnecessary furniture. The poor fellow's things lay about in hopeless confusion. Evidently he had had it in his mind to pack up yesterday; but had felt too ill to carry out his purpose, and gone to bed intending to finish in the morning. Flannels, running-shoes, caps, books, linen, and papers lay scattered over the room, and Railsford, as he gathered them together and tried to reduce the chaos to order, felt his heart sink with an undefined apprehension. Yesterday, perhaps, this little array of goods and chattels meant much to the young master who called them his. To-day, what cared he as he lay there tossing feverishly on his bed, muttering his Greek verses and moaning over his sore throat, whose they were, and who touched them? And to-morrow--? Railsford pulled himself together half angrily. A nice fellow, he, for a sick nurse? Suddenly he came upon a desk with the key in the lock. Perhaps this might contain the longed-for address. He opened it and glanced inside. It was empty. No. There was only a paper there--a drawing on a card. Railsford took it up and glanced at it, half absent. As his eyes fell on it, however, he started. It was a curious work of art; a sketch in pen and ink, rather cleverly executed, after the model of the old Greek bas-reliefs shown in the classical dictionaries. It represented what first appeared to be a battle scene, but what Railsford on closer inspection perceived was something very different. The central figure was a man, over whose head a sack had been cast, which a tall figure behind was binding with cords round the victim's neck and shoulders. On the ground, clutching the captive's knees with his arms, and preparing to bind them, sat another figure, while in the background a third, with one finger to his lips, expressive of caution, pointed to an open door, evidently of the dungeon intended for the prisoner. It was an ordinary subject for a picture of this kind, and Railsford might have thought nothing of it, had not his attention been attracted by some words inscribed in classic fashion against the figures of the actors in this little drama. Under the central figure of the captive he read in Greek capitals the legend BIKEROS; over the head of his tall assailant was written BRANSKOMOS. The person sitting and embracing the captive's knees was labelled KLIPSTONOS, while the mysterious figure in the rear, pointing out the dungeon, bore the name of MUNGEROS. Over the door itself was written BOOTBOX. Below the whole was written the first line of the Iliad, and in the corner, in minute characters, were the words, "S. _Branscombe, inv. et del_." Railsford stared at the strange work of art in blank amazement. What could it mean? At first he was disposed to smile at the performance as a harmless jest; but a moment's consideration convinced him that, jest or not, he held in his hand the long-sought clue to the Bickers mystery which had troubled the peace of Grandcourt for the last term. Here, in the hand of the chief offender himself, was a pictorial record of that grievous outrage, and here, denounced, by himself in letters of Greek, were the names for which all the school had suffered. The Master of the Shell seemed to be in a dream. Branscombe and Clipstone, the head prefects of Bickers's own house! and Munger, the ill-conditioned toady of Railsford's! His first feelings of excitement and astonishment were succeeded by others of alarm and doubt. The murder was out, but how? He knew the great secret at last, but by what means? His eyes turned to the restless sufferer on the bed, and a flush of crimson came to his face as he realised that he had no more right to that secret than he had to the purse which lay on the table. He had opened the desk to look for an address, and nothing more. If, instead of that address, he had accidentally found somebody else's secret, what right had he--a man of honour and a gentleman--to use it, even if by doing so he could redress one of the greatest grievances in Grandcourt? He thrust the picture back into the desk, and wished from the bottom of his heart he had never seen it. Mechanically he finished tidying the room, and clearing away to the adjoining study as much as possible of the superfluous furniture. Then with his own hands he lit the fire and carried out the various instructions of the doctor as to the steaming of the air in the room and the preparation of the nourishment for the invalid. Branscombe woke once during the interval and asked hoarsely, "What bell was that?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he said,-- "All right, all right, I'll get up in a second," and relapsed into his restless sleep. Mrs Phillips did not return till eight o'clock; and the doctor arrived almost at the same time. "Has he taken anything?" he inquired. "Scarcely anything; he can hardly swallow." "You'll have a night with him, I fancy. Keep the temperature of the room up to sixty, and see he doesn't throw off his clothes. How old is he--eighteen?--a great overgrown boy, six feet one or two, surely. It goes hard with these long fellows. Give me your short, thick-set young ruffian for pulling through a bout like this. Have you found out where he lives?" "No, I can't discover his address anywhere." "Look in his Sunday hat. I always kept mine there when I was a boy, and never knew a boy who didn't." Branscombe, however, was an exception. "Well," said the doctor, "it's a pity. A mother's the proper person to be with him a time like this. She'll never-- What's this?" It was an envelope slipped behind the bookcase, containing a bill from Splicer, the London cricket-bat-maker, dated a year ago. At the foot the tradesman had written, "Hon. sir, sorry we could not get bat in time to send home, so forward to you direct to Grandcourt School, by rail." "There we are," said the doctor, putting the document in his pocket. "This ought to bring mamma in twenty-four hours. The telegraph office is shut now, but we'll wake Mr Splicer up early, and have mamma under weigh by midday. Good-night, Railsford--keep the pot boiling, my good fellow--I'll look round early." He was gone, and Railsford with sinking heart set himself to the task before him. He long remembered that night. It seemed at first as if the doctor's gloomy predictions were to be falsified, for Branscombe continued long in a half-slumber, and even appeared to be more tranquil than he had been during the afternoon. Railsford sat near the fire and watched him; and for two hours the stillness of the room was only broken by the lively ticking of the little clock on the mantelpiece, and the laboured breathing of the sufferer. He was nearly asleep when a cry from the bed suddenly roused him. "Clip!" called the invalid. Railsford went to his side and quietly replaced the covering which had been tossed aside. "Clip! look alive--he's coming--don't say a word, hang on to his legs, you know--_En jam tempus erat_--Munger, you cad, why don't you come? _Italiam fato profugus_. Hah! got you, my man. Shove him in, quick! Strike a light, do you hear? here they come. What are you doing, Clip?--turn him face up. That's for blackguarding me before the whole house! Clip put me up to it. Don't cut and leave me in the lurch, I say. You're locking me in the boot-box!--let me out--I'm in for the mile, you know. Who's got my shoes? _Pastor_ _cum traheret per freta navibus_. Well run, sir! He's giving out! I say, I say. I can't keep it up. I must stop. Clip, you put me up to it, old man. It'll never come out--never--never. He thinks it was Railsford, ho, ho! I'll never do such a thing again. Come along--sharp--coast's clear!" Then he began to conjugate a Greek verb, sometimes shouting the words and sitting up in bed, and sometimes half whimpering them as Railsford gently laid him back on the pillow. There was not much fear of Railsford dropping asleep again after this. The sick lad scarcely ceased his wild talk all the night through. Now he was going over again in detail that dark night's work in the boot-box; now he was construing Homer to the doctor; now he was being run down in the mile race; now he was singing one of his old child's hymns; now he was laughing over the downfall of Mr Bickers; now he was making a speech at the debating society. It was impossible for the listener to follow all his wild incoherent talk, it was all so mixed up and jumbled. But if Railsford harboured any doubts as to the correctness of his surmise about the picture, the circumstantial details of the outrage repeated over and over in the boy's wild ravings effectually dispelled them. He knew now the whole of the wretched story from beginning to end. The proud boy's resentment at the insult he had received in the presence of his house, the angry passions which had urged him to the act of revenge, the cowardly precautions suggested by his confederate to escape detection, and the terrors and remorse following the execution of their deep-laid scheme. Yet if the listener had no right to the secret locked up in the desk, still less had he the right to profit by these sad delirious confessions. Towards morning the poor exhausted sufferer, who during the night had scarcely remained a moment motionless, or abated a minute in his wild, wandering talk, sunk back on his pillow and closed his eyes like one in whom the flame of life had sunk almost to the socket. Railsford viewed the change with the utmost alarm, and hastened to give the restoratives prescribed by the doctor in case of a collapse. But the boy apparently had run through his strength and lacked even the power to swallow. For two terrible hours it seemed to Railsford as if the young life were slipping through his hands; and he scarcely knew at one time if the prayer he sent up would reach its destination before the soul of him on whose behalf it rose. But soon after the school clock had tolled eight, and when the clear spring sun rising above the chapel tower sent its rays cheerily into the sick-chamber, the breathing became smoother and more regular, and the hand on which that of Railsford rested grew moist. The doctor arrived an hour later, and smiled approvingly as he glanced at the patient. "He's going to behave himself after all," said he. "You'll find he will wake up in an hour or two with an appetite. Give him an egg beaten up in milk, with a spoonful of brandy." "What about his parents?" asked Railsford. "They will be here by the four-o'clock train. What about your breakfast? you've had nothing since midday yesterday; and if you're going to have your turn at that sort of thing," added he, pointing to the bed, "you'd better get yourself into good trim first. Get Mrs Phillips to cook you a steak, and put yourself outside it. You can leave him safely for twenty minutes or so." Branscombe slept steadily and quietly through the forenoon, and then woke, clear in mind, and, as the doctor anticipated, with an appetite. He swallowed the meal prepared for him with considerably less pain than yesterday, and then, for the first time, recognised his nurse. "Thank you, sir," said he; "have I been seedy long?" "You were rather poorly yesterday, old fellow," said Railsford, "and you must keep very quiet now, and not talk." The patient evinced no desire to disobey either of these injunctions, and composed himself once more to sleep. Before he awoke, a cab had driven into the courtyard and set down three passengers. Two of them were Mr and Mrs Branscombe, the third was a trained nurse from London. As they appeared on the scene, joined almost immediately by the doctor, Railsford quietly slipped away from the room and signalled to the cabman to stop and pick him up. Five minutes later, he and his portmanteau were bowling towards the station, a day late for the boat-race. But in other respects Mark Railsford was a happy man, and a better one for his night's vigil in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. RODS IN PICKLE FOR RAILSFORD. Grandcourt assembled after the holidays in blissful ignorance of the episode narrated in our last chapter. Branscombe's illness had been an isolated case, and apparently not due to any defect in the sanitary arrangements of his house. And as no other boy was reported to have spent his holidays in the same unsatisfactory manner, and as Railsford himself had managed to escape infection, it was decided by the authorities not to publish the little misadventure on the housetop. The captain of Bickers's house was absent on sick leave, and the Master of the Shell (who had been nursing a stubborn cold during the holidays) would not be in his place, so it was announced, for a week. That was all Grandcourt was told; and, to its credit, it received the news with profound resignation. True, some of the more disorderly spirits in Railsford's house were disposed to take advantage of his absence, and lead the much-enduring Monsieur Lablache, who officiated in his place, an uncomfortable dance. But any indications of mutiny were promptly stamped upon by Ainger and the other prefects, who, because they resented monsieur's appointment, were determined that, come what would, he should have no excuse for exercising his authority. Monsieur shrugged himself, and had no objection to the orderly behaviour of the house, whatever its motive, nor had anyone else whose opinion on such a matter was worth having. Arthur and Sir Digby, as usual, came back brimful of lofty resolutions and ambitious schemes! Dig had considerably revised his time-table, and was determined to adhere to it like a martyr to his stake. Arthur, though he came armed with no time-table, had his own good intentions. He had had one or two painful conversations with his father, who had hurt him considerably by suggesting that he wasted a great deal of time, and neglected utterly those principles of self- improvement which had turned out men like Wellington, Dickens, Dr Livingstone, and Mr Elihu Burritt. Arthur had seldom realised before how odious comparisons may become. No doubt Wellington, Dickens, and Company were good fellows in their way, but he had never done them any harm. Why should they be trotted out to injure him? He thought he _was_ improving himself. He was much better at a drop- kick than he had been last year, and Railsford himself had said he was not as bad at his Latin verses as he had been. Was not that improvement--self-improvement? Then he was conscious of having distinctly improved in morals. He had once or twice done his Caesar without a crib, and the aggregate of lines he had had to write for impositions had been several hundred less than the corresponding term of last year. Thus the son gently reasoned with his parent, who replied that what he would like to see in his boy was an interest in some intellectual pursuits outside the mere school routine. Why, now, did he not take up some standard book of history with which to occupy his spare time, or some great poem like the _Paradise Lost_, of which he might commit a few lines to memory every day, and so emulate his great-uncle, who used to be able to repeat the whole poem by heart? Both Arthur and Dig had landed for the term with hampers more or less replete with indigestible mementoes of domestic affection. Arthur had a Madeira cake and a rather fine lobster, besides a small box of figs, some chocolate creams, Brazil nuts, and (an enforced contribution from the cook) pudding-raisins. Dig, whose means were not equal to his connections, produced, somewhat bashfully, a rather "high" cold chicken, some gingerbread, some pyretic saline, and a slab or two of home-made toffee. These good things, when spread out on the table that evening, made quite an imposing array, and decidedly warmed the cockles of the hearts of their joint owners, and suggested to them naturally thoughts of hospitality and revelry. "Let's have a blow-out in the dormitory," proposed Arthur. "Froggy will let us alone, and we can square Felgate with a hunk of this toffee if he interferes." Felgate was the prefect charged with the oversight of the Shell dormitory in Railsford's--a duty he discharged by never setting foot inside their door when he could possibly get out of it. From a gastronomic point of view the boys would doubtless have done better to postpone their feast till to-morrow. They had munched promiscuously all day--during the railway journey especially--and almost needed a night's repose to enable them to attack the formidable banquet now proposed on equal terms. But hospitality brooks no delays. Besides, Dig's chicken was already a little over ripe, and it was impossible to say how Arthur's lobster might endure the night. So the hearts of Maple, Tilbury, Dimsdale, and Simson were made glad that evening by an intimation that it might be worth their while at bed- time to smuggle a knife, fork, and plate a-piece into the dormitory, in case, as Arthur worded it, there should be some fun going. Wonderful is the intuition of youth! These four simple-minded, uncultured lads knew what Arthur meant, even as he spoke, and joyfully did him and Dig homage for the rest of the evening, and at bed-time tucked each his platter under his waistcoat and scaled the stairs as the curfew rang, grimly accoutred with a fork in one trouser pocket and a knife in the other. But whatever the cause, the Shell-fish in Railsford's presented a very green appearance when they answered to their names next morning, and were in an irritable frame of mind most of the day. Their bad temper took the form of a dead set on the unhappy Monsieur Lablache, who, during the first day of his vicarious office, led the existence of a pea on a frying-pan. They went up to him with difficulties in Greek prose, knowing that he comprehended not a word of that language; they asked his permission for what they knew he could not grant, and on his refusal got up cries of tyranny and despotism wherewith to raise the lower school; they whistled German war songs outside his door, and asked him the date of the Battle of Waterloo. When he demanded their names they told him "Ainger," "Barnworth," "Wake"; and when he ordered them to stay in an hour after school, they coolly stopped work five minutes before the bell rang and walked under his very nose into the playground. Poor monsieur, he was no disciplinarian, and he knew it. His backbone was limp, and he never did the right thing at the right time. He shrugged when he ought to have been chastising; and he stormed when he ought to have held his tongue. Nobody cared for him; everybody wondered why he of all men worked at the trade of schoolmaster. Perhaps if some of my lords and baronets in the Shell had known that far away, in a tiny cottage at Boulogne, this same contemptible Frenchman was keeping alive from week to week, with his hard-earned savings, a paralysed father and three motherless little girls, who loved the very ground he trod on, and kissed his likeness every night before they crept to their scantily- covered beds--if they had known that this same poor creature said a prayer for his beloved France every day, and tingled in every vein to hear her insulted even in jest--perhaps they would have understood better why he flared up now and then as he did, and why he clung to his unlovely calling of teaching unfeeling English boys at the rate of £30 a term. But the Grandcourt boys did not know all this, and therefore they had no pity for poor monsieur. However, as I have said, monsieur shrugged his shoulders, and accepted the help of the prefects to keep his disorderly charges within bounds. From one of the prefects he got very hide help. Felgate had no interest in the order of the house. It didn't matter to him whether it was monsieur who had to deal with the rioters or Ainger. All he knew was, he was not going to trouble his head about it. In fact, his sympathies were on the side of the agitators. Why shouldn't they enjoy themselves if they liked? They didn't hurt anybody--and if they did break the rules of the house; well, who was to say whether they might not be right and the rules of the house wrong? Arthur Herapath, for instance, had set up with a dog--puppy to his friend's dog, Smiley. Everybody knew live animals were against rules, and yet Railsford had winked all last term at Smiley; why shouldn't Arthur have equal liberty to enjoy the companionship of Smiley minor? He met master and puppy in the passage one afternoon. "Hullo, young 'un," said he, "another dog? How many's that?" "Two," said Arthur, a little doubtful as to the prefect's reception of the news. "You see it would be rough to take him from his mother while he is so young. It's not as if he was no relation." "Of course not. What have you been doing with Marky these holidays?" "Oh, he was seedy--sore throat. I fancy he was shamming a bit to get a week extra. You see, he's spoons on my sister Daisy." "I fancy I've heard that before," observed Felgate. "What I mean is, he hangs about our place a lot; so it's a good excuse for him to be laid up, you know." "Quite so. Perhaps he's not in a hurry to come back here for another reason we know of, eh, youngster?" "Ha, ha! but keep that mum, you know. We must back him through that business. It's nearly blown over already." "Has it? But, I say--" Here Ainger came up and detected the puppy. "You'll have to get rid of that, Herapath," said he. "What, Smiley's pup? Why? Felgate's given me leave." "Felgate may do as he pleases. I tell you you must send him home, and Smiley too." "What!" said Arthur aghast. "Smiley too! why, Railsford knows all about Smiley, and let us have him all, last term." "But you are not going to have them this term. Two other fellows have started dogs on the strength of Smiley already, and there's to be a clean sweep of the lot." "Oh, rot! you can't interfere with fellows' rights like that," said Felgate. "I tell you Railsford gave us leave," repeated Arthur. "Very well," said Ainger; "unless both of them are packed off home by this time to-morrow, or sent down to the school farm, you'll go up to the doctor and settle the question with him." "Rubbish!" said Felgate. "Until Railsford--" "Shut up," said the captain; "I'm not talking to you." It was hardly to be wondered at if he was out of temper. He was having any amount of extra work to do; and to be thus obstructed by one of his own colleagues was a trifle too much for his limited patience. Felgate coloured up at the rebuff, knowing well enough that the captain would be delighted to make good his words at any time and place which might be offered him. He remained after he had gone, and said to Arthur-- "That's what I call brutal. You're not going to care two straws what he says?" "All very well," said Arthur, stroking his puppy; "if he sends me up to Pony, what then?" "Bless you, he won't send you up to Pony." "Think not? If I thought he wouldn't, I'd hang on till Marky comes back. He'd square the thing." "Of course he would. It's a bit of spite of Ainger's. He thinks he's not quite important enough, so he's going to start bullying. I'll back you up." "Thanks, awfully," said the ductile Arthur. "You're a brick. I'd take your advice." He did, and prevailed upon Dig to do the same. The consequence was, that when next afternoon the captain walked into their study to see whether his order had been complied with, he was met by an unceremonious yap from Smiley herself, echoed by an impertinent squeak from her irreverent son. "You've got them still, then?" said Ainger. "Very well, they can stay now till after you've been to the doctor. Nine o'clock sharp to-morrow morning, both of you." The friends turned pale. "Not really, Ainger? You haven't sent up our names, have you? We'll send them off. We thought as Felgate said--oh, you cad!" This last remark was occasioned by Ainger departing and shutting the door behind him without vouchsafing any further parley. They felt that the game was up, and that they had been done. In their distress they waited upon Felgate and laid their case before him. He, as is usual with gentlemen of his type, said it was very hard and unjust, and they would do quite right in resisting and defying everybody all round. But he did not offer to go instead of them to the doctor, so that his general observations on the situation were not particularly comforting. Arthur proposed telegraphing to Railsford something in this form: "Ainger says Smiley's against rules. Wire him you allow." But when the form was filled up and ready to send, the chance of it succeeding seemed hardly worth the cost. Finally they went down sadly after tea to the school farm and hired a kennel, and arranged for the board and lodging of their exiled pets at so much a week. Next morning, in doleful dumps, they presented themselves before the doctor. Arthur could hardly help remembering how, a short time ago, he had pictured himself standing in that very room, demanding the hand of Miss Violet. Now, Smiley minor, squeaking and grunting, as he hung by his one tooth to his mother's tail, down there in the school farm, was worth half a dozen Miss Violets to him. And his once expected uncle--! The doctor dealt shortly and decisively with the miscreants. He caned them for defying their house-captain, and reprimanded them for imagining that dogs could be permitted under the school roof. On being told that Mr Railsford had known all about Smiley last term, he declined to argue the matter, and concluded by a warning of the possible consequences of a repetition of the offence. They went back to their place, sore both in body and mind. To be caned during the first week of the term was not quite in accordance with their good resolutions, and to be bereft of the Smileys was a cruel outrage on their natural affections. They owed both to Ainger, and mutually resolved that he was a cad of the lowest description. For all that they attended to his injunctions for the next few days with wonderful punctuality, and decided to defer, till Railsford's return, their own revenge and his consequent confusion. Altogether, it was getting to be time for Railsford to turn up. The evening before, the first master's session for the term had been held, and the doctor, for a wonder, had been present. Towards the end of the meeting, after the discussion of a great deal of general business, Mr Bickers rose and asked leave to make a statement. The reader can guess what that statement was. He begged to remind the meeting that Grandcourt still lay under the cloud of the mystery which enveloped the assault which had been made upon himself last term. For himself, it mattered very little, but for the honour of the school he considered the matter should not be allowed to drop until it was properly cleared up. With a view to assisting in such a result, he might mention that towards the end of last term a rumour had come to his ears--he was not at liberty to say through what channel--that the secret was not quite as dead as was generally supposed. He had heard, on what he considered reliable authority, that in Mr Railsford's house--the house most interested in this painful question--the name of the culprit or culprits was generally known, or, at least, suspected; and he believed he was not going too far in mentioning a rumour that no one could make a better guess as to that name than Mr Railsford himself. Here Mr Grover and Monsieur Lablache both rose to their feet. Monsieur, of course, gave way, but what he had meant to say was pretty much what Mr Grover did say. He wished to point out that in his friend's absence such an insinuation as that just made by the speaker was quite unjustifiable. For his own part, he thought it a great pity to revive the unfortunate question at all. At any rate, in Mr Railsford's absence, he should certainly oppose any further reference being made to it at this meeting. "That," echoed monsieur, "is precisely my opinion." "Very well," said Mr Bickers pleasantly. "What I have to say will keep perfectly well until Mr Railsford comes back." Whereupon the meeting passed to the next order of the day. CHAPTER NINETEEN. FELGATE, THE CHAMPION OF THE OPPRESSED. It spoke well for Railsford's growing influence with his boys that as soon as he returned to his post every sign of mutiny disappeared, and the house seemed to regain that spirit of ambition and self-reliance which had characterised the last days of the previous term. A few knotty questions, as the reader knows, were awaiting the Master of the Shell on his arrival, but he took them one at a time, and not having been involved in the previous altercations respecting them, disposed of them a great deal more easily than had been expected. Things had been coming to a climax rather rapidly between Felgate and Ainger. Not that Felgate had committed any unusual offence, or that Ainger had discovered anything new about him which he had not known before; but during the last few weeks of last term, and the opening days of the present, the two had crossed one another's paths frequently, and with increasing friction. Ainger was one of those fellows who, when their mind is set on a thing, seem to lose sight of all but two persons--the person who can help them most and the person who can hinder them most. In the present case Ainger's heart was set on making his house the crack house of Grandcourt. The person who could help him most was Railsford, and the person who could hinder him most was Felgate. The captain had been shy of the new Master of the Shell for a long time, and the mistrust had not been all on one side, but as last term had worn on, and a common cause had arisen in the temporary disgrace of the house, master and head prefect had felt drawn together in mutual confidence, and Railsford now, though he still did not always realise it, had no more loyal adherent than Ainger. Ainger, on his part, was quite ready to acknowledge that without Railsford the house stood a poor chance of fulfilling the ambitious project he and Barnworth had marked out for it, and he only hoped, now, that the master might not rest on the laurels of last term, but would help to carry through the still more important exploits of this. The great obstacle to whatever good was going on in Railsford's at present was Felgate. He had nearly succeeded last term in sowing discontent among the juvenile athletes, and he had, in the most unmistakable manner, not done his best in the one competition at the sports for which he had entered. That was bad enough, and the quick- tempered Ainger wrote up a heavy score against him on those two items. But now he had begun on a new line. Although a prefect himself, he not only evinced no interest in the order of the house at a time when the prefects were specially on their mettle, but he had taken pains to undermine the discipline of the place and set his authority up in antagonism to that of his own colleagues. Felgate laid his plans deeply and cleverly. Ainger, as he knew, was popular because he had won the mile, and was upright, and meant what he said, and said what he meant. No boy of whom the same can be said could help being popular. "But," said Felgate to himself, "there are other ways of being popular. I haven't won the mile or anything else; I'm not particularly upright, and I shouldn't like to assert I always either say what I mean or mean what I say. Still I can make myself pleasant to a parcel of kids when I choose; I can let them off some of their little rows, and I can help them to some better sport than all this tomfoolery about getting up a crack eleven and winning all the school prizes. Ainger won't like it, but I fancy I can sail close enough to the wind not to give him a chance of being down on me. And as for Railsford--the snob--if he interferes, well, I can take it out of him in a way he don't suspect. What a hypocrite the fellow must be to do a thing like that, and come here smiling and talk about making this the crack house of Grandcourt! Bah!" And the righteous soul of Felgate waxed hot within him, and he set himself to consider how, with least risk to himself, and most mischief to everyone else, he could drive a wedge into the project of his colleagues, and make to himself a party in Railsford's. He passed in review the various rules of the house, to discover someone on which he might possibly found a grievance. For your man who sets himself to make a party must have a grievance. He fancied he had discovered just what he wanted in the time-honoured rule about compulsory cricket. Every boy was obliged to show up in the cricket-field three times a week, whether he liked it or not. There were very few boys in Railsford's, as Felgate knew, who did not like it; but he fancied for all that he could make something out of the rule. He began by breaking it himself. He knew that no one would be particularly concerned on his account, for he was an indifferent player, and also a prefect might on a pinch excuse himself. After a week's abstention, during which, rather to his disappointment, no notice was taken of his defection, he began to talk about it to one and another of the more studious boys of the house, boys very keen on winning the school prizes at the end of the term for which they were entered. Sherriff of the Fifth was one of these, and, much as he liked cricket, he was bemoaning one day having to turn out into the fields just when he wanted to finish a knotty problem in trigonometry. "Don't go," said Felgate. "Surely no one has a right to spoil your chance of a scholarship for a musty old school rule that ought to have been abolished a century ago." "It's not a bad rule on the whole, I fancy," said Sherriff; "but it comes a little rough on me just now." "My dear fellow, we're not quite slaves here; and if it doesn't suit you to go down on your knees to an antiquated rule of this kind, then you're not the fellow I take you for if you do it. It hasn't suited me often enough, and I've not been such a muff as to think twice about it." "What happened to you when you didn't turn up?" "Nothing, of course. I should have been rather glad if something had, for the sake of fighting the thing out. It's enough to make some fellows loathe the very name of cricket, isn't it?" "Some of the fellows who can't play don't like it, certainly." "I don't blame them. If only a few of them would stand out, they'd soon break down the system. But I'm keeping you from your work, old man; you'll think me as bad as the rule. They say you'll have a jolly hard fight for your exam, so you're right to waste no time." The result of this conservation was that Sherriff, one of the steadiest second-rate bats in the house, was absent from the practice, and a hue- and-cry was made after him. He was found working hard in his study. "I really can't come to-day. I'm in for the exam, you know, and it'll take me a tremendous grind to lick Redgrave." "But," said Stafford, who was the ambassador, "it's all the same for all of us. If every fellow said the same, it would be all up with house cricket; and we wanted to turn out such a hot team this year, too. Come on. You'll do your work twice as well after it; and the ground's just in perfect condition for batting to-day." Sherriff was not proof against this wily appeal. It had been an effort to him to break the rule. It was no effort now to decide to keep it. So he jumped into his flannels and took his beloved bat, and made a long score that morning against Wake's bowling, and was happy. Felgate mentally abused him for his pusillanimity, but saw no reason, for all that, for not turning the incident to account. He proclaimed poor Sherriff's wrongs to a few of the other malcontents. "It's hard lines," said he, "that just because of this wretched rule, Sherriff is to lose his scholarship. He can't possibly win it unless he's able to read every moment of his time; and that our grave and reverend seniors don't mean to allow." "Brutal shame," said Munger, "hounding him down like that I've half a mind to stick out." "That's what Sherriff said," sneered Felgate, "but he had to knuckle under." "Catch me knuckling under!" said Munger. He stayed away the next practice day, and, much to his mortification, nobody took the slightest notice of his absence. "You see," said Felgate, "if only one or two of you stand steady, they can't compel you to play. It's ridiculous." Next day, accordingly, three fellows stayed away; who, as they were the three premier louts in Railsford's, were never missed or inquired after. But when the next day the number swelled to five, and included Simson, who at least knew one end of a bat from the other, and had once tipped a ball to leg for two, the matter was no longer to be overlooked. The captain's attention was called to the fact that one fellow in the Fifth, three in the Shell, and one Baby, besides Felgate, were not down on the ground. "Fetch them, then," said Ainger, "and tell them to look sharp, or they'll catch it." Wake was the envoy this time, and duly delivered his message to the deserters, whom, rather suspiciously, as it seemed to him, he found together. "You'd better go, you youngsters," said. Felgate, with a sneer; "you'll have to do it sooner or later--you'd better cave in at once." "I'm hanged if I go," said Munger. "I fancy that's a safe fixture, whether you go or not," drily observed Wake. "Look sharp, are you coming or not?" "I'm not coming, I tell you," said Munger. "No more am I," said Simson. "No more am I," said each of the others. "Are you coming, Felgate?" demanded Wake. This was an irreverent question for a Fifth-form boy to ask a prefect, and Felgate naturally rebuked it. "It's no business of yours, and you'd better not be impudent, I can tell you. As it happens, I've got some work to do, and can't come. Cut away, you needn't stay." Wake departed cheerfully, and announced that the whole thing was a "put- up job," as Arthur would have called it, and that Felgate was at the bottom of it. Whereupon Ainger's face grew dark, and he walked, bat in hand, to the house. The mutineers, with the exception of Felgate, who, with the usual prudence of a professional "patriot," had retired to his study, were loafing about the common room just where Wake had interviewed them. "What's the meaning of all this?" demanded the captain; "what do you mean by not turning up to cricket and sending word you weren't coming when Wake came for you?" It was much easier defying Ainger in his absence than in his presence, and now that he stood there and confronted them, the delinquents did not quite feel the hardy men of war they had been five minutes ago. Munger, however, tried to carry the thing off with a bluster. "We don't see the fun of being compelled to go every time. We don't care about cricket; besides--we don't mean to go. Felgate doesn't go; why don't you make him?" The captain put down his bat. "Munger, go and put on your flannels at once." "What if I don't?" asked Munger. Ainger replied by giving him a thrashing there and then, despite his howls and protests that he had just been going, and would never do it again. The captain replied that he didn't fancy he _would_ do it again in a hurry; and as the remainder of the company expressed positive impatience to go to the cricket-field, he let them of! with a caution, and, after seeing them started, walked moodily up to Felgate's study. Felgate was comfortably stretched on two chairs, reading a novel. But as he held the book upside down, Ainger concluded that he could not be very deeply engrossed in its contents. "You're working, I hear?" said the captain. "Is that all you've come to tell me?" replied Felgate. "No, only most fellows when they're reading--even if it's novels, read the right way up. It's bad for the eyes to do it upside down." Felgate looked a little disconcerted and shut up his book. "You've missed the last two weeks at cricket," said the captain. "We have managed to get on without you, though, and one of the things I looked in to say now was that if you choose to stay away always you are welcome. Don't think it will put us out." This was unexpected. Felgate was prepared to hear a peremptory order to go to the field, and had laid his plans for resisting it. "I've just been seeing one or two other louts down below who hadn't turned up. I'm glad to hear you advised them to go when I sent Wake to fetch them. It's a pity they didn't take your advice, for I've had to thrash Munger. And if you happen to know where I can find the coward who put him and the rest up to breaking the rule, and didn't dare to show face himself, I'll thrash him too." Felgate was completely disconcerted by this speech, and gnashed his teeth to find himself made a fool of after all. "Why on earth can't you get out of my study and go down to your cricket? I don't want you here," he snarled. "I dare say not. But I thought you ought to know what I have been doing to enforce the rule, and what I mean to do. I hope you will tell that coward I spoke of what he may expect." "Look here," said Felgate, firing up--for a baulked bully rarely talks in a whisper--"you may think yourself a very important person, but I don't." (This was the speech Felgate had prepared in case he had been ordered down to cricket.) "I consider the cricket rule is a bad one, and I'm not surprised if fellows kick against it. I've something better to do than to go down to the field three times a week; and I shall certainly sympathise with any fellows who complain of it and try to get it abolished, and I've told them so. You can do what you like with me. I've told you what I shall do." "And I," said the captain, whose temper was extinguished, "have told you what I shall do. Is this room large enough, or shall we come outside?" Felgate stared at him in consternation. "Whatever do you mean?" "To fight." "Rot! I'm not going to fight." "Very well. Then I give you your choice--a thrashing like that I gave Munger just now; or you can go and put on your flannels and come down to the field." Felgate hesitated. He had rarely been in such an awkward fix. He knew that a thrashing from the captain, besides being painful, would mean the extinction of any influence he ever had at Grandcourt. On the other hand-- But he had not time to argue it out. Ainger had already laid down his bat. "You shall have it your _own_ way," snarled he; "I'll come to the field." CHAPTER TWENTY. THE LITTLE SWEEP. Ainger's victory over the rebels had a great moral effect on the house. There was no further question as to the hardship of compulsory cricket; indeed, everyone became so keen on the prospect of turning out a "crack" eleven, that if the rule had required the attendance of every boy daily instead of thrice a week the fellows would have turned up. The prospects brightened rapidly after a week or two's practice. Railsford put his shoulder to the wheel with his usual energy. He would bowl or bat or field with equal cheerfulness, if thereby he might smarten up the form of any player, however indifferent, who really wanted to improve. He specially devoted himself to the candidates for a place in the second eleven; and it presently began to be rumoured that Railsford's would be able to put two elevens in the field, able to hold their own against any other two in Grandcourt. It was rather a big boast, but after the exploits of the house at the sports nobody could afford to make too little of its ambitious projects. Arthur, Dig, and their _coterie_--most of them safely housed already in the second eleven--caught a regular cricket fever. They lived in an atmosphere of cricket. They thought in cricket, and dreamed of nothing else. Any question which arose resolved itself into a cricket match in their minds, and was mentally played out to bring it to a decision. Their ordinary talk betrayed their mania, and even their work was solaced by the importation of cricket into its deepest problems. Here, for instance, is an illustration of the kind of talk which might been have overheard one evening during the first part of the term in the study over Railsford's head. Arthur was groaning over his Euclid. "I'm clean bowled by this blessed proposition," said he. "Here have I been slogging away at it all the evening and never got my bat properly under it yet. You might give us a leg-up, Dig." "Bless you," said Dig, "I'm no good at that sort of yorker. I'm bad enough stumped as it is by this Horace. He gets an awful screw on now and then, and just when you think you've scored off him, there you are in among the slips, caught out low down. I vote we go and ask Marky." "Don't like it," said Arthur. "Marky served us scurvily over poor old Smiley, and I don't mean to go over his popping-crease, if I can help it, any more." "That was an underhand twist altogether," said Dig. "Bad enough for Ainger to bowl us out, without him giving it out, too, the way he did. You know, I really think we ought to tell him what a nice way we can stump him out if we like. He just thinks we've caved in and put off our pads." "I don't like it, Dig. It would be an awfully bad swipe, and Daisy would be knocked over as much as he would. We're not forced to play up to him any more; but I don't like running him out." "You're a jolly decent brother-in-law, you are," said Dig admiringly, "and it's a pity Marky don't know what he owes you." At this point Tilbury burst into the room. If Dig and Arthur were a little crazed about cricket, Tilbury was positively off his head. "How's that, umpires?" cried he, as he entered. "Did you see me playing this afternoon? Went in second man, with Wake and Sherriff bowling, my boys. I knocked up thirty-two off my own bat, and would have been not out, only Mills saw where I placed my smacks in between the two legs, and slipped up and got hold of me low down with his left." "All right," said Arthur. "Why don't you put on side? I was watching you, and saw you give three awfully bad chances in your first over. Never mind, stick to it, and we'll make a tidy player of you some day. I hear they're going to get up a third eleven. I dare say Ainger will stick you in it if we ask him." Tilbury laughed good-humouredly; for it was all on the cards that he might get a place in the first eleven before very long. "I fancied Ainger had knocked you two over the boundary a little while ago. I heard someone say, by the way, if you two could be thrown into one, and taught to hold your bat straight and not hit everything across the wicket, you could be spared to play substitute in Wickford Infant School eleven at their next treat. I said I fancied not, but they're going to try you, for the sake of getting rid of you for half a day." "Get along. You needn't bowl any of your mild lobs down to us. By the way, is it true you've been stuck in the choir?" "Yes; awful sell. I tried to scratch, but Parks said they were hard up for a good contralto; so I had to go in the team. I'm to be third man up in the anthem to-morrow--got half a line of solo." "All serene," said Arthur, "we'll look out for squalls. Tip us one of your low A's, and we'll sky it from our pew. Who's there?" It was Simson, also infected with the fever, although with him, being of the weak-minded order, it took the form of a craze for "sport" generally. For Simson, as we have mentioned, once tipped a ball to leg for two, and consequently was entitled to be regarded as an authority on every subject pertaining to the turf generally. He looked very important at present, as he began: "I say, you chaps, I've got something to tell you--private, you know. You know Mills? His father's brother-in-law lives at Epsom, and so gets all the tips for the races; and Mills says he's put his father up to no end of a straight tip for the Derby. And Mills says he wants to get up a little sweep on the quiet. No blanks, you know. Each fellow draws one horse, and the one that wins gets the lot. Jolly good score, too." "Oh yes," said Arthur, "I know all about that! I once put a sixpence in a sweep, and never saw it again. Catch me fielding in that little game." "Oh, but Mills says it's not to be for money, for that's not allowed. He suggested postage-stamps, and then whoever won would be able to write lots of letters home, you know." "Who wants to write lots of letters home?" said Dig, whose correspondence rarely exceeded two letters a term. "Well, of course, you're not obliged," explained Simson seriously. "If I drew Roaring Tommy--I mean," said he, correcting himself with a blush, "if I drew the favourite, you know, and potted the sweep, I should turn the stamps into tin." "Is Roaring Tommy the favourite, then?" asked Tilbury. "Yes. I oughtn't to have let it out. I told Mills I wouldn't; because it might get his father into a row. Mills says he's dead certain to win. I say, shall you fellows go in?" "I don't mind," said Tilbury, "as it's not money. Any fellow sell me six stamps?" "Yes, for sevenpence," said Arthur. "I'm not going in, young Simson. My governor said to me the chances were some young blackleg or other would be on to me to shell out something for a swindle of the kind; and he said, `Don't you do it.' Besides, I've not got the money." "I could lend you six stamps," said Simson, who was very keen on the scheme, and failed to see any point in Arthur's other remarks. "Not good enough," said Arthur. "Not much chance of scoring, either," said Dig, "if there's about twenty go in and only one wins." "Just as likely you win it as anybody else," said Simson. "Come on, you needn't funk it. Lots of fellows are in--Felgate's in." Arthur whistled. "He's a prefect," said he. "Of course he is, and he doesn't see any harm in it." "Who else?" asked Arthur. "Rogers, and Munger, and Sherriff." "A first eleven chap," ejaculated Dig. "Lots of others. There's twelve names already out of twenty-one. No! thirteen, counting Tilbury. It'll be too late to do it to-morrow." Arthur looked at Dig and Dig looked at Arthur. Twenty-one sixpences were ten shillings and sixpence, and ten shillings and sixpence would buy a new bat,--at a cost of six stamps. His father had warned him against gambling with money, but had said nothing about postage-stamps. And the cautions Dig had received against all "evil ways" did not even specify gambling at all. Simson took out his list and wrote Tilbury's name, and then waited for Arthur's decision. "May as well," said Dig. "Wait till to-morrow," said Arthur, who still felt qualms. "You'll be too late then," said Simson. "All right--that'll settle it then," said Arthur. "Felgate said he thought you'd be sure to go in," urged the tempter. "Did he?" said Arthur, a good deal impressed. "Yes," said Dig jocularly, already fumbling the ten-and-six in anticipation in his pocket. "Any muff can get round Arthur." It was an unlucky jest, if the baronet's object was to decide his friend in favour of the proposal. For Arthur coloured up and took his hand out of his pocket. "Wait till to-morrow," said he again. "Dig, you'll give your name now, won't you?" said Simson. "Don't know," said Dig evasively; "better not stick it down, that is, not unless the list gets full up, you know." Simson treated this evasive reply as a consent, and wrote Digs name down, there and then, in his presence. "Come on, Herapath," said he, making a last appeal. "Don't desert your old friends." "I tell you I can't say anything till to-morrow," said Arthur, a little crusty. Simson gave it up and departed. "Felgate seems to be bowling wide just now," observed Dig. "I shouldn't have fancied he'd have gone in for this sort of thing." "Why shouldn't he, just as much as you?" growled Arthur. "I? I haven't gone in for it yet." "Oh yes, you have; your name's down." "Only as last man in, though, in case he should get filled up." "Doesn't matter whether you go in first or last, you're in the game." "Well," said Dig resignedly, "I don't think I am, really; but if I am, I hope I get Roaring Tommy." Simson had not much difficulty in filling up his list. The specious pretext of the postage-stamps did not delude many, but Felgate's name worked wonders. Felgate had had no intention of allowing his name to be used, and was indeed in blissful ignorance that his support was generally known. He had in a reckless way expressed his sympathy with what he chose to term a very innocent "round game," and had given practical proof of his sympathy by buying a ticket. That was yesterday, and he had since forgotten the whole affair, and was quietly looking about him for some new way of wiping off the rapidly-accumulating score against Railsford and his lieutenant Ainger. After his rebuff about the compulsory cricket--which, fortunately, no one but the captain (who was not the man to say much about it) had witnessed--Felgate had retired for a time into comparative seclusion. He believed in his lucky star, and hoped there was a good time coming. He still had his trump card in hand, but if he could win his trick without it he would be so much to the good. Arthur, when, on the day after Simson's visit, he heard that the list was closed without him, kicked Simson, and felt on the whole rather glad. He had thought the matter over, and did not like breaking his promise to the people at home. Besides, he still felt sore at the loss of his former sixpence in a similar venture, and looked upon the whole business as more or less of a "plant." Further than that, he now had a delightful opportunity of tormenting Sir Digby, who had weakly yielded to the tempter, albeit with a few qualms and prickings of conscience. "Just like you!" bragged Arthur; "anybody can do you! A precious lot of your six stamps you'll see back! _I_ know Mills--a regular shark!--and if there's a row, he'll back out and leave you and the rest of them to catch it; then who'll be Roaring Tommy, eh?" Digby did not like this sort of talk; it offended him--besides, it frightened him. "Stuff and nonsense!" said he. "Who's to care about a few postage- stamps? I wouldn't gamble with money, not if I was paid for it. Why, I should fancy if Felgate goes in for it it's not much harm." "Felgate knows what he's up to, and can look after himself," said Arthur. "You can't; you swallow everything any ass tells you!" "I don't swallow all _you_ tell me, for one!" retorted Dig. Arthur coloured; he did not like being pulled up short like that, especially when he was doing the high moral business. "All serene!" said he testily; "do as you please. I've warned you to keep out of it, young Oakshott. Don't blame me if you burn your fingers." Thus said his prigship, and undid all the credit his little act of self- denial had earned him. He is not the only boy who gets his head turned now and then by the unexpected discovery that he is virtuous. Is he, reader? But, without being a prophet, his prigship managed on the present occasion to make a pretty near prediction, for Sir Digby Oakshott did burn his fingers. He was summoned one evening to Mills's study to draw his horse. The twenty-one names were shaken up in a hat, and those present each drew out one. To Dig's disgust, he drew Blazer--a horse whom everybody jeered at as a rank outsider. Simson was the fortunate drawer of Roaring Tommy. Mills got the second favourite, and Felgate--for whom, in his absence, Mills drew--got another outsider called Polo. Dig scarcely liked to tell Arthur of his bad luck, but his chum extracted the secret from him. "I'm jolly glad!" said Arthur sententiously; "the worst thing that could happen to you would be to win. I'm glad you'll have a good lesson." "Thanks," said Dig, and went out to try to sell Blazer for three stamps. But no one would look at him, and Dig finally crushed the paper into his waistcoat-pocket in disgust, and wished he had his stamps safe there instead. A fortnight later, just as he and Arthur were marching down proudly to the cricket-field, in order to take part in a great match--the first of the season.--between an eleven of Ainger's and an eleven of Barnworth's, he was struck all of a heap by the amazing announcement, conveyed by Simson, that Blazer had won the Derby! Dig turned pale at the news, and convulsively dug his hand into his pocket to see if he had his paper safe. "Not really?" he exclaimed. "Yes, he has! Roaring Tommy was nowhere. Jolly lucky for me I sold my ticket to Tilbury for eight-and-six! I wish I'd bought yours for threepence when you asked me." Dig laughed hysterically. "Then I've got the ten-and-six?" he asked. "Rather." Dig made two duck's eggs, and missed every ball that came in his way that afternoon, and was abused and hooted all round the field. What cared he? He had Blazer burning a hole in his pocket, and ten-and-six in postage-stamps waiting for him in Mills's study. As soon as he could decently quit the scene of his inglorious exploits, he bolted off to claim his stakes. Mills was not at home, so he took a seat and waited for him, glancing round the room carefully, in case the stamps should be lying out for him somewhere. But they were not. In due time Mills returned. "Hullo, kid! what do you want?" Dig grinned and pulled out his paper. "How's that, umpire?" demanded he. Mills stared at the document. "What on earth is the row with you? What are you driving at?" "Ten-and-sixpence, please," said the beaming baronet; "I've got Blazer." Mills laughed. "You're not in much of a hurry. Has Blazer won, then?" "Yes; a rank outsider, too. Do you know, I tried all I knew to sell my ticket for threepence. Just fancy if I had." "It's a pity you didn't," said Mills, taking a chair, "The fact is, there's been a bit of a muddle about Blazer. That ass Simson, when he wrote out the tickets, wrote Blazer twice over instead of Blazer and Catterwaul. They were both such regular outsiders, it didn't seem worth correcting it at the time. I'm awfully sorry, you know, but your's-- let's see," said he, taking the cadaverous baronet's ticket and looking at it, "yours has got one of the corners torn off--yes, that's it. Yours should be Catterwaul." Dig gasped, and tried to moisten his parched lips. It was a long time before the words came. "It's a swindle!" cried he, choking. "I've won it--I--I--give me the 10 shillings 6 pence." "Don't make an ass of yourself," said Mills. "I tell you you've got the wrong paper; isn't that enough?" "No, it's not enough, you thief, you!" roared Dig, tossing his tawny mane. "Everybody said you were a blackleg--I know it's all lies you're telling, and I--I--I don't care if you do lick me." As he didn't care, of course it didn't so much matter, but Mills cut short further argument by licking him and ejecting him neck and crop from the room. In the passage he pitched head-first into the arms of Mr Railsford. "What's wrong?" asked the master, looking down at the miserable face of the small savage before him. "It's a swindle!" shouted Dig. "It's a swindle, Mr Railsford. I won it fairly--and he's a thief--he's stolen 10 shillings 6 pence of mine." "Don't make all that noise," said Railsford quietly, for the luckless baronet was almost out of his wits. "I can hear you without shouting. Who has robbed you?" "Why, that blackleg swindler in there!" said Dig, pointing at Mills's door. "Ten-and-six, ten-and-six--the thief!" "Come with me," said the master, and he led Dig back into Mills's study. "Mills," said he, "Oakshott says you have robbed him. What does it mean?" "I've not done anything of the kind," said Mills, himself rather pale and scared. "I told him--it was all a mistake. It wasn't my fault." "What was a mistake? Just tell me what it is all about." Here Dig took up the parable. "Why, he got up a sweep on the Derby, and got us each to shell out six stamps, and there were twenty-one fellows in, and I drew Blazer, the winner; and now he won't give me the stakes, and says my Blazer is a mistake for Catterwaul!" Railsford frowned. "This is a serious matter. You know the rule about gambling." "Oh, please, sir," said Mills, who had dropped all his bravado, as he realised that he stood a good chance of being expelled, "I really didn't mean it for gambling; it wasn't for money, only stamps; and I thought there was no harm. I'll never do such a thing again, sir, really." And he almost went on his knees. "The doctor must deal with this matter, Mills," said Railsford sternly. "You must go to him to-morrow evening." "Oh, Mr Railsford, he'll expel me!" howled the culprit. "Good job, too," ejaculated Dig, _sotto voce_. "Possibly," said the master. "Where is the money?" Dig's spirits rose. He knew he would get his rights! "The stamps--here, sir," said the wretched Mills, going to his desk. "And where is the list of names?" Mills produced it, tremulously. Railsford's brows knit as he glanced down it. "Each of these boys gave you six stamps?" "Twenty-one sixpences, ten-and-six," said Dig, rehearsing his mental arithmetic. "Yes, sir. I really didn't mean to cheat, sir." "Yes, you did," yapped Dig, who now that he was to finger his winnings had perked up wonderfully. "Silence, Oakshott," said Railsford angrily. "Your name is here, last on the list. Take back your six stamps, and write me out one hundred lines of Livy by Thursday morning." Poor Dig turned green, and staggered back a pace, and stared at the six stamps in his hand. "Why!" gasped he. "I had Blazer--I--" "Be silent, sir, and go to your study, and tell Tilbury to come here." In due time Tilbury came, and received back his six stamps, and a hundred lines of Livy, and an order to send the next boy on the black list to receive a similar reward for his merits. And so the tedious process went on, and that afternoon, in Mills's study, twenty boys sadly took back six stamps each, and received among them two thousand lines of Livy, to be handed in on Thursday morning. One name remained: the first on the list, and consequently the last in the order in which Railsford had taken it. "I will return these," said he, taking up the six remaining stamps, "to Felgate myself." Mills made one more appeal. "Do let me off going to the doctor, sir!" implored he. "Why, sir, I never thought it could be wrong if Felgate went in for it, and they've all got their stamps back, sir. Please let me off." "I cannot do that. If the doctor treats you less severely than you deserve, it will be because you have made this reparation, instead of carrying out the act of dishonesty you had it in your mind to perpetrate." And he left him there, and proceeded, with a heart as heavy as any he had worn since he came to Grandcourt, to Felgate's study. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. THE NATURALISTS' FIELD CLUB. Felgate, as we have said, had almost forgotten the existence of the sweep or the fact that he had given his name to the venture. When therefore Railsford unexpectedly walked into his study, he did not in any way connect the visit with that trivial incident. He conjured up in his mind any possible motive the master could have for this interview. He could only think of one, and perceiving a paper in Railsford's hands, concluded that he had discovered the authorship of a certain anonymous letter addressed to Mr Bickers, and had looked in for a little explanation. Felgate was quite prepared to gratify him, and promised himself a cheerful quarter of an hour over so congenial an occupation. He was, in consequence, considerably mortified when the real object of the visit unfolded itself. "Felgate," said Railsford, "I have come to you on very unpleasant business. This is not the first time I have had to caution you that your example in the house is neither worthy of a prefect nor a senior boy." "Thank you, sir," said Felgate, with ostentatious indifference. He had better have remained silent, for Railsford dismissed whatever of mildness he had come armed with, and stood on his dignity. "Don't be impertinent, Felgate; it will do you no good. I want to know how it comes that your name appears here at the head of a list of entries for a sweepstake on a horse race, when you as a prefect know that gambling in any shape or form is strictly prohibited here?" Felgate, taken back by this unexpected indictment, looked at the paper and laughed. "I really don't know how my name comes there. I can't be supposed to know why anybody who likes should write my name down on a piece of paper." "You mean to say that you never entered your name?" asked Railsford, beginning to feel a sense of relief. "Certainly not." "You were asked to do so? What did you reply?" "I haven't a notion. I probably said, don't bother me--or do anything you like, or something of that sort." "Did you point out that it was against the rules?" "No. Is it against the rules? There doesn't seem any harm in it, if fellows choose to do it. Besides, it wasn't for money." "Did you give six stamps?" "Stamps? I fancy someone came to borrow some stamps of me a week or so ago. I forget who it was." "Felgate," said the master with a tone of scorn which made the prefect wince, "it is hardly worth your while to tell lies when you can satisfy me of your guilt quite as easily by telling the truth. I won't ask you more questions, for I have no wish to give you more opportunities of falsehood. Here are your six stamps. Go to Doctor Ponsford to-morrow at 8 p.m." Felgate looked blank at this announcement. "What!" he exclaimed. "Go to the doctor? Are you going to tell him about a trifle like this?" "It is no trifle for a prefect deliberately to break the school rules and encourage others to do so. I have said the same thing to you before." "Look here, Mr Railsford," said Felgate, with a curious mixture of cringing and menace. "It's not fair to send me to the doctor about a thing like this. I know you have a spite against me; but you can take it out of me without bringing him into it. I fancy if you knew all I know, you'd think twice before you did it." Railsford looked at him curiously. "You surely forget, Felgate, that you are not speaking to a boy in the Shell." "No, I don't. I know you're a master, and head of a house, and a man who ought to be everything that's right and good--" "Come, come," interrupted Railsford, "we have had enough of this. You are excited and forget yourself to talk in this foolish way." And he quitted the study. What, he wondered, could be the meaning of all this wild outbreak on the part of the detected prefect? What did he mean by that "If you knew all I know"? It sounded like one of those vague menaces with which Arthur had been wont to garnish his utterances last term. What did Felgate know, beyond the secret of his own wrong-doings, which could possibly affect the Master of the Shell? It flashed across Railsford suddenly--suggested perhaps by the connection of two ideas--that Arthur himself might be in some peril or difficulty. It was long since the master had attempted to control the secret of his prospective relationship with the vivacious young Shell- fish. Everybody knew about it as soon as ever he set foot in Grandcourt, and Daisy's name was common property all over the house. Arthur had contrived to reap no small advantage from the connection. The prefects had pretty much left him alone, and, as a relative of the master, he had been tacitly winked at in many of his escapades, with a leniency which another boy could not have hoped for. What if now Arthur should lie under the shadow of some peril which, if it fell, must envelop him and his brother-in-law both? If, for instance, he had committed some capital offence, which if brought to light should throw on him (Railsford) the terrible duty of nipping in the bud the school career of Daisy's own brother? It seemed the only solution to Felgate's mysterious threat, and it made him profoundly uncomfortable. He felt he had not done all the might for the boy. He had been so scrupulously careful not to give any pretext for a charge of favouritism, that he had even neglected him at times. Now and then he had had a chat; but Arthur had such a painful way of getting into awkward topics that such conferences were usually short and formal. He had occasionally given an oversight to the boy's work; but Arthur so greatly preferred to "mug," as he called it, in his own study, that opportunities for serious private coaching had been quite rare. Recently, too, a difference had sprung up between Arthur and Marky about the Smileys; and Railsford felt that he had not done all he might to smooth over that bitter memory and recover the loyalty and affection of the bereaved dog-fancier. It may have been some or all of these notions which prompted the master to invite his young kinsman to accompany him on the following day--being the mid-term holiday--on an expedition into the country. The occasion had been chosen by the Grandcourt Naturalists' Field Club for their yearly picnic. This club was a very select, and, by repute, dry institution, consisting partly of scientific boys and partly of masters. Its supposed object was to explore the surrounding country for geological, botanical, and historical specimens, which were, when found, deposited in a museum which nobody in the school on any pretext ever visited. Every member had the privilege of introducing a friend, but no one took advantage of the invitation, except once a year, on the occasion of the annual picnic, when there was always a great rush, and a severe competition to be numbered among the happy participants of the club's hospitality. It was long since Arthur had given up all idea of joining these happy parties. Great therefore was his astonishment and delight when on the evening before the term holiday Railsford put his head into the study and said-- "Arthur, would you like to come to-morrow to the Field Club picnic at Wellham Abbey?" "Rather," said Arthur. "Very well; be ready at ten. I've ordered a tandem tricycle." Arthur was in ecstasy. If there was one kind of spree he liked it was a picnic at an abbey; and if there was one sort of conveyance he doated on it was a tricycle. He wiped off every score on his mental slate against Marky, and voted him the greatest brick going, and worthy to be backed up to the very end--especially if they had oysters at the picnic! "Wish _you_ could come, old man," said he to Dig, who was groaning over his 100 lines of Livy. "I wouldn't go with him if he asked me, the cad!" growled Dig. "No, he's not a cad. If it hadn't been for him you wouldn't have seen one of your stamps back; and you might have been expelled straight away into the bargain. Tell you what, Dig, you've been scouting for Stafford all the last week; he ought to do something for you. Why don't you ask him to take you? He'll do it, like a shot. He's always civil to us." Dig thought it over. "If he says Yes, will you help me polish off my lines?" "All right. I say, go soon, or somebody else may have asked him." Dig went, and to his satisfaction was informed that Stafford would take him, if he promised to be steady. Which of course he did promise. So between them the two chums polished off the Livy--never was the great historian made such mincemeat of before or after--and then gave themselves over to delightful anticipations of the Field Club picnic. One misgiving disturbed Arthur's peace of mind. Railsford might make a base use of his opportunity as partner on the tricycle to corner him about his misdeeds and generally to "jaw" him. Besides, as Dig was going too, it would be ever so much jollier if Dig and he could go to Wellham together and let the masters go by themselves. "We must work it somehow, Dig," said Arthur. "If we go we must have a high old time--and not be let in for a lot of rot about old bones and fossils and that sort of thing." "Rather not," said Dig, "though I wouldn't mind if we could get hold of a skull. It would look prime on the mantelpiece." "Gammer, who went last year, says it was an awful go-to-meeting turn- out. Top-hats, and service at the abbey, and scarcely a bit of grub; but I hear the spread's to be rather good this year, down by the river's edge." "Hooroo!" said Dig, "I guess you and I will be about when they call over for that part of the spree." The morning was dull and cloudy, and Dig and Arthur as they stood on the hall steps and looked up at the sky, debated with themselves whether the day would hold up long enough to allow of the picnic at the water's edge. To their relief, the other excursionists who gradually assembled took a hopeful view of the weather and predicted that it would be a fine afternoon, whatever the morning might be. As they were Naturalist Field Club people, our boys supposed they knew what they were saying, and dismissed their qualms in consequence. Wellham Abbey was ten miles off. Most of the party proposed to reach it on foot. Mr Roe was driving with the doctor and his niece, and one or two others, like Railsford, preferred to travel on wheels. Dig was standing somewhat lugubriously beside Arthur, inspecting the tandem, and wondering how he was to get to Wellham, when Mr Grover came up and said to Railsford-- "How are you going, Railsford? Not in that concern, are you? Come and walk with me, I've not had a chat with you for ages." Arthur felt a violent dig in his ribs from the delighted baronet. There was a chance for the "high old time" yet. "Well, the fact is, I'd promised one of my boys to give him the ride," said the Master of the Shell. "Oh, please don't mind me," said Arthur. "Oakshott and I can bring the machine for you to Wellham, if you'd sooner walk." "Is Oakshott going?" "Yes, sir. Stafford's asked him, hasn't he, Dig?" "Yes, sir. I've scouted for Stafford at cricket this term, so he's asked me to-day; and I've done my lines, sir." "Oh, very well," said Railsford, to whom the temptation of a walk with Grover was even greater than that of a _tete-a-tete_ ride with Arthur Herapath; "but can you manage it?" "Manage it?" exclaimed they, in tones as if they could scarcely believe they heard aright, "rather, sir." "Well," said the master, tickled with the evident delight of the pair to be together, "take care how you go. You had better take the Grassen Road, so as to avoid the hill. Come along, Grover." So these two artful young "naturalists" had it their own way after all. "Come on, sharp," said Arthur, "and get out of the ruck." "Jolly good joke telling us not to go by Maiden Hill," said Digby; "that'll be the best part of the lark." Luckily a tandem tricycle of the type provided for them is not a machine which requires any very specially delicate riding. Had it been, Arthur and Dig might have been some time getting out of the "ruck," as they politely termed the group of their pedestrian fellow-naturalists. For they were neither of them adepts; besides which, the tricycle being intended for a pair of full-grown men, they had some difficulty in keeping their saddles and working their treadles at one and the same time. They had to part company with the latter when they went down, and catch them flying as they came up; and the result was not always elegant or swift. However, they managed to pass muster in some sort, as they started off under the eye of their master, and as speedily as possible dodged their vehicle up a side lane, where, free from embarrassing publicity, they were at leisure to adapt their progress to their own convenience. It wasn't quite as much fun as they had expected. The machine was a heavy one, and laboured a good deal in its going. The treadles, as I have said, were very long; the brake did not always act, and the steering apparatus was stiff. Even the bell, in whose music they had promised themselves some solace, was out of tune; and the road was very like a ploughed field. The gaiety of the boys toned down into sobriety, and the sobriety into silence, and their silence into the ill-humour begotten of perspiration, dust, fatigue, and disappointment. Their high old time was not coming off! At length, by mutual consent, they got off and began viciously to shove the machine up the hill. "They'll all be there already," said Arthur, looking at his watch. "We've been two hours." "I wish I'd walked with them," said Dig. "Pity you didn't," growled Arthur, "you aren't very lively company." "Anyhow, I've done my share of the fag. You and Marky may bring the beast home." This altercation might have proceeded to painful lengths, had not a diversion occurred in their arrival at the crest of the hill. Any ordinary traveller would have stood and admired the beautiful view-- the finest, it was said, in the county. But Arthur and Dig were in no humour for artistic raptures. The sight of the abbey towers peeping cut in the valley among the trees, and of the silver river which curled past it, suggested to them no thoughts of historic grandeur--no meditations on the pathetic beauty of ruin. It made them smell oysters and hear the popping of lemonade corks, and reminded them they had still two long miles to go before lunch. "Get on, sharp," said Arthur, climbing into his saddle, "it won't take us long to go down the hill." It didn't! They did the distance, a mile and a half, in about three minutes. The brake came to grief the moment they started, and they had nothing for it but to hold on and let her fly. As to attempting to control the speed with their feet, they were thankful enough to get those members up on the rest out of reach of the treadles, which plunged up and down like the pistons of a steam-engine. Luckily there was nothing on the road; luckily, too, the ruts which had broken the ground on the other side were for the most part absent on this. Once or twice the machine lurched ominously, and they thought all was up, and once or twice a stone or obstacle ahead promised to terminate finally their headlong career. But the gallant tandem cleared them all, and her passengers clutched on to their handles like grim death; and between them they did the distance in some seconds under the record, and ran a clean half-mile on the level at the foot of the hill before they could bring one of the most famous runs of the season to a standstill. Thanks to this rapid performance they were only about a quarter of an hour after the pedestrians at the abbey. "Well, here you are," said Railsford; "you came by Grassen, I suppose? Rather rough riding, wasn't it?" "We came by Maiden Hill after all," said Arthur. "It _was_ rather rough." "Did you walk down, then?" "No, we rode it. We came down in pretty good time. There's something the matter with the brake, so we had to let her go." Possibly Railsford had a better notion of the narrow escape of the two hare-brained young guests of the club than they had themselves. They forgot all about it the moment they saw a hamper being carried in the direction of the river and heard Mr Roe announce that they might as well have lunch now, and explore the abbey afterwards. "Hear, hear," whispered Dig to his friend. "Eh?" "Rather," said Arthur. And they were invaluable in spreading the repast and hastening the moment when Mr Roe at last announced that they were all ready to begin. It was rather an imposing company. The doctor was there, and his niece, and Messrs. Roe, Grover, Railsford, and one or two other masters. Smedley also was present, very attentive to Miss Violet; and Clipstone was there, as well as our friends Ainger, Barnworth, and Stafford. And all the learned luminaries of the Fifth were there, too, and one or two scientists from the Fourth. Arthur and Dig had rarely been in such good company, and had certainly never before realised how naturalists can eat. It was a splendid spread, and the two chums, snugly entrenched behind a rampart of hampers, drowned their sorrows and laid their dust in lemonade, and recruited their minds and bodies with oysters and cold beef, and rolls and jam tarts, till the profession of a naturalist seemed to them to be one of the most glorious in all this glorious world. "Now," said Mr Roe, who was president of the club and host, "let us go and see the abbey. I have put together a few notes on its history and architecture, which I thought might be useful. Let us go first to the Saxon crypt, which is unquestionably the oldest portion of the structure." "Oh, lag all that," said Dig to his friend. "Are you going to hear all that rot?" "Not if I know it," replied Arthur. "We'd better lie low, and help wash up the plates, and when they're gone we can go for a spin up the big window." So, when Mr Roe, having collected his little audience round him, began to descant with glowing countenance on the preciousness of some fragments of a reputed Druidical font lately dug up in the crypt, two naturalists, who should have been hanging on his lips, were busy polishing up the plates and the remnants of the repast, at the water's edge, and watching their chance for a "spin" up the ruined arch of the great window. That window in its day must have been one of the finest abbey windows in England. It still stood erect, covered with ivy, while all around it walls, towers, and roof had crumbled into dust. Some of the slender stone framework still dropped gracefully from the Gothic arch, and at the apex of all there still adhered a foot or two of the sturdy masonry of the old belfry. No boy could look up to that lofty platform, standing out clear against the grey sky, without feeling his feet tingle. Certainly Arthur and Dig were not proof against its fascination. The first part of the climb, up the tumbled walls and along the ivy- covered buttresses, was easy enough. The few sparrows and swallows bustling out from the ivy at their approach had often been similarly disturbed before. But when they reached the point where the great arch, freeing itself, as it were, of its old supports, sprung in one clear sweep skyward, their difficulties began. The treacherous stones more than once crumbled under their feet, and had it not been for the sustaining ivy, they would have come down with a run too. "You see," said Mr Roe to his admiring audience below, "the work of dissolution is still rapidly going on. These stones have fallen from the great arch since we came here." "Regular jerry-builders they must have had in those days," growled Dig, scrambling up the last few yards; "did you ever see such rotten walls?" Arthur confessed he hadn't; but having gained the top, he forgave the builders. Rarely had Dig and he been so pleased with themselves and one another. It was a genuine feat of climbing, of which very few could boast; and peril and achievement bind friends together as no mortar ever binds bricks. "That window," said Mr Roe, looking up from below, "is considered inaccessible. It is said to be haunted; but the truth is, I believe, that it is infested by owls." Here a faint "boo-hoo!" from above bore sudden and striking testimony to the truth of the master's observations. "Hullo!" said Arthur, peering over, "they're going. Look sharp down, Dig, or we'll be left." Dig obeyed. It was much more difficult getting down than getting up. Still, by dint of clinging tight hold of the ivy and feeling every step, he managed to descend the perilous arch and get on to the comparatively safe footing of the buttress. "You cut on," shouted Arthur from above, "I'll be down in a second. Don't wait--I have found an owl's nest up here; and I'm going to collar a young 'un for each of us. Don't tell them. If Railsford asks where I am, tell him I'm walking home. You can go with him on the tandem. I'll be home as soon as you." At the same moment a shout from below of "Herapath!" "Oakshott!" still further hastened Dig's descent to _terra firma_. "Come on," said Railsford, who was already seated on the tricycle, "it's coming on to rain. Where's Herapath?" "Oh, he's walking home. He told me to tell you so. We've been scrambling about. Can I come in the tandem?" "If he's not coming you can. Has he gone on, then?" "No--he was just getting a--a specimen," said Dig, hopping up on the saddle, and resolving that Marky should do all the work. "He says he'd sooner walk." "Dear me! here comes the rain," said Railsford, turning up his collar, "we'd better go on. He'll get wet, whichever way he comes home." So they departed--as also did Mr Roe and the doctor and all the others. "There's an owl again," said Mr Roe, looking back at the big window. He was wrong. The shout he heard was from Arthur; not this time in sport, but in grim earnest. For, having abandoned the idea of capturing the owls, he had started to descend the arch. He had safely accomplished half the distance when a ledge of mortar gave way under him and left him hanging by his arms to the ivy. He felt in vain with his feet for some support, but could find none. Dig's previous descent had knocked away most of the little ledges by which they had come up. Finally, by a desperate effort, he pulled himself up a few inches by the ivy and managed to get a footing again. But there he stuck. He could not go down further; and to go up would bring him no nearer Grandcourt than he was at present. So it was Arthur shouted; and everyone thought him an owl, and left him there in the rain to spend a pleasant evening on the top of the great window of Wellham Abbey. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE HAUNTED WINDOW. "Let me see," said the doctor, as he and Railsford met once during the day, "I have two of your boys to see this evening. One, a prefect. Was it necessary to send him up?" "It was, sir. If I saw the slightest prospect of dealing properly with him myself I would have done so. He is an enemy to the order of our house, and, as you know, our house just now cannot afford to have more enemies than it has." "Your enemies are those of your own house," said the doctor sternly. "I had expected long before this that it would have been possible to restore it to the ordinary rights of Grandcourt. An impenetrable mystery is a bad thing for a school." "It is," said Railsford, feeling uncomfortable. And here the conservation ended. Railsford had not been long in his room that evening when Sir Digby Oakshott knocked at the door and entered with a long face. "Please, sir, have you seen anything of Herapath?" said he. "He's not turned up." "What--are you sure?" "I've asked them all. All the others have come. I expect he'll get pretty drenched if he's lost his way." "He can't have lost the way--it's too simple. What was he doing at the abbey when you last saw him?" "Going after owls," said Dig. "Where?" "On the big window. We got to the top, you know; and I came down as soon as I saw you all starting; and he shouted that he would be down in a second, and was going to walk home; and we weren't to wait. I say, I wonder if he's got stuck up there, or come a cropper?" Dig's face was pale as the thought flashed across his mind. Railsford was not a bit less concerned. "Go quickly and see if Mr Roe has sent away his trap, and, if not, keep it. If it has gone, go to Jason's and get one directly, Oakshott." In five minutes the baronet returned. "I can't get a trap anywhere," said he dismally, "but I've got Jason to send a horse." "That will do," said Railsford, hurrying down. "Will it do?" groaned Dig. "_I_ can't go too! Oh, Mr Railsford," shouted he, as the master was jumping into the saddle, "what road shall you come back by?" "Maiden Hill," said the master, digging his heels into the horse's side. With a heavy heart Digby watched him start, and then putting on his cap determinedly, followed him on foot into the night and rain. "I shall do it in two hours and a half," said he to himself, "if I trot part of the way. What a cad I was to leave him up there!" It was not till bed-time at Railsford's that fellows generally became aware that the master and two of the boys were missing. Railsford and Oakshott had both been seen in the school after their return from the picnic. Railsford had, of course, depended on the boy to explain his sudden absence, and Dig had been too miserable and excited to think of telling anybody as he started on his weary tramp. The first inquiry for the missing ones came from the doctor, who, after his interview with Felgate, sent a messenger over to the Master of the Shell to request his presence in the head-master's study at once. The messenger returned to report that Mr Railsford was not in, and no one knew where he was gone. Then, the hue and cry being once raised, it appeared that Arthur and Dig's study was also empty and that its owners were nowhere to be found. Presently the school gatekeeper reported that on coming up from the town just now he had seen Mr Railsford galloping on one of Jason's horses in the direction of the London road! And Munger, who had been out of bounds, reported in private (because the disclosure might get him into trouble if it came to the ears of the authorities) that just as he was sneaking in at the gate he met Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, sneaking out. The doctor, who might never have heard of the affair, had he not chanced to want to see Railsford particularly that evening, walked over to the house about bed-time and interviewed Ainger. "Have you the slightest idea what it all means?" asked the head-master. "Not the slightest, sir," said Ainger shortly. If he had had, he would have spoken long ago, as the doctor knew--or should have known. "No one is to stay up," said the doctor, "and I wish you to take charge of the order of the house in Mr Railsford's absence, Ainger. Circumstances have occurred which may make it necessary to remove Felgate to another house, meanwhile he has forfeited his prefecture here." And the doctor went away, leaving the captain of Railsford's with a new perplexity piled up on all the others. Whereupon Ainger sent his house to bed; and threatened them with all sorts of penalties if lights were not out and all quiet by 9.30. It was a sleepless night for a good many in Grandcourt. Mr Roe and Grover sat up together in the rooms of the former, anxious and perplexed about their missing friend. Mr Bickers walked about his room too, and wondered if his game was to slip through his fingers after all. And Felgate lay awake and laughed to himself in the conviction that to him belonged the glory of hunting the scoundrel from Grandcourt. And Maple, Simson, Tilbury, and Dimsdale, in the Shell dormitory lay awake too, and strained their ears at every sound in the court below, and wondered ruefully what had become of their two missing comrades. Dig, as he ploughed his way footsore and weary through the rain and mud of Maiden Hill, down which he had shot at such a glorious pace not twelve hours before, thought wistfully once or twice of that warm dry bed in the dormitory and the friendly voices of his allies there assembled. But he would never return there without old Arthur! In the times of their prosperity and security those two boys had often quarrelled, often neglected one another, often forgotten all about one another; and a casual onlooker might have said, "They are not friends-- they are no more to one another than any other two boys in the school." Ah, but if the critic could have looked into Dig's heavy heart as he floundered through the mud that night he would have told a different tale. Often enough our friend seems to us like an ordinary friend. We have our little tiffs and our little reconciliations; we have our mutual jokes and our time-honoured arguments. We say good-bye with unruffled spirits, and meet again with an unimpassioned nod. But now and again the testing time comes. The storm breaks over our heads, the thunder rolls round us. Then the grip of our hands tightens, we find that, we are not friends, but brothers; and the lightning flash reveals to us, what we never suspected before, that there is something in the world dearer to us even than life; and as our hearts sink we envy those happy people, who, by their simple trust in their Saviour and in the all- pervading Goodness, are able to face with courage both Life and Death. Dig stumbled on, dead beat, losing heart, at every step, and stopping sometimes to take breath with a gasp which sounded ominously like a sob. The long hill seemed interminable; there was no glimmer of a light anywhere to cheer him; no clatter of a horse's hoofs to ring hope into his heart. All was black, and wet, and dreary. What if he should find the abbey deserted, and have to walk home--alone! He had nearly reached the ruin when he stumbled against two men conversing in the middle of the road. To his inexpressible relief one of them was Railsford. "Mr Railsford!" gasped the boy, springing upon the master with a suddenness which made both men start, "is that you? Where's Arthur? Have you found him?" "He's all right--he's on the top of the window still, and we can't get him down till daylight. I'm just arranging with Farmer White to bring a ladder." Dig made a dash in the direction of the abbey gate. "Where are you going?" said Railsford. "I'm going to hop up beside him," shouted Dig, almost beside himself with relief. The master caught him firmly by the arm. "If you think of such a thing, Oakshott, I shall get Farmer White here to cart you straight back to Grandcourt." This terrible threat sobered Dig at once. He waited impatiently till the two men had made their arrangements, and then, with beating heart, accompanied the master to the ruin. "He is safe up where he is," said the latter, "and says he has room to sit down and a back of ivy to lean against. But he must be half drowned and frozen. It will do him good to know you are here. Now stay where you are, while I get on the wall and shout to him. He cannot hear us down here." Dig waited, and listened to the master scrambling up the ivy and feeling his way on his hands and knees along the wall to the bottom of the arch. Then he heard him shout-- "Arthur, are you there, all right?" And his heart leapt as a shrill reply came back from the heights. "Oakshott is here with me," shouted the master. It was all a mistake about not being able to hear from the level ground. Dig heard the "Hallo! what cheer, Dig?" as plainly as he heard Railsford himself. "What cheer?" he howled in reply. "Keep up your pecker, old man." "Rather!" yelled Arthur. Then Dig begged and besought Railsford to allow him to mount at least to where the latter stood, and the master made him happy by consenting. From this point it was easy to carry on a talk; and there in the rain through the dark watches of the night those three had one of the most profitable conversations they had ever enjoyed. A yokel who chanced to pass, hearing those weird, celestial voices, took to his heels and ran a mile straight off, and reported with ashy face and trembling lips that a ghost had appeared on the arch of the abbey as he passed, and called to him thrice, and had shrieked with demoniacal laughter as he hurried from the accursed place. Towards dawn the rain ceased, and the three watchers, despite all their efforts, became drowsy. When Farmer White and two of his men arrived on the scene with a long ladder and a rope, they had to stand and shout from below for a minute or so before Railsford started into wakefulness and remembered where he was. As for Dig, he lay with his cheek buried in the wet ivy, sleeping as soundly as if he had been in the dormitory at school. It was no easy task to get Arthur down from his dizzy perch. In the first place, he was so sound asleep that it was impossible to rouse him from below; consequently he could give no assistance in his own rescue. The ladder was far too short to reach within a quarter of the distance of where he was; and for a long time it seemed as if the ropes might as well have been left at home. At length, however, by a combined effort the ladder was hoisted on to the top of the wall, and so elevated it reached a point on the arch above the place where the stones had given way. The difficulty was to secure it on the narrow ledge in any way so that it could be ascended safely. When, finally, by dint of careful adjustment and rigid holding at the bottom, it was pronounced reasonably safe, Dig was most eager to volunteer the ascent, urging that he was the lightest weight, and that the four men could do more good in holding the ladder. "The lad's right," said the farmer; "let him go up." Railsford was forced to consent. It would have been obviously risky for a heavy man to ascend that rickety ladder. Dig rarely felt so proud and happy as when he skipped lightly up the rungs and reached the ivy- covered masonry of the arch. It was not a difficult climb to the top, and it was as well it was not, for in his eagerness he forgot the admonitions of caution he had received below, and scrambled up as recklessly as if he had been ascending a London tramcar. His heart beat as at last he came upon his dear old friend. Arthur sat sound asleep, his hands behind his head, his legs hanging over the edge of the arch, and his back propped in the angle formed by the junction of the window and the fragment of the old roof. Lucky for him was that natural armchair; for without it, at the first fall of sleep, he would undoubtedly have rolled from his perch into the depths below. Dig approached him gently and discreetly. "Nearly time to get up, old chappie," said he, laying his hand on the sleeper's arm to prevent any sudden start. That "nearly" was a stroke of genius. Had he incautiously announced that the chapel-bell had begun to ring, or that he would be late for call-over, the result might have been fatal. As it was, Arthur opened his eyes lazily and yawned-- "All serene. Why, hullo, I say! Is that you, Dig, old man?" "Yes, rather! Sit steady; we've got a ladder and ropes, and Marky's just down there. How are you?" Arthur rubbed his eyes, and his teeth chattered. "Pretty cold and stiff, old man. How jolly of you to come! You see, the mortar or something slipped, and I couldn't get up or down. I yelled, but you'd gone. At last I managed to get up again, and there I've stuck. How are we going down now?" "They've got the ladder up just below us, if you can manage to get down so far." Arthur began to move his stiff limbs one by one, by way of judging what he could do. Dig, meanwhile, shouted down that he was safe up, and Arthur was all right. "Not time for another try at the owls," said the latter, getting one foot up and trying to rise. "Owls be hanged," said Dig, helping his friend gingerly to his feet. "I feel like a poker," said Arthur. "Shouldn't care to run a mile just now." "Nobody wants you to. What you've got to do is to dig hold of the ivy with your hands and let yourself down. I'll go first and take care of your feet." "Awfully brickish of you, Dig," said Arthur. "I'm sorry I'm such a lout. I feel as if my joints want oiling." "Come on," said Dig. The descent was slow, and for poor Arthur painful; but, thanks to the ivy and Dig's steady steering, it was in due time accomplished safely, and the top of the ladder reached. "Now, then, one at a time," shouted the farmer. "He can't go alone," called Dig; "he's too stiff. Won't it bear both of us?" The unanimous opinion below was that it would not. Even Dig's weight as he went up had been as much as they could manage. Finally Railsford suggested that a rope should be thrown up, which Dig could tie round Arthur's body, and so support him from above as he came down. The plan was a good one, and Arthur contrived by its help to lower himself down the steps into the arms of his rescuers. Dig was not long in following; and five minutes later the party was standing, safe and sound and thankful, on the greensward of the abbey floor. The farmer insisted on taking them all to his house, and comforting their souls and bodies with a hot breakfast in front of a blazing fire. After which he ordered out his trap and drove them himself up to Grandcourt. The first getting-up bell was ringing as they drove into the quadrangle, and at the sound of the wheels half a dozen anxious watchers darted out to welcome their return. Still more shouted down greetings from the dormitory window, and Arthur and Dig, had they been in the mood for lionising, might have had their heads turned by the excitement which their reappearance seemed to produce. But they were neither of them in a mood for anything but going to bed. For, after the excitement of the night and morning, a reaction had set in, and their heads ached and their bodies were done out. They even resisted Railsford's recommendation of a hot bath, and took possession of the dormitory and curled themselves up to sleep, leaving Fate or anyone else to explain their absence for the next few hours to the authorities below. As for Railsford, after seeing his young charges stowed away in their berths, he shook himself together, took his cold bath, and walked over to breakfast with Grover, none the worse for the fatigues and exposure of that eventful night. "Have you seen the doctor yet?" inquired Grover, when the meal was over. "I suppose not. He was asking for you particularly last night." "What for, do you know?" "I don't. I was wondering if you did, for I imagine from his manner it is something important." "Oh, I know; I had to report one of my prefects yesterday for gambling. No doubt it is in connection with that." "Perhaps. You know it seems a great pity you and Bickers hit it so badly. Bickers seems to have a preposterous notion in his head that you are in some way responsible for what happened to him last term. He even wanted to bring the matter up in the last session of masters in your absence; and when we stopped it he promised to return to it at the next." "Oh, Bickers!" said Railsford scornfully. "I am really tired of him, Grover. It's the greatest pity he wasn't allowed to say what he had to say at that meeting. He will never be happy till he has it off his mind; and it surely wouldn't be necessary for me to take any notice of his rhodomontades." "I'm glad you are so little concerned about them. I was afraid they might be worrying you." Railsford smiled. "I've plenty in my own house to do that, thanks. No, all I ask is to keep the peace with Bickers, and have nothing to do with him. He may then say anything he likes. Well, I suppose I had better go over to the doctor's now and report myself." The doctor received Railsford coldly, and required a full account of the strange adventures of the preceding night. Railsford felt a little hurt at his evident want of sympathy in his story, and was beginning to look out for a chance of escaping, when Doctor Ponsford said-- "I wanted to see you last night about Felgate, your prefect. I had a very unsatisfactory interview with him. He appears to lack principle, and, as you said, not to recognise his responsibility in the house. He tried to shift the blame for this gambling business wholly upon Mills-- who, by the way, I flogged--and could not be brought to see that there was anything wrong in his conduct or unbecoming in a senior boy. I think it may be well to remove him next term, either into my house or Mr Roe's; meanwhile he understands that he does not retain his prefecture in yours." "I am thankful for such an arrangement," said Railsford. "That, however, is only part of what I had to say to you. Before he left he brought a most extraordinary charge against you which I should certainly have disregarded, had it not coincided strangely with a similar charge made elsewhere. I only repeat it to you in order to give you an opportunity of repudiating it. It had relation to the outrage which was committed on Mr Bickers last term, for which your house still lies in disgrace. He stated that you knew more about that mystery than anyone else at Grandcourt, and, indeed, gave me the impression, from the language he used, that he actually considers you yourself were the perpetrator of the outrage. That, of course, is the mere wild talk of a revengeful ill-doer." Railsford laughed a short uneasy laugh. Had the doctor worded the question in slightly different form, it might have been difficult to answer it as decisively as he could now. "It is; and if he were here to hear me I would say that it is as absolutely and wickedly false as emphatically as I say it to you, sir. I am sorry indeed that you should have thought it necessary to put the question." "There is never anything lost," said the doctor drily, "by giving the calumniated person an opportunity of denying a charge of this sort, however preposterous. I am myself perfectly satisfied to take your word that you neither had any part in the affair yourself nor have you any knowledge as to who the culprits are." Railsford coloured and bit his lips. The doctor had now put the question in the very form which he had dreaded. If he could only have held his peace the matter would be at an end, perhaps never to revive again. But could he, an honest man, hold his peace? "Excuse me," said he, in undisguised confusion; "what I said was that the imputation that I had anything to do with the outrage myself was utterly and entirely false." "Which," said the doctor incisively, "is tantamount to admitting that the imputation that you are sheltering the real culprits is well- founded." "At the risk of being grievously misunderstood, Doctor Ponsford," replied Railsford slowly and nervously, yet firmly, "I must decline to answer that question." "Very well, sir," said the doctor briskly; "this conversation is at an end--for the present." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. "AFTER YOU." Thanks to youth and strong constitutions, Arthur and Dig escaped any very serious consequences from their night's exposure at Wellham Abbey. They slept like dormice from eight in the morning to six in the afternoon, and woke desperately hungry, with shocking colds in their heads, and with no inclination whatever to get up and prepare their work for the following day. The doctor came and felt their pulses, and looked at their tongues, and listened to their coughs and sneezes, and said they were well out of it. Still, as they assured him with loud catarrhic emphasis that they felt rather bad still, and very shaky, he gave them leave to remain in bed for the rest of the day, and petrified them where they lay by the suggestion of a mustard poultice a-piece. They protested solemnly that the malady from which they suffered was mental rather than physical, and required only rest and quiet to cure it. Whereat the doctor grinned, and said, "Very well." They had leave to stay as they were till the morning; then, if they were not recovered, he would try the mustard poultices. To their consternation and horror, after he had gone, they suddenly remembered that to-night was the night appointed for the first grand rehearsal of a performance proposed to be given by the Comedians of the house on the eve of speech-day at the end of the term. The Comedians were a time-honoured institution at Grandcourt. Any casual visitor to the school from about the middle of April onwards might at any time have been startled and horrified by finding himself suddenly face to face in a retired corner with some youthful form undergoing the most extraordinary contortions of voice and countenance. Railsford himself used to be fond of recounting his first experience of this phenomenon. He was going down early one morning to the fields, when on the shady side of the quadrangle he encountered a boy, whom he recognised after a little scrutiny to be Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet. The reason why he did not immediately grasp the identity of so familiar a personage was because Sir Digby's body was thrown back, his arms were behind his back, his legs were spread out, and his head was thrown into the air, with an expression which the Master of the Shell had never seen there before, and never saw again. There was but one conclusion to come to: the baronet had gone mad, or he would never be standing thus in the public quadrangle at seven o'clock in the morning. The supposition was immediately confirmed by beholding the patient's face break slowly into a horrible leer, and his mouth assume a diagonal slant, as he brought one hand in front, the index finger close to his nose, and addressed a lamp-post as follows:-- "When Abednego Jinks says a thing, Tommy, my boy, you may take your Alfred David there's more in it than there is in your head." Railsford, in alarm, was about to hasten for professional assistance for what he considered a very bad case, when Dig, catching sight of him, relieved him inexpressibly by dropping at once into his ordinary sane manner, and saying, with a blush of confusion,-- "Oh, Mr Railsford, I didn't know you were there. I was mugging up my part for the Comedians, you know. I'm Abednego Jinks, not much of a part, only you can get in a little gag now and then." Railsford, after what he had witnessed, was prepared to admit this, and left the disciple of the dramatic Muse to himself and the lamp-post, and secretly hoped when the performance of the Comedians came off he might get an "order" for the stalls. Although the Grandcourt House Comedians were an old institution, they had not always been equally flourishing. At Railsford's, for instance, in past years they had decidedly languished. The performances had possibly been comic, but that was due to the actors, not the author, for the scenes chosen were usually stock selections from the tragedies of Shakespeare; such, for instance, as the death of King Lear, the ghost scene in Hamlet, the conspirators' scene in Julius Caesar, and the banquet in Macbeth. But as soon, as the irrepressible Wake got hold of the reins, as of course he did, the old order changed with startling rapidity. The new director made a clean sweep of Shakespeare and all his works. "What's the fun of doing Roman citizens in Eton jackets and white chokers," said he, "and sending everybody to sleep? Let's give them a change, and make them laugh." As if everybody hadn't laughed for years at the Roman citizens in Eton jackets! So he hunted about and made inquiries of friends who were supposed to know, and finally submitted to the company a certain screaming farce, entitled, _After You_! with--so the description informed him--two funny old gentlemen, one low comedian, two funny old ladies, and one maid-of- all-work, besides a few walking gentlemen and others. It sounded promising, and a perusal of the piece showed that it was very amusing. I cannot describe it, but the complications were magnificent; the two old gentlemen, one very irascible the other very meek, were, of course, enamoured of the two old ladies, one very meek, and the other very irascible; the low comedian was, of course, the victim and the plague of both couples, and took his revenge by the usual expedient of siding with each against the other, and being appointed the heir to both. The walking gentlemen were--need it be said?--the disappointed heirs; and the maid-of-all-work, as is the manner of such persons, did everybody's work but her own. The parts were allotted with due care and discrimination. The two funny old gentlemen were undertaken by Sherriff and Ranger, the two funny old ladies by Dimsdale and Maple, the low comedian by Sir Digby Oakshott, and the maid-of-all-work by Arthur Herapath. As for the walking gentlemen, cabmen, detective, _et hoc genus omne_, they were doled out to anyone who chose to take them. There had been no regular rehearsals yet, but private preparation, of the hole-and-corner kind I have described, had been going on for a week or so. The actors themselves had been looking forward with eagerness--not to say trepidation--to the first rehearsal, which was appointed to take place this evening in the Fourth class-room, in the presence of Wake and Stafford, and a few other formidable critics of the upper school. Great, therefore, was the dismay when it was rumoured that the low comedian and the maid-of-all- work were on the sick list with a doctor's certificate. The first impulse was to postpone the date, but on Wake representing that there was no evening for ten days on which they could get the use of the room, it was resolved to do the best they could with the parts they had, and read the missing speeches from the book. Although the house generally was excluded from the rehearsals, the Fourth-form boys managed to scramble in on the strength of the class-room in which the performance was to take place being their own. And besides the invited guests named above, it was frequently found, at the end of a performance, when the gas was turned up, that the room was fuller of Juniors and Babies than it had been when the curtain rose. On the present occasion, not being a full-dress rehearsal, there was no curtain, nor was there anything to distinguish the actors from their hearers, save the importance of their faces and the evident nervousness with which they awaited the signal to begin. And here let me give my readers a piece of information. A screaming farce is ever so much more difficult to act than a tragedy of Shakespeare. Any--well, any duffer can act Brutus or Richard the Third or the Ghost of Banquo, but it is reserved only to a few to be able to do justice to the parts of Bartholomew Bumblebee or Miss Anastatia Acidrop. And when one comes to compare the paltry exploits and dull observations of the old tragedy heroes with the noble wit and sublime actions of their modern rivals it is not to be wondered at! So it happened on the present occasion. _After You_ was far too ambitious a flight for the Comedians at Railsford's; they had far better have stuck to _King Lear_. In the first place, none of the characters seemed to understand what was expected of them. Sherriff, the funny, irascible old gentleman, skulked about in the back of the scene, and tapped his fingers lightly on the top of his hat, and stamped his foot gently, with the most amiable of smiles on his countenance. His one idea of irascible humour seemed to be to start every few moments to leave the room, and then stop short half-way to the door, and utter a few additional remarks over his shoulder, and then to make again for the door with a noise which sounded half-way between a sneeze and the bleating of a goat. Maple also, who personated Miss Olive Omlett, the meek, elderly lady, appeared to have come with a totally erroneous conception of the _role_ of that inoffensive character. He delivered his speeches in a voice similar to that in which boys call the evening papers at a London railway station, and lost no opportunity of clutching at his heart-- which, by the way, Maple wore on his right flank--and of rising up from, and sitting down on, his chair at regular intervals while anybody else was addressing him. Then, greatly to the chagrin of the director, the jokes which seemed so good in print never came off right in the speaking. Those which were delivered right, nobody--least of all the actors--seemed to see, and the others came to grief by being mauled in the handling. When, for instance, on the meek gentleman observing, "Oh, my poor head!" Miss Acidrop ought to have made a very witty and brilliant point by retorting, "There's nothing in that!" she entirely spoiled the fun by saying, "That's nothing to do with it!" and when loud laughter should have been created by the irascible man walking off with the meek man's hat on his head, they both quitted the scene with no hats on their heads at all. This was dispiriting, and the absence of the low comedian and the maid- of-all-work tended still further to mar the success of the rehearsal. For Wake had to read these parts from the book, and at the same time coach the other actors. Thus, for instance, in the famous speech of Abednego Jinks the low comedian already cited, it rather broke up the humour of that masterpiece of declamation to hear it delivered thus:-- "When Abednego Jinks--(Oh, that won't do, Ranger! Take your hand out of your waistcoat and look more like a fool. Yes, that's better. Now, where's the place? Oh yes)--when Abednego Jinks says a thing, Tommy, my boy (Oh, no, no, no! Didn't I tell you you needn't start up from your chair as if I was going to cut your throat? Sit steady, and gape at me like an idiot! That's the style!)--Tommy, my boy, Tommy, my boy, To--(Where on earth's the place? Oh yes)--when Abednego Jinks says a thing, Tommy, my boy--" "Oughtn't you to look funnier than that, yourself?" interposed Ranger, relaxing his own expression to ask the question. "Oh, of course; only I'm reading just now. Oakshott will have to get that up, of course. Now begin again. Go on; look a fool.--That'll do.--When Abednego Jinks says a thing, Tommy, my boy--(I say, screw your chair round a bit, and face the audience)." "For mercy's sake," said Stafford, who was getting rather tired of the whole thing, "do tell us what happens when Abednego Jinks says a thing!" "Tommy, my boy, you may take your Alfred David--(Do look rather more vacant, old man)." "My dear fellow," once more interposed the prefect, "Ranger could not possibly look a more utter idiot than he looks this minute. What is he to take his affidavit about? I do so want to know." "You may take your Alfred David, Tommy, my boy (Oh no, that's wrong)-- Tommy, my boy, you may take your Alfred David." "Yes, yes--go on," urged Stafford. "There's more in it than there is in your head." "More in what? the affidavit?" asked Ranger solemnly. "No, that's not what you say; you say, `You don't say so.'" "I think," said Stafford, "that what he did say was a good deal funnier than what he ought to say. What's the good of saying, `You don't say so,' when everyone of us here can swear you did? I don't see the joke in it myself. Do any of you?" "No; was it meant for one?" asked someone gravely. "It's not written down in the book that anyone's to grin," said Maple, hastily referring to his copy. "Oh, that's all right--only I wish you'd look alive and get to some of the jokes. I thought you said it was a funny piece." "So it is," replied Wake, rather dismally; "it's full of points." "They must all be crowded up to the end, then," said Stafford. If Wake had not had a soul above difficulties he might have been tempted to abandon his labour of Hercules on the spot; and, indeed, it is probable his "troupe" would have struck, and so saved him the trouble of deciding, had not an extraordinary and dramatic change suddenly come over the aspect of affairs. The rehearsal was dragging its slow length along, and everybody, even the amiable Stafford, was losing his temper, when the door flew open, and two young persons entered and made their way boldly up to the stage. As all the room was dark except the part allotted to the actors, it was not till these intruders had mounted the platform and honoured the company with two ceremonious bows that their identity became apparent. Arthur and Dig, after twelve hours in bed, had become weary unto death; and when, presently, from the room below arose the voices and laughter of the Comedians, they kicked the clothes off them, and mutually agreed--colds or no colds--they could stand, or rather lie, it no longer. "Wouldn't they grin if we turned up?" said Arthur; "I vote we do." "All serene," said Dig; "we may as well get up." Dig meant the term "get up" in the professional sense. He accordingly arrayed himself, to the best of his lights, in the garb of a low comedian; that is, he put on a red dressing-gown, flannel drawers, and a very tall collar, made out of cardboard; and blacked a very fine moustache on his lip with a piece of coal. Arthur, meanwhile, had a more delicate task to perform in extemporising the toilet of a maid-of- all-work. An ulster belonging to Tilbury supplied him with a dress, and by turning up the sleeves, and arranging his night-dress apron-wise over the front, he managed to give a fair idea of the kind of character he aimed to personate. He then ruffled up his hair, and brought as much of it as he was able down in the front for a fringe, surmounting it all with a handkerchief shaped to represent a cap. Finally, he smudged his face over with coal dust, and secured one of Mrs Hastings's mops and a pail from the cupboard at the end of the corridor, and pronounced himself ready for the fray. It need hardly be said that the apparition of these two extraordinary figures created a sensation among the jaded Comedians and their friends. The sudden restoration to health of the two invalids was less astonishing, perhaps, than their strange get-up, or the spirit with which they proceeded to throw themselves into their respective parts. Wake, with a smile of relief, shut up his book and retired among the audience. Dig knew his part well, and acted it with such a depth of low comedy that it mattered little what mistakes or blunders the funny irascible and the funny meek gentlemen and ladies made. He uttered the greatest commonplaces a leer and a wink, which imported a vast deal of meaning into the words, and had evidently so well studied his part that he could not even sit down on the chair or walk out of the room without tumbling on all fours or upsetting one or two of the other actors. Wake suggested mildly that he was overdoing it, but was voted down by an indignant chorus of admirers, who urged the low comedian on to still further extravagance, until, had his part been that of a clown, he could scarcely have thrown more dramatic intensity into it. He was ably and gallantly backed up by the maid-of-all-work, who was evidently convinced that the main duty and occupation of such functionaries is to upset everything; to clatter up and down the rooms in hob-nail boots; to flourish her mop in her master's and mistress's faces, and otherwise assert her noble independence of the ordinary laws governing domestic servants. In these ambitions she succeeded to a moral; and when, in addition, thanks to the cold in her head, she pronounced all her m's b's and her n's d's, the result was exhilarating in the extreme. "There's dot bady bed dicer-looking that Bister Tobby and Biss Oblett," said she, flourishing her mop in Miss Omlett's face. Whereat, although the remark was a serious one, and not meant to be facetious, the audience was convulsed. The second scene was in full swing: Miss Omlett and the funny, meek old gentleman were taking refuge behind two sofas from the threatened violence of Mr Bumblebee and Miss Acidrop; the low comedian was having a kick-up all round, and the maid-of-all-work was putting her pail on the head of one of the walking gentlemen with the comment-- "Dow, thed, there's goidg to be a dice doise--" When the door of the room once more opened, and Railsford entered unobserved in the darkness. He had not come to see the performance, although he knew it was about to be held, and had indeed allowed the use of the class-room for the purpose. But feeling very dejected in the presence of the cloud which had suddenly fallen on him, he had been unable to work that evening, and had decided to pay a visit of condolence to his young kinsman and the baronet, partly in the hope of edifying them by a little quiet talk by the sick bedside, and partly to satisfy himself that no very alarming symptoms had resulted from last night's severe exposure. Picture his astonishment when he found the two beds in the dormitory empty, and the invalids flown! He made inquiries of the dame. She had taken them up two eggs a-piece and some tea and hot buttered toast at six o'clock, which they had partaken of, and then, informing her that they felt no better, they had disposed themselves, as she supposed, to sleep. He looked into their study. They were not there; nor had anyone heard of them in the preparation room. Finally, he peeped into the Fourth class-room, and beheld the two invalids masquerading on the stage, and recognised the voice and sentiments of his kinsman, albeit proceeding through the nose, as he flourished his (or rather her) mop in the air, and announced that there was going to be a "dice doise." The whole scene was so ridiculous that Railsford deemed it prudent not to discover himself, and withdrew as unobserved as he had entered. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that Arthur and Dig were all right after their adventure; and that, thought he, is the main thing. Poor Railsford had plenty else to occupy his thoughts that evening. The interview with the doctor in the morning had seemed to bring him up short in his career at Grandcourt. If his enemies had tried to corner him, they could not have done it better. It was true that he knew the culprits, and by not denouncing them was, to that extent, shielding them. But he had come to that knowledge, as the reader knows, by an accident, of which, as an honourable man, he felt he had no right to take advantage, even to set right so grievous a wrong as the Bickers mystery. He might explain, without mentioning names, how he had learned the facts; but that would be as good as naming the culprit, for Branscombe had been the only case of serious illness accompanied by delirium at Grandcourt during the last two terms. He might write to Branscombe, and tell him his dilemma, and beseech him to make a confession. And yet what right had he to take advantage of the boy's unconscious confession to put pressure on him to make it public? Other persons less fastidious might do it, but Railsford could not. The alternative, of course, was that he would in all probability have to leave Grandcourt. If the matter had rested only between him and the doctor, he might have made a private communication under pledge of secrecy, and so induced his principal to let the matter drop. But the matter did not rest solely between him and the doctor. Mr Bickers and Felgate, by some means which he was unable to fathom, appeared to have learned the secret, and were not likely to let it drop. Indeed, it was evident that, so far from that, they would like if possible to fix a charge of actual complicity in the outrage on himself. Railsford laughed contemptuously at the notion, as the wild malice of a revengeful enemy. But he knew that no explanation would be likely to put them off the pursuit short of the actual naming of the culprits, which he was resolved at all risks to refuse. Was this to be the end of his brilliant school career? After two terms of hard work and honest battle, was he to be turned away, cashiered and mined, just because he had stayed to nurse a sick boy and overheard his delirious confession? It was no small temptation as he sat in his room that night, to compromise with honour. He could so easily save himself. He could, by a word, sweep away the cloud which hung over his future, and not his future only, but Daisy's. The outrage had been a cowardly one. Two of its perpetrators at least were worthless boys, and the other was away from Grandcourt, and might possibly never come back. Was it worth risking so much for so small a scruple? Did not his duty to Grandcourt demand sacrifices of him, and could he not that very night remove a dark blot from its scutcheon! So the battle went on, and Railsford fought it out, inch by inch, like a man. He was not single-handed in such matters: he had a Friend who always wins, and He helped Railsford to win that night. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A BROWN-PAPER PARCEL. Railsford was somewhat surprised at call-over on the following morning to observe that neither Arthur Herapath nor Digby Oakshott answered to their names. "Why are they not here?" he asked. "They're still on the sick list," said Ainger. "Has anyone seen them?" "Yes, sir," said Tilbury; "they were coughing a good deal in the night, and said they felt too bad to get up this morning, and had the medical doctor's leave to stay in bed till he came round." "Oh," said Railsford, and walked up-stairs to interview these two unfortunate invalids. "Well," said he, entering the room just in time to interrupt what he imagined, from the sounds heard outside, must have been a spirited bolster match, "how are you both this morning?" They both began to cough, wearily, "A little better, I think," said Arthur, with fortitude; "I think we might try to get up later on. But the medical said we'd better wait till he saw us." And he relapsed into a painful fit of coughing. "I feel very hot all over," said the baronet, who was notoriously energetic at bolster matches. "Now, you two," said Railsford sternly, "just get up at once. I shall remain in the room while you dress." They looked at him in reproachful horror, and broke into the most heart- rending paroxysm of coughing he had ever listened to. "Stop that noise," said he, "and get up at once." "Oh, please, Marky--Mr Railsford--we're so bad and--and Daisy would be so sorry if I got consumption, or anything of that sort." "We shall get into trouble, sir," added the baronet, "for getting up without the medical's leave. He told us to stay in bed, and--" Here another cough, which, however, was promptly suppressed. "You will get into no more trouble with him than you have got into already for getting up last night after he had gone, and acting in the farce in the Fourth class-room." The culprits regarded one another with looks of consternation. "Did you see us then?" asked Arthur. "You see, Marky--Mr Railsford I mean--we'd promised to--" "I want no explanations, Arthur; you had no business to get up then, and you've no business not to get up now. Shamming isn't honourable, and that ought to be reason enough why you and Oakshott should drop it." After this the delinquents dressed in silence and followed their master down to the class-room, where the ironical welcome of their fellows by no means tended to smooth their ruffled plumage. However, as they _were_ down, their colds recovered in ample time to allow of their taking part in the cricket practice in the afternoon; and the exercise had a wonderful effect in reconciling them to their compulsory convalescence. They were sitting, half working, half humbugging, in their study at preparation-time, when Railsford again looked in. "Herapath," said he, "if you bring your Cicero down to my room presently, I'll show you the passages marked for the Swift Exhibition." In due time Arthur presented himself. He and Digby between them had smelt a rat. "He's going to jaw you, you bet," said the baronet. "Looks like it. I wonder why he always picks on you and me for jawing? Why can't he give the other fellows a turn? Never mind, he was civil to us that night at the abbey--I suppose I'd better let him have his own way." So, after a fitting interval, he repaired with his books to the lion's den. These astute boys had been not quite beside the mark in their surmise that the master had ulterior reasons in inviting Arthur to his study. He did want to "jaw" him; but not in the manner they had anticipated. After going through the Cicero, and marking the portions requiring special getting up for the examination, Railsford put down his pen and sat back in his chair. "Arthur," said he, "there is something I should like to ask you." "It's coming, I knew it," said Arthur to himself. "Do you remember, Arthur, last term, you and I had some talk one evening about what happened to Mr Bickers, and the mysterious way in which that secret had been kept?" Arthur fidgeted uncomfortably. "Oh, yes," said he. "That's all done with now, though, isn't it?" "I think not. Do you remember my asking you if you knew anything about it, which I did not?" "Oh yes--I didn't. I know nothing more about it than you do." "How do you know that? What if I knew nothing about it?" Arthur looked puzzled. "I want you to be frank with me. It is a matter of great importance to us all to get this affair cleared up--more to me than you guess. All I ask you is, do you know who did it?" "Why, yes," said Arthur. "How did you discover? Did anyone tell you?" "No; I found out." "Do you consider that you have no right to tell me the name?" Arthur stared at him, and once more thought to himself what a wonderfully clever fellow this brother-in-law of his was. "It doesn't much matter if I tell _you_," said he, "only I mean to keep it dark from anybody else." "Who was it then?" inquired the master, with beating heart. "Tell me." "Why, you know!" "I wish to hear the name from you, Arthur," repeated the master. "All right! Mark Railsford, Esquire, M.A. That's the name, isn't it?" Railsford started back in his chair as if he had been shot, and stared at the boy. "What! what do you say?--I?" Arthur had never seen acting like it. "All right, I tell you, it's safe with me, I'll keep it as dark as ditch-water." "Arthur, you're either attempting a very poor joke, or you are making a most extraordinary mistake. Do you really mean to say that you believe it was I who attacked Mr Bickers?" Arthur nodded knowingly. "And that you have believed it ever since the middle of last term?" "Yes--I say, weren't you the only one in it, then?" asked the boy, who could not any longer mistake the master's bewildered and horrified manner for mere acting. Railsford felt that this was a time of all others to be explicit. "I did not do it, Arthur, and I had no more connection with the affair than--your father." Arthur was duly impressed by this asseveration. "It's a precious rum thing, then, about all those things, you know. They looked awfully fishy against you." "What things? I don't understand you." "Perhaps I'd better not tell you," said the boy, getting puzzled himself. "I can't force you to tell me; but when you know it's a matter of great importance to me to know how you or anybody came to suspect such a thing of me, I think you will do it." Arthur thereupon proceeded to narrate the history of the finding of the match-box, sack, and wedge of paper, with which the reader is already familiar, and considerably astonished his worthy listener by the business-like way in which he appeared to have put two and two together, and to have laid the crime at his, Railsford's, door. Nothing would satisfy the boy now but to go up and fetch down the incriminating articles and display them in the presence of the late criminal. To his wrath and amazement, when he went to the cupboard he found--what it had been the lot of a certain classical personage to find before him--that the "cupboard was bare." The articles were nowhere to be seen. Dig, on being charged with their abstraction, protested that he had never set eyes on them, and when Arthur told him the purpose for which they were wanted, he was scarcely less concerned at the mysterious disappearance than his friend. Arthur finally had to return to Railsford without the promised evidence. "I can't make it out," said he; "they're gone." "Did anyone know about this except yourself?" "Dig knew," said Arthur, "and _he_ must have collared them." "Who? Oakshott?" "Oh no; but I happened to say something last term, just after that trial we had, you know; I was talking about it, on the strict quiet, of course, to Felgate." "Felgate!" exclaimed the master; and the whole truth flashed upon him at once. "Yes, he promised to keep it dark. I really didn't think there was any harm, you know, as he is a prefect." "You think he has taken the things, then?" "Must have," said Arthur. "I don't know why, though; I'll go and ask him." "You had better not," said Railsford. If Felgate had taken them, he probably had some reason, and there was no occasion to involve Arthur any further in the business. "The thing is," said Arthur, still sorely puzzled, "if it wasn't you, who was it?" Railsford smiled. "That is a question a great many persons are asking. But you are the only boy I have met with who has no doubt in his mind that I was the guilty person." Arthur winced. "I'm awfully sorry, sir," said he. "I'll tell them all you had nothing to do with it." "I think you had better say nothing. How do you know I am not telling you a lie now?" Arthur winced once more. He would have preferred if Railsford had given him one hundred lines for daring to suspect him, and had done with it. "I say," said he, "you needn't tell them at home, Marky. I know I was a cad, especially when you were such a brick that night at the abbey, and I'll never do it again. They'd be awfully down on me if they knew." "My dear boy, you are not a cad, and I shall certainly not tell anyone of your little mistake. But leave me now; I have a lot of things to think about. Good-night." Arthur returned to his room in dejected spirits. He had made a fool of himself, he knew, and done his best friend an injustice; consequently he felt, for once in a way, thoroughly ashamed of himself. What irritated him most of all was the loss of the articles he had so carefully treasured up as evidence against somebody. "Felgate's collared them, that's certain," said he, "and why?" "He has a big row on with Marky," replied Dig; "I expect he means to bowl him out about this." "That's it," said Arthur, "that's what he's up to. I say, Dig, we ought to be able to pay him out, you and I; and save old Marky." "I'm game," said Dig; "but how?" "Get the things back, anyhow. Let's see, they've got something on at the Forum to-night, haven't they?" "Yes--two to one he'll be there. Why, of course he will; he's got to second the motion--something about the fine arts." Arthur laughed. "We'll try a bit of fine art on him, I vote. Come on, old man; we'll have a look round his rooms for the traps." So they sallied out, and after peeping into the Forum on their way, to ascertain that their man was safely there, they marched boldly up-stairs to his study. If it had not been for the righteousness of their cause, these boys might have thought twice before entering anyone's room in his absence. But Arthur in his present temper had cast to the winds all scruples, and regarding himself merely as a robbed lioness searching for her whelps, he would have liked to meet the man who would tell him he hadn't a perfect right to be where he was. Dig, for his part, was not prepared to raise any such awkward question. The boys' instinct had told them right. For one of the first things they beheld, on a corner of the window-sill, apparently put there hurriedly before starting for the Forum, was a brown-paper parcel, corresponding exactly with the missing bundle. It was carefully tied up, and under the string was thrust an envelope addressed to "Mr Bickers." Arthur whistled, and Dig ran forward to capture the lost property. "Steady," said the former warily. "Perhaps it's just a dodge to catch us. See how it lies, in case we have to put it back." They took the necessary bearings with all precaution, and then hurried back with their prize to their own study. "How long before the Forum's up?" demanded Arthur, depositing the parcel on the table. "Twenty minutes," said Dig. "All serene." The things had evidently been recently tied up with new string in fresh brown paper, the wedge of paper and the match-box being rolled up in the middle of the sack. "That seems all right," said Arthur, "now let's see the letter." He carefully slid a pen-holder under the fold of the envelope, so as to open it without breaking, and extracted the letter, which ran as follows:-- "Dear Sir,--I send you the three things I told you of. The sack has his initials on it; the paper belongs to him, as you will see, and he is the only man in the house who could reach up to put the match-box on the ledge. Please do not mention my name. My only reason is to get justice done. "Yours, truly, "T.F." "Oh, the cad!" was the joint exclamation of the two readers as they perused this treacherous epistle. "Look alive, now," said Arthur; "cut down as fast as ever you can and fetch one of those turfs lying on the corner of the grass, you know." "What's that for?" asked Dig, who felt quite out of the running. "Never mind. Cut away; there's no time to lose. Don't let anyone see you." Dig obeyed, and selected one of the turfs in question, which he clandestinely conveyed up to his room. "Now lend a hand to wrap it up," said Arthur. "Don't you see it'll make a parcel just about the size and weight of the sack? Mind how you tie it up--a double knot, not a bow." Dig began to perceive what the sport was at last, and grinned complacently as he tied up the new parcel into an exact counterfeit of the old. Arthur overhauled it critically, and pronounced it all right. "Now," said he, "we'll write him a letter." He sat down and dashed off the following, Dig nudging vehement approval of the contents from behind. "Sir,--I'm a cad and a liar and a thief. Don't believe a word I say. You can tell anyone you like. Most of them know already. Yours truly, "Jerry Sneak." "That's ripping!" exclaimed the admiring Dig, as this elegant epistle was carefully folded into the original envelope, and, after being gummed down, was thrust under the string of the counterfeit parcel. "Oh, I wish I could be there to see it opened!" "We may get into a row for it," said Arthur. "I don't care. It'll show him up and be a real leg-up for Marky. Look alive now, and come and put it back in his room." So they sallied up once more and carefully replaced the parcel exactly where they had found it, and then, rejoicing exceedingly, dodged down again. It seemed to them a politic thing just to look in at the Forum on their way down, to witness the end of the debate and take part in the division. They had not the slightest idea what the debate was about, but they made themselves prominent among the "Ays," and cheered loudly when the motion was declared to be carried by two votes. Felgate nodded to them as he passed out, little guessing the real meaning of the affectionate smile with which they returned the greeting. "So your cold's better, youngster?" said he to Arthur. "Looks like it," replied Arthur. Felgate's first glance as he entered the room was towards the corner in which he had left his parcel. He had just been cording it up that evening when he suddenly remembered his engagement at the Forum, and in the hurry of the discovery he had carelessly left it out, instead of, as he had intended, locking it up. "However," thought he to himself, "it's all safe as it happens. I won't send it over to Bickers till to-morrow afternoon, just before the master's session. It will be far more effective if he opens it in the brute's presence; and, after all, I don't care a twopenny-piece if he knows it comes from me or not--the cad!" He had half a mind to open the letter and tell Mr Bickers to mention his name if he chose; but just as he was about to do so Munger came in to see him. So he abandoned the idea and locked the parcel up safely in his drawer. Felgate had, as the reader may have judged, come to the conclusion that it was time to play his trump card against his enemy. Railsford's reporting of him to the doctor had been, to mix metaphors a little, the last straw which breaks the patient camel's back. He had had a very warm and uncomfortable quarter of an hour with the head-master, and, as we know, had defended himself on the plea that Railsford, being a malefactor himself, was not competent to judge of the conduct of his boys. The doctor had severely silenced this covert accusation, although taking note of it sufficiently to suggest the very awkward string of questions which he put the following morning to the unlucky Master of the Shell. Felgate, however, had an impression that his statement to the doctor had missed fire; and being determined not wholly to cast his trump card away, he had walked across and sought an interview with Mr Bickers. That estimable gentleman was considerably impressed by discovering, first of all, that this boy was the author of the mysterious letter last term, and secondly, that he possessed such satisfactory evidence of the strange story. He accepted Felgate's statement that his sole motive was the credit of Grandcourt and the relief of his own conscience, without too particularly inquiring into its value, and undertook not to mention his informer's name in any use he might have to make of the information. To that end he suggested it would be better for him to have the "evidence" to produce when required. Felgate promised to send it over to him next day, if that would suit. Mr Bickers said it would suit admirably. There was to be a master's meeting in the evening, when no doubt the question would come up, and if Felgate preferred not to appear himself, he might send Mr Bickers the things there with a letter, which the master promised to read without disclosing the name of the writer. This seemed a satisfactory plan, and Felgate hoped that in return for what he was doing Mr Bickers would intercede with the doctor to restore him to his prefecture. Which Mr Bickers said he would do, and the interview ended. Felgate had not much difficulty in possessing himself of the "articles." Arthur had himself exhibited them to him last term, and he remembered the corner of the locker in which they had lain. Probably Arthur had never looked at them since, and would be very unlikely to miss them now. Even if he did, Felgate didn't care. The securing them was easy enough, for on that particular evening Arthur and Dig were roosting on the big arch of Wellham Abbey, in no condition to interfere if all their worldly goods had been ransacked. The remainder the reader knows. That eventful evening was to witness one more solemnity before the order for "lights out" cut short its brief career. Arthur and Dig having returned to their study, held a grave consultation over the sack and match-box and wedge of paper. "We'd better hide them," said Dig, "where he can't find them again." "Not safe," said Arthur; "we'd better burn them." "Burn them!" said Dig, astounded by the audacious proposition. "Then we give up all our evidence." "Good job too; all the better for Marky. They've done us no good so far." This was true, and Dig, having turned the matter over, said he was "game." The conspirators therefore locked their door, and piled up their fire. It was long since their study had glowed with such a cheerful blaze. The resin-wheel flared, and crackled, and spat as if it was in the jest and was enjoying it, and the flames blazed up the chimney as though they were racing who should be the first to carry the joke outside. The match-box and paper wedge vanished almost instantaneously, and the old bone-dry sack itself rose grandly to the occasion, and flared away merrily inch by inch, until, a quarter of an hour after the illumination had begun, the last glowing vestige of it had skipped up after the sparks. The boys were sitting complacently contemplating this glorious _finale_ when a loud knock came at the door, and a shout in Ainger's voice of "Let me in!" "What's the row?" cried Arthur, shovelling the ashes under the grate, while Dig, with wonderful presence of mind, whipped out the toasting- fork, and stuck half a loaf on the end of it. "Open the door," cried Ainger, accompanying his demand with a kick which made the timbers creak. "Your chimney's on fire!" Arthur rushed and opened the door, while Dig, once more with wonderful presence of mind, seized up the bath bucket and emptied it on the fire. "You young idiots," shouted Ainger as he rushed in, half-blinded with the smoke raised by Dig's _coup de theatre_, "you'll have the house on fire! Bring a jug with you, both of you, up to the roof." They each snatched up a jug, and with pale countenances followed the captain up to the skylight. As they emerged on to the roof they were horrified to see the chimney belching forth sparks and smoke with unmistakable fierceness. Fortunately the roof was flat and the chimney-pot accessible. The contents of the three jugs rapidly damped the ardour of the rising flames, and in five minutes after Ainger's first knock at the door the danger was all over. "Luckily I happened to see it from Smedley's room opposite," said the captain. "Whatever had you been cooking for supper?" They laughed. It was evident the captain was not going to visit the misadventure severely on their heads. "Something good," said Arthur. "But I guess it'll be a little overdone now. Thanks awfully, Ainger, for helping us out. We might have got into a jolly row if it hadn't been for you, mightn't we, Dig?" And they departed peacefully to bed, leaving Ainger to wonder what was the use of being the captain of a house when your main occupation is to put out fires kindled by the juniors, and be patted on the back by them in return! CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE BLOW FALLS. "My good friend," said Monsieur Lablache, "you are in a great trouble. I am sorry for you." Monsieur had looked in as he sometimes did to breakfast in his friend's study. The two men, one strong, the other weak, still clung to one another in an odd sort of friendship. Railsford's protection had improved monsieur's position in the school not a little. The boys of his own house were more tolerant of his foreign peculiarities; and some of the other masters, taking to heart the chivalrous example of their junior colleague, had begun to think better of the unpopular detention master, and to recognise good qualities in him to which hitherto they had been blind. If monsieur could only have got it out of his head that he was a born diplomatist, there would not have been a more harmless master in Grandcourt. "I am sorry for you, my good friend," repeated he. "But you will be brave." "Really, Lablache, you don't give a man an appetite for breakfast. Things don't look very cheerful, I know; but what special cause for lamentation have we?" "Bad lies will be told of you at the masters' meeting to-night," said the Frenchman, "but take courage, _mon ami_, I shall be there." "Have you any idea what the lies are to be?" asked Railsford, who perhaps was not as jubilant as he might have been at this last cheering promise. "Meester Beekaire, so I have heard, desires to accuse you of having assaulted him. It is absurd. But no; I overhear him say to Meester Rogers in the masters' hall that he has evidence, he has evidence--ho! ho! it is absurd." Railsford had not much difficulty after his talk with Arthur last night in guessing where this evidence was likely to be, and whence it proceeded. If that was the whole of the trouble he had to face, he could have afforded to laugh with monsieur. But the doctor's question still rang in his ears. That, he could not get round or avoid. "Bickers no doubt believes he is right," said he, "but, as you say, monsieur, he is absurd--I wish he had been allowed to say what he wanted at the last meeting, when I wasn't there." "But, _mon ami_, it would be unfair. Let him say it to your face, and you stand up and say to him to his face, it is one--what you call it, one very big lie." "Well, I will do my best," said Railsford, smiling. "It is a wretched business altogether." "It is strange it is a secret still. I have my thoughts often, friend Railsford. I sometimes think of this boy, and sometimes of that boy; I have even said to myself, Why do we look only in Meester Railsford's house? Why could it not be--for I see boys of all the houses--why could it not be perhaps one of Meester Beekaire's own boys? They hate him--I wish Branscombe would come back. I think if he did, I would ask him." Railsford shifted his chair uneasily, and suddenly changed the conversation. "How are the little girls?" asked he. Poor monsieur! It was easy to turn him from any subject by a question like this. His eyes glistened at the mere mention of their names, and as he sat there and talked about them, with their portraits lying on the breakfast-table before him, Mr Bickers, Branscombe, even Railsford himself vanished out of sight, and his world held nothing but just those three little absent girls of his far away in his beloved France. Railsford was tempted more than once during the day to absent himself boldly from the masters' meeting in the evening, and allow matters to take whatever course they chose in his absence. "After all," he said to himself, "the fatal question will be put sooner or later, and then I must go down." "Probably," said the bolder spirit within him; "but keep your feet, Railsford, my brave fellow, as long as you can." So he braced himself up to the ordeal, and walked across at the appointed time, calm and collected, determined to "die game," if die he must. It was a full meeting, but, to everybody's surprise, most of all Railsford's, Dr Ponsford was not present. The head-master, as I have said, had the greatest belief in holding himself aloof from the settlement of any question which could possibly be settled without him. One might have supposed that the present question was one which would require his particular handling. Ultimately it would, no doubt; but meanwhile he would let his lieutenants sift the various issues raised, and send up to him only the last point for his adjudication. Railsford was disappointed, on the whole; for his one wish was to have the matter settled once for all, and to know the worst before he went to bed that night. Mr Roe, and Grover, and one or two more of his friends came forward to greet him as he entered, as if nothing was about to take place. But he did not feel actor enough to keep up the farce, and retired to his back seat at the first opportunity, and waited impatiently for the meeting to begin. The usual routine business seemed interminable. The little questions of procedure and discipline which were brought up and talked over had very little interest to him, and once, when he found his opinion was being directly invited on some matter, he had with confusion to admit that he had not gathered what the question was. At last Mr Roe said, turning over the agenda paper-- "That disposes of all the ordinary business. The only other matter is a personal question adjourned from our last meeting." Whereupon everyone settled himself in his place expectantly. Mr Bickers rose briskly and made his speech. "Mr Roe and gentlemen," said he, "I am sorry once again to trouble the meeting with the affairs of so very unimportant a person as myself, and I can only repeat what I have said before, and what I have a right to take credit for, that my only motive in doing so is my clear duty to Grandcourt, and the removal from a large number of innocent boys of a stigma under which they at present suffer." Here someone said, "Hear, hear," and everybody agreed that Mr Bickers had begun well. "In February last," continued he, "I was unfortunate enough to meet with some personal violence while passing the door of an adjoining house in the dark, I was seized from behind, enveloped in a sack, which was tied over my head and shoulders, in a manner which both gagged me and rendered me powerless to move my arms. My _feet_ were also tied together, and in this condition I was dragged into a cupboard under the stairs and there left for the night. My impression is that two or three strong persons were engaged in the outrage, although the pinioning was performed by only one. I was released in the morning by my colleague in whose house I had been attacked, who, with his senior boys, untied my hands, and expressed himself as greatly astonished and indignant at what had befallen me. I fully believed at the time these protestations on my colleague's part were sincere." Here Mr Bickers was beginning to get aggressive, and the backs of one or two of Railsford's friends, particularly monsieur's back, went up. "That same morning, gentlemen, the doctor came and challenged the house to produce the offender or offenders. Every boy in the house was called over and questioned separately; said each one denied not only that he had done it himself, but that he had any knowledge of who had. Every member of the house, except the master of the house, was thus questioned. The master was not challenged. "The house was disgraced by the doctor; and from that time to this the secret has been carefully kept. But capital has been made out of the supposed misfortune of the house to set on foot several ambitious schemes which depended for their success on the continued isolation of the house from the rest of the school. "The master of the house was a prime mover in these schemes, and in consequence decidedly interested in preserving the new state of affairs. "Now, gentlemen, you may ask why I make all this preamble--" "Hear, hear!" from monsieur, and "Order, order!" from the chairman. "I do so because I feel I have no right to take for granted that you all know what is nevertheless a notorious fact in Grandcourt. "Now, gentlemen, it appears that my colleague's acquiescence in the disgrace of his house was not shared by some of his boys; certainly not by one--whose name I am not at liberty to mention--but whom I can speak of honourably, as being actuated by disinterested motives in securing justice to myself--which is a matter of small moment--and in removing a slur from the good name of Grandcourt. "This boy took the trouble to make some inquiries shortly after the event, and succeeded in getting together some evidence, which, when I produce it, I think will convince you that little doubt remains as to the identity of the real culprit. I should have preferred if my informant might have been present here to state his own case, but he is naturally reluctant to come forward. He has, however, described to me what the nature of his evidence is; and I have his full authority for making use of that information now. "In the first place, he claims to have found the sack in which I was enveloped, and which was left on the floor of the cupboard where I had been imprisoned, after my release. This sack, he tells me, bears the initials M.R., which correspond with the initials of the--" "Midland Railway," dryly observed Grover amid some smiles, which roused Mr Bickers considerably. "No, sir--the initials M.R. correspond with the name of the master of the house in which I was assaulted. They belong to Mark Railsford." Railsford sat with his lips drawn contemptuously during this announcement, which failed to make the impression on the meeting generally which the speaker had expected. But he went on. "In the second place, he found that the door, which closes by itself when not propped open, had been held open by a twisted piece of paper, which, on being unrolled, was found to be part of a newspaper, addressed to Mark Railsford, Esquire, Grandcourt." This made rather more impression than the last; except on Railsford, who still faced his accuser scornfully. "In the third place, a match-box was discovered on the ledge above the door, placed there, to judge by its freedom from dust, very recently. I ask you to notice three things in connection with this, gentlemen. A match was struck while I was being dragged into the cupboard; a match found on the floor that morning corresponds exactly with the matches in the box placed up on the ledge; and finally, the height of that ledge from the ground shows that it could only have been placed there by someone over six feet high; and the only person of that height in the house is the master, Mr Mark Railsford." A dead silence followed this, and masters present wondered how Railsford could still sit so indifferent and unmoved. "Now, gentlemen," continued Mr Bickers, after having allowed a due interval for this last shot to go home, "I should not be justified in repeating these assertions unless I were also prepared to lay before you the proofs on which those assertions are based. I therefore requested my informant to let me have these. He has done this, and this parcel,"--here he took up a brown-paper parcel from the seat beside him--"containing the articles I have mentioned, was placed in my hands just as I came to this meeting. I have not even examined them myself, so that I am sure you will do me the credit of believing that when I place them just as they are in your hands, Mr Chairman, I cannot be charged with having tampered with my evidence in any way." Here he handed the parcel up to Mr Roe, amid dead silence. "Had you not better open it yourself?" asked the chairman, who evidently did not like the business. "No, sir; I request you will do so, and that Mr Railsford will confront the contents first in your hands, not mine." "There is a letter here addressed to you," said Mr Roe. "Please read that also," said Mr Bickers, declining to take it. Mr Roe knitted his brow and tore open the envelope. His brows went up with a start as his eyes fell on the opening words. He read the letter through, and then, turning to Mr Bickers, said, "This letter is not intended for reading aloud, Mr Bickers." "Yes it is. I insist on your reading it, Mr Chairman." "If you insist, I will do it; but I think you would be wiser to put it in your pocket." "Read it, Mr Chairman," repeated Mr Bickers excitedly. Mr Roe accordingly read, in a voice which betrayed some emotion:-- "`Sir,-- I'm a cad, and a liar and a thief. Don't believe a word I say. You can tell anyone you like; most of them know already. "`Yours truly, "`Jerry Sneak.'" The effect of the letter may be more easily imagined than expressed. The audience received it first with astonishment, then with consternation, and finally, as the light dawned in on their minds, with laughter. Railsford alone looked serious and bewildered. As for Mr Bickers, his face turned white, and he looked for a moment as if he would spring at Mr Roe's throat. He snatched the letter from the chairman's hand and looked at it, and then stared round him, on the amused faces of his colleagues. "You have been hoaxed, I fear," said Mr Roe. Mr Bickers said nothing, but pointed to the parcel. "Am I to open it?" asked the chairman. "Yes, yes!" said the master hoarsely. Mr Roe obeyed, and disclosed the turf amid another general laugh, in which all but Railsford and Mr Bickers joined. The latter had by this time lost his self-control. He glared round him like a baited animal, and then, rounding suddenly on Railsford, exclaimed, "This is your doing! You are at the bottom of this!" Railsford vouchsafed no reply but a contemptuous shrug. He was in no humour to see the joke. Disgust was his one sensation. "Order, please," said the chairman. "These meetings, if they are to be of any value, must be conducted without any quarrelling. Mr Bickers, may we consider this unpleasant affair now at an end?" "No!" shouted Mr Bickers. "I have been insulted! I don't care by whom! The matter is _not_ at an end--not till I have received an answer from this Railsford here to my question! Let him get up like a man and say he did not attack me like a coward last term, and allow the blame and suspicion to fall on others; let him even get up and declare that he does not know anything about the affair. I defy him to do it! He dare not!" A silence followed this violent tirade, and everyone turned to Railsford. He sat, motionless and pale, with his eyes on his accuser. "Have you anything to say, Mr Railsford, or shall we consider the matter at an end?" "I have nothing to say," said the Master of the Shell, sitting, "except that I refuse to answer these questions." "Very good! Quite right!" said monsieur, springing to his feet. "When Meester Beekaire can speak like a gentleman, he--" Here the chairman interrupted. "I addressed my question to Mr Railsford," said he. "I can understand he declines, under present circumstances, to make any reply to these accusations. But may I suggest it would be most unfortunate if we had to adjourn this disagreeable question again? (Hear, hear.) I imagine it can be very easily terminated to-night. We are all ready, I am sure, to make allowance for a gentleman who is suffering from the irritation of a practical joke. His questions were undoubtedly offensively put, and Mr Railsford, as I say, was entitled to refuse to answer them. But I ask him, in order to close this painful controversy finally, to allow me as chairman of this meeting, to repeat those questions myself, so that he may have an opportunity, as no doubt he desires, of formally placing on record his denial of the charges which have been brought against him." Railsford gasped inwardly. The long-expected blow was coming, and he felt it was no use to run from it any longer. "The questions resolve themselves to two. First. Is there any foundation for the charge that you committed or in any way participated in the assault on Mr Bickers last term? And second, Is there any truth in the statement that you know who the culprit or culprits are? Mr Bickers, have I stated your questions correctly?" "Yes," growled Mr Bickers. "Let him answer them if he can." Every one now turned to Railsford, who rose slowly to his feet and fixed his eyes full on the chairman. His friends thought they had rarely seen a finer-looking man than he appeared at that moment, and looked forward with pleasure to applauding his denial, and greeting him as finally clear of the odious suspicions under which he had laboured for so long. His reply was brief and clear:-- "Mr Roe and gentlemen,--The first question I answer with an emphatic negative. The second question I do not answer at all." A bombshell exploding in the hall could not have caused greater consternation and astonishment than this avowal. Grover, monsieur, and his other friends turned pale, and wondered if they were dreaming; others frowned; Mr Bickers smiled. "I knew it!" said he. "I knew it!" Mr Roe said,-- "You can hardly have heard the question properly, Mr Railsford; may I repeat it?" "I heard it perfectly well," said Railsford. "You are aware of the very serious nature of your reply? Do you give any reasons for your refusal?" "None at all." "I think," said Mr Grover, rising gallantly to protect his friend, "it would be well if this meeting adjourned. I submit there is no further business before us." "I oppose that," said Mr Bickers, who had recovered his calmness rapidly. "I propose, Mr Chairman, that this meeting adjourn for five minutes, while the head-master is invited to come and assist our decisions." This was seconded. "If I may be allowed," said Railsford, "I should like to support that proposal." After that, of course, it was agreed to; and for five minutes the meeting stood suspended. Railsford's friends utilised the interval by begging him to reconsider his position, and if possible put himself right by stating all he knew. He thanked them, but said it was impossible, and finally withdrew again to his own seat, and waited anxiously for the doctor's arrival. In due time the head-master arrived, with a tolerable notion of the object of this unusual summons. Mr Roe briefly explained what had taken place, and reported the circumstances under which the head-master's authority was now invited. For once the doctor looked genuinely distressed. Despite all his rebuffs, he had for some weeks looked upon the Master of the Shell as one of the most promising men on his staff; and he deplored the infatuation which now promised to bring his connection with Grandcourt to an abrupt end. But there was no alternative. "Mr Railsford," said he, "you have heard Mr Roe's statement; is it correct?" "Quite correct, sir." "And you persist in your refusal to say whether or no you have any knowledge as to who the persons were who assaulted Mr Bickers?" "I cannot answer the question." "You know that the inference from such a refusal is that you know the names and refuse to give them up--in other words, that you are shielding the evil-doers?" "I cannot answer that or any question on the subject, Doctor Ponsford. I am aware of my position, and feel that I have no course open but to place my resignation in your hands." Once more poor monsieur started up. "Oh no. He has good reasons. He is not bad. He must not leave." The doctor motioned him to be silent, and then, addressing Railsford said-- "Your resignation of course follows as a natural consequence of the position you adopt. It is better that you should offer it than that I should have to ask for it. I shall take a week to consider my duty in the matter. This meeting is now at an end." CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. THINGS GO WELL WITH MR. BICKERS. It is not to be wondered at if the proceedings at the remarkable masters' session just reported leaked out somehow, and became the talk of Grandcourt. It was rarely that anything the masters did or said in their solemn conclaves made much impression on the complacency of their boys; but on the present occasion it was other wise. Rumour had already been active as to the feud between Mr Bickers and the Master of the Shell, and not a few of the better-informed boys had heard that it was connected with the outrage last term, and that Mr Bickers's intention was to bring that crime home, in some manner best known to himself, to Mr Railsford. The idea was generally pooh-poohed as a piece of vindictive folly. For all that, there was a good deal of speculation as to the proceedings at the masters' session, and, when it was over, curiosity to learn the result. The hurried summons to the doctor during the evening had not passed unnoted; the general opinion was that the "row" had come suddenly and acutely to a head. When two superior officers fly at one another's throats the spectacle may be interesting, and even amusing, to the onlooker; but I never heard of it doing anything towards the promotion of discipline or the encouragement of good tone among the rank and file. The quarrel of the two masters at Grandcourt certainly failed to do any good to the school, and if it did less mischief than might have been expected, it was because up till now the parties principally concerned had had their own reasons for keeping it private. Felgate was naturally anxious to hear the result of an entertainment to which he had, as he imagined, made so valuable a contribution. He therefore ventured to call on Mr Bickers the following morning for a little friendly chat. His reception did not quite come up to his expectations. "So, sir," exclaimed Mr Bickers, meeting him at the door, "you have thought me a fitting subject for one of your jokes, have you? What have you to say for yourself?" Felgate looked at him in amazement. "I really don't understand," said he. "What joke?" "You wish to keep it up, do you? Very well, sir!" and Mr Bickers took down a cane. "You have thought fit to amuse yourself at my expense," said Mr Bickers. "I intend to repay myself at yours! Hold out your hand!" "You are not going to punish me for--" "Hold out your hand, sir!" "Really, I acted for the best. If it was a mistake, I--" "Do you hear me, sir? Hold out your hand at once!" Felgate sullenly obeyed, and Mr Bickers there and then discharged his little debt, adding interest. "Now go away, and don't dare to come near me again! Stay, take with you these tokens of your ill-timed humour; they may serve to amuse someone else. Begone!" and he thrust into his hands the unlucky parcel and closed the door in his face. Felgate, smarting and bewildered, walked back to his house with the parcel under his arm, furious with Mr Bickers, and as eager now for revenge on him as yesterday he had been for revenge on Railsford. What could have happened to make all his carefully laid scheme fall through, and set Mr Bickers, whom he had counted upon as an ally, thus suddenly against him? Had Railsford met him with some counter-charge, or turned the tables by some unexpected move in the face of his accusers? That could not be, for already the rumour had spread through the house that Mr Railsford had resigned his post. What did Mr Bickers mean by talking of a joke, and thrusting back upon him the very proofs which but yesterday had been objects of such anxious care and solicitude to them both? Felgate flung the unlucky parcel down on the table, and called himself a fool for ever having meddled with it. Was it possible he himself had been made a fool of, and that these precious proofs had after all been trumped up by that young scapegrace, Herapath, to hoodwink him? At any rate, Arthur might have his property back now, and much good might it do him. He should-- Felgate started as he suddenly caught sight of what looked like a blade of grass protruding from a rent in the brown paper. He looked again. It was not one blade only, but two or three. With an exclamation of consternation he tore off the covering and disclosed--the turf! A joke? No wonder Mr Bickers's manner had been a trifle stiff that morning. However had it got there? It was like a conjurer's trick. No one had seen or touched the parcel but himself. He had himself placed it in Mr Bickers's hands. Indeed, from the time he had taken the things from Herapath's cupboard till the moment of parting with them, he had scarcely had his eyes off it. Stay! That evening he was at the Forum, he had left it for an hour unguardedly in his room. Yet, even then, he could almost have sworn the parcel had been untouched in his absence. Besides, the letter was there still, directed in his own hand. He picked up the envelope, to satisfy himself it was the same. Of course it was; and he had explained in his letter what the articles were. He took out the letter and glanced at it; and as he did so the blood rushed to his face, and he knew at last that he had been made a fool of. It needed no great penetration to guess who it was to whom he owed his humiliation. So he armed himself with a ruler in one hand and the parcel in the other, and walked over to Herapath's study. The proprietors were at home, and had apparently expected the visit, for an elaborate barricade had been drawn across the door by means of the table, bedstead, and other furniture, so that Felgate, when he looked in, could barely see more than the heads of his young friends. "Let me in," he said, trying to push the door open. "Awfully sorry; can't come in," said Dig cheerfully. "Herapath and I are having a scrub up. Come again presently." "Do you hear me, you two? Let me in at once." "Don't you hear, we're doing the place up?" said Arthur. "Go to some of the other chaps if you want a job done." "I want you two; and if you don't let me in at once, I'll force my way in." "Say what you want there; we can hear," said Arthur. Felgate made a violent effort to effect an entrance, but without avail. The stout iron bedsteads held their own, and the wedge inserted under the door prevented it from opening farther than to allow the invader's head to peep in. "I shall report you for this," said Felgate. "Ha! ha! ha! you're not a monitor, my boy. Go and do it. We'll report you for invading our privacy. Say what you want there, can't you?" "You know what I want well enough," said Felgate, forced at last to recognise that entrance was hopeless. "What's the good of coming to tell us, then?" responded Dig. "What business had you to go to my room the other evening?" "Went to return your call," said Arthur. "Sorry we weren't at home when you called on us, and thought we'd do the polite and look you up. That makes us square, doesn't it?" "Do you know I could get you expelled for coming and taking things out of my room?" said Felgate. "Ha! ha! Do it! look sharp. We'll all go home together." "I want the things you took away; do you hear? One of the masters has sent for them; they are to be given up immediately." "Are they? Tell one of the masters, if he wants them he'd better go up the chimney after them." "I shan't waste my time here any more. You'll be sorry for it, both of you, when I catch you." "All right, wait till then. I say, you haven't seen a lump of turf about, have you? There's one missing." "Ha! ha!" chimed in Dig. "How did you like the writing of the letter? Jolly hand our chaps write in the Shell, don't they?" Felgate had not remained to hear these last two genial inquiries, but had returned, storming and raving, to his room. The only game left him now was revenge. He would be very much surprised if that did not come off a little better than the last! Arthur and Dig, meanwhile, were by no means in the elated spirits which their successful resistance to the siege might have warranted. Not that they were affected by the bully's retreating threat; they had heard that sort of thing from one or two fellows in their day, and their bones were still unbroken. No; what afflicted them, and plunged them into a sea of wrath and misery, was the report circulated that morning and confirmed by reliable testimony, that Marky was going to leave Grandcourt. At first they could not credit it. But when Ainger himself, with a long face, confirmed it, they were forced to believe their ears. "Why?" they asked. But Ainger had nothing to tell them on that score. They therefore took the bold step of waiting upon the Master of the Shell himself. "Marky," said Arthur, "it's not true you're leaving, is it?" The misery of the boy's tone went to Railsford's heart. "I am afraid it is true, Arthur. How did you hear?" "Everybody knows. But, I say, why?" "I have resigned." "You resigned--of your own accord? Haven't you been kicked out, then? Aren't you obliged to go?" "I am obliged to go, that's why I have resigned. You'll know all about it some day." "But, I say, can't you withdraw your resignation and stay? Oh, I say, Marky, we shall be awfully up a tree without you here. Why ever are you going? Can't it all be squared?" "No, old fellow, I fear not. But I am not going for a week yet. Let's make the most of the time, and get ahead with our work; for, remember, you've that Swift Exhibition coming near ahead." "Work!" exclaimed Arthur, in disgust. "I'll not do a stroke of work more. I tell you what, if you leave, Marky, I shall leave too, and so will Dig, there!" "My dear old fellow," said Railsford kindly, "you are talking like a little donkey. If you want to help me, you'll just determine to work all the harder now." "I say," said Dig, shirking the question, "have you got into a row, Mr Railsford? Is it anything about--you know what?" "You really mustn't ask me, boys; it's sufficient that I have to go, and I don't think you two will believe it is because I have done anything wrong." "Rather not," said Arthur warmly. "But, I say, Marky, just tell us this--it wasn't us got you into the row, was it? It was awfully low of me to let it out to Felgate; but we bowled him out in time, just when he was going to send those things to Bickers. Did you see the nice trick we played him? He won't be able to do it again, for we burned the things. Such a flare-up! It isn't our fault you're going, is it?" "No, not a bit," said Railsford. "Now you had better go." They went and proclaimed their master's wrongs through the length and breadth of the house. The Shell took up the matter specially, and convened an informal meeting to consult as to what was to be done. "Let's send him a round robin, and ask him not to go," suggested Maple. "Let's get our governors to write to the doctor," said another. "Let's all leave if he does; that's bound to make him stay," said a third. Arthur, however, had a more practical proposal. "What we'd better do is to get up a whacking petition to Pony," said he. "We've got a right to do it; and if all the fellows will sign it, he can't well let him go." The question arose, Who was to write the petition? And after some discussion it was resolved to call the amiable Stafford into their councils. He at once suggested that if the petition was to be of any weight it should come from the entire house, with the captain's name at the head of the list; and a deputation was told off forthwith to wait upon Ainger. He was not very encouraging, but said there would be no harm in trying, and undertook to draw up the petition and sign his name first underneath. The petition was short and business-like: "To Dr Ponsford. Sir,--We, the boys of Mr Railsford's house, have heard with great sorrow that he is to leave Grandcourt. We consider he has done more for our house than any other master, and feel it would be the greatest loss to all of us if he were to go. He does not know we are sending this. We hope it will have your favourable consideration, and make it possible for him to stay among us." In two days this document received the signature of every boy in the house except Felgate and Munger, who contrived to evade it. Ainger took no trouble to press them for their signatures, and indeed stated, not in a whisper, that the petition would carry more weight without these two particular names than with them. Whereat Felgate and Munger felt rather sorry they had not signed. A deputation was then appointed, consisting of the head boy in each form represented in the house, to convey the petition to the doctor. Arthur, not being the head Shell boy in the house, felt very sore to be left out, and prophesied all sorts of failure to the undertaking in consequence. However, he was consoled vastly by a fight with Tilbury that same afternoon. Tilbury, though a signatory to the petition, was unlucky enough to brag, in the hearing of his comrade, that one reason he had signed it was because he believed Railsford had had something to do with the paying-out of Mr Bickers last term, and was a friend to the house in consequence. Whereupon Arthur, crimson in the face, requested him to step outside and receive the biggest hiding he had ever had in his life. Tilbury obeyed, and although the combat was not quite so decided as Arthur had boasted, it disposed of the libel which had originated it, and made it clear to the house that those who knew best, at any rate, were now as firmly resolved to defend their master's innocence as last term they had been to glory in his guilt. The doctor received the deputation politely, and allowed Ainger to read the petition and list of names without interruption. When the ceremony was over, he said, quietly-- "The only fault I have to find with you is that you have presented your petition to me instead of to Mr Railsford. It is perfectly open for Mr Railsford to with draw his resignation. In that case it would fall to me to settle the question of his remaining here; and that would be the time for you to present your petition." This was not very consoling; and the doctor's manner discouraged any further explanation. Ainger therefore left the petition lying on the table, and withdrew his men to report the doubtful success of their mission to their comrades. The week wore on, and in two days Railsford's short reprieve would be up. He had already begun to get together some of his things preparatory to packing up, and had written out a careful paper of memoranda for the use of his successor. He had allowed the work of the house to be as little as possible disturbed by the coming event, and had even hurt monsieur's feelings by the peremptory manner in which he discouraged any representation being made by the masters with a view to avert his departure. He had of course sent a plain, unvarnished account of his position to his "special correspondent," which happily reached her at the same time as a highly-coloured and decidedly alarming communication on the same subject from Miss Daisy's brother. He received an answer full of courage, which helped him greatly. Yet as the day drew near he felt himself clinging desperately to his post, and hoping against hope, even at the eleventh hour, to see some daylight through his great difficulty. Had he known that on that very last day but one Mr Bickers had received by the post a certain letter, he might have felt tempted to delay till to-morrow the final strapping-up of his portmanteau. For Mr Bickers's letter was from Branscombe; and was as follows:-- "Sir,--I have been expecting to return to Grandcourt all this term, but I am sorry to say I have been ill again, and the doctor says I shall have to go abroad for some months. Before I go, I feel I must make a confession which will surprise you as much to read as it pains me to write it. I was the ringleader in the attack upon you last term at the door of Mr Railsford's house. I was very angry at the time at having been punished by you before all my house. But I am very sorry now for what happened, and hope you will in time forgive me. I know what trouble my conduct has caused, not only to you, but to Mr Railsford, whose house has been unjustly punished for what was my offence. There were three of us in it. One was another boy of your house, and the other was in Mr Railsford's house, only all he did was to show us the cupboard in which we put you. I should be glad to think, before I go away, that things are put right at Grandcourt by this confession. Please forgive me for my revengeful act, and, believe me, sir, yours truly,-- "S. Branscombe. "P.S.--Please show this letter to Dr Ponsford and Mr Railsford." This startling letter Mr Bickers read over several times, with great amazement and no less vexation. He was angry, not at the injury which had been done to himself, but because this letter had come just when it did. To-morrow, in all probability, his enemy would have left Grandcourt, and then it would be less matter. For even if the truth were then made known, Railsford's offence in shielding the evil-doer would remain the same. But now this letter might spoil everything. It would, at any rate, postpone Railsford's departure, and might give him an opportunity of reinstating himself for good at Grandcourt. Mr Bickers was in a quandary. He was by nature a vindictive, jealous, and fussy man, with a low opinion of everybody, and an extreme obstinacy in his own opinion. But he was not naturally a dishonest man. It was only when his other passions rushed out strongly in one direction, and his integrity stood on the other side, that his honour suffered shipwreck and went by the board. It did so now, for Mr Bickers, having thought over the situation, deliberately put the letter into his pocket, and went about his usual avocations as if nothing had happened. Any amount of excuses rushed in to his assistance. After all, there had been three culprits, and one of them belonged to the accused house. Railsford, no doubt, was shielding his own boy, and Branscombe's confession affected in no way his offence or the penalty attached to it. On the whole, there was nothing to make Mr Bickers uncomfortable, and it was observed in the masters' hall that evening that he made himself quite agreeable, and even nodded in a half-friendly way to Railsford on the occasion of his last appearance at school-dinner. After the Master of the Shell had retired to his house the doctor asked his other lieutenants to remain a few moments, as he had a statement to make to them. Every one knew what that statement was to be. "It is only right that I should inform you," said Dr Ponsford, "that I have considered it my duty to accept Mr Railsford's resignation, and that he leaves Grandcourt to-morrow. I confess that I do this with great pain and regret, for I have the highest opinion of Mr Railsford's abilities and character. But discipline must be maintained in a school like ours. I have no doubt that in acting as he has done Mr Railsford considers that he is acting honourably. I do not wish to impugn his motives, mistaken as I suppose them. But the fact remains that he virtually admits his knowledge of the offender last term, and at the same time refuses to give him up to justice. Under those circumstances I had no choice but to accept his resignation." For a moment Branscombe's letter burned uncomfortably in Mr Bickers's pocket while the doctor was speaking. But it cooled again, and when Mr Grover said,-- "I am sure, sir, you will not misunderstand me when I say that your statement has caused some of us the deepest pain," he felt himself able to join in the universal "Hear, hear," with quiet fervour. "We fully recognise," continued Mr Grover, "that under the circumstances you had only this one course left open to you. At the same time, we who know and esteem our colleague, feel that his removal will be a distinct loss to Grandcourt, and would like to add our own opinion to yours, that in the course he has considered it right to take, he has been actuated by conscientious and honourable motives." Mr Bickers having said, "Hear, hear" once, did not feel called upon to repeat it at the end of this short speech, and was, indeed, rather glad to hurry back to his own house. He had an idea that this time to-morrow he should feel considerably more comfortable. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. CLEARING UP, AND CLEARING OUT. Railsford's farewell evening in his house was not destined to be a peaceful one. He had scarcely returned from the masters' dinner, meditating a few final touches to his packing, when Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, waited upon him. The baronet was evidently agitated; and more than that, his face was one-sided, and one of his eyes glowed with all the colours of the rainbow. "Why, Oakshott," said the master, "what is the matter? You have been fighting." "That's not half of it," said Dig excitedly. "I say, Marky--I mean Mr Railsford; please Herapath wants to see you. He's in a bad way up- stairs. It's that cad Felgate. He's bashed us. He was in an awful wax about the dodge we played him over that sack, you know, and tried to pay us out the other day; but we kept him out. But he's been waiting his chance ever since; and when I was out of the study this evening, he came in, and gave it hot to Herapath. When I got back, Arthur was about done, and then Felgate turned on me. If I'd been bigger, I could have got a stroke or two in at his face; but I couldn't do it. I barked his shins though, and gave him one on the neck with my left. So he didn't get it all his own way. But, I say, can't you come up and see old Herapath? You haven't got any raw beef-steaks about, have you? He'll want a couple to set him right." Railsford hurried up-stairs. Arthur was lying on his sofa, blinking up at the ceiling with his one open eye--an eloquent testimony both to his friend's veracity and to the activity of his assailant. "You see," he began, almost before Railsford reached the patient, so anxious was he to excuse his battered appearance, "he caught me on the hop, Marky, when I never expected him, and gave me no time to square up to him. I could have made a better fight of it if he'd given me time between the rounds; but he didn't." Railsford made no remark on the unequal conflict, but did what he could to assist the sufferer, and reduce his countenance to its normal dimensions. Arthur was far less concerned at his wounds than at the moral injury which he had suffered in being so completely punished in the encounter. He feared Railsford would entertain a lower opinion of him in consequence. "If I'd have only known he was coming, I could have made it hotter for him," he said; "only he got my head in chancery early, and though I lashed out all I could, he took it out of me. Marky, do you mind feeling if my ribs are all right? I sort of fancied one of 'em had gone." His ribs, however, were all there; and badly as he was bruised, Railsford was able to pronounce that no bones were broken, which greatly relieved both the boys. The master helped the wounded warrior to undress, and then assisted him up to the dormitory, where, after carefully tucking him up, and advising Dig to turn in too, he left him and returned to his room. His impulse was immediately to summon Felgate, and mete out to him exemplary chastisement for his dastardly act. But on second thoughts he remembered that he was, or rather he would be to-morrow, no longer master of the house. Besides, much as the chastisement might have relieved his own feelings, it would leave the house and everyone in it in much the same position as heretofore. Putting everything together, he decided that his last official act should be to report the matter to the doctor next morning, and leave him to deal with it. Having come to which conclusion, he strapped up his portmanteau, and sent an order to Jason for his cab to-morrow. He was meditating an early retirement to bed, when a knock sounded at the door, and the three prefects entered. It seemed a long while since their first embarrassed meeting in that same room at the beginning of last term. Much had happened since then. The house had gone down into the depths and risen to the heights. There had come disgrace and glory, defeat and victory. The ranks of the prefects themselves had been broken, and the master himself had ended his brief career amongst his boys. But as great a change as any had been the growing respect and sympathy between Railsford and his head boys. It was long since he had learned the secret that sympathy is the golden key to a boy's heart. As long as he tried to do without it, sitting on his high horse, and regarding his pupils as mere things to be taught and ordered and punished, he had failed. But from the moment he had seized the golden opportunity presented by the misfortune of the house to throw in his lot with it, and make his interests and ambitions those of his boys, he had gained a hold which no other influence could have given him. His prefects had led the way in the reaction which had set in in his favour, and perfect confidence bound them all together in no common bond. "Do you mind our disturbing you, sir?" said Ainger. "We didn't want you to go without our telling you how awfully sorry we are. We don't know what will become of the house." "I'm not sure that I much care," said Stafford. "How good of you to come like this!" said the master. "For I wanted to talk to you. You _must_ care, Stafford, and all of you. You surely aren't going to give up all the work of these two terms just because a little misfortune has befallen us?" "It's not a little misfortune," said Ainger, "but a very great one." "All the more reason you should not be knocked over by it. Didn't we all set ourselves to work last term in the face of a big misfortune, and didn't we get some good out of it for the house? It will be my one consolation in leaving to feel sure you will not let the work of the house flag an inch. Remember, Railsford's is committed to the task of becoming cock house of the school. Our eleven is quite safe. I'm certain no team in all the rest of the houses put together can beat us. But you must see we give a good account of ourselves on prize-day too. Some of the boys have nagged a little lately in work. We must keep them up to it--not by bullying--nobody will work for that--but by working on their ambition, and making the cause of each boy the cause of the whole house." Railsford, as he uttered these words, seemed to forget how soon he would have to say "you" instead of "we." He had hardly realised yet what that meant. "We'll try hard," said Ainger. "But what we wanted to say, besides letting you know how sorry we are, was to ask if it's really necessary for you to go. Is there no way of getting out of it?" "None at all, that I can see," said Railsford. "Fellows say you know who it was assaulted Mr Bickers last term and won't tell. Perhaps it's to save some fellow in the house from being expelled. But--" "My dear fellows," said Railsford, "don't let's spoil our last evening by talking about this miserable affair. I can't tell you anything at all: I can only ask you to believe I have good reasons for what I'm doing. They ought to be good reasons, if the price I have to pay is to leave Grandcourt, and all of you." It was evidently no use trying to "draw" him further; and as the first bed bell sounded shortly afterwards, they withdrew after a cordial but dismal farewell. "I shall see you again in the morning before I go," said he. The prefects walked away abstracted and downcast. It was all very well for him to say, "Keep the work up when I am gone." But how were they to do it? He was the pivot on which all their work had been turning; and without him what chance was there of keeping the house together for a day? "Come in here a minute, you fellows," said Ainger, as they reached the captain's door. "We _must_ do something to stop it." "That's a very feeble observation to make," said Barnworth. "Is that what you want us to come in here for?" "No, hang it, Barnworth! there's no time for chaff at present. What I want to say is, have we tried every possible means of finding out who scragged Bickers last term?" "I think so," said Stafford. "Every one in the house has denied it. If it's one of our fellows, it's probably the biggest liar among us." "Which means Felgate?" said Ainger. "Or Munger," said Barnworth. "It's not Felgate," said Ainger, "for he has burnt his fingers in trying to fix it on Railsford himself; and it he was the real culprit, you may depend on it he'd have kept very quiet." "Munger _has_ kept quiet," said Barnworth. "Munger! Why, he's a fool and a coward both. He could never have done such a thing." "Let's ask him. I'll tell you why I mentioned him. I never thought of it till now. The other day I happened to be saying at dinner to somebody that that affair was going to be cleared up at last, and that the doctor had been in consultation with Bickers and Railsford about it the evening before--you know, that's what we were told--and would probably come across--this was an embellishment of my own--with a policeman, and point the fellow out. Munger was sitting opposite me, and when I began to speak he had just filled his tumbler with water, and was going to drink it. But half-way through he suddenly stopped, and put the tumbler down with such a crack on the table that he spilt half the water on to the cloth. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but it occurs to me now." "Well," said Ainger, "it's an off-chance. Staff, do you mind bringing him?" "The one thing to do," said Barnworth, while the messenger was gone, "is to frighten it out of him. Nothing else will do." "Well," said Ainger, "if you think so. You must back me up, though." After a long interval, Stafford returned to say that Munger was in bed and refused to get up. "Good," said Barnworth; "I like that. Now, Staff, you amiable old boy, will you kindly go to him again and say that the prefects are waiting for him in the captain's study, and that if he is not here in five minutes they will have to do without him. I fancy that's true, isn't it?" he added, appealing to his colleagues. "Let's see if that doesn't draw him. If it does, depend upon it there was something in that tumbler." Barnworth was right. In less than five minutes Munger appeared, half- dressed, and decidedly uneasy in his manner. "What do you want me for?" he demanded, with an attempt at bluster. "What do you mean by not coming when we sent for you, when you know perfectly well what you are wanted for?" "What am I wanted for?" asked Munger, glancing nervously round. "You know well enough, Munger." "How do I know, till you tell me?" snarled the boy. "If he doesn't know," said Barnworth to Ainger, significantly, "we must do as we proposed. I'll go and get my papers and be ready for you in a minute." This meaningless speech had a remarkable effect on Munger. He stared first at one prefect, then at the other; and when Barnworth rose as if to leave the room, he said,-- "Wait--don't do that. What is it you want to ask?" "You know that as well as we do. Are you going to say what you know, or not?" "I don't know how you got to know anything about it," began Munger; "it's a plot against me, and--" "We don't want all that," said Ainger sternly. "What we want to know is, did you do it yourself, and if not who else was in it?" "Of course I couldn't do it myself. _You_ couldn't, strong as you are." "You helped, then?" "I had nothing to do with the--the scragging," said Munger. "I--Oh, I say, Ainger, you aren't going to get me expelled, surely? Do let us off this time!" "I'm not the head-master; you'll have to ask him that. Your only chance is to make a clean breast of it at once. What was it you did?" "I only opened the door of the boot-box, and helped drag him in. I had nothing to do with the scragging. Branscombe did all that himself, and Clipstone hung to his legs." It needed all the self-control of the three prefects to refrain from an exclamation of astonishment at this wonderful disclosure. "Are you telling the truth?" demanded Ainger. "I am--I swear it--I never even knew what they meant to do till an hour before. It was Clipstone's idea, and I--owed him money for betting, and he had a pull on me, and made me do it. But I swear I never touched Bickers except to help pull him in." "Now, one question more. Was there anyone else in it, but just you three?" "Nobody, as sure as I stand here." "Very well, you can go now. We shall have to tell the doctor, of course, and there's no knowing what he will do. But it's been your best chance to make a clean breast of it while you had the opportunity." The wretched Munger departed to his bed, but not to sleep. He could not conceive how Railsford first, and then these three prefects, should have discovered his deeply hidden secret. Not a word about it had escaped his own lips. Branscombe was away, and Clipstone scarcely anyone in Railsford's house ever saw. But the secret was out, and what kept Munger awake that night was neither shame nor remorse, but fear lest he should be expelled, or, perhaps worse, arrested! The three prefects sat late, talking over their wonderful discovery. "It's good as far as it goes," said Barnworth. "But it doesn't clear up the question how Railsford got to hear of it, and what his motive has been in shielding the criminals. It can't have been on Munger's account, for the two have been at war all the term; and I don't suppose since the affair he has exchanged two words with either Branscombe or Clipstone." "Don't you think," said the captain, "that now we do know all about it, we might go and ask him?" It was a brilliant suggestion, and they went. But Railsford was in bed and asleep; and his visitors, important as was their business, had not the hardihood to arouse him, and were reluctantly obliged to postpone their explanation till the morning. Even then they seemed destined to be thwarted; for Railsford had gone for a bathe in the river, and only returned in time for call-over; when of course there was no opportunity for a private conference. But as soon as breakfast was over they determined to catch him in his room, and put an end to their suspense there and then. Alas! not five minutes before they arrived, Railsford had gone out, this time, as Cooke informed them, to the doctor's. It seemed a fatality, and who was to say whether his next move might be to quit Grandcourt without even giving them a chance? "The only thing to do is to go and catch him at the doctor's," said Ainger; "we've a right to go--at least I have--to report Munger." "All serene," said Barnworth, "better for you to go alone. It would only put Pony's back up if we all went." For once in his life Ainger felt that there were some dignities connected with the captaincy of a house; and for once in his life he would have liked to transfer those dignities to any shoulders but his own. But he put a bold face on it, and marched across to the doctor's. "Perhaps I shall only make it worse for Railsford," said he to himself. "Pony will think it precious rum of us to have let two terms go by without finding the secret out, and then, when it suits us to find it, getting hold of it in half an hour. So it is, precious rum! And if Railsford has known the names all along and kept them quiet, it's not likely to make things better for him that we have discovered them on our own account. Anyhow, I'm bound to report a thing like this at once, and it's barely possible it may turn something up for Railsford." As he crossed the quadrangle a cab drove in, and set down a tall, elderly gentleman, who, after looking about him, advanced towards the prefect, and said,-- "Can you direct me to the head-master's house?" "Yes, sir," said Ainger, "I'm going there myself. It's this way." It wasn't often strangers made so early a call at Grandcourt. "A fine old building, this," said the gentleman; "how many houses are there?" "Eight," said Ainger. "And whose do you belong to?" "Railsford's. That's his, behind us." "And which is Mr Bickers?" "This must be the father of one of Bickers' fellows," thought Ainger. "That one next to ours," he replied. The gentleman looked up at the house in an interested way, and then relapsed into silence and walked gravely with his guide to the doctor's. The doctor's waiting-room was not infrequently tenanted by more than one caller on business at that hour of the morning. For between nine and ten he was at home to masters and prefects and ill-conducted boys; and not a few of the latter knew by painful experience that a good deal of serious business was often crowded into that short space of time. This morning, however, there was only one occupant when Ainger and the gentleman were ushered in. That occupant was Railsford. "Why, Ainger," said the master, scarcely noticing the stranger, "I did not expect you here. What are you come for?" "To report a boy." "Which one, and for what? Is it a bad case?" "It's Munger, sir, for being one of the party who assaulted Bickers last term." Railsford started. And it was an odd thing that the gentleman, although his back was turned, did so too. "How did you discover that?" said the master. Ainger briefly explained, and the gentleman, evidently disturbed in his mind, walked to the window. When the conference between the other two had ended the latter turned abruptly and said,-- "Excuse me, but I accidentally overheard you just now mention a matter in which I am very much interested. In fact, it is about it that I am here to see Dr Ponsford at present." At that moment the doctor entered the room. The other two naturally gave way to the visitor, who accordingly advanced and greeted the head- master. "Allow me to introduce myself, Dr Ponsford; I dare say you do not remember me. My name is Branscombe. You know, of course, the painful business on which I have come." "I hope, Mr Branscombe, your son is no worse. We should be sorry to lose him. We looked upon him as a promising boy." The gentleman looked hard at the doctor. "You surely say this to spare my feelings. Dr Ponsford. Of course I understand my son can never return here." "Is that so? I am truly sorry." "You would be the last to wish him to return to a school in which his name has been so disgraced." It was the doctor's turn to look astonished. "Disgraced? Branscombe was always one of our model boys." "Until last term," said the father. "I don't understand you," said the doctor. "Surely, Dr Ponsford, you know by this time my son's offence. I do not attempt to excuse it. He voluntarily took the only right step to take in his position by confessing." "Pardon me," said the doctor, "but I still do not understand. What confession do you refer to?" "Has not Mr Bickers communicated the contents of my son's letter to him, written two days ago? He must have received it yesterday morning. In it my boy confessed that he, assisted by two others, had been the author of the outrage on Mr Bickers last term. He is deeply repentant, and wishes by this confession to put right all the mischief which has resulted from his act. But surely Mr Bickers has shown you the letter?" "He has neither shown me it nor mentioned it." "Is it possible? My boy was so anxious and restless about the affair that I promised him to come down and see you; fully expecting that long before now you would have been made acquainted with everything. Would it trouble you to send for Mr Bickers?" "Certainly," said the doctor. Then, turning to Ainger and Railsford, he said, "Would you two come again later on? and on your way, Ainger, will you ask Mr Bickers to come here?" "Excuse me, doctor," said Mr Branscombe, "but I should much prefer if these two gentlemen remained. I believe, in fact, that--although I do not know them--they have come to see you on this same business that I have." "Perhaps, Railsford--" began the doctor, when his visitor broke in, "Railsford! Is this Railsford? Why, to be sure, now I look at you. How ungrateful you must have thought me! but you slipped away so suddenly that day when Mrs Branscombe and I arrived, that in our excitement and anxiety we scarcely had time to look at you; much less to thank you. Indeed, it was only lately my son told me how devotedly you had tended him; and it breaks his heart now to think that you, of all persons, have suffered almost more than anybody by what he did. Surely, sir, Mr Bickers showed _you_ his letter?" "No, I have not seen or heard of it," said Railsford. "But I know what you say your son has now confessed; and have known it since the time of his illness. Dr Ponsford, I am at liberty now to explain myself; may I do so?" "Certainly," said the doctor sternly. Railsford thereupon gave an account of the boy's sudden illness, and of the accidental manner in which he had learned, from the boy's delirious talk, of his own guilt and the guilt of his confederates. "I could not but regard a secret so acquired as sacred," said he; "and even though by keeping it I was actually shielding criminals, I should have been a greater traitor to betray them than to shield them." "May I say, sir," put in Ainger at this point, "that the prefects in our house last night received a confession from Munger, which corresponds exactly with what Mr Branscombe says?" "Except that I did not mention the names of the other two culprits," said Mr Branscombe. "My son did not even name them to me." "Munger was not so particular. He says Clipstone suggested the affair, and assisted Branscombe to carry it out; while he himself held the light and helped drag Mr Bickers into the boot-box. That was what I had come to report to you now, sir," added he to the head-master. Dr Ponsford looked half stunned with this cascade of revelations and explanations. Then he went up to Railsford and took his hand. "I am thankful indeed that all this has happened now--in time. A few hours more, and it would have come too late to prevent a great injustice to you, Railsford. Ainger, go for Mr Bickers, and come back with him." Mr Bickers had a tolerable inkling of what awaited him, and when he found himself confronted with all the overwhelming evidence which was crowded that morning into the doctor's waiting-room, he hauled down his colours without even coming to close quarters. "Yes," said he sullenly, "I did keep back the letter. I considered it better for Grandcourt and everyone that Mr Railsford should go than that this old affair should be settled. After all, I was the person chiefly interested in it, and if I didn't choose to do what would vindicate myself, I had a right to do so. My opinion is that there will be no peace at Grandcourt while Mr Railsford is here. If he is now to remain, I shall consider it my duty to resign." "I hope not, Mr Bickers," said Railsford. "Now that this unhappy secret is cleared up, why shouldn't we forget the past, and work together for the future? I promise for myself and my house to do our best." "Thank you," said Mr Bickers dryly. "The offer is a tempting one, but it is not good enough. Good-morning." Late that afternoon Mr Bickers drove away in the cab which had come to take Mr Railsford. It was an occasion for rejoicing to nobody--for everybody agreed with Railsford that it would have been possible even yet to make a fresh start and work together for the good of the school. But, as Mr Bickers thought otherwise, no one complained of him for leaving. Another cab came on the following day for Clipstone, whose departure was witnessed with rather more regret, because he was a good cricketer, and not quite as bad a fellow as he often tried to make out. His expulsion was a salutary warning to one or two who had looked up to him as a model--amongst them to Munger, who, transferred, with a heavy bad mark against his name, to Mr Roe's house, thought over his former ways, and tried, as well as a cad of his temper can do, to improve them in the future. Jason surely was making his fortune fast. For the very next day yet one more cab drove into the square, and, after a brief halt, drove away with Felgate. He left Grandcourt regretted by none, least of all by Arthur Herapath, who, with a beef-steak on his cheek and linseed poultice over his temple, whooped defiantly at the retreating cab from his dormitory window, and began to feel better and better as the rumble of the wheels gradually receded and finally lost itself in the distance. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. "DULCE DOMUM." The great 20th day of July had come round at last, and Arthur Herapath was in an unwonted flutter of excitement. For was not this speech-day, and were not Mr and Mrs Herapath and Daisy due by the 9.40 train? Ever since, a week ago, Arthur had heard that he had run a dead heat for the Swift Exhibition with Smythe of the School-House, he had not known which end of him was uppermost. He envied neither Smedley his gold medal nor Barnworth his Cavendish scholarship. He condoled patronisingly with Ainger on not having quite beaten the captain of the school, and virtually hinted to Wake, who had won the first remove into the Sixth, that, if he cared to come and sit at his feet, he might be able to put him up to a thing or two for Plumtre medal next Christmas. Sir Digby was scarcely less elevated; for he had won the Shell History prize by a deal of tremendous hard work. And as he had never done such a thing in his life before, he scarcely knew what to make of it. Fellows told him there must have been an awful shady lot in against him; but that didn't satisfactorily explain the great mystery. Railsford told him it was the reward of downright work; and he inclined to think such was the case himself. Arthur of course gibed at the idea. "All gammon," said he. "It's a lucky fluke for you, and I'm glad for your _mater's_ sake. But I wouldn't say too much about it if I were you. It'll make the fellows grin." "Why should they grin at me any more than you?" "Well, you see, I was in the running for the Swift. They put it down to me last term, so I was bound to pull it off." "You only pulled off half of it, you know," said Dig. Arthur looked not quite pleased at this reference, but laughed it off. "Oh, of course, I can't object to go halves with young Smythe. If I'd known he was quite so hot on it, I might have spurted a bit more. But I'm glad I didn't, poor young beggar. He'd have been precious cut up to miss it." "What about that boat on the river?" asked Dig, who did not swallow the whole of this. "Are you going to buy the front or back half of it?" "Young Oakshott," said Arthur, with all the dignity of a Swift exhibitioner, "don't you make a bigger ass of yourself than you can help." The term had ended well for Railsford's house. Although restored to their equal rights with the rest of Grandcourt, the spirit of enterprise and achievements which had been born during the troubles of last term survived, and begot an equal spirit in the other houses, who felt their _prestige_ in danger from the bold challenge of these latest aspirants. The match of Railsford's against the School did not come off; for the Athletic Union, of which Railsford had been chosen president by acclamation, decided to limit the contests to house matches only. But though deprived of an opportunity of asserting themselves against all Grandcourt--which might have been of doubtful benefit--the house beat successively the School-house, Roe's and Grover's houses, and, as everyone had foreseen, ended the term as the crack cricket house of the school. How they would fulfil their other and more ambitious scheme of becoming the "cock house" for studies, remained much longer a doubtful question. No one of course supposed for a moment they would carry off all the prizes they entered for; and, after the removal of the ban upon the house, it was pretty generally calculated they they would do a great deal less than they would have done under the old order of things. But Railsford was not the man to allow the house to rest on their oars because of a single success. Surely, he represented, it was not to go out to all the school that Railsford's fellows could only work when they were in a bad temper? Glorious as it would have been to clear the prize list when they were isolated and sulky, it would be still more glorious to show that not less could they do it when they were in good cheer and shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the school. Besides, if they won all the athletic events and none of the scholastic, people would be sure to say any fools can excel in sports if they let all their books go by the board. Thus Railsford whipped up his house to their great effort, and the result was that to-day's prize list showed that nearly half the honours of the examinations had fallen to Railsford's boys. Not a few there were who looked gloomy that the result was no better. They grudged the school the other half. But there was no gloom on the master's face as he read the list down and saw the reward of his labours. He was proud, but his pride was not on account of Mark Railsford, as six months ago it might have been, but of every boy, senior and junior, who had put his back gallantly into the work and made a name for the good old house. But this is a tedious digression to make, while Arthur and the baronet are putting on their Sunday "togs" and brushing up their Sunday "tiles" preparatory to going down to meet the 9.40 train from London. They were up to the business; they had done it before; they knew how essential it was to engage half a dozen cabs off different parts of the rank, so as to be sure of getting one; and, not for the first time in their lives they "bagged" three or four porters in advance with a similar object. The platform, as usual, was full of Courtiers waiting for their "people," and many was the passage of arms our Shell-fish engaged in to beguile the time. "Hullo! here's a lark," said Arthur, presently, when the arrival bell had just sounded, "here's Marky--do you see him? I say! won't he blush when Daisy goes and kisses him before all the fellows!" "Look out," said the baronet, "here comes the scrimmage." The train was steaming into the station, and as usual the boys all along the platform began to run; and woe betide those who either did not run too, or were not lucky enough to get a perch on the footboard. Our young gentlemen were far too knowing to suffer disadvantage through neglect of one or another of these simple expedients. "Here they are!" yelled Arthur, waving to his chum; "spotted them first shot! Go on, Simson, cut your sticks off this step; these are all my people in here. How are you? Dig's here; we've got a cab. Fetch up some of our porters, Dig, I say." Amid such effusive greetings Mr and Mrs Herapath and Miss Daisy Herapath alighted and fell into the arms--or rather, civilly shook hands with their son. "Hullo, Daisy! Marky's here. There he comes. Here she is, Mr Railsford; here's Daisy! I say, Daisy," added he, in a confidential whisper, "you'd better not kiss him before all the fellows. Wait till you get up to our study." Railsford arrived before this piece of fraternal counsel was ended, and solved the difficulty by quietly shaking hands all round, and asking Mrs Herapath if she had had a comfortable journey. Arthur had the mortification of seeing five out of his six cabs drive gaily off under his very nose with other fellows' people inside; and his temper was also further ruffled when all his porters waited on him at the door of the sixth for their fee; however, he had the presence of mind to tell them to wait till he came back in the evening, and then, slamming the cab door, hopped up on the box beside the driver--no Grandcourt boy had ever been known to ride inside a four-wheeler with his people--and drove off. It was a gay scene in the great quadrangle that summer morning--fathers, mothers, sisters, cousins, and aunts were all mixed up in one glorious crowd, with their boys mounting guard over them and introducing them right and left to all the other boys within call. Mr and Mrs Herapath, like their son, were up to the business, and quietly led the way through the throng towards the hall where the speeches were to be delivered and where, as they knew by experience, it was better to look for a seat too early than too late. Arthur and Dig, however, were by no means disposed to waste Daisy in so unprofitable an occupation, and therefore haled her off to their study. Some of us, who know the young lady, are able to excuse the pride with which these two gallant tenders towed their prize into port--for as Dig shared Arthur's study, of course he shared his sister on this occasion. It wanted a very few dropping and facetious introductions on the way, such as, "Daisy, you know, my sister," or "What cheer, Sherry?--ever hear of Chuckey?" or, "No good, Maple, my boy, bespoke!" to set the rumour going that Daisy Herapath, Marky's "spoon," was come, and was "on show" in Herapath's study. To her credit be it said, the young lady bore her ordeal with exemplary patience and good-humour. She liked everything she saw. She admired the study so much. What a pretty look-out on the old square--what a luxurious lunch--ah! Arthur had not forgotten her weakness for marmalade--and so on. The boys voted her a brick; and Arthur went so far as to say he hoped she and Marky would fix it up in time for her to come and be dame of the house before he left. All this time--would you believe it?--the poor Master of the Shell was sitting in his study, very bashful, and wondering whether he would get a chance of speaking to Daisy during the day at all. She had been spirited away from under his very eyes, in the most truculent manner, by her graceless brother; and it seemed very doubtful whether he would be allowed-- Mrs Hastings at this moment knocked at the door and handed in a dainty little note addressed to "Mark Railsford, Esquire," from the doctor's niece. "Dear Mr Railsford," wrote Miss Violet, "will you and Miss Herapath join us at lunch before the speeches? I should so like to make her acquaintance. "Yours truly,-- "Violet Ponsford." So Railsford, armed with this authority, sallied forth boldly to recapture his Daisy. He thought he knew where to find her, and was not mistaken. The little impromptu lunch was in full swing when he entered the festive study. He had rarely felt so embarrassed, and the manifest excitement of his two pupils at his arrival did not tend to restore him to ease. And now occurred a wonderful case of presence of mind on the part of two small and tender boys. No sooner had Railsford entered, and somewhat hesitatingly advanced to the table, preparatory to stating his business, than Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, winked at Arthur Herapath, Esquire, and Arthur Herapath, Esquire, kicked Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, under the table; after which both rose abruptly to their feet and bolted from the room, making the corridor echo with their laughter! They explained afterwards that they wanted to bag front seats for the speeches; and that, no doubt, was a highly satisfactory reason. At twelve o'clock, when the Earl of Somebody, and Sir Brown Robinson, and the other local celebrities and governors of the school entered the hall, that usually dingy room was packed from end to end by a brilliant and expectant crowd. The radiant faces of the boys peeped out from among the phalanges of their no less radiant people. The prize boys on the front benches kept up a running fire of talk and cheering; the masters in their gowns beamed right and left, as if all of them put together could not give a fellow a hundred lines if he asked for it; and the college servants, grouped at the doors, smiled as if no cloud had ever ruffled their temper since last speech-day: while the doctor, as he rose, resplendent in his academical robes, and called for silence, looked as if no more solemn question had engaged his attention all the term than the arrangement of his strings and the droop of the scarlet hood on his back. Then speech-day began. My readers hardly want me to describe so familiar a scene. They will be able to picture to themselves, better than I can picture it for them, how Smedley was cheered when he got up to deliver the English Oration in honour of the old school; and how he blushed and ran short of breath when he came to the quotation from Milton at the end, which had something about a Violet in it!--how, when Ainger rose to give the Greek Speech, his own fellows rose at him amid cries of "Well run, sir!" "Well hit!" "Well fielded!" and cheered every sentence of the Greek, though they had not an idea what it was about--how Barnworth was similarly encouraged through his Latin Oration with cries of "Jump it out!" "One inch more!" mingled sometimes with "False quantity!" "Speak up, prompter!"--how, after the speechifying was done, the examiners rose and made their reports, which nobody listened to and everyone voted a bore. How, next, Dr Ponsford rose with a rustle of his silk gown, which was heard all over the hall in the dead silence, and proceeded to tell the Earl of Somebody and the other distinguished guests what everybody knew, namely, that the school had now come to the end of another year's work, and etcetera, etcetera. But how, when he took up his list, and the tables containing the prizes were wheeled forward and uncovered, attention once more awoke, the boys on the prize benches settled their cravats, and felt if their hair-partings were all right, and then sat back in their places with a delightful simulation of indifference-- The reader knows all about it; he has been through it. He knows the cheers which hailed the announcement that Smedley was going up to Oxford with a Balliol scholarship in his pocket, and that Ainger had won one of the minor scholarships at George's. He does not need to be told of the shouts which greeted the appearance of boy after boy from Railsford's house on the platform steps to receive his prize; or of the grim smile on the doctor's face as a youthful voice from the prize benches, forgetting the solemnity of the occasion, shouted, "Marky again, bravo us!" Nor when presently Arthur Herapath was called up to receive a piece of paper informing him that he was the winner of half the Swift Exhibition, or when, close behind, Digby Oakshott--the doctor scurrilously omitted his full title--trotted up to accept the Shell History prize--can anyone who has been in such a scene before fail to imagine the cheers and laughter and chaff which the public appearance of these two notorious characters evoked? So the ceremony went on--and the reader, I think, can bear me out when I say that, after an hour of it, I distinctly saw--for I was there, near the front--several ladies yawn behind their fans, and otherwise show signs of fatigue, so that when the poor little Babies, who had done as honest work as anybody, toddled up to get their little prizes, scarcely anybody looked at them, and were glad when they were polished off. Which I thought a shame; and resolved, whenever I am head-master of a public school, I shall turn my prize list upside down and call the Babies up first. It was all over at last; and then followed that wonderful event, the speech-day dinner, when boys and visitors all sat down promiscuously to the festive board and celebrated the glories of the day with a still more glorious spread. Arthur and Dig were in high feather. They had, I am sorry to say, "shunted" their progenitors up to the doctor's table, and, in the congenial society of some of their own "lot," were jammed in at one of the side tables, with just elbow-room enough to do execution. Arthur was comfortably packed between Sherriff's sister and Maple's second cousin, and cheered by game pie and mellowed by ginger ale, made himself vastly agreeable. "See that chap with the sandy wig!" said he to Miss Sherriff, "he's a baronet--Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, A.S.S., P.I.G., and nobody knows what else--he's my chum; aren't you, Dig? Sherriff's sister, you know, make yourself civil, can't you? Dig can make you laugh sometimes," added he, aside, to his fair neighbour. Then his genial eye roamed up and down the room and lit up suddenly as he perceived, with their backs to him, Railsford and Daisy dining happily at the next table. He gave a whistle to Dig, and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. Dig, who was in the middle of a pull at the ginger ale, put down his tankard suddenly and crammed his handkerchief into his mouth. "Such a game!" said Arthur to Maple's second cousin on his right. "Look round, behind you. Do you see them?" "See whom?" asked the young lady. "Those two. Regular pair of spoons; look at him helping her to raspberry pie. Oh, my word!" "Who are they?" asked his neighbour, laughing. But Arthur was at that moment busy attracting the attention of all his friends within call, and indicating to them in pantomimic gesture what was going on. "Oh," said he, hearing the question at last, "that's Marky, our house- master, you know; and he's spoons on my sister Daisy--just see how they're going it. Do you want to be introduced to my sister? I say, I'll--" "Oh, no indeed, not yet," said the young lady in alarm, "presently, please." "All right. Dig, I say, pass the word down to those fellows to fill up their mugs, do you hear? And fill up Sherriff's sister's mug too, and all those girls' down there. Look out now, and keep your eye on me." Whereupon he rose and made a little speech, partially audible to those immediately round him, but supremely inaudible to the two parties specially concerned behind. "We're going to drink a toast," said Arthur. "I vote we drink the health of jolly old Marky and my sister Daisy; there they are behind, going the pace like a house on fire. Gentlemen and ladies, I vote we drink their very good health, and the sooner Daisy's the dame of Railsford's the better larks for us." The toast was honoured with much enthusiasm; and there were loud cries for a speech in return. But the Master of the Shell was making speeches of quite another kind, and utterly unconscious of the flattering little demonstration which was taking place behind him; he was telling Daisy in whispers the story of the term, and feeling himself rewarded for all he had gone through by her sympathetic smile. The dinner ended at last, and but one more ceremony remained. This was the time-honoured cheering with which speech-day at Grandcourt always came to an end. Smedley and the prefects walked in procession to the head table and ranged themselves behind the head governor's chair, while everyone stood up. "Three cheers for Grandcourt!" called the captain. And you may fancy the earthquake that ensued. Then in regular order followed-- "Three cheers for the doctor!" "Three cheers for Miss Violet!" "Three cheers for the governors!" Then again, in regular order, the captain of each house stepped forward and called for three cheers for his own house, all of which were vigorously given--each house being on its mettle to drown all the others. Last in the list Ainger stepped forward and called for "Three cheers for Railsford's!" Then Arthur and Dig and the rest of the house got upon their chairs and put their backs into the shout; and everyone allowed that, whatever else Railsford's wasn't first in, it could carry off the palm for noise. At the end of the third cheer a voice called out,-- "One more for the cock house!" Whereat Arthur and Dig and the rest of them got on their chairs again and yelled till the roof rang. Then amid a multitude of promiscuous cheers for "the captain," "the prefects," "the cook," "Jason," "the school cat," "Thucydides!" and finally for "Dulce Domum!" Grandcourt broke up for the holidays. Let you and me, friendly reader, say good-bye here amid all the cheery bustle and excitement of the crowded quadrangle. It is better to part so than to linger about talking morality till the great square is empty--till the last of the cabs has rumbled away out of hearing--till the echoes of our own voices come back and startle us from behind the chapel buttresses. If we wait till then, we part sadly and miss the promise of a meeting again. But if we part now, while Arthur, on the box of his cab, with his "people" safely stowed inside, is whooping his noisy farewells right and left--while Smedley, with his Balliol scholarship in his pocket, is leaving Grandcourt for good, and casting his last shy look up at the doctor's window--while Messrs. Roe, Grover, and Railsford are talking cheerfully of their Highland trip in August-- while monsieur, humming _Partant pour la Syrie_, is hurrying away to his own dear France and his still dearer little girls--while Ainger and Barnworth, the old and the new captains of Railsford's, are grasping hands at the door--if we part now, we part not as those who bid a long farewell, but as those who think and talk of meeting again. 
21098	----	The Independence of Claire By Mrs George de Horne Vaizey ________________________________________________________________________ This is a rather typical Horne Vaizey book, about the life led by young well-brought-up women in Edwardian times. Worries about money, about who to marry, whether to go or not to parties to be given by elderly hostesses, about clothes, about hair-styles, and even, as so often in this author's books, with a bit of illness thrown in as well. There's a time when Claire seems on the way to making a big mistake, but it all gets sorted out in the end. Make an audiobook of this book - that is probably the best way to enjoy it. ________________________________________________________________________ THE INDEPENDENCE OF CLAIRE BY MRS. GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY CHAPTER ONE. "I'LL HAVE TO DO IT." Claire Gifford stood in the salon of the Brussels pension which had been her home for the last three years, and bent her brows in consideration of an all-absorbing problem. "Can I marry him?" she asked herself once and again, with the baffling result that every single time her brain answered instantly, "_You must_!" the while her heart rose up in rebellion, and cried, "I won't!" Many girls have found themselves in the same predicament before and since, but few have had stronger reasons for sacrificing personal inclination on the altar of filial duty than Claire knew at this minute. To begin with, the relationship between herself and her mother was more intimate than is usually the case, for Claire was an only child, and Mrs Gifford a widow only eighteen years older than herself. Briefly stated, the family history was as follows--Eleanor Guyther had been the only child of stern, old-world parents, and at seventeen had run away from the house which had been more like a prison than a home, to marry a handsome young artist who had been painting in the neighbourhood during the summer months; a handsome merry-faced boy of twenty-one, whose portrait Claire treasured in an old-fashioned gold locket, long since discarded by her mother, who followed the fashion in jewellery as well as in dress. It was strange to look at the face of a father who was no older than oneself, and Claire had spent many hours gazing at the pictured face, and trying to gain from it some idea of the personality of the man of whom her mother persistently refused to speak. Mrs Gifford shrank from all disagreeables, great and small, and systematically turned her back on anything which was disturbing or painful, so that it was only from chance remarks that her daughter had gained any information about the past. She knew that her father had been a successful artist, although not in the highest sense of the term. He had a trick of turning out pretty domestic pictures which appealed to the taste of the million, and which, being purchased by enterprising dealers, were reproduced in cheap prints to deck the walls of suburban parlours. While he lived he made a sufficient income, and before his death a formal reconciliation had taken place between the runaway daughter and her north-country parents, from whom she later inherited the money which had supported herself and her daughter throughout the years of her widowhood. Claire had the vaguest idea as to the amount of her mother's means, for until the last few years the question of money had never arisen, they had simply decided what they wished to do, without considering the cost, but of late there had been seasons of financial tightness, and the morning on which this history begins had brought a most disagreeable awakening. Mrs Gifford was seated in the salon staring disconsolately at a note which had just arrived by the afternoon post. It was a very disagreeable note, for it stated in brief and callous terms that her account at the bank was overdrawn to the extent of three hundred francs, and politely requested that the deficit should be made good. Claire looked flushed and angry; Mrs Gifford looked pathetic and pale. It seemed, in the first place, quite ludicrous that such a relationship as that of mother and daughter should exist between two women who looked so nearly of an age, and Mrs Gifford's youthful appearance was a standing joke in the Pension. Every new visitor was questioned by Madame as to the relationship between the two English ladies, and never had one of the number failed to reply "sisters," and to be convulsed with astonishment when corrected; and in good truth Mrs Gifford was a wonderful specimen of the prolonged youth which is a phenomenon of the present day. She was slight, she was graceful, her waving brown hair was as naturally luxuriant as that of a girl, her complexion was smooth and fair, her pretty features were unchanged, she dressed with good taste, and, though secretly proud of her youthful looks, was never so foolish as to adopt kittenish airs to match. Her manner was quiet, gracious, appealing; a little air of pathos enveloped her like a mist; on strangers she made the impression of a lovely creature who had known suffering. Everybody was kind to Mrs Gifford, and she in return had never been known to utter an unkind word. She had been born with the faculty of loving everybody a little, and no one very much, which--if one comes to think of it--is the most powerful of all factors towards securing an easy life, since it secures the owner from the possibility of keen personal suffering. At the present moment Mrs Gifford did, however, look really perturbed, for, after shutting her eyes to a disagreeable fact, and keeping them shut with much resolution and--it must be added--ease, for many years past, she was now driven to face the truth, and to break it to her daughter into the bargain. "But I don't understand!" Claire repeated blankly. "How _can_ the money be gone? We have spent no more this year than for years past. I should think we have spent less. I haven't been extravagant a bit. You offered me a new hat only last week, and I said I could do without--" "Yes, yes, of course. It's quite true, _cherie_, you have been most good. But, you see, ours has not been a case of an income that goes on year after year--it never was, even from the beginning. There was not enough. And you _did_ have a good education, didn't you? I spared nothing on it. It's folly to stint on a girl's education.--It was one of the best schools in Paris." "It was, mother; but we are not talking about schools. Do let us get to the bottom of this horrid muddle! If it isn't a case of `income,' what can it be? I'm ignorant about money, for you have always managed business matters, but I can't see what else we can have been living upon?" Mrs Gifford crinkled her delicate brows, and adopted an air of plaintive self-defence. "I'm sure it's as great a shock to me as it is to you; but, under the circumstances, I do think I managed very well. It was only nine thousand pounds at the beginning, and I've made it last over thirteen years, _with_ your education! And since we've been here, for the last three years, I've given you a good time, and taken you to everything that was going on. Naturally it all costs. Naturally money can't last for ever..." The blood flooded the girl's face. Now at last she _did_ understand, and the knowledge filled her with awe. "Mother! Do you mean that we have been living all this time on _capital_?" Mrs Gifford shrugged her shoulders, and extended her hands in an attitude typically French. "What would you, _ma chere_? Interest is so ridiculously low. They offered me three per cent. Four was considered high. How could we have lived on less than three hundred a year? Your school bills came to nearly as much, and I had to live, too, and keep you in the holidays. I did what I thought was the best. We should both have been miserable in cheap pensions, stinting ourselves of everything we liked. The money has made us happy for thirteen years." Claire rose from her seat and walked over to the window. The road into which she looked was wide and handsome, lined with a double row of trees. The sun shone on the high white houses with the green _jalousies_, which stood _vis-a-vis_ with the Pension. Along the cobble-stoned path a dog was dragging a milk-cart, the gleaming brass cans clanking from side to side; through the open window came the faint indescribable scent which distinguishes a continental from a British city. Claire stared with unseeing eyes, her heart beating with heavy thuds. She conjured up the image of a man's face--a strong kindly face--a face which might well make the sunshine of some woman's life, but which made no appeal to her own heart. She set her lips, and two bright spots of colour showed suddenly in her cheeks. So smooth and uneventful had been her life that this was the first time that she had found herself face to face with serious difficulty, and, after the first shock of realisation, her spirit rose to meet it. She straightened her shoulders as if throwing off a weight, and her heart cried valiantly, "It's my own life, and I will _not_ be forced! There must be some other way. It's for me to find it!" Suddenly she whirled round, and walked back to her mother. "Mother, if you knew how little money was left, why wouldn't you let me accept Miss Farnborough's offer at Christmas!" For a moment Mrs Gifford's face expressed nothing but bewilderment. Then comprehension dawned. "You mean the school-mistress from London? What was it she suggested? That you should go to her as a teacher? It was only a suggestion, so far as I remember. She made no definite offer." "Oh, yes, she did. She said that she had everlasting difficulty with her French mistresses, and that I was the very person for whom she'd been looking. Virtually French, yet really English in temperament. She made me a definite offer of a hundred and ten pounds a year." Mrs Gifford laughed, and shrugged her graceful shoulders. She appeared to find the proposal supremely ridiculous, yet when people were without money, the only sane course seemed to be to take what one could get. Claire felt that she had not yet mastered the situation. There must be something behind which she had still to grasp. "Well, never mind the school for a moment, mother dear. Tell me what _you_ thought of doing. You must have had some plan in your head all these years while the money was dwindling away. Tell me your scheme, then we can compare the two and see which is better." Mrs Gifford bent her head over the table, and scribbled aimlessly with a pen in which there was no ink. She made no answer in words, yet as she waited the blood flamed suddenly over Claire's face, for it seemed to her that she divined what was in her mother's mind. "I expected that you would marry. I have done my best to educate you and give you a happy youth. I expected that you would accept your first good offer, and look after _me_!" That was what a French mother would naturally say to her daughter; that was what Claire Gifford believed that her own mother was saying to her at that moment, and the accusation brought little of the revolt which an English girl would have experienced. Claire had been educated at a Parisian boarding school, and during the last three years had associated almost entirely with French-speaking Andrees and Maries and Celestes, who took for granted that their husbands should be chosen for them by their parents. Claire had assisted at betrothal feasts, and played _demoiselle d'honneur_ at subsequent weddings, and had witnessed an astonishing degree of happiness as an outcome of these business-like unions. At this moment she felt no anger against her own mother for having tried to follow a similar course. Her prevailing sensation was annoyance with herself for having been so difficult to lead. "It must be my English blood. Somehow, when it came to the point, I never _could_. But Mr Judge is different from most men. He is so good and generous and unmercenary. He'd be kind to mother, and let her live with us, and make no fuss. He is as charming to her as he is to me. Oh, dear, I _am_ selfish! I _am_ a wretch! It isn't as if I were in love with anyone else. I'm not. Perhaps I never shall be. I'll never have the chance if I live in lodgings and spend my life teaching irregular verbs. Why can't I be sensible and French, and marry him and live happily ever after? _Pauvre petite mere_! Why can't I think of _her_?" Suddenly Claire swooped down upon her mother's drooping figure, wrapped her in loving arms, and swung her gently to and fro. She was a tall, strikingly graceful girl, with a face less regularly beautiful than her mother's, but infinitely more piquant and attractive. She was more plump and rounded than the modern English girl, and her complexion less pink and white, but she was very neat and dainty and smart, possessed deep-set, heavily-lashed grey eyes, red lips which curled mischievously upward at the corner, and a pair of dimples on her soft left cheek. The dimples were in full play at this moment; the large one was just on the level with the upward curl of the lips, the smaller one nestled close to its side. In repose they were almost unnoticed, but at the slightest lighting of expression, at the first dawn of a smile, they danced into sight and became the most noticeable feature of her face. Claire without her dimples would have been another and far less fascinating personality. "Mother darling, forgive me! Kiss me, _cherie_--don't look sad! I _have_ had a good time, and we'll have a good time yet, if it is in my power to get it for you. Cheer up! Things won't be as bad as you fear. We won't allow them to be bad. ... How much does the horrid old bank say that we owe? Three hundred francs. I can pay it out of my own little savings. Does it mean literally that there is nothing more, nothing at all--not a single sou?" "Oh no. I have some shares. They have been worthless for years, but just lately they have gone up. I was asking Mr Judge about them yesterday. He says I might get between two and three hundred pounds. They were worth a thousand, years ago." Claire brightened with the quick relief of youth. Two or three hundred English pounds were a considerable improvement on a debit account. With two or three hundred pounds much might yet be done. Thousands of people had built up great fortunes on smaller foundations. In a vague, indefinite fashion she determined to devote these last pounds to settling herself in some business, which would ensure a speedy and generous return. School teaching was plainly out of the question, since two gentlewomen could not exist on a hundred and ten pounds a year. She must think of something quicker, more lucrative. All through dinner that evening Claire debated her future vocation as she sat by her mother's side, halfway down the long dining-table which to English eyes appeared so bare and unattractive, but which was yet supplied with the most appetising of food. Claire's eyes were accustomed to the lack of pretty detail; she had quite an affection for the Pension which stood for home in her migratory life, and a real love for Madame Dupre, the cheery, kindly, most capable proprietor. Such of the _pensionnaires_ as were not purely birds of passage she regarded as friends rather than acquaintances; the only person in the room to whom she felt any antagonism was Mr Judge himself, but unfortunately he was the one of all others whom she was expected to like best. As she ate her salad and broke fragments of delicious crusty roll, Claire threw furtive glances across the table at the man who for the last weeks had exercised so disturbing an element in her life. Was it six weeks or two months, since she and her mother had first made his acquaintance at the tennis club at which they spent so many of their afternoons? Claire had noticed that a new man had been present on that occasion, had bestowed on him one critical glance, decided with youthful arrogance: "Oh, quite old!" and promptly forgotten his existence, until an hour later, when, as she was sitting in the pavilion enjoying the luxury of a real English tea, the strange man and her mother had entered side by side. Claire summoned in imagination the picture of her mother as she had looked at that moment, slim and graceful in the simplest of white dresses, an untrimmed linen hat shading her charming face. She looked about twenty-five, and Claire was convinced that she knew as much, and that it was a mischievous curiosity to see her companion's surprise which prompted her to lead the way across the floor, and formally introduce "My daughter!" Mr Judge exhibited all the expected signs of bewilderment, but he made himself exceedingly amiable to the daughter, and it was not until a week later that it was discovered that he had concluded that the relationship must surely be "step," when fresh explanations were made, and all the bewilderment came over again. Since then, oh, since then, Claire told herself, there had been no getting away from the man! He was, it appeared, an Indian merchant spending a few months on the Continent, at the conclusion of a year's leave. He had come to Brussels because of the presence of an old school friend--the same friend who was responsible for the introduction at the tennis club--but week after week passed by, and he showed no disposition to move on. Now Brussels is a very gay and interesting little city, but when Paris looms ahead, and Berlin, Vienna, to say nothing of the beauties of Switzerland and the Tyrol, and the artistic treasures of Italy--well! it _did_ seem out of proportion to waste six whole weeks in that one spot! At the end of the last fortnight, too, Mr Judge declared that he was sick to death of hotels and lonely evenings in smoking rooms, and approached Madame Dupre with a view to joining the party at Villa Beau Sejour. Madame was delighted to receive him, but Claire Gifford told her mother resentfully that she considered Mr Judge's behaviour "very cool." How did he know that it would be pleasant for them to have him poking about morning, noon, and night? "It isn't _our_ Pension, darling, and he is very nice to you," Mrs Gifford had said in return, and as it was impossible to contradict either statement, Claire had tossed her head, and relapsed into silence. For the first weeks of her acquaintance with Mr Judge, Claire had thoroughly enjoyed his attentions. It was agreeable to know a man who had a habit of noting your wishes, and then setting to work to bring them about forthwith, and who was also delightfully extravagant as regards flowers, and seemed to grow chocolates in his coat pockets. It was only when he spoke of moving to the Pension, and her girl friends at the tennis club began to tease, roll meaning eyes, and ask when she was to be congratulated, that she took fright. Did people really think that she was going to _marry_ Mr Judge? Lately things had moved on apace, and as a result of the unwelcome revelations of the morning's post, Claire was to-day asking herself a different question. She was no longer occupied with other people; she was thinking of herself... "Am I going to marry Mr Judge? Oh, good gracious, is that _My Husband_ sitting over there, and have I got to live with him every day, as long as we both shall live?" She shuddered at the thought, but in truth there was nothing to shudder at in Robert Judge's appearance. He was a man of forty, bronzed, and wiry, with agreeable if not regular features. Round his eyes the skin was deeply furrowed, but the eyes themselves were bright and youthful, and the prevailing expression was one of sincerity and kindliness. He wore a loose grey tweed suit, with a soft-coloured shirt which showed a length of brown neck. The fingers of his right band were deeply stained with tobacco. During _dejeuner_ he carried on a conversation with his right-hand companion, in exceedingly bad French, but ever and anon he glanced across the table as though his thoughts were not on his words. Once, on looking up suddenly, Claire found his eyes fixed upon herself, with a strained, anxious look, and her heart quickened as she looked, then sank down heavy as lead. "It's coming!" she said to herself. "It's coming! There's no running away. I'll have to stay, and see it out. Oh, why can't I be French, and sensible? I ought to be thankful to marry such a kind, good man, and be able to give mother a comfortable home!" But as a matter of fact she was neither glad nor thankful. Despite her French training, the English instinct survived and clamoured for liberty, for independence. "It's my own life. If I marry at all, I want to choose the man for no other reason than that I love him; not as a duty, and to please somebody else!" Then she glanced at her mother sitting by her side, slim, and graceful, with the little air of pathos and helplessness which even strangers found so appealing, and as she did so, a shiver passed through Claire's veins. "But I'll have to do it!" she said to herself helplessly. "I'll have to do it!" CHAPTER TWO. TOO SUCCESSFUL! The next few days passed by slowly enough. It is a great trial for a young creature to realise that a change is inevitable and, at the same time, that one must be cautious about making it. The impulse is always to rush into action, and it is difficult to sit still and agree with the elderly precept in favour of consideration and delay. If matters had been left to Claire she would have started out forthwith to search for a cheap Pension, and would have also despatched a letter to Miss Farnborough by the first post, to inquire if the school post were still open, but her mother vetoed both proposals, and pleaded so urgently for delay, that there was nothing left but to agree, and compose herself as best she might. The weather was too hot for tennis, and in truth Claire was not in the mood for games. With every hour she realised more keenly that she had come to the parting of the ways, and in the prospect of a new life old interests lost their savour. Her mother seemed to share her restlessness, but while Claire preferred to stay indoors, in the privacy of her own room, Mrs Gifford seemed to find relief in action, and was often out for hours at a time, without vouchsafing any explanation of her absence. Claire was not curious. She was content to close the green shutters of her windows, slip into a muslin wrapper, and employ herself at some simple piece of needlework, which kept her hands busy while leaving her thoughts free. Where would she be this time next year? It was a question which no mortal can answer with certainty, but many of us are happy in the probability that we shall be still living in the same dear home, surrounded by the people and the objects which we love, whereas Claire's one certainty was that she must move on to fresh scenes. Bombay or London--that seemed the choice ahead! Matrimony or teaching. On the one hand a luxurious home, carriages and horses, a staff of servants, and apparently as much society as one desired, with the incubus of a husband whom she did not love, and who was twenty years her senior. On the other hand, work and poverty, with the advantages of freedom and independence. Claire's eyes brightened at the sound of those two words, for dear as liberty is to the heart of an Englishwoman, it was in prospect dearer still to this girl who had been educated in a country still enslaved by chaperonage, and had never known a taste of real freedom of action. Mrs Gifford had been as strict as or stricter than any Belgian mother, being rightly determined that no breath of scandal should touch her daughter's name; therefore wherever Claire went, some responsible female went with her. She was chaperoned to church, chaperoned on her morning constitutional, a chaperon sat on guard during the period of music and drawing lessons, and at their conclusion escorted her back to the Pension. What wonder that the thought of life as a bachelor girl in London seemed full of a thrilling excitement! Suppose for one minute that she decided on London--what would become of mother? Again and again Claire asked herself this question, again and again she recalled the interview between herself and the headmistress, Miss Farnborough, when the subject of teaching had been discussed. It had happened one morning in the salon of the Pension, when Claire had been coaching an English visitor in preparation for a French interview which lay ahead, and Miss Farnborough, laying down her book, had listened with smiling interest. Then the Englishwoman left the room, and Miss Farnborough had said, "You did that very cleverly; very cleverly indeed! You have a very happy knack of putting things simply and forcibly. I've noticed it more than once. Have you ever done any teaching?" "None professionally," Claire had replied with a laugh, "but a great deal by chance. I seem to drift into the position of coach to most of the English visitors here. It pleases them, and it interests me. And I used to help the French girls with their English at school." Then Miss Farnborough had inquired with interest as to the details of Claire's education, the schools she had attended, the examinations she had passed, and finally had come the critical question, "Have you ever thought of taking up teaching as a profession?" Claire had never thought of taking up work of any kind, but the suggestion roused a keen interest, as one of the temporary "tight" times was in process, so that the prospect of money-making seemed particularly agreeable. She discussed the subject carefully, and out of that discussion had arisen the final offer of a post. The junior French mistress in the High School of which Miss Farnborough was head was leaving at midsummer. If Claire wished she could take her place, at a salary beginning at a hundred and ten pounds a year. In Trust Schools, of which Saint Cuthbert's was one, there was no fixed scale of advancement, but a successful teacher could reach a salary of, say, two hundred a year by the time she was thirty-eight or forty, as against the permanent sixty or seventy offered to mistresses in residential schools of a higher grade. Miss Farnborough's mistresses were women trained at the various universities; the school itself was situated in a fashionable neighbourhood, and its pupils were for the most part daughters of professional men, and gentlefolk of moderate incomes. There was no pension scheme, and mistresses had to live out, but with care and economy they could take out some insurance to provide for old age. Claire took little interest in her own old age, which seemed too far away to count, but she was intensely interested in the immediate future, and had been hurt and annoyed when her mother had waved aside the proposal as unworthy of serious consideration. And now, only three months after Miss Farnborough's departure, the crisis had arisen, and that hundred and ten pounds assumed a vastly increased value. Supposing that the post was accepted, and mother and daughter started life in London with a capital of between two and three hundred pounds, and a salary of one hundred and ten, as regular income--how long would the nest-egg last out? Judging from the experience of past years, a very short time indeed, and what would happen after that? Claire had read gruesome tales of the struggles of women in like positions, overtaken by illness, losing the salaries which represented their all, brought face to face with actual starvation, and in the midst of the midsummer heat, little shivers of fear trickled up and down her spine as she realised how easily she and her mother might drift into a like position. Then, on the other hand, Bombay! Indian houses were large; mother could have her own rooms. In the hot weather they would go together to the hills, leaving Mr Judge behind. How long did the hot season last, four or five months? Nearly half the year, perhaps. It would be only half as bad as marrying a man for money in Europe, for you would get rid of him all that time! Claire shrugged her shoulders and laughed, and two minutes later whisked away a tear, dedicated to the memory of girlish dreams. Useless to dream any longer, she was awake now, and must face life in a sensible manner. Her duty was to marry Robert Judge, and to make a home for her mother. Another girl might have cherished anger against the recklessness which had landed her in such a trap, but after the first shock of discovery there had been no resentment in Claire's heart. She implicitly believed her mother's assurance that according to her light she had acted for the best, and echoed with heartiness the assertion that the money had provided a good time for thirteen long years. They had not been rich, but there had been a feeling of sufficiency. They had had comfortable quarters, pretty clothes, delightful holiday journeys, a reasonable amount of gaiety, and, over and beyond all, the advantages of an excellent education. Claire's happy nature remembered her benefits, and made short work of the rest. Poor, beautiful mother! who could expect her to be prudent and careful, like any ordinary, prosaic, middle-aged woman? Even as the thought passed through the girl's mind the door of the bedroom opened, and Mrs Gifford appeared on the threshold. She wore a large shady hat, and in the dim light of the room her face was not clearly visible, but there was a tone in her voice which aroused Claire's instant curiosity. Mother was trying to speak in her ordinary voice, but she was nervous, she was agitated. She was not feeling ordinary at all. "Claire, _cherie_, we are going to the forest to have tea. It is impossibly hot indoors, but it will be delightful under the trees. Mr Judge has sent for a _fiacre_, and Miss Benson has asked to come too. Put on your blue muslin and your big hat. Be quick, darling! I'll fasten you up." "I'd rather not go, thank you, mother. I'm quite happy here. Don't trouble about me!" Mrs Gifford was obviously discomposed. She hesitated, frowned, walked restlessly up and down, then spoke again with an added note of insistence-- "But I want you to come, Claire. I've not troubled you before, because I saw you wanted to be alone, but--it can't go on. Mr Judge wants you to come. He suggested the drive because he thought it would tempt you. If you refuse to-day, he will ask you again to-morrow. I think, dear, you ought to come." Claire was silent. She felt sick and faint; all over her body little pulses seemed to be whizzing like so many alarm clocks, all crying in insistent voices, "Time's up! Time's up! No more lazing. Up with you, and do your duty!" Her forehead felt very damp and her throat felt very dry, and she heard a sharp disagreeable voice saying curtly-- "Oh, certainly, I will come. No need to make a fuss. I can dress myself, thank you. I'll come down when I'm ready!" Mrs Gifford turned without a word and went out of the room, but Claire was too busy being sorry for herself to have sympathy to spare for anyone else. She threw off her wrapper and slipped into the cool muslin dress which was at once so simple, and so essentially French and up-to- date, and then, throwing open the door of a cupboard, stared at a long row of hats ranged on a top shelf, and deliberately selected the one which she considered the least becoming. "I will _not_ be decked up for the sacrifice!" she muttered rebelliously, then bent forward, so that her face approached close to the flushed, frowning reflection in the glass. "You are going to be proposed to, my dear!" she said scornfully. "You are going to be good and sensible, and say `Yes, please!' When you see yourself next, you will be Engaged! It won't be dear little Claire Gifford any more, it will be the horrible future Mrs Robert Judge!" She stuck hat-pins through the straw hat with savage energy; for once in her life noticed with distinct satisfaction that it was secured at an unbecoming angle, then, hearing through the _jalousies_ the sound of approaching wheels, marched resolutely forth to meet her fate... In the _fiacre_ Mrs Gifford and Miss Benson took the seats of honour, leaving Claire and Mr Judge to sit side by side, and the one furtive glance which she cast in his direction showed him looking confident and unperturbed. Just like a French _pretendu_, already assured by Maman that Mademoiselle was meekly waiting to assent to his suit! "He might at least pay me the compliment of _pretending_! It is dreadfully dull to be taken for granted," reflected Claire in disgust. The next hour was a horrible experience. Everything happened exactly as Claire had known it would, from the moment the quartette set forth. Arrived at the forest, they took possession of one of the little tables beneath the trees, and made fitful conversation the while they consumed delicious cakes and execrable tea. Then the meal being finished, Mrs Gifford and her companion announced a wish to sit still and rest, while Mr Judge nervously invited Miss Claire to accompany him in a walk. She assented, of course; what was the use of putting it off? and as soon as they were well started, he spied another seat, and insisted upon sitting down once more. "Now he'll begin," thought Claire desperately. "He'll talk about India, and being lonely, and say how happy he has felt since he's been here," and even as the thought passed through her mind, Mr Judge began to speak. "Awfully jolly old forest this is--awfully nice place Brussels, altogether. Nicest place in the world. Never been so happy in my life as I've been the last month. Of course, naturally, you must realise that, when a fellow hangs on week after week, there--er, there must be some special attraction. Not that it isn't a rattling old city, and all that!" Mr Judge was growing a little mixed: his voice sounded flurried and nervous, but Claire was not in the least inclined to help him. She sat rigid as a poker, staring stolidly ahead. There was not the ghost of a dimple in her soft pink cheeks. "I--er, your mother tells me that she has said nothing to you, but she is sure, all the same, that you suspect. I asked her to let me speak to you to-day. Naturally she feels the difficulty. She is devoted to you. You know that, of course. I have told her that I will make your happiness my special charge. There is nothing in the world I would not do to ensure it. You know that too, don't you, Claire?" He stretched out his hand and touched her tentatively on the arm, but Claire drew herself back with a prickly dignity. If he wanted to propose at all, he must propose properly; she was not going to commit herself in response to an insinuation. "You are very kind. I am quite happy as I am." "Er--yes--yes, of course, but--but things don't go on, you know, can't go on always without a change!" Mr Judge took off his straw hat, twirled it nervously to and fro, and laid it down on the bench by his side. Claire, casting a quick glance, noticed that his hair was growing noticeably thin on the temples, and felt an additional sinking of spirits. "Claire!" cried the man desperately, "don't let us beat about the bush. I'm not used to this sort of thing--don't make it harder than you need! You _have_ noticed, haven't you? You know what I want to tell you?" Claire nodded dumbly. In the case of previous Belgian admirers affairs had been checked before they reached the extreme stage, and she found this, her first spoken proposal much less exciting than she had expected. As a friend pure and simple, she had thoroughly liked Mr Judge, and at the bottom of her heart there lived a lingering hope that perhaps if he loved her very much, and expressed his devotion in very eloquent words, her heart might soften in response. But so far he had not even mentioned love! She was silent for several minutes, and when she did speak it was to ask a side question. "Is mother willing to go to India?" She was looking at the man as she spoke, and the change which passed over his face, startled her by its intensity. His eyes shone, the rugged features were transfigured by a very radiance of joy. He looked young at that moment, young and handsome, and blissfully content. Claire stared at him in amazement, not unmingled with irritation. Even if mother _were_ willing, her own consent had still to be obtained. It was tactless to make so sure! Her own face looked decidedly sulky as she twitched round on her seat, and resumed her stolid staring into space. Again there was silence, till a hand stretched out to clasp her arm, and a voice spoke in deep appealing accents-- "Claire, dear child, you are young; you have never known loneliness or disappointment. We have! Happiness is fifty times more precious, when it comes to those who have suffered. You would not be cruel enough to damp our happiness! You _can_ do it, you know, if you persist in an attitude of coldness and disapproval. I don't say you can destroy it. Thank God! it goes too deep for anyone to be able to do that. But you can rub off the bloom. Don't do it, Claire! Be generous. Be yourself. Wish us good luck!" "Wish _who_ good luck? What, oh, what are you talking about?" Claire was gasping now, quivering with a frenzy of excitement. Robert Judge stared in return, his face full of an honest bewilderment. "Of our engagement, of course. Your mother's engagement to me. I have been talking about it all the time!" Then Claire threw up both her hands, and burst into a wild peal of laughter. Peal after peal rang out into the air, she rocked to and fro on her seat, her eyes disappeared from view, her teeth shone, her little feet in their dainty French shoes danced upon the ground; she laughed till the tears poured down her cheeks, and her gloved hands pressed against her side where a "stitch" was uncomfortably making itself felt. Stout Belgian couples passing past the end of the avenue, looked on with indulgent smiles, a little shocked at so much demonstration in public, but relieved to perceive that _une Anglaise_ could laugh with such _abandon_. Monsieur they observed looked not sympathetic. Monsieur had an air injured, annoyed, on his dignity. On his cheeks was a flush, as of wounded pride. When at length the paroxysm showed signs of lessening, he spoke in cold stilted tones. "You appear to find it ridiculous. It seems to amuse you very much. I may say that to us it is a serious matter!" "Oh no! You don't understand--you _don't_ understand!" gasped Claire feebly. "I am not laughing at you. I'm laughing at myself. Oh, Mr Judge, you'll never guess, it's too screamingly funny for words. I thought all this time, from the very beginning I thought, it was _me_!" "You thought it was--you thought I wanted--that I was talking of--that I meant to propose to--" "Yes! Yes! Yes! Me! Me! Me! Of course I did. I've been thinking it for weeks. Everyone thought so. They've teased me to death. You were attentive to me, you know you were. You were always giving me things ..." "Well, of course!" Poor Mr Judge defended himself with honest indignation. "What else could I do? I could not give them to _her_! And I wanted--naturally I wanted, to get you on my side. You were the difficulty. I knew that if she had only herself to consider I could win her round, but if you ranged yourself against me, it would be a hard fight. Naturally I tried to ingratiate myself. It appears that I have rather overdone the part, but I can't flatter myself," his eyes twinkled mischievously, "that I've been too successful! You don't appear exactly overcome with disappointment!" They laughed together, but only for a moment. Then he was serious again, appealing to her in earnest tones. "You won't range yourself against me, Claire? You won't dissuade her.-- I love her very dearly, and I know I can make her happy. You won't make it hard for us?" "Indeed, I won't! Why should I?" Claire cried heartily. "I'm only too thankful. Mother needs someone to look after her, and I'd sooner you did it than anyone else. I like you awfully--always did, until I began to be afraid--I didn't want to marry you myself, but if mother does, I think it's a splendid thing." "Thank you, dear, thank you a thousand times. That's a _great_ relief." Robert Judge stretched himself with a deep breath of satisfaction. Then he grew confidential, reviewing the past with true lover-like enjoyment. "I fell in love with her that first afternoon at the tennis club. Thought Bridges introduced her as Miss Gifford, put her down at twenty- five, and hoped she wouldn't think me a hopeless old fogey. Never had such a surprise in my life as when she introduced you. Thought for a time I should have to give it up. Then she asked my advice on one or two business matters, and I discovered--" He hesitated, flushing uncomfortably, and Claire finished the sentence. "That we are coming to the end of our resources?" Mr Judge nodded. "And so, of course," he continued simply, "that settled it. I couldn't go away and leave her to face a struggle. I was jolly thankful to feel that I had met her in time." "I think you are a dear, good man. I think mother is very lucky. Thank you so much for being my step-papa!" cried Claire, her grey eyes softening with a charming friendliness as they dwelt on the man's honest face, and he took her hand in his, and squeezed it with affectionate ardour. "Thank you, my dear. Thank _you_! I shall be jolly proud of having such a pretty daughter. I'm not a rich man, but I am comfortably well- off, and I'll do my best to give you a good time. Your mother feels sure she will enjoy the Indian life. Most girls think it great fun. And of course I have lots of friends." Claire stared at him, a new seriousness dawning in her eyes. She looked very pretty and very young, and not a little pathetic into the bargain. For the first time since the realisation of her mistake the personal application of the situation burst upon her, and a chill crept through her veins. If she herself had married Robert Judge, her mother would have made her home with them as a matter of course; but it was by no means a matter of course that she should make her home with her mother. She stared into the honest face of the man before her--the man who was not rich, the man who was in love for the first time in his life, and a smile twisted the corner of her lips. "Mr Judge, if I ask you a question, will you promise to give me an absolutely honest answer?" "Yes, I will." "Well, then, will you _like_ having a third person living with you all the time?" Up to the man's forehead rushed the treacherous blood. He frowned, he scowled, he opened his lips to protest; but that flush had answered for him, and Claire refused to listen. "No, no--don't! Of course you wouldn't. Who would, in your place? Poor darlings--I quite understand. You _are_ middle-aged, you know, though you feel about nineteen, and mother is prettier and more charming than half the girl brides. And you will want to be just as young and foolish as you like, not to be _obliged_ to be sensible because a grown-up daughter is there all the time, staring at you with big eyes? I should be in the way, and I should _feel_ in the way, and--" Mr Judge interrupted in an urgent voice: "Look here, Claire, I don't think you ought to corner me like this. It's not fair. I've told you that I am prepared to do everything for your happiness. You ought surely to realise that I--" "And _you_ ought to realise that I--" Claire broke off suddenly, and held out her hand with a charming smile. "Oh, but there's plenty of time--we can arrange all that later on. Let's go and find mother and put her out of her misery. She will be longing to see us come back." They walked down the avenue together, and, as they went, Claire turned her head from side to side, taking in the well-known scene with wistful intensity. How many times would she see it again? As she had said, many discussions would certainly take place as to her future destination, but she knew in her heart that the result was sure. Providence had decided or her. The future was London and work! CHAPTER THREE. MRS. GIFFORD IS MARRIED. Claire lost no time in writing to Miss Farnborough to apply for the post of French mistress if it were still vacant, and by return of post received a cordial reply. Several applications had been received, but no appointment had been made, and the Head was pleased to confirm her previous offer of a commencing salary of a hundred and ten pounds, and would expect Miss Gifford to take up her duties at the beginning of the autumn term. She congratulated her on her decision, and felt sure she would never regret devoting her life to so interesting and valuable a work, instead of being content to waste it in the pursuit of idle pleasure. Poor Claire looked a little dubious as she read those last words. The pursuit of pleasure does not as a rule begin to pall at twenty-one; and the old life looked very sweet and pleasant viewed from the new standpoint of change. She put on a bright face, however, and sternly repressed all signs of depression in discussing the matter with her mother and Mr Judge. Her determination evoked the expected opposition, but slowly and surely the opposition decreased, and her arguments were listened to with increasing respect. The lovers were sincerely desirous of securing the girl's happiness, but middle-aged though they were, they were deeply in love, and felt a natural desire to begin their married life without the presence of a third person, however dear that person might be. Mr Judge applauded Claire's spirit, and prophesied her rapid success as a teacher. Mrs Gifford murmured sweetly, "And if you _don't_ like it, dear, you can always come out by the next boat. Try it for a year. It will be quite an amusing experience to live the life of a bachelor girl. And, of course, in a year or two we'll be coming home. Then you must spend the whole leave with us. We'll see, won't we? We won't make any plans, but just be guided by circumstances. If you want somewhere to go in the holidays, there's my old Aunt Mary in Preston, but you'd be bored to sobs, darling. No doubt Miss Farnborough will introduce you to lots of nice people in London, and you will have all the fifteen other mistresses to take you about. I expect you'll be quite gay! ... Claire, darling, _would_ you have gold tissue under this ninon, or just a handsome lace?" For the next few weeks things moved quickly. In answer to inquiries about lodgings, Miss Farnborough wrote a second time to say that Miss Rhodes, the English mistress, had comfortable rooms which she was sharing with the present French teacher. She was willing to continue the arrangement, and, as a stranger in town, Claire would doubtless find it agreeable as well as economical. The letter was entirely business- like and formal, and, as such, a trifle chilling to Claire, for Miss Farnborough had been so warm in her spoken invitation that Claire had expected a more cordial welcome. Could it be that the shadow of officialdom was already making itself felt? The next few weeks were given up to trousseau-hunting and farewell visits, and no girl could have shown a livelier interest in the selection of pretty things than did this bride of thirty-nine. Claire came in for a charming costume to wear at the wedding, and for the rest, what fitted her mother fitted herself, and as Mrs Gifford said sweetly, "It would be a sin to waste all my nice things, but they're quite unsuitable for India. Just use them out, darling, for a month or two, and then get what you need," an arrangement which seemed sensible enough, if one could only be sure of money to supply that need when it arose! The day before her marriage Mrs Gifford thrust an envelope into her daughter's hand, blushing the while with an expression of real distress. "I'm so sorry, darling, that it's so little. I've tried to be careful, but the money has flown. Going out to India one needs so many clothes, and there were quite a number of bills. I'll send more by and by, and remember always to say if you run short. I want you to have plenty for all you need. With what you have, this will see you nicely through your first term, and after that you'll be quite rich." Claire kissed her, and was careful not to look at the cheque until she was alone. She had counted on at least a hundred to put in the bank as a refuge against a rainy day. Surely at this parting of the ways mother would wish her to have this security; but when she looked at her cheque, it was to discover that it was made out for fifty pounds--only half that sum. Claire felt sore at that moment, and for the first time a chill of fear entered into her anticipations. Fifty pounds seemed a dreadfully small sum to stand between herself and want. A hundred might be only twice its value, but its three figures sounded so much more substantial. She struggled hard to allow no signs of resentment to be seen, and felt that virtue was rewarded, when late that evening Mr Judge presented her with yet another envelope, saying awkwardly-- "That's--er--that's the bridesmaid's present. Thought you'd like to choose for yourself. Something to do, you know, some fine half-holiday, to go out and look in the shops. I've no views--don't get jewellery unless you wish. Just--er--`blew it' your own way!" Claire kissed him, and remarked that he was a sweet old dear; and this time the opening of the envelope brought a surprise of an agreeable nature, for this cheque also was for fifty pounds, so that the desired hundred was really in her possession. No jewellery for her! Into the bank the money should go--every penny of it, and her bridesmaid present should be represented by peace of mind, which, after the financial shock of the last month, seemed more precious than many rubies. Mr and Mrs Judge were married at the Embassy, and afterwards at an English church, the bride looking her most charming self in a costume of diaphanous chiffon and lace and the most fascinating of French hats, and the bridegroom his worst in his stiff conventional garments. They were a very radiant couple, however, and the _dejeuner_ held after the ceremony at the "Hotel Britannique" was a cheerful occasion, despite the parting which lay ahead. The gathering was quite a large one, for Mr Judge had insisted upon inviting all the friends who had been kind to his _fiancee_ and her daughter during their three years' sojourn in the city, while the _pensionnaires_ at "Villa Beau Sejour" came _en masse_, headed by Madame herself, in a new black silk costume, her white transformation elaborately waved and curled for the occasion. There were speeches, and there were toasts. There were kindly words of farewell and cheerful anticipations of future meetings, there were good wishes for the bride and bridegroom, and more good wishes for the bridesmaid, and many protestations that it was "her turn next." Then the bride retired to change her dress. Claire went with her, and tried valiantly not to cry as she fastened buttons and hooks, and realised how long it might be before she next waited on her mother. Mrs Judge was tearful, too, and the two knew a bitter moment as they clung together for the real farewell before rejoining the guests. "I've been careless; I've made a mess of things. I've not been half as thoughtful as I should have been," sobbed the bride, "but I _have_ loved you, Claire, and this will make no difference! I shall love you just the same." Claire flushed and nodded, but could not trust herself to speak. The love of a mother in far-off India could never be the same as the love of the dear companion of every day. But she was too generous to add to her mother's distress by refusing to be comforted, and the bride nervously powdered her eyes, and re-arranged her veil before descending to the hall, anxious as ever to shelve a painful subject, and turn her face to the sun. Five minutes later Mr and Mrs Judge drove away from the door, and the girl who was left behind turned slowly to re-enter the hotel. It was very big, and fine, and spacious, but at that moment it was a type of desolation in Claire's eyes. With a sickening wave of loneliness she realised that she was motherless and alone! CHAPTER FOUR. A FELLOW TRAVELLER INTRODUCES HERSELF. The next afternoon Claire started on her journey to London. She had spent the night with friends, and been seen off at the station by quite a crowd of well-wishers. Little souvenirs had been showered upon her all the morning, and everyone had a kindly word, and a hopeful prophecy of the future. There were invitations also, and promises to look her up in her London home, and a perfect shower of violets thrown into the carriage as the train steamed out of the station, and Claire laughed and waved her hand, and looked so complacent and beaming that no one looking on could have guessed the real nature of her journey. She was not pretending to be cheerful, she _was_ cheerful, for, the dreaded parting once over, her optimistic nature had asserted itself, and painted the life ahead in its old rosy colours. Mother was happy and secured from want; she herself was about to enjoy a longed-for taste for independence; then why grumble? asked Claire sensibly of herself, and anything less grumbling than her appearance at that moment it would be hard to imagine. She was beautifully dressed, in the simplest but most becoming of travelling costumes, she was agreeably conscious that the onlookers to her send-off had been unanimously admiring in their regard, and, as she stood arranging her bags on the rack overhead, she saw her own face in the strip of mirror and whole-heartedly agreed in their verdict. "I'm glad I'm pretty! It's a comfort to be pretty. I should grow so tired of being with myself if I were plain!" she reflected complacently as she settled herself in her corner, and flicked a few grains of dust from the front of her skirt. She had taken a through first-class ticket from sheer force of habit, for Mrs Gifford had always travelled first, and the ways of economy take some time to acquire. In the opposite corner of the carriage sat an elderly woman, obviously English, obviously also of the _grande dame_ species, with aquiline features, white hair dressed pompadour fashion, and an expression compounded of indifference and quizzical good humour. The good humour was in the ascendant as she watched the kindly Belgians crowd round her fellow-passenger, envelop her in their arms, murmur tearful farewells, and kiss her soundly on either cheek. The finely marked eyebrows lifted themselves as if in commiseration for the victim, and as the door closed on the last farewell she heaved an involuntary sigh of relief. It was evident that the scene appealed to her entirely from the one standpoint; she saw nothing touching about it, nothing pathetic; she was simply amused, and carelessly scornful of eccentricities in manner or appearance. On the seat beside this imposing personage sat a young woman in black, bearing the hall mark of lady's maid written all over her in capital letters. She sat stiffly in her seat, one gloved hand on her knee, the other clasped tightly round the handle of a crocodile dressing-bag. Claire felt a passing interest in the pair; reflected that if it were her lot in life to be a maid, she would choose to live on the Continent, where an affectionate intimacy takes the place of this frigid separation, and then, being young and self-engrossed, promptly forgot all about them, and fell to building castles in the air, in which she herself lived in every circumstance of affluence and plenty, beloved and admired of all. There was naturally a prince in the story, a veritable Prince Charming, who was all that the most exacting mind could desire, but the image was vague. Claire's heart had not yet been touched. She was still in ignorance as to what manner of man she desired. Engaged in these pleasant day-dreams Antwerp was reached before Claire realised that half the distance was covered. On the quay the wind blew chill; on the boat itself it blew chillier still. Claire became aware that she was in for a stormy crossing, but was little perturbed by the fact, since she knew herself to be an unusually good sailor. She tipped the stewardess to fill a hot bottle, put on a cosy dressing-jacket, and lay down in her berth, quite ready for sleep after the fatigue and excitement of the past week. In five minutes the ship and all that was in it was lost in dreams, and, so far as Claire was concerned, it might have been but another five minutes before the stewardess aroused her to announce the arrival at Parkeston Pier. The first glance around proved, however, that the other passengers had found the time all too long. The signs of a bad crossing were written large on the faces of her companions, and there was a trace of resentment in the manner in which they surveyed her active movements. An old lady in a bunk immediately opposite her own seemed especially injured, and did not hesitate to put her feelings into words, "_You_ have had a good enough night! I believe you slept right through... Are you aware that the rest of us have been more ill than we've ever been in our lives?" she asked in accusing tones. And Claire laughed her happy, gurgling little laugh, and said-- "I'm _so_ sorry, but it's all over, isn't it? And people always say that they feel better afterwards!" The old lady grunted. She certainly looked thoroughly ill and wretched at the moment, her face drawn and yellow beneath her scanty locks, and her whole appearance expressive of an extremity of fatigue. It seemed to her that it was years since she had left the quay at Antwerp, and here was this young thing as blooming as though she had spent the night in her own bed! She hitched a shawl more closely over her shoulders, and called aloud in a high imperious tone-- "Mason! Mason! You must really rouse yourself and attend to me. We shall have to land in a few minutes. Get up at once and bring me my things!" The covering of another bunk stirred feebly, and two feet encased in black merino stockings descended slowly to the floor. A moment later a ghastly figure was tottering across the floor, lifting from a box a beautifully waved white wig, and dropping it carefully over the head of the aggrieved old lady of the straggly locks. It was all that Claire could do to keep from exclaiming aloud, as it burst upon her astonished senses that this poor, huddled creature was none other than the _grande dame_ of the railway carriage, the haughtily indifferent, cynically amused personage who had seemed so supremely superior to the agitations of the common ruck! Strange what changes a few hours' conflict with the forces of Nature could bring about! Ill as the mistress was, the maid was even worse, and it was pitiful to see the poor creature's efforts to obey the exigent demands of her employer. In the end faintness overcame her, and if Claire had not rushed to the rescue, she would have fallen on the floor. "It's no use struggling against it! You must keep still until the boat stops. You'll feel better at once when we land, and you get into the air." Claire laid the poor soul in her bunk, and turned back to the old lady who was momentarily growing younger and more formidable, as she continued the stages of her toilette. "Can I help you?" she asked smilingly, and the offer was accepted with gracious composure. "Please do. I should be grateful. Thank you. That hook fastens over here, and the band crosses to this side. The brooch is in my bag--a gold band with some diamonds--and the hat-pins, and a clean handkerchief. Can you manage? ... The clasp slides back." Claire opened the bag and gazed with admiration at a brown _moire_ antique lining, and fittings of tortoiseshell, bearing raised monograms in gold. "I shall have one exactly to match, when I marry my duke!" was the mental reflection, as she selected the articles mentioned and put the final touches to the good lady's costume. Later on there was Mason to be dressed; later on still, Claire found herself carrying the precious dressing-bag in one hand, and supporting one invalid with the other, while Mason tottered in the wake, unable for the moment to support any other burden than that of her own body. Mrs Fanshawe--Claire had discovered the name on a printed card let into the lining of the bag--had no sympathy to spare for poor Mason. She plainly considered it the height of bad manners for a maid to dare to be sea-sick; but being unused to do anything for herself, gratefully allowed Claire to lead the way, reply to the queries of custom-house officials, secure a corner of a first-class compartment of the waiting train, and bid an attendant bring a cup of tea before the ordinary breakfast began. Mason refused any refreshment, but Mrs Fanshawe momentarily regained her vigour, and was all that was gracious in her acknowledgment of Claire's help. The quizzical eyes roved over the girl's face and figure, and evidently approved what they saw, and Claire, smiling back, was conscious of an answering attraction. Thoughtless and domineering as was her behaviour to her inferior, there was yet something in the old lady's personality which struck an answering chord in the girl's heart. She was enough of a physiognomist to divine the presence of humour and generosity, combined with a persistent cheerfulness of outlook. The signs of physical age were unmistakable, but the spirit within was young, young as her own! The mutual scrutiny ended in a mutual laugh, which was the last breaking of the ice. "My dear," cried Mrs Fanshawe, "you must excuse my bad manners! You are so refreshing to look at after all those horrors on the boat that I can't help staring. And you've been so kind! Positively I don't know how I should have survived without you. Will you tell me your name? I should like to know to whom I am indebted for so much help." "My name is Claire Gifford." "Er--yes?" Plainly Mrs Fanshawe felt the information insufficient. "Gifford! I knew some Giffords. Do you belong to the Worcestershire branch?" Claire hitched her shoulders in the true French shrug. "_Sais pas_! I have no English relations nearer than second cousins, and we have lived abroad so much that we are practically strangers. My father died when I was a child. I went to school in Paris, and for the last few years my mother and I have made our headquarters in Brussels. She married again, only yesterday, and is going to live in Bombay." Mrs Fanshawe arched surprised brows. "And you are staying behind?" "Yes. They asked me to go. Mr Judge is very kind. He is my--er-- stepfather!" Claire shrugged again at the strangeness of that word. "He gave me the warmest of invitations, but I refused. I preferred to be left." Mrs Fanshawe hitched herself into her corner, planted her feet more firmly on the provisionary footstool, and folded her hands on her knee. She had the air of a person settling down to the enjoyment of a favourite amusement, and indeed her curiosity was a quality well-known to all her acquaintances. "Why?" she asked boldly, and such was the force of her personality that Claire never dreamt for a moment of refusing to reply. "Because I want to be independent." Mrs Fanshawe rolled her eyes to the hat-rail. "My dear, nonsense! You're far too pretty. Leave that to the poor creatures who have no chance of finding other people to work for them. You should change your mind, you know, you really should. India's quite an agreeable place to put in a few years. The English girl is a trifle overdone, but with your complexion you would be bound to have a success. Think it over! Don't be in a hurry to let the chance slip!" "It _has_ slipped. They sail from Marseilles a week from to-day, and besides I don't want to change. I like the prospect of independence better even than being admired." "Though you like that, too?" "Of course. Who doesn't? I'm hoping--with good luck--to be admired in England instead!" "Then you mustn't be independent!" Mrs Fanshawe said, laughing. "It was the rage a year or two ago; girls had a craze for joining Settlements, and running about in the slums, but it's quite out of date. Hobble skirts killed it. It's impossible to be utilitarian in a hobble skirt... And how do you propose to show your independence, may I ask?" "I am going to be French mistress in a High School," Claire said sturdily, and hated herself because she winced before the eloquent change of expression which passed over her companion's face. Mrs Fanshawe said, "Oh, really! How _very_ interesting!" and looked about as uninterested the while as a human creature could be. In the pause which followed it was obvious that she was readjusting the first impression of a young gentlewoman belonging to her own leisured class, and preparing herself to cross-question an entirely different person--an ordinary teacher in a High School! There was a touch of patronage in her manner, but it was still quite agreeable Mrs Fanshawe was always agreeable for choice: she found it the best policy, and her indolent nature shrank from disagreeables of every kind. This pretty girl had made herself quite useful, and a chat with her would enliven a dull hour in the train. Curiosity shifted its point, but remained actively in force. "Tell me all about it!" she said suavely. "I know nothing about teachers. Shocking, isn't it? They alarm me too much. I have a horror of clever women. You don't look at all clever. I mean that as a compliment--far too pretty and smart, but I suppose you are dreadfully learned, all the same. What are you going to teach?" "French. I am almost as good as a Frenchwoman, for I've talked little else for sixteen years. Mother and I spoke English together, or I should have forgotten my own language. It seems, from a scholastic point of view, that it's a useful blend to possess--perfect French and an English temperament. `Mademoiselle' is not always a model of patience!" "And you think you will be? I prophesy differently. You'll throw the whole thing up in six months, and fly off to mamma in India. You haven't the least idea what you are in for, but you'll find out, you'll find out! Where is this precious school? In town, did you say? Shall you live in the house or with friends?" "I have no friends in London except Miss Farnborough, the head mistress, but there are fifteen other mistresses besides myself. That will be fifteen friends ready-made. I am going to share lodgings with one of them, and be a bachelor girl on my own account. I'm so excited about it. After living in countries where a girl can't go to the pillar-box alone, it will be thrilling to be free to do just as I like. Please don't pity me! I'm going to have great fun." Mrs Fanshawe hitched herself still further into her corner and smiled a lazy, quizzical smile. "Oh, I don't pity you--not one bit! All young people nowadays think they are so much wiser than their parents; it's a wholesome lesson to learn their mistake. You're a silly, blind, ridiculous little girl, and if I'd been your mother, I should have insisted upon taking you with me, whether you liked it or not. I always wanted a daughter like you--sons are so dull; but perhaps it's just as well that she never appeared. She might have wanted to be independent, too, in which case we should have quarrelled.--So those fifteen school-mistresses make up your whole social circle, do they? I wouldn't mind prophesying that you'll never want to speak a word to them out of school hours! I have a friend living in town, quite a nice woman, with a daughter about your age. Shall I ask her to send you a card? It would be somewhere for you to go on free afternoons, and she entertains a good deal, and has a craze for the feminist movement, and for girls who work for themselves. You might come in for some fun." Claire's flush of gratification made her look prettier than ever, and Mrs Fanshawe felt an agreeable glow of self-satisfaction. Nothing she liked better than to play the part of Lady Bountiful, especially when any effort involved was shifted onto the shoulders of another, and in her careless fashion she was really anxious to do this nice girl a good turn. She made a note of Claire's address in a dainty gold-edged pocket-book, expressed pleasure in the belief that through her friend she would hear reports of the girl's progress, and presently shut her eyes, and dozed peacefully for the rest of the ride. Round London a fine rain was falling, and the terminus looked bleak and cheerless as the train slowed down the long platform. Mason, still haggard, roused herself to step to the platform and look around as if expecting to see a familiar face, and in the midst of collecting her own impedimenta Claire was conscious that Mrs Fanshawe was distinctly ruffled, when the familiar figure failed to appear. Once more she found herself coming to the rescue, marshalling the combined baggage to the screened portion of the platform where the custom-house officials went through the formalities incidental to the occasion, while the tired passengers stood shiveringly on guard, looking bleached and grey after their night's journey. The bright-haired, bright-faced girl stood out in pleasant contrast to the rest, trim and smart and dainty as though such a thing as fatigue did not exist. Mrs Fanshawe, looking at her, stopped short in the middle of a mental grumble, and turned it round, so that it ended in being a thanksgiving instead. "Most neglectful of Erskine to fail me after promising he would come... Perhaps, after all, it's just as well he did not." And at that moment, with the usual contrariety of fate, Erskine appeared! He came striding along the platform, a big, loosely-built man, with a clean-shaven face, glancing to right and left over the upstanding collar of a tweed coat. He looked at once plain and distinguished, and in the quizzical eyes and beetling eyebrows there was an unmistakable likeness to the _grande dame_ standing by Claire's side. Just for a moment he paused, as he came in sight of the group of passengers, and Claire, meeting his glance, knew who he was, even before he came forward and made his greeting. "Holla, Mater! Sorry to be late. Not my fault this time. I was ready all right, but the car did not come round. Had a good crossing?" "My dear, appalling! Don't talk of it. I was prostrate all night, and Mason too ill to do anything but moan. She's been no use." "Poor beggar! She looks pretty green. But-- er--" The plain face lighted with an expectant smile as he turned towards the girl who stood by his mother's side, still holding the precious bag. "You seem to have met a friend..." "Oh--er--yes!" With a gesture of regal graciousness Mrs Fanshawe turned towards the girl, and held out her gloved hand. "Thank you _so_ much, Miss Gifford! You've been quite too kind. I'm really horribly in your debt. I hope you will find everything as you like, and have a very good time. Thank you again. _Good-bye_. I'm really dropping with fatigue. What a relief it will be to get to bed!" She turned aside, and laid her hand on her son's arm. "Erskine, where _is_ the car?" Mother and son turned away, and made their way down the platform, leaving Claire with crimson cheeks and fast-beating heart. The little scene which had just happened had been all too easy to understand. The nice son had wished for an introduction to the nice girl who a moment before had seemed on such intimate terms with his mother: the mother had been quite determined that such an introduction should not take place. Claire knew enough of the world to realise how different would have been the proceedings if she had announced herself as a member of the "idle rich," bound for a course of visits to well-known houses in the country. "May I introduce my son, Miss Gifford? Miss Gifford has been an angel of goodness to me, Erskine. Positively I don't know what I should have done without her! Do look after her now, and see her into a taxi. Such a mercy to have a man to help!" That was what would have happened to the Claire Gifford of a week before, but now for the first time Claire experienced a taste of the disagreeables attendant on her changed circumstances, and it was bitter to her mouth. All very well to remind herself that work was honourable, that anyone who looked down on her for choosing to be independent was not worth a moment's thought, the fact remained that for the first, the very first time in her life she had been made to feel that there was a barrier between herself and a member of her own class, and that, however willing Mrs Fanshawe might be to introduce her to a casual friend, she was unwilling to make her known to her own son! Claire stood stiff and poker-like at her post, determined to make no movement until Mrs Fanshawe and her attendants had taken their departure. The storm of indignation and wounded pride which was surging through her veins distracted her mind from her surroundings; she was dimly conscious that one after another, her fellow-passengers had taken their departure, preceded by a porter trundling a truck of luggage; conscious that where there had been a crowd, there was now a space, until eventually with a shock of surprise she discovered that she was standing alone, by her own little pile of boxes. At that she shook herself impatiently, beckoned to a porter and was about to walk ahead, when an uneasy suspicion made itself felt. The luggage! Something was wrong. The pile looked smaller than it had done ten minutes before. She made a rapid circuit, and made a horrible discovery. A box was missing! The dress-box containing the skirts of all her best frocks, spread at full length and carefully padded with tissue paper. It had been there ten minutes ago; the custom-house officer had given it a special rap. She distinctly remembered noticing a new scratch on the leather. Where in the name of everything that was inexplicable could it have disappeared? Appealed to for information the porter was not illuminating. "If it had been there before, why wasn't it there now? Was the lady _sure_ she had seen it? Might have been left behind at Antwerp or Parkeston. Better telegraph and see! If it had been there before, why wasn't it there now? Mistakes did happen. Boxes were much alike. P'raps it was left in the van. If it was there ten minutes before, why wasn't it--" Claire stopped him with an imperious hand. "That's enough! It _was_ there: I saw it. I counted the pieces before the custom-house officer came along. I noticed it especially. Someone must have taken it by mistake." The porter shook his head darkly. "On purpose, more like! Funny people crosses by this route. Funny thing that you didn't notice--" Claire found nothing funny in the reflection. She was furious with herself for her carelessness, and still more furious with Mrs Fanshawe as the cause thereof. Down the platform she stalked, a picture of vivid impetuous youth, head thrown back, cheeks aflame, grey eyes sending out flashes of indignation. Every porter who came in her way was stopped and imperiously questioned as to his late load, every porter was in his turn waved impatiently away. Claire was growing seriously alarmed. Suppose the box was lost! It would be as bad as losing _two_ boxes, for of what use were bodices minus skirts to match? Never again would she be guilty of the folly of packing bits of the same costumes in different boxes. How awful--how awful beyond words to arrive in London without a decent dress to wear! Whirling suddenly round to pursue yet another porter, Claire became aware of a figure in a long tweed coat standing on the space beside the taxi-stand, intently watching her movements. She recognised him in a moment as none other than "Erskine" himself, who, having seen his mother into her car, was presumably bound for another destination. But why was he standing there? Why had he been so long in moving away? Claire hastily averted her eyes, but as she cross-questioned porter number four, she was aware that the tall figure was drawing nearer, and presently he was standing by her side, taking off his hat, and saying in the most courteous and deferential of tones-- "Excuse me--I'm afraid something is wrong! Can I be of any assistance?" Claire's glance was frigid in its coldness; but it was difficult to remain frigid in face of the man's obvious sincerity and kindliness. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Please don't trouble. I can manage quite well. It's only a trunk..." "Is it lost? I say--what a fag! Do let me help. I know this station by heart! If it is to be found, I am sure I can get it for you." This time there was a distinct air of appeal in his deep voice. Claire divined that the nice man was anxious to atone for his mother's cavalier behaviour, and her heart softened towards him. After all, why should she punish herself by refusing? Five minutes more or less on the station platform could make no difference one way or another, for at the end they would wish each other a polite adieu, and part never to meet again. And she _did_ want that box! She smiled, and sighed, and looked delightfully pretty and appealing, as she said frankly-- "Thank you, I _should_ be grateful for suggestions. It's the most extraordinary and provoking thing--" They walked slowly down the platform while she explained the situation, and reiterated the fact that she had seen the box ten minutes before. Erskine Fanshawe did not dispute the statement as each porter had done before him; he contented himself with asking if there was any distinctive feature in the appearance of the box itself. Claire shook her head. "The ordinary brown leather, with strappings and C.G. on one side. Just like a thousand other boxes, but it had a label, beside the initials. I don't see how anyone can have taken it by mistake." She set her teeth, and her head took a defiant tilt. "There's one comfort; if it _is_ stolen, whoever has taken it will not get much for her pains! There's nothing in it but skirts. Skirts won't be much good without the bodices to match!" The man looked down at her, his expression comically compounded of sympathy and humour. At that moment, despite the irregularity of his features, he looked wonderfully like his handsome mother. "Er--just so! Unfortunately, however, from the opposite point of view, you find yourself in the same position! Bodices, I presume, without skirts--" Claire groaned, and held up a protesting hand. "Don't! I can't bear it. It's really devastating. My whole outfit--at one fell sweep!" "Isn't it--excuse my suggesting it--rather a mistake to--er--divide pieces of the same garment, _so_ that if one trunk should be lost, the loss practically extends to two?" "No, it isn't. It's the only sensible thing to do," Claire said obstinately. "Skirts must be packed at full length, and a dress-box is made for that very purpose. All the same, I shall never do it again. It's no use being sensible if you have to contend with--_thieves_!" "I don't think we need leap to that conclusion just yet. You have only spoken to two or three porters. We'd better wait about a few minutes longer until the other men come back. Very likely the box was put on a truck by accident, and if the mistake was discovered before it was put on the taxi, it would be sent back to see if its owner were waiting here. If it doesn't turn up at once, you mustn't be discouraged. The odds are ten to one that it's only a mistake, and in that case when the taxi is unloaded, the box will be sent back to the lost luggage office, or forwarded to your address. Was the full address on the box, by the way?" Claire nodded assent. "Oh, yes; I have that poor satisfaction at least. I was most methodical and prudent, but I don't know that that's going to be much consolation if I lose my nice frocks, and am too poor to buy any more." The last phrase was prompted by a proud determination to sail under no false colours in the eyes of Mrs Fanshawe's son; but the picture evoked thereby was sufficiently tragic to bring a cloud over her face. The memory of each separate gown rose before her, looking distractingly dainty and becoming; she saw a vision of herself as she might have been, and faced a future bounded by eternal blue serge. All the tragedy of the thought was in her air, and her companion cried quickly-- "You won't need to buy them! They'll turn up all right, I am quite sure of that. The worst that can happen is a day or two's delay. After all, you know, there are thousands of honest folk to a single thief, and even a thief would probably prefer a small money reward to useless halves of dresses! If you hear nothing by to-morrow, you might offer a reward." "Oh, I will!" Claire said gratefully. "Thank you for thinking of it." No more porters having for the moment appeared in sight, they now turned, and slowly retraced their steps. Claire, covertly regarding her companion, wondered why she felt convinced that he was a soldier; Erskine Fanshawe in his turn covertly regarded Claire, and wondered why it was that she seemed different from any girl he had seen before. Then tentatively he put a personal question. "Do you know London well, Miss Gifford? My mother told me you were-- er--coming to settle--" "Not at all well, as a whole. I know the little bit around Regent Street, and the Park, and the places one sees in a week's visit, but that's all. We never stayed long in town when we came to England. I shall enjoy exploring on half holidays when I am free from work. I am a school-mistress!" said Claire with an air, and gathered from her companion's face that he knew as much already, and considered it a subject for commiseration. He looked at her with sympathetic eyes, and asked deeply-- "Hate it very much?" "Not at all. Quite the contrary. I adore it. At least, that's to say, I haven't begun yet, but I feel sure I _shall_!" Claire cried ardently; and at that they both laughed with a delightful sense of understanding and _camaraderie_. At that moment Claire felt a distinct pang at the thought that never again would she have the opportunity of speaking and laughing with this attractive, eminently companionable man; then her attention was distracted by the appearance of two more porters, who had each to be interviewed in his turn. They had no good news to give, however, so the searchers left the platform in disgust, and repaired to the office for lost luggage, where the story of the missing box was recounted to an unsympathetic clerk. When a man spends his whole life listening to complaints of missing property, he can hardly be expected to show a vehement distress at the loss of yet another passenger, but to Claire at this moment there was something quite brutal in his callous indifference. The one suggestion which he had to make was that she could leave her name, and the manner in which it was given was a death-blow to hope. At this very moment, however, just as Claire was bending forward to dictate the desired information she felt a touch on her arm, and looking in the direction of Mr Fanshawe's outstretched hand, beheld a porter approaching the office, trundling before him a truck on which reposed in solitary splendour, a long brown dress-box, and oh, joy of joys! even at the present distance the white letters C.G. could be plainly distinguished on the nearer side! Claire's dignity went to the winds at that sight, and she dashed forward to meet her property with the joyous impetuosity of a child. The explanation was simple to a degree, and precisely agreed with Mr Fanshawe's surmise as to what had really happened. During Claire's trance of forgetfulness, the box had been wheeled away, with a large consignment of luggage, and the mistake discovered only when the various items were in process of being packed into a company's omnibus, when, there being no one at hand to claim it, it had been conveyed--by very leisurely stages--to the lost luggage office. All's well that ends well! Claire gleefully collected her possessions, feeling a glow of delight in the safety which an hour before she would have taken as a matter of course, and stood at attention while each separate item was placed on the roof of the taxi. The little addresses of which she had boasted were duly inserted in leather framings on each box, the delicate writing too small to be deciphered, except near at hand. Claire saw her companion's eyes contract in an evident effort to distinguish the words, and immediately moved her position so as to frustrate his purpose. She did not intend Mr Fanshawe to know her address! When she was seated in the taxi, however, there came an awkward moment, for her companion waved the chauffeur to his seat, and stood by the window looking in at her, with a face which seemed unduly serious and earnest, considering the extremely slight nature of their acquaintance. "Well! I am thankful the box turned up. I shall think of you enjoying your re-united frocks... Sure you've got everything all right? Where shall I tell the man to drive?" For the fraction of a second Claire's eyes flickered, then she spoke in decided tones. "`The Grand Hotel.'" Mr Fanshawe's eyes flickered too, and turned involuntarily towards the boxes on the roof. What exactly were the words on the labels he could not see, but at least it was certain that they were not "The Grand Hotel!" He turned from the inspection to confront a flushed, obstinate face. "Do you wish me to give the man that address?" "I do." Very deliberately and quietly Mr Fanshawe stepped back a pace, opened his long coat, and fumbled in an inner pocket for a leather pocket-book; very quietly and deliberately he drew from one bulging division a visiting card, and held it towards her. Claire caught the word "Captain" and saw that an address was printed in the corner, but she covered it hastily with her hand, refusing a second glance. Captain Fanshawe leant his arm on the window sash and said hesitatingly-- "Will you allow me to give you my card! As you are a stranger in town and your people away, there may possibly be--er--occasions, when it would be convenient to know some man whom you could make of use. Please remember me if they do come along! It would be a privilege to repay your kindness to my mother... Send me a wire at any time, and I am at your service. I hope you _will_ send. Good morning!" "Good-bye!" said Claire. Red as a rose was she at that moment, but very dignified and stately, bending towards him in a sweeping bow, as the taxi rolled away. The last glimpse of Captain Fanshawe showed him standing with uplifted hat, the keen eyes staring after her, with not a glint of humour in their grey depths. Quite evidently he meant what he said. Quite evidently he was as keen to pursue her acquaintance as his mother had been to drop it. Claire Gifford sat bolt upright on her seat, the slip of cardboard clasped within her palms, and as she sat she thought many thoughts. A physiognomist would have been interested to trace the progress of those thoughts on the eloquent young face. There was surprise written there, and obvious gratification, and a demure, very feminine content; later on came pride, and a general stiffening of determination. The spoiled child of liberty and the High School-Mistress of the future had fought a heated battle, and the High School-Mistress had won. Deliberately turning aside her eyes, so that no word of that printed address should obtrude itself on her notice, Claire tore the card sharply across and across, and threw the fragments out of the window. A moment later she whistled through the tube, and instructed the chauffeur as to her change of address. Adieu to the Fanshawes, and all such luxuries of the past. Heigh-ho for hard work, and lodgings at fifteen shillings a week! CHAPTER FIVE. MISS RHODES, POISONER. It is a somewhat dreary feeling to arrive even at a friend's house before seven o'clock in the morning, and be received by sleepy-looking people who have obviously been torn unwillingly from their beds in deference to the precepts of hospitality, but it is infinitely worse to arrive at a lodging-house at the same hour, ring several times at the bell before a dingy servant can be induced to appear, and to realise a moment later that in a tireless parlour you perceive your journey's goal! Claire Gifford felt a creep of the blood at the sight of that parlour, though if her first introduction had been at night, when the curtains were drawn and the lamps lit, she would have found it cosy enough. There was no sign of her room-mate; perhaps it was too much to expect her to get up at so early an hour to welcome a stranger, but Claire _had_ expected it, felt perfectly sure that--had positions been reversed--she herself would have taken pains to deck both herself and her room in honour of the occasion, and so felt correspondingly downcast. Presently she found herself following the dingy maid up three separate nights of stairs, and arriving at a tiny box of a bedroom on the top floor. There was a bed, a washstand, a chest of drawers doing service as a dressing-table, two chairs and a sloping roof. Claire would have been quite disappointed if that last item had been missing, for whoever heard of a girl who set out to make her own living who had not slept in a room with a sloping roof? On the whole, despite its tiny proportions, the little room made a pleasant impression. It was clean, it was bright, walls and furniture were alike of a plain unrelieved white, and through the open casement window could be seen a distant slope of green overtopping the intervening chimney tops. Claire's eyes roved here and there with the instinct of a born home-maker, saw what was lacking here, what was superfluous there, grasped neglected possibilities, and mentally re-arranged and decorated the premises before a slower person would have crossed the floor. Then she took up her stand before the small mirror, and devoted a whole minute to studying her own reflection from the point of view of Captain Erskine Fanshawe of unknown address. By her own deliberate choice she had cut herself off from future chance of meeting this acquaintance of an hour; nevertheless it was distinctly reviving to discern that her hat was set at precisely the right angle, and that for an all-night voyager her whole appearance was remarkably fresh and dainty. Claire first smiled, and then sighed, and pulled out the hat-pins with impatient tugs. To be prudent and self-denying is not always an exhilarating process for sweet and twenty. Presently the maid came staggering upstairs with the smaller boxes, and Claire busied herself in her room until the clock had struck eight, when she again descended to the joint sitting-room. This time the fire was lighted, and the table laid for breakfast, and behind the tea-tray sat Miss Rhodes, the English mistress, already halfway through her meal. She rose, half smiling, half frowning, and held out a thin hand in welcome. "Morning. Hope you've had a good crossing. Didn't know when you'd be down. Do you take coffee?" "Please!" Claire felt that a cup of coffee would be just what she needed, but missed the familiar fragrant scent. She seated herself at the table, and while Miss Rhodes went on with her preparation, studied her with curious eyes. She saw a woman of thirty-two or three, with well-cut features, dark eyes, and abundant dark hair--a woman who ought to have been distinctly good-looking but who succeeded in being plain and commonplace. She was badly-dressed, in a utility blouse of grey flannel, her expression was tired and listless, and her hair, though neat, showed obvious lack of care, having none of the silky sheen which rewards regular systematic brushing. So far bad, but, in spite of all drawbacks, it was an interesting face, and Claire felt attracted, despite the preliminary disappointment. "There's some bacon in that dish. It will be cold, I'm afraid. You can ring, if you like, and ask them to warm it up, but they'll keep you waiting a quarter of an hour out of spite. I've given it up myself." "Oh, I'm accustomed to French breakfasts. I really want nothing but some bread and coffee." Claire sipped at her cup as she finished speaking, and the sudden grimace of astonishment which followed roused her companion to laughter. "You don't like it? It isn't equal to your French coffee." "It isn't coffee at all. It's undrinkable!" Claire pushed away her cup in disgust. "Is it always as bad as that?" "Worse!" said Miss Rhodes composedly. "They put in more this morning because of you. Sometimes it's barely coloured, and it's always chicory." She shrugged resignedly. "No English landlady can make coffee. It's no use worrying. Have to make the best of what comes." "Indeed I shan't. Why should I? I shan't try. There's no virtue in drinking such stuff. We provide the coffee--what's to hinder us making it for ourselves?" "No fire, as a rule. Can't afford one when you are going out immediately after breakfast." Claire stared in dismay. It had never occurred to her that she might have to be economical to this extent. "But when it's very cold? What do you do then?" "Put on a jersey, and nurse the hot-water jug!" Claire grimaced, then nodded with an air of determination. "I'll buy a machine! There can be no objection to that. You would prefer good coffee, wouldn't you, if you could get it without any more trouble?" "Oh, certainly. I'll enjoy it--while it lasts!" "Why shouldn't it last?" Miss Rhodes stared across at the eager young face. She looked tired, and a trifle impatient. "Oh, my dear girl, you're _New_. We are all the same at first--bubbling over with energy, and determined to arrange everything exactly as we like. It's a phase which we all live through. Afterwards you don't care. You are too tired to worry. All your energy goes on your day's work, and you are too thankful for peace and quietness to bother about details. You take what comes, and are thankful it's not worse." Claire's smile showed an elaborate forbearance. "Rather a poor-spirited attitude, don't you think?" "Wait and see!" said the English mistress. She rose and threw herself in a chair by the window, and Claire left the despised coffee and followed her example. Through the half-opened panes she looked out on a row of brick houses depressingly dingy, depressingly alike. About every second house showed a small black card on which the word "Apartments" was printed in gilt letters. Down the middle of the street came a fruiterer's cart, piled high with wicker baskets. The cry of "Bananas, cheap bananas," floated raucously on the air. Claire swiftly averted her eyes and turned back to her companion. "It is very good of you to let me share your _appartement_. Miss Farnborough said she had arranged it with you, but it must be horrid taking in a stranger. I will try not to be too great a bore!" But Miss Rhodes refused to be thanked. "I'm bound to have somebody," said she ungraciously. "Couldn't afford them alone. You know the terms? Thirty-five shillings a week for the three rooms. That's cheap in this neighbourhood. We only get them at that price because we are out all day, and need so little catering." She looked round the room with her tired, mocking smile. "Hope you admire the scheme of decoration! I've been in dozens of lodgings, but I don't think I've ever struck an uglier room; but the people are clean and honest, and one has to put that before beauty, in our circumstances." "There's a great _deal_ of pattern about. It hasn't what one could call a restful effect!" said Claire, looking across at an ochre wall bespattered with golden scrawls, a red satin mantel-border painted with lustre roses, a suite of furniture covered in green stamped plush, a collection of inartistic pictures, and unornamental ornaments. Even her spirit quailed before the hopelessness of beautifying a room in which all the essentials were so hopelessly wrong. She gave it up in despair, and returned to the question of finance. "Then my share will be seventeen and six! That seems very cheap. I am to begin at a hundred and ten pounds. How much extra must I allow for food?" "That depends upon your requirements. We have dinner at school; quite a good meal for ninepence, including a penny for coffee afterwards." "The same sort of coffee we have had this morning?" "Practically. A trifle better perhaps. Not much." "Hurrah!" cried Claire gaily. "That's a penny to the good! Eightpence for me--a clear saving of fivepence a week!" Miss Rhodes resolutely refused to smile. She had the air of thinking it ribald to be cheerful on the serious question of pounds, shillings and pence. "Even so, it's three-and-four, and you can't do breakfast and supper and full board on Saturday and Sunday under seven shillings. It's tight enough to manage on that. Altogether it often mounts up to twelve." "Seventeen and twelve." Claire pondered deeply before she arrived at a solution. "Twenty-nine. Call it thirty, to make it even, and I am to begin at a hundred and ten. Over two pounds a week. I ought to do it comfortably, and have quite a lot over." Miss Rhodes laughed darkly. "What about extras?" she demanded. "What about laundry, and fires, and stationery and stamps? What about boot-mending, and Tubes on wet days, and soap and candles, and dentist and medicines, and subs, at school, and collections in church, and travelling expenses on Saturdays and Sundays, when you invariably want to go to the very other side of the city? London is not like a provincial town. You can't stir out of the house under fourpence or sixpence at the very least. What about illness, and amusement, and holidays? What about--" Claire thrust her fingers in her ears with an air of desperation. "Stop! Stop! For pity's sake don't swamp me any more. I feel in the bankruptcy court already, and I had imagined that I was rich! A hundred and ten pounds seemed quite a big salary. Everybody was surprised at my getting so much, and I suppose you have even more?" "A hundred and fifty. Yes! You must remember that we don't belong to the ordinary rut of worker--we are experts. Our education has been a long costly business. No untrained worker could take our place; we are entitled to expert's pay. Oh, yes, they are quite good salaries if you happen to have a home behind you, and people who are ready to help over rough times, instead of needing to be helped themselves. The pity of it is that most High School-mistresses come from families who are _not_ rich. The parents have made a big effort to pay for the girls' education, and when they are fairly launched, they expect to be helped in return. Some girls have been educated by relations, or have practically paid for themselves by scholarships. Three out of four of us have people who are more in need of help than able to give it. I give my own mother thirty pounds a year, so we are practically on the same salary. Have _you_ a home where you can spend your holiday? Holidays run away terribly with your money. They come to nearly four months in the year." For the first time those prolonged holidays appeared to Claire as a privilege which had its reverse side. Friends in Brussels might possibly house her for two or three weeks; she could not expect, she would not wish them to do more; and at the end there would still remain over three months! It was a new and disagreeable experience to look forward to holidays with _dread_! For a whole two minutes she looked thoroughly depressed, then her invincible optimism came to the top, and she cried triumphantly-- "I'll take a holiday engagement!" The English mistress shook her head. "That's fatal! I tried it myself one summer. Went with a family to the seaside, and was expected to play games with the children all day long, and coach them in the evening. I began the term tired out, and nearly collapsed before the end. Teaching is nerve-racking work, and if you don't get a good spell off, it's as bad for the pupils as yourself. You snap their heads off for the smallest trifle. Besides, it's folly to wear oneself out any sooner than one need. It's bad enough to think of the time when one has to retire. That's the nightmare which haunts us more and more every year." "Don't you think when the time comes you will be _glad_ to rest?" asked innocent Claire, whereupon Miss Rhodes glared at her with indignant eyes. "We should be glad to rest, no doubt, but we don't exactly appreciate the prospect of resting in the workhouse, and it's difficult to see where else some of us are to go! There is no pension for High School- mistresses, and we are bound to retire at fifty-five--if we can manage to stick it out so long. Fifty-five seems a long way off to you--not quite so long to me; when you reach forty it becomes to feel quite near. Women are horribly long-lived, so the probability is that we'll live on to eighty or more. Twenty-five years after leaving off work, and--_where is the money to come from to keep us_? That's the question which haunts us all when we look into our bank-books and find that, with all our pains, we have only been able to save at the utmost two or three hundred pounds." Claire looked scared, but she recovered her composure with a swiftness which her companion had no difficulty in understanding. She pounced upon her with lightning swiftness. "Ah, you think you'll get married, and escape that way! We all do when we're new, and pretty, and ignorant of the life. But it's fifty to one, my dear, that you _won't_? You won't meet many men, for one thing; and if you do, they don't like school-mistresses." "Doesn't that depend a good deal on the kind of school-mistress?" "Absolutely; but after a few years we are all more or less alike. We don't _begin_ by being dowdy and angular, and dogmatic and prudish; we begin by being pretty and cheerful like you. I used to change my blouse every evening, and put on silk stockings." "Don't you now?" "I do _not_! Why should I, to sit over a lodging-house table correcting exercises till ten o'clock? It's not worth the trouble. Besides, I'm too tired, and it wears out another blouse." Claire's attention was diverted from clothes by the shock of the reference to evening work. She had looked forward to coming home to read an interesting book, or be lazy in whatever fashion appealed to her most, and the corrections of exercises seemed of all things the most dull. "Shall I have evening work, too?" she inquired blankly, and Miss Rhodes laughed with brutal enjoyment. "Rather! French compositions on the attributes of a true woman, or, `How did you spend your summer holiday?' with all the tenses wrong, and the idioms translated word for word. And every essay a practical repetition of the one before. It's not once in a blue moon that one comes across a girl with any originality of thought. Oh, yes! that's the way we shall spend five evenings a week. You will sit at that side of the table, I will sit at this, and we'll correct and yawn, and yawn and correct, and drink a cup of cocoa and go to bed at ten. Lively, isn't it?" "Awful! I never thought of homework. But if Saturday is a whole holiday there will still be one night off. I shall make a point of doing something exciting every Saturday evening." "Exciting things cost money, and, as a rule, when you have paid up the various extras, there's no money to spare. I stay in bed till ten o'clock on Saturday, and then get up and wash blouses, and do my mending, and have a nap after lunch, and if it's summer, go and sit on a penny chair in the park, or take a walk over Hampstead Heath. In the evening I read a novel and have a hot bath. Once in a blue moon I have an extravagant bout, and lunch in a restaurant, and go to an entertainment--but I'm sorry afterwards when I count the cost. On Sunday I go to church, and wish some one would ask me to tea. They don't, you know. They may do once or twice, when you first come up, but you can never ask them back, and your clothes get shabby, and you know nothing about their interests, so they think you a bore, and quietly let you drop." A smothered exclamation burst from Claire's lips; with a sudden, swirling movement she leapt up, and fell on her knees before Miss Rhodes's chair, her hands clasping its arms, her flushed face upturned with a desperate eagerness. "Miss Rhodes! we are going to live together here, we are going to share the same room, and the same meals. Would you--if any one offered you a million pounds, would you agree to poison me slowly, day by day, dropping little drops of poison into everything I ate and everything I drank, while you sat by and watched me grow weaker and weaker till I _died_?" "Good heavens, girl--are you mad! What in the world are you raving about?" Miss Rhodes had grown quite red. She was indignant; she was also more than a little scared. The girl's sudden change of mood was startling in itself, and she looked so tense, so overwhelmingly in earnest. What could she mean? Was it possible that she was a little--_touched_? "I suppose you don't realise it, but it's insulting even to put such a question." "But you _are_ doing it! It's just exactly what you are beginning already. Ever since I arrived you've been poisoning me drop by drop. Poisoning my _mind_! I am at the beginning of my work, and you've been discouraging me, frightening me, painting it all black. Every word that you've said has been a drop of poison to kill hope and courage and confidence--and oh, don't do it! don't go on! I may be young and foolish, and full of ridiculous ideas, but let me keep them as long as I can! If all that you say is true, they will be knocked out of me soon enough, and I--I've never had to work before, or been alone, and--and it's only two days since my mother left me to go to India--all that long way--and left me behind! It's hard enough to go on being alone, and believing it's all going to be _couleur de rose_, but it will be fifty times harder if I don't. Please--please don't make it any worse!" With the last words tears came with a rush, the tears that had been resolutely restrained throughout the strain of the last week. Claire dropped her head on the nearest resting-place she could find, which happened to be Miss Rhodes's blue serge lap, and felt the quick pressure of a hand over the glossy coils. "Poor little girl!" said the English mistress softly. "Poor little girl! I'm sorry! I'm a beast! Take no notice of me. I'm a sour, disagreeable old thing. It was more than half jealousy, dear, because you looked so pretty and spry, so like what I used to look myself. The life's all right, if you keep well, and don't worry too much ahead. There, don't cry! I loathe tears! You will yourself, when you have to deal with silly, hysterical girls. Come, I'll promise I won't poison you any more--at least, I'll do my best; but I've a grumbling nature, and you'd better realise it, once for all, and take no notice. We'll get on all right. I like you. I'm glad you came. My good girl, if you don't stop, I'll shake you till you do!" Claire sat back on her heels, mopped her eyes, and gave a strangled laugh. "I hate crying myself, but I'll begin again on the faintest provocation. It's always like that with me. I hardly ever cry, but when I once begin--" Miss Rhodes rose with an air of determination. "We'd better go out. I am free till lunch-time. I'll take you round and show you the neighbourhood, and the usual places of call. It will save time another day. Anything you want to buy?" Claire mopped away another tear. "C-certainly," she said feebly. "A c-offee machine." CHAPTER SIX. THE INVITATION. The next morning Claire was introduced to the scene of her new labours, and was agreeably impressed with its outside appearance. Saint Cuthbert's High School was situated in a handsome thoroughfare, and had originally been a large private house, to which long wings had been added to right and left. On each side and across the road were handsome private houses standing in their own grounds, owned by tenants who regarded the High School with lively detestation, and would have borne up with equanimity had an earthquake swallowed it root and branch. Viewed from inside, the building was less attractive, passages and class-rooms alike having the air of bleak austerity which seems inseparable from such buildings; but when nine o'clock struck, and the flood of young life went trooping up the stairways and flowed into the separate rooms, the sense of bareness was replaced by one of tingling vitality. As is usual on an opening day, every girl was at her best and brightest, decked in a new blouse, with pigtails fastened by crisp new ribbons, and good resolutions wound up to fever point. To find a new French mistress in the shape of a pretty well-dressed girl, who was English at one moment, and at the next even Frenchier than Mademoiselle, was an unexpected joy, and Claire found the battery of admiring young eyes an embarrassing if stimulating experience. Following Miss Farnborough's advice, she spent the first day's lessons in questioning the different classes as to their past work, and so turned the hour into an impromptu conversation class. The ugly English accents made her wince, and she winced a second time as she realised the unpleasant fact that just as her pupils would have to prepare for her, so would she be obliged to prepare for them! Forgotten rules of grammar must be looked up and memorised, for French was so much her mother tongue that she would find it difficult to explain distinctions which came as a matter of course. That meant more work at night, more infringement of holiday hours. The girls themselves were for the most part agreeable and well-mannered. The majority were the daughters of professional men, and of gentle- folks of limited means; but there was also a sprinkling of the daughters of better-class artisans, who paid High School fees at a cost of much self-denial in order to train their girls for teachers' posts in the future. Here and there an awkward, badly-dressed child was plainly of a still lower class. These were the free "places"--clever children who had obtained scholarships from primary schools, and were undergoing the ordeal of being snubbed by their new school-mates as a consequence of their success. From the teacher's point of view these clever children were a welcome stimulus, but class feeling is still too strong in England to make them acceptable to their companions. At lunch-time the fifteen mistresses assembled in the Staff-Room, a dull apartment far too small for the purpose, a common fault in High Schools, where the different governing bodies are apt to spare no expense in providing for the comfort of the scholar, but grudge the slightest expenditure for the benefit of those who teach. Fifteen mistresses sat round the table eating roast lamb and boiled cabbage, followed by rhubarb pie and rice pudding, and Claire, looking from one to the other, acknowledged the truth of Miss Rhodes's assertion that they were all of a type. She herself was the only one of the number who had any pretensions to roundness of outline, all the rest were thin to angularity, half the number wore pince-nez or spectacles, and all had the same strained pucker round the eyes. Each one wore a blue serge skirt and a white blouse, and carried herself with an air of dogmatic assurance, as who should say: "I know better than any one else, and when I speak let no dog bark!" The German mistress was the veteran of the party and was probably a good forty-five. Miss Bryce, the Froebel mistress, paired with Claire herself for the place of junior. Miss Blake, the Gym. mistress, was a graceful girl with an air of delicacy which did not seem in accord with her profession. Miss Rose, the Art mistress, was plain with a squat, awkward figure. Rising from the table, Claire caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the strip of mirror over the chimney-piece, and at the sight a little thrill, half-painful, half-pleasant, passed through her veins. The soft bloom of her complexion, the dainty finish of her dress, differentiated her almost painfully from her companions, and she felt a pang of dread lest that difference should ever grow less. While she affected to read one of the magazines which lay on a side table, she was really occupied making a number of vehement resolutions: Never to slack in her care of her personal appearance; never to give up brushing her hair at night; never to wear a flannel blouse; never to give up manicuring her hands; never, no, never to allow herself to grow short-sighted, and be obliged to submit to specs! The different mistresses seemed to be on friendly terms, but there was an absence of the camaraderie which comes from living under the same roof. School was a common possession, but home hours were spent apart, except when, as in Claire's own case, two mistresses shared the same rooms, and it followed as a matter of course that personal interests were divided. To-day the conversation was less scholastic than usual, the intervening holidays forming a topic of interest. The Art mistress had been on a bicycle sketching tour with a friend; the German mistress had taken a cheap trip home; Miss Blake announced that all her money had gone on "hateful massage," and the faces of her listeners sobered as they listened, for Sophy Blake, who led the exercises with such verve and go, had of late complained of rheumatic pains, and her companions heard of her symptoms with dread. What would become of Sophy if those pains increased? One after another the mistresses drifted over to where Claire sat turning the pages of her magazine, and exchanged a few fragments of conversation, and then the great bell clanged again, and afternoon school began. The first half-hour of afternoon school proved the most trying of the day. Claire was tired after the exertions of the morning, and a very passion for sleep consumed her being. She fought against it with all her might, but the yawns would come; she fought against the yawns, and the tears flowed. To her horror the infection spread, and the girls began to yawn in their turn, with long, uncontrolled gapes. It was a junior class, and the new mistress shrewdly suspected that the infection was welcomed as an agreeable interlude. It was obvious that she could not afford to reject that cup of coffee. Good or bad it must be drunk! Rich or poor that penny must be dedicated to the task of vitalising that first hour of sleepiness. At the end of six weeks Claire felt as though she had been a High School-mistress all her life. The regular methodical days, in which every hour was mapped out, had a deadening effect on one who had been used to constant variety, and except for a difference in the arrangement of classes there seemed no distinction between one and the other. She was a machine wound up to work steadily from Monday morning until Friday night, and absurdly ready to run down when the time was over. Every morning after breakfast she started forth with Miss Rhodes, by foot if the weather were fine, by Tube if wet; every mid-day she dined in the Staff-Room with the fifteen other mistresses, and gulped down a cup of chicory coffee. At four o'clock the mistresses met once more for tea, a free meal this time, supplemented by an occasional cake which one of the fifteen provided for the general good. At five she and her table companion returned to their rooms, and rested an hour before taking the evening meal. Claire was sufficiently French to be intolerant of badly cooked food, and instead of resigning herself to eat and grumble, after the usual habit of lodging-house dwellers, resolutely set to work to improve the situation. The coffee machine had now a chafing-dish as companion, and it was a delightful change of work to set the two machines to work to provide a dainty meal. "High Tea" consisted as a rule of coffee and some light dish, the materials for which were purchased on the way home. On hungry days, when work had been unusually trying, the butcher supplied cutlets, which were grilled with tomatoes, or an occasional quarter of a pound of mushrooms: on economical days the humble kipper--legendary food of all spinsters in lodgings!--was transformed into quite a smart and restaurant-ey dish, separated from its bones, pounded with butter and flavouring, and served in neat little mounds on the top of hot buttered toast. Moreover, Claire was a proficient in the making of omelettes, and it was astonishing how large and tempting a dish could be compounded of two eggs, and the minutest scrap of ham left over from the morning's breakfast! "Every luxury of the season, with the smell thrown in! In _nice_ cooking the smell is almost the best part. All the cedars in Lebanon wouldn't smell as good at this moment as this nice ham-ey coffee-y frizzle," Claire declared one Friday evening as she served the meal on red-hot plates, and glowed with delight at her own sleight of hand. "Don't you admire eggs for looking so small, when they possess such powers of expansion? All the result of beating. Might make a simile out of that, mightn't you?" "Might, but won't," the English teacher replied, sipping luxuriously at her coffee. "I'm not a teacher any more at this moment. I'm a gourmand, pure and simple, and I'll stay a gourmand straight on till this omelette is finished. When all trades fail, you might go out as a missioner to women living in diggings, and teach them how to prepare their meals, and sell chafing-dishes by instalment payments at the door, as the touts sell sewing machines to the maids. It would be a noble vocation!" Claire smirked complacently. "I flatter myself I _have_ made a difference to your material comfort! Poor we may be, but we do have nice, dainty little meals, and there's no reason why every able-bodied woman shouldn't have them at the same cost. I've just remembered another nice dish. We'll have it to-morrow night." She paused, and a wistful look came into her eyes, for the next day was Saturday, and it was on holiday afternoons that the feeling of loneliness grew most acute. School life was monotonous, but it was never lonely; from morning to night one lived in a crowd, and already each class had furnished youthful adorers eager to sit at the feet of the pretty new mistress, and bring her offerings of chocolates and flowers; for five long days there was always a crowd, always a hum and babble of voices, but at the end of the week came a dead calm. On the first Saturday of the term Miss Farnborough had invited the new French mistress to tea, and had been all that was friendly and encouraging; but since that time no word had passed between them that was not strictly concerned with the work in hand, and Claire realised that as one out of sixteen mistresses she could not hope for frequent invitations. On one Sunday the Gym. mistress had offered her company for a walk, and there the list of hospitalities ceased. No invitations came from that friend of Mrs Fanshawe's who was so fond of girls who were working for themselves. Claire had hardly expected it, but she was disappointed all the same. A longing was growing within her to sit again in a pretty, daintily-appointed room, and talk about something else than time-tables, and irregular verbs, and the Association of Assistant Mistresses which, amalgamated with the Association of Assistant Masters and the Teachers' Guild, were labouring to obtain a settled scale of salaries, and that great safeguard, desired above all others, a pension on retirement! On this particular Friday evening the longing was so strong that she had deliberately gone out of her way to try to gain an invitation by walking home with a certain Flora Ross in the sixth form, who was the most ardent of her admirers. Flora lived in a cheerful-looking house about a quarter of a mile from the school, and every morning hung over the gate waiting for the chance occasions when her beloved Miss Gifford approached alone, and she could have the felicity of accompanying her for the rest of the way. On these occasions she invariably turned to wave her hand to a plump, smiling mother who stood at a bay window waving in return. An upper window was barred with brass rods, against which two little flaxen heads bobbed up and down. Both the house and its inmates had a cheerful wholesome air, which made a strong appeal to the heart of the lonely girl, and this Friday afternoon, meeting Flora waiting in the corridor, she had accepted her companionship on the way home with a lurking hope that when the green gate was reached, she would be invited to come inside. Alas! no such thought seemed to enter Flora's brain. She gazed adoringly into Claire's face and hung breathlessly on her words, but for all her adoration there was a gulf between. Claire was the sweetest and duckiest of mistresses, but she _was_ a mistress, a being shut off from the ordinary interests of life. When Flora said, "Isn't it jolly, we are going to have a musical party to-morrow! We have such lovely parties, and mother always lets me sit up!" she might have been speaking to a creature without ears, for all the consciousness she exhibited that Claire might possibly wish to take part in the fray. When the green gate was reached, the plump mamma was seen standing outside the drawing- room window and recognising the identity of her daughter's companion, she bent her head in a courteous bow, but she made no attempt to approach the gate. "See you on Monday!" cried Flora fondly, then the gate clicked, and Claire walked along the road with her head held high, and two red spots burning on either cheek. That evening for the first time she felt a disinclination to change into the pretty summer frock which she had chosen as a compromise for evening dress; that evening for the first time the inner voice whispered to her as it had done to so many before her: "What's the good? Nobody sees you! Nobody cares." Miss Rhodes finished her share of the omelette, turned on to bread and jam, and cast a glance of inquiry at her companion, who had relapsed into unusual silence. "Anything wrong?" "Yes, I think so. Usual symptoms, I suppose. I want to wear all my best clothes and go out to do something gay and exciting, Cecil!" The English teacher's name being Rhodes, it was obvious that she should be addressed as Cecil, especially as her parents had been misguided enough to give her the unsuitably gentle name of Mary. "Cecil, do none of the parents _ever_ ask us out?" "Why should they?" "Why shouldn't they? If we are good enough to teach their children, we are good enough for them. If they are interested in their children's welfare, they ought to make a point of knowing us to see what kind of influence we use." "Quite so." "Well?" "Well, my dear, there's only one thing to be said--they _don't_! As I told you before, there's a prejudice against mistresses. They give us credit for being clever, and cultivated, and hard-working; but they never grasp the fact that we are human girls, who would very much enjoy being frivolous for a change. I _have_ been asked out to tea at rare intervals, and the mothers have apologised for the ordinary conversation, and laboriously switched it on to books. I didn't want to talk books. I wanted to discuss hats and dresses, and fashionable intelligence, and sing comic songs, and play puss-in-the-corner, and be generally giddy and riotous; but my presence cast a wet blanket over the whole party, and we discussed Science and Art. Now I'm old and resigned, but it's hard on the new hands. I think it was rather brutal of your mother to let you come to London without taking the trouble of getting _some_ introductions. Don't mind me saying so, do you?" Claire smiled feebly. "You have said it, anyhow! I know it must seem unkind to anyone who does not know mother. She's really the kindest person in the world, but she's very easy-going, and apt to believe that everything will happen just as she wishes. She felt quite sure that Miss Farnborough and the staff would supply me with a whirl of gaiety. There _was_ one lady, who said she would write to a friend--" Cecil groaned deeply. "I know that friend. She comes from Sheffield. A dear kind friend who would love to have you out on holidays. A friend who takes a special interest in school-mistresses. A friend who gives such nice inter-est- ing parties, and would certainly send you a card if she knew your address. Was that it, my dear--was that the kind of friend?" Cecil chuckled with triumph at the sight of Claire's lengthening jaw. In truth there seemed something uncanny in so accurate a reproduction of Mrs Fanshawe's description. Was there, indeed, no such person? Did she exist purely as a dummy figure, to be dangled before the eyes of credulous beginners? Claire sighed, and buried her last lingering hope; and at that very moment the postman's rap sounded at the door, and a square white envelope was handed in, addressed in feminine handwriting to Miss Claire Gifford. Claire tore it open, pulled forth a white card, gasped and flushed, and tossed it across the table with a whoop of triumph. "Raven, look at that! What do you think now of your melancholy croaks?" Cecil picked up the card, inscribed with the orthodox printed lines, beneath which a few words had been written. Mrs Willoughby, At Home May 26th, 9 p.m. Music. "Have just received your address from Mrs Fanshawe. Shall hope to see you to-morrow.--E.B.W." Cecil screwed up her face in disparagement. "Nine o'clock. Mayfair. That means a taxi both ways. Can't arrive at a house like that in a mackintosh, with your shoes in a bag. Much wiser to refuse. It will only unsettle you, and make you unfit for work. She's done the polite thing for once, because she was asked, but she'll never do it again. I've been through it myself, and I know the ropes. A woman like that has hundreds of friends; why should she bother about you? You'll never be asked again." But at that Claire laughed, and beat her hand on the table. "But I say I shall! I say I'll be asked _often_! I don't care if you've had a hundred experiences, mine shall be different. She has asked me once; now, as the Yankees say, `it's up to me' to do the rest. I'll make up my mind to make her _want_ to ask me!" CHAPTER SEVEN. TRANSFORMATION OF CECIL. In the days to come when Claire looked back and reviewed the course of events which followed, she realised that Mrs Willoughby's invitation had been a starting-point from which to date happenings to others as well as herself. It was, for instance, on the morning after its arrival that Cecil's chronic discontent reached an acute stage. She appeared at breakfast with a clouded face, grumbled incessantly throughout the meal, and snapped at everything Claire said, until the latter was provoked into snapping in return. In the old days of idleness Claire had been noted for the sunny sweetness of her disposition, but she was already discovering that teaching lays a severe strain on the nerves, and at the end of a week's work endurance seemed at its lowest ebb. So, when her soft answers met rebuff after rebuff, she began to grumble in her turn, and to give back as good as she got. "Really, Cecil, I am exceedingly sorry that your form is so stupid, and your work so hard, but I am neither a pupil nor a chief, so I fail to see where my responsibility comes in. Wouldn't it be better if you interviewed Miss Farnborough instead of me?" It was the first time that Claire had answered sharply, and for the moment surprise held Cecil dumb. Then the colour flamed into her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with anger. Though forbearance had failed to soothe her, opposition evidently added fuel to the fire. "Miss Farnborough!" she repeated jeeringly. "What does Miss Farnborough care for the welfare of her mistresses, so long as they grind through their daily tasks? It is the pupils she thinks about, not us. The pupils who are to be pampered and considered, and studied, and amused in school and out. They have to have games in summer, and a mistress has to give up her spare time to watch the pretty dears to see that they don't get into trouble; and they must have parties, and concerts, and silly entertainments in winter, with some poor wretch of a mistress to do all the work so that they may enjoy the fun. Miss Farnborough is an exemplary Head so far as her scholars are concerned, but what does she do for her mistresses? I ask you, does she do anything at all?" Claire considered, and was silent. Her first term was nearly over, and she could not truthfully say that the Head had taken any concern for her as an individual who might be expected to feel some interest in life beyond the school door. It is true that almost every day brought the two in contact for the exchange of a few words which, if strictly on business, were always pleasant and kindly, but except for the one invitation to tea on the day before work began, they had never met out of school hours. Claire was a stranger in London, yet the Head had never inquired as to her leisure hours, never invited her to her house, or offered, her an introduction to friends, never even engaged the sympathies of other mistresses on her behalf. Claire had expected a very different treatment, and had struggled against a sense of injury, but she would not acknowledge as much in words. "I suppose Miss Farnborough is even more tired than we are. She has a tremendous amount of responsibility. And she has a brother and sister at home. Perhaps they object to an incursion of school in free hours." "Then she ought to leave them, and live where she can do her duty without interference. After all mistresses are girls, too, not very much older than some of the pupils when we begin work; it's inhuman to take _no_ interest in our welfare. It wouldn't kill a Head to give up a night a month to ask us to meet possible friends, or to write a few letters of introduction. You agree with me in your heart, so it's no use pretending. It's a moral obligation, if it isn't legal, and I say part of the responsibility is hers if things go wrong. It's inhuman to leave a young girl alone in lodgings without even troubling to inquire if she has anywhere to go in her leisure hours. But it's the same tale all round. Nobody thinks. Nobody cares. I've gone to the same church for three years, and not a soul has spoken to me all that time. I've no time to give to Church work, and the seats are free, so there's no way of getting into touch. I don't suppose any one has ever noticed the shabby school-mistress in her shabby blue serge." Suddenly Mary Rhodes thrust back her chair, and rising impetuously began to storm up and down the room. "Oh, I'm tired, I'm tired of this second-hand life. Living in other people's houses, teaching other people's children, obeying other people's orders. I'm sick of it. I can't stand it a moment longer. I'd rather take any risk to be out of it. After all, what could be worse? Any sort of life lived on one's own must be better than this. Nearly twelve years of it--and if I have twenty more, what's the end? What is there to look forward to? Slow starvation in a bed-sitting- room, for perhaps thirty years. I won't do it, I won't! I've had enough. Now I shall choose for myself!" Like a whirlwind she dashed out of the room, and Claire put her elbow on the table and leant her head on her hands, feeling shaken, and discouraged, and oppressed. For the first time a doubt entered her mind as to whether she could continue to live with Mary Rhodes. In her brighter modes there was much that was attractive in her personality, but to live with a chronic grumbler sapped one's own powers of resistance. Claire felt that for the sake of her own happiness and efficiency it would be wiser to make a change, but her heart sank at the thought of making a fresh start, of perhaps having to live alone with no one to speak to in the long evenings. The life of a bachelor girl made little appeal at that moment. Liberty seemed dearly bought at the price of companionship. Claire spent the morning writing to her mother and reading over the series of happy letters which had reached her week after week. Mrs Judge was in radiant spirits, delighted with the conditions of her new life, full of praise of her husband and the many friends to whom she had been introduced. Three-fourths of the letter were taken up with descriptions of her own gay doings, the remaining fourth with optimistic remarks on her daughter's life. How delightful to share rooms with another girl! What a nice break to have every Saturday and Sunday free! What economical rooms! Claire must feel quite rich. What fun to have the girls so devoted! Claire made an expressive grimace as she read that "quite rich." This last week she had been obliged to buy new gloves, and to have her boots mended. A new umbrella had been torn by the carelessness with which another teacher had thrust her own into the crowded stand, and one night she had been seized with a longing for a dainty well-cooked meal, and had recklessly stood treat at a restaurant. She did not feel at all "rich" as she made up the week's account, and reflected that next week the expense of driving to Mrs Willoughby's "At Home" would again swell up the total of these exasperating "extras" which made such havoc of advance calculations. Cecil did not appear until lunch was on the table, when she flung the door wide open and marched in with an air of bravado, as if wanting her companion to stare at once and get over it. It would have been impossible not to stare, for the change in her appearance was positively startling to behold. Her dark hair was waved and fashionably coiffed. Her best coat and skirt had been embellished with frills of lace at neck and sleeves, a pretty little waistcoat had been manufactured out of a length of blue ribbon and a few paste buttons, while a blue feather necklet had been promoted a step higher, and encircled an old straw hat. The ribbon bow at the end of the boa exactly matched the shade of the waistcoat, and was cocked up at a daring angle, while a becoming new veil and a pair of immaculate new gloves added still further to the effect. Claire had always suspected that Cecil could be pretty if she chose to take the trouble, and now she knew it for a fact. It was difficult to realise that this well-groomed-looking girl, with the bright eyes and softly-flushed cheeks, could really be the same person as the frumpy- looking individual who every morning hurried along the street. Involuntarily Claire threw up her hands; involuntarily she cried aloud in delight "Cheers! Cheers! How do you do, Cecil? Welcome home, Cecil!--the real Cecil! How pretty you are, Cecil! How well that blue suits you! Don't dare to go back to your dull navy and black. I shall insist that you always wear blue. I feel quite proud of having such a fine lady to lunch. You are going to have lunch, aren't you? Why those gloves and veil?" "Oh, well--I'm not hungry. I'll have some coffee. I may have lunch in town." Cecil was plainly embarrassed under her companion's scrutiny. She pushed up her veil, so that it rested in a little ridge across her nose, craned forward her head, sipping her coffee with exaggerated care, so that no drop should fall on her lacy frills. Claire longed to ask a dozen questions, but something in Cecil's manner held her at bay, and she contented herself with one inquiry-- "What time will you be home?" Cecil shrugged her shoulders. "Don't know. Perhaps not till late." She was silent for a moment, then added with sudden bitterness, "You are not the _only_ person who has invitations. If I chose, I could go out every Saturday." "Then why on earth are you always grumbling about your loneliness?" thought Claire swiftly, but she did not put the thought into words. After the warmth of her own welcome, a kinder response was surely her due; she was angry, and would not condescend to reply. The meal was finished in silence, but when Cecil rose to depart, the usual compunction seized her in its grip. She stood arranging her veil before the mirror over the mantelpiece, uttering the usual interjectory expressions of regret. "Sorry, Claire. I'm a wretch. You must hate me. I ought to be shot. Nice Saturday morning I've given you! What are you going to do this afternoon?" Claire's eyes turned towards the window with an expression sad to see on so young a face--an imprisoned look. Her voice seemed to lose all its timbre as she replied in one flat dreary word-- "Nothing!" A spasm of irresolution passed across Cecil's face. For a moment she looked as if she were about to throw aside her own project and cast in her lot with her friend's. Then her face hardened, and she turned towards the door. "Why not call for Sophie Blake, and see if she will go a walk? She asked you once before." With that she was gone, and Claire was left to consider the proposition. Sophie Blake, the Games mistress, was the single member of the staff who had shown any disposition towards real friendship, though the intimacy was so far confined to one afternoon's walk, and an occasional chat in the dinner hour, but this afternoon the thought of her merry smile acted as an irresistible magnet. Claire ran upstairs to get ready, in a panic lest she might arrive at Sophie's lodgings to find she had already gone out for the afternoon. Cecil had hinted that she might not return until late, and suddenly it seemed unbearable to spend the rest of the day in solitude. Restlessness was in the air, first the pleasurable restlessness caused by the receipt of Mrs Willoughby's invitation, then the disagreeable restlessness caused by Cecil's erratic behaviour. As she hurried through the streets towards Sophie Blake's lodgings, Claire pondered over the mystery of this sudden development on Cecil's part. Where was she going? Whom was she going to see? Why declare with one breath that she was without a friend, and with the next that if she chose she might accept invitations every week? What special reason had to-day inspired such unusual care in her appearance? Sophie was at home. Lonely Claire felt quite a throb of relief as she heard the welcome words. She entered the oil-clothed passage and was shown into a small, very warm, very untidy front parlour wherein stood Sophie herself, staring with widened eyes at the opening door. "Oh, it's _you_!" she cried. "What a fright you gave me! I couldn't think _who_ it could be. Come in! Sit down! Can you find a free chair? Saturday is my work day. I've been darning stockings, and trimming a hat, and ironing a blouse, and washing lace, and writing letters all in a rush. I love a muddle on Saturdays. It's such a change after routine all the week. What do you think of the hat? Seven and sixpence, all told. I flatter myself it looks worth every penny of ten. Don't pull down that cloth. The iron's underneath. Be careful of that table! The ink-pot's somewhere about. How sweet of you to call! I'll clear this muddle away and then we can talk ... Oh, my arm!" "What's the matter with the arm?" Sophie shrugged carelessly. "Rheumatism, my dear. Cheerful, isn't it, for a gym. mistress? It's been giving me fits all the week." "The east winds, I suppose. I know they make rheumatism worse." "They do. So does damp. So does snow. So does fog. So does cold. So does heat. If you could tell me of anything that makes it _better_, I'd be obliged. Bother rheumatism! Don't let's talk of it... It's Saturday, my dear. I never think of disagreeables on Saturday. Where's Miss Rhodes this afternoon?" "I don't know. She made herself look very nice and smart--she can be very nice-looking when she likes!--and went out for the day." "Humph!" Sophie pursed her lips and contracted her brows as if in consideration of a knotty point. "She was awfully pretty when I came to the school ten years ago. And quite jolly and bright. You wouldn't know her for the same girl. She's a worrier, of course, but it's more than that. Something happened about six years ago, which took the starch out of her once for all. A love affair, I expect. Perhaps she's told you... I'm not fishing, and it's not my business, but I'm sorry for the poor thing, and I was sorry for you when I heard you were going to share her room. She can't be the most cheerful companion in the world!" "Oh, she's quite lively at times," Claire said loyally, "and very appreciative. I'm fond of her, you know, but I wish she didn't grumble quite so much." She looked round the parlour, which was at once bigger and better furnished than the joint apartment in Laburnum Crescent, and seized upon an opportunity of changing the subject. "You have a very nice room." Sophie Blake looked round with an air half proud, half guilty. "Y-es. Too nice. I've no business to spend so much, but I simply can't stand those dreadful cheap houses. People are always fussing and telling one to save up for old age. I think it matters far more to have things nice in one's youth. I get a hundred and thirty a year, and have to keep myself all the year round and help to educate a young sister. We are orphans, and the grown-ups have to keep her between us. I couldn't save if I wanted to, so what's the use of worrying? I don't care very much what happens after fifty-five. Perhaps I shall be married. Perhaps I shall be dead. Perhaps some nice kind millionaire will have taken a fancy to me, and left me a fortune. If the worst comes to the worst, I'll go into a home for decayed gentlewomen and knit stockings--no, not stockings, I should never be able to turn the heels-- long armlet things, like mittens, without the thumbs. Look here. Where shall we go? Isn't it a shame that all the nice shops close early on Saturday? We might have had such sport walking along Knightsbridge, choosing what we'd like best from every window. Have you ever done that? It's ripping fun. What about Museums? Do you like Museums? Rather cold for the feet, don't you think? What can we do that's warm and interesting, and exciting, and doesn't cost more than eighteenpence?" Claire laughed gleefully, not at the thought of the eighteenpenny restriction, but from pure joy at finding a companion who could face life with a smile, and find enjoyment from such simple means as imaginary purchases from shop windows. Oh, the blessed effect of a cheerful spirit! How inspiriting it was after the constant douche of discouragement from which she had suffered for the last nine weeks! "Oh, bother eighteenpence! This is my treat, and we are going to enjoy ourselves, or know the reason why. I've got a lot of money in the bank, and I'm just in the mood to spend. We'll go to the Queen's Hall, and then on to have tea in a restaurant. You would like to hear some music?" "So long as it is not a chorus of female voices--I _should_! I'm a trifle fed up with female voices," cried Sophie gaily. She picked up her newly-trimmed hat from the table and caressed it fondly. "Come along, darling. You're going to make your _debut_!" CHAPTER EIGHT. THE RECEPTION. It was almost worth while leading a life of all work and no play for six weeks on end, for the sheer delight of being frivolous once more; of dressing oneself in one's prettiest frock, drawing on filmy silk stockings and golden shoes, clasping a pearl necklace round a white throat and cocking a feathery aigrette at just the right angle among coppery swathes of hair. No single detail was wanting to complete the whole, for in the old careless days Claire's garments had been purchased with a lavish hand, the only anxiety being to secure the most becoming specimen of its kind. There were long crinkly gloves, and a lace handkerchief, and a fan composed of curling feathers and mother-of-pearl sticks, and a dainty bag hanging by golden cords, and a cloak of the newest shape, composed of layers of different-tinted chiffons, which looked more like a cloud at sunset than a garment manufactured by human hands and supposed to be of use! Claire tilted her little mirror to an acute angle, gave a little skip of delight as she surveyed the completed whole, and then whirled down the narrow staircase, a flying mist of draperies, through which the little gold-clad feet gleamed in and out. She whirled into the sitting-room, where the solitary lamp stood on the table, and Cecil lay on the humpy green plush sofa reading a novel from the Free Library. She put down the book and stared with wide eyes as Claire gave an extra whirl for her benefit, and cried jubilantly-- "Admire me! Admire me! I'm dying to be admired! Don't I look fine, and smart, and unsuitable! Will any one in the world mistake me for a High School-mistress!" Cecil rose from the sofa, and made a solemn tour of inspection. Obviously she was impressed, obviously she admired, obviously also she found something startling in her inspection. There was pure feminine interest in the manner in which she fingered each delicate fabric in turn, there was pure feminine kindness in the little pat on the arm which announced the close of the inspection. "My dear, it's ripping! Rich and rare isn't in it. You look a dream. Poor kiddie! If this is the sort of thing you've been used to, it's been harder for you than I thought! Yes, horribly unsuitable, and when it's worn-out, you'll never be able to have another like it. White ponge will be your next effort." "Bless your heart, I've three others just as fine, and these skimpy skirts last for an age. No chance of any one planting a great foot on the folds and tearing them to ribbons as in the old days. There _are_ no folds to tread on." But Cecil as usual was ready with her croak. "Next year," she said darkly, "there will be flounces. Before you have a chance of wearing your four dresses, everybody will be fussy and frilly, and they'll be hopelessly out of date." "Then I'll cut up two and turn them into flounces to fuss out the others!" cried Claire, the optimist, and gave another caper from sheer lightness of heart. "How do you like my feet?" "I suppose you mean shoes. A pretty price you paid for those. I'm sure they're too tight!" "Boats, my dear, boats! I've had to put in a sole. Didn't you know my feet were so small? How do you like my cloak? It's meant to look like a cloud. Layers of blue, pink and grey, `superimposed,' as the fashion papers have it. Or should you say it was more like an opal?" "No, I should not. Neither one nor the other. Considered as a cloak for a foggy November evening, I should call it a delusion and a fraud. You'll get a chill. I've a Shetland shawl. I'll lend it to you to wrap round your shoulders." "No, you won't!" Claire cried defiantly. "Shetland shawl indeed! Who ever heard of a girl of twenty-one in a Shetland shawl? I'm going to a party, my dear. The joy of that thought would keep me warm through a dozen fogs." "You'll have to come back from the party, however, and you mayn't feel so jubilant then. It's not too exciting when you don't know a soul, and sit on one seat all evening. I knew a girl who went to a big crush and didn't even get a cup of coffee. Nobody asked her to go down." Claire swept her cloak to one side, and sat down on a chair facing the sofa, her white gloves clasped on her knee, the embroidered bag hanging by its golden cords to the tip of the golden slippers. She fixed her eyes steadily on her companion, and there was in them a spark of anger, before which Cecil had the grace to flush. "Sorry! Really I am sorry--" "`Repentance is to _leave_ The sins we loved before, And show that we in earnest grieve By doing so No More!'" quoted Claire sternly. "Really, Cecil, you are the champion wet blanket of your age. It is too bad. I have to do all the perking up, and you can't even let me go to a party without damping my ardour. I was thinking it over the other night, and I've hit on a promising plan. I'm going to allow you a grumble day a week--but only one. On that day you can grumble as much as ever you like, from the moment you get up till the moment you go to bed. You'll be within your rights, and I shall not complain. I'll have my own day, too, when you can find out what it feels like to listen, but won't be allowed to say a word in return. For the rest of the week you'll just have to grin and bear it. You won't be allowed a single growl." Cecil knitted her brows, and looked ashamed and uncomfortable, as she invariably did when taxed with her besetting sin. Claire's charge on mental poisoning had struck home, and she had honestly determined to turn over a new leaf; but the habit had been indulged too long to be easily abandoned. Unconsciously, as it were, disparaging remarks flowed from her lips, combined with a steady string of objections, adverse criticisms, and presentiments of darkness and gloom. At the present moment she felt a little startled to realise how firmly the habit was established, and the proposal of a licenced grumble day held out some promise of a cure. "Then I'll have Monday!" she cried briskly. "I am always in a bad temper on Mondays, so I shall be able to make the most of my chance." She was silent for a moment considering the prospect, then was struck with a sudden thought. "But now and then I _do_ have a nice week-end, and then I shouldn't want to grumble at all. I suppose I could change the day?" There was a ring of triumph in Claire's laugh. "Not you! My dear girl, that's just what I am counting upon! Sometimes the sun will shine, sometimes you'll get a nice letter, sometimes the girls will be intelligent and interesting, and then, my dear, you'll forget, and the day will skip past, and before you know where you are it will be Tuesday morning and your chance will have gone. Cecil, fancy it! A whole fortnight without a grumble. It seems almost too good to be true!" "It does!" said the English mistress eloquently. She sat upright on the green plush sofa, her shabby slippers well in evidence beneath the edge of her shabby skirt, staring with curious eyes at the radiant figure of the girl in the opposite chair. "I don't think you need a day at all!" "Because I'm going to a solitary party? Only two minutes ago, my love, you were sympathising with my hard lot! I shall have Fridays. I'm tired on Fridays, and it's getting near the time for making up accounts. I can be quite a creditable grumbler on Fridays." "Well, just as you like! You _are_ going to the party, I suppose? Haven't changed your mind by any chance, and determined to spend the evening hectoring me! If you are going, you'd better go. I'll sit up for you and keep some cocoa--" Claire rose with a smile. "I appreciate the inference! Starved and disillusioned, I am to creep home and weep on your bosom. Well, we'll see! Good-bye for the present. I'll tell you all about it when I get back..." A minute's whistling at the front door produced a taxi, in which Claire seated herself and was whirled westward through brightly lighted streets. In the less fashionable neighbourhoods the usual Saturday crowd thronged round the shops and booths, making their purchases at an hour when perishable goods could be obtained at bargain prices. Claire and Cecil had themselves made such expeditions before now, coming home triumphant with some savoury morsel for supper, and with quite a lavish supply of flowers to deck the little room. At the time the expeditions had been pleasant enough, and there had seemed nothing in the least _infra dig_ in taking advantage of the opportunity; but to-night the girl in the cloudy cloak looked through the windows of her chariot with an ineffable condescension, and found it difficult to believe that she herself had ever made one of so insignificant a throng! "How I do love luxury! It's the breath of my nostrils," she said to herself with a little sigh of content, as she straightened herself in her seat, and smiled back at her own reflection in the strip of mirror opposite. Her hair had "gone" just right. What a comfort that was! Sometimes it took a stupid turn and could not be induced to obey. She opened the cloak at the top and peeped at the dainty whiteness within, with the daring, thoroughly French touch of vivid emerald green which gave a _cachet_ to the whole. Yes, it was quite as pretty as she had believed. Every whit as becoming. "I don't look a bit like a school- mistress!" smiled Claire, and snoodled back again against the cushions with a deep breath of content. She was not in the least shy. Many a girl about to make her _entree_ into a strange house would have been suffering qualms of misgiving by this time, but Claire had spent her life more or less in public, and was accustomed to meet strangers as a matter of course, so there was no dread to take the edge off her enjoyment. Even when the taxi slowed down to take its place in the stream of vehicles which were drawn up before Mrs Willoughby's house, she knew only a heightened enjoyment in the realisation that it was not a party at all, but a real big fashionable At Home. The usual crowd of onlookers stood on either side of the door, and as Claire descended from the taxi, the sight of her golden slippers and floating clouds of gauze evoked a gratifying murmur of admiration. She passed on with her head in the air, looking neither to right nor left, but close against the rails stood a couple of working girls whose wistful eyes drew her own as with a magnet. In their expression was a whole world of awe, of admiration; they looked at her as at a denizen of another sphere, hardly presuming even to be envious, so infinitely was she removed from their grey-hued life. As Claire met their eyes, an impulse seized her to stop and tell them that she was just a working girl like themselves, but convention being too strong to allow of such familiarities, she smiled instead, with such a frank and friendly acknowledgment of their admiration as brought a flash of pleasure to their faces. "She's a real laidy, she is!" said Gladys to Maud; and Maud sniffed in assent, and answered strongly, "You bet your life!" The inside of the house seemed out of all proportion with the outside appearance. This is a special peculiarity of the West End, which has puzzled many a visitor besides Claire Gifford. What _is_ the magic which transforms narrow slips of buildings into spacious halls and imposing flights of stairways? Viewed from the street, the town houses of well-known personages seem quite inadequate for their purpose; viewed from within, they are all that is stately and appropriate. Those of us who live in less favoured neighbourhoods would fain solve the riddle. Mrs Willoughby stood at the top of her own staircase, shaking hands with the stream of ascending guests, and motioning them forward to the suite of entertaining rooms from which came a steady murmur of voices. She was a stout woman, with a vast expanse of white shoulders which seemed to join right on to her head without any preliminary in the shape of a neck. Her hair was dark, and a plain face was lightened by a pair of exceedingly pleasant, exceedingly alert brown eyes. As soon as she met those eyes Claire felt assured that the kindness of which she had heard was a real thing, and that this woman could be counted upon as a friend. There was, it is true, a slight vagueness in the manner in which she made her greeting, but a murmur of "Mrs Fanshawe" instantly revived recollections. "Of course--of course!" she cried heartily. "So glad you could come, my dear. I must see you later on. Reginald!"--she beckoned to a lad in an Eton suit--"I want you to take charge of Miss Gifford. Take her to have some coffee, and introduce her to some one nice." A nod and a smile, and Mrs Willoughby had turned back to welcome the next guest in order, while the Eton boy offered his arm with the air of a prince of the blood, and led the way to a refreshment buffet around which the guests were swarming with an eagerness astonishing to behold when one realised how lately they must have risen from the dinner-table. Claire found her young cavalier very efficient in his attentions. He settled her in a comfortable corner, brought her a cup of coffee heaped with foaming cream, and gave it as his opinion that it was going to be "a beastly crush." Claire wondered if it would be tactful to inquire how he happened to be at home in the middle of a term; but while she hesitated he supplied the information himself. "I'm home on leave. Appendicitis. Left the nursing home three weeks ago. Been at the sea, and came back yesterday in time for this show. Getting a bit tired of slacking!" "You must be. Dear me! I _am_ sorry. Too bad to begin so soon," murmured Claire pitifully; but Master Reginald disdained sympathy. "Oh, I dunno," he said calmly. "It's quite the correct thing, don't you know? Everybody's doing it. Just as well to get it through. It might"--he opened his pale eyes with a startled look--"it might have come on in the hols! Pretty fool I should have looked if I'd been done out of winter sports." "There's that way of looking at it!" Claire said demurely. For a moment she debated whether she should break the fact that she herself was a school-mistress, but decided that it would be wiser to refrain since the boy would certainly feel more at ease with her in her private capacity. So for the next half-hour they sat happily together in their corner, while the boy discoursed on the subjects nearest his heart, and the girl deftly switched him back to the subjects more congenial. "Yes, I love cricket. At least I'm sure I should do, if I understood it better... _Do_ tell me who is the big old lady with the eyeglass and the diamond tiara?" "Couldn't tell you to save my life. Rather an out-size, isn't she? Towers over the men. I say! you ought to go to Lord's Will you turn up at Lord's next year to see our match? We might meet somewhere and I'd give you tea. Harrow won't have a chance. We've got a bowler who--" "Can he really? How nice! Oh, that _is_ a curious-looking man with the long hair! I'm sure he is something, or does something different from other people. Is he a musician, do you think? Do you ever have music on these evenings?" "Rather! Sometimes the mater hires a big swell, sometimes she lets loose the amateurs. She knows lots of amateurs, y'know. People who are trying to be big-wigs, and want the chance to show off. The mater encourages them. Great mistake if you ask me, but you needn't listen if you don't want. She has one of these crushes once a month. Beastly dull, I call them. Can't think why the people come. But she gives them a rattling good feed. Supper comes on at twelve, in the dining-room downstairs." But Claire was not interested in supper. All her attention was taken up in watching the stream of people passing by, and for a time the youth of her companion had seemed an advantage, since it made it easy to indulge her curiosity concerning her fellow-guests by a succession of questions which might have been boring to an adult. As time passed on, however, and she became conscious that more than one pair of masculine eyes turned in her direction, she wished frankly Master Reginald would remember his mother's instructions and proceed without further delay to introduce her to "someone nice." To return home and confess to Cecil that she had spent the evening in company with a schoolboy would be almost as humiliating as sitting alone in a corner. It was at this point that Claire became aware of the presence of a very small, very wizened old woman sitting alone at the opposite side of the room, her mittened hands clawing each other restlessly in her lap, her sunken eyes glancing to right and left with a glance distinctly hostile. The passing of guests frequently hid her from view, but when a gap came again, there she sat, still alone, still twisting her mittened hands, still coldly staring around. Claire thought she looked a very disagreeable old lady, but she was sorry for her all the same. Horrid to be old and cross, and to be alone in a crowd! She put yet another question to the boy by her side. "That," said Master Willoughby seriously, "is Great-aunt Jane. Great- aunt Jane is the skeleton in our cupboard. The mater says so, and she ought to know. Every time the mater has a show, the moment the door is opened, in comes Great-aunt Jane, and sits it out until every one has gone. If any one dares speak to her she snaps his head off, and if they let her alone, she's furious, and gives it to the mater after they're gone. Most of the crowd know her by now, and pretend they don't see, ... and she gets waxier and waxier. Would you like to be introduced?" "Yes, please!" said Claire unexpectedly. She was tired of sitting in one corner, and wanted to move her position, but she was also quite genuinely anxious to try her hand at cheering poor cross Great-aunt Jane. The old lady _pensionnaires_ in the "Villa Beau Sejour" had made a point of petting and flattering the pretty English girl, and Claire was complacently assured that this old lady would follow their example. But she was mistaken. "Aunt Jane, Miss Gifford asks to be introduced to you. Miss Gifford-- Lady Jane Willoughby." Reginald beat a hurried retreat, and Claire seated herself at the end of the sofa and smilingly awaited her companion's lead. It did not come. After one automatic nod of the head, Lady Jane resumed her former position, taking no more notice of the new-comer than if she had remained at the far end of the room. Claire felt her cheeks begin to burn. Her complacence had suffered a shock, but pride came to her rescue, and she made a determined effort at conversation. "That nice boy has been telling me that he has had appendicitis." Lady Jane favoured her with a frosty glance. "Yes, he has. Perhaps you will excuse me from talking about it. I object to the discussion of diseases at social gatherings." Claire's cheeks grew hotter still. A quick retort came to her lips. "I wasn't going to discuss it! I only mentioned it for--for something to say. I couldn't think how else to begin!" The droop of Lady Jane's eyelids inferred that it was really quite superfluous to begin at all. Claire waited a whole two minutes by the clock, and then made another effort. "I hear we are to have some music later on." "Sorry to hear it," said Great-aunt Jane. "Really! I was so glad. Aren't you fond of music, then?" "I am very fond of music," said Aunt Jane, and there was a world of insinuation in her voice. Without a definite word being spoken, the hearer was informed that good music, real music, music worthy the name, was a thing that no sane person would expect to hear at Mrs Willoughby's "At Homes." She was really the most terrifying and disconcerting of old ladies, and Claire heartily repented the impulse which had brought her to her side. A pretty thing it would be if she were left alone on this sofa for the rest of the evening! But fortune was kind, and from across the room came a good angel who was so exactly a reproduction of Mrs Willoughby herself, minus half her age, that it must obviously be her daughter. Janet Willoughby was not a pretty girl, but she looked gay, and bright, and beaming with good humour, and at this moment with a spice of mischief into the bargain. The manner in which she held out her hand to Claire was as friendly as though the two girls had been friends for years. "Miss Gifford? I was sure it must be you. Mother told me to look for you. Aunt Jane, will you excuse my running away with Miss Gifford? Several people are asking to be introduced. Will you come with me, Miss Gifford? I want to take you into the music room." Claire rose with a very leap of eagerness, and as soon as they had gained a safe distance, Miss Willoughby turned to her with twinkling eyes. "I am afraid you were having a bad time! I caught sight of you across the room and was so sorry. Who took you over there? Was it that naughty Reginald?" "He did, but I asked him. I thought she looked lonely. I thought perhaps she would be pleased." Janet Willoughby's smile showed a quick approval. "That was kind! Thanks for the good intention, but I can't let you be victimised any more. I want to talk to you myself, and half-a-dozen men have been asking for introductions to the girl with the green sash. You know Mrs Fanshawe, don't you? Isn't she charming? She and I are the greatest of chums. I always say she has never succeeded in growing older than seventeen. She is so delightfully irresponsible and impulsive. She wrote mother a charming letter about you. It made us quite anxious to meet you, but you know what town life is--a continual rush! Everything gets put off." "It was awfully good of you to ask me at all, and very kind of Mrs Fanshawe to write. I only know her in the most casual way. We crossed over from Antwerp together, and her maid was ill, and I was able to be of some use, and when she heard that I was coming to work in London and that I knew nobody here--she--" Jane Willoughby stared in frank amazement. "Do you really mean that that was all? You met her only that one time? You know nothing of her home or her people?" "Only that time. I hope--I hope you don't think--" Claire suffered an anxious moment before she realised that for some unexplained reason Miss Willoughby was more pleased than annoyed by the intelligence. An air of something extraordinarily like relief passed over her features. She laughed gaily and said-- "I don't think anything at all except that it is delightfully like Mrs Fanshawe. She wrote as if she had known you for ages. As a matter of fact she probably _does_ know you quite well. She is so extraordinarily quick and clever, that she crowds as much life into an hour as an ordinary person does into a week. She told us that you had chosen to come to London to work, rather than go to India and have a good time. How plucky of you! And you teach at one of the big High Schools... You don't look in the least like a school-mistress." "Ah! I'm off duty to-night! You should see me in the morning, in my working clothes. You should see me at night, correcting exercises on the dining-table in a lodging-house parlour, and cooking sausages in a chafing-dish for our evening meal. I `dig' with the English mistress, and do most of our cooking myself, as the landlady's tastes and ours don't agree. I'm getting to be quite an expert at manufacturing sixpenny dainties." Janet Willoughby breathed a deep sigh; the diamond star on her neck sent out vivid gleams of light. "What fun!" she sighed enviously. "What fun!" and as she spoke there flashed suddenly before the eyes of her listener a picture of the English mistress lying on the green plush sofa, her shabby slippers showing beneath the hem of her shabby skirt, spending the holiday Saturday evening at home because she had no invitations to go out, and no money to spare for an entertainment. "Oh, I _do_ envy you!" sighed Janet deeply. "It's one of my greatest ambitions to share rooms with a nice girl, and live the simple life, and be free to do whatever one liked. Mother loves independence in other girls, but her principles don't extend to me. She says an only daughter's place is at home. But you are an only daughter, too." "I am; but other circumstances were different. It was a case of being dependent on a stepfather or of working for myself--so I chose to work, and--" "And I'm sure you never regret it!" Claire extended her hands in the expressive French shrug. "Ah, but I do! Horribly, at times. Even now, after three months' work I have a conviction that I shall regret it more and more as time goes on; but if I had to decide again, I'd do just the same. It's a question of principle versus so many things--laziness and self-indulgence, and wanting to have a good time, and the habits of a lifetime, and irritation with stupid girls who won't work." Janet Willoughby gave a soft murmur of understanding. "Yes, of course. Stupid of me to say that! Of course, you must get tired when you've never taught before. Does it bore you very much?" "Teaching? Oh, no. As a rule I love it, and take a pride in inventing new ways to help the girls. It's the all work and no play that gets on one's nerves, and the feeling of being cut off from the world by an impassable barrier of something that really doesn't exist. People have a prejudice against school-mistresses. They think they are dull, and proper, and pedantic. If they want to be complimentary they say, `You don't look like a school-mistress.' You did yourself, not two minutes ago. But really and truly they are just natural, everyday girls, wanting to have a good time in their leisure hours like other girls. You can't think how happy I was to come here to-night and have the chance of putting on pretty things again." Janet Willoughby put her hand on Claire's arm and piloted her deftly through the crowd. "Now," she said firmly, "you just stay here, and I'll bring up all the nicest men in the room, and introduce them in turns. You _shall_ have a good time, and you are wearing the very prettiest things in the room--if it's any comfort to you to hear it. We won't talk about school any more. To-night is for fun!" The next hour passed on flying feet, while Claire sat the queen of a little court, and Janet Willoughby flitted to and fro, bringing up fresh arrivals to be introduced, and drafting off the last batch to other parts of the crowded rooms. All the men were agreeable and amusing, and showed a flattering appreciation of their position. Claire felt no more interest in one than in another, but she liked them all, and felt a distinct pleasure in talking to men again after the convent-like existence of the last months. She was pleased to welcome a new-comer, smiled unconcerned at a farewell. From time to time the buzz of voices was temporarily broken by the crash of the piano, but always before the end of each performance it rose again, and steadily swelled in volume. In truth, the excellence of the performance was no great inducement to listen, and Mrs Willoughby's forehead showed a pucker of anxiety. She drifted across to Claire's corner, and spoke a few kindly words of welcome, which ended in a half apology. "I am sorry the music is so poor. It varies so much on different nights. Sometimes we have quite a number of good singers, but to-night there are none. I am afraid so much piano grows a little boring." She looked in the girl's face with a quick inquiry. "Do _you_ sing?" "No-o." The word seemed final, yet there was an unmistakable hesitation in Claire's voice. Mrs Willoughby's glance sharpened. "But you do something? Play? Recite? What is it? My dear, I should be so grateful!" "I--whistle!" confessed Claire with a blush, and a little babble of delight greeted the words. Every one who heard hailed the chance of a variety in the monotonous programme. Mrs Willoughby beamed with all the relief of a hostess unexpectedly relieved of anxiety. "Delightful! Charming! My dear, it will be such a help! You would like an accompaniment? I'll introduce you to Mr Helder. He can play anything you like. Will you come now! I am sure every one will be charmed." There was no time for a second thought. The next moment the long-haired Mr Helder was bowing over Claire's hand, and professing his delight. The little group in the corner were pressing forward to obtain a point of vantage, and throughout the company in general was passing a wordless hum of excitement. Mr Helder was seating himself at the piano, a girl in a white dress had ascended the impromptu platform and now stood by his side, a pretty girl, a very pretty girl, a girl who acknowledged the scattered applause with a smile which showed two dimples on one cheek, a girl who looked neither shy nor conceited, but simply as if she were enjoying herself very much, and expected everybody to do the same. She was going to sing. It would be a relief to listen to singing after the continued performances upon the piano. They hoped sincerely that she could sing well. Why didn't the accompaniment begin? Then suddenly a white-gloved hand gave a signal, Mr Helder's hands descended on the keys, and at the same instant from between Claire's pursed-up lips there flowed a stream of high, flute-like notes, repeating the air with a bird-like fluency and ease. She had chosen the old-world ballad, "Cherry Ripe," the quaint turns and trills of which lent themselves peculiarly well to this method of interpretation, and the swing and gaiety of the measure carried the audience by storm. Looking down from her platform Claire could see the indifferent faces suddenly lighten into interest, into smiles, into positive beams of approval. At the second verse heads began to wag; unconsciously to their owners lips began to purse. It was inspiring to watch those faces, to know that it was she herself who had wrought the magic change. Those moments for Claire were pure undiluted joy. Whistling had come to her as a natural gift, compensating to some extent for the lack of a singing voice; later on she had taken lessons, and practised seriously to perfect her facility. At school in Paris, later on in attending social gatherings with her mother, she had had abundant opportunities of overcoming the initial shyness; but indeed shyness was never a serious trouble with Claire Gifford, who was gifted with that very agreeable combination of qualities,--an amiable desire to please other people, and a comfortable assurance of her own powers. At the end of the third verse the applause burst out with a roar. "Bravos" sounded from every side, and "Encores" persisted so strenuously that Claire was not permitted even to descend from her platform. Mrs Willoughby rustled forward full of gratitude and thanks. Mr Helder rubbed his hands, and beamingly awaited further commands... What would Cecil have to say to a success like this? Claire's second choice was one of Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words," a quieter measure this time, sweet and flowing, and giving opportunity for a world of delicate phrasing. It was one of the pieces which she had practised with a master, and with which she felt most completely at home; and if the audience found it agreeable to hear, they also, to judge from their faces, found it equally agreeable to watch. Claire's cheeks were flushed to a soft rose-pink, her head moved to and fro, unconsciously keeping time with the air; one little golden shoe softly tapped the floor. Her unconsciousness of self added to the charm of the performance. But once the audience noticed, with sympathetic amusement, her composure was seriously threatened, so that the bird-like notes quavered ominously, and the twin dimples deepened into veritable holes. Claire had caught sight of Great-aunt Jane standing in solitary state at the rear of the throng of listeners, her mittened fingers still plucking, her eyes frosty with disapproval. After that Claire safeguarded her composure by looking steadily downward at the points of her shoes until the end of the song approached, when it seemed courteous, once more, to face her audience. She raised her eyes, and as she did so her heart leapt within her with a startling force. She was thankful that it _was_ the end, that the long final note was already on her lips, for there, standing in the doorway, his face upraised to hers, stood her knight of the railway station, the rescuer of the lost box--Erskine Fanshawe himself! CHAPTER NINE. THE SUPPER. Claire stepped down from the platform to be surrounded by a throng of guests all eager to express their admiration of her interesting performance, to marvel how she could "do it," and to congratulate her upon so unusual an accomplishment; and she smiled and bowed, declared that it was quite easy, and perjured herself by maintaining that anyone could do as well, acutely conscious all the time that Captain Fanshawe was drawing nearer with determined steps, edging his way towards the front of the crowd. The next moment her hand was in his, and he was greeting her with the assurance of a lifelong friend. "Good evening, Miss Gifford. Hadn't we better make straight for supper now? I am sure you must need it." It was practically the ordinary invitation. There was nothing to find fault with in the words themselves, yet the impression of a previous arrangement was obviously left with the hearers, who fell back, giving way as to a superior right. As for Claire, she laid her hand on the extended arm, with all the good will in the world, and made a triumphant passage through the crowd, which smiled upon her as though agreeing that it was now her turn to be amused. "This table, I think!" Captain Fanshawe said, leading the way to the furthest corner of the dining-room, and Claire found herself sipping a hot cup of soup, and realising that the world was an agreeable place, and that it was folly ever to allow oneself to be downhearted, since such delightful surprises awaited round corners ready to transform the grey into gold! Captain Fanshawe looked exactly as memory had pictured him--plain of feature, distinguished in bearing, grave, self-contained, yet with that lurking light in his eyes which showed that humour lay beneath. Claire smiled at him across the table, and asked an obvious question-- "Rather a different meeting-place from our last! Did you know me at once?" "I did," he said, and added deliberately, "Just as you knew me." "Oh, well!" Claire tried to look unconcerned. "Men are always pretty much the same. Evening dress does not make the same difference to them." She knew a momentary fear lest he should believe she was fishing for a compliment, and give the ordinary banal reply; but he looked at her with a grave scrutiny, and asked quietly-- "Was that one of the frocks which went astray?" "Yes! All of it. It wasn't even divided in half." "It was a good thing the box turned up!" he said; and there, after all, was the compliment, but so delicately inferred that the most fastidious taste could not object. With the finishing of the soup came the first reference to Claire's work, for the Captain's casual "Do you care for anything solid, or would you prefer a sweet?" evoked a round-eyed stare of dismay. "Oh, _please_!" cried Claire deeply. "I want to go straight through. I've been living on mutton and cabbage for over two months, and cooking suppers on a chafing-dish. I looked forward to supper as part of the treat!" The plain face lightened into a delightful smile. "That's all right!" he cried. "Now we know where we are. I hadn't much dinner myself, so I'm quite game. Let us study the book of the words." A _menu_ lay on the table, a square white card emblazoned with many golden words. Captain Fanshawe drew his chair nearer, and ran his finger down the list, while Claire bent forward to signify a yea or nay. Every delicacy in season and out of season seemed to find its place on that list, which certainly justified Master Reginald's eulogy of his mother's "good feeds." Claire found it quite a serious matter to decide between so many good things, and even with various curtailments, made rather out of pride than inclination, the meal threatened to last some considerable time. Well! there was obvious satisfaction in the manner in which Captain Fanshawe delivered his orders, and for herself, she had been dignified and self-denying; she had resolutely shut the door between this man and herself, and devoted herself to work, and now, since fate had thrown him in her way for a chance hour, she could enjoy herself with a light mind. It was good to talk to a man again, to hear a deep masculine voice, to look at a broad strong frame. Putting aside all question of love and marriage, the convent life is no more satisfying than the monastic. Each sex was designed by God to be the complement of the other. Each must suffer from lack of the other's companionship. "I arrived just as you began your performance," Captain Fanshawe informed her. "It was a great `draw.' Everybody had crowded forward to listen. It was only towards the end of your second--er--how exactly should one express it?--_morceau_, that I managed to get into seeing line. It was a surprise! Have you known the Willoughbys long?" Claire looked at him blankly. "I never saw them before to-night. Your mother wrote to ask them if they would send me a card." "Oh!" Captain Fanshawe was certainly surprised, and Claire mentally snubbed herself because at the bottom of her heart there had lain a suspicion that perhaps--just perhaps--he had come to-night in the hope of meeting his acquaintance of the railway station. This was not the case; no thought of her had been in his mind. Probably until the moment of meeting he had forgotten her existence. Never mind! They _had_ met, and he was agreeable and friendly. Now for a delightful half-hour... "That was a good thought of the _mater's_. You will like them. They are delightful people. Just the people you ought to know as a stranger in town. How goes the school teaching, by the way? As well as you expected?" Claire deliberated, with pursed lips. "No. I expected so much; I always do. But much better than other people expected for me. Theoretically it's a fine life. There are times when it seems that nothing could be finer. But--" "But what?" "I don't think it's quite satisfying, as a _whole_ life!" "Does anyone suppose it is?" "They try to. They have to. For most teachers there is so little else." The waiter handed plates of lobster mayonnaise, and Captain Fanshawe said quietly-- "Tell me about the times when the work seems fine." "Ah--many times! It depends on one's own mood and health, because, of course, the circumstances are always the same. There are mornings when one looks round a big class-room and sees all the girls' faces looking upwards, and it gives one quite a thrilling sense of power and opportunity. That is what the heaven-born teacher must feel every time.--`Here is the fresh virgin soil, and mine is the joy of planting the right seed! Here are the women of the future, the mothers of the race. For this hour they are mine. What I say, they must hear. They will listen with an attention which even their parents cannot gain. The words which I speak this morning may bear fruit in many lives.' That's the ideal attitude, but the ordinary human woman has other mornings when all she feels is--`Oh, dear me, six hours of this! And what's the use? Everything I batter in to-day will be forgotten by to-morrow. What's the ideal anyway in teaching French verbs? I want to go to bed.'" They laughed together, but Captain Fanshawe sobered quickly, and his brow showed furrows of distress. Claire looked at him and said quickly-- "Do you mind if we don't talk school? I am Cinderella to-night, wearing fine clothes and supping in state. I'd so much rather talk Cinderella to match." "Certainly, certainly. Just as you wish." Lolling back in his chair, Captain Fanshawe adopted an air of _blase_ indifference, and drawled slowly, "Quite a good winter, isn't it? Lots going on. Have you been to the Opera lately?" "Oh dear!" thought Claire with a gush, "how refreshing to meet a grown- up man who can pretend like a child!" She simpered, and replied artificially, "Oh, yes--quite often. The dear Duchess is _so_ kind; her box is open to me whenever I choose to go. Wonderful scene, isn't it? All those tiers rising one above another. Do you ever look up at the galleries? Such funny people sit there--men in tweed suits; girls in white blouses. Who _are_ they, should you think? Clerks and typists and school-mistresses, and people of that persuasion?" "Possibly, I dare say. One never knows. They look quite respectable and quiet, don't you know!" The twinkle was alight in Captain Fanshawe's eyes. It shone more brightly still as he added, "Everybody turns up sooner or later in the Duchess's box. Have you happened to meet--the Prince!" For a moment Claire groped for the connection, then dimpled merrily. "Not yet. No! but I am hoping--" The waiter approached with plates of chicken in aspic, and more rolls of crisp browned bread. Claire sent a thought to Cecil finishing a box of sardines, with her book propped up against the cocoa jug. The Cinderella _role_ was forgotten while her eyes roved around, studying the silver dishes on the various tables. "When you were a small boy, Captain Fanshawe, did you go out to parties?" Captain Fanshawe knitted his brows. This charming girl was a little difficult to follow conversationally; she leapt from one subject to another with disconcerting agility. "Er--pardon me! Is that question put to me in my--er--private, or imaginary capacity?" "Private, of course. But naturally you did. Did you have pockets?" "To the best of my remembrance I was disguised as a midshipmite, with white duck trousers of a prodigious width. They used to crackle, I remember. There was room for a dozen pockets." Claire laid her arms on the table, so that her face drew nearer his own. Her voice fell to a stage whisper-- "Did you--ever--take--something--home?" The Captain threw back his head with a peal of laughter. "Miss Gifford, what a question! I was an ordinary human boy. _Of course_ I did. And sat on my spoils in the carriage going back, and was scolded for spoiling my clothes. I had a small brother at home." "Well--I have a small friend! She has letters after her name, and is very learned and clever, but she has a _very_ sweet tooth. Do you think, perhaps--in this bag--" "Leave it to me!" he said firmly, and when the waiter next appeared, he received an order to bring more bon-bons--plenty of bon-bons--a selection of all the small dainties in silver dishes. "He thinks I _am_ having a feast!" Claire said demurely, as she watched the progress of selection; then she met Erskine Fanshawe's eyes, and nodded in response to an unspoken question, "And I _am_! I'm having a lovely time!" "I wish it were possible that you could oftener--" "Well, who knows? A week ago I had made up my mind that nothing exciting would ever happen again, and then this invitation arrived. What a perfect dear Miss Willoughby seems to be!" "Janet? She _is_!" he said warmly. "She is a girl who has had everything the world can give her, and yet has come through unspoiled. It's not often one can say that. Many society girls are selfish and vain, but Janet never seems to think of herself. You'd find her an ideal friend." Claire's brain leapt swiftly to several conclusions. Janet Willoughby was devoted to Mrs Fanshawe; Mrs Fanshawe returned her devotion. Janet Willoughby was rich, and of good birth. Mrs Fanshawe had mentally adopted her as a daughter-in-law. Given the non-appearance of a rival on the scene, her desire would probably be fulfilled, since such sincere liking could easily ripen into love. Just for a moment Claire felt a stab of that lone and lorn feeling which comes to solitary females at the realisation of another's happiness; then she rallied herself and said regretfully-- "I'm afraid I shan't have the chance! Our lives lie too far apart, and my time is not my own. It is only an occasional Saturday-night that I can play Cinderella." "What do you do on Sundays?" "Go to church in the morning, and sleep in the afternoon. Sounds elderly, doesn't it? But I do enjoy that sleep. The hour after lunch is the most trying of the school day. It's all I can do sometimes to smother my yawns, and not upset the whole class. It's part of the Sunday rest to be able to let go, lie down hugging a hot bottle, and sleep steadily till it's time for tea." "Where do you go to church?" "Oh!" Claire waved an airy hand, "it depends! I've not settled down. I am still trying which I like best." Across the table the two pairs of eyes met. The man's questioning, protesting, the girl's steadily defiant. "Why won't you tell me?" came the unspoken question. "Why won't you give me a chance?" "I am too proud," came the unspoken answer. "Your mother did not think me good enough. I will accept no acquaintance by stealth." Interruption came in the shape of the waiter bearing a tray of little silver dishes filled with dainties, which he proceeded to arrange in rows on the table. Claire relapsed into giggles at the sight, and Captain Fanshawe took refuge, man-like, in preternatural solemnity; but he made no comment, and the moment that the man had disappeared, both heads craned eagerly to examine the spoils. "Chocolates, _marrons glacis_, crystallised peaches, French bon-bons, plums. I don't recognise them by head mark. These are too sticky... These look uncommonly good!" The big fingers hovered over each dish in turn, lifting sample specimens, and placing them on Claire's plate, whence they were swiftly conveyed to her bag. Not a single sweetmeat touched her own lips. The unconventionality of the action seemed to receive some justification from the fact that she was confiscating only her own share. When the waiter returned with ices, the little bag bulged suspiciously, and the silver dishes were no longer required. The waiter was ordered to carry them away, and plainly considered that some people did not know what they wanted. "The only thing lacking is a cracker. I invariably purloined a cracker, and doubled up the ends. I suppose we are hardly near enough to Christmas. By the by, what are you doing for Christmas? You will have holidays, of course," Captain Fanshawe said, with an elaborate unconsciousness, and Claire kept her eyes on her plate. "I may go to Belgium. I haven't decided." "There seem to be a good many things you cannot--decide. Miss Gifford, you haven't forgotten what I asked you?" "What did you ask?" "That if ever I could help--if you ever needed help--" "I shall want help badly during the next few weeks, when the examinations come on, and I have all the papers to set and correct." Captain Fanshawe refused to smile. "The kind of help that a man can give--" "Yes, I remember. You were very kind, and I am still so much under the influence of the old life that I do feel you might be a comfort; but no doubt, after some more months of school-mistressing, I shall resent the idea that a man could do any more than I could myself. So it's a case of soon or never. You will hardly be cruel enough to wish to hasten my extremity!" "I'm not so sure about that, if I could have the satisfaction of putting things to rights!" It was while she was smiling her acknowledgment of this pretty speech that Claire became conscious of Janet Willoughby's eyes bent searchingly upon her. She had entered the room on the arm of her supper partner, and came to a pause not a yard away from the table where a very animated, apparently very intimate conversation was taking place between the son of her old friend and the girl to whom she had believed him to be unknown. As she met Claire's glance, Janet smiled automatically, but the friendliness was gone from her glance. The next moment Captain Fanshawe, had turned, seen her, and sprung to his feet. "Janet! Are you waiting for a table? We have nearly finished. Won't you sit down and talk to Miss Gifford?" "Oh, please don't hurry... We'll find another place. You have met before, then? I didn't know." "I saw Miss Gifford when she was befriending my mother at Liverpool Street Station, and recognised her upstairs just now. Do sit down, Janet. You look tired." Janet Willoughby took the offered chair and exchanged a few words with Claire as she gathered together her possessions, but the subtle change persisted. Claire felt vaguely disturbed, but the next half-hour passed so pleasantly that she had no time to puzzle over the explanation. Captain Fanshawe never left her side; they sat together on the same sofa which Great-aunt Jane had monopolised for the earlier part of the evening, and talked of many things, and discussed many problems, and sometimes agreed, and oftener disagreed, and when they disagreed most widely, looked into each other's eyes and smiled, as who should say, "What do words matter? We understand!" At one o'clock Claire rose to depart, and said her adieu to her hostess and her daughter, who were standing side by side. "My dear, it is too bad. I have had _no_ time with you, and I am so grateful for the charming way in which you came to the rescue! We shall hope to see you often again. Shan't we, Janet? You girls must arrange a day which suits you both." "Oh, yes, we must!" Janet said, as she shook hands, but she made no attempt to make the arrangement there and then, as her mother obviously expected, and Claire realised, with a sinking of the heart, that a promised friendship had received a check. When she descended to the hall wrapped in her filmy cloak it was to find Captain Fanshawe waiting at the foot of the stairs. He looked worried and grave, and the front door was reached before he made the first remark. Then, lingering tentatively on the threshold, he looked down at her with a searching glance. "Is--er--is your address still the Grand Hotel?" Claire's face set into firm lines. "Still the Grand Hotel!" For a moment he looked her steadily in the eyes, then said quietly-- "And my address is still the Carlton Club!" He bowed, and turned into the house. The footman banged the door of the taxi, and stood awaiting instructions. "T-wenty-two, Laburnum Crescent," said Claire weakly. Halfway through the words a sudden obstacle arose in her throat. It was all she could do to struggle through. She hoped to goodness the footman did not notice. "There now! what did I tell you? You look fagged to death, and as cross as two sticks. Five shillings wasted on taxis, and nothing for it but getting thoroughly upset. Next time I hope you will take my advice!" said Cecil, and took up her candle to grope her way up the dark stairway to bed. CHAPTER TEN. NOWHERE TO GO. Cecil's observance of her day of licenced grumbling was somewhat obstructed by the fact that for several weeks after Mrs Willoughby's At Home, Monday mornings found her in a condition of excitement and gaiety. It was a restless gaiety, which seemed to spring rather from the head than the heart, and Claire looking on with puzzled eyes had an instinct that her companion was assiduously whipping up her own spirits, playing the part of happiness with all her force, with the object of convincing the most critical of all audiences--her own heart! Life was a lonely thing to Claire in these days, for Cecil went out regularly every Saturday and Sunday, returning so late that the two girls did not meet from lunch one day until breakfast the next. She vouchsafed no explanation of her sudden plunge into society, neither beforehand when she sat stitching at pathetic little pieces of finery, nor afterwards when letting herself in with her latch-key she crept slowly to bed, never deigning to enter Claire's room for one of those "tell-all-about- it" _seances_ dear to a girl's heart. It was the sight of those pathetic little pieces of finery which first suggested the idea of a man to Claire's mind. However dear and intimate a woman friend may be, the prospect of meeting her does not inspire a fellow-woman with sufficient energy to sit up until after midnight to cover a shabby lace blouse with ninon, or to put a new silk collar and cuffs on a half-worn coat. It is only the prospect of meeting the eyes of some male creature, who in all probability will remain supremely unconscious of the result, which stimulates such effort, and Claire, noting Cecil's restless excitement, cast anxious thoughts towards the particular man in this case. Was Sophie Blake correct in her deduction as to a previous unhappy romance? Claire had no tangible grounds to lead her to a conclusion, but instinct induced her to agree. Something beyond the troubles of her professional life had gone towards warping a nature that was naturally generous and warm. In imagination Claire lived over the pitiful romance. Poor Cecil had been badly treated. Some selfish man had made love to her, amusing his idle hours with the society of a pretty, clever woman; he had never seriously intended marriage, but Cecil had believed in his sincerity, had given him her whole heart, had dreamt dreams which had turned the grey of life to gold. And then had come the end. How had the end come? Some day when they were walking together, had he suddenly announced: "I am sailing to India next month!" or, "We have been such capital friends, you and I. I should like you to be the first to hear my news. I am engaged to be married to the dearest girl in the world!" Then, because convention decrees that when her heart is wounded a woman may make no moan, had Cecil twisted her lips into a smile, and cried, "I am so glad to hear it. I hope you will be very happy," while the solid earth rocked around her? At such thoughts as these Claire flared with righteous anger. "If that should ever happen to me, I wouldn't pretend! I wouldn't spare him. I should look him straight in the face, and say, `And all this time you have been pretending to love me.--I thank God that it _was_ pretence. I thank God that He has preserved me from being the wife of man who could act a double part!'" But perhaps there had been no real ending. Perhaps the man had simply grown tired, and ceased to call, ceased to write. Oh, surely that would be the greatest tragedy of all! Claire's quick brain summoned pictures of Cecil creeping down the oil-clothed stairs in her dressing-gown at the sound of the postman's earliest knock, and creeping back with no letter in her hand; of Cecil entering the little parlour on her return from work with a swift hungry look at the table on which the day's letters were displayed; seeing no letter lying there; never, never the letter for which she watched! And the days would pass, and the weeks, and the months, and the old routine of life would go on just the same. Whatever might be her private sufferings, the English mistress must be at her post each morning at nine o'clock; she must wrestle all day with the minds of dull girls, listless girls, clever girls, girls who were eager to learn, and girls whose energies seemed condensed in the effort to avoid learning at all. However sore might be the English mistress's heart, it was her duty to be bright and alert; however exhausted her own stock of patience, she must still be a female Job in her treatment of her many pupils. A school-mistress must banish her individuality as a woman on the threshold of the form-room; while on duty she must banish every outside interest from her mind. No lying in bed, with her face to the pillow; no weeping far into the night. Headache and swollen eyelids are not for her. If her love-story goes wrong, she must lock her sorrow in her own heart. What wonder if, as a result, her mind grows bitter and her tongue grows sharp! "That's a lesson for me! I must never, never allow myself to fall in love!" sighed Claire to herself. It was a depressing necessity, but vaguely she allowed herself to dream of a distant Someday, when the ban should be removed. Something might happen to set her free. Something most certainly _would_ happen! Optimistic one-and-twenty is ready enough to face a short term of renunciation, but it resolutely refuses to believe in its continuance. A shadow fell over Claire's happy face as the practical application of this resolve came into her mind. Erskine Fanshawe! At the moment he was the one masculine figure on her horizon, but she did not disguise from herself that of all the men she had met, he attracted her the most. What a mercy that she had had the resolution to put a stop to a friendship which might have ended in unfitting her for the work in hand! It had been hard to refuse the desired information, but the fact that the second refusal had been twice as hard as the first was in itself a proof of the wisdom of her decision. And then, in illogical girlish fashion, Claire fell to wondering if perchance Captain Fanshawe would discover her address for himself? It would be the easiest of tasks, since he had nothing to do but to put the question to Mrs Willoughby. At one moment Claire openly hoped that he would; at the next she recalled the expression on Janet Willoughby's face as she stood staring across the supper room, and then she was not so sure. What if the continuance of the friendship brought trouble on Janet as well as herself? Laboriously Claire thrust the thought of Erskine Fanshawe from her mind, but just because inclination would have led her to so blithely meet him, she felt a keener sympathy with her companion's preparations for similar meetings. The time of examinations had come, and night after night the dining- table of the little parlour was littered with the sheets of foolscap which were to test the progress of the pupils throughout the term. Cecil's older forms had been studying _The Merchant of Venice, Richard the Second_, and the _Essays of Elia_; the younger forms, _Tanglewood Tales_ and Kingsley's _Heroes_. She had set the questions not only as a test of memory, but with a view of drawing out original thought. But, to judge from her groans and lamentations, the result was poor. "Of all the dull, stupid, unimaginative--_sheep_! Not an original idea between them. Every answer exactly like the last--a hash-up of my own remarks in class. If there's a creature on earth I despise more than another, it's an English flapper. Silly, vain, egotistical--" Then the French mistress would scowl across the table, and say, "Now you've put me out! I was just counting up my marks. Oh, do be quiet!" "Sorry!" Cecil would say shortly, and taking up her pencil slash scathing comments at the side of the foolscap sheets. Anon she would smile, and smile again, and forgetting Claire's request, would interrupt once more. "Can you remember the name of Florence Mason?" "If I strain my intellect to its utmost, I believe I can." "Well, remember, then! It will be worth while. She'll do something-- that girl. When you are an insignificant old woman, you may be proud to boast that you used to sit at the very table on which her first English essays were corrected." "So they are not all dull, stupid, unimaginative?" "The exception proves the rule!" cried Cecil, and swept the papers together with a sigh of relief. "Done at last. Now for my blouse." Claire cast a glance at the clock. "Half-past ten. And you are so tired. Surely you won't begin to sew at this hour?" "I must. I want it for Saturday. I tried it on last night, and it wasn't a bit nice at the neck. I've got to alter it somehow." "I have some trimming upstairs. Just be quiet for five minutes, while I finish my list, and then I'll bring down my scrap-box, and we'll see what we can find." That scrap-box was in constant request during the next weeks. It was filled with the dainty oddments which a woman of means and taste collects in the course of years; trimmings and laces, and scraps of fine brocades; belts and buckles, and buttons of silver and paste; glittering ends of tinsel, ends of silk and ribbons that were really too pretty to throw away, and cunning little motifs which had the magic quality of disguising deficiencies and making both ends meet. Claire gave with a lavish hand, and Cecil's gratitude was pathetic in its intensity. More and more as the weeks passed on did she become obsessed with the craze for decking herself in fine garments; new gloves, shoes, and veils were purchased to supplement the home-made garments, and one memorable night there arrived a large dress-box containing an evening dress and cloak. "I have been out so little these last years. I have no clothes to wear," Cecil said in explanation. "It's not fair to--er--people, when they take you about, to look as if you had come out of the Ark... And these ready-made things are _so_ cheap!" She spoke with an air of excusing herself, and with a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks, and Claire hastened to sympathise and agree. She wondered if the embarrassment arose from the fact that for the last two weeks Cecil had not paid her share of the joint expenses! The omission had happened naturally enough, for on each occasion when the landlady appeared with the bill, Cecil had been absent on one of her now frequent excursions, when it had seemed the simplest thing to settle in full, and await repayment next day. Repayment, however, had not come. Half a dozen times over Cecil had exclaimed, "Oh, dear, there's that money. I _must_ remember!" but apparently she never had remembered at a moment when her purse was at hand. Claire was honestly indifferent. The hundred pounds which she had deposited in a bank was considerably diminished, since it had been drawn on for all her needs, but the term's salary would be paid in a short time, and the thought of that, added to the remainder, gave her a pleasant feeling of ease. It was only when for the third Saturday Cecil hurried off with an air of fluster and embarrassment, that an unpleasant suspicion arose. The weekly bill was again due, and Cecil had not forgotten, she was only elaborately pretending to forget! Claire was not angry, she was perfectly willing to play the part of banker until the end of the term, but she hated the thought that Cecil was acting a part, and deliberately trying to deceive. What if she had been extravagant in her expenditure on clothes and had run herself short for necessary expenses, there was nothing criminal in that! Foolish it might be, but a fellow-girl would understand that, after being staid and sensible for a long, long time, it was a blessed relief to the feminine mind to have a little spell of recklessness for a change. Cecil had only to say, "I've run myself horribly short. Can you pay up till I get my screw?" and the whole matter would have been settled in a trice. But to pretend to forget was so _mean_! The next morning after breakfast the vexed question of the Christmas holidays came up for discussion for the twentieth time. Cecil had previously stated that she always spent the time with her mother, but it now appeared that to a certain extent she had changed her plans. "I shall have to go down over Christmas Day and the New Year, I suppose. Old people make such a fuss over those stupid anniversaries, but I shall come up again on the second. I prefer to be in town. We have to pay for the rooms in any case, so we may as well use them." Claire's face lengthened. "_Pay_ for them! Even if we go away?" "Of course. What did you expect? The landlady isn't let off her own rent, because we choose to take a holiday. There's no saving except for the light and coal. By the way, I owe you for a third week now. I _must_ remember! Have you decided what you are going to do?" Claire shook her head. It was a forlorn feeling that Christmas was coming, and she had nowhere to go. Until now she had gone on in faith, feeling sure that before the time arrived, some one would remember her loneliness, and invite her if only for the day itself. Possibly Cecil in virtue of three months' daily companionship would ask her mother's permission to invite her friend, if only for a couple of days. Or bright, friendly Sophie Blake, who had sympathised with her loneliness, might have some proposition to make, or Mrs Willoughby, who was so interested in girls who were working for themselves, or Miss Farnborough, who knew that it was the French mistress's first Christmas without her mother; but no such suggestion had been made. No one seemed to care. "I must say it's _strange_ that no one has invited you!" said Cecil sharply. "I don't think much of your grand friends if they can't look after you on Christmas Day. What about the people in Brussels? Did no one send you an invitation? If you lived there for three years, surely you must know some one intimately enough to offer to go, even if they don't suggest it." "It is not necessary, thank you," said Claire with an air. "I have an open invitation to several houses, but I am saving up Brussels for Easter, when the weather will be better, and it will be more of a change. And I have an old grand-aunt in the North, but she is an invalid, confined to her room. I should be an extra trouble in the house. I shall manage to amuse myself somehow. It will be an opportunity for exploring London." "Oh well," Cecil said vaguely, "when I come back!" but she spoke no word of Christmas Day. The next week brought the various festivities with which Saint Cuthbert's celebrated the end of the Christmas term. There was a school dance in the big class-room, a Christmas-tree party, given to the children in an East End parish, and last and most important of all the breaking-up ceremony in the local Town Hall, when an old girl, now developed into a celebrated authoress, presented the prizes, and gave an amusing account of her own schooldays, which evoked storms of applause from the audience, even Miss Farnborough smiling benignly at the recital of misdoings which would have evoked her sternest displeasure on the part of present-day pupils! Then the singing-class girls sang a short cantata, and the eldest girls gave a scene from Shakespeare, very dull and exceedingly correct, and the youngest girls acted a little French play, while the French mistress stood in the wings, ready to prompt, her face very hot, and her feet very cold, and her heart beating at express speed. This moment was a public test of her work during the term, and she had a horror that the children would forget their parts and disgrace their leader as well as themselves. She need not have feared, however, for the publicity which she dreaded was just the stimulus needed to spur the juvenile actors to do their very best, and they shrugged, they gesticulated, they rolled their r's, they reproduced Claire's own little mannerisms with an _aplomb_ which brought down the house. Claire's lack of teaching experience might make her less sound on rules and routine, but it was obvious that she had succeeded in one important point; she had lifted "French" from the level of a task, and converted it into a living tongue. Miss Farnborough was very gracious in her parting words to her new mistress. "I have not come to my present position without learning to trust my perceptions," said she. "I recognised at once that you possessed the true teaching instinct, and to-day you have justified my choice. I have had many congratulations on your pupils' performance." Then she held out her hand with a charming smile. "I hope you will have very pleasant holidays!" She made no inquiries as to the way in which this young girl was to spend her leisure. She herself was worn-out with the strain of the long term, and when the morrow came she intended to pack her bag, and start off for a sunny Swiss height, where for the next few weeks it would be her chief aim to forget that she had ever seen a school. But the new French mistress turned away with a heavy heart. It seemed at that moment as if nobody cared. That year Christmas fell on a Monday. On the Saturday morning Cecil packed up her bag, and departed, grumbling, for her week at home. Before she left, Claire presented her with a Christmas gift in the shape of a charming embroidered scarf, and Cecil kissed her, and flushed, and looked at the same time pleased and oppressed, and hastily pulling out her purse extracted two sovereigns and laid them down on the table. "I keep forgetting that money! Three weeks, wasn't it? There's two pounds; let me know the rest when I come back and I'll settle up. Christmas is an awful time. The money simply melts." Claire had an uncomfortable and wholly unreasonable feeling of being paid for her present as she put the two sovereigns in her purse. Cecil had given her no gift, and the lack of the kindly attention increased the feeling of desolation with which she returned to her empty room. Even the tiniest offering to show that she had been thought of, would have been a comfort! The landlady came into the room to remove the luncheon tray, her lips pursed into an expression which her lodger recognised as the preliminary to "a bit of my mind." When the outlying cruets and dishes had been crowded together in a perilous pile, the bit of her mind came out. "I was going to say, miss, that of course you will arrange to dine out on Christmas Day. I never take ladies as a rule, but Miss Rhodes, she said, being teachers, you would be away all holiday time. I never had a lodger before who stayed in the house over Christmas, and of course you must understand that we go over to Highgate to my mother's for the day and the girl goes out, and I couldn't possibly think of cooking--" "Don't be afraid, Mrs Mason. I am going out for the day." Mrs Mason lifted the tray and carried it out of the room, shutting the door behind her by the skilful insertion of a large foot encased in a cashmere boot, and Claire stood staring at her, wondering if it were really her own voice which had spoken those last words, and from what source had sprung the confidence which had suddenly flooded her heart. At this last blow of all, when even the little saffron-coloured parlour closed the door against her, the logical course would have been to collapse into utter despair, instead of which the moment had brought the first gleam of hope. "Now," said the voice in her heart, "everyone has failed me. I am helpless, I am alone. This is God's moment. I will worry no more, but leave it to Him. Something will open for me when the time arrives!" She went upstairs, put on her hat, and sallied out into the busy streets. All the world was abroad, men and women and small eager children all bent on the same task, thronging the shops to the doors, waiting in rows for the favour of being served, emerging triumphant with arms laden with spoils. On every side fragments of the same conversation floated to the ears. "What can I get for Kate?" "I can't think what in the world to buy for John." "Do try to give me an idea what Rose would like!..." Claire mingled with the throng, pushed her way towards the crowded counters, waited a preposterous time for her change, and then hurried off to another department to go through the same struggle once more. Deliberately she threw herself into the Christmas feeling, turning her thoughts from herself, considering only how she could add to the general happiness. She bought presents for everybody, for the cross landlady, for the untidy servant girl, for Sophie Blake, and Flora Ross, for the maid at Saint Cuthbert's who waited upon the Staff-Room, with a selection of dainty oddments for girl friends at Brussels, and when the presents themselves had been secured she bought prettily tinted paper, and fancy ribbons, and decorated name cards for the adornment of the parcels. The saffron parlour looked quite Christmas-like that evening, and Claire knew a happy hour as she made up her gifts in their dainty wrappings. They looked so gay and seasonable that she decided to defer putting them into the sober outer covering of brown paper as long as possible. They were all the Christmas decoration she would have! On Sunday morning the feeling of loneliness took an acute turn. Claire longed for a church which long association had made into a home; for a clergyman who was also a friend; for a congregation of people who knew her, and cared for her well-being, instead of the long rows of strange faces. She remembered how Cecil had declared that in London a girl might attend the same church for years on end, and never hear a word of welcome, and hope died low in her breast. The moment of exaltation had passed, and she told herself drearily that on Christmas afternoon she must take a book and sit by the fire in the waiting-room of some great station, dine at a restaurant, and perhaps go to a concert at night. For weeks past Claire had been intending to go to a West End church to hear one of the finest of modern preachers. She decided to go this morning, since the length of journey now seemed rather an advantage than a drawback, as helping to fill up another of the long, dragging hours. She dressed herself with the care and nicety which was the result of her French training, and which had of late become almost a religious duty, for the study of the fifteen women who daily assembled round the table in the Staff-Room was as a danger signal to warn new-comers of the perils ahead. With the one exception of Sophie Blake, not one of the number seemed to make any effort to preserve their feminine charm. They dressed their hair in the quickest and easiest fashion without considering the question of appearance; they wore dun-coloured garments with collars of the same material; though severely neat, all their skirts seemed to suffer from the same depressing tendency to drop at the back; their bony wrists emerged from tightly-buttoned sleeves. The point of view adopted was that appearance did not matter, that it was waste of time to consider the adornment of the outer woman. Brain was the all-important factor; every possible moment must be devoted to the cultivation of brain; but an outsider could not fail to note that, with this destroying of a natural instinct, something which went deeper than the surface was also lost; with the grace of the body certain feminine graces of soul died also, and the world was poorer for their loss. The untidy servant maid peered out of the window to watch Claire as she left the house that morning, and evolved a whole feuilleton to account for the inconsistency of her appearance with her position as a first floor front. "You'd take her for a lady to look at her! P'raps she _is_ a lady in disguise!" and from, this point the making of the feuilleton began. The service that morning was food to Claire's hungering soul, for the words of the preacher might have been designed to meet her own need. As she listened she realised that the bitterness of loneliness was impossible to one who believed and trusted in the great, all-compassing love. Sad one might still be, so long as the human heart demanded a human companionship, but the sting of feeling uncared for, could never touch a child of God. She took the comfort home to her heart, and stored it there to help her through the difficult time ahead, and on her knees at the end of the service she sent up her own little petition for help. "There are so many homes in this great city! Is there no home for me on Christmas Day?" With the words the tears sprang, and Claire mopped her eyes with her handkerchief, thankful that she was surrounded by strangers by whom her reddened eyes would pass unnoticed. Then rising to her feet, she turned to lift the furs which hung on the back of the pew, and met the brown eyes of a girl who had been sitting behind her the whole of the service. The girl was Janet Willoughby. CHAPTER ELEVEN. ENTER MAJOR CAREW. In the street outside the church door the two girls shook hands and exchanged greetings. Janet wore a long fur coat, and a toque of dark Russian sable, with a sweeping feather at one side. The price of these two garments alone would equal the whole of Claire's yearly salary, but it had the effect of making the wearer look clumsy and middle-aged compared with the graceful simplicity of the other's French-cut costume. Janet Willoughby was not thinking of clothes at that moment, however; she was looking at reddened eyelids, and remembering the moment when she had seen a kneeling figure suddenly shaken with emotion. The sight of those tears had wiped away the rankling grudge which had lain at her heart since the evening of her mother's At Home, and revived the warm liking which at first sight she had taken to this pretty attractive girl. "Which way are you going? May I walk with you? It's just the morning for a walk. I hope it will keep cold and bright over Christmas. It's so inappropriate when it's muggy. Last year we were in Switzerland, but mother is old-fashioned, and likes to have the day at home, so this time we don't start till the new year. You are not going sporting by any chance?" "I'm not!" said Claire, and, for all her determination, could not resist a grimace, so far from sporting seemed the prospect ahead. Janet caught the grimace, and smiled in sympathy, but the next moment her face sobered. "But I hope you _are_ going to have jolly holidays?" "Oh, I hope so. Oh, yes, I mean to enjoy them very much," Claire said valiantly, and swiftly turned the subject. "Where do you go in Switzerland?" "Saint Moritz. We've gone there for years--a large party of friends. It has become quite a yearly reunion. It's so comfy to have one's own party, and be independent of the other hoteliers. They may be quite nice, of course, but then, again, they may not. I feel rather mean sometimes when I see a new arrival looking with big eyes at our merry table. Theoretically, I think one _ought_ to be nice to new-comers in an hotel. It's such a pelican-in-the-wilderness feeling. I'd hate it myself, but practically I'm afraid I'm not particularly friendly. We are so complete that we don't want outsiders. They'd spoil the fun. Don't you think one is justified in being a little bit selfish at Christmas-time?" Claire laughed, her old, happy, gurgling laugh. It warmed her heart to have Janet Willoughby's companionship once more. "It isn't exactly the orthodox attitude, is it? Perhaps you will be more justified this year, after you have got through your Christmas duties at home." "Yes! That's a good idea. I _shall_, for it was pure unselfishness which prevented me running away last week with the rest of the party. Mother would have given in if I'd persisted, and I wanted to so dreadfully badly." She sighed, and looked quite dejected, but Claire remained unmoved. "I don't pity you one bit. You have only a week to wait. That's not a great trial of patience!" "Oh, yes, it is.--Sometimes!" said Janet with an emphasis which gave the words an added eloquence. Claire divined at once that Switzerland had an attraction apart from winter sports--an attraction centred in some individual member of the merry party. Could it by any chance be Erskine Fanshawe? She longed to ask the question. Not for a hundred pounds would she have asked the question. She hoped it was Captain Fanshawe. She hoped Janet would have a lovely time. Some girls had everything. Some had nothing. It was unfair--it was cruel. Oh, dear, what was the use of going to church, and coming out to have such mean, grudging thoughts? Janet Willoughby too! Such a dear! She deserved to be happy. Claire forced a smile, and said bravely-- "It will be all the nicer for waiting." "It couldn't be nicer," Janet replied. Then she looked in the other girl's face, and it struck her that the pretty eyelids had taken an additional shade of red, and her warm heart felt a throb of compunction. "Grumbling about my own little bothers, when she had so much to bear--hateful of me! I've been mean not to ask her again; mother wanted to; but she's so pretty. I admired her so much that I was afraid--other people might too! But she was crying; I saw her cry. Perhaps she is lonely, and it's my fault--" "What do you generally do on Sundays?" she asked aloud. "There are lots of other mistresses at your school, aren't there? I suppose you go about together, and have tea at each other's rooms in the afternoon, and sit over the fire at night and talk, and brew cocoa, as the girls do in novels. It all sounds so interesting. The girls are generally rather plain and very learned; but there is always one among them who is like you. I don't mean that you are not learned--I'm sure you are--but--er-- pretty, you know, and attractive, and fond of things! And all the others adore her, and are jealous if she is nicer to one than to the others..." Claire grimaced again, more unrestrainedly than before. "That's not my part. I wish it were. I could play it quite well. The other mistresses are quite civil and pleasant, but they don't hanker after me one bit. With two exceptions, the girl I live with, and one other, I have not spoken to one of them out of school hours. I don't even know where most of them live." Janet's face lengthened. Suddenly she turned and asked a sharp direct question: "Where are you going on Christmas Day?" Pride and weakness struggled together in Claire's heart, and pride won. She would _not_ pose as an object of pity! "Oh, I'm going--out!" said she with an air, but Janet Willoughby was not to be put off so easily as that. Her brown eyes sent out a flash of light. She demanded sternly: "Where?" "Really--" Claire tossed her head with the air of a duchess who was so overburdened with invitations that she found it impossible to make a choice between them. "Really, don't you know, I haven't quite decided--" "Claire Gifford, you mean, horrid girl, don't dare to quibble! You are going nowhere, and you know it. Nobody has invited you for Christmas Day; that's why you were crying just now--because you had nowhere to go. And you would have gone away this morning, and said nothing, and sat alone in your rooms... I call it _mean_! Talk of the spirit of Christmas! It's an insult to me and to mother. How do you suppose we should have felt if we'd found out _afterwards_?" "W-what else could I do? How could I tell you?" stammered Claire, blushing. "It would have seemed such a barefaced _hint_, and I detest hints. And really why should you have felt bad? I'm a stranger. You've only seen me once. There could be no blame on you. There's no blame on anyone. It just happens that it doesn't quite fit in to visit friends at a distance, and in town--well! I'm a stranger, you see. I _have_ no friends!" Janet set her lips. "Just as a matter of curiosity I should like to know exactly what you _were_ going to do? You said, I believe, that you were going out. And now you say you had nowhere to go. Both statements can't be true--" "Oh, yes, they can. I have nowhere to go, but I had to find somewhere, because my good landlady is going to her mother's at Highgate, and disapproves of lodgers who stay in on Christmas Day. She gave me notice that I must go out as the house would be locked up." "But where--what--where _could_ you go?" "I thought of a restaurant and a concert, and a station waiting-room to fill in the gaps. Quite comfortable, you know. They have lovely fires, and with a nice book--" "If you don't stop this minute I shall begin to cry--here, in the open street!" cried Janet hotly. "Oh, you poor dear, you poor dear! A station waiting-room. I never heard of anything so piteous. Oh, how thankful I am that I met you! Tell me honestly, was it about that that you were crying?" "Y-yes, it was. I was saying a little prayer and trying not to feel lonesome, and then I looked round and saw--you." "End of volume one!" cried Janet briskly. "No more waiting-rooms, my dear. You must come to us for the whole of Christmas Day. I wish I could ask you to stay, but we are chock-a-block with cousins and aunts. I'll come round in my car in time to take you to church, and send you back at night after the Highgate revels are over. We can't offer you anything very exciting, I'm afraid--just an old-fashioned homey gathering." "It's just what I want. I am thirsty for a home; but your mother--what will she say? Will she care for a stranger--" "Mother says what I say," Janet declared with the assurance of an only daughter. "And she'll say in addition, `What a blessing! She'll whistle for us, and amuse Aunt Jane.' Did you realise that Aunt Jane was coming? She's generally _very_ cross all day, and makes a point of giving away her presents to other members of the party under the very noses of the givers, to let them see what she thinks of their choice. The great idea is to sit down by her quickly when you see her begin to fumble with something you would like to have. I got quite a nice bag that way last Christmas!" Presents! That was another idea. Claire went home mentally reviewing her own treasures with a view to selecting some trifle which Janet in the midst of her plenty might still be glad to receive. She decided on a silver clasp of quaint Breton manufacture, which had the merit that in the whole of London it would be impossible to purchase another to match. Claire returned to her room in a frame of mind vastly different from that in which she had started forth. Her buoyant spirits soared upwards at the prospect of a Christmas spent in the midst of a happy family party, and all the difficulties of life seemed to dissolve into thin air, since, after the providential meeting just vouchsafed, it seemed faithless to doubt that future difficulties would be solved in the same way. She intended to devote the afternoon to writing a long letter to her mother, which had been delayed owing to her recent depression of spirits, for it seemed cruel to write in a pessimistic strain to the happy bride, who now, more than ever, saw everything _couleur de rose_. Mrs Judge's present had arrived the week before, in the shape of a richly embroidered Indian table-cloth, for which her daughter had as much use as she herself would have found for a fur rug. To use it in the saffron parlour was a sheer impossibility, for every separate article of furniture shrieked at it, and it shrieked at them in return; so Claire folded it away at the bottom of her box, reflecting, between a sigh and a smile, that the choice was "just like mother." It was not agreeable to the bride to picture her daughter living in an ugly lodging-house parlour, so she had mentally covered the ugliness beneath the gorgeous embroidery of that cloth, and happily dismissed the subject from her mind. At the time of the opening of the parcel, Claire had felt a sense of sharp disappointment, amounting even to irritation, but this morning she could see the humour of the situation, and she chuckled softly to herself as she walked homeward, rehearsing words of thanks that would be at once cordial and truthful. "Just what I wanted," was plainly out of the question; "So useful" was also ruled out, but she could honestly admire the workmanship of the cloth, and enlarge on the care with which it should be preserved! It was an easy task to satisfy a correspondent who was eager to interpret words into the meaning most agreeable to herself! Claire entered the house prepared to devote herself to writing letters to absent friends, but the excitements of the day were not yet over, for the little maid met her on the threshold with the exciting intelligence that a gentleman was in the parlour waiting to see her. The feuilleton made an exciting leap forward, as Lizzie watched the blood rush into the "first floor's" cheeks, and ebb away suddenly, leaving her white and tense. "Struck all of a heap, like! I shouldn't have thought meself as she'd look at him! Queer thing, love!" soliloquised Lizzie, as she clumped down the kitchen stairs, and returned to her superintendence of Sunday's "jint." The "first floor" meanwhile stood motionless in the oil-clothed hall, struggling to regain self-possession before turning the handle of the door. A gentleman waiting to see her! Who could the gentleman be? But at the bottom of her heart Claire believed the question to be superfluous, for there was only one "gentleman" who could possibly come. Captain Fanshawe had found out her address, and it was Christmas-time, when a visitor was justified in counting on a hospitable reception. At Christmas-time it would be churlish for a hostess to deny a welcome. Every pulse in Claire's body was throbbing with anticipation as she flung open that door. The visitor was standing with his back towards her, bending low to examine a photograph on the mantelpiece. At the sound of her entrance he straightened himself and wheeled round, and at the sight of his face Claire's heart dropped heavy as lead. They stood for a moment staring in a mutual surprise, the girl's face blank with disappointment, the man's brightening with interest. He was a tall, thickly-set man, trim and smart in his attire, yet with a coarseness of feature which aroused Claire's instant antagonism. Compared with the face she had expected to see, the florid good looks which confronted her were positively repugnant. Before the obvious admiration of the black eyes she stiffened in displeasure. "You wished to see me?" "Miss Gifford, I believe! I called about a little matter of a parcel for Miss Rhodes. To be sent on. I wanted to ask if you--" "Oh, certainly! I shall be delighted." Claire thawed at the prospect of a present for Cecil, but could it be possible that it was this man with the flushed cheeks, and harsh, uncultivated voice, who had so revolutionised Cecil's life! Could it be for the delectation of those bold eyes that she had worked far into the night, contriving her pitiful fineries? Claire's instinctive dislike was so strong that she would not seat herself and so give an opportunity for prolonging the interview; she crossed the room to a bureau that stood in the corner, and took a slip of paper from one of the pigeon- holes. "Perhaps it would be simpler if I gave you the address?" The man laughed complacently. "No need, thank you, I've got it all right, but it's safer not to write. The old lady, you know! Parcel coming in for her daughter addressed in a man's writing--no end of fuss and questioning. You know what old ladies are! Never satisfied till they've ferreted to the bottom of everything that comes along. It's not good enough, that sort of thing, but she'll expect a present. It's all stamped and made up, if you'll be good enough just to address it, and slip it into the post to-morrow." He put his hand in his pocket as he spoke and drew out a little package some two inches square, the sort of package which might contain an article of jewellery, such as a brooch or ring. Could it by any chance be an engagement ring? Claire's blood shuddered as she took the little packet and dropped it quietly on the bureau. "Certainly I will post it. Do you wish it registered?" He looked at her sharply as though suspicious of an under-meaning to the inquiry, then, meeting the glance of her clear eyes, had the grace to look ashamed. "N-no. No! It is not worth while. A trifle, just a trifle--Christmas, you know--must do the proper thing!" He mumbled vaguely the while he collected his hat and gloves, the aloofness in Claire's attitude making it impossible to prolong the interview; but as he held out his hand in farewell, his self-possession returned. He laughed meaningly, and said-- "Odd, you know; I imagined that you were quite old! Miss Rhodes gave me that impression. Nothing definite, you know; no false statements; just the way she spoke. Clever of her, what?--very clever! Knew better than to spoil her own game!" If looks could have slain, the saffron parlour would have seen a dead man at that moment. Claire withdrew her hand, and surreptitiously rubbed it against her skirt. She would not condescend to notice that last remark. "I'll post the parcel to-morrow. Perhaps you will tell me your name, as I shall have to explain." He drew out a pocket-book and extracted a card. Claire dropped it unread upon the table, and bowed stiffly in farewell. The next moment he was gone, and she could satisfy her curiosity unseen. Then came surprise number two, for the card bore the inscription, "Major J.F. Carew," and in the corner two well-remembered words, "Carlton Club." An officer in the Army--who would have thought it! He was emphatically not a gentleman; he was rough, coarse, mannerless, yet he was in a position which would bring him into intimate association with gentle people; by a strange coincidence, he might know, he almost certainly would know, the man whom she had expected to see in his stead--Erskine Fanshawe himself! They could never be friends, but they would meet, they would sit in the same rooms, they would exchange occasional remarks. Claire's mood of intolerable disgust changed suddenly into something strangely approaching envy of this big rough man! Christmas morning brought Janet bright and early, to find Claire standing at the window ready to rush out the moment the car stopped at the door. It felt delightfully luxurious to seat herself on the springy cushions, draw the fur rug over her knees, and feel the warmth of a hot tin beneath her feet. "_Wasn't_ it lacerating?" Janet cried. "Just as I was starting the parcel post arrived, and there were about half-a-dozen parcels for me from Saint Moritz! There was no time to open them, and I simply die to know what's inside. I care about those presents more than anything else. We had our family presents this morning. Mother gave me this." She opened her coat to show a glittering crescent. "Quite pretty, isn't it, but I'd rather have had pearls. That's the worst of Christmas presents, you so seldom get what you want. Half the time you feel more disappointed than pleased. People cling to the idea that they ought to give you a surprise, and you _are_ surprised, but not in the way they expect. I have given mother thousands of hints about pearls. Ah, well!" She hooked the coat with an air of resignation. "We must take the will for the deed. Have you had nice things?" "My mother sent me a very handsome present," Claire said demurely. She had no personal agitations about the day's post; but she did feel interested in the thought of those parcels from Switzerland which lay awaiting Janet Willoughby's return. Half eager, half shrinking, she looked forward to seeing their contents. It was in Janet's dainty boudoir that the unpacking took place. The two girls went straight upstairs on their return from church, and there, on a gate-legged table, lay the pile of parcels which had arrived by the morning's delivery. Janet pounced upon the Swiss packets, and cut the fastenings with eager haste. From across the room Claire watched her eager face as she read the inscriptions one by one. As she neared the end of the pile, the eagerness became tinged with anxiety; she picked up the last parcel of all, and the light died out of her face. Claire turned aside and affected to be absorbed in examining the contents of an old cabinet, and Janet moved to the nearer side of the table so that her face was hidden from view; after a few minutes of silence, she broke the silence in a voice of forced lightness. "Won't you come and look at my trophies? Switzerland is not a very happy hunting-ground, for there is so little variety to be had. That's my fifth carved chalet, and about the seventeenth bear. Rather a dear, though, isn't he? Such a nice man sent it--one of the nicest of men. That's his photograph on the mantelpiece." Claire looked, met a straight keen glance which lived in her memory, and felt a tingle of blood in her cheeks. Janet's eyes followed hers, and she said quickly-- "Not that; that's Erskine Fanshawe. He is a casual person, and doesn't go in for presents. He hasn't even troubled to send a card. I meant the man in the leather frame. He always remembers. I do like that, in a man! They are all good enough in an emergency, but so few of them think of the nice _little_ things!" Janet sighed, and dropped the carved wooden bear on to the table. However much she might appreciate the donor's thoughtfulness, it had not had a cheering effect. The light had died out of her eyes, and she turned over the various trophies without a trace of the enthusiasm with which she had torn open the parcel. Claire standing beside her felt torn between sympathy and a guilty sense of relief. She was sorry for Janet's obvious disappointment, but she was also (it was a dog-in-the-manger feeling, for how could it possibly affect herself?) _relieved_ that Captain Fanshawe was not the donor of the bear! As the two girls stood together turning over the little collection of carved toys, Claire slipped her hand through Janet's arm with an affectionate pressure, which was an outward apology for the inward disloyalty, and Janet stretched out her own hand to clasp it with unexpected fervour. "Oh, I am glad you are here! I'm glad to have another girl! Girls understand. I wish I hadn't opened those horrid old parcels. It's just as I said--presents are disappointing. Now I feel thoroughly humped and dumpy! It's so stupid, too, for I know quite well that I've every sane reason to be pleased. How exasperating it is that one's head and one's heart so seldom agree!" Claire gave the plump arm another squeeze, but made no further answer. She was afraid to show how well she understood. Janet would forget her hasty words, and believe that her secret was locked within her own breast; but the other girl realised the position as clearly as if she had been told in so many words--"I am in love with one man, and another man is in love with me. I am throwing away the substance for the shadow!" "Ah, well, such is life!" continued Janet, sighing. "Now I'm supposed to go downstairs and be the life of the party! How I do dislike family parties! Mother says it's the ideal thing for relations to gather together for Christmas Day, but I've been gathered together for so _many_ years!" "You are too well-off, my dear, that's what's the matter! I have never met a girl before who had so much to make her happy, and yet you are not satisfied. How would you like to be a High School-mistress living in poky lodgings, not able to have a holiday because she can't afford two rents, and getting only one present all told?" Janet looked at her quickly. "Have you had only one?" "I said _a_ High School-mistress, not any special mistress, but I will be definite if you like. How would you like to be _Me_?" Janet turned suddenly, laid her free hand on Claire's shoulder, and stared deeply into her face. "I--don't--know!" she said slowly. "Sometimes I think it's just what I should like. I have a great deal, but you have more. Look at our two faces in that glass!" She drew Claire round so that they stood in front of the Chippendale mirror over the mantelpiece, from whence a row of pictured faces stared back, as though stolidly sitting in judgment. The clear tints of Claire's skin made Janet look sallow and faded, the dark curve of her eyebrows under the sweep of gold brown hair, the red lips and deeply cleft chin, made Janet's indeterminate features look insignificant, the brown eyes seemed the only definite feature in her face, and they were clouded with depression. "Look at yourself," she said deeply, "and look at me!" It was an awkward moment, and Claire shrugged uncomfortably. "But my face is--it has to be--my fortune!" "Oh, beauty! I wasn't thinking of beauty," Janet cried unexpectedly. "You are very pretty, of course, but heaps of girls are pretty. It's something more--I suppose it is what is called Charm. When people see you once, they remember you; they want to see you again. You make a place for yourself. I am one in a crowd. People like me well enough when they are with me, but--they forget!" "And I never meet anyone to remember. We're two love-lorn damsels, and this is Merrie Christmas. Would you have thought it?" cried Claire, and that wrought the desired effect, for Janet awoke with a shock to her responsibilities as hostess, and led the way downstairs to join the rest of the house-party. The rest of the day was spent in conventional English fashion in a praiseworthy effort to sustain spirits at concert pitch, and keep up a continuous flow of gaiety, a mountainous task when guests are brought together by claims of birth, without consideration as to suitability! Mrs Willoughby's party consisted of four distinct elements; there were Great-aunt Jane, and second cousin William, two octogenarians, who for health's sake dined early all the year round, and sipped a cup of Benger at eight, but who dauntlessly tackled sausages and plum pudding on Christmas Day, and suffered for it for a week to come. There were Mr and Mrs Willoughby, and two cousin husbands and their wives, and a spinster aunt to represent the next generation, then came sweet and twenty as represented by Janet and Claire, followed by Reginald of Eton, on whom they looked down as a mere boy, the while he in his turn disdained to notice the advances of two curly-headed cousins of nine and ten! Claire enjoyed herself because it was in her nature to enjoy, and it felt good to be once more in a beautiful, well-appointed home, among friends; but driving home in the taxi she yawned persistently from one door to the other. It was dreadfully tiring work being pleasant at the same time to the whole five ages of man! With the opening of the door of the saffron parlour came an end of sleepiness, for on the table lay a square parcel, and the parcel bore the same stamp, the same markings which she had seen duplicated in Janet Willoughby's boudoir! Red as a rose was Claire as she stared at the bold masculine writing of the address, tore open the wrappings of the box, and drew forth a carved cuckoo clock with the well-known chalet roof and long pendulum and chains. It was an exquisite specimen of its kind, the best that could be obtained, but for the moment Claire had no attention to spare for the gift itself; she was absorbed in hunting among the paper and straw for a card which should settle the identity of the donor. Not a line was to be found. Pink deepened to crimson on Claire's cheeks. "Who in the world could have sent it? Who _could_ it be?" She played at bewilderment, but in spite of herself the dimples dipped. "Now how in the world has he found out my address?" asked Claire of herself. For the next week Claire experienced the sensation of being "alone in London." From the evening of Christmas Day until Cecil returned on January 2nd, not one friendly word did she hear; she walked abroad among a crowd of unknown faces, she returned to a solitary room. Miss Farnborough was spending the Christmas abroad; the other mistresses were either visiting or entertaining relations, the ladies of the committee were presumably making merry each in her own sphere. It was no one's business to look after the new member of the staff out of term time, and no one troubled to make it her business. The only friendly sound which reached Claire's ears during those days was the striking of the cuckoo clock, as a minute before every hour a sliding door flew open, and a little brown bird popped out and piped the due number of cuckoos in a clear, sweet note. Claire loved that little bird; the sight of him brought a warmth to her heart, which was as sunshine lighting up the grey winter days. Someone had remembered! Someone had cared! In the midst of a merry holiday, time and thought had been spared for her benefit. The presence of the cuckoo clock preserved Claire from personal suffering, but during that silent week there was borne in upon her a realisation of the loneliness of the great city which was never obliterated. A girl like herself, coming to London without introductions, might lead this desert life, not for a week alone, but for _years_! Her youth might fade, might pass away, she might grow middle-aged and old, and still pass to and fro through crowded street, unnoted, uncared for, unknown beyond the boundaries of the schoolroom or the office walls. A working-woman was as a rule too tired and too poor to join societies, or take part in social work which would lead to the making of friends; she was dependent on the thoughtfulness of her leisured sisters, and the leisured sisters were too apt to forget. They invited their own well-off friends, exhausted themselves in organising entertainments which were often regarded as bores pure and simple, and cast no thought to the lonely women sitting night after night in lodging-house parlours. "If I am ever rich--if I ever have a home, I'll remember!" Claire vowed to herself. "I'll take a little trouble, and _find out_! I couldn't do a hundredth or a thousandth part of what ought to be done, but I'd do my share!" Cecil announced her return for the evening of January 2nd, and remindful of the depressing influence of her own arrival, Claire exerted herself to make the room look as homelike as possible, and arranged a dainty little meal on a table spread with a clean cloth and decorated with a bowl of holly and Christmas roses. At the first sound of Cecil's voice she ran out into the hall, hugged her warmly, and relieved her of a bundle of packages of all sorts and sizes. "You look a real Mother Christmas hidden behind parcels. What are they all? Trophies? You _have_ come off well! It is lovely to see you back. If you'd stayed away the whole time I think I should have grown dumb. My tongue would have withered from sheer lack of use. I never realised before how much I love to talk. I do hope you feel sociable. I want to talk and talk for hours at a time, and to hear _you_ talk, too." "Even to grumble?" Claire grinned eloquently. "Oh, well--if you _must_, but it would be rather mean, wouldn't it, after a holiday, and when I've got everything so nice? I am driven to praise myself, because _you_ take no notice." "You have given me no time. You chatter so that no one else can get in a word." Cecil took off hat and gloves, and threw them down on the sofa. "I must say your looks don't pity you. You look as if you had been enjoying yourself all right. That kettle's boiling! I'm dying for a cup of tea! Let's have it at once, and talk comfortably." She seated herself by the table, and helped herself to a buttered scone. "What did you do on Christmas Day?" "The Willoughbys asked me. I went to church with them, and stayed until eleven." "Anything going on, or just the ordinary family frumps?" Claire laughed. "Nobody but relations and my fascinating self; but you needn't be so blighting. I enjoyed every moment, and they were angelically kind. Janet was like an old friend." "Did she give you a present?" "Yes, she did. Half a dozen pairs of gloves." "The wrong size, of course! They always are!" "No, my pessimist, they were not! She had diagnosed me as a six and a half, and six and a half I am, so all was peace and joy. I put on a new pair the next day when I went out for a constitutional. It was quite a tonic. Gloves are much cheaper abroad, and I never wore a shabby pair in my life until this winter. It's been one of the things I've hated most." "Six pairs will soon go," said Cecil; "I prefer to have things that last. Oh, by the way, you addressed a parcel. How did it come? Was it left at the door?" Instinctively Claire busied herself over the tea-tray. She had a feeling that Cecil would rather be unobserved; she was also afraid that her own expression might betray too much. "Oh no, he called. When I came in after morning church on Sunday, Lizzie said that a gentleman was waiting. It was Major Carew. He asked me if I would address the parcel and send it on." Silence. Claire bent over the tea-tray, but she knew without looking that Cecil's face had fallen into the cold set lines which she had seen times and again, when things had gone wrong; she knew that when she spoke again the coldness would be in her voice, but her own conscience was clear. She had done nothing to offend. "Really! That's curious. _Waiting_, you say? You didn't ask him in? What did he say?" "He said, `Miss Gifford, I presume. I have called to ask if you will be kind enough to address a small parcel for Miss Rhodes.' I said, `Wouldn't it be better if I gave you her address?' He said, `I should prefer if you wrote it yourself.' I said, `I will do so with pleasure. Good morning.' He said, `Good morning.' He then took up his hat and departed. He showed himself out, and shut the door after him. I went upstairs and took off my things." "He didn't stay long then?" "About three minutes, I should say, perhaps four; I can't tell you to a second, unfortunately. I didn't look at the clock." Cecil laughed, half apologetic, half relieved. "Oh, well, you needn't be sarcastic. Naturally I wanted to know. I couldn't make it out when I saw your writing, for you had given me the scarf--I'm going to buy your present at the sales, by the way--but, of course, when I took off the paper, there was a message inside. I was expecting that present." "I hope it was very nice?" "Oh, yes--yes! A brooch," Cecil said carelessly. Claire hoped it was not the insignificant little golden bar which she was wearing at the moment, but she had never seen it before, and Cecil's jewellery was of the most limited description. She determined to ask no more questions on the subject, since evidently none were desired. Cecil helped herself to a second scone, and asked suddenly-- "Why didn't he sit down?" "It wasn't necessary, was it? He gave his message, and then there was nothing to say. I wasn't going to make conversation." "You didn't like him!" cried Cecil, but she laughed as she spoke, and her face relaxed; it was evident that she was more pleased than disconcerted at her friend's lack of approval. "You're no good at hiding your feelings, Claire; your voice gives you away as well as your face. _Why_ didn't you like Major Carew? I suppose you don't deny that he is a handsome man?" "I don't think I care about handsome men," said Claire, seeing before her a clean-shaven face which could lay no claims to beauty, but in comparison with which the Major's coarse good looks were abhorrent in her eyes. "Prefer men plain, I suppose? Well, I don't; I shouldn't like Frank half so much, if he didn't look so big and imposing. And other people admire him, too. People stare at him as we pass. I suppose you have guessed that it is with him that I've been going out? There didn't seem any need to speak of it before, but during the rest of the holidays you might expect me to go about with you, and sometimes--often, I hope, I'll be engaged, so it's just as well to explain. We can do things together in the morning, but naturally--" "Yes, of course; I quite understand. Don't worry about me, Cecil. I'd love you to have a good time. Are you--are you engaged to him, dear?" There was in her voice that soft, almost awed note with which an unengaged girl regards a companion who has actually plighted her troth. Cecil softened at the sound. "Well--I suppose we are. Between ourselves. It's not public yet, but I think it soon will be. Half a dozen years ago I should have been sure, but I know better now. You can never be sure! Men are such brutes. They think of nothing but themselves, and their own amusement." "Some men!" "Most men! Of course, every girl who falls in love thinks her own particular man is the exception, and believes in him blindly until she gets her heart broken for her pains. I believed in a man, too, years ago, when I was not much older than you are now." She paused, as though waiting for comment, but Claire sat silent, listening with grave, tender eyes. Cecil sent her a flickering smile. "You are a nice child, Claire; you have some sense! I'll tell you, because you never pried or asked questions. You would never have got anything out of me that way, but sometimes I feel as if it would be a relief to talk. I was twenty-three, and very pretty; not as pretty as you are, perhaps, but very nearly, and he was twenty-eight, a lawyer-- brother of one of the girls. He came to one of the prize-givings, and we were introduced. After that he made his people invite me once or twice, and he found out where I was going in the summer holidays, and came down to the same inn. He stayed a fortnight." Cecil sighed, and stared dreamily at her cup. "Even now, Claire, after all that has happened, I can never quite make up my mind to be sorry that he came. It made things harder when the parting came, but I _had had it_. For two whole weeks I had been as perfectly, blissfully happy as a human creature can be! I had wakened every morning to feel that life was too good to be true, I had gone to bed every night grudging the time for sleep. A fortnight is not very long, but it's not every woman who gets even as much as that. I shall never feel that happiness again, but I'm glad that I know what it is like." "But, Cecil dear, if--if Major Carew--" Cecil shook her head. "No! Never again. One may be happy enough, but it's never the same. I can't feel now as I did then. The power has gone. I cared so much, you see; I would have given my life for him a dozen times over. I thought of him night and day for over a year; I lived for the times when we could meet. It wasn't very often, for his people had taken fright, and would not ask me to the house. They were rich people, and didn't want him to marry a poor girl who was working for herself. It's a great mistake, Claire, to be friends with a man when his relations ignore you. If I'd had any pride I would have realised that, but I hadn't, and I didn't care; I didn't care for anything but just to see him, and do what he wished. And then, my dear, after a year he began to change. He didn't write to me for weeks, and I had to go to school every day, and try to think of the work, and be patient with the girls, and seem bright and interested, as if I had nothing on my mind. It was near Christmas- time, and we were rehearsing a play. I used to feel as if I should go mad, staying behind after four o'clock to go over those wretched scenes, when I was panting to run home to see if a letter had come! But each time that we met again I forgot everything; I was so happy that I had no time to grumble. That surprises you, doesn't it? You can hardly believe that of me, but I was different then. I was quite nice. You would have liked me, if you had known me then!" "Dear old Cecil! I like you now. You know I do!" "Oh, you put up with me! We get along well enough, but we are not _friends_. If we had not been thrown together, you would never have singled me out. Don't apologise, my dear; there's no need. I'm a grumbling old thing, and you've been very patient. Well, that's how it happened. I went out to meet him one night, and he told me quite calmly that he was going to be married. She was the sweetest girl in the world, and he was the happiest of men. Wanted me to know, because we had been such _good_ friends, and he was sure I should be pleased!" Claire drew her breath with a sharp, sibilant sound. "And _you_? Oh, Cecil! What did you say?" Mary Rhodes compressed her lips; the set look was in her face. "I said what I thought! Quite plainly, and simply, and very much to the point. I suppose it would have been dignified to congratulate him, and pretend to be delighted; but I couldn't do it. He had broken my heart for his own amusement, and he knew it as well as I did, so why should I pretend? Something inside me seemed to go snap at that moment, and I've been sour and bitter ever since; but I've learnt _one_ lesson, and that is, that it is folly to go on waiting for perfection in this world. Much better take what comes along, and make the best of it!" Claire was silent, applauding the sentiment in the abstract, but shrinking from its application to the swarthy Major Carew. She stretched her hand across the table, and laid it caressingly on Cecil's arm. "_Pauvre_! Dear old girl! It's no use saying he wasn't worth having-- that's no comfort. When you have loved a man, it must be the worst blow of all to be obliged to despise him; but men are not all like that, Cecil; you mustn't condemn them all because of one bad specimen. I've a great admiration for men. As a whole they are _bigger_ than women--I mean mentally bigger--freer from mean little faults. As a rule they have a stricter sense of honour. That's an old-fashioned attitude, I suppose, but I don't care; it's been my experience, and I can only speak what I know. The average man _is_ honourable, _is_ faithful!" "Ah, you are speaking of your experience as a leisured girl--a girl living at home with her mother behind her. It's a different story when you are on your own. A man finds it pleasant enough to be friends with a bachelor girl, to take her about, give her little presents, and play the fairy prince generally. The dear little soul is so grateful"-- Cecil's voice took a bitter note--"so appreciative of his condescension! He can enjoy her society without being bothered with chaperons and conventions. It is really an uncommonly jolly way of passing the time. But, when it comes to _marrying_, does he want to _marry_ the bachelor girl?" Claire pushed her chair from the table, her face looked suddenly white and tired, there was a suspicious quiver in her voice. "Oh, Cecil, don't, don't! You are poisoning me again. Leave me _some_ faith! If I can't believe in my fellow-creatures, I'd rather die at once, and be done with it. It stifles me to breathe the atmosphere of distrust and suspicion. And it isn't true. There _are_ good men, who would be all the more chivalrous because a girl was alone. I know it! I'm sure of it! I refuse to believe that every man is a blackguard because you have had an unfortunate experience." Mary Rhodes stared, abashed. Since the night when Claire had implored her not to poison her mind, she had never seen her merry, easy-going companion so aroused; but for the moment regret was swamped in curiosity. Ostensibly Claire was arguing in the plural, but in reality she was defending a definite man; Cecil was sure of it; saw her suspicion confirmed in the paling cheeks and distended eyes; heard it confirmed in the shaking voice. But who could the man be? Claire was the most candid, the most open of colleagues; she loved to talk and describe any experiences which came her way; every time she returned from an afternoon in town she had a dozen amusing incidents to recount, which in themselves constituted a guide to her doings. Cecil felt satisfied that Claire had had no masculine escort on any of these occasions, and with the one exception of Mrs Willoughby's "At Home" she had paid no social visits. Yet there did exist a man on whose honour she was prepared to pin her faith; of that Cecil was convinced. Probably it was someone in Brussels whom she was still hoping to meet again! "Well, don't get excited," she said coolly. "If you choose to look upon life as a fairy tale, it's not my business to wake you up. The Sleeping Beauty position is very soothing while it lasts. Don't say I didn't warn you, that's all! I don't call it exactly `poisonous' to try to prevent another girl from suffering as badly as one has suffered oneself." "Perhaps not--certainly not, but it was the way you did it. Sorry, Cecil, if I was cross! I hope _this_ time, dear, all will go well, and that you'll be very, very happy. Do tell me anything you can. I won't ask questions, but I'd love to hear." Cecil's laugh had rather a hard intonation. "Oh, well! once bitten, twice shy. I'm older this time, and it's a different thing. Perhaps I shall be all the happier because I don't expect too much. He's very devoted, and he'll be rich some day, but his father gives him no allowance, which makes things tight just now. He is an erratic old man, almost a miser, but there are pots of money in the family. Frank showed me the name in _Landed Gentry_; there's quite a paragraph about them, and I've seen a picture of the house, too. A beautiful place; and he's the eldest son. It's in Surrey--quite near town." "He hasn't taken you down to see it?" "Not yet. No. It's a private engagement. His father doesn't know. He is waiting for a chance to tell him." "Wouldn't the father be glad for his heir to marry?" "He wouldn't be glad for him to marry _me_! But the estate is entailed, so Frank can do as he likes. But the old man is ill, always having asthma and heart attacks, so it wouldn't do to upset him, and of course till he knows, Frank can't tell any other members of the family." Claire, standing by the fireplace, gave a vague assent, and was glad that her face was hidden from view. For Cecil's sake she intensely wanted to believe in Major Carew and his account of his own position, but instinctively she doubted, instinctively she feared. She remembered the look of the man's face as he had stood facing her across the little room, and her distrust deepened. He did not look straight; he did not look true. Probably the old father had a good reason for keeping him short of money. If he were really in love with Cecil, and determined to marry her, that was so much to his credit; but Claire hated the idea of that secrecy, marvelled that Cecil could submit a second time to so humiliating a position. Poor Cecil! how _awful_ it would be if she were again deceived! A protective impulse stirred in Claire's heart. "She shan't be, if I can help it!" cried the inner voice. At that moment she vowed herself to the service of Mary Rhodes. "A big country house in Surrey! That's the ideal residence of the heroine of fiction. It does sound romantic, Cecil! I should love to think of you as the mistress of a house like that. Come and sit by the fire, and let us talk. It's so exciting to talk of love affairs instead of exercises and exams... Let's pretend we are just two happy, ordinary girls, with no form-rooms looming ahead, and that one of us is just engaged, and telling the other `all about it.' Now begin! Begin at the beginning. How did you meet him first?" But there a difficulty arose, for Cecil grew suddenly red, and stumbled over her words. "Oh--well--I-- We _met_! It was an accident--quite an accident--rather a romantic accident. I was coming home one Sunday evening a year ago. I had been to church in my best clothes, and when I was halfway here the skies opened, and the rain _descended_. Such rain! A deluge! Dancing up from the pavement, streaming along the gutters. I hadn't an umbrella, of course--just my luck!--and I'd had my hat done up that very week. I tore it off, and wrapped it in the tails of my coat, and just as that critical moment Frank passed, saw me doing it, and stopped. Then he asked if I would allow him to shelter me home beneath his umbrella. Well! I'm _not_ the girl to allow men to speak to me in the street, but at that moment, in that deluge, when he'd just seen me take off my hat, _could_ a gentleman do less than offer to shelter me? Would it have been sane to refuse?" "No; I don't think it would. I should certainly have said yes, too. That's the sort of thing that would have been called chivalry in olden times. It's chivalry _now_. He was quite right to offer. It would have been horrible if he had passed by and left you to be drenched." Cecil brightened with relief. "That's what _I_ thought! So I said `Yes'; and, of course, while we walked we talked, and the wind blew my hair into loose ends, and the damp made them curl, and the excitement gave me a colour; and it was so nice to talk to a man again, Claire, after everlasting women! I _did_ look pretty when I saw myself in the glass when I came in, almost as I used to look years before. And he looked handsome, too, big and strong, and so delightfully like a man, and unlike a member of staff! We liked each other very much, and when we got to this door--" Silence. Mary Rhodes waited wistfully for a helping word. Claire stared into the fire, her brows knitted in suspense. "Well, naturally, we were sorry to part! He asked if I usually went to Saint C--- for the evening service. I didn't, but I said `Yes.' I knew he meant to meet me again, and I _wanted_ to be met." Claire sent her thoughts back and recalled a certain Sunday evening when she had offered to accompany Cecil to church, and had been bluntly informed that her company was not desired. She had taken the hint, and had not offered it again. She was silent, waiting for the revelations which were still to come. "So after that it became a regular thing. He met me outside the church door, and saw me home. He often asked me to go out with him during the week, but I always refused, until suddenly this term I was so tired, so hungry for a change that I gave in, and promised that I would. I suppose that shocks you into fits!" "It does rather. You see," explained Claire laboriously, "I've been brought up on the Continent, where such a thing would be impossible. It would be an insult to suggest it. Even here in England it doesn't seem right. Do you think a really nice man who was attracted by a girl wouldn't find some other way--get an introduction _somehow_?" "How? It's easy to talk, but _how_ is he to do it? We live in different worlds. I am a High School teacher, living in rooms in London, without a relation or a house open to me where I am intimate enough to take a friend. He is an officer in a crack regiment, visiting at fashionable houses. Can't you imagine how his hostesses would stare if he asked them to call upon me here, in this poky room! And if he loves me, if I interest him more than the butterflies of Society, if he wants to know me better, what is he to do? Tell me that, my dear, before you blame me for taking a little bit of fun when I get the chance!" But Claire had no suggestion to make. She herself had been strong enough to refuse a friendship on similar lines, but she had been living a working life for a bare four months, while Cecil had been teaching for twelve years. Twelve years of a second-hand life, living in other women's houses, teaching other women's children, obeying other women's rules; with the one keen personal experience of a slighted love! The tale of close on four thousand nights represented a dreary parlour and a pile of exercise books. For twelve long years this woman had worked away, losing her youth, losing her bloom, cut off from all that nature intended her to enjoy; and then at the end behold a change in the monotony, the sudden appearance of a man who sought her, admired her, craved her society as a boon! The tears came to Claire's eyes as she put herself in such a woman's place, and realised all that this happening would mean. Renewal of youth, renewal of hope, renewal of interest and zest... "I don't know! I don't know!" she said brokenly. "It's all wrong, somehow. You ought not to be forced into such a position, but I don't blame you, Cecil. It's the _other_ women who deserve the blame, the women who are better off, and could have opened their houses. You have been so drearily dull all these long years that you would have been more than human to refuse. But now, dear, now that you are engaged, surely he has some friends to whom he could introduce you?" Mary Rhodes shook her head. "Not till his people know. It might come round to their ears, and that would make things more difficult still; but I am hoping it won't be long. Now, Claire, I've told _you_, because you are such a kind understanding little soul, and it's a comfort to talk things out; but I'll kill you if you dare to breathe a word to another soul--Sophie Blake, or Mrs Willoughby, or even your mother when you write to her. You can never tell how these things are repeated, and Frank would never forgive me if it came out through me. Promise faithfully that you'll never mention his name in connection with me." "Of course I will. What do you take me for? I shouldn't dream of doing such a thing!" "Of course, at the Willoughbys', for instance, if anyone _did_ mention his name--they might, quite well, for I should think they were in much the same set--there would be no harm in saying that you'd heard of him. I should rather like to hear what they said." Cecil's face looked wistful as she spoke these last words, but the next moment her expression changed to one of pure amazement as the whirr of the cuckoo clock made itself heard, and the little brown bird hopped out of its niche, and sounded five clear notes. "Gracious, what's that? Where did that come from?" "It was a Christmas present to me from abroad." Claire added the last words in the fond hope that they would save further criticism, and Cecil rose from her seat, and stood in front of the hanging clock examining it with critical eyes. "It's a good one. Most of them are so gimcrack. From abroad? One of your Belgian friends, I suppose? Does it make that awful row every hour? I can't stand it here, you know, if it does." "Don't trouble yourself. I'll take it upstairs. I _like_ the `awful row.' I put it here because I thought it would be a pleasure to you as well as to myself. I'm sorry." "What a tantrum! Evidently the clock is a tender point. Better leave it here and stop the gong. It will keep you awake all night." "I won't stop the gong! I--I like to be waked!" declared Claire obstinately. She lifted the clock from its nail, and stalked out of the room, head in air. Cecil whistled softly between pursed lips. CHAPTER TWELVE. AN UNPLEASANT TEA-PARTY. In the inevitable fatigue which had marked Claire's first experience of regular work, she had looked forward with joy to the coming of the holidays when she would be able to take her ease, and for a month on end laze through the hours at her own sweet will. A teacher scores above other workers in the length of holidays she enjoys. Several months in the year contrasts strongly with the fortnight or three weeks enjoyed by a female clerk or typist; in no other profession is so large a proportion of the year given to rest. Claire had condemned the staff at Saint Cuthbert's for want of appreciation of this privilege; but, before the four weeks of the Christmas holidays were over, her eyes were opened to the other side of the picture. Holidays were horribly expensive! Living "at home" meant an added bill for fire and light to add to the necessary expenses abroad; that the last items were necessary could hardly be denied, for a girl who had been shut up in a schoolroom through three months of term, naturally wished to amuse herself abroad during holiday time, and in London even the most carefully planned amusement has a habit of costing money. Even that mild dissipation of shop-gazing, enjoyed by Sophie Blake, plus the additional excitement of choosing an imaginary present from every window, could only be enjoyed at the price of two Tube or omnibus fares. Boots wore out, too, and gloves grew shabby, and the January sales furnished a very fire of temptation. Claire had never before seen such bargains as confronted her down the length of Oxford and Regent Streets, and, though she might be firm as adamant on Monday or Tuesday, Wednesday was bound to bring about a weak moment which carried her over the threshold of a shop, and once inside, with sensational sacrifices dangling within reach, resistance melted like wax. "Where do you suppose you are going to wear that concoction?" Mary Rhodes asked blightingly as Claire opened a cardboard box which had arrived by the morning delivery, and displayed a blue muslin dress inset with lace. "Lords, I suppose, or Ascot, or Ranelagh, or Hurlingham, or Henley... They come on in June and July, just as poor High School- mistresses are in the thick of cramming for the Matric. But _no_ doubt you are the exception to the rule! ... You must think you are, at least, to have bought a frock like that!" "Cecil, it was wickedly cheap--it was, indeed! It was one of a few summer dresses which were positively given away, and it's made in the simple, picturesque style which I love, and which does not go out of date. I hadn't the least intention of buying anything, until I saw it hanging there, at that price, and it looked at me so longingly, as if it _wanted_ to come!" "It's well to be rich! It might have longed at me as much as it liked, I couldn't have bought it, if it had been two-and-six! I need all my money for necessities," Mary Rhodes said, sighing; and Claire felt a pang of reproach, for, since her return, Cecil had indeed seemed painfully short of loose cash. The debt still outstanding had been increased by various small borrowings, insignificant in themselves, yet important as showing how the wind blew. Claire wondered if perchance the poor soul had crippled herself by presenting her lover with a Christmas gift which was beyond her means. The third week of the holidays arrived; in another week school would begin. Claire succumbed to temptation once more, purchased two good tickets for an afternoon concert at the Queen's Hall, and invited Cecil to be her guest. Cecil hesitated, evidently torn between two attractions, asked permission to defer her answer until the next day, but finally decided to accept. From remarks dropped from time to time Claire had gathered that Major Carew was not fond of indoor entertainments, and somewhat disappointed his _fiancee_ by his unwillingness to indulge her wishes in that respect. In this instance she had evidently balanced the concert against an afternoon in the Major's society, and the concert had won. Claire found herself cordially in agreement. When the afternoon arrived the two girls arrayed themselves in their best clothes, and set off in high spirits for their afternoon's amusement. Their seats were in a good position, and the concert was one of the best of the season. All went as happily as it could possibly go, until the last strains of "God save the King" had been played, and the audience filed out of the hall on to the crowded pavement, and then, with a throb of disgust, Claire recognised the figure of a man who was standing directly beneath a lamp-post, his black eyes curiously scanning the passing stream--Major Carew! He had evidently been told of the girls' destination, and had come with the express purpose of meeting them coming out. For the moment, however, they were unrecognised, and Claire gave a quick swerve to the right, hurrying out of the patch of light into the dimness beyond. The street was so full that, given a minute's start, it would surely be easy to escape. She slid her hand through Cecil's arm, drawing her forward. "Come along! Come along! Let's hurry to Fuller's before all the tables are taken!" "Fuller's? Tea? How scrumptious! Just what I longed for. Listening to classical music _is_ thirsty work!" Cecil replied, laughing. She was so lively, so natural and unconcerted that Claire absolved her on the moment from any arrangement as to a _rendez-vous_. In her anxiety to secure the longed-for cup of tea she broke into a half-run, but it was too late; the sharp black eyes had spied them out, the tall figure loomed by their side, the large face, with its florid colouring, smiled a broad smile of welcome. "Hulloa, Mary! Thought it was you. I was just passing along. Good afternoon, Miss Gifford. It _is_ Miss Gifford, isn't it? Had a good concert, I hope--a pleasant afternoon?" "Very good, thank you," said Claire shortly. Mary cried, "Oh, Frank! _You_! How did you come? I didn't expect--" And the tone of her voice showed that the surprise was hardly more agreeable to her than to her companion. However welcome her lover might be on other occasions, it was obvious that she had not wished to see him at this particular moment. "Well, well, we must move on; we mustn't block up the pavement," the Major said hastily. He took his place by the kerb, which placed him next to Claire, and bent over with an assiduous air. "You must let me escort you! Where were you bound for next?" Claire hesitated. She wished with all her heart that she had not mentioned Fuller's, so that she could reply that they were bound for the Tube. Oxford Circus was only a step away; in five minutes they could have been seated in the train; but Cecil had declared that she was longing for tea, so it would be ungracious to withdraw the invitation. "We were going to Fuller's." "Right!" The Major's tone was complacent. "Good idea! How shall we go? Taxi? Tube? Which do you prefer?" Claire stared at him in surprise. "But it's here! Quite close. We're nearly there." He looked disconcerted, unnecessarily disconcerted, Claire thought; for it was surely no disgrace for a man to be ignorant of the locality of a confectioner's shop! From the other side came Cecil's voice, cool and constrained-- "If you were going anywhere, Frank, you needn't stay with us. We can look after each other. We are accustomed to going about alone." "Please allow me the pleasure. There's plenty of time. I should enjoy some tea immensely. Always take it when I get the chance!" The block on the pavement made consecutive conversation impossible, and the three edged their way in and out in silence until Fuller's was reached, and one of the last tables secured. The room looked very bright and dainty, the Christmas garlands still festooning the walls and framing the mirrors, the hanging lights covered by rose-coloured shades. The soft pink light was very kind to the complexions of the visitors, nevertheless Claire felt a guilty pang as she looked into the nearest mirror and beheld the reflection of herself and her friend as they sat side by side. As a rule, it was pure pleasure to realise her own fair looks; but for the moment they were of no importance, whereas poor dear Cecil had a lover to please, and there was no denying Cecil was not looking her best! Her expression was frowning and dissatisfied. She had taken off her veil in the hall and her hair was disarranged; compared with the fashionable groups round the other tables, she looked suddenly shabby and insignificant, her little attempts at decoration pitifully betraying the amateur hand. "Oh, dear me, why _won't_ she smile? She looks quite pretty when she smiles. I'll hold her before a mirror some day and show her the difference it makes. Ten years disappear in a flash! Now what in the world had I better be--agreeable and chatty, or cold and stand-off? I'll do anything to please her, but it _is_ hard lines having our afternoon spoiled, and being sulked at into the bargain. Cakes, please--lots of sweet, sugary cakes! Won't that do, Cecil? We can have bread-and-butter at home!" "Cecil! Cecil! Her name is Mary. Why do you call her Cecil?" cried the Major quickly, looking from one girl to another. Claire fancied there was a touch of suspicion in his voice, and wondered that he should show so much interest in a mere nickname. "Because she is `Rhodes,' of course." For a moment his stare showed no understanding, then, "Oh! that fellow!" he said slowly. "I see! It's a pretty name anyway. Beats Mary to fits. Mary is so dull and prosaic. Too many of them about. One gets sick of the sound." "Is that intended for me by any chance?" asked Cecil in her most acid tones, whereupon the Major cried, "Oh! Put my foot in it that time, didn't I?" and burst into a long guffaw of laughter, which brought on him the eyes of the surrounders. Claire's interest had already been aroused by a little party of two men and two women who were sitting at a table in the corner of the room, and who were, to her thinking, by far the most attractive personalities present. The men were tall, well set up, not especially handsome in any way, but possessing an unmistakable look of breeding. One of the women was old, the other young, and it would have been hard to say which was the more attractive of the two. They were quietly but very elegantly dressed, handsome furs being thrown back, to show pretty bodices of ninon and lace. When Major Carew gave that loud unrestrained laugh, the four members of this attractive party turned to see whence the sound arose; but whereas three faces remained blankly indifferent, the fourth was in the moment transformed into an expression of the liveliest surprise. He stared, narrowing his eyes as if doubting that they were really seeing aright, twisted his head to get a fuller view, and, obtaining it, twisted back into his original position, his lips twitching with laughter. Then he spoke a few words, his companions leant forward to listen, and to two faces out of the three, the laughter spread on hearing what he had to say. Only the elder of the two ladies retained her gravity. Her sweet glance rested on Claire's face, and her brow contracted in distress. In the Major and Cecil she showed no interest, but Claire's appearance evidently aroused curiosity and pity. "What is _she_ doing in that _galere_?" The question was written on every line of the sweet high- bred face, and Claire read its significance and flinched with distaste. "How they stare!" cried Mary Rhodes. "The man looked as if he knew you, Frank. Do you know who he is?" "He's a member of the Club. His name is Vavasour. We know each other by sight." Major Carew's florid colour had grown a shade deeper, he was evidently disconcerted by the encounter; but he made a strong effort to regain his composure, smiled at the two girls in turn, and cried lightly, "Envies me, I suppose, seeing me with two such charmers!" "He didn't look exactly envious!" Cecil said drily. She also had noticed that reflection in the mirror, and it had not helped to soothe her spirits. She felt an unreasoning anger against Claire for appearing more attractive than herself, but it did not occur to her that she was heightening the contrast by her own dour, ungracious manner. Altogether that tea-party was a difficult occasion, and as it proceeded, Claire's spirits sank ever lower and lower. She had spent more than she had any right to afford on those two expensive tickets, hoping thereby to give pleasure, and now Cecil was in a bad temper, and would snap for days to come.--It was not a cheerful outlook, and for the second time a feeling of restiveness overtook her, a longing for a companion who would help the gaiety of life--such a companion as pretty, lively, happy-go-lucky Sophie Blake, for example. How refreshing it would be to live with Sophie! Just for a moment Claire dwelt wistfully on the possibility, then banished it with a loyal "She doesn't need me, and Cecil does. She's fond of me in her funny way. She must be, for she has confided in me already, more than in any of the others whom she's known for years, and perhaps I may be able to help..." The Major passed his cup for a second supply; a waitress brought a plate of hot cakes; the occupants of the corner table stood up, fastening furs and coats, and passed out of the door. With their going Major Carew regained his vivacity, chaffed the girls on their silence, recounted the latest funny stories, and to Claire's relief addressed himself primarily to his _fiancee_, thus putting her in the place of honour. Nevertheless Claire was conscious that from time to time keen glances were cast in her own direction. She had a feeling that no detail of her attire escaped scrutiny, that the black eyes noted one and all, wondered, and speculated, and appraised. She saw them dwell on the handsome fur stole and muff which Mrs Judge bequeathed to her daughter on sailing for India, on the old diamond ring and brooch which had been handed over to her on her twenty-first birthday; she had an instinctive feeling that she rose in the man's estimation because of her air of prosperity. He made tentative efforts to arrange a further meeting. "Where do _you_ go on Sundays, Miss Gifford? I say, we must arrange another tea like this. Lots of good tea places in town. We must sample them together. What do you say, Miss Gifford?" Claire's answers were politely evasive, and presently he began to grow restless, and finally pulled out his watch, and jumped to his feet. "How time flies! I had no idea it was so late. I must run. So sorry to leave you like this." Mary Rhodes stared in surprise. "Leave! Frank! But you said--I thought we were going--" "Yes, I know, I know. I'm sorry, I thought I was free--but--a regimental engagement! Can't get out of it. I'll fix up another night. I'll write." There was no doubt that he was genuinely disconcerted at the lateness of the hour, and his leave-taking was of the most hasty description, though he found time to give a lingering pressure to Claire's hand; then he was gone, and the waitress came across the room and presented the bill. Cecil flushed uncomfortably. "I must pay this. Frank has forgotten. He rushed off in such a hurry." She pulled out her shabby purse, and Claire made no protest. In a similar position she herself would have wished to pay, but it was inconceivable that she should ever be in such a position. However hurried a man might be-- She rubbed her hand on her knee with a little shudder of distaste. "Wretch! He would make love to me, too, if I would allow it! How can Cecil possibly care for such a man?" And then she forgot Cecil's feelings to ponder on a more perplexing problem. Why had the man called Vavasour looked so amused, and why had the sweet- faced woman looked so distressed? CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A DOUBLE INVITATION. Janet Willoughby sent Claire a picture postcard, all white snow and strong shadow, and dazzling blue sky, and little black figures pirouetting on one leg with the other raised perilously in the rear. "This is me!" was written across the most agile of the number, while a scrawling line across the top ran, "Happy New Year! Returning on Tuesday. Hope to see you soon." Tuesday was the day on which school re-opened; but Janet's holiday was year long, not a short four weeks. Cecil moaned loudly, but Claire was tired of aimless days, and welcomed the return to work. She determined to throw her whole heart into her task, and work as no junior French mistress had ever worked before; she determined never to lose patience, never to grow cross, never to indulge in a sarcastic word, always to be a model of tact and forbearance. She determined to wield such an ennobling influence over the girls in her form-room that they should take fire from her example, and go forth into the world perfect, high-souled women who should leaven the race. She determined also to be the life and soul of the staff-room--the general peace-maker, confidante, and consoler, beloved by one and all. She determined to seize tactfully upon every occasion of serving the Head, and acting as a buffer between her and disagreeables of every kind. She arranged a touching scene wherein Miss Farnborough, retiring from work and being asked by the Committee to name a worthy successor, pronounced unhesitatingly, "Claire Gifford; she is but young, but her wisdom and diplomacy are beyond all praise." She saw herself Head of Saint Cuthbert's, raised to the highest step of her scholastic ladder, but somehow the climax was not so exhilarating as the climb itself. To be head mistress was, no doubt, a fine achievement, but it left her cold. Inside Saint Cuthbert's all was life and bustle. Girls streaming along the corridors, in and out of every room; girls of all ages and sizes and shapes, but all to-day bearing an appearance of happiness and animation. Bright-coloured blouses shone forth in their first splendour; hair- ribbons stood out stiff and straight; many of the girls carried bunches of flowers to present to the special mistress for whom they cherished the fashionable "G.P." (grand passion) so characteristic of school life. Flora had a bunch of early daffodils for Claire. Another girl presented a pot of Roman hyacinths for the decoration of the form-room, a third a tiny bottle of scent; three separate donors supplied buttonholes of violets. The atmosphere was full of kindness and affection. Girls encountering each other would fall into each other's arms with exclamations of ecstatic affection. "Oh, you precious lamb!" "My angel child!" "You dear, old, darling duck!" Claire heard a squat, ugly girl with spectacles and a turned-up nose addressed as "a princely pet" by an ardent adorer of fourteen. The mistresses came in for their own share of adulation--"Darling Miss Gifford, I _do_ adore you!" "Miss Gifford, darling, you are prettier than ever!" "Oh, Miss _Gifford_, I was _dying_ to see you!" The morning flew past, and lunch-time brought the gathering of mistresses in staff-room. Mademoiselle's greetings were politely detached, Fraulein was kindly and discursive, Sophie's smile was as bright as ever, but she did not look well. "Oh, I'm all right! It's nothing. Only this horrid old pain!" she said cheerfully. Into her glass of water she dropped three tabloids of aspirin. Every one had been away for a longer or shorter time, visiting relatives and friends; they compared experiences; some had enjoyed themselves, some had not; but they all agreed that they were refreshed by the change. "And where have _you_ been?" asked the drawing mistress of Claire, and exclaimed in surprise at hearing that she had remained in town. "Dear me, I wish I had known! I've been back a fortnight. We might have done something together. Weren't you _dull_?" asked the drawing mistress, staring with curious eyes. "Very!" answered poor Claire, and for a moment struggled with a horrible inclination to cry. After lunch Miss Bates took her cup of coffee to Claire's side, and made an obvious attempt to be pleasant. "I feel quite remorseful to think of your holidays. It's astonishing how little we mistresses know of each other out of school hours. The first school I was in--a much smaller one by the sea,--we were so friendly and jolly, just like sisters, but in the big towns every one seems detached. It's hard on the new-comers. I don't know _what_ I should have done if I hadn't a brother's house to go to on Sundays and holiday afternoons. Except through him, I haven't made a single friend. At the other place people used to ask us out, and we had quite a good time; but in town people are engrossed in their own affairs. They haven't time to go outside." "I wonder you ever left that school! What made you want to change?" "Oh, well! London was a lure. Most people want to come to London, and I had my brother. Do tell me, another time, if you are not going away. It worries me to think of you being alone. How did you come to get this post, if you have no connections in town?" "Miss Farnborough came to stay in Brussels, in the _pension_ which my mother and I had made headquarters for some time. She offered me the post." Miss Bates stared with distended eyes. "How long had she known you?" "About a fortnight, I think. I don't remember exactly." "And you had never seen her before? She knew nothing about you?" "She had never seen me before, but she _did_ know something about me. Professionally speaking, she knew all there was to know." "That accounts for it," said Miss Bates enigmatically. "I wondered-- You are not a bit the usual type." "I hope that doesn't mean that I can't teach?" Miss Bates laughed, and shrugged her thin shoulders. "Oh, no. I should say, personally, that you teach very well. That play was extraordinarily good. It absolutely sounded like French. Can't think how you knocked the accent into them! English girls are so self- conscious; they are ashamed of letting themselves go. Mademoiselle thinks that your classes are too like play; but it doesn't matter what she thinks, so long as--" she paused a moment, lowered her voice, and added impressively, "Keep on the right side of Miss Farnborough. You are all right so long as you are in her good books. Better be careful." "What do you mean?" Claire stared, puzzled and discomposed, decidedly on the offensive; but Miss Bates refused a definite answer. "Nothing!" she said tersely. "Only--people who take sudden fancies, can take sudden dislikes, too. Ask no more questions, but don't say I didn't warn you, that's all!" She lifted her coffee-cup, and strolled away, leaving Claire to reflect impatiently, "_More_ poison! It's too bad. They won't _let_ one be happy!" Before the end of the week school work settled into its old routine, and the days passed by with little to mark their progress. The English climate was at its worst, and three times out of four the journey to school was accomplished in rain or sleet. The motor-'buses were crammed with passengers, and manifested an unpleasant tendency to skid; pale- faced strap-holders crowded the carriages of the Tube; for days together the sky remained a leaden grey. It takes a Mark Tapley himself to keep smiling under such conditions. As Claire recalled the days when she and her mother had sat luxuriously under the trees in the gardens of Riviera hotels, listening to exhilarating bands, and admiring the outline of the Esterels against the cloudless blue of the sky, the drab London streets assumed a dreariness which was almost insupportable. Also, though she would not acknowledge it to herself, she was achingly disappointed, because something which she had sub-consciously been expecting did not come to pass. She had expected something to happen, but nothing happened; all through February the weeks dragged on, unrelieved by any episode except the weekly mail from India. The little brown bird still industriously piped the hour; but his appearance no longer brought the same warm thrill of happiness. And then one morning came a note from Janet Willoughby. "Dear Miss Gifford,-- "I should really like to call you `Claire,' but I must wait to be asked! I have been meaning to write ever since we returned from Saint Moritz; but you know how it is in town, such a continual rush, that one can never get through half the things that ought to be done! We should all like to see you again. Mother has another `At Home' on Thursday evening next, and would be glad to see you then, if you cared to come; but what _I_ should like is to have you to myself! On Saturday next I could call for you, as I did at Christmas, and keep you for the whole day. Then we could talk as we couldn't do at the `At Homes,' which are really rather dull, duty occasions. "Let me know which of these propositions suits you best. Looking forward to seeing you,-- "Your friend, (if you will have me!) "Janet Willoughby." Claire had opened the letter, aglow with expectation; she laid it down feeling dazed and blank. For the moment only one fact stood out to the exclusion of every other, and that was that Janet did not wish her to be present at the "At Home." Mrs Willoughby had sent the invitation, but Janet had supplemented it by another, which could not be refused. "I would rather have you to myself." How was it possible to refuse an invitation couched in such terms? How could one answer with any show of civility, "I should prefer to come with the crowd?" Claire carried the letter up to her cold bedroom, and sat down to do a little honest thinking. "It's very difficult to understand what one really wants! We deceive ourselves as much as we do other people... Why am I so hideously depressed? I liked going to the `At Home,' I liked dressing up, and driving through the streets, and seeing the flowers and the dresses, and having the good supper; but, if that were all, I believe I'd prefer the whole day with Janet. I suppose, really, it's Captain Fanshawe that's at the bottom of it. I want to meet him, I thought I should meet him, and now it's over. I shan't be asked again when there's a chance of his coming. Janet doesn't want me. She's not jealous, of course--that's absurd--but she wants to keep him to herself, and she imagines somehow that I should interfere--" Imagination pictured Janet staring with puzzled, uneasy eyes across the tables in the dining-room, of Janet drearily examining the piled-up presents in the boudoir, and then, like a flash of light, showed the picture of another face, now eager, animated, admiring, again grave and wistful. "Is your address still the Grand Hotel?--_My_ address is still the Carlton Club." "Ah, well, well!" acknowledged Claire to her heart, "we _did_ like each other. We did love being together, and he remembered me; he sent me the clock when he was away. But it's all over now. That was our last chance, and it's gone. He'll go to the At Home, and Mrs Willoughby will tell him I was asked, but preferred to come when they were alone, and he'll think it was because I wanted to avoid him, and--and, oh, goodness, goodness, goodness! how _miserable_ I shall feel sitting here all Thursday evening, imagining all that is going on! Oh, mother, mother, your poor little girl is _so_ lonesome! Why did you go so far away?" Claire put her head down on the dressing-table, and shed a few tears, a weakness bitterly regretted, for like all weaknesses the consequences wrought fresh trouble. Now her eyelids were red, and she was obliged to hang shivering out of the window, until they had regained their natural colour, before she could face Cecil's sharp eyes. Janet arrived soon after eleven o'clock on Saturday morning, and was shown into the saffron parlour where Claire sat over her week's mending. She wore a spring suit purchased in Paris, and a hat which was probably smart, but very certainly was unbecoming, slanting as it did at a violent angle over her plump, good-humoured face, and almost entirely blinding one eye. She caught sight of her own reflection in the overmantel and exclaimed, "What a fright I look!" as she seated herself by the table, and threw off her furs. "Don't hurry, please. Let me stay and watch. What are you doing? Mending a blouse? How clever of you to be able to use your fingers as well as your brains! I never sew, except stupid fancy-work for bazaars. So this is your room! You told me about the walls. Can you imagine any one in cold blood choosing such a paper? But it looks cosy all the same. I _do_ like little rooms with everything carefully in reach. They are ever so much nicer than big ones, aren't they?" "No." Janet pealed with laughter. "That's right, snub me! I deserve to be snubbed. Of course, I meant when you have big ones as well! Who is the pretty girl in the carved frame? Your mother! Do you mean it, really? What a ridiculous mamma! I'm afraid, Claire, I'm afraid she is even prettier than you!" "Oh, she is; I know it. But I have more charm," returned Claire demurely, whereat they laughed again--a peal of happy girlish laughter, which reached Lizzie's ears as she polished the oilcloth in the hall, and roused an envious sigh. "It's well to be some folks!" thought poor Lizzie. "Motor-cars, and fine dresses, and nothing to do of a Saturday morning but sit still and laugh. I could laugh myself if I was in her shoes!" Claire folded away her blouse, and took up a bundle of gloves. "These are your gloves. They have been such a comfort to me. There's a button missing somewhere. Tell me all about your holiday! Did you have a good time? Was it as nice as you expected?" "Yes. No. It _was_ a good time, but--do you think anything ever _quite_ comes up to one's expectation? I had looked forward to that month for the whole year, and had built so many fairy castles. You have stayed in Switzerland? You know how the scene changes when the sun sinks, how those beautiful alluring rose-coloured peaks become in a minute awesome and gloomy. Well, it was rather like that with me. I don't mean that it was gloomy; that's exaggerating, but it was prose, and I had pictured it poetry. Heigho! It's a weary world." Claire's glance was not entirely sympathetic. "There are different kinds of prose. You will forgive my saying that your especial sort is an _Edition de luxe_." "I know! I know! You can't be harder on me than I am on myself. My dear, I have a most sensible head. I'm about as practical and long- headed as any woman of forty. It's my silly old heart which handicaps me. It _won't_ fall into line... Have you finished your mending? May I come upstairs and see your room while you dress?" For just the fraction of a moment Claire hesitated. Janet saw the doubt, and attributed it to disinclination to exhibit a shabby room; but in reality Claire was proud of her attic, which a little ingenuity had made into a very charming abode. Turkey red curtains draped the window, a low basket-chair was covered in the same material, a red silk eiderdown covered the little bed. On the white walls were a profusion of photographs and prints, framed with a simple binding of leather around the glass. The toilet table showed an array of well-polished silver, while a second table was arranged for writing, and held a number of pretty accessories. A wide board had been placed over the narrow mantel, on which stood a few good pieces of china and antique silver. There was nothing gimcrack to be seen, no one-and-elevenpenny ornaments, no imitations of any kind; despite its sloping roof and its whitewashed walls, it was self-evidently a lady's room, and Janet's admiration was unfeigned. "My dear, it's a lamb! I love your touches of scarlet. Dear me, you've quite a view! I shall have sloping walls when I change my room. They are _ever_ so picturesque. It's a perfect duck, and everything looks so bright. They _do_ keep it well!" "_I_ keep it well!" Claire corrected. "Lizzie `does' it every morning, but it's not a doing which satisfies me, so I put in a little manual labour every afternoon as a change from using my brain. I do all the polishing. You can't expect lodging-house servants to clean silver and brass." "Can't you? No; I suppose you can't." Janet's voice of a sudden sounded flat and absent. There was a moment's pause, then she added tentatively, "You have a cuckoo clock?" Claire was thankful that her face was screened from view as she was in the process of tying on her veil. A muffled, "Yes," was her only reply. Janet stood in front of the clock, staring at it with curious eyes. "It's--it's like--there were some just like this in a shop at Saint Moritz." "They are all much alike, don't you think?" "I suppose they are. Yes--in a way. Some are much better than others. This is one of the best--" "Yes, it is. It keeps beautiful time. I had it in the sitting-room, but Miss Rhodes objected to the noise." "Was it in Saint Moritz that you bought it?" "I didn't buy it. It was a present." That finished the cross-questioning, since politeness forbade that Janet should go a step further and ask the name of the friend, which was what she was obviously longing to do. She stood a moment longer, staring blankly at the clock, then gave a little sigh, and moved on to examine the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Five minutes later the two girls descended the staircase, and drove away from the door. The next few hours passed pleasantly enough, but Claire wondered if it were her own imagination which made her think that Janet's manner was not quite so frank and bright as it had been before she had caught sight of the cuckoo clock. She never again said, "Claire"; but her brown eyes studied Claire's face with a wistful scrutiny, and from time to time a sharp little sigh punctuated her sentences. "But what could I tell her?" Claire asked unhappily of her sub- conscience. "I don't _know_--I only think; and even if he _did_ send it, it doesn't necessarily affect his feelings towards her. He was going to see her in a few days; and she is rich and has everything she wants, while I am poor and alone. It was just kindness, nothing more." But though her head was satisfied with such reasoning, her heart, like Janet's, refused to fall into line. At tea-time several callers arrived, foremost among them a tall man whom Claire at once recognised as the original of a portrait which stood opposite to that of Captain Fanshawe on the mantelpiece of Janet's boudoir. This was "the kind man, the thoughtful man," the man who remembered "little things," and in truth he bore the mark of it in every line of his good-humoured face. Apart from his expression, his appearance was ordinary enough; but he was self-evidently a man to trust, and Claire found something pathetic in the wistful admiration which shone in his eyes as they followed Janet Willoughby about the room. To ordinary observers she was just a pleasant girl with no pretensions to beauty; to him she was obviously the most lovely of her sex. He had no attention to spare for Claire or the other ladies present; he was absorbed in watching Janet, waiting for opportunities to serve Janet, listening eagerly to Janet's words. It is not often that an unengaged lover is so transparent in his devotion, but Malcolm Heward was supremely indifferent to the fact that he betrayed his feelings. At ten o'clock Claire rose to take leave, and Mrs Willoughby made a request. "I am going to ask you to do me a favour, dear. A friend is having a Sale of Work at her house for a charity in which we are both interested, and she has asked me to help. It is on a Saturday afternoon and evening, and I wondered if I might ask you to take part in the little concerts. Whistling is always popular, and you do it so charmingly. I would send the car for you, and take you home, of course, and be so very much indebted. You don't mind my asking?" "No, indeed; I should be delighted. Please let me help you whenever you can." In the bedroom upstairs Janet deliberately introduced Malcolm Heward's name. "That was the man I told you about at Christmas. He was one of the party at Saint Moritz. What did you think of him?" "I liked him immensely. He looks all that you said he was. He has a fine face." "He wants to marry me." Claire laughed softly. "That's obvious! I never saw a man give himself away so openly." "Do you think I ought to accept him?" "Oh, how can I say? It's not for me to advise. I hope, whoever you marry, you'll be very, very happy!" Suddenly Janet came forward and laid her hands on Claire's arm. "Oh, Claire, I do like you! I do want to be friends, but sometimes I have the strangest thoughts." Before Claire had time to answer, she had drawn back again, and was saying with a little apologetic laugh, "I am silly! Take no notice of what I say. Here's your fur; here's your muff. Are you quite sure you have all your possessions?" CHAPTER FOURTEEN. A QUESTION OF MONEY. The next week was memorable to Claire as marking the beginning of serious anxiety with regard to Sophie. She had looked ill since the beginning of the term, and the bottle of aspirin tabloids had become quite an accustomed feature on the luncheon table; but when questioned she had always a smile and an easy excuse. "What can you expect in this weather? No one but a fish could help aching in these floods. I'm perfectly all right!" But one morning this week, meeting her on an upper landing, Claire discovered Sophie apparently dragging herself along with her hands, and punctuating each step with a gasp of pain. She stood still and stared, whereupon Sophie instantly straightened herself, and ascended the remaining steps in a normal manner. "Sophie," cried Claire sternly, "don't pretend! I heard you; I saw you! My dear girl, is the rheumatism so bad?" Sophie twisted her head this way and that, her lips pursed in warning. "S-sh! Be careful! You never know who is about. I _am_ rather stiff to-day. This raw fog has been the last straw. I shall be all right when we get through this month. I hate March! It finds out all the weak spots. Please, Claire, don't take any notice. A Gym. mistress has no business to have rheumatism. It's really very good for me to be obliged to keep going. It is always worse at the beginning of the day." Claire went away with a pain in her heart, and the pain grew steadily as she watched Sophie throughout the week. The pretty face was often drawn with pain, she rose and sat down with an obvious effort; and still the rain poured, and the dark fog enveloped the city, and Sophie struggled to and from her work in a thin blue serge suit which had already seen three winters' wear. One day the subject came up for discussion in the staff-room, and Claire was shocked and surprised at the attitude of the other teachers. They were sorry for Sophie, they sympathised, to a certain extent they were even anxious on her account, but the prevailing sentiment seemed to be that the kindest thing was to take no notice of her sufferings. No use pitying her; that would only make her more sorry for herself. No use suggesting cures; cures take time, not to speak of money. The Easter holidays would soon be here; perhaps she might try something then. In the meantime--_tant pis_! she must get along as best she could. There was simply no time to be ill. "I've a churchyard cough myself," declared the Arts mistress. "I stayed in bed all Saturday and Sunday, and it was really a little better, but it was as bad as ever after a day in this big draughty hole." "And I am racked with neuralgia," chimed in Miss Bates. The subject of Sophie was lost in a general lamentation. Friday evening came, and after the girls had departed Claire went in search of Sophie, hoping tactfully to be able to suggest remedial methods over the week-end. She peeped into several rooms before at last, in one of the smallest and most out-of-the-way, she caught sight of a figure crouched with buried head at the far end of the table. It was Sophie, and she was crying, and catching her breath in a weak exhausted fashion, pitiful to hear. Claire shut the door tightly, and put her arms round the shaking form. "Miss Blake--Sophie! You poor, dear girl! You are tired out. You have been struggling all the week, but it's Friday night, dear, remember that! You can go home and just tumble into bed. Don't give way when you've been so brave." But for the moment Sophie's bravery had deserted her. "It's raining! It's raining! It _always_ rains. I can't face it. The pain's all over me, and the omnibuses _won't_ stop! They expect you to jump in, and I can't jump! I don't know how to get home." "Well, I do!" Claire cried briskly. "There's no difficulty about that. I'm sick of wet walks myself. I'll whistle for a taxi, and we'll drive home in state. I'll take you home first, and then go on myself; or, if you like, I'll come in with you and help you to bed." "P-please. Oh, yes, please, do come! I don't want to be alone," faltered Sophie weakly; but she wiped her eyes, and in characteristic fashion began to cheer up at the thought of the drive home. There was a cheerful fire burning in Sophie's sitting-room, and the table was laid for tea in quite an appetising fashion. The landlady came in at the sound of footsteps, and showed a sympathetic interest at the sight of Sophie's tear-stained face. "I _told_ you you weren't fit to go out!" she said sagely. "Now just sit yourself down before the fire, and I'll take your things upstairs and bring you down a warm shawl. Then you shall have your teas. I'll bring in a little table, so you can have it where you are." She left the room, and Sophie looked after her with grateful eyes. "That's what I pay for!" she said eloquently. "She's so kind! I love that woman for all her niceness to me. I told you I had no right to pay so much rent. I came in just for a few weeks until I could find something else, and I haven't had the _heart_ to _move_. I've been in such holes, and had such awful landladies. They seem divided into two big classes, kind and dirty, or clean and _mad_! When you get one who is kind _and_ clean, you feel so grateful that you'd pay your last penny rather than move away. Oh, how lovely! how lovely! how lovely! It's Friday night, and I can be ill comfortably all the time till Monday morning! Aren't we jolly well-off to have our Saturdays to ourselves? How thankful the poor clerks and typists would be to be in our place!" She was smiling again, enjoying the warmth of the fire, the ease of the cushioned chair. When Mrs Rogers entered she snoodled into the folds of a knitted shawl, and lay back placidly while the kind creature took off her wet shoes and stockings and replaced them by a long pair of fleecy woollen bed-socks, reaching knee high. The landlady knelt to her task, and Sophie laid a hand on the top of starched lace and magenta velvet, and cried, "Rise, Lady Susan Rogers! One of the truest ladies that ever breathed..." "How you do talk!" said the landlady, but her eyes shone. As she expounded to her husband in the kitchen, "Miss Blake had such a way with her. When ladies were like that you didn't care what you did, but there was them as treated you like Kaffirs." Tea was quite a cheerful and sociable little meal, during which no reference was made to Sophie's ailments, but when the cups had been replaced on the central table, Claire seated herself and said with an air of decision-- "Now we're going to have a disagreeable conversation! I don't approve of the way you have been going on this last month, and it's time it came to an end. You are ill, and it's your business to take steps to get better!" "Oh!" "Yes; and you are going to take them, too!" "What am I going to do?" "You are going to see a specialist next week." "You surprise me!" Sophie smiled with exaggerated lightness. "What funny things one does hear!" "Why shouldn't you see a specialist? I defy you to give me one sensible reason?" "I'll do better than that. I'll give you two." "So do, then! What are they?" "Guineas!" said Sophie. For a moment Claire stared blankly, then she laughed. "Oh, I see! Yes. It is rather a haul. But it's better to harden your heart once for all, and pay it down." "The two guineas is only the beginning." "The beginning of what?" "Trouble!" said Sophie grimly. "Baths, at a guinea apiece. Massage, half-a-guinea a time. Medicine, liniments, change of air. My dear, it's no use. What's the use of paying two guineas to hear a man tell you to do a dozen things which are hopelessly impossible? It's paying good money only to be aggravated and depressed. If it comes to that, I can prescribe for myself without paying a sou... Knock off all work for a year. Go to Egypt, or some perfectly dry climate, and build up your strength. Always get out of London for the winter months. Live in the fresh air, and avoid fatigue... How's that? Doesn't that strike you as admirable advice?" She put her head on one side with a gallant attempt at a smile, but her lips twitched, and the flare of the incandescent light showed her face lined and drawn with pain. Claire was silent, her heart cramping with pain. The clock ticked on for several minutes, before she asked softly-- "Have you no savings, Sophie? No money to keep you if you _did_ take a rest?" "Not a sou. It's all I can do to struggle along. I told you I had to help a young sister, and things run up so quickly, that it doesn't seem possible to save. I suppose many people would say one ought to be able to do it on a hundred a year; that's all I have left for myself! Hundreds of women manage on less, but as a rule they come from a different class, and can put up with a style of living which would be intolerable to us. I don't complain of the pay. I don't think it is bad as things go: it's only when illness comes that one looks ahead and feels--frightened! Suppose I broke down now, suppose I broke down in ten years' time! I should be over forty, and after working hard for twenty years I should be left without a penny piece; thrown on the scrap heap, as a worn-out thing that was no more use. But I might still live on, years upon years. Oh, dear! why did you make me think of it? It does no good; only gives one the hump. There _is_ no Pension scheme, so I simply can't afford to be ill. That's the end of it." "Don't you think if you went to Miss Farnborough, and explained to her--" Sophie turned a flushed, protesting face. "Never! Not for the world, and you mustn't either. Promise me faithfully that you will never give so much as a hint. Miss Farnborough is a capital head, but her great consideration is for the pupils; we only count in so far as we are valuable to them. She'd be sorry for me, of course, and would give me quite a lot of advice, but she'd think at once, `If she's rheumatic, she won't be so capable as a Gym. mistress; I must get some one else!' No, no, my dear, I must go on, I must fight it out. You'd be surprised to see how I _can_ fight when Miss Farnborough comes on the scene!" "Very well. You have had your say, now I'm going to have mine! If you go on as you have been doing the last month, growing stiffer week by week, you won't be _able_ to hide it! The other mistresses talk about it already. They were discussing you in staff-room last week. If you go on trusting to chance, you are simply courting disaster. Now I'll tell you what I am going to do. I'm going to find out the address of a good specialist, and make an appointment for next Saturday morning. You shan't have any trouble about it, and I'll call in a taxi, and take you myself, and bring you safely back. And it will be the wisest and the cheapest two guineas you ever spent in your life. Now! What have you got to say to that?" "Oh, I don't know, I don't know! You are very kind. I suppose I ought to be grateful. I suppose you are right. Oh, I'll go, I suppose, I must go. _Bother_!" cried Sophie ungraciously, whereupon Claire hastily changed the conversation, and made no further reference to health during the rest of her visit. Mrs Willoughby supplied the name of a specialist; the specialist granted an appointment for the following Saturday at noon, when the two girls duly appeared in his consulting-room; and Sophie underwent the usual examination, during which the great doctor's face assumed a serious air. Finally he returned to the round-backed chair which stood against the desk, and faced his patient across the room. Sophie was looking flushed and pretty, she was wearing her best clothes, and she wore them with an air which might well delude a masculine eye into believing them much better than they really were. Claire had her usual smart, well-turned-out appearance. They seemed to the doctor's eyes two prosperous members of Society. "I fear," he said gravely, "I fear that there is no doubt that your rheumatism is the sort most difficult to treat. It is a clear case of rheumatoid arthritis, but you are young, and the disease is in an early stage, so that we must hope for the best. In olden times it was supposed to be an incurable complaint, but of late years we have had occasional cures, quite remarkable cures, which have mitigated that decision. You must realise, however, that it is a difficult fight, and that you will need much patience and perseverance." "How soon do you think you can cure me?" The doctor looked into Sophie's face, and his eyes were pitiful. "I wish I could say, but I fear that's impossible. Different people are affected by different cures. You must go on experimenting until you find one that will suit your case; meanwhile there are certain definite instructions which you would do well to observe. In what part of London do you live?" He pursed-up his lips at the reply. "Clay! Heavy clay. The worst thing you could have. That must be altered at once. It is essential that you live on light, gravelly soil, and even then you should not be in England in winter. You should go abroad for four or five months." Sophie cast a lightning glance at her companion. "It's impossible!" she said shortly. "I can't move. I can't go abroad. I am a High School- mistress. I am obliged to stay at my work. I am dependent on my salary. I knew it was stupid to come. I knew what you would say. I told my friend. It was her doing. She made me come--" "I am very much indebted to your friend," the doctor said genially. "She was quite right to insist that you should have advice, and now that I know the circumstances, I'll try not to be unreasonable. I know how aggravating it must be to be ordered to do things which are clearly impossible; but you are young, and you are threatened with a disease which may cripple your life. I want to do all that is in my power to help you. Let's talk it over quietly, and see what can be done." "I'm in school every day until half-past four, except on Saturdays, and I can't afford to wait. I _must_ get better, and I must be quick about it, or I shall lose my post. If I leave this school through rheumatism, it will go down in my testimonial, and I should never get another opening. I'm the Gym. mistress." "Poor girl!" said the doctor kindly. "Well," he added, "I can say one thing for your encouragement; you could not help yourself more than by preserving your present attitude of mind. To determine to get better, and to get better quickly, is a very valuable aid to material means. And now I will tell you what I propose." He bent forward in his chair, talking earnestly and rapidly. There was no time to be lost, since the disease was apt to take sudden leaps forward; at this stage every day was of value; the enemy must be attacked before he had made good his hold. There was a new treatment which, within his own experience, had had excellent results. It was not a certainty; it was very far from a certainty, but it was a chance, and it had this merit, that a month or six weeks would prove its efficacy in any special case. If this failed, something else must be tried, but most cures were very long, very costly. He would propose in the first instance giving two injections a week; later on three or even four. There might be a certain amount of reaction. "What do you mean by reaction?" Sophie asked. "Fever, headache. Possibly sickness, but not lasting for more than twenty-four hours." Sophie set her lips. "I have no time to be ill!" The doctor looked at her with deliberate sternness. "You will have all your life to be ill, if you do not take care now! I will do what I can to help you; we will arrange the times most convenient to you. You might come to me at first direct from school on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Later on the system will accustom itself, and you will probably feel no bad effects. I should like to undertake your case myself. My charge to you will be a quarter of my ordinary fee." "Thank you very much," stammered Sophie, "but--" Claire jumped up, and hastily interposed. "Thank you so very much! We are most grateful, but it's--it's been rather a shock, and we have not had time to think. Will you allow us to write and tell you our decision?" "Certainly. Certainly. But be quick about it. I am anxious to help, but every week's delay will make the case more difficult. Try to arrange for Wednesday next." As he spoke he led the way towards the door. He had been all that was kind and considerate, but there were other patients waiting; all day long a procession of sufferers were filing into that room. He had no more time to give to Sophie Blake. The two girls went out into the street, got into a taxi and were driven swiftly away. Neither spoke. They drew up before the door of Sophie's lodgings, entered the cosy sitting-room and sat down by the fire. "Well!" Sophie's face was flushed, her eyes were dry and feverishly bright. "I hope you are satisfied, my dear. I've been to a specialist to please you, and a most depressing entertainment it has been. Arthritis! That's the thing people have who go about in Bath chairs, and have horrible twisted fingers. It was supposed to be incurable, but now they have `an occasional cure,' so I must hope for the best! I do think doctors are the stupidest things! They have no tact. He could tell me that in one breath, and in the other that it was most important that I should have hope. Well! I _have_ hope. I _have_ faith, but it's not because of his stupid injections. I believe in God, and God knows that I need my health, and that other people need it too. My little sister! What would happen to her if I crocked now? I don't believe He will _let_ me grow worse!" "That's all right, Sophie dear, but oughtn't you to use the means? I don't call it trusting in the right sense if you set yourself against the help that comes along. God doesn't work miracles as He did in the old way; the world has progressed since those old times, and now He works through men. It is a miracle just the same, though it shows itself in a more natural fashion. Don't you call it a miracle that a busy doctor should offer to treat you himself, at the hours most convenient to you, and to do it at a quarter of his usual fees?" "His fee for to-day was two guineas. They always charge that, I suppose--these specialist people. A quarter of that would mean half-a- guinea a visit. Two half-guineas equal one guinea. Later on, three or four half-guineas a week would equal one-and-a-half to two guineas. Two guineas equal my whole income. Very kind, no doubt--very kind indeed. And just about as feasible as if he'd said a thousand pounds." Claire was busy calculating, her fingers playing upon her knee. Ten guineas ought to pay for the six weeks which would test the efficacy of the vaccine. Surely there could not be any serious difficulty about ten guineas? "Wouldn't your brother?" Sophie shook her head. "I wouldn't ask him. He has four small children, and he does so much for Emily. More than he can afford. He works too hard, poor fellow. If it were a certainty, perhaps it might be managed somehow; but it's only a chance, and six weeks won't see the end." "But the end will be quicker if you begin at once. The doctor said that every day was of importance. Sophie, listen! I've got the money. I've got it lying in the bank. I'll lend it to you. I'd love to lend it. If you'll let me, I'll send you a cheque to-night; that will pay for the first six weeks--" Sophie stretched out her hand, and gave a momentary clasp to Claire's fingers. "You _are_ a good soul! Fancy offering that to a stranger like me! It's noble of you, my dear. Perfectly sweet! I'm awfully grateful, but it's absolutely impossible that I could accept. When could I pay you back? I've never been able to save, but I _have_ kept out of debt, and it would worry me to death to have ten pounds hanging round my neck. Besides, we shouldn't be any further. At the end of the six weeks I should either be better, in which case he would certainly want me to go on; or worse, when I should have to try something else! You don't propose that I should go on borrowing from you at the rate of one or two guineas a week?" "I--I'm afraid I haven't got it to give." "Very well, then--there you are! What's the good of beginning at all?" Claire put her hands over her face and thought with that intense and selfless thought which is as a prayer for help. The future seemed dark indeed, and the feeling of helplessness was hard to bear. Two lonely girls, with no one to help, and so much help that was needed! Here was indeed the time for prayer. "Sophie, it's horribly difficult; we can't see ahead. We can only `do the next thing.' It is your duty to take this cure _now_, and the way has opened for that. When we've come to the end of the six weeks, it may open again. You said you have trust in God. It's no use talking generalities, if you are not prepared to put your faith into practice. The question for to-day is, _Can you trust Him for the beginning of May_?" Sophie smiled. "I like that! That's a nice way of putting it. Yes, I can; but, Claire (I must call you Claire, you are such a dear!), I wish it didn't mean borrowing other people's money! It will be years before I can pay you back. It may be that I can never do it." "I would have said `give,' but I was afraid it would hurt your pride. My stepfather gave me some money to buy jewellery for a wedding present, and as a pure matter of selfishness I'd get more pleasure out of helping you than out of a stupid brooch. And listen, Sophie, listen! I'm going to explain.--I chose to take up teaching because I wanted to be independent, and I knew my mother would be happier without me during the first years of her marriage; but she is devoted to me, and I know in time she will crave to have me back. She isn't strong, and she finds the Indian climate trying, so very likely she may _need_ my help. I shall never be sorry that I came to London, for work is a splendid experience, and I am glad to have it; but I have never the feeling that it is going to _last_. Mother comes first, and my stepfather is quite well-off, and can afford to keep me; so if I were _needed_, I should not feel that I was sacrificing my independence in letting him do it. So you see I am not quite in the same position as the other mistresses, and money is not of the same importance. If you were in my place, Sophie, would you hesitate to lend me a ten-pound note?" "Guineas, please!" cried Sophie, laughing to hide her tears. "All right, my dear, all right! I give in. I lie down. You've beaten me. I've nothing more to say. I'll take the horrid old injections, and pay for them with your money, and--and--I think I'll go to bed now, please! I've had about as much as I can bear for one short day!" "And I'll go home and have a rest myself. I am to help at a bazaar this afternoon, and I don't feel at all in my full beauty. Good-bye, Sophie. Cheer up! There's a good time coming!" "There's a good time coming for _you_!" predicted Sophie confidently. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. "LEND ME FIVE POUNDS!" The contrasts of life seemed painfully strong to Claire Gifford that Saturday afternoon as she seated herself in the luxurious car by Mrs Willoughby's side, and thought of Sophie Blake obliged to borrow ten pounds to pay for a chance of health, and the contrast deepened during the next few hours, as she watched beautifully gowned women squandering money on useless trifles which decked the various "stalls." Embroidered cushions, painted sachets, veil cases, shaving cases, night-dress cases, bridge bags, fan bags, handkerchief bags, work bags; bags of every size, of every shape, of every conceivable material; bead necklaces, mats--a wilderness of mats--a very pyramid of drawn-thread work. Claire found a seat near the principal stall, where she caught the remarks of the buyers as they turned away. "...I detest painted satin! Can't think why I bought that ridiculous sachet. It will have to go on to the next bazaar." "...That makes my twenty-third bag! Rather a sweet, though, isn't he? It will go with my grey dress." "This is awful! I'm not getting on at all. I can't decently spend less than five pounds. For goodness' sake tell me what to buy!" "Can't think why people give bazaars! Such an upset in the house. For some charity, I believe--I forget what. She asked me to come..." So on and so on; scores of women surging to and fro, swinging bags of gold and silver chain, buying baubles for which they had no use; occasionally--very occasionally, for love of the cause; often--very often because Lady --- had sent a personal invitation, and Lady --- was a useful friend, and gave such charming balls! At the two concerts Claire had a pleasant success, which she enjoyed with all her heart. Her whistling performance seemed to act as a general introduction, for every listener seemed to be anxious to talk to her, and to ask an infinitude of questions. Was it difficult? How long did it take to learn? Was she nervous? Wasn't it difficult not to laugh? How did she manage not to look a fright? Did she do it often? Did she _mind_? This last question usually led up to a tentative mention of some entertainment in which the speaker was interested, but after the first refusal Claire was on guard, and regretted that her time was filled up. She was eager to help Mrs Willoughby, but had no desire to be turned into an unpaid public performer! Janet did not appear at the bazaar, so the drive home was once more a _tete-a-tete_, during which Mrs Willoughby questioned Claire as to the coming holidays, and expressed pleasure to hear that they were to be spent in Brussels. She was so kind and motherly in her manner that Claire was emboldened to bespeak her interest on Sophie's behalf. "I suppose," she said tentatively, "you don't know of any family going abroad to a dry climate--it must be a very dry climate--who would like to take a girl with them to--er--to be a sort of help! She's a pretty girl, and very gay and amusing, and she's had the highest possible training in health exercises. She would be splendid if there was a delicate child who needed physical development, and, of course, she is quite well educated all round. She could teach up to a certain point. She is the Gym. mistress in my school, and is very popular with the girls." "And why does she want to leave?" "She's not well. It's rheumatism--a bad kind of rheumatism. It is just beginning, and the doctor says it ought to be tackled at once, and that to live on clay soil is the worst thing for her. If she stays at Saint Cuthbert's she's practically bound to live on clay. And he says she ought to get out of England for the next few winters. She has not a penny beyond her salary, but if she could find a post--" "Well, why not?" Mrs Willoughby's voice was full of a cheerful optimism. "I don't know of anything at present, but I'll make inquiries among my friends. There ought not to be any difficulty. So many people winter abroad; and there is quite a craze for these physical exercises. Oh, yes, my dear, I am sure I can help. Poor thing! poor girl! it's so important to keep her health. I must find some one who will be considerate, and not work her too hard." She spoke as if the post were a settled thing; as if there were several posts from which to choose. Probably there were. Among her large circle of wealthy friends this popular and influential woman, given a little trouble, could almost certainly find a chance for Sophie Blake. _Given a little trouble_! That was the rub! Five out of six of the women who had thronged Lady ---'s rooms that afternoon would have dismissed Sophie's case with an easy sympathy, "Poor creature! Quite too sad, but really, you know, my dear, it's a shocking mistake to recommend any one to a friend. If anything goes wrong, you get blamed yourself. Isn't there a Home?" Mrs Willoughby was the exception to the rule; she helped in deed, as well as in word. Claire looked at the large plain face with a very passion of admiration. "Oh, I wish all women were like you! I'm so glad you are rich. I hope you will go on growing richer and richer. You are the right person to have money, because you help, you _want_ to help, you remember other women who are poor." "My dear," said Mrs Willoughby softly, "I have been poor myself. My father lost his money, and for years we had a hard struggle. Then I married--for love, my dear, not money, but there was money, too,--more money than I could spend. It was an intoxicating experience, and I found it difficult not to be carried away. My dear husband had settled a large income on me, for my own use, so I determined, as a safeguard, to divide it in two, and use half for myself and half for gentlewomen like your friend, who need a helping hand. I have done that now for twenty-five years, but I give out of my abundance, my dear; it is easy for me to give money; I deserve no credit for that." "You give time, too, and sympathy, and kindness. It's no use, Mrs Willoughby. I've put you on the topmost pinnacle in my mind, and nothing that you can say can pull you down. I think you are the best woman in London!" "Dear, dear, you will turn my head! I'm not accustomed to such wholesale flattery," cried Mrs Willoughby, laughing; then the car stopped, and Claire made her adieux, and sprang lightly to the ground. The chauffeur had stopped before the wrong house, but he did not discover his mistake as Claire purposely stood still until he had turned the car and started to retrace his way westward. The evening was fine though chill, and the air was refreshing after the crowded heat of Lady ---'s rooms. Claire had only the length of a block to walk, and she went slowly, drawing deep breaths to fill her tired lungs. The afternoon had passed pleasantly enough, but it had left her feeling flat and depressed. She questioned herself as to the cause of her depression. Was she jealous of those other girls who lived lives of luxury and idleness? Honestly she was not. She was not in the position of a girl who had known nothing but poverty, and who therefore felt a girl's natural longing for pretty rooms, pretty clothes, and a taste of gaiety and excitement. Claire had known all these things, and could know them again; neither was she in the position of a working girl who has no one to help in the day of adversity, for a comfortable home was open to her at any moment. No! she was not jealous: she probed still deeper, and acknowledged that she was disappointed! Last time that she had whistled in public-- Claire shook her head with an impatient toss. This was feeble. This was ridiculous. A man whom she had met twice! A man whose mother had refused an introduction. A man whom Janet-- "I must get to work, and prepare my lesson for Monday. Nothing like good work to drive away these sentimental follies!" But Fate was not kind, for right before her eyes were a couple of lovers strolling onward, the man's hand through the girl's arm, his head bent low over hers. Claire winced at the sight, but the next moment her interest quickened in a somewhat painful fashion, as the man straightened himself suddenly, and swung apart with a gesture of offence. The lovers were quarrelling! Now the width of the pavement was between them; they strode onward, ostentatiously detached. Claire smiled to herself at the childishness of the display. One moment embracing in the open street, the next flaunting their differences so boldly that every passer-by must realise the position! Surely a grown man or woman ought to have more self-control. Then suddenly the light of a lamp shone on the pair, and she recognised the familiar figures of Mary Rhodes and Major Carew. He wore a long light overcoat. Cecil had evidently slipped out of the house to meet him, for she was attired in her sports coat and knitted cap. Poor Cecil! The interview seemed to be ending in anything but a pleasant fashion. Claire lingered behind until the couple had passed her own doorway, let herself in with her latch-key, and hastened to settle down to work. When Cecil came in, she would not wish to be observed. Claire carried her books to the bureau, so as to have her back to the fire, but before she had been five minutes writing, she heard the click of the lock, and Cecil herself came into the room. "Halloa! I saw the light go up. I thought it must be you." She was silent for a couple of minutes, then spoke again in a sharp, summoning voice: "Claire!" "Yes?" Claire turned round, to behold Cecil standing at the end of the dining- table, her bare hands clasping its rim. She was so white that her lips looked of a startling redness; her eyes met Claire with a defiant hardness. "I want you to lend me five pounds _now_!" Claire's anxiety was swallowed in a rising of irritation which brought an edge of coldness into her voice. "Five pounds! What for? Cecil, I have never spoken of it, I have never worried you, but I've already paid--" "I know! I know! I'll pay you back. But I must have this to-night, and I've nowhere else to go. It's important. I would lend it to you, Claire, if it were in my power." "Cecil, I hate to refuse, but really--I _need_ my money! Just now I need it particularly. I can't afford to go on lending. I'm dreadfully sorry, but--" "Claire, please! I implore you, just this one time! I'll pay you back... There's my insurance policy--I can raise something on that. For pity's sake, Claire, help me this time!" Claire rose silently and went upstairs. It was not in her to refuse such a request while a five-pound note lay in her desk upstairs. She slipped the crackling paper into an envelope, and carried it down to the parlour. Cecil took it without a word, and went back into the night. When she had gone, Claire gathered her papers together in a neat little heap, ranged them in a corner of the bureau, and seated herself on a stiff-backed chair at the end of the table. She looked as if she were mounted on a seat of justice, and the position suited her frame of mind. She felt angry and ill-used. Cecil had no right to borrow money from a fellow-worker! The money in the bank was dwindling rapidly; the ten guineas for Sophie would make another big hole. She did not grudge that--she was eager and ready to give it for so good a cause; but _what_ was Cecil doing with these repeated loans? To judge from appearances, she was rather poorer than richer during the last few months, while bills for her new clothes came in again and again, and received no settlement. An obstinate look settled on Claire's face. She determined to have this thing out. In ten minutes' time Cecil was back again, still white, still defiant, meeting Claire's glance with a shrug, seating herself at the opposite end of the table with an air of callous indifference to what should come next. "Well?" "Well?" "You look as if you had something to say!" "I have. Cecil, what are you doing with all this money?" "That's my business, I suppose!" "I don't see it, when the money is mine! I think I have the right to ask?" "I've told you I'll pay you back!" "That's not the question. I want to know what you are doing _now_! You are not paying your bills." "I'll sell out some shares to-morrow, and--" "You shall do no such thing. I can wait, and I will wait, but I can't go on lending; and if I did, it could do you no good. Where does the money go? It does _you_ no good!" "I am the best judge of that." "Cecil, _are you lending money to that man_?" The words leapt out, as on occasion such words will leap, without thought or premeditation on the speaker's part. She did not intend to speak them; if she had given herself one moment for reflection she dared not have spoken them; when their sound struck across the quiet room she was almost as much startled as Cecil herself; yet heart and brain approved their utterance; heart and brain pronounced that she had discovered the truth. Cecil's face was a deep glowing red. "Really, Claire, you go too far! Why in the world should you think--" "I saw you with him now in the street. I could see that you were quarrelling; you took no pains to hide it. You left him to come in to me, and went back again. It seems pretty obvious." "Well! and if I did?" Cecil had plainly decided that denial was useless. "I am responsible for the loan. What does it matter to you who uses it?" But at that Claire's anger vanished, and she shrank back with a cry of pain and shame. "And he _took_ it from you? Money! Took it from a girl he professes to love--who is working for herself! Oh, Cecil, how _could_ he? How could you allow him? How can you go on caring for such a man?" "Don't get hysterical, Claire, please. There's nothing so extraordinary in a man being hard up. It's happened before now in the history of the world. Frank has a position to keep up, and his father--I've told you before how mean and difficult his father is, and it's so important that Frank should keep on good terms just now.--He dare not worry him for money. When he is going to make me a rich woman some day, why should I refuse to lend him a few trifling pounds when he runs short? He's in an expensive regiment; he belongs to an expensive Club; he is obliged to keep up with the other men. If I had twice as much I would lend it with pleasure." Claire opened her lips to say that at least no more borrowed money should be supplied for Major Carew, but the words were never spoken. Pity engulfed her, a passion of pity for the poor woman who a second time had fallen under the spell of an unscrupulous man. Cecil's explanation had fallen on deaf ears, for Claire could accept no excuses for a man who borrowed from a woman to ensure comfort and luxury for himself. An officer in the King's army! The thing seemed incredible; so incredible that, for the first time, a rising of suspicion mingled with her dislike. Mentally, she rehearsed the facts of Major Carew's history as narrated by himself, and found herself doubting every one. The beautiful house in the country--did it really exist? The eccentric old father who refused to part with his gold--was he flesh and blood, or a fictitious figure invented as a convenient excuse? The fortune which was to enrich the future--_was_ there such a fortune? Or, if there were, was Major Carew in truth the eldest son? Claire felt a devastating helplessness her life abroad had left her ignorant of many British institutions; she knew nothing of the books in which she might have traced the Carew history; she had nothing to guide her but her own feminine instinct, but if that instinct were right, what was to become of Mary Rhodes? Her face looked so sad, so downcast, that Cecil's conscience was pricked. "Poor old Claire!" she said gently, "how I do worry you, to be sure! Never mind, my dear, I'll make it up to you one day. You've been a brick to me, and I shan't forget it. And I'll go to my mother's for the whole of the Easter holidays, and save up my pennies to pay you back. The poor old soul felt defrauded because I stayed only a week at Christmas, so she'll be thankful to have me. You can go to Brussels with an easy mind, knowing that I'm out of temptation. That will be killing two birds with one stone. What do you say to having cocoa now, instead of waiting till nine o'clock? We've tired ourselves out with all this fuss?" CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE MEETING IN HYDE PARK. It was the end of May. The weather was warm and sunny, the windows of the West End were gay with flowers; in the Park the great beds of rhododendrons blazed forth in a glow of beauty. It was the season, and a particularly gay and festive season at that. "Everybody" was in town, including a few million "nobodies." There were clerks toiling by their thousands in the City, chained all day long to their desks; there were clerks' wives at home in the suburbs, toiling all day too, and sometimes far into the night; there were typists, and shop assistants, and prosperous heads of households, who worked steadily for five and a half days a week, in order that their families might enjoy comfort and ease, condensing their own relaxation into short Saturday afternoons. And there were school-mistresses, too, who saw the sun through form-room windows, but felt its call all the same--the call of the whole glad spring--and grew restless, and nervous, and short in temper. It was not the leaders of society whom they envied; they read of Court balls, and garden parties, of preparations for Ascot and Henley with a serene detachment, just as they read with indifference in the fashion page of a daily newspaper that "Square watches are the vogue this season, and our _elegantes_ are ordering several specimens of this dainty bauble to match the prevailing colours of their costumes," the while they suffered real pangs at the sight of an "alarming sacrifice" at twenty-nine and six. The one was almost within their grasp; the other floated in the nebulous atmosphere of a different sphere. In the staff-room at lunch-time the staff grew restless and critical. The hot joints no longer appealed to their appetites, the watery vegetables and heavy puddings became things abhorred. They thought of cool salads and _compotes_ on ice, and hated the sight of the greasy brown gravy. They blamed the cook, they blamed the Committee, they said repeatedly, "Nobody thinks of _us_!" and exchanged anecdotes illustrative of the dulness, the stupidity of their pupils. As for the Matric. candidates, they would _all_ fail! There wasn't a chance for a single one. The stupidest set of girls the school had ever possessed! Oh, certainly they would all fail! "And then," said Mary Rhodes bitterly, "_we_ shall be blamed." The Arts mistress said with a sigh-- "Oh, wouldn't it be heavenly to run away from it all, and have a week- end in the country! The gorse will be out, and the hawthorn still in blossom. What's the very cheapest one could do it on for two days?" Mademoiselle said-- "Absolutely, _ma chere_, there is no help for it. It is necessary that I have a distraction. I must buy a new hat." Sophie Blake said defiantly to herself-- "Crippled? Ridiculous! I _refuse_ to be crippled. I want to run, and run, and run, and run, and dance, and sing, and jump about! I feel pent! I feel caged! And all that precious money squandered on injections..." The six weeks' course of treatment had been, from the doctor's point of view, a complete success; from Sophie's a big disappointment. She argued that she was still stiff, still in pain, that the improvement was but small; he pointed out that without the injections she would of a certainty have been worse, and since in arthritis even to remain stationary was a success, to have improved in the smallest degree in six weeks' time might be regarded as a triumph. He prescribed a restful holiday during the Easter vacation, and a second course of treatment on her return. Sophie resigned herself to do without new clothes for the summer, and sold her most treasured possession, a diamond ring which had belonged to her mother, so that the second ten pounds was secure. But how was she to pay back the original loan? Meanwhile Mrs Willoughby was inquiring among her friends for a suitable post, and had played the good fairy by arranging to send Sophie for the Easter holidays to a country cottage on the Surrey heights, which she ran as a health resort for gentlewomen. Here on a fine dry soil, the air scented with the fragrant breath of the pines, with nothing to do, and plenty of appetising food to eat, the Gym. mistress's general health improved so rapidly that she came back to school with her thin cheeks quite filled out. "Very satisfactory," said the doctor. "Now I shall be able to get on to stronger doses!" "What's the good of getting better, only to be made worse?" cried Sophie in rebellion. Cecil's loan remained unpaid. She had spent her holidays with her mother as arranged, but her finances did not appear to have profited thereby. Dunning for bills became so incessant that the landlady spoke severely of the "credit of the house." She went out constantly in the evening, and several times Claire heard Major Carew's voice at the door, but he never came into the house, and there was no talk of an open engagement. As for Claire herself, she had had a happy time in Brussels, staying with both English and Belgian friends and re-visiting all the old haunts. She thoroughly enjoyed the change, but could not honestly say that she wished the old life to return. If she came back with a heavy heart, it was neither poverty nor work which she feared, but rather the want of that atmosphere of love and kindliness which make the very essence of home. At the best of times Mary Rhodes was a difficult companion and far from affectionate in manner, but since the giving of that last loan, there had arisen a mental barrier which it seemed impossible to surmount. It had become difficult to keep up a conversation apart from school topics, and both girls found themselves dreading the evening's _tete-a-tete_. Claire felt like a caged bird beating against the bars. She wanted an outlet from the school life, and the call of the spring was insistent to one who until now had spent the summer in wandering about some of the loveliest scenes in Europe. She wearied of the everlasting streets, and discovered that by hurrying home after afternoon school, making a quick change of clothing, and catching a motor-'bus at the corner of the road, she could reach Hyde Park by half-past five, and spend a happy hour sitting on one of the green chairs, enjoying the beauty of the flowers, and watching the never-ending stream of pedestrians and vehicles. Sometimes she recognised Mrs Willoughby and Janet bowling past in their luxurious motor, but they never saw her, and she was not anxious that they should. What she wanted was to sit still and rest. Sometimes a smartly-dressed woman, obviously American, would seat herself on the next chair, and inquire as to the best chance of seeing the Queen, and the question being amiably answered, would proceed to unasked confidences. She thought England "sweet." She had just come over to this side. She was staying till the fall. Who was the lady in the elegant blue auto? The London fashions were just too cute! When they parted, the fair American invariably said, "Pleased to have met you!" and looked as though she meant it into the bargain, and Claire whole- heartedly echoed the sentiment. She liked these women with their keen, child-like enthusiasm, their friendly, gracious ways. In contrast to them the ordinary Englishwoman seemed cold and aloof. One brilliant afternoon when the Park was unusually bright and gay, Claire was seated near the Achilles statue, carelessly scanning the passers-by, when, with a sudden leap of the heart, she saw Erskine Fanshawe some twenty yards ahead, strolling towards her, accompanied by two ladies. He was talking to his companions with every appearance of enjoyment, and had no attention to spare for the rows of spectators on the massed green chairs. Claire felt the blood rush to her face in the shock of surprise and agitation. She had never contemplated the possibility of such a meeting, for Captain Fanshawe had not appeared the type of man who would care to take part in a fashionable parade, and the sudden appearance of the familiar face among the crowd made her heart leap with a force that was physically painful. Then, the excitement over, she realised with a second pang, almost as painful as the first, that in another minute he would have passed by, unseeing, unknowing, to disappear into space for probably months to come. At the thought rebellion arose in her heart. She felt a wild impulse to leave her seat and advance towards him; she longed with a sudden desperation of longing to meet his eyes, to see his smile, but pride held her back. She sat motionless watching with strained eyes. One of Captain Fanshawe's companions was old, the other young--a pretty, fashionably-dressed girl, who appeared abundantly content with her escort. All three were watching with amusement the movements of a stout elderly dame, who sauntered immediately ahead, leading by a leash a French poodle, fantastically shaved, and decorated with ribbon bows. The stout dame was evidently extravagantly devoted to her pet, and viewed with alarm the approach of a jaunty black and white terrier. The terrier cocked his ears, and elevating his stump of a tail, yapped at the be-ribboned spaniel with all a terrier's contempt, as he advanced to the attack. The stout dame screamed, dropped the leash, and hit at the terrier with the handle of her parasol. The poodle evidently considering flight the best policy, doubled and fled in the direction of the green chairs, to come violently to anchor against Claire's knee. The crowd stared, the stout dame hurried forward. Claire, placing a soothing hand on the dog's head, lifted a flushed, smiling face, and in so doing caught the lift of a hat, met for the moment the glance of startled eyes. The stout lady was not at all grateful. She spoke as sharply as though Claire, and Claire alone, had been the cause of her pet's upset. She strode majestically away, leaving Claire trembling, confused, living over again those short moments. She had seen him; he had seen her! He was alive and well, living within a few miles of herself, yet as far apart as in another continent. It was six months since they had last met. It might be six years before they met again. But he had seemed pleased to see her. Short as had been that passing glance, there was no mistaking its interest. He was surprised, but pleasure had overridden surprise. If he had been alone, he would have hurried forward with outstretched hand. In imagination she could see him coming, his grave face lightened with joy. Oh, if _only, only_ he had been alone! But he was with friends; he had the air of being content and interested, and the girl was pretty, far prettier than Janet Willoughby. "Good afternoon!" She turned gasping; he was standing before her, holding out his hand. He had left his companions and come back to join her. His face looked flushed, as though he had rushed back at express speed. He had seemed interested and content, and the girl was pretty, yet he had come back to her! He seated himself on the chair by her side, and looked at her with eager eyes. "I haven't seen you for six months!" "I was just--" Claire began impulsively, drew herself up, and finished demurely--"I suppose it is." "You haven't been at either of Mrs Willoughby's `At Homes.'" "No; but I've seen a good deal of them all the same. They have been so kind." "Don't you care for the `At Homes'? I asked Mrs Willoughby about you, and she seemed to imply that you preferred not to go." "Oh, no! Oh, no! That was quite wrong. I _did_ enjoy that evening. It was a--a misunderstanding, I think," said Claire, much exercised to find an explanation of what could really not be explained. Of the third "At Home" she had heard nothing until this moment, and a pang of retrospective disappointment mingled with her present content. "I have been to the house several times when they were alone," she continued eagerly. "They even asked me on Christmas Day." "I know," he said shortly. "I was in Saint Moritz, skating in the sunshine, when I heard how you were spending _your_ Christmas holidays." His face looked suddenly grim and set. "A man feels pretty helpless at a time like that. I didn't exactly enjoy myself for the rest of that afternoon." "That was stupid of you, but--but very nice all the same," Claire said softly. "It wouldn't have made things easier for me if other people had been dull, and, after all, I came off better than I expected." "You were all alone--in your Grand Hotel?" "Only for a week." Claire resolutely ignored the hit. "Then my friend came back, and we made some little excursions together, and enjoyed being lazy, and getting up late, and reading lots of nice books. I had made all sorts of good resolutions about the work I was going to get through in the holidays, but I never did one thing." "Do you often come to the Park?" Claire felt a pang of regret. Was it possible that even this simple pleasure was to be denied her? She knew too well that if she said "yes," Captain Fanshawe would look out for her again, would come with the express intention of meeting her. To say "yes" would be virtually to consent to such meetings. It was a temptation which took all her strength to reject, but rejected it must be. She would not stoop to the making of a rendez-vous. "I have been several times, but I shan't be able to come any more. We get busier towards the end of the term. Examinations--" Captain Fanshawe straightened himself, and said in a very stiff voice-- "I also, unfortunately, am extremely busy, so I shall not be able to see the rhododendrons in their full beauty. I had hoped you might be more fortunate." Claire stared at a passing motor, of which she saw nothing but a moving mass; when she turned back it was to find her companion's eyes fixed on her face, with an expression half guilty, half appealing, altogether ingratiating. At the sight her lips twitched, and suddenly they were laughing together with a delicious consciousness of understanding. "Well!" he cried, "it's true! I mean it! There's no need to stay away because of me; but as I _am_ here to-day, and it's my last chance, won't you let me give you tea? If we walk along to Victoria Gate--" Claire thought with a spasm of longing of the little tables under the awning; of the pretty animated scene; but no, it might not be. Her acquaintance with this man was too casual to allow her to accept his hospitality in a public place. "Thank you very much, but I think not. I would rather stay here." "Well, at any rate," he said defiantly, "I've paid for my chair, and you can't turn me out. Of course, you can move yourself." "But I don't want to move. I like being here. I'm very glad to see you. I should like very much to have tea, too. Oh, if you don't understand I can't explain!" cried poor Claire helplessly; and instantly the man's expression altered to one of sympathy and contrition. "I do understand! Don't mind what I say. Naturally it's annoying, but you're right, I suppose--you're perfectly right. I am glad, at any rate, that you allow me to talk to you for a few minutes. You are looking very well!" His eyes took her in in one rapid comprehensive sweep, and Claire thanked Providence that she had put on her prettiest dress. "I am glad that you are keeping fit. Did you enjoy your holiday in Belgium?" "How did you know I was in Belgium?" He laughed easily, but ignored the question. "You have good news of your mother, I hope?" "Very good. She loves the life, and is very happy and interested, and my stepfather writes that his friends refuse to believe in the existence of a grown-up daughter. He is so proud of her youthful looks." "How much did you tell her about your Christmas holidays?" "All the nice bits! I don't approve of burdening other people!" "Evidently not. Then there have been burdens? You've implied that! Nothing by any chance, in which a man--fairly intelligent, and, in this instance, keen after work--could possibly be of some use?" The two pairs of eyes met, gazed, held one another steadily for a long eloquent moment. "Yes," said Claire. Captain Fanshawe bent forward quickly, holding his stick between his knees. The side of his neck had flushed a dull red colour. For several moments he did not speak. Claire had a curious feeling that he could not trust his voice. "Good!" he said shortly at last. "Now may I hear?" "I should like very much to ask you some questions about--about a man whom I think you may know." The grey eyes came back to her face, keen and surprised. "Yes! Who is he?" "A Major Carew. His Christian name is Frank. He belongs to your Club." "I know the fellow. Yes! What do you want to know about him?" "Everything, I think; everything you can tell me!" "You know him personally, then? You've met him somewhere?" "Yes," Claire answered to the last question, "and I'm anxious--I'm interested to know more. Do you know his people, or anything about him?" "I don't know them personally. I know Carew very slightly. Good family, I believe. Fine old place in Surrey." The Elizabethan manor house was true, then! Claire felt relieved, but not yet satisfied. Her suspicion was so deep-rooted that it was not easily dispelled. She sat silent for a moment, considering her next question. "Is he the eldest son?" "I believe he is. I've always understood so." The eldest son of a good family possessing a fine old place! Claire summoned before her the picture of the coarse florid-faced man who had tried to flirt with her in the presence of the woman to whom he was engaged; a man who stooped to borrow money from a girl who worked for her own living. _What_ excuse could there be for such a man? She drew her brows together in puzzled fashion, and said slowly-- "Then surely, if he is the heir, he ought to be rich!" "It doesn't necessarily follow. I should say Carew was not at all flush. Landed property is an expensive luxury in these days. I've heard, too, that the father is a bit of a miser. He may not be generous in the matter of allowance!" Claire sat staring ahead, buried in thought, and Captain Fanshawe stared at her in his turn, and wondered once more why this particular girl was different from every other girl, and why in her presence he felt a fullness of happiness and content. She was very pretty; but pretty girls were no novelty in his life; he knew them by the score. It was not her beauty which attracted him, but a mysterious affinity which made her seem nearer to him than he had hitherto believed it possible for any human creature to be. He had recognised this mysterious quality at their first meeting; he had felt it more strongly at Mrs Willoughby's "At Home"; six months' absence had not diminished his interest. Just now, when he had caught sight of her flushed upturned face, his heart had leapt with a violence which startled him out of his ordinary calm. Something had happened to him. When he had time he must think the thing out and discover its meaning. But how did she come to be so uncommonly interested in Carew? He met Claire's eyes, and she asked falteringly-- "I wish you would tell me what you think of him personally! Do you think he is--nice?" "Tell me first what you think yourself." "Honestly? You won't mind?" "Not one single little bit! I told you he is a mere acquaintance." "Then," said Claire deliberately, "I think he is the most horrible, detestable, insufferable, altogether despicable creature I have ever met in the whole of my life!" "What! What! I say, you _are_ down on him!" Captain Fanshawe stared, beamed with an obvious relief, then hastened to defend an absent man. "You're wrong, you know; really you're wrong! I don't call Carew the most attractive fellow you can meet; rather rough manners, don't you know, but he's all right--Carew's all right. You mustn't judge by appearances, Miss Gifford. Some of the most decent fellows in the Club are in his set. Upon my word, I think he is quite a good sort." Captain Fanshawe waxed the more eloquent as Claire preserved her expression of incredulous dislike. He looked at her curiously, and said, "I suppose I mustn't ask--I suppose you couldn't tell me exactly why you are so interested in Carew?" "I'm afraid not. No; I'm afraid I can't," Claire said regretfully. Then suddenly there flashed through her mind a remembrance of the many tangles and misunderstandings which take place in books for want of a little sensible out-speaking. She looked into Captain Fanshawe's face with her pretty dark-lashed eyes and said honestly, "I wanted to know about him for the sake of--another person? _Nothing_ to do with myself! I have only met him twice. I hope I shall never meet him again!" "Thank you," said the man simply, and at the time neither of the two realised the full significance of those quiet words. It was only on living over the interview on her return home that Claire remembered and understood! For the next quarter of an hour they abandoned the personal note, and discussed the various topics of the hour. They did not always agree, and neither was of the type to be easily swayed from a preconceived opinion, but always they were interested, always they felt a sympathy for the other view, never once was there a fraction of a pause. They had so much to say that they could have talked for hours. Gradually the Park began to empty, the string of motors grew less, the crowd on the footpath no longer lounged, but walked quickly with a definite purpose; the green chairs stood in rows without a single occupant. Claire looked round, realised her isolation, drew an involuntary sigh, and rose in her turn. "It's getting late. I must be hurrying home. I go to the Marble Arch and take a motor-'bus. Please don't let me take you out of your way!" He looked at her straightly but did not reply, and they paced together down the broad roadway, past the sunken beds of rhododendrons with the fountain playing in the centre, towards the archway which seemed to both so unnecessarily near! Claire thought of the six months which lay behind, saw before her a vision of months ahead unenlightened by another meeting, and felt suddenly tired and chill. Captain Fanshawe frowned and bit at his lower lip. "I am going away to-morrow. We shall be in camp. In August I am taking part of my leave to run up to Scotland, but I can always come to town if I'm needed, or if there's a special inducement. I came up for both the Willoughbys' `At Homes.'" "Did you?" Claire said feebly, and fell a-thinking. The inference was too plain to be misunderstood. The "special inducement" in this instance had been the hope of meeting herself. Actually it would appear that he had travelled some distance to ensure this chance, but the chance had been deliberately denied. Kind Mrs Willoughby would have welcomed her with open arms; it was Janet who had laid the ban. Janet was friendly, almost affectionate. As spring progressed she had repeatedly called at Saint Cuthbert's after afternoon school and carried Claire off for refreshing country drives. Quite evidently she enjoyed Claire's society, quite evidently also she preferred to enjoy it when other visitors were not present. Claire was not offended, for she knew that there was no taint of snobbishness in this decision; she was just sorry, and, in a curious fashion, remorseful into the bargain. She did not argue out the point, but instinctively she felt that Janet, not herself, was the one to be pitied! They reached the end of the footpath: in another minute they would be in the noise and bustle of Oxford Street. Erskine Fanshawe came to an abrupt halt, faced Claire and cried impulsively-- "Miss Gifford!" "Yes?" Claire shrank instinctively. She knew that she was about to be asked a question which it would be difficult to answer. Erskine planted his stick on the ground, and stared straight into her eyes. "Why are you so determined to give me no chance of meeting you again?" "I--I'm _not_ determined! I hope we _shall_ meet. Perhaps next winter--at Mrs Willoughby's." He laughed grimly. "But if I were not content to wait for `perhaps next winter--at Mrs Willoughby's.' ... What then?" Claire looked at him gravely. "What would you suggest? I have no home in London, and no relations, and your mother, Captain Fanshawe, would not introduce me to you when she had the chance!" He made a gesture of impatience. "Oh, my mother is the most charming of women--and the most indiscreet. She acts always on the impulse of the moment. She introduced you to Mrs Willoughby, or asked Mrs Willoughby to introduce herself, which comes to the same thing. Surely that proves that she--she--" He broke off, finding a difficulty in expressing what he wanted to say; but Claire understood, and emphatically disagreed. To enlist a friend's sympathy was a very different thing from running the risk of entangling the affections of an only son! Obviously, however, she could not advance this argument, so they stood, the man and the girl, looking at one another, helpless, irresolute, while the clock opposite ticked remorselessly on. Then, with an abruptness which lent added weight to his words, Erskine said boldly-- "I want to meet you again! I am not content to wait upon chance." Claire did not blush; on the contrary, the colour faded from her cheeks. Most certainly she also was not content, but she did not waver in her resolution. "I'm afraid there's nothing else for it. It's one of the hardships of a working girl's life that she can't entertain or make plans. It seems more impossible to me, perhaps, from having lived abroad where conventions are so strict. English girls have had more freedom. I don't see what I can do. I'm sorry!"--she held out her hand in farewell. "I hope some day I _shall_ see you again!" Quite suddenly Captain Fanshawe's mood seemed to change. The set look left his face; he smiled--a bright confident smile. "There's not much fear about that! I shall take very good care that we do!" CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. GOD'S OPPORTUNITY. After the meeting with Captain Fanshawe in the Park, Claire's relationship with Mary Rhodes sensibly improved. In the first place, her own happiness made her softer and more lenient in her judgment, for she _was_ deeply, intensely happy, with a happiness which all her reasonings were powerless to destroy. "My dear, what nonsense!" she preached to herself in elderly remonstrating fashion. "You met the man, and he was pleased to see you--he seemed quite anxious to meet you again. Perfectly natural! Pray don't imagine any special meaning in _that_! You looked quite an attractive little girl in your pretty blue dress, and men like to talk to attractive little girls. I dare say he says just the same to dozens of girls!" So spake the inner voice, but spoke in vain. The best things of life are beyond reasoning. As in religion reason leads us, as it were, to the very edge of the rock of proven fact, then faith takes wing, and soars above the things of earth into the great silence where the soul communes with God, so in love there comes to the heart a sweetness, a certainty, which no reasoning can shake. As Erskine's eyes had looked into hers in those moments of farewell, Claire had realised that between this man and herself there existed a bond which was stronger than spoken word. So far as she could foresee, they were hopelessly divided by the circumstances of life, but in the first dawn of love no lover troubles himself about what the future may bring; the sweetness of the present is all-sufficient. Claire was happy, and longed for every one else to be as happy as herself. Moreover, her suspicions concerning Major Carew had been lulled to rest by Erskine's favourable pronouncement. Personally she did not like him, but this was, after all, a matter of taste; she could not approve his actions, but conceivably there might be explanations of which she was unaware. Her manner to Cecil regained its old spontaneous friendliness, and Cecil responded with almost pathetic readiness. In her ungracious way she had grown fond of her pretty, kindly companion, and had missed the atmosphere of home which her presence had given to the saffron parlour. As they sat over their simple supper, she would study Claire's face with a questioning glance, and one night the question found vent in words. "You look mightily pleased with yourself, young woman! Your eyes are sparkling as if you were having a firework exhibition on your own account. I never saw a school-mistress look so perky at the end of the summer term! Look as if you'd come into a fortune!" "Wish I had!" sighed Claire, thankful to switch the conversation on to a safe topic. "It would come in most usefully at the moment. What are you going to do for the summer hols, Cecil? Is there any possibility of--" "No," Cecil said shortly. "And the regiment is going into camp, so he will be out of town. I'm not bothering my head about holidays--quite enough to do with this wretched Matric. The Head is keen to make a good show this year, for the Dulwich School beat us last year, and, as usual, all the responsibility and all the blame is put on the poor mistresses. You can't make girls work if they don't want, you can't cram their brains when they've no brains to cram; but those wretched examiners send a record of all the marks, so you can see exactly where they fall short. Woe betide the mistress who is responsible for that branch! I wouldn't mind prophesying that if the German doesn't come out better than last year, Fraulein will be packed off. I wouldn't be too sure of myself. I've done all right so far, but the Head is not as devoted to me as she might be. I don't think she'd be sorry to have an excuse for getting rid of me. That's one of the delightful aspects of our position--we are absolutely at the mercy of a woman who, from sheer force of circumstances, becomes more of an autocrat every year. The Committee listen to her, and accept every word she says; the staff know better than to dispute a single order. We'd stand on our head in rows if she made it a rule! The pupils scuttle like rabbits when they see her coming, and cheer themselves hoarse every time she speaks. No human woman can live in that atmosphere for years and keep a cool head!" "She's rather a dear, though, all the same!" Claire said loyally. She had been hurt by the lack of personal interest which Miss Farnborough showed in the different members of her staff, but she was unwilling to brand her as a heartless tyrant. "Anyway," she added hastily, "you are not satisfied here. If you were going on teaching I should have thought you'd be glad of a change. It would be easy to get another school." Mary Rhodes looked at her; a long eloquent glance. "With a good testimonial--yes! Without a good testimonial--no! A testimonial for twelve years' work depends on one woman, remember--on her prejudice or good nature, on the mood in which she happens to be on one particular day. It might read quite differently because she happened to have a chill on her liver." "My dear! there _is_ a sense of justice! There is such a thing as honesty." "My dear, I agree. Even so, would you dare to say that the wording of a testimonial would be unaffected by the writer's mood?" "Surely twelve years in one school--" "No, it wouldn't! Not necessarily. `Miss Rhodes has been English Mistress at Saint Cuthbert's for twelve years. Of late has been erratic in temper. Health uncertain. Examination records less satisfactory.' Well! If you represented another school, would _you_ engage Miss Rhodes?" Claire was silent. For the first time she realised the danger of this single-handed power. It meant--what might it not mean? It might mean that the mistress who was unfortunate enough to incur the dislike of her chief, might _never_ be able to procure another post! She might be efficient, she might be hard-working; given congenial surroundings she might develop into a treasure untold, yet just because of a depreciating phrase in the wording of a testimonial, no chance would be vouchsafed. No doubt the vast majority of head mistresses were women of judgment, possessing a keen sense of justice and responsibility, yet the fact remained that a hasty impulse, a little access of temper in penning those all-important lines, might mean the end of a career, might mean poverty, might mean ruin! Claire shivered, looked across the table at the thin, fretted face and made a hesitating appeal-- "Cecil dear, I know you are a good teacher. I just love to hear you talking over your lessons, but you _are_ irritable! One of my girls was crying the other day. You had given so much homework, and she didn't understand what was to be done, and said she daren't ask. You had been `so cross!' I made a guess at what you wanted, and by good chance I was right; but if I'd been wrong, the poor thing would have been in disgrace, and honestly it wasn't her fault! She was willing enough." "Oh, that imbecile Gladys Brown! I know what you mean. I'd explained it a hundred times. If she'd the brains of a cow she'd have understood. No wonder I was cross. I should have been a saint if I wasn't, and no one can be a saint in the summer term. Did--did any one else see her cry?" "I think not. No, I managed to comfort her; but if Miss Farnborough had happened to come in just at that moment--" Cecil shrugged and turned the subject, but she took the hint, to the benefit of her pupils during the next few weeks. July came in, and with it a spell of unbearable heat. In country places and by the seashore there was space and air, and clean fragrant surroundings; but over London hung a misty pall, and not a branch of the dusty trees quivered to the movement of a passing breeze. It was a thunderous, unnatural heat which sapped every scrap of vitality, and made every movement a dread. Claire was horrified at the effect of this heat wave on Sophie Blake. In superficial fashion she had always believed that rheumatism must be better in hot weather; but, according to the specialist, such heat as this was more trying than damp or cold, and Sophie's stiffness increased with alarming suddenness. There came a day when by no effort of will could she get through her classes, when sheer necessity drove her to do the thing she had dreaded most of all--inform the Head that she could not go on with her work. Miss Farnborough was seated in her private room, and listened with grave attention to what the Games mistress had to say. Her forehead puckered in surprise as she noted Sophie's halting gait, and the while she listened, her keen brain was diving back into the past, collecting impressions. She had seen less than usual of Miss Blake during the term; once or twice she had received the impression that Miss Blake avoided her approach; Miss Blake had been looking pale. She waited until Sophie had finished speaking, her hands folded on her knee, her penetrating eye fixed on the girl's face. Then she spoke-- "I am sorry to hear this, Miss Blake. Your work has been excellent hitherto, but rheumatism is a serious handicap. You say that this heat is responsible for the present attack? Am I to understand that it is a first attack--that you have had no threatening before?" "I have been rheumatic all winter, more or less. Before the Easter holidays it was pretty bad. I began to feel stiff." Miss Farnborough repeated the word gravely. "Stiff! That was bad; that was very bad! How could you take your classes if you were feeling stiff?" "I managed somehow!" Sophie said. For a moment she had imagined that the Head Mistress's concern had been on her account; she believed it no longer when she saw the flash of indignation which lighted the grey eyes. "Managed--_somehow_? And you went on in that fashion--you were content to go on!" "No. I was not content. I was very far from content. I suffered horrible pain. I went to a specialist and paid him two guineas for his advice. Since then I have paid twenty pounds for treatment." On Miss Farnborough's face the disapproval grew more and more pronounced. "Miss Blake, I am afraid you have not been quite straightforward in this matter. It appears that you have been ill for months, with an illness which must necessarily have interfered with your work, and this is the first time I hear about it. I am Head Mistress of this school; if anything is wrong with a member of the staff, it is her first duty to come to me. You tell me now that you have been ill for three months, since before the last holidays, and acknowledge that you can go on no longer." "In ten days we break up. I ask you to allow me ten extra days. The weather is so hot that the girls would be thankful to escape the exercises. By the end of the holidays I hope to be quite better." "The Easter holidays do not seem to have done you much good," Miss Farnborough said cruelly. Then, seeing the girl flush, she added, "Of course you shall have your ten days. I can see that you are unfit for work, and we must manage without you till the end of the term. I am very sorry for you, Miss Blake; very sorry, indeed. It is very trying and upsetting and--and expensive into the bargain. Twenty pounds, did you say? That is surely a great deal! Have you tried the shilling bottles of gout and rheumatic pills? I have been told they are quite excellent. But I must repeat that you have been wrong in not coming to me sooner. As a pure matter of honesty, do you think that you were justified in continuing to take classes for which you were unfit?" The tears started to Sophie's eyes; she lowered her lids to hide them from sight. "The girls did not suffer," she said deeply. "I did the suffering!" Miss Farnborough moved impatiently. She was intensely practical and matter-of-fact, and with all her heart hated any approach to sentiment. "You suffered _because_ you were unfit," she repeated coldly, "and your obvious duty was to come to me. You must have known that under the circumstances I should not have wished you to continue the classes!" Sophie was silent for a moment, then she said very quietly, very deliberately-- "Yes, I did know; but I also knew that if I could nerve myself to bear the pain and the fatigue, I _could_ train the girls as well as ever, and I knew, too, that if you sent me away in the middle of term you would be less likely to take me back. It means everything to me, you see. What would happen to me if I were permanently invalided--without a pension-- at thirty-one?" "You have been paid a good salary, Miss Blake--an exceptionally good salary--because it is realised that your work is especially wearing. You ought to have saved--" "If I had had no home claims I might have been able to save one or two hundred pounds--not a very big life provision! As it happens, however, I have given thirty pounds a year towards the education of a young sister, and it has been impossible to save at all." "But now, of course, your sister will help _you_," Miss Farnborough said, and turned briskly to another topic. "You said that you have been to a specialist? Will you give me his address? I should like to communicate with him direct. You understand, Miss Blake, that if this stiffness continues, it will be impossible for you to continue your duties here?" "Quite impossible," faltered Sophie, in low tones. Miss Farnborough pushed back her chair, and rose to her feet. "But one hopes, of course, that all may go well. I have never had any complaint to make with respect to your work. You have been very successful, very popular with the girls. I should be sorry to lose you. Be sure to let me know how you go on. Perhaps I had better be guided by Dr Blank. I should try the pills, I think; they are worth trying. And avoid the sea; sea air is bad for rheumatism. Try some high inland place. We had better say good-bye, now, I suppose, as you will not come back after to-night. Good-bye, my dear. Let me hear soon. All good wishes for your recovery." Sophie left the room, and made her way upstairs to the Staff-Room. She moved very slowly, partly because every movement was an effort, partly because the familiar objects on which her eyes rested became suddenly instinct with new interest. For ten long working years she had passed them daily with indifference, but this afternoon it was borne in upon her that she would never see them again, and the conviction brought with it a bitter pang. After all, they had been happy years, spent in a bustle of youthful life and energy, in an atmosphere of affection, too, for the girls were warm-hearted, and the "Gym. mistress" had been universally popular. Even as the thought passed through Sophie's mind, one of her special adorers appeared suddenly at the far end of the corridor and hurried forward to meet her. "Miss Blake! Darling! You look so white. Are you faint? Take my arm; lean on me. Were you going to lie down?" "I'm going to the Staff-Room. I can manage myself; but, Gladys, find Miss Gifford, and ask her to come to me as soon as she is free. Tell her I'm not well. You're a dear girl, Gladys. Thank you for being so kind to me all these years." Gladys rolled adoring blue eyes, and sped on her mission. The next morning she realised that those thanks had been darling Miss Blake's farewell, and shed bitter tears; but for the moment she was filled with complaisance. Claire appeared in due time, heard what had happened, and helped Sophie to collect her various small belongings. The other teachers had already dispersed, so the ordeal of leave-taking was avoided. "You can explain when you meet them next term!" said Claire. "I can write my good-byes," corrected Sophie. She blinked away a few tears and said piteously, "Not much chance for me if she consults Dr Blank! He's as much discouraged as I am myself. What do you suppose he will advise now? I suppose I'll have to see him to-morrow." "And lie awake all to-night, wondering what he will say! We'll do better than that--we'll call this very afternoon. If he is in, I'm sure he will see us, and a day saved is a day gained. I'll get a taxi." "Another taxi! I'm ruining you, Claire. How I do hate sponging on other people!" "Wouldn't you do it for me, if things were reversed?" "Of course I should, but it's so much more agreeable to help than to be helped. It's ignoble, I suppose, but I do hate to feel grateful!" "Well! No one could by any possibility call you _gracious_, my dear. Is that any consolation?" cried Claire mischievously, and Sophie was surprised into the travesty of a smile. Dr Blank was at home, and listened to what Sophie had to tell him with grave attention. He expressed satisfaction to hear that her holidays had begun, but when questioned as to his probable report to Miss Farnborough, had no consolation to offer. "I am afraid I must tell you honestly that you are not fit for the work. Of course, it is quite possible that there may be a great improvement by September, but, even so, you would be retarding your recovery by going on with such exhausting work. You must try to find something lighter." Sophie laughed, and her laugh was not good to hear. Claire said firmly-- "She _shall_ find it! I will find it for her. There's no need to worry about September. What we want to know is what she is to do _now_?--to- morrow--for the rest of the holidays?" "I can't afford any more injections! They've done me no good, and they cost too much. I can't afford any more treatments. I can only take medicines. If you will give me some medicines--" Dr Blank sat silent; tapping his desk with noiseless fingers; staring thoughtfully across the room. It was evident that he had a proposition to make; evident also that he doubted its reception. "The best thing under the circumstances--the wisest thing," he said slowly at last, "would be for you to go into hospital as an ordinary patient. I could get you a bed in one of my own wards, where I could look after you myself, in consultation with the first men in town. You could have massage, electricity, radium, heat baths, every appliance that could possibly be of use, and you could stay on long enough to give them a chance. It would be an ordinary ward, remember, an ordinary bed in an ordinary ward, and your neighbours would not be up to Newnham standard! You would be awakened at five in the morning, and settled for the night at eight. You would have to obey rules, which would seem to you unnecessary and tiresome. You would be, I am afraid, profoundly bored. On the other hand, you would have every attention that skill and science can devise. You would not have to pay a penny, and you would have a better chance than a duchess in a ducal palace. Think it over, and let me know! If you decide to go, I'll manage the rest. Take a day--a couple of days." "I won't take two minutes, thank you! I'll decide now. I'll go, of course, and thank you very much!" Dr Blank beamed with satisfaction. "Sensible girl! Sensible girl! That's right! That's right! That's very good! You are doing the right thing, and we'll all do our best for you, and your friend here will come to see you and help to make the time pass. Interesting study, you know; valuable opportunity of studying character if you look at it in that light! Why not turn it into literary capital? `Sketches from a Hospital Bed,' `My Neighbours in B Ward,' might make an uncommonly good series. Who knows? We may have you turning out quite a literary star!" Sophie smiled faintly, being one of the people who would rather walk five miles than write the shortest letter. Many unexpected things happen in this world, but it was certain that her own rise to literary eminence would never swell the number! But she knew that Dr Blank was trying to cheer her, so she kept that certainty to herself. The two girls made their way back to Sophie's lodgings, and discussed the situation over the ever-comforting tea. "I shall have to give my landlady notice," Sophie said, looking wistfully round the little room which had been so truly a home. "If I'm to be in hospital for many weeks, it's folly to go on paying the rent; and in any case I can't afford so much now. One can't have doctor's bills, and other luxuries as well. What shall I have to take into hospital? Will they allow me to wear my own things? I don't think I _could_ get better in a calico night-dress! Pretty frills and a blue ribbon bow are as good as a tonic, but will the authorities permit? Have you ever seen ribbon bows in a hospital bed?" "I haven't had much experience, but I should think they would be encouraged, as a ward decoration! I hope so, I'm sure, for I mean to present you with a duck of a dressing-jacket!" "Oh, nothing more, Claire; don't give me anything more. I shall never be able to pay you back," cried Sophie; then, in a voice of poignant suffering, she cried sharply, "Oh, Claire, my little sister! _What_ is to become of my little sister? If I am not able to help, if I need to be helped myself, her education will be interrupted, for it will be impossible to go on paying. Oh, it's too hard--too dreadful! Everything seems so hopeless and black!" "Yes, it does. The way seems blocked. One can't see a step ahead. _Man's extremity_, Sophie!" cried Claire deeply--"_Man's extremity_;" and at that a gleam of light came into Sophie's eyes. "Yes, yes! That's just what it is. Thanks for reminding me. _God's opportunity_!" Sophie leant back in her chair, staring dreamily into space, till presently something of the old bright look came back to her face. "And that," she said softly, "that's the kind of help it is sweet to accept!" CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. AN INVITATION. With Sophie in hospital, pathetically anxious for visits, with the rent of the Laburnum Road lodgings to pay whether one lived in them or not, Claire nerved herself to spend August in town, with the prospect of a September holiday to cheer her spirits. Through one of the other mistresses she had heard of an ideal farmhouse near the sea where the kindly housewife "mothered" her guests with affectionate care, where food was abundant, and cream appeared upon the table at every meal-- thick, yellow, country cream in which a spoon would stand upright. There was also a hammock swung between two apple-trees in the orchard, a balcony outside the bedroom window, and a shabby pony-cart, with a pony who could really go. What could one wish for more? Claire planned a lazy month, lying in that hammock, reading stories about other people, and dreaming still more thrilling romances about herself; driving the pony along country lanes, going out on to the balcony in the early morning to breathe the scent of honeysuckle, and sweetbriar, and lemon thyme, and all the dear, old-world treasures to be found in the gardens of well-conducted farmhouses. She had a craving for flowers in these hot summer days; not the meagre sixpennyworth which adorned the saffron parlour, but a wealth of blossom, bought without consideration of cost. And one day, with the unexpectedness of a fairy gift, her wish was fulfilled. It lay on the table when she returned from school--a long cardboard box bearing the name of a celebrated West End florist, the word "fragile" marked on the lid, and inside were roses, magnificent, half-opened roses with the dew still on their leaves, the fat green stalks nearly a yard in length--dozens of roses of every colour and shade, from the lustrous whiteness of Frau Carl to the purple blackness of Prince Camille. Claire gathered them in her arms, unconscious of the charming picture which she made, in her simple blue lawn dress, with her glowing face rising over the riot of colour, gathered them in a great handful, and ran swiftly upstairs. There was no card inside the box, no message of any kind, but her heart knew no doubt as to the sender, and she dare not face the fire of Mary Rhodes' cross-examination. In the days of daffodils she had treated herself to a high green column of a vase, which was an ideal receptacle for the present treasures. When it was filled there were still nearly half the number waiting for a home, so these were plunged deep into the ewer until the morrow, when they would be taken to Sophie in hospital. The little room was filled with beauty and fragrance, and Claire knew moments of unclouded happiness as she looked around. Presently she extracted two roses from the rest, ran downstairs to collect box, paper and string, and handed rubbish and roses together to Lizzie at the top of the kitchen stairs. Lizzie received her share of the treasures with dignity, cut off the giant stems, which she considered straggly and out of place, and crammed the two heads into a brown cream-jug, the which she deposited on a sunny window-ledge. Claire saw them as she next left the house and shrugged resignedly, for she was beginning to learn the lesson which many of us take a lifetime to master, the wisdom of allowing people to enjoy themselves in their own fashion! The Willoughbys were leaving town in mid July, _en route_ for Switzerland, and later on for a Scottish shooting-box. Claire received an invitation to tea on their last Saturday afternoon, and arrived to find the drawing-room full of visitors. Malcolm Heward was assisting Janet at the tea-table, but with this exception she recognised no one in the room, and was thankful for the attentions of Master Reginald, who hailed her as an old acquaintance, and reproached her loudly for not turning up at "Lord's." "I looked out for you, you know!" he said impressively, and Claire was the more gratified by his remembrance because Malcolm Heward had required a second introduction to awaken his recollection. It is no doubt gratifying to the object of his devotion when a man remains blind to every other member of her sex, but the other members may feel a natural objection to be so ignored! Claire was annoyed by the necessity of that second introduction, and as a consequence made herself so fascinating to the boy who _had_ remembered, that he hugged the sweet delusion that she considered him a man, and was seriously smitten by his charms. He waited upon her with assiduity, gave her exclusive tips as to her choice of cakes, and recited the latest funny stories which were already stale in his own circles, but which came to her ears with agreeable freshness. It was while the two were laughing together over an unexpected _denouement_ that the departure of two guests left a space across which Claire could see a far corner of the room, and perceived that a lady seated on a sofa had raised a tortoiseshell-bound _lorgnon_, to stare across at herself. She was an elderly lady, and at first sight her appearance awoke no recollection. She was just a grey-haired woman, attired in handsome black, in no way differentiated from one or two other visitors of the same age: even when the _lorgnon_ dropped to her side, disclosing a pair of very bright, very quizzical grey eyes, it was a full moment before Claire realised that this was her acquaintance of that first eventful journey to London, none other than Mrs Fanshawe herself. There she sat, smiling, complacent, _grande dame_ as ever, nodding with an air of mingled friendliness and patronage, laying one hand on the vacant place by her side, with an action which was obviously significant. Claire chose, however, to ignore the invitation, and after a grave bow of acknowledgment, turned back to Reginald, keeping her eyes resolutely averted from that far corner. It was Mrs Fanshawe herself who was finally compelled to cross the room to make her greetings. "Miss Gifford! Surely it is Miss Gifford? Mrs Willoughby told me she expected you this afternoon. And how are you, my dear, after this long time?" The tone was all that was cordial and friendly. Claire stood up, tall and stately, and extended a perfectly gloved hand. It was not in human nature to be perfectly natural at that moment. Sub-consciously she was aware that, as the Americans would express it, she was "putting on frills"; sub-consciously she was amused at the artificiality of her own voice. "Quite well, thank you. Exceedingly flourishing!" "You look it," Mrs Fanshawe said, and seated herself ruthlessly in Reginald's chair. "Tell me all about it! You were going to work, weren't you? Some new-fangled idea of being independent. So ridiculous for a pretty girl! And you've had--how long--nearly a year? Haven't got tired of it yet, by any chance?" "Oh, yes; quite often I feel very tired, but I should have felt the same about pleasuring, and work is more worth while. It has been very interesting. I have learnt a great deal." "More than the pupils--hey?" chuckled Mrs Fanshawe shrewdly. "Don't try to pretend that you are a model school-mistress. I know better! I knew you were not the type when I saw you on that journey, and after a year's trial you are less the type than ever." She screwed up her eyes and looked Claire over with deliberate criticism up and down, down and up. "No, my dear! Nature did _not_ intend you to be shut up in a girls' school!" Suddenly she swerved to another topic. "What a journey that was! I nearly expired. If it hadn't been for you, I should never have survived. I told my son you had saved my life. That was my son who met me on the platform!" Was it fancy that an expression of watchfulness had come into the gay eyes? Claire imagined that she recognised such an expression, but, being prepared for some such reference, had herself well in command. Not a nicker of embarrassment passed over her face as she said quietly-- "Yes, I knew it was your son. I met Captain Fanshawe here one evening last winter, so I have been introduced." Mrs Fanshawe waved her _lorgnon_, and murmured some vague words which might, or might not, have been intended as an apology. "Oh, yes. So nice! Naturally, that morning I was worn-out. I did not know what I was doing. I crawled into bed. Erskine told me about meeting you, and of your pretty performance. Quite a professional _siffleuse_! More amusing than school teaching, I should say. _And_ more profitable. You ought to think of it as a profession. Erskine was quite pleased. He comes here a great deal. Of course--" Mrs Fanshawe's smile deepened in meaning fashion, then suddenly she sighed. "Very delightful for them, of course; but I see nothing of him. We mothers of modern children have a lonely time. I used to wish for a daughter, but perhaps, if I'd had one, _she_ would have developed a fancy to fly off to India!" That was a hit at Claire, but she received it in silence, being a little touched by the unaffected note of wistfulness in the other's voice as she regretted her lonely estate. It _was_ hard to be a widow, and to see so little of an only child, especially if that only child happened to be so altogether charming and attractive! Mrs Fanshawe glanced across at the tea-table where Janet and her cavalier were still busy ministering to the needs of fresh arrivals. "I asked Janet Willoughby to take pity on me for a few weeks this summer, but she's too full up with her own plans. Says so, at least; but I dare say it would have been different if-- Well, well! I have been young myself, and I dare say I shouldn't have been too keen to accept an invitation to stay in the country with only an old woman as companion. Enjoy yourself while you are young, my dear. It gets more and more difficult with every year you live." Claire made a protesting grimace. "Does it? That's discouraging. I've always flattered myself that it would grow easier. When one is young, everything is vague and unsettled, and naturally one feels anxious about what is to happen next. It is almost impossible to be philosophical about the unknown, but when your life has shaped itself, it ought to be easy to settle down and make the best of it, and cultivate an easy mind." Mrs Fanshawe laughed. "Well reasoned, my dear, well reasoned! Most logical and sound. And just as futile in practice as logical things usually are! You wouldn't believe me if I told you that it is the very uncertainty which makes the charm of youth, or that being certain is the bane of old age, but it's the truth, all the same, and when you are sixty you will have discovered it for yourself. Well! so my letter to Mrs Willoughby was of some use after all? She did send you a card!" Claire looked across the room to where Mrs Willoughby sat. Hero- worship is an instinct in hearts which are still fired with youth's enthusiasm, and this stout, middle-aged woman was Claire's heroine _par excellence_. She was _kind_, and to be kind is in good truth the fulfilment of Christ's law. Among Claire's favourite books was Professor Drummond's "The Greatest Thing in the World," with its wonderful exposition of the thirteenth chapter of 1st Corinthians. When she read its pages, her thoughts flew instinctively to this rich woman of society, who was not puffed up, thought no evil, was not easily provoked, suffered long, _and was kind_. The girl's eyes were eloquent with love and admiration as they rested on the plain, elderly face, and the woman who was watching felt a stab of envy at the sight. The old crave for the love of the young, and cherish it, when found, as one of their dearest possessions, and despite the natural gaiety of her disposition there were moments when Mrs Fanshawe felt the burden of loneliness press heavily upon her. "She has done much more than send me a card!" Claire said deeply. "She has been a friend. She has taken away the terrible feeling of loneliness. If I were in trouble, or needed any help, I _know_ that she would give it!" "Oh, yes, yes, naturally she would. So would any one, my dear, who had the chance. But she's a good creature, of course; a dear creature. I'm devoted to her, and to Janet. Janet and I are the best of friends!" Again the meaning look, the meaning tone, and again in Claire's heart the same sweet sense of certainty mingled with a tender compassion for Janet, who was less fortunate than herself. It was a help to look across at the tea-table, and to realise that consolation was waiting for Janet if she chose to take it. Suddenly Mrs Fanshawe switched off on to yet another topic. "And where are you going to spend your summer holidays, my dear?" "In September I am probably going to a farmhouse near the sea." "And in August?" "In town, I think. I have an invalid friend--" Mrs Fanshawe swept aside the suggestion with an imperious hand. "Nonsense! Utter nonsense! _Nobody_ stays in town in August, my good child. The thing's impossible. I've passed through once or twice, _en route_ for country visits, and it's an unknown place. The wierdest people walking up and down! Where they come from I can't conceive; but you never saw anything more impossible. And the shops! I knew a poor girl who became engaged at the end of July, and had to get her trousseau at once, as they sailed in September. She was in despair. _Nothing_ to be had. She was positively in tears." "I shall get engaged in June," Claire said firmly, "and take advantage of the summer sales. I call it most thoughtless of him to have waited till the end of July." But Mrs Fanshawe was not attending; her eyes had brightened with a sudden thought; she was saying to herself, "Why not? I should be alone. There would be no danger of complications, and the child would be a delightful companion, good to look at, plenty to say for herself, and a mind of her own. Quite useful in entertaining, too. I could play off some of my duty debts, and she could whistle to us after dinner. Quite a novelty in the country. It would be quite a draw... A capital idea! I'll say a week, and if it works she can stay on--" "No, my dear, you cannot possibly endure town in August, at least not the entire month. Run down to me for a break. Quite a short journey; an hour and a half from Waterloo, and the air is delightfully fresh. I shall be alone, so I can't offer you any excitement, but if you are fond of motoring--" The blood rushed into Claire's face. She was so intensely, overpoweringly surprised, that, for the moment, all other feelings were in abeyance. The last thing in the world which she had expected was that Erskine's mother should invite her to visit her home. "I don't know if you care for gardening. I'm mad about it myself. My garden is a child to me. I stand no interference. The gardeners are paid to obey me, and carry out my instructions. If they get upsetting, off they go. You'd like my garden. It is not cut out to a regulation pattern; it has a personality of its own. I have all my meals on the verandah in summer. We could get you some tennis, too. You wouldn't be buried alive. Well? What do you say? Is it worth while?" "It's exceedingly kind. It's awfully good of you. I--I am so completely taken by surprise that I hardly know--I shall have to think." "Nonsense, my dear; what is there to think about? You have no other engagement, and you need a change. Incidentally also _I_ want a companion. You would be doing me a good turn as well as yourself. I'm sure your mother would wish it!" No doubt about that! Claire smiled to herself as she realised how Mrs Judge would rejoice over the visit; turning one swallow into a summer, and in imagination beholding her daughter plunged into a very vortex of gaiety. She was still smiling, still considering, when Janet came strolling across the room, and laid her hand affectionately on Mrs Fanshawe's shoulder. "I haven't had a word with you all afternoon! Such a rush of people. You had tea comfortably, I hope: and you, too--Claire!" There was just a suspicion of hesitation before the Christian name. "I have just been asking Miss Gifford to take pity on my loneliness for part of August. She is not knee-deep in engagements, as you are, my dear, and that precious son of mine; so we are going to amuse each other, and see how much entertainment we can squeeze out of the countryside!" "But I haven't--I didn't--I'm not sure," stammered Claire, acutely conscious of the hardening of Janet's face, but once again Mrs Fanshawe waved aside her objections. "But _I_ am sure! It's all settled, my dear--all but the day. Put your address on this silly little tablet, and I'll write as soon as I've looked over my dates. Now, Janet, I'm ready for a chat. Take me out to the balcony, away from this crowd." "And I must go, I think. I'll say good-bye." Claire held out her hand to the daughter of the house. "I hope you may have a delightful summer." "Oh, thanks so much. Oh, yes, yes, I'm quite sure I will," Janet answered mechanically. She touched Claire's hand with her fingers, and turned hastily aside. CHAPTER NINETEEN. ERSKINE FANSHAWE'S HOME. Claire dreaded Mary Rhodes' curiosity on the subject of her proposed visit, but in effect there was none forthcoming. Cecil was too much engrossed in her own affairs to feel anything but a passing interest. "Some one you met at the Willoughbys'? Only the old lady? Rather you than me! Nice house though, I suppose; gardens, motors, that kind of thing. Dull, but luxurious. Perhaps you'll stay on permanently as her companion." "That," Claire said emphatically, "will never happen! I was thinking of clothes... I am quite well-off for evenings, and I can manage for afternoons, but I do think I ought to indulge in one or two `drastic bargains' for morning wear. I saw some particularly drastic specimens in Knightsbridge this week. Cecil ... could you--I hate asking, but _could_ you pay me back?" Cecil's stare of amazement was almost comical under the circumstances. "My--good--girl! I was really pondering whether I dare, I'm horribly hard up, and that's the truth. I've had calls..." "Not Major Carew again? I can't understand it, Cecil. You know I inquired about him, you told me to ask if I had a chance, and his father _is_ rich. He might fly into a rage if he were asked for money, but he would give it in the end. Major Carew might have a bad half-hour, but what is that compared with borrowing from you! And from a man's point of view it's so little, such very small sums!" She caught a change of expression on the other's face, and leapt at its meaning. "Cecil! You have been giving more! Your savings!" "And if I have, Claire Gifford, what business is it of yours? What was I saving for? To provide for my old age, wasn't it? and now that the need has gone, why shouldn't I lend it, if I chose? Frank happens to be hard up for a few months, and besides, there's a reason! ... We are getting tired of waiting... You must never, never breathe a word to a soul, but he wants me ... he thinks it might be better..." Claire stared with wide eyes, Cecil frowned, and finished the sentence in reckless tones-- "We shall probably get married this autumn, and tell his father afterwards." "Oh, Cecil, no! Don't do it! It's madness. It's folly. He ought not to ask you. It will make things fifty times more difficult." "It would make things _sure_!" Mary Rhodes said. The words were such an unconscious revelation of her inner attitude towards her lover, that Claire was smitten with a very passion of pity. She stretched out her hand, and cried ardently. "Cecil, I am thinking of your happiness: I long for you to be sure, but a private marriage is an insult to a girl. It puts her into a wrong position, and no man has the right to suggest it. Where is your pride?" "Oh, my dear," interrupted Cecil wearily, "I'm past worrying about pride. I'm thirty-three, and look older, and feel sixty at the least. I'm tired out in body and soul. I'm sick of this empty life. I want a home. I want rest. I want some one to care for me, and take an interest in what I do. Frank isn't perfect, I don't pretend that he is. I wish to goodness he _would_ own up, and face the racket once for all, but it's no use, he won't! Between ourselves I believe he thinks the old man won't live much longer, and there will be no need to worry him at all. Any way there it is, he won't tell at present, however much I may beg, but he will marry me; he wants to be married in September, and that proves that he _does_ care! He is looking out for a flat, and picking up furniture. _We_ are picking up furniture," Cecil corrected herself hastily. "I go in and ask the prices, and he sends his servants the next week to do the bargaining. And there will be my clothes, too... I'll pay you back in time, Claire, with ten per cent, interest into the bargain, and perhaps when I'm a rich woman the time may come when you will be glad to borrow from me!" The prospect was not cheering, but the intention was good, and as such had to be suitably acknowledged. Claire adjourned upstairs to consult her cheque-book, and decided bravely that the drastic bargains could not be afforded. Then, being a very human, and feminine young woman she told herself that there could be no harm in going to look at the dresses once more, just to convince herself that they were not so very drastic after all, and lo! close inspection proved them even more drastic than she had believed, and by the evening's delivery a choice specimen was speeding by motor van to Laburnum Road. On visiting days Claire went regularly to visit Sophie, who, by her own account, was being treated to seventeen different cures at the same time, and was too busy being rubbed, and boiled, and electrified, and dosed, and put to bed in the middle of the afternoon, and awakened in the middle of the night, to have any time to feel bored. She took a keen interest also in her fellow patients, and was the confidante of many tragic stories which made her own lot seem light in comparison. Altogether she was more cheerful and hopeful than for months back, but the nurses looked dubious, and could not be induced to speak of her recovery with any certitude. On the tenth of August, Claire packed her boxes with the aid of a very mountain of tissue paper, and set forth on her journey. The train deposited her at Hazlemere station, outside which Mrs Fanshawe was waiting in a big cream car, smiling her gay, quizzical smile. She was one of the fortunate women who possess the happy knack of making a guest feel comfortable, and at home, and her welcome sent Claire's spirits racing upwards. Many times during the last fortnight had she debated the wisdom of visiting Erskine Fanshawe's home, but the temptation was so strong that at every conflict prudence went to the wall. It was not in girl nature to resist the longing to see his home and renew her acquaintance with his mother; and as it had been repeatedly stated that he himself was to spend most of August in Scotland, she was absolved from any ulterior design. Janet Willoughby had obviously looked upon the visit with disfavour, but Claire was too level-headed to be willing to victimise herself for such a prejudice. Janet would have a fair field in Scotland. She could not hold the whole kingdom as a preserve! "You are looking charming, my dear," Mrs Fanshawe said. "I always say it is one of the tests of a lady to know how to dress for a journey. A little pale, perhaps, but we shall soon change that. This high air is better than any tonic. I laze about during the heat of the day, and have a two hours' spin after tea; I never appear until eleven, and I rest in my own room between lunch and tea, so you won't have too much of my society, but I've a big box of new books from Mudie's for you to read, and there's a pony-cart at your disposal, so I dare say you can amuse yourself. I love companionship, but I couldn't talk to the cleverest woman in Europe for twelve hours at a stretch." "Nor I!" agreed Claire, who to tell the truth was more elated at the prospect of so much time to herself than she felt it discreet to betray. She was enchanted with her first view of the beautiful Surrey landscape, and each turn of the road as they sped uphill seemed to open out more lovely vistas. They drove past spinneys of pine trees, past picturesque villages, consisting of an old inn, a few scattered cottages, a pond and a green, along high roads below which the great plain of thickly-treed country lay simmering in a misty haze. Then presently the road took a sudden air of cultivation, and Claire staring curiously discovered that the broad margin of grass below the hedge on either side, was mown and rolled to a lawn-like smoothness, the edges also being clipped in as accurate a line as within the most carefully tended garden. For several hundred yards the margin stretched ahead, smooth as the softest velvet, a sight so rare and refreshing to the eye that Claire could not restrain her delight. "But how charming! How unexpected! I never saw a lane so swept and garnished. It has a wonderful effect, those two long lines of sward. It _is_ sward! grass is too common a word. But what an amount of work! Twenty maids with twenty mops sweeping for half a year.--I think the whole neighbourhood ought to be grateful to the owner of this land." Mrs Fanshawe beamed, complacently. "I'm glad you think so. _I_ am the owner! This is my property, mine for my lifetime, and my son's after me. It's one of my hobbies to keep the lane mown. I like to be tidy, outside as well as in. Erskine began by thinking it a ridiculous waste of work, but his friends are so enthusiastic about the result, that he is now complacently convinced that it was entirely his own idea. That's a man, my dear! Illogical, self-satisfied, the best of 'em, and you'll never change them till the end of time... What's your opinion of men?" "I rather--like them!" replied Claire with a _naivete_ which kept her listener chuckling with amusement until the lodge gates were reached, and the car turned into the drive. The house was less imposing than the grounds, just a large comfortable English country house, handsome and dignified, but not venerable in any way. The hall was good, running the entire length of the house, and opening by tall double doors on to the grounds at the rear. In summer these doors were kept open, and allowed a visitor a charming vista of rose pergolas and the blue-green foliage of an old cedar. All the walls of the house from top to bottom were painted a creamy white, and there was noticeable a prevailing touch of red in Turkey carpets, cushion- covers, and rose-flecked chintzes. Tea was served on a verandah, and after it was over Mrs Fanshawe escorted her visitor round the flower gardens, and finally upstairs to her own bedroom, where she was left with the announcement that dinner would be served at eight o'clock. After dinner the ladies played patience, drank two glasses of hot-water, and retired to bed at ten o'clock. It was not exciting, but on the other hand it was certainly not dull, for Mrs Fanshawe's personality was so keen, so youthful in its appreciation, that it was impossible not to be infected, and share in her enjoyment. The next week passed quickly and pleasantly. The weather was good, allowing long drives over the lovely country, a tennis party at home, and another at a neighbouring house introduced a little variety into the programme, and best of all Mrs Fanshawe grew daily more friendly, even affectionate in manner. She was a woman of little depth of character, whose main object in life was to amuse herself and avoid trouble, but she had humour and intelligence, and made an agreeable companion for a summer holiday. As her intimacy with her guest increased she spoke continually of her son, referring to his marriage with Janet Willoughby with an air of complacent certitude. "Of course he will marry Janet. They've been attached for years, but the young men of to-day are so deliberate. They are not in a hurry to give up their freedom. Janet will be just the right wife for Erskine, good tempered and yielding. He is a dear person, but obstinate. When he once makes up his mind, nothing will move him. It would never do for him to have a high-spirited wife." "I disapprove of pandering to men," snapped Claire in her most High School manner, whereupon the conversation branched off to a discussion on Women's Rights, which was just what she had intended and desired. On the seventh afternoon of her visit, Claire was in her room writing a letter to Sophie when she heard a sudden tumult below, and felt her heart bound at the sound of a familiar voice. The pen dropped from her hand, and she sat transfixed, her cheeks burning with excitement. It could not be! It was preposterous, impossible. He was in Scotland. Only that morning there had been a letter.--It was impossible, impossible, and then again came the sound of that voice, that laugh, and she was on her feet, running across the floor, opening the door, listening with straining ears. A voice rose clear and distinct from the hall beneath, the deep, strong voice about which there could be no mistake. "A perfect flood! The last five days have been hopeless. I was tired of being soaked to the skin, and having to change my clothes every two hours, so I cut it, picked up Humphreys in town, and came along home. And how have you been getting on, mater? You look uncommonly fit!" "I'm quite well. I am perfectly well. You need not have come home on my account," Mrs Fanshawe's voice had a decided edge. "I suppose this is just a flying visit. You will be going on to pay another visit. I have a friend with me--a Miss Gifford. You met her at the Willoughbys'." "So I did! Yes. That's all right. I'm glad you had company. I suppose I _shall_ be moving on one of these days. I say, mother, what about tea?" Claire shut the door softly, and turned back into the room. Erskine's voice had sounded absolutely normal and unmoved: judging by it no one could have imagined that Miss Gifford's presence or absence afforded him the slightest interest, and yet, and yet, the mysterious inner voice was speaking again, declaring that it was not the wet weather which had driven him back ... that he had hurried home because he knew, he knew-- In ten minutes' time tea would be served. Claire did not change her dress or make any alteration in her simple attire, her energies during those few minutes were chiefly devoted to cooling her flushed cheeks, and when the gong sounded she ran downstairs, letters in hand, and evinced a politely impersonal surprise at the sight of Captain Erskine and his friend. Mrs Fanshawe's eyes followed the girl's movements with a keen scrutiny. It seemed to her that Claire's indifference was a trifle overdone: Erskine also was unnaturally composed. Under ordinary circumstances such a meeting would have called forth a frank, natural pleasure. She set her lips, and determined to leave nothing to chance. CHAPTER TWENTY. THE FLOWERY WAY. Only a few hours before her son's unexpected arrival, Mrs Fanshawe had warmly pressed Claire to extend her visit to a fortnight at least, and Claire had happily agreed. Mrs Fanshawe recalled the incident as she poured out tea, and rated herself for her imprudence, but the deed was done; there was the girl, looking pretty enough to turn any young man's head, and there, alas! was Erskine, who should, by all the laws of what was right and proper, be even now making love to Janet Willoughby in Scotland! Janet was rich, Janet was well born, Janet was amiable and easily led, for years past Mrs Fanshawe had set her heart on Janet as a daughter-in-law, and she was not easily turned from her purpose. Throughout that first afternoon her thoughts were busily engaged planning ahead, striving to arrange the days to the hindrance of dangerous _tete-a-tetes_, Erskine appeared to have returned in ignorance of Miss Gifford's presence. Mrs Fanshawe had been careful to avoid all reference to the girl in her letters, and was unable to think how the information could have leaked out, nevertheless the choice of Major Humphreys as a companion filled her with suspicion. Never before had such an invitation been given on Erskine's initiative; on more than one occasion, indeed, he had confessed that he found the Major a bore, and had expressed surprise at his mother's liking for so dull a man. Mrs Fanshawe had never found the Major dull, since he shared with enthusiasm her own passion for gardening, and was a most valuable adviser and assistant. Together they had planned the flagged path winding low between the high banks of the rock garden, together they had planted the feathery white arenaria calearica in the crevices of the steps leading upward to the pergola, together they had planned the effect of clusters of forget-me-not, and red tulips among the long grasses in the orchard. There was never any dearth of conversation between Major Humphreys and Mrs Fanshawe, and a stroll round the rose garden might easily prolong itself into a discussion lasting a couple of hours. Hence came the suspicion, or Erskine knew as much, and had deliberately invited this man before any one of his own friends. Despite all appearance to the contrary, Mrs Fanshawe felt convinced that "the bore" had been brought down to engage her own attention, and so leave her son free to follow his own devices. She set her lips, and determined on a counter move. A _partie carree_ was dangerous under the circumstances; safety lay in a crowd. That evening when Mrs Fanshawe retired to dress for dinner, the telephone in her boudoir was used to ring up all the big houses in the neighbourhood, invitations were given galore for tennis, for dinner, for lunch; and return invitations were accepted without consultation with her son. At the end of half an hour she hung up the receiver, satisfied that Erskine's opportunities for _tete-a-tetes_ would be few. Perhaps also time would suggest some excuse for shortening the girl's visit to the ten days originally planned. She must think it out, put her wits to work. Claire was a pretty creature and a delightful companion, but a nobody, and poor into the bargain. She could not be allowed to upset a cherished plan! During dinner Mrs Fanshawe alluded casually to the coming gaieties, and mentally paid a tribute of admiration to the _aplomb_ with which Claire listened, and smiled, betraying not a flicker of surprise at the sudden change of programme. The good lady was so pleased with the result of her own scheming, that when later on the Major proposed a game of patience, she accepted at once, and viewed with equanimity the sight of the two young people strolling down the garden path. It would be the last night when such an escape would be possible! It was an exquisite moonlight night, clear enough to show the colour of the flowers in the beds and borders. Claire's white dress took on a ghostly hue against the deep background of the trees, her cheeks were pale, too, and the long line of eyelash showed dark against her cheeks. She felt very happy, very content, just the least little bit in the world, afraid! Captain Fanshawe was smoking a cigarette, and in the intervals drawing deep sighs of enjoyment. "There's only one thing that worries me--why didn't I come back last week? To think of rain, and mist, and smoky fires, and then--This! I feel like a man who has been transported into fairyland!" Claire felt as if she also was in fairyland, but she did not say so. There are things that a girl does not say. They paced up and down the winding paths, and came to the flight of steps leading to the pergola, "The Flowery Way" as Mrs Fanshawe loved to call it, where the arenaria calearica shone starry white in the moonlight. Erskine stopped short, and said urgently-- "Would you mind walking on alone for a few yards? I'll stand here ... while you go up the steps. Please!" Claire stared in surprise, but there seemed no reason to deny so simple a request. "And what am I to do when I get there?" "Just stand still for a moment, and then walk on... I'll come after!" Claire laughed, shrugged, and went slowly forward along the flagged path, up the flower-sprinkled stair, to pause beneath an arch of pink roses and look back with an inquiring smile. Erskine was standing where she had left him, but he did not smile in response, while one might have counted twenty, he remained motionless, his look grave and intent, then he came quickly forward, leapt up the shallow steps and stood by her side. "Thank you!" he said tersely, but that was all. Neither then or later came any explanation of the strange request. For a few moments there was silence, then Erskine harked back to his former subject. "Scottish scenery is very fine, but for restful loveliness, Surrey is hard to beat. You haven't told me yet how you like our little place, Miss Gifford! It's on a very modest scale, but I'm fond of it. There's a homey feeling about it that one misses in bigger places, and the mater is a genius at gardening, and gets the maximum of effect out of the space. Are you fond of a garden?" "I've never had one!" Claire said, and sighed at the thought. "That's one of the Joys that does _not_ go with a roving life! I've never been able to have as many flowers as I wanted, or to choose the right foliage to go with them, or to pick them with the dew on their leaves." She paused, smitten with a sudden recollection. "One day this year, a close, smouldering oven-ey day, I came in from school and found--a box full of roses! There were _dewdrops_ on the leaves, or what looked like dewdrops. They were as fresh as if they had been gathered an hour before. Dozens of roses, with great long stems. They made my room into a bower." "Really! Did they? How very jolly," was Erskine's comment. His voice sounded cool and unperturbed, and Claire did not venture to look at his face. She thought with a pang, that perhaps after all she had been mistaken. Perhaps Mrs Willoughby had been the real donor ... perhaps he had never thought... She hurried on terrified lest her thoughts might be suspected. "Mrs Fanshawe has been so kind, allowing me to send boxes of fruit and flowers to a friend in hospital. One of our mistresses, who is being treated for rheumatism." "Poor creature!" said the Captain with careless sympathy. "Dull work being in hospital in this weather. How have you been getting on with my mother, Miss Gifford? I'm awfully glad to find you down here, though I should have enjoyed showing you round myself. I'm a bit jealous of the mater there! She's a delightful companion, isn't she? So keen and alert. I don't know any woman of her age who is so young in spirit. It's a great gift, but--" he paused, drew another cigarette from his case, and stared at it reflectively, "it has its drawbacks!" "Yes. I can understand that. It must be hard to feel young, to _be_ young in heart and mind, and to be handicapped by a body that persists in growing old. I've often thought how trying it must be." "I suppose so. Yes. I'm afraid I wasn't thinking about it in that light. I was not discussing the position from my mother's point of view, but from--her son's! It would be easier sometimes to deal with a placid old lady who was content with her knitting, and cherished an old- fashioned belief in the superiority of man! Well! let us say the equality. But the mater won't even grant that. By virtue of her superior years she is under the impression that she can still manage my affairs better than I can myself, which, of course, is a profound delusion!" Looking at the firmly cut profile it seemed ridiculous to think of any one managing this man if it were not his will to be managed. Mother and son were alike in possessing an obstinate self-will. A conflict between them would be no light thing. Woman-like, Claire's sympathies leant to the woman's side. "It must be very difficult for a mother to realise that her son is really past her control. And when she _does_, it must be a painful feeling. It isn't painful for the son; it's only annoying. The mother fares worst!" Captain Fanshawe laughed, and looked down at the girl's face with admiring eyes. "What a faculty you have of seeing the other side! Do you always take the part of the person who isn't here? If so, all the better for me this last week, when the mater has been spinning stories of my obstinacy, and pig-headedness, and general contradictiveness. I thought I had better hurry home at once, before you learnt to put me down as a hopeless bad lot!" Claire stood still, staring with widened eyes. "Hurry home--hurry home before--" She stopped short, furious with herself for having taken any notice of the slip, and Erskine gave a short embarrassed laugh, and cried hastily-- "Oh, I knew; of course I knew! The rain was only an excuse. The real reason was that as soon as I knew you were staying here, I hadn't patience to stay on. I stood it for exactly three hours, thinking of you in this garden, imagining walking about as we are walking now, and then--I bolted for the afternoon train!" Claire felt her cheeks flame, and affected dignity to hide her deep, uncontrollable joy. "If _I_ had been your hostess--" "But you weren't, you see... You weren't! For goodness' sake don't put yourself in her place next. Be Claire Gifford for once, and say you are glad to see me!" His eyes met hers and twinkled with humour as he added solemnly. "There's not a single solitary convention that could possibly be broken by being civil to a man in his own home! Even your ultra sensitive conscience--" "Never mind my sensitive conscience. What I want to know is, how did you know? Who told you that I was here?" It was significant that the possibility that Mrs Fanshawe had written of her guest never occurred to Claire's mind; that Erskine like herself discounted such a possibility. He replied with a matter-of-fact simplicity which left Claire marvelling at the obtuseness of mankind-- "Janet, of course. Janet Willoughby. We were staying in the same house. We were talking of you yesterday morning, and comparing notes generally. She said you were--oh! quite a number of agreeable things-- and I agreed with her, with just one exception. She considered that you were responsive. I said I had never found any one less so. She said you were always so ready to meet her halfway. I complained that you refused to meet me at all. I ... er ... told her how I felt about it, and she said my chance was waiting if I choose to take it--that you were staying here keeping the mater company. So--" Claire said nothing. She was thinking deeply. For how many days had Janet been staying in the same house with Erskine? Perhaps a week, certainly several days, yet it had been only yesterday morning that she had given the news. Yesterday morning; and in three hours he had flown! How was Janet faring now, while Claire was walking in fairyland? "You are not angry? Why do you look so serious? Tell me you are not sorry that I came?" said a deep voice close to her ear, but before she had time to answer, footsteps approached, and Mrs Fanshawe's voice was heard calling in raised accents-- "Erskine! are you there? Give me your arm, dear; I am so tired. It's such a perfect night, that it seemed a shame to stay indoors. The Major has been admiring `The Flowery Way.' It certainly looks its best to- night." She turned towards Major Humphreys with her light, cynical laugh. "My son declares that it is profanation to allow ordinary, commonplace mortals to walk up those steps! He always escorts my visitors round by another way. He is ungallant enough to say that he has never yet seen a girl whom he would care to watch walk up those steps in the moonlight. She would have to be quite ideal in every respect to fit into the picture. We'll go round by the lily garden, Erskine, and then I think Miss Gifford and I will be off to bed. You men will enjoy a smoke." For the next ten minutes Mrs Fanshawe kept tight hold of her son's arm, and Claire talked assiduously to Major Humphreys. She knew now why Erskine had asked her to walk ahead up "The Flowery Way!" CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. The next afternoon a party of friends had been bidden for tennis. For the morning no plans had been made, but throughout its length Mrs Fanshawe fought a gallant fight against overwhelming odds, and was hopelessly beaten for her pains. It was her strong determination that her son should be prevented from holding another _tete-a-tete_ with Claire Gifford. Erskine actively, and Claire passively, desired and intended to bring about just that very consummation, while Major Humphreys, shrewdly aware of the purpose for which he had been invited, aided and abetted their efforts by the development of a veritable frenzy of gardening enthusiasm. He questioned, he disputed, he meekly acknowledged his mistakes; he propounded schemes for fresh developments, the scenes of which lay invariably at the opposite end of the grounds from that in which the young people were ensconced. Mrs Fanshawe struggled valiantly, but the Triple Entente won the day, and for a good two hours before lunch, Erskine and Claire remained happily lost to sight in the farthest recesses of the grounds. They had left behind the region of formal seats and benches, and sat on the grass at the foot of a great chestnut, whose dark green foliage made a haven of shade in the midst of the noonday glare. Claire wore her bargain frock, and felt thankful for the extravagant impulse of that January morn. Erskine was in flannels, cool and becoming as a man's _neglige_ invariably is; both had discarded hats, and sat bareheaded in the blessed shade, and Erskine asked questions, dozens of questions, a very _viva voce_ examination, the subject being the life, history, thoughts, hopes, ambitions, and dreams of the girl by his side. "You were an only child. So was I. Were you a lonely little kiddie?" "No, I don't think I was. My mother was a child with me. We were blissfully happy manufacturing a doll's house out of a packing chest, and furnishing it with beds made out of cardboard boxes, and sofas made out of pin-cushions. I used to feel other children a bore because they distracted her attention." "That would be when you were--how old? Six or seven? And you are now-- what is it? Twenty-two? I must have been a schoolboy of seventeen at that time, imagining myself a man. Ten years makes a lot of difference at that age. It doesn't count so much later on. At least I should think not. Do I appear to you very old?" "Hoary!" "No, but I say... Honestly!" "Don't be conceited. You know perfectly well--" "But I wanted to make sure! And then you went to school. Did you have a bad time at first among the other girls?" "No. I'm afraid the other girls had a bad time with me. I was very uppish and British, and insisted on getting my own way. Did _you_ have a bad time?" "Yes, I did," he said simply. "Small boys have a pretty stiff time of it during their first term, and my time happened to be stiffer than most. I may be as miserable again. I hope I never may be! But I'm pretty sure it's impossible to be _more_ miserable than I was at nine years old, bullied on every side, breaking my heart with home sickness, and too proud to show a sign." "Poor little lad!" sighed Claire softly, and for a long minute the two pairs of eyes met, and exchanged a message. "But afterwards? It grew better after that?" "Oh, yes. I learnt to stand up for myself, and moved up in the school, and began to bully on my own... Did you make many real friends in your school days?" "No real lasting friends. They were French girls, you see, and there was the difference of race, and religion, to divide us as we grew up. And we were birds of passage, mother and I; always moving about." "You felt the need of companionship?" "No. I had mother, and we were like girls together." The twin dimples showed in a mischievous smile. "You seem very anxious to hear that I was lonely!" "Well!" said Erskine, and hesitated as though he found it impossible to deny the accusation. "I wanted to feel that you could sympathise with me! I've been more or less lonely all my life, but I have always felt that a time would come when it would be all right--when I'd meet some one who'd understand. I was great chums with my father, but he died when I was twelve, and my school chum went off to China, and comes home for a few months every three years, when it has usually happened that I've been abroad. There are nice enough fellows in the regiment, but I suppose I'm not quick at making friends--" Strive as she would Claire could not resist a twinkle of amusement, their eyes met, and both went off into a peal of laughter. "Oh, well, there are exceptions! That's different. I felt that I knew you at once, without any preliminary stages. It must always be like that when people really fit." And then after a short pause he added in boyish, ingenuous tones, "Did you feel that you knew me?" "I--I think I did!" Claire acknowledged. To both it seemed the most wonderful, the most absorbing of conversations. They were blissfully unconscious that it was old as the hills themselves, and had been repeated with ceaseless reiteration from prehistoric periods. Only once was there an interruption of the deep mutual happiness and that came without warning. Claire was smiling in blissful contentment, unconscious of a care, when suddenly a knife-like pain stabbed her heart. Imagination had wafted her back to Staff-Room. She saw the faces of the fifteen women seated around the table, women who were with but one exception past their youth, approaching nearer and nearer to dreaded age, and an inward voice whispered that to each in her turn had come this golden hour, the hour of dreams, of sweet, illuminative hope. The hour had come, and the hour had passed, leaving behind nothing but a memory and a regret. Why should she herself be more blessed than others? She looked forward and saw a vision of herself ten years hence still hurrying along the well-known street looking up at the clock in the church tower to assure herself that she was in time, still mounting the same bare staircase, still hanging up her hat on the same peg. The prose of it in contradistinction with the poetry of the present was terrifying to Claire's youthful mind, and her look was so white, so strained, that Erskine took instant alarm. "What is it? What is it? Are you ill? Have I said anything to upset you? I say, what _is_ the matter!" "Nothing. Nothing! I had a--thought! Talk hard, please, and make me forget!" The end of the two hours found the cross-questioning still in full force; the man and the girl alike still feeling that the half was not yet told. They resented the quick passage of time, resented the disturbance of the afternoon hours. "What on earth do we want with a tennis party?" grumbled the Captain. "Wish to goodness we could be left alone. I suppose the mater wanted them to amuse you before I came back." Claire murmured incoherently. She knew better, but she was not going to say so! They turned unwillingly towards the house. In the afternoon the guests arrived. They came early, for the Fanshawe tennis courts were in fine condition, and the prospect of meeting a new man and a new girl, plus the son of the house, was a treat in itself in the quiet countryside where the members of the same set met regularly at every function of the year. One of the courts was reserved for men's fours, for Mrs Fanshawe believed in giving her guests what they liked, and there is no doubt that men as a rule are ungallant enough to prefer their own sex in outdoor games. In the second court the younger girls took part in mixed fours, while others sat about, or took part in lengthy croquet contests on the furthest of the three lawns. Claire as a member of the house-party had a good deal of time on her hands, and helped Mrs Fanshawe with the entertainment of the older guests, who one and all eyed her with speculative interest. One thin, faded woman had spent a few years in Bombay and was roused to interest by hearing that Claire's mother was now settled in that city. Yes! she had met a Mr Judge. Robert Judge, was it not? Her husband knew him quite well. He had dined at their house. Quite a dear man. She had heard of his marriage, "but"--here came a look of mystification--"to a _young_ wife; very pretty, very charming--" Claire laughed, and held out a little coloured photograph in a round glass frame which hung by a chain round her neck. "That is my mother. She is thirty-nine, and looks thirty. And she is prettier than that." The faded lady looked, and sighed. Mrs Fanshawe brightened into vivid interest. "You know Mr Judge, then? You have met him? That's quite interesting. That's very interesting!" Claire realised with some irritability that the fact that one of her own acquaintances knew and approved, instantaneously raised Mr Judge in her hostess's estimation. Hitherto he had been a name, a nobody; now he became a real man, "quite a dear man," a man one could know! The result was satisfactory enough, but Claire was irritated by the means. She was irritated also by the subtle but very real change in her hostess's manner to herself in the last twenty-four hours; irritated because the precious hours were passing, and Erskine was surrounded by his guests, playing endless sets on the hot lawn. He looked as though he were enjoying himself, too, and that added to her annoyance, for like many another girl she had not yet realised that a man can forget even his love in his whole-hearted enjoyment of sport! At tea-time, however, there was a lull when Erskine carried a chair to Claire's side, and seated himself with an air of contentment. Once and again as the meal progressed she saw his eyes rove around, and then come back to dwell upon herself. She knew that he was comparing her with the other girls who were present, knew also by the deep glow of that returning glance, that in his eyes she was fairest and best. The former irritation dropped from her like a cloak. Tea was over, the guests rose from their seats. Erskine stood by Claire's side looking down at her with a quizzical smile. "Er--did you notice that man who came in just before tea, with the girl in the pink frock? He was sitting over there, on the right?" "Yes, I noticed him. I could see him quite well. Why?" "What did you think of him?" "Quite nice. I liked his face. Good-natured and interesting." Erskine laughed. "Sure?" "Quite sure. Why?" "Don't recognise him at all? Doesn't remind you of any one you know?" "Not in the least. Why should he?" Erskine laughed again. "I'm afraid your memory is defective. I must introduce you again!" He walked away, laid his hand on the arm of the new-comer, and led him back to Claire's side. "Miss Gifford," he said gravely, "allow me to introduce--Major Carew!" CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. FOUND OUT. The man with the good-natured, interesting face bowed to Claire with the alacrity which the normal man shows at an introduction to a pretty girl; Claire stared blankly, recovered herself, and returned his bow in formal manner. Erskine looked from one to the other in undisguised surprise. "I thought you had met... You told me you had met Carew in town!" "Not _this_ Major Carew!" Claire could not suppress a tone of regret. With all her heart she wished that the man before her had been Cecil's fiance. "It was the same name, but--" "Not the same man? It's not an unusual name, I expect there are several of us knocking about," the present Major Carew said smilingly. "Do you happen to know his regiment?" Claire knew it well, but as she pronounced the name, the hearer's face crinkled in confusion. "But that is my own regiment! There _is_ no other Carew! There's some mistake. You have mixed up the names." "Oh no. I've heard it a hundred times. It is impossible to be mistaken. His Christian name is Frank." "_My_ name is Frank!" the strange man said, and stared at Claire in increasing perplexity. "There is certainly not another Frank Carew in the M---. There is something wrong about this. I don't understand!" "He is a member of the --- Club, and his people live in Surrey. He has an old father who is an invalid, and the name of the house is `The Moat'--" Major Carew's face turned a deep, apoplectic red, his light eyes seemed to protrude from his head, so violent was his anger and surprise. "But--that's _me_! That's my club, my father, my home! Somebody has been taking my name, and passing himself off under false colours for some mysterious reason. I can't imagine what good it is going to do him." He broke off in alarm, and cast an appealing look at Erskine as Claire suddenly collapsed on the nearest chair, her face as white as her gown. "I say, this is a bad business I'm most awfully sorry. I'm afraid Miss Gifford is distressed--" Erskine's lips were set in a fury of anger. He glanced at Claire and turned hurriedly away, as though he could not trust himself to look at her blanched face. To see the glint of his eye, the set of the firm jaw, was to realise that it would fare badly with the masquerader should he come within reach. There was a moment of tense, unhappy silence, then Erskine drew forward two more chairs, and motioned to the Major to be seated. "I think we shall have to thresh this out! It is naturally a shock, but Miss Gifford's acquaintance with this person is very slight. She took a violent dislike to him at first sight, so you need not fear that she will feel any personal distress. That is so, isn't it? That's the real position?" Claire nodded a quick assent. "Yes, yes. I met him twice, and I hated him from the first; but my friend believes..." Her voice broke, and she struggled for composure, her chin quivering with pitiful, child-like distress. "He is engaged to be _married_ to my friend!" A deep murmur of anger came simultaneously from both hearers. The real Major Carew straightened himself with an air of determination. "Engaged to her? Under my name? This is too strong! And in the name of wonder, what for? I'm nobody. I've nothing. I'm the most insignificant of fellows, and chronically hard up. What had he to gain by taking my name?" "You are a gentleman, and he is not. Everything is comparative. He wanted to impress my friend, and he knew you so well that it was easy to pretend, and make up a good tale. He _said_ he was hard up. He--he-- borrowed money!" "From the girl?" Again came that deep murmur of indignation. "What an unspeakable cur, and--excuse me, what a poor-spirited girl to have anything to do with him after that! Could you do nothing to prevent her making such a fool of herself?" "Nothing. I tried. I tried hard, but--" Erskine looked at her with his keen, level glance. "And she borrowed from you to supply his needs? No, never mind, I won't ask any more questions, but I know! I know!" His eyes hardened again as he turned towards the other man. "Carew, this is pure swindling! We shall have to worry this out!" "I believe you, my boy!" said the Major tersely. He turned to Claire and added more gently, "Tell us some more about this fellow, Miss Gifford! Describe him! Would you recognise him if you met again?" "Oh, yes. At once. He is tall and dark, good-looking, I suppose, though I detest his type. Very dark eyes. Large features." The Major ruminated, finding apparently no clue in the description. "Tall. Dark. Large features! I know about a hundred men to whom that description might apply. Could you think of anything more definite?" Claire ruminated in her turn; recalled the image of Cecil's lover, and tried to remember the details of his appearance. "He has very thick hair, and brushes it straight across his forehead. His eyebrows are very short. He has a high colour, quite red cheeks." Major Carew made a short, choking sound; lay back in his chair, and stared aghast. This time it was evident that the description awoke a definite remembrance, but he appeared to thrust it from him, to find it difficult to give credence to the idea. "Impossible!" he murmured to himself. "Impossible! High colour, you say; short eyebrows. When you say `short,' what exactly do you mean?" "They begin by being very thick, then they stop abruptly. They don't follow the line of the eye, like most eyebrows. They look--unfinished!" Major Carew bounced upon his chair. "Erskine, I have an idea.--It seems almost incredible, but I'm bound to find if it is correct! There is a man who is in our camp now. I'll make an excuse, and send him over to-night, if you can arrange that Miss Gifford sees him when he comes. I'll give him a message for you." "_Send_!" repeated Erskine sharply; then he glanced at Claire, and sent a frowning message towards the other man. "That can easily be arranged. We'll leave it till evening, then. We can't get any further now, and I must get back to my duties. The mater is scowling at me. Go and soothe her like a good fellow, but for your life--not a word of this to her!" Major Carew rose obediently, perfectly aware that his company was not wanted, and Erskine bent towards Claire with a few earnest words. "Don't worry! If this man is an impostor, the sooner it is found out, the better. He _is_ an impostor, there's no getting away from that, and he is making a dupe of that poor girl for his own ends. If we had not made this discovery, he would have stuck to her until he had bled her of her last penny, and then would probably have disappeared into space. She knows nothing of his real name or position, so it would have been difficult to trace him, and probably nothing to be gained, if he _were_ found. One reads of these scoundrels from time to time, but I've never had the misfortune to meet one in the flesh. I'd like to horsewhip the fellow for upsetting you like this!" "Oh, what does it matter about me?" Claire cried impatiently. "It's Cecil I'm thinking about--my poor, poor friend! She's not young, and she is tired out after twelve years of teaching, and it's the _second_ time! Years ago a man pretended to love her, it was only pretence, and it nearly broke her heart. She has never been the same since then. It made her bitter and distrustful." "Poor creature! No wonder. But that was some time ago, and now she is engaged to this other fellow. Is she in love with him, do you suppose?" Claire shrugged vaguely. "I--don't--know! She is in love with the idea of a home." "And he? You have seen them together. He is a cur, there's no getting away from that, but he might be attached to the girl all the same. Do you think he is?" "Oh, how can I tell?" Claire cried impatiently. "She thinks he is, but she thought the same about the other man. It doesn't seem possible to tell! Men amuse themselves and pretend, and act a part, and then laugh at a girl if she is so foolish as to believe--" Captain Fanshawe bent forward, his arm resting on his knees, his face upraised to hers; a very grave face, fixed and determined. "Do you believe that, Claire? Do you believe what you are saying?" The grey eyes looked deep into hers, compelling an answer. "I--I think many of them--" "Some of them!" the Captain corrected. "Just as some girls encourage a man to gratify their own vanity. They are the exceptions in both cases; but you speak in generalities, condemning the whole sex. Is it what you really think--that most men pretend?" The grey eyes were on her face, keen, compelling eyes from which there was no escape. Claire flushed and hesitated. "No! No, I don't. Not most. But there are some!" "We are not concerned with `some'!" he said quietly, and straightening himself, he cast a glance around. The guests were standing about in little groups, aimless, irresolute, waiting to be broken up into twos and fours, and drafted off to the empty lawns; across the deserted tea-tables his mother's eyes met his, coldly reproachful. Erskine sighed, and rose to his feet. "I must go. These people need looking after. Don't look so sad. It hurts me to see you sad." Just those few, hastily-spoken words and he was gone, and Claire strolled off in an opposite direction, anxious to screen herself from observation among the crowd. She ached with pity for Cecil, but through all her distresses the old confidence lay warm at her heart. There was one man in the world who towered high above the possibility of deceit; and between that man and herself was a bond stronger than spoken word. The future seemed full of difficulties, but Claire did not trouble herself about the future. The present was all-absorbing, full of trouble; full of joy! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was seven o'clock before the last of the guests had departed, and Mrs Fanshawe saw to it that her son was fully engaged until it was time to dress for dinner. Her keen eyes had noticed signs of agitation as the two young people sat together at tea. And what had Erskine been talking about with that tense expression on his face? And what had happened to the girl that she looked at one moment so radiant, and at the next so cast-down? Mrs Fanshawe's affections, like those of most selfish people, were largely influenced by personal considerations. A week before she had felt quite a warm affection for the agreeable companion who had rescued her from the boredom of lonely days, now hour by hour, she was conscious of a rising irritation against the girl who threatened to interfere with her own plans. The verdict of others confirmed her own suspicions as to Erskine's danger, for during the afternoon half a dozen intimate friends referred to Claire with significant intonation. "Such a graceful creature. No wonder Erskine is _epris_!" ... "Miss Gifford is quite charming." ... "_So_ interested to meet Miss Gifford!" Eyes and voice alike testified to the conviction that if an engagement were not already arranged, it was a certainty in the near future. Mrs Fanshawe set her lips, and determined by hook or crook to get Claire Gifford out of the house. That evening at nine o'clock the parlour-maid announced that Major Carew's soldier servant wished to see Captain Fanshawe on a message from his master, and Erskine gave instructions that he should be sent round to the verandah, and stepped out of the window, leaving Claire wondering and discomfited. What had happened? Was the impostor not to be found? In her present tension of mind any delay, even of the shortest, seemed unbearable. The murmur of voices sounded from without, then Erskine stepped back into the room, and addressed himself pointedly to Claire, but without using her name. "Would you come out just for two minutes? It's some plan for to- morrow." Claire crossed the room, acutely conscious of Mrs Fanshawe's displeasure, stepped into the cool light of the verandah and beheld standing before her, large and trim in his soldier's uniform, Cecil's lover, the man who had masqueraded under his master's name. For one breathless moment the two stood face to face, staring, aghast, too petrified by surprise to be able to move or speak. Claire caught hold of the nearest chair, and clutched at its back; the florid colour died out of the man's cheeks, his eyes glazed with horror and dismay. Then with a rapid right-about-face, he leapt from the steps, and sped down the drive. Another moment and he had disappeared, and the two who were left, faced each other aghast. "His servant! His _servant_! Oh, my poor Cecil!" "The scoundrel! It was a clever ruse. No need to invent details: he had them all ready to his hand. The question is, what next? The game is up, and he knows it. What will be his next move?" Claire shook her head. She was white and shaken. The reality was even worse than she had expected, and the thought of Cecil's bitterness of disillusion weighed on her like a nightmare. She tried to speak, but her lips trembled and Erskine drew near with a quick word of consolation-- "Claire!" "What is this plan, Erskine? Am I not to be consulted? Remember that you are engaged to lunch with the Montgomerys to-morrow." Mrs Fanshawe stood in the doorway, erect, haughty, obviously annoyed. Her keen eyes rested on Claire's face, demanding a reason for her embarrassment. Erskine made a virtue of necessity, and offered a short explanation. "A disagreeable thing has happened, mother. Miss Gifford has discovered through Major Carew that a friend is in serious trouble. It has been rather a shock." "Dear me. Yes! It would be. Perhaps you would like to go to your room, my dear. I'm tired myself, and shall be glad to get to bed. I am sure you must wish to be alone. Shall we go?" Claire said good night to the two men and went wearily upstairs. At this moment even her own inward happiness failed to console. When contrasted with her own fate, Cecil's seemed so cruelly unfair! CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. "NO!" Sleep refused to come to Claire that night. She lay tossing on her bed while the old clock in the corridor without struck hour after hour. Two, three, four, and still she tossed, and turned, and again and again asked herself the world-old question, "What shall I do? What shall I do?" and shuddered at the thought of the disillusionment which was coming to her poor friend. What was her own duty in the matter? Obviously Cecil must be told the truth; obviously she was the one to tell it. Would it be possible to _write_? Inclination clamoured in favour of such a course. It would be so much easier: it would obviate the necessity for a lacerating interview. Would it not be easier for Cecil, also? Claire felt that if positions had been reversed, she would crave above all things to be alone, hidden from the eyes of even the most sympathising of friends; but Cecil's nature was of a different type. Having heard the one abhorrent fact, she would wish to probe further, to be told details, to ask a score of trifling questions. However full a letter might be, she would not be satisfied without an interview. "But I might write first, and see her afterwards!" poor Claire said to herself. "It would not be quite so bad, when she had got over the first shock. I could _not_ bear to see her face..." It was five o'clock before at last sleep came to drive away the haunting questions, and when she woke it was to find her early tea had grown cold on the table by her side, and to see on looking at her watch that it was nearly ten o'clock. She dressed hurriedly and went downstairs to find Mrs Fanshawe alone in the dining-room, reading the _Morning Post_. She waved aside Claire's apologies for her late appearance with easy good nature. No one was _expected_ to be punctual at breakfast. It was sheer tyranny to decree that visitors should get up at a definite hour. If Claire had slept badly, why didn't she order breakfast in her room, and spend the morning in bed? "You look a wreck!" she said frankly, and threw down the paper with an impatient gesture. "Such a nuisance about this bad news. Erskine seems disgusted with the whole affair. He has gone off with Major Carew to see what can be done, and is to go straight to the Willoughbys. So tiresome, for I particularly wanted him to be in good form this afternoon! What's it all about? As it has happened in my house, I think I am entitled to an explanation. Something to do with Major Carew's servant? How can your friend be associated with a servant? The man has bolted, it appears. The Major came over half an hour ago to say that he never returned last night. Thought flight the best policy, I suppose, but what I am waiting to be told, is--what has he _done_?" Claire sat down on the nearest chair, feeling more of a wreck than ever. "Deserted! A soldier! But if he is found? The punishment..." "He has already been found out, it appears, so that it was a choice between certain punishment if he stayed, or the chance of getting safely away. I am waiting to hear what it's all about!" "Oh, Mrs Fanshawe, it's so difficult. It's not my secret!" cried poor Claire desperately. "He, this man, has been masquerading under his master's name. My friend knew him as Major Carew. She, they, became very intimate." "Engaged, I suppose! It doesn't say much for her discrimination. Her ideas of what constitute a gentleman must be somewhat vague!" Mrs Fanshawe said disagreeably. She felt disagreeable, and she never made any effort to conceal her feelings, kindly or the reverse. It was annoying that one of her own guests should be mixed up in an unsavoury scandal with a common soldier: annoying to have people going about with long faces, when she had planned a festive week. Really this Claire Gifford was becoming more and more of an incumbrance! Mrs Fanshawe paused with her hand on the coffee-pot, to ask a pointed question-- "Have _you_ also known this man under his false name, may I ask?" Claire flushed uncomfortably. "I met him twice. Only twice. For a very short time." Mrs Fanshawe did not speak, but she arched her eyebrows in a fashion which was more scorching than words. "So you, also, are ignorant of what constitutes a gentleman!" said those eyebrows. "You also have been including my friend's servant among your acquaintances!" Claire felt the hopelessness of trying to justify herself, and relapsed into silence also, the while she made a pretence of eating one of the most miserable meals of her life. According to his mother, Erskine was "quite disgusted" with the whole affair! Claire's heart sank at the thought, but she acknowledged that such an attitude would be no more than was natural under the circumstances. A soldier himself, Captain Fanshawe would be a stern judge of a soldier's fraud, while his _amour propre_ could not fail to be touched. Claire had too much faith to believe that his displeasure would be extended to herself, yet she was miserably aware that it was through her instrumentality that he had been brought in contact with the scandal. In the midst of much confusion of mind only one thing seemed certain, and that was that it was impossible to face a tennis party that afternoon. Claire made her apologies to Mrs Fanshawe as she rose from the table, and they were accepted with disconcerting readiness. "Of course! Of course! I never imagined that you would. Under the circumstances it would be most awkward. I expect by afternoon the story will be the talk of the place. Your friend, I understand, is still ignorant of the man's real station? What do you propose to do with regard to breaking the news?" "In. I'm going to write. I thought I would sit in my room and compose a letter.--It will be difficult!" "Difficult!" Mrs Fanshawe repeated the word with disagreeable emphasis. "Impossible, I should say, and, excuse me! cruel into the bargain. To open a letter from a friend, expecting to find the ordinary chit-chat, and to receive a blow that shatters one's life! My dear, it's unthinkable! You cannot seriously intend it." "You think it would be better if I _told_, her?" Claire asked anxiously. "I wondered myself, but naturally I dreaded it, and I thought she might prefer to get over the first shock alone. I had decided to write first, and see her later on. But you think..." "I think decidedly that you ought to break the news in person. You can lead up to it more naturally in words. Even the most carefully written letters are apt to read coldly; perhaps the more care we spend on them, the more coldly they read." "Yes, that's true, that's quite true, but I thought it would be better not to wait. She is staying at home just now. I don't think he will visit her there, for he seemed to shrink from meeting her mother, but he may write and try--" Claire drew herself up on the point of betraying that borrowing of money which was the most shameful feature of the fraud, but Mrs Fanshawe was too much absorbed in her own schemes to notice the omission. She had seen a way of getting rid of an unwelcome guest, and was all keenness to turn it to account. "He is sure to try to see her again while he is at large. He will probably urge her to marry him at once. You should certainly not defer your visit if it is to be of any use. How dreadful _it_ would be if she were to marry him under an assumed name! You mustn't let us interfere with your arrangement, my dear. You only promised me ten days, so I can't grumble if you run away, and for the short time that Erskine is at home, there are so many friends to fit in... You understand, I am sure, that I am thinking of your own convenience!" "I understand perfectly, thank you!" Claire replied, her head in the air, the indignant colour dying her cheeks with red. Mrs Fanshawe's arguments in favour of haste might be wise enough, but her personal desire was all too plainly betrayed. And she pointedly ignored the fact that the proposed interview need not have interrupted Claire's visit, since it and the journey involved could easily have been accomplished in the course of a day. "I understand perfectly, thank you. I will go upstairs and pack now. Perhaps there is a train I could catch before lunch?" "The twelve-thirty. That will give you the afternoon in town. I'll order a fly from the inn. I'm _so_ sorry for you, dear! Most nerve- racking to have to break bad news, but you'll feel happier when it's done. Perhaps you could take the poor thing with you to that sweet little farm!" Not for the world would Claire have spent the next hour in Mrs Fanshawe's company. She hurried to her room, and placing her watch on the dressing-table, so timed her packing that it should not be completed a moment before the lumbering country "fly" drove up to the door. Then, fully dressed, she descended the staircase, and held out a gloved hand to her hostess, apparently unconscious of an offered kiss. It was some slight consolation to note the change of bearing which had come over Mrs Fanshawe during the last hour, and to realise that the success of her scheme had not brought much satisfaction. She was nervous, she was more than nervous, she was afraid! The while Claire had been packing upstairs, she had had time to realise Erskine's return, and his reception of the news she would have to break. As she drove away from the door, Claire realised that her hostess would have paid a large sum down to have been able to undo that morning's work! For her own part, Claire cared nothing either way: literally and truthfully at that moment even the thought of leaving Erskine had no power to wound. The quickly-following events of the last twenty-four hours had had a numbing effect on her brain. She was miserable, sore, and wounded; the whole fabric of life seemed tumbling to pieces. Love, for the moment, was in abeyance. As the fly passed the last yard of mown grass which marked the boundary of the Fanshawe property, she threw out her arms with one of the expressive gestures, which remained with her as a result of her foreign training. "_Fini_!" she cried aloud. Mentally at that moment, she swept the Fanshawes, mother and son, from the stage of her life. Where should she go next? Back to solitude, and the saffron parlour? London in August held no attraction, but the solitary prospect of being able to see Sophie, and at the moment Claire shrank from Sophie's sharp eyes. Should she telegraph to the farm, and ask how soon she could be received; and at the same time telegraph to Mary Rhodes asking for an immediate interview? A few minutes' reflection brought a decision in favour of this plan, and she drew a pocket-book from her dressing-bag, and busied herself in composing the messages. One to the farm, a second to Laburnum Crescent announcing her immediate return, then came a pause, to consider the difficult wording of the third. Would it be possible to drop a word of warning, intelligible to Cecil herself, but meaningless to anyone else who might by chance open the wire? "Back in town. Have important news. Imperative to see you to-day, if possible. Appoint meeting. Delay dangerous." It was not perfect, but in Claire's dazed condition it was the best she could concoct, and it left a tactful uncertainty as to whether the news affected herself or Cecil, which would make it the easier to explain. Claire counted the words and folded the three messages in her hand-bag, ready to be sent off the moment she reached the station. The fly lumbered on; up a toilsome hill, down into the valley, up another hill on the farther side; then came a scattering of houses, a church, a narrow street lined with shops, and finally the station itself, the clock over the entrance showing a bare four minutes to spare. The porter labelled the luggage, and trundled it down the platform. Claire hurried through her business in the telegraph office, and ran after him just as the train slowed down on the departure platform. One carriage showed two empty corner places on the nearest side, Claire opened the door, seated herself facing the engine, and spread her impedimenta on the cushions. But few passengers had been waiting, for this was one of the slowest trains in the day, but now at this last moment there came the sound of running footsteps, a man's footsteps, echoing in strong heavy beats. With a traveller's instinctive curiosity Claire leant forward to watch the movements of this late comer, and putting her head out of the window came face to face with Erskine Fanshawe himself. At sight of her he stopped short, at sight of him she stood up, blocking the window from sight of the other occupants of the carriage; by a certain defiance of pose, appearing to defend it also against his own entrance. But he did not attempt to enter. Though he had been running, it was his pallor, not his heat, which struck Claire in that first moment. He was white, with the pallor of intense anger; the flash of his eyes was like cold steel. He rested his hands on the sill of the window, and looked up into her face. "This is my mother's doing!" It was a statement, not a question, and Claire made no reply. She stood stiff and silent, while down the length of the platform sounded the quick banging of doors. "I got through sooner than I expected and went home to change. I did not waste time in talking... I could guess what had happened. She made it impossible for you to stay on?" Still silence. The guard's whistle sounded shrilly. Erskine came a step nearer. His white tense face almost touched her own. "Claire!" he whispered breathlessly, "will you marry me?" "Stand back there! Stand back!" cried an authoritative voice. The wheels of the carriage rolled slowly forward. Claire bent forward, and gave her answer in one incisive word-- "No!" The wheels rolled faster and faster: left the station, whirled out into the green, smiling plain. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. A RUPTURE. In after days Claire often looked back upon that journey to London, and tried to recall her own feelings, but invariably the effort ended in failure. She could remember nothing but a haze of general misery and confusion, which deepened with every fresh mile, and reached its acutest point at the moment of arriving "home." The landlady was flustered at having to prepare for so hasty a return, and did not scruple to show her displeasure. She took for granted that Claire had had lunch, and the poor girl had not the courage to undeceive her. A telegram was lying on the dining-room table which announced Cecil's arrival at four o'clock. Claire ordered tea to be ready at that hour, and stretched herself on her bed in the room upstairs which looked so bare and cold, denuded of the beautifying personal touches. She felt incredibly tired, incredibly lonely; she longed with a very passion of longing for some one of her own, for the dear, beautiful mother, who if she did not always understand, was always ready to love. Oh, it was hard, unnatural work, this fighting the world alone! Did the girls who grew weary of the restraints of home, ever realise how their working sisters sickened with longing for some one who cared enough even to _interfere_! Three o'clock, half-past three, a quarter to four. Claire was faint for want of food, and had enough sense to realise that this was a poor preparation for the ordeal ahead; she went downstairs, and threw herself upon Lizzie's mercy. "Lizzie, I have had no lunch. I'm starving. Could you bring up the tea _now_, and make some fresh for Miss Rhodes when she arrives?" "Why couldn't you say so before?" Lizzie asked with the freedom of the lodging-house slavey, but the question was spoken in sympathy rather than anger. "The kettle's boiling, and I've cut the bread and butter. You shall have it in two two's. I'll cut you a sanguidge," she cried as a supreme proof of goodwill, and clattered down the kitchen stairs at express speed. She was as good as her word. In five minutes tea was ready, and Claire ate and drank, keeping her eyes turned resolutely from the clock. Before it had struck the hour, there came from the hall the sound of a well-known double knock, and she knew that the hour of her ordeal had arrived. She did not rise from the table; the tea-things were clattering with the trembling of the hand that was resting upon the tray, she literally had not the strength to rise. She lay back in her chair and stared helplessly at the opening door. Cecil came in. It came as a shock to see her looking so natural, so entirely the Cecil Claire was accustomed to see. She looked tired, and a trifle cross, but alas! these had been prevailing expressions even in the days when things were going comparatively well. Casual in her own manner, she saw nothing unusual in Claire's lack of welcome, she nodded an off-hand greeting, and drew up a chair to the table. "Well! I've come. Give me a cup of tea as a start. I've had a rush for it. You said to-day, if possible, and I had nothing special on hand, so I thought I had better come. What's the news, and what's the danger? Which of us does it affect,--me or you?" "Oh, it's--horrid, horrid, horrid! It's a long story. Finish your tea first, then I'll tell you. I'm _so_ miserable!" "Poor old girl!" Cecil said kindly, and helped herself to bread and butter. Claire had a miserable conviction that her reply had had a deceptive effect, and that the shock when it came, would be all the more severe. Nevertheless, she was thankful for the reprieve; thankful to see Cecil eat sandwiches with honest enjoyment, until the last one had disappeared from the plate. "Well!" Cecil pushed aside her cup, and rested an arm on the table. "Let's get to business. I promised mother I'd catch the six o'clock train back. What's it all about? Some young squire wanting to marry you, and you want my advice? Take him, my dear! You won't always be young and beautiful!" Claire shook her head. "Nothing about me. I wouldn't have worried you in the holidays, if--if it hadn't been for your own sake..." The red flowed into Cecil's cheeks, her face hardened, the tone of her voice was icy cold. "_My_ sake? I don't understand. I am not aware that you have any responsibility about my affairs!" "Cecil, I have! I must have. We have lived together. I have loved you--" Mary Rhodes waved aside the protestations with impatient scorn. "Don't be sentimental, please! You are not one of the girls. If it's the money, and you are in a hurry to be repaid--" "I'm not. I'm not! I don't care if you _never_ pay..." Tears of distress rose in Claire's eyes, she caught her breath and cried in a choking sob. "Cecil, it's about--him! I've found out something. I've seen him... Only last night..." "I thought you might meet as his camp was so near. Suppose you did! What was so terribly alarming in that?" "You haven't heard? He hasn't been to see you, or written, or wired, to-day?" "He has not. Why should he? Don't be hysterical, Claire. If you have anything to say, say it, and let me hear. What have you `found out' about Major Carew?" "He's--_not_ Major Carew!" Claire cried desperately. "He has deceived you, Cecil, and pretended to be ... to be something quite different from what he really is. There _is_ a real Major Carew, and his name is Frank, and he has a home in Surrey, and an invalid father--everything that he told you was true, only--he is not the man! Oh, Cecil, how shall I tell you? It's so dreadfully, dreadfully hard. He knew all about the real Major Carew, and could get hold of photographs to show you, because he--he is his servant, Cecil--his soldier servant... He was with him in camp!" Cecil rose from her chair, and went over to the empty fireplace, standing with her back to her companion. She spoke no word, and Claire struggled on painfully with her explanations. "He--the real Major Carew--came over to a tennis party at Mrs Fanshawe's yesterday. I thought, of course, that it was another man of the same name, but he said--he said there was no other in that regiment, and he asked me to tell him some more, and I did, and everything I said amazed him more and more, for it was true about _himself_! Then he asked me to describe--the man, and he made an excuse to send his servant over in the evening so that I should see him. He came. Oh, Cecil! He saw me, and he--ran away! He had not returned this morning. He has _deserted_!" Still silence. It seemed to Claire of most pitiful import that Cecil made no disclaimer, that at the word of a stranger she accepted her lover's guilt. What a light on the past was cast by that stoney silence, unbroken by a solitary protest. Poor Mary Rhodes had known no doubts as to the man's identity, she had given him affection and help, but respect and trust could never have entered into the contract! Claire had said her say: she leant her elbows on the table, and buried her head in her hands. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked steadily for an endless five minutes. Then Cecil spoke:-- "I suppose," she said harshly, "you expect me to be grateful for this!" The sound of her voice was like a blow. Claire looked up, startled, protesting. "Oh, Cecil, surely you would rather know?" "Should I?" Cecil asked slowly. "Should I?" She turned back to the tireless grate, and her thoughts sped... With her eyes opened she would not, of course, consent to marry this man who had so meanly abused her trust, but--suppose she had not known! Suppose in ignorance the marriage had taken place? If he had been loving, if he had been kind, would she in after days have regretted the step? At the bottom of her weary woman's heart, Cecil answered that she would _not_. The fraud was unpardonable, yet she could have pardoned it, if it had been done for love of herself. No stately Surrey mansion would have been her home, but a cottage of three or four rooms, but it would have been her _own_ cottage, her _own_ home. She would have felt pride in keeping it clean and bright. There would have been some one to work for: some one to care: some one to whom she _mattered_. And suddenly there came the thought of another joy that might have been; she held to her breast a child that was no paid charge, but her very own, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh... "No! No!" she cried harshly, "I am not grateful. _Why_ did you tell me? Why did you spoil it? What do I care who he was? He was my man; he wanted me. He told lies _because_ he wanted me... I am getting old, and I'm tired and cross, but he cared.--He _did_ care, and he looked up to me, and wanted to appear my equal... Oh, I'm not excusing him. I know all you would say. He deceived me--he borrowed money that he could never pay back, but he would have confessed some day, he would have had to confess, and I should have forgiven him. I'd have forgiven him anything, _because_ he cared ... and after that--he would have cared more--I should have had him. I should have had my home..." Claire hid her face, and groaned in misery of spirit. From her own point of view it seemed impossible that any woman should regret a man who had proved so unworthy, but once again she reminded herself that her own working life counted only one year, as against Cecil's twelve; once again she felt she had no right to judge. Presently she became aware that Cecil was moving about the room, opening the bureau, and taking papers out of a drawer. At the end of ten minutes she came back to the table, and began drawing on her gloves. Her face was set and tearless, but the lines had deepened into a new distinctness. Claire had a pitiful realisation that this was how Cecil would look when she was _old_. "Well," she said curtly, "that's finished! I may as well go for my train. I'm sorry to appear ungracious, but you could hardly expect me to be pleased. You meant well, of course, but it's a pity to interfere. There's just one thing I'd like to make clear--you and I can hardly live together after this. I never was a very agreeable companion, and I shall be worse in the future. It would be better for your own sake to make a fresh start, and for myself--I'm sorry to appear brutal, but I could not stand another winter together. It would remind me too much..." She broke off abruptly, and Claire burst into helpless tears. "Oh, Cecil, Cecil ... don't hate me--don't blame me too much! It's been hard on me, too. Do you think I _liked_ breaking such news? Of course I will take fresh rooms. I can understand that you'd rather have some one else, but let us still be friends! Don't turn against me altogether. I'm lonely, too... I've got my own trouble!" "Poor little Claire!" Cecil melted at once, with the quick response which always rewarded an appeal to her better feelings. "Poor little Claire. You're a good child; you've done your best. It isn't _your_ fault." She lifted her bag from the table, and took a step towards the door, then resolutely turned back, and held out her hand. "Good-bye. Don't cry. What's the good of crying? Good luck to you, my dear, and-- take warning by me. I don't know what your trouble is, but as it isn't money, it's probably love.--If it is, don't play the fool. If the chance of happiness comes along, don't throw it away out of pride, or obstinacy, or foolish prejudice. You won't always be young. When you get past thirty, it's ... it's hard ... when there's nothing--" She broke off again, and walked swiftly from the room. The next moment the front door banged loudly. Cecil had gone. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. A SUDDEN RESOLVE. The next morning brought a letter from the farm bidding Claire welcome as soon as she chose to arrive, but there was no second letter on the table. Claire had not realised how confidently she had expected its presence, until her heart sank with a sick, heavy faintness as she lifted the one envelope, and looked in vain for a second. Erskine had not written. Did that mean that he had taken her hasty answer as final, and would make no further appeal? She had read of men who had boasted haughtily that no girl should have an opportunity of refusing them _twice_; that the woman who did not know her own mind was no wife for them, but like every other lover she felt her own case to be unique. Driven to answer in a moment of intolerable irritation, what else could she have said? But he had not written! What did that mean? At the moment of discovering her departure, Erskine had been consumed with anger, but afterwards, had his mother's counsels prevailed? Had he repented himself of his hasty impulse? Would the days pass on, and the months, and the years, and leave her like Cecil, solitary, apart? Claire made a pretence at eating her breakfast, and then, too restless to stay indoors, put on her hat, and went out to roam the streets until it should be time to visit Sophie in her hospital. Two hours later she returned and packed up not only her entire wardrobe, but the whole of her personal possessions. In the course of her walk there had come to her one of those curious contradictory impulses which are so characteristic of a woman's nature. Having poured out her heart in grief because Erskine had neither written nor followed her to town, she was now restlessly impatient to make communication impossible, and to bury herself where she could not be found. Before leaving the house she made Lizzie happy by a present of money, accompanied by quite a goodly bundle of clothing, after which she interviewed the landlady, gave notice that she no longer needed the rooms, and wrote out a cheque in payment of all claims. Then a taxi was summoned, the various boxes piled on top, and another chapter of life had come to an end. Claire drove to the station, whence she proposed to take a late afternoon train to the farm, deposited her boxes in the left luggage office, and strolled listlessly towards the great bookstall under the clock. Another hour remained to be whiled away before she could start for the hospital; she would buy a book, sit in the waiting-room, and try to bury herself in its pages. She strolled slowly down the length of the stall, her eyes passing listlessly from one pile of books to another, finding little interest in them, and even less in the men and women who stood by her side. As Mrs Fanshawe would have said, "No one was in town"; even school-mistresses had flown from the region of bricks and mortar. If she had thought about it at all, Claire would have said that there was no one she _could_ meet, but suddenly a hand grasped her arm, and brought her to a halt. She started violently, and for an instant her heart leapt with a wild glad hope. It was not Erskine Fanshawe who confronted her, however, but a girl clad in a tweed costume with a cloth cap to match, on the side of which a sprig of heather was fastened by a gold brooch fashioned in the shape of a thistle. In bewildered surprise Claire recognised the brown eyes and round freckled face of Janet Willoughby, whom she had believed to be hundreds of miles away, in the highlands of Scotland. "Just come back," Janet explained. "The weather was impossible. Nothing but sheets of rain. I got tired, and came back to pay some visits in the south." She hesitated, then asked a sudden question. "Are you busy? Going anywhere at once? Could you spare half an hour? We might have lunch together in the refreshment room!" "Yes. No. I'd like to. I've had no lunch." Claire faltered nervously, whereupon Janet turned to her maid, who was standing near, dressing-bag in hand, and gave a few quick instructions. "Get a taxi, Ross, and take all the things home. The car can wait for me. I'll follow later." The maid disappeared, and the two girls made their way across the open space. Both looked nervous and ill at ease, both dreaded the coming _tete-a-tete_, yet felt that it was a thing to be faced. Janet led the way to a table in the farthest corner of the room, and they talked trivialities until the ordered dishes were set on the table, and the waiter had taken his departure. Claire had ordered coffee, and drank eagerly, hoping that the physical refreshment would help to steady her nerves. Janet played with her knife and fork, and said, without looking up-- "You have left the Fanshawes, then! I heard that you were staying on." "Yes. Yesterday I--came back." The very lameness of the answer made it significant. Janet's freckled face turned noticeably pale. "Erskine went straight home after he left Scotland?" "Yes." "And before he arrived, you had promised to stay on?" "Mrs Fanshawe asked me, before he came, if I could stay for another week, and I was very glad to accept. I had no other engagement." "And then?" "Oh, then things were different. She didn't need company, and--and-- things happened. My friend, Miss Rhodes--" Janet waved aside "my friend, Miss Rhodes," with an impatient hand. "And Erskine? What did _he_ say to your leaving?" The colour flamed in Claire's cheek; she stammered in hopeless confusion, and, in the midst of her stammering, Janet laid both hands on the table, and, leaning forward so that the two faces were only a few inches apart, spoke a few startling words-- "Has he--_proposed_ to you? I must know! You must tell me!" It was a command, rather than an appeal, and Claire automatically replied-- "He--he did! Yes, but--" "And you?" "I--couldn't. I said no!" "You said no! Erskine asked you to be his wife, and you _refused_?" Janet stared in incredulous bewilderment. A spark of indignation shone in her brown eyes. "But why? You care for him. Any girl might be proud to marry Erskine Fanshawe. _Why_?" "I can't tell you. It's so difficult. His mother--she didn't want me. She would have hated it. She almost turned me out." "His _mother_! Mrs Fanshawe!" Janet's voice was full of an ineffable surprise. "You refused Erskine because of _her_ prejudice? But she is always changing; she is the most undependable woman on the face of the earth! She is charming, and I'm fond of her, but I should not take her advice about a pair of gloves. Nothing that she could say would possibly have the slightest influence on my life. She's irresponsible; she sees entirely from her own standpoint. And Erskine--Erskine is a rock!" She paused, pressing her lips together to still their trembling, and Claire answered with a note of apology in her voice. "Janet, I _know_! Don't think I don't appreciate him. Wait till you hear how it happened... He followed me to the station; it was the very last moment, just as the train was starting. There was time for only one word, and--I was sore and angry!" Janet looked at her, a long, searching look. "It's curious, but I always knew this would come. When I saw you sitting together at supper that first night, I knew then. All the time I knew it in my heart, but on the surface it seemed ridiculous, for you never met!" "Never that you did not know, except one time in the park. There was nothing to tell you, Janet; nothing to hide." "No. So he said. We talked of you in Scotland, you know, and it was just as I thought--a case of recognising each other at first sight. He said the moment he saw you you seemed different from everyone else, and he hoped and believed that you felt the same. That is how people ought to love; the right way, when both are attached, both feel the same... And it is so rare. Yet you _refused_!" "Would you marry a man if his family disapproved?" "Oh, yes! I should not be marrying the family. I'd be sorry, of course, but I'd make up my mind that in time I'd make them fall in love with me, too. What are you going to do now?" "Going away. Into the country. I want to be quiet, and think." Janet did not ask the address. She sat silent, staring into space, then asked a sudden irrelevant question: "Did he send you the cuckoo clock?" "I--think so! It had no name, but it came from Switzerland while he was there. He has never referred to it since." "Ah!" Janet began pulling on her gloves. "I knew that, too. I _felt_ that he had sent it. Well! I must go. It will all come right, of course, and you will be very happy. I've known Erskine so long, and his wife is sure to be happy." Janet forced an artificial little laugh. "You will be engaged before me, after all, but I dare say I shall soon follow suit. It's nice to be loved. As one grows older, one appreciates it more. And Captain Humphreys is a good man." "He is splendid! I loved his face. And he is so devoted to you. It was quite beautiful to watch him," cried Claire, thankful from her heart to be able to enthuse honestly. A load was lifted from her heart by Janet's prophecy of her own future. For the moment it had no doubt been made more out of bravado than any real conviction, and inevitably there must be a period of suffering, but Janet was of a naturally buoyant nature, and her wounded spirit would gradually find consolation in the love which had waited so patiently for its reward. It needed no great gift of prophecy to see her in the future, a happy, contented wife. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. EASIER TO DIE. When Janet had taken her departure Claire looked at the clock and found that it was time to start for the hospital. She went out of the station, and, passing a shop for flowers and fruit went in, spent ten shillings in the filling of a reed basket, and, leaving the shop, seated herself in one of the taxis which were standing in readiness outside the great porch. Such carelessness of money was a natural reversion to habit, which came as a consequence of her absorbed mind. The great hospital looked bare and grim, the smell of iodoform was more repellent than ever, after the sweet scents of the country. Claire knew her way by this time, and ascended by lift to the women's ward, where Sophie lay. Beside almost every bed one or two visitors were seated, but Sophie was alone. Down the length of the ward Claire caught a glimpse of a recumbent form, and felt a pang at the thought of the many visiting days when her friend had remained alone. With no relations in town, her brother's family too pressed for means to afford expeditions from the country, Sophie had no hope of seeing a familiar face, and her very attitude bespoke dejection. Claire walked softly to the further side of the bed, and dangled the basket before the half-covered face, whereupon Sophie pushed back the clothes and sat up, her eyes lighting with joy. "_Claire_! You! Oh, you dearly beloved, I thought you were still away! Oh, I am glad--I am glad! I was so dreadfully blue!" She looked it. Even in the eagerness of welcome her face looked white and drawn, and the pretty pink jacket, Claire's own gift, seemed to accentuate her pallor. The hands with which she fondled the flowers were surely thinner than they had been ten days before. "My dear, what munificence! Have you come into a fortune? And fruit underneath! I shall be able to treat the whole ward! When did you come back? Have you had a good time? Are you going on to the farm? It _is_ good of you to come again. It's--it's hard being alone when you see the other patients with their own people. The nurses are dears, but they are so rushed, poor things, they haven't time to stay and talk. And oh, Claire, the days! They're so wearily _long_!" Claire murmured tender exclamations of understanding and pity. A pained conviction that Sophie was no better made her shrink from putting the obvious question; but Sophie did not wait to be asked. "Oh, Claire," she cried desperately, "it's so hard to be patient and to keep on hoping, when there's no encouragement to hope! I'm not one scrap better after all that has been tried, and I've discovered that they did not expect me to be better; the best they seem to hope for is that I may not grow worse! It's like running at the pitch of one's speed, and succeeding only in keeping in the same place. And there are other arthritics in this ward!" She shuddered. "When I think that I may become like _them_! It would be much easier to die." "I think it would often seem easier," Claire agreed sadly, her thoughts turning to Cecil, whose trouble at the moment seemed as heavy as the one before her. "But we can't be deserters, Sophie. We must stick to our posts, and play the game. When these troubles come, we just _have_ to bear them. There's no hiding, or running away. There's only one choice open to us--whether we bear it badly or well." But Sophie's endurance was broken by weeks of suffering, and her bright spirit was momentarily under an eclipse. "Everybody doesn't have to bear them! Things are so horribly uneven," she cried grudgingly. "Look at your friend Miss Willoughby, with that angel of a mother, and heaps of money, and health, and strength, and a beautiful home, and able to have anything she wants, as soon as she wants it. What does _she_ know of trouble?" Claire thought of Janet's face, as it had faced her across the table in the refreshment room, but it was not for her to betray another's secret, so she was silent, and Sophie lifted a spray of pink roses, and held them against her face, saying wistfully-- "You're a good little soul, Claire, and it's because you are good that I want to know what your opinion is about all this trouble and misery. What good can it possibly do me to have my life ruined by this illness? Don't tell me that it will not be ruined. It must be, in a material sense, and I'm not all spiritual yet; there's a lot of material in my nature, and I live in a material world, and I want to be able to enjoy all the dear, sweet, natural, human joys which come as a right to ordinary human beings. I want to _walk_! Oh, my dear, I look out of these windows sometimes and see all the thousands and thousands of people passing by, and I wonder if a single one out of all the crowd ever thinks of being thankful that he can _move_! I didn't myself, but now--when I hobble along--" She broke off, shaking back her head as though to defy the rising tears, then lay back against the pillows, looking at Claire, and saying urgently--"Go on! Tell me what you think!" "I think," Claire answered slowly, "that we are bound to grow! The mere act of death is not going to lift us at once to our full height. Our training must go on after we leave this sphere; but, Sophie dear, some of us have an extra hard training here, and if we bear it in the right way, surely, surely when we move up, it must be into a higher class than if things had been all smooth and easy. There must be less to learn, less to conquer, more to enjoy. You and I are school-mistresses and ought to realise the difficulties of mastering difficult tasks. Don't look upon this illness as cheating you out of a pleasant holiday, dear-- look upon it as special training for an honours exam.!" Sophie smiled, her old twinkling smile, and stroked Claire's hand with the spray of roses. "I knew you'd say something nice! I knew you'd put it in a quaint, refreshing way. I shall remember that, when I am alone, and feel courage oozing out of every pore. Two o'clock in the morning is a particularly cheery time when you are racked with pain! Claire, I asked the doctor to tell me honestly whether there was any chance of my ever taking up the old work again, and he said, honestly, he feared there was none." "But Mrs Willoughby--" "I asked that, too. He says he quite hopes to get me well enough to go to Egypt in October or November, and that I should certainly be much better there. It would be the best thing that could happen if it came off! But--" Claire held up a protesting hand. "No ifs! No buts! Do your part, and get better, and leave the rest to Providence and--Mrs Willoughby! It's her mission in life to help girls, and she'll help _you_, too, or know the reason why. The truly sensible thing would be for you to begin to prepare your clothes. What about starting a fascinating blouse at once? Your hands are quite able to sew, and if you once got to work with chiffon and lace the time would fly! You might write for patterns to-night. You would enjoy looking at patterns." When Claire took her departure half an hour later, she left behind a very different Sophie from the wan dejected-looking creature whom she had found on her arrival. Hers was a happy nature, easily cheered, responsive to comfort, and Claire had a happy conviction that whatever physical handicaps might be in store, her spirit would rise valiantly to the rescue. A winter in Egypt was practically assured, since Mrs Willoughby had privately informed Claire that if nothing better offered, she would send Sophie at her own expense to help in the household of her niece--an officer's wife, who would be thankful for assistance, though she could not afford to pay the passage out. What was to happen in the future no one could tell, and there was no profit in asking the question. The next step was clear, and the rest must be left to faith, but with a chilling of the blood Claire asked herself what became of the disabled working women who had no influential friends to help in such a crisis; the women who fell out of the ranks to die by the roadside homeless, penniless, _alone_? CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. SURRENDER. It was a very limp and exhausted Claire who arrived at the farm that evening, and if she had had her own way she would have hurried to bed without waiting for a meal, but the kind countrywoman displayed such disappointment at the idea that she allowed herself to be dissuaded, sat down to a table spread with home-made dainties and discovered that she was hungrier than she had believed. The fried ham and eggs, the fresh butter, the thick yellow cream, the sweet coarse bread, were all the best of their kind, and Claire smiled at her own expense as she looked at the emptied dishes, and reflected that, for a person who had professed herself unable to eat a bite, she had made a pretty good sweep! The bed was somewhat bumpy, as farmhouse beds have a habit of being; there was one big ball in especial which took many wrigglings to avoid; but on the other hand the sheets smelt deliciously, not of lavender, but of lemon thyme, and the prevailing air of cleanliness was delicious after the smoke-laden atmosphere of town. Claire told herself that she could not expect to sleep. She resigned herself to hear the clock strike every hour--and as a matter of fact after ten o'clock she was unconscious of the whole world, until her breakfast-tray was carried into the room next morning. After breakfast she had another nap, and after lunch still another, and in the intervals wandered about the farm-yard, laboriously striving to take an interest in what really interested her not at all. Hens seemed to her the dullest of created creatures, pigs repelled, cows were regarded with uneasy suspicion, and sheep, seen close at hand, lost all the picturesque quality of a distant flock, and became stupid long-faced creatures, by no means as clean as they might be. Milking-time aroused no ambition to experiment on her own account, and a glass of foaming new milk proved unexpectedly nauseous. Sad as it was to confess it, she infinitely preferred the chalked and watered edition of the city! Indoors things were no better, for the tiny sitting-room stood by itself at the end of a passage, cut off from the life of the house. It was spotlessly clean and the pride of its owner's heart, but contained nothing of interest to an outsider. Pictures there were none, with the exception of portraits of the farmer and his wife, of the enlarged photograph type, and a selection of framed funeral cards in a corner. Books there were none, with the exception of a catalogue of an Agricultural Show, and a school prize copy of _Black Beauty_. Before the second night was over Claire had read _Black Beauty_ from cover to cover; the next morning she was dipping into the catalogue, and trying to concentrate her attention on "stock." As her body grew rested, Claire's mind became increasingly active. It was inevitable, but the second stage was infinitely harder to bear. For the first hours after her arrival her supreme longing had been to lie down and shut her eyes; but now restlessness overtook her, and with every fresh hour drove her more helplessly to and fro. She went out for long walks over the countryside, her thoughts so engrossingly turned inward that she saw nothing of the landscape on either hand; she returned to the house and endeavoured to write, to read, to sew, only to give up the attempt at the end of half an hour, and once more wander helplessly forth. The good countrywoman was quick to sense that some hidden trouble was preying on her guest, and showed her sympathy in practical fashion. "A bit piney-like, aren't you? I seed from the first that you was piney-like," she said, standing tray in hand on the threshold of the little parlour, her fresh, highly-coloured face smiling kindly upon the pale girl. "I always do say that I pities ladies when they has anything on their minds; sitting about, same as you do now, with nothing to take them off theirselves. A body like me that has to keep a house clean, and cook and wash, and mind the children, to say naught of the sewing and the mending, and looking after the cows and the hens, and all the extra fusses and worries that come along, she hasn't got no time to remember herself, and when she gets to bed she's too tired to think. Now if you was to have some work--" Claire's face brightened with a sudden inspiration. "Will you give me some work? Let me help _you_! Do, please, Mrs Corby; I'd be so grateful. Let me come into the kitchen and do something now. I feel so lonely shut off here, all by myself." Mrs Corby laughed, her fat comfortable laugh. "Bless your 'art, you can come along and welcome. I'll be proud to have you. It ain't much you know of housework, I expect, but it'll do you no harm to learn. I'll find you some little jobs." "Oh, I'm not so useless as you think. I can brush and dust, and polish, and wash up, and I know a good deal about cooking. I'll make a salad to eat with the cold meat--a real French salad. I'm sure Mr Corby would enjoy a French salad," cried Claire, glancing out of the window at the well-stocked kitchen garden, and thinking of the wet lettuce and uncut onions, which were the good woman's idea of the dish in question. "May I make one to-day?" Mrs Corby smiled with a fine resignation. Personally she wanted none of them nasty messy foods, but there! the poor thing meant well, and if it would make her happy, let her have her way. So Claire collected her materials, and washed and mixed, and filled a great bowl, and decorated the top with slices of hardboiled eggs, and a few bright nasturtium blossoms, while three linty-locked children stood by, watching with fascinated attention. At dinner Claire thoroughly enjoyed her share of her own salad, but the verdict of the country-people was far from enthusiastic. "I don't go for to deny that it tasted well enough," Mrs Corby said with magnanimous candour, "but what I argue is, what's the sense of using up all them extras--eggs, and oil, and what not--when you can manage just as well without? I've never seen the day when I couldn't relish a bit o' plain lettuce and a plate of good spring onions!" "But the eggs and the dressing make it more nourishing," Claire maintained. "In France the peasants have very often nothing but salad for their dinner--great dishes of salad, with plenty of eggs." "Eh, poor creatures! It makes your heart bleed to think of it. We may be thankful we are not foreign born!" Mrs Corby pronounced with unction, and Claire retired from the struggle, and decided that for the future it would be more tactful to learn, rather than to endeavour to teach. The next morning, therefore, she worked under Mrs Corby's supervision, picking fruit, feeding chickens, searching for eggs, and other light tasks designed to keep her in the open air; and in the afternoon accompanied the children on a message to a farm some distance away. The path lay across the fields, away from the main road, and on returning an hour later, Mrs Corby's figure was seen standing by her own gate, her hand raised to her eyes, as though watching for their approach. The children broke into a run, and Claire hurried forward, her heart beating with deep excited throbs. What was it? _Who_ was it? Nobody but Sophie and Cecil knew her address, but still, but still-- For a moment hope soared, then sank heavily down as Mrs Corby announced-- "A lady, miss. Come to see you almost as soon as you left. She's waiting in the parlour." Cecil! Claire hardly knew if she were sorry or relieved. It would be a blessing to have some one to whom she could speak, but, on the other hand, what poor Cecil had to say would not fail to be depressing. She went slowly down the passage, taking a grip over her own courage, opened the door, and stood transfixed. In the middle of the hard horsehair sofa sat Mrs Fanshawe herself, her elaborately coiffured, elaborately attired figure looking extraordinarily out of place in the prim bareness of the little room. Her gloved hands were crossed on her lap, she sat ostentatiously erect, her satin cloak falling around her in regal folds; her face was a trifle paler than usual, but the mocking light shone in her eyes. At Claire's entrance she stood up, and crossed the little room to her side. "My dear," she said calmly, "I am an obstinate old woman, but I have the sense to know when I'm beaten. I have come to offer my apologies." A generous heart is quick to forgive. At that moment Claire felt a pang indeed, but it came not from the remembrance of her own wrongs, but from the sight of this proud, domineering woman humbling herself to a girl. Impulsively she threw out both hands, impulsively she stopped Mrs Fanshawe's lips with the kiss which she had refused at parting. "Oh, stop! Please don't! Don't say any more. I was wrong, too. I took offence too quickly. You were thinking of me, as well as of yourself." "Oh, no, I was not," the elder woman corrected quietly. "Neither of you, nor your friend, my dear, though I took advantage of the excuse. You came between me and my plans, and I wanted to get you out of the way. You saw through me, and I suppose I deserved to be seen through. It's an unpleasant experience, but if it's any satisfaction to you to know it, I've been _well_ punished for interfering. Erskine has seen to my punishment." The blood rushed to Claire's face. How much did Mrs Fanshawe know? Had Erskine told her of that hurried interview upon the station? Had he by any possibility told what he had _asked_? The blazing cheeks asked the question as plainly as any words, and Mrs Fanshawe replied to it without delay. "Oh, yes, my dear, I know all about it. It was because I guessed that was coming that I wanted to clear the coast; but it appears that I was too late. Shall we sit down and talk this out, and for pity's sake see that that woman doesn't come blundering in. It's such an anti-climax to have to deal with a tea-tray in the midst of personal explanations. I'm not accustomed to eating humble pie, and if I am obliged to do it at all, I prefer to do it in private." "She won't come. I don't have tea for another hour," Claire assured her. "And please don't eat humble pie for me. I was angry at the time, but you had been very kind to me before. I--I enjoyed that first week very much." "And so did I!" Mrs Fanshawe gave one of her dry, humorous, little laughs. "You are a charming companion, my dear. I was a little in love with you myself, but-- Well! to be honest, it did not please me that my son should follow my example. He is my only child, and I am proud and ambitious for him, as any mother would be. I did not wish him to marry a--a--" "A gentlewoman who was honourably working at an honourable profession!" concluded Claire for her, with a general stiffening of pose, voice and manner; but Mrs Fanshawe only laughed once more, totally unaffected by the pose. "No, my dear, I did not! It's very praiseworthy, no doubt, to train the next generation, but it doesn't appeal to me in the present connection. I was thinking of my son, and I wanted him to have a wife of position and fortune, who would be able to help his career. If you had been a girl of fortune and position, I should have been quite ready to welcome you. You are a pretty creature, and much more intelligent than most girls of your age, but, you see, you are not--" "I have no money but what I earn, but I belong to a good family. I object to your saying that I have no position, Mrs Fanshawe, simply because I live in lodgings and work for my living!" Mrs Fanshawe shrugged with a touch of impatience. "Oh, well, my dear, why bandy words? I have told you that I am beaten, so it's useless to argue the point. Erskine has decided for himself, and, as I told you before, one might as well try to bend a granite wall as move him when he has once made up his mind. I've planned, and schemed, and hoped, and prayed for the last dozen years, and at the first sight of that pretty face of yours all my plans went to the wall. If I'd been a wise woman I would have recognised the inevitable, and given in with a good grace, but I never was wise, never shall be, so I ran my head up against the wall. I've been through a bad time since you left me, my dear, and I was forgiven only on the understanding that I came here and made my peace with you. Have I made peace? Do you understand what I mean? That I withdraw my opposition, and if you accept my boy, you shall have nothing to fear. I'll make you welcome; and I'll be as good to you as it's in my nature to be. I'll treat you with every courtesy. Upon my word, my dear, as mothers-in-law go, I think you would come off pretty well!" "I--I--I'm sure--You're very kind..." Claire stammered in helpless embarrassment; and Mrs Fanshawe, watching her, first smiled, then sighed, and said in a quick low voice-- "Ah, my dear, you can afford to be generous! If you live to be my age, and have a son of your own, whom you have loved, and cherished, and mothered for over thirty years, and at the end he speaks harshly to you for the sake of a girl whom he has known a few short months, puts her before you, finds it hard to forgive you because you have wounded her pride--ah, well, it's hard to bear! I don't want to whine, but--don't make it more difficult for me than you can help! I have apologised. Now it's for you--" Claire put both arms round the erect figure, and rested her head on the folds of the black satin cloak. Neither spoke, but Mrs Fanshawe lifted a little lace-edged handkerchief to her eyes, and her shoulders heaved once and again. Then suddenly she arose and walked towards the door. "The car is waiting. Don't come with me, my dear. I'll see you again." She waived Claire back in the old imperious way against which there was no appeal. Evidently she wished to be alone, and Claire re-seated herself on the sofa, flushed, trembling, so shaken out of her bearings that it was difficult to keep hold of connected thought. The impossible had happened. In the course of a few short minutes difficulties which had seemed insurmountable had been swept from her path. Within her grasp was happiness so great, so dazzling that the very thought of it took away her breath. Her eyes fell on the watch at her wrist. Ten minutes to four! Twenty minutes ago--barely twenty minutes--at the end of the field path she had looked at that little gold face with a dreamy indifference, wondering only how many minutes remained to be whiled away before it was time for tea. Even a solitary tea-drinking had seemed an epoch in the uneventful day. Uneventful! Claire mentally repeated the word, the while her eyes glowed, and her heart beat in joyful exultation. Surely, surely in after-remembrance this day would stand out as one all-important, epoch- making. And then suddenly came a breathless question. How had Mrs Fanshawe discovered her retreat? No address had been left at Laburnum Crescent; no address had been given to Janet Willoughby. Cecil was in her mother's home; Sophie in hospital. In the name of all that was mysterious and inexplicable, _how had she been tracked_? Claire sat bolt upright on her sofa, her grey eyes widened in amaze, her breath coming sharply through her parted lips. She thrilled at the realisation that Erskine's will had overcome all difficulties. Had not Mrs Fanshawe declared that she came at his instigation? And where the mother had come, would not the son follow? At that moment a shadow fell across the floor; against the open space of the window a tall figure stood, blocking the light. Erskine's eager eyes met her own. Before the first gasp of surprise had left her lips, his strong hands had gripped the sill, he had vaulted over and stood by her side. "I sent on my advance guard, and waited till her return. Did you think you had hidden yourself where I could not find you? I should have found you wherever you had gone; but as it happens it was easy enough. You forgot that you had forwarded flowers to your friend in hospital! She was ready enough to give me your address. And now--_Claire_"--he held out his hands, gazing down into her face--"what have you to say to me now?" Instinctively Claire's hands stretched out to meet his, but on the following impulse she drew back, clasping them nervously behind her back. "Oh, are you _sure_?" she cried breathlessly. "Are you _sure_ you are sure? Think what it means! Think of the difference it might make! I have no money, no influence; I'd be an expense to you, and a drag when another girl might help. Think! Think! Oh, do be quite sure!" Erskine's stern eyes melted into a beautiful tenderness as he looked at her troubled face. He waited no longer, but came a step nearer, and took forcible possession of the hidden hands. "It is not my feelings which are in question; it is _yours_. There has been no doubt in my mind for months past. I think you know that, Claire!" "But--your career?" "I can look after my own career. Do you think it is the straight thing to suggest to a soldier that he needs a woman to help him in his work? It's not as a soldier I need you, but as a man. I need you there, Claire. I need you badly! No one else could help me as you can!" Claire's lips quivered, but still she hung back, standing away from him at the length of her stretched arms. "I've no money. I'm a--a school-mistress. Your friends will think--" "I am not considering what my friends will think." "Your mother thought--" "I am not asking you to marry my mother. Mothers of only sons are hard to please, but you know as well as I can tell you that the mater is fond of you at heart, and that she will grow fonder still. She had her own ideas, and she fought for them, but she won't fight any more. You mustn't be hard on the mater, Claire. She has done her best for me to- day." "I know! I know! I was sorry for her. Sorrier than I was for myself. It's so hard that I should have come between you two!" At that Erskine laughed, a short, impatient laugh. "Oh, Claire, Claire, how long are you going to waste time in discussing other people's feelings, before you tell me about your own? Darling, I'm in love with you!--I'm in love for the first time in my life. I'm impatient. I'm waiting. There's no one in the world for me at this moment but just yourself; I'm waiting for you to forget every one but me. Do you love me, Claire?" "You know I do! You know I do! Oh!" cried Claire, yielding to the strength of the strong arms, and resting her head on the broad shoulder with an unspeakable rush of joy and rest. "Oh, but you don't know how much! I can't tell you--I can't put it into words, but it's my whole heart, my whole life! Oh, every _thought_ has been with you for such a long, long time." "My darling! My own sweet, brave little girl! And my thoughts with you! Thank God, we shall be together now. We have had enough of separation and chance meetings. There must be an end of that. You'll have to marry me at once!" This was rushing ahead with a vengeance! Claire shook her head, with a little laugh sweet as a chime of joy bells. "You ridiculous--boy! I can't. It's impossible. You forget my work. There's all next term. I couldn't possibly leave without giving notice." "Couldn't you! We'll see to that. Do you seriously believe that I'm going to let you go back to that drudgery, and kick my heels waiting for four months? You don't understand the kind of man you are marrying, my lass!" Claire loved the sound of that "my lass," loved the close grip of the arms, the feel of the rough cheek against her own. For a few minutes neither spoke, too utterly, completely absorbed in each other's presence. To Claire, as to Erskine, a four months' delay seemed an aeon of time through which to wade before the consummation of a perfect happiness, but it seemed impossible that it could be avoided. "Miss Farnborough would never let me off. She would be indignant with me for asking." "I'll tackle Miss Farnborough. Leave Miss Farnborough to me!" returned Erskine with so confident an air that Claire shook with amusement, seeing before her a picture of her lover seated _tete-a-tete_ with the formidable "Head," breaking to her the news that one of her staff intended to play truant. "It's very easy to say that. You don't know her. She thinks everything in the world comes second to education." "What if she does? I'll agree with her. You're the most precious darling in all the world, but you can't honestly believe that there aren't a thousand other mistresses who could teach those flappers as well, or better! Whereas for _me_--well! it's Claire, or no one. I'll throw myself on the good lady's tender mercies, and ask for your release as a favour to myself, and I bet you anything you like that I succeed. Miss Farnborough was a woman before she was a school-mistress. She'll set you free all right!" "Perhaps--perhaps possibly at the half term." "Rubbish--the half term! We'll be married and settled down before we get near then... Where will you go for our marriage, Claire? To Mrs Willoughby? I'm sure she'd be willing." "No!--no!" Claire marvelled at the obtuseness of men; at the utter unconsciousness of this particular man of the reason why Mrs Willoughby's house should be the last one on earth from which his marriage should take place. And then in the midst of these questionings, to her own surprise a sudden pricking of tears came to her eyes, and she cried sharply, "I want mother! I must have mother. She must come home. She'll come at once, when she hears--" "We'll cable to-day. That will be best of all. I'm longing to meet your mother, and you ought to have her with you, little lass! Poor, little, lonely lass! Please God, you shall never be lonely any more." "Ah, Erskine darling, but the _other women_!" Claire cried, and there was the sharpness of pain in her voice. From within the shelter of her lover's arms her heart went out in a wave of tenderness towards her sisters who stood apart from the royal feast; towards Cecil with her blighted love, Sophie with her blighted health, with the thousand others for whom they stood as types; the countless hordes of women workers for whom life was a monotonous round of grey- hued days, shadowed by the prospect of age and want. From the shelter of her lover's arms, Claire Gifford vowed herself to the service of her working sisters. From the bottom of her heart she thanked God for the year of work which had taught her to _understand_. THE END. 
21663	----	International Children's Digital Library (http://www.childrenslibrary.org/) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 21663-h.htm or 21663-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/6/6/21663/21663-h/21663-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/6/6/21663/21663-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through International Children's Digital Library. See http://www.childrenslibrary.org/icdl/BookPreview?bookid=peraunt_00360330&summary=true&categories=false&route=advanced_24_4_0_Greek_0_all&lang=English&msg= AUNT MARY by MRS. PERRING Author of 'The Story of a Mouse,' 'The Story of a Cat,' 'The Castle and the Cottage,' Etc. London George Routledge and Sons Broadway, Ludgate Hill New York: 416 Broome Street 1881. [Illustration: AUNT MARY.] AUNT MARY. CHAPTER I. AUNT MARY. In one of those very pretty suburban villas which are to be seen in the neighbourhood of all our large towns, Aunt Mary lived, at the time when my tale commences. Indeed she had lived there the greater part of her life, for her father, Mr. Livesay, who had been a highly respected merchant in London for a great many years, had, unlike the generality of this prosperous class, retired from business as soon as he had secured a moderate competency for himself, his wife, and their four daughters, of whom our Aunt Mary was the eldest. Mr. Livesay had purchased the pretty house, to which he had retreated from the hurry and bustle of the great city, but before doing so, he had taken care to ascertain that the inhabitants of the adjoining villa were likely to prove agreeable neighbours; and this he had done to his entire satisfaction, as Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, with their two sweet little children, gave promise of pleasurable society. At the time of his retirement from business, the four daughters of Mr. Livesay were grown up to woman's estate; though perhaps that can hardly be said of the youngest, Irene, who was only sixteen, while her two sisters, Ada and Alice, were of the respective ages of eighteen and twenty. Great pains had been taken in the _real_ education of these young ladies, for their excellent mother had spared no pains in their early training; and as they were all quick and clever children, the task of 'teaching the young idea how to shoot,' in their case, proved 'delightful.' We wish this were oftener the case; but to proceed: Aunt Mary, as we have said, was the eldest of these young ladies; she was at the discreet age of four-and-twenty--indeed, she might have been thirty, for the aptitude she displayed in household matters, taking all the care of housekeeping off her good mother's hands, and being looked up to, and appealed to, in all doubtful matters by her sisters. Both Mr. and Mrs. Livesay considered their daughter Mary their chief treasure; indeed, she was everything that a daughter ought to be. There was one thing, however, lacking that her three sisters possessed: she was not beautiful. Aunt Mary, if she had been pretty in infancy, had been spoiled by that dreadful ravager, the small-pox, which she had caught, through the carelessness of a nurse, when she was five years old. It had not, however, left her entirely without good looks; for the kindly feelings of her heart beamed forth in the eloquent dark eyes and the sweet smile that almost invariably lighted up her face. Laughingly, she used to say to her sisters, 'Well, you may all get married, and I shall live at home with my mother and father.' And even as Aunt Mary said, so it came to pass: her sisters all married, and she remained at home, the loving daughter, the tender nurse, the deepest mourner for the loss of their dear parents, whom she had so dutifully cherished in their old age. At the death of Mr. and Mrs. Livesay, which happened about ten years after the marriage of their two daughters, Ada and Alice--whom I must now introduce to the reader as Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Beaumont--Aunt Mary was warmly entreated to give up housekeeping, and go and reside with one or other of her sisters, especially as Irene, the youngest, who had for the last twelve months undertaken the task of governess to the two Miss Maitlands, their next-door neighbours, was now engaged to be married, and the house, it was urged, would be too large and too lonely for Aunt Mary to reside in with any comfort. This proposition, however, did not at all suit one who had for so many years acted independently; nor, although she was fond of children, would she on any account undertake a partial teaching of them. 'Let me have all the say, or none,' was Aunt Mary's maxim, so she decided to remain where she was, promising however, that when her sister Irene should marry Captain Gordon, she would take into serious consideration Mr. and Mrs. Maitland's earnest request, that she would continue the education of their two dear girls at her own house. This, after the lapse of six months, Miss Livesay had agreed to, and had also sent for the eldest daughter of her sister Mrs. Beaumont, who was now a widow, with three children, though she had been left very well off, and could have sent her daughter Clara to a first-rate school, had she been so disposed. Mrs. Beaumont, however, knew too well the benefit her child was likely to derive from the real education she would receive from her sister Mary, to hesitate for a moment as to putting her under that lady's exclusive care; and thus at the same time that Oak Villa received Mrs. Maitland's two little girls, Annie and Dora, it became also the pleasant home of Clara Beaumont, who although she was the youngest of the trio, was certainly the most seriously disposed; perhaps, poor child, on account of the loss of her dear papa, who had died very unexpectedly, in the prime of life, from neglected cold, which terminated in acute bronchitis. This, though it had occurred six months previous to Clara's advent at Oak Villa, was an event still deeply felt and lamented by the sensitive child, and produced a seriousness of character seldom seen in children of her age; but the change was likely to prove very beneficial both to her health and spirits, and it was not long before Aunt Mary saw, with much pleasure, that her niece gladly entered upon her studies, and appeared very desirous to overtake her young companions in their several lessons, which, as she was exceedingly industrious, she was very likely to do before many weeks had passed away. We must now, however, look after Aunt Mary's second sister, Mrs. Ellis, whose eldest daughter, Mabel, was only a few months older than Clara Beaumont, but whose character at this time was as unlike that of her young cousin as could possibly be imagined, which the reader will soon perceive when we introduce her in the next chapter, associated as she will be with the gentle and amiable daughters of Mrs. Maitland, who, together with her niece Clara, had been Aunt Mary's pupils for some months, though at present it was holiday-time. CHAPTER II. A GREAT DISAPPOINTMENT. 'Mamma dear,' said Dora Maitland, the eldest of that lady's two daughters, a sweet gentle-looking girl about twelve years of age, 'may Annie and I go and ask Mabel and Julia Ellis to take a walk with us this afternoon? We are going to see John Hutton's beehives; he has got some new glass ones, and he says it is so interesting to watch the little creatures at work. I am sure we should all like to see them, and I do so wish that Clara was here, to go with us, she is such a dear girl.' While this request was making, Dora's younger sister, Annie, stood looking with beseeching eyes at mamma, evidently very anxious for that lady's reply, which was not immediately given, for Mrs. Maitland was apparently debating in her own mind whether it were desirable, or not, to attend to Dora's request. 'May we, mamma?' urged the young pleader timidly. 'You are not afraid to let us go, are you?' she inquired. 'Oh no, not afraid,' replied Mrs. Maitland; 'at least, not afraid of your going alone; but what I am afraid of is, that it may be inconvenient to Mrs. Ellis to let your young friends accompany you, as at present I know that their nurse is away, and--and she herself is not at all well.' 'Then do you think, mamma, that we may ask Julia to go with us? We like her best, and Mabel could stay at home and take care of the children, as she is the eldest.' 'Not a bad suggestion, my dear Dora,' replied her mother, 'only I fear there would be some objection on Mabel's part to such an arrangement. From what I have observed in that young lady,' continued Mrs. Maitland, 'she is not very loving, nor very tractable, and I fear she has been spoiled by over indulgence. However, if you will promise not to press the matter, should you see that it is likely to be inconvenient to Mrs. Ellis, you may go; it is a lovely afternoon, and I hope you will enjoy yourselves.' With light hearts and buoyant footsteps, the two fair girls set off on their errand of inquiry to Camden Terrace, where Mr. Ellis resided, meeting with a very kind reception from Mrs. Ellis, and a joyful greeting from Mabel and Julia, who, to say the truth, were getting rather tired of the monotony of home, especially as, the nursemaid being away for a fortnight, and mamma not being well, they were under the necessity of taking care of the children, if care it could be called, where neither love nor forbearance were in exercise; but the little ones were only prevented from doing mischief, or hurting each other. As the engagements of Mr. Ellis kept him from home all day, he had very little time, and I am sorry to say that he had very little inclination, to attend to his children, though we must do him the justice to say that he _wished_ sincerely for their proper training; but he thought, as I fear too many papas do, that this duty belonged exclusively to his wife. This _we_ think is a grave mistake. Children cannot be taught too early the lesson of obedience; and often it happens that the weakness or tenderness of a mother prevents her from enforcing this very salutary precept. But I return to our young friends, who were under the necessity of making their request in the presence of both Mabel and Julia, though they had agreed between themselves not to do so, but to ask their mamma alone, so that if it were inconvenient to her they would not press the matter. Without waiting for their mamma's answer, both the girls immediately begged to be allowed to go, indeed using every entreaty, so that poor Mrs. Ellis appeared quite distressed; and the young Maitlands were no less so, for they remembered what their mamma had said to them. 'I really scarcely know what to do,' said Mrs. Ellis, at last; 'I should be sorry to deprive you of any pleasure, but you know, Mabel, I am not well, and nurse is not with us: besides which, your papa made a particular request this morning that I would not let you go out to-day.' 'Oh, that is always the way with papa,' broke in Mabel, impetuously. 'I believe he would never let us go even for a walk, if he were at home.' 'Hush, hush, Mabel!' said her mother; 'I wonder you are not ashamed to speak of your papa in this disrespectful manner. Besides, you know that you are not speaking the truth.' 'Don't let them go, Mrs. Ellis, if it is inconvenient to you,' said Dora Maitland; 'we will call another day. I am sure mamma would be very sorry to hear that our coming brought any trouble to you.' 'It is not a trouble, of course,' again broke in the impetuous Mabel, without waiting her mamma's reply; 'and we shall be home long before papa, so nothing need be said to him about our having been out.' The two young visitors looked at each other, and appeared quite distressed at this suggestion. They had been, and rightly so, taught to consider deception of any kind as falsehood; but Mrs. Ellis did not appear to be of the same opinion, and though she still urged her own ill health and the absence of the nurse, she was evidently inclined to yield to the continued and earnest request of her daughters. 'We will promise you not to be away more than an hour, dear mamma,' said Julia, who was certainly the best of the two girls; and this promise being seconded by Mabel very earnestly, poor Mrs. Ellis foolishly gave her consent to their going, which consent had no sooner been obtained, than the selfish girls darted off to make ready for their walk, leaving Dora and Annie very much concerned about what had passed, and determined in their own minds to forego the anticipated pleasure of seeing the glass beehives till a more convenient season, for fear they should not be back at the appointed time. Mrs. Ellis, as I think I have before stated, had long been very delicate; she was of a nervous temperament, and nothing appeared to affect her health so much as excitement of any kind. She had been ordered lately to be kept perfectly quiet, but this is one of those rules that are more easily made than complied with by the mistress of a house, and the mother of a family; and, unfortunately for Mrs. Ellis, she had no strength of mind to aid her in the discharge of the duties that devolved upon her, for she was weakly indulgent both to her children, and her servants, and thus she was too often the slave of the one, and the dupe of the other. After the young people had set off for their walk, she sat down to consider whether she had done right in letting them go; and remembering her husband's prohibition, and the uncertainty of the time at which he would return home, she evidently came to an unfavourable conclusion in the matter, as she exclaimed aloud; 'I wish I had not let them go!' Wishing, however, now, was of no avail, and as sundry screams from the nursery betokened a misfortune of some kind, the bell was rung for the cook to go, and ascertain the cause of the tumult. Fortunately, there was no great harm done: poor little Willie had contrived to mount on two boxes, which stood side by side, but not close enough together to prevent the chubby fat legs from slipping between them; and as Freddy and Gertrude in vain attempted to extricate the little fellow from his awkward position, they set up a simultaneous scream in token of their distress. Kind-hearted Susan, however, soon set all to rights, for she was well-known to carry in her pocket sundry mysterious little sweet balls, which, if they were not over-clean, had a remarkable tendency to soothe, insomuch that sagacious Master Fred, seeing his sister Mabel one day crying with passion, inquired if he should go and ask Susan for one of her sugar balls, to do her good; a proposition which that young lady highly resented, though the very mention of the said sweets had stopped the crying. But we must return to poor mamma, who had in vain endeavoured to follow Susan upstairs, she trembled so violently. When, however, Willie was placed on her knee, and she saw the slight nature of the hurt he had sustained, she began to feel more composed, for there was really no harm done. The poor lady, however, was not suffered to calm down thus easily, for before Susan had time to quit the room, the sound of a key in the front door betokened the dreaded return of her husband, and again excited all her nervous fears. 'Why have you got the children with you, Ada?' said Mr. Ellis to his wife, reproachfully. 'You know that the doctor has told you to keep quiet.' 'Yes, I know,' replied Mrs. Ellis, meekly, 'but poor Willie has hurt his leg, so Susan brought him down to me.' 'But what has Susan to do with the children?' inquired Mr. Ellis. 'Surely Mabel and Julia are quite old enough to take care of them, without calling Susan from her work in the kitchen! Where are the girls?' demanded Mr. Ellis, sharply; 'I hope you have not let them go out after what I said this morning.' 'Mrs. Maitland's little girls came to ask them to take a walk, and I did not like to refuse them,' said Mrs. Ellis, timidly. 'Then I can only tell you, Ada,' said her husband, with suppressed passion, 'that by your foolish weakness you have deprived them of a great pleasure. It is not often that I can spare time to go out with them, but as I have had some tickets given me to go to a panorama, I have, at great inconvenience, come home, in order to take them, and you tell me that they are gone out.' Poor Mrs. Ellis! This was a terrible mortification to her; she felt for her husband, and she felt for the disappointment of the girls, though they certainly deserved it. 'I am very sorry I let them go, dear Arthur,' she said, 'but they pressed me so much that I did not like to refuse.' 'Yes, yes,' said Mr. Ellis, 'I know; it is the old story: you are too weak-minded to refuse, and our children are to be ruined for want of proper restraint, or else _I_ am to be appealed to in case of punishment, and so must be considered by them harsh and unkind. I cannot help saying that it is very cruel of you, Ada, to give way to this nervous weakness of yours,' continued Mr. Ellis, as he saw the poor lady begin to cry; 'the only way will be, I suppose, to send the girls to a boarding-school, before you have quite spoiled them.' Having thus delivered his opinion, Mr. Ellis walked out of the room; and soon the rather violent shutting of the front door gave token that he had left the house, to the really great sorrow of his wife, who now heartily repented having given her consent to what had been the cause of so much trouble. But we must leave her to repent at leisure, and follow the gay young party, who, notwithstanding some few qualms of conscience on their first setting out, soon found plenty to interest them in the surrounding villas and gardens, where such diversity of taste is displayed. CHAPTER III. THE LOST BROOCH. It was a lovely afternoon in the beginning of August. Some few fleecy clouds occasionally intercepted the rather too warm beams of the sun, from which our young friends intended to take shelter under the trees in the Regent's Park; for Dora and Annie Maitland had wisely determined not to mention Thomas Hutton and his glass beehives after what they had seen and heard at Camden Terrace, for they well knew that it would be impossible to walk that distance, and back again, in an hour. 'I have a beautiful book that my papa gave me yesterday,' said Dora Maitland; 'I thought you would like to see it, so I brought it with me. We can look at it while we sit to rest in the Park.' 'Oh yes, that will be delightful,' said Mabel; but she almost immediately added, 'I think I would rather look at the gay dresses of the ladies; we can look at books when we are at home.' 'Mabel is always talking about dress,' said her sister, laughing. 'I'm sure I don't care how I am dressed, if I am only clean and neat; it is such a trouble to be afraid of spoiling what one has on.' Julia's opinion was echoed by Dora and Annie Maitland, so Mabel found she had no seconder; and they tripped along silently until they arrived at the desired spot for resting, a nice seat under the shade of a large tree. Here they were just going to seat themselves, when an exclamation from Mabel attracted the attention of the others, who inquired eagerly what was the matter. 'Oh, the brooch--mamma's beautiful brooch!' said the excited girl, in great distress; 'it is gone out of my necktie. Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do? It is mamma's favourite brooch; the one that papa gave her many years ago. Oh, I cannot go home without it!' continued Mabel, in a state of great distress. 'How could you be so foolish as to put it on, when you were only going for a country walk?' said Dora Maitland. 'I can't think why you should wear your mamma's brooch at all,' remarked Annie, 'unless she gave you leave.' 'But mamma did not give her leave; mamma has forbidden us to wear it,' said Julia, 'and I begged Mabel not to put it into her necktie to-day, for fear she should lose it; but she would do it, and now all our pleasure is spoilt.' 'You need not talk in that way,' angrily retorted her sister; 'you are fond enough of putting on mamma's gold chain when she leaves it out of the box, though she has often told you not to do so.' 'Hush, hush!' said Dora Maitland; 'quarrelling won't find the brooch; and see, there are a lady and gentleman coming toward us. Let us return home at once, the same way that we came: there were not many people on the road, and if we all look diligently we may find it, though I am much afraid that we shall not.' This advice seemed the best that could be adopted by the young party, and they turned their steps homewards in no very enviable state of mind. There had been, indeed, much to damp the spirits, and prevent the enjoyment of this afternoon's walk. It is true that all around was beautiful, but that little monitor within, which insists upon being heard whether it is attended to or not, had acted like a thorn in the flesh to Mabel and Julia: and though Dora and Annie Maitland had nothing really to reproach themselves with, yet they could not forget the pale face of poor Mrs. Ellis, and her words of remonstrance to her selfish children seemed still to sound in their ears; and now they were returning home with a fresh trouble to the invalid lady. Dora's beautiful book, which had been presented to her by her papa as a reward for her kind and dutiful attention to him, when he was suffering severely for some days from nervous headache, had of course not been thought of; the brooch, the unfortunate brooch, engrossed every faculty; yet with all the search, and research, it was not found, and the young people took a dolorous leave of each other, and repaired to their respective homes. 'Now don't you say a word about the brooch to mamma to-night,' said Mabel to her sister; 'I dare say it will be found, and it is no use teasing her about it, now she is poorly. 'Mamma is sure to miss the brooch off the dressing-table in the morning,' replied Julia; 'and if I am spoken to about it, I am not going to tell a story, Mabel.' 'Who wants you to tell a story?' exclaimed Mabel, sharply. 'I know you are always very ready to tell tales, when it would be much better for you to hold your tongue.' 'You always go on in that way when you are vexed about anything,' replied Julia. 'I'm sure I wish we had not gone for a walk; we have had no pleasure, all because you would try to make yourself look smart. You know, I begged of you not to put on the brooch, but, as papa says, you are so wilful!' 'You have no right to repeat what papa says. Better look at your own faults than talk about mine,' cried the angry girl, as she opened the garden-gate that led to the back door of their residence. Freddy was looking out of the window, but Mabel took no notice of him, but ran straight upstairs to her own bedroom, to take off her things and examine minutely her dress, if happily the missing brooch might have slipped down into her bosom. Julia, however, went to inquire how her mamma was, and therefore was the first to hear the dismal tidings that papa had come home on purpose to take his daughters to a place of entertainment, but finding they were not at home, had gone out again very angry, without eating any dinner. This, though it put the finishing stroke to that day's disaster, poor Julia knew would not be an end to the troubles they would have to encounter; for though indeed she was innocent of blame with regard to the brooch, she felt she had acted selfishly in leaving her mamma with the children, when she saw how tired and poorly Mrs. Ellis appeared to be. 'I am very sorry, dear mamma,' said Julia, 'that you have been so troubled with the children; I hoped that Susan would have minded them while we were out.' 'Well, go now and take off your things, my dear,' replied Mrs. Ellis; 'then you and Mabel can have tea in the nursery with the children, while I rest on the sofa.' 'Yes, dear mamma; they shall go with me at once,' said Julia. 'Come, Freddy; come, Gerty; and come, little Willie,' she added, as she took the chubby hand in her own, and was leading him away, when her mamma said, 'Mind you don't hurt his poor leg, Julia, for he has fallen and scraped the skin off.' 'Oh, poor boy!' said his sister, as she took Willie up in her arms; 'let us go and put a "passer" on it.' This was always what the little fellow called out for, when he hurt himself: 'Oh, put a "passer" on--put a "passer" on!' Mabel was very glad when Julia brought up the children, and told her that their mamma was lying down on the sofa, for she had no wish to talk just then with anybody. She felt indeed much disquieted, but what her feelings were when her sister related the circumstance of their papa's coming home, on purpose to take them to a place of amusement, may be more easily imagined then described; and yet we fear that self-reproach did not, in the smallest degree, mingle with their feelings, so little do some people know of _self_. CHAPTER IV. THE RECOVERED TREASURE. It was with a feeling of great uneasiness that Mabel awoke the next morning. She had not at all made up her mind what to do. She was, as I have shown, a very selfish girl, and not by any means of a good disposition; indeed, I should say, that no selfish person could be. But she was not in the habit of telling direct falsehoods, though she did not scruple to prevaricate, if such a course suited her purpose; and this practice is certainly not only near akin to falsehood, but leads directly to it. Nothing was said at breakfast-time to make any disturbance, and papa went out as usual; while Mabel and Julia, with minds still oppressed by the loss on the preceding day, requested mamma to permit them to take the children for a walk, before they began lessons. 'It is such a lovely morning,' said Mabel, 'and we can go towards the Park, the same way that we went yesterday.' Of course the brooch was uppermost in Mabel's mind, and indeed in Julia's too, though nothing was then said. 'I am quite willing that you should all go, my dears,' said the kind mother; 'only remember, little Willie can't walk as fast and as far as you can.' 'Et me tan, ma; me walk a long, long way wid pa, and me not tired a bit,' said Willie, shaking his curly poll, and running off with Julia, who was his favourite, to get dressed. 'Susan, where's my gold brooch?' inquired Mrs. Ellis of the servant, who happened to be in the bedroom dusting, when her mistress entered. 'I don't know, I'm sure, ma'am,' replied Susan. 'I saw it on the pincushion yesterday, before the young ladies went out; I have not seen it since. Perhaps Miss Mabel may be wearing it.' 'Nonsense, Susan!' said Mrs. Ellis; 'how could you think Miss Mabel would do such a thing without my leave?' 'Well, ma'am,' answered the steady servant, 'I don't know whether you gave leave or not, but I know I have often seen the young lady with the brooch in her necktie.' Mrs. Ellis felt greatly displeased, not of course with Susan, but with her daughter; she thought it best, however, to make no further remark at present, but to wait until Mabel returned for an explanation of the affair. It is almost needless to say that the morning's walk had neither been pleasant nor satisfactory to the two girls, for the treasure they went out to seek had not been found, and they returned home sick at heart. I say 'they,' because though poor Julia had not been really to blame, she sorrowed both on her mamma's and her sister's account; besides which, she had a dread of her papa's coming to the knowledge of the untoward event. 'Mabel,' said Mrs. Ellis, as soon as that young lady came in, 'have you had my brooch on to-day?' 'No, mamma,' was the immediate and the only response to the question, the words _to-day_ forming a loophole to creep out at, so as to avoid explanation, though that was the very time to make one. Accordingly search was again commenced--as we know, without any result. The midday dinner-hour passed away uncomfortably enough, except for the little folks, whose appetite did not seem to be in the least impaired by surrounding circumstances; and strange as it may appear, Mrs. Ellis, notwithstanding what the servant had told her respecting Mabel's wearing the brooch, instead of closely questioning that young lady, permitted her to leave the room with the children, while she herself renewed the fruitless search. Tired out at last, she sat down in the dining-room, to await the coming home of her husband in no very pleasurable state of mind. Of course she must tell him of her loss; but she well knew how angry he would be, and what a commotion was likely to ensue. However, there was no help for it. 'Ada,' said Mr. Ellis to his wife, after he had enjoyed a comfortable dinner, and had taken his customary seat in the arm-chair, newspaper in hand, 'what has become of that valuable brooch that I gave you on your birthday? You used to wear it every day; why have you not got it on now?' The usually pale face of Mrs. Ellis flushed all over at this inquiry, but she answered truthfully--Mabel had certainly not learned to tell falsehoods, either from her mamma or papa: 'I am very sorry to tell you, Arthur,' said Mrs. Ellis, 'that the brooch is missing; I have searched in vain for it, and Susan does not know anything about it.' 'Have you inquired of the girls, and the children?' said Mr. Ellis; 'perhaps they may have seen it.' 'I did ask Mabel when she came in from her walk if she had had it on,' replied the lady,' and she said she had not.' 'Call Mabel and Julia down, and let me question them,' said papa; 'perhaps I may learn more about the brooch than you think.' 'Oh, I'm sure it is no use, my dear,' replied Mrs. Ellis, dreading a scene, for she knew how severely her husband was inclined to visit faults which she, poor lady, had not courage to grapple with. 'Better not disturb yourself about the brooch to-night,' she added; 'we will have another search for it to-morrow, and I am sure the girls know nothing about it.' '_I_ am not sure of any such thing,' replied Mr. Ellis, 'and I insist upon Mabel and Julia being told to come to me.' As there was no resisting her husband's authority, the girls were summoned to their papa's presence; and though they knew not why it was, there was a conscious uneasiness in their minds which certainly did not lend wings to their feet. 'Come here, girls,' said their papa, though not in an unkindly tone, as they entered the dining-room. 'I want to ask you a few questions. Mind, I must have truthful and straightforward answers--no prevarication.' Mrs. Ellis looked at the two girls, and then at her husband, with astonishment, not having the least idea of what was coming; yet she felt very uneasy. 'Mabel,' said Mr. Ellis, addressing his eldest daughter, 'you were out yesterday?' 'Yes, papa,' replied that young lady; 'Julia and I went for a walk with Dora and Annie Maitland.' 'And where did you go?' was the next inquiry, and one very easily answered. 'To the Regent's Park, papa,' said Julia; 'but we were there only a short time.' 'Now just one more question, and I have done,' said papa; 'did either of you girls lose anything while you were out?' 'Oh, papa, yes,' answered Julia instantly--'mamma's brooch. Oh, have you found it, papa?' she exclaimed. 'Mamma's brooch!' said Mr. Ellis, with a look of assumed astonishment. 'Why, which of you presumed to wear your mamma's brooch?' But he added almost immediately, 'I need not inquire further: I am sorry to say I have had some sad experience of deception in my eldest daughter, and have observed in her that silly vanity, that makes outside show a cover for inward defects. Go!' he added sternly to Mabel; 'I have nothing more to say to you to-night. It nearly sickens me to think that I have a daughter base enough to conceal faults, which she is not afraid of committing.' With conscious shame and distress, Mabel quitted the dining-room; and Julia also was retreating, when her papa told her to remain, as he had something to say to her. Though Julia felt very sorry for her sister, and would have been glad to speak a word of comfort to her, yet she was so anxious to hear from her papa something about the lost brooch, that she was not at all reluctant to remain; so planting herself by her mother's side, she stood patiently to listen to what further Mr. Ellis had to say. 'Did you know, Julia, that Mabel had on your mamma's brooch when you went for a walk?' inquired papa. Julia hung down her head, yet she answered truthfully; 'Yes, papa, I did know, for I begged her not to wear it.' 'And when she persisted in doing so, why did you not appeal to your mamma?' To this question there came no response, so Mr. Ellis continued: 'Let me warn you, my little girl,' he said kindly, 'never to connive at faults in your brothers or sisters; it is to them a cruel kindness, which both they and you may live to be sorry for in after life.' As Mr. Ellis said this, he drew from his waistcoat-pocket the glittering trinket, which had been the innocent cause of so much anxiety, and placing it in his wife's hand, said: 'Now, my dear, I advise you to be more careful of your _jewels_, or you may lose far more precious ones than this brooch.' As he made this remark he nodded to Julia, though Mrs. Ellis well understood what her husband meant. 'Now, my little girl, you may go and join the children, while I tell mamma how I came by the brooch.' CHAPTER V. A FRIEND IN NEED. Julia was very glad indeed to see the brooch again, and glad also to receive a dismissal, as she longed to tell her sister the good news. 'And now, my dear,' said Mr. Ellis, when they were alone, 'I suppose you want to learn the particulars respecting the lost and found.' 'Indeed I do, Arthur,' replied his wife; 'it seems a marvellous thing to me how the brooch should have come into your possession, or indeed how it was found at all.' 'Well, it all came about without any magic, as you shall hear,' said her husband. 'You remember the young lady, Miss Vernon, who was staying a short time in the winter with our friends the Maitlands, and whom we were invited to meet?' 'Oh yes, I remember her quite well; I thought her so very pretty, and she sang so delightfully. But what of her?' inquired Mrs. Ellis. 'Well,' replied the gentleman, 'that lady is now a Mrs. Norton; she is married to a friend of mine--an old friend, I should say, for we went to school together.' 'Then he must be considerably older than the lady,' said Mrs. Ellis, 'for I think she is not twenty yet.' 'You are right there, my dear,' said her husband; 'I dare say Norton is twice her age: but he is a fine-looking man--and,' added Mr. Ellis, with a significant smile, 'he has plenty of money, Ada: you know what a bait that is for the ladies.' 'No, I don't know any such thing, Arthur,' replied the lady, warmly; 'and I don't like to hear such things said. Men much oftener marry for money than women do.' 'Well, we will discuss that point some other time, my dear,' said Mr. Ellis; 'but now for my story: 'As I was walking through the Strand this morning, who should I meet but the couple we were speaking of. I did not know them at first, but as they stopped short, and prevented my passing, I soon recognised both lady and gentleman, though it is many years since I saw the latter. 'After the usual congratulations and shaking of hands had been gone through, my friend said: '"Well, I certainly did not expect to meet you here, Ellis, though, strange to say, you are the very person we came out to call upon; for, strangely enough, I have in my possession a brooch, which, I feel sure, must belong to your good wife, as it has her name, Ada Ellis, engraven on the back. Am I right?" added Norton, taking the brooch from his pocket, and handing it to me. '"Yes," I said, "this is certainly my wife's brooch, but how it could come into your possession is a mystery to me." '"It need not be so long, if you will just walk into the Temple Gardens with us. I am going to call on a friend there, and we shall be out of all this noise and bustle," said Norton. 'As I was not just then under any engagement, I turned back with them, and heard the story of the lost and found. It is a very simple one, and I give it in his own words,' said Mr. Ellis. '"You know Mr. and Mrs. Maitland," began Mr. Norton; "my wife says that she met you at their house last winter, and as they are very old and kind friends of hers, and our stay in town will be short, we set off yesterday morning to call upon them. Unfortunately, the two nice little girls were out, so we did not see them, though I hope we shall do so before we leave London. After leaving Mr. Maitland's, we strolled towards the Regent's Park; and when we had pretty well tired ourselves, we made towards a pleasant seat under the shade of a magnificent tree. A party of young ladies were just leaving the spot which we had selected, but as they were intently looking on the ground, with their backs towards us, they, I suppose, did not notice our approach; nor could we, at the distance we were, recognise them. '"In this pleasant spot we remained for some time, and on rising to go, my wife saw just at her foot, though it was partially hidden by a tuft of grass, the valuable brooch which I have just had the pleasure to restore to you, and which it was our intention to place in your hands at your own home, had we not thus accidentally met you. Very glad indeed I am that we should have come upon the track of the young ladies, who could be none other but the little Maitlands and your fair daughters. To-morrow, I hope to bring my wife to Camden Terrace, and to introduce her to your good lady as Mrs. Norton, instead of Laura Vernon." 'Now, my dear,' said Mr. Ellis, 'you have got your brooch, and its recent history. I strongly advise you to take more care of the one, and on no account to forget the other.' 'I will try to take your advice, my dear,' said the lady. 'I am so glad, so very glad, that my brooch is found.' 'And I am so sorry, so very sorry, Ada,' said Mr. Ellis, 'that we have a daughter so prone to the detestable vices of pride, vanity, and deceit!' 'Oh, don't be too hard upon poor Mabel, dear,' said her mamma; 'she is very young. You must forgive this childish trick.' 'Trick!' said Mr. Ellis, bitterly--'yes, you have given it a right name, Ada; but I hate tricks.' CHAPTER VI. A FRIENDLY PROPOSITION. The morning after the foregoing occurrence found Mabel very dull, and very captious. She was of course glad to know that the brooch had been found, but very uneasy at the manner of finding it. She was not, in truth, sorry for the fault that she had committed, but her proud spirit chafed at the idea of being talked about in the Maitland family, especially as she knew that a young cousin of theirs, Harry Maitland, was expected to pay them a visit on this very day, when the whole affair was sure to be canvassed. But we will leave Mabel to her own uneasy thoughts, and look in at the pleasant family party assembled in the breakfast-room of the Laurels, as Mr. Maitland's residence was designated. This villa, as we know, adjoined that of Aunt Mary, who at this time was on a visit with her niece Clara to that young lady's widowed mother, Mrs. Beaumont. Cousin Harry had arrived, and made one of the happy group, who were sitting, books and work in hand, for they were never idle, enjoying the fresh pure air of the morning, and the delicious smell of flowers, of which there was a profusion both outside and in. The garden, indeed, was resplendent with variety and beauty of colouring, softly shaded down by the laurels, which gave their name to the villa. Mr. Maitland had been reading a book of travels, and he was now descanting on the uses and properties of the Eucalyptus, or blue gum-tree of Australia, which is said to grow as much in seven years, as an oak will grow in twenty; attains sometimes the height of three and four hundred feet, drains the ground, attracts rain, prevents malaria, etc. 'But do you really believe, sir, all that is written about this wonderful tree?' inquired Harry Maitland, who had been making a sketch of the said tree, from the description which his uncle had been reading to them. 'Certainly, I do believe all that is stated of it,' replied Mr. Maitland. 'Why should I doubt well-accredited writers and eye-witnesses? The most extraordinary fact respecting it is, its health-diffusing properties, which, as I read, makes me wonder why strenuous efforts have not been made for its cultivation in England. I know there have been, and there are, some efforts made, but not on an extensive scale. There are some young trees in the Kew Gardens, which, before you leave us, Harry, I hope we shall go to see.' Just as Mr. Maitland was beginning to read again, he was interrupted by a smart rap-tap at the front door; and immediately after, the servant announced Mr. and Mrs. Norton. 'Dear Laura,' exclaimed Mrs. Maitland, kissing her young friend,' I am very glad to see you again, though I did not expect you would be out so early this morning. I see,' added the lady, 'I need not introduce Dora and Annie; though you did not see them yesterday, it is evident they have not forgotten you.' Indeed they had not, for each had seized a hand of their favourite, and had given and received a warm salute. While these kindly salutations were going on, Mr. Maitland and Harry were exchanging courtesies with their friend Mr. Norton, for Cousin Harry was no stranger to that gentleman, who had often been a visitor at his father's house--or rather I should say rectory, in Kent--always an agreeable one, for he had travelled much, and could make himself a most interesting companion. 'I did not tell you yesterday, Mr. Maitland,' said their visitor, 'that we leave England for Australia in a week's time; I know under the circumstances you will excuse this early and unceremonious visit, as we wish to spend as much time as possible with our friends, and to have some little excursions with the young people.' 'Are you really going to leave England so soon, and going so far away?' inquired Mr. Maitland, rather dolefully. 'I am so sorry for our own sakes, but I hope it will be to your own great advantage.' 'Yes, I hope so too,' replied Mr. Norton; 'our prospects are very fair; the climate is good, and I have many friends located there.' 'And you will be in the native land of this magnificent tree we have been reading about,' said Harry, 'the blue gum tree. Do, Mr. Norton, write and tell us all you know about it.' 'Harry is quite sceptical respecting its merits,' said Mr. Maitland, laughing. 'I do hope you will be able to convince him that what he has read and heard about it is all quite true.' 'I am sorry to say that I have never yet turned my attention to the subject, but I make Master Harry a promise that I will do so, and that I will give him all possible information I can gain on the subject; but just now,' added the gentleman, 'we have a proposal to make, which we must not defer, as our time is so short. It is this,' continued Mr. Norton, 'that we all spend a pleasant day together at some place of amusement, to be chosen by the young ladies. We are to spend this evening at Camden Terrace, with our kind friends Mr. and Mrs. Ellis. I hope you will be there, and then we can settle our plans for to-morrow.' 'We have been invited,' said Mrs. Maitland, 'but unfortunately we had a prior engagement; but I promise you, Mr. Norton, that in whatever direction you may decide to go to-morrow, we will accompany you.' 'Stop, stop, my dear,' interrupted Mr. Maitland; 'you are reckoning without your host, although he happens to be in the room with you. Do you forget that I have to set off early in the morning to pay a visit to a sick friend who is particularly anxious to see me?' 'Well, we shall be very sorry to go without you, Maitland,' replied Mr. Norton; 'but I suppose Master Harry, here, will try to supply your place to the young ladies, and we must do as well as we can.' 'Did you hear about our finding Mrs. Ellis's brooch yesterday, in the Regent's Park?' inquired Mrs. Norton; 'but perhaps you have not seen any of them. It was a curious accident.' 'The brooch!' exclaimed Dora and Annie, simultaneously. 'Did you really find the brooch? Oh, we are so glad! We told dear mamma about it, and she was as sorry as we were, but we have not seen Mabel or Julia since. How did you happen to find it, Mrs. Norton?' 'We went to seat ourselves under the shade of the trees,' replied the lady. 'We saw you in the distance, but did not know who you were; and I dare say you did not see us, for you were all looking on the ground.' 'Yes, of course we were,' said Dora; 'we were searching for the brooch. And I remember we did see a lady and gentleman coming towards us; we went away sooner on that account, for Mabel was in such a temper I felt ashamed of anyone coming near us, though she was the only person to blame, as she ought not to have worn her mamma's brooch.' 'Hush, hush! my little girl!' said papa; 'don't you know that our motto is, "If you cannot speak good of a person, say nothing at all of them."' 'Bravo! bravo!' cried Mr. Norton. 'I heartily wish that this golden rule were adopted in every family. What a world of trouble would be saved, and how much more time there would be for profitable conversation!' 'Well,' said Mrs. Maitland, 'we are all heartily glad that the treasure is recovered; and perhaps its temporary loss, and the uneasiness it occasioned, may be a useful lesson to the young people.' The visitors now took leave of their friends, promising themselves the pleasure of seeing them in the morning, at the early hour of eleven, in order that they might have a long day together. It was also agreed that, to save time and trouble, the parties were to meet at the Park, if no objection were raised to the proposed plan by Mr. and Mrs. Ellis. CHAPTER VII. THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. It was a lovely day, this 10th of August; there was scarcely a cloud to be seen in the sky. The trees, it is true, were beginning to put on their russet tints here and there, but this only added to the beauty of their colouring; there certainly was at present no disagreeable appearance of coming changes. It had been agreed, on the preceding evening, that Mr. and Mrs. Norton should call for Mabel and Julia, as Mr. Ellis had declared that he could not spare time for a day's pleasure, and poor Mrs. Ellis said that she felt too weak at present to undertake the task of wandering about in the Gardens. This was a great disappointment to their friends the Nortons, who were not quite sure that Mrs. Maitland would be able to accompany her young people, as she had intimated a doubt on the subject before they bade adieu on the preceding evening: however, they made up their minds that it would be a pleasant day for the juveniles. Mr. Ellis had strongly objected to Mabel's making one of the party; he insisted that it would be only a proper punishment to deprive her of the pleasure on account of the recent delinquency. He was, however, over-ruled in his opinion, both by his wife and his friends, and so, very reluctantly, he was induced to give up the point. As usual, Mabel's first consideration in the morning, after her papa had gone out, was what she should wear on this eventful day; and on her mamma's suggesting that she and Julia should put on their grey dresses, she was vehemently opposed by that young lady, who declared she would rather stay at home than go to the Gardens with Mr. and Mrs. Norton in such a dowdy dress. Julia, on the contrary, was quite content to follow her mamma's advice, as she very wisely agreed that if they put on their light silk dresses, they might have them soiled, or perhaps spoiled. This idea, however, was treated with contempt by Mabel, and the young lady waxed so warm in the discussion, that the too indulgent, peace-loving Mrs. Ellis gave way, and gave permission to her daughters to do as they thought proper, only she warned them that they had no time to lose. Away tripped the sisters to make ready--Julia with a determination to follow her mamma's advice, Mabel with the intention of keeping her own foolish resolve of pride and vanity. An obstacle, however, presented itself on the first putting on of the silk dress: it had not been worn for some time, as during the summer muslins had superseded silk, and Mabel found, to her great disgust, that the sleeves were too short. She had certainly known of this before, but as she was by no means remarkable for provident care of her clothes, in taking pains to keep them in order, a button wanting, or a rent unmended, or a sleeve too short, were things not at all to be wondered at in Mabel's wardrobe. 'How provoking!' she exclaimed, as she looked at her wrists; 'I cannot possibly go out unless I have under-sleeves, and I haven't a pair.' 'Oh, do as mamma wished,' said Julia; 'put on your grey frock. You will be much more comfortable, because you won't be afraid of spoiling it.' 'Hold your tongue, you foolish little thing,' replied Mabel. 'I tell you I wouldn't be seen out with Mr. and Mrs. Norton, with such a dress as you are wearing; besides,' she continued, 'Harry Maitland will be with his cousins.' 'And what of that?' exclaimed Julia, in astonishment; 'surely you don't mind what he thinks about your dress!' There was no direct answer to this remark, but Mabel declared she was not going to submit to her younger sister's dictation; and as a capital idea seemed just then to strike her, she went to one of the small drawers which indeed belonged to her mamma, and took from thence a pair of beautiful lace sleeves and proceeded to put them on. 'Oh, don't, don't!' cried Julia; 'pray do not wear those beautiful sleeves of mamma's! you know dear Aunt Mary gave them to her, and as they are her work, mamma values them so much! Pray remember the brooch,' she added; 'or if you will persist in putting them on, go and ask leave first.' 'I mean to ask mamma when we go downstairs,' said Mabel, 'but you know I have not time now. I wish you would not be so officious with your advice and your cautions, just as if I didn't know how to act as well as you do.' With the promise that mamma should be spoken to, Julia was obliged to be satisfied, as a loud tapping at the front-door betokened the arrival of their friends Mr. and Mrs. Norton; and the two girls hastily finished their dressing and their discussion, and went down to join their friends. Whether, in the hurry of salutations and leave-taking, Mabel actually _forgot_ her promise to speak to her mamma about the sleeves, we shall not undertake to say; certain it is, that there was no mention made of them. And the party set off in high spirits to join their young friends the Maitlands, as had been agreed, at the gate of the Zoological Gardens. There had been strict punctuality on both sides, for neither party had to wait. But great was Mabel's mortification to find Dora and Annie had, like her sister Julia, dressed themselves in their plain grey frocks, so _she_ looked like a golden pheasant among a set of barn-door fowls: and however much vanity she possessed, her common sense taught her that she had laid herself open to ridicule; though of course no one spoke of her dress, and even the beautiful sleeves seemed at the time to attract no attention. In a very short time, the whole party were intently gazing with wonder and admiration on the marvels of creation. The elephants, the giraffe, the rhinoceros, the hippopotamus, etc., all passed in review, and elicited remarks of wonder and astonishment from the young visitors, such as their monstrous size and great strength were well calculated to draw forth. The lions, tigers, leopards and bears came in for a share of applause; but as the strength of these animals is not evidenced by their size, I must acknowledge they were taken less notice of than either the huge creatures or the smaller and more elegant and delicate quadrupeds, which, generally speaking, won the admiration of the party. The bipeds, we may be sure, were not neglected; but the congregated tribe of them kept up such an incessant clatter, that having borne it for some little time, Harry Maitland was fain to stop his ears and run out of their house, declaring that 'their noise was worse than could be made by a hundred scolding women.' A very ungallant declaration, certainly, for a young gentleman, and one that he had not, and was never likely to have, the opportunity of proving the truth of. Harry was soon joined by the young ladies, whom the noise of the parrot-house had nearly deafened, and a general resolution was put, and carried by the whole party, Mabel herself not excepted, that fine plumage did not at all make amends for disagreeable propensities. 'And now,' said Harry Maitland, with just one sly glance at the bright silk frock, whose wearer was standing beside him, 'suppose we go and pay a visit to our friends the monkeys? That is to say, young ladies,' he added, 'if you don't think it would be jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire, and can endure smell better than noise.' 'Oh yes!' was the general exclamation; 'do let us go and see the monkeys.' 'Who has got any biscuits or nuts?' inquired Dora Maitland. 'I haven't got anything.' 'I have some pieces of biscuit left from what I bought for the elephants,' said Mabel. 'And I have nuts in my pocket,' said Harry; 'while the monkeys are cracking them, we can be cracking our jokes.' But these proved to be rather unpleasant ones, to one at least of the party, who, nevertheless, as she could not foresee what was coming, was the first to laugh at Harry's silly speech. The monkey-house proved, as they thought it would, anything but agreeable to the olfactory nerves of our young friends; though their attention was soon diverted from what was offensive, by the very amusing gymnastics of the monkeys, who, while they performed their various feats of skill, had evidently an eye to the main chance, and kept a vigilant look-out for something more substantial than applause. 'Give this old fellow a bit of your biscuit, Mabel,' said Dora Maitland; 'he is evidently expecting some from us.' Now we know that monkeys, though they are anxious expectants, are not very gracious receivers, which poor Mabel, who seemed to, be the doomed person, found to her cost, when, on stretching out her arm to give the required morsel, the ungrateful recipient caught hold of the beautiful lace sleeve, tore it from her arm, doubled it up in an instant, and thrust it into his mouth, clambering with great rapidity to the very top of his habitation, as if afraid of pursuit, and looking down with a hideous grin on the astonished and disgusted parties below. 'Oh, poor mamma's beautiful lace sleeve!' ejaculated Julia, to the great annoyance of the trembling and affrighted Mabel, on whom all eyes were now turned. 'Oh, what a pity! what a pity!' sounded on every side; but there was no redress, and Mabel, unable to restrain her tears, or to give vent to her varied feelings of anger, scorn, and vexation, rushed out of the monkey-house, leaving Julia to explain, and her friends to condole. All the party except Harry Maitland had before seen, and very greatly admired, these sleeves of Mrs. Ellis's, which, as I said before, were Aunt Mary's work; and sorry, very sorry, were both Dora and Annie Maitland to hear that Mabel had put them on without her mamma's leave. 'Well, it's no use being sorry now,' cried Harry Maitland; 'we can't restore the sleeve, that's certain. I wonder how girls can be so foolish as to dress themselves up, when they come to such a place as this--especially,' he added sarcastically, 'in other people's finery.' 'I am glad Mabel was not near enough to hear your remarks, Harry,' said his cousin Dora; 'I am sure she must be quite enough troubled, without our saying anything disagreeable.' 'Yes, but she brought the trouble upon herself, and therefore she deserves to suffer,' persisted Harry; 'the worst of it is,' he added, 'she makes innocent people suffer for her fault.' 'Let us go and see after Mabel,' said the kind-hearted Annie; 'I think we have all had enough of the monkeys to-day.' 'Yes, one young lady has had rather too much of them,' said Harry, 'or rather, I should say, the monkey has had too much of her; though the old fellow appears to be quite satisfied with the trick he has played.' 'There is Mabel,' cried Julia, as they came out of the monkey-house. 'Poor thing, don't let us say anything more about the sleeve; I am sure she must feel very uncomfortable.' 'I wonder where we shall find Mr. and Mrs. Norton,' said Dora; 'we have been a long time away from them: perhaps they are looking after us.' 'I'll tell you where I think they are,' said Harry; 'it is about the time for the sea-lion to exhibit himself, and we had better bend our steps that way, for we are almost sure of finding the lady and gentleman there;' and it proved to be the fact, for among the numerous spectators which the sea-lions had attracted, our young friends soon singled out Mr. and Mrs. Norton. The flushed face and tear-swollen eyes of Mabel did not escape the notice of the lady, but seeing that she turned away, and appeared anxious to avoid observation, Mrs. Norton made no remark, and soon all the party were interested spectators of the various exploits of the marine prodigy. Suddenly, however, a violent plunge of the animal into the water, on the side near which our friends were standing, sent a rather unpleasant shower-bath among the crowd, and caused a sudden retreat, though it did not take place in time for all of them to avoid a wetting. I am sorry to say that Mabel's silk frock came in for a share; but this would not really have mattered much, if, in her hurry to get out of the way, she had not unfortunately set her foot on the skirt of it, which made her fall on one knee, and thus come in contact with the wet soil and gravel, which, however harmless they might have proved to a grey dress, by no means improved the colour of a light silk one. 'Misfortunes never come alone,' it is said; and though I am not myself a firm believer in this proverb, it certainly proved true with regard to Mabel Ellis, though these misfortunes were entirely the results of her pride and self-will, so she does not deserve our commiseration. It was evident, too, that she did not wish for sympathy just then, for brushing off the soil from her dress, and making very light of the matter, she seemed to say: 'I don't want your sympathy; please to keep it to yourselves.' Of course my readers will not suppose that the young lady really was indifferent to the spoiling of her dress, but she had so much silly pride in her composition, that she thought to appear sorry would lower her in the eyes of her companions. She certainly did not judge _them_ correctly, nor had she as yet, poor girl, reached the climax of her troubles; but for this we must go a little further, and see the party comfortably seated at one of the marble tables in the elegant refreshment-rooms, where tea, and sandwiches, and buns are plentifully provided, and highly appreciated by the young ramblers after their long walk and sight-seeing, which are both very exhausting, and require refreshment, and relaxation, and rest. Seated round this pleasant table, and in the enjoyment of the good things that were placed thereon, the spirits of the young ones of the party rose considerably; and Harry Maitland, who was quick-witted and fond of joking, created plenty of juvenile mirth by his remarks upon the monkey tribe, though of course he avoided saying anything that might lead to unpleasant inquiries. It happened, unfortunately, that when the lace sleeve had been so ruthlessly torn from Mabel's arm by the audacious monkey, it did not occur to that young lady to make sure of the other sleeve by taking it off and putting it into her pocket. Instead of acting thus prudently, she contented herself with tucking the lace up under its elastic band--a very treacherous safeguard, as it proved. Our friend Harry, as the young squire of the party, was very attentive to the ladies, as indeed he always was; but it happened unfortunately that in handing a plate of buns to his opposite neighbour, Mabel, he became the innocent cause of another disaster to that most luckless damsel, for the lace that had been so unceremoniously tucked out of sight, having escaped from the elastic band, attached itself to the handle of Mabel's cup, as she reached out her hand to take the offered bun, and upset the whole of its contents, which, though the greater part of the fluid went into the saucer, quite sufficient found its way into Mabel's dress to put the finishing stroke to her misfortunes. Hastily jumping up, and without waiting for any condolence or assistance, the excited girl rushed out of the room, followed by Julia, whose kind heart really ached to see her sister so distressed. 'Don't follow them out, my dears,' said Mrs. Norton to Dora and Annie Maitland, who had risen from their chairs to do so. 'I am sure,' she continued, 'that Mabel would much rather be without your sympathy, and you cannot possibly render her any assistance. Poor foolish girl,' added the lady, 'I cannot say I am sorry for _her_; but I well know what trouble she must give her mamma, whom I really am sorry for.' 'But, Laura dear,' inquired Mr. Norton, 'don't you suspect that some blame must attach itself to the young lady's mother? Faults, you know, like ill weeds, grow apace if they are not corrected; and the weeds, if suffered to grow rank, will destroy the beautiful flowers which we expected to see in our gardens. Is it not so, do you think?' 'Yes, you are quite right, no doubt,' replied the lady; 'and I fear that my poor friend, Mrs. Ellis, will find it very difficult, if not impossible, to correct faults, which, through weak indulgence, seem to have taken deep root. But,' added Mrs. Norton, rising to go, 'this is no place for sermonising. We have had a pleasant day, notwithstanding the troubles of our young friends; we had better look after them now, and wend our way homewards.' CHAPTER VIII. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 'No, my dear, I am determined that Mabel shall not go with her sister to Mrs. Maitland's juvenile party. You over-ruled my wish yesterday, and suffered her to go to the Gardens, and I think you have been properly punished for that' (alluding to the sleeves). 'To-day I insist on having my way. It is most painful to me to see, as I cannot help doing, that through your weakness of character, or want of discipline, Mabel has grown up to be a plague to us, instead of a comfort.' This unwelcome truth was uttered by Mr. Ellis before he left home on the morning after the visit to the Gardens; and he added, before he left the room: 'I am very glad that your sister, Aunt Mary, is coming home this week, for I intend to ask her as a particular favour to take Mabel under her care. I wish we had sent her to Oak Villa twelve months ago; we might have been spared much trouble.' This parting rebuke and warning had the usual effect of making Mrs. Ellis very nervous; she could not bear the thought of communicating the ill news it contained to Mabel. She had come to have almost a childish dread of the girl's temper, yet she knew well that her husband's mandate must be obeyed. There could no greater trial come to Mabel, at least so she thought, than to deprive her of the pleasure of this visit; and the indulgent mamma shrunk with great pain from the task, which had been imposed upon her: yet there was no escape. As the girls had finished breakfast and left the room before their papa went out, they of course had not heard his disagreeable intimation, and they were now in their own rooms, looking over their dresses. 'What will you do, Mabel?' inquired Julia, 'about your silk frock? You cannot possibly wear it to-day; it is quite spoiled in front with the tea. I know mamma did not notice it last night, though she and papa were so angry about your wearing it, and about the sleeves too.' 'Now just mind your own business, if you please,' said the uncourteous Mabel. 'I hear,' she added, 'that papa has gone out, so I shall go down and coax mamma to get a dress for me. I have seen plenty of pretty dresses in the shop windows, some of them very cheap; I dare say she won't object to buy me one.' After the delivery of this speech Mabel hastily left the room, and, as she had expected, found her mamma still seated in the breakfast-room, but looking very sad. She had not, however, at all _expected_ to hear the unwelcome truth which had now to be told, and which greeted her on the first mention of a new dress. 'You need not trouble yourself about a new dress, my dear Mabel,' said her mother, sorrowfully. 'Your papa says, that he will not allow you to go with your sister to Mrs. Maitland's party.' 'Not to go!' exclaimed the astonished girl; 'and do _you_, mamma, say that I am not to go?' she inquired, actually stamping her foot in rage. '_I_ have no say in the matter, Mabel,' replied her mother; 'your papa's will must be obeyed. He thinks that it is my fault that you are so proud and wilful, and he has made up his mind to send you next week to your aunt Mary, where you will be taught and disciplined, and he hopes in time become a sensible girl, like your cousin Clara.' 'Mamma, mamma!' exclaimed the passionate girl, with vehemence, 'I hate Clara, and Aunt Mary too. I would rather die than go and live at Oak Villa, with that cross-grained old aunt and stupid cousin.' 'Mabel,' said Mrs. Ellis, greatly shocked at hearing such expressions, 'it is very wicked of you to give way to your passion, and to make such unjust remarks as you have made, both of your aunt and cousins. Neither is your aunt cross, nor your cousin Clara stupid; though cross if they were, you would still be obliged to submit to your papa's decision. Remember,' continued Mrs. Ellis, 'you have brought the trouble upon yourself, and you have been repeatedly warned of the consequences if you did not amend. Now it is too late, for I am persuaded that nothing either you or I could say would alter your papa's determination.' A passionate burst of tears was all the reply that the humbled, but not penitent, Mabel, could make. She sat herself down on a low stool, and covering her face with her hands, continued to cry and sob, in spite of the kind remonstrances of her mamma, and even of her promises to intercede for her. Mabel knew that what her mother had before stated was quite true, and that all intercession with papa now would be in vain; and she was too much absorbed in selfish sorrow to care anything, even if she thought anything, of the pain she was giving to her poor mother, though she well knew that any trouble of mind increased the malady with which that lady was affected. Her own mortification, her own bitter disappointment, it was the thought of these that kept the sluices of sorrow open such an unreasonable time; and when Julia, on coming into the room, went to speak some words of comfort to her sister, she received a blow on the face which made her nose bleed, though certainly it was not intended, for the passionate girl was not aware of Julia's close proximity, as she threw out her hand only to indicate that she wanted no condolence. This accident, however, had the beneficial effect, for a time, of turning the current of Mabel's ideas from self. She was indeed shocked to see what she had done, though kind-hearted Julia made light of the blow, and declared it did not pain her at all. 'I am sure you must all hate me--I think everybody hates me,' cried impetuous Mabel; 'but I didn't mean to hurt you, Julia, and I am very, very sorry for what I have done.' 'Oh, I know you are,' replied her sister; 'don't think anything more about it. And don't cry any more, dear; I can't bear to see you cry;' and she added in a whisper, 'It makes mamma ill.' This little episode had done more to convince Mrs. Ellis of the wisdom of her husband's plan, with regard to his daughter Mabel, than all that he had said previously on the subject; and she made up her mind to offer no opposition to anything he might propose. Coming to this conclusion, she dismissed Mabel and Julia, under the plea that it was absolutely necessary that she should remain quiet for a time. CHAPTER IX. THE JUVENILE PARTY. The morning after the visit to the Gardens was temptingly fine; and at breakfast-time, Harry Maitland proposed a trip to the Kew Gardens, where, he said, there would be no fear of monkey tricks, and they would have the satisfaction of seeing specimens of the famous blue gum tree. 'But you have forgotten, I think,' said his cousin Dora, 'that we are expecting two of your school-fellows and their two sisters; Mabel and Julia Ellis, and the vicar's son and daughter, Robert and Edith Newland.' 'Oh yes, I had quite forgotten the party,' replied Harry; 'I beg everybody's pardon for being so careless. I will do as you suggest, aunt, and help Dora and Annie to prepare for the guests.' 'Thank you, my dear,' said Mrs. Maitland; 'I shall be glad to avail myself of your services, especially as I hear your cousins wish to have tea on the lawn, where there will be plenty of room for you to display your taste. I am only sorry that our good neighbour Miss Livesay, and her niece Clara, have not yet come home; so that we shall not have the pleasure of their company.' 'O, we are all very sorry on that account,' said Dora, 'for there is no one like Aunt Mary, as we call her, for making everybody feel happy and joyful. We call her the _sunbeam_,' added Dora; 'and Clara Beaumont we call the _evening star_, she is so gentle and quiet, though she is quicker at her lessons than we are, a great deal.' 'I remember Clara,' said Harry Maitland; 'poor girl, I think she was in mourning for her father when I was here in the winter. I thought she was a very nice girl, and I too am sorry that she won't be here this afternoon.' 'I believe Miss Livesay is expected home to-morrow,' said Mrs. Maitland, 'so you will have an opportunity of meeting with both her and her niece, Harry; but now, young people, you must set yourself to work, for I have many things to arrange in household matters, and can have nothing to do with decoration. Fruits and flowers, festoons and garlands, I leave entirely in your hands; I have the fullest confidence in your taste,' added the lady, laughing, and bidding them good-morning, and wishing them all success in their delightful occupation. The Laurels, or Laurel Villa, as it was sometimes called, was a most desirable residence. Exactly like Oak Villa, its next-door neighbour, in size and appearance, so far as the house was concerned; but the gardens differed very materially, Mr. Maitland's being so well stocked, or so over-stocked with laurels, that they had actually given a name to the pleasant abode. We won't complain of them, for they formed a delightful shade to many a rustic seat in the large back garden, and kept quite secluded the front of the house. The breakfast-room, which was at the back part of the house, opened on to the lawn with large folding glass doors; over which the balcony of the drawing-room formed a pleasant and very convenient shade in the summer season, at which time it rejoiced in a profusion of sweet-scented clematis, whose delicate tendrils hung luxuriantly over the balustrade, and in some places even swept the gravel walk. The balcony itself was filled with choice flowers, and was attended to with great care, by the lady of the villa herself. The wall surrounding the garden was almost hidden by the profusion of laurels, and half a dozen rather tall trees at the bottom of the garden formed a picturesque background to the whole. The smooth-shaven lawn must not be unmentioned; it made a delightful promenade; it had been the scene of many a joyous party, and it was to be the arena on which the young invited guests of to-day were to bear witness to the artistic taste, as well as to do justice to the profusion of good things provided by their kind entertainers. 'I hope Maurice Firman won't play any of his foolish pranks to-day,' said Harry. 'He is always getting into trouble at school, yet the boys like him because he is so good-natured, and so ready to help them with their lessons; he seems as if he could not keep out of mischief. Edward is quite a different fellow, and his sisters, Ella and Lucy, are very nice girls; but they always seem afraid of Maurice, he is so fond of practical jokes.' 'I hope he won't play any while he is here,' said Dora. 'I was going to ask mamma to let us have her gold and purple cups and saucers, but if Maurice Firman is so mischievous, they might be broken.' 'Oh, as to that,' said Harry, 'I don't suppose he would attack the tea equipage, though he is a very good hand at clearing bread-and-butter plates,' he added, laughing; 'and I expect if that Miss Mabel Ellis comes, that we shall have a scene, for he is sure to turn her into ridicule.' 'Oh, I hope he wouldn't be so rude,' said Annie Maitland; 'surely he knows better how to behave himself when he is in company, and where there are young ladies?' 'I am not at all sure of him, Cousin Annie,' said Harry; 'but I do hope that silly conceited girl will not be here, to put Maurice to the test.' 'I really don't think that she will come,' said Dora; 'her papa appeared to be so angry about her going with us yesterday, that she told me that he perhaps would not give his consent to her being of our party to-day.' 'Well done, Mr. Ellis!' said Harry. 'Keep the young lady at home; we can do much better without than with her.' 'But Julia, I am sure, will not like to come without her sister,' said Annie. 'I don't think she would enjoy herself, if Mabel were not here.' 'Ah, you judge other people's feelings by your own, my kind cousin,' said the patronising Harry; 'you mustn't always do that, though I believe there is some truth in what you say about Julia Ellis.' A silvery laugh ringing from the balcony just then made the young party look up, when they saw Mrs. Maitland, who was busy watering and rearranging her flowers, and who had been amused at her nephew's sententious speech. 'Doesn't Harry lay down the law well, mamma?' inquired Dora. 'I think,' she added, 'he will make a good barrister; he is beginning to practise so early.' 'I hope he will _practise_, as well as preach,' replied his aunt, laughing; 'example, you know, my dear boy, is better than precept,' she added, addressing herself to Harry. 'But we boys and girls require both, aunt; and I and my cousins ought to be very good, for I am sure we have both,' said the polite young gentleman, with a bow. 'At present you are all that I could wish you, my dears,' replied Mrs. Maitland; 'and I can only say now, "Go on and prosper."' 'Mamma, mamma dear, don't go just this minute,' cried Dora, as Mrs. Maitland was retreating through the drawing-room window; 'Harry has a favour to ask of you.' 'Well, what is it, Mr. Special Pleader?' inquired the lady, resuming her place on the balcony. 'Now, aunt,' said Harry, laughing, 'I don't think it is quite fair of my cousins to _engage_ me in such a trifling matter, especially as I am not likely to get anything for my _brief_, except perhaps a rebuke from you.' 'Well, go on, my good sir,' said his aunt; 'I have some curiosity to learn what you have to do in the Court of Request to-day.' 'It is simply this,' replied Harry; 'my instructions are to plead for the loan of the purple and gold tea equipage, in order to make a magnificent display before the astonished eyes of a parcel of school girls and boys. That's my case, madam,' added the juvenile pleader, with a bow. 'I beg to say,' he added, after a moment's pause, 'that _I_ am no advocate in this cause; I leave it entirely in the judge's hands.' 'Yes, we leave it in your hands, mamma,' said both the girls; 'we think we have confided our case to a very one-sided lawyer, and that one side is certainly against his clients.' 'I am sorry to say "no" to any petition you make, my dears,' said the kind lady; 'but prudence forbids my granting your request to-day, as misfortunes will happen, and are very likely to happen, where such a young gentleman as you describe Master Maurice Firman to be is of the party. Besides, I really think myself,' added prudent mamma, 'that the white and green tea service, though not so gorgeous as purple and gold, will be much more suitable for your present entertainment.' 'All right, aunt,' 'All right, dear mamma,' was the response to this decision. Fortunately, in Mrs. Maitland's family, what mamma said was always right with her daughters, and this saved a world of trouble. The happy trio went on with their preparations, and when the table was brought out on to the lawn, and had received not only the pure white and green tea-service, but the very elegant floral decorations invented by the cousins, it really had a most imposing appearance, and was pronounced by the highest authority to be perfect. 'Well, now we have prepared the feast, or at least adorned it,' said Harry, 'I think we had better look after our own adornment, for we don't appear to be in a very fit state to receive visitors--at least I can answer for myself that I am not;' and he held up his hands in proof of this affirmation, though it was evident that Dora and Annie needed no such proof, as they were pretty much in the same condition. The young people had performed their ablutions, and were together again on the grass plot admiring their own handiwork, or rearranging here and there leaf or fern-wreath, when a ringing at the bell sounded an arrival, and Harry and his cousins met and saluted their young friends, the Firmans, in the hall: two very nice-looking girls and their two brothers, Maurice and Edward, of whom my readers have heard before. 'You will take the young gentlemen into the garden with you, dear Harry,' said Mrs. Maitland, who had come out of the dining-room to salute the guests, 'and Dora and Annie will go with the young ladies to the bedroom.' 'Mamma thinks, Mrs. Maitland,' said the eldest Miss Firman, whose name was Lucy, 'that we are too large a party to come of one family; she is afraid of giving you trouble.' 'Not in the least, my dear Lucy,' replied the kind lady. 'I wonder,' she added, 'what your mamma would say if she knew that we turned you out of doors as soon as you came.' Lucy looked up inquiringly, and Dora explained laughingly: 'Mamma means, Lucy, that we are all going to drink tea out of doors.' 'Oh, that _will_ be delightful!' exclaimed both Lucy and Ella, as they followed their young friends upstairs to remove their hats and jackets; Harry having done as his aunt had suggested, taken Maurice and Edward down the steps into the garden in the meantime. The young gentleman was well aware that he had rather a rough customer to deal with in Master Maurice, as he had more than once been the object of his school-fellow's practical jokes; so he thought proper to give him a caution. 'Now, I say, Maurice,' began Harry Maitland, 'don't let's have any of your school-boy tricks here, that's a good fellow; you know we have young ladies to deal with this afternoon, and we must try to please them.' 'Oh, I'm not going to do anything foolish; don't be afraid, old fellow,' said his companion. 'Why, Harry, you look as solemn as though you expected me to fly away with the tea-table and all the good things upon it,' he remarked, as he glanced with a well-satisfied and complacent look at the said tea-table; and added, 'I assure you that I don't mean to do anything so shocking, but shall content myself with a moderate share of the excellent provisions with which it is stocked.' This speech was delivered with mock gravity, and our friend Harry was fain to be satisfied with the promise, as the young ladies just then made their appearance, and there was a very general exclamation of pleasure and admiration at the really pretty and tasteful surroundings. Another ring at the bell announced more visitors, and the good vicar's children, Robert and Edith Newlove, made their appearance on the top of the steps, and soon joined the rest in their admiration of what had been effected by the artistic efforts of their young friends. Harry cordially greeted his school companion and especial favourite, Robert Newlove, while Dora and Annie welcomed with a kiss his gentle sister Edith; and soon the happy party were seated round the table, where Dora was to preside, though she had much wished that her mamma should take that important office upon herself. 'I thought you told me that Mabel and Julia Ellis were to be here, Dora,' said Edith Newlove, who was seated near her friend. 'Are they not coming?' she inquired. 'I really don't know how it will be,' replied Dora, quietly, for she did not wish to attract notice. 'Julia I hope will be here soon, but I fear Mabel will not be permitted to come; her papa is very much displeased with her.' Another ring at the bell made the young party suspend operations for a few minutes, and Julia Ellis received a cordial welcome, and soon found a seat near Harry Maitland, who had risen to receive her. Maurice Firman, not wishing to be less courteous than his friend Harry, had also risen from his seat, but very unfortunately--or shall I say clumsily?--in doing so, the contents of his cup went over on to his trousers, and he was too much engaged in keeping off the hot beverage from touching his skin, to deal in matters of courtesy. 'What a clumsy fellow you are, Maurice,' said his brother Edward; 'always getting into hot water.' 'Oh, don't bother!' exclaimed Maurice, petulantly, and still shaking his trousers. 'I'd rather get into hot water than have the hot water poured upon me;' and having said, as he thought, a witty thing, and made the whole party laugh (which I must confess they had all been very much inclined to do before at his expense), he seated himself again at the table, cooling down as the hot beverage had done, and trying to make himself agreeable to his young friends by his very lively remarks, of which he had a good store. 'Why is your sister Mabel not with you, Julia?' inquired Lucy Firman. 'I hope she is not unwell?' she added, seeing the colour rise on the cheeks of the poor girl. 'Mrs. Ellis is not very well,' replied Dora Maitland, answering for her friend; while Harry, in order to check further inquiries, asked Maurice Firman if he had ever been to the Zoological Gardens. 'I should just think I had,' replied Maurice, with a very significant shake of the head; 'but you won't catch me there again in a hurry. Why, I tumbled over into the bear's den, or cage, or whatever you call it; and if Master Bruin had been at the bottom of the pole, instead of the top, I can't tell you where my poll would have been now. Fortunately, the keeper was there, and I was got out somehow or other, I can't tell you how, for I was insensible when they picked me up; and that was no wonder, for I think I could not have been very _sensible_ when I tumbled over. When I came round I found myself lying on my own bed, and mamma, and the doctor, and the girls all crying: no, the doctor wasn't crying--doctors never do cry, I suppose, it is beneath their dignity; but the others made fuss enough, and it was nearly a month before I was able to go out again. And depend upon it, when I did go out, I didn't walk to the Zoological Gardens, for I can't bear the name of the place.' Maurice doubtless thought that he had made a good hit, but alas! it only fell on one pair of ears. Fortunately the tea passed over without any other mishap than the upsetting of the cup. Maurice Firman was certainly the chief spokesman of the party; and though I am compelled to admit that he displayed great attachment for plates of cake and bread and butter, I am also bound in justice to say that he was not at all wanting in courtesy to the young ladies, by whom he was surrounded. Everything, indeed, was pleasant, and as it should be, and the now antiquated game of croquet was proposed, as soon as the table with its adjuncts could be removed. 'Now I'll toss this ball, and catch it ten times running, with one hand, while you are waiting for your game,' cried the impatient Maurice; and though there was a general exclamation of 'No, no, not until the table is cleared!' away went the ball into the air, and returned safely into the hand that sent it. The next descent, however, was a disastrous one, for the ball fell exactly in the middle of the table, smashing more than one of the bread-and-butter plates, to the great distress and consternation of the whole party. 'Oh, how fortunate it is that we had not the best china tea-things,' said Dora; 'they are very expensive ones. It does not matter much about these; we can easily get them matched.' 'Well, I am _very very_ sorry,' said the author of the mischief; 'but I'll save up all my pocket-money, and buy some more plates,' he added. 'No, no, you won't,' said a kind voice from the balcony; and on Maurice looking up, he saw Mrs. Maitland, who had come out of the drawing-room to ascertain the cause of the commotion. 'Don't let this trifling accident spoil your sport, dear Maurice,' said the lady, smiling on the impetuous yet generous-hearted boy; 'only take care that you do not hurt your young friends, the ladies, by too rough play.' Having given this necessary caution, Mrs. Maitland left them to their sports, and as the unfortunate breakage had been the means of checking somewhat of the exuberant spirits of the youthful offender, everything went on very satisfactorily, and game succeeded game, with great amiability, until an unfortunate cat, belonging to Aunt Mary, which had accustomed itself to take an evening's promenade along the garden wall, made her usual appearance, and attracted the attention of the mischief-loving Maurice. 'Oh, I must have a fling at that cat,' cried that young gentleman, taking up a rather thick piece of stick from the bushes. 'Now see if I don't hit her right down from the wall,' he added; and he was just going to suit the action to the word, when he felt his arms pinioned from behind, and tried in vain to make his escape. The cat, however, was more fortunate, for seeing that she had attracted attention, and very likely having had some acquaintance with school-boy tricks, she very prudently contented herself with a short walk this evening, and quietly slipped down into her own domain before the pinioned arms were set at liberty. 'There, now you may go, old fellow,' said Harry Maitland, releasing the arms, which he had held so tightly that Maurice was fain to rub them violently to restore the circulation, while the whole party laughed heartily at his expense. 'I wish Harry was at home with you sometimes,' said Edward Firman, who did not seem at all to relish his boisterous ways. 'I wish he was,' replied Maurice, who looked rather red and angry at having been so ignominiously made captive. 'But you don't think,' he added, 'that I would let him master me so easily as he has done now, Ned; I was taken unawares, and that's not fair.' 'But that was the only way to save the poor cat,' said Dora Maitland: 'she might have been killed if you had struck her with that large piece of wood; and I think Cousin Harry did quite right in holding your arms.' 'Such a fuss about a cat!' cried Maurice, still smarting under the supposed affront. 'You should see how I served one the other day, when she came prowling about the house to steal anything she could lay hold of.' 'Don't let him tell--don't let him tell it, 'cried both Lucy and Ethel Firman; 'it is a great shame of you, Maurice, to boast of your own bad deeds,' said both his sisters; and as the servants were just then again setting out the table with refreshments, the young party were saved the infliction of hearing an exploit boasted of, which would certainly have lowered Maurice Firman considerably in the eyes of all present. 'I did not intend to hurt you, Maurice,' said Harry Maitland, as he clapped his friend on the back, and held out his hand in token of amity. 'Oh, I know that,' replied the boy; 'I shouldn't play tricks with cats where there are girls.' 'Nor at all, I think,' responded his friend; 'it is a cowardly thing to hurt a dumb creature that cannot speak or fight for itself.' 'Can't they, though!' cried Maurice; 'I know, if they don't speak, they can make a horrible outcry. And as to fighting, just look here, my boy, what do you think of that for a scratch, which a wretch of a cat gave me because I took up her kitten and made it squall? Why, she flew at me like mad, and before I could put the kitten down, she gave me this wound;' and Maurice uncovered his wrist, and showed a very red and angry-looking scratch. 'It's your own fault; you should let the cats alone,' said his sisters. 'Mamma is always scolding you for teasing them.' 'Well, I think we have had enough of cats,' said Robert Newlove; 'I don't like them myself, but I should be very sorry to hurt them;' and in this charitable declaration he was seconded by the whole party, Maurice excepted. We must now bid good-night to our young friends, as they will soon do to each other. Aunt Mary and Clara are expected home to-morrow, and that careful domestic of hers, Bridget Morley, who has lived so many years at Oak Villa, has got everything in apple-pie order for her much-esteemed mistress, and a lovely brood of chickens, which have been hatched since they went away, to present to the young lady who has the charge of all the poultry. CHAPTER X. THE BROKEN BOX. Before we congratulate ourselves on Aunt Mary's return home, let us just take a look at the disappointed Mabel, after her sister Julia had gone to the tea-party. It was in vain that her too indulgent mother tried to soften her affliction, very injudiciously, we think, as every remark of hers only elicited a fresh burst of feeling; and Mrs. Ellis felt it quite a relief when the self-tormenting girl rose up hastily and retreated to her bedroom, there to ponder over, not her own delinquencies, we fear, but the wrongs inflicted on her by others. A little voice which said, 'May I come in, Mabel?' roused her for a moment, and she answered very crossly: 'What is it you want, Fred? I wish you would not come teasing me. Go away; I don't want any of you. 'I only want to show you the nice box of puzzles papa has brought home for me,' replied Freddy. 'I want you, Mabel dear, to help me to put it together. I won't tease you.' 'I don't want to see your box, and I shan't open the door,' said the ungracious girl. 'Take your box away, and get some one else to help you to put your puzzle together,' she added; and poor Fred, thus rudely repressed, turned to wend his way downstairs again. Unfortunately, his foot caught the fringe of the door-mat, which caused him to fall heavily and strike his head against the railing of the banisters, while the pretty box, escaping from his hand, went right down the stairs into the hall, where it burst open, and scattered the inclosed pieces right and left. Mabel was now quite roused, and fearing that her papa, attracted by the noise, might come up to see what was the matter, rather than being moved by any sisterly feeling, she reluctantly opened the door, and lifted up the prostrate Freddy, who, although he had received a rather severe blow on the forehead from coming in contact with the railings, was too much of a man to cry, and seemed more anxious about the fate of his new plaything, than desirous of obtaining either aid or sympathy; nor was he very likely to obtain either from Mabel, though she took him into her room to scold him for what he had done. 'Now just see what you have done,' said the selfish girl, 'by bringing up that nasty box, and then letting it fall down the stairs. I hear papa's voice in the hall; he will most likely come up here, and I shall get scolded for your stupidity.' 'I will go down to him,' said Freddy, 'and then I can tell him all about the box falling; papa needn't come up here.' 'How came you to let your box fall, Fred?' inquired Mr. Ellis, helping the boy to pick up the scattered pieces. 'I caught my foot in the fringe of the bedroom mat, papa,' replied Freddy; 'I am so sorry the box is broken.' 'Yes, so am I,' said his father; 'but why did you take it upstairs? that is what I should like to know.' As there was no answer returned to this question, Mr. Ellis stated the truth himself. 'I suppose,' he continued, 'you went to show it to your sister Mabel--was that it?' 'Yes, papa,' said the boy, still holding down his head; and kind papa, seeing there was something wrong, would not then press further questions on his little boy, though he remarked to his wife, when they were again seated, that he should indeed be very glad when Mabel was under the care of someone who knew how to manage her, for he was quite disgusted with her exhibitions of temper. 'My sister will I dare say be here to-morrow,' said Mrs. Ellis; 'and I will tell her what you wish respecting Mabel, though I know she does not like the poor girl: and Mabel will find Oak Villa very different to home, I am afraid.' 'That is not what I am afraid of,' replied Mr. Ellis; 'my fear is, that Miss Livesay will find the girl so intolerable, that we shall soon have her back on our hands again.' 'Oh, Arthur! you are so very severe in your remarks,' said the too indulgent mother. 'My sister is very patient, and very kind to children, though she is so firm.' 'Which I am sorry to say you are not, my dear; and it is this want of firmness which occasions all the mischief,' said the gentleman; adding, rather bitterly, 'You order a thing to be done, but you take no care to see your orders enforced, and thus we are plagued with unruly children and wilful servants.' 'Well, dear, you are always finding fault with me, whatever I do,' said the poor self-afflicted lady, though she must have felt that what her good husband had said was quite true; and well would it have been for him, for herself, and indeed for the whole household, if, instead of considering herself a martyr, she had set to work to amend the errors which he had pointed out; but, alas! we don't see ourselves as others see us. CHAPTER XI. AUNT MARY'S RETURN. On the evening of the day after the juvenile party, a cab drove up to the garden gate of Oak Villa, and Dora and Annie Maitland, who had been on the look-out for some time at the window of an upper room, had the satisfaction of seeing their kind preceptress, and her niece Clara Beaumont, alight from it, receiving and giving at the same time the welcome nod and smile of recognition. But here is the trusty Bridget, with her merry face beaming with gladness, and her voice almost tremulous with joy, for she has had rather a dull time of it while her mistress and Clara have been away; though Jane Somers, a young girl living not far off from Oak Villa, came regularly to sleep at the house. 'Well, Bridget, and how have you been all this time? not idle, I can see at the first glance,' said Aunt Mary, looking round at the brightly-polished furniture and fire-irons. 'Oh no, ma'am, I don't think anybody can be idle at your house,' replied Bridget; 'and I have had plenty to do, for I have cleaned the house from top to bottom, and have taken care of the cat and the fowls. And oh, Miss Clara, the old hen has brought out such a beautiful set of chickens as you never seed afore; but I dare say you be too tired to come and look at them now,' added Bridget. 'Yes, we are too tired now,' said Miss Livesay, answering for her niece; 'we want to take off our wraps, and have some tea. Besides, you forget, my good woman,' added her mistress, 'that the chickens are now all hidden under their mother's wing, and she wouldn't suffer us to disturb them.' 'Dear me, I quite forgot that,' said Bridget, as she busied herself in assisting in the removal of cloaks and shawls, and carrying off trunks and band-boxes; one of the latter of which her kind mistress told her was for her, and contained a new cap and bonnet. 'Oh, ma'am, you are so kind,' said the pleased domestic; 'you never forget anyone.' And she hurried away with her load, with a glad tear glistening in her eye. It was quite true what Bridget had said about Aunt Mary--she was indeed kind-hearted and open-handed: but with all this she was not foolishly indulgent. Her judgment was correct, and having made up her mind as to what was the right course to pursue, she took pains to see her plans carried out. Often and often had she remonstrated with her sister, Mrs. Ellis, on her laxity of discipline, both with her children and servants; and sometimes she had ventured, though that perhaps was not very wise, to set their mutual friend Mrs. Maitland before her as a pattern for mothers and mistresses. This, however, invariably produced some angry retort, or at least a flood of tears, and ended with a secret determination on the part of the elder sister to say no more on the subject, but permit things to take their course; though she had made up her mind on coming home to do as Mr. Ellis had once suggested to her, that was, to receive Mabel as one of her pupils. This was entirely with the idea of relieving her sister, and effecting a reformation, if possible, in the character of her niece; though she almost dreaded the introduction of such an element of discord into their peaceful and happy household. Mabel, we have seen, had a great dislike to her gentle cousin Clara, perhaps because she had heard her praises often sounded; and she disliked her Aunt Mary quite as much, though it would have been difficult for her to have given a 'reason why,' if it had been asked for. 'I shall hate them both, I know I shall,' said Mabel to her sister Julia, on the morning of the day on which Miss Livesay was expected to come to Camden Terrace. 'There will be lessons and work, lessons and work, all the day long. I shall be miserable, I know I shall; and I'll tell mamma so, and beg of her not to let me go.' 'No, don't do that, Mabel; you will only make poor mamma unhappy, and papa angry,' said the wise younger sister; and she added, 'I wish I could go to Oak Villa. I like Cousin Clara very much, and Dora and Annie Maitland too; I am sure you will find them very nice companions, all of them.' 'Oh yes, it's all very fine what you are saying,' said Mabel; 'but I know very well that you only want to get rid of me, and so does papa, for I heard him say so; and I think it's unkind and cruel of you both,' exclaimed the angry girl. 'Well, at any rate, you are not going very far away from us,' said Julia; 'it is only a nice walk from Oak Villa to our house, so I and Freddy can come and see you often, and you can come to see us.' Just then a cab was heard to stop at the door, and the dreaded lady and her niece Clara alighted, each with parcels in their hands; presents, no doubt, to the small fry who had climbed up to the window to see who was coming. 'Now don't look so cross, Mabel; don't let Aunt Mary see that you don't like to go to Oak Villa,' entreated Julia. 'But I shall let her see!' replied the perverse girl; 'and I _shall_ tell her so, too--see if I don't,' she added, nodding her head; though, when she came into the presence of that good lady, she had not a word to say for herself, such a charm is there in the manner of some people to overawe presumption. Mabel and Julia made their appearance in the dining-room, just after the first kindly greetings and affectionate salutations of the sisters had been exchanged, and the same process had to be gone over with cousins and aunt, the latter showing no difference whatever in the warm embrace of Mabel and Julia, though we well know the great difference there was in her estimate of the character of the two girls. 'Well, my dear Mabel,' said Miss Livesay, after a little conference had been held, 'so it appears your papa and mamma wish that we should become better acquainted with each other. Shall you like to pay me a visit at Oak Villa?' Here was a grand opportunity for Mabel to display her boasted courage, and to speak her mind; instead of which, she only looked very sad, hung down her head, and, rudely enough, made no reply; while her aunt said, with a smile: 'That is well; silence gives consent. So you had better go, my dear, and get ready, for I do not wish to keep the cabman waiting; and I have just a few words to say to your mamma. Clara and Julia will therefore go upstairs with you.' All this was said kindly, but very decidedly: it was evident that there was no appeal to be made, no authority to be questioned; and with hardly suppressed passion and tears, the vanquished girl quitted the room with her sister and cousin. 'And now, my dear Ada,' said Miss Livesay to her sister, 'see what are the fruits of your over-indulgence, or want of firmness! They are not very lovely, are they? Will you not take your good husband's advice, and strive against this constitutional weakness, which is so detrimental to your happiness, to your husband's comfort, and to your children's welfare?' 'I can't be always scolding the children, Mary,' replied Mrs. Ellis, peevishly. 'It isn't my fault, surely, that Mabel is so ill-tempered and disobedient, and yet you and Arthur just talk to me as if it were.' 'And in a great measure, I think, it is your fault, my sister,' said the kind monitor. 'Children should be watched from infancy; tenderly cared for in mind as well as body. Good seed must be sown then, and the little weeds which we are apt to disregard, or what is worse, cherish, in our folly, must be rooted out while the soil is moist, and the root is not deep in the ground. Never laugh at childish exhibitions of temper, nor for the sake of _peace_ give way to the doctrine of _expediency_, injurious alike to nations and to families.' Here poor Mrs. Ellis interposed; she could never sit out a long sermon, especially one that she really could not understand. So she interrupted Aunt Mary's profitable discourse by promising to try, when Mabel had gone away, to be more careful for the future, though she candidly admitted that she did not know how to begin to make any change, as Mabel was the only one of the children who gave her any trouble. And yet the weeds were growing up thick and strong in Master Freddy, who just then put his head in at the door, the little ones being behind him, and all running to salute their aunt, and receiving from her a loving embrace, as well as the very pretty playthings which were spread out on the table for their acceptance and admiration. Nor had Mabel and Julia been forgotten by their aunt; both a workbox and a writing-case were laid aside for the latter: those intended for her sister Miss Livesay had not brought, thinking it unnecessary, as Mabel was to return with her to Oak Villa. 'Well, my dear Mabel,' said Aunt Mary, as the two girls entered the room; 'so you are equipped and ready for a start, I see. I do hope you will like your new mode of life, and your young companion's society. Clara, I know, will be delighted to have a companion in her visits to our poor people: and you, I trust, will soon learn to take an interest in them.' There was no response to this kind speech from the unamiable girl; and with the somewhat painful feeling on the part of Miss Livesay that she was going to introduce into her hitherto peaceful household the apple of discord, she rose to take leave, with the promise, however, of renewing her visit in the next week if all things went on well. Mabel was quick enough to notice this speech: she would have known that it had reference to herself, even if it had not been accompanied by a smile and a nod from her aunt; and the naughty pride in her heart made her resent it, though she felt obliged to submit. There were loving adieus from all but Master Freddy, who said to his sister, as she shook hands with him: 'Good-bye, Mabel; I'm glad you're going, you are always so cross with us.' CHAPTER XII. NIGHT AND MORNING. And now an entirely new mode of life was presented to Mabel; and Miss Livesay found, as, indeed, she had expected to find, a fruitful source of trouble in her newly adopted pupil. Of course, on the first day of Mabel's arrival at Oak Villa there were no lessons talked about, and the young ladies next door were not expected to resume their school duties, until the Monday following Miss Livesay's return home; so there was a little time afforded for breaking _out_, and breaking _in_. We shall see how it was employed. This afternoon had been a very pleasant one; the chickens had been looked at and greatly admired; flowers, the great favourites both of aunt and niece, Mabel did not care for, though she liked, as we have seen, to deck herself in gay colours. In the house they had plenty of amusement, with books and pretty specimens of work of various kinds from the ready fingers and artistic taste of Aunt Mary and Clara; indeed, what had been produced by their skill, industry, and steady perseverance, was worthy of admiration. To Mabel's astonishment, nine o'clock struck, and she had not yet finished her pleasant occupation of examining, when her aunt said: 'Now, my dears, it is your bed-time.' Clara instantly began to put away books and work, but Mabel exclaimed: 'Oh, aunt! must we go to bed so soon? I never go till ten, at home!' 'Perhaps you never rise at six in the morning?' replied Miss Livesay; 'we do. And I dare say you have heard the old proverb-- '"Early to bed, and early to rise, Is the way to be healthy, wealthy, and wise."' 'I go to bed when I like, and I get up when I like, at home,' said Mabel, without noticing the unwelcome quotation. '_We_ have no _likes_ and _dislikes_ here, my dear Mabel,' said her aunt. 'We do what we know to be our duty, and you will have to do the same. Good-night!' An affectionate kiss accompanied the _good-night_; Mabel saw that it was a _decided_ one; there was no room for further parley, and the short time spent by the proud and petulant girl at Oak Villa gave signs of an authority, to which she must of necessity submit, as from it there could be no appeal. 'Mabel dear, it is time to get up; don't you hear the bell ringing?' said Clara, as she jumped out of bed and began to dress. The sleepy-headed girl turned lazily round, but did not seem to be at all disposed to attend to the summons. 'You _must_ get up; indeed you must!' urged Clara, gently shaking her cousin by the shoulder. 'I shall not have done all I have to do before prayers, if we don't make haste.' 'Why, what have we to do before breakfast? And what time do you have breakfast?' drowsily inquired Mabel, rising, however, at this second appeal of her cousin's. 'We have prayers at eight, then breakfast; but I have my chickens to feed, and my lessons to prepare before that time,' said Clara. 'Lessons before breakfast! Oh, I shall hate that!' exclaimed Mabel. 'I hope they are not hard ones, for I shall never learn them if they are.' 'Well, I don't know what you call hard,' replied her cousin. 'I find mine rather difficult sometimes, but Aunt Mary is so kind in explaining everything, that it is quite a pleasure to learn with her.' 'I'm sure I shouldn't think her kind,' said the ungrateful Mabel. 'I can't bear people that are so prim and stiff as Aunt Mary is, always seeming determined to make you do just what they like, whether you wish it or not.' 'Oh, Mabel!' said her cousin, 'I wonder how you can speak so disrespectfully of dear Aunt Mary; and what you are saying is quite untrue.' 'And I suppose,' retorted the ill-conditioned girl, 'you will go and tell her what I have said, and we shall have a row.' Clara was so astonished at hearing this speech from her cousin, that she suspended the operation of dressing for a moment. Then she said quickly: 'Mabel, we don't tell tales here; and I never before heard anyone speak unkindly of our aunt, nor did I ever hear her speak unkindly to anyone. Don't let us talk any more,' she added; 'I am going to say my prayers. Come, kneel down with me, and let us thank our Father in heaven for taking care of us through the night, and ask Him to bless us before we begin our day's work.' Mabel knelt down beside the bed with her cousin. She had always been accustomed to repeat a set form of words; whether they were the utterances of the 'soul's sincere desire,' we cannot say: but we do know that if we _pray_ in sincerity against sin, we shall _strive_ against it, and Mabel was not doing this. Clara's first occupation on going down stairs was to look after her feathered family; and in this she had a ready seconder in Mabel, whose delight in seeing the pretty chickens was unbounded. 'Oh, do let me take one out, Clara! I won't hurt it; dear, sweet little thing!' she exclaimed, as she was just putting out her hand to take one of them up, but was held back by her cousin, and so prevented from receiving the meditated peck which the old hen was evidently preparing for her. 'Just in time,' said Clara; 'old Netty would have made you repent of your boldness, had you taken hold of one of her pets.' 'Why, I shouldn't have hurt it by just holding it in my hand,' replied Mabel. 'Netty doesn't know that; and I'm sure she would have hurt you, so it is very well I held you back,' said Clara. 'Now we had better go in; I hear Aunt Mary's voice. I must go and say good-morning to her, as usual.' 'Good-morning, my dears,' said Miss Livesay, in her usual genial, happy tone of voice, for she was always bright and cheerful, though her niece Mabel chose to take such a distorted view of her. 'I hope you have slept well, and are refreshed for another day's work, my children; you both look the picture of health, and health is one of our greatest blessings, is it not?' 'Yes, dear aunt, indeed it is,' replied Clara. 'I think we both slept well; and I was so glad to see, when I woke, that the morning was fine, for I thought perhaps you would wish us to go and see how poor Mr. Simmons is, when we have done our lessons.' 'That is just what I wish you to do,' said Aunt Mary. 'The lessons I intend to postpone, except that you may show your cousin what you and your school-fellows are learning. I shall be delighted to find that you can all study together; it will save much time and trouble, and be much more agreeable. Now ring for Bridget; after prayers and breakfast, we must cut out our work, dear Clara. You know we have a great deal to do,' said the lady. CHAPTER XIII. THE FIRST DAY'S WORK. IN the pleasant breakfast-room, which was also a schoolroom, the two girls were left by Aunt Mary, while she gave some orders on household matters. Everything was arranged here with order and neatness, but there was nothing superfluous; there was a place for everything, and everything seemed to be in its place, if we except a large quantity of unbleached calico, which had been unrolled, and had spread itself upon the floor. 'What is all that coarse stuff for?' inquired Mabel of her cousin. 'You surely don't call that your work, do you, Clara? I brought some embroidery with me, for I hate plain work. I hope aunt will not set me to do any.' 'I am quite sure she will, though,' replied Clara; 'and this very day, too; for she is going to cut out two night-shirts for the poor man we are going to see, and we shall have to make them, as well as pinafores for the children, and flannel petticoats for two old women who are in Aunt Mary's district. Oh, such nice old dames they are, Mabel! I am sure you will like them, dear; and they are so thankful for any little kindness we do for them.' 'Such stupid, humdrum work!' exclaimed Mabel. 'I'm sure I shall be miserable here. Hard lessons, coarse work, and looking after old and sick people! I wonder you are not moped to death, Clara; it's even worse than I thought it would be.' 'Well, wait a little while,' said patient Clara; 'you have had no experience yet. I know very well you will alter your mind before six months are over.' 'Six months!' exclaimed Mabel; 'why, I should be dead in that time, if mamma suffers me to remain here. But I shall tell her all about it, and beg her to let me go home.' The entrance of Aunt Mary broke off the dialogue of the cousins, and soon the obnoxious calico was spread out, and fashioned into useful articles of wearing apparel. 'Here is your new workbox, my dear Mabel,' said her aunt; 'you will find it stocked with all necessary things--thimble, and scissors, and needles, and cotton--and all that I require of you is to keep it tidy.' It was impossible for Mabel not to dismiss _some_, at least, of her foolish prejudice against this kind friend, and the thanks she returned for the really handsome present were hearty and genuine; and on fitting on her thimble, and examining the bright scissors and the very pretty needle, even her feelings respecting the coarse work on which they were expected to be employed appeared to undergo a wonderful change. 'I can't do plain work very quickly, aunt,' said Mabel, when that lady had given her a pair of sleeves to make; 'I never did much at home.' 'All right, my child; if you do your best, I promise you I shall be satisfied. I know you will improve in time,' said Aunt Mary, kindly. There was no reading this morning, because Clara and Aunt Mary, who were both rapid seamstresses, had agreed, if possible, to finish the night-shirt that had been cut out, and take it with them in the evening, when they went to call at the cottage of poor Simmons, whom they had not seen since their return home, but of whom they had learned from Bridget a pretty satisfactory account. The good woman had taken them under her especial care while her mistress was away. There was no lack of pleasant conversation when Aunt Mary was in the room, and the work progressed well during the morning hours; but, unfortunately, about three o'clock in the afternoon some friends came to call, and as it was evident to Miss Livesay that this would prevent their visit to the cottage that evening, she bade the young people put away their work, and try to find some amusement in the garden. Clara felt sorry and disappointed at this postponement, though she said nothing, but prepared to obey her aunt. With Mabel, however, this was quite an unexpected pleasure, and so rapidly did she gather up her work, without folding it neatly together, that the needle ran into her finger, and brought the blood so quickly that two or three large spots were deposited on the sleeves. 'Oh, aunt will be so cross when she sees what I have done!' said the too hasty Mabel. 'Must I try to wash the spots out, Clara?' she inquired. 'No, no!' replied her cousin; 'Bridget will do that for you with a little brush. But I wonder, Mabel,' she added, 'at your thinking dear aunt would be _cross_ because you have had an accident. You seem to have some very strange ideas in your head; you will know better soon, I hope.' The room was quickly cleared, and Clara, taking the soiled sleeve in her hand, went with her cousin into the kitchen, where they found the tidy servant-of-all-work already clean, and sitting comfortably with her knitting in hand, and the cat on her knee. Bridget readily undertook the task required of her; and the young people, having obtained the food for the poultry, ran off to distribute it. A capital house Clara's feathered family had, with no rent nor taxes to pay. It was a long shed under the tall trees at the bottom of the garden, boarded over at the top, but with wire-work all across the front, where a door was made to go in at, in order to clean out the floor. Inside, it was the picture of comfort, and of cleanliness too, for careful Bridget took care of that. Old Netty and her chicks had a place to themselves--a house within a house--so that the little ones could not make an escape. 'Oh, I see there are two new-laid eggs,' said Clara. 'I am so glad; we can take them to poor Simmons when we go to-morrow. I dare say there are two or three more in the house that I may have.' 'I thought you said the fowls were your own, to do what you liked with,' said Mabel. 'If I were you, I should sell the eggs, and not give them away,' she added. 'And what should I do with the money?' inquired Clara. 'I have everything I want; aunt takes care of that.' 'But you might buy nice gloves and neckties with the money you would get for the eggs,' urged Mabel. 'I don't see that you have much of that sort of thing.' 'I have all that I want in that way,' replied her cousin. 'I would ten times rather give away the eggs than take money for them. When I first came to live with dear aunt, she had this place fitted up on purpose for me; and she bought the fowls, and food, and everything that was wanted,' said Clara. 'In three months' time I had a beautiful brood of chickens; and when they were grown, aunt asked me what I meant to do with my surplus stock. I said that I really did not know; so she suggested that I should sell the chickens, and give the money to the poor. "Sell that ye have, and give alms," said my aunt. "This, dear Clara, is our Saviour's advice," she added, and I was only too glad and thankful to follow her advice. So I made a purse, in which I save up my egg-and-chicken money, and we buy calico, and print, and flannel, and provide other things,' said Clara, in great glee, for it was, indeed, one of her chief sources of pleasure to give to the poor. 'I'm sure you would not catch me doing in that way,' said Mabel. 'I see no fun in keeping fowls only for the sake of giving to other people.' 'No _fun_, perhaps,' replied her cousin; 'but you would find real pleasure, Mabel, in being able to relieve the wants of the sick and the afflicted. Oh, I know,' she added, 'you will--you _must_ change your mind when you go with us to some of the neighbouring cottages. I do hope we shall not be prevented from going to-morrow.' Whatever effect time and scenes were to have on our young friend Mabel, certainly her cousin's arguments and declarations produced none at the present; so we must close the chapter of the first day, and begin another. CHAPTER XIV. VISIT TO THE COTTAGE. The evening of this first day at Oak Villa had been very pleasantly spent by Aunt Mary and her nieces at Mr. Maitland's, where the young people engaged themselves on the lawn, while the elders talked over the various events of the very eventful times, without being able to come to any conclusion as to how they were to be mended. Mabel either really _was_ in a very gracious humour this evening, or the fact of a young gentleman being of their party made her careful not to give way to temper; though it must be confessed that Harry tried it two or three times. However, all went on smoothly enough, and at nine o'clock the friends separated. The gorgeous sunset gave token of a fine day on the morrow, when Clara anticipated the pleasure of finishing her labour of love, and taking a most acceptable present to her poor friends the Simmonses. The bell rang at the usual time in the morning, and after breakfast the work of the day before was resumed. 'Two hours, I think, will finish what you want to take with you to-day,' said Aunt Mary, 'so you will have time to go before dinner. You can take poor Simmons some eggs, and Bridget has a rice pudding in the oven for the children.' 'How delighted they will be to see us again; only I wish you could have gone with us, aunt,' said Clara. 'I wish I could have done so, but I expect a person to call on business this morning, so I must not be out of the way,' said the lady. Steadily the work progressed; even Mabel, by the aid of her bright silver thimble and sharp needle, seemed to get on better than she had done the day before: so that not only was the night-shirt finished, but a little pinafore had been cut out and completed in less than the two hours. And now all had been packed up, the two girls were ready for their walk; and the careful Bridget had placed the pudding and the eggs in an oval basket for Clara to carry, while they were preparing for their walk. 'It will be frightfully hot walking this morning, I know,' said Mabel. 'I wish our visit to the cottage could be put off until the evening; go and ask Aunt Mary if it may, Clara,' she added. 'No, I couldn't do that,' replied her cousin. 'Aunt never tells us to do anything that is unreasonable, and I know that she wishes very much that the children should have the pudding for their dinner, and that the poor sick man should have the new-laid eggs. Come, Mabel dear, be quick,' she added; 'we shall be under the shade of the trees great part of the way.' 'And who is to carry the basket and this parcel?' inquired Mabel, giving a rather contemptuous look at the rolled-up work. 'You may carry whichever you like,' said Clara; 'it does not matter to me which I take. Indeed, I shouldn't mind if I had to carry both, neither of them are heavy.' 'Perhaps not,' said the proud girl, 'but it is so servant-like to be carrying parcels and baskets; I wonder Aunt Mary likes you to do it.' 'Oh, Mabel!' cried her cousin, 'I can't help laughing at you. Why, you should see what bundles aunt and I do carry sometimes. I suppose you would be quite shocked.' 'I shouldn't wish to be seen with you,' replied the silly girl. 'I don't think, either, that it is any laughing matter.' And Clara, knowing that it was a waste of time to argue the case any further, took up the obnoxious bundle, and ran downstairs; while Mabel followed, to find on the hall-table her share of the disagreeable, in the closely-packed basket. It really was a very hot walk that the cousins had before them, in spite of the occasional shade of the tall trees, and they were not at all sorry when they reached the small cottage of James Simmons, and were invited to sit and rest on the chairs, which the good wife dusted and put ready for them. The cottage was very poorly supplied with furniture--one table, and four chairs, and a stool, on which stood the washing-tub, out of which Mrs. Simmons was wringing some clothes from very hot water, when her visitors entered. If, however, there was but little furniture, there was no lack of children, and three of them were rolling about the floor, while a girl, it might be of the age of seven, was making an attempt to wash some stockings. Her small fingers did not seem to be equal to the task of rubbing and wringing, yet she was evidently proud of her occupation--a great deal more so than her brother appeared of his, in trying to take care of the youngest child, a chubby infant of six months old, who would persist in rolling off his knee, and making towards the fireplace, there to become a regular Cinderella. This scene, I need hardly say, was anything but delightful to the new visitor, though she did not refuse to seat herself on the offered chair; while poor Mrs. Simmons, with many apologies for being found in such a rough state, wiped her hot face with her apron, and took the little one up from the floor, to the great relief of her brother Johnny, who appeared particularly interested in the contents of the basket, which Clara was proceeding to set upon the table. 'Let me take the baby, Mrs. Simmons, while you put the eggs into a basin; I am afraid of their rolling off the table,' said Clara, as she held out her arms to take the very pretty, but certainly not very clean little one. 'Oh, miss! she is not in a fit state for you to nurse,' replied the woman; 'I am quite ashamed that you should have found us all so dirty, but indeed I cannot help it. What with my husband being ill so long, and the washing, which must be done, I don't know sometimes which way to turn.' 'My aunt wants much to know how your husband is,' said Clara; 'she would have come with us this morning, but she had an engagement.' 'The doctor thinks, miss, that my husband may get well, though he says it may be many weeks yet before he will be able to walk. He has had a weary time of it, and if it had not been for Miss Livesay's kindness, and that of our good vicar and his wife, I think he could not have lived; for he required more nourishment than I could obtain for him, if I worked ever so hard.' 'I know how glad my aunt will be to hear this good news,' said Clara; 'and she has sent one of the night-shirts that we have made; I dare say she will bring the other herself. And now let me try on the pinafore for baby; I want to see whether it will fit.' Baby, however, stoutly resisted this trial, using arms and legs with marvellous dexterity, and almost twisting herself out of mother's arms; so the contest was given up for fear of creating a noise, which would have disturbed the invalid: while Clara's second suggestion, that baby should have some pudding, appeared to give entire satisfaction, and produced perfect calm, under which state of things the visitors rose to go, Mabel not having exchanged a word either with mother or children the whole time, and standing on the threshold of the door, waiting for her cousin, who was shaking hands with Mrs. Simmons, and bestowing a parting kiss on the red round cheeks of the now smiling baby. The young people walked on a short distance in silence; each had their own peculiar thoughts of the other. Mabel was the first to break calm. Then she said: 'How you could kiss that dirty little thing and offer to nurse it, I can't conceive, Clara; it quite sickens me to think of it,' said Mabel, with something like a shudder. 'I wonder Aunt Mary sends us to such places; it is work for Bridget to do, and not for us,' she continued. 'I don't think my mamma would approve of my going.' 'Oh, you are mistaken there, I know,' said Clara; 'for I have often heard aunt tell of the poor people your mamma and she used to visit, before Aunt Ada married--yes, and for a long time after she was married, until she was poorly, and then of course she was obliged to give up; but I'm quite sure she will be glad to hear of your doing the same. Now we must make haste, for fear we should be too late for dinner.' CHAPTER XV. A CATASTROPHE. It was not a very pleasant trio that sat at the table the morning after the visit to the cottage. If Mabel had disliked the coarse work on which she had been employed the day before, her repugnance to the examination to which she was subjected by Aunt Mary, in order to test the capabilities of her niece, and to find out what lessons would be most appropriate for her, showed itself so plainly in fits of sullenness, or tears of vexation, that even Miss Livesay herself could not help feeling-dispirited; while Clara, though she tried to think only of her lessons, felt very much disposed to shed tears on her aunt's account. More than once, indeed, a subdued expression of rage escaped from the irritated Mabel; but it was so instantly and authoritatively checked by her aunt, that Mabel was made to feel that it would be useless for her to contend: so she sat and pored over her book in sullen silence. This lasted until near dinner-time, so that the results of this morning's work, so far as Mabel was concerned, had been anything but satisfactory when the books were put away; and it was with very painful feelings that Miss Livesay contemplated not only the drudgery she would be subjected to, in having to go through _early lessons_ with this refractory niece of hers (who was far, very far behind both Clara and the Maitlands in her learning), but the conflict she was likely to encounter with pride and obstinacy, evils she never before had to contend with. Aunt Mary, however, was not one to give way to despondency, and at the dinner-table she had resumed all her usual cheerfulness; nor did she make the least difference in her manners to her nieces, but chatted with them both, as if nothing had occurred to disturb her serenity. The mornings at Oak Villa were always devoted to lessons; in the afternoon there were two hours spent in work and reading; then the day's duties were finished, if we except the looking over the lessons for the following day, which Clara never omitted doing. And on this day she had a scheme in her head, both for doing Mabel good, and saving her dear aunt trouble. In short, she determined, if possible, to induce her cousin to exert herself in learning extra lessons, in order to overtake the young Maitlands and herself. She thought, perhaps, that the very pride in the young girl's composition would aid her in this task, and in this she was not mistaken. Mabel this afternoon was permitted to do some of the work she had brought from home; and what with this indulgence, and the clever and amusing book her aunt had been reading to them, she had quite recovered her spirits, and was as lively and cheerful as possible. 'Isn't it time to feed the fowls, Clara?' inquired Mabel, when work and books were laid aside. 'Yes, dear, it is,' replied her cousin; 'but I should be obliged if you would feed them for me to-day, as Aunt Mary wants me to write a letter to dear mamma before post-time.' 'Oh, I shall be glad to do so, very glad!' said Mabel, who had her own motives for the alacrity she displayed. 'Must I ask Bridget for the corn?' she inquired. 'I dare say you will find it set ready on the kitchen table; Bridget never forgets,' said Clara, as she arranged her desk and writing materials. Mabel ran off in great glee, and was soon busily engaged in her very agreeable task; yet in spite of her endeavours, she found that it was impossible to give satisfaction to all her feathered friends. Some were too greedy, and would insist upon having more than their share, while others were not courageous enough to stand up for their rights, and so were easily repulsed, and came very badly off in the general scramble, notwithstanding Mabel's spirited attempts to make an equitable distribution. At last she got tired of trying to teach manners to the cock and hens, so she went to look after the pets, as she called the chickens. These, as we have before stated, had with their mother a separate establishment, and so they were permitted to peck their grains in peace, being in no danger of losing their share; though even among these tiny things there were contentions for a single grain, which perhaps three or four would strive after. As Mabel stood watching and admiring the little downy creatures, the desire came strongly over her, as it had done before, to take one up in her hand. 'What harm could I do the little creature by just holding it in my hand for a minute?' said Mabel. 'And as to the old hen pecking at me, I don't care for that; and I dare say,' she added, 'Clara only told me this to frighten me.' As Mabel made this very unjust remark concerning her cousin, she opened the small door in the wire-work, and put her hand in to seize one of the chicks; but she was saluted with such a terribly hard peck from Dame Netty, that, had she not been very determined in the matter, she would have let the little chick go. Unfortunately for the little creature, her captor was very determined, and in spite of the hard peck, and the struggles of the bird, she took it out, and was in the act of shutting to the door, when the soft trembling thing slipped out of her hand, and fluttered away to its own destruction. Yes, there on the wall, slyly watching all that had been going on, and with as great a desire after the chicken as Mabel herself had, though for a vastly different purpose, sat the fine sleek cat, to whom my young readers have before been introduced, and quick as lightning she pounced down upon the poor chick, and carried it off. This was a terrible catastrophe, and Mabel stood for a moment in bitter dismay; she did not know what to do--how should she? The cat had disappeared, and by this time the poor chicken was killed, and perhaps eaten. Should she tell Clara? no, that would never do, for it would be sure to come to Aunt Mary's ears. It was not the first scrape that Mabel had got into, and we are sorry to add got out of by dissimulation; and now, after a little further consideration, she came to the unwise conclusion that it would be better to say nothing about the matter. After all, it was only one chick out of twelve; it perhaps would not be missed. And though she was sorry that the poor little thing had been killed, she solaced herself with the idea that there would soon be a fresh brood to attract her cousin's attention. Comforting herself with this idea, she walked into the dining-room, where she found the tea ready, and was soon joined by her aunt and cousin, who had finished their correspondence, and were now at liberty to take their evening walk as soon as the pleasant meal was ended. CHAPTER XVI. A VISIT TO THE VICARAGE. During tea-time, Aunt Mary proposed a walk to the vicarage, as she wanted to ask Mr. Newlove's opinion of the state of poor Simmons, as well as to inquire after the welfare of some of her pensioners, whom she had not yet had time to visit since her return home. The proposal pleased Clara, with whom the gentle Newlove was an especial favourite; though Mabel had conceived a dislike that she could give no reason for, to this quiet, sensible, and affectionate girl. It was with very different feelings that the cousins went upstairs to dress. Mabel, we must suppose, thought that as she was going to a clergyman's house, she should have to listen to a sermon; or if not that, to sit still, and say nothing, while the seniors talked about sick folks, and old men and women, till she should be quite wearied out; and this was certainly no pleasant prospect for a lively young lady. But Mabel said nothing of all this; as usual, her conversation turned on what she should wear. 'Are you not going to change your dress, Clara?' said her cousin; 'you are surely not going to the vicarage in that dowdy-looking frock? Why, it is only fit to wear in the mornings, or to go visiting to dirty cottages, such as we went to yesterday.' 'Now don't let us talk about dress,' said Clara; 'my frock is what Aunt Mary bought for me, and if she thinks it good enough for me to wear, I'm sure I do too. Besides, Mabel, you are very much mistaken if you think that Mr. or Mrs. Newlove would notice your dress, unless, indeed, it were a very smart one, such as I know they wouldn't like.' 'Then I shan't care for _their_ likes, but I shall just put on what _I like_ myself,' said the graceless girl, as she took from her drawer a very pretty printed muslin, and proceeded to array herself in it, finishing off by donning a little black hat with a white feather in it. 'Now, suppose it should rain,' suggested Clara, 'what becomes of your pretty frock and your white feather?' 'There is not the least likelihood of rain,' replied Mabel; 'I never saw a finer evening;' and away she ran downstairs, but taking care to avoid a meeting with her aunt until they were all ready to start. It was indeed a lovely evening for a walk. It had been very hot at one time of the day, but there had been a thunder-shower in the afternoon, which had cooled the air, and given freshness of colouring to the surrounding vegetation, deepening the tints on flower and shrub and tree, while, 'The ling'ring sun seem'd loth to leave Landskip so fair, to gentle eve.' Aunt Mary, though of course she noticed the difference in the dresses of her nieces, said nothing about it; but kept up, as she usually did, a conversation both amusing and instructive. Even Mabel forgot her fine clothes in listening to her aunt, and for the present seemed to be thrown out of self. Such a charm is there in wise teaching. Nor when they reached the pretty, secluded vicarage, and were heartily welcomed by its inmates, were the fears of Mabel at all likely to be realised, as instead of having to listen to a sermon, or details of old and sick people, she and Clara were walked off by Robert and Edith Newlove, to see the rabbits, and the ringdoves, and the poultry in their respective habitations. 'How beautiful they are--- how very beautiful!' said Clara, speaking of the ringdoves; 'and so gentle too--they don't fight and squabble like my hens do over a few grains of wheat.' 'Oh, they can peck one another sometimes,' said Edith; 'but they are not noisy about it like the fowls.' 'And my rabbits are not at all noisy either,' said Robert; 'but the buck can be very cruel, for if we don't take care he makes nothing of eating up one or two of the little ones.' 'Horrid creatures!' said Mabel. 'I shall never like rabbits again; it is quite shocking.' 'It would indeed be quite shocking if they knew better,' replied Robert; 'but they don't, so we must try to prevent them from acting cruelly. And after all,' he added, 'it is not half so bad as boys and girls doing wrong when they know better; yet we should not say of them that we should never like them again, should we, Miss Mabel?' 'No, I suppose not,' said the conscience stricken girl, as she found herself standing before the fowls' house, which was the very model of Clara's, and indeed had been made by the same industrious hands, namely those of poor Simmons, who was now, and had been for months, lying on the bed of languishing. 'You see the fowls are all gone to roost,' said Edith; 'the dear little chicks are under their mother's wing. I do wish you could have seen them; there are ten such beauties!' 'Oh, I have got twelve,' cried Clara; 'and in a few days' time I expect we shall have twelve more, if Dame Partlet is as fortunate as Netty. Do come and see them, Edith dear, next week. Think what a family I, or rather Aunt, will have to provide for--twenty-four!' This was indeed not only counting the chickens before they were hatched, but not counting on misfortunes to those that were already hatched, and Mabel did not feel at all comfortable at the turn the conversation had taken; she was not sorry, therefore, when the servant came to say that Miss Livesay thought it time to go home. Of course the summons was immediately obeyed, and with very kind adieus, the friends, old and young, separated; Aunt Mary observing that 'they must walk rather quicker in returning home than they had in coming, as there were some stormy-looking clouds hanging overhead.' The mention of clouds and showers turned Mabel's attention to her dress, which, to say the truth, she had forgotten; and no wonder, as no one had taken the slightest notice of it, though the foolish girl had been at such trouble to make herself attractive. The mention of clouds and rain brought back Mabel's thoughts to the delicate frock and the new hat. She and Clara were a little in advance of their aunt, who had stopped for a moment to place a trifle in Mr. Newlove's hand for a very poor parishioner of his, of whom they had been talking. 'Oh, do let us run!' cried Mabel, as she looked up, and noticed the gathering clouds; 'perhaps we may get home before it begins to rain, if we make haste.' 'But Aunt Mary can't run,' replied Clara, 'and I am sure I shall not leave her; so you will have to run by yourself, Mabel, if you do go.' 'I'm not going to have my dress spoiled,' said the excited girl, as she gathered up her pretty skirt, and commenced to walk very rapidly at first; but as her fears increased from feeling, as she thought, a drop of rain, the rapid walking turned into a run, not quick enough, however, to bring her to the desired haven before the threatened shower descended, and, in spite of her exertion, seemed likely to drench her to the skin before she could arrive at Oak Villa. There had been trees in the way home, under which she might have found shelter if she had not been in such a violent hurry. Now it was too late for Mabel, though Clara and her aunt were actually at the time standing secure beneath the leafy screen; not certainly in a very comfortable state of mind, for Miss Livesay knew that her niece could not have reached home before the drenching shower descended, and she felt very uneasy on her account. 'I do hope that Bridget will take care that Mabel changes all her clothes,' said Aunt Mary; 'she must be wet through if she has been out in the rain. The showers are so very heavy, though they do not last long.' 'I think this shower is nearly over now; do you think we may venture to go, aunt?' inquired Clara, who partook of her aunt's anxiety respecting her cousin. 'Yes, dear; we have nothing on to spoil. A few drops will not do us any harm, and I fancy we shall have another downpour if we wait longer.' This was Aunt Mary's decided opinion, and on the strength of it, the anxious pair set forward on their way home, which place they certainly would not have reached with dry clothing, had not careful Bridget suddenly made her appearance with cloaks and umbrellas. This was rather an uncomfortable ending to a pleasant evening, but life has ever its ups and downs, its sunlight and its shadows, for the young as well as for the old. So it has ever been, and so it will ever be to the end of time. It would have been well for Mabel Ellis if the spoiling of her dress had been the worst result of her foolish pride. And yet, perhaps, I ought not to say that it would not have been well had the trouble ended there. Adversity is a _very stern_, but a _very wise_ teacher. We may not always see this to be so, and we may be very loth to acknowledge it, but it is a fact nevertheless. Aunt Mary's first thought, when she entered the house, was for Mabel, whom she found by the kitchen fire drying her petticoat, the muslin dress having been taken off, and hung over a chair. 'Have you changed shoes and stockings, my dear?' was the first question, which was answered in the negative. But we will leave further details for the next chapter. CHAPTER XVII. A SERIOUS ILLNESS. As we have before stated, Mabel had only changed her upper garments. Stockings and shoes, though soaked through in coming along the wet grass, she had not thought of, and her wet petticoat steamed and smoked as she stood drying it by the kitchen fire. 'Dear me! dear me!' exclaimed Aunt Mary; 'why did you not immediately take off all your wet clothes? Clara dear, go with Mabel upstairs, help her to undress and get into bed, and I will bring some warm tea up as soon as possible. I am quite distressed to see the state you are in, my dear,' she added. Mabel, though of course obliged to obey, went off very reluctantly, declaring all the time that she should be no worse for the wetting, and feeling far more concerned about the spoiling of her dress and her hat, than fearful of any consequence that might ensue from keeping on her wet clothes. The room in which the cousins slept opened into one that was occupied by their aunt, so that she could easily communicate with them if anything was the matter. Strict in requiring obedience to her commands, and in not permitting any of her rules to be disregarded, Miss Livesay was still a most loving and unselfish relative and friend, untiring in the kind attentions to the sick, ever glad and ready to relieve the needy, or to give a word of advice or sympathy when it was likely to be well received. All the household had retired to rest but herself; she had seen her dear children, as she often called Clara and Mabel, fast asleep in their separate little white beds, but she still felt anxiety on Mabel's account. 'Poor, foolish girl,' said the kind aunt to herself, 'I wonder whether I shall ever be able to convince her of her folly. I cannot change her heart, but I will pray that it may be changed; and I will do everything in my power, both by example and precept, to show her that "Wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness, and her paths peace."' As Miss Livesay said this, she once more went to look at the sleepers in the adjoining room. Clara lay pale, peaceful, and soundly asleep; but Mabel, though also asleep, looked flushed, and appeared restless. This, Aunt Mary thought, might arise from the hurry and agitation of running home so quickly; she did not wish to meet evils half-way, yet, on retiring from the room, she made up her mind to take another look at the sleeping girl during the night. This she accordingly did, but observing no fresh symptoms for alarm, she lay down again, and only waked when Clara came to tell her that Mabel complained of great pains in her limbs. This sad news completely awed the kind aunt, for she dreaded an attack of rheumatic fever, as Mabel's mamma had been a dreadful sufferer two years before from that very serious malady. As soon as possible, the doctor was sent for. Aunt Mary was no alarmist, and could herself have dealt with any ordinary complaint; but she wished to have the doctor's opinion, and, if possible, his decision, on the real nature of the illness from which her niece was suffering, in order that she might act with befitting caution, if there were any likelihood of infection. Clara sat disconsolate by the side of the pretty white bed, where her poor cousin lay with feverish head and aching limbs. The stricken girl was very quiet, except when she made an attempt to move, and then the pain caused her to utter a faint cry, which thrilled through Clara's kind heart; for she had never before been called upon to watch by a sick-bed. 'Oh, dear Mabel, I am so sorry for you,' said the affectionate child-nurse; 'I wish I could do anything to give you relief from your pains.' 'Thank you, dear Clara,' said the poor girl, in a quiet, subdued tone, very unlike that of the preceding day; even in this short time reflection had been at work, conscience had not been inactive, for retribution seemed to have come so suddenly as a necessary consequence of wrongdoing. But the doctor is here now; we must not keep him waiting. A kind, fatherly, benevolent-looking man stands beside the bed of pain, on one side, and the loving, anxious aunt and cousin on the other. 'You are quite right in your idea as to the nature of the complaint, dear madam,' said Dr. Madox. 'Your niece is suffering from an attack of rheumatic fever; a very sharp attack it appears to be, but it need not on that account be a long one, though, just now, it is impossible to predict. However, we will do all we can for her,' added the doctor, cheerfully; 'in the meantime, you know, of course, that there is no danger of infection, though I should advise the patient to be kept perfectly quiet.' This was indeed a very painful trial for all parties; but Aunt Mary felt that the hand that afflicts can also sustain. She knew, also, that pain and suffering and sorrow are often antidotes to the much more serious evils of pride and vanity and sinful tempers, and that, when they are submitted to patiently, they bring forth excellent fruits. 'Let me nurse dear Mabel myself, aunt,' said Clara; 'I will do everything I can do for her night and day. Oh, I do hope she will soon be well again!' 'And I _hope_ so too, my dear Clara,' replied her aunt; 'but you must not think that you can attend to your cousin without help. You may of course remain with her for company; and this need not perhaps hinder your lessons, unless she should become very impatient, as is often the case with sufferers in this severe malady. But health, your health, my child, must be attended to; you must have air and exercise. And I fear that we shall all be required to lend a helping hand to the poor invalid should the fever greatly increase. I am just going to write to my sister, Mabel's mamma. I must be careful not to alarm her, in her weak state, as she is very nervous. You can return now to your cousin,' continued Aunt Mary, 'and be sure you do not leave her alone until I come to you. Ring for anything that is wanted.' And now for weeks and weeks, this same selfish, self-willed girl, Mabel Ellis, lay on the bed of pain and languishing, and I may add, I am rejoiced to say, on the bed of sincere repentance. Yes, the salutary lessons of adversity had not been taught in vain, for they were not transitory ones, they had taken deep root; while the Divine precepts and heavenly counsels, which she had heard daily from her most loving and tender nurses, sank deep into a heart out of which had been weeded, to make room for them, the rank and bitter weeds of pride and passion. Mabel Ellis was indeed an altered character, when able once more to sit up in the arm-chair; though so weak that she could scarcely speak above her breath, her looks of love and thankfulness, and the soft eyes often filled with glad tears, spoke most expressively to the hearts of her aunt and cousin, for they felt that their labour of love had not been in vain; and though all Aunt Mary's usual routine had been put aside, and for a time a new phase of life had been set before her, in this trial she could feel thankful. 'The seeds of affliction and pain, When the soil has been moistened with rain That flow'd from a penitent heart, Into beauty, and fragrance will start. 'Oh flowers of celestial birth! Though springing from clods of the earth, How rich are the odours ye shed O'er the couch where the languishing head 'Is pillow'd in gentle repose, Forgetting awhile its past woes; Then waking, the incense of praise, With your odorous breathings, to raise.' None but those who are recovering from a serious illness can conceive the feelings of gratitude and love which take possession of the heart when it is rightly disposed, what time the rod of affliction is removed. Mabel seemed to feel herself a new creature, and as she threw her arms round her cousin's neck, she gave expression to feelings of thankfulness and love for the kind attention she had received from her and from her aunt. She did not fail to lament bitterly the pride and sinful temper, which now appeared to her to have been the principal cause of all her trouble. It was while she was thus bitterly lamenting the past, and weeping on Clara's shoulder, that Aunt Mary came rather suddenly into the room and surprised them. 'Come, my children,' said the kind lady, 'this will never do! Nurse and convalescent both in tears,' she added, for Clara was also weeping; 'I am afraid, dear Mabel, I shall have to dismiss your young attendant, and engage one with more judgment and with less sympathy.' 'Oh no, no, dear aunt,' was the ready response. '_I_ will behave better, I assure you,' said Clara. 'Poor Mabel is weak, and a little thing makes her cry. She is only sorrowing now for the past; you will teach her, I know, to hope for the future.' 'Yes, even while we sorrow, we must hope; hope is the great lightener of all trouble. Come, cheer up, my child,' said Aunt Mary; 'I have some pleasant news for you to-day. I have just had a letter from Camden Terrace, to say that your papa and mamma and Freddy are coming to see you this afternoon, and to drink tea with me. Ah, I see you can smile, and be glad. We must have no more tears to-day; entertain only thoughts of love and thankfulness.' CHAPTER XVIII. A FAMILY PARTY. What a blessing it is to be possessed of a happy and cheerful disposition! And who so likely to have such blessing as those who not only _say_ 'Our Father which art in Heaven,' but believing what they say, 'try to walk with Him in love, as dear children.' Such persons diffuse cheerfulness all around them; while on the contrary, those who are selfish and passionate, sow the seeds of trouble and discontent broadcast around them. And pride--oh, that hateful sin--what have children to do with pride? Helpless and dependent as they are on parents or friends, what have they to be proud of? Nothing! Look at that curly-headed little boy, Freddy Ellis, who would be beautiful were it not for the disdainful curl on his upper lip, and the indignant expression in his eye when he has received some supposed affront. Listen to the passionate vehemence of his words when he is refused some indulgence which he has been teasing his mamma to grant him, though it would surely try your patience, as it has done mine, to hear the stamping and screaming that is going on just outside the parlour-door; and yet, for all this, Freddy receives no punishment. Oh no! 'It would break his spirit.' What absurd reasoning! Do we inquire from whom is this spirit, which has more of the _serpent_ than the _dove_? The answer will be, 'It is _not_ from the meek and lowly Saviour!' Oh parents, whoever you be, take care lest you foster the serpent that will diffuse its subtle poison over the cherished blossoms which you are, or _ought to be_, training for heaven, and leave a sting which may pierce your own hearts. One thing we may be sure of, that the faults which we, through negligence or weak indulgence, leave unchecked in our children in early life, a wiser though severer hand than ours will use the rod of correction to eradicate. And can this really be _love_, that puts off the proper time of chastisement, knowing that it is likely to be doubled on that account? Alas, no! But I must crave pardon for sermonising, and return to the sick chamber, for Mabel's papa and mamma have come to pay their promised visit. Poor girl, she is so thin and pale that papa, who has only seen her twice during her illness, is quite shocked, and sitting down beside the arm-chair, declares that he can scarcely believe she is his once plump, rosy girl. Mamma has seen her often, and has shed many a tear over her suffering child; but still it was a comfort to her to know that Mabel was in such good hands. Sister Julia is also here, looking very sorrowful; but Aunt Mary says: 'Now I am not going to permit anybody who draws a long face to remain in my nursery; so those who look as if they were preparing to cry, instead of to smile, must please take a walk in the garden, till they have recovered themselves. What say you, Freddy, to this?' inquired Aunt Mary of her little nephew, who stood looking on, not knowing seemingly whether he was expected to smile or to cry, though on hearing his aunt's cheery address, he came to the conclusion that it was not necessary for him to commence the disagreeable alternative, although it must be confessed he was a ready practitioner in yelling bouts. 'I should like to go into the garden, aunt,' responded Freddy. 'I want to see Clara's hens and chickens; may I go now?' 'No, not just now, dear,' replied his aunt; 'your cousin will go with you presently; she is engaged just at present, so you will have to wait.' This waiting, however, did not at all suit the impatient spirit of Master Fred, and on Aunt Mary's going out of the room he gave expression to his vexation. 'Why can't I go into the garden by myself, I wonder?' he exclaimed passionately to his mamma, by whose chair he was standing. 'Aunt needn't think that I should hurt the fowls; it is very unkind of her.' All this was said in a subdued tone, that papa, who was talking with Mabel, might not hear. 'Hush, hush, Freddy!' said his mother; 'your Aunt Mary is never unkind: you should not say such things of her.' 'But _I_ think she is very unkind,' repeated the boy emphatically, as if what he said must settle the point; but it only drew the attention of his papa, who inquired what the vehement talking was about, and threatened severe punishment if any of Fred's tempers were exhibited at Oak Villa. 'Don't check the poor child so harshly,' said unwise mamma; 'he only wants his aunt to let him go and see the fowls. And really I think she might let him go, for he could do no harm.' Mr. Ellis had a strong inclination to reply to this ill-advised speech, but he looked at the pale face beside him, and prudently forbore any further remark. A nicely spread tea-table, on which there were plenty of cakes, smoothed down the ruffled temper of the spoilt boy; yet he did not forget what had all along been uppermost in his mind, namely, that he was to go and see the chickens as soon as tea was over. Had Mr. Ellis not been afraid of creating a disturbance at Oak Villa, he would certainly have prevented Fred's going into the garden, after his display of temper in his sister's room. He, however, made no opposition when the impatient boy, having despatched his tea and cake, made the announcement to his cousin Clara, that he was ready to go with her to see the fowls; and she good-naturedly rose from the table to attend him--not, however, without asking her aunt's leave. Freddy of course was delighted with all he saw, though he said he thought the chickens were very large ones, and inquired after those he had seen a month ago, being very difficult to be persuaded that those he was now looking at were really the very identical chickens. Like his sister Mabel, Freddy wanted to nurse one of the chickens; nor did he ask if he might do so, but while Clara went for the corn he opened the wire door and boldly thrust his hand in: only, however, to receive, as she had done, a severe peck from the hen, which sent him stamping and screaming up and down, no doubt to the great astonishment of the cock and hens, and the immediate disarrangement of the family party, who all rushed out to know what was the matter. It certainly was a severe peck that the old hen had given, and a very great fright that the household had been put into by the screams and the roaring of the cowardly boy, which continued as he clung to his mamma's dress, until he accidentally caught sight of his papa, and then the storm ceased as if by magic; and so much of sham had there been in the affair, that the tempest calmed down without leaving trace of sob or tear. Mr. Ellis saw that his presence had been effectual, so he only said a few words to the young rebel, but he cast a half-sorrowful, half-angry glance at his wife; and Aunt Mary could not help whispering, 'Ada, what troubles you are making for yourself!' CHAPTER XIX. MAY DAY. It was months before Mabel could really be said to have regained her health and strength. The dreary winter had passed away, and the tender leaves, and blossoms of April, had put forth their signs of returning spring. It must not however be supposed that the cold and dark season had been an unprofitable one; far from it. Though Mabel had been an occasional sufferer, during all that time, she and Clara had diligently attended to their studies, and had, Aunt Mary said, made rapid advance; while the inward change which had been experienced by the invalid left no room for regret either to herself or her friends. Mabel knew and felt that she had been healed of a far worse malady than any bodily one, and though, as in the case of rheumatic pains, hidden evils still gave occasional inward spasms, she had learned at whose hands she was to receive the healing draught, and she never failed to apply for it in the hour of need. I ought perhaps to have informed my readers, that soon after Mabel had been taken ill, Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, with their two daughters, Dora and Annie, had gone to spend the winter months in the west of England, with that lady's mother, who was now far advanced in years, and very desirous of having the company of this her last surviving child, and to feel the cheering influence of lively girlhood in the society of her truly loving and attentive granddaughters. And now, as I have before said, the winter had gone, and dewy April, with its smiles and tears, its soft green, tender leaves, its embryo buds and blossoms, its morning salutations which blithe birds sang in the half-clothed trees or in the air, made fragrant by the breath of primrose pale, or violet blue, or polyanthus bright--yes, dewy April, notwithstanding all these delights, was about to take its departure, in order to make way for the pleasant month of May, whose praises Aunt Mary celebrated in rhyme. Oak Villa was indeed a highly privileged home; no young girl, whose mind was properly balanced, could have considered it otherwise. Its owner was cheerful as the lark, industrious as the bee, thoughtful and provident as the ant, benevolent as!--well, I won't liken her to any of our four-footed friends; indeed, just at this moment, I must confess that no comparison occurs to me: but Aunt Mary loved her nieces, delighted to impart to them those stores of knowledge to which she was herself constantly adding, and which a very retentive memory enabled her to draw on for almost any occasion. Master Freddy, who, in his visit to the truly happy home I have been speaking of, had contrived to make himself as disagreeable as possible, had been punished for his conduct by being prevented from going with his sister Julia in her occasional visits to Oak Villa; this, of course, was by papa's order, and the prohibition was almost as grievous to mamma as it was to Freddy, but there was no redress. Julia had enjoyed many a pleasant walk with her sister and cousin, and she was particularly fond of going to see the poor people, especially Mrs. Simmons, whose husband had in a great measure regained his strength, and was now able to do at least some little towards the maintaining of his family. It had been very dull at home for Julia, after her sister had gone to Oak Villa; but she had her mamma to attend to, and to teach the children, though to say the truth this latter was almost an impossibility where Freddy was concerned, so he was often sent down to stay with mamma, being pronounced incorrigible. But May morning has come at last; it is Aunt Mary's birthday, and such a lovely day! The cousins have a great deal of work to do before breakfast-time: may-blossoms to gather, garlands to twine, vases to fill with the sweet-scented early flowers, the breakfast-table to arrange with the best possible taste. As to Bridget, she had the day before been preparing for this special holiday; and even now she is very busy with her hot cakes and buns, which bid fair to be of the very best quality. Nine o'clock was the appointed hour for breakfast, and as Aunt Mary was not permitted by the young decorators to see what had been done in the way of preparation, it had been agreed that prayers were to be read in her bedroom, where, at half-past eight, Clara and Mabel, and Bridget, made their appearance; the former clasping Aunt Mary's neck, kissing her, and offering their most sincere and loving good wishes, the latter looking on the while, with no less kindly feeling, and with the honest tears of a faithful and devoted heart in her eyes. Punctually at nine, a cab drove up to the garden-gate of Oak Villa, which Bridget stood ready to open, while Clara and Mabel waited at the hall-door, to receive the joyful little party, and Aunt Mary formed the background of the scene. 'How smart you are, Freddy,' remarked Clara, as she handed that young gentleman out of the cab; 'why, I never saw you in that dress before.' 'We were kept waiting some time,' said his mamma, 'because he would not have his other clothes on. I was afraid we should be too late, so I let him have his own way.' 'As usual, my dear sister,' said Aunt Mary, smiling, as she kissed and welcomed her sister. 'I'm afraid Freddy's light clothes will come to grief before the day is over, but he must take care.' 'Oh, how beautifully you have set out the table!' was the general exclamation as they all entered the breakfast-room together; and really, it was a very imposing sight, and the juveniles thought a very appetising sight, for ham, and eggs, and tongue, and chicken, and cakes, and buns, make a strong appeal for their share of commendation, even where the more delicate and refined tastes are attracted by beautiful colours and delicious odours. It is really a very pleasant party that sits round this well-appointed table, though the kind and hospitable hostess regrets much that her brother-in-law, Mr. Ellis, was not able to be of the company. Aunt Mary knew who it was that kept order at home, and much, very much did she wish that her sister would be guided by her husband in the management of their children. But now there is nothing but bright looks and smiling happy faces, if we except that of Master Fred, who is looking round at the several dainties, apparently considering which he shall choose from first. Unfortunately for the peace of society, Aunt Mary helped Freddy to some ham without being asked, and before that young gentleman had made up his mind as to what he should choose. This was indeed a sad mistake, though done without the slightest suspicion of giving offence; but the offence was very quickly manifested. 'I didn't want ham,' said the rude boy, as he pushed his plate from him; 'I wanted some tongue.' 'That is not a proper way to speak, my dear,' said his aunt; 'and you must eat what I have given you first, then you shall have some tongue.' This was strange language to the wayward boy; he resented it by another push of his plate, and leaning back in his chair with the determination of a martyr. Wonderful, he thought it, that no one at the breakfast-table, not even mamma, took the slightest notice of him, or seemed to care whether he had any breakfast or not. The fact was that a very significant look from Aunt Mary had imposed silence upon mamma, and sisters, and cousins, and the little ones were far too busy on their own account to give heed to Freddy, who was quarrelling with his bread and butter. In short, neither by word nor look had any effort been made to soothe the perturbed spirit of the really hungry boy. This state of things, however, was not to be endured; so thought Fred, when, after waiting a considerable time, and casting furtive glances around to see if there were any signs in his favour, but perceiving none, he pushed his chair away from the table and rushed out of the room, quite unable longer to suppress his passion or his tears. This was the signal for Mrs. Ellis to remonstrate, which she had all along wished to do. 'Really, Mary, you are too severe on the poor boy,' she began, but was immediately, though kindly, silenced by Miss Livesay. 'Not now, if you please, dear,' said Aunt Mary; 'we will not discuss this point before the juveniles, we will talk it over by-and-by. In the meantime, Freddy has, I hear, gone into the garden, where he can amuse himself without getting into mischief.' The latter part of this speech might have been omitted with propriety, but we must not forestall. The absence of the high-spirited young gentleman did not seem at all to lessen the enjoyment of the little people, who really behaved remarkably well, being for the most part under the management of a good nursery-maid, except when they were having their little lessons with Julia. Mrs. Ellis did not like the trouble of children herself, but through her weak-mindedness she certainly did what she could to make them a trouble to other people. The breakfast-party were just on the eve of breaking up, when a violent screaming in the back garden seemed to upset Aunt Mary's idea that Freddy could not get into any mischief there, and soon the whole party were in the back garden to ascertain the cause of the disturbance. There, at the large rain-water barrel, covered with wet and dirt, yet holding fast by the top, stood the unfortunate Fred, his face crimson with fear and excitement, while he still tried with all his might to turn back the tap which he had so unluckily loosened, and which now, like himself, refused to submit to a weak hand, but was readily reduced to order by a strong one; for Bridget was at the scene of action, and set free the boy, now completely shamed, if not subdued, by having to appear before the whole party as an object of commiseration, if not ridicule. Of course there were no boy's habiliments at Oak Villa, and Fred had to undergo the further humiliation of being put into his sister's bed in one of her nightdresses, while his own clothes were drying. It must be confessed that a great reaction had taken place since the cold water had been thrown on the fiery young spirit, for there had been more than the mere wetting of the body. Fasting also had done its beneficial work; the craving stomach seemed to be resisting the defiant will. And when Freddy found himself quietly between the sheets, with only his sister Mabel--who had brought some breakfast up--to witness his humiliation, he very gladly, I might almost say thankfully, turned _to_ the tempting viands which he had so short a time ago turned _from_ with disgust. Yes, the piece of ham was there, and this time it was not pushed back; but there was no tongue, which had been desired and denied before. Aunt Mary never did things by halves. Here we will leave this graceless Freddy; he will have no lack of amusement while his clothes are drying, for Mabel and Clara have brought him books and pictures, and some old toys which had been put by: but Aunt Mary insists that Freddy is to be left to himself, after she has seen him, and kindly, but forcibly, shown him the foolishness, as well as the wickedness, of indulging in pride and evil temper. After all, May Day was at Oak Villa a very happy day to all who were there. CHAPTER XX. AN EXCHANGE. Though the cold-water system had acted as a sedative with Master Fred, during the afternoon and evening of May Day, and though every precaution had been used to prevent any serious effects afterwards from the wetting, yet the boy did take cold; and so feverish and restless did he become, that the good Dr. Maddox, who had attended Mabel, was sent for without delay. His prescription, however, was not a very alarming one: namely, castor oil and some spirits of sweet nitre. 'Don't frighten yourself, dear madam,' said the doctor: '_this_ is not a case of rheumatic fever; nothing but a slight influenza cold. But you must take care to give him the medicine.' The doctor laid great stress on this. Of course the medicine was procured, but, alas! papa was not at home, and no amount of persuasion or coaxing would induce the obstinate little fellow to take it. It was in vain that mamma promised all sorts of toys, and produced preserves and lumps of sugar to take the taste out of his mouth, or threatened him with severe illness and more nauseous stuff, if this were not taken. It was no use, poor Mrs. Ellis was obliged to give it up; and heartily did she wish that her good sister Mary would call in the course of the day, for she dreaded her husband's coming home, and finding that the doctor's advice had not been followed. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when the anxiously-expected visitor arrived at Camden Terrace. Of course she knew nothing about Fred being poorly; she had merely come to make general inquiries, and to see that Mrs. Ellis was no worse for the fatigue of May Day. 'Oh, I am better than usual, dear Mary,' she replied to the kind inquiry; 'but I am troubled about Fred now. He is very poorly, in bed, and the doctor has ordered medicine for him, which I cannot get him to take. I have been longing for you to come; will you try if you can induce him to take it?' Aunt Mary smiled, as she said: 'Do you remember, dear, a former trial that I had with this young tyrant of yours, when, being very determined myself, I held him fast and pressed the glass to his mouth, whereupon he actually bit a great piece out of it, at the same time kicking me so violently that I was fain to let him go, with, I believe, a mental promise that I would never again subject myself to such an indignity?' Mrs. Ellis could not help laughing; she had not forgotten the circumstance, but she pleaded now that Fred was two years older, and was not likely to repeat his exploit. 'I know he is two years older,' said Aunt Mary, 'but I don't feel at all certain that he is two years better than he was; though he may be so much stronger as to increase my difficulty.' 'Oh, do try, Mary dear,' urged Mrs. Ellis; 'I must get him to take it before his papa comes home.' 'Oh, Ada, Ada!' exclaimed her sister, 'how is it that you have allowed this boy to gain the mastery over you, to your own great sorrow, and to his great disadvantage? But, come,' added the kind friend, 'give me the medicine, and I will try what I can do.' 'Now, Freddy,' said his aunt, as she came into the bedroom, cup in hand, 'I am come to see you, and to make you better if I can. I suppose you are not fond of lying in bed this fine day,' she added. 'Oh no, aunt; I want to get up, but mamma won't let me.' 'Well, dear, you know, you must always try to do as mamma wishes you, because she knows what is best for you; but I have brought something from the doctor that is sure to do you good, and it is to be taken immediately.' 'I can't take it, aunt, it is such nasty stuff,' said the boy, with disgust. 'I know it is very nasty stuff, Freddy, and, like you, I can't bear to take medicine; but when I know that it is to make me well, I am not so foolish as to refuse it. So now sit up like a man, and take the cup in one hand, and this little mint-drop in the other; drink off the nasty stuff in a moment, and pop the mint-drop into your mouth at once; you will never feel the taste of the medicine after that.' Whether it was the decisive manner in which Aunt Mary spoke, or the belief in the efficacy of the mint-drop, or the appeal to the manliness of the patient, we cannot say, but a magical effect had been produced, for the contents of the cup had been swallowed; and Fred, greatly relieved in mind, if not yet in body, laid down his head on the pillow and listened, evidently with much pleasure, to his aunt's commendations. This short illness of Freddy's was followed by a much more serious one of his mamma's. It had been a long time coming on, and it was the doctor's opinion that it might be of some months' continuance; rest and quiet were ordered, but they are not easily obtained where there are refractory children at Freddy's age. It would be easy enough to keep the little ones quiet, but Mrs. Ellis had permitted this turbulent boy of hers to make appeals to her on every trifling occasion, and to stand and whine and cry until he obtained what he wanted, because mamma was worn out with his teasing. Now that she was really so ill as to be more than usually affected by any disturbance, it became a question with Aunt Mary (though it was to her a very painful one) whether it would not be expedient, and the right thing to do, to make an exchange in favour of the invalid, and to substitute Mabel for her brother Fred, taking the responsibility of that rather notorious rebel upon herself, and giving her dear sister the benefit of a tender nurse, who had grown wise beyond her years, through much suffering and good teaching. If there had been the shadow of a doubt on the kind lady's mind as to what course she should pursue, her visit to Camden Terrace the day after the doctor had given his opinion respecting Mrs. Ellis, would have determined her; for on the front-door being opened, she heard a violent screaming and kicking, sufficient to disturb the nerves of a much less sensitive person than Mrs. Ellis. 'Oh, that is Fred making that noise,' said Mabel, who had come with her aunt to visit mamma. 'Shall I go up to him?' she inquired. 'No, my dear; go to the sick-room. I will myself encounter the rebel;' and Aunt Mary went straight upstairs, just as nurse opened the room-door to remonstrate with the unruly boy, who was quickly and unceremoniously caught up from the floor, and made to stand on his feet. 'Let me not hear another sound from you while I am here,' said his aunt. 'And, Jane,' she added, speaking to the nurse, 'please to put up in a small basket this young gentleman's night-clothes. I intend to take him home with me; he must not remain here to make his poor mamma worse than she is.' So saying, Miss Livesay left the nursery, and proceeded to her sister's bedroom, where she found Mabel arranging the pillows, and making the bed rather more comfortable for her poor mamma. Master Freddy had been completely taken by surprise, and he seemed at a loss at first how to give vent to the suppressed passion that was swelling within; but when nurse said, 'I am very glad indeed that your aunt is going to take you away, for then we shall have some peace in the house,' he jumped off the stool on which he had been sitting, and would have struck her with a brush which he took from the table, had she not forcibly held both his hands, and threatened to take him at once to the room where Aunt Mary was. 'You needn't put up my night-shirt,' said passionate Fred, 'for I shan't go with that nasty old thing!' This was, however, uttered in a subdued tone, and elicited 'Shame, shame!' from nurse, and even from little Gerty. 'I think,' added Jane, 'you are the very worst boy I ever did see, and I wouldn't stop here if you was obliged to be kept in the nursery, which I suppose you would be, now your mamma's so poorly, for it isn't to be expected that you will be allowed to go teasing her about every little thing. I _am_ glad, very glad, you are going away; and I hope Miss Livesay will keep you a very long time,' added nurse, while Fred, not daring to explode, on account of his aunt's being so near, vented his passion on the poor kitten by kicking it violently from under the stool, where he had again seated himself. 'Ada dear,' said Aunt Mary to her sister, 'I am going to propose a transfer, which, though I must confess it will be a very painful one to me, yet perhaps may in the end be good for all parties; and, I think, will prove for your especial benefit now you are so unwell. It is my intention--if you do not object,' continued Miss Livesay, 'to leave dear Mabel with you, and to take that refractory young gentleman, whose kicking and shouting, as I came to the door, must have disturbed you, home with me to Oak Villa. I intend to remain with you this afternoon, while Mabel goes to our house to tell Bridget to prepare a bed for Fred. I dare say, before I want to leave, Mr. Ellis will be home, and then I shall have no fear of a scene with Master Freddy: he will not venture on opposition when his papa is here.' 'Oh, dear Mary!' said Mrs. Ellis, 'how kind it is of you to care for me and mine so much! I can never thank you enough for what you have done for dear Mabel; but she, poor girl, won't like to stay in a sick-room.' 'Mamma dear, don't say that!' exclaimed the now affectionate Mabel; 'I will nurse you day and night. I shall only be doing for you what dear aunt and Clara did for me, when I was so ill.' 'Well now, you must give me some work to do,' said Aunt Mary; 'I will sit with your mamma while you go down and tell Bridget to prepare a bed in my dressing-room for your brother. I shall take care to keep him near me day and night.' This speech was addressed to Mabel, who was very glad to find that it was her aunt's intention to remain till the evening; she soon set off on her errand, though she feared she should be the bearer of no very pleasant news to Bridget, who would certainly not at all like the advent of such an unruly boy at their peaceful home. 'I'm sure our mistress will not let him have the lamp lighted in his bedroom all night, as nurse says he has at home,' said Bridget; 'so most likely that will be the first row he will make.' 'Oh, leave aunt to settle all that, Bridget,' said Mabel; 'you know how well she manages these matters.' ''Deed I do, Miss Mabel; and who knows,' said the honest, plain-spoken servant, 'but what she may make as great a change in Fred as she did in you!' Bridget did not take into account the severe illness and mental suffering that had helped, with Aunt Mary's wise efforts, to work this reformation. She attributed all to her kind mistress. While Bridget attended to the commands of her mistress, Mabel went into the garden to gather some flowers for her mamma, as her aunt had requested her; and after bidding good-morning to the faithful servant, she wended her way quickly to her early home, thinking, as she went, what a blessing it was to have so kind a friend as Aunt Mary. During the time that Mrs. Ellis had been so unwell, the children had all dined together in the nursery at two o'clock; and Aunt Mary insisted that there should be no departure from this rule on her account, as she intended to make one of the party. At the hour appointed, the bell rang for dinner, and soon all were seated at the table but Fred; that young gentleman had chosen to make himself scarce, and notwithstanding the ringing of the bell, out of doors and in, a second time, he did not make his appearance. Great was the consternation of nurse at not being able to find Freddy; she began to fear that he had run away from home to avoid going to Oak Villa. He had once played such a trick, and made everybody miserable until he was found in the evening, and brought home by a woman who washed for his mamma. Mabel and Julia did not feel at all comfortable, though Aunt Mary would not let them leave the table to go in search of the truant. 'Don't distress yourselves, my dears,' said Miss Livesay; 'depend upon it, the culprit is not very far off. Nurse and cook will look after him.' And so the dinner proceeded, though Mabel would much rather have gone without, had she been permitted. All at once a thought struck her, and she exclaimed: 'I'll tell you where I think he is, aunt; where we once found him before!' and Mabel rose up and went to the window which looked on the side of the house where there was a large dog-kennel, and over it a wooden shed with a window in it, to which shed access was gained by a ladder. 'Yes!' exclaimed Mabel, 'I see the key is in the door where the apples are kept. We once found Fred there asleep on the straw; perhaps he is there now!' and the anxious girl was making her way out of the room, when a loud scream brought her back to the window, from which she beheld Freddy with his foot caught in the top step of the ladder, and his head ignominiously resting on the hard step. Mabel was off in an instant, but quick as she was, cook was there before her, and Fred had been turned right side upwards, and his blubbered face wiped with that towel of all work, Susan's apron; while his forehead presented a lump sufficiently large to account for the explosion they had been treated to. No doubt it had been Master Freddy's intentions, when he went into this hiding-place, to remain there all day, until Aunt Mary should take her leave; he did not know of her intention to remain at Camden Terrace until his papa came home, or perhaps he might have hit upon some other expedient. His idea was, that they would all be so frightened at having lost him, that when he did make his appearance, he would be received joyfully. Whether it was that the sound of the dinner-bell had created a sensation of hunger not to be resisted, or the savoury smell of the nicely cooked viands had stimulated the stomach to rebellion, we cannot say; but Freddy roused himself from his recumbent position, and, as we have seen, came (very unintentionally) head foremost down the steps. Alas, there is no one to sympathise with him in his self-made trouble, Aunt Mary won't permit it; and Master Frederick Ellis has to dine in the kitchen, a most humiliating necessity which would not have been submitted to, but for the inward cravings which would not be resisted. It was with the greatest satisfaction that Mr. Ellis, when he came home, heard of the kind proposal of his sister-in-law to take Freddy home with her; he said that he could never sufficiently thank her for the good she had done to Mabel, but he feared that Freddy would prove a more troublesome inmate to Oak Villa than ever she had been. Aunt Mary declared, however, to the great astonishment of Freddy, who was in the room at the time, that Oak Villa would not hold naughty people, whether they were men, women, or children; and that as soon as Fred had slept there one night, he would find himself quite another boy, and be ready to do anything that he was desired. Fred heard all this with 'wonder-working eyes;' we don't know whether he really believed it. But as he trudged silently along by his aunt's side, with the little basket in one hand, and her hand clasping his other, he thought what a strange place Oak Villa must be to make people good, whether they liked it or not. Mr. Ellis wished very much to accompany his sister home, but she would not permit this. 'How can you think that I want a protector when I have Fred with me, papa?' she inquired. 'I know very well,' she added, 'that we shall soon be the best friends in the world; and Freddy will take all the trouble off my hands of feeding cousin Clara's chickens while she is away.' I should have stated that Clara had gone on a short visit to her mamma. The reference to the chickens was an excellent stroke of policy of aunt's; she felt the small hand, which she held, tighten in hers, and an inward feeling of satisfaction came over her spirit, as she said within herself, 'Love is a constraining power.' CHAPTER XXI. THE NEW INMATE OF OAK VILLA. And now a new sort of life began, both at Oak Villa, and at Camden Terrace. Mabel had promised her aunt (and she meant faithfully to fulfil that promise) to give what portion of the time she could spare from her attendance on mamma, to the lessons of her sister Julia, who was now far behind Mabel, and sadly needed a preceptress. Well and amicably the two girls worked together; though there were trials of temper at times, when Julia did not seem to make such progress as her youthful instructress had anticipated. This, however, was only a trifling matter; there was peace in the house, and papa came home, not to be burdened with complaints, by domestic irregularities, but to be solaced by the loving attentions of his two girls, and amused by the sententious sayings of little prudish Gertrude, or the high spirits and happy gleefulness of Willie. It was also a source of great comfort to him to know that Fred was in such good keeping; he could not doubt this, when he had practical proof before him daily, in the change that had been wrought in his eldest daughter. But how do they get on at Oak Villa, I wonder? Admirably, I must say, considering that this is Aunt Mary's first attempt at taming an embryo lord of the creation. Is she very severe? By no means! Fred finds, to his great surprise, that 'this nasty old thing' works by love! and he is positively so full of employment and enjoyment, that he has no time to think of himself or to give way to evil temper. It must be owned (for there was no miracle in the case) that kind Aunt Mary had determined to give up this week, while Clara was away, to the instruction, amusement, and management of the Camden Terrace rebel; and though no outward sign betrayed the good lady's inward trials, it really was a week of trial to her. But she had succeeded to a wonder, so far as outward appearance testified, and worthy Bridget, who, by her good-nature helped on the reformation, declared herself astonished to find Master Freddy such a different boy to what she expected. And so the weeks passed by. Fred still lived on at Oak Villa, a happy and a loving inmate. Clara had come home, and contributed not a little to Fred's enjoyment; they went out together to see all the poor people, and particularly the Simmons family, who were getting on very well, now that the father was recovered. Fred had a wheelbarrow and a nice box that Simmons had made him, and Clara and he worked away famously in the garden, weeding, or planting, or picking up stones. Aunt Mary says, 'This is what we have been trying to do for you, dear Freddy. Weeding out the naughty bitter weeds, putting in seeds that we hope will spring up, and grow to be beautiful flowers, and picking up the stones, that the soil may look smooth, and show that it is well taken care of.' We must not forget the visits paid to dear mamma, twice a week, when that good lady was moved, even to tears, to see the great change, both in appearance and manner, that had taken place in her beloved child. She was much better, and the doctor thought that change of air would be the very best thing to restore her to health; but there were many things to be considered in the carrying out of such a proposal. Time may do wonders, but that time had not yet come; and we have travelled on a little too fast, I think, so we will go back to the first morning of Master Freddy's advent at Oak Villa. The first bell had rung, but Bridget was not satisfied to let the little boy's getting up depend on that, so she went and knocked at his door, and then peeped in. 'Why, bless me, Master Fred, are you not up yet?' exclaimed the good woman in pretended surprise. 'Why, the sun has been up a long time, and the birds are a-singing; and the fowls I know are wanting their breakfast, so I hope you will not keep them waiting very long. You must wash yourself well, and dress yourself nicely, and brush your hair, for I know your aunt can't abide to see slovenly children.' After these instructions, Bridget made her exit; and Fred, the tiresome Fred, who when at home would only get up when he thought proper, jumped out of bed, put on his socks and shoes, performed his ablutions, and finished his dressing in a most satisfactory manner. Then he went down, and joined his aunt in the breakfast-room. 'Well, my dear Fred,' said the kind lady, taking her nephew by the hand and kissing him, 'I hope you are no worse for your fall yesterday, and that you have had a good night's rest?' 'Oh, I slept so well, aunt. It is such a nice little bed, I like it so much!' 'And have you, my child,' said his aunt, 'thanked the good God who gave you sleep, and rest, and kind friends?' 'I haven't said my prayers, aunt,' replied Freddy; 'I don't always say them.' 'But you always wish to have kind friends, and a nice bed, and peaceful sleep, don't you, dear Fred?' said Aunt Mary. 'Yes, aunt, I do,' replied the boy. 'And don't you think you ought to be thankful when you have them?' was the next question. Freddy hung down his head, but he whispered 'Yes.' 'Well, go then, my dear, and thank your heavenly Father for His goodness, and ask Him to bless you, and keep you from all evil to-day.' And Freddy went back to his room, and knelt beside his little bed, and repeated the same prayer that he had said so many times before, without thinking even of what he was saying; but this time he did think. After breakfast Fred went to feed the fowls, though this ought to have been done before; but this was a beginning, so it did not much matter. At ten o'clock he was called to his books, and Aunt Mary expected a trial, for Freddy had never been at school, and his teaching at home had been only such as he chose to receive from his mamma or his sisters, when he happened to be in the humour. Yet he was naturally a quick child, and but for temper, his aunt did not at all contemplate any difficulty; indeed, she had no reason to do so, with her method of teaching. She was never harsh, but she was strict in discipline. She knew, that to make children happy, it was not at all necessary that they should have their own way, though she never contradicted them without occasion. She, in short, treated them as reasonable creatures, as loving creatures, who required love to draw them out; and she had seen, and felt, the happy results of this treatment. After the first week there was no more trouble about lessons; and with the assistance of Bridget and Clara, who were both now really fond of the boy, and did many little things to contribute to his pleasure, Aunt Mary found that she need no longer have any dread of having taken into her happy domicile an inmate, who would destroy its hitherto peaceful character; and Fred never once expressed a wish to go and live at home again. CHAPTER XXII. THE OAK AND THE LAUREL UNITED. More than four months had elapsed since Mabel had left Oak Villa to attend to her mamma, and Freddy had found a happy and delightful home in that very desirable locality. The days were shortening now, and the splendid autumn sunsets threw their gorgeous colouring over the trees, that had already put on their russet mantles, as if in anticipation of some great change. In human affairs it often happens that great changes come very unexpectedly, and so it occurred in the families with whom we have been the most familiar. It was the beginning of October, when Aunt Mary received a letter from her friend Mrs. Maitland which greatly surprised, and at first grieved her not a little. It contained the startling intelligence that Mr. Maitland wished to let their pretty homes, the Laurels, as the very precarious state of health Mrs. Maitland's mother was in, rendered it absolutely necessary that they should remain with her for perhaps a very long time. 'Oh, Clara dear,' said her aunt, 'is not this sad news for us? I can scarcely believe it. Mrs. Maitland says they are not coming back; but are going to let the Laurels. 'How we shall miss them all, I fear we shall never get such good neighbours again,' said the lady, in a much more dolorous tone than was usual with her. 'Oh, I am so sorry!' exclaimed Clara, 'and so will Mabel be I know, for Dora and Annie were our very best friends. But who is that other letter from?' inquired the niece; 'I hope that does not contain bad news, aunt!' Miss Livesay took up the letter spoken of; she had been so taken by surprise with the information contained in the first letter, that she had almost forgotten the other, which she now opened, and a glad exclamation which she uttered on reading the first line convinced Clara that there was salve for the wound which had been inflicted. She was not kept in a state of suspense, the letter was from Irene (Mrs. Gordon), and the first line was: 'We are coming home to you, dear Mary!' 'Oh, when, aunt, when?' cried Clara. 'Wait, my dear, and you shall hear all,' replied Miss Livesay. '"Captain Gordon has got leave of absence for six months; will you, can you, dear Mary, let me come again to the dear old home? there is no place like it!" Dear Irene,' cried Aunt Mary, she little thinks how I long to see her, and the quick tears testified the melting heart. Freddy all this time had stood an amazed listener; he could not at all make it out why the breakfast should be delayed, but he remembered Aunt Irene, and Captain Gordon, too, and he could somewhat enter into the pleasure manifested at the idea of their coming to see them, only he wished, notwithstanding, that Aunt Mary would pour the tea out, and allow him to begin his breakfast. This was done almost mechanically by Aunt Mary, her mind was already so full of projects, which, however, must be explained some time hence. 'Now the first thing we do, dear Clara, after breakfast,' said the kind aunt, 'must be to go to Camden Terrace; I hope your uncle will not have gone out, as I have a message for him from Mr. Maitland.' 'Oh then, do let Freddy and me go at once,' entreated Clara; 'we can be so quick, and we can tell Uncle Ellis that you are coming immediately, so that you need not hurry yourself, dear aunt.' 'Not a bad proposition, my little girl,' said her aunt; 'and Freddy, is he ready to go?' 'Oh yes, I am quite ready, and we can run all the way, and we can tell mamma that Aunt Irene is coming to see her; won't she be pleased? and so will Mabel and Julia. Oh, I am so glad, and Fred gave a remarkable caper, which not only threw himself down, but _overthrew_ the gravity of both aunt and cousin, who laughed heartily at the grotesque way in which he exhibited his joy. 'We won't say anything about Aunt Irene's letter till you come,' whispered Clara to her aunt, but that lady said: 'Depend upon it, dear Clara, your mamma has got a letter, as well as myself, so this will be no news to her, though the Maitlands' communications will, and of this you need not say anything.' Mr. Ellis was just preparing to leave home when Clara and Fred made their appearance. 'Why, you are early visitors this morning,' said that gentleman, kissing, and shaking hands with the fresh, healthy looking messengers, and adding; 'has the postman's news made you run off in such a hurry?' 'Yes, it is the postman's news, uncle, that sent us here so soon,' said Clara, 'because Aunt Mary wants to see, and talk with you, before you go out; she will be here in less than half an hour, if you will kindly wait.' 'That I will do with pleasure, my little girl, and you and Fred can go and find out mamma, and Mabel, and Julia, and Gertrude, and Willie, for I can hear them all making a noise; this news about Aunt Irene has caused a great commotion in the house,' said Mr. Ellis. Away ran Clara and Freddy, to find, as papa had said, a glad and rather noisy company in mamma's room. The invalid herself seeming evidently better for this piece of joyous excitement. We may well believe that the noise was not lessened in the room by the advent of Clara and Freddy; the latter having, since his departure from home, and the good accounts received of him from Aunt Mary, become somewhat of a hero in the estimation of the little people and even of his sisters. But here are other visitors, Aunt Mary and Mr. Ellis appear upon the scene, and they both stand for a moment in silent astonishment at the uproar that is made. 'Well,' said Aunt Mary, after a moment's pause, 'this is not much like the chamber of an invalid; and yet you look wonderfully bright, my dear Ada,' she said to her sister, putting her arms round and kissing Mrs. Ellis, who was already up, and seated in her arm-chair. 'Oh, I am so much better, dear Mary; Irene's letter has acted like a cordial to me this morning; of course _you_ have received one from her?' said Mrs. Ellis. 'Yes; and I have also had one from our friend Mrs. Maitland, which, as it requires advice and consideration, will also require a little peace and quietness, so we had better dismiss the joyous young party; they can finish off, and talk over pleasant affairs, in the nursery. What do you say to this, my dears?' inquired Aunt Mary. 'We all say yes, yes, aunt!' replied Mabel, catching up Willie, and making a speedy exit, followed by the whole troop of rejoicing spirits, who were not at all sorry to leave grave discussions to their seniors. 'And now,' said Miss Livesay, after the young tribe had left the room, 'let us proceed to business. I have had a letter this morning from our friends the Maitlands, and in it, a request from Mr. Maitland to you, dear brother, to help him in the letting of his house, as they do not intend to return.' 'Oh, how I wish we could take the Laurels, Arthur!' said Mrs. Ellis, eagerly; 'it would be so delightful to be near dear Mary; the thought almost makes me well, I declare,' she continued, as the colour mounted to her pale cheeks. 'It was the very idea that entered my head when I read the letter,' said Miss Livesay. 'I do think, dear Ada, that such a change of air and scene would be very beneficial to you; but, of course, it will require consideration, which, I know, your husband will give it.' 'I don't think that we should find any difficulty in letting _this_ house,' observed Mr. Ellis; 'and I assure you, I am as anxious for a change as my wife is; though the distance from my office will be greater, I should not mind that; I think we should all be greatly benefited in health. I will myself write to Mr. Maitland this very day, and run the risk of letting our own house, rather than lose such a golden opportunity.' My young readers, I dare say, know nothing about the troubles of a removal; I do, and I am not at all disposed to inflict details on them. All I have to say on the subject is, that matters were so speedily and amicably arranged, that the Laurels or Laurel Villa, received its new occupants before the month of November had commenced, and that so great an improvement had taken place in the health of Mrs. Ellis, as made the doctor, aye, and Aunt Mary too, suspect that the _nerves_ had received a great deal too much consideration, and that henceforth they were not to claim more than their due share. We may imagine how busy Mabel, and Clara, and Julia, and even Freddy had been; and, oh! what a comfort it was to all parties, that now, neither Laurel Villa, nor Oak Villa, would receive ill-conditioned men, women, or children, for did not the kind and benevolent fairy preside over both houses? Yes, she did; and I am bound to say that there was no opposition, for Aunt Mary's ways and doings had worked such wonders as disinterested love alone _can_ work, and her heart was filled with joy and thankfulness at the success achieved. Captain Gordon and Aunt Irene did not arrive in England so soon as had been expected, but they put in an appearance before Christmas, and were quite delighted with the change that had been made; and, oh! what a joyous party helped to make the splendid wreath for the decoration of Mr. Norton's church, at Christmas time; plenty of laurels, we know, they had close at hand, so that though there were other kind workers in this delightful employ, I think we may say that none excelled in design or quantity the productions of the two villas. Our former friend, Harry Maitland, was on a visit to Mr. Newlove, and not a day passed during the Christmas week in which there was not an interchange of visits with the young people; and when on Christmas Day they all assembled at church, I don't think there could have been in England a happier or more thankful family party than that which came from the intertwined _Oak and Laurel_! '_Order_ is Heaven's first law!' But _Love_ is the elastic, all-embracing band, which, wreathed with amaranthine flowers, endures when time shall be no more! THE END. * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHOR. The Story of a Mouse. The Story of a Cat. The Village School. The Story of a Penny. Our Poor Neighbours. The Three Sisters. Ellen and Frank. The Twin Brothers. Lilian Seacroft. BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD. 
22195	----	file was produced from scans of public domain material produced by Microsoft for their Live Search Books site.) LITTLE TORA: THE SWEDISH SCHOOLMISTRESS And Other Stories. [Illustration: "_The school was going on in its usual routine._" Page 33.] [Illustration: A BRAVE DEED _Page 40_] LITTLE TORA THE SWEDISH SCHOOLMISTRESS And Other Stories BY MRS. WOODS BAKER AUTHOR OF "THE BABES IN THE BASKET," "THE SWEDISH TWINS," "FIRESIDE SKETCHES FROM SWEDISH LIFE," ETC. ETC. [Illustration] THOMAS NELSON AND SONS _London, Edinburgh, and New York_ 1898 CONTENTS. A Swedish Schoolmistress. I. LITTLE TORA, 13 II. FACING THE WORLD, 19 III. A NARROW ESCAPE, 32 IV. A HAPPY MORNING, 42 V. THE PERMANENT PUPIL, 50 A Week at Kulleby. I. CHURCH SERVICE, 57 II. AT THE PASTOR'S, 63 III. A STRANGE MEETING, 69 IV. TOO LATE, 76 V. KARIN AND ELSA, 81 VI. CHRISTMAS EVE, 89 Alf. I. A FOOLISH RESOLVE, 97 II. AFTER THIRTY YEARS, 104 III. IN THE POORHOUSE, 110 IV. PREPARING FOR CONFIRMATION, 118 V. LED TO THE LIGHT, 128 VI. PAINFUL DISCLOSURES, 134 VII. A HAPPY CHRISTMAS, 145 VIII. THE BEATA CHARITY, 151 Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Original spellings have been retained. LITTLE TORA: THE SWEDISH SCHOOLMISTRESS CHAPTER I. LITTLE TORA. The kindly doctor was entertaining his brother-in-law, and all the family were sitting round the table in state. The polished silver and shining glass, with porcelain, flowers, and fruit, seemed to be all that had been provided for the dinner. The usual "grace" had hardly been said, when a trim maid announced that a little girl was at the door, who must see the doctor about something particular. "There is nobody sick more than usual," she says; "but she must come in," continued the irritated damsel-in-waiting. "Let her come in here. You can never have your meals in peace!" said the doctor's wife affectionately. The soup and the little girl came in together, the latterly evidently quite prepared to state her errand. She was a small, straight child, with a determined air and a cheery face, as if sure of success in her undertaking. Fresh in Monday cleanliness, her white cotton head-kerchief stood stiffly out in a point behind, and her calico apron was without spot or wrinkle. Her shoes, though they had been diligently blackened and were under high polish, did not correspond with the rest of her appearance. They had evidently been made for a boy, an individual much larger than their present wearer. Great wrinkles crossing each other shut off some low, unoccupied land near the toe, and showed how much of the sole had been too proud to touch the common ground. All this the observers saw at once. "Well, Tora!" said the doctor pleasantly, after she had dropped her bob-courtesies, and "good-days" had been exchanged. "May I sing for you?" said the little girl, without further hesitation, as she hastily took out a thin, black book from the small pocket handkerchief in which it had been carefully wrapped. "Sing? yes, surely!" said the doctor. "Just the thing for us while we are taking our dinner. My brother-in-law here is a famous judge of music, so you must do your best." Tora opened the book, took what she considered an imposing position, and announced the name of the song. It was a patriotic one, and in the full chorus of the schoolroom it had stirred the young Swedish hearts to their depths. The first few notes were right, though tremblingly given; then came a quivering and a faltering and a falsity that made the doctor's boys cover their laughing mouths with their hands, while their eyes twinkled with suppressed merriment. Just then there was a queer buzzing noise in the room, by which the tune was carried on, and Tora fell in with fresh courage. Most of the party were taking their soup, as well as listening; but the boys observed that their uncle quietly held his motionless spoon, and was looking at the singer as if lost in musical bliss. His mouth was closed, but his nostrils seemed undergoing a rhythmical contraction and distension most interesting and unusual. Tora gave the closing notes in fine style, and the expression of applause was general. So encouraged, she volunteered a simple newly-published carol that she had that day been practising at school. Here it seemed the musical accompaniment could not be relied upon. Tora began, stopped, and began again, then was silent, while great tears stood in her eyes. One of the before-smiling boys hastened to say,-- "Let her speak a piece, uncle. She can do that beautifully, her brother Karl says. He has taught her ever so many, and it costs her nothing to learn them. He likes to tell that she is the best scholar in her class." The uncle seemed to be able to enjoy his dinner at the same time as the elocutionary treat with which it was now accompanied, and he warmly complimented the speaker on her performance at its close. "What made you think of giving us this pleasure, little Tora?" said the doctor, with a humorous look in his kindly face. "Why," said the little girl at once, "I don't like my shoes. They have been brother Karl's. When I asked father this morning to give me some new ones, he said this was a fine strong pair and did not let in water, and he could not think of letting them go to waste. Then he looked sorrowful, and I heard him say to mother, 'The poor children will have to earn all they have soon.' I made up my mind to begin at once, and earn my shoes, if I could. Our teacher told us to-day about Jenny Lind, who began to sing when she was a very little girl, and when she was older she made a great deal of money, and gave away ever so much, and was loved and admired wherever she went. I thought I should like to be loved and admired wherever I went, and have new shoes whenever I wanted them, and I would try singing too. I came here first because the doctor has always been so pleasant to me and so good to us all." "You have made a real beginning," said the brother-in-law.--"Gustaf, take round the hat." The doctor's son ran for his cap. There was a chinking and a silver flash as the uncle put his hand into the cap. Something of the same kind happened when it came to the doctor's turn to contribute. The mother fumbled confusedly in her pocket, and found only her handkerchief. The boys tossed in conspicuously some coppers of their own, perhaps with the idea of covering, by their munificence, the evident discomfiture of their mother. "There! there!" said the uncle. "Hand the cap to the little girl. What is in it is for the singer. As for the shoes, I'll see about that.--I would not advise you, though, little Tora, to try singing to make money. It might do for Jenny Lind, but I hardly think it would suit for you." The little girl's countenance fell. The friendly stranger went on, "How would you like to be a little schoolmistress? That would be a nice way for you to take care of yourself, and maybe help all at home, by-and-by. I know how that thing is done, and I think we could manage it." The uncle did know "how that thing was done," and who meant to do it. Little Tora was provided for from that day; and so, if she did not sing like Jenny Lind, she sang herself into being a schoolmistress--a little schoolmistress of the very best order. CHAPTER II. FACING THE WORLD. It was five o'clock in the morning on one of the last days of August. This was no legally-sanctioned Swedish moving-day, and yet it was plain that with somebody a change of residence was in progress. Before a low house on a winding "cobble-stone" paved street two long, narrow wagons were standing. Their horses faced in different directions, though in all other respects the two establishments were, even to their loading, like a pair of twins. In each was the furniture for one simple room, a sofa-bed being the striking article in the inventory. A carefully-packed basket of china, a few primitive cooking utensils, and some boxes and packages indicated, if not good cheer, at least something to keep soul and body together. The outer door of the house was locked at last, and the key had been handed to a humble woman, who courtesied and took it as a matter of form; though both parties knew that she would soon be opening that door and coming into lawful possession of all the effects, remnants, and refuse left on the premises, and would be sure to hand that house over to the landlord in a superlatively clean and tidy condition. Two stout men took their places as drivers, and two passengers stood on the low steps for a few parting words. They were by no means twins. The straight, slight girl, though not tall, yet fully grown, had been the little Tora, the singer of one public performance. Now she had in her pocket her greatest treasure--the paper that pronounced her a fully-fledged schoolmistress; who had completed with honour the prescribed course at the seminary duly authorized for the manufacture of teachers of unimpeachable character, and all pedagogical requisites in perfection. At Tora's side stood "brother Karl," just about to start for Upsala University, with his arrangements complete for his bachelor housekeeping on the most simple principles. There was no effusiveness in the parting. "Keep well, Karl, and don't study too hard," said the sister. "And don't have any 'food-days'; I could not bear that. But you must not live too low, and pull yourself down. Send to me if you get to the bottom of your purse. I shall be likely to have a few coppers in mine." "I'll warrant that, Miss Prudence," was his reply. "Nobody but you would have managed to keep us both comfortably on what was only meant to carry you through the seminary. Don't be afraid for me! I shall clear my own way. I shall teach boys in the evening, and study after they have gone to bed. I have served a good apprenticeship with the doctor's chaps these years. I understand packing lessons into youngsters to be given out in the class next day. Then I am to write an article now and then for the paper here, with Upsala news for the country folks. As to 'food-days,' I am not exactly of your mind. I have made arrangements for one already." "O Karl! how could you?" said Tora reproachfully. "Gunner Steelhammer liked well enough to take porridge with us now and then when he was teaching here. His mother has told him to invite me to dine at their house on Sundays, and to call there whenever I feel like it. We are real friends, though he is a university tutor now. Anybody that I would be willing to help I am willing to let help me. Of course, I shall enjoy a good substantial dinner once a week, but I really care more to be with the family at that house. Gunner is a splendid fellow, as you know, and his father draws all kinds of nice people about him, I hear. I did not dare to tell you this before, little sister; but now I have made a clean breast of it. I was half teasing about it, too. Be sure, I'll work hard and live low before I shall let anybody help me. Well, good-bye," and he stretched out his hand to Tora, who took it hastily for a hearty shake, and then they parted. Karl was wearing his white university cap, which, with the loading of the wagon, marked him as a student on the way to Upsala, and would ensure him many a friendly greeting by the way. Tora had prudently covered the fresh velvet with a fair cotton cover; but the blue-and-yellow rosette was in full sight--a token of the honours he had lately won at his examination, and would be striving to win at the old centre of learning. The kind neighbours whom he had known from boyhood had added to his equipment--here a cheese, and there a pat of butter or a bag of fresh biscuits; but he did not need to open his stores by the way. Now and again from the roadside houses kindly faces smiled on him, and homely fare was offered him by the elders; while flowers or wild berries came to his share from glad children who had been ranging the woods for treasures during these last days of their summer vacation. As for Tora, sitting in a low chair in the midst of her possessions, she went rattling over the cobble-stones, if not more proud at least more happy of heart than a conqueror of old at the head of a Roman triumph. She had reached the goal towards which she had long been striving. She was now an independent worker, with a profession by which she could earn an honourable living. She was a teacher, "a teacher of the little school"--that is to say, of the school for little children. The state was her sure paymaster. If continued health were granted her, her path for the future was plain--her bread was sure. The cobble-stones were soon passed, and over the smooth country road rumbled the clumsy vehicle, now through evergreen thickets, now through groves of bright birches, and at last out on the rolling meadows. The fences had disappeared, and but for a lone landmark here and there, the sea of green might have seemed the property of any strong-handed labourer who might choose to call it his own. Down an unusually steep slope the wagon passed, then across the low meadow with a bright stream threading its midst, and then there was a triumphant sweep up to the little red schoolhouse where Tora was to have her abode and the sphere of her labours. A low wooded point ran like a promontory out into the meadow, and there "the forefathers of the vale" had built the temple for the spelling-book and the slate. On the opposite side from the meadow the schoolhouse was entered, after crossing the wide playground. Where "the field for sport" ended at the road there stood a lad, evidently looking out eagerly for the arrival of the new teacher. "That's a life-member of the little school," said the driver, with a whimsical look. "Nils is not much at books, but he's a powerful singer." The last words were spoken within the hearing of the frank-faced boy, who now pulled off his cap, and stepped up to the wagon to help Tora down. She shook his hand kindly, and said, "I hear you are a singer, Nils. I am glad of that, for in my certificate I got but a poor record for my singing." "And 'great A' for everything else, mother said," he answered promptly, while his eyes beamed pleasantly on the new teacher, whose first friendly greeting had won his heart. "I'll help you down with the heavy things first," said Nils to the driver, "and then if you'll set the rest here, we'll take them in together later. I want to show the schoolhouse to the mistress." The one room set apart for the home of the teacher did not look dreary as she stepped into it. The table from the schoolroom stood in the centre covered with a white cloth, its edge outlined by bright birch leaves laid on it, loosely and tastefully, like a wreath. Then on a tray covered with a snowy napkin stood a shining coffee-pot, with cups for three, and a light saffron cake that might have sufficed for the whole school assembled. "Mother thought perhaps you would like a taste of something warm after your ride," said Nils, as he proceeded to pour out a cup of coffee as if he were quite at home. At home he was in a way, for in that schoolhouse he had for years passed his days among the little ones, through a special permit from the school board. Tora clasped her hands, and stood silent a moment before she tasted the first morsel of food in her new home, and her heart sent up really grateful thoughts to her heavenly Father, who had so blessed her, and would, she was sure, continue to bless her in her new surroundings. "May I take out a cup to Petter?" asked Nils, while he cut the big cake into generous pieces, and offered the simple entertainment to the teacher. Of course the driver did not refuse the proposed refreshment, nor did Nils hesitate to help himself, while the mistress was taking her coffee and glancing round the premises. All was fresh and clean about her. The windows had evidently been open since early morning, and the closets and shelves could well afford to be displayed through the doors more than half ajar. "Thanks, Nils," said the mistress, as she took the boy's hand after the refreshment. "Thanks and welcome to the new teacher!" was the reply. "Now I shall go in and look at the schoolroom while Petter and you furnish my room for me. The sofa should stand there, and the bureau there. The rest I can leave to you," said Tora, as she disappeared. Nils unfolded a strip of rag carpeting and "criss-crossed" it round the room, whispering to himself, "Mother said there were to be no footmarks left behind us." The schoolroom was but a big, bare room--no maps on the walls, none of the modern aids for instruction, save that the space between the two windows that looked out towards the meadow had been painted, to be used as a blackboard: "a useless, new-fangled notion" the rustics had called this forward step in the way of education. In front of the blackboard stood a wooden armchair for the teacher. The benches were low, and the desks were of the simplest sort, saving one, which was larger and higher, which the teacher at once understood was the permanent arrangement for Nils. Her heart went out towards the big, kind fellow, on whom so sore a trial had been laid in his youth. Along one side of the schoolroom there were four horses standing silent, but not "saddled and bridled," as in old nursery stories. Without head or tail, they stood on four sprawling legs--supports for two long, "shallow boxes" that had been in the schoolroom for fifty years or more. Wood was abundant in the old days, and unskilful hands had done the work; so the boxes were but clumsy specimens of carpentry, and deep enough, it seemed, to hold sand for all the long winter through. The grandfathers of the neighbourhood could remember when these receptacles were their writing-desks, in which, stick in hand, they were taught to trace in the smoothed sand their names or any higher efforts of chirography that the teacher might demand. These superannuated articles of furniture were now used in winter as places of deposit for the children's folded outer garments, rather than the cold vestibule. There, too, the dinner-baskets had their rightful quarters. The room was high, as it went up to the very roof. On the rafters were stored, in cold weather, the stilts for summer, and the bundles of ropes for the swings to be fastened to the tall trees by adventurous Nils, whose friendly hands delighted to send the laughing little ones flying far up into the fresh air like merry fairies. There, too, were the bows and arrows, and all other lawful things for summer sport. The little schoolmistress took a full survey of her new kingdom, sat for a moment in her chair of state, and noticed a simple footstool put in front of it for her use, as she fancied, by that unknown "mother" who seemed to have her comfort so much at heart. When the new mistress returned to her own private apartment, the furniture was all in place, the covers were taken from the boxes, and everything was ready for her personal arrangement of her property. "The school board have had shutters put to the windows," said the driver, pointing to the late improvement. "They thought perhaps the new teacher might be afraid. This is a lonely place." "Afraid!" said the little schoolmistress, wonderingly; "I am never afraid, night or day." The driver opened his eyes wide as he answered,-- "The last teacher was as tall as I am, and she always kept a pistol at night by her on a chair, with an apron thrown over it, so the thieves could not find it and shoot her before she had a chance at them. This little mistress must be made of different stuff.--Well, good-bye, miss, and I wish you well." Tora was about to put in his hand the usual payment for his services, when he shut his broad fist expressively, and then half raised it, as he said,-- "I never took pay for a mistress's things being brought to this schoolhouse yet, and I don't mean to do it now. Folks for the most part seem to like you, but I have a particular feeling. I knew your father once, and he was good to me." The honest man could say no more just then, and he hurried out of the room. Nils followed with his best bow, but the pleasant words reached his ears,-- "We'll meet soon again. Thanks! thanks to you both.--I think we shall be real friends, Nils, you and I." That little allusion to her father, coming so suddenly, had almost made Tora break down in the midst of her abounding courage. The past came up in vivid pictures where scenes of sorrow were predominant. Her weak, ever-ailing little baby sister had floated quietly across the dark river. The stricken mother sank, and soon followed her child to the churchyard. The father's hand, that had first guided an editor's pen, and then in his long decline that of a mere copyist, grew weaker and weaker, and finally the last loving pressure was given to his daughter, and then that hand lay still and white. Its work on earth was done, and the brother and sister were left alone. Courageous and loving, they had both struggled on. Her end was attained, but he was at the beginning of the steady conflict before him. How would he bear himself in the battle? If she could only know whether his surroundings would be as pleasant and homelike as her own, and his heart as full of hope and quiet trust! Would he be borne safely through the privations and temptations of his university life? A prayer went silently up to the Father of all for that absent brother, and then the practical little sister was soon deep in the stir of bringing all things to order in her new home. Physical effort brought back the resolute cheerfulness so natural to the little schoolmistress, and she hummed to herself a simple song of long ago, to which she could always hear the buzzing accompaniment of that stranger who had proved to her a faithful, untiring benefactor and friend. CHAPTER III. A NARROW ESCAPE. The winter had been unusually long. For nearly six months the ground had been continually white. Not that it had been clothed by an ever-smooth, fair mantle. The snow had been tossed and whirled by the wild winds till it was fitfully heaped, now in the meadows, and now banked up against the very hill-sides. But for the dark woods as landmarks, the face of the country would have seemed to be utterly changed. The ice-covered streams were hidden away out of sight, and the wide ponds appeared but as smooth pastures. A path from the little-frequented road had been kept open to the schoolhouse. Week by week this narrow way to the seat of learning had been walled higher and higher, until at last the rustic scholars seemed passing through a stately white marble corridor as they filed along towards the well-known door. The first days of April had come and gone without a flower-bud to greet them. The weather had suddenly grown soft and mild, and a drizzling rain had been falling all night. Nils appeared early at school; but the tidy mistress had already cleared away all traces of her modest breakfast, and was ready to bid him welcome more as a visitor than a scholar. They had some pleasant chat together, and then the teacher said seriously, as she laid her hand on the boy's shoulder, "You must try as hard as you can, Nils, to do well, or I am afraid you will not 'go up' this year." "I do try--I try as hard as I can!" he said. Tears suddenly filled his large eyes as he added, "I am not like other boys, and I know it." "God knows what you can do, Nils," she said tenderly; "and He will not judge you for what is not your fault. It may be, 'Well done, good and faithful servant!' for you at the last, if you cannot be a great scholar." Some merry voices at the door put an end to the conversation, and the school was soon going on in its usual routine. Many weather-wise mothers had kept their children at home, and only eight scholars were in their places, not counting Nils, who occupied in many practical things a middle ground between the little ones and the teacher. A heavy rain soon began to fall, and pattered cheerily on the roof, to the great delight of the small pupils. Towards noon the schoolmistress was hearing the class read aloud. She sat with her back to the windows, with the light falling on the book she held in her hand; but she did not see a letter. Suddenly she looked up and said, "Nils, please open the right-hand shutter in my room." The boy obeyed instantly; but in another moment he said quickly, "Please come in here a moment, teacher." She disappeared immediately, closing the door behind her. Nils pointed to the window with wide-open eyes, and said, "The meadow is all afloat!" "I know it!" she answered calmly. "I saw it while the children were getting their books for the class. If the pond above breaks over the banks, we may be all swept away in a moment. There is no time to be lost. The children must not be frightened. I have thought just what to do. You can swim, Nils?" "Yes," was his only answer. "I can swim too," she said. "If anything goes wrong, we must do what we can for the children." She looked into the clear, calm eyes of the boy, and she knew she could trust him. They returned quietly to the schoolroom. The teacher had hardly taken her seat and closed the book she had held in her hand, when there was a loud crashing sound without, and a heavy thud against the outer door. "It's all right," said Nils calmly, taking his cue from the teacher. "I put up the bar after the children came in. I supposed this might happen." "We don't mind the snow falling against the door," said the teacher cheerfully. "We didn't mean to go out that way. We shall go home by boat anyhow. I've thought about that before." "By boat!" exclaimed the children delightedly, for to them a row or a sail was the most charming thing in the world. "But where's the boat?" asked a prudent little boy, with a sceptical look in his small countenance. "And where's the water?" he would have added if he had dared. "Two boats--two boats are here! I see them now!" said the teacher, glancing at the sand-boxes.--"Nils, climb up into the rafters and bring down the oars." Climbing to the rafters was a familiar exploit of Nils's. With one foot on his desk and his knee to the wall, he swung himself up in a moment. "Hand down my oars and yours," she said, as she pointed at the stilts; for the little schoolmistress was a leader in the sports of her children, and often enjoyed them as much as they did. The stilts were duly secured, and then the order followed, "And now the ropes for the launching," and another glance prompted the lowering of the summer swings for their new use. "Give out the clothes, Nils, and call the names of the children as usual," said the teacher. Those were no dainty little ones, accustomed to be dressed like passive dolls by careful nurses or over-fond mammas. They had but to receive their garments in the daily orderly way, and to put them on as they well knew how. There might sometimes be an obstinate string or button, but Nils was sure to be able to help in any such difficulty, or even to tie a refractory kerchief over the light locks. The children now put on their wrappings mechanically, lost in watching the proceedings of the teacher and her obedient assistant. The swings were cut in halves and attached to the strong handles of the empty sand-boxes of olden times. "And now we must launch the boats," said the teacher, with the nearest approach she could muster to the manner of a bluff sea-captain. "Heave ho!" shouted Nils, as he put his strong shoulders to the work of moving the boats, while the mistress held on to the horses. One by one the boats were put in what Tora deemed proper position, the square prows curiously tilted up to the broad window-seat. Then came the orders--"Climb to the top of the shutter, Nils! Pass that rope round the upper hinge; tie it fast! Now the other rope on the lower hinge. Right! The same with the other ropes--bind them fast to the other shutter-hinges!" Every order was promptly and skilfully obeyed. "Nils, are you sure the boats are perfectly watertight?" said the mistress, with, for the first time, a shadow of anxiety in her determined face. "Tight as a bottle!" was the immediate reply. "We had them filled with water for the last examination, to float the boats the children had made. The ships and such like were here, and the row-boats and canoes in the other." "I saw them! I saw them all!" exclaimed a little chap, with great delight. "My brother had the prize for his ship, and he made it every bit himself." The eager memories that came to the minds of the children were chatted about with an intensity that made the boats of the moment to be almost for the time forgotten. Now came the real launching of the boats. With a proper amount of drawing in and letting out and holding fast on the part of Nils and the teacher, the long boxes sat at last on the water like a pair of contented swans. "Get down into the boat you are to be captain of, and I will hand down the oars for us both. Lay mine across my boat and yours across yours. Your passengers are to come down first. There will be four for each of us." The little schoolmistress, putting on her coat and fur cap, backed up to one of her little girls, saying, "Put your arms round my neck, and you shall ride to the boat." Two chubby arms went willingly round the neck of the teacher, as they had done many a time before on a less momentous occasion. So the little one, with her eyes away from the window, was backed up to it, to be lifted down by Nils with a merry shout as he landed the first passenger. The others followed in the same style, and all the eight were cheerily deposited in high good-humour. "Now I'll come down, too," said the schoolmistress, and she came down the rope as if she were in a gymnasium. She took her place in the centre of her boat, with two delighted children before her and two more behind her. "Cut loose, Nils! One rope as long as you can, and the other short up to the stern; and then give me your knife, and I'll do the same for mine. Now start, Nils! I'll follow." The orders were rapidly given and promptly obeyed, and then the little party started across the watery stretch that had taken the place of the meadow. Nils, with his strong arms, got on rapidly, and his boat was soon far in advance of the other. He neared the bank, plunged in and drew the uncertain little craft to the shore, and then as a sledge up the long slope. Nils had before decided that he would deposit his passengers in a sheepfold high on the bank, where he had seen in the morning a window left open under the projecting roof to give the poor creatures a little air. He knew that in the corner by the window there was a great bin that had been freshly filled with dried birch branches as food for the sheep. He left the children looking down at the pretty lambs and their mothers, and ran back himself to see what he could do for the rest of the party. The little mistress was only half-way over, and evidently managing with difficulty her awkward oars in the thick, snow-encumbered water through which she was making her way. Nils plunged in, swam to her boat, tied the loose rope round his body, and then struck out for the shore, while the oars were plied as well as they could be by the weary hands that held them. His feet had just touched bottom when there was a loud cheer from the top of the hill that sloped down to the meadow. Two great wagons, with a pair of strong horses attached to each, were coming to the rescue of the children. As horses that were good forders and wagons suited to the purpose were to be selected, some time had been lost in the preparations after the first news of the condition of the meadow had been spread abroad. The question now was how to get the whole party under roof as soon as possible. The drivers were for putting the children half in one wagon and half in the other; but Nils said in a tone most unusual for him, "_All_ the children must go in one wagon, and you will see them safe home, Petter. _We_ go the other way where the road forks. Of course, I take the mistress home with me. Mother wouldn't forgive me if I let her go anywhere else; and I think I have a kind of right to her too!" "That you have," said the rough man, with a kind of little quiver round his lips. "You've earned that right, anyhow." And away Nils and the teacher were borne, while from the other wagon there was a merry "Good-bye! good-bye! good-bye, teacher! good-bye, Nils!" and a hearty shout of "Hurrah for Nils!" from the driver, which came from the very depths of Petter's honest heart. CHAPTER IV. A HAPPY MORNING. The home to which the little schoolmistress and Nils were bound had formerly been a wayside inn of most modest pretensions. It was but a one-story red building, with a row of white-framed windows looking out on the road close at hand. There was a storm-house, for stamping off the snow and depositing extra articles of carriage, and for dogs, who, like the Peri, must stand outside the paradise within. Next came one large, cheerful room, which served as kitchen, as well as general place of refreshment and assembly. On one side of this apartment of manifold uses were four small rooms for lodgers, furnished with almost as much simplicity as the prophet's chamber of the Scriptures, save that a plain sofa-bed was added in each, as a possible accommodation for an extra sleeper when there was a throng of guests. On the death of Nils's father, the widow had resolved to retire into private life, as she was comfortably provided for. Not but that she was willing at times to give a meal or a bed to an old acquaintance; but such inmates must conform to the temperance arrangements of the establishment, for total abstinence was now the rule of the house. The widow had declared that her son should not be brought up with the fumes of spirituous liquors as his natural atmosphere. Perhaps this resolution had been prompted by the suspicion that her husband's life had been shortened by too frequent good meals and too frequent strong potations. Be that as it may, the determined woman had made it known that, now that she was mistress in her own house, she would manage it as she thought best. The tables for guests had been swept away (or rather sold discreetly at private sale) to make room for a spinning-wheel, a loom, and a sewing-machine, by which the prudent woman said she was sure she could add to her substance in a quiet way. "The clicking, the buzzing, and the slamming," she said, were nothing to her, and now she could choose what noises she would have in her ears. It was not yet time for the usual return of her son from school, but the mother had begun to go to the door to see if Nils could possibly be coming. Perhaps the old habit of looking out occasionally up and down the road, to reconnoitre as to what customers might be expected, had lingered to keep the former hostess now constantly, as it were, on guard. In one of these excursions for inspection she was surprised to see a big wagon drawing up before the door, with the schoolmistress and Nils as passengers. The driver hastened to tell in an abridged form the story of their experiences, and to hand over his charge, with as many orders that they should be well looked after as if he were the only person interested in the matter. The doors to the little bedrooms were always kept ajar when unoccupied, that they might be at least not chilly when needed. Two of them were immediately put into requisition. Nils, as in the most desperate case, was stripped and rubbed down, and put into bed at once; and then the little schoolmistress was looked after. She had obeyed orders, and her pale face lay on the pillow when she was visited. The quondam hostess left her suddenly, and soon returned with a hot drink, which she assured the patient would make her "quite natural." To Nils a similar draught was administered, with the command that he should dash it down at once, with "no sipping," and go to sleep afterwards. "Wasn't that whisky?" exclaimed Nils, in surprise. "There _was_ a drop in it," owned the mother; adding, "I would give it clear to anybody dying. I am not wild crazy about temperance, boy." "Do you think I am dying?" said Nils; and then he hastily added, "I should not like to leave you and the schoolmistress; but for anything else I should not mind. Maybe I should be like other folks up there." "Hush, child! You are not dying, nor likely to be; you are as strong as a bear. A little dip in cold water is not going to hurt you. That stuff has gone to your head and made you melancholy-like and weepish. It does sometimes; it don't generally, though, just in a minute. You go to sleep; and don't let me hear anything from you for one while." The mother put down the thick paper shade, and set a pin here and there along the edge, to keep out any adventurous rays of light that might be peeping in at the sleeper--"a pin practice" she had sorely complained of when ventured upon by restless lodgers. The same process was gone through in the room where the mistress was lying. The locks and hinges of the doors were carefully oiled, and then the agitated woman sat down to meditate and be thankful. The meditation proved to be of the perambulatory sort, for she peeped into one room and then into the other, noiselessly appearing and retiring. She listened to see if her patients were alive. The schoolmistress lay pale and still; her hands, loosely spread out, dropped on the sheet almost as colourless as itself. But she breathed regularly; that was an ascertained fact. Nils was frequently visited. He gave audible tokens as to how he was enjoying himself. The mother sat down for the fifth or sixth time, as it might be, in the great, quiet room. She did not enter upon any of her favourite branches of home industry; she thought them too noisy for the occasion. She was not a reader. She could but nod a little in her chair, and then make another round of observation. At last, towards evening, the schoolmistress was fairly awake; and such a dish of porridge as she was obliged to consume! Such a series of inquiries she was subjected to as to her symptoms and sensations as would have done credit to a young medical practitioner examining his first patient, though the questions, in this case, were practically rather than scientifically put, and could actually be understood by the respondent. To have quiet was all that the little schoolmistress craved, and that she was at last allowed. As for Nils, it was plain that he considered that small apartment his sleeping-car, for which his ticket had been taken for the livelong night. The schoolmistress rose early. Her room was soon in perfect order. She was reading devoutly in the Bible: that had been an accessory in the arrangement of her room, as of all the other small dormitories, since the hostess "had her way in her own house." Tora suddenly heard a quick repeated knock at her door. The permission to enter was hardly given when Nils burst in, his face glowing with delight. "It's all right with me, teacher!" he exclaimed--"it's all right with me! You know that hymn I've tried to learn so many times, and couldn't make out. The first line came into my head yesterday in our troubles--'God is our stronghold and defence;' but I could not get any further." "Perhaps that was far enough just then, Nils," said Tora. "I thought of that line too myself when I first suspected how matters stood, as I sat there with my book before me." "But, teacher, I'm all right. This morning I thought I would read that hymn all over, and I did--twice. And then, O teacher, I'm all right, for the whole hymn just repeated itself in my mind as if I had the book before me. I asked mother to hear me, and when she saw I could say it all through without a stumble, she put her arms round my neck and cried and talked about herself dreadfully. She said she had been such a sinner to make prayers and never believe they could come true; and that she hadn't taken any comfort, either, in what the doctor had always been telling her, and that she had thought was awful. He had said that if anything remarkable could happen to me, or any great shock, or even if I had a hard blow on the head, I might come round like other boys. She had felt sure that nothing remarkable could ever happen to me; and as to anybody's giving me a hard knock on the head, she would not have let that happen when she was by. She said she had prayed and worried, and never thought of leaving it all to her heavenly Father, and now she wasn't fit to have such a blessing. I couldn't make her glad about it; but she'll come round, I'm sure, teacher, if you'll just go and talk to her." The teacher's eyes were full of tears of joy as she took Nils by the hand and said, "You are all right, I really believe. May God bless you, and make you a good and useful man." The mother was not to be found. She was locked into her own room. There she was pouring out thanksgiving from the depths of her heart now for the first time in her life, understanding that she had indeed a loving heavenly Father, and that even her faithlessness and ingratitude could be forgiven. It was a happy morning at the wayside inn. CHAPTER V. THE PERMANENT PUPIL. The dear old schoolhouse had been swept away in the destructive flood that followed but ten minutes after the escape of the little schoolmistress with her pupils. Intense gratitude for the happy deliverance of the children spread through the neighbourhood. A public meeting was called, where the thanks of the community were conveyed by a dignified and most complimentary spokesman, to the blushing confusion of Tora and the astonishment of Nils that he was said to have behaved so remarkably well on the memorable occasion. Of course, the newspapers throughout the country celebrated the praises of the little schoolmistress, and to the meeting in her honour came her friends from far and near. "Brother Karl" and his devoted Gunner made a point of being present, and Tora's buzzing benefactor beamed on the occasion, as if the credit were all his own. That there must be a new schoolhouse was a self-evident fact. It was built as promptly as possible. The admirable building, with all its modern aids and appurtenances, was not placed on the old site, but crowned the summit of a green hill, where nothing more dangerous than a pouring rain could be expected to disturb its peace and safety. When the first term in the new and most desirable quarters commenced, it was with a stranger as the teacher. Our little schoolmistress was to spend the winter in the home where she had been so tenderly cared for during the long time of bodily prostration which followed the overstraining of her nervous system at the time of her escape with the children under her care. Busy with spinning-wheel and loom and sewing-machine, and with her diligent efforts to prepare Nils to enter with honour a higher school than that over which she had presided, the winter passed pleasantly away. Nils's examination surpassed the utmost expectations of his teacher. His sweet, grateful humility in the midst of honour was as touching as his humble submission to the great misfortune which had threatened to overshadow his whole life. The little schoolmistress took, with the opening spring, the place of a private teacher--a position that she had been strongly urged to fill. Her first scholar was a tall fellow, who was sure he could learn from her in the higher branches much that was important for him to understand. The second pupil, who came in later on, was a little chap. He did not understand Swedish, nor did he know much in any direction, it was said. But how could he expect a fair estimation of his abilities, when the judges were not at home in his language, nor he in theirs? He, however, improved rapidly, and was soon not only able to speak Swedish, but comprehended many matters so well that he was a great help to the younger pupils who came in by degrees to be taught. He was too, in a way, a teacher for the schoolmistress herself, and had his credentials from the very highest authority. The class increased as years went on, and was ever a delightful source of interest to the happy instructress. The children did not call her "teacher," or "mistress," or even "Miss Tora;" they said simply "mother," which she thought the sweetest name in the world. As to the first, the tall scholar, who was what Nils had promised to be, her permanent pupil, he was not always as obedient and submissive as he might have been. Even when he sat opposite to her at the dinner-table, in the presence of stranger guests, he would sometimes, contrary to her express command, tell the story of the great April thaw, and the escape of the little schoolmistress with her pupils. Of course he was rebuked for his misdemeanour; but he only protested against her strict government, and declared that she could never get over "the schoolma'am." Yet he acknowledged she was always teaching him something worth knowing through what she was--the very best woman and the very best Christian he had ever had the pleasure of knowing. This was, it must be confessed, an inexcusably obstreperous scholar; but Tora would not have exchanged her husband, her Gunner, the fast friend of her promising "brother Karl," for the meekest or the wisest man in the world. A WEEK AT KULLEBY. CHAPTER I. CHURCH SERVICE. The church at Kulleby was no dear, old-fashioned Swedish church, with its low white stone walls and its high black roof. The bell had no quaintly-formed tower of its own outside and quite separate from the sacred edifice, like an ecclesiastical functionary whose own soul has never entered into the Holy of holies. No; the parish of Kulleby had its pride in a great new wooden sanctuary, with nothing about its exterior, from foundation to belfry, that might not be seen in any Protestant land whatever. Crowning the top of a green hill that rose in the midst of a wide stretch of rolling meadows stood the simple building. To it came on Sunday the rustics of the parish as regularly as they went to their week-day work. Only here and there in the unfenced churchyard rose a low mound to indicate where, as it were, a chance seed had been dropped into "God's acre." It was Sunday morning. At eight o'clock the bell had sounded out over the green slopes, and even late sleepers were called to put on their best garments, whether church-goers or not church-goers, in honour of the holy day or holiday, as it might happen to be kept in their home. Then came the second ringing, when prudent, far-away worshippers took psalm-book and pocket-handkerchief in hand and started demurely, at a Sunday pace, for the house of God. At a quarter to ten the clergyman had been seen in the dim distance, and the fact was announced by "priest-ringing." At ten came the "assembly-ringing," when talkers in the churchyard must break off in the midst of a half-made bargain, or check the but half-expressed sympathy with the joy or sorrow of some fellow-rustic with whom there had been a confidential chat. Within, the church was all white, with here and there a gilded line like a bright, holy purpose running through a simple everyday life. There was a fresh, pure air about the place, as if even angels might have gathered there in their fair garments. The worshippers, however, on the women's side were all in black--black dresses, and black kerchiefs over the heads, like solemn, mourning penitents rather than followers of the Psalmist who could say, "I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house of the Lord." There were two exceptions to this sombre rule. The seats facing each other on opposite sides of the chancel were unoccupied, save by a tall young woman and a little girl, who now hurriedly took their places, and in a formal, perfunctory manner put down their heads for a supposed private prayer for a blessing on this opportunity of public worship. They very soon rose up mechanically, and looked about them with the curious eyes of strangers. The little girl, nipped, and it seemed almost blasted, by gales of prosperity, showed a fair, round face, full and soft, and satisfied with its worldly portion. The mouth, although it looked as if it had tasted the good things of life, was sweet and loving. Her companion was tall and strongly built, and somewhat gaily dressed in garments made in every particular according to the latest fashion. Two long ostrich feathers lazily lolled on the broad brim of her hat, as much at home as if they had never known any other abode; and her new kid gloves fitted her large hands to perfection--a fact of which it was plain she was conscious. The clergyman was coming in, with the long black folds which were his authorized substitute for a gown hanging from the nape of his neck to the floor. In one hand he carried in full sight a white handkerchief, held in one corner like a drooping banner of peace. There was suddenly a counter object of attention for the gay worshippers in the side pew. A little woman in black came hurrying up the aisle and entered the seat before them. She put down on the narrow shelf her prayer-book and a tumbled red handkerchief, and then bowed her head. Suddenly, in the midst of her devotions, she hastily withdrew the offending radical handkerchief, and substituted in its place a heavy linen one, so closely pressed, as if by mangling, that it lay by the psalm-book as uncompromisingly stiff as itself. A smile passed over the features of the little girl, and she looked up into the face of her companion for sympathy. Instead of the responsive glance she expected, she saw an expression of pain which she was puzzled to understand. The service went on. The sermon was long and tiresome, to judge from the impulsive movement of relief on the part of the little girl when all was at last over. She was well satisfied when her companion went down the aisle at an unusually rapid pace. The rustics generally lingered to hear when there was to be an auction, what letters were to be distributed, and other announcements by which a scattered congregation, rarely meeting through the week, might be made aware of matters secular and parochial which it was important for them to know. The butterfly worshippers had, as it were, flown away when the mass of the congregation streamed out from the door. Long, narrow black lines stretched off in every direction as over the well-trodden paths the cottagers plodded away to their homes after this the periodical great event, recreation, and social gathering of their hard-working lives. Alone the little woman in black took her way. Her goal was on the long rocky ridge that bounded the eastern horizon like a transplanted bit of the Jura. There was no path for her to follow, but she made her way over the meadows with the sure instinct of the swallow winging its flight to its winter home. He who careth for the birds would surely care for her. It was plain she was one of the humble of the earth in every sense of the word. Her black head kerchief was old and worn, and her clumsily-fitting, coarse cloth "sacque" stood out below her waist as if it were of sheet iron, while her spare skirts fell below it like a drooping flower-bell from its open calyx above. She was not thinking of her clothes. Her heart was warbling a song of thanksgiving. CHAPTER II. AT THE PASTOR'S. Monday morning had come, with work for the workers and pleasure for the pleasure-seekers. The curate at Kulleby was one of the workers, and yet Monday, instead of Sunday, was really his day of rest. His last sermon having been delivered, fairly given over to his hearers to be digested, the new one was not to be begun before Tuesday. There must be one day in the week in which to draw a free breath before the real labour of his life was to be recommenced. The introduction to the discourse once mastered, as the first link, he added day by day to the lengthening chain--a perpetual wearying weight to him, and, it might be supposed, to become so for his hearers. This would be a mistake. Had the curate preached in Hebrew or Greek, the reverent faces would have been respectfully turned towards him, with the honest conviction that somehow or other the listeners were undergoing a helpful and uplifting process through what the curate was pleased to say to them. He was reverenced and beloved, as he well deserved to be, and was to his people the bearer of good tidings--the messenger of peace. _He_ was the message to them, through what he was and what he was striving to be, and not through those painfully-produced sermons. Now for the morning he had dropped the pastor, and was simply the family father. The humble home of the curate was separated from the public road by a great grass plot, through which a wide walk went straight, without a curve or a compromise, from the gate to the foot of the high wooden steps that led to the ever-open door. The Saturday evening rake-marks were on the loose sand of the path, for the family had on Sunday, though in their holiday garments, used the side gate that led to the entrance at the back of the house. The garden was large and well cared for. Now the weekly weeding was going on, the father sitting like a general at a distance from the battle, but in constant communication with the soldiers in full fight in the cause of order, fruitfulness, and prosperity. The four small boys who were working so busily were not under strict military discipline, for free conversation was allowed so long as the hands continued as busy as the tongues. The curate sat on a roughly-made but comfortable garden sofa, and was knitting on a strong stocking in sweet composure. A gay-coloured parallelogram stared out from the grass beside him; for there, covered with a patchwork quilt, lay, in a great basket, the baby, the little girl, the pride of the household, fast asleep. So the curate could not be said to be exactly idle, though he was taking a delicious morning rest. His wife meanwhile--a large-hearted, practical woman--was making all things comfortable in the house, with the help of her efficient _aide-de-camp_, an orphan girl snatched from the influences of the poorhouse. Where a specially strong arm was required, the curate himself was at all times to be relied upon. He was not only a hewer of wood, but often a bearer of wood as well as of water. He was, too, an embodied guild of all mechanical trades, and might have been warranted to use skilfully at a pinch any tools whatever. The curate gave a start as the click of the front gate was heard, and almost impatiently wondered who could be coming. A tall young woman walked rapidly along the rake-marked walk, and dotted it at regular intervals with the distinct portrait of the soles of her strong and well-made boots. She went up the steps decidedly, and entered the house without knocking, as any ordinary visitor might have done. In a moment more she appeared in the garden, with the curate's wife at her side. He stood up and bowed awkwardly, and then looked inquiringly at the new-comer. He recognized at once in her the stranger who had sat near the chancel the day before, though her dress was somewhat different from her Sunday attire. She wore a black sailor hat, from which she had that morning removed the uplifted wings that threatened to take the whole head-gear upward, and had left only the broad, bright band that wound round it. She wore a short, dark travelling dress that well displayed her new boots. The visitor did not wait for the curate to speak, but said quickly, "I will only detain you a moment. Can you tell me where widow Marget Erikson lives, the old woman who sat in front, on the side benches, in the church yesterday?" "Marget Erikson? Her I know very well, but it is not so easy to tell where she lives," answered the curate, with at the same time an inquiring glance at the stranger. A look of intelligence came into his face, and he said: "It is not--it cannot be! no," and he turned to the group of small boys, now all standing, some of them weeds in hand, wonderingly regarding the stranger. "Here, Kael," said the father, singling out a fair-haired, intelligent-looking little fellow, "you can show the young lady the way to widow Marget Erikson's." Again there was a scrutinizing, questioning look on the part of the pastor. A slight flush tinged the cheek of the stranger. She was turning away with her guide, when the boy said hastily, "Where's the basket, mamma?" "There'll be no basket to-day," she answered, almost with a smile. "You can take Marget this instead from me," and she picked from her favourite bush a large, half-open rosebud, with a long stem and rich, shining leaves. The boy could hardly understand the love-prompted courtesy that would not send to the widow what might to a stranger seem like alms, but which really was but the sharing of what one poor Christian had with a poorer. The guide trotted off with his bare feet across the meadow, where a little path showed that he was not the first to find a direct way from the parsonage to the widow's cottage. "Well, wife? well, Anna?" said the pastor, and looked inquiringly into the face of his best-beloved, as he generally did when he was in doubt or difficulty. It was a face that any one might have been pleased to look upon. It had in it the bright cheeriness of a child, and at the same time dignity and a wisdom in this world's matters, as well as "the wisdom that cometh from above." He received no answer, and so said himself: "She was in church yesterday when you were at little Fia's death-bed. I could hardly help thinking of you and the child when I was in the midst of my sermon. The miller told me afterwards that 'miss' and the little girl were with Possessionaten something, a traveller who had stopped at the inn by the cross-road." There was a sudden end put to the conversation by a loud cry from the baby, which swept all other expressions from the face of the pastor's wife, where at once mother love was triumphant. CHAPTER III. A STRANGE MEETING. Across meadows, over ditches, and at last up rather a steep ascent wound the way to Widow Erikson's cottage. The path had grown rough and narrow, but the barefooted boy went over it as lightly and as unharmed as if he had been a happy bird. The boots, however, of his companion seemed a tight fit for climbing, and at last a straggling bramble that crossed the way turned up two little black points, like doors, to show the way to the untanned leather behind the bright polish. The traveller stopped, and smoothed them down in vain with her finger; the mischief was done. "This is an ugly, disagreeable path," she exclaimed, "and a long one too." "Maybe," said the boy; "but summer and winter Widow Erikson comes down here all alone. I don't believe she'd miss the service if you'd give her a bucket of red apples." The boy had evidently named his ultimatum in the way of temptation. "There's the cottage," he added, pointing to a small, reddish-brown building far up the ascent. "Give me the flower," said the stranger; "I will tell her who sent it. You go back now. You've shown me the way; I don't need you any longer. Thanks! Thank your mother too. Here!" and she laid in the boy's hand a bit of silver that made his face shine. He bowed in his best style, which did not disturb his backbone, but brought his chin down till it touched his breast. He had taken off his cap for the performance, and his white hair fluttered in the breeze as he watched his late companion making her way up to the cottage alone. All was right, he was sure, and down he ran as fast as his feet could carry him. The precious silver was stored in the depths of his pocket, and with it he bought in imagination all sorts of treasures before he reached home to tell the success of his errand. The traveller moved slowly as the path grew more steep, and finally walked doubtfully on as she approached the cottage. There were three or four low steps leading to the door, and there some kind of an animal seemed making a vain attempt to go up. As the stranger drew nearer she saw that a small woman with a short, dark skirt was bowed over, evidently washing the steps, with her back towards the path and her unexpected guest. A noise near her made the figure stand upright and turn its face towards the new-comer. One sight of the visitor prompted a series of bobbing courtesies, a wondering look in the old sun-browned face, and a folding back into a triangular form of the wet sackcloth apron, which was truly not in a presentable condition. The old woman was the first to speak. "Good-day, miss--good-day!" and then there was a look of astonished inquiry. "The pastor's wife sent you this," said the girl, holding out the beautiful rosebud she had taken from the boy. "So like her!" said the old woman, lovingly. "She's just like that herself! God bless her! Thank her for me, please--thank her for me!" and the thin, work-distorted, wrinkled hand was hastily wiped on the apron, and then stretched out to take that of the stranger for the usual expression of gratitude. "Thank _you_, miss, for bringing it," continued the old woman, with another questioning look at her guest. "Do you know her--do you know the curate's wife? It's likely you don't live hereabouts." The cut of the stranger's clothes was not in vogue at Kulleby. "Don't you know me?" said the young woman, in a low voice. "No, miss!" was the answer, with another courtesy. "Don't you know me, mother?" was the question that followed, while the fair face flushed with the effort those words had cost the speaker. "It can't be my Karin!" was the exclamation. There was another period of courtesying, and a long look of almost unbelieving surprise. There was no move to take this changed daughter by the hand, nor was there any such action on the part of the girl. "I was stopping at the inn with Possessionaten Bilberg and his little daughter, the one I have taken care of so long. I found out you were in this neighbourhood, and so I got some one to show me the way to where you were living." She did not say that she had seen her mother at church, nor would she have liked to own, even to herself, that she was now repulsed by the appearance and manners of one to whom she was bound by the strongest of ties. "Come in," said the old woman, courtesying as to a stranger. "It's a poor place, but you are welcome." A poor place it was indeed, and Karin with her belongings looked there like a transplanted flower from a far country. They who had once been so near to each other seemed now to have almost no common ground on which to meet. "I did not know how you had it, mother," said Karin at last. She had been silenced by her first view of the poor room. "It is worse than it was in Norrland, when you went away, so long ago. Your brother Erik came home, and was wild-like, as he always was. He pulled himself down, and was sick a long while, and then he died. There was the funeral, and the doctor, and all that; and there was not much left, for of course I couldn't do a turn of work while I was nursing him." "Just like him, to take all you had!" said the daughter, indignant. The old woman did not seem to notice the angry exclamation. A sudden light made beautiful the old face as she said: "He came round at the last, and almost like an angel. It did me good to hear him talk. I didn't mind anything when he had come round. I am sure he went to heaven when he died. He was my only boy, and I loved him!" she continued, as if she were speaking to a stranger; and then suddenly remembering who her visitor was, she added: "You would not have known him for the same. 'Tell Karin,' he said to me--'tell her she must forgive me. Tell her to remember she'll need to have her sins forgiven some time. There's only one way.' He said so!" and there was another courtesy of apology that she was talking so to that strange young lady who said she was her daughter. "Oh dear!" said Karin, looking at her watch, "I must go now. Possessionaten and his little girl were out for a drive, and I did not leave any word at the inn where I was going. I will come soon again. Don't feel hard to me about Erik or anything. Remember I did not know how you had it. They wrote me there was a cottage somewhere you could live in free, and I thought you were getting on pretty well." "Yes, I have the cottage free. The curate's wife comes from the north. He married up there, and they came to visit her folks. She heard about me, for she was there when Erik died. She knew about this cottage, and nothing would do but I must come down with them; and so I did. You can't think how kind they have been to me. I've done a power of knitting since I have been here. She sees that somebody buys my stockings. But you must go. Come again," said the old woman, in strange confusion between her daughter that was ten years ago and this strange young lady who had condescended to look in upon her. They parted without even a shake of the hand. The old woman stood at the door and watched the tall girl hurrying down the path, and felt almost as if she had been in a troubled dream. CHAPTER IV. TOO LATE. Possessionaten Bilberg was subject to transient indispositions on Sunday morning. The symptoms that had prevented his being at the church service the day before seemed to have disappeared entirely on Monday. He came home from his drive with his daughter in unusually good spirits; and as for little Elsa, she was quite delighted. She had had a nice play with some charming children, and there was a baby in the house, which she had really been allowed to carry in her own willing arms. Karin's overshadowed countenance passed unnoticed in the general stir that followed the return of the father and daughter. They had been invited to spend several days at the hospitable country home where they had been so warmly welcomed. It had been urged that while Elsa was happy with playmates of her own age, Possessionaten could see many things in the neighbourhood that might be suggestive to him, interested as he was in agriculture and manufactures. Planning and packing took all the afternoon, and towards evening the carriage was at the door, and Elsa and her father were to take their departure. "I was afraid you would be lonely, Karin, and sorry we are going away; but you don't seem to mind it at all," said the little girl, in an injured tone. "So you want me to be sorrowful," answered Karin, trying to be playful. "No, no! but I thought you would miss me, and I was glad when papa said you could keep on sleeping in my nice room, and be as comfortable as anybody." There was a little condescension in the tone, though it was affectionate; but Karin did not notice it, for she was accustomed to Elsa's airs and graces. Karin really drew a sigh of relief when the carriage drove away and she was left to herself. It was not a pleasant evening that she spent, filled with the thronging reminiscences of the past and a full realization of her own shortcomings. To-morrow she would make another visit to her mother, and try to be more frank and affectionate. The morning came, and Karin was busy clearing all traces of a traveller's comfort from the capacious bag that Elsa had been allowed to give her for the journey. It really would hold a great deal, and filled it was to the uttermost at the country shop to which Karin easily found her way; tea, sugar, and tempting articles of diet, which she hoped her mother would enjoy. It was heavy, but Karin rather liked to feel the pain in her arm, from bearing her unusual burden. She easily found her way along the upward path, and exhilarated by the exercise and the pleasure she was about to give, she entered the cottage in a very cheerful frame of mind. All was silent within. In the box sofa-bed of the single room there was some one lying, pale and still. "She is dead!" was the first wild thought of distress; but a sweet, broken voice murmured something about Erik and heaven. It was plain that the old woman was wandering in mind, and lost in visions of the past. Karin unpacked her basket in a hurry. There were the preparations of the night before for the fire and the boiling of the water for the morning meal, to be simple indeed. Yet there was a packed basket, "the basket" no doubt from the parsonage. She did not unpack it, though it seemed filled with food. She made some tea in haste, and took it with a biscuit to her mother's side. She put the cup on a chair near her, and sitting down on the edge of the bed, she lifted up the old woman, passing one strong arm about the little body. There was gentleness and kindness in the touch. The old head was voluntarily drooped caressingly against the breast of her daughter; there was a long sigh, and Karin knew she was motherless. Repentant, sorrowing tears flowed fast. There was no opportunity left for reparation in this world. That loving last movement towards her was the only pleasant thought on which Karin could dwell. How still it was in the cottage! The birches without scarcely quivered in the soft summer air, and not even the twitter of a bird was to be heard. Karin had just gently laid the old head on the pillow, when a form, almost to her as of an angel, suddenly appeared at the door. It was the pastor's wife, her face beaming with the tender interest she was feeling for the lone dweller in the cottage. She understood the whole as she saw Karin's streaming tears, and the changed old face beside her. "My mother is dead!" said Karin simply, but in a broken voice. "I am glad she saw her good daughter before she died," said the pastor's wife comfortingly. "I am no good daughter!" exclaimed Karin bitterly. It was a relief to confess her selfishness, her forgetfulness of her mother, in the midst of her own comfortable surroundings, and her cold willingness to believe that all was well with that old woman, who she had supposed was still in the far north. The pastor's wife listened in silence. She had no words of comfort to say. Here was a case beyond her treatment. She did not kneel, but she clasped her hands and sat quite still, while she laid Karin's sorrow and penitence before the dear Lord Jesus, so ready to forgive, and to heal the broken, repentant heart. When she had closed the prayer with a fervent "Amen!" which seemed to be the sealing of her petitions to the One strong to save, she turned to Karin and said, "I will go down and send a person to watch her, and then you must go with me to our home; for I have heard that you were left at the inn. You cannot be there now." She felt that it would be best for Karin to be for a time alone. She had brought her to the heavenly Presence, and she left her there to commune with the pitiful Father in heaven. CHAPTER V. KARIN AND ELSA. There was a new, low mound in the churchyard. Kind young hands from the curate's had covered it with evergreen boughs, and sprinkled among them bright flowers, so that it seemed but a slight swell in the green sweep around it dotted with daisies. Karin had begun a new phase in her life. She had something to love and respect which had no taint of this present world and the worldliness reigning therein. She had entered humbly and heartily into the simple life at the curate's home, where she had been so lovingly welcomed. That thin man, with the angular, loosely-built figure, with a speaking expression of poverty about it; that man whose shabby Sunday coat had not a button-hole that did not publicly tell of privately-done repairs by his wife's untailor-like hand; that man whose very hair was scanty, and was changing colour--she looked up to him as if he had been a prince. And so he was; for he had a Father who was King over all the nations of the earth, who loved him as a son, and received from that son the happy, truthful affection of a true child. That woman who went about in the simplest of garments, and shunned no form of labour that made the home more comfortable or attractive, had become to Karin a model of all that was pure and lovely and lovable. The baby, who fell much to her care, seemed to have a healing influence on her wounded, humbled, penitent heart. It had for her its artless smile, and its little arms went out to her as trustfully as if she had never strayed from the narrow path. Karin had a new standard in life, a new picture of what she wished to be, a new way of estimating her fellow-creatures. Karin was glad that circumstances made it necessary for her to lay down in the depths of her capacious trunk the gay garments that had been her pride. There had been no dressmaking, no consulting of milliner or _modiste_. Like most Swedish girls, she had a black dress; she had but to put a crape band over her sailor-hat, and let the short crape veil fall over her solemnized face, and her mourning suit was for the present complete. This time, this precious time, went away all too rapidly, but it swept from Karin the impressions of years, and strengthened in her, day by day, the new purposes and the new hopes that had sprung up in the midst of her humiliation and distress. From the cottage in the woods the daughter had but taken away her mother's "psalm-book" in its close-fitting black cotton case, her worn Bible, and the carefully-folded white handkerchief that lay under them. In the corner of the handkerchief a large K had been embroidered by unskilful hands. Karin knew it as one of her own early trophies, that had been given to her mother in pride when she had received it as a reward for skill shown in the sewing-class at school. This little remembrance of her had been treasured and prized while she was living in selfish forgetfulness of the poor old woman far away. Repentant tears had fallen on the humble memento. On the morning of the day when Possessionaten Bilberg and his daughter were expected, the curate's wife went with Karin to the inn. The parting between them was full of grateful expression on the one side, and of tender interest and kind advice on the other. They were never to meet again on earth, but they had a common Father in heaven above, in whose presence they trusted one day to be united. Karin was, of course, on the steps of the inn to receive her charge. It was not unusual for Karin to wear sometimes a black dress, and Elsa, in her pleasure at the meeting and her eagerness to tell her late experiences, did not notice anything particularly serious in the face of the maid. When, however, they were alone together, she looked up suddenly, and saw that Karin's eyes were full of tears as she was struggling to speak of what had befallen her. "What is it? what is the matter?" asked Elsa affrightedly. "My mother is dead! I have lost my mother!" said Karin simply. Elsa cast her arms around Karin's neck in an unusual fit of demonstrative affection, and wept with her. "O Karin, what will you do? How you must have loved her! How sorry you must be! I have thought a great deal about a mother since I have been away. I have always missed something, and felt that I was different from other little girls, but I did not really understand what it was. I have had everything I wanted, and papa has been so kind, and you too, Karin, but there was something. Where I have been the children did so love their mamma, and she made it so charming for them, and she had such a sweet way with them;" and here the little girl sobbed, more, it must be owned, from thinking of what she had missed in her life than from sympathy for Karin, and yet they were drawn nearer together than ever before. The stir of the arrival of Possessionaten Bilberg and his daughter had passed away from about the inn, and stillness reigned around on every side, on the wide meadows in front, and on the long, low, rocky ridge beyond them. Possessionaten Bilberg was smoking a cigar in the wide porch, and quietly thinking. Elsa had flown down to tell him of Karin's trouble, and now he greeted the trusted maid almost with respect as she came to him to ask some questions about their approaching departure. He got up stiffly and took Karin by the hand, as he said simply, "I am sorry to hear that you have had trouble. Your mother was old, I daresay," he added, as he dropped her hand. "Yes, old and feeble," was the reply. Karin waited a moment, and then began to speak of the journey. "Yes; it will be this evening," he said, and his face wore a most peculiar expression, as if some struggle was going on within him. At last he began: "I have had time to see more of Elsa than usual, and when she was with young companions. There is something about her as if her pleasure were the most important thing to everybody, and she rather thought nobody was quite equal to herself." It is possible that these peculiarities had become Elsa's by inheritance, as her father was not without his own tendencies in that direction--a fact of which he was naturally unconscious. He went on: "You have been a good girl, Karin, and I am pleased with you. Elsa needs now some one who has a right to take her more steadily in hand." There was a pause, and the tears sprang to Karin's eyes. Was she to be dismissed, when she felt almost as much at home in her master's house as his daughter herself? "Yes, you have been a good girl, Karin, and you deserve your reward. You never ought to leave my home. What Elsa needs, though, is a mother's care. She needs one who with a mother's name will have a strong right to her respect and her affection." He paused a moment. Karin, not knowing what else to do, dropped a courtesy, and waited for him to go on. He got up, blushed, took a few steps on the piazza, and then turned and said abruptly: "I am going to be married, and I want you to tell Elsa about it. Tell her that it is the lady whom the children called 'aunty' there in the country--their mother's sister. She is willing to marry me. I never thought to get such a good wife." And Possessionaten Bilberg looked humble, for perhaps the first time in his life. "She is not like me in many things," he continued, as if pleased with his subject. "She is pious--something I don't quite understand, but it makes me sure she will be a good mother to Elsa. I really believe she would hardly have taken me if she had not longed to get my child under her care," said Possessionaten, with another unwonted attack of humility. "Please tell Elsa at once," he said, and sat down again, to indicate that the interview was over. In a few moments Elsa came flying along the piazza, and surprised her father by taking a seat on his knee and putting her arms round his neck. "Papa! papa!" she said, "how could you think of doing anything that would please me so much?" "Your own mother loved her, Elsa, and so I am sure she is the right kind of a woman, and that you will be happy together." Possessionaten had spoken in a matter-of-fact sort of way, and Elsa went upstairs in a less ecstatic mood than when she came down, and told Karin calmly that her father seemed pleased that she liked having a new mother. CHAPTER VI. CHRISTMAS EVE. Christmas Eve had come. There had been joy in the curate's home--carols and prayer around the lighted tree, the distribution of simple gifts, and the consumption of any amount of rice porridge. Even the grave pastor had grown playful as the evening went on. This had prompted one of the boys to exclaim that he was the very best father in the world--a comprehensive assertion that was approved by all parties present. The power to cast off care and even serious thought for a time, and frolic with children, was one of the secrets of the curate's personal power. In his sacred capacity he was above and apart from all; as a father or a friend he was near and familiarly dear to all, even to the youngest in his household and the humblest of his people. Now he gave a start, and there was a look of astonishment all round the family as there was the sound of heavy cart-wheels grinding along over the sand under the parsonage windows. In another moment there was a steady tramping on the side steps, then through the passage to the dining-room, where the family were assembled. Four strong men were bearing a huge box, and now entered, much embarrassed at being unable to take off their caps in the presence of the pastor, but their deep voices pronounced a "Good Yule!" and their thick, soft caps went off in a hurry when they had deposited their heavy burden. "We were to open it, pastor," they said, and they forthwith produced their tools from the slouching pockets of their strong coats. The pastor's wife disappeared instantly, thinking, as usual, of others more than of herself; for she, too, would have liked a peep into the box when the thick boards had been thrown up and the packed stores were first visible. She had, however, what pleased her better--some hot coffee, a cake of saffron bread, and the remains of the porridge on the table in the kitchen when the last nail had been drawn out. The men disappeared, grinning with satisfaction; while the wondering children superintended, with occasional wild dances and leaps of delight, the unfolding of the secrets of the wonderful box. A prosperous "possessionat" who had learned that the chief joy of possession is the power of giving had sent household stores on a munificent scale. A happy wife, accustomed to see her own husband always dressed as for a holiday, having a full remembrance of the pastor's outer man, and of his wife's forgetfulness of herself, had sent for him a full black suit, and for his wife a handsome dark dress, as well as a warm fur cape. A little girl, who had learned to remember that there were other people beside herself to be thought of in the world, had selected books and toys for the children. The orphan girl had not been forgotten. She looked with astonishment at the substantial winter coat that had been marked with her name, and wondered who could have thought of _her_. There was still a beautiful, closely-woven white basket, with a firm handle, at one side of the box. It was lifted out and opened. There were all sorts of things--potted, canned, dried, and preserved, to make, with good bread and butter, a nice evening meal for an unexpected guest; a most welcome present in a family where hospitality never failed, and yet the larder was often scantily provided. At the bottom of the basket lay a card, on which was written, "From a humble friend, in remembrance of 'the basket.'" The tears rushed to the eyes of the curate and his wife, and their hands met, while their thoughts were with the little old cottage saint now in heaven, and a prayer was sent up for the daughter that she might continue to walk in the ways of peace. "O mamma, what a good basket to keep all your mending in!" said one of the boys. "Just what I will do," said the mother; "I shall like to have it always near me." "Do put on your new suit, papa," urged the children. He vanished into his room close at hand, and soon reappeared transformed into a new and complete edition of his old self, as it were, in a fine fresh binding. The suit was not a perfect fit, but hung less loosely about him than his wonted best garments, made long, long ago. The pastor playfully walked up and down the room with a consequential air, to the great amusement of the children. "You will wear your new suit to-morrow!" they exclaimed, one after another, as in the refrain of a song. "On New-Year's Day, perhaps," said the father. "For to-morrow I like my old suit best; for we are to remember then how the loving Lord of all humbled Himself to be the Babe of Bethlehem." There were a few words of prayer and thanksgiving, and then the family, with a kiss all round, parted for the night. Perchance the angels who sang again the Christmas song, "On earth peace, good will toward men," lingered over the curate's home with a kindred feeling for him; for was he not, too, a messenger, sent "to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation"? ALF. CHAPTER I. A FOOLISH RESOLVE. Tall, handsome, and young; that one saw at a single glance. The age of the lad it was not easy to determine. The mind wavered between sixteen and nineteen, but sixteen it really was. It was no true Swedish face, yet such faces are often found among the fair children of the North. The boy had a clear, dark complexion, and his waving hair was intensely black. His nose was decided, but there was a weakness about the small mouth that seemed quite inconsistent with the fiery glance of the full brown eyes. It was late, yet he was sitting looking steadily before him, while his thoughts were evidently wandering. "_So_ they want me to promise, and _so_ they want me to live?" he said at last. "I cannot make promises I do not mean to keep. I can do many things, but I cannot take a false position as to what I intend to be." He stood up and straightened his whole person with an admiring self-respect as he spoke. _He_ would not be compelled by public opinion to do that for which he was not inclined! He was old enough to choose for himself, and choose he would! He would not be confirmed! He would not assume obligations contrary to his wishes, and make professions he did not honestly mean! There seemed to him to be in this something noble, something determined, something manly, and he pleasantly reflected upon his righteous independence. The confirmation was appointed for the morrow. He had seen the slender, swift horse that was to be his--a gift from his father. He knew a gold watch was lying in his mother's drawer, to be one of his many presents to commemorate the important occasion. The guests were invited for the splendid dinner his parents were to give in his honour. He would be expected to appear in one of the stylish new suits provided for him as now a fully-grown young gentleman. He would be toasted, complimented, and, in short, the hero of the day in that beautiful home. He knew that his mother had retired early. She was doubtless praying for him then, and would be on the morrow. She, at least, would expect him to keep his promises. She should know that he would not disgrace her by a false oath. His pocket-book was well filled by a munificent present from his grand-uncle in America. He could go where he pleased. He took out a small, light trunk from one of his closets, and it was soon packed with his new garments and a few specially dear personal valuables. There were no books but the pocket Bible, in which his mother had so lately written his name. For her sake he would take it with him, and for her sake he would open it at least for five minutes every day. Stealthily he crept down the staircase and through the broad halls, dropped from a low window, and was soon in the open air. There was a light still in the stable-boy's room, and he would so have help for the harnessing of the horse, and an opportunity to leave a parting message for his mother. He moved slowly and silently. He looked in through the small panes, and could see the boy bending over a book. He tapped gently. There was a start, and the door was opened in a moment. "I am going to town, Lars," he said, "and I want your help. Get up the spring wagon as soon as you can." The stable-boy looked suspiciously at his young master, and at the small trunk he had set down beside him. "Where is Master Alf going?" asked the boy anxiously. "Anything dreadful happened? Won't you be here for the confirmation?" "No; it's that that sends me away," was the answer. "I can't even seem to make promises I don't intend to keep. I mean to be an honourable gentleman, and I shall not begin that way. Come, hurry!" "But stop, Master Alf! Why don't you make the promises and try to keep them?" said the stable-boy. "I suppose that is what you mean to do--eh?" said the young gentleman scornfully. "It would be my duty any way to live right," was the answer. "I can't see that the promises make any difference. I ought to live right, I know, and I mean to try. It won't be easy. That's all I understand about it." The round, dull face of the boy expressed clear determination, and he looked his young master full in the eyes as he spoke. "Perhaps you've made up your mind to go wrong!" he added, with a doubtful look at his companion. "Do as I bid you, and get up the horse at once!" said Alf, in a commanding tone. "Tell my mother what I have said to you, and tell her, too, I have taken with me the Bible she gave me, and I'll read in it a bit every day for her sake. _I_ believe in keeping promises. As for you, you'll find the team at the usual stable; you must go in early to-morrow for it." "Where are you going, Master Alf?" urged the boy. "I'm afraid it's clean out to the bad!" "That's none of your business! You don't know how a gentleman feels about a promise," was the answer. "My father is here for the confirmation. He talked to me about that matter last night," persisted Lars. "He said when people were married they promised they would be good to each other, but that was their duty any way, if they were man and wife, promise or no promise. About confirmation, he said that was a good old custom that it was well to follow, but any way when boys get to our age they've got to make up their minds what sort of men they mean to be, and start clear and determined on the right track, or else they'll be sure, as the world is, to go to the bad. He said, too, we'd better be in a hurry, and have that fixed, for there was no saying how long even young folks would live. Young folks might be broken off right sudden, like a green branch in a high wind. I do wish you, Master Alf, could hear my father talk about this thing." "I've heard you talk; that's quite enough of the family for me!" said Alf impatiently. "Attend to your business at once, will you, or I shall have to harness the horse myself." "I _wish_ my father was here, I do!" murmured Lars to himself, as he most unwillingly obeyed. "That's for your sermon," said Alf, as he took the reins in his hand, and tossed a bit of silver to the serious, stolid-faced boy who was looking so sorrowfully at him. As Alf said his last words to Lars, he wished in his heart that he had the stable-boy's full, simple determination to do right whatever it might cost him. The veil of self-contentment had fallen from Alf's eyes. His motives for what he was now doing stood out plainly before him. It was true that he did not wish to pledge himself openly to a life he did not intend to lead, but it was also true that it had long been his cherished wish to be free from the restraints of home, and able to yield to any and all the temptations that assailed him. He was voluntarily giving himself up to an evil, reckless life, and he knew it. CHAPTER II. AFTER THIRTY YEARS. The slender birches were sunning their mottled stems in the warm spring air; the evergreen woods rose dark and mysterious; while the glad little spruces that skirted the thickets were nourishing soft buds on every twig, little caring that they would in time be as gloomy and solemn as the grand old veterans of the forest behind them. Sweden once more! All seemed unchanged after thirty years, save the emigrant and whatever specially concerned him. The familiar homes far back from the road, he remembered them well. His own home, he knew, had been ravaged by fire, and scarcely a vestige of it remained. His parents were no more. He could not, if he had wished it, shed penitent tears over their graves; for their bones were mouldering in a far-away ancestral vault, with no kindly grass to mantle them, and no glad wild flowers to whisper of a coming resurrection. The possessions that should have been his had been willed away to strangers. The once well-known family name was now rarely heard in the neighbourhood, and then only sorrowfully whispered as connected with the sad and almost forgotten past. It was Sunday morning. The church bell had rung out its peals the appointed number of times, and now all was silent, for the rustic worshippers were gathered within the sacred walls. The congregation were all seated, and the Confession was being repeated, when a tall, slender man, with peculiarly broad shoulders and a peculiarly small waist, came with an ungainly gait up the aisle, holding in his hand a limp felt hat as if it were glued fast to his long, thin fingers. He stopped a moment, as if mechanically, before a full pew, and then stood doubtfully in the aisle. A little chubby girl perched just behind him had not been too devout to observe the proceedings of the stranger. She unhooked the door of the seat in which she was established alone with her mother. The slight click attracted, as she had hoped, the attention of the new worshipper. She whispered to her bowed mother, "He has no place to sit; may I let him in to us?" The head was slightly nodded in reply; the door was gently pushed open; and the stranger sat down in the offered place. His dark face was thin, and wrinkled too much apparently for his years. His thick black hair and beard were irregularly streaked in locks with white, rather than grey with the usual even sprinkling brought about by age alone; and his forehead threatened to stretch backward far beyond the usual frontal bounds. He apparently took no part in the service. His eyes seemed looking far away from priest and altar, and his ears were dead to the words that fell upon them. Above the chancel there had been a painting representing the Lord's Supper, not copied even second or third hand from Leonardo's masterpiece, but from the work of some far more humble artist. The cracks that had crept across the cloth of the holy table and scarred the faces of the disciples were no longer to be seen. The disciples, whose identity had so occupied the minds of the little church-goers and been the subject of week-day discussions, were now hidden with the whole scene from the eyes of all beholders. A red curtain veiled the long-valued painting in its disfigured old age. Against this glowing background was suspended a huge golden cross of the simplest construction. It was, in fact, the work of the carpenter of the neighbourhood, and was gilded by the hand of the pastor's wife, who had solemnly thought to herself as she wielded the brush, "We must look to the cross before we may draw near to the holy supper." Some idea like this flitted through the mind of the stranger, though he did not appear like a devout worshipper. His whole bearing gave quite another impression. Even when, during prayers later on, he held up his hat before his face, as is supposed to be a devout attitude in some Christian lands, the little girl fancied she could see him peeping here and there round the church, as if he were taking an inventory of its specialties. It was but a simple country church, with square pillars of masonry supporting the galleries, from whence light wooden columns rose to the vaulted roof. Indeed, in the old-fashioned building the rural seemed to have been the only style of architecture attempted. The whole interior had been thoroughly whitewashed, however it had fared with the hearts of the worshippers. During the sermon the stranger was evidently lost in his own meditations. As soon as the service was over, he followed the clergyman down the aisle to the sacristy, on one side of the main door. The reverend gentleman was in the midst of disrobing, when the dark-faced man hastily entered and said abruptly, "Will you kindly look over this paper, which must be my only credential with you? I belong to this parish, and should be glad to have the privileges of membership when broken down and needing a home." The pastor glanced at the paper. It was a simple certificate, from a well-known dignitary high in authority in the land, requesting that the bearer, without being subject to further investigation, should have his right acknowledged as a member of the parish to which he now made application. The pastor could treat him accordingly, only showing the paper in case any difficulty arising from this arrangement should make such publicity necessary. The paper was properly signed, witnessed, and sealed. The pastor put it in his pocket, looked wonderingly at the applicant, and said, "The poorhouse is but a mean place, with accommodation for a few persons, and the present occupants are of the humblest sort. There are now living there an old woman, formerly a servant in respectable families, who has a room to herself; a half-mad fellow, who will not speak when spoken to unless he can hit on some way of answering in rhyme. He, of course, has a room to himself. There is, besides, a large room with sleeping-places for two persons. One of these places is occupied by an old man who has been a hard drinker; you would have to share the room with him. Would you be contented with that arrangement?" "Contented and grateful," said the stranger. His name was given as "A. Johanson," and was so registered in the pastor's note-book. Particular directions were then kindly lavished on the stranger as to how he was to reach his future home. A peculiar smile stole over the face of the listener. He took politely the permit which ensured his admittance at the last refuge of the unfortunate, and then, with a bow and a slight waving of the limp hat, he disappeared. CHAPTER III. IN THE POORHOUSE. The poorhouse was not an imposing structure, but it could boast of antiquity, as it had been built long, long ago for the purpose for which it was now used. It was not difficult for Johanson to locate the poorhouse poet. His room, like the other two, opened directly on the vestibule. On his own door he had been allowed to paint his name and publish his chosen occupation:-- "I take my bag, My legs my nag, And never fail To fetch the mail." So ran the poor rhymes, yet the mad poet had not given himself his full meed of praise. No storm was too wild, no cold too severe, no snow too deep for the faithful mail-carrier to make his rounds. Rather than give up the leathern bag entrusted to him to teasing country boys or desperate highwayman, he would have died in its defence. The principle of growth had exerted its power eccentrically with the poorhouse poet. His legs and neck were elongated out of all proportion to the rest of his body. His small, pale face was raised unnaturally high in the air, as if he had suffered decapitation and his head had been posted as an assurance that offended law had been avenged. Unconscious of his own peculiarities, the persistent rhymer went about pleased with himself and all the world. Now he was particularly happy, for he considered himself a kind of presiding officer at the poorhouse, and as such the proper person to show the premises to curious strangers, or to formally install new inmates. On the entrance of Johanson with the pastor's permit, the poet immediately took the odd-looking pauper in hand, to make him at home in the establishment. He knocked at the small room opposite the main entrance, and a shrill voice having shouted, "Come in!" the visitors opened the door. "I bring a new-comer, Our guest for the summer! He's Johanson, he; Gull Hansdotter, she." So presented, Johanson bowed to the little old woman, who stood up beside the chair in which she had been sitting, and deigned to bend her knees for a courtesy just sufficiently to bring her short skirts possibly one inch nearer the floor. Her stiff demeanour, however, changed suddenly as she darted to a corner and produced a bit of rag carpet, on which she requested the visitors to stand, as her room had been freshly scoured for Sunday. "Scour Sunday, Scour Monday, Scour every day, That's her way," said the poet, retiring precipitately with his companion. The poet had described the absorbing pursuit of his fellow-lodger. Chairs, table, and floor in that little room were subject to such rasping purifications, that if there had ever been paint on any of them, it was a thing of the far past, while an ashy whiteness and a general smell of dampness were the abiding peculiarities of the apartment. The eyes of the owner had become possessed of a microscopic power of discovering the minutest speck that might have been envied by any scientific observer of insect life. The poet next threw open the door of the room opposite his own, as he said to his companion,-- "Here is your place-- No want of space; According to diet, Not always so quiet." These were the quarters Johanson was to share with the broad-chested man in a big chair, who sat with a stout stick beside him, as if ready at any moment to meet the attack of a roving marauder. "This is our cellar-master, Who lived faster and faster, Till here with us he had to be.-- It's Johanson who comes with me; He'll share your room, at least to-night, And longer if you treat him right." There was only an inhospitable grunt from the gouty, red-faced man whose biography had been more justly than politely abridged for the new-comer. Johanson had no luggage to deposit. He thanked his conductor for the trouble he had taken, and then seated himself on a wooden chair on his side of the room, and had evidently no further need of his guide, who promptly disappeared. Johanson seemed gazing out of the window, but was really seeing nothing, while quite lost in his own thoughts, and altogether forgetful of his companion. There was a pounding on the floor, followed by a rumbling sound, as of some one preparing to speak, and then the other occupant of the room said roughly: "Here, you! Do you see that crack across the middle of the floor, with three big, dark knots in the middle on each side of it? That's my landmark. You come over it, and there'll be mischief!" "I shall take great pleasure in attending to your wishes. It is not likely that I shall visit you often," said Johanson, rising and bowing with much politeness, and then promptly resuming his seat. The next step of the new lodger was to take a small, carefully-covered book from his pocket. The gilt edges, dulled by time, were, however, observed by the watchful spectator, a prisoner in his chair. The fine print and the divided verses were evident to his keen eyes, that twinkled in their red frames with an uncanny light. "No hypocrisy here! it don't take. Put up that book, or I'll throw my friend here at you. I never miss, so look out!" He touched the club-like stick beside him. Johanson quickly put his hand in his breast-pocket and took out a small revolver. "Here is _my_ friend," he said. "I never miss with this in my hand!" He spoke coolly, but his eyes were fearless and determined. "You let me alone, and I'll let you alone. I want to live peaceably. I shall do what I please on my side of the room, and I want no meddling from you." The cellar-master understood at once that he had here a person not to be trifled with, and from that day there was no difficulty between them. The revolver may or may not have been loaded, but the sight of it had been enough for the cellar-master, as for many a "rough" before. As to the little woman who had given Johanson so ungracious a reception on his first appearance in her room, he had evidently taken an aversion to her society. When she came into his duplicated quarters, he was always looking out into the street, or so occupied that she had a better view of his back than of his face. He never named her, nor was she ever mentioned in the establishment by her lawful cognomen, but was always spoken of as "she," representing alone, as she did, her own sex in the poorhouse. It seemed to her a wonder that with all her claims to respectability she had ever found her way to her present home. The walls of her room were decorated with silhouettes of this or that grand personage in whose service she had enjoyed the honour of being in days of yore. Such mementoes failing her, there were coveted seals to letters, or paper headings cut out and duly pointed at the edges, to shine forth from red backgrounds. A daguerreotype of herself, in all the buxom freshness of youth and the "bravery" of a gaily-adorned peasant costume, was always to be seen standing on her bureau half open, like the book of an absent-minded scholar disturbed in his researches. Her pretensions imposed not a little upon the cellar-master, who treated her with a certain respect; but the poet was unmindful of her social claims, and perhaps took a pleasure in showing his independence of her rule. Rule it was, for she condescended to cook for "those poor men folks," as she called them. Not that her cooking was ever of an elaborate order--coffee and porridge being the only dainties on which she was permitted to display her full powers. Warming up and making over other dishes kindly sent in by benevolent neighbours she did to perfection, and showed in this matter an ingenuity most remarkable. When, however, she took in the meals she had prepared for the various recipients, it was with a studied ungraciousness, abated only for the cellar-master, who, as she said, had a respectable title of his own, and was suitable company for her. Johanson, who had come to his present abode empty-handed, provided himself by degrees with needful articles of clothing of the simplest sort, as well as necessities for the toilet and the writing-table. The pen was much in his hand. It was used occasionally for a letter to the nearest large city, and such a missive was generally followed by a parcel, which was stowed away at once in the capacious chest appointed for his use. The cellar-master was sure that it was on sheets ruled like music-paper that Johanson was almost constantly writing, though they were locked up in his chest almost before they were fairly dry. He did not seem to be a reader, but the objectionable little book with the gilt edges came out at a regular hour each day, and for five minutes at least had his full attention, without offensive interruption. On the whole, the poorhouse had become for Johanson a peaceful and in a measure a comfortable home. CHAPTER IV. PREPARING FOR CONFIRMATION. With the autumn began for the pastor the most pleasing duty of the year--the instruction of his class for confirmation. He announced in church one Sunday that after the service he would be in the sacristy to take the names of any of the young people who wished to join the proposed class. He was sitting in the sacristy at the appointed time, with a group of young rustics standing about him, when Johanson came quietly in. "I can attend to you first," said the pastor, turning kindly towards the dark-bearded man. "I can wait; I am in no hurry," was the reply. The waiting was long, as had been expected. When the boys and girls had all gone out, Johanson stepped to the pastor's side and said, "Please put down my name." "For what?" asked the pastor, in astonishment. "For the confirmation class," was the calm reply. "I have never been confirmed." The pastor had noticed, naturally, that Johanson had not been forward to the Lord's Supper even when the cellar-master had been helped up the aisle from the poorhouse seat near the door, and Gull and the half-mad poet had decorously followed. At this he had hardly been surprised, for there were other members of the congregation who did not communicate more than once a year. The good man felt a sudden repulsion towards the stranger still without the Christian pale. "You wish then to be confirmed?" said the pastor, looking Johanson directly in the eye. "I wish to receive the instruction, and it will be your duty to judge of my fitness afterwards," was the reply. "Perhaps I could find time to teach you privately, though it is a busy season, with all the certificates of removal and that kind of thing," said the pastor doubtfully. "I would rather be taught as you teach these young people," said Johanson. "Please try to forget that I am not a boy." That was a hard duty to impose on the pastor, who looked into the browned face and the troubled dark eyes. He did not promise, but simply said, "The class, as you heard, will meet in the dining-room at the parsonage on Wednesday afternoon. I hope the instructions may be blessed to you," and they parted. Wednesday came. The available chairs in the pastor's simple home had been ranged in long rows on each side of the dining-room. "May I sit here, dear, with my work?" said the pastor's wife, coming in with a basket of stockings in one hand, her needle and yarn for darning in the other. She did not expect to be refused, nor was she, though a little girl of five years old, her only child, held pertinaciously on to her dress. "I may come too, papa; I am sure I may," said a sweet, cheery voice, and only a pleasant smile was the reply. The mother sat down in one of the chairs still at the table, and the little girl took joyously a place at her side. "I always like to hear your confirmation instructions, for many reasons," said the wife. "I seem to take a fresh start in the right direction with the children." The pastor seated himself at the head of the table, with his books before him, laying near them the list of the names of the class. The pastor was a stout, sensible-looking man, with a plain, quiet face, and a modest, shy air. Indeed, he was hardly at ease anywhere, except in his home, or in the pulpit or chancel, where the sense of the sacredness of his official duties made him unmindful of earthly witnesses. Now he thought it a stay to have his wife with him; for the informal nature of the meeting, and the beginning of something new, made the whole at first an effort for him. Perhaps the pastor, in the presence of persons of high standing, found it impossible to forget his humble birth, and suspected that in some way there was always a lack of gentility about him; while with companions of more modest pretensions he must maintain the distant dignity which he fancied appertained to his profession. He was a straightforward, matter-of-fact man, who intended in all things, temporal and spiritual, to do his duty. He believed fully in the inspiration of the Bible from cover to cover, and was possibly convinced that every word, and almost every letter, in the then authorized Swedish version had a sanction not to be disputed. In his view the sacraments, properly administered, were direct, undoubted channels of grace. The organization of his church was perfect, he was sure, to the least particular, and would have the approval of the apostles were they now on earth, though during their lives the circumstances of their surroundings might have made it impossible for them to have their ministrations conducted according to the admirable order so long established in Sweden. Martin Luther he looked upon as having a kind of supplemental apostleship, almost as incontestable as that of Peter himself. Luther's catechism was for him the best medium for imparting religious instruction to children, and for strengthening the Christian life of young people approaching maturity. With this sound, hearty belief in what he was called on to teach, and with the rules for his ministrations, his work was simple and most agreeable. The pastor was not an emotional man. He had never been deeply stirred by religious feelings of any kind. He had had no agonies of penitence, no distressing doubts, no strong struggles with temper, no vivid thought of the possibility of his being excluded from eternal blessedness. His heavenly Father was to him rather a theological abstraction than a near and ever-loving friend. The Saviour was to him more an element in a perfect creed than the Deliverer--the hand stretched out to the drowning man--the one hope of poor tempted humanity. The pastor was, in his way, a good man, a kind man, an unselfish, true, sincere man. Peaceful he lived, peaceful he ministered, and yet heart to heart he came with no human brother. With no human brother, we say; but there was one woman whose life interpenetrated his, if they did not in all things come heart to heart. Her presence gave him a sense of sunshine and quiet happiness that was the greatest joy of which his nature was capable. Merry, impulsive, devoted, self-sacrificing by nature, the whole existence of the pastor's wife was pervaded by a Christian life that exalted her naturally lovely traits, and made her shortcomings the source of a sweet, childlike penitence that was almost as lovely and attractive as her virtues. She had soon found that the deep language of her inner soul was to her husband an unknown tongue. Of her spiritual struggles and joys and exaltations she did not speak to him or to any other human being. They were her secret with her God and Saviour. Yet her husband stood to her on a pinnacle, as rounded in character, blameless in life, and perfect in his ministrations. Almost angelic he seemed to her when he stood in the chancel, and in his deep, melodious voice sang all the parts of the service that the church rules allowed to be so given. The pastor's sermons were excellent compositions. Compositions they were in the strictest sense of the word. The epistles and gospels for the ecclesiastical year were the authorized and usual subjects for the sermons, being called even in common parlance "the text for the day." These texts had been so elaborated and expounded by wise divines whose works were to be had in print, that when a sermon was to be written, our pastor but got out his books of sermons, studied, compared, compiled, extracted, transformed, and rewrote, until on Friday his sermon for the coming Sunday was always ready. He had made it his own by hard, conscientious work, and not without a deep sense that he was, in his way, to deliver a divine message as an authorized ambassador of the King of kings, accredited and appointed in an unimpeachable manner. With his confirmation class the pastor was different. He was fond of young people. He had been young himself, and had not forgotten the circumstance. He was getting a little impatient to see the fresh faces he was expecting at the first meeting of the class, when Johanson made his appearance, bowed distantly, and took the seat nearest the door. He had passed through a knot of young people without, who were, with some cuffing and shoving, contending who should go in first on this to them august occasion. Johanson had left the door slightly ajar, and little Elsa, the pastor's child, having caught a glimpse of a familiar face, ran out, to come back immediately leading triumphantly a rosy-cheeked girl, who was all blushes as she was brought into the dining-room, made to her for the time sacred ground. Of course, the whole troop from without, boys and girls, followed, taking opposite sides of the room. It proved that Johanson had taken his seat on the girls' side, and carefully away from him the skirts of those nearest to him were drawn; for it had been whispered around the parish that the queer man at the poorhouse had never been confirmed. An outcast of the outcasts he must be, was the common conviction. A hymn was to be sung, all sitting, to open the meeting. Little Elsa went round with the "psalm-books" in a basket, and began with Johanson, who took one as he was requested. The pastor began, and the young voices joined him. There was a hush for a second, when a wonderful tenor came in, and seemed to fill the room with a strange melody. But one verse was sung; then followed a short prayer from the church liturgy, after which the lesson began. Johanson sat alone in his corner, when Elsa tripped away from her mother, and giving a gleeful little hop, she seated herself beside him, laid her small hand lightly on his knee, and looked up at him lovingly and protectingly as she did so. Now she felt she really owned him. He was _her_ poor man, a kind of friend and relation to her. Through all those long preparatory lessons Elsa kept her place by the side of the dark man, without word or comment from her parents. The time for the confirmation was drawing near. "I do not know what I shall do about Johanson," said the pastor to his wife. "I get nothing from him in the class except plain, direct, and most correct answers to my questions. I suppose it must be all right, but we don't seem to come near to each other at all. He is a wild, strange man. Perhaps you could somehow get on better with him." "Maybe Elsa could," said the wife. "_She_ loves him. Perhaps that is what he feels the need of among us who call ourselves Christians." "Call ourselves Christians!" repeated the pastor, in as severe a tone of reproach as he had ever addressed to his wife. She did not seem to notice his manner, but went on: "Elsa might reach him. You know it says, 'A little child shall lead them.' I'll send her to the poorhouse this afternoon with a message to Johanson from me, and the book she likes so much. I know which is her favourite picture, and she will be sure to tell him about it." "Send her to the poorhouse!" exclaimed the pastor. "She's been there often with me when I've been there to wind up Gull's clock, which she is sure to get out of order if Gull touches it herself. Elsa is not afraid of any of them, even of the cellar-master. He really likes her." The pastor was called away suddenly, and he was glad, for that was one of the occasions when he did not quite understand his wife. CHAPTER V. LED TO THE LIGHT. Little Elsa's errand to Johanson was to take to him a small pocket "psalm-book" (as the Swedish book for the services and hymns is called). It was well known in the poorhouse and parish that the stranger pauper had a Bible, and read it too, at least for five minutes every day. Gull, who had a strong taste for gossip, had not left that particular unmentioned. Elsa came in with two little packages in her hand. "Here's your book mamma sent you," she said. "She has put your name in it. I want to show you my book too." Johanson put his gift in his pocket hastily, with a short expression of thanks, and then looked expectantly at the child. "May I sit close to you, so we can both look over it together?" she said, as she pushed a chair to his side and worked herself up on to it. The illustrations were generally from Old Testament scenes; but Elsa hurried past these, turning the pages briskly with her skilful fingers. "Here it is! Here's the one I like best. You understand it, don't you? It means something," and she looked up questioningly into his face. The picture was a most admirable representation of the Good Shepherd bearing a lost lamb home on His shoulders. Johanson was silent. "You don't know about it, then? I will tell you," she said, and went on, while her tiny finger was impressively pointing from lamb to shepherd, and from shepherd to lamb. "That little lamb got far away from the shepherd and the fold and all the little lambs he knew. And he was dirty, not a bit clean, and his wool was all torn by the briers, and the thorns had hurt him, and he was hungry and thirsty and tired, and did not know where to go. He could hear the wolves growl, and he thought he could see their eyes looking at him as if they wanted to eat him up. You see he had run away, just gone away from the Good Shepherd and his mother and his home, when he did not need to. And now he wanted to get back, but he didn't know how; and then he began to complain and to bleat (that's his way of crying), and to run this way and that, but he didn't get on at all. "At last he was quite tired out, and he thought he must give up and lie down and die where he was. Then the Good Shepherd heard his cry and came to him. The poor little lamb wanted to follow the Shepherd; but he was too weak--he could hardly stand alone. And then"--and here the little voice grew triumphantly glad--"then the Good Shepherd took him in His own arms, just as sweet and kind as if the naughty lamb had never run away, and carried him over the stones, and past the briers, and across the little streams, and up the steep hills, and through the dark places! He carried him _all the way_ home, not just half-way and then let him drop. He carried him _all the way home_ to the fold, where his mother was, and there he was safe--safe--safe! Wasn't that a Good Shepherd?" There was no answer. "My mother told me all about it, and I like that picture best and that story best. You understand what it means?" "Yes," said Johanson. There were tears in his eyes. Elsa lifted up her loving hand to Johanson's face as it was bent over the book, and with her own little handkerchief wiped his tears; then she went out silently, which was probably the best thing she could have done under the circumstances. The next day Johanson went to the pastor in his study. "I have not come to talk about _my_ fitness for confirmation," he said. "Little Elsa has taught me better. I have turned my face towards the Good Shepherd, and I believe He will carry me home. May I meet with the class to-morrow?" "Certainly," said the pastor, and the interview was ended. Johanson sat among the candidates for confirmation the next day--among the boys and girls, like a battered old ship that had been dragged into the harbour beside the trim fresh vessels just starting with flying colours for a bright far-away land. He did not mind the nudges and half-smiles among the rustic congregation, but answered the questions put to him with the others, in his strong man's voice, as simply and naturally as a child. He knew he was safe in the hands of the Good Shepherd, who would carry him tenderly home, and his heart was full of humble joy. The administration of the holy communion took place next day. The newly-confirmed with their friends were to "go forward," while the rest of the congregation were to remain in their seats praying for the young soldiers of Christ, now fully enlisted under His banner. Johanson had taken a modest place at the chancel railing; but even there he was an outcast, for it was plain that no one was willing to kneel beside him. The pastor's wife was bowed low with new food for prayer and thanksgiving. Little Elsa moved quickly from her mother's side up the aisle, and to the astonishment and almost horror of the congregation she knelt by Johanson, her little head not appearing above the railing; but she held fast to his left hand. He felt the tender familiar grasp, and it was to him like the Good Shepherd greeting him through one of His little ones. At the close of the service, when all the authorized words for the occasion had been read, the pastor stepped to the front of the chancel, and said, in loud, clear tones,-- "And the father saw him afar off, and ran and fell on his neck, and kissed him." "Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out." "A broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise." "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." "I hope it was not amiss to say those words I did from the chancel to-day," said the pastor to his wife when at home and they were alone together. "They are not in the service, but I could not help it. I never felt so deeply before how freely and fully God forgives us--_us_ Christians as well as what we call 'poor sinners.' Yes, it came over me as it never has before, and somehow heaven seems nearer, and God more really my Father and Christ my Saviour. Do you understand me, my dear?" "Yes, yes," she said--"yes, dear; and you too seem nearer to me than ever before." The pastor answered, tenderly and solemnly: "It is you, wife, you and Elsa, and that poor Johanson, who have somehow opened my eyes. I have seen before, but seen darkly. May God lead me to the perfect day!" CHAPTER VI. PAINFUL DISCLOSURES. Something about the strange inmate had affected the mad poet, long a dweller in the poorhouse, as unusual in that establishment. These fancies he had versified, and having written the result down on a half-sheet of paper, he folded it into a narrow strip, and then twisted it into an almost impossible knot, and handed it to the person nearest concerned. Johanson read with astonishment:-- "It striketh me That you should be A gentleman, And drive a span, Live high, drink wine, Ask folks to dine, And make a dash. With poorhouse trash You should not be-- With folks like me." In return, the reply was promptly put under the poor poet's door:-- "Of who I am, or where belong, Please do not whisper in your song." These communications were followed by a few days of unusual silence between the neighbours. The mad poet did not like being answered in rhyme. Of versification he considered himself the inventor, and as having therefore an exclusive right to use it, in conversation or on paper. At last Johanson made up his mind what course to pursue in the matter. He went to the poet in a friendly way, and said to him, "I take you to be a gentleman who knows how to keep a secret, and does not mention what he can guess out concerning other people's matters. I know your principles about your post-bag. I have heard that you never even read the address of a letter to be sent off, or the post-mark of one to be delivered. Now I call that a high sense of honour." "Just decency It seems to me," broke in the poet. Johanson did not seem to notice the interruption, but went on: "Now you keep anything you suspect about me, anything you can't understand in my ways, just as secret as if it were written on the back of a letter. You will, I am sure. So now let us shake hands upon it." They did, and were established as better friends than before. The weather had become extremely cold, but the poorhouse poet went on his rounds, persisting in being dressed as in the autumn. It had been snowing all night, and the cold was excessive. Johanson was awakened by an unusual chill in the air. A long point of snow lay along the floor of his room, as it had drifted in under the not over-tight door. He dressed and hurried out. The vestibule was one snow-bank, and the outside door was wide open. He pushed his way into the poet's room. It was empty. It was plain that the poor fellow had been out on his usual rounds, and had not returned to put up the outer bars, as was his nightly custom; for the old locks were not to be relied upon. He probably had not been able to force his way through the heavy drifts and the wild storm which was still raging. The cellar-master was a late sleeper. He woke now to see Johanson hurrying about, evidently making ready for a trip. "What are you doing? You are letting the cold in here, sir," said the old fellow, only half awake. "The poet is missing. He didn't come home last night. I shall go and look him up. Have you any whisky? You have, I know. I saw Gull bring you in a bottle last night. Let me have it, will you?" "Yes; a pull will keep you up," was the answer. "I don't want it for me," said Johanson hastily; "it has pulled me down low enough. I'll never taste it again. But that poor fellow, he may need it, if I find him." "You are not going to risk yourself out looking for _him_!" said the cellar-master, now fairly awake. "_You_ are right down crazy. Quiet yourself. He'll be coming in soon, and making rhymes about his trip. You don't look over hearty. I should think you would be afraid to risk it." "Afraid!" said Johanson. "Have you ever been in a tornado? Have you been in an earthquake? Have you been out in a blizzard, with no house within miles?" "No, no, no!" was the threefold reply. "I've tried them all," said Johanson, "and I am not afraid of a little snow. Lend me your stick, and I'm off." Off he was, but not to return through the long morning. Towards noon, a party who had been out with a snow-plough and a sledge came back, bearing two bodies carefully covered. The poet was still and white. He had been found lying under a rock, in a tiny natural cave. On a ledge near him, in some lightly-sifted snow, he had traced with his finger:-- "I must be ill, I've such a chill. Here I'll die, Nobody by. Who'll cry? Not I! The bag'll be found, It's safe and sound. There'll be no snow Where I shall go; There'll be no storm, It will be warm. Good-night! Good-night!" It was good-night indeed for the poorhouse poet. In his pocket was found a worn scrap of paper, on which was pencilled his simple creed:-- "The tickets buy For when we die, For where we go We fix below. Death clears the track; We can't come back! "Somehow, I guess, If we confess, And say, 'Forgive!' Up there we'll live. Conductors quail, And kings prevail. When God has said, 'Alive or dead, I own that man,' He save him can." In Johanson there still was life. He had been found lying close to the dead poet, as if trying to share with him his little remaining vital warmth. The doctor, the pastor's wife, and Gull were soon doing all that was possible to call him back to life. In a few days he was almost well, for broken down though he was, he still had some of the vigour of his naturally strong constitution. The funeral was over. Johanson was apparently dozing, lying on his sofa, now in its form for the day; while Gull and the cellar-master were chatting together in low, whispering tones. Gull, who had prepared the body of the poorhouse poet for interment, now talked over all the items of the expense with evident satisfaction, and concluded by saying, "It was a beautiful corpse. It really was a pleasure to lay him out, he looked so sweet and quiet when it was all done." The cellar-master, who had been helped into a sleigh to attend, remarked that it was a charming funeral; he did not know when he had enjoyed himself so much as on the late occasion. "What luck he had to come in for the bell!" said Gull; "he was just in the nick of time. It was really quite a grand funeral, with the three coffins--the baby and the old woman and our young man--and the mourners for all. The pastor did it beautiful too, and the bell sounded so solemn. It is, of course, another thing when the big bell is rung for some high body that is carried out. We may be thankful that we have the little bell rung once a week for poor folks' funerals in this parish; it is not so everywhere." "It would seem more solemn to see the pastor in his black gloves if he didn't wear them always," said the cellar-master. "Why does he do it? I never happened to meet anybody that knew. He's still-like himself, and nobody likes to ask him questions. Some people say it is to make him look grand with fine folks, and to kind of put down them that have bare hands used to work." "Don't you know about his hands?" asked Gull, with surprise. "I've known it so many years, it seems as if everybody must have heard that." "I don't happen to have inquired into the matter," said the cellar-master, somewhat humiliated. "I have never been one to gossip." "Why, I was there when it happened," broke out Gull, eager to tell her story to a new listener. "He was stable-boy when I was housemaid at the major's. My lady was sitting in the carriage one day, and Lars--we called him Lars then--was standing holding the horses. My lady had sent the coachman in for his cape, for it was getting cold--just like her. The horses took fright at a travelling music-man who came along, and must begin just then to play. Off they started full run, dragging Lars, who hung on to the reins until they stopped. He'd have held on to those reins, I'm sure, till he died (what he began he always stuck to); and my lady sitting there in the carriage half scared to death. The fingers on his left hand were cut to the bones. They were long healing, and a sight to be seen then at the best. The right wasn't much better, dragged along the road as it had been. My lady always liked Lars after that. He had always been for reading; and when he took it into his head he wanted to be a priest, she helped him, and other folks helped him too. He changed his name, as poor fellows do when they go to Upsala. When my lady and the major were taken off so sudden with the fever, he kept on at his learning. He wouldn't have given up if he'd had to starve. But he didn't, for one way and another he got on. And then what a wife he picked up, and a little money with her too; not that it's enough to wipe out old scores. Those Upsala debts hang after him, as they have after many another. He's got them all in one hand now, they say, so that he hasn't to pay on them more than once a year, and that time is just coming on. You can see it in him as well as you can see in the west when there'll be snow next morning. He's rubbed through so far, but it sits heavy. I'm not in their kitchen for an odd bit of work now and then for nothing. I see what I see, and I hear what I hear. Beda is lonely like, and she's pleased to have somebody to talk out to. What if the pastor and his wife should find out who's who!" she continued, pointing over her shoulder at the supposed sleeper. The cellar-master gave a stupid look at her mysterious face. "That's the major's son over there," she whispered--"Alf, who ran off and never came back. I must tell somebody, if I should die for it. But you mustn't breathe it to a living soul." "Not that beautiful young fellow! No, no; you don't make me believe that. Don't I remember him? This one isn't a bit like him--an ugly, worthless-looking old tramp. He was a wild chap, Alf. My wife used to tell me it was a shame to let him come there and drink--drink down a glass as if he couldn't swallow it quick enough, and then another, and then go out to the stable-boy, who was there to help him home. But that's not Alf. I'd know that handsome fellow anywhere among a million." "But that _is_ Alf," she whispered. "When he was almost frozen to death, the doctor told me to open his breast and rub him well; and I did. But what did I find there, hanging on to a black string, but his mother's picture, in a little locket she gave him when he was a little fellow; and he was so fond of it then he would wear it outside his clothes, where everybody could see, he said. He's willing enough to hide it now; he don't want to shame such parents, and that's the only good thing I see about him. I found it out, and I know it; but I won't tell anybody but you." "That's Alf! And I helped to make him so! My wife said I'd rue the day. Now I do. It's very fine to be called 'cellar-master' when you sit fast in the poorhouse; but it's a bad business dragging people down. Think what Alf was and see what he is! I don't want to talk any more to-day. You go, Gull. I've got something to think about." Johanson, lost in his own thoughts, had not noticed the whispered conversation till his own name of the past was mentioned. After that, in bitter repentance he heard the galling words that penetrated his inmost soul. Now he understood Gull's new politeness to him, and the kindly willingness with which she saved him in his degradation, for his mother's sake. She could not treat him like a common tenant of the poorhouse, and he was sure she would keep his secret. With the cellar-master it might be a different thing. That his companions knew him was an added humiliation. He had deserved it all; but there was One who had called Himself the Friend of sinners, and that Friend had received even him, a poor prodigal who had returned to his Father's house. CHAPTER VII. A HAPPY CHRISTMAS. The pastor had fallen into the pleasant habit of having his wife with him when he wrote his sermons. Alone in the morning he made his researches and his copious notes for his compilation. In the evening he talked over with his wife the subject in hand, before the work of writing really began. She found him one night, shortly before Christmas, sitting dolorously before his table covered with papers, while an unusual cloud overshadowed his face. "I cannot even think how to begin, wife," he said; "my thoughts will run in quite another direction. I feel all the weight of the new year upon me. Those old debts of mine, that I can never hope to clear off, hang upon me like a hopeless weight. A few years less at Upsala, and a good deal less debt, would have been a far better preparation for such a parish as this." The pastor's wife was not at all cast down by this sorrowful lament. It had long been a familiar strain to her. She answered cheerily,-- "You had nothing to do with the arrangements as to what you were to learn at Upsala, and how long you must be there. You worked hard, and denied yourself almost the necessaries of life, as you well know. Now you are here and at your higher mission, which _must_ be faithfully performed. So you will have to throw all these cares overboard. Just when we are to remember that 'God so loved the world,' we must not forget that He loves us still, every one of us. We here in this little parsonage are under His care, and He is not going to let us have burdens heavier than we can bear. We live simply enough; there is no faring 'sumptuously every day' here, as all the parish knows. I have thought out a little help. We will not give each other anything for Christmas. If gifts are but an expression of love, we do not need that kind of expression between us. For Elsa I have made a big rag doll, dressed in a fine peasant dress, from the scraps in my piece-bag. We will have a little Christmas-tree on a table for a variety, and I have put tinsel round nuts to hang upon it with the pretty red apples from the garden; and as to candles, we have enough left from last year. We will all learn that beautiful carol we had sent us by mail yesterday. Our good Beda, she must not be disappointed. I have my uncle's last present to me in money, which I shall share with her, and give her the dress from my aunt that I have not yet made up for myself. The rest of aunty's present will do to make Christmas cheery for the poorhouse people and the hard-pinched folks in the parish, who look for a little from us at this time. So now all those troublesome matters are blown away. As for the interest on the old debts, that is not to be paid until January; and we will leave that to the loving Lord, who has given us so many blessings, and see now after the sermon with cheerful, thankful hearts. Come, dear; now I am ready to hear about it." And they did begin on the sermon, and it was the best the pastor had ever written. Something of the sweet cheerfulness and loving gratitude of the wife had made its way among the sound theological quotations and the judicious condensations. There was new life in the whole, which now came really from the pastor's uplifted soul, and would find its way to the stirred hearts of the hearers. Christmas morning came, and little Elsa was early at the poorhouse. She had a present for Johanson. It was but a bit of work on perforated paper, done by her own hands--a lamb outlined in gay silk; but it was a _lamb_, and she felt that meant something between her and Johanson, and it did. He was moved when he took it, and thanked her with good wishes for Christmas from the depths of his heart. "I am so happy, Johanson," she said, "for papa and mamma are so glad. I heard them say, 'Now the past is all wiped away, and we can begin the new year as free from care as the birds.' I have often heard mamma say that the past is all, all wiped away when we are sorry for what we have done and want to do better, and I am always so glad about that. But this, I am sure, meant something different; for they said something about a letter, and then they looked together at a paper as if they could kiss it, and said, 'We must thank God for it, and ask Him to bless an unknown friend with His best blessings.' And they just talked to God where they sat, as they do sometimes. Papa has been sorrowful lately, but he really looked to-day like mamma when she is the happiest." The child had found Johanson bowed, sitting with his head in his hands, while his thoughts were far back in his sinful, sorrowful past. He had felt as if he had hardly a right to welcome the day when the Saviour was born. Now his face beamed with joy; but he only said, "I am glad you are all so happy. I am sure you will be pleased again when you see something in church to-day." Many weeks before Christmas, Johanson had asked permission to go into the church, and to have a tall ladder carried in with him. The pastor was astonished at the request. The permission had been granted. No results of the matter had, however, appeared. The same permission had been given the day before. There had been some hammering then, he understood, but had no misgivings in the matter, as he had begun to trust Johanson as an upright, honest man. There were surprise and delight on all faces when they entered the church for the early service on Christmas morning. Of course there was a perfect blaze of light within, but that they had expected. The golden cross was gone; the red curtain had disappeared; the old picture, now but a ragged canvas, had been removed, and in its place was a beautiful painting. It represented the Lord Jesus, sitting with a glory round His benign countenance, welcoming a penitent, weary pilgrim from afar, who knelt to receive His blessing. Below was the legend, "Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out." The carol that was sung was the same that the pastor's wife had chosen to be used at the lighting of the tree in her own home the evening before. The rural choir had practised it well, and it sounded out over the old church like angelic music. At the first notes Johanson started and covered his face with his hands. A moment later, though he held no notes to follow, his beautiful voice rang out loud and clear and in full harmony with the other singers. When the service was over, there was a crowd lingering in the aisles, praising and admiring the beautiful picture and the new carol; but Johanson was soon alone in the poorhouse, with "Hosanna! hosanna!" in his heart. CHAPTER VIII. THE BEATA CHARITY. Gull had come to the cellar-master with a choice bit of news to tell. A stranger had bought the land where the major's home and stood, and buildings were to be put up there immediately. The long lonely spot was soon a busy scene, as the architect, with plans in hand, was hurrying about among the skilful workmen. Whoever would, might hear where the new poorhouse was to stand, and where the orphan home, and know that the little red cottage, just like any other, was for a musical composer, who must have one large room built with special care and according to all the most scientific acoustic rules; for there he was to have a fine organ, which was now being constructed in the most particular manner. "I want to call it all 'The Beata Charity,' for Beata was my mother's name," Johanson had said to the pastor, who was now in his full confidence. They knew each other as the Alf and Lars of the olden time. They knew each other now as forgiven sinners, each striving in his own way to work for the glory of the Master's kingdom. Each felt that he was indebted to the other. The stable-boy's words, "The duties are the same whether you make the promises or not," had lingered in the mind of the wanderer in the midst of the lowest depths of sin, and had brought him home at last to try _to make the promises firmly resolved to keep them_. The methodical, authorized, ordained, instructed, conscientious priest had learned from a repentant sinner to bow at the foot of the Cross, and thank God for the Saviour who could forgive him his poor, blind, cold, self-satisfied service of the past, and wake him to penitence and love, and humble, grateful faithfulness in his sacred office. Johanson's work in the poorhouse on his music-paper had been the solace of those long, dark penitential hours. His alternations between deep depression and dawning hope, and at last his full, deep conviction that there was pardon for all in the abundant mercy of God through Christ, had been expressed in the musical compositions that had made their way over the length and breadth of the land. Many of them were linked with old familiar sacred words; for others, some master-poet must be warmed to write their language in glowing verse. "The white-haired pauper," as Johanson was called throughout the whole country, had his satisfaction in his life-long incognito. He felt that he had cast aside his old name and old privileges to be a worthless wanderer, and had but returned to repent and be forgiven. He would, himself forgotten and unknown, praise and serve as God had given him ability. The grand-uncle in America, so munificent for Alf's confirmation day, had always cherished a hope of the prodigal's reformation. Only when in desperate need had Alf applied to him, and had never been refused assistance. Dying, the old man had left a will bequeathing his large fortune to his grand-nephew, in the firm belief that Alf, having run his wild career, would find his way to his native land, to lead a faithful Christian life, and be the centre of wide benevolent enterprises. The hopes and wishes and prayers of the uncle were fulfilled. The white-haired pauper lived to see the results of his efforts, and to know that many who starving had been fed, or sinning reclaimed, or suffering ministered unto, were calling down blessings on his unworthy head. From the pastor and his wife and Elsa Alf had sympathy and aid in all his undertakings, and their friendship was cemented by common work for the common good. The cellar-master did not live to have a place in the new poorhouse. Gull had her own trial in the midst of the comforts of her old age, that she must still keep the secret that the celebrated composer and wide philanthropist was her beloved "major's" long-lost son. THE END. 
23771	----	[Illustration: "NOT THERE, NOT THERE, MY CHILD!"] THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-BOY By EDWARD EGGLESTON New York Charles Scribner's Sons 1919 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright, 1883, By CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Copyright, 1910, By FRANCES G. EGGLESTON ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The New Scholar 3 II. King Milkmaid 15 III. Answering Back 23 IV. Little Christopher Columbus 34 V. Whiling Away Time 43 VI. A Battle 48 VII. Hat-ball and Bull-pen 58 VIII. The Defender 70 IX. Pigeon Pot-pie 80 X. Jack and His Mother 97 XI. Columbus and His Friends 102 XII. Greenbank Wakes Up 113 XIII. Professor Susan 119 XIV. Crowing After Victory 127 XV. An Attempt To Collect 137 XVI. An Exploring Expedition 148 XVII. Housekeeping Experiences 154 XVIII. Ghosts 166 XIX. The Return Home 177 XX. A Foot-race for Money 189 XXI. The New Teacher 203 XXII. Chasing the Fox 210 XXIII. Called To Account 222 XXIV. An Apology 229 XXV. King's Base and a Spelling-lesson 238 XXVI. Unclaimed Top-strings 243 XXVII. The Last Day of School, and The Last Chapter of the Story 252 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ILLUSTRATIONS "Not there, not there, my child!" Frontispiece FACING PAGE Jack amusing the small boys with stories of hunting, fishing, and frontier adventure 44 "Cousin Sukey," said little Columbus, "I want to ask a favor of you" 120 Bob Holliday carries home his friend 258 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-BOY CHAPTER I THE NEW SCHOLAR While the larger boys in the village school of Greenbank were having a game of "three old cat" before school-time, there appeared on the playground a strange boy, carrying two books, a slate, and an atlas under his arm. He was evidently from the country, for he wore a suit of brown jeans, or woollen homespun, made up in the natural color of the "black" sheep, as we call it. He shyly sidled up to the school-house door, and looked doubtfully at the boys who were playing, watching the familiar game as though he had never seen it before. The boys who had the "paddles" were standing on three bases, while three others stood each behind a base and tossed the ball around the triangle from one hole or base to another. The new-comer soon perceived that, if one with a paddle, or bat, struck at the ball and missed it, and the ball was caught directly, or "at the first bounce," he gave up his bat to the one who had "caught him out." When the ball was struck, it was called a "tick," and when there was a tick, all the batters were obliged to run one base to the left, and then the ball thrown between a batter and the base to which he was running "crossed him out," and obliged him to give up his "paddle" to the one who threw the ball. "Four old cat," "two old cat," and "five old cat" are, as everybody knows, played in the same way, the number of bases or holes increasing with the addition of each pair of players. It is probable that the game was once--some hundreds of years ago, maybe--called "three hole catch," and that the name was gradually corrupted into "three hole cat," as it is still called in the interior States, and then became changed by mistake to "three old cat." It is, no doubt, an early form of our present game of base-ball. It was this game which the new boy watched, trying to get an inkling of how it was played. He stood by the school-house door, and the girls who came in were obliged to pass near him. Each of them stopped to scrape her shoes, or rather the girls remembered the foot-scraper because they were curious to see the new-comer. They cast furtive glances at him, noting his new suit of brown clothes, his geography and atlas, his arithmetic, and, last of all, his face. "There's a new scholar," said Peter Rose, or, as he was called, "Pewee" Rose, a stout and stocky boy of fourteen, who had just been caught out by another. "I say, Greeny, how did you get so brown?" called out Will Riley, a rather large, loose-jointed fellow. Of course, all the boys laughed at this. Boys will sometimes laugh at any one suffering torture, whether the victim be a persecuted cat or a persecuted boy. The new boy made no answer, but Joanna Merwin, who, just at that moment, happened to be scraping her shoes, saw that he grew red in the face with a quick flush of anger. "Don't stand there, Greeny, or the cows'll eat you up!" called Riley, as he came round again to the base nearest to the school-house. Why the boys should have been amused at this speech, the new scholar could not tell--the joke was neither new nor witty--only impudent and coarse. But the little boys about the door giggled. "It's a pity something wouldn't eat you, Will Riley--you are good for nothing but to be mean." This sharp speech came from a rather tall and graceful girl of sixteen, who came up at the time, and who saw the annoyance of the new boy at Riley's insulting words. Of course the boys laughed again. It was rare sport to hear pretty Susan Lanham "take down" the impudent Riley. "The bees will never eat you for honey, Susan," said Will. Susan met the titter of the playground with a quick flush of temper and a fine look of scorn. "Nothing would eat you, Will, unless, maybe, a turkey-buzzard, and a very hungry one at that." This sharp retort was uttered with a merry laugh of ridicule, and a graceful toss of the head, as the mischievous girl passed into the school-house. "That settles you, Will," said Pewee Rose. And Bob Holliday began singing, to a doleful tune: "Poor old Pidy, She died last Friday." Just then, the stern face of Mr. Ball, the master, appeared at the door; he rapped sharply with his ferule, and called: "Books, books, books!" The bats were dropped, and the boys and girls began streaming into the school, but some of the boys managed to nudge Riley, saying: "Poor old creetur, The turkey-buzzards eat her," and such like soft and sweet speeches. Riley was vexed and angry, but nobody was afraid of him, for a boy may be both big and mean and yet lack courage. The new boy did not go in at once, but stood silently and faced the inquiring looks of the procession of boys as they filed into the school-room with their faces flushed from the exercise and excitement of the games. "I can thrash him easy," thought Pewee Rose. "He isn't a fellow to back down easily," said Harvey Collins to his next neighbor. Only good-natured, rough Bob Holliday stopped and spoke to the new-comer a friendly word. All that he said was "Hello!" But how much a boy can put into that word "Hello!" Bob put his whole heart into it, and there was no boy in the school that had a bigger heart, a bigger hand, or half so big a foot as Bob Holliday. The village school-house was a long one built of red brick. It had taken the place of the old log institution in which one generation of Greenbank children had learned reading, writing, and Webster's spelling-book. There were long, continuous writing-tables down the sides of the room, with backless benches, so arranged that when the pupil was writing his face was turned toward the wall--there was a door at each end, and a box stove stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a rectangle of four backless benches. These benches were for the little fellows who did not write, and for others when the cold should drive them nearer the stove. The very worshipful master sat at the east end of the room, at one side of the door; there was a blackboard--a "newfangled notion" in 1850--at the other side of the door. Some of the older scholars, who could afford private desks with lids to them, suitable for concealing smuggled apples and maple-sugar, had places at the other end of the room from the master. This arrangement was convenient for quiet study, for talking on the fingers by signs, for munching apples or gingerbread, and for passing little notes between the boys and girls. When the school had settled a little, the master struck a sharp blow on his desk for silence, and looked fiercely around the room, eager to find a culprit on whom to wreak his ill-humor. Mr. Ball was one of those old-fashioned teachers who gave the impression that he would rather beat a boy than not, and would even like to eat one, if he could find a good excuse. His eye lit upon the new scholar. "Come here," he said, severely, and then he took his seat. The new boy walked timidly up to a place in front of the master's desk. He was not handsome, his face was thin, his eyebrows were prominent, his mouth was rather large and good-humored, and there was that shy twinkle about the corners of his eyes which always marks a fun-loving spirit. But his was a serious, fine-grained face, with marks of suffering in it, and he had the air of having been once a strong fellow; of late, evidently, shaken to pieces by the ague. "Where do you live?" demanded Mr. Ball. "On Ferry Street." "What do they call you?" This was said with a contemptuous, rasping inflection that irritated the new scholar. His eyes twinkled, partly with annoyance and partly with mischief. "They _call_ me Jack, for the most part,"--then catching the titter that came from the girls' side of the room, and frightened by the rising hurricane on the master's face, he added quickly: "My name is John Dudley, sir." "Don't you try to show your smartness on me, young man. You are a new-comer, and I let you off this time. Answer me that way again, and you will remember it as long as you live." And the master glared at him like a savage bull about to toss somebody over a fence. The new boy turned pale, and dropped his head. "How old are you?" "Thirteen." "Have you ever been to school?" "Three months." "Three months. Do you know how to read?" "Yes, sir," with a smile. "Can you cipher?" "Yes, sir." "In multiplication?" "Yes, sir." "Long division?" "Yes, sir; I've been half through fractions." "You said you'd been to school but three months!" "My father taught me." There was just a touch of pride in his voice as he said this--a sense of something superior about his father. This bit of pride angered the master, who liked to be thought to have a monopoly of all the knowledge in the town. "Where have you been living?" "In the Indian Reserve, of late; I was born in Cincinnati." "I didn't ask you where you were born. When I ask you a question, answer that and no more." "Yes, sir." There was a touch of something in the tone of this reply that amused the school, and that made the master look up quickly and suspiciously at Jack Dudley, but the expression on Jack's face was as innocent as that of a cat who has just lapped the cream off the milk. CHAPTER II KING MILKMAID Pewee Rose, whose proper name was Peter Rose, had also the nickname of King Pewee. He was about fourteen years old, square built and active, of great strength for his size, and very proud of the fact that no boy in town cared to attack him. He was not bad-tempered, but he loved to be master, and there were a set of flatterers who followed him, like jackals about a lion. As often happens, Nature had built for King Pewee a very fine body, but had forgotten to give him any mind to speak of. In any kind of chaff or banter, at any sort of talk or play where a good head was worth more than a strong arm and a broad back, King Pewee was sure to have the worst of it. A very convenient partnership had therefore grown up between him and Will Riley. Riley had muscle enough, but Nature had made him mean-spirited. He had--not exactly wit--but a facility for using his tongue, which he found some difficulty in displaying, through fear of other boys' fists. By forming a friendship with Pewee Rose, the two managed to keep in fear the greater part of the school. Will's rough tongue, together with Pewee's rude fists, were enough to bully almost any boy. They let Harvey Collins alone, because he was older, and, keeping to himself, awed them by his dignity; good-natured Bob Holliday, also, was big enough to take care of himself. But the rest were all as much afraid of Pewee as they were of the master, and as Riley managed Pewee, it behooved them to be afraid of the prime minister, Riley, as well as of King Pewee. From the first day that Jack Dudley entered the school, dressed in brown jeans, Will Riley marked him for a victim. The air of refinement about his face showed him to be a suitable person for teasing. Riley called him "milksop," and "sap-head"; words which seemed to the dull intellect of King Pewee exceedingly witty. And as Pewee was Riley's defender, he felt as proud of these rude nicknames as he would had he invented them and taken out a patent. But Riley's greatest stroke of wit came one morning when he caught Jack Dudley milking the cow. In the village of Greenbank, milking a cow was regarded as a woman's work; and foolish men and boys are like savages,--very much ashamed to be found doing a woman's work. Fools always think something else more disgraceful than idleness. So, having seen Jack milking, Riley came to school happy. He had an arrow to shoot that would give great delight to the small boys. "Good-morning, milkmaid!" he said to Jack Dudley, as he entered the school-house before school. "You milk the cow at your house, do you? Where's your apron?" "Oh-h! Milkmaid! milkmaid! That's a good one," chimed in Pewee Rose and all his set. Jack changed color. "Well, what if I do milk my mother's cow? I don't milk anybody's cow but ours, do I? Do you think I'm ashamed of it? I'd be ashamed not to. I can"--but he stopped a minute and blushed--"I can wash dishes, and make good pancakes, too. Now if you want to make fun, why, make fun. I don't care." But he did care, else why should his voice choke in that way? "Oh, girl-boy; a pretty girl-boy you are--" but here Will Riley stopped and stammered. There right in front of him was the smiling face of Susan Lanham, with a look in it which made him suddenly remember something. Susan had heard all the conversation, and now she came around in front of Will, while all the other girls clustered about her with a vague expectation of sport. "Come, Pewee, let's play ball," said Will. "Ah, you're running away, now; you're afraid of a girl," said Susan, with a cutting little laugh, and a toss of her black curls over her shoulder. Will had already started for the ball-ground, but at this taunt he turned back, thrust his hands into his pockets, put on a swagger, and stammered: "No, I'm not afraid of a girl, either." "That's about all that he isn't afraid of," said Bob Holliday. "Oh! you're not afraid of a girl?" said Susan. "What did you run away for, when you saw me? You know that Pewee won't fight a girl. You're afraid of anybody that Pewee can't whip." "You've got an awful tongue, Susan. We'll call you Sassy Susan," said Will, laughing at his own joke. "Oh, it isn't my tongue you're afraid of now. You know I can tell on you. I saw you drive your cow into the stable last week. You were ashamed to milk outside, but you looked all around----" "I didn't do it. How could you see? It was dark," and Will giggled foolishly, seeing all at once that he had betrayed himself. "It was nearly dark, but I happened to be where I could see. And as I was coming back, a few minutes after, I saw you come out with a pail of milk, and look around you like a sneak-thief. You saw me and hurried away. You are such a coward that you are ashamed to do a little honest work. Milkmaid! Girl-boy! Coward! And Pewee Rose lets you lead him around by the nose!" "You'd better be careful what you say, Susan," said Pewee, threateningly. "You won't touch me. You go about bullying little boys, and calling yourself King Pewee, but you can't do a sum in long division, nor in short subtraction, for that matter, and you let fellows like Riley make a fool of you. Your father's poor, and your mother can't keep a girl, and you ought to be ashamed to let her milk the cows. Who milked your cow this morning, Pewee?" "I don't know," said the king, looking like the king's fool. "You did it," said Susan. "Don't deny it. Then you come here and call a strange boy a milkmaid!" "Well, I didn't milk in the street, anyway, and he did." At this, all laughed aloud, and Susan's victory was complete. She only said, with a pretty toss of her head, as she turned away: "King Milkmaid!" Pewee found the nickname likely to stick. He was obliged to declare on the playground the next day, that he would "thrash" any boy that said anything about milkmaids. After that, he heard no more of it. But one morning he found "King Milkmaid" written on the door of his father's cow-stable. Some boy who dared not attack Pewee, had vented his irritation by writing the hateful words on the stable, and on the fence-corners near the school-house, and even on the blackboard. Pewee could not fight with Susan Lanham, but he made up his mind to punish the new scholar when he should have a chance. He must give somebody a beating. CHAPTER III ANSWERING BACK It is hard for one boy to make a fight. Even your bully does not like to "pitch on" an inoffensive school-mate. You remember �sop's fable of the wolf and the lamb, and what pains the wolf took to pick a quarrel with the lamb. It was a little hard for Pewee to fight with a boy who walked quietly to and from the school, without giving anybody cause for offence. But the chief reason why Pewee did not attack him with his fists was that both he and Riley had found out that Jack Dudley could help them over a hard place in their lessons better than anybody else. And notwithstanding their continual persecution of Jack, they were mean enough to ask his assistance, and he, hoping to bring about peace by good-nature, helped them to get out their geography and arithmetic almost every day. Unable to appreciate this, they were both convinced that Jack only did it because he was afraid of them, and as they found it rare sport to abuse him, they kept it up. By their influence Jack was shut out of the plays. A greenhorn would spoil the game, they said. What did a boy that had lived on Wildcat Creek, in the Indian Reserve, know about playing bull-pen, or prisoner's base, or shinny? If he was brought in, they would go out. But the girls, and the small boys, and good-hearted Bob Holliday liked Jack's company very much. Yet, Jack was a boy, and he often longed to play games with the others. He felt very sure that he could dodge and run in "bull-pen" as well as any of them. He was very tired of Riley's continual ridicule, which grew worse as Riley saw in him a rival in influence with the smaller boys. "Catch Will alone sometimes," said Bob Holliday, "when Pewee isn't with him, and then thrash him. He'll back right down if you bristle up to him. If Pewee makes a fuss about it, I'll look after Pewee. I'm bigger than he is, and he won't fight with me. What do you say?" "I shan't fight unless I have to." "Afraid?" asked Bob, laughing. "It isn't that. I don't think I'm much afraid, although I don't like to be pounded or to pound anybody. I think I'd rather be whipped than to be made fun of, though. But my father used to say that people who fight generally do so because they are afraid of somebody else, more than they are of the one they fight with." "I believe that's a fact," said Bob. "But Riley aches for a good thrashing." "I know that, and I feel like giving him one, or taking one myself, and I think I shall fight him before I've done. But father used to say that fists could never settle between right and wrong. They only show which is the stronger, and it is generally the mean one that gets the best of it." "That's as sure as shootin'," said Bob. "Pewee could use you up. Pewee thinks he's the king, but laws! he's only Riley's bull-dog. Riley is afraid of him, but he manages to keep the dog on his side all the time." "My father used to say," said Jack, "that brutes could fight with force, but men ought to use their wits." "You seem to think a good deal of what your father says,--like it was your Bible, you know." "My father's dead," replied Jack. "Oh, that's why. Boys don't always pay attention to what their father says when he's alive." "Oh, but then my father was--" Here Jack checked himself, for fear of seeming to boast. "You see," he went on, "my father knew a great deal. He was so busy with his books that he lost 'most all his money, and then we moved to the Indian Reserve, and there he took the fever and died; and then we came down here, where we owned a house, so that I could go to school." "Why don't you give Will Riley as good as he sends?" said Bob, wishing to get away from melancholy subjects. "You have got as good a tongue as his." "I haven't his stock of bad words, though." "You've got a power of fun in you, though,--you keep everybody laughing when you want to, and if you'd only turn the pumps on him once, he'd howl like a yellow dog that's had a quart o' hot suds poured over him out of a neighbor's window. Use your wits, like your father said. You've lived in the woods till you're as shy as a flying-squirrel. All you've got to do is to talk up and take it rough and tumble, like the rest of the world. Riley can't bear to be laughed at, and you can make him ridiculous as easy as not." The next day, at the noon recess, about the time that Jack had finished helping Bob Holliday to find some places on the map, there came up a little shower, and the boys took refuge in the school-house. They must have some amusement, so Riley began his old abuse. "Well, greenhorn from the Wildcat, where's the black sheep you stole that suit of clothes from?" "I hear him bleat now," said Jack,--"about the blackest sheep I have ever seen." "You've heard the truth for once, Riley," said Bob Holliday. Riley, who was as vain as a peacock, was very much mortified by the shout of applause with which this little retort of Jack's was greeted. It was not a case in which he could call in King Pewee. The king, for his part, shut up his fists and looked silly, while Jack took courage to keep up the battle. But Riley tried again. "I say, Wildcat, you think you're smart, but you're a double-distilled idiot, and haven't got brains enough to be sensible of your misery." This kind of outburst on Riley's part always brought a laugh from the school. But before the laugh had died down, Jack Dudley took the word, saying, in a dry and quizzical way: "Don't you try to claim kin with me that way, Riley. No use; I won't stand it. I don't belong to your family. I'm neither a fool nor a coward." "Hurrah!" shouted Bob Holliday, bringing down first one and then the other of his big feet on the floor. "It's your put-in now, Riley." "Don't be backward in coming forward, Will, as the Irish priest said to his people," came from grave Harvey Collins, who here looked up from his book, thoroughly enjoying the bully's discomfiture. "That's awfully good," said Joanna Merwin, clasping her hands and giggling with delight. King Pewee doubled up his fists and looked at Riley to see if he ought to try his sort of wit on Jack. If a frog, being pelted to death by cruel boys, should turn and pelt them again, they could not be more surprised than were Riley and King Pewee at Jack's repartees. "You'd better be careful what you say to Will Riley," said Pewee. "I stand by him." But Jack's blood was up now, and he was not to be scared. "All the more shame to him," said Jack. "Look at me, shaken all to pieces with the fever and ague on the Wildcat, and look at that great big, bony coward of a Riley. I've done him no harm, but he wants to abuse me, and he's afraid of me. He daren't touch me. He has to coax you to stand by him, to protect him from poor little me. He's a great big----" "Calf," broke in Bob Holliday, with a laugh. "You'd better be careful," said Pewee to Jack, rising to his feet. "I stand by Riley." "Will you defend him if I hit him?" "Yes." "Well, then, I won't hit him. But you don't mean that he is to abuse me, while I am not allowed to answer back a word?" "Well--" said Pewee hesitatingly. "Well," said Bob Holliday hotly, "I say that Jack has just as good a right to talk with his tongue as Riley. Stand by Riley if he's hit, Pewee; he needs it. But don't you try to shut up Jack." And Bob got up and put his broad hand on Jack's shoulder. Nobody had ever seen the big fellow angry before, and the excitement was very great. The girls clapped their hands. "Good for you, Bob, I say," came from Susan Lanham, and poor, ungainly Bob blushed to his hair to find himself the hero of the girls. "I don't mean to shut up Jack," said Pewee, looking at Bob's size, "but I stand by Riley." "Well, do your standing sitting down, then," said Susan. "I'll get a milking-stool for you, if that'll keep you quiet." It was well that the master came in just then, or Pewee would have had to fight somebody or burst. CHAPTER IV LITTLE CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS Jack's life in school was much more endurable now that he had a friend in Bob Holliday. Bob had spent his time in hard work and in rough surroundings, but he had a gentleman's soul, although his manners and speech were rude. More and more Jack found himself drawn to him. Harvey Collins asked Jack to walk down to the river-bank with him at recess. Both Harvey and Bob soon liked Jack, who found himself no longer lonely. The girls also sought his advice about their lessons, and the younger boys were inclined to come over to his side. As winter came on, country boys, anxious to learn something about "reading, writing, and ciphering," came into the school. Each of these new-comers had to go through a certain amount of teasing from Riley and of bullying from Pewee. One frosty morning in December there appeared among the new scholars a strange little fellow, with a large head, long straight hair, an emaciated body, and legs that looked like reeds, they were so slender. His clothes were worn and patched, and he had the look of having been frost-bitten. He could not have been more than ten years old, to judge by his size, but there was a look of premature oldness in his face. "Come here!" said the master, when he caught sight of him. "What is your name?" And Mr. Ball took out his book to register the new-comer, with much the same relish that the Giant Despair showed when he had bagged a fresh pilgrim. "Columbus Risdale." The new-comer spoke in a shrill, piping voice, as strange as his weird face and withered body. "Is that your full name?" asked the master. "No, sir," piped the strange little creature. "Give your full name," said Mr. Ball, sternly. "My name is Christopher Columbus George Washington Marquis de Lafayette Risdale." The poor lad was the victim of that mania which some people have for "naming after" great men. His little shrunken body and high, piping voice made his name seem so incongruous that all the school tittered, and many laughed outright. But the dignified and eccentric little fellow did not observe it. "Can you read?" "Yes, sir," squeaked the lad, more shrilly than ever. "Umph," said the master, with a look of doubt on his face. "In the first reader?" "No, sir; in the fourth reader." Even the master could not conceal his look of astonishment at this claim. At that day, the fourth reader class was the highest in the school, and contained only the largest scholars. The school laughed at the bare notion of little Christopher Columbus reading in the fourth reader, and the little fellow looked around the room, puzzled to guess the cause of the merriment. "We'll try you," said the master, with suspicion. When the fourth-reader class was called, and Harvey Collins and Susie Lanham and some others of the nearly grown-up pupils came forward, with Jack Dudley as quite the youngest of the class, the great-eyed, emaciated little Columbus Risdale picked himself up on his pipe-stems and took his place at the end of this row. It was too funny for anything! Will Riley and Pewee and other large scholars, who were yet reading in that old McGuffey's Third Reader, which had a solitary picture of Bonaparte crossing the Alps, looked with no kindly eyes on this preposterous infant in the class ahead of them. The piece to be read was the poem of Mrs. Hemans's called "The Better Land." Poems like this one are rather out of fashion nowadays, and people are inclined to laugh a little at Mrs. Hemans. But thirty years ago her religious and sentimental poetry was greatly esteemed. This one presented no difficulty to the readers. In that day, little or no attention was paid to inflection--the main endeavor being to pronounce the words without hesitation or slip, and to "mind the stops." Each one of the class read a stanza ending with a line: "Not there, not there, my child!" The poem was exhausted before all had read, so that it was necessary to begin over again in order to give each one his turn. All waited to hear the little Columbus read. When it came his turn, the school was as still as death. The master, wishing to test him, told him, with something like a sneer, that he could read three stanzas, or "verses," as Mr. Ball called them. The little chap squared his toes, threw his head back, and more fluently even than the rest, he read, in his shrill, eager voice, the remaining lines, winding up each stanza in a condescending tone, as he read: "Not there, not there, my child!" The effect of this from the hundred-year-old baby was so striking and so ludicrous that everybody was amused, while all were surprised at the excellence of his reading. The master proceeded, however, to whip one or two of the boys for laughing. When recess-time arrived, Susan Lanham came to Jack with a request. "I wish you'd look after little Lummy Risdale. He's a sort of cousin of my mother's. He is as innocent and helpless as the babes in the wood." "I'll take care of him," said Jack. So he took the little fellow walking away from the school-house; Will Riley and some of the others calling after them: "Not there, not there, my child!" But Columbus did not lay their taunts to heart. He was soon busy talking to Jack about things in the country, and things in town. On their return, Riley, crying out: "Not there, my child!" threw a snow-ball from a distance of ten feet and struck the poor little Christopher Columbus George Washington Lafayette so severe a blow as to throw him off his feet. Quick as a flash, Jack charged on Riley, and sent a snow-ball into his face. An instant later he tripped him with his foot and rolled the big, scared fellow into the snow and washed his face well, leaving half a snow-bank down his back. "What makes you so savage?" whined Riley. "I didn't snow-ball you." And Riley looked around for Pewee, who was on the other side of the school-house, and out of sight of the scuffle. "No, you daren't snow-ball me," said Jack, squeezing another ball and throwing it into Riley's shirt-front with a certainty of aim that showed that he knew how to play ball. "Take that one, too, and if you bother Lum Risdale again, I'll make you pay for it. Take a boy of your size." And with that he moulded yet another ball, but Riley retreated to the other side of the school-house. CHAPTER V WHILING AWAY TIME Excluded from the plays of the older fellows, Jack drew around him a circle of small boys, who were always glad to be amused with the stories of hunting, fishing, and frontier adventure that he had heard from old pioneers on Wildcat Creek. Sometimes he played "tee-tah-toe, three in a row," with the girls, using a slate and pencil in a way well known to all school-children. And he also showed them a better kind of "tee-tah-toe," learned on the Wildcat, and which may have been in the first place an Indian game, as it is played with grains of Indian corn. A piece of board is grooved with a jack-knife in the manner shown in the diagram. [Illustration: DIAGRAM OF TEE-TAH-TOE BOARD.] One player has three red or yellow grains of corn, and the other an equal number of white ones. The player who won the last game has the "go"--that is, he first puts down a grain of corn at any place where the lines intersect, but usually in the middle, as that is the best point. Then the other player puts down one, and so on until all are down. After this, the players move alternately along any of the lines, in any direction, to the next intersection, provided it is not already occupied. The one who first succeeds in getting his three grains in a row wins the point, and the board is cleared for a new start. As there are always three vacant points, and as the rows may be formed in any direction along any of the lines, the game gives a chance for more variety of combinations than one would expect from its appearance. [Illustration: JACK AMUSING THE SMALL BOYS WITH STORIES OF HUNTING, FISHING, AND FRONTIER ADVENTURE.] Jack had also an arithmetical puzzle which he had learned from his father, and which many of the readers of this story will know, perhaps. "Set down any number, without letting me know what it is," said he to Joanna Merwin. She set down a number. "Now add twelve and multiply by two." "Well, that is done," said Joanna. "Divide by four, subtract half of the number first set down, and your answer will be six." "Oh, but how did you know that I put down sixty-four?" said Joanna. "I didn't," said Jack. "How could you tell the answer, then?" "That's for you to find out." This puzzle excited a great deal of curiosity. To add to the wonder of the scholars, Jack gave each time a different number to be added in, and sometimes he varied the multiplying and dividing. Harvey Collins, who was of a studious turn, puzzled over it a long time, and at last he found it out; but he did not tell the secret. He contented himself with giving out a number to Jack and telling his result. To the rest it was quite miraculous, and Riley turned green with jealousy when he found the girls and boys refusing to listen to his jokes, but gathering about Jack to test his ability to "guess the answer," as they phrased it. Riley said he knew how it was done, and he was even foolish enough to try to do it, by watching the slate-pencil, or by sheer guessing, but this only brought him into ridicule. "Try me once," said the little C. C. G. W. M. de L. Risdale, and Jack let Columbus set down a figure and carry it through the various processes until he told him the result. Lummy grew excited, pushed his thin hands up into his hair, looked at his slate a minute, and then squeaked out: "Oh--let me see--yes--no--yes--Oh, I see! Your answer is just half the amount added in, because you have----" But here Jack placed his hand over Columbus's mouth. "You can see through a pine door, Lummy, but you mustn't let out my secret," he said. But Jack had a boy's heart in him, and he longed for some more boy-like amusement. CHAPTER VI A BATTLE One morning, when Jack proposed to play a game of ball with the boys, Riley and Pewee came up and entered the game, and objected. "It isn't interesting to play with greenhorns," said Will. "If Jack plays, little Christopher Columbus Andsoforth will want to play, too; and then there'll be two babies to teach. I can't be always helping babies. Let Jack play two-hole cat or Anthony-over with the little fellows." To which answer Pewee assented, of course. That day at noon Riley came to Jack, with a most gentle tone and winning manner, and whiningly begged Jack to show him how to divide 770 by 14. "It isn't interesting to show greenhorns," said Jack, mimicking Riley's tone on the playground that morning. "If I show you, Pewee Rose will want me to show him; then there'll be two babies to teach. I can't be always helping babies. Go and play two-hole cat with the First-Reader boys." That afternoon, Mr. Ball had the satisfaction of using his new beech switches on both Riley and Pewee, though indeed Pewee did not deserve to be punished for not getting his lesson. It was Nature's doing that his head, like a goat's, was made for butting and not for thinking. But if he had to take whippings from the master and his father, he made it a rule to get satisfaction out of somebody else. If Jack had helped him he wouldn't have missed. If he had not missed his lesson badly, Mr. Ball would not have whipped him. It would be inconvenient to whip Mr. Ball in return, but Jack would be easy to manage, and as somebody must be whipped, it fell to Jack's lot to take it. King Pewee did not fall upon his victim at the school-house door; this would have insured him another beating from the master. Nor did he attack Jack while Bob Holliday was with him. Bob was big and strong--a great fellow of sixteen. But after Jack had passed the gate of Bob's house, and was walking on toward home alone, Pewee came out from behind an alley fence, accompanied by Ben Berry and Will Riley. "I'm going to settle with you now," said King Pewee, sidling up to Jack like an angry bull-dog. It was not a bright prospect for Jack, and he cast about him for a chance to escape a brutal encounter with such a bully, and yet avoid actually running away. "Well," said Jack, "if I must fight, I must. But I suppose you won't let Riley and Berry help you." "No, I'll fight fair." And Pewee threw off his coat, while Jack did the same. "You'll quit when I say 'enough,' won't you?" said Jack. "Yes, I'll fight fair, and hold up when you've got enough." "Well, then, for that matter, I've got enough now. I'll take the will for the deed and just say 'enough' before you begin," and he turned to pick up his coat. "No, you don't get off that way," said Pewee. "You've got to stand up and see who is the best man, or I'll kick you all the way home." "Didn't you ever hear about Davy Crockett's 'coon?" said Jack. "When the 'coon saw him taking aim, it said: 'Is that you, Crockett? Well, don't fire--I'll come down anyway. I know you'll hit anything you shoot at.' Now, I'm that 'coon. If it was anybody but you, I'd fight. But as it's you, Pewee, I might just as well come down before you begin." Pewee was flattered by this way of putting the question. Had he been alone, Jack would have escaped. But Will Riley, remembering all he had endured from Jack's retorts, said: "Oh, give it to him, Pewee; he's always making trouble." At which Pewee squared himself off, doubled up his fists, and came at the slenderer Jack. The latter prepared to meet him, but, after all, it was hard for Pewee to beat so good-humored a fellow as Jack. The king's heart failed him, and suddenly he backed off, saying: "If you'll agree to help Riley and me out with our lessons hereafter, I'll let you off. If you don't, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life." And Pewee stood ready to begin. Jack wanted to escape the merciless beating that Pewee had in store for him. But it was quite impossible for him to submit under a threat. So he answered: "If you and Riley will treat me as you ought to, I'll help you when you ask me, as I always have. But even if you pound me into jelly I won't agree to help you, unless you treat me right. I won't be bullied into helping you." "Give it to him, Pewee," said Ben Berry; "he's too sassy." Pewee was a rather good-natured dog--he had to be set on. He now began to strike at Jack. Whether he was to be killed or not, Jack did not know, but he was resolved not to submit to the bully. Yet he could not do much at defence against Pewee's hard fists. However, Jack was active and had long limbs; he soon saw that he must do something more than stand up to be beaten. So, when King Pewee, fighting in the irregular Western fashion, and hoping to get a decided advantage at once, rushed upon Jack and pulled his head forward, Jack stooped lower than his enemy expected, and, thrusting his head between Pewee's knees, shoved his legs from under him, and by using all his strength threw Pewee over his own back, so that the king's nose and eyes fell into the dust of the village street. "I'll pay you for that," growled Pewee, as he recovered himself, now thoroughly infuriated; and with a single blow he sent Jack flat on his back, and then proceeded to pound him. Jack could do nothing now but shelter his eyes from Pewee's blows. Joanna Merwin had seen the beginning of the battle from her father's house, and feeling sure that Jack would be killed, she had run swiftly down the garden walk to the back gate, through which she slipped into the alley; and then she hurried on, as fast as her feet would carry her, to the blacksmith-shop of Pewee Rose's father. "Oh, please, Mr. Rose, come quick! Pewee's just killing a boy in the street." "Vitin' ag'in," said Mr. Rose, who was a Pennsylvanian from the limestone country, and spoke English with difficulty. "He ees a leetle ruffen, dat poy. I'll see apout him right avay a'ready, may be." And without waiting to put off his leathern apron, he walked briskly in the direction indicated by Joanna. Pewee was hammering Jack without pity, when suddenly he was caught by the collar and lifted sharply to his feet. "Wot you doin' down dare in de dirt wunst a'ready? Hey?" said Mr. Rose, as he shook his son with the full force of his right arm, and cuffed him with his left hand. "Didn't I dells you I'd gill you some day if you didn't gwit vitin' mit oder poys, a'ready?" "He commenced it," whimpered Pewee. "You dells a pig lie a'ready, I beleefs, Peter, and I'll whip you fur lyin' besides wunst more. Fellers like _him_," pointing to Jack, who was brushing the dust off his clothes,--"fellers like him don't gommence on such a poy as you. You're such anoder viter I never seed." And he shook Pewee savagely. "I won't do it no more," begged Pewee--"'pon my word and honor I won't." "Oh, you don't gits off dat away no more, a'ready. You know what I'll giff you when I git you home, you leedle ruffen. I shows you how to vite, a'ready." And the king disappeared down the street, begging like a spaniel, and vowing that he "wouldn't do it no more." But he got a severe whipping, I fear;--it is doubtful if such beatings ever do any good. The next morning Jack appeared at school with a black eye, and Pewee had some scratches, so the master whipped them both for fighting. CHAPTER VII HAT-BALL AND BULL-PEN Pewee did not renew the quarrel with Jack--perhaps from fear of the rawhide that hung in the blacksmith's shop, or of the master's ox-goad, or of Bob Holliday's fists, or perhaps from a hope of conciliating Jack and getting occasional help in his lessons. Jack was still excluded from the favorite game of "bull-pen." I am not sure that he would have been rejected had he asked for admission, but he did not want to risk another refusal. He planned a less direct way of getting into the game. Asking his mother for a worn-out stocking, and procuring an old boot-top, he ravelled the stocking, winding the yarn into a ball of medium hardness. Then he cut from the boot-top a square of leather large enough for his purpose. This he laid on the kitchen-table, and proceeded to mark off and cut it into the shape of an orange-peel that has been quartered off the orange, leaving the four quarters joined together at the middle. This leather he put to soak over night. The next morning, bright and early, with a big needle and some strong thread he sewed it around his yarn-ball, stretching the wet leather to its utmost, so that when it should contract the ball should be firm and hard, and the leather well moulded to it. Such a ball is far better for all play in which the player is to be hit than those sold in the stores nowadays. I have described the manufacture of the old-fashioned home-made ball, because there are some boys, especially in the towns, who have lost the art of making yarn balls. When Jack had finished his ball, he let it dry, while he ate his breakfast and did his chores. Then he sallied out and found Bob Holliday, and showed him the result of his work. Bob squeezed it, felt its weight, bounced it against a wall, tossed it high in the air, caught it, and then bounced it on the ground. Having thus "put it through its paces," he pronounced it an excellent ball,--"a good deal better than Ben Berry's ball. But what are you going to do with it?" he asked. "Play Anthony-over? The little boys can play that." I suppose there are boys in these days who do not know what "Anthony-over" is. How, indeed, can anybody play Anthony-over in a crowded city? The old one-story village school-houses stood generally in an open green. The boys divided into two parties, the one going on one side, and the other on the opposite side of the school-house. The party that had the ball would shout "Anthony!" The others responded, "Over!" To this, answer was made from the first party, "Over she comes!" and the ball was immediately thrown over the school-house. If any of the second party caught it, they rushed, pell-mell, around both ends of the school-house to the other side, and that one of them who held the ball essayed to hit some one of the opposite party before they could exchange sides. If a boy was hit by the ball thus thrown he was counted as captured to the opposite party, and he gave all his efforts to beat his old allies. So the game went on, until all the players of one side were captured by the others. I don't know what Anthony means in this game, but no doubt the game is hundreds of years old, and was played in English villages before the first colony came to Jamestown. "I'm not going to play Anthony-over," said Jack. "I'm going to show King Pewee a new trick." "You can't get up a game of bull-pen on your own hook, and play the four corners and the ring all by yourself." "No, I don't mean that. I'm going to show the boys how to play hat-ball--a game they used to play on the Wildcat." "I see your point. You are going to make Pewee ask you to let him in," said Bob, and the two boys set out for school together, Jack explaining the game to Bob. They found one or two boys already there, and when Jack showed his new ball and proposed a new game, they fell in with it. The boys stood their hats in a row on the grass. The one with the ball stood over the row of hats, and swung his hand to and fro above them, while the boys stood by him, prepared to run as soon as the ball should drop into a hat. The boy who held the ball, after one or two false motions,--now toward this hat, and now toward that one,--would drop the ball into Somebody's hat. Somebody would rush to his hat, seize the ball, and throw it at one of the other boys, who were fleeing in all directions. If he hit Somebody-Else, Somebody-Else might throw from where the ball lay, or from the hats, at the rest, and so on, until some one missed. The one who missed took up his hat and left the play, and the boy who picked up the ball proceeded to drop it into a hat, and the game went on until all but one were put out. Hat-ball is so simple that any number can play at it, and Jack's friends found it so full of boisterous fun, that every new-comer wished to set down his hat. And thus, by the time Pewee and Riley arrived, half the larger boys in the school were in the game, and there were not enough left to make a good game of bull-pen. At noon, the new game drew the attention of the boys again, and Riley and Pewee tried in vain to coax them away. "Oh, I say, come on, fellows!" Riley would say. "Come--let's play something worth playing." But the boys stayed by the new game and the new ball. Neither Riley, nor Pewee, nor Ben Berry liked to ask to be let into the game, after what had passed. Not one of them had spoken to Jack since the battle between him and Pewee, and they didn't care to play with Jack's ball in a game of his starting. Once the other boys had broken away from Pewee's domination, they were pleased to feel themselves free. As for Pewee and his friends, they climbed up on a fence, and sat like three crows, watching the play of the others. After a while they got down in disgust, and went off, not knowing just what to do. When once they were out of sight, Jack winked at Bob, who said: "I say, boys, we can play hat-ball at recess when there isn't time for bull-pen. Let's have a game of bull-pen now, before school takes up." It was done in a minute. Bob Holliday and Tom Taylor "chose up sides," the bases were all ready, and by the time Pewee and his aides-de-camp had walked disconsolately to the pond and back, the boys were engaged in a good game of bull-pen. Perhaps I ought to say something about the principles of a game so little known over the country at large. I have never seen it played anywhere but in a narrow bit of country on the Ohio River, and yet there is no merrier game played with a ball. The ball must not be too hard. There should be four or more corners. The space inside is called the pen, and the party winning the last game always has the corners. The ball is tossed from one corner to another, and when it has gone around once, any boy on a corner may, immediately after catching the ball thrown to him from any of the four corners, throw it at any one in the pen. He must throw while "the ball is hot,"--that is, instantly on catching it. If he fails to hit anybody on the other side, he goes out. If he hits, his side leave the corners and run as they please, for the boy who has been hit may throw from where the ball fell, or from any corner, at any one of the side holding the corners. If one of them is hit, he has the same privilege; but now the men in the pen are allowed to scatter, also. Whoever misses is "out," and the play is resumed from the corners until all of one side is out. When but two are left on the corners the ball is smuggled,--that is, one hides the ball in his bosom, and the other pretends that he has it also. The boys in the ring do not know which has it, and the two "run the corners," throwing from any corner. If but one is left on the corners, he is allowed, also, to run from corner to corner. It happened that Jack's side lost on the toss-up for corners, and he got into the ring, where his play showed better than it would have done on the corners. As Jack was the greenhorn and the last chosen on his side, the players on the corners expected to make light work of him; but he was an adroit dodger, and he put out three of the boys on the corners by his unexpected way of evading a ball. Everybody who has ever played this fine old game knows that expertness in dodging is worth quite as much as skill in throwing. Pewee was a famous hand with a ball, Riley could dodge well, Ben Berry had a happy knack of dropping flat upon the ground and letting a ball pass over him, Bob Holliday could run well in a counter charge; but nothing could be more effective than Jack Dudley's quiet way of stepping forward or backward, bending his lithe body or spreading his legs to let the ball pass, according to the course which it took from the player's hand. King Pewee and company came back in time to see Jack dodge three balls thrown point-blank at him from a distance of fifteen feet. It was like witchcraft--he seemed to be charmed. Every dodge was greeted with a shout, and when once he luckily caught the ball thrown at him, and thus put out the thrower, there was no end of admiration of his playing. It was now evident to all that Jack could no longer be excluded from the game, and that, next to Pewee himself, he was already the best player on the ground. At recess that afternoon Pewee set his hat down in the hat-ball row, and as Jack did not object, Riley and Ben Berry did the same. The next day Pewee chose Jack first in bull-pen, and the game was well played. CHAPTER VIII THE DEFENDER If Jack had not about this time undertaken the defence of the little boy in the Fourth Reader, whose name was large enough to cover the principal points in the history of the New World, he might have had peace, for Jack was no longer one of the newest scholars, his courage was respected by Pewee, and he kept poor Riley in continual fear of his ridicule--making him smart every day. But, just when he might have had a little peace and happiness, he became the defender of Christopher Columbus George Washington Marquis de la Fayette Risdale--little "Andsoforth," as Riley and the other boys had nicknamed him. The strange, pinched little body of the boy, his eccentric ways, his quickness in learning, and his infantile simplicity had all conspired to win the affection of Jack, so that he would have protected him even without the solicitation of Susan Lanham. But since Susan had been Jack's own first and fast friend, he felt in honor bound to run all risks in the care of her strange little cousin. I think that Columbus's child-like ways might have protected him even from Riley and his set, if it had not been that he was related to Susan Lanham, and under her protection. It was the only chance for Riley to revenge himself on Susan. She was more than a match for him in wit, and she was not a proper subject for Pewee's fists. So with that heartlessness which belongs to the school-boy bully, he resolved to torment the helpless fellow in revenge for Susan's sarcasms. One morning, smarting under some recent taunt of Susan's, Riley caught little Columbus almost alone in the school-room. Here was a boy who certainly would not be likely to strike back again. His bamboo legs, his spindling arms, his pale face, his contracted chest, all gave the coward a perfect assurance of safety. So, with a rude pretence at play, laughing all the time, he caught the lad by the throat, and in spite of his weird dignity and pleading gentleness, shoved him back against the wall behind the master's empty chair. Holding him here a minute in suspense, he began slapping him, first on this side of the face and then on that. The pale cheeks burned red with pain and fright, but Columbus did not cry out, though the constantly increasing sharpness of the blows, and the sense of weakness, degradation, and terror, stung him severely. Riley thought it funny. Like a cat playing with a condemned mouse, the cruel fellow actually enjoyed finding one person weak enough to be afraid of him. Columbus twisted about in a vain endeavor to escape from Riley's clutches, getting only a sharper cuff for his pains. Ben Berry, arriving presently, enjoyed the sport, while some of the smaller boys and girls, coming in, looked on the scene of torture in helpless pity. And ever, as more and more of the scholars gathered, Columbus felt more and more mortified; the tears were in his great sad eyes, but he made no sound of crying or complaint. Jack Dudley came in at last, and marched straight up to Riley, who let go his hold and backed off. "You mean, cowardly, pitiful villain!" broke out Jack, advancing on him. "I didn't do anything to you," whined Riley, backing into a corner. "No, but I mean to do something to you. If there's an inch of man in you, come right on and fight with me. You daren't do it." "I don't want any quarrel with you." "No, you quarrel with babies." Here all the boys and girls jeered. "You're too hard on a fellow, Jack," whined the scared Riley, slipping out of the corner and continuing to back down the school-room, while Jack kept slowly following him. "You're a great deal bigger than I am," said Jack. "Why don't you try to corner me? Oh, I could just beat the breath out of you, you great, big, good-for-nothing----" Here Riley pulled the west door open, and Jack, at the same moment, struck him. Riley half dropped, half fell, through the door-way, scared so badly that he went sprawling on the ground. The boys shouted "coward" and "baby" after him as he sneaked off, but Jack went back to comfort Columbus and to get control of his temper. For it is not wise, as Jack soon reflected, even in a good cause to lose your self-control. "It was good of you to interfere," said Susan, when she had come in and learned all about it. "I should have been a brute if I hadn't," said Jack, pleased none the less with her praise. "But it doesn't take any courage to back Riley out of a school-house. One could get more fight out of a yearling calf. I suppose I've got to take a beating from Pewee, though." "Go and see him about it, before Riley talks to him," suggested Susan. And Jack saw the prudence of this course. As he left the school-house at a rapid pace, Ben Berry told Riley, who was skulking behind a fence, that Jack was afraid of Pewee. "Pewee," said Jack, when he met him starting to school, after having done his "chores," including the milking of his cow,--"Pewee, I want to say something to you." Jack's tone and manner flattered Pewee. One thing that keeps a rowdy a rowdy is the thought that better people despise him. Pewee felt in his heart that Jack had a contempt for him, and this it was that made him hate Jack in turn. But now that the latter sought him in a friendly way, he felt himself lifted up into a dignity hitherto unknown to him. "What is it?" "You are a kind of king among the boys," said Jack. Pewee grew an inch taller. "They are all afraid of you. Now, why don't you make us fellows behave? You ought to protect the little boys from fellows that impose on them. Then you'd be a king worth the having. All the boys and girls would like you." "I s'pose may be that's so," said the king. "There's poor little Columbus Risdale----" "I don't like him," said Pewee. "You mean you don't like Susan. She _is_ a little sharp with her tongue. But you wouldn't fight with a baby--it isn't like you." "No, sir-ee," said Pewee. "You'd rather take a big boy than a little one. Now, you ought to make Riley let Lummy alone." "I'll do that," said Pewee. "Riley's about a million times bigger than Lum." "I went to the school-house this morning," continued Jack, "and I found Riley choking and beating him. And I thought I'd just speak to you, and see if you can't make him stop it." "I'll do that," said Pewee, walking along with great dignity. When Ben Berry and Riley saw Pewee coming in company with Jack, they were amazed and hung their heads, afraid to say anything even to each other. Jack and Pewee walked straight up to the fence-corner in which they stood. "I thought I'd see what King Pewee would say about your fighting with babies, Riley," said Jack. "I want you fellows to understand," said Pewee, "that I'm not going to have that little Lum Risdale hurt. If you want to fight, why don't you fight somebody your own size? I don't fight babies myself," and here Pewee drew his head up, "and I don't stand by any boy that does." Poor Riley felt the last support drop from under him. Pewee had deserted him, and he was now an orphan, unprotected in an unfriendly world! Jack knew that the truce with so vain a fellow as Pewee could not last long, but it served its purpose for the time. And when, after school, Susan Lanham took pains to go and thank Pewee for standing up for Columbus, Pewee felt himself every inch a king, and for the time he was--if not a "reformed prize-fighter," such as one hears of sometimes, at least an improved boy. The trouble with vain people like Pewee is, that they have no stability. They bend the way the wind blows, and for the most part the wind blows from the wrong quarter. CHAPTER IX PIGEON POT-PIE Happy boys and girls that go to school nowadays! You have to study harder than the generations before you, it is true; you miss the jolly spelling-schools, and the good old games that were not half so scientific as base-ball, lawn tennis, or lacrosse, but that had ten times more fun and frolic in them; but all this is made up to you by the fact that you escape the tyrannical old master. Whatever the faults the teachers of this day may have, they do not generally lacerate the backs of their pupils, as did some of their fore-runners. At the time of which I write, thirty years ago, a better race of school-masters was crowding out the old, but many of the latter class, with their terrible switches and cruel beatings, kept their ground until they died off one by one, and relieved the world of their odious ways. Mr. Ball wouldn't die to please anybody. He was a bachelor, and had no liking for children, but taught school five or six months in winter to avoid having to work on a farm in the summer. He had taught in Greenbank every winter for a quarter of a century, and having never learned to win anybody's affection, had been obliged to teach those who disliked him. This atmosphere of mutual dislike will sour the sweetest temper, and Mr. Ball's temper had not been strained honey to begin with. Year by year he grew more and more severe--he whipped for poor lessons, he whipped for speaking in school, he took down his switch for not speaking loud enough in class, he whipped for coming late to school, he whipped because a scholar made a noise with his feet, and he whipped because he himself had eaten something unwholesome for his breakfast. The brutality of a master produces like qualities in scholars. The boys drew caricatures on the blackboard, put living cats or dead ones into Mr. Ball's desk, and tried to drive him wild by their many devices. He would walk up and down the school-room seeking a victim, and he had as much pleasure in beating a girl or a little boy as in punishing an overgrown fellow. And yet I cannot say that Mr. Ball was impartial. There were some pupils that escaped. Susan Lanham was not punished, because her father, Dr. Lanham, was a very influential man in the town; and the faults of Henry Weathervane and his sister were always overlooked after their father became a school trustee. Many efforts had been made to put a new master into the school. But Mr. Ball's brother-in-law was one of the principal merchants in the place, and the old man had had the school so long that it seemed like robbery to deprive him of it. It had come, in some sort, to belong to him. People hated to see him moved. He would die some day, they said, and nobody could deny that, though it often seemed to the boys and girls that he would never die; he was more likely to dry up and blow away. And it was a long time to wait for that. And yet I think Greenbank might have had to wait for something like that if there hadn't come a great flight of pigeons just at this time. For whenever Susan Lanham suggested to her father that he should try to get Mr. Ball removed and a new teacher appointed, Dr. Lanham smiled and said "he hated to move against the old man; he's been there so long, you know, and he probably wouldn't live long, anyhow. Something ought to be done, perhaps, but he couldn't meddle with him." For older people forgot the beatings they had endured, and remembered the old man only as one of the venerable landmarks of their childhood. And so, by favor of Henry Weathervane's father, whose children he did not punish, and by favor of other people's neglect and forgetfulness, the Greenbank children might have had to face and fear the old ogre down to this day, or until he dried up and blew away, if it hadn't been, as I said, that there came a great flight of pigeons. A flight of pigeons is not uncommon in the Ohio River country. Audubon, the great naturalist, saw them in his day, and in old colonial times such flights took place in the settlements on the sea-board, and sometimes the starving colonists were able to knock down pigeons with sticks. The mathematician is not yet born who can count the number of pigeons in one of these sky-darkening flocks, which are often many miles in length, and which follow one another for a whole day. The birds, for the most part, fly at a considerable height from the earth, but when they are crossing a wide valley, like that of the Ohio River, they drop down to a lower level, and so reach the hills quite close to the ground, and within easy gunshot. When the pigeon flight comes on Saturday, it is very convenient for those boys that have guns. If these pigeons had only come on Saturday instead of on Monday, Mr. Ball might have taught the Greenbank school until to-day,--that is to say, if he hadn't died or quite dried up and blown off meanwhile. For when Riley and Ben Berry saw this flight of pigeons begin on Monday morning, they remembered that the geography lesson was a hard one, and so they played "hooky," and, taking their guns with them, hid in the bushes at the top of the hill. Then, as the birds struck the hill, and beat their way up over the brow of it, the boys, lying in ambush, had only to fire into the flock without taking aim, and the birds would drop all around them. The discharge of the guns made Bob Holliday so hungry for pigeon pot-pie, that he, too, ran away from school, at recess, and took his place among the pigeon-slayers in the paw-paw patch on the hill top. Tuesday morning, Mr. Ball came in with darkened brows, and three extra switches. Riley, Berry, and Holliday were called up as soon as school began. They had pigeon pot-pie for dinner, but they also had sore backs for three days, and Bob laughingly said that he knew just how a pigeon felt when it was basted. The day after the whipping and the pigeon pot-pie, when the sun shone warm at noon, the fire was allowed to go down in the stove. All were at play in the sunshine, excepting Columbus Risdale, who sat solitary, like a disconsolate screech-owl, in one corner of the room. Riley and Ben Berry, still smarting from yesterday, entered, and without observing Lummy's presence, proceeded to put some gunpowder in the stove, taking pains to surround it with cool ashes, so that it should not explode until the stirring of the fire, as the chill of the afternoon should come on. When they had finished this dangerous transaction, they discovered the presence of Columbus in his corner, looking at them with large-eyed wonder and alarm. "If you ever tell a living soul about that, we'll kill you," said Ben Berry. Riley also threatened the scared little rabbit, and both felt safe from detection. An hour after school had resumed its session. Columbus, who had sat shivering with terror all the time, wrote on his slate: "Will Riley and Ben B. put something in the stove. Said they would kill me if I told on them." This he passed to Jack, who sat next to him. Jack rubbed it out as soon as he had read it, and wrote: "Don't tell anybody." Jack could not guess what they had put in. It might be coffee-nuts, which would explode harmlessly; it might be something that would give a bad smell in burning, such as chicken-feathers. If he had thought that it was gunpowder, he would have plucked up courage enough to give the master some warning, though he might have got only a whipping for his pains. While Jack was debating what he should do, the master called the Fourth-Reader class. At the close of the lesson he noticed that Columbus was shivering, though indeed it was more from terror than from cold. "Go to the stove and stir up the fire, and get warm," he said, sternly. "I'd--I'd rather not," said Lum, shaking with fright at the idea. "Umph!" said Mr. Ball, looking hard at the lad, with half a mind to make him go. Then he changed his purpose and went to the stove himself, raked forward the coals, and made up the fire. Just as he was shutting the stove-door, the explosion came--the ashes flew out all over the master, the stove was thrown down from the bricks on which its four legs rested, the long pipe fell in many pieces on the floor, and the children set up a general howl in all parts of the room. As soon as Mr. Ball had shaken off the ashes from his coat, he said: "Be quiet--there's no more danger. Columbus Risdale, come here." "He did not do it," spoke up Susan Lanham. "Be quiet, Susan. You know all about this," continued the master to poor little Columbus, who was so frightened as hardly to be able to stand. After looking at Columbus a moment, the master took down a great beech switch. "Now, I shall whip you until you tell me who did it. You were afraid to go to the stove. You knew there was powder there. Who put it there? That's the question. Answer, quick, or I shall make you." The little skin-and-bones trembled between two terrors, and Jack, seeing his perplexity, got up and stood by him. "He didn't do it, Mr. Ball. I know who did it. If Columbus should tell you, he would be beaten for telling. The boy who did it is just mean enough to let Lummy get the whipping. Please let him off." "_You_ know, do you? I shall whip you both. You knew there was gunpowder in the fire, and you gave no warning. I shall whip you both--the severest whipping you ever had, too." And the master put up the switch he had taken down, as not effective enough, and proceeded to take another. "If we had known it was gunpowder," said Jack, beginning to tremble, "you would have been warned. But we didn't. We only knew that something had been put in." "If you'll tell all about it, I'll let you off easier; if you don't, I shall give you all the whipping I know how to give." And by way of giving impressiveness to his threat he took a turn about the room, while there was an awful stillness among the terrified scholars. I do not know what was in Bob Holliday's head, but about this time he managed to open the western door while the master's back was turned. Bob's desk was near the door. Poor little Columbus was ready to die, and Jack was afraid that, if the master should beat him as he threatened to do, the child would die outright. Luckily, at the second cruel blow, the master broke his switch and turned to get another. Seeing the door open, Jack whispered to Columbus: "Run home as fast as you can go." The little fellow needed no second bidding. He tottered on his trembling legs to the door, and was out before Mr. Ball had detected the motion. When the master saw his prey disappearing out of the door, he ran after him, but it happened curiously enough, in the excitement, that Bob Holliday, who sat behind the door, rose up, as if to look out, and stumbled against the door, thus pushing it shut, so that by the time Mr. Ball got his stiff legs outside the door, the frightened child was under such headway that, fearing to have the whole school in rebellion, the teacher gave over the pursuit, and came back prepared to wreak his vengeance on Jack. While Mr. Ball was outside the door, Bob Holliday called to Jack, in a loud whisper, that he had better run, too, or the old master would "skin him alive." But Jack had been trained to submit to authority, and to run away now would lose him his winter's schooling, on which he had set great store. He made up his mind to face the punishment as best he could, fleeing only as a last resort if the beating should be unendurable. "Now," said the master to Jack, "will you tell me who put that gunpowder in the stove? If you don't, I'll take it out of your skin." Jack could not bear to tell, especially under a threat. I think that boys are not wholly right in their notion that it is dishonorable to inform on a school-mate, especially in the case of so bad an offence as that of which Will and Ben were guilty. But, on the other hand, the last thing a master ought to seek is to turn boys into habitual spies and informers on one another. In the present instance, Jack ought, perhaps, to have told, for the offence was criminal; but it is hard for a high-spirited lad to yield to a brutal threat. Jack caught sight of Susan Lanham telegraphing from behind the master, by spelling with her fingers: "Tell or run." But he could not make up his mind to do either, though Bob Holliday had again mysteriously opened the western door. The master summoned all his strength and struck him half a dozen blows, that made poor Jack writhe. Then he walked up and down the room awhile, to give the victim time to consider whether he would tell or not. "Run," spelled out Susan on her fingers. "The school-house is on fire!" called out Bob Holliday. Some of the coals that had spilled from the capsized stove were burning the floor--not dangerously, but Bob wished to make a diversion. He rushed for a pail of water in the corner, and all the rest, aching with suppressed excitement, crowded around the fallen stove, so that it was hard for the master to tell whether there was any fire or not. Bob whispered to Jack to "cut sticks," but Jack only went to his seat. "Lay hold, boys, and let's put up the stove," said Bob, taking the matter quite out of the master's hands. Of course, the stove-pipe would not fit without a great deal of trouble. Did ever stove-pipe go together without trouble? Somehow, all the joints that Bob joined together flew asunder over and over again, though he seemed to work most zealously to get the stove set up. After half an hour of this confusion, the pipe was fixed, and the master, having had time, like the stove, to cool off, and seeing Jack bent over his book, concluded to let the matter drop. But there are some matters that, once taken up, are hard to drop. CHAPTER X JACK AND HIS MOTHER Jack went home that night very sore on his back and in his feelings. He felt humiliated to be beaten like a dog, and even a dog feels degraded in being beaten. He told his mother about it--the tall, dignified, sweet-faced mother, patient in trouble and full of a goodness that did not talk much about goodness. She always took it for granted that _her_ boy would not do anything mean, and thus made a healthy atmosphere for a brave boy to grow in. Jack told her of his whipping, with some heat, while he sat at supper. She did not say much then, but after Jack's evening chores were all finished, she sat down by the candle where he was trying to get out some sums, and questioned him carefully. "Why didn't you tell who did it?" she asked. "Because it makes a boy mean to tell, and all the boys would have thought me a sneak." "It is a little hard to face a general opinion like that," she said. "But," said Jack, "if I had told, the master would have whipped Columbus all the same, and the boys would probably have pounded him, too. I ought to have told beforehand," said Jack, after a pause. "But I thought it was only some coffee-nuts that they had put in. The mean fellows, to let Columbus take a whipping for them! But the way Mr. Ball beats us is enough to make a boy mean and cowardly." After a long silence, the mother said: "I think we shall have to give it up, Jack." "What, mother?" "The schooling for this winter. I don't want you to go where boys are beaten in that way. In the morning, go and get your books and see what you can do at home." Then, after a long pause, in which neither liked to speak, Mrs. Dudley said: "I want you to be an educated man. You learn quickly; you have a taste for books, and you will be happier if you get knowledge. If I could collect the money that Gray owes your father's estate, or even a part of it, I should be able to keep you in school one winter after this. But there seems to be no hope for that." "But Gray is a rich man, isn't he?" "Yes, he has a good deal of property, but not in his own name. He persuaded your father, who was a kind-hearted and easy-natured man, to release a mortgage, promising to give him some other security the next week. But, meantime, he put his property in such a shape as to cheat all his creditors. I don't think we shall ever get anything." "I am going to be an educated man, anyhow." "But you will have to go to work at something next fall," said the mother. "That will make it harder, but I mean to study a little every day. I wish I could get a chance to spend next winter in school." "We'll see what can be done." And long after Jack went to bed that night the mother sat still by the candle with her sewing, trying to think what she could do to help her boy to get on with his studies. Jack woke up after eleven o'clock, and saw her light still burning in the sitting-room. "I say, mother," he called out, "don't you sit there worrying about me. We shall come through this all right." Some of Jack's hopefulness got into the mother's heart, and she took her light and went to bed. Weary, and sore, and disappointed, Jack did not easily get to sleep himself after his cheerful speech to his mother. He lay awake long, making boy's plans for his future. He would go and collect money by some hook or crook from the rascally Gray; he would make a great invention; he would discover a gold mine; he would find some rich cousin who would send him through college; he would----, but just then he grew more wakeful and realized that all his plans had no foundation of probability. CHAPTER XI COLUMBUS AND HIS FRIENDS When he waked up in the morning, Jack remembered that he had not seen Columbus Risdale go past the door after his cow the evening before, and he was afraid that he might be ill. Why had he not thought to go down and drive up the cow himself? It was yet early, and he arose and went down to the little rusty, brown, unpainted house in which the Risdales, who were poor people, had their home. Just as he pushed open the gate, Bob Holliday came out of the door, looking tired and sleepy. "Hello, Bob!" said Jack. "How's Columbus? Is he sick?" "Awful sick," said Bob. "Clean out of his head all night." "Have you been here all night?" "Yes, I heerd he was sick last night, and I come over and sot up with him." "You good, big-hearted Bob!" said Jack. "You're the best fellow in the world, I believe." "What a quare feller you air to talk, Jack," said Bob, choking up. "Air you goin' to school to-day?" "No. Mother'd rather have me not go any more." "I'm not going any more. I hate old Ball. Neither's Susan Lanham going. She's in there," and Bob made a motion toward the house with his thumb, and passed out of the gate, while Jack knocked at the door. He was admitted by Susan. "Oh, Jack! I'm so glad to see you," she whispered. "Columbus has asked for you a good many times during the night. You've stood by him splendidly." Jack blushed, but asked how Lummy was now. "Out of his head most of the time. Bob Holliday stayed with him all night. What a good fellow Bob Holliday is!" "I almost hugged him, just now," said Jack, and Susan couldn't help smiling at this frank confession. Jack passed into the next room as stealthily as possible, that he might not disturb his friend, and paused by the door. Mrs. Risdale sat by the bedside of Columbus, who was sleeping uneasily, his curious big head and long, thin hair making a strange picture against the pillow. His face looked more meagre and his eyes more sunken than ever before, but there was a feverish flush on his wan cheeks, and the slender hands moved uneasily on the outside of the blue coverlet, the puny arms were bare to the elbows. Mrs. Risdale beckoned Jack to come forward, and he came and stood at the bed-foot. Then Columbus opened his large eyes and fixed them on Jack for a few seconds. "Come, Jack, dear old fellow," he whispered. Jack came and bent over him with tearful eyes, and the poor little reed-like arms were twined about his neck. "Jack," he sobbed, "the master's right over there in the corner all the time, straightening out his long switches. He says he's going to whip me again. But you won't let him, will you, Jack, you good old fellow?" "No, he shan't touch you." "Let's run away, Jack," he said, presently. And so the poor little fellow went on, his great, disordered brain producing feverish images of terror from which he continually besought "dear good old Jack" to deliver him. When at last he dropped again into a troubled sleep, Jack slipped away and drove up the Risdale cow, and then went back to his breakfast. He was a boy whose anger kindled slowly; but the more he thought about it, the more angry he became at the master who had given Columbus such a fright as to throw him into a brain fever, and at the "mean, sneaking contemptible villains," as he hotly called them, who wouldn't come forward and confess their trick, rather than to have the poor little lad punished. "I suppose we ought to make some allowances," his mother said, quietly. "That's what you always say, mother. You're always making allowances." After breakfast and chores, Jack thought to go again to see his little friend. On issuing from the gate, he saw Will Riley and Ben Berry waiting for him at the corner. Whether they meant to attack him or not he could not tell, but he felt too angry to care. "I say, Jack," said Riley, "how did you know who put the powder in the stove? Did Columbus tell you?" "Mind your own business," said Jack, in a tone not so polite as it might be. "The less you say about gunpowder, hereafter, the better for you both. Why didn't you walk up and tell, and save that little fellow a beating?" "Look here, Jack," said Berry, "don't you tell what you know about it. There's going to be a row. They say that Doctor Lanham's taken Susan, and all the other children, out of school, because the master thrashed Lummy, and they say Bob Holliday's quit, and that you're going to quit, and Doctor Lanham's gone to work this morning to get the master put out at the end of the term. Mr. Ball didn't know that Columbus was kin to the Lanhams, or he'd have let him alone, like he does the Lanhams and the Weathervanes. There is going to be a big row, and everybody'll want to know who put the powder in the stove. We want you to be quiet about it." "You _do_?" said Jack, with a sneer. "_You_ do?" "Yes, we do," said Riley, coaxingly. "You do? _You_ come to _me_ and ask me to keep it secret, after letting me and that poor little baby take your whipping! You want me to hide what you did, when that poor little Columbus lies over there sick abed and like to die, all because you sneaking scoundrels let him be whipped for what you did!" "Is he sick?" said Riley, in terror. "Going to die, I expect," said Jack, bitterly. "Well," said Ben Berry, "you be careful what you say about us, or we'll get Pewee to get even with you." "Oh, that's your game! You think you can scare me, do you?" Jack grew more and more angry. Seeing a group of school-boys on the other side of the street, he called them over. "Look here, boys," said Jack, "I took a whipping yesterday to keep from telling on these fellows, and now they have the face to ask me not to tell that they put the powder in the stove, and they promise me a beating from Pewee if I do. These are the two boys that let a poor sickly baby take the whipping they ought to have had. They have just as good as killed him, I suppose, and now they come sneaking around here and trying to scare me in keeping still about it. I didn't back down from the master, and I won't from Pewee. Oh, no! I won't tell anybody. But if any of you boys should happen to guess that Will Riley and Ben Berry were the cowards who did that mean trick, I am not going to say they weren't. It wouldn't be of any use to deny it. There are only two boys in school mean enough to play such a contemptible trick as that." Riley and Berry stood sheepishly silent, but just here Pewee came in sight, and seeing the squad of boys gathered around Jack, strode over quickly and pushed his sturdy form into the midst. "Pewee," said Riley, "I think you ought to pound Jack. He says you can't back him down." "I didn't," said Jack. "I said _you_ couldn't scare me out of telling who tried to blow up the school-house stove, and let other boys take the whipping, by promising me a drubbing from Pewee Rose. If Pewee wants to put himself in as mean a crowd as yours, and be your puppy-dog to fight for you, let him come on. He's a fool if he does, that's all I have to say. The whole town will want to ship you two fellows off before night, and Pewee isn't going to fight your battles. What do you think, Pewee, of fellows that put powder in a stove where they might blow up a lot of little children? What do you think of two fellows that want me to keep quiet after they let little Lum Risdale take a whipping for them, and that talk about setting you on to me if I tell?" Thus brought face to face with both parties, King Pewee only looked foolish and said nothing. Jack had worked himself into such a passion that he could not go to Risdale's, but returned to his own home, declaring that he was going to tell everybody in town. But when he entered the house and looked into the quiet, self-controlled face of his mother, he began to feel cooler. "Let us remember that some allowances are to be made for such boys," was all that she said. "That's what you always say, Mother," said Jack, impatiently. "I believe you'd make allowances for the Old Boy himself." "That would depend on his bringing up," smiled Mrs. Dudley. "Some people have bad streaks naturally, and some have been cowed and brutalized by ill-treatment, and some have been spoiled by indulgence." Jack felt more calm after a while. He went back to the bedside of Columbus, but he couldn't bring himself to make allowances. CHAPTER XII GREENBANK WAKES UP If the pigeons had not crossed the valley on Monday, nobody would have played truant, and if nobody had played truant on Monday, there would not have been occasion to whip three boys on Tuesday morning, and if Ben Berry and Riley had escaped a beating on Tuesday morning, they would not have thought of putting gunpowder into the stove on Wednesday at noon, and if they had omitted that bad joke, Columbus would not have got into trouble and run away from school, and if he had escaped the fright and the flight, he might not have had the fever, and the town would not have been waked up, and other things would not have happened. So then, you see, this world of ours is just like the House that Jack Built: one thing is tied to another and another to that, and that to this, and this to something, and something to something else, and so on to the very end of all things. So it was that the village was thrown into a great excitement as the result of a flock of innocent pigeons going over the heads of some lazy boys. In the first place, Susan Lanham talked about things. She talked to her aunts, and she talked to her uncles, and, above all, she talked to her father. Now Susan was the brightest girl in the town, and she had a tongue, as all the world knew, and when she set out to tell people what a brute the old master was, how he had beaten two innocent boys, how bravely Jack had carried himself, how frightened little Columbus was, and how sick it had made him, and how mean the boys were to put the powder there, and then to let the others take the whipping,--I say, when Susan set out to tell all these things, in her eloquent way, to everybody she knew, you might expect a waking up in the sleepy old town. Some of the people took Susan's side and removed their children from the school, lest they, too, should get a whipping and run home and have brain fever. But many stood up for the old master, mostly because they were people of the sort that never can bear to see anything changed. "The boys ought to have told who put the powder in the stove," they said. "It served them right." "How could the master know that Jack and Columbus did not do it themselves?" said others. "Maybe they did!" "Don't tell me!" cried old Mrs. Horne. "Don't tell me! Boys can't be managed without whipping, and plenty of it. 'Bring up a child and away he goes,' as the Bible says. When you hire a master, you want a _master_, says I." "What a tongue that Sue Lanham has got!" said Mr. Higbie, Mr. Ball's brother-in-law. The excitement spread over the whole village. Doctor Lanham talked about it, and the ministers, and the lawyers, and the loafers in the stores, and the people who came to the post-office for their letters. Of course, it broke out furiously in the "Maternal Association," a meeting of mothers held at the house of one of the ministers. "Mr. Ball can do every sum in the arithmetic," urged Mrs. Weathervane. "He's a master hand at figures, they do say," said Mother Brownson. "Yes," said Mrs. Dudley, "I don't doubt it. Jack's back is covered with figures of Mr. Ball's making. For my part, I should rather have a master that did his figuring on a slate." Susan Lanham got hold of this retort, and took pains that it should be known all over the village. When Greenbank once gets waked up on any question, it never goes to sleep until that particular question is settled. But it doesn't wake up more than once or twice in twenty years. Most of the time it is only talking in its sleep. Now that Greenbank had its eyes open for a little time, it was surprised to see that while the cities along the river had all adopted graded schools,--_de_-graded schools, as they were called by the people opposed to them,--and while even the little villages in the hill country had younger and more enlightened teachers, the county-town of Greenbank had made no advance. It employed yet, under the rule of President Fillmore, the same hard old stick of a master that had beaten the boys in the log school-house in the days of John Quincy Adams and Andrew Jackson. But, now it was awake, Greenbank kept its eyes open on the school question. The boys wrote on the fences, in chalk: DOWN WITH OLD BAWL! and thought the bad spelling of the name a good joke, while men and women began to talk about getting a new master. Will Riley and Ben Berry had the hardest time. For the most part they stayed at home during the excitement, only slinking out in the evening. The boys nicknamed them "Gunpowder cowards," and wrote the words on the fences. Even the loafers about the street asked them whether Old Ball had given them that whipping yet, and how they liked "powder and Ball." CHAPTER XIII PROFESSOR SUSAN Mr. Ball did not let go easily. He had been engaged for the term, and he declared that he would go on to the end of the term, if there should be nothing but empty benches. In truth, he and his partisans hoped that the storm would blow over and the old man be allowed to go on teaching and thrashing as heretofore. He had a great advantage in that he had been trained in all the common branches better than most masters, and was regarded as a miracle of skill in arithmetical calculations. He even knew how to survey land. Jack was much disappointed to miss his winter's schooling, and there was no probability that he would be able to attend school again. He went on as best he could at home, but he stuck fast on some difficult problems in the middle of the arithmetic. Columbus had by this time begun to recover his slender health, and he was even able to walk over to Jack's house occasionally. Finding Jack in despair over some of his "sums," he said: "Why don't you ask Susan Lanham to show you? I believe she would; and she has been clean through the arithmetic, and she is 'most as good as the master himself." "I don't like to," said Jack. "She wouldn't want to take the trouble." But the next morning Christopher Columbus managed to creep over to the Lanhams: "Cousin Sukey," he said, coaxingly, "I wish you'd do something for me. I want to ask a favor of you." [Illustration: "COUSIN SUKEY," SAID LITTLE COLUMBUS, "I WANT TO ASK A FAVOR OF YOU."] "What is it, Columbus?" said Sue. "Anything you ask shall be given, to the half of my kingdom!" and she struck an attitude, as Isabella of Castile, addressing the great Columbus, with the dust-brush for a sceptre, and the towel, which she had pinned about her head, for a crown. "You are so funny," he said, with a faint smile. "But I wish you'd be sober a minute." "Haven't had but one cup of coffee this morning. But what do you want?" "Jack----" "Oh, yes, it's always Jack with you. But that's right--Jack deserves it." "Jack can't do his sums, and he won't ask you to help him." "And so he got you to ask?" "No, he didn't. He wouldn't let me, if he knew. He thinks a young lady like you wouldn't want to take the trouble to help him." "Do you tell that stupid Jack, that if he doesn't want to offend me so that I'll never, never forgive him, he is to bring his slate and pencil over here after supper this evening. And you'll come, too, with your geography. Yours truly, Susan Lanham, Professor of Mathematics and Natural Science in the Greenbank Independent and Miscellaneous Academy. Do you hear?" "All right." And Columbus, smiling faintly, went off to tell Jack the good news. That evening Susan had, besides her own brother and two sisters, two pupils who learned more arithmetic than they would have gotten in the same time from Mr. Ball, though she did keep them laughing at her drollery. The next evening, little Joanna Merwin joined the party, and Professor Susan felt quite proud of her "academy," as she called it. Bob Holliday caught the infection, and went to studying at home. As he was not so far advanced as Jack, he contented himself with asking Jack's help when he was in trouble. At length, he had a difficulty that Jack could not solve. "Why don't you take that to the professor?" asked Jack. "I'll ask her to show you." "I dursn't," said Bob, with a frightened look. "Nonsense!" said Jack. That evening, when the lessons were ended, Jack said: "Professor Susan, there was a story in the old First Reader we had in the first school that I went to, about a dog who had a lame foot. A doctor cured his foot, and some time after, the patient brought another lame dog to the doctor, and showed by signs that he wanted this other dog cured, too." "That's rather a good dog-story," said Susan. "But what made you think of it?" "Because I'm that first dog." "You are?" "Yes. You've helped me, but there's Bob Holliday. I've been helping him, but he's got to a place where I don't quite understand the thing myself. Now Bob wouldn't dare ask you to help him----" "Bring him along. How the Greenbank Academy grows!" laughed Susan, turning to her father. Bob was afraid of Susan at first--his large fingers trembled so much that he had trouble to use his slate-pencil. But by the third evening his shyness had worn off, so that he got on well. One evening, after a week of attendance, he was missing. The next morning he came to Jack's house with his face scratched and his eye bruised. "What's the matter?" asked Jack. "Well, you see, yesterday I was at the school-house at noon, and Pewee, egged on by Riley, said something he oughtn't to, about Susan, and I couldn't stand there and hear that girl made fun of, and so I up and downed him, and made him take it back. I can't go till my face looks better, you know, for I wouldn't want her to know anything about it." But the professor heard all about it from Joanna, who had it from one of the school-boys. Susan sent Columbus to tell Bob that she knew all about it, and that he must come back to school. "So you've been fighting, have you?" she said, severely, when Bob appeared. The poor fellow was glad she took that tone--if she had thanked him he wouldn't have been able to reply. "Yes." "Well, don't you do it any more. It's very wrong to fight. It makes boys brutal. A girl with ability enough to teach the Greenbank Academy can take care of herself, and she doesn't want her scholars to fight." "All right," said Bob. "But," he muttered, "I'll thrash him all the same, and more than ever, if he ever says anything like that again." CHAPTER XIV CROWING AFTER VICTORY Greenbank was awake, and the old master had to go. Mr. Weathervane stood up for him as long as he thought that the excitement was temporary. But when he found that Greenbank really was awake, and not just talking in its sleep, as it did for the most part, he changed sides,--not all at once, but by degrees. At first he softened down a little, "hemmed and hawed," as folks say. He said he did not know but that Mr. Ball had been hasty, but he meant well. The next day he took another step, and said that the old master meant well, but he was _often_ too hasty in his temper. The next week he let himself down another peg in saying that "maybe" the old man meant well, but he was altogether too hot in his temper for a school-master. A little while later, he found out that Mr. Ball's way of teaching was quite out of date. Before a month had elapsed, he was sure that the old curmudgeon ought to be put out, and thus at last Mr. Weathervane found himself where he liked to be, in the popular party. And so the old master came to his last day in the brick school-house. Whatever feelings he may have had in leaving behind him the scenes of his twenty-five years of labor, he said nothing. He only compressed his lips a little more tightly, scowled as severely as ever, removed his books and pens from his desk, gave a last look at his long beech switches on the wall, turned the key in the door of the school-house, carried it to Mr. Weathervane, received his pay, and walked slowly home to the house of his brother-in-law, Mr. Higbie. The boys had resolved to have a demonstration. All their pent-up wrath against the master now found vent, since there was no longer any danger that the old man would have a chance to retaliate. They would serenade him. Bob Holliday was full of it. Harry Weathervane was very active. He was going to pound on his mother's bread-pan. Every sort of instrument for making a noise was brought into requisition. Dinner-bells, tin-pails, conch-shell dinner-horns, tin-horns, and even the village bass-drum, were to be used. Would Jack go? Bob came over to inquire. All the boys were going to celebrate the downfall of a harsh master. He deserved it for beating Columbus. So Jack resolved to go. But after the boys had departed, Jack began to doubt whether he ought to go or not. It did not seem quite right; yet his feelings had become so enlisted in the conflict for the old man's removal, that he had grown to be a bitter partisan, and the recollection of all he had suffered, and of all Columbus had endured during his sickness, reconciled Jack to the appearance of crowing over a fallen foe, which this burlesque serenade would have. Nevertheless, his conscience was not clear on the point, and he concluded to submit the matter to his mother, when she should come home to supper. Unfortunately for Jack, his mother stayed away to tea, sending Jack word that he would have to get his own supper, and that she would come home early in the evening. Jack ate his bowl of bread and milk in solitude, trying to make himself believe that his mother would approve of his taking part in the "shiveree" of the old master. But when he had finished his supper, he concluded that if his mother did not come home in time for him to consult her, he would remain at home. He drew up by the light and tried to study, but he longed to be out with the boys. After a while Bob Holliday and Harry Weathervane came to the door and importuned Jack to come with them. It was lonesome at home; it would be good fun to celebrate the downfall of the old master's cruel rule, so, taking down an old dinner-bell, Jack went off to join the rest. He was a little disgusted when he found Riley, Pewee, and Ben Berry in the company, but once in the crowd, there was little chance to back out with credit. The boys crept through the back alleys until they came in front of Mr. Higbie's house, at half past eight o'clock. There was but one light visible, and that was in Mr. Ball's room. Jack dropped behind, a little faint of heart about the expedition. He felt sure in himself that his mother would shake her head if she knew of it. At length, at a signal from Bob, the tin pans, big and little, the skillet-lids grinding together, the horns, both conch-shell and tin, and the big bass-drum, set up a hideous clattering, banging, booming, roaring, and racketing. Jack rang his dinner-bell rather faintly, and stood back behind all the rest "Jack's afraid," said Pewee. "Why don't you come up to the front, like a man?" Jack could not stand a taunt like this, but came forward into the cluster of half-frightened peace-breakers. Just then, the door of Mr. Higbie's house was opened, and some one came out. "It's Mr. Higbie," said Ben Berry. "He's going to shoot." "It's Bugbee, the watchman, going to arrest us," said Pewee. "It's Mr. Ball himself," said Riley, "and he'll whip us all." And he fled, followed pell-mell by the whole crowd, excepting Jack, who had a constitutional aversion to running away. He only slunk up close to the fence and so stood still. "Hello! Who are you?" The voice was not that of Mr. Higbie, nor that of the old master, nor of the watchman, Bugbee. With some difficulty, Jack recognized the figure of Doctor Lanham. "Oh, it's Jack Dudley, is it?" said the doctor, after examining him in the feeble moonlight. "Yes," said Jack, sheepishly. "You're the one that got that whipping from the old master. I don't wonder you came out to-night." "I do," said Jack, "and I would rather now that I had taken another such whipping than to find myself here." "Well, well," said the doctor, "boys will be boys." "And fools will be fools, I suppose," said Jack. "Mr. Ball is very ill," continued the doctor. "Find the others and tell them they mustn't come here again to-night, or they'll kill him. I wouldn't have had this happen for anything. The old man's just broken down by the strain he has been under. He has deserved it all, but I think you might let him have a little peace now." "So do I," said Jack, more ashamed of himself than ever. The doctor went back into the house, and Jack Dudley and his dinner-bell started off down the street in search of Harry Weathervane and his tin pan, and Bob Holliday and his skillet-lids, and Ben Berry and the bass-drum. "Hello, Jack!" called out Bob from an alley. "You stood your ground the best of all, didn't you?" "I wish I'd stood my ground in the first place against you and Harry, and stayed at home." "Why, what's the matter? Who was it?" By this time the other boys were creeping out of their hiding-places and gathering about Jack. "Well, it was the doctor," said Jack. "Mr. Ball's very sick and we've 'most killed him; that's all. We're a pack of cowards to go tooting at a poor old man when he's already down, and we ought to be kicked, every one of us. That's the way I feel about it," and Jack set out for home, not waiting for any leave-taking with the rest, who, for their part, slunk away in various directions, anxious to get their instruments of noise and torment hidden away out of sight. Jack stuck the dinner-bell under the hay in the stable-loft, whence he could smuggle it into the house before his mother should get down-stairs in the morning. Then he went into the house. "Where have you been?" asked Mrs. Dudley. "I came home early so that you needn't be lonesome." "Bob Holliday and Harry Weathervane came for me, and I found it so lonesome here that I went out with them." "Have you got your lessons?" "No, ma'am," said Jack, sheepishly. He was evidently not at ease, but his mother said no more. He went off to bed early, and lay awake a good part of the night. The next morning he brought the old dinner-bell and set it down in the very middle of the breakfast-table. Then he told his mother all about it. And she agreed with him that he had done a very mean thing. CHAPTER XV AN ATTEMPT TO COLLECT Three times a week the scholars of the "Greenbank Academy" met at the house of Dr. Lanham to receive instruction from Professor Susan, for the school trustees could not agree on a new teacher. Some of the people wanted one thing, and some another; a lady teacher was advocated and opposed; a young man, an old man, a new-fashioned man, an old-fashioned man, and no teacher at all for the rest of the present year, so as to save money, were projects that found advocates. The division of opinion was so great that the plan of no school at all was carried because no other could be. So Susan's class went on for a month, and grew to be quite a little society, and then it came to an end. One evening, when the lessons were finished, Professor Susan said: "I am sorry to tell you that this is the last lesson I can give." And then they all said "Aw-w-w-w-w!" in a melancholy way. "I am going away to school myself," Susan went on. "My father thinks I ought to go to Mr. Niles's school at Port William." "I shouldn't think you'd need to go any more," said Joanna Merwin. "I thought you knew everything." "Oh, bless me!" cried Susan. In former days the people of the interior--the Mississippi Valley--which used then to be called "the West," were very desirous of education for their children. But good teachers were scarce. Ignorant and pretentious men, incompetent wanderers from New England, who had grown tired of clock-peddling, or tin-peddling, and whose whole stock was assurance, besides impostors of other sorts, would get places as teachers because teachers were scarce and there were no tests of fitness. Now and then a retired Presbyterian minister from Scotland or Pennsylvania, or a college graduate from New England, would open a school in some country town. Then people who could afford it would send their children from long distances to board near the school, and learn English grammar, arithmetic, and, in some cases, a little Latin, or, perhaps, to fit themselves for entrance to some of the sturdy little country colleges already growing up in that region. At Port William, in Kentucky, there was at this time an old minister, Mr. Niles, who really knew what he professed to teach, and it was to his school that Dr. Lanham was now about to send Susan; Harvey Collins and Henry Weathervane had already entered the school. But for poor boys like Jack, and Bob Holliday, and Columbus, who had no money with which to pay board, there seemed no chance. The evening on which Susan's class broke up, there was a long and anxious discussion between Jack Dudley and his mother. "You see, Mother, if I could get even two months in Mr. Niles's school, I could learn some Latin, and if I once get my fingers into Latin, it is like picking bricks out of a pavement; if I once get a start, I can dig it out myself. I am going to try to find some way to attend that school." But the mother only shook her head. "Couldn't we move to Port William?" said Jack. "How could we? Here we have a house of our own, which couldn't easily be rented. There we should have to pay rent, and where is the money to come from?" "Can't we collect something from Gray?" Again Mrs. Dudley shook her head. But Jack resolved to try the hardhearted debtor, himself. It was now four years since Jack's father had been persuaded to release a mortgage in order to relieve Francis Gray from financial distress. Gray had promised to give other security, but his promise had proved worthless. Since that time he had made lucky speculations and was now a man rather well off, but he kept all his property in his wife's name, as scoundrels and fraudulent debtors usually do. All that Jack and his mother had to show for the one thousand dollars with four years' interest due them, was a judgment against Francis Gray, with the sheriff's return of "no effects" on the back of the writ of execution against the property "of the aforesaid Francis Gray." For how could you get money out of a man who was nothing in law but an agent for his wife? But Jack believed in his powers of persuasion, and in the softness of the human heart. He had never had to do with a man in whom the greed for money had turned the heart to granite. Two or three days later Jack heard that Francis Gray, who lived in Louisville, had come to Greenbank. Without consulting his mother, lest she should discourage him, Jack went in pursuit of the slippery debtor. He had left town, however, to see his fine farm, three miles away, a farm which belonged in law to Mrs. Gray, but which belonged of right to Francis Gray's creditors. Jack found Mr. Gray well-dressed and of plausible manners. It was hard to speak to so fine a gentleman on the subject of money. For a minute, Jack felt like backing out. But then he contrasted his mother's pinched circumstances with Francis Gray's abundance, and a little wholesome anger came to his assistance. He remembered, too, that his cherished projects for getting an education were involved, and he mustered courage to speak. "Mr. Gray, my name is John Dudley." Jack thought that there was a sign of annoyance on Gray's face at this announcement. "You borrowed a thousand dollars of my father once, I believe." "Yes, that is true. Your father was a good friend of mine." "He released a mortgage so that you could sell a piece of property when you were in trouble." "Yes, your father was a good friend to me. I acknowledge that. I wish I had money enough to pay that debt. It shall be the very first debt paid when I get on my feet again, and I expect to get on my feet, as sure as I live." "But, you see, Mr. Gray, while my mother is pinched for money, you have plenty." "It's all Mrs. Gray's money. She has plenty. I haven't anything." "But I want to go to school to Port William. My mother is too poor to help me. If you could let me have twenty-five dollars----" "But, you see, I can't. I haven't got twenty-five dollars to my name, that I can control. But by next New Year's I mean to pay your mother the whole thousand that I owe her." This speech impressed Jack a little, but remembering how often Gray had broken such promises, he said: "Don't you think it a little hard that you and Mrs. Gray are well off, while my mother is so poor, all because you won't keep your word given to my father?" "But, you see, I haven't any money, excepting what Mrs. Gray lets me have," said Mr. Gray. "She seems to let you have what you want. Don't you think, if you coaxed her, she would lend you twenty-five dollars till New Year's, to help me go to school one more term?" Francis Gray was a little stunned by this way of asking it. For a moment, looking at the entreating face of the boy, he began to feel a disposition to relent a little. This was new and strange for him. To pay twenty-five dollars that he was not obliged by any self-interest to pay, would have been an act contrary to all his habits and to all the business maxims in which he had schooled himself. Nevertheless, he fingered his papers a minute in an undecided way, and then he said that he couldn't do it. If he began to pay creditors in that way "it would derange his business." "But," urged Jack, "think how much my father deranged his business to oblige you, and now you rob me of my own money, and of my chance to get an education." Mr. Gray was a little ruffled, but he got up and went out of the room. When Jack looked out of the window a minute later, Gray was riding away down the road without so much as bidding the troublesome Jack good-morning. There was nothing for Jack to do but to return to town and make the best of it. But all the way back, the tired and discouraged boy felt that his last chance of becoming an educated man had vanished. He told his mother about his attempt on Mr. Gray's feelings and of his failure. They discussed the matter the whole evening, and could see no chance for Jack to get the education he wanted. "I mean to die a-trying," said Jack, doggedly, as he went off to bed. CHAPTER XVI AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION The next day but one, there came a letter to Mrs. Dudley that increased her perplexity. "Your Aunt Hannah is sick," she said to Jack, "and I must go to take care of her. I don't know what to do with you." "I'll go to Port William to school," said Jack. "See if I don't." "How?" asked his mother. "We don't know a soul on that side of the river. You couldn't make any arrangement." "Maybe I can," said Jack. "Bob Holliday used to live on the Indiana side, opposite Port William. I mean to talk with him." Bob was setting onions in one of the onion-patches which abounded about Greenbank, and which were, from March to July, the principal sources of pocket-money to the boys. Jack thought best to wait until the day's work was finished. Then he sat, where Greenbank boys were fond of sitting, on the sloping top-board of a broad fence, and told his friend Bob of his eager desire to go to Port William. "I'd like to go, too," said Bob. "This is the last year's schooling I'm to have." "Don't you know any house, or any place, where we could keep 'bach' together?" "W'y, yes," said Bob; "if you didn't mind rowing across the river every day, I've got a skiff, and there's the old hewed-log house on the Indianny side where we used to live. A body might stay as long as he pleased in that house, I guess. Judge Kane owns it, and he's one of the best-hearted men in the country." "It's eight miles down there," said Jack. "Only seven if you go by water," said Bob. "Let's put out to-morry morning early. Let's go in the skiff; we can row and cordelle it up the river again, though it is a job." Bright and early, the boys started down the river, rowing easily with the strong, steady current of the Ohio, holding their way to Judge Kane's, whose house was over against Port William. This Judge Kane was an intelligent and wealthy farmer, liked by everybody. He was not a lawyer, but had once held the office of "associate judge," and hence the title, which suited his grave demeanor. He looked at the two boys out of his small, gray, kindly eyes, hardly ever speaking a word. He did not immediately answer when they asked permission to occupy the old, unused log-house, but got them to talk about their plans, and watched them closely. Then he took them out to see his bees. He showed them his ingenious hives and a bee-house which he had built to keep out the moths by drawing chalk-lines about it, for over these lines the wingless grub of the moth could not crawl. Then he showed them a glass hive, in which all the processes of the bees' housekeeping could be observed. After that, he took the boys to the old log-house, and pointed out some holes in the roof that would have to be fixed. And even then he did not give them any answer to their request, but told them to stay to dinner and he would see about it, all of which was rather hard on boyish impatience. They had a good dinner of fried chicken and biscuits and honey, served in the neatest manner by the motherly Mrs. Kane. Then the Judge suggested that they ought to see Mr. Niles about taking them into the school. So his skiff was launched, and he rowed with them across the river, which is here about a mile wide, to Port William. Here he introduced them to Mr. Niles, an elderly man, a little bent and a little positive in his tone, as is the habit of teachers, but with true kindness in his manner. The boys had much pleasure at recess time in greeting their old school-mates, Harvey Collins, Henry Weathervane, and, above all, Susan Lanham, whom they called Professor. These three took a sincere interest in the plans of Bob and Jack, and Susan spoke a good word for them to Mr. Niles, who, on his part, offered to give Jack Latin without charging him anything more than the rates for scholars in the English branches. Then they rowed back to Judge Kane's landing, where he told them they could have the house without rent, and that they could get slabs and other waste at his little sawmill to fix up the cracks. Then he made kindly suggestions as to the furniture they should bring--mentioning a lantern, an ax, and various other articles necessary for a camp life. They bade him good-bye at last, and started home, now rowing against the current and now cordelling along the river shore, when they grew tired of rowing. In cordelling, one sits in the skiff and steers, while the other walks on the shore, drawing the boat by a rope over the shoulders. The work of rowing and cordelling was hard, but they carried light and hopeful hearts. Jack was sure now that he should overcome all obstacles and get a good education. As for Bob, he had no hope higher than that of worrying through vulgar fractions before settling down to hard work. CHAPTER XVII HOUSEKEEPING EXPERIENCES Mrs. Dudley having gone to Cincinnati the next day to attend her sister, who was ill, Jack was left to make his arrangements for housekeeping with Bob. Each of the boys took two cups, two saucers, two plates, and two knives and forks. Things were likely to get lost or broken, and therefore they provided duplicates. Besides, they might have company to dinner some day, and, moreover, they would need the extra dishes to "hold things," as Jack expressed it. They took no tumblers, but each was provided with a tin cup. Bob remembered the lantern, and Jack put in an ax. They did not take much food; they could buy that of farmers or in Port William. They got a "gang," or, as they called it, a "trot-line," to lay down in the river for catfish, perch, and shovel-nose sturgeon, for there was no game-law then. Bob provided an iron pot to cook the fish in, and Jack a frying-pan and tea-kettle. Their bedding consisted of an empty tick, to be filled with straw in Judge Kane's barn, some equally empty pillow-ticks, and a pair of brown sheets and two blankets. But, with one thing and another, the skiff was well loaded. A good many boys stood on the bank as they embarked, and among them was Columbus, who had a feeling that his best friends were about to desert him, and who would gladly have been one of the party if he could have afforded the expense. In the little crowd which watched the embarkation was Hank Rathbone, an old hunter and pioneer, who made several good suggestions about their method of loading the boat. "But where's your stove?" he asked. "Stove?" said Bob. "We can't take a stove in this thing. There's a big old fire-place in the house that'll do to cook by." "But hot weather's comin' soon," said old Hank, "and then you'll want to cook out in the air, I reckon. Besides, it takes a power of wood for a fire-place. If one of you will come along with me to the tin-shop, I'll have a stove made for you, of the best paytent-right sort, that'll go into a skiff, and that won't weigh more'n three or four pounds and won't cost but about two bits." Jack readily agreed to buy as good a thing as a stove for twenty-five cents, and so he went with Hank Rathbone to the tin-shop, stopping to get some iron on the way. Two half-inch round rods of iron five feet long were cut and sharpened at each end. Then the ends were turned down so as to make on each rod two pointed legs of eighteen inches in length, and thus leave two feet of the rod for a horizontal piece. "Now," said the old hunter, "you drive about six inches of each leg into the ground, and stand them about a foot apart. Now for a top." [Illustration: OLD HANK'S PLAN FOR A STOVE] For this he had a piece of sheet-iron cut out two feet long and fourteen inches wide, with a round kettle-hole near one end. The edges of the long sides of the sheet-iron were bent down to fit over the rods. "Lay that over your rods," said Hank, "and you've got a stove two foot long, one foot high, and more than one foot wide, and you can build your fire of chips, instid of logs. You can put your tea-kittle, pot, pipkin, griddle, skillet, _or_ gridiron on to the hole"--the old man eyed it admiringly. "It's good for bilin', fryin', _or_ brilin', and all fer two bits. They ain't many young couples gits set up as cheap as that!" An hour and a half of rowing downstream brought the boys to the old cabin. The life there involved more hard work than they had expected. Notwithstanding Jack's experience in helping his mother, the baking of corn-bread, and the frying of bacon or fish were difficult tasks, and both the boys had red faces when supper was on the table. But, as time wore on, they became skilful, and though the work was hard, it was done patiently and pretty well. Between cooking, and cleaning, and fixing, and getting wood, and rowing to school and back, there was not a great deal of time left for study out of school, but Jack made a beginning in Latin, and Bob perspired quite as freely over the addition of fractions as over the frying-pan. They rarely had recreation, excepting that of taking the fish off their trot-line in the morning, when there were any on it. Once or twice they allowed themselves to visit an Indian mound or burial-place on the summit of a neighboring hill, where idle boys and other loungers had dug up many bones and thrown them down the declivity. Jack, who had thoughts of being a doctor, made an effort to gather a complete Indian skeleton, but the dry bones had become too much mixed up. He could not get any three bones to fit together, and his man, as he tried to put him together, was the most miscellaneous creature imaginable,--neither man, woman, nor child. Bob was a little afraid to have these human ruins stored under the house, lest he might some night see a ghost with war-paint and tomahawk; but Jack, as became a boy of scientific tastes, pooh-poohed all superstitions or sentimental considerations in the matter. He told Bob that, if he should ever see the ghost which that framework belonged to, it would be the ghost of the whole Shawnee tribe, for there were nearly as many individuals represented as there were bones in the skeleton. The one thing that troubled Jack was that he couldn't get rid of the image of Columbus as they had seen him when they left Greenbank, standing sorrowfully on the river bank. The boys often debated between themselves how they could manage to have him one of their party, but they were both too poor to pay the small tuition fees, though his board would not cost much. They could not see any way of getting over the difficulty, but they talked with Susan about it, and Susan took hold of the matter in her fashion by writing to her father on the subject. The result of her energetic effort was that one afternoon, as they came out of school, when the little packet-steamer was landing at the wharf, who should come ashore but Christopher Columbus, in his best but thread-bare clothes, tugging away at an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which was too much for him to carry. Bob seized the carpet-bag and almost lifted the dignified little lad himself off his feet in his joyful welcome, while Jack, finding nothing else to do, stood still and hurrahed. They soon had the dear little spindle-shanks and his great carpet-bag stowed away in the skiff. As they rowed to the north bank of the river, Columbus explained how Dr. Lanham had undertaken to pay his expenses, if the boys would take him into partnership, but he said he was 'most afraid to come, because he couldn't chop wood, and he wasn't good for much in doing the work. "Never mind, honey," said Bob. "Jack and I don't care whether you work or not. You are worth your keep, any time." "Yes," said Jack, "we even tried hard yesterday to catch a young owl to make a pet of, but we couldn't get it. You see, we're so lonesome." "I suppose I'll do for a pet owl, won't I?" said little Columbus, with a strange and quizzical smile on his meagre face. And as he sat there in the boat, with his big head and large eyes, the name seemed so appropriate that Bob and Jack both laughed outright. But the Pet Owl made himself useful in some ways. I am sorry to say that the housekeeping of Bob and Jack had not always been of the tidiest kind. They were boys, and they were in a hurry. But Columbus had the tastes of a girl about a house. He did not do any cooking or chopping to speak of, but he fixed up. He kept the house neat, cleaned the candlestick every morning, and washed the windows now and then, and as spring advanced he brought in handfuls of wild flowers. The boys declared that they had never felt at home in the old house until the Pet Owl came to be its mistress. He wouldn't let anything be left around out of place, but all the pots, pans, dishes, coats, hats, books, slates, the lantern, the boot-jack, and other slender furniture, were put in order before school time, so that when they got back in the afternoon the place was inviting and home-like. When Judge Kane and his wife stopped during their Sunday-afternoon stroll, to see how the lads got on, Mrs. Kane praised their housekeeping. "That is all the doings of the Pet Owl," said Bob. "Pet Owl? Have you one?" asked Mrs. Kane. The boys laughed, and Bob explained that Columbus was the pet. That evening, the boys had a box of white honey for supper, sent over by Mrs. Kane, and the next Saturday afternoon Jack and Bob helped Judge Kane finish planting his corn-field. One unlucky day, Columbus discovered Jack's box of Indian bones under the house, and he turned pale and had a fit of shivering for a long time afterward. It was necessary to move the box into an old stable to quiet his shuddering horror. The next Sunday afternoon, the Pet Owl came in with another fit of terror, shivering as before. "What's the matter now, Lummy?" said Jack. "Have you seen any more Indians?" "Pewee and his crowd have gone up to the Indian Mound," said Columbus. "Well, let 'em go," said Bob. "I suppose they know the way, don't they? I should like to see them. I've been so long away from Greenbank that even a yellow dog from there would be welcome." CHAPTER XVIII GHOSTS Jack and Bob had to amuse Columbus with stories, to divert his mind from the notion that Pewee and his party meant them some harm. The Indian burying-ground was not an uncommon place of resort on Sundays for loafers and idlers, and now and then parties came from as far as Greenbank, to have the pleasure of a ride and the amusement of digging up Indian relics from the cemetery on the hill. This hill-top commanded a view of the Ohio River for many miles in both directions, and of the Kentucky River, which emptied into the Ohio just opposite. I do not know whether the people who can find amusement in digging up bones and throwing them down-hill enjoy scenery or not, but I have heard it urged that even some dumb animals, as horses, enjoy a landscape; and I once knew a large dog, in Switzerland, who would sit enchanted for a long time on the brink of a mountain cliff, gazing off at the lake below. It is only fair to suppose, therefore, that even these idle diggers in Indian mounds had some pleasure in looking from a hill-top; at any rate, they were fond of frequenting this one. Pewee, and Riley, and Ben Berry, and two or three others of the same feather, had come down on this Sunday to see the Indian Mound and to find any other sport that might lie in their reach. When they had dug up and thrown away down the steep hill-side enough bones to satisfy their jackal proclivities, they began to cast about them for some more exciting diversion. As there were no water-melon patches nor orchards to be robbed at this season of the year, they decided to have an egg-supper, and then to wait for the moon to rise after midnight before starting to row and cordelle their two boats up the river again to Greenbank. The fun of an egg-supper to Pewee's party consisted not so much in the eggs as in the manner of getting them. Every nest in Judge Kane's chicken-house was rummaged that night, and Mrs. Kane found next day that all the nest-eggs were gone, and that one of her young hens was missing also. About dark, little Allen Mackay, a round-bodied, plump-faced, jolly fellow who lived near the place where the skiffs were landed, and who had spent the afternoon at the Indian Mound, came to the door of the old log-house. "I wanted to say that you fellows have always done the right thing by me. You've set me acrost oncet or twicet, and you've always been 'clever' to me, and I don't want to see no harm done you. You'd better look out to-night. They's some chaps from Greenbank down here, and they're in for a frolic, and somebody's hen-roost'll suffer, I guess; and they don't like you boys, and they talked about routing you out to-night." "Thank you," said Jack. "Let 'em rout," said Bob. But the poor little Pet Owl was all in a cold shudder again. About eleven o'clock, King Pewee's party had picked the last bone of Mrs. Kane's chicken. It was yet an hour and a half before the moon would be up, and there was time for some fun. Two boys from the neighborhood, who had joined the party, agreed to furnish dough-faces for them all. Nothing more ghastly than masks of dough can well be imagined, and when the boys all put them on, and had turned their coats wrong-side out, they were almost afraid of one another. "Now," said Riley, "Pewee will knock at the door, and when they come with their lantern or candle, we'll all rush in and howl like Indians." "How do Indians howl?" asked Ben Berry. "Oh, any way--like a dog or a wolf, you know. And then they'll be scared to death, and we'll just pitch their beds, and dishes, and everything else out of the door, and show them how to clean house." Riley didn't know that Allen Mackay and Jack Dudley, hidden in the bushes, heard this speech, nor that Jack, as soon as he had heard the plan, crept away to tell Bob at the house what the enemy proposed to do. As the crowd neared the log-house, Riley prudently fell to the rear, and pushed Pewee to the front. There was just the faintest whitening of the sky from the coming moon, but the large apple-trees in front of the log-house made it very dark, and the dough-face crowd were obliged almost to feel their way as they came into the shadow of these trees. Just as Riley was exhorting Pewee to knock at the door, and the whole party was tittering at the prospect of turning Bob, Jack, and Columbus out of bed and out of doors, they all stopped short and held their breaths. "Good gracious! Julius Caesar! sakes alive!" whispered Riley. "What--wh--what is that?" Nobody ran. All stood as though frozen in their places. For out from behind the corner of the house came slowly a skeleton head. It was ablaze inside, and the light shone out of all the openings. The thing had no feet, no hands, and no body. It actually floated through the air, and now and then joggled and danced a little. It rose and fell, but still came nearer and nearer to the attacking party of dough-faces, who for their part could not guess that Bob Holliday had put a lighted candle into an Indian's skull, and then tied this ghost's lantern to a wire attached to the end of a fishing-rod, which he operated from behind the house. Pewee's party drew close together, and Riley whispered hoarsely: "The house is ha'nted." Just then the hideous and fiery death's-head made a circuit, and swung, grinning, into Riley's face, who could stand no more, but broke into a full run toward the river. At the same instant Jack tooted a dinner-horn, Judge Kane's big dog ran barking out of the log-house, and the enemy were routed like the Midianites before Gideon. Their consternation was greatly increased at finding their boats gone, for Allen Mackay had towed them into a little creek out of sight, and hidden the oars in an elder thicket. Riley and one of the others were so much afraid of the ghosts that "ha'nted" the old house, that they set out straightway for Greenbank, on foot. Pewee and the others searched everywhere for the boats, and at last sat down and waited for daylight. Just as day was breaking, Bob Holliday came down to the river with a towel, as though for a morning bath. Very accidentally, of course, he came upon Pewee and his party, all tired out, sitting on the bank in hope that day might throw some light on the fate of their boats. "Hello, Pewee! You here? What's the matter?" said Bob, with feigned surprise. "Some thief took our skiffs. We've been looking for them all night, and can't find them." "That's curious," said Bob, sitting down and leaning his head on his hand. "Where did you get supper last night?" "Oh! we brought some with us." "Look here, Pewee, I'll bet I can find your boats." "How?" "You give me money enough among you to pay for the eggs and the chicken you had for supper, and I'll find out who hid your boats and where the oars are, and it'll all be square." Pewee was now sure that the boat had been taken as indemnity for the chicken and the eggs. He made every one of the party contribute something until he had collected what Bob thought sufficient to pay for the stolen things, and Bob took it and went up and found Judge Kane, who had just risen, and left the money with him. Then he made a circuit to Allen Mackay's, waked him up, and got the oars, which they put into the boats; and pushing these out of their hiding-place, they rowed them into the river, delivering them to Pewee and company, who took them gratefully. Jack and Columbus had now made their appearance, and as Pewee got into his boat, he thought to repay Bob's kindness with a little advice. "I say, if I was you fellers, you know, I wouldn't stay in that old cabin a single night." "Why?" asked Jack. "Because," said Pewee, "I've heerd tell that it is ha'nted." "Ghosts aren't anything when you get used to them," said Jack. "We don't mind them at all." "Don't you?" said Pewee, who was now rowing against the current. "No," said Bob, "nor dough-faces, neither." CHAPTER XIX THE RETURN HOME As Mr. Niles's school-term drew to a close, the two boys began to think of their future. "I expect to work with my hands, Jack," said Bob; "I haven't got a head for books, as you have. But I'd like to know a _leetle_ more before I settle down. I wish I could make enough at something to be able to go to school next winter." "If I only had your strength and size, Bob, I'd go to work for somebody as a farmer. But I have more than myself to look after. I must help mother after this term is out. I must get something to do, and then learning will be slow business. They talk about Ben Franklin studying at night and all that, but it's a little hard on a fellow who hasn't the constitution of a Franklin. Still, I'm going to have an education, by hook or crook." At this point in the conversation, Judge Kane came in. As usual, he said little, but he got the boys to talk about their own affairs. "When do you go home?" he asked. "Next Friday evening, when school is out," said Jack. "And what are you going to do?" he asked of Bob. "Get some work this summer, and then try to get another winter of schooling next year," was the answer. "What kind of work?" "Oh, I can farm better than I can do anything else," said Bob. "And I like it, too." And then Judge Kane drew from Jack a full account of his affairs, and particularly of the debt due from Gray, and of his interview with Gray. "If you could get a few hundred dollars, so as to make your mother feel easy for a while, living as she does in her own house, you could go to school next winter." "Yes, and then I could get on after that, somehow, by myself, I suppose," said Jack. "But the few hundred dollars is as much out of my reach as a million would be, and my father used to say that it was a bad thing to get into the way of figuring on things that we could never reach." The Judge sat still, and looked at Jack out of his half-closed gray eyes for a minute in silence. "Come up to the house with me," he said, rising. Jack followed him to the house, where the Judge opened his desk and took out a red-backed memorandum-book, and dictated while Jack copied in his own handwriting the description of a piece of land on a slip of paper. "If you go over to school, to-morrow, an hour earlier than usual," he said, "call at the county clerk's office, show him your memorandum, and find out in whose name that land stands. It is timber-land five miles back, and worth five hundred dollars. When you get the name of the owner, you will know what to do; if not, you can ask me, but you'd better not mention my name to anybody in this matter." Jack thanked Mr. Kane, but left him feeling puzzled. In fact, the farmer-judge seemed to like to puzzle people, or at least he never told anything more than was necessary. The next morning, the boys were off early to Port William. Jack wondered if the land might belong to his father, but then he was sure his father never had any land in Kentucky. Or, was it the property of some dead uncle or cousin, and was he to find a fortune, like the hero of a cheap story? But when the county clerk, whose office it is to register deeds in that county, took the little piece of paper, and after scanning it, took down some great deed-books and mortgage-books, and turned the pages awhile, and then wrote "Francis Gray, owner, no incumbrance," on the same slip with the description, Jack had the key to Mr. Kane's puzzle. It was now Thursday forenoon, and Jack was eager on all accounts to get home, especially to see the lawyer in charge of his father's claim against Mr. Gray. So the next day at noon, as there was nothing left but the closing exercises, the three boys were excused, and bade good-bye to their teacher and school-mates, and rowed back to their own side of the river. They soon had the skiff loaded, for all three were eager to see the folks at Greenbank. Jack's mother had been at home more than a week, and he was the most impatient of the three. But they could not leave without a good-bye to Judge Kane and his wife, to which good-bye they added a profusion of bashful boyish thanks for kindness received. The Judge walked to the boat-landing with them. Jack began to tell him about the land. "Don't say anything about it to me, nor to anybody else but your lawyer," said Mr. Kane; "and do not mention my name. You may say to your lawyer that the land has just changed hands, and the matter must be attended to soon. It won't stand exposed in that way long." When the boys were in the boat ready to start, Mr. Kane said to Bob: "You wouldn't mind working for me this summer at the regular price?" "I'd like to," said Bob. "How soon can you come?" "Next Wednesday evening." "I'll expect you," said the Judge, and he turned away up the bank, with a slight nod and a curt "Good-bye," while Bob said: "What a curious man he is!" "Yes, and as good as he's curious," added Jack. It was a warm day for rowing, but the boys were both a little homesick. Under the shelter of a point where the current was not too strong the two rowed and made fair headway, sometimes encountering an eddy which gave them a lift. But whenever the current set strongly toward their side of the river, and whenever they found it necessary to round a point, one of them would leap out on the pebbly beach and, throwing the boat-rope over his shoulder, set his strength against the stream. The rope, or _cordelle_,--a word that has come down from the first French travellers and traders in the great valley,--was tied to the row-locks. It was necessary for one to steer in the stern while the other played tow-horse, so that each had his turn at rest and at work. After three hours' toil the wharf-boat of the village was in sight, and all sorts of familiar objects gladdened their hearts. They reached the landing, and then, laden with things, they hurriedly cut across the commons to their homes. As soon as Jack's first greeting with his mother was over, she told him that she thought she might afford him one more quarter of school. "No," said Jack, "you've pinched yourself long enough for me; now it's time I should go to work. If you try to squeeze out another quarter of school for me you'll have to suffer for it. Besides, I don't see how you can do it, unless Gray comes down, and I think I have now in my pocket something that will make him come down." And Jack's face brightened at the thought of the slip of paper in the pocket of his roundabout. Without observing the last remark, nor the evident elation of Jack's feelings, Mrs. Dudley proceeded to tell him that she had been offered a hundred and twenty dollars for her claim against Gray. "Who offered it?" asked Jack. "Mr. Tinkham, Gray's agent. Maybe Gray is buying up his own debts, feeling tired of holding property in somebody else's name." "A hundred and twenty dollars for a thousand! The rascal! I wouldn't take it," broke out Jack, impetuously. "That's just the way I feel, Jack. I'd rather wait forever, if it wasn't for your education. I can't afford to have you lose that. I'm to give an answer this evening." "We won't do it," said Jack. "I've got a memorandum here," and he took the slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it, "that'll bring more money out of him than that. I'm going to see Mr. Beal at once." Mrs. Dudley looked at the paper without understanding just what it was, and, without giving her any further explanation, but only a warning to secrecy, Jack made off to the lawyer's office. "Where did you get this?" asked Mr. Beal. "I promised not to mention his name--I mean the name of the one who gave me that. I went to the clerk's office with the description, and the clerk wrote the words: 'Francis Gray, owner, no incumbrance.'" "I wish I had had it sooner," said the lawyer. "It will be best to have our judgment recorded in that county to-morrow," he continued. "Could you go down to Port William?" "Yes, sir," said Jack, a little reluctant to go back. "I could if I must." "I don't think the mail will do," added Mr. Beal. "This thing came just in time. We should have sold the claim to-night. This land ought to fetch five hundred dollars." Mr. Tinkham, agent for Francis Gray, was much disappointed that night when Mrs. Dudley refused to sell her claim against Gray. "You'll never get anything any other way," he said. "Perhaps not, but we've concluded to wait," said Mrs. Dudley. "We can't do much worse if we get nothing at all." After a moment's reflection, Mr. Tinkham said: "I'll do a little better by _you_, Mrs. Dudley. I'll give you a hundred and fifty. That's the very best I _can_ do." "I will not sell the claim at present," said Mrs. Dudley. "It is of no use to offer." It would have been better if Mrs. Dudley had not spoken so positively. Mr. Tinkham was set a-thinking. Why wouldn't the widow sell? Why had she changed her mind since yesterday? Why did Mr. Beal, the lawyer, not appear at the consultation? All these questions the shrewd little Tinkham asked himself, and all these questions he asked of Francis Gray that evening. CHAPTER XX A FOOT-RACE FOR MONEY "They've got wind of something," said Mr. Tinkham to Mr. Gray, "or else they are waiting for you to resume payment,--or else the widow's got money from somewhere for her present necessities." "I don't know what hope they can have of getting money out of me," said Gray, with a laugh. "I've tangled everything up, so that Beal can't find a thing to levy on. I have but one piece of property exposed, and that's not in this State." "Where is it?" asked Tinkham. "It's in Kentucky, five miles back of Port William. I took it last week in a trade, and I haven't yet made up my mind what to do with it." "That's the very thing," said Tinkham, with his little face drawn to a point,--"the very thing. Mrs. Dudley's son came home from Port William yesterday, where he has been at school. They've heard of that land, I'm afraid; for Mrs. Dudley is very positive that she will not sell the claim at any price." "I'll make a mortgage to my brother on that land, and send it off from the mail-boat as I go down to-morrow," said Gray. "That'll be too late," said Tinkham. "Beal will have his judgment recorded as soon as the packet gets there. You'd better go by the packet, get off, and see the mortgage recorded yourself, and then take the mail-boat." To this Gray agreed, and the next day, when Jack went on board the packet "Swiftsure," he found Mr. Francis Gray going aboard also. Mr. Beal had warned Jack that he must not let anybody from the packet get to the clerk's office ahead of him,--that the first paper deposited for record would take the land. Jack wondered why Mr. Francis Gray was aboard the packet, which went no farther than Madison, while Mr. Gray's home was in Louisville. He soon guessed, however, that Gray meant to land at Port William, and so to head him off. Jack looked at Mr. Gray's form, made plump by good feeding, and felt safe. He couldn't be very dangerous in a foot-race. Jack reflected with much hopefulness that no boy in school could catch him in a straight-away run when he was fox. He would certainly leave the somewhat puffy Mr. Francis Gray behind. But in the hour's run down the river, including two landings at Minuit's and Craig's, Jack had time to remember that Francis Gray was a cunning man and might head him off by some trick or other. A vague fear took possession of him, and he resolved to be first off the boat before any pretext could be invented to stop him. Meantime, Francis Gray had looked at Jack's lithe legs with apprehension. "I can never beat that boy," he had reflected. "My running days are over." Finding among the deck passengers a young fellow who looked as though he needed money, Gray approached him with this question: "Do you belong in Port William, young man?" "I don't belong nowhere else, I reckon," answered the seedy fellow, with shuffling impudence. "Do you know where the county clerk's office is?" asked Mr. Gray. "Yes, and the market-house. I can show you the way to the jail, too, if you want to know; but I s'pose you've been there many a time," laughed the "wharf rat." Gray was irritated at this rudeness, but he swallowed his anger. "Would you like to make five dollars?" "Now you're talkin' interestin'. Why didn't you begin at that eend of the subjick? I'd like to make five dollars as well as the next feller, provided it isn't to be made by too much awful hard work." "Can you run well?" "If they's money at t'other eend of the race I can run like sixty _fer a spell_. 'Tain't my common gait, howsumever." "If you'll take this paper," said Gray, "and get it to the county clerk's office before anybody else gets there from this boat, I'll give you five dollars." "Honor bright?" asked the chap, taking the paper, drawing a long breath, and looking as though he had discovered a gold mine. "Honor bright," answered Gray. "You must jump off first of all, for there's a boy aboard that will beat you if he can. No pay if you don't win." "Which is the one that'll run ag'in' me?" asked the long-legged fellow. Gray described Jack, and told the young man to go out forward and he would see him. Gray was not willing to be seen with the "wharf-rat," lest suspicions should be awakened in Jack Dudley's mind. But after the shabby young man had gone forward and looked at Jack, he came back with a doubtful air. "That's Hoosier Jack, as we used to call him," said the shabby young man. "He an' two more used to row a boat acrost the river every day to go to ole Niles's school. He's a hard one to beat,--they say he used to lay the whole school out on prisoners' base, and that he could leave 'em all behind on fox." "You think you can't do it, then?" asked Gray. "Gimme a little start and I reckon I'll fetch it. It's up-hill part of the way and he may lose his wind, for it's a good half-mile. You must make a row with him at the gang-plank, er do somethin' to kinder hold him back. The wind's down stream to-day and the boat's shore to swing in a little aft. I'll jump for it and you keep him back." To this Gray assented. As the shabby young fellow had predicted, the boat did swing around in the wind, and have some trouble in bringing her bow to the wharf-boat. The captain stood on the hurricane-deck calling to the pilot to "back her," "stop her," "go ahead on her," "go ahead on yer labberd," and "back on yer stabberd." Now, just as the captain was backing the starboard wheel and going ahead on his larboard, so as to bring the boat around right, Mr. Gray turned on Jack. "What are you treading on my toes for, you impudent young rascal?" he broke out. Jack colored and was about to reply sharply, when he caught sight of the shabby young fellow, who just then leaped from the gunwale of the boat amidships and barely reached the wharf. Jack guessed why Gray had tried to irritate him,--he saw that the well-known "wharf-rat" was to be his competitor. But what could he do? The wind held the bow of the boat out, the gang-plank which had been pushed out ready to reach the wharf-boat was still firmly grasped by the deck-hands, and the farther end of it was six feet from the wharf, and much above it. It would be some minutes before any one could leave the boat in the regular way. There was only one chance to defeat the rascally Gray. Jack concluded to take it. He ran out upon the plank amidst the harsh cries of the deck-hands, who tried to stop him, and the oaths of the mate, who thundered at him, with the stern order of the captain from the upper deck, who called out to him to go back. But, luckily, the steady pulling ahead of the larboard engine, and the backing of the starboard, began just then to bring the boat around, the plank sank down a little under Jack's weight, and Jack made the leap to the wharf, hearing the confused cries, orders, oaths, and shouts from behind him, as he pushed through the crowd. "Stop that thief!" cried Francis Gray to the people on the wharf-boat, but in vain. Jack glided swiftly through the people, and got on shore before anybody could check him. He charged up the hill after the shabby young fellow, who had a decided lead, while some of the men on the wharf-boat pursued them both, uncertain which was the thief. Such another pell-mell race Port William had never seen. Windows flew up and heads went out. Small boys joined the pursuing crowd, and dogs barked indiscriminately and uncertainly at the heels of everybody. There were cries of "Hurrah for long Ben!" and "Hurrah for Hoosier Jack!" Some of Jack's old school-mates essayed to stop him to find out what it was all about, but he would not relax a muscle, and he had no time to answer any questions. He saw the faces of the people dimly; he heard the crowd crying after him, "Stop, thief!" he caught a glimpse of his old teacher, Mr. Niles, regarding him with curiosity as he darted by; he saw an anxious look in Judge Kane's face as he passed him on a street corner. But Jack held his eyes on Long Ben, whom he pursued as a dog does a fox. He had steadily gained on the fellow, but Ben had too much the start, and, unless he should give out, there would be little chance for Jack to overtake him. One thinks quickly in such moments. Jack remembered that there were two ways of reaching the county clerk's office. To keep the street around the block was the natural way,--to take an alley through the square was neither longer nor shorter. But by running down the alley he would deprive Long Ben of the spur of seeing his pursuer, and he might even make him think that Jack had given out. Jack had played this trick when playing hound and fox, and at any rate he would by this turn shake off the crowd. So into the alley he darted, and the bewildered pursuers kept on crying "Stop, thief!" after Long Ben, whose reputation was none of the best. Somebody ahead tried to catch the shabby young fellow, and this forced Ben to make a slight curve, which gave Jack the advantage, so that just as Ben neared the office, Jack rounded a corner out of an alley, and entered ahead of him, dashed up to the clerk's desk and deposited the judgment. "For record," he gasped. The next instant the shabby young fellow pushed forward the mortgage. "Mine first!" cried Long Ben. "I'll take yours when I get this entered," said the clerk quietly, as became a public officer. "I got here first," said Long Ben. But the clerk looked at the clock and entered the date on the back of Jack's paper, putting "one o'clock and eighteen minutes" after the date. Then he wrote "one o'clock and nineteen minutes" on the paper which Long Ben handed him. The office was soon crowded with people discussing the result of the race, and a part of them were even now in favor of seizing one or the other of the runners for a theft, which some said had been committed on the packet, and others declared was committed on the wharf-boat. Francis Gray came in, and could not conceal his chagrin. "I meant to do the fair thing by you," he said to Jack, severely, "but now you'll never get a cent out of me." "I'd rather have the law on men like you, than have a thousand of your sort of fair promises," said Jack. "I've a mind to strike you," said Gray. "The Kentucky law is hard on a man who strikes a minor," said Judge Kane, who had entered at that moment. Mr. Niles came in to learn what was the matter, and Judge Kane, after listening quietly to the talk of the people, until the excitement subsided, took Jack over to his house, whence the boy trudged home in the late afternoon full of hopefulness. Gray's land realized as much as Mr. Beal expected, and Jack studied hard all summer, so as to get as far ahead as possible by the time school should begin in the autumn. CHAPTER XXI THE NEW TEACHER The new teacher who was employed to take the Greenbank school in the autumn was a young man from college. Standing behind the desk hitherto occupied by the grim-faced Mr. Ball, young Williams looked very mild by contrast. He was evidently a gentle-spirited man as compared with the old master, and King Pewee and his crowd were gratified in noting this fact. They could have their own way with such a master as that! When he called the school to order, there remained a bustle of curiosity and mutual recognition among the children. Riley and Pewee kept up a little noise by way of defiance. They had heard that the new master did not intend to whip. Now he stood quietly behind his desk, and waited a few moments in silence for the whispering group to be still. Then he slowly raised and levelled his finger at Riley and Pewee, but still said nothing. There was something so firm and quiet about his motion--something that said, "I will wait all day, but you must be still"--that the boys could not resist it. By the time they were quiet, two of the girls had got into a titter over something, and the forefinger was aimed at them. The silent man made the pupils understand that he was not to be trifled with. When at length there was quiet, he made every one lay down book or slate and face around toward him. Then with his pointing finger, or with a little slap of his hands together, or with a word or two at most, he got the school still again. "I hope we shall be friends," he said, in a voice full of kindliness. "All I want is to----" But at this point Riley picked up his slate and book, and turned away. The master snapped his fingers, but Riley affected not to hear him. "That young man will put down his slate." The master spoke in a low tone, as one who expected to be obeyed, and the slate was reluctantly put upon the desk. "When I am talking to you, I want you to hear," he went on, very quietly. "I am paid to teach you. One of the things I have to teach you is good manners. You," pointing to Riley, "are old enough to know better than to take your slate when your teacher is speaking, but perhaps you have never been taught what are good manners. I'll excuse you this time. Now, you all see those switches hanging here behind me. I did not put them there. I do not say that I shall not use them. Some boys have to be whipped, I suppose,--like mules,--and when I have tried, I may find that I cannot get on without the switches, but I hope not to have to use them." Here Riley, encouraged by the master's mildness and irritated by the rebuke he had received, began to make figures on his slate. "Bring me that slate," said the teacher. Riley was happy that he had succeeded in starting a row. He took his slate and his arithmetic, and shuffled up to the master in a half-indolent, half-insolent way. "Why do you take up your work when I tell you not to?" asked the new teacher. "Because I didn't want to waste all my morning. I wanted to do my sums." "You are a remarkably industrious youth, I take it." The young master looked Riley over, as he said this, from head to foot. The whole school smiled, for there was no lazier boy than this same Riley. "I suppose," the teacher continued, "that you are the best scholar in school--the bright and shining light of Greenbank." Here there was a general titter at Riley. "I cannot have you sit away down at the other end of the school-room and hide your excellent example from the rest. Stand right up here by me and cipher, that all the school may see how industrious you are." Riley grew very red in the face and pretended to "cipher," holding his book in his hand. "Now," said the new teacher, "I have but just one rule for this school, and I will write it on the blackboard that all may see it." He took chalk and wrote: DO RIGHT. "That is all. Let us go to our lessons." For the first two hours that Riley stood on the floor he pretended to enjoy it. But when recess came and went and Mr. Williams did not send him to his seat, he began to shift from one foot to the other and from his heels to his toes, and to change his slate from the right hand to the left. His class was called, and after recitation he was sent back to his place. He stood it as best he could until the noon recess, but when, at the beginning of the afternoon session, Mr. Williams again called his "excellent scholar" and set him up, Riley broke down and said: "I think you might let me go now." "Are you tired?" asked the cruel Mr. Williams. "Yes, I am," and Riley hung his head, while the rest smiled. "And are you ready to do what the good order of the school requires?" "Yes, sir." "Very well; you can go." The chopfallen Riley went back to his seat, convinced that it would not do to rebel against the new teacher, even if he did not use the beech switches. But Mr. Williams was also quick to detect the willing scholar. He gave Jack extra help on his Latin after school was out, and Jack grew very proud of the teacher's affection for him. CHAPTER XXII CHASING THE FOX All the boys in the river towns thirty years ago--and therefore the boys in Greenbank, also--took a great interest in the steam-boats which plied up and down the Ohio. Each had his favorite boat, and boasted of her speed and excellence. Every one of them envied those happy fellows whose lot it was to "run on the river" as cabin-boys. Boats were a common topic of conversation--their build, their engines, their speed, their officers, their mishaps, and all the incidents of their history. So it was that from the love of steam-boats, which burned so brightly in the bosom of the boy who lived on the banks of that great and lovely river, there grew up the peculiar game of "boats' names." I think the game was started at Louisville or New Albany, where the falls interrupt navigation, and where many boats of the upper and lower rivers are assembled. One day, as the warm air of Indian summer in this mild climate made itself felt, the boys assembled, on the evergreen "bluegrass," after the snack at the noon recess, to play boats' names. Through Jack's influence, Columbus, who did not like to play with the A B C boys, was allowed to take the handkerchief and give out the first name. All the rest stood up in a row like a spelling-class, while little Columbus, standing in front of them, held a knotted handkerchief with which to scourge them when the name should be guessed. The arm which held the handkerchief was so puny that the boys laughed to see the feeble lad stand there in a threatening attitude. "I say, Lum, don't hit too hard, now; my back is tender," said Bob Holliday. "Give us an easy one to guess," said Riley, coaxingly. Columbus, having come from the back country, did not know the names of half a dozen boats, and what he knew about were those which touched daily at the wharf of Greenbank. "F----n," he said. "Fashion," cried all the boys at once, breaking into unrestrained mirth at the simplicity that gave them the name of Captain Glenn's little Cincinnati and Port William packet, which landed daily at the village wharf. Columbus now made a dash at the boys, who were obliged to run to the school-house and back whenever a name was guessed, suffering a beating all the way from the handkerchief of the one who had given out the name, though, indeed, the punishment Lum was able to give was very slight. It was doubtful who had guessed first, since the whole party had cried "Fashion" almost together, but it was settled at last in favor of Harry Weathervane, who was sure to give out hard names, since he had been to Cincinnati recently, and had gone along the levee reading the names of those boats that did business above that city, and so were quite unknown, unless by report, to the boys of Greenbank. "A---- A----s," were the three letters which Harry gave, and Ben Berry guessed "Archibald Ananias," and Tom Holcroft said it was "Amanda Amos," and at last all gave it up; whereupon Harry told them it was "Alvin Adams," and proceeded to give out another. "C---- A---- P----x," he said next time. "Caps," said Riley, mistaking the x for an s; and then Bob Holliday suggested "Hats and Caps," and Jack wanted to have it "Boots and Shoes." But Johnny Meline remembered that he had read of such a name for a ship in his Sunday-school lesson of the previous Sunday, and he guessed that a steam-boat might bear that same. "I know," said Johnny, "it's Castor----" "Oil," suggested Jack. "No--Castor and P, x,--Pollux--Castor and Pollux--it's a Bible name." "You're not giving us the name of Noah's ark, are you?" asked Bob. "I say, boys, that isn't fair a bit," growled Pewee, in all earnestness. "I don't hardly believe that Bible ship's a-going now." Things were mixed in Pewee's mind, but he had a vague notion that Bible times were as much as fifty years ago. While he stood doubting, Harry began to whip him with the handkerchief, saying, "I saw her at Cincinnati, last week. She runs to Maysville and Parkersburg, you goose." After many names had been guessed, and each guesser had taken his turn, Ben Berry had to give out. He had just heard the name of a "lower country" boat, and was sure that it would not be guessed. "C----p----r," he said. "Oh, I know," said Jack, who had been studying the steam-boat column of an old Louisville paper that very morning, "it's the--the--" and he put his hands over his ears, closed his eyes, and danced around, trying to remember, while all the rest stood and laughed at his antics. "Now I've got it,--the 'Cornplanter'!" And Ben Berry whipped the boys across the road and back, after which Jack took the handkerchief. "Oh, say, boys, this is a poor game; let's play fox," Bob suggested. "Jack's got the handkerchief, let him be the first fox." So Jack took a hundred yards' start, and all the boys set out after him. The fox led the hounds across the commons, over the bars, past the "brick pond," as it was called, up the lane into Moro's pasture, along the hill-side to the west across Dater's fence into Betts's pasture; thence over into the large woods pasture of the Glade farm. In every successive field some of the hounds had run off to the flank, and by this means every attempt of Jack's to turn toward the river, and thus fetch a circuit for home, had been foiled. They had cut him off from turning through Moro's orchard or Betts's vineyard, and so there was nothing for the fleet-footed fox but to keep steadily to the west and give his pursuers no chance to make a cut-off on him. But every now and then he made a feint of turning, which threw the others out of a straight track. Once in the woods pasture, Jack found himself out of breath, having run steadily for a rough mile and a half, part of it up-hill. He was yet forty yards ahead of Bob Holliday and Riley, who led the hounds. Dashing into a narrow path through the underbrush, Jack ran into a little clump of bushes and hid behind a large black-walnut log. Riley and Holliday came within six feet of him, some of the others passed to the south of him and some to the north, but all failed to discover his lurking-place. Soon Jack could hear them beating about the bushes beyond him. This was his time. Having recovered his wind, he crept out southward until he came to the foot of the hill, and entered Glade's lane, heading straight for the river across the wide plain. Pewee, who had perched himself on a fence to rest, caught sight of Jack first, and soon the whole pack were in full cry after him, down the long, narrow, elder-bordered lane. Bob Holliday and Riley, the fleetest of foot, climbed over the high stake-and-rider fence into Betts's corn-field, and cut off a diagonal to prevent Jack's getting back toward the school-house. Seeing this movement, Jack, who already had made an extraordinary run, crossed the fence himself, and tried to make a cut-off in spite of them; but Riley already had got in ahead of him, and Jack, seeing the boys close behind and before him, turned north again toward the hill, got back into the lane, which was now deserted, and climbed into Glade's meadow on the west side of the lane. He now had a chance to fetch a sweep around toward the river again, though the whole troop of boys were between him and the school-house. Fairly headed off on the east, he made a straight run south for the river shore, striking into a deep gully, from which he came out panting upon the beach, where he had just time to hide himself in a hollow sycamore, hoping that the boys would get to the westward and give him a chance to run up the river shore for the school-house. But one cannot play the same trick twice. Some of the boys stationed themselves so as to intercept Jack's retreat toward the school-house, while the rest searched for him, beating up and down the gully, and up and down the beach, until they neared the hollow sycamore. Jack made a sharp dash to get through them, but was headed off and caught by Pewee. Just as Jack was caught, and Pewee was about to start homeward as fox, the boys caught sight of two steam-boats racing down the river. The whole party was soon perched on a fallen sycamore, watching first the "Swiftsure" and then the "Ben Franklin," while the black smoke poured from their chimneys. So fascinated were they with this exciting contest that they stayed half an hour waiting to see which should beat. At length, as the boats passed out of sight, with the "Swiftsure" leading her competitor, it suddenly occurred to Jack that it must be later than the school-hour. The boys looked aghast at one another a moment on hearing him mention this; then they glanced at the sun, already declining in the sky, and set out for school, trotting swiftly in spite of their fatigue. What would the master say? Pewee said he didn't care,--it wasn't Old Ball, and they wouldn't get a whipping, anyway. But Jack thought that it was too bad to lose the confidence of Mr. Williams. CHAPTER XXIII CALLED TO ACCOUNT Successful hounds, having caught their fox, ought to have come home in triumph; but, instead of that, they came home like dogs that had been killing sheep, their heads hanging down in a guilty and self-betraying way. Jack walked into the school-house first. It was an hour and a half past the time for the beginning of school. He tried to look unconcerned as he went to his seat. There stood the teacher, with his face very calm but very pale, and Jack felt his heart sink. One by one the laggards filed into the school-room, while the awe-stricken girls on the opposite benches, and the little A B C boys, watched the guilty sinners take their places, prepared to meet their fate. Riley came in with a half-insolent smile on his face, as if to say: "I don't care." Pewee was sullen and bull-doggish. Ben Berry looked the sneaking fellow he was, and Harry Weathervane tried to remember that his father was a school-trustee. Bob Holliday couldn't help laughing in a foolish way. Columbus had fallen out of the race before he got to the "brick-pond," and so had returned in time to be punctual when school resumed its session. During all the time that the boys, heated with their exercise and blushing with shame, were filing in, Mr. Williams stood with set face and regarded them. He was very much excited, and so I suppose did not dare to reprove them just then. He called the classes and heard them in rapid succession, until it was time for the spelling-class, which comprised all but the very youngest pupils. On this day, instead of calling the spelling-class, he said, evidently with great effort to control himself: "The girls will keep their seats. The boys will take their places in the spelling-class." Riley's lower jaw fell--he was sure that the master meant to flog them all. He was glad he was not at the head of the class. Ben Berry could hardly drag his feet to his place, and poor Jack was filled with confusion. When the boys were all in place, the master walked up and down the line and scrutinized them, while Riley cast furtive glances at the dusty old beech switches on the wall, wondering which one the master would use, and Pewee was trying to guess whether Mr. Williams's arm was strong, and whether he "would make a fellow take off his coat" or not. "Columbus," said the teacher, "you can take your seat." Riley shook in his shoes, thinking that this certainly meant a whipping. He began to frame excuses in his mind, by which to try to lighten his punishment. But the master did not take down his switches. He only talked. But such a talk! He told the boys how worthless a man was who could not be trusted, and how he had hoped for a school full of boys that could be relied on. He thought there were some boys, at least--and this remark struck Jack to the heart--that there were some boys in the school who would rather be treated as gentlemen than beaten with ox-goads. But he was now disappointed. All of them seemed equally willing to take advantage of his desire to avoid whipping them; and all of them had shown themselves _unfit to be trusted_. Here he paused long enough to let the full weight of his censure enter their minds. Then he began on a new tack. He had hoped that he might have their friendship. He had thought that they cared a little for his good opinion. But now they had betrayed him. All the town was looking to see whether he would succeed in conducting his school without whipping. A good many would be glad to see him fail. Today they would be saying all over Greenbank that the new teacher couldn't manage his school. Then he told the boys that while they were sitting on the trunk of the fallen sycamore looking at the steam-boat race, one of the trustees, Mr. Weathervane, had driven past and had seen them there. He had stopped to complain to the master. "Now," said the master, "I have found how little you care for me." This was very sharp talk, and it made the boys angry. Particularly did Jack resent any intimation that he was not to be trusted. But the new master was excited and naturally spoke severely. Nor did he give the boys a chance to explain at that time. "You have been out of school," he said, "one hour and thirty-one minutes. That is about equal to six fifteen-minute recesses--to the morning and afternoon recesses for three days. I shall have to keep you in at those six recesses to make up the time, and in addition, as a punishment, I shall keep you in school half an hour after the usual time of dismission, for three days." Here Jack made a motion to speak. "No," said the master, "I will not hear a word, now. Go home and think it over. To-morrow I mean to ask each one of you to explain his conduct." With this, he dismissed the school, and the boys went out as angry as a hive of bees that have been disturbed. Each one made his speech. Jack thought it "mean that the master should say they were not fit to be trusted. He wouldn't have stayed out if he'd known it was school-time." Bob Holliday said "the young master was a blisterer," and then he laughed good-naturedly. Harry Weathervane was angry, and so were all the rest. At length it was agreed that they didn't want to be cross-questioned about it, and that it was better that somebody should write something that should give Mr. Williams a piece of their mind, and show him how hard he was on boys that didn't mean any harm, but only forgot themselves. And Jack was selected to do the writing. Jack made up his mind that the paper he would write should be "a scorcher." CHAPTER XXIV AN APOLOGY Of course, there was a great deal of talk in the village. The I-told-you-so people were quite delighted. Old Mother Horn "always knew that boys couldn't be managed without switching. Didn't the Bible or somebody say: 'Just as the twig is bent the boy's inclined?' And if you don't bend your twig, what'll become of your boy?" The loafers and loungers and gad-abouts and gossips talked a great deal about the failure of the new plan. They were sure that Mr. Ball would be back in that school-house before the term was out, unless Williams should whip a good deal more than he promised to. The boys would just drive him out. Jack told his mother, with a grieved face, how harsh the new master had been, and how he had even said they were _not fit to be trusted_. "That's a very harsh word," said Mrs. Dudley, "but let us make some allowances. Mr. Williams is on trial before the town, and he finds himself nearly ruined by the thoughtlessness of the boys. He had to wait an hour and a half, with half of the school gone. Think how much he must have suffered in that time. And then, to have to take a rebuke from Mr. Weathervane besides, must have stung him to the quick." "Yes, that's so," said Jack, "but then he had no business to take it for granted that we did it on purpose." And Jack went about his chores, trying to think of some way of writing to the master an address which should be severe, but not too severe. He planned many things but gave them up. He lay awake in the night thinking about it, and, at last, when he had cooled off, he came to the conclusion that, as the boys had been the first offenders, they should take the first step toward a reconciliation. But whether he could persuade the angry boys to see it in that light, he did not know. When morning came, he wrote a very short paper, somewhat in this fashion: Mr. Williams: Dear Sir: We are very sorry for what we did yesterday, and for the trouble we have given you. We are willing to take the punishment, for we think we deserve it; but we hope you will not think that we did it on purpose, for we did not, and we don't like to have you think so. Respectfully submitted. Jack carried this in the first place to his faithful friend, Bob Holliday, who read it. "Oh, you've come down, have you?" said Bob. "I thought we ought to," said Jack. "We _did_ give him a great deal of trouble, and if it had been Mr. Ball, he would have whipped us half to death." "We shouldn't have forgot and gone away at that time if Old Ball had been the master," said Bob. "That's just it," said Jack; "that's the very reason why we ought to apologize." "All right," said Bob, "I'll sign her," and he wrote "Robert M. Holliday" in big letters at the top of the column intended for the names. Jack put his name under Bob's. But when they got to the school-house it was not so easy to persuade the rest. At length, however, Johnny Meline signed it, and then Harry Weathervane, and then the rest, one after another, with some grumbling, wrote their names. All subscribed to it excepting Pewee and Ben Berry and Riley. They declared they never would sign it. They didn't want to be kept in at recess and after school like convicts. They didn't deserve it. "Jack is a soft-headed fool," Riley said, "to draw up such a thing as that. I'm not afraid of the master. I'm not going to knuckle down to him, either." Of course, Pewee, as a faithful echo, said just what Riley said, and Ben Berry said what Riley and Pewee said; so that the three were quite unanimous. "Well," said Jack, "then we'll have to hand in our petition without the signatures of the triplets." "Don't you call me a triplet," said Pewee; "I've got as much sense as any of you. You're a soft-headed triplet yourself!" Even Riley had to join in the laugh that followed this blundering sally of Pewee. When the master came in, he seemed very much troubled. He had heard what had been said about the affair in the town. The address which Jack had written was lying on his desk. He took it up and read it, and immediately a look of pleasure and relief took the place of the worried look he had brought to school with him. "Boys," he said, "I have received your petition, and I shall answer it by and by." The hour for recess came and passed. The girls and the very little boys were allowed their recess, but nothing was said to the larger boys about their going out. Pewee and Riley were defiant. At length, when the school was about to break up for noon, the master put his pen, ink, and other little articles in the desk, and the school grew hushed with expectancy. "This apology," said Mr. Williams, "which I see is in John Dudley's handwriting, and which bears the signature of all but three of those who were guilty of the offence yesterday, is a very manly apology, and quite increases my respect for those who have signed it. I have suffered much from your carelessness of yesterday, but this apology, showing, as it does, the manliness of my boys, has given me more pleasure than the offence gave me pain. I ought to make an apology to you. I blamed you too severely yesterday in accusing you of running away intentionally. I take all that back." Here he paused a moment, and looked over the petition carefully. "William Riley, I don't see your name here. Why is that?" "Because I didn't put it there." Pewee and Ben Berry both laughed at this wit. "Why didn't you put it there?" "Because I didn't want to." "Have you any explanation to give of your conduct yesterday?" "No, sir; only that I think it's mean to keep us in because we forgot ourselves." "Peter Rose, have you anything to say?" "Just the same as Will Riley said." "And you, Benjamin?" "Oh, I don't care much," said Ben Berry. "Jack was fox, and I ran after him, and if he hadn't run all over creation and part of Columbia, I shouldn't have been late. It isn't any fault of mine. I think Jack ought to do the staying in." "You are about as old a boy as Jack," said the master. "I suppose Jack might say that if you and the others hadn't chased him, he wouldn't have run 'all over creation,' as you put it. You and the rest were all guilty of a piece of gross thoughtlessness. All excepting you three have apologized in the most manly way. I therefore remove the punishment from all the others entirely hereafter, deeming that the loss of this morning's recess is punishment enough for boys who can be so manly in their acknowledgments. Peter Rose, William Riley, and Benjamin Berry will remain in school at both recesses and for a half-hour after school every day for three days--not only for having forgotten their duty, but for having refused to make acknowledgment or apology." Going home that evening, half an hour after all the others had been dismissed, the triplets put all their griefs together, and resolved to be avenged on Mr. Williams at the first convenient opportunity. CHAPTER XXV KING'S BASE AND A SPELLING-LESSON As the three who usually gave the most trouble on the playground, as well as in school, were now in detention at every recess, the boys enjoyed greatly their play during these three days. It was at this time that they began to play that favorite game of Greenbank, which seems to be unknown almost everywhere else. It is called "king's base," and is full of all manner of complex happenings, sudden surprises, and amusing results. Each of the boys selected a base or goal. A row of sidewalk trees were favorite bases. There were just as many bases as boys. Some boy would venture out from his base. Then another would pursue him; a third would chase the two, and so it would go, the one who left his base latest having the right to catch. Just as Johnny Meline was about to lay hold on Jack, Sam Crashaw, having just left _his_ base, gave chase to Johnny, and just as Sam thought he had a good chance to catch Johnny, up came Jack, fresh from having touched his base, and nabbed Sam. When one has caught another, he has a right to return to his base with his prisoner, unmolested. The prisoner now becomes an active champion of the new base, and so the game goes on until all the bases are broken up but one. Very often the last boy on a base succeeds in breaking up a strong one, and, indeed, there is no end to the curious results attained in the play. Jack had never got on in his studies as at this time. Mr. Williams took every opportunity to show his liking for his young friend, and Jack's quickened ambition soon put him at the head of his classes. It was a rule that the one who stood at the head of the great spelling-class on Friday evenings should go to the foot on Monday, and so work his way up again. There was a great strife between Sarah Weathervane and Jack to see which should go to the foot the oftenest during the term, and so win a little prize that Mr. Williams had offered to the best speller in the school. As neither of them ever missed a word in the lesson, they held the head each alternate Friday evening. In this way the contest bade fair to be a tie. But Sarah meant to win the prize by fair means or foul. One Friday morning before school-time, the boys and girls were talking about the relative merits of the two spellers, Joanna maintaining that Sarah was the better, and others that Jack could spell better than Sarah. "Oh!" said Sarah Weathervane, "Jack is the best speller in school. I study till my head aches to get my lesson, but it is all the same to Jack whether he studies or not. He has a natural gift for spelling, and he spends nearly all his time on arithmetic and Latin." This speech pleased Jack very much. He had stood at the head of the class all the week, and spelling did seem to him the easiest thing in the world. That afternoon he hardly looked at his lesson. It was so nice to think he could beat Sarah Weathervane with his left hand, so to speak. When the great spelling-class was called, he spelled the words given to him, as usual, and Sarah saw no chance to get the coveted opportunity to stand at the head, go down, and spell her way up again. But the very last word given to Jack was _sacrilege_, and, not having studied the lesson, he spelled it with _e_ in the second syllable and _i_ in the last. Sarah gave the letters correctly, and when Jack saw the smile of triumph on her face, he guessed why she had flattered him that morning. Hereafter he would not depend on his natural genius for spelling. A natural genius for working is the best gift. CHAPTER XXVI UNCLAIMED TOP-STRINGS With a sinking heart, Jack often called to mind that this was his last term at school. The little money that his father had left was not enough to warrant his continuing; he must now do something for his own support. He resolved, therefore, to make the most of his time under Mr. Williams. When Pewee, Riley, and Ben Berry got through with their punishment, they sought some way of revenging themselves on the master for punishing them, and on Jack for doing better than they had done, and thus escaping punishment. It was a sore thing with them that Jack had led all the school his way, so that, instead of the whole herd following King Pewee and Prime Minister Riley into rebellion, they now "knuckled down to the master," as Riley called it, under the lead of Jack, and they even dared to laugh slyly at the inseparable "triplets." The first aim of Pewee and company was to get the better of the master. They boasted to Jack and Bob that they would fix Mr. Williams some time, and gave out to the other boys that they knew where the master spent his evenings, and they knew how to fix him. When Jack heard of this, he understood it. The teacher had a habit of spending an evening, now and then, at Dr. Lanham's, and the boys no doubt intended to play a prank on him in going or coming. There being now no moonlight, the village streets were very dark, and there was every opportunity for a trick. Riley's father's house stood next on the street to Dr. Lanham's; the lots were divided by an alley. This gave the triplets a good chance to carry out their designs. But Bob Holliday and Jack, good friends to the teacher, thought that it would be fun to watch the conspirators and defeat them. So, when they saw Mr. Williams going to Dr. Lanham's, they stationed themselves in the dark alley on the side of the street opposite to Riley's and took observations. Mr. Williams had a habit of leaving Dr. Lanham's at exactly nine o'clock, and so, just before nine, the three came out of Riley's yard, and proceeded in the darkness to the fence of Lanham's dooryard. Getting the trunk of one of the large shade-trees between him and the plotters, Jack crept up close enough to guess what they were doing and to overhear their conversation. Then he came back to Bob. "They are tying a string across the sidewalk on Lanham's side of the alley, I believe," whispered Jack, "so as to throw Mr. Williams head foremost into that mud-hole at the mouth of the alley." By this time, the three boys had finished their arrangements and retreated through the gate into the porch of the Riley house, whence they might keep a lookout for the catastrophe. "I'm going to cut that string where it goes around the tree," said Bob, and he crouched low on the ground, got the trunk of the tree between him and the Riley house, and crept slowly across the street. "I'll capture the string," said Jack, walking off to the next cross-street, then running around the block until he came to the back gate of Lanham's yard, which he entered, running up the walk to the back door. His knock was answered by Mrs. Lanham. "Why, Jack, what's the matter?" she asked, seeing him at the kitchen door, breathless. "I want to see Susan, please," he said, "and tell Mr. Williams not to go yet a minute." "Here's a mystery," said Mrs. Lanham, returning to the sitting-room, where the teacher was just rising to say good-night. "Here's Jack Dudley, at the back door, out of breath, asking for Susan, and wishing Mr. Williams not to leave the house yet." Susan ran to the back door. "Susan," said Jack, "the triplets have tied a string from the corner of your fence to the locust-tree, and they're watching from Riley's porch to see Mr. Williams fall into the mud-hole. Bob is cutting the string at the tree, and I want you to go down along the fence and untie it and bring it in. They will not suspect you if they see you." "I don't care if they do," said Susan, and she glided out to the cross-fence which ran along the alley, followed it to the front and untied the string, fetching it back with her. When she got back to the kitchen door she heard Jack closing the alley gate. He had run off to join Bob, leaving the string in Susan's hands. Dr. Lanham and the master had a good laugh over the captured string, which was made of Pewee's and Riley's top-strings, tied together. The triplets did not see Susan go to the fence. They were too intent on what was to happen to Mr. Williams. When, at length, he came along safely through the darkness, they were bewildered. "You didn't tie that string well in the middle," growled Pewee at Riley. "Yes, I did," said Riley. "He must have stepped over." "Step over a string a foot high, when he didn't know it was there?" said Pewee. "Let's go and get the string," said Ben Berry. So out of the gate they sallied, and quickly reached the place where the string ought to have been. "I can't find this end," whispered Pewee by the fence. "The string's gone!" broke out Riley, after feeling up and down the tree for some half a minute. What could have become of it? They had been so near the sidewalk all the time that no one could have passed without their seeing him. The next day, at noon-time, when Susan Lanham brought out her lunch, it was tied with Pewee's new top-string,--the best one in the school. "That's a very nice string," said Susan. "It's just like Pewee's top-string," cried Harry Weathervane. "Is it yours, Pewee?" said Susan, in her sweetest tones. "No," said the king, with his head down; "mine's at home." "I found this one, last night," said Susan. And all the school knew that she was tormenting Pewee, although they could not guess how she had got his top-string. After a while, she made a dive into her pocket, and brought out another string. "Oh," cried Johnny Meline, "where did you get that?" "I found it." "That's Will Riley's top-string," said Johnny. "It was mine. He cheated me out of it by trading an old top that wouldn't spin." "That's the way you get your top-strings, is it, Will? Is this yours?" asked the tormenting Susan. "No, it isn't." "Of course it isn't yours. You don't tie top-strings across the sidewalk at night. You're a gentleman, you are! Come, Johnny, this string doesn't belong to anybody; I'll trade with you for that old top that Will gave you for a good string. I want something to remember honest Will Riley by." Johnny gladly pocketed the string, and Susan carried off the shabby top, to the great amusement of the school, who now began to understand how she had come by the two top-strings. CHAPTER XXVII THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL, AND THE LAST CHAPTER OF THE STORY It was the last day of the spring term of school. With Jack this meant the end of his opportunity for going to school. What he should learn hereafter he must learn by himself. The money was nearly out, and he must go to work. The last day of school meant also the expiration of the master's authority. Whatever evil was done after school-hours on the last day was none of his business. All who had grudges carried them forward to that day, for thus they could revenge themselves without being called to account by the master the next day. The last day of school had no to-morrow to be afraid of. Hence, Pewee and his friends proposed to square accounts on the last day of school with Jack Dudley, whom they hated for being the best scholar, and for having outwitted them more than once. It was on the first day of June that the school ended, and Mr. Williams bade his pupils good-bye. The warm sun had by this time brought the waters of the Ohio to a temperature that made bathing pleasant, and when the school closed, all the boys, delighted with liberty, rushed to the river for a good swim together. In that genial climate one can remain in the water for hours at a time, and boys become swimmers at an early age. Just below the village a raft was moored, and from this the youthful swimmers were soon diving into the deep water like frogs. Every boy who could perform any feat of agility displayed it. One would turn a somersault in the water, and then dive from one side of the raft to another, one could float, and another swim on his back, while a third was learning to tread water. Some were fond of diving toes downward, others took headers. "The little fellows" who could not swim kept on the inside of the great raft and paddled about with the aid of slabs used for floats. Jack, who had lived for years on the banks of the Wildcat, could swim and dive like a musquash. Mr. Williams, the teacher, felt lonesome at saying good-bye to his school; and to keep the boys company as long as possible, he strolled down to the bank and sat on the grass watching the bathers below him, plunging and paddling in all the spontaneous happiness of young life. Riley and Pewee--conspirators to the last--had their plans arranged. When Jack should get his clothes on, they intended to pitch him off the raft for a good wetting, and thus gratify their long-hoarded jealousy, and get an offset to the standing joke about dough-faces and ghosts which the town had at their expense. Ben Berry, who was their confidant, thought this a capital plan. When at length Jack had enjoyed the water enough, he came out and was about to begin dressing. Pewee and Riley were close at hand, already dressed, and prepared to give Jack a farewell ducking. But just at that moment there came from the other end of the raft, and from the spectators on the bank, a wild, confused cry, and all turned to hearken. Harry Weathervane's younger brother, whose name was Andrew Jackson, and who could not swim, in dressing, had stepped too far backward and gone off the raft. He uttered a despairing and terrified scream, struck out wildly and blindly, and went down. All up and down the raft and up and down the bank there went up a cry: "Andy is drowning!" while everybody looked for somebody else to save him. The school-master was sitting on the bank, and saw the accident. He quickly slipped off his boots, but then he stopped, for Jack had already started on a splendid run down that long raft. The confused and terrified boys made a path for him quickly, as he came on at more than the tremendous speed he had always shown in games. He did not stop to leap, but ran full tilt off the raft, falling upon the drowning boy and carrying him completely under water with him. Nobody breathed during the two seconds that Jack, under water, struggled to get a good hold on Andy and to keep Andy from disabling him by his blind grappling of Jack's limbs. When at length Jack's head came above water, there was an audible sigh of relief from all the on-lookers. But the danger was not over. "Let go of my arms, Andy!" cried Jack. "You'll drown us both if you hold on that way. If you don't let go I'll strike you." Jack knew that it was sometimes necessary to stun a drowning person before you could save him, where he persisted in clutching his deliverer. But poor frightened Andy let go of Jack's arms at last. Jack was already exhausted with swimming, and he had great difficulty in dragging the little fellow to the raft, where Will Riley and Pewee Rose pulled him out of the water. But now, while all were giving attention to the rescued Andy, there occurred with Jack one of those events which people call a cramp. I do not know what to call it, but it is not a cramp. It is a kind of collapse--a sudden exhaustion that may come to the best of swimmers. The heart insists on resting, the consciousness grows dim, the will-power flags, and the strong swimmer sinks. Nobody was regarding Jack, who first found himself unable to make even an effort to climb on the raft; then his hold on its edge relaxed, and he slowly sank out of sight. Pewee saw his sinking condition first, and cried out, as did Riley and all the rest, doing nothing to save Jack, but running up and down the raft in a vain search for a rope or a pole. The school-master, having seen that Andy was brought out little worse for his fright and the water he had swallowed, was about to put on his boots when this new alarm attracted his attention to Jack Dudley. Instantly he threw off his coat and was bounding down the steep bank, along the plank to the raft, and then along the raft to where Jack had sunk entirely out of sight. Mr. Williams leaped head first into the water and made what the boys afterward called a splendid dive. Once under water he opened his eyes and looked about for Jack. At last he came up, drawing after him the unconscious and apparently lifeless form of Jack, who was taken from the water by the boys. The teacher despatched two boys to bring Dr. Lanham, while he set himself to restore consciousness by producing artificial breathing. It was some time after Dr. Lanham's arrival that Jack fully regained his consciousness, when he was carried home by the strong arms of Bob Holliday, Will Riley, and Pewee, in turn. [Illustration: BOB HOLLIDAY CARRIES HOME HIS FRIEND.] And here I must do the last two boys the justice to say that they called to inquire after Jack every day during the illness that followed, and the old animosity to Jack was never afterward revived by Pewee and his friends. On the evening after this accident and these rescues, Dr. Lanham said to Mrs. Lanham and Susan and Mr. Williams, who happened to be there again, that a boy was wanted in the new drug-store in the village, to learn the business, and to sleep in the back room, so as to attend night-calls. Dr. Lanham did not know why this Jack Dudley wouldn't be just the boy. Susan, for her part, was very sure he would be; and Mr. Williams agreed with Susan, as, indeed, he generally did. Dr. Lanham thought that Jack might be allowed to attend school in the daytime in the winter season, and if the boy had as good stuff in him as he seemed to have, there was no reason why he shouldn't come to something some day. "Come to something!" said Susan. "Come to something! Why, he'll make one of the best doctors in the country yet." And again Mr. Williams entirely agreed with Susan, Jack Dudley was sure to go up to the head of the class. Jack got the place, and I doubt not fulfilled the hope of his friends. I know this, at least, that when a year or so later his good friend and teacher, Mr. Williams, was married to his good and stanch friend, Susan Lanham, Jack's was one of the happiest faces at the wedding. 
25306	----	None 
27426	----	_Shenanigans at Sugar Creek_ SHENANIGANS AT SUGAR CREEK by PAUL HUTCHENS _Copyright 1947, by Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company_ _Set up and printed, April, 1947_ PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA _Shenanigans at Sugar Creek_ _By_ PAUL HUTCHENS WM. B. EERDMANS PUBLISHING COMPANY GRAND RAPIDS 1947 MICHIGAN 1 One tough guy in the Sugar Creek territory was enough to keep us all on the lookout all the time for different kinds of trouble. We'd certainly had plenty with Big Bob Till, who, as you maybe know, was the big brother of Little Tom Till, our newest gang member. But when a new quick-tempered boy whose name was Shorty Long, moved into the neighborhood and started coming to our school, and when Shorty and Bob began to chum around together, we never knew whether we'd get through even one day without something happening to start a fight, or get one of the gang into trouble with our teacher. On top of that, we had a _new_ teacher, a _man_ teacher at that, who didn't exactly know that most of us tried to behave ourselves most of the time. Poetry, who is the barrel-shaped member of our gang, had made up a poem about our new teacher, whom not a one of us liked very well, on account of not wanting a _new_ teacher when we'd liked our pretty lady other teacher so _extra_ well. This is the way the poem went: "_The Sugar Creek Gang had the worst of teachers And 'Black' his named was called, His round, red face had the homeliest of features, He was fat and forty and bald._" Poetry was always writing a new poem or always quoting one somebody else wrote. Maybe it was a library book that was to blame for _some_ of the trouble we had in this story, though. I'm not quite sure, but the very minute my pal, Poetry, and I saw the picture in a book called _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_, we both had a very mischievous idea come into our minds, which we couldn't get out no matter how we tried.... This is the way it happened.... Poetry and I were in his house, in fact, I was staying at his house all night one night, and just before we went to sleep, we sat up in his big bed for awhile, looking at the picture which was a full-paged glossy picture of a man school teacher away up on the roof of a country schoolhouse, and he was holding a wide board across the top of the chimney. The schoolhouse's only door was open and a gang of tough-looking boys was tumbling out, along with a lot of smoke. "Have you ever read the story?" I said to Poetry, and he said, "No, have you?" and when I said "No," we both read a part of it. The story was about a man teacher whose very bad boys in the school had locked him out of the building, and he had climbed up on the roof of the school and put a board across the chimney, and smoked them out just like a boy smokes a skunk out of a woodchuck den along Sugar Creek. _That_ put the idea in our heads, and it stayed there until a week or two after Christmas, before it got us into trouble.... Then just like a time-bomb exploding, all of a sudden that innocent idea which an innocent author had written in an innocent library book, exploded--and--Well, here goes the story. It was a swell Saturday afternoon at our house with bright sunlight on the snow and the weather just right for coasting. I was standing by our kitchen sink, getting ready to start wiping a big stack of dishes which my mom had just rinsed with steaming hot water out of the teakettle. I was just reaching for a drying towel when Mom said, "Better wash your hands first, Bill," which I had forgotten to do like I once in a while do. Right away I washed my hands with soap, in our bathroom, came back and grabbed the towel off the rack by the range, and started in carefully wiping the dishes, not exactly wanting to, on account of the clock on our mantel-shelf said it was one o'clock, and the gang was supposed to meet on Bumblebee hill right that very minute, with our sleds, and we were going to have the time of our lives coasting, and rolling in the snow, and making huge balls and snow men and everything.... You should have seen those dishes fly--that is, they _started_ to! "Be careful," Mom said, and meant it. "Those are my best dinner plates." "I will," I said, and I was for a jiffy, but my mind wasn't anywhere near those fancy plates Mom was washing and I was wiping.... In fact, there wasn't any sense in washing them anyway, 'cause they weren't the ones we had used that day at all. Why they weren't even dirty! They'd been standing on the shelf in Mom's cupboard for several months without being used. "I don't see why we have to wash them," I said, "when they aren't even dirty." "We're going to have company for dinner tomorrow," Mom explained, "and we _have_ to wash them." "Wash them _before_ we use them?" I said. It didn't make sense.... Why that very minute the gang would be hollering and screaming and coasting down the hill and having a wonderful time. "Certainly," Mom said. "We want them to sparkle so that when the table is set and the guests come in they'll see how beautiful they really are. See? Notice how dull this one is?" Mom held up one that hadn't been washed yet in her hot sudsy water nor rinsed in my hot clear water nor wiped and polished with my dry clean towel, which Mom's tea towels always were anyway, Mom being an extra clean housekeeper and couldn't help it, on account of her mother had been that way too,--and being that kind of a housekeeper is contagious, like catching the measles or smallpox or the mumps or something boys don't like. For some reason I remembered a part of a book I'd read, called _Alice in Wonderland_, and it was about a crazy queen who started to cry and say, "Oh ooooh! My finger's bleeding!"... And when Alice who was _in_ Wonderland told her to wrap her finger up or something, the queen said, "Oh no, I haven't pricked it yet"--meaning it was bleeding _before_ she had stuck a needle into it--which was a fairy story, and was crazy, so I said to Mom, "Seems funny to wash dishes _before_ they're dirty--seems like a fairy story, like having your finger start bleeding before you stick a needle in it." I knew Mom had read _Alice in Wonderland_ 'cause she'd read it to me herself when I was little. But Mom was very smart. She said, with a mischievous grin in her voice, "That's a splendid idea.... Let's _pretend_ this is _Bill Collins in Wonderland_, and get the dishes done right away. Fairy stories are always interesting, don't you think?" which I didn't, right then, but there wasn't any use arguing. In fact, Mom said it wasn't ever polite, so I quit, and said, "Who's coming for dinner tomorrow?" wondering if it might be some of the gang, and hoping it would be. I didn't know a one of the gang that would notice whether the dishes sparkled or not, although most of the gang's _Moms_ probably would. "Oh--a surprise," Mom said. "Who?" I said. "My cousin Wally and his new baby sister?" As you know, if you've read _A New Sugar Creek Mystery_, I had a homely, red-haired cousin, named Walford, who lived in the city, who had a new baby sister. Mom had been to see the baby, and also Pop, but I hadn't, and didn't want to, and certainly didn't exactly want to see my red-haired cousin, Wally, but _would_ like to see his crazy Airedale dog, and if Wally _was_ coming, I hoped he would bring the wire-haired dog along.... "It's a surprise," Mom said, and right that minute there was a whistle outside our house and at our front gate. I looked over the top of my stack of steaming dishes out through a clear place in the frosted window, and saw a fat-faced barrel-shaped boy standing with one hand which had a red mitten on it, holding onto a sled rope, and he was lifting up the latch on our wide gate with the other red-mittened hand.... There was another boy there, who, I could tell without hardly looking, was Dragonfly, on account of he is spindle-legged and has large eyes like a dragonfly's eyes are. Dragonfly had on a brand new cap with ear-muffs on it. As you maybe know, Dragonfly was always getting the gang into trouble, on account of he always was doing such crazy things without thinking. He also was allergic to nearly everything and was always sneezing at the wrong time, just when we were supposed to be quiet. Also, he was about the only one in the gang whose mother was superstitious,--such as thinking it is bad luck if a black cat crosses the road in front of you, or good luck if you find a horseshoe and hang it above one of the doors in your house. Just as Poetry had the latch of the wide gate lifted, I saw Dragonfly make a quick move, step with one foot on the iron pipe at the bottom of the gate's frame and give the gate a shove, and jump on with the other foot and ride on the gate while it was swinging open, which was something Pop wouldn't let _me_ do, and which any boy shouldn't do, on account of if he keeps on doing it, it will make the gate sag, and maybe drag on the ground.... Well, for a jiffy I forgot there was a window between me and the out-of-doors, and also that my mom was beside me, and also that my baby sister, Charlotte Ann, was asleep in Mom's bedroom in her baby bed, and without thinking I yelled real loud, "Hey, Dragonfly, you crazy goof! Don't DO that!" Right away I remembered Charlotte Ann was in the other room, on account of mom told me and also on account of Charlotte Ann woke up and made the kind of a noise a baby always makes when she wakes up and doesn't want to. Just that second, the gate Dragonfly was on was as wide open as it could go, and Dragonfly who didn't have a very good hold with his hands--and the gate being icy anyway--slipped off and went sprawling head over heels into a snowdrift in our yard.... It was a funny sight, but not very funny 'cause I heard my pop's great big voice calling from our barn, yelling something that sounded like he sounds when somebody has done something he shouldn't and is supposed to quit quick, or I'd be sorry. I made a dive for our back door, swung it open, and with one of my Mom's good plates still in my hands, and without my hat on, I rushed out on our back board walk and yelled to Poetry and Dragonfly, and said, "I'll be there in about an hour! I've got to finish tomorrow's dishes first! Better go on down the hill and tell the gang I'll be there in maybe an hour or two," which is what is called sarcasm. And Poetry yelled, "We'll come and help you!" But it wasn't a good idea, 'cause the kitchen door was still open and Mom heard me and also heard Poetry and said to me, "Bill Collins, come back in here.... The very idea! I can't have those boys coming in with all that snow. I've just scrubbed the floor!" which is why they didn't come in, and also why barrel-shaped Poetry and spindle-legged Dragonfly started building a snow man right in our front yard, while they waited for me and Mom to finish playing _Alice in Wonderland_. Pretty soon I was done, though, and grabbed my coat from its hook in the corner of the kitchen, pulled my hat on my red head, with the ear-muffs tucked inside, on account of it wasn't a very cold day, but was warm enough for the snow to pack good and for making snow balls and snow men and everything. I put on my boots at the door, said "Good-bye" to Mom and went swishing out through the snow to Poetry and Dragonfly. I could already hear the rest of the gang yelling down on Bumblebee hill, so I grabbed my sled rope which was right beside our back door, and the three of us went as fast as we could through our gate. My pop was there, looking at the gate to see if Dragonfly had been too heavy for it, and just as we left, he said, "Never ride on a gate, boys, if you want to live long." His voice was kinda fierce, like it sometimes is, and he was looking at Dragonfly; then he looked at me and winked, and I knew he wasn't mad but still didn't want any boy to be dumb enough to ride on our gate again. "Yes sir, Mr. Collins," Dragonfly said politely, and grabbed his sled rope and started on the run across the road to a place in the rail fence where I always climbed through on my way to the woods. "Wait a minute!" Pop said, and we waited. His big bushy eyebrows were straight across, so I knew he liked us all right. "What?" I said, and he said, "You boys know, of course, that your new teacher, Mr. Black, is going to keep on teaching the Sugar Creek School--that the board can't ask him to resign just because the boys in the school liked their other teacher better, nor because he has had to punish several of them with old-fashioned beech switches...." Imagine my Pop saying such things, just when we had been thinking about having a lot of fun.... "Yes sir," I said to Pop, remembering the beech switches behind the teacher's desk. "Yes sir," Poetry said politely. "Yes sir," Dragonfly yelled to him from the rail fence where he was already half-way through. We all hurried through the fence, and yelling and running and panting, we dragged our sleds through the woods to Bumblebee hill to where the gang was yelling and having a lot of fun. Well, we coasted for a long time, all of us. Even Little Tom Till, the red-haired, freckled-faced little brother of Big Bob Till who was Big Jim's worst enemy, was there. Time flew faster than anything, when all of a sudden Circus who had rolled a big snowball down the hill, said, "Let's make a snow man--let's make Mr. Black"--which sounded like more fun, so we all started in, not knowing that Circus was going to make a _comic_ snow man, the most ridiculous looking snow man I'd ever seen, and not knowing something else very exciting which I'm going to tell you about just as quick as I can get to it in this story. 2 It was the craziest snow man I had ever seen when we got through. It didn't have any legs on account of we had to use a very large snowball for its foundation, but it had another even-larger snowball for its stomach, on account of our new teacher was _round_ in the middle, especially in front, and it had a smaller head. Circus, whose idea it was to make it funny, had dashed home to our house and gotten some corn silk out of our crib and had made hair for the man's head, putting it all around the sides of the top of its head, but not putting any in the middle of the top, nor in the front, so it looked like an honest-to-goodness bald-headed man.... Then, while different ones of us were putting a row of buttons on his coat, which were black walnuts which we stuck into the snow in his stomach, Circus and Dragonfly disappeared, leaving only Poetry and Little Jim and Little Tom Till and me, that being all the rest of the gang that was there, on account of Big Jim had had to go with his pop that afternoon to take a load of cattle to the city. I was sitting down on my sled which was crosswise on the top of Little Jim's, which was crosswise on the top of Poetry's, making my seat just about knee high. Our snow man was at the bottom of the hill and not very far from us was a beech tree. Little Jim was standing there under its low-hanging branches, looking up into it, like he was thinking something very important which he nearly always is, Little Jim being the best Christian in the gang and always thinking and sometimes saying something he had learned in church or that his parents taught him from the Bible. There were nearly half of the leaves still on the tree in spite of its being winter and nearly every other tree in the woods was as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. It was a beech tree and that kind of a tree nearly always keeps a lot of its old frost-bitten brown leaves on nearly all winter, and only drops them off in the spring when the new leaves start to come, and push them off. It was the same tree where one summer day, there had been a big old mother bear and her cub. I, all of a sudden, while I was sitting there on my stack of sleds was remembering that fight we'd had with the old fierce old mad old mother bear. Anyway right that very minute while I was remembering the whole story, and I guessed maybe Little Jim was remembering it also, everything was so quiet, I said to Little Jim, "I bet you're thinking about how you killed a bear right there." Little Jim who had his stick, which he always carried with him, said, "Nope, something else." Poetry spoke up from where he was standing beside Mr. Black's snow statue, and said, "I'll bet you're thinking about the little cub which you had for a pet after you killed the bear." Little Jim took a swipe with his stick at the trunk of the tree, and I noticed that his stick went ker-whack right on some initials on the tree which said, W. J. C., which meant "William Jasper Collins," which is my full name, only nobody ever calls me by the _middle_ name except my pop, who calls me that only when he doesn't like me or when I'm supposed to have done something I shouldn't. Then Little Jim said to Poetry, just as his stick ker-whammed the initials, "Nope, something else." Then he whirled around and started making tracks that looked like rabbit tracks in the snow with his stick, and Tom Till spoke up and said, "I'll bet you're thinking about the fight we had that day...." It was in that fight that I licked Little red-haired Tom Till, who with his big brother Bob had belonged to the other gang.... But now Little Tom's parents lived in our neighborhood and Tom had joined the gang, and also went to our Sunday School, and was a swell little guy; and as you maybe know, Bob was still a tough guy, and hated Big Jim and all of us, and we never knew when he was going to start some new trouble in the Sugar Creek territory.... "Well," I said, to Little Jim who was looking up into the tree again like he was still thinking something important, "what _are_ you thinking about?" and he said, "I was just thinking about all the leaves, and wondering why they didn't fall off like the ones on the maple trees do. Don't they know they're dead?" I looked at the tree Little Jim was looking at, and it was the first time I'd noticed that the beech tree still had nearly every one of its leaves on it. They were very brown, even browner than some of the maple and walnut tree leaves had been, when they'd all fallen off last fall. "How could they _know_ they're dead, if they _are_ dead?" Poetry said, and just that second I heard Circus and Dragonfly coming up from the direction of the bayou, which was down pretty close to Sugar Creek itself.... Circus had his knife in his hand and was just finishing trimming a small branch he had in his hand, Dragonfly had a long fierce-looking switch in one of _his_ hands, and was swinging it around and saying loud and fierce, "All right, Bill Collins, you can take a licking for throwing that snowball.... Take _that_ ... and _that_ ... and _that_...." Dragonfly was making fierce swings with his switch and grunting every time he swung and every time he said "that...." I knew what he was thinking about,--the snowball I'd thrown in our schoolyard that week, which had accidentally hit our new teacher right in the middle of the top of his bald head.... Well, in a jiffy, Circus had both those switches stuck into the snow man, right where his right hand was supposed to be.... Then, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out an ear of corn, and as quick as anything began to shell it ... shoving handfulls of the big yellow kernels into his pocket at the same time, and a jiffy later, all that was left was a long red corn-cob, which he broke in half and stuck one of the halves into the snowman's face for a nose. Then also as quick as anything, he took the other half of the red corn-cob and with his knife made a hole in its side near the bottom, took a small stick out of his pocket, stuck it into the cob! "What on earth?" I thought, and said so, but he said, "All right, everybody, shut your eyes," which we wouldn't, so we watched him finish what he was doing, which was making a pipe for the snow man to smoke.... A jiffy later, there it was, sticking into the snow man's snow face right under his nose--a corn-cob pipe.... It looked very funny, and for a jiffy we all laughed, all except Little Jim who just giggled a little. We all stood back and looked at it, and it was the funniest looking snow man I'd ever seen.... Brown hair all around his head, and none in the middle of the top or the front, and a big red nose, and a corn-cob pipe sticking out at an angle, and black walnuts for buttons on his coat, and a couple of fierce-looking switches in his hand. Also there were two thin corn silk eyebrows that curled up a little.... "There's only one thing wrong with it," Poetry said, in his duck-like voice, standing beside me and squinting up at the ridiculous looking snow man. "What?" I said, thinking how perfect it was. "You can't tell who it is supposed to be. It needs some extra identification." "It's perfect," I said, and looked at Little Jim to see if he didn't think the same thing, but he was looking up into the beech tree again, like he was still thinking about something mysterious and wasn't interested in an ordinary snow man. I looked toward Dragonfly and he was listening toward a half dozen little cedar trees in the direction of the bayou, like he was either seeing or hearing something, which he thought he was, for right that second he said, "Psst, gang, quiet! I think I saw something move over there--sh! Don't look now, or he'll--" We all looked, of course, but didn't see anything, although I had a funny feeling inside of me which was, "What if it's Mr. Black watching us? What if all of a sudden he should come walking out from behind those cedar trees and see the snow man we've made of him, and what if he'd decide to use one or two of the switches on us?"--not a one of us being sure he didn't like us well enough to do that to us. Poetry spoke up then and said, "I say, it's not quite perfect. There's one thing wrong with it, and I'm going to fix that right this very minute." With that remark, he pulled off one of his red mittens, shoved one of his fat hands inside his coat pocket, pulled something out, and started to shuffle toward Mr. Black's snow statue. I could hardly believe my eyes at what I saw, but there it was as plain as day, a red, cloth-bound book with gold letters on it which said, _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_. I knew right away it was the book he and I had seen in his library one night and had read part of it, that part especially where the tough gang of boys in the story had caused the teacher a lot of trouble, and had locked him out of the schoolhouse; and then the teacher, who had been very smart, had climbed up on top of the school and put a flat board across the top of the chimney, and the smoke which couldn't get out of the chimney had poured out of the stove inside, and all the tough gang of boys had been smoked out.... "What are you going to do?" I said to Poetry, and he said, "Nothing," and right away was doing it, which was sticking two sticks in the snow man's stomach side by side and then opening _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_ to the place where there was the picture of the teacher on the roof, and laying the book flat open across the two sticks. "There you are, Sir," Poetry said, talking to the snow man. "The Hoosier Schoolmaster himself." Then Poetry made a bow as low as he could, he being so fat he grunted every time he stooped over very far. Well, it was funny, and most of us laughed, Circus scooped up a snowball and started to throw it at it, but we all stopped him on account of not wanting to have all our hard work spoiled in a few minutes. Besides, Poetry all of a sudden, wanted to take a picture of it, and his camera was at his house which was away down past the sycamore tree and the cave, where we all wanted to go for a while to see Old Man Paddler. So we decided to leave Mr. Black out there by himself at the bottom of Bumblebee hill until we came back later, which we did. "He ought to have a hat on," Dragonfly said. "He'll catch his death of cold with his bald head." "Or he might get stung on the head by a bumblebee," Circus said, and Little Jim spoke up all of a sudden and said, like he was almost mad at us, "Can anybody help it that he gets bald? My pop's beginning to lose some of his hair on top...." Then he grabbed his stick which he had leaned up against the beech tree for a jiffy, and struck very fiercely at a tall brown mullein stalk that was standing there in a little open space, and the seeds scattered in every direction, one of them hitting me hard right on my freckled face just below my right eye, and stung like everything; then Little Jim started running as fast as he could go in the direction of the sycamore tree, like he had been mad at us for something we'd done wrong. In fact, when he said that, I felt a kind of a sickish feeling inside of me, like maybe I _had_ done something wrong. I grabbed my stick and started off on the run after Little Jim, calling out to the rest of the gang to hurry up, and saying, "Last one to the sycamore tree is a cow's tail," and in a jiffy we were running and jumping and diving around bushes and trees and leaping over snow-covered brushpiles toward the old sycamore tree and the mouth of the cave, which was there, and which as you know is a very long cave, and comes out at the other end in the cellar of Old Man Paddler's cabin. 3 Of course everybody knows about Old Man Paddler, the kindest old long whiskered old man who ever lived, and who was the best friend the Sugar Creek Gang ever had. He lived up in the hills above Sugar Creek, and almost every week the gang went up to see him--sometimes in the summer-time we went nearly every day. We went in the winter, too, on account of he lived all by himself and we had to go up to take him things which our moms were always cooking for him, and also we had to be sure he didn't get sick 'cause there wouldn't be anybody there to take care of him or call the doctor for him on account of he didn't have any telephone.... After a little while we were tired of running so fast, so we slowed down, it being easier to be a cow's tail than to get all out of breath. Poetry and I were side by side most of the time with Little Jim walking along behind us and with Little Tom Till and Circus and Dragonfly swishing on ahead of us. Once when Little red-haired Tom and Little Jim were beside each other behind Poetry and me, I heard Little Jim say to red-haired Tom, "Mom says for you to be ready a little early tomorrow morning, on account of the choir has to practice their anthem again before they sing." I knew what Little Jim was talking about 'cause his folks stopped at Tom's house every Sunday morning about nine o'clock, and Little Tom got in and rode to Sunday School with them in their big maroon and grey car. Little Jim's very pretty mom was the pianist at our church, and had to be always on time. Little Jim's words came out kinda jerkily like he was doing something that made him short of breath while he talked. I turned around quick to see, and sure enough, he was shuffling along, making rabbit tracks with his stick, and saying his words every punch of his stick into the snow. Little Tom answered Little Jim by saying, "O de koke," which is the same as saying, "Okey doke," which means "O.K." which is what most anybody says when he means "All right," meaning Tom Till would be ready early, and that when Little Jim's folks came driving up to their front gate tomorrow, Little Tom, with his best clothes on, would come running out of their dilapidated old unpainted house, carrying his New Testament, which Old Man Paddler had bought for him.... Then they'd all swish away together to Sunday School. Then I heard Little Jim ask something else which showed what a grand little guy he was. "S'pose maybe your mother would like to go with us, too?" "My mother would _like_ to go with us," Tom said to Little Jim, "but she doesn't have any clothes that're good enough." And knowing the reason why was because her husband drank up nearly all the money he made in the Sugar Creek beer taverns, and also drank whiskey which he bought in the liquor store--knowing that, I felt my teeth gritting hard and I took a fierce swing with the stick I was carrying, at a little maple tree beside me.... I socked that tree so fierce with my stick, that my hands stung so bad they were almost numb; the stick broke in the middle and one end of it flew ahead to where Circus and Dragonfly were and nearly hit them. "Hey, you!" Dragonfly yelled back toward us, "What you trying to do--kill us?" "What on _earth_!" Circus yelled back to me, and I stood looking at the broken end of the rest of the stick in my hand, then turned like a flash and whirled around and threw it as hard as I could straight toward another tree about twenty feet away. That broken stick hit the tree right in the center of its trunk, with a loud whack. I didn't answer them in _words_ at all. I was so mad at Tom's pop and at beer and whiskey and stuff. But I couldn't waste all my temper on something I couldn't help, so I kept still and we all went on to the cave, and went in, and followed its long narrow passageway clear through, until we came to the big wooden door which opened into Old Man Paddler's cellar. As soon as we got there, Circus, who was always the leader of our gang when Big Jim wasn't with us, stopped us, and made us keep still, then he knocked on the door--three knocks, then two, then three more, then two, which was the code the gang always used when we came, so Old Man Paddler would know it was us. If he was home, he would call down and say in his quavering old voice, "Who's there?" and we'd answer, and right away we'd hear his trap door in the floor of his house open, and hear his steps coming down his stairway and hear him lift the big wooden latch that held the door shut, and then when he'd see us, he'd say, "Well, well, well, well, the Sugar Creek Gang--" then he'd name every one of us by our nicknames, and say, "Come on in, boys, we'll have some sassafras tea," which all of us, especially Little Jim, liked so very much. Everything was quiet while Circus knocked ... three times, then two, then three, and then two again, while we all waited and listened. There was always something kinda spooky about that knock, and being in a cave I always felt a little queer until I heard the old man's voice answer us. In fact, I always felt creepy until we got inside the cabin and the trap door was down again. We all stood there, outside that big wooden door, waiting for Old Man Paddler to call down to us, but there wasn't a single sound, so Circus knocked again: three times, then two, then three, and then two again, and we all waited. Except for my little pocket flashlight which my pop had given me for Christmas, we didn't have any light, and we couldn't waste the battery by keeping it on all the time, so I turned it off, but it felt so spooky with it off and nobody answering Circus's knock that I turned it on again just as Dragonfly who was always hearing things first, said, "Psst!" which meant "I heard something mysterious! Everybody keep still a minute," which we did; and then as plain as day I heard it myself, an old man's voice talking. It was high pitched and quavering, and kinda sad-like, like he was begging somebody to do something for him.... We were all so quiet as mice, not a one of us moving or hardly breathing.... I couldn't hear a word the old man was saying, but he sounded like he needed help.... I remembered how we'd all saved his life two different times--once when a robber had tied him up and he'd have starved if we hadn't found him, and another time when he'd fallen down his cellar steps in the winter-time and his fire had gone out, and we had started a fire for him with punk, using the thick lenses of his reading glasses for a magnifying glass--which any boy can do if he can get some real dry punk and a magnifying glass.... First you focus the red hot light which shines from the sun through the magnifying glass, right on the punk until it makes a little smoking live coal, then you hold a piece of dry paper against the red glow on the punk, and blow and blow with your breath until all of a sudden there will be an honest to goodness flame of fire.... Say, when I heard Old Man Paddler half talking and half crying up there in his cabin, I got a very queer feeling inside of me.... "Quick!" Circus said, "He's in trouble. Let's go in and help him." Circus gave a shove on the door, turning the latch at the same time, but the door wouldn't budge. "It's barred," Poetry said, and I remembered the heavy bar on the inside which the old man always dropped into place whenever he was inside. "Sh! Listen!" Little Jim said, and we shushed and listened. Say, that little guy had his ear pressed up real close to a crack in the door, and in the light of my flashlight which I didn't shine right straight _on_ his face on account of it might blind him, I could see that his eyes had a very far away look in them, like he was thinking something important and maybe in his mind's eyes was seeing something even more important. "What is it?" I said to him, and he said, "Don't worry, he's all right. He doesn't need our help--here, listen yourself," which I did, and right away I knew Little Jim was right.... For this is what I heard the old man saying in his quavering, high-pitched voice, "... And please, You're the best friend I ever had, letting me live all these long years, taking care of me, keeping me well and strong and happy most of the time. But I'm getting lonesome now, getting older every day, getting so I can't walk without a cane, and I can't stand the cold weather anymore, and I know it won't be long before I'll have to move out of this crippled-up old house and come to live with You in a new place.... I'll be awful glad to see Sarah again, and my boys.... And that reminds me,--Please bless the boys who live and play along old Sugar Creek--all of 'em--Big Jim, Little Jim, Circus, Dragonfly, Poetry, Bill Collins...." I knew what the kind man was doing all right, 'cause I'd seen and heard him do it many a time in our little white church, and also I'd seen him doing it once down on his knees behind the old sycamore tree all by himself.... When I heard him mention my name, I gulped, and some crazy tears got into my eyes and into my voice.... I had to swallow to keep from choking out a word that would have let the gang know I was about to cry.... Like a flash I thought of something and I whirled around and grabbed Little Tom Till and shoved his ear down to the crack in the door and put my own ear just above his so I could hear too, and this is what the old man was saying up there in the cabin, "And also bless the new member of the gang, Tom Till, whose father is an infidel and spends his money on liquor and gambling.... Oh God, how can John Till expect his boys to keep from turning out to be criminals.... Bless his boy, Bob, whose life has been so bent and twisted by his father.... And bless the boys' poor mother, who hasn't had a chance in life.... Lord, you know she'd go to church and be a Christian if John would let her.... And please...." That was as far as I got to listen right that minute cause I heard somebody choke and gulp and all of a sudden Little Tom Till was sniffling like he had tears in his eyes and in his voice, and then that little guy who was the grandest little guy who ever had a drunkard for a father, started to sob out-loud like he was heart-broken, and couldn't help himself. I got the strangest feeling inside of me like I do when anybody cries, and I wanted to help him stop crying and didn't know what to do. "'Smatter?" Dragonfly said, and Tom said, "I want to go home!" "'Smatter?" Circus said, "Are you sick?" "Yeah, what's the matter?" Poetry's duck-like voice squawked, but Little Jim was a smart little guy and he said, "He doesn't feel well. Let's all take him home." "I'll go b-b-by m-m-myself," Little Tom said, and started back into the cave, but I knew it was too dark for him to see, so I grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "We'll all go with you." "But we wanted to see Old Man Paddler," Dragonfly said, "What's the use to go home? I want some sassafras tea." "Keep still," I said, "Tom's sick. He ought to go home." I knew Little Tom was terribly embarrassed, and that he'd be like a little scared rabbit if we took him into Old Man Paddler's cabin now. We must have made a lot of noise talking 'cause right that minute I heard Old Man Paddler's voice up there calling down to us, "Wait a minute, boys! I'll be right down...." Well, it would have been impolite to run away now, and so I whispered to Tom, "Me and Little Jim are the only ones who heard him praying and--and we--we like you anyway." I gave Tom a kinda fierce half a hug around his shoulder, just as I heard Old Man Paddler's trap door in the floor of his house opening, and a shaft of light came in through the crack in the door right in front of us.... In a jiffy our door would open too, and we'd see that kind old long whiskered old man, with his twinkling grey eyes, and pretty soon we'd all climb up the cellar steps and be inside his warm cabin with a fire crackling in his fireplace and with the teakettle on the stove for making sassafras tea, and the old man would be telling us a story about the Sugar Creek of long ago.... All of a sudden, I got the strangest warm feeling inside of me, and I felt so good, something just bubbled up in my heart.... It was the queerest feeling, and made me feel good all over, 'cause right that second one of Little Tom's arms reached out and gave me a very awkward half a hug real quick, like he was very bashful or something, but like he was saying, "You're my best friend, Bill.... I'd lick the stuffin's out of the biggest bum in the world for you, in fact I'd do _anything_." But his arm didn't stay more'n just time enough for him to let it fall to his side again, but I knew he liked me a lot and it was a wonderful feeling. Right that second, I heard the old man lift the bar on the big wooden door, and push it open, and real bright light came in and shone all over all of us, and the old man said, "Well, well, well, well, the Sugar Creek Gang! Come on in, boys, we'll have a party." A jiffy later, we were all inside his cellar, and scrambling up his cellar steps into his warm cabin. 4 It didn't take more'n several jiffies for all of us to be inside that old-fashioned cabin, where there was a crackling fire in his fireplace and another fire roaring in his kitchen stove and where there was a teakettle singing like everything, meaning that pretty soon we'd have some sassafras tea. In fact, as soon as the trap-door was down and we were all sitting or standing or half lying down on his couch and on chairs, the old man put some sassafras chips from sassafras tree-roots into a pan on the stove and poured boiling water on it, and let it start to boil. Almost right away the water began to turn as red as the chips themselves and Little Jim's eyes grew very bright as he watched the water boil. One of the first things I noticed when I looked around the room a little was the old man's Bible which was open to the Sunday School lesson, like maybe he'd been studying, getting ready for church tomorrow. I knew it was tomorrow's lesson 'cause at our house we had already studied the same lesson two or three times, on account of Mom and Pop always started to study next week's lesson a whole week ahead of time, so, as Pop says, "different ideas will come popping into our heads all week long even while we're working or studying or something." I knew Little Jim's parents always started studying their lessons the first thing in the week, also, and maybe that was why that little guy was always thinking of so many things that were important. From where I was sitting, I could look through a clear place in the old man's kitchen window which didn't have any frost on it, and I could see the shadow the smoke was making which was coming out of the chimney, and the longish darkish shadow was moving up the side of the old man's woodshed out there, and on up the slant of the snow-covered roof, making me think of a great big long darkish worm twisting and squirming and crawling up a stick in the summer-time.... There must have been almost a foot of snow on the roof of that woodshed, I thought, and that reminded me of the snow man at the bottom of Bumblebee hill, and when I noticed that the shadows of the trees out there were getting very long it meant that it wouldn't be long till the sun went down, and if Poetry and I were to get a good picture of Mr. Black's snow statue, we'd have to hurry. Old Man Paddler all of a sudden spoke up and said to us, looking especially at me, "One of you boys want to take the water pail and go down to the spring and get a pail of fresh water?" which I didn't exactly want to do, on account of it was very warm in the cabin and would be very cold out there, but when Little Jim piped up and said, "Sure, I'll do it," I all of a sudden said the same thing, and Little Jim and I were out there in less than a jiffy, with the old man's empty pail in one of my hands, and were galloping along through the snow toward the spring, which was right close to a big spreading beech tree, which, like the one at the bottom of Bumblebee hill, still had most of its old brown leaves on it.... We filled the pail real quick with the sparkling, very cold water, and hurried back to the cabin. I started to open the door, when Little Jim said, "Wait a minute, I want to see something," and he swished around quick and went back down the path toward the spring, and turned around again and looked up toward the chimney of the old man's cabin. He squinted his eyes to keep the sun from blinding them and looked and looked, then he looked away in the direction of the woodshed, and I wondered what in the world that little guy was thinking. "'Smatter?" I said, and he said, "Nothing,--there's certainly a lot of snow on the roof of that woodshed, and there isn't any on the old man's cabin. How come?" Then he socked a stump with his stick, and came lickety-sizzle to the door, opened it for me to go in with the pail of water, which I did. Well, as soon as we got through with our sassafras tea, which Little Jim said tasted like a very sweet hot lolly pop, we all scrambled around in the old man's cabin getting ready to go home. If it had been in the summer-time, we would have gone home the long way round, following the old wagon trail, and then we'd have taken a short cut through the swamp, and if it had been summer-time maybe stopped at the big mulberry tree and climbed up into it and helped ourselves to the biggest, ripest mulberries that grew anywhere along Sugar Creek. But it wasn't summer, so we took the short cut, going through the cave to the sycamore tree, where most of us separated and went in different directions to our different homes, all except Poetry and me, who, as you know, were going to get his camera and take a picture of Mr. Black's snow statue, his parents having bought a new camera for him at Christmas. * * * * * "Well, well," Poetry's mother said to us when we stopped beside their big maple tree, and I waited a jiffy for him to go in the house and get the camera, "_where_ have you boys been? I've been phoning all over for you, Leslie"--meaning she had been phoning all over for Poetry, _Leslie_ being the name which his parents used and which he had to use himself when he signed his name in school ... but he would rather be called Poetry. "'Smatter?" Poetry asked his kinda round-shaped mom, "Didn't I do my chores, or something?" Then Poetry's mother startled us by saying, "We've had company. Mr. Black was here. He just left a minute ago." I had a queer feeling start creeping up my spine. "What did he want--I mean, where did he go? Where'd you tell him we were?" Poetry and I both said at the same time only in different words, but with probably the same scared feeling inside, and thinking, "What if she told him we were playing over on Bumblebee hill and he had gone there?" "He didn't seem to want anything in particular. He was out exercising his horse. Such a beautiful big brown saddle horse!" Poetry's mother said. "And such a very beautiful saddle. He looks very stunning in his brown leather jacket and riding boots." "What did he want?" Poetry said again, taking the words right out of my mind, and Poetry's mom said, "Nothing in particular. He said he wanted to get acquainted with the parents of his boys." I looked at Poetry and he looked at me, and he said to his mom, "He's too heavy for the horse," and his mother looked at Poetry who was also heavy and said, "Too much blackberry pie, I suppose. You boys want a piece?" Poetry's face lit up, and he said, "We'll take a piece apiece," which we did, and then I said to him all of a sudden, "The sun'll still be shining on Mr. Black. If we want to get his picture, we'll have to hurry!" "Shining on _who_?" Poetry's mom said, and Poetry said, "The sun is shining in through the window on my blackberry pie," and winked at me, and his mom went into their parlor to answer the phone which was ringing. Poetry finished his pie at the same time, slithered out of his chair and went up stairs to his room to get his camera, just as I heard his mother say into their telephone, "Why yes, Mrs. Mansfield, we do--certainly, I'll send Leslie right over with it right away--oh, that's all right--no, he won't mind, I'm sure." It sounded like an ordinary conversation any mother might have with any ordinary neighbor. I'd heard my mom say something like that many a time, the only difference being she would say, "Why yes, Mrs. So-and-So, we have it. I'll send _Bill_ over with it right away--oh, that's all right--no, he won't mind, I'm sure," which I hardly ever did anymore on account of my pop wouldn't let me. I was always running an errand for some neighbor who didn't have any boys in the family, which is what boys are for. I was wondering where Poetry had to go, with what, and why, when Poetry's mom called up the stairs to him and said, "Leslie, will you bring down _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_, and you and Bill take it over to Mrs. Mansfield." I heard Poetry gasp and call back down, "Get WHAT?" "_The Hoosier Schoolmaster!_" his mom called up. "It's on the second shelf in your library--it's a red book with gold lettering on it;" then Mrs. Thompson said to me, "Having a new gentleman teacher in the community has made everybody interested in that very interesting book, so Mrs. Mansfield is going to review it for the Literary Society next Wednesday night." Then Poetry's mom called up to him and asked, "Find it, Leslie?" which of course he hadn't and couldn't, anyway, not upstairs, 'cause right that minute it was lying open on two sticks stuck into Mr. Black's stomach at the bottom of Bumblebee hill. For some reason it didn't seem as if we wanted to tell Mrs. Thompson where it was, but it looked like we were in for it. We couldn't come right out and tell her where the book was, 'cause she was like most of the other parents in Sugar Creek territory--she thought Mr. Black, who rode a fine horse and wore a brown leather jacket and riding boots and who could smile politely and tip his hat whenever he saw a Sugar Creek Gang mother, was a very fine gentleman, and certainly didn't know what a hard time the gang had been having with him. Just that second Poetry called down and said, "Bill and I'll take it to her." The gang didn't know Mrs. Mansfield very well, on account of she was a new person in the Sugar Creek territory and didn't have any boys, and was more interested in society than any of the gang's moms and was always reading important books on account of it maybe made her seem more important if she knew the names of all the important books and who wrote them. Poetry came downstairs with his camera, coming down in a big hurry and saying to me in a business-like voice, "Let's get going, Bill," and made a dive for the door so his mom wouldn't see he didn't have _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_, not wanting her to ask where it was, so he wouldn't have to tell her. Both Poetry and I were out of doors in a jiffy and the door was half shut behind us when Poetry's mother said, "Hadn't we better wrap it up, Leslie,--just in case you might accidentally drop it?" "I promise you, I won't drop it," Poetry said, "besides we want to hurry. I want to take a picture of something before the sun gets too far down. Come on, Bill, hurry up!" Poetry squawked to me, and I hurried after him, both of us running fast out through their back yard in the direction of Bumblebee hill. But Poetry's mother called to us from the back door and said, "Where are you going? Mrs. Mansfield doesn't live in _that_ direction." Poetry and I stopped and looked at each other. All of a sudden we knew we were caught, so Poetry said to me, "What'll we tell her?" And remembering something my pop had taught me to do when I was caught in a trap, I said all of a sudden, quoting my pop, "Tell her the truth." Poetry scowled, "You tell her," he said, which I did, saying "Mrs. Thompson, the gang had _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_ this afternoon, and we left him--I mean _it_--down on Bumblebee hill. We have to go there first to get it," and all of a sudden I felt fine inside, and know that Pop was right. Poetry's mom might not like to hear _exactly_ where the book was, right that very minute, and it didn't seem exactly right to tell her, so when she didn't ask me, I didn't tell her. Poetry's mother must have understood her very mischievous boy, though, and didn't want to get him into a corner, for she said, "Thank you for telling me. Now I can phone Mrs. Mansfield it will take a little longer for you to get there with the book--and, by the way, if you see Mr. Black tell him about next Wednesday night--you probably will see him. I told him you boys were over on Bumblebee hill, and how to get there. He seemed to want to see you." Poetry and I both yelled back to her, saying, "You told him WHAT!" and without another word or waiting to hear what she said, we started like lightning as fast as we could go, straight for Sugar Creek and Bumblebee hill, wondering if by taking a short cut we could get there before Mr. Black did; and in my mind's eye, I could see Poetry, IF we got there first, making a dive for _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_ on the snow man; and I could see myself, making a leap for the man's head, and knocking it completely off, I could see it go rolling the rest of the way down the hill with its cornsilk hair getting covered with snow--also I could see Mr. Black in his brown riding jacket and boots, on his great big saddle horse, riding up right about the same minute. What if we didn't get there first? I thought. What if we didn't? It would be awful! Absolutely _terrible_! And Poetry must have been thinking the same thing, 'cause for once in his life, in spite of his being barrel-shaped and very heavy, and never could run very fast, I had a hard time keeping up with him.... 5 All the time while Poetry and I were running through the snowy woods, squishety-sizzle, zip-zip-zip, crunch, crunch, crunch, I could see in my mind's eye our new teacher's big beautiful brown saddle horse, prancing along in the snow toward Bumblebee hill, carrying his heavy load just as easy as if it wasn't anything. Right that very minute, maybe, the horse would be standing and pawing the ground and in a hurry to get started somewhere, while maybe its rider was standing with _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_ in his hand, looking at the picture of the schoolhouse, and then maybe looking at the ridiculous-looking snow man we'd made of him.... In a few minutes Poetry and I were so out of wind that we had to stop and walk awhile, especially because I had a pain in my right side which I sometimes got when I ran too fast too long. "My side hurts," I said to Poetry, and he said, "Better stop and stoop down and unbuckle your boot, and buckle it again, and it'll quit hurting." "It'll WHAT?" I said, thinking his idea was crazy. "It'll quit hurting, if you stop and stoop down and unbuckle your boot and then buckle it again." Well, I couldn't run anymore with the sharp pain in my side, so even though I thought Poetry's idea was crazy, I stopped and stooped over, biting off my mittens with my teeth, and laying them down on the snow for a jiffy and unbuckling one of my boots and buckling it again while I was still stooped over; then I straightened up, and would you believe it? That crazy ache in my side was actually gone! There wasn't even a sign of it. I panted a minute longer to get my wind, then we started on the run again. "It's crazy," I said, "but it worked. How come?" "Poetry Thompson's father told me," he said, puffing along ahead of me, "only it won't work in the summer-time. In the summer-time you have to stop running, and stop and stoop down and pick up a rock, and spit on it and turn it over and lay it down again very carefully upside down, and your side will quit hurting." Right then, I stumbled over a log and fell down on my face, and scrambled to my feet and we hurried on, and I said to Poetry, "What do you do when you get a sore toe from stumping it on a log--stoop over and scrape the snow off the log and kiss it, and turn it over, and then--?" It wasn't any time to be funny, only worried, but Poetry explained to me that it was the _stooping_ that was what did it. "It's getting your body bent double, that does it.--Hey! Look! There he is now!" I looked in the direction of our house, since we were getting pretty close to Bumblebee hill, and sure enough, there was our teacher sitting on his great big beautiful brown horse which was standing and prancing right beside the old iron pitcher pump not more than twenty feet from our back door. Mom was standing there with her sweater on and a scarf on her head talking to him or maybe listening to him, then I saw Mr. Black tip his hat like an honest-to-goodness gentleman, and bow, and his pretty horse whirled about and went in a horse hurry to our front gate which was open, and being held open by my pop, and he went on, galloping up the road, his horse galloping in the shadow which they made on the snowy road ahead of them. Well, that was that, I thought, and Poetry and I who were at the top of Bumblebee hill hurried down to where he and I had left our sleds, the rest of the gang having taken theirs with them when we'd gone to the cave. At the bottom of the hill, we saw the great big tall snow man. The sun was still shining right straight on it, but wouldn't be, pretty soon, but would go down. So Poetry and I stopped close to it, and he got his camera ready. "You get _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_, Bill, and turn it around and stand it up against the Hoosier schoolmaster's stomach." Poetry ordered, "so I can get a good picture of it," which I started to do, and then gasped.... _There wasn't any Hoosier Schoolmaster!_ The book was gone. "It's gone!" I said to Poetry, and it was, and there was a page of yellow writing paper, instead. "Hey!" I said, "There's something printed on it!" Sure enough, there was. The piece of yellow writing tablet was standing up on the two sticks, leaning against the snow man's stomach, and was fastened so the wind wouldn't blow it away, by another stick stuck through the paper and into the snow man's stomach. "It's your poem, Poetry," I said, remembering the poem which Poetry had written about our teacher. "How'd it get here?" Right away I was reading the poem again, which was almost funny, only I didn't feel like laughing on account of wondering who had stolen the book and had put the poem here in its place. The poem was written exactly right: "_The Sugar Creek Gang had the worst of teachers, And 'Black' his named was called, His round red face had the homeliest of features, He was fat and forty and bald._" It had been funny the first time I had read it, which was not more than a week ago, but for some reason right that minute it was anything in the world else. I was gritting my teeth and wondering who had done it, and who had stolen _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_. There wasn't a one of the gang that _could_ have done it, 'cause we had all been together all afternoon; and at the cave all the rest of the gang had gone to their different homes. "Who in the world wrote it and put it there?" I said, noticing that the printing was very large and had been put on with black crayola, the kind we used in school. "There's only one other person in the world who knows I wrote that poem," Poetry said, "and that's Shorty Long." "Shorty Long!" I said, remembering the newest boy who had moved into our neighborhood and was almost as fat as Poetry and who had been the cause of most of our trouble with our new teacher and had had two or three fights with me and had licked the stuffins out of me once, and I had licked the stuffins out of him once also, even worse than he had me, almost. "How'd he find it out?" I said. "Dragonfly told him," and also I remembered right that minute that Dragonfly and Shorty Long had been kinda chummy last week and we had all worried for fear there was maybe going to be trouble in our own gang which there'd never been before, and all on account of the new fat guy who had moved into our neighborhood and had started coming to our school. "Are you going to take a picture of it?" I said to Poetry, and he said, "I certainly am; I'm going to have the evidence and then I can prove to anybody that doesn't believe it, that somebody actually put it here." "Yeah," I said, "but everybody knows _you_ wrote the poem." Poetry lowered his camera, and just that minute I saw something else that made me stare and in fact startled me so that for a jiffy I was almost as much excited as I had been when the fierce old mad old mother bear had been trying to kill Little Jim right at that very place where we were about a year and a half ago. "Hey! Look!" I said, "Mr. Black's been here himself!" "Mr. _Black_!" Poetry said in almost a half scream.... And right away both of us were looking down in the snow around the beech tree, and around the snow man, and sure enough there were horse's tracks, the kind of tracks that showed that the horse had shoes on. And even while I was scared and wondering "What on earth!" there popped into my red head the crazy superstition that if you found a horseshoe and put it up over the door of your house or one of the rooms of your house, you would have good luck.... "I'll bet Mr. Black took the book, and wrote the poem and put it here." "He wouldn't," I said, but was afraid he might have. "I'm going to take a picture anyway," Poetry said, and stepped back and took one, and then real quick, took another, and then he took the yellow sheet of paper with the poem on it and folded it up and put it in his coat pocket, and with our faces and minds worried we started in fiercely knocking the living daylights out of that snow man. The first thing we did was to pull off the red nose, and pull out the corn-cob pipe, and knock the round head off and watch it go ker-swish onto the ground and break in pieces, then we pulled the sticks out of his stomach, kicked him in the same place, and in a jiffy had him looking like nothing. We felt pretty mixed up in our minds, I can tell you. "Do you suppose Mr. Black did that?" I said. "He wouldn't," Poetry said, "but if he rode his horse down here and saw it, he'll certainly think we're a bunch of heathen." "We aren't, though--are we?" I said to Poetry, and for some reason I was remembering that Little Jim had acted like maybe we ought not make _fun_ of our teacher just 'cause he had hair only all around his head and not on top, and couldn't help it. For some reason, it didn't seem very funny, right that minute, and it seemed like Little Jim was right. "What about _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_?" Poetry said to me, as we dragged our discouraged sleds up Bumblebee hill. "What'll we tell your mother? And what'll _she_ tell Mrs. Mansfield?" "I don't know," Poetry said, and his voice sounded more worried than I'd heard it in a long time. The first thing Mom said to us when we got to our house was, "Mr. Black was here twice this afternoon." "_Twice?_" I said. "What for? What did he want?" "Oh he was just visiting around, getting acquainted with the parents of the boys. Such a beautiful brown saddle horse," Mom said. "And he was so polite." "The horse?" Poetry said, and maybe shouldn't have, but Mom ignored his remark and said, "He took a picture of our house and barn and tried to get one of Mixy cat, but Mixy was scared of the horse, I guess, and ran like a frightened rabbit." "Was he actually taking pictures?" Poetry asked with a worried voice. "Yes, and he wanted to get one of you boys playing on Bumblebee hill.... But you were all gone, he said, but he found the book you left there, so he brought it back--you know, the one Mrs. Mansfield wanted." "What book?" I said, pretending to be surprised. "Did Mrs. Mansfield want a book?" And Mom who was standing at our back door bareheaded, and shouldn't have been, on account of she might catch cold, said, "Yes, she phoned here for _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_, while Mr. Black was here, but I knew _your_ mother had one, Poetry, so I told her to call _there_." Poetry and I were looking at each other, wondering "What on earth?" Then Mom said, "Mr. Black thought maybe you boys had been reading it or something and had forgotten it when you left." "D-d-d-did he--did he--?" Poetry began, but stuttered so much he had to stop and start again, and said, "Did he say _where_ he found it? I mean was it--that is, where did he _find_ it?" "He didn't say," Mom said, "but he said since he was going on over to Mrs. Mansfield's anyway, he'd take it over for me, so you won't have to take it over, Bill," Mom finished. Well, that was that.... Poetry and I sighed to each other, and he said, "Did you tell my mother?" "I've just called her," Mom said, "and you're to come on home right away to get the chores done early.... It's early to bed for all of us on Saturday night, you know." Poetry must have felt pretty bad, just like I did, but he managed to say to Mom politely, "Thank you, Mrs. Collins. I'll hurry right on home." I walked out to the gate with him, and for a jiffy we just stood and looked at each other, both of us with worried looks on our faces. "Do you suppose he really took a picture of himself with that poem on his stomach?" Poetry asked. "And if he did, _who_ on earth put it there?" "I don't know," I said, "but what would he want with pictures of all of us and our parents?" "I'm sure I don't know--" Poetry said, with a worried voice. Just that minute Pop called from the barn and said, "BILL, HURRY UP AND GATHER THE EGGS! IT'LL BE TOO DARK TO SEE IN THE BARN AS SOON AS THE SUN GOES DOWN! POETRY, BE SURE TO COME AGAIN SOME TIME," which was Pop's way of telling Poetry to step on the gas and get going home right now, which Poetry did, and I went back to the house and got the egg basket to start to gather the eggs, wondering what would happen next. 6 Just as I started to open our kitchen door and go out to the barn, Mom came from the other room where she'd been talking on the phone and said, "Little Jim's mother is coming down with the flu, and won't be able to go to church tomorrow, so we're to pick up Little Jim and also stop for Tom Till and take him to church with _us_.... We'll have to get up a little earlier tomorrow morning, so you get the chores done quick so we can get supper over and to bed nice and early," which I thought was a good idea. I was already tired all of a sudden, almost too tired to gather the eggs. Tomorrow, though, would be a fine day. It'd be fun stopping at Little Jim's and Tom Till's houses and take them to church with us. Little Jim had something on his mind that was bothering him, though, and I wondered what it was. Also, I wondered who was coming to our house for dinner tomorrow. Maybe it would be Little Jim, as _well_ as somebody else, if his mom was going to have the flu. Pretty soon I was up in our haymow all by myself carrying the egg basket around to the different places where different ones of our old hens laid their eggs. Old Bent-comb still laid her daily egg up in a corner of the mow so I climbed away up over a big stack of sweet-smelling hay to where I knew the nest was. I wasn't feeling very good inside on account of things hadn't gone right during the day, and yet I couldn't tell what was wrong, except maybe it was just me. When I got to old Bent-comb's nest, sure enough there were two eggs in it--one was the pretty white egg Bent-comb herself had laid that day and the other was an artificial glass egg which we kept in the nest all the time just to encourage any hen that might see it, to stop and lay an egg there herself, just as if maybe there had been another hen who had thought it was a good place to lay an egg. It was easy to fool old Bent-comb, I thought. While I was getting ready to go back to the ladder and go down it to the main floor of the barn, my eyes climbed up Pop's brand new ladder which goes up to the cupola at the very peak of the roof of our very high barn. It certainly was a very nice light ladder, and next summer it would be easy for me to carry it to one cherry tree after another in our orchard when I helped pick cherries for Mom. It was such a light ladder, even Little Jim could carry it.... While I was standing looking up and thinking about wishing spring would hurry up and come, I all of a sudden wanted to climb up the ladder and look out the windows of the cupola and see what I could see in the different directions around the Sugar Creek territory. Also, I wondered if Snow-white, my favorite pigeon, and her husband had decided to have their nest in the cupola again this year, and if there were maybe any eggs or maybe a couple of baby pigeons, although parent pigeons hardly ever decided to raise any baby pigeons in the winter-time. If there was anything I liked to look at more than anything else, it was baby birds in a nest. Their fuzz always reminded me of Big Jim's fuzzy mustache, he being the only one of the Sugar Creek Gang to begin to have any. In a jiffy I was on my way and in another jiffy I was there, standing on the second from the top rung of the ladder. It was nice and light up there with the sun still shining in, although pretty soon it would go down. In one direction I could see Poetry's house, and their big maple tree right close beside it in the back yard, under which in the summer-time he always pitched his tent and sometimes he would invite me to stay all night with him; in another direction, and far away across our cornfield, was Dragonfly's house which had an orchard right close by it, where in the fall of the year we could all have all the apples we wanted, if we wanted them; Big Jim and Circus lived right across the road from each other, but I couldn't see either one of their houses, or Little Tom's on account of Little Tom lived across the bridge on the other side of Sugar Creek.... I could see our red brick schoolhouse, away on past Dragonfly's house, though. But when I looked at it, instead of feeling kinda happy inside like I nearly always did when we had our pretty lady other teacher for a teacher, I felt kinda saddish. There was the big maple tree which I knew was right close beside a tall iron pump, near which we had built a snow fort; and behind that was the woodshed where we'd been locked in by our new man teacher and which you know about if you've read _One Stormy Day at Sugar Creek_, and behind the woodshed was the great big schoolyard where we played baseball and blindman's buff and other games in the fall and spring, and where we play fox-and-goose in the winter. For a few minutes I forgot I was supposed to be gathering eggs, and was doing what Pop is always accusing me of doing, which is "dreaming." I was thinking about what had happened that afternoon, such as the trip we'd taken through the cave to Old Man Paddler's cabin, and the prayer he'd made for all of us, and especially for Old Hook-nosed John Till, which Little Tom had heard, and it had made him cry and want to go home. Poor Little Tom, I thought. What if I had had a pop like his, instead of the kinda wonderful pop I had, who made it easy for Mom to be happy, which is why maybe Mom was always singing around our kitchen, even when she was tired, and also why, whenever Pop came into our house after being gone awhile, Mom would look up quick from whatever she was doing and give him a nice look, and sometimes they'd be awful glad to see each other, and Pop would give her a great big hug like pops are supposed to do to moms. Poor Little Tom's mom, I thought. Well, while I was still not thinking about finishing gathering the eggs, I looked in the last direction I hadn't looked yet, which was toward our house and over the top of the spreading branches of the plum tree and over the top of our gate which Dragonfly had had his ride on, and on down toward Bumblebee hill where we'd coasted and had fun and made the snow man of Mr. Black, but say! right that second, I saw something moving--in fact, it was somebody's cap moving along just below the crest of the hill, but all I could see was the bobbing-up-and-down cap, and right away I knew whose cap it was--it was the bright red cap of the new tough guy in our neighborhood whose name was Shorty Long, and right away I knew who it was that had written Poetry's poetry and put it on the sticks into Mr. Black's stomach.... I had a queer, and also an angry feeling inside me, 'cause I just _knew_ Mr. Black had seen the poem, and since it had been signed "The Sugar Creek Gang," we would all be in for still more trouble Monday morning in school. While I was up there in that cupola, I made up my mind to one thing, and that was that no matter how much we didn't like our teacher, and no matter what ideas Poetry and I had once had in our minds to find out whether a board on the top of the schoolhouse chimney would smoke out a teacher, I, Bill Collins wasn't going to vote "Yes" if the gang put it to a vote to decide whether to do it or not.... No sir, not me. Right that second, I heard my pop calling me from away down on the main floor of the barn, "Better come on down and finish your chores, Bill," which I had, and which I started to do, climbing backwards down the new ladder very carefully to the haymow floor and then down the other ladder to the main floor of the barn. Pop had just finished milking our one milk cow, and the big three-gallon milk pail was full clear to the top and there was inch-high creamy-yellow foam above the top of the pail. Mixy, our old black and white cat, was mewing and mewing and walking all around Pop's legs and looking up and mewing and rubbing her sides against his boots and also running over toward the little milk pan over by a corner of the barn floor, as if to say to Pop, "For goodness sake, I may be a mere cat, but does that give you any right to make me wait for my supper?" Anyway I was reminded that I was hungry myself, and pretty soon we'd all be in our house, sitting around our table eating raw-fried potatoes and reddish slices of fried ham, and other things.... "I'll take the milk on up to the house, Bill," Pop said, and also said, "You follow me up to the back porch, Mixy--you can't have _fresh_ milk tonight--and also, only a little raw meat, because there are absolutely too many mice around this barn. Any ordinary hungry cat ought to catch at least one mouse a day, Mixy, and if you _don't_ catch them, we'll have to make you hungry, so you will. Understand?" I looked at Pop's big reddish-blackish eyebrows and he was frowning at Mixy, although I knew he liked her a lot, but didn't like mice very well. I finished gathering the eggs that were in the barn and then went to the hen house where I knew there would be some more eggs, and then took my basket of maybe four dozen eggs toward the house. Mixy was there on the back porch, I noticed, lapping away at her milk like a house afire. I wiped off my boots carefully like I'd been trained to do whether I was at home or in somebody else's house, pushed open the door to our kitchen and went in, expecting to see Mom, or Pop, or both of them there, but there wasn't anybody there, so I sat the egg basket down on Mom's work table, and started into the front room, where I thought they'd maybe be. All of a sudden I heard Mom saying something in a tearful voice, and I stopped cold--wondering what I'd maybe done and shouldn't have, and if Mom was telling Pop about it, so I started to listen--and then was half afraid to, so I started to open the door and go out when I heard Pop say something in a low voice, and it was, "No, Mother, whatever it is, I know one thing--our Bill will tell the truth. He'd tell the truth right now if I asked him, but I'm not going to. I'm going to wait and see what happens, and see if he'll tell me himself." I strained my ears hard to hear what Mom would answer, and this is what she said, "All right, Theodore, I'll be patient; but just the same, I'm worried." "Don't you worry one little tiny bit, Mother," Pop said. "A boy's heart is like a garden. If you plant good seed in it, and cultivate and plow it and water it with love, he'll come out all right," which made me like my pop a lot, only I didn't have time to think about it 'cause right that very second almost, I heard Mom say in a worried voice, "Yes, dear, but _weeds_ grow in a garden without anyone's planting them," which made me feel all saddish inside, and for some reason I could see our own garden which every spring and summer had all kinds of weeds--ragweeds, smartweeds, and big ugly Jimson-weeds, and lots of other kinds. Right that second, I remembered something my pop had said to me once last summer which was, "Say, Bill, do you know how to keep the big weeds out of our garden, without having to pull up or cut out even one of them?" and when I said, "No, how, Pop?" he said, "Just kill all of them while they are _little_." Well, I didn't want Mom or Pop to know I'd heard them talking about me, so I sneaked out the back door very carefully and started to talking in a friendly voice to Mixy, saying to her, "Listen, Mixy, do you know how to keep all the great big mice out of our barn? You just catch all the mice while they're little--it's as easy as pie." Mixy looked up from her empty milk pan and mewed and looked down at her pan again, and looked up at me again and mewed again, and then walked over to me and rubbed her sides against my boots like she liked me a lot. For some reason, I thought Mixy was a very nice cat right that minute, so I said to her, "I'm awful glad you like me, Mixy, even if nobody else around this place does." Pretty soon, Pop and I were out doing the rest of the chores while Mom was getting supper. Almost right away, it began to get dark, and we went in to supper. "Wash your hands and go get Charlotte Ann," Mom said to me. "I think she's awake now." Charlotte Ann, you know, is my baby sister, and even though she is a girl, is a pretty swell baby; in fact, she's wonderful. In a few minutes Pop and Mom and Charlotte Ann and I were all sitting around our kitchen table in the lamp light. We had two kerosene lamps lit, one of them behind me on the high mantel-shelf above my head, and the other on another mantel-shelf above the water pail in the corner. We always bowed our heads at our house before every meal, different ones of us asking the blessing, whichever one of us Pop called on. When I was little I'd said a little poem prayer, but didn't do it any more on account of Pop thought I was too big, and since I was an actual Christian, in spite of having Jimson-weeds in my heart, I always prayed whenever Pop told me to, only I hoped that he wouldn't ask me to tonight. Pop looked around the table at all of us, and Mom helped Charlotte Ann fold her hands, which she didn't want to do, but kept wiggling and squirming and reaching for things on the table, which were too far away, "Well, let's see--whom shall we ask to pray, tonight? ah--" Pop's "ah--" was cut short by the telephone ringing our ring, which meant that one of us had to answer the phone. "I'll get it," I said, "maybe it's one of the gang--" "I'll get it," Mom said, "I'm expecting a call--I say, I'LL GET IT!" Mom raised her voice on account of I was already out of my chair and half way to the living room door. When Mom came back a minute later, she was smiling like she'd had some wonderful news, and it was, "It was Mrs. Long. _Mr._ Long won't be home tomorrow, so she can go to church with us. Isn't that wonderful? It's an answer to prayer." I spoke up then and said, "How about Shorty? Is he going too?" I don't know what there was in my voice that shouldn't have been, when I asked that question, but Mom said in an astonished tone of voice, "Why, Bill Collins! The very idea! Don't you _want_ him to go to church and Sunday School and learn something about being a Christian? Do you want him to grow up to be a heathen? What's the matter with you?" I gulped. Mom had read my thoughts like an open school book. "Of course," I said, "he ought to go to church, but--" "But _what_?" Mom said. "He's awful mean to the gang," I said, "He--" "Perhaps we'd better ask the blessing now," Pop said, in a kind voice, and right away we bowed our heads, while Pop prayed a short prayer, which ended something like this, "... and bless our minister tomorrow. Put into his heart the things he ought to say that will do us all the most good.... Make his sermon like a plow and hoe and rake that will make the gardens of our hearts what they all ought to be.... Bless Shorty Long and his mother and father, and the Till family, all of which we ask in Jesus' name. Amen." For some reason, when Pop finished, I seemed to feel like maybe I didn't actually _hate_ our new teacher, not very much anyway, and I thought maybe Shorty Long, even if he was a terribly tough boy, would be better if he had somebody pull some of the weeds out of him.... After supper, we all took our regular Saturday night baths and went to bed, and the next thing we knew it was a wonderful morning, with the sun shining on the snow and with sleigh bells jingling on people's horses, on account of some of our neighbors lived on roads where the road-conditioner hadn't been through yet, and couldn't use their cars and so had to use sleds instead. It was going to be a wonderful day all day, I thought, and was glad I was alive. 7 Just before nine o'clock, we all started in our car toward Little Jim's house, which was closer than Tom Till's or Shorty Long's. Little Jim came tumbling out his back door, his short legs carrying him fast out to the road. He got in and I was certainly tickled to see him. Mom and Pop and Charlotte Ann were in the front seat, so Charlotte Ann would be closer to our car heater and keep warm, on account of it was a cold morning. "How is your mother this morning?" my mom asked Little Jim about his mom, and Little Jim piped up in his mouse-like voice and said, "She's better than last night. Pop and I took breakfast to her in bed," which is what _my_ pop does to _my_ mom when _she_ doesn't feel well. In fact, sometimes when Pop gets up extra early before Mom does, he sneaks out into our kitchen quietly and makes coffee and carries a cupful in and surprises Mom even when she is perfectly well, which Pop says is maybe one reason why Mom keeps on liking him so well.... Our car turned north on the road that leads to Tom's house, crossed the snow-covered Sugar Creek bridge, and went on. While we were on the bridge, Little Jim said to me, "Look, there's an _oak_ tree that still has its leaves on, and'll maybe keep 'em on all winter." Then we came to Tom's weathered, old-looking house, and barn, and Pop pulled up at the side of the road in front of their mail box which said on it, "John Till," and honked the horn for Tom to come out and get in. There was a new path which maybe Tom had scooped for his mom so she could get the mail. In a minute now, I thought, their side door would open and Little Tom would come zipping out, with his kinda oldish-looking coat on and he would come crunch, crunch, crunch through the snow path to where we were. Tom didn't come right away, though. Pop honked again, so Tom would be sure to hear, then when he still didn't come, and when there wasn't any curtain moving at their window to let us know anybody was home and that Tom would be here in a minute, Mom said to me, "Bill, you better run in and tell him we're here. We have to stop at Long's yet, and we don't want to be late." Almost in a second I was opening the door and getting out. Little Jim tumbled out right after me, saying, "I'll go with you," and since neither his mom nor his pop were there to tell him not to, both of us went squishing up the snow path toward their side door. There had been a little wind during the night, and some snow had drifted into the path, and I was glad we had on our boots, so our good Sunday shoes wouldn't get wet and spoil their shine. I knocked at Tom's door, and waited and nobody answered, and Little Jim and I listened to see what we could hear, but all I could hear was somebody moving around inside like whoever it was was in a hurry--like maybe there had been some things on the floor and they were in a hurry to straighten up the room or the house on account of company was coming. Then I heard a door shutting somewhere in the house, and I knew it was the door between their living-room and kitchen, then I heard footsteps coming toward our door, and I wondered what was wrong. I was sure something was, but didn't know what. The next thing I knew the door opened in front of me and there stood Little red-haired Tom, with his hair mussed up, and his old clothes on, and his eyes were kinda reddish, and it looked like he had been crying. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't go. Mother's got the flu, and I have to take care of her, and keep the fires going." "Can't your daddy do that?" Little Jim asked in a disappointed voice, and Little Tom swallowed hard like there was a tear in his throat and said, "Daddy's not home again. He--he's--not home," Tom finished, and I knew what he meant, but he was ashamed to say it, and it probably was that his pop had got drunk again and was maybe right that very minute in the Sugar Creek jail. "Where's Bob?" Little Jim wanted to know, and Tom stood there in the half-open kitchen door and said, "He got up early and went over to Shorty Long's; they're going to hunt pigeons." I knew what that meant, 'cause sometimes some of the farmers in our neighborhood had too many pigeons, and the Sugar Creek Gang would go to their different barns and shut all the doors and windows quick and help catch the pigeons for them, and you could get sometimes fifteen cents apiece for them if you sold them. If Shorty Long and Bob had gone hunting pigeons together, it meant that Shorty Long wouldn't want to go to Sunday School with us when we stopped at their house after awhile to get his mother to take her to church with us. It also meant that Shorty and Bob had maybe decided to like each other, since neither one of them liked the Sugar Creek Gang. Little Tom didn't know what I'd been thinking, so he piped up and said to Little Jim, "I'm sorry I can't go, but I can't. You tell Teacher I'll try to come next week, and tell her I studied my Sunday School lesson, and--wait a minute!" Tom turned and, leaving the door open, hurried back inside the house, opened the door to their living-room and went in, like he had gone after something. He shut the door after him real quick, like he was trying to keep the cold air in the kitchen from getting into that other room. In that split minute while the door was open, though, I saw that they had a big double bed in their living-room and that Tom's mother was in it, all covered up, and that there was a small table beside her bed with a glass half full of water, but that the room looked kinda topsyturvy like the housekeeping was being done by a boy instead of a mother. A second later Tom was out again, shutting the door behind him, and coming right straight to Little Jim and me, and holding out his hand and saying, "Here--here's my offering." He handed me a small offering envelope like the ones we used in our church, and without trying to, I noticed it had two very small coins in it, and I guessed they were dimes, which maybe Tom himself had saved from catching pigeons. Just that second, Tom's mother coughed, a kinda saddish, sickish cough, that sounded like maybe she was a lot sicker than she ought to be, and I knew that if my mom was as sick as that Pop would have a doctor out to see her right away, so I said, "Has the doctor been here?" Little Tom frowned and said, "Nope, we can't--Nope, I guess Mom will get well. She always does." Just that second our car honked, and I knew the folks were wondering what on earth was keeping us so long. There didn't seem to be anything we could do, but I knew somebody ought to do something for Tom's mom, 'cause that cough sounded dangerous. Why, she might even get pneumonia, I thought; she might even have it now. As quick as Little Jim and I reached the car, and had climbed into the back seat, we told Mom and Pop. While I was excitedly telling them, I noticed that the muscles in Pop's jaws were working and I knew he was thinking, and also was half angry inside because anybody had to have such a mean husband as Old Hook-nosed John Till. "He's a slave," Pop said, thinking of Tom's pop, and Mom said, with a very determined voice, "Theodore, you take the boys on to Sunday School. Be sure to stop for Mrs. Long. Here, Bill, you hold Charlotte Ann. If Mrs. Till has the flu, I can't keep Charlotte Ann here with me." Pop started to say something, but Mom had already made up her mind, and it was too late. Mom was already half way out of the car when she said, "You can come on back and get me in time for church,--no, wait a minute. I want Tom to go to Sunday School too--I'll send him right out." Mom was out of the car and going up the snow path toward the oldish house, when Little Jim piped up and said, "The doctor's going to stop at our house at ten o'clock to see Mother. I'll bet he'd stop to see Tom's mother too if anybody asked him to." "They can't afford a doctor," I said, remembering what Tom had tried to say a few minutes ago, but I hadn't any more than got the words out of my mouth than Pop spoke up almost fiercely, like he was angry at somebody or something, and this is what he said, "But _I_ can. If Tom's mother needs a doctor, she's going to have one," and with that Pop shoved open the car door at his left side, saying, "You boys wait here a minute. I'll be right back." He slammed the door and circled the car and went swishing with very determined steps through that snow path to Tom's side door, and disappeared inside, leaving Little Jim and Charlotte Ann and me in the car. The motor was running and the heater fan was circulating warm air all over the car, so we wouldn't get cold. I still had Little Tom's offering envelope in my hand, and it reminded me of how maybe Tom had earned the money, and so I said to Little Jim, "I hope Shorty Long and Bob don't stop at our barn, 'cause we don't have too many pigeons. And besides, there's a nest up in our cupola, with some baby pigeons in it, and if they catch the mother and father the babies will freeze or maybe starve to death." A jiffy later, Pop came out to the car, bringing Tom with him, and all of us except Mom drove on toward Shorty Long's house to get Shorty's mother. Pretty soon, fifteen minutes later, maybe, we all pulled up in our car in front of the little white church on top of the hill right across from a two-room brick schoolhouse where the Sugar Creek Literary Society met once a month on Wednesday nights. All of us except Pop got out to go inside the church, Shorty Long's mother carrying Charlotte Ann and was going to take care of her until Pop got back. "I'm going to the parsonage to call the doctor to stop at your house," Pop said to Tom, "and I'm taking a radio to your mother, so if she feels able, she can listen to a Gospel program." I looked quick at Little Tom, knowing he might feel ashamed to be reminded that his folks couldn't afford a doctor, and also that they didn't have any radio, and knowing it was on account of his pop; but Tom was looking in another direction, and was swallowing hard like he had taken too big a bite of something and hadn't chewed it long enough but was trying to swallow it. Then he whirled around real quick, and hurried up the cement steps to the church's door, with Little Jim and me right after him. Just inside the vestibule, fastened to the wall, was what is called "The Minister's Question Box," with a little slit in the top for people to put in Bible questions they wanted explained, or also for any extra offering people wanted the minister to have.... Right that second I saw Little Jim pull one of his small hands out of his pocket and slip a folded piece of paper into the box, kinda bashful-like, then he and all of us went on in to where our classes would be sitting. As soon as Sunday School was over and church started, I noticed Mr. Black come in. I was surprised to see him come to church, but I knew our minister would preach a good sermon like he always does, and it wouldn't hurt even a school teacher to hear a good sermon maybe once a week. 8 Two or three times while our minister was preaching a very interesting sermon which a boy could understand, my thoughts flew away like they were birds with wings, and for quite a while I didn't even know I was in church on account of I was far away in my thoughts. As you maybe know, our minister was Sylvia's father, and Sylvia was a very polite, kinda pretty girl with a good singing voice and always had her hair looking very neat and pretty with a ribbon or something on it like girls wear in their hair, and she was Big Jim's favorite girl. I was sitting beside Big Jim, and Dragonfly was beside me, with the rest of the Sugar Creek Gang in different places in the church, our parents not letting us all sit together if they could help it, on account of the minister got more attention himself if we sat in different places--not that any of us tried to be mischievous in church--in fact, we always had to try not to be. Right that second Sylvia's kind-voiced pop was talking about how wonderful it was, when you knew you had done something wrong, and were sorry for it, you could pray right straight to the Lord Himself and confess your sins right straight to Him, and He would make your heart clean.... "The blood of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, will cleanse you from all sin, _right that very minute_," Sylvia's pop said, and it seemed like a wonderful thing to believe, and made me feel good all inside of me.... And then almost right away, he went on to say, quoting another verse from the Bible, "Come now, let us reason together, saith the Lord, though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." I had learned that verse by heart once in a summer Bible school. And all of a sudden, my thoughts were flying away, and I was remembering Poetry's pet lamb, which you know about if you've read _The Sugar Creek Gang in School_, whose wool was NOT white one morning when the lamb fell down in a mud puddle, and I was remembering Poetry's funny poetry which was, "_Poetry had a little lamb, Its fleece a dirty black, The only place its wool was white Was high up on its back_".... Also I was at that very minute reminded of another poem which I had seen yesterday, which was written on yellow paper and which had been pinned with a brown stick on the white stomach of a snow man.... That poem still didn't seem funny, and for some reason I decided I was going to try to be what is called a gentleman, and try to act like one in school, even if I didn't like my teacher. I didn't hear any more of Sylvia's pop's sermon for a while, on account of I happened to look out the church window which didn't have stained glass like some of the churches in town did, and I saw somebody's barn just on the other side of the little cemetery, and there were a lot of pigeons flying around over the barn, and in the sky, right away I was remembering Shorty Long and Big Bob Till, and wondering where they were, and what they were doing. I had a heavy feeling inside of me that they would maybe visit all of the barns of the Sugar Creek Gang's pops, and catch a lot of pigeons, and maybe they'd catch and kill the pretty brown and white pair of pigeons which had their nest in the cupola of our barn, and then what would happen to the _baby_ pigeons?... Pop didn't come in to church at all on account of deciding to stay with Mom, but he was there in the car right afterward, and all of us including Little Jim and Tom Till and Mrs. Long and Charlotte Ann, shook hands with a lot of people and climbed into our car and drove away. Pop and all of us were talking and listening as our car went purring down the road. We were just stopping at Shorty Long's house to let Mrs. Long out when Little Jim said to me in a half whisper, "Sylvia's pop certainly preached a good sermon. I _thought_ that was why some houses didn't have as much snow on their roofs as others, and why barns always have more snow than houses that people live in. It was a good sermon." "What?" I said to Little Jim, not remembering anything in the sermon about snow on people's houses or barns. Sylvia's pop must have said that when I was thinking about snowy white wool on Poetry's lamb--or else about a snow man standing at the bottom of Bumblebee hill.... Pretty soon we came to Tom Till's house. Pop had already told us the doctor had been there, and Mrs. Till didn't have pneumonia, only a bad chest cold. Pop had gone to our house to get one of our battery radios so Mrs. Till could hear a good Christian program, and she was feeling a lot better. Pop also had told us that Bob had come home while Mom was taking care of Mrs. Till but he had gone away again. "Did he have any pigeons?" Little red-haired Tom asked, when Pop started to get out and go in with Tom and get Mom. "About a dozen," Pop told him. "He put them in the pigeon cage out in the woodshed." Right away I spoke up and said, "Were there any _white_ ones?" remembering the beautiful white pigeon with pink eyes which had her nest up in the cupola of our barn, and whose big beautiful brown husband was so proud of her and always was cooing to her when they were on the roof of our barn and was always strutting around so very proud, with his neck all puffed out like he was very important. "I don't know," Pop said, and I said, "Can I go and look, Tom?" and Tom said, "Sure, I'll go with you." "Let me hold Charlotte Ann," Little Jim said, he liking to hold babies on his small lap, anyway. Pop went in to get Mom, and Tom and I went into their woodshed to look through the chicken-yard wire cage at about fifteen very pretty pigeons. All of a sudden, while I was looking, I got a hot feeling all inside of me, 'cause right there in front of my eyes with the other different colored pigeons, was a beautiful albino one--the prettiest snow white one I ever saw with pretty pink eyes, and I knew right away it was my favorite pigeon, old Snow-white herself, who had her nest in the cupola of our barn. "There's my pigeon!" I cried to Little Tom, and when he asked me which one and I told him, he said, "Are you sure?" "I'm positive," I said. "See that little brown spot just below the left pink eye. I'm going to get her out, and take her home." Little Tom looked, and swallowed and got a very scared expression on his face, and started to say something, and then stopped. "'Smatter?" I said, and he said, "Nothing, only--" "Only what?" I asked him. "Only--only Bob's got a terrible temper, and he's already mad at me." Say, when I saw the scared expression on that little guy's face, I realized that if I let Snow-white out of that cage, Tom would maybe get a terrible beating-up-on from his big brother, and it'd be my fault. Just that minute, Pop and Mom came out of the side door of Tom's house, and it was time for us to go home. Mom was going to hurry with our own dinner, which had nearly all been cooked yesterday, and we were going to bring some nice chicken soup back in the car for Tom's mom's dinner, and also some chicken for Tom, himself. I still didn't know who was coming to our house for dinner, and whoever did come would have to wait awhile, on account of Mom would have to finish preparing it. "Who's coming to our house for dinner?" I asked, and Mom said, as we all started down the road toward Little Jim's house, "A certain very fine gentleman named Little Jim Foote, of the Sugar Creek Gang,"--and was I ever glad? But as the car glided down the white road, I kept thinking of my pretty Snow-white in Bob Till's cage, and I knew that Bob would maybe kill her along with all the other pigeons and sell them at the Sugar Creek Poultry Shop.... Just that second, just as we were getting close to Little Jim Foote's house, Little Jim said, "Hey, Bill! Look! There goes a white pigeon, flying all by itself." I looked out the car window, and sure enough there was, a snow white pigeon, with its white wings flapping, and it was diving along through the Sugar Creek sky right past our car and straight for Sugar Creek and in the direction of our house on the other side of the woods. All of a sudden I got a choked-up feeling in my throat, 'cause I just _knew_ that was my very own Snow-white, and that Tom Till liked me so well he was going to run the risk of getting a terrible beating-up-on by his brother Bob, by opening their pigeon cage and letting Snow-white out so she could fly home. For some reason all of a sudden, I liked Little red-haired Tom Till so well that I wished I could do something very wonderful for him and his sick mother. I just kept my eyes strained on the sky above Sugar Creek and the woods where I'd seen Snow-white disappear, when I heard Little Jim say to me beside me, "Nearly all the snow's melted off our house now." I looked where he was looking, and he looked at me, and said surprised like, "'Smatter, Bill? You got tears in your eyes." "Have I?" I said, "I didn't know it." Tom Till really was a great little guy, I thought; one of my very best friends, and I remembered that before he had started coming to our Sunday School and had become a Christian, he had been one of the meanest boys I ever saw. I shook my head, to knock the tears out of my eyes, like Little Jim does when for some reason or other he gets tears in his, and doesn't want anybody to know it, so instead of using his handkerchief to wipe them out, he just gives his head a quick little jerk or two, and if you happen to be looking at him, you can see the tears fly off in some direction or other. "Well, here we are!" Pop said, stopping at Little Jim's house for a minute. "You'll probably want your sled. You and Bill'll want to coast on Bumblebee hill after dinner," which we would, and which, after dinner, we did. One of the first things we did, though, even before we ate dinner, was to go upstairs to my room and both of us put on some old clothes to play in, Little Jim's mother having made him take some old clothes with him when we'd stopped at their house a little while ago. Right away, we were down stairs again, and were on the way through the kitchen to the back door to dash out to the barn to see if Bob Till and Shorty Long had been there for sure, and also to see if Snow-white had come back and was on her nest up in the cupola, and also find out if her babies were cold or had frozen or something, on account of they didn't have enough feathers on them to keep them warm. Mom stopped me at the door, though, saying, "Bill, if you like, you may wash your hands and finish setting the table--put the bread on, and pour a glass of water for everyone, and milk for you and Jim." I was surprised at Mom calling Little Jim just Jim, but I sorta felt it was because she thought it made Little Jim sound bigger than he was, and Mom knew it would make him feel good, Mom being a very smart person and knew how to make boys like her. "Anything I can do?" Little Jim asked Mom politely. Mom let him pour the water into the glasses for me, and when we finished helping her, she said we could go out to the barn if we wanted to, but to be ready to come running as soon as she called us, which we probably would be on account of the oven was open right that minute and I could smell the baked chicken and knew that it was going to be a wonderful dinner. * * * * * "Hi, Mixy!" Little Jim said to our black and white cat which was lying in a cozy nest of her own at the bottom of the ladder which went up to our haymow. Little Jim stooped down to pet her, and she lifted her head without standing up and rubbed the sides of her pretty black and white face against his small hand, and mewed lazily, with half-closed blinking eyes. I could hardly wait till we got up in the haymow and could climb up Pop's new ladder to the cupola to see if Snow-white was home again, so I started to go up the first ladder first, noticing that there was dirt on the ladder that might have been made by somebody with boots or shoes on that had dirty snow on them, and I knew Bob Till and Shorty Long had been there. How many pigeons had they caught? I wondered, and felt an angry feeling inside of me, 'cause if there was anything the boys of the Sugar Creek Gang _didn't_ do, it was we didn't go into anybody's barn and catch pigeons without the farmer asking us to, or without us first asking the farmer if we could. Right that minute, while Little Jim was stroking Mixy, and I had my hand and one foot on the ladder ready to start up, I heard Pop's voice calling from somewhere up in the haymow, and saying to us. "Bill! Are you down there?" "Yeah," I yelled back up to him, "Little Jim and I are _both_ here. We're coming up!" Pop's voice had a worried sound in it, and also sounded like maybe I had done something I shouldn't have, or else had maybe left something _un_done which I should have done. Then Pop's voice called down to us, and this time it sounded even more like I thought it had, when Pop said, "Where'd you put my new ladder? I can't find it anywhere." New ladder! I thought, and wondered, What on earth! Why just yesterday I'd used it to climb up to Snow-white's nest and had left it right there, with the top of it resting on the beam on the south side of the cupola. "It's right there!" I yelled up to Pop, "Right there in the center of the haymow, going up into the cupola." "It IS not!" Pop yelled back down to me, "and I've looked all over the haymow for it." I looked at Little Jim, and he was still stooped over stroking Mixy who was standing up now and stretching herself and reaching up with her front claws and doing some kind of monkey-business with Little Jim's trousers, taking hold, and letting go, and taking hold, and letting go, and acting very contented. Then I went lickety-sizzle up the ladder to the haymow and sure enough Pop was right! The pretty new ladder which Pop had bought and which I'd left right where I'd told Pop I'd left it, was gone. "I left it right here," I said to Pop, and then I had a queer feeling inside of me, as I thought about two boys whose names you already know and wondered if they had stolen it. There wasn't a sign of the ladder anywhere in the whole haymow, and I was looking in every direction. "'Smatter?" Little Jim asked, when his head appeared at the top of the ladder beside where I was standing, and he looked up at my and Pop's astonished faces. "Somebody's stolen our ladder," I said, "a brand new one Pop just bought last week." "_Stolen_ it?" Little Jim asked, and he had a puzzled expression on his face, and I knew what he was going to say before he said it, and it was, "Are you sure?" You know, Little Jim always had a hard time believing anybody was bad, or would do anything wrong, on account of he hardly ever did anything wrong himself, and, also, 'cause he liked everybody. So when he said, "Are you sure?" Pop said, "No, we're not sure, till Bill has tried first to remember if maybe he moved it somewhere else." I looked all around in a quick circle at the haymow, and I thought that if Bob Till and Shorty Long _had_ been there, they might have hidden it under some hay just for meanness, so I got a pitch fork and started to jab it into the hay all around in different places in the haymow, and Pop looked in a tunnel under a long beam, and also we all looked down stairs and all around. Once I looked up into the cupola, and had a half-glad feeling in my heart when I saw Snow-white's white head peeking out over the edge of the beam she had her nest on, like she had just come back, and was wondering "What on earth" anybody wanted with a ladder anyway, she not needing any herself. Just then we heard Mom calling for dinner, and we had to go, all of us being very hungry. I knew Pop was having a hard time believing me, that I hadn't moved the ladder, on account of many a time Pop had missed something around the farm and later he or I or somebody had found it where I'd been using it or playing with it, in some place I'd forgotten all about. But there wasn't any use to look for it. It was gone, and not a one of us knew where--only I was absolutely sure that Bob Till and Shorty Long had hidden it somewhere. I told Mom and Pop what I thought had happened, and we all talked it over pretty excitedly at the dinner table. After dinner we all looked again, looking all around the barn, inside and out, and also jabbing forks and shovels in the biggest piles of snow around the barn, to see if maybe it had been covered up with snow, and still we couldn't find it. Pop was pretty mad, also, on account of about six of our pigeons were missing, and it looked like there had been somebody jumping and running all over the alfalfa hay which we fed to our cows. "How would YOU like to eat a piece of _pie_ that some boy's dirty boots had walked all over?" Pop asked. That tickled Little Jim, and he giggled. Pretty soon Mom and Pop said Little Jim and I could go over to Poetry's house if we wanted to, and we could play in Poetry's nice new basement. It was while we were at Poetry's house that we saw the ladder, and you'd never guess in the world where it was, and most certainly you'd never guess in the world all the excitement we were going to get mixed up in before the afternoon was over. 9 We'd been having a wonderful time, playing pingpong and checkers, and Little Jim was playing the organ in Poetry's basement while Poetry and I made a lot of boy noise playing a tie-off game of pingpong, when we heard a door open at the head of the stairway leading down into the basement, and somebody sneezed, and we knew it was Dragonfly who had come over to play with Poetry. Poetry's parents had gone visiting somewhere, calling on some sick people in the Sugar Creek hospital, so we could make more noise and it wouldn't disturb any grown-up people's nerves, and would also be good for ours, it being almost as hard on a boy's nerves to be quiet, as it is on a grown-up person's nerves when a boy is noisy. Poetry and I stopped our game and yelled up to Dragonfly to come on down and "play the winner," which meant either Poetry or me. Dragonfly sneezed twice on his way down, he maybe being allergic to something he'd smelled when he came in, or else it was the change from the cold outside air to the warm inside air. Poetry won that last game, and it meant he was the champion, so he and Dragonfly started in like a house-afire batting that pingpong ball back and forth, back and forth, bang, sock, whizz, sizzle, ping-ping-ping-ping, pong-pong-pong-pong, sock, sock, sock.... Say, that little spindle-legged Dragonfly was _good_. He won the first game right off the bat. He really was a good athlete for such a thin little guy. "Hey, you guys!" he said, pretending to be very proud of himself, "Isn't there a window somewhere we can open? I want to throw out my chest," which was an old joke, but sounded funny for Dragonfly to say it, his chest being very flat. "Sure," Poetry said, "but we can get air quicker by opening the door at the top of the stairs," and with that he shuffled up the stairs and opened the door, and just as he did so, I heard a horse sneeze and a man's voice saying, "Whoa, there, Prince! Stand still!" and I knew it was our new teacher, Mr. Black. Just that second, Dragonfly sneezed again, and said to Poetry, "I'm allergic to horses. Shut that door!" "Hello!" a voice called. "Anybody at home?" Well, I can't tell you all that happened for the next fifteen minutes, on account of I have to hurry with the rest of this story, but Mr. Black was very kind to us boys. He came down into the basement, and took a flashlight picture of us with our pingpong balls and paddles and with Little Jim at the organ, and didn't say a word about the snow man we knew he'd seen yesterday, or the book, or anything. He was very nice, and a little later when he rode away on his great big beautiful prancing saddle horse, I thought maybe he was going to be a good teacher after all. The last thing he said to us just before he swung prancing Prince around and jogged up Poetry's lane to the house, was, "Well, I'll see you boys in the morning at school.... I'm going to ride over now and get the fire started. I let it go out over Saturday to save fuel.... But the weather report is for a cold wave tonight, so I think I'll get the fire going good, and it'll be cozy as a bug in a rug tomorrow morning when everybody comes." It certainly was a pretty horse, and he certainly knew how to ride him; and the big beautiful brown saddle and Mr. Black's riding habit made me wish I had a big brown horse and a riding outfit and could go galloping around all over Sugar Creek territory. Almost right away, we all decided to play outdoors awhile, 'cause if there was going to be a real cold wave tonight, it meant that tomorrow we'd all have to stay inside the school most of the time, 'cause sometimes a cold wave in Sugar Creek territory meant twenty degrees below zero.... Poetry went in the house and got his binoculars and we all climbed up on their chicken house which didn't have any snow on its roof, and started to look around Sugar Creek at different things. Little Jim grinned when he noticed there wasn't any snow on the roof of the chicken house, and said, "That certainly was a good sermon this morning," then he grunted and sat down astride the chicken house roof, right close to a little tin chimney out of which white smoke was coming, there being a kerosene heater inside the chicken house. "It sure was," Poetry said, with the binoculars focused in the direction Mr. Black had gone. "Here, Bill, look at him, will you.... He's stopping at Circus's house. Suppose maybe he's going to take a picture of one of Circus's sisters?" Dragonfly giggled when Poetry said that, and I felt hot inside, on account of Circus had a lot of sisters, and one of them was a real honest-to-goodness girl who wasn't afraid of mice or spiders, and sometimes I carried her dinner pail to school. I knew Dragonfly was trying to tease me, so I said, "Here, let me see." A jiffy later I was looking at Mr. Black stopping his big horse at Circus's house. Just that second, Dragonfly shoved his hands against my knees behind me, and both my knees buckled, and I swung around a little, and when I looked again toward Circus's house, the binoculars were focused, not on his house, but on our red brick schoolhouse farther across the field, and all of a sudden I let out a gasp and a yell, and felt a queer feeling inside of me, for right there on the north side of the schoolhouse was a ladder leaning up against the eaves and--yes, I could see it as plain as day, there was something that looked like a flat board lying right across the top of the schoolhouse chimney.... It was even plainer than day what had happened, and that was that Shorty Long and Bob Till had been to our house and barn while we were in church and had stolen Snow-white and some other pigeons and then seeing how nice and light and easy to carry Pop's new ladder was, and remembering the story of _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_, and both of the boys not liking the Sugar Creek Gang, and Shorty Long especially not liking me terribly much, they had borrowed the ladder and had used it to put the board on the chimney, so Mr. Black would be smoked out when he started the fire, and I, Bill Collins, and maybe all the Sugar Creek Gang, would get into even more trouble with Mr. Black, and-- I was thinking all those worried thoughts in less than a jiffy while I was looking through those binoculars, and was still standing on the roof of Poetry's pop's chicken house, with Poetry and Little Jim beside me. I must have let out a very excited gasp, 'cause Poetry said, "'Smatter, Bill?" and Little Jim said in his mouse-like voice which was also excited for a change, "See anything important?" Dragonfly was on the ground in front of me and he yelled up and said "What's the matter?" then he sneezed, which is what people sometimes do when all of a sudden they look up and the sun gets into their eyes, which it did in Dragonfly's eyes right that second. "Quick!" I yelled to the gang. "Come on, we've got to get to the schoolhouse before Mr. Black does or the schoolhouse will catch on fire maybe." The ladder was on the side of the schoolhouse where I knew Mr. Black wouldn't see it when he got there. I whirled around, made a leap for the ground, landed in a snow drift, got out of it in a hurry, and raced as fast as I could down Poetry's lane toward the highway. Poetry and Dragonfly and Little Jim came whizzing along behind me, yelling what was the matter and why was I in such a hurry, and how on earth could the schoolhouse catch on fire, and why did we have to get there first, before Mr. Black did. I still had Poetry's binoculars in my hand, and was running, panting, dodging drifts, and all the time I could see in my mind's eye Pop's new ladder leaning up against the schoolhouse, and I knew that if Mr. Black ever saw it and found out whose it was, I'd have a hard time explaining it to him that I hadn't done it. In between pants, I managed to get it into the heads of the rest of the gang what I'd seen, and why I was in a hurry. "We've got to get there first, and get that board off the chimney or the room will be filled with smoke and maybe there will be an explosion." I remember that in _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_, there had really been _some_ smoke.... Poetry who was my best friend, almost, was as mad as I was, and he said, behind me between his short breath, "Those dirty bums! They're the cause of _all_ our trouble with our new teacher!" And would you believe it? Little Jim heard him say that, yelled to us, and said, "Are you sure?" Imagine him not being sure. We took a short cut we knew about, and once when we were on the top of a little hill in Dragonfly's pop's woods, we stopped and Poetry and I took a couple of quick looks through his binoculars toward Circus' house, to see if Mr. Black was still there, and his horse was, so we guessed he was too. I saw him out in their back yard and a whole flock of girls was lined up against their woodshed and he was taking their picture. I didn't see Circus there anywhere, and I wished he was with us, on account of he could run faster than any of us and also climb better. "Come on!" I yelled to the rest of the guys with me, "we can make it, I think." Away we went. "Wait!" Dragonfly yelled from pretty far back. "I'm out of breath. I--can't--can't run so--fast!" which he couldn't. All of a sudden, Poetry stopped and said, "We're crazy, Bill, we can't make it. Look! There he goes now, right straight toward the schoolhouse. Quick! Drop down! He's looking this way!" He ducked behind a rail fence which is where we were at the time, and I dropped down beside him. Dragonfly was still coming along not more than fifty feet behind us, with little Jim staying back with him. I hated to stop, and I hated to have to realize what was happening, but it was, and that was that Mr. Black was going to get to the schoolhouse first and he'd start the fire in the schoolhouse stove first, on account of he wouldn't see the ladder first, 'cause it was on the opposite side of the school from the woodshed where he kept his kindling wood. I'd seen Mr. Black start fires in the Poetry-shaped iron stove before, and this is the way he always did it.... He'd go straight to the corner of the schoolhouse under the long shelf where we all kept our dinner pails, and pick up a tin can of kerosene which he kept in the corner, and in which he kept some neat little sticks standing. Those little sticks would be all soaked with kerosene from having stood there all night or longer, and he'd take them to the stove and lay them in carefully, along with other small pieces of wood and a few larger pieces, and then he would very carefully light a match and touch the flame to the kerosene-soaked sticks, and right away there would be a nice fire.... I knew it would take Mr. Black only a little while to lay the fire, and in a few minutes the fire in the stove would be roaring away. But with the board on the chimney, the smoke couldn't get out, and it'd have to come out of the stove somewhere, which it would, and the schoolhouse would be filled with smoke in a jiffy; also I remembered the Christmas tree which we'd left up since Christmas, wasn't more than fifteen feet from the stove, and its needles were dry enough to burn.... Something had to be done in a hurry, and yet there was Mr. Black getting closer and closer to the schoolhouse.... In fact, it was already too late to get there before he went inside, without being seen. I knew that if I got there in time to hurry up that ladder and take off the board, I'd have to do it _after_ Mr. Black got inside, and before he could get the fire laid and started.... The rail fence behind which we were hiding right that minute was on the same side of the school the ladder was, and about as far from the school as our barn is from our house.... All of us were squatted down behind the fence now, and I took charge of the gang and said, "You guys stay here. The very minute he gets in, I'll dive out of here and make a bee-line for the schoolhouse, and zip up the ladder and take the board off. Then I'll climb back down, take the ladder and drag it around behind the schoolhouse quick, and come back here.... Then tonight or sometime after Mr. Black goes home, some of us'll sneak over and bring the ladder home, and everything'll be all right." It was a good idea if only it would work, which it had to, or I just knew that the gentleman I'd made up my mind I was going to try to be, would get a terrible licking, which any gentleman shouldn't have to have, or he isn't one, which I wasn't, yet, anyway.... "Let ME do it," Poetry said beside me, puffing hard from the fast run we'd just had, and Dragonfly said, "The ladder'd break with you on it," trying to be funny and not being. Little Jim piped up and said, "All the snow's off the roof right next to the chimney." I looked at him real quick, and he had a far-away look in his eyes, like he was not only looking at the dry roof all around the schoolhouse chimney, but was thinking something very important, which he'd heard in church that morning, but which I hadn't.... "Here goes," I said, my heart beating wildly. "You guys stay here, and watch," and Little Jim piped up and said, "We will--we'll watch and--and--" I knew what he was going to say even before he said it, and for some reason it seemed like it was all right for him to say it, and it didn't sound sissified for him to, either. While I was climbing over that rail fence and making a dive for the schoolhouse and the ladder, Little Jim's whole sentence was tumbling around in my mind, and it was, "We will--we'll watch and--and _pray_." Little Jim was almost as good a friend of mine, as Tom Till was, I thought.... A jiffy later I reached my pop's new ladder and started to start up when I heard somebody running behind me and saying in a husky whisper, "Hey, Bill! Stop. Wait! Let me hold the ladder." I looked around quick and it was Poetry behind me, and I knew he was right. My pop had taught me never to go up a ladder until I was sure the bottom of it was safely set so it _wouldn't_ slip, or unless somebody stayed at the bottom to hold it so it _couldn't_. A jiffy later, I was on my way up, and another steenth of a jiffy I was at the eaves, and, being a very good climber, I scrambled up the other little ladder that was made out of nailed-on boards, to the red brick chimney. I had to be as quiet as I could, though, on account of not wanting Mr. Black to hear me on the roof. I also was going to have to be careful when I took the board off so the sound of it sliding off wouldn't go down the chimney through the stove. In another jiffy I'd have had the board off, and have given it a toss far out where it wouldn't have hit Poetry, and then I'd have been on my way down again, but when I took hold of the wide, flat board, I couldn't any more get it off than anything. I gasped out-loud when I saw why I couldn't get it off, and that was that there was a nail driven into each end of it, and a piece of stove pipe wire was wrapped around the head of each nail and then the wire was twisted around and around the brick chimney, down where it was smaller, and that crazy old board wouldn't budge--an almost _new_ board, rather, and as soon as I saw it, I knew it was the board out of the swing which we have in the walnut tree at our house.... Why, the dirty crooks! I thought. They wanted it to be _sure_ to look like Bill Collins put it up here. I was holding onto the chimney, in fact I was sort of behind it, so I wouldn't slide down.... I could hear sounds down in the schoolhouse of somebody doing something to the stove, which must have been Mr. Black finishing laying the fire, 'cause right that second I heard a sound like an iron door closing on the big round iron Poetry-shaped stove, and almost a second later, a puff of bluish smoke came bursting out through a crack where the board didn't quite cover the chimney on one side, and I knew that the fire was started. I knew that in a few jiffies that one-room school would be filled with smoke, and a mad teacher would come storming out to see what on earth was the matter with the chimney, and I'd be in for it. "Hey!" I hissed down to Poetry, shielding my voice with my hand so the sound would go toward Poetry instead of down the chimney. Poetry heard me and dived out far enough from the schoolhouse to see me, and I hissed to him, "It's too late. The fire's already started. What'll I do. I can't get it off. They've wired it on. If I had a pair of pliers, I could cut the wire." And Poetry yelled up to me and said, "There's a pair in the schoolhouse." The awfulest sounds came up the chimney from down inside the schoolhouse, and I could just imagine what Mr. Black was thinking, and maybe was saying too. Smoke was pouring out of the chimney beside my face, but I knew the crack was too small for _all_ the smoke to get out, and the room down there would be filling up with smoke.... What on earth to do, was screaming at me in my mind.... Then Poetry had an idea and it was, "Come on down quick, and let's run. Let's leave the ladder and everything!" "But it's my pop's ladder, and it's our swing board, out of our walnut tree swing." "I say, let's _run_!" Poetry half yelled and half hissed up to me, and for some reason, knowing I couldn't get the board off the chimney, and guessing what might happen if I got caught, it seemed like Poetry's idea was as good as any, and so I turned and started to scoot my way down the board ladder on the roof to the ladder Poetry would be holding for me, and then--well, I don't know how it happened, but my boot slipped before I could get my feet on pop's ladder, and I felt all of me slipping toward the edge of the roof--slipping, slipping, slipping, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stop myself. In a jiffy, I'd be going slippety-sizzle over the edge of the eaves and land with a wham at Poetry's feet. I might even land on him and hurt him; and even while I was sliding, I heard a sickening sound in the schoolhouse somewhere, like a stove was falling down, or a chair was falling over or something, and then my feet were over the edge, and I was grasping and grasping with my bare hands at the slippery roof, and they couldn't find anything to hold onto, and then I heard another sound that was even more sickening than the one I'd heard in the schoolhouse and it was a ripping and tearing sound, and then felt a long sharp pain on me somewhere and I knew my trousers had caught on a nail or something.... R-r-r-r-r-r-ip!... R-r-r-r-r-r-ip! Tear-r-r-r-r-! And I knew that when I would hit the ground in a few half jiffies, there would be a big hole in my trousers which I'd have to explain to Mom when I got home, as well as a lot of other things to both Mom and Pop. The next thing I knew I was off the edge and falling and the very next thing I learned awful quick, was I had landed ker-wham-thud in a snow drift at the foot of the ladder. 10 Even while I was falling and scared and feeling the long sharp pain running up and down my hip where I'd probably been scratched by a nail, I was wondering what would happen next--what Mr. Black would do, and what would happen when I got home, and also I was wondering how bad I would be hurt when I fell--and then I lit ker-fluffety-sizzle in that big snowdrift.... And there I was, Bill Collins, the one member of the Sugar Creek Gang who had made up his mind he wasn't going to have anything to do with smoking a teacher out of his schoolhouse, the one who was going to be what is called a gentleman, now lying upside down in a scrambled-up heap, with one of my trouser legs ripped maybe half way down, and myself all covered with snow and with my mind all tangled up and everything. The fall didn't hurt much though, on account of the snowdrift being pretty deep, but we had to do something and do it quick. Just that minute, I heard the schoolhouse door open around in front and while I was trying to scramble to my feet, I looked toward the front of the school and right that second Mr. Black came swishing around on our side of the schoolhouse with a big pail in his hand and swooped with it down onto a snowdrift, scooped up a pailful of snow and without even looking in our direction dived back around the corner of the schoolhouse like he was half scared to death, and right that second Poetry yelled to Dragonfly and Little Jim who were still hiding behind the rail fence to "Hurry up! I think the schoolhouse is on fire inside! Let's go help Mr. Black put it out." And so I, Bill Collins, an imaginary gentleman, but not looking like even a half a one, staggered out of my snowdrift, and the four of us made a dive for the front of the schoolhouse and around to the open door, which had smoke pouring out of it, to see if we could help Mr. Black put out the fire, if there was one. "I can't go in," Dragonfly said, "I'm allergic to smoke. It'll make me sneeze." Just that second we heard Mr. Black's horse, which was tied at the front gate, snort and make crazy horse noises, and even before I could imagine what was going to happen, it had happened. There was a noise like a leather strap straining, and then a cracking and splintering sound. I looked just in time to see the little wooden gate to which the horse had been tied, break in two or maybe three, and part of it go galloping down the road being dragged by a scared wild-eyed brown saddle horse, and at the same time I saw a half-wild-looking man come running out of the smoking schoolhouse and make a wild dash through the place where the gate had been and go racing after the horse, not even seeing us boys, or if he saw us, not paying any attention to us, but yelling to Prince in a commanding voice to "WHOA ... W-H-O-A!" It certainly was an exciting minute, and in spite of the way I knew I must have looked myself, with snow all over me and with a ripped trouser leg and everything, Mr. Black looked even worse as he went racing down that road after his horse, yelling for the horse to stop.... The very minute he went swishing past us, I noticed that his hands were black with soot, as also was his face, and he really looked like a wild man, and for some reason even while everything else was all topsy turvy in my mind, I couldn't help but remember Poetry's poetry which went: "_The Sugar Creek Gang had the worst of teachers, And 'Black' his named was called; His round, red face had the homeliest of features; He was fat and forty and bald_"-- only his face was black as well as his name, and I knew if he hadn't been bald, his hair would certainly have been all mussed up like mine is most of the time when my hat is off, only Mr. Black's fur hat was still on. Say, Prince certainly wasn't in any horse mood to stop, on account of being scared, I suppose, what with the smoke pouring out of the schoolhouse, and all the noise which the stove had made, and with the gang making a noise and running excitedly, and everything. That horse with a gate tied to its bridle rein probably was as scared as a dog or a cat is when a boy that ought to know better ties a tin can to its tail and shouldn't and it gets scared and runs, and keeps on running.... Prince kept running and the piece of gate kept swinging in different directions. Every time the horse turned his head this way or that, the gate would swing around and sock him in the side and scare him maybe even worse. I thought how terrible it would be if Prince would get his feet all tangled up in part of the gate, and fall, and maybe break one of his legs and have to be killed, which is what nearly always has to be done to a horse when it breaks one of its legs, on account of you can't get a horse to be quiet for weeks and months long enough for its leg to heal. I certainly wouldn't want such a pretty horse to have to be killed.... * * * * * Ho hum--say, if I don't get going faster, telling you this story, it'll be too long to get it into one book and I'll have to finish it some other time, so here goes just as fast as I can, till I get to the end.... There we were--the four of us, innocent-faced Little Jim, dragonfly-eyed Dragonfly, barrel-shaped Poetry, and me, red-haired, freckle-faced Bill Collins--and there was Mr. Black and his horse getting farther and farther up the road which was the road that leads past Circus' and Big Jim's houses, which as you know are on the other side of the road from each other. But we couldn't stand there and just watch a runaway horse with a man chasing it, when a schoolhouse was on fire, or was supposed to be. I'd been so excited about the runaway horse that I'd almost forgotten the schoolhouse. I turned around quick to the door, and would you believe it? Little Jim and Poetry and Dragonfly were already inside and I'd been standing out there by what used to be a gate, watching Mr. Black and his horse all by myself! Even Dragonfly was inside although he had opened one of the windows and was standing leaning half way out and breathing fresh air so he wouldn't sneeze, he, as you know, being allergic to smoke. That schoolhouse certainly looked funny with the sunlight which came in from the windows, shining through the bluish smoke, so that things at first weren't very clear to my eyes, but when about a half-jiffy later, my eyes were accustomed to the dark light, I saw a really crazy looking schoolhouse. There on the teacher's desk, upside down, was the teacher's great big swivel chair; and the brooms and the mop were piled on top of that, and on the blackboard written in great big letters with chalk, was Poetry's poem about a teacher not having any hair. The old Christmas tree which had been standing so pretty and straight in a corner of the platform was lying on the floor, and the popcorn and paper chains which the Sugar Creek pupils had made were in a tangled up mess all over the tree and the floor. The stove door was open and the fire box was half-filled with snow, which maybe Mr. Black had scooped in to put out the fire he'd started awhile ago. All that mess, with the turned-over tree and Poetry's poem and the topsyturvy desk and chair, meant that two boys you know about had not only put the board across the chimney but had crawled into the schoolhouse through one of the windows maybe and upset things, then had printed the poem there for our teacher to see and--well, you can guess I wasn't feeling very much like a gentleman. I knew that if Shorty Long and Bob Till were right there right that minute I'd probably prove to them that I wasn't one yet. It was Little Jim who woke us all up that something had to be done. We were all sort of standing helpless, looking around at the mess, when he piped up and said in a voice that sounded like he was the leader of the gang, "Hey, you guys! Let's DO something, before he gets back. Let's straighten things up, and maybe when he comes he'll believe that we didn't do it!" Then Dragonfly whirled around from his window, and said, "They're clear down to Circus's house already, and the horse just turned in to their barnyard," which made me want to make a dive for the window to look too, but I didn't 'cause all of a sudden Little Jim said something else which was, "Let's start the fire for him real quick, and that'll show him we like him," and that started my mind to working. "We can't," I said, "the board's still across the chimney and we can't get it off." That started Poetry to thinking and he made a heavy dive for the long shelf along the back wall, and right there where they had been, only there was some stove pipe wire beside them, were the pliers. In a jiffy, Poetry and I were back outside, and with him holding the ladder and with me all trembling inside, but not too nervous to climb, I went up that ladder, hand over hand, and in less than a half-dozen worried jiffies, had our swing board off the chimney and tossed it out into a snow drift. When I was down again, Poetry and I whisked the ladder back behind the schoolhouse, and with our feet, covered it with snow, and also the swing board, and when we got back inside the schoolhouse, Little Jim and Dragonfly had used their hands and had taken the little fire shovel and scooped out as much of the snow out of the stove as they could and had laid the fire again, like we all knew how to do, from having seen our parents do it. Poetry shoved his hand in his pocket for his water-proof match box, and in a little while we had a roaring fire in the big round iron stove. Then all of us started in to cleaning up the schoolhouse as fast as we could. Poetry grabbed an eraser and as quick and as fierce as a cat jumping on a mouse, leaped toward the blackboard and swished his poetry into nothing; Little Jim found a dust cloth and went up one row of seats and down another, carefully dusting each one just like I imagine he'd been taught at home--not swishing the cloth around too fast which would make more dust. I began to try to untangle the Christmas tree from the popcorn strings and paper chains, thinking how nice the tree would look standing up in the corner again, when all of a sudden Dragonfly hissed and said, "Hey! Everybody! Come here, quick! See what I found!" Dragonfly had been standing by a wide open window on account of there was still too much smoke in the room for him to breathe without sneezing. The Sugar Creek School's great big unabridged dictionary was wide open on a shelf which was fastened to the wall by the window. Before we could get there, Dragonfly said excitedly, "It's Mr. Black's diary!" Well, if there is anything a person wants to read, and shouldn't and mustn't, it's somebody's diary, unless that person tells him to. My parents had told me that when I was little, and Pop had licked me once for reading his, and so I knew Dragonfly shouldn't have read Mr. Black's diary, so when I got to where he was and saw him looking at a pretty leather bound notebook lying flat open on the big open dictionary I said, "Stop reading that! It's not good etiquette," which is, "not good manners," or something. I certainly wasn't going to turn any pages of the diary and read them, I said to myself, remembering what my parents had told me, and also the half hard licking my pop had given me for reading his, when he told me not to, but when I got to where Dragonfly was and looked to see if it really was Mr. Black's diary, without even trying to I saw on the page that was half open, written in printed letters, these words: "_The Sugar Creek Gang had the worst of teachers, And 'Black' his named was called...." For some reason it didn't look very funny. In fact, it seemed like anybody who had first thought up such a poem must have been crazy in the head. I knew I shouldn't have been reading, and I decided to quit quick, which I did, only I saw one other thing just as my eyes were leaving the page, and it was: "Things have come to a show down with the boys. I know I'm going to have to take drastic action soon." "What's '_drastic_' mean?" Dragonfly wanted to know, just as I turned away, and I knew he'd read what I'd read, so I said, "I don't know, but whatever it is, I'll bet it'll hurt like everything." I reached out my hand and laid it down flat on the opened diary, so I wouldn't read anything else, when Dragonfly said, "Psst! Listen!" We all listened for a half jiffy and things were so quiet in that still-half-smokey room we could hear only the crackling of the fire in the stove, when all of a sudden there was a step on the schoolhouse porch, and the door was thrust open and there stood Mr. Black himself, looking right straight at us. 11 Well, when four boys get caught doing something they're not sure they're supposed to be doing, they don't know what to do or what to say, and sometimes they start talking right away to explain _why_ they are doing what they're doing--which is what _we_ started to do--that is we _started_ to, but all of us talking at once didn't make sense, so we stopped. This is what we all said though: Dragonfly said, "Good morning, Mr. Black!" which is what you say to a teacher when it _is_ morning and you are trying to be polite; Poetry said, "Somebody wrote a crazy poem about you on the black, Mr. Blackboard, and I erased it"; Little Jim said, "That certainly was a good sermon this morning, Mr. Black"; and I, William Jasper Collins, with my torn trousers and my freckled face and my rumpled red hair and my mussed-up mind said, "I hope you don't have to shoot him if he broke his leg. He didn't break it, did he?" All of us said most of these things at the same time, while we were standing in a semi-circle around the unabridged dictionary with the open notebook on it. Mr. Black was puffing and panting, he being Poetry-shaped as well as the stove, but he all of a sudden said, "Wait, boys, don't move! I want to get your pictures, right where you are, and _as_ you are." Before we could decide to move or not to move, he whirled around, hurried over toward the shelf where we always set our dinner pails on school days, and came back with his camera which we hadn't noticed had been there. It was a very pretty camera and was the kind people used when they took a flashlight picture. What on earth he wanted a picture of us for, I didn't know, unless it was so he could prove to anybody who didn't believe it, that we were a bunch of roughnecks. Quick as a blinding flash he had our picture taken, and then he whirled around like he wanted to take some more pictures, and stopped and stared at the Christmas tree which I had stood back up in the corner, with the popcorn and paper chains tangled up on it, and at the erased blackboard and at his desk which didn't have any chairs upside down on it, and he said, "Who straightened up this room! Did you boys do that!" "Yes, sir," I said, "we did; we wanted to prove to you that we didn't do it." "You WHAT!" "We wanted to prove to you that we didn't _do_ it!" Little Jim said. Mr. Black looked at Little Jim and at all of us like he thought we were even crazier than we felt, and he said, "Prove you didn't do _what_?" "That we didn't put the board across the--OUCH!" Dragonfly started to talk, but stopped his sentence with an OUCH when I quick kicked him on the shin. Mr. Black's eyes opened wide. Then for the first time he seemed to notice that the fire was going again and that the stove wasn't smoking so he scratched his head above his left ear, hurried over to the stove with the camera in his hand, set his camera on his big desk, opened the stove's door and shut it again, and just stood there, looking first at the stove and then at us, and I wished I knew what he was thinking; then I noticed that his eyes glanced off in the direction of the blackboard and to the beech switches which were lying on a ledge at the top. I could just see myself and all of us getting a licking in about seven jiffies. I started to edge toward the door, but he must have guessed what I was thinking, 'cause he barked a command to me which was "William Collins! Stop where you are!" I stopped stock still, trembling inside of me, wondering what the word "drastic" was going to mean. Then Mr. Black barked to me, "Go to the blackboard and get me those beech switches!" There was a tone of voice in his words which made me start toward the blackboard instead of toward the only door the schoolhouse had. I had to pass Dragonfly's open window which was still open, on account of there was still some smoke in the room. It would have been easy for me to make a dive out of that window but I didn't want to leave the gang alone there with an angry teacher. I also had to pass close to the unabridged dictionary, and I all of a quick sudden decided if I knew what the word "_drastic_" meant, it might give me an idea what to do next, so I stopped, and quick turned the pages to the letter "D" and was trying to find _drastic_, when Mr. Black barked a question at me, and it was, "Young MAN! _What_ are you _doing_?" I jumped like I had been shot, but made myself say as calmly as I could, over my shoulder, "I just wanted to look up an important word first. I'll get the switches in just a minute." "If the word is _punishment_," Mr. Black said to me angrily, "it's a _noun_, and it means _beech switches_.... You bring them to me!" And I knew I had to do it. I stopped looking in the dictionary, and feeling simply terrible inside of me, on account of not having done anything wrong on purpose, but knowing Mr. Black wouldn't believe us even if we told him, I got the switches and took them toward him, but was so nervous I dropped one of them.... Say, Little Jim who is very quick when he makes up his mind to do something, made a dive for the floor, picked up the switch I'd dropped and quick took the other one out of my hand, and handed them both to Mr. Black and said to him very politely, "Here you are, sir, with all the old brown dead leaves gone--every one of them." "What on _earth_?" I thought, and looked at Little Jim's face and then at Mr. Black's. Say our teacher's face had all of a sudden the queerest expression on it, and he looked at Little Jim like he wondered "What on _earth_?" himself. Then he looked at me, and his face was hard again. Right that second I remembered my torn trousers, and the place where they were torn clear through to the skin. The scratch was still hurting, so I said, "If you're--if you're going to lick me, d-don't hit me on my scratched thigh!" I turned sidewise to him, stooped over part way, and showed him my torn trousers and the reddish scratch on my thigh, which for some reason didn't look half as bad as I wished it did, right that minute. Mr. Black frowned, and asked fast, "Where'd you get that scratch!" and Dragonfly said, "When he was up on the--OUCH!" I stopped Dragonfly with a kick on his shin again. "What's that? Where'd you say he got it?" Mr. Black barked his question to Dragonfly, and before any of us could stop him, Dragonfly had said, "On the schoolhouse roof." I just couldn't believe Dragonfly was that dumb--that he didn't know he oughtn't to tell where I'd gotten that scratch. I remembered with a mad thought that we'd had trouble with Dragonfly once before, on account of he had been friends with Shorty Long. There wasn't any time to think or to remember anything else Dragonfly had done, but it certainly didn't feel good to have one of our own gang be what is called a "tattletale." Why he was supposed to be one of my very best friends! I looked at Little Jim and Poetry to see what they thought and to see if they could think of anything that might help us from getting a licking with those leaveless beech switches. Poetry had a pucker on his forehead like he was thinking, or maybe trying to, and Little Jim had that innocent lamb-like look on his small face which when he looks like that, always reminds me of the picture his mom has on the wall above their piano in their house, of the Good Shepherd with a little lamb in his arms, with the Good Shepherd's hand on the little lamb's poll, which is the top of its head.... Then in a flash I was seeing Mr. Black again standing with one hand on his hip and the other holding onto one of the beech switches, he having laid the other switch down on Sylvia's little sister's desk, which was beside and behind him. "And _what_," Mr. Black said to me, "were you doing on the schoolhouse _roof_?" Well, I hated to tell him because I thought he wouldn't believe it, and another reason I hated to tell him was because if I did, it would mean I'd have to tell him somebody _else_ had put the board ON the chimney, and that wouldn't be fair to Little Tom Till who was Bob's brother, and also on account of my mom was trying to get Shorty Long's mom to be a Christian, and I hated to be a tattletale about Shorty and Bob, so I just stood there, without answering Mr. Black. "_Answer_ me!" he demanded. I could see he was getting really angry. I took one quick look at the door to see if I could dive past him and get there first and make a wild dash for home. I saw Little Jim's face and it reminded me again of the Bible picture above his piano, and that reminded me of a Bible verse I'd memorized, which was, "A soft answer turneth away wrath," and I thought of Mr. Black's pretty horse and said, politely, "Your horse is the prettiest horse I ever saw. I hope he didn't fall and break his leg." I looked at Poetry and he winked at me, and said to Mr. Black, "It'll get dark pretty soon and if there's going to be a cold wave tonight, we'd better help you carry in plenty of wood. We'll help you bank the fire good." But it was Little Jim who saved us from trouble, when he said what he said, and it was, "That was a good sermon this morning, wasn't it, Mr. Black? All of us are going to try not to be mad at you any more, and if we've done anything wrong, we're sorry. We hope you won't give us a licking, but if you do, we won't even get mad." Mr. Black looked down at that innocent looking little face, and kept on looking at it, and then he seemed to get a far-away expression in his eyes like he was thinking about something that wasn't in the schoolhouse. I noticed his hand that had the switch in it was trembling, and I knew he was really mad which is the way my hands sometimes shake when I feel that way. Then he looked up like he was hearing something outside, and without saying anything turned and with the switches in his hands, walked with heavy steps over to the window and looked out, with his back to us. I could hear him breathing heavily like he had been running, and there was a terrible feeling inside of me, which is the way a boy feels when he knows some grown-up person is awful angry. The four of us stood by the stove and looked at different things, not any of us moving, and not a one of us looking at each other, except I glanced at different ones of us out of the corner of my eye, and then looked away again. I could still hear Mr. Black breathing heavily.... I didn't look, but I guessed he was still standing and looking out into the late afternoon sunlight on the snow. Then I heard him cough a little and clear his throat, and heard him walking. I looked and he was going to the blackboard, where, very carefully, like he was afraid he'd drop one of them, he laid the beech switches on the shelf, then he turned and sat down in his chair at his desk, and picked up a book that was lying there, opened it and leafed through it slowly.... "What on earth!" I thought. You could have knocked me over with a turkey feather, when I saw the kind of book he was leafing through. I'd never seen it there on that desk before, and I wondered where it had come from, but there it was as plain as day, an honest-to-goodness great big beautiful brown-bound Bible. All of us were so quiet, and I had such a tense feeling inside of me that I couldn't say a word, and didn't want to anyway. The fingers of one of Mr. Black's hands were sort of drumming on the desk, and he was looking at something in the very front of the Bible in the place where people nearly always write their names, to show whose Bible it is. Then real slow-like, he began to turn the pages not looking up at any of us, but like he was thinking about something that wasn't in the schoolroom. I could hear the crackling of the fire in the stove, and hear us all breathing. I caught a corner of Poetry's eye with a corner of one of mine, but couldn't tell what he was thinking. Little Jim had his small hands stretched out in front of him warming them at the stove, and Dragonfly was trying to get his father's big red bandanna handkerchief out of his pocket before he would sneeze about something, but didn't get it out quick enough and the sneeze showered itself on the hot stove and made a sizzling sound. Dragonfly grabbed his nose with the red handkerchief and stopped most of the next sneeze, so only a little tail of it exploded. The fingers of both Mr. Black's hands were drumming on the desk on each side of his open Bible, and he had his eyes glued to the page, although I could tell the way he was staring at the page that he maybe wasn't reading but only thinking. It was as quiet, in fact ten times as quiet, as if we were having school. A jiffy later, I heard Mr. Black clear his throat and say to us, "It's been a very exciting afternoon, boys, and I don't feel any too well. I think I ran too hard to catch Prince." He took a very deep breath, and sighed, and yawned and leaned back in his chair, without looking straight at us but just in our direction, just as Little Jim piped up and said, "Did you catch him? Was he hurt?" "Circus stopped him," Mr. Black said, "and we put him up in their barn till he calms down and quits trembling.... You boys want to bring in a couple of armloads of wood?" Well, in a few jiffies all of us boys were carrying in wood and stacking it in the back of the schoolroom where we would have plenty to keep the schoolhouse nice and warm tomorrow. I just couldn't figure it out--our not getting any licking, and Mr. Black reading the Bible and all of a sudden acting very kind. Why, when we carried in our loads of wood, he acted like he was our very best friend, and that we not only hadn't done anything wrong, but that he didn't even _think_ we had. I couldn't understand it, but all the time Little Jim had a happy grin on his face, while we worked, and he kept saying, "I thought it would work.... I was pretty sure it would, and it did." "_What_ worked!" I said to him, just as he opened the door for me and I went in with an armload of wood, and he shut the door after me. Dragonfly and Poetry were out in the woodshed getting another load. "Oh, something," Little Jim said, and wouldn't tell me, but he certainly had a cheerful expression on his face. Pretty soon when we were all done and were getting ready to go home, Mr. Black stopped us and said, "Wait a minute, boys, I need one more picture.... You know, next Wednesday night Mrs. Mansfield is going to give a book review of _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_ at the Literary Society and I've promised to illustrate the story on the screen with some modern pictures from real life. I ought to have one of a teacher putting a board on the chimney of a schoolhouse.... Leslie, you get that ladder I saw you boys carry behind the schoolhouse awhile ago, and set it up again--here, Bill, hold my Bible a minute." He thrust the beautiful new brown-bound Bible in my hands and started around the schoolhouse with Poetry to where we'd buried the ladder. "What on _earth_!" I thought, and decided he must have looked toward the schoolhouse once and seen us putting it there, while he was down the road between the schoolhouse and Circus's house. Without hardly knowing I was going to, I quick opened the Bible to the first blank page and what I saw was, "To my dear son, Sam Black, from your Mother." And right below it were printed, very carefully, the words: "_This Book will keep you from sin, or Sin will keep you from this Book._" In a jiffy the ladder was set up, with Little Jim and me holding it, and Mr. Black on his way up. Poetry who knew how to take pictures better than any of the rest of us was standing away out away from the schoolhouse, and snapped the picture, himself. While Mr. Black was still up on the roof, he called down to all of us in a cheerful voice and said, "That was a very clever poem you boys composed--you know, the one you had on the snow man yesterday, and on the blackboard this afternoon. I think I got a very good picture of both of them for next Wednesday night--the people of Sugar Creek will think it very clever. When I first got the idea of illustrating the book review for Mrs. Mansfield, I didn't know how much cooperation you boys were going to give me." Things still didn't make sense--I couldn't understand it. On the way home, though, with Poetry and me carrying Pop's new light ladder and with Little Jim carrying our swing board, all of a sudden Dragonfly let out a yell and made a dive for something shining in the road, swooped down on it and picked it up, and exclaimed, "_Good luck!_ No wonder we had good luck! here's a brand new horseshoe! No wonder we didn't get a lickin' from Mr. Black." And it was! I knew it must have come off Prince when he was running down this very same road about an hour ago with half a gate swinging on his bridle rein. Dragonfly hung the new horseshoe on his arm and said excitedly, "Will my mother ever be tickled! She'll hang it above our kitchen door. We've got three there now I found _last_ year, and this is my first one _this year_. Boy oh boy, it's going to be a lucky year for the Sugar Creek Gang!" Little Jim who had been shuffling along, ahead of the rest of us, with the swing board under one arm and with his stick in his other hand, stopped all of a sudden and looked back over our heads toward where the sun had just gone behind a cloud in the southwest, and he had a far-away expression in his eyes. He didn't pay any attention to what Dragonfly had said, but dropped back beside me and said, "That certainly was a swell sermon yesterday. I knew maybe Sylvia's pop was going to preach about that, and sure enough he did." "About _what_?" I asked him, Little Jim being the only one of the gang that it was easy to talk about sermons with, except maybe Poetry. Little Jim socked at a brown mullein stalk with his stick, and scattered brown seeds in different directions, then he answered me with his back still turned, "Oh, about when you get Jesus in your heart, you don't get mad so easy, and when you do, you behave yourself anyway--just like a fire in a house melts the snow off the roof, or like when spring comes, the new leaves will push all of the old dead leaves off that've hung on all winter." Just that second Poetry who had the other end of the ladder, yelled back to me and said, "Quit walking so jerkily, Bill Collins!" Then I remembered that our teacher had been in church that morning, and of course he had heard the part of the sermon I hadn't heard, on account of I had been thinking about Poetry's pet lamb and Snow-white, our white pigeon. Then Little Jim said, "When I put that question in 'The Minister's Question Box,' just inside the church door this morning, I hoped Sylvia's pop would answer it in his very first sermon, and he did." So that was it! It was as plain as day to me now. Dragonfly spoke up then and said, "Was that what you were thinking about yesterday afternoon, when you were looking up in the beech tree at the bottom of Bumblebee hill, and when you kept talking about snow on people's houses?" and that was the first time I even guessed that that little spindle-legged guy knew what we were talking about. "Sure," Little Jim said. Dragonfly tossed his new horseshoe up in the air and caught it when it came down, and said, "It's a pretty horseshoe, anyway--besides, I bet the gang _does_ have a lucky year, don't you?" Little Jim whispered to me something that was a real secret, and it made me like him awful well, to know he wasn't afraid to talk to me about it, and it was, "Do you suppose Mr. Black _really_ became a Christian this morning while Sylvia's pop was preaching--or maybe he is just _going_ to let Jesus into his heart, real soon?" "I don't know," I said. Poetry who didn't know what we were all talking about, on account of he was up at the other end of the kinda longish ladder, said back to us, "We shouldn't have carried this ladder home. We should have made Shorty Long and Bob Till do it. They took it there, in the first place!" And Little Jim piped up and said, "Are you _sure_? Maybe Mr. Black did it, so he could get a picture of it for next Wednesday night." Dragonfly heard that and said, "But who piled the chairs up on his desk and knocked the Christmas tree over and everything?" "Yeah, that's right," Little Jim said, "I guess maybe they did do it, but I'm not very mad at 'em." "I'm not either," I said, "not _very_ much, anyway," and I wasn't,--only I knew that as long as they lived in the neighborhood we could expect most anything to happen. Then Little Jim said to all of us. "As soon as the new cold wave is over, I'll bet it'll start to get warm, and pretty soon spring'll be here, and all the beech switches all along Sugar Creek will have new green leaves on 'em." Then Little Jim whisked on ahead of us, every now and then stopping to make rabbit tracks in the snow with his pretty striped ash stick. Boy oh boy, I wished it was already spring, 'cause when spring came we could all go barefoot again and as soon as Sugar Creek's face was thawed out, we'd go swimming in the old swimming hole and maybe have some very exciting brand new adventures, like we always do every spring and summer. The first thing I wanted to do when spring came, was to go fishing. I was thinking what fun it'd be when spring came, when all of a sudden, I heard a roaring sound coming from the direction of Dragonfly's pop's woods, like a terrible wind was beginning to blow through the bare trees. I looked up quick, and noticed that the sky in that direction was darkish looking and kinda brownish, like there was a lot of dust blowing in from some far-away prairie. Then I felt a gust of cold wind hit me hard in the face. In almost a half a jiffy all of us were in a whirling snowstorm, and I knew the new cold wave had already come, and that before spring got to Sugar Creek we'd have a lot more winter--in fact there might even be a blizzard. "Hurry up!" all of us yelled to all of us. "We've got to get home quick." But that's the beginning of another Sugar Creek Gang story, which I hope I'll get a chance to write for you real soon. THE END +------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. | | copyright on this publication was renewed. | | | | Ellipses in this text have been standardized. | | | | Punctuation in the verse, the use of upper or lower case for | | "mom" and "pop", and occurrences of inconsistent hyphenation | | and/or compound words where there existed no clear regular form | | (e.g., "snow ball" and "snowball", "living-room" and "living | | room") have been retained to match the original text. | | | | | Typographical errors and inconsistencies that have been changed | | are listed below: | | | | Page 16: Changed comma to period (which said, _The Hoosier | | Schoolmaster_.) | | | | Page 19: Changed "dilipidated" to "dilapidated" (their | | dilapidated old unpainted house). | | | | Page 20: Changed "heart" to "hear" (I couldn't hear a word). | | | | Page 22: Changed "his" to "him" (I heard him mention my name). | | | | Page 26: Changed "Bumblee" to "Bumblebee" (at the bottom of | | Bumblebee hill). | | | | Page 28: Changed "So-ond-So" to "So-and-So" (Why yes, Mrs. | | So-and-So). | | | | Page 40: Moved punctuation inside quote marks to match style of | | text (accusing me of doing, which is "dreaming."). | | | | Page 41: Changed "we" to "me" (to make me wait for my supper). | | | | Page 42: Removed duplicate word "and" (plant good seed in it, | | and cultivate). | | | | Page 49: Changed "old Hook-nose" to "Old Hook-nosed" (such a | | mean husband as Old Hook-nosed John Till). | | | | Page 51: Changed "bashful like" to "bashful-like" (into the box, | | kinda bashful-like). | | | | Page 52: Changed "you" to "your" (and confess your sins). | | | | Page 56: Changed "ears" to "tears" (you can see the tears fly). | | | | Page 61: Changed "Spindle-legged" to "spindle-legged" (little | | spindle-legged Dragonfly). | | | | Page 65: Added missing end punctuation (He's looking this way!). | | | | Page 68: Changed "day" to "way" (have been on my way down). | | | | Page 70: Changed "school house" to "schoolhouse" (on our side of | | the schoolhouse). | | | | Page 75: Added alignment spaces to poem for consistency. | | | | Page 77: Changed "freckled-face" to "freckled face" (and my | | freckled face and my rumpled red hair). | | | | Page 81: Changed comma to period (he was getting really angry.) | | | +------------------------------------------------------------------+ 
27746	----	[Secretary's Circular No. 7--1919-20.] SCHEDULE OF SALARIES FOR TEACHERS, MEMBERS OF THE SUPERVISING STAFF AND OTHERS. JANUARY 1--AUGUST 31, 1920, INCLUSIVE. Boston School Committee, Secretary's Office, January 20, 1920. In School Committee, January 5, 1920. 1. ORDERED, That the salaries of teachers, members of the supervising staff, and others in the public schools are hereby established for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, inclusive, in accordance with the following schedules and subject to the following restrictions: 1A. ORDERED, That the salaries of teachers, members of the supervising staff, and others who receive annual salaries, which have been fixed by Order 1A of the salary schedule for the year ending August 31, 1919, shall, during the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, inclusive, be fixed and advanced in accordance with the provisions of said order; provided, that the salaries of such persons in those ranks in which the minimum and maximum salaries in the following schedules have been increased over the minimum and maximum provided in the existing schedules by the same amount, be advanced by said amount on January 1, 1920, and the salaries of such persons shall thereafter be advanced on their several anniversaries by the annual increment provided in the following schedules; and provided further, that the final increment shall be such amount as shall place the teacher on the maximum salary of the rank. 1B. ORDERED, That the salaries of teachers, members of the supervising staff, and others who receive annual salaries, which have been fixed by Order 1A of the salary schedule for the year ending August 31, 1919, shall, during the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, inclusive, be fixed and advanced in accordance with the provisions of said order; provided, that the salaries of such persons in those ranks in which the minimum and maximum salaries have been increased over the minimum and maximum provided in the existing schedules by unequal amounts, shall be advanced in the following manner: (a) The salaries of those teachers, members of the supervising staff, and others who have not reached the maximum salary of the existing schedule or who have not served one year on said maximum salary, shall, on January 1, 1920, be advanced by the amount of the increase in the minimum of their respective schedules over the minimum of the existing schedules; and the salaries of such persons shall thereafter be advanced upon their respective anniversaries by the annual increment provided in the following schedules until the new maximum of their ranks is reached; provided, that the final increment shall be such amount as shall place the teacher upon the maximum salary of the rank. (b) The salaries of those teachers, members of the supervising staff, and others who on December 31, 1919, have reached the maximum salary of the existing schedules, and who have served one full year thereon, shall on January 1, 1920, be advanced by the amount of the increase in the maximum of the following schedule over the maximum of the existing schedule. 1C. ORDERED, That the salaries of masters of day elementary and day intermediate schools which have been fixed by Order 1B of the existing salary schedule shall, during the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, inclusive, be fixed and advanced in accordance with the provisions of said order; provided, that the salaries of such masters shall on January 1, 1920, be advanced by the amount of two hundred forty dollars ($240) per annum, and the salaries of such masters shall thereafter be advanced upon their respective anniversaries by the annual increment provided in the following schedule until the new maximum of their rank is reached; and provided further, that the salaries of those masters who have reached the maximum of the existing schedule on December 31, 1919, shall, on January 1, 1920, be advanced by the receipt of one hundred twenty dollars ($120) per annum to the new maximum of their rank in the following schedule: NORMAL SCHOOL. Head master, first year $3636, annual increase $144, maximum $4,500 Master, Director of Model School, first year $2916, annual increase $144, maximum 4,068 Masters, first year $2484, annual increase $144, maximum 3,492 Junior Masters, first year $1620, annual increase $144, maximum 3,060 First Assistants, first year $1812, annual increase $96, maximum 2,484 Assistants, first year $1668, annual increase $96, maximum 2,340 Clerical Assistant, first year $984, annual increase $96, maximum 1,272 LATIN AND DAY HIGH SCHOOLS. Head Masters, first year $3636, annual increase $144, maximum $4,500 Masters, Heads of Departments, first year $2484, annual increase $144, maximum 3,492 Junior Masters, appointed before June 1, 1906, who have attained the rank of Master 3,204 Junior Masters, appointed after June 1, 1906, first year $1764, annual increase $144, maximum 3,060 Assistant Principals, first year $2004, annual increase $96, maximum 2,484 The rank of assistant principal shall be abolished as the position becomes vacant by the retirement of the present incumbents. First Assistants, first year $1,812, annual increase $96, maximum 2,484 Industrial Instructors, Heads of Departments (High School of Practical Arts), first year $1,812, annual increase $96, maximum 2,484 Assistants, first year $1,452, annual increase $96, maximum 2,316 Junior Assistants, first year $1,008, annual increase $96, maximum 1,200 Instructors in Mechanical Department (Mechanic Arts High School), first year $1,764, annual increase $144, maximum 2,772 Co-ordinator, first year $2,412, annual increase $96, maximum 3,180 Co-operative Instructors (Brighton, Charlestown, Dorchester, East Boston and Hyde Park High Schools), first year $1,884, annual increase $144, maximum 3,036 Industrial Instructors (Dorchester, East Boston, and Hyde Park High Schools and High School of Practical Arts), first year $1,500, annual increase $96, maximum 1,932 (For teachers employed on a per diem basis see Order No. 2.) Clerical Assistants, first year $984, annual increase $96, maximum 1,272 INSTRUCTORS--LATIN AND DAY HIGH SCHOOLS. Commercial Branches Instructors, first year $1764, annual increase $144, maximum 2,772 Assistant Instructors, first year $1452, annual increase $96, maximum 1,932 Manual Arts Instructors, first year $1764, annual increase $144, maximum 2,772 Assistant Instructors, first year $1452, annual increase $96, maximum 1,932 Salesmanship Assistant Instructors, first year $1452, annual increase $96, maximum 1,932 BOSTON CLERICAL SCHOOL Head Master, first year $3636, annual increase $144, maximum 4,500 Head Instructors in Bookkeeping and Head Instructors in Stenography, first year $2484, annual increase $144, maximum, 3,492 Clerical Instructors, first year $1728, annual increase $144, maximum 2,736 Clerical Assistants, first year $1440, annual increase $96, maximum 2,208 Teachers of English, first year $1440, annual increase $96, maximum 2,016 (For teachers employed on a per diem basis see Order No. 2.) DAY ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS AND DAY INTERMEDIATE SCHOOLS Masters, first year $3060, annual increase $120, maximum 3,660 Sub-Masters in charge, in addition to the regular salary of their rank 240 Sub-Masters, first year $1,740, annual increase $120, maximum 2,820 Masters' Assistants in charge, in addition to the regular salary of their rank 240 Masters' Assistants, first year $1,788, annual increase $96, maximum 2,076 First Assistants, Grammar School, first year $1,788, annual increase $96, maximum 1,980 First Assistant, Primary School 1,752 The rank of First Assistant, Primary School, shall be abolished on the retirement or promotion of the present incumbent. First Assistants in Charge, first year $1,788, annual increase $96, maximum 2,076 Assistants, first year $1,080, annual increase $96, maximum 1,752 Prevocational Assistants, first year $1,380, annual increase $96, maximum 1,956 (For teachers employed on a per diem basis see Order No. 2.) Clerical Assistants, first year $984, annual increase $96, maximum 1,272 KINDERGARTENS. Director, first year $2,100, annual increase $120, maximum 3,060 Assistant Director, first year $1,788, annual increase $96, maximum 1,980 First Assistants, first year $1,416, annual increase $96, maximum 1,608 Assistants, first year $960, annual increase $96, maximum $1,344 (For teachers employed on a per diem basis see Order No. 2.) TRADE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. Master (including regular, Summer and evening terms), first year $3060, annual increase $120, maximum 3,660 Heads of Departments, first year $1956, annual increase $96, maximum 2,340 Trade Assistants, first year $1512, annual increase $96, maximum 1,896 Helpers, first year $1164, annual increase $96, maximum 1,452 Vocational Assistants, first year $1428, annual increase $96, maximum 2,004 Instructor in personal and shop hygiene, first year $1452, annual increase $96, maximum 1,740 (For teachers employed on a per diem basis see Order No. 2.) Bookkeeper (including evening and Summer terms), first year $984, annual increase $96, maximum 1,428 Clerical Assistant (including evening and Summer terms), first year $984, annual increase $96, maximum 1,332 BOSTON TRADE SCHOOL. Master (including day, evening trade, Summer, continuation and trade extension classes), first year $3468, annual increase $144, maximum 4,332 Vice-Principal (including day, evening trade, Summer, continuation and trade extension classes), first year $2412, annual increase $96, maximum 3,180 Division Heads, first year $2172, annual increase $96, maximum 2,844 Shop Foreman, first year $1836, annual increase $96, maximum 2,028 Shop Instructors, first year $1548, annual increase $96, maximum 1,932 Instructors in Academic and Technical Branches, first year $1860, annual increase $120, maximum 2,700 Instructors, first year $1548, annual increase $96, maximum 2,028 (For teachers employed on a per diem basis see Order No. 2.) Bookkeeper (including evening term), first year $984, annual increase $96, maximum 1,368 Clerical Assistant, first year $984, annual increase $96, maximum 1,272 EVENING CLASSES Assistants in Charge, per evening $5.50 Assistants, per evening 4.50 Second Assistants, per evening 3.00 Toolkeeper, per evening 1.00 HORACE MANN SCHOOL FOR THE DEAF Principal, first year $3,060, annual increase $120, maximum 3,660 Assistants, first year $1,260, annual increase $96, maximum 1,836 (For teachers employed on a per diem basis see Order No. 2.) EVENING SCHOOLS Director, first year $2,940, annual increase $120, maximum $3,900 Supervisors of Divisions in Evening Elementary Schools, per evening $4.00 High Principals, per evening 7.00 Assistants, per evening 4.50 Typewriting Assistants, per evening 3.00 Laboratory Assistants, per evening 2.50 Clerical Assistants, per evening 3.00 Temporary Clerical Assistants, per evening 2.00 Elementary. Principals, per evening $5.50 First Assistants, per evening 3.50 Assistants, per evening 3.00 Assistants, Classes in Lip Reading, per evening 4.00 Clerical Assistants, per evening 2.00 DAY SCHOOL FOR IMMIGRANTS. Instructors, first year, $1,428, annual increase $96, maximum $2,004 (For teachers employed on a per diem basis see Order No. 2.) CONTINUATION SCHOOL. Principal, first year $3,636, annual increase $144, maximum $4,500 Heads of Divisions, first year $2,004, annual increase $120, maximum 2,844 Division Foremen, first year $1,932, annual increase $96, maximum 2,316 Shop Foremen, first year $1,836, annual increase $96, maximum 2,028 Shop Instructors, first year $1,548, annual increase $96, maximum 1,932 Trade Assistants, first year $1,512, annual increase $96, maximum 1,896 Helpers, first year $1,164, annual increase $96, maximum 1,452 Instructors, Boys' Classes, first year $1716, annual increase $26, maximum 2,388 Assistants, first year $1428, annual increase $96, maximum 2,004 Vocational Assistant, first year $1428, annual increase $96, maximum 2,004 (For teachers employed on a per diem basis see Order No. 2.) Clerical assistants, first year $984, annual increase $96, maximum 1,272 SUMMER REVIEW SCHOOLS. High School. Principal, per session $7.00 Assistants, per session 4.00 Elementary Schools. Principal, per session 5.00 Assistants in charge of branches, per session 3.50 Assistants, per session 3.00 EDUCATIONAL INVESTIGATION AND MEASUREMENT. Assistant Director, first year $2340, annual increase $120, maximum $3,060 DEPARTMENT OF HOUSEHOLD SCIENCE AND ARTS. Director, first year $2220, annual increase $120, maximum $3,180 Assistant Director, first year $1596, annual increase $96, maximum 1,980 Teachers of Cookery, first year $1080, annual increase $96, maximum 1,752 Teachers of Sewing, first year $1080, annual increase $96, maximum 1,752 DEPARTMENT OF MANUAL ARTS. Director, first year $3420, annual increase $120, maximum $3,780 First Assistant Director, first year $2100, annual increase $120, maximum 3,420 Assistant Directors, first year $1908, annual increase $120, maximum 3,108 First Assistants in Manual Arts, first year $1812, annual increase $96, maximum 2,484 Assistants in Manual Arts, first year $1692, annual increase $96, maximum 2,172 Shop Foremen, first year $1,836, annual increase, $96, maximum 2,028 Shop Instructors, first year $1548, annual increase $96, maximum 1,932 Foremen, Shop Work, first year $1836, annual increase $96, maximum 2,028 Instructors, Shop Work, first year $1548, annual increase $96, maximum 1,932 Instructors in Manual Training, Elementary Schools, first year $1632, annual increase $96, maximum 1,920 Assistant Instructors in Manual Training, Elementary Schools, first year $1332, annual increase $96, maximum 1,812 MEDICAL INSPECTION. Director $3,300 School Physicians 804 School Physician assigned to Certificating Office 1,200 NURSES Supervising Nurse, first year $1,740, annual increase $120, maximum $1,980 School Nurses, first year $1,080, annual increase $96, maximum 1,368 DEPARTMENT OF MUSIC Director, first year $3,420, annual increase $120, maximum $3,780 Assistant Directors, first year $2,292, annual increase $120, maximum 3,012 Assistants in Music, first year $1,620, annual increase $96, maximum 1,908 PENMANSHIP Director $2,124 PHYSICAL TRAINING Director, first year $3,420, annual increase $120, maximum $3,780 Instructors in Physical Training, first year $1,812, annual increase $96, maximum 2,100 Assistant Instructors in Physical Training, first year $1,452, annual increase $96, maximum 1,740 Instructor of Military Drill, first year $2,004, annual increase $120, maximum 2,484 Assistant Instructors of Military Drill 2,040 Armorer, first year $1,200, annual increase $120, maximum 1,680 PLAYGROUNDS. Play Teachers-- One Session $2.00 Two Sessions 4.00 Supervisors-- One Session 2.50 Two Sessions 5.00 First Assistants-- One Session 1.75 Two Sessions 3.50 Assistants-- One Session 1.50 Two Sessions 3.00 Assistants in Sand Gardens-- One Session 1.10 Two Sessions 2.20 "One Session" in this schedule for playgrounds shall mean from the close of school on afternoons and Saturday mornings during the school weeks, and one-half day during the summer season. "Two Sessions" shall mean forenoon and afternoon. GARDENING. Supervisors of Gardening-- One Session $2.50 Two Sessions 5.00 Instructors in Gardening-- One Session 1.75 Two Sessions 3.50 First Assistants in Gardening-- One Session 1.50 Two Sessions 3.00 Assistants in Gardening-- One Session 1.25 Two Sessions 2.50 Assistants in School Gardens-- One Session .75 Two Sessions 1.50 "One session" means from the close of school on afternoons, Saturday mornings during school weeks, and one-half day during the Summer term. DEPARTMENT OF PRACTICE AND TRAINING. First Assistant Director, first year $2,244, annual increase $120, maximum $2,844 Assistant Directors, first year $2,004, annual increase $120, maximum 2,484 SPECIAL CLASSES. Director, first year $2,220, annual increase $120, maximum $2,700 Medical Inspector 2,328 First Assistants in Charge, first year $1,932, annual increase $96, maximum 2,124 Instructors, first year $1,260, annual increase $96, maximum 1,836 SPEECH IMPROVEMENT CLASSES AND CLASSES FOR CONSERVATION OF EYESIGHT. Instructor in Charge of Speech Improvement Classes $2,160 Instructors, first year $1,260, annual increase $96, maximum 1,836 Teachers promoted to the rank of instructor from the rank of assistant, day elementary schools, shall be placed upon that year of the schedule for the rank of instructor that is at least $72 higher than the rate they are on in the rank of assistant, day elementary schools, at the time of their promotion. VOCATIONAL GUIDANCE. Director, first year $2412, annual increase $120, maximum $2,652 EXTENDED USE OF PUBLIC SCHOOLS. Director $3,000 SCHOOL CENTERS. Managers (per hour) $1.00 (All School Centers not to exceed 800 hours per year.) Associate Managers (See Orders Nos. 22 and 23.) Conductors, per session 4.50 Special Leaders, per session 3.50 Leaders, per session 2.50 Special Helpers, per session 2.00 Doormen, per session 1.50 Pianists, per session 1.50 Helpers, per session 1.00 Matrons, per session 1.00 Lecturers for public lectures not illustrated, English or non-English, per lecture, not more than 5.00 Lecturers for public lectures illustrated with uncolored slides, when lantern and operator are furnished by the School Committee, per lecture, not more than 10.00 Per lecture (colored or uncolored slides) for non-English speaking people, not more than 7.00 (Slides furnished by School Committee.) Lecturers for public lectures illustrated with colored slides when lantern and operator are furnished by the School Committee, per lecture, not more than 15.00 Per Lecture (colored or uncolored slides) for non-English speaking people, not more than 8.00 (Slides furnished by lecturer.) Lecturers for public lectures illustrated with uncolored slides when lantern and operator are furnished by the lecturer, per lecture, not more than 12.00 Lecturers for public lectures illustrated with colored slides when lantern and operator are furnished by the lecturer, per lecture, not more than 20.00 Lecturers for public lectures illustrated with both colored slides and motion pictures furnished by the lecturer or lectures illustrated with songs or picture plays, character dramas or dramatic impersonations, per lecture, not more than 25.00 Stereopticon lantern operators, per session 1.50 Motion picture operators, per session 2.50 TEACHERS SPECIALLY ASSIGNED. To the Model School Sub-Master, in addition to the regular salary of his rank $240.00 To the Model School, Master's Assistant, First Assistant in Charge, Assistants in Grades, First Assistant in Kindergarten and Assistant Kindergarten, in addition to the regular salary of their rank 192.00 To Teachers in Day High Schools, assigned to afternoon Industrial Classes, per two-hour period 3.00 To Assistants, Day Elementary Schools, assigned to Latin or Day High Schools or to a special department, in addition to the regular salary of their rank 192.00 To Assistants, Day Elementary Schools, and Assistants, Day Intermediate Schools, assigned to the Continuation School, if employed six hours per day, in addition to the regular salary of their rank 192 To Assistants, Day Elementary Schools, and Assistants, Day Intermediate Schools, assigned to prevocational classes if employed six hours per day, in addition to the regular salary of their rank 192 To Assistants, Day Elementary Schools, and Assistants, Day Intermediate Schools, assigned to Boston Disciplinary Day School, in addition to the regular salary of their rank 144 To Teachers of Cookery or Sewing, assigned to Prevocational Classes for Girls, in addition to the regular salary of their rank 96 The additional compensation above provided for teachers specially assigned shall cease upon the return of said teachers to their former positions and shall not be taken into consideration in determining the compensation to which they may be entitled upon appointment to any other rank or grade. 2. ORDERED, That the compensation of substitute and temporary teachers is hereby fixed for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, inclusive, at the following rates for each day of actual service, one-session days being reckoned as whole days: NORMAL, LATIN AND DAY HIGH SCHOOLS. Master and Junior Masters, Normal, Latin and Day High Schools $6.00 First Assistants and Assistants, Normal, Latin and Day High Schools 5.00 Junior Assistants, Latin and Day High Schools 5.00 Instructors and Assistant Instructors in Commercial branches or Physical Training, Latin and Day High Schools 4.50 Instructors in Manual Arts and Co-operative Instructors in Day High Schools 10.00 Assistant Instructors in Manual Arts, Latin and Day High Schools 6.00 Industrial Instructors in Day High Schools 4.00 Instructors in Military Drill, Latin and Day High Schools 8.00 Special Assistants in Mechanical Departments, per day: First year 3.50 Second year 4.00 Third and subsequent years 4.50 Emergency Special Assistants in Mechanical Departments, per day 2.00 Special Assistants, Industrial Departments, per day: First year 2.50 Second year 3.00 Third and subsequent years 3.50 Teacher Coaches or Coaches in Latin, Day High Schools, and Boston Trade School, per day 4.00 BOSTON CLERICAL SCHOOL. Teacher Assistants, per day 5.50 Aids, per day 3.00 DAY ELEMENTARY AND DAY INTERMEDIATE SCHOOLS. Sub-Masters $5.00 Masters' Assistants, First Assistants in Charge, and First Assistants Grammar 4.50 Assistants, per day 4.00 Assistants, Horace Mann School, per day 4.00 Special Assistants, Horace Mann School, per day 4.00 Special Assistants, in grades, per day 4.00 Special Assistants, Fort Strong School 4.00 Prevocational Assistants, per day 5.00 First Assistants, Kindergarten-- One Session 2.75 Two Sessions 3.50 First Assistants, Kindergarten for one session, and Assistants, Kindergarten, for one session during the same day 3.50 Assistants, Kindergarten-- One Session 2.25 Two Sessions 3.00 Special Assistants, Kindergarten-- One Session 2.25 Two Sessions 3.00 Instructors, Special Classes 4.00 Teachers of Cookery and Sewing, per day 4.00 Attendants, Open Air Classes, per day 1.50 Special Assistants, Day School for Immigrants, per half-day 3.00 Continuation School and Industrial Schools and Classes. Instructors Academic and Technical Branches, Boston Trade School 6.00 Vocational and Trade Assistants (Continuation School and Trade School for Girls)-- Per hour 1.25 Not to exceed per day 5.00 Aids (Continuation School and Trade School for Girls), per day: First year 3.50 Second year 4.00 Third and subsequent years 4.50 Helpers (Continuation School and Trade School for Girls), per day 4.50 Toolkeepers (Continuation School and Boston Trade School), per day: First year 3.00 Second year 3.50 Third and subsequent years 4.00 Special Instructors (Continuation School), per half-day 4.00 Special Assistants (Continuation School), per half-day 2.00 In this school, one two-hour session, together with such preparatory and follow-up work as may be required, shall constitute one-half day of service for teachers employed and paid on the basis of each half-day of service. Student Aids (Trade School for Girls), per day: First year 2.00 Second and subsequent years 2.50 Apprentice Helpers (Boston Trade School), per day: First year 4.00 Second and subsequent years 5.00 Special Shop Foremen and Foremen Shop Work, Department of Manual Arts, Boston Trade School, and Continuation School 10.00 Instructors, Shop Work, and Shop Instructors, Department of Manual Arts, Boston Trade School, and Continuation School 8.00 Shop Assistants, Department of Manual Arts, per day 6.00 School Nurses 4.00 School Physicians 4.00 Temporary Clerical Assistants, Latin, Day High, Continuation, Trade Schools and Day Elementary Schools, per day 3.50 and that the compensation of substitute and temporary teachers of other ranks than those enumerated herein shall be one four-hundredth part of the minimum salary of the respective ranks for each day of actual service. 3. ORDERED, That for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, any teacher or member of the supervising staff who may be designated by the Superintendent, in accordance with the regulations to fill a vacancy caused by the death, disability or absence of a principal of a school or district, or of a director, assistant director, supervisor or supervising nurse, for a continuous period exceeding two weeks, shall receive in addition to his or her regular salary one-half of the difference between the said salary and the minimum salary of the higher position during the time of such service, but not including the Summer vacation. Teachers who may similarly be designated to fill the positions of sub-master, master's assistant, first assistant in charge, first assistant in charge, special classes, or first assistant, kindergarten, shall be paid at the rate of ninety-six dollars ($96) per year in addition to the regular salary of their rank. 4. ORDERED, That during the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, or during such portion thereof as the Dorchester High School is conducted on the two-platoon system, the head master of that school shall be paid at the rate of three hundred dollars ($300) per annum in addition to the regular salary of his rank. 5. ORDERED, That for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, high school teachers designated to take charge of a branch or colony of a high school in a separate building shall be paid at the rate of three hundred dollars ($300) per year in addition to the regular salary of their rank. 6. ORDERED, That for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, the salaries of temporary teachers of salesmanship are hereby established in accordance with the following schedule: Day High Schools, per period $2.00 Evening High Schools, per period $2.00 Continuation Schools, per half-day $2.00 (The term "period" is a teaching unit accompanied by a definite requirement of follow-up work.) 7. ORDERED, That for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, deductions on account of absence of temporary teachers serving on an annual salary shall be made on the same basis as that established for regular teachers. 8. ORDERED, That for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, in addition to the compensation provided for master's assistants, first assistants in charge, and assistants, day elementary schools, those assigned to classes attended exclusively by boys in grades above the third in the Agassiz, Bigelow, Dudley, Dwight, Eliot, Frederic W. Lincoln, Lawrence, Quincy, Sherwin, Thomas N. Hart and Wendell Phillips Districts, shall be paid additional compensation at the rate of forty-eight dollars ($48) per year, beginning with the second anniversary of their assignments to such classes and continuing until the expiration of such assignment. 9. ORDERED, That teachers who have been reappointed to the Boston Trade School, Trade School for Girls, or the Continuation School following service in either school ending not later than the close of the regular term in the preceding year, or appointed to service in other parts of the day school system following such service in such schools, shall be paid for the period between August 31 and the date of the reopening of the schools at the same rate for said period as they were paid during the month of June last preceding. 10. ORDERED, That for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, Marie A. Solano be paid at the rate of six hundred dollars ($600) per year in addition to her regular salary as first assistant, head of department, Normal School, during her special assignment to the supervision of the foreign language work in intermediate schools and classes, and for lectures and instruction to the teachers of foreign languages in intermediate schools and classes. 11. ORDERED, That Ellen S. Bloomfield, assistant, day elementary schools, assigned to special service as teacher of penmanship in the Normal and day elementary schools, be paid at the rate of one hundred forty-four dollars ($144) per year in addition to the regular salary of her rank, for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920. 12. ORDERED, That the compensation of Sarah M. Lilley and Helen L. Smith, teachers of classes for conservation of eyesight, is hereby established at the rate of five dollars and seventy-five cents ($5.75) per day of service for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920. 13. ORDERED, That the salary of Eleanor J. O'Brien, vocational assistant, Department of Vocational Guidance, is hereby established at the rate of twenty-one hundred forty-eight dollars ($2,148) per year, to take effect January 1, 1920. 14. ORDERED, That the salary of Irving O. Scott, vocational assistant, Department of Vocational Guidance, is hereby established at the rate of two thousand fifty-two dollars ($2,052) per year, for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920. 15. ORDERED, That the salary of Margaret M. Sallaway, vocational assistant, Department of Vocational Guidance, is hereby established at the rate of seventeen hundred forty dollars ($1,740) per year, for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920. 16. ORDERED, That the salary of Ethel Fletcher, vocational assistant, Department of Vocational Guidance, is hereby established at the rate of sixteen hundred forty-four dollars ($1,644) per year, for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920. 17. ORDERED, That the employment of Frances McCormick as temporary vocational assistant, Department of Vocational Guidance, is hereby authorized on six days a week, from January 1 to August 31, 1920, and that she be paid during such employment at the rate of five dollars ($5) per day. 18. ORDERED, That the compensation of Louis K. Hull, temporary prevocational instructor, is hereby established at the rate of two dollars and twenty cents ($2.20) per two-hour period of service for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920. 19. ORDERED, That the compensation of pianists employed in connection with physical training exercises in the Public Latin School is hereby established at the rate of one dollar and fifty cents ($1.50) per session for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920. 20. ORDERED, That the compensation of the pianist in the Normal School is hereby established at the rate of fifty cents (50c) per hour during the period January 1 to August 31, 1920. 21. ORDERED, That for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, Ethel D. Hodson and Caroline A. Shay be paid at the rate of one hundred dollars ($100) per year in addition to their regular salaries as instructors, Day School for Immigrants, during their special assignment to assist the Director of Evening Schools in the organization and supervision of classes in Americanization, provided that such additional compensation shall not be taken into consideration in determining the compensation to which said teachers may be entitled upon appointment to any other rank or grade. 22. ORDERED, That for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, the compensation of Margaret M. Higgins and Mary S. Keene, associate managers in school centers, is hereby established at the rate of six dollars and fifty cents ($6.50) per day, for service not more than the equivalent of one hundred nineteen (119) days during said period. 23. ORDERED, That for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920, the compensation of Elizabeth W. Pigeon and Elizabeth R. Teaffe, associate managers in school centers, is hereby established at the rate of five dollars and fifty cents ($5.50) per day, for service not more than the equivalent of one hundred thirty-nine (139) days during said period. 24. ORDERED, That Alice McNally be paid at the rate of fifty dollars ($50) per year in addition to her regular salary as assistant, Eliot District, during her special assignment to the Fort Strong School for the period January 1 to August 31, 1920. 25. ORDERED, That the salary of the Chief Attendance Officer is hereby established at the rate of thirty-one hundred twenty dollars ($3120) per annum, to take effect January 1, 1920, and to continue until otherwise ordered. 26. ORDERED, That the salary of Attendance Officers is hereby established in accordance with the following schedule, to take effect January 1, 1920, and to continue until otherwise ordered: First year $1464, annual increase $108, maximum $2004. 27. ORDERED, That the salary of the Supervisor of Licensed Minors is hereby established at the rate of twenty-two hundred twenty dollars ($2220) per annum, to take effect January 1, 1920, and to continue until otherwise ordered. 28. ORDERED, That the salaries of permanent substitutes in the public schools are hereby established at the rate of four hundred forty-four dollars ($444) for the period January 1 to June 30, 1920, both included. ORDERED, That for the year ending August 31, 1920, the salary of the research assistant, department of educational investigation and measurement, is hereby established at the following rate: Minimum, $1,272; annual increase, $96; maximum, $1,944. ORDERED, That for the year ending August 31, 1920, the salary of the rank of examiner in penmanship is hereby established at the rate of twelve hundred dollars ($1,200) per year. ORDERED, That the Superintendent is authorized to fix the compensation of lecturers employed in school centers and whose compensation is not fixed in the salary schedule; provided, that such compensation, including any service or other charges, shall in no case exceed forty dollars ($40) per evening. In School Committee, January 19, 1920. ORDERED, That the compensation of the rank of emergency assistant, day elementary schools, is hereby established at the rate of three dollars ($3) per day of actual service, to take effect Jan. 1, 1920. ORDERED, That the compensation of the rank of emergency kindergarten assistant, day elementary schools, is hereby established at the rate of two dollars ($2) for one session of actual service, and three dollars ($3) for two sessions of actual service during the same day, to take effect Jan. 1, 1920. THORNTON D. APOLLONIO, Secretary. (2,500-1-20-'20.) [Illustration: Allied Printing Trades Union Council Label 21 Boston, Mass.] +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber's Note | | | | Inconsistent punctuation of subheadings and currency has | | been retained. Minor typographical corrections are | | documented in the source of the associated html version. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ 
28996	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 28996-h.htm or 28996-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28996/28996-h/28996-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28996/28996-h.zip) MISS GRANTLEY'S GIRLS, and The Stories She Told Them. by THOMAS ARCHER, Author of "Little Tottie," "Wayfe Summers," "Madame Prudence," "Strange Work," "A Fool's Paradise," &c. Illustrated. [Illustration: ANTOINE DISCOVERS THE MINIATURE.] [Illustration] London: Blackie & Son, 49 & 50 Old Bailey, E.C.; Glasgow, Edinburgh, and Dublin. 1886. CONTENTS. CHAP. Page I. OUR GOVERNESS, 7 II. MONDAY:--THE SILVER GOBLET, 20 III. TUESDAY:--A BABY'S HAND, 61 IV. WEDNESDAY:--A STRANGER FROM LONDON, 87 V. THURSDAY:--THE STORY OF A BOOKWORM, 109 VI. FRIDAY:--I HAVE LIVED AND LOVED, 128 VII. SATURDAY:--MISS GRANTLEY'S BROTHER, 145 [Illustration] MISS GRANTLEY'S GIRLS, AND THE STORIES SHE TOLD THEM. CHAPTER I. OUR GOVERNESS. THERE was nothing romantic in Miss Grantley's appearance, and yet she was the sort of person that you could not help looking at again and again if you once saw her. She was not very young, nor was she middle-aged--about thirty, perhaps. She was certainly not what is called a beauty, but she was not in the least plain. She was what some people would call "superior looking" or "rather remarkable," and yet they would not be able to say why she attracted attention. She was very little taller than Marion Cooper, who was the tallest of the girls in our first class; but yet she gave one the impression of being rather above the middle height, because she walked so well and moved in that easy graceful manner which belongs to a person who, as the old housekeeper at the school used to say, "was born and bred a lady." There is no way of describing her; though Annie Bowers, who could draw beautifully, made several pencil sketches that were wonderful likenesses. Her hair, fine, soft, and wavy, was dark chestnut, with that warm brown tinge that looks so well with a rather pale creamy complexion; her features were regular, her eyes of that strange gray that looks dark at night and steel-blue in the sunshine--eyes that seemed to see into one's thoughts, and would have been severe except for the smile that flitted about her clear well-cut mouth whenever anything humorous happened, or a pleasant thought was passing through her mind. She always looked well-dressed, though she wore silver-gray alpaca or dark brown merino in school, and rather plain black or gray silk when she went visiting. But there was mostly a rose or some other flower in her silver brooch, and the lace that she sometimes wore at her neck and wrists was so fine and elegant that Mrs. Durand, who was the widow of a general officer and had been educated at a convent, declared it was very valuable indeed, and never was made in England. Somebody, speaking once of Miss Grantley's appearance, compared her to fine old china; and she had just that clear unsullied nice look that reminded you of an old china figure, though there was nothing particularly old-fashioned about her. She had some very pretty old-fashioned things, though--quaint ivory carvings and porcelain bowls, and a delightful old tea-set, and some old plate of that dark-looking silver that always seems to have a deep shadow lying under its smooth shining surface. She was something like that silver, too; for though she was bright and pleasant and with a constant liking for fun, there was a great deal of gravity beneath her smile. No one could have treated her with familiar levity, though she was gentle and sweet-tempered; for no one who had seen her very rare expression of deep displeasure would care to provoke it. Of course I am chiefly speaking now of our girls, but I think other people--grown-up and important people--thought much the same as we did of Miss Grantley. The truth was, nobody thought of her except with kindly feelings, because everybody liked her. She had gone through much trouble. Her father, who had been a wealthy squire, lost all his money in buying shares in mines, or something of that sort, and died a poor man. His wife had been dead for years, so that Miss Grantley was left an orphan and with few relations except one brother, who had gone abroad to seek his fortune, but without finding it, I suppose, since Miss Grantley, after passing examinations and being a teacher in a great school in London, came down to Barton Vale to be our governess. Barton Vale is a pretty, quiet, secluded place. It is not exactly a village, but is a suburb of a large town, only the town is nearly two miles away, so that the Barton Vale people heard very little of the factory people, and didn't smell the smoke from the tanneries and the alkali works at Barton-on-the-Lees. In fact most of the principal people of the town had come to live about the vale. The vicar, and the principal manufacturers, the Jorrings, who were county people, and Mr. Belfort the banker, and Mrs. Durand, and the Selways, and old Dr. Speight, and the Norburys, had handsome houses and kept their carriages. Even the Barton doctor, Mr. Torridge, was more in the vale than in the town; and the solicitor had a pretty little villa next door to the old-fashioned house that Miss Grantley had taken to open a school in. Most of these folks knew Miss Grantley; and many of them loved her as much as her girls did, for some of the girls belonged to the families I have mentioned. They came to her school as daily pupils instead of being sent to the cathedral town to live away from home; and that was one reason that she got on so well, for the dear old vicar and his wife had known her parents, and would have liked her to make the vicarage her home. The banker's married daughter, Mrs. Norbury, had been a schoolfellow of Miss Grantley, and called her "dear Bessie" when they met, and wanted to take lessons of her in French and German; because Miss Grantley had studied abroad, and spoke both these languages very well. It was because so many people there and in the town and in London, knew her, that she was able to take the old house which was once the maltster's, and have it done up nicely, and the great long room that had been the front office and sample-room turned into a school-room, and the pretty little parlour fitted with French windows, that it might open to the garden full of rose-bushes and standard apple-trees, and with its red brick walls covered with plums and jessamine. She began with nine young girls whom she brought with her as boarders, and five more soon came, so that she had fourteen in the house, and three more little ones as day-boarders (two Selways and one Jorring), and eight of us seniors, who went for lessons from ten to one, an hour for lunch, and then home at four to late dinner. It was of course a good thing for Miss Grantley that she had her own old nurse there for cook and housekeeper, with a strong girl to do the housework, and a woman from one of the cottages at Vale Farm to help twice a week. The solicitor's villa had a large garden, and the gardener and his wife lived in the cottage which had once belonged to the maltster's foreman at the end of the orchard and close to the old kiln, so they were always ready to help too; and our governess had very little to pay for gardening except a few shillings for a labourer now and then. You may very well believe, then, that Lindley House School was a very pleasant place. Miss Grantley called it Lindley House because, she said, old-fashioned people always connected the idea of education with Lindley Murray's Grammar--not that she taught grammar from Lindley Murray's book, for she declared the way of teaching was quite different now, and that there were a good many queer rules in the old grammar which could only be accounted for by the fact that the old gentleman who wrote it lived for many years chiefly on boiled mutton and turnips! When Miss Grantley said things of this kind Mrs. Parmigan used to cry out, "My dear--pray, now--_do_ consider." And Miss Grantley used to smile at her, and then the old lady would laugh till she shook the room. That was the way with our governess; she seemed able to make some people laugh by only smiling at them; and she could make people cry too by looking at them with quite a different sort of grave smile and the strange light in her earnest gray eyes. Oh!--I have forgotten about Mrs. Parmigan! She was a dear old thing; had actually been nursery governess to Miss Grantley; and, having married and been left a widow, had heard of her former pupil and young mistress being left fatherless and motherless, and now brought her small annuity to Barton Vale, and helped to teach in the school and to be a sort of mother to Miss Grantley, without wanting any wages, and only just her board and lodging, beside which she could afford to pay for a good many things towards the housekeeping. She used to teach the juniors, and taught them well too, though some of them were occasionally spoiled; and as it was very often somebody's birthday, seed-cake and gingerbread and lemon toffee were more common than they are in most schools. Even the senior girls came in for some of the goodies, and used to say that, as they lived in a world where somebody was born every minute, it would be hard if they couldn't keep a birthday once a week. But this saying reminds me that we might go on gossiping about our governess for the hour together, and yet not get to the stories that she used to tell us. It was one of her delightful plans to devote an afternoon in each week to fancy needlework; and we used to take our work with us on that day, and instead of going home to dinner we had luncheon and stayed as her guests to tea, with cake or home-made bread and butter, jam, or in summer, ripe plums and apples from the garden, or plates of strawberries and cream from Ivory Farm. It was then that we read in turns from some of the best books of fiction; for Miss Grantley said, "Girls are sure to read novels, and the imagination needs to be cultivated as well as the intellect and the memory." So we read stories, and sometimes poems by Tennyson and Browning and other modern writers, as well as Shakspeare, Dante, Schiller, and Goëthe. Our governess would explain the passages to us, and we used to talk about them afterwards; but very often the conversation took a good deal more time than the reading, for it was then we found out that Miss Grantley had travelled in Germany, France, and Italy, and that she had been a student not only of subjects that she might have to teach, but of people and their ways. We found out too that she could tell stories of her own; and now and then we used to persuade her to "spin a yarn," as Bella Dornton, whose father had been a naval officer, used to say. One summer there were to be great doings at Barton-on-the-Lees. A grand fancy fair was to be held in the town-hall for the benefit of the infirmary, and we had all promised to work for it; so that nobody was offended when Miss Grantley made known that she intended to give a half-holiday every day for a week, that we seniors might be her guests from two o'clock to eight, and all work together in the garden parlour, or out in the orchard beneath the apple-trees. It was then that we made a compact with her, after a great deal of trouble, that she should tell or read a story every day after tea, and in return we each promised to make some specially pretty article for her stall--for our governess had been persuaded to take a stall by some of the people who subscribed to the infirmary, and her old school-fellow Mrs. Norbury was to share it with her. I don't suppose that any of us will ever forget Miss Grantley's pretty parlour. It was a pattern of neatness and freshness, with its green silk curtains just shading the French window which was opened to the soft July air bearing the scent of the roses and jessamine; its low easy-chairs, of various patterns, its oval table with a cover of white and gold, its neat cabinet piano, the pretty dainty chimney ornaments, the few cool light sketches in water-colour that adorned the walls, the small book-case with a few charmingly bound volumes which filled up one recess by the fireplace, and the china closet that occupied the other. The contents of this china closet were always interesting to us, for they consisted of some rare specimens of porcelain, old Chelsea, and other exquisite ware, including the delicate tea-service which was brought out on high days and holidays, and was in daily use during the memorable week that we had devoted to the fancy fair. One might go on gossiping about some of the "belongings" of this room, and the old china and the quaint handsome tea equipage, but that this is only a kind of introduction to our governess, or rather to the stories she told us out of school during that working holiday. It was on the Monday evening, after we had come in from the orchard and had finished tea, one toothsome accompaniment to which was some delectable apricot jam upon crisp toast, that Annie Bowers, who had been so quiet that she might have been asleep, said in her usual deliberate way: "Miss Grantley, that lovely silver cup (or shall I call it a vase?) fascinates me more every time I look at it, and I shall never be contented till you let me make a sketch of it; but the worst of it is there is no way of making a drawing that will show all the gleam and shadow that plays upon old silver." "Dear me, how very poetical we are!" said Sarah Jorring interrupting. "Not at all," said Annie in the same sleepy voice. "Anybody with an eye can see how beautiful that is. There is something regal in the ornament of it. The slender stem seems to grow as it expands into the bowl, the chasing is so simple and yet so firm and grand, the handles are like curves of the lip of the cup itself, as though they were a part of the whole design, and not as though they were stuck on as they would be in modern works. I could fancy it the wine-cup of a king or an emperor." We had none of us seen this handsome goblet before, as it was usually locked up with other silver in a chest that stood in a wardrobe closet in Miss Grantley's bed-room. The fact is, we were all looking at it with some curiosity, for it had been brought down with the tea-spoons and sugar-tongs, and now stood on the table filled with pounded sugar for the strawberries that were to be eaten by and by. "Is it an heirloom, Miss Grantley?" asked Marian Cooper. "Has it always belonged to you, and did some ancestor leave you the history of it?" "Well, it has been in our family--in my mother's family--for perhaps two centuries," replied our governess with her grave gentle smile. "You know that my mother, or at all events my great grandmother, belonged to the Huguenots, those French Protestants, many of whom escaped from the persecutions in France and came to England, where they worked at many trades. A number of these _émigrés_, as they were called, settled in a neighbourhood close to the city of London; a place called Saint Mary Spital. The part that they lived in was named the Spital Fields, and there they set up in business as weavers of silk. This cup came to my dear mother as a part of the old property that belonged to her grandmother, and it had been brought from the south of France, from the district where the persecution was carried on longest till the French revolution changed everything. The 'Reign of Terror,' as it was called, brought a terrible punishment to those who had themselves shown no mercy; and another kind of persecution to those who, rather than deny their religion, had endured the cruelties of a fierce soldiery. They had seen houses burned, even women and children tortured and killed, property destroyed, and existence made so hard and sorrowful that they ceased to fear death, and fought on with desperate courage, or abandoned the country that their tyrants had turned into a desert, and carried their arts and manufactures to other lands where they might meet and pray in peace." "Miss Grantley," said Sarah Jorring when tea was over, and our governess had "washed up" the dainty cups and saucers, "we don't want you to read to us to-night, I think. You are to tell us a story instead, you know, and it seems that there ought to be a history belonging to the Silver Goblet." "Yes, yes," we all cried out, "surely you know ever so much about it, and if it's not a family secret, or if you don't wish to tell us"-- "Well," replied our governess laughing, as we all hurried to our work-baskets and drew round the table which had been moved nearer to the window, "as I can work and recite at the same time I may try to tell you the only story I ever heard about this Huguenot Goblet; but mind it isn't very romantic, and it isn't very cheerful. There is a love story in it, though, and as girls are always supposed to prefer something of that kind--though I have always found that girls are more interested in the stories provided for their brothers than in their own books--I will say on as well as I can." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER II. THE SILVER GOBLET. THERE was a time when, on rare occasions, it flushed with the glow of rare old wine spiced with fragrant spices; or, better still, held the essence of odorous flowers distilled into subtle perfume. Need I say that this goblet is "old silver?" It was in France that it held a place of honour in the house. That house was one of note in Languedoc, not that its owner was noble by birth, but he was of the great Protestant families--the old Huguenots--whose undaunted spirit Louis the Fourteenth could not quell, even with the fortresses that he built to frown them into submission, or with the help of a fierce soldiery. They were troublous times even long afterwards, when Anton Dormeur, owner of looms and manufacturer of velvet, went about with a serious face, and trusted few of his neighbours. Anton Dormeur was a man who kept his own counsel, and, when the persecutions had for a time been stayed, he saved money, hoping to rebuild the fortunes of his house for those two daughters, who were but children when his wife died and left a vacant place that never could be filled. They were lovely--these girls--each in a different fashion. The elder, tall, slender, dark-haired, haughty, with the complexion of a peach; the younger, soft and fair, with locks that hung like silken skeins upon a neck of snow, and eyes of that dark changeful sheen that is either gray, or black, or blue, as you seek to look into their depths. Hers were the plump white fingers that pulled the delicate rose-leaves with which this cup was filled, till the air of that gloomy room was fresh with the odours of a garden after evening rain. Mathilde, her dark, proud sister, loved lilies best, and set them in a jewelled vase. That vase perished in the great calamity that fell upon the house, and the silver cup was among the few relics that were saved. Alas! the beautiful, imperious Mathilde perished also in those evil times. Yes, this beautiful creature, whose coming seemed to lighten the dim room in the old château with its hangings of amber damask, its gilded panels framed with long slips of looking-glass; its satin chairs, its quaint carved cabinets, filled with rare knick-knacks of ivory carvings, jade-stones, jewelled daggers, boxes of filligree, and rare cups of porcelain, like great opals, gleaming with strange lights that paled the pearls with which their rims were set. There were tables and tripods too, bearing bronzes and Oriental jars filled with scented woods and spices; but it was over this silver cup that the sweet glowing face of Sara Dormeur bent, as she stood watching for her lover's fluttering signal amidst the trees that belted the sloping parterre, beyond the broad stone balcony on which the windows opened. For the father, Anton Dormeur, was averse to young Dufarge, who though he belonged to a Protestant family among the tanners of Alais, was a man of the people, without that connection with the old nobility which the Huguenots cherished, even though they suffered continually by the laws that king and nobles put in force against them. The Protestants were loyal to the caste which yet refused to own them, though they were of the best blood in France, or owned them secretly and in fear, lest to be identified with the heretics might bring fire and sword upon themselves. Thus old Dormeur forbade Sara to have any more to say to Dufarge, but encouraged the lover of his eldest girl, a man of twice her age, the grim and saturnine Bartholde, by birth seigneur of an estate near Lozère, where, however, he lived only on sufferance, for the title had been abated after the persecutions following the Edict of Nantes, and though Bartholde was rich, he had abandoned both title and the display that belonged to it. His was just such an alliance as the stately reserved manufacturer might have been supposed to choose for his eldest daughter, and, indeed, after they were married he would go and stay for days together at his son-in-law's house--a place less gloomy for him now that the light had gone out of his own; for Sara, having pleaded in vain, fled with her lover to the north and there they were married. After this they hoped and believed that the old man would relent. He never relented, or at least never to their knowledge. As his sweet fair daughter knelt to him, her golden hair streaming about her, her hands held up in supplication, he denounced her in words taken from Holy Scripture, and would have struck her but that the young husband stood with earnest eyes and folded arms, he having knelt in vain, or, as he said, bent his pride to his love for his sweet wife's sake. So Sara Dufarge went out cursed, undowered, and an orphan, from the old house, and Père Dormeur was left desolate indeed. Yet amidst the gloom that settled on his life, and the hard unyielding determination which resisted any attempts on the part of her sister to bring him to receive his disowned daughter again, the manufacturer had frequent struggles with his pride and obstinacy. They were scarcely acknowledged even to himself. He thought he could trample the suggestions of nature under foot, and he succeeded in so far as to suffer in silence, and to make no sign of yielding, nor of admitting the possibility of foregoing his resentful purpose. He had much to occupy his thoughts at that time, for there were rumours of renewed persecutions of the Protestants by command of bishops and clergy. Not contented with refusing them the legal registration of marriage and the certificate of death, it was said that a general confiscation of property was ordered, and that recantation or death by fire and sword might once more be the doom of the sectaries. Anton Dormeur was frequently at Alais with Bartholde, and the people there whispered that it would go hard with the manufacturer when the dragoons came. He had already made some preparations, however. Always in communication with the refugees who had settled in Spitalfields and Coventry, he held money in England. This was pretty well understood; but what few people knew was, that for weeks before the blow fell he had had a ship ready, and that some of his most valuable effects and merchandise were stowed among the cargo. This very cup was hidden away in a case, surrounded by silk brocade and velvet, clothes, and lace. For days the vessel swung with the tide, waiting for Anton Dormeur, who sought to bring his daughter Mathilde and her husband, with their child, to be his companions in flight. But Bartholde delayed, loath to part from the farms and land that were his birthright. He and his little boy--the first and only child--were on a visit to the old lonely house and its grave master, when a messenger, his horse covered with blood and foam, came thundering at the door, with the fearful intelligence that the alarm was ringing at Alais, and that the persecutions of the Protestants had begun. Bartholde was in the saddle in a minute. "Stay for nothing, but bring my daughter. Come on straight for your lives to Saint Jean," cried the old man. "There will be post-horses there, and I will order relays along the road where the people know me. Meantime I will take the boy; he will be safe with me." They never met again in this world. Bartholde died fighting on his own threshold; his wife, the beautiful Mathilde, perished, perhaps, in the flames. At all events, a wild figure was seen at an upper window just before the great leaden roof of the château curled and fell. Fire and sword spread in a widening circle round that district; the house of Anton Dormeur was sacked. Achille Dufarge and his wife, the lovely Sara, were in Paris, where no word reached them till long after, and then only by a stranger, an old workman of the factory in Languedoc; so the months went by, and then came the awful revolution that put an end to the royal family, and enthroned the guillotine. Then the revolution passed out of the hands of men, and the destinies of France seemed to be in the keeping of murderers like Robespierre and Couthon. By that time the old man and his grandson were in England; the boy having grown to be a tall and handsome youth. * * * * * On the door-posts of a tall gaunt-looking house in a street of that strange part of London lying between Spitalfields and Norton Folgate, and known as "The Liberty of the Old Artillery Ground," might be seen the words "A. Dormeur, Silk Manufacturer." It was a dim-looking place enough, where the yellow blinds were nearly always drawn over the front windows, and the summer's dust collected in the corners of the high flight of steps, and was blown round and round in little eddies, along with bits of string and snippings of patterns or shreds of silk and cotton. The front door stood open every day from ten till five, to give buyers access to the warehouse, in which Anton Dormeur--old, withered, slightly bent, and with a set look upon his face which even his rare smile failed to disturb--unrolled pieces of silk, made bargains, examined with a critical eye and with the aid of a magnifying glass the fabrics brought in by the weavers, and in fact carried on his trade as though he had for ever been separated from the tragedy which befel him in Languedoc nearly fourteen years before. And yet that heavy affliction darkened his mind as he rolled and unrolled his silks, or carefully matched the skeins that came from the dyers. The sun was shining through the windows, the lower panes of which were dulled in order to obtain a clear high light; but the cloud upon his puckered brow was not lifted. Hour by hour the warehouse clock ticked away the afternoon. Customers departed; the sound of the scale and the clatter of reels and bobbins, in another warehouse beyond the long passage, had ceased since midday. Presently some passing thought too bitter for absolute self-control, crossed the old man's mind, and he bowed down his gray head for a moment upon his folded hands; but the next instant glanced round with the half-startled look of a man who fears he has betrayed himself. He was busy over his patterns again as he noted that a young man at the other end of the room was regarding him with a wistful, pitying look. "Come, Antoine," he said, "you have had a long day's work, and we dined early; it is time you had finished your ledger for the day. Come and help me put up these pieces, and then get you into the fresh air. Would that I could make the old house more cheerful for thee, boy; but remember it is all thine own one day, and do not add to the sorrows of the past, anxiety for the future!" The young man had come to his side--a slender, handsome fellow, with an olive cheek, curling hair, and a dark eye both frank and fearless. "And you, grandpère," he said, touching the old man's hand; "why will not you go out and seek some change from your dull life? What sorrow is it that seems to press so hard on you to-day, and why do you think it necessary to give me words of warning? What shadow has come between us?" "What shadow!" echoed the old man, peering at him from under his bent brows. "None of my throwing, boy; but do you forget what day it is? A dark anniversary for me, if not for you; and I scarcely thought you would have let it pass without a thought. Nay, I need not wish its darkness to lie on you for ever either; but, Antoine, remember you are all I have left. In my silent, lonely life, and this dull house--and I always a reserved and seeming loveless man--you may well pine for something more, some lighter, gayer time, and ever brood over the means to find it. But remember, my son, that you are by birth above the paltry pleasures of the herd; that you can come to me and ask for money if you covet some pastime that befits you; that you need conceal nothing from me--have no friend that I may not know also." Antoine's face flushed for a moment. It was seldom, indeed, that his grandfather spoke in a voice so tender and so yearning. Almost insensibly his arm stole round the old man's neck. "What is it?" he said again. "What have I done?" "I accuse you of nothing, lad," replied his grandfather, gently disengaging himself. "I thought perhaps your tastes may have needed more money. You do not gamble, Antoine; you are never out late, for I can hear you come in, and the sound of your violin penetrates to my room, so that I know when you are at home. I don't expect you to be always with me; I would not have it so; but when you want money--" "Grandfather," said the young man hastily, "I know not what you mean. Have I ever asked for more than the allowance you make me? Do I complain? Except for the two or three bills that you have paid for me of your own free-will, do I exceed your bounty?" "Talk not of bounty, boy," said the elder, flushing in his turn. "Antoine, could you read my heart you would see that all I desire is to show to you the love that the world would give me no credit for, that my own children even, thy--thy mother, Antoine, and--and Sara--ah! leave me just now, my dear; I am surely growing old and childish, but I have still enough of the old manhood left not to wish even my grandson to witness my weakness. Leave me, boy, and let us meet at supper in my room. I shall go out presently to see old Pierre, and, if I can, to bring him home with me. Poor old faithful Pierre!" The young man slowly left the warehouse and ascended the stairs into the house, when he shut himself in his own room, and flung himself into a chair, in profound dejection. He had scarcely done so when a man came from the upper warehouse, a room whence silk--both warp and woof--was given out to the workpeople to be wound on bobbins or spread into the web before it was fixed in the loom. After every such operation this silk was brought back to be reweighed, and only when the piece was finished in a woven fabric did it find its way into the lower warehouse, there to be measured and inspected. Access was gained to this upper warehouse by a door in a back street, inscribed with the words "A. Dormeur. Weavers' Entrance." And thence the workpeople, of whom there were many each day waiting their turn, went across a paved yard and into a passage terminating in a kind of square lobby, at the bottom of the deep well which lighted the gloomy staircase by a glazed window from the roof of the house. Close to this lobby was a sliding panel, opening on a counter where the great scales hung for weighing the silk; and here weavers and winders gave in or took out their work from the "scale-foreman," whose name was Bashley--one of those bad men who, with a bullying pretence of candour and honesty, contrive to impose even on the victims over whom they tyrannize, and at the same time, as it were, wrest from their superiors the acknowledgment that they are "rough diamonds." By a horrible fiction it is often thought that such a man is "just fit to deal with workpeople." The same opinion prevailed then, and thus Bashley was able to get a character which obtained for him a place in the warehouse of Anton Dormeur. He had been there for some twelve months, in place of old Pierre Dobree--a faithful fellow who had joined his old master in London after the calamities which drove them both from France. Pierre had been in Paris, and had escaped to bring to his master the awful intelligence that the daughter he had denounced was now beyond his relentless anger; but the old man, having grown old and feeble, had retired with a pension to the French Hospital which then stood in St. Luke's, and was called La Providence: a refuge founded to receive poor Protestant émigrés, mostly aged men and women, who had their little rooms quaintly furnished with their own poor household goods; and who walked daily in the quadrangle, laid out in beds and borders. Bashley had been only fifteen months in Dormeur's service, and yet he had come between the grandfather and Antoine, suggesting suspicions of the young man's probity, but so artfully that while he only seemed to hint at small blemishes, which he pointed out for the sake of the lad's future welfare, he left so much to be inferred that the old man had already a new trouble added to his load. Bashley's insinuations, when analysed, came in effect to charging Antoine with small peculations in order to increase the amount of his allowance--to taking beforehand what he, of course, might consider would be his own some day, as the scoundrel would have put it. Not only this, but he hinted at low companions--at a secret love affair with a girl far beneath him in station--of this he would, if necessary, furnish proof. It was with a troubled heart that Anton Dormeur, having at last escaped from a whispered conference with Bashley, locked up the warehouse, and went slowly out towards Shoreditch on his way to the "Providence." Old Pierre had been the early guide, philosopher, and friend of the little orphan boy; and the keen-faced, pippin-skinned old Frenchman had the courage of his convictions, and roundly swore many innocent French oaths that afternoon, when his old employer, and present patron and friend, paced with him along the path of the old quadrangle and told him his suspicions. "So, that man of blague, that Bashley, is at the bottom of this also," he said presently. "Why did you send me away, and take that liar, that--that--ventrebleu--that hyena?" "But what should it be true, Pierre? My heart is very heavy." "I tell you it is not true." "But about the girl? He said he could prove it. And yet the boy came and rested his hand upon my shoulder to-day as if he were candour itself." "Let him prove it." "He swears he will." "What then?" "What then! Do you, too, think it is possible, Dobree?" "I think it is quite possible that Antoine may be in love, and in love with one who is poor, but not ignoble--no, never--not ignoble." There was a strange light in the old foreman's eyes, a strange look in his face, as he said this, so that Anton Dormeur stopped him suddenly. "Pierre, you know something of this," he cried. "You shall tell me--what does it mean?" "I am not sure that I can tell you," replied the old man thoughtfully. "Still, you invite me to sup with you to-night. Antoine will be there?" "Ah! there again. This man Bashley told me, as one proof of his knowledge, that even to-night--this night that I have bidden him to meet me--Antoine will not be at home; that he may stay away altogether to avoid my questioning; that he will certainly disappoint me for the sake of this girl with whom he has an engagement. How then?" Pierre was silent for a moment; a troubled look puckered his face, then a keen sudden gleam of surprise and intelligence seemed to shoot across it. "You said supper at nine, did you not?" he said quietly. "Yes--the nights are dark." "Make it ten, nevertheless." "Agreed, but why? and what is there working in your brain, Dobree?" "Never mind, monsieur, but lend me one, two, three sovereigns." "Pierre, you are extravagant. What can you want with them? There will be no company; your dress is good enough." "There will be Master Antoine, perhaps a lady, but that I cannot tell; there may even be two ladies." "Pierre, it is ill-jesting," said Dormeur, turning pale and with an angry glance; "do you remember what day it is?" "Good Heaven! Master, forgive me. I had quite another thought than of the day; pardon me a thousand times--pardon me. I could cut out my thoughtless tongue; and yet, believe me, I meant--never mind what I meant." They had reached the passage leading to Dobree's queer little oak-panelled room, and as the door was open, both the old men entered; Dormeur walking up to the mantel-piece, and fiddling about there with some old china cups, and other little ornaments with which it was adorned. Turned with its face to the wall was a small trumpery frame, containing as it seemed some common-looking picture; and quite absently, and as though he scarcely knew what he was doing, the old man placed his fingers on it to turn it face outwards. Anton Dormeur gave a low cry, and placed his hand upon his companion's arm. "Where did you get this?" he said slowly, looking his old foreman in the face. "It is not old, it cannot have been painted more than a year; and yet, as a mere likeness from memory, it is wonderful. Who could have done it?--not you, Pierre, that is impossible." Dobree had recovered himself. "You know that I came from Paris," he said, with his eyes cast down; "you know, too, how a picture may be retouched and made to look like new." "But you are deceiving me; this is no retouching; it is clumsy--coarse; and, except in the evidence that the face itself must have been beautiful, not a good likeness. You wonder I can talk so calmly of this, a poor resemblance of the bright fair girl--of my Sara--mine although--Dobree, tell me how you came by this." "I will tell you to-night," muttered the old man; "I swear to you that I will tell you to-night." "And to-night I will show you a portrait on ivory, one that will make you think you see her as you once knew her, Pierre: a picture I keep among some relics, and look at often--oftener than you think, or anyone in the world could guess. Good-bye--or rather till nine--no, ten to-night, _au revoir_." When his grandfather had left the house, Antoine, who was restless, unhappy, and full of vague surmises, sat for some time with his head in his hands, and at last only roused himself with an effort. It was growing dusk already, for autumn had given place to winter, and the days were short. There was still light enough, however, for him to see to write a letter, and in a few lines he told his grandfather that he should be with him at nine o'clock, and would then ask him to give him back the confidence that once existed between them, or to charge him with the fault that he had committed. He felt how vague this was, and almost hesitated; but he carried the letter to the sitting-room, nevertheless, and opening the door gently advanced towards the table. It was a large barely furnished room, and yet not without evidence of luxury, or at all events of ornament. The great carved chimney-piece was surmounted by an old mirror with sconces containing candles; a leathern chair was drawn up to the hearth; on the table itself was a silver standish with writing materials, and a tall goblet of Venetian glass, while some rare china stood on a cabinet near the window. Antoine so rarely entered this room except at night, and to bear his grandfather company for an hour or two before bed-time, that he involuntarily glanced round it now in the fast-fading twilight. In that moment he remarked that the door of the cabinet was unlocked--a circumstance so unusual that he went towards it and looked inside to note what might be the reason of such carelessness. Then seeing this silver cup on the shelf, he carried it to the window, and looked curiously at its contents. There was some reason for his doing so. In that dim silent room--where only its master came daily, and the one domestic who, with an old housekeeper, attended to the wants of Dormeur and his grandson, and did a little dusting once a week--the silver cup had become the receptacle of small trinkets, of coins, and quaint pieces of jewellery. It was a common custom for the old man to take it out of the cabinet when his eyes were tired with reading, and to turn over these tarnished treasures, some of which were in small morocco cases. To one of the latter Antoine's attention was directed, for it lay open as though it had been hastily placed there, and covered with a piece of torn point-lace. Removing this the young man saw a portrait, the picture of a face so sweet, and eyes so penetrating, that he uttered an involuntary cry. It was a deeper feeling than mere surprise or admiration that prompted it, however. His hand trembled as he replaced the miniature, after gazing at it with an expression of mingled wonder and terror. At that instant the watchman passed crying the first hour after dark; and, carefully replacing the cup, he turned the key in the cabinet door and hurried from the room. Now all of my story that remains to tell took place in the next three hours, after Antoine left the house with a strange sense of wonder and confusion in his mind; so I must explain a little the situation of the young man--the enmity of Bashley. It had happened, then, some months before, that Bashley being away for a day's holiday, Antoine took his place at the scale; for it was a slack time, and few workpeople were there to be served. He believed he had given out the last skein of silk, and had weighed the last bobbin, so shutting the slide, and putting up the bar, he unlocked an inner door, and went into the house and up the stairs. Pausing on the first landing, as he frequently did, to look thoughtfully over the balustrade and down the well-staircase, he became aware that one person yet remained quietly seated on the bench below. As he uttered some slight exclamation at his own negligence, a face was turned upward towards his own--a face of such sweet, pure, girlish beauty that he held his breath lest it should be bent from his searching gaze--as indeed it was, but not before the plain straw bonnet had fallen backward and left a wealth of sunny hair glowing beneath the light that shone down upon it. A confused sense of some picture of an angel upon Jacob's ladder that he had seen in an old family Bible came into Antoine's thoughts as he stood and looked; but in another moment the girl had replaced her bonnet, and with her face bent down sat waiting as before. In a minute he was beside her. "Pardon me," he said, with an involuntary bow; "I thought everyone had gone. What is it that I can do for you?" There was no embarrassment except that of modesty as she curtseyed before him. She might have been a young duchess by the frankness with which she met his look. "I come from Marie Rondeau," she said, "who has sprained her foot and cannot walk. Mr. Bashley said she might send for the money due to her if she was still lame." "Your name then is--" he inquired, pausing for her to fill up the question by her answer. "Sara Rondeau," she said simply; "it is for my aunt that I come. I live with my aunt." "And Bashley, does he--did he--has he visited you to bring you money?" Already the lad felt a short jealous pang, but knew not what it was. "He has been to measure our work, but not to bring money. My aunt comes here herself." But Bashley had been there, and the image of this young girl had roused his sordid fancy. Is it a wonder that he soon began to hate his young master? Antoine felt the warm blood in his face as he wrapped in a paper the few shillings that were due. "Do not come again on such an errand," he said. "I will call and see if your aunt is better, and will, if necessary, bring some more money myself." There is little need to say that Antoine kept his promise; that merry bustling little Marie Rondeau (how unlike her niece she was, to be sure!) was in a constant tremor when the little wicket-gate of her garden clicked, and she, looking through the leaden casement of the upper room, saw the young master coming along the little path, with its two rows of oyster-shells dividing it from the gay plots of gilliflowers, double-stocks, and sweet-williams. She trembled too for the peace of the fair girl, who had too soon learned to know his footstep, and to flush with pleasure at his approach. Already trouble seemed to threaten them, for Bashley had warned her, and in a coarse insolent way had said he meant to be Sara's sweetheart himself--or they might seek work elsewhere. One night, when Antoine entered the garden, he was surprised to find old Pierre Dobree there. "You must come no more yet, if you would spare this child from sorrow," he said, after talking long and earnestly. "Your new foreman watches you, and already hints to your grandfather that you are engaged in some mean intrigue. You bring evil where I would have you do good, Master Antoine. Come no more, I entreat you." "And Sara--does she wish that also?" said the young fellow, reddening. "I have never spoken a word to her that could not be said before her aunt. Why do you interpose, Peter Dobree?" "Excuse me. The aunt is my cousin, the child my ward, and I know your grandfather well. For a month you must not come, but trust me and give me your word, and all may yet go well." So it was a month since Antoine had been to the little house in Bethnal Green--and in all that slack time neither Sara nor her aunt had been to the warehouse for work or money. But on that night, when Antoine was to sup with his grandfather, the month's probation was at an end. Even had it not been, he would have felt that he must break his promise, for on that very morning as he stood at the door after the warehouse had been opened, a boy ran up and placed a note in his hand--a mere slip of paper, on which was scrawled-- _"Will you never come again?--S. R."_ His sensitive nature was shocked at such a summons, and for the first time he had a sharp pang of doubt whether he was not to be awakened from a foolish dream. It was with a heavy heart that he bent his steps along the narrow tangle of streets that lay between his house and the edge of a great piece of waste ground known as Hare Street Fields, and even had he been less preoccupied he might not have noticed that he was followed by two men, who kept close to him in the shadows of the houses, and walked as noiselessly as cats, and with the same stealthy tread. Mrs. Rondeau was sitting in her lower room, sewing by the light of a weaver's oil-lamp which hung from a string fastened to the mantel-piece. The place was very bare. Few of the little ornaments that usually decorate even a poor home remained, and the good woman's eyes were red with recent crying. The loom in the upper part of the house was empty, and so was the cupboard, or very nearly so. "There goes the quarter," she said, as she heard the chiming of a distant clock. "I wish I'd gone myself instead of sending the poor child. What would Peter say if he knew--ah! and what would that old flinty-hearted wretch say if _he_ knew! How I wish she would come, even if she came back without the money!" The night had set in gloomily enough, as Sara Rondeau went quickly through the now almost deserted streets on her way to a dim shop, where three golden balls hung to an iron bracket at the door, to show that a pawnbroker's business was carried on within. It was not the first visit she had made to this establishment, for the poor little household ornaments, the loss of which had left her home so bleak and bare, were now in the safekeeping of the proprietor; but still she shrank back as she approached a dim side entrance in a narrow street, and drawing her bonnet closer over her face, pushed open a baize door, and entered a dark passage divided on one side into a row of narrow cells, separated from each other by wooden partitions. She made so little noise, and still kept so far back in the pervading gloom, that her presence was unnoticed by a shabby-looking man, who was just then engaged in earnest conversation with somebody in the next box. Before she had spoken, and while she was yet in the shadow of the partition, she thought she recognized the voice of the person who was speaking as that of Bashley, and held her breath to listen, for a name was mentioned which sent the blood back to her heart and made her feel sick and faint. "Well, as long as everything's safe," said the pawnbroker's assistant, who leaned his elbows on the counter, so that his head was close to the partition; "but we've got a good deal here now, you know, and if the thing should be found out--." "Yah! who's to find it out?" retorted Bashley; "I tell you everything's ready, and the risk's mine. Old Dormeur's half childish; and as to the young one, I tell you he's safe enough for a week, if I like to keep him so. He'd an appointment to supper with the old man to-night, and he won't keep it. If he's not on his way now to see the girl, he's tied up neck and heels, by this time, and in a safe place out of harm's way. I tell you I can be back here in an hour or two. You're too deep in now to draw back; and besides, who can swear to raw silk? I shall go first, and look after the girl; then I mean to call on the old man, and send him out on a wild-goose chase. The rest's easy, for I've a key, and a light cart at the back of the warehouse will bring the silk here in no time. The game's in my hands now, and I shall play to win." "But when the young one tells his version of the story?" "How can he? He comes out without knowing where from; and if ever he did, he's been in an empty house. A pretty story! No, no; if the old man believes it, he won't face the disgrace, for he more than half suspects his grandson as it is. Come now, will you or won't you?" Sara Rondeau, crouching by the door, hears this with an undefined fear which paralyses her for a moment, but leaves one thought in her troubled mind. Some foul plot is hatching against Antoine, and she is powerless to hinder it. No--one thing she can do, if only she can creep back unnoticed. She will use all her strength to reach Mr. Dormeur's house, and tell him what she has heard. It is a question of minutes. Walking backward and pressing slowly against the noiseless door, she slips out again, and, like one pursued, begins to run at her utmost speed through the darkened streets. * * * * * Anton Dormeur sits alone in the grim old house. Cook and housekeeper have gone to market for the means of providing supper. Not a footfall sounds in the street; only the wailing voice of the watchman calling the hour at a distance breaks the dead silence, amidst which the old man can hear the ticking of the gold repeater in his pocket, the tinkle of the ashes that stir in the old wide grate, where a fire has been lighted, and the gnawing of a mouse behind the wainscot. He sits with the silver goblet beside him on the table, his knees towards the fire, his furrowed face quivering as he bends it down over the miniature he has taken from its case, the miniature of his younger daughter, dead and--no, not unforgiven--dead and mourned for now, with a silent grief that speaks of years of desolation and remorse. The light of the shaded lamp falling on the picture in his hands seems to expand its lineaments; the tears that gather in his eyes almost give quivering motion to the face before him. A strange emotion masters him. His temples seem to throb, his hands to shake. The sudden sound of a light single knock at the street door sets his nerves ajar; the quiet click of the lock--a pause of deadest silence--and then the light tread of an uncertain foot upon the stairs make him tremble; yet he knows not why--does not even ask himself the reason. There is a lamp outside upon the landing, he knows--the light of it shines down into the hall--and yet he cannot stir towards it. What superstition holds him? Even at the moment that he starts up from his chair, the portrait still in his hand, his highly-strung senses enable him to hear a rustle that sounds quite close, and is followed by a low knocking at the door of the room itself. In a voice of hope, of dread, of fear, he knows not what or which, he hoarsely cries, "Come in." In the mirror above his head he sees the room-door partly open, and then--yes, then--either to his waking vision or in disordered fancy, the living original of the picture stands with pale and earnest face in the upright bar of light that streams in from the landing. His daughter--not as he had last seen her, but with a difference unaccountable if he had had time to think or strength to reason. His daughter, with the past years rolled back to show her in her youth, and yet with poor and scanty dress, and long fair hair tossed in confusion on her shoulders, whence a battered bonnet hung. He had no time to note all this at first. He only knew that his heart seemed to be going out in some dumb movement towards this apparition--that he sank again into his chair--that he felt a living hand upon his shoulder--saw a frightened face looking into his. Then his senses came back, and he heard the voice speak rapidly, and in French. * * * * * With swift steps, but without picking his way, taking the nearest road rather by habit than with any observation, Antoine Dormeur traversed the narrow streets leading to his destination. There were so few people abroad that the way was clear enough, and yet there were some apprentices or worklads on their way home; while in that neighbourhood, just on the edge of Spitalfields, a lower colony of petty thieves and receivers kept up the trade of two or three disreputable taverns, where dogs, birds, and pigeons were exchanged or betted on. It may have been in consequence of this taste for pigeon-flying that the whole neighbourhood resounded with whistles and bird-calls. Men and boys gave each other this shrill greeting as they passed, or warned each other by it, or used it to express reproach or pleasure, hilarity or dismay, varying its peculiar note to suit each emotion. The Hare Street whistle was as well-known an institution there as the jödel is to the Tyrolese peasant. It scarcely surprised Antoine, therefore, when, as he reached a beer-shop (the last lighted house before the straggling street opened into a dirty lane leading to the open fields), a man who was just emerging from the place gave a low whistle as he turned in the opposite direction and crossed the road. Had he given the matter a thought, he might have hesitated for a moment before plunging into the gloom of the muddy lane, or at least might have grasped his walking-cane more firmly and looked about him, in which case it is just possible he would have seen two shadows that moved in the darkness of the wall some fifty yards behind. As it was, he did neither. The course of his gloomy thoughts was unbroken by so trivial an interruption, and continued to be so till he approached a corner where a high ragged fence turned off on the edge of a footpath. Only a sudden scuffle, a muttered oath, and the grasp of two powerful arms that pinioned his elbows to his side awakened him. Three men had leaped out from the projecting corner of the fence, where a light cart was drawn up, and were upon him before he could raise a hand; but he was quick and active, so that by a sudden turn and trip he bore to the ground the fellow who held him, and fell upon him heavily. "Give it him, and quick there with the sack!" cried this worthy, as they rolled on the path together. Another ruffian seized Antoine by the throat. A weapon gleamed before his eyes; but in that moment a quick patter of feet sounded in the roadway, followed by two reports like the sudden breaking of a cocoa-nut. Crack! crack! and the ruffian's body fell heavily against the fence, as two shadows--the two shadows that had been following Antoine so long--danced in the footway, whence they had just struck a second of the ruffians through a jagged hole in the fence, and left him sticking there till he recovered his senses. In a moment the young man felt his arms released, and struggled to his feet, his late antagonist escaping by a plunge through the fence and a desperate run across the fields, where he was followed by a flash and the report of a pistol, which failed to stop him. "Who fired?" said one of the shadows, now visible--a light active fellow, armed with a knotted cudgel. "I did, Mat," replied a voice that Antoine knew, as a thin spare old man came from the open space beyond. "Are you hurt, my boy?" he asked tenderly, approaching Antoine, who stared from one to another in amazement. "Pierre--Pierre Dobree!" exclaimed the young man; "you here--and these--how is all this?" "I will tell you presently," said the old pensioner, for it was he indeed. "I expected a trap, and had you followed by two lads that I could trust.--Gave him a body-guard of a couple of weaver-lads, eh?" he said, turning to the rescuers. "You've done your work well, boys." "Why, we haven't been three years at sea and learnt the knack of the press-gang for nothing, daddy," replied one of them grinning; "but we must be off; we ain't constables, you know, and there may be trouble about." "Antoine, you sha'n't be disappointed of your ride in the cart," said Peter; "we must hasten, or your grandfather will be waiting supper. He will have to excuse me, though. Come, in with you." The two shadows leaped lightly up, and one of them took the reins. "Stop, though," he said suddenly; "this isn't our cart. This will be brought in stealing. It might be a hanging matter, daddy." "I'm going to take it to the owner if I'm not much mistaken," said Peter, as he and Antoine scrambled in at the back. "But, Pierre Dobree, what of Sara? what of your niece? I must know. If she is in danger, and through me, I will brave my grandfather's displeasure, lose my hope of the fortune for which I care so little. I will, I must find her!" "You can no more find her than I," said the old man. "One word with your grandfather, and then I go to seek her." "What! She has left home then?" "Only this evening, and for an hour or two; but if my hopes do not play me false we shall overtake the scoundrel who detains her, and he shall answer for it with my hand at his throat but I will have her back." Pierre Dobree was ordinarily a calm, rather rosy, cheerful, high-dried old Frenchman, quite small and thin, and with a very perceptible stoop; but Antoine said afterwards that there was a very terrible look in his face just then--such a look as may have been born, perhaps, in the days of Terror, when he stood in the crowd beneath the guillotine and saw the head of Achille Dufarge fall into the sack. * * * * * It was many minutes before old Anton Dormeur could clear his mental vision or recover his senses sufficiently to determine that the girl who stood beside him touching his shoulder was real flesh and blood; but at last, with a strong effort, he roused himself to listen; and only half comprehending her hurried story, rose from the chair into which he had fallen. "And you, little one, who are you? what are you?" he asked presently, without taking his eyes from her face. "Your name is Sara? it must be--shall be," he exclaimed almost passionately. "It is," said the girl--"Sara Rondeau." "Rondeau, Rondeau! where have I heard that?" "It is my aunt--she is a weaver; we work for you, monsieur. See you not that this Monsieur Bashley, having a spite against us, and against monsieur your grandson----" "Who and what are you?" again said the old man; "you talk as one of us--speaking of monsieur my grandson. Has he seen you? do you know him? Your mother never saw him? she was---- Mon Dieu! what am I saying?" he added wildly. "Pray, pray delay not!" said the girl, clasping her hands. "No, no, I come--first to the watch-house, and then to your house, did you say?" And with a great effort, but almost without taking his eyes from the child's face, Dormeur strode to a closet beside the window, and took down a sword, which he drew quickly from the scabbard. Sara feared him, and retreated to the door. "What!" he said; "dost think I'd harm thee, little one? Come, take my hand. Tell me, how did you get in?" "I found the street-door unfastened, and knocked, but could make no one hear; then I came in and listened, and there was a light up here, and so I came and knocked, not knowing what to do; but there is some one there now--hark!" "'Tis the servants come back, child," said Anton; but he trod softly for all that, and, turning about, traversed noiselessly the long winding passage that led towards the back of the house. At the end of that passage the well stair-case sent a cold gray gleam from the skylight in the roof, but down at the basement, where the lobby opened in the yard, there was a stronger light--the light of a lantern, by which a man stood impatiently examining a key, and picking it with a penknife, as though it had been clogged. "I wanted to unlock that closet too," he muttered, "for I would swear he keeps gold there, but the cart will be here directly. It's rare luck that he should be out, and the women too as I verily believe, for not a soul is stirring in the kitchen. Fancy leaving the house alone! I was a fool not to take the chance before." The sound of wheels aroused him, and Bashley--for it was he--gave a half-frightened glance behind him, for he had suddenly become conscious that he was talking to himself. He looked upwards also, as though by some strange instinct; and there, leaning over the wooden balustrade of the "well," their faces lighted in the gleam of his lantern, were Anton Dormeur and Sara Rondeau, looking down upon him. He made a dash at the door leading to the yard, then suddenly turned and, with a desperate oath, drew a pistol and fired it from the stairs; but his aim was uncertain, and the ball went straight upward crashing through the skylight. Another moment, and a door clanged open, a torrent of air rushed up the well, and amidst shouts and cries, and the sound of falling glass, Bashley was smitten down, and handcuffed between two officers, who had been posted in the street, according to the instructions they had received from Peter Dobree. The old weaver had not counted on such a success, but he had actually driven Antoine home in the very cart which was to have carried away the plunder, after having conveyed the young man to some place of imprisonment, where he might have died before aid could reach him. The first thing that Antoine saw clearly, when they had all got into the house again, was his grandfather carrying a woman in his arms. The old man had darted down the stairs at the moment Bashley fired his pistol; but Sara had fainted. Poor child, she had been long without food, and her strength gave way amidst that awful scene. Arrived at the door of the room, the second thing Antoine saw was that this was the very girl whom he had gone out to seek. As she lay there in the great leathern chair, with a wan face and closed eyes, a keen anguish wrung the lad's heart--anguish not unmingled with utter amazement, for there, bending over her and kissing her hands, which he held gently to his breast, was the proud old man, who had so rarely displayed emotion. Antoine covered his face with his hands, for his head began to reel. So Peter Dobree found him standing outside the half-open door, when he came panting up. "Why, what's the matter, boy? you're not wounded surely--say?" asked the old foreman anxiously. Antoine pointed to the scene within the room, and Peter stooped down and peered in--well he might. Anton Dormeur was on his knees beside the child, moistening her lips with brandy from a teaspoon (it was a spoon that had fallen from her dress, but he knew nothing of that, for he found it on the floor without thinking how it came there). He spoke encouraging words to her, talked to her as men talk to babies; touched her forehead with his fingers, and took up one of her long fair tresses to press it to his lips. Presently she sighed heavily, and opened her great eyes upon him, then flushed, drew herself further back in the chair, and began to cry. "Pierre--Pierre Dobree!" shouted the old man, striding to the door, "he should be here; where is he?" "Here am I," said Peter, suddenly confronting him, and drawing Antoine into the room, all grimed and torn, and smirched with mud, as he was. "What is the meaning of that?" said old Dormeur, glaring into Peter's eyes, and laying a grip upon his shoulder that must have left a bruise there. "The meaning of _that_ is," said Peter steadily, and looking back with an eye as fierce as his master's--"the meaning of _that_ is, that when nearly nineteen years ago I stood under St. Guillotine and vowed a vow, I meant to keep it. That when Sara Dufarge--once Sara Dormeur--my loved and lovely mistress, joined her husband--not by the guillotine, but by a broken heart in a little country lodging at Nogent--she left her child--_that_ child--to the nurse who had been faithful to her--to my own good sister Nancy, who, bringing her to England when she and her husband came to escape the troubles, found here another sister, the widow Rondeau--childless--to whom came as a legacy that same little orphaned one who lies now in her grandsire's chair." Anton Dormeur stood and glared for a moment at the undaunted little old man, who had thus kept a secret for eighteen years, though he had been here in his service; but even in his bitter anger there came to him the recollection of the stern relentless temper with which he had blotted out his daughter's name from the family record; and, with a drooping head and tears that fell fast on his furrowed cheeks, he went again and knelt beside the girl, who now sat looking at them all with wide and wondering eyes. "Peter Dobree," he said presently, "go or send for your sister Rondeau.--Antoine, dear lad, go you into the kitchen and see if any one has come in; for we will have supper through all, and Sara, Sara, my child, my little one, you must never leave me more." "What! and are you, monsieur, truly my grandfather, and Monsieur Antoine truly your grandson? Then he is--no, not my brother; what then?--But I may kiss him?" said the wondering girl, as she stood the centre of a talking group, apart from which stood the lad, who still looked at her wistfully enough. They broke into a laugh, at which she turned red as a rose, and with a sudden gesture, which shot a pain to the old man's heart, for it was that of her mother once again, turned away. "Yes, but you may kiss him," said Anton gently, and leading her to where Antoine stood--"a cousin's kiss, you know--have you learned what that is?" "No, I never had a cousin--at least, Antoine never kissed me," she said simply, and held up her sweet face to the young man, who bent and touched it with his lips. ------------------------------ "I do not think I need say any more; but that is the story of the Silver Goblet," said our governess as she rang the bell for the strawberries and cream. On the following evening the weather was so close and lowering that we had to remain indoors. It was one of those heavy days which sometimes occur in the summer months, when the whole atmosphere appears to be one low-hanging cloud, enveloping everything in a kind of dark-gray mist, that is only now and then pierced with red rays, and droops upon the distant fields in a straw-coloured vapour--the effect of the sunlight behind the atmosphere of mist. "What a dim, uninviting evening!" said Miss Grantley as we stood at the window looking out at the garden, where the roses seemed to droop heavy-headed in the moisture-laden air, and the song of the birds was hushed, or only an occasional chirp was heard as one or two thrushes flashed from amidst the plum-trees, or a martin twittered beneath the eaves. "What a dim evening! It almost reminds one of a London fog--not a black fog, but a yellow one, such as one sees in the city sometimes on a late autumn afternoon or an evening in February." "Oh! do tell us a story about London, Miss Grantley. You _must_ know ever so much of the streets and places there, or how could you have learned so easily about Spitalfields and all that? Beside, you've lived in London, haven't you?" "Well, yes. I was in London for more than two years, and near the city too, and I think I must have spent too much time in wandering about some of the quaint old streets and lanes, where there are rare old churches, and halls belonging to city companies, and ancient houses that once belonged to noblemen of the court of King James and King Charles, but are now used for counting-houses and warehouses, such of them as are not pulled down at least. I made some odd acquaintances too; and a kind old couple, who were caretakers at one of the smaller city halls, used to ask me to take tea with them, for the old gentleman had known my great-uncle Joseph, who was an East India merchant, and belonged to the company that used to meet in the hall. I think the old gentleman said he had been the 'master;' but at any rate his portrait was on the wall along with many others, and he was so like my dear father that I stood and cried, and often wished I could take the portrait itself away, but that of course was impossible." Here Miss Grantley became silent, and we could see tears shining in her eyes, till Annie Bowers, who was standing near her, gently took her in her arms and kissed her on the cheek, and without saying a word held her round the waist. "Well," resumed our governess, smiling, and pressing Annie's hand, "I was going to say that the old gentleman had kept a kind of diary or great memorandum-book, in which he had written--oh, in such a neat, stiff, stalky kind of hand!--all kinds of things that had happened among his friends and acquaintances for many years. He used to read it to me sometimes; and once, when I had to stay there in the little cozy parlour for a whole winter evening because of a downpour of rain, he asked me if I should mind his reading to me a little story that he had written about a very strange occurrence to an old friend of his who lived in just such another lane, near just such another old hall in the city. He said that he felt like Robinson Crusoe sometimes, except that his wife was there with him in that quiet island of bricks and mortar; and, like Robinson Crusoe, he had learned to put his narratives upon paper in quite a remarkable way, so that if I didn't mind listening he would read me a bit of a romance that was as true as anything I should be likely to get out of the circulating libraries. "I said of course that I should like it very much; and so, while his wife sat on one side the fire knitting, and I was half lost in a great leather easy-chair on the other side, the old gentleman took a bundle of papers out of a drawer in the bookcase and read me the story that I am now going to read to you; for as I was very much interested in it he was so pleased that he made me a low bow, and handed me the paper neatly folded and tied with a bit of red tape. He said it would be something to remember him by when I went away from London." [Illustration] CHAPTER III. A BABY'S HAND. PEOPLE who know the city of London, and like to wander up and down the streets, soon learn to leave the broad and more modern thoroughfares and to plunge into the silence and seclusion of the queer by-ways which lie away from the great roaring sea of traffic, like the caves and shallows that skirt some great ocean bay. Amongst these retired spots none are more suggestive than the old churchyards all blurred and dim with London smoke, but yet in which a few trees yearly put forth green leaves of little promise, and a choir of sooty sparrows chirp around the queer old steeples or perch impudently upon the leaden ornaments which adorn the sacred porch. In these places--which even in summer are well-like in their cool impenetrable shade--there is no little business going on, however, for all round the rusty iron railing which incloses the weed-entangled graveyard the houses of city merchants seem to crowd and hustle for space; and, if they had any time for it, the clerks behind those dust-blinded windows might spend an hour not unprofitably in looking down upon the decaying monuments of departed citizens and meditating at once on the uncertainty of human affairs and the benefits of life assurance. Amongst the dozen or so of such places illustrating the brick-and-mortar history of the city none are more suggestive than the church and yard of St. Simon Swynherde, which, lying in the circumbendibus of a lane named after the same saint, forms, as it were, a sort of outlying island, upon whose quiet shores the incautious wayfarer, being sometimes lost or cast away, can hear the humming surges of the great sea as they boom in the thoroughfares beyond. There is no alteration in this place from year to year, except such differences as are brought about by the change of seasons; no civic improvement troubles its sedate gloom--no adventurous speculator regards it as a promising site for building blocks of offices--no railway company casts an evil eye upon its seclusion within the area formed by the church and the tall dim houses which have mouldered into uniform neutrality of colour. Even the march of time seems to have been arrested amidst the decay of the place, since the bell of the church clock rusted from its bearings and the index of the old sun-dial fell a prey to accumulated canker. The spring brings a few green buds and feeble leaves upon the grimy trees; the summer serves to accumulate the store of dust and torn paper and shreds of light rubbish which the autumn wind swirls into neglected corners on the dim evenings when the rain weeps on the blackened windows and the mist creeps up to the steeple in long ghostly shapes. The winter brings a frozen cyclone which whistles round and round or gently covers the graveyard with snow, the unbroken whiteness of which is gradually spotted and interlaced with sooty flakes, as though the genius of the place resented the intrusion and would make no further compromise than half mourning. The dimmest, darkest, and dirtiest of all the houses round the yard was that of Richard Dryce & Co., factors and general merchants. It was never known who was the Co., for Richard Dryce managed his own business, and lived in the house, in one of the back rooms of which overlooking a square paved courtyard he had been born. The business belonged to his father before him, and he himself had married into the business of another factor and general merchant. His wife had died some twenty years before the period of this story--died in giving birth to a boy, who was sometimes mistaken for the Co., but who at present occupied no better position than that of a superior clerk, with the questionable advantage of living with his father in the dull old house, where he had to go through the warehouse amidst innumerable bales and crates and packages to reach the staircase that conducted him to the gloomy rooms, the old-fashioned furniture of which suited his father, but was sorely against his own taste. How he should have come to have any opinion of his own is perhaps a mystery, for he resembled his mother, who was a simple creature, easily influenced, and with all her tastes apparently moulded on the pattern set before her by her husband. Still, however it may have been, though he was born in the gloomy house, and was subject to the same influences, the younger Dryce--whose name was Robert--never took kindly to the dull routine to which his father's habits doomed him. He was too dutiful and too mild in disposition--in fact, too unlike his own father--to offer any direct opposition to it, or to complain very often of its exactions; but he felt that at twenty he was kept with too tight a hand, and that there were worlds beyond Saint Simon Swynherde, which might be harmlessly explored. Richard Dryce was, however, not a bad man, not a cruel or a hard man in his inmost heart; but he had been himself devoted from early life to one condition of things, which were in some strange way in accordance with his natural constitution, or with which he had become identified till they grew into a necessary part of his existence. He was a self-contained man--an undemonstrative man, whose mind was attuned to respectable solitude, and who, without being a misanthrope, regarded his fellow creatures through a ground-glass medium, which made them seem shadowy and unapproachable. A few business acquaintances he had, with whom he would sometimes take his chop and glass of old port at a city tavern of an evening; he would even, on rare occasions, go the length of smoking a cigar in company with one or two of his less distant companions; but his laugh was like the harsh echo of a disused violin, and he seldom or never invited anybody to see him at home. One of the people whom he disliked most said that he was "a buttoned-up man," and Richard Dryce could never forgive him--the description was so true. One of his most intimate friends, an alderman, of congenial temperament, who had greatly distinguished himself by quarrelling and exchanging vituperative epithets with another alderman on the magisterial bench, seriously advised him to become a candidate for civic honours; but he strenuously refused, although he ultimately permitted his son Robert to achieve something like independence by becoming a liveryman of the Worshipful Company of Twidlers, whose hall stood within the precincts of Saint Simon Swynherde. It was only on the occasion of one of their dinners that Robert was allowed to be out after ten o'clock; but that restriction did not prevent his spending the larger number of his evenings between eight o'clock and ten at the Twidlers' Hall, which mouldy old structure, with its great, cold, lonely dining-room and awkward polygonal ante-rooms decorated with portraits of deceased dignitaries, held an attraction not to be found elsewhere, in the person of pretty Agnes Raincliffe, the only daughter of the company's beadle. For six months they had been under the sweet illusion that disinterested affection must eventually win for itself a way to union; but old Mr. Raincliffe had spoken seriously to them, and altogether forbade their further meeting until Robert had spoken to his father. He went home that very night, and, nerved to a sort of desperation, _did_ speak to his father, ending with the usual declarations that his choice was unalterable. Perhaps it was; but, whether or not, Richard Dryce went the very way to make it so when he laughed that discordant laugh, and, with a taunt against his son's weakness of purpose and his dependent position, told him to dismiss such a scheming little hussey from his thoughts, for he was to marry when he had permission, which would never be granted to such a match as the beadle wanted to bring about. Robert left his father's presence without a word; but in a week from that date he had followed Agnes down into the country, whither she had been sent out of the way. When he returned he wrote a letter to his father, to say that they were married. It is easy to guess what followed. When he called for an answer to his communication, he received a brief note, saying that he was discarded from that hour, need never trouble himself to enter the doors of the old house again, and that henceforth he must look to his own exertions for the means of living. This letter was sent by the hand of a sort of managing clerk, one Jaggers, who was at the same time commissioned to tell Robert that he could, if he chose, obtain a situation in a house at Liverpool, where his father's interest was sufficient to secure him a clerkship at a very moderate salary. Now it so happened that Jaggers had always appeared to be the best friend young Robert ever had; he had sympathized with him on the subject of his father's harshness; had applauded his noble sentiments when he had imparted the secret of his engagement to Agnes; had wished that _he_ was master of the establishment in St. Simon's Yard, that justice might be done to disinterested virtue, and had generally assumed the part of guide, philosopher, and friend, tempered by humble deference, to the young man. It was arranged between them, therefore, that, after a time, during which Robert should accept the situation at Liverpool, a more successful appeal might be made to Dryce senior, and that a letter addressed to him should be sent under cover to Jaggers, who would lay it on his table. Robert and his young wife went away, leaving this good-natured fellow to watch their interests. A year passed, and the letter had been written, but remained unanswered; indeed, according to Jaggers's showing, Richard Dryce was more inveterate than ever, and was unapproachable on the subject of his undutiful son, in pleading whose cause he, Jaggers, had very nearly obtained his own dismissal. The firm in which Robert was a clerk became bankrupt in the commercial crisis, and he was thrown out of employment. Again he wrote to his father, saying that he had an appointment offered him in Australia, and only wanted the money to pay his passage. He received no reply, but some people who knew him in Liverpool made up the sum, and his wife came to London to live with her father (who was now superannuated in favour of a new beadle), and to wait for his return, or for the remittance that was to come by the first mail, that she might join him there. Their first child, a girl, had been a poor sickly little creature, and was dead; but Agnes was likely again to become a mother, and waited anxiously for the money which would enable her to prepare for such an event. Anxiously as she waited, it never came, and Jaggers, to whom it was to have been directed, advanced her a sovereign, as he said, "out of his small means," and then lost sight of her, for she and her father had moved into other lodgings, where the managing clerk could scarcely trouble himself to go, unless he had good news to take with him. Indeed, he had so much to occupy his attention, that some months had elapsed since he had seen Agnes; once only he had written a short reply to a note imploring him to say whether any remittance had arrived; but how could he spare time to attend to such matters when Mr. Dryce was every week taking a less active part in the business, and the Christmas quarter was stealing on with the balance-sheet not even thought of in the press of country orders. Mr. Richard Dryce was still hale and active; but those who knew him best, thought that he was breaking. His voice was less harsh, his hair had turned from iron-gray to white, and in his face there was an anxious look as of one who waits for something that does not come. Once or twice old acquaintances ventured to ask after his son, but he shook his head, and said that he knew nothing of him; he had written to his last address, but had received no reply. It was cold dull wintry weather, and the old man looked so solitary, that one or two tried to rally him, and even asked him to come and dine or spend the evening with them, to which he responded by his old harsh laugh, and putting on his worsted gloves, trudged home through the snow. [Illustration: MR. DRYCE'S PETITION ANSWERED.] One morning he awoke early, almost before daylight had penetrated the dull rooms where he lived, and had a sudden fancy to walk into the church. It was already daylight in the streets, but the interior of St. Simon Swynherde was dim with mist and with the obscurity of the high windows. He could only just see the pillars and the organ, where his own name had been painted in gilt letters since the time that he had been churchwarden and helped to restore it. Even as he looked up at it, the notes of the Christmas hymn came trembling into the chill morning air, for the organist had come there to practise, and expected the parish school children to come in to sing at a morning service. To most people there might have been nothing in the place or its associations to evoke much gentle feeling; but as the tones of the organ swelled and the music grew louder, old Richard Dryce sat down in the corner of his own pew and leaned his head upon the book-board, with his hands clasped before his face. Not till the warm tears had trickled from between his fingers did he raise his head, and then it was to look round him to the cushion at the other end of the pew, for from some place near him he thought he had heard a sound that was out of all harmony with the organ, but not altogether apart from the associations of the Christmas hymn--the wailing of a child. Another moment and he was bending over a bundle seemingly composed of a coarse blue cloak, but from which there presently came out a baby hand and, the covering once pulled aside, a little round rosy face in which a pair of large blue eyes were wide awake in utter astonishment. Who can tell what had been the thoughts busy in old Dryce's mind? Was it prayer? Was it that yearning which finds no words of entreaty, but yet ardently and dumbly implores--all vaguely--that the crooked paths of former error may be made straight at last--that the rough places of a mistaken course may become divinely plain? He could not tell; and yet in some way he accepted this child as a visible answer to a petition that he had meant to frame. When the organist and the sextoness came down presently, and with indignant virtue advised the removal of the child to the workhouse, he regarded their suggestion as little less than impious, and expressed his determination of taking the little one home with him. His old housekeeper and the younger servants were not a little surprised to see the merchant come home with such a companion; but Mr. Dryce was master in his own house, and the little guest was fed. Then Doctor Banks was sent for, and he declared that it would be necessary to provide a nurse, while, as luck would have it, he had that very morning been sent for to see a casual applicant for relief at the Union workhouse--a woman who had just lost a child. Temporarily she might do well enough, and Doctor Banks wanted to get home to dinner; so away went the housekeeper in a cab with a letter from the doctor, and in two hours came back bringing with her a pale pretty young woman whose name was Jane Harris, and who, her husband having gone abroad and left her with a child which she had just lost, was reduced to apply at the workhouse. She was so timid, and had at first such a scared look, that Mr. Dryce had much trouble to induce her to stay; but it was quite wonderful the way in which the child took to her, and so a room was got ready for them both, and she was comfortably settled, almost, as the housekeeper said, "as if she was a lady, though for the matter of that, Doctor Banks knew more about her than he said." At any rate Doctor Banks said the next day, after he had had a little conversation with the new nurse, that she was thoroughly trustworthy, and that he himself had known her father, who once held a very respectable position in the city. So Mrs. Harris became an inmate at the dim old house, and her charge throve under her care. He was a bonny boy, and every day his little baby ways became of so great interest to the lonely old man, that he was never happy after business hours until he had the little fellow in the room. He never stayed at his old tavern now for more than half an hour beyond the time it took him to eat his dinner, and even went so far as to tell two or three of his friends what he had done, and invite them home to see the child, in whom--they being themselves fathers of families--they could see nothing extraordinary, and wondered amongst themselves at old Dryce's strange infatuation. When the boy at last grew able to crawl about, and even to walk from chair to chair, he seemed to have so grown to the old man's heart that Dryce became subject to a kind of transformation. His laugh grew more mellow, as though the violin had been laid near the fire, and played upon gently; a dozen old and forgotten picture-books were disinterred from some box, and toys strewed the floor of the dingy sitting-room. At about this time Mrs. Harris was for a week or more strangely agitated by a letter which was brought to her one morning, and came as she said from her husband, who had been for some time in Australia. Upon her recovery Mr. Dryce inquired a little into her husband's circumstances, and hearing that he was endeavouring to establish an agency in Sydney, wrote a letter requesting him to make some inquiries about a house to which Dryce & Co. had made large consignments, but whose promised remittance had not duly arrived. The old man had other matters to occupy him, however, for with something like a resumption of his old vigour and his business habits he had called for his books, for he had had some serious losses lately, and began to think it necessary to give more personal attention to the current accounts. Still every day he had his little pet into the room to play about his knees, and indeed refused to part with him even when nurse Harris came to put him to bed, often making her stay and take some wine, or consulting her as to some future provisions, for her little charge, for whom she seemed to have even more affection than the old gentleman himself. It was late one evening that he sat talking to her in this way, but still with a rather absent manner, for his heavy ledgers and cash-books lay beside him on the table. She would have taken the child away, but Mr. Dryce told her to let him remain, and at the same time asked her to step down into the counting-house, and if Mr. Jaggers had not left for the night, to ask him to come up. Now Mr. Jaggers had so seldom been invited to come upstairs, that, although he of course knew of the adoption of the little foundling, he had never seen the nurse; but that was scarcely any reason for her stopping on her way downstairs and pressing her hand to her side with a sudden spasm of fear. She got down at last, however, and opening the two doors which led to the passage, at the end of which was the private counting-house, stood there in the shadow and looked in. Mr. Jaggers was busy at his desk tearing up papers, some of which already blazed upon the hearth. The desk itself was open, and by the light of the shaded lamp she could see that it contained a heavily bound box in which hung a bunch of keys. As she delivered Mr. Dryce's message, still in the shadow of the door, he looked up with a scared face, and dropping the lid of the desk with a loud slam, peered into the darkness. Mrs. Harris repeated her message, and returned swiftly up the stairs, nor stopped even to go in for the child, but shut herself into her own room. Somehow or other Mr. Jaggers felt a cold perspiration break out all over him, and yet he need scarcely have been cold, for he already had his greatcoat on, and there was a decent fire in the grate burning behind a guard. Still he shivered, and after taking the lamp and once more looking into the entry, gave a deep sigh of relief, and in a half-absent manner locked both box and desk and carefully placed the keys in a breast pocket. Leaving the lamp still burning, he went upstairs and found Mr. Dryce alone, sitting at the table with the books open before him. He looked up as his clerk entered. "Take a seat, Jaggers," he said, "I shall want you for an hour or more, for there are several things here that require explanation." Mr. Jaggers turned pale, but he took off his coat and laid it along with his hat on the great horsehair sofa at the other end of the room. Then both he and his employer plunged into figures, till the chimes of a distant clock sounded nine. "We must finish this the day after to-morrow, Jaggers," said Mr. Dryce. "I won't keep you longer." Mr. Jaggers put on his coat and hat, and bade his employer good-night, and he had no sooner left the room than Mrs. Harris came in to fetch the little one, for, as she said, "it was already past his bedtime." Richard Dryce fell into his chair, and was as near having a fit as ever he had been in his life. "Good heaven! Mrs. Harris--you don't mean to say you haven't got the boy. He's not here; run and see whether he has gone into Betsy's room; she runs away with him sometimes." "Mamma!" said a sleepy little voice under the sofa, and Mr. Dryce and the nurse were both on their knees in a moment. "The precious! why, if he hasn't been asleep all the time!" said Mr. Dryce, kissing the warm rosy cheek; "take him off to bed directly, and bring him down to breakfast in the morning." Mrs. Harris only just escaped meeting Jaggers on the stairs, up which he was coming, followed by Betty with a flaring tallow candle, and looking carefully on every stair. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said, with a scared look, as he opened the room door, "but have you seen my keys anywhere? I must have dropped them somewhere in the room, I think." "No," replied Mr. Dryce, "I've seen nothing--most extraordinary!" he said to himself, thinking of the child and forgetting Jaggers. "It is, sir, very extraordinary," said the clerk, groping on the floor and patting the carpet with his hands. "I know I had them when I came up here, and I can't open my desk where I keep my money." "Oh! never mind, Jaggers," said Mr. Dryce sleepily. "Here are a couple of sovereigns. If we find the keys, you can have them to-morrow; and if not, we will have a new lock. Come, good night! I'll come down and bolt the office door after you." Jaggers entreated his employer not to take so much trouble, and delayed so long that the old gentleman began to grow a little impatient. At last he got rid of him by giving him permission to come early on the following morning, when, if his keys were not discovered by the servant in sweeping, he might pick the lock. Mr. Dryce was in a brown study, sitting looking at the fire, and sipping a glass of hot negus, when Mrs. Harris knocked at the door. "Excuse me, sir, but have you missed your keys?" "Hang the keys!" said Mr. Dryce absently. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Harris; sit down a moment. I was thinking what I could buy our little fellow for a present." "But these keys, sir? I took them out of the bosom of baby's frock when I undressed him. How he got them I can't tell." Mr. Dryce took the keys in his hand and looked at them mechanically; then he started and singled out one particular key, held it nearer the light, at the same time comparing it with one of a bunch which he took from his own pocket. He had turned stern and pale. "I want you to come downstairs with me, Mrs. Harris," he said: "these are the keys Mr. Jaggers has lost, and I'm afraid I shall want a policeman." First the door of the great iron safe let into the wall. Mr. Dryce knew that it was a cunningly-made lock, and thought that no key but his would open it. It opened easily with Jaggers's key, however; and from the lower drawer was missing all the property which in those days were often kept in such places--bills, gold, and notes to the value of four thousand five hundred pounds. With feverish haste the old man unlocked the desk and the brass-bound box within it. The latter contained all the missing property, evidently placed there for immediate removal. In the desk were found bills, letters, and correspondence, a glance at which disclosed a long system of fraud and peculation. Above all, amongst the loose papers were the letters that Robert sent to his father, and those which had been written by himself in repentance of the harsh parting which he had brought about with his lost son. While they were both looking with mute astonishment at these evidences of Jaggers's villany, there came a low knocking at the door, and two men entered, one of them a broad, brown-bearded man in a half seafaring dress, the other a policeman. "A clerk of yours, named Jaggers," said the latter. "I want to know whether he has robbed you, or if you have reason to suspect him. This party has given him in custody on another charge." There was a loud scream, and Mrs. Harris fell into the arms of the stranger, who had taken her aside to whisper to her. "She is my wife," said he to Mr. Dryce. "I am the person to whom you wrote, and I have brought the remittance with me from Australia." They all went upstairs together, except the policeman, whose question was answered by a recital of the events of the night, and the present of a sovereign. "Bring down the boy, and let me look at his dear little face," said old Dryce, when they were sitting round the fire. The child was brought down tenderly, and still asleep. "God bless him!" said the bearded stranger. "He's not like either of us, Aggy." "Like either of you?" said Mr. Dryce, surprised. "How should he be like your husband, Mrs. Harris?" "Don't you know me, sir," said the stranger, taking Mr. Dryce's hand and sitting in the firelight. "My name is Robert Dryce, and this is my child, whose mother left it to the mercy of Heaven, and found that it had reached its natural home. Forgive us, sir, for our child's sake." Old Dryce was a shrewd man, but it took an hour to make him understand it all; events had come about so strangely. "Well," said Robert at last, "I'm glad you were in time to save the money." "Confound the money!" ejaculated the old man; "at least, too much of it," he added, correcting himself. "This baby's hand has unlocked more treasures for me than all the Bank of England could count on a summer's day." ------------------------------ "Oh, I shouldn't like to live in London always," said Kate Bell, whose father was one of the large mill-owners at Barton. "I've been up twice with papa, you know; but we lived in a great square where we could hear the noise of the cabs all night, and of the carts and wagons as soon as daylight came. And then there are such crowds of people in the streets; and if you walk you are pushed about so, and if you ride you can't see anything except from an open carriage. Except the theatre, where I went twice, and the Zoological Gardens and the Crystal Palace, and Hyde Park, where everybody goes before dinner, there's nothing to care for." "Nothing to care for!" exclaimed Annie Bowers; "why, the streets and the old historical buildings--Westminster Abbey, the Picture Galleries, the great solemn churches, with monuments of poets and warriors, and the constant life and movement and change, must be grand, if one only could stay long enough to get over the feeling that you are only sight-seeing. To be a part of it all, and to be able to go about quietly and live in it, looking and thinking and making one's own pictures and one's own romances of it, would be delightful for six months in the year. I often think it would be grand to spend a summer day in the middle of one of the bridges--Westminster or London Bridge--and watch the boats on the river and the tide of people coming and going, and see the clouds and the sunshine change the colour of the stream and the outlines of the great buildings, and then to go back just at dark and see the same scene by moonlight, with everything transformed and solemn, and listen to the rush of the tide and watch the lights twinkling on wharves and on board boats and barges, and the moon on the great lovely buildings of Westminster, and the dome of St. Paul's in the distance: that is what I should like to do." "I used to think very much as you do, Annie, when I was last in London," said Miss Grantley; "but then I had very little opportunity of going to theatres or other amusements, for I had no one to take me except in a family party, and had to make the most of the pleasure that is to be found in the wonderful aspects of the great city itself. Of course it is only possible for a poor unprotected creature to see a part of the greatest capital in the world; and so when I went to explore the bridges or any other neighbourhood after dusk I took an escort, and one who knew London so well that he was able to say where I ought and where I ought not to go." "A policeman, was it, Miss Grantley?" said Kate Bell. "Oh, dear! no. Policemen have no time to go out as escorts to young or middle-aged ladies," said our governess laughing. "My cavalier was a boy who worked at a printing-office. His mother was a very respectable woman who lived in a tidy house in a very quiet street where she let two furnished rooms, and I was her tenant while I was studying to pass two examinations. I had been staying with old friends of my dear father, for they did not desert me altogether though I was only a governess; indeed, they gave me too large a share of the amusements and sight-seeing which take up so much time, so that I was obliged to bid them good-bye for a good while, and restrict my visits to Sundays or one evening a week. I think my landlady, who was a widow, had been their cook; but at all events she was a good motherly woman, and her boy of fourteen was always ready for an excursion when he came home from work. "At first I was obliged to repress his sense of being a sort of champion; and once when a bigger and very dirty boy, who had a dog in a string, splashed my dress with mud and nearly threw me down, I had to go home again because my young friend gave him battle, and after fighting for several minutes came out of the fray with his collar so rumpled, his best cap so crushed, and his face so smirched that it was a dearly-bought victory. But he was an excellent boy and an apt pupil, for I used to give him easy lessons in French and mathematics sometimes, so that when I left he was able to attend an advanced class at an evening college in the city. He had the sentiment of a gentleman too, though he was a printer's boy and was always called Bob. He never talked to me unless I spoke to him first or he had to give me some direction or tell me which way we were going; and in the great thoroughfares he would walk either just in front or at a little distance, so that no one would have known we were companions. I used to remonstrate with him sometimes, for it made me feel that I was selfish and discourteous to have him to guide or follow me without acknowledgment; but he always replied that people couldn't talk in the noise of the streets, and that what I came out for was 'to see London or to look at shop-windows, or to see how places looked after dark, or to get a walk and some fresh air on London or Blackfriars' Bridge, and to be able to fancy all manner of things, and yet to have somebody that knew all about London to keep me from being run over or pick-pocketed or interfered with by anybody.' "Never had lady a more devoted squire; and I really believe he used to read up the history and anecdotes of some of the churches and public buildings, that he might be able to have something to say when I insisted on talking to him as we strolled quietly along in the less-crowded thoroughfares--especially those around St. Paul's and the Royal Exchange, where the city is nearly deserted after the hours of business." "Well, Miss Grantley, and is it about this very agreeable boy that you are going to tell us a story?" asked Sarah Jorring, who was often rather abrupt and impertinent. For a moment a shaft of light seemed to dart from those expressive eyes upon the questioner, but the instantaneous gleam of surprise and annoyance passed into a smile. "I would never willingly forget or be ashamed to speak of true service and real courtesy," she said. "I should--we most of us would--feel some satisfaction in acknowledging the politeness shown to us by a duke or an earl, even though to be scrupulously courteous should be regarded as duties and customs belonging to their station. To have received true and delicate consideration from a printer's boy is therefore more remarkable, and to speak of it with grateful recollection is only just. My own want of courtesy, however, led me to forget that we seldom feel much enthusiasm about the attentions that are bestowed on other people." We were all silent for a moment, for there was a rebuke even in the gentle tone in which the words were uttered; but presently Annie Bowers said: "Did you ever know an actor, Miss Grantley?" "Well, I cannot say I never met an actor," replied our governess; "and yet it was not in London, but at the village near which I lived when I was at home with my dear father, whose house and grounds were not far off, and whose pew in the church had belonged to his family from time immemorial." "Oh! do let us hear something about that, then," we said. "Well," replied our governess, "that shall be the story for to-morrow evening--the story of a stranger from London who visited our village." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. A STRANGER FROM LONDON. HOW it was that we began seriously to consider the expediency of organizing "Penny Readings" in the school-room attached to the quaint old square-towered church at Chewton Cudley I haven't the remotest idea. I fancy it must have been Mr. Petifer, the curate, who suggested it after he had been to preach for a friend of his in London. I know that he was much impressed by what the congregation of St. Boanerges--his friend's church--were doing, and that there was a noticeable difference in his delivery when he read the lessons after his visit. We all observed it, and some of the old-fashioned people thought that he was going to _intone_--to which there was a strong objection--but his efforts not carrying him beyond a peculiar rising inflection towards the middle of a verse, and a remarkable lingering fall into deep bass at the end, we soon regarded it as a praiseworthy attempt to give variety to his previous vapid utterances, and came rather to like it, as it gave the church somewhat of a cathedral flavour. The old pew-opener and sextoness said that to hear him publish the banns was almost as good as listening to the marriage service itself. The truth is that we had few changes of any kind at Chewton. It had ceased to be a market town when the new line of railway took the three coaches off the road, and opened a branch to Noxby; and though the tradesfolk contrived to keep their shops open they did a very quiet business indeed. There was nothing actively speculative about the place, and the motto of the town was "Slow and sure." From the two maiden ladies--the Misses Twitwold--who kept the circulating library, and sold stationery and Berlin wool--to the brewer who owned half the beer-shops, or the landlord of the "George and Gate," who kept a select stud of saddle-horses, and had promoted the tradesmen's club--nobody was ever seen in a hurry, not even the doctor who had come to take old Mr. Varico's practice, and was quite a young man from the hospitals. He began by bustling about, and walking as though he was out for a wager, and speaking as though he expected people to do things in a minute; but he soon got over that. Folks at Chewton Cudley had a way of looking with a slow, placid, immovable stare at anybody who showed unseemly haste. If they were told to "be quick" or to "look sharp," they would leave what they were about to gaze with a cow-like serenity at the disturber. It was quite a lesson in placidity even to watch a farm-labourer or a workman sit on a gate or a cart-shaft to eat a slice of bread and cheese. Each bite was only taken after a deliberate investigation of the sides and edges of the hunch, and was slowly masticated during a peculiar ruminating survey of surrounding objects. The possessor of a clasp-knife never closed it with a click; and if any adult person had been seen to run along the High-street public attention would have been aroused by the event. The vicar was really the most active person in the town; and though he had lived there in the quaint, ivy-covered parsonage house for twenty years, and had been constantly among his parishioners, he had the same bright, pleasant, and yet grave smile, the same quick, easy step, the same lively way with children and old women, the same impatient toleration of "dawdlers," as had distinguished him on his first coming. He had been a famous cricketer at college, and one of the first things he did was to form a cricket club; but he always said the batsman waited to watch the ball knock down the wicket, and the fielders stood staring into space when they ought to have made a catch. This was his fun, of course, and the cricket club flourished in a sedate, slow-bowling sort of way. So did the penny bank, and the evening school, and the sewing-class--for he was well loved, was our vicar, in spite, or perhaps because, of his offering such a contrast to the larger number of his flock. He was a bachelor, and his sister kept house for him--a quiet, middle-aged lady a little older than himself, and more accomplished than most of the Chewton ladies were, not only in music and needlework, but in the matter of pickles, puddings, preserves, and domestic medicine, about which she and the doctor had many pleasant discussions, as he declared she was the best friend he had, since her herb-tea and electuaries made people fancy they were ill enough to send for him to complete their cure. That the vicar should have remained unmarried for so many years had almost ceased to be a topic for speculation, for it had somehow become known that some great sorrow had befallen him years before, and it was supposed that he had been "crossed in love;" though, to give them credit, there were unmarried ladies of the congregation who never could and never would believe that a young man such as he must have been, could have spoken in vain to any well-regulated young person possessed of a heart. They came to the conclusion, therefore, that he never _told_ his love; and as he had certainly never told it to _them_, only a few of his more intimate friends knew that the shadow which had fallen on the lives of those two kindly beings at the vicarage was the early marriage of a younger sister with some adventurer, who had taken her away from the home to which she never had been returned. Only occasional tidings were received of her, for she was seldom to be found at any stated address, and was travelling with her husband from one poor lodging to another in the large towns, where they had sometimes sought for her in vain. But the vicar was no kill-joy. He entered with hearty good-will into the scheme for weekly penny readings, and delivered an address at the preliminary meeting, in which he alluded with a sly touch of humour to the capabilities of Mr. Binks, the saddler, who was reputed to sing a famous comic song, and of Raspall, the baker, who had once tried his hand at an original Christmas carol. He even called upon the ladies--and we were all of us rather shocked at the time--to bring their music; and as a piano had actually been hired from somewhere, and stood on the platform, he called upon his sister for a song there and then, and she actually--we _were_ surprised--sang one of those old English ballads to hear which we had regarded as the sole privilege of the select few who were invited to take tea at the vicarage, at the sewing meetings which we had associated with the name of Dorcas the widow. We should as soon have thought of seeing Dorcas herself at a sewing-machine as the vicar's sister at a piano _in public_--but she sang very well, and the applause at the back of the room was uproarious. So it was when the vicar himself followed with Macaulay's "Lay of Horatius," though of course it was only intended for the front rows--for how _could_ the tradespeople and the labourers understand it? More to their taste was the performance of Mr. Binks, who was with difficulty persuaded to sit on the platform, where, after fixing his eye on the remotest corner of the ceiling, he began by giving himself a circular twist on his chair and, moving his arm as though he were gently whipping a horse, started with a prolonged "Oh-o-o!" and then stopped, coughed, cogitated, and, gathering courage from the ceiling, started again with a more emphatic "Oh-o-o! Terry O'Rann Was a nice young man," and went on to describe in song how some person of that name "Took whisky punch Every day for his lunch." The landlord of the George, who was about the middle of the room, shook his head in a deprecating manner at this, and we ladies in the front row were saddened; but the vicar laughed, the brewer led off a round of applause with the farmers, the doctor grinned, and the smaller tradespeople and the boys near the door stamped till the dust from the floor made them sneeze; and when "Jerry's dead ghost Stood by the bed-post," with an imitation of the Irish brogue which everybody admitted was singularly "like the real thing," Mr. Binks had risen in public estimation, and his name was put down on the committee. The baker was scarcely so successful, for he could remember nothing but the Christmas Carol by which he had risen to transient fame; and as it contained some slight but obvious allusions to Raspall's French rolls and Sally Lunns, with a distant but rhyming reference to rich plum-cake and currant buns, a few disrespectful ejaculations were heard from some unruly boys on the side benches, and the recitation ended in some confusion and suppressed chuckling on the part of the farmers and their wives. But the eldest Miss Rumbelow was persuaded to attempt one of Moore's melodies, and selected "Young Love Once Dwelt," with a singularly wiry accompaniment, and this having restored complete decorum the curate came forward in a surprising manner, and astonished us by that change in voice and delivery to which reference has already been made. He had chosen "Eugene Aram's Dream" as his recitation, and the tone in which he announced the title was, as Mrs. Multover said, "like cold water running down your back." Every breath was held, every eye started as he told us-- "It wors the prame of summerer tame, An even-ing ca-alm and kheoule, When-er fower-and-twenty happy baies Cam trouping out of skheoule." The boys shifted uneasily on their seats; their master looked anxious, as though something personal was coming; and when the drama reached its height we timid ones in front were fain to pinch each other in a stress of nervous excitement. The tragical conclusion was marked by a simultaneous, low, long, agricultural whistle, which did duty as a sigh, and the audience first stared into each other's faces and then gave a roar of applause, amidst which the vicar announced that the penny readings were established from that night; that books containing suitable pieces for recitation could be obtained at the circulating library; and that practice nights for efficient members would be held on Wednesday evenings. But everybody went away impressed with Mr. Petifer's sudden accession of dramatic power. "That comes of the play-house, mark me if it do'ent," said Farmer Shorter, as he buttoned his coat. "Folk do'ent go up to London for notheng, an' curat's been to the tradigy--that's where he's a'been." This first meeting of our "Penny Reading" Society gave a decided tone to our subsequent proceedings, but we had made but slow progress, and there was still some difficulty in inducing many of the readers to meet the audible remarks, the half-concealed mirth, and even the exaggerated applause of their audiences, when the vicar one evening announced his intention of leaving Chewton for a fortnight on a visit to London, and coming back in time to prepare a grand entertainment at the school-room. In a few days the vicar returned, and told his sister to have the guest's room got ready, as he expected a professional gentleman from London to visit him in a day or two. It was on the Wednesday that the idlers about the old coach-yard of the George and Gate woke up from their usual expressionless stare at things in general to notice a stranger who came along at a brisk rate, carrying a small portmanteau, and looking sharply and with a quick penetrating glance at them and the sign and the bar of the tap, where he called for a glass of ale and inquired his way to the vicarage. He was a well-knit, active man of about forty-five, with dark, glossy hair, just beginning to gray; a dark, short moustache; shaven cheeks and chin, with a blue tinge where the beard and whiskers would have been; and he wore well-fitting but rather shabby clothes, which scarcely seemed to be in keeping with the big (false or real) diamond ring on his right hand and a huge breast-pin in his satin stock. These were the remarks some of us made about him when he appeared on the low platform at our penny reading the next evening, and was introduced by the vicar as "My friend Mr. Walter De Montfort, a gentleman connected with the dramatic profession in London, who has consented to favour us with a reading and to contribute to our improvement as well as to our entertainment." A good many of us thought we had never heard reading, or rather recitation, till that evening; there was such a keen, bright, intense look in the man's face; such a rich, flexible, sonorous roll in his voice; such a conscious appropriateness in his rather exaggerated gestures, that when he commenced with what I have since learned was a peculiarly stagey expression the poem of "King Robert of Sicily and the Angel," and began to tell us how-- "King-ar-Rroberut of Sissurlee" dreamed his wonderful dream, we were all eye and ear, and when he had concluded people looked at each other and gasped. Who was he?--an actor--a manager of a theatre--a great tragedian? How did the vicar first know him? How long was he going to stay? What theatre did he perform at? All these questions were asked among ourselves, and to some of them we obtained answers at the next Dorcas meeting, which was held at the vicarage. Mr. De Montfort was not a regular actor now. He had been, but he now taught elocution and deportment, and had been introduced to the vicar by a brother clergyman in London much interested in the union of church and stage. His credentials were undoubted, but it was feared he was poor. Of his ability everybody spoke highly, and he was so accomplished that the vicar had invited him to stay for several days; but he had told them he must be in London, for he was a widower, with one little child, a girl who was at school, but would be waiting for him to fetch her home for her one week's holiday in the year. It was evident that the vicar's guest had created a very favourable impression on us all, for though Mrs. Marchbold looked at us rather hard, and then pursed up her lips and looked steadily at the vicar's sister, evidently meaning to disconcert that lady with some indication of the thought that was in all our minds, we rather resented the rudeness, and murmured in chorus that it was evident that Mr. De Montfort was quite a gentleman. "Which is just what he is not," said the lady, who bore Mrs. Marchbold's deprecatory stare with the most complete indifference. "He is not quite a gentleman, and my brother the vicar knows that very well; but he is a clever, amusing man, and his reading will help on the society. On the whole, though, I think it's quite as well he should leave before long, for I'm certain idling about in Chewton will do him no good, especially as he has already kept us up late two nights, because a deputation came to ask him to be a visitor at the tradesmen's club at the George." Further discussion of the merits or demerits of the gentleman was prevented by his entering the room along with the vicar, who told us he had prevailed on Mr. De Montfort to take tea with us and to read us something from Shakespeare while we were at work. Mr. De Montfort took tea, and talked unceasingly of London, of its streets, shops, people, trades, and amusements. He described to us the stage of a theatre, and told us all about how a play was performed and how the actors came on and went off, opening the door between the parlour and the drawing-room and hanging it with table-covers to represent the front of the stage. Then he recited _Hamlet_ and _King Lear_; and we all left off work to look at him; and when he wound up with a performance of legerdemain, and brought a vase that had previously been on the mantel-piece out of Mrs. Marchbold's work-bag, and took eggs from a pillow-case, and took four reels of cotton out of Miss Bailey's chignon, we didn't know whether to scream or to laugh, but we all agreed that he was the most entertaining person we had ever met or were likely to meet again. Mr. De Montfort had grown more familiar to the Chewton Cudley people by that time. He had only been with them a few days, and yet he had a dozen invitations. The vicar had evidently taken an unaccountable liking to him. There were even people who went so far as to say we should hear him read the lessons in church if he were to stay over another Sunday. He had been to two more penny readings, and had held an extra night for instructing some of the members in the art of elocution. Only three people seemed rather doubtful as to their opinion of the visitor. One of these was the vicar's sister. She said nothing slighting, but it was evident that she mistrusted him a little. Another was Mr. Petifer, and his coolness to the stranger was set down to jealousy, especially when he fired up on the subject of the probable reading of the lessons. The third was Mr. Femm, the doctor, but he only grinned, and said he thought he remembered having heard De Montfort recite under another name when he was a student at Guy's Hospital, and used to go to a Hall of Harmony in the Walworth Road. "It's dreadful to hear a doctor talk so," said Mrs. Marchbold; "these young medical men have no reverence." But the visitor showed such remarkable good humour, and was so very entertaining and was so sedate and respectful to all the ladies that I fancy there was something said about his bringing his little daughter down to Chewton for the holidays. Mr. Binks would have taken De Montfort off the vicar's hands in a minute. Raspall was heard to intimate that he had a nice warm spare room over the bakehouse doing nothing; and our principal butcher, Mr. Clodd, declared boldly that a man like that, who could amuse any company, and was fit for any company, was worth his meat anywhere at holiday-time. But we had all heard that Mr. De Montfort was about to leave. He had received an invitation from the landlord of the "George and Gate," countersigned by the members of the club, to spend the last evening with them, and they had even gone so far as to wish that the vicar himself--"if they might make so bold--would condescend to look in for an hour." This request of course could not be complied with, and the guest was about to send a polite refusal--reluctantly, it must be confessed--but the vicar readily excused him. The townsfolk naturally wanted to have him among them again for an evening, and he could return about eleven for a glass of hot spiced elder-wine before going to bed. The vicar had put his hand on De Montfort's shoulder as he said this, and was looking at him in his kind, genial way, when his visitor looked up, rose, hesitated, and seemed about to say something. There was such a remarkable expression in his face that the good parson afterwards said he should never forget it; but it passed, and with a smile, which was half trustful, half sorrowful, the actor turned away. "Well, then, if you think I ought to go, I'll say yes," he replied; "but I had thought to spend the last night here with you." "I sha'n't have done work much before ten myself," said the vicar; "for I must see about the beef and bread for the pensioners, and there are the cakes for the school treat, and no end of things. So we'll meet at a late supper; don't stay to the club pies and sausages, but get back in time for ours. There's no need to say, Don't drink too much of the 'George and Gate' ale and brandy, for you never take much of either, so far as I know." It was a special evening at the "George and Gate," and every member of the club who could leave his shop was there by eight o'clock. The low-ceilinged but handsome parlour was all bright and tidy, and the plates stood on a sideboard ready for supper. Two noble punch-bowls graced the table, and a number of long "churchwarden" pipes supported the large brass coffer filled with tobacco, which opened only by some cunning mechanism, set in motion by dropping a halfpenny in a slit at the top. Mr. Binks was in the chair; Clodd, the butcher, sat opposite; a great fragrance of spice and lemon-peel pervaded the place. It only needed a speech to commence the proceedings, and Mr. Binks was equal to the occasion. It was a hearty welcome to their visitor. He responded with a few words and a recitation. There was a song and another toast, and then the accomplished visitor played on the "George and Gate" fiddle in a manner that astonished everybody--played it behind his back, over his head, under his arm, between his knees with the bow in his mouth. Then he showed a few tricks with the cards, spun plates, passed coins and watches into space, and sung a song with a violin accompaniment. The evening was in his honour, and he opened his whole repertoire of accomplishments. Time passed quickly; the waiters were at the door with the table-cloths ready to lay for supper. Mr. Clodd proposed "The Health of the Vicar." They all rose to do it honour, and called upon De Montfort to reply. He had his glass in his hand--just touching it with his lips. "I wish," he said, and then he stopped; "I wish--I could say what I would do to deserve that he should call me his friend; but--it--can--never--be." They wondered what he would say next, there was such a strange look in his eyes. They were about to ask him what he meant, when everybody there was startled by a sudden cry in the street--a sudden cry and an uproar that penetrated to the inn-yard--the cry of "Fire!" and the trampling of feet. They were all out in a minute, De Montfort first, and without his hat. "It's your place, Raspall, as I'm a living sinner," said Clodd, forcing himself to the front and commencing to run. "Don't say so! Don't say so!" cried the baker, "for my missis is up at the school makin' the cakes, and the man's down below settin' the batch, and my little Bess is in bed this hour an' more. Oh, help! help! where's that engine?" But the key of the engine-house had to be found, and the wretched old thing had to be wheeled out, and the hose attached and righted; and before all this could be done the flame, which seemed to have begun at the back of Raspall's shop, had burst through the shutters, and was already lapping the outer wall. It was an old-fashioned house, with a high, rickety portico over the door, and a tall, narrow window a good way above it. At this window, where the flicker of the flame was reflected through the smoke that was now pouring out and blackening the old woodwork, a glimpse of a child's face had been seen, and Raspall was already in the roadway wringing his hands and calling for a ladder. "We must get her down from the top of that there portico," cried Clodd; "but I'm too heavy. Here; who'll jump atop of my back, and so try to clamber up?" "Stand away there!" shouted a strong deep voice; and almost before they could move aside a man shot past them like a catapult, and with one bound had reached the carved cornice of the portico with his right hand. The whole structure quivered, but in another moment he had drawn himself up with the ease of a practised acrobat, and was standing on the top. It was De Montfort. The window was still far above him, and the glare within showed that the fire had reached the room; but a gutter ran down the wall to the leaden roof of the portico, and he was seen through the smoke to clasp it by a rusty projection and to draw his chin on a level with the sill, to cling to the sill itself with his arm and elbow, and with one tremendous effort to sit there amidst the smoke and to force the sash upward. They had scarcely had time to cry out that he had entered the room when he was out again--pursued by the flame that now roared from the open space, but with something under his arm. Somebody had brought out a large blanket, and four men were holding it; the engine was just beginning to play feebly where it wasn't wanted; and a short ladder had been borrowed from somewhere. He dropped a little heavily from the window, but was on his feet when they called to him to let the child fall, and a cheer went up as he seemed to gather up his strength, and tossed his living burden from him, so that it cleared the edge of the wood-work, and was caught and placed in her father's arms. "Jump! jump for your life!" they cried, for the wretched portico had begun to sway, and every lip turned white. It was too late; he had stooped to swing himself off, when the whole thing fell in ruin, and he in the midst of it, covered with the heavy lead and woodwork, and the stone and bricks that had come down with it. A score of strong and willing hands lifted the wreck away piecemeal, and, under the direction of the doctor, got him out and placed him on a hurdle made soft with blankets and straw. He was insensible, but his face and head were uninjured, for he was found lying with his arms protecting both. Carefully they bore him to the vicarage, the vicar following, and his sister already at the door with everything ready. It was nearly an hour before the sad group of men who stood outside anxiously waiting heard that he was so seriously injured that his life was in danger, and that he was still unconscious. Raspall was crying more for the accident than for his injured house, which was still smouldering, though the engine had at last put out the fire. His child was safe, but he felt almost guilty for rejoicing that her life had been spared. Binks and Clodd sat patiently on the fence opposite the vicarage talking in low tones. At last the vicar came out to them and told them to go home. The patient would not be left for a moment. In the morning he would let them know if there was any change. There was a change, but only after long efforts to restore consciousness; and the vicar himself sat by the injured man's bedside, with something in his hand upon which his tears fell as he looked at it by the light of the shaded lamp. When De Montfort had been carried in and placed upon the bed the doctor had asked to be allowed to undress him--without help--as it required a practised hand, and for a moment the vicar left the room to bring up some restorative and the bandages which had been sent for to the surgery. He had turned into the dining-room, when to his surprise the doctor came quickly but softly downstairs, entered the room, and gently closed the door. "Do you feel that you could bear another great shock just now?" he said in a curious tone, taking hold of the vicar's wrist as he spoke. "Yes, I think you can; your nerves are pretty firm." "What do you mean? Is he dead?" "No; but I have undressed him, and under his shirt near his heart found something which I think you ought to see. I may be mistaken, but I seldom miss observing a likeness, especially one so strong as this"--and he held out a locket attached to a silken cord and holding a likeness. The vicar trembled as he stretched out his hand for it. Some prevision of the truth had already flashed upon him; and as he carried the trinket to the candle above the mantel-piece he leaned heavily against the wall and groaned as though he had been smitten with sudden pain. "A man like that could scarcely have been cruel to a woman, at all events," said the doctor in a low but emphatic tone. "Poverty is not the worst of human ills, and even occasional want, if it be not too prolonged, is endurable--more endurable than brutal neglect and indifference. This poor fellow was going home to his child, I think?" The vicar clasped the young man's hand, and bent his noble gray head upon his shoulder. "Take my thanks, my dear friend," he said with a sob. "You have recalled me to myself. He was my sister's husband." As the vicar sat by the bedside that night watching, watching, the injured man moved and tried to raise himself, but fell back with a heavy sigh. The good parson was bending over him in a moment. "Shall I fetch the doctor again?" he asked. "No; I must speak to you now, alone." It was nearly an hour before the vicar went to the stair-head, and called for his sister and the doctor to come up. We never heard quite what took place--what was the conversation between the vicar and his guest. But the next day the vicar went to London, and before the week was out a plain funeral went from the vicarage to the old churchyard, and the curate conducting the burial service had to stop with his handkerchief to his eyes, for in the church, clad in deep mourning, was a little girl whose silent sobbing was only hushed when the aunt whom she had but just found took her in her arms and pressed the little pale face to her bosom. Nobody knew what name was on the locket, for it was replaced where it so long had rested, and was buried when the heart beneath it had ceased to beat; but the name afterwards carved on the tombstone was not De Montfort. ------------------------------ "I don't think I shall be able to collect my wits enough to _tell_ a story this evening," said our governess as we sat at tea on the Thursday evening, "for I've had a long letter to answer and to think over; but I fancied you liked my story about the Baby's Hand, and so if you please I'll read you another from a little black-covered manuscript book which my old friend gave me. He said it was a story about a very near friend and schoolfellow of his, and was one of the most pathetic and affecting histories that he had ever known. I don't suppose you'll think so. Still it is rather affecting, though it is only a tale of disappointment in love; but then it was a love that lasted for a lifetime and survived death." [Illustration] CHAPTER V. THE STORY OF A BOOKWORM. YES, she is dead, and on her snow-strewn grave I left a bunch of winter flowers but yesterday. Ah, me! I never go and wander in that dingy churchyard, where the sound of the great roaring city is hushed to a sleepy murmur, but I seem to leave half my poor life there; would that I could leave it all, I sometimes think, and that when the sexton comes to bring the keys of the church on a Sunday morning he should find the mere body of me lying there, my head leaning on the stone that bears her name--not _his_ name--_her_ name, her one dear name by which I called her last of all. But these are ill thoughts, and as the poet says "this way madness lies." Let me get to my books, there is comfort and companionship in them; and yet I have held my finger in this page till the light is gone and it's too dark to read. I suppose I was meant for a bookworm, and yet I didn't like school. At all events I didn't like the Free Grammar School of St. Bothwyn By-Church, to which I had the privilege of being elected when my poor father was clerk of the Company, and lived in the old hall till he bought this little house in Hoxton. Ah me! how I seem to see the old black oaken wainscot of the court room, and the little parlour where the firelight danced in deep crimson flecks and pools in the polished floor, and the shadowy panels! How I can remember going in after dark in winter evenings and sitting there, a lonely motherless boy, and seeming to be lost in some mysterious way to the outside world, as I pored over tales of old romance, or when I grew older traced the origin of some quaint custom in one of the heavy leather-bound volumes that filled the narrow cramped bookcase of the clerk's office! In the midst of my dreaming one thing was real to me, and I suppose it was a part of my queer character, that what was said to be fancy in other young men was the one fact of my life. I mean love. Apart from the daily routine of the office, which often became mechanical, so that I could pursue it and think of other things even while it was going on, I had no true life in the present--that is to say no strongly conscious life of my own, apart from the region of imagination--except when I was sitting in the deep old escutcheoned bay-window of the Hall, looking out upon the old shaded courtyard, where the sunlight, darting amidst the spreading plane-trees, flecked and chequered the marble pavement, and the little carved fountain trilled and rippled till it incited the canary hanging in its gilded cage to break into song that drowned its splashing murmur, and silenced the sparrows twittering about the heavy woodwork of the old porch. That was my real world, because there was one figure, one face, that held me to it, as though by a spell that I could not, and never sought to break. I scarcely remember the time I did not love her. Mary never suspected, as I sat watching her at work, or reading to her on those summer evenings, that my heart was ready to break out into words of passionate entreaty. She had been so used to see me sitting there, or to run with me round the little paved courtyard, or the old dingy grass plot in the midst of its prim gravel walks at the side of the hall that I had become an ordinary association of her life. I had left school while she was still learning of a governess, who came four times a week to teach her, for her father was a man of more consideration than mine. But Mary was motherless as I was. Our mothers had been dear friends in their school-girl days and afterwards; and our fathers were old acquaintances; and so it came about that I was often at the Hall for the week round after office hours, and that I seemed to belong as much to the place as the old, fat, wheezy, brown spaniel that stood upon the broad stone step and welcomed me with tail and tongue. But while I remained, as it were, stationary--an old-fashioned boy, an older-fashioned youth, an antiquated man--she altered. Occasionally when I went to see her she had gone out visiting, and I was left to dream away the evening in the old window waiting for her return, or, if I knew which way she came, loitering in the street in case she should be unattended by the maid who was usually sent to meet or to fetch her when her father did not go himself. It was on one of these evenings that I suddenly understood what was the cause of the undefinable change that I had noticed in her manner some time before. In the previous week the company had held a court dinner, and that was the evening when the alderman introduced his son--"My son, the captain," as he called him--a captain by purchase, and with the right to wear a brilliant uniform and long moustachios. A chuckle-pated fellow, for all his scarlet coat and clanking heels, but with a bullying, insolent air. When the feast was over, and the guests were preparing to go, it was time for me to go too, for I had been late helping to make up some of the accounts in the office; and, after taking my hat off the hook in the passage, turned to the old sitting-room to look for Mary, that I might say, "Good-night." It was beyond her time for being about, especially on the court nights, but to my surprise, as I opened the door she was standing there with the captain, who was holding her hand. He had no business there, and she knew it. The other diners were already coming down the stairs at the end of the passage. He must have stolen down quickly, and she must have been waiting for him. This all passed through my mind in a moment as I stood looking at him, such an ugly leer upon his face as he bent over her hand that I had to clench my fingers till the blood started in the nails to keep down my rising wrath. "Hallo! who is this?" he said, as he turned with a swagger, but without dropping her hand. "Oh! Richard, I thought you'd gone home long ago. It's only a friend of my father's, and he's so near-sighted I suppose he did not see anybody here," she replied in a flutter. "Confounded little manners," said the captain, staring at me. I was dumb--and my limbs seemed to be rigid. "Is he deaf too?" asked the captain with a grin. "Confounded little manners, really." "You're welcome to the little there are," I blurted out; "you have none of your own. Mary, shall I take you to your father?" She pushed away my outstretched hand and hurried from the room; and he went out also after bestowing upon me an oath which I could hear him repeat as he sought his hat and cloak in the hall. I stood there without a word. My heart had seemed to drop within me as a coal fire burnt to ashes falls together in a grate. The warmth that kept it alive had gone out suddenly. But it smouldered yet, and when I went to meet her a few evenings afterwards I had determined to gather courage and speak to her once for all. I walked mechanically through the streets between the Hall and Doctors' Commons, where she had gone on a visit, and was just turning by the old garden beyond the Proctors' College when I heard voices close to me, and looking up, saw her walking with _him_, clinging to his arm, looking into his face. I hesitated for a moment, and they saw me. "Good-night!" said she in a formal voice as she clutched his arm tighter, and they both passed on. So all was over. It was many weeks before I went again to see her father. It might have been many more. I think I should never have gone again but for my own father saying to me, "Dick, my son, I can see and feel for you too, but bear up; you are no boy now, you know. And I had set my heart on it too; so had our old friend. He wants you to go and see him, Dick, to help him make up his quarterly account, as you used to do. Perhaps she'll tire of this popinjay--and, when she comes to her senses--" "Or when he deserts her," I interrupted bitterly. The dear old man said no more, but pressed my hand--his other hand upon my shoulder. "Go and see our old friend," he repeated presently. I went--taking care to avoid the familiar sitting-room and to go only to the office. There her father sat, looking strangely worn and anxious, but he rose to greet me. He was pleased to see me. I could see that by the smile that brought something of the old look back upon his face; but his voice shook as he told me that at the first rumour of active service the pompous alderman had bought the captain off, and that now he had all his time to dangle after Mary. It had broken him, he said; he was not the man he had been. His accounts confused him, and his cash-balance was short. He was going that very night to see an old cousin, to ask if she would take charge of Mary for a while; and if I would only once more look through the books while he was gone, perhaps I might put them right. It was a cold night, near Christmas, and there was a bright fire in the office, which seemed to light the room with a ruddy glow that quite paled the flame of the shaded lamp upon the writing-table. All was so still that the ticking of the old clock upon a bracket seemed to grow into an emphatic beat upon my ear quickened with nervous pain; but I sat down and was soon immersed in my accustomed drudgery of figures, so that, when I had taken out sundry balances, and checked the totals with a sum of money in gold and silver that lay upon the table in a leather bag, I had ceased to note how the night wore on; and after tying up the cash and placing it inside the secretaire, of which I turned the key, I sat down before the fire in a high-backed old leather chair and began to think, or dream, no matter which. Above the high carved mantel was a little round old-fashioned mirror, and as I lay back in the chair my purblind eyes were fixed upon it as it reflected the mingled gleams of lamp and fire that touched the shining surfaces of the oaken wall or the furniture of the room. My back was to the door, and yet by the sudden passing of a shadow across the glass I saw that it was being opened stealthily--and all the doors were too heavy and well hung to make a sound, if only the locks were noiselessly turned. I was so concealed by the great chair, and by the darkness of the corner where I sat beyond the radius of the lamp, that the intruder advanced quickly. He evidently expected to find nobody there, and, with scarcely a glance round, went to the table, peered amongst the books, and then, as though not finding what he sought, turned to the secretaire, and with a sudden wrench of the key opened it. I had had time to think what I should do, and as his hand closed on the bag of money I sprang to the bell beside the fireplace and rang it furiously; then darted across the room and stood with my back to the door. The captain--for it was he, and I had known him by his height and figure--gave a sort of shriek and turned livid as he dropped the bag and came towards me. "You here!" he said. "It's well that I happened to come in and catch you." "Stand back!" I cried, "or I'll raise the neighbourhood to see the noble captain who has turned thief. You don't go till the servants at least know who and what you are." "You fool!" he retorted, his face working. "It's only your word against mine; and who has the most right here, I'd like to know?" All this time some one was pushing heavily against the door from the outside, and a woman was whimpering there. I stepped back, still facing him, and flung it open. It was Mary, looking white and wild, and holding a sealed letter in her hand. "What is this? Why are you here, Algernon?" she asked, turning to the captain. "He was here to rob your father of another treasure besides yourself," I said. "He is a thief, and I will proclaim him as such." "A thief! How dare you?" she said, her face all aflame. "Do you know you are speaking of my husband?" "Husband!" I cried--"Husband!" And I leaned on a chair for support. "Richard," she said, placing the letter on the table, "I brought this that I might leave it for my father when he came in. You will see that he has it, will you?--or if you go before his return, let him find it when he comes." Married! The room swam round; and as I stood there, dumb and sick, they seemed to swim with it out at the door. When I came to myself the place was still as death, save for the ticking of the clock and the click of the failing fire. But there lay the letter. Another moment, as it seemed to me, and her father had let himself in and I had placed it in his hand. He read it half through before he quite understood what had been inclosed in it--a narrow printed slip of paper. Suddenly he unfolded that and carried it nearer the light. "Married!" he said. "Well, thank God for that! But--but--married, and to him!"--and he fell forward on the table. He didn't die. People don't mostly die of these shocks. The months went on; the years went on; and though he'd never seen his daughter, nor rightly knew where she was, he heard that her husband had an allowance made him by his father after his gambling debts had been paid; but the alderman had taken his head clerk into partnership, and there was an end of the captain's going into the business. My dear old father died and left me this house and his small savings. I seldom went to the Hall, though I should have been welcome there. Four times a year I lent a hand with the accounts for the sake of old routine, and stayed to eat a little supper and drink a glass of the famous claret, or to smoke a pipe with the old gentleman, who was failing greatly. His daughter was never mentioned between us, and I supposed he had lost sight of her altogether, when, one night, he said quite suddenly: "Dick, I wish you'd take a letter and a message to Mary for me." He hadn't called me Dick for years, and I thought he was drivelling, but he held an open letter into which he was folding some banknotes. "You may read it, Dick. They are in London, but she has not been to see me, and she writes for help to tide over some difficulties, she says, till her husband can see his father. She evidently doesn't know that the alderman's in the bankruptcy court. Poor dear, poor dear, she's reaping the fruits of her disobedience, and yet she will not come to see me. To her own hand, Dick, to her own hand only, must this letter go. It tells her how, in the last resort, she may seek my cousin, if she will not come to me before I die. My poor savings--they are but little, Dick--will be in trust for her with my cousin, but she sha'n't know that from me. Could you take this to-morrow morning, Dick?" I could do no less than promise to convey it to her, and the next morning set off to find the house, in a rather mean neighbourhood, where I found that she and her husband had taken furnished lodgings. A servant girl took up my name, and I was asked to walk upstairs. There, upon the landing, stood the woman I had not seen since the night she left her father's home, but changed, as years should not have changed her, and with a pleading anxious look in her scared eyes that was grievous to see. "Richard," she said with a faint smile, and holding out her hand, "is it you?" "I come as the bearer of a written message," I replied; "but if I can ever do you real service you know well enough that I should gladly aid you." "Thank you, Richard," she said gently, "I know it; but my father, he is well? His writing has changed though, it trembles so," and she burst into tears as she went to the landing window to read the letter. She had but just finished, and was slipping it into the bosom of her dress, when, with a sudden gesture, she said, "I dare not stay. I hear him coming up the street. Good-bye, good-bye, and take my love to papa, my dear, dear love. Say I'll write again or see him; but now go, and take no notice." I went down, and should have passed quietly from the house, but a latch-key turned in the street door, and, as I tried to go out, the "Captain" stood in the way. I knew him, bloated, shabby, and broken down as he looked, but should have said nothing had he not also recognized me, and turned upon me with an oath, wanting to know what I did there. I had heard of their address, I said, and that misfortune had overtaken his father, and had come to see whether I could do anything to help them. Could I lend him a ten-pound note there and then? he asked, with an ugly laugh; and when I said, I had no such sum, he broke out again in a torrent of abuse. I would have pushed past him, but he seized me by the arm, and swung me round facing him. I still strove to get away, when I heard his wife's imploring voice upon the stairs; and he spoke words that made the little blood that was in me surge swift and hot to my face. In a moment I had wrenched myself free, and struck him full on the mouth with my clenched hand. He was cowed for a moment, and turned white, but there were two or three people looking on by that time. "You miserable old pantaloon," he screamed, as he made a rush at me. But I had one hand on the knob of the door, and, swinging round as though I worked on a pivot, I caught him full between the eyes, and sent him sprawling among the hats and umbrellas that he had knocked down in his fall. Then I closed the door, and walked away. The page is turned for ever now, I muttered to myself. I cannot even meet her father again. Poor old gentleman!--he died--he died too soon; but not before I'd seen him and held his hand in mine. But she had never been to the old home; and on inquiring at the place where they had lodged, it was believed that they had gone abroad after the death of their two children. So that was the bitter ending, I thought. And all that dead past was to be closed like a page in a book that is read and clasped. Yes; but the book is reopened sometimes, where a sprig of rue has been placed to mark between the leaves. I didn't change. I was long past changing. And I followed my old pursuits; went to my old haunts; wore my old clothes, as I do now, from day to day. So years went on, until one dreary afternoon in November--one bright and sunny afternoon it might have been for its influence on my dim calendar--I was rummaging one of the boxes of a bookstall in Holborn, when the keeper of it came out and put two or three battered volumes among the rest. Instinctively I took one of them up and opened it. A great throb came into my heart and made me reel; for it was a prayer-book, and there on the title-page was _her_ name--_hers_, and in _my_ handwriting of years and years ago. The prayer-book that I had given her. "Dear me, sir, you look faint-like," says the dealer; "let me fetch you a stool, or come in and sit down a bit." "Can you--tell--me," I gasped, "where you bought this book? Where and when?" "Where? Why here. When? Why five minutes ago, along with two or three more, of no particular value, of a poor little thing that said it was all her mother had to part with--Stop, sir, stop; why, there she is coming out of the grocer's shop this very minute. Run after the old gentleman, James; he'll do himself a mischief, or be run over, or something." For I had dashed after the child like a madman, my hat off, the open book in my hand. James had outrun me though, and was now coming back with a child--a young girl--poorly clad; oh! so poorly clad; but yet like Mary--my Mary--on the day I wrote that name in the book still open in my hand. "Mary!" I gasped. "Yes, sir," said the child; "I must make haste home, or my mother will have no tea." * * * * * No, no, I will not dwell on the recollection of that poor room, with its evidences of want, its signs of suffering; nor of all that might have been said and was not. By the bedside of the woman whom I had loved and lost, and who was now passing from the world into the great reality of life, I had few words to speak. The only witness of the promise I made--except the Lord and His angels--was the silently weeping girl, _his_ only remaining child. Almost the only words were:-- "Mary." "Dick." And the child stood there clasping her mother's hand--_my_ hand; to be in future my child and the child of the mother in heaven; and who shall tell but at the resurrection---- Ah! I hear her foot upon the stair, her sweet voice singing as she comes--that sweet sweet voice that one day, maybe, will sing me to sleep. ------------------------------ "Ah-h-h!" sighed Mrs. Parmigan, who had listened to the last two stories without saying a word but with an expression of wonder. "How you can remember so much about people I can't imagine; but really, my dear, these love stories never do end except in the saddest way. Now if I could only write a tale, which I know is, of course, quite impossible, it should be every word of it true, and everybody should be as happy as the day is long." "But then you see, dear Mrs. Parmigan, that wouldn't be every word true," said Miss Grantley with her grave smile. "I hope, my dear young friends here are mostly happy with me at school, but there are times when we don't feel altogether in harmony, and lessons are not learned, and our tempers get the upper hand, and the sun seems to have gone behind a cloud and the world turns the wrong way, till the storm lowers and breaks, and then come regret and forbearance, and the stillness, and 'the gentle shining after rain.' Life is often a rather difficult school, and our education in this world is not completed without trouble and the discipline of pain and the finding of strength through weakness and of truth through error. But come, old lady, I am not to be led into a lecture, especially to a person of your years and experience, so tell me what you mean,--where am I to find 'a love story,' as you call it, that shall be without bitter-sweet, and come to a bright ending without going through a dark passage?" "Well, to tell you the truth, my dear, I was first thinking of my own very happy, but at the same time very commonplace and unromantic married life with Mr. Parmigan, who, as you know, was in the Bank of England, and came home as regularly as the clock struck half-past five; but then I was trying to recall what Mrs. Schwartz the cooper's wife was telling you that day when we went into her house out of the rain after our long walk from Fernside." "What! has that pretty, fair, round rosy-cheeked German woman a romance in her life?" asked Annie Bowers. "I declare I've often thought there must have been some kind of sentimental recollection in those great dreamy blue eyes. What a fine, strong-looking man her husband is too! Marion and I have often stood looking into the shed while he has been at work making tubs and casks, and sometimes we have heard him singing some German song as we walked that way. He speaks English so well too; but Mrs. Schwartz has a pretty buzzing accent, even the two flaxen-headed children have caught it, and talk in what seems to be a German idiom." "Well, would you like me to try and repeat Mrs. Schwartz's story as she has told it to me?" said our governess. "I must let you know, however, that she and I are very old friends, for I have been to see her over and over again, and she and her children have been here to tea several times in the holidays, her husband fetching them home in the evening. I was selfish in that, for I wanted to refresh my own ear with the German accent, and they both speak well, particularly the master cooper, who like most of his countrymen was a true journeyman, and travelled all over the country to practise his trade before he was drafted off to the army to fight in the Franco-German War." "Oh tell us the Schwartz love story!" said Sarah Jorring, "and try to tell it just as you heard it; it would be so much more sentimental." "But not in German," we cried, "that wouldn't be fair, to give us a German exercise under the pretence of a story; we'll have it in English." "Well, you shall have it in something like the original German-English, which seems to me very much to resemble real old English, and sounds to my ear more simple and more fit for story-telling than the more modern tongue. You must try to picture to yourselves Mrs. Schwartz when she was younger and paler, and wore a round white cap and great silver ear-rings, and was in fact a slender, rather pale pretty girl with a plaintive look in her great blue eyes, and a voice soft and low. The story arose from our talking about the fashion of Christmas-trees having been adopted in England, and the recollection of the last Christmas-tree that she had seen at her old home with her former mistress caused her to say with a deep sigh, 'Ach! _Ich habe gelebt und geliebet_;' so I will call the story 'I have lived and loved,' and you must try to fancy that Mrs. Schwartz is speaking." [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. "I HAVE LIVED AND LOVED." "SO we will hang up the Polichinello that thy dear father sent thee from afar, little Loisl; for who knows but thou and Heinrich, and I, thy mother, may see him yet before the eve of Christmas, and while the snow is on the ground. We will keep the tree here, near the window, and should he come not, we will light it afresh every night that it may shine a welcome to the dear father, and keep our hearts alive with hope." This is what I heard my dear mistress say when it wanted yet a week to Christmas in the year 1871, and the master, her husband, was still there with the Crown Prince before Paris along with his regiment. He was ober-lieutenant, one of many going to fight against France, and ever since the beginning, till after Sedan, after Domremy, after Metz, had been with his men in the camp, and wherever there was much danger always in the front. It was wonder to me how I had come to learn all about the war and the campaign, but girl as I was (Lisba is but a child even now, my dear mistress would say), I also had one dear to me--with the Red Prince and the army before Orleans. Herr postmaster Schwartz--ah! he came to talk to my mistress and to bring letters to her from her brave husband, and I was sewing, or busy in the room, and heard all--as he would stay in the kitchen on his way out and tell us all about it--Bertha and me; and once he handed me a letter. Oh! how my hand trembled as I took it; how the Herr postmaster looked at me through his horn spectacles and watched me, for he knew the writing! it was his son's, the writing of Franz. And I felt the blood rush up hot to my face, and the tears blind me as I placed in my bodice the little letter that I dare not open while there were questioning eyes to ask: "What is he to thee, Lisba, and what says he?" Bertha knew. Bertha was yet more of a child than I, for she was two years younger, but old was she in sentiment, and too often we would talk together far into the night, but in whispers lest we should wake the little ones, for Bertha slept next the great nursery, where our mistress had also made her bed, and I would steal into her room to pore over the map that the Herr postmaster had drawn with his pencil in the kitchen to show where our armies had been, and where the cruel battles were fought. In Alsace and to Lorraine, by Neiderbronn, at Weissenburg, at Woërth, at Saarbruck, at Metz, at Sedan, "where," said Herr postmaster, "we have received the sword of the Emperor Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, who is now our prisoner in the Palace of the Habichtswald." Then--ah! me, to think that they should be taken to the end of the world--right into France, to Donchery, to Chalons. As near as Strasbourg, as far as Rheims, and then on to Paris--or near it--at the place called Nogent-sur-Marne; that is where our dear master, the ober-lieutenant, was with the army of the Crown Prince; and we grieved and waited, for he had had a wound, we heard, though now he was healed. And the fighting went on, though hundreds of our brave men of the troops--the landwehr, the reserve--were hurt, or maimed, or killed. And many women wept over their knitting or their spinning; and the coming of the holy Christmas time brought not peace, though the Herr postmaster said the hungry war was now nearly over, but its jaws were not yet done clinking, and would yet gnash many to death. Franz! ah! he was with the Red Prince at Orleans, where they had fought the French army of the Loire. Nor did Franz go alone, for there went with him his best friend, his dutz brüder, Hofer, from Esmansdorff, whither Franz had gone three years before to follow his trade of cask-cooper and wheelwright, and there met Hofer, whose family were of the Tyrolese Protestants that came from Zitterthal to find a refuge in our land. He came to Saueichenwald, to our village, this Hofer--a dark well-looking man--not fair like Franz, nor with his broad chest and clear blue eyes--but tall and quick, with crisp curling hair, and long fingers. I have told him that he had hawk's eyes, for he could see the birds on the trees, and if he had pleased, could have shot them with his rifle, so far was his sight, so true his aim; but he hated to kill or hurt any living thing, and loved best to play the fiddle when he was not at work in his tan-yard. Yet now, he too was gone to the war, and was in the midst of the slaying and burning. When first he came home with Franz to Saueichenwald, I was afraid, for though I loved him not, but loved Franz only, his eyes were ever fixed on me, and he came often to the homestead; even when Franz came not he would be there in the yellow sunshine of the autumn evening by the gate that led to the apple orchard, or at the wicket, where Bertha and I used to stand after coming from the dairy or the hen-house; nor was he unwelcome to the master, who wondered at his shooting and leaping with a pole; nor to the dear mistress, for whom he brought a work-box, all of beautifully carved wood; nor to the little ones, Loisl and Heinrich, to whom he played the fiddle, and whom he taught to dance or showed how the chamois is hunted. Often when I have stood with Bertha--for we always went together--at the gate, he would come with his keen bright laugh and hawk's eyes, and leap the wall that inclosed the dairy yard. Franz, too, had noticed how he sought us, and one red evening when we were crossing the orchard, and Hofer walked between us with an arm about each, Franz came in by the old path from the wood on the other side, and stood there looking still and grieved. Laughing ever, Hofer carried us both in to where Franz stood, and with his long arms still about us caught him with a hand on each wrist, and so stood we, two girls in the midst of two men's encircling arms. "Hof, is it that thou lov'st Lisba?" said Frank sternly; "if so, thou doest not well." "I both love her and do well, my brother," replied Hofer. "I love her because I love thee, and in mine eyes she is thy wife. See thou then," and he held up his long right hand, "I am no brawler; but he who would do her ill or move his tongue against her would have to reckon with me as much as with thee, for she is thine and I am thine too, as thou art mine, or what means the dagger scar in our arms that we both know of?" Then taking me by the hand he leads me to Franz and kisses me gently on the forehead, and even while I am putting the face of Franz from mine I see that Hofer has stooped to kiss the poor child Bertha also, whose hand is in his, but whose face is bowed down and red as the wild berry. If I am a child, as my dear mistress says, then is Bertha but an infant, and cannot know of love that should turn her cheek to flame and bring bright tears into her eyes. Ah me!--that evening--how we stood and watched the sun go down till the night came, and with a dark blue shutter left only a long crevice where the fire shone through; how we wandered back hand in hand, and parted with a hasty "good-night" when we heard the church clock chime; and that is not long ago, though it seems to have gone so far back; for next day came the tidings of a levy for the army--men were wanted. Not one by one, but altogether, the young and then the middle-aged were called out to fight in France or to guard the frontier, and we--we were left (the dear mistress said "we")--to wait and weep, and with only the Herr postmaster, the father of Franz, to bring us news, and read to us the stories of the battles, and bring to the dear mistress her letters. For I had one letter and no more; and that told me that Franz and Hofer had met in the same army of the Red Prince and were comrades, but not in the same corps; but that once they came near together on the field, and in the thick of the fight Franz had struck down a man's arm uplifted to kill his brother. It is easy to see how I came to learn so much of the war, and of the places where it raged, for old Schwartz was proud of his knowledge, and read to us and drew maps, and we had nothing else to talk about. The village was very still, and people from the nearest town talked only of the war and of those who had left them. Ours is a quiet place with romantic scenes around it, and but just beyond the shadow of the giant mountain Riesengebirge. We can see the blue profile of the Schneekoppe; and there are those--the old ones--who still talk of the legends of Rubezahl, the counter of turnips (the mountain spirit), who took all kinds of disguises to punish avarice and cruelty, and to reward honesty and help the poor. Among the poor went our dear mistress now, or they came to her for sympathy; she who, like themselves, like all of us, except brotherless young ones such as Bertha, grieved for a lover, or a husband, or a brother, gone to the war. It was not likely to be a merry Christmastide in Germanland, except that the news of victory, or of fortresses taken, came and stirred the slow blood of the people who were left. But we longed and prayed for peace--we women did at all events--and with some there was scarcely heart to trim and deck the Christmas-tree; to tell the children to prepare for the visit of the Christ Kindlein on Christmas Eve, who would bring good gifts to the good, but would leave the naughty to Pelsnichol to come and whip them with his great birch. In some villages like ours an old man disguised with a long beard and gown, and a great bag, would go about at Christmastide to the houses where the people had expected him, and would carry the gifts to the children, and would show others who were naughty the birch, and give them nothing. But we had no Pelsnichol at our house, only sweet talk about the child Christ, and the gifts of the wise men, and of the love that should be among little ones--the love and the heart-giving. So the tree was decked, and placed in the window ready to light on Christmas Eve, in the hope that it might be a sign of love and welcome. And we were on the watch all day, and every night Bertha would go out and sit upon the wall, looking out towards the road to the town, until the light was no more seen in the belfry of the church, and the clock chimed supper-time. I told not our dear mistress of this, for was it not for Franz and the dear master that the child kept watch?--but I went not myself to that outlook, though my heart stood still every time Bertha returned, with her head bent down, and had seen no one coming. She had a presentiment or fancy, she said, that the wanderer would return after nightfall. I knew not,--I began to tell lies to myself that I cared not,--and for this reason; I had long feared that the Herr postmaster liked not me to be loved by his son; for behold he was postmaster, and had been a builder of organs, and the dear master was godfather to Franz, while I--well, I had nothing, but the dear mistress was my godmother, and my father had been pastor of a village, and had taught me some things before he died. We are now but a few days to Christmas, when one night the old man comes in with a letter for the dear mistress, at which she first sobs and turns white, and then laughs and turns red. The dear master is wounded, but is at the frontier, whither he had been sent, staying till he is strong enough to come home; "but there," he writes, "I have had the luck to fall into the hands of a good nurse, an old acquaintance, who will bring me home." "Ah! ha! that he could already come home," sighs the mistress. "Loisl--Heinrich, thy dear father may yet be here before the tree is lighted; and brings with him a nurse--who can she be, think'st thou, Lisba?" "I know not, unless it be one of the deaconesses who go to the hospitals; but is it not possible, dear lady, that it is a comrade, a surgeon of the army, an ambulance officer?" "It is Hofer," cried Bertha, who was standing at the door of the big kitchen, where we were listening to such parts of the letter as the mistress pleased to read to us. "Hofer! the lass has gone silly!" cries the Herr postmaster. "Hofer and Franz are fighting with the army of the Loire, as the French call it, and are who knows where. I have a letter here that reached me yesterday, written some days ago, where Franz says--let me read it:" (Here the old man pulls on his horn spectacles and opens a thin sheet of paper.) "Franz says:--'We are in quarters here at a tavern, but it has few customers, and we are obliged to seek for what we need. It is, in fact, almost an empty house, dismantled, half burnt, and with a good many shot holes. Still we keep up our spirits. We have begun to hold our Christmas already, for we have a long table and a few chairs, and somebody last night found a great milk-pan in the half-ruined dairy of the inn, and, having on hand a few bottles of very good red wine, we made a fine bowl of _grog-au-vin_, with the aid of a wood fire and an old saucepan. In came Hofer and gave us a toast and a song, and then they called on me, and I gave them the old _Lied_, that thou hast so often played, and for a toast, 'Fifine.' If Fifine had been there she would have been lying on my shoulder, but since I rescued her from the teasing of a big drum-major she has grown shy and doesn't like company; and though she would soon be a pet with most of our men, keeps her love for me alone, and would be a very charming companion if I had time to devote to her pretty ways.' So you see Franz and Hofer are in France," says the old man, taking off his spectacles. My heart has grown cold and heavy all in a moment, and I have to lean on the back of a chair for support. "Who, then, is Fifine?" I ask, under my breath. "Aha!" cries the Herr postmaster, "who, indeed? but what is it to thee? I now, his father, might well ask; but there it is, no sooner does a young honest fellow go out of Germany than he is thrown into the company of these cats of Frenchwomen, and then--but I must say good-night. Good-night, madam. Good-night, girls." So he is gone, and the dear mistress and I look in each other's face, and both cry "Oh!" but say no more. So I go not to watch by the wall; but Bertha goes, and still she says it is Hofer will bring the dear master home. The child, we say, is gone silly with sitting on the wall in the cold, for sometimes she will come in without her cloak; but yet we have not the heart to forbid her going thither. One, two, three, four days, and it is the blessed eve. We are all so still, and our hearts are heavy, so we go about softly, as though some one were sick or dead, when it is but our own hearts, or hopes, or fancies, that seem dead. The dear little ones are quiet now, for we are in the small room by the window, and as the last chime of sundown sounds from the church, the candles on the Christmas-tree are lighted, and shine on the pretty gifts that hang upon the branches. The dear mother hugs the children to her heart; outside the twinkle and beaming of the candles makes a short track of light upon the snow; the signal is all a-glow. Will the wanderer return to-night? Where is Bertha? What is this white-armed, loose-haired figure, flying up the path? Her hand is on the door-latch, and as she stands there, wan and panting, she cries, "They come! they come! The ox-wagon is now upon the hill. I saw it coming through the snow, and the lantern shone upon the epaulette and the buttons." She speaks and is gone, and we, the dear mistress and I, go to the kitchen, where I stand, with a heart of lead and hands of ice. There is a tramp of feet, a shout, the door bursts open--the dear mistress is in her husband's arms--the little ones are clinging to him. "Take care of my leg, darlings," he says; "the bone has not grown too strong just yet, and I doubt if ever I shall bend the knee again. As to Franz here, he, as you see, has his arm in a sling yet. He caught me up in the wood, me and Hofer. Ah! that dear Hofer, he was in hospital, just getting over a sabre cut in the cheek when I was taken there, and he has been my good nurse ever since." I am standing still, with downcast eyes, and there stands Franz staring at me, with his one arm ready to take me to his heart. "And where is Fifine?" say I, bursting into tears. "Fifine--ah! I was near forgetting her," and he plunges his one hand into the deep pocket of his military coat and pulls out a creature which climbs to his shoulder, and there sits purring--a white fluffy cat with pink eyes. "Why, you little fool," cries old Herr postmaster as he comes behind me and lifts me within reach of Franz, "didn't I say it was a cat of a French woman?" There is a light quick stride at the door--a loud jödel--a bright laugh--and Hofer stoops his tall body and looks round. A cloud comes over his face almost before he has greeted the dear mistress, and kissed me on the cheek. "Where is Bertha?" he asks, and before we can answer him he has darted out again, and we have scarcely lost the sound of his rapid step before he is back among us, bearing the poor child in his arms. We chafe her hands and feet, and warm and comfort her. Dear Bertha, she had been so faithful watching there by the wall, and Hofer had stopped behind to help up a fallen horse, and when he came not she fainted and fell with cold and fear. But now we are all together in the great kitchen, and supper is getting ready, and wine is on the table, and the dear master and mistress are with their little ones at the Christmas-tree, that makes a path of glory on the outer snow. "Bertha, thou surely hast the second sight," says the old postmaster as he looks at her. The colour comes again rose-red into her cheek as Hofer draws her closer to his side. "Yes," says she, "it is love that gives it. One has second sight when one thinks no longer of one's self but of another." ------------------------------ It was Saturday afternoon, and our week's work was nearly over. On Monday the great fancy fair was to be held, and the side-table in Miss Grantley's pleasant parlour was covered with samples of all kinds of needle-work, in lace, wool, crewel, applique, and on linen, satin, velvet, silk, and cloth. There were handscreens, water-colour sketches, embroidery, bead-work, and all kinds of dainty knick-knacks, and we still had the finishing touches to put to some of our presents--still had a few completing stitches to put to some of the plainer articles, which were to make the back ground for the stall where Miss Grantley was to be saleswoman. When we came into the parlour she was not there. Saturday was a holiday, so there had been no school in the morning, and we had gone on purpose to finish our week's work for the fancy fair. We had scarcely taken off our hats, and indeed most of us had stepped outside the window into the garden when she came into the room. There was a singularly radiant eager look in her face, her eyes shone bright as though they had been washed with glad tears, and as she kissed us one by one there was more than the usual impressiveness, or what the French would call _effusion_ in her manner. Annie Bowers looked at her with a quick inquiring glance, but said nothing. Marian Cooper, who had grown as tall as Miss Grantley was herself, held her hand tight, and spoke in a low tone, but loud enough for us all to hear as we had clustered round. "What story have you to tell us this evening, Miss Grantley? Something has happened. Is it a love story, dear? Are you going to tell us that you have promised to be married?" "No, indeed, I am not, for no such promise has been given; and there is no love story of which I am the heroine, I assure you. For all that, I have had a letter from a gentleman--a letter from my brother in Australia--which may alter my plans for the future. My dear girls, my dear friends and companions, I think you know that you are all very dear to me, and I believe you love me too a little; but of course in a few months at farthest most of you will leave me. You will have given up school, but not, I hope, given up reading and as much work and study as will keep you a good and useful place in the world. It is most likely that some of you will be married before I am, for I shall remain here for some time, and until I find a successor to take the school, and then I intend to go to the other side of the world. Whether Mrs. Parmigan will go with me I don't know. What I do know, and the only thing I can think about at this moment, is the real sorrow I shall have in parting with you all. But we should have to part in any case. The world of new duties and of new interests would be opening to you even if I remained here and grew old as the governess of Barton Vale. I should always rejoice to hear of your happiness and sympathize with you in trouble; but you would not be likely to be in a position to seek either my sympathy or my counsel, for others would have the greater right and the closer communion. But believe me, pray believe me when I tell you, that as the next six months go by I shall dread our parting, though more than half of you seven girls will have left me before that time arrives. Now, my dears, let us have tea, and then I will read you my brother's letter, for you are all my dear friends--my very closest friends to-night; and that letter shall be my story. It's more of a man's story than a girl's, but it is nearly all about a girl for all that." It was not a very quiet tea-table, for we were all excited and talking fast, as though that was the best way to keep from crying. It was not till we had discussed Miss Grantley's intended voyage and made out quite a romantic future for her that she opened her brother's letter, that we might, as she said, hear what kind of fellow he was. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. MISS GRANTLEY'S BROTHER. MARIMOO, HOBART TOWN, December 27th, 18--. DEAR BESSIE,--It's time you came out here instead of staying in the old country, even though you haven't learnt to make butter and cheese, and don't know how to bake bread, or even to make "damper" properly. The fact is, you must come; and if you like to take classes, you can make use of your science degrees here, I can tell you, for they want "sweet girl-graduates;" and even if they have grown to be severe and exacting female professors, we take very kindly to them. The fact is, Bess, I waited as long as I could for you to come over this side to look after me, that I might cease wandering and settle down. As you know, I've tried my hand at a good many occupations, often for the freak of the thing, but always with a reserve force for doing the right thing at last, and somehow I've mostly made bread and cheese and a little more. The gold fever was over long before I reached Australia, but I had a turn at the cradle and pan for all that, and turned up a pretty good "claim"--enough to take me on my travels afterwards. I've been out prospecting; I've had a turn in the great grazing grounds, though I didn't care to sink the little money I had in a fancy flock in the hope of turning it into a herd, or to spend my life on horseback galloping after half-wild cattle on the plains. I wasn't long "beating about the bush," though I've once or twice been out with the natives and have had a brush with the rangers, one of whom--Black Jack--carried a bullet of mine about in his shoulder for some time before he fell in a fight with the police just outside Melbourne. His skeleton's in the museum now; but the worst time I ever had was when I was driving----; but I'll tell you that another time. I meant when I began this letter to start with an announcement that ought to take your breath away, and somehow I'm as shy of saying it on paper as I should be if you were standing before me with those "clear cold eyes" of yours, that yet were always shining with love to your wild brother, though you always "looked him through." The plain truth is, I now invite you to come over here and live with _us_. Do you read that?--US. For I am--we are--_married_. Yes; a fact. And who do you think _we_ are? There's me to begin with, and who's the other party, the "Co.," should you fancy? Well, don't guess. I'll tell you. Mary Deane. You remember how I used to sing: "I'm sitting on the stile, Ma-ree," in the old house at home, when she was a little wisp of a dark-eyed lassie, just thinking about going to the old farm belonging to her Uncle Deane, in Herefordshire; and how she ran away and hid herself when I wanted to say "good-bye" to her before I left. Well, her uncle made up his mind to come to this side--as you wrote me he had--and I'd nearly forgotten all about it, until one day, as I was strolling along towards the bank in Sydney, who should I come upon quite suddenly but Mr. Deane, and walking beside him a slim, elegant, bright-eyed beauty, to whom I raised my hat, not knowing who she was, till a peal of silvery laughter brought back my memory to the days of old, when we used to sit in the garden on a summer evening at Barnes, and slip down the lawn to the boat-house, that we might launch the dear old pater's wherry, and have a moonlight trip, with soft singing of part songs, to which I know I growled a villainous bass. Dear pater, had he lived I might have stayed in the old country, and tried to keep up the old place; but I fear I should have disappointed him, and so--well, all may be for the best. Perhaps it was the remembrance of the dear balmy evenings "under the Abeles" that put me in mind of proposing a picnic, for it was the winter before last that I met the Deanes, and therefore our midsummer, and a precious hot one too I can tell you, so that all the ripe fruit, bottled beer, champagne, and everything else that was cool and slaking was at a premium. Mr. Deane was not altogether unacquainted with Sydney. He had been for some time in the colony, and had done a good thing in cattle agency. "I landed a pretty fair commission out of one lot that I had out beyond Gomaree Flats," he said to me, "a wild lot they were too, and I bought them on spec and sold them three weeks after with my own brand upon them." "You don't mean to say that they were at Goobong station and branded D," said I. "Just so, have you seen any of 'em?" "Why I _helped_ brand them," I cried; "I was on the station and rode out after a bull that had gone away. I must have been within a couple of miles of your place if you were at Gomaree; and--was Miss Deane with you?" "Mary was with me, Tom Grantley," says Mr. Deane, "and I don't think you used to say 'Miss' in the old time when I knew your father." "No; but then you see Mary wouldn't even come to say 'good-bye,'" I replied; and, as I looked, I saw the girl--she _is_ a lovely girl, Bessie, though she's now Mrs. Grantley--blush like a rose, and actually, I think, a tear stood in her eye, though she laughed again when putting her hand in mine. She said, "Forgive me, Tom; for if you and uncle are to continue friends, _I_ must be friendly with you too; so I make the first overture of reconciliation." I felt I was a "gone coon" if I let this sort of thing go on; so I asked them what they were doing in Sydney, dined with them the same evening, and by that day week we had made up a picnic to Parramatta, where we could have the pleasure of a boat on the salt-water creek that people there call the Parramatta River, and could have a pleasant country ramble and a dinner out in the sunshine, with the thermometer at 85° in the shade, or thereabout--capital weather for plum-pudding; but we _had_ plum-pudding and roast-beef, too, with iced champagne; the plum-pudding made beforehand and heated over a fire made of sticks in an iron skillet; the roast-beef cold, with Sydney pickle, and bottled beer from England, rather dearer than champagne, and, what was better than either, some Australian wine, made from the Reisling grape, and about as good as most of the hock we ever get in London. Of course we had some delightful drives along the south shore to Port Jackson, and back to Sydney along the south-head road--a drive in which one may see most of the beauties of Sydney vegetation--the great Eucalyptus or blue gum trees, between the giant boles of which shine the glittering waters of the harbour; but there are a hundred healthy orchids, and wild flowers of varied vivid hues, though but few of them have any perfume. Parramatta is to Sydney what Richmond is to London, or what Versailles was to Paris; but it is less secluded than it once was, of course, and Cockatoo Island, once the penal settlement, is less unfrequented than the Isle of Portland, where English convicts work out their sentence. This, and Shark Island, are likely places enough to attract strangers, but Parramatta was our resort on this Christmas Eve. Nothing came of it, except that I found myself when I got back to the hotel at night, and had bidden good-bye only after there was no further pretext for staying for "another cigar," in the large, bare, cool room which Mr. Deane had hired as a sitting-room in a large house in Sydney. The drive home had been a merry and yet a melancholy--not a sentimental one; there was a good deal of twilight about, and there was laughing--but somehow, Mary Deane and I didn't seem to find much to laugh about--I didn't, I know, for she told me they were going away to Bathurst, and I think I heard a sob, I know I felt her hand tremble when I took it in mine, and it was lucky I had been used to driving a team, for to hold whip and reins in one hand might give a hard-mouthed boring horse a chance of going at his own pace down a gully. However, before I said my final farewells it had been settled that I was to go with Mr. Deane and Mary as far as the Bathurst Plains, for I had a little business of my own in the Blue Mountain district. We were to start in a week, and I could scarcely believe that the whole affair was other than a dream, as I sat at the open window smoking till the pinky-gray dawn of Christmas Day broke over the scrubby garden of the hotel. I had been in a sort of dream, in which the form of Mary Deane was the chief figure, but there was another less pleasing shape, which came and went in my visions in a purposeless kind of way, one which I had seen that day lounging about the landing-stage, where he passed me first with a scowl and then with a muttered oath. Now, I had first made his acquaintance in this wise. One night as I was coming into Sydney, about a mile from the town I heard a sharp, sudden cry from the side of the road. The cry came from a little "black fellow," who had been a sort of retainer of mine in the bush, and on the plains a bright active lad, as supple as a snake, and, as he used to say, the son of a chief. He was called Jacky Fishook, and was a very useful fellow out there, for he could follow a trail like a hound, could climb trees, kill game, and in fact had a good many of the savage accomplishments, and few, if any, of the vices of civilization--rather a rare thing among the natives. On my return to Sydney we had parted company, and Fishook had passed some of his time among his own people, and had also come into town now and then to work as a light porter, or do other odd jobs. The wants of the natives are few; and Jacky, unlike some of his people, did not drink rum or other spirits, so if he earned sixpence he was able to keep it. He it was who had given a shrill shout, and as I ran across a piece of waste ground to see what was the matter, I saw him crouching on the ground, while over him stood a big bully, whom I had before seen at the door of a low grog-shop; making a vicious cut at the "nigger" with a heavy stock-whip. He was a burly, powerful fellow, and, as Jacky was unarmed and only half clad, the cut of a thong like that was bad punishment. As soon as I appeared the Maori gave a yell of satisfaction. "You know Fishook, black-fellow, sar?" he screamed. "You know, sar, Jacky not take stink-water (the native word for rum), but he give no sixpence, sar; he make for carry big thing, sar." Jacky pointed to a huge bale of hides, or something of the kind, that had been pitched on the ground. Evidently the bully had insisted on the poor fellow carrying the burden for payment to be made in the shape of a glass of rum; and, discovering this, Jacky had refused to go further. Again the whip was raised to strike, but I caught the uplifted arm, and with an oath the fellow turned on me, wrenched away his wrist, and came at me like a bull. There was nothing for it but to let him have it, and--excuse me, Bess; you know how you used to stand by when Willie and I had a set-to--I put in my left, and followed it up with a staggerer. He was not easily vanquished, however, though the blow drove him back three or four paces; and, before I could get within reach, he had snatched a pistol from his pocket. I was obliged to close with him, and his weight was against me. My only chance was to grip his wrist, or I should have a bullet in me. Luckily he was giddy, and one eye had begun to swell; so that I had his arm at the very moment he pulled the trigger, and the ball went somewhere into space. The tussle was a short one, for there came a quick patter of feet along the path, and two officers of the Sydney police came up. "Hullo, Buffalo Jim!" cried one of them, "up to your tricks again. Look here, my fine fellow, if you once get into quad, you're not likely to come out for a while, for there's a pretty bit of evidence likely to be turned up when once we start. Just take yourself home, and we'll come along to see what's in that bundle. Now, then, up you come;" and in a second they had lifted the bundle on to the fellow's shoulder, and marched him on before them. "We saw it all before we came up, Mr. Grantley," said one of the men as he passed, "but I s'pose you won't charge him." "No," said I. "He richly deserves all I gave him; but I don't want to be dangling for a week about the Sydney court-house." As they went away, the fellow gave me an evil look. Jacky had vanished. Now, I had seen this big brute again while we were at Parramatta, and I was helping Mary out of the boat at the landing-stage. He had seen me, too, and turned away with a scowl and a muttered oath; but happening to glance round afterwards, I noticed that he was watching us from behind the corner of a fence. I forgot all about him for the rest of the day; but now, at night, his ugly face and bloated form intruded upon my dreams. I couldn't account for it; perhaps it was prevision. I had forgotten it all again by the time we were ready for our journey to Bathurst. Mr. Deane was to drive with Mary in a light trap and I was to ride, for I had a good steady horse at stable in Sydney growing fat and restive for want of exercise. So we set out and went as far as the inn at Gum Ferry on the Nepean before we made any change in our arrangements. On the second day's journey we were likely to have a long ride, and Mary was anxious for a canter over Gum Plain, and beyond the first span of the mountain, where the way is over sand, shaded on both sides by the dark thicket of the gum tree and the forest scrub. She had brought her habit with her, and as she had been taught to be a first-rate horsewoman up at her father's cattle station, I resigned the saddle, and the horse, feeling such a light weight and such a dainty hand, was off like a bird. It was good to watch her as we drove far behind; good to note her pretty figure as she came cantering back and then shot forward for a long stretch across the plain. We were approaching the sandy course--where few passengers were seen except wagoners--and all was still and silent till we reached the fringe of forest and heard the chattering scream of a flight of green parrots. But above the chatter of the birds came another cry, and there, straight ahead of us, but beyond our power to overtake, were _two_ riders. Mary was one; the other, a big rough-looking fellow, on a powerful horse, had dashed out from the thicket, caught her horse by the rein, and was now taking it at a furious gallop. The thought flashed through my brain in a moment. It was Buffalo Jim, and this was the scoundrel's revenge. The thought was horrible. Mary was completely in the scoundrel's power, unless she could throw herself out of the saddle and defy him until we came up. At the pace they were going, to overtake them was impossible, though we urged our nag to its utmost speed, and the wheels ploughed swiftly through the dry sand. What was to be done? There straight ahead, and getting further and further,--but plainly seen in that clear sunny air,--the two horses kept up the furious pace. We could even see the brave girl lean aside, and strike with all her might at the ruffian with the light whip she carried. We could fancy his hoarse laugh of defiance as he checked speed for a moment, and sought to wrest the whip from her hand. My head was on fire, but neither Mr. Deane nor I spoke a word; our eyes were simply fixed on the two figures before us, when suddenly there seemed to be a third--right out there in the very middle of the sunlit course. A figure like a bronze statue, which suddenly appeared as it were from the ground,--and now stood in midway, and with uplifted hand as though in warning. Would the horses ride him down? No; there was a sudden check, a scurry, a wild yell, and Buffalo Jim threw up his arms and went backward, rolling over in the sand, while Mary's horse, released, darted forward for fifty yards or so, and was then brought round. She met us half-way toward the place where the riderless horse had dashed into the forest. There in the sand lay the ruffian transfixed by a slender native spear, which had gone with unerring aim through his neck; we had to break off the point and draw the shank through. Lucky for Buffalo Jim if the wound were not poisoned. All we could do was to place him in the chaise, and for Mary to remount and keep near us. The bronze figure had vanished, as a snake might glide into the brushwood. Indeed, for a moment, when we reached the spot, I fancied I saw the glint of a fierce emu eye away in the dark leaves that hung by the bark of a mighty Eucalyptus, and I gave the _cooee_ of the native, but no response came. Well, to make an end of this unconscionable letter, I need not tell what trouble we had when we took the wounded man to the next station, nor how we were detained to be examined and questioned. Buffalo Jim died in the prison infirmary a good while after, and though we had not forgotten the adventure, we had about ceased to think of it by the time I had settled here in Hobart Land, for the fact is there was a magnet here that I could not but follow, and another Christmas picnic on the Derwent, amidst the lovely woods and gardens that fringe a part of its banks completely settled me. The end of all which is Mary Deane became Mary Grantley, and here we are on our own lot, with very pretty farming and a capital dairy, and a good heart's welcome for you if you will only come out to us. Oh, I ought to say as a sequel that about a month after we settled down here one of the men came in and said there was a black fellow at the fence gate asking to speak to me. Out I went, and there, looking at me with a smile or rather a grin, was Jacky Fishook. "How do, sar?" said he. "Just come from Sydney, sar, to look for job. Massa take me for man, sar? yes? Jacky, sar, good black fellow, no stink-water, sar, ride sar, fish, shoot, fetch bullocks, sar? yes." "And then the spear, eh?" said I, frowning, "Who was it killed Buffalo Jim, you villain?" "Buff'lo Jim, sar, bad white fellow, sar--he try kill Maori, but Maori too much not kill, sar. Jacky Fishook stupid fellow, sar--not know Maori--but Maori throw spear--yes." And there and then the muscular lithe figure was drawn up like a statue; the beady eye glaring straight forward, the arm poised as though to hurl a javelin. It was quite enough--I knew who had appeared suddenly in the sandy road that day. Buffalo Jim had come out to hunt, and had himself been tracked down and hunted. But Jacky Fishook stayed with us. He is at this moment cleaning up my gun; and when I go shooting to-morrow he will carry home the game--parrots if we can get nothing better. Your affectionate brother, TOM GRANTLEY. ------------------------------ Even though it is now a year or two ago that we parted with Miss Grantley, and Mrs. Parmigan took over the school at the request of the parents of the junior pupils, and was joined by a lady from London with famed certificates, none of us can speak without emotion of the happy time when we sat at work in the pretty old parlour or sat under the trees in the pleasant orchard. We are not all at Barton now, for Annie Bowers is studying art abroad, and Sarah Jorring, who is "engaged," is living with her friends at Barton; but those of us who are still in the Vale go and drink tea with Mrs. Parmigan sometimes, and none of us are likely to forget our governess and the stories that she used to tell. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected. Page 70, "Dyce" changed to "Dryce" (Richard Dryce sat down) Page 85, "whieh" changed to "which" (and sight-seeing which) Page 91, duplicate word "the" removed from text. Original read: (Dorcas the the widow) Page 101, "tobacoo" changed to "tobacco" (filled with tobacco) 
30957	----	ADEQUATE PREPARATION FOR THE TEACHER OF BIOLOGICAL SCIENCES IN SECONDARY SCHOOLS. J. Daley McDonald Submitted to the School of Education of the University of California in partial fulfillment of the minor requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. November 15th 1921 CONTENTS Introduction 3 Retarding factors in improvement 4 Qualifications in subject matter 5 Scope of Biology 6 Values and relations of Biology 7 Adaptation of course to community conditions 10 Freedom from textbook slavery 11 Materials and laboratory equipment 12 Historical setting 13 Spirit of research 14 Qualifications in method 16 Factors determining correct method 16 History of scientific method 17 Problem method 17 Accuracy and logical constructive thinking 18 Teacher's final method necessarily unique 19 Summary of necessary qualifications 19 Opportunity for adequate preparation 20 Lack of professional course 20 Requirements of Teachers Recommendation in Zoology 21 Courses not adapted for teacher-preparation 22 Professional course the goal 23 Suggested modifications of present courses 24 Course in special methods 25 Practice teaching 27 Bibliography 29 The use of the term _preparation_ herein is intended to indicate partially the limitation of the problem attempted. The following discussion will be concerned only with such attributes of the successful teacher as are the direct result, or at least greatly enhanced by thorough preparation. A sufficiently comprehensive and difficult problem remains after still further restriction of the field so as to include only subject matter and the method of biological science. It is scarcely necessary to make the statement that the standards of preparation and the facilities for meeting these standards have been enormously improved within the past few years. Evidence of this is found in the changes recently made in the curricula of and the requirements for graduation from the California State Teachers Colleges. Neither is it necessary to say that improvement must continue. Such problems are evolutionary. Notwithstanding that requirements for teachers certificates have been raised the country over, the universities are not generally making very rapid strides in affording opportunities for better preparation in subject-matter and special methods. In corroboration, witness the recent criticisms of the departmental courses in special methods now given in universities generally (Swift, 1918; Taylor, 1918). The length of time or the number of units of work required for certification may be increased but that does not insure a finer _quality_ of preparation. In attempting to explain the slow pace of improvement in the quality of preparation for the teaching of science, one becomes involved in a cycle. Science had its development in the college and university whence it diffused slowly into the secondary schools, and finally slightly into the elementary grades. The differences between the aims of college science and secondary school science were and still are not taken sufficiently into account. As an inevitable result there are to be found in the curricula of high schools too many science courses that are mere dilutions of the college type, with no modification of purpose, and just enough change in method and subject matter to bring them partially within the power of understanding of the less mature mind. This situation in turn reflected upon the higher institutions of learning in such a way that it seemed that they were giving adequate training of the correct type. And such would have been the case had the college course in the particular science been planned for the express purpose of being diluted to suit secondary school needs. But it will be generally conceded that such courses never have existed. Another retarding factor in the evolution of the problem has been the subordination of special training in subject matter to other really less important qualifications, in the selection of teachers. The table given below, compiled from statistics gathered in one of the States during 1916, shows sufficient justification for the above statement. And not only has the preparation in subject matter been too little considered in choosing teachers, but also in the administration of schools specially intended for teacher-training. An educator of high standing in California is credited with making the criticism of the Normal Schools of the State; that they attempt to teach a person how to teach intelligently something about which he knows nothing. When teachers have adequate preparation in subject matter as well as in methods, and when they are employed to teach only those subjects for which they are fitted, then the problem of maintaining a high standard of teaching will be well nigh solved. Subject | Prepared & | Not prepared | Prepared and | Total | teaching | & teaching | not teaching | -----------+------------+--------------+--------------+------- Physiology | 19 | 8 | 57 | 84 -----------+------------+--------------+--------------+------- Botany | 71 | 39 | 74 | 184 -----------+------------+--------------+--------------+------- Zoology | 9 | 20 | 5 | 34 -----------+------------+--------------+--------------+------- Agriculture| 63 | 14 | 84 | 161 -----------+------------+--------------+--------------+------- Preparation in Subject Matter Before facing the problem of preparation for the teaching of biological sciences in the secondary schools, there must be a clear conception of the aims and legitimate purposes of these sciences in the high school. We are fortunate in having the aims of biology clearly and concisely stated by the Commission on the Reorganization of Secondary Education of the N.E.A. ("Reorganization of Science in Secondary Schools", U.S. Dep't. Interior, Bureau of Education, Bulletin 26, 1920). These aims will not be considered in their entirety but only in so far as they bear directly on the problems that follow. Before proceeding further, for simplification we will assume that the teacher is assigned to teach biological sciences only. Even then the field is quite comprehensive, for besides instruction in general biology, there will be courses of a more advanced type, in Zoology, Botany, Physiology, and often Bacteriology, Sanitation, or Agriculture. However, with preparation in the fundamentals necessary for biology a teacher should be able to conduct such courses without difficulty. Thus the problem is sufficiently inclusive if it concerns preparation for biology alone. The brief literal translation of the word _biology_, science of life, is full explanation of its scope. A course in the subject is not Zoology, nor Botany, nor Bacteriology, nor Physiology--but rather all of these in one. Biology should logically follow the nature study of the elementary grades. The course must be so planned that it will give the pupils the maximum of serviceable fundamentals and at the same time be a basis for further study in advanced courses, if he desires to continue; but such that he will miss none of the essentials if he does not. Since science is the product of mature minds, the culmination of knowledge, then in this course for adolescents, the "ology" must not be too greatly stressed lest the essential part, the "bios" be obscured. The goal then is a course in which a study of plant life, a study of bacteria in relation to human welfare, a study of animal life, and the biology of the human, are all incorporated with well balanced emphasis. This is the type of course recommended by the Commission on Reorganization for the ninth or tenth year pupils, so is the end toward which preparation should be made. The next question concerns what constitutes adequate preparation for the direction of studies of animate nature. First and foremost is a realization of the aims, or better, the values, and relations of biology. It is a socializing subject and must be so taught--man is social. Biology affects man vitally, directly his behavior follows natural laws, and indirectly by illustration and comparison brings him to a better understanding biologic laws underlying the organization of society. By way of illustration we need only to cite the struggle for existence and the division of labor with their far reaching influence in determining the course of evolution. It would be impossible, I believe, to teach biology so poorly that it did not have some socializing value; but it comes very near to being done in some cases, there is little doubt. A paramount aim is the improvement of living conditions, both as it concerns measures for group sanitation and factors in the health of the individual. This should be the almost exclusive aim in those parts of the course dealing with bacteria and disease, and the biology of man, or physiology and eugenics. Biology has many applications in our economic life. It is the very foundation of agriculture. The lumber industry is beginning to find that there are biologic laws. The Government of the United States some time ago established a Bureau of Fisheries for the purpose of studying the biological problems involved in the continuance and furtherance of our extensive fisheries industry. So far as the individual is concerned, biology should train him to observe life phenomena accurately and to form logical conclusions, through the use of problems. This ability is a valuable asset whatever his life work may be. Also, if it is the right kind of a course, and well taught, it will enrich the life of the boy or girl through the aesthetic appeal of plants and animals, and so make possible a sincere appreciation and enjoyment of nature. In addition, the study of biology should make clear to the pupil the important part that the intensive study of the various biological sciences has played in the whole marvelous scientific progress of the past centuries. Along with these values certain relations of biology must be well understood if it is to be well taught. These relations may be conveniently segregated into five groups, 1) relations to world problems, 2) to problems of the state, 3) to the community, 4) to the school curriculum, and 5) to individual pupils. To world problems biology bears many relations, for example, it is fundamental in the analysis of immigration problems, especially those phases concerning health, over-population, and the probable hereditary effects of assimilation through hybridization. State problems of health protection, conservation of game and forests, control of rodents and other crop pests, and others can only be solved after gaining a thorough knowledge of the underlying natural laws, and acting in accordance with them. How inadequate a game conservation law of closed season, without regard to the breeding habits of the animal concerned! Again, State regulations regarding the care of mentally deficient, especially in the prevention of intermarriage, must be given consideration from the biological as well as the ethical point of view. As we consider the smaller group unit so the relations of biology to that group become more special. A biology course may be readily standardized for national problems, but for any given community the course must be somewhat unique. A course planned for a rural population would not be fitted for a school in an overcrowded section of a city. Where there are differences in social and biological problems there also must be fitting adaptive changes in the course in biology. In addition to these community relations, the teacher must keep in mind the relations between the biology course and the other courses in the curriculum of the school. Such a question as this should arise in the mind of the teacher; how may my work be made to correlate with that of Domestic Science? The possibilities are many, there is the field of dietetics, scientific determination of the best methods of sweeping methods by bacterial culture methods, and the role of bacteria, yeasts and molds in the culinary arts constitute a few of them. How about cooperation with the English Department? Certainly every bit of written work, every oral recitation, should measure up to standards of ability in expression as well as to standards of attainment in the mastery of certain scientific information. This cooperation has been carried out to great mutual benefit in some schools. These illustrations are sufficient to illustrate, though the teacher should not overlook any department of the school. Relations to class and to individual will be considered in conjunction with teaching methods. The values and interrelations of biology have been discussed at some length because they must serve as criteria in deciding what constitutes adequate preparation. The comprehensiveness and vital nature of the subject, biology, present at once an inspiration and an element of fear to the conscientious teacher. They cause him to regard in utter amazement, the applicant for a position who in answer to question replies "No, I have never taken any courses in biological Science, but I can easily prepare myself to teach it, if need be." The impossibility of such impromptu development of skill in the teaching of biology will become more apparent as we proceed. Besides a full appreciation of the aims and relations of the subject, the teacher must be able to construct a course especially adapted in content to the peculiar needs of the particular community. This follows from what was said of relations in a previous paragraph. The development of such a course demands sufficient knowledge of economics and sociology to make possible a correct analysis of local conditions and so find what is required. The course to fulfill the requirements will necessarily be to some extent new, and just to such extent may the teacher feel something of the inspiration of the pioneer. Relative values must be established; emphasis must be properly placed--life of distant regions should not be taught except as local material may not be available to illustrate some very essential point, yet too often a carefully pickled grasshopper is transported from Florida to California, there to be dissected by some unfortunate high school lad. Not only must the larger divisions of the course be carefully balanced and tested for value, but each lesson must justify its induction into it. It is at this point that the relation to the individual is the chief criterion. Each lesson of the series that makes up the course must justify its place by having some rather direct bearing upon the life of the individual pupil. The core of the lesson must be either the pupils problem or one in which his interest can be readily stimulated. Herein is the value of the project method of science teaching, the problem is sure to be of interest to the pupil since he himself chooses it. Other questions to which the lesson must give satisfactory answer are; Why this particular lesson, at all? What relation does it bear to the preceding and following lessons? Is it of real value to the pupil in his living? What biological phenomenon does it teach? Is it the best problem to illustrate that particular phenomenon? What generalizations and practical applications can the _pupil_ make? The organization of a course in biology which is fitted to the needs of a certain community, the conditions of a particular class of pupils, and to the needs of the individual pupils so far as possible, requires that the teacher have an extensive knowledge of the subject matter as a background freeing him from the necessity of dependence on a textbook. Anyway, a biology teacher conducting the right sort of a course, will see that the textbook is only an incidental, if used at all. A continuation of set assignments in most textbooks would dampen the ardor of pupils generally. Besides, few localities have textbooks fitted to their specific needs. One that does have is New York City. In fact it has two, "Elementary Biology" by Peabody & Hunt, and "Civic Biology" by Hunter. These both have a large sale throughout the United States, But, of course, in most localities they can be used only to furnish supplementary reading, since _portions_ only will be adapted to the conditions of the restricted locality. The fundamental life processes are the same the world over, but varying environmental conditions necessitates a variation in emphasis, in application, and in the choice of problems which make up the course. If the teacher is well prepared in subject matter, there is little use for a laboratory manual except as it may suggest new methods and new experimental materials. Students of the high school age should never be compelled to follow a set laboratory outline with detailed instructions for procedure; it will kill every whit of initiative. The teacher must be so prepared, then, that he is able to steer a free course, employing books for reference and supplementary reading almost exclusively. He will cause the student to realize that the books are the result of _human_ effort and therefor not infallible, and that they must always take second place to first hand observation and experiment. The study of animate nature, with endless opportunity for observation and experiment on every hand, permits little excuse for such method as is illustrated by "Be prepared to recite on the next three pages in the book, tomorrow, and read experiment 37 so that you wont have to waste any time in getting started with the laboratory work". Somewhere in the course of preparation the teacher must have obtained a thorough knowledge of laboratory apparatus and supplies. The selection of types of apparatus best fitted to the course, and the knowledge of where to buy are both necessary. Also judgement must be exercised in purchase for few are the places where funds are adequate for the ideal equipment of a laboratory. The money value of every piece of apparatus must be balanced against its relative usefulness in the successful culmination of the course. Besides this there must be a knowledge of the various uses to which the available apparatus may be put. A great deal depends on the ingenuity of the teacher in the adaptation of even comparatively simple apparatus. In connection with the laboratory part (and this should be the major part) of the course, there arises the question of field work and excursions. Laboratory is at best merely a substitute for the great out-of-doors, so the more work that can be done in the field the better. Aside from exploration to discover what parts of the particular locality will yield the largest fund of valuable biological information, the problem here is mainly one of method. The teacher to be at his best must be somewhat of a naturalist. Upon his fund of interesting stories about the animals and plants that the children all know, will depend very largely the appeal of the work to the pupil. Something of the spirit that distinguished John Muir as the great naturalist is an inestimable asset to the teacher. If it is not among his natal blessings, he need not be completely discouraged for it can be acquired to some degree at least. Besides the advantage just mentioned, the fauna and flora must be sufficiently well known so that _choice_ is possible for laboratory experiment and illustrative purposes. In order to present any subject well, its historical aspect enters into consideration. The influence of individuals, of governments, of religion, and of the social ideals have all had their share in determining the present status of the subject. Science as it now is, is the result of growth, it has undergone evolution, and is at present evolving. This will be thoroughly understood by the teacher of science, and this understanding will determine in part the method of presentation. In the history of the development of science there are many men well worthy of hero worship. It is hard to find more inspirational characters than those of Pasteur, and Lazear; men who devoted (in latter instance, sacrificed life) their lives to service for humanity. In the life and work of Charles Darwin we find a splendid example of painstaking search for the truth. The records of the rocks, (Paleontology, the nature-written history of biology) will often come to the rescue of the teacher in clearing up the presentation of the difficult problems of evolution. The historic attitude must be "put over" to the pupil too, for _he_ must know his world as the result of the evolutionary process, and as still in the process of evolution. Even at the risk of adverse criticism I desire to include among the qualifications of a good teacher the spirit of research. This spirit can be acquired by specialization in one of the fields of biological science, followed by some actual research work. Research in science is fundamental. It has three aims or ends, 1) discovery of facts thus increasing the sum total of knowledge. This is science for science sake. 2) Individual development. And, 3) Social service. These last two aims are most important to the teacher. So, his problem for investigation should have some practical bearing, and should be of his own choosing, not pointedly suggested by the professor in charge as is too often the case. If the research student is given a problem which is some minor part of a larger problem being investigated by his professor it will preclude the very thing the prospective teacher needs, namely practice in recognizing, analyzing, and solving a problem in its entirety and solely on his own resources. Being a mere helper is probably not the best way to secure such ability. Investigation may be broadening and developing to the individual or it may prove to be quite the reverse, but that lies within the control of the individual. Research for the teacher must emphasize equally actual additions to knowledge and personal attitude. It must not be an end in itself but a means to an end. The attitude of the investigator is essential to the understanding of children for the child is first of all an investigator. His questions, "what? why? how? when?" prove this beyond doubt. What is this but a search for truth, causal factors, and interrelations? Education uses this wholesome curiosity as a foundation principle, so the teacher must exhibit a sympathetic understanding of this universal attribute of children. No better summary of a discussion of the values of research can be found for our purposes than that by G. W. A. Luckey. It follows. "In order that teaching may be intelligent and in harmony with the laws of nature there must be a deeper and clearer knowledge of human growth and development. The teacher must know the nature of the individual to be taught and the ends to be reached in proper nurture. This can not be gained through the study of books alone, but may come through properly directed research in the workshop of life." One of the aims of present day education is "to develop a man, the best man possible under the conditions; to assist nature through nurture; to enable the individual to find himself and to evolve naturally and rapidly to the highest levels and even to rise above them. According to this conception ... the initiative must come from within. The aim of the teacher should be to develop a self-sustaining, self-directing, altruistic individual keenly alive to the interests of humanity. Such an ideal is progressive, scientific, and fits one through studies of yesterday and today to live the best and truest life tomorrow. To see and appreciate this ideal, research is necessary." The last requirement to be considered in this discussion, is a good foundation in Physics and Chemistry. Biological science is not entirely separable from physical science, for a majority of life phenomena, in final analysis can be explained only in terms of physical science. Physiology has for its very foundation Physics and Chemistry. Among the newest of the sciences is Biochemistry, the chemistry of life; and within its limits are some of the most promising fields of research. No argument is necessary, a knowledge of physical science is indispensable in the interpretation of life phenomena, and the understanding of biological processes. PREPARATION in METHODS Method is more closely associated with personality and with native ability than is subject matter. So much more must preparation in this field be general in nature. It must mainly concern the general principles of the scientific method. Specific problems and minor details will have to be worked out in actual practice. The final method found most satisfactory by any teacher, will be to some extent unique, but will be largely determined by three factors; the aptitudes of the teacher, himself, the group that he is teaching, and lastly, the consideration of the individual pupil. Ability to adapt ones procedure so as to most nearly meet these requirements, will come about only through experience. Ability to profit by experience, the human attribute which makes possible the progress of civilization, is a no less valuable asset to a teacher than to any other member of society. Balliet points out that science teaching has passed through three stages in the past generation. The first stage is characterized by the textbook method, occasionally supplemented by illustrative experiment, performed by the teacher. The second stage is characterized by individual laboratory experiment, a manual for a guide, and by a lack of application of the principles except for a few traditional cases. The third stage improves upon the second by leading the pupil, after formulating his generalizations, to apply them to the facts and phenomena of nature. "But", continues Balliet, "we must advance to a fourth stage. We must not only apply the generalizations, but make the _explanation_ of the facts and phenomena of nature--the interpretation of nature--the very goal of science teaching." All problems should be chosen then in the light of this last aim. The problems must be natural, not in any way artificial, and they should be those of the immediate environment of the pupil. To meet these obligations may be in some cases difficult, but it should not be impossible. In biological science there is a rich field permitting a considerable choice in method. There are observations, projects, experiments, excursions, individual reports, book readings, quizzes, and conferences. In a single well chosen problem or project nearly all of these will be employed. Biology lends itself ideally to the problem method of teaching. By using some every day problem of the pupil, his interest is assured. Even a seemingly simple problem if skilfully directed, will ramify into several fields of biology before its solution is completed. And the number of practicable problems is almost limitless, but not all are equally good for the purpose, so the teacher must often tactfully modify the pupils choice. Original choices are likely to be too complex for the pupil to solve at his stage of progress, so must be simplified, without his feeling that he has been interfered with, without causing a wane in his interest. It is clear that the real problem in the problem-method is the teacher's. Practically, it is quite impossible to handle _individual_ projects in large classes. In the writer's experience, he has had on the average 80 different pupils per day in four separate classes. It is clearly beyond the power of any teacher to direct simultaneously eighty different projects, and it would be a physical impossibility to furnish the necessary laboratory apparatus. So, for this reason the teacher may find it necessary to divide, as diplomatically as possible, the classes into congenial groups, each with its problem, so that the total number of problems will be so limited that each one may be given adequate attention. It seems that such must be the limitation of the problem-method under the conditions prevailing in the public schools today. The procedure in solving a problem will consist of these steps in the order named, 1) understanding of the purpose, 2) the procedure or method of attack, 3) observation of results, 4) and the use of these in making some generalizations or arriving at some conclusions. Then there must follow a testing of these generalizations or conclusions by further experimentation. Accuracy must be the keynote of all work, accuracy in recording experiments, accuracy in observation, accuracy in drawing, which serves as a shortcut method of description. Neatness is very desireable but should never supercede thinking and understanding. If the problem has stimulated some accurate logical thinking on the part of the pupil, then time spent on it has been well spent. If, besides, it has yielded some valuable useable information, the solving of the problem has been a marked success. The laboratory method has been such an emancipation from the textbook slavery that there is some tendency to elevate it to an end in itself, whereas it must serve only as a very valuable _means_ to an end. "The ideal laboratory is only a reasonably good substitute for the out-of-doors." So far as preparation in the methods of science teaching is concerned, much good may be accomplished in teachers courses and in practice teaching. But it must necessarily be of a general nature, for the unique individual method, determined by the interaction of teacher and pupil and the reaction of both to subject matter can evolve only hand in hand with teaching experience. Before proceeding further it might be well, by way of summary, to remind ourselves that the minimum qualifications for a teacher of biology must include the following; a) a large fund of the most interesting and most valuable facts of biology, b) a full realization of the values and vital relations of biology to humanity, c) ability to develop a course meeting the unique needs of the community, d) familiarity with purchase and useability of laboratory equipment, e) knowledge of the history of science, f) spirit of and sympathy with research, g) a knowledge of physical science as related to biology, h) and knowledge of the laboratory method and its value in the promotion of accurate logical constructive thinking. OPPORTUNITY FOR ADEQUATE PREPARATION. What possibilities of making adequate preparation, are to be found in colleges and universities? And how much preparation is required by the Teacher's Recommendation or other standards of fitness? In search of the answers to our questions, we may study conditions at the University of California, for there is as good opportunity and standards are as high in this school as anywhere in the country. The quantity of preparation is fairly assured by the five-year requirement for the Teacher's Recommendation, but the quality of the preparation is not so certainly assured. With the possible exception of the Education Department, no department considers the training of teachers even nearly equal in importance to the production of specialists in the subject who shall devote their lives to research. The subject is regarded as an end in itself. If a person were directed to make preparation for the teaching of biology, he would be at a loss in searching for the Biology Department, or even a department that gave a good comprehensive course in biology. The subject as best taught in the secondary schools is subdivided into various components, each with its special aim. The prospective teacher has no carefully prepared course of study for his pursuit, as has the prospective doctor, engineer, or farmer. The state provides a specially adapted course of training for its veterinarians, those who care for its livestock. Why not a special course of high standard for those who plan to devote their lives to the direction of the formative years of its children? It is probably explained in large part by the failure to recognize teaching as a profession. The Schools of Education throughout the country have been insisting upon real professional training for teachers but other departments are deplorably slow in cooperating. In order to avoid becoming entangled in abstractions, we may choose a specific instance to show the difficulties in the way of securing the correct _kind_ of preparation, even though the quantity is guaranteed. The Zoology Department (I choose this department neither because it is worse nor better than any other, but because I am better acquainted with the content of its courses) makes the following requirements for the Teacher's Recommendation: General Zoology Invertebrate Zoology -- an advanced course which omits all consideration of insects, and all discussion of parasitic forms. Vertebrate Zoology -- mainly a course in comparative morphology, which gives no field knowledge of California vertebrates, the most essential thing for the high school teacher. and one subject from each of the following groups, Group I Comparative Anatomy. Cytology -- basic principles must be understood by the teacher but he should not have to spend one whole half year to acquire them. Embryology -- the above is also true for this course. Group II. Biology of Water Supplies -- this course is primarily for sanitary engineers. Protozoology -- All that is necessary of this could be incorporated in a general course. Parasitology -- essential for health instruction and for illustration of certain biological principles. Group III. Experimental Zoology } combination of these valuable. Animal Behavior } Heredity, Evolution, and Eugenics -- this course is very essential for _any_ teacher. (Required in the fifth year, the Teachers' Course, some work in research, and practice teaching.) Taken as a whole, the chief criticism to be made is that the subject has been so subdivided to insure no overlapping of courses, that it becomes necessary to take every course in order to obtain a well rounded preparation in the field. This requires more time than any individual can devote to it, for he must also have preparation in Botany, Physiology, and Bacteriology and Hygiene, and in these departments the arrangement of courses is essentially the same. The general course in Zoology is inadequate, for it is planned for an introduction to the more advanced courses and is careful not to steal too much from their fund of interesting information. The aim is to lay a thorough foundation rather than to discuss the more interesting facts and general principles of biology, though I am glad to believe that the present trend is decidedly in this latter direction. Here we find adequate preparation for a teacher of _Zoology_, but in no secondary school of the state will a teacher be employed for Zoology alone. In high schools the biological science curriculum the first course must be _Biology_, and it must be all-inclusive, for it is all of the biological science that the majority of the pupils will take. It would be a great step in advance if every school _required_ even that much for graduation. Of the courses in Invertebrate Zoology and Vertebrate Zoology, it can be safely said that they overlook the importance of field work. Boys and girls sometimes have a surprisingly large superficial knowledge of the plants and animals of their vicinity, and this knowledge is of the sort obtained through observation of their ways in nature, that is, it is a _field_ knowledge. The teacher must be prepared to use this to the greatest possible extent, but how can this be expected if the teacher knows little if any more than the children about the habits of plants and animals. Such training would have to be obtained through some of the field work of the Museum of Vertebrate zoology. But no work in that department is required for the Teachers Recommendation. A knowledge, though not an intensive knowledge, of each of the subjects that make up the three groups included in the requirements is quite necessary but it is out of the question for a person to take them all unless he specialize in Zoology. Not all can be expected to major in Zoology, and those that do will find it necessary to omit much that is essential in the other departments of biological science. Each department should have a general course covering fully its field of work so that those majoring in some other department may in minimum time gain a fair knowledge of its field. It is very doubtful if such a course is given in any department at present. At present only a meagre view is had of the history of Biology, until the fifth year when it is given as seminar work. And at no time, in any course, are the aims and relations of biology presented in such a way as to be helpful to one attempting to plan the most valuable type of high school course. Graduate research has been sufficiently considered previously, and the teachers' course will be considered last. It will be conceded generally in thinking of the solution of the problem that the ideal arrangement would be a real teachers' course, at least five years in length. This could be comparatively easily accomplished by a slight modification of the departments concerned and their hearty cooperation with the Department of Education. The disregard for method on the part of the former and the failure to realize the importance of a thorough knowledge of subject matter by the latter, can are obstacles that can be easily overcome I am sure. The student would enter upon this course with the intention of becoming a teacher, just as does any student enter upon his professional course with the intention of becoming the professional man for which his training is preparing him. Few freshmen now come to the University of California with the intention of becoming teachers in the secondary schools, that I admit, but the reasons and the remedy for that are not for discussion here. Suffice it to say that when reward is adequate, then the profession will grow and come to be made up of the highest type of men and women. The time of the Teachers Course is not far distant and it might be worth while to see what could be done without radical modifications in the curricula of the departments as they now are. For a working basis I would like to present the following skeleton programme, which seems practicable. In this schedule all preparation except that in subject matter and method is understood to be included in "electives". A major in Zoology is assumed. Each biological science department would have a course of similar plan built about its major as a core. First year, Geography or Geology Aims of science and its human values. Chemistry Electives Second year, Zoology, Physics, Electives Third year, Zoology--advanced courses Botany, Physiology Electives Fourth year, Zoology--advanced courses Bacteriology, and Public Health Electives Fifth year, Zoology--research History of Science Teachers' Course, correlated with and supplementary to practice teaching. Electives The reasons for selection and sequence of subjects in this schedule are fairly evident from what has gone before, but a few points will bear additional explanation. A course in the aims and values of science should be introductory, for in the absence of general knowledge concerning values, such as has grown up with other professions, the student must be given early in his work an enthusiasm for it and a sort of guide for future choice of subjects for study. The difference in aim between university and secondary school science must be clearly understood at the start. Too often, university courses accept science as an end in itself and it is taught from that point of view, whereas the prospective teacher must hold to his point of view, that to humanity generally science is only a very effective means to an end; it is just a faithful servant. The schedule just submitted may seem to be overbalanced with science courses, but it must be somewhat so, especially if courses are not to be completely reorganized. Science would not need to consume quite so large a part of the time if special courses were given for teachers--another argument for a high grade, strictly professional course. Duplication of teachers' courses in special methods would be eliminated for a single course for all of the departments of biological science would be sufficient. Biology is the hub, and not the separate biological sciences, in the courses in this field in the secondary schools. The methods concerned are _biological methods_, and therefore a single course for all prospective teachers of biological science regardless of the nature of their major work, is a logical procedure. Whether such a course is a success or a failure is largely dependent on the professor in charge. In the past there have been many failures, mainly because the person conducting it has never had secondary school experience, knows little or nothing of the problems, and has no sincere enthusiasm for the teaching of science to boys and girls below the university age. The course suggested would cover an entire year. At least that much time is required to give any direction or instruction that is worth while. The first half of the year might well be devoted to a digestion and correlation of all previous work, organizing it into a form easily useable in the work to follow. Questions of method, recitation, laboratory and field work, textbooks and reference books purchase and use of equipment, must be given consideration in some part of the course. An outline course, with the separate lessons that make it up should be worked out in detail, for some particular locality, preferably the one where practice teaching is to be done. This should then be carefully tested by the criteria of a good biology course, as pointed out by the best authorities, and by _common sense_. But why make this skeleton outline beforehand? Why be prepared in anything? It will be too late to prepare at the moment the problem has to be met. Few new teachers will find a well planned course awaiting their arrival in a new field, and without previous experience a new teacher is likely to build up a course without due respect to relative values which comes only with a perspective of a course in its entirety. To illustrate, in the course given by an inexperienced teacher there is too much chance of six weeks time being spent on the study of the grasshopper, with only four weeks left at the end of the school year to be devoted to the biology of the human. The mapping of a course, by way of practice, gives the prospective teacher practice in the exercise of judgment, with helpful constructive criticism. Practice teaching now becomes only the trying out of the course and accompanying methods. As, one practice teacher remarked when this plan was suggested "But, I might have to make my course all over." Such would often be the case. Any wide-awake teacher will change his course more or less from year to year. Even if the first plan were entirely discarded the energy and thought prompted by its making would not be lost. And now let us change the name given to those in charge of practice teachers. Advisor would be more fitting than _super_visor, for they should remain in the background except for rendering helpful service, and making constructive criticism in excess of destructive. In order for practice teaching to be effective there must be nothing of an artificial sort enter in. Conditions must be of the regular sort met every day in the teaching game. This statement seems superfluous, but a visit to some of the classes where practice teaching is being done will justify its insertion here. The practice teacher should not be handed over a laboratory properly equipped. Of course, the equipment should be available. The course should not be "ready-cut". The practice teacher must meet _all_ of the problems and this is cheating him out of a part of his fun. Through his solution of these problems there will be a two-fold benefit, for the _advisor_ too may profit by the ingenuity of the newcomer. Resignation should be requested of any advisor who has outgrown the ability to learn. It is most likely to be the "green" person, who will develop really new methods, or evolve a more fitting experiment, or turn a bit of apparatus to a new use. Above all, the practice teacher should be required to scout for living material--there will usually be an abundance all about him, and much that is of interest should find its way into the laboratory. Training in the use of living material can not be over emphasized. The course which I have outlined in the previous pages, is not satisfactory, but I firmly believe that it would be an improvement over the present situation. When tried out it would show many shortcomings, but by trial and improvement has our entire educational system evolved. Even an ideal professional course in use today would be obsolete tomorrow. It would be unfortunate were it not so, for growth involves ecdysis, and growth is the law of nature. Literature from which helpful suggestions were received during the course of this work. Bagley, W. C. The training of teachers as a phase of democracy's educational programme. Ed. Adm. & Supervsn. vol.4 no.1, Jan.'18. Balliet, T. M. and Robinson, C. H. Training of Science Teachers. N. E. A. Report, vol.54, 1916, pp.734-7. Bessey, C. E. Preparation of botanical teachers. Science, N.S., vol.33, pp.633-9, 1911. Boas, F. S. Teachers and research. Contemp., vol.116, pp.426-431. 1919. Boggs, L. P. Making Teachers. School & Soc., vol.7, pp.369-74. Caldwell, W. O. Preparation of the teacher of biology. School Sci. & Math., vol.16, pp.385-92. Coulter, J. G. The training of elementary science teachers. School Rev., vol.24, pp.26-30. Curtis, C.B. Secondary school science. Ed. Adm. & Supervsn., vol.3, Nov.1917. Dewey, J. D. Democracy and Education. Kent R. A. University preparation of teachers for high schools. School Rev., vol.27, pp.172-85. Lange, A. F. Preparation of high school teachers from the standpoint of the university. U. C. A. Report, 1907, pp.718-23. Lloyd, F. E. and Bigelow, M. A. The teaching of biology. 1909. Longmans, Green & Co. Luckey, G. W. A. Essentials in the training of a teacher. School and Society, vol.1, pp.263-9. McElroy, R. M. Teaching teachers. Ind., vol.93, pp.525-. Pillsbury, W. H. Buffalo plan of teacher training. Elem. Sch. Jr. vol.21, pp.595-606. Swift, F. H. College courses in methods of teaching high school subjects. Sch. & Soc., vol.6, pp.691-9. Taylor, W. S. Project methods in teacher-training courses. Sch. & Soc., vol.8, pp.487-90. Wieman, H. L. Teaching the scientific method vs. teaching the facts of science. Sch. & Soc., vol.3, pp.243-5. Williams, J.T. Teacher training in colleges. Sch. & Soc., vol.9, pp.105-9. Winship, A. E. Prepare rather than train for teaching. N. E. A. Report, 1918, pp.222-6. ---- Research vs. teaching. Sch. & Soc., vol.11, pp. 684-5. ---- Research as a means of teacher training. Sch. & Soc., vol.3, pp.243-5. ---- Reorganization of science in secondary schools. U. S. Dep't. Interior, Bureau Ed., Bull.26, 1920. ---- Cardinal principles of secondary education. U. S. Dep't. Interior, Bureau Ed., Bull.35, 1918. Twiss, G.R.--Principles of Science Teaching. Macmillan. 1917. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES 1. Passages in underlines are surrounded by _underscores_. 2. Tables have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the closest paragraph break. 3. The original pages included corrections made by hand which have been retained in this e-text. 4. The following misprints have been corrected: "intellegently" corrected to "intelligently" (page 5) "basterial" corrected to "bacterial" (page 9) "would would" corrected to "would" (page 11) "natuer" corrected to "nature" (page 15) "Abilty" corrected to "Ability" (page 17) "Baillet" corrected to "Balliet" (page 17) "taht" corrected to "that" (page 22) "modificacations" corrected to "modifications" (page 24) "succes" corrected to "success" (page 26) "in" corrected to "In" at start of sentence (page 26) "fialures" corrected to "failures" (page 26) "toworrow" corrected to "tomorrow" (page 28) "Teahcing" corrected to "Teaching" (page 30) 5. Some of the punctuation errors, e.g., comma instead of period, extra period, etc. in the original have been silently corrected while those requiring interpretation have been left as such. 6. The titles listed in the table of contents do not match with the headings in the original text. However, no changes have been made in this e-text for these mismatches. 7. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling and punctuation have been retained. 
32581	----	http://www.archive.org/details/littlealiensmyra00kellrich Transcriber's note: Minor changes have been made to punctuation. Printer's errors have been corrected and are listed at the end. LITTLE ALIENS by MYRA KELLY Author of "Little Citizens," "Wards of Liberty," "The Golden Season," Etc., Etc. Illustrated [Illustration: Together they retrieved it] New York Charles Scribner's Sons 1910 Copyright, 1910, by Charles Scribner's Sons Published April, 1910 [Decoration] To D. M. R. CONTENTS PAGE "EVERY GOOSE A SWAN" 1 "GAMES IN GARDENS" 25 "A BRAND FROM THE BURNING" 63 FRIENDS 107 THE MAGIC CAPE 143 "BAILEY'S BABIES" 163 "THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES" 195 THE ETIQUETTE OF YETTA 227 A BENT TWIG 261 ILLUSTRATIONS Together they retrieved it _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE "I guess games in gardens ain't so awful healthy for somebody," said Yetta 32 "I never in my world seen how they all makes" 60 "I must refuse to translate it to you" 70 She staggered back into a chair, fortunately of heavy architecture, and stared at the apparition before her 140 Patrick was making discipline impossible 178 "What you think we got to our house?" 198 Rosie threw herself into a very ecstasy of her art 246 "EVERY GOOSE A SWAN" An ideal is like a golden pheasant. As soon as the hunter comes up with one he kills it in more or less bloody fashion, tears its feathers off, absorbs what he can of it, and then sets out, refreshed, in pursuit of another. Or if, being a tender-hearted hunter, he tries to keep it in a cage to tame it, to teach it, to show it to his friends, it very soon loses its original character so that beholders disparagingly exclaim: "Why, it's only a little brown hen! Hardly worth the trouble of hunting." But among the pheasant and the trout of the ideal hunting-fields the true relation between home and school flits ever along the horizon, a very sea-serpent. Every one has heard of it. Some have pursued it. Some even vow they have seen it. Almost any one is ready to describe it. Expeditions have gone forth in search of it, and have come back empty-handed or with the haziest of kodak films. And the most conservative of insurance companies would consider it a safe "risk." In every-day and ordinary conditions this relation between home and school is really a question of mother and teacher, with the child as its stamping-ground. Two very busy women, indifferent, hostile, or strangers to each other, are engaged in the formulated and unformulated education of the child. To the mother this child is her own particular Mary or Peter. To the teacher it is the whole generation, of which Peter and Mary are such tiny parts. The ideal teacher is as wise as Solomon, as impartial as the telephone directory, as untiring as a steam-engine, as tender as a sore throat, as patient as a glacier, as immovable as truth, as alert as a mongoose, and as rare as a hen's tooth. But her most important qualification is the power to combine her point of view with the parental one, and to recognize and provide for the varieties of character, temperament, mentality, and physical well-being of the children intrusted to her care. The average teacher--nearly as elusive as the ideal--is, to a surprising and ever-increasing extent, learning to do this. It is, in fact, a very large part of the law and the prophets in modern pedagogy. The teacher is expected to know, and she generally does know, what, in hospital parlance, is called the "history" of her pupils, and the newer schools are equipped with apparatus for making thorough physical examinations upon which the pupil's curriculum will largely depend. As rare perhaps as the dodo-bird is the mother who takes an intelligent and helpful interest in the school life of her offspring. She generally regards the school as a safe house of detention, a sort of day nursery of larger growth. Mrs. O'Rourke will send Tim and Pat and Biddy and Jimmy and Mike and Delia, so that she may have leisure to take care of the twins and the baby, and to do the washing; while Mrs. Fitz-Jones will send Robert Albert Walter Fitz-John Fitz-Jones, so that she may be--to quote Browning, and since he's dead whatever he wrote must be considered proper--"safe in her corset lacing," ere she sallies out to bridge. Occasionally the two powers for good and evil in the child's world meet. A large mother will drag a reluctant boy to school, and loudly bewail herself for that she can do nothing with him. He has been dismissed as unteachable by another teacher. "He ain't, so to speak, bad, miss. He's just naturally ugly an' stoopid. Look at him now," and she directs the general attention to the writhings of her victim. "Would you think I just washed and combed him an' came around--leavin' my housework, too--to ask you to try him? He don't appreciate nothin' I do for him. Just naturally ugly and stoopid." It may take a week to undo the effects of this introduction and to gain the little chap's confidence. Then the teacher wheedles him through the physical examination and seeks further speech with the mother. "Your little boy--" she will begin. "He's been botherin' you, too, most likely. Him and me will have a settlin' this afternoon----" "No, not that, please. I hardly know how to tell you. I'm afraid you have--we all have--been misjudging him. But have you ever had his eyes examined?" "What fur?" "His sight. He is--I hope you will be strong and brave about it--very nearly blind in his left eye, and the right is affected, too." It has, on several occasions, been my unhappy duty to make some such announcement, and never has it been received twice in the same way. Some ladies entirely disbelieve, and set it down to the natural officiousness of teachers--"buttin' in where they ain't got no call." Others will fall away into hysterics. Yet others will remark that their own eyes were unsatisfactory in earlier stages: "It's just growin', I guess. I outgrew the trouble before I was twelve." One mother accepted the facts frankly, took the child to an oculist, bought the glasses he prescribed, and applied the drops he recommended, until she inadvertently used the dropper to fill her fountain-pen. Soon the boy lost his glasses, and the incident was closed. Ears and teeth, tonsils and adenoids, frequently furnish stumbling-blocks to education, but the teacher who reports them to the home authorities does so at the risk of wasting her time, or of being accused of causing or inventing the conditions. Recently the boards of education in the larger cities have been legislating for appropriations to be applied to free glasses, free dentistry, free professional services of all kinds to the children of the public schools. And the gratitude of the parents--whose duties are being attended to--takes fearful and wonderful forms. Philosophers, in their slow and doddering way, may question the exact part played by heredity in the formation of human character. Not so the mother. She has reduced the problem to a formula. All that is bad, hateful, and spiteful in the child is the direct contribution of his father or his father's house. All that is appealing, lovable, interesting, and most especially all that is "cute," is directly inherited from the female side. The only exception to this rule is the half-orphan. In his case one or two good qualities may be inherited from the deceased parent. Once I taught a Gwendolin. She was a peculiarly abominable individual, as, poets to the contrary notwithstanding, a child may sometimes be. The class was large, the school was a public one, and the curriculum prescribed from on high. There was no time for private instructions, and Gwendolin lagged far in the rear. She was late by habit; lazy by nature; and tearful by policy and experience. I spent hours which should have been devoted to the common good in setting down Gwendolin's tardiness, listening to her excuses, and drying her tears. Finally I sent for the mother, and a large, blonde, lackadaisical person responded to my call. She came, contrary to regulations, during class hours, and Gwendolin promptly began to howl at sight of her. It is, by the way, noted by most teachers and explained by few parents, that the sight of a face from home will generally produce hysterics. Well, I allowed Mrs. Marks to undo the effect of her appearance, and with Gwendolin almost buried in the exuberances of the maternal costume and figure, she proceeded to explain that dear Gwendolin was always deliberate. It was her nature. We all, she hoped, were entitled to our natures. Gwendolin's dear father was always late for breakfast, and they never did, by any chance, see the first act of a play. She thought she would step around and explain this to me, knowing that I would make allowances for the sweet child. "For I always tell her," she beamed on me, "that her dear teacher would rather have her late every day in the year than ruin her stomach by eating too quickly." And as to her crying, well, Mrs. Marks opined, it was a very strong commentary on the manners and natures of the other children in the class. Of course Gwendolin cried. Her mother cried. On the slightest provocation. Never could help it. Never hoped to be able to help it. Why, it was only that morning that Mr. Marks had remarked that any one who cried over the newspaper should wait until after breakfast to read it. I controlled my true feelings sufficiently to ask her what effect an epidemic of Gwendolin's little characteristics would have upon my class. I urged her imagination to picture fifty children late every morning because their fifty fathers always missed the first act of a play, and fifty voices always raised in howls because fifty mothers wept upon one hundred poached eggs on toast. "Oh, but dear me," purred Mrs. Marks, as she heaved herself to the perpendicular, shedding Gwendolin, a pocket-book, a handkerchief, and a fan--"oh, but dear me, my sweet Gwendolin is such an exceptional child." There is another class of parent from whom teachers suffer much. It generally has but one child, and that child is generally a pitiful, conscientious, earnest little creature in sombre hair ribbons and "Comfort" shoes. Very frequently this parent has been, in some prehistoric age, a teacher of mathematics in a high-school. Now, a spiritualistic seance at which Messrs. Froebel, Pestalozzi, Herbart, Locke, and Spencer should appear and explain their theories of education, and at which Professor James should come from Harvard to preside, while Professor John Dewey looked in to make a few remarks, would never persuade that parent that her child's progress was not to be gauged by an ability to spell obsolete words, and to worry her way through complicated problems in long division. "Why, she's been to school every day for seven months; rain, nor snow, nor sleet has daunted her. She has an umbrella, a mackintosh, and a pair of rubbers. And yet with all these aids to education she cannot spell 'parallel.'" If you are rash you will inform her that the rubbers, the mackintosh, and the umbrella may travel to school for yet another seven months, and the child may still remain unable to spell "parallel." If you are patient and "so disposed," you would deliver a little lecture on the new methods of teaching reading, in which first a whole sentence is used as a unit; later a phrase; later still a word; and last of all a letter; but do not hope for a favorable reception of this theory. The ex-teacher of high-school mathematics, who, in her own far-distant youth, excelled at spelling-bees, could name the capital of every State in the Union and every country in the world; who could recite the names and dates of the Presidents, "The Village Blacksmith," "The Old Oaken Bucket," "The Psalm of Life," and the Declaration of Independence, is not prepared to accept a method of teaching based upon the interests and the reason of the child, and never upon its mechanical memory. "Things," she will tell you, "are changed since my day," and she allows you very thoroughly to understand that they are changed most mournfully for the worse. Changed they emphatically are, whether for worse or better. Almost every scientific, medical, and sociological discovery of the century has influenced the school. The single theory of the microbe as the cause of disease has well-nigh revolutionized it. It does not require a very long memory to reach back to the days of slates and slate rags, with their attendant horrors of sliminess and sucked pencils. In those dark ages, too, a school-book was used by successive generations of children for as long as its print was legible to the keenest eye. Lead-pencils were collected at the end of the day and dealt out again promiscuously, and, marvellous to reflect upon, several children survived their schooling. In these days the well-equipped and well-managed school-room is as sanitary as a hospital ward; sterilizing and fumigating are part of the regular work, and every book and pencil undergoes such treatment before being transferred from one child to another. The number of cubic feet of air, per child, per hour, is calculated and provided for. The designing of seats for school children is a matter which occupies the attention of men whose reputation is international, and whole schools of philosophy busy themselves to determine the sequence in which the different formal studies shall be presented. In these halcyon days when Botany doffs her cap and gown and associates with ordinary mortals in the friendly guise of "How to Know the Wild Flowers," "Nature's Garden," and other enticing disguises; when ornithology takes such friendly shapes as "A Kentucky Cardinal" and "Bird Life"; when physiology becomes "How to Grow Young" and "What Ails the Baby"; when even political economy reaches the ordinary plane at the hands of Messrs. Lincoln Steffens, Ray Stannard Baker, and Charles Edward Russell--we soon expect psychology to burst its academic bonds. It has already made one or two tentative appearances, and it was moderately well received; but some day, and soon, a prophet will arise to preach it with a yet more popular voice. Then shall mother and teacher sweetly lisp of the "fringe of apperception," "the stream of consciousness," "inhibition," "ideal motor action," and "the tabula raza." Psychology has, I am aware, an unappealing sound. But let no one imagine that it is not or, rather, cannot be made interesting. We cannot always catch a bird, find a flower, or unearth a social evil; but every one, under all conditions and at all times, has a psychology in full working order concealed about him, and the art of teaching in its last analysis is applied psychology. How many mothers have heard of the theory, formulated and vouched for by most distinguished scientists, that the individual during the normal progress of his existence passes through the whole history of the development of his race? That he has, in turn, the instincts and the wants which animated all his ancestors, from the age of chaos to the day of the flying-machine? Upon this theory the whole scheme of education is based. Its essential principle is that if you can catch the child at the stone-age point of its development, you can then most readily teach him the rather restricted sum of knowledge by which the stone man steered his daily course. The difficulty lies in catching what is then most literally "the psychologic moment," at which a raw root dug up with a stone hammer will strike the young learner as a square meal. Any interested outsider will testify that the new baby confirms this theory. It is an absolute savage. No head-hunter of Borneo could be more destitute of the "self-knowledge, self-reverence, self-control" which characterize the civilized man. Observe the small boy taking care of his small sister, and you will see the spirit of the Inquisition reproduced in all its ingenuity for torture. Note the length of time which a boy will spend in a green-shaded swimming-hole on a summer day, and you will see him dating back to his jelly-fish ancestors. A little girl will lavish all the passion and absorption of motherhood upon a bath towel and a croquet-ball. Hundreds of Davids have gone forth against their Goliaths. Thousands of knights in short stockings have kept the law of the Table Round. The most pampered of lads and lassies, left to their own devices, will revert to the cuisine of the cave man and sustain themselves upon mud pies. Whole volumes, learned, authoritative, but so far ponderous, have been devoted to determining the age at which the different impulses which prompt or qualify human action are added unto the individual. Reason, honor, self-control, knowledge, religion, the sense of right and wrong and of responsibility, hate, envy, love, joy--all the forces developed in the race through immemorial ages--are born and reach maturity in the individual during the little span of one short life. Whether this theory be right or wrong, no one can question that it is interesting and suggestive. It is but one of dozens with which the teacher is supposed to be at least on speaking terms. There is another large field of experiment and accomplishment in what is known as the manual-training movement, the marvellous and so long unrecognized connection between the development of the hand and the development of the mind and morals. Any one craving greater marvels than are furnished in modern romance can find them in the reports of reformatories, prisons, lunatic asylums, or schools for the defective, in which manual training has been introduced. The whole trend of education changed when the "three R's" ceased to be its war-cry, and it behooves the modern mother to realize this change and to adapt herself to it. For the school and the home are but two agencies in the training of the child, two powers which should work together for good; and the ideal relation between the two is that they should be as one. It was a very great Teacher who taught that "no man can serve two masters." Then let the mother conform her rule and her judgments to the laws of the sister kingdom. Let her hold, for instance, that the principle of self-activity is stronger than blind obedience ever was; that emulation as a spur to effort is the abomination of desolation; that a sound mind in a sound body is more to be valued than riches; that a keen eye for color and form, a steady hand to guide a pencil or a tool, a mind alert, eager, and reasonable, a heart which feels its brotherhood with all living, growing things, a free, frank speech, a generous nature, and an honest tongue, are in themselves a Declaration of Independence and a Psalm of Life. "GAMES IN GARDENS" Isaac Borrachsohn, Room 18's only example of the gilded youth, could never be described as a brilliant scholar, but on a morning in early April Miss Bailey found him more trying even than was his wont. He was plainly the centre of some sub-evident interest. First Readers nudged one another and whispered together, casting awed or envious looks upon him, and when the hour for recess came he formed the centre of an excited and gesticulating crowd. But Isaac Borrachsohn had never quite outgrown his distrust for his Krisht teacher. It was fostered by all his womankind at home, and was insisted upon almost as an article of faith by his grandfather the Rabbi. It was not to him, therefore, that Miss Bailey looked for an explanation of the general excitement, though she knew that before the day should pass she would hear several accounts of it. It was after three o'clock; the prescribed school work was over and friendly converse was the order of the hour. The Board of Monitors, closing the door carefully upon the last unofficial First Reader, gathered solemnly round Teacher and proceeded to relate Isaac Borrachsohn's saga of his latest adventure. "He says like that," said Eva Gonorowsky, Monitor of Pencil Points, in awed and envious tones. "He says he goes by his papa's side in a carriage on Games in Gardens." "I guess maybe he lies," Nathan Spiderwitz, Monitor of Window Boxes, suggested with some disparagement. "I was to Gardens--Summer Gardens--mit my papa und no games stands in 'em. Stands bottles from beer und pretzels on'y. I ain't seen nothings like how Ikey says." "And what does Ikey say?" asked Miss Bailey. "Well," began Morris Mowgelewsky, Monitor of the Gold Fish Bowl, "Ikey says Gardens is a house mit thousens und thousens from mans und ladies. Und they all sets by side theirselves, und they yells somethin' fierce. Und in Gardens there ain't no upstairs, on'y thousens und thousens from lights. Ikey says on the Bowery even he ain't never seen how there is lights in Gardens." "Yes, dear, Ikey was quite right," said Miss Bailey, beginning to discern the outline of Madison Square Garden with inter-scholastic athletic games in progress. "The mans and ladies" were, of course, the proud parents, sweethearts, relations, and various colleagues, and the "yells" were their unconfined joy and triumph. "And flags," supplemented Patrick Brennan, Monitor of Blackboards and Leader of the Line. "I says to that show-off, Ikey Borrachsohn, 'Is there any flowers in that garden?' And he says he didn't see none 'cept what the ladies had on 'em. And all the rest was flags. Flags hangin' down out of the sky. Flags up in the lights, and everybody wavin' flags. Gee! It was pretty if it's true." "It's quite true, dear," Miss Bailey assured him. "I was there one night last week, and it was just as Isaac says." "You dun'no all what Ikey says," Morris intervened. "He says a man comes mit a great big hammer--a awful big hammer mit a long handle. Und he takes that hammer--Missis Bailey this is how Ikey says--und he makes it shall go round und round by his head. Und then he takes und he throws it where some mans stands, und Ikey says he had mad looks, he was red on the face even, over somethings." "If any one got fresh with hammers on my pop's beat," Patrick Brennan interrupted, "they'd get pinched so quick they wouldn't know what struck 'em, and Ikey says they was lots of police officers standin' around doin' nothin'. Ain't he the liar!" "Not this time," said Miss Bailey; "he was telling you the truth." Then Nathan Spiderwitz took up the tale. "Und sooner that man makes, like Morris says, mit hammers, comes more mans mit more hammers, und they throws 'em. Und comes more mans mit from iron balls so big like Ikey's head, und they throws 'em, und the ladies und the mans they stands und yells, und music plays, und the ladies make go their flags und scups up und down on their seats. Und the mans mit those balls und hammers they has awful mads. They is red on the face, und they tries und they tries--Missis Bailey, Ikey says it's somethin' fierce how they tries--und they couldn't never to hit nobody." "They weren't trying to," Miss Bailey tried to explain, but Isaac's picturesque recital was not lightly to be effaced. [Illustration: "I guess games in gardens ain't so awful healthy for somebody," said Yetta] "I guess games in gardens ain't so awful healthy for somebody," was Yetta Aaronsohn's pronouncement. "My mamma says you could to make yourself a sickness sooner you runs awful hard, on'y Ikey, he says a whole bunch from mans und boys they chases theirselves like an'thing. They runs und they runs, und all the times the mans und the ladies scups und yells und makes go their flags. Ikey says it looks like a awful fight is comin', on'y these boys und mans they couldn't never run to catch theirselves, und so there ain't no fight. Ikey had a awful sad over it." It was evident all through this recital that Eva Gonorowsky had a communication of a more important and confidential nature upon her conscientious little mind. When at last the other Monitors had scattered to their duties, and Room 18 was in a satisfactory stage midway 'twixt chaos and order, Eva drew Miss Bailey into the corner between the window and the bookcase. "Nobody ain't told you _all_ what Ikey says," she whispered, with much the same gusto as she had seen her elders display as they gathered close about the very heart of a scandal. "Everybody has fraids over telling you." "Afraid!" repeated Miss Bailey in surprise, well knowing this to be the last feeling she inspired. "Afraid to tell me!" "Teacher, yiss, ma'am. They has fraids. It's somethin' fierce what Ikey says. He says like that: all those mans what couldn't to catch nothings und couldn't to hit nothings. He says somethin' fierce over all those mans." And here Eva pressed her professionally soiled hand over her mouth and regarded Miss Bailey with scandalized eyes. "Go on, dear," said Miss Bailey encouragingly. "If Isaac has told you and Morris and the others I might as well know it too." Eva removed her hand. "Ikey Borrachsohn, he dun'no what is polite for him," she made reply. "He tells it on everybody--in the yard even, where the babies is--he tells it out. He needs he shall get hit off of somebody." "Now you tell me," said Miss Bailey, "and I'll see about Isaac." "He says," whispered Eva, "how all those mans they don't puts them on _like_ mans mit suits und hats und pants und coats--no, ma'am, that ain't how they makes--they puts them on like ladies und like little girls. On'y," and Miss Bailey had to stoop to catch this last overwhelming sentence--"on'y they don't puts them on so much." "Why of course not, Eva," answered Miss Bailey, repressing with stern effort an inclination to wild laughter. This repression she knew to be the corner-stone of the First Reader's faith in her. She never, openly, laughed at their little confidences. She was a serious-minded person, always ready to discuss a serious problem seriously. Quite gravely now she pointed out to Eva the difficulty of violent exertion in street attire. "You yourself," she amplified, "take off your coat and hat when you come to school, and yet you only read and write a little, and do quiet things like that. Now these men and boys, dear, that Isaac Borrachsohn has been telling about were running and exercising just as hard as they could; you know how hot we sometimes get here when we only stand in our places and exercise our arms and legs." Eva was impressed, but not yet quite convinced. "It ain't," she insisted, a gentle last word, unanswerable, overwhelming, "it ain't hats und coats what Ikey Borrachsohn says them mens in Gardens takes off." * * * * * Misunderstandings of this sort are a natural part of the order of the day in class rooms such as Room 18, where children, alien to every American custom, and prejudiced by religion and precept against most of them, are undergoing their training in citizenship. Generations of muffling and swaddling were behind Eva's shocked little face. Her ancestors had not taken their recreation in running or rowing or swimming. And the scene at Madison Square Garden was as foreign to the First Readers' traditions as a warm afternoon in Athens during the age of Pericles would have been to a New England spinster. It was the sort of misunderstanding which must be faced instantly, and immediately after assembly on the next morning Miss Bailey faced it. "Isaac Borrachsohn has told you all," she commenced pleasantly, marshalling the wavering eyes before her with her own, steady and clear, "of how he went to Madison Square Garden with his father and saw the games." Isaac squirmed in his place. "And he told you," she continued, "how he saw men and boys running races, and trying how far they could throw a big heavy hammer and a big iron ball. Isaac didn't quite understand what they were doing, but they were not trying to hit any one, and not trying to catch one another, and there was no thought at all of a fight. The boy who ran fastest got a prize, the boy who threw the hammer farthest got a prize. And there were a great many other prizes for jumping and all kinds of things. And," she continued, redoubling the concentration in her eyes, "did Isaac tell you how those boys were dressed?" A gasp and a shiver swept through Room 18. "Well, if he didn't, I will. They wore the very lightest clothes they could get. They wanted to be free and cool. They couldn't run fast or jump far with all their heavy every-day clothes on. Exercise makes people very warm, you know. It was a great help to those boys to be dressed in cool white clothes. "I was at the games," she continued, "as I was telling some of the boys yesterday afternoon, and I enjoyed them ever so much. I was just wishing that you were all there too. The girls could have sat with me, and the boys could have run in the ring. I've watched you all playing in the yard, and I know what good runners some of you are. And then when they gave you prizes we, the girls and I, would have waved our flags and cheered just like the ladies Isaac told you about. Now wouldn't that be grand?" she cried, and the First Readers vociferously agreed with her, though Yetta Aaronsohn, the hypochondriacal, was still of the opinion that "wind on the legs ain't healthy for nobody." Cold indeed would be the heart of any masculine First Reader who could see, unmoved, the picture conjured up of Teacher's words. They were well accustomed to impromptu races, run on a course all thick beset with push-carts, ash cans, and humanity. Other tests of physical strength, with the exception by an occasional hand-to-hand conflict, neither determined, scientific, nor conclusive, were practically unknown. But to run on a prepared course surrounded by a stationary and admiring audience, of which Miss Bailey and the feminine First Readers formed an important part, was quite a different thing. Then, too, "prizes" was an alluring word. Teacher had shown it to mean articles of price and great attractiveness. The "clean-hands-for-a-week" prize, won by Sadie Gonorowsky, with Isidore Applebaum as a close second, had been a little clasp pin of the American flag in enamel, and the "cleanest-shoes-for-a-month" prize had been a pair of roller skates. The masculine element of the Room 18's Board of Monitors met that afternoon in the cellar of a recently burned tenement to discuss the situation. If it would pleasure Miss Bailey to see her adherents racing round a garden in abbreviated costumes, there was, they decided, no very serious reason against giving her that pleasure. It was only a shade more unreasonable than other desires of hers to which they had bent their energies, and since there was question of reward, it became even more a duty and a pleasure to oblige her. "But we ain't got no Gardens," Nathan Spiderwitz pointed out. "We'll use my yard," said Patrick. "When me mother has company she always calls our yard a garden. It's got a tree in it, and we can get some flags to hang on the clothes line. I was askin' me big brother last night, and he knows all about them games. He'll tell us mor'n Ikey Borrachsohn can about how the thing goes, and when we get it fixed just right, we'll have Miss Bailey and the girls come round some Saturday morning and see us run and jump. Say, it'll be great! I can run faster than any feller in the class; an' I bet I can jump higher too, an' I bet I can throw things farther, too, an' I bet I can lick ye all pole-vaultin', too. Me brother was tellin' me about that." "I don't know what is 'pole-vaultin' even," said Morris, and asked with some natural curiosity what parts he and other possible competitors were to take in these Games in Gardens. "Oh, you," answered Patrick, with happy condescension, "you all is goin' to get licked. That's what you're goin' to do. Don't you worry." But this rôle did not appeal strongly to either of his colleagues. "I don't know do I likes gettin' licked," Morris objected with some reason. "Und I don't know _will_ I get licked," said Nathan Spiderwitz, the valorous. "I jumped once, und I run too. I jumped off of a wagon. A awful big grocery wagon, mit crackers on it. Und I jumped when it was goin'. Und I run like an'thin'." "You was throwed off," taunted Patrick, "you was throwed off by the man when he seen you hookin' crackers." "Ye lie," said Nathan frankly. "I jumped as soon as he seen me, und I guess I can jump some more. You ain't the only boy what can run und jump, you old-show-of-freshy Irisher." It was with difficulty that the peaceful Monitor of the Gold Fish Bowl restored harmony, and time was added unto difficulty before the Games in Gardens were satisfactorily arranged. Had it been possible to consult Miss Bailey, all would have been plain and simple sailing. She was the First Reader's home port, but she was now blockaded for her own benefit. The suggestions of Patrick's big brother were overwhelming and technical. And Isaac Borrachsohn, through constant questionings, grew at once so extravagant and so hazy in his recollections as to be practically useless. Patrick's mother, when applied to for a morning's use of her yard, was curt and kind. "Use it if ye will," said she, "but don't clutter it, an' don't fall out of me pear tree." It was at about the time of the densest discouragement that Miss Bailey, all unknowing, came to their relief. She brought to Room 18 and passed about among the First Readers a copy of an illustrated "Weekly" containing pictures of the later and more important contest than that which Isaac had witnessed. And Ignatius Aloysius Diamentstein, by that time admitted to the track team, appropriated it at the lunch hour, and thereafter it served as "The Complete Guide to Games in Gardens." The day was set. A Saturday morning in late May. The guests in ordinary were invited. In other words the feminine First Readers had been told that they would be admitted to Patrick Brennan's yard at ten o'clock on that May morning, on condition that each would bring a flag and say nothing to the uninvited boys. The free-for-all spirit was not endorsed by Patrick, and the contestants were only seven, picked and chosen, be it said, with a nice adjustment to Patrick's own prowess, for "I ain't goin' to be licked in me own yard," had been his steadfast determination throughout. Nathan Spiderwitz was given to inspirations always inconvenient and distressing. He experienced one at this eleventh hour when all the arrangements were completed, and it remained only to invite the guest of honor. "Who gives the prizes?" he demanded, as he and Patrick were superintending the construction of a grand stand made of soap-boxes and a broken sofa. "Where is the prizes, and who gives 'em?" he repeated. "Mind your own business," was Patrick's useful answer. It showed a bold front and left time for thought. "Who gives 'em?" insisted Nathan. "Don't _you_ worry 'bout prizes," muttered Patrick darkly, "they ain't none of _your_ business. You got a swell chanst to git any prizes in my yard. Not when I'm in it, ye don't." Thus with Nathan. But with Morris he was more frank. "There's one thing," said he, when he found that crack long-jumper in the boys' yard at luncheon time, "what I'm going to let _you_ do." "Is it nice for me?" queried the Custodian of Gold Fish. "Great!" answered Patrick. "I'm goin' to let ye ast Miss Bailey to the party." Morris glowed with pride and importance. "I likes that," he breathed. "Well, you can do it. Ye don't want to tell her what kind of a party it is. Just go up to her after school and say that 'we invites her to come to my yard at ten o'clock in the mornin', and bring seven prizes with her.'" "Oh--oh-h-h! I couldn't to say nothings like that," Morris remonstrated. "I guess you don't know what is polite. I don't know has Missis Bailey got seven prizes." "She'll get 'em all right, all right," Patrick assured him; "ain't she always givin' 'em around? You just tell her 'ten o'clock and seven prizes.' It's all right, I tell you. I could'a showed ye the picture on that paper of a lady standin' up givin' out the prizes. An' Miss Bailey's the only lady goin' to be there." "It ain't polite," Morris maintained. But he had during these last athletic weeks broken so many of his canons and his laws that he accepted this last command with more docility than Patrick had expected. "A party!" cried Miss Bailey, "now isn't that nice? And for to-morrow morning. Of course I'll be there. And what kind of a party is it to be, dear?" "It's something you says you likes you shall see. Und on the party you shall see it. Und you shall have a s'prise over it." "You grow more interesting every moment," said Teacher. "Tell me more. I love surprises." "There ain't no more," Morris answered, "on'y," and he took his conversational running-jump, "on'y maybe you shall bring seven prizes mit. I says maybe you ain't got seven prizes. On'y Patrick says I shall say it out like that, 'you shall come on the party und bring seven prizes.'" "Seven!" reflected Teacher. "That is rather a large order, but I think I can manage it. Have you any idea, Morris, of what kind they should be?" "Teacher, yiss, ma'am," Morris answered, "'fer-boys' prizes." "I think I understand," and Miss Bailey smiled at him. "You may tell Patrick that I and 'seven fer-boys' prizes' will be at his house in the morning." She regarded the subject as closed. Not so Morris. Through all the succeeding occupations of the afternoon an idea persisted with him, and when the Teacher left the building at last she found him waiting for her on the wide steps. "You want me, dear?" she asked. "I shall tell you somethings," Morris began in evident embarrassment. "Yes, dear." "It's over those prizes." "Yes, Morris." "Miss Bailey, it's like this. You don't need to care sooner you ain't got on'y _six_ prizes. Seven prizes I guess costs bunches und bunches from money. So six prizes comes on Patrick's yard, that's all right. Stands one boy what don't needs no prize." "He must be a strange little boy," commented Teacher. "I never before heard of a boy who didn't like prizes." "Oh, he likes 'em; _how_ he likes 'em. I ain't said he ain't got feelin's over 'em. On'y it's like this: he don't needs you shall buy prizes for him the whiles you got to buy six prizes already." "I think I understand, dear," Teacher answered, and she set out for the shopping district and bought six prizes of great glitter and little worth. But the seventh was such a watch as a boy might use and treasure through all the years of his boyhood. The great day dawned bright and clear. Miss Bailey's entrance, punctual and parcel-laden, in a festive frilly frock and a flowery hat, caused something almost like silence to fall upon the scene of the coming tournament. Eva Gonorowsky clasped Teacher's unoccupied hand, Sarah Schodsky and Yetta Aaronsohn relieved her of her bundles. Sadie Gonorowsky gesticulated madly from the place upon the sofa which she was reserving with all the expanse of her outspread skirt. Teacher approached the grand stand and took her place. The feminine First Readers swarmed upon the soap boxes. But neither leg nor arm nor even eye was moved by the seven masculine First Readers drawn up in the centre of the yard. Flags waved in such profusion and such uniformity that even Miss Bailey's obligation to her hosts could not blind her to the fact that she had at last found the fifty-two American flags pasted together by the First Reader Class when Washington's Birthday was in the air and the offing. Two weeks ago she had missed them out of the cupboard, and neither janitor nor Monitor could give her tidings of them. They looked very well, she was forced to admit, dangling from high fence and clothes line. And very bright and joyant was the whole scene. The little girls in their bright colors. The sky so blue. Mrs. Brennan's pear tree in sturdy bloom. All was brilliant with a sense of Spring save the seven dark-clothed figures in the centre of the yard. "Can you guess what kind from party it is?" shrieked Sadie Gonorowsky from the top of a tottering soap box to which she had withdrawn. "Why, it's--" Teacher began, recognizing some elements of the scene, but made uncertain by the seven dark little figures, "of course it's----" "It's 'Games in Gardens,'" shouted the little girls, waving their flags like mad and "scupping" so energetically that two disappeared, "it's Games in Gardens, und you're goin' to have a s'prise." One of the dark and silent figures found speech and motion. "Set down an' shut up," commanded Patrick Brennan. "We're goin' to begin." The shutting up would have been effected automatically by the next proceeding of the seven. They laid violent hands upon themselves and in an instant a flat little heap of dark clothes marked the centre of the yard, and Patrick Brennan, Ignatius Aloysius Diamentstein, Isidore Applebaum, Nathan Spiderwitz, Isidore Wishnewsky, Isaac Belchatosky, and Morris Mowgelewsky stood forth in costumes reported by Isaac Borrachsohn, sanctioned by Miss Bailey, and owned by members of the audience. A moment of tense silence followed. Every eye sought Teacher, and Constance Bailey knew that upon her first word or look depended success or failure, pride or everlasting shame. There was no time to wonder how the mistake arose. No time to remember what she had said that could possibly have been interpreted to mean this. They were her gallant little knights doing her uncomprehended bidding, and trying--at what sacrifice she guessed--to pleasure their liege lady. Again she had blundered. Again she had failed to quite bridge the distance. The wrong word lay somewhere back in her effort to undo Isaac Borrachsohn's mischief. And she had wrought mischief ten times worse. The most devoted of her charges stood there in the clear May sunshine; the funniest, most pathetic, most ridiculous little figures, with their thin little arms and legs and their long little necks: proud, embarrassed, wistful. "My dear boys," she cried suddenly, "how fine you look! How beautiful and--and--clean you are," she went on a little bit at random. "And now we are going to have games, and the girls and I will cheer the winners." "Be ye s'prised?" yelled Patrick in irrepressible pride. "Dreadfully!" she answered. "Dreadfully, Patrick dear." "Then we'll begin," answered the master of ceremonies. "_One_, git in yer places! _Two_, fer a show! _Three_, to make ready! And _four_ to _GO_." Upon his final word the "Games in Gardens" began. The two Isidores and Ignatius Aloysius Diamentstein rushed madly round the yard. Patrick tried to urge the others to follow, but Morris had elected the long jump--and the long jump he would perform, all protests to the contrary notwithstanding. Nathan Spiderwitz grasped the clothes pole and vaulted with great accuracy into the left wing of the grand stand. Isaac Belchatosky had secured a dilapidated ball from an abandoned bowling-alley, and he "put the shot" in all directions to his own satisfaction and the audience's terror until run into and overturned by Ignatius Aloysius Diamentstein. Shrill cries went up from the audience. The two boys arose unhurt, but the feelings of Bertha Binderwitz and Eva Kidansky were not thereby soothed. "I guess I gets killed off of my mamma," wailed Bertha when she saw that one whole side of Isaac Belchatosky was smeared with mud. And when Nathan Spiderwitz was reclaimed from the soap boxes, with a long piece of cambric ruffle trailing behind him, Sadie Gonorowsky fell into such an agony of apprehension that Miss Bailey felt called upon for a promise to repair the damage ere another sun should set. Meantime Patrick was not idle. Disdaining competition, he went through all the "events," one after another until the perspiration was thick upon his forehead, and Eva Gonorowsky was trembling with excitement. "My mamma don't know," she informed Miss Bailey over and over again. But owing perhaps to her watchful care, perhaps to a natural aptitude for athletics, Patrick escaped unspotted and unscathed. He turned hand-springs upon the heap of clothes. He stood upon his head upon the same rostrum until his eyes bulged, and Miss Bailey implored him to desist. He wrested the shot from Isidore Wishnewsky, a person of no spirit, and then he "put" it neatly into the waist line of its owner, who promptly sat back gasping. "Don't you dast to set, Isidore Wishnewsky," shrilled Sarah Schodsky in a panic. "I guess you dunno what is polite for you. Sooner somebody lends you somethings it ain't polite you should set on it! Ain't it fierce how he makes, Missis Bailey?" "It is a little rude," Miss Bailey admitted in a voice as unsteady as Isidore Wishnewsky. "I never in my world seen how they all makes," said Yetta Aaronsohn, that authority on Hygiene and the Care of the Body. "They could to make themselves awful sicknesses over it--home sicknesses, even, und lay-on-the-bed sicknesses, und comes-the-doctor sicknesses." "Oh, I hope not!" Teacher rallied the pessimistic Yetta, "though they certainly do seem to be getting very tired." By this time the track team of the First Reader Class had exhausted itself and its repertoire, and came forward, hot but confident, for its laurels. There was something for each one, and for each a little word of special commendation. And if Teacher's voice was more tender, her eyes more gentle when Morris's turn came, she still was gentle and tender enough with all of them. At the end she made a short address to victors and audience alike. She thanked them for their great effort to give her pleasure, and for the great pleasure they had given her, and then added: "When I brought your prizes this morning I had no idea what the party was to be like, and so of course I didn't get just what I would have given you if I had known. But now that I do know how wonderfully our boys can jump and run, I shall bring for each boy on Monday morning a regular running suit, and whenever you have 'Games in Gardens' again you won't have to borrow anything. Perhaps the Principal would like you to have 'Games in Gardens' on the roof some afternoon, and you could invite the other classes. I am sure they'd love it." [Illustration: "I never in my world seen how they all makes"] "You liked it all right, all right, didn't you, Teacher?" demanded Patrick. "Liked it!" she echoed. "Why, I was simply delighted." "Und s'prised?" questioned Morris. "I was never more so in all my long, long life," answered Constance Bailey with entire conviction. "A BRAND FROM THE BURNING" "Where did you get him?" said the Principal. "In the back yard of one of those double-deckers down by the river," answered the Truant Officer. "Ain't he the bird!" he added in professional enthusiasm. "I've been chasing him for two or three days. He's just about as easy to handle as an eel, and to-day he bit me as we were coming along. He's a beauty, he is!" "And you say he doesn't speak Yiddish?" queried the Principal. "He don't speak the kind I do," the other answered. "I get on all right with the rest of the folks around here, and I certainly never expected to have trouble rounding up a kid that ain't knee-high to a grasshopper. No, you don't, sonny!" he broke off as his charge was sliding toward the door. "You've got to stay here now and have a nice lady learn you how to read and write and cipher." The boy looked up at his captor with the wide, desperate eyes of an animal at bay, recognizing his helplessness, but determined to bite and fight to the very end. "Will you look at that now?" the Truant Officer exclaimed; "he thinks every one's going to hurt him. That's the way some of those kids feel." "Oh, he'll soon get over that here," the Principal laughed. "I've seen them much wilder on their first appearance. The teachers know how to handle them." Left alone with his new charge, the Principal turned and studied him. The boy was in the corner, his eyes fixed on the closed door, his whole little body tense. His visible clothing consisted of a man's coat, cut short at the sleeves and pinned across the breast. The child was so small that this reached far below his knees, where it was supplemented by ragged stockings and shoes. He was unkempt and dirty, even according to the unexacting East Side's standard. But there was something about the poise of his head and the slow, lithe movements of his body that differentiated him from the ordinary street waif. There was no fear in him--no pleading, no snivelling, nothing but a harsh, almost mature, defiance. "Come here!" said the Principal. At the sound of his voice the child turned and looked at him, and the man found himself returning the cool regard of a pair of violet-blue eyes. Blue eyes picked up in the heart of that dusky neighborhood, where he had learned to expect all children's eyes to be either black or brown! "I wonder what he is, and where he comes from," he sighed, as he rang the bell and summoned the teacher who generally acted as his interpreter. "David Copperfield's poor old friend, Mr. Dick, would find plenty of use for his famous prescription, 'wash him,' if he were in my place." Miss Rosen soon arrived and began her usual inquiries as to name, age, residence. The little stranger heard her through, and then he uttered a sharp three or four word sentence, clear cut, imperious; and Miss Rosen, a sweet and portly lady of fifteen years' faithful teaching, flushed to the edge of her hard black pompadour, and stared, incredulous, at the ragged form before her. "Well," said the Principal, as she made no effort at translation. "What does he say?" "I do not speak his language," she answered. "And yet you understand him?" "I understand him--yes----" "Well," repeated the Principal, in no mind to allow one small boy to upset his morning's routine, "well, if you understand him, tell me what he said. What language was that he used?" "Russian," she replied, "pure Russian, and what he said is the only Russian phrase which many of the Jewish people ever hear. I have not heard it since I escaped from Russia with my parents years and years ago. I had hoped never to hear it again. I must refuse to translate it to you." When she had gone, all shaken, back to her class, the Principal shook a remonstrating head at his captive, who was by this time examining the book-case with a disparaging eye. Catching the man's glance, he made some remark in his liquid speech, and thumped his chest. "Perhaps so, my boy," Mr. Trevar agreed. "But I'm studying your case. No English, horrid temper, young wild animal, in fact. It's hard on the girl," he admitted to his own conscience; "but I guess it's a case for Room 18," and rang the bell again and sent word to Room 18 to summon Miss Bailey to his office. "We've caught a tartar," he told her, "almost literally a Tartar. He seems to have strong racial prejudices, and I shall have to assign him to you until he learns a little English." "But if he speaks no English at all," Miss Bailey remonstrated--for children of this kind were her greatest trial, and she was already laboring with three of them--"would he not be happier with one of the teachers who could understand him?" [Illustration: "I must refuse to translate it to you"] "Ah! but they wouldn't," he replied; "that's just the point. Miss Rosen tells me he's a Russian and not a Jew. He said something extremely rude to her just now. No, you'll have to take him, at least for a few days, until I can make some inquiries about him. We shall have to get the Truant Officer to give us the child's name and address. Will you take him with you now?" Constance Bailey had a smile to which many a lonely frightened little novice had yielded a shy and sweet response, but there was no answering smile here. She stretched out a hand to take the boy's, but he eluded her, reached the door, opened it, and stood at stiff attention until she had preceded him into the hall. "Well, I'll be blamed!" reflected the Principal. "Manners, and princely ones at that!" On the way to Room 18, Miss Bailey's newest responsibility walked beside her with a free and upright carriage strangely at variance with the shoes he walked in. Once or twice she spoke to him, and his answer was an uncomprehending but courteous inclination of the little head. Once he spoke to her. It was when they passed the platform in the Assembly Room. He pointed to the piano and said something eagerly, authoritatively, in that language whose like Miss Bailey had never heard. She nodded and smiled at him, and they fared on together. Again, at the door of Room 18, he punctiliously allowed her to precede him. But as he entered after her and met the full regard of Room 18's dark eyes, he stopped and returned the glances bent upon him with a cool, insulting indifference. "This is a new little boy," announced Miss Bailey, "to whom I want you all to be very kind. He doesn't speak much English, but we shall teach him that. Morris, he will sit near you." Morris Mowgelewsky, all timid friendliness, approached the stranger. Here surely was a queer new little boy in a "from man's" coat, and an exceeding dirty face; yet if Miss Bailey hailed him as a new little friend, then as a new little friend he must be made welcome. "Talk to him a moment, Morris," Teacher commanded. "See if he won't tell you what his name is." Morris obeyed, and the child answered him in the words that had so upset Miss Rosen. But Morris had left Russia when he was only two years old, and the phrase held no meaning for him, though the tone made him pause. "I don't know how he says," Morris reported to Miss Bailey. "I says out of Jewish, 'What is your name, little boy?' und I don't know what he says. On'y it ain't names, und it ain't lovin'." "Very well, dear, you may go back to your place. I'll keep him here beside me for a while," answered Teacher, more than ever at a loss, for the winningness of Morris had never failed to charm a stranger. At the recess hour, when all the other children filed down into the yard, Teacher sent Patrick Brennan with a little note to Mr. Eissler, the teacher of the biggest boys, those nearly ready for graduation. He was an elderly man wearing well in the service to which the noblest of his race have always devoted themselves. He and Miss Bailey were great friends, and much of the understanding of this alien race--its habits, its emotions, and its innate refinement--the understanding which made her reign in Room 18 so peaceful and beneficent, she had acquired from him, and from the books he lent her. "Dear Mr. Eissler," ran the note. "Will you come to Room 18 when you are at leisure? I have rather an interesting specimen of Child Life which I am keeping for your inspection." During the short period which had elapsed between the stranger's arrival and the departure of First Readers, the new-comer had undergone an entire change of manner. Not that he had softened toward his little future companions. Rather he grew in hatred and vindictiveness as the busy morning progressed. It was his attitude toward Miss Bailey which changed. In the Principal's office and on the way through the halls he had seemed to waver on the brink of friendliness. But he had sat beside her desk and had seen her moving up and down through the narrow streets of her kingdom, encouraging here, laughing there, explaining with patient care and detail, laying a friendly hand on bent little shoulders and setting hair ribbons more jauntily erect--behaving, in fact, with a freedom and affection most evidently reflected and magnified by her subjects. And as he watched her his little mouth lost all its softness, and the hard, inscrutable look disfigured him again. When Mr. Eissler, in response to the summons, opened the door, the newcomer's back was toward it. He wheeled at the sound, and clear and quick he lashed out his single phrase. Miss Bailey chanced to be looking at her old friend, and at the child's voice saw him cringe and shrink as if from a blow. "There it is again," she cried. "That's all we can get him to say. Tell me, Mr. Eissler, _what_ does it mean?" She got no answer. The man, in all the dignity of his cutaway and his white linen, was glaring at the child, and the child, in his ridiculous rags, pitiful, starved, and dirty, was looking the man over from top to toe with contemptuous, careless eyes. They stood so for some space, and it was the man who turned away. "I will not pretend not to understand," said he to Teacher; "but I must decline to translate those words. They bring back--they bring back! Ah, God! what they bring back!" "Ah, yes, I know!" said Miss Bailey, in vague but ready sympathy. "I'm very, very sorry." While this conversation was in progress its object was wandering about Room 18, surveying its pictures, the canary, the gold-fish bowl, and the flowery window-boxes with a blasé air. Occasionally he glanced at Miss Bailey with unfriendly disillusionment. And upon one of these occasions Mr. Eissler, at Teacher's request, asked him his name. The boy answered at greater length than before, but, judging by the man's face, in equally offensive language, and Mr. Eissler turned to Miss Bailey. "The Principal will have some difficulty," said he, "in finding a teacher who could speak that child's language. It's Russian, pure Court Russian, and not spoken by our people except when they make a special study of it. I know it, a little." "And do you care to tell me," asked Miss Bailey, "any part of what he said just now?" "He says," the man replied, "that he will not speak to Jews or to--and by this he means you--a seeming Christian, who makes the Jew her friend, and allows Jewish babies to touch her hands. You've read of the Russian autocratic spirit. Well! there you see it. Even in a little child. It's born in them." "But how did it get here?" marvelled Miss Bailey. "Here, on the East Side of New York, where he must be just about as popular as a wolf cub?" "Just about," answered Eissler. "Of course I'm not going to pretend to tell you how this particular specimen got here. We've had one or two cases where the Jews, driven out, kidnapped a Russian child in revenge. And sometimes Nihilism and other Socialistic societies draw Jew and Russian together. Perhaps the boy's mother is in Siberia digging sulphur. Perhaps she's in Petersburg, designing becoming mourning. But from the look of the boy and the Truant Officer's account of him, I feel pretty safe in saying she isn't about here." "Yes, I think you're safe in that. He hasn't been washed in a month." "He'll be better after you've had him awhile," said Mr. Eissler gallantly. "I back you against Hagenbeck as a taming influence." "You flatter me," laughed Miss Bailey. "But I'll try. Of course I'll try." But she had scant opportunity. At luncheon time the new little boy departed with the others, and at afternoon session he was not among them, as by law prescribed. Day after day passed and brought no sign of him. Teacher reported her bereavement to the authorities, and enjoined the First Readers to produce the boy or tidings of him, and although they failed to procure the boy, the tidings were not wanting. They rarely are in East Side affairs. Morris Mowgelewsky was the first to procure definite information. "I seen that boy," he announced with pride. "I seen him runnin' down Scannel Street, und I calls und says you likes you should see him in the school, on'y he runs by a cellar und don't says nothings. He puts him on just like he was here, und he had awful cold looks. Teacher, he ain't got no hat, and the snow was coming by his hair. I looks in the cellar und I had a 'fraid over it the whiles nothings stand in it on'y push-carts und boxes." "But do you think that he lives in the cellar?" queried Teacher. "He don't _lives_ at all," replied Morris. "He don't _boards_ even. He runs all times." "Runs?" queried Miss Bailey. "Teacher, yiss, ma'am, runs. He lays in sleep by barrels; comes somebody, und he runs. He lays in sleep on sidewalks by bak'ry stores where heat and smell comes; comes somebody, und he runs. He lays in sleep by wagons, maybe, maybe by stables where horses is, und straw. _All_ places what he could he lays in sleep, und _all_ places where he lays comes somebody und he runs." "What's he always running from, Morris?" "Teacher, I dun'no. He ain't got no 'fraids. I guess maybe he don't likes nobody shall make nothings mit him. I tells him how you says he shall come on the school, und what you think? He hits me a hack in mine face, und runs on the cellar." "I'd like to see him hit me," said Patrick Brennan, son of the Policeman on the Beat, a noble scion of a noble sire. "Me pop he wouldn't stand fer no funny play," and urged by Miss Bailey's friendly attitude toward Morris, he boasted, "I'll bring him to school if ye want me to; I ain't afraid of him." And one afternoon some days later he did appear with his "new little friend." It had taken six big boys, Patrick, and the janitor to secure his attendance, and he hardly reaped the benefit which so much effort deserved, for, except that he was thinner and in a wildly blazing passion of indignation, his second attendance at Room 18 was much like his first. Again his studies were interrupted for several days, and it was the Truant Officer who next restored him to the Halls of Learning. Between these two appearances Morris had procured further intelligence. "That new boy," he began as always, "that new boy he is in bizzness." "So that's the reason that he fights against school!" cried Teacher, well accustomed to the interference of the sweat shop. "I'm very glad to know his reason for staying away. I was beginning to fear he was not happy here--that he didn't like us." "Teacher, he don't," said Morris, with the beautiful candor which adorned all his conversation. "He hates us." "But why, why?" demanded Miss Bailey. "He hates the childrens," the still candid Morris explained, "the whiles they is Sheenies. He hates you the whiles you is Krisht." "Rather an unfriendly attitude altogether," commented Teacher. "And how do you know he hates me because I'm a Christian?" "My mamma tells me how it is. She says he has mads the whiles you is Krisht und makes all things what is loving mit Sheenies. My mamma says he is Russians; und Russians they don't makes like that mit Sheenies. Teacher, no ma'am, loving ain't what Russians makes mit us. They makes all things what is fierce." "I know, I know," said Constance Bailey, and then--"What is the little boy's business?" "Teacher, he's a fire-lighter." "A fire-lighter," echoed Miss Bailey, with visions of arson before her eyes. "A fire-lighter, did you say?" "Teacher, yiss, ma'am, he is a fire-lighter, but sooner he wants he could to come on the school the whiles he ain't got no bizzness on'y Saturdays." And then Miss Bailey understood. She had heard of certain stranded waifs left high and dry when the ebb of Christianity receded before the flood of Judaism, and New York's great East Side, once a fashionable district, then claimed by a thrifty Irish element, became a Ghetto. It was the Jewish Sabbatical Law which gave the derelicts an opportunity to earn a few pennies every Saturday, for no orthodox Jew may kindle fire on the Sabbath. And no frugal Jew, even in the impossible circumstance of being able to afford it, will keep the stove alight all through Friday night. Hence he employs a Christian to do the work he would not stoop to. And this was the occupation of that amazing new boy! Miss Bailey clearly saw the path of her duty, and it led her, the lighter of fires in tow, straight to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. For some days, however, this path was closed to her conscientious feet. The boy was lost again, and Miss Bailey, who took the welfare of her charges very much to heart, was seriously distressed and uneasy. The First Readers were enlisted as a corps of detectives, but though they prowled in likely and unlikely spots, they brought no news of the stranger. A week went by. The Principal, the Truant Officer, Patrick Brennan's father, were all informed and enlisted in the quest. But day followed day empty of news. Mr. Eissler could offer no suggestion, though he promised that if the child should reappear he would make further and more patient efforts to elicit some information from him. And then quite casually one afternoon Sergeant Brennan appeared in Room 18, with a bundle of rags under his arm. "Here he is for you, Miss," he announced, waving away her acknowledgments with a stout blue arm before he removed his helmet and dried his heated brow. "I seen him several times since you spoke about him, but never run him down until now." Again the child was thinner, and his likeness to a hunted animal was clearer, more heart-breaking. "And how should he be otherwise?" reflected Constance Bailey as she realized that, partly through her bidding, he actually had been persistently hunted throughout the past weeks. After three o'clock when the First Readers, including the loudly objecting Board of Monitors, had been sent home, Miss Bailey secured every exit save the door into the hall, established the new boy in one of the front row of seats, locked the hall door upon her own retreat, and sought Mr. Eissler. "The Russian child has turned up again," she told him. "I've had him in the class since lunch time, and I never knew of so disturbing an element. A band in the street, a piano organ, even the passing of a fire engine, would have left those babies calmer than his mere presence did. Did you ever see a poultry yard when a hawk was perched in a neighboring tree? Well, there you have my class as long as that boy is in the room. Brainless! Stupid! Huddled in their seats! I declare I hardly knew them. And he, he hardly looked at one of us." "He'll look at me," said Mr. Eissler, picking up a brass-bound ruler. "By-laws may be by-laws----" "No, no," cried Teacher, "not that. I don't think I could bear it. And as for him, he would either kill or die. He's almost spent with rage and starvation. I think you'll find him more amenable than he was before." Mr. Eissler did not find him at all. Room 18 awaited them, pleasant, orderly, and empty. Empty, too, was the whole great building and all the rooms they searched through, save for the sweeper women who met their queries blankly. They had noticed no boy. "Again!" exclaimed Miss Bailey, almost tearfully, as they returned. "What shall I ever do about him? I meant, you know, to take him now, this very afternoon, while I had him, up to the Society's rooms in Twenty-third Street." "How often has he been here altogether?" asked Mr. Eissler. Teacher crossed to her desk, sat down at it, and commenced to turn the pages of the Roll Book with listless hand. Mr. Eissler stood beside her, and behind them both the door of the supply closet in which all class necessities were stored opened gently, noiselessly, inch by inch, until the Fire-lighter stood forth with a sheet of sulphur matches in his hand. The joy of coming vengeance made his little face look very old as he advanced upon the unsuspecting backs of his enemies. He struck one of his matches upon some inner surface of his rags, and as Teacher pointed and Mr. Eissler stopped to examine all the crosses which marked one section of the Roll Book, the Fire-lighter held the match to the hem of Miss Bailey's heavy walking skirt. It burned dully, and the child had shut himself into the closet again before the smell of fire was noticed and located. Then alarmed and excited was Mr. Eissler, but not reduced to panic. In a moment he had smothered the smoulder, and was beating off the sparks with his ruler. Miss Bailey just then chanced to turn toward the closet door and saw a curl of smoke making its way stealthily through a crack in one of the panels. Mr. Eissler saw it too, threw the door open, and revealed the lost child--his rags all smoking and smouldering about him. They threw Miss Bailey's heavy ulster about him, and rolled him upon the floor, patting and pressing the bundle until they were quite sure that no fire remained. Then Teacher, kneeling down, turned back the ulster. Very quiet and relaxed lay her problem. "Dead?" she questioned in terror. "Oh, hardly. Slip your hand in over his heart." Teacher did so and breathed again. "Beating," said she, and withdrew her hand, and in her cuff-link was entangled a thin string. "Gold," exclaimed Eissler instantly; "dirty, but gold." Miss Bailey drew the chain out further and disclosed a flat locket. "Cut it off and keep it for him," Eissler advised. "I'm going to ring for the ambulance, and I know that there would be precious little gold left on him by the time he reached the ward. I'll send one of the women to you as I go." And so Miss Bailey sat on the floor and regarded this bitter fruit of her striving. A child--a little child, hunted, wounded, as far as she could see even unto death. And for the thousandth time she let despair roll over her. What was the use? What _was_ the use? Some time later up in the dressing-room she was removing as best she could the marks of her experience, when it occurred to her to examine the locket. It was a thin gold affair with a smudge of dirt upon each side of it, and she devoted her efforts to one of these smudges. She rubbed it with a towel, and stood incredulous, carried back to the Mystery Stories of her own youth, for a monogram in diamonds winked and twinkled at her. She tried the other side and unearthed a coronet. After much careful search she managed to open the locket. And the Mystery held. On one side a beautiful woman, on the other a coil of baby hair. All was as it should be. As she finished the transition from white linen to street attire, she pondered and marvelled, and by the time her veil was adjusted she had decided upon her course. This was a case for some one more learned in Russian ways than Mr. Eissler, and after consulting the nearest directory she set out for the Russian Consulate. There her demand for speech with the Consul General was met by the Vice-Consul's bland regrets that his principal was invisible. "Closeted," he reported, dropping his voice and nodding toward the closed door behind him, "with His Excellency, Prince Epifanoff." "Then," said Miss Bailey, "perhaps you can tell me something of your Russian charities. I want you to direct me to an institution where a sick little boy can find attention and understanding. He has sadly lacked both these many weeks, I fear." The Vice-Consul, a man of heart, listened with kindly but restrained attention until Miss Bailey produced the locket on its severed chain. Then even that practised diplomat allowed amazement to overspread him. "May I ask you to wait here for a moment?" said he, and it took him little more than the moment he appointed to disappear through the door of the inner room, and to reappear. "And may I ask you now," said he, "to tell these very interesting facts to Prince Epifanoff and the Consul?" Constance Bailey was slightly disconcerted by this sudden plunge into diplomatic waters, and by the extremely thorough, though always courteous, cross-examination to which she was promptly subjected. "May I ask," she demanded on her own part when she was growing weary of always answering, "whether you have identified the miniature?" "We have indeed," answered the Ambassador, a large but otherwise unalarming personage, with stiff hair arranged _à la_ door-mat. "And not only so: we have been searching for the miniature for almost a year. Almost a year ago a boy was stolen from a castle in the northern part of Russia. He was five years old, and the owner--since the assassination of his father--of what would make a whole state in this country of yours. The Nihilists were suspected, this time with some reason, as it transpired that one of their important members--a woman--had obtained employment in the castle. She and the child vanished together. There was little hope that the young Prince would escape his father's fate, but in the absence of any proof of his death the whole Russian secret service and the Consular Service were notified. It was just possible, you see, that his captors would try to use him as a hostage or as the price of some concession. The woman was stopped at the frontier. Unfortunately she was--accidentally, you understand--killed before she had accounted for the boy, who was not then with her. As I have said, all this occurred a year ago, and nothing has been heard of the child. You can imagine the distracted grief of this fair lady, his mother, touching the miniature." "And you think," cried Miss Bailey, "that my little Fire-lighter----" "Is the owner of one of the most exalted titles in Russia, and one of the richest estates. He wore this locket when he was abducted. But we are letting time pass. May I ask you"--this to the Consul--"to order my car? His Highness must be removed at once into suitable surroundings." "Then my mission is accomplished," said Miss Bailey, and rose to take her leave. But never had she encountered cordiality so insistent as these courteous gentlemen then exhibited. She must, she really must, go to the hospital with them and see the end of the affair. In vain she pleaded other engagements, and promised to telephone later in the evening to hear whether the Prince's interview with the waif had corroborated the evidence of the locket. She was offered the use of the official telephone for the breaking of her engagements, and when her hosts left her alone to achieve this purpose, they quite calmly locked her in. She telephoned some trivial sounding excuse to her long-suffering friend. Every one who knew her well was accustomed to interruptions by her school interests. And as she listened to that friend's wailing remonstrance she was tempted to tell the truth. "Locked up in the Russian Consulate! Prisoner! Involved in Court mystery. Obliged to produce a Prince of the blood royal or take the consequences." Truly, she told herself as she hung the receiver on its hook, things were getting rather uncommon and going rather quickly. And in that moment of apprehension she strangely drew comfort from the undeniable fit and texture of her new tailor-made suit, as shown forth in a large mirror between the window and the door. The contemplation of these encouragements fortified her until the return of her jailors, and during the ordeal of being swept through congested traffic by the side of a Nicolai Sergieevitch Epifanoff, in a bright red motor car. Arriving at Gouverneur Hospital, she left her companions in consultation with the Matron and the House Surgeon, while she went up to the Children's Ward to prepare the mind of her friend and sometime co-laborer, Miss McCarthy, the Nurse-in-Charge. There was generally a First Reader or so under Miss McCarthy's care, and the two young women were great friends. "I was going to send for you," Miss McCarthy began when they had moved a little away from the door. "You've sent us a good many queer cases, but _what_ do you call your latest?" "That's a Russian Prince of high degree," said Teacher. "Yes, he looked like one," laughed the nurse. "But you should see him now that he's washed. He's really not burned at all," she amplified. "Shock, a little; hunger, more; dirt, most." "But do you realize what I tell you? He's a Russian Prince. An Ambassador and a Consul or two have come to fetch him. They're down in the reception room, and I came up to make sure that you had him. I don't know what they would have done to me if I had lost him again." "Oh! we have him," Miss McCarthy assured her when she had heard a few more details of Miss Bailey's story, and had been properly impressed thereby. "He's there in the third bed on the left. You go right on in. I'll go down-stairs. They'll want me if he's going to be transferred." Upon the smooth pillow of the third bed there lay a mass of bright gold hair, gleaming even in the faint light of the shaded electric lamp. And the hair surrounded a little face whose every line and contour was beautified, exalted. Teacher turned, incredulous, to make sure that she was right, but the neighboring beds were empty. Only up at the far end of the ward were there other shaded lights and a gently watchful nurse. Teacher sat upon the chair by the bedside and watched the sleeping Fire-lighter. He moaned a little moan. Such a tired little moan! Ah, this everlasting barrier of speech! Oh, to have been able, now at the very last, to explain that she was not a demon actuated by cruelty! But she did not dare to wake him. She knew the effect which the mere sight of her would produce. And so the little Prince slept on until the big Prince came softly to his bedside. Miss Bailey rose and relinquished her chair. The big man noiselessly took her place, and she stood at the bed's foot. The man looked long and earnestly at the little sleeping face, then laid his hand on the soft hair and uttered a short name. Still asleep, the child answered. And very gently the man asked a question. Then the baby turned and opened his eyes. The man spoke again. The little voice answered him, and Miss Bailey left them alone together. She waited in the hall, and presently Prince Nicolai Sergieevitch Epifanoff joined her there. "You have been instrumental, under God," said he, "in preserving the succession of one of our noblest houses. That is the boy. From what he tells me I judge that the woman who stole him was of the Jewish race. That she intrusted him to the care of a friend who, with children of her own, was coming to America. I suppose she was to have reclaimed him here. We know why she did not. And we can only surmise that the other woman, not knowing the value of her hostage, either lost or deserted him. Of course he spent all his time and his baby ingenuity in trying to get away from her. We shall never know quite definitely. However, my dear young lady, we have him! And in the name of the great country for which I am authorized to speak, I thank you. Russia will remember your name and your great service when other gratitude which now protests itself to you more vehemently has quite died away." "But," said Constance Bailey, "I have not yet heard the true name of my little Fire-lighter." "Ah! that," said suave Prince Sergieevitch, "is a thing of which even I am not authorized to speak. Your service was to the Nation." Some months later Miss Bailey visited the Russian Consulate again. Her presence had been formally requested, and the Consul was formally awaiting her. The friendly Vice-Consul was in attendance, and Madame Consul lent her genial presence to the occasion. They purred congratulations; the whole staff was summoned, and the Consul made a short address, which produced great enthusiasm in the audience. He then pinned a scrap of red ribbon into the button-hole of Miss Bailey's jacket, and handed her a small white leather box. Inside was a gem-encircled miniature--gorgeous and blazing as the sunshine broke upon it. The gentle-faced Empress of all the Russias smiled sadly out at Constance Bailey, and on the reverse, still in diamonds, was the inscription: "For Service." FRIENDS "My mamma," reported Morris Mowgelewsky, choosing a quiet moment during a writing period to engage his teacher's attention, "my mamma likes you shall come on mine house for see her." "Very well, dear," answered Miss Bailey with a patience born of many such messages from the parents of her small charges. "I think I shall have time to go this afternoon." "My mamma," Morris began again, "she says I shall tell you 'scuse how she don't sends you no letter. She couldn't to send no letter the while her eyes ain't healthy." "I am sorry to hear that," said Teacher, with a little stab of regret for her prompt acceptance of Mrs. Mowgelewsky's invitation; for of all the ailments which the children shared so generously with their teacher, Miss Bailey had learned to dread most the many and painful disorders of the eye. She knew, however, that Mrs. Mowgelewsky was not one of those who utter unnecessary cries for help, being in this regard, as in many others, a striking contrast to the majority of parents with whom Miss Bailey came in contact. To begin with, Mrs. Mowgelewsky had but one child--her precious, only Morris. In addition to this singularity she was thrifty and neat, intensely self-respecting and independent of spirit, and astonishingly outspoken of mind. She neither shared nor understood the gregarious spirit which bound her neighbors together and is the lubricant which makes East Side crowding possible without bloodshed. No groups of chattering, gesticulating matrons ever congregated in her Monroe Street apartment. No love of gossip ever held her on street corners or on steps. She nourished few friendships and fewer acquaintanceships, and she welcomed no haphazard visitor. Her hospitalities were as serious as her manner; her invitations as deliberate as her slow English speech. And Miss Bailey, as she and the First Readers followed the order of studies laid down for them, found herself, again and again, trying to imagine what the days would be to Mrs. Mowgelewsky if her keen, shrewd eyes were to be darkened and useless. At three o'clock she set out with Morris, leaving the Board of Monitors to set Room 18 to rights with no more direct supervision than an occasional look and word from the stout Miss Blake, whose kingdom lay just across the hall. And as she hurried through the early cold of a November afternoon, her forebodings grew so lugubrious that she was almost relieved at last to learn that Mrs. Mowgelewsky's complaint was a slow-forming cataract, and her supplication, that Miss Bailey would keep a watchful eye upon Morris while his mother was at the hospital undergoing treatment and operation. "But of course," Miss Bailey agreed, "I shall be delighted to do what I can, Mrs. Mowgelewsky, though it seems to me that one of the neighbors----" "Neighbors!" snorted the matron; "what you think the neighbors make mit mine little boy? They got four, five dozens childrens theirselves. They ain't got no time for look on Morris. They come maybe in mine house und break mine dishes, und rubber on what is here, und set by mine furniture und talks. What do they know over takin' care on mine house? They ain't ladies. They is educated only on the front. Me, I was raised private and expensive in Russia. I was ladies. Und you ist ladies. You ist Krisht--that is too bad--but that makes mit me nothings. I wants _you_ shall look on Morris." "But I can't come here and take care of him," Miss Bailey pointed out. "You see that yourself, don't you, Mrs. Mowgelewsky? I am sorry as I can be about your eyes, and I hope with all my heart that the operation will be successful. But I shouldn't have time to come here and take care of things." "That ain't how mine mamma means," Morris explained. He was leaning against Teacher and stroking her muff as he spoke. "Mine mamma means the money." "That ist what I means," said Mrs. Mowgelewsky, nodding her ponderous head until her quite incredible wig slipped back and forth up on it. "Morris needs he shall have money. He could to fix the house so good like I can. He don't needs no neighbors rubberin'. He could to buy what he needs on the store. But ten cents a day he needs. His papa works by Harlem. He is got fine jobs, und he gets fine moneys, but he couldn't to come down here for take care of Morris. Und the doctor he says I shall go _now_ on the hospital. Und any way," she added sadly, "I ain't no good; I couldn't to see things. He says I shall lay in the hospital three weeks, maybe--that is twenty-one days--und for Morris it is two dollars und ten cents. I got the money." And she fumbled for her purse in various hiding-places about her ample person. "And you want me to be banker," cried Miss Bailey; "to keep the money and give Morris ten cents a day--is that it?" "Sure," answered Mrs. Mowgelewsky. "It's a awful lot of money," grieved Morris. "Ten cents a day is a awful lot of money for one boy." "No, no, my golden one," cried his mother. "It is but right that thou shouldst have plenty of money, und thy teacher, a Christian lady, though honest--und what neighbor is honest?--will give thee ten cents every morning. Behold, I pay the rent before I go, und with the rent paid und with ten cents a day thou wilt live like a landlord." "Yes, yes," Morris broke in, evidently repeating some familiar warning, "und every day I will say mine prayers und wash me the face, und keep the neighbors out, und on Thursdays und on Sundays I shall go on the hospital for see you." "And on Saturdays," broke in Miss Bailey, "you will come to my house and spend the day with me. He's too little, Mrs. Mowgelewsky, to go to the synagogue alone." "That could be awful nice," breathed Morris. "I likes I shall go on your house. I am lovin' much mit your dog." "How?" snorted his mother. "Dogs! Dogs ain't nothing only foolishness. They eats something fierce, und they don't works." "That iss how mine mamma thinks," Morris hastened to explain, lest the sensitive feelings of his Lady Paramount should suffer. "But mine mamma she never seen _your_ dog. He iss a awful nice dog; I am lovin' much mit him." "I don't needs I shall see him," said Mrs. Mowgelewsky, somewhat tartly. "I seen, already, lots from dogs. Don't you go make no foolishness mit him. Don't you go und get chawed off of him." "Of course not, of course not," Miss Bailey hastened to assure her; "he will only play with Rover if I should be busy or unable to take him out with me. He'll be safer at my house than he would be on the streets, and you wouldn't expect him to stay in the house all day." After more parley and many warnings the arrangement was completed. Miss Bailey was intrusted with two dollars and ten cents, and the censorship of Morris. A day or so later Mrs. Mowgelewsky retired, indomitable, to her darkened room in the hospital, and the neighbors were inexorably shut out of her apartment. All their offers of help, all their proffers of advice were politely refused by Morris, all their questions and visits politely dodged. And every morning Miss Bailey handed her Monitor of the Gold Fish Bowl his princely stipend, adding to it from time to time some fruit or other uncontaminated food, for Morris was religiously the strictest of the strict, and could have given cards and spades to many a minor rabbi on the intricacies of Kosher law. The Saturday after his mother's departure Morris spent in the enlivening companionship of the antiquated Rover, a collie who no longer roved farther than his own back yard, and who accepted Morris's frank admiration with a noble condescension and a few rheumatic gambols. Miss Bailey's mother was also hospitable, and her sister did what she could to amuse the quaint little child with the big eyes, the soft voice, and the pretty foreign manners. But Morris preferred Rover to any of them, except perhaps the cook, who allowed him to prepare a luncheon for himself after his own little rites. Everything had seemed so pleasant and so successful that Miss Bailey looked upon a repetition of this visit as a matter of course, and was greatly surprised on the succeeding Friday afternoon when the Monitor of the Gold Fish Bowl said that he intended to spend the next day at home. "Oh, no!" she remonstrated, "you mustn't stay at home. I'm going to take you out to the Park and we are going to have all kinds of fun. Wouldn't you rather go and see the lions and the elephants with me than stay at home all by yourself?" For some space Morris was a prey to silence, then he managed by a consuming effort: "I ain't by mineself." "Has your father come home?" said Teacher. "No, ma'am." "And surely it's not a neighbor. You remember what your mother said about the neighbors, how you were not to let them in." "It ain't neighbors," said Morris. "Then who--?" began Miss Bailey. Morris raised his eyes to hers, his beautiful, black, pleading eyes, praying for the understanding and the sympathy which had never failed him yet. "It's a friend," he answered. "Nathan Spiderwitz?" she asked. Morris shook his head, and gave Teacher to understand that the Monitor of the Window Boxes came under the ban of neighbor. "Well, who is it, dearest?" she asked again. "Is it any one that I know?" "No, ma'am." "None of the boys in the school?" "No, ma'am." "Have you known him long?" "No, ma'am." "Does your mother know him?" "Oh, Teacher, _no_, ma'am! mine mamma don't know him." "Well, where did you meet him?" "Teacher, on the curb. Over yesterday on the night," Morris began, seeing that explanation was inevitable. "I lays on mine bed, und I thinks how mine mamma has got a sickness, und how mine papa is by Harlem, und how I ain't got nobody beside of me. Und, Teacher, it makes me cold in mine heart. So I couldn't to lay no more, so I puts me on mit mine clothes some more, und I goes by the street the while peoples is there, und I needs I shall see peoples. So I sets by the curb, und mine heart it go und it go so I couldn't to feel how it go in mine inside. Und I thinks on my mamma, how I seen her mit bangages on the face, und mine heart it goes some more. Und, Teacher, Missis Bailey, I cries over it." "Of course you did, honey," said Teacher, putting her arm about him. "Poor, little, lonely chap! Of course you cried." "Teacher, yiss, ma'am; it ain't fer boys they shall cry, but I cries over it. Und soon something touches me by mine side, und I turns und mine friend he was sittin' by side of me. Und he don't say _nothings_, Teacher; no, ma'am; he don't say nothings, only he looks on me, und in his eyes stands tears. So that makes me better in mine heart, und I don't cries no more. I sets und looks on mine friend, und mine friend he sets und looks on me mit smilin' looks. So I goes by mine house, und mine friend he comes by mine house, too, und I lays by mine bed, und mine friend he lays by mine side. Und all times in that night sooner I open mine eyes und thinks on how mine mamma is got a sickness, und mine papa is by Harlem, mine friend he is by mine side, und I don't cries. I don't cries never no more the whiles mine friend is by me. Und I couldn't to go on your house to-morrow the whiles I don't know if mine friend likes Rover." "Of course he'd like him," cried Miss Bailey. "Rover would play with him just as he plays with you." "No, ma'am," Morris maintained; "mine friend is too little for play mit Rover." "Is he such a little fellow?" "Yiss, ma'am; awful little." "And has he been with you ever since the day before yesterday?" "Teacher, yiss, ma'am." "Does he seem to be happy and all right?" "Teacher, yiss, ma'am." "But," asked Miss Bailey, suddenly practical, "what does the poor little fellow eat? Of course ten cents would buy a _lot_ of food for one boy, but not so very much for two." "Teacher, no, ma'am," says Morris; "it ain't so very much." "Well, then," said Miss Bailey, "suppose I give you twenty cents a day as long as a little strange friend is with you." "That could to be awful nice," Morris agreed; "und, Missis Bailey," he went on, "sooner you don't needs all yours lunch mine friend could eat it, maybe." "Oh, I'm so sorry," she cried; "it's ham to-day." "That don't make nothings mit mine friend," said Morris; "he likes ham." "Now, Morris," said Miss Bailey very gravely, as all the meanings of this announcement spread themselves before her, "this is a very serious thing. You know how your mother feels about strangers, and you know how she feels about Christians, and what will she say to you--and what will she say to me--when she hears that a strange little Christian is living with you? Of course, dearie, I know it's nice for you to have company, and I know that you must be dreadfully lonely in the long evenings, but I'm afraid your mother will not be pleased to think of your having somebody to stay with you. Wouldn't you rather come to my house and live there all the time until your mother is better? You know," she added as a crowning inducement, "Rover is there." But Morris betrayed no enthusiasm. "I guess," said he, "I ain't lovin' so awful much mit Rover. He iss too big. I am likin' little dogs mit brown eyes, what walks by their legs und carries things by their mouths. Did you ever see dogs like that?" "In the circus," answered Teacher. "Where did you see them?" "A boy by our block," answered Morris, "is got one. He is lovin' much mit that dog und that dog is lovin' much mit him." "Well, now, perhaps you could teach Rover to walk on his hind legs, and carry things in his mouth," suggested Teacher; "and as for this new little Christian friend of yours----" "I don't know _be_ he a Krisht," Morris admitted with reluctant candor; "he ain't said nothin' over it to me. On'y a Irisher lady what lives by our house, she says mine friend is a Irisher." "Very well, dear; then of course he's a Christian," Miss Bailey assured him, "and I shan't interfere with you to-morrow--you may stay at home and play with him. But we can't let it go on, you know. This kind of thing never would do when your mother comes back from the hospital. She might not want your friend in the house. Have you thought of that at all, Morris? You must make your friend understand it." "I tells him," Morris promised; "I don't know can he understand. He's pretty little, only that's how I tells him all times." "Then tell him once again, honey," Miss Bailey advised, "and make him understand that he must go back to his own people as soon as your mother is well. Where are his own people? I can't understand how any one so little could be wandering about with no one to take care of him." "Teacher, I'm takin' care of him," Morris pointed out. All that night and all the succeeding day Miss Bailey's imagination reverted again and again to the two little ones keeping house in Mrs. Mowgelewsky's immaculate apartment. Even increasing blindness had not been allowed to interfere with sweeping and scrubbing and dusting, and when Teacher thought of that patient matron, as she lay in her hospital cot trusting so securely to her Christian friend's guardianship of her son and home, she fretted herself into feeling that it was her duty to go down to Monroe Street and investigate. There was at first no sound when, after climbing endless stairs, she came to Mrs. Mowgelewsky's door. But as the thumping of the heart and the singing in her ears abated somewhat, she detected Morris's familiar treble. "Bread," it said, "iss awful healthy for you, only you dasn't eat it 'out chewin'. I never in my world seen how you eats." Although the words were admonitory, they lost all didactic effect by the wealth of love and tenderness which sang in the voice. There was a note of happiness in it, too, a throb of pure enjoyment quite foreign to Teacher's knowledge of this sad-eyed little charge of hers. She rested against the door frame, and Morris went on: "I guess you don't know what iss polite. You shall better come on the school, und Miss Bailey could to learn you what iss polite and healthy fer you. No, you couldn't to have no meat! No, _sir_! No, _ma'am_! You couldn't to have no meat 'til I cuts it fer you. You could to, maybe, make yourself a sickness und a bashfulness." Miss Bailey put her hand on the door and it yielded noiselessly to her touch, and revealed to her guardian eyes her ward and his little friend. They were seated _vis-à-vis_ at the table; everything was very neat and clean and most properly set out. A little lamp was burning clearly. Morris's hair was parted for about an inch back from his forehead and sleeked wetly down upon his brow. The guest had evidently undergone similar preparation for the meal. Each had a napkin tied around his neck, and as Teacher watched them, Morris carefully prepared his guest's dinner, while the guest, an Irish terrier, with quick eyes and one down-flopped ear, accepted his admonishings with a good-natured grace, and watched him with an adoring and confiding eye. The guest was first to detect the stranger's presence. He seized a piece of bread in his teeth, jumped to the ground, and walking up to Teacher on his hind legs, hospitably dropped the refreshment at her feet. "Oh! Teacher! Teacher!" cried Morris, half in dismay at discovery, and half in joy that this so sure confidant should share his secret and appreciate his friend. "Oh! Teacher! Missis Bailey! this is the friend what I was telling you over. See how he walks on his feet! See how he has got smilin' looks! See how he carries somethings by his teeth! All times he makes like that. Rover, he don't carries nothin's, und gold fishes, they ain't got no feet even. On'y Izzie could to make them things." "Oh, is his name Izzie?" asked Miss Bailey, grasping at this conversational straw and shaking the paw which the stranger was presenting to her. "And this is the friend you told me about? You let me think," she chided, with as much severity as Morris had shown to his Izzie, "that he was a boy." "I had a 'fraid," said the Monitor of the Gold Fish Bowl frankly. So had Teacher as she reviewed the situation from Mrs. Mowgelewsky's chair of state, and watched the friends at supper. It was a revelation of solicitude on one side, and patient gratitude on the other. Morris ate hardly anything, and was soon at Teacher's knee--Izzie was in her lap--discussing ways and means. He refused to entertain any plan which would separate him immediately from Izzie, but he was at last brought to see the sweet reasonableness of preparing his mother's mind by degrees to accept another member to the family. "Und he eats," his protector was forced to admit--"he eats somethin' fierce, Missis Bailey; as much like a man he eats. Und my mamma, I don't know what will she say. She won't leave me I shall keep him; from long I had a little bit of a dog, und she wouldn't to leave me I should keep _him_, und he didn't eat so much like Izzie eats, neither." "And _I_ can't very well keep him," said Miss Bailey sadly, "because, you see, there is Rover. Rover mightn't like it. But there is one thing I can do: I'll keep him for a few days when your mother comes back, and then we'll see, you and I, if we can persuade her to let you have him always." "She wouldn't never to do it," said Morris sadly. "That other dog, didn't I told you how he didn't eat so much like Izzie, and she wouldn't to leave me have him. That's a cinch." "Oh! don't say that word, dear," cried Teacher. "And we can only try. We'll do our very, very best." This guilty secret had a very dampening effect upon the joy with which Morris watched for his mother's recovery. Upon the day set for her return, he was a miserable battle-field of love and duty. Early in the morning Izzie had been transferred to Miss Bailey's yard. Rover was chained to his house, Izzie was tied to the wall at a safe distance from him, and they proceeded to make the day hideous for the whole neighborhood. Morris remained at home to greet his mother, received her encomiums, cooked the dinner, and set out for afternoon school with a heavy heart and a heavier conscience. Nothing had occurred in those first hours to show any change in Mrs. Mowgelewsky's opinion of home pets; rather she seemed, in contrast to the mild and sympathetic Miss Bailey, more than ever dictatorial and dogmatic. At a quarter after three, the gold fish having received perfunctory attention, and the Board of Monitors being left again to do their worst, unguarded, Morris and Teacher set out to prepare Mrs. Mowgelewsky's mind for the adoption of Izzie. They found it very difficult. Mrs. Mowgelewsky, restored of vision, was so hospitable, so festive in her elephantine manner, so loquacious and so self-congratulatory, that it was difficult to insert even the tiniest conversational wedge into the structure of her monologue. Finally Miss Bailey managed to catch her attention upon financial matters. "You gave me," she said, "two dollars and ten cents, and Morris has managed so beautifully that he has not used it all, and has five cents to return to you. He's a very wonderful little boy, Mrs. Mowgelewsky," she added, smiling at her favorite to give him courage. "He iss a good boy," Mrs. Mowgelewsky admitted. "Don't you get lonesome sometimes by yourself here, huh?" "Well," said Miss Bailey, "he wasn't always alone." "No?" queried the matron with a divided attention. She was looking for her purse, in which she wished to stow Morris's surplus. "No," said Teacher; "I was here once or twice. And then a little friend of his----" "Friend!" the mother repeated with a glare; "was friends here in mine house?" Miss Bailey began a purposely vague reply, but Mrs. Mowgelewsky was not listening to her. She had searched the pockets of the gown she wore, then various other hiding-places in the region of its waist line, then a large bag of mattress covering which she wore under her skirt. Ever hurriedly and more hurriedly she repeated this performance two or three times, and then proceeded to shake and wring the out-door clothing which she had worn that morning. "Gott!" she broke out at last, "mine Gott! mine Gott! it don't stands." And she began to peer about the floor with eyes not yet quite adjusted. Morris easily recognized the symptoms. "She's lost her pocket-book," he told Miss Bailey. "Yes, I lost it," wailed Mrs. Mowgelewsky, and then the whole party participated in the search. Over and under the furniture, the carpets, the bed, the stove, over and under everything in the apartment went Mrs. Mowgelewsky and Morris. All the joy of home-coming and of well-being was darkened and blotted out by this new calamity. And Mrs. Mowgelewsky beat her breast and tore her hair, and Constance Bailey almost wept in sympathy. But the pocket-book was gone, absolutely gone, though Mrs. Mowgelewsky called Heaven and earth to witness that she had had it in her hand when she came in. Another month's rent was due; the money to pay it was in the pocket-book. Mr. Mowgelewsky had visited his wife on Sunday, and had given her all his earnings as some salve to the pain of her eyes. Eviction, starvation, every kind of terror and disaster were thrown into Mrs. Mowgelewsky's wailing, and Morris proved an able second to his mother. Miss Bailey was doing frantic bookkeeping in her charitable mind, and was wondering how much of the loss she might replace. She was about to suggest as a last resort that a search should be made of the dark and crannied stairs, where a purse, if the Fates were very, very kind, might lie undiscovered for hours when a dull scratching made itself heard through the general lamentation. It came from a point far down on the panel of the door, and the same horrible conviction seized upon Morris and upon Miss Bailey at the same moment. Mrs. Mowgelewsky in her frantic round had approached the door for the one-hundredth time, and with eyes and mind far removed from what she was doing, she turned the handle. And entered Izzie, beautifully erect upon his hind legs, with a yard or two of rope trailing behind him, and a pocket-book fast in his teeth. Blank, pure surprise took Mrs. Mowgelewsky for its own. She staggered back into a chair, fortunately of heavy architecture, and stared at the apparition before her. Izzie came daintily in, sniffed at Morris, sniffed at Miss Bailey, sniffed at Mrs. Mowgelewsky's ample skirts, identified her as the owner of the pocket-book, laid it at her feet, and extended a paw to be shaken. "Mine Gott!" said Mrs. Mowgelewsky, "what for a dog iss that?" She counted her wealth, shook Izzie's paw, and then stooped forward, gathered him into her large embrace, and cried like a baby. "Mine Gott! Mine Gott!" she wailed again, and although she spent five minutes in apparent effort to evolve another and more suitable remark, her research met with no greater success than the addition: "He ain't a dog at all; he iss friends." Miss Bailey had been sent to an eminently good college, and had been instructed long and hard in psychology, so that she knew the psychologic moment when she met it. She now arose with congratulations and farewells. Mrs. Mowgelewsky arose also with Izzie still in her arms. She lavished endearments upon him and caresses upon his short black nose, and Izzie received them all with enthusiastic gratitude. "And I think," said Miss Bailey in parting, "that you had better let that dog come with me. He seems a nice enough little thing, quiet, gentle, and very intelligent. He can live in the yard with Rover." [Illustration: She staggered back into a chair, fortunately of heavy architecture, and stared at the apparition before her] Morris turned his large eyes from one to another of his rulers, and Izzie, also good at psychologic moments, stretched out a pointed pink tongue and licked Mrs. Mowgelewsky's cheek. "This dog," said that lady majestically, "iss mine. Nobody couldn't never to have him. When I was in mine trouble, was it mans or was it ladies what takes und gives me mine money back? No! Was it neighbors? No! Was it you, Miss Teacher, mine friend? No! It was that dog. Here he stays mit me. Morris, my golden one, you wouldn't to have no feelin's 'bout mamma havin' dogs? You wouldn't to have mads?" "No, ma'am," responded her obedient son; "Missis Bailey she says it's _fer_ boys they should make all things what is lovin' mit cats und dogs und horses." "Goot," said his mother; "I guess, maybe, that ain't such a foolishness." It was not until nearly bedtime that Mrs. Mowgelewsky reverted to that part of Miss Bailey's conversation immediately preceding the discovery of the loss of the purse. "So-o-oh, my golden one," she began, lying back in her chair with Izzie on her lap--"so-o-oh, you had friends by the house when mamma was by hospital." "On'y one," Morris answered faintly. "Well, I ain't scoldin'," said his mother. "Where iss your friend? I likes I shall look on him. Ain't he comin' round to-night?" "No, ma'am," answered Morris, settling himself at her side, and laying his head close to his friend. "He couldn't to go out by nights the while he gets adopted off of a lady." THE MAGIC CAPE The heart of the janitor of an East Side school is not commonly supposed to be a tender organ. And yet to Miss Bailey, busy with roll-books and the average attendance of First Readers, there entered the janitor with an air half apologetic, half defiant. There was snow upon the janitor's cap and little icicles upon his red mustache, for a premature blizzard had closed down upon New York during the last days of November. "Well, Mr. McGrath, what can I do for you?" asked Miss Bailey pleasantly, for McGrath was the true despot of the school, controlling light and air and heat and cold, and his good-will was a thing worth having. "I just stepped in," answered this kindly god of the machine, "to pass the remark that there's one of your children, a girl what oughtn't to be left down in the yard with the others, waiting for the bell to ring and let them up. She ain't dressed for it." "So few of them are," said Miss Bailey sadly. "I wish you could send them all straight up here instead of lining them up in the cold. Some of them are so determined to be in time that they have to wait down there for ten or fifteen minutes." "I know they do," the janitor acquiesced. "But I can't let them all up. But this little girl I'm telling you about--you know her--she wears a blue gingham dress, and"--he dropped his voice to confidential pitch--"and mighty little else as I can see." "Yes, yes," said Miss Bailey, "that is Becky Zabrowsky." "Well, I could pass _her_ right straight up to you here where it's warm. I'm a married man myself, and I've got kids of my own, so I guess you'll excuse me butting in on this." "But I shall be very grateful to you," cried Teacher. "It breaks my heart to see her. And she comes dressed just as you say, whatever the weather may be." After a few professional questions as to heating and sweeping, after taking the temperature of the radiators with a thermometric hand, and examining their valves, the janitor withdrew, and when Miss Bailey reached Room 18 on the next morning, Becky Zabrowsky, as blue of lips and fingers as of vesture, was waiting for her. And indeed her costume gave cause for pity, even as her smile and her bravery gave cause for tears. Besides the gingham dress referred to by the janitor, she wore a pair of black and pink stockings, of mature growth and many holes, flapping adult shoes with all the buttons gone, and a hair ribbon which had begun life as a bandage. That was all. But she was clean. And her self-respect made her seven years as high a barrier against patronage as though they had been seventy. She was as proudly and as sensitively on her guard as though she were an old marquise fallen upon evil days, and obliged to give lessons in French or die, and who was restrained from the bitter and pleasanter alternative only by religion. Miss Bailey was accustomed to more normal children. As a rule her little First Readers took all that was offered to them, and a good deal that was not. Their consumption of Kindergarten materials--colored paper, colored sticks, chalks, pencils, books--anything which could be cached upon the human body--was colossal, and only an eagle eye and a large corps of subsidized monitors kept the balance true between the number of "young learners" and the number of readers. But this particular little Becky had none of these taking ways. Had she been like other Beckies and Rachels, Miss Bailey would have bought her a little shawl and a few suits of underwear. With this particular Becky such a liberty was out of the question. Teacher had encountered the Zabrowsky spirit once, and had been defeated by it. That had been upon the question of lunch. Teacher had noticed that Becky frequently remained at school during the luncheon hour, but that she never ate anything. Other little girls sometimes urged refreshment upon her in vain. Miss Bailey, wise by this time in the laws of kosher and of traff, the clean and the unclean, according to Mosaic dietary laws, suggested a glass of milk at a neighboring dairy, or a roll from the delicatessen shop across the street. Any one of her charges would starve cheerfully to death or at the hospital ward before they would touch any of her food. She was a Christian, and though they loved her, learned from her, and honored her, they, like Shylock of old, would not eat with her. And Becky Zabrowsky, adding pride unto faith, and manners unto both, would smile her heart-breaking smile, shake her bandage-bowed head, and go on starving. "Teacher, I tells you s'cuse, I don't needs I shall eat," was her always courteous answer. And not all Miss Bailey's tact or wiles could prevail against it. It was at about this time that Miss Bailey in her unofficial capacity accepted an invitation to a costume dance. Looking through old trunks and long-neglected shelves, she came upon a little tight-fitting shoulder cape of prehistoric date and fashion. It was such a cape as you can find in some of Du Maurier's drawings. It pinned the wearer's arms to her side, it gagged her tightly around the throat, it was of velvet, and its color was royal blue. Constance Bailey, peering back into the dim vista of the years, could remember the pride and happiness which she had felt when her over-indulgent grandmother had given her, then a child of about twelve, this gorgeous garment. She could remember how it had dwarfed and faded the rest of her wardrobe, how she had wept to wear it upon all possible and impossible occasions, and how tragic had been the moment when it refused to meet across her loving breast. Here, she thought triumphantly, was something before which the Zabrowsky spirit would break down. It did not in any way suggest the useful, serviceable, humiliating, charitable devotion. It was gay and festive, palpably a gift, and Teacher, with many misgivings but some hope, submitted it to Becky's consideration. She represented that she had herself outgrown it, that she had no costume with which it could appropriately be worn, that it was menaced by moths, a prey to creases, and a responsibility under which she could no longer find peace or security. Under the circumstances, she pleaded, would Becky relieve her of it? And Becky was delighted, translated, enchanted. She would never allow that cape to hang with the ordinary outdoor apparel of the other members of the class. It rested in her desk when she was busy, and she lulled it in her arms when she was not. Before coming into this shining fortune she had been rather looked down upon by other members of the class, and had avoided publicity in every possible way. She had with chattering teeth and livid lips assured her more warmly clad classmates that she was "all times too hot on the skin," and that her mamma considered her Sunday coat too stylish to wear at school. But, girded in blue velvet, she was another child. Once the most retiring of the class, she now became the least so. Once the most studious, she now yearned to be sent on outpost duty, on small shopping expeditions for her teacher, to the Principal's office, or to other class rooms with notes or with new students. And upon all these expeditions she wore an air of conscious correctness and the royal-blue velvet cape. She had once been the most truthful of small persons, but the glory of the cape tinged everything, and she allowed the other children to infer--nay, she even definitely stated--that this was the Sunday coat earlier referred to, and that she was wearing it to school because it had been superseded by another even more wonderful. Her auditors were too impressed to be unconvinced, and, to cover her very literal nakedness in every other respect, she invented for herself an entirely new disease. "Say, Becky," one of the little girls in her class asked her, "don't you never put yourself on mit underwear nor underclothes? Ain't you scared you should to get cold in your bones? My mamma, she puts me on mit all from wool underwear--costs twenty-seven cents a suit by Grand Street--and I puts them on when the school opens, and I don't takes them off to the fourth of July." "Oh," retorted Becky, with more truth than she knew, "it ain't so awful healthy you should make like that. My mamma says it is healthy for me the wind shall come on my skin. She says sooner no wind comes outside of your skin, no blood could go inside of your skin. And don't you know how teacher says what somebody what ain't got blood going in them is dead ones?" "Und you _likes_," marvelled her friend, "you _likes_ the wind shall blow on you?" "Sure," lied Becky, with a shiver, and she certainly had her wish. But these appearances were only kept up for the eyes of the common herd. In the sanctuary of Teacher's confidence she was more unreserved, and whenever she could secure that young lady's kind ear, she bombarded it with gratitude and with reports of the impression made in the neighborhood of her one-roomed home by the shining splendor of that precious gift. "Sooner I comes on mine house," she reported, "sooner all the ladies opens the doors and rubbers on mine cape. Sooner I walks by my block all the children wants I shall let them wear it. Only I won't let nobody wear it the while it is a present off of you." "That's very nice of you," smiled Miss Bailey, not surprised at this new delicacy of feeling in so small and unfortunate and sorely tried a heart. "Very nice of you indeed." "Sure I won't let anybody wear it," reiterated Becky, "not 'out they pays me a penny for walkin' up and down the block, and two cents for walkin' all round the block mit mine stylish from-plush cape." "Of course not," Teacher agreed, hastily adjusting herself to this standard of right dealing. "No, ma'am," said Becky. "I should never leave nobody have nothings what you gives me 'out they pays me good. The lady of our floor, she goes on a dancing-ball over yesterday, and she wants I shall leave her put her on mit mine cape--she's a awful little lady--only she don't wants she shall pay me. Und so I ain't let her take it, the while you gives it to me, and I am loving much mit you." A teacher who gains the confidence of her small charges, even to a slight degree, is sure to be made familiar with their family history unto the third or fourth generation. And so Teacher knew that the poverty of Becky's home life was embittered and made even harder to bear by the contrasting elegance of an aunt, who lived, amid rank and fashion, in the "tony" purlieus of Cherry Street. Her abode consisted, according to her smarting small relative, of "a room and a closet," a lavish and extravagant area for a household as small as hers. "Why," Becky informed Miss Bailey, with upturned palms, upscrewed shoulders, and upturned eyes, "my aunt, she ain't got only five children and three boarders!" It had been the habit of this rich and fashionable dame to pay visits of state and ceremony to her less fortunate sister-in-law, whose abode differed from hers only by the subtraction of the room. There, in the chaste consciousness of an incredible wig and an impenetrable shawl, she would monopolize many hundreds of cubic feet of space and air; indulge in conversations of the elegant and fashionable kind, which, so Becky reported to her teacher, "makes the tears in my mamma's eyes, and gives my papa shamed feelings," and caused an epidemic of ill-temper, with resulting slaps and kicks and yelling among her nephews and nieces. "And what you think?" Becky had sadly added; "she says like that all times on my mamma, out of Jewish, she says: 'Why don't you never come over for see me?' Und my mamma, she says all times, mit more tears in the eyes--bend down your head, Teacher. I likes I shall whisper mit you in your ear--she couldn't come the whiles she ain't got nothing she could wear on the block. My papa has fierce feelings over it. He says like that, his sister--that's my aunt--is awful nosy." Teacher often pondered as to whether it were possible, or even desirable, to provide the means to more frequent intercourse between the two families. She knew that this would mean shopping; that any article of her own apparel, or that of any of her friends, would be inadequate to enshroud the matronly form of Becky's mother, for years of confinement to the house, years of sedentary occupation, and years of ill-considered and ill-adapted diet had co-operated to produce almost geographical outlines in Mrs. Zabrowsky. Mountains, valleys, promontories, and plains seemed the terms most suitable to describe her, and she looked about as movable as these natural formations. Teacher thought of waiting until Christmas time, and of then doing something anonymously. Meanwhile the episode of the cape occurred, and some weeks later Becky reported with triumph: "Teacher, what you think?" this was always her opening phrase; "my stylish aunt by Cherry Street, she goes and has a party, und my papa he goes on the party, und my mamma, she goes by my papa's side." "Then she bought a shawl," cried Teacher. "I am ever and ever so glad." Becky shook her head. "No, ma'am, she don't needs she shall buy no shawl. She puts her on mit mine blue from-plush cape." A vision of Becky's mother rose before Teacher's eyes, flanked by another of the tiny cape, and she laughed. "But that is impossible, my dear. She couldn't." "Teacher, she does." "But, Becky," cried Teacher, "how could she? You know that the cape is too small for me, and it is only the right size for you, and you know your mamma is twice as big as both of us. So how could she wear it, dear? It never could have hooked up the front." "No, ma'am, it didn't hook," Becky admitted. "My mamma's back needs the most of it, und in front it don't fits very good, only that makes mit my mamma nothings. She goes on my nosy auntie's party mit proud feelings, the while she knows how her back is stylish. Und in the front where the cape don't goes, my mamma, she wears my little sister." "What!" gasped my friend. "What did you say she wore in the front?" "She wears the baby," Becky repeated. "Und my nosy auntie's awful fresh. She says like that on my mamma: 'Don't you likes you shall lay the baby down by the bed?' She says like that, the while she knows my mamma ain't got capes only in back, und she wants my mamma shall have shamed feelings before all the peoples what is on the party. Und my mamma, she says like that, just as smart, she says: 'No, I guess I don't likes I shall lay my baby on no strange beds. It ain't healthy, maybe.' And she holds the baby, and nobody knows how the front from that cape is, und my mamma enjoyed a pleasant time, and my papa had a proud." "BAILEY'S BABIES" "Miss Bailey," said Miss Blake, entering Room 18 during the lunch hour of a day in January, shortly after school had recovered from the Christmas holidays, "might I come in for a few moments this afternoon to observe your children? I suppose I shall be having them next term. Too bad you first-grade teachers never know what you are going to get down here! It's different up town, where the kids nearly all go to kindergarten. Down here they sweep them right in off the street." Miss Bailey extended a cordial invitation to her colleague and neighbor to visit Room 18 at any convenient hour. And as she proceeded with her solitary luncheon, she was conscious of a heaviness in the region of her heart not due to indigestion. She had committed the folly of growing fond of that term's crop of little First Readers. Room 18 without Patrick Brennan, Morris Mowgelewsky, Eva Gonorowsky, and all her other aide-de-camps and monitors would be a desolate place. And Miss Bailey, as she munched a chicken sandwich, objected strongly to Miss Blake's expressive phrase, "sweep them right in off the street." Yet it was quite true. The children of whom she was now so fond had been swept in to her in September, and she remembered that a considerable portion of the street would seem to have been swept in with them. They had since learned the art of scraping their small shoes on intervening stairs and through intervening halls, but as recruits they had been all that she dreaded in their successors. Miss Blake would now reap the benefit of this and other improvements, while Miss Bailey devoted her energies to a new invoice of seedlings. Such, of course, was life. Especially a teacher's life. But Miss Bailey was new to her trade and had not yet learned the philosophic, impersonal view-point of the gardener. She loved her little plants individually, and she shrank from the idea of pulling them out of their places under the protecting glass of her care, and handing them over to the ministrations of another. The promise of new seedlings did not comfort her. She felt outraged by it, as a man bereaved of a fox terrier may feel toward the friend to whom a dog is a dog, and who boasts that he knows where he can get another worth two of the dear departed. In the afternoon Miss Blake appeared, and the unsuspecting First Readers were put through their paces. They sang, they marched, they read, and they wrote. They would have gone gallantly on through all the other subjects in their curriculum if she had found time to stay, but she had left Room 19 in charge of a monitor, and that monitor's inability to preserve order made itself heard through door and wall, so that presently she declared herself quite satisfied, and retired to her own kingdom. A deadly silence followed upon her arrival there. "They has awful 'fraids over her," Sarah Schodsky remarked. "A girl by her class tells me how she throws rulers once on a boy." "I'd have a 'fraid over her too," cried Yetta Aaronsohn. "I don't like I shall have no teachers what is big like that. I have all times 'fraids over big teachers." "You've never had one," laughed Miss Bailey, "so don't talk nonsense. Big teachers are much nicer than little ones." "They ain't fer me," Yetta maintained. "I ain't never had no teacher on'y you, and I don't needs I shall never have no teacher on'y you." From these conversational straws Miss Bailey gathered that it would be unwise to insist too strongly upon the personal element in "developing the promotion thought." Promotion had formed no part in the experience or the vocabulary of the First Readers Class before Miss Bailey somewhat guilefully introduced it. The children were delighted. They always loved things vague and looming, and Miss Bailey--animated by duty--spoke so enthusiastically of promotion that they all thrilled to experience it. The phrase, "when I'm 'moted," grew very fashionable. No one knew exactly what it meant, but it was something more imminent than the "when I'm big" of the boys, and the "when I git married" of the girls. It was something, too, in which one's prowess as a reader and writer was to count for righteousness; "For of course," Miss Bailey explained, "we can't expect to be promoted if we don't know how to read: 'see the leaves fall from the tree.'" (It was easier to read than to do in January on the lower East Side.) The First Readers were hardly daunted when they learned that a barrier, known as "zamnation," was to be stretched between them and the "'moted" state. "Zamnation," when first Miss Bailey pronounced it, caused something akin to panic in Room 18. It differed in no perceptible degree from a word which they all understood to be _taboo_ ever since Ikey Borrachsohn had addressed it, in the heat of argument, to a classmate. In the lower grades an examination does not greatly differ from an ordinary recitation, and so the First Readers, protected from stage fright by complete ignorance of what they were undergoing, passed the ordeal in triumph, and fell out at the other side victorious almost to a man, and First Readers never more. There came an afternoon when Miss Bailey, somewhat huskily, explained this to them. "Zamnation" was over. The fair pages of the Second Readers lay before them. In the morning they would be promoted. She was very proud of them. One or two children had not worked quite hard enough. They would have to try again, but the rank and file had achieved promotion, and she hoped they would be very happy, and they were to remember that she would always and ever be glad to see them, and glad to hear that they were good. The children who had taken their examinations so blandly, took their promotion in quite a different spirit. Miss Bailey, laboring as best she could with fifty little new-comers, could not be unaware of the disturbance--almost the tumult--on the other side of the wall. When ten-thirty brought the recess hour and she went down to the yard with her new responsibilities, the tumult met her there. "I don't likes it, und I don't needs that 'motion," cried Sarah Schodsky; "I likes I shall be by your room." "But you can't, honey. You're too big," said Miss Bailey. "You just stop crying for your lost youth and try to make the best of Room 19." "But we don't likes that room," cried Morris Mowgelewsky, ex-monitor of Miss Bailey's Gold Fish Bowl. "It don't stands no fish theaytre in it nor no flowers. Nathan Spiderwitz, he has awful mads over it" (Nathan Spiderwitz had been Monitor of Miss Bailey's window-boxes), "und Patrick Brennan says maybe his papa could to arrest Missis Blake. She says cheek on him. She calls him Irisher." "Oh, no!" remonstrated Miss Bailey. "Teacher, yiss ma'am, she says cheek," Morris maintained. "She says cheek on all of us; she says we is Bailey's Babies. She says it on Miss Rosen. Me und Nathan, we hears how she says on her. 'What you think I got?' she says on Miss Rosen, und Miss Rosen, she says, 'she don't knows,' und Missis Blake, she says, 'I got a bunch of Bailey's Babies.'" "Then you _must_ have been bad, Morris," Miss Bailey reproved him; "you must have been behaving like babies." "Teacher, no ma'am," Morris answered. "We don't make nothings like that. She makes Eva Gonorowsky und Yetta Aaronsohn shall stand in corners the whiles they cries. She says, 'What is mit them?' und they says, 'They likes they shall look upon your face,' und extra she stands them in corners. She is awful cross teachers! Und anyway, she's too big." Although Miss Bailey appreciated this tribute she could understand Miss Blake's failure to do so, and she explained to Morris that, upon pain of being instantly cast out from her heart of hearts, he must learn to love Miss Blake. But Morris had had a severe lesson in the perils of unrequited affection, and at the age of seven had formulated the axiom, "It's a foolishness you shall make what is lovin' mit somebody sooner somebody don't makes what is lovin' mit you," and Miss Bailey found it difficult to induce him to regard Miss Blake with affection. Other members of the former cabinet and staff were equally refractory, and at three o'clock every afternoon, save on the regrettably frequent occasions when Miss Blake was obliged to require their continued presence in Room 19, they flocked back to their old posts of duty. They fell upon the window-boxes, the aquarium, the pencils, and the blackboards with endearments and caresses, and they utterly swept away and annihilated the slow-footed new-comers whom Miss Bailey was trying to initiate in their duties. A clumsy boy named David Boskowitz had succeeded to the portfolio of Gold Fishes. Now a gold fish, even of eighteen-carat quality, is not warranted to endure the endearments and refreshments lavished upon it by fifty emotional members of a race whose ancestors once wandered to adoration of a Golden Calf. During Morris's tenure of office Miss Bailey had frequently been obliged to renew his charges. And some mysterious tragedy was played in the fish theatre one night shortly after David Boskowitz took office. Morris, slipping into Room 18 before school hours, to bestow a defunct carnation upon Teacher, found a gold fish floating, wrong side up, among the seaweed in the shining bowl. With howls he pointed it out to Miss Bailey. Together they retrieved it. Then Teacher wrapped it reverently in tissue paper and commissioned Morris to go forth and give it decent burial in the nearest ash barrel. But Morris did nothing of the kind. He carried it about with him for days, and stirred up sentiments of wildest revolution in the hot hearts of his contemporaries by showing them the limp body of their pet, foully done to death by "them new kids what Teacher had." Miss Blake found "Bailey's Babies" astonishingly unmanageable. The difficulty lay in the different conception of the art of teaching held by these two exponents. Miss Bailey, as has been said, was of the garden school. She regarded the children as plants, knowledge as water; her part in the scheme of things to understudy the sunshine, and to coax the plants to absorb the water. Miss Blake was of the carpenter school. She held that facts were hard and straight; minds not quite so hard, and never straight; her duty to saw and bore, sand-paper and file the minds until the facts could be smoothly glued upon them. "Bailey's Babies" felt this difference though they did not understand it. In fact life was getting generally incomprehensible. For were not Hymie Solomon, the greenhorn, who had not yet learned English, Jakey Fishandler, who was so bad that no teacher except Miss Bailey would have him in her class, and Becky Zalmanowsky, who--though the First Readers did not appreciate it--was a perfect type of the criminal idiot, were not these allowed to bask in Miss Bailey's presence, while self-respecting, hard-working First Readers were thrown into outer darkness? There was, indeed, weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, and, contributed by Patrick Brennan, an uninterrupted flow of minor disturbances and insubordinations, culminating in a heated interview between Miss Blake and the Principal, in which the lady insisted that Patrick was making discipline impossible, that his writing was a blot upon civilization, and that he should be returned whence he came. [Illustration: Patrick was making discipline impossible] The beginning of every term is marked by several such falls from grace on the part of erstwhile model pupils, who do not easily adjust themselves to their new environment. The Principal was surprised but complacent, and very formally on the next morning Miss Blake delivered her ultimatum to that unruly son of the Kings of Ulster and the policeman on the beat. Its immediate cause was the unoffending but offensive gold fish. For three days it had preached its silent sermon of sedition and puzzled the olfactory nerves of Miss Blake, who after ten years of East Side teaching had flattered herself that she was beyond any new sensation of that nature. After a heated interview which led to the disintegration of the venerable corse, Miss Blake gathered her black serge draperies closely about her and issued her command. "Take your things," said she; "I won't have you in this room another minute." Patrick's eyes grew large, he hesitated about returning to the paternal and official roof-tree with the tidings that he had been expelled. "Take your hat and everything you own and come with me." Patrick gathered together a miscellaneous collection, consisting of a wad of chewing-gum, the soul of a mouth-organ, a cap, and one rubber overshoe, and prepared to march upon East Broadway. "You are a disgrace to the school," said Miss Blake loftily, "and I am going to take you to the only place you are fit for--back to the First Reader Class. We'll see what Miss Bailey will say to you, young man." Well, Patrick followed her. It was the first command of hers to which he had given favorable ear. He even went with alacrity--and the novices in the Second Reader gazed wildly upon one another. They may not have been quick to memorize incomprehensible and unexplained "memory gems," or to carry in their heads long strings of figures unconnected with anything in sea or sky. But Miss Bailey's training had made them experts in recognizing cause and effect, and such an epidemic of lawlessness and mischief swept over Room 19 as even Miss Blake's ten years' experience had never paralleled. "Bailey's Babies" went suddenly and unanimously to the dogs. The energy which they had expended in being "'moted" was as nothing to the delirious determination with which they fought for retrogradation. They dutifully called to mind all Miss Bailey's precepts, and then crashed through them, one by one. They fell from grace, from truth, from cleanliness, from all the moral heights upon which Teacher had perched them, and, as they fell, they set in motion the machinery provided by the Board of Education. Mesdames Gonorowsky, Mowgelewsky and Borrachsohn, and other matrons began to find the tenor of their days interrupted by incomprehensible post-cards, and a regrettably comprehensible Truant Officer. "Bailey's Babies" were running amuck, and their cries as they committed moral hara-kiri echoed as far as the marble halls of the Board of Education on remote Park Avenue. Mrs. Gonorowsky paid the exorbitant price of a cent to have her official postcard read by an interpreter. Neighbors volunteered for this service, but she would have none of them. She wanted an authoritative reading, and having got it, she sat down to await the return of Eva. "So-o-oh," ran the maternal greeting, "you comes three times late on the school mit dirty faces." Eva hung her guilty head. "And I wash you every day the face, und send you on the block plenty time? Hein?" Eva nodded the guilty head. "Und now comes such a card from off the school sayin' how you comes late und dirty, und the Principal, he wants he shall see me to-morrow, quarter after three." A silence followed these thunderous words. Eva's guilt engulfed her, although hers was the clearest conscience among all the candidates for return tickets. Her gentle spirit had been unequal to the orgy in which braver souls were wallowing. "I wants," she whispered now, "I wants I shall be put back. I don't likes it by Miss Blakeses room. I ain't monitors off of nothings, und Miss Blake she hollers on me, und Patrick he is put back. I likes I shall be put back too." "Sooner you feels like that," said Mrs. Gonorowsky with sound logic, "why aind you stayed back by Miss Bailey's room? Aind you told me how you wants you shall be 'moted, and learn off a new book?" "Not 'out Miss Bailey," Eva protested. "I couldn't to learn 'out Miss Bailey. I want Miss Bailey shall be 'moted too." "Und why ain't she 'moted?" demanded the voice of reason. At this question--its answer had long been torture to her loyal little heart--Eva broke into wild tears. Changing over to the voice of love, Mrs. Gonorowsky soothed and cuddled and petted her until Eva found speech again. "It's somethin' fierce," she whispered. "In all my world I ain't never seen how it is fierce. I shall better, maybe, whisper mit you in the ear. It's like this: She ain't smart enough. Becky Zalmanowsky, she ain't smart enough, und Hymie Solomon, he ain't smart enough, und Jakey Fishandler, he is a greeney, und Teacher, she gets left back mit them." "Gott!" cried Mrs. Gonorowsky, "who says she ain't smart enough?" "The Principal, maybe," wailed Eva. "All right," said her mother, whose admiration for Miss Bailey was great and of long standing. "I goes on the school to-morrow for see him at quarter after three." When Mrs. Gonorowsky reached the big school-house, she found that her audience with the Principal was not to be a private one, for a dozen or more mothers were gathered in the yard. A regular investigation was on foot. Every one concerned had recognized that there was some organization about Room 19's sedition, and Miss Blake had first repudiated the acquaintance and friendship of Miss Bailey, and had then gone on to repudiate all responsibility for what she now termed "Bailey's Brats." "I refuse--I must refuse--to teach that class," said she to the harassed Principal. "If you can't arrange to exchange me with some other teacher, I shall apply for a transfer to an up-town school. If that Miss Bailey is so crazy about these children, why don't you let her keep them for another term? Every one seems to think she's a crackerjack teacher, so I guess she can get along in second term work, and I can take that new class of hers." "I'll think of it," said the Principal, as the janitor came to tell him that the mothers were overflowing his office. Before his interview with them, he turned into Room 18, and there he found the ringleaders of Room 19's rebellion. Though beatified they wore a chastened, propitiatory air, for Miss Bailey had just been lecturing them. She looked as distressed as she was by the whole situation. "I just stepped in," the Principal explained, "to see how many of them were still chained to their oars. Rather a luxurious galley this, don't you think?" "I can't think at all," answered Constance Bailey. "They were a fine class, and Miss Blake is a fine teacher." "These misunderstandings happen," said the Principal, "in schools just as they do in marriages. I'm going down now to interview the mothers of most of these young people here. Do you mind staying and keeping the children for a few moments? I must get this thing straightened out." "We shall all be here when you come back," Miss Bailey promised. Eva Gonorowsky had but reflected the general opinion when she told her mother that Miss Bailey had been left back "because she wasn't smart enough," and the Principal found himself in the midst of an indignation meeting. In Yiddish, in English, in all grades and dialects between the two, the mothers protested against this ruling. There was hardly one of them who did not owe Miss Bailey some meed of gratitude--and they were of a race which still practises that virtue. So they made ovation, fervid, gesticulatory, and obscure. But through much harping on one theme they made their meaning clear. "So you think," said the Principal, "that Miss Bailey is still teaching the smallest children because she is not as clever as the other teachers. You never were more mistaken in your lives. The hardest child to teach and manage, as all of you very well know, is the smallest child. The very best teaching should come at the very beginning." This statement, when it was translated by those who understood it to those who did not, met with a cordial rumble of approval. "Your children," he went on, "are old enough now to be taught by an ordinary teacher. Miss Blake is much more than that." This translated was not very well received. Stout inarticulate mothers drew their shawls more closely about them and grunted dissent. "But although they are old enough they haven't been proving themselves good enough, and so I have decided--as you express it--to promote Miss Bailey too, and to let her have charge of them until the end of the year. I shall notify Miss Blake to-morrow. Meanwhile, if you ladies will go up to Room 18 I think you will find your children there, and I know you will find Miss Bailey. Perhaps," he added with a smile, "she would be glad to receive your congratulations upon her promotion." The mothers steamed and streamed away, led by Mrs. Mowgelewsky whose wig was very much awry, and by Mrs. Gonorowsky, whose mind was in a triumphant flame, while far in the rear there pattered the grandmother of Isidore Applebaum, whose mind was quite unchanged by the events of the afternoon. Isidore had managed to explain Miss Bailey's disabilities to her, but her almost complete deafness left her quite unmoved by the Principal's eloquence in either original or translated form. She only knew that Miss Bailey had been at last allowed to retain the guardianship of Isidore. Fifteen unintelligible congratulations are rather overwhelming, and Miss Bailey was accordingly overwhelmed by the inrush. The mothers fell upon her bodily and pinned her to her chair. They kissed her hands. They kissed her gown. They patted her back. They embraced or chastised their offspring with equal violence. They admired the pictures, stood enraptured before the aquarium, touched the flowers with hungry appreciation, and enjoyed themselves immensely. Mrs. Gonorowsky was a very champion among the hosts. She put Eva's misconduct upon the basis of etiquette. Surely it was not polite, she pointed out, that Eva should allow herself to be exalted over her teacher. As Mrs. Gonorowsky lucidly phrased it: "Eva, she gets put back the whiles she don't wants you shall think she shows off that she iss smarter als Teacher--somethin's like that aind polite. Und anyway now the Pincipal says Eva aind smarter." "That's very kind of him," remarked Miss Bailey, trying to understand for the third time a whispered communication from Isidore Applebaum's grandmother. The speech, whatever it meant, was clearly of a cheerful and encouraging nature, and at the close of each repetition the old lady patted Teacher encouragingly upon the shoulder, and winked and nodded to an amazing extent. Isidore was dragged from his lair and pressed into service as interpreter. "She says like this out of Jewish," he began, "she says you don't have to care what nobody says over how you is smart or how you ain't smart. She says that don't makes nothings mit her the whiles you is lovin' mit childrens." Again the old lady patted Teacher's shoulder, nodding and smiling the while with a knowing and encouraging air. "Und she says," Isidore went on translating the hint with some delicacy, "she says we got a boarder by our house what ain't so awful smart, und"--here Isidore whispered--"_he studies nights_." Miss Bailey took the old lady's hand and shook it gratefully. "THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES" "Say! What you think!" cried Rebecca Einstein to her friend and neighbor Esther Nolan. "What you think we got to our house?" Esther confessed ignorance. "A baby," cried the triumphant Rebecca. "It's mine," said Esther promptly. "I writes such a letter on the Central Park Stork he shall bring me a baby. I tells him I got a crib even. It's too little fer me. I likes I shall lay all longed out on the sofa. Und extra he goes and makes mistakes and leaves it by your house. It's boys, ain't it?" Rebecca admitted it was a boy. "And did you write such letters on Storks?" Again Rebecca admitted that she had not. "We don't got to write no letters over babies," said she with pride. "We gets 'em anyways. My mamma is got thirteen childrens. We ain't all babies now, but we was." Esther returned crestfallen to her second-floor home, and sought the comforting arms of Mrs. Moriarty, her chaperon and guardian. "But whatever made you write for a baby?" demanded Mrs. Moriarty, when the Stork's carelessness had been explained to her. "Aren't you and your father and me happy enough in this grand new house without a baby to be botherin' us?" Unconsciously she had touched the root of Esther's trouble. "I needs a baby," she wailed, "the whiles my papa he ain't lovin' no more mit me. And I wants somebody shall love me." [Illustration: "What you think we got to our house?"] "Tut, tut, now!" admonished Mrs. Moriarty, and then again, "Tut, tut! Now Esther, dear," said she, after a pause, "you're getting to be a big girl." "I'm eight. I will become nine." "Please God you will. But, anyway, you're big enough to know that your father loves you as much as ever he did, but hasn't time to show it, bein' in heavy trouble, God help him. You know about your auntie, her that was to have the bringing up of you as your father often tells ye." "She don't never comes," Esther complained. "I waits und I waits und my auntie don't comes, und mine papa ain't lovin', und I needs I shall have a baby out of that Central Park." The heart loneliness of which Esther complained was real enough. The material prosperity which had recently fallen upon her had deprived her of all the old comfortable joys which had brightened less prosperous days. Chief among these had been her father's light-hearted companionship. Mrs. Moriarty, the brightest feature of the new conditions, did her best to cheer and comfort the motherless child, but she could not hope to take the place of Jacob Morowsky, who had changed in so much more than name since he became John Nolan. Esther had dutifully tried--and failed--to understand why she, who had for so long been Esther Morowsky, was now Esther Nolan. And yet the explanation was sufficiently ordinary, and was the cause of her improved surroundings and the result of her father's preoccupation. Jacob Morowsky had, upon his first coming to America, found employment with old John Nolan, whose little shop of sacred statues, crucifixes, and holy pictures was the survival of the Irish Catholic era in Henry Street's history. There are not many traces of this era now remaining, but John Nolan's little shop was one of them, and economy overcame racial prejudice on the day he engaged Jacob Morowsky as his assistant. Later he congratulated himself upon this apostasy, calling it interchangeably "an act of charity, no more than that," or "the best bit of business ever I done," for Morowsky was an artist, and the heavenly choir, as represented by John Nolan, soon became separate dainty works of art more like Tanagra figurines than like the stiff and stereotyped figures which John Nolan's six or seven moulds had formerly produced. Later still, when John Nolan was gathered to his fathers, and afforded, one must presume, the opportunity of judging the accuracy of his portraits, he left his business and his name to Jacob. "For without the name," said he, "what good would the business be to ye? Who could believe that the likes of a Jacob Morowsky would know the truth about the blessed saints? And you're not to forget what I've taught you. Arrows for Saint Sebastian, flames and a gridiron for Saint Lawrence, a big book for Saint Luke (he was a scholard, you know), and the rosary for Saint Dominick. There's not the call there used to be for Saint Aloysius, but when you're doing him, don't forget to put a skull in his hand. You have your 'Lives of the Saints,' haven't you?" "I have, dear master," answered Jacob. "Then keep on studyin' it. And ye'll do what ye can for old Biddy Moriarty, that's took care of me ever since me poor wife died." "She shall be of my household," answered Jacob. And so Esther succeeded to the old man's name and the old woman's care. Jacob Morowsky left his old quarters, and John Nolan took up his residence in the front room of the second floor of a house that had been the residence of an English official when New York was a Colony of the Crown. The house had endured many vicissitudes and degradations. It was, when Esther knew it, a tenement unpopular with the authorities because it could not quite condescend to the laws of the Tenement House Commission; and not too popular with its landlord because its rooms, in proportion to its ground area, were extravagantly few. Its spacious halls and staircase, its high ceilings and wide chimneys were all so many waste spaces according to modern tenement architecture. Esther and her father slept in the drawing-room behind a red curtain, Esther in her babyhood's crib which, as she had written to the Stork, she had quite outgrown. But no one seemed to notice that. No one, in fact, noticed her very much. She was a good little girl. She was never late or troublesome at school. Every Friday afternoon she brought home a blue ticket, testifying that her application, her deportment, and her progress were satisfactory. From time to time, as she reached new altitudes in the course of study, the teacher's name on these tickets varied. But the tickets were the only link between Esther's two lives of home and school. No reproachful teacher, no truant officer threatening arrest and the Juvenile Court, ever darkened her horizon. No outraged Principal ever summoned her father to an uncomfortable quarter of an hour. She was, as successive teachers noted with amazement, that rara avis in the human family, a normal child. Even her clear dark eyes and her dainty little features were as her ancestry decreed that they should be. And the clear pallor of her skin--which Mrs. Moriarty tried to combat by dressing her much in red--was the normal accompaniment to the fine soft blackness of her hair. She adored her father. His society was her sunshine, and since he had become John Nolan, Esther's days had been very cloudy. He was always away from home. There was only one little patch of the morning of Saturday, the Sabbath, which Esther could call her own, and even that was broken into by the service at the Synagogue, when he sat upon one side of the aisle, magnificent in black broadcloth and silk hat, and she sat upon the other side among the maids and matrons. In the afternoon he was at work again. She was in my Lady's drawing-room, or marketing with Mrs. Moriarty. "You're to bide by yourself or along with me," Mrs. Moriarty had often admonished her. "You're to bide by yourself till your auntie comes." And always to Esther's eager question, "When is she coming?" Mrs. Moriarty's cryptic answer had been, "God knows." But when she understood that the gloom of the drawing-room had forced Esther into the writing of unsuspected letters, she deemed it wise to go further in enlightenment. "You're to say naught of this to your poor father. But I'll tell you the meaning of his trouble. Your auntie is lost, my dear." "Lost!" cried Esther. "Ay, lost in this cruel hard city. Lost among strangers in her sorrow. She was comin' over to live with the two of ye. I'll never forget the night your father got her letter sayin' she was comin', and for him to meet her at Ellis Island. I went in an' found him sitting with it in his hand, with the look of death on his face. For the letter was two months old when he got it. Some mistake about his two names there was, and the date she set down for him to meet her was six weeks gone when her letter came. Glory be to God, but it's a cruel world! An' her husband just dead on her, and her so lonely, the creature! If she was poor itself we'd have a better chance of finding her, through some of the charities or the hospitals, maybe. But she had money enough to last her a while, and she's gone the same as if the ground had swallied her up." "Mine papa," commented Esther, "he's got it pretty hard," and she folded her hands in her lap and shook her head in unconscious but triumphant imitation of Mrs. Moriarty. "Hear you me," Mrs. Moriarty acquiesced. "He has the hardest luck ever I heard of. His sister's husband's name was Cohen, and her Christian name"--Esther looked puzzled, and Mrs. Moriarty politely substituted--"her _first_ name was Esther, the same as yours. And when your poor distracted father went to find out did e'er an Esther Cohen land the day she mentioned in the letter, they told him that twenty-five did, and for him to go away with his jokes. You know the world is full of Cohens." Esther knew more than that. She knew that there was a Cohen in the house. She was not supposed to form friendships, but she cherished two or three in secret, and one of them bore the name of Cohen. To Esther she was always "the lady mit the from-gold hair," but she had heard a neighbor once address her as Mrs. Cohen. She lived in what must have been, in the days of the house's grandeur, the "'tweeny's" room in the servants' quarters, on the top floor. A tiny little room it was, whose one window opened now upon a blank wall, though the 'tweeny may have sat at it and watched the locks and the slow canal-boats where now Canal Street runs. There in the dimness Esther, on her surreptitious way back from a surreptitious visit to the friendly Top Floor Front, had discovered the lady mit the from-gold hair, and the lady was crying. Esther's heart swelled and almost burst beneath the square breastplate of her apron, and presently the lady, looking up, met two deep wells of sorrow and admiration fixed upon her. And so their friendship began. It persisted, despite Mrs. Moriarty's warnings, and despite, too, the barrier of alien tongue, for the speech of this stranger was greatly different from the Yiddish spoken in that Polish and Russian quarter. In the other wordless ways of love, however, she threw her lonely little heart at the feet of the lonely lady, and knew that another secret must lie between her and the home circle in the drawing-room. The load of such deceptions upon her conscience was not heavy. There was only the kindly Top Floor Front, the janitor, and Rebecca Einstein, who lived next door, and who was in Esther's class at school, when she was not nursing old and new babies at home. Mrs. Moriarty disapproved of the Einsteins. Her complaint was that there were too many of them, and that thirteen was an unlucky number for a party, whether family or otherwise. But to Esther their number was their greatest charm, and after a visit to their crowded and uproarious circle, the quiet drawing-room seemed very chill and empty. When Jacob came home that night, Esther was awake and waiting for him with a proposition. The Einsteins, she announced, had a superfluous baby. Would not he, out of his loving bounty, buy it for her? It was a boy, and she, Esther, desired beyond all things else a baby brother. She had reason to believe that this one was really hers. She had forwarded an application to the proper quarters. Jacob took his little girl on his knee and explained the situation to her. Purchase, so his instructions ran, was not the usual method of acquiring infants. One took them, or did without them, as the big Stork pleased. It is true that babies sometimes were adopted. If, when she grew a little older and he a little richer, she still desired a brother, they might manage to adopt one, but not, as he told her when he restored her to her crib, not until he had found her Aunt Esther. And when he had eaten his supper he came again to Esther's little bed and told her, as he sometimes did, stories of another little brother and sister who had loved and played together in the long ago. And he told her, too, more graphically than Mrs. Moriarty could, of that brother's desperate search for his sister. Of all the promising clews which led nowhere; of all the high hopes which ended in despair. For two months he had neglected his business and his daughter for this search, and he was beginning to believe that his sister was dead. Esther caressed and comforted him as best she might, and after holding her silently for a few moments, he carefully tucked her into bed again, and went out into the crowded, sordid streets, to search--hopelessly and doggedly--for the little sister of his childhood. As the days passed and her father confided more and more in her great love and sympathy, Esther became reconciled to the Stork's mistake, and decided that she could wait until he brought a baby without urging or request. She was very busy. Her lady mit the from-gold hair was ill--very ill, indeed. She lay upon her bed very white and quiet, and the First Floor Front took care of her. There was also occasionally a doctor, and there were always the garrulous, if not over-helpful neighbors. In any other case it is possible that Mrs. Moriarty's known generosity and surmised skill would have been called into requisition, but the lady mit the from-gold hair spoke no English, and Esther entreated that Mrs. Moriarty should not be consulted, as that would mean her own instant banishment to the lonely drawing-room. And so Mrs. Moriarty was allowed to form her own explanation for Esther's long absences, while Esther, light of hand and step, served her golden-haired lady friend. Mrs. Moriarty's natural supposition had been that Esther was with the baby so carelessly turned over to the Einsteins; and occasionally, of course, she did visit that official error. But as its novelty diminished and its lung power increased Esther became reconciled to the mistake. "He cried, awful," Rebecca would explain, "und we didn't really need him. We had lots. The old baby ain't yet so big. She couldn't to stand even. Und she needs all her clothes. My poor mamma has it pretty hard." "Ain't it funny?" mused Esther, all unconscious that she was grappling with a world problem. "Ain't it funny, Becky? You got too many families, und so you gets some more. I ain't got no families, und I loses mine auntie. Ain't it fierce?" "It sure is fierce," her friend admitted through the howls of the youngest Einstein. "But don't you care, Esther. I guess, maybe, that Stork will get round to your order soon. _One_ baby," she spoke from experience and with conviction, "is lots of family." "I don't know do I needs that kind from baby what you got," Esther objected. "It's an awful loud baby, ain't it?" "It is," Rebecca admitted. And any one of the fifteen Einsteins or even any neighbor to the fourth or fifth house removed would have corroborated her. "Und it's got black hair," Esther further objected. "They all do when they ain't redheaded," retorted the now ruffled Rebecca. "Ain't you got nothin' to do on'y knockin' other people's babies? First off you says he's yours, und now you says he's too loud und too black. Well, he ain't too loud or too black fer me. You wait till your own baby comes. Maybe you'll get somethin' worster, with fish's faces, maybe. How will you like that? You can't never tell what kind they're goin' to be, an' you've _got_ to keep 'em." This haphazard system--or the lack of it--rather alarmed Esther, though the desire for a baby of her own design and choosing was growing stronger every day. For her loneliness was growing, too. Jacob was hardly ever at home. He spent many of his days and all of his evenings in his fruitless, endless search. And Mrs. Moriarty had begun to help him through some subterranean first-cousin-twice-removed channel which connected her with a member of the police force. She was making a canvass of the women's lodging-houses near the Bowery. So Esther, having much time upon her hands, turned her thoughts again to the upbringing of a brother, and wrote again to the headquarters in Central Park, and impressed upon the authorities--in large round writing upon a sheet of pink paper with two turtle doves embossed upon it--that she was not in a hurry for her baby, and would prefer to wait until they found a really acceptable article. If possible, she would prefer from-gold hair, blue eyes, and a silent tongue. For such an infant her outgrown crib, a warm welcome, and comfortable home were waiting. No others need apply. When this letter was despatched she felt greatly relieved, and set about the nursing of the lady mit the from-gold hair with renewed energy. And the lady needed her little friend and welcomed her always with a gentle smile, though a large and unwonted female was now regularly established in the room, from which she relentlessly barred more disturbing and autobiographical visitors. All through her illness, indeed ever since her first coming into that house, she had kept the door open, and she lay so that she could watch the stairs. Whom she was waiting for she never told, but she was always listening. She knew the step of every fellow lodger, of the doctor, of any one who had ever once climbed those stairs. And at the approach of any new footstep she would sit up rigidly among her pillows, staring and listening so intently that when the new-comer appeared and brought disappointment, she would sink back gasping and exhausted. "What does she says?" Esther once asked the imposing nurse, when a visitor for the Top Floor Front had precipitated one of these attacks. "What does she says when she cries?" "She says," interpreted the nurse, "'He is dead. It must be that he is dead.' Yet we _know_ that her husband is dead. She still expects some one." "Maybe," said Esther, arguing from her own state of mind to that of her friend, "maybe she expects a Stork mit babies." The woman caught Esther by the shoulders and peered down into her eyes. "So they have been talking to you," she said with immense scorn. "Oh, those women!" "Nobody ain't told me nothings," Esther answered. "I don't _know_ nothings. Only I thinks it in mine heart. And anyway, the first baby what comes here is mine. I writes on the Central Park a letter over it. It's going to be a boy mit from-gold hair." "Well," snorted the nurse with some professional pique, "it's good you got _that_ settled." Late that night Esther awoke in her little outgrown crib. A familiar series of sounds had disturbed her: the arrival of the doctor. So the lady mit the from-gold hair was presumably worse. The doctor's steps mounted into the darkness and silence of the sleeping house, and the clock in Mrs. Moriarty's room struck two. Esther lay wide-eyed in the dark and waited for the sound of the doctor's return, but she heard nothing except the far-away clang and shriek of an occasional cable-car and the sound of stealthy, hurrying feet upon the sidewalk. She sat up, and in the dim reflection from the electric light on the street corner she distinguished the shapeless bulk that was her sleeping father. Jacob had only recently come in from his quest, and he slept the sleep of exhaustion. Cold had no terrors for her; she was clad, feet and all, in an Esquimaux garment of brilliant pink flannel of Mrs. Moriarty's contriving. And still the doctor did not come down. Esther climbed to the floor and noiselessly unlocked the door. In the hall a deadly quiet served as a background for Mr. Finkelstein's snoring. And then Esther's summons came. Shrill and clear from the darkness above dropped the cry of a new-born child. Hers! The Stork had blundered again. "Oh, my!" wailed Esther, "ain't Storks the fools? In all my world I ain't never seen how he makes mistakes. I told him just as plain: Second Floor Front. Und extra he goes und maybe wakes up the lady mit the from-gold hair over it. She's got it hard enough 'out no babies yelling." As Esther toiled toward the sound, she realized that yet another mistake had been made, it was 'a loud one.' Now what would her father say--and Mrs. Moriarty? But this was no time for such questioning. Her plain duty was to collect her property and prevent its disturbing the whole house. When she reached her friend's room she found that the disturbance had taken place and was still in progress. The nurse, the doctor, and the Top Floor Front were gathered about the bed, presumably reassuring their patient, and upon a pillow thrown into a rocking-chair the Stork had left Esther's gold-haired brother. Oh! it was easy, fatally easy, to recognize the answer to her petition! The noise subsided as Esther noiselessly pattered over to it, and from an end of its roll of flannel a bright head projected. Esther picked it up and beat a hasty retreat unobserved by the workers at the bedside. Down the dark stairs she passed with her burden, and into the drawing-room again. She snuggled down beside it in her crib and for a few ecstatic moments held it in her arms. The clock struck four, and, as Esther quivered and listened still for the descent of the doctor, the baby raised up its voice again in one prolonged and breathless yell. Jacob was beside the crib in an instant and had his daughter in his arms. "What is it?" he questioned wildly. "Where is it? What hurt thee?" And then his heart too skipped a beat, for he found that though he had Esther in his arms he had left her voice in the crib. "It ain't me," she finally managed to assure him. "It's mine little brother what I gets out of the Central Park." Lights, Mrs. Moriarty, explanations, and expostulations followed. "I tells that Stork," Esther ended, "I tells him I ain't got no families und no aunties, und I needs a baby, und I has a bed ready. It _is_ mine baby. Storks is crazy fools!" But the inexorable John Nolan set out upon his mission of restitution. Esther, puzzled, heart-broken, argumentative, sped on before, and reached, not without some skirmishing, the side of the golden-haired lady, while her father was still struggling with the darkness and his unaccustomed burden. And then the miracles began. The lady heard a step upon the stairs and a great radiance fell upon her. Wonder, incredulity, and joy shone in her lovely eyes. The doctor's hand was on her wrist. The nurse's admonitions were in her ears. But she raised herself among her pillows and watched the turn of the stairs where a shaft of light streamed through the open door. Esther's father came out of the darkness, and the lady wrenched her hand from the doctor and stretched both her arms toward the oncoming figure, and "Jacob," said she, and quite gently fainted into the doctor's arms. "No excitement, no fuss," commanded that authority. "She's all right, coming round in a minute. Here, stand there. Speak naturally to her. There, she's coming now." "Why, Esther," said Jacob quietly in soft Hungarian, "I've been wondering where you were." The lady mit the from-gold hair laid her other hand on his, smiled a little wearily, and instantly dropped asleep. "You ain't asked her whose is that baby," his daughter whispered to him. "You ain't asked her did she write letters on that Stork?" "I guess it's our baby all right," her father answered. "You just carry it down and put it in the bed that's been waiting for it. Tell Mrs. Moriarty that your auntie was living here all the time." "Mine auntie!" cried Esther. "Mine auntie! My, but Storks is smart!" she gasped repentantly. THE ETIQUETTE OF YETTA "Stands a girl by our block," Eva Gonorowsky began, as she and her friend Yetta Aaronsohn wended their homeward way through the crowded purlieus of Gouverneur and Monroe Streets, "stands a girl by our block what don't never goes on the school." Yetta was obediently shocked. She had but recently been rescued from a like benightment, but both she and her friend tactfully ignored this fact. "Don't the Truant Officer gets her?" the convert questioned, remembering her own means to grace, and the long struggle she had made against it. "Don't the Truant Officer comes on her house und says cheek on her mamma, und brings her--by the hair, maybe--on the school?" "He don't comes yet," Eva replied. "Well, he's comin'," Yetta predicted. "He comes all times." "I guess," commented Eva, "I guess Rosie Rashnowsky needs somebody shall make somethings like that mit her. In all my world I ain't never see how she makes. She don't know what is polite. She puts her on mit funny clothes und 'fer-ladies-shoes.' She is awful fresh, und"--here Eva dropped her voice to a tone proper to a climax--"she dances on organs even." Now Yetta Aaronsohn, in the days before the Truant Officer and the Renaissance, would have run breathless blocks at the distant lure of a street organ, and would have footed it merrily up and down the sidewalk in all the apparently spontaneous intricacies which make this kind of dancing so absorbing to the performer, and so charming to the audience. Now, however, she shuddered under the shock of such depravity. School had taught her many things not laid down in the official course of study. "Ain't that fierce?" she murmured. Not all subjects of gossip are as confirmative as Rosie Rashnowsky that day proved herself to be. For as Yetta and Eva turned into Clinton Street, Rosie was discovered dancing madly to the strains of a one-legged hurdy-gurdy, in the midst of an envious but not emulating crowd. "That's her," said Eva briefly. "Sooner you stands on the stoop you shall see her better." And when the two friends carried out this suggestion and mounted the nearest steps, Eva pointed to what seemed a bundle of inanimate rags. "It's her baby," she disapprovingly remarked. "She lays it all times on steps. Somebody could to set on it sometimes." "It's fierce," repeated Yetta, this time with more conviction. She was herself the guardian of three small and ailing sisters, and she knew that they should not be deposited on cold doorsteps. So she picked up Rosie's abandoned responsibility, and turned to survey that conscienceless Salome. Rosie was, as a dancer should be, startlingly arrayed. Her long black-stockinged little legs ended in "fer-ladies-shoes" described by Eva. Her hair bobbed wildly in four tight little braids, each tied with a ribbon or a strip of cloth of a different color, and the rest of her visible attire consisted of a dirty kimona dressing-jacket, red with yellow flowers, and outlined with bands of green. The "fer-ladies-shoes" poised and pointed and twinkled in time to the wheezing of the one-legged hurdy-gurdy. The parti-colored braids waved free. The kimona flapped and fluttered and permitted indiscreet glimpses of a less gorgeous substructure. Miss Gonorowsky regarded these excesses with a cold and disapproving eye. "She don't know what is _fer_ her," she remarked. "My mamma, she wouldn't to leave me dance by no organs. It ain't fer ladies." "It's fierce," agreed Miss Aaronsohn, with a gulp, "it's something fierce." The hurdy-gurdy coughed its way to the end of one tune, held its breath for an asthmatic moment, and then wailed into "The Sidewalks of New York." Fresh and amazing energy possessed the hair ribbons, the kimona, and the "fer-ladies-shoes." Fresh disdain possessed Miss Gonorowsky. The tune would have seemed also to work havoc upon the new propriety of Miss Aaronsohn. "It's something fierce," she once more remarked, and then casting decorum to the winds, and the abandoned young Rashnowsky to Miss Gonorowsky's care, she sped down the steps, through the crowd and out into the ring. Rosie, though she had never seen Miss Aaronsohn before, recognized her talent instantly, and welcomed her partnership with an ecstatic combination of the Cake Walk and the Highland Fling. Yetta returned the compliment in a few steps of the Barn Dance flavored with a dash of the Irish Jig. Then eye to eye, and hands on one another's shoulders, they fell to "spieling," with occasional Polka divertisements. A passing stranger stopped to watch them and gave the organ-man largesse, so that still he played, and still they danced until called back to duty and reality by the uproar of the baby, now thrice abandoned. For Eva Gonorowsky had gone virtuously home, feeling that her traditions had been outraged, her friendship despised, and that her disciple had disgraced her. Yetta and Rosie with the heavy-headed baby followed the organ for several blocks. They might have gone on forever like the Pied Piper's rats, had not the howls of the youngest Rashnowsky anchored and steadied them. When at last they had recovered breath and the proprieties, they sat amicably down upon an alien doorstep, and went back to the early--and in their case neglected--preliminaries of friendship. They exchanged names, ages, addresses, the numbers of their family, and their own places in the scale. The baby had obligingly gone to sleep, and these amenities were carried out in due form. It seemed that they were bound by many similarities of circumstance and fate: each was the eldest of a family, but whereas Rosie could boast but one baby, Yetta's mother had three. Both mothers worked at low and ill-paid branches of the tailor's art. And both children were fatherless to all daily intents and purposes. "Mine papa," Yetta told her new little friend, "is pedlar-mans on the country. Me und mine mamma don't know where he is even. From long we ain't got no letters off of him, und no money. My mamma, she has awful sads over it." "Does she cry?" questioned the sympathetic Rosie, drawing her kimona closely about her in the enjoyment of this new and promising gossip. Yetta shook her head. "She ain't got no time she shall cry. So my papa don't comes, und letters mit money off of him don't comes. My mamma, she ain't got time for nothings on'y sewing. She has it pretty hard." "My mamma is got it hard too," cried Rosie, not to be outdone. "She don't know where my papa is neither. She don't know is he on the country even. She don't know _nothings_ over him. Me und my mamma we looks all times on blocks und streets und stores. On'y we couldn't to find him. Und my mamma, she works all day by factories, und by night she comes on the house und brings more work. She ain't got time for nothings neither, on'y sewing und looking fer my poor papa." "Then your papa ain't dead?" queried Yetta. "No, he ain't dead; on'y he loses him the job." Rosie's voice as she made this statement, and Yetta's manner as she received it, would seem to say that if this were not death, it was very little better. To Isidore Rashnowsky it had been the "sudden and unprovided death" of which the Prayer Book speaks. It had meant the destruction of the very delicate equilibrium by which he and his wife maintained their tiny but peaceful household. It threw the whole burden of four lives upon Mrs. Rashnowsky's thin and twisted shoulders. It drove him, after three weeks of unsuccessful quest for work, to cut himself off from all he cared for. Starvation was very close to them. He could contribute nothing, and he determined to take nothing: to increase the niggardly supply by diminishing the hungry demand. Mrs. Rashnowsky's earnings--even when augmented by the home work which the law forbids but life demands--was scant indeed for the maintenance of the mother and the two children. All these things Isidore explained to her patiently, resignedly, and with what bravery he could muster. And she agreed, nodding wearily over her sewing. But from his conclusion, from his determination to remove himself and his hunger from her charge, she persistently dissented. Rather, she insisted, would she take the babies to the Children's Court and get them committed to some institution. Then he and she could face the world together. She could find courage for that. But not to live without him. Never for that. "It is but for a time," he hopefully remonstrated, "and if we give the children we cannot easily get them back. Children such as ours are not often found. They would be adopted by some rich man before, maybe, I could find a job." This consideration had not occurred to Mrs. Rashnowsky, but when it was pointed out to her she was forced to admit its weight. The physical charm of Rosie, kimona clad and dirty, might not have appealed as insistently as her father feared to the rich adopter, and the rag-wrapped baby would have been equally safe. But to Mrs. Rashnowsky's fear and pride, to see these infants was to covet them. And so, tearfully, fearfully, she promised to think again of Isidore's proposal. She thought all night, and all through the hurried, steaming, driven day at the factory. When at last she was free she toiled home to tell him that she could not do without him, and found that he had gone. All these things had happened, as Rosie told her new friend, three months before. The mother had been forced into smaller, darker, cheaper quarters, and it was this transition which had so far saved Rosie from the Truant Officer. They had moved from one school district to another, and the authorities of their new habitat had not yet tracked the light-falling "fer-ladies-shoes." "But that Truant Officer will get you sure," warned Yetta. "He comes in my house and he gets me, und makes me I shall go on the school." "He can go on mine house all he likes," responded the lawless Rosie, making careful inventory of her hair ribbons the while, "all he likes he can go. There ain't never nobody there. My mamma she is all times on factories, und me und the baby is all times by the street. I don't needs I shall go on no school. I ain't got time." "He'll get you on a rainy day," maintained Cassandra. But the dread official never did discover Rosie. She was sufficiently wise to avoid any public display of her red and yellow charms until after school hours, unless she were well out of her own district. She would follow street organs and behave like any other member of a decorous audience until she was well out of the path of the ravening Truant Officer. Then she would abandon the baby to the cold stones, and herself to the enchantment of the music. Thus she achieved that freedom of which her adopted country boasts, and for which Yetta Aaronsohn--though basking in the rays of a free education, with lunches, medical attendance, and spectacles thrown in--still yearned. There had been a time when life had been to Yetta, even as it now was to Rosie, a simple matter of loving and helping her mother, taking care of the babies, and dancing to the organs in the street. Then entered the Truant Officer, and life became a complicated affair of manners, dress, books, washing, and friendships, with every day new laws to be met, new ideas to be assimilated, old pleasures and employments to be thrown aside. That the end of his three months of wandering found Isidore alive bordered on the miraculous; that the end of these three months found him in congenial employment was altogether a miracle. Yet these things had occurred, and Isidore's long loneliness and self-imposed exile were nearly over, when his daughter and Miss Aaronsohn melted their souls together in the langorous solvent of "Silver Threads Among the Gold." On the ensuing Saturday he was to receive his first week's wages as janitor's assistant in a combination of restaurant, hall, and Masonic lodge, much patronized by small and earnest clubs or societies, having no permanent stamping ground of their own. On the Friday afternoon the large hall was occupied by "The Cornelia Aid Society for the Instruction of Ignorant Parents Among the Poor." It had been the happy idea of one of the vice-presidents to hold the meeting within the citadel as it were of poor and ignorant parenthood, so that the members coming gingerly through unimagined streets and evidences of parenthood appallingly ignorant, might derive--the vice-president was fond of the vernacular--some idea of what the society was "up against." Automobiles, victorias, disgusted footmen, and blasphemous chauffeurs thronged the unaccustomed street, and the children of Israel thronged about them. A genius for opportunity drew Giusseppi Pagamini and his new piano organ to this sensational business opening, and the sweet strains of the piano organ drew Rosie Rashnowsky after him. They had drawn her for many blocks, and the meeting of the Cornelias was in full swing when her kimona and hair ribbons came into play upon the sidewalk. She laid the baby upon the steps, swept clean for her reception by Isidore the conscientious, who had little idea--as he plied his broom and scrubbing-brush earlier in the day--that he was strewing the couch of his own small daughter's siesta. Then to an audience composed of glorified gentlemen in silk hats and top-boots, and the quieter but still sumptuous chauffeur livery, Rosie threw herself into a very ecstasy of her art. Louder thrilled Giusseppi, quicker flew the "fer-ladies-shoes," wilder waved ribbons and dressing jacket. "Out o' sight," commented the footmen. "Bravissimo," ejaculated the chauffeurs, and Rosie reached the climax of her career in a pirouette which brought her, madly whirring, under the aristocratic noses of a pair of chestnut cobs, whose terrified plunges would have ended her gyrations forever and a day if a footman had not interfered. Then Giusseppi passed his battered hat, and the audience, naturally inferring that the black-eyed child belonged to the black-eyed musician, threw him such encouragement as a week of ordinary days would not have brought him. [Illustration: Rosie threw herself into a very ecstasy of her art.] In a reckless moment he gave Rosie a nickel, and this wealth, combined with her recent danger and escape, and with the intoxicating quality of her audience, made Rosie follow Giusseppi to the other end of the line of carriages which trailed round the corner and half-way down the next block. Here fresh triumphs awaited her, while from the steps of Fraternity Hall her infant sister called aloud for instant speech with her. The infant was still making these inarticulate demands, when Mrs. Ponsonby-Brown, holding her skirts well above her shoe tops with one hand, while with the other she applied a bottle of lavender salts to her nose, approached the meeting. She was late but unflurried. Her horses, somewhat racked by the elevated trains in Allen Street, had been entirely unnerved by the children, the push-carts, the dogs, and the flying papers, which beset them from all sides and sprang up under their nervous feet. So the philanthropic Mrs. Ponsonby-Brown had alighted from her carriage, secured a small though knowing-looking guide, and walked to her destination. Presently she reached the hall, rewarded her guide, and stopped in her surge up the steps by the yells of the youngest Rashnowsky, which had broken free of its mummy clothes, and was battling for breath with two arms like slate-pencils--as cold, as thin, as gray, and seemingly as brittle. "Whose child is this?" she demanded of a near and large chauffeur. It was not the lady's fault that much philanthropic activity had so formed her manner that these simple words, as she said them, seemed to infer that the large green-clad chauffeur was a Rousseau among parents, that the child was his, starved that he might grow fat, and abandoned that he might go free. His reply was all that her manner demanded. And when she repeated the question to other waiting men, she was hardly answered at all. Meanwhile the youngest Rashnowsky banged its hairless head upon the cold stone, and reiterated its demands for its guardian sister. Mrs. Ponsonby-Brown was puzzled, and she did not enjoy the sensation. She picked up the child before she had planned any further step for its disposition. She could not well drop it on the stone again, and there was no one to whom she could give it. Realizing with a sudden sense of outrage that she was affording amusement to the well-trained servants of her Cornelia associates, she retreated into the building and into the hall with the screaming Gracchus in her arms. Her advent and the clamor of her burden interrupted the reading of a paper upon "Nursery Emergencies, and How to Meet Them," by a young lady who had exhausted the family physician, and such books as he could be persuaded to lend her. Her remarks, though interesting and authoritative, could not prevail against the howling presence of a real nursery emergency, and the attention of the audience stampeded to Mrs. Ponsonby-Brown and her contribution to the meeting. That practised and disgusted philanthropist relinquished the youngest Rashnowsky to the first pair of pitying arms extended in its direction. But pity was not what the sufferer craved, and she repudiated it eloquently. "What shall I do with it?" cried this young Cornelia, looking helplessly around upon her fellows. "Whenever my Jimmie behaved like this I used simply to ring for Louise. I never knew what she used to do with him." Mrs. Ponsonby-Brown snorted. "A nurse!" said she, "a hireling! You relegate a mother's sacred responsibilities to a servant." Mrs. Ponsonby-Brown had never enjoyed these responsibilities, and so was eloquent and authoritative upon them. Other Cornelias fluttered about suggesting that the Gracchus was suffering from hunger, colic, or misdirected pins. The expert upon emergencies snatched this one from its embarrassed guardian, inverted it across her knee, and patted it manfully upon the back. The dirtiness of it, the thinness, the squalled wrappings, and the blue little hands and feet touched and quickened the Cornelias as no lecture could have done, and the resourceful vice-president found cause to congratulate herself on the _milieu_ of the meeting. "If we knew," said a bespectacled Cornelia sensibly and practically, "what food they were giving it, we could easily send out and get a meal for it." "It hardly looks," interrupted another, "like the Mellin's Food and Nestle's Milk Babies one sees in the advertisements." "And yet," said the practical member, "we can't do anything until we know what it's accustomed to. With so young a child----" Here the door opened and an unenrolled Cornelia was added to the gathering. Her red and yellow kimona rose and fell with her quick breathing. Defiance shone in her black eyes. "You got mine baby," declared Rosie Rashnowsky. "Why couldn't you leave her be where I put her, you old Miss Fix-its? You scared me most to death until I heard her yellin'." With these ungrateful remarks she advanced upon the ministering group and snatched the inverted infant from the colic theorist. "This is the top of her," she pointed out. "I guess you didn't look very hard." Before the discredited practitioner had formed a reply the Cornelia in spectacles was ready to remark: "We think your baby is hungry." "Sure is she," Rosie concurred; "ain't babies always hungry?" "And if you will tell us what you feed her on," the lady continued, "we will send out for some of it before you take her home." Rosie was by this time established in a chair with the now only whimpering baby upon her lap. "Don't you bother," she genially remonstrated. "I just bought her something." And then with many contortions she produced from some inner recess of her kimona a large dill pickle, imperfectly wrapped in moist newspaper. She dissevered a section of this with her own sharp teeth, and put it into the baby's waiting mouth. The cries of the youngest Rashnowsky were supplanted by a chorus of remonstrating Cornelias. "Pickles!" they cried, and shuddered. "Do you often give that baby pickles?" "I do when I can get 'em," Rosie answered, "but that ain't often." And then this injudicious but warm-hearted audience drew from her the sordid little story which seemed such a matter of course to her, and such a tragedy to them. "Und I looks," said Rosie, "all times I looks on cellars und push-carts und fire 'scapes und stores und sidewalks. Und I walks und I walks--all times I walks--mit that baby in mine hand, und I couldn't to find me the papa. Mine poor mamma, she looks too, sooner she goes und comes on the factory, und by night me und mine mamma, we comes by our house und we looks on ourselves und we don't says nothings, on'y makes so"--and Rosie shook a hopeless head--"und so we knows we ain't find him. Sometimes mine mamma cries over it. She is got all times awful sad looks." By this time the more sentimental among the Cornelias were reduced to tears, and the more practical were surveying such finances as they carried with them, and in a very short time an endowment fund of nearly fifty dollars had been collected. The _sang-froid_ which had throughout the proceedings distinguished Rosie was a little shaken when this extraordinary shower of manna was made clear to her, but it vanished altogether when, upon the suggestion of the practical and bespectacled Cornelia, the assistant janitor was sent for to give safe-conduct to the children and their bequest. And the amazement of Isidore Rashnowsky--summoned from the furnace room for some uncomprehended reason--was hardly less ecstatic when he found himself in the close embrace of his frenzied daughter. For Rosie's joy was nothing less than frenzy. "It's mine papa! Oh, it's mine papa!" she informed the now jubilant and sympathetic Cornelias, who were quite ready to pass a vote of thanks to their pioneering vice-president, whose plan had afforded them more emotion and more true human sensation than they had experienced for many a day. Isidore floated toward Clinton Street through clouds and seas of gold. The endowment together with his own first week's wages made a larger sum than he had ever hoped to gather. He wafted the baby through this golden atmosphere, the baby wafted a second section of dill pickle, and Rosie, in her red and golden draperies gyrated around them. "You shall go on the factory right away," babbled Isidore, "und bring the mamma on the house. She shall never no more work on no factories. She shall stay on the house und take care of the baby und be Jewish ladies." "She don't needs she shall take care of no baby," Rosie, thus lightly deposed, remonstrated; "ain't I takin' care of her all right?" "Sure, sure," the placating Isidore made answer; "on'y you won't have no time. You shall go on the school." This last sinister word broke through all Rosie's golden dreams. "School?" she repeated in dismay. "_Me_ on the school?" "For learn," Isidore happily acquiesced, "all them things what makes American ladies." Rosie's sentiments almost detached her from the triumphal procession, so rebellious were they, so helpless, so baffled and outraged. And in that moment of brainstorm they turned into Grand Street, and came upon a piano organ, and Yetta Aaronsohn, the erstwhile censorious Yetta, in the enjoyment of a complicated _pas-seul_. "For von things," Isidore ambled on, "American ladies they don't never dance by streets on organs. You shall that on the school learn, und the reading, und the writing, und all things what is fer ladies. Monday you shall go on the school. Your mamma shall go by your side. She won't," he broke out ecstatically, "have nothings else to do. You shall go now on the factory for tell her." Rosie paused but an instant on this mission of joy. She overtook Yetta Aaronsohn homeward bound. "I guess," said Rosie with fashionable langour, "I guess maybe I goes on the school Monday." Yetta stared, then smiled. "Ain't I told you from long," said she, "that that Truant Officer could to make like that mit you?" "I ain't never seen no Truant Officer," retorted Rosie. "In all my world I ain't never seen one. I don't know what are they even. On'y I finds me the papa mit bunches from money, und a hall, und he says I shall go on the school so somebody can learn me all things what American ladies makes." "Come on my school," entreated Yetta. "You und me could to set beside ourselves." Rosie pondered. She counted her four hair ribbons. She wrapped her kimona toga wise about her and pondered. "I don't know," she finally answered, "do I needs I shall set by side somebody what dances on streets mit organs," and added, as Yetta's expression seemed to hint at instant parting: "Well, _good_ afternoon, I _must_ be going." Her evolution into "American Ladies" had already begun. The manners of the Cornelias had not been lost upon her. A BENT TWIG In season and out of season Constance Bailey, that earnest young educator, preached of the value of honesty. And fifty little children of Israel who formed the First Reader class, and the one little son of Erin who led it, hearkened to her: always with politeness, and sometimes with surprise. To some of the boys it seemed incredible that a person of mature years, and--upon other subjects--common sense, should cling to a theory which the most simple experiment must prove both mischievous and false. Had not Abraham Wishnewsky, a spineless person, misled by her heresies, but narrowly escaped the Children's Court and the Reformatory? Strolling through Gouverneur Street upon a Friday afternoon when the whole East Side is in a panic of shopping, he had seen a bewigged and beshawled matron shed a purse and pass on her way unheeding. Promptly Abraham set his foot upon it, carefully and casually he picked it up, and then, all inconveniently, he remembered Miss Bailey and her admonitions! Miss Bailey and her anecdotes of boys who, in circumstances identical with his, had chosen the path of honor, and had found it to lead to riches, approbation, glory, and self-righteousness. Abraham opened the purse. It contained fifteen cents. He appropriated the nickel as a first instalment of the reward so soon to be his, and then sped fleetly--as Miss Bailey's heroes had ever done--after the brown-shawled matron and glory. But the matron had evidently not been trained in the school of high honor. She regarded Abraham with suspicion rather than with gratitude. She examined the purse in the same spirit, and her investigations led to loud outcries upon her part, and to swift flight upon Abraham's. Abraham Wishnewsky was so ill-advised as to confide the details of this adventure to a young gentleman who rejoiced in a rabbit face, close-set lashless eyes, and the name of Isidore Cohen. Isidore was new to Room 18, and new to his place beside the gentle Abraham. Miss Bailey and her applied ethics were startlingly new to him. And he never reported to Abraham any effort to experiment in revolutionary doctrines. Some of the more credulous among the feminine First Readers also weighed these precepts in the balance and found them wanting. "You know how Teacher says," Sarah Schodsky remarked to Bertha Binderwitz, as the two friends, arms intertwined, heads close together, walked and talked in the yard at the recess hour. "You know how she says we dasen't never to tell no lies." Bertha nodded. "That's how she _says_," she agreed. "Well," resumed Sarah, "you see how Mamie Untermeyer don't comes no more on the school?" Bertha had remarked this absence. "Well, Mamie she lives by her auntie. She is got a awful auntie. Und she asks her auntie for a penny for buy hokey pokey. Und her auntie makes a mean laugh und says, 'What you think I am, anyway?' und Mamie, she tells it right out what she thinks over her auntie, like Teacher says, 'We shall all times tell what we thinks.' She lays on the bed now mit bangages on the head. It ain't so awful healthy you shall tell truths on aunties." This report also reached the rabbit ears of Isidore Cohen. And again he wondered that Miss Bailey should waste her time--and his--in folly. And then he made an amazing discovery. Teacher actually believed what she taught. She was ready to meet confidence with trust, and to practise what she preached. "I never seen nothing like it," he reported to his friend, Hymie Solomon. "She looks like she knew a awful lot, but she don't know nothings 'tall." "What do you suppose is the matter with her?" demanded Hymie. "Miss Blake, she don't act crazy. She don't give us no talk 'out no sense." Now Hymie and Isidore were old friends and cronies. In the days before a Truant Officer and their distracted fathers had consigned them to school, Hymie and he had trod the ways which might have led them to the Children's Court and the Reformatory; but the Board of Education chanced to be the first power that laid hands upon them, and Hymie, who was a year older than his friend, and who had once undergone some intermittent education, was put in Miss Blake's class, while Isidore, virgin soil where prescribed learning was concerned, joined the First Readers. Miss Bailey's teachings as reported by Isidore formed amazing subjects for conversation. "Und she says," he would report, "that nobody dasn't to steal nothings off of somebody." "Then how does she think we shall ever get anything?" "Somebody shall give it to us." "Who?" "Teacher ain't said." "No, I guess she ain't. I'd like to see her gettin' along on just what was give to her." "Well," Isidore remembered, "she says we shall 'work-un-strive.'" "She does, does she? An' git pinched by the Gerry Society? She knows as good as you do that nobody would let you work. An' she knows as good as you do, too, that craps ain't safe round here no more; an' that you just can't git nothin' unless you take it. She's actin' crazy just to fool you." "No, she ain't," Isidore maintained, "she don't know nothings over them things." "An' her grown up," sneered Hymie; "say, but you're easy!" This faith in and affection for Miss Bailey were not confined to the little First Readers who inhabited Room 18 from nine until twelve, and again from one until three. These were Miss Bailey's official responsibilities, but Gertie Armusheffsky's education was a private affair, though her devotion was no less wholehearted. Her instruction was carried on sometimes amid the canaries and fern baskets of Room 18, and sometimes at Miss Bailey's home. For Gertie, though nearly fifteen years old, was allowed but rare and scanty freedom for the pursuit of learning. The grandfather with whom she lived had imported her from Poland to assist him in the conduct of his little shop in Goerck Street. He was a miserly old man. The shop was little and mean, and Gertie's life in it was little and miserly and mean. These things she bore with the wonderful patience or stoicism of her race. She bore, too, bad air, long hours, and uncongenial toil, but she could not bring any resignation to bear on the lovelessness of her life, the squalor, the ugliness. "I ain't puttin' up no kick," she would assure Miss Bailey, in her newly acquired and strictly modern vernacular, "about doin' all the woik in the store, an' in the back room too. Didn't I know I was comin' over to cook an' sew an' see to everything for him? What gits on my noives is his everlasting grouch." "It must be hard," Miss Bailey acquiesced, "especially as you have no one else, no friends." Gertie shook her head. "Ain't got a friend in the world only you," said she. "How could I have any one come to see me with him carryin' on like he does? An' I can't get away from him. He paid my way over, an' if I did git a job the Gerry Society would give me back to him." "But you're nearly old enough now," Miss Bailey encouraged her, "to do as you please, and you're getting on so nicely with your reading and writing that you will be able to get a very good position." "Not 'til he's dead," the girl answered. "I guess you wouldn't learn me no more if you knew how often I wish he'd choke himself, or fall down cellar, or go out an' git run over. But he don't never go out. He says he's afraid something would happen to the store. But that's a pipe! What bothers him is the cash he's got tucked around in crazy places. Every once in a while I fall into some of it, and then he 'most has a fit explaining how it's change a customer is comin' back for. Last year it wasn't quite so bad. He went to night school one term. You would have died laughing to see him all folded up at a kid's desk tryin' to write in a copy book. They learned him to write three words that term, but when he found out that he couldn't read them in print, it sort of discouraged him, and he stayed home." "It's awfully hard for you," Miss Bailey repeated, "but you mustn't let yourself say such things or think such things--about his getting killed, I mean--it's not"--she found herself on the verge of saying "Christian," but remembered that Gertie made no pretence to the Christian virtues--"not loving," she ended, and felt that the meaning of the two words was very much the same. "Well, I don't love him," said Gertie shortly, "I hate him!" "That's another thing you mustn't say." "All right, I won't say it. I do it all the time." "What's the capital of Massachusetts?" demanded Miss Bailey, changing the subject with a jerk. "It's Grandpa's capital that's bothering me," laughed Gertie, but she allowed herself to be led away from the trials and problems of Goerck Street into the cool groves of learning. * * * * * A few mornings later Miss Blake, whose kingdom, Room 17, bordered upon Miss Bailey's territory, bustled into Room 18 with a fat and elaborate purse in her hand. "You know that wicked little Hymie Abrahams who seems to be always getting into trouble," she began, when the First Readers had stiffened to straight "attention" and sat, each in his little place, like some extraordinary form of tin soldiers. Miss Bailey nodded. She had indeed for many days been haunted by the fear that Hymie Abrahams would perpetrate some too flagrant breach of discipline, and be degraded to the First Reader class, and she naturally dreaded the advent of such a wolf among her little lambs. "Well," said Miss Blake, "he can't be all bad. I guess he has some human feelings. He brought me this bag this morning. Says his mother doesn't need it any more, and wants me to have it. It's almost new, you see, and really very handsome. Just let me show you the fittings. I guess his mother wouldn't find much use for powder puffs and mirrors and smelling-salts. Not if I know anything about the women of the East Side, she wouldn't." She spread the glittering useless things upon Miss Bailey's desk, and the force with which this bribe carried away her earlier dislike showed that Hymie Solomon had mastered the art of character reading. And Miss Bailey, as she reviewed the dainty paraphernalia spread before her, found herself wondering how soon Madame Solomon would miss her treasures and come storming in pursuit of them. And beside Miss Bailey's desk sat Isidore Cohen in an agony of doubt and disillusionment. His one childish attribute was that of believing that all he knew must be common knowledge. Therefore he argued that the powers before him knew as well as he did that Hymie Solomon was motherless, and that Miss Blake would be most unwise to look her gift purse in the pedigree. And so, as Miss Blake exhibited and Miss Bailey admired, the work of weeks was undone. One teacher was acting as a "fence," and another was cheering and encouraging her. He had doubted this "honesty the best policy" propaganda from the first. But he had believed in the sincerity of its prophet. Yet he might have been prepared. Had not his father, wise and experienced in the ways of the world, armed him with the formula: "Krists is fakes"? His own adventures had corroborated this, and Miss Bailey from the very first had made no attempt to conceal her connection with that despised sect. Of course she was a fake. No more than half an hour ago she had thrilled her audience with misinformation, and manufactured biography all going to prove the nobleness--even the expediency--of honesty; and now she was purring delightedly over the fruits of Hymie's sleight-of-hand. Isidore's was not a sentimental nature. Idealism was not his forte. And yet he could not help wishing that, if only for the confusion of Hymie and his father, Miss Bailey had proved to be "on the level." Mr. Cohen _père_ believed in nothing but the rights of man, though his opinion of man was so low as to preclude his having any rights at all. He was especially opprobrious toward all those in authority, and he made no exception in the case of his son's teacher. "She belongs to the machine," he would asseverate with warmth. "Run by the machine, paid by the machine, a part of the machine. Policemen, firemen, teachers, inspectors, they are all the same. All parts of the big machine. And what is it chewing? Us. What does it live on? Us again. Don't you try to fool me about that teacher of yours." Isidore had been making no such attempt, and he repudiated the idea with scorn. He was accustomed to vehement paternal outbreaks, for Mr. Cohen was a popular orator in his social club, and he often rehearsed his eloquence in the home circle. Not often, however, did Isidore understand or remember the fervid periods. This attack upon Miss Bailey he did remember, though he did not understand. To him a machine was a sewing-machine, and his father, though he evidently meant something, could not have meant to associate her with that most useful member of the family. "Just like all the rest of them," his father had said. "A grafter," and now that Miss Blake had fallen from honesty, what proof was there that Miss Bailey was not equally approachable? And certainly Miss Blake played the game with the promptness and surety of an old understanding. Influence or income are the counters in the game, and she dealt both cheerily. Three days after the presentation of the purse the post of Monitor of Supplies in Room 17 fell vacant, and Hymie Solomon received it. That was the influence, he was "holding down a job." Two days later he discovered a market for surplus textbooks and other school supplies. Thus was the income assured. No one could doubt Miss Blake was familiar with the rules. "You'd never believe," said she to her neighbor in fond and unfounded pride, "what a little responsibility will do for an almost incorrigible boy. You wouldn't know Hymie. He stays behind almost every afternoon when I go home, getting things straightened out." "They all have their good points," said Constance Bailey. "I am thinking of doing something of the same kind about Isidore Cohen. We must hold their interest, you know." It was about a week later. Miss Bailey and her monitors were putting Room 18 to rights after the stress and storm of the day. Gold-fish, window-boxes, canaries, and pencil points were all being ministered to by their respective supervisors, and the door opened and Gertie Armusheffsky appeared. Such a distracted, tear-stained, white-lipped Gertie that Miss Bailey swept her monitors into their weird wrappings and dismissed them with all speed. "I can't go home," cried Gertie in desperation. "Honest, Miss Bailey, he'd kill me if I did." And after listening to the girl's story, Miss Bailey congratulated herself that she had no other charges old enough to be caught in trouble as difficult. Old Mr. Armusheffsky had read of a fire in a Brooklyn glove factory: hundreds of pairs of damaged gloves were spoken of. Now Mr. Armusheffsky kept his store very dark, and only the most fatal damages could be detected in its dim light. Catastrophes such as this of the glove factory were his opportunities. He always--he never left the store--sent Gertie to negotiate with the bereaved manufacturers, the insurance agents, or whoever chanced to be in authority over the débris. Upon this day there chanced to be no débris: the fire and the firemen had done their work. There was no one even to interview. And Gertie, somewhat apprehensive as to her grandfather's displeasure and disappointment, set out for home. She enlivened her homeward way by a visit to a big department store, where she envied the be-pompadoured damsels behind the counters; plunged into the squirming crowd around a bargain table and secured a jabot of real German Mechlin lace for thirteen cents. After this transaction she had in her purse the twelve cents left of her quarter dollar, and the jabot, the check showing its cost and the date, an unused trolley transfer, and the five dollars deposit which she was to have paid on the purchase of gloves. The purse was of the hand-bag variety, showy yet strong. It had been given to her as a reward and an encouragement by Miss Bailey. "An' when I got off the car at the 'loop'," she ended, "an' changed into the Second Avenue cable, somebody in the crowd swiped me bag. I didn't have even a transfer left, an' I had to walk here. I was pushing along in the crowd lookin' at the signs 'Beware of pickpockets', an' thinkin' it was good I had no pockets to pick, when it come over me that my bag was gone. Just that easy! Me what ought to have known better. Say, you know it would be just as good as suicide to go an' give that 'pipe' to Grandpa. So I was thinking maybe you'd go round and sort of break the news. He's got a lot of respect for you. An' honest, I ain't kiddin'. He'd kill me for that five dollars." Then with sudden fury she ended, "I'd kill _him_ for five cents." Miss Bailey had never responded with less alacrity to a cry for help. She had a genuine horror of the fierce, sore-eyed old vulture, with whom she had had to struggle so determinedly for the privilege of teaching Gertie. "Of course," she said at last, "he will have to know--" But Miss Bailey was wrong, Mr. Armusheffsky never knew. Room 18's door opened again to admit two policemen, one plain-clothes man, who silently showed his badge to Miss Bailey, and three garrulous and dishevelled neighbors of the Armusheffsky ménage. At sight of Gertie the neighbors grew vociferous, triumphant. The policemen stationed themselves one on either side of Gertie, and the plain-clothes man explained to Miss Bailey that old Armusheffsky had been found murdered in his store, and that every man and woman for blocks around was as ready as these incoherent samples to testify that his granddaughter had often wished him dead, and had sometimes threatened to kill him. "So I guess," he ended pleasantly, "that 'The Tombs' will be this young lady's address for a spell." "But I've been in Brooklyn all day," protested Gertie when at last she found speech. "Can you prove it? Talked to anybody? Got any witnesses?" Gertie recapitulated her story. "Got the goods you bought? Got the check on them?" Gertie explained the loss of the purse. The plain-clothes man shook his head. "I'm sorry, Miss," said he to Miss Bailey, "but I guess it's a case for the sergeant. Of course if that hand satchel turns up it will be all right, but the case looks bad to me. She ain't the first what took the quickest way out of things she couldn't stand. I don't blame them myself, but that's the jury's business. Mine is to take the girl along with me. Your thinking so much of her will go a good ways to help her out. The patrol wagon is at the door. We'll just be moseying along." Gertie went with him without a word. Her escape from her grandfather's vituperations seemed to make her oblivious to everything else. Miss Bailey, however, was comforted by no such blindness. She realized that tragedy, perhaps death, had come to Room 18, and she set about averting them with characteristic energy. The one frail thread upon which Gertie's life hung led to one or two pawn shops whence purses, not hers, were reported. Then it snapped, and a whole mountain of circumstantial evidence was piled up in readiness to drop on her defenceless head when the days of the trial should come. Constance Bailey had never been so close to tragedy before, and she bore the juxtaposition very badly. She persisted in, and insisted upon effort, after the police and the reporters had done their best and worst. But always she was met, though never quite daunted, by the challenge to produce the purse with the proofs of alibi. Under these conditions it naturally occurred that the little First Readers received but a very divided attention. Affairs of state in Room 18 were left largely to the board of monitors, and more than ever did it seem desirable to Isidore Cohen to secure a portfolio within that cabinet. For more than a week he had been ready to present his application. The proof of his fitness for office was wrapped in a newspaper under the decayed mattress upon which he slept. And he only waited a propitious moment to lay it and his application before Teacher. Her new habit of dashing away at the stroke of three had hitherto interfered with his plan, but about a week after Gertie's arrest he found courage to elude the janitor, and to make his way to Room 18 at a quarter past eight in the morning. And Miss Bailey arriving--pale, distraught, and heavy-eyed--at eight twenty-five, found the lost purse lying upon her blotter, and Isidore Cohen ready with the speech of presentation. "Mine auntie," it began--he had never had an aunt--"she don't needs this pocket-book no more. You can have it." Miss Bailey dropped into her chair. "Isidore!" cried she. "Oh, Isidore! You're the cleverest boy! I would rather have this bag than anything else in the world." A moment later her joy was gone again. The bag was absolutely empty, and Constance Bailey did some of the keenest thinking of her career. "It would be quite perfect," said she, "if I only had a few little things in it. Perhaps a transfer, a lace collar, or some pieces of paper"--she caught the gleam in Isidore's rabbit eye, and amended quickly--"not money, of course. It would be foolish to carry money in a bag like this"--the gleam vanished--"but just a few papers and things would seem more natural." "Stands somethings like that to my house," Isidore vouchsafed generously. "Mine auntie don't needs them too." "Then perhaps," said Constance Bailey carefully, "perhaps, dear, your aunt would let me have them." "I likes," said Isidore, dashing off at an unmistakably natural tangent, "I likes I shall be monitors maybe off of somethings." Miss Bailey felt the teeth of the trap, but she knew that her hand was touching the very life of Gertie Armusheffsky, and she made no effort to escape. "And what sort of a monitor would you like to be?" she asked casually. "Off of supplies," was his decided answer. "I think that could be arranged," she replied. "And these little things to put in my bag?" "I could to git 'em 'fore the other kids comes in," said Isidore. And a few moments later she had obtained leave of absence from the principal, and was buttoning her gloves while she gave her final instructions to the substitute who would minister until luncheon hour to the First Readers. "I'm quite sure you will have no trouble. The children understand that I shall be back in the afternoon. If you want pencils, paper, or anything else, Isidore Cohen will get them for you. For Isidore"--and she laid her hand upon his narrow head--"Isidore is monitor of supplies." Very late that afternoon a disillusioned monitor of supplies fared unostentatiously homeward from Room 18. He had never met candor equal to Miss Bailey's, and he was in the grip of the paralyzing conviction that for as long as he remained within her sphere of influence, honesty would be the only expedient policy. * * * * * Transcriber's note: The following changes have been made to the text: Page 32 (illustration): "healthy or somebody" changed to "healthy for somebody". Page 43: "be the man" changed "by the man". Page 150: "or the hospital ward" changed to "or at the hospital ward". Page 244: "chauffers" changed to "chauffeurs". 
32651	----	ADOLESCENTS ONLY By Irving Cox, Jr. [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy January 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: Elvin wasn't sure how it had started--maybe it was the Schermerhorn twins--or the mysterious "meteorite"--or else the world had gone crazy....] He tried to convince himself he had no right to gripe. It was a pleasant place to live; he had privacy and a bath of his own. And the Schermerhorns were reasonably broadminded people. They never objected to his smoking or an occasional glass of beer. Last year at the Neuhavens'--Gary Elvin cringed inwardly at the recollection. Just the same, this was going too far. It was enough to endure their kids all day long, five days of the week, without the addition of these juvenile parties. This one had started an hour after dinner and it was still going strong when Elvin returned from the late show at the Fox. Naturally the Schermerhorn twins were popular tenth graders--husky, blond Greek Gods who had everything, including a red Convertible and a swimming pool Pop Schermerhorn had built for them at the ranch. Gary Elvin had expected a certain number of parties when he decided to board and room with the Schermerhorns, but hardly one every weekend. He fled through the cluttered hall where a buxom lass was organizing something called a bubble gum contest and took refuge on the damp and deserted patio. He flung himself on a wet, canvas lounge, and looked up at the bright night sky. Bitterly he counted off the weeks. It was still early in November. He had eight more months to endure before June came with its temporary illusion of escape. As he always did, Elvin resolved to find a better job next year. He had been teaching for five years now. He knew all the tricks of classroom control and smooth community relations. Surely if he started looking early enough, he ought to be able to get something at a small college.... Suddenly he was jerked back to reality by a curious spot of red that appeared in the sky. It moved closer and he saw that it was a falling object followed by a long plume of red flame. It flashed momentarily overhead and Elvin heard a dull thud as it fell into a field beyond the ranch house. He sprang up from the couch and moved off in the darkness. It had been a meteorite, of course; if it had survived the friction of the atmosphere it would make an interesting exhibit for the science classroom. Miss Gerken would be glassy-eyed with pleasure. There was no moon. As soon as he crossed the driveway, Elvin stumbled over the damp furrows of a newly ploughed field. He was sweating when he reached the row of palms that lined the irrigation ditch. He paused to wipe his face. And he heard a weird, shrill, rhythmic sound. It might have been called music, but there was no definable melody or beat. It was faint at first, but as he moved to the right, paralleling the ditch, the sound came louder. [Illustration: As he cautiously approached the alien object, it seemed as if a soft melody were being wafted on the night breeze. The sound made him nervous and instilled fear....] Then, beyond the trees, in a glow of blue light emanating from the thing itself, he saw the rocket. It was not quite five feet long, a slim projectile of glowing metal nosed deeply into the soft earth. The four fins were rotating slowly. * * * * * Gary Elvin might, quite properly, have been frightened, but he was totally unacquainted with modern fiction dealing with the probable potentials of science and the universes beyond the earth. Such material he classified, along with comic books and television, as the pap of mediocre minds. Now, when he first saw the rocket, he came to the somewhat prosaic conclusion that it had strayed from the government experimental site at Muroc. He walked closer. The glow of the metal brightened; the slow rotation of the fins and the weird music became hypnotic. For a moment Elvin felt a surge of fear. He tried to turn away, but he could not. Instead, moving against his will, he took two of the fins in his hands and pulled on them. The rotation and the music stopped as the tailpiece of the rocket fell open. Elvin's mind cleared as he looked into a tiny chamber capped by a small rectangular sheet of metal which was dotted with tiny globes of a translucent material. Gingerly he picked up the seal. As he touched the metal, a strange sensation, like a flood of jumbled words, tumbled through his mind. The feeling was neither unpleasant nor frightening. He was tempted to relax and enjoy it; and he would have, if he had not been distracted by a second object in the chamber. He thrust the strip of metal into the pocket of his coat. Elvin's second find was a small, transparent cylinder, filled with tiny, multi-colored spheres, exactly like a jar of hard candy. There was nothing else in the rocket, except for the motor built into the tailpiece. The blue glow of the rocket began to fade. Vaguely Elvin became aware that something was amiss. He began to suspect that he had stumbled upon something more than a stray rocket from Muroc. He wanted to tell somebody about it. Clutching the cylinder of colored balls he ran back to the house. The party had reached one of its numerous climaxes. The hall was jammed with chattering high school students. They swirled in a flood around Mrs. Schermerhorn, who seemed to be enjoying herself as much as they were. Gary Elvin grabbed her arm. "I've found a rocket!" he cried. "Rocket?" she frowned for a moment, and then smiled brightly. "Oh, the racket. Yes, but they do have so much energy, don't they?" He held up the cylinder. "This was in it!" "Oh, you found it, Mr. Elvin. We looked high and low; now we--" "It was in the rocket." "... now we can have our contest." Desperately a new idea occurred to him. "Can you get these kids quiet? I want to 'phone." "But it's so early, Mr. Elvin. We can't expect them to go home yet." "No, Mrs. Schermerhorn. 'Phone. I want to telephone!" "Oh. Yes; of course. We'll have our contest in the living room." * * * * * Gary Elvin wormed his way toward the closet under the stairway. It was a very small telephone alcove, not designed for utility. Yet he found he could shut out some of the din if he jackknifed himself against the slanting wall and held the door partly shut. But it required the use of both his hands. He set the cylinder on a bookcase in the hall and squeezed into the closet. With the telephone in his hand, he hesitated. It had seemed a good idea a moment ago--to call in the Authorities. But, to bring the generalization down to specifics, just who would that be? In a big city he would have telephoned the police. But San Benedicto was a California valley town, small, sleepy, and contented. The four-man police force was more or less capable of handling minor traffic violations, but certainly nothing else. The State Police? Elvin doubted they would have jurisdiction. His last, feeble resort seemed to be the _San Benedicto News_, a daily, four-page advertising circular that passed, locally, for a newspaper. Elvin called the editor-reporter at his home. After he had told his story, Elvin had to suffer a certain standardized banter concerning the advisability of changing his brand of bourbon. It was entirely meaningless, a form of humor enjoyed by the valley people. Matt Henderson eventually agreed that the strange rocket might bear investigation. "I'll be out first thing in the morning," he promised. "In the morning! Listen, Matt, this thing may be--it might--" He was unable to crystalize his reasons for urgency. He finished lamely, "It's important, I think." "It ain't going to run away, is it?" "No, but--" "Then we can both get a good night's sleep." Gary Elvin turned away from the telephone, vaguely dissatisfied. He felt that something ought to be done immediately. What, he didn't know, or why. He went to get his cylinder of colored spheres from the bookcase where he had left it. The jar was gone. He heard a burst of talk in the living room and he was suddenly frightened. From the archway he looked in on the guests, some thirty youngsters, all of the tenth grade of San Benedicto High School. They sprawled over chairs and couches, or they sat, Indian fashion, on the floor. Mrs. Schermerhorn stood in the center of the room, like a judge, smiling patiently. All thirty of the guests were chewing industriously. On the floor stood Elvin's jar of colored spheres, open and more than half-empty. "Oh, dear," Mrs. Schermerhorn protested, turning to Elvin. "Something seems wrong with their gum. They've tried and tried, but I haven't seen a single bubble. And it did seem such a clever game! I suppose if the gum were stale--" Her voice trailed off when she saw the horror on Elvin's face. Wordlessly he pointed at the open jar. The room fell silent. All thirty of the youngsters looked at him. Their chomping jaws became motionless. "Is--is that mine?" he whispered hoarsely. "The jar you brought in?" Mrs. Schermerhorn asked. "I don't know, Mr. Elvin, I'm sure. Mabel Travis was supposed to bring the gum for the contest, and she forgot where--" "But mine wasn't gum." He licked his lips, uncomfortable in the focus of so many staring eyes. "A--a rocket of some sort fell in the field, just beyond the irrigation ditch. I found the cylinder inside. It might be--it could be--anything." Elvin had the strange sensation, for almost ten seconds, of looking at a motion picture film that had stopped at a single frame. Then, as if the projector had started to run again, all thirty of the youngsters broke into activity. For another second the analogy of the film persisted; Elvin had the elusive impression that each of the youngsters was carefully playing a part. * * * * * They clamored to go out and see the rocket. Mrs. Schermerhorn protested that they would ruin their clothes trailing over the fields after dark. The guests allowed themselves to be talked into putting off their curiosity until morning. As their excited talk faded, Mabel Travis looked up at Elvin. "Was your jar the one on the bookcase, Mr. Elvin?" she asked, eyeing him with her enormous, blue eyes. "Yes. Is that where you got--" "No." The room was still again, and all the youngsters were looking at her with a peculiar anxiety. "I thought that was one of the prizes. You know, when we played forfeits earlier in the--" "Of course," Mrs. Schermerhorn put in. "Bill Blake did win a jar of candy, didn't he?" "And that's what I thought the jar was when I saw it on the bookcase," Mary Travis continued. "So I took it upstairs and put it with our coats in the bedroom. I'll get it for you, Mr. Elvin." Slowly she picked up the nearly empty jar on the floor and recapped it. "I'm going to take this back to the drugstore tomorrow morning and demand my money back. I certainly don't like being cheated!" When she returned to the living room, she handed Elvin his cylinder of colored balls and slowly his fear dissipated. Until a competent authority analyzed the contents, the jar represented unknown danger. It might be harmless; but it could also be an explosive, a form of fuel for the rocket, perhaps even germ colonies used in biological warfare. If Bill Blake had taken it home with him as an innocent jar of candy--Elvin shuddered. The party broke up and Elvin went to his room. He hung his suit carefully at the back of his closet to preserve the creases and thereby cut down on his cleaning bill. After five years of living on a teacher's salary, such economies had become second nature with him. He brought out his blue serge and hung it on the door; it was the suit he would wear next week to school. Saturday dawned crisply sunny. Elvin shaved and dressed leisurely. Through the dormer windows of his room he saw the rich, black fields that surrounded the ranch house and the distant ridge of misty mountains beyond the desert, one or two of them crested with snow. * * * * * The Schermerhorns, of course, were already awake and busy. Elvin heard the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. He saw the twins, David and Donald, tall and muscular in their tight jeans and brilliant plaid shirts, working in their shop back of the garage. Pop Schermerhorn was in conference with a score of day laborers clustered around the half-dozen tractors in the drive. Through the open garage door Elvin could see the Schermerhorn Cadillac, the station wagon, and the red Convertible that belonged to the twins. The scene could be duplicated, with minor variations, on any day of the week. Elvin always resented the Schermerhorn prosperity, even though Pop Schermerhorn had been kind enough to offer him board and room when it was obvious the family did not need the additional income. Elvin never allowed himself to forget that the Schermerhorns owned one of the largest ranches in the valley as well as the feed store in San Benedicto and a half-interest in the bank. Yet Pop Schermerhorn actually boasted that he had never gone past the eighth grade in school, and his kids were fortunate to be considered mentally normal. Elvin had the twins in class; he knew the limits of their ability. Donald had an I.Q. of 89, David of 85. Yet such a family literally rolled in money, while Elvin was like a slum-dweller staring emptily into a crowded shop window. Matt Henderson turned in from the main highway as Elvin finished breakfast. He joined the reporter and they walked out to the field beyond the irrigation ditch. In daylight the terrain was very different. Elvin backtracked over the same ground several times before it dawned on him that he could not locate the rocket. Perspiration beaded his face. That was impossible! The rocket was large enough to be seen from any point in the field. Even if some part of the mechanism had caused it to rise again during the night, Elvin would have found the gaping hole the point of the projectile had torn in the earth. But there was nothing. Not a furrow in the ploughed field was disturbed. Visibly amused, Matt Henderson departed, repeating his formula about brands of liquor. This time, Elvin thought, the reporter actually believed it. Elvin walked back to the ranch. He was very angry; but, more than that, he was coldly afraid--and he had no idea what he was afraid of. The Schermerhorn twins stopped him as he crossed the driveway. "You sure made us bite on that one, Mr. Elvin," Donald said good naturedly. "Yeah," David added. "All the kids came over early this morning to see your rocket." "I guest we deserve it, though," Donald went on philosophically, "for pulling that deal on you in class last week." * * * * * Gary Elvin went up to his room in a daze and sat staring at the bottle of colored spheres. It seemed entirely clear what had happened last night; yet, conceivably, the rocket could have been an hallucination. If so, it was because of the grinding frustrations of his job. But Elvin had a good mind; he did not have to let a bunch of discourteous rattle-brained kids get him down. David and Donald had given him the clue: the rocket was simply a practical joke he had played on his class of tenth graders. The second step in driving out the "dream" was an appeal to authority. He must understand the limits of scientific possibility in the use of rockets. That meant a trip to the library. Although it was four miles to San Benedicto, Elvin decided to walk; the exercise would help clear his head. He entered the library at eleven-thirty, half an hour before the building was closed for the weekend. It was a good library. The assessment rate in prosperous San Benedicto was high, and books had been purchased wisely. In the card catalogue Elvin found listed a number of up-to-date references that he could use; but there was nothing on the shelves. Five minutes before closing time, he asked the librarian for help. "I don't suppose there's anything in," she answered. "We've had a perfect run on books all morning." "You mean everything in the library is out?" "Everything worthwhile." She beamed. "And most of the borrowers were your tenth graders, too, Mr. Elvin. You've certainly done a wonderful job of inspiring that class to do serious reading. Why, do you know Mabel Travis has been in here three times today? She took out seven books as soon as the library opened, and she had them back by nine-thirty. Said she'd read them all, too." "Seven books in less than two hours?" Elvin laughed. "I suppose she thought she had. Poor little Mabel! She hasn't much to work with, you know. But it was her new attitude I liked--so intense, so serious. And she was doing such heavy reading, too." Elvin walked back to the Schermerhorn ranch, enjoying the noon-day warmth. San Benedicto was crowded with Saturday shoppers. He met his students everywhere, and always they commented on the practical joke he had played on them. By the time he was back in his room, the fiction of the joke was thoroughly established in his own mind. He almost believed it himself. He glanced again at the transparent cylinder of spheres. A chemist might be able to analyze the contents and say where the jar had originated. Perhaps Miss Gerkin could do it. She had taught science for more than twenty years at San Benedicto High. Yet Elvin knew he couldn't ask her for help. If the colored balls turned out to be nothing more than hard candy, then by inescapable logic he would have to accept the fact that he was suffering from a major hallucination. It was more comfortable not to know the truth. The idea of candy, however, brought up another association. Mrs. Schermerhorn had said that earlier in the evening Bill Blake had won a jar of candy as a prize. Bill Blake was the prize joker of the tenth grade. Elvin had what seemed to be an intuitive flash of understanding. The rocket had been a joke, all right, but it had been aimed at Elvin. The kids had rigged it up before he came home from the show. During the night they had come back and taken the stage setting away. * * * * * Elvin spent the rest of the weekend planning his revenge. He didn't think of it as that, but rather disciplinary action. Yet he knew the class would get the point and possibly even heed the implied warning. In five years Elvin had reduced the complex process of teaching to one workable rule: break the class, or the kids will break you. Now he chose the classical cat-whip of a surprise test to crack them back into line. He spent Sunday planning it and duplicating the pages. He was scrupulously careful to be fair--at least as he defined the term. The examination covered nothing that had not been discussed in class. But Elvin taught grammar, and no field of the abstract allows such devious application of the flimsy nonsense passing for rules. On Monday morning, with a thin smile, Elvin was ready for them. He had tenth grade English first period. As he passed out the mimeographed pages, he waited for waves of groaning to sweep the room. Nothing happened. He felt an annoying pang of anger. A hand shot up. "Yes, Charles?" he snapped. "If we finish before the end of the period, can we have free reading?" "I doubt you'll finish, Charles. This test is ten pages long." "But if we do--" "By all means, yes." Gary Elvin leaned back in his chair and surveyed, with satisfaction, the thirty heads bent studiously over their desks. For perhaps five minutes the idyll lasted, until Donald Schermerhorn brought his test up to the desk and asked permission to go to the library. Elvin was both amazed and disappointed; but at once he reassured himself. The test had been simply too hard for Donald. Nonetheless, as soon as Donald was out of the room, Elvin checked his examination against the key. As he turned through the pages, his fingers began to tremble. Donald had answered everything--and answered it correctly. Before Elvin had finished checking Donald's test, ten more students had left theirs on the desk and headed for the school library. Within ten minutes Elvin was fighting a disorganizing bewilderment far worse than the rocket-hallucination. Every examination was completed, and none that he checked had as much as one mistake. Elvin wished he could believe that whole-sale cheating had taken place, but he knew that was impossible because of the precautions he always took. * * * * * All of the tenth graders were back from the library by that time. They had each brought two or more books. Elvin's body went rigid with anger when he saw what was currently passing among them for the skill of reading. They were methodically turning pages almost as quickly as they could move their hands from one side of the books to the other, all with the appearance of engrossed attention. Elvin banged a ruler on his desk. One or two faces looked up. "This has gone far enough!" he cried. "You asked for the privilege of free reading, but I do not intend you to make a farce of it." A hand went up. "Yes, Marilyn?" "But we are reading, Mr. Elvin. Honestly." "Oh, I see." His voice was thickly sarcastic. "And what's the title of your book?" "Toynbee's _Study of History_." "You've given up Grace Livingston Hill? Could you summarize Toynbee for us, Marilyn?" "In another ten minutes, Mr. Elvin. I still have sixty pages to read." Elvin turned savagely to another girl. "Mabel Travis! What are you reading?" The buxom girl looked up languidly. For a split second her big eyes seemed focused on a distant prospective. "Why--why this, Mr. Elvin." She held up her book so he could see the title. "_Hypnotism in Theory and Practice_," he snorted. And Mabel's I/Q was 71! "You've outgrown the comics, Mabel?" "In a sense, yes, Mr. Elvin." Elvin was saved from further disorientation by the interruption of an office messenger with a special bulletin announcing a second period assembly. By the time he had read it, his anger was under control. He let the reading go on and spent the rest of the period plodding through the examinations. There was not an error in any of the papers. From the prospective of the day's events, Elvin later realized that, however personally unnerving, his own particular crisis had been a minor one. * * * * * The first full scale public disaster came during the assembly, when the entire student body--nearly one hundred and fifty youngsters--was gathered in the auditorium. The principal, as always, rose to lead them in the Alma Mater. He was a huge, hatchet-faced, white-haired man, the terror of evil-doer and faculty members alike. He had a tendency to give a solemn importance to trivial things and to overlook the great ones; and there was no mistaking the awed, almost religious fervor with which he sang the school song--which was, perhaps, only natural, since he had written it himself. On that disastrous morning he suddenly burst into a dance as the student body barrelled into the first chorus. He snatched up the startled girls' counselor and improvised a little rumba. Slowly the students' voices fell silent as they watched. Under the sweating leadership of the music teacher, the school orchestra held the pace for another bar or two, until one of the players stood up and rendered a discordant hot lick on his trumpet. A trio of caretakers carried the struggling principal off the platform and shouting teachers herded the students on to their next classes. Thirty minutes later the word-of-mouth information was carefully spread through the school that the principal had been taken to the hospital for observation and he was doing nicely. But by that time his fate seemed unimportant, for the girls' tenth grade gym teacher was having hysterics on the front lawn, convinced that all her students had turned into fish; and the boys' glee club teacher had abruptly announced that the nation was being invaded by Martians. He, too, had been carried off to the hospital in haste. The rest of the faculty was badly shaken. When they met at lunch, they unanimously wanted the school closed for the rest of the day. But the principal had been too small a man to delegate any of his authority; as long as he was hospitalized, the teachers could do nothing. After the ominous activity of the morning, however, most of the afternoon passed in relative order. True, the counselor gave pick-up tests to three tenth graders whose earlier I.Q. scores had been so low the validity had been questioned; and this time the same three outdid an Einstein. And the tenth grade math teacher was almost driven to distraction by a classroom discussion of the algebraic symbology equating matter and time--all of which was entirely over his head. Nothing really happened until five minutes before the end of the school day, when Miss Gerkin knocked weakly on Gary Elvin's door. As soon as he saw her face, he gave his class free reading and joined her in the hall. Fearfully she showed him a yellow Bunsen burner, which glowed softly in the afternoon sunlight. "Do you know what it is, Gary?" "It's one of those gas burners you have on the lab tables in--" "The metal, I mean." "Looks like gold. Aren't these rather expensive for a high school classroom?" She sagged against the wall, running her trembling fingers over her thin lips. "It's that tenth grade, Gary. I have them last period for general science. Bill Blake and the Schermerhorn twins got to fooling around with the electro-magnet. They rewired it somehow and added a few--well, frankly, I don't understand at all! But now when anything--metal, glass, granite--when anything is put in the magnetic field, it's changed to gold." "Transmutation of atomic structure? You know it can't be done!" "Yes, I know it. But I saw it happen." She began to laugh, but checked herself quickly. "It's a trick. I know that bunch better than you do. It's time one of us had it out with them." * * * * * He strode along the hall toward the science room, Miss Gerkin following meekly behind him. "I'm sure you're right, Gary, because the rest of the class hardly showed any interest in what the boys were doing. I actually asked Marilyn if she didn't want her necklace turned to gold, and she said she was too busy to bother. Imagine that, from a high school kid!" "Busy doing what?" "Working out the application of the Law of Degravitation, she said." "The Law of Degravitation? I never heard of it." Miss Gerkin sniffed righteously. "Neither have I, and I've taught science all my life." Gary Elvin flung open the door of the science room. It was one minute before the end of the period. For a moment he looked in on a peacefully ideal classroom. Every student was at his bench working industriously. Then, row by row, they began to float upward toward the ceiling, each of them holding a tiny coil of thin wires twisted intricately around two pieces of metal and an electronic tube. The breeze from the open window gathered them languidly into a kind of huddle above the door. The bell rang as Miss Gerkin began to scream. Elvin fought to hold on to his own sanity as he tried to help her, but a degree of her hysteria transferred itself to him. His mind became a patchwork of yawning blank spaces interspersed with uncoordinated episodes of reality. He remembered hearing the bell and the rush of the class out of the room. He remembered the piercing screams of Miss Gerkin's terror echoing through the suddenly crowded halls. Beyond one of his black gulfs of no-memory, he was in the nurse's office helping to hold Miss Gerkin on the lounge while the school doctor administered a sedative. Slowly the integrated pattern of his thinking returned when he was driving back toward the Schermerhorn ranch. It was late in the afternoon; the sun was setting redly beyond the ridge of mountains. As Elvin's fear receded, he was able to think with a kind of hazy clarity. He had seen a metal Bunsen burner that had been turned into gold; he had seen the crusty principal of the school break into a rumba, and three of his colleagues driven to hysteria; he had seen a tenth grade class floating unsupported in the air. All of it manifestly absurd and impossible. But it had happened. Elvin could visualize only two plausible explanations: mass insanity or mass hypnosis. Hypnosis! A sluggish relay clicked in his mind. He remembered a book. One of the tenth graders had been reading it--_Hypnotism in Theory and Practice_. Everything seemed clear after that. The tenth grade was an obstreperous bunch of unsocial adolescents. Somehow they had stumbled upon hypnotism and learned how to use it. The time for an accounting had come. Because of where Elvin lived, he was admirably situated to break the Schermerhorn twins first; and they were, perhaps, the weakest members of the group. He would have them alone, without the support of their peers. It would be easy. After all, he was a mature adult; they were still children. Once he had a confession from them, it would only be a minor operation to clear up the whole mess. When he reached the Schermerhorn ranch, dinner was on the table. He had no time to talk to the twins until afterward. Both David and Donald bolted the meal and rushed back to their workshop behind the garage. Their usual bad manners, Elvin realized, but what else could be expected? * * * * * Elvin finished a leisurely pipe in the living room, and then sauntered out to the boys' workshop. Surprisingly, the door was locked, the windows thickly curtained; they had never taken such precautions before. He knocked and, after a long wait, both David and Donald came outside to talk to him. They were naked to the waist and their husky, tanned bodies gleamed with sweat. A smudge of grease was smeared over David's unkempt blond hair. "Working on your car, boys?" Elvin inquired indulgently. He knew the technique. Put them at their ease, first; then come to the point when their guard was down. "Well, not exactly, Mr. Elvin." Donald said. "Mind if I watch? I always say I can learn as much about motors from you two as you learn from me about grammar." Neither of the twins said anything. After an uncomfortable silence, Elvin cleared his throat pointedly. He had never met with such disrespect. If they were his kids, they would long ago have been taught proper courtesy for their superiors! To fill the lengthening void, he asked. "What did you think of the little test I gave this morning?" "It was all right," Donald said. "You both did pretty well; I'm proud of you." "We had everything right," David pointed out without a flicker of expression. Elvin couldn't seem to engineer the dialogue as he used to. In that case, this was as appropriate a time as any for the question he had come to ask. He spoke slowly, with a tone of disinterest. "Do either of you know anything about hypnotism?" As a shocker, Elvin realized, it left much to be desired; their faces told him nothing. "A little," David volunteered. "We read eight or nine books on it over the weekend," Donald added. "That's a lot of reading. It must have taken a great deal of time." "Oh, a couple of hours." Elvin clenched his fists in futile anger, but he kept his voice steady. "Is anybody else in the tenth grade reading up on hypnotism?" "I suppose so," Donald admitted. "I'm not sure. Why don't you ask in class tomorrow?" "It occurs to me that a clever hypnotist could be responsible for what happened at school today." "Some of it; isn't that rather obvious? We'd like to go on talking, Mr. Elvin, honest. But we have a lot of work to finish. It'll be bedtime soon enough." "But you know about hypnotism, don't you?" "We know how it's done, yes, and its limitations so far as genuine telepathy--" "Who created that ridiculous scene in the auditorium?" Elvin's voice rose as he tried to put on pressure. "I wouldn't worry about the principal, Mr. Elvin, if I were you. He's always been a neurotic." "Mighty big words you're using these days, Donald. Where'd you hear them?" "The principal is a little man--mentally, I mean. He's afraid of people because he isn't sure of himself. So he makes himself a tin god, a dictator, just to show the rest of us--" "I want to know where you picked all this up!" Patiently the twins began to talk, taking turns at delivering an improvised lecture in psychology, shot through with an array of highly technical terms. As Elvin listened to their monotonous voices, he slowly felt very tired. His head began to ache as his anger ebbed. More than anything else, he wanted a long night's sleep. Yawning wearily, he thanked the boys--for what, he wasn't quite sure--and went up to his room. * * * * * Some time before dawn Elvin awoke for a moment. He thought he heard the sound of a motor in the driveway, but he was too sleepy to get up to see what it was. Two hours later he awoke to chaos. Mrs. Schermerhorn was shaking his shoulder. He looked up into her white, terrified face. Her hand trembled as she clutched her quilted robe close to her throat. "Mr. Elvin, they'll need your help. Mr. Schermerhorn's waiting for you." He shook sleep out of his mind sluggishly. "Why? What's happened?" "The bank's gone. Just--just gone!" He blinked and shook his head again. "I--I don't think I heard you right, Mrs. Schermerhorn." "There's a jungle where the bank used to be. With tigers in it." She laughed wildly for a moment, but the laughter dissolved into tears and she reached for the bottle of smelling salts in the pocket of her robe. "Most of them have been shot by this time, I think. The tigers. Think of it, Mr. Elvin--tigers in San Benedicto!" She began to laugh again. When Elvin joined Pop Schermerhorn and the twins in the station wagon, Mrs. Schermerhorn followed him out of the house with a thermos of hot coffee. As she put it in the car, she saw the rifles they were taking with them. She began to weep again, clinging desperately to the side of the car. Suddenly the twins knelt beside her, and threw their arms around her neck. "We're sorry, Mom," David whispered. "Terribly sorry." "You've nothing to be sorry about," she replied. "It's not your fault." "Better get back inside," Pop Schermerhorn told her. "Mind, keep the doors locked. Things ain't safe no more around here." As they drove into San Benedicto, Elvin was considerably puzzled by the attitude of the twins. Normally talkative to the point of nausea, they were now strangely quiet. And this was exactly the sort of thing that should have inspired their most adolescent repartee. The sun was rising as they stopped the station wagon among the clutter of cars filling Main Street. Elvin stared in disbelief at the neat square of tropical jungle rising cleanly in the heart of San Benedicto. Not only the bank but a whole block of business houses was gone. This could be written off neither as insanity nor hypnotism; it was a madness existing in actual fact. Elvin gave up trying to discover any logic in what was happening. Both reason and natural law seemed to have abdicated. The periphery of jungle was surrounded by armed men. At intervals they shot at shadows lurking among the trees and, as the sun brightened, the accuracy of their aim increased. They were not worrying about causes, either; they were responding with excellent self-discipline to the emergency of tigers roaming the streets of San Benedicto. Afterwards, at their leisure, they could speculate on how the jungle had come to be there. There was only one fatality. A tiger sprang out of the jungle and mauled a man who had pressed too close. It happened directly in front of the Schermerhorn twins. They turned their rifles on the tiger and killed it instantly; but the man was dead, too. * * * * * Elvin was surprised to see tears in the eyes of the twins, but he credited it to the unstable emotions of adolescence. Both of them had acted with maturity when they faced the tiger; no adult could have done more. Still they wept, even though the man was a stranger. By eight o'clock the stirrings in the jungle had stopped. The men began to relax. Waitresses from the Bid-a-Wee Cafe brought out doughnuts and coffee and distributed them among the crowd. There came, then, a new disturbance at the far end of Main Street, a shouting of tumultuous voices. A mob moved slowly into the center of town, clinging to the sides of an antiquated dump truck. "Gold! Gold! Gold!" It was like a chant shouted with ecstatic antiphony. The dump truck stopped and Elvin saw the unbelievable--gleaming heaps of gold shoveled like gravel into the back of the vehicle. The driver stood on the running board, weaving drunkenly. "The whole damn' desert," he shouted. "All of it, as far as I could see--all pure gold!" He took a shovel and scattered the nuggets and dust among the throng. "Take all you like. Lots more where this came from!" The mob stirred slowly at first, and then more and more violently, as the men began to race for their cars. The vehicles were already crowded close together. Gears ground and fenders crumbled. The street became helplessly jammed with locked cars. Only a few on the fringe escaped. Angry arguments broke out, degenerating into fist fights. The peak violence cooled a little after a few heads had been smashed, and grudgingly the men turned to the task of freeing their cars. Donald snatched Elvin's arm. "Stay here with Pop," he shouted above the clatter. "Dave and I are going back to the ranch. Mom may need us. The desert runs right up to the edge of our property, you know." "Going to walk?" "I think we can get the station wagon out. It's pretty far back." Elvin and Pop Schermerhorn worked side by side helping untangle the mass of vehicles. After an hour order had been more or less restored, and the mob had thinned, since each of the freed cars had been driven off at top speed to the desert bonanza. For a moment the sky darkened. Elvin looked up. The jungle had disappeared and a medieval castle, complete with knights, had taken its place. The mob shrank back in terror. So did the knights, although one or two on the battlements ventured to send shafts into this new enemy that had appeared at the castle gates. But there was no time for real hostilities to develop, for the castle vanished and a 19th century factory took its place. The factory survived less than thirty seconds, before it gave way to the bank and row of stores which had originally stood on the site. For some reason the crowd began to cheer, as they would a victorious football team. But the tumult died quickly, for the buildings were covered with a slime of jungle vines, torn up by their roots, and a pair of snarling lions stood at bay on the sidewalk. After they had shot the lions, they found a cobra was coiled on the cashier's desk in the bank and an antelope was imprisoned in the dry goods store. They were still clearing out miscellaneous wild life when reporters from the city newspapers, apprised by the _San Benedicto News_ of the gold strike, descended upon the town. They were followed by a deluge of prospectors, arriving in anything that would move--bicycles and Cadillacs, Model T's and Greyhound buses. The mob poured into town first by the scores, and then by the thousands. Primarily male, their prevailing mood was explosive instability, a glassy-eyed greed flamed higher as each truckload of gold poured back into town from the diggings. The four-man police force was helpless. The major telegraphed to Sacramento for the National Guard; in the interim, he deputized every townsman he could find, among them Elvin and Pop Schermerhorn. * * * * * Elvin worked until he was exhausted, herding the mob into the streets and through the town as rapidly as they would move; and still there was no relief, and the number in the throng increased by the minute. Newsreel trucks, television units, press cars twisted among the vehicles heading for the desert. Regularly, heavy duty trucks brought tons of gold back from the diggings and deposited them at the bank until the aisles overflowed and the precious metal sifted through the windows forming little pyramids in the street. By noon Treasury men flew in from Washington. They circled the diggings and landed to inspect the quality of the gold hoard at the bank. Fifteen minutes later a rumor filtered among the deputies: the Treasury men estimated that the San Benedicto strike would yield upwards of two or three hundred thousand times the known gold supply of the world. When the _San Benedicto News_ came out in mid-afternoon, it headlined the first shock of the economic disaster. World currencies were collapsing; three nations were already bankrupt; international trade was grinding to a standstill, with no medium of exchange; retail prices in the United States had started to skyrocket, in the wake of rising stock market quotations. And still the procession of dump trucks brought the tons of gold back from the desert. When the bank overflowed the dry goods store was commandeered as an emergency depository, and later the Five-and-Ten and the sprawling basement of Montgomery Ward's. When the first contingent of National Guardsmen marched into San Benedicto, it was obviously too small to police the mob. The press estimated that a quarter of a million people were moving into the valley every hour. More Guard units were summoned and ultimately, at the Governor's request, two regiments of the regular army were dispatched to San Benedicto, along with a Tank Corps and ten thousand Marines from Camp Pendleton. It was nightfall before the deputies were relieved. Tired and dirty, Elvin and Pop Schermerhorn rode back to the ranch on a prospector's truck. From the lawn they looked across Schermerhorn's ploughed fields at the desert, teeming with mobs of men and bright in the glare of countless searchlights. Mrs. Schermerhorn met them on the porch. She clung to her husband's arms, trembling. "I'm so glad you're back safely!" she whispered. "They've been moving closer all day." She nodded toward the desert. "Like ants, trampling and destroying everything that gets in their way." Pop Schermerhorn clenched his fists. "If they'd broken in here, I'd have--" "If it hadn't been for the twins, I don't know what might have happened. They got their class over here, the whole tenth grade. All day long they've been patrolling our fences, without even stopping long enough to eat. They're all out in the workshop now; they've made it a kind of headquarters." * * * * * The three of them went into the living room. Pop Schermerhorn and Elvin dropped wearily on a couch, while Mrs. Schermerhorn poured stiff drinks for both of them. The radio was playing, a smoothly sweet dance orchestra from San Francisco. But the music faded abruptly, and an excited newscaster interrupted. "It's been like this all day," Mrs. Schermerhorn said. She looked up nervously as the side door opened and the twins came in. "We just wanted some more copper wire, Mom, for the thing we're making," Donald said, but he hesitated when he heard the news broadcast. Both twins dropped silently on the arms of an overstuffed chair and listened. The bulletin was brief; it reviewed the growing chaos among the foreign exchanges, the expanding list of bankruptcies. Two European nations, driven to internal disaster, had gone to war; already the big powers were choosing sides, framing ultimatums. War seemed to be the one universal panacea for all things. In New York stores had started to quote new dollar prices every hour, although purchases made in silver were still relatively stable at the old value. The grating voice concluded, "The first estimates of today's yield from the San Benedicto field place it in the neighborhood of seventy-thousand tons; mining experts predict that tomorrow the figure may be tripled." As the music came on again, Donald got up and snapped off the radio. "The economy of the world's being wrecked, isn't it?" he asked. "By too much gold." "I don't understand," Pop Schermerhorn answered, shaking his head. "Gold's valuable; we need it; it makes us rich. But now, when we have all we want--" "The trouble is, it has no use," David said. "Governments buy it and bury it. If gold becomes as plentiful as iron ore, we still can't do much with it. You can't make skyscrapers or sewer pipes out of gold; it's too soft." "The government ought to clear out the field and stop the mining," Donald suggested. "That might help." "Not as long as the world knows the gold is still here," Elvin answered. He studied the twins carefully; their comment on the economy seemed mature for tenth graders. Suddenly Elvin's weary mind began to piece together a vague kind of understanding, when he remembered the transformation of the Bunsen burner to gold. Beyond his shadowy comprehension loomed the vista of a grandiose dream of how he could use the situation for his own profit. It was intoxicating, like reaching out for the stars and finding them within his grasp. "It's all crazy!" David cried. "We don't really use gold, anyway, in our economy. Why can't we just forget it, and go on using dollars the way we used to?" "Because people are fools," Elvin said. "Or, perhaps, just children," David replied. He stood up, stretching, so that his muscles rippled beneath his plaid shirt. "Well, we better get that wire, Don, and go back to work." * * * * * After the twins had left, Elvin went up to his room to bathe. His mind skipped pleasantly over the delightful and limitless possibilities of his new understanding. The whole thing, of course, hinged on his approach. But, after all, that shouldn't be hard; they were still children emotionally. Five years of teaching had demonstrated, to his satisfaction, that he could handle any adolescent. He began to dress. The clothes he had worn that day were streaked and torn. He took his second suit out of the closet. As he hung the coat over the back of his desk chair, he heard metal strike against the wood. It was the coat he had worn on Friday night, when he found the rocket; in the pocket was the strip of metal that had been sealed over the cylinder of colored spheres. He held it in his hand again. It was the first time the full surface of the metal had touched his skin. As he had before, he felt the sensation of jumbled words flooding his mind, but now the feeling was more intense. He could not put the metal down. Instead he dropped into his desk chair and his eyes were drawn irresistibly to the pattern of tiny, translucent globes that dotted the surface of the metal. The heat of his body produced a chemical reaction; one by one the little globes exploded. Pictures filled Elvin's mind, of cities, machines, towering stacks of books. These dissolved, and he saw planets whirling on the black emptiness of space around the glowing disk of a red sun. There was a cataclysmic splatter of light as the sun exploded, and slashing flame shot out to destroy its circling planets. That picture, too, disappeared and he was staring at a gray nothingness while an emotional voice spoke to him deep within his brain. "_To the intelligent life form, on the Third Planet, System K, Greetings from the dying world of Dyran. You have located our rocket from the hypnotichord built into the fins, and, by opening it, you have demonstrated a condition of rationality that we are able to help. We speak to you now through hypnotic pictures which you are translating into the symbology of your own society. Our astronomers predict that our planetary system will shortly be destroyed, because our sun is dying. It is useless for us to try to escape, for no world that we can find within the limits of our telescope has the particular combination of atmospheric gases which we need in order to live. The only sky-body that we have ever studied that gives any indication of higher life forms is yours. To you, then, we send the substance of our knowledge, the laws and principles that we have developed over a period of two million years since our recorded history began. We could have sent our machines, our libraries of records, yet the chance that you would not comprehend them alone is too great. Instead we send our learning capsules, which we use in the instruction of our young. Break the container which is sealed into this rocket and consume one of the colored spheres. It is, basically, a stimulant to the cerebral cortex of any reasoning animal which already has a memory of the past and a concept of the future. Long ago we discovered that, unaided, the mind will function with only a small portion of its specialized cells. This stimulant forces conscious activity upon all parts of the cortex; in the process of stimulation, your brain will receive the full knowledge of basic principles which we ourselves have developed. We send you fifty of these only, but it will be enough. You have not, on your planet, the material with which to make additional capsules for your people, but you will not need them. The fifty who learn from these will become teachers for the rest. Carry on for us the culture that we have made on the dying world of Dyran._" * * * * * The gray mist faded and Elvin stood up. He felt refreshed, alert; his mind bubbled again with schemes. He looked at the bottle of colored spheres still standing on his desk, and he knew they were no more than bubble gum or candy. On Friday night, while he telephoned, the tenth graders at the Schermerhorn party had started their bubble gum contest, but instead of gum they had by accident absorbed the accumulated knowledge of Dyran, a culture more than three hundred times as old as the earth's! It was overwhelmingly clear what had happened after that. Thirty adolescents, suddenly possessing more knowledge than the world had ever known, had run riot, playing with hypnotism, the transmutation of matter, the Law of Degravitation, the fourth dimensional transposition of whole city blocks. Within two days their energetic curiosity, their adolescent love of excitement and experiment, had thrown the world into crisis. By this time, Elvin concluded, they would be terrified by a feeling of immense guilt, ready to be told what to do to make amends. It was up to him to be the one who did the telling. If, at the same time, he could get his hands on one of the learning capsules--the prospect was so dazzling it left him breathless. He slipped out to the boys' workshop back of the garage. When he knocked on the door, Donald opened it two inches and quickly tried to close it again. But Elvin thrust his hand over the latch. "No, Donald," he said sternly. "This time you don't get away with it. You see, I know what happened when you ate the spheres." The door creaked open. Elvin walked into the workshop, where all thirty of the tenth graders were gathered around the littered work table. The rocket was there, and they were studying the tiny motor. In a corner was a hastily constructed forge; three girls were working with it, turning out curved strips of metal, which a boy was machining on the metal lathe. In the center of the shop was a tall, gleaming bar of metal, surrounded by a network of wires and fastened to a wooden base made from an orange crate. "You're cooking up some more surprises for us?" Elvin asked. "No," Donald replied solemnly. "We're ashamed of--" "As, indeed, you should be." "We're doing our best to put everything back the way it was," Mabel Travis said. "Honestly, Mr. Elvin." "It won't help much; the damage is already done." "But it can be undone. We've already fixed up part of it." "Yes," David Schermerhorn cut in anxiously. "When Don and I came back this morning, the first thing we did was bring back the bank. Our machine's kind of crude, Mr. Elvin, so we couldn't get it right at first. I guess we picked up a castle or something in between; but that's all right, now. And the gold--well, we're going to turn it back to gravel again tonight." He gestured toward the bar of metal. "We can work from the edge of our field," David pointed out. "The whole desert will change at once, the way it did last night." "And what will you do with all the people on it?" "It won't hurt them." "But when they find their gold is gravel, you'll have a major catastrophe on your hands." Marilyn bit her lip. "That's why we haven't done anything yet. We don't want anybody to get hurt but--" "So you've considered that at last." The more Elvin rubbed in the guilt, he reasoned, the more secure he would make himself. "We could just transpose the whole area," Charles suggested. "We've considered that, too. Maybe in pieces, Mr. Elvin. You know, an acre or two to Australia, another to Germany, another to England. That couldn't cause much more than local riots." "But the men would be mighty uncomfortable for a while." "The only trouble is, our machines are so crude; we've had to build them out of scraps. And something could go wrong. We might try to send some of the mob to China, and end up putting them in the Pacific, or maybe back in time." "You've done enough tampering," Elvin declared. "I won't help you at all, unless you promise to leave everything as it is. You have to put yourselves in a position to help the world, not destroy it." * * * * * Elvin had injected just the right tone of nobility into his voice. The thirty adolescents consulted together in whispers. Then David asked, "What do you want us to do, Mr. Elvin?" "Let me act as your representative. I'll go to Washington and talk to responsible men in the government; I'll try to see the president himself. We should set up a scientific foundation for you, where you'll have the equipment you need and where your experiments won't do the rest of us any harm. But, if I'm to convince anybody, I'm going to have to do some tall talking. If you had one of the capsules left--" "No, Mr. Elvin; they're all gone." David was not looking at him, and Elvin knew he was lying; but this was not the occasion to make an issue of it. Above everything else, he had to see to it that they had complete faith in his motives. "Then one of your machines," he suggested. "I have to make them understand I'm not a crank." "That sounds sensible. Which one, Mr. Elvin? The Degravitational Unit is the smallest, and it would do the least harm if--" David looked away again. "--if it got out of your hands." "It isn't sensational enough. I rather wanted to show them this thing you used to transpose the bank and a square of jungle." "Oh, no!" Marilyn broke in. "We couldn't--" "Why that, Mr. Elvin?" "I've already told you. It's the sort of thing that would attract the attention of the important officials immediately, because it could be converted so readily to a weapon of inestimable value." There was a long silence, while the thirty youngsters looked from one to the other. It lengthened. Elvin felt a creeping edge of fear. David spoke at last, "I think you're right, Mr. Elvin. We could show the world how to build a society adjusted to the needs of man; we could develop techniques for wiping out disease and mental disorders; we could show you how to conserve our resources, how to build material things for the mutual happiness of all people; how to create instead of destroying. But of course you're right. The only thing that would really interest any of us would be a new weapon, wouldn't it? All right; we'll give it to you." Marilyn sprang up. "But, David--" "I know what I'm doing!" he snapped at her in a tense whisper. Turning back to Elvin he added smoothly, "But we'll want something from you first, Mr. Elvin." "Anything, my boy; anything to promote the welfare of mankind. But no more of your tricks, mind." "This is far from a trick, Mr. Elvin." "So long as that's understood--" "We're working on a machine--a new one. We have everything we need except tungsten. They use that in building television sets, among other things. I want you to drive down to one of the plants in Los Angeles and get us a pound of tungsten. They won't sell it to you; you'll have to steal it." "Now, David! Only a thick-skulled schoolboy would take such an unsocial attitude! I'm a teacher, a responsible citizen, proud--" "Do you want the machine for transposing matter?" "Yes; for the good of the nation. But--" "Then you'll have to take this risk. We'll give you a Degravitational Unit. That'll help you get away. When you bring us the tungsten, we'll deliver the transportation machine." Elvin made the drive to Los Angeles in record time. The highway was jammed with traffic, but all of it was moving in the opposite direction, toward San Benedicto. He refused to think of the consequences if he were caught. The glittering dream was still blazing on the horizon of his mind. If they refused him the learning capsule, it was unfortunate, but there was nothing he could do about it. The important machine was the one that transposed matter through time. With that one device alone, Elvin could sway the world. Placed in the scales against such a reward, the moral issue of theft counted not at all. * * * * * Los Angeles whirled chaotically in the monetary crisis. The streets were jammed with people, buying everything they could before prices jumped again. In the confusion, Elvin had no difficulty breaking into a television plant. He didn't trip a burglar alarm until he was leaving the factory, but the Degravitational Unit made his escape easy. Within four hours he was back in San Benedicto. He hurried to the workshop. But when he pounded on the door, there was no response. He tried the latch and the door swung open. The room was empty, but on the table was a large envelope addressed to him. A thin thread of wire was fastened to it; as he picked it up, the wire broke and somewhere in the distance a motor began to hum. "Dear Mr. Elvin," he read. "It was unkind of us to play another trick on you, but we're sure you'll be clever enough to steal the tungsten without getting caught. When you came to talk to us, we realized that the conclusion we had reached was right. Children--adolescent minds--have wrecked our world. You know all about that, Mr. Elvin; teachers always do. And you've told us so often in class about the unstable emotions of adolescents, their tantrums, their unpredictability, their unsocial behavior, their egocentricity and all the rest. We'd like to help, but there isn't much we can do, not really; you just want the machines we know how to make, not the ideas we've learned. We grew up, you see, on the day we turned the desert to gold. We found out what happens when you give children dangerous toys to play with. "We made our mistake, and we know how to straighten it out. We've only waited for you to read this so that you would understand, at least for a moment. We have isolated ourselves in suspended time; we're right here in the workshop with you, but you can't see us, naturally, because we started standing still in time more than an hour ago. When you opened your envelope, you tripped the motor of a matter transposition machine which will throw all time backward to last Friday night. None of this will have happened then. That should straighten everything out, don't you think? "You'll find the rocket again, and you'll open it, just as you did before. But this time there'll be only a jar of bubble gum inside, because we've already consumed the learning capsules. There won't be any memory left for anyone--except ours. We've learned how to work with a planet of adolescents. We think we can help you mature in spite of yourselves; but this time no one will ever know how it is being done." Elvin looked up, but before the anger and frustration could crystalize in his mind, the yellow lamp dimmed, the walls of the workshop faded and vanished. He fought for a moment against the blackness rising in his mind. The light paled and paled and finally it was nothing more than a red streak in the sky. It moved closer and he saw that it was a falling object followed by a long plume of red flame. It flashed momentarily overhead and Elvin heard a dull thud as it fell in a field beyond the ranch house. He sprang up from the couch and moved off in the darkness. It had been a meteorite, of course; if it had survived the friction of the atmosphere, it would make an interesting exhibit for the science classroom.... 
32965	----	page images generously made available by Kentuckiana Digital Library (http://kdl.kyvl.org/) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 32965-h.htm or 32965-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32965/32965-h/32965-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32965/32965-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Kentuckiana Digital Library. See http://kdl.kyvl.org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;view=toc;idno=b92-126-29177789 MOTHERING ON PERILOUS * * * * * THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTO * * * * * MOTHERING ON PERILOUS by LUCY FURMAN With Illustrations by Mary Lane McMillan and F. R. Gruger New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1913 All rights reserved Copyright, 1910 and 1911, By the Century Co. Copyright, 1913, By the Macmillan Company Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1913. To my Boys of Six Years Ago [Illustration: "When was a lonely heart more truly comforted?"] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Arrival on Perilous 3 II Getting Acquainted 9 III Acquiring a Family 17 IV War, not Peace 37 V Getting Better Acquainted 47 VI A Trade and Other Matters 55 VII Heroes and Hero Worship 65 VIII Dress, Chivalry and the Trojan War 71 IX More Trading, and some Family History 84 X About Mothers 92 XI Over on Trigger 100 XII The Fightingest Boy 117 XIII Around the Fire 125 XIV The Visit Home, and the Funeral Occasion 141 XV Trouble on Trigger and Elsewhere 157 XVI Filial Piety and Croup 169 XVII Blessings and Hatings 176 XVIII Christmas Anticipations 183 XIX Christmas and Danger 192 XX War and Worse on Trigger 202 XXI Suspense 212 XXII The "Eech," and Tragedy 222 XXIII Despair, and Budding Romance 236 XXIV The Babe 249 XXV Change and Growth 260 XXVI "Marvles" and Marvels 270 XXVII Transformation 283 XXVIII "Keeps" 293 XXIX Liberty and New Life 301 ILLUSTRATIONS "When was a lonely heart more truly comforted?" _Frontispiece_ "My two assistants abandoned work to stare open-mouthed at him." 12 "'Here is Keats back again,--he has got to stay with you women and get l'arning if it kills him dead!'" 20 "'Genealogical' and 'irreconcilable' were child's play to him, 'incomprehensibility,' a bagatelle." 30 "I sat wondering what if anything would be the proper literary milk for my babes." 39 "The table was overturned, chairs were flying, bedlam had broken loose." 41 "'By dogs, now, did you ever see anybody look as good as me?'" 49 "'Just feel my muscle,' he said, 'Oh, I'm so nervy!'" 63 "'Fight, dogs, you haint no kin, 'F you kill one another, taint no sin!'" 79 "'That's where I keep lookout of moonlight nights when war is on.'" 103 "As I looked, I said to myself over and over, 'Is it possible this is a slayer of men, an eluder and defier of the law?'" 108 "'That 'ere little Iry is a-giving Jason the best whipping down in the stable lot ever you seed.'" 123 "Not until she got out of the tall weeds, and into the branch, was the joyful discovery made that nine little new pigs followed her closely and shamefacedly." 148 "'I got a dead tree up the hollow I practice on all the time.'" 171 "The first real snow yesterday, and the boys wild in consequence." 173 "'Blant he rushed on 'em like a robbed she-bear, routing 'em in no time.'" 205 "'I allow they shot me up a little too, by these here rags on my head.'" 215 "Blant caught the dying Rich in his arms." 233 "Dag gone me, he's got use enough for little Dilsey, by Ned!'" 245 "I kotch him at it one time." 273 "'Take it, Joe, I refuse to touch it, I have shot my last shoot!'" 280 "He sat in church the very picture of elegance, the real direction of his thoughts indicated by an occasional ardent glance across the aisle." 288 "'Well, dad burn your looks, where'd you git all them marvles you been selling?'" 298 "Nucky's voice rang out sharp and clear ... 'Make for them spruce pines! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!'" 304 MOTHERING ON PERILOUS I ARRIVAL ON PERILOUS JOSLIN, KY. _Last Thursday in July._ Here I am at the end of the railroad, waiting to begin my two-days' wagon-trip across the mountains. But the school wagon has not arrived,--my landlady says it is delayed by a "tide" in the creeks. By way of cheering me, she has just given a graphic account of the twenty-year-old feud for which this small town is notorious, and has even offered to take me around and show me, on walls, floors and court-house steps, the blood-spots where seven or eight of the feudists have perished. I declined to go,--it is sad enough to know such things exist, without seeing them face to face. Besides, I have enough that is depressing in my own thoughts. When I locked the doors of the old home day before yesterday, I felt as a ghost may when it wanders forth from the tomb. For a year I had not been off the place; it seemed I should never have the courage to go again. For I am one whom death has robbed of everything,--not only of my present but of my future. In the past seven years all has gone; and with Mother's passing a year ago, my very reason for existence went. And yet none knows better than I that this sitting down with sorrow is both dangerous and wrong; if there is any Lethe for such pain as mine, any way of filling in the lonely, dreaded years ahead of me, I must find it. It would be better if I had some spur of necessity to urge me on. As it is, I am all apathy. If there is anything that could interest me, it is some form of social service. A remarkable settlement work being done in the mountains of my own state recently came to my attention; and I wrote the head-workers and arranged for the visit on which I am now embarked. I scarcely dare to hope, however, that I shall find a field of usefulness,--nothing interests me any more, and also, I have no gifts, and have never been trained for anything. My dearest ambition was to make a home, and have a houseful of children; and this, alas, was not to be! _Night._ Howard Cleves, a big boy from the settlement school, has just arrived with the wagon--he says he had to "lay by" twenty-four hours on account of the "tide"--and we are to start at five in the morning. SETTLEMENT SCHOOL ON PERILOUS. _Sunday, In Bed._ I have passed through two days of torture in that wagon. When we were not following the rocky beds of creeks, or sinking to the hubs in mudholes, we were winding around precipitous mountainsides where a misstep of the mules would have sent us hundreds of feet down. Nowhere was there an actual road,--as Howard expressed it, "This country is intended for nag-travel, not for wagons." The mules climbed over logs and bowlders, and up and down great shelves of rock, the jolting, crashing, banging were indescribable, my poor bones were racked until I actually wept from the pain and would have turned back long before noon of the first day if I could; the thirteen hours--during which we made twenty-six miles--seemed thirteen eons, and I fell into the feather-bed at the stopover place that first night hat, dress, shoes and all. Yesterday, having bought two pillows to sit on, I found the jolting more endurable, and was able to see some of the beauty through which we were passing. There is no level land, nothing but creeks and mountains, the latter steep, though not very high, and covered mostly with virgin forest, though here and there a cornfield runs half-way up, and a lonely log house nestles at the base. There were looms and spinning-wheels in the porches of these homes, and always numbers of children ran out to see us pass. Just at noon we turned into Perilous Creek, the one the school is on. Here the bed was unusually wide and smooth, and I was enjoying the respite from racking and jolting, when Howard said with an anxious brow, "All these nice smooth places is liable to be quicksands,--last time I come over, it took four ox-teams to pull my span and wagon out. That's how it gets its name,--Perilous." We escaped the quicks, thank heaven, and just at dark the welcome lights of the school shone out in the narrow valley. I was relieved to find I should be expected to remain in bed to-day. Racked muscles, black-and-blue spots, and dislocated bones are not exactly pleasant; but physical pain is an actual relief after endless ache of heart and suffering of spirit. A pretty, brown-eyed boy just brought in a pitcher of water, asked me if I came from the "level country" and how many times I had "rid" on the railroad train; and gave me the information that he was Philip Sidney Floyd, that his "paw" got his name out of a book, that his "maw" was dead, that he was "very nigh thirteen," and had worked for "the women" all summer. II GETTING ACQUAINTED _Monday Night._ Early this morning I was taken around by Philip and a smaller boy named Geordie to see the buildings,--handsome ones of logs, set in a narrow strip of bottom land along Perilous Creek. The "big house" especially, a great log structure of two-dozen rooms, where the settlement work goes on, and the teachers and girls live, is the most satisfying building I ever saw. There are also a good workshop, a pretty loom-house, and a small hospital, and the last shingles are being nailed on the large new school-house. When I asked the boys why any school-term should begin the first of August, they explained that the children must go home and help their parents hoe corn during May, June and July. All day the children who are to live in the school, and many more who hope to, were arriving, afoot or on nags, the boys, however small, in long trousers and black felt hats like their fathers, the girls a little more cheerfully dressed than their mothers, whose black sun-bonnets and somber homespun dresses were depressing. Many of the parents stayed to dinner. There is a fine, old-fashioned dignity in their manners, and great gentleness in their voices. I have always heard that, shut away here in these mountains, some of the purest and best Anglo-Saxon blood in the nation is to be found; now I am sure of it. It was pathetic to see the eagerness of these men and women that their children should get learning, and to hear many of them tell how they themselves had had no chance whatever at an education, being raised probably sixty or eighty miles from a school-house. Late in the afternoon, as Philip, Geordie and I were fastening up straying rose-vines on the pine-tree pillars of the "big house" porch, a one-legged and very feeble man, accompanied by a boy, dismounted at the gate and came up the walk on a crutch. During the time he sat on the porch, my two assistants abandoned their work to stare open-mouthed at him. When he was called in to see the heads, Geordie inquired of his boy, "How'd your paw git all lamed up thataway?" [Illustration: "My two assistants abandoned work to stare open-mouthed at him."] The new arrival pulled his black hat down, frowned, and measured Geordie with gray, combative eyes, before replying, coldly, "Warring with the Cheevers." "Gee-oh, air you one of the Marrses from Trigger Branch of Powderhorn?" "Yes." "What's your name?" "Nucky." "How old air you?" "Going-on-twelve." "What kin is Blant Marrs to you?" "My brother." "You don't say so! Gee, I wisht I could see him! Have you holp any in the war?" "Some." Here Nucky was called in, to the evident disappointment of his interlocutor. Later, I saw him at the supper-table, gazing disapprovingly about him. After supper I had a few minutes talk with the busy head-workers, and placed myself at their disposal, with the explanation that I really knew very little about anything, except music and gardening. They said these things are just what they have been wanting,--that a friend has recently sent the school a piano (how did it ever cross these mountains!) and that some one to supervise garden operations is especially needed. "Besides, what you don't know you can learn," they said, "we are always having to do impossible and unexpected things here,--our motto is 'Learn by doing.'" I am very dubious; but I promised to try it a month. They told me that between six and seven hundred children had been turned away to-day for lack of room,--only sixty can live in the school, though two hundred more attend the day-school, which begins to-morrow. _Friday Night._ What a week! Foraging expeditions and music-lessons to big girls in the mornings, and in the afternoons, gardening, with a dozen small boys to keep busy. This is an industrial school,--in addition to the usual common-school subjects, woodwork, carpentry, blacksmithing, gardening, cooking, sewing, weaving and home-nursing are all taught, and the children in residence also perform all the work on the place, indoors and out. But alas, my agricultural force is diminishing,--the small boys are leaving in batches. This is the first year any number have been taken to live in the school, and they are unable to endure the homesickness. Nucky Marrs left after one night's stay; three others followed Tuesday afternoon, and five on Wednesday; more were taken in, but left at once. Keats Salyer, a beautiful boy who has wept every minute of his stay, ran away a third time this morning. Yesterday Joab Atkins left when the housekeeper told him to help the girls pick chickens. Eight new boys came in to-day, but the veterans, Philip and Geordie, say these are aiming to leave to-morrow. Friday is mill day in the mountains, and this morning, having had the boys shell corn, I took it to mill to be ground into meal, in a large "poke" (sack) slung across my saddle. When I had gone a mile up Perilous, the thing wriggled from under me and fell off in the road. Of course I was powerless to lift it, though equally of course I got off the school nag and tried. There was nothing to do but sit on the roots of a great beech until somebody came along. Two men soon rode up, and smiling, dismounted and politely set the poke and me on Mandy again, and I reached the mill in safety. When I got back, my black china-silk was ruined from sitting on the meal. III ACQUIRING A FAMILY _Sunday._ Sure enough, the eight new boys were gone before sun-up yesterday, only Philip and Geordie remain, and gardening is at a standstill. All day yesterday and to-day I have thought of the runaways, and wondered if there is any way of making them stay and take advantage of their opportunities. Our young manual-training teacher, and only man, lives at the cottage with the dozen small boys; but, being a man, probably he cannot give them a home feeling, and get them rooted. Only a woman could do that. If I had the courage and cheerfulness, I would go over there and live with those little boys and try to make them feel at home. But it is useless to think of such a thing,--my sadness would repel them,--they would run away faster than ever. _Monday Night._ The heads said to me this morning, "We shall give up trying to keep little boys in the school,--it is useless, though we need them almost as much as they need us. If there were just some one who loves children to stay there and take a real interest in them, they might be satisfied to remain." "I love children," I said, "but I would not think of inflicting myself upon them,--I am not cheerful enough." "Cheerful!" they exclaimed, "why, everybody is cheerful here,--no time for anything else! Suppose you try it!" "I really couldn't think of it," I replied; but, fifteen minutes later, under the spell of their optimism, I was moving over from the big house to the small boys' cottage, from which the manual-training teacher was departing to join the big boys over the workshop. This small cottage is the building in which the work began here five years ago. It is separated from the rest of the school-grounds by a small branch; in its back yard is the wash-house, and beyond this the stable lot slopes down to Perilous Creek. There are four comfortable rooms, neatly papered with magazine pages,--a sitting-room, two bedrooms for the boys, and one for me. The woodwork in mine being battered, I sent Philip down to the nearby village for paint. He returned with a rich, rosy red, and began laying it on my mantelpiece with gusto, while Geordie Yonts put shelves in a goods-box for my bureau. Never have I seen a small chunk of a boy with such a large, ingratiating smile as Geordie's. [Illustration: "'Here is Keats back again,--he has got to stay with you women and get l'arning if it kills him dead!'"] In the midst I heard a call from the road, and saw at the gate a nag bearing a woman and two small boys. "Here is Keats back again,--he has got to stay with you women and get l'arning if it kills him dead!" declared his Spartan mother; "and I brung Hen this time, to keep him company,--he haint so tender-hearted." She sternly pushed the weeping Keats off the nag, and he flung himself down in the doorway, howling dismally. But little Hen, who cannot be more than nine, walked composedly into the house, looking about him with interest. He stopped before the almost-completed mantelpiece. "Gee, woman," he said, "that 'ere's the dad-burn prettiest fireboard ever I seed!" "If you like it, you shall have the same in your room, and all the rooms," I said. "Suppose you and Keats go down right now and buy me a gallon more of this paint. And I think we need some candy, too,--say a quarter's worth of peppermint sticks." The tears miraculously left Keats's face, they hurried off, and later we had a feast of candy flavored with paint. _Tuesday._ A terrible night with fleas, and up at five (awful hour!) to teach the boys to make their beds and clean their rooms. Hen's first question was, "Woman, what's your name?" "Loring," I replied. "Haint you got nary nother?" "Yes, Cecilia." "Gee-oh, that's some shakes of a name. How old air you, Cecilia?" "I am old enough to have a Miss before my name always," I said, severely; "you must call me Miss Loring, just as people call your mother Mrs. Salyer." "They don't," he replied, "they call her Nervesty." "All these-here fotch-on women gits called Miss, son," admonished Geordie; "you haint used to their quare ways yet." Later, there was another halloo from the road, and as Joab Atkins slid off the end of a mule, his father remarked to me, with extreme gentleness, that he allowed Joab would be willing to pick a chicken now. Mr. Atkins is a handsome man, with perfect manners. When he said he had a younger son over on Rakeshin he would like to bring us, little Iry, ten years old, a "pure scholar, that knows the speller from kiver to kiver," I told him to bring Iry at once. Just before supper I was pleased to see another runaway returned,--Nucky Marrs, of Trigger Branch. But before his father was out of sight up the road, he calmly announced to me that he didn't aim to stay, and that neither his paw nor anybody else was able to make him. I believed him,--one glance at his vivid face and combative eyes convinced me. "Very well," I said, "if you cannot be happy, of course you must go. But it will hurt my feelings a good deal,--however, don't think of them." "What difference is it to you?" he demanded. "Only this,--I have lost everybody I love in the world, and have come to the cottage to live with you boys because I am so terribly lonely. If you can't like me well enough to stay, life will seem a failure." He pondered a long while, frowning a little, with large gray eyes fixed on my face. Then he said at last, "I don't know as I'll go right off." "Oh, thank you," I replied, gratefully. From seven to eight we have study-hour at the cottage. To-night Geordie watched the clock-hands for twenty minutes before they reached eight, then slammed his geography shut, and commanded, "Tell about the Marrs-Cheever war!" All the boys woke up at once, and Nucky began, slowly: "The Marrses has lived on Trigger ever sence allus-ago. My great-great-great-grandpaw fit under Washington and got a big land-grant out here and come out from Old Virginny. And the Cheevers they has allus lived down the branch from us. More'n thirty year' gone, Israel Cheever he had a new survey made, and laid claim to a piece of our bottom where the lands jines; and him and his brothers tore down the dividing fence and sot it back up on our land; and the next week, my grandpaw and his boys sot it down where it belonged, and while they was at it, the Cheevers come up and they all fit a big battle. And ever sence, first one side and then t'other has been setting back the fence, and gen'ally a few gets kilt and a lot wounded. Six year gone, paw got his three brothers kilt and a leg shot off and a couple of bullets in his lung, in a battle, and haint been able to do a lick of work sence. Blant, my big brother, wa'n't but fifteen then, and he's had to make the living ever sence, with me to help him. And for five year' before he got good-grown, the Cheevers they helt our land, and Blant he laid low and put in all his spare time at gun practice. Then last fall, on the day Blant was twenty, he rounded up Rich Tarrant and some more of his friends, and Uncle Billy's boys and me, and we tore up the fence, and sot it down on the old line where it ought to be; and the Cheevers, Israel and his ten boys, got wind of it, and come up, and there was the terriblest battle you ever seed." "I heared about it," interrupted Geordie, "I heared Blant was the quickest on the trigger of any boy ever lived, and laid out the Cheevers scandlous." "He kilt two of 'em dead that day, and wounded five or six more pretty bad," resumed Nucky, "and the fighting it went on, off and on, all winter. Every now and then, of a moonlight night, the Cheever boys would start to tear down the fence and set it back up; but we kep' a constant lookout, and was allus ready for 'em. Finally they got discouraged trying to fight Blant in the open, and tuck to ambushing. Three of 'em laywayed Blant under a cliff one day in April, and Elhannon got kilt, and Todd and Dalt so bad wounded they left the country and went West. They are the youngest and feistiest of the lot,--t'other boys is mostly married and settled, and not anxious to risk their lives again' Blant's gun no more--and sence they went off, we have had a spell of peace." "What do you do in the war?" "Oh, I keep a lookout, and spy around, and stand guard over the fence with my gun." "Gee, I wisht I had a war in my family!" sighed Philip, fervently. _Thursday._ Two more nights of suffering,--Philip said to me this morning, "I heared you up a-fleaing four or five times in the night." When I found that several panels of the back fence had been washed away by the "tide" of week-before-last, and that neighborhood hogs were coming in and out at will, and making their beds under my very room, I did not wonder. This morning at the breakfast table, Philip's face was so dingy that I inquired, "Have you washed your face?" "Yes," was his reply. Something moved me to inquire further, "When?" "Day before yesterday," he replied, with perfect nonchalance. This is dangerous,--already I can see that Philip is to be, like his illustrious namesake "the glass of fashion and the mold of form," and that the younger boys, will be only too ready to omit disagreeable rites if he does. Poor Keats, who in the matter of beauty certainly lives up to his name, really seems inconsolable. While he cleans the chicken-yard in the mornings, my heart is wrung by hearing him chant the most dismal of songs, Oh bury me not, on the broad pa-ra-a-ree, Where the wild ky-oats will holler over me! and in the hour after supper, when the others play out of doors, he sits with me, telling about Nervesty and the four little children at home, and the spell of typhoid all the family had last year, when his father and little sister Dicey died, and how "Me 'n' Nervesty and Hen" have run the farm since then, tending fifteen acres of corn, besides clearing new-ground, and other labors. Poor little man, it is the knowledge that he is really needed at home, as much as homesickness, that preys on his mind,--his mother is making a noble sacrifice to let him stay in the school. It seems to comfort him somewhat to weep on a sympathetic bosom. Peppermint candy, too, is not without its efficacy. To-day came Taulbee Bolling, a dignified boy of thirteen, with a critical eye, and later, Mr. Atkins again, with the "pure scholar" in tow. Iry is a thin, puny-looking mite of ten, much too small for his trousers. He said "Yes sir" and "No sir" most politely when speaking to me, and carried an old blue-back speller under one arm. So great was my curiosity that I opened the book at once. The result was amazing,--"genealogical" and "irreconcilable" were child's-play to him, "incomprehensibility," a bagatelle. It was interesting to see his scared little face brighten as he climbed up and down the hard words and beheld my growing astonishment. [Illustration: "'Genealogical' and 'irreconcilable' were child's play to him, 'incomprehensibility,' a bagatelle."] This afternoon while I had the boys mending the back fence, Geordie, who had been left to scrub my floor with carbolic acid solution, came back to the stable-lot bringing a new boy, whom with a flourish of his brush he introduced as follows: "Here's the boy that fit the marshal that kilt his paw. And one time he seed the world and rid on a railroad train. Killis Blair's the name he goes by." Killis is a handsome blonde boy of twelve, not unaware of his double importance. To-night after study-hour there was another catechism by Geordie. "Tell about ridin' on the railroad train!" he ordered. Killis began: "The month before paw got kilt last spring, the officers was a-watching him so clost he was afeared to sell any liquor round about home, so me and him we tuck a barrel acrost the mountains to Virginia, where there's mines, and it would fetch a good price. We loaded fodder on top. The going was awful sorry, and the steers was three days at it. When I got there, I seed men walking round with their hats afire, and went down to the railroad-train and rid on the engine." "What did it look like?" demanded Philip, breathlessly. "Sort of like a saw-mill sot up on wheels." "I'd sooner die as not to see one!" sighed Philip. "I aim to see one when I'm a perfessor," remarked Taulbee. "I bet I see a hundred when I go to be a soldier," said Nucky. "I'd ruther see a railroad-train as to eat!" declared Geordie, and this appeared to be the prevailing sentiment, except with Keats, who said dismally that he didn't crave to see anything that would take him fifty mile' from Nervesty and home. After reflection, Hen agreed with him. "Listen at them two homesicks!" remarked Philip, cuttingly. Geordie folded his fat hands. "Now you might tell about your paw gettin' kilt," he said. Killis said that the officers had been spying around on his "paw" a long time for "stilling" liquor, but that he was too smart for them, and moved the still about, and made liquor by night, and also frightened them by sending word to the marshal he would never be taken alive. That one night they had just "drug" the still up to a new place in the hollow, and he and his father and uncles were sitting around the fire, when there was a yell, and the marshal and a deputy burst in, shooting as they came. That his uncles returned the fire, but before his father could do so, he fell, with a dreadful wound through the stomach. That he himself, when he saw his father fall, snatched a hunting-knife and cut the marshal in the forearm with it as he was running out. The last item he told without bragging, and quite as a matter of course. The other boys gave him looks of approval and envy, all save Nucky. "By Heck, I wouldn't have stopped with his arm," he declared. "I haint," replied Killis, quietly. Evidently I have two heroes on my hands! _Saturday Night._ Moses and Zachariah, two more runaways, were returned this morning, and this afternoon arrived my twelfth boy,--the last, since they cannot sleep more than three in a bed! Jason is a beautiful child of seven, very funny in his little long trousers. I wanted him at sight, but hesitated on account of his youth. When I heard from his father, however, that he had no mother now, I took him at once. Before leaving, Mr. Wyatt said that Jason was right pyeert about learning, and, he added candidly, about meanness too, and he hoped I would not spar' the rod. The rod indeed,--I threw a protecting arm around the angelic-looking child at the word. Indeed, not a few of the parents have warned me against wild and warlike tendencies in their offspring,--Mr. Marrs, for instance, said that Nucky was a master scholar when he could leave off fighting long enough to study his books, and others have admonished me to hold a tight rein. Their warnings are needless,--everything so far has gone with surprising smoothness, confirming my theory that in an atmosphere of love and gentleness the martial traits will be atrophied. To-day things were more tumultuous, Saturday being combined wash-and-cleaning-day at the school, and a hard time for all hands. Ten of the girls came over from the big house to our back yard, and there, assisted by one of my boys, who kept up fires under the big kettles and carried water from the well, did the washing for the entire school; while in every building on the place cleaning, scrubbing and window-washing were in full blast. I was sorry to have to punish little Hen to-night for calling it a "hell of a day." IV WAR, NOT PEACE _Monday Noon._ Yesterday morning I accompanied my boys to Sunday-school in the village. They showed a good deal of restlessness before the service was over,--not surprising considering that only two had ever heard of a Sunday-school before. After dinner I undertook to cheer and entertain them by reading Robinson Crusoe, out in our yard, beginning in the thick of the story, where the hero is in sight of his island. What was my chagrin to see one pair after another of bright, roving eyes dull and close, one head after another roll over in the grass, Nucky Marrs holding out longest, and murmuring wearily, as his head settled back against a tree, "Didn't he never get into no fights, or kill nobody?" Discouraged, I sat for a long while gazing upon the twelve sleepers, and wondering what if anything would be the proper literary milk for my babes. [Illustration: "I sat wondering what if anything would be the proper literary milk for my babes."] When the boys at last awoke from their naps, I gave them permission to play mumble-peg very, very quietly--the heads had told me to keep them quiet on Sundays--and they made a desperate effort to do so. But probably behavior so far had been impossibly good, and this was the last straw. At any rate, when we were gathered in the sitting-room after supper for ten minutes of Sunday-school lesson, the storm broke. Nucky kicked Killis on the shin; Killis called him a smotch-eyed polecat; the two grappled; Philip flew to Nucky's assistance, Joab to Killis's; Keats, Hen and Moses rushed in on the Marrs side, Taulbee, Zachariah and Iry on the Blair, little Jason flew joyously into the fray, impartially attacking both sides, and Geordie prudently retired under the table. It all happened in a flash,--before I could catch my breath the table was overturned, chairs were flying, bedlam had broken loose. In vain I commanded, implored, threatened,--I might as well have spoken to the raging sea. [Illustration: "The table was overturned, chairs were flying, bedlam had broken loose."] Dreadful moments followed, during which I could only dodge chairs and wring my hands wildly. Worse was to come, however,--when I saw Killis grab the shovel, Nucky the poker, and Keats the tongs, while Philip wrested off a table-leg, and Taulbee and others either smashed chairs to pieces for weapons, or seized remaining table-legs, then indeed I felt that death was imminent for all concerned, and, running to the door, shrieked for Howard and the big boys over the workshop. Returning, I plucked the broom from Iry, and rushed with it, straw end foremost, into the thick of the fight. I was lammed on the head by a shovel, on the shoulder by a table-leg, on the elbow by something,--it is not safe to say what might have been the outcome had not Howard opportunely arrived, snatched the broom from me, and, with the handle-end, beaten and whacked the boys mercilessly until they finally surrendered their weapons and retired, bloody but happy, from the "battle." I lay long awake last night, not from fleas, but nursing bruises and reconstructing theories. I see now that love and gentleness need to be backed up by good muscle, and that to be a success in my undertaking here I require, not the small body I actually possess, but the physique of an Amazon. Of course it is all a mistake, and I must give it up, even sooner than I had anticipated. But I am sorry,--the boys are most attractive, and time spent with them passes with lightning swiftness,--incredible as it seems, for seven whole days I have not had a chance to think of myself, my grief, my loneliness. Undoubtedly this is the Lethe I need,--but if its waves buffet me to bits, what then? _Later._ Inspiration came when I visited the loom-house this morning, and saw Cleo Royce, the head-weaving-girl, at her work. She is so large and handsome and strong,--a young Juno, with glorious muscle. The heads are to let her come to the cottage and occupy a cot in my room,--I am determined to stay out my month. _Wednesday._ For two days I have taken away their scanty playtime from the boys in punishment of their fighting Sunday night. Yesterday I talked to them very solemnly on the subject. "Why, it's just an accident you didn't kill one another or me," I said, "and then how should you have felt?" "I'd hate right smart to kill a woman," replied Nucky Marrs; "but gee, I wouldn't mind laying out a few boys. I got to begin somewheres,--a man haint nobody till he's kilt off a few!" To-night when I announced that regular twice-a-week baths must begin at once, and that four of the boys must get ready to wash themselves, a shout of delight went up, "Whoopee! We git to go in the creek,--git to go in Perilous!"--and every boy demanded to be one of the lucky four. When I explained that I did not mean go in the creek, but that they must heat water in the kettles in the yard, and carry it to the tubs in the wash-house, and bathe there, howls of indignation succeeded. "We haint no women!", "I'll go home first!", "Dad burn if I'll do it!", "Creeks is for men!", and Philip remarked scathingly, "Nobody but quare women would wash in a house when there's a creek handy!" It was only by Cleo's splendid strength that four were finally corralled in the wash-house. _Friday._ This has been an anxious week. The ice once broken by the fight Sunday night, every boy has felt free to be himself again. Nucky has fought every boy of his size and larger at the cottage, and, I hear, most of the hundred day-school boys; Killis, though not so aggressive, is quite as warlike; and the others, with the sole exception of Geordie, are not much behind. It is almost impossible for me to get garden-work done, so much of my time must be spent breaking up fights. Even at meals (fortunately the boys and I have a table to ourselves in the dining-room at the big house) behavior is far from being what it should. Tuesday at breakfast, when Geordie undertook to instruct the new boys in table manners, and informed Killis it was not proper to eat with his knife, he was silenced by a jab of the knife in his direction and a threat to cut out his liver; at dinner Wednesday, when Philip snatched a corn-dodger from Keats's plate, he received a spoonful of "sop" (gravy) full in the face; yesterday when Taulbee made disparaging remarks about Trigger Branch, Nucky plunged the prongs of a steel fork so deeply into his scalp that he had to receive attention from the trained nurse. It is difficult to eat with one's mind so distracted; but distraction is far better than desolation. V GETTING BETTER ACQUAINTED _Sunday Night._ I have been hunting Sunday clothes in the barrels sent us by kind friends,--the garments the children bring with them must be saved for hard, every-day wear. This morning, when I eagerly exhibited the Sunday things to the boys, I was doomed to disappointment. They expressed boundless contempt for the short trousers, flouted the knickerbockers as "meal pokes," and declined to wear the pleated and belted coats. Even the little sailor suit I had found for Jason was refused with scorn, as not being "for men." White shirts most of them accepted, but collars and ties were different,--Taulbee argued that even preachers didn't wear those, so why should he? I was non-plussed for five minutes; then my eyes chanced to rest on Killis, the noted traveller. Sending the others from the room, I handed him a dark-blue suit, very little worn, and requested him to get into my closet and put it on, just for my pleasure. He did so, and when I had fastened a collar and a soft red tie on him, I invited him to look in my glass. He was frankly delighted. "By dogs, now, did you ever see anybody look as good as me?" he inquired. [Illustration: "'By dogs, now, did you ever see anybody look as good as me?'"] "I think I never did," I replied with entire truth. "If these breeches was just long, I'd keep these here clothes and wear 'em," he said. "Short breeches," I assured him, "are the very latest style out in the level country; and," I added, "a boy who has seen the world and ridden on a railroad train is the very one to set new styles here,--the others would all follow what you did." "Dad burn my looks, then, if I don't keep these and wear 'em!" "Very well," I said, carelessly; "go along now and let me dress." My dress was half-way over my head when the entire dozen burst into my room without knocking. Taking refuge in the closet, I let them examine the "new-styles," and fight it out over disputed garments. Later, having pinned all the collars, tied all the ties, parted all the hair, and at the last moment washed difficult cracks in all the ears, I set forth with my family for the "church-house," swelling more and more with pride at every step. Never anywhere have I seen such an aristocratic-looking set of boys. After dinner, made wise by experience, I took them for a long walk up Perilous, to a beautiful, retired glen where they could play, fight (without weapons) and make all the noise they needed to. On the way back, we met several women and girls on nags, and I was pained to see that my boys did not remove their hats. When I told them they must do so, Philip demanded why. "To show the respect you feel for women," I replied. "But I haint got none," he answered candidly; "they never done nothing for me. I'd ruther take off my hat to a cow,--I git something back from her!" This from the namesake of the Pattern of Chivalry! Philip is very much of a man, and a prodigious worker,--in the shop he does better work than most of the grown-up boys, and is actually permitted to make walnut furniture for the big house--but he certainly lacks minor virtues, such as courtesy and cleanliness. After supper I happened to ask Killis about his name, and told him I thought he must be named for Achilles, a hero who lived several thousand years ago, and was the greatest fighter of his time. There were unanimous demands to hear all about him, and perforce I started in telling tales of the Trojan War. This time there was no drowsiness, but, as one great combat followed another, intense interest, and howls of remonstrance when I tried to stop. I have found acceptable literary food for my babes,--but alas, what they want is not milk at all, but blood! _Wednesday Bed-time._ Jason, my "little pet" as the others call him, resents any allusion to the fact that he is small, and burns to play the man. In our garden work, he seizes shovels and mattocks almost as large as himself from the bigger boys, and whacks away joyously with them. To-day while we were making gravel walks, I caught him wheeling Geordie's barrow, while Geordie made feeble passes at the gravel-bank in the creek with Jason's little broken-handled pick. Geordie explained, "That 'ere little Jason says he's aiming to leave if you give him little-boy jobs,--he wants big ones. I told him he could take my wheel-borrow awhile,--that I were willing to trade jobs with him, to favor him." "I don't doubt you were," I said, sharply,--I begin to fear that Geordie's energy and talent reside mostly in his tongue. "He's able to do it all right," continued Geordie, imperturbably. "By dogs, you ought to have seed him fight out two of them little day-schools at a time yesterday! Any boy can fight like that ought to labor some, and would have to if he weren't a pet!" This evening while Keats gave me a glowing description of Nervesty's vinegar-pies (it would appear that his affection for her has no few of its roots in his stomach) and the other boys played numble-peg outside my window, what were my grief and surprise to hear the most fearful oaths I ever listened to issue from the sensitive lips of the "pure scholar." Of course all the boys swear; but this was the worst ever. Where can he have learned it, and his father such a perfect gentleman? When I called him in and rebuked him, he was much downcast,--said he didn't aim to cuss, but he had been at it so long he couldn't quit. I told him the only way was to keep on trying, and how very, very happy it would make me when he should succeed; and he promised to try and _try_, "because," he added, almost in a whisper, "I like you." "And I _love_ you," I said, gathering his thin little body to my heart. How happy his words made me,--they are the first to indicate that any of the boys care for me. They have a great deal of reserve, and are hard to get acquainted with, especially Nucky. But at least they are not leaving as they did. VI A TRADE AND OTHER MATTERS _Saturday Night._ Mrs. Salyer came in Thursday bringing some large pokes of beans, a gift to the school, and a saddle-bag full of apples for her boys. Next morning while supervising bed-making, I happened to glance into the box on the wall where Keats had put the apples the night before, and, to my surprise, saw that they were all gone. "We et half of 'em off'n'on in the night, and Keats traded t'other half off to Geordie before we got up," explained Hen,--the three occupy the same bed. On my idle inquiry as to what Geordie gave for them, Keats produced with pride a mangy little purse, about the size of a dollar, looking as if it had been well-chewed. "Why, that wasn't a fair trade," I said, "one apple would have been all that purse was worth. I must speak to Geordie about that." Of course in the rush later I forgot it. Moses and Zachariah having departed without farewells later in the day, I gave Geordie permission next morning to go to an uncle's over on Bald Eagle and bring back his elder brother, Absalom, to the school. Before leaving, he "gave me his hand" to be back "before the sun-ball draps this evening." The sun-ball drapped and rose and drapped again, however, before he returned; and last night as the boys were starting to bed, Philip asked me if I knew how much Geordie had made on those apples he traded Keats out of. "He sold seven to the day-schools for a cent apiece, and six to the manimal trainer for a dime, and three to Taulbee for a big gingercake he brung with him, and I give him a good taw for a couple more, and he traded the two little wormy ones that was left to Keats for a purse." "What purse?" I inquired. "That 'ere one Keats swapped him all the apples for at first,--the one you said weren't worth more'n one apple. Keats told him you said so, and he said he would prove it were by giving Keats two-down for it, if he wanted; and Keats was glad to make the trade." "Do you mean to tell me," I asked, "that Geordie made seventeen cents, a gingercake, a taw _and_ the purse, out of that trade, and Keats lost everything but two wormy apples?" Philip scratched his head thoughtfully. "By grab, he skinned the little Salyer, didn't he? Gee, I wisht I was a born trader like him, dag gone his ole soul!" When Geordie returned to-night with Absalom, his jaw was tied up in a red bandana, he wore a look of patient suffering, and explained that he had had such a sorry time with toothache he could not return yesterday, indignantly repudiating Philip's suggestion that he had just wanted to stay and see a big time with the Yontses and drink their moonshine. Later, when, while filling a hot-water bag for him, I regretfully spoke to him on the subject of cheating in trades, he was deeply hurt, said he had traded the apples back to Keats only to favor him, and confided in me that he aimed to be a preacher when he growed up. _Sunday Night._ During the ear-washing this morning, I had another round with Philip, whose ears are always the grimiest, hair the most unkempt, clothes the most tattered. "Philip," I said, with a groan, "you could be the handsomest boy on the place if you only would!" He replied contemptuously, "Handsome never earnt his salt; when a man steps in the door, looks flies up the chimley!" In the midst of our altercation, Absalom sauntered into my room, took his stand before my mirror, and proceeded to give his hair a good dressing with my brush and comb. Later, as I saw Geordie walking to church with a Bible under his arm, heard his heart-felt singing of the hymns, and watched his pious, soap-shining face, I wondered I could ever have thought he meant to cheat anybody. The Trojan War made fine progress to-night,--it is only on Saturday and Sunday nights that we can have stories, as other evenings must be spent in study. From the first, Killis has identified himself with his famous namesake, while Nucky has as inevitably taken sides with the Trojans and Hector, so much so that the boys call him "Trojan." This evening he was scathing in his denunciation of Achilles. "Gee," he said, "I wisht them Greeks had a-had a _man_ along. Now if Blant had a-been there, you'd a seed some fighting! He wouldn't have sulled around in no tent none! He'd a-got the drap on Hector allus-ago, same as he done on Elhannon and Todd and Dalt Cheever when they laywayed him in April. He was riding along past the cliff where they was hid in the bushes, and heared the click of the lock when Elhannon cocked his trigger, and whirled around and poured six bullets into 'em before they could fire their guns, killing Elhannon and very nigh killing t'other two." _Wednesday._ I expected that with Iry's abilities in the way of spelling, he would be the pride and prodigy of the school; but I am pained to learn from his teacher that he can do nothing but spell. It seems that in the five-month district school he has attended three terms over on Rakeshin, nothing was taught but reading and spelling,--two lessons a day in the former, two in the latter,--thus does our noble commonwealth do her duty when she does it at all! Iry has had to go back into the first grade to learn the rudiments of arithmetic, geography, grammar, etc. Last night Taulbee, the eldest, who is very opinionated, took occasion to enter a general protest against innovations such as nightgowns, tooth-brushes, fine-combs and the like, and wound up by arraigning the school methods of cooking. "Them little small biscuits you-all have don't make half of a good bite," he declared: "You women," he continued, severely, "think you know so much, and lay down so many laws, and, by Ned, you don't even know how to bile beans!" "How should beans be cooked?" I inquired. "A pot of string beans calls for a big chunk of fat pork and about four handful' of lard throwed in, to be fitten to eat," he said; "I haint tasted a right bean sence I come here." This afternoon arrived a solemn little man of eleven from over on Clinch, named Hosea Fields, to take the one vacant place. When Jason came up from his bath to-night, he rolled up his gown sleeve and held out a pink arm to me. "Just feel my muscle," he said, "Oh, I'm _so_ nervy!" [Illustration: "'Just feel my muscle,' he said, 'Oh, I'm so nervy!'"] "I reckon he is," said Keats, "I seed him lay out three-at-a-time of them little primaries at recess to-day." Last time it was two, now it is three. Of course these reports must be exaggerated,--such a baby could not be so warlike. Taking him in my arms and giving him a good hug, I said, "Jason, dear, I want you to remember that it is wrong for little boys to fight." Objections to bathing have been withdrawn, and the boys for some nights have gone to the wash-house with such alacrity that my suspicions were aroused, and I found they were taking advantage of their nude condition, and freedom from interruption, to do great stunts of fighting, the bathing being entirely lost sight of. I have been compelled to make a rule that each boy must present himself in his clean gown after his bath at my door for inspection of head, ears, neck and feet. VII HEROES AND HERO WORSHIP _Saturday Bed-time._ While the boys were scrubbing their rooms after breakfast this morning, Keats sauntered in, saying he had finished his job of cleaning the chicken-yard. I went back, found it anything but clean, and called up to Hen, who was sweeping the back steps, "Tell Keats to come back here and clean this yard better!" He had just passed the word along, "Hi, son, she says for you to come back and lick your calf over!" (I am becoming used to being "she" and "her" on all occasions) when Nucky appeared in the back door, waving excitedly for me. Not knowing what battle, murder or sudden death might be in progress, I flew up the walk. The boys were all hanging out the front door. Nucky shot me through them like a catapult, saying, "Take a look at that 'ere man,--it's Asher Hardwick, from over in Bloody Boyne. He's kilt twenty-four in war, and nine in peace, and wouldn't wipe his foot on Achilles!" A gray, venerable-looking man was passing down the road on an ambling nag. "That man wouldn't hurt a fly," I said; "you must be mistaken." "No, I haint,--I've seed him before. Of course he wouldn't hurt nobody less'n he was driv' to it; but the Mohuns just wouldn't give him no peace at all till they was all kilt off,--same as the Cheevers does us." "But how could he kill nine in peace?" I asked. "Kilt them just accidental,--they was witless folk that never knowed enough to keep out of his way when he was out after Mohuns. Asher he'd feel terrible about such as that." To-night as I related more Trojan War, there were frequent interruptions from Nucky (who, during the stories, holds the place at my right hand always) such as, "I can beat that with Asher Hardwick!", "Blant wouldn't have took no such sass from Agamemnon or nobody!", and then would follow stories which did indeed sometimes beat Greeks and Trojans. Later, he remarked, "If Hector and Achilles and them had a-lived now-a-days, they'd have got song-ballads made up about 'em, same as Asher and Blant. There's four or five about Asher--" "I know one," interrupted Absalom. "And there's one about Blant's revengement on the Cheevers when they laywayed him in April,--Basil Beaumont, over on Powderhorn, he made it." "I know that, too," said Absalom. "Achilles and Hector," I said, "did have song ballads made up about them, the very tales I am relating to you now; and a great blind poet, named Homer, went about singing them from palace to palace." "Same as Basil Beaumont," said Nucky; "he don't never do a lick of work,--folks gives him his bed and vittles just to set in the chimley-corner and pick and sing song-ballads." Geordie had left the room when Absalom spoke; he now returned with a small, homemade banjo--produced, I suppose, from the mysterious locked box he keeps there--and Absalom, tuning it, began to pick and sing an indescribably bloody and doleful song, "The Doom of the Mohuns," which fairly made my blood run cold. This finished, "Blant's Revengement" was demanded and sung, the words of it being as follows: Blant Marrs he was a fighting boy, Most handy with his gun. On Trigger Branch of Powderhorn His famous deeds were done. For thirty year' the war it raged All o'er a strip of bottom. Sometimes the Marrses triumphed strong, Again, the Cheevers got 'em. His paw lamed up, his uncles kilt, Five year' Blant mourned his land, Until, good-grown, beside the fence He took his battle-stand. Then Ben and Jeems they bit the dust And perished in their gore, And many Cheevers his good gun Felt sharp, and dreaded sore. Elhannon, Todd and Dalton then Planned Blant for to layway All unbeknownst, while travelling Upon a fair spring day. Beneath a cliff where Trigger bends In ambush they lay low. Oh, Blant, you better say your prayers! Death lurks at your elbow! Oh, Blant, I wish you was safe at home; I think you'll never be; I would not give a tallow-dip For all your chance I see! He comes, he hears a swift lock click, And, swifter than the wind, He turns, six barrels emptying Before they can begin. Elhannon nevermore will see The sun rise o'er the peak; And Todd and Dalt, up from their wounds, Far, absent countries seek. During the singing, the other boys cast envious glances in Nucky's direction, and Philip probably voiced the sentiments of all when he exclaimed, "Dag gone, I wisht I had a big brother as mean as Blant!" VIII DRESS, CHIVALRY AND THE TROJAN WAR _Sunday Evening._ When we were ready to start for church this morning, I was surprised to see Nucky halt before me, and eye me frowningly from head to foot. "What makes you allus wear ole ugly clothes?" he inquired. "Haint you got no pretty ones, like t'other women?" I looked down at my black crêpe de chine,--of course I have worn deep mourning since I lost Mother, and for six years before I had not had on a color. "You don't like it?" I asked. "I'd as soon look at a coal-bank, or a buzzard," he replied. It suddenly struck me that the dear ones I have loved and lost would be of much the same opinion. "Wait a minute, boys," I said. I flew back and pulled from my trunk a white dress and some black ribbons laid away a year ago. When I emerged, there was a chorus of pleased "gee-ohs" and a decided accession of friendliness, the boys trying who could be first in helping me over the frightful mudholes between the school and the village. I see my duty clear now,--white dresses instead of black. _Thursday._ Considering the antecedents of Nucky and Killis, I was not surprised when they informed me this morning they would make beds no longer, but would leave unless given men's work all the time. My reply, "But making beds _is_ men's work," was met by incredulous whistles. "Now, boys," I said, "how about soldiers,--do you call them men?" "By grab, them's the only men _is_ men,--I'd ruther be dead as not to be one," said Nucky. "Gee, fighting's the best job there is," agreed Killis. "Well, soldiers make their beds every single day," I said; "I have a cousin right now at West Point, learning to be a soldier, and when he gets out he will command a whole company, and he makes his bed every morning, and couldn't be a soldier if he didn't." The two stood, dazed and pondering, for some minutes; then Nucky quietly flung an end of the sheet across to Killis, with the words, "There, son, take-a-holt of that kiver, and le's lay it straight!" To my great relief, I heard Keats singing a more cheerful song at his work to-day: Wisht I was a little turkle-dove, Setting on a limb so high. I'd take my darling on my knee And bid this world goodbye! and at dinner, by actual count, he ate nine corn-dodgers, three helpings of string-beans, four sweet-potatoes and I know not how much sorghum. He still sits with me in the evenings, and I feel now that I have always known Nervesty and the four small children at home, especially Sammy the baby, not to mention Charlie, the "flea-bit" nag, Ole Suke, the "pied" cow, with her twin sons the steers Buck and Brandy, and her daughter Reddy the heifer (now the proud possessor of a little "pied" calf and a "blind" teat), also the big black sow, Julia, who, true to mountain traditions, never has less than nine in her family, and above all the wonderful dog, Ponto, who appears to be all that a dog can, and more. And not infrequently during these talks Keats is called out to help fight some antagonist of Hen's (though there is often civil war between the brothers, they always combine against outside aggression); and at other times Hen will pause breathless on his swift way through house or yard to corroborate some statement of Keats's with, "Gee, woman, that 'ere's a dandy of a dog! He can do anything but climb a tree, and he gits half-way up them. He rounds up the shoats and drives up Ole Suke and the steers gooder than I can; and possums! groundhogs! polecats! dad burn my looks if he haint the beatenest ever you seed!" _Friday._ I have tried all along to respect Jason's feelings, and give him jobs which would injure neither his pride nor his person. But yesterday while we were spading up a patch for turnip-and-mustard-greens, I forgot and sent him off to the school-yard to pick up trash. An hour later, I heard from a passer-by that he had been seen a mile up Perilous. "Don't you recollect him a-saying he would leave if you give him little-boy jobs?" Geordie reminded me. "Saddle the nag and hurry after him," I implored Taulbee. Sometime later, he overtook the proud child on his way to Spraddle Creek, and brought him back under protest. The boys say they see no good reason why they should say "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am." When I told them it was for the sake of politeness, Philip replied, "Polite's a lick-spittle,--I don't aim to be polite,--I don't _have_ to,--I'm able to get what I want without it!" This last is only too true. "For they shall take who have the power, and they shall keep who can," is the creed of all, but more especially of Philip. This noon, when Iry's father had sent him from Rakeshin a fine, yellow, mellow apple, and the "pure scholar" was eating it as frugally and lingeringly as possible, Philip, came along, snatched it, bit off three-fourths, and coolly handed back the fragment to Iry, who, howling dismally, still had no redress. "To think you could do such a base thing!" I exclaimed,--"Rob a little boy who cannot defend himself. You ought to be everlastingly ashamed!" "I was behind the door when shame passed by," replied the robber, flippantly. "You were indeed," I agreed; "I would not believe that a boy named Philip Sidney could be guilty of such a thing." Then I told him the story of the great Sir Philip, mortally wounded, fevered and athirst, handing the cup of water to the dying soldier beside him, with the words, "Your need is greater than mine." He pondered a moment, then remarked, "No man'd be such a fool,--I bet it's just a slander they made up on him!" I told him he should lose three days' playtime for his rapacity. _Sunday Night._ Last night the Trojan War reached a climax in the death of Horse-Taming Hector, amid shouts of joy from Killis, and howls of fury from Nucky. I have seen for two weeks that considerable feeling has developed between the two on the subject, intensifying the natural jealousy each has of the prowess and reputation of the other. This morning I had left the boys at the big house to help with the breakfast dishes--the regular Sunday proceeding--and was standing in the back cottage door drinking in the beauty of the morning and the Sabbath peace of the hills, when savage yells smote my ears. Following the sound, I ran to the school-yard. When I arrived, Nucky had just buried his teeth in Killis's arm, from which the blood was spurting, while Killis was striking out fiercely with his knife. Around the combatants the other boys formed a delighted, cheering circle, within which Philip danced madly about, shouting, Fight, dogs, you haint no kin, 'F you kill one another, taint no sin! In another second, Nucky had abandoned the hold with his teeth, and was flashing his own knife around Killis's throat. With a shinny-stick, I knocked up one knife after the other, and kept death at bay until four of the grown-up boys arrived and with difficulty separated the heroes and escorted them to the hospital to have their wounds staunched and dressed. Later, I heard that Nucky had begun it by leaping upon Killis with the words, "I'll show you Hector haint dead yet!" [Illustration: "'Fight, dogs, you haint no kin, 'F you kill one another, taint no sin!'"] To-night when I had the two in durance vile, and talked to them more severely than I had yet done on the evils of fighting, Nucky, the aggressor, gave as his excuse that his great-great-great-grandpaw had fit the British, his great-great-grandpaw the Indians, his great-grandpaw the Mexicans, his grandpaw the Rebels, and his paw and Blant the Cheevers ever since he could recollect, and that he himself was just bound to fight. This was sound reasoning; and it brought before me with hitherto unrealized force the fact that these boys are in very truth the sons of heroes,--of forefathers who fought gloriously for freedom in the Revolution, afterward subdued the wilderness and the savages, and have since poured forth as one man from their fastnesses to safeguard the Union in every emergency; and that here, forgotten and neglected by an ungrateful state and nation, is the precious stuff of which great patriots and heroes are made. Therefore I did not upbraid Nucky and Killis further; I merely explained to them the difference between fighting just to be fighting, and fighting to save one's country, and, since they had no idea who the "British," the "Mexicans" and the "Rebels" were, told them something of the history and causes of those wars, and how I hoped that they, too, when necessary, would fight for their nation. And though to them at first their country meant their mountains only, and they were surprised to hear that the great "level land" beyond was also theirs to love and fight for, their affections were hospitable, and with one voice they demanded that an enemy of the nation be produced at once. Here endeth the Trojan War,--I see that it has fanned a flame already too intense. Even little Jason slipped out under the benches at church this morning, while I played the organ, and was found an hour later out in the road in front of the court-house, covered with mud, but glowing with the white-hot joy of having "whupped-out four-at-a-time" of the little village boys. Hereafter I shall tell and read stories of heroes who won glory by fighting, not one another, but dragons, giants, gorgons, and like destroyers of their countries. Nucky inquired of me at supper to-night when he might make a visit home to Trigger; whereupon there was an instant and unanimous offer on the part of the boys to accompany him, when he goes, and see the hero Blant. He shook his head. "I haint aiming to take none of you," he said, "not if she'll go 'long with me," looking at me. "I?" I said, much complimented. "Why, surely I will if I can. But it is three weeks yet before your time comes:"--the children are permitted to go home over week-ends every seven or eight weeks, in rotation. I am glad he wants me, and feel a considerable desire to visit Trigger. IX MORE TRADING, AND SOME FAMILY HISTORY _First Monday in September._ Four weeks to-day since I acquired my family of sons, and now it seems as if I had had them always. So far from being ready to leave now my month is out, wild horses could not drag me away. The hours, once so leaden, pass with lightning swiftness; there is never any time for depression, or for looking into a desolate and dreaded future; my days are crammed with human interest, exciting as a dime novel. Besides, although I see no evidence that the boys care much for me, I care a great deal for them, and would not willingly leave them. Geordie brought back with him from our walk yesterday a large bundle of elder-poles. This morning, mumble-peg went out, and pop-guns came in, like a clap of thunder, and I heard that Geordie was selling lengths of elder to the boys for two cents, or a satisfactory equivalent. It was impossible this afternoon to get manure hauled to the new flower-borders,--every time a barrow would get out of sight, the wheeler would sit down on it and go to whittling a pop-gun. After being scolded a third time, Philip complained bitterly to me, "If you never wanted us to have pop-guns, whyn't you take them poles away from Geordie yesterday? Dad burn my looks, we git all the blame, and he gits all the gain,--he's a making it hand over fist." "He was the only one who thought of putting the elder to use," I said. "I suppose he has a right to his gains." Philip sadly admitted the justice of this view. "Dag gone _me_," he sighed, "I wisht I was a born trader and forelooker like him! Good thing I haint aiming to be no preacher, I'd starve to death the first week. But Geordie he's cut out for it." "I'm afraid I don't see the connection between trading and preaching," I said. "Well, preachers can't take no money for preaching--it would be a sin--and they haint got much time for tending craps and such, and less'n they good traders they mighty apt to starve. Geordie he haint never going to run out of wheat-flour, let alone corn meal. Gee! if you could see the things he's got in that locked box of his!" "What has he?" I asked. "Oh, _I_ haint never seed 'em,--nobody haint; but any minute in the day he can run his hand in and pull out something a boy'll think he's pine-blank bound to have or die!" When I heard to-night that Keats's tooth-brush, Jason's blue necktie I gave him, Hen's fine-comb and pencil, Iry's "gallusses," and Nucky's only handkerchief, were among the articles traded for pop-gun material, I was moved to wrath with Geordie; but when he displayed to me the small and apparently worthless things he had accepted from other boys,--a torn woolen comforter from Taulbee, Killis's holey mittens, Joab's worn-out yarn socks, and a handful of rusty horse-shoe nails from Hosea, it seemed to me that, on the whole, there had not been such exorbitant exchanges for the joy of a pop-gun, and I softened my reprimand. _Thursday._ Mrs. Salyer rode in to-day to see her boys, a watermelon in one saddle-pocket, a lot of fine pawpaws in the other. Oh the joy of the "two homesicks"! Before leaving, she said that her cousin Emmeline's funeral occasion was set for the fourth Saturday and Sunday in October, and she hoped her boys might be permitted to come home at that time and pay their respects to Emmeline, adding that she would be pleased to have me come with them. In answer to my puzzled inquiries--for I failed to see how Emmeline's death could be so nicely calculated in advance--she explained that funerals are never held in this country at the time of burial, when it is usually impossible to get a preacher, but that they are conducted in deliberate and appropriate style a year or two after the death. This is to be the little Salyers' first visit home--we think it best they shall not go until then--and never, I suppose, was a funeral-occasion the subject of such desire and rejoicing. _Sunday Night._ For two weeks we have been reading Hawthorne's Wonder Tales; and this afternoon on our walk the boys, led by Nucky, searched hopefully in caves, coal-banks and rock-dens for gorgons, minotaurs and dragons, finding nothing worse, however, than a few rattlesnakes and copperheads,--a tame substitute and an old story. But the value of drawing their minds to foes in the abstract is already apparent,--they fight less, and traits other than martial are coming to the front. Nucky has been giving his energies to learning, with results that astonish. His teacher says she has never seen such mental alertness. She has already put him up two grades, and says if he keeps on he may go up another this half-term. Iry, too, is proving his right to his title of "pure scholar." To-night when we began again on the Wonder Book, Nucky said, "I can tell you a story that beats them,--all about a man by the name of Christian, that fit with devils, and come near being et up by a giant ten times as big as him." There were loud cries of, "Tell it, Trojan!"; and he launched forth into a most graphic version of Pilgrim's Progress, the other boys listening absorbed throughout the evening. When all started off to bed, I called Nucky back. "Where did you learn that story?" I asked him. "I have knowed it sence allus-ago," he said; "Maw she used to read it to me out of a book with pictures." It is the first time he has spoken of his mother,--I hear from the other boys that he lost her quite recently. "Then your mother had learning?" I inquired. "She never got any inside a school-house," he replied; "but her great-grandpaw he had a sight of learning, and when he was a' old man, too feeble to do anything but set by the fire, he teached her how to read and write and figger, and was so proud of her being a scholar that when he come to die he left her what books he had,--there is several, all yallow and crumbly. One is a Bible; but the one I like is this-here about Christian and the devils. I used to lay and look at it by the hour, and learnt to read a-trying on it." This is most interesting as being another proof that the early settlers of this country were men of an education impossible to their descendants. It also helps to account for Nucky's remarkable mentality. He grasps a thing almost before it is spoken, has only to read over his lessons once, and remembers the stories I tell and read with surprising minuteness. _Wednesday._ I suppose I might have expected some ill effects from the hero-tales. When I went down to inspect the stable-lot this morning, I found three barn cats writhing in their death agonies, and Jason galloping off on a stick-horse, brandishing a shinny-bat. His explanation that he was Bellerophon, the stick Pegasus, and the cats the three heads of the Chimæra failed to mollify me. I gave him his first taste of "the rod," and did not "spar'" it. Evidently the child has a poetic imagination, which must not be permitted to run riot. X ABOUT MOTHERS _Saturday Night._ The little Salyers, while really fond of one another, have queer ways sometimes of showing it. This afternoon Keats called up wearily from the back yard, where for eight hours he had been carrying water and keeping up fires for the wash-girls, to Hen in the doorway, "What time is it, son?" to receive the affectionate reply, "Time all dogs was dead,--haint you sick?" To-night, sitting around our lamp, eating peppermint candy, the boys got to talking about their mothers, living or dead,--Keats and Hen of course about Nervesty, Taulbee, Killis and Hosea about their good mothers at home, Geordie and Absalom about theirs who is married again and lives in Virginia, and Philip, Joab, Iry and Jason about theirs who are dead. Nucky alone did not talk,--it seems impossible for him to speak of his mother. Iry told many little incidents his remarkable memory enables him to recall, though his mother died when he was only three. One is, standing beside her while she fed him beans and sorghum from a spoon; another, having a small paddle and helping her "battle" the clothes as she washed them beside the branch; still another, being left by her in a pen made of rails and a log high up on the mountainside where she was hoeing corn, seeing a beautiful, shining, spotted thing come out on the log to sun itself, and amusing himself poking his finger at the pretty creature to make it lick out its tongue, rattle its tail, and "quile" itself up, till suddenly something fell on the bright head, and his mother, with a terrible scream, threw down her hoe and caught him to her bosom. These and other scraps of recollection the "pure scholar" treasures so tenderly it seems hard indeed that his mother should have taken the "breast-complaint,--some calls it the galloping consumpt'," and died so young, missing his love. "You know," I said to him, "that being dead isn't really being dead, but just gone out of sight. Your dear mother still lives and loves and watches over you constantly, though you cannot see her." "I allus heared dead folks was just h'ants, trying to layway and scare folks," said Iry. "Nothing of the kind," I assured him; "they can never be seen by these eyes of ours, but they are near, quite near us always, to love and protect us, especially mothers their orphan children." There was a long silence. Then, with a sigh, little Iry exclaimed, slowly, "Dag gone, I wisht somebody'd a-told me that before,--I wouldn't a-been so lonesome!" Nucky, who had not spoken a word during the conversation, got up and hurried from the room. At bed-time, Hen slipped into my door to report, "I tracked Trojan to the hayloft, and heared him a-laying up there crying fit to kill for his maw." Poor child,--the still waters run deep! _Sunday Night._ Nucky asked for extra work during his playtime yesterday in order to make some money, and for three hours spaded flower-beds, receiving a dime in pay, and making a mysterious visit to the village after supper. This morning when I was ready for church, he came into my room with a yard of bright pink ribbon dangling from his hand. This he held out to me, saying, "You allus go about with them old black strings on, and haint got no pretty fixings like t'other women,--I allow you're too poor to buy 'em. I want you to have something pretty." For seven years I have not had on a color,--I never supposed I could wear one again. But I slowly unfastened the black ribbon from my collar, and replaced it with the pink. Then I put my arms around Nucky, and kissed him. "I _was_ poor,--horribly poor, Nucky," I said, "before I got you and the other boys. But I shall never feel poor again, after receiving such a precious gift as this!" Precious indeed it is, not only as representing untold sacrifice on his part, but as showing that he really cares for me,--he is so reserved and self-contained I did not dream he did. One thing is certain,--I will try to deserve his sacrifice and love,--to-morrow I will send away not only for bright ribbons, but for cheerful dresses which shall please his eyes and those of the others. No longer shall they see me in garments of heaviness. _Tuesday._ This noon, Iry, who since our first talk about swearing, has been trying without much success to stop it--sometimes he bites off the tail of a swear-word, but generally the head and trunk escape him--ran into my room with big eyes. "Geordie and me was a-quarling over a shinny-bat he traded me out of, and I started to say a' awful cuss-word at him, and then I ricollected what you said about my maw a-watching me all the time, and I never said a thing to him but 'Dad burn your ole soul!'" I congratulated the "pure scholar" on his great victory, and encouraged him to press on. _Wednesday, Bed-time._ To-day was Mother's birthday. While I was placing a bowl of asters before her picture over my fireboard, Nucky came in, and I spoke to him about her, telling him how her love and courage had sustained me through deepest sorrow, and how terribly I miss her now. After a while he said, in a low voice, "I miss my maw, too." "Tell me about her," I said. Then, little by little, and often with great difficulty, and with long silences, he told me the story of his mother; how devoted she had been to her children, and how eager that they, and especially he, should get learning, teaching him what she could, getting a little district school established on Trigger three years ago, and coming over herself to this school last April to try and get him in here, being nag-flung on her way home, and sustaining injuries which caused her to die a month later when her last baby was born; how on her deathbed she had called her family around her, and given them her love and blessing and advice, asking her husband never to put a "step-maw" over her children, and leaving them all in Blant's charge, confiding to his special care the day-old baby, "your paw being too puny to set up with it of nights," and passing away at last clinging to them and weeping bitter tears that she must leave them. He also told how Blant had accepted his sacred trust; tenderly and tirelessly minding the younger children, cooking and cleaning; when not out tending the crop, clearing new-ground, logging and the like, and how, above all, he has devoted himself to "the babe," patiently walking the floor with it at night, warming its bottle, jolting it on his knee, toasting its little feet before the fire, sleeping with it on his arm, and "making it sugar-teats and soot-tea as good as a woman." This being the same Blant who "never goes out without a gun," and has done such notable slaughter in the hereditary "war" with the Cheevers! I own to a large curiosity to behold this hero--more than ever since I heard what Nucky told me to-day. I am glad that the visit to Trigger comes the end of this week. XI OVER ON TRIGGER _Monday Morning._ Soon after breakfast on Saturday we set out on our sixteen-mile ride to Trigger Branch, I on Mandy, Nucky walking,--he refused to ride behind, remarking, "I'm allus used to seeing the women ride there." The day was glorious, the way more and more beautiful as we proceeded. We crossed three mountains, stopping on the top of one, where the sunlight sifted down through translucent beech leaves, to eat our lunch, and then "followed" Powderhorn, a large creek, two or three miles, finally turning up Trigger Branch. At its mouth, Nucky pointed out the little log school-house in which he has received his education up to this term, and farther on he showed me various rocks and trees where he has delighted to "layway" and "ambush" infant Cheevers. Trigger Branch is the most picturesque creek I have yet seen; along its sides cliffs and "rock-houses" alternate with rich hollows, small strips of bottom, and steep but flourishing cornfields. All the houses we passed on the lower reaches belonged to Cheevers, sons of Israel, and last of all was Israel's home. Three "sights," or about a half-mile above this, is the disputed boundary-line, which runs down from a mountain spur on the right hand side, and then across a piece of bottom to the branch. The bone of contention is a triangular slice of bottom, with its apex at the foot of the spur, not an acre in extent, all told. As Nucky pointed it out to me, I looked with mingled curiosity and horror. The fence of course now stands on the ancient line claimed by the Marrses, where it has stood for nearly a century and a quarter. "It is impossible to believe that more than a dozen lives have been sacrificed for this little piece of land," I said to Nucky, "why, I doubt if you could raise forty bushels of corn a year on it." His face flushed. "It haint the money's worth," he said, proudly; "we don't care nothing about that. But it was granted to my great-great-great-grandpaw for fighting the British, and me'n' Blant would ruther die than part with a' inch of it." He pointed to a thick, dark clump of hemlock near the foot of the spur, on the Marrs land. "That's where I keep lookout of moonlight nights when war is on," he said. [Illustration: "'That's where I keep lookout of moonlight nights when war is on.'"] As we advanced, he showed me the steep cornfields tended by Blant and himself, the almost upright pastures where some cattle and sheep were feeding, and above, the virgin forest where Blant gets out yellow poplar and other fine timber, and on the very crest of the ridge, the gray, forbidding "high rocks" that are so fine for fox-hunts, and also, he says, for "hiding out" in if officers get too troublesome. "Blant he has a whole passel of warrants hanging over him," he said, "and the sheriff and deputies they used to come over every now and then last winter a-hunting him. Of course he couldn't afford to give hisself up, or put in no time in jail, when he was so bad needed at home; and at first he would take to the rocks when he seed 'em a-coming. But that was a heap of trouble, and he got mighty tired of it, and so next time they rid up he tuck his pistol and stepped out and told 'em that, bad as he hated to do it, circumstances was such that he would have to fire on 'em if they kep' bothering around; that he had the living to make for the family, and no time to spend setting around enjoying hisself in jail,--that with him duty come before pleasure, and he would have to request 'em to leave him alone. And seeing how he felt about it, they never come again for quite a spell,--not till after he kilt Elhannon in April. Then they kotch him purely by accident, but he got away from 'em that night,--I'll tell you about it sometime." We were now approaching the Marrs house, a large, substantial one of logs, built on the time-honored pattern of "two pens and a passage,"--that is, two huge rooms, with an open hallway, below, and a great "loft", large enough for six ordinary rooms, above. "Cap'n Enoch Marrs raised it, more'n a hundred year' gone," said Nucky. Entering the open passage, which was hung with saddles, bridles and gearing of all sorts, and also with strings of beans and peppers, we passed into one of the lower rooms. Mr. Marrs arose, coughing, from one of the three large beds, upon which he had been resting, and welcomed me most kindly. In front of the great fireplace, four young children were gathered, and the eldest of these, a little woman of eight, held in her arms an infant, upon whom I looked with special interest. This, then, was "the babe,"--a beautiful, tiny girl-child of five months, with large gray eyes in a small white face, and the brightest of little smiles. The room was bare save for the beds, some chairs, and a great homemade chest of drawers. On the fireboard were a clock and a few books, yellow and crumbly, as Nucky had said, and above, across wooden pegs set in the wall, rested a long, old-fashioned rifle, with a powderhorn slung on one end. "This here's the gun Cap'n Enoch Marrs fit the British with," said Nucky, with bursting pride; "it's mine now,--paw give it to me on account of my name." Half an hour later, the hero, Blant, came in from "saving" fodder. I gazed at him with all my might. He is a tall young man, with Nucky's fine gray eyes and dark hair, an open face and a resolute jaw. After greeting me in the gentlest of voices, he picked up the babe, who, clinging to him with cries and coos of joy, buried her little face in his bosom. He then went on with her across the passage and into the other large room, whither Nucky followed him, and the two began preparations for supper. Several times I saw Blant pass the open door, always with the babe on his left arm, and once with a bowl of cornmeal, once a stack of roasting-ears, once a skillet of meat, in the other. As I looked, I said to myself over and over, "Is it possible this is a slayer of men, an eluder and defier of the law?" [Illustration: "As I looked, I said to myself over and over, 'Is it possible this is the slayer of men, an eluder and defier of the law?'"] It also occurred to me for the first time that I was adding to his already heavy burdens; and I reproached myself for coming; but there was no help for it now. Supper at last being ready, Mr. Marrs, leaning feebly on his crutch, conducted me into "t'other house," the children took their stands and we our seats about the table, and Blant, still with the babe on his arm, did the honors, pouring the coffee, and then impartially sharing with the babe the beans, fat meat, roasting-ears and sweet-potatoes on his plate. While of course the house in many ways shows the absence of woman's care, Blant's filling of his mother's place is indeed remarkable. Later, my offer of help in the dish-washing being kindly but firmly refused, I returned to the first room with Mr. Marrs and the children, and we sat and talked. Of course I made no reference to the family "war," but I did inquire as much as possible in regard to ancient family history, and was shown the old Bible, the records of which go back to Captain Enoch Marrs, the first settler here. Mr. Marrs, however, told me that there are traditions that before the Marrses came to America, they were brave and gentle folk for five hundred years in Old England, and poured out their blood like water for the glory of their country. "I allow from what I have heared that we have always been a fighting race," he said. "My great-grandpaw used to set up and tell big tales, which he got from his paw, how first one and then t'other of us fit for his king in ancient days, and won glory and renown,--I mind there was a famous admiral under Good Queen Bess, and before him a general that licked out the French nation--but I haint able to ricollect names and circumstances, having been too young and unknowing when I heared them tales to take proper interest, which I regret now." I shared his regret,--with so many good and aristocratic English names in this mountain country, I have been quite sure that some of them harked back to a brave and honorable past, and it would be especially pleasing to me to trace Nucky's line to its old English home, and through its brave deeds for king and country. While we talked, Blant returned, with the babe and Nucky, and a little later, Blant's bosom friend, Richard Tarrant, came in from across the mountain. He is a strikingly attractive young man. Before he had stayed long, he said, "I have got bad news for you, Blant,--it is being talked that Todd and Dalt Cheever has got powerful homesick out west, and is aiming to come back before long. I hope it haint so,--I had looked forward to a right smart spell of peace for you,--God knows you have got your hands full, without no further warfare." "I think Todd and Dalt will be satisfied to stay away a while yet," replied Blant, quietly; "I allow this is just one of Israel's lies." "Well, I hope so," said Rich; "but forewarned is forearmed, and I thought you ought to know the talk." "I want to know about it quick as they come," spoke up Nucky, hastily; "you can't no way get along without me to keep lookout." Blant turned sternly upon him. "No matter what the news is, son," he admonished, "you stay right there where you air, and don't dare to leave and come home. You know maw's desires in regards to your getting l'arning. I promised her I'd carry 'em out, and now I aim to do it. You stay over there, or you'll have me to reckon with. I got Rich here to help me if need be, and likewise Uncle Billy's boys,--what I haint able to tend to myself." Nucky's face flushed angrily; but he said no more. When bed-time came, the family slept downstairs--besides the three beds in one room, there was another in the kitchen--and I was shown up to a comfortable feather-bed in the great loft. Long after everybody else was asleep, I heard the poor little babe wailing pitiably below, and Blant softly walking the floor with it, jolting it back and forth in his chair, and trotting it on his knees before the fire. No wonder the little creature suffered agonies after eating the things it got for supper. After breakfast in the morning, Nucky invited me to go for a walk. We ascended one of the spurs of the mountain in the rear of the house,--never have I seen a more beautiful site for a home than in that hollow--and a third of the way up, on a small "bench," came upon what appeared to be a play-village. Beneath spreading trees, were a dozen or more diminutive houses, with latticed sides and roofs of riven oak boards. Some were crumbling into decay, some new and substantial. The one to which Nucky led me was still yellow. "Here's where Maw lays," he said, almost in a whisper (I judge that one reason he finds it so hard to speak of her is his feeling that he, or rather, her desire for his education, was in a way the cause of her death), and I knew that this must be the family burying-ground, and these the grave-houses once so necessary for the protection of the dead from wild beasts, and still surviving here in the customs of the mountain country. Near the grave-house of his mother were three smaller ones, still good and new. "Our three young uns betwixt Blant and me died of typhoid one summer, about five year' gone," Nucky explained. China-asters were blossoming gaily among the weeds about these grave-houses. "Maw she sot 'em there," Nucky said, "she liked to come here and rest a spell when she was hoeing corn, and set with these young uns." The tragedy of the life of Nucky's mother was brought forcibly before me as I stood there. An eager-minded, loving-hearted woman, shut off from all opportunity, the bringer of ten new lives into the world, laboring and drudging as only these mountain women know how to for the sustenance and clothing of her family, suffering constant anxiety as to the very lives of her loved ones by reason of the family "war," and finally having to go out into the darkness of death and bid them all farewell,--surely it is a sad and tragic history. As we turned away, Nucky added, "With them three young uns around her, I allow she haint so lonesome as she would be all by herself." "No," I said, "having her loved ones with her, she is happier far, even in heaven. For it is that which makes heaven." Blant had dinner for us at eleven, and soon afterward we were ready to depart. "Come over and see us sometime at the school," I called to Blant, as he stood with the babe on his arm by the gate. He thanked me gravely, but did not say he would come. "Gee," said Nucky, as we rode on, "he can't never do that,--why they'd just _have_ to arrest him if he run into the jaws of the sheriff and the jail that way!" We made the last hour or two of our journey through moonlight in which the mist-hung mountains and shadowed valleys lay entrancingly lovely. "This is the kind of nights I allus keep watch for the Cheevers," said Nucky. I wondered if these were the sole thoughts aroused in him by the wondrous beauty in which he had been born and bred. Presently I knew. "If maw is in heaven, like you say, do you allow the country round about there is any prettier than this here?" he asked. "No, I am sure not," I replied, emphatically. XII THE FIGHTINGEST BOY _Tuesday Night_. Nucky ran in to-night from shinny, to have a "broke" ankle tied up, (it seems to me I am always tying up either "risings," "biles," sores or hurts) and said to me while I did it, "That 'ere little Jason is just a-chawing up and spitting out them little day-schools. This morning at recess I seed him whup out five-at-a-time. Yes, sir, five was on him, and by Ned if he didn't lay out the last one. He's the fightingest boy you got!" "I thought you were that," I said. "Dad burn ole Heck if ever I seed the day I could lay out five of my size at a time! Going to school there on Trigger, I have whupped out as many as three Cheever young uns at a time; but five! Gee! I wisht I knowed how he done it!" These accounts of Jason's prowess seem unbelievable; but from the mouths of many witnesses I gather that they must be true. I, too, wonder how he does it. _Wednesday._ Evidently Jason's success with the little primaries is going to his head, for to-day he attacked Hen Salyer, who is a head taller, and would have vanquished him had not Keats come to the rescue. As it was, he gave the Salyers a lively battle, and enormously increased their respect for him. My most vigorous applications of the rod appear powerless to curb this aggressiveness. _Thursday._ While we were out in force this afternoon, digging the ditch which is to drain our garden, Nucky spoke up, apropos of nothing, "'F I had a boy 't wouldn't fight, I'd tie him to a good sapling and fill him so full of bullets the buzzards wouldn't eat him!" Having observed anything but a lack of the "fighting edge" since my arrival on Perilous, I saw no point in this remark, and let it pass. Nucky spoke again, accusingly, "You got one," he said; "you got a boy 't won't fight!" "I?" I demanded in amazement. "Iry Atkins yander. Little Jason Wyatt's been a-picking on him for three days, and he's afeared to fight him back, by Ned!" "You're a liar, Trojan!" spoke up the "pure scholar," hotly; "I haint fit him because I'm a-minding her. She said for us not to fight him because he were so little. I can fight as good as you, dag gone you!" "Le's see you then, dad swinge you!" Iry rushed upon Nucky with murder in his eye, and it took Taulbee and me, aided by a hoe-handle, to separate them. Iry's conscientiousness is very gratifying. I wish that I could remove the interdict made at first for Jason's protection; but probably it had better remain now for Iry's. _Friday Night._ When Jason and Keats came up from the wash-house to-night in their fresh gowns, looking startlingly clean, (I let them bathe together because Keats is so kind-hearted, and carries the water from kettles to tubs for Jason, and even washes his back for him) I handed Keats a pair of scissors. "Do you mind cutting Jason's toe-nails?" I asked; "I notice that they are dreadfully long." To my utter confounding, Jason threw himself on the floor, kicking and beating it violently and letting out terrific yells. "Why, it won't hurt you, dear," I said, "or, if you fear Keats will, I will gladly do it myself." The howls and yells increased if possible. "He haint afeared of being hurt," said Keats; "he just don't aim to part with them toe-nails." "Why?" I inquired. "He needs 'em in his business. He fights with 'em. I found it out when him and Hen fit a-Tuesday. He tried it on me, the feisty little skunk! That's the way he lays out the day-schools five-at-a-time. He jobs out the eyes of two with his thumbs, and bites and butts another, and rakes the shins of two more with his toe-nails, and whups out five as easy as falling off a log!" "They certainly must come off then," I declared sternly. "You hold one leg, and Killis one, and Philip and Taulbee his arms and head, and I'll cut them off!" And thus surprised of his secret, and bound by the Philistines, my little Samson was shorn. _Saturday Afternoon._ Before breakfast I called Iry into my room. "How much muscle have you got?" I inquired. The "pure scholar" bared a small, skeleton arm, on which a creditable knot of muscle rose as he flexed it. "You are really a pretty good fighter, aren't you?" I asked. "Paw he'd knock me in the head if I weren't." "Very well. I told you once not to fight Jason Wyatt. I may have been wrong in doing so. Next time he picks on you, fight him back." Just before noon, Nucky ran into the cottage with bulging eyes. "That 'ere little Iry is a-giving Jason the best whupping down in the stable-lot ever you seed. Jason he got to feisting around him ag'in, and he just grabbed him unexpected, and laid him out, and now he's choking the life out of him!" [Illustration: "'That 'ere little Iry is a-giving Jason the best whupping down in the stable-lot ever you seed.'"] "Good!" I cried, hurrying back to see the combat. All the boys were miraculously gathered, and the wash-girls also looked on with delight. Jason tried all his tricks, but could not once free himself from the relentless grasp. Both arms were pinioned, one by a leg, one by an arm of Iry's, his head was held down by the dreadful hand at his throat; only his legs were free, and they alas, were useless,--his toes passed harmlessly over Iry's face and neck and ears! Not until he had held out to the verge of suffocation did the conquered conqueror at last gasp for mercy, and being let up, crawl off under the corncrib to sob out his rage and shame in peace. Doubtless this will do him much good. XIII AROUND THE FIRE _Second Monday, October._ Though the days are still warm, the nights are getting cool, and for the sake of bare toes we began last night having a fire in the sitting-room. It was the one thing needed,--I see that with its glowing warmth to gather around, our family life will henceforth be much more intimate and cheerful. Sydney Lanier says that two things are necessary to the making of a real home,--an open fire and music. We have both. The fire had hardly begun to crackle before Absalom had the banjo out, and was singing in the chimney corner,--not bloody, recent song-ballads this time, but, to my joy, famous old English ones forgotten centuries ago by the rest of the world but wonderfully preserved here in the mountain country. "Barbara Allen" was one ballad he sang; "Turkish Lady," "The Brown Girl," and "The Specter Ship" were others. All the tunes were queer, minor, and long-drawn-out, and sung in a kind of falsetto; and between verses there is a very weary period of picking. The boys all declare they prefer the newer ballads, such as "Blant's Revengement," and "The Doom of the Mohuns," and that these old ones are fit only for women-folks; but I noticed they listened absorbed. _Friday._ Yesterday a wagon came in from the railroad,--a great occasion it is when one arrives, all of us women flocking out and surrounding it before the mules can stop, and receiving the packages and boxes destined for us as if they were the most precious jewels,--indeed, they are valuable after coming that long and difficult way. I was glad to find that my cheerful dresses ordered last month had arrived, as well as the wire corn-poppers and some rolls of wall-paper with great red roses for our sitting-room. _Saturday Night._ Cleo and Howard put the lovely red paper on our sitting-room to-day,--when the boys and I came in from the garden it was all done, and a shout of delight went up. Of course they have never seen anything so beautiful. I had another surprise for them. Prettiest of all my new dresses is a cardinal crêpe de chine, exactly matching the wall-paper. I put it on for supper to-night, getting to the dining-room a little late. There was much excitement at our table as I entered, and Jason created a sensation by calling out, in his shrill voice, "Oh, yander comes my red stick of candy!" Nucky said not a word; but the pride in his eyes was sufficient. All during the meal, the boys vied with one another in passing me things, and in saying "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am"; and I saw them glancing around at other tables to observe the effect of my grand costume. Who, seeing me sit here before our cottage fire this evening, clothed in the color of life and joy, with my happy and cheerful family close around, would ever believe me to be the same woman who arrived here something more than two months ago, with a heart even more dark and desolate than her garb of woe? Truly, the ways and goodness of God are past imagining. _Thursday Night._ That the fraternal affection of the little Salyers is sound at the core (much evidence to the contrary notwithstanding) was proved beyond doubt by an occurrence last night. Hen is by nature deliberate, and is especially so about washing his feet and getting undressed at night, not yet having become reconciled in his mind to either process. He always retires after Keats, and, now the nights are cooler, first tries to root Keats out of his warm place, and, failing in that, doubles up and plants his cold feet in the middle of Keats's back. The long-suffering Keats rebels, and then follow howls, yells and a pitched battle, with shrill cries for me from Geordie Yonts, the third boy in the bed. When I arrive, the covers are on the floor, and the brothers fighting all over their own bed, the other bed and boys, and the entire room, and calling down horrible imprecations upon each other. In vain I have forbidden the use of the shocking language,--neither threats nor punishments have prevailed. Last night, after a particularly bad time, I called them into my room, explained to them the full meaning of the words they were using, and asked if either could possibly hate his brother enough to wish to consign him to eternal torment. They made no answer, but went off looking thoughtful. To-night when shrieks and howls announced the usual battle, and I hurried to the scene, the Salyers were pounding each other as mercilessly as ever, but this time, to my unspeakable relief, they were calling out furiously, "God _help_ you!" "God _help_ you!",--a decided change for the better, and, I thought, a most timely petition! In their sane moments now, they talk of nothing but Cousin Emmeline's funeral occasion and the visit home; and it is impossible for them to decide whom they most desire to see,--whether Nervesty, or Sammy, or Ponto, or the steers Buck and Brandy; while their longing extends also to the other children, and to Charlie the "flea-bit" nag, Ole Suke, the "pied" cow, Reddy the heifer, and the black sow, Julia. _Sunday Evening._ On our way to the "church-house" this morning, I noticed that Iry wore the long, ample homespun trousers in which he arrived. "Where are the Sunday breeches I gave you?" I inquired. "There they air," he said, pointing to Geordie's fat legs, which seemed about to burst out of a pair of dark blue short trousers. "Iry he just pestered me into trading with him," was Geordie's explanation, "he said he were bound to have that gold ring I got out of a prize box last week. Show it to her, Iry." Iry put forth a small, dingy hand, adorned with a large, elaborate brass ring. "But you can see that wasn't a fair trade," I said indignantly to Geordie. "I knowed it weren't,--I knowed that ring were worth five times them breeches, and I'd never see its like ag'in. But I felt sorry for him, he wanted it so bad." "No, I mean just the other way," I said sharply, "you paid a nickel for that prize-box, didn't you?" "Yes'm." "And there was candy in it?" "A little-grain." "And you ate it?" "What there were of it." "And now you want to trade him the ring, which cannot be worth more than two cents, for his Sunday breeches." The "born trader" looked at me pityingly. "Miss Loring," he said, "womenfolks haint got no understanding of prize-boxes. Sometimes you pay your nickel down and don't git ary thing in 'em; and then ag'in there's jewelries nobody can't tell _what_ they worth, they so fine. Thaint nary ring like that ever been seed in these parts. Iry Atkins's got the onliest ring like it on Perilous, or I reckon in Kent County, or maybe in Kentucky! What's breeches to that?" To this master argument, the fact that the ring would not keep Iry's legs warm in winter seemed a puerile answer; still, with cold weather coming on, and clothing scarce as hens' teeth, I was compelled to break up the trade, and to forbid Geordie's making any more. In the afternoon we went up Perilous, persimmon and buckeye hunting, and later, after filling their shirt-fronts with the shiny ammunition, the boys lined up on opposite sides of the creek and had a buckeye-battle. After supper I began reading the Story of Odysseus. When we came to the place where the hero makes his escape from the cave of Polyphemus, Nucky interrupted to tell the tale he promised while we were on Trigger, of Blant's escape last spring, when for the first and only time he was arrested by officers. It was the day when he was "laywayed" by Elhannon, Todd and Dalt, and had killed one, and almost killed the other two. The sheriff happened to be on Powderhorn, near the mouth of Trigger, at the time, received the news at once, and reached the Marrs home within an hour after the occurrence. Blant, not dreaming of so prompt an attempt at arrest, was sitting before the fire cleaning his forty-five; and before he knew it, the sheriff stepped between him and his ammunition. Quiet surrender was the only possible thing. The sheriff and deputy started with him to the jail here in our village; but, being overtaken by darkness on the way, were obliged to stop overnight at a wayside house. Blant went to bed, handcuffed, between the sheriff and deputy, each of whom retired with a loaded revolver in his hand. In the morning the prisoner was gone, the blanket that had covered the three swung from the window, and the two revolvers were found on the ground beneath, placed neatly side by side. "Thaint no men or no prison nowhere Blant couldn't git away from if he was a mind to," said Nucky; "he wouldn't fool around and see his friends et up like Odysseus." The character of Odysseus also brought out some family history from Geordie and Absalom. It appears that their grandfather, Old George Yonts, was a man noted in several ways, as a hard-shell preacher, as a wonderful nag-trader, and, like Odysseus, as a man of craft and guile in wars. Warring factions would come to him for advice; and his stratagems, when carried out, were brilliantly successful. The boys, with much pride, told some awful instances. They also said that all of his thirteen sons were "mean men," their own father having met death at too early an age to become as distinguished as the other twelve. As I listened, I marvelled, not that the "born trader's" morality is a little oblique, but that he has any at all. _Wednesday._ To-day I saw Philip hold out a handful of chestnuts to Taulbee, his bosom friend, with the words, "Don't take more'n five,--you're owing me now. You haint gone treat for allus!" Perfect candor is evidently the sure, if rocky, foundation of their relationship. _Saturday Night._ More family history as we were roasting sweet-potatoes in the hot ashes under our fire to-night. Iry said he could recollect roasting them while the men made his maw's coffin. "I never knowed no better," he said; "I weren't but three, and thought she was laying there asleep. I wondered what them men was a-hammering at outside. When I seed 'em take her off in it, I knowed." "She were the best step-maw ever I had," remarked Joab, feelingly. "How many have you had?" I inquired. "Oh, paw he's had about five women," he mused. "My maw first, and then Iry's, and there's three sence. Serildy Byng, his next-to-last, was a middling civil woman; but she never stayed long. This last one is just fifteen, and haint got no manners. I have to fight her most every day, she picks on me'n Iry so. Paw he has a sorry time learning her to behave." "I have heared something about your paw being right smart of a mean man," said Philip. "Bet he can't hold a candle to Blant," put in Nucky, jealously. "Maybe he can't, and maybe he can," drawled Joab, provokingly. "Nobody haint as quick on the trigger as Blant," declared Nucky; "I'll bet nobody haint kilt and wounded more inside a few months than him, or would have been in jail more times if the officers could have kotch him and helt him." "Jail," murmured Joab, contemptuously, "jail haint nothing! My paw's spent two year at Frankfort!" The boys all exclaimed in admiration. "Gee-oh," said Philip, with new respect, "I never knowed he'd been penitentiaried." "How many has he kilt?" inquired Nucky, skeptically. "Oh, no more'n he had to," drawled Joab. "I heared something about his killing off a few Lusks," said Taulbee. "Yes, a few," admitted Joab; "Serildy Byng, that next-to-last of his, she got to talking some to a couple of the Lusks, and paw got wind of it, and kotch 'em a-hanging around one day. But he never kilt but one dead; and soon as t'other got able to talk, he sot all the Lusks ag'in paw,--there was nine on his track, laywaying and ambushing. At last one day they all rid up behind him over on the head of Rakeshin. He seed a turn in the road ahead, where there was a big rock. Every time they'd shoot, he'd jump like he was hit; and just as he got to the rock, he spraddled out flat on his nag, like he was dead. That was the last they seed, and they come up a-whooping, thinking they had him kilt. And about that time six of 'em got bullets in 'em, and three drapped dead; for paw had clim up on the rock and was a-laying for 'em. Time the rest of the Lusks got up from their wounds, they allowed paw was a mean enough man to leave alone." Nucky was silenced. The impressive pause that followed was at last broken by Philip. "What did he do to Serildy?" he asked. "Oh, nothing, but shoot off a piece of her jaw and a little-grain of her scalp." Philip meditated again. "I expect that's the reason Serildy left your paw, haint it? Women's so quare." "Maybe," replied Joab, indifferently. Oh, my perfect gentleman! _Thursday._ Shinny went out and ball came in yesterday. When at noon the boys all ran to me begging for yarn (of course store balls are an unknown luxury) and when later I saw Philip, Keats and Hosea ravelling out old socks they said they had bought from Geordie, Taulbee engaged upon a piece of the old comforter he had traded off for a pop-gun, and now bought back at a ruinous price, and heard Killis and Joab bemoaning the fact that they had traded mittens and socks off for pop-guns, and telling of the vast sums Geordie was making selling these and like remains to the "day-schools," I realized that even as far back as pop-gun time the forelooker was dealing in ball futures, and that his transactions then were not even as magnanimous as I had supposed them to be. Saturday and Sunday are the longed-for days of Cousin Emmeline's funeral occasion, we are to start to-morrow (Friday) afternoon, and the "two homesicks" are beside themselves with joy. XIV THE VISIT HOME, AND THE FUNERAL OCCASION _Sunday Night._ Friday noon the little Salyers, Jason (whom I did not dare leave behind) and I were all ready to start. Nucky, who has the stable job, had just brought Mandy around in the road and helped me into the saddle, and was handing me a switch, when suddenly I saw his fingers stiffen, his eyes widen, his face pale. Looking around for the cause, I saw two youngish men riding past in the road. Apparently they did not see him; but he eyed them with concentrated hatred. I hardly needed his low-spoken words, "Todd and Dalt," to tell me who they were. "I got to go home quick as I can get there," he said, when they had passed out of hearing. "You shall do nothing of the kind," I declared; "you heard Blant's commands on the subject. He is perfectly able to take care of himself, and does not want you. I, too, command you to stay here." "But he _haint_ able to take care of hisself now he's got the babe on his hands," Nucky insisted; "he can't noway keep lookout: of course they have come back to kill him if they can. I couldn't rest here a minute." "Nevertheless, I command you to stay," I said sternly, as I took my departure. But for my anxiety about him, and about this new threatening of "war" on Trigger, my visit to the little Salyers' home would have been a perfect thing. The day was glorious as we went, the mountains one blaze of reds, yellows and greens. All the way, the "two homesicks" were urging Mandy on with voice or hickory or both; while, entranced with the beauty, I earnestly wished that she might be permitted to go her natural gait. After following Perilous four miles, we turned up Nancy's Perilous, and went along it nearly an hour before we reached a small log house, almost hidden in apple trees, and Mrs. Salyer, with the four little children and Ponto trailing before and after, came out to welcome us. Although tears of joy stood in her eyes, she did not hug or kiss or "make over" her boys,--such displays of feeling being permissible only in or over babies. Little Sammy availed himself of his privilege to the fullest extent, gurgling, laughing and shouting at sight of his brothers, while Ponto, in equal exemption from the bonds of etiquette, nearly knocked them down in his joy. The two pretty little girls of five and three, being exhorted to "shake hands with the woman, Susanna and Neely," did so most politely; and Hiram, the seven-year-old, tore his gaze from Jason (they were engaged in a mutual size-up) long enough to go through the same ceremony. The boys made at once for the apple trees, and I was invited in. Mrs. Salyer was just finishing her day's stint of weaving, and sat in the loom and threw the swift shuttle while we conversed. Seeing her for the first time without the black sunbonnet, I realized where the boys get their extreme beauty. I asked her, of course, about family history, and learned that her ancestors, too, came out from Old Virginia more than a century ago, and had been men of education and parts. "The later generations," she said, "haint had the ghost of a chance, shut away here without no l'arning, and so hard put to it to keep bread in their mouths that half of 'em never hears what's happening yan side the mountain. It don't look like it's right for young ones to grow up this way, without no show at all. I am determined mine shall get one." She also talked a good deal about Mr. Salyer, who she says was "as pretty a man as the wind ever blowed on," and one of the "workingest" in this section. Evidently she feels his loss very deeply; but she faces life with prodigious courage, shouldering his burdens in addition to her own, and thinking nothing of plowing, grubbing, clearing, and like heavy work, which she does cheerfully rather than keep her boys out of school. Her faith is touching. "God has give me this fine mess of young ones," she says; "now I look to Him for strength to feed and raise them." Several times our conversation was interrupted by shy statements from the little girls that Hiram and Jason were fighting all over the yard; but no bloodshed being as yet reported, little attention was paid. When the time came for active preparations for supper, I was taken out by the boys to "see things." First, the nags, Mandy and the "flea-bit" Charlie, were watered in the branch, and fed; then the steers must be brought down and "nubbined." They were grazing far up in a hollow, but at a word Ponto was off, and soon brought them down, starting again on a quest of his own. Then the boys put yokes on them and drove them around the steep stable-lot for my pleasure. Keats said he and Hen had to tie their tails together while breaking them, to keep them from turning the yokes; but now they go along quietly, as well conducted steers should, and evidently with perfect understanding of the strange talk of their young masters, which was Greek to me. I could comprehend the "Gee, Buck!",--"Git along there, Brandy!"; but the oft-repeated "Oo-cum-weh, woo-oo!", and "Now-wa-_chat_-tum!" were indeed puzzling. Then Ole Suke, the pied cow, hearing the excitement, came up, or rather, down, of her own accord, followed by Reddy the heifer, whose little spotted calf welcomed her loudly across the rails. Nothing would do but Keats must milk Reddy then and there, to demonstrate the remarkable deficiency of the "blind teat" before-mentioned. Just as he had proved this to everybody's satisfaction, yelps from Ponto could be heard approaching, and in another moment a large, raw-boned black sow stepped sedately out of the woods on the other side of the branch, and stood meditating. An instant later, she was surrounded by a company of half-grown shoats, which squealed and scurried before Ponto's onslaughts. But evidently Julia herself lived in a serene atmosphere, and took orders from no one. After scrutinizing all of us, and assuring herself that the boys really were Keats and Hen, she grunted deeply and came forward. Not until she got out of the tall weeds, and into the branch, was the joyful discovery made that nine little new pigs followed her closely and shamefacedly. They could not be two days old,--of course they had come purposely to celebrate the boys' visit home,--no one could doubt that! Great was the delight that followed, great the pride expressed in Julia and all her performances. And what a good bait of corn Julia and the shoats got, while the babies helped themselves to their dinner, all but the poor little runt, who was crowded entirely out of reach of his until Hen spanked two of the others and made a place for him! [Illustration: "Not until she got out of the tall weeds, and into the branch, was the joyful discovery made that nine little new pigs followed her closely and shamefacedly."] After making the acquaintance and hearing the family history of various chickens, turkeys, guineas and geese, I was taken up the hollow to the famous pawpaw patch, scene of innumerable 'possum hunts. Here even Ponto showed lively memories of past victories, while Keats, Hen and Hiram all talked at once, describing combats, and pointing out the very trees and logs. Some details of natural history I was able to gather from the confusion, such as: possums allus sull-up when they are kotch; boar possums does a heap of fighting, and it's a sight to hear their noses crack when they are at it, and the best sport ever seed is to ketch two and sic 'em ag'in each other; sow-possums do not fight, and the young uns curl their tails round their maw's and ride on her back when she travels; and, finally, possums are a master-race for wiles, and it is the mark of a man to be able to outwit them. But darkness was beginning to fall, and when the gourd-horn blew for supper, nobody tarried on the way down. Oh, what beans, what "'taters," what "roasting-years," what corn-bread, and above all, what a noble vinegar-pie! Nervesty's reputation was fully sustained,--dangerously so, I feared, as I watched the boys gorge. Then, while Mrs. Salyer and Keats went out to milk after supper, Hen and Susanna and Neely and I washed up the dishes; and while we were at it, Hiram and Jason were pulled apart, Jason with a gouged eye and a bitten arm, Hiram with a bloody nose and a raked shin. Then, Mrs. Salyer and Keats returning, and everybody being very sleepy indeed, we all went to bed in "t'other house," the little girls and I in one bed, Mrs. Salyer, Sammy and Keats in a second, and Hiram, Hen and Jason in the third (Hen in the middle). We had some general conversation after retiring, and it was all very happy and sociable. And of course Ponto slept in the room, too, and when, faithful guardian, he was not running to the door to growl at imaginary intruders, he was thumping his tail on the floor, or turning round and round before the fire to settle himself to his satisfaction. Saturday morning, Keats, Hen and even I tried to beg off from the funeral occasion; but of course it was useless; and there was a busy time getting ready to start. A little past noon, I, on Mandy, with Susanna behind me, and Mrs. Salyer on Charlie, with Sammy before and Neely behind, reached the top of Bee Tree Gap, and looked down into the valley on the far side, the boys racing ahead of us. On a hill-shoulder below, grave-houses were visible, and people and nags were moving about. Still farther down the valley, Mrs. Salyer showed me Emmeline's lonely little home. Emmeline, she said, had died a year and three months before, during the typhoid that took off Mr. Salyer, leaving a virtuous and pious memory, seven small children, and a deeply-stricken "widow." Before we reached the burying-ground, the services began with a long-drawn funeral song, that came up to us in snatches. Very mournful and beautiful the tune was, embodying the very spirit of loneliness, sorrow and resignation. As we drew nearer, Mrs. Salyer joined in the refrain, and I caught some of the words, I'm a long time travelling here below, A long time travelling away from my home. A long time travelling here below To lay this body down! "A long time travelling" indeed it seems to those of us bereft as she is, and as I am. The inexpressible sweep, dignity and pathos of the song will haunt me as long as I live. We joined the crowd among the grave-houses. In front of the newest of these, saplings had been laid across logs to make seats; and the people who could not be accommodated here sat on the ground or walked quietly about. Even the numerous babies were quiet, as if knowing that a funeral occasion demanded it. The immediate family sat on the front sapling, facing the preachers, who occupied a plank against the grave-house. Mrs. Salyer pointed out Emmeline's bereaved "widow" to me. He sat with drooping head and utterly dejected attitude, while the row of children with him wept. Just at his side was a wholesome-faced young woman, surely too old to be Emmeline's daughter, holding on one arm a child about a year-and-a-half old, and in the other a very pink new baby. "Who is that?" I inquired. Mrs. Salyer whispered back, "That's his new woman, Mary,--of course he was bound to get him one right off, with all them young ones. She treats them mighty good, too. The new one's hers,--it come eight days ago, just in time for the funeral occasion." When the first preacher started to speak, and Emmeline's virtues began to be aired, I saw with interest and surprise that Mary wept as sincerely and heartily as anybody, her tears dropping down impartially upon the nursing baby and the older one. Once, when her husband seemed quite overcome, she laid a pitying hand on his shoulder; at other times, with a corner of her apron she tenderly wiped the eyes and noses of all the children within reach. And when, later, the preacher referred solemnly and unblinkingly to the fact that Emmeline's offsprings had now fell into the hands of a step-maw, and it behooved her to remember that she must one day give account to the God of widows and orphans, she bowed her head very humbly, and seemed to be at once overwhelmed and uplifted by the thought of her responsibility. Her face was really wonderful and beautiful, and in it I saw far more hope for the happiness of Emmeline's offsprings than in that of the "widow." In both wives he appears to have received more than his deserts. The whole scene--the lonely mountain-shoulder, the weather-beaten grave-houses, the isolated little home below, the reds and yellows of the forest fading after a night of heavy frost, the ancient spectacle of human bereavement and sorrow with nothing to relieve it save the look on Mary's face--went to my heart till the tears came. At four o'clock, having heard five preachers and several funeral songs, we took our departure. The occasion was to last all day Sunday, too. I, however, besought Mrs. Salyer to let the boys have one day at home, and at last gained her consent; and when we were once more in bed, and conversation had languished, and Ponto was thumping the floor with his tail again, Keats raised his head from the pillow to murmur, sleepily, but rapturously "Gee-oh,--a whole 'nother day at home to-morrow!" On our arrival at the school to-night after dark, I heard that Nucky had left Friday in spite of my commands, and had not yet returned. XV TROUBLE ON TRIGGER AND ELSEWHERE _First Monday, November._ About ten this morning, Nucky came silently into the cottage, got his books, and was starting to the school-house, when I called him into my room. "Did you go home?" I asked. "Yes." "And did Blant send you back?" "Yes," he said. Then suddenly he flung the books on the floor and burst into furious weeping. "He run me off," he said; "and now there haint nobody to keep lookout for him, and I know he'll be kilt! If I was strong as him, I'd show him whether he could run me off!" (I judge that Blant had to resort to severe measures before prevailing upon him to return.) "When did he send you back?" "Saturday." "Where have you been since then?" "Laying out in the high rocks,--I felt so bad I never cared what become of me. Todd and Dalt will get Blant, I know they will!" I tried to comfort and cheer the poor child, telling him Rich Tarrant would help Blant, but I myself feel that he has grave cause for anxiety. _Wednesday._ Trouble certainly arrives promptly. A man stopped at the gate this noon and hallooed for Nucky. "War's broke out again on Trigger," he said; "yesterday was election day, and when Blant rid down to the precinct booth to cast his first vote, there was Todd and Dalt a-drinking and a-whooping round like wild, and making their brags he wouldn't dast to put in an appearance. Of course when he come, it was just a question of the quickest trigger; and Todd had his right elbow put out of business, and Dalt a bullet in his shoulder, before you could bat your eye. Blant he got a trifling flesh-wound in his thigh,--nothing to speak of. He said you would probably hear of the trouble, and not git it straight, and he sont me over to relate to you how it really was, and to tell you to stay right where you air, or you'll see certain trouble,--that he is plenty able to tend to all that comes, and you throwed in; that your maw's desires that you get l'arning has got to be fulfilled though the heavens fall." Nucky was silent and white for a moment; then he called out savagely, "You tell him I hate him for treating me this way, and I don't mind if he does get kilt!", then, rushing into his room and locking his door, I heard him kick chairs violently about, and then burst into another wild fit of weeping. With his devotion to Blant turned back upon itself, and his emotions and energies denied their natural outlet, I can see that this is to be a time of great strain and suffering. _Friday._ I am pleased to find that Geordie's blandishments are not invariably successful. The little Salyers brought back with them from home two pairs of stout brogans. Now that November has set in, it is necessary to get all feet covered,--a most difficult proposition, since the friendly barrels hold almost no boys' shoes. Women's shoes have had to be de-heeled and pressed into service; and these of course suffer by comparison with the fine brogans. Yesterday while we were planting onions, I heard snatches of a conversation between Geordie and Hen, in which the word "brogans" played a prominent part. What Geordie's various offers were I could not gather; but, evidently, Hen has an acute mind, and has been cutting eye-teeth in past experiences; for his final answer came out loud and emphatic, "No, son, I don't want your cow,--your calf's lousy!" _Sunday Night._ With Nucky, moods of deep depression alternate with those of insane daring. Yesterday, looking up from the garden, I was horrified to see him balancing on the roof-tree of the big house, with the slippery, frosty roof slanting steeply down on both sides; and this afternoon on our walk, while the boys played "fox and dogs" and ran like deer over the mountains, I saw the "fox," Nucky, make for the gray rocks and crags that crown the summit of one, and then crawl to the jutting edge of the highest, and hang with his hands from it, out over space. These performances of his cause me acute suffering. I wonder that mothers have not made a study of the effects of color upon children. My change of dress in the evenings from dark blue serge to cardinal silk causes an even more pronounced change in the home atmosphere. Red, the color of life, certainly appeals to boys; when I put on the cardinal dress, they love to stroke it with their hands, or to rub their heads against my shoulders as I read. That beauty also means a great deal more to them than we older people think, I was made to realize when Iry began to tell to-night about the "powerful pretty looks" of his young mother, and how he loved, baby though he was, to "just lay and look at her." He told of one day in particular when he awoke from sleep in her arms before a great, roaring fire, and he and she looked and smiled into each other's eyes for a long, long time, until some strange women came in and interrupted them. It is a singular thing for him to remember--doubtless he and she had gazed into each other's eyes many times, after the manner of mothers and firstborn sons--probably the coming of the strange women fixed this particular incident in his memory. Later in the evening, when we resumed the adventures of Odysseus, there was a chorus of indignation when the hero permits the monster Scylla to snatch six of his friends from the ship and make a meal of them. "Shut up the book!" "Don't want to hear about no such puke-stocking as him," "Ongrateful's worse'n pizen!" "Why'n't he grab his ax and chop off them six heads when he seed 'em a-coming?" "Any man can't fight for his friends better be dead!" were some of the comments. I bowed to the storm and shut the book, to hear several instances of true friendship related. One was about Blant and Rich Tarrant. During active hostilities on Trigger last winter, Blant was getting out yellow poplar timber from the top of his mountain, almost under the shadow of the "high rocks" on the summit, Richard assisting him. Happening to cast his eyes upward, Richard was just in time to see the muzzle of a gun projecting over the rocks, and to throw himself in front of Blant and receive the discharge in his own bosom. Had it been an inch farther to the right, it would have pierced his heart. As it was, he made a troublesome recovery. "That's what I call right friendship," said Nucky; "there haint a minute in the day when him and Blant wouldn't lay down their life for each other, glad." "Who was it shot the gun?" inquired Philip. "Oh, Todd. We knowed it later when he went about with his left hand tied up,--Blant fired as the bullet hit Rich, at the hand that held the gun. We Marrses don't do no low-down fighting,--we allus fight in the open. And the Cheevers used to; but Todd is a snake in the grass, and don't stop at nothing." _Thursday._ While at the big house talking with the head-workers yesterday, they showed me some albums of photographs made in the beginnings of their work here, before the school was even thought of, and when they came up from the Blue Grass only in the summers, and lived in tents, having classes in cooking, sewing, singing, nursing and the like. I turned the pages with eagerness, hearing enthralling tales as I went, and stopped at last before a small picture of strange beauty. In a blaze of firelight, against a dusky log-cabin interior, sat a young mother with a child clasped in her arms. The serene, Madonna-like tenderness of face and attitude made the photograph memorable and surprising. "Many persons have admired that picture," said one of the heads; "we took it years ago, over on Rakeshin Creek, late one afternoon when, weary from a long tramp, we walked in upon a young mother and her child in the firelight. We spent the night there afterward." "On Rakeshin!" I exclaimed. "How long ago was it?" "Eight years, I should say." "Do you suppose--could it have been, the wife and child of Mr. Atkins?" "That's exactly who it was," she replied,--"one of his wives, I hardly remember which." "I know," I said; "it was Iry's mother. And that wonderful child remembers the very hour! Only Sunday he was telling of the long look he and his mother were taking at each other when some strange women came in and interrupted them." The heads exclaimed with me in wonder and loving interest. "Give it to me," I said, "so that I may send it off at once to be enlarged for his Christmas present." _Friday._ Very heavy rains for three days, and another big "tide," with seven panels of the back fence washed away, and Perilous a boiling yellow flood down which logs and whole trees are rushing. What was my horror, on hearing loud cheers from the stable-lot this morning, to see Nucky out in the middle of the torrent, standing calmly on a swift log, which even as I glanced, shot around a curve and out of sight. Ten minutes of agony for me followed; then Nucky reappeared, wet only to the waist, and followed by every boy on the place. "Gee, that wasn't nothing," he deprecated, in answer to my reproaches, "I've rid logs ever sence I was born. I just jumped on her when she come a-nigh shore, and off again down Perilous a piece. I haint afeared!" "Haint afeared got his neck broke yesterday," remarked Joab, drily. These desperate and daring moods of Nucky's are source of untold suffering to me. I know they are caused largely by his worry over Blant, and his baffled desire to be at his post on Trigger. Sometimes I think it would be best to let him go,--there can be no doubt that Blant does need him, and he is doing little in his studies, and is so bitter and gloomy that I scarcely know my once delightful boy. XVI FILIAL PIETY AND CROUP _Saturday Bed-time._ This evening, while we were popping corn in the "fotch-on" poppers, Killis said he could recollect "capping" corn in a skillet under the still while he and his father made liquor. "You made liquor?" I exclaimed. "Can't remember when I didn't," he replied; "I holp paw from the time I could walk. I would go with him up the hollow, and gather wood for the fire, and then set and watch the singlings whilst he kep' a lookout for officers. And sometimes he would let me mix the doublings, too. And when the liquor was made, and folks would come to buy it, I would circle round up in the field where it was hid, to show 'em the place, and they would come up with their jugs and leave the money under a stump. Gee, I knowed so much about the business I could run it myself!" "I hope and pray you never will," I said, earnestly. "What you got again' it,--you haint no officer," he said. "No," I said, "but I think it is wrong." And I gave my reasons, which, however, failed to carry much conviction. "The marshal that kilt your paw," inquired Nucky, at last, "how long you aim to let him live?" "Till I'm good and ready for him," replied Killis; "I got a dead tree up the hollow I practice on all the time,--there's a band breast-high around it black with bullet-holes. Sometimes I shoot walking, and sometimes running, and sometimes I fetch a nag up and gallop around and shoot. When I get so I never miss, I'll ride over where he lives at and tell him 'I'm Steve Blair's boy,' and shoot him down like a dog, and revenge my paw, and do my duty." [Illustration: "'I got a dead tree up the hollow I practice on all the time.'"] A murmur of quiet approval began with Nucky and passed around the circle. After the other boys went to bed, I finally extracted from Killis a solemn promise not to perform this "duty" before he was eighteen. It was the utmost I could accomplish,--long years of training must do the rest. _Monday._ The first real snow yesterday, and the boys wild in consequence. On our walk up Perilous, they found drifts in which they dived and wallowed. Coming back I noticed that Jason was quite hoarse; and in the middle of the night I was awakened by strange and painful sounds, as if someone were choking to death. The night was cold, the bed warm; I lay and listened a moment longer. Then flinging on wrapper and slippers, I ran across the sitting-room to the upper bedroom. Jason was sitting up in bed, gasping for breath. [Illustration: "The first real snow yesterday, and the boys wild in consequence."] "What is the matter with you?" I asked. "Croup," he croaked, between gasps. "Did you ever have it before?" "I follow havin' it." "Why didn't you tell me it was coming on?" "Afeared you'd whup me." I wrung my hands. "Cleo," I called back, "what in the world should be done for croup?" But for once her resources failed. "Some ties grease around their necks," she said. I have a maxim, "when in doubt try a hot-water-bag". Desperately stirring the fire in my grate, I put on water, and while it was heating spread vaseline on a handkerchief. Then flying back to Jason, I slapped first the handkerchief, then the hot bag, upon his chest. Apparently the child was choking to death,--I was terribly frightened,--the water may have been a little over-hot. At any rate, between chokes, my "little pet" raised the most roof-splitting yells. "Take it off! Take it off! Paw he gits me pole-cat-grease!" All the boys jumped out of their beds and came running. Jason fought me like a little tiger; but grabbing him by the hair, I held the bag on with all my might. His yells increased. "Oh, God, she's a-killing me! Oh, God, she's a-burning me up! Oh, God, gimme pole-cat-grease, pole-cat-grease, po--_ole_-cat-grease!" It was an awful moment; but I held my ground and the bag. In a few seconds, which seemed ages, the cries and chokes lessened, the breathing became quieter, the tense little frame relaxed, and danger was past. Half an hour later, when, weak but safe, my angel child lay quiet on his pillow, Philip, standing over him, remarked philosophically, "Son, you'd a-waited a right smart spell for pole-cat-grease,--better to lose a patch of your hide than die waiting for that!" XVII BLESSINGS AND HATINGS _Thanksgiving Day, Bed-time._ All day my heart has been overflowing with thankfulness; and to-night when I accompanied my sons to the beautiful Thanksgiving party at the big house, where all the young folks from miles around were gathered, and observed their handsome appearance in their Sunday suits and gay new ties, and, still better, their ease of manner, and social graces, my heart swelled with pride almost to bursting. I own to a weakness for pretty looks and pretty ways; and with the exception of Philip, who scorned to play any of the games in which girls had a part, my boys quite satisfied me to-night. Still later, when we came home and sat around our fire to talk it over, I in my pink party dress, Nucky and Keats leaning against my shoulders, Jason and Iry with their heads in my lap, the other eight gathered as closely as possible about me, it seemed to me I had reached the point where I could say "My cup runneth over". When was a lonely heart more truly comforted, a forlorn creature snatched from greater desolation to brighter cheer? "Yea, the sparrow hath found her a nest", "Thou has set the desolate in families". Almost a miraculous thing it seems that I should actually have the desire of my heart,--a houseful of children; and, instead of the hideous loneliness I looked forward to a few months ago, the delightful task of bringing up these twelve sons to manhood and good citizenship. Indeed, I often ask myself, what other boys have such gifts to bring to their nation? Proud, self-reliant, the sons of heroes, bred in brave traditions, knowing nothing of the debasing greed for money, strengthened by a hand-to-hand struggle with nature from their very infancy (I have not one who did not begin at five or six to shoulder such family responsibilities as hoeing corn all summer, tending stock, clearing new ground, grubbing, hunting, gathering the crop), they should bring to the service of their country primal energy of body and spirit, unquenchable valor, and minds untainted by the lust of wealth. Yes, I know that I am greatly blessed. Children of my own could be no dearer to me, and certainly not half so interesting; and my heart is fed and satisfied. After all, is not motherhood less a thing of the flesh than of the spirit,--indeed, the richest, fairest blossoming known to the human spirit? I believe that if all the sad, lonely, self-centred women in the land could know what joy dwells in my heart to-night, within twenty-four hours orphan asylums would be depopulated, city streets waifless. Nucky lingered after the others went off to bed, to cover the fire. Then he opened the front door, and stood looking out into the bright moonlight. "These is the nights Blant needs me at home," he said, sighing deeply; "seems like I can't get no peace or rest in my mind for troubling over him." I crossed the room and stood beside Nucky, also looking out. As I gazed, his fear was communicated to me, and the fair moonlight seemed suddenly cruel and chill. _Saturday._ A mail-carrier rides over from Powderhorn way twice a week. This morning, while cleaning was in progress, he stopped at the cottage gate. "I allowed I'd stop and tell you the news from Trigger," he said. "Another battle fit over the fence last night. I have been looking for it ever sence Todd and Dalt come back, knowing they wa'n't bad wounded in the election fight. Blant has been looking for it, too, and him and Rich has took turns keeping watch of a day, and of moonlight nights. Last night was Blant's watch; but he was powerful tired from logging, and the babe was punier than common, and he had to set up with it longer, and before he knowed it he drapped off to sleep there a-holding it before the fire; and there he sot till he was woke by chilling about eleven. Then he walked out to see how the land lay at the fence; and there was the whole b'iling of Cheevers, with very near all the rails drug off the old boundary, and a-laying 'em on the new. All hands got to work with their guns, and anybody'd a-thought sure they'd finish him, so many ag'in' one; but by good luck all of 'em put together haint got his aim, and atter a few was wounded, they took to their heels and abandoned the field. That 'ere Blant is a pure wonder; but such good luck haint apt to hit twice, and they're bound to git him sooner or later. I hope I may die if he haint the worst handicapped for warfare ever I seed, with a family to feed, and a whole passel of young uns to be paw and maw to, and the babe pindling all the time, and Rich on yan side the mountain, and his uncle Billy's boys a mile up the branch." When I turned around to speak to Nucky, who had been just behind me, he was gone. Great as is my anxiety about him, I realize the uselessness of trying to send after him, or to hold him back. _Thursday, first week December._ Nucky returned last night, after nearly a week of absence,--it seems that Blant was glad of his help this time. He says that on Monday they gathered together Rich and his uncle Billy's boys and one or two more, and in broad daylight laid the fence again on the old line, every man working armed, those who drove the mules that dragged the rails walking with guns in position, those who laid the rails doing so with guns tucked under their arms. "I carried my rifle Cap'n Enoch Marrs fit the British with," said Nucky. But though the Marrs side worked all day at the fence, and the Cheevers must have known what was going on, not one of them appeared. "They have had their fill of fighting Blant in the open," said Nucky; "what they will do now will be to kill him from cover. Todd he won't stop at nothing. And Blant he haint able to look out for hisself with so much to tend to, and needs me there to be eyes for him, especially now, with Christmas coming on, and all the drinking and devilment that is allus done then. But he won't listen to no reason, or let me stay." "I am sure that Richard Tarrant will be with him day and night," I said, to comfort him. "Yes; but tha'in't nobody got the eye for a Cheever I got, or can keep watch like me." I share Nucky's feeling that he ought to be there to be eyes for Blant; at the same time I am inexpressibly thankful that Blant refuses to keep him, and that he is here with me in safety. XVIII CHRISTMAS ANTICIPATIONS _Monday._ Already the air is full of Christmas talk and plans. Besides the great tree here in our school for the entire neighborhood, the workers and teachers expect to have seven or eight trees in other localities, thus bringing brightness and cheer and the Christmas story into many sad and colorless lives. I should have been glad to have a tree over on Trigger; but a gathering there in the present state of feeling would be extremely dangerous, and by Nucky's advice, I have abandoned the hope. "I'd like to have you come over," he said; "but Trigger haint no place for women or women's doings now." Another excitement is the telephone just set up in our village, connecting us with the railroad and the outside world.--All the boys went down this afternoon to see and hear the marvel. _Wednesday Morning._ I have begun teaching some of the beautiful old English carols to our boys and girls,--it seems peculiarly fitting that these children of pure English stock should sing the carols centuries ago upon the lips of their ancestors. But the task is an uphill one with the boys,--they refuse to take any interest in this or any other Christmas preparation. When I reproached them to-night for their apathy, Philip said, "Nothing here to take no interest in,--won't be no chance for no Christmas doings till we git away from here." "But there will be great Christmas doings," I said, "just the very best that can be thought of." "What,--you women aiming to lay in a store of liquor and do a lot of shooting?" he asked, with dawning hope. "Horrors, no!" I exclaimed. "Them's the good times I allus seed a-Christmas." "Me, too!" echoed the other eleven. "Didn't you ever hang up your stocking, or have a tree or get presents?" "Never heared tell of the like till I come here." "But it's the greatest possible fun," I insisted. "Fun enough for women, may be, but men,--gee!" "Gimme a big jug of moonshine!" shouted Joab. "And a galloping nag!" cried Nucky. "And a pistol in both hands!" added Killis. "Boys," I said, "is it possible you can be willing to spend the holy season of Christmas in drinking and shooting?" "Only way I ever heared of anybody spending it," said Philip; "everybody does it. If there's ary boy here," he added, "that haint been drunk, or tried to, every Christmas he can ricollect, hold up your hand!" Not a hand moved, till suddenly, as if by an afterthought, Killis's went up. "I weren't last Christmas," he said; "when paw got shot and lay a-dying, he told me never to drink another drap, and I haint toch it sence." "Mighty hard on you," remarked Joab; "I never pass a Christmas without being drunk,--paw he gen'ally fills me'n Iry up till we can't see single, and then makes us walk a crack in the floor, for fun." "I allus used to swill all I could hold, from New Christmas to Old Christmas," said Killis. "I drink all I want and then ride around on Blant's nag and shoot off my rifle," said Nucky. "When I were a five-year-old," contributed Geordie, "my uncles give me a pint of liquor, and then put a cocked pistol in my hand and p'inted it at Absalom, and told me to shoot. I fired away,--good thing I weren't sober, I'd a-kilt him sure!" "The neighbors up the branch they invites us to their house and treats us a-Christmas," said Hen; "but Keats he haint half a man,--I can drink twict as much as him!" "Self-brag is half-scandal," exclaimed Keats, angrily; "it's because I've had white swelling and typhoid I can't drink as much as you, you sorry little scald-pate!" "Paw and me got so drunk last Christmas we couldn't roll over in bed," piped up Jason. Taulbee, the great stickler for propriety, summed up the matter authoritatively: "Folks would think they was bad off if they couldn't pass around a jug of liquor a-Christmas," he said; "they would feel like it weren't showing hospitality." When I remember that this was the idea of the entire Christian world less than a century ago, I cannot be too severe upon my boys, distressing as these conditions are. Killis spoke again shortly. "I want every boy here that can get to my house on Clinch a-Christmas to come, and see a good time," he announced. "Come the Saturday after New Christmas. I can't drink myself, on account of what paw said; but I got good-and-plenty for my friends. And maw she'll give you all you can eat. And we'll shoot off all paw's guns and pistols." There was unanimous acceptance, even by boys living nearly forty miles distant from Killis, Nucky's being qualified by the condition, "If the Cheevers haint giving too much trouble at home." I sighed deeply. "Boys," I said, "you know what I think about drinking; you know I consider it very, very wrong." "Quare women has quare notions," remarked Joab, forbearingly. "You know I hope the day will come when not one of you will ever touch liquor," I said. "Is there one now who thinks enough of me to promise not to drink this Christmas?" The dead silence that followed was broken at last by Philip. "We like you all right," he said; "but, by grab, a fellow's got to see some fun!" It is rumored that Killis's uncles still carry on the business in which his father perished; so I suppose there will be no doubt about the "good-and-plenty" to drink at his house. _Sunday, mid-December._ Two birthdays this past week, Philip's thirteenth, Wednesday, and Nucky's twelfth yesterday, and the excitement of having gorgeous birthday cakes at our table, and passing around candles for birthday wishes. At bed-time last night, Hen came up from the wash-house looking extremely clean as to head and feet. When he was passing into the bedroom however, I called him back. "What is that dark band just below your nightgown?" I asked. He made no reply, but stooped so that his gown should fall lower. I lifted the hem to his knees, revealing the fact that the cleanness stopped half-way, and that above that line his legs were more than dingy. "Didn't you wash all over?" I inquired. "Not quite all." "How much did you wash?" "Down to my neck and very near up to my knees. That dag-gone ole gown done shrunk up two inches sence the last time." "But didn't I tell you you must wash all over every single bath?" "That was before cold weather sot in. Philip he said down to your neck and up to your knees was a-plenty in cold weather, and all _he_ was aiming to do; and it's all any of us boys been a-doing sence November started in." "You haint never washed as far up as your knees, son," corrected Keats, from superior heights; "you allus stop where your nightgown comes to. I told you she'd ketch you if you done that!" Summoning all my family, I found the shocking fact to be true that for six weeks not one had bathed any farther than "down to my neck and up to my knees,"--they rather gloried in it, especially Philip, and complained bitterly when made to lose several days' play time, in addition to taking a complete bath instantly, every one, though it was already past bed-time. Truly my Thanksgiving pride in their beautiful manners and aristocratic appearance has received a severe shock! XIX CHRISTMAS AND DANGER _Wednesday Afternoon, Christmas Day._ No time to catch one's breath for ten days. Now the festivities are over. First came the tree last night. It was an exciting time as all of us, teachers, children, and parents from miles around, dressed in our best, sat waiting, the sole blot on my happiness being that just as the curtain was drawn back, revealing the splendid "spruce-pine" (hemlock) with its gleaming candles, strings of popcorn and hollyberries, and mysterious packages tied and banked around, my Philip, having successfully eluded me beforehand, stepped out on the platform, with a dirty face, tousled hair, soiled shirt, gallusses fastened by one nail, and a large hole in the seat of his breeches, to hand the gifts to Santa Claus for distribution. Then, before daylight this morning, came the boys' carols, sung through halls and stairways of the big house, and down through the village street, awakening the valley with the glad tidings; and, finally, the great moment after breakfast, when our resident children were turned into the library, where, on a "fireboard" extended for the occasion across two sides of the room, hung seventy gay stockings. Great was the joy of little and big girls, many of whom had never beheld a doll before, over the pretty "poppets" in the tops of their stockings; great, though quieter, the pleasure of the boys in "store" marbles, balls and knives, not to mention candy and "orange-apples"; but greatest was the happiness of little Iry, the "pure scholar," as, after gazing long and wonderingly at the large picture beneath his stocking, he at last clasped it rapturously to his heart, crying, "Me'n my maw! I got my maw back ag'in!" I knew he would recognize it! My own stocking, too, held its treasures,--ten sticks of candy from Nucky, a little poke of brown-sugar and crackers (greatest luxury known to mountain children) from Killis, a walnut penholder from Philip, a fine apple, all the way from Rakeshin, and treasured for weeks for the purpose, from Iry, a red-flannel pincushion from Jason. Then came the painful moment when I saw my boys scatter to their homes,--even Jason, who has no home, went for a week with Keats and Hen. Again I begged Killis not to get the boys drunk when they visit him Saturday, but he would make no promise. Last of all, and most reluctantly, I bade Nucky goodbye. I fear and dread the events that this Christmas season may bring to pass on Trigger,--with one accord, the boys prophesy "bloody doings" there. I would keep him back if I could; but nothing can prevent his going. And now I shall have a much needed rest, and a chance to catch up on magazines and books laid away for five months. _Bed-time._ The day has been ages long,--I cannot read or rest,--the old loneliness is all back upon me again. Why did I let all the boys go? And how am I to face the ten days of their absence? The silence is awful. I would give the world to hear the dozen pairs of shoes come thundering across the little bridge and into the cottage, the shrill voices raised in play or song or even a fight! _Thursday Night._ My joy may be imagined when, as I started to breakfast this morning, I saw Jason come climbing over the big gate. To my pleased inquiries as to the cause of his return, he finally murmured with pretty bashfulness, "I were homesick for you!" "My darling child!" I cried, hugging him very hard. Then we went to the village and bought all the goodies he felt able to eat; and all day I have sat on the floor playing marbles with him. If I did not have Killis's party, and Nucky's danger to worry over, I should be quite happy. As it is, a sense of foreboding oppresses me. When this evening I saw a splendid moon, almost full, hang over the wooded mountain to the East, my fears were quickened. _Saturday Morning._ All Thursday, yesterday and last night, I worried and could not sleep; and my anxiety has now reached a pitch where I must do, and no longer think. Something terrible hangs over me,--I know not whether it is some casualty to-day at Killis's, consequent upon the drinking and shooting, or something still more dreadful on Trigger Branch. At any rate, there is nothing to prevent my riding over to Clinch, and then, if I find all well there, going the eight miles farther to Nucky's, and persuading him to return with me if possible. I am just about to set off with Jason. _Sunday Morning, Killis's Home on Clinch._ We came by way of Nancy's Perilous, passing the Salyer home. Keats was out chopping wood in the snow, and greeted me joyfully. I accepted his invitation to alight for dinner; but before I could get off the nag, he remarked, "I see you got your little pet up behind you,--did he tell you how come him to leave a-Thursday?" "Yes," I replied, proudly; "he was homesick for me." Keats measured Jason with his eye. "He's the lyin'est little devil ever I seed," he said; "I'll tell you what made him go. Him and Hiram fit from the time he stepped in the door, and all through supper, and off'n on all night, and got up before day to start in ag'in; and Hiram he got him down and rid him, and Jason he pult his Christmas knife out of his pocket and jobbed it in Hiram's wrist, and maw she tuck atter him with a hickory, and he run away." I slid off Mandy, called for another hickory, sternly dragged down my "darling child," and gave him, not only the punishment he escaped on Thursday, but another on my own account; the bitterness of it being doubled for him when all the Salyers, including Hiram, came out to see it well done. After a hasty dinner, we started on again,--I could not be satisfied to tarry. Dark pictures rose before me all the way,--my dear boys drinking, shooting, maybe killing one another--and I urged Mandy on, scarcely feeling the cold wind that blew down from the snowy mountains. It was past three when I reached the Blair home. Behind it rose a great hollow, filled with dark hemlocks. I gazed up into it with a shudder, remembering it was here that Killis's father died. Mrs. Blair met me at the door, and in answer to my inquiries for the boys, said, "They've been in and out all day; now they're up the branch shooting." "Have they been drinking much?" I asked. "A sight!" she answered; then she continued smiling, "but what they've drank won't hurt 'em much, I reckon. When Killis come home a-Wednesday, he called for several jugs of liquor for the boys a-Saturday; and I told him all right, for I don't never deny him nothing. But next day 'peared like he was thoughtful in his mind, and come evening, he said if he had something that weren't pure liquor, but would just sort of cheer the boys, he would give 'em that, to please you. And I recollected there was a barrel of cider left. So this morning, before they come, he drawed off a kag of that, and being as it was pretty hard, poured in a couple of gallon of water, so's they wouldn't get _too_ cheered; and all day they been eating and drinking fit to burst, and then running out to shoot a while, and then filling up ag'in." "Anybody wounded?" I asked. "None so far." Relieved beyond expression, I sank into a chair and gave thanks to God. A little later, Killis ran in the front door. "I never give them boys nary drap but cider," he said; "I done it to please you!" I threw my arms around him; yes, I even wept. "And I watered the cider, too," he continued; "them boys thinks they are drunk, and seeing a right Christmas, but they haint, but it does 'em just as much good!" The other boys followed;--all mine but Nucky, the Salyers and the Atkinses were there, and some neighbor boys--piling up guns and pistols on the beds, and taking another round of pies and cider. Finding they were not at all abashed to see me, I accepted pressing invitations to spend the night, and we had a cheerful evening, with picking and singing, until Philip, who has been visiting a boy friend on Powderhorn, roused all my premonitions again by saying, "I went up Trigger to fetch Trojan; but he couldn't come. He said Todd and Dalt had give it out they would certainly take the fence and grease their boots with Blant's brains before Christmas was over; and him and Rich was a-keeping lookout every minute." All my fears leaped into being again instantly. If I could, I would have started for Trigger then and there. I cannot say how sinister the bright moonlight appeared to me as it streamed in through chinks in the logs during the night. This morning my panic seems excessive; still I am going to Trigger at once with Philip to guide me. XX WAR AND WORSE ON TRIGGER _Monday Noon._ Let me try to tell, if I can do so, the tale of these dreadful twenty-four hours. We crossed over a high gap and down into the head-waters of Powderhorn, and thence to the mouth of Trigger. Just as we reached it, a man riding down looked intently at me. "You are one of them school-women, haint you?" he inquired. I recognized him as Saxby, Blant's neighbor who brought Nucky word of the election fight, and replied, "Yes." "I seed you when I was over," he continued. "I allow by your being here you have heared the news from Trigger." "What news?" I asked. "Another engagement last night,--I hate to tell you the rest." "What is it?" I demanded. "Ever sence Blant defeated them at the fence a month gone, the Cheever boys has been dogging his footsteps in secret, trying to git him unbeknownst and unexpected. Though he haint seed hair nor hide of 'em, two or three times bullets has whizzed by him when he was doing chores round the house, or feeding the property. Of course he haint let the little chap, Nucky, know nothing about it, and has stayed in and laid low all he could, letting Rich tend to outside things for him. As Christmas come on, Todd and Dalt got so deep in liquor they couldn't keep their tongues from wagging, and they have bragged far and nigh that they would both take the fence and grease their boots with Blant's brains, before Christmas was over. So a' extry watch has been kept at both house and fence, and the little chap, Nucky, he has been hard at it. Last night when the full moon riz about seven, he was in the clump of spruce-pine on the p'int with his great-grandpaw's gun he allus packs around, when the whole b'iling of Cheevers, nine or ten, marched out to the fence. Just what happened, we haint got no means of knowing; but instid of obeying orders, and running to the house to tell Blant and Rich, like he ought, the boy he committed plumb suicide by opening fire on 'em from the tree. Of course before he could drap to the ground, seven or eight of 'em had blazed away in his direction; and when Blant and Rich heared the shots and come a-running, the little chap was a-laying limp and dead, and the Cheevers running round confused-like, carrying off one wounded. Blant he rushed on 'em like a robbed she-bear, routing 'em in no time,--Rich said such shooting never was seed on earth. I heared the noise acrost the branch where I live at, and come a-running. When we turnt the little chap over, we found he was bleeding from several flesh wounds, which we tied up; but then we also seed his skull was broke and stove in by another bullet, and knowed there wa'n't no hope. We tuck him to the house, and sot there all night keeping the death-watch, and looking for every breath to be his last." [Illustration: "'Blant he rushed on 'em like a robbed she-bear, routing 'em in no time.'"] "Then he still does breathe?" I asked, fiercely. "Yes, a little-grain; but he don't know nothing, and of course there haint no possible chance, with his skull broke. I'm a-riding now to inform his maw's kin down Powderhorn." I laid the whip to Mandy, who, startled, sprang forward in a gallop. The twenty minutes before I reached the Marrs home seemed endless. I believed I had already suffered all that a woman could; but that was before I knew the love of a mother for her child. I ran into the house, pushing away the people gathered there, and laid my hand on the bosom of the small body lying there so limp and still. The heart was beating, feebly but steadily, "He is not dead!" I cried, "and he shall not die!" Blant, sitting crouched by the bed, head in hands, raised up and stared at me; Mr. Marrs lifted a bandage from Nucky's head, showing a wound from which a piece of bone protruded, and shook his head hopelessly. "But the bullet can't have gone in, or he would have died instantly," I said; "it must have broken the skull and glanced off, leaving the bone pressing against the brain." "Even so, nobody can't live with their skull broke," he replied. "But they can,--they do! A broken skull may be lifted, trephined, by a good surgeon,--many a life is saved thus nowadays." "Haint no surgeons in this country," said Mr. Marrs; "what few scattering doctors there is don't follow carving." "But the new telephone!" I cried. "There is a telephone now from our village to the railroad,--we can get word to a surgeon in the Blue Grass in a few hours; by hard riding he can be here inside of two days. If we can only keep the child alive until then, his life may be saved!" Blant sprang to his feet, hope transfiguring his haggard face. "Tell me what to do," he said. "Saddle your best nag for Philip, and let him ride to the school and tell the nurse to telephone for the best surgeon in the state, and that we shall bring Nucky to the hospital to-night on a stretcher." Philip dashed off, and the rest of us went to work to make a stretcher, with two poles and plenty of warm blankets. I know little about these matters, but I believed that the child could be taken easily and safely across the mountains, by relays of men, and that if I could once get him to the trained nurse she would manage to keep life in him. Then Blant fed us; and about two o'clock we set forth down Trigger, Blant, Rich and two others bearing the stretcher, and four more young men going along to relieve them every half-hour. As we went slowly down Trigger, we saw a crowd gathered at Israel Cheever's home, too. "Dalt is bad wounded by the little chap's rifle," said one of "Uncle Billy's boys", "I wisht it had been Todd." When the stretcher changed hands, we carefully examined Nucky for any change in pulse or temperature. There was none. Nearly six hours the march lasted,--the way was rough, the snow and ice made the footing uncertain, the evening hours before the moon rose were dark. At last we made the last turn, and came in sight of the school and the village beyond. Rich Tarrant then laid a hand on Blant's arm. "Right here is where you take a back track, Blant," he said, firmly; "it haint sensible for you to walk right spang into the teeth of the sheriff and the jail,--you can't afford to lose no time that way, your family not being able to do without you." "That's so," said Blant, "I plumb forgot. Seems like I can't stand to leave the little chap, though." "You got it to do. He'll be took good care of. You follow the ridges back." Blant laid a large, tender hand on Nucky's head, and without a word, turned and struck straight up the nearest mountain, Rich watching till he was out of sight. "That boy certainly sees more than his fill of trouble," he sighed; "I wisht I could help him more,--I would glad lay down my life for him." "You proved that last winter," I said, remembering the bullet he took in his breast. "Oh, that wa'n't nothing at all," he deprecated. Sure enough, when we reached the hospital, there in the crowd of people who had heard of our coming and gathered to meet us, was the sheriff. And now Nucky is safe in the nurse's care, his wounds properly dressed, and all means being used to keep life in him, the surgeon is on the way, and if he can live until to-morrow, he may be saved. I can only watch and pray. XXI SUSPENSE _Wednesday Morning._ The best surgeon in the state arrived at noon yesterday, performed the trephining at once, and having done all that skill and science could, started back on his long horseback ride. Nucky continued in the deep sleep from which he might pass into either life or death. All afternoon, and into the night, we watched in vain for signs of returning consciousness. About ten, the door opened noiselessly, and Blant and Rich stepped in out of the night. Two hours later, Nucky's head began to move from side to side, and he moaned occasionally. A little past one, he suddenly opened his eyes and looked at Blant. "They never got you, did they?" he asked, feebly. "Who, son?" "Todd and Dalt; they was fixing to layway you when I fired on them." "Is that what made you disobey orders?" inquired Blant. "Yes. The whole bunch of Cheevers come up to the fence, and started to throw down rails; and I was just about to drap down and fetch you the word, when I heared Todd tell the rest to make all the noise they could, so's to tole you out, and him and Dalt would hide in the trees and shoot you as you passed. And then they clim the fence and made for the very spruce-pines where I was at. I knowed I couldn't get away then to warn you, so I done my best to shoot 'em." Blant's face darkened, but his voice was gentleness itself as he said, "You done wise, son; and you certainly hit your mark, too,--they was carrying off Dalt when I got down." Nucky sighed, deeply, happily, closing his eyes. After a while he opened them again to say, "I allow they shot me up a little too, by these here rags on my head." [Illustration: "'I allow they shot me up a little too by these here rags on my head.'"] "Oh, a trifle, yes,--but none to hurt,--you wa'n't born to die by no Cheever lead." "Gee, no," breathed Nucky, in quiet scorn. "We brung you over here to the women, where you could get well sooner," continued Blant, in his gentle, reassuring voice; "and now since you are doing so fine, I reckon I'll leave you a spell and get along home,--the babe is punier than usual." "Yes, I don't want you to stay here and get arrested," said Nucky; "but I don't want you to go back there neither. You keep a constant watch on Todd,--I wish it was him I had shot." Rich and I followed Blant out. Not until we stood out in the snow did we wring one another's hands in speechless relief. "Of course he will live now," I said. To-day Nucky is entirely rational, though quite weak. Only the nurse sees him. Killis, Taulbee, Keats, Hosea and Joab came in for news of him to-day, returning immediately on their long walks. _Friday._ I was permitted to visit Nucky to-day. He is still forbidden to talk, but he smiled his old bright smile, and I read Pilgrim's Progress to him until he fell asleep. _Sunday Morning._ All the boys came back to school yesterday from their vacation, several with gifts for me,--a dozen eggs from the little Salyers, a fine ground-hog-hide from Joab ("it'll make you shoe-strings enough to last a lifetime," he said), a handsome hen from Taulbee, four huge sweet-potatoes from Hosea, and an elegant green glass breastpin from Geordie. Of course the one topic of conversation last night was "Trojan" and his performance, in which they take endless pride. "I allow Basil Beaumont will sure make up a song-ballad about him now," said Absalom. They also brought the news that Dalt Cheever is probably "aiming to live",--thank heaven if it is true, for I cannot bear that Nucky's hands should be stained with human blood. Doubtless, however, it will be a keen disappointment to him. _Monday._ As I was about to leave the cottage for the hospital last night after supper, the boys were all bewailing the fact that they had not been able to stay at home over Old Christmas. I asked them what they meant by "Old Christmas." "You brought-on women," said Taulbee, "thinks New Christmas is real Christmas; but it haint. Real Christmas comes to-morrow, on the sixth of January; and to-night is right Christmas Eve." "What makes you think so?" "All the old folks says so, for one thing, and they knows better than young ones; and the plants and the beasts knows better still. Tonight's the night when the elder blossoms out at midnight, and the cattle kneels down and prays,--anybody can hear 'em a-lowing and mowing if they stay awake to listen." I have a hazy recollection of the English calendar having been changed and set forward eleven days in the middle of the eighteenth century, and of the mass of the people in England and the colonies refusing to accept the new date for Christmas. This survival in the mountain country is indeed remarkable. I sat keeping watch beside Nucky when the clock struck midnight, and got up and went to the window to look and listen. If, in the wintry moonlight, any gaunt, bare stalks put forth miraculous blossoms above the snow, or if reverent cattle knelt and lowed loving welcome to their Lord, my eyes and ears were holden that I did not see and hear; but I know that it was Real Christmas in my heart as I turned back and saw my child breathing quietly on his bed, a faint color in his pale cheeks again. _Wednesday._ Another visit from Blant to Nucky last night. In reply to eager questions, Blant gave Nucky a very encouraging account of the state of affairs on Trigger. "Never seed things quieter," he said; "it looks like your shot had settled 'em a while. The talk now is that Dalt will likely get well, which I allow you will grieve to hear." A shade of heavy disappointment immediately fell upon Nucky's countenance. "But," continued Blant, "it is good news to me,--I don't like the notion of your having to start in killing at your age." After we were out on the porch, Blant repeated to me, "Yes, I am proud to know the little chap haint got blood on his hands yet awhile. You may think it quare, but it really goes again' the grain with me to see a man kilt, even when he needs killing." "Is it true," I questioned him as he stepped out into the snow, "that things are so quiet on Trigger?" He smiled slightly. "Oh yes," he said; "quiet enough,--in fact, they are quiet as death,--not a speck of trouble in plain sight nowhere. But I got a bullet through my hat Friday night as I crossed the passage from the kitchen to t'other house, and heared another whiz nigh while I watered the nags yesterday evening. It all happens along towards dark." "This is horrible," I said. "Yes, it's low-down. Folks ought to fight in the open if they got any fighting to do." "Is Richard staying with you?" "Day and night. I allow he's setting with the babe this minute. All I'm afeared of is that they will shoot him in place of me. But we keep all the windows blanketed and chinks stopped of a night." XXII THE EECH, AND TRAGEDY _Thursday._ Ever since Philip's return he has been scratching himself in the most annoying manner. Before I started for the hospital to-night, he came into my room, clawing viciously at his ankles. "Gimme something for the eech," he said. "For what?" I asked. "For the eech,--I knowed I'd ketch it when I seed Dewey Lovel pawing round so them nights I spent with him." "Do you mean the itch?" I inquired, sharply. "No, I mean the eech,--the seven-year-eech I reckon this is, by the way it feels." "I have no idea what to do for such a disease as the itch!" I replied, helplessly. Philip danced on one foot, clawing his arms now. "'Itch',--listen at that now, boys,--she calls the eech the itch,--don't know no better,--ha! ha!" "What do people do for it?" I asked. "Some rubs on lard-and-sulphur; and some axle-grease." "I'll ask the nurse for medicine,--go along now, please,--_don't_ stand so near me!" "Get enough for three," was his parting remark, "Taulbee and Hose is beginning to scratch too!" Yes, get enough for a dozen, he had better say! _Saturday, P. M._ This afternoon bows and spikes (arrows) became violently the fashion. All the boys went up the mountain side to get hickory limbs for bows, and arrowwood for "spikes". But from Geordie alone can be bought the horse-shoe nails (Hosea's before popgun time) which, when hammered flat at the head, shaped around a nail, and then fitted on the end of a spike, make a truly dangerous and desirable weapon. These nails are held at five cents apiece; but when the buyer has no money, as usually happens, the set of marbles received in his Christmas stocking is acceptable. As Keats says, what good are "marvles" anyway, with the ground either snow or slush all the time? _Sunday Morning._ My fears are verified. Every boy on the place is scratching; and I too have an irresistible impulse in that direction. _Sunday Night._ All my family in quarantine with the itch, and I myself experiencing all the agonies. I think it is King James who says, "The Itch is a disease well worth the having, for the satisfaction afforded by scratching"; but I am forced to dissent from the royal opinion. And the cure,--the being swathed for days in lard-and-sulphur--is almost as bad as the disease. Worst of all is the thought that for a week I shall not see Nucky. _Sunday, a week later._ The boys and I were released from quarantine to-day, and I ran to the hospital the first thing. Nucky looks much better, and is gaining strength at a normal rate. He is much troubled, however, because Blant has not been to see him again. "I know things is wrong on Trigger,--I am afeared Todd is at his devilment again," he said. I left after promising to spend the afternoon with him, and went with the other boys to church. Geordie and Hosea were late dressing, and were left to follow. What was my astonishment, when they did walk in, to see Geordie wearing Hosea's fine new overcoat he brought from home after Christmas,--a coat spun, dyed, woven and made by his mother. Hosea wore the shiny, too-large one which we had given Geordie from the barrels. During service Geordie, with hair plastered down and eyes on the ceiling, sang hymns more loudly than ever. "Why do you wear Hosea's overcoat?" I demanded, as soon as we were out in the road. "Him and me's swapped," he replied, carefully avoiding the word "traded"; "I never wanted to do it, did I, Hose?" "Why was it done, then,--you seem to have decidedly the best of the bargain." "You haint seed the boot he got," replied Geordie, calmly. "Show her that 'ere watch and chain, Hose." Hosea drew from his pocket a battered nickel watch, which Geordie held toward me with the air of a connoisseur. "That 'ere's a three-dollar-and-ninety-five-cent watch," he said; "I got it a-Christmas on Bald Eagle, off of Johnny Miles, that just come home from the Penitentiary." "Did you pay him that much for it?" "No'm,--he was offering it around for that,--I got it a little-grain cheaper." "How much cheaper?" "Well, I paid him forty cents spot-cash for it,--he was a-needing money." "And you call that a fair trade,--your old worn coat and a forty-cent watch for his nice new coat his mother made?" "It's a three-dollar-and-ninety-five-cent watch, Miss Loring," Geordie repeated, patiently: "_And_, been in the Penitentiary!" This failing to enhance its value in my eyes, he added, "And that haint all,--just cast your eye on that chain!" The chain was a flimsy affair of two brass wires, on which were strung at intervals three battered objects which I at last recognized as dice. "Them 'ere," said Geordie impressively, "is able to make a living for a man all by theirselves. I seed Johnny Miles make a dollar'n' a quarter in five minutes, a-flingin' 'em. And when Hose heared about it, he said he were bound to have 'em. And thaint nary nother boy on Perilous I'd a-_let_ have 'em; but Hose he's such a _good_ boy, and so peaceable, and never does no meanness, and allus minds you, and knows his books, and gits up in time of a morning, I felt like I _ought_ to prosper him if I could. So I told him all right, to take them dice and buy him a hundred overcoats if he wanted!" "How did you come to part with them if they are so valuable?" "Oh, I got t'other set Johnny sold me," replied Geordie, comfortably, "I aim to quit trading now, like you want,--yes, I give you my hand I haint going to trade nary nother time! And I writ maw last night I seed my way clear now to come to Virginia this summer, and see her and the world, and ride on the railroad train!" These rosy anticipations were cruelly shattered. "Give me those dice at once," I said, "You and Hosea may not know that throwing dice is gambling, and that gambling of any kind is strictly forbidden in this school. Trade back those overcoats at once. And never again let me hear of your associating with Johnny Miles!" _Wednesday._ Terrible news indeed from Trigger. On my way to the garden after school this afternoon, I saw all the boys running toward the front fence, where a man on a nag was talking and gesticulating. I recognized Blant's neighbor Saxby, who had brought bad news before. When I reached the fence he began his tale all over again. During the two weeks since Blant's last visit here, it appears that Todd Cheever has continued to haunt the Marrs premises at night, lurking in dark places, and making further attempts to shoot Blant. The strain of the constant watchfulness has been great for both Blant and Rich,--indeed, the feeling that one is being watched from the darkness by the eyes of hate is probably the most terrible one a human being can know. Blant's nervousness has been augmented by the fact that for three days handrunning he has had visions which have filled him with fear for Rich. Monday while they were together "snaking" logs down the mountain side, he suddenly saw Rich standing beside him headless,--a second glance showed him Rich fastening a log-chain thirty feet distant. Tuesday morning he beheld the headless shade at his elbow, while Rich was on the far side of a fodder-stack from him; and about noon, the same dreadful apparition started up beside him as he lifted a skillet of meat from the fire, Rich being at the time on his way to catch a brief glimpse of his people at home. Blant was in an agony until Rich returned safely about four o'clock; then he told him of the warnings he had had, and implored him to be exceedingly wary and careful, Rich being quite amused at his earnestness. After supper they were all gathered as usual about the fire, Blant holding the babe, when there was a halloo from the road. "Don't pay no attention to it," said Rich, "it's likely Todd, trying to tole you out." But the call sounded again, in an unmistakably strange voice, and, handing the babe to his father, Blant started for the door. Rich sprang ahead of him. "If anybody goes, it'll be me," he said. Blant forcibly put him back. "You don't set foot outside this house to-night," he declared, "not after the visions I have seed." Then, taking his forty-five from his pocket, he passed out of the door and into the open passageway. "I want to inquire how much further on it is to Billy Marrs's," called the strange voice from the road. "Something over a mile," replied Blant. At the same instant, as Blant had probably anticipated, a man dashed into the passage from the rear, firing, closely followed by a second, also firing. Conjecturing at once that Todd had hired some stranger to call him out, in order that he and a confederate might attack him, Blant took instant deadly aim at both the men. The first--Todd--fell face forward into the light from the doorway; the second, with the cry, "It's me, Blant," also staggered forward a few steps, and Blant caught the dying Rich in his arms. Guessing Todd's whereabouts, Rich, disobeying commands, had jumped from the window to attack him from the rear, and had thoughtlessly exposed himself to Blant's deadly aim. [Illustration: "Blant caught the dying Rich in his arms."] Saxby said that Blant, in an agony, had lifted his friend, dashed water over him, worked for hours to restore him, refused to admit that he could be dead; and finally, when compelled to abandon hope, had laid the revolver to his own temple and fired, his father knocking it up in time to produce only a scalp wound, and Saxby and others who had come in overpowering him and taking it from him before he could fire again. They stood guard over him the rest of the night, while he raved over Rich's body. "Never did I see the likes of the love of them two boys," said Saxby, with tears in his eyes. "And Blant in gineral so quiet,--nobody'd a-dreamed he could keer so deep." Then, with the coming of daylight, Blant had called for his nag and had announced his determination to give himself up to the sheriff. "Since I haint permitted to kill myself, the law must kill me," he had declared, "for this misery is more than I can endure and live." In vain all tried to dissuade him; he was adamant. "So the whole passel of us come over with him," said Saxby. "Him and t'others stopped up here at the sheriff's, but I come ahead to fetch the news to the little Marrs chap." "Never!" I said, "it might kill him, now. He must not know a word of it." "I allowed it might holp him up some to hear Todd was safe dead," he apologized. "He must hear nothing," I said. Fifteen minutes later, a sad cavalcade came down the road. There were a dozen or more men, and last of all, between the sheriff and deputy, rode Blant, his face rigid with misery and horror. Pale, deathlike, unseeing, he rode. When I ran out in the road to give him a word of sympathy he looked straight through me, never seeing me. My boys and a gathering crowd followed in awed silence to the jail. XXIII DESPAIR, AND BUDDING ROMANCE _Thursday Evening._ I went to the jail to see Blant this morning,--but was almost sorry that I did so. He sits there in his cell, speechless, despairing, refusing food or rest, hearing and seeing nothing. In vain the jail-keeper and I attempted to talk to him and tell him he must not reproach himself so bitterly, or give way to such utter despair, since he was in no way to blame for the death of his friend. He looked agonizingly beyond us, evidently not conscious that we were talking. The worst of it is that circuit court will not sit here again until early April,--two and a half months, and his suffering must be cruelly protracted. After this visit it was almost impossible for me to go in and talk and read cheerfully to Nucky, and make plausible excuses for Blant's non-appearance, which is worrying him a great deal. "I had news from Trigger yesterday," I told him, "Todd has gone away, so there will probably be peace for a long while." "Where has he gone to?" he asked. "I am unable to say," I replied. _Monday._ Blant continues to refuse all food, and to maintain his terrible silence. He sits with his head in his hands all day long, oblivious of everything around him. The kind-hearted keeper stays in his cell with him at night. "I know he haint in no fix to stand lonesomeness," he said to me to-day; "even if he don't pay no attention to me, I allow it's some comfort to him to have a human nigh." Then he added, "If he haint able to speak out his grief before long, it's liable to strike in and kill him. Something ought to be done to rouse him." "What?" I asked. "Oh, I don't rightly know. But he's turnt loose all holts on life; something to grapple him to it again is needed." Knowing their love for each other, my first thought of course was to bring Nucky; but the terrible story could have only disastrous effects upon him at present, so that is not to be considered. _Thursday._ The mail-carrier stopped at the gate yesterday to say, "I hear tell that Blant haint toch a morsel of vittles sence he shot Rich. Neither has the babe, sence he left it, to speak of,--the pore little creetur just whimps and pines for him continual, and won't scacely tech the food its pap gives it. Minervy Saxby's been over trying to peaceify it,--but in vain. It was allus purely silly about Blant, allowing he's its maw. When a babe gits its mind sot thataway on a proposition, there haint no help for it but to give it what it craves. It's likely to pine away if you don't." I did not tell Blant of this when I stopped by the jail this afternoon,--I hope it will not reach him, as it could only add to his misery. I was thankful when I arrived to find him out in the common room, where all the prisoners stay during the day, even though he sat in a corner and did not seem to see the others. The keeper followed me out again, and talked a while on the steps, "I got Blant started on a few vittles to-day, after nine days of starving," he said. "The way I done it was to make out I thought he was trying to cheat the gallows. Then he called for meat and bread. 'Pears like the gallows is the onliest prospect he is able to take any comfort in, and I hold it before him constant, to sort of keep his sperrits up. Though God knows I'm a-acting the black hypocrite when I do it, when there haint the least grain of a show for him to get a death sentence. There's a strong prejudyce again' hanging in this country,--not a jury ever set in this court-house that pronounced a death sentence,--Blant would a-knowed it if he had stopped to think. But even if the prejudyce didn't exist, why Blant haint done nothing to earn the gallows,--you might say he haint done anything for the law to take hold of. Of course everybody knows his shooting of Rich was the worst kind of accident; and as for the Cheevers he has killed and maimed, why, that war is really a family affair, which the law haint got no business to meddle with. Public sentiment is again' the law mixing up in affairs like that, and that's the reason why no great effort haint been made to arrest Blant before now. Folks has knowed he meant well, and was hard placed, and let it go at that. Now he's throwed hisself into the very jaws of the law, however, it may feel compelled to do something; but of course it won't be nothing like no death sentence. But I haven't got the heart to tell him so,--no, I really have not,--I believe he would dash his brains out again' the wall if I did." Nucky was more insistent this afternoon when I read to him (he is sitting up now and begins to look like himself). "I know pine-blank something is wrong on Trigger, or Blant would have been here," he said, anxiously. "Nothing is wrong there, except that the babe is ailing," I said, "the mail-carrier told me yesterday she was far from well." _First Sunday, February._ I should be quite weighed down by the Marrs troubles if it were not for the cheerful society of the boys, whose lively and funny doings afford some escape from tragic and depressing thoughts. This morning before church, when I was making the usual round of the ears with soap and wash-rag, to my utter amazement I found Philip's clean, inside and out, behind and before. At first stricken dumb by the discovery--for I long since abandoned the hope of reforming him in the matters of chivalry and cleanliness--I finally inquired what was the matter. "Nothing, I just kep' a-digging," was his careless reply. To-night, however, when everybody was undressing, Hen slid noiselessly into my room, mysteriously shutting the door behind him. Half clothed, I dived into my closet, soon emerging in my wrapper. Hen himself was in trousers and undershirt, with dangling gallusses. Planting himself on the hearth, back to the fire, he held up first one bare foot, then the other, to the blaze, and at last spoke in a confidential tone: "Philip lied to you this morning when he said there wa'n't nothing the matter with him. He knows what made him wash his years, and _I_ know." "What was it?" I inquired, drawing up the rocker. "He's a-courting, that's what's the matter." "Courting!" I exclaimed, incredulously. "Yes, courting, by grab! You mind Dilsey Warrick, that 'ere little tow-head come in atter Christmas, from over on Wace?" Yes, I remembered Dilsey,--a demure dove of a child, in blue home-spun dress and red yarn stockings, with long, fair hair hanging in two plaits, and the face of an austere little saint. She is at least three years older and a head taller than Hen, but it pleases him to speak of the sex in diminutives. "You know I pack water to the big house of a morning before breakfast," he continued; "well, Dilsey she sweeps off the front porch over yander then, and Philip _he_ goes round and mends the fence where the hogs breaks in of a night." I groaned an assent,--the neighborhood hogs are badly on the rampage, after our mustard-and turnip-greens, which show temptingly when the snow melts; and the fence is so frail it gives way constantly to their assaults. "Well," proceeded Hen, "that's as good a chanct as he wants, when thaint nobody much around but me. But I keep my eye on him,--I tip round the corner of the house right easy, and come up on 'em unexpected." "You are certainly mistaken about Philip," I said decidedly, "why, he despises girls, has no earthly use for them, in fact." "Dag gone _me_, he's got use enough for little Dilsey, by Ned! Gee, I never see the beat! He sot in a-courting her the day he got out from eech, and haint stopped to ketch his breath sence. Dad swinge my hide if that 'ere boy haint been nailing planks on that front fence with lee-tle-bitty fourpenny nails, so's the hogs'll root 'em off sure every night, and he'll git to work there and talk to Dilsey of a morning! I been keeping my eye peeled for him ever sence I seed him give her a' apple one day at recess,--I knowed then something had happened to him!" [Illustration: "'Dag gone _me_, he's got use enough for little Dilsey, by Ned!'"] I sat speechless. "But what made him wash his years," continued Hen, with lowered voice and another glance at the door; "one morning whilst Dilsey was a-sweeping, here come Philip along, a-swinging his hammer and nail-box. He put his hand in his pocket and pult out a candy cane I had seed him a-eating on the night before,--one of these-here they fotch on at the store for Christmas--and poked it at Dilsey. 'Have some,' he says, 'eat it all, if you want.' Dilsey she put out her hand for it, and then she tuck a hard look at it, and then at Philip, and says she's obleeged, but she don't believe she wants any. Philip he shoved it ag'in' her face. 'Don't be afeared,' he says, 'I'd ruther you'd have it as anybody'. Little Dilse she said no thanks, she wouldn't choose any (dag gone if she haint the ladyest girl ever I heared talk!); and Philip axed her what's the reason. But she just kep' a-sweeping, and wouldn't open her mouth. Then Philip he grabbed her by the shoulder, and says, by Heck, she's _got_ to tell. And Dilse she shuck him off proud-like, and says, 'Well, if you _bound_ to hear it, I don't crave to eat atter no boy that don't never wash his years!' Then Philip he was b'iling (dad burn if I'd take any such talk from any woman!), and he says, 'I bet they clean as yourn!'; and Dilsey she frowned and spoke up solemn, 'I'd have you know, Mister Philip Floyd, _my_ years gits washed every day I live!', and made for the door. And Philip he seed me behind the post and give me as much candy cane as I could bite off not to tell nobody what she said to him. And for two days he sulled, and never come anigh her mornings, and mended the back fence. Then when his bath night come, he turnt in and pintly scrubbed the hide off his years, in and out, and went back to mending the front fence next morning; and him and Dilse made up; and he allus gives her new sticks of candy now; and don't you never let on I told you, less'n you want to see me kilt!" XXIV THE BABE _Monday._ On my way to the hospital this morning, I stopped at the weaving-house to see more of the little girl who can work such wonders with Philip. After careful scrutiny of, and conversation with the pretty, dignified child at the loom, I understood something of her power. She has the look of the ideal woman, suggesting many beautiful and elusive things, and judging from her perfect manners, might have been reared in marble halls instead of in a two-room log house on the head of Wace. She has distinctly the look of race,--and her name, how it carries one back through centuries of English history! If the magnificent earl, "proud setter-up and plucker-down of kings" were himself her ancestor, he could feel nothing but pride in this fair little shoot of his noble tree. Before I went into the jail to see Blant after dinner, the keeper told me of a touching and remarkable thing. Old Mrs. Tarrant, Rich's mother, rode over yesterday to tell Blant that, although he had darkened the light of the sun-ball for her, she freely forgave him, and hoped he would forgive himself,--that she knew this would be Rich's message to him if he could speak. Her words should have comforted him some; and when I went in, it seemed to me that his face, though infinitely sad, was more at peace. _Tuesday._ The nurse told me this morning that Nucky would be permitted to leave the hospital and return to the cottage to-night; and I realized that the time had come when I could no longer keep from him the sad occurrences on Trigger. So after dinner, taking his hands in mine, I told him the dreadful tale. He heard it with a white face, expressing neither joy over Todd's death, nor sorrow over Rich's (these Marrses seem to have abnormal powers of emotional repression), and only said, "I'll go right down to Blant." "Yes, do," I said, "the sight of you may be just what he needs." On his return to the cottage after supper, "Trojan" was loudly and joyfully welcomed by the other boys; but grief and anxiety were plainly written on his face, he had little to say, and seemed much older. _Friday._ At noon yesterday Philip came in clamoring for a patch for his elbow,--formerly he would have died rather than sew on a patch. I was not surprised to hear from Hen later that he "had heared Dilsey tell Philip at recess she couldn't abide raggeddy boys". And this morning when Philip burst into my room with the demand, "Gimme a latch-pin", and after some pondering I handed him out a safety-pin, with which he proceeded to join together his sundered gallusses and trousers, Hen, who was making my bed, contributed, "She tolt him before breakfast she never had no respects for folks that went about with their clothes a-drapping off 'em!" Oh that all my twelve would fall in love! _Monday._ This morning, after a brief reign, bows and spikes went out, and "stilks" came in. Geordie, who now has the stable-job, had a number of superior dogwood limbs laid away under the gear-room, ready to be sold. Looking back, I realize that, with the exception of the old stand-by, shinny, not a single game has come in during the term without his connivance. Indeed, the born trader's ability in supplying a demand is exceeded only by his genius in creating it. Every day Nucky goes down to see Blant, always returning sad, thoughtful and troubled. "'Pears like he haint able to take no more interest in nothing, now Rich is gone," he said to me last night; "when he talks he don't say nothing but 'I have killed the friend of my bosom,--my heart is broke,--I can't stand to live no longer.'" _Wednesday._ I stopped the mail-boy again to-day, for news of the Marrs family. "Things is going mighty bad," he said. "The babe is pindling scandlous, and its paw is wore to a frazzle tending it of nights, and cooking, and troubling in his mind. Minervy Saxby allows if Blant don't git back to that 'ere babe, it'll purely pine to death." Nucky came out as we talked, and heard the boy's account. He said to me immediately, "I want to go home Friday." "You are not strong enough for the walk," I said. "I've got to go," he declared. _Saturday Night._ Nucky went home yesterday; and shortly after noon to-day I was surprised to see him ride down the road in front of the cottage, with a small bundle held on one arm. I called to him in surprise, and he halted. "It's the babe,--I brung it to see Blant," he said. He unwrapped the blanket from the baby's head, and the poor little creature looked down at me with such big, sad eyes out of a tiny white face, that my heart was wrung within me. I went on down to the jail with them. The keeper ushered us into the large room where Blant sat with the other prisoners (most of them nice boys, in only for moonshining, or for celebrating Christmas too enthusiastically); but he sat in a corner alone, while they played cards around a table. Nucky went toward Blant with his bundle. "'Pears like the babe will pine to death for you, Blant," he said, "so I brung her over." He opened the blanket, and with one ecstatic cry out of utmost depths of suffering, the little creature sprang forward, and buried her head in Blant's bosom. Blant held her close, laid his head upon hers, and burst into a terrible storm of weeping, a storm that swept everything, and all of us, before it. Nucky and I wept together, the keeper stood with tears streaming down his cheeks, the card-playing boys, noisy and careless a moment before, to a man laid their heads on the table and wept. I am sure that before that tempest of emotion was over, it must have washed from Blant's heart some of its awful burden. I slipped out and ran to the hospital for a nursing bottle and some milk, that Blant might feed the poor little starving babe. Oh how bright, how joyous, how pitiable, was the smile upon her tiny, pinched face as she laid aside her bottle repeatedly to assure herself by touch and sight that Blant still held her. Late in the afternoon, when I begged to keep the babe during the night, Blant shook his head, and clasped her more strongly to his heart. _Sunday Night._ When Nucky and I stopped at the jail after church to-day, the keeper told us Blant had sat up all night with the babe in his arms. "'Peared like he couldn't part with her a' instant," he said; "I allow if anything can splice him on to life again, it will be her." This raised my hopes. I saw now that Nucky had brought her for a double reason. "May she stay here with him a while?" I asked. "Certainly," he said; "of course it's again' the rules; but what's rules when a pore little innocent babe is pining to death?" But when we spoke to Blant, our hopes were dashed to the ground. He said sternly, "No, it can't be,--Nucky never ought to have brung her,--she must be took back immediate. In a little while more she'd have forgot me,--little young things like that can't have no very long recollections. Now, God help her, she'll have to start all over again. But it has to be,--it would be pure cruelty to keep her here and get her all wropped up in me again, only to face a' eternal parting." The keeper pondered silently for quite a while; then he spoke up, firmly. "Blant," he said, "I got a confession to make to you, and pardon to ax of you, for what I have done. In the pity and tenderness of my heart, I have lied to you, and led you on to hope for a death sentence, when God knows there haint the ghost of a show you'll git one. In the first place, if you'll ricollect, there's a powerful prejudyce again' hanging in this country; in the next, I am sorry to tell you you haint done nothing to really earn the gallows. Everybody knows how it was betwixt you and Rich; and as for Todd and Elhannon and Ben and Jeems that you kilt, and t'other Cheevers you wounded, why, that war is a family affair, in which the law haint got no particular call, or no great desire, to meddle, and wouldn't if you hadn't a-throwed yourself spang in its arms thisaway. As it is, you have put it in a mighty embarrassing position, and, as you might say, forced it to set up and take notice, and probably some kind of action,--it may be a couple of year' sentence to Frankfort, or some such, but certainly there haint a-going to be no hanging business. I hate to disapp'int your hopes of dying,--I know you don't take no easement or comfort in nothing else. But truth is truth. Now my advice to you is, be sensible, brace up, take some comfort, keep the babe here with you and git yourself sort of tied on to life again." Blant's answer was angry and indignant. "May the earth open and swallow me before I take cheer or comfort in this world from which I have sent the friend of my bosom, my more than brother! Till I have to, I haint going to give up the hope of laying down my life for his. If you lied to me once, you may be lying to me again. Take her, Nucky!" He attempted to hand over the babe to Nucky; but it was not so easily accomplished. The process of separating her from him was such a painful one that he himself was almost unmanned, and again there was not a dry eye in the jail. XXV CHANGE AND GROWTH _Monday Night. Mid-February._ It is six weeks since the roads became impassable for wagons, and already we begin to feel some of the effects of the isolation. Flour, sugar and coffee have to be very sparingly used. Of course there is plenty of corn-meal, beans, middling and sorghum, so there is no danger of starvation. When Nucky returned this evening from taking the babe home, he came into my room, and threw himself on the floor. Presently I saw that his body was shaken with silent sobs. To my entreaties he at last replied, "Things is terrible there at home,--paw is all wore-out with the trouble, and all Blant's jobs he has to tend to, like cooking and minding the babe of nights, and he couldn't get along at all if Uncle Billy's boys didn't come down and chop wood, and feed the animals, and such. I ought to be home now tending to things for him; and I'll have to give up learning and go when crap-time comes. Blant never ought to have give hisself up,--he ought to have thought about his family, and not lost his head that way. They'll sure send him to Frankfort on his trial,--I heared some talk about it last week." Indeed, it is a pitiable situation, and will be far more so if Blant is sent to the penitentiary. The thought hangs a new weight of dread upon me,--of course then Nucky will have to leave school and go home and take up Blant's burdens. My own selfish grief in the thought of losing Nucky ought not to protrude itself in the face of greater troubles,--but I have already lost so much,--must everything I set my affection upon be taken? _Saturday._ Yesterday Philip astonished me by asking for the wash-job. If there is anything on the place he has often expressed contempt for, it is the duties of the unfortunate wash-boy, who must rise before day on Saturdays to build fires and fill kettles, and then for nine long hours toil wearily, chopping wood, carrying water, and otherwise "slaving" for the wash-girls, until, when playtime comes, he is generally too tired to play; not to mention that every day in the week he must tend the ironing-stove, and, deepest indignity of all, take a hand at the ironing. No job is so consistently avoided by every boy on the place; while the carpenter- and shop-work, which Philip does exclusively, is considered the most aristocratic and desirable of all. I gladly transferred him, however; and this morning the explanation appeared, when Dilsey Warrick tripped over with the other nine wash-girls, having been shifted from the weaving to the washing department. _Sunday Night._ After church to-day, I myself heard some of the solid men of the community talking about Blant's case; and their words confirmed Nucky's statement of last week. I gather that public sentiment is pretty well crystallized into the feeling that a couple of years in Frankfort is about the least the reluctant law can do when forced to extremities. Sympathy for Blant is strong; but the determination is equally strong that his many lawless acts cannot be longer overlooked, and that the majesty of the law must be vindicated. Nucky, pale of face, hurried to the jail after hearing the talk, and Taulbee said to me as we came home, "It looks now like Blant is bound for Frankfort; but I'll lay my hat he don't never get there,--not if Trojan can help it." "He'll have to go if he is sent," I replied; "now he has put himself in the hands of the law, he must take his medicine, whatever it is." "Who,--Blant? Him swallow anything he don't want to? I reckon not. There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." _Wednesday, first week in March._ More distressing news from Trigger, when the mail-boy stopped to report to-day. "Same old story all over ag'in," he says, "the babe crying and puning constant, and plumb off its feed, and favoring a little picked bird. Minervy Saxby doubts it's a-holding out till the trial." I heard later he had taken the news on to Blant, through the bars of the jail window. _Saturday Evening._ Philip is in a seventh heaven. Every day in the week now he basks in Dilsey's presence two or three hours, cheerfully doing the menial tasks of keeping up fires and ironing; and on Saturdays he spends almost the entire day in her society, hanging out clothes, turning wringers, doing tremendous deeds on the wood-pile with his ax, running nimbly down and up the rocky sides of the well when the chain breaks and the bucket falls in, as it is fond of doing, and, between labors, giving hazardous performances on the limb of a peach-tree. The teasings of the boys and girls seem powerless to dampen his ardor,--indeed, I suspect that their "Howdy, Mr. Warrick," "Good evening, Mrs. Floyd," fall as music on his ears. _Sunday Night._ When I went with Nucky to the jail this afternoon, I found that the rumors abroad for two weeks had reached it, indeed, they were being freely discussed by the prisoners, the keeper and Blant himself,--I was thankful to see that he was able to put his mind on the subject. "Yes," he said sadly, "it looks like I'll have to give up the hope I have cherished, and try to get my consent to face life again; which God knows I couldn't if it wasn't brung home to me that I got a family depending on me, and a pore little infant looking to me for life itself. Nothing else could ever give me courage to breast the waves of sorrow that swallows me up. But I reckon, after all, I have got a higher call to live than to die; and that, when they acquit me on my trial, constant hard labor for my family will in time take off some of the edge of my sorrow." "But the probabilities is they _won't_ acquit you, Blant," said the keeper impatiently; "I been trying to ding that into your head nigh a week. I told you plain what the talk was about sending you to Frankfort a couple of year'". "I can't believe anything so unreasonable," replied Blant. "Now, a life for a life is just plain sense and common justice,--if they was to kill me for the lives I have took, especially Rich's, I would perfectly agree they was doing right. But what good or justice it would do anybody to shut me up in Frankfort when I'm so bad needed at home, I fail to see. Here I am, with a crippled paw, a living to make for a large family, and the babe maw left in my hands to tend and raise,--you might say with my hands running over full,--now is there any sense in cooping me up where I can't do none of it? I allow not--it's plumb ridiculous,--no jury would be guilty of it; and if they was to, I haint willing to take it." "I allow you'll have to, if it comes," said the keeper, sternly. "You'd ought to have thought of that sooner, and looked before you leaped. You certainly done the nearsightedest job ever I heared of when you give yourself up to the sheriff,--honest, I wouldn't have believed it of you, Blant,--but of course your mind was clean unhinged by misery, and you wa'n't accountable. And I'm sorry for you if you get sent up. But now you've throwed yourself in the arms of the law, you got to lay there. Whatever you do, take warning, and don't try no escapin' tricks here on me, like you done on the sheriff last spring. Because, whatever happens, and however good I like you--which I do, the best in the world--I want you to ricollect that law is law, and I'm its sworn gyuardeen, and obligated by my oath, and aiming to do my _whole duty_. And also, that I haint no poor shakes at gun-practice myself, though I may not be as sure a shot as you." At the words, "as sure a shot as you," a spasm of anguish passed over Blant's face. "I wish to God I never had been no kind of a shot at all before I took the life of him I loved!" he exclaimed, wildly. "Don't never tell me of it, or call it to my recollection that I had the surest aim of any man in five counties; for the days of my gun-pride are over; I have shot my last shoot!" Cries of amazement and incredulity rose on all sides. "You're crazy, Blant,--wouldn't you defend your life?" "Wouldn't you shoot for your freedom?" "Wouldn't you fight for your land if the Cheevers tuck it again?" To all of which he returned the solemn answer, "No,--none of them things would now tempt me! The bullet that pierced my friend's heart was my last! Not for life, not for freedom, not for old ancestral land, will I shed another drap of human blood!" Nucky heard these words of Blant's as if stunned and smitten, and walked home beside me in a daze. XXVI "MARVLES" AND MARVELS _Thursday._ Yesterday, when the ground was hard and smooth, but not too dry, marbles struck the school like a lightning express. It appears that before school in the morning Geordie had "trusted" a few leading spirits (Taulbee and Philip among the cottage boys, Lige Munn and Harl Drake among the day-pupils) with sets of marbles, giving them three days' time in which to pay him the ten cents a set. At noon playtime I was surrounded by a mob of my boys, loudly demanding extra work, while the woodwork teacher was beseiged by day-pupils of all sizes and ages, demanding extra jobs in the shop. When Hen told me before supper that all the "day-schools" as well as the cottage boys were buying "marvles" from Geordie, I said, "Oh, you must be mistaken. Geordie has not more than the dozen sets he traded you boys out of after Christmas, and possibly a few others collected before." Hen looked wise. "You never knowed he had a marvle-mill a-running back yander in the branch, ever sence he got the stable-job?" he said. "What in the world?" I demanded. "Right there under the stable-lot fence, where the branch falls into Perilous, he took'n made him four little troughs, that takes streams out and draps 'em into four holes he's got hollered out in a flat rock underneath. All he's got to do is to put a chunk of sandstone in every hole, and the water keeps it a-whirling till first thing it knows it's a pure marvle; and then he puts in another chunk. He makes him twelve marvles a day thataway--it haint no trouble to drap in the chunks whilst he's watering the nags--and he's been at it stiddy for six weeks. I kotch him at it one time, and he give me a set not to tell t'other boys. Marvles! Gee-oh, he's got 'em!" [Illustration: "'I kotch him at it one time.'"] _Saturday Night._ Philip carries on his siege with characteristic vigor, leaving nothing undone to win the citadel of Dilsey's difficult affections, and enduring as best he may the painful moments caused by her too-great particularity in trifles. This morning I passed down through the back yard while the washing was in full progress. The girls were working and singing at their tubs under the big sycamore. A little to one side, Philip was energetically turning the wringer for Dilsey. He paused, as I passed, to blow his nose after the good old fashion of our first parents, to be cruelly reminded by her, "I allus blow _mine_ on a handkerchief!" _Tuesday._ Blant's declaration that he has "shot his last shoot" has become widely known, and occasions a sensation. The boys are incredulous. Taulbee said this evening (Nucky being at the jail), "Of course he never meant it,--a hero like Blant to give up his life, or his freedom, or his land, for the lack of a shot? No, I'll bound you he said it to throw dust in their eyes so's they won't look for him to escape. If Blant could get his fingers on a forty-five, they'd soon see whether he'd shoot!" _Friday._ Excited groups dot the school-yard and cottage-grounds every recess and playtime, and cries of "No inchin's!", "My taw!", "Pickin's on me!", "No back-killin's!", "I beat, but you git the goes!" fill the air. Marbles is such a quiet and genteel game, comparatively speaking, and with so much less menace to life and limb than preceding ones, that I encourage and forward it in every way, and sincerely hope it will last out the term. The boys seem most unfortunate, however, about losing their marbles, and are constantly asking for extra work in order to buy more. I have already given Jason money to buy half a dozen sets. _Saturday Night._ This afternoon, after the arduous labors of the day, and an hour of play, Philip was sitting on the back cottage-steps eating a huge chunk of "sugar-tree-sugar" he had just bought in the village, the other boys leaving their marbles and gathering about him like flies as he drew forth the great, sticky lump, though with but faint hope in their eyes. Sure enough, he made no motion to break it up or pass it around (Taulbee, with whom he usually shares, is at home for the week-end). So Philip sat and licked and crunched in solitary state. Just at this juncture, four of the wash-girls, including Dilsey, suddenly appeared round the corner of the house, on some unexpected errand. Dilsey stopped in her tracks, and took in the situation. Then walking on, she remarked casually to the peach-tree, "I'd sooner die as to marry a greedy man!" Flushed and angry, Philip sprang to his feet. "You needn't talk, missy,--I give you more'n I kep',--more'n you could eat!" "Yes, and I give very near all of mine to the girls; but you haint never give them boys nary grain of your'n, that I can see!" Philip wavered a bare instant, then, "'Cause I haint had time yet," he said, "I was just a-fixing to break it up with this-here rock, and give 'em some." "Well, I would, if I was you," murmured Dilsey, with decision, as she passed on. As Philip smashed angrily away with the rock, I marvelled at the vast power in women's hands, and wished there were more Dilseys with the courage to use it. _Sunday._ Flour all gone,--no more biscuit from now on until the roads open--and no sugar for the little coffee that remains. _Monday Evening._ To-day the rumor is flying that the remaining Cheevers set the fence up again on the Marrs land Friday and Saturday, taking their time, in known security from interruption. Nucky disappeared at noon,--of course he has gone home. _Tuesday Night._ I was late going over to supper this evening, and had turned out the lights and was locking my door to leave when Nucky ran into the cottage. He did not see me in the shadow, and evidently believed the house to be deserted, for he flung himself down before the fire in a passion of fury and despair, beating the floor with hands and feet. I waited until the storm had subsided a little, then stepped forward into the firelight. "What does this mean?" I asked. "Mean!" he replied. "It means that Blant has took leave of his senses,--that he aint at himself no more,--that he has gone plumb back on everything!" "Explain yourself," I said. "I heared the Cheevers had set the fence back, and went over, and there it was, built good and strong, on our land. I knowed I couldn't do nothing myself; but I said, 'This will wake Blant; he will break prison and come back to us now, like I been a-begging him. He can clean out the jail and make his escape in ten seconds with his forty-five.' So I got it, and brung it over, and tuck it down to the jail this evening at the time I knowed Joe would begin to take the boys off to their cells for the night. I never went in, but talked to Blant at the window, and told him the Cheevers had the fence sot up, and how bad everything was at home. Then Joe he begun to take the boys off, and soon as he turnt his back, I slipped the forty-five through the bars to Blant. 'Shoot him down when he comes back,' I says, 'and take the keys and run out,--it haint no trouble at all!' Blant he sort of jumped when he seed it; then he heared Joe a-coming, and turnt around with his back again' the window, 'Joe,' he says, solemn, 'you and t'other boys here never believed me when I said I had shot my last shoot,--you thought I was just a-talking. Now I will prove it to you. Nucky here has just brung me word that the Cheevers has sot up the fence on our land again; he has begged me to make my escape and settle 'em; he has also brung me the means of doing it. Joe,' he says, 'when you stepped in the door there, I could have shot you dead with my forty-five.' He stepped aside from the window, where the pistol was laying. 'Take it, Joe,' he says, 'I refuse to touch it; I have shot my last shoot!' Joe come acrost the room white as a sheet. 'That's mighty fair of you, Blant,' he says, putting it in his pocket; 'you held my life in your hand.' 'If it was the life of my worst enemy,--if it was all the Cheevers put together--it would be the same,' says Blant; 'I am cured of killing; Rich's death has showed me the terribleness of it; I shoot no more!' And then seemed like I would choke if I looked at him another minute, and I run off. And now nothing haint no use,--Blant's lost his senses, and nothing can't bring him to 'em!" Again he beat the floor despairingly. [Illustration: "'Take it, Joe, I refuse to touch it, I have shot my last shoot!'"] "So far from losing his senses," I said, "he has just come to them. It took the terrible death of his friend to show him the sacredness of human life, and the worthlessness of pride, freedom, or land in comparison with it. This is hard for you to understand, Nucky; but be sure that this evening Blant has done the greatest, most heroic act of his life." The storm of disappointment and anger was too great, however; it continued to sweep him until he heard the boys coming and hurried away to bed. XXVII TRANSFORMATION _Wednesday._ Sad news again from Trigger about the babe. "Nothing but a pitiful little passel of bones," said the mail-boy; "purely dying for lack of Blant." Blant's refusal to use his gun last night has spread abroad, and creates great excitement. "Trojan fotch him his revolver and he wouldn't tech it or use it," is the talk flying about among the boys. "Aiming to let the Cheevers keep his land." "Done give up the war." "Haint going to make no effort to break prison." "Never heared tell of no hero doing such a way!" "Achilles wouldn't," "Nor Hector, neither." Evidently they feel bitter disappointment. They do not dare show it before Nucky, however, or even broach the subject in his presence. I called them in to-night and talked to them about the superiority of moral courage to physical,--with, I fear, no great result. How terribly true are Paul's words, "First the natural man, then"--after what awful birth-pangs, sometimes as cruel as those Blant is experiencing!--"the spiritual". _Saturday._ More and more distressing accounts of the babe. "Minervy Saxby says it won't hold out till the trial." "Just lays and pines and moans." "You can count every bone in its body". Poor Blant! When he hears this, as he certainly will, will he regret that he did not use the revolver? The trial is only ten days off; but if the two-years' penitentiary sentence is to follow, as everybody says it will, there will be no chance whatever for the babe--even a two-weeks' sentence would be too long. I had hoped that Blant's refusal to use his gun on the keeper might turn the tide of public sentiment in favor of an acquittal; but that seems not to be so much as thought of. Nucky has apparently lost all hope and courage, and goes about in miserable, despairing silence. Probably it is as well for him that he is to leave school the end of next week and shoulder the hard work and heavy responsibilities at home,--action may relieve his suffering of mind. But it is harder than I can say for me to let him go, and to know that I am giving him up for at least two years,--probably forever. Indeed, when I think of the whole situation,--the desperate condition of the Marrs family, the dying state of the babe, the tragedy of a boy of Nucky's wonderful promise having to give up schooling and bow his shoulders under a man's burden at twelve years old, I am tempted to wish that in some way, not of bloodshed, Blant could have managed to escape. _Thursday._ Marbles is still in full sway,--I have never seen the boys so fascinated by any game,--they spend at least three-fourths of their playtime making money to buy marbles to play with the other fourth,--for they continue to lose incredible numbers of them. I gave Jason a dime to buy his tenth set to-day. Geordie informed me as he started to bed a few minutes ago that he had enough money laid by now to take that trip to Virginia this summer and see his mother and the world and the railroad-train. In spite of his talents, I wonder that he has managed to get that much together. Vacation is just a little over a month distant now, and Keats and Hen are already making great plans as to the work they will perform for Nervesty during the summer, and all the others who have homes are looking forward eagerly. A few,--all my motherless ones, I hope--will remain here with me to attend to the gardening during the summer. I had of course planned for Nucky to stay with me; but pain takes the place of the pleasure I had anticipated. _First Sunday in April._ To-day Philip was a living monument to the transforming power of love. Very clean, very much combed and brushed and collared and tied, with a large handkerchief, soaked in my cologne, held prominently in one hand, and an expression as decorous and pious as any ever achieved by Geordie Yonts, he sat in church the very picture of elegance, the real direction of his thoughts being indicated by an occasional ardent glance across the aisle, where Dilsey, fairer, more saint-like than ever, kept serious eyes on the preacher. As I looked, I asked myself, Can this be the boy who a few short months ago declined to perform the most rudimentary rites of the toilet, gloried in tatters, declared that "when a man steps in the door, looks flies up the chimley", denominated "polite" a "lick-spittle", asserted that he would rather take off his hat to a cow than a woman, and pronounced the story of his chivalric namesake a "slander"? [Illustration: "He sat in church the very picture of elegance, the real direction of his thoughts indicated by an occasional ardent glance across the aisle."] This afternoon, however, came the grand climax. After the dish-washing, the cottage boys and ten wash-girls came quietly over to the cottage yard and seated themselves on back steps and walk. As Hen ran through to join them I inquired, "What's going on?" "Philip he's aiming to give a treat, and done axed all us boys and wash-girls to it," he replied in an astonished voice, hurrying on. I, too, remembering the consistent selfishness following upon the declaration that "generous never put no bread in my belly", was astonished. A few moments later I stepped to the open window and looked out upon a surprising scene. Philip, as suave, knightly and beautiful as his famous namesake could ever have been in the days when he sighed for Stella and all other women for him, was passing around a large "poke" of crackers, and another of brown sugar, and saying with graceful flourishes and insistent politeness, "Eat all you can, now, everybody,--I got more still when you git through this. There, Jason, wait till the girls is helped,--ladies first, son,--haint you got no manners? Take some, Nancy, eat a-plenty, Rosabel, don't hold back, Narcissa, here's a good lump, Dilsey. Now, boys, pitch in,--you little fellows, Iry, Hen, Jason, take your pick first,--the big boys waits till after you,--I don't aim to see you run over. Don't be afeared, take all you need! Now Taulbee, Killis, Hose, Keats, everybody,--dive in! Just eat all you can hold, and fill up your bel--stummicks. I love to see folks eat and enjoy theirselves. No thank you, I wouldn't choose none myself,--'druther see the rest eat! I spent thirty cents on them crackers, and thirty-five on that 'ere sugar,--dag gone, I reckon a man't works hard for his money's got the right to spend it to suit him! Some folks haint fitten to live,--wants to eat up all they git theirselves; but I like to pass around mine, I do,--it makes me happy. What's the use of livin' if you can't make folks see a good time? Gee-oh, I aim to make me a big grain of money this summer, so's I can give a treat onct a month come next school; and I want every man-jack of you, and ladies too, to come every time. Dad burn ole Heck, generous never ruint nobody!" Almost unable to believe my eyes and ears, I stood, murmuring to myself, "And they say the day of miracles is past!" Nucky alone was absent from the feast, visiting Blant. On his return, there was a surprising change in his demeanor. He appeared to have shed several years of age and care, played boisterously about the yard, got into two or three fights, and a short while after we began reading to-night leaped from his chair to the table, where he executed a wild war-dance. All of which distressed me not a little, and seemed perfectly unaccountable. The thought that he was sitting beside me, and leaning his head on my shoulder, for probably the last time, was eating into my heart; and his carelessness of the fact hurt me deeply. But of course parting means little to the very young. XXVIII "KEEPS" _Tuesday._ Going to the village on an errand after breakfast, when I reached the deep mudholes where we always have to walk the fence some distance, I was delighted to see a gang of men at work on the road, and to recognize in them Blant and the other prisoners. They were picking the shale from the mountain side, and shovelling it into the bottomless holes, and all, save Blant, were hilariously happy to be out in the spring sunshine and fresh air, and talked gaily with me and other passers-by, the keeper, who leaned on his rifle, entering amiably into the conversation. He says that every spring the prisoners are brought out to work on the roads,--that it does them good, and the county too. I had not seen Blant for quite a while. It seemed to me that the sadness and sternness of his face were a little relaxed, and I rejoiced to know that time was doing something toward making his sorrow for Rich less poignant. I hope that the news I had Saturday about the babe,--that it is nothing but a feather, and must soon blow away--has not reached him. _Wednesday Night._ For two days the boys, especially Nucky, have made every excuse to run down the road and exchange words with the road-gang, who continue to work toward us. These frequent glimpses of Blant seem to maintain Nucky's spirits at the same high pitch manifested Sunday. While I am in the lowest depths over losing him in three more days, and while it seems to me his grief over Blant's trial and probable departure for Frankfort next week, and the almost certain loss of the babe, should hang more heavily than ever upon him, he is out shouting at marbles, or chasing the other boys about,--indeed, I never saw him in such spirits. _Thursday Night._ Nucky brought in word to-day that the mudholes are nearly filled, and the prisoners are preparing to-morrow to blast out rock and widen the road at the narrow place where our school-grounds begin. What was my pained astonishment when, in the afternoon, the heads sent for me and said, "We have just heard down in the village that this school is a notorious gambling-place; that the boys do nothing but play keeps; and that some of yours are the ringleaders." After supper I called the twelve around the sitting-room table, and laid the matter before them. "To think," I said, "that you could deceive me in this way, and play this game for more than six weeks when you have been told over and over that all gambling is forbidden here! Now, are you all guilty, or is there by chance one who has had the self-respect and moral courage not to play?" All heads hung limp except Geordie's. Both his head and his hand went up. "I never," he said, "I haint toch my hand to a game of keeps this whole school." "Thank heaven," I said, surprised but grateful. But Taulbee was slowly rising in his chair, eyes glued on Geordie, finger pointing. "'F you never played no keeps, where'd you git all them marvles you been a-selling us right along?" he demanded. "I made 'em," replied Geordie. "I know you made 'em at first, in that mill we broke up for you under the stable-lot fence. But you sold all them out the first week,--I seed you sell the last. Where'd you get t'others you been selling sence? I bought four sets off of you, and Philip six, and Killis and Keats about nine apiece, and Jason I reckon a dozen, and all the rest of the boys and the day-schools has been running to you a month, and sweating to get money to pay you for marvles. Where'd they come from?" "Did you ever see me play ary keep this school?" inquired Geordie. "Don't know as I did; but I seed you hangin' round all the time." Geordie turned to Philip: "Didn't you see me git beat every time I played last summer?" he inquired. "Yes, I did," replied Philip. "Well, I haint played no more keeps sence. I know I can't play, and I haint fool enough to throw away good marvles." Convinced but not satisfied, Taulbee frowned darkly. "Well, dad burn your looks, where'd you git all them marvles you been selling this spring," he demanded, "they never growed on trees." The finger was no longer pointing, it was doubled up in a fist under Geordie's nose. [Illustration: "'Well, dad burn your looks, where'd you git all them marvles you been selling?'"] At last came the hesitating, reluctant answer: "Me'n' Lige Munn and Harl Drake and Benoni Somers went pardners." "You put up the marvles and them the fingers?" "Yes, and they's the best players in school, and allus cleans out t'other boys; and I'm right smart of a good trader, and git a better price than they could; so they puts in all their time a-winning, and turns all the marvles over to me to sell; and then I git the halves on every marvle." "And then you set up and tell her you haint played nary keep this school?" "I _haint_ never played none," reaffirmed Geordie, in conscious innocence; "I never toch my hand to nary keep this whole school!" The whites of Taulbee's eyes were now red; he ground his teeth. "Dad swinge your ole grave-robber soul, I aim to kill you dead," he shouted, leaping across the table, and followed by every boy but Absalom in the direction of the unfortunate Geordie. It was ten minutes before I, with the assistance of Absalom and a broomstick, rescued a torn and bleeding victim from the howling, threshing mass under which he was buried, and sent for the trained nurse. I have sat here to-night wondering at the light my acquaintance with Geordie has shed upon the vexed questions of accumulation of capital, formation of trusts, cornering of markets, dealings in futures, and, last but not least, the perfect compatibility of sharp-practice and law-breaking with sincere piety and philanthropy. But alas, these are only surface thoughts,--deep in my heart is the sharp knowledge that to-morrow I must lose Nucky, and that he cares very little that he must go and leave me. XXIX LIBERTY AND NEW LIFE _Friday._ At daybreak this morning, heavy detonations began to rend the air, and we knew that the road-blasting had begun. It was almost impossible to get the cottage cleaned,--the boys, especially Nucky, hung out of windows and doors, eagerly watching the puffs of smoke down the road, and listening for the loud reports. As we went over to breakfast, we could see Blant and the others at work. I noticed that Nucky ate not a bite, and was very pale,--I hoped that he was at last realizing it was his last day with me, and was feeling some of the pain I felt in the separation. We were all pouring out of the dining-room after the meal, when several sharp, near-by gun-shots, following a particularly loud blast of powder, sent all flying to the front. Up the steep mountain side facing the school a man was leaping, while down in the road below ran another, stopping only to aim and fire. "It's Blant!" called out a score of voices; "he's got away! Go it, Blant,--run, oh, run!" It was indeed Blant, making desperate speed up the steep slope. The mountain is cleared halfway, not a rock or a tree affording shelter; above that is the timber-line. All the school was by this time at the fence, breathlessly watching the breathless ascent. The keeper, selecting a vantage-ground just outside the school gate, took his stand and grimly proceeded to do his "whole duty," firing swiftly, calmly, surely, at the flying figure. In running accompaniment to the gun-shots, Nucky's voice rang out sharp and clear. "Keep to the right a little-grain!" "Drap down in the swag there, so's he can't hit you so easy!" "Make for them spruce-pines! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!" Bullets raised tiny clouds of dust about Blant's feet, and on the slope just ahead of him; the seconds seemed ages; our hearts stood still. Once he stopped short, clutching his left arm; then ran on again, more swiftly than ever, his arm dangling strangely. Nucky's voice, edged with agony, faltered no more than did the bullets. "Can't you move no quicker'n that? Seems like I could crawl faster! Once you reach the timber, he'll never hit you! Oh, hurry! hurry! hurry! You're getting nigh now. The trees! the trees! the trees! Oh God, he's to 'em,--he's safe!" [Illustration: "Nucky's voice rang out sharp and clear ... 'Make for them spruce pines! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!'"] And, indeed, he was. After a few parting shots into the timber, the keeper shook his head, mopped the sweat from his brow, shouldered his gun and turned to the other prisoners, who had followed him down the road, and to the rest of us. "Well," he said, "I done my best, as my oath required, though sore again' my will. But he had too good a start. It certainly was pyeert of him to get on the far side from me before that big blast went off; and it tuck me plumb by surprise. Of course I looked for him to try to escape at the first; but after he refused to use his gun to get away, I give up the notion, though I mind now he said plain he wa'n't willing to go to Frankfort. Well, I never done a more painful thing than try to kill him as he run for his life,--if he was my own brother I couldn't have felt worse--but public servants is called on to do mighty onnatural and disagreeable things sometimes. And now that I tried my best and failed, I am free to say I'm glad none of them bullets never hit no vital, and that it was his arm, not his heart, I put out of business. "Yes, I consider that 'ere Blant as perfect a gentleman as ever I seed; and I think it was a mighty sensible thing of him not to stay and stand trial and go to Frankfort. Why, Frankfort is intended for criminals, and God knows that boy haint got a criminal bone in him, and never did have. Of course his mistake was in ever givin' himself up when he kilt Rich and Todd,--that was the dad-burn foolishest thing ever I heared of, and come nigh being his ruination, and that of his family. "Well, I reckon he's making tracks for home and the babe now--God grant the pore little creetur'll live till he gits there--and I expect he will rest pretty oneasy for a few days, allowing me and the sheriff will be low-down enough to hunt him. Which knowing the law like we do, we haint got the least notion of,--one of the very pillars of the criminal law is that no man's life shall be twice in jeopardy for the same offense; and certainly Blant's life couldn't be worse jeoparded than it was by my gun this hour; and being as the law is satisfied, I am, and I may confidently say the sheriff will be. Yes, I allow that by next week Blant will be out in perfect peace, putting in his crap. I hate to think of his feelings over seeing his land in Cheever possession; but I'll lay my life he'll stand to his word not to shoot another shot, and that the Marrs-Cheever war is over." When I turned around a little later, Nucky, who had been at my side, was gone,--doubtless to see Blant safely home, and to take him the word of his immunity from capture. _Saturday, Bed-time._ To-night Nucky came back, more radiant and happy than I have ever seen him, to be greeted by the unanimous question, "How long has Blant been aiming to escape?" "Ever sence he heared he would be sent to Frankfort,--he never had no notion of going there. He has knowed all along the prisoners was going to work the road, and fixed on that as his best chance to get away. If he'd a-told me sooner, I'd have felt better,--but he never did till last Sunday. Then I felt happy again, though of course I was afeared Joe's gun might stop him. "But now he's home, and the babe's nigh dead with happiness, but aiming to live when she gits used to it, and paw is all holp up in his spirits, and the young uns has got their minds and stomachs comforted, and a big crap's a-going in immediate, and everything's all right." There was silence for quite a while; then Taulbee inquired, in a low voice, as one may speak of the dead, "Has the Cheevers got the bottom?" A wave of color surged over Nucky's face, and then receded, leaving him deathly pale. "Yes, they got it," he answered slowly, painfully, at last; "Blant sent 'em word he give it to 'em, and wisht he could give 'em back the lives he tuck, too." Another deep silence followed; then there was a still more searching question: "Do you aim to let 'em keep it when you git grown?" Nucky closed his eyes; his face was sharp and tense with the inward struggle; his breath came with difficulty. It was a long time before he spoke; then, "I allow I'll be the same kind of a hero Blant is," he replied. _Easter Sunday._ It is the season of new life. To-day the brown mountain sides are suddenly clothed with innumerable tender shades of green, and against them the exquisite "sarvice" tree, incomparable symbol of spiritual renascence, stands forth in unearthly beauty. It speaks to me not only of the awakening of Blant and Nucky to higher things, and of the coming day when from all hearts shall be cast out the "dread brood of Chaos and Old Night," pride, hatred and warfare, but of my own wonderful resurrection from grief, despair and selfishness to life and love and service. Now that I have Nucky back again, my joy is perfect, my cup overflows. To-day I have written my agent to accept one of the offers I have had for the old home,--the proceeds shall be used for sending my boys to college when the time comes. Henceforth my home is here,--here, where my once lonely and drifting barque is held in a fair harbor by twelve strong anchors. Lapped continually by warm tides of love and youth and joy. And my dearest hope is that the rest of my days may be spent Mothering on Perilous. +-------------------------------------------------+ | The following pages contain advertisements of a | | few of the Macmillan books on kindred subjects | +-------------------------------------------------+ A Woman Rice Planter BY PATIENCE PENNINGTON. With an Introduction by Owen Wister and with nearly 100 illustrations by Alice R. Huger Smith. _Decorated cloth, 8vo, preparing_ Here are detailed the actual experiences of a woman rice planter on her own account, as the manager of two large plantations in South Carolina. The book is all the more interesting and instructive because it is told in a charmingly simple manner, and without a trace of self-consciousness or self-assertion. Independently of the information it conveys it has attraction for every reader by reason of that manner and as a revelation of a feminine character in which are manifested tender susceptibility and womanly sympathy no less than rugged courage in assuming an arduous task and in overcoming heavy practical obstacles. The narrative of the planter's life with its many responsibilities, the risks, the vexations and the cares involved in her ventures, the sagacity, skill and indomitable persistency with which she pursued her way, make reading always interesting and frequently valuable for its insight into a remarkable Southern home. PUBLISHED BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York A Kingdom of Two BY HELEN R. ALBEE. _Illustrated. Decorated cloth, 12mo, preparing_ "The Kingdom" is a country place of about two hundred acres and the "two" are the writer's husband and herself. Practical information for the homemaker and the gardener are happily blended in this book with sentiment and a pleasing vein of philosophical reflection. While the work is primarily one for lovers of the great outdoors, for Nature in its various moods is perhaps the central theme, it is much more than what is ordinarily termed a "nature volume." The story form, only half assumed, the charming personalities which are presented, their day to day lives, these all lend to it an added interest. PUBLISHED BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York America as I Saw It BY E. ALEC TWEEDIE. With illustrations. _Decorated cloth, 8vo, preparing_ Many books have been written by people who have visited this country and have then returned to their native heath, but it is doubtful whether anyone has gone at the task with such an abundance of good humor as has the author of this sprightly volume. Mrs. Tweedie says things, to be sure, about America and Americans that will not be wholly acceptable, but she says them in such a way that even the most sensitive cannot take offense. In fact it is quite likely that her criticisms will provoke laughter as good humored in itself as the remarks which provoke it. There is hardly a spot on the broad continent that does not pass under Mrs. Tweedie's examination, and scarcely a person of importance. She finds much to praise openly, but amusing as it may seem, these praiseworthy factors are not those upon which we expect commendation. Our dinners, our clubs, our educational systems, our transportation facilities, our home life, our theatres, our books, our art, all are analyzed and Tweedie verdicts passed. Of course the book is to be taken seriously, but not too seriously. Mrs. Tweedie would be offended if we did not laugh at her cajolery; that is what she wrote it for. PUBLISHED BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York THE "HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS" SERIES Highways and Byways from the St. Lawrence to Virginia BY CLIFTON JOHNSON. With many illustrations made from photographs taken by the author. _Tourist Edition. Decorated cloth, 12mo, $1.30 net_ As in the case of the other volumes in this series Mr. Johnson deals here primarily with country life--especially that which is typical and picturesque. The author's trips have taken him to many characteristic and famous regions; but always both in text and pictures he has tried to show nature as it is and to convey some of the pleasure he experienced in his intimate acquaintances with the people. There are notes giving valuable information concerning automobile routes and other facts of interest to tourists in general. TOURIST EDITIONS OF THE "SOUTH" AND THE "PACIFIC COAST" Highways and Byways of the South BY CLIFTON JOHNSON. _Illustrated. Tourist Edition. Decorated cloth, 12mo, $1.50 net_ Highways and Byways of the Pacific Coast BY CLIFTON JOHNSON. _Illustrated. Tourist Edition. Decorated cloth, 12mo, $1.50 net_ PUBLISHED BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York * * * * * Transcriber's note: Inconsistent hyphenation has been preserved, and a majority of the suspected misprints have been retained as possible dialect. A full list of corrections made follows. Page xi, Added missing end singlequote (if it kills him dead!'") Page xi, Added missing period (a bagatelle." ) Page xi, Added missing period (broken loose.") Page xi, Added missing end singlequote (as good as me?'") Page xii, Added missing period (closely and shamefacedly.") Page xii, Added missing period (all the time.'") Page xii, Added missing period (wild in consequence.") Page xii, Added missing period (in no time.'") Page xii, Added missing period (in his arms.") Page xii, Added missing period (at it one time.") Page xii, Added missing period (across the aisle.") Page 44, Changed "would'nt" to "wouldn't" (wouldn't mind laying out) Page 61, Added missing comma (he continued, severely, "think you know) Page 70, Changed "glaces" to "glances" (boys cast envious glances) Page 71, Changed "crepe de chine" to "crêpe de chine" Page 240, Changed "Blaint" to "Blant" (why Blant haint done nothing) Page 295, Added missing "are" (prisoners are preparing to-morrow) 
28544	----	[Transcriber's note: Susan Warner (1819-1885) & Anna Warner (1824-1915), _Say and seal_(1860), Tauchnitz edition 1860 volume 1] COLLECTION OF BRITISH AUTHORS VOL. CCCXCVIII. SAY AND SEAL. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. "If any man make religion as twelve, and the world as thirteen, such a one hath not the spirit of a true New England man." HIGGINSON. PREFACE. It is a melancholy fact, that this book is somewhat larger than the mould into which most of the fluid fiction material is poured in this degenerate age. You perceive, good reader, that it has run over--in the latest volume. Doubtless the Procrustean critic would say, "Cut it off,"--which point we waive. The book is really of very moderate limits--considering that two women had to have their say in it. It is pleasant to wear a glove when one shakes hands with the Public; therefore we still use our ancestors' names instead of our own,--but it is fair to state, that in this case there are a pair of gloves!--Which is the right glove, and which the left, the Public will never know. A word to that "dear delightful" class of readers who believe everything that is written, and do not look at the number of the last page till they come to it--nor perhaps even then. Well they and the author know, that if the heroine cries--or laughs--too much, it is nobody's fault but her own! Gently they quarrel with him for not permitting them to see every Jenny happily married and every Tom with settled good habits. Most lenient readers!--when you turn publishers, then will such books doubtless be written! Meantime, hear this. In a shady, sunshiny town, lying within certain bounds--geographical or imaginary,--these events (really or in imagination) occurred. Precisely when, the chroniclers do not say. Scene opens with the breezes which June, and the coming of a new school teacher, naturally create. After the fashion of the place, his lodgings are arranged for him beforehand, by the School Committee. But where, or in what circumstances, the scene may close,--having told at the end of the book, we do not incline to tell at the beginning. ELIZABETH WETHERELL. AMY LOTHROP. NEW YORK, _Feb. 1, 1860_. SAY AND SEAL. BY THE AUTHOR OF "WIDE WIDE WORLD," AND THE AUTHOR OF "DOLLARS AND CENTS." _COPYRIGHT EDITION_. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LEIPZIG BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 1860. SAY AND SEAL. VOL. I. CHAPTER I. The street was broad, with sidewalks, and wide grass-grown borders, and a spacious track of wheels and horses' feet in the centre. Great elms, which the early settlers planted, waved their pendant branches over the peaceful highway, and gave shelter and nest-room to numerous orioles, killdeer, and robins; putting off their yellow leaves in the autumn, and bearing their winter weight of snow, in seeming quiet assurance that spring would make amends for all. So slept the early settlers in the churchyard! Along the street, at pleasant neighbourly intervals--not near enough to be crowded, nor far enough to be lonely--stood the houses,--comfortable, spacious, compact,--"with no nonsense about them." The Mong lay like a mere blue thread in the distance, its course often pointed out by the gaff of some little sloop that followed the bends of the river up toward Suckiaug. The low rolling shore was spotted with towns and spires: over all was spread the fairest blue sky and floating specks of white. Not many sounds were astir,--the robins whistled, thief-like, over the cherry-trees; the killdeer, from some high twig, sent forth his sweet clear note; and now and then a pair of wheels rolled softly along the smooth road: the rush of the wind filled up the pauses. Anybody who was down by the Mong might have heard the soft roll of his blue waters,--any one by the light-house might have heard the harsher dash of the salt waves. I might go on, and say that if anybody had been looking out of Mrs. Derrick's window he or she might have seen--what Mrs. Derrick really saw! For she was looking out of the window (or rather through the blind) at the critical moment that afternoon. It would be too much to say that she placed herself there on purpose,--let the reader suppose what he likes. At the time, then, that the village clock was striking four, when meditative cows were examining the length of their shadows, and all the geese were setting forth for their afternoon swim, a stranger opened Mrs. Derrick's little gate and walked in. Stretching out one hand to the dog in token of good fellowship, (a classical mind might have fancied him breaking the cake by whose help Quickear got past the lions,) he went up the walk, neither fast nor slow, ascended the steps, and gave what Mrs. Derrick called "considerable of a rap" at the door. That done, he faced about and looked at the far off blue Mong. Not more intently did he eye and read that fair river; not more swiftly did his thoughts pass from the Mong to things beyond human ken; than Mrs. Derrick eyed and read--his back, and suffered her ideas to roam into the far off regions of speculation. The light summer coat, the straw hat, were nothing uncommon; but the silk umbrella was too good for the coat--the gloves and boots altogether extravagant! "He ain't a bit like the Pattaquasset folks, Faith," she said, in a whisper thrown over her shoulder to her daughter. "Mother--" Mrs. Derrick replied by an inarticulate sound of interrogation. "I wish you wouldn't stand just there. Do come away!" "La, child," said Mrs. Derrick, moving back about half an inch, "he's looking off into space." "But he'll be in.--" "Not till somebody goes to the door," said Mrs. Derrick, "and there's not a living soul in the house but us two." "Why didn't you say so before? Must I go, mother?" "He didn't seem in a hurry," said her mother,--"and I wasn't. Yes, you can go if you like, child--and if you don't like, I'll go." With a somewhat slower step than usual, with a slight hesitating touch of her hand to the smooth brown hair which lay over her temples, Miss Faith moved through the hall to the front door, gently opened it, and stood there, in the midst of the doorway, fronting the stranger. By no means an uncomely picture for the frame; for the face was good, the figure trim, and not only was the rich hair smooth, but a little white ruffle gave a dainty setting to the throat and chin which rose above it, both themselves rather on the dainty order. I say fronting the stranger,--yet to speak truth the stranger was not fronting her. For having made one more loud appeal to the knocker, having taken off his hat, the better to feel the soft river breeze, he stood as before "looking off into space;" but with one hand resting more decidedly upon the silk umbrella. Faith took a minute's view of decidedly pleasant outlines of shoulders and head--or what she thought such--glanced at the hand which grasped the umbrella handle,--and then lifting her own fingers to the knocker of the door, caused it gently to rise and fall. A somewhat long breath escaped the stranger--as if the sound chimed in with his thoughts--nothing more. Faith stood still and waited. Perhaps that last sound of the knocker had by degrees asserted its claim to reality; perhaps impatience began to assert _its_ claim; perhaps that long elm-tree shadow which was creeping softly on, even to his very feet, broke in upon the muser's vision. Certainly he turned with a very quick motion towards the door, and a gesture of the hand which said that this time the knocker should speak out. The door however stood open,--the knocker beyond his reach; and Miss Faith so nearly within it, that he dropped his hand even quicker than he had raised it. "I beg your pardon!" he said, with a grave inclination of the head. "I believe I knocked." "Yes, sir--I thought you had forgotten," said Faith; not with perfect demureness, which she would like to have achieved. "Will you please to come in?" And somewhat regardless of consequences, leaving the hall door where it stood, Faith preceded her guest along the hall and again performed for him the office of door-opener at the parlour, ushering him thus into the presence of her mother. Mrs. Derrick was seated in the rocking-chair, at the furthest corner from the window, and perfectly engrossed with the last monthly magazine. But she came out of them all with wonderful ease and promptness, shook hands very cordially with the new comer, seated him in her corner and chair before he could make much resistance, and would also have plunged him into the magazine--but there he was firm. "If you would only make yourself comfortable while I see where your baggage is?" said the good lady. "But I can tell you where it is, ma'am," said he looking up at her,--"it is at the station, and will be here in half an hour." "Well when did you have dinner?" said Mrs. Derrick, resolved upon doing something. "Yesterday," was his quiet reply. "To-day I have been in the cars." "O my! my!" said Mrs. Derrick,--"then of course we'll have tea at once. Faith!" "I'm here, mother. I'll go and see to it, right away." But in some mysterious manner the stranger reached the doorway before either of the ladies. "Mrs. Derrick--Miss Faith--I told you that I had had no dinner, and that was true. It is also true that I am in not the least hurry for tea. Please do not have it until your usual time." And he walked back to his seat. But after the slightest possible pause of hesitancy, Faith had disappeared. Her mother followed her. "Child," she said, "what on earth is his name?" "Mother! how should I know? I didn't ask him." "But the thing is," said Mrs. Derrick, "I _did_ know,--the Committee told me all about it. And of course he thinks I know, and I don't--no more than I do my great-grandmother's name, which I never did remember yet." "Mother--shall I go and ask him?--or wait till after supper?" "O you sha'n't go," said her mother. "Wait till after supper and we'll send Cindy. He won't care about his name till he gets his tea, I'll warrant. But what made you so long getting the door open, child? Does it stick?" "Why," said Faith, baring her arms and entering upon sundry quick movements about the room, "it _was_ open and he didn't know it." "Didn't know it!" said Mrs. Derrick,--"my! I hope he ain't short-sighted. Now Faith, I'm not going to have you burn your face for all the school teachers in Connecticut. Keep away, child, I'll put on the kettle myself. Cindy must have found her beau again--it's as tiresome as tiresome can be." "It's just as well, mother; I'd rather do it myself. Now you go in and find what his name is, and I'll have everything together directly. The oven's hot now." "I'll go in presently," said Mrs. Derrick; "but as to asking him what his name is--la, child, I'd just as soon ask him where he came from." And in deep thought on the subject, Mrs. Derrick stepped briskly about the kitchen. "Faith," she said, "where shall I ask him to sit?" "Will you pour out tea--or shall I, mother?" "What's that to do?" "Why I was thinking--but it don't matter where you put him. There's four sides to the table." "Don't talk of my putting him anywhere, child--I'm as afraid of him as can be." And Mrs. Derrick went back to see how time went with her guest. It went fast or slow, I suppose, after all, somewhat according to the state of his appetite. One hour and ten minutes certainly had slipped away--if he was hungry he knew that another ten minutes was following in train--when at length the parlour door opened again and Faith stood there, with a white apron on and cheeks a good deal heightened in colour since the date of their last appearance. "Mother, tea's ready. Cindy hasn't got back." And having made this gentle announcement, Faith disappeared again, leaving it to her mother to shew the way to the supper-room. This was back of the parlour and communicated with the kitchen, from which Faith came in as they entered, bearing a plate of white biscuits, smoking hot, in her hand. The floor was painted with thick yellow paint, smooth and shining; plenty of windows let in plenty of light and the sweet evening air; the table stood covered with a clean brownish table-cloth,--but what a supper covered that! Rosy slices of boiled ham, snowy rounds of 'milk emptyings', bread, strawberries, pot-cheeses, pickles, fried potatoes, and Faith's white cakes, with tea and coffee! Now as Faith had laid the clean napkin for the stranger at the foot of the table, opposite her mother, it cannot be thought presumption in him that he at once took his seat there; thus relieving Mrs. Derrick's mind of an immense responsibility. Yet something in his manner then made her pause and look at him, though she did not expect to see him bow his head and ask for a blessing on the meal before them. If that was presumption, neither of his hearers felt it so,--the little flush on the mother's cheek told rather of emotion, of some old memory now quickened into life. Her voice even trembled a little as she said,-- "Will you have tea or coffee, sir?" And Faith offered her biscuit. "Or there's bread, if you like it better, sir." "The biscuits are best," said her mother,--"Faith's biscuits are always good." And he took a biscuit, while a very slight unbending of the lines of his face said that the excellence of Faith's handiwork was at least not always so apparent. "Miss Faith, what shall I give you in return that is beyond your reach and (comparatively) within mine?" Possibly--possibly, the slight grave opening of two rather dark eyes confessed that in her apprehension the store thus designated, from which he might give her, was very large indeed. But if that was so, her lips came short of the truth, for she answered,-- "I don't want anything, thank you." "Not even butter?"--with his hand on the knife. Faith seemed inclined not to want butter, but finally submitted and held out her plate. Whereupon, having helped her and himself, the stranger diverged a little, with the rather startling question, "What sort of a Flora have you in this neighbourhood?" "There isn't any, mother?" said Faith, with a doubtful appeal towards the tea-tray. A pleasant look fell upon her while her look went away--a look which said he would like to tell her all about the matter, then and there; but merely taking another of the white biscuits, he went on to ask whether the roads were good and the views fine. "The roads are first-rate," said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't know much of views myself, but Faith thinks they're wonderful." "I don't suppose they are _wonderful_," said Faith; "but it is pretty up the Mong, and I am sure, mother, it's pretty down on the shore towards the sunsetting." "And how is it towards the sunrising?" "I never saw it--we never go down there then," Faith said, with a very frank smile. "Faith always stays by me," said Mrs. Derrick; "if I can t go, she won't. And of course I never can at that time of day. It's quite a way down to the shore." "What shore?" "It's the sea-shore--that is, not the real sea-shore--it's only the Sound," said Faith; "but there is the salt-water, and it is as good as the sea." "How far off?" said the stranger, bestowing upon Faith a saucer of strawberries. Faith would have asked him to help himself, but taking notice mentally that he was extremely likely to do so, she contented herself with replying, "It's about two miles." "And what are some of the 'good' things there?" "Perhaps you wouldn't think it much," said Faith modestly;--"but the water is pretty, and I like to see the ships and vessels on it going up and down; and the points of the shore and the wet stones look such beautiful colours when the sun is near set." "I like stones--whether wet or dry," said her questioner. "Most people here don't like them," said Faith. "But there are plenty down by the sea-shore.--And plenty on the farm too," she added. "Ah, people like and dislike things for very different reasons, Miss Faith," he answered; "so perhaps your neighbours and I are not so far apart in our opinions as you may think. Only I believe, that while there is 'a time to cast away stones,' there is also 'a time to gather stones together'--and therein perhaps they would not agree with me." Faith looked up, and her lips parted--and if the thought had been spoken which parted them, it would probably have been a confession that she did not understand, or a request for more light. But if her face did not say it for her she did not say it for herself. If anybody could have seen Mrs. Derrick's face while these little sentences went back and forth, he would have acknowledged it was worth the sight. Her awe and admiration of every word uttered by the stranger--the intense interest with which she waited for every word spoken by Faith--the slight look of anxiety changing to one of perfect satisfaction,--was pretty to see. "Faith," she said when tea was over, and her guest had walked to the front door to take another look at 'space,' "Faith, don't you think he liked his supper?" "I should think he would--after having no dinner," said Faith. "But it was such a mercy, child, that you hadn't gone out to supper anywhere--I can't think what I should have done. There's Cindy this minute!--run and tell her to go right away and find out what his name is--tell her I want to know,--you can put it in good words." "Mother!--I'd rather ask him myself." But that did not suit Mrs. Derrick's ideas of propriety. And stepping out into the kitchen she despatched Cindy on her errand. Cindy presently came back from the front door, and went into the dining-room, but not finding Mrs. Derrick she handed a card to Faith. "It's easy done," said Cindy. "I just asked him if he'd any objections towards tellin' his name--and he kinder opened his eyes at me and said no. Then I said, says I, Mis' Derrick do know, and she'd like ter. 'Miss Derrick!' says he--and he took out his pencil and writ that. But I'd like to know _what_ he cleans his pencil with," said Cindy in conclusion, "for I'm free to confess I never see brass shine so in my born days." Faith took the card and read,-- JOHN ENDECOTT LINDEN. She looked a little curiously at the pencilling, at the formation of the capitals and of the small letters; then laid it down and gave her attention to the dishes of the supper-table. CHAPTER II. The next day was Saturday. The morning opened with grey clouds, covering the sky, but which were light and light-broken and promised to roll away entirely as soon as the sun should reach a commanding position in the heavens. The sun however was still quite distant from such a position, in fact was not much more than an hour high, when Lucinda, who was sweeping the front door steps, was hailed from the front door by a person not one of the party of the preceding evening, and very unlike either of them. It was a lady, not young, of somewhat small figure, trim, and nicely dressed. Indeed she was rather handsomely dressed and in somewhat French taste; she had showy gold earrings in her ears, and a head much more in the mode than either Mrs. Derrick's or her daughter's. The face of this lady was plain, decidedly; but redeemed by a look of sense and shrewdness altogether unmixed with ill nature. The voice spoke alert and pleasantly. "So Lucindy, you had company last night, didn't you?" "May be we did and may be we didn't," said Lucindy, brushing away with great energy at an imaginary bit of lint at the end of the upper step. "I do' know but we'd just as good call him one of the family." "So much at home already? I missed seeing him last night--I couldn't get home. What's he like, Cindy? and what has he done?" "Done?" said Cindy--"well he's went out a'most afore I was up. And as to like, Miss Dilly--just you look at him when he comes in. He looks some like folks, and yet he don't, neither." "He's out, is he?" "Yes," said Cindy, reducing a large family of spiders to temporary starvation and despair,--"he's out--if he ain't gone in nowheres. Miss Dilly, if you'll stand just inside the door I can wash the steps just as well. "What's the gentleman out so early for? Maybe he's missed some of his luggage, Cindy." "Hope he ha'n't got no more--without its lighter," said Cindy. "However, he carried it upstairs himself, I'm free to confess. I guess 'twarn't for luggage he went out, 'cause he asked about breakfast time, special." "If he means to be out till then he'll have a good walk of it." It wanted five minutes of breakfast time, and Mrs. Derrick--what with stepping into the kitchen to oversee Cindy, and stepping to the front window to oversee the street--was warm enough for a cooler morning. "Faith," she said, referring as usual to her daughter, "Faith--what shall we do if he don't come?" "I guess he'll come, mother;--he knows the time. The things won't hurt much by waiting a little." As she spoke, the little front gate swung softly to, and the person in question came leisurely up the steps and into the hall. Then having just glanced into the parlour, he at once--with a promptitude which bespoke him too punctual himself to doubt the punctuality of others--advanced to the dining-room door and walked in. Mrs. Derrick's face shewed gratification mingled with her good nature. Faith smiled; and Miss Dilly was duly introduced as Miss Delia Danforth, Mrs. Derrick's aunt, then on a visit at Pattaquasset. "You've taken an early stroll this morning, sir," said this last lady. "View the country?" "No," said Mr. Linden, "I have been viewing the town." "Ah! Well I call that viewing the country. Town and country, all's one here; and it makes a very pleasant sort of place. But what do you call the _town_, sir?--Do you drink coffee?" "The town," said Mr. Linden, in answer to the first question--receiving his coffee-cup from Mrs. Derrick by way of answer to the second,--"means in this instance, Miss Danforth, that spot of country which is most thickly settled. Yes, ma'am--I drink coffee." "Very bad for you, sir; don't you know it?" "Bad for me as one of the human race? or as an individual specially marked out not to drink it?" "Dear me!" said Miss Danforth sipping her own tea--"I don't know what you are 'marked out' for. I think it's a mistake for everybody to think he is 'marked' for something special--they set the mark themselves, and generally it don't fit." "But the fact that a man often gets the wrong mark, by no means proves that there is no right one which belongs to him," said Mr. Linden, looking gravely at Faith as if he meant she should smile. Faith seemed to look at the question however rather seriously, for dropping her knife and fork she asked, "How shall a man know his mark?" "By earnest consideration and prayer," he answered, really grave this time. "I know of no other way, Miss Faith." What a remark that was! it silenced the whole table. Knives and forks and spoons had it alone, with only words of necessity; till Faith asked Mr. Linden if he would not have another cup of coffee. "Certainly!" he said handing her his cup. "There is so much to be said on both sides of that little bit of china--I must not be partial in my attention." "But you can't study both sides of a subject at once," said the coffee-hater. "Then take them alternately--and (figuratively) walk round your coffee-cup, surveying its fair proportions from different points of view. If the coffee is strong and you are nervous--that's one thing. Again, if the coffee be weak and you be phlegmatic--that's another." "The coffee's not strong to-day," said Mrs. Derrick with a regretful shake of the head. "Nor am I phlegmatic,"--with the slightest possible indication of a smile. "Do you think," said Miss Danforth, "a man is better able to decide questions of common judgment for having studied a great deal?--learned a great many things, I mean." "That depends very much upon what effect his studies have had upon his judgment. Mrs. Derrick--are you trying to break me off from coffee by degrees? this cup has no sugar in it." "O my!" said Mrs. Derrick, colouring up in the greatest confusion. "I do beg your pardon, sir! Faith, take the sugar-bowl, child, and pick out some large lumps." "You will get more praise from Miss Danforth than blame from me, ma'am," said Mr. Linden, submitting his cup to Faith's amendment and watching the operation. "_I_ don't know," said Miss Danforth goodhumouredly. "Maybe he can stand it.--If he takes two cups I should say he can. How do you like the profession of teaching, sir?" Now to say truth, Mr. Linden did not know--not by actual practice, but it was also a truth which he did not feel bound to disclose. He therefore stirred his coffee with a good deal of deliberation, and even tasted it, before he replied, "What would you say to me, Miss Danforth, if I professed to be fond of teaching some people some things? Miss Faith, that last lump of sugar was potent." "What sort of people, and what sort of things, for instance?" said the lady. "The things I know best, and the people who think they know least--for instance," he replied. "I should say you know definitions," was Miss Danforth's again goodhumoured rejoinder. "What did you say was the matter with the sugar, sir?" said Faith. "I said it was potent, Miss Faith,--or I might have said, powerful. But indeed it was not the sugar's fault--the difficulty was, there was not enough coffee to counterbalance it." "I put in too much!" said Faith, making a regretful translation of this polite speech. "Yes"--said Mr. Linden with great solemnity as he set down the empty cup,--"but too much sugar is at least not a common misfortune. With what appreciation I shall look back to this, some day when I have not enough! What did you think of the sunrise this morning?" "Do you mean, because the sky was covered with clouds?" said Faith. "But there was enough--the sun looked through; and the colours were beautiful. Did you see them?" "I wonder when you did, child?" said Miss Danforth;--"up to your elbows in butter!" "Yes, I saw them. Then you are true to your name, Miss Faith, and find 'enough' in a cloudy sky?--Pray, Miss Danforth, what depth of butter does a churning yield in this region?" "I guess," said Miss Danforth laughing, "you never saw much of farmer's work--did you?" "Is butter-making farmer's work?" said Mr. Linden with a face of grave inquiry. "Here's the trustys"--said Cindy opening the door; "at least that's what they said they be, but I'm free to confess 'tain't nobody but Squire Deacon and Parson Somers." "Do they want me?" said Mr. Linden looking round. "I guess likely"--said Cindy. "The Squire does come here to see Miss Faith, but I guess 'tain't her he wants this time." And Cindy vanished. "What do the trustees want?" said Miss Danforth. "Upon the testimony of Cinderella, they want me," said Mr. Linden. "Miss Faith, may I have a glass of water?--What they want to do with me, Miss Danforth, is a little uncertain." "Well," said Miss Danforth, "I think you'll be able to prevent them!" He rose to take the glass from Faith's hand, and then merely inquiring whether the ladies were coming to second him, left the room. Parson Somers was a young-looking, good-looking, affable gentleman, who pressed the ladies' hands very cordially and was very happy to see them. Squire Deacon was younger, and likewise good looking, but affability he had never been charged with. Over the handsome cut of face, the strong well-built figure, he wore a manner as rough as a bear's great-coat; only at some times and for some people the roughness was brushed down. It never would stay, any more than the various elegant phrases with which Deacon sometimes seasoned his speech, would take root there and spread. "Quite an agreeable variation," said Mr. Somers,--"ha--in such a place as Pattaquasset--to have a new arrival among us. Mr. Linden--I hope you will like our little town. You have a pleasant experience of us to begin with." "Yes but, Parson, don't make him think we're all like some," said Squire Deacon,--and as he turned towards Faith the beaming of his face seemed almost reflected in his brass buttons. "Dreadful gloomy morning, Miss Faith!" "Mr. Linden has probably seen too much of the world," said Mr. Somers,--"not to know that--ha!--too great a preponderance of good is not to be looked for." "May as well look for as much as you can find," said Miss Danforth. "A good deal's lost by not looking for it." "Ah," said the Squire, with another glance at Faith, "it's not so hard to find things, neither, Miss Danforth. You remember Sinbad the sailor lookin' down into the vale of diamonds?" "Don't remember him a bit. What did he see there?" "Nothin' _but_ diamond jewellery," said Squire Deacon in a sentimental tone. "Miss Faith, you doubtless recollect the tale?" "I hope," said Mr. Somers,--"ha!--friend Deacon--you don't mean that Mr. Linden should look for a valley of diamonds in Pattaquasset?" "Whereabouts does the valley lie, sir?" said Mr. Linden. But the Squire, as if a new idea had struck him, replied somewhat brusquely, "It don't lie nowheres, sir, nowheres but in fancy's field." "I suppose," said Mr. Somers smiling blandly, "Mr. Linden's peculiar course of business don't lead him much into that field." "You can strike into it 'most anywhere," said Miss Danforth. "Mr. Linden's an early man--he'll find the valley of diamonds, if it's in the town." "Miss Faith told me there were stones enough here," he said, "but she did not hint that any of them were precious." "We shall expect," said Mr. Somers, "to see some of our stones--I mean, some of our hard heads and thick heads--grow precious, or--a--improve!--under Mr. Linden's management." "Pray sir," said Squire Deacon, suddenly recollecting that he was a 'trusty,' "what do you consider the best plan for the instruction of youth? what is your method?" Mr. Linden looked contemplatively out of the window. "I think sir, if the boys are very rough I should first teach them manners. If they are smoother boys, I should teach them spelling,--if they have already learned spelling, I should let them read." The Squire bowed. "Quite satisfactory, sir. Mr. Somers--I think perhaps Mr. Linden would like to visit our little temple of litteratur." "I should be very gratified to accompany Mr. Linden in viewing so much of Pattaquasset. I trust, Mr. Linden, that the highest--ha--the moral and religious teaching, of the youth here, will not be quite overlooked in your system." The reply that first rose to Mr. Linden's lips came not forth. He checked himself--rather perhaps in deference to the subject than anything else, and simply answered, "I trust not, sir." And with many low bows from the Squire, the two gentlemen went into the hall, Mr. Linden following. But he came back the next moment to ask the dinner hour. "We are as apt to have it at noon as any time," said Faith. "Will that do, Mr. Linden? we could have it later." "That will do perfectly. Only if the 'temple of literature' opens and swallows me up, Miss Faith, don't wait--that's all." And with a smile that was a strong contrast to the face he had bestowed upon the trustees, he went after them. CHAPTER III. Monday morning came, with its hands full of work. They were willing hands that were outstretched to receive the load,--strong hands too, and skilful; but it may be, better suited to other work. Certainly as the days passed Endecott's gravity took a deeper tinge, and his words became fewer. Still maintaining his morning walk, and a like tasting of the air at night,--ever punctual at meals, and when there displaying an unruffled equanimity and cheerfulness,--the even tones of his voice shewed sometimes a little weariness, and his step grew more thoughtful. And so the week rolled on, and the afternoon sun of Friday began to near the horizon. It was a warm afternoon, soft and balmy; a little haze on the sky, the least veil upon the Mong's further shore; the summer roses hanging their heads, heavy with sleep and sweetness. The honeysuckles on the porch grew sweeter and sweeter as the sun went down, and the humming-birds dipped into those long flagons, or poised them selves in mid-air for a survey. In the porch sat the three ladies. Each had been busy, and now each laid down her work, obedient to unseen influences. The warm breeze was softly rubbing Faith's cheek with its rouging fingers, and her mother gazed--nor could give one look to humming-birds or roses. Her thoughts however, took greater range--or the low chiming of the village clock sent them off; for she presently said, "Faith, my dear, what have we got for tea?"--that meal being under Faith's special superintendence. "Very good blackberries, mother, and beautiful raspberries; and I cut my cream-cheese; and Cindy is ready to bake the bannocks. Butter's as sweet as it can be, this churning. Will that do?--Mr. Linden likes raspberries and cream," she added a little lower. Mrs. Derrick gave a comprehensive "Yes, child," to both parts of Faith's reply, and then stopped and looked away up the street. For down the street at that moment came Mr. Linden, walking leisurely, his head bent towards one of his older scholars who had both hands clasped round his arm. The boy's upraised eager face shewed even at a distance how earnestly he was talking. "There he comes!" said Miss Danforth. "Who is that with him?" said Faith. "Reuben Taylor, child," her mother answered. Then as they came near the gate, and stopped and shook hands, Reuben cried out (in answer to words which they did not hear) "Let _me_ go! do, please, Mr. Linden!"--and went; while his teacher opened the gate, picked one of the drooping roses, came up the steps and taking off his hat bowed to the assembled ladies. "Well, Mr. Linden," said Miss Danforth, "how do you find the Pattaquasset diamonds?" "I find, madam, that they shine--as is the custom of diamonds." "Are you going to let Reuben Taylor go?" "Whither?" said Mr. Linden. "Why, where he asked you. Is _he_ one of Mr. Somers' precious stones?" "He has gone," was the smiling reply. "Precious?--yes,--everybody is precious in one sense." "You haven't been to college for nothing," said Miss Danforth, who would talk about anything. "I should like you to find out in what sense _I_ am precious. I've a good many friends--but there isn't one of 'em that wouldn't eat and drink just as well with me out of the world as in it." He smiled a little--though rather soberly, and stood watching the changing colours of clouds and sky for a minute or two without speaking. Then, half to himself as it were, low but very distinctly, he repeated-- "'And they shall be mine, saith the Lord, in the day when I make up my jewels.'" The answer to this was only in pantomime, but striking. Miss Danforth did not speak, and instead thereof turned her head over her shoulder and looked away steadily over the meadows which stretched north of the house into the distance. Faith's eyes fell to the floor and the lids drooped over them; and as plain a veil of shadow fell upon her face. Mrs. Derrick's eyes went from one to the other with a look which was not unwonted with her, and a little sigh which said she thought everybody was good but herself. "Bain't ye never comin' in to supper?" said Cindy, framing herself in the doorway. "I want to get out after supper, Miss Faith," she said dropping her voice,--"I do, real bad." "Is all ready, Cindy?" "Yes marm," said Cindy. "I'm free to confess there's a pile o' cakes baked." "Miss Faith, when do you mean to shew me the shore?" said Mr. Linden turning round. "You have been so busy all the week," said Faith,--"and then you didn't speak of it, Mr. Linden--I can go any time." "My dear," said Mrs. Derrick, "there comes Squire Deacon. Maybe he'll stay to supper. I'll go and put on another cup." Mr. Linden gave one glance at the opening gate, and followed Mrs. Derrick into the house. "Miss Faith," said the Squire, "do you think the night dews conducive to--to your comfort?" "When they are falling," said Faith abstractedly. "Why not, Mr. Deacon?" "To be sure!" said the Squire gallantly,--"honeysuckles and such things do. But what I mean is this. Cilly's goin' to get up a great shore party to-morrow, and she says she couldn't touch a mouthful down there if you didn't go. And like enough some other folks couldn't neither." "Mother's gone in to tea. Will you come in and ask her, Squire?" "Couldn't stay, Miss Faith--Cilly's lookin' out for me now. But you can tell--your mother'll go if you do,--or you can go if she don't, you and Miss Danforth. It's good for you now, Miss Faith,--the saline breezes are so very--different," said the Squire. "When are you going, Mr. Deacon?" "Soon as we can tackle up after dinner, Cilly thought. But fix your own time, Miss Faith--I'll call for you any hour of the twenty-six." Faith hesitated, and pulled a leaf or two from the honeysuckle; then she spoke boldly. "But you forget we have a gentleman here, Squire;--we can't go without Mr. Linden." "I don't want his help to drive my horse," said the Squire, with a little change of tone,--"but whoever hinders his going, _I_ don't. The shore's wide, Miss Faith,--it don't matter how many gets onto it. There's no chance but he'll go if you ask him. Who wouldn't!" said the Squire, relapsing into his former self. "We'll come down then some time in the course of the afternoon," said Faith, "and see what you are doing." "Then I sha'n't drive you down, sha'n't I?" said Squire Deacon. "Never mind--it's no matter,--come when you like, Miss Faith, we'll be glad to see you, anyhow." And the Squire closed the little gate after him energetically. "Cinderella is in despair, Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden as Faith entered the dining-room. "Miss Danforth--how could you keep Squire Deacon so long, and then send him home to supper!" "It's all your fault, sir," said Miss Danforth cheerfully. "And I guess the Squire has got his supper." "He must be a man of quick despatch," said Mr. Linden; while Faith after a glance to see if her bannocks were right, made her announcement. "Mother, there's a shore party to-morrow." "Who's going, child?" "Squire Deacon and Cecilia--and I don't know who else--and he came to ask us. Will you go and take tea with us at the shore, Mr. Linden?" "Does that mean that my tea is to be transported to the shore, and that I am to go there to find it, Miss Faith?" "You have a very puzzling way of putting things," said Faith laughing, though her look bore out her words. "I don't think it means that. _Your_ tea won't be there before you are, Mr. Linden. Wouldn't you like to go?" "The Squire says there is room enough on the shore," suggested Miss Danforth. "I suppose he wants a good deal for himself, or he wouldn't have thought of it." "Perhaps he thinks I want a good deal," said Mr. Linden. "Well--in consideration of the width of the shore, I think I will go. Is not that your advice, Miss Faith? What are the pros and cons,--if you were to state them fairly?" "Well," said Faith, "you will have a pleasant ride, or walk, down--whichever you like;--_I_ think it is very pleasant. You can go in the water, if you like, which everybody does; there's a beautiful shore; and I suppose that would be pleasant. You'll see all that is pretty about the place while the people are digging clams and preparing supper; and then you'll have supper; and then we shall come home; and I think it is all pleasant, except that there will be too many people. I like it best with just a few." "As if we were to go down there to-night in the moonlight.--Now Miss Faith--what is the other side?" "Just that--the too many people. There isn't a chance to enjoy anything quietly. I can enjoy the people too, sometimes, but not the other things at the same time so well. Perhaps you can, Mr. Linden." "I can sometimes enjoy the other things at the same time--better." Faith again looked a little puzzled, but answered with a simple "Then I dare say you will like it." "What I am puzzled about," said he smiling, "is, how you are to shew me the shore. Miss Danforth--why is that bread-plate so attractive to me, while I am like the reverse end of the magnet to it?" "But my dear," said Mrs. Derrick, for the bread-plate was suggestive,--"ain't you going along with the Squire's party?" "I said we would come after, mother." "The Squire only said there was room on the shore," added Miss Danforth. "Is the shore wide enough for us to drive down there? or must we walk?" asked Mr. Linden. "But you'll eat supper with them, of course," said Mrs. Derrick. "Of course, mother. The wagon must go, Mr. Linden. There's room enough for anything." Mr. Linden made no comment upon that, and finished his tea in comparative silence. Then went forth, as was his custom, to the post-office, and--as was not his custom--returned very soon. Mrs. Derrick and Miss Danforth had gone out to see a neighbour, and Faith sat alone in the twilight parlour. It was very twilight there, but he walked in and stood waiting for his eyes to discover what there might be. "There is nobody here but me, Mr. Linden," said a very soft and clear voice. "Do you want anything?" "I wanted to see you--and am foiled by the darkness. Are you tired, Miss Faith?" "Never. I wasn't sitting in the dark for that." "Would you object to coming into the light?" "Not at all," said Faith laughing. "Which way?" "There is to be a fine illumination to-night, which I should like to have you see." "An illumination! Where is it? Shall I want my bonnet?" "You will be better illuminated without it,--but you may perhaps take cold." "How do you make your scholars understand you?" said Faith. "I am sure I must need illuminating.--So much, that I had better leave my bonnet, Mr. Linden?" "I think you may--if you will take some light substitute. Why my scholars _are_ my scholars, Miss Faith." "What then?" said Faith stopping short. "Why then I am their teacher." "I half wish I was a scholar too," said Faith with a tone which filled up the other 'half'--"I don't know much, Mr. Linden." "About illuminations? I will promise you some light upon that point." With which encouragement, Faith fetched the scarf which was to do duty for a bonnet if desired, and they set out. "Now Miss Faith," said her companion as he closed the gate, "if you will shew me the road, I will shew you the shore.--Which will not at all interfere with your shewing it to me to-morrow." "The shore!" said Faith. "To-night? Are you in earnest?" "Very much in earnest. You prefer some other road?" "No indeed--it's beautiful, and I like it very much. Cindy," she said to that damsel whom they opportunely passed at the entrance of the lane--"you tell my mother I am gone to take a walk." And so they passed on. The way was down a lane breaking from the high road of the village, just by Mrs. Derrick's house. It was a quiet country lane; passing between fields of grass or grain, with few trees near at hand. Here and there a house, small and unnotable like the trees. Over all the country the moon, near full though not high, threw a gentle light; revealing to the fancy a less picturesque landscape than the sun would have shewn; for there were no strong lines or points to be made more striking by her partial touches, and its greatest beauty lay in the details which she could not light up. The soft and rich colours of grain and grass, the waving tints of broken ground and hillside, were lost now; the flowers in the hedges had shrunk into obscurity; the thrifty and well-to-do order of every field and haystack, could hardly be noted even by one who knew it was there. Only the white soft glimmer on a wide pleasant land; the faint lighting of one side of trees and fences, the broader salutation to a house-front, and the deeper shadow which sometimes told of a piece of woodland or a slight hilly elevation. Then all that was passed; and the road descended a little steep to where it crossed, by a wooden bridge, a small stream or bed of a creek. Here the moon, now getting up in the sky, did greater execution; the little winding piece of water glittered in silver patches, and its sedgy borders were softly touched out; with the darker outlines of two or three fishing-boats. And so on, towards the shore. Now the salt smell met and mingled with the perfume of woods and flowers, and the road grew more and more sandy. But still the fields waved with Indian-corn, were sweet with hay, or furrowed with potatoes. Then the outlines of sundry frame bathing-houses appeared in the distance, and near them the road came to an end. The shore was improved by the moonlight,--its great rocks, slippery with sea-weed, glittered with a wet sheen. The Sound wore its diamonds royally, and each tiny wave broke in a jewelled light upon the sand. Far in the distance the dim shore of Long Island lay like a black line upon the water; and sloops and schooners sailed softly on their course, or tacked across the rippling waves, a fleet of "Black spirits and white." "What do you think of the illumination, Miss Faith?" said her companion, when they had sat still for five minutes. "What do you think of it, I think I should say. Mr. Linden, I have shewed you the shore!" "You!"-- "Who else? "Were you ever here before by moonlight?" "I don't know--No, I think not. Were you ever here before at all?" "Is it owing to you that I am here now?" "You couldn't have got here without me," said Faith, stooping to turn over some of the glittering pebbles at her feet;--"and I couldn't have got here without you. I am willing to allow that we are square, Mr. Linden. I must!--for you will turn a corner faster than I can catch you." "If you really suppose that first proposition to be true," said Mr. Linden raising his eyebrows, "why of course there is no more to be said. Miss Faith, how would you like to be sailing about in one of those phantom ships?" "I should like it very well," said Faith, "in a good time. I went to Pequot in one once. It was very pleasant. Why do you call them phantoms?" "Look at that one standing off across the moonlight towards the other shore,--gliding along so silently with her black sails all set,--does she look real?--You cannot even hear the creaking of a rope." Faith looked, and drew an interrupted deep breath. She had lived in a world of realities. Perhaps this was the first 'phantom' that had ever suggested itself--or been suggested--to her imagination. Possibly something of the same thought crossed her mind; for she drew her breath again a little short as she spoke. "Yes!--it's beautiful!--But I live in such a different world, Mr. Linden,--I never thought of such a thing before." He smiled--pleasantly and thoughtfully. "How came you to see the sunrise colours the other day, Miss Faith?" "O I see them always. And that puts me in mind of something I have been wanting to say to you every day all the week! and I could never find a chance. You asked me that morning, Mr. Linden, if I was _true to my name, finding enough in a cloudy sky_. What did you mean? What did you mean by being true to my name'?" "I shall have to use your name a little freely, to tell you," he said. "It is faith's privilege to be independent of circumstances. Faith always finds something wherein to rejoice. If the sky be clear, 'Far into distant worlds she pries, And brings eternal glories near.' If cloudy, faith uses her glass as a prism, and in one little ray of light finds all the colours of the rainbow." "I don't know what a prism is," said Faith somewhat sadly. "A prism, in strictness, is a piece of glass cut in a particular way, so that the colourless sunbeams which pass through it are divided into their many-coloured members. But other things act as prisms,--the rain-drops in a shower--the lustres upon your church chandelier. You have seen the colours there?" "Well, how do they do that?" "I must take some other time to tell you,--it would be too long a matter to-night. And I doubt whether you ought to sit here any longer." "But _this_ Faith don't do as you say," she said, as she slowly and rather unwillingly rose from her seat. "And I don't understand how any faith can." "This Faith must study the Bible then, and do what _that_ says." The tone was encouraging though the voice was grave. He was not answered; and the homeward walk was begun. But Faith stopped and turned again to look before she had gone three paces. "I am in no hurry," Mr. Linden said,--"take your own time--only do not take cold." Faith turned away silently again, and began trudging along the sandy road which led back to the lane. The moonlight shewed the way better now. Passing on, as they neared home one house after another shewed its glimmer of light and gave forth its cheerful sound of voices. From one, however, the sound was _not_ cheerful. It was Squire Deacon's. "Well, you'll see to-morrow, Cilly--if the sky don't fall,--you'll see. Folks thinks the water down to the shore's mighty deep--'way over their heads--till they've made its acquaintance; and then they find out they can wade round in it 'most anywheres."-- "What's the matter with the Squire?" said Faith with a slight laugh, as these strange statements reached her ears. "I should think--to use his own phraseology--he must be 'over his head' somewhere," replied Mr. Linden. Whereat Faith's laugh deepened, but the low sweet tone of it only sounded an instant. "My dear!" said Mrs. Derrick, running out as they entered the gate, "ain't you very imprudent? Wasn't she very imprudent, Mr. Linden?" "Very prudent, ma'am, for she wore a shawl." "And didn't want that, mother," said Faith. CHAPTER IV. The illumination lasted through the night--until "Night's candles were burnt out, and jocund day Stood tip-toe on the misty mountain tops." Very jocund she looked, with her light pink veils wreathing about the horizon, and the dancing white clouds which hurried up as the sun rose, driven by a fresh wind. Mr. Linden declared, when he came in to breakfast, that the day promised to equal the preceding night. "And whoever wants more," he added, "must wait; for I think it will not surpass it." With which, Mr. Linden stirred his coffee, and told Miss Danforth with a little look of defiance, "it was particularly good--she had better try a cup." Miss Danforth instituted a fierce inquiry as to the direction of the preceding evening's walk; to which Faith gave an unsatisfactory answer. "Did you ever look at coffee in connexion with the fatigues of life?" pursued Mr. Linden. "I shall, probably, in future," said Miss Danforth. "Now Mr. Linden, I ask you; you're a nice man to give a straight answer;--where did you and Faith go?" "I am glad I am a nice man," said Mr. Linden, "but I can scarce give a straight answer to that question." "Why not, for pity's sake?" "It must needs travel a crooked road." "Did you?" "It has left a meandering sort of recollection in my mind." "Where did it lead to?" "It led to another." "What I want to know is," said Miss Danforth, "where did you find yourselves when you were furthest from home." "Let me shew you," said he. "Suppose your plate to be a rock, and this tumbler of radishes a tree, and the table-cloth grass,--the moon over your head, crickets under your feet. Miss Faith walks round the rock, I follow her,--and we both follow the road. On the way, the still night air is enlivened with owls, grasshoppers, family secrets. Our attention is thus divided between the moon and sublunary affairs. Miss Faith--what shall I give you?" Miss Danforth's curiosity seemed for once willing to be satisfied with fun; and Faith's hunger was in the same predicament. "But child," said Mrs. Derrick, who had bent her attention upon the diagram at the other end of the table, "I don't recollect any such place!" "Mother!" said Faith,--and her gravity gave way hopelessly. "Squire Deacon sends his best compliments of the season," said Cindy opening the door a while later, "and he says they'll be to take supper precisely at four. I'm free to confess he don't look much sweeter than common," added Cindy. "Pray Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden as they left the table, "what is the precise depth of water down at the shore?" Faith had very near broke down again, for she laughed and blushed, a good deal more than her wont; and at last replied that "it depended on how far people went in--she never went very far herself." "I was naturally curious," said he. After a dinner somewhat more hasty than usual, Mr. Linden and two of the ladies set off for the shore. The blackberry jam, or some other hindering cause, kept Mrs. Derrick at home. The country by daylight looked rich and smooth. At not a very great distance a slight hilly elevation bounded the horizon line, which nearer seen would have been found bristling with stern grey rock, itself a ridge of rock, one of the ribs of the rigid soil. But where the lane led down to the water, fair fields and crops extended on every side, spotted very picturesquely with clumps of woodland. All looked genial in the summer light. If the distant rocks spoke a stubborn soil, the fine growth between said that man had overcome it; and the fine order everywhere apparent said too that the victory had been effectual for man's comfort and prosperity. The stone walls, in some places thin and open, told of times when they had been hurriedly put up; moss on the rail fences said the rails had been long doing duty; within them no fields failed of their crops, and no crops wanted hoeing or weeding. No straw lay scattered about the ricks; no barrack roofs were tumbling down; no gate-posts stood sideways; no barnyards shewed rickety outhouses or desolate mangers. No cattle were poor, and seemingly, no people. It was a pretty ride the party had, in the little wagon, behind an old horse that knew every inch of the way and trotted on as if he were a part of it. "How do you like Pattaquasset, Mr. Linden?" said Faith, leaning forward to reach him where he sat alone on the front seat. "I like it--well," he answered a little musingly. They came to the bridge and stream; and now they could see that Awasee River did not fill its sometime channel, but flowed in a bottom of alluvial soil, rich in bright-coloured marsh grass, which stretched up the country between two of those clumps of woodland they had seen from a distance. A little further on, just where the sandy road branched off to the shore, there stood a farm house, with a conglomerate of barns and outhouses, all painted to match, in bright yellow picked out with red. "Do you see that settlement of farm-houses?" said Faith, leaning forward again,--"of all sizes, in uniform?" "Is it the fashion here to put 'earmarks' on buildings?" he answered with a smile. "Mr. Linden! You should ask Mr. Simlins that. I see his wagon there--he'll be down at the shore very likely. He's a character. He lives a mile and a half further on, just where the road turns off to Mrs. Somers'." "Simlins!" was the only reply. "He's a good sort of man, but he's funny." "What is a good sort of man, Miss Faith?" The old horse was walking quietly along the sandy road, and the smell of the salt water was becoming pleasantly perceptible. "I suppose I mean by it," said Faith thoughtfully, "a man who is not _very good_, but who is on the good side of things." "I don't call that a good sort," said Mr. Linden,--then looking round with a little smile he said, "You ought to say 'sort o' good.'" Faith looked serious and as if she felt half rebuked. "But," she said, "you would not call that a _bad_ sort?" "Then you mean that he is in the same road with what you call the _best_ people, only not so far advanced?" "No," said Faith doubtfully, "I don't mean so much as that.--I don't think Mr. Simlins is in the same road with you." "How many best roads are there to the same place? As for instance--does it matter which of these two I take to the shore?" "Only one leads to the shore," said Faith. "Yet they seem to lie near together at the outset. The same is true of the 'other shore.'" Faith sat back in her place with a face exceedingly unlike a young lady who was going to a merry-making. But they were near the shore now; not only the salt smell proclaimed it, but they could see the various bathing and other houses collected at the place, and the flag which floated high from the flag-staff, telling all who were not concerned that it was a gala day. A piece of ground immediately surrounding these buildings was fenced in; as they neared the gate, it was opened for them, and a tall farmer-looking man, whose straw hat shaded a sensible face, nodded as they passed. "That is Mr. Simlins!" said Faith. Mr. Simlins seemed for the present to be king of the castle. Horses there were, and wagons, standing here and there, and one or two oldish faces looked out from the windows of one long shanty; but the rest of the birds had flown--into the water! It was the time of low tide, and the long strips of rippling water which lay one beyond the other, were separated by sand banks nearly as long. In these little tide lakes were the bathers,--the more timid near shore, taking almost a sand bath; the more adventurous going further and further out, till the last party bathed beyond the last sand bank. Not dressed in the latest Cape May fashion, nor the latest fashion of any kind; for each had brought some dress too old to be hurt with salt water. Calico frocks, of every hue and pattern,--caps, hand kerchiefs, sun-bonnets,--gave additional force to the cries and shouts and screams which were wafted inshore. But when they began to come in!--and when the bathing dresses were hung on the fence to dry!--and when mermaid visions appeared at the windows!--who shall describe the scene then? Over all, a blue smoke now began to curl and float, rising from the stove-pipe of the eating-house. Mr. Linden had driven up to one of the fence posts, and fastening his horse stood a while watching the show, till the bathers began to draw in from the water. Then helped the ladies out. "Which of these baskets contains my tea, Miss Faith?" he said. "I feel a particular interest in that basket." "Perhaps your tea is in some other basket," said Faith; "but both of these must come into the eating-house. O, thank you, Mr. Linden!" The eating-house was a long shanty, built for the express purpose of feasting picnic and other parties. At one end of it, within the house, was a well of excellent water; at the other end a door opened into a cooking-house, which held a stove; and through the length of the apartment a narrow table of boards was erected, ready to be covered with any description and any succession of table-cloths. In this room Mr. Linden with Faith's help deposited her baskets; while Miss Danforth looked on. At the door of the shanty coming out they met Mr. Simlins. Faith made the introductions. "Happy to have your acquaintance," said Mr. Simlins. "This is a piece of Pattaquasset, sir, that we all of us rather cord'ally like. You haven't seen it before?" "Yes, I don't wonder you like it," said Mr. Linden. "The sea-shore is no novelty to me, sir--such a shore party is." "I hope you'll enjoy it, as the rest of us do. We all do as we like, Mr. Linden--I hope you'll use the grounds as your own. We have the flag flying, sir, and it ratifies liberty to all who amuse themselves under it." Mr. Linden looked up at the stars and stripes, with an acknowledging smile for the benefits thereby conferred. "Faith! Faith Derrick!" called out half a dozen mermaids from the bathing house; and Faith was obliged to go,--while her companions walked up the green slope, and entered into a deep discussion of the crops and the weather. A while after, when Faith was busy about the supper table--twenty young voices chiming around her, another voice that she did not know spoke close at her elbow. "Miss Faith--I am Reuben Taylor. Mr. Linden told me to come to you and make myself useful. Is there any thing I can do?--would you like some round clams?--Father's out there in the boat." The earnest eyes said how gladly he would do 'any thing.' "Who is your father?" said Faith, a little surprised. "My father's a fisherman." "The very thing!" said Faith--"if you'll help me roast 'em, Reuben. I guess nobody else'll want to do it, but I'd just as lieve. Can you have 'em here quickly? and I'll see and have the stove ready." "O I'll fetch 'em--and roast 'em too, Miss Faith. I'm used to it," he added, with a half bashful half admiring glance at her face. Faith had the fire ready by the time Reuben returned with the clams. The kettle was on to boil, and nothing else was wanted of the fire, as it happened, by anybody; least of all to roast clams, that necessarily making a kitchen prisoner of the roaster; so Faith and her new coadjutor had the field--i.e. the cooking house--all to themselves. Miss Danforth was to leave Pattaquasset in a day or two, and was busy talking to everybody. Readily the clams opened their shells on the hot stove-top; savourily the odour of steaming clam juice spread itself abroad; but Faith and Reuben were 'in' for it, and nobody else cared to be in. So when Miss Cecilia Deacon had finished her toilet, which was somewhat of the longest, as it had been one of the latest, she found nobody but her brother to apply to on the score of her hostess duties. "Sam!" said the young lady pinching her brother's arm,--"I haven't been introduced to Mr. Linden." "He'll keep," was the encouraging reply. "Yes, but supper won't. See, Sam!--I haven't been introduced to him, and I _must_." The Squire nodded his head politely, and began to whistle. "Come!--you Sam--you've got to, and in a hurry. I can't find Faith, or I'd make her." "Well--I can't find him," said the Squire pettishly. "I haven't got neither of 'em in my pocket--nor the crown of my hat," he added, taking off that useful article of dress for the express purpose of looking into it. "My deliberate judgment is to have supper." "Don't be a goose, Sam! What's the use of asking him, if you didn't mean to conduct yourself?" "Didn't ask him." "Who did?" "_I_ didn't hear anybody," was the Squire's reply. "_Don't_ you mean to introduce me, Sam Deacon?" said his sister in a tone which was rather over the verge of patience. "Jem Williams!" said the Squire, calling up a spruce embodiment of blue cloth, brass buttons, and pink cravat,--"I say! here's Cilly off the hooks to get hold of the new teacher. Whereabouts do you s'pose he is?" "Really Squire!" said Jem Williams, with a silly little laugh, "I couldn't testify! Reckon he knows Miss Cilly 'd keep hold on him _ef_ she got a chance!" "Sha'n't speak to you in a month, Jem!" said the lady with a toss of her head and some heightening of the really pretty colour in her cheeks. "You may fix it as you've a mind to, among you, and let anybody that likes bring him in to supper! _I'm_ going in, out of the way, myself." Whither she went, on the spur, as good as her word; nor shewed her pretty face again outside. Meanwhile Reuben and Faith had worked on through their basket of clams, and now the last were sputtering on the stove. The work had been done almost in silence, for though the excitement now and then made Reuben break into a low whistle of some tune or other, he always checked himself the next moment with a very apologetic look. For the rest, if he had not done all the work himself, it certainly was not his fault. Now, watching quietly the opening shells of that last dozen of clams, Reuben remarked, "I _hope_ Mr. Linden won't forget about supper!" "Why what about it?" said Faith. "Why should he forget? or what if he does?" The last sentence seemed to puzzle Reuben. "I don't know, ma'am," he said,--"it's better before everybody eats it up." "Who's going to eat it up?" said Faith. "Where is he?" "He went down on the sands with me," said Reuben, "but he didn't come up again. Maybe he has now. He liked it down there, real well." Faith went to the shutter window and flung it open, and looked to see whether or no the missing gentleman had returned to the shore. It was a fair view that lay spread before her. The low beams of the sun gave a cool afternoon look to everything; the sloop sails shone and gleamed in the distance; down by the muscle rocks one little boat lay rocking on the advancing tide, which was fast covering the sand banks and connecting the strips of water; and the freshening breeze curled the little waves as they came dancing in, and brought a low sweet murmur to the shore. One or two gulls sailed floatingly about, and a brown mink--perceiving that the company had retreated to higher ground--came out and aired himself on one of the rocks. But Faith saw none of these things,--for in swinging open her shutter (which the wind caught and clapped up against the house) she so nearly swung it against Mr. Linden that her first look was a startled one. "Miss Faith!" he said, turning round, "what can you possibly be about!" "I beg your pardon, Mr. Linden!"--said Faith. "Is that all you are about?" "You were anxious about your supper, Mr. Linden--Are you ready for it?" "Much more ready than anxious, Miss Faith." "How do you like the shore to-day?" said Faith, dropping her voice, and giving a glance of her eye to the fair, cool sunlight colours on the water and shore and shipping--fresh as the very sea-breeze itself, and glittering as the water's thousand mirrors could make them. He turned and looked again, drawing in the breeze with a deep breath that more than answered her question. "How do you like this?" he said, handing her through the window a little miniature tree of red sea-weed. Then, while she examined it, he repeated,-- "'When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with sea-weed from the rocks; "'From Bermuda's reefs; from edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador; "'From the tumbling surf that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas;-- "'Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main; Till in shelter d coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again.'" Faith's eye was upon the sprig of sea-weed while these verses were repeating,--then she looked up at the speaker with an intenseness in which oddly mingled some strong feeling of sorrow or regret. "It's beautiful!"--she said,--"beautiful!--both the one and the other. But there are a great many things there I don't understand,"--she added once more with a smile. "If there was time--but there isn't.--Mr. Linden, Reuben and I have been roasting clams." "Yes, Miss Faith," he said answering the smile and stepping nearer the window. "So one of my senses informed me. Do you know what that is in your hand?" "It's sea-weed, isn't it?" "Yes. And moreover--Miss Faith, that is part of your marine Flora. Now what about the clams?" "My _what?_" said Faith. "First tell me, please, what you said." "Your marine Flora." "What is that?" "The particular department of life in the sea, of which this is a specimen." Faith looked puzzled, and amused. "You don't mean to enlighten me more than you can help," she said. "But why do you call it Flora? you used that word before. And oh Mr. Linden--You can't tell me now, for supper's all ready." His eyes looked amused too, and laying a clover head on the window, he said, "That is part of your land Flora,"--then pushed the shutter to rather quick, but softly; and Faith heard the reason thereof as follows. "Wal sir--ef this be you, I've looked all over for you." "How was it that you overlooked me then, sir?" was Mr. Linden's reply. "Don't jes know," laughed Jem Williams,--"but Miss Cilly Deacon wants you the worst kind." "And where shall I go to receive her commands?" said Mr. Linden. Faith heard their retreating steps, and turning to take off her apron saw the dish of hot clams still on the stove, and that Reuben had removed himself outside the door, quite beyond the conversation but not beyond call. He stood looking thoughtfully out towards the muscle rocks. "Oh Reuben! there you are. Come!" said Faith; "you're going in with me. _You_'re going to have some supper to-night, whoever else does. You open the door, and I'll take in this dish. You keep by me, Reuben." "Please let me take the dish, then, Miss Faith,--I can open the door first." But Faith had her own way, and followed by Reuben carried the clams into the supper room, where some of the company were already seated, and others stood waiting. Squire Deacon had not only given the desired introduction, but had (self-denyingly) placed Mr. Linden next Miss Cilly at the table,--where he stood. "Here's a contribution," said Faith,--"if somebody 'll make a place for it. Thank you, Mr. Deacon. Now Reuben,--come here." And refusing more than one offer of a place at the table, Faith made her way down to the 'well end' where there was room for two--at a remote distance from the tea and coffee. What else was there not, upon that table! "Won't you take a seat, Mr. Linden?" said Miss Cecilia. "I hope you've got room there. Jerushy, can't you shove down a little? I hope my coffee-pot's not disagreeable." "I hope not!" said Mr. Linden, surveying the coffee-pot. "How long does it take to declare itself, Miss Deacon?" "O it won't do anything, but spout coffee," said the young lady,--"if you don't mind that. Won't you be helped to what you like, Mr. Linden? I hope you have enjoyed our shore party this afternoon." "Thank you"--said Mr. Linden, feeling perhaps that it was not _their_ party he had enjoyed,--"there has been a combination of pleasant things. As far as I could judge the bathers enjoyed their particular expedition." "O yes, it was delightful--invigorating. Mr. Simlins, I think Mr. Linden will like a piece of that cherry-pie with his clams. Do you take cheese, Mr. Linden? Is your coffee agreeable? There is the cold tongue by you, Jerushy.--I hope you like Pattaquasset." "Ask Mr Linden whether Pattaquasset ain't a good place for handsome gals," said Mr. Simlins, as he handed over the piece of cherry-pie. "He knows by this time. I say there's a con-catenation of beauty now here this afternoon. If you look from the top to the bottom of the table, now, ain't it true, sir?" Mr. Linden certainly looked from the top to the bottom of the table, and then setting the plate of cherry-pie as far from his clams as he could, he said, "Miss Deacon--let me help you,--tell me where these cups belong, and I will convey them to their destination." "I thought they'd shove down somehow," said the young lady. "Jerushy, _do_ pass the coffee! They're for anybody down there who'll take coffee. Tea'll be along presently," added Miss Cecilia, raising her voice a little to give the information. "Don't you trouble yourself, Mr. Linden." But Mr. Linden secured one, and carrying it down to Faith, requested her to stir it and taste it, and not give him the trouble of coming back with the sugar-bowl. "What will you have?" he said while she obeyed his directions. "Here are all the pies that can be thought of except the musical one recorded in history." "And so," said Faith with a laughing flash of her usually soft eye, "you immediately give me a desire for the one not here! It's like you, Mr. Linden. No, thank you--I'll have none of these. I believe Reuben has a desire for some of the clams he and I have roasted." "I'm afraid I cannot get them away from Squire Deacon!" he said, "but I'll try." The Squire however held fast to the dish, and rising from his place midway at the table, insisted upon taking it to Faith himself. "Miss Faith," he said, "you have ruined my supper by sitting down here. My appetite has quite forsaken me," (whereupon Jem Williams observed, "that warn't strange.")--"and the worst is," added the Squire, "I can't maintain the constant supervision of your plate which my feelings prompt. I am too far off"--he concluded in a melancholy tone. "I say, Squire!" said Jem Williams, "you bain't _mor_'n as far agin as _he_"--with a nod towards the upper end of the table. Squire Deacon lowered, but for the present his feelings were restrained. "Mr. Simlins," said Endecott, when he had resumed his seat, "I ask you--as one who knows the country--whereabouts does the concatenation you spoke of reach a climax?" "The star you look at is always the brightest," said the farmer. "However, I think the clams is the best thing at table--or _near_ the best," with a slight glance towards Squire Deacon and the dish at the 'well end.'"I've a legendary attachment to beauty, sir; my father married the three prettiest wives in the country." "I say, Squire," said Jem Williams, "Mr. Simlins says you'r' hot." "Hot?" said Squire Deacon, flushing up very much, and setting down the clams,--"that dish is. _I_'m as cool as all these cucumbers accumulated into a heap." "Hope you'll stay where you are, then," said Mr. Simlins. "I'm cool too. Don't come near me, or we shall be in a state of concentration." Mr. Linden remarked that that was an excellent point when reached. "What point?" said Squire Deacon, who had returned to his seat with the strong impression that everybody was laughing at him, under the special guidance of the new teacher. "You know mighty little of the points round here, I tell _you_." "The point of concentration is found in various places, sir," said Mr. Linden: "though I grant you it is rare." "What do you know about Pattaquasset points?" repeated the Squire,--"or Pattaquasset people--or Pattaquasset water either, for that matter? Just you go down here when the tide's in--and afore you know where you are you'll find yourself wading round over your head." "No sir--never," said Mr. Linden with great assurance. "Why not? how're you goin' to help it?" said Squire Deacon. "When I reach _that_ point," said Mr. Linden, "I shall swim." And Faith heard Reuben Taylor's smothered laugh of great gratification. "Hope you haven't spoiled your own supper, Squire," said Mr. Simlins, "by your complacency in carrying about them hot clams. Have somethin' this way?" While this question was getting its answer, Faith sat back in her chair and looked up and down the length of the table. It presented a distinguished 'after-supper' view, but the demands of the company had not yet ceased. Mr. Simlins was still discussing cheese and politics; Jem Williams was deep in cherry pie; plum cake was not out of favour with the ladies. The Squire was hard at work at _his_ supper, which had been diversely and wickedly interrupted. He was making up for lost time now; while his sister, much disengaged, was bending her questions and smiles on Mr. Linden. Faith tried to see Mr. Linden, but she couldn't; he was leaning back from the table; and her eyes went out of doors. It was too fair and sweet there to be cooped up from it. The sun had just set. Faith could not see the water; the windows of the eating house looked landward; but the air which came in at them said where it had come from, and breathed the salt freshness of the sea into her face. But presently every chair was pushed back. And now there was no more silence nor quiet The busy swarm poured out of the supper room; the men to lounge or tackle their horses, the women to gather up the bathing dresses from the fence, to look round, laugh, and go in again to pack up the dishes. It would seem that this last might be a work of time, each had to find her own through such a maze of confusion. There was a spoon of Miss Cecilia's providing, in a cup of Mrs. Derrick's, beside a plate of Mrs. David's, and before a half-eaten cherry pie which had been compounded in the distant home and by the fair fingers of Miss Jerusha Fax. However, most people know their own at least; and as on the present occasion nobody had any particular desire to meddle with what was not her own, the difficulty was got through with. The baskets and hampers were packed again and stowed in their respective wagons; and everybody was bidding good bye to everybody. Noisy thanks and praises fell liberally to the share of Miss Cecilia and her brother, and the afternoon was declared to have been "splendid." CHAPTER V. For some weeks the little town of Pattaquasset held on its peaceful way as usual. Early summer passed into harvest, and harvest gave way to the first blush of autumn, and still the Mong flowed quietly along, and the kildeers sang fearlessly. For even tenor and happy spirits, the new teacher and his scholars were not unlike the smooth river and its feathered visiters. Whatever the boys were taught, they certainly learned to be happy; and Mr. Linden's popularity knew no bounds in his own domain. Neither did it end there: those fair members of the Pattaquasset society who thought early walks good for their health, felt their sleepy eyes well paid for keeping open when they met Mr. Linden. Those who were fond of evening expeditions, declared that his figure in the twilight was 'quite a picture,' and made them feel 'so safe,'--a great slander, by the way, on Pattaquasset. Mr. Simlins was his firm friend, and many another--known and unknown. Squire Deacon, I regret to say, was an exception. Squire Deacon declared (confidentially) that he never _had_ thought the new teacher fit for his business, _no_ how. As far as he could hear, Mr. Linden had never taught school before, and in that case what could you expect? "Moreover," said the Squire, "I am creditably informed, that the first day he kep' school _here_, he begun by asking the boys who made them!--as if _that_ had anything to do with geography. Of course it's nat'ral for a man to ask what he knows he can answer if the boys don't," added Squire Deacon in the way of kind explanation. Whereupon, Jonathan Fax, the Squire's right hand man, requested to be informed, "_why_ ef a man was poor didn't he dress as though he felt so,--and _why_ ef he warn't rich did he act as though he war?" And thus by degrees, there was quite an opposition party in Pattaquasset--if that could be opposition which the object of it never opposed. By degrees too, the murmurs became more audible. "Faith, child," said Mrs. Derrick in a cautions whisper, coining out where Faith sat on the porch, bathed in the late September light: "Faith, child, where's our Linden tree?" (Mrs. Derrick thought she had concealed her meaning _now_, if anybody did overhear.) Faith started, more than so gentle a question seemed to call for. "He's gone down to the post-office, mother." Her mother stood still and thought. "Child," she said, "I never thought we had any fools in our town before." "I didn't know there were so many," said Faith. "What new, mother?" "Child," she said, "you know more than I about some things--what do you s'pose fools _can_ do? Isn't he a whole tree of knowledge?" "There is no fear of him, mother!" Faith said with a smile, which if the subject of it valued any faith in the world but his own it would have gratified him to see. "They can't touch him. They may vex him." Mrs. Derrick shook her head, softly, behind Faith's chair, then turned and went back into the house; not caring, as it seemed, to spread the vexation. Then after a little interval of bird music, the gate opened to admit Reuben Taylor. He held a bunch of water lilies--drooping their fair heads from his hand; his own head drooped a little too. Then he raised it and came firmly on. "Is Mr. Linden home, Miss Faith?" "No, Reuben--He will be directly, I guess. Do you want to see him?" "No"--said Reuben, "I don' know as I do, more than usual. I _have_ seen him all day. He wanted some pond lilies, Miss Faith--at least he told me to bring 'em. Maybe it was you wanted 'em." "I'll give them to him, Reuben. What's the matter with _you?_" But Reuben stood silent--perhaps from the difficulty of speaking, "Miss Faith," he said at last, "is Squire Deacon all the trustees of our school, besides Mr. Somers?" "No. Why? What about it?" "_He_'s doin' all the mischief he can," said Reuben concisely. "What mischief has he done, Reuben?" said Faith, waiting upon the boy's answer with an anxious face. "Well"--said Reuben, as if he could not put it in plain words,--"he's tryin' to turn folks heads--and some heads is easy turned." "How did you know this?--and whose head has he turned, Reuben? Not yours?" "They'd have to turn my _heart_, Miss Faith," was Reuben's subdued answer. Then he looked up and listened--hearing a step he well knew. Nor that alone, for a few low notes of a sweet hymn tune, seemed to say there were pleasant thoughts within reach of at least one person. Then Reuben broke forth. "They can't keep him out of heaven, anyway!--nor me, neither," he added softly. But he ran down the steps and out of the gate, passing his teacher with only a bow; and once beyond the fence, Reuben's head dropped in his hands. "Reuben! I want you!"--said Mr. Linden. But Reuben was out of sight. Faith stood between the house and the gate. "Where is he? can't you make him hear? I want that boy!" she said. "I can run after him---- with doubtful success." "The foolish fellow brought these for you, Mr. Linden," said Faith, giving the lilies where they belonged. "Complimentary, Miss Faith!" said Mr. Linden, taking the lilies and smelling them gravely. "_He_ is," said Faith, "and you speak as if _I_ wasn't." "Will it redeem my character--or Reuben's--if I bestow the lilies upon you, Miss Faith? I think that was their destination." Faith took the lilies back again, with a slight smile and flash, and stood attentively turning them over for a while. Then suddenly said "Thank you." "What did you want of Reuben Taylor?" said Mr. Linden. "Cannot I do as well?" "I should be sorry to think you wanted, Mr. Linden, what I wanted to give him." "That sounds terrific! But Reuben is under my jurisdiction--I don't allow anybody to scold him but myself. So deliver it to me, Miss Faith, and I will give it to him--duly pointed and sharpened up." "No," said Faith smiling, "you couldn't do it so well as I. I wanted to say two words to him to put nonsense out of his head." "Nonsense!" said Mr. Linden, looking grave,--"I am as anxious on that point as you can be. What nonsense has he got in his head?" Faith hesitated, flushed and paled a little, and looked at her lilies. "I don't know whether I ought to speak of it," she began, with much less than her usual composure of speech. "Perhaps it is not my business. Please forgive me if I speak wrong. But I half think you ought to know it."-- "I'll try to bear the knowledge," he said smiling--"if you will promise to speak the cabalistic two words that were to have such effect upon Reuben. So you want to put nonsense into my head, Miss Faith?" "Perhaps you know it already?" said Faith. "At any rate I think I should feel better satisfied if you did know it. Mr. Linden," she said speaking low--"do you know that Squire Deacon has been trying to do you mischief?" "Just suppose for a moment that you are one of my scholars, and give me a definition of mischief." To judge by the unbent lines of Faith's brow, there was nothing very disagreeable to her in the supposition. Yet she had a look of care for the 'definition,' too. "When a man is meaning to do harm, isn't he doing mischief?" "Only to himself." "But do you mean that one _can't_ do harm to others in this world?" "You said 'when a man is _meaning_ to do harm.'" "Ah," said Faith laughing, "I should want a great deal of teaching before I could give a definition that would suit you! Well then, isn't _harm_ mischief?" "I'm afraid I must yield that point." "Then," said Faith simply, but very modestly,--"we come back to where we started from?" "What shall we do there?" said he smiling. "Nothing, perhaps," said Faith with the same simplicity. "I only thought it right to put you there, Mr. Linden." "Thank you, Miss Faith. Now will you please pronounce over me the two words intended for Reuben?" Faith laughed a little, but then said gravely, "Mr. Linden, I should be very sorry to think you needed them." "It's impossible always to avoid being very sorry: I _want_ them, at all events. Haven't you just been putting nonsense into my head?" "Have I?" said Faith. "Do you suppose there was any there before?" "I--don't--think," said Faith, surveying his face,--"there is much there now. I guess you don't need the two words, Mr. Linden. I was going to tell Reuben he was a goose for thinking that that man could hurt you." His face changed a little. "Poor Reuben!" he said--then with the former look--"On the whole, perhaps it was well he did not come back. If you put those in water they will open their eyes to-morrow. Fresh water--not salt," he added as he followed her into the house,--"they are not part of the marine Flora." Tea was ready, with its usual cheer of eatables and pleasant faces; not quite with its usual flow of talk. Mrs. Derrick certainly had something bewildering on her mind, for she even looked at her guest two or three times when he was looking at her. The pond lilies were alone in the twilight parlour. That was probably the reason why Lucinda introduced Parson Somers into the tea-room, the parson happening to call at this identical time. Parson Somers was always in a genial state of mind;--always, at least, whenever he came into Mrs. Derrick's parlour; by the testimony of numbers it was the same in many other parlours. He came in so now; gave a smile all round; and took an empty chair and place at the table like one who found it pleasant. "Well, I declare, Mrs. Derrick," said Mr. Somers when he was seated,--"I don't think there's--a--a more cheerful room in Pattaquasset than this one; why, you always have everything agreeable here. A cup of tea, now--I didn't expect it" "Why we always _do_ have tea, Mr. Somers," said Mrs. Derrick, "but it don't seem strong to-night. Lucindy--take the teapot and make some fresh." "These baked apples are strong--in numbers at least," said Mr. Linden, as he bestowed one upon Mr. Somers. "Thank you!--it's all strong enough, Mrs. Derrick--thank you!--very good. And Mr. Linden--how are you--a--getting along with your juvenile charge? Confining work, sir,--isn't it?" "Rather, sir--to the body." "Not to the mind, eh? Well--I should have thought that to a gentleman like you it would prove--a--_more_ deleterious to the mental faculties. But I suppose you find yourself rewarded by your pupils' improvement and--regard!" "Yes sir--their regard is very precious to me," was the quiet reply. "I should think so! Why there's that boy Reuben Taylor--strange father that boy has--fisherman;--I met that boy this evening, in the street, and he was crying,--down a little below here--he was going home. I asked him--ha--if Mr. Linden had been dealing hardly with him?--and I declare!--I didn't know but Reuben would have attacked me on the spot." "Has Mr. Linden a character in the village for cruelty?" said Faith. "I--I declare--not that I know of, Miss Faith. I should think it could not be deserved. That boy's attachment is certainly--ha--very warm. My dear Mrs. Derrick, how well Miss Faith is looking! She always looks well; but to-night--ha--the colour of her cheeks is--to be remarked." "You will get a character for cruelty, Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "if you ask about my character before my face." Faith looked up as if she would willingly have asked a question; but that being in present circumstances impossible, she merely uttered a quiet little 'no,' and went on with her tea and with a colour still further improved, A quiet little 'yes,' of about equal prominence, did not divert the attention of Mr. Somers from his own remarks. "It's delightful to see--really," said that gentleman. "But Mr. Linden--ha--I am sorry to find that you haven't the good will of our neighbour, Squire Deacon. The Squire's a valuable man--very!--the Squire's a valuable man in the town. I am sorry. Do you know, Mr. Linden--ha--how it has happened?" "Have you asked the Squire himself, sir?" said Mr. Linden. "Why--no, sir, I haven't. I--ha--wanted to get at the truth of it, that I might, if possible, do something to heal the breach. Now you are doing a valuable work in Pattaquasset, sir--I should be sorry to see it interrupted--very--and I thought the best way would be to try to find out what the matter was, in order if possible to its being removed. And to get at the truth it is often best to hear both sides." "But I have no side to tell, sir," said Mr. Linden--smiling in spite of himself. "I cannot deny that Squire Deacon seems to withhold his good will--I think it is for him to tell his reasons." "Then you really have no idea what it can be about? and I may tell him so? Because that would be a great point." "No sir, you may not tell him that." "Then you _have_ an idea what the matter is?" said Mr. Somers eagerly. "Then, sir, if you will be so good as to let me know what it is--I have no doubt--I entertain no doubt--we shall be able to smooth it all away, and have peace." "You cannot prove one man's ideas by another man's," said Mr. Linden. "Then you can give me no help?" said Mr. Somers regretfully. "But Mr. Linden--ha--it strikes me that it would be useful for me to know your view of the cause of offence--whatever it is--before I know his. One may correct the other." "There has been no offence given sir," said Mr. Linden. "That the Squire has taken offence we both know,--why he has taken it--_if_ I know--I have no right to tell you, Squire Deacon might justly complain of me if I did. It is from no disrespect to you, believe me." "I say!" said Cindy coming into the room with a basket,--"here's Sam Stoutenburgh been and fetched some Stoutenburgh Sweetenings--for his teacher, he says. I'm free to confess," added Cindy as she set down the basket by Mr. Linden, "he said if he _would_ like to do anythin' better with 'em, it would just be to shy 'em at Squire Deacon's head--so I guess they aint over and above ripe." "Ha!--Very pleasant, certainly!--very gratifying," said Mr. Somers rising. "Mr. Linden--I have no more to say. You are a gentleman, sir, and understand these matters. I will see what I can do. Mrs. Derrick--I thank you for your tea, ma'am--I am sorry there should be anything disagreeable,--but I have no doubt it will all be set right--The Squire is a good-feeling man--I have no doubt of it. Miss Faith--ha!--why Mrs. Derrick this colour is too deep, it isn't natural. It looks feverish!" "Do the Pattaquasset ladies use any rouge but their own sea breezes?" asked Mr. Linden. "Ha! we _do_ get the sea breezes here--pleasantly," answered Mr. Somers. "Good evening!"-- Mr. Linden accompanied the visiter to the little gate, and returning paced up and down the moonlit porch, followed only by his shadow. CHAPTER VI. While Mr. Somers was enjoying his cup of unexpected tea at Mrs. Derrick's, Squire Deacon and Miss Cilly had a sociable tête-à-tête over theirs; for Joe Deacon, who was in the full enjoyment of some fourteen years of boyhood, scarcely made a third in the conversation until his appetite was satisfied. Conversation indeed hardly existed during the first portion of the meal. Miss Cilly poured out her tea and broke her biscuit with a certain prim sort of elegance which belonged to that young lady--as at least she believed. But sipping tea and nibbling biscuit went on in company with thoughts. "Sam, what are you bothering yourself about Mr. Linden for?" "How long since you was made a trustee?" said the Squire, beginning his sentence with an untranslatable sort of grunt, and ending it in his teacup. "Give us the sugar bowl down this way, Cilly," said Joe,--"this apple sarce is as sour as sixty." "I've been your trustee ever since you was up to anything," said his sister. "Come Sam--don't you begin now. What's made you so crusty?" "It aint the worst thing to be crusty," said the Squire, while Joe started up and seized the sugar bowl. "Shews a man's more'n half baked, any how." Miss Cilly vouchsafed a rather sour smile to these manifestations of disposition on the part of both her brothers. "Well, what has he done?" "Sure enough," said the Squire, (he kept his small stock of big words for company) "what _has_ he done? That's just what I can't find out." "What do you want to find out for? What ails him?" "Suppose he hasn't done nothing"--said the Squire,--"is that the sort o' man to teach litteratur in Pattaquasset?" "Lit--_what?_" said his sister with an arch of her head. "Anything you've a mind to," said the Squire sulkily. "I wouldn't say anything against Mr. Linden's literature, if I was you; because it's my belief, Sam, it'll stand any pecking you make at it. What's given you such a spite at him? You're a goodnatured fellow enough in general." "The whole temperature of Pattaquasset's come about since _he_ come," replied the Squire comprehensively. "He's a gentleman!" said Miss Cilly bridling again. "He won't hurt anybody's manners--not the best--if they was to copy him." "He didn't hurt mine," said Joe patronizingly. "To be sure I didn't go to him long." "Do the boys like him, Joe?" "Well I daresay they wouldn't if they could help it," said Joe, "if _that's_ any comfort. Some other folks likes him too,--besides Sam." "Aint he a good teacher?" "Firstrate--" said Joe, "taught me all _I_ ever learned. I didn't go but four weeks, and Sam thought 'twarn't no use for me to hold on any longer. My! Cilly--he'd make you roll up your eyes in arithmetic!" "Now Sam Deacon, what do you expect to do by all this fuss you're making?" said his sister judicially. "What's the use of cross-examining a man at that rate?" said the Squire restlessly. "When I do anything, you'll know it." "You'll make yourself a fool, one of these fine mornings; that's what I count upon," said Miss Cecilia. "He's a match for you, I have a presentiment, Sam." "He won't be for you," said the Squire with some heat. "There's Mr. Simlins goin' along," said Joe, who having finished his supper was gazing out of the window. "O my! if he was cut up into real simlinses, what a many there'd be!" "You hush, Joe!" said his sister wrathfully. "He's comin' in." And Mr. Simlins' tall figure did indeed come through the gate and up the walk, from which a very few more steps and minutes brought him to the tea table. "Well, Mr. Simlins!" said Miss Cecilia as she gave him his cup,--"you've got back. I heard you were returned." "Yes!" said the farmer deliberately stirring his tea,--"I've got back! And I'm glad, for one. I've been visiting my relations in New Jersey; and I've made up _my_ mind that the Simlinses made a good move when they come to Connecticut." "You found them all well?" said Miss Cecilia politely. "Well, no, I didn't," said Mr. Simlins. "How's a man to find five hundred and fifty people all well? 'Taint nature. How's things with you, Squire?" "Wheat's done well--corn middlin'," replied the Squire, while Joe got behind his sister's chair and whispered, "There's another name in the diction'ry _sounds_ like your'n, though they aint spelled just alike." "Goin' to school, Joe?" growled Mr. Simlins. "No _sir_," said Joe. "Mr. Linden teached me all he knowed in a jiffy,--and all I know, too." "Well--are the other boys learnin' yet?" said Mr. Simlins, as he spread a slice of bread pretty thick with butter. "S'pose so"--said Joe,--"all they kin." "It's hard work!" said Mr. Simlins. "I feel it now! Never ploughin' made my back ache like learnin'. I wonder whatever they made me school trustee for, seein' I hate it like pison. But s'pose we mustn't quarrel with onerous duties," said the farmer, carrying on sighing and bread and butter and tea very harmoniously together. "I shouldn't mind takin' a look at your last copy-book, Joe, if it would be agreeable." "O Mr. Linden kep' that," said Joe unblushingly, "'cause it was so good lookin'." "He was so fond of you?" said Mr. Simlins. "How come he to let you go?" "I staid away," said Joe, drumming on the back of Miss Cecilia's chair. "Cilly's got the rest of the copy-books--she likes the writin' too." "Joe, behave yourself!" said his sister. "Mr. Simlins knows better than to believe you." "Did you ever get flogged, Joe, for bad writin'?" said the farmer. "Worse'n that!" said Joe, shaking his head,--"I've had to do it over!" "Now you've got to do it over for me," said Mr. Simlins. "You write your name for me there--the best you kin--and 'Pattaquasset, Connecticut'--I want to see what the new school's up to." "No"--said Joe--"I aint agoin' to do it. You ask one of the other boys. It wouldn't tell you nothin' if I did, 'cause I learned writin' afore,--and I didn't go to him but four weeks, besides." And Joe at once absented himself. "Is it workin' as straight with all the rest of 'em as it is with him?" said Mr. Simlins. "You and me's got to see to it, you know, Squire--seein' we're honorary individuals." "Yes," said Squire Deacon, rousing up now Joe was gone--he had a wholesome fear of Joe's tongue--"Yes, Mr. Simlins,--and it's my belief it _wants_ seein' to--and he too." "Joe,"--said Mr. Simlins. "Ne-ver fear--he'll see to himself." "Here's some of _his_ writin'," said Joe, returning with a spelling book. "All the boys gets him to write in their books." And laying it down by Mr. Simlins, Joe took his final departure. "What do the boys want him to write in their books for?" growled Mr. Simlins, surveying the signature. "I believe," said Miss Cecilia, "he is very popular in the school." "Well, Squire," pursued Mr. Simlins, "can Joe clinch this?" "He aint with me--if that's what you mean," said Squire Deacon. "A man's writing don't prove much." "Don't go no furder," said Mr. Simlins assentingly. "Well Squire--if _you_'ll go furder I shall be wiser." And freed from the fear of contradiction, the Squire had not the least objection to going further. "He's not the man to have here," said Squire Deacon,--"I saw that the first day I saw him. I tried him,--and he didn't toe the mark." "How did you try him?" growled Mr. Simlins. "I'd like to know how much he's up to. _I_ haint found it out yet." "I tried him, sir," said the Squire, "I tried him with a classical story. Now Miss Faith gave in at once, and said _she_ didn't know what it was; but t'other one made believe as though he knew all about it. And if a man aint classical, Mr. Simlins, what is he?" "I aint classical," growled Mr. Simlins again, "but then I don't set up for to be. I s'pose that makes a difference, Squire; don't it?" "Some people's more than they set out to be, and some people's less," replied the Squire. "Well,--does _he_ set up for to be classical in school? What does he teach 'em?" "I reckon he sets up for 'most everything he ever heard spoke of, Mr. Simlins. Teach 'em? why he teaches 'em out of all sorts o' superflus books!" "Does!" said Mr. Simlins with a surprised look. "Our boys don't want none o' your superficies. They've got their bread to make. Give us an invoice o' them books, Squire." "Just you look at 'em for yourself, Mr. Simlins--then you'll know. Step down there some day in school time and look over the boys. Now I can understand figurs with any man, but _what's_ the use o' crosses and straight lines and Vs turned wrong side up?" Mr. Simlins pushed back his chair and rubbed his chin. "Well Squire--you and me are trustees--what in your judgment and opinion had we ought to do, in these precedents?" "Get rid on him--_I_ say," replied the Squire promptly. "Then here he is, leadin' all the girls round town, and for all any one of 'em knows he's a married man." "Humph I think so?--What do the folks say of him?" said Mr. Simlins. "There's Mrs. Derrick--what does _she_ say of him--he's in her house, she ought to have an idee. And Faith--now I'd take that gal's judgment on a most anything--What do _they_ think about him, Squire?" "Never asked 'em a word," said the Squire stoutly--"nor heard 'em say one, neither. But he gets fur'n letters all the time, Widow Stamp says--and female writin' too. Who knows but he's got a wife in some fur'n country?--or two"--added the Squire, without specifying where the plural belonged. "I'm a justice of peace, Mr. Simlins, and this shouldn't be let go on." Mr. Simlins looked up from under his brows with a queer look at his host. "If he has _two_, he must want the school--bad!"--said he. "Well Squire, I'll go along and see what can be done. If I was you, mean time, I'd not say much to no one. There's Judge Harrison, you know;--we can't act without him. Good night t'ye! Squire, I guess he haint _two?_--Anyhow, I wouldn't let fly no warrants till I saw my bird sitting somewhere. It's bad to have 'em hit in a wrong place." And it was well it was darkish and nobody to look at him; for Mr. Simlins went grinning pretty much all the way between Squire Deacon's house and the house of Mrs. Derrick, where Mr. Linden was entertaining his shadow in the moonlit porch. "Good even to you!" growled Mr. Simlins as he came up. The grin was gone, and the farmer stood with his wonted solemnity of face and manner. "Where's the rest o' your folks?" "The rest of _my_ folks are a good way off, Mr. Simlins," said the person addressed, giving the questioner his hand; while his shadow exchanged civilities with the shadow of Mr. Simlins. "When did you come back? I am glad to see you?" "I'm glad to see myself," said Mr. Simlins. "There's no State like Connecticut, sir. Where's _your_ bringin' up place? "No one place has had that honour, Mr. Simlins,--I have been brought up from one to another." "Not Connecticut, eh?" "Not altogether--I am here just now, as you see,--getting a part of my education. I am one of the Say and Seal people in a way. Won't you come in, Mr. Simlins?" "Well--I'd as lief see Faith and Mrs. Derrick as a'most any other two folks in Pattaquasset,--but they're a long ways off, you say?" "No further than the parlour, I believe." Mr. Simlins was willing to go as far as the parlour, and so the party on the porch adjourned thither. A bright lamp lit the room, by which Faith was mending stockings; while Mrs. Derrick sat in an easy chair a little further off, rocking and knitting. "Well," said Mr. Simlins, "when the sun goes down _I_ think it is time to knock off work; but womenkind don't seem to think so." "I guess when the sun goes down your work's knocked off, Mr. Simlins," said Mrs. Derrick. "Fact, Mrs. Derrick, when I'm to home; but when a man's visiting he has to work night _and_ day. Moonlight's moonlight now. I declare, in Jersey I thought it was broad sunshine.--You haven't been down to my place yet, Mr. Linden?" "No sir, not within the gate." "The Simlins' have held that place, sir, off and on, for nigh three hundred years. We're a good many Simlins'--and we're a good set, I'll say it! a pretty good set. Not thin-skinned, you know,--we can take a scratch without bein' killed--but we never would stand bein' trampled on. We're soft-hearted too; plenty o' what I may call _tendrils_, ready to take hold of anything; and when we take hold we _do_ take hold. We cover a good deal of ground in the country, here and elsewhere--in the various branches. My mother was a Mush, and my grandmother was a Citron; a good families those, sir; can't do better than take a wife from one of them, Mr. Linden, if you are so disposed;--you haven't got one already, have you?" "_What_, sir?" said Mr. Linden, with more sharpness than he often shewed, and which made Mrs. Derrick drop her knitting and look up. "I thought you wasn't a married man--are you?" said Mr. Simlins, the grin just shewing itself again on his face. "Is that one of the charges brought against me?" said Mr. Linden, a little too roused himself to pay much heed to Mr. Simlins' questions. "Well I didn't know as you'd think it a 'charge,'" said Mr. Simlins with an unchanged tone. "I guess you mean to make it true some day, don't you?" The question fell unheeded--the charge did not; it touched him deeply; touched the proud sense of character; though no words gave evidence of the fact. "Faith, child," said Mrs. Derrick in that moment of silence, her whisper as low as she thought would reach across the table, "ought we to be here?" But a very emphatic, "Yes!" from the window, prevented the need of Faith's answer. "I was only recommending," said Mr. Simlins, "in case you wanted help to make up your mind. The Citrons are all gone to New Jersey--there's a few of the Mushes ramblin' round Connecticut yet. Well Mr. Linden--I hope you and your boys get on commodiously together?" "Just look into that basket on the table, and see what one of em brought him to-night," said Mrs. Derrick. "Those are Stoutenburgh Sweetings, Mr. Simlins." Mr. Simlins looked at the Sweetings and then looked towards the window. "I'd like to hear you speak a little on that point," he said. "Fact is, there's been some winds blowin' about Pattaquasset that aint come off beds o' roses; and I'd like to find where the pison is and clap a stopper on it for the future. It's easy done." Mr. Linden looked up with his usual expression, only the smile was grave and a little moved, and answered, "I could say a good deal on that point, Mr. Simlins. Yet I had rather you should ask the boys than me." "Don't want to ask the boys nothin', bless you!" said Mr. Simlins. "What I want to say is this;--what's the matter between you and the Squire? I've been askin' _him_, and he says you learn the boys to make a V wrong side upward--I can't make nothin' of that," said Mr. Simlins, with again the approach to a grin;--"'taint over easy to tell whether _his_ Vs are one side up or 'tother. Now I'd like to know from you where the hitch is. The Squire aint likely to set the Mong in a configuration just yet--but if he's swingin' a torch round, I'd jest as lief put it out afore the sharks fly." "But Mr. Simlins, don't you think it is rather hard measure to ask me why people dislike me?" "Well--I don't see as I do," said Mr. Simlins placidly;--"'cause I know pretty well it's some chymistry idee of his own; and if I could get hold of it, you see, I should have a better handle. I guess the school never went on better than it's goin'; _he_ don't know beans." "How do you know that I do?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Why don't you ask him? I think at least half his ill will arises from a mistake." "Have asked _him_," said Mr. Simlins--"just come from there;--but he's pretty much like them V's we were speakin' about; don't spell nothin'. What's his mistake about then? if I knowed that, I could bring things to a concert." "Why," said Mr. Linden with grave deliberation, "suppose he wants to buy your house? and takes a walk up that way to set forth his terms." "Well--suppose he does"--said Mr. Simlins attentively. "He finds you and Judge Harrison in the porch, you talk about the crops and the weather, and he tells you he wants your house. What do you say to him?" "I tell him I don't sell it to no one but a Simlins--nor that neither till I can't live in it no longer myself." "Is that your fault--or Judge Harrison's?" said Mr. Linden, setting the basket of Stoutenburgh Sweetings on the little table in the full light of the lamp. "Miss Faith, if those are 'sweetenings,' they may as well do their office." The farmer sat with his elbows on his knees, touching the tips of his fingers together in thoughtful fashion, and softly blowing the breath through his lips in a way that might have reached the dignity of a whistle if it had had a trifle more of musicalness. "Is them the sort of lessons you give in school?" he said at length without stirring. "Why?" said Mr. Linden with a little bit of a smile. "Ingen-uous," said Mr. Simlins. "It's as good as a book, Mrs. Derrick," added he glancing up at the rocking chair, "is Squire Deacon wantin' to buy your house?" "My!" said Mrs. Derrick, again laying down her knitting, "can't he be content with his own? I hope he don't want ours," she added, some fear mingling with her surprise. "Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "do you think if I gave you an apple you would give me a knife?" "I hope he don't," growled Mr. Simlins as he rose up. "I never heerd that he did. Miss Faith--them Stoutenburgh Sweetings is good eatin'." Faith after setting a pile of plates and knives on the table, had taken up her stocking again. "Yes Mr. Simlins--I know they are." "Then why don't you eat one?" "I don't want it just now, Mr. Simlins--I'd rather finish my work." "Work!" said the farmer taking an apple. "Well--good evening! I'll go and look after my work. I guess we'll fix it. There's a sight o' work in the world!" With which moral reflection Mr. Simlins departed. "There'll be more work than sight, at this rate," said Mr. Linden when he came back from the front door. "Mrs. Derrick, how many stockings does Miss Faith absolutely require for one day?" "Why I don't know sir--and I don't believe I ever did know since she was big enough to run about," said Mrs. Derrick, her mind still dwelling upon the house. "Miss Faith, my question stands transferred to you." "Why you know," said Faith, intent upon the motions of her needle,--"I might require to _mend_ in one day what would last me to wear a good many--and I do." "But, 'The day is done--and the darkness Falls from the wing of night.'" "I never mend stockings till then," said Faith smiling over her work. "Are Sam's apples good?" "By reputation." "I thought you were trying them! Why you asked me for a knife, Mr. Linden--and I brought it." "I'm sure I gave you an apple. Perhaps you thought it was a ball of darning cotton." "No, I didn't," said Faith laughing. "But what use is my apple to your knife, Mr. Linden?" "Not much--it has served the purposes of trade." "But what is the purpose of trade, Mr. Linden, if the articles aren't wanted?" "I see you are dissatisfied with your bargain," he said. "Well, I will be generous--you shall have the knife too;" and Mr. Linden walked away from the table and went upstairs. The parlour was very still after that. Faith's needle, indeed, worked with more zeal than ever, but Mrs. Derrick rolled up her knitting and put it in her basket, sighing a little as she did so: then sat and thought. "Faith, child," she said after a long pause, "do you think the Squire would ever take our house?" Faith hesitated, and the answer when it came was not satisfactory. "I don't know, mother." Mrs. Derrick sighed again, and leaned back in her chair, and rocked; the rockers creaking in rather doleful sympathy with her thoughts. Then an owl on a tree before the door hooted at the world generally, though Mrs. Derrick evidently thought his remarks personal. "I can't think why he should do that to-night, of all nights in the year!" she said, sitting straight up in her chair. "It never did mean good. Faith--what should we do if he did?"--this time she meant the Squire, not the owl. "Mother!"--said Faith, and then she spoke in her usual tone.--"We'd find a way." "Well!--" said Mrs. Derrick, rocking back and forth. Then she started up. "We've got to have biscuits for breakfast, whether or no! It's good I remembered 'em!" And she hurried out of the room, coming back to kiss Faith and say, "Don't fret, pretty child, whatever happens. Go to bed and to sleep,--I'll make the biscuit." And alert and busy she left the parlour. Faith's sleep was quiet, but not unbroken. For at that time when all well-disposed people, young or old, are generally asleep (in such a well-ordered community as Pattaquasset) it pleased the younger portion of said community to be awake. Yet they were well-disposed--and also ill! For repairing in a body to Mrs. Derrick's house they gave her nine cheers for her lodger,--thence departing to Squire Deacon's, they gave him as many groans as he could reasonably want for himself. After which the younger part of the community retired in triumph. It was said, by one adventurous boy, that falling in with Mr. Simlins they impressed him--that his voice helped on the cheers, but not the groans: and indeed the whole story needs confirmation. Faith heard the groans but faintly, owing to the distance, but the cheers were tremendous. It is painful to add that Joe Deacon was vociferous in both parties. CHAPTER VII. "I hope your rest was disturbed last night," said Faith rather gaily, as she came in to the breakfast-table with a plate of biscuits and set them down before Mr. Linden. "Thank you! you have reason to be quite satisfied in that respect." "But did you hear them after they left our house?" "I heard them--really or in imagination--all night, thank you again, Miss Faith--and am as sleepy this morning as you can desire." "It wasn't I," said Faith. "Now what notice, Mr. Linden, will you think it proper to take of such a proceeding?" "That was one thing which kept me awake." "But as you are sleepy now, I suppose the point is decided?" "You are as quick at conclusions as Johnny Fax," said Mr. Linden smiling, "who always supposes that when I am not using my pen myself I am quite ready to let him have it." "Does he get it?" "What should you advise?" "O Mr. Linden!" said Faith,--"I should advise you to do--just what you do!" "Unsound!" he said,--"I thought you were a better adviser. But about this matter of the boys--I shall probably read them a lecture, wherein I shall set forth the risk they run of getting sick by such exposure to the night air; also the danger I am in of being sent away from my present quarters, because ladies prefer sleep to disturbance. Having thus wrought up their feelings to the highest pitch, I shall give them a holiday and come home to dinner." Faith laughed her little low laugh of pleasure; at least it always sounded so. It might be pleasure at one thing or at another; but it was as round and sweet a tone of merry or happy acknowledgment, as is ever heard in this world of discordances. "But are you really sleepy, sir?" said Mrs. Derrick. "I'm so sorry! I thought they were doing nothing but good. I never once thought of their waking you up." Mr. Linden laughed too, a little. "I shall get waked up"--he said,--"in the course of the day. Unless somebody has drugged my coffee." "Judge Harrison was here this morning, Mr. Linden, with a message for you," said Faith. "Mother, will you tell Mr. Linden what Judge Harrison said?" "I'd rather hear you, child, by half," said her mother, with a smile whereon the house cast a little shadow. "Tell him yourself, Faith." And Mrs. Derrick sighed, and took her napkin and rubbed off a spot on the coffeepot. "Judge Harrison came--" said Faith, and paused. "And went away"--said Mr. Linden. "Yes," said Faith. "He stopped on his way somewhere, and came into the kitchen to talk to us. He said he would like, if you would like it, he would like to have a great exhibition of the boys--he knows about the school, he says, and there hasn't been such a school in Pattaquasset since he has been here himself; and he would like to shew it up to the whole town. So if Mr. Linden approved of it, Judge Harrison said, he would have a gathering of all the countryside in some nice place--the Judge has plenty of ground and can get anybody else's besides; and the boys should have a great examination, and after that there should be an entertainment under the trees, for boys and all. And he wanted mother to speak to Mr. Linden, and see whether he would like it. And mother wouldn't," said Faith as she finished. Mr. Linden raised his eyebrows slightly--then let them fall and likewise his eyes. Then sent his cup to be replenished, gravely remarking to Faith that if she had any drugs, she might put them in now! "What kind of drugs would you like, Mr. Linden?" said Faith. "Any that are deeply sedative." "Sedative?" said Faith, with that look which he often drew from her,--very earnest, half wistful, half sorrowful,--"I don't know what it means, Mr. Linden." "It means," said he, his face relaxing a little, "'such as diminish the physical energy, without destroying life,'--such in short, as might qualify a man for the situation of a tame monkey on a pole." Faith's look changed to a sort of indignant little glance, and her lips parted; but they closed again and her eyes went down to her plate. "What were you going to remark, Miss Faith?" Faith blushed a good deal, however the answer came steadily. "I don't think any drugs would do that for you." "I am in a bad way, then," said Mr. Linden with unmoved gravity. "Because if I survive this trial of what I can bear, I intend to advertise for the afore-named situation. Have you heard of any vacant pole, Miss Faith?" Faith looked at him with a grave, considering wonder, which gradually broke into a sense of fun; and then she laughed, as she did not often laugh. Apparently Mr. Linden was well enough pleased with such answer to his words, for he not only made no attempt to stop her, but even remarked that it was good to be of a sympathizing disposition. The day passed as usual; only of late it had got to be Faith's habit to spend a good deal of time shut up in her room. It had never been her habit before. But now, after going through her early household duties, of which Faith had plenty, she used to be out of sight often for an hour before dinner; unless when the dinner required just that hour of her attention. Nothing was left behind her to call her down. Her dairy, her bread and cake, her pies and cream-cheeses, her dinner preparations--whatever the things might be--were all ready for the day's wants; and then Faith was gone. After dinner it was still more surely the same. Yet though all this was true, it was so quietly and unobtrusively true that Mrs. Derrick had hardly observed it. It happened this afternoon that Faith lingered upstairs,--not until teatime, but until she heard her mother call. Reuben Taylor wanted to see her. He was at the gate. "I didn't want to disturb you, Miss Faith. I told Mrs. Derrick so. It's only some clams,--which I thought maybe you'd like," said Reuben modestly. "I left 'em in the kitchen." "Thank you, Reuben--I like them very much. Do you feel better than you did yesterday?" "Yes, ma'am--" said Reuben rather slowly,--"I felt a great deal better last night." "And to-day--don't you?" "Yes, ma'am," Reuben answered as before. "But not so well as last night? What's the matter, Reuben?" "Didn't you hear what they did last night, ma'am?" "To be sure I did, but what has made you feel worse to-day?" "Why you know, ma'am," said Reuben, "last night I forgot all about everybody but Mr. Linden. But oh Miss Faith! I just wish you could have been in school to-day for one minute!--when Mr. Linden came in! You see," said Reuben, excitement conquering reserve, "the boys were all there--there wasn't one of 'em late, and every one had a sprig of basswood in his hat and in his buttonhole. And we all kept our hats on till he got in, and stood up to meet him (though _that_ we do always) and then we took off our hats together and gave him such a shout!--You know, Miss Faith," added Reuben with a smile both expressive and sweet, "basswood's a kind of linden." "And what did Mr. Linden do?" said Faith with a smile of her own that very well reflected Reuben's. "He didn't say much," said Reuben,--"he _looked_ a good deal." "Well, you foolish boy," said Faith gently, "don't you feel well now, after all that? What's the matter?" A heavy, shoe-leathery step came down the street--it was Squire Deacon. Reuben knew who it was before the Squire came near, for he flushed up, and for a moment stood with his back resolutely turned towards the gate; then with an air as resolute, but different, he turned round and bowed as courteously as he knew how--far more so than the Squire did to him; for the combination of Faith and Reuben did not seem to fall pleasantly upon Squire Deacon's organs of vision; nor indeed could he have quite forgotten last night. "Reuben, come in," said Faith touching his shoulder and smiling,--"I want to speak to you. But first answer my question--why don't you feel quite well now? You ought, Reuben." "Yes, Miss Faith--I know I ought,--at least I oughtn't to feel just as I do," Reuben answered. "Mr. Linden told me so to-day." "Then why do you feel so?" Faith asked with increased earnestness. Reuben coloured and hesitated. "Folks vex me--" he said in a low voice. "And--and Mr. Linden says I love him too well if I'm not willing to let him go when God pleases. And I know it's true--but--" and Reuben followed Faith into the house without another word. "What do you mean about Mr. Linden's going?" "Just that, ma'am," said Reuben simply. "Because we can't make ourselves feel well by thinking things are going just as we want 'em to--he says that's not strong enough ground to rest on." "But does he talk of going away, Reuben?" "O no! Miss Faith I never heard him,--he only talked so to me because of what other folks said." "Well," said Faith with a change of tone, "you're a foolish boy. You come and see me whenever you get feeling bad again. Folks can't hurt Mr. Linden. Now look here--Wait a minute, will you!"-- Faith ran upstairs; speedily came down again with a little blue-covered book in her hand. "Is this the arithmetic you study?" she said softly, coming close to him. Reuben took the book with some surprise in his face. "Yes, ma'am, this is the one." And he looked up at her as if to ask, what next. "How far have you gone?" "I am through this now," said Reuben, "but some of the others are here--and here." "Then you can tell me," said Faith. She turned over to a certain page, far on in the book too, and putting it into Reuben's hands, said quietly, "I am studying it, and I cannot make anything of this. Do you remember how it was explained?" "The book's wrong," said Reuben, after a glance at it,--"I remember, Miss Faith. See--it ought to be so--and so--" Reuben went on explaining. "All the books we could get here were just like it, and Mr. Linden said if he found any more mistakes he would send to Quilipeak and get good ones. He shewed us how this ought to be." "That's it!" said Faith. "Thank you, Reuben. And you needn't tell anybody I asked you about it." Reuben looked a little surprised again, but he said "No, ma'am," and made his bow. It was Faith's turn to be surprised then, for stepping into the tea-room to look at the clock, she found not only the clock but Mr. Linden,--the former ticking sundry minutes past teatime, the latter enjoying the sunset clouds and his own reflections, and (possibly) his book. Mrs. Derrick, favouring the atmosphere of the little wood fire, which had burnt itself out to coals and ashes, sat at one corner of the hearth, taking up the stiches round the heel of her stocking; which precarious operation engrossed her completely. Mr. Linden however looked up, and took in the whole of the little picture before him. Apparently the picture was pleasant, for he smiled. Faith's look was startled. "I am late!" she said with a compunctious glance at the clock. And as soon as it could be made the tea came in smoking. As Faith took her seat at the table she put her question. "When did you come in, Mr. Linden?" "About a quarter of an hour before you did." "By which way?" "Why!--by the door. It is simpler than the window." The next few seconds seemed to be employed by Faith in buttering bread and eating it, but in reality they were used for carrying on a somewhat hurried calculation of minutes and distances which brought the colour in her cheeks to a hue of pretty richness. "Did I run over anybody in my way?" asked Mr. Linden. "What gives the question its interest?" "I had thought you were out," said Faith quietly. "I know a shorter way to the store than you do," said Mr. Linden with equal quietness. "To the store!" said Faith, eye and lip quite putting quietness out of the question. "Yes, I found your footprints there the other day, and I have been wanting to tell you ever since that it is not anything like so far up to my room. Let me recommend that way to you for the future." Faith's colour was no matter of degrees now, for it rushed over temples and cheek in a flood. And seemed inclined to be a permanency. "There you may take what you like," he went on, with a smile that was both amused and encouraging, "and I shall be none the wiser--unless you tell me yourself. If you do tell me, I shall be very glad. Now Miss Faith--what shall we do about Judge Harrison?" Faith hesitated, and struggled perhaps, for it did not seem very easy to speak with that deep flush on her brow; and then she said rather low, "I am not ungrateful, Mr. Linden." "Neither am I--but this proposal of his gives me some trouble. I think if he would have all the fun, without any of the shewing off, it would answer every good purpose and avoid all the bad ones. And if you will intimate as much to your mother, Miss Faith, and persuade her to convey the information to Judge Harrison, it will perhaps be the best way of reply. Of course as trustee he has still the right of doing as he likes." "Mother, do you hear?" said Faith, "or do you want me to repeat it?" "No, child,"--said her mother abstractedly; "I didn't hear, to be sure,--how should I? Faith--what do you suppose makes Cindy break the noses off all our milk pitchers?" This was an irresistible question. Faith's own face came back, and during the rest of supper-time she was like herself, only with a shade more than was usual upon her brow and manner. The short September day had little twilight to lengthen it out. The cool western horizon still outshone the setting stars with its clear light, but in the east and overhead others came out, 'silently, one by one.' Mr. Linden went to take his evening walk, Faith to light the lamp in the parlour, watched and gazed at by her mother the while. "Child," said Mrs. Derrick, "what makes you stay upstairs so? I never thought of it till I went to call you to see Reuben--but seems to me you are up there a great deal." Faith smiled a little and also looked grave, as she was putting on the shade of the lamp. "Yes, mother"--she said,--"I am." "What for, pretty child?" said her mother fondly. Faith was pretty, in the look with which she answered this appeal. Her smile dropped its gravity, and only love came in to make the confession. "Mother, I am trying to learn. I want to be wiser." "Learn!" said Mrs. Derrick in utter astonishment, and rousing out of her resting position. "Trying to _learn_, child?" "Yes, mother--what about it? I don't know anything; and I want to know--a great deal!" "Why you know everything now!" said Mrs. Derrick. "What don't you know, Faith?--_I_ should like to!" Faith smiled. "Mother, I don't know anything!"--and then she added more brightly, "I've begun with arithmetic, for one thing." "Arithmetic!" said Mrs. Derrick; and she paused, and leaned back in her chair, rocking gently to and fro, with a shade of soberness stealing over her face. "You never did have much chance,"--she said at length, "because I couldn't give it to you then. My heart was broke, Faith, and I couldn't bear to have you out of my sight for a minute. But somehow I thought you knew everything." And she sat still once more, looking at Faith as if trying to reinstate herself in her old opinion. Nor altogether without success; for with a little smile coming over her face, Mrs. Derrick added, "You won't be any sweeter--learn as much as you will, child,--you needn't think it;" and the rockers would have certainly come into play again if Cindy had not opened the door and claimed attention. "I s'pose likely you don't want to go down to Widder Stamp's?" she said. "'Cause she wants you to come. I'm free to confess she's got the high-strikes wonderful." "Mother," said Faith, giving her one or two kisses as Mrs. Derrick rose to prove the contrary of Cindy's supposition, "I shall be a great deal _happier;_--and I am getting along nicely." Which sent Mrs. Derrick off in triumph. But when she was gone, Faith did not take her basket of stockings, nor yet her arithmetic; but sat down by the table with her head in her hands and sat very still. Still, until Mr. Linden came in, laid one paper on the table at her side, and sat down to read another. Faith's darning-needle came into play then, and worked quick and silently. Mr. Linden glanced towards it as he laid down his paper. "I see you evaded my question last night," he said,--"there could not be such a _constant_ supply, if there were not also a constant demand." "Mr. Linden," said Faith, her colour a little raised and her voice changing somewhat,--"I want to ask you something--if you are not busy about anything." "I am not but you might ask just as freely if I were." "I couldn't," said Faith. She drew her hand out of her stocking and put her thimble on the table. "Mr. Linden," she said without looking at him,--"a while ago, when you were speaking of faith and a cloudy day, and I told you I wasn't like that,--you said I must read the Bible then, and do what that said. I have been trying to do it."-- Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked at her--as if waiting to hear more. "And I don't understand it," she said.--"I don't know how to get on." "Do you mean, with the Bible? Is it _that_ you do not understand?" "I don't understand some things--I don't know exactly what I ought to do." "In what respect?--where is the difficulty? Some things in the Bible you never will understand, perhaps, in this world, and others you must learn by degrees." "I don't understand exactly what makes a Christian--and I want to be one." It was spoken low, and timidly; but Faith was in earnest. Mr. Linden sat silent a minute, without changing his position. "A Christian is one, who trusting in Christ as his only Saviour, thenceforth obeys him as his only King." Faith hesitated and thought. "I don't understand," she said folding her hands, "--about the trusting." "Suppose there was something you wanted done too hard for your strength but not for mine,--would you know how to trust it in my hands?" She bowed her head and said, "Yes!" "Suppose I consented to do it only upon condition that for the rest of your life my will and pleasure should be your only rule of action,--would the great work still be yours or mine?" "Why, yours," she said, still looking at him. "Cannot you see Christ--standing between God and man, offering his own blood where justice demands ours, and with his perfect righteousness covering our imperfect obedience? So 'that God may be just, and yet the justifier of him that believeth in Jesus.' Can you apply any words? Can you see that Christ only is 'mighty to save'?--Are you willing to trust yourself in his hands?" Faith dropped her eyes for a minute or two, but the lines of her face were changing. "I know what you mean now," she said slowly. "I couldn't see it before." Then with a little smile she went on--"Yes, Mr. Linden, I am willing. But what must I do?" "'Only believe--'" he answered. "Do what you say you are willing to do." "But," said Faith, looking at him with a face which certainly spoke her near the 'little child' character which Christians do bear,--"there must be something else. I must not be like what I have been. I want to know what I ought to _do_." "Christ's own words tell you better than I can,--'My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me'--that is the description of a Christian on earth. And then it follows--'I give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.'" There was silence; and then Faith said, "But how am I to follow him?" "How did the people do to whom he said those words when he was on earth?" "I don't know!" "'They arose, and left all, and followed him.'" "Well, Mr. Linden?"-- "It is just such a following that we are called to now--only that it must be in heart and life instead of actual footsteps. Just so must we rise up from doing our own will and pleasure, fix our eyes upon Christ, and follow him!" "But how are we to know--how am _I_ to know," said Faith, "what _I_ ought to do?" "Study Christ's summing up of the ten commandments,--does not that cover the whole ground? And then--do every little duty as it comes to hand. If we are truly ready to do God's will, he will send us work,--or if not-- 'They also serve, who only stand and wait.'" Faith looked an earnest, wistful, sorrowful look at him. "But then," she said,--"I don't do anything well--how can I know that I am right? You know what you said--of the two roads only one led to the shore. I keep thinking of that--ever since." "A traveller in the right road," said Mr. Linden, "may walk with very weak and unsteady pace,--yet he knows which way his face is set. Which way is yours?" Faith's face was in her hands. But Mrs. Derrick's step just then sounding at the front door, she sprang away before it could reach the parlour. CHAPTER VIII. The decision of Mr. Linden on the school question was duly communicated to Judge Harrison; and the time fixed was Thursday, the fifth of October. The place chosen, after much care, was the Judge's own house and grounds adjoining, which were spacious enough, and afforded good opportunity for setting tables and also for spreading them. So all that was fixed; and all Pattaquasset was a tip-toe; and Mr. Linden submitted to what he could not help, with as good a grace as he might. And September was sliding off into October with the gentlest, sunniest, softliest grace. With much the same sort of grace Faith Derrick walked up and down in her mother's household; from the dairy where she made her butter, to Mr. Linden's room which it was her care to keep in order; and where she might if she chose amuse herself with Mr. Linden's books. If she did, it was unknown to their owner; he surely found every volume lying where he left it. There was chance enough for Faith, in his long absences from the house; and the books offered temptations. There were a good many of them, stowed in old-fashioned corner and window cupboards; good editions, in good bindings, and an excellent very choice selection of subjects and authors. There were books in various languages of which Faith could make nothing--but sighs; in her own mother tongue there were varieties of learning and literature enough to distract her. All however that the owner could know of other hands about his books, was that there was no dust upon them. Perhaps he had a mind to know more--or that there should be more to be known; for about this time two remarkable things happened. One was, that Faith found a little French book ensconced among the stockings in her basket,--and the very next morning as Mr. Linden was setting off for school, he stopped at the threshold and inquired-- "Miss Faith--whereabouts are you in Prescott?" That same colour flushed in Faith's face; it did not rise to her temples this time, but glowed richly in her cheeks. She looked down and up, and down; words seemed confounded in their utterance. "You do not mean that you have finished it already?" he said with an excellent look of astonishment. "I have almost,"--said Faith. "Mr. Linden, how could you tell?--I don't know what makes me do so!" she said putting both hands to her cheeks,--"there's no shame in it." "I didn't suppose there was," he said smiling, and closed the door. Very oddly, in spite of morning duties, Faith's next move was to go to her basket, pull out that little French book and examine it all over inside and out. Not one word of it could she read, not one sign of it did she know; what was the meaning of its place in her basket? Faith pondered that question probably while her cheeks were coming back to their usual tint; then the book was slipped back again and she hurried away to help her mother with the dishes. "You needn't come, child," said Mrs. Derrick,--"what do you think I'll make of such a handful of things as that? To be sure Cindy's cleaning up to-day, but I'm pretty smart, yet. Go off and study arithmetic if you want to. Have you got through that yet?" "Almost through, mother," Faith answered smiling. "Well why don't you go and finish?" said her mother. "Mayn't I finish these first?" said Faith, through whose fingers and the towel the cups and saucers slipped with a dexterity that was, to say the least of it, pretty. "Why mother, you were not so keen after arithmetic the other day." "Keen after it!" said Mrs. Derrick,--"la, child, I don't pretend to be keen. But I never could bear to see a thing half done,--I'd rather do it twice over." There was something else running in Faith's mind; for after abstractedly setting down one after another several saucers, polished from the hot water and huckaback, she dropped her towel and flung both arms round her mother's neck. "Mother!--there is one thing I want you to do--I want you to be a Christian!" There was persuasion in the soft head that nestled against her, if Faith's words lacked it. To the words her mother gave no answer, but she returned the caress with interest; wrapping Faith in her arms, and drawing her down to the next chair, as if--literally--she could not stand that. "Pretty child!" she said--and more than one tear fell upon Faith's bright hair,--"you're the best child that ever was!--and always were!" "No, mother," said Faith kissing her.--"But will you?" "I don't know!" said Mrs. Derrick,--"that's what your father used to say, Faith,--and I used to think I'd like to, to please him,--but somehow I never did." "Never wished it for your own sake, dear mother?" "Yes--sometimes--when I saw him die--" said Mrs. Derrick. "Hush child--don't say another word to me now, for I can't bear it." And giving Faith an embrace which took off all thought of roughness from her words, Mrs. Derrick rose up and went about her dishes again. And Faith tried to do as much; but the dropping tears were too fast for her towel; her hand sought in vain to forbid their coming; she laid down her work and went away. Truth however is always at one with itself, and so is right feeling, and so is duty. Faith as well as her mother had plenty of business on hand that morning; and it was not long before she was as hard at work in the kitchen as if there were no other interests in the world. There was bread to make. That was done. There was an elaborate chicken pie to concoct for dinner, which Faith would not leave to her mother to-day. There was a certain kind of muffins which Mrs. Derrick suggested Mr. Linden would be apt to like, and which they had never had since he was in Pattaquasset. To hear was to obey, and Faith compounded the muffins. Then fresh yeast must be made, and Faith always did that. Let it not be thought that Mrs. Derrick was idle while thus indicating floury fields of exertion to her daughter. Very far from it. There was all the house and all the rest of the dinner to see to; besides Cindy, who was one woman's work. The butcher was to be met, and farm questions settled with the farmer; and Mrs. Derrick was still deep in vegetables when Faith quitted the kitchen. How much time she had left for study before dinner it doesn't appear. After dinner, this day, there was small study chance--or at least small chance to get books; for it was Wednesday,--and Wednesday was in every Pattaquasset school a half holiday. Indeed that arrangement of things extended beyond the schools; and on this particular Wednesday, Mrs. Derrick devoted the holiday time to a far-off neighbour--declaring that she "felt like a good long walk." And after her departure the dreaminess of a warm fall afternoon settled down upon the house and its inhabitants. Faith sat sewing by the parlour window, or reading--stealthily; for Mr. Linden with his book sat in the porch not three feet from her; but it is not too much to say that neither made great progress. Who could read or work--or think--vigilantly, in that hazy sunshine?--the very bees took a siesta on the wing, and rocked to and fro in the soft air. About the middle of the afternoon a small white-headed boy was seen revolving down the main street of Pattaquasset. I say revolving--for the slight suggestion of a small stone in the road--or a spot of particular dustiness--was enough to make the boy break the monotony of his walk with a somerset; by which style of progress he at last arrived at Mrs. Derrick's door, entered the gate and came up the steps. There he paused and gazed at Mr. Linden. "What is your name?" inquired that gentleman, with the benevolent idea of setting the boy's thoughts in motion in a straight line. "Charles twelf'" replied the boy promptly. "Charles twelfth!" said Mr. Linden. "Are there eleven more of you?" The boy put his finger in his mouth but brought forth no answer. "Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "are you the planet which has attracted this small star out of its usual orbit?" Faith came to the door. "Who are you, little fellow?" said she, eying the dusty white head. "Who be you?" said the boy. "The centre of your solar system at present," said Mr. Linden. "Is that the way satellites generally ask questions?" "What a queer man!" said the boy looking at Mr. Linden. "What a queer boy--" said that gentleman gravely. "What do you want?" said Faith, biting her lips and laughing at both of them. The boy gazed at her, but he also gazed at the scraper!--and the attraction of that was irresistible. Down went his white head, and over went his dusty feet, and then Charles twelfth was himself again. "My ma' kep' your 'ma to supper," he said. "And she says you may come too, if you want ter--and bring _him_. We've got lots o' pies." And stimulated by this recollection, the boy turned without delay and began his revolutions homeward. Faith ran down the two or three porch steps and laid hold of the little invader. "Here! You Charles twelfth!--who are you, and where does your ma' live?" "She lives down to our house." "Where's that?" "Down the woody road--" said the boy,--"next after you come to Capting Samp's blackberry field. There's sunflowers in front." "Then you are Mrs. Seacomb's boy? Very well," said Faith, letting him go. "Mr. Linden, there is an invitation for you." "Is there a carriage road into Sweden? or do we walk?" he replied. "Sweden?"--said Faith,--"it is in the woods, two or three miles from here. A woman lives there--the widow of a man that used to sail with my father. My father was captain of a ship, Mr. Linden. Mr. Seacomb was one of his mates, and very fond of him; and we go to see Mrs. Seacomb once in a while. I don't think, perhaps, you would like it. It's a pretty ride." "That is a kind of ride I do like." "But I don't know whether you would like it all. If you say so, I will have up the wagon." "Thank you--_that_ I should not like. I prefer to have it up myself, Miss Faith--if you will have up your bonnet." Faith's face gave way at that, and the bonnet and the wagon were up accordingly. The way led first down the high road, bordered with gardens and farms and the houses of the village--if village it were called, where the neighbours looked at each other's distant windows across wide tracts of meadow, orchards and grain fields. The road was reasonably dusty, in the warm droughts of September; nevertheless the hedgerows that grew thick in many places shewed gay tufts of autumn flowering; and the mellow light lay on every wayside object and sober distance like the reflection from a butterfly's wing. Except the light, all changed when they got into the woody road. It was woody indeed!--except where it was grassy; and woods and grass played hide and seek with each other. The grass-grown road, its thicker grass borders--where bright fall flowers raised their proud little heads; the old fence, broken down in places, where bushes burst through and half filled the gap; bright hips on the wild rosebushes, tufts of yellow fern leaves, brilliant handfuls of red and yellow which here a maple and there a pepperidge held out over the road; the bushy, bosquey, look which the uncut undergrowth gave the wood on either hand; the gleams of soft green light, the bands of shadow, the deeper thickets where the eye looked twice and came back unsatisfied,--over all the blue sky, with forest leaves for a border. Such was the woody road that afternoon. Flocks of little birds of passage flitted and twittered about their night's lodging, or came down to feast on wintergreen or cedar berries; and Mrs. Derrick's old horse walked softly on, as if he knew no one was in a hurry. "'With what a glory comes and goes the year'!" Mr. Linden said. "And stays all the while, don't it?" said Faith rather timidly and after an instant's hesitation. "Yes, in a sort--though to my fancy the other seasons have rather beauty and splendour, while autumn keeps the glory for itself." "I think it is glorious all the year round," said Faith;--"though to be sure," she added with a sudden check, "perhaps I don't use the word right." "Yes, it is glorious,--but I think 'glorious' and 'glory' have drifted a little apart upon the tide of human speech. Glory, always seems to my mind a warm, glowing, effulgent thing,--but ice-peaks may be glorious. The old painters encircled the heads of their saints with a 'glory' and you could not imagine that a cold light." Faith listened, with the eyes of one first seeing into the world of wonder and beauty hidden from common vision. She did not answer, till her thoughts came back to the road they were travelling, and catching her breath a little she said, "_This_ isn't a cold light." "No, truly. And just so far as the saints on earth walk in a cold light, so far, I think, their light is less glorious." "I don't see how they can,"--said Faith timidly. "They do--sometimes,--standing aloof like those ice-peaks. You can see the white garments, but no glory transfigures them. Such a face as Stephen's, Miss Faith, is worth a journey to see." Faith thought so; wondered how many such faces he had seen. Her meditations plunged her too deep for words. "What are you musing about?--if I may ask," Mr. Linden said presently. She coloured but answered, "I was thinking what one must be, to have a face like Stephen's." "That is the promise, you know--from 'glory to glory.' 'From grace to glory' must come first. 'What one must _be_'--yes, that is it. But it is good to measure the promises now and then." Faith laid that last remark up in her heart, enshrining it in gold, as it were. But she said nothing. "How is it with you?" he said turning his eyes full upon her,--"you have not told me lately. Are the clouds all gone?" Her look met his, wistful, and simple as her answer. "I see the light through."-- "'Unto the perfect-day'!" Mr. Linden said, his smile--slight as it was--bringing a sort of illumination with it. After a few minutes he turned to her again. "Miss Faith, one whom Christ has called into his army should wear his uniform." "What, sir?"--she said, the colour starting readily. "With the private vows of allegiance, there should be also a public profession." "Yes,"--she said, "I suppose so.--I am willing--I am ready." Timid, modest, even shrinking as she was, more in view of the subject than of her adviser, her face was as frank as the day. His hand quitted the reins a moment, taking hers and giving it a sort of 'right-hand-of-fellowship' clasp, glad and warm and earnest, as was his look. "I am not going to ask you anymore questions," he said,--"you will tell me if there are any you wish answered." Her "Thank you" was a little breathless. For a while the old horse jogged on in his easy way, through the woods and the fall flowers and the sunny glow; and the eyes of the two travellers seemed to be busy therewith. Then Faith said with a little timid touch upon her voice, "Mr. Linden--I suppose it was you that put a little green book in my basket last night?" "Jumping at conclusions again!" he said. "What sort of a little green book was it?" "I don't know! I suppose you can tell me." "Do you suppose I will?" "Why not? What did you expect me to do with it, Mr. Linden?" "Find out what sort of a book it is." "You know I can't read a word of it," said Faith rather low. "Look at that old house," said Mr. Linden. They were passing a cleared field or two, one of which seemed yet under cultivation and shewed corn stalks and pumpkin vines, but the other was in that poverty-stricken state described by the proverb as 'I once had.' The house was a mere skeleton. Clapboards, indeed, there were still, and shingles; but doors and windows had long since been removed--by man or Time,--and through the open spaces you could see here a cupboard door, and there a stairway, and there a bit of partition wall with its faded high-coloured paper. No remnant of furniture--no rag of old clothes or calico; but in the dooryard a few garden flowers still struggled to keep their place, among daisies, thistles and burdocks. The little field was bordered with woodland, and human voice or face there was none. The sunbeams which shone so bright on the tinted trees seemed powerless here; the single warm ray that shot through one of the empty window frames fell mournfully on the cold hearthstone. "Yes," said Faith.--"I don't know who ever lived there. It has stood so a good while." The road grew more solitary still after that, passing on where the trees came close upon either hand, and arched their branches overhead, casting a deep and lonely shadow. The flowers dwindled, the briars and rank grass increased. "As to 'Le Philosophe sous les toits,' Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, touching the horse with his whip, "there are just two things to be said. In the first place--with the help of another book or two which are not beyond reach--you may make his acquaintance quite comfortably by yourself. In the second--no, I shall not tell you the second,--that you may find out by yourself too. There is Charles twelfth--and all his subjects one might judge." For on Captain Samp's blackberry hill--albeit blackberries were bygone things--a troop, a flock of children were scattered up and down, picking flowers. Golden rod and asters and 'moonshine,' filled the little not-too-clean hands, and briars and wild roses combed the 'unkempt' hair somewhat roughly. Whiteheaded youngsters all of them, looking (but for small patterns of blue calico and nankeen) not unlike a drove of little pigs. Next appeared an imposing array of sunflowers, below which prince's feather waved in crimson splendour, and the little brown capital of 'Sweden' stood revealed. Or I should say, partially; for the house stood in the deepest corner of the shade, just where the road took a sharp turn towards the sunlight; and Mr. Linden alighted and tied his horse to a tree, with little fear that anything would happen to him unless the darkness put him to sleep. "Charles twelfth has the best of it just now, Miss Faith," he said as he opened the gate for her. "Why do people build houses where they cannot see the sun!" They were met at the door by Mrs. Seacomb. "Do tell!" she said--"why if this aint you! But what made you come so late? and how slow your horse did come when he was about it. I've been watchin' you this age. Well Faith--I declare--you're as pretty as a posie! And this is the teacher I s'pose--Guess likely you haint been down this way afore, sir,--it's a good ways, and the road's lonesome, but it's a fine place when you're here--so retired and shady." All Mr. Linden's command of countenance only enabled him to answer the last remark with a strong affirmative. "Yes sir," said Mrs. Seacomb, "it is; and there's a good many of the trees is evergreens, so the shade never goes off. I do s'pose, if I could keep the children more to home they wouldn't get nigh so brown as they do; but if I was to run out in the lot and whip 'em home every half hour they'd be back again afore I could count one. Now Genevievy--she does stay round under the trees a good deal, but then she's fond of flowers. She'll be real glad to see you Faith, and so'll your mother"--and Mrs. Seacomb at last got her visiters into the parlour. The parlour was as brown as the rest of the house. The visiters had not time to remark more particularly; for their attention was claimed by a tall girl of about Faith's age, with a loosely built, strong jointed frame, in as marked contrast as possible to the clean outline and soft angles of the other. She shook hands very cordially with Faith, but made a reverence to the 'teacher.' "Won't you take a chair, sir," she said, setting one for the gentleman. "Aint it an age since we've looked at you, Faith! Your mother's been here a long spell. Ma' was proud to see her come it. You haint been here, seems to me, ever before!" "How do you do, Genevieve?" "I'm respectable well. Can't do nothin' uncommon, you know, down in this 'eclusion. I guess it's as good to see company as blackberries. We don't get it though.--I hope you don't mind a lonely sitiwation, sir?" The last words with deep gravity and a bending head. "It agrees well with a contemplative mind," replied the gentleman, resolving that the young lady should not talk 'high english' alone. "It does!" said Genevieve admiringly, taking him all in with her eyes. "There is always something to look at to make you contemplate.--Then you don't think it an objection, sir, to live so far away from society as this?" "I have lived further away from society than this," said Mr. Linden. "I have seen regions of country, Miss Seacomb, where you could not even hear of anybody but yourself." "I declare!--And war' n't it awful still, sir?" "It was beautiful, still," said Mr. Linden. "I reckon it was!" At this juncture Charles twelfth made his appearance, and Mr. Linden at once turned to him-- "Well sir--how are the Turks?" To which Charles twelfth, being taken much by surprise, replied, "They're pretty well." "Genevievy," said her mother, "if you'll make yourself agreeable, I'll go hurry tea afore the rest of the children comes. They _will_ all come to table, and there's so many." And Mrs. Derrick as in duty bound, followed her to help. "I'll go tell 'em!" said Charles twelfth as Mrs. Seacomb went out. "No you will not"--said Mr. Linden,--"you will not go out of the house again till I give you leave. Why don't you come to Sunday school and learn to behave yourself?" "What else?"--said Charles twelfth. "What else!" said Mr. Linden,--"that will take you some time. Afterwards you will learn all the lessons your teacher gives you." "Who'll he be?" said Charles twelfth coming a little nearer. "You?" "No indeed," said Mr. Linden, "I have quite enough to do now. I dare say this lady will take you into her class--if you ask her politely." It was worth while to see Faith's face now, for the little stir and the flush and the sweet gravity that was in it. Not so much as a glance went to Mr. Linden, but leaning forward towards the young enemy of Peter the Great, she said in her sweet tones, "Will you come?" Charles twelfth looked up at her rather earnestly, though his finger was in his mouth the while; and then having ended his scrutiny gave a grave little nod of assent, and moved round and stood at her side. "Look here," said Faith,--"don't you want to shew me how the sunflowers grow in your garden?" "They bain't mine--" said Charles twelfth.--"I'll shew you my house--if he'll let me go." That difficulty being got over, Charles twelfth trotted out of the front door, and on through the long grass, to a remarkable edifice of clam shells, broken earthenware, moss and corn cobs, which was situated close by the fence. Faith commented and asked questions, till she had made herself slightly familiar to the young woodsman's mind; and then it was agreed that he should come Sunday morning bright and early to Mrs. Derrick's and he and Faith would go to Sunday school together. By the time this arrangement was thoroughly entered into, the summons came to tea. "Now do just set down and make yourselves at home," said Mrs. Seacomb, "and eat as if you were home too. Faith," she added in a good sized whisper--"I did like to forgot all about it!--and your mother could have telled me, too, but you'll do just as well,--does he always take cold pork and potatoes to his supper?" Faith's eyes involuntarily opened; then as the meaning of this appeal broke upon her she answered with a very decided "No, ma'am." "'Cause we've got some handy," Mrs. Seacomb said. "Now Mr. Simpson, he staid with us a spell, and he couldn't do without it--if I had pound cake and plum cake and mince pie for supper, it made no differ--and if there warn't but one cold potato in the house it made none either; he wanted that just the same. To be sure he was easy suited. And I didn't know but all school teachers was the same way. I never had much experience of 'em. Genevievy--just lock the front door and then the children can't get in,--the back door is locked. I do take to peace and quiet!" "Is Charles twelfth much like his brothers and sisters, ma'am?" said Mr. Linden. "Well no--" said Mrs. Seacomb, dealing out blackberry jam,--"he always was an uncommon child. The rest's all real 'sponsible, but there's none of 'em alike but Americus Vespucus.--It's fresh, Faith--the children picked the blackberries in Captain Samp's lot.--Charles twelfth does act sometimes as if he was helped. I thought he took a turn awhile ago, to behave like the rest--but he's reacted." And having emptied the dish of jam Mrs. Seacomb began upon the cheese. "Which is Americus?" said Faith. "Is he older or younger than Charles twelfth Mrs. Seacomb?" "Well he's older," said Mrs. Seacomb;--"_that's_ him," she added, as a loud rattling of the back door was followed in an incredibly short space of time by a similar rattling at the front, after which came the clatter of various sticks and clods at the window. "I guess you won't care about seein' him nearer," said Mrs. Seacomb, stirring her tea composedly. "Only don't nobody open the door--I do love peace and quiet. They won't break the window, 'cause they know they'd catch it if they did." "Children _is_ a plague, I do s'pose," remarked Genevieve. "Is your tea agreeable, sir?" Which question Mr. Linden waived by asking another, and the meal proceeded with a peace and quietness which suited no ideas but Mrs. Seacomb's. At last tea was over; the ladies put on their bonnets again, and the old horse being roused from his meditations, the party set forward on their pleasant way home. Doubly pleasant now, for the sun was just setting; the air was fresher, and the glow of the sunset colours put a new 'glory' upon all the colours of earth. And light and shadow made witching work of the woody road as long as the glow lasted. Then the colours faded, the shadows spread; grey gathered where orange and brown had been; that glory was gone; and then it began to be shewn, little by little, as the blue also changed for grey, that there is "another glory of the stars." And then presently, above the trees that shaded Mrs. Seacomb's retreat, the moon rose full and bright and laid her strips of silver under the horse's feet. Were they all exhausted with their afternoon's work? or was this shifting scene of colour and glory enough to busy their minds? Mr. Linden found his way along the road silently, and the two ladies, behind him seemed each to be wrapped in her own thoughts; and moonlight and star light favoured that, and so on they jogged between the shadowy walls of trees tipped and shimmering with light, and over those strips of silver on the road. Out of the woods at last, on the broad, full-lit highway; past one farm and house after another, lights twinkling at them from the windows; and then their own door with its moon-lit porch. The old horse would stand, no fear; the reins were thrown over his back, and the three went in together. As Mrs. Derrick passed on first and the others were left behind in the doorway, Faith turned and held out her hand. "Thank you, Mr. Linden!"--she said softly. He took the hand, and inquired gravely, "whether she was taking leave of him for the rest of his natural life?" Faith's mood had probably not been precisely a merry one when she began; but her low laugh rung through the hall at that, and she ran in. CHAPTER IX. Mr. Simlins stood on his doorstep and surveyed such portion of his fair inheritance as his eye could reach from that point. Barns and outhouses already in good order, Mr. Simlins favoured with a mental coat of paint; fences were put up and gate-posts renewed, likewise in imagination. Imagination went further, and passed from the stores of yellow grain concealed by those yellow clapboards, to the yellow stubble-fields whence they had come; so that on the whole Mr. Simlins took rather a glowing view of things, considering that it was not yet sunrise. The cloudless October sky above his head suggested only that it would be a good day for digging potatoes,--the white frost upon the ground made Mr. Simlins 'guess it was about time to be lookin' after chestnuts.' The twitter of the robins brought to mind the cherries they had stolen,--the exquisite careering of a hawk in the high blue ether, spoke mournfully of a slaughtered chicken: the rising stir of the morning wind said plainly as a wind could (in its elegant language) that 'if it was goin' to blow at that rate, it would be plaguey rough goin' after round clams.' With which reflection, Mr. Simlins turned about and went in to his early breakfast of pork and potatoes,--only, as he was not a 'teacher,' they were hot and not cold. Thus pleasantly engaged--discussing his breakfast,--Mr. Simlins was informed by one of his 'help,' that a boy wanted to see him. Which was no uncommon occurrence, for all the boys about Pattaquasset liked Mr. Simlins. "Just as lieves see him as not," said Mr. Simlins--"if he don't want my breakfast. Come in, there, you!"-- And Dromy Tuck presented himself. "'Early bird catches the worm,'" said Mr. Simlins. "Don't want my breakfast, Dromy, do you?" "Had mine afore I started," replied Dromy. "But the thing's here. Mr. Linden says as how we wants your nuts off o' them trees over to Neanticut--and he says if you don't want 'em, why it'll fit, he says. And if you do, why you may keep 'em that's all." "What's Mr. Linden goin' to do with the nuts, s'pos'n he gets 'em?" "_He_ aint agoin' to get 'em," said Droiny--"it's us;--us and him. You see we did somethin' to please him, and so now he said as how he'd like to do somethin' to please us, if he only knowed what it was. And there wa'n't a boy of the hull on 'em as didn't say he'd rather go after nuts than any other livin' thing whatsomedever." "And now I s'pose you're askin' for them particular nuts to please me. It's a round game we're on," said Mr. Simlins. "How're you goin' to get to Neanticut? same way Jack went up his bean?--won't pay." "He didn't tell--" said Dromy. "He don't say everything to oncet, commonly." "When 'you goin'?" "Don' know, sir. Mr. Linden said as how we'd better go afore the nuts did. And Saturday aint fur off." "Saturday--well! You tell Mr. Linden, if he'll send Reuben Taylor here Saturday morning, he can take the big wagon; it'll hold the hull on ye, and I guess I'll do without the team; and if he wants to go into the old house and make a fire in case you want something to eat afore you get home, there's not a soul in it and no wood nother--but you can pick it up; and I'll give Reuben the key. Now don't you splice the two ends o' that together by the way." Great was the stir in a certain stratum of Pattaquasset that day! Many and startling were the demands for pies, cheese, and gingerbread, to be answered on the ensuing Saturday. Those good housewives who had no boys at school or elsewhere, thought it must be 'real good fun' to help them get ready for such a frolic,--those who _had_ boys--wished they had none! As to the rest, the disturbance spread a little (as disturbances are wont) from its proper sphere of action. Two boys even invaded Mrs. Derrick's peaceful dwelling, and called down Faith from conquering Peru. These were Reuben Taylor and Joe Deacon; for Joe with a slight variation of the popular adage, considered that 'once a scholar, always a scholar.' Reuben seemed inclined on his part to leave the present business in Joe's hands, but a sharp nudge from that young gentleman's elbow admonished him not only to speak but to speak quickly. Reuben modestly preferred his modest request, guiltless of any but the most innocent arrangement of his words. "We boys are all going over to Neanticut nutting, next Saturday, Miss Faith," he said, "and we thought as Mr. Linden was going, maybe you'd like to go too--and we'd all enjoy it a great deal more." "There ain't room in the wagon," put in Joe--"but I s'pose you kin fix that." "Joe!" said Reuben flushing up. "There's plenty of room, Miss Faith--there isn't one of us that wouldn't find it, somehow. I could walk easy enough, I know that." Faith flushed up too on her part a little, unconsciously; and asked who else was going. "Sam _aint_"--said Joe, as if that was all he cared about. "Only the boys, Miss Faith," said Reuben with another glance at his comrade. "But it's a pretty place over there,--and so's the ride. There's room for Mrs. Derrick too if she'd like it," Reuben added,--"I suppose we shall be gone all day." "It's very good of you to come and ask me, both of you," said Faith, evidently in perplexity;--"and I should like to go dearly if I can, Reuben--but I am afraid I can't. I am glad if the wagon's big enough to hold you all without me. You'll have a great time." "You may say that!" said Joe--while Reuben looked down, disappointed. "We didn't know whether you would," he said--"but Mr. Linden said you wouldn't be displeased at our asking. We asked him first, Miss Faith--or we shouldn't have made so free. And you shall have some of the nuts, anyway!" A little cheered with which view of the subject, Reuben made his bow, and Joe Deacon whistled after him out of the gate. Faith looked after them, disappointed too. There was a grave set of the lines of her mouth, and it was with rather a thoughtful face that she looked down the road for a minute. Then remembering the volume of Prescott in her hand, which her finger still kept open, she went up stairs again and set herself down to finish her treasure. Faith's reading-place, it must be known, was no other than a deep window-seat in Mr. Linden's room. That was a large, old-fashioned room, as has been said, with brown wainscottings and corner and window cupboards; and having on two sides a pleasant exposure, the light generally made it a winsome place to look at. Now, in this October weather, it came in mellow and golden from a softened sun and changing foliage; the brown wood and white walls and dark old furniture and rich bindings of books, all mingled in the sunlight to make a rich sunny picture. There were pictures outside too and pleasant ones. From the south window, straight down the street, the houses and trees and the brown spire of the Methodist church stretched away--roofs and gable ends and the enormous tufty heads of the elm trees that half hung over them. At the back of these houses, the eye went uninterruptedly over meadows and fields to the belt of woods which skirted at a little distance the line of the shore from the Lighthouse to Barley Point--here and there a break through which a schooner might be seen standing up or down the Sound; elsewhere only its topsails might be discerned above the woods. The western window took in the break where Barley Point lay; and further on in the southwest a distant glimpse of the Sound, with the little brown line of Monongatesak Point. The lane leading to the shore ran off due west, with houses, gardens, orchards, bordering it and spotting the country generally. A fair country--level and rich--all the range west and northwest was uninterrupted smooth fields; the eye had full sweep to the wide horizon; the dotting of trees, barns and houses, only enriched it, giving the sweet air of peaceful and happy occupation. Faith's place was the deep low sill, or seat, of that western window. There often Faith's book rested, while on the floor before it the reader sat. This time the book was near finished, and a few more leaves turned over changed the 'near' into 'quite.' Faith stood then considering the books. The name of Prescott on another volume had tempted her, for she had taken it down and considered the title page; before settling to it, Faith laid her hand on one of another set not yet much examined; a set of particular outside beauty. But what was the inside? For Faith stood by the cupboard door, not looking here and there, but leaf by leaf walking into the middle of the book. Faith rested the volume on the shelf and turned over more leaves; and at last dropped down by her window seat, laid the book there, put her cheek on her hand as usual, a cheek already flushed, and lost herself in the very beams of the afternoon sun. It might have been a dream, it might have been a vision (only that _vision_ it was not)--it might have been reality; wrapped up in her book, what should Faith know? Yet when some crisis was turned over with the leaf, and the real world began to supplant the unreal, Faith started up and looked round. Had she heard a step? a rustling of paper on the table? The door was firmly shut, the shadowy corner near by had lost the sunbeams, but was else unchanged; the table looked just as before--unless--Had there been a letter lying there when she came in?--Faith never could tell. The door opened now, however, and Mrs. Derrick entered--peering in somewhat anxiously. "Why here you are, pretty child!" she said, "I began to think you were lost! Mrs. Somers has been here, and so's Miss Harrison, and they wanted to see you ever so much. I don't think that's a good cheese we cut last night, Faith,--I guess I'll cut another." Faith was an image of innocent guilt; and without daring to ask if it was tea-time, she ran down stairs. Her mother followed and stood by, not with any thought of overseeing but for the pleasure thereof. "Well child," she said, "are you learning all the world up? What's in the oven now?" "Don't you think that is good?"-- The question had reference to the freshly cut cheese, of which Faith presented her mother with a small morsel. Mrs. Derrick tasted--critically, but the first topic was the most interesting. "What's made your cheeks burn?" she said laying her hand softly against the rose-colour. "If you're going to study yourself into a fever, Faith, _I_'m not going to stand by and see it." "No fear, mother. I forgot myself. Is Mr. Linden come in?" "He must be--he always is by this time. Miss Harrison says the Doctor's got back, Faith." Faith took up her cheese and walked in with it. The tea-table stood alone. But the tea hour being come, and Mr. Linden known to be surely there within five minutes of the tea hour, the tea was made--and not a minute too soon. Faith was not on this occasion talkative, nor anybody else. The meal proceeded rather silently. Spoons spoke in low tones, knives made themselves busy; and Cindy put her head in at the door and withdrew it with the mental ejaculation, "My! if they baint settin' there yet!" At this point Mr. Linden spoke. "And so, Miss Faith, you have no fancy for nuts to crack?" Faith flushed a little and hesitated. "I didn't say so, Mr. Linden." "Have you any dislike to Neanticut?" "Not the least," she said laughing. "I dare not go further, and inquire as to the company. Don't you know how to drive, Miss Faith?" "And what if I do?" said Faith. "Is there any insuperable objection to your driving Mrs. Derrick over to Neanticut Saturday morning? It would be so comfortable to know there were people there--and fires--in case it was a cold morning," said Mr. Linden demurely. "I could send Reuben with you, and the key." "O that's good!" cried Faith clapping her hands. "Mother, will you go?" "Why don't I always, just where you want me to, child?" said her mother. "I should like to go to Neanticut, besides. I haven't been there this long while. But I guess you and I can open the house, Faith, without Reuben Taylor." "After all, Mr. Linden," said Faith, "there is a great objection to my driving mother over there,--because she'll drive me." "There is a great objection to your opening the house--for Reuben has the key--or will have it; and keys you know, are matters of trust, and not transferable. I don't know but Mr. Simlins would make an exception in your favour,--but I shall not ask him." "I am glad to have Reuben along," said Faith. "And I suppose we must take our dinner with us, Mr. Linden?" "I have no doubt there will be dinner enough from other quarters," he answered, "but how much of it will be like Mrs. Seacomb's tea I cannot say. I think it would be safe to take a very little basket--such as would suffice for two ladies." "O with Reuben we can manage nicely," said Faith joyously. He looked at her--pleased with her pleasure. "Don't make any grand preparation for me," he said,--"you know I must eat in commons--for the same reason that I cannot offer to drive you over." "Does that mean that you will have to take a piece out of everybody's basket?" "As near as possible!" Faith shook her head, but made no further remark. Early Saturday morning, before any other steps had brushed the dew from the grassy roadside, Reuben Taylor was on his way from the rocky coast point where he lived to the smooth well-ordered abode of Mr. Simlins. Receiving from that gentleman the key of the old house at Neanticut, and having harnessed the horses to the big wagon under his special directions, Reuben drove down to the village, put horses and wagon in safe keeping, and reported himself at Mrs. Derrick's. All things there being in readiness, that small turn-out was soon on its way; leaving Mr. Linden to look after his own much larger consignment. And despite the presence of Reuben Mrs. Derrick chose to drive; because, as she said, "when she had the reins in her own hands, she knew which way the horse was going." The road for awhile went on towards Mrs. Seacomb's, but passing the turn into the woods kept on its uneven way to the ferry. The natural hedges--all glittering with dew--shewed little colour but in the leaves. The fair clethra and the sweet clematis had ended their short reign and were gone, and high-coloured sumachs flamed out in insurrection. Now the country became more hilly, and where the eastern portion of Pattaquasset lay close upon the Mong, the road went down by a succession of steep pitches to its shore Then the road ran on through a sort of half drained marsh--varied in its course by holes and logs and a little bridge, and then they were at the ferry. Now the ferry between Pattaquasset and Neanticut was--and is, as I trust it will always be--propelled by wind power. No plodding horses to distract one's eyes from the surrounding peace,--no puffing steam to break with its discord the sweet rush of the water,--but a large, flat-bottomed boat, a white sail, and a Yankee steersman. The only evil attendant upon these advantages is, that the establishment cannot be upon both sides at once--and that the steersman, like other mortals, must take his dinner. This time it happened to be breakfast; for having been much interrupted and called for at the hour when he should have taken that refreshment, long Tim declared "he would have it now, and no mistake!" The little fact that two ladies were waiting for him on the other side, did not in the least affect his appetite or his deliberation. "Faith," said her mother when they had waited about a quarter of an hour, "if 'tother wagon should catch up we shouldn't get there first!" Faith laughed and said, "Well, mother!" "Well, child," said her mother cheerfully, while Reuben waved fresh signals to the obdurate ferryman, "I'm sure I don't mind, if you don't." "He's coming out now!" said Reuben,--"or his wife is--and that's just as good." And so it appeared; for a short vision of a red petticoat and blue jacket on the other bank, was followed by the ferryman himself,--the white sail rose up above the little boat, and she floated smoothly over. Then Mrs. Derrick drove carefully across the boat bridge, and long Tim pushed off into the stream. How pretty it was! the winding river above, with its woody banks, and villages, and spires; and its broader bends below, towards the Sound. They were about midway in the stream when Reuben suddenly cried out-- "Look, Miss Faith!"-- And there came the great wagon, at not the slowest possible rate, over the long marsh road. The first sight of the ferryboat and her freight was the signal for a simultaneous shout from the whole wagon load--which long Tim took for a summons to himself. "'Taint no sort o' use hollerin' like _that_," he said, with a little turn of his steering oar; "'cause I aint a goin' back till I get somewheres to go back _from_--nor then neither mabbe. I kin count dollars whar they kint count cents, neow." And 'neow' the little wagon was beyond pursuit,--up the hill from the ferry, on over the farm road, drove Mrs. Derrick--somewhat at the quickest; until the old untenanted house rose just before them, and Reuben sprang down to take the reins and help the ladies out. It was a pleasant old farmhouse that, in spite of its deserted condition. They went to the kitchen, bright with windows looking out to grass fields and trees. Mrs. Derrick stood at open door and window, recalling scenes and people she remembered there, or watching for the big wagon to make its appearance; while Reuben and Faith went to the outhouses, and finally by dint of perseverance found a supply of wood in an old rotten tumbled-down fence. Mrs. Derrick proclaimed that the wagon was coming, as the foragers returned; but there was a splendid blaze going up chimney before the aforesaid conveyance drew up at the door, and the whole first party turned out to see it unload. The wagon was unloaded in the twinkling of an eye; then came rummaging for baskets; then so many boys and so many baskets hopped and hummed round, like a little bevy of wasps--with nothing at least of the bee business-character about them. "Mr. Linden, be we going to stop here?"-- "Is here where the trees be, Mr. Linden?"-- "Mr. Linden, Joe Deacon aint behaving nohow!" "Mr. Linden, will we leave our baskets and come back to the house? or will they be to go along?"--inquired a more sober tongue. While others were giving their opinion in little asides that it was 'prime'--and 'fust-rate'--and arguing the comparative promise of chestnut and hickory trees. And one of the bigger boys of the party, _not_ distinguished for his general good qualities, sidling up to Reuben, accosted him under breath with a sly, "So you druv Mr. Linden's sweetheart. Aint you spry!" If Reuben had been in that line, he would probably have sent the offender head first down the bank,--as it was, he said quietly, "I wouldn't let Mr. Linden hear me say that, Phil, if I was you." "Don't mean ter. Aint you great! But I say,--Joe Deacon says you did." "Joe Deacon's made a mistake for once in his life," said Reuben rather contemptuously--"and it isn't the first, by several." "Reuben," said Mr. Linden approaching the group, "you may all go and find where the best trees are, and then come back and report to me. I put you in charge. Understand"--he added, raising his voice a little, "Reuben Taylor is leader of the search--whoever does not obey his orders, does not obey mine."--And in a minute the courtyard was clear. Then Mr. Linden turned and walked up to the house. "Now what are you ladies going to do with yourselves?" he said. "Will you come out and sit under the trees and look on--taking the chance of being hit by a stray nut now and then?" "We can't go wrong to-day," said Faith, with whom the spirit of enjoyment was well at play. "When mother feels in the mood of it we'll come. We can find you--we know where to look. Weren't you obliged to us for doing the waiting at the ferry?" "And for looking so picturesque in the distance,--it was quite a thing to be grateful for. I think you will have no difficulty in finding where we are--there will be noise enough to guide you. I hope you have not brought a book along, Miss Faith." "Why, Mr. Linden?" "The 'running' brooks are good letter-press," he said--"and the grey stones, and that white oak in the meadow. And is not that woodpecker a pretty illustration?" "I have looked at them often," said Faith. "I don't know how to _read_ them as you do. There isn't any brook here, though, that I know of, but Kildeer river. You'll like Neanticut, Mr. Linden. I'm so glad you let us come. I'll read everything--that I can." "I don't know how long everything'll last you, child--at the rate you've gone on lately," said Mrs. Derrick who stood in the doorway. Faith smiled again, and shook her head a little at the same time as her eye went from the woodpecker to the green leaves above his head, then to the bright red of some pepperidge trees further off, to the lush grass of the meadow, and on to the soft brownish, reddish, golden hues of distant woodland. Her eye came back as from a book it would take long to read thoroughly. "I am so glad it is such a day!" she repeated. "I see my boys are coming back," Mr. Linden said, with a smile which hardly belonged to them,--"I must go and get their report. Au revoir, Miss Faith." And he went forward into the midst of the little swarm--so manageable in his hands, so sure to sting anybody else. "Child," said Mrs. Derrick, looking over Faith's head from her more elevated position of the door-sill (looking _at_ it too); "Child, why don't you get--" and there, for the first and last time in her life, Mrs. Derrick stopped short in the middle of a sentence. "What, mother?" But Mrs. Derrick replied not. "What do you want me to get, mother?" "I don't know as I want you to get anything,--child you've got enough now for me. Not that he wouldn't like it, either," said Mrs. Derrick musingly--"because if he wouldn't, _I_ wouldn't give much for him. But I guess it's just as well not." And Mrs Derrick stroked her hand fondly over Faith's head, and told her that if she stood out there without a bonnet she would get sunburnt. "But mother!" said Faith at this enigmatical speech, "what do you mean? _Who_ wouldn't like _what?_" "What does it signify, child?--since I didn't say it?" "But mother," persisted Faith gently, "what had I better get that I haven't?" "I don't know as you _had_ better get it, child--and I never said he wouldn't like it, I'm sure," said Mrs. Derrick with a little self-vindication. "Who, mother?" "Why--nobody," said Mrs. Derrick,--"who's talking of anybody?" "Dear mother," said Faith, "don't you mean to tell me what you mean?" "I guess it's just as well not," her mother repeated. "The fact that he'd like it don't prove anything." Faith looked at her, coloured a little, laughed a little, and gave up the point. The morning passed on its pleasant way in quietness; at least with the old farmhouse and its two occupants. Mrs. Derrick was not without her knitting, and having come from the door sat comfortably click-clacking her needles together--and her thoughts too perhaps--before the cheerful blaze of the fence sticks. Faith _had_ a book with her--a little one--with which she sat in the kitchen doorway, which looked towards the direction the nut party had taken; and apparently divided her attention between that volume and the one Mr. Linden had recommended. For she looked down at the one and looked off at the other by turns, in a sort of peaceful musing and note-taking, altogether suited to the October stillness and beauty. Now and then she got up to replenish the fire. And then the beauty and her musing got the better of the reading, and Faith sat with her book in her hand, looking out into the dream-provoking atmosphere. No sound came from the far-off nut trees; the crickets and grasshoppers and katydids alone broke the stillness of the unused farm. Only they moved, and the wind-stirred leaves, and the slow-creeping shadows. When these last were but an hour's length from the tree stems, Faith proposed an adjournment to the nut trees before the party should come back to lunch. The fire was mended, the pot of coffee put on to warm; and they locked the door and set out. It was not hot that day, even under the meridian sun. They crossed an orchard, and one or two farm fields, on the skirts of which grew single trees of great beauty. White oaks that had seen hundreds of years, yet stood in as fresh and hale green youth as the upstart of twenty; sometimes a hemlock or a white pine stretching its lithe branches far and wide and generously allowed to do so in despite of pasture and crops. Then came broken ground, and beyond this a strip of fallow at the further border of which stood a continuous wall of woodland, being in fact the crest of the bank of the little river Faith had referred to. And now, and truly for one or two fields before, the shouts and cries of the nut-hunters rang through the air. For just edging, and edging into, the border of trees last spoken of, were the great chestnuts and hickories; and underneath and among them many little dark spots were flying about; which spots, as Mrs. Derrick and Faith came up, enlarged into the familiar outlines of boys' caps, jackets, and trowsers, and ran about on two legs apiece. CHAPTER X. The two ladies paused at a safe distance,--there seemed to be nothing but boys astir--boys and nuts; and these last not dropping from the tree, but thrown from hand to hand (hand to head would be more correct) of the busy throng. Some picking up, some throwing stones to bring down, others at some flat stone 'shucking,' others still filling their baskets. And four boys out of five, cracking and eating--whatever else they were about. The grass, trodden down by the many feet, lay in prostrate shadow at the foot of the great tree; and the shadows of other trees fell and met in soft wavy outline. From the side of one old tree a family of grey squirrels looked out, to see the besiegers lay waste the surrounding country; in the top of another--a tall hickory, full clad with golden leaves, Mr. Linden sat--to view the same country himself; well knowing that he had given the boys full occupation for at least fifteen minutes. He was not very visible from below, so thickly did the gold leaves close him in; but Faith heard one of the boys call out, "You Johnny Fax! if you throw stones in _that_ tree, you'll hit Mr. Linden." "Trust Johnny Fax for not never throwin' so high as _he_ is," said Joe Deacon. "I don't _want_ to--" said Johnny Fax--"I don't want to fetch _him_ down." Whereupon there was a general shout, and "Guess you'd better not, Johnny!"--"He might come, if you didn't just hit him," vociferated from various quarters. "My!" Mrs. Derrick said, surveying the golden hickory, "how on earth did he ever get up?--And how _do_ you s'pose, Faith, he'll ever get down!" Faith's low laugh was her only answer; but it would have told, to anybody who could thoroughly have translated it, Faith's mind on both points. Apparently he was in no haste to come down--certainly meant to send the nuts first; for a sudden shower of hickory nuts and leaves swept away every boy from the tree near which Faith and her mother stood, and threw them all into its vortex. Drop, drop, the nuts came down, with their sweet patter upon the grass; while the golden leaves fell singly or in sprays, or floated off upon the calm air. "Child," said Mrs. Derrick, "how pretty it is! I haven't seen such a sight since--since a long while ago," she added with a sobering face. "I want to be there under the tree," said Faith looking on enviously. "No mother--and I haven't seen it before in a long time, either. It's as pretty as it can be!" "Run along then, child," said her mother,--"only take care of your eyes. Why shouldn't you? I don't want to pick up nuts myself, but I'll go down and pick you up." Faith however kept away from the crowd under the hickory tree; and went peering about under some others where the ground was beaten and the branches had been, and soon found enough spoil to be hammering away with a stone on a rock like the rest. But she couldn't escape the boys so, for little runners came to her constantly. One brought a handful of nuts, another a better stone--while a third told her of 'lots' under the other tree; and Reuben Taylor was ready to crack or climb as she chose to direct. "If you'll come down the other side, Miss. Faith," said Reuben, "down by the bank, you could see it all a great deal better." Faith seized two or three nuts and jumped up, and Reuben led the way through the leaf-strewn grass to the other side of the mob. But mobs are uncertain things! No sooner was Faith seen approaching the hickory, though yet full three feet from the utmost bound of its shadow, than a sudden pause in the great business of the day was followed by such a tumultuous shout of "Three cheers for Miss Faith Derrick!--the prettiest girl in Pattaquasset!"--that she was well nigh deafened. And promptly upon that, Joe Deacon stepped up to Reuben and whispered, "_That_'ll fetch him down!" Faith did not hear the words--she only heard Reuben's indignant, "Joe Deacon! behave yourself. What makes you always leave your manners home? that big basket of yours would have held 'em all, easy." "I didn't know but Sam might want 'em," replied the unabashed Joe, dashing back into the midst of his compardons, while Reuben at last reached the pretty look-out at the edge of the woods where Faith could see the whole meadow and its scattered trees. And having placed her there ran off again. Standing half hidden by the oaks and chestnuts, she could see the whole group clustering about the climber now, for he had come down from his high post. "Boys," he said, "I am going back to the house to dinner. Any boy who prefers nuts to dinner may stay and pick them up." A sudden recollection came over Faith that her fire was probably well down and coffee not in a state presentable. Taking a survey of the ground, and calculating that so large a company would want a little time to get under weigh, she slipped round to where her mother sat, and giving her a word, set off fleetly and skilfully under cover of some outstanding chestnuts across the fallow. If she had known it, Faith need not have shunned to shew her running, for prettier running could not be. She was soon hidden in the further woodland. The rest of the party took it more leisurely, so their outrunner easily gained her point; and having put the fire in order stood at the door to watch the progress of the coming invasion. It looked enough like that. For though excellent order of march had been kept for most of the way, the main body of the troops maintaining a proper position in the rear of their captain who was quietly escorting Mrs. Derrick over the meadows, no sooner did the whole band come in sight of the distant place of lunch baskets, than it became manifest for the hundred thousandth lime that liberty too long enjoyed leads to license. Scattering a little from the direct line of march, the better to cover their purpose or evade any check thereto, as if by concert, first one and then another set off on a run,--sprang the orchard fence,--and by the time the mid-orchard was reached all of Mr. Linden's force with the exception of one or two of the very steadiest, were ahead of him and straining in full run, if not in full cry, for the now near-at-hand farmhouse quarry. Beyond all call or hindrance. Standing at the kitchen door, Faith watched their coming; but discerning beyond the runners the one or two figures that did not indeed 'bring up the rear' but that covered it, and supposing that the invaders' object was to storm the wagon in which the lunch baskets were hid, she stood her ground; till she perceived that the foremost of the band were making straight for the kitchen door, and all the rest in their order. Faith gave back a little and the whole horde poured in. The fire was in a brisk blaze; the table had nice white cups and naperies on it; the nose of the coffee-pot was steaming. It looked altogether an inviting place. Down went hats and caps on the floor, from some of the party, and the whole of them with flushed faces and open mouths took the survey. "Ain't it jolly here!" "I wonder if he'll let us take our dinner in here. There's lots o' room." "It's good shady." "It's a long sight better under the trees." "Coffee!--I'm blessed!"--said a fifth speaker bending over the fireplace; while a sixth began slyly to inspect what lay under Faith's napkins on the table. "Charley," said Mr. Linden's quiet voice from the doorway, "did Miss Derrick desire you to uncover her dishes?" The hand slipped from what it touched, as stealthily the boy's eye went to the face of the speaker, in the one place if not in the other 'to see what there might be.' "I will bear witness that you have 'carried' the house," Mr. Linden went on,--"now I should like to see you carry the wagon. It will be a more useful enterprise than this. Only remember that one of the first duties of a surprise party is to go forth softly." "Where will we carry the wagon to, sir?" inquired one of the party. "As far from the house as you can," said Mr. Linden, with a little glance at Faith. "Come! be off!--great enterprises are never finished till they are begun." "I'd like to begin dinner, anyhow," said one, catching up his cap and leading off. As quick and more quick than it had been filled, the room was cleared; and laughing Faith watched the busy swarm as they poured towards their magazine. Then remembered her own and came back to offer it. "You may as well rest, Mr. Linden," said Faith as she offered him a cup of coffee. "I'm sure _they_ are all comfortable. Besides, you particularly desired a fire and somebody in the house, you know." "Miss Faith," he said, (taking the cup however) "I'm afraid your notions of duty are very slack! What sort of a captain would you make to a beleaguered city? I shall make you read the story of Catherine Douglass." "Will you?" said Faith looking very pleased. "And what is 'beleaguered,' Mr. Linden? in the meantime." "'Beleaguered' means, to be beset with a swarm of invaders who want to come in and ought to be kept out." "I didn't know I ought to keep them out," said Faith laughing, "or I'd have done it." Mr. Linden shook his head doubtfully. "I saw you give way!" he said,--"I doubt whether there was even a show of resistance. Now Catherine Douglass--But I must go. No, don't tempt me with apple pie--you have no idea of the pies in that wagon. Perhaps if I get successfully through them, I'll come back and dispose of yours. What are you reading to-day?--'Le Philosophe'?" A little soberness came over Faith's smile as she shook her head and said no. "I can't stay to ask a question upon that--but I'll ask you two by and by to pay for it." And he went out to that little cluster of life that hung about the great wagon, making himself at once the centre of pleasure and interest and even fun, as Faith's eye and ear now and then informed her. It was pretty, the way they closed in about him--wild and untutored as they were,--pretty to see him meet them so easily on their own ground, yet always enticing them towards something better. Mrs Derrick thought so too, for she stood in the doorway and smiled very pleasantly. "He's a real nice man, Faith," she said. "I don't wonder the boys like him." Faith did not wonder at it, but she did not answer, though she too stood looking. The ladies had finished their lunch, and Mr. Linden had perhaps _not_ finished his, for he came in again to take another cup of coffee while the boys were disposing of that very ragged piece of time which the end of a boys' feast invariably is. So much peace and quietness he gave himself, if he did not give himself a sandwich--of which I am not certain. "Mr. Linden," said Faith, "I want to ask something--will you tell me if you don't like it?" "Don't like to have you ask me, do you mean? I do like it." "Then," said Faith half laughing, "will you tell me it you don't quite like what I mean?" "I'll see--" Mr. Linden replied with a smile. "It's not safe for teachers to commit themselves." "But I must commit myself," said Faith. "I want to go and pick up nuts with the boys under the trees--may I?" She looked for her answer with an eye that thought _he_ might possibly find an objection where she saw none. He paused a little before he replied, "I think you may--if I could be among them and answer for their good behaviour I should not need to think about it; but you know a man loses power when he is too far above the heads of his audience. Yet I think I may trust them--and you," he added with a little smile. "Especially as the first tree touched this afternoon is yours." "What does that mean?" said Faith, her doubt all gone. "Do you think I shall so far forget my office as to let them pick up nuts for nobody but themselves? Therefore the first tree this afternoon is for you--or if you please for your mother; the second for Mr. Simlins. If that will take away your desire for the 'fun,' why I cannot help it." "I have no objection to pick up nuts for mother, not even for Mr. Simlins," said Faith smiling. "And I am not afraid of the boys--I know half of them, you know. Thank you, Mr. Linden!" "You might, if I could take you up into the tree-top. There is fine reading on those upper shelves." Her eye shewed instantly that she liked that 'higher' fun best--not the tree-top, verily, but the reading, that she could not get at. Yet for Faith there were charms plenty below the tree-tops, in both kinds; and she looked very happy. "Well"--Mr. Linden said, "as the successful meeting of one emergency always helps us in the next, and as it is quite impossible to tell _what_ you may meet under those nut trees,--let me give you a little abstract of Catherine Douglass, before you read it and before I go. The said lady wishing to keep the door against sundry lords and gentle men who came with murderous intent against her sovereign; and finding no bar to aid her loyal endeavours,--did boldly thrust her own arm through the stanchions of the door. To be sure--'the brave lady's arm was soon broken,'--but after all, what did that signify?" And with a laughing gesture of farewell, he once more left the house. With which cessation of murmuring voices, Mrs. Derrick awoke from her after dinner nap in the rocking chair. Faith was standing in the middle of the floor, smiling and looking in a puzzle. "Mother, will you go over to the nutting again?" "I'm a great deal more likely to go to sleep again," said Mrs. Derrick rubbing her eyes. "It's the sleepiest place I ever saw in my life--or else it's having nothing to do. I don't doubt you're half asleep too, Faith, only you won't own it." The decision was, that Mrs. Derrick preferred to sit quiet in the house; she said she would maybe run down by and by and see what they were at. So Faith took her sunbonnet, kissed her mother; and went forth with light step over the meadow and through the orchard. The nutting party she found a little further on in the same edge of woodland. It seemed that they had pitched upon a great chestnut for her tree; and Faith was half concerned to see what a quantity of work they had given themselves on her account. However, the proverb of 'many hands' was verified here; the ground under the chestnut tree was like a colony of ants, while in the capacious head of the tree their captain, established quite at his ease, was whipping off the burrs with a long pole. Faith took a general view as she came up, and then fell upon the chestnut burrs like the rest of them; and no boy there worked more readily or joyously. There seemed little justification of Mr. Linden's doubts of the boys or fears for her. Faith was everywhere among them, and making Reuben's prophecy true, that 'they would all enjoy themselves a great deal better' for her being there; throwing nuts into the baskets of the little boys and pleasant words at the heads of the big ones, that hit softly and did gentle execution; giving sly handfuls to Reuben, and then hammering out for some little fellow the burrs that her hands were yet more unfit to deal with than his; and doing it all with a will that the very spirit of enjoyment seemed to have moved. _She_ in any danger of rude treatment from those boys! Nothing further from the truth. And so her happy face informed Mr. Linden, when he at last descended to terra firma out of the stripped chestnut tree. He did not say anything, but leaning up against the great brown trunk of the chestnut took a pleased survey of the whole--then went to work with the rest. "Boys!" he said--"aren't there enough of you to open these burrs as fast as Miss Derrick can pick out the nuts? You should never let a lady prick her fingers when you can prick yours in her place." There was a general shout and rush at this, which made Faith give way before it. The burrs disappeared fast; the brown nuts gathered into an immense heap. That tree was done. "Hurrah! for Mr. Simlins!" shouted all the boys, throwing up their caps into the air,--then turning somersets, and wrestling, and rolling over by way of further relief to their feelings. "The chestnut beyond that red maple for him," said Mr. Linden, flinging a little stone in the right direction; at which with another shout the little tornado swept away. "Will you follow, Miss Faith? or are you tired?" "No, I'm not tired yet. I must do something for Mr. Simlins." "Well don't handle those burrs--" he said. "They're worse than darning needles." "Have you seen Kildeer river yet, Mr. Linden?" "I have had a bird's eye view." Faith looked a little wistfully, but only said, "We must look at it after the nutting is done. That's a bit of reading hereabout you ought not to pass over." "I mean to read 'everything I can,' too," he said with a smile as they reached the tree. "Now Mr. Linden," said Joe Deacon, "_this_ tree's a whapper! How long you suppose it'll take you to go up?" "About as long as it would you to come down--every-one knows how long _that_ would be. Stand out of my way, boys--catch all the burrs on your own heads and don't let one fall on Miss Derrick." And amidst the general laugh Mr. Linden swung himself up into the branches in a way that made his words good; while Joe Deacon whistled and danced 'Yankee Doodle' round the great trunk. Half at least of Mr. Linden's directions the boys obeyed;--they caught all the burrs they well could, on their own heads. Faith was too busy among them to avoid catching some on her own bright hair whenever her sunbonnet declined to stay on, which happened frequently. The new object lent this tree a new interest of its own, and boys being an untiring species of animals the sport went on with no perceptible flagging. But when this tree too was about half cleared, Faith withdrew a little from the busy rush and bustle, left the chestnuts and chestnut burrs, and sat down on the bank to rest and look. Her eye wandered to the further woodland, softest of all in hazy veils; to the nearer brilliant vegetation; the open fallow; the wood behind her, where the trees closed in upon each other; oftenest of all, at the 'whapper' of a tree in which Mr. Linden still kept his place, and at the happy busy sight and sound of all under that tree. And so it happened, that when in time Mr. Linden came down out of Mr. Simlins' chestnut, besides the boys he found nobody there but Mr. Simlins himself. "Well!"--said that gentleman after a cordial grasp of the hand,--"I reckon, in the matter of nuts you're going to reduce me to penur'ousness! How you like Neanticut?" "It's a fine place," said Mr. Linden.--"And for the matter of nuts, you need not take the benefit of the bankrupt act yet, Mr. Simlins." "Over here to see a man on business," Mr. Simlins went on in explanation,--"and thought I'd look at you by the way. Don't you want to take this farm of me?" "I might want to do it--and yet not be able," was the smiling reply; while one of the smallest boys, pulling the tail of the grey coat which Mr. Simlins wore 'on business,' and pointing to the heap of nuts, said succinctly, "Them's yourn!" "Mine!" said Mr. Simlins. "Well where's yourn? What have you done with Miss Faith Derrick?" "Why we hain't done nothin' to her," said the boy--"she's done a heap to us." "What has she done to you, you green hickory?" "Why--she's run round, firstrate," said little Rob,--"and she's helped me shuck." "So some o' you's thanked her. 'Twan't _you_. Here, you sir," said Mr. Simlins, addressing this time Joe Deacon,--"what have you been doing with Miss Faith Derrick?" "I bain't Sam," was Joe's rather cool rejoinder, with a slight relapsing into Yankee Doodle. "Hollo!" said Mr. Simlins--"I thought you'd learned all school could teach you, and give up to come?" "Only the last part is true, Mr. Simlins," said Mr. Linden, who while Joe spoke had been himself speaking to one of the other boys. Mr. Simlins grunted. "School ain't all 'nuts to him,'" he said with a grim smile. "Well which of you was it?--'twas a fellow about as big as you here, you sir!"--addressing in a more assured tone another boy who was swaggering near,--"_you!_ what have you been doing to Miss Faith? It was you." "'Twan't me, nother!" said the boy surlily; "nor I hain't done nothin'! but minded my own business." In a tone which implied that Mr. Simlins was not acting on the same laudable principle. "What has been done?" said Mr. Linden. And certainly _his_ tone implied that he was minding his own business. "Well," said Mr. Simlins, "I don't know as they've done much of anything; but I guessed they'd been givin' her some sass or vexin' her somehow; and as she's a kind o' favour_ite_ o' mine it riled me. I was too fur to hear what 'twas." "Where was she? "She was round yonder--not fur--There had been some sort of a scrimmage, I guess, between two of 'em, a little one and this fellow; and she parted 'em. She had hold o' this one when I see 'em first--_you_ couldn't have done it better," said Mr. Simlins with a sly cast of his eye;--"you can set her to be your 'vice' when you want one. I was comin' up from the river, you see, and came up behind 'em, and I couldn't hear what they said; but when she let him go, I see her give a kind o' sheer look round this way, and then she put up her hand to her cheek and cleared for home like--a gazetteer!"--said Mr. Simlins, who had given this information in an undertone. "Made straight tracks for the house, I tell ye!" "A little one and _which_ one?" was the next inquiry. Mr. Simlins went peering about among the crowd and finally laid hold on the identical shoulder of little Johnny Fax. "Ain't it you?" said Mr. Simlins. "Ain't that red basket yourn?" Johnny nodded. "I knowed the basket," said Mr. Simlins returning. "That's about all that makes the difference between one boy and another! what sort of a basket he carries. The other fellow is the one I was speakin' to first--I can swear to _him_--the big one." Mr. Linden took out his watch. "Thank you, Mr. Simlins," he said. "Boys--it is half past four,--get your nuts and baskets and bring them up to the house. Reuben Taylor--do you see that it is done." With which words Mr. Linden also 'made tracks' for the house--and 'straight' ones, but with not too much notice-taking of the golden leaves under his feet. The truth about Faith was this. While sitting on the grass, taking the pleasure of the place and time, the peace was at length broken by discordant sounds in her neighbourhood; sounds of harsh voices, and scuffling. Looking round for the cause and meaning of all this, she found that the voices came from behind a thicket of sumach and laurel at her back, and belonged to some of the boys. Faith went round the thicket. There were a big boy and a little boy tugging at a casket, both tugging; the little fellow holding to it with all his might, while the big boy, almost getting it from him with one hand, was laying the other very freely about his ears and shoulders. Faith heard the little one say, "I'll tell--" And the other, a boy whose name Faith had learned only that morning, shouted in answer, "You tell! You tell if you dare! You tell and I'll kill you!--Leave hold!"-- A round blow was given with the words, which told, but the little boy still held on to his basket. "For shame, Phil Davids! you a big boy!"--said Faith. There was a stay of proceedings while they looked at her, both parties keeping fast hold however, and both tongues at once combating for hearing and belief. The little boy, Johnny Fax himself, said the nuts were his; which the elder denied. "Let him have his nuts, Phil," said Faith gently. "He must have them--they belong to him." "He aint a goin' ter, though," said Davids,--"and _you_ can't do nothin', if you air Mr. Linden's sweetheart. You air--Joe Deacon says you be. Leave hold, you!"-- Thinking Faith quelled perhaps, Phil began the struggle again fiercely, with grappling and blows. But Faith laid hold suddenly on the arm that was rising the second time, and bade the boy sternly behave himself and let the basket go. It was not immediately done. He had strength much more than hers, but something withheld him from exerting it. Nothing withheld his tongue. "Aint you Mr. Linden's sweetheart?" he said insolently. "Joe Deacon says you be." "No sir!" said Faith; "and you are a bad boy." "Joe Deacon says you be!" But Faith did not relax her hold, and spoke with a steady voice and for that time at least with a steady eye of command which was obeyed. "Let him go!--Johnny, run off with your basket and be quiet; that's a good boy. Davids, you'll be quiet the rest of the day for your own sake." The boys parted sullenly, Johnny to run off as she had bidden him; and Faith turned from the green bank, the nut trees, and the frolic, and laying one hand upon the cheek that faced that way, as if to hide its burning from eyes too far off to see it, she went into the house. She put the brands together which had burnt out, and built the fire up on the strictest principles, though no fire was wanted at present; the day had mellowed into warmth. Perhaps Faith recollected that after she had got through, for she left the fire to take care of itself and sat down again on the doorstep looking towards the nut-tree field. For a good while her cheek wore its troubled flush, her hand went up to it once or twice as if to cool it off, and her brow bespoke her using other and more effectual measures. It cooled at last, into complete quietness and sweetness; and Faith's face was just like itself when the first of the party came back from the nut field. That first one, as we have seen, was Mr. Linden. He found both the ladies in the farmhouse kitchen; Mrs. Derrick very comfortably at her knitting. Faith was doing nothing; but she looked up, when she looked up, with just her own face; not certainly in the happy glow he had seen under the nut tree, nor with the sparkle of busy pleasure it had worn in the morning; but as it was every day at home. Mr. Linden arranged the fire and then stood considering it--or something--for a minute in silence; until Mrs. Derrick inquired "if he had found as much as he expected?"--but upon his replying somewhat dryly, "Rather more"--the conversation dropped again. "You ought to be tired now, Mr. Linden," Faith said gently. "I am afraid you are." "No," she said,--"I am not at all." "Well then--why shouldn't we have our look at Kildeer river? You said we must." "O, if you like it!" said Faith, a bright little tinge of pleasure coming into her cheek, and her sunbonnet was in hand immediately. "But aren't you tired?" she added doubtfully as they were passing out of the door. "You've been hard at work." "You will have to pay for saying you are not, Miss Faith,--I mean to make you run all the way down to the bank." And holding out his hand to her, Mr. Linden half made his threat good; for though his own pace was not much more than a quick walk, by means of skilful short cuts and long steps, Faith had a gentle little run a good part of the way. Not down through the crowd of boys and baskets, but skirting the meadow--passing from the shelter of one great tree to another, till they reached the bank and saw the blue waters of Kildeer river at their feet. There she was permitted to sit down and rest. A little laughing and a little flushed, her happy look was almost brought back again. But she sat and gazed down at the pretty stream and its picturesque banks without saying anything; letting Mr. Linden take his own view of them. His own view was a peculiar one--to judge by his words. "Miss Faith, I suppose you are not much acquainted with law forms,--yet you perhaps know that an important witness in an important case, is sometimes put in prison until his evidence is obtained." Faith looked up at him in pure astonishment, the corners of her mouth indicating that she expected another _puzzle_, or rather was already engaged in one. The look made his gravity give way a little. "I thought you might like to know your position at present," he said. "I don't know it yet, Mr. Linden." "It is that of the unfortunate prisoner to whom I referred." "A prisoner!--" said Faith looking up at him very much amused. "Well, Mr. Linden?" He looked amused too, yet with a difference. "Well, Miss Faith--You are a prisoner, for political purposes. There is no practicable way for you to get back to the house save through the witness-box." "Where is the witness-box?" said Faith. "Are you in a hurry to be in it?" "No," said Faith with a very unshadowed smile, "I am not in a hurry for anything." "Then tell me what you have been reading to-day," he said, throwing himself down on the grass beside her. She looked at him, hesitated, then said with a lowered tone, "I have been reading what you told me to read--and my testament." Mr. Linden lifted his hat a little, replaced it--rather more down over his brows than before, looking steadily down at Kildeer river the while. "Why did you look grave when I asked you if you had brought 'Le Philosophe'?" "I didn't know I did!" said Faith simply. "I had brought only my testament." "Only--" Mr. Linden repeated. "Well, from 'only' a testament and only such a scene--a skilful reader may get much." Then turning and looking her full in the face, he said, "Miss Faith--what have those boys done to vex you?" A sudden, painful, startled flush answered him. She did not look now; she said earnestly, "Please Mr. Linden, don't speak of it!" "I must know--" was his only answer. "No," she said gently but troubled,--"you mustn't know, and there is no need you should. There is no need," she repeated eagerly. "There is another true little witness I can call upon--but I would rather have your account." "How did you know?--how did you know anything about it?" said Faith, facing round upon him in her turn. "Gentlemen of what Miss Danforth is pleased to call 'my profession' must know things occasionally," said Mr. Linden. "_What_ do you think you know, Mr. Linden?" she said a little timidly. His answer was gentle though resolute. "I don't _think_ I know anything. What I know, I know----what I do not, I will." Faith's head half drooped for an instant, and the flush which had faded came back painfully. Then she looked at him again, and though the flush was there she spoke as usual. "You won't try, Mr. Linden--because I am going to ask you not. It is nothing you need take up--it was nothing but--what perhaps I was foolish to mind. I don't mind it now--much--" But there was a grave falling off in the tone of that much. She felt it herself, for she rallied and said with her own quiet frank smile, "I shall not mind it at all to-morrow." Mr. Linden looked at her while she spoke, gravely and intently enough; but then he looked away at the river again, and probably read problems in its soft rippling waters, for he spoke not. Overhead a hawk sailed noiselessly to and fro, on spread wings,--in the trees close at hand a squirrel chattered and barked with his mouth full. The afternoon light left Kildeer river step by step, and the shadows crept after. Now the one white speck of cloud reflected in that peaceful stream was no break in its beauty,--it marred nothing, nay, even brought a little glow of its own to replace the sunbeams. Yet at that speck did Mr. Linden take aim--sending his pebble so surely, so powerfully, that the mirror itself was shattered to the remotest shore! Then he stood up and announced that it was time to go. Faith stood up, but stood still, and waited somewhat anxiously upon the answer to her question. "Then, Mr. Linden, you will not speak of it any more?" "The witness is discharged," he answered lightly, and walking on. She sprang after and placed herself directly in his way. "Mr. Linden--please give me your promise!" He looked down at her with eyes that were a little moved. "Miss Faith," he said, "please give me yours!" "For what?" said Faith. "That you will trust me--and not ask what I do." "Yes,"--said Faith,--"but--You must trust _me_, Mr. Linden," she said smiling at him,--"and believe me that this is nothing for you to take up--mere nonsense;--nothing at all to-morrow,--it is nothing to me now. I want your word." She wanted it very much, it was easy to see; but beyond that, her face did not belie her words. "I don't suppose Mrs. Derrick ever called you 'naughty child'"--said Mr. Linden,--"but if ever she did she might to-night. Look where the sun is--and where I am,--and guess where those boys are! Come--" and it was not easy to resist the hand that again took hold of hers, nor the quick pace at which he went forward. And for some fields' length Faith yielded and went as fast as he pleased. Then as he stopped to put up a bar-place she said again, very gently but firmly too, standing before him, "Mr. Linden, I think I have a _right_ to ask this. I know what I ask, but you do not." "I never questioned your right, Miss Faith." "Then you'll not deny it to me?" "What is your idea of trust?" said Mr. Linden, replacing the last bar. "That it is something I ought to have just now," said Faith, smiling a little. He stood leaning on the bars and looking at her--a kind look, that she might well trust. "Child," he said, "you don't know what you are talking about--and I do. And if you will not trust me any further than you can see me, you don't deserve to be called Miss Faith any longer! Now don't you think I have a right to get home and attend to my duties?" She yielded utterly at that, but with a set of her lip which he had never seen before; it was trembling. She was turning to go on, when as if to make amends for that--or to ask forgiveness generally--or to give assurance of the trust he had claimed,--she stretched out her hand to him and went by his help again until the orchard was reached and other eyes might be expected to be on the look-out for them. "Do you like to read letters written from other countries by people you have never seen?" Mr. Linden said when they reached that point. Faith's eyes opened slightly as was their way when suddenly astonished, and a little colour started too, of surprise or pleasure. "I never did read any," she said,--"I _should_ like it." "Well, Miss Faith, I think Mrs. Derrick and Reuben can manage that brown horse--especially as he has had no oats to-day--and I want you to take possession of the whole of the back seat, put yourself in a comfortable position, and spend the rest of the daylight in Italy with my sister. When it gets dark you may go to sleep. And here is the talismanic paper by whose help you must make the journey." What a colour thanked him! what a rosy flush of pleasure and gratitude! To _say_ 'thank you' Faith nearly forgot. But it was said. There was no more delay of any kind after that. Wagons were ready, and baskets, and boys; also Mrs. Derrick; and Faith was ready first of all. So the two parties, now getting under weigh, went fairly homewards, by an evening sky and a night full of stars. Only one incident need be recorded. The ferry was passed, and four of the six miles between that and the central town of Pattaquasset, when Mr. Linden suddenly checked his horses. Turning half round, and laying a pretty imperative hand on the collar of Phil Davids, he dropped him outside the wagon--like a walnut from its husk--remarking that he had seen enough of him for one day, and did not wish to hear of him again till next morning. CHAPTER XI. Little Charles twelfth did not come to meet his Sunday school teacher, as had been arranged, the Sunday preceding the Neanticut expedition. Faith waited for him in the morning--waited and hoped,--but was not greatly surprised to find that she had waited in vain. Charles the twelfth, whether or not he was to follow during life the erratic and wilful course of his namesake, was that day at least not to be led by her. So Faith went to church, meditating a sometime descent upon Mrs. Seacomb's shady domain, there to meet and recapture the heart of her little charge. For so he seemed to her now. But on her return from the morning service, she found Charles the twelfth, crest-fallen and repentant, in his turn waiting for her. The matter was, his brother Americus Vespucius had shut him up, so that he couldn't come; and as soon as he was set free Charles the twelfth had used his freedom and his legs in 'making tracks,' to use Mr. Simlins' expression, for Mrs. Derrick's abode; and on this occasion he had made many fewer 'tracks' than the afternoon of his previously recorded invasion; as being somewhat burdened in spirit he had stopped for no somersets, and had been lured aside by no tempting invitations of a dusty place or a mudpuddle. Faith heard his story gravely and sympathizingly; comforted him up; encouraged him to hope that the discoverer of America would not prove so adverse to _his_ making discoveries another Sunday; gave him a little talk and a good dinner, and sent him home cheerful and determined. The very mood for success; accordingly the next morning after the return from Neanticut, being Sunday, Charles the twelfth presented himself at the house in brave good time; and Faith and her little charge, for the first time in their lives both of them, went to Sunday school. The child very important and expectant; the teacher very gentle and very grave indeed. Faith had made her arrangements the Sunday before; so she and Charles twelfth proceeded at once to the place assigned her. At the opening services the king of Sweden stared mightily. Faith looked at nothing. She had a feeling that other children and other teachers were nearer to her than she wished they were; and she was a little uncertain how best to take hold of the odd little piece of humanity intrusted to her care. However, when the reading and the singing were over Faith began a long low talk to him about some Bible story, diverging as she went on to an account of the other world, and the two ways that lead to it, and the two sorts of people that travel them. And becoming exceedingly interested herself, she fastened the eyes of Charles the twelfth in a way that shewed his thoughts were cleaving to hers. Faith's own thoughts were cleaving elsewhere. The things she said were simply said; her words were the plainest; her illustrations just at his hand; but the voice in which they were given would alone have won the ear of a child; and whatever other impression her words made upon his mind, the fixed conclusion in which he was left at the ending was, that whatever way _she_ was travelling was the right one! It was a beautiful fair first of October; still and sunny; but if it had not, it would probably have been a fair day to Faith after that beginning of it. She looked as if it was, in the church, and on the way home, and at the quiet dinner table; her face was a transcript of the day; still and sunny. It seemed to be true, her promise that the annoyance of yesterday would be nothing to her to-day. There was no shadow of it in sight. If there was a shadow anywhere at the table, it was upon Mrs. Derrick,--a half jealous fear that her child would be less hers by becoming a Christian--a half uneasy feeling of the new state of things, did cloud her heart a little, though almost unknown to her self She would not have confessed to any such cloud--and practically it was not there: no straw of hindrance did she put in Faith's way; indeed she seemed rather fearful of touching the matter in any wise. It was rather from curiosity than anything else, that she said--as they were both getting ready for afternoon church, "Well child, how did you like going to Sunday school?" Faith's answer was subdued, but earnest. "I liked it very much, mother." "How many's in your class?" said Mrs. Derrick, tying her bonnet. "Only one yet--but that was enough for me to begin with.--I hope I shall get some more soon." "Only one!" said Mrs. Derrick--"besides you, do you mean, child?" "Mother!"--said Faith. Then smiling she added, "Yes, mother--only one besides me. That one is little Charley Seacomb--and I am trying to teach him." "Why I thought you were in Mr. Linden's class!" said Mrs. Derrick, facing round. But Faith's face flushed, and what was very uncommon with her, the tears came too. "So I am, mother," she said;--"but I am one that he teaches at home. I have learned all I know from him," she said, covering her eyes with both hands. "Why child, hush!" said her mother softly--"I didn't mean to say anything,--how should I know? So you're teaching Charley Seacomb, hey?--well I'm sure he wants it bad enough. I guess I'd better go too, next Sabbath,--it was real lonesome with you all gone. And that makes me think, child--I wonder if you could go a little way for me after meeting?" "Go to Sunday school, mother!" said Faith shewing her bright wet eyes. "Will you teach some children, mother?" Written letters don't give the intonation of these words. "I guess they could teach me, some of 'em," said her mother. "But I thought maybe, Faith, you'd take Sally Loundes some medicine--she sent word for it, and I don't know as I can get so far to-day. Mr. Linden does have a class, don't he?" "I can go just as well as not, and like it very much, mother. O yes--he has a class of course--a class of some of the biggest boys--a large class." "I wonder what _he_ does with himself after meeting," said Mrs. Derrick. "Folks do say he goes strolling round, but I don't believe it." "Mother! Folks say everything, I believe. He knows what he does." "Maybe _you_ wouldn't like to be seen out on Sabbath?" said Mrs. Derrick, with sudden thought. "Because if you wouldn't, Faith, I'll go myself to Sally's--can or no can." "No, mother--" she said brightly,--"I would like to go. If I know I am doing right, I don't mind about being seen. I wish people had as good reason for telling tales about me, as they have for some others." "I guess your class 'll fill up,--" said her mother, with her fond, wistful look at the only thing she had in the world. It was the fairest, still, sweet afternoon, when after church Faith got the medicine for Sally Loundes and set out to take it to her. So fair and lovely, that Faith hardly considered much the features of the road she travelled; in that light any piece of ground was beautiful. The road was very lonely after a little part of the village had been gone through. It left the main street, then bid farewell to a few scattering distant houses and approached what was called Barley Point;--a barren piece of ground from which a beautiful view of the Sound and the ocean line, and perhaps porpoises, could be had. But at the foot of this field the road turned, round the end of that belt of woods spoken of; and getting on the other side of it ran back eastward towards the Lighthouse point. Between the woods and the sea, on this side, was a narrow down that the farmers could make little of; and here the road, if desolate, had a beauty of its own. On Faith's right was this strip of tolling downs, grown with nothing but short grass and low blackberry vines; and close at hand, just beyond its undulating line, the waves of the sea beating in. Very little waves to-day, everything was so quiet. At the Lighthouse point, a mile or more on, was a little settlement of fishermen and others; but only one house stood on the way, and that hardly disturbed the monotony or the solitude; it was so little, so brown, and looked so of a piece with the barren country. That was Sally Loundes' house. Faith met nobody till she got there. When Faith came out of the house, the sun's place warned her she would have no time to spare to get home. She set off with quicker pace, though nowise concerned about it. There was no danger of anything in Pattaquasset. But she had gone only a little part of her wild homeward way when she met Mr. Simlins. Now Mr. Simlins was accustomed to take an afternoon Sunday stroll and sometimes a long one; so it was no matter of surprise to meet him, nor even to meet him there, for Mr. Simlins was as independent in his choice of a walk as in everything else. But _he_ was surprised. "Hullo! my passenger pigeon," he exclaimed. "Why are you here all alone, in this unfrequent place?" "It's a very nice place," said Faith. "And it's not disagreeable to be alone--though I am willing to meet you, Mr. Simlins." "Haven't been quarrelling with anybody, have you?" "No," said Faith, giving an amused look to this view of the subject. "Do I look quarrelsome, Mr. Simlins?" "I don't know how you look!" said the farmer. "I aint anything of an exposition. You'll have to ask somebody else. There's some words too hard for me to spell and pro-nounce. Where have you been?" "Just to carry Sally Loundes some medicine mother had for her." "Where are you goin' now?" "Home." "Goin' alone?" "Why, yes. Why not?" "Don' know," said Mr. Simlins,--"only I'm going part way, and I'll see nothin' happens to you as long as _I_'m in your consort." It was a wild place enough to make company pleasant. Dark clumps of forest-trees on one hand grew near together, and the spaces between, though cleared, looked hardly less wild; for vines and sumach and ferns had taken possession. The sun's rays yet lay warm on the rolling downs, the sere grass and the purplish blackberry vines, and sparkled on the waves beyond; but when Mr. Simlins and Faith struck into the woods for a 'short cut,' the shadowy solitude closed them in on all sides. Softly their steps moved over the fallen pine leaves, or rustled through the shreds of autumn finery that lay beneath oak and maple, and nothing else but birds and squirrels broke the stillness till they were near the further edge of the wood. There they heard a soft murmur of voices. "Who lives here?" said Mr. Simlins. But Faith held her breath. "There's mortality here, where I thought there was nothing but animals and vegetation," said Mr. Simlins stepping softly and cautiously forward. "Let's see--don't make no noise more'n the leaves 'll let you. I shouldn't think anything would come to a meetin' here but a wood-chuck--and they're skeered if they see a shadow." On that side the trees ceased abruptly, and the open sunshine of a little clearing replaced them; and there were the speakers. Tallest among the group sat Mr. Linden, and around him--in various attitudes of rest or attention--a dozen boys basked in the sunshine. Most of them were a size or two smaller than his morning class at the Sunday school, though several of those were stretched on the grass at the outskirts of the circle, as honorary members. Little Johnny Fax, established in Mr. Linden's lap, divided his attention pretty evenly between the lesson and the teacher; though indeed to his mind the separate interests did not clash. The little glade was very green still, but sprinkled with the autumn leaves which came floating down at every breath; and the bordering trees stood some in deep green hemlock and some in paler pine, and thrust out here and there a glowing arm into the sunlight. The boys--listening and looking,--some playing the part of young Nebuchadnezzars, some picking and breaking up the asters and golden rod within their reach,--giving little side nods of assent to each other, or bending a more earnest gaze on Mr. Linden; pushing back their caps--or pulling them down with a quick brush across the eyes;--the hand with which Johnny Fax stroked back from Mr. Linden's forehead any stray lock of hair which the wind displaced, or laid on his shoulder when there was nothing else to do;--made altogether a picture the like of which Mr. Simlins had not seen before--nor even Faith. The sun might leave the clearing and betake itself to the tree-tops, and thence to the clouds,--there was light there which came from a higher source. Not Faith's silent attention was more silent and motionless than that of her companion; he did not move or stir. But her deep, deep, rapt gravity formed part of the subject of his contemplations, for one or two keen sidelong glances fell upon it. Else, his eyes were busy uninterruptedly with the scene and took in the whole effect of it; hers hardly wavered from one point. A little stir among the boys roused both the lookers-on from their muse; but they stood still again at the first notes of a hymn--as Mr. Linden's deep voice began, and the young choir with its varied treble chimed in. "I want to be an angel, And with the angels stand, A crown upon my forehead, A harp within my hand; There, right before my Saviour, So glorious and so bright, I'd wake the sweetest music, And praise him day and night. "I never should be weary, Nor ever shed a tear, Nor ever know a sorrow, Nor ever feel a fear; But blessed, pure, and holy, I'd dwell in Jesus' sight, And with ten thousand thousand Praise him both day and night. "I know I'm weak and sinful, But Jesus will forgive, For many little children, Have gone to heaven to live. Dear Saviour, when I languish, And lay me down to die, Oh send a shining angel To bear me to the sky! "Oh there I'll be an angel, And with the angels stand! A crown upon my forehead, A harp within my hand. And there before my Saviour, So glorious and so bright, I'll wake the sweetest music, And praise him day and night!" The two listeners stood still while the hymn was singing, still as the air; but Mr. Simlins got no more sight of Faith's face. They stood still when the hymn was finished, as if they lingered where the last vibrations had been. But as a general stir among the hymn party proclaimed that they would soon be on the move, the two who had watched them, as if by consent, turned short about and silently picked their way back through the darkening wood to the nearest point of road they could reach. It was far from home, and even out of the wood the light was failing; they walked with quick steps. Mr. Simlins could get glances now at Faith's face, but though it was quiet enough, he seemed for some reason or other in a disagreeable state of mind. It made itself manifest at length in a grunt of considerable power. "Ugh!--this is a complexious sort of a world to live in!"--was his not very clear remark. The contrast of the tone of the next words was striking. "Dear Mr. Simlins, there is something better." "What do you call me 'dear' for?" growled he. "You never did before." "I don't know," said Faith. "Because I want you to be as happy as I am." "Be you so happy?" said the farmer inquisitively. Faith said yes. It was a calm and clear yes; a confident yes; one that felt its foundations strong and deep; yet Faith's mother or dearest friend, if gifted with quick apprehensions, would hardly have been satisfied with it. Was Mr. Simlins so gifted? "Not so happy you couldn't be happier?" he said in a tone that assumed it. "No," said Faith, looking at him with a sunshiny smile;--"I want to be better, Mr. Simlins." "Better!"--growled Mr. Simlins. "You go hang yourself!--I wish you _was_ better. If you aint happy--I wish the Simlins' may be--an extant race!" The extraordinary combination of wishes in this speech took away Faith's breath for an answer. She waited for something more. "What was that fellow doing there?" growled the farmer after a while. "I suppose he was teaching Sunday school," Faith said after a little hesitation. "Why, is one to be forever teaching Sunday school?" said the farmer in a discontented tone. "Why not?" said Faith,--"as long as there are people to be taught?" "Don't you want to take hold and teach me now?" said Mr. Simlins. Faith did not know at all what to make of this question; and before she had found an answer that would do, she was saved making any. For Mr. Linden, with even brisker steps than theirs, came up behind them; and after a bright "Good evening, Mr. Simlins," uttered a somewhat surprised "Miss Faith!" "Yes," said Mr. Simlins, "here she is; and I'm goin' along to see that nothing happens to her. She goes to take care o' somebody else,--and I come after to take care o' her; so we go. We all give each other a deal o' trouble in this world!" "Am I expected to take care of you, Mr. Simlins, by the same rule?--I came after." "Well!--I don't know," said the farmer "I guess there'll be nobody to take care of me. I'm past taking care of." "What does that mean?" said Mr. Linden. "How would you like the job?" said Mr. Simlins. "Think it 'ud be easy?" "Why I should like to know a little more about the job before I express any opinion." "I have an opinion," said Mr. Simlins, "that you don't know much o' farming. Guess it's correct, aint it?" "What kind of farming?" inquired Mr. Linden again. "I don't know more'n one kind. Tillin' the earth, to bring out the produce of it." "I have seen something of another kind," said Mr. Linden; "it is this:--'Sow to yourselves in righteousness, reap in mercy; break up your fallow ground: for it is time to seek the Lord, till he return and rain righteousness upon you.'" Mr. Simlins wasn't quick to answer that, and there was silence for a minute or two, only broken by their footsteps. "Well--" he said slowly at length,--"suppos 'n a piece o' ground bears as good a crop as it has soil for, hadn't you ought to be contented with it?" "Yes," said Mr. Linden; "but I never saw such a piece of ground, yet." Mr. Simlins paused. "Do you believe some folks can be better than they air already?" he asked. "I believe all folks can." "You believe in cameras, then. How're you goin' to work?" "To make people better?--set them to work for them selves, if I can." "What sort o' ploughs and harrows would you want 'em to take hold of?" "They'll find out, when they set to work in earnest to make the ground yield the right sort of fruit," said Mr. Linden. "What do you call the right sort?" said the farmer, now thoroughly engaged. "Aint as good as a man can do, the right sort?" "Why yes," said Mr. Linden again, "but I tell you I never saw that sort of fruit ripe--and I'm not sure that I ever shall in this world. For the best fruit that the ground can yield, includes not only the best seed and cultivation, but the perfect keeping down of every weed, and the unchecked receiving of all sweet heavenly influences." "That's a camera!" said Mr. Simlins something shortly. "You can't have all that in this world." "The fact that people cannot be perfect in this world, does not hinder their being better than they are." "Well, I say, how're you goin' to work to make it, when they're doin' the best they can do, already?" "Who is?" "I am inclined to be of the opinion you air," said Mr Simlins slowly. "I won't say I be--but I don't know how to do no better." "Thank you, Mr. Simlins--" was the somewhat sorrowful reply,--"you may see what I do, but you do not see what I know. And for you, my friend--pray to know!--there can be no mistakes in the advice that comes from heaven." There was a minute's silence, till they came to a turning. "I'd be glad to see you," said Mr. Simlins in a somewhat lowered tone,--"ary one of you--down to my house, any time. _You_ can take care of her the rest of the way. Good night!"-- He turned off abruptly down a road that led his way. They had been walking with slackened steps during this conversation, and the lingering memory of it still checked the pace of the two now left together: "Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests," had all retreated. And when Mr. Linden spoke, it was not in his own words. "'I thank thee, uncreated Sun, That thy bright beams on me have shined! I thank thee, who hast overthrown My foes, and healed my wounded mind! I thank thee, whose enlivening voice Bids my freed heart in thee rejoice! "'Thee will I love, my joy, my crown! Thee will I love, my Lord, my God! Thee will I love--beneath thy frown Or smile, thy sceptre or thy rod! What though my flesh and heart decay, Thee shall I love in endless day!'" The silence of the evening fell again unbroken. Unless a breath caught somewhat interruptedly--so gentle a break--might be said to break it. Faith said nothing, except by that caught breath. Mr. Linden's step was the only one heard. Silently then he gave her his arm, and they went on at a quicker pace. After a while Faith broke the silence. She spoke in a very quiet voice; as if choosing her words; and hesitated a little sometimes as if timidity checked her. "Mr. Linden, I want to ask you about something that troubles me--I don't know what is right. I know I know very little--I know I cannot say much or can't say it well--but I feel sometimes as if I must speak to everybody I can reach, and tell them what I do know, and beg them to be safe and happy. And then something tells me that if I do so, people will think me crazy, or be offended,--that it is not my business and I can't do it well and that I had better not try to do it at all.--Is that 'something' right or wrong?" "'Let him that heareth, say Come,'" Mr. Linden replied. "It is part of the sailing orders of every Christian to speak every other vessel that he can,--which does not mean that he should go out of his own proper course to meet them, nor that he should run them down when met." "Nor, I suppose," said Faith, "that he should trouble himself about his voice being very low or very hoarse. I thought so. Thank you, Mr. Linden." "The voice of true loving interest is generally sweet--and rarely gives offence," he said. "If people never spoke of religious things but from the love of them, there would be an end to cant and bad taste in such matters." She said no more. "How does Charles twelfth behave?" said Mr. Linden as they neared home. "Has he 'reacted' again--or does he give you both hands full?" "He behaved nicely!" said Faith. "As to filling my hands, I suppose they wouldn't hold a great deal to-day; but I hope to have them fuller before long." "Then I may send you another scholar?" "O yes!" said Faith. "Have you one for me?" "Perhaps two, if circumstances make my hands too full." "Do I know them?" "I am not sure how well, nor whether you know them at all by name; but you will like to teach them for different reasons. At least I have." "I don't know"--said Faith. "If you have taught them, Mr. Linden, they will be very sorry to come to me!" "Then you may have the pleasure of making them glad." She laughed a little, but soberly; and they reached their own gate. It was past the usual Sunday tea time; and soon the little party were gathered at that pleasantest, quietest of tea-tables--that which is spread at the close of a happy Sunday. It had been such to two at least of the family sitting there, albeit Faith's brow was unusually grave; and it had not been _un_happy to Mrs. Derrick. She entered, by hope and sympathy, too earnestly and thoroughly into everything that concerned Faith--rested too much of her everyday life upon her, to be unhappy when _she_ smiled. After tea, as he often did, Mr. Linden went out again; and the two were left alone. Mrs. Derrick occupied herself with reading in the old family Bible, where she turned over leaf after leaf; but Faith, on a low seat, sat looking into the remains of the little fire which had been kindled in the supper room. Looking at the glowing coals and grey flickering ashes, with a very grave, meditative, thoughtful gaze. "Mother--" she said at length, turning her face towards Mrs. Derrick's Bible. "Well child?" said her mother a little abstractedly. "I wish, mother, you would ask Mr. Linden to read and pray at night--and let Cindy and Mr. Skip come in?" "Why Faith!" said Mrs. Derrick, now fully roused,--"how you talk, child! Wish I'd do this, and wish I'd let 'tother--don't I let you and Mr. Linden do pretty much what you've a mind to?" It was incomprehensible to Faith that her mother's permission should have to do with any of Mr. Linden's actions; but she merely repeated, "I wish you'd ask him, mother." "I guess I will!" said Mrs. Derrick--"when I do you'll know it, and he too. Ask him yourself, pretty child," she added, looking at Faith with a very unbent brow. "But mother," said Faith with a little tinge in her cheeks,--"it would be much better that you should ask him. You are the person to do it." "I should like to see you make that out," said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't think I'm such a person at all." "Only because you are the head of the family, mother," Faith said with a little fainter voice. "Well, if I'm the head of the family I'll do as I like, for once," said Mrs. Derrick. "I'd like to hear him, I'm sure,--child it would seem like old times,--but I wouldn't ask him, for a kingdom!" Faith looked at her, half laughing and grave too--but gave up the point, seeing she must. "And while you're about it, Faith, you can just ask him to make his boys behave. Sam Stoutenburgh did nothing all meeting time but look at you. So I guess the sermon didn't do _him_ much good." Faith went back to the contemplation of the fire. However, she apparently had not made up her mind that _she_ was 'the person,' or else was not ready to act upon it; for when Mr. Linden was heard opening the front door Faith ran away, and came down no more that night. CHAPTER XII. "It occurs to me, Parson Somers," said that gentleman's lady wife, as she salted and sugared his morning bowl of porridge; "it occurs to me, that Pattaquasset is getting stirred up with a long pole." "Ah, my dear?" said Mr. Somers--"'Stirred up! Well--what makes you think so?" "Why--" said Mrs. Somers tasting the porridge--"Jenny! fetch some more milk. How do you suppose Mr. Somers is going to eat such thick stuff as that?--and when do you suppose he is going to get his breakfast, at this rate? If you let your head run upon Jem Waters in this style, Jenny, I shall forbid him the house. I always notice that the day after he's been here Mr. Somers' porridge is too thick." "Well, my dear," said the parson,--"ha--the porridge will do very well. I thought you were speaking of Pattaquasset when you spoke of something being 'stirred up.'" "So I was," said the lady, while Jenny blushing beyond her ordinary peonic hue, ran about in the greatest confusion, catching up first the water pitcher and then the molasses cup. "'Do very well?'--no, indeed it won't!--but men never know anything about housekeeping." "Well, my dear, but about Pattaquasset?--I know something about Pattaquasset. Is there any trouble in the village? It's a very peaceable place," continued Mr. Somers, looking at his distant breakfast dish,--"always was--ha--I wish you'd let me have my porridge. Is there any trouble, my dear?" "I can't tell,--" said Mrs. Somers, adding critical drops of milk,--"see for yourself, Mr. Somers. If there isn't, there may be.--One set of things is at sixes, and another at sevens. There--that's better, though it's about as far from perfection as I am." "We're none of us perfect, and so--ha--my dear, we can't blame the porridge," said Mr. Somers with slight jocularity which pleased at least himself. "But Pattaquasset is about as near the impossible state as most places, that _I_ know. What have you heard of, Mrs. Somers? You deal in rather--a--enigmatical construction, this morning." "Who said I had heard anything?" said the lady,--"I only said, use your eyes, Mr. Somers,--open your study window and let the light in. Just see what a rumpus we've had about the school, to begin." "Ha! my dear," said Mr. Somers, "if opening the window of my study is going to let trouble come in, I'd rather--ha--keep it shut! Judge Harrison thinks the teacher is a very fine man--and I've no doubt he is!--and the Judge is going to give him a great celebration. I have no doubt we shall all enjoy it. I think the disturbance that has been made will not give Mr. Linden any more trouble." "Why who cares about his trouble?" said Mrs. Somers rather briskly,--"I dare say he's very good, Mr. Somers, but I sha'n't fret over _him_. I'm not sure but he's a little _too_ good for my liking--I'm not sure that it's quite natural. Jenny! fetch some more biscuit!--how long do you suppose Mr. Somers and I can live upon one?" Parson Somers eat porridge and studied the philosophy of Mrs Somers' statements. "My dear," said he at length,--"I am not sure that you are correct in your view--indeed it seems to me--a--rather contradictory. I don't know what the stir is about; and I don't think there is any occasion, my dear, for you--a--to fret, about anything. Not about Mr. Linden, certainly. The disaffection to the new school was--a--confined to very few! I don't think it has taken root in the public mind generally. You will be better able to form a judgment on Thursday." "Bless your heart! Mr. Somers," said his wife, "what's Thursday to do? If you think I've said all I _could_ say--why there's no help for it. Now there's Sam Deacon--don't come to meeting half the time lately,--and to match that, Faith Derrick walks into Sunday school with one of those Seacomb children tagging after her." "Well," said Mr. Somers looking exceedingly mystified,--"what's the harm in that? If Miss Faith chooses to do it, it shews, I am sure, a--a charitable disposition,--praiseworthy!" "Mr. Somers!"--said the lady. "Is it possible you can think for one moment that I mean what you mean? If she came to Society too, I should know what to make of it, but when people work alongside of some folks, and not alongside of others, why it's as long as it's broad. Then Maria Davids says she drove those boys over to Neanticut 'tother day--or helped drive 'em. What do you think of that, Mr. Somers?" Mr. Somers looked as if his wife was too fast for him. "My dear," said he however, plucking up,--"I think I would trust Faith Derrick as soon as Maria Davids, or--any other young lady in Pattaquasset! If she did go to Neanticut I presume it was all as it should be. Squire Deacon never was--a--very remarkable for being a religious man or anything like that; and you can't help folks working alongside of each other--they will do it," said Mr. Somers relapsing into his jocular mood. "I am a man of peace, my dear, and you should be a woman of peace." "Why you don't suppose I believed what Maria Davids said?" replied Mrs. Somers. "Her words are not worth their weight in gold--and she isn't a bit too good to be jealous. But the thing is, if Faith didn't do that, what _did_ she do? Jenny! fetch in the tub of hot water, and be spry!" With Jenny and the hot water walked in a somewhat rough-looking boy, who declared without much ceremony, beyond doffing his cap, that "'ma sent him to find out where the sewin' meetin' was to be this week." "Who are you?" said Mrs. Somers, dipping a cup in the hot water and wiping it with a 'spryness' that was quite imposing. "Is your name Bill Wright?" "No 'taint," said the boy. "Guess again." "You'll never pay anybody for much trouble that way," said Mrs. Somers dipping in the corresponding saucer. "Jenny--did you ever hear of anybody's getting along in a dish-tub without a mop?" "Who is it wants to know, sir?" said Mr. Somers politely. "Who is your father?" "He's farmer Davids." "Oh! and are you Phil?" "Yes! What be I goin' to tell her?"--This interrogatory being sent in the direction of the dish-tub. "Why you can tell her two things," said Mrs. Somers, eying Phil from head to foot. "In the first place, the Society'll meet down at Miss Bezac's; and in the second, as soon as your mother'll teach her children how to behave themselves I shall be very glad to see them." "The Society'll meet down to Miss Purcell's?" "Miss Bezac's"--said Mrs. Somers, preserving a cheerful and brisk equanimity in the midst of her sharp words that was quite delightful. "Pay more attention to your lessons, Phil Davids, and you'll be a better boy, if you look sharp." "What lessons?" said the boy blackly. "All you get--at home and abroad. You go to school I fancy," replied Mrs. Somers. The boy glanced towards the clock and began to move off, answering by actions rather than words. "You were over at Neanticut, I suppose, Saturday," said Mr. Somers affably. To which the answer was a choked and unwilling 'yes.' "Well who drove you over?" "He druv," said Phil. "I'm going--" "And the ladies--weren't there ladies along?" "Yes--They druv too." "Did you have a fine time?" said Mrs. Somers. "Yes! _I_ did," said Phil very gloomily. "Why what did you do more than the rest?" "I didn't do nothing!" said Phil, blurting out,--"and he went and took all my nuts away. He's the devil!" The boy looked at the minute as if he was a young one. "Hush, hush!" said Mr. Somers. "You--you oughtn't to speak that way--don't you know? it's not proper." "I hope he boxed your ears first," said Mrs. Somers--"I'm certain you deserved it. What made him take your nuts away?" "He wanted 'em to make a present to you"--said the boy; and with another glance at the hands of the clock, he darted out of the house and down the road towards the schoolhouse, as if truly he had expected to meet there the character he had mentioned. "My dear--" said Mr. Somers--"do you think it is quite--a--politic, to tell Mrs. Davids she don't bring up her children right? Mrs. Davids is a very respectable woman--and so is Farmer Davids--none more so." "I don't know what you call respectable women--" said Mrs. Somers--"I should be sorry to think _he_ was. But I just wish, Mr. Somers, that you would preach a sermon to the people about cutting off their children's tongues if they can't keep them in order. I declare! I could hardly keep hands off that boy." And with this suggested and suggestive text, Mr. Somers retired to his study. It had been a busy day with more than Mr. Somers, when towards the close of the afternoon Faith came out upon the porch of her mother's house. She had not read more than one delicious bit of her letter on the ride home from Neanticut; the light failed too soon. After getting home there was no more chance. Saturday night, that Saturday, had a crowd of affairs. And Monday had been a day full of business. Faith had got through with it all at last; and now, as fresh as if the kitchen had been a bygone institution--though that was as true of Faith in the kitchen as out of it--she sat down in the afternoon glow to read the letter. The porch was nice to match; she took a low seat on the step, and laying the letter in her lap rested her elbow on the yellow floor of the porch to take it at full ease. It was not just such a letter as is most often found in biographies,--yet such as may be found--'out of print.' A bright medley of description and fancy--mountains and legends and scraps of song forming a mosaic of no set pattern. And well-read as the writer was in other respects, it was plain that she was also learned in both the books Faith had had at Neanticut. The quick flow of the letter was only checked now and then by a little word-gesture of affection,--if that could be called a check, which gave to the written pictures a better glow than lit up the originals. It was something to see Faith read that letter--or would have been, if anybody had been there to look. She leaned over it in a sort of breathless abstraction, catching her breath a little sometimes in a way that told of the interest at work. The interest was not merely what would have belonged to the letter for any reader,--it was not merely the interest that attached to the writer of it, nor to the person for whom it was written; it was not only the interest deep and great which Faith felt in the subjects and objects spoken of in the letter. All these wrought with their full power; but all these were not enough to account for the intent and intense feeling with which Faith bent over that letter, with eyes that never wavered, and a cheek in which the blood mounted to a bright flush. And when it was done, even then she sat still leaning over the paper, looking not at it but through it. A little shower of fringed gentian and white Ladies' tresses came patting down upon the letter, hiding its delicate black marks with their own dainty faces. "These are your means of transport back to Pattaquasset," said Mr. Linden. Faith looked up, and rose up. "I had come back," she said, drawing one of those half long breaths as she folded up and gave him the letter. "I can't thank you, Mr. Linden." "I thought you were not reading, or I should not have ventured such an interruption. But I am in no hurry for the letter, Miss Faith. How do you like Italy?" "I like it--" said Faith doubtfully,--"I don't know it. Mr. Linden," she went on with some difficulty and flushing yet more,--"some time, will you tell me in what books I can find out about those things?--those things the letter speaks of." "Those which concern Italy, do you mean! I can arrange an Italy shelf for you up stairs--but I am afraid I have not very much here to put on it." "No indeed!" said Faith looking half startled,--"I didn't mean to give you trouble--only some time, if you would tell me what books--perhaps--" "Perhaps what?" he said smiling,--"perhaps I wouldn't?" "No," she said, "I mean, perhaps you _would;_ and perhaps I could get them and read them. I feel I don't know anything." That Faith felt it was very plain. She had that rare beauty--a soft eye. I do not mean the grace of insipidity, nor the quality of mere form and colour; but the full lustrous softness that speaks a character strong in the foundations of peace and sweetness. Many an eye can be soft by turns and upon occasion; it is rarely that you see one where sweetness and strength have met together to make that the abiding characteristic. The gentleness of such an eye has always strength to back it. Weakness could never be so steadfast; poverty could not be so rich. And Faith's eye shewed both its qualities now. Mr. Linden merely repeated, "I will arrange it for you--and you can take the books in what order you like. Perhaps I can send you another journey when they are exhausted," he added, turning the letter softly about, as if the touch were pleasant to him. She stood looking at it. "I don't know how to thank you for letting me read that," she said. "It would be foolish in me to tell you how beautiful I thought it." "_She_ is--" her brother said, with a tender, half smiling half grave expression. And for a minute or two he was silent--then spoke abruptly. "Miss Faith, what have you done with your 'Philosophe'? You know, though the rooms in the great Temple of Knowledge be so many that no one can possibly explore them all, yet the more keys we have in hand the better. For some locks yield best to an English key, some to a French; and it is often pleasant to take a look where one cannot go in and dwell." She flushed a good deal, with eyes downcast as she stood before him; then answered, with that odd little change of her voice which told of some mental check. "I haven't done anything with it, Mr. Linden." "That requires explanation." "It isn't so hard as one of your puzzles," she said smiling. "I mean to do something with it, Mr. Linden, if I can; and I thought I would try the other day; but I found I didn't know enough to begin--to learn that yet." "What other key are you forging?" "What _other_ key?" said Faith. "I mean," he answered with a tone that shewed a little fear of going too far, "what do you want to learn before that?" "I don't know," said Faith humbly.--"I suppose, English. It was a grammar of yours, Mr. Linden, a French grammar, that I was looking at; and I found I couldn't understand what it was about, anywhere. So I thought I must learn something else first." "Never was philosopher so put in a corner!" said Mr. Linden. "Suppose you take up him and the dictionary and let me be the grammar--do you think you could understand what I was about?" The blood leapt to her cheek; part of her answer Faith had no need to put in words, even if he had not seen her eyes, which he did. The words were not in any hurry to come. "When you have been teaching all day already"--she said in a tone between regretful and self-reproving. "It wouldn't be right." "Mayn't I occasionally do wrong?--just for variety's sake!" "_You_ may--and I don't doubt you would. I was thinking of my own part." "I am glad you don't say you have no doubt I _do_," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose you mean that I would if sufficient temptation came up, which of course it never has." Faith looked an instant, and then her gravity broke up. "Ah, but you know what I mean," she said. "You will have to furnish _me_ with a dictionary next," he said smiling. "Look at my watch--Miss Faith, how can you have tea so late, when I have been teaching all day?--it isn't right,--and cuts off one's time for philosophizing besides." Faith ran into the house, to tell the truth, with a very pleased face; and tea was on the table in less time than Cindy could ever understand. But during tea-time Faith looked, furtively, to see if any signs were to be found that little Johnny Fax had been made to yield up his testimony. Whether he had or no, she could see none; which however, as she justly concluded with herself, proved nothing. The new grammar was far easier understood than the old. Although Mr. Linden unfolded his newspaper, and informed Faith that he intended to read 'uninterruptedly'--so that she 'need feel no scruple about interrupting him'--yet he probably had the power of reading two things at once; for his assistance was generally given before it was asked. His explanations too, whether Faith knew it or not, covered more ground than the _French_ exigency absolutely required,--he was not picking this lock for her, but giving her the grammar key. But Faith knew it and felt it; and tasted the help thus given, with an appreciation which only it needed to do all its work; the keen delight of one seeking knowledge, who has never been helped and who has for the first time the right kind of help. Indeed, with the selfishness incident to human nature, she forgot all about Mr. Linden's intention to read uninterruptedly, and took without scruple or question, all the time he bestowed upon her. And it was not till some minutes after she had closed her books, that her low, grateful "You are very good, Mr. Linden!" reached his ear. Now the fact was, that Faith had been much observed that afternoon,--her reading-dream on the steps had been so pretty a thing to see, that when Squire Deacon had seen it once he came back to see it again; and what number of views he would have taken cannot be told, had he not been surprised by Mr. Linden. Naturally the Squire withdrew,--naturally his enlarged mind became contracted as he thought of the cause thereof; and not unnaturally he walked down that way after tea, still further to use his eyes. The house was in a tantalizing state. For though the light curtain was down, it revealed not only the bright glow of the lamp, but one or two shadowy heads; and the window being open (for the evening was warm) low voices, that he loved and that he did not love, came to his ear. Once a puff of wind floated the curtain in--more tantalizing than ever! Squire Deacon could see Mr. Linden bending aside to look at something, but _what_ the Squire could not see; for there came the edge of the curtain. In a warm state of mind he turned his face homewards, proclaiming to himself that he didn't care what they did!--the result of which was, that in ten minutes more he was knocking at Mrs. Derrick's door, and being promptly admitted by Cindy entered the parlour just as Faith had shut up her book and uttered her soft word of thanks. It was something of a transition! But after a moment's shadow of surprise on her face, Faith came forward and gave the Squire her hand. She would have let him then explain his own errand; but as he did not seem very ready to do that, or to say anything, Faith stepped into the breach. "How is Cecilia, Mr. Deacon? I have not seen her in a long time." "She's firstrate," said the Squire, colouring up; for Mr. Linden's "how do you do _again_, Squire Deacon?" not only implied that they had lately met, but that the occasion was not forgotten. "It's a sort of suffocating evening," added the Squire, wiping his forehead. "I don't recollect so warm an October for a year or two. Cilly's been out of town, Miss Faith, and since she come back she's been complainin' of _you_." Faith was near saying that she hoped the warm weather would last till Thursday; but she remembered that would not do, and changed her ground. "I am sorry anybody should complain of me. Is that because I didn't go to see her when she was away?" "I'm sure the rest of us could have stood it, if you _had_ come when she was gone, Miss Faith," said the Squire gallantly. "Seems to me we haven't seen you down to our house for an age of Sundays." "I will try to come of a week day," said Faith. "I think you never saw me there Sunday, Mr. Deacon." "I suppose an age of Sundays must be seven times as long as any other age," said Mr. Linden. "Isn't that the origin of the phrase, Squire Deacon?" "Very like," said the Squire--who didn't care to be interrupted. "I don't know much about originals,--when a man has a position to fill, sir, he can't study knick-knacks. What a handsome book, Miss Faith! such a becoming colour." "Don't you like the inside of books too, Mr. Deacon?" said Faith. "I daresay I should that one," said the Squire,--"the outside's like a picture--or a view, as some people call it. Looks just like a grain field in spring. What's the name of it, Miss Faith?" Half prudently, half wickedly, Faith without answering took the book from the table and put it in Mr. Deacon's hand. The Squire's face looked like anything but a grain field in spring then--it was more like a stubble in November; for opening the book midway and finding no help there, he turned to the title page and found the only English words in the book, in very legible black ink. "So!" he said--"it's his'n, is it!" "Yes, it is mine," said Mr. Linden,--"almost any man may have so much of a library as that." The Squire glanced suspiciously at Faith, as if he still believed she had something to do with it; but he did not dare press the matter. "Miss Faith," he said, calling up a smile that was meant to do retrospective work, "have you heard tell of the queer things they've found down to Mattabeeset?" "What things, Mr. Deacon?" "Some sort o' bird's been makin' tracks down there," said the Squire leaning back in his chair, with the look of one who has now got the game in his own hands; "makin' tracks criss-cross round; and they do say the size on 'em might have come out of the ark, for wonder." "How large are they, Mr. Deacon? and what sort of bird is it?" "Well if I was a descendant of Noah, I s'pose I could tell you," said the Squire with increased satisfaction,--"I'm sorry I can't, as it is. But if you're curious, Miss Faith (and ladies always is in my experience) I'll drive you down there any day or any time of day. I want to see 'em myself, that's a fact, and so does Cilly. Now Miss Faith, name the day!" The shortest possible smile on Mr. Linden's face at this sudden and earnest request, did not help Faith to an answer; but the Squire was happily forgetful for the moment that there were more than two people in the room, and leaning towards Faith he repeated, "The sooner the quicker, always, in such cases! because folks can never tell what may happen." "No," said Faith, "they cannot--especially about weather; and I have got some particular work to attend to at home, Mr. Deacon, before the weather changes. I wish you and Cecilia would go down and bring us a report. I should like that. But for the present Mr. Skip and I have something to do." "It's good you want Mr. Skip, for I don't," said the Squire, stiffening a little. "Is that one of the new-fashioned ways of saying you won't go, Miss Faith?" "What's your objection to Mr. Skip?" said Faith pleasantly. "I am glad nobody else wants him, for _we_ do." "Well, I say I'm glad you've got him," said the Squire, relenting under the power of Faith's voice. "But what ails _you_ Miss Faith, to go tackin' round like one o' them schooners against the wind? Aint it a straight question as to whether you'll take an excursion to Mattabeeset?" "Very straight," said Faith smiling and speaking gently. "And I thought I gave a straight answer." "Blessed if I can see which road it took!" said Squire Deacon,--"save and except it didn't seem to be the right one. 'No' 's about as ugly a road as a man can foller. Guess I spoke too late, after all," said the Squire meditatively. "How's your furr'n news, Mr. Linden? Get it regular?" "Yes--" said Mr. Linden,--"making due allowance for the irregularity of the steamers." Faith looked up in no little astonishment, and took the eye as well as the ear effect of this question and answer; then said quietly, "Have you any business in the post-office, Mr. Deacon?" "Not a great deal, Miss Faith," said the Squire, with a blandness on one side of his face which but poorly set off the other. "I go down for the paper once a week, and 'lection times maybe oftener, but I don't do much in the letter line. Correspondence never was my powder magazine. I shouldn't know where to put two or three femin_ine_ letters a week--if I got 'em." If he had got what somebody wanted to give him at that moment!--Squire Deacon little knew what risk he ran, nor how much nearer he was to a powder magazine than he ever had been in his life. "A sure sign that nobody will ever trouble you in that way," Faith said somewhat severely But the Squire was obtuse. "Well I guess likely," he said, "and it's just as good they don't. I shouldn't care about living so fur from any body I was much tied up in--or tied up _to_, neither. I can't guess, for one, how you make out to be contented here, Mr. Linden." "How do you know that I do, sir?" There was a little pause at that--it was a puzzling question to answer; not to speak of a slight warning which the Squire received from his instinct. But the pause was pleasantly ended. "Faith!" said a gentle voice in the passage--"open the door, child--I've got both hands full." Which call Mr. Linden appropriated to himself, and not only opened the door but brought in the great dish of smoking chestnuts. Faith ran away to get plates for the party, with one of which in defiance of etiquette she served first Mr. Linden; then handed another to the Squire. "I hope they are boiled right, Mr. Linden. Have you seen any chestnuts yet this year, Mr. Deacon?" "I've seen some--but they warn't good for nothing," said the Squire rather sourly. "Thank you, Miss Faith, for your plate, but I guess I'll go." "Why stay and eat some chestnuts, Squire Deacon!" said Mrs. Derrick. "Those are Neanticut chestnuts--firstrate too." "I don't like Neanticut chestnuts--" said Squire Deacon rising--"never did,--they're sure to be wormy. Good night, Miss Faith--good night, Mr. Linden. Mrs. Derrick, this room's hot enough to roast eggs." "Why the windows are open!" said Mrs. Derrick--"and we might have had the curtains drawn back, too, but I always feel as if some one was looking in." Which remark did not delay the Squire's departure, and Mrs. Derrick followed him to the door, talking all the way. During which little 'passage' Faith's behaviour again transcended all rules. For she stood before the dish of chestnuts, fingering one or two, with a somewhat unsteady motion of the corners of her mouth; and then put both her hands to her face and laughed, her low but very merriment-speaking laugh. "Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said, "I think Job was an extraordinary man!--and the chestnuts are not so bad as they are reported, after all." Faith became grave, and endeavoured to make trial of the chestnuts, without making any answer. "Child," said Mrs. Derrick returning, "I don't think the Squire felt just comfortable--I wonder if he's well?" Which remark brought down the house. "By the way--" said Mr. Linden looking up,--"did you lose a bow of ribband from your sunbonnet, the other day at Neanticut?" Faith owned to having lost it somewhere. "I found it somewhere--" said Mr. Linden with a rather peculiar look, as he took out the bow of ribband. "Where did you find it, Mr. Linden?" "I found it here--in Pattaquasset." "Where?" But he shook his head at the question. "I think I will not tell you--you may lose it again." And all Faith's efforts could get no more from him. CHAPTER XIII. The Thursday of the great school celebration arrived; and according to Faith's unexpressed wish, the weather had continued warm. It was the very luxury of October. A day for all the senses to disport themselves and revel in luxurious beauty. But the mind of Pattaquasset was upon the evening's revel, and upon the beauty of white cambric and blue ribbands. The mind of Faith Derrick was on somewhat else. "Mother," she said, "do you know there must be a fire up in Mr. Linden's room as soon as the weather gets cold?" "Of course, child." "Well there is nothing in the world up there to put wood in." "It used to lie on the floor--" said Mrs. Derrick, as if the past might possibly help the future. "That does make a muss." "It's not going to lie on the floor now," said Faith. "I am going to get Mr. Skip to make me a box, a large box, with a top--and I will cover it with some carpet or dark stuff, if you'll give me some, mother. It must be dark, because the wood of the room is. I am going to stuff the top for a seat, and it will look very nice." "Anything does that you take hold of," said her mother. "Yes, child, I'll give you all I've got,--you can look for yourself and take what you like best." The immediate work of the day was to 'clear ship'--in other words, to do all the day's work in the former part thereof, so as to leave time for the unwonted business of the afternoon. Mrs. Derrick even proposed that Faith should get dressed. But Faith said there was time enough after dinner; and that meal was gone through with as usual. With this slight variation in the table talk. Mr. Linden suggested to Faith the propriety of philosophizing a little, as a preparative for the dissipation of the evening; and declared that for the purpose, he would promise to bring his toilette within as narrow bounds as she did hers. Faith's face gave answer, in the sort of sparkling of eye and colour which generally met such a proposition, and which to-day was particularly bright with the pleasure of surprise. "But," she said warningly, "I can dress in _very_ few minutes!" So she did, and yet--and yet, she was dressed from head to foot and to the very point of the little white ruffle round her throat. Hair, bright as her hair was, and in the last degree of nice condition and arrangement, the same perfect presentation of hands and feet and white ruffles as aforesaid;--that was the most of Faith's dressing; the rest was a plain white cambric frock, which had its only setting off in her face and figure. The one touch of colour which it wanted, Faith found when she went down stairs; for upon the basket where 'Le Philosophe' commonly reposed, lay a dainty breast-knot of autumn tints,--fringed gentian with its delicate blue, and oak leaves of the deepest red, and a late rose or two. It is a pity there was nobody to see Faith's face; for its tints copied the roses. Surprise and doubt and pleasure made a pretty confusion. She held in her hand the dainty bouquet and looked at it, as if the red leaves could have told her what other hand they were in last; which was what Faith wanted to know. A step on the porch--a slight knock at the front door, naturally drew her thoughts and feet thither, but whatever Faith expected she did not expect to see Sam Stoutenburgh. One might almost go further and say he did not expect to see her, for he gazed at her as if she had been an apparition--only that his face was red instead of white. "How do you do, Sam," said Faith, coming back a little to everyday life. "Do you want to see Mr. Linden?" "O no, Miss Faith!" said Sam--as if it were the last thing in the world he wanted to see. "Well Sam--what then?" But Sam was slow to say what then--or indeed to say anything; and what would have been his success is to this day unknown, for at that moment Mr. Linden came down stairs. "Do you want me, Sam?" he said, approaching the front door. "No, sir," said Sam (playing both parts of an unwilling witness)--"I--I thought you were out, Mr. Linden." "O--" Mr. Linden said. "I beg your pardon!" And he not only went into the parlour but shut the door after him. To no purpose! With him went the remnant of Sam Stoutenburgh's courage, if he had had any to begin with, and after one more glance at Faith he fairly turned his back and fled--without striking his colours. Faith went back to the parlour. "What is the matter with the boy?" she said, "I couldn't get anything out of him, Mr. Linden." A somewhat peculiar smile came with the words, "Couldn't you?" Faith noticed it, but her thought was elsewhere. She came back to the table, took up the flowers, and said a little timidly, "Do you know who put these here, Mr. Linden?" The look changed. "I think I do," he said. Her look did not change, except to a softened reflection of the one with which she had first viewed them. She viewed them still, bending over them doubtfully; then glancing up at him she shook her head and said, "You are dressed before me, after all, Mr. Linden!" And ran away. She was back again in three minutes, with the flowers upon her breast; and if there had been but one adornment in the world that would have fitted her just then, the giver of the flowers had found it. Faith had altered nothing, she had only put them in the right place; and the effect was curious in its beauty. That effect of her flowers was probably the only one unknown to Faith herself, though it was with a face blushing with pleasure that she came in and sat gravely down to be a philosopher. She gave her teacher little trouble, and promised to give him less. She had excellent capacity, that was plain; with the eager desire for learning which makes the most of it; both the power and the will were there to appropriate and use every word of Mr. Linden's somewhat lawless but curiously skilful manner of instructing her. And the simplicity of her attention was perfect. She did not forget her flowers, probably, during this particular page of philosophizing, for a little tinge on her cheek never ceased to speak of pleasure all through the time; but that was the sole sign of distraction, if distraction there were. Less grave, but more intent, than Mr. Linden himself, the information that Mr. Skip had driven the little wagon round before the door, came to her ears all too soon. The drive to the Judge's was not very long; it might have been three quarters of a mile; so even at the old horse's rate of travelling they were soon there. Judge Harrison's house was large and old-fashioned, yet had much more style about it than any other house in Pattaquasset pretended to; and the same was true of its arrangements and furniture. It was comfortable and ample; so was everything in it; with besides that touch of ease and fitness and adaptation which shews always--or generally--that people have lived where there is a freedom from fixed standards. It was so here; for Judge Harrison's family during the life-time of his wife had always spent their winters and often part of their summers away from Pattaquasset--in one of the great cities, New York generally, or at some watering-place. There was also however an amount of good sense and kind temper in the family which made no difference, of intention, between them and the rest of Pattaquasset when they were there; so that they were extremely popular. Mr. Skip and old Crab were in very good time; there were not more than half assembled of all the good company asked and expected this afternoon. These were all over, in the house and out of the house; observing and speculating. The house was surrounded with pleasant grounds, spreading on two sides in open smooth lawns of considerable extent, and behind the house and the lawns stretching back in a half open shrubbery. On one of the lawns long tables already shewed their note of preparation; on the other there was a somewhat ominous array of benches and chairs; and among them all, round and about everything, scattered the people. Mrs. Derrick and Faith went upstairs to the unrobing room, where the latter was immediately taken into consultation by Miss Harrison on some matters which promised to keep them both busy for some time. Mr. Linden meanwhile received a very cordial welcome from Judge Harrison, who was cordiality itself. "Well, Mr. Linden! we've got a good day! Good for the boys and good for us. We've ventured to depart a little from your--instructions! but--I hope--in such a way as not to compromise you. My son and daughter have managed it. I'll introduce him to you"--said the old gentleman looking about,--"but he's somewhere just now." "I should like to know first, Judge Harrison, what my instructions were," said Mr. Linden, as his eyes likewise made search for the missing doctor. "O," said the Judge, "all right! I understood your feelings exactly. I used that word because the right one didn't come. I have to do that often. I've heard of the 'pen of a ready writer'--I'm sure I'd rather have the tongue of a ready speaker; but it don't matter for me now. My friends take me as they find me, and so will you, I have little fear. Julius!--Here's my son, Dr. Harrison, Mr. Linden." Dr. Harrison must have a word of introduction to the reader, though he was one of those who need very little in actual life. He was a handsome man, young but not very young, and came up at his father's call and honoured the introduction to his father's guest, with that easy grace and address which besides being more or less born with a man, tell that much attrition with the world has been at work to take away all his outward roughnesses of nature. He was handsomely dressed too, though not at all in a way to challenge observation. His coat would have startled nobody in Pattaquasset, though it might have told another that its wearer had probably seen France, had probably seen England, and had in short lived much in that kind of society which recognizes the fact of many kinds of coats in the world. His greeting of Mr. Linden was both simple and graceful. "I am very happy to see you," he said as he shook hands. "I should certainly have come to see you before, but I am more a stranger in Pattaquasset than anybody. I have hardly been at home since I returned; business has drawn me to other quarters--and I am only fortunate enough to be in time for this occasion. It's a good time for me," said he looking round,--"I can renew my old acquaintance with everybody at once--I think all Pattaquasset is here." "Not grown out of your remembrance, has it?" said Mr. Linden. "How long have you been away?" "Well--it's had time to grow out of everything! especially out of my memory. I have not been here for five years--and then only for a few days--and before that at College; so I may say I have hardly been here since my boyhood. I don't know anybody but the old ones. I shall apply to you, if you will allow me," said he, drawing himself and Mr. Linden a little more apart from the centre of reception. "Who, for instance, is that very--well-dressed--young lady just entering the hall?--good-looking too." The doctor's face was very quiet--so were his words; but his eye was upon Miss Cecilia Deacon, who in a low-necked blue silk, with an amber necklace and jet bracelets, was paying her respects to the Judge and his daughter. With equal quietness Mr. Linden made answer. "By the way," said the doctor suddenly, "I believe we owe this pleasant occasion--very pleasant I think it is going to be--to you." "Accidentally and innocently, I assure you." "Yes--of course,"--said Dr. Harrison, with the air of one who needed no information as to Mr. Linden's view of the subject, nor explanation as to its grounds. "But," said he speaking somewhat low,--"my father has the interests of the school--and indeed of all Pattaquasset--truly at heart, and my sister has entered into all his feelings. I am a kind of alien. I hope not to be so.--But, as I was saying, my father and sister putting their heads together, have thought it would have a good effect upon the boys and upon certain interests of the community through them and their parents too, to give some little honours to the best students among them--or to the cleverest boys--which, as you and I know, are not precisely synonymous terms. Would you think well of such an expedient? My father is very anxious to do nothing which shall not quite meet your judgment and wish in the matter." "I shall leave it in Judge Harrison's hands," said Mr. Linden after a moment's silence: "I should be very sorry to gainsay his wishes in any respect. And some of the boys deserve any honours that can be given them." "Do they?" said the doctor. "Can you indicate them to me?" "No," said Mr. Linden smiling. "I shall leave you to find out." "Leave _me_"--said the other. "How did you know what office they had charged upon me? Well--I am making as long a speech as if I were a member of Congress. By the way, Mr. Linden, can you imagine what could induce a man to be that particular member of the body politic? it occupies the place of the feet, I think; such members do little but run to and fro--though I remember I just seemed to give them the place of the tongue--unjustly. They don't do the real talk of the world." "The real _talk?_" said Mr. Linden. "Indeed I think they do their share." "Of talk?" said the doctor with an acute look at his neighbour. "Well--as I was saying--my sister has provided I believe some red and blue, or red and something, favours of ribband--to be given to the boys who shall merit them. Now to find out that, which you won't tell me, I am to do, under your pleasure, some more talking--to them in public--to see in short how well they can talk to me. Do you like that?" "Better than they will, perhaps--as merit is sometimes modest." "I assure you I would happily yield the duty into your hands--who would do it so much better--but I suppose you would say as somebody else--'Let my friend tell my tale.'--Who is that?" said the doctor slowly and softly,--"like the riding pole of a fence--as little to spare--and as rigid--isn't he?--and as long! Don't I remember him?" "You ought--that is Mr. Simlins." "Yes"--said the doctor musingly--"I remember him! I incurred his displeasure once, in some boyish way, and if I recollect he is a man that pays his debts. And that unfortunate--next--looks like the perspective of a woman." But this lady Mr. Linden did not know. She was little, in form and feature, and had besides a certain _pinched-in_ look of diminutiveness--that seemed to belong to mind as well as body, temper, and life--and had procured her the doctor's peculiar term of description. "The next thing is," said Dr. Harrison, as his eye slowly roved over the assembled and assembling people--"who is to give the favours? My sister of course does not wish to be forward in the business and _I_ don't--and you don't. _I _say, the prettiest girl here." "I think the hands that prepared the favours should dispense them," said Mr. Linden. "But she won't do it--and ladies have sometimes the power of saying no--they're generally persuadable!--Who's that?" said the doctor with a change of tone, touching Mr. Linden's arm,--"the one in white with a red bouquet de corsage--she's charming! She's the one!" "That is Miss Derrick." "She'll do,"--said the doctor softly to his companion, as Faith paused for a quick greeting of the Judge and then passed on out of sight;--"she's charming--Do you suppose she knew what she was about when she put those red leaves and roses together? I didn't know there was that kind of thing in Pattaquasset." "Yes, they look very well," said Mr. Linden coolly. "Julius!" said Mrs. Somers, laying hold of the elbow of the suggestive coat, "what do you mean by keeping Mr. Linden and yourself back here. That's the way with you young men--stand off and gaze at a safe distance, and then make believe you're fire proof." "Don't make believe anything, aunt Ellen," said the young man lightly. "Prove me. You can take me up to the cannon's mouth--or any other!--and see if I am afraid of it." "I shall prove you before I take you anywhere," said Mrs. Somers. "You needn't talk to me in that style. But it's a little hard upon the boys to keep Mr. Linden here out of sight,--half of them don't know whether they're on their head or their heels till they see him, I can tell from their faces." "Mr. Linden," said the doctor with a gesture of invitation to his companion,--"shall we go? Does it depend upon your face which of the positions mentioned is to be assumed?" The two gentlemen accordingly threaded their way to the scene of action; passing, among others, Squire Deacon and Mr. Simlins whom Mr. Linden greeted together. Mr. Simlins' answer was a mighty grasp of the hand. Squire Deacon's deserved little attention, and got it. The party were now on the lawn, at one side of which the boys had clustered and were standing in expectation. "I think, Mr. Linden," said the doctor, "if you will explain to the boys what is to become of them in the next hour, I will go and see about the fair distributor of the favours--and then I suppose we shall be ready." It was well Dr. Harrison chose such a messenger,--no one else could have brought quietness out of those few dismayed minutes when the boys first learned what was 'to become of them'; and the Judge would have felt remorseful about his secret, had he seen the swift wings on which Pleasure took her departure from the little group. It took all Mr. Linden's skill, not to enforce submission, but to bring pleasure back; perhaps nothing less than his half laughing half serious face and words, could have kept some of the boys from running away altogether. And while some tried to beg off, and some made manful efforts not to feel afraid, others made desperate efforts to remember; and some of the little ones could be reassured by nothing but the actual holding of Mr. Linden's hand in theirs. So they stood, grouped in and out the trees at the further edge of the lawn, till their teacher disengaged himself and came back to the house, leaving the parting directions--to say what they knew, and not try to say what they knew not. Meanwhile Dr. Harrison had found his sister, and after a little consulting the two had pressed their father into the service; and then the three sought Faith. She was discovered at last on the other lawn, by one of the tables, Miss Harrison having dismayfully recollected that she had asked Faith to help her dress them, and then had left her all alone to do it. But Faith was not all alone; for Mr Simlins stood there like a good-natured ogre, watching her handling and disposing of the green leaves and late flowers with which she was surrounded, and now and then giving a most extraordinary suggestion as to the same. "Faith," said Miss Harrison after she had introduced her brother,--"I want you to give these favours to the boys. Somebody must do it, and I can't--and you must!" "You see, my dear," said Judge Harrison, "Sophy and Julius want their fête to go off as prettily as possible; and so they want you to do this for them because you're the prettiest girl here." "Then I can't do it, sir," said Faith. She blushed very prettily, to be sure, but she spoke very quietly. "Faith! you will do it for me?" said Miss Harrison. "I can't, Sophy." "Nobody would do it so well as you--half!" "But I can't do it at all." And Faith went on leafing her dishes. "I dare put in no petition of my own," said the doctor then; "but I will venture to ask on the part of Mr. Linden, that you will do him and the school such a service." Faith's dark eyes opened slightly. "Did he ask you, sir?" "I cannot answer that," said the doctor, a little taken aback. "I have presumed on what I am sure are his wishes." He did not know what to make of her smile, nor of the simplicity with which Faith answered, in spite of her varying colour, "You have been mistaken, sir." The doctor gave it up and said he was very sorry. "Then who _shall_ do it?" said Miss Harrison. "Miss Essie de Staff?" "She'll do," said the Judge. And the doctor, raising his eyebrows a little, and dropping his concern, offered his arm to Faith to go to the scene of action. So it happened that as Mr. Linden entered the hall from one side door, he met the whole party coming in from the other, the doctor carrying the basket of blue and red favours which he had taken to present to Faith. But he stood still to let them pass, taking the full effect of the favours, the doctor, the red leaves and their white-robed wearer; and then followed in his turn. All the inhabitants of the house and grounds were now fast gathering on the other lawn. Miss Sophy and her father separated different ways, the former taking the basket to commit it to Miss de Staff; and the doctor being obliged to go to his place in the performance, left his charge where he might. But nobody minded his neighbour now; Faith did not; the boys were drawn up in a large semicircle, and the doctor taking his place in front of them, all in full view of the assembled townsmen of Pattaquasset, proceeded to his duty of examiner. He did it well. He was evidently, to those who could see it, thoroughly at home himself in all the subjects upon which he touched and made the boys touch; so thoroughly, that he knew skilfully _where_ to touch, and what to expect of them. He shewed himself a generous examiner too; he keenly enough caught the weak and strong points in the various minds he was dealing with, and gracefully enough brought the good to light, and only shewed the other so much as was needful for his purposes. He did not catch, nor entrap, nor press hardly; the boys had fair play but they had favour too. The boys, on their part, were not slow to discover his good qualities; and it was certainly a comfort to them to know that they were acquitted or condemned on right grounds. Beyond that, there were curious traits of character brought to light, for those who had eyes to read them. The two head boys--Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh, though but little apart in their scholarship were widely different in the manifestation thereof. Sam Stoutenburgh's rather off-hand, dashing replies, generally hit the mark; but the steady, quiet clearheadedness of Reuben not only placed him in advance, but gave indications which no one could read who had not the key to his character. He coloured sometimes, but it was from modesty; while part of Sam Stoutenburgh's blushes came from his curls. Little Johnny Fax, by dint of fixing his eyes upon Mr. Linden's far-off form (he had been petitioned to stand in sight) went bravely through his short part of the performance; and proved that he knew what he knew, if he didn't know much; and of the rest there need nothing be said. Among the lookers-on there were also indications. To those who did not know him, Mr. Linden's face looked as unmoved as the pillar against which he leaned,--yet the varying play of light and shade upon the one was well repeated in the other. Squire Stoutenburgh nodded and smiled, to himself and his neighbours, and made little aside observations--"_That_ told, sir!"--"Always was a good boy!--studious."--"Yes--Reuben Taylor does well--very well, considering who his father is." That father the while, stood alone--even beyond the outskirts of the gay party. With Miss Cilly's blue dress he had nothing in common--as little with Faith's spotless white. Dark, weatherbeaten, dressed for his boat and the clam banks, he stood there on the green turf as if in a trance. Unable to follow one question or answer, his eager eye caught every word of Reuben's voice; his intent gaze read first the assurance that it would be right, then the assurance that it was. The whole world might have swept by him in a pageant--and he would scarcely have turned to look! There was one other listener perhaps, whose interest was as rapt as his; that was Faith. But her interest was of more manifold character. There was the natural feeling for and with the boys; and there was sympathy for their instructor and concern for his honour, which latter grew presently to be a very gratified concern. Then also Dr. Harrison's examination was a matter of curious novelty; and back of all that, lay in Faith's mind a deep, searching, pressing interest in the subject matters of it. What of all that, _she_ knew,--how little,--and how much the boys;--how vastly much Dr. Harrison; what far-reaching fields of knowledge there were in some people's minds. Where was Faith's mind going? Yet she was almost as outwardly quiet as Mr. Linden himself. All her shew of feeling was in the intent eye, the grave face, and a little deepening and deepening tinge in her cheeks. The questioning and answering was over--the boys were all in their ranks--there was a little hush and stir of expectancy,--and Dr. Harrison gave his hand to a very bright lady with a basket and led her to a position by his side, filling the eye of the whole assembly. Faith looked over to her with a tiny giving way of the lips which meant a great self-gratulation that she was not in the lady's place. There she stood, very much at home apparently,--Miss Essie de Staff, as fifty mouths said at once. She was rather a little lady, not very young, nor old; dressed in a gay-coloured plaid silk, with a jaunty little black apron with pockets, black hair in curls behind her ears, and a glitter of jewelry. It was not false jewelry, nor ill put on, and this was Miss Essie de Staff. She belonged to the second great family of Pattaquasset; she too had been abroad and had seen life like the Harrisons; but somehow she had seen it in a different way; and while the de Staffs had the shew, the Harrisons always had the reality of precedence in the town. And Dr. Harrison, raising slightly again his voice, which was a melodious one, said, "The ladies of Pattaquasset intend to honour with a blue ribband the five elder boys who have spoken best; and with a favour of red ribband the five little boys who have done the same on their part. Miss Essie de Staff will do us the honour to bestow them.--Reuben Taylor, will you come forward--here, if you please." The 'favours' made a little stir among the group; and Reuben, who had been too much absorbed in the examination for its own sake to think much of the question of precedence, came forward at first with hesitation--then steadily and firmly. Miss Essie stepped a little forward to meet him, gave her basket to Doctor Harrison, and taking a blue favour from it she smilingly attached the same securely to the left breast of Reuben's coat. "Don't leave your place," said the doctor to him in a low tone;--"I mean," he added smiling,--"go back to it and stay there.--Sam Stoutenburgh!"-- The doctor spoke like a man a little amused at himself for the part he was playing, but he did it well, nevertheless. And Reuben, who would fain have put himself and his blue ribband out of sight behind the rest, went back to his place, while Sam stepped briskly forward and received the decoration in turn. Very different his air from Reuben's,--very different Reuben's grave and grateful bend of the head from the way in which Sam's hand covered at once his heart and the blue ribband. The four boys next in degree to Reuben were severally invested with their blue stars. "Johnny Fax!"--said Dr. Harrison. "Miss Essie, you are laying us under nameless obligations.--Johnny, come and get your ribband." Johnny came--looking first at Dr. Harrison and then at Miss Essie, as if a little uncertain what they were going to do with him; but apparently the fluttering red favour pleased his fancy, for he smiled a little, and then looked quite away over Miss Essie's shoulder as she bent towards him. For which neglect of the lady's face his youth and inexperience must account. But when the favour was on, Johnny's eyes came back, and he said simply, "Thank you, ma'am. Shall I keep it always?" "By all means!" said Miss Essie. "Never part with it." The five little fellows were made splendid; and then there was a pause. Miss Essie stepped back and was lost. Doctor Harrison made a sign with his hand, and two servants came on the lawn bringing between them a table covered with a red cloth. It was set down before Dr. Harrison and his sister came beside him. "My dear friends," said the doctor raising his voice again, and giving his sister at the same time the benefit of a slight play of face which others were not so situated they could see,--"You have all done yourselves and somebody else, a great deal of credit. I hope you will thank him;--as we wish to shew our pleasure to you. It was not to be expected that everybody would be first this time--though on the next occasion I have no doubt that will prove to be the case; but as we could not of course in consequence give stars to all, we will do the best we can. Reuben Taylor--" Again Reuben came forward; the doctor had pulled off the red cloth, and a tempting pile of books, large and small and nicely bound, rose up to view upon the table. And Miss Harrison as Reuben came near, chose out one of the best and handed it to him, saying softly, "You have done very well." Now Miss Sophy Harrison was, as everyone knew and said, thoroughly good and kind, like her father. She had chosen the books. And the one she had given Reuben was a very nice copy of the Pilgrim's Progress. She might have felt herself repaid by the one earnest look his eyes gave her,--then he bowed silently and retired. The list would be too long to go through. Every one was pleased this time; the Harrisons had done the thing well; and it may only be noted in passing that Johnny Fax's delight and red ribband were crowned and finished oil with an excellent Robinson Crusoe. Then broke up and melted off the assembled throng, like--I want a simile,--like the scattering of a vapoury cloud in the sky. It was everywhere and nowhere directly--that which before had been a distinct mass. "Faith," said Miss Cecilia, almost before this process or dispersion commenced,--"where _did_ you get such a pretty nosegay this time of year?" "They grew--" said Faith smiling. "Did they come out of your own garden." "We don't keep oak trees in our garden." "I declare! it's elegant. Faith, give me just one of those red leaves, won't you? I want it." "No indeed!" said Faith, starting back and shielding the oak leaves with her hand, as that of Miss Deacon approached them. "What are you thinking of?" "Thinking of!" said Cecilia colouring. "So, Faith, I hear you've set up for a school teacher?" "I've one little scholar," said Faith quietly. "That isn't much 'setting up,' Cecilia." "One scholar!" said Cecilia contemptuously. "Didn't you go over with all the boys to Neanticut the other day?" "Yes," said Faith laughing, "indeed I did; but I assure you I didn't go to teach school." "Miss Derrick," said Dr. Harrison, offering his arm to Faith,--"my sister begs the favour of your assistance--instantly and urgently--you know I presume for what?" "Yes, I know, Dr. Harrison," said Faith smiling--"I left it unfinished"-- And the two walked away together. "Seems to me, Mr. Simlins," said Squire Deacon, watching Faith and her convoy with a certain saturnine satisfaction; "I say it seems to me, that the Judge aint making the thing right side upwards. The boys get all the prizes--without Dr. Harrison thinks _he_ has, and the teacher don't seem to be much count. Now what a handsomer thing it would have been to make the boys get _him_ something with their own hard cash,--a pleasure boat--" added the Squire, "or a Bible--or anything of that sort. I thought all this philustration was to set _him_ up." Mr. Simlins gave a kind of grunt. "It haint pulled him _down_ much," he said,--"as I see. And I suppose Judge Harrison thinks that drivin' wedges under a church steeple is a surrogate work--without he saw it was topplin'." Without getting any too clear a notion of the meaning of these words--it took a lively imagination to follow Mr. Simlins in some of his flights, the Squire yet perceived enough to stay his own words a little; and he passed away the tedium of the next few minutes by peering round the corner of the house and getting far-off glimpses of Faith. "She looks 'most like a spectral illusion," he said admiringly. "The tablecloths aint bleached a bit whiter 'n her dress." "She aint no more like a spectre than I'm like a ghost," said Mr. Simlins. "Washin' and ironin' 'll make a white frock for any woman." Then stalking up to Mr. Linden accosted him grimly, after his fashion. "Well Mr. Linden--what d' you think of that farm at Neanticut? don't you want to take it of me?" "There are too many fences between me and it," was the smiling reply. "It's good land," Mr. Simlins went on; "you can't do better than settle down there. I'd like to have you for a tenant--give you the land easy." "Let me pay you in nuts?" said Mr. Linden. But then came up other farmers and heads of families to claim Mr. Linden's attention; men whose boys were at the school; and who now in various states of gratification, but all gratified, came one after another to grasp his hand and thank him for the good he had done and was doing them. "You're the first man, sir," said one, a broad-shouldered, tall, strong man, with a stern reserved face,--"you're the first man that has been able to make that boy of mine--Phil--attend to anything, or go to school regular. He talks hard sometimes,--but you do what you like with him, Mr. Linden! I give you my leave. He's smart, and he aint a bad boy, at heart; but he's wild, and he has his own way and it aint always a good one. His mother never had any government of him," said the father, looking towards the identical person whom Dr. Harrison had characterized as 'the perspective of a woman,' and who certainly had the air of one whose mind--what she had--was shut up and shut off into the further extremities of possibility. Then came up Judge Harrison. "Well, Mr. Linden, I hope you have been gratified. I have. I declare I have!--very much. You are doing a great thing for us here, sir; and I don't doubt it is a gratification to you to know it. I haven't made up my mind what we shall do to thank _you_--we've been thanking the boys--but that's, you know,--that's a political expedient. My heart's in the other thing." "Squire Deacon was givin' me about the same perspective of the case," said Mr. Simlins,--"only he thought he warnt the one to do the thaukin'." Mr. Linden's face, through all these various gratulations, had been a study. One part of his nature answered, eye to eye and hand to hand, the thanks and pleasure so variously expressed. But back of that lay something else,--a something which gave even his smile a tinge,--it was the face of one who "Patiently, and still expectant, Looked out through the wooden bars." Sometimes grave, at others a queer sense of his own position seemed to touch him; and his manner might then remind one of a swift-winged bird--who walking about on the grass for business purposes, is complimented by a company of crickets on his superior powers of locomotion. And it was with almost a start that he answered Judge Harrison-- "Thank _me_, sir? I don't think I deserve any thanks." "I am sure we owe them," said the Judge,--"but that's another view of the case, I know. Well--it's a good kind of debt to owe--and to pay!--" And he was lost again among some other of his guests. In the gradual shifting and melting away of groups, it happened that Mr. Linden found himself for a moment alone, when the doctor again approached him. "Did I do your office well?" he said gently, and half putting his arm through Mr. Linden's as if to lead him to the house. The answer was laughingly given-- "'What poet would not mourn to see His brother write as well as he?'" "Well," said the doctor, answering the tone, "did I hit your boys?--the right ones?" "My boys in point of scholarship?--yes, almost as carefully as I should." "I am glad you were satisfied," said the doctor;--"and I'm glad it's over!--What sort of a life do you lead here in Pattaquasset? I don't know it. How can one get along here?" He spoke in a careless sort of confidential manner, as perfectly aware that his companion was able to answer him. They were very slowly sauntering up to the house. "One can get along here in various ways--" said Mr. Linden,--"as in other places. One can (_if_ one can) subside to the general level, or one can (with the like qualification) rise above it. The paths through Pattaquasset are in no wise peculiar, yet by no means alike." "No," said the doctor, with another side look at him--"I suppose as much. I see you're a philosopher. Do you carry a spirit-level about with you?" "Define--" said Mr. Linden, with a smile which certainly belonged to the last philosopher he had been in company with. "I see you do," said the doctor. "What's your opinion of philosophy? that it adds to the happiness of the world in general?" "You ask broad questions, Dr. Harrison--considering the many kinds of philosophy, and the unphilosophical state of the world in general." The doctor laughed a little. "I don't know," said he,--"I sometimes think the terms have changed sides, and that 'the world in general' has really the best of it. But do you know what particular path in Pattaquasset we are treading at this minute?" "A path where philosophy and happiness are supposed to part company, I imagine," said Mr. Linden. "Pre-cisely--" said the doctor. "By the way, if anything in my father's house or library can be of the least convenience to you while you are travelling the somewhat unfurnished ways of Pattaquasset, I hope you will use both as your own.--Yes, I am taking you to the supper table--or indeed they are plural to-night--Sophy, I have brought Mr. Linden to you, and I leave you to do what you will with him!" CHAPTER XIV. With a slight congee the doctor left thorn and went back again; and then came the full rush of all the guests, small and great. Miss Harrison claimed Mr. Linden's assistance to marshal and arrange the boys at their table--one being given specially to them; and then established him as well as circumstances permitted at another--between Miss Cecilia Deacon and Miss Essie de Staff. Miss Harrison herself did not sit down. The guests were many, the servants far too few; and Miss Harrison and her brother with one or two helpers, of whom Faith was one, went round from table to table; attending to everybody's wants. The supply of all eatables and drinkables was ample and perfect enough; but without the quick and skilful eyes and hands of these educated waiters, the company could not have been entirely put in possession of them. So Faith's red oak leaves did after all adorn the entertainment, and publicly, though most unconsciously on her part. "Reuben," she whispered at his shoulder, "there are no roast clams here--shall I give you some jelly? I see you have got substantials." "No thank you, Miss Faith," said Reuben--adding with some hesitation, "I believe it's ungrateful in me, but I don't want to eat." "Are you eating your book all the while? I am so glad, Reuben! Where is your father?" "I think he's home, Miss Faith--he must be by this time." "Home! I'm sorry. I've been looking for him. Sam--what can I get you? coffee?" "Miss Faith!" said Sam standing up in his place, "I'd rather have one of those leaves you've been wearing all day than all the coffee that ever was burnt!" "Leaves! you foolish boy," said Faith, her own colour in an instant emulating them, and as before her hand went up to shield them. "I can't give you one of these, Sam--I'll bring you some coffee." Away she ran, coming back presently with a cup and a piece of jelly cake, bestowing a fellow piece upon Reuben, "You can get plenty of oak leaves anywhere, Sam," she said laughing a little. "But you haven't worn 'em, Miss Faith--and I can't keep this!" said Sam surveying the cake with a very serio-comic face. "Well, who wants to?" said Joe Deacon. "Hand us over the other cake, that's got nothing between. If you're settin' up to get round anybody, Sam Stoutenburgh, you'll find there's two or three in a bunch--I tell you." Which remark Faith was happily too far off to hear. "Faith," said Mrs. Somers, leaning back and stopping her as she passed; "do you know why I let Sophy keep you running about so?" "I like to do it, Mrs. Somers." "Well that's not the reason. You ought to sit up at the head of the table for your skill in arranging flowers. I didn't know it was in you, child." And Mrs. Somers bent closer to Faith to take the breath of the roses, but softly for she loved flowers herself. Faith bore it jealously, for she was afraid of another invading hand; and blushing at the praise she could not disclaim ran away as soon as she was free. But as the tide of supper-time began to ebb, the doctor arrested Faith in her running about and saying that his sister had had no supper yet and wanted company, led her to the place his aunt had spoken of, a clear space at one end of the table, where the doctor also discovered _he_ had taken no supper. The rest of the party sat at ease, or began to scatter again about the grounds. A new attraction was appearing there, in the shape of Chinese lanterns, which the servants and others were attaching in great numbers to the trees and shrubbery. The sun went down, the shades of evening were fast gathering. At last Miss Harrison rose. "When the lamps are lit, Miss Derrick," said the doctor as they followed her example, "there is a particular effect which I will have the pleasure of shewing you--if you will allow me." "Dr. Harrison, how do _you_ do!" said a voice that sounded like--perhaps as much like the bark of a red squirrel as anything; and a little figure, with everything faded but her ribbands, and everything full but her cheeks, looked up with a pair of good, kind, honest eyes into the doctor's face. "It makes a body feel young--or old--I don't know which, to see you again," she said. "Though indeed I know just how old you are, without looking into the Bible. Not but that's a good place to look, for various things. And there's a great variety of things there,--if a body had time to read 'em all, which I haven't. I used to read like a scribe when I was young--till my eyes got bad; but a body can't do much without eyes, especially when they have to sew all the time, as I do. I always did think it was one indemnification for being a man, that a body wouldn't have to sew. Nor do much of anything else--for 'man works from sun to sun, but a woman's work is never done.' And I always think the work after sundown comes hardest--it does to me, because my eyes are so bad.--Well, Miss Cilly! don't your dress fit!"--It may be proper to mention that this last sentence was a little undertone. "You have given me, Miss Bezac," said the doctor, "what I have wanted all my life until now--an indemnification for being a man!" "Is that the way they talk over in France?" said Miss Bezac--"well, it don't make a body want to go there, there's that about it. And there always is something about everything. And I've something to say to you, Faith, so don't you run away. You've done running enough for one day, besides." Faith was in no danger of running away. For while Miss Bezac was running off her sentences, a little low voice at Faith's side said "Ma'am!"--by way of modestly drawing her attention to Johnny Fax and his red ribband. Faith stooped down to be nearer the level of the red ribband. "You did bravely, Johnny. And you got a book too. I guess Mr. Linden was pleased with you to-night," she added softly. "O he's always pleased with me," said Johnny simply. "But I wasn't brave, ma'am,--I was frightened." Then in a lower tone, as if he were telling a great secret, Johnny added, "I'm coming to you next Sunday if it's cold weather"--and looked up in her face to see the effect of this mysterious announcement. "You, Johnny!" said Faith, with a flash of remembrance of the time she had last seen him, which made her almost sorrowful. "Well, dear--we'll do the best we can," she added in a tone which was sweet at least as tenderness could make it. The child looked at her a little wistfully. "Mr. Linden says he don't think I'm big enough to keep warm out of doors any more," he said with childish inexplicitness. "I don't think you are," said Faith. "Well, Johnny--you come to me next Sunday, and we'll try!"--And she gave him, what Sam Stoutenburgh would probably have mortgaged his life for,--a soft touch of her lips upon his cheek. And Sam Stoutenburgh was not far off. "Miss Faith!" he said as she rose to her former position,--"stand out of the way, Johnny, there's a good boy!--mayn't I see you home to-night? Please don't refuse me everything!" "There isn't room in the wagon, Sam," said Faith. "Are you going to ride?" said Sam. "But I may go with you to the wagon?" "Yes if you like," said Faith looking a little puzzled and amused. "I suppose you may." "Are there any more to come?" said Miss Bezac, whose patience had outlasted that of Dr. Harrison,--"because if there are, I'd rather wait--I don't like to be stopped when once I begin. And if I was you, Faith--(how pretty you look!)--I'd keep still and not let my head be turned; the old direction's the best; and after all directions are more than dresses. For what's the odds between an embroidered vest and a plain one? Not that it's much to embroider it--I used to fiddle faddle many a one, till I lost my eyes; and I'll teach you to do it in a minute, if you like." With which kind and lucid proposal, Miss Bezac put her hand softly on Faith's waist and smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in the white dress. "Dear Miss Bezac," said Faith, not losing her amused look,--"I don't want to embroider waistcoats. What are you talking of?" "I know--" said Miss Bezac, "and I suppose that's enough. If folks don't know what you mean they can't say anything against it. But you don't know what you want, child,--any more than I did. And do you know, sometimes I wish I'd never found out? But whenever you do know, you can come to me; and I'll fix you off so you won't know yourself. It's a pleasant way to lose a body's identity, I can tell you. Now give me a kiss and I'll go, for I live 'tother side of creation--where you never come; and why you don't come, and bring him, I don't see--but I've seen him, in spite of you. Here he comes, too"--said Miss Bezac, "so I'll be off." There was such a variety of confusions in this speech that Faith was hopeless of setting them right. She stood looking at the speaker, and did not try. However, everybody was accustomed to Miss Bezac's confusions. "Are you pledged to stand still on this particular spot?" Mr. Linden said at her side. "No indeed," said Faith with ready smile,--"but people have been talking to me--" "Yes, and there is no telling how many I shall interfere with if I take you away now." "I don't care--" said Faith. "Only Dr. Harrison said he wanted to shew me something when the lamps were lit." "When they are lighting? or when they are lit?" "When they are lit, he said." "Well they are not lit yet," said Mr. Linden, "and before they are I want you to get a view of people and things in twilight perspective. For which purpose, Miss Faith, I must take you to the extreme verge of society and the lawn--if you will let me." "I would like to go anywhere you please, Mr. Linden." And Faith's face gave modest token that she would like it very much. He gave her his arm, and then by skilful navigation kept clear of the groups most likely to interrupt their progress; passing rather towards the boy quarter, making Sam Stoutenburgh sigh and Joe Deacon whistle, with the most frigid disregard of their feelings. The shrubbery at the foot of the lawn was in more than twilight now, and its deeper shadow was good to look out from; giving full effect to the dying light on earth and sky. The faint rosecoloured clouds hung over a kaleidoscope of dresses, which was ever shifting and making new combinations, passing into black spots in the shadow of the trees, or forming a broad spread of patchwork on the open lawn. The twilight perspective was far more witching than the sunlight full view. "How pretty that is!" said Faith delightedly. "Thank you, Mr. Linden. I don't believe Dr. Harrison will shew me any effect so good as this. How pretty and odd it is!" "Don't you know," he said, "that you never should thank me for doing pleasant things?" "Why, Mr. Linden?" she said in a tone a little checked. "Why?--because I like to do them." "Well," she said laughing slightly, "that makes me want to thank you more." "It don't make me deserve the thanks, however. Do you perceive the distant blue of Miss Cecilia's dress? does it make you think of the blue ether over your head?" "Not the least!" said Faith much amused. "What makes you ask me that, Mr. Linden?" "I should like to hear why it does not?" "The two things are so very, very far apart," Faith said, after a moment's consideration. "I don't see what could make me think of them together. The only thing is that both are blue, but I should have to think to remember that." "You haven't answered me yet," he said smiling. "Why are they far apart?--your blue gentians there, are as far below the sky in number of miles--yet from them to the sky the transition is easy." "Yes--" said Faith looking down at her blue gentian. "Why is it, Mr. Linden? But this is God's work too," she added softly. "I suppose that is the deep root of the matter. The ruined harp of man's nature yet answers to a breath from heaven as to no other touch. Then blue has been so long the emblem of truth, that separated from truth one can scarce, as you say, realize what colour it is." "Then Mr. Linden," said Faith after a moment's silence, with the tone and the look of quick pleasure,--"is _this_ what you mean by 'reading' things?" "Yes--" he said with a smile, "'To rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew.'" "But how far can you read?" said Faith. "And I never thought of such reading till--till a little while ago! How far can you read, Mr. Linden?" "I don't know," he said,--"because I don't know how far I _cannot_ read! Yet if 'the invisible things of God' may be known 'by the things which are seen,' there is at least room for ample study. To some people, Miss Faith, the world is always (with the change of one adjective) an incomprehensible little green book; while others read a few pages now, and look forward to knowing the whole hereafter." There was a pause, a little longer than usual. "And you say I must not thank you?"--Faith said very low. "I say I think you have no cause." She was silent. "Has the day been pleasant?" Mr. Linden asked, as they walked up and down. "Yes, very pleasant. I liked what you didn't like, Mr. Linden--all that examination business. And I was very glad for Reuben and little Johnny." "How do you know I didn't like it?" "I don't 'know'--I thought you didn't," she said looking at him. "You don't like to say why?" "Yes! I thought you didn't like it, Mr. Linden, when Judge Harrison first proposed it. You wished he would give us the pleasure without the shewing off." "Well, did you also know," he said with a peculiar little smile, "that one of my best scholars was not examined?" "No--who do you mean?" she said earnestly. He laughed, and answered, "One who would perhaps prefer a private examination at home--and to whom I have thought of proposing it." "An examination?" said Faith, wondering and with considerable heightening of colour, either at the proposal or at the rank among scholars assigned her. "You need not be frightened," Mr. Linden said gravely--"if anybody should be, it is I, at my own boldness. I am a little afraid to go on now--though it is something I have long wanted to say to you." "What is it, Mr. Linden?" she said timidly. "I have thought--" he paused a moment, and then went quietly on. "You have given me reason to think, that there are other desirable things besides French of which you have no knowledge. I have wished very much to ask you what they are, and that you would let me--so far as I can--supply the deficiency." It was said with simple frankness, yet with a manner that fully recognized the delicate ground he was on. The rush of blood to Faith's face he could see by the lamplight, but she hesitated for an answer, and hesitated,--and her head was bent with the weight of some feeling. "I should be too glad, Mr. Linden!" she said at last, very low, but with unmistakeable emphasis. "Then if you will let me see to-morrow what you are doing with that other little book, I will see what companions it should have." And warned by the kindling lamps on every side, he led the way a little more into the open lawn, that Faith might at least be found if sought. That allowed him to see too, the look he had raised in her face; the little smile on the lips, the flush of colour, the stir of deep pleasure that kept her from speaking. Yet when they had taken a few steps on the broad lawn and other people would soon be nearing them, she suddenly said, softly, "What 'other' book do you mean, Mr. Linden?" "I don't know how many there may be, Miss Faith, but I _meant_ one which I tried to get at the store one day, and found that the last copy had passed into your hands." "The arithmetic!" said Faith. "That was how you knew it.--There is Dr. Harrison looking for me!" she added, in a tone which gentle as it was would have turned that gentleman to the right about if he had heard it--which he did not--and if he had not been indifferent on the point of all such tones,--which he was. "Stars shine by their own light!" said the doctor as he came up. "I have no need to ask, 'Where is Miss Derrick?' Your Quercus rubra there is brilliant at any distance, with a red gleam. You have Mars on your breast, and Hesperus in your eye! It is heaven on earth!" Faith could not choose but laugh at the mixture of gallantry and fun and flattery in the doctor's manner, though his meaning was, to her, doubtful. Other answer she made none. "And so," said Mr. Linden, "you make the stars shine by their own light, and Miss Derrick by the light of the stars!" "Advances constantly making in the sciences!" said the doctor with a wave of his hand. "I dare say you are a better astronomer than I am;--I haven't kept up with the latest discoveries. But Mr. Linden, may I interfere with your heaven for a moment, and persuade these stars to shine, for that length of time, upon less favoured regions? With another revolution of the earth they will rise upon you again." "I shall not persuade the stars for you," said Mr. Linden. "I will endeavour so far," said the doctor turning to Faith. "I had the honour to offer to shew Miss Derrick the peculiar effect of Chinese lanterns in Pattaquasset--may I hope that she will allow me to fulfil my promise?" He took possession of Faith, and with a graceful "Au revoir!"--to Mr. Linden, led her away. The effect of the lanterns was very pretty, and to her eyes very curious. So were the lanterns themselves, be fore one and another of which Faith stopped and looked with charmed eyes, and the doctor nothing loth gave her charming details. "After all, it is only child's play," he said as he turned away. "Why should we want Pattaquasset to look like China?" "For one night?" said Faith. "Well, for one night," said the doctor. "But you haven't got little feet on, have you?" said he looking down at the edge of Faith's white dress in mock alarm;--"I shouldn't like the transformation to go too far." Faith laughed. "Reassure me," said the doctor. "Nothing can be more unlike the Mongol type than the pure Circassian I have before me,--yet let me see the slipper. I want to be sure that all is right." He persisted, and to stop the absurdity of the thing, Faith shewed him, not indeed her slipper, but the most un-Chinese, un-French, neat little shoe thick enough for walking, in which she had come to Judge Harrison's party. "Alarmingly near!" said the doctor peering at it--"but the proportions are perfect. It is not Chinese. Thank you. I have seen so many odd things in my life, Miss Derrick,--and people,--that I never know what to expect; and _anything_ right from head to foot, is a marvel." They moved on again and sauntered round and round in the paths of the shrubbery, Faith hardly knew whither. In truth the doctor's conversation was amusing enough to leave her little care. Very few indeed were the words he drew from her; but with all their simplicity and modesty, he seemed to be convinced that there was something behind them worth pleasing; at least he laid himself out to please. He easily found that what she knew of life and the world was very little, and that she was very ready to take any glimpses he would give her into the vast unknown regions so well known to him. Always in his manner carelessly graceful, Faith never dreamed of the real care with which he brought up subjects, and discussed them, that he thought would interest her. He told of distant countries and scenes--he detailed at length foreign experiences--he described people--he gave her pictures of manners and customs,--all new to her ears, strange and delightful; and so easily yet so masterly given, that she took it all in an easy full flow of pleasure. So it happened that Faith did not very well know how they turned and wound in and out through the walks; she was in Switzerland and at Paris and at Rome, all the while. She came back pretty suddenly to Pattaquasset. As they paused to watch the glitter of one of the lamps on the shining leaves of a holly tree, several of the boys, seeking their own pleasure, came sauntering by. The last of these had time to observe her, and swaggering close up under her face said, loud enough to be heard, "You aint, neither!--I know you aint. Reuben Taylor says you aint." The lamplight did not serve to reveal Faith's changes of face and colour, neither did Dr. Harrison wait to observe them. "What do you mean, sir?" he said, catching hold of the boy's arm. "Why do you speak so to a lady?--_what_ isn't she?" "Somebody's sweetheart," said the boy resolutely. "She aint. Reuben Taylor says she aint." "_You_'ll never be, my fine fellow," said the doctor letting him go,--"if you don't learn more discretion. I must tell Mr. Linden his boys want a trifle of something besides Algebra. _That_ don't give all the relative values of things." "Pray do not! don't speak of it, Dr. Harrison!" said Faith. He tried to see her face, but he could not. "Hardly worth while," he said lightly. "Boys will be boys--which is an odd way of excusing them for not being civilized things. However if you excuse him, I will." Faith said nothing. She was trying to get over the sudden jar of those words. They had not told her anything she did not believe--she thought no other; but they gave her nevertheless a keen stir of pain--a revival of the pain she had quieted at Neanticut; and somehow this was worse than that. Could Reuben Taylor talk about her so?--could Reuben Taylor have any _authority_ for doing it? But that question would not stand answering. Faith's red oak leaves were a little AEgis to her then, a tangible precious representative of all the answer that question would not wait for. No sting of pain could enter that way. But the pain was bad enough; and under the favouring shadowy light of the lamps she strove and strove to quiet it; while the doctor went on talking. "Indeed,"--said he--going on with the subject of Phil's speech,--"I am obliged to him for his information--which was of course incorrect. But I am very glad to hear it nevertheless. Other people's sweethearts, you know, are 'tabooed'--sacred ground--not to be approached without danger to all concerned. But now--if you will allow me, I think I shall claim you for mine." Whatever _look_ the words may have, they did not sound rude. They were said with a careless half-amused, half gentle manner, which might leave his hearer in doubt whether the chief purpose of them were not to fall pleasantly on her ear and drive away any disagreeable remainders of Phil's insolence. But Faith scarce heard him. She was struggling with that unbidden pain, and trying with all the simplicity and truth of her nature and with the stronger help she had learned to seek, to fight it down. She had never thought such an utterly vain thought as that suggested in Phil's words; in her humility and modesty she chid herself that it should have come into her head even when other people's words had forced it there. Her humility was very humble now. And in it she quietly took up with the good she had, of which her roses were even then breathing sweet reminders in her face; putting from her all thought of good that did not belong to her and she could not deserve. The uncertain light favoured her well, or Dr. Harrison would have seen too much of her face-play. They had been going on and on, and the doctor had been as usual talking, and she had managed now and then to seem to give an answer--she never remembered to what; and her part in the conversation all along had been so modestly small that the doctor hardly knew when or whether she had ceased to comprehend him. But they emerged at last upon the lawn, where Faith was taken possession of and marched off by the old Judge, nothing loth. The doctor casting about for another fish to throw his line at, spied Reuben Taylor, standing alone, and eying as Mr. Linden and Faith had done the gay scene about the house, now gay with the many-coloured lamps. "Well, my man," said the doctor easily accosting him as he stood there, "you did very well this afternoon. How long have you been at the school?" Reuben made answer with his usual respectful courtesy. "Are you a friend of Miss Derrick's?" "I think Miss Derrick is my friend, sir," said Reuben with a little flush. "Is she?" said the doctor. "Well don't you think that comes to the same thing?" "No sir." "No? What's the difference? I'm not examining you now--I am asking for information." "I think you must know, sir," said Reuben, respectfully but firmly, after a glance at his questioner. "Do you?" said the doctor laughing slightly. "Well, if you are not her friend, it don't signify. I was going to remark to you, if you _were_, that ladies don't generally care to have their private affairs talked about, and however much you may know, it is not always worth while to tell it." "I neither know nor have said anything, Dr. Harrison," said Reuben, drawing himself up a little, and looking full in the doctor's face. "You're Reuben Taylor, aren't you?" "Yes sir--I'm not anybody else though." "No," said the doctor carelessly. "Well, it isn't necessary you should be, for present purposes. I heard you quoted as authority just now, on something which touched that lady's affairs, whose friend you say you are not--and I think, _your_ friend though she may be, she was not particularly gratified with your interference." "Miss Faith knew it was a wrong quotation," said Reuben quietly. "You are sure of that?" "Quite sure, sir--if it was anything about her which ought not to have said." "Don't know that it was," said the doctor; "it's well enough sometimes to set people right when they are wrong--what I say is, that ladies don't always thank one for it." Reuben flushed a little. "You don't know me, Dr. Harrison," he said--"I can't expect you to take my word; but I have nothing to add to it." "And I have nothing to add to mine," said the doctor lightly. "I heard you quoted--that's all; I supposed you would know what for." "Who did you hear, sir?" "Don't know, really," said the doctor--"only he was a rude fellow--if you can tell one by such a description among your mates, it was he." And the doctor strolled away. Reuben on his part seemed to recognize the description, for taking a sort of intuitive bee-line through people and trees, he suddenly brought up with the question, "Phil Davids, what have you been saying about me?" "I s'pose you think folks have nothing to do but talk about you now. You're a long way out!"--was the careless answer. "What did you say I said?" said Reuben. "I never heard you say anything, as I know, that was worth tellin' over. When I do, I'll let somebody know it, I tell _you_." "I suppose that means that you won't answer my question," said Reuben. "What I want to know is, not what I said, but what you say I said." "About what?" "About Miss Faith Derrick." "I don't say you said nothing about her--I never heard you call her name, as I know." "Like enough," said Reuben, with a sort of resolute patience; "but what did you say I said that had to do with her in any way?" "Who do you think you air?" said Phil. "I tell you what, Phil Davids," said Sam Stoutenburgh, who had heard the last question or two, "if you don't keep your tongue off Miss Derrick, I'll pitch you up into a pine tree so far that you'll see stars before you come down--or I'm not Stoutenburgh nor stout, neither!" and Sam--who was a little of a young giant--backed Phil up against the tree that was nearest in a sort of preparatory way that was rather breathless. Phil however was as tough as shoe leather. "Suppos'n you keep eyes off her, then," said he struggling. "It's a poor rule that don't work both ways." "What have you been about?" said Sam,--"come, own up for once--just to try how it feels." "What have _you?_" said Phil. "I aint up to half as many shines as you, Sam Stoutenburgh." "I should think not!" said Sam disdainfully. "O let him alone, Sam!" said Reuben--"what's the use?" "Little enough use--" said Sam, "or matter either,--everybody knows Phil Davids. Pity he wouldn't make his own acquaintance!" And releasing his prisoner Sam turned disdainfully and Reuben sorrowfully towards the house. But Reuben did not go very near. A wistful look or two towards the lighted front and the clustering guests, and he paused, leaving Sam to go on alone. Sam's bashfulness was happily not of the uncompromising kind, therefore he not only found Faith, but she found him--ready to claim her promise--the very moment she was ready to go. "But I don't know whether the wagon is here, Sam," said Faith. Other wagons were come, and driving off, and a little procession of colours was setting forth on foot, up and down the street from Judge Harrison's. The hall was full of people, getting hoods on and taking leave. "Well, Miss Faith," said Sam, "we can walk to where it ought to be, and if it isn't there maybe you'll let me go further." "But I can't go without seeing my mother, Sam, and I don't know where she is." "Sam Stoutenburgh!" said Mr. Linden's voice, while the speaker laid both hands on the boy's shoulders, "what are you about?" "Miss Faith said I might go as far as the wagon with her, sir," said Sam looking down. "The wagon is not here," said Mr. Linden,--"Mr. Skip is probably asleep." "Then I may see you home, Miss Faith?" was the joyous comment. "Sam Stoutenburgh!" said Mr. Linden again, preventing Faith's reply, and giving Sam a gentle shake. "Isn't one favour a day enough for you?" he added presently. "No sir!" said Sam boldly. "I suppose I must give way before a blue ribband," said Mr. Linden smiling, yet as if he was much inclined to lift Sam out of the way. "Miss Faith, the matter is in your hands." But Faith did not smile, and looked, or was it his fancy?--ever so little careworn. "What matter, Mr. Linden?" she said simply. "Whether you will take charge of this boy as far as his father's gate. I will try and take care of you, after that." "Will that do, Sam?" said Faith pleasantly, as she threw her scarf over her head. "I'm glad to go any distance with you, Miss Faith," said Sam, but half content--or a quarter! for that was the distance assigned him. "Well behave yourself then," said Mr. Linden, removing his hands. A parting injunction Sam's dignity would have dispensed with. CHAPTER XV. The evening was very still. A little too cool for insect voices, a little too late in the season for night birds, the soft dropping of the yellow leaves scarce stirred those already fallen. Few sounds came from the houses; for all Pattaquasset had been out, and that portion which had got home was tired and thinking of bed, while the few stragglers yet abroad were far from the late scene of action, on their lonely homeward roads. Squire Deacon, with Joe for a thorn in his side, was opening his own door for Miss Cecilia, and Miss Bethia Bezac, at 'the other side of creation,' mused over the possibility of again (without eyes) embroidering waistcoats. Thus when the clock struck eight, the earth seemed asleep and the stars at watch over it. At about that point of time, Sam Stoutenburgh and his fair companion were near the parting gate; and Sam, not supposing himself within range of other eyes, had bent down over Faith's glove in a very demonstrative manner; and she would certainly have received an unwonted proof of his devotion, if Mr. Linden--who had in truth been all the time not very far off--had not just then been very near. "Take care, Sam--" he said,--"you are exceeding directions." A remark which sent Sam through the gate with more haste than coolness, while Mr. Linden stepped forward into his place. "Your mother rode home with Mrs. Somers, Miss Faith, and this little shawl was requested to walk home with you," he said, wrapping it round her; for which he received a quiet little "Thank you." He put her hand on his arm, and once past the gate walked very slowly; moderating his steps to hers, and taking the most leisurely pace; perhaps to give her the full sedative effect of the night. Those faint breaths of air, that soft hush of everything, that clear starry sky,--so high, so still,--there was balm in them all. And for a while Mr. Linden let them do their work alone,--then he spoke. "One of my scholars is very tired to night. I'm afraid I have done wrong in letting her walk home." "O no!" said Faith with a little start,--"I like to walk very much, Mr. Linden; it's very pleasant.--And I am not tired," she added in a soft quiet voice. "What is the difference between being tired, and being in want of rest?" She looked at him again, and her words did not come at once. "I suppose the difference is, that in one case you can get what you want--and in the other, you have to wait for it." "Till when?" She laughed, somewhat uneasily, and asked him what he meant. "I hardly know how to make my question plainer, Miss Faith. I suppose I am of an impatient disposition, but the idea of waiting an indefinite time for rest is not pleasant to me." "But can you always get it as soon as you would like to have it?"--Faith asked with a kind of timid doubt, as not knowing but his power might extend so far. "Why not?--seeing rest is like some sweet wind, which cannot blow its soft gale till there is a clear space for it, why should it linger when the space is clear?--why not rest when we are weary?" "But can you always get the clear space for it?" Faith asked, looking at him wonderingly. He smiled. "I am talking of what may be done, Miss Faith--not of what I do. But I wish you would let me try my powers for you to-night. How comes there to be a demand?--how comes there _not_ to be a supply?" "Of rest?" said Faith. "Oh there is! At least," she added reluctantly,--"there will be. There is now, Mr. Linden." "Equal to the demand?" "Why do you ask me?" she said, a little troubled. "I believe I have a bad habit of asking questions," said Mr. Linden--and his tone was apologetic in its very gentleness, "It is partly my fault and partly Pet's." "Partly whose? Mr. Linden," said Faith. "_I_ don't think it's a bad habit. _Whose_ fault, did you say?" "Pet's--my sister's--into whose company I hope to send you soon again." "Oh--I mustn't thank you!"--Faith said, beginning and stopping herself somewhat comically. "I don't know whether you will thank me for taking you past your own gate, which I was about to do," said Mr. Linden. "And I don't know whether the social and astronomical days ought to agree--but Hesperus set some time ago." "I don't understand, Mr. Linden--" said Faith pausing. "You must not expect to understand all astronomical things till you have studied astronomy," he said with a smile. "The practical application of my words is to sleep-- 'That knits up the ravelled sleeve of care; Worn labour's bath; balm of hurt minds.'"-- With which soporific potion he bade her goodnight; and Faith went to her room marvelling _what_ could have put into Mr. Linden's head just those particular words; and whether he had a quality of vision that could see through flesh and blood; and a little in doubt whether or not in the circumstances to find the words or the surmise 'balmy.' But if she wanted rest that night, or seemed to have wanted it, she had found it the next day, for she was all like herself. To speak with her own scrupulosity, there was perhaps just a shade of quieter gravity on her face and touching her smile, than there had been the day before. And that shade she kept. It is a notable fact, that when Pleasure with her wand has roused into lively motion the waters of some mortal lake, she straightway departs; taking with her the sparkles, the dancing foam, and leaving the disturbed waves to deposit at their leisure the sediment which she has stirred up. Withered leaves flung upon the bank, a spot here and there of discoloured froth,--these are what remain. Thus in the quiet nooks and corners of Pattaquasset were trophies not too bright of the celebration. Thus did Pattaquasset people behold some of the hidden evil in their neighbours, and likewise in themselves. The boys indeed maintained their serenity and kept Pleasure with them but in other quarters there were some heartburnings--most of all at Squire Deacon's. Relieved at first by the idea of a new rival--then by some intuitive belief thrown off that ground of comfort; the Squire was much in the condition of the man who wanted to commit an assault upon every small boy he met--for boys were to him representatives. But deprived by law of this manly way of expressing his feelings, the Squire sought some other. For the boys, they laughed at him--and at pretty much everything else; and having as I said managed to keep Pleasure with them, the faces that greeted Mr. Linden on Friday morning were unusually bright. Yet there were one or two exceptions. Sam Stoutenburgh was a little shamefaced in broad daylight--a little afraid of being laughed at; and Reuben Taylor, the head of the blue ribbands, was under a very unwonted cloud. It even seemed as if the day (no thanks to Pleasure) had done some work for Mr. Linden: perhaps he was considering how long he should be within reach of such ceremonies; or (perhaps) how soon he could be willing to put himself out of reach. And when he came home in the afternoon, it was with the slow, meditative step which reminded Faith of his first week in Pattaquasset. "_You_ are tired now, Mr. Linden," she said with a smile, but the burden of her remark in her eyes, as she met him in the porch. "Boys are an extraordinary commodity to deal with!" he said looking at her, but answering the smile too. "I think you are bewitching all mine by degrees. Why cannot you confine your conjurations to the black cats of the neighbourhood?--like some of the real, respectable Puritan witches?" Faith blushed very much at the beginning of this speech, and laughed at the last. "What have I done, Mr. Linden? there are no black cats in the neighbourhood." "Is that it?" said Mr. Linden--"I shall have to import a few. You give me a great deal of trouble, Miss Faith." "I, Mr. Linden? I am very sorry! What have I done?" "I don't know!--or at least but partially. There is Sam Stoutenburgh, making as much ado over his lessons as if his wits had forsaken him--which perhaps they have. There is Reuben Taylor--I don't know what is the matter with Reuben," he said, his tone changing, "but his last words to me were a very earnest entreaty that I would persuade you to see him for five minutes; and when I wanted to know why he did not prefer his own request, all I could get was that he was not sure you would let him. Which gave me very little clue to the sorrowful face he has worn all day." Once more, and this time with the keen tinge of pain, the blood rushed in a flood to Faith's cheek and brow; and for a second she put her hands to her face as if she would hide it. But she put them down and looked up frankly to Mr. Linden. "I am sure Reuben Taylor has done no wrong!" she said. "You may tell him so, Mr. Linden." "Wrong!" he said--"to you?"--and the tone was one Faith did not know. Then with a manner that was like enough to the flinging of the little stone into Kildeer river, he added, "Yes, I will tell him. Miss Faith, I shall be down again directly, and then will you let me see that book?" And he passed on upstairs. The book was on the table in the parlour when he came down, but Faith met him standing. With a little timid anxiousness, she said, "I have done wrong now. Mr. Linden, I said I was sure Reuben had _not_ done any, and you will not speak to him as if he had? Please don't speak to him at all--I will see him myself." The answering smile broke through some little cloud of feeling, in spite of him. "You need not fear," he said,--"I know Reuben Taylor. But you have got something else to think of just now." Then placing a chair for her at the table, Mr. Linden took up the little book and began his work of examination. And perhaps it is not too much to say that even Dr. Harrison might have learned somewhat from the way it was carried on. A skilful and kind way of finding out what she did not know, from what she did; initiation and examining so carried on together that Faith found herself knowing where she thought she was ignorant,--more still, perhaps, a kind of separate decision what she _ought_ to learn, and how; which saved her the trouble of acknowledging and confessing; and all as gently done as if he had been dealing with some delicate winged creature, whose downy plumage would come off with a touch,--such was the threatened examination. She might flutter a little under his hand, but the soft wings were unhurt. "Tell me first, Miss Faith," he said turning over the leaves, "what you have been doing here by yourself." "I have been all through it," she said; 'fluttering' sure enough, yet as much with pleasure as with timidity; not at all with fear. "Will you work these out for me--" and he gave her half a dozen different tests on a bit of paper. She coloured, and he could see her hand tremble; but she was not long doing them, and she did them well, and gave them back without a word and without raising her eyes. "Well," said Mr. Linden, smiling a little as he looked at the paper, "if it takes half an hour to hear Charles twelfth his lesson, and Johnny gives you but one quarter the trouble, and Rob Waters about twice as much as Johnny, how much time will you spend upon them all?" "It will be about an hour--wanting an eighth," she said without raising her eyes, but with a bit of a smile too. "I hear you and Johnny have arranged preliminaries, Miss Faith." "Yes," said Faith looking up brightly, "he came to shew me his ribband and to tell me last night. But I was almost sorry, Mr. Linden,--that you should send _him_ away from you." "For Johnny's sake, or my own?" "For his sake--certainly." "You need not speak so assuredly--there were two parties to the question--besides you. But I have him still, you know, in a way. What has been in hand since this little book was finished?" "Nothing--except the Philosophe,--and--" "Well?--isn't that blank to be filled up?" "And Shakspeare," said Faith casting down her eyes. "I cannot let you confine yourself to the study of human nature," said Mr. Linden,--"that will never do. Charles twelfth and Shakspeare want ground to stand upon. Did you ever read anything of Physical Geography?" She shook her head. "I don't know what that is, Mr. Linden." "Then I will have the pleasure of introducing you. Ordinary geography is but a shell without it. And if we accidentally go deeper down than the stratum of geography, I will try and bring you back safe. But Miss Faith, you have not done with this book yet--the subject-matter of it. I want you to carry that further." "Well," she said smiling,--"I like it. I am ready. What comes next, Mr. Linden?" "Did you pay any attention to the algebra part of the examination yesterday?" "Yes, I believe so. I paid attention to it all--I didn't understand what some of it was about, but I believe I know what you mean." "How should you like to work with letters and signs instead of figures? By the way, Miss Faith, your sevens are too much like your nines, and if you drew a check for $500 with that five, you might find yourself paying out $800." She coloured again, but bowed her head in assent, quite ignoring in her interest in the subject the extravagance of the supposition by which he illustrated it. "You shall not say that again, Mr. Linden." "Don't pledge yourself for me," he said smiling,--"I am a lawless kind of person, as perhaps you have found out. But if I were to spend one minute well on the first day of the year, and each succeeding day add to my well-spent minutes so many more as the year was days old--how much of December would be well spent?" But Faith could not tell. "You see what is before you--" Mr. Linden said; "you must work that out, Miss Faith, in more ways than one. Well tell me this--Which is nearest to us now,--my sister Pet or the Khan of Tartary,--supposing her in Rome and him in his own dominions?" Faith coloured again, a good deal, and with some sorrow. "I am glad you asked me," she said;--"I want you should know it,--but I don't know anything about that, Mr. Linden. I know a _little_, of course," she said correcting herself, "but I couldn't answer you." "But why can't you understand," he said looking at her, "that I am just some old, torn, dog-eared book of questions that you are looking into for the first time? I don't like to be made to feel like a bran new schoolbook." Faith looked at him, and probably the words "old, torn, and dog-eared" made a peculiar contrast, for her eye flashed and in spite of everything she laughed, her musical little laugh. "That sounds reasonable," said Mr. Linden. "I like to be laughed at. But Miss Faith--just suppose for a moment that there were tears in your eyes,--what could keep them from falling?" Faith's eyes opened and she took a little time to consider this proposition. "If I were very determined, I think I could do it," she said. "Suppose they got so far as the tip ends of your eye lashes?" he said, with a little play of the lips. "They must come down, I am afraid," said Faith looking and wondering. "But why?" "Because my determination couldn't reach them there, I suppose," she said in unmitigated wonder. "There would be nothing to keep them up." "Unphilosophic!" he said gravely,--"I shall have to teach you both why your tears fall, and why they don't." She smiled, as very willing to be taught, but with a face that looked as if it had had few to experiment upon either way. "I will try and not tire you out," Mr. Linden said, "but different things go on pleasantly together. Some I should like to have you study for me when I am away, some directly with me. And--" "And what, sir?" she said with the gentle intonation of one to whose ear every word is pleasant. "How much time have you in the course of the day that can and ought to be spent upon all these matters--without disturbing Shakspeare and his companions?" "I will _make_ time, Mr. Linden, if I don't find it. I have a good deal. You won't tire me." "You must not make time out of strength. Will you write me a French exercise every day, among other things? Yes Cindy," he said--"I understand,"--apparently quite aware that Faith did not. "I will try," said Faith, with a colour again that was not of _French_ growth. "Well baint you comin'?" said Cindy, who stood still as if she liked the prospect before her. "Yes, but I can find my own way," said Mr. Linden; at which gentle hint Cindy vanished. And Faith sprang up. "Teaching all day," she said, "and no tea either!"--And she was about to run off, then paused to say, "That is all, Mr. Linden?--do you want to say anything more?" "It was not tea, Miss Faith,--Reuben is at the door. Will you see him? Shall I bring him here or will you go there?" "I will go there," said Faith hurriedly. But Mr. Linden followed her. "Reuben," he said, "Miss Faith will hear you--and I am ready to answer for your word with my own;"--then he went back into the sitting room and closed the door. But those words seemed to touch at least one sore spot in the boy's heart--he had to struggle with himself a moment before he could speak. Then it was low and humbly. "Miss Faith--I don't know just what Phil has said about me,--I can't find out. But whatever it is there isn't one word of it true. I never said one word about you, Miss Faith, that I wouldn't say to you, just the same!" And Reuben looked as if he would have confronted the whole world on that point. "I am quite sure of it, Reuben," Faith said very gently. "I didn't need you to come and tell me so." He looked up at her with both gladness and thanks in his eyes. "I shouldn't have troubled you with my trouble at all, Miss Faith--only he said you were displeased with me--and I was afraid it might be true." "Who said I was displeased with you?" An involuntary glance of Reuben's eye towards the closed door, seemed to say he did not want his words to go far. "Dr. Harrison, Miss Faith. At least I thought he said so." "Did he speak to you?" "Yes ma'am--and just pushed my word out of the way when I gave it,--said it might be well enough to tell people but he didn't think you liked it. And so I got vexed. I'm so used to Mr. Linden," Reuben said--as if in excuse. "Are you satisfied now, Reuben?" said Faith, giving him a good look of her eyes. A little qualified his look was--perhaps because he had been too much troubled to have the traces go off at once; but there was no want of satisfaction in his, "O yes, Miss Faith--I can't tell you how thankful I am to you! Goodnight, ma'am." Faith went back to the parlour. And then Mr. Linden, taking from his pocket a piece of broad dark blue ribband, and laying it lightly round Faith's shoulders, told her gravely, "that she was entitled to wear that for the rest of the evening." Faith matched the blue with red, and stood eying the ribband which she had caught as it was falling from her shoulders, seeming for a minute as if she had as much as she could bear. Rallying, she looked up at Mr. Linden to get a little more light as to what he expected of her, or what he meant. But unless she could read a decided opinion that the two 'favours' looked better together than separate, his face gave her no information. Then smiling he said, "I don't mean that you _must_ wear it--merely that you have the right." Faith gave another glance at his face, and then without more ado tied the blue ribband round her waist, where as she still wore the white dress of yesterday, it shewed to very good advantage. She said nothing more; only as she was quitting the room now in earnest to get tea, gave him an odd, pleasant, half grateful, half grave little smile. Too many things however had been at work to admit of her coming down into quietness immediately. The red left her no more than the blue for the rest of that evening. CHAPTER XVI. Saturday was but a half holiday to Mrs. Derrick's little family--unless indeed they called their work play, which some of them did. It was spent thus. By Mrs. Derrick, in the kitchen, in the bed-rooms, all over the house generally--with intervals at the oven door. By Mr. Linden in the sitting-room, where Faith came from time to time as she got a chance, to begin some things with him and learn how to begin others by herself. The morning glided by very fast on such smooth wheels of action, and dinner came with the first Natural Philosophy lesson yet unfinished. It was finished afterwards however, and then Mr. Linden prepared himself to go forth on some expedition, of which he only said that it was a long one. "I am going to petition to have tea half an hour later than usual to-night, Miss Faith," he said. "_Just_ half an hour later, Mr. Linden?" she said smiling. "You shall have it when you like." "I hope to be home by that time--if not don't wait for me. You will find all the materials for your French exercise on my table." Which intimation quickened Faith's steps about the little she had beforehand to do, and also quickened a trifle the beating of her heart. It was not quiet--timidity and pleasure were throbbing together, and throbbing fast, when she turned her back upon the rest of the house and went to Mr. Linden's room. She would have a good uninterrupted time this afternoon, at any rate. And the materials were there, as he had said,--all the materials; from books, open and shut, to the delicate white paper, and a pen which might be the very one Johnny Fax thought could write of itself. Faith stood and looked at them, and then sat down to work, if ever such a determination was taken by human mind. She had been a good while absorbed in her business when a knock came to the front door, which Faith did not hear. Cindy however had ears to spare, and presently informed Mrs. Derrick that a gentleman wished to see her. And in the sitting-room Mrs. Derrick found Dr. Harrison. "You haven't _forgotten to remember_ me, I hope, Mrs. Derrick," he said as he took her hand. He looked very handsome, and very pleasant, as he stood there before her, and his winning ease of manner was enough to propitiate people of harder temper than the one he was just now dealing with. "No indeed!" said Mrs. Derrick; "I remember a great many things about you,"--(as in truth she did.) "But I daresay you've changed a good deal since then. You've been gone a great while, Dr. Harrison." "Do you _hope_ I have changed?--or are you afraid I have?" "Why I don't think I said I did either," said Mrs. Derrick smiling, for she felt as if Dr. Harrison was an old acquaintance. "And I suppose it makes more difference to you than to me, anyway." Which words were not blunt in their intention, but according to the good lady's habit were a somewhat unconscious rendering of her thoughts. "How's Miss Sophy, after her holiday? I always think play's the hardest work that's done." "I am very sorry you found it so!" said the doctor. "You needn't be--" said Mrs. Derrick, rocking complacently and making her knitting needles play in a style that certainly might be called work,--"I've got over it now. To be sure I was tired to death, but I like to be, once in a while." The doctor laughed, as if, in a way, he had found his match. "And how is Miss Derrick?" he asked. "If she was tired too, it was my fault." "I guess that 'll never be one of your faults, Dr. Harrison," said Mrs. Derrick,--"it would take any amount of folks to tire _her_ out. She's just like a bird always. O she's well, of course, or I shouldn't be sitting here." "And so like a bird that she lives in a region above mortal view, and only descends now and then?" "Yes, she does stay upstairs a good deal," said Mrs. Derrick, knitting away. "Whenever she's got nothing to do down here. She's been down all the morning." "I can't shoot flying at this kind of game," said the doctor;--"I'll endeavour to come when the bird is perched, next time. But in the meanwhile, Miss Derrick seemed pleased the other night with these Chinese illuminations--and Sophy took it into her head to make me the bearer of one, that has never yet illuminated anything, hoping that it will do that office for her heart with Miss Derrick. The heart will bear inspection, I believe, with or without the help of the lantern." And the doctor laid a little parcel on the table. Mrs. Derrick looked at the parcel, and at the doctor, and knit a round or two. "I'm sure she'll be very much obliged to Miss Harrison," she said. "But I know I sha'n't remember all the message. I suppose _that_ won't matter." "Not the least," said the doctor. "The lantern is expected to throw light upon some things. May I venture to give Mrs. Derrick another word to remember, which must depend upon her kindness alone for its presentation and delivery?" Mrs. Derrick stopped knitting and looked all attention. "It isn't much to remember," said the doctor laughing gently. "Sophy wishes very much to have Miss Derrick go with her to-morrow afternoon. She is going to drive to Deep River, and wished me to do my best to procure Miss Derrick's goodwill, and yours, for this pleasure of her company. Shall I hope that her wish is granted?" Now Mrs. Derrick, though not quick like some other people, had yet her own womanly instincts; and that more than one of them was at work now, was plain enough. But either they confused or thwarted each other, for laying down her work she said, "I know she won't go--but I'll let her come and give her own answer;" and left the room. For another of her woman's wits made her never send Cindy to call Faith from her studies. Therefore she went up, and softly opening the door of the study room, walked in and shut it after her. "Pretty child," she said, stroking Faith's hair, "are you very busy?" "Very, mother!"--said Faith looking up with a burning cheek and happy face, and pen pausing in her hand. "What then?"-- "Wasn't it the queerest thing what I said that day at Neanticut!" said Mrs. Derrick, quite forgetting Dr. Harrison in the picture before her. "What, dear mother?" "Why when I asked why you didn't get Mr. Linden to help you. How you do write, child!"--which remark was meant admiringly. "Mother!"--said Faith. "But it can be done"--she added with quiet resolution. "I'm sure it never could by me, in that style," said Mrs. Derrick,--"my fingers always think they are ironing or making piecrust. But child, here's Dr. Harrison--come for nobody knows what, except that Sophy took it into her head to send her heart by him--as near as I can make out. And he wants you to go to Deep River to-morrow. I said you wouldn't--and then I thought maybe you'd better speak yourself. But if you don't like to, you sha'n't. I can deal with him." "I don't want to see Dr. Harrison, mother!--To-morrow?" said Faith. "Yes--I will see him." She rose up, laid her pen delicately out of her fingers, went down stairs and into the sitting-room, where she confronted the doctor. Faith was dressed as she had been at the party, with the single exception of the blue ribband instead of the red oak leaves; and the excitement of what she had been about was stirring both cheek and eye. Perhaps some other stir was there too, for the flush was a little deeper than it had been upstairs, but she met the doctor very quietly. He thought to himself the lanterns had lent nothing with their illumination the other night. "No, sir," she said as he offered her a chair,--"I have something to do;--but mother said--" "Will the bird perch for no longer than this?" said the doctor, turning with humourous appeal to Mrs. Derrick who had followed her. "My birds do pretty much as they like, Dr. Harrison," said Mrs. Derrick "They always did, even when I had 'em in cages." "Then this bird is free now?" "I guess you'd better talk to her--" said Mrs. Derrick, taking her seat and her knitting again. "Miss Derrick!" said the doctor obeying this direction with an obeisance,--"you are free to command, and I can but obey. Will you go with Sophy to-morrow to Deep River? I am not altogether uninterested, as I hope to have the honour of driving you; but she sends her most, earnest wish." "To-morrow is Sunday, Dr. Harrison." "Well--isn't Sunday a good day?" "It isn't mine," said Faith gently. "Not yours?" said the doctor. "You have promised it away, and we are so unfortunate?" Her colour rose a little, but it was with an eye as steady as it was soft that she answered him. "The day belongs to God, Dr. Harrison--and I have promised it, and myself, away to him." The doctor looked astonished for a minute. And he gazed at her. "But, my dear Miss Derrick, do you think there is anything contrary to the offices of religion in taking a pleasant drive, in a pleasant country, in pleasant weather? that is all." Faith smiled a little, gravely; it was very sweet and very grave. "There are all the other days for that," she said. "God has given us his work to be done on his day, Dr. Harrison; and there is so much of it to do that I never find the day long enough." "You are right!" he said--"You are quite right. You are a great deal better than I am. I am sorry I asked you,--and yet I am glad.--Then Miss Derrick, will you forgive me? and will you some other day shew that you forgive me and be so good as to go with us?" But Faith's interest in the subject was gone. "I am very busy, sir," she said. "I have work to do that I do not wish to put off." "Cannot you go with us _at all?_ We will wait and make it any day?" "Do not wait," said Faith. "I _could_ go, but I could not go with pleasure, Dr. Harrison. I have not the time to spare, for that, nor for more now. Please excuse me." And she went. "Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor musingly, "this is a winged creature, I believe--but it is not a bird!" At which Mrs. Derrick looked at him with a mingled satisfaction that he had got his answer, and curiosity to know what he thought of it. For the further she felt herself from her child's high stand, the more presuming did she think it in any one to try to bring _her_ down from it. "If I thought, as I came here, that I walked on a higher level than the generality of mankind, as perhaps in the vanity of my heart I did,--I feel well put down on the ground now," pursued the doctor. "But Mrs Derrick, when may I hope to see this winged thing of yours again?" It must be confessed that Mrs. Derrick did not admire this speech,--'a winged thing,' as she justly thought, was a somewhat indefinite term, and might mean a flying grasshopper as well as a canary bird. Therefore it was with some quickness that she replied, "What sort of a winged thing are you talking of, doctor?" "Nothing worse than a heavenly one, madam. But angel or cherub are such worn-out terms that I avoided them." He was standing yet where Faith left him, looking down gravely, speaking half lightly, to her mother. "I don't know who'll see her when she's an angel," said Mrs. Derrick, with a little flush coming over her eyes. "But she wouldn't thank you for calling her one now," she added presently, with her usual placid manner. "Won't you sit down again, doctor?" "May I ask," said he eying her, somewhat intent upon the answer,--"why she wouldn't thank me for calling her one now?--by which I understand that it would incur her displeasure." "Why--why should she?" said Mrs. Derrick, who having dropped a stitch was picking it up with intentness equal to the doctor's. "True!" said the doctor in his usual manner. "Angels don't thank mortals for looking at them. But Mrs. Derrick, when may such a poor mortal as I, stand a chance of seeing this particular one again?" Mrs. Derrick laid down her work. "Well you _have_ changed!" she said, "there's no doubt of that! I don't recollect that you used to care so much about seeing her when you were here before. If I don't forget, you set your dog on her cat. And as to when you'll see her again, I'm sure I can't tell, doctor. She's a busy child, and folks out of the house have to do without seeing her till she finds time to see them." Whereat Mrs Derrick smiled upon Dr. Harrison with the happy consciousness that she was one of the folks in the house. The doctor stood smiling at her, with a half humourous, quite pleasant expression of face. "Set my dog on her cat!" he exclaimed. "_That_ is why she would be angry with me for calling her a cherub!-- 'Tantae ne animis celestibus irae!'" The doctor sat down. "What shall I do!" he said. "Advise me, Mrs. Derrick." "I know what I should have done if I'd got hold of you," said Mrs. Derrick. "I thought I never would speak to you again--but you see I've got over it." "I'm not sure of it," said the doctor meditatively. "'Folks out of the house'--well! It strikes me I've been 'in' to little purpose this afternoon."--He rose again. "Where is Mr. Linden? is he 'out', or 'in', this fine day?" "He's out this afternoon," said Mrs. Derrick. "I was thinking to ask you if you wanted to see him, and then I knew it was no use." "Yes, I should like to see him," said the doctor; "but as he is a mortal like myself, I suppose I can find him another time by the use of proper precautions." And Dr. Harrison took his departure. Mrs. Derrick on her part went upstairs again, and opening the door merely peeped in this time. "What is it, mother?" "Are you busy yet, child?" "Not quite through." "I thought," said Mrs. Derrick stepping softly into the room, "that we'd go down to the shore this afternoon, and maybe dig some clams. I don't know but it's too late for that--we might ride down and see. You're tired, pretty child--and other people won't like that a bit more than I do." "I'd like to go, mother--I'm almost done, and I'm not tired," Faith said with happy eyes. "There is time, I guess, for Mr. Linden don't want tea as early as usual. I'll come soon." Mrs. Derrick withdrew softly, and again Faith was entirely lost in her business. But she had nearly done now; the work was presently finished, the books put up in order, and the papers, with the exercise on top; and Faith stood a moment looking down at it. Not satisfied, but too humble to have any false shame, too resolute to doubt of being satisfied and of satisfying somebody else, by and by. And the intellectual part of her exercise she thought, and with modest reason, would satisfy him now. Then she went down to her mother, quite ready for the beach or for anything else. It was one of those very warm October days which unlearned people call Indian summer,--the foreground landscape yellow with stubble fields and sered forest, the distance blue with haze. So soft and still, that the faint murmur of the wheels as they rolled along the sandy road sounded as if at a distance, and the twittering birds alone set off the silence. Now and then came a farm wagon loaded with glowing corn, then the field where the bereaved pumpkins lay among the bundles of cornstalks. Sportsmen passed with their guns, schoolboys with their nut-bags, and many were the greetings Faith received; for since the day at Neanticut every boy thought he had a right to take off his hat to her. From the midst of his cornfield, Mr. Simlins gave them a wave of his hand,--from the midst of its blue waters the Sound sent a fresh welcome. "I declare, child," said Mrs. Derrick, as they neared the shore, "it's real pleasant!" "The tide's out, mother," said Faith, who had the spirit of action upon her to-day--"we can get some clams now, if we're quick." "I don't know but you're learning to be spry, among other things," said her mother looking at her. "I thought you were as spry as you could be, before. What haven't you done to-day, child!" Faith laughed a little, and then jumping out of the wagon and helping her mother down, was certainly 'spry' in getting ready for the clam-digging. Her white dress had been changed for a common one and that was carefully pinned up, and a great kitchen apron was put on to cover all but the edges of skirts as white as the white dress, and with shoes and stockings off, basket and hoe in hand, she stood ready almost before her mother had accomplished fastening up old Crab to her satisfaction. Mrs. Derrick on her part prepared herself as carefully for work (though not quite so evidently for play) and the two went down to the flats. The tide was far out,--even the usual strips of water were narrow and far apart. Wherever they could, the little shell-fish scrambled about and fought their miniature battles in one-inch water; but at the edge of the tall shore-grass there was no water at all, unless in the mud, and the shell-fish waited, by hundreds, for the tide. Here was the scene of action for the two ladies. Walking daintily over the warm mud with their bare feet, which however white and twinkling at first were soon obliged to yield to circumstances; disturbing the little shell-fish--who in turn disturbed them, by very titillating little attacks upon the aforesaid feet,--Mrs. Derrick and Faith marched up to the edge of the grass and there sought for clam holes. The war went on after this fashion. A clam hole being found, the hoe was struck far down into the mud to _unearth_ the inhabitant; which the clam resenting, spit up into the intruder's face. But the intruder--proof against such small fire--repeated the strokes, and the clam was soon brought to light and tumbled ignominiously into the basket,--to be followed every second or two by another of his companions; for the clam holes were many. The basket was soon full, but not before the cool ripple of the tide had passed the muscle rocks and was fast coming in-shore. "Well I do think play's hard work!" said Mrs. Derrick, bringing herself once more to an erect position--"I told Dr. Harrison so this morning. How you and Mr. Linden stand it, Faith, I don't know." "What, mother?" said Faith, making a descent upon another promising clam shell. But Mrs. Derrick always preferred to go on with her remarks. "It's good he's doing it, for his own sake, I guess," she said,--"he's done nothing but work ever since he came to Pattaquasset." "Doing what, mother?" said Faith. "What _are_ you talking of?" "Why I'm talking of you, child!" said her mother,--"you and Mr. Linden. One of you played all the morning and the other's going to play all the afternoon. But I think you've done enough, Faith--it won't do to get sick so long as we've nobody but Dr. Harrison to depend on. I don't believe _he_'s much of a doctor." "Played all the morning?" said Faith taking up her basket,--"it was better than play to me. I wish I could do something for _him_, mother!" Very gravely, and even a little sorrowfully, the last words were said. "Why yes," said Mrs. Derrick stoutly. "Never tell me it's anything but play to teach you, child--he didn't look as if it was, neither. I thought he got his pay as he went along." Faith knew he had looked so; but that was not Faith--it was Mr. Linden, in her account. "Dr. Harrison ought to be a good doctor, mother," she remarked, leaving the subject. "He has had chance enough." "La, child," said Mrs. Derrick, untying her apron, "chance don't prove anything. A man may have just as good a chance to kill as he has to cure. By which I don't mean that _he_ has, for I don't know." "The tide is coming in, mother. We came just in the very point of the time. How pretty it is!--" said Faith; standing in the blue mud, with her bare feet, and with the basket of clams in her hand, but standing still to look off at the flats and the dark water and the hazy opposite shore, all with the sunny stillness and the soft enveloping haze of October lying lovingly upon them. Faith thought of the 'glory' again, and watched to see how water and shore and flats and sky were all touched with it. One or two sails on the Sound could not get on; they lay still in the haze like everything else; and the 'glory' was on them too. She thought so. It seemed to touch everything. And another glory touched everything,--the glory of truth Faith had only for a little while come to know. She recognized it; there was 'light from heaven' in more senses than one; the glow of joy and hope unknown a while before; the softening veil of mind-peace over whatever might be harsh or sharp in actual reality. She did not run out all the parallel, but she felt it, and stood looking with full eyes. Not full of tears, but of everything pleasant beside. Then came the drive home, with the air darkening every minute, but notwithstanding this, Mrs. Derrick stopped by the way. "Faith," she said, "hold the reins, child--I won't be a second, but I've got something to see to in here;" and Faith was once more left to her meditations. Not for long; for as she sat gazing out over old Crab's ears, she was 'ware' of some one standing by the wagon: it was Squire Deacon. "I shall commence to think I'm a lucky man, after all!" said the Squire. "I was coming down to see you, Miss Faith,--and couldn't just resolve my mind to it, neither. I wanted to pay a parting visit." "Were you?--are you going away, Squire Deacon?" "Why yes," said the Squire, looking down at his gun--for he had been shooting,--"I've had considerable thoughts of taking a turn down to York. Cilly says she don't think it's worth my while--but I guess she don't know much more 'n her own concerns. Pattaquasset's a good deal come round this season," he added, without specifying which way. "Do you mean that you intend to forsake Pattaquasset entirely?" said Faith, noticing the comfortable supply of ducks in the Squire's bag. "Well I can't just say--I'm not free to certify," said the Squire. "I said I thought it was worth my while to go, and so I do. I should like to know from your lips, Miss Faith, whether you'll make it worth my while to come back." Faith was very glad it was so dark. "I don't see how I can touch the question either way, sir," she said gently and with not a little difficulty.--"Wherever you are, I hope you'll be very happy, and very good, Squire Deacon." "I should like something a little better grown than that, ma'am," said the Squire, striking his gun on the ground. "I can't just tell whether _that_'s wheat or oats. It's likely _my_ meaning's plain enough." Faith was dumb for a minute. "I believe I understood you, sir," she said in a low voice. "I meant to answer you." "Well what's to hinder your doing it, then?" said Squire Deacon. "I thought I had done it," said Faith. "I have nothing to do with the question of your coming or going anywhere, sir,--and can't have,--except to wish you well, which I do heartily." "That's your ultimate, is it, Miss Faith?" "No, sir," said Faith, conquering the beating of her heart. "Squire Deacon, I want to see you _in heaven_." And she stretched out to him her little hand frankly over the side of the wagon. Squire Deacon took it for a moment--then dropped it as if it had burnt his fingers. And then with a voice in which whether sorrow or anger prevailed Faith could not tell, he said-- "Well--I don't blame _you_,--never did and never shall. Cunning's been too much for me this time." And he took up his gun and strode off, just as Mrs. Derrick opened the house door and came out to take her place in the wagon again. "Dear mother!" said Faith,--"why didn't you come sooner!" "Why I couldn't, child!" said Mrs. Derrick. "That woman always will tell one every pain and ache she's had since the year one. What's the matter?--why didn't you tie Crab and come in, if you were lonesome." Faith was silent. "What's the matter?" repeated her mother,--"have you been getting sick after all I said to you?" "Squire Deacon has been here talking to me," said Faith in a low tone. "Well then you had company, I'm sure. What did he talk about? Come, Crab!--get on, sir!" "He says he is going away from Pattaquasset, and he lays it to me, mother," she said after some hesitancy again. "What does he lay it to you, for?" said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't believe he's going away, to begin with." "He wanted me to say something to bring him back again," said Faith lower yet. "O is that all!" said Mrs. Derrick composedly. "I knew that gun was loaded, long ago. Well what's the harm if he did?--it's not dangerous." "I'm sorry," said Faith. "But mother, do make Crab get on!--it's time." "It's not late," said Mrs. Derrick. "And don't you fret about Sam Deacon, child,--he always was a little goose--till he got to be a big one; but you needn't think he'll ever shoot himself for love of you,--he loves himself better than that." And at this point, Crab--roused by the thought of his own supper--set off at a good round trot which soon brought them home. There was nobody there, however, not even Cindy; so the need of haste did not seem to have been urgent. Faith soon had the kitchen fire in order, and her clams in the pot, and was for the next half hour thoroughly busy with them. Then she made herself ready for tea, and the mother and daughter sat together by the lamp, the one with her knitting the other with her book. But the extra half hour was already past. "Faith," said Mrs. Derrick at last, "why wouldn't Mr. Linden do the other thing you asked him to?" Faith looked up suddenly from her book, as if not understanding the question; then her head and her voice drooped together. "I haven't asked him yet, mother." "I didn't know but he'd some objection," said Mrs. Derrick. "Well I wish he'd come--I want my supper. I'm as tired as tired can be, paddling round there in the mud. How did you like your lantern, child?" she said as the clock struck half past seven. Faith raised her head and listened first to the clock and for any sound that might be stirring near the house; then answered, "I haven't looked at it, mother." "What do you think of having supper?" "Before Mr. Linden comes, mother?--well, if you like it, I'll get you yours--the clams are ready." "I don't care," said her mother,--"I'm more sleepy than hungry. I'll just lie down here on the sofa, Faith, and you can wake me up when you hear him." And disregarding the cooked clams in the kitchen, Mrs. Derrick went to sleep and dug them all over again. The clock ticked on,--softly, steadily, from the half hour to the hour, and from the hour to the half. Out of doors there was nothing stirring, unless the owl stirred between his unmusical notes, or Mr. Skip's dog did something but howl. Hardly a wagon passed, hardly a breath moved the leaves. Cindy, on her part, was lost in the fascination of some neighbouring kitchen. And Faith at first had been lost in her study. But the sounding of eight o'clock struck on more than the air, and she found, though she tried, she could not shut herself up in her book any more. Mrs. Derrick slept profoundly; her breathing only made the house seem more still. Faith went to the window to look, and then for freer breath and vision went to the door. It was not moonlight; only the light of the stars was abroad, and that still further softened by the haze or a mistiness of the air which made it thicker still. Faith could see little, and could hear nothing, though eyes and ears tried well to penetrate the still darkness of the road, up and down. It was too chill to stay at the porch, now with this mist in the air; and reluctantly she came back to the sitting-room, her mother sleeping on the sofa, her open study book under the lamp, the Chinese lantern in its packing paper. Faith had no wish to open it now. There was no reason to fear anything, that she knew; neither was she afraid; but neither could she rest. Half past eight struck. She went to the window again, and very gravely sat down by it. She had sat there but few minutes when there came a rush of steps into the porch, and Cindy burst into the little sitting-room, almost too out of breath to speak. "Here's a proclamation!" she said--"Mr. Linden's been shot at dreadful, and Jem Waters is down to fetch Dr. Harrison. I'm free to confess they say he aint dead yet." With which pleasing announcement, Cindy rushed off again, out of the room and out of the house, being seized with a sudden fear that Jem Waters would forestall her in spreading the news. The noise had awaked Mrs. Derrick, and she sat looking at Faith as if she was first in her thoughts. Faith stood before her with a colourless face, but perfectly quiet, though at first she looked at her mother without speaking. "Come here, pretty child," said her mother, "and sit down by me." "Mother," said Faith,--but she would not have known her own voice,--"something has happened." But the way Mrs. Derrick's arms came round her, said that she too had heard. "Where can he be, mother?" said Faith gently disengaging herself. "I don't know, child." Faith was already at the door. "Faith!" her mother said, following her with a quick step,--"stop, child!" Faith put back a hand as if to stop _her_--she was listening. There was not a sound. Faith went down the steps and stood at the gate. Not a sound still; and her mother said softly, "Faith, you must not go out." She put one hand on her mother's arm, and clasping it stood without stirring; her other hand on the gate. In mingled sorrow and fear her mother stood, not knowing well what to do or what to say,--in that emergency where woman can only endure--where she is powerless but to suffer. Faith stood without moving head or hand. And so they remained, they knew not how long, until Cindy once more presented herself and told her story more at length. "You see I was down to Mis' Somerses, and so was Dr. Harrison; and Jem Waters come there for him. And Jem he makes, up to Mis' Somerses Jenny, and to-night he wouldn't hardly speak to her--wouldn't no how tell what he come for. So then Jenny got mad and she went and listened; and she said Jem wanted to catch up Dr. Harrison and run off with him--and the doctor he wanted his horse. I don' know how they settled it but I'm free to confess I'm sleepy "--and Cindy once more disappeared, and the stillness settled down over all. CHAPTER XVII. On that eventful evening, Mr. Simlins had a husking bee; and in his barn were met a fair representation of the Pattaquasset men and boys--especially boys. And with busy hands and tongues the work went on, Mr. Simlins himself among the busiest. But in the midst of work and merriment though the fair stillness of the night was unheeded, the sudden interruption which came brought everyone to his feet; it was a loud shriek from the house, a woman's shriek. "Hold on!" said Mr. Simlins--"you all go ahead and I'll go quiet the distractions. I suppose Mrs. Hummins has seen another rat in the dairy. No--thank'ee--I like to kill my own rats myself and then I know they _air_ killed." So letting nobody follow him, Mr. Simlins left the barn and went over to the house. In the kitchen he found the full array of female servants, of his own house and the neighbours', one of whom hiding her face was rocking back and forth with the most incoherent exclamations; while all the rest, standing by in various attitudes, seemed to have got an extra pair of eyes apiece for the express purpose of looking on. "Well!"--said Mr. Simlins--"where is it? I've got my stick ready. Hain't bit anybody, has he?--Or has somebody got my silver spoons? What's to pay?" Now silver spoons there were none in Mr. Simlins' economy, and this was a proverbial expression well known in the household. "O Mr. Simlins! Mr. Simlins!" cried the hysterical one, with a shudder, "there's a murdered man at the front door!--and I did shut it, but he might come round this way!" "You be hanged! and shut up!"--was Mr. Simlins' remark in answer to this statement; and flinging down his stick on the kitchen floor with a rattle, he strode to the front door and opened it, having had the precaution to take a candle with him. There was certainly a figure there, not standing, but sitting on the bench in an attitude that spoke of faintness; and of all the men in Pattaquasset, Mr. Simlins was perhaps most surprised to see that it was Mr. Linden. A white handkerchief ineffectually bound round his arm, but served to shew why he had tried to secure it there. Mr. Simlins surveyed it all with his candle in about three seconds, and then said hoarsely, "What's this? Can you speak to me?" But the power for that was gone, though a little parting of the lips spoke the intent. Mr. Simlins set down his candle and went back to the kitchen. "Get some brandy, you fools!" said he. "Here's a friend o' mine got faint for want of his supper--been too long out shootin'. Fetch a glass of water here too! Jenny Lowndes, you go tell Jem Waters that 'ere plaguey black heifer has got out of the yard. You send him to me, and if you spile the frolic with your story I'll have nothing more to do with you, I give you my word!" Mr. Simlins was obeyed. He himself went back with the water and the brandy, which he tenderly applied to Mr. Linden's forehead and lips, and seeing the handkerchief's ineffectual disposition had taken it off and bound it on tight by the time Jem Waters, one of his farm hands, had reached the porch. The two then taking the sufferer in their arms carried him into the house and into Mr. Simlins' room, which was on the first floor, where they laid him on the bed. Jem Waters was then despatched for Dr. Harrison, with orders to hold his tongue and not say what he was sent for. And Jem Waters, the swiftest runner in Pattaquasset, set off and ran every step of the way, till the doctor was found. The cold applications, the resting posture, seemed to do their work, and Mr. Simlins was rewarded with a smile from both eyes and lips. He did not speak again however till he had seen a spoonful of brandy enter the lips; then with a grave concern that did not seem like Mr. Simlins, he said, in a subdued tone, "How do you find yourself? Can you speak now?" "Not much--" Mr. Linden answered with some effort. "I find myself in very kind hands." "Are you hurt anywhere else?" "Somewhat--the shot scattered, I think." There was a smothered execration, and then it was a very kind hand that renewed the touch of cold water to his forehead, though a big, brown and rough one. "I've sent for the doctor--and now I'll get you a nurse. You keep quiet, till you can do something else." Mr. Simlins gently went forth; and in a minute after was in the midst of his husking party in the barn. "Reuben Taylor!" said the farmer--"You don't mind takin' a run, do you? Wouldn't you just as lieves help me catch that black heifer--afore she gets to Pequot?" Reuben started up, and signified his ability to catch anything whatever. He was not alone; for half a dozen others volunteered to be equally ready. "You keep where you be!" said the farmer with a wave of his hand to the half dozen. "I don't let everybody chase that 'ere heifer--you've got to catch her by the head and not by the foot, I tell _you!_ Reuben, you come along." And getting him well outside of the barn and half way towards the house, Mr. Simlins said in a very low growl indeed, "Mr. Linden's here--he's been hurt, somehow, in his arm--and he's kind 'o faint; I want you to stay by him till the doctor comes, and then let me know. If I don't keep in the barn they'll raise Plute--or they'll come in--and I'd as lieves they'd do one as 'tother." By this time Mr. Simlins had reached the door of his room, and ushered Reuben in. He heard--and long remembered--the smothered cry which seemed to come no further than Reuben's lips as he stepped within the door; but after that the boy might have been made of iron, for his strength and steadiness. He walked up to the bedside and knelt down by it, with a look which again Mr. Simlins could not soon forget; but his face was quite calm, except in the first moment when Mr. Linden looked at him. The farmer was a man of iron too, yet his voice was low and changed from its usual wont when he spoke. "It's only loss of blood, I guess," he said. "He'll get along. You give him brandy, and water, Reuben, if he wants it; and call me when Dr. Harrison comes. Can I do anything else?" The last words were gently, even tenderly, addressed to the sufferer. "No--" Mr. Linden said, with that same pleasant look of the eyes. "I think there is not much the matter--except what you said." Mr. Simlins stalked off and was rather more grim than usual in the barn. The huskers had returned to their merriment, and the slight sound of wheels in the road from time to time of course attracted no attention. After one of these signals, however, Jem Waters appeared at the front door. "Mr. Simlins there's a gentleman wants to see yer. I'll take yer place." "Very few strides did Mr. Simlins make between the barn and the house, and slight was his stay of greeting to Dr. Harrison. "He's in here--" said he leading the way. Reuben was just as Mr. Simlins had left him,--it seemed as if he had not once taken his eyes from the calm face before him. For very calm it was--reposeful; with not a line disturbed except where a slight contraction of the brow told of some physical discomfort. But he was not asleep, for he looked at them the moment they entered; and Reuben rose then, and stood leaning against the bedpost. "I'm sorry to see you so," said the doctor. "What's the matter? and where?" A little smile, a glance towards the bandaged arm, seemed to say there was nothing very bad, but that what there was it would be easier for him to have the doctor find out for himself. Nor further did the doctor ask, but proceeded to work. And it appeared soon that Dr. Harrison at play, and Dr. Harrison at work, were two people--yet the same! The doctor did not indeed play at his work; yet the work was done with the same skilful ease that he brought to his play; an ignorant eye could see as much; and Mr. Simlins jealously looking on, felt very soon at ease as to the doctor's part in the scene before him. Dr. Harrison knew his business, and knew it well. Mr. Linden's coat was removed, in the course of which operation a keen glance of the doctor's eye over at Reuben shewed that he recognized him; but then he attended to nothing but his patient. He found that a number of duck shot had been lodged in Mr. Linden's side and arm, the latter of which was somewhat lacerated, and this was the principal wound. The others were slight, the shot having taken a slanting direction and so rather grazed than penetrated. Dr. Harrison with care and skill went on to extract the shot and dress the wounds, which he did after the happy and simple regimen of modern discoveries; and ordered certain restoratives which he judged his patient needed. He did not speak except on business till he had seen these doing their work and Mr. Linden able to reply to him. And then his first words were to the farmer; who, not asking a question, had stood by as silent and watchful as Reuben himself; nearly as grave. "There's nothing the matter with him, Mr. Simlins," he said. "He'll be able to shoot you in a day or two--if he has a mind. What have you been doing to him?" "_Me!_ I've been actin' the part of the good Syrian to him," growled Mr. Simlins;--"only I always thought before, the oil and wine went on the outside instead of the inside." "I dare say," said the doctor lightly, probably not understanding the allusion. And then he seated himself on the side of the bed, looking down at his patient very much in his usual manner. "You'll have made yourself the hero of Pattaquasset, Linden," he said. "There won't another fellow stand a chance to be looked at for a month to come--from here to Quilipeak. You ought to be indicted for breach of the public peace." "Don't try it--" said Mr. Linden. "I should doubtless prevail with the jury too." "Ha?--" said the doctor with another glance over at Reuben. "Now how did this come about?" "Quite suddenly--as I was walking home." "Where were you?" "About a mile from here, in the open road." "Who was fool enough to be shooting ducks in the open road and mistake you for a specimen?--You are not at all the sort of man I should ever think of making game of." "I tried hard to find out who it was," said Mr. Linden,--"but he was a better runner than I, or else my strength gave out." "Why how did the thing happen?" said the doctor. "Run!--you don't suppose the fellow meant to hit you?" "He meant to run--" said Mr. Linden. The doctor looked at Mr. Simlins, with a serio-comical expression. "Worse and worse!" said he. "It is a full-grown, regular built adventure; and this is a hero from head to foot." "Which way did the fellow run?" said Mr. Simlins, with a growl that was ominous. "Straight ahead--till he got into the woods," said Mr. Linden, smiling at his host. "But he probably turned there, Mr. Simlins." "I'll have him!" said Mr. Simlins--"I'll foller his tracks, if they lead me to the two poles of the axletree! You tell me where you see him, and I'll set runners on, that won't give out neither." "They'd be as likely to run against each other as any way, in this mist to-night," said the doctor. "You'd better leave all that till the morning. I'll see you again to-morrow," said he holding out his hand to Mr. Linden. "I suppose they don't know what is become of you at Mrs. Derrick's--I will stop there as I go home and make myself as famous as I can. Though 'the first bearer of unwelcome news' does not recommend himself to favour, yet if they have heard anything, on the whole they will thank me. I'll take my risk." "I am a little inclined to ride down with you," said Mr. Linden. "Folly!" said the doctor. "Mr. Simlins is acting a good part by you, he says,--which I presume is true, though I did not understand his terms; but I have no doubt he'll prove himself good for a day or two's board and lodging. I wish I had had the pleasure of finding you at my own door, instead of his having it!" "The question is whether I shall be good for a day or two--I have no doubt of Mr. Simlins." "Does that mean you are going to disobey me? You grudge me that little bit of famousness?" "I shall hear the orders _before_ I disobey--" The doctor looked at him a minute. "Linden,"--said he,--"you're alarmingly well! but you must remain in quarters for another night or two. It would be dangerous to let you go. I can't allow it. Good night!--" Either the stimulus of the doctor's presence had been strong, or the effort to appear well had been fatiguing; and Dr. Harrison would have pronounced another verdict had he seen his patient ten minutes later. When Mr. Simlins came back into the room, Mr. Linden looked pale and exhausted. He roused himself however, at once. "Mr. Simlins," he said, "will you drive me into Pattaquasset to-night." "You aint a goin' to do that?" said the farmer. "That was my intention. Why not?" "You aint fit for it, no ways! Can't you stop here one night and be peaceable?" "Yes, both," said his guest smiling. "But if I do not go, I must send," he added after a minute's silence, during which perhaps some feeling of weakness came in aid of the doctor's orders.--"And I do not think it would hurt me to go." "Send!" said Mr. Simlins--"there's lots to send. Here's Reuben, and Sam Stoutenburgh--the boys aint gone yet--and here's me. Who do you want to send to?" "I want to send _for_ two or three things out of my room. Reuben can go--and Sam may sit here with me, if you will sleep any better for it, Mr. Simlins. That is what _you_ must do," he said with a look of warm interest and kindness. "Sleep!" growled Mr. Simlins. "It's about all I'm good for!" (Which was not at all Mr. Simlins' abstract judgment concerning himself--purely comparative, on the present occasion.) "Well--you tell Reuben what you want him to do, and he can take the brown mare--Jem'll have her ready--and I'll send Sam to you; and after I get rid of all creation, I'll come myself. You'd think all creation was just made, and the chips about!" After which setting forth of the state of his affairs Mr Simlins went forth. "I guess, sir," said Jem Waters when he had done his task with the mare, "I guess I'd as good sleep in the front porch to-night. 'Cause if there'll be one here, there'll be forty." "What'll the forty do?" "Knock the house down, sir, if there's nobody there to stop 'em. Bless you, sir, all Pattaquasset 'll come to hear how Mr. Linden is, afore day. There won't one on 'em wait two minutes after he hears the tale. It's all about by this time--I made one gal mad by not tellin' her, and I guess likely she's made it up for herself and other folks by now." CHAPTER XVIII. Dr. Harrison did not find anybody at Mrs. Derrick's gate. The two, mother and daughter, had stood there, even after Cindy had come in with her report; unconscious, or unregardful, of the chill thick mist which enveloped everything and fell with steady heavy fall upon the bright hair of one and the smooth cap of the other. They had not spoken to each other all that while, unless an unfinished word or two of Mrs. Derrick's reached ears that did not heed them. It was Faith herself who first moved, perhaps reminded by the increasing dullness that her mother was feeling it too. She took her hand from the gate, and passing the other round Mrs. Derrick, led her into the house, and into the sitting-room and to a chair; and then went for wood and kindling and built up a fire. She went to the kitchen next. That fire was out too, and that fire also Faith rebuilt, and coaxed till a blaze was going up round the cold tea kettle. Cindy sat with her head on her arms on the kitchen table, fast asleep. Faith did not wake her. In half an hour she brought into the sitting-room a tray with tea made, and clams warmed, and all things that should accompany the one teacup and saucer, and mutely set it before her mother. She did not then ask her to eat, except by this pantomime; and she herself immediately went again to stand in the porch. But again her mother followed. "Child," she said, "you mustn't stand here. You'll be sick next. You must come right in and drink some hot tea." Faith's quick answer was to put her hand upon her mother's lips. Her mother went on, softly and steadily, in spite of that slight obstruction. Yet not in spite of it, for her voice was very low. "I know who'd say you ought to--" and she paused a little, as if to let her words have their full effect. Then with a carious sort of instinct she herself hardly perceived, Mrs. Derrick added, "Dr. Harrison'll be sure to come--and you mustn't be standing here then." For the first time Faith's head drooped, and she turned, but it was to pass her mother and go upstairs; laying her hand for an instant as she went, with a kind of caressing touch, on her mother's arm; then she was gone. Mrs. Derrick stood where Faith left her, the still mist before her out of doors, the still house behind her. And there she stood until her ear caught the distant smooth roll of wheels. Softly it came, nearing her every minute, till Mrs. Somers' little wagon stopped at the gate, and Dr. Harrison jumped down and came towards her. Another had seen him, for Mrs. Derrick knew that a light step had come swiftly down stairs, but whither it went she knew not. The doctor spoke cheerily. "Nasty thick evening! My dear Mrs. Derrick, do you stand at the door to shew your hospitality in welcoming your friends, all night?" "It _is_ late," said Mrs. Derrick. The doctor's words were too slippery for her to get hold of; she waited for him to speak again. "If it is late, my dear madam, why are you here? I don't want you to see me ever for anything but pleasure. Is it so late I mustn't come in?" Mrs. Derrick stepped back into the hall--then stopped and turned. "I was there to watch, Dr. Harrison. What have you got to tell me? One story has come already." "Has it! Then I can tell you but half a one. I was thinking to make my fortune. Mr. Linden is spending the night at a friend's house, my dear Mrs. Derrick--that is all. He is as well as you are--though perhaps just at this minute not quite so strong as I am. But I am afraid he can boast more than that in another few days." That Mrs. Derrick felt at once relieved, doubtful, unsatisfied, was clear. But the relief--slight as it was--brought back her hospitality; she led the way into the parlour. "What has been the matter?" she said. "What _is_ the matter?" "_I_ don't know," said the doctor. "He fell in with somebody carrying a gun--which was very likely to happen, seeing I have met a great many myself; but I never fell _out_ with any of them yet--perhaps my time will come.--This fellow however, let off his gun in the wrong place and some of the shot hit Mr. Linden in the arm, and before he could get to Mr. Simlins, where I found him, he was a little faint. So I commanded him to stay where he was till morning. That's all. He's perfectly well, I give you my word. I came now on purpose to relieve you from anxiety. He wanted to come down with me, but I wouldn't let him." "Why didn't you let him?" said Mrs. Derrick. "Well, I came near letting him," said the doctor,--"for I didn't know at one time that I could help it. It wouldn't have hurt him seriously. But he'll see you with more pleasure to-morrow." "I can't think how you made out to hinder him at all!" said Mrs. Derrick, looking a little puzzled. "But I'm much obliged to you, doctor, for coming." "Is he such a difficult person to deal with?" said the doctor, glancing at the different doors of the room. "I never tried," said Mrs. Derrick with very simple truth. "I must try, some time," said the doctor abstractedly:--"I like to deal with difficult people.--But I remember you remarked it was late!--" And he started up and was about to take his leave; when his purpose met with an interruption. For the swift trot of a horse upon the road came to as quick a pause at Mrs. Derrick's gate, and Reuben Taylor came up the steps and in at the open front door before Dr. Harrison had finished his compliments. "I see!" said the doctor,--"you don't keep open doors for nothing, Mrs. Derrick. Here's another. You're not riding after me, my friend, are you? You don't let the grass grow!" "No sir," said Reuben. "Good evening, Mrs. Derrick--may I go up to Mr. Linden's room?" "How is he now, Reuben?" said Mrs. Derrick. "O yes, you can go up, of course." "Thank you, ma'am--he said he was more comfortable when I came away." And with an almost imperceptible glance round the room he was in, Reuben turned and bounded lightly up the staircase. But all was dark there and in Mr. Linden's room. Reuben could not execute his commission so; and was turning to come down stairs again, when he encountered in the dim entry-way a white figure. "How _is_ Mr. Linden, Reuben?" said a voice which he knew, though it was in a very low key. "Miss Faith!" Reuben said with a little start--"O I am so glad to find you!"--Then repeated gravely his former answer--"He said he was more comfortable when I came away, ma'am." "Is he much hurt?" Reuben hesitated. "I don't rightly know, Miss Faith," he said, so low that she could scarce catch the words. "He says he's not--and Dr. Harrison says not,--I suppose I'm easy frightened." "What makes you frightened, then?" she said quickly. "I was frightened--" Reuben said, drawing a long breath, and with a sort of awe-stricken voice, as if the fright was upon him yet;--"and it takes a while to get over it. Maybe that's all. He wrote that, Miss Faith--" and Reuben laid a tiny folded paper in her hand. "And may I have a light, ma'am, to get some things from his room?" He spoke eagerly now, as if he grudged the moments. Faith directed him to the kitchen, and when Reuben came up, followed him into the room and stood waiting while he sought what he wanted. Then suddenly remembered that her paper might contain a request for something else, and bent over the candle to read it. It contained more than one. "Miss Faith," it said, "if any of my scholars are anxious about me, tell them, _from_ me, that there is no cause. Bid them take rest--without 'waiting for it.'--I am sorry that exercise must wait!--but I shall hope to see _two_ on Monday. J. E. L." Faith's head was bent a long while over the candle. "Have you got what you wanted, Reuben?" she asked at last. Reuben had heard her voice often, but he had never heard it like that--nor any one else. What had passed through it, clearing it so? it was like the chiming of silver bells. He came at her word, bag in hand; and--with the freedom a mutual sorrow gives,--held out his other hand to her. Then ran quick and softly down the stairs. "Hollo, sir!" said the doctor, as Reuben passed the open doorway. "A word with you." Reuben paused, then came back a step. "So you are Mr. Linden's friend, are you?" said the doctor in a careless manner. "Did you want anything of me, sir?" Reuben said. "Why yes--I commonly want an answer to a question." "I don't just know what you mean by a friend, Dr. Harrison," said Reuben respectfully. "I might answer wrong." "So rather than do that--You like to be on the safe side. Suppose you ask Mr. Linden to teach you definitions, among other things? And look here--keep him quiet and don't let anybody talk him out of his sleep to night. That's all." And the doctor followed Reuben immediately. With a feeling of satisfaction certainly, Mrs. Derrick at last locked and bolted the front door, shutting out the driving mist and all that might hide within it; and then went to look after the only treasure the house contained. She wasn't far to seek, for as the locking and bolting sounded through the house, Faith came down and went with her mother into the sitting-room. "Have you had nothing to eat yet, mother!" she exclaimed as her eye fell on the orderly tea-tray. "No child--nor sha'n't want it, till I see you have something." Faith smiled a little, came and put her arms round her and kissed her; and then set about the whole work of getting tea over again. It was with a very pale face yet; only the silver ring of her voice told the change of the mental atmosphere. Her mother looked at her--but was perhaps afraid to ask any questions to disturb the quiet. "Reuben's a good boy!" she said, feeling that remark to be perfectly safe. "I'm glad he's there," Faith answered gravely. "I heard all Dr. Harrison said, mother." "Yes child," said her mother--as if she knew that before,--"I thought you'd see Reuben too." "Reuben said the same, mother. And Mr. Linden himself sent word there was no cause to be anxious." Faith did not say he had written that word to her. Perhaps her own consciousness might have made her shy of the subject--or perhaps what she judged to be people's false reports had left a sore spot in her heart and she was afraid of touching _that_. But she did not speak of the little note which had come to her. She was preparing her mother's tea with all speed, while Mrs. Derrick on her part peeped into the sugar-bowl to see if it wanted filling, and began to cut the bread. "I'm glad to hear it, child," she said. "Dr. Harrison's too smart for me--I can't get a bit of good out of _him_. My, Faith! I suppose Mr. Linden can manage him, but if I had that man buzzing round _me_, I shouldn't know whether I was sick or well. When is he coming back, child?" "I don't know, mother."--Then with the invincible instinct of truth, she added, "He wants my work to be ready for him Monday." "Reuben's got a great deal of gumption!" said Mrs. Derrick, her heart quite expanding with the pleasure of hearing Faith talk once more. "Now half the boys in town would have blurted that right out to me and Dr. Harrison together,--and I wouldn't trust _him_ for not asking questions. But I'm sure I'm glad, child--it seems as if he'd been gone a month. Do you think he'll come to morrow? Maybe he meant you should send your work down to him." "I sha'n't do that," said Faith, as she gave her mother at last a cup of tea that was to be drunk. But she had poured out none for herself. She sat before the tea-tray, still and pale. Her mother looked at her. "You must take some, child." "I don't want it, mother."--And she brought everything that was on the table round her mother's plate. "You must--" Mrs Derrick repeated. "I sha'n't, if you don't,--or else I'll get you a glass of wine. Why child," she said, with a half sober, half smiling look, which Faith for once did not read,--"he's better. You ought to eat and be thankful." "I am thankful,"--Faith said, her head sinking for a moment. Mrs Derrick deliberately got up, went to the pantry, and fetching thence a tiny cup and plate set them before Faith. "Eat, pretty child!" she said. "You know I'm right. If you don't look out, Mr. Linden 'll be worse scared when he comes home than he's been to-day, I guess." Faith gave her a look, both grateful and appealing, and very innocent of belief in her statement;--and did honour the little cup so far as to fill it with tea which she swallowed. But the plate she left clean. "I can't to-night, mother," she said in answer to Mrs. Derrick's look. "I'll eat breakfast." CHAPTER XIX. It cannot be said that sleep came to Faith's eyes unbidden,--yet once come, sleep rested there sweetly, even beyond her usual time; and the first disturbing sound, in that misty Sunday morning, was the stopping of a wagon at the front door. But if Faith ran to the window with any special expectations, they were disappointed,--there was nothing at the door but Crab, his companion the little wagon, and Mrs. Derrick composedly getting out of the same. Which was at least surprising enough. The good lady's next appearance was a very noiseless one in Faith's room. "Dear mother! where have you been?" "Why I've been trying to get ahead of Dr. Harrison," said her mother sitting down; "and I did it too. I should have been home before if I hadn't been afraid of meeting him--so I had to take a cross road." Mrs. Derrick seemed tired. "You needn't look at me so, child," she said, taking off her bonnet. "It's enough to see one pale face in a morning. I did see him, Faith, though I didn't speak to him." "How did he look, mother?" "I don't suppose he really looked bad--considering," said Mrs. Derrick, with the tired look on her own face; "but I am not used to seeing him pulled down. It sort of upset me to see him lie there and those two boys keeping watch of him. I declare, Faith! I wouldn't like to be the one to touch him with them sitting by!" "But how is he, mother? who did you see?" "I didn't see anybody but them--Mr. Simlins wasn't up. They said he seemed better, dear--and that if I'd seen him last night I'd think he had quite a colour now: so I suppose he is better. Only I haven't got the heart of a kitten sometimes--" and a little motion of the lips warned Faith that if her mother was sparing of details it was because she could scarce give them. "But isn't he as well as the doctor said? He would look pale, you know"-- "I shouldn't have known from what the doctor said, that he'd anything more than a scratch on the tip end of his little finger!" said Mrs. Derrick,--"so I believe I didn't expect even to see him look pale. And all the while, the doctor was staring at the pantry doors--I didn't know but he'd get up and open 'em and look in." "You said _two_ boys were there? who beside Reuben Taylor?" "O Sam Stoutenburgh was 'tother side," said Mrs. Derrick, "and wanted to know how you were. I'd a great mind to tell him it was none of his business. I suppose he thinks his heart is as large as he is, and can hold everything at once." A shadow of something seemed to cross Faith at the mention of Sam's name. She turned away and began dressing herself. "Don't stir again, mother," she said. "I'll come down and see about breakfast." "It'll rest me to go with you, child,--I told Reuben I'd come again and stay if Mr. Linden would let me, and Reuben will send me word. So I want to see you in the mean time. But I don't think they'll send." The breakfast was a quiet meal, though Faith but poorly performed her promise of eating. How Faith spent the hour after breakfast her mother could but guess; then she came out with her bonnet on and kissed her before setting off to Sunday school. The thick mist yet filled the air, growing yellow now with the struggling sunbeams. She walked quick and met nobody. Till she came to her place, and there she found not Charles twelfth alone, but the two other little additions to her charge that had been promised her. For though it was by no means 'cold weather'--the warm sunny days lingering yet and this Sunday promising to be a good specimen,--it happened that Johnny and his companion had received a special injunction to come, as Faith found out, and were there accordingly. And if Johnny regretted his old place in another class, it was not for the reason his new teacher had feared. Faith's face was very pale,--that of itself touched the children; and her words this day came in a tone that won all the recesses of their hearts. She had forgot about other teachers or children being in her neighbourhood; on those three her stores of love and tenderness poured themselves out. She told them with warm lips, of Christ and his love and his leading,--of the safety and joy of his sheep,--of her wish that her little charge should be lambs in that flock, and what sort of lambs they must be. Faith spoke to her children very much as if she had been a child herself. They knew instinctively, with very sure knowledge, that she belonged to the fold of which she was joyously telling them. The children, on their part, met her variously. Johnny--with his clear childish eyes, the flower-like unfolding of his little heart to that warm sunshine--gave her more help than trouble,--she understood the liking to teach him for her own sake. If his thoughts sometimes wandered a little from her words, the downcast look, the slight quiver of his childish lips, told Faith where they had gone; and she could forgive him. But though at such times Robbie Waters always remembered to look grave too, yet he displaced Faith's gravity once by whispering to her (in the midst of her earnest admonitions to Charles twelfth) that 'she knew she was pretty'; and was in general in an easy, docile state of mind, and much interested and amazed at the 'deportment' of his little neighbour, Charles twelfth. When Faith came out of the school, she saw that all the seats of Mr. Linden's class were vacant; and with that little reminding touch, went to her own place in the church. It was between nine and ten o'clock, while Faith was yet lost in her little charge, while Mrs. Derrick at home was thinking of her, and Mr. Simlins was taking his late breakfast, that Dr. Harrison's curricle reached the farmer's gate. All was quiet without the house, but when Jenny Lowndes admitted the doctor into the hall, the array of hats and caps upon the table might have startled a less professional man; might have even suggested the idea that Mr. Simlins was giving a breakfast party. "Let me see Mr. Linden," said the doctor. Jenny hesitated--then her fear of Dr. Harrison overcoming her scruples, she walked softly to the door and opened it. But if the doctor wanted to see his patient, he was obliged to wait a little; for the group of boys--some standing, some kneeling--around the bed, hid everything else. The room was very still, very _earnest;_ even Dr. Harrison could feel that; the sound of words, very low-spoken, was all he could hear. The closing door made itself heard, however,--several boys turned round, and at once stepped aside; and the doctor saw his patient, not dressed but lying as he had left him the night before. Mr. Linden smiled--and saying some words to his class held out his hand towards the doctor; but this was fastened upon at once by so many, that the doctor again had to wait his turn; and it was not until everyone else had touched that hand, some even with their lips, that he was left alone with his patient. "What are you doing?" said he, in a sort of grave tone which did not however mean gravity. "Holding a levee?--and do you receive your courtiers at different hours according to their ages? in that case. I have come at the wrong time." "No, you shall have the time all to yourself." "I see I have it! Are the juvenile members of society in Pattaquasset accustomed to pay their respects to you at this hour in the morning?" "Not always. Once a week we meet to talk over pleasant things." "Have I interrupted the pleasant things now?" "No, I could not talk very long this morning. The boys were just going." "I wish I had come a little sooner," said Dr. Harrison. "I'm not a boy, to be sure, but I don't know that they are privileged to monopolize all pleasant things. If they are, I am against monopolies. However, if you can't talk, you mustn't talk. How do you do?" "I do well--if a man can be doing well when he's doing nothing. I will talk as long as you please--about pleasant things." The doctor however diverged to the state of his patient's health, nor would talk of anything else till his investigations on that point were made. The result of them seemed to be satisfactory. "Now Linden," he said, in atone that indicated they were free to ask and answer,--"who was that fellow last night? have you any idea?" "It is difficult to identify a man when you are only within gunshot of him--and after sundown," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Difficult--yes, it may be,--but you gathered something?" "I gathered a run." "That is," said the doctor looking at him, "you _have_ an opinion on the subject and are not willing to risk it?" "No," said Mr. Linden, "I have had risk enough for one night." "You are mistaken, Linden. A hint might be quite enough to bring out the certainty. My father is very eager about the matter, and is only waiting for you to empower him to act." "I shall give you no hint," said Mr. Linden. "I might be willing to risk my own opinion, but not another man's character." The doctor looked at him keenly and curiously. "What possible motive!"--he said. "For it is evident that the shot was fired of intent, and evident that you yourself think so. It is unheard-of!" "Were you bred to the bar, that you sum up evidence before it is given?" said Mr. Linden, with a good-humoured raising of his brows at the doctor. "But the man ran!" "So did I--he could hardly think I was much hurt." "I don't want to have such a fellow abroad in Pattaquasset," said the doctor. "But suppose we go back to the pleasant things. You must start the subject, Linden. Rousseau says a man can best describe the sweets of liberty from the inside of a prison--so, I suppose, you being shot at and laid on your back, can have no lack of theme." Mr. Linden smiled--the smile of a most unfettered spirit. "Liberty!" he said. "Yes, I have realized since I have lain here, that-- 'My soul is free, as ambient air,'-- My sense of liberty comes from the possession--not the want." "Prospective possession,"--said the doctor. "Unless indeed," he went on with a humorous play of the lips--"you mean that my orders to you to lie still, merely gave zest to your triumphant knowledge that you could get up if you had a mind. A riotous degree of self-will that I believe I do not possess. Was that what good Mrs. Derrick meant when she said she wondered how I had hindered you?" "No," said Mr. Linden smiling--"she meant that she did not think you had." "She didn't mean a thing of the kind! She spoke in pure wonder, and made me begin to wonder in my turn." Which wonder Mr. Linden did not inquire into. "I am very sorry I wasn't a boy this morning!" said Dr. Harrison, after standing and looking down at him a little. "Can't you sit down and say why?" "I should have heard so much!--which now I am not to hear. For if I had been a boy, I should certainly not have been missing at your levee." "O you deceive yourself,--if you were a boy nothing short of my authority would bring you, in the first place." "I have not the slightest doubt the power would have been found equal to the resistance," said the doctor bowing. "Neither have I." "Well!--" said the doctor laughing a little peculiarly,--"in that case I should have been here. Now I have a fancy to know what you call pleasant things, Linden. You speak with a mouth full--as if there were plenty of them." "Yes, there are plenty," Mr. Linden said, moving a little and resting his face on his hand as if he felt tired; "but we were talking of only two this morning,--heaven, and the way thither." Dr. Harrison looked at him steadily. "You are tired," he said gently. "You shall not talk any more to me now, and I shall forbid your holding any more levees to-day. After which," he added, the humourous expression coming back, "I shall expect to hear a proclamation going through Pattaquasset, that, like the knights of old, you are ready for all comers!--Well--I'll come and see you to-morrow; and as long as you'll let me, as a friend; for the pleasure of talking. You can have it all your own way, with a few more days' strength. Will you have a levee to-morrow at the same hour?" A little play of the lips came with the answer-- "Will that suit you?--I'll send you word." Then looking up at the doctor with a different expression, he added, "What do you think of my pleasant things?" "Hardly in my line--" said the doctor with a carelessness which was somewhat dubious in its character. "It is very well for those who find the subject pleasant. I confess I have never studied it much." "Then you have but half learned your profession." But the words were so spoken that they could not give offence. Neither did the doctor seem disposed to take offence. "I'll ask you what you mean by that to-morrow," he said very pleasantly. "I thought I had learned my profession. Have you learned yours?" The last words were with a keen eye to the answer. "Some people dignify my present business with that name," Mr. Linden said. "Well, you shall discourse to me more at length to-morrow," said the doctor. "Shall I come later?" "I don't expect to be in school to-morrow, so you may name your own time," Mr. Linden said with a pleasant look. "But remember,--a physician who has no skill to feel the pulse of the mind, no remedies that can reach its fever or its chills,--is but half a physician. If I had never studied the subject,--one word about heaven and the way thither would be worth more to me than all the science of medicine ever discovered! It is now--" he said in a low tone, as the flush passed away. And then holding out his hand to Dr. Harrison, Mr. Linden added, "I fully appreciate your skill and kindness--you need not doubt it." The hand was taken, and grasped, cordially but in silence. Whether the doctor went straight from Mr. Simlins' house to church--where he was not a very constant attendant--it does not appear. What is certain about the matter, is, that he was outside of the church door after service just at the time that Faith Derrick found herself there, and that he assumed a place at her side and walked with her towards her mother's house instead of taking the other direction towards his own. Faith was alone, Mrs. Derrick having chosen to stay at home _in case_ she should be sent for. The mist had cleared off completely, and the sunny warm air invited to lingering in it. Faith would not have lingered, but the doctor walked slowly, and she could not leave him. "I have been wanting to see you, ever since my inopportune proposal yesterday," said he in a low tone,--"to make my peace with you." "It is made, sir," said Faith, giving him a smile. "How do you do to-day?" "Very well!" she told him. The doctor listened to the sound of her voice, and thought with himself that as regarded the moral part of her nature the words were certainly true. "Let me have the pleasure of relieving you of that,"--he said, taking Faith's little Bible gently away from her. "I am going your way. Miss Derrick--you spoke yesterday of particular work to be done on Sunday. Have you any objection to tell me what you meant by it? I confess to you, your words are somewhat dark to me. That is my fault, of course. Will you give me light?" It was a gentle, grave, quiet tone of questioning. "Others might do it far better, sir," said Faith. "I would far rather hear it from you!" The colour came a little into Faith's cheeks, but her words were given with great simplicity. "The other days are taken up very much with the work of this world--Sunday is meant more particularly for the work that belongs to the other world." "And what is that? if you do not object to tell me. I confess, as I tell you, I am ignorant." She forgot herself now, and looked steadily at him. "To learn to know God--with whom we have so much to do, here and there;--to learn to know his will and to do it, and to bring others to do it too, if we can.--And if we know and love him already, to enjoy it and take the good of it,"--she added a little lower, and with a softening of expression. Dr. Harrison read her look fixedly, till she turned it away from him. "And are these what you call pleasant things?" said he somewhat curiously. But Faith's answer rang out from her heart. "Oh yes!"-- She stopped there, but evidently not for want of what to say. "You are a happy thing," said the doctor, but not in a way to make his words other than graceful. "I wish you would make me as good as you are." She looked at him, and answered very much as if she had been speaking to a child. "God will make you much better, Dr. Harrison, if you ask him." He was silent a minute after that, without looking at her. When he spoke again, it was with a change of tone. "You are of a different world from that in which I live; and the flowers that are sweet to you, belong, I am afraid, to a Flora that I have no knowledge of. What, for instance, would you call pleasant things to talk about--if you were choosing a subject of conversation?" Faith looked a little surprised. "A great many things are pleasant to me," she said smiling. "I am sure of that! But indulge me--what would you name as supremely such, to talk about?" "If they are talked about _right_," said Faith gently, "I don't know anything so pleasant as those things I was speaking of--what God will have us do in this world, and what he will do for us in the next." "'Heaven and the way thither'--" said Dr. Harrison to himself. "What, sir?" said Faith. "I should like to have you answer me that; but I am sorry, I see Mrs. Derrick's house not far beyond us.--I saw our friend Mr. Linden this morning." "Is he better?" said Faith simply. "He's doing very well. I told him he'd be a terribly famous man after this. And it's begun. I found near all the boys in Pattaquasset assembled there this morning." "His Bible class--" said Faith, with a feeling which did not however come into her face or voice, and Dr. Harrison watched both. "Here is _your_ Bible," he said as they stopped at the little gate. "Do you always look so pale on Sundays?" he added with a look and tone of half professional half friendly freedom. "Not always," Faith said; but there came at the same time a little tinge into the cheeks,--that Dr. Harrison wished away. "May I come and earn your forgiveness for yesterday's stupidity?" "Certainly!" Faith said,--"but there needs no forgiveness--from me, Dr. Harrison." He left her with a graceful, reverential obeisance; and Faith went in. CHAPTER XX. Dr. Harrison had but little left Mr. Linden that morning, when Mr. Simlins came in. He had hardly seen his guest yet that day, except, like Mrs. Derrick, when he was asleep. For having watched himself the greater part of the night, for the pure pleasure of it, Mr. Simlins' late rest had brought him almost to the hour when the boys came to what the doctor called Mr. Linden's levee. "Well how do you find yourself?" said the farmer, standing at the foot of the bed and looking at its occupant with a kind of grim satisfaction. "I find myself tired, sir--and at the same time intending to get up. Mr. Simlins, are you going down to church this afternoon?" "Well, no," said the farmer. "I think it's as good church as I can do, to look arter you." "You can have both," said Mr. Linden smiling,--"I should go with you." "You aint fit," said the farmer regretfully. "Fit enough--I'll come back and stay with you another day, when I am well, if you'll let me." "Will you?" said the farmer. "I'll bottle that 'ere promise and cork it up; and if it aint good when I pull the cork--then I'll never play Syrian again, for no one. But s'pose I ain't goin' to church?" "Then I shall have to take Reuben." "You sha'n't take no one but me," growled Mr. Simlins. "I'd rather see you out of my house than not--if I can't see you in it." The bells were ringing out for the early afternoon service when they set forth; not ringing against each other, as which should give the loudest call for its own particular church, but with alternate strokes speaking the same thing--the one stepping in when the other was out of broath. The warm sunshine rested upon all--"the evil and the good," and spoke its own message though not so noisily. Along the road Mr. Simlins' little covered wagon (chosen for various reasons) went at an easy pace; with one to drive, and one to bear the motion as best he might; and a third who would almost have agreed to be a pillow or a cushion for the rest of his life, if he could have been one for that day. What there were of that sort in the wagon, or indeed in the house, were to Reuben's eyes far too thin and ineffectual. A little excitement, a very earnest desire to get home once more, did partially supply the need; and by the time the houses were empty and the churches full, the wagon stopped at Mrs. Derrick's gate. "I guess nobody's home," said Mr. Simlins as he with great tenderness helped Mr. Linden to alight--"but anyway, here's the house all standin'. Reuben, you go ahead and see if we can get in." But before Reuben touched the door, Mrs. Derrick had opened it from the inside, and stood there--her usually quiet manner quite subdued into silence. Not into inaction however, for her woman's hands soon made their superior powers known, and Mr. Simlins could only wonder why this and that had not occurred to him before. Quick and still and thoughtful, she had done half a dozen little things to make Mr. Linden comfortable before he had been in the house as many minutes, and assured the two others very confidently that "he shouldn't faint again, if he wanted to ever so much!" "Well, I was sorry to let him go," said Mr. Simlins, "and now I'm glad of it. It takes a woman! Where's some-somebody else?" "There's nobody else in the house," said Mrs. Derrick. "Faith's gone to meeting, and Cindy too, for all I know." "I'll send Dr. Harrison word in the morning where _I_ am," said Mr. Linden,--which Mr. Simlins rightly understood to mean that the fact need not be published to-night. He took gentle leave of this lost guest and went to church; excusing himself for it afterwards by saying he felt lonely. If Faith had seen him there, she might have jumped at conclusions again; but she did not; and after the service walked home, slowly again, though nobody was with her. A little wearied by this time with the night and the day's work, wearied in body and mind perhaps, she paced homewards along the broad street or road, on which the yellow leaves of the trees were floating lazily down, and which was all filled from sky and wayside with golden light. It brought to mind her walk of last Sunday afternoon--and evening;--the hymn, and those other lines Mr. Linden had repeated and which had run in her head fifty times since. And Faith's step grew rather slower and less lightsome as she neared home, and when she got home she went straight up to her room without turning to the right or the left. Her mother was just then in the kitchen and heard her not, and shielded by her bonnet Faith saw not even that Mr. Linden's door stood open; but when she came out again a while after, the full stream of sunlight that came thence into the passage drew her eyes that way. And Faith did not wonder then that her mother had been startled, and unprepared by the doctor's words for the sight of what she now saw. The chintz-covered couch was drawn before the window, in the full radiance of the sunlight, and Mr. Linden lay there looking out; but the sunlight found no glow in his face, unless one as etherial as itself. The habitual sweet pure look was there--a look that reminded Faith of the one Johnny had worn in the morning; but the face was perfectly colourless. The bandaged arm was supported only by a sling, upon the other hand his cheek rested wearily. Faith looked, hesitated, then stepped lightly into the room and stood before him; with a face not indeed quite so pale as his own, but that only the sunlight hindered his seeing was utterly without its usual colour. She found nothing to say, apparently: for she did not speak, only held out her hand. He had turned at the first sound of her step and watched her--at first smiling, then grave--as she came near; and taking her hand as silently as it was given, Mr. Linden looked up at her face,--perhaps to see whether his instructions had been obeyed. "I have had men's hands about me so long," he said, "that yours feels like--" he did not specify what, but held it a minute as if he were trying to find out. "Miss Faith, you want to be rocked to sleep." Could he see that her lips trembled? He could feel how her hand did; but her look was as frank as ever. "Are you less well to-day?"--she said at last, in a voice that was little above a whisper, and stopped short of his name. "Less well than yesterday at this time--not less well than this morning. A little more tired, perhaps." He spoke very quietly, answering her words and letting his hand and eye do the rest. "Has Mrs. Derrick a cradle in the house that would hold you?" Perhaps Faith hardly heard the question, for she did not acknowledge it by so much as a smile. She wished to ask the further question, whether the assurance of last night was still true; but his appearance had driven such fear to her heart that she dared not ask it. She stood quite still a minute, but when she spoke her words were in the utmost clear sweetness of a woman's voice. "Can I do something for you, Mr. Linden?" "You are doing something for me now--it is so pleasant to see you. But Miss Faith, I shall have to reclaim some of your scholars; you have been teaching too much to-day." "No--" she said,--"I have had no chance." "No chance to teach too much? And why?" "Why," she said--"I had only the usual hour this morning. I could do no more." "You look as if you had been teaching all day--or taught, which is but another branch. What did my boys say to you?" "I think they thought they were saying to you, Mr. Linden,--they behaved so well." He smiled. "I don't believe even your conjuring powers could bring about such a hallucination, Miss Faith.--What a day it has been! Look at that sunlight and think of the city that hath 'no need of the sun'!" She looked where he bade her, but the contrast was a little too strong just then with the earth that had so much 'need' of it! Only the extreme gravity of her face however indicated anything of the struggle going on. Her eye did not move,--nor eyelid. "_That_ is the only rest we must wait 'for,'" Mr. Linden said. "That 'remaineth.'" Faith answered nothing. But after a little while the shadow of that sunlight passed away from her face, and she turned to the couch again and asked with her former gentle expression, "Will you have tea up here, Mr. Linden?" "I'm afraid I must," he said, looking up at her with eyes that rather questioned than answered. "Does mother know what you would like to have?" "Miss Faith--I wish you would tell me just what is troubling you." The question flushed her a little, and for a moment her face was a quick play of light and shade; then she said, "It troubled me not to see you looking better." He took the force of her words, though he answered lightly. "I suppose I do look rather frightful! But Miss Faith, I hope to get over that in a few days--you must try and brace up your nerves, because if you cannot bear the sight of me I shall have to deny myself the sight of you." "Don't do that," she said, the light coming into her eye and voice as if by an actual sunbeam. "Then it is true, what you wrote me last night, Mr. Linden?" "Well!" he said--"I am not much in the habit of maintaining my own words,--however, in this case I am willing to admit them true. If it will be any relief to your mind, Miss Faith, I will promise to remain in seclusion until you say I am fit to be seen down stairs." The answer to that was only a rosy little smile, like the sunlight promise of fair weather on the last clouds that float over the horizon. But perhaps his words had brought her mind back to the question of supper for she asked again, "What are you to have for tea to-night, Mr. Linden?" "May I take a great liberty?" he said with a look as grave as before. "I don't know how you can,"--she said and with eyes somewhat surprised, that said in their own way it was impossible. A little smile--which she scarce saw--came first, and then her hand was brought to his lips. But it was done too gravely and gently to startle even her. "Now you must go and rest," Mr. Linden said. "I want nothing for tea that shall cost one extra step." Faith went about as silently and demurely as a cat that has had her ears boxed and been sent out of the dairy. Only in this case she went _to_ her dairy; from whence in due time she emerged with cream and butter and made her appearance in the kitchen. "Well _child!_" said Mrs. Derrick. "When did you get home? and what did you do with yourself? I've looked and looked for you till I was tired, and if you'd staid five minutes more I should have run all over town after you." "Why mother!" said Faith, "I was in my own room for a good while. I got home in usual time." "Well!"--said her mother, "I hope next time you'll say as much--that's all. Do you know we've got company, Faith?" "Who, mother?--O I've seen Mr. Linden." "I meant him," said Mrs. Derrick. "I'm sure the house seems as if it had twice as many in it since he came." "He ought to have tea, now, mother. Isn't Cindy home yet?" "No, but that's no matter--I'll take it up in two minutes. Where's the teapot--" "I think, mother," said Faith as she was adding the last touches to the tray which was to go up stairs,--"I must have put Mr. Linden in mind of his sister, or somebody, this afternoon. I am afraid he misses them now." "What do you mean by somebody?" said Mrs. Derrick. "Some of his own family, I mean. I thought so." "I don't believe you ever put anybody in mind of anybody else," said Mrs. Derrick confidently. "What made you think so, child?" "Something made me think so,"--said Faith rather abstractly. "Now mother--it is ready, and I'll take it up stairs if you'll take it then." "I guess I'm up to as much as taking it all the way," said her mother, lifting the tray. "I'll be down presently, dear,--you must want _your_ tea." And up stairs she went. Reuben came to stay all night, so the ladies had only to take their own much needed sleep, in peace; and a note of information was left at Dr. Harrison's door next morning, some time before that gentleman was awake. CHAPTER XXI. "I know what I have to do to-day," said Faith the next morning. "Mr. Skip has got the box made, mother, and now I want the stuff to cover it." "Well that's ready--in my pantry, child." Whereupon Reuben offered his services; but all that was given him to do was to carry up Mr. Linden's breakfast. This was hardly well over when Dr. Harrison came. He was shewn into the sitting-room, just as Faith with her arms full of brown moreen came into it also from the pantry. The doctor was not going to lose a shake of the hand, and waited for the brown moreen to be deposited on the floor accordingly. "You are looking more like yourself to-day," he said. "I will call mother," said Faith. Which she did, leaving the doctor in company with the brown moreen. "Mrs. Derrick," said he, speaking by no means without a purpose, "I have cause of complaint against you! What have you done to allure my patient down here against orders?" "He's better here," said Mrs. Derrick with a cool disposing of the subject. "What did you want to keep him up there for, doctor?" "Only acted upon a vigorous principle of Mr. Linden's nature, madam.--If I had ordered him to come, he would have stayed. May I see him?" And Mrs. Derrick preceded the doctor up stairs, opened the door of the room and shut it after him. Mr. Linden was on the couch, but it was wheeled round by the side of the fire now, for the morning was cool. A little heap of unopened letters and post despatches lay before him, but the white paper in his hand seemed not to have come from the heap. As the doctor entered, this was folded up and transferred to the disabled hand for safe keeping. Mr. Linden had that quality (much more common among women than among men) of looking well in undress; but let no one suppose that I mean the combination of carelessness and disorder which generally goes by that name, and which shews (most of all) undress of the mind. I mean simply that style of dress which Sam Weller might call 'Ease afore Ceremony;'--in its delicate particularity, Mr. Linden's undress might have graced a ball-room; and, as I have said, the dark brown wrapper with its wide sleeves was becoming. Dr. Harrison might easily see that his patient was not only different from most of the neighbourhood, but also from most people that he had seen anywhere; and that peculiar reposeful look was strongly indicative of power. "Good morning!" said the doctor. "Do you expect me to behave well this morning?" "Why no--" said Mr. Linden. "My experience hitherto has not led me to expect anything of the sort." The doctor stood before the fire, looking down at him, smiling almost, yet with a keen eye, as at a man whose measure he had not yet succeeded in taking. "What did you come down here for, without my leave? And how do you do? For you see, I mean to behave well." "I came down because I wanted to be at home," said Mr. Linden. "And I did not ask leave, because I meant to come whether or no. You see what a respect I have for your orders." "Yes," said the doctor,--"that is a very ancient sort of respect. How do you do, Linden?" "I suppose, well,--as to feeling, I should not care to go through the Olympic games, even in imagination; and the various sensations in my left arm make me occasionally wish they were in my right." The doctor proceeded to an examination of the arm. It was found not to be taking the road to healing so readily as had been hoped. "I am afraid it may be a somewhat tedious affair," said Dr. Harrison, as he renewed the bandages in the way they ought to be. "I wish I had hold of that fellow! This may take a little time to come to a harmonious disposition, Linden, and give you a little annoyance. And at the same time, it's what you deserve!" said he, retaking his disengaged manner as he finished what he had to do. "I almost wish I could threaten you with a fever, or something serious; but I see you are as sound as that 'axletree' our friend spoke of the other day. There it is! You have learned to do evil with impunity. For I confess this has nothing to do with the exercise of your lawless disposition yesterday. Why didn't you let me bring you, if you wanted to come? That old fellow can't have anything drawn by horses, that goes easier than a harrow!" "Let you bring me!" said Mr. Linden. "Would you have done it against your own orders?" "Under your authority! which is equal to anything, you know." "Well," said Mr. Linden, "will you take a seat under my authority, and then take the benefit of my fire? What is going on in the outer world?" "I haven't any idea!" said the doctor. "Pattaquasset seems to me to be, socially, at one extreme pole of the axletree before-mentioned, and while I am here I feel no revolution of the great mass heaving beyond. It takes away one's breath, does Pattaquasset." "You are making it akin to 'the music of the spheres,'" said Mr. Linden. "Is that what you find in Pattaquasset?" said the doctor. "Your ears must be pleasantly constituted--or more agreeably saluted than those of other mortals. The only music I know of here is Miss Derrick's voice. Does she feed upon roses, like the Persian bulbul?" "I should suppose not--unless roses impart their colour in that way," said Mr. Linden, softly turning the folded paper from side to side. "This is a nice place," said the doctor surveying the room--"and you look very comfortable. I should like to take your invitation and sit down--but I mustn't. Won't you try and put a good opinion of me into the head of Mrs Derrick?" "What an extraordinary request!" said Mr. Linden, laughing a little. "Pray what am I to understand by it? And why mustn't you sit down?--here is something to rejoice your heart with a few of the aforesaid upheavings of Society;" and he handed the doctor an unopened foreign newspaper. "Absolutely irresistible!" said the doctor, and he broke the cover, took a chair and sat down before the fire; where for awhile to all appearance he also made himself 'comfortable'; and certainly turned and returned and ran over the paper in an artistic manner. "After all," said he, "it's a bore! this alternation of knocking each other down which the nations of the earth practise,--and the societies,--and the men! It's a pugilistic world we live in, Linden. It's a bore to keep up with them,--for one must know who's atop--both in Europe and in Pattaquasset--where you are just now the king of men's mouths--And all the while it don't a pin signify, except to the one who is atop;--I beg your pardon!" "How long must I, being 'atop,' lie here? All this week?" "What will you do if I say more than that?" "Why I'll listen respectfully. Do you know I like to see you sitting there?--Here is another paper for you." The doctor looked at him with an odd, frankly inquisitive smile; but he only took the paper to play with it. "I wonder if I may ask a roundabout favour from you?" "You may ask anything--" said Mr. Linden. "I would rather have it in a straight-forward form." "Can't," said the doctor, "because it is crooked. I suppose at this hour every lady in Pattaquasset expects that her friends will not call her away from her affairs; and I stupidly forgot to deliver my message when I had a moment's chance this morning. Now as it is possible you may see this--if she cannot be called the silver-footed Thetis, she is certainly the silver-tongued--you would know how to address her?" "Thetis!--probably, when I see her." "I may presume you will know her when you see her,--and that brings me to my point. I have got some good microscopic preparations which I am to have the pleasure of exhibiting to-night to some friends of my sister. Now it would greatly add to her pleasure and mine, if this mortal Polyhymnia will consent to be of the number--and this is what I was going to ask you, if you please, to communicate to her or to her mother, in whose good graces, as I told you," said the doctor with a funny smile, "I don't think I have the honour to stand high. Sophy would have written this morning, but I gave her no chance. I will call for Miss Derrick this evening if she will allow me." Mr. Linden took out his pencil and made a note of the facts. "First," he said, "I am to communicate, then you are to call, after that to exhibit. Do you call that crooked?--why it's as straight as the road from here to your house." Dr. Harrison looked--and for a minute did not anything else. "For your arm, Linden," he said then getting up from his chair, and a smile of doubtful comicality moving his lip a little--"we shall know better about it in two or three weeks; but certainly I think you must be content to stay at home for double those--that's undoubted." Mr. Linden gave the doctor a quick glance, but the smile which followed was 'undoubted' in another way. "When two opposing forces meet at right angles, doctor," he said, "you know what happens to the object. Not contented inertia." "Contented! no, very likely,--not when it is _this_ object. But you will find a third force will establish the inertia." "What is your third force?" "The necessity of the case," said the doctor seriously. But to that Mr. Linden made no reply. The conversation had been kept up not only against weakness but against pain, and he lay very still and colourless for a long time after the doctor closed the door. Meanwhile Faith, busy at her brown moreen, made her mother's job of mending seem like embroidery; but by degrees Mrs. Derrick's face became thoughtful, and she said, rather emphatically, "Child, have you been up to see Mr. Linden to-day?" Faith's hammer dropped, and her hands too. "No, mother," she said, looking at her. "Why child!"--Mrs. Derrick began,--then she stopped and began again. "I guess he'd rather see you than that box, child,--if the doctor hasn't talked him to death." "Mother, do you think he would like to have me come up and see him?" "Like it?" said Mrs. Derrick, her mind almost refusing to consider such an absurd question. "I'm sure he likes to see you when he's well, Faith. Didn't he like it last night?" Faith looked a little bit grave, then she hastily pushed her brown moreen and box into a somewhat more orderly state of disorganization, and went up stairs, with a quick light step that was not heard before her tap at Mr. Linden's door. And then receiving permission she went in, a little rosy this time at venturing into the charmed region when its occupant was there; and came with her step a little lighter, a little slower, up to the side of the couch and held out her hand; saying her soft "How do you do, Mr. Linden?" He was lying just as the doctor had left him, with the unopened letters, and the white paper which Faith felt instinctively was her own exercise. But eye and hand were ready for her. "Courageous Miss Faith!" he said with a smile. "And so, 'She's gentle and not fearful'?" She smiled, with an eye that took wistful note of him. "How do you feel to-day, Mr. Linden?" "Not very well--and not worse. Miss Faith, do you know that we have a great deal to do this week? You may lock up your stocking basket." "Please let me do something for you, Mr. Linden?" she said earnestly. "That's just what I'm talking about. Do you think, Miss Faith, that if you brought that low chair here, and set the door wide open so that you could run out if you got frightened at my grim appearance, you would be willing to philosophize a little?" "Not to-day, Mr. Linden," said Faith. "Don't speak so! I haven't any stocking basket in the way. Can't I do _something_ that would do you some good?" "It would do me a great deal of good to get up and set that chair for you, but that is something I must ask you to do for me. I see you want coaxing"--he added, looking at her. "Well--if you will do half a dozen things for me this morning, you shall have the reward of a letter and two messages." Faith looked down doubtful,--doubtful, whether to do what would please herself, and him, would be just right to-day; but the pleading of the affirmative side of the question was too strong. She gave up considering the prudential side of the measure, thinking that perhaps Mr. Linden knew his own feelings best; and once decided, let pleasure have its full flow. With hardly a shade upon the glad readiness of her movements, she placed the chair and brought the book, and sat docile down, though keeping a jealous watch for any sign of pain or weariness that should warn her to stop. And from one thing to another he led her on, talking less than usual, perhaps, himself, but giving her none the less good a lesson. And the signs she sought for could not be found. Weary he was not, mentally, and physical nature knew its place. Last of all, the little exercise was opened and commented upon and praised--and she praised through it, though very delicately. "Have I tired you?" he said, as the town clock struck an hour past the mid-day. "Oh no!--And you, Mr. Linden?" In what a different tone the two parts of her speech were spoken. "I have not hurt myself," he said smiling. "Perhaps by and by, this afternoon, you will let me see you again. Dr. Harrison threatens to keep me at home for two or three weeks, and I want to make the most of them,--I may not have such a time of leisure again." And then Mr. Linden gave the doctor's message--a message, very strictly, and as near as possible in the doctor's own words, receiving as little tinge as it well could from the medium through which it passed. "The other message," he said, giving her a letter, "you will find there." "A message?"--said Faith doubtfully and flushing with pleasure--"isn't this one of your sister's letters?" "Yes. Mayn't she send you a message?" A very modest and very happy smile and deepening blush answered that; and she ran away with a sudden compunctious remembrance of Mr. Linden's dinner. After dinner Faith had something to do in the kitchen, and something to do in other parts of the house, and then she would have read the letter before all things else; but then came in a string of company--one after the other, everybody wanting the news and much more than could be given. So it was a succession of flourishing expectations cut down and blasted; and both Faith and her mother grew tired of the exercise of cutting down and blasting, and Faith remembered with dismay that the afternoon was wearing and Mr. Linden had wished to see her again. She seized her chance and escaped at last, between the adieu of one lady and the accost of another who was even then coming up from the gate, and knocked at Mr. Linden's door again just as Mrs. Derrick was taking her minister's wife into the parlour. Her first move this time on coming in, was to brush up the hearth and put the fire in proper order for burning well; then she faced round before the couch and stood in a sort of pleasant expectation, as waiting for orders. "You are a bright little visiter!" Mr. Linden said, holding out his hand to her. "You float in as softly and alight as gently as one of these crimson leaves through my window. Did anybody ever tell you the real reason why women are like angels?" "I didn't know they were," said Faith laughing, and with something more of approximation to a crimson leaf. "'They are all ministering spirits,'" he said looking at her. "But you must be content with that, Miss Faith, and not make your visits angelic in any other sense. What do you suppose I have been considering this afternoon?--while you have been spoiling the last Pattaquasset story by confessing that I am alive?" "Did you hear them coming in?" said Faith. "I didn't know when they were going to let me get away.--What have you been considering, Mr. Linden?" "The wide-spread presence and work of beauty. You see what a shock you gave my nervous system yesterday. Will you please to sit down, Miss Faith?" Faith sat down, clearly in a puzzle; from which she expected to be somehow fetched out. "What do you suppose is beauty's work in the world?--I don't mean any particular Beauty." Faith looked at the crimson leaves on the floor--for the window was open though the fire was burning; then at the fair sky outside, seen beyond and through some other crimson leaves yet hanging on the large maple there,--then coming back to the face before her, she smiled and said, "I don't know--except to make people happy, Mr. Linden." "That is one part of its use, certainly. But take the thousands of wilderness flowers, and the thousands of deep sea shells; look at the carvings on the scale of a fish, which no human eye can see without a glass, or those other exquisite patterns traced upon the roots and stems of some of the fossil pines, which were hid in the solid rock before there was a human eye to see. What is _their_ use?" To the wilderness and to the deep sea, Faith's thought and almost her eye went, and she took some time to consider the subject. "I suppose--" she said thoughtfully--"I don't know, Mr. Linden." "Did you ever consider those words which close the account of the Creation--'God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good'." "That is what I was going to say!" she said modestly but with brightening colour,--"that perhaps he made all those things, those you spoke of, for _himself?_" "For himself--to satisfy the perfectness of his own character. And think how different the divine and the human standards of perfection! Not the outward fair colour and proportion merely, not the perfect fitness and adaptation, not the most utilitarian employment of every grain of dust, so that nothing is lost,--not even the grandest scale of working, is enough; but the dust on the moth's wing must be plumage, and the white chalk cliffs must be made of minute shells, each one of which shines like spun silver or is figured like cut glass. Not more steadily do astronomers discover new worlds, than the microscope reveals some new perfection of detail and finish in our own." Faith listened, during this speech, like one literally seeing 'into space,' as far as an embodied spirit can, for the first time. Then with a smile, a little sorrowful, she brought up with, "I don't know anything of all that, Mr. Linden! Do you mean that chalk is really made of little shells?" "Yes, really--and blue mould is like a miniature forest. You will know about it"--he said with a smile. "But do you see how this touches the standard of moral perfection?--how it explains that other word, 'Be ye also perfect'." Faith had not seen before, but she did now; for in her face the answer flashed most eloquently. She was silent. "That is the sort of perfection we are promised," Mr. Linden went on presently,--"that is the sort of perfection we shall see. Now, both glass and eye are imperfect,--specked, and flawed, and short-sighted; and can but faintly discern 'the balancings of the clouds, the wondrous works of him that is perfect in knowledge.' But then!-- 'When sin no more obstructs our sight, When sorrow pains our hearts no more, How shall we view the Prince of Light, And all his works of grace explore! What heights and depths of love divine Will then through endless ages shine!'" The words moved her probably, for she sat with her face turned a little away so that its play or its gravity were scarce so well revealed. Not very long however. The silence lasted time enough to let her thoughts come back to the subject never very far from them. "You are tired, Mr. Linden." "By what chain of reasoning, Miss Faith?" "I know by the sound of your voice. And you eat nothing to-day. Do you like cocoa, Mr. Linden?" she added eagerly. He smiled a little and answered yes. "Then I shall bring you some!" Faith stayed for no answer to that remark, but ran off. Half an hour good had passed away, but very few minutes more, when her soft tap was heard at the door again and herself entered, accompanied with the cup of cocoa and a plate of dainty tiny strips of toast. "Aunt Dilly left some here," she said as she presented the cup,--"and she says it is good; and she shewed me how to make it. Aunt Dilly has lived all her life with a brother who has lived a great part of _his_ life with a French wife--so Aunt Dilly has learned some of her ways--and this is one of them." But Mr. Linden looked as if he thought 'the way' belonged emphatically to somebody else. "And so I am under the rule of the blue ribbands still!" he said as he raised himself up to do honour to the cup of cocoa. "Miss Faith, do you know you are subjecting yourself to the penalty of extra lessons?" "How, Mr. Linden?" "Don't you know that is one of the punishments for bad conduct? It's a great act of insubordination to bring one cocoa without leave." She laughed, and then paid her attentions to the fire again; after which she stood by the hearth to see the cocoa disposed of, till she came to take the cup. "Are you in pain, much, Mr. Linden?" she asked as she did this. "Not mental--" he said with a smile; "and the physical can be borne Miss Faith, that cocoa was certainly better than I ever had from the hands of anybody's French wife. You must have improved upon the receipt." "When Dr. Harrison comes for me this evening, shall he come up and see you again?" "If he wishes--there is no need else." "How did it happen, Mr. Linden?" she said with a very serious face. "On this wise, Miss Faith. I, walking home at a rather quick pace, was suddenly 'brought to' as the sailors say, by this shot in my arm. But as for the moment it affected the mind more than the body, I turned and gave chase,--wishing to enquire who had thus favoured me, and why. But the mind alone can only carry one a certain distance, and before I had caught my man I found myself in such danger of fainting that I turned about again, and made the best of my way to the house of Mr. Simlins. The rest you know." "What did the man run for?" "There is no thread in my nature that just answers that question," said Mr. Linden. "I _suppose_ he ran because he was frightened." "But what should have frightened him?" "The idea of my displeasure probably," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Have you forgotten my character for cruelty, Miss Faith?" "_But_--" said Faith. "Why should he think he had displeased you? He wasn't near you, was he?" "Why I am not supposed to be one of those amiable people who like to be shot," said Mr. Linden in the same tone. "But how near was he, Mr. Linden?" "Within gunshot range, of course--the precise distance is not easily measured at such a moment." "But if he was not near," said Faith, "how could he think that his shot had touched you? He couldn't see it--and your running wouldn't seem like a man seriously injured?" "He might think I disapproved of discharging a gun at random, in the public road." "You don't suppose it could have been done on purpose, Mr. Linden!" she said in a changed awe-stricken tone. "I have no right to assume anything of the kind--there are all sorts of so-called accidents. But Miss Faith! if you look so frightened I shall begin to think you are an accomplice! What do _you_ know about it?" he added smiling. "Nothing--" she said rather sadly, "except a little look of something, I don't know what, in your face when you said that, Mr. Linden." "You must not look grave--nor think twice about the matter in any way," he said with a sort of kind gravity that met hers. "Is there light enough for you to read that first chapter of Physical Geography, and talk to me about it?--it is your turn to talk now." "Do you mean, aloud?--or to myself, Mr. Linden?" she asked a little timidly, "I mean, to me." Faith did not object, though her colour rose very visibly. She placed herself to catch the fading light, and read on, talking where it was absolutely necessary, but sparing and placing her questions so as to call forth as few words as possible in reply. And becoming engaged in the interest of the matter she almost forgot her timidity;--not quite, for every now and then something made it rise to the surface. The daylight was fading fast, sunlight had already gone, and the wood fire began to throw its red gleams unchecked; flashing fitfully into the corners of the room and playing hide and seek with the shadows. A little rising of the wind and light flutter of the leaves against the glass, only made the warm room more cheerful. Faith made the fire burn brightly, and finished the chapter by that, with the glow of the flickering flame dancing all over her and her book in the corner where she sat. But pages of pleasure as well as of prettiness, all those pages were. "Thank you, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said as she closed the book. "I only wish I could give you a walk now in this bright evening air; but I must wait for that." A little tap at the door came at this point to take its place in the conversation. It was Mrs. Derrick. "Child," said the good lady, "here's Dr. Harrison down stairs." And stepping into the room, Mrs. Derrick walked softly up to the couch, and not only made enquiries but felt of Mr. Linden's hand to see if he had any fever. Faith waited, standing a little behind the couch head. "I'm not quite sure--" she said,--"your hand's a little warm, sir--but then it's apt to be towards night,--and maybe mine's a little cool. If you could only go to sleep, it would do you so much good!" And Mr. Linden laughingly promised to try, but would not guarantee the success thereof. Faith went down stairs, a little afraid that she had been doing harm instead of good, and at the same time not seeing very well how she could have helped it. She found Dr. Harrison in the sitting-room, and gave her quiet reasons for not going out with him. The doctor declared "he should be in despair--but that he had hope!" and having made Faith confess that she would like to see his microscope, gently suggested the claims of the next two evenings; saying that he must be in Quilipeak for a day or two soon himself, and therefore was not impatient without reason. Faith did not know how to get off, and gave the doctor to understand that she might be disengaged the next night. Having which comfort he went up to see Mr. Linden. Then followed Mr. Linden's tea, with cresses and grapes which Dr. Harrison had brought himself. "Mother," said Faith, when the two ladies were seated at their own tea-table,--"did Dr. Harrison dress Mr. Linden's arm again to-night?" "Yes child--and I guess it was good he did. I think Mr. Linden was almost asleep when I went up." "Do you know how to do it, mother? if it was wanted when the doctor is not here?" "I don't know--" said Mrs. Derrick thoughtfully,--"no, child, I _don't_ know how--at least not so I'd like to try. Do you, Faith?" "No, mother--but could you learn?" "Why--I suppose I could, child," said her mother, as if she disliked to admit even so much. "But I'd about as lieve have my own arm shot off--I'm so dreadfully afraid of hurting people, Faith--and I always was afraid of _him_. Why can't the doctor do it? he can come six times a day if he's wanted--I guess he don't do much else." Faith said no more on the subject, but hurried through her tea and sat down by the lamp in the sitting-room to read her letter. A minute or two she sat thinking, deeply, with her cheek on her hand; then dismissing everything else she opened the precious paper at last. It was another Italy letter, but took her a very different journey from the last. A little graver perhaps than that, a little more longing in the wish to use eyesight instead of pen and ink; and as if absence was telling more and more upon the writer. Yet all this was rather in the tone than the wording--_that_ was kept in hand. But it was midway in some bright description, that the message to Faith broke forth. "Tell Miss Faith," she said, "that I would rather have seen her roasting clams down at 'the shore,' than anything I have seen since I heard of it,--which is none the less true, that I should have wanted to stand both sides of the window at once. And tell her if you can (though I don't believe even _you_ can, John Endy) how much I love her for taking such care of one of my precious things. I feel as if all my love was very powerless just now! However--you remember that comforting old ballad-- 'Where there is no space For the glow-worm to lye; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; If love come he will enter, And soon find out his way!' So, Miss Faith, you may expect to see me appear some time in the shape of a midge!--Endecott will tell you I am not much better than that now." So far Faith got in reading the letter, and it was a long while before she got any further; that message to herself she went over again and again. It was incomprehensible, it was like one of Mr. Linden's own puzzles for that. It was so strange, and at the same time it was such a beautiful thing, that Mr. Linden's sister should have heard of _her_ and in such fashion as to make her wish to send a message! Faith's head stooped lower and lower over the paper, from her mother and the lamp. It was such a beautiful message too--the gracious and graceful wording of it Faith felt in every syllable; and the lines of the old ballad were some of the prettiest she had ever seen. But that Faith should have _love_ sent her from Italy--and from that person in Italy of all others!--that Mr. Linden's sister should wish to see _her_ and threaten to do it in the shape of a midge!--and what ever _could_ Mr. Linden have told her to excite the wish? And what of this lady's precious things had Faith taken care of?--'such care' of! "Mother!"--Faith began once by way of taking counsel, but thought better of it, and went on pondering by herself. One thing was undoubted--this message in this letter was a matter of great pleasure and honour! as Faith felt it in the bottom of her heart; but in the midst of it all, she hardly knew whence, came a little twinge of something like pain. She felt it--yes, she felt it, even in the midst of the message; but if Faith herself could not trace it out, of course it can be expected of nobody else. CHAPTER XXII. Phil Davids, taking his morning walk through the pleasant roads of Pattaquasset, engaged in his out-of-school amusements of hunting cats and frightening children, was suddenly arrested in the midst of an alarming face ('got up' for the benefit of Robbie Waters) by the approach of Sam Stoutenburgh. In general this young gentleman let Phil alone, 'severely,' but on the present occasion he stopped and laid hold of his shoulder. "Phil Davids! I've a warrant against you." "Hands off, Sam! and let a man alone, will you! What do you mean by that?" said Phil gruffly. "Yes--I'll let him alone--when I find him, if he's like you," said Sam with great coolness and some little contempt. "But if you're tired of your own face, Phil, why don't you make up a handsome one, while you're about it? Keep out of his way, Robbie! can't you?" "Guess you don't know what folks says o' yourn! Do you?" said Phil, wriggling his shoulder from under Sam's hand, "_I_ do!" "I guess I know as much as is good for me," replied the undaunted Sam. "But that's none of your business just now. Mr. Linden wants to see you, Phil--and it aint often anybody does that, so you'd better make the most of the chance." With which pleasing sentiment, Sam released Phil, and taking a sharp run after Robbie. Waters enticed him into a long confidential conversation about his new Sunday school teacher. In the midst of which Phil's voice came again. "'Twon't hurt you Sam--jest listen once. They say, Sam Stoutenburgh would have been a Lady apple, if he hadn't grown to be such a Swar, and all the while _he_ thinks he's a Seek-no-further. That's what folks says. How d'ye like it?" "Firstrate!" said Sam--"glad I missed the Lady apples, anyhow,--and as for 'tother, never thought myself one yet--don't like 'em well enough. When you get through paying me compliments, Phil Davids, you'd better go and see Mr. Linden." "Guess I will!" said Phil swaggering off,--"when I want to see him; and that aint to-day, by a long jump." "He said you were to come--" Sam called after him. "If I wasn't a Stoutenburgh sweeting, Phil Davids, I'd teach you to talk of him so! If I only was!--" Sam added sotto voce, "wouldn't I pack myself up in a basket! Robbie, what sort of flowers did Miss Faith have in her bonnet?" At which interesting point the two turned a corner out of Phil's sight. But Phil pursued his way; decently regardless of threats or invitations, and having a wholesome opinion of his own that in holiday time Mr. Linden had nothing to say to him. In no possible time had he anything to say to Mr. Linden that he could help. So it happened, that coming in soon after Mr. Linden had dismissed his breakfast, Faith found Mr. Linden alone. She brought to his side a basket of very fine-looking pears. "Mr. Davids has sent you these, Mr. Linden." "He is very kind," said Mr. Linden. "That is more than I asked for. He hasn't sent Phil in the basket too, has he?--as the easiest way of getting him here." Faith rather startled, and passing over that asked Mr. Linden how he did. Which point, having learned all he wanted upon the other, Mr. Linden was also ready for. Faith then leaving the basket by the couch side, went to the fire and hearth, and put them more thoroughly to rights than Cindy's delicacy of touch, or of eye, had enabled her to do; and going on round the room, care fully performed the same service for everything in it generally. This work however was suddenly stopped in the midst, and coming to the head of the couch, rather behind Mr. Linden, Faith spoke in a low and ill-assured tone. "Mr. Linden--will you let me be by this morning when Dr. Harrison dresses your arm?" There was a moment's silence, and then raising himself up and turning a little so as to see her, Mr. Linden answered, gravely though smiling, "No, Miss Faith!" She coloured very much and drew back. "I asked--" she said presently, speaking with a good deal of difficulty,--"because he spoke of being away--and then there would be no one to do it--and mother is afraid--" And there Faith stopped, more abashed than anybody had ever seen her in her life before. He held out his hand, and took hers, and held it fast. "I know--" he said,--"you need not tell me. When is the doctor going away?" "I don't know," she said almost under breath--"he said perhaps--or I thought--I understood him to mean in a few days." "Miss Faith!"--and the tone was half expostulating, half scolding, half caressing. "Come here and sit down by me," he said, gently drawing her round to the low chair at his side, "I want to talk to you. Do you need to be told why I said no?" She sat down, but sunk her head a little and put up her other hand to shield the side of her face which was next him. The answer did not come at once--when it did, it was a low spoken "no." Her hand was held closer, but except that and the moved change of his voice, Mr. Linden took no notice of her fear. "I would not let Pet do it--" he said gently, "if I could help it. My child, do you know what a disagreeable business it is? I could trust you for not fainting at the time, but I should ill like to hear of your fainting afterwards. And then if you chanced to hurt me--which the doctor often does--you would be unhappy for the rest of the day,--which the doctor by no means is. That is all--I would a great deal rather have your hands about me than his, but a thing that would give you pain would give me very doubtful relief. I had rather go with my arm undressed." He had gone on talking--partly to give her time to recover; but the silent look that was bent upon that shielded face was a little anxious. She dropped the hand that shielded it presently, and shewed it flushed and wistful, yet with a tiny bit of smile beginning to work at the corners of the mouth. "Then Mr. Linden," she said almost in the same tone and without turning her face,--"if you have no _other_ objection--please let me come!" "But that one is strong enough. You may send Cinderella up to take a lesson." "You said that was all?" she repeated. "That is the only real objection--I would not raise even that in a case of greater need. But I suppose unskilful hands could hardly do me much mischief now. So if you will send Cinderella," he added with a smile, "she may enlarge her world of ideas a little." "Mr. Linden,"--said Faith looking at him now fearlessly--"I am going to come myself." "You are!" he said, looking at her--and then his eyes went from her to the fire, and back again to her face. "Then if you faint away, Miss Faith, and I jump up to take care of you (which I shall certainly do) I may faint myself--at which stage of the proceedings Dr. Harrison will have his hands full." "I shall not faint--before nor after," she said, shaking her head. "I should not like to count too much upon your unfeeling disposition," said Mr. Linden, in whose face different currents of thought seemed to meet and mingle. "And then you see, my senses may be guilty of as great a breach of politeness as the warder in a German story I was reading yesterday." "What was that?" "It fell out," said Mr. Linden, "that a lady of surpassing beauty arrived at a certain castle; and next day, the lord of the castle brought before her his warder, bound in chains for a great breach of politeness; he having failed to give his lord notice of the lady's approach! The warder thus defended himself: he had indeed seen the lady, but his dazzled eyes mistook her for another sun! So," added Mr. Linden smiling, "if my eyes should mistake you for a sunbeam or a maple leaf, I might forget myself, and not keep my patience so perfectly as I ought under the hands of such a chirurgeon." "What is going to try your patience, Mr. Linden?--I?"--said Faith, now indubitably in a puzzle. "Do you really want to do this for me?" he said in a different tone, looking at her with that same grave, kind look which she had seen before. "I think I can--and I should like to do it, Mr. Linden, if you are perfectly willing," Faith answered. "I am willing, since you wish it,--and now you must get the doctor's leave--or rather I must get it for you; but in the mean time, Miss Faith, we may go on with some of our studies, if you are at leisure." Faith went to get the books, but returned without them and with a disturbed face. "Mr. Linden, one of the boys wishes to see you." "I suppose it never was heard that a boy came at the right time," said Mr. Linden. "Well Miss Faith--I believe I must see him--will you write another exercise for me? Here is your pen and paper--I will try not to be hindered long." Faith mutely took the pen and paper, and went out with a divided mind, for the boy whom she let in, Cindy being nowhere visible, was Phil Davids. Phil had thought better of his determination, and wisely judging that if Mr. Linden wanted to see him he probably would accomplish the measure some time, concluded the shortest way was to see him as smoothly as possible. So in he walked and made his bow, grumly civil, but civil. Mr. Linden's opening remark, after he had given the boy his hand (which even he liked to touch) was at least peculiar. "Phil--do you know what a smart boy you are?" And the answer was a strictly true, though blundering, "No, sir." "I don't know _how_ smart you could be, myself," said Mr. Linden, "but I know you are very smart now. You always make me think of the man who found a bag of jewels lying in the road and didn't know what they were." It occurred to Phil's mind that not to know jewels when they were seen was a doubtful proof of smartness; so he answered with a somewhat surly, "How, sir?" "This man," Mr. Linden went on, "instead of having his jewels set in gold, to wear or to sell, went round the town flinging them at his neighbour's windows--or his neighbour's cats,--as you do, Phil, with your very bright powers of head and tongue. Why don't you make a man of yourself--and use those powers for something worth while?" "You never see me doin' it, sir!" said Phil, answering the most interesting part of Mr. Linden's address. "Don't I?" said Mr. Linden,--"I see and hear a good many things. But nobody can get on in the world after such a prickly fashion,--why even a porcupine smooths himself down before he tries to go ahead. If you were to be a lawyer Phil, you'd fight your clients instead of helping them fight,--and if you were a farmer, you'd be like the man who burnt up three stacks of his hay because the fourth got wet." Phil reddened, though he couldn't help smiling, and was evidently getting angry. "That 'ere farmer was a big fool!" he said. "Yes, we are agreed upon that point," said Mr. Linden,--"I daresay he would have said so himself next day. Well Phil--this was not what I wanted to talk to you about to-day--much as I like to see smart boys make the most of themselves. I want to know exactly what it was that you heard Reuben Taylor say about Miss Derrick." Phil's eyes opened unmistakeably. "I never heerd him say nothing about her!" he said boldly. "Then why did you say you did?" said Mr. Linden, with the cool face of one who knows his ground. "I didn't!" said Phil. "I'm blessed if I did." "No you are not--" said Mr. Linden gravely,--"people are never blessed who do not speak truth. And you have shut both doors by which such a blessing might have come in this case, Phil." "Who said I ever said so, sir?" Phil asked confidently. "You told Dr. Harrison, for one," said Mr. Linden. "I never spoke a word to Dr. Harrison--" Phil began and checked himself. "I never said anything but the truth, sir!" "What truth did you say to him?" said Mr. Linden. "I wish you would do the same for me. The roughest truth, Phil, is pleasanter to ray ears than the smoothest falsehood." "I said nothin' but what _was_ truth, sir," said Phil, perplexedly, as if he felt caught in a snare. "I didn't think you meant _that_." "That is precisely what I meant." "'Twarn't nothing but the truth, sir." "Well--" said Mr. Linden,--"I never was afraid of the truth yet, and I don't mean to begin now. You didn't say I had cut your ears off, did you Phil?" "I didn't say nothin' about you, sir, good or indifferent." "That's something," said Mr. Linden with unmoved gravity. "What else did you say?" "It was down to Neanticut, sir," said Phil--"I told Reuben Taylor as how he'd druv her down, Joe Deacon said he had; and Reuben said Joe had made a mistake. That's the hull of it, sir." "Who is _her?_" said Mr. Linden. "She--Miss Faith Derrick, sir." Phil was getting very uncomfortably red in the face. "Well why did you tell Miss Derrick that Reuben didn't drive her down?--would not she have been likely to know." "I didn't, sir." "I thought not. What _did_ you tell her?" "She knows what I told her!"--said Phil, looking abstractedly at the corner of the couch on which Mr. Linden lay.--"I don't know as I can recollect. But that's what Reuben said, sir." "Well tell me as near as you can recollect--" said Mr. Linden. "And also just the words you used to Reuben." Phil took time to reflect. "I don't want ter," he said. "No, I see you don't--but I want to hear them," said Mr. Linden very quietly. "But tell me the truth _this_ time, Phil." "Folks has a right to speak," said Phil, stating a broad proposition,--"but they hain't a right to tell all they say!" "Well?"--said Mr. Linden, waiving that. "'Twarn't nothin'!" said Phil--"and it 'll just make folks mad--and I durstn't--" "Dare not repeat what you have dared to say? how is that, Phil? But my forgiveness always meets confession half way, as you know," said Mr. Linden. "Well," said Phil, "I jest told Reuben he'd druv her down, and Reuben said Joe was mistaken. It was Joe said it first," "And what did you say before Dr. Harrison?" "I said what Reuben said,"--said Phil feeling poorly. "And what was that?"--Mr. Linden was as untireable as a minority juror. "I said Reuben said she warn't what Joe said," Phil got out at last in a lowered tone. "And what was _that?_" "Well--" said Phil desperately--"Joe said she was--" Mr. Linden waited. So did Phil. "This is the house that Jack built," Mr. Linden remarked. "What did Joe say she was?" The answer came in articulation pretty well smothered up. "Joe said she was Mr. Linden's sweetheart." "O!--" said Mr. Linden, with a tone Phil felt to the tips of his ears,--"that was it! I really did not know, Phil, that you and Joe took an interest in such matters. Have you had much experience?" Phil shuffled and looked exceedingly embarrassed, but words found none. He had exhausted his stock, of more than words. "Well!" said Mr. Linden,--"you will find, Phil, that it is generally safe to study arithmetic before you begin algebra. There's a little mistake here. Reuben did not drive _anybody_ down to Neanticut--Mrs. Derrick drove the whole way. That explains his words. As for yours, Phil--I wish," said Mr. Linden, looking at him gravely, but gently too, "I wish I knew something you would like very much to have. Can you tell me?" If ever in his life Phil Davids mentally stared, (physically, too) he did it now. 'Something he would like very much to have'? What could Mr. Linden want to know _that_ for? In his confusion Phil didn't know himself. To take in Mr. Linden, all over, was all he was competent to. "Well?" said his teacher with a smile--it was rather a faint one, for he was tired, but very pleasant still. "What is there, Phil?--I am in earnest." "I'm sorry I said it, anyhow!" burst at last from the boy's reluctant lips. That seemed to be his ultimatum. He could see that his words gave pleasure, though they were not directly answered. "I must send you away now," Mr. Linden said, taking his hand again. "I am not strong enough to talk any more. But Phil--if you will learn to speak the truth--so that at the end of six months you can truly say, 'I hate every false way'--I will give you then what you like,--you shall choose your own reward. I would give anything I have in the world if I could make you fear to displease God by telling a falsehood, as much as you fear to displease me by owning it!" It was as much as Phil could do, to take his teacher's hand, and that was done more humbly than certainly any previous action of his life. Speak he could not; but so far as Mr. Linden's influence and authority were concerned _that_ boy was conquered. Whatever he became in after times, and whatever his mates found him still,--and they were not open-mouthed in praise,--for his teacher that boy was a different boy. On his way out of the house he chanced to pass Faith, and did so without a sign of recognition, giving her about as wide a berth as if she had been a ghost. At the door he met Dr. Harrison coming in; but the doctor perhaps did not recognize him. Once clear, Phil ran for it. And at the stair-foot the doctor found Faith. "Dr. Harrison," she said with grave simpleness, "if you will allow me, I should like to see you dress Mr. Linden's arm. If you go to Quilipeak there will be nobody to do it,--and I think I can learn. Mother is afraid, and it would be very disagreeable to her." "And not to you?" said the doctor. "Not so disagreeable. I think I can do it," she answered, meeting his look steadily. "You must not!" said he. "_You_ were not made for such things. Could do it! I don't doubt you could do anything. But if I go, I will send Dr. Limbre in my place. There is no need for _you_ to do disagreeable work. Now it's pleasant to me!" "Dr. Limbre I shouldn't like to have come into the house," said Faith. "And you know he can't leave his own house now--he is sick. I will go up with you, if you please." Dr. Harrison could but follow her, as she tripped up the stairs before him; but there is no reasonable doubt he would have sent her on some other errand if he could. Faith tapped at the door, and they entered the room together. "How do you do?" said Dr. Harrison rather gravely, approaching the couch. Now the fact was, that those two previous interviews had been both long and exciting; and the consequent prostration was greater than usual; so though Mr. Linden did take down the hand which covered his eyes, and did meet the doctor's look with his accustomed pleasantness, his words were few. Indeed he had rather the air of one whose mind has chosen a good opportunity to ride rampant over the prostrate flesh and blood, and who has about given up all attempts to hold the bridle. Whether Dr. Harrison perceived as much, or whether there might be some other reason, his words were also few. He addressed himself seriously to work. "Will you permit me to introduce an apprentice?" he said, in a more commonplace way than was usual for him, as he was removing Mr. Linden's wrapper from the arm. Faith had come quietly up to the head of the couch and was standing there. "Is not that the doctor's prerogative?" "Hum--" said the doctor doubtfully; but he did not explain himself further. Faith had come close to the head of the couch, but stood a little back, so that Mr. Linden could not see whether she looked like fainting or not. There were no signs of that, for the lessening of colour in her cheeks, which was decided, kept company with a very clear and intent eye. One little caught breath he might hear, when the wounded arm was first laid bare; but not another. The doctor heard it too, for he looked up, but Faith was gravely and quietly busy with what she had come there to see; giving it precisely the same simplicity of attention that she brought to her physical geography or her French exercise; and that was entire. She did not shrink; she rather pressed forward and bent near, to acquaint herself perfectly with what was done; and once or twice asked a question as to the reason or the use of something. Dr. Harrison glanced up at her the first time--it might have been with incipient impatience--or irony,--but if either, it disappeared. He answered her questions straightforward and sensibly, giving her, and with admirable precision, exactly the information she desired, and even more than absolutely that. For everything else, the work went on in silence. When the doctor however was standing at the table a moment, preparing his lint or something else, and Faith had followed him there and stood watching; he said to her over the table in a sotto voce aside--but with a sharp glance-- "Was the information true, that we received the other night?--under the lanterns?" "What a singular question!" said Mr. Linden from his couch. "Pourquoi?" said the doctor as simply as if the original words had been addressed to Mr. Linden himself. "Well, it may be a singular question, for it was singular information. Was it well-founded, Miss Derrick?" "No--at a venture," said Mr. Linden, with just the sort of air with which a sick person puts in his word and assumes superior knowledge. The doctor looked at one and at the other; Mr. Linden's face told him nothing, any more than his words; Faith, by this time, was covered with confusion. That at least it might be visible to only one person, she moved back to her former place. "Were you behind us?" said the doctor;--"or were you French enough to come by invisibly?" "Is that the last new method?" said Mr. Linden. "You have been in Paris since I was." "Never got so far as that though, I am sorry to say," said the doctor coming back to the couch. "But after all, that was very vague information--it didn't tell one much--only I have a personal interest in the subject. But I am glad you spoke--the man that can tell the dream should be able to give the interpretation. What did it mean, Linden?" "Behold a man of an enquiring turn of mind!" said Mr. Linden with the same half listless half amused air. "He asks for truth, and when that tarries demands interpretation." "I don't know what sort of a man I behold!" said the doctor, moving his eyes with a double expression for an instant from Mr. Linden's arm to his face. "I should think you were a German student in pursuit of the 'Idea'!" said Mr. Linden taking a quiet survey of the doctor's face. "Have you completed the circle, or is there still hope the Idea may seize you?" "The idea seized me a good while ago," said the doctor, with a most comical mock confessional look. "Well then," said Mr. Linden in a sort of confidential tone, "what is your opinion upon the great German question--whether it is better to be One and Somewhat, or to be Nought and All? "You see,"--said the doctor, standing back and suspending operations,--"_everybody_ can't be One and Somewhat!" "Then you choose the comprehensive side--" said Mr. Linden. "That is without doubt the most difficult,--the One and Somewhat is called egotistical, but to be Nought and All!--one must be--what do you suppose?" "A philanthropist, I should suppose!" the doctor answered, with a change of expression _not_ agreeable. And returning to his work, for awhile he behaved unusually like other people; not hurrying his work, but doing it with a grave steady attention to that and nothing else--answering Faith, and saying no more. Perhaps however he thought silence might be carried too far; or else had an unsatisfied mood upon him; for as he was finishing what he had to do, he looked up again to Faith and remarked, "What do you think of this for our quiet town, Miss Derrick? Has Mr. Linden any enemies in Pattaquasset--that you know?" It was merciless in the doctor; for through all this time she had been in a state of confusion--as he knew--that made speech undesirable, though she had spoken. And she didn't answer him now, except by a quickly withdrawn glance. "Who do you suppose loves him well enough," pursued the doctor, "to send a charge of duck shot into him like that?" A sudden little cry of pain, driven back before it was well begun, was heard and but just heard, from Faith. The doctor looked up. "I was afraid this--Are you faint?" he said gently. "No sir,--" she answered; and she stood still as before, though the overspread colour which had held its ground for a good while past, had given way now and fluttered pain fully. But the doctor's words brought Mr. Linden, for the first time since his accident--to a perfectly erect position on the couch--with a total disregard of where his arm went, or what became of its bandages. "What are you about!" "I declare, I don't know!" said Dr. Harrison, standing back. "I _thought_ I was just disposing of you comfortably for the day--but I am open to conviction!" The left hand let go its grasp of the couch--taken so suddenly, and for which the wounded arm took swift vengeance; and Mr. Linden laid himself down on the cushions again, the colour leaving his cheeks as fast as it had come. "What's the matter, Linden?" said the doctor with rather a kind look of concern. "You have hurt yourself." Faith left the room. "I fear I have disarranged some of your work." The doctor examined and set to rights. "I'll see how you do this evening. What ailed you to pitch into me like that, Linden?" "I think the 'pitching in' came upon me," he answered pleasantly. "It seems so, indeed. I hope you won't try this kind of thing again. I am sure you won't to-day." And so the doctor went. A quarter of an hour or a little more had gone by, when the light knock came at Mr. Linden's door that he had certainly learned to know by this time; and Faith came in, bearing a cup of cocoa. The troubled look had not entirely left her face, nor the changeful colour; but she was not thinking of herself. "I knew you were tired, Mr. Linden--Would you like this--or some grapes--or wine--better?" The most prominent idea in Mr. Linden's mind just then, was that he had already had what he did not like; but that had no place in the look which answered her, as he raised himself a little (and but a little) to take the cup from her hand. "Pet would thank you better than I can now, Miss Faith." She stood looking down at him, with a little sorrowing touch about the lines of her mouth. "Do you know how much better two cups of cocoa are than one?" said Mr. Linden. "I don't know how you can have two at once, Mr. Linden." "Then I will bestow one upon you--and wait while you get it." "I am well--" she said, looking amused through her gravity, and shaking her head. "And besides, I couldn't take it, Mr. Linden." And to put an end to that subject, Faith had recourse to the never failing wood fire; and from thence went round the room finishing what she had failed to do in the morning; coming back at the point of time to take Mr. Linden's cup. He looked at her a little as he gave it back. "You are too tired to go over all those lessons to-day--which do you like best? will you bring it?" "I am not tired at all," she said with some flitting colour,--"but _you_ are, Mr. Linden. Won't you rest--sleep--till after dinner--and then, if you like, let me come?" "I will let you come then--and stay now," he said smiling. "Let me stay and be silent then--or do something that will not tire you. Please, Mr. Linden!" "Your line of action lies all within that last bound," he said gently. "But you may read French if you will--or write it and let me look over you,--or another geographical chapter. Neither need make me talk much." The hint about looking over her writing startled Faith amazingly, but perhaps for that very reason she took it as the delicate expression of a wish. That would be a trial, but then too it would call for the least exertion on the part of her teacher. Faith was brave, if she was fearful, and too really humble to have false shame; and after an instant's doubt and hesitation, she said, though she felt it to her fingers' ends, "My exercise is all ready--it only wants to be copied--but how could you look over me, Mr. Linden?" "Could you do such an inconvenient thing as to use that small atlas for a table? and bring it here by me--I am not quite fit to sit up just now." Faith said no more words, but went for her exercise and sat down to write it, as desired, under an observing and she knew a critical eye. It was well her business engrossed her very completely; for she was in an extremely puzzled and disturbed state of mind. Dr. Harrison's words about the occasion of Mr. Linden's accident, carelessly run on, had at last unwittingly given her the clue her own innocent spirit might have waited long for; and grief and pain would have almost overcome her, but for a conflicting feeling of another kind raised by the preceding colloquy between the two gentlemen. Faith was in a state of profound uncertainty, whether Mr. Linden's words had meant anything or nothing. They were spoken so that they might have meant nothing--but then Phil Davids had just been with him--what for?--and whatever Mr. Linden's words might have meant, Faith's knowledge of him made her instinctively know, through all the talk, that they had been spoken for the sake of warding off something disagreeable from _her_--not for himself. She tried as far as she could to dismiss the question from her thoughts--she could not decide it--and to go on her modest way just as if it had not been raised; and she did; but for all that her face was a study as she sat there writing. For amid all her abstraction in her work, the thought of the _possibility_ that Mr. Linden might have known what he was talking about, would send a tingling flush up into her cheeks; and sometimes again the thoughts of pain that had been at work would bring upon her lip almost one of those sorrowful curves which are so lovely and so pure on the lip of a little child--and rarely seen except there. All this was only by the way; it did not hinder the most careful attention to what she was about, nor the steadiest working of her quite unsteady fingers, which she knew were very likely to move _not_ according to rule. For a little while she was suffered to go on without interruption, other than an occasional word about the French part of her exercise; but presently Mr. Linden's hand began to come now and then with a modifying touch upon her pen and fingers. At first this was done with a gentle "forgive me!" or, "if you please, Miss Faith,"--after that without words, though the manner always expressed them; and once or twice, towards the very end of the lesson, he told her that such a letter was too German--or too sophisticated; and shewed her a more Saxon way. Which admonitions he helped her, as well as he could, to bear, by a quietness which was really as kind, as it seemed oblivious of all that had disturbed or could disturb her. And the words of praise and encouragement were spoken with their usual pleasure-taking and pleasure-giving effect. All this after a time effectually distracted Faith from all other thoughts whatever. When it was done, she sat a moment looking down at the paper, then looked up and gave him a very frank and humble "Thank you, Mr. Linden!" from face and lips both. If Faith liked approbation--that clover-honey to a woman's taste, so far beyond the sickly sweets of flattery and admiration--she might have been satisfied with the grave look of Mr. Linden's eyes at her then. "You are a brave little child!" he said. "I wish I could do something to give you a great deal of pleasure!" "Pleasure!"--said Faith, and what was very rare with her, not only her face flushed but her eyes, so that she turned them away,--"why it is all pleasure to me, Mr. Linden!"--'Such pleasure as I never had before,'--she was near saying, but she did not say. "Well I must not let you tire yourself," he said with a smile, "for that would not be pleasant to me. Have you been out to-day?" "No," said Faith, thinking of her brown moreen. "Nor yesterday--that will not do, Miss Faith. I am afraid I must give you up to the open air for a good part of this afternoon." "What shall I do there?" said Faith smiling. "Let the wind take you a walk--I wish I could be of the party. But the wind is good company, Miss Faith, and talks better than many people,--and the walk you want." "So I want to finish my wood-box," said Faith, looking at the corner of the fireplace. "And I should think you would be tired of seeing the wood lie there, Mr. Linden. I am. I have got to go out this evening too--" she said with a little hesitation,--"to see that microscope." Mr. Linden was silent a moment. "The microscope does make some difference," he said,--"as for the wood-box, Miss Faith, I don't think I can permit it to have any voice in the matter,--you may leave it for me to finish. But if you are going up there this evening--there are two or three things I should like to talk to you about first." "Then shall I come by and by?" she said. "I must do something else before dinner." CHAPTER XXIII. "Well child!" said Mrs. Derrick as they took their seats at the dinner-table, "what _have_ you been about all day? I've just spent the morning looking over those apples, so I've had no chance to look you up. How's Mr. Linden? does the doctor think he's getting better?" "He is, I hope, mother; the doctor didn't say anything about it." And a little shudder ran over Faith's shoulders, which she was glad her mother could make nothing of if she saw. "I have been as busy as you have, mother--so I couldn't look _you_ up--nor my wood-box either." "Learning all the world!" said her mother smiling, though there was a little touch of regretfulness not quite kept down. "I think I'd rather sit and look at you, child, than eat my dinner. What are you going to do this after noon?" "I've got a little ironing to do after dinner, mother, and something to make for tea--and Mr. Linden wants to see me for something. I'll get ready for Judge Harrison's, and then after I am through up stairs I'll come down and see to you and my box together. I wish you were going with me, mother." And Faith leaned her head on her hand. "Don't you want to go, pretty child?" said Mrs. Derrick fondly. "No, mother--but I couldn't help it. I found I should have to go sooner or later." "I'd go with you in a minute," said her mother, "if it wasn't for Mr. Linden. I don't care a pin whether they want me or not, Faith, if _you_ do. And I dare say some of the boys will be here"--Mrs. Derrick looked perplexed, as at the feeling of some unknown possibility. "Shall I, pretty child?" she said with an anxious face,--"what are you thinking of, child?" Faith came behind her and put both arms round her and kissed first one side of her face and then the other. "Mother!" she said with those silvery tones,--"I don't want anything! I suppose I shall like to see the microscope--but I'd rather stay at home and learn my lessons. Don't look _so!_"--Which with another kiss upon her lips, finished off Mrs. Derrick's anxiety. The ironing and the 'something for tea' Faith despatched with extra diligence and speed, and then dressed herself for the evening. It was not much extra dressing; only a dark stuff dress a little finer than ordinary; the white ruffle round the neck and wrists was the same. And then, giving a few minutes to the seeking of some added help to quietness, for Faith's mind had been strangely disturbed, she went again to Mr. Linden's room. A gentle vision she was, if ever one was seen, when she entered it. "You say I mustn't thank you, Mr. Linden," she said giving him back his sister's letter;--"but--will you thank her for me?" "I don't think she deserves many thanks," he said with a smile, "but I will tell her." The course of study that afternoon was peculiar, and eminently a _talk_. Mr. Linden called for none of the usual books at first, but began by giving Faith a very particular account of the whole process of circulation; thence diverging right and left, in the most erratic manner as it seemed to her,--passing from the bright crystal points in chymistry to the blue mould on a piece of bread, and then explaining to her the peculiar mechanism of a fly's eye. Two or three times he sent her to the cupboard for some book to shew her an illustration of the subject, but if there was any connecting link that she could see between one and another, it was simply the wonderful minute perfection of the world. And she needed none--for the different things were touched upon so clearly and yet with such a happy absence of needless details, that they stood forth in full relief, and set off each other. The daylight was already failing, and the red firelight was playing hide and seek with the shadows in Mr. Linden's room, before he gave her a chance to think what time it was. When she saw it, Faith started up. "I told mother I would come and see her before I went!"--she said, drawing a long breath like a person in an atmosphere he can't get enough of. Then with a little change of tone, after standing a minute looking at the fire, she went on.--"All _I_ can do, is to drive the nails into that wood-box--but I'll do it before to-morrow." She held out her hand as she spoke. "No you must not," Mr. Linden said, as he took the hand. "To-night you will be out, and you must not give me a late breakfast, Miss Faith!--therefore you must go to bed as soon as you come home, and leave the box to _me_." Faith ran away and did not go to her hammering just then. She brought a low bench to her mother's feet, sat down there; and taking Mrs. Derrick's hands from whatever they were about, wrapped both arms round herself, laying her head on her mother's lap. "Mother," she said caressingly,--"I couldn't come down before. I was so busy and so interested, I didn't in the least know what time it was; and I hadn't a chance to think." "I'm sure I'm glad, pretty child," said her mother, bending down to kiss her. "I think sometimes you think too much. But you look just like a baby, for all that. I'm sure I shall always love Mr. Linden for pleasing you so much," said Mrs. Derrick stroking Faith's hair, "even though he does please himself too." Faith secured that hand again and held them both wrapped round her; but further words for a moment spoke not. "I shall come home as early as I can," she said;--"mother, time enough to do everything for breakfast." "You sha'n't do a thing, child," said her mother. "You may come home as early as you like, but I'm going to keep you out of the works. I feel so grand when you're up stairs studying--you can't think! You wouldn't know me, Faith." Faith laughed, the laugh that was music to Mrs. Derrick's ears, and indeed would have been to any, and held the hands closer. "I feel a little grand too,"--she said,--"sometimes in a way--" This did not seem to be one of the times, or else feeling grand had a soporific effect; for Faith's eyelids presently drooped, and when Dr. Harrison came to the house and for some time before, she was fast asleep on her mother's lap. "Psyche!"--exclaimed Dr. Harrison as he discerned by the firelight the state of the case. Mrs. Derrick gave him a little reproving glance for speaking so loud, but other reply made none, save a low-spoken polite offer of a chair. "Thank you--I am going up to see Mr. Linden. Miss Derrick was so good as to promise she would go with me to see my sister this evening. In these circumstances,"--said Dr. Harrison in his softest voice--"do you think it would be presumption to wake her up?" "Well go up, then," said Mrs. Derrick, "and I'll wake her up before you come down." Which arrangement took effect; and in a very few minutes thereafter, Dr. Harrison's horse making much better speed than old Crab could do now, Faith was deposited safely at Judge Harrison's door. There she was received with open arms and great exultation by Miss Sophy and with great cordiality and pleasure by the Judge; and with a certain more uncertain amount of both by Mrs. Somers, whom Faith found there, the only addition to the family party; while the doctor stood complacently on the rug, in silence surveying everybody, like a man who has gained his point. "Well Julius," said Mrs. Somers, "how's Mr. Linden to-night? did you see him?" "Yes ma'am--I saw him." "Well how is he?" repeated Mrs. Somers. "He is--very happily situated," said the doctor. "I should like to be in his place." "What do you go there twice a day for? Do you think him worse? You began with going once," said Mrs. Somers. "Always begin gently," said Dr. Harrison. "You get on faster." "How soon do you expect to take up your abode there altogether, at that rate?" "At what rate, aunt Ellen? You are too fast for me." "Nonsense!" said Mrs. Somers, "do you suppose I want to be told what you go there for?--what I _do_ want to know, is whether he's like to get well, and how soon." "He will be conquering Pattaquasset in a few weeks," said the doctor. "I wonder whether he'll conquer Phil Davids," said Mrs. Somers. "I should like to see that done. Julius, did you ever find out anything about the man that fired the shot?" "Really, aunt Ellen, I am not a detective"--said the doctor carelessly, looking at Faith, who kept as quiet as a dormouse. "If it had been my business I suppose I should have found out." "I think I heard you opine that Mr. Linden knew"--said Mrs. Somers. "And I think somebody ought to find out--unless you want the thing done over again. Don't you think so, Judge Harrison?" "Well my dear," said the Judge, "I understand Mr. Linden to have been actuated by a very benevolent motive--I understand his feelings. He wouldn't run the risk of accusing a man unjustly--I can't blame him. It's right, I think, though it's provoking. What do you think, Miss Faith?" Faith lifted her eyes, but perhaps the doctor saw in her changing cheek some token of the pain he had stirred in the morning. He prevented her reply. "Ladies don't think about these things, my dear sir!--Aunt Ellen is so sharp she gets ahead of her sex. Let me have the honour of suggesting a pleasanter subject of meditation. I have seen to-night, aunt Ellen, the most exquisite and valuable jewelry I have ever seen in my life!" "Here in Pattaquasset!" said his sister. "In Pattaquasset--or perhaps in the world." "Don't excite yourself, Sophy," said Mrs. Somers,--"let's hear what they were, first." Faith, like everybody else, looked for the doctor's answer, though she hardly knew what she was looking at. "A lady, aunt Ellen," the doctor went on, glancing at her,--"had made a necklace of her mother's arms,--and a cross, more precious than diamonds, of her mother's hands; and clasping this cross to her breast, adorned with this most exquisite and rare adornment, had--gone to sleep!" "And for once," said Mrs. Somers, "you preferred the wearer to the jewels and--went into a trance! I can imagine you!" "I? not I!"--said the doctor--"I went up stairs. But you have no idea of the effect." Faith had been experiencing some of the scattering fire of society, which hits no one knows where and no one knows when. First the name of Phil Davids had ploughed up the ground at her right; then the question about the man who had fired the shot had ploughed up the ground at her left; and shaken first by one and then by the other she had welcomed the doctor's change of subject and now was smiling as pleased as anybody. "I didn't suppose the trance was a long one," said Mrs. Somers, with a little raising of her eyebrows. "Faith, my dear, what have you done to that little Seacomb child? I can't get over my astonishment at his transformation." "I am afraid there isn't much transformation yet," Faith said. "He listens very quietly and behaves well in school--but I don't know how he is at home." "You are not a school teacher _too?_" said the doctor. "It isn't a bad trade," said Faith, though her cheeks had answered for her another way. "Not a bad trade--certainly--but one may have too many trades. Aunt Ellen--I had the honour--do you believe it? of giving Miss Derrick lessons this morning." "I think she was very good to permit it," said Mrs. Somers composedly. "She was very good"--said the doctor demurely. "I am afraid that is her character generally!" He was called off by his father, and Miss Harrison seized Faith and planted her between herself and Mrs. Somers on the sofa. "Don't mind his nonsense, Faith! Julius never can talk like anybody else. Why haven't you been here this age?" "I've been busy, Sophy." "Why wouldn't you go to ride with us? Julius wouldn't go after what you said. Why wouldn't you?" "It was Sunday, Sophy." "Well--what if it was?" "Sunday isn't my day--I can't use it for my own work." "But taking a little ride isn't work?" Faith hesitated. "Isn't it work to the horses, Sophy? And if it is only pleasure--Sunday has its own pleasures, dear Sophy,--I can't have both." "Why can't you?" "Because,--if I take these, God will not give me those," Faith said very gravely. "But Faith!"--said Miss Harrison looking disturbed,--"you didn't use to be so religious?" Faith's face flushed a little and was touchingly humble as she said, "No--I didn't." "What's changed you so?" "It isn't a bad change, dear Sophy!" "I don't believe anything's bad about you," said Miss Harrison kissing her,--"but don't change too far, dear; don't forget your old friends." "I want them to change too," said Faith looking at her winningly. "That's right Faith, stand by your colours!" said Mrs. Somers, with a tone and manner that came quite from the other side of her character. "Sophy--your mother wouldn't know her child, to hear you ask such questions." Miss Harrison looked troubled, and left the room. Dr. Harrison immediately took her place, and almost as immediately tea came in. That is to say, tea and chocolate were handed round, together with a sufficient abundance and variety of delicate substantials to suit the air and the style of a country town. Judge Harrison's was the only house in Pattaquasset where tea was served in this way,--except perhaps the De Staff's; though there was this difference to be observed,--the De Staffs never had tea carried round unless when they had company; at the Harrisons' it was never carried round unless they were alone. Dr. Harrison attended politely to his aunt, but he was eyes and hands for Faith; finding at the same time very agreeable occupation for her ears. If people could be content with being agreeable! But in the midst of cold tongue and chocolate the doctor broke out again. "After all," said he,--"what about that piece of curious information, Miss Derrick? You know I was balked this morning and led a Will o' the wisp chase after the Idea! Is Mr. Linden in the habit of spoiling people's fun in that manner?" Faith said simply she did not know. She did not, but in private she thought it likely enough. "Well, about the question," said the doctor helping her to something at the same time,--"what was the truth of it, Miss Derrick? You see I am interested. Was our little informant correct?" Now Faith had no mind, even in the dark, or about anything, to set her 'yes' against Mr. Linden's 'no.' Besides, she knew that the doctor had heard no names, and what ever might be the extent of Mr. Linden's knowledge, _he_ knew nothing. And she was very willing to take the shelter of the shield which had been thrown round her. The deep, deep dye of her cheeks she could not help; but she answered with tolerable quietness, behind that shield, "I hoped you had got enough of the subject this morning." The doctor had enough of it now! He changed his ground with all speed, and for the rest of the evening Dr. Harrison shewed himself at his best. So soon as the removal of tea things gave him a clear field, he brought out his microscope; and from that instant Faith almost forgot and forgave him everything. She forgot everything present--the Judge, Sophy, and Mrs. Somers; and came to the table so soon as the bright brass of the little machine caught her eye. The machine alone was a wonder and beauty; it seemed to Faith like an elegant little brass gun mounted on the most complicate and exquisite of gun carriages--with its multiplication of wheels and screws and pins, by which its adjustment might be regulated to a hair; with its beautiful workmanship and high finish, and its most marvellous and admirable purpose and adaptation. Dr. Harrison had never adjusted his microscope with more satisfaction, perhaps, than with those childish womanly eyes looking on; and neither he nor _many_ other people ever performed better the subsequent office of exhibiting it. He troubled Faith now with nothing; his very manner was changed; and with kindness and sense most delicate, most thoughtful, most graceful always, gave her all he could give her. He was a trifle surprised to find that the amount of that was not more. There was no lack indeed; he could talk and she could listen indefinitely--and did;--nevertheless he found some of his channels of communication stopped off. At the first thing he shewed her, Faith looked for an instant and then withdrawing her eye from the microscope and facing him with cheeks absolutely paled with excitement and feeling, exclaimed rapturously, "Oh!--are those the chalk shells?" The doctor hadn't counted upon her knowing anything of chalk shells "Aunt Ellen--" said he, as he looked to shift or adjust something--"do you think Miss Derrick has ever lived upon anything worse than roses?" "Upon something stronger, I fancy," said Mrs. Somers, a little surprised in her turn, but well pleased too, for Faith had come nearer her heart that evening than ever before, and the voyage of discovery was pleasant. "I should certainly think I was in Persia!" said the doctor,--"only the bulbul knows nothing of scientific discoveries, I fancy." But Faith was in no danger of hearing, or caring, if she had understood; she had gone back to the chalk shells, and back still further, from them, into the world of those perfections which God had made _for himself_. A new world, now for the first time actually seen by her, and for a moment she almost lost her standing in this. Mrs. Somers watched her, smiling and curious. She drew back presently with a long breath, to give the other ladies a chance; but Miss Harrison had looked all she cared to look, and Mrs. Somers was not new to the thing. They took a view occasionally, one for form, the other for real interest; but for the most part Faith found the exhibition was for her and she and the doctor might have it all their own way. A long way they made of it; for the doctor found a good deal of talking to do, and Faith was most ready to hear. He talked well and gave her a great deal of what she liked, with a renewal every now and then of his first surprise; for in the midst of some elaborate explanation he was launching into for her benefit, most innocently and simply Faith would bring him up with a gentle "Yes, I know,"--not spoken with the faintest arrogance of knowledge, but merely to prevent him going into needless detail; and herself too rapt in the delight of the subject that occupied her to have any heed of the effect of her words. "I have kept the best for the last," said the doctor, when this exhibition had lasted a much longer time than Faith was aware of;--"I thought you would like to see the circulation;--and I have sent all over town for a frog--found one at last, by great happiness." "All over town!" said Mrs. Somers,--"do try out of town next time, and save yourself trouble." "Have you got to kill the frog, Julius?" said Miss Harrison with a disturbed face. "I hope not!" said the doctor gravely. "That would rather interfere with our purposes than otherwise, Sophy.--Aunt Ellen, I never learned the real extent of 'town' yet--when I was a boy it seemed to me to have no limits;--and now it seems to me to have no centre. Tell James to bring in that frog, Sophy." Miss Harrison retreated from the frog; but the doctor assured Faith that he was in very tolerable circumstances, shut up in a little bag; and that he was only going to be requested to exhibit a small portion of the skin of his toe, and to hold himself still for that purpose; which benevolent action the doctor would help him to perform by putting him in a slight degree of confinement. The holding still was however apparently beyond the frog's benevolent powers, and it was some little time before the doctor could persuade him to it. Then Faith saw what she had never seen nor fully imagined before. "O Sophy!--O Mrs. Somers!"--she exclaimed,--"look at this!" She stood back with a face of delighted wonder Miss Harrison looked an instant. "It is curious--" she said. "What are those little things, Julius?" "You have heard of the 'circulating medium,'" said the doctor. "That is it." Faith evidently had never heard of the 'medium' referred to. Turning to her, the doctor began a clear full account of the philosophy of what she saw going on in the frog's foot. But there she met him again. "Yes, I know, Dr. Harrison,"--she said with the simple tone of perfect intelligence. The doctor bit his lip, while Faith stooped over the microscope and read, and read, what was to be seen there. "Faith," whispered Sophy, "it's cruel of me--but I am afraid your mother will be anxious, and Julius will never let you know--" "What time is it?" said Faith starting up. "About--half an hour--after eight--" said the doctor. "After _ten_, Faith." Not another look did Faith give, but for her bonnet, and went home as fast as the doctor would walk with her. Whether Mrs. Derrick was anxious or no, she did not say, but glad she certainly was to see Faith back. "Well child," she said, undoing the wrappers from Faith's head and neck, "I hope you've had a grand time?" "Yes mother, very--only I didn't mean to stay so late. I meant to be home in good time. I have seen everything, mother!" "Everything!" said her mother,--"I guess at that rate I might say I'd been everywhere." "Where have you been, mother? anywhere?" "I've been out to tea!" said her mother, with the manner of one who has a remarkable secret on hand. "You have! Where, mother?" "Guess"--said Mrs. Derrick smiling at her. "I went up stairs to tea, Faith!--what do you think of that? What'll you expect to hear of my doing next?" "Oh mother!" said Faith laughing,--"I am glad! That was the best thing you could have done." "It wasn't my doing, though," said Mrs. Derrick. "But when I went up with Mr. Linden's tea, he asked me if you had gone, and I said yes, and he said since there was nobody better worth seeing down stairs he wished I'd come and drink tea with him. So I went, child, and it was real pleasant too. And I don't know how it was, but I staid there all the evening,--only I wouldn't let him talk to me, and he just went to sleep as if I hadn't been there. I think he was very tired, Faith. So then I felt very comfortable," added Mrs. Derrick smiling, "and I sat there and watched him till Reuben came a little while ago." "Was he tired!" said Faith, the light in her face changing. "He had been talking to me all the afternoon!--Mother, half the pleasure I had to-night he gave me, for he was all the afternoon preparing me for it." She stood looking at the fire reproachfully. "Why child," said her mother, "I suppose his arm pains him a good deal--and that tires one, you know. He didn't talk to you a bit more than he wanted to, I'll warrant. Why he even talked to _me_ all tea-time!" said Mrs. Derrick, as if she felt quite proud in consequence. "Well mother, we must go to bed _now_, for I must be up very early to finish that box." CHAPTER XXIV. Very early it was, when Faith's hammer was at work again on the brown moreen, and short interruption did she give herself from anything that could be spared, till the box was done. It suited her well when it was done. The cover was stuffed, old-fashioned brown binding was lapped over the edges and seams, and fastened off with rows of brass-headed nails; which made it altogether an odd, handsome, antiquated-looking piece of furniture. With this, when her morning work was done and her exercise prepared, Faith went up to Mr. Linden's room; to see it brought in and placed properly. "I shall have to put a stop to this state of things!" he said,--"that blue ribband will work me mischief yet. Miss Faith, how can you take advantage of my disabled condition?" "Are you better this morning, Mr. Linden?" "The time has not quite come yet for me to be much better. But Miss Faith, if I had known that you _would_ wake yourself up early this morning, what do you think I should have done?" "I can't think, Mr. Linden," she said looking merry. "I should have invited you and Mrs Derrick up here to breakfast!--which I only did not do, because I could not take the extra trouble upon myself, and because I knew you ought to sleep, till this time." Faith shook her head a little, perhaps sorry to have missed the breakfast; then went off and brushed away the dust and chips left round the wood-box. Then came and sat down. "I saw almost everything, last night, Mr. Linden!" "Well before you go off to last night--will you come to-morrow morning? Now what did you see?" The bright smile and flush and sparkle answered the invitation; and perhaps Faith thought no other answer was needed; for she gave no other. "I know now," she said after an instant, "what you were doing all yesterday afternoon, Mr. Linden!" "I know what you were, Miss Faith." She smiled innocently and went on, "All that just fitted me, as you meant it should, to take the good of the evening--and I had a great deal," she said gravely. "I saw almost everything you spoke of--and other things. I saw the chalk shells, Mr. Linden!--and the circulation in a frog's foot; and different prepared pieces of skin; and the moth's plumage! and the silver scale-armour of the _Lepisma_, as Dr. Harrison called it; and more." "And with very great delight--as I knew you would. I am very glad!" "Yes," said Faith--"I know a little better now how to understand some things you said the other day. I am very glad I went--only for one thing.--" "What was that?" "Dr. Harrison asked such a strange thing of me as we were walking home--at least it seems to me strange." "May my judgment be brought to bear upon it?" Mr. Linden said after a moment's silence. "Yes indeed," said Faith; "that was what I was going to ask. He wants me to go with him to see a woman, who is dying, he says, and miserable,--and he wants me to talk to her. He says he does not know how." And half modestly, half timidly, she added, "Is not that going out of my way?" A quick, peculiar smile on Mr. Linden's face, was succeeded by a very deep gravity,--once or twice the lips parted, impulsively--then took their former firm set; and shading his eyes with his hand he looked into the fire in profound silence. Very soberly, but in as absolute repose of face, Faith now and then looked at him, and meanwhile waited for his thoughts to come to an end. "Dr. Harrison said," she remarked after a little while, "that you once told him he had but half learned his profession." "What did you say, Miss Faith? I mean, not to that, but to the question?" "I didn't know what to say!--I didn't want to go at all--I don't know whether that was wrong or right; but at last I said I would go. Do you think I was right, Mr. Linden?" "Did you promise to go _with him?_" "I didn't know any other way to go," said Faith. "I don't know where the woman lives, and he said I couldn't find it; and old Crab has a lame foot. Dr. Harrison asked me to go with him. I don't think I should have minded going alone." "Neither should I mind having you," said Mr. Linden, with a look more doubtful and anxious than Faith had often seen him wear, though it was not bent upon her. "Do you think I said wrong then, Mr. Linden? I did not like to go--but I thought perhaps I ought." "I don't think _you_ did wrong," was the somewhat definite answer. "I wish I had been alongside of you when the request was made." A wish which he had not been the first to know. Faith was silent. "You made a fair promise?" he said--"and feel bound by it?" "I said I would go,"--she said looking at him with her fair, grave face. "If you thought it was wrong, or that I was putting myself out of my way, I would not, Mr. Linden. He asked if he might come for me at two o'clock, and I said yes." "Miss Faith--you must not make such a promise again!" She looked at him enquiringly, very soberly, and then her eyes went to the fire and mused there. Mr. Linden was looking at her then, though with eyes still shielded. Once indeed the hand came with a soft touch upon her hair, drawing it back where it had fallen a little; but the motion was quickly checked. She started, looked round with a little frank smile and colour, and instantly went back to her musing. "I'm afraid I must let you go--" Mr. Linden said presently, smiling a little too, as if it were no use to be grave any longer. "I'm afraid I have no right to hinder you. If I had, I would. Some other time I will tell you part of the wherefore, but the less I say to you before you go, the better. About that,--" he added in his usual manner,--"I think we might write another exercise." She started up, but paused. "Mr. Linden,"--she said timidly, "Dr. Harrison said he would not be here this morning. Would you like to have me first--it would be only pleasure to me, if you are not afraid,--do what he does for you?" He answered at first rather quick, as if he knew what sort of pleasure it was. "O no!--I can wait,--it cannot signify very much." And then with as quick a recognition of the real pleasure it would be, after all, Mr. Linden compounded matters. "I am afraid. Miss Faith!--I am naturally timid." "What does that mean?" said she coming before him and looking with an inquisitive smile. "I don't know, Mr. Linden!" "Do you expect me to explain such a humiliating confession?" "No, certainly.--I thought, perhaps, you wouldn't keep to it, after all." "I am a little afraid for you. What do you suppose I shall do this afternoon while you are gone?" "I don't know--" she said, looking a little wistfully. "I shall lie here and study that wood-box. You see I carry out my principles, Miss Faith--I have not thanked you for it." "I don't think you'll study it very long," said Faith,--"there isn't much in it." "Somebody has said," replied Mr. Linden, "that 'in every subject there is inexhaustible meaning,--the eye sees in it what the eye brings means of seeing.' You must not limit my power of eyesight." "If you wouldn't limit my power of something else?"--she said with gentle persistency. He looked up at her. "I will not, Miss Faith--then will you please perform your kind office at once? It will be a great comfort to me, and I shall be the better able to do something for you afterwards." And the manner almost made Faith feel as if the proposition had come from her at first. She went about it, not this first time without some trembling of heart, but with also a spirit that rose above and quite kept down that. She knew exactly and intelligently what was to be done; it was only the hands that were unwonted, and therefore she feared unskilful. But there are things that some women have by nature, and a skilful hand is one of them; and it was Faith's. Her womanly love and care were enough for all the rest; she made no mistakes, nor delays; and her soft fingers inflicted no pain that it was in the power of fingers to spare. A little longer than the doctor she was perhaps about it; not much, and not more awkward; and that is saying enough. So soon as that was done, Faith went for her exercise, and sat down as yesterday to write it. He too went on with the exercise; but watching her, lest relief might be wanted in another quarter. There was nothing of that, though. Quiet and very great satisfaction, was the result of the matter in Faith's mind; at least it was all she permitted to be seen; and now she gave herself happily to the connexion of her nouns and adjectives, and to watching against the 'german' or 'sophisticated' letters in her handwriting. The exercise indeed was fast taking a very compound character; so much so, that Faith might well begin to suspect there had been a two-fold reason for proposing it. But Mr. Linden had a peculiar way of teaching--especially of teaching her; and made her almost forget in the pleasure of learning, the fact that she had need to learn. And as for his memory on the subject, or his perception of how it might touch her,--they were out of sight: she might have been a little child there at his side, for the grave simplicity and frankness of his instructions. And so exercise and reading and philosophy followed on in a quiet train, and the surface of the earth revealed new wonders, and the little French book was closed at the end of a pretty chapter. "Whenever I get about my duties again, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said, "I shall make one very stringent rule for our future intercourse." "What's that, Mr. Linden?" she said, with the face of quick deep pleasure she always wore when about any of her studies with him. "From the time when I come home to dinner till I go off again, I will neither speak nor be spoken to, Miss Faith, except in French. That is, you may speak--but I shall not answer." Faith started a little, looked puzzled, and looked terrified,--as much as she ever did; but rather closed with looking as if it was _impossible_. "I should make the rule at once," said Mr. Linden smiling, "but I foresee that you would absent yourself entirely. Now when I am down stairs you will have to see me--whether you want to or not." "But I don't know one word!" said Faith breathlessly. "I am afraid I shall not say, or hear, much, Mr. Linden." "O you shall hear a great deal--I will take that upon myself." Faith shook her head, gave the fire a final mending, and ran off; for it was again an hour past the mid-day. Mr. Linden's dinner came up, and was hardly removed before Dr. Harrison followed. "Well, Linden!" he said coming jauntily in,--"I hope you haven't missed me this morning." "Not in the least." "I am glad of that. How do you do? I will try and put you in condition not to miss me this evening--though it is benevolent!"--added the doctor, pulling off his left glove. "It is a great secret--to make oneself missed!" "It is a secret your gloves will hardly find out, by my fire," said Mr. Linden. "How well you look, doctor!--not a bit like Nought and All." "No,"--said the doctor,--"I believe I disclaimed that particular sphere of existence yesterday. One had need be One and Somewhat in this wind--if one will keep a place in a wagon, or elsewhere! But fire mustn't tempt me, Linden. I'll see to you and be off, and decide what I'll be afterwards." "You may be off without preamble." "Do you mean to dismiss me?" exclaimed the doctor raising his eyebrows. "Have I said that you _must_ accept my poor services?" "Why no!" said Mr. Linden,--"doubly no! I am most happy to see you, doctor." "The happiness will be mutual when I have the felicity of understanding you," said the doctor, settling himself in an attitude. Mr. Linden surveyed him from head to foot. "I perceive indeed that you are One and Somewhat!" he said,--"you still need 'the four azure chains.' Do you need explanations too?" "If you'll be so good!" said the doctor. "Or--ha! you don't mean _that_, do you?" "My arm has been dressed," said Mr. Linden quietly. "Never trust a woman!" said the doctor wheeling round. "I thought she had got enough of that yesterday. Did she do it well?" "Excellently well." "Your face says so as well as your tongue," said the doctor, with an odd manner of despair. "I have lost--not my occupation, for I never had any!--but I have lost my power over you; and she has got it!--I don't know how to whistle, or I suppose I could take comfort in that." Mr. Linden did not whistle, nor laugh, nor speak,--all that could be said of him was that he lay there very quiet, with his eyes open, looking remarkably well. "Let a woman alone for doing what she has a mind to!" the doctor went on, in his usual manner now, putting on his gloves. "I tell you what, Linden--they're the hardest creatures to manage there are;--boys are nothing to them! Well, good morning!" "Good morning,"--said Mr. Linden. "I hope you will be able to manage the wind." The Dr. Harrison who had been up stairs was not at all the Dr. Harrison that met Faith in the hall and escorted her to the carriage. Grave, gentle, graceful, but especially grave, for some reason or other, he was; and not the less for that agreeable, she thought. Faith was in a sober mood herself; for she was about an undertaking she did not much like; and which Mr. Linden had liked even less. Faith pondered, as they drove swiftly along, what the particular objections had been which he had not chosen to tell her; and now and then thought a little uneasily of the coming interview with the doctor's patient, with Dr. Harrison himself for auditor and spectator. She did not like it; but she had honestly done what she thought right, and Mr. Linden had said _she_ was not wrong. And she was bound on the expedition, which she could not get rid of; so though these considerations did float over and over her mind they did not shake what was nevertheless a very happy peacefulness. Faith was glad the doctor was pretty well engaged with his horses; and let her own musings run upon the pleasant things of the morning, and of yesterday, with glances at the delightful new world of work and knowledge into which she had entered, or was entering; and happy resting down on the foundation for all joy so lately known to her. Whirled along on smooth going wheels, in that bright brisk day, little interrupted with talk, these thoughts and meditations took fair little flying passages through her head; chasing and succeeding each other, put in and put out by the lights and shadows, the hills and fields, sky and trees and wind-clouds, as the case might be, and mixing up with them all. Dr. Harrison had come for her this time in an easy pleasant-going curricle, drawn by beautiful animals, and who felt beautifully in that gay wind. They looked so, certainly, every motion from ears to tail telling of life and the enjoyment of it. "You are not afraid of anything, I know," said Dr. Harrison, one time when he had been obliged to hold them in with a good deal of decision;--"or I would have brought the old family trotter for you." "What makes you think so, Dr. Harrison?" "I have had proof of it," said he looking at her. Faith shook her head a little, and could have told him several things; but did not. "You are not afraid of these fellows?" She said no. "There is no pleasure in handling what gives you no trouble;--don't you think so?" Faith sought for illustrations of the subject in her own experience; did not find them. "Now look at those fellows," the doctor went on. "They are fit to fly out of their skins; but a little bit of steel in their mouths--and a good rein--and a strong hand at the end of it--and they are mine, and not their own," said he, giving them a powerful check at the same time which brought them on their haunches;--"and they know it. Now isn't there some pleasure in this?" "It is rather a man's pleasure," said Faith;--"isn't it?" "Do you think so?" said the doctor. "Ah, you know better. Do you mean to say," he added softly, "that a woman doesn't know the pleasure of power?" "I don't think _I_ do," said Faith meeting his eyes with a smile. He smiled too, a different smile from what was usual with him. The drive was long--much longer than Faith had counted upon, although they went so fast. "Down by the river"--the doctor had said; but it appeared not yet what part of the river he was aiming for. Still it was beautiful; the broken country, open and free, with the cloud shadows and the brilliant sunlight driving across it, and grey sharp rocks everywhere breaking it, and tufts and reaches of brown or sear woodland diversifying it, was not easy to weary of. Nor did Faith weary. The doctor's words had sent her off on a long journey of thought, while she travelled over all that open, sunlight and shadow, country. Starting from the words, "Behold we put bits in the horses' mouths, that they may obey us";--she had gone on to moral government and suasion; the means and the forces of both, not failing to illustrate largely here from personal experience; and on and up to the one great and strong hand that holds the reins of all, and makes even sunlight and shade, rock and hill, do his work and his bidding. But now in all that broad picture of life and life work, appeared a little dark spot; which, small as it was, formed for the moment the vanishing point, where every line of beauty and sunlight met and ended. For with that strange recognizing of unknown things, Faith saw before her the house where the dying woman lay,--and knew it for that, before the doctor spoke. A plain, brown, unpainted house; straight and square, with no break of piazza or window blinds; tapestried on the front with frost-bitten gourd vines, the yellow and green fruit yet unscathed. The usual little gate and dooryard common to such country houses; the usual remains of autumn flowers therein; the usual want of trees. Yet by the universal law of indemnification, the house was more picturesque than painting and architecture could have made it. Neighbours it had none, for contrast; but a low woody point of land stretched off behind it, reaching out even into the Mong. And the Mong itself--with its cool sharp glitter in the stirring wind, and the swash of its blue waves at the very foot of the little paling about the house; its white-sailed craft, its white-winged sea gulls;-- "Our lives are rivers, gliding free To that unfathomed, boundless sea, The silent grave! Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave. 'Thither the mighty torrents stray, Thither the brook pursues its way, And tinkling rill. There all are equal. Side by side The poor man and the son of pride Lie calm and still." Of the two that now entered that little dooryard, one felt all this and one did not. The one who had felt "the power of an endless life," perceived the narrow bounds of this,--to the one who had nothing beyond, its domain was vast. And as is often the case, the man went first and the angel followed. The doctor stepped up to the bedside and made some general enquiries. But it did not appear that there was much _he_ could do. "Mrs. Custers," said he presently, "you know I promised I would bring, if I could, a lady to see you. Here she is--Miss Derrick." Faith came to the side of the bed. Little her quiet face shewed how she was trembling. In her soft sweet way she asked the sick woman how she did. And Mrs. Custers turned her head a little, and gazed up into the blooming face with strange, eager, feverish eyes--eyes that thirsted, but with no bodily thirst. Then she closed them again and turned her face away, but said nothing. "Have you been sick long?" asked Faith. She did not answer, then; though as if the tones of Faith's voice were making their way, there came presently a slight quiver of the face, and a bright drop or two that the closed eyelids could not quite keep back. But she was at that point of time where the fear of man has lost its power,--where the doctor loses his supremacy and visiters their interest: where men and things are pushed like shadows into the background, and the mind can see no object save "the great white throne." This was what the silence expressed,--it was not dislike, nor churlishness; but those surface questions failed to reach her where she stood. The next gentle and tender "What is the matter?"--was so spoken that it found her even there. Her eyes came back to Faith's face with the sort of look they had given before. And then she spoke. "Where would you be going if you were lying where I be?" Faith heeded not the doctor then, nor anything else in the world. She waited an instant; she had drawn herself up on hearing the question; then leaning forward again she said slowly, tenderly, "I should be going--to be happy with my divine Redeemer. Are not you?" "What makes you think you would?" "Because I have his word for it," said Faith. "He says that whoever believes in him shall not perish, and that every one that loves him shall be with him where he is;--I believe in him and love him with my whole heart; and I know he is true. He will not cast me away." Slowly, clearly, the words were spoken; so that they might every one enter and be received by the ears that heard. The woman looked at her,--scanned her, examined her,--looked down towards the foot of the bed at the doctor--then back at Faith. "Do you believe all that?" she said. "I know it!"--said Faith, with a tiny bit of joy-speaking smile. Again that intent look. "Well _he_ don't," she said with a motion towards the doctor. "Which of ye am _I_ to believe?" "Don't believe either of us!" said Faith quickly, her look rather brightening than otherwise, though the play of her lips took a complicate character.--"Believe God! Don't you know _his_ words?" "I s'pose I do--some of 'em. I can't believe anything with _him_ down there lookin' at me!" she said impetuously. "He said _he_ didn't believe--and I keep thinkin' of that." "Will you believe him, rather than God?--rather than the Lord Jesus, who came and gave his very life for us, to bring us to heaven. Do you think _he_ would tell us anything but truth after that? _His_ words are, 'He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.'" "Well I'm most dead--" said the woman in a sort of cold, hopeless tone. "Let Jesus make you live!" said Faith, in a voice as warm and loving. "The doctor said _he_ couldn't," she answered in the same tone as before. "He believes that, anyhow." Faith answered, "'My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.'" That same little quiver passed over the face, but it changed into an irrepressible shudder. "Sit down here on the bed," she said, looking up at Faith, "and put your face so I can't see his'n--and then you may talk." And with that fair head for a screen, as if it really warded off some evil influence, Mrs. Custers lay and listened quietly for a while; but then her hands were clasped over her face, and she broke into a low sobbing fit--as if mind and body were pouring out their griefs together. Not loud, not hysterical; but weary, subdued, overpowering; until the utter exhaustion brought sleep. Faith got off the bed then,--looked at her, looked at the doctor,--and then by an irrepressible feeling, sunk on her knees. Leave _her_, go out of the house with _him_, she could not, until she had put the cause of them all into the hand she knew _her_ friend and wished theirs. A few moments' motionless hiding of her face, during which, as indeed during the whole conversation, Dr. Harrison was nearly motionless too, and used his eyes silently; and Faith rose from her knees. She gave another look at the poor weary face that lay there, and then led the way out of the house. The doctor followed her, having perhaps got more than enough of the result of his ride. But as he was unfastening his horses, or rather after he had done it and was waiting to hand her in, Faith addressed him. "Dr. Harrison, on whose errand do you go telling that woman that God's word is not true?" She spoke gently, yet as the doctor faced her he saw that her soft eye could be steady as an eagle's. He did not answer. "Not for God's service," she went on answering herself,--"nor for yours. See to it!" She turned and let him put her into the carriage and they set off again. But the drive homewards promised to be as silent as the drive out had been. The doctor was grave after another fashion now, with a further-down gravity, and scarce looked at anything but his horses; except when a glance or a hand came to see if Faith was well wrapped up from the wind, or to make her so. And either action was done not with his accustomed grace merely, but with even a more delicate tender care of her than ordinary. Faith was in little danger of cold for some time. Grief and loving sorrow were stirred and stirring too deeply for thought or feeling of anything else; only that beneath and with them her heart was singing, singing, in notes that seemed to reach her from the very harps of heaven,-- "I thank Thee, uncreated Sun, That thy bright beams on me have shined!" As they went on, however, and mile after mile was passed over again, and the afternoon waned, the wind clouds seemed thicker and the wind more keen; Faith felt it and began to think of home The horses felt it too, and perhaps also thought of home, for they travelled well. "What are you meditating, Miss Derrick?" the doctor said at length, almost the first word he had spoken. "I was thinking, just at that minute, sir, of the use of beauty in the world." "The use of beauty!" said the doctor, looking at her; he would have been astonished, if the uppermost feeling had not been of relief. "What is its use? To make the world civilized and habitable, isn't it?" "No--" said Faith,--"I should think it was meant to make us good. Look at the horses, Dr. Harrison!" The carriage had turned an angle of the road, which brought the wind pretty strongly in their faces. The horses seemed to take it as doubtful fun, or else to be inclined to make too much fun of it. They were all alive with spirit, rather excited than allayed by their miles of quick travelling. The doctor tried to quiet them by rein and voice both. "They get a little too much oats for the work they do," said he. "I must take them out oftener. Take care of this wind, Miss Derrick; I haven't a hand to help you. What's that?--" 'That' was a bunch of weeds thrown into the road just before the horses' heads, from over the fence; and was just enough to give them the start which they were ready for. They set off instantly at full run. The road was good and clear; the carriage was light; the wind was inspiriting, the oats suggestive of mischief. The doctor's boasted rein and hand with all the aid of steel bits, were powerless to stop them. In vain he coaxed and called to them; their speed increased every minute; they had made up their minds to be frightened, and plunged along accordingly. The doctor spoke once or twice to Faith, encouraging or advising her; she did not speak nor stir. They were just hearing the brow of a hill, when an unlucky boy in the road, thinking to stay their progress, stepped before them and waved his hat over his head. Faith heard an execration from the doctor, then his shout to her, "Don't stir, Miss Derrick!"--and then she hardly knew anything else. The horses plunged madly down the hill, leaped carriage and all across a fence at the bottom of it, where the road turned, overthrew themselves and landed the doctor and Faith on different sides of the carriage, in a meadow. The doctor picked himself up again, entirely unhurt, and going round to Faith lifted her head from the ground. But she was stunned by the fall, and for a few minutes remained senseless. In these circumstances, no house being near, the doctor naturally shouted to a cap or hat which he saw passing along the road. Which cap also it happened belonged to Sam Stoutenburgh, who was on an errand into the country for his father. If ever Dr. Harrison was unceremoniously put aside, it was then. Sam had come rather leisurely at first--then with a sort of flying bound which cleared the fence like a thistle down, he bore down upon the doctor, and taking up Faith as easily as if she had been a kitten, absolutely ran with her to a spring which welled up through the long meadow grass a few yards off. There the doctor found him applying the cold water with both gentleness and skill, for Sam Stoutenburgh had a mother, and her fingers had been so employed about his own head many a time. "You're a handy fellow!" said the doctor with a mixture of expressions, as he joined his efforts to Sam's.--"That will do it!"-- For Faith opened her eyes. The first word was "Mother!"--then she sat up and looked round, and then covered her face. "Are you hurt?" said Dr. Harrison after an instant. "No sir, I think not--I believe not." "Can you stand up?" With the help of his hand she could do it easily. She stood silent, supported by him, looking on the prostrate horses and shattered curricle; then turned her grave eyes on the doctor. "Don't stand too long, Miss Faith!" said Sam earnestly, with trembling lips too, for the manhood in him had not got very far. "Are you _sure_ you're not hurt?" "Sam!" said Faith giving her hand to him.--"I didn't know it was you who was helping me." "I only wish I'd been here for you to fall upon!" said Sam, with a queer mingling of grief and pleasure. "Seems as if folks couldn't always be in just the right place." "I am not hurt," she said with a little shudder. "Now, how are you going to do to get home?" said the doctor looking much concerned. "Shall I--" "I will walk home," she said interrupting him. "You are not able! We are three miles, at least, from Mrs. Derrick's house. You could not bear it." "I can walk three miles," she said with a faint, fair smile. "I will go home with Sam, and you can take care of the horses." "That would be a tolerably backhanded arrangement!" said the doctor.--"Young man, will you bring these horses into town for me--after I get them on their legs--to Judge Harrison's, or anywhere?--I must take care of this lady and see her safe." "Yes--I'll bring 'em into town," said Sam, "but Miss Faith's to be seen to first--if they don't get on their legs all night! _That_'ll be a work of time, I take it. Miss Faith--could you walk just a little way?--there's a house there, and maybe a wagon." "You don't understand me," said the doctor. "I asked if you would do me the favour to bring my horses into town. _I_ will take care of the lady." Sam considered a minute--not the doctor but things. "Miss Faith," he said, "I can run faster than you can walk, beyond all calculation. If you'll keep warm here, I'll run till I find a wagon--for if you don't ride and tell the story some one else will,--and then there's two people will be worse hurt than you are. You'd get home quickest so." Faith was about to speak but the doctor prevented her. "Then you refuse to take care of my horses?" he said. "I told you I would take care of the lady." "Bother the horses!" said Sam impatiently,--"who's to think about horses with Miss Faith here frightened to death? I'm ready to drive 'em all over creation, when I get ready, Dr. Harrison!" Faith in her turn interposed. "I would rather walk than wait, Dr. Harrison. If Sam knows some house near by, I would rather walk so far with him than wait for him to go and come again. We could send some one to help you then. Sam, you'll help Dr. Harrison get the horses up." So much Sam was willing to do, and the doctor with such grace as he might, accepted; that is, with no grace at all. The horses with some trouble and difficulty were raised to their feet, and found whole. The carriage was broken too much to be even drawn into town. Faith then set out with her escort. "How far is your house, Sam?" But Sam shook his head at that--the nearest one of any sort was a poor sort of a place, where they sometimes had a wagon standing and sometimes didn't. "But we can try, Miss Faith," he said in conclusion. Sam's arm was a strong one, and certainly if he could have induced his companion to lean her whole weight on it his satisfaction would have increased in proportion; as it was he gave her good help. And thus they had walked on, in the fading afternoon light, more than what to Faith was "just a little way," when the first house came in sight. Fortunately the wagon was at home; and before it stood an old horse that one of the men said "he should like to see run!"--but for once such deficiency was the best recommendation. Another man set off on foot to find and help Dr. Harrison, and the owner of the slow horse gave the reins to Sam. The wagon was not on springs, and the buffalo skin was old, and the horse was slow!--beyond a question; but still it was easier than walking, and even quicker. Sam Stoutenburgh did his best to make Faith comfortable--levying upon various articles for that purpose, and drove along with a pleasure which after all can never be unmixed in this world! Even Sam felt that, for his long-drawn "Oh Miss Faith!"--said much, and carried Faith's thoughts (she hardly knew why) to more than one person at home. "Sam," said Faith, "I don't want to say anything about this to-night." "Well, ma'am--I won't say a word, if I can help it. Do you mean to _anybody_, Miss Faith?" "Not to anybody. I mean, not to any one at home." "I won't if I can help it," Sam repeated. "But it's my night to stay with Mr. Linden." "Is it?--Well--what if it is?" "I don't know--" said Sam dubiously,--"he has a funny way of reading people's faces." "But what is going to be in yours, Sam?" "I don't know that, neither," said Sam. "But the fact is, Miss Faith, he always _does_ find out things--and if it's anything he's got to do with you may just as good tell him at once as to fuss round." A pretty significant piece of information! Upon which Faith mused. It was not so late when they reached Mrs. Derrick's door, that the good lady's anxiety had got fairly under way. At that moment indeed, she had quitted the front of the house, and gone to hurry Cindy and the teakettle; so that Faith was in the house and her escort dismissed, before Mrs. Derrick appeared. "Why pretty child!" she said--"here you are! I was very near getting worried. And I went up and asked Mr. Linden what time it was, lest the clock shouldn't be right; but he seemed to think it wasn't worth while to fret about you yet. You're tired to death!" she added, looking at Faith. "You're as pale as anything, child!" "Yes mother--I'm very tired." And very glad to get home, she would have said, but her lips failed it. "Well do sit down, child," said her mother, "and I'll take your things up stairs. Tea's all ready--that'll do you good, and then you shall go right to bed." But that did not seem what Faith was ready to do; instead of that, she preferred to sit down by her mother, and wrap her arms round her again and lay her head in her mother's lap. Even then she did not sleep, though she was by no means inclined to talk and answered Mrs. Derrick's fond or anxious words with very few in return, low and quiet, or with quiet caresses. And when her mother was silent, to let her sleep, Faith was silent too. They had sat so motionless for awhile, when Faith changed her posture. She got up, sat down on a chair by her mother's side, laid her head in her neck and wrapped arms round _her_ in turn. "Mother--" she said most caressingly,--"when will you begin to follow Christ with me?--I want that, I want that!"-- CHAPTER XXV. While Dr. Harrison was sleeping off the effects of his exertions, mental and physical, of the preceding day; and his horses in their stable realized that the reaping of wild oats has its own fatigues; Mrs. Derrick was stirring about with even unwonted activity, preparing for that unwonted breakfast up stairs. An anxious look or two at Faith's sleeping face had assured her mother that the fatigue there had been nothing very serious; and Mrs. Derrick went down with a glad heart to her preparations. There Faith joined her after awhile, and as breakfast time approached, Mrs. Derrick suggested that Faith should go up and see that the table was all right, and receive the breakfast which she herself would send up. Cindy was already there, passing back and forth, and the door stood open to facilitate her operations. If Faith had felt curious as to the success of Sam Stoutenburgh's efforts at concealment, her curiosity was at once relieved. The room as she saw it through the half-open door was bright with firelight and sunshine; the spoons and cups on the little table shone cheerily in the glow; and all things were in their accustomed pretty order and disorder. But the couch was empty, and Mr. Linden stood by the mantelpiece, leaning one arm there, his face bent down and covered with his hand. Faith had no need to knock--the door being open and Cindy in full possession; but as her light step came near the fire he turned suddenly and held out his hand to her without a word. Then gently pushing her back to the corner of the couch, Mr. Linden bade her "sit down and be quiet--" and he himself took a chair at her side. She could hardly tell how he looked--the face was so different from any she had ever seen him wear. For a minute she obeyed orders; then she said, though with an eye that avoided meeting his, "I mustn't be quiet, Mr. Linden--I must see to the breakfast table." If his first motion was to hinder that, he thought better of it, and suffered her to go and give her finishing touches; watching her all the time, as she felt, but without speaking; and when Cindy shut the door and tramped down stairs, the room was very still. Only the light crackling of the hickory sticks in the chimney, and those soft movements about the table. If ever such movements were made with pleasure--if ever a face of very deep peacefulness hovered over the placing and displacing of knives and forks, plates and salt-cellars,--it was then. Yet it was not a very abstracted face, nor looked as if the _outward_ quiet might be absolutely immovable. The last touch put to the table, Faith glanced at the hickory sticks on the fire; but they wanted nothing; and then her look came round to Mr. Linden, and the smile which could no longer be kept back, came too; a smile of touching acknowledgment. "Miss Faith, will you come and sit down?" She came, silently. One deep breath she did hear, as Mr. Linden arranged the cushions and with gentle force made her lean against them, but either he did not feel himself able to touch directly what they were both thinking of--or else thought her not able to bear it. His tone was very quiet, the rest of his hand upon her hair hardly longer than it had been yesterday, as he said, "What will my scholar be fit for to-day?--anything but sleep?" For a moment it was a little more than she could bear, and her face for that moment was entirely grave; then she smiled up at him and answered in a tone lighter than his had been, "Fit for anything--and more fit than ever, Mr. Linden. I only rest here because you put me here." The next remark diverged a little, and was given with darkening eyes. "How DARED he take you with those young horses!" "He thought he could do just what he pleased with them--" said Faith, shaking her head a little. "And with you--" was in Mr. Linden's mind, but it came not forth. "Where is your mother?--does she know?" "Mother's coming," said Faith raising herself from the cushions,--"as soon as she sends up the breakfast. She doesn't know yet. I told Sam not to tell you, Mr. Linden. "How do you do to-day?" She answered him with a bright fair glance and in a tone as sweet as happiness could make it, "_Very_ well!" Mr. Linden's eyes went from her to the opening door and the entering dishes. "Sara was not in fault, Miss Faith,--I heard you come home." In the train of the dishes came Mrs. Derrick, and looked with a little amaze at Mr. Linden off the couch and Faith upon it. But if the first didn't hurt him, she knew the second wouldn't hurt Faith, with whose appearance her mother was not yet quite satisfied. And when they were all at the table, Mrs. Derrick might wonder at those words of very earnest thanksgiving that they were all brought together again, but they needed no explanation to any one else. In all her life Faith had never known just such a breakfast. That sweet sense of being safe--of being shielded,--of breathing an atmosphere where no evil, mental, moral, or physical, could reach her,--how precious it was!--after those hours of fear and sorrow. If her two companions had visibly joined hands around her, she could not have felt the real fact more strongly. And another hand was nearer and more precious still to her apprehension; even the one that made theirs strong and had brought her within them. Faith's face was a fair picture, for all this was there. But Faith's words were few. How many Mr. Linden's would have been, of choice, cannot be known; for Mrs. Derrick's mind was so intent upon the last night's expedition, so eager to know how the poor woman was, and what she said, and where she lived; and how Faith enjoyed the drive, and what made her get so tired,--that he had full occupation in warding oil the questions and turning them another way. In compliance with her wishes he had taken his usual place on the couch, and there made himself useful both with word and hand; the particular use of breakfast to him, was not so apparent. It was over not a bit too soon; for Cindy had not finished the work of removing it before she brought up word that the doctor was come and wanted to see Mis' Derrick. Faith judged the enquiry was meant for herself and ran down stairs accordingly. The doctor was satisfied that she was none the worse of her ride with him, but had brought a very serious face to the examination. "Have you forgiven me, Miss Derrick?" "I have nothing to forgive, sir!" Faith told him with a look that gave sweet assurance of it.--"I am not hurt. I am very glad I went." "May I say," said the doctor, and he looked as if he was uneasy till he had said it,--"that you misjudged me yesterday from that woman's words. I did not choose to interrupt her--and the severity of your remarks to me," he said with a little smile which did not want feeling, "took from me at the moment the power to justify myself. But Miss Derrick, I have not done what you seemed to suppose--and fairly enough, for _she_ gave you to understand it. I never set myself to overthrow her belief in anything. I have hardly held any conversation with her, except what related to her physical condition; if I have said anything it has been a word intended to quiet her. I saw her mind was very much disturbed." Faith had looked very grave, with eyes cast down, during the hearing of this speech. She raised them then, at the end, and said with great gentleness, "There is but one way to give quiet that will stand, Dr. Harrison." "I am sure you are right," he said looking at her with an unwonted face, nearer to reverence than Dr. Harrison was often known to give to anything "I hope you will go and see that poor creature again and undo any mischief my careless words may have done." "Won't you undo them yourself, Dr. Harrison?" "I will endorse yours, so well as I can!" he said. "But won't you see her again?" "If I can,--I will try to go." "May I see Mr. Linden?" was the next question in a lighter tone; and receiving permission the doctor moved himself up stairs. He entered Mr. Linden's room with a quiet, composed air, very different from the jaunty manner of yesterday; and applied himself with business quiet to Mr. Linden's state and wants. And the reception he met was not one to set him a talking. It was not tinged with the various feelings which the _thought_ of him had stirred in Mr. Linden's mind that night and morning,--if they lived still it was in the background. The grasp of his hand was firmer than usual, the tone more earnest, which said, "I am very glad to see you!"--and yet the doctor felt that in them both there was more--and also less--than mere personal feeling. He had nearly finished the arrangements of Mr. Linden's arm when he remarked, "Did you hear the result of our expedition yesterday?" A grave 'yes,' answered him. "You see," said the doctor, "I couldn't manage the wind!" But to that there was no reply. "It was just that," said the doctor. "Those horses had been taking whiskey, I believe, instead of oats; and the wind just made them mad. They ran for pure love of running!--till a little villain threw up his hat at them--and then indeed it was which could catch the clouds first." If the doctor wanted help in his account, he got none. He drew back and took a survey. "What's the matter, Linden?--you look more severe at me this morning than Miss Derrick does;--and I am sure she has the most reason." "I have a prudent fit come over me once in a while," said Mr. Linden goodhumouredly, but with a little restless change of position. "I'm afraid if I talk much upon this subject I shall get out of patience--and I couldn't lay all the blame of that upon you." "What blame--do you pretend--to lay upon me, as it is?" said the doctor not illhumouredly. "There'll be no pretence about it--when I lay it on," said Mr. Linden. "Enact Macduff--and lay on!" said the doctor smiling. "Let it suffice you that I could if I would." "The shadows of strokes suffice me!" said the doctor. "Am I a man of straw? Do you take me for Sir Andrew Aguecheck? 'horribly valiant' after his fashion. What have I done, man?" He stood, carelessly handsome an handsomely careless, before the couch, looking down upon Mr. Linden as if resolved to have something out of him. A part of the description applied well to the face he was looking at--yet after a different fashion; and anything less careless than the look Mr. Linden bent upon him, could not be imagined. It was a look wherein again different feelings held each other in check,--the grave reproof, the sorrowful perception, the quick indignation--Dr. Harrison might detect them all; and yet more, the wistful desire that he were a different man. This it was that answered. "What have you done, doctor?--you have very nearly given yourself full proof of those true things which you profess to disbelieve." "How do you know that I disbelieve anything?" said the doctor, with a darkening yet an acute look;--"much more that I _profess_ to disbelieve?" "How do I know whether a ship carries a red or a blue light at her masthead?" "You don't, if she carries no light at all; and I do not remember that I ever professed myself in your hearing on either side of the 'things' I suppose you mean." "What do you say of a ship that carries no light at all?" "Must a ship _always_ hang out her signals, man?" "Ay--" said Mr. Linden,--"else she may run down the weaker craft, or be run down by the stronger." "Suppose she don't know, in good truth, what light belongs to her?" "It is safe to find out." "Who has told you, Linden, that I believed or disbelieved anything?" "Yourself." "May I ask, if any other testimony has aided your judgment, or come in aid of it?" "No," said Mr. Linden, looking at him with a grave, considering eye. "I am not much in the habit of discussing such points with third parties." The doctor bit his lip; and then smiled. "You're a good fellow, Linden. But you see, I can afford to say that now. I have you at advantage. As long as you lie there, and I am your attending physician--which latter I assure you I look upon as a piece of my good fortune--you _can't_, knock me down, if you feel disposed. I am safe, and can afford to be generous. As to the lights," said the doctor taking up his hat, "I agree to what you say--and that's more of a concession than I ever made on the subject before. But in the atmosphere I have lived in, I do assure you I have not been able to tell the blue lights from the red!" "I believe you," said Mr. Linden,--"nor was it altogether the fault of the atmosphere. Even where the colour is right, the glass is sometimes dim. What then?" "What then? why the inference is plain. If one can not be distinguished from the other, one is as good as the other!" "And both shine with a steady clear light upon the heavenward way?" "There's no question of shining," said the doctor half scornfully, half impatiently. "If they shew colour at all, it is on a way that is murky enough, heaven knows!" "Then what have they to do with the question?" said Mr. Linden,--"you are applying rules of action which you would laugh at in any other case. Does the multitude of quacks disgust you with the science of medicine?--does the dim burning of a dozen poor candles hinder your lighting a good one? You have nothing to do with other people's lights,--let your own shine!" Dr. Harrison stood looking at his adviser a minute, with a smile that was both pleased and acute. "Linden"--said he,--"it strikes me that you are out of your vocation." "When I heard that account last night,"--Mr. Linden went on--and he paused, as if the recollection were painful,--"the second thing I thought of was your own words, that heaven is not in 'your line.'" "Well?--" said the doctor swinging his hat and beginning to pace up and down the room, and speaking as if at once confessing and justifying the charge laid to him,--"Now and then, I believe, a bodily angel comes down to the earth and leaves her wings behind her--but that's not humanity, Linden!" "True servant of God, is as fair a name as angel," said Mr. Linden; "and that is what humanity may be and often is. 'Though crowns are wanting, and bright pinions folded.'" "I don't know--" said the doctor. "I shouldn't have wondered any minute yesterday to see the pinions unfold before me." Which remark was received in silence. "If such an angel were to take hold of me," the doctor went on meditatively,--"I believe she might make me and carry me whither she would. But I wonder if I shall be forbid the house now!"--He stopped and looked at Mr. Linden with a face of comic enquiry. "You may come and see _me_," said Mr. Linden, with comforting assurance. "Do you think I may?" said the doctor. He sat down and threw his hat on the floor.--"What shall I do with Mrs. Derrick? She will want to send me off in a balloon, on some air journey that will never land me on earth!--or find some other vanishing medium most prompt and irrevocable--all as a penalty for my having ventured to leap a fence in company with her daughter!" But the prudent fit had perhaps come back upon Mr. Linden, for except a sudden illumination of eye and face, the doctor's speech called forth no opinion. "The best driver on earth can't be a centaur, man! Horses in these days will have heads of their own." But then the doctor rose up and came gracefully and gravely again to take his friend and patient's hand. "I agree to all you say!" said he, looking down with a goodhumoured wilful expression to Mr. Linden's face;--"and I know no other man to whom I would own as much, after such words and such _silence_ as you have bestowed on me. Good-bye. But really, remember, a man is not answerable for all his horses--or all his wits--may do." The doctor went; and then there was an interval of some length. Faith had found several things to do in her down stairs department, which she would not leave to her mother; especially after the shock Mrs. Derrick's mind and heart had received from the communication of what had happened the day before. So it was a little later than usual when the light tap was heard at Mr. Linden's door and Faith and a cup of cocoa came in. She set the cup down, and then went out again for a dish of grapes and pears--Judge Harrison's and Farmer David's sending--which she brought to the table. "I didn't know which you would like best, Mr. Linden;--so I brought both." "I should like to be waiting on you," he said,--"Miss Faith, you ought not to be waiting on me. I shall bestir myself and come down stairs." There was expression in the kind of happy silence that answered him, as she offered the cocoa. "I don't know where to begin to talk to you this morning," said Mr. Linden,--"everything demands the first place. Miss Faith, when you feel that you can, will you tell me all about yesterday? I wish I could give you this couch again, but I suppose in prudence I ought to lie still." She saw him served with what he would have; then sat down, and a shadow of sweet gravity came over her. "The ride out was all very pleasant. There wasn't much talk, and I could just enjoy everything. It's a long way, Mr. Linden," she said glancing at him--she spoke generally with her eyes bent somewhere else;--"it must be ten or twelve miles, for we went very fast; and it was beautiful, with the wind and the driving clouds and shadows. So I enjoyed all that part, and wasn't afraid of the horses, or not much afraid--though they went _very_ fast and I saw they felt very gay. I liked the going fast and I thought the doctor could manage them." She paused. "Are you sure you want to talk of this now?" Mr. Linden said. "You know we have other things to do--this can wait till you choose." "I like to tell it," she said with another quick glance and a quick breath,--"but the visit comes next--and I don't know how to tell you of that. Mr. Linden, I wish you could see that woman!--And if you can't soon, I must,--somehow." "If I can't--or if I can, I will find you the 'somehow,' if you want to go. And if you will let me," he added. "Is she really dying?" "She says so--" Faith said low. And was silent a bit. "Then we set out to come home, and all went very well till we were half way on the road; but then the horses seemed to grow more frisky than ever--I think the wind excited them; and Dr. Harrison had his hands full, I could see, to hold them in, especially after we turned Lamprey's corner and the wind was in their faces. I think it was something suddenly flung over the fence, that started them off to run--and then they ran faster and faster, and reins and bits were of no use at all." Faith was excited herself, and spoke slowly and low and with hindered breath. "I saw they were getting more and more furious,--and there were a few minutes, Mr. Linden, when I thought I should maybe never see home again.--And then I thanked you in my heart." "_Me?_" he said with quick emphasis, and looking at her. Faith did not look at him, but after a pause went on very quietly. "I mean, on earth I thanked you. The end of it was, they took a new fright at something, I believe, just at the top of a hill; and after that it was all a whirl. I hardly knew anything--till I found myself lying on the ground in the meadow. The horses had jumped the carriage and all clean over the fence. The fence was just below the foot of the hill; the road took a turn there.--Sam told you the rest--didn't he, Mr. Linden?" He said "yes," and not another word, but lay there still with those closely shielded eyes; and lips unbent from their usual repose, with grave humbleness and grief and joy. The silence lasted till Faith spoke again. And that was some little space of time. A shade graver and lower her tone was when she spoke. "I shall never forget after this, that it is 'part of a Christian's sailing-orders to speak every vessel he meets.'--I think I shall never forget it again." Mr. Linden did look then at the little craft that had begun her voyage so undauntedly under the Christian colours, though what he thought of her he said not; apparently his own words were not yet ready, though he spoke. "'Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.'" Faith spoke no more. She sat in the absolutest quiet, of face and figure both; looking into the fire that played in the chimney, with a fixedness that perhaps told--in the beginning--of some doubtfulness of self command. But the happy look of the face was in nowise changed. A knock at the door was the first interruption, a knock so low down that the latch seemed quite too high to match it; but by some exercise of skill this was lifted, and Johnny Fax presented himself. He looked very wide awake, and smiling, and demure, as was his wont, though to-day the smiles were in the ascendant; owing perhaps to the weest of all wee baskets which he held in his hand. Coming close up to Mr. Linden, and giving him the privileged caress, Johnny stood there within his arm and smiled benignly upon Faith, as if he considered her quite part and parcel of the same concern. Who smiled back upon him, and enquired "where he had come from?" Johnny said "From home, ma'am," and looked down at his tiny basket as if it were a weight on his mind that he did not know how to get rid of. "Johnny," said Mr. Linden, "what have you got in that basket?" "You couldn't guess!" said Johnny with a very bright face. "I couldn't guess!" said Mr. Linden. "Don't you suppose I can do anything?" "Yes--" said Johnny shaking his head,--"but you can't do that." "Then I shall not try," said Mr. Linden, "and you'll have to tell me." Johnny put his face close down by Mr. Linden, and whispered, but not so low that Faith could not hear-- "It's two white eggs that my black hen laid for you, sir!" "Well I never should have guessed that!"--said Mr. Linden smiling. "I didn't suppose there was a hen in the world that cared so much for me. I don't believe she would if she was not _your_ hen, Johnny."--Which last sentence Johnny understood just well enough to feel delighted; and stood with a glad little face while his teacher opened the basket, and taking up first one egg and then the other, commented upon their size and whiteness. "As soon as I can get out I shall come and see that hen," said Mr. Linden, drawing the child closer and giving him another kiss--which Johnny thought was worth a whole basket of eggs;--"so you must tell her to have her feathers in good order. Now what have you to say to Miss Faith?" "O _she_ talks to _me_," said Johnny. "Does she?" said Mr. Linden,--"is that the division of labour? What does she talk about, Johnny?--let me see how well you remember." It was said with a little acknowledging look that he was asking that to which somebody would demur--but also with a wilful assumption that somebody would come to no harm. So though Faith flushed and started, she sat back in her seat again without making any word interposition. Johnny stood and thought--for he was a real little literalist. "She talked about heaven--" he said slowly,--"and how to get there,--and said she was going--and we must too. That's what she said Sunday. And at Judge Harrison's she said she was glad I'd got a red ribband--and down to Neanticut she told me to run away." "I'm sure that was a gentle way of dismissing you," said Mr. Linden, stroking the child's forehead. "Well Johnny--are you trying to follow her in that way to heaven she told you of?" The "yes" was given without hesitation, and came with strangely sweet effect from those childish lips. Then after a minute Johnny added, as if he feared some misunderstanding, "It's the same way you told me, sir." "Yes, I trust you will see me there too," Mr. Linden said, with a rather moved look at the little face before him. What made Faith, at those last words of Johnny's, jump up and spring to the fire? And after a most elaborate handling of the sticks of wood, she did not come back to her seat, but stood still with her back turned to the couch and the little witness who was testifying there. He was not called upon for any more evidence, however. Mr. Linden talked--or let him talk--about various important things in Johnny's daily life and experience and gave a promise that he himself would be at school as soon as the doctor gave his permission. Mrs. Derrick's soft knock and entrance came now, she herself looking in good truth as if a "tear-storm" had passed over her. But she brightened up a little at the sight of Faith. "Pretty child!" she said, coming up to her, "and so you're here? I couldn't rest any longer without seeing just where you were." Faith put one hand on her shoulder as she stood, and then clasped the other upon that. "Pretty child!" her mother repeated, in a tone that spoke more of pain than pleasure--and Faith could feel the shudder that passed over her then. But she controlled herself. "Do you know it's dinner time, Faith? How is Mr. Linden?" "There he is," said Faith smiling. "I don't know, mother." "He don't look to me as if he had ever been asleep," said Mrs. Derrick,--but whether that shewed want of sleep, or the reverse, was, as Mr. Linden remarked, quite doubtful. Mrs. Derrick looked at him, met his smile--then her whole heart answered to something it said. "Oh Mr. Linden! think of her being in such danger!" and there was a minute of deep silence. "Nay!" he answered softly--and the face was beautiful in its changing expression,--"think of her being so safe!" Mrs. Derrick could bear neither word nor look after that. The two ladies went down together, leaving Johnny to dine with his teacher. CHAPTER XXVI. The dinner up stairs was a very quiet and uninterrupted one. The dinner down stairs was destined not to be so. The first break was the entrance of Cindy with a bunch of flowers--which the doctor had sent to Miss Derrick, with the desire to know how she was. Faith received the flowers with a dubious face and put them in water on the dinner-table, where they looked splendid. Mrs. Derrick could hardly see their splendour. "He needn't think to come round me that way," she said. "Child! I wouldn't let you go off with him again for twenty kingdoms!" "Not with those horses, mother." "Nor with any others. I sha'n't ever want to have you go with anybody again, Faith." "What's goin' on here?" said a growling voice which they knew, before Mr. Simlins entered the door of the dining room. "That gal o' yourn wants me to stay politely in the parlour yonder--but I ain't polite--and I come to see you, not your doors and windows nor the pretty paper on your walls. What are you all about, Mrs. Derrick? I hear the very spirit of turbidness has got into this house!" "There's not much spirit in me to-day," said Mrs. Derrick, "nor spirits neither. I've lost what little I had. Anybody could knock me down with a straw. Sit down, Mr. Simlins, and take some dinner." "I'm afeard, if it's done so easy, I might occasionally do it with one o' them posies," said Mr. Simlins standing and surveying the bouquet as if he didn't know what to make of it. "Do you eat the grass of the field at your noon-spell?" "You may ask Faith," said Mrs. Derrick; "she put 'em there." "Sit down, Mr. Simlins," said Faith. "I ain't goin' to sit down! I've eat _my_ dinner. I've just come in, Mrs. Derrick, to see if you're all overturned, or if there's anything left straight yet." "It's _all_ straight," said Faith smiling up at him. "Sit down, Mr. Simlins." "What's the truth of it, Mrs. Derrick? This child ain't all straight, is she?" It followed that, bit by bit, Mr. Simlins got out the story of the accident, for neither Faith nor Mrs. Derrick was forward to speak about it. He then enquired, with an unsatisfied grunt, why Faith was "postin' round with Dr. Harrison?" Whereat Mrs. Derrick felt justly indignant. "Why she ain't! Mr. Simlins. She went down there on business, and there was nobody else at hand to take her just then." "What do you call bein' at hand?" said Mr. Simlins. "I've got two hands, and more'n two horses--that won't run away neither. It's only my cows do that!--Where's Mr. Linden?" "O he's up stairs--" said Mrs. Derrick. "He's not been down yet. Faith, don't you think he's some stronger to-day?" "And so," said Mr. Simlins turning to her again reproachfully,--"while he's lyin' up there and can't stir, you go drivin' over the country with 'tother one!" But that brought out Faith's round low laugh, so incontrovertibly merry and musical that it changed Mr. Simlins' face on the instant. It came to an end almost as soon, but short as it was it was better than the warble of any nightingale; inasmuch as the music of a good sound human heart is worth all the birds in creation. "When's Mr. Linden going to be down stairs, where a body can get sight of him?" "The doctor says he mustn't go out for a long time yet," said Mrs. Derrick. "When are you going to find the man that shot him?--that's what I want to know." "When I get a composition from the only witness," Mr Simlins answered. "And as the witness ain't particular about testifying, I'm afeard it'll be a spell o' time yet. It'll come out. _I _should think the fellow'd ha' made tracks, fust thing; but I 'aint heerd of any one's bein' missin' from town,--except--" Mr. Simlins suddenly started, stopped, and gazed at Faith with a most extraordinary expression. "Did you look at my flowers, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith quite quietly, though without meeting his eye. "I've seen nosegays afore," growled Mr. Simlins in a very uninterested manner. "I don't see as this is no more nor less than a nosegay. Do you s'pose I might go up and see somebody up stairs for two minutes, without creating any confusion?" Mr. Simlins went up and shortly afterwards went away. But if Faith anticipated a good long lesson that afternoon, to make up for the morning and afternoon in which she had had none--albeit the morning had been better than lessons--she was to be disappointed. Hardly was the dinner over, and the muffins mixed which she was determined should make amends for Mr. Linden's poor breakfast, when Miss Harrison came; full of sorrow, and sympathy, and hope. "Faith don't look a bit the worse, ma'am," she said to Mrs. Derrick. "She couldn't look anyway but just so," her mother said with a fond glance. "Why she _could_ look pale, but I don't see that she does even that;--unless, perhaps, just such a _tingy_ paleness as is rather becoming than otherwise. Dear Mrs. Derrick, I hope you have forgiven Julius?" It was a sorrowful smile that met her words, and eyes that grew dim and looked away. "I suppose I could forgive the whole world--since he didn't do any more harm," Mrs. Derrick said with her wonted gentleness. "But I wouldn't see her go with him again, Miss Sophy--if that's what you call forgiveness." "Why not? Dear Mrs. Derrick!"-- "Why not?"--said the good lady--"why Faith's used to being taken care of, Miss Sophy--and I'm used to seeing it." "My dear Mrs. Derrick!"--Miss Harrison exclaimed out of breath,--"do you think she was not taken care of? Julius knows his horses, and he is a capital hand with them; he says himself he thinks he should have brought them to, if that little wretch of a boy hadn't thrown op his nat before their eyes. No horses would stand that, you know. And the best man in the world, and the best driver, can't be _certain_ of his horses, Mrs. Derrick. Not take care of her!--" "I don't mean to say that he didn't mean to!" said Mrs Derrick quietly, "but I don't think he knows how. You needn't look so, Miss Sophy--I'm not saying a word against your brother. But Faith's only part of the world to him--and she's the whole of it to me. He should have taken horses he _was_ sure of," said Mrs. Derrick with a little flush on her cheek. "I don't know," said Miss Harrison softly, and looking at Faith,--"I don't know just what part of the world she is to him--but I think, and am very sure, he would have thrown himself oat rather than her. Can anybody do more? Can any _man_ do more, Mrs. Derrick?" she said smiling. "I know you are her mother; and though I am not her mother, I think of her just as you do." "I can't say what any man can do," said Mrs. Derrick pleasantly,--"I havent tried many. And you can't tell how I feel, Miss Sophy it isn't cross, if it sounds so. How long has Dr. Harrison had those horses?" "Why, not very long," said Miss Harrison,--"he hasn't been home long himself. But he's a good judge of horses," she said, a little less sure of her ground than in the former part of the conversation. Perhaps she was not sorry to have it interrupted. "My dear Mrs. Derrick!" said Mr. Somers entering,--"I have come to congratulate you! Miss Harrison, I see, is before me in this pleasant--a--office. Miss Faith!--I am glad to see you looking so well after your overthrow." Mr. Somers went round shaking hands as he spoke.--"Mrs. Somers will be here presently to join me--she stopped a few minutes by the way. Mrs. Somers always has more business on hand than I can--a--keep up with. Mrs. Derrick, I have rejoiced with you, indeed, ma'am." Somers had managed to keep up with her business and him too, for she came in before Mr. Somers had well taken the measure of his chair. She walked up to Faith and kissed her, with a sort of glad energy, gave her a comprehensive glance from head to foot, and then turned to Mrs. Derrick with, "There's nothing amiss with _her_, after all.--Sophy, what excuses have you brought in your bag?--it seems to be full." "I wish you'd make some for Julius, aunt Ellen--I can see Mrs. Derrick has only half forgiven him." "Has she got so far as that?" said Mrs. Somers. "I don't know. Faith, _you_ might come and say something--you know if it isn't true; and Mrs. Derrick will hear you." Faith was busy giving Mrs. Somers a chair, and certainly looked as if _she_ had nobody to forgive anything in the wide world. "What do you want me to say, Sophy?" "Why, that Julius wasn't to blame." "I find it is still a disputed point, whether a man has a right to break his own neck," said Mrs. Somers. "I think he hasn't, myself, but most people don't agree with me. Mr. Somers thinks people may run away alone or together, just as they've a mind. I don't know whether it's the fees or the freedom that takes his fancy." "I suppose, my dear," said Mr. Somers, "a man may lawfully set out to take a ride without intending to break his own neck, or anybody else's; and find it done at the end, without blame to himself. I never was, I hope, a promoter of--ha!--flighty marriages--to which you seem to allude." "If he finds it done at the end, it isn't done very thoroughly," said Mrs. Somers. "But Pattaquasset's growing up into a novel--last week furnished with a hero, and this week with a heroine,--the course of things can't run smooth now. So we may all look out for breakers--of horses, I hope, among other things." "Oh aunt Ellen!"--was Miss Harrison's not gratified comment on this speech. "I hope Mrs. Somers don't mean that we are to look out for breakers of hearts, among the other things," said Mr. Somers. "Look out for them? to be sure!" said Miss Harrison;--"always and everywhere. What would the world be without them?" "The world would not be heart-broken," said Mrs. Somers. "Faith--which of you came to first? who picked you up?" "I don't know, Mrs. Somers. Sam Stoutenburgh was passing just at the time and Dr. Harrison called him. I don't know who picked me up." "Sam Stoutenburgh!" said Mrs. Somers,--"well, he's made, if nobody else is! He'll bless Julius for the rest of his life for giving him such a chance. Do you know how that boy watches you, Faith?--I mean to speak to Mr. Linden about it the very first time I see him." Something in this speech called forth Faith's colour. She had spoken Sam's name herself with the simplest unchanging face; but now the flushes came and came abundantly. "I don't know what good that would do, Mrs. Somers." "Nor I--till I try," said the lady smiling at her. "But if the mere suggestion is so powerful, what may not the reality do? I'll say one thing for Mr. Linden--he makes all those boys come into church and get seated before the service begins--which nobody else ever did yet; if they ever tried. I was curious to see how it would be last Sunday when he wasn't there--but they were more punctual than ever. It's quite a comfort--if there's anything I do hate to see, it's a troop of men and boys outside the door when they ought to be in. What are you afraid he'll say to Sam, Faith?" Faith's eyes were looking down. The question brought them up, and then her smile was as frank as her blushes had been. "I am not afraid he'll say anything, Mrs. Somers." "I don't know why he should, my dear," said Mr. Somers. "We all like to use our eyes--you can't very well blame a boy." "O Mr. Somers!" said his wife--with that air which a woman puts on when she says she believes, what she wouldn't for the world say _if_ she believed,--"of course you think that! Don't I know how you broke your heart after a green veil when you were in college? I don't think it's been right whole since. Now I have some feeling for Sam--or his future wife." "Well Mrs. Derrick, what shall I tell Julius?" said Miss Harrison as she rose to go. "Tell him?" said Mrs. Derrick enquiringly. "He wouldn't care to hear anything about me, if you did tell him, Miss Sophy." "Well!--he'll have to come and talk to you himself," said Miss Harrison. "Faith, stand up for the right." Faith went to the door with her and returned ushering in a new-comer, even the wife of Farmer Davids. "Husband wanted me to come and see how Mr. Linden was," she said in meek explanation of her appearance. "He would have come hisself, but he was forced to be in the field, and he said he wisht I'd come myself. How is he, ma'am?" "I hope he's better,"--said Mrs. Derrick, giving her new visiter a kind reception and a seat. "He don't get strong very fast. How are you all at home, Mrs. Davids?" "We're considerable comfortable, ma'am," said Mrs. Davids taking the chair in an unobtrusive spirit. "I am happy to have the occasion to make your acquaintance better. Husband would have come hisself, only he couldn't. Mr. Linden don't get strong?" "Not very fast," said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't know just when the doctor 'll let him go to school again. I suppose you're anxious about Phil, Mrs. Davids. But all the boys have to be out, now." "Yes ma'am, we're anxious--and husband is anxious about Mr. Linden, and he sent me to know. But there is such a change in Phil, ma'am,"--she said turning to Mrs. Somers,--"such a change, you wouldn't believe! he never would go to school before--not regular--not for nobody--not for his father, nor for me; and it was mor'n my life was worth. My husband, he said it was my fault; but I don't know how 'twas! And now sir, he don't want a word spoke to him! he's off before it's time in the morning--and he learns too, for I catch him at it; and my husband don't think anything in the world is too good for Mr. Linden; nor of course, I s'pose, I don't. But however he's managed or overcome it, to make Phil draw in harness, _I _don't know, and husband says he don't. And ma'am, was those pears good? or what _does_ Mr. Linden like? If it's on the farm he'll get it." It would have taken more conversational skill than Mrs. Derrick possessed, to give a summary answer to all this; but her simplicity answered as well, after all. "I guess he'll like what you've been saying better than anything, Mrs. Davids; I'll tell him." "Do," said Mrs. Davids. "I wisht you would. Husband would have said it completer. He thinks ma'am," (turning to Mrs. Somers again) "that Mr. Linden is a wonderful man! And I'm of the opinion he's handsome." Faith had been sitting, quiet and demure, for some time past, hearing what was going on; but this last sentence drove her to the right about like lightning. She found something to do in another part of the room. "Did you ever hear anybody say he wasn't?" said Mrs. Somers. "Mr. Somers, it's time we were going. Ah--there's Squire Stoutenburgh! Faith--come here!" And Squire Stoutenburgh, appearing in the doorway like the worthy father of his stout son, bowed to the company. "Well Mrs. Derrick--" he said,--"good day Mr. Somers--_and_ Mrs. Somers! I beg pardon--Well Miss Faith! I'm glad it is well, I'm sure. My dear, how do you do?" "Why very well, sir!" said Faith. "Why so it is!" said Squire Stoutenburgh taking hold of both her hands and looking at her. "Sam said you were as pale as a ghost when he carried you down to the spring--but Sam don't always see straight when he's excited. You needn't be frightened if I kiss you, my dear you know I always do, and always have--since you were a year old," said the Squire as he took his wonted privilege. Faith gravely submitted, not letting the Squire however get any further than her cheek; which ought to have contented him. "Sam was very good to me yesterday, sir," she answered. "I think, Squire," said Mr. Somers, "your son was--a--in luck, as we say. A fortunate chance! What most people would have thought no--a--disagreeable office." "Sam's a good boy--" said his father,--"a very good boy--always was. He does crow a little over Dr. Harrison, I must say. But what shall we do with the doctor, Mr. Somers?--what does he deserve for running away with our Pattaquasset roses and turning them into meadow lilies? Yes, yes, Miss Faith--you may look as pink as you please now--it won't help the matter. What shall we do with him, sir? My dear," said Squire Stoutenburgh seating Faith by his side and dropping his voice, "you're growing wonderfully like your father!" A changed, sweet glance of Faith's eyes answered him. "Yes!"--the Squire repeated meditatively and looking at her.--"Ah he was a fine man! I used to think he couldn't be better--but I s'pose he is now. My dear, you needn't wonder when I tell you that I thought more of your mother last night than I did of you. But you don't remember all about that. Well--I shall go home and tell Mrs. Stoutenburgh that you're as pretty as a posie, and then she won't care what else is the matter," he said, getting up again. "Mrs. Somers, I see the parson durstn't say a word about Dr. Harrison before you." "I--I declare I don't think Dr. Harrison is very much to be blamed, Squire," said the parson thus called upon. "And Mrs. Somers is so well able to speak for herself--I have no doubt, Squire Stoutenburgh, if it wasn't for Mrs. Somers,--I dare say I might like to do as much as the doctor did, myself!" "Bless my life!" said Squire Stoutenburgh, "I can't stay to be a party to confidences of that sort!--I must go!--" and he departed, laughing and followed by the two others. But even as they went, Faith, who with her mother had accompanied them to the door, was electrified somewhat doubtfully at the vision of Miss Deacon just within the gate. Miss Cecilia came forward, also with some doubt upon her spirit, to judge by her air. But Faith's greeting of her was so pleasant and kind, though she could not prevent its being grave, that the young lady evidently took heart. Being reassured, she sat and talked at leisure, and at length, using her eyes as well as her tongue; thus making herself mistress of all the truth she could get at, and of some more. She was thorough in her investigations as to all the drama of the last seven days, and all and each of the actors therein; and at the close of her visit declared that "Sam had been a great fool to go away, and that she had told him so before"; and departed at last with her head full of Dr Harrison. But detentions were not over. Miss Bezac came before Miss Deacon was quit of the parlour; and before Miss Bezac had been two minutes there, other members of the Pattaquasset community came pouring in. Everybody must see Faith, hear particulars, discuss realities and possibilities of the accident, and know how Mr. Linden was getting along. The hours of the afternoon waned away; but people came as people went; and it was not till long shadows and slant sunbeams began to give note of supper time, that the influx lessened and the friends gathered in Mrs. Derrick's parlour began to drop away without others stepping in to take their place. "Faith," said her mother when they were at last alone, "I can't bear this any longer! I shall go crazy if I hear that story one other time to-night!" And she put her arms round Faith, and leaned her head wearily on her shoulder. "I'll sit up to tea," she went on presently, "and then if the rest of the town comes, you'll have to see 'em--for I can't!" Faith gently put her into a chair and holding her in her arms stooped over her. "Mother"--the words were as soft as the kisses which came between,--"you mustn't mind it so much. Sit up to tea! Why I have made some of the best muffins that ever were seen." "Child!" said her mother in a low voice, "I felt this morning as if I had been as near death as you had!"--and if the words needed any emphasis, they had it in the way Mrs. Derrick leaned her head against Faith and was silent. But not for long. She got up, and kissing Faith two or three times, said, "My pretty child!" in a tone that indeed told of possible heartbreak; and then half holding her, half held by her, drew her on into the tea-room. CHAPTER XXVII. It so happened that the first griddleful of muffins did not do credit to their raising--(or to their bringing up, elegant reader!)--therefore Mr. Linden's teatray waited for the second. Of course the other tea waited too. Mrs. Derrick walked out into the kitchen to see _what_ was the matter with the griddle; Faith discovered that one spoon on the tray looked dull, and went to the spoonbasket to change it. Thus occupied, and giving little reprehensive glances at the spoons generally, and mental admonitions to Cindy, with the open closet door half screening her from the rest of the room, she was startled--not by the opening of another door, but by these words,-- "Miss Faith, shall I carry this tray upstairs?" To this day it is uncertain what sort of a spoon Faith brought back!--or indeed whether she brought any at all. There was one flash of gladness in her cheek and her eye, with the exclamation, "Mr. Linden!"--then she came from the closet just her old little self. "Are you well enough to be down stairs, sir?" "In whose estimation, ma'am?" "Because if you are, Mr. Linden," she said with a face of laughing pleasure, "won't you please come into the other room?" "I think not," he said, laughing a little too,--if the exertion of coming down had made him pale, the pleasure partly concealed it. "I will take a chair here, if you please. Am I alone, of all Pattaquasset, to be forbidden to pay my respects to you to-night? Miss Faith, how do you do?" "I am very well. But Mr. Linden, if you will please come into the other room, there is an easy chair there. Please do! this room is cold, for the fire got down while we were seeing people." She led the way as she spoke, without waiting for another denial; pushed the table and a great chair of state, or of ease, in the sitting-room, into closer neighbourhood; and renewed the brilliancy of the fire. Then lit up the lamp and cleared books away from the table; all done with quick alacrity. "That will do almost as well as the couch, won't it?" she said; and then repeated in gentler tones her question, "Are you well enough to be down, Mr. Linden?" "I don't know, Miss Faith!--I am well enough to want to be down. How can you let the charms of society divert your mind from your books for a whole afternoon? Have you been so studious for the last few days only because you had nothing else to do?" She laughed at the question, and went off, leaving Mr. Linden in a region of comfort. More comfort came soon in the shape of the teatray, borne by Cindy; then Mrs. Derrick; and lastly Faith herself appeared--bearing a plate of the muffins, perfect this time, and delicate as they had need to be for a delicate appetite. Mr. Linden was presently served with one of these and a cup of smoking tea; and Faith thought, and her look half said it, that being down stairs would do him no harm. Certainly the surprise and pleasure of such company to tea did Mrs. Derrick good, whoever else missed it; though it is presumable no one did. The pleasant sighing of the wind round the house and in the chimney (it sighed alone for that evening) the sparkling of the fire, the singing of the maple or hickory sticks, the comfortable atmosphere of tea and muffins diffused, like the firelight, all through the room; gave as fair an assemblage of creature comforts as need be wished; and the atmosphere of talk was as bright, and savoury, and glowing too, in its way; though the way was quiet. Mr. Linden amused himself (and Faith) by giving her little lessons in the way she would have to talk in those French "noonspells" she had in prospect: making Mrs. Derrick laugh with the queer sounding words and sentences, and keeping Faith interested to that point, that if he had not attended to her tea as well, she would scarce have got any. "I shall not be hard upon you at first," he said smiling,--"when I see you sitting in silent despair because you want something at my end of the table, I will help you out with a 'que voulez-vous, mademoiselle?' and perhaps with a 'voulez-vous?' this or that. But after a week or two, Miss Faith, if you go without any dinner, it will not move me in the least." Faith looked as if she would gladly forego her dinner to escape the French asking for it, and yet not quite so neither. But this ordeal was more terrible to her by far than all the rest; she could face them, indeed, they had ceased to be anything but pleasure--or pleasure with a spice that enhanced it; but at this she trembled. To the above speech--or threat,--she simply answered, "I shall be so glad to see you come home to tea, Mr. Linden!" "And so glad to see me go away from dinner!" "I didn't say that." "You will--" said Mr. Linden,--"I can imagine you falling back in your chair and exclaiming, 'Ah, quand voulez-vous partir, monsieur!'--which of course will make it extremely difficult for me to remain a moment longer." "I don't think you can imagine me doing it," said Faith laughing. "I can't imagine myself." "That proves nothing. Only don't ever say to me, 'Monsieur! partez à l'instant!'--because--" "Because what, Mr. Linden?" said Faith seriously. "Because we might disagree upon that point," he said with rather a demure arch of his eyebrows. Faith's full silver rang out, softly. "You see!" she said. "It's beginning already. I don't know in the least what you are talking about!" "No--you do not," was the laughing reply. "But Miss Faith, if I am kept at home long enough, and society keeps at home too, instead of coming between us and our exercises, those conversations will seem less terrible by the time they begin. I should certainly get you a pocket dictionary, but I prefer to be that myself. How far can you ride on horseback at once?" "On horseback?" said Faith, much as if those words had been also French, or an algebraical puzzle. "That was what I said." "I know that was what you said--I didn't know what you meant, Mr. Linden. I have never been really on horseback but a few times in my life--then I rode a few miles--I don't know exactly how many." "I wonder people don't do it more"--said Mrs. Derrick. "When I was a girl that was the common way of getting about; and nobody ever got thrown, neither." "Wouldn't that be the pleasantest way of getting to Mattabeeset?" said Mr. Linden. An illumination answered him first; then "Oh, yes!" "I want you to see what is to be seen over there," he said,--"shall we go some day, if I get well enough before cold weather?" Faith's quiet words of agreeing to this proposal were declared to be a sham by her eyes, cheeks, lips and brow, every one of which was giving testimony after a different fashion. At this moment the door opened. It happened that Dr. Harrison had encountered Cindy at the hall door, where she was either loitering to catch snatches of indoor conversation, or waiting to entrap Jem Waters. But there she was, and being asked for Mr. Linden replied that he was down stairs, and without more ceremony ushered the doctor in; and entering the whole view lay before him in its freshness. Mrs. Derrick, complacent and comfortable, sat behind the no-longer-wanted tea-tray, listening and playing with a spoon. Faith's face, though considering her unfinished muffin, was brilliant with rosy pleasure; while the fire which she had for some time forgotten to mend, lay in a state of powerful inaction, a mass of living coals and smoking brands. In the glow of that stood the easy chair, and therein Mr. Linden, although with the air and attitude of one wanting both rest and strength, was considering with rather unbent lips no less a subject than--One and Somewhat!--further the doctor's eyes could not read. The precise direction of those other eyes was shaded. The doctor came up and stood beside them. "Did I order you to stay up stairs?" he said in soft, measured syllables, without having spoken to anybody else. "Good evening, doctor!" said Mr. Linden offering his hand. "As I meet you half way, please excuse me for keeping my seat." From that hand, the doctor passed to Faith's; which was taken and held, just enough to say all he wished to say; which, be it remarked in passing, was a good deal. "May I approach Mrs. Derrick?" said he then, turning round to Mr. Linden with a cool, funny, careless, yet good-humoured, doubt upon his face. "What is the present state of your nerves?" "Depending upon your answer, of course!--which the ordinary rules of society forbid me to wait for. Madam!--are you in sufficient charity with me to give me a cup of tea?" "Yes, doctor--if the tea's good enough," said Mrs. Derrick with her usual quietness. "And if it isn't I'll have some more." So saying she got up and went towards the kitchen to call Cindy. The doctor skilfully intercepted this movement, placing himself in her way. "May I ask, where you are going?" he said with a sort of gentle kindliness he did not always put on. "Why to get some tea that's fit to give you, doctor. I don't think this is." "Will you give me something else?" "I'll give you that first," said Mrs. Derrick--"I'll see about the rest." And passing out into the kitchen she gave her orders about the teapot, and a quiet little injunction to Faith to go in and sit down. "Mother, you're tired," said Faith. "Let me see about the tea!" "I guess I will!" said Mrs. Derrick. "I'm not going to have the house stand up on one end just because Dr. Harrison wants his tea. You go off, pretty child,--if you stay here he'll think you're baking muffins for him, and I don't choose he should." "Why I would do it, mother," said Faith. She went off, however, into the other room and sat down gravely, quite the other side of the fireplace from the tea-table. Dr. Harrison was standing on the rug with his back to the fire, and followed her with his eye. "How do you do?" he said in a softened voice, stepping a step nearer to her. She looked up and gave him a frank and kind "very well!" Was it altogether professional, the way in which he took up her hand and held it an instant? "Cool, and quiet," he said. "It's all right. I didn't frighten you out of your wits yesterday?" The "no, sir," was in a different tone. "Do you suppose," he said, "that your mother will ever bear the sight of me again?" "Why I hope so, sir," said Faith smiling. "I don't know!" he said. "I wonder if I have been so much more wicked than I knew of? I don't think I have. I couldn't have punished myself any more." Mrs. Derrick came in, followed by teapot and muffins, and having with her usual politeness requested the doctor to take a seat at the table, she proceeded to pour him out a cup of tea, nor even stinted him in sugar. "If I stay at home according to your orders," said Mr. Linden, "I shall have all the trustees after me." "You aren't just the person they ought to be after," said the doctor. "Mrs. Derrick, I don't know why we never have anything at our house so good as this." The doctor was discussing a buttered muffin with satisfaction that was evidently unfeigned. Mrs. Derrick knew why--but she wouldn't tell him, though exulting in her own knowledge. A low knock at the parlour door announced Reuben Taylor. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Derrick--" he said,--"but I went"-- "I am here, Reuben," said Mr. Linden. The boy stayed not for more compliments then, but passing the ladies and the doctor with a collective bow, and "good evening, Miss Faith," went round with a quick step and a glad face to Mr. Linden. And kneeling down by him, with one hand on his shoulder, gave him the post despatches, and asked and answered questions not very loud but very earnestly. That was a phasis of Reuben Dr. Harrison had not seen before. He took good and broad note of it, though nothing interrupted the doctor's muffin--or muffins, for they were plural. Neither did he interrupt anything that was going on. "Are you better, sir? are you really well enough to be down stairs?"--Dr. Harrison would hardly have known the voice. And the answering tone was of the gentlest and kindest, though the words failed to reach the doctor's ears. Some directions, or commissions, apparently, Mr. Linden gave for a few minutes, and then Reuben rose to his feet with a long breath that spoke a mind very much relieved. He paused for a moment on his way out, opposite Faith, as if he wanted a word in that quarter; but perhaps the doctor's presence forbade, for all the congratulation that Reuben gave her was in his face and bow. That did not satisfy Faith if it did him. She jumped up and gave him her hand, almost affectionately. "You see I am safe and well, Reuben." "I am so thankful, Miss Faith!" And the words said not half. The doctor had finished his muffins and was standing before the fire again. "Have you found out yet, my man," he said in a somewhat amused voice,--"whose friend you are?" The words jarred--and the colour on Reuben's face was of a different tint from that which had answered Faith. It was with his usual reserved manner, though nothing could be more civil, that he said, "No sir--no more than I knew before." But the respect was from Reuben as a boy to Dr. Harrison as a man. Faith's eye glanced from one to the other, and then she said, "What do you mean, Dr. Harrison?" "Only a play of words," said the doctor lightly. "This young fellow is very cautious of making professions--as I have found." "He has no need, sir," said Faith. She quitted as she spoke, the boy's hand which she had held until then, and came back to her seat. The words were spoken quietly enough and with as gentle a face, and yet with somewhat in the manner of both that met and fully answered all the bearing of the doctor's. "You need not wait, Reuben," said his teacher--"I shall see you again by and by." "Who is that?" said the doctor as Reuben went out. "One of my body-guard," said Mr. Linden, with lips not yet at rest from their amused look. "Are you waited upon by a Fehm-gericht? or may the members be known by the uninitiated?" "I beg pardon!" said Mr. Linden,--"but as you seemed to know him, and as you really did know his name a week ago--That is Reuben Taylor, Dr. Harrison." "So do I beg pardon! His name I do know, of course--as I have had occasion; but the essence of my enquiry remains in its integrity. _Him_ I do not know. Where and to whom does he belong?" "He is one of those of whom we spoke this morning," said Mr. Linden. "True servant of God is his title--to Him does Reuben belong. His home here is a little hut on the outskirts of Pattaquasset, his father a poor fisherman." There was a minute's silence, all round. "May I ask for a little enlightening, Miss Derrick?" said the doctor. "What do you mean, if you will be so good as to let me know,--by a person who 'does not need' to make professions." Faith hesitated. "Will you please say first, Dr. Harrison, just what you mean by 'professions?'" she said somewhat timidly. "I shall shelter myself under your meaning," said he looking at her. "Fact is, I am not good at definitions--I don't half the time know what I'm saying myself." Faith cast an involuntary glance for help towards Mr. Linden; but getting none she came back to the doctor and the question, blushing a good deal. "I think," she said, "professions are telling people what you wish them to believe of you." The doctor looked comical, also threw a glance in the direction of Mr. Linden, but put his next question seriously. "Why do you say this Reuben Taylor does not need to make professions? according to this definition." "Because those who know him know what he is, without them." "But do you mean that there is no use in making professions? How are you to know what a man is?" "Unless he tells you?" said Faith smiling. The doctor stood, half smiling; evidently revolving more thoughts than of one kind. With a face from which every shadow was banished he suddenly took a seat by Mrs. Derrick. "Do you know," he said with gentle pleasantness of manner and expression, "how much better man I should be if I should come here and get only one definition a day from your little daughter?" "What one has she given you now?" said Mrs. Derrick, whose mind evidently stood in abeyance upon this speech. "One you didn't hear, ma'am. It was a definition of me, to myself. It isn't the first," said the doctor gravely. "Mrs. Derrick, are you friends with me?" "As much as I ever was," said Mrs. Derrick, smilingly. "I always thought you wanted putting in order." "How did you know that?" "Why, because you were out of order," said Mrs. Derrick, knitting away. The doctor uttered the lowest of whistles and looked down at his boot. "It's because of that unlucky dog!" he muttered. "Linden--" (glancing up from under his eyebrows) "when I was a boy, I set my dog on Miss Faith's cat." "Felt yourself called upon to uphold natural antipathies--" "Miss Faith, have you a cat now?" said the doctor looking over to her. "No, sir." "And I have no dog!" said the doctor. "I have only horses. If I could manage to do without animals altogether,--Mrs. Derrick, have you forgiven me?" This last was in a changed tone. "I don't want to talk about it, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick very soberly. "About forgiving me?" he said as soberly. "And I don't mean to." "Nor I," said the doctor quietly; "but you are going to inflict more punishment on me than I deserve." "What am I going to do?" said Mrs. Derrick. "If you know, I don't." "Refuse to give me your hand, perhaps." "I never did that to anybody, yet," she said pleasantly. "Then you must let me do as we do in another country." He bent his face to her hand as he spoke, and kissed it. There was no mockery in the action. Done by some people it would have been ridiculous. By Dr. Harrison, in the circumstances, it was in the highest degree graceful. It spoke sympathy, penitence, respect, manly confession, and submission, too simply not to be what it certainly was in some measure, a true expression of feeling. Mrs. Derrick on her part looked amused,--her old recollections of the boy constantly tinged her impressions of the man; and perhaps not without reason. "You're as like yourself as ever you can be, doctor!" she said, smiling at him. "How you used to try to get round me!" "I don't remember!" said the doctor. "I am sure I never succeeded, Mrs. Derrick?" "I'm afraid you did, sometimes," she said, shaking her head. He smiled a little, and turned the other way. "Linden, I've been considering the German question." "Will it please you to state the result?" "This!" said the doctor. "I have come to the conclusion,--that in order to be One and Somewhat, it is necessary to begin by being Nought and All--Thus ranging myself in security on _both_ sides of a great abyss of metaphysics. What do you think? Unphilosophical?" "Unsafe--" said Mr. Linden. "And impossible." "Humph?"--said the doctor. "Nothing is impossible in metaphysics--because you may be on both sides of an abyss, and in the bottom of it!--at once--and without knowing where you are. The angel that rode Milton's sunbeam, you know, was no time at all going from heaven to earth; and I suppose he went the other way as quick." "I don't see the abyss in that case," said Mr. Linden,--"but ----'Uriel to his charge Returned on that bright beam'-- so probably he did." "Yes"--said the doctor.--"And my meaning skipped the abyss,--also on a sunbeam. It referred to the unsubstantial means of travelling in use among metaphysicians." "And among angels." "That reminds me," said the doctor. And quitting his stand on the rug, which he had taken again, he went over to Faith and sat down by her. "Is the Nightingale flourishing on her rose-bush to-day?" "What, sir?" said Faith, her eyes opening at him a little. "I beg pardon!" said the doctor. "I have been living in a part of the world, Miss Derrick, where it is the fashion to call things not by their right names. I have got a foolish habit of it. Do you feel quite recovered?" "Quite. I'm a little tired to-night, perhaps." "I see you are, and I'll not detain you. Mrs. Custers wants to see you again." He had dropped all banter, and was speaking to her quietly, respectfully, kindly, as he should speak; in a lowered tone, but not so low as to be unheard by others than her. "I will try to see her again soon--I will try to go very soon," she answered. "Would you be afraid to go with my father's old stand-bys?--they are safe!"-- "I cannot do that, Dr. Harrison--but I will try to see her soon." "Can you go without riding?" "No," she said smiling; "but I must find some other way." "I won't press that point," said the doctor. "I can't blame you. I must bear that. But--I want for my own sake to have the honour of a little talk with you--I want to explain to you one or two things. Shall you be at leisure to-morrow afternoon?" "I am hardly _at leisure_ any time, Dr. Harrison. I do not suppose I shall be particularly busy then." "Then will you take that time for a walk?" Faith hesitated. "I have very little time, sir." "But you take time to go out?" "Not much." "I will not ask much. A little will do; and so much you owe to skyey influences. You will not refuse me that?" "I will go, Dr. Harrison," Faith answered after an instant a little soberly. He rose up then; proposed to attend upon Mr. Linden, and they went up stairs together. CHAPTER XXVIII. Faith was half ready to wish the next day might be rainy; but it rose fair and bright. She must go to walk, probably; and visiters might come. The only thing to be done was to despatch her ordinary duties as quick as possible, prepare her French exercise, and go to her teacher early. Which she did. She came in with a face as bright as the day, although a little less ready to look in everybody's eyes. There were enough things ready for her. Lessons were pressed rather more steadily than usual, perhaps because they had been neglected a little for the last two days--or hindered; and it was not till one book and another had done its work, till the exercise was copied and various figure puzzles disposed of, that Mr. Linden told her he thought a talking exercise ought to come next,--if she had one ready he should like to have the benefit of it. "You are tired, Mr. Linden!" said Faith quickly. "You may begin by giving me the grounds of that conclusion." "I don't know," she said half laughing,--"I don't see it; but that don't make me know. I was afraid you were tired with this work." "Very unsafe, Miss Faith, to build up such a superstructure upon grounds that you neither see nor know. I was immediately beginning to question the style of my own explanations this morning." "Why, sir?" "If I seem tired, said explanations may have seemed--tiresome." She looked silently, with a smile, as if questioning the possibility of his thinking so; and her answer did not go to that point. "You didn't seem tired, Mr. Linden--I had no reason for thinking so, I suppose. I was only afraid. I was going to ask you what Dr. Harrison meant last night by the angel riding upon a sunbeam? I saw you knew what he meant." Mr. Linden got up and went for a book--then came back to his couch again. "Precisely what Dr. Harrison meant, Miss Faith, I should not like to say. What he referred to, was a part of Paradise Lost, where the angels set to guard the earth have a messenger. 'Thither came Uriel, gliding through the even On a sunbeam, swift as a shooting star.'" "Who is Uriel? an angel?" "Yes. He is called, 'The archangel Uriel, one of the seven Who in God's presence, nearest to his throne, Stand ready at his command, and are his eyes. That run through all the heavens, or down to the earth, Bear his swift errands over moist and dry, O'er sea and land.'" Faith listened, evidently with a pleased ear. "But I suppose the angel could come as well without the sunbeam as with it?" "I suppose so!" he said smiling. "In my belief, angels go where the sunbeams do not. But Milton chose to name Uriel as the special regent of the sun, and so passing to and fro on its rays." "What do you mean by 'regent,' Mr. Linden?" "A regent is one appointed to rule in place of the king." "But that don't seem to me true, Mr. Linden," said Faith after a little meditation. "What, and why?" Faith blushed at finding herself 'in for it,' but went on. "I don't suppose the sun wants anybody to rule it or to take care of it, under its Maker?" "Yet it may please him to have guardian spirits there as well as here,--about that we know not. In the Revelation, you know, an angel is spoken of as 'standing in the sun,' and from that Milton took his idea. Part of the description is very beautiful, at least;-- 'So spake the false dissembler unperceived; For neither man nor angel can discern Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks Invisible, except to God alone, By his permissive will, through heaven and earth. And oft though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill, Where no ill seems: which now for once beguiled Uriel, though regent of the sun, and held The sharpest sighted spirit of all in heaven.'" "Who is the person spoken of in the first line, Mr. Linden?" "Satan--applying to Uriel for guidance to the new created earth and its inhabitants, on the same plea that Herod presented to the wise men." "But that's a story?" said Faith. "Yes. The Bible only tells the work done by him after he got here." "Mr. Linden, will you read that over once more for me." She listened with a face of absorbed intentness while it was read; then looked away from the book with an unconscious but very audible sigh. "Well?" Mr. Linden said, smiling as he looked at her. "I like it very much!" was Faith's answer. "Is that what made you sigh?" "Sigh!" she said starting a little and colouring. "No,--I didn't mean to sigh." "The fact is more than the intention. Whence came that?" "It was only--Please don't ask me, Mr. Linden. I can't tell you." He made no answer to that, but turning over the leaves read to her here and there without much comment,--then asked her if she was tired of hearing about angels. "I think I should never be tired!" said Faith. "But you must be, Mr. Linden. Please," she said putting her hand gently on the book,--"don't read for me any more. Is all the book like that?" "Not quite all--I have given you some bits that I particularly like, but there is much more. You need not be uneasy about my being tired," he said smiling; "if I were, by your own shewing I can have rest. However, Miss Faith--lessons being the order of the day--will you read French to me?" In her reading, Faith came to the description of the philosopher's perplexity in finding that the birds would not pick up the crumbs he threw to them on the roof as usual. He concluded the feathered things were not more reason able than mankind, and had taken fright for nothing. "J'allais fermer ma fenêtre sur cette réflexion, quand j'aperçois tout à coup, dans l'espace lumineux qui s'étend à droite, l'ombre de deux oreilles qui se dressent, puis une griffe qui s'avance, puis la tête d'un chat tigré qui se montre à l'angle de la gouttière. Le drôle était là en embuscade, espérant que les aniettes lui amèneraient du gibier. "Et moi qui accusais la couardise de mes hôtes! J'étais sûr qu'aucun danger ne les menaçait! je croyais avoir bien regardé partout! je n'avais oublié que le coin derrière moi! "Dans la vie comme sur les toits, que de malheurs arrivent pour avoir oublié un seul coin!" Faith closed the book then, very much amused with the philosopher's "chat tigré." "But often one can't see round the corner," she remarked. A little gesture of lips and brow, half asserted that if one could not, _one_ could: but Mr. Linden only said, "Most true! Miss Faith. Nevertheless, the knowledge that there _are_ corners is not to be despised." "I don't know. I shouldn't like to live always in fear of seeing the shadow of a cat's ears come in." "Have you quite outgrown the love of cats?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "No, but I was talking of the fear of corners," she said with an answering smile. "I don't think I want to remember the corners, Mr. Linden." "I don't think I want you should. Philosophers and birds, you know, go through the world on different principles." She laughed a little at that, gave the hearth a parting brush, and went off to dinner. Business claimed its place after dinner, business of a less pleasant kind, quite up to the time when Faith must put on her bonnet to walk with Dr. Harrison. Faith had no great mind to the walk, but she couldn't help finding it pleasant. The open air was very sweet and bracing; the exercise was inspiriting, and the threatened talk went well with both. There was nothing whatever formidable about it; the words and thoughts seemed to play, like the sunlight, on anything that came in their way. Dr. Harrison knew how to make a walk or a talk pleasant, even to Faith, it seemed. Whatever she had at any time seen in him that she did not like, was out of sight; pleasant, gentle, intelligent, grave, he was constantly supplying ear and mind with words and things that were worth the having. Probably he had discovered her eager thirst for knowledge; for he furnished her daintily with bits of many a kind, from his own stores which were large. She did not know there was any design in this; she knew only that the steps were taken very easily in that walk. So pleasant it was that Faith was in no haste to turn, in no mood to quicken her pace. But something else was on her mind,--and must come out. "Dr. Harrison,"--she said when they were in a quiet part of the way, with nobody near, "may I speak to you about something?--that perhaps you won't like?" "You can speak of nothing I should not like--to hear," he said with gentle assurance. "Dr. Harrison--" said Faith, speaking as if the recollection touched her,--"when you and I were thrown out in that meadow the other day and came so near losing our lives--if the _almost_ had been _quite_, if we had both been killed,--_I_ should have been safe and well, I believe.--How would it have been with you?" Dr. Harrison looked at her. "If I had gone in your company," he said, "I think it would hardly have been ill with me." "Do you know so little as that?"--she said, in such a tone of sorrow and pity as might have suited one of the 'ministering spirits' she had been likened to. "I don't think I am as good as you are," the doctor said with a face not unmoved. "Good!" said Faith. "What do you mean by goodness, Dr. Harrison?" "I shall have the worst of it if I try to go into definitions again," he said smiling. "I think you will find what I mean, in consulting your own thoughts." "Goodness?" said Faith again. "Do you remember the silver scale-armour of that Lepisma, Dr. Harrison? _That_ is perfection. That is what God means by goodness--not the outside things that every eye, or your own, can see;--but when the far-down, far-back thoughts and imaginations of your heart will bear _such_ looking at and be found faultless! Less than that, God will not take from you, if you are going to heaven by your own goodness." He looked at her. They had changed sides; and as fearless now as he, _she_ was the speaker, and he had little to say. "I don't know much about these things, Miss Faith," he answered soberly. "I don't know much, Dr. Harrison," she said humbly. "But think what you were near the other day." "I don't know!"--said he, as if making a clean breast of it. She paused. "Dr. Harrison, will a wise man leave such a matter in uncertainty?" "I am not wise," said he. "I am ignorant--in this." "You know you need not remain so." "That is not so certain! I have seen so much--of what you have seen so little, my dear Miss Derrick, that you can scarce understand how light the weight of most people's testimony is to me." "But there is the testimony of one higher," said Faith. "There is God's own word?" "I don't know it." "_Won't_ you know it, sir?" "I will do anything you ask me in that voice," he said smiling at her. "But after all one reads people and people's _professions_, miss Faith;--and they make the first impression." "I dare say it is often not true," said Faith sadly. "_You_ are true," said he; "and you may say to me what you will, on this subject or any other, and I will believe it." They walked a little distance in silence. "What are you thinking of?" said the doctor in a very gentle accent of inquiry. "I am sorry--very sorry for you, Dr. Harrison." "Why?" said he taking her hand. "Because it seems to me you are not caring in earnest about this matter." He kissed the hand, without asking permission. But it was done with a grateful warm expression of feeling. "I will do whatever you tell me to do!" he said. How Faith wished she could send him to another adviser! But that she could not. "Tell me," he repeated. "I will do it." The look and tone were earnest, moved, and warm; she had hardly seen the like in Dr. Harrison before. "Then, Dr. Harrison, I wish you would read the Bible, with the determination to do what you find there you ought." "I will," he said smiling. "And if I get into difficulty you must help me." The rest of the way was extremely pleasant, after that; only it seemed to Faith that they met all the world! First there was Cecilia Deacon, whose eyes took good note, she thought, of both the walkers from head to foot. Then they met at intervals every one of Faith's Sunday school scholars; for every one of whom she had a glad greeting and word which she must stop for, somewhat to the doctor's amused edification. Miss Bezac happened, of all people, to be going up street when they were going down; and her eyes looked rather with some wistful gravity upon the pair, for all her pleasant nods to both. Then Mrs. Somers. "Well I think you are _Faith!_"--was her brisk remark,--"or faith_less_--which is it? Julius, I heard a remarkable story about you yesterday." "Aunt Ellen--I like to hear remarkable stories. Especially about anything remarkable." "Well this isn't one of that sort," said Mrs. Somers. "I am sure you said--However, let's have it, of any sort." "I heard you had your pocket picked of a good opportunity," said Mrs. Somers. "Does Mr. Linden expect to be out next week, Faith?" "I believe Dr. Harrison will not let him, Mrs. Somers." A little unverbalized sound answered that, and Mrs. Somers said good evening and walked on. Faith thought that was the end, as they were near her own door. But Dr. Harrison followed her in; and entering the sitting-room, Faith found that her meetings were not over. There was no less a person than Mrs. Stoutenburgh, and there also, regaling her eyes and ears, were Mrs. Derrick and Mr. Linden. Mrs. Stoutenburgh was a fair, pretty, curly-haired woman, a good deal younger than the Squire, intensely devoted to her own family, and very partial to Mr. Linden--whom she had taken under her wing (figuratively) from his first coming to Pattaquasset. The first sound Faith heard as she opened the door was Mrs. Stoutenburgh's merry laugh at some remark of his--then the lady jumped up and came towards her. "My dear Faith, how do you do?--Dr. Harrison--I half said I would never speak to you again! Faith, how can you trust yourself with him for one minute?" "Mrs. Stoutenburgh," said the doctor,--"I half thought I would shoot myself!" "I guess that's as near as you'll come to it, on purpose," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "You needn't think I shall forget it--whenever I want Faith to come and see me I shall tell Mr. Linden to bring her. He's safe--or supposed to be," she added laughingly. "I hope that's as near to it as I shall ever come on purpose, or _otherwise_, Mrs. Stoutenburgh!" said the doctor. "I think you should judge me safer than Mr. Linden,--as appearances go." "Squire Deacon used to tell very hard stories of him when he first came," said the lady--"and I _have_ heard a report or two since. I do love to talk to him about it!--he always looks so grave, I think he likes it." The laugh was mutual, whether the delight was or no. "Who is Squire Deacon?" said the doctor. "I should like to make his acquaintance." Faith took off her bonnet, and then pulled off her gloves, deliberately, and bestowed them on the table. "O he's a Pattaquasseter," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh--"haven't you seen his sister? She admires you--more than I think she need," she added mischievously. "But the Squire's been away for awhile,--he just got home this afternoon." Faith had recourse to the fire. The doctor came round, took the tongs from her and did the work; after which he took a somewhat succinct leave of the assembly. "By the way, Linden," he said pausing by his chair a moment,--"I expect to be in Quilipeak for a few days--I am very sorry, but I must. You won't want me, I think. Limbre can do all that is necessary. I shall see you Monday or Tuesday again." "Doctor!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh--"I want you to take me home. Mr. Stoutenburgh always makes such a fuss if I'm out after dark and don't bring anybody home to tea, that I never dare do it." "Will you trust yourself with me, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?" said the doctor standing in comical doubt. "Just wait a minute," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, as she went round with her pretty, free, womanly manner, and laid her hand on Mr. Linden's forehead and hands, just as if he had been one of her own boys. "I tell you what--I don't think you cure him up half fast enough among you. If I had him up at my house I'd take better care of him." "No, Mrs. Stoutenburgh, even you could not do that," he said looking up at her. She stood still a moment. "You shouldn't look at me so," she said,--"I shall go home and feel real bad for all the nonsense I've been talking. You know," she added, with the mischievous look coming back, "I never did believe one word of it--except--" and the sentence was finished softly. "Now I'm ready, doctor--O Faith, I had a message for you, but Mr. Linden will tell you. Good-bye. No, doctor--I'm not going to trust myself with you,--you're going to trust yourself with me." Dr. Harrison was for once quiet, and went off without a repartee. Other eyes looked with a different anxiety at Mr. Linden then, and another voice, more grave as well as more timid, asked, at his side, "Are you not so well to-night, Mr. Linden?" He smiled, and gave her his hand by way of answer, before he spoke. "I think I am, Miss Faith--you know Mrs. Stoutenburgh has not seen me before since I was quite well." She brought both hands to test the feeling of his, for an instant, without speaking. "Mr. Linden, I heard what Dr. Harrison said--Don't you think I can do instead of Dr. Limbre?" "Yes, Miss Faith--if you will be so good," he answered without hesitation and with the simplest tone and manner. Her brow lightened immediately; and happy and quiet as usual, and that was very happy, she began to make her preparations for tea, clearing the table and rolling it to its last night's position. In which last operation she had assistance. Then she went off for her tea--and the lamp and the fire-light shone again presently on the pleasant scene of last night. "Don't you want to hear your message, Miss Faith?" Mr. Linden said. "Yes, but I wasn't in a hurry, Mr. Linden. I supposed it would come." "It is in three parts. The first is nothing new; being merely that the birthday of the young heir of the house of Stoutenburgh occurs on the 29th of November. Whether the second part is new, I--being a stranger--cannot tell; but the day is to be graced with various suitable festivities." "It's all new to me," said Faith laughing. "Of the novelty of the third part you also must judge," said Mr. Linden with a smile. "The aforesaid young heir will consider the festivities entirely incomplete without your presence--nay, will perhaps refuse to have his birthday come at all, and wish that these 'happy returns' had never had a beginning." Faith's laugh came with its full merry roll now, and she withal coloured a little. "What must I do then, Mr. Linden?" "I generally incline to the merciful side, Miss Faith--I believe I should advise you to go. Then I, not having such power in my hands, may not appreciate its fascinations." "Such power? As what, Mr. Linden?" "I ought in conscience to tell you--" he went on without answering her,--"it has been on my mind ever since, that the other night"--and the look was grave for a minute--"the trophy of a broken rosebud was picked up where you fell. And I had not the heart to reclaim it, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said, with a submissive air of confession. She looked at him with the prettiest look in the world, of grave, only half conscious enquiry; and then the lost rosebud was more than replaced in her cheeks. "That is the state of the case," Mr. Linden said, as gravely as if both rosebuds had been out of sight and mind, "but your mother refuses to go. And it seems that I also am wanted on the 29th; so if you please, Miss Faith, I will try to see that you make the journey both ways in safety." "I should like to go," said Faith quietly. "They are pleasant people." The tea things were withdrawn, and Cindy was no more needed there, and Mrs. Derrick also had gone into the other part of the house to attend to some business. Faith stood before the fire looking meditatively into it. "I wish," she said slowly and soberly,--"Dr. Harrison would please to talk to you instead of to me, Mr. Linden!" "Talk to me?" Mr. Linden repeated, looking at her. "About professions?" "No indeed!" said Faith, first astonished and then smiling,--"I mean very different things. About religion, and what he thinks of it?" Rather soberly the words were received, and soberly answered, not at once. "Do not let him say much to you on that last point, Miss Faith." "How can I help it, Mr. Linden?" she said instantly. "Forbid him, if need be. If he asks for information, and you choose to give it, that is one thing,--you are not obliged to hear all the skeptical views and arguments with which he is furnished. Your statement of the truth has nothing to do with the grounds of his unbelief." "But--" Faith got no further. She stood thinking of that afternoon's talk, and of the certain possible hindrances to her following such advice. "I am talking a little in the dark, you know," Mr. Linden said,--"I am only supposing what he may say and ask you to say; and I do not think much of such conversation between any parties. Press home the truth--and like David's pebble it may do its work; but in a fencing match David might have found it harder to maintain his ground. And his overthrow would not have touched the truth of his cause, nor perhaps his own faith--yet the Philistine would have triumphed." "Thank you, Mr. Linden," she said with a grateful smile. "That is just the truth. But, do you think Dr. Harrison is--exactly a Philistine?" "Not in all respects," he said smiling. "What do you mean by a Philistine?" "I thought you put him in the place of _that_ Philistine," she said. "Yes, for the illustration. But I do not know him to be strictly a _champion_ of unbelief, although he avows himself on that side. His conversations with me have left me uncertain how far he would go." Faith was silent and looked thoughtful. "Have I touched any of your difficulties? May I hear any more?" "No--" she said. "I believe you have said all you can say. And it is good for me." "I have not said all I _could_ say, but it is not easy for me to talk to you about it at all. You see, Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden smiling, "there cannot be such an anomaly in nature as a philosophical bird--so what am I to do?" Faith smiled a little and thought that as long as he gave her the benefit of his philosophy, it did not much matter. Which recondite view of the subject she did not put into words. The days began to roll on smoothly once more, subsiding into their old uneventful flow. The flow of talk indeed had not quite subsided; but as nothing came to throw any light on the point of the unknown sportsman who chose his sport so strangely, curiosity took a modified, condensed form; and the whole matter was stowed away in people's minds as the one Pattaquasset mystery. Happy Pattaquasset! Even Mr. Linden's protracted confinement to the house made little difference to most, he had been so little seen when he was able to be out: only the boys had had his daylight hours; and where he had spent those times of twilight and evening when he was not at home, no one knew but the poor unknown class who mourned his absence as they had blessed his presence, in secret. The boys were not silent,--but they had the indemnification of going to see him, and of watching--or sleeping--in his room at night, according to their various dispositions. There came all his scholars on Sunday,--met by Faith on her contrary way; there came the whole school by turns, and at all hours. Indeed when once the embargo upon visiters was taken off, the supply was great!--and without careful measures on the part of Mr. Linden, French exercises would have been put aside with a witness. But he made two or three rules, and carried them out. In the first place he would see nobody before dinner, except the doctor; nor anybody after tea, save the same privileged individual. In the second place, when he was able to be out of his room without too much fatigue, the lessons were carried on down stairs,--in the dining-room generally, as being more private. There could both parties come and go without observation; and often when Mrs. Derrick was entertaining a roomful, a sudden fall of the thin partition would have revealed the very people they were discussing, deep in some pretty point of information. Pretty those lessons were! Faith's steps,--arithmetical, geographical, or what other,--were swift, steady, and sure; herself indefatigable, her teacher no less. If Mr. Linden had not quite come to be in her eyes "an old school book," she was yet enough accustomed to his teaching and animadversions to merge the binding in the book; and as to him, she might have been one of his school boys, for the straightforward way in which he opened paths of knowledge and led her through. The leading was more careful of her strength, more respectful of her timidity,--was more strictly _leading_ than _pushing_,--that was all. Of course in two weeks, or even in four, the best of teachers and scholars could make but a beginning; but that was well made, and the work went steadily on from thence--despite "teaching all day," despite the various other calls for time and strength. And Faith was as docile and obedient as Johnny Fax himself, and as far as those qualities went, very much in the same way. If the denial of Phil's _information_ and Mr. Linden's manner the day after her overturn, had raised a doubt as to the real abstractness of his regard for her, Faith's modesty and simplicity put the thought well into the background. She did not care to look at it or bring it up; in the full, happy, peaceful hours she was enjoying she had enough, for the present; and so Faith went on very much after her old fashion. A little quieter, perhaps, when not called out of it; a little shyer of even innocently putting herself forward; but in speech or action, speaking and acting with her wonted free simplicity. The only breaks in these weeks were one or two visits to Mrs. Custers, and the doctor's comings and goings. He could not be shut out. The Monday evening after the doctor's absence at Quilipeak, the little party were as usual in the sitting-room; and a pretty chapter of Physical Geography was in process of reading and talk, when the doctor's quick wheels at the door announced not only his return but his arrival. And Mr. Linden announced to his scholar, that it was needful now to return to the surface of the earth and attend to the flow of conversation--and to put the book in his pocket. "Are you glad to see me back?" said the doctor as he took the hand of his patient. He looked rather glad himself. "If I say yes, that will be to confess that I have reason. You perceive my dilemma," Mr. Linden said, but with a smile that was certainly as kind and trustworthy as any the doctor had seen since he went away. "Do you mean--that you have no reason to be glad?" said Dr. Harrison slowly, eying the smile and giving it, to judge by his own, a trustful regard. "Certainly not! It's a comfort to have somebody at hand who is ready to fight me at any moment," said Mr. Linden. "What have you been doing since I went away?" "Reading, writing, and considering the world generally." "From this Pattaquasset centre!" "Why not?--if lines meet and make it one." "How do you get the ends of the lines in your hands!" said the doctor. "A centre, I feel it to be--but very like the centre of the earth--socially and politically. You see, I have just emerged to the surface, and come down again. Who has taken care of you?" "I feel quite equal to the task of taking care of myself, thank you, doctor." "You don't mean to say, man, you have dressed your arm yourself?" "What _do_ you suppose my powers are equal to?" "That is a matter," said the doctor, "upon which I stand in doubt--which gives me an uncomfortable, troublesome sort of feeling when I am in your presence. It must be superstition. I suppose I shall get the better of it--or of you!--in time. Meanwhile, who _has_ dressed your arm for you?" The answer was given very quietly, very simply, not very loud. "The lady whom you had the honour of instructing in the art, Dr. Harrison." "Did you do it well?" said Dr. Harrison somewhat comically, wheeling round before Faith. She was a contrast; as her face looked up at him, rather pleased, and her soft voice answered,--"I think I did, sir." "I don't doubt you did! And I don't doubt you would do anything. Are you preparing to be another Portia? And am I to be Bellario?" "I don't know what you mean, Dr. Harrison." "Do you know the story of Portia?--in the Merchant of Venice?" "I never read it." "She was a dangerous character," said the doctor. "Portia, Miss Derrick, wishing to save not the life but the character and happiness of a--But what a way this is to tell you the story! Is there a Shakspeare here?" "We haven't it," said Faith quietly. "I'll bring the play the next time I come, if you will allow me," he said sitting down by her;--"and indoctrinate you in something more interesting than my first lesson. How shall I thank you for doing my work for me?" "It became my work." "I am in your debt nevertheless--more than you can know without being one of my profession. I have some thing that I wish to submit to your inspection, and to take your advice upon, too. It will be fit to be seen, I hope, by the day after to-morrow. If I could I would bring it here--but as that is not possible--Will you go to see it?" "Where is it?" "Not far; but it will cost you the taking of a few steps." Faith declared she had hardly time to go to see anything; but was obliged finally to yield to persuasion, and Thursday was the day fixed. The thing, whatever it was, however, was not ready when the day came, and the exhibition was put off indefinitely. CHAPTER XXIX. Those weeks, like others, came to an end. And then Mr. Linden gave notice to all and sundry of his scholars, that his time of seclusion was at an end--only giving way to advice so far, as to accept the daily use of Squire Stoutenburgh's close carriage, until his health should be in a more assured state. Monday morning he was to take up his old routine of school duties; though none too fit for it, in the estimation of some people,--the doctor said it was a month too soon. And no one could look at him and forget the last month's work,--a little exertion made the work very apparent; and as they sat at breakfast Monday morning, Mrs. Derrick made up her own mind privately that Dr. Harrison should have found some means to keep him in the house and from work yet longer. But the result of her meditations was not put in words; the effect betrayed itself in the extra care bestowed upon cups of coffee--the only thing within her reach. It was a cold morning, true November, with its driving grey wind clouds, through which the cool sunbeams straggled fitfully; with trees shorn of their golden honours, and brown branches waving and twisting in the wind, and only mere specks of blue here and there overhead. The gulls sailed to and fro above the Mong as if they rejoiced in the fierce gusts of northern wind; the vessels shortened sail, or ran under bare poles. The wind shook the village windows, and poured dry leaves in every porch, and swept up the world generally--not much to the comfort of the same. In Mrs. Derrick's little eating-room indeed, it was warm enough, and the floor swept after another fashion; yet even there did the wind rush in, whenever the kitchen door opened, after Cindy and the hot cakes. "Mr. Linden," said Faith after her eye had gone exploringly to the window, the wind and the clouds,--"I wish you would give the boys only half a day to-day!" "I fancy you could have your wish seconded thirty times," he said smiling. "No--not thirty times, but perhaps twenty." "I don't think those wishes would be worth minding; but I think mine is, Mr. Linden. I mean the reason of it." "I think yours is--if I could mind it. What is the reason, Miss Faith?" "I am afraid you are not quite fit for a whole day's work. In school," she added smiling. "You don't know what you are asking!--if I stay at home I shall talk nothing but French the whole afternoon." "Well," said Faith laughingly, "I should only be still. I could bear that." "I couldn't--and you wouldn't. But you need not be uneasy, Miss Faith--I must not be at home." She looked grave, but said no more. The wind was not more busy out of doors that day, than the people within. Diligent and quick hands moved about in dairy and kitchen; and a quick and diligent spirit as earnestly--(for in Faith's mind it was all one work; _that_ was on the way to _this_)--dealt with problems and idioms in the study room that Faith liked best and where she was most secure. But long enough before dinner she was helping Mrs. Derrick in the kitchen again. "Mother," she said, "you can't think how I dread to see Mr. Linden come home to-day! He won't speak one word of English to me." "I guess he would, if you wouldn't speak one word of French to him," said Mrs. Derrick sagaciously. "What are you afraid of, child?" "I am afraid just of that," said Faith sighing. "Of having to speak those French words." "Why you've been reading them to him, I'm sure," said her mother. "I didn't know anybody was afraid of him but me, Faith. But if you don't like it, why don't you tell him so?" Faith however negatived that proposition with a dubious shake of the head; which meant, probably, that neither Mr. Linden nor herself would be satisfied with such a mode of procedure; and confined her present attentions to the dinner preparations. In which and other matters she became so engaged that she forgot her fears; and going into the dining room some time after with a dish in her hands and finding Mr. Linden there, Faith asked him earnestly and with great simplicity, "how he felt after his morning's work." Then remembering, or reminded by something in his face, she started away like a deer before any answer could be given; and only came back demurely with her mother,--to receive his grave reverence and "Me voici, mademoiselle!"--given just as if he had not seen her before. The half grave half laughing flash of Faith's eye spoke as much of amusement as of fear; yet afraid she certainly was, for she did not so much as speak English to her mother. The language of the eye was all she ventured; nor that boldly. It had to come, however, fear or no fear, the English might be dispensed with but not the French. She could not but try to understand the remarks or bits of in formation which were given her--sometimes gravely sometimes laughing; and if Mr. Linden was evidently waiting for an answer--what could she do but try that too! He was an admirable dictionary, very quick at seeing and supplying her want of a word, and giving his corrections of her phraseology and pronunciation so gently and by the way, that fear partly lost itself in interest. His own speech was singularly smooth and perfect; and whenever Faith found herself getting frightened, she was sure to be assailed with such a volley of swift flowing syllables, that she could do nothing but laugh,--after which Mr. Linden would come back to the slower utterance which she could better understand. After all, Faith's words that first time were few, and it may safely be asserted that she did not in the least know what she was eating, and made no sort of a dinner. Of that last fact her instructor was well aware, but as his first "Mais mademoiselle, mangez!" received but little attention, he postponed that point till just as he was going away, and then made a rather stringent request to the same effect. So the afternoon passed on, and blew itself out, and the sun went to bed and night began to light her candles. Faith, standing at the window (it was too cold to be out) saw the red gleam fading from earth and sky, and the cold bright stars coming one by one into view. Then the boys began to pass by,--some together and some alone; walking or running home, or playing ball by the way. Mr. Linden's carriage was a little behind them all, but he came at last, and gave her a bow and a smile from the gate though she thought herself standing too far back to be seen. "Now Mr. Linden," said Faith when he came in,--"I am so glad to speak to you again! How do you do?" The question was not lightly given. "Miss Faith, did you finish your dinner?" "No--" said Faith hesitating,--"but I am going to have some tea by and by. Aren't you well tired, Mr. Linden?" "Pretty well--Why didn't you?" "I wanted to be doing something else,"--said Faith, giving the easy chair a little push into place, and then brightening up the fire. "I shall have tea in here to-night, Mr. Linden. But we must wait a little while for it, for Cindy is out. You won't be sorry to rest first." She was summarily, though very respectfully put in the easy chair herself. "By what rule of right and wrong did you do anything else first? Do you know, Miss Faith, I did not finish mine either--I wanted another piece of bread, and could not get it!" "Why not, Mr. Linden? I am sure there was bread on the table. But I am glad if you are hungry, for I have got something that you like. Now please rest!" she said springing up and beginning to arrange the table. "I am sure I asked you for it politely," he said with a smile, as he yielded to her "please rest." "What have you been about all day?" "I have been learning my lessons--and trying how well I could get on by myself." "Get on by yourself?" he said rather slowly and inquiringly. "In what?" "In the books--in my studies, Mr. Linden." "Are you tired of my help, Miss Faith?" She gave all her eyes to the answer, both in their sweetness and their gravity. "Do you think I could let you spend all your time upon me, Mr. Linden, when your whole day is given to such work? I'll come to you for help whenever I can't get on without it," she said with a smile, not exactly an enjoying one,--"but I know I can do a good deal by myself." His eyes were given to the answer too, a little intently, but the smile that followed was different. "I think you will let me do what I shall do, Miss Faith." "I suppose that!" said Faith with a bright gleam in her eyes. She went out to see if Cindy had come back; but returned immediately, sat down and looked gravely into the fire. "What is the use of startling people in that way?" Mr. Linden said, looking at her. "I didn't know but you were going to send me to take up my abode at Mrs. Seacomb's!" "Startling, Mr. Linden!" said Faith opening her eyes at him. "I said it because I thought it was right. I didn't think it was pleasant." "Well," said he, "we were agreed upon that point. Now Miss Faith, as my time is precious, and I cannot well give any of it to people who have enough of their own--would it disturb you if I were to read aloud a little here for my own amusement?" She changed her place to come nearer, without saying anything, but with a face of quiet delight only half revealed. "What do you think of the relative and respective charms of Mirth and Melancholy, Miss Faith?--I mean their charms to inward perception, not outward sight." "The pleasure of them?" said Faith. "Yes--pleasure and satisfaction." "I never thought there was any pleasure in Melancholy," said Faith smiling at the idea, but smiling inquiringly too. In answer, Mr. Linden opened his book and gave her the Allegro and Penseroso,--gave them with not only a full appreciation, but with a delicate change and suiting of voice and manner--and look, even--that made them witching. And if ever a hearer was bewitched, that was Faith. She lent her ear to the music, her eye to the eye, her thought to the thought, in utter forgetfulness of all else. At first she listened quietly, sitting where she was, looking sometimes at the fire, sometimes at the reader; but then she abandoned herself to full enjoyment, left her chair for a low seat near Mr. Linden, almost at his feet; and with upraised face and intent eye and varying play of lip, devoured it all. Sometimes the poetry certainly got beyond the bounds of her stock of knowledge; but that mattered not; for whenever the reading failed, the reader filled up all the gap and Faith listened to _him_. Precisely what it was to have just such a hearer, was best known to the reader himself; but he closed the book silently. Faith's comment was peculiar. It wasn't made at first. Her look had come round slowly to the fire and slowly subsided. After sitting a minute so, she made her remark. "But Mr. Linden, none of that seemed much like Melancholy to me?" "That may be called the ideal of Melancholy," he said smiling. "What is an 'ideal'? But oh," said Faith starting up, "it is time to have tea!--What is an 'ideal,' Mr. Linden?" It was impossible not to laugh a little--but equally impossible to take that laugh amiss. "The particular mental standard of perfection by which every person measures other people and things; and as that is generally more perfect than reality, the ideal is supposed to exist only in the idea." She stood pondering the answer, with a somewhat humbled brow. "I think I know," she said shaking her head a little,--"but I shall have to ask what exactly you mean by a _standard_, Mr. Linden. By and by--I must see to Cindy now." And she ran off. Cindy presently brought in the tray; and Faith followed, arranging and setting in order everything. The tea did not immediately follow, perhaps the fire had got low, or Mrs. Derrick was not ready, for Faith did not seem expectant. She stood on the rug before the fire, looking into it very soberly and consideratively. There was a little abstraction in her figure and air. Suddenly she faced round where she stood. "Do you feel very tired indeed to-night, Mr. Linden?" "Not _very_--now," he said smiling. "I have been resting. I was a little more tired than usual when I came home." Slowly and deliberately she came round behind his chair and stood leaning upon the back of it. "Mr. Linden--I want to ask you something." The tone was low and peculiar. It was a very common thing for her to be more or less moved by a little timidity; but now plainly Faith was afraid. It changed her voice, beyond the slight sweet touch that timidity often gave it. "You know I like to have you, Miss Faith." "I wanted to ask--if you would like,--or if you wouldn't dislike--if you would have any objection, to read and pray at night--here, with us,--and let Cindy and Mr. Skip come in?" "I will, certainly," Mr. Linden said: "how could I have any objection? Miss Faith--will you please to come round here and sit down?--Why are you so much afraid of me?" She did not leave her position. "I didn't know whether you would like it," she said in a very low voice. "I asked mother to ask you, but she wouldn't--though she said she would like to have you do it. I wanted it particularly for mother's sake."--The last words were said little above a whisper. "I don't see where the fear came from, yet." She was quite still, quite motionless, behind his chair. He turned a little, so as to see her face, and laid his hand upon hers. "Will you come round here and tell me, Miss Faith? I shall not let you stand up all the evening." She was looking, when he saw her, with the least bit of a smile upon a mouth all unbent, and eyes that were full; a very happy, stirred face. It quieted down as soon as he turned; except the smile which played rather more. "Tell you what, Mr. Linden?" she said not leaving her place. "What have I done to make myself such an ogre?" "What is an ogre, Mr. Linden?" "A ferocious sort of anomaly that everybody is afraid of." "I don't know what you've done, Mr. Linden," she said half laughing. "I am not enough afraid to hurt anything." "Enough to hurt me--I don't care about any other thing." A grave glance of her eye was regretful enough. "But it's true, Mr. Linden! I was a little afraid to ask what I wasn't sure you would like--that was all." "Well," he said with a reassuring smile, as he got up and took hold of both her hands and brought her out of position, "I am not much hurt yet--but I desire that the fear may not increase. And therefore, Miss Faith, I want to have you sit here in the firelight, so that I can keep watch of it." She smiled, as if it were beyond his ken now, but her words went to another point. "What time would you like, Mr. Linden?" "Whatever suits you." She was silent for a minute or two, with a very happy face, till the door opened. Then she sprang up and received and placed the tea and things which Cindy had brought in. There was a dainty supply to-night, perhaps in consideration of Mr. Linden's first day of out-door work, and in delicate sympathy and reward thereof. And Faith, in her happiest mood though as quiet as a mouse, was an excellent 'ministering spirit' of the tea-table; to-night particularly, for every sense and affection seemed to be on the alert. "How do you find all the boys, after their month out of school, Mr. Linden?" she said, when waffles and cups of tea were fairly under weigh. "Very glad to see me--very much afraid I should tire myself; and some a little afraid they might share the fatigue. So things correct each other!--if they had not shewed the last fear, I might have felt the first." "How did that work?" said Faith laughing a little. "It _worked_--" said Mr. Linden. "Is that intelligible, Miss Faith?" Her smile and shake of the head said that it was. "Is Joe Deacon staying home yet?" said Mrs. Derrick. "No, he began school again to-day." "I wonder whether the Squire is going off again," said Mrs. Derrick,--"or whether _he's_ going to stay home." "I have heard nothing of his going away." "You were going to tell me what exactly a 'standard' is, Mr. Linden? At least!"--said Faith correcting herself,--"I was going to ask you." "There is a very intimate connexion between the two things," said Mr. Linden smiling. "A standard, in this sense, is simply some fixed rule of the _ought to be_, by which the _is_ must be tried. Standard coin is that made according to the precise government regulation, and is the test of all other in the realm, as to size, weight, and alloy. So of standard weights and measures. For some things we have the Bible standard,--for most, each person has his own." "Then Mr. Linden," said Faith, "I think my 'ideal' of Melancholy is something disagreeable." "I don't believe you have any!" said he laughing. "You mean your idea, Miss Faith." "Do I?" said Faith. "But perhaps you have such a thing, Mr. Linden; isn't it disagreeable?" "Not at all--and besides I haven't any. But the ideal of Melancholy is about as much like the reality, as a picture of the Tragic Muse is like the fifth act of a tragedy." That Faith did not know the meaning of tragedy, was a fact which she wisely and self-denyingly kept to herself, and for the present turned her attention to supplying her mother with a fresh waffle. And so with various bits of talk, tea came to an end, and Mrs. Derrick was called out to discuss some important matter with Mr. Skip. "Mother," said Faith finding her opportunity, "I asked Mr. Linden, and he will do that."--A little shadow came over Mrs. Derrick's face. "Well, child?" she said gently. "Mother--I have asked _him_,--will you speak to Mr. Skip and Cindy?" "I can't child--" said her mother, with the same tone and look. "I'll go in myself, but I can't try to do any more." "Dear mother--" said Faith,--"I wish you would!" Her mother turned and kissed her, but the difficulty was clearly not one to be overcome. The whole subject seemed to bring up some painful association. "He'll call them in himself, if you ask him, child." "Would it be right to ask him, mother?" "Why yes!" said Mrs. Derrick--"I don't see why not. One of you must." With this thought Faith went back to the sitting-room. Clearly there was some strong feeling against her being the one, for after a little sober silent waiting, she spoke. "Mr. Linden--would you rather I should ask Cindy and Mr. Skip to come in?--or will you?" He knew, better than she did, how well the question shewed her own wish, and how simple a matter it was to him. "I will, Miss Faith, if you please. Is this the hour you have fixed upon?" "I think so," she said,--"if you like it; because by and by they will be sleepy." And Mr. Linden at once proceeded to the kitchen. A busy murmur of tongues, and bright firelight glancing from keyhole and crevice, guided him through the narrow passage which, sooth to say, he had never trod before, to the door of the kitchen; the latch of which yielded on slight persuasion, and Mr. Linden walked in. Supper was over there, too, and the dishes were washed and put away, and Cindy with dishcloth in hand was rubbing down the kitchen table. In one corner of the hearth sat Mr. Skip on a half bushel measure, a full corn basket beside him, an empty one in front, his hands busy with the shelling process; this hard work being diversified and enlivened with the continual additions he made to a cob house on the hearth. But, cob in hand, Mr. Skip paused when Mr. Linden came in, and looked up at this unusual apparition from under an extraordinary hat which drooped on all sides of his face, as if like its wearer it had long given up all idea of keeping up appearances. The face itself was strong, shrewd, apt. And so Mr. Skip looked at Mr. Linden. Cindy on her part, did nothing but wring the dish cloth and shake it out again, entirely oblivious of the greeting with which Mr. Linden favoured both parties; and she listened to the words he said about the corn, as if they had been Greek--double distilled. Those words were few. "Mr. Skip," he said then, "I think that so long as God keeps us here together every day, we ought to thank him for it together every night. I want you and Cindy to come into the parlour and let us begin to do it now." "Hey?" said Mr. Skip, between want of understanding and want of belief in the testimony of his ears. Mr. Linden repeated his words, with a composed distinctness that could leave no manner of doubt. "Well!"--said Mr. Skip. "What do you want us for to do?" "Come into the parlour." "I s'pose we'll be to come,"--said Mr. Skip, dropping his cob and getting up and straightening himself. "Will you have us in now?" "Yes," Mr. Linden answered, and led the way. "Go along, Cindy!" said Mr. Skip in undertone. "S'pose it don't take fur to see into this." Cindy obeyed, but without seeing 'fur' into anything--even the parlour, though she tried for it. There was not very much to see. Mrs. Derrick (with a little shadow of recollective sorrow) had placed the old Bible by the lamp, and now sat leaning her head on her hand and did not look up as they came in. Faith's face was one of grave joy; but the gravity was so quiet that the joy was beyond the ken of so dull a vision as Cindy's. She sat with clasped hands on a low seat beyond the fire. And Cindy at last fixed her attention upon Mr. Linden, with only an occasional roll of her eyes towards Mr. Skip. It was a long time since such a service had been in that house,--a time at first swept by a storm of sorrow, then calmed and quieted into a stillness which had grown more and more bright, year by year. Whatever sunshine those years had seen, came from Faith; but that other faith, which should make even her more precious, had been unknown. And the words of the reading and prayer to-night, were to Mrs. Derrick like the renewing of things so long past, that she could scarce bear it; and different as Mr. Linden was from any one she had ever known, that Christian family likeness almost, to her feeling, transformed him. It was a very simple matter to him, truly,--why not?--Why should it ever be anything else? or why, when the fear of God is on the tongue should the fear of man be in the heart? Yet it was even more the love of God than the fear, that his hearers perceived that night. Simple in word and tone and manner, it was the simplicity of a feeling so full and strong that it needed no capillary tubes of speech to carry it upward. The prayer ended, and the retreating steps on their way along the kitchen passage, Mrs. Derrick came up to Faith, and putting her arms round her kissed first one cheek and then the other--then turned and left the room. And Faith sat still, with that joy filling her heart so full that her head bent with the weight of it. One other comment she was destined to hear that night. "I must say, Miss Faith," said Cindy, "I like these new notions firstrate! I always did say my prayers afore I went to bed, and I'm free to confess this saves a deal of trouble." CHAPTER XXX. The quiet of that very peaceful evening was for a short time interrupted by a call from Dr. Harrison. The doctor came, he said, to see how Mr. Linden felt after his day's work; and to tell Faith that his exhibition was in readiness for her and only waited a sunny day and her presence. It was agreed that if the sun did not fail of shewing himself the next afternoon, Faith should not. Tuesday was fair, and the afternoon came on brilliant with sunbeams. But the doctor's steps did not reach Mrs. Derrick's door by some minutes so soon as he had purposed they should. Passing down the main street of Pattaquasset, Dr. Harrison descried before him the well known figure of Squire Stoutenburgh, and the less familiar outlines of Squire Deacon. And the doctor's near approach procured him the favour of an introduction to the latter gentleman,--either because the Squire desired it, or because the other Squire was tired of his companion and wanted to be off--which he was, as soon as the introduction was over. For in Mr. Stoutenburgh's eyes the buttonhole of Dr. Harrison's soft coat was no more precious (to say the least) than that of his own grey Rough and Ready. "Squire Deacon is anxious about the state of Mr. Linden's health, doctor," he said,--"I refer him to you." The doctor made a slight inclination, graceful as all his inclinations were, but also slight; intimating that he would have the honour of satisfying Mr. Deacon's inquiries but desired nothing more of him. "How's he getting along?" said Squire Deacon--feeling the social duty thus imposed upon him. "There is hope that he will be restored to his pristine state of strength in the course of a few weeks, sir." "A few weeks!" said Squire Deacon. "Why he's in school again, ain't he?" "He has gone in a carriage," said the doctor, who for some unaccountable reason had taken a fit of perversity,--"I understand he was in school yesterday." "Did you know him afore he come here, doctor?" "I had not that honour, sir, till I came here myself." "Well I never saw anybody as did," said Squire Deacon.--"I s'pose he comes from _somewhere_." "I doubt it," said Dr. Harrison with the slightest possible elevation of his eyebrows for an instant. Squire Deacon, however, was not just the fool Dr. Harrison took him for; of which fact a little gleam in his eyes gave notice. "'Taint extraordinary _you_ don't like him, doctor," he said carelessly. "Mr. Linden's a fine man, but 'most any pair o' wheels is one too many in some roads." "I never followed a wheelbarrow, sir," said the doctor. "I suppose, from your allusion, you have. May I be honoured with your further commands?" "Wheelbarrows have only one wheel, mostly," said Squire Deacon composedly. "You know better than I, sir. Might I enquire why you are anxious about the state of Mr. Linden's health?" "Don't know as I said I was anxious--" said Squire Deacon. "When a man's lived in a place as long as he has, it's nothing wonderful if folks ask whether he's going to hold on. All the women in my house think he's dead and buried, now." "Ah! He's a favourite in that line, is he?" "Other lines just as much--for all I know," said the Squire. "Can't say I ever just went in for all Mr. Simlins says nor all Parson Somers says, neither,--can't help that, doctor, if he is one o' your folks." "What have you against him?" "I don't say nothing against him," said Squire Deacon,--"except he's a fine man. Maybe you think that is." "Is there anything further you would like to say on any subject, sir?" "Not much, I guess, if _that's_ the time o' day," said Squire Deacon looking at him with a queer little bit of a smile. "'Taint useful to get stirred up that way, doctor, just because a man wishes you a good journey. But I can just as easy wish you another overturn--I s'pose you're pretty sure to get one or t'other out o' the horses. It's all one to me--and I dare say it is to everybody else." "What is your name, sir?" said the doctor standing and looking at him in a sort of mazed consideration. "My name's Sam Deacon,"--said the Squire with his peculiar sort of sullen composure. "Your father and I've always been friends, anyhow." "Then Mr. Deacon will you have the goodness to under stand that I am not an agent for the transaction of Mr. Linden's affairs; but as I am a friend of his, I will inform him that you are interested in the subject. That is all, sir?" "I'll go bail for the first part of that!" said Squire Deacon. "But it's your affairs I'm talkin' of--not his'n. And I s'pose I've as good a right as all the rest of Pattaquasset--and give no offence, neither. I was goin' to make you my compliments, doctor--that's all; and if you don't think you'll ever want 'em, why there's no harm done--and enough said. All I want to know is, what do you get so stirred up for?" "Is that all?" said the doctor, as if he had a mind to know the whole before giving an answer. "All what?" said Squire Deacon. "All that you wish to communicate?" "I haven't communicated anything yet," said the Squire. "I guess you knew all that before." "Well," said the doctor, half laughing, though his expression had changed more than once during the last five minutes,--"then my answer is easy. In the first place, Mr. Deacon, I have no affairs--therefore it is impossible to talk about them. In the second place, when I am in want of your compliments I will send you mine. In the third place,--I declare I am at a loss how to answer you; for the only thing I ever get stirred up for, is my breakfast! Good afternoon!--" Staying no more civilities, the doctor made the best of his way to Mrs. Derrick's. Faith was ready for him, and more gently with her he set out on the road back again. It was not a time of day to meet people--one familiar face however they did meet,--Squire Deacon. His eye did not seek Faith's face, but rested on the doctor with full effect. Arrived at the Judge's house, the doctor led her to the library, and there unlocked the door of a little cabinet room. On a table in the window, standing in the full sunshine, was the object of their visit. It was simply a fine little Aquarium. More delightfully new to Faith's eyes nothing could be; as the same eyes shewed. While they explored the wonders of the box, the doctor at his ease proceeded to unfold to her the various meanings of them. He enlarged upon the habits and characters of the several inmates of the Aquarium; he explained to her the philosophy of keeping the balance of vegetable and animal life and thereby preserving both; he told which creature lived upon which other; what office they severally, some of them, performed for the small section of Ocean in which they lived and its vitrified shores; and then taking up the subject of Sea anemones, the doctor told stories, of natural truth, that with these living specimens before her entranced Faith out of all knowledge of place or time. Dr. Harrison asked no more. He gave her what she liked, and with admirable tact abstained from putting himself forward; any further than a quick eye, excellent speech, and full and accurate mind must make themselves known, and most gentle and graceful attention make itself felt. "Do you suppose," said he, when Faith was absorbedly watching the Anemones feed,--"that Mrs. Derrick would give this thing house-room?" Faith looked, but half comprehending. "I am not always here," said the doctor carelessly, as he was supplying another bit of flesh to the voracious flower,--"and I should like to have it somewhere that it would be taken care of. If I left it to Sophy for a week, I should expect to find on my return that the vegetables and fishes had eaten up each other. Don't you admire that crab?" "Very much," said Faith. "This little fish is just like some of the shells down on the shore." "He came from the shore somewhere," said the doctor,--"little monster! The ocean world isn't much better than the world of earth, apparently, Miss Derrick." "Do you think the earth-world is like that?" said Faith. "Don't you?" "I don't know what it is like." "If you will permit me to say so, I hope you never will--any further than as you choose to make this a miniature of that. And things in miniature--are much less," said the doctor abstractedly, looking at the Anemone. "Would you like to have this little ocean box in your house for awhile, Miss Faith?--it could just as well as not. Indeed it would be rather a benefit to me." "O I should like it!" said Faith. "But I should be afraid of its getting broken, Dr. Harrison." "I am not afraid," said he. "It would be in less danger there than here. As I told you, Sophy neither knows nor cares anything about such things; and she would either kill them with kindness or forget them altogether--most likely do both alternately. But with you they would be safe, for the simple reason that you love them." The sunbeams had left the window before Faith was at all aware of the passing away of the afternoon. And then, for once to her joy, Miss Harrison could not be found. They set out to walk home, and had got half way when a little rush of footsteps came up behind them, and Reuben and Sam passed by, arm in arm; or rather half by--then paused and said good evening. "O have you seen Mr. Linden to-night, Dr. Harrison?" said Sam. "Good evening, sir!" said the doctor. "Have I the honour of knowing you?" "I should think you might," said Sam, in a tone not at all displeased--"but it don't signify much. Have you seen him to-night, doctor?" "_I_ should think I might, too," said Dr. Harrison looking coolly over the "young giant." "Allow me to observe, that 'to-night' is not come yet." "Did you ever!" said Sam in an aside to Reuben, who had stood perfectly still without speaking. "Well any time since he got home then, sir?" "No, sir." "Have you, Miss Faith?" said Reuben. "No, Reuben--I am just going home. What's the matter?" "Why he fainted in school--that's all," said Sam,--"he said there was nothing the matter. Only we were going down to see how he got home, and I thought maybe the doctor might tell us first." And not staying for more words the two boys walked on a few steps, then set off and soon ran themselves out of sight. The other two quickened their walk, the doctor moderating his steps however to suit the strength of his companion. But she soon took the lead, and Mrs. Derrick's house was reached in as short a space of time as the ground might be travelled without a speed which Faith did not dare assume. There was nothing alarming in the little parlour. Mrs. Derrick sat knitting; Mr. Linden had been reading, but now was talking--half laughing, half chiding--with the two boys who stood before him. Reuben stood silent, smiling a little; Sam's energy was at work. Faith came in quietly, with a face to which all her quick walk had not brought back the colour. She said nothing. But the doctor's tongue was free. "Why what's this, Linden?" "This is--Linden," said that gentleman coolly. "No boys--go off,--I think I can live without seeing either of you again till to-morrow. What's the matter, Dr. Harrison?" "Just and precisely what I was asking," said the doctor; while Faith glided to her mother and sitting down by her whispered enquiry. But Mrs. Derrick knew nothing--had heard nothing, apparently. "It's for you to state the case--" said Mr. Linden. "You speak as if you had a warrant of arrest in your pocket." "Why!" said the doctor, standing and looking down upon him,--"here's a wind that has blown from nowhere! Do you want me to lodge information against yourself?" "_I_ don't wish to lodge any." "Linden," said the doctor changing his tone to one of serious kindly interest, while Faith's eyes from her more distant seat waited for the answer,--"what is the matter? What made you faint to-day?" "What nonsense have those boys been talking?" said Mr. Linden--but his look carried the charge a little beyond the range of his words. "I was faint for awhile--not quite in a 'deadly swoond,' however." "That young scapegrace said and declared you had fainted." "They are so used to their own red cheeks, they think red is 'the only colour,'" said Mr. Linden. "However, I believe he spoke true--but it was nothing worth speaking of, after all." "What was the cause?" "I presumed a little upon the successful way in which I got through yesterday--tried to do a little too much to-day, had one or two things to try me--and so. Which of my boys do you honour with that title of scapegrace?" "You mustn't do so again," said the doctor seriously. "There was no malice prepense to-day," said Mr. Linden. "What have you been about all the afternoon?--I expect to hear that you have sailed up the Great Pyramid in a canal boat, or coasted Japan in a Chinese lantern." "Nearly right," said the doctor. "We have been enacting the part of the wise men of Gotham--I can't imagine where I ever heard of them!--who went to sea in a tub." "Went to see--what?--" said Mr. Linden laughing. "Went to Se-vast-a-pool!" said the doctor with perfect gravity. "I hope you're better!" "Don't I look well?" "If I were to take the votes on that subject," said the doctor, "I presume the verdict would be unanimous. But looks are proverbially--unsatisfactory! Do you know what damage you have done me by your exploit this afternoon?" "I should be very glad to hear." "Why you have brought me into discredit and disfavour with half Pattaquasset, man, because I have let you go out too soon--don't you see? Mrs. Derrick has already laid it to her account against me--which is getting to be a score I shall never dare to foot up." Faith had left the room for a minute, and coming back again began to make ready the table for tea. Dr. Harrison's eyes followed her. She was not looking as she had looked at his anemones; quiet, sweet, and grave, she went round gathering up the books, and arranging the cups and plates. But the doctor, though asked, would not stay. He went off and the tea was brought in. "Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "if you are half as ready for that exercise as I am, we shall get on superbly to-night." She almost started. "You, Mr. Linden! Oh you're not fit for it!" "Not fit for it!--Miss Faith, how can you say that to me?" "Let it be so to-night, Mr. Linden!" "I shall do nothing of the kind, Miss Faith, by your leave. You know I can rest here most comfortably, and make you work--after the same fashion, I hope. I am a little afraid," he said looking at her, "that you are working too much." "Why, Mr. Linden? How could I?" "By not keeping your studies well balanced with fresh air." "O no!" she said smiling. "The work is a great deal better than the fresh air. Besides, I have been out to-day." "You might as well say that bread is a great deal better than water. Yes, you have been out to-day, that is one good thing. And I shall try to throw somewhat into that scale myself, if I live. But I want all the books to-night, Miss Faith--and to-morrow, you know, is a half holiday, but you need not expect to have one." Faith's tea went on after that in a manifestly different manner. Expeditiously the table was cleared after tea! And if ever Faith wrought with eager care to do perfections and save her teacher every word and thought that could be spared, she did it then. So the exercise was written, with most earnest guarding against anything 'german' or 'sophisticated' in her letters. Indeed Faith's handwriting, by dint of taking pains, was fast growing into stiff correctness--not without a certain beauty, of promise at least, but stiff still. And with all her other lessons, of thought or memory; what earnest quick effort could do was done that night, and done upon the back of a sound preparation. Mr. Linden however did not spare himself words, riot much, and care not at all; watching and guiding his pretty scholar with equal gravity, gentleness, and attention; rarely diverging from the business view of the subject, unless Faith grew timid or frightened, in which case he indulged himself with making her laugh, and so brought her back to business again. What views Mrs. Derrick took of the two, thus engaged, it would be hard to say; save that they were wondrous pleasant ones--a little puzzled, a little thoughtful, loving and pleased to the last degree. How much she studied those two faces!--not Faith herself bestowed more care upon what she was about. But Faith came to conclusions--Mrs. Derrick never did; wanting help from the very person who cleared the path of learning for her daughter. His face--its gravity, its changes--she could not read; but she liked the study. The doctor's plan about the Aquarium was excessively distasteful to Mrs. Derrick. She read the meaning and grounds of it, which Faith entirely failed to read; but then to give them to her was hardly an advisable thing. So the Aquarium came, after a few days; and Faith having found that Mr. Linden could give her some help, if necessary, in the care of it, relieved her mind of all concern about the responsibility and took the full good of the trust. In a sunny window it was placed, and many a happy minute between the times of other things Faith stood or sat there to watch the unfolding and shrinking Anemones, and the restless, eager, wild lives of the other and more distinctly animal inhabitants of this little section of Ocean. The only uncomfortable thing about it was that other people sometimes saw it and heard how it came there; and other people, Faith knew, drew very ridiculous inferences from nothing. And though ridiculous they were disagreeable. But however, she knew best how it came there and how simple a matter it was; and it was never the way of her simplicity to trouble itself overmuch about ridiculous things. Another person, it may be remarked, knew how it got there; and he found it pleasant to come and see it some times. This was generally in the afternoon, now, when Mr. Linden was not at home and Faith was not occupied in household duties. Pleasant talks were held over the Aquarium; for there was never an end of things that might be told of old and new discoveries connected with what was in it. The conversations diverged often to other matters, religious or scientific as the case might be; and were clever, bright, interesting, or amusing accordingly--and invariably. And so the time wore on towards the 29th. But in the fourth week of Mr. Linden's return to school duties, Faith began to have a new lesson--or rather she had it once and practised upon it many times. That once was at the end of a Wednesday afternoon, in exquisite Indian summer weather; when other subjects being dismissed for the time, Mr. Linden gave his scholar an interesting and precise account of the process of respiration; passing thence to the obvious benefits of fresh air, and finally requesting her to put on her things and come out and take them. After which, it may be observed, Faith was never heard to say that studies were "a great deal better than fresh air,"--often as the walk was repeated. The other lessons made beautiful headway. Even the French talks at dinner. That was harder to Faith than any other trial to which she had been put. She shrank from it with great shrinking. But the desire to please her teacher overcame even fear. Rather than not do that,--Faith ventured, right or wrong; and once fairly launched, of course, with his good help and her own endeavours, soon got into smoother sailing. Mr. Linden and the doctor now met not often; the doctor making his visits, as has been said, during school time. They met oftenest where the doctor went seldomest,--in those rooms where Dr. Harrison did sometimes let his profession call him, where Mr. Linden was drawn by somewhat beyond profession. Sometimes this intercourse was only of the eye,--sometimes they walked home together; the curious friendship between them deepening, as it seemed, from all sources. Come home when Mr. Linden would, his room looked as if somebody had just stepped out of it. The fire was always in its best beauty; the hearth guiltless of ashes; the temperature genial whatever the weather out of doors might be; the books, the papers, the table, in their wonted order or disorder, as fresh as if dust never fell. But the fairy of the place was always out of sight. CHAPTER XXXI. The 29th of November came on Wednesday, which permitted Mrs. Stoutenburgh to have her dinner at an earlier hour than would else have been possible. To this dinner the two older guests were invited--the boys were only to come to supper; and four o'clock was the time. Till near three, studies and reading were in full force, but then other duties claimed attention. "If I could only sit next you at dinner, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said as he shut up the books, "we could talk French all the time!--but there is no hope of that. And Miss Faith--" he said as she turned to go upstairs, "do you know that all the things on my table are not in their proper place?" Very much wondering, Faith was for a moment at a loss. "What is wrong, Mr. Linden?" "I would not give it so harsh a name, Miss Faith--only I thought perhaps you would go in there before I come up and see that all is left just as usual,--if you would be so good." Faith went up, querying with herself whether Cindy could perhaps have been in there and committed some dire damage--or _what_ it could be. What could it!--if ever a room was scrupulously in order, that was; and the table--it had not been stirred, nor a book upon it, since Faith's arranging hands had been there. Even writing implements were not laid about, as they often were,--the table was just as usual. Unless---- Yes, in front of the books stood a glass of water, and therein one dark velvet rose, truly of a "Cramoisi supérieure," failing to support itself upon its own green leaves, laid its face half coquettishly and half wearily upon dark sprigs of heliotrope and myrtle. Thence it looked at Faith. And Faith looked at it, with a curious smile of recognition, and yet of doubt,--whether _that_ could possibly be what he meant. But she was to see that all things were "left just as usual;" it did not admit of a serious question. So lifting the glass and the rose, Faith and it went off together. Faith's best dress, of course put on for this occasion, was a black silk. She had thought that a little extravagant at the time it was got; but Mrs. Derrick would have it. It was made with the most absolute plainness, high in the neck, where the invariable little white ruffle graced the white throat; but the sleeves were short, and similar white ruffles softened the dividing line between them and the well rounded fair arms. Her hair was as usual, her feet were as usual, only the shoes were of fresh neatness; but when Faith had with eyes that saw only them, not herself, fastened the rose and myrtle on the bosom of her dress, a little figure stood there that in its soft angles and exquisite propriety of attire would have been noted in any circle of splendour, and might have satisfied the most fastidious lover of elegance. Wrapped up and hooded Faith went down stairs, and Mr. Linden put her in the Stoutenburgh carriage, which rolled off to the mansion of the same name in a very short space of time. In solitary grandeur Faith was ushered into Mrs. Stoutenburgh's bedroom, where first the fire kept her company, and then Mrs. Stoutenburgh herself came in from another door and both unwrapped her and wrapt her up! But when all that could be done was done, Mrs. Stoutenburgh ran off again, and told Faith, laughing, that she hadn't seen her yet--and was all ready for her in the parlour. Faith being left to herself stepped out into the passage, where Mr. Linden was standing with folded arms before a window that looked out upon the closing November day. Faith came softly up beside him. "I've seen Mrs. Stoutenburgh," she said, "but she says she hasn't seen me. Are your flowers right now, Mr. Linden?" "Miss Faith! why do you wear velvet shoes?"--he said turning full upon her. "You have not been down stairs?" "No, certainly. I saw Mrs. Stoutenburgh up here." "Then shall I have the pleasure of taking you down?--I see nothing that is not right," he added smiling. It was rather an odd new thing to Faith, to be taken down, or in, anywhere. The form of having a gentleman's arm was something rather startling. But she did not shew it. Down stairs they went, into the glowing parlour, where Faith was met and greeted by Mrs. Stoutenburgh de nouveau. "Ah Miss Faith!" said the Squire as he gave her his salutation, "how extravagant you are to add roses to roses in that style! Don't you know it's a waste of material?" "No, sir. I shall use it all up." "I should like to see you after you get through!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh laughing. "Ask Mr. Linden if it's not waste." Mr. Linden however entirely declined to assent to any such proposition,--nay, even hinted that if any one was to be charged with wasting roses just then, it was the Squire himself. "Yes, I think so too!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh,--"but how funnily you always see through things and turn them about!" "Roses are not very opaque things to see through," he answered smiling, while Mrs. Stoutenburgh rescued Faith and putting her arm round her drew her off towards the sofa. Where Faith was glad to get at a distance from the rose-consumers. She felt rather nervous. "Where is Sam?" she asked. "This is his day, isn't it?" "He was here a minute ago," said his mother,--"I guess he ran off when he heard you coming. He takes fits of being bashful once in a while,--they don't last long. Your mother wasn't afraid to let you come with our horses, was she?" "No ma'am," Faith said,--"not at all. But she hasn't got back her old trust in horses and carriages generally. I wish she had." "I don't--" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh,--"they're not to be trusted generally, child. Has your horse got well yet?" "Not well. Mr. Skip says he's better, but we can't use him." "Well I wanted to talk to you about that--Mr. Stoutenburgh's been at me to do it this month. You know we've always got more horses on hand than we can use--and there's one of 'em that would just suit you. Won't you let him stand in your stable this winter?--and give Crab a chance." "O no, Mrs. Stoutenburgh!--thank you!" said Faith. "I dare say Crab will get better--it won't be necessary; and you know we don't ride much in winter. You're very kind to think of it." "There you are--as usual!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "I'm always afraid to ask you anything, you keep such magnifying glasses. But now Faith, listen to reason. Not ride in winter!--why it's the very time for riding, if there's snow; and you could drive Jerry, or your mother could, just as well as Crab--he's as quiet as he can be. At the same time," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh with a little dance in her eyes, "if anybody else drives him, he _can_ go a little faster." "I'll tell mother how good you are, Mrs. Stoutenburgh. It isn't my business to give answers for her. But did you ever see me drive?" "Not horses," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing. "Not anything else, I am sure? I used to want to go after the cows, but mother never would let me." But whatever Mrs. Stoutenburgh meant she did not explain, for dinner was announced, and the Squire came up to take possession of Faith again; receiving his wife's little whispered "I've done it!" with all her own satisfaction. In the dining-room Sam was at last visible, but the bashful fit had not gone off, and Faith's black silk was even more distracting than her white muslin. Her greeting of him was simple enough to have been reassuring. "I hope you will be as happy a great many times as you are to-day, Sam," she said as she shook hands with him. "On the 29th of November, I mean." Perhaps Sam thought that doubtful--perhaps impossible,--perhaps undesirable. At all events his words were few; and though he was permitted the post of honour at Faith's side, he did not do much for her entertainment at first. The dinner itself, service and style and all included, was sufficiently like the Squire and his wife. Handsome and substantial, free, bountiful, and with a sort of laughing air of good cheer about it which more ceremony would have covered up. There was no lack of talk, either,--all the company having the ability therefor, and then, at least, the inclination. But if Mr. Linden now and then called Sam out of his abstraction, so did the Squire attack Faith; giving her a little sword play to parry as best she might. "Miss Faith," he said, "do you know to what a point you are, day by day, winding up the curiosity of this town of Pattaquasset?" "I, sir!" said Faith, apparently, by her eye and air, occupying the place of the centre of motion to all this curiosity;--the point of absolute rest. "My dear," said the Squire, "they say two things about you! The first is that you never go out! Now don't trouble yourself to contradict that, but just tell me the _reason_. We're all friends here, you know." "Why I go out very often indeed, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said Faith. "Didn't I tell you not to contradict me? Ah Miss Faith!--young ladies never will take advice! Well--the first thing is, as I said, that you never go out. The second," said the Squire laughing, "is--that you do!" "Well sir," said Faith merrily,--"they can't both be true--and there isn't anything very bad about either of them. Nor very curious, either, I think." "What I should like to know," said Mr. Linden, "is, who keeps watch at the gate?" "Squire Deacon does, for one," said Sam promptly. "I see him there often enough." "When you come to relieve the guard?" said Mr. Linden smiling. And the laugh was turned for the moment, rather to Sam's confusion. "So that's what the Squire's come back for, is it?" said Mr. Stoutenburgh. "I thought somebody was to blame for his going away." "Nobody was _much_ to blame," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "I had a long talk with Sam the other day--Sam Deacon, I mean," said the Squire, "and he was keen to get acquainted with Dr. Harrison. And as the doctor came along just then, I gave him a chance. I guess the doctor blessed me for it!--I did him. By the way, Miss Faith, I s'pose you've got acquainted with the doctor by this time?" "Yes sir--very well--" Faith said quietly, though she felt the ground uneasy and unsafe. "Well what sort of a chap is he?--up to anything besides running away with all he can lay his hands on?" "Don't you know him, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" "Can't say I do, Miss Faith,--it rather strikes me he's not anxious I should." "How can he be anxious, sir, when you are not?" said Mr. Linden. "Isn't that expecting too much?" The Squire laughed. "I don't expect too much of him," he said,--"and don't you expect too little. After all, I'd as soon take a boy's mind as a man's--and he aint popular among the boys. I thought he would be, after that exhibition--but he aint." Which remark Mr. Linden knew to be true, though he did not say so. "Well, Mr. Stoutenburgh! if you don't like him why _do_ you talk about him?" said his wife. "Faith--you can play blind man's buff, I'm sure?" "Wait a bit,--wait a bit," said the Squire--"I'm not ready to be blinded yet, if she is. You ladies are always in such a hurry! Now Mr. Linden and I want to have our ideas cleared up. What sort of a man is the doctor, Miss Faith? You say you know him 'very well,'--do you like him 'very much'?" This shot brought Faith to a stand and obliged her, to be sure, to 'shew her colours,' which she did bravely. Nevertheless she faced the Squire and answered steadily. "I like him a good deal, Mr. Stoutenburgh--in some respects very much." "Hum--" said the Squire, as he cut a persuasive piece of duck and put it on her plate. "Well wouldn't you like to tell me, my dear, what you mean by 'some respects'?--That's Mrs. Stoutenburgh's word, and I never could find out yet." "I suppose it means different things in different cases," said Faith smiling. "Did you ever?"--said the Squire, taking a general survey of the table, which began with Faith and ended with Mr. Linden, "Aint that half of creation up to anything? I tell you what, Miss Faith, if _I_'d been in that meadow 'tother day, I'd have made Mazeppa of the doctor in no time,--Sam hasn't learnt to put his history in practice yet. And besides," said the Squire, with a peculiarly slow, innocent enunciation, "he never likes to do anything that would displease Mr. Linden!" "Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said his wife, though she was laughing merrily herself, "Can't you be quiet? Faith, why don't you answer me?" "What, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?"--Faith turned towards her a face from which, gentle as it was, the smile had disappeared. "You play blind man's buff, don't you, dear?" "When I can," said Faith. "The real question, Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, whose grave unmoved look--unmoved unless by a little fear that she might be annoyed--would have been some help to her during her cross-examination if she had seen it,--"the real question is, whether you are willing to play to-night." "I am as willing as can be," said Faith. "I don't know whether they'll want to play it," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "but they may; and Sam's never content unless I'm in the fun, whatever it is." "Of course Miss Faith will play," said the Squire,--"she never refuses to please anybody." "Mr. Linden said he would," said Sam. "But how shall you and I manage, Faith?" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "They'd tell us in a minute by our dresses--as there are only two of us." Faith pondered this difficulty with an amused face. "Sam must lend us some of his jackets or coats, Mrs. Stoutenburgh. Our heads are the worst,--or mine is--you and Sam might be mistaken for each other." "But there'd be no use in Miss Faith's disguising herself," said Sam naively, "because she's so sweet." "You wouldn't have her disguise that, would you, Sam?" said Mr. Linden laughing. "What a boy!" said his mother,--"and what a reflection upon me!" "Why I meant her flowers!" said Sam,--"you needn't all laugh so. I don't mean either that I didn't mean--" but what more he meant Sam left unsaid, which did not much stay the laughter. "I will appoint two or three boys to play the part of the pigeon in hawking," said Mr. Linden,--"Miss Faith might get tired of being caught, if not of running away." "How do you know that, Mr. Linden?" she said a little archly. "Truly," he answered, "I know it not--but most things are possible, even in blind man's buff. And all boys are not provided with silk gloves. But you shall not complain of not being caught--I promise you that." "Again!" she said with another soft flash of her eye, though now she coloured. "Don't you understand, Mr. Linden, that I don't intend to let anybody catch me?--if I can help it." "Miss Faith, I have the most entire confidence in your intentions!" Faith kept her energies for action, and said no more. And in a very harmonious temper the whole party left the dinner table and went back to the fire-lit parlour. All but Sam, who went to be ready for his particular guests in another room. His place was presently supplied by a new-comer. There was a step in the hall--then the parlour door opened, and a little lady with a shawl round her shoulders, came in. "Good evening!" she said in a very cheery voice. "Why I didn't expect to find so many of you! Is it a party, Mrs. Stoutenburgh,--and shall I go away? or will you let me come in, now I've got here?" "Come in, come in, Miss Essie, and make it a party," said the Squire; while Mrs. Stoutenburgh took off the shawl and answered, "Go away? why of course not! It's only Sam's birth-day--you're not afraid of boys, I guess." "I'm not afraid of anything," said Miss Essie, and her bright black eyes said it too. "Isn't that Mr. Linden?--yes, I thought so. And Faith Derrick!--my! child, how you're dressed. What sort of a party have you got, Mrs. S.?" "Why, boys!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, while Mr. Linden said, "Good evening, Miss Essie--you know I am one of them." "Are you? I don't know much about you, except by hearsay, you know. I am glad you are here to-night. I shall study you, Mr. Linden." Mr. Linden bowed his acknowledgments. "Will you want my help, Miss Essie?" She laughed. "Come!" said she--"don't get on too fast! I am beginning to like you already. What are the boys doing, Mrs. Stoutenburgh? Sam's birthday, did you say?" "Yes, it's Sam's birthday,--I don't suppose they're doing much yet except coming," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "What they will do, no mortal can say." "And you'll let them do anything! It must be a nice thing to be a boy, with such a mother as Mrs. Stoutenburgh, Mr. Linden." His "yes" came readily enough, but was unaccompanied with any other word whatever. Mrs. Stoutenburgh's "Do hush!"--was sufficiently energetic though very low. "How old is Sam?" was the instant question, as if the whisper had referred to him. "O Sam can't get beyond fourteen till he's twenty," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing. "I suppose by that time I sha'n't care how old he is." "I know who thinks he's a handsome fellow!" said Miss Essie shaking her head,--"and that's not you, Mrs. S. _I_ know he's a smart one, for I pinned a blue ribband to his coat once. I wonder if he loves me properly for it.--Faith Derrick, how come you to be here, child?" "Why because Mrs. Stoutenburgh asked me," said Faith, answering this sudden address with some surprise. "Wrong!" said Miss Essie. "There's some mistake about it. I've just come from hearing you talked of." "Whom did you hear, Miss Essie?" said the Squire. "Come--give up your authority." "I was at Judge Harrison's," said Miss Essie, after a considerative look of her black eyes at the Squire;--"and that's all I am going to tell you, Mr. Stoutenburgh! Mr. Linden, what do you think of the propriety of people's talking about people?" "I think well of the propriety, when it exists." "Well what do you think of its existence? Honestly, now. I want to get at your opinion." "I think its existence is rather limited and precarious, Miss Essie," said Mr. Linden smiling. "It is one of those things that may be said to have a delicate constitution." "Well," said Miss Essie again, smiling too, both with lips and eyes,--"how could people get along in such a place as Pattaquasset, for instance, without it? People must talk. And it is so pleasant to know that Mrs. Stoutenburgh's son Sam is fifteen years old and had a party on his birthday; and that Mr. Linden and Miss Derrick were there and eat roast turkey;--and to know that Miss Essie de Staff went to New York to get a new carpet for her best room and what the new style is;--and that Miss Faith Derrick was run away with and brought home again, and went through adventures. How could we do without talking of these things? Now perhaps you will say it's immoral; but I'm in favour of a _possible_ morality; and I say, how could Pattaquasset get along without all this?" "Pattaquasset could get along without some of the things, to start with," said the Squire. "I don't know what you call 'pleasant,' Miss Essie, but I never was so angry in my life--since some rascal told me Mrs. Stoutenburgh was going to marry somebody else," he added laughing. "But I say," said Miss Essie, "how could Pattaquasset get along without _talking_ of these things? and I ask Mr. Linden. I want to know his opinion." "I will not say that it could," said Mr. Linden.--"Miss Essie, you know Pattaquasset better than I do." "Well do you think there is any harm in talking of them?" "What do you think of the modern definition of a young lawyer, Miss Essie--'a man who is where he has no business to be, because he has no business where he ought to be'?" Miss Essie laughed, and laughed. "Don't Sam get along fast with his reading and writing. Mr. Stoutenburgh?" "Always did--" said the Squire; "and with everything else too. What are you talking about? I lost that. I'd gone off to that rascal--" Miss Essie's laugh rang out again and her eyes danced. "That rascal! Now for shame, Mr. Stoutenburgh! You know better. I wonder if you never had young horses yourself, and took Mrs. Stoutenburgh to ride, too. Now I like him very much. Mr. Linden, you know Dr. Harrison, don't you?" "I should--a little." "Well aren't you a judge of character? Do you think he deserves to be called a rascal?" But Squire Stoutenburgh prevented the answer. "I wish you'd just stop and let me catch up with you, Miss Essie," he said. "Now before we go any further, whoever said he _was_ a rascal?--_I_ didn't." "Did you mean somebody else, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" "That's the way you talk over pleasant things!" said the Squire. "If I hadn't hallooed after you, Miss Essie, I should have had a challenge from the doctor before morning--or a shot,--that's getting to be the fashion." "Do you think Dr. Harrison is that kind of man?" said Miss Essie. "Mr. Linden, what kind of man do you think he is? You can tell better than the Squire, and I want to know." "Miss Essie!--he is my friend and I am his,--you cannot expect me to give you Dr. Harrison's components--'each with its Latin label on'!" "Not at all! but in general, how would you characterize him, if asked what sort of a man he was!" "I should perhaps decline." Miss Essie had no chance to push her question, for Sam came with a demand for Mr. Linden himself, which was at once obeyed. A little while passed, and then Mr. Linden came back again; and walked composedly round to the back of Faith's chair. "Mrs. Stoutenburgh," he said, "will you let me take this lady away for five minutes?--Miss Faith, will you come?" Nothing loth, if the truth must be told, Faith rose up to follow his leading; which was out of the parlour and through the hall. "Miss Faith," he said as he shut the door, "have you been conjugating the verb s'ennuyer?" "No," she said. "I was amused to hear you and Miss Essie talk." "What singular ideas people have on the question of pleasant things!" said Mr. Linden. "Come in here, Miss Faith"--and he opened the door of a mingled library, study room, and office--"I want to give you (before we go any further) the whole quotation which I did not dare to give Miss Essie, though it would not have been meant for her, if I had." And he took down one of the books, and read-- "'Her eye,--it seems a chemic test, And drops upon you like an acid; It bites you with unconscious zest, So clear and bright, so coldly placid; It holds--you quietly aloof, It holds, and yet it does not win you; It merely puts you to the proof And sorts what qualities are in you,' &c. 'There you are classified: she's gone Far, far away into herself; Each with its Latin label on, Your poor components, one by one, Are laid upon their proper shelf In her compact and ordered mind,' &c. 'O brain exact, that in thy scales Canst weigh the sun and never err, For once thy patient science fails, One problem still defies thy art;-- Thou never canst compute for her The distance and diameter Of any simple human heart.' That's comforting doctrine--isn't it?" he said smiling as he put up the book. "How good that is!" said Faith, as much in the spirit of enjoyment as of criticism. But it isn't just Miss Essie. It's more like"--She stopped. "Well--who? No, it is not Miss Essie." "I was going to say, Mrs. Somers--but it is not Mrs. Somers, either. She is more kind than that." "Yes, I think so--though she keeps her kindness under lock and key, like her sweetmeats. Miss Faith, shall I give you a loophole view of those boys--before you venture yourself among them?" She said yes, with a bright face that shewed her primed for any enjoyment, or anything else perhaps, he might propose. He knew the house, apparently, and led her out of one door and in at another, giving her little undertone remarks by the way. "I know you and I agree in some of our notions about pleasant things," he said, "or I should not presume that you would find this one. To some people, you know, boys are mere receivers for Latin and Greek--to me they are separate little pieces of humanity. I study them quite as much as they do their lessons. Now you shall see them off their guard. This room is dark--but I know the way." He took her hand as he spoke, and led her through the darkness to a spot of shaded light at the further end of the room, whence too came laughter and voices; then drew back the curtain from a sash door and let her look in. It was pleasant, as he said,--the room was glowing with light, the boys in a knot about the fire; some sitting, some standing, one or two couchant upon the rug. Sam was the spokesman just then--the rest listening, interrupting, applauding; the flashing firelight shewing such different faces! such varied indications!--they looked like a little Congress of representatives. "What are they doing, Mr. Linden? Sam is having a good time!--and all the rest of them for that matter." "I am not quite sure what they are doing, Miss Faith,--Sam looks as if he might be recounting some of his own exploits--for the twentieth time." "But Reuben, who never would recount one of his, is five times as much of a man." "Yes,--I wonder what Miss Essie would say of the two, respectively. She means to study me to-night, you know," he said smiling--"and I mean she shall! There comes Mrs. Stoutenburgh--now I shall take you in." Not by the sash door, but round again by another way they came upon the little company. Mrs. Stoutenburgh had been in before, and her reappearance had not made much change in the order of things; but when Faith came in every boy rose to his feet, and the admiring looks were only bounded by the number of eyes. They fell back right and left as she came on towards the fire; and once seated there in an easy chair, those who knew her came up to pay their respects--those who did not stood still and paid them at a distance, whispering and touching each other with, "My! ain't she handsome!"-- All of which amused at least two of the lookers-on. One or two of the boys Mr. Linden brought up and presented. Faith however was presently out of her chair of state and wound in and out among them, speaking to those whom she knew or remembered at Neanticut. She was in a little gale of good-fellowship by the time Mr. Linden with Miss Essie returned to the room. "Well!" said Miss Essie. "Now what's the first order of things? Mr. Linden, these are all your boys, I suppose?" "These are all and not all, Miss Essie." "Yes. Do they always do what you tell them?" "They are extraordinary boys!" said Mr. Linden. "Not one of them has a will of his own." "Oh!" said Miss Essie. "What has become of their wills? Have you stolen them? Now I am going to put that to the proof. Sam Stoutenburgh--you are not twenty years old yet, your mother says; have you a will of your own?" "Mother says I have," replied Sam. "Ah!--you see!" said Miss Essie. "_You_ sir,--I know you but I don't remember you,--your teacher says you haven't a will of your own--now is it true? I want to know." "A will of my own, ma'am?" Reuben repeated, looking doubtfully from Miss Essie to Mr. Linden. "Against whose, if you please?" "Well--" said Miss Essie, a little surprised, and laughing--"upon honour, will you tell the truth?" "I'll try, ma'am." "Against Mr. Linden's. Now upon honour!--I'll go bail for you." The bail was not needed. Reuben's quiet "No, ma'am, and don't want to have," was very forcible. "I declare!" said Miss Essie turning to Mr. Linden,--"you're a wonderful man!--For of course Sam's word is _his mother's_ word, and that's nothing in the circumstances. I wish I had been so happy as to be a boy and go to school to you, Mr. Linden! All my life my trouble has been a will of my own; and I never found anybody that could deprive me of it." "Nor yourself ready to give it up?" "Of course! but I never could, you know. It was stronger than I." "I'll tell you what," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, coming up, "if you two people want to talk any more, you've got to stand out of the way,--Faith and I are going to have a game with these boys." "What sort of game?" "Why blind man's buff," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "Sam--go to my room and fetch that plaid ribband that lies on the bed." "Now I'll tell you," said Miss Essie, "you must play this game as they do it up at Suckiaug. Any game wants a stake, you know, Mr. Stoutenburgh, to make it thoroughly interesting. You must play it this way. Everybody that is caught and _found_, must answer any question the person catching chooses to ask. And if he refuses to answer, he must answer some other question and give a reason for it. That'll make 'em fly round!" In the midst of a little general bustle that ensued, Faith was startled at finding that her rose and myrtle were gone. The next instant a hand presented them unceremoniously under her face, and an abrupt voice announced, "Here's your flowers!" It was even Phil Davids who had done it. Faith seized her flowers, and then sprang after Phil and thanked him very gratefully; rightly hailing this civility as an omen for good. The flowers were next bestowed carefully in a glass of water, to be in safety till the play should be over. Now began the fun of robing and disrobing. The ladies pinned up their silk skirts into order and quiet compass, and pulled on over their arms and shoulders whatever boys' gear would fit. Faith was jaunty in a little cloth jacket which covered her arms; Miss Essie wrapped about her a plaid travelling shawl of the Squire's. Mrs. Stoutenburgh deferred her disguising till she should need it, being in the first place to be the catcher, not the caught. Mr. Linden on his part chose to rely on his own resources for safety, but two or three of the boys tied on shawls and scarfs--soon discarded in the mêlée. If Sam's intent was to have a steady game of running, never to produce results--unless fatigue and laughter--he had well chosen the first 'catcher.' Mrs. Stoutenburgh's powers of entanglement lay not in that line, though she ran about with the most utter good will and merriment. But how the boys jumped over her arms!--or dived under them! How Sam caught her round the waist, and even kissed her, regardless of danger! She might have been playing till this time, if Mr. Linden had not interposed and gallantly suffered himself to be caught. "We'll have to step round now, I tell _you!_" said one of the boys,--"this'll be another guess sort of a run!" "Look out for yourself now, Miss Faith!" said Reuben--both which things were profoundly true and necessary. And Faith soon found out that she was the quarry--and that pigeons were of no avail. Whether Mr. Linden had heard her steps about his sick room till he had learned them by heart,--whether the theory of 'spirits touching' held good in this case,--he gave her a swift little run round the room, and shut her up gracefully in the corner. Then with the simplicity which characterized most of his proceedings, disregarding jacket and cap, he took hold of her hand and inquired, "Miss Faith--do you consider yourself disguised?" The soft laugh which it was impossible to keep back, answered to his ear, as the flush which overspread Faith's face answered to eyes of the rest of the company. "That will do to begin with," he said as he took off the plaid ribband, while Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughed and clapped her hands after her own lively fashion. "But Miss Faith!" said Sam--"don't tie up your head, please!--if you shut your eyes it will do just as well." "You can't see her eyes if they're shut, you foolish boy," said Mr. Linden,--"go off and attend to your own affairs. Miss Faith, shall I tie this on--or do you wish for a deputy?" There is a great deal of character that comes out in a play! Miss Essie might have had excellent opportunity for prosecuting her "studies," if she had not been busy on her own score. For Faith did not play like Mrs. Stoutenburgh. She played like herself--with a gentleness that never overstepped delicate bounds; but her foot was light and true, and her movements fearless and free as those of the very boys. It was a pretty game that she played. It would have been a short one, but that it was so hard to identify her captives. One boy after another Faith caught,--to the feeling they were all alike! At last her hand seized an other prize, and her voice exclaimed, Mr. Stoutenburgh! There was a sharp change about now between the older and the younger people. Faith did her best not to be caught again. But after half a dozen changes between Mr. Linden and the boys, he again had the pleasure of investing her with the plaid ribband. "May I give her the question?" whispered Miss Essie at Mr. Linden's ear. "No indeed!" said Mr. Linden.--"Miss Faith, what is the difference between a bird and a philosopher?" Somewhat to the surprise as well as amusement of the company, the answer to this was the heartiest, merriest bit of a laugh; then she said, "One looks round the corner, Mr. Linden!" "Well you won't see round the corner now," he said softly and laughing as he tied on the ribband. "Miss Faith! do you mean to say I did?" She said "no," and ran away. But Faith was not in luck this time, for she caught Miss Essie. And Miss Essie in a few minutes got the chance she wanted at Faith. She wouldn't have had it, for Faith ran too well and vanished too skilfully; but a little knot of the boys getting into a knot just in her way and at the wrong time, Faith fell a prey. "Now," said her captor unbinding her ribband, "what do you think I am going to ask you?" Faith was very doubtful on the subject, and waited in silence. "Only a matter of taste," said Miss Essie. "Who do you think"--(speaking slowly)--"is the handsomest man in Pattaquasset?" The colour mounted in Faith's cheeks too distinctly to leave any room for the doubt that no other answer was at hand. She avoided Miss Essie's black eyes. "Come!" said that lady. "I can't tell you,"--said Faith, amid the laughter of some of the company, which was enormous. "You can't!" said Miss Essie. "Now you are at my mercy. You have got to tell me something else and give your reason. What do you think is the best profession a man can follow?" "Any one is good that is used right," said Faith, looking down and speaking with difficulty,--"but I suppose the _best_ is a minister's." "Why?" said Miss Essie, disappointed. "Because the business of that profession is to lead men to heaven;--that of others is only to fit them for earth." "My dear, you're a fine girl!" said the Squire--willing Faith should say anything that cut out Dr. Harrison. "Miss Essie, what do you mean by asking her such a string of questions?--how can she tell who's the handsomest man? She wouldn't like to hurt Mr. Linden's feelings by saying me, nor to make us both mad by saying anybody else--if there was anybody else to speak of." "You hush, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said Miss Essie. "Don't you know how to ask questions? Now Faith Derrick--run off with yourself." Faith obeyed with a trifle less than her usual spirit; but the game presently called it back again. Darting about, like some gentle-hearted hawk, among those flying pigeons, she had seized one boy and another with her usual bad success in the matter of identifying, when the boys suddenly cleared away a little--anxious perhaps that Mr. Linden should be caught again; for of all the players he gave _them_ the most fun. And so effectually did they clear the way--so ineffectually did he protect himself! that the next grasp of Faith's hand was upon his arm. And her voice gravely announced that she knew it. "Now Faith!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "do puzzle him if you can--give him a hard question." "She does not want to ask me any questions," said Mr. Linden as he untied the ribband. "You forget, Mrs Stoutenburgh, how many she can ask every day. Now with Miss Essie the case is quite different." Very quiet and pleasant was the look bent on Faith,--very cool and undisturbed the manner. "Miss Faith, are you tired?--I must be philosophical enough to inform you that there is a shadow of puss-in-the-corner!" And a very plain expression of gratitude was in her eyes and smile as she answered, "No, I'm not tired, Mr. Linden--but I would as lieve look on as play." That seemed to be the general grown-up mind; but before the looking on had lasted long, everybody was called into another room to supper. There the boys were left somewhat to themselves at one end of the table, and the half dozen others stood or sat in the warm fireplace corner at the other. Mr. Linden indeed, and Squire Stoutenburgh, were both "boys" very often; but their returns to the ladies were frequent and prolonged. Faith was enthroned in a great chair, and there petted by Mrs. Stoutenburgh, while everybody brought her things by turns--a privilege highly prized by some of the boys. Neither could Miss Essie complain of want of attention, while Mrs. Stoutenburgh and Mr. Linden took laughing care of each other between whiles. "Miss Essie," he said as he brought her a cup of coffee, "where are you in the pursuit of knowledge?" Miss Essie laughed; yet not a triumphant laugh, nor even a satisfied one; it might be considered doubtful. "I think," she said, "you are one of a sort I don't much understand, Mr. Linden--perhaps because I don't know them much. Aren't you one of what I may call the _good_ sort?" Faith's laugh, which was indeed very low but unavoidable, was the first testimony. "I hope you may--" said Mr. Linden,--"the words sound pleasant. I am not quite sure what they mean." "Ah! There you are again!" said Miss Essie. "As difficult to catch at other things as at blind man's buff. Well I'll be frank with you, for I don't mean to offend you. I mean, the sort of people who are called 'rigidly righteous'--people who think it incumbent on them to be better than their neighbours." "O no--" said Mr. Linden,--"I quite disclaim that. I only think it incumbent on me to be better than myself." "Yes, but you are one of the people I mean--aren't you?" "Not according to that term, Miss Essie. May I ask what you mean by the other?" "Rigidly righteous?" "Yes." "Why I told you--people that pretend to be better than people in general. People in general, you know, get on without pretending much to be good at all: and of course it's disagreeable to be brought short up at every turn with 'you ought not,' and 'you ought;' and whether it is said or acted don't make much difference. Now here's this child, a little while ago, thought she mustn't say anything was good but a minister. "Do you mean Christians?" said Mr. Linden. "Well--" said Miss Essie, "I hope we're all _Christians_--aren't we? We're not heathens." "I mean the followers of Christ. Is that what you meant? I do wear the badge of that 'Legion of Honour.'" Miss Essie looked fidgeted. Faith was letting her ice-cream melt while she listened. Mrs. Stoutenburgh in the midst of supper-table attentions gave an anxious eye and ear to the conference, which she would not interrupt. "Well now tell me what _you_ mean by that?" said Miss Essie, feeling herself in some confusion, of terms at least. "Can I find plainer words? You know what was meant by a follower in the old feudal times?" "No I don't," said Miss Essie beginning to sip her coffee again. "Tell me!" "A follower was one who binding himself to the service his lord required of him, thenceforth paid it--in peace or in war,--to the end of his life. And the terms of agreement were two-fold,--fidelity on the one side, protection on the other. 'They follow me,' says Christ, 'and I give unto them eternal life.'" "Yes, but," said Miss Essie, "do you think it is required that we should put ourselves so much out of the way to be good? I think people were meant to enjoy themselves." "_I _enjoy myself--" said Mr. Linden smiling a little. "What think you makes the lark fly circling up into the very sunbeams, singing as lie goes?--is it duty? is it to rise above the robins and sparrows?" "I don't understand you!" said Miss Essie respectfully. "That is just the inner life of many a Christian,--his very heart-cry is, 'Nearer, my God, to thee! Nearer to thee! E'en though it be a cross, That raiseth me!'--" "Well, you think nobody can be safe that don't live just so?" persisted Miss Essie. "In whom such a life is not at least begun?--How can it be, Miss Essie? Safe? without the blessing of God?" "Well there we differ," said the lady. "That's what I mean by being rigidly righteous. I think every one must judge for himself." A little more erect Mr. Linden stood, drawing himself up slightly--it was his wont sometimes under a touch of excitement, and spoke with his deep emphasis these words-- "'This is life eternal, to know thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom thou hast sent.'--Miss Essie, where is your permit for free judgment against the Bible?" "I didn't mean _that_," said Miss Essie, lowering her crest. "But I mean that everybody can't be good after your strict way." "I am not standing up for myself, you know," said he pleasantly, "nor denying that you have described me right; but what a follower of Christ _ought_ to be, is no more rigid than sunlight--or than the wings of angels. Yet both sun and angels 'always do his commandment' who made them both." "Oh people can't be sunlight--nor angels neither, in this world. You're Utopian! That's what I said." "They can be 'burning and shining lights,'" said Mr. Linden. "Miss Essie, will you gainsay the Bible? Why can they not?" "They _can_ be--but I suppose they aren't obliged to be; or what is to become of us all?" said Miss Essie, half seriously half defiantly. "That will depend upon whom we follow," he answered gravely. "Well now, Mr. Linden, how many people in the world are 'followers' in the way you have described them?--and are all the rest going to destruction? Take the people in this room now, for instance,--boys and all here's twenty of us perhaps. How many do you suppose are here of your way of 'following'? You're one--who's another? Stand off there, and see whom you can get to join you!" "Stand off and say with Moses--'who is on the Lord's side?'--there would be several, Miss Essie." "Well count up," said Miss Essie. "I suppose they have no objection to shew themselves. You are one--who's another?" "I am another," said Faith, rising and setting down her ice cream. "You!"--said Miss Essie turning the black eyes upon her,--"you look like it, child!" "You must put the 'rigid' out of your head," Mr. Linden said, with a smile which changed as he spoke. "Well who else?" said Miss Essie, for some reason or other in an impatient temper. "Tell them your definition, will you, and ask who'll stand by you. Mrs. Stoutenburgh!--make them all stop and attend." "If I ask them you may think they come to please me." "No, no, you know how to say it. Mr. Stoutenburgh!--boys!--listen. I want to know how many there are here of a particular kind of people--Mr. Linden will tell you what kind." He spoke then--as Faith had once or twice heard him speak, sending his voice through the room almost without raising it. "Miss Essie de Staff wishes to know how many there are here of a particular kind of people--those that 'have sworn unto the Lord, and will not go back.' Whoever is of that number will please come over to this side." There was a little astonished pause. Mr. and Mrs. Stoutenburgh, just then at the further end of the room, had moved at Miss Essie's summons, but stopped short at the first sound of Mr. Linden's voice, and looked in a sort of maze,--_he_ clearly was not jesting, that was all they could make out. That too the boys saw: but for a minute they stood like statues,--then Reuben stepped from the group and walked quietly, deliberately, over to where Mr. Linden stood; the covenant-signing in his face glowing with the Free Church addition--"until death!" One and another followed him--one after another,--Faith was surprised to see how many: ranging themselves about Mr. Linden. But something in it all touched him--stirred him,--something perhaps personal to himself and them; for after the first three or four had come he looked no more,--his eyes fell, and the firmly compressed lips could not quite conceal their trembling. He stood as statue-like as the boys had done. In the interest of a moment and a scene that she never forgot, it was a simple thing that Faith lost thought of her own standing. Perhaps Miss Essie shared her oblivion of self for that minute; her look of uneasy curiosity changed to a sobriety that was almost awe. Perhaps self-recollection came back; for after eying the dumb show with uncommonly blank black eyes, both they and she suddenly started into action. "That will do," she said with voice and gesture,--"you may go back--scatter! and be boys again. Mr. Linden, what I complain of is, that you say _you_ are on the Lord's side and that everybody else is not!" His thoughts came back slowly, as from some far distant region,--he even turned to Faith and wheeled up a chair for her before he answered. "No, Miss Essie--those last words I believe I never said. But the 'Lord knoweth them that are his'--let each one have answering knowledge for himself." Miss Essie's look was not comfortable. She abandoned the point in hand, and swallowed her cold coffee. "What _are_ you talking about?" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh coming up to them. "What sort of a game was that, Miss Essie?" "Nothing,"--said Miss Essie. "I said I would study Mr. Linden--and I have. I've found out two things about him." "I wonder if he's been studying too!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh.--"What are the two things? Miss Essie, your coffee's just as cold as Faith's ice is warm!--that comes of talking when you ought to be eating. Mr. Linden--just help Mr. Stoutenburgh with that little table, please--and I'll have the coffee-pot here and be comfortable." "And I shall tell Miss Essie a story about fishes," said Mr. Linden as he obeyed. Mrs. Stoutenburgh sat down behind her coffee-pot, while the gentlemen went back and forth between the two tables, bringing cups and cake and what else was needed for this "German cotillion," as Mr. Linden called it. During which interlude Miss Essie, after taking an observant view of Faith, gave her a significant private admonition, that "somebody" would not like her being there. Faith in vain endeavoured to get some light on this dark information; Miss Essie was startling but enigmatical, and suddenly turned from her and asked Mr. Linden "what was the story he had promised?" "Not much of a _story_, though I called it one. It has to do with the way different races of fishes _wear their bones_." "Well?" said Miss Essie, using her eyes; while Faith forgot her flushed cheeks and used hers. "You are perhaps aware," he said smiling, "that even fishes have their inflexible points; in other words, a region of bone _somewhere_." Miss Essie bowed her head, mentally ejaculating, "You have!" "And all the fossil tribes, as well as those which now exist, are divided into two great classes,--those which wear their bones on the outside, and those which wear them within. The first have a perfect plate armour--jointed and fitted and carved, piece by piece; but the inner framework is merely cartilaginous. The others, while they _shew_ nothing but pliant flesh, have an internal structure of bone which can outlast ages." "Curious!" said Miss Essie, eying him all the while carefully. "Then I suppose we are all fishes!" "I was thinking--apropos to our talk awhile ago--of the intangible, unseen nature of a Christian's strength. The moment his defence is worn on the outside, that moment there is a failure of strength within. His real armour of proof is nothing more 'rigid,' Miss Essie, than 'the girdle of truth,' 'the breastplate of righteousness,' and 'for a helmet the hope of salvation.'" "Very good armour," said Miss Essie; "but can't he wear it without being unlike other people?" "_Can_ he?" "Look here," said Squire Stoutenburgh, "what have you been about? If you've been studying anatomy, Mr. Linden, I'll go learn dancing!" And the conversation diverged. CHAPTER XXXII. Faith pondered probably Miss Essie's enigmatical words; but she said nothing on the subject even to her mother. Other people's words and looks had produced their share of disturbance at the time; disturbance that Faith did not like to recollect. And she would not recollect it, practically. It left no trace on her face or behaviour. The simplicity of both, unchanged in a whit, testified for her that her modesty would not take such hints from other people's testimony, and that there was no folly in her to be set fluttering at the suggestion. The next Wednesday morning was one of great promise,--fair and soft and quiet, with November's sunshine softening November's brown dress. "I think, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said before he went off after breakfast, "that you should take a short run or two, before you try that long one to Mattabeeset." "A run, Mr. Linden? Didn't I have one last night?" "Truly yes,--but I mean on horseback. Will you take such a one to-day?" "Yes!" said Faith, looking different things, especially pleasure,--"but Mr. Linden, I don't know where I am to get a horse. Crab can't go now." "Well, as I am to play the part of page, and run by your side," said Mr. Linden, "I am rather glad he can't!--no disrespect to his other good qualities. When will you be ready, Miss Faith?" The hour fixed upon had need to be early, for the days were short; so though books had a little time after dinner, it was but a little. Then the horses came; and Mr. Linden took Faith in charge, with words from her mother that might have been very useful if they had been needed,--which in his case they hardly were. A fact which his reply, or the manner of it, seemed to impress upon Mrs. Derrick's mind, for she saw them ride off with nothing but pleasure. Other people saw them with a variety of emotions All the boys they met (except Sam) looked unqualified delight,--from her window Mrs. Stoutenburgh gave them a gay wave of her hand; Miss Bezac on the sidewalk absolutely turned to look again. They rode leisurely up the grassy road, hardly beyond a walk at first, and it was not till the houses grew few and the road more open, that Faith had her promised run: which was but an easy trot, after all. "You must begin very gently, Miss Faith," said her companion as they walked their horses up a little hill. "Look how those topsails mark the water line!" "Yes--don't you like to see the white sails peeping over the trees? I always do. But Mr. Linden, I don't get tired easily--you needn't be afraid. I can go just as fast as you like." She looked enough in the mood. "You know I am interested in the matter,--if I should come home to-morrow and find you gone to sleep at midday--I should lose my French lesson! Now you may have another run." This run was rather a long one, yet came to an unexpected end, for turning a woody point in the road the two riders saw a wagon before them, so directly in their way, that the run changed to a walk even before they perceived that the wagon was in distress. Some bit of harness, some pin, had given way, and the driver had dismounted to repair damages. But moody, or intent upon his work, Faith's horse was close upon him before he looked up--then she saw it was Squire Deacon. He looked down again as suddenly, with only a slight motion of his hand to his hat. Faith's first impulse would have been to rush on; but she checked that. Her next would have been to wait and leave somebody else to speak first; but she overcame that too. So it was her very clear gentle voice that asked, "Are you in trouble here, Mr. Deacon?" The Squire had no time to give his answer, and scarce a moment wherein to concoct it, for Mr. Linden had dismounted and now came between Faith's horse and the wagon, with,--"What is the matter, Squire Deacon?--can I help you?" The Squire looked up them, full, with a face that darkened as he looked. "It's you, is it?" he said slowly. "I thought it was Dr. Harrison!" "Can I help you?" Mr. Linden repeated--and the tone was a little peremptory. Sullenly and slowly the Squire told the damage--the broken harness, the lost lynch-pin; and let Mr. Linden take the first out of his hands, and do what he chose with it; looking on the while--then by degrees taking hold himself and working with him as with any other man, but throwing off jealously the kindness of his helper's words or manner. It was a grave kindness, certainly, but it did not belie the name. Faith sat looking on. After awhile her voice broke the silence. "Did you say a lynch-pin was wanting, Mr. Deacon?" "There's one gone." "I should like to be doing something to help. Will you lend me your knife, Mr. Deacon?--and I'll try." But that brought a hand on her bridle. "I cannot trust your horse out of my sight, Miss Faith,--I will get what is wanting." "There's no use in anyone's doing anything," said Squire Deacon, by way of a settler; and the harness work went on in silence. Faith waited a little. "I am not the least afraid," she said then, leaning over her horse's neck but speaking no name. "There's a place only a little way back where I think I can get a lynch-pin,--if _anybody_ will lend me a knife. Please let me go and be doing something! I want to go." "This cord," said Mr. Linden, taking one up from the bottom of the wagon--"is it wanted for any special purpose, Squire Deacon?" "I guess if you ask Joe _he_ could tell you," said the Squire with a glance that way. "'_Twas_ good for something, but he's tied it in forty knots--just to see if I'd be fool enough to pick 'em out." "It would be very useful about this harness," said Mr. Linden,--"will you try and get rid of the knots?"--and he handed Faith the cord, with a smile which said she must make that do instead of the lynch-pin. Which Faith did not particularly like, for she had a strong hankering for the ride back to the bushes. She dropped the bridle upon her horse's neck, and began to exercise her patience and skill upon the knots. "I wish I had a knife!" she said as she did so, "and I'd shew you that I am not afraid." And a little colour rose in her face, which rather grew. "_That's_ easy," said Squire Deacon, looking suddenly up and extending his hand. "Here's one as'll cut through most things." Mr. Linden's head was bent over the harness,--neither eye nor hand stirred from his work. "Thank you, Mr. Deacon," said Faith, feeling the blood rise to her brow,--"but I won't go for it now.--I'll do this first." In her confusion Faith did not see another person that joined the group, till he was standing at her horse's side. "What sort of a bee are you gettin' up here on the high-way?" said Mr. Simlins in his good-humoured growl (and he had a variety.) "What _air_ you doin' on horse-back?" "There's harness to be mended here, Mr. Simlins--and I'm making rope for it." "You go 'long!" said he. "Who are you makin' rope for? Give that to me?" But Faith held fast. "No, Mr. Simlins, you can't have it--I am bound to get out these knots. There is work doing round here, that perhaps you can help." Mr. Simlins stooped under her horse's head and went round to the other side, and then for the first time he got a full view. "That's the way you perform actions!" he said; seeming too profoundly struck to be at all wordy. "'Say and Seal' I guess you be! What's the matter with you, Squire?" "If anything is, I haint heard of it," said Mr. Deacon, with the knife lying heavy against his ribs. "Mr. Linden's turned harness-maker--that's the last news." "O are you there, Mr. Simlins?" said the new mechanic, looking up from his work. "Can't be more unlikely than you," said the farmer, beginning on his part to finger the broken harness. "How _you_ come to be here passes all my imagery. That'll do smartly. Where did you learn all trades? I don't see, Squire Deacon, but he's as good at mendin' as you be at marrin'. What do _you_ think?" "I don't see as one man has much to do with another," said Mr. Deacon lucidly. "Yes, that will do," said Mr. Linden. "Now Miss Faith--give me that cord if you please, and you shall go after the lynch-pin." "No," she said pleasantly,--"it'll be done in a minute--I want to finish it." "When did you get back from York, Squire?" said Mr. Simlins--"and what took you away? I haint heerd yet. I never believed you were gone _for good_--though folks said it." "'Taint generally worth while to believe what folks says," replied the Squire. "I've been back three weeks, I guess. Shouldn't wonder if I went again though." "Shouldn't wonder if you did," said Mr. Simlins. "I would if I was you--if I wanted to. Mr. Linden, it was a providential thing, that you should come along at this idiomatical moment. There aint another man in Pattaquasset would ha' done this so good as you." "There is another line of business open to me then," said Mr. Linden, who had begun upon the other end of the piece of cord with opposition fingers. "What _aint_ open to you?" said Mr. Simlins. "Do you know of anything? Give us that cord--will you?" "Yes, you may have it now--the knots are all out," said Mr. Linden, as he put the disentangled cord in the hands of Mr. Simlins and himself in the saddle. "Now Miss Faith, you shall have a lesson in lynch-pins--s'il vous plaît." "You do beat all!" said Squire Deacon looking up from under his hat, and with a voice that kept his eyes company. Faith looked very pretty as she turned her horse in obedience to the intimation given her, with a somewhat demure smile and blush upon her face. Mr. Simlins looked, as well as the Squire, with a different expression. "Well, I guess you're about right!" was his answering remark. "I do believe he can get the whip hand of most things. He's a Say and Seal man, he says." To which, however, the Squire deigned no response. Stooping over his harness, fingering and fitting, he was silent a little; then spoke in a careless, half inquiring half assenting sort of way. "What wonders me is, why he don't marry that girl out of hand. I reckon she'd follow him down that road as easy as she does down others. What's he waiting for?" "I guess he haint pitched upon a likely place to settle yet,"--said Mr. Simlins, in a manner equally careless and devoid of reliable information. Squire Deacon gave a little inarticulate reply. "He'd better hurry up--" he said,--"Dr. Harrison's giving chase." "Is he?" said Mr. Simlins. "He'll be where the dog was when he chased the wolf--if he's spry. I shouldn't wonder." "O--you think he's a wolf, do you?" said Mr. Deacon. "Well--the doctor's chance aint much the worse of that." "Don't look very carnivorous," said Mr. Simlins, "but I aint sure. I wouldn't be so quick in my presumptions, Squire. You'll shoot the wrong game one of these days--if you haint already." "Think so?" said the Squire. "Well, I aint after the game they are, any way, so it don't matter to me which of 'em gets her. Most folks say it's like to be the doctor,--_she_ seems tryin' 'em both by turns." The riders, on their part, had a short run back on the road they had come, to where there was a hedge and thicket and trees together; and Faith's horse being led close up to the side of the hedge, and she herself provided with a knife, she was free to cut as many lynch-pins as she chose. But at this point Faith handed back the knife. "I can't do it half so well," she said. "I would rather you did it, Mr. Linden." "You would rather not do it?" he said looking at her. "Is _no_ bread pleasant but that 'eaten in secret'?" Faith coloured very much. "I didn't care about _doing_ it, Mr. Linden, except to be useful, and for the enterprise of going off for it by myself. And I didn't care about _that_, more than two minutes." "You know I had a charge about you before we came out," he said, taking the knife and bending down towards the hedge to use it. "But for that--or a like one in my own mind--you should have had your enterprise. There--I think that may serve the purpose." The lynch-pin being delivered, the riders left the distressed wagon behind; and again the free road stretched before them; the soft air and light filled all the way and even the brown tree stems with pleasantness. The horses felt they had had a rest and pricked up their ears to be in motion again, and the minds of the riders perhaps felt a stir of the like kind. "Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "a German writer says, that 'one should every day read a fine poem, look upon an excellent picture, hear a little good music, and, if possible, speak a few sensible words.'" "Why do you tell that to me, Mr. Linden?" "I consider it my duty to keep you well informed as to yours." "But then!" said Faith, who by dint of trotting had got into as merry a mood as her gentleness often wore, "I hope you will also think it your duty, Mr. Linden, to tell me how I can _perform_ mine. Will you?" "Of course!--please speak a few sensible words to me at once." "You begin with the easiest thing!" said Faith. "Yes, I am generally considerate. But as it is part of my duty to hear a little good music, I am willing you should sing first." Music he had, though not exactly of the specified sort; for Faith's laugh rolled along the road, like the chafing of silver pebbles in a brook. "Now for the next part," said Mr. Linden smiling. "I think I have done too much already," said Faith growing grave. "Besides," she added, the corners of her mouth all alive again, "I don't remember what the next part is, Mr. Linden." "Why the sensible words!--what are the most sensible you can think of on a sudden, Miss Faith?" "I don't know that I could think of anything very sensible on a sudden, Mr. Linden. Is it my duty to do it on sudden?" "It might be, Miss Faith. Indeed I think it is now!" "What would you like them to be about, Mr. Linden? and I'll try." "Nay, you may choose: sense is of universal application." "If I should say what was uppermost," said Faith, "it would be, How very pleasant what we are doing now, is!" "Which part?" "Both parts!--Every part! One makes the other more pleasant." And Faith's happy face looked so. "Very sensible words!" said Mr. Linden smiling. "I agree to them perfectly,--which is, you know, in every mind, the great test of sense. The picture, Miss Faith, we have before us." "Yes,--isn't it lovely to-day, Mr. Linden? and hasn't it been lovely ever since we set out? Except that broken harness--and I don't think that has hurt anything, either." "No, I am not sure that even the harness was much the worse. And 'it' has been very lovely. As for the poem, Miss Faith, you cannot be trusted with that--and must resign yourself to hearing it read. What shall it be?" "I don't know," said Faith. "I know hardly any poetry, Mr. Linden, except what I have heard you read. Will you read some, perhaps, this evening?" "Yes--every evening, if you like,--if we are to follow Göthe's rule. Just before tea is a good time, don't you think so?" "Yes indeed!" said Faith, whose colour rose from pure pleasure, as her thought went back to L'Allegro and Il Penseroso. "I don't think there is any time pleasanter for it. But they're all pleasant--I've dropped my whip, Mr. Linden!"-- "I will get it for you," he said checking his horse, "if you will promise not to run away! I am afraid of your 'enterprising' spirit, Miss Faith." But her look at him was a little touched and deprecating. They turned their horses together and went back a few steps. There was no trouble in finding the whip, for just where it had been dropped, a boy stood holding it on high for Faith's acceptance The boy was Phil Davids. "Thank you, Phil!" said Faith, surprised and grateful. "I see it go out of your hand," said Phil. "Yes," said. Mr. Linden--whose smile and word of thanks had accompanied Faith's,--"Phil has singularly quick eyes. They have done me good service before." As they turned again, Farmer Davids stood at their horses' heads. They were just at the farmer's door, and he so entreated them to come 'in and rest,' that there was no refusing his hospitality. It was large, and various--Pumpkin pies and cider, and much pouring forth of gratitude and admiration for Mr. Linden's success with Phil. "What have you done to that fellow?" his father remarked admiringly to Mr. Linden. "You never see such an alteration in a boy. He used--oncet--to talk hard words agin you, sir;--you won't mind hearing it now; but he's come all about, and lately there's nothing to Phil's mind can equal up to Mr. Linden. He don't _say_ much about it, sir, but it's evident. And he's been at me and his mother this fortnight or two, to give him something to make a present to you--the boys do, he says; and he wants the best thing on the farm should go, and so do I, sir, if we knowed oncet what would be most favourable. It would be a kindness, sir, as I should be grateful for,--if you'd say what would do you most service or be most pleasure--of anything that is on the farm;--fruit or vegetables or dairy. We're plain folks, sir; I say what I mean. Take some pie, Mr. Linden!--some cider, sir?" Answering these various questions and demands as best he might, Mr. Linden contrived to convince Mr. Davids that Phil himself was the thing "on the farm" that he cared most about; and his goodwill, better than any special manifestation thereof; giving at the same time full and grateful thanks for the other things that had come to him when he was ill. "Yes," said Mr. Davids, smiling one of his grim and rare smiles,--"all that don't help _our_ difficulty, you see. Well, Phil and I'll have to put our heads together. But there's one person can send nothing that will tell half his good feelings of gratefulness to you,--and that's me." And a very unwonted softening of the stern man's eye and brow shewed that he spoke a gentle truth. Kind words answered him,--words of personal kindness and interest, and deep pleasure too; but Mr. Davids knew it was a pleasure, an interest, a kindness, that had each (like Samuel Rutherford's hope) "a face looking straight out unto that day!" Truly, "a city that is set on an hill, cannot be hid!" And the farmer felt it, and his manner softened, and his interest grew more wistful and intent with every minute they stayed. Faith was on horseback and Mr. Linden about to follow, when Farmer Davids arrested him with a low remark and question. "She's a fine-faced girl--looks as her father needn't ha' been ashamed of her. Looks _good_--like he did. Is she going to marry the son of Judge Harrison, sir?" "Dr. Harrison has told me nothing of the kind." "I heerd it"--said the farmer. "I didn't know nothing, how it might be. Good day, sir! I hope you'll come again." And they trotted off at last, with again the renewed feeling of liberty and pleasure of motion. But the sun had descended perceptibly nearer to the horizon than he was when they dismounted. However there was nothing to do but to ride, for the proposed route was a circuit and they were passed the first half of the way already. "That was good, Mr. Linden," said Faith. "Which part of it this time?" "I don't mean the pumpkin pie and the cider," she said smiling. "Do you feel rested?" "Oh yes! Rested and tired too. At least, quite ready to move on again." "Yes, so am I. But do you know Göthe left out one very important item in his daily directions?" "What was that?" "One should, if possible, every day give some one else a little pleasure." "Yes!" said Faith. "And it's so true, and so easy. How much you gave there just now, Mr. Linden!" "It was rather of their taking than my giving. But Miss Faith, --'How necessary is it now-a-days, That each body live uprightly in all manner ways?'" "Yes, Mr. Linden! What are you thinking of?" "Just that--" he said smiling. "A thought of the darkness makes one want to trim the lights. Did you ever notice, Miss Faith, that many things which were written in a mere worldly sense, will bear a very sweet Christian application? Take this for instance:-- 'Thus would I double my life's fading space, For he who runs it well, runs twice his race. And in this true delight, These unbought sports, that happy state, I would not fear nor wish my fate, But boldly say each night,-- To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day.'" She listened with a bright face at first; then as the quotation was ended her face flushed, she turned her eyes away, and a grave look of sorrow crept over her lips. But in a little while she looked again. "How many books do you carry about in your head, Mr. Linden?" "If I should tell you, Miss Faith, then you would know--and then I could never delude you any more! Now we must quicken our pace, or we shall scarce get our poem before tea." For awhile the trotting was pretty brisk, then they drew bridle again and went gently on, but now towards the setting sun, whose bright rays were caught and held by the white sails that gleamed here and there in the distance. Now they met lines of cattle, driven by some bare-footed boy or sun-bonneted girl, and ploughmen trudged along the road behind their teams. Thicker curls of smoke from wayside chimneys spoke of supper, and where a house stood in the shadow of some bit of forest, lights were already gleaming from the windows. "How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise, and true perfection!" Which bit of excellent eulogy might also have been true of Quapaw creek and the bridge over it, which they reached in seasonable time. Quapaw creek was here a little bit of a river, and the bridge over it was an insignificant little bridge--'no count,' in Squire Deacon's language. But now, of all times in the year, the little bridge was already full of more than it could hold, literally, for it couldn't hold what was upon it. A heavy farm-wagon loaded with some sort of produce had got fairly upon the bridge some hour or two before and then broken through; men and teams had for the present deserted it, and there was the way pretty effectually blocked up. What was to be done? They were not more now than a mile or two from home, but to go back and round by the nearest way would be several miles. The water was not very broad, nor generally deep; but the banks and the bed of the stream were uneven and strewn with rocks and stones, small and great. It was fordable, certainly; a good rider might cross well enough; but a good rider would scarce choose to trust an unskilful one there. What was to be done? "We shall have to go back, Mr. Linden," said Faith;--"and you mustn't mind my riding fast now, or mother will be uneasy." Mr. Linden took the case into consideration. "Will you mind riding before me, Miss Faith?" "What, sir?" she said, not understanding. "Will you let me take you across?" "How can you, Mr. Linden?" she said, looking a little startled, and flushing. "Very easily--on my horse. Stay where you are a minute, and let me try the ford." And not waiting for an answer to that, he rode down the bank and into the stream. It was easy enough, for a man who knew what to do with his horse's mouth; not easy, nor perhaps safe for another. The footing needed to be chosen by the hand of the rider; so chosen it was good. Mr. Linden rode to the other side and came back. "Will you try, Miss Faith?" "Yes," she said, putting her horse in motion,--"I am not afraid. I will follow you. It will be better than going round." But his horse did not stir. "I shall not follow you, Miss Faith,--and yet if you cross it must be before me. No other way is safe for you." "Well, we can go round, can't we?" said Faith. "Yes," he said,--as the sun dropped down behind the low horizon, and the cool shade fell on everything but the tree tops. "You know it is about six times as far. Are you afraid of my horse?" "No, not when you hold him. I will do just what you please, Mr. Linden," she said, though her colour mounted. "Then do not be afraid of me," he said, dropping his own bridle and gently disengaging the hand from hers. "Please take your foot out of the stirrup, Miss Faith--" and the transfer was made in a moment: she was lifted across the little space between the two horses, and seated in front of Mr. Linden, and held fast. "Are you afraid?" he repeated, looking gravely down at her. "No sir.--Not a bit, Mr. Linden," she said, throwing a little more warmth into her words, for the first had been spoken somewhat under breath. So leaving the one horse fastened to a tree-branch, the other set forward with his unwonted burden, which indeed at first he did not much approve; pricking his ears, and sidling about, with some doubtfulness of intent. But being after all a sensible horse, and apprehending the voice and rein suggestions which were made to him, he began to pick his way slowly and carefully among the stones on the bank, and then through the stones in the river; setting down his feet with great judgment and precaution, and paying no heed to the rushing and splashing of the little stream, except by his ears--which certainly worked, for once. And so the dangerous "pass" was soon behind them, and Mr. Linden dismounted and lifted Faith down, and seated her on a grey stone on the bank, while he went back for her horse. Which crossing, it may be observed, was accomplished much quicker than the last. The twilight was falling fast, and the little river, and the two horses as they forded its swift current, looked shadowy enough; set off by the white foam on both. The evening wind began its fitful stir, and swept the dry leaves past Faith's feet, and shook the cedar boughs above her head; and so she sat there, and watched the crossing. "I have had the best picture to-day, Mr. Linden," she said, when she was placed in the saddle again. "You ought to have seen the river, and you and the two horses coming over it, in this light, as I did. You don't know how pretty it was. Now you'll let me ride fast, won't you?--for mother will be looking for us." "As fast as you please--but after all, you have not seen _my_ picture," he said smiling. Faith profited by the permission given and put her horse to a pace that proved she was very much in earnest to prevent that "looking for them" on Mrs. Derrick's part. She got out of the trot into a canter--or her horse did--and then away they flew; too fast to see or be hindered by any more friends or foes; till they drew bridle at home. It was too late to have the reading before tea. So to have tea as speedily as possible was the next object. And then they adjourned to the fire-lit sitting-room, where Faith lighted the lamp in uncertainty whether reading or studies was to be the next move. Mr. Linden, however, went for his book--a little old volume, of which Faith had never taken notice; and began, without doubt, the prettiest description of a garden that ever was written;-- "How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays:"--etc. The reader paused a moment, to tell more particularly what these leafy honours were, and then went on. "Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude." At which words precisely, the spirit of contrariety opened the door and ushered in Dr. Harrison. All _he_ saw, was Mr. Linden with a book, in one easy-chair; Mrs. Derrick with her knitting in another; and a little further off, Faith, sitting on her low cushion and apparently doing nothing. Probably for that reason the doctor made up to her first. He sat down beside her, and enquired in a low tone how the fishes were? Faith answered that they were well; only one of them had been eaten up by the others. "You are a little tired and are feeling remarkably well to-night," the doctor went on. "What have you been doing?" "I have been trying to do my duty," Faith said colouring and laughing. "Don't you always do that?" said Dr. Harrison looking at her enquiringly. "But I didn't know what it was till to-day." "You are doing what is very uncommon with you," said the doctor--"fighting me with my own weapons." His smile was pleasant though acute; but Faith coloured exceedingly. "I can't tell you exactly what duty I mean," she said, "but Mr. Linden can." "Do you take your notions of duty from him?" "To-day,"--said Faith with a smile, sweet and with spirit enough too. "I maintain that duties are facts, not notions," said Mr. Linden. "Hum--" said the doctor turning,--"Now you are too quick for me. May one not have a _notion_ of a fact?" "One may. What are your notions about society and solitude?" "Of duty in those regards?" "Not at all,--your notions of those facts." "Confused--" said the doctor,--"Incomprehensible--Melancholy--and Distracting!" He had got up and assumed the position he seemed to like, a standing-place on the rug, from whence he could look down on everybody. "What do you say to this?-- 'Two paradises were in one, To live in Paradise alone.'-- I suppose that meets your 'notions.'" "No," said the doctor,--"not unless Eve were the paradise. And even then, I shouldn't want her any more to myself than to let all the world come and see that she was mine." "It is a grave question," said Mr. Linden, "whether paradise becomes smaller by being divided. In other words, whether after sharing it with Eve, Adam still retained the whole of it for himself!" "Just the other way!" said the doctor,--"it was doubled--or trebled. For in the first place he had Eve; she was a second paradise;--then all her enjoyment of paradise was his enjoyment; that was a third;--and in short I should think the multiplication might go on ad infinitum--like compound interest or any other series of happiness impossible to calculate." "Simple interest isn't a bad thing," said Mr. Linden. "Yes," said the doctor with an answering flash of his eye, "but it never contented anybody yet that could get it compound--that ever I heard of. Does Miss Derrick understand arithmetic?" "Miss Derrick," said Mr. Linden, "how many angels can stand on the point of a (darning) needle without jostling each other?" "Don't be deluded into thinking _that_ is arithmetic," said the doctor. "Some of them would get their feet hurt. What duty has Mr. Linden been persuading you to do to-day?" "Mr. Linden can tell," said Faith. Which appeal Mr. Linden answered by deliberately finishing his poem aloud, for the benefit of the company. "'What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine. The nectarine, the curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach. Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.' 'Here, at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings; And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.'" etc. The doctor listened, faithfully and enjoyingly; but his finishing comment was, "What a pity it is November!" "No," said Faith--"I think I enjoyed it better than I should in July." "Rousseau's doctrine," said the doctor. "Or do you mean that you like the description better than the reality?" "It was the reality I enjoyed," said Faith. "What have you got there, Linden?" "Various old poets, bound up together." "What was that you read?" "Andrew Marvell's 'Garden.'" "It's a famous good thing!--though I confess my soul never 'glided into the boughs' of any tree when my body didn't go along. Apropos--Do you like to be on the back of a good horse?" "Why yes," said Mr. Linden, "when circumstances place me there." "Will you let me be a circumstance to do it? I have an animal of that description--with almost the facility of motion possessed by Andrew Marvell's soul. Will you try him?" "Can he run?" said Mr. Linden with comic demureness. "Fleetly. Whether _away with you_ depends, you know, on what I have no knowledge of; but I should think not." "I should like to know beforehand--" said Mr. Linden in the same tone. "However--Is it to be on simple or compound interest, doctor?" "I never take simple interest," said Dr. Harrison. "I want all I can get." "Well if I take your horse, what will you ride alongside of me?" "That is easily arranged," said the doctor smiling. "This fellow is a new-comer, comparatively, and a pet of mine. I want to know what you think of him. When is your next time of leisure?" "My daylight leisure is pretty limited now. Part of Saturday I could take." "Then you'll hold yourself engaged to me for Saturday morning,--and I'll hold myself engaged to give you some thing pleasant to do with it. The roads hereabout are good for nothing _but_ riding--you can have the pleasure of motion, there isn't much to take your thoughts away from it." "Except emotion?" "If you're another Marvell of a man, and can send your soul into the boughs as you pass;--as good as stumbling on melons," said the doctor. "Unless your horse stumbles!" "I see his character is coming out by degrees," said Mr. Linden smiling. "He's as sure-footed--as you are! Here comes emotion--in the shape of my aunt Ellen. Isn't Mr. Linden a careful man?" he asked whimsically in a low voice, returning to his place by Faith. The question touched Faith's feeling of the ludicrous, and she only laughed at the doctor. Which he liked very well. Mrs. Somers' errand was to invite the younger portion of the company to spend Christmas evening with her. And having succeeded in her mission, she made the doctor take her home. CHAPTER XXXIII. The week thereafter passed with the usual quiet business of those days. Friday evening, however, when the lamp was lit, instead of opening her books at once, Faith took the doctor's station on the rug. "Dr. Harrison has been here this afternoon, Mr. Linden; and asked me to go with you and him in the ride to-morrow." "Well, Miss Faith?" "I was afraid at first that it might hinder the good of your ride, if I went; but Dr. Harrison said no; and he put it so that at last I said I would. But I am afraid of it still." "How did he put it?" "I don't know," said Faith half laughing;--"in a way that left me no excuse; as if he thought it would be more pleasure both to you and to him, to have me along." "Miss Faith, if you go, you must give me leave to keep very near you. I trust my own care better than Dr. Harrison's. You will understand why I do it?" Faith did not understand very well. "I supposed of course, Mr. Linden, you would be very near! I knew mother would not let me go to ride with Dr. Harrison, but with you I thought she would not be afraid." He looked at her a little doubtfully--as if he wanted to say something; but whatever it might be, it was not what he did say,--a quiet "I will try and take care of you. Miss Faith." Which words were afterwards enlarged upon. "Miss Faith, may I trust that you will not fall behind my 'fleet' horse to-morrow?" "Do you mean, if he goes very fast?" said Faith, with questioning eyes. "His speed shall not put you to any inconvenience. Indeed it may chance that he will be obliged to go slower than you like,--in which case, Miss Faith, I hope your liking will change." The doctor came the next day in a gay mood. "I told you," said he, "I shouldn't be content with simple interest--I wanted compound. I hope you approve of my addition to our plan?" "So far so good," Mr. Linden said smiling. They went out, and Mr. Linden's first move was towards the horse with the side saddle; not with the intention of mounting him, however: but a more particular, thorough, systematic examination of every buckle and strap of his harness, that particular horse had never had. Then Mr. Linden turned and held out his hand to Faith. She gave him hers with a facile readiness that quite precluded interposition, and testified either that she had expected it or had _not_ expected it; most probably the latter. Dr. Harrison bit his lips, but that was a second's emotion; his next step was to dismiss the groom who stood at the horse's head and take that office on himself. "You are more careful than is absolutely necessary in this case," said he smiling. "This horse, Miss Faith, is the mate, I presume, of the one Job used to take his exercise upon. I chose him for you, thinking of Mrs. Derrick.--Give 'Stranger' to Mr. Linden!"--The last words being a direction to the groom. A very different creature was Stranger! If it had been the purpose of Dr. Harrison to give his friend so much to do with his own particular affairs that he would have no leisure to bestow on those of other people, he had chosen the horse at least well. A very fine and beautiful animal, he deserved all the praise given him for facility of motion; no feet could disdain the ground more daintily; no carriage be more absolutely springy and soft. But the mischief and spirit of both the runaways combined would not match his case. He did not indeed appear to be vicious, any further than a most vehement desire to please himself and that in all manner of eccentric ways, totally irrelevant to the purpose of getting ahead on the road or serving the will of his rider, might be called vice. It rather seemed the spirit of power in full play. However it were, there was no lack of either 'motion' or 'emotion' during the first half mile of the way; for Stranger's manner of getting over so much of the ground was continually either calling Faith's blood into her cheeks, or driving it out from them. They were well matched, however, the horse and the rider,--and the spirit of power in equal exercise. Neither did Mr. Linden seem averse to the play--though Stranger presently found that what play _he_ indulged in, was clearly matter of concession; his name, as regarded his rider, soon lost its point. On the whole, the performance came as near the 'Centaurship' declared impossible by Dr. Harrison, as most things have in modern times; but so far as the doctor had any stake depending upon Stranger's antics, so far he lost. Mr. Linden had never seemed more absolutely at leisure to attend to other people's affairs, and had rarely, it may be said, attended to them more thoroughly, than during that 'springy' half mile. An occasional Pas seul round the minuet of his companions, rather heightened the effect. On another score, too, perhaps the doctor lost; for whatever efforts he made, or _she_ made, it was simply impossible for Faith to attend to anything else whatever with any show of consecutiveness, but the said horse and his rider. An attention sufficiently accounted for in the first place by the startled changes of colour in her face; latterly the colour rose and became steady, and a little varying play of smile on lip and eye during the third quarter of a mile attested the fact that other "emotions" had displaced that of fear. Clearly the doctor had lost upon Stranger. "How do you like him?" he said at last speaking across Faith who was not "good" for conversation. "Very much." "I see you do--and he likes you, which is, to be sure, a correlative position. As I see he don't fill your hands, may I impose upon you the care of my sister? We are an uneven number you are aware, and as I thought it desirable not to look _odd_, I gave her permission to go with us." Dr. Harrison did not see--if Faith did--the tiniest bit of a glance that sought her face while he was speaking; but nothing could be easier than the terms in which Mr. Linden declared himself ready to take charge of any number of ladies,--it was only equalled by Stranger's bound the next minute. How dismayed one of the party was at this addition of Miss Harrison's company, nobody guessed. They turned in at Judge Harrison's gate, and found Miss Sophy all ready for them. But to Faith, the play was suddenly taken out of "the play." She and Dr. Harrison set forward to be sure, over a pleasant road, in delicious weather; the doctor was in one of his balmiest moods; and though quietly, she was very well mounted. It was pleasant, or would have been pleasant; but all the while, what was Stranger doing behind her that she could not see! Then in answering some kindly, graceful remark of the doctor's, Faith chid herself for ungratefulness, and roused herself to give and take what good was in her power. The ride was pleasant after that! The air in all its calm sweetness was well tasted; the barren landscape, never barren to Faith's eyes, was enjoyed at every step. Her horse went agreeably, and the talk between her and Dr. Harrison grew interesting and enlivening. Meanwhile Mr. Linden's horse and his companion were at the antipodes--of each other. Thoroughly good and estimable as Miss Harrison was, she never left the beaten track,--and Stranger never kept in it. Between these two opposites Mr. Linden amused himself as best he might. To do him justice he tried his best to amuse his companion. Several miles of way had been passed over, when in a broad grassy reach of the road, the two riders ahead fell back upon the rest of the party; Faith taking Miss Harrison's side, while the doctor drew up by Mr. Linden. "How does it go?" he said good humouredly. "What is the impersonal in this case?" said Mr. Linden, while Stranger snorted and bounded, and by every means in his power requested the doctor to keep at a distance. "A conglomerate, for which I found no better term. You, Stranger, and my sister, and the world generally." "Stranger is in a sufficiently ardent mood, for his share--he gives me a fine view of the country," said Mr. Linden, as the creature brought himself to a tolerably erect position, and seemed to like it so well as to be in no hurry to come down; and when he did, took the precaution to take his hind feet off the ground before the fore feet touched. "Miss Faith--how does this agree with your ideal of Melancholy?" Faith forgot to answer, or thought answers impertinent. "That horse frightens me out of my wits," said Miss Harrison. "I have been jumping out of the saddle half the time, since I came out. Sometimes he'll go very quietly--as nice as anybody--and then he'll play such a caper as he did then. That was just because Julius came up alongside of him. He had been going beautifully this last mile. I wish he'd have nothing to do with such a creature!" "I suppose he's very pleasant to ride," said Faith eying the creature. Perhaps Stranger--with his full, wild eyes, took note of this look of partial favour, for he backed a little from the doctor, and came dancing round by Faith, and there danced along at her side for a few minutes; evidently in an excited state of mind. His rider meanwhile, gave Faith a quiet word of admonition about keeping so loose a rein, and asked, in the same half undertone, if she felt tired? "O no!" Faith said with a look of thanks and pleasure. "That piece of care I must trust in your hands--don't forget that I _do_ so trust it. How would you like to cross Quapaw creek on this piece of quicksilver?" "I don't think you'd like to have me!" Faith said very decidedly. "I never saw anything so beautiful, quite, Mr. Linden--that I recollect at this minute," she added smiling. "I want to dance with you to-day--more than I ever did before," he answered, smiling too. "Miss Faith, if you have not yet said the 'few sensible words,' or if you have any left, won't you please say them to me?" "That question comes like a constable upon all my sense," said Faith laughing, "and it feels as I suppose a man does when he is clapped on the shoulder." "But then the man cannot run away, you know." "Nor my sense don't," said Faith,--"that I know of,--but it feels as if it hadn't possession of itself, Mr. Linden." "Well see if it is equal to this demand--What would be the consequences if you and I were to start off and scour the country 'on our own hook,' as people say?" "I think 'our hook' would draw two people after us," said Faith, looking very much amused and a little afraid of being overheard. "That is a melancholy fact! And my self-indulgence needs to be kept in check. Miss Faith," he said dropping his voice still more, "Stranger regrets very much that he must now go through that figure of the cotillion called 'Ladies change'!" And with a low and laughing bow, Mr. Linden reined back his horse and returned to his former place with all the soberness that circumstances allowed. There was no soberness whatever in the face with which Faith recommenced her tête-à-tête with Miss Harrison. The doctor was perfectly in order. "I have been thinking," he said, "since my question of how the world went with you, what a very insignificant thing, as to extent, '_the world_' of any one person is." "Compared with the universe," said Mr. Linden. "What sort of a world have you got into?" said Dr. Harrison somewhat impatiently. "No--the actual extent of your and my consciousness--of that field of action and perception which we magnificently call our world! What a mighty limited field it is!" "I think you describe it correctly," said Mr. Linden: "it is both mighty and limited. A little space railed off for every man--and yet larger than that man can ever fill." "It seems to me too insignificant to be worth filling." "There is a little outlet on every side that makes it impossible to fill!" "What do you mean?" "I mean, that while our action at every step touches other people, and their consequent action moves on with like effect, the limits of our power in this world can never be known." "Will you think me impertinent if I ask once more what you mean?--or rather, ask you to enlarge a little?" "If a man plants the first clover seed or thistle-down in some great continent," said Mr. Linden, "from whose little field is it, that in a hundred years the whole land bears thistles or clover?" "It won't," said the doctor, "if a hundred other things are sown at the same time. And so it seems to me in life--that one action is counteracted by another, universally,--and nothing makes anything!--of any avail." "If _nothing_ is of any avail, things don't counteract each other. You are proving my position." The doctor smiled, not unpleasantly. "I see," he said, "you can maintain any position you choose to take,--on the ground or in the air! I must give way to you on _this_ ground." And Dr. Harrison reined back his horse and came into Faith's neighbourhood. "Miss Derrick, the road is getting too contracted for such a procession--will you draw bridle?" "I don't want to ride behind, Dr. Harrison," said Faith looking laughingly back at him. "I'll go on in front." Which she did, so briskly that the doctor had to bestir himself to come up with her. "I didn't know," he said, and he spoke somewhat in earnest,--"I didn't know that you cared anything about eminence or preëminence." "Didn't you, Dr. Harrison?" "_Do_ you?" "I don't know--" said Faith gravely. "Eminence?--yes, I should care very much for that, in some things. Not for preëminence, I think. There's Mr. Simlins!--and I must speak to him." Faith's horse which had been on an easy canter, came to a stand; and so must the doctor. Mr. Simlins too was on horseback. "Mr. Simlins," said Faith after giving him her hand, "will you have half a day's leisure Monday or Tuesday?" "Leisure?" said the farmer with his best growl--"no, I sha'n't have it if you take it." "Do you think I may take it?" "I don't suppose there's anybody that can hinder you," said Mr. Simlins--"without excepting my own identity. _I_ can't. Do you want to go up yonder again?" The doctor interposed to make offers of his father's horses, carriage, and servants; but Faith quietly negatived them all. "How did you get home the other night?" said the farmer. "Did you get over the river?" Then shifting his ground as Miss Harrison and Stranger came up into the group, he changed his question. "I say Mr. Linden!--I heerd Quapaw creek was choked up the other night--how did you get home?" "The same way I expect to now," said Mr. Linden. "How did _you_, Mr. Simlins." "The harness was all right," said Mr. Simlins--"if anything else was in a disorganized state, 'twas somebody's fault besides yourn. That lynch-pin made trouble though; it didn't fit more places than one. Did you get across Quapaw creek on your horses?" "Do you suppose I crossed on foot?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Do you take me for a witch, Mr. Simlins?" "I haven't just made up my mind about that," said the farmer. "I've a temptation to think you air. What's that you're on?" "Only a broomstick in disguise, Mr. Simlins. As he belongs to Dr. Harrison, I am willing to own so much." "He's as well-shaped a broomstick as ever I see," said the farmer consideratively. "I shouldn't mind puttin' him in harness. Well good-day! I'm glad this girl didn't have to go all round again the other night--I was afeard she had. I'll take you over creation," he sung out after her as they parted company,--"and I'll be along Monday." "Quapaw creek?" said Dr. Harrison, as the interrupted procession took up its line of march again,--"I think I remember that. What was the matter?" "The bridge was broken, with a loaded wagon upon it," Faith explained. "And you crossed by fording?" "Yes." "Isn't it rather a difficult ford? If I remember right, the bed of the stream is uneven and rough; doesn't it require some guiding of the horses?" "I believe so--yes. It isn't safe for an ignorant rider." "I didn't give you credit," said he looking at her, "for being such a horsewoman. That is quite a feat for a lady." Faith coloured high. But she was not going a second time to fight the doctor "with his own weapons." A very little she hesitated, then she said boldly, though not in very bold tones it must be confessed,-- "I am not a horsewoman--Mr. Linden carried me over." The doctor looked very moody for a few minutes; then his brow brightened. Faith's straightforward truth had served her as well as the most exquisite piece of involution. The doctor could not very well see the face with which her words were spoken and had to make up his mind upon them alone. "It is so!" was his settled conclusion. "She has only a child's friendly liking for him--nothing more--or she never, simple as she is, would have said that to me with that frankness!" Moodiness returned to the doctor's brow no more. He left Quapaw creek in the distance and talked of all manner of pleasant things. And so, with no second break of the order of march, they went on and went home. "Mr. Linden," said Faith when she was lighting the lamp for study in the evening,--"you'll never ask anything of me so hard to do as that was to-day." "Hard?" he replied. "Why?" "To keep in front, where I could not see you and that horse." "Miss Faith! I am very sorry!--But you know I had you in charge--I felt bound to keep you in sight." "I know,"--she said; and sat down to her work. CHAPTER XXXIV. There was no more riding after that--the weather grew too cold, and Mattabeeset was put off till spring; but with walks and talks and reading aloud, Göthe's maxim was well carried out. For there is music that needs no composer but Peace, and fireside groups that are not bad pictures in stormy weather. And so December began to check off its short days with busy fingers. There came a sudden interruption to all this, except December's part of it. For a letter arrived from Miss Delia Danforth, at Pequot, begging that Faith would come and spend a little time with her. Miss Delia was very unwell, and suffering and alone, with the exception of her brother's French wife; and she wrote with longing desire to see Faith. Mr. Danforth had been some years dead, and the widow and the sister who had lived so long together with him, since his death had kept their old household life, in a very quiet way, without him. But now Miss Danforth longed for some of her own kindred, or had a special liking or desire for Faith's company, for she prayed her to come. And it was not a call that Faith herself a moment doubted about answering. Mrs. Derrick's willingness lingered, for various natural reasons; but that too followed. It was clear that Faith ought not to refuse. The day before she was to go, Mrs. Derrick made her self unusually busy and tired, so as to spare Faith's study-time; and thus it fell out, that when night came and prayers were over, Mrs. Derrick went straight to bed; partly from fatigue, partly to be ready for an early start next day; for she was to drive Faith over to Pequot. No such need or inducements sent Faith to bed; and the two students planned a longer evening of work than common, to anticipate lost time. But when the hours were about half spent, Cindy came to the door and called out, "Miss Faith!"--Faith left her book and went to the door, which she held open. "There was a boy come to-night," said Cindy, "from that old starvation creatur' down by Barley point, and he says she's more in a box than ever. Haint a crumb of bread for breakfast--nor supper neither, for that." "Is the boy here now?" "Why sakes no!" said Cindy. "He come while you was to supper. I s'pose I might ha' telled ye before, but then again I was busy bakin' cakes--and I'm free to confess I forgot. And prayers always does turn everything out of ray head. I can't guess how I thought of it now. Mr. Skip's away to-night, too," said Cindy in conclusion. Faith shut the door behind her. "It's too far for you to go alone. Can you find somebody to go with you, Cindy? I'll put up a basket of things for her." "Aint a soul in sight--" said Cindy. "I'd as lieves go the hull way alone as to snoop round, hunting folks." "Then Cindy, if you'll get ready I'll go with you. She must have something." Cindy looked at her. "Guess you better get fixed first, Miss Faith. 'Taint hardly worth my while, I reckon. Who shouldn't we have after us!" "Just have your shawl and bonnet ready, Cindy, will you?" said Faith gravely,--"and I'll be ready in a very few minutes." She went with business speed to pantry and cellar, and soon had a sizeable basket properly filled. Leaving that in Cindy's charge, Faith went back to the sitting-room, and came and stood by the table, and said quietly, "I can't do any more to-night, Mr. Linden. I must be busy in another way. I am going out for a little while." "May I ask--not from curiosity--with whom?" he said looking up at her. "With Cindy--to attend to some business she didn't tell me of in proper time." Faith had laid her books together and was going off. Mr. Linden rose from the table. "With me, if you please, Miss Faith. I will not intrude upon your business." "It's no business to be intruded upon!" she said with her simple look into his face. "But Cindy and I can do it. Please do not let me take you away! I am not afraid--much." "Miss Faith, you want a great many lessons yet!--and I do not deserve this. Don't you know that in Mrs. Derrick's absence I am guardian of her house--and of you? I will go with you, or without you--just as you choose," he added smiling. "If you would rather study than walk, you shall. Is the business too intricate for me to manage?" "It's only to carry some things to an old woman who is in great want of them. They can't wait till to-morrow. If you will go, Mr. Linden,--I'll be ready in a minute. I'd like to go." She ran to get ready, and Mr. Linden went to the kitchen and took the basket from Cindy, and then waited at the front door till Faith came, and they went out into the moonlight together. A very bright moonlight, and dark shadows--dark and still; only one of them seemed to move; but that one made Faith glad of her change of companions. Perhaps it made the same suggestion to Mr. Linden, for his first words looked that way. "Miss Faith, you did not do quite right, to-night. Don't you know--" with a gentle half smiling tone--"you must not let _anything_ make you do wrong?" Her look and tone were both very confiding, and touched with timidity. "Did I, Mr. Linden? I didn't mean it." "I know that--but you must remember for another time." And he went off to other subjects, giving her talk and information that were perhaps better than books. The walk was good, too; the air bracing, and the village sights and sounds in a subsiding glimmer and murmur. The evening out of doors was worth as much as the evening within doors could have been. Faith thought so. The way was down the road that led to Barley point, branching off from that. The distance to the poor cottage seemed short enough, but if it had seemed long Faith would have felt herself well paid--so much was the supply needed, so joyfully was it received. The basket was left there for Mr. Skip to bring home another time, and at a rather late hour in the evening the return walk began. The night was sharp and frosty, and still, now, with a depth of silence. The moon, high and full, beamed down in silver splendour, and the face of the earth was all white or black. The cold, clear light, the sharp shadows angling and defining everything, the absolute stillness--how well they chimed!--and chime they did, albeit noiselessly. In that bracing air the very steps of the two homeward bound people seemed to spring more light and elastic, and gave little sound. They went on together with a quick even step,--the very walking was pleasant. For a while they talked busily too,--then Thought came in and claimed her place, and words ceased. They had left the turn to the belt of woods, and were now passing one or two empty fields where low hedges made a black line of demarcation, and the moonlight seemed even whiter than before. Faith was on the side next the road, and both a little way out, for the walking was smoother and dryer. How it was done Faith could not tell--the next two seconds seemed full of separate things which she remembered afterwards--but her hand was disengaged from Mr. Linden's arm, and he was standing before her and she behind him, almost before she had fairly seen a little flash of red light from the hedge before them. A sharp report--a powdery taint on the sweet air, came then to give their evidence--to what? That second past, Mr. Linden turned, but still standing so as to shield her, and laid both hands on her shoulders. "Are you hurt?" he said, in a voice lowered by feeling, not intent. One bewildered instant she stood mute--perhaps with no breath for words; the next minute, with a motion too unexpected and sudden to be hindered, lifting both hands she threw his off, bounded to one side to be clear of him, and sprang like a gazelle towards the spot where the red flash had caught her eye. But she was caught and stopped before she reached it, and held still--that same shield between her and the hedge. "Did it touch you?" Mr. Linden repeated. "No--Let me! let me!"--she said eagerly endeavouring to free herself. He was silent a moment--a deep drawn breath the only reply; but he did not loose his hold. "My dear child," he said, "you could find nothing--for what would you go?"--the tone was very gentle, even moved. "You must walk on before me as quick as you can. Will you promise to do it? I will keep you in sight." "Before you?--no. What are you going to do? Are you touched?"--Her voice changed as she went on. "I am not hurt--and mean to do nothing to-night but follow you home. But give me your promise, Miss Faith,--you must not stand here." "Why in front? will they be behind us?" "I must have you in sight--and I will not have you near me." And letting go his hold he said, almost imperatively, "I will trust you. Walk on before me!--Miss Faith, you must not delay a moment." "I will go with you," she said low, and clinging to his arm.--"Your safety is in being near me. I will not delay. Come!"-- But the hand was taken off again, and held in both his while he spoke. "I will not have you anywhere near me! If you do not walk on far in front, I shall,--and keep watch of you as best I can." And he let go her hand, and stepped back with a quick pace that soon put some distance between them. She stood still a moment, looking, and then sprang back till she reached him; speaking with a low vehemence that did not seem like Faith. "I will not do it, Mr. Linden--I will not! I will not!--Come, come! don't stay here!"-- Whatever Mr. Linden felt at that appeal--and he was not a man to feel it lightly--his words lost none of their firmness. "I shall not stir until you are ten yards in front of me!--unless I leave you as far behind." She planted herself for an instant before him and looked in his face, with eyes of quiet but most eloquent beseeching. "No"--he repeated,--"you must go on and fear nothing. Child--'there is no restraint to the Lord, to save by many or by few.'" She did not answer, even by the little shake of the head which sometimes with her stood in place of words. She turned, went swiftly forward, with a straight, even, unslackening pace, which did not falter nor stop for a long, long piece of the way; _how_ long it was by the mind's measurement it would be hard to tell. It was one breathless sense of pain and fear; of which moonlight and shadows and the points of the way all made part and were woven in together. Her ears were tingling for that sound; her eyes only measured unconsciously the distances and told off the waymarks. Down the little pitch of the road where that to Barley point forked off; then by a space of clear fences where hedgerows were not, and a barn or two rose up in the moonlight; through gates where the post shadows were black and deep, by the skirting bushes that now and then gathered about the rails. She walked as fast as she could and keep her strength. That was unconsciously measured too. It had seemed to her, in her agony of pleading before the commencing of this strange walk, that it was _impossible_ she should do it. She was doing it now, under a force of will that she had not been able to withstand; and her mind was subdued and strained beyond the power of thinking. Her very walking seemed to her mechanical; intensely alive as her senses were all the time. There was a transient relief at coming into the neighbourhood of a house, and a drear feeling of desolation and increased danger as she left it behind her; but her pace neither faltered nor flagged. She looked round sometimes, but never paused for that. Before the more thickly settled part of the village was reached her step grew a little slower, probably from the sheer necessity of failing strength; but steady it was, at whatever rate of travel. When at last they turned the sandy corner into the broad street or main way of the village, where houses and gardens often broke the range of hedgeway or fence, and lights spoke to lights in the neighbouring windows, Faith stopped and stood leaning against the fence. In another moment she was drawn away from that to a better support. "Are you faint?" Mr. Linden said. Her "no" was faint, but the answer was true for all the rest of her. He drew her hand within his arm, and went on silently; but how glad he was to see her home, Faith might guess from the way she was half carried up the steps and into the hall, and the door shut and locked behind her. After the same fashion she was taken into the sitting-room and placed in the easy chair, and her wrappers unfastened and taken off with very gentle and quick hands. She offered almost as little help as hindrance, and her head sank immediately. He stood by her, and repeated his question about faintness. "O no, sir--I'm not faint. It's nothing," Faith said, but as if her very voice was exhausted. And crossing her arms upon the table, close to which the easy chair stood, she laid her head down upon them. Her mother might well say she had a baby face. It looked so them. Mr. Linden's next move was to get a glass of wine, and with gentle force and persuasion to make her swallow it; that done, he stood leaning upon the back of her chair, silently, but with a very, very grave face. She kept her position, scarcely stirring, for some length of time, except that after a while she hid her face in her hands. And sitting so, at last she spoke, in a troubled tone. "What can be done, Mr. Linden?--to put a stop to this." "I will try what can be done," he answered, though not as if that point were uppermost in his mind. "I think I can find a way. I wish nothing gave me more uneasiness than that!" "Do you think there is any way that you can do it, thoroughly?" "Yes, I think so," he repeated. "There are ways of doing most things. I shall try. Do not you think about it, Miss Faith,--I have something now to make me glad you are going to Pequot. Before, I could only remember how much I should miss my scholar." "Why are you glad now, Mr. Linden?" Faith's voice was in as subdued a state of mind as her face. "Change of air will be good for you--till this air is in a better state." She made no answer. In a few minutes she rose up, gathered her wrappers into one hand, and turning to Mr. Linden held out the other to him; with a very child's look, which however was rather doubtful about meeting his. His look had lost none of its grave concern. "Are you better?" he said. "Will you promise to go right to sleep, and leave all troublesome matters where alone they can be taken care of?" The faintest kind of a smile flitted across her face. "I don't know"--she said doubtfully,--"I don't know what I can do, Mr. Linden." "I have told you." "I'll try--the last part," she said with a somewhat more defined smile as she glanced up at him. It was as grave and gentle a smile as is often known. "You must try it all," he said, giving her hand the same touch it had had once before. "Miss Faith, I may use your words--I think you will never give me harder work to do than I have had to-night!" She could not bear that. She stood with eyes cast down, and a fluttering quiver upon her lip; still, because the effort to control herself was at the moment as much as she could do. It was successful, though barely; and then, without venturing another look, she said her low "Good night, sir"; and moved away. She was accompanied as far as the door, but then Mr. Linden paused, with his hand on the latch. "Shall you take any work--I mean _book_ work--with you to Pequot?--or will your hands find too much else to do?" "I meant to take some I meant to do a good deal--I hope so." "Then can you come back to the great chair for ten minutes, and let me give you a word or two of direction?" She came immediately and sat down. And Mr. Linden went back to where they had been interrupted early in the evening, and told her what and where and how to go on in the various books, till she should see him again; putting marks here and there to save her trouble, or pencilling some explanation which might be needed. It took but a few minutes to do this; and then Mr. Linden laid the books together, and drawing the old Bible towards him once more, he turned to the ninety-first Psalm and read it aloud. Read it with full heart-felt effect; which made the words fall like the dew they are, upon the weary little flower Faith was. Then he bade her once more goodnight. She went refreshed; yet to become a prey to struggling thoughts which for a while prevented refreshment from having its lawful action. How much of the night and of the early morning Faith spent in these thoughts, and in the fruit of them, is uncertain; for the evening's work would sufficiently have accounted for her worn look the next day. CHAPTER XXXV. "Must I go to Pequot?" was the first thought that entered Faith's mind the next morning. And the advancing daylight, with its clear steadfast way of looking at things, said, "Yes, you must." "Is there anything _I_--who know most about this business--can do to put an end to it?" That was a second thrilling question. The same daylight gave its frank answer,--"No, you cannot--you cannot." Faith took both answers, and then sought, in the very spirit of a child, to "leave all troublesome things where alone they could be taken care of." "There is a faculty in this," saith Leighton, "that all persons have not." But the spirit of a child can do it; and the spirit of a Christian, so far as it is right, is none other. Faith went down stairs, in spite of inward sorrow and trembling, with a quiet brow. It was very much the face of last night, for its subdued look, and in spite of the night's rest, in its paleness too; though the colour played there somewhat fitfully. Sorrowful note of that Mr. Linden took, or the pained look of last night had not passed off from his face,--or both might be true. So far as the most gentle, quick-sighted, and careful attention could be of avail, the breakfast was pleasant;--otherwise it was but a grave affair. Even Mrs. Derrick looked from one to the other, with thoughtfulness that was not merely of Faith's going away. There was little time however for observations. Directly after breakfast the wagon was got ready; and when they were bestowed in it and Mr. Linden's farewell had bade Faith remember all his injunctions the night before, he turned and walked on to his own place of work and the mother and daughter set forth on their journey. In a small insignificant house, in a by street of Pequot, was the little, very odd household of the two, Miss and Madame Danforth. They kept no servant; they lived quite to themselves; the various work of the household they shared between them and made it as good as play; and no worse than play seemed all the rest of their quiet lives. But Miss Dilly was ill now and unable to do her part; and what was worse, and more, she had lost her wonted cheerful and gay way of looking at things. That the little Frenchwoman never lost; but it takes two to keep up a shuttlecock, and Faith was welcome in that house. What work she did there for the next two or three weeks was best known--not to herself--but to the two old ladies whose hearts she cheered. And they knew not all; they did not know the leap of Faith's heart at the thought of home, whenever, morning or noon or night, it came into her head. She kept it out of her head as much as she could. And she went about from the top to the bottom of the house, even after the first day she came, the same sort of sunbeam she was at home. She took in hand Miss Danforth's broom and duster, and did Cindy's part of setting cups and saucers; but that was a small matter. The helpful hand which made itself so busy and the voice which ran music all up and down the house, were never forgotten, even by the Frenchwoman. To Miss Danforth, feeble and ailing, Faith ministered differently, and did truly the work of an angel. More than once before the second day was done, Miss Dilly repeated, "Faith, child, how glad I am I sent for you!"--And Madame Danforth took to her mightily; opened heart and arms without reservation; and delighting to have her company, carried her down into the kitchen and initiated Faith into deep mysteries of the science and art the head quarters of which are there. Now did Faith learn new secrets about coffee, about eggs, about salads and about vegetables, that she never knew before; and for some unknown reason she was keen to learn, and liked the half hours over the kitchen fire with Madame Danforth so well, that the little Frenchwoman grew proud of her pupil. It was the third day of Faith's being at Pequot. Faith was engaged in some gentle offices about the room, folding up clothes and putting drawers in order. Miss Danforth's eye watched her, following every movement, till Madame Danforth left the room to go out on business. Faith was summoned then to her aunt's side. It was the darkening part of the afternoon. Faith sat down at the foot of Miss Danforth's great easy chair, looked into the fire, and wondered what they were doing at Pattaquasset. "And so, Faith, child, you're taken to new ways, I hear." To Faith's quick ear, Miss Danforth's voice shewed a purpose. It was less brisk than its old wont. Her answer was as simple as possible. "Yes, aunt Dilly. It's true." "You don't think you're any better than you used to be--do you?" "No, ma'am. Yet my life is better, I hope." "I don't believe it! How could it be?" "In this at least, that I am the servant of God now. Before, I never thought of serving him." "I never did," said Miss Dilly. "But"-- There was a silence. Faith's heart leapt to hear this confession, but she said nothing and sat still as a mouse. "How's Mr. Linden getting on in Pattaquasset?" "Well" "You like him as well as ever?" "Yes." Alert questions. Rather faint answers. "Do you remember what he said one night, about everybody being precious? Do you remember it, Faith?" "Yes, ma'am--very well." "I suppose I have thought of it five hundred and fifty times," Miss Dilly went on. "What were the words, Faith? do you know 'em?" Faith did not move, only repeated, and if they had been literal diamonds every word would not have seemed so precious to her,-- "'_They shall be mine, saith the Lord, in the day when I make up my jewels_.'" "That's it!" said Miss Dilly. "Now go on, can you, Faith, and tell me what it means." "It is spoken of the people that fear the Lord, aunt Dilly--it goes on-- "'_And I will spare them, as a man spareth his own on that serveth him. Then shall ye return and discern between the righteous and the wicked, between him that serveth God and him that serveth him not_.'" "Tell me more. Faith," said Miss Danforth presently in a subdued voice. "I don't understand one thing about it from beginning to end." In answer to which Faith turned, took a Bible, and as one did of old, preached unto her Jesus. It was very simple preaching. Faith told her aunt the story even very much as she had told it to Johnny Fax; and with the same sweet grave face and winning tongue which had drawn the children. As earnest as they, Miss Dilly listened and looked, and brought her strong sense to bear upon the words. Not with the same ease of understanding. She said little, excepting to bid Faith 'go on,'--in a tone that told the quest she was upon--unsatisfied yet. Faith went on, but preferred to let the Bible words speak instead of her own. It brought Mrs. Custers to mind again, though this time Faith's joy of heart made her words ring as from a sweet silver trumpet. So they fell on the sick woman's ear; nor was there stay or interruption till Faith heard the hall door close below. She shut the book then; then her arm came round Miss Danforth's neck, and her kisses spoke well enough the glad sympathy and encouragement Faith spoke in no other way. One earnest return answered her. From that time, to read the Bible to her aunt was Faith's work; morning, noon, and night, literally; sometimes far into the night. For Miss Danforth, embracing what she had never known before, as the light gradually broke upon her; and feeling that her time for study might be made short, was in eager haste and longing to acquaint herself with the broad field of duties and privileges, all new, now laid open before her. Faith could not read too much; Miss Dilly could not listen too long. "Faith, child," she said one night, late, when they were alone,--"can't you pray for me?" "I do, aunt Dilly." "No, no! but I mean, can't you pray _with_ me?--now, here. Can't you, Faith?" Faith kissed her; hid her face in her hands and trembled; and then knelt and prayed. And many a time after that. CHAPTER XXXVI. The Saturday before Christmas, which was moreover the day but one before, Squire Stoutenburgh went over to Pequot; and having checked off his business items, drove straight to Madame Danforth's. The door was opened to him by the Frenchwoman, who took him into a little room very like herself, and left him; and in another minute or two Faith came in. Her exclamation was with the unmistakeable tone and look of pleasure. "My dear, I am very glad to see you!" was part of the warm reply. "How do you do?" "I do very well, sir." "Ah!"--said the Squire,--"I suppose so. Well I'll give you a chance to do better. My dear, I'm going to carry you off,--you're wanted." "Am I?" said Faith with a quick change. "There's nothing the matter?" "Nothing _bad_," said the Squire. "At least I hope not! Will you go home with me this afternoon?" "O yes, sir--and very glad! But did mother send for me?" "Sent for you if I could get you, Miss Faith. I don't suppose she'll ever really interfere with your doings--if you choose to go and live in the Moon, but she's half sick for the sight of you. That's prevalent just now," said the Squire, "and she's not the worst case. The doctor went off for fear he should take it;--but some people have duties, you know, and can't stir." There was a tiny peachblossom tinge on Faith's cheek, which the Squire was pleased to take note of. She stood with a thoughtful face the while. "I'll be ready, Mr. Stoutenburgh. When will you come for me?" The time was fixed, and Faith made her explanations to her friends; promising that if need were she would some back again, or her mother, after Christmas. Miss Dilly let her go very willingly, yet most unwillingly; and Madame Danforth's reluctance had nothing to balance it. So it was that Faith's joy had its wonted mixture of gravity when she met the Squire again. "If you're not going to be glad to get home, I'm a rich man if I'll go in with you!" he said as he put her in the sleigh and tucked her up with shawls and buffalo robes. "That's the way!--first get power and then abuse it." "Power! Mr. Stoutenburgh. What do you mean? I am very glad to go home. Don't I look so?" She certainly did. "I mean that I haven't seen anybody smile since you went away," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, proceeding to tuck himself up in like manner. "Except Dr. Harrison. He kept himself in practice while he staid." Faith was silent; eying the snowy road and the jingling horse heads, with a bounding feeling of heart that she was going home. She dared allow it to herself now. "What do you guess made the doctor leave that fly-away horse of his for Mr. Linden to tame?" said the Squire. "Has he any particular reason for wishing to break his neck?" "Did he do that?" "Break his neck?--why no, not yet,--I suppose the doctor lives in hopes. You take it coolly, Miss Faith! upon my word." "Mr. Stoutenburgh!--I meant, did he leave the horse for him. Dr. Harrison knew there wasn't much danger, Mr. Stoutenburgh." Mr. Stoutenburgh touched up his own team. "I guess!"--he said slowly, "the doctor don't just know how much danger there is. So Pattaquasset 'll have a chance to come down on both feet--which that horse don't do often. We've had all sorts of goings on, Miss Faith." "Have you, sir?" The question was put quietly enough, but there was a little tinge of curiosity, too. "Yes," said the Squire, shaking his whip. "Sam Deacon's gone away and Mr. Linden's grown unpopular. Aint that news?" "What do you mean, sir?" "Why Sam Deacon's gone away--" the Squire repeated coolly. "He was getting rather too much of a sportin' character for our town, so a friend of mine that was going to Egypt--or somewhere--took him along. You needn't be uneasy about him--Miss Faith, he'll be taken care of. I should have sent him a worse journey, only I was overruled." "And is he gone to Egypt?" said Faith. "Hardly got so far yet," said the Squire. "But I thought it would be good for Sam's health--he's been a little weaker than usual about the head lately." "That was only half of your news, Mr. Stoutenburgh," Faith said after another interval of musing. "'Tother half's nothing wonderful. Mr. Linden's getting unpopular with everybody in town that he don't make up to on the right side; and as there's a good many of them, I'm afraid it'll spread. I've done _my_ best to tell him how to quiet the matter, but you might just as well tell a pepperidge which way to grow! Did you ever try to make him do anything?" said the Squire, facing round upon Faith. The startling of Faith's eyes was like a flash; and something so her colour went and came. The answer was a very orderly, "Yes, sir." "Hum--I s'pose he did it,--guess I'll come to you next time I want anything done. Are you cold, my dear?" said the Squire renewing his efforts at wrapping up. Faith's desire for Pattaquasset news was satisfied. She manifested no more curiosity about anything; and so far as appeared in words, was contented with her own thoughts. That however would have been a rash conclusion. For thoughts do occupy that do not content; and Faith could willingly have spared the hints in Mr. Stoutenburgh's last speech--and indeed in several others. She by no means understood them thoroughly; yet something of the drift and air of them she did feel, and felt as unnecessary. There had been already in Faith's mind a doubtful look towards the last evening she had spent in Pattaquasset; a certain undefined consciousness that her action that night might have said or seemed to say--she knew not what. She could find no fault with it, to herself; there had been nothing that she could help; but yet this consciousness made her more tender upon anything that touched the subject. She had thought of it, and put it out of her head, several times in these last weeks; and now Mr. Stoutenburgh's words had just the effect to make her shy. Faith's mind however had been full of grave and sweet things of late, and was in such a state now. The principal feeling, which the Squire's words could not change, was of very deep and joyous happiness; she was exceeding glad to go home; but at the same time in a mood too quiet and sober for the wine of joy to get into her head. Squire Stoutenburgh too seemed satisfied,--perhaps with the uncold hue of Faith's cheeks; and now drove on at a rapid rate, talking only of indifferent matters. The horses trotted quick over the smooth snow, and the gathering lead colour overhead was touched with gleams of light here and there, as the sun went down behind the Pattaquasset outlines. Swiftly they jingled along, crossing the ferry and mounting the hill; past trees and barns and village houses--then into the main street: down which the horses flew with a will, thinking of oats and their good stable, and unwillingly reined in at Mrs. Derrick's door. It was dark by that time--Faith could see little but the lights glimmering in the windows, and indeed had no time to see much; so suddenly and softly was she lifted out of the sleigh the moment it stopped. Then Mr. Linden's voice said, "Thank you, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" "That's one way of thanking me!" said the Squire. "However--I suppose it's all right,"--and gave his impatient horses their way. "Why Mr. Linden," said Faith half laughing, but with a little of the old timidity in her voice,--"how could you see me before I saw you?" "For various reasons, Miss Faith. How do you do?" He led her on, into the house and into the tea-room, there to delight her mother's heart and make her mother's eyes overflow. "Pretty child!" Mrs. Derrick said,--"I never will let you go away again for anybody!" Faith laughed, and kissed her and kissed her; but did not take that moment to say what she thought--that Mrs. Derrick would have to let her go again in a few days perhaps, and for Miss Danforth herself. Then her eye glanced at the tea-table, as it might at an ungoverned kingdom--or a vacated sphere; and the fulness of her heart broke out. "Mother!--I'm glad to be home again!" The tone said it yet more than the words. And then with a sudden movement, she went off a step to Mr. Linden and held out her hand to him, albeit ever so little shyly. The hand was taken and kept, his eyes taking a quiet survey of her the while. "Miss Faith, you want to be set to work! Some people will neglect themselves if they have a chance." "I haven't done much work since I have been away, Mr. Linden." He smiled--what was he reading in her face? "You don't know what you have done, child," he said. "But she looks glad, Mrs. Derrick,--and we are very glad to have her." Whereupon Faith was conducted to the tea-table without more delay; Mrs. Derrick feeling sure that she was starving both with cold and hunger. Faith had no appearance of being cold; and though she certainly did eat her supper as if she was glad to be at home, it was not with the air of a person with whom his bread and butter is the first thought. Gladness shone in every look and movement; but at the same time over all the gladness there was a slight veil; it might be gravity, but it might not be all gravity, for part of it was very like constraint; the eyes were more ready to fall than to rise; and the words, though free to come, had a great facility for running in short sentences. But Mrs. Derrick was too happy to notice such light streaks of mist in the sunshine, and talked away at a most unusual rate,--telling Faith how Mr. Linden had ridden that 'wild horse,' and had found time to teach her little class, and in general had done everything else--for everything seemed to hinge upon him. Mr. Linden himself--with now and then a word to qualify, or to make Faith laugh, took a somewhat special and quiet care of her and her wants at the table; all which seemed to Faith (in her mood) very like little gentle suggestions at that vail;--otherwise, he was rather silent. Then followed prayers, with all the sweet warm influences of the time; and then Faith might sit and talk or be silent, as she liked; rest being considered the best work for that evening. It would seem that she liked to be silent,--if that were a fair conclusion from her silence. Her eye took happy note of the familiar things in and about the room; then she sat and looked into the fireplace, as glad to see it again maybe,--or doubtful about looking elsewhere. As silently, for a few minutes, Mr. Linden took note of her: then he spoke. "Miss Faith, will you let me give you lessons all through the holidays?" She gave him a swift blushing glance and smile. "If you like to do it, Mr. Linden--and if I am here." "Where do you find those two 'ifs'?" "I thought, perhaps, when I came away from Pequot to-day, that I might go back again after Monday. I am afraid aunt Dilly will want me." "How much must people want you, to gain a hearing?" "There are different kinds of wanting," Faith said gravely. "Aunt Dilly may miss me too much." "And the abstract 'too much,' is different from the comparative. What about that other 'if'?" "The other 'if'?--I don't know that there is anything about it, Mr. Linden," Faith said laughing. "Whence did it come?--before it 'trickeled,' as Bunyan says, to your tongue?" "I don't know, sir!"-- "Miss Faith!--I did not think you would so forget me in three weeks. Do you want to hear the story of a very cold, icy little brook?" he said, with a sort of amused demureness that gave her the benefit of all his adjectives. She looked up at him with earnest eyes not at all amused, but that verged on being hurt; and it was with a sort of fear of what the real answer might be, that she asked what he meant. "Miss Faith, I mean nothing very bad," he said with a full smile at her then. "When I really think you are building yourself an ice palace, I shall spend my efforts upon thawing, not talking. What have you been doing all these weeks?" With a little bit of answering smile she said, in a deliberate kind of way,--"I have been running about house--and learning how to cook French cookery, Mr. Linden--and most of all, I've been reading the Bible. I haven't had time to do much else." "Do you know," Mr. Linden said as he watched her, "that is just what I thought?--And so you have been going step by step 'up the mountain'! Do you see how the road improves?--do you find the 'richer pastures' and the purer air?" "O sir," said Faith looking up at him,--"I was reading to aunt Dilly." "I know,--I understood that. Are not my words true still?" Gravity and shyness, all except the gravity that belonged to her and to the subject, broke away from Faith. She rose up and stood beside Mr. Linden, moved, happy, and glad with the gladness of full sympathy. "It has been a pleasant two weeks, Mr. Linden!--though I would have liked to be at home. Aunt Dilly has wanted the Bible, morning, noon, and night;--and it was wonderful to read it to her! It has been my business, all these days." "My dear child! I am very glad!" he said, taking her hand. "Wonderful?--yes, it is wonderful to read, to one who wants it." "She wanted it so much,"--Faith said, catching her breath a little. "And understood it, Mr. Linden. Very soon it was all--or mostly--clear to her. I read to her sometimes till twelve o'clock at night--and sometimes began at four in the morning." Mr. Linden looked at her with a mingling of expressions. "I am afraid that was not good for you,--if one dare say it of any work done in that service. Do you know how much the Bible is like that pillar of fire which guided the Israelites, but to those who were not of Israel became a pillar of cloud,--from which 'the Lord looked out' but 'to trouble them'?" Faith's eye watched him as he spoke, and caught the power and beauty of the illustration; but she did not speak. Until after thinking and musing a while she said softly, "It don't trouble aunt Dilly." Mr. Linden drew up a chair for her near his own, but made no other comment upon her or her musings at first,--then abruptly--"And you think she will want you again?" "There is nobody else to do this for her," said Faith; and again was silent. "How do you suppose it all began with aunt Dilly, Mr. Linden?" "As to means?--I cannot tell." "It began from a few words, which I dare say you have forgotten, but which she and I remember,--words that you said one evening when she was here last summer, about everybody's being precious in one sense.--You repeated that passage--'They shall be mine, saith the Lord,'--you know." Faith did not know what a soft illumination was in her eyes, or she would probably not have turned the light of it so full upon Mr. Linden as at one or two points of her speech she did. It was a grave, sweet look that answered her; but then his eyes went off to the fire without further reply. Faith did not again interrupt the silence; a silence that to judge by the faces of both was pleasant to both. Till Mrs. Derrick came in, who indeed could not be very long absent. Then Faith left her place, sat down on a low seat by her mother and caressingly took possession of her hands and arms. She made no more startling propositions that night of going back to Pequot again; and the minutes of the evening flowed on--as such minutes do. The Sunday which followed was one as quietly happy as is often known in this world. And the next day was Christmas. END OF VOL. I. PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. Typographical errors silently corrected: chapter 5: =There is no fear= replaced by ="There is no fear= chapter 6: =tête à-tête= replaced by =tête-à-tête= chapter 6: =Simlin's questions= replaced by =Simlins' questions= chapter 6: =ask the boys nothin= replaced by =ask the boys nothin'= chapter 6: =bargain," he said,= replaced by =bargain," he said.= chapter 7: =cause she wants you= replaced by ='cause she wants you= chapter 7: =kep' your ma to supper= replaced by =kep' your 'ma to supper= chapter 8: =real sponsible= replaced by =real 'sponsible= chapter 9: =nutsdid= replaced by =nuts did= chapter 10: =this tone implied= replaced by =his tone implied= chapter 11: =endless day!= replaced by =endless day!'"= chapter 12: =Wether he had or no= replaced by =Whether he had or no= chapter 13: =well-dressed= replaced by =well-dressed= chapter 15: =What you have been doing= replaced by =what have you been doing= chapter 22: =Mr. David has sent= replaced by =Mr. Davids has sent= chapter 22: ="Won't you rest= replaced by =Won't you rest= chapter 23: =should'nt be right= replaced by =shouldn't be right= chapter 26: =you're growing= replaced by ="you're growing= chapter 28: =Mr. Somers said good= replaced by =Mrs. Somers said good= chapter 32: =s'il vous plait= replaced by =s'il vous plaît= chapter 34: =starvation creatur= replaced by =starvation creatur'= chapter 34: =to his arm,= replaced by =to his arm.= chapter 36: =slowly, the doctor= replaced by =slowly, "the doctor= 
40581	----	THE SECRET SERVICE SUBMARINE A STORY OF THE PRESENT WAR BY GUY THORNE NEW YORK SULLY & KLEINTEICH 1915 The verses used as preface appeared in the issue of _Truth_ for 4th November 1914. They are reproduced here by special and courteous permission of the Editor. The verses were published anonymously, but the author has kindly allowed me to mention his name. He is Mr. William Booth. THE SONG OF THE SUBMARINE This is the song of the submarine Afloat on the waters wide. Like a sleeping whale In the starlight pale, Just flush with the swirling tide. The salt sea ripples against her plates The salt wind is her breath, Like the spear of fate She lies in wait, And her name is "Sudden Death." I watch the swift destroyers come, Like greyhounds lank and lean, And their long hulks sleek Play hide-and-seek With me on the waters green. I watch them with my single eye, I see their funnels flame, And I sing Ho! Ho! As I sink below, Ho! Ho! for a glorious game! I roam the seas from Scapa Flow To the Bight of Heligoland; In the Dover Strait I lie in wait On the edge of Goodwin's Sand. I am here and there and everywhere, Like the phantom of a dream, And I sing Ho! Ho! Through the winds that blow, The song of the submarine! WILLIAM BOOTH. CONTENTS PART I I. REJECTED FOR SERVICE. MR. JOHN CAREY'S EXPLANATION 11 II. "THERE IS SOMETHING VERY WRONG ABOUT THIS HOUSE" 23 III. BERNARD CAREY, LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER OF SUBMARINES 37 IV. DORIS AND MARJORIE GIVE A SUPPER PARTY. THE ARROW FLIES IN MORSTONE SEA-WOOD 59 PART II V. AT MIDNIGHT ON THE MARSHES. THE SECRET OF THE OLD HULK 77 VI. HOW JOHN CAREY FOUGHT WITH THE GERMAN GIANT IN THE SALOON, AND "MR. JONES" MET UNEXPECTED THINGS IN THE NIGHT 103 VII. THE MURDER OF MR. LOCKHART 122 VIII. THE TRUTH AT LAST, THE INCREDIBLE TRUTH! AND HOW THEY FOUGHT FOR THE SUBMARINE 128 PART III IX. OUT IN THE NORTH SEA. PREPARING FOR ACTION 145 X. THE SPEAR OF FOAM 154 XI. THE SUBMARINE FIGHTS FOR ENGLAND 164 XII. THE LAST CHAPTER--IN TWO PARTS-- DORIS AND MARJORIE HAVE A LATE VISITOR 177 RETURN OF THE SEVEN HEROES 184 [ILLUSTRATION: JOHN CAREY'S MAP OF THE MARSHES] THE SECRET SERVICE SUBMARINE PART I CHAPTER I REJECTED FOR SERVICE. MR. JOHN CAREY'S EXPLANATION On thinking it over, I date the extraordinary affairs which so thrilled England and brought me such undeserved good fortune from the day on which I tried to enlist. The position was this. My father was an engineer with a small, but apparently thriving, foundry at Derby. My mother died and my father sent me to Oxford, my younger brother, Bernard Carey, being an officer in the Navy. At Oxford, I was one of that perennial tribe of young asses who play what used to be called the "Giddy Goat" in those days with the greatest aplomb and satisfaction to themselves. I was at a good college--Exeter--for originally we were west-country people, and all sons of Devon and Cornwall go to Exeter. I was immensely strong and healthy. I did not row, but played Rugby football, being chosen to play in the Freshmen's match, and subsequently got my "Blue." I did no reading whatever. My father gave me a more than sufficient allowance, and in my second year, having sprained myself badly, I bought a motor car--an expensive Rolls-Royce--on credit, and became a "blood." I could not play games any more, though I was healthy enough, so I used to go constantly to London "to see my dentist," which, of course, meant dinner at the Café Royal, too many cocktails at the Empire, and a wild rush home in the car to get to College before twelve o'clock at night. When any musical comedy company visited Oxford, I, in company with my friends, used to invite the ladies of the chorus to tea. I did all the silly things possible, got sent down for a term, and eventually only just managed to scrape through a pass degree, after being ploughed several times in this or that "Group." Then my father died, and it was found that he had nothing whatever to leave us. His works were in the hands of his creditors--it seems that things had been going wrong for years--and there was I, with a game leg, an excellent taste in such dubious vintages as the Oxford wine merchants provide, a somewhat exact knowledge of ties, waist-coats, and socks, a smattering of engineering which I had picked up from my father purely from a liking of the subject, and, when my bills were paid, exactly £14, 7_s._ 3_d._ Knowing nothing whatever of the slightest value to anybody, myself included, I naturally decided to devote my attention to the education of youth. My "Blue," short as the time was that I enjoyed it, would be an asset, I imagined; and, for the rest, to teach urchins their Latin grammar for a few hours a day could not be a very arduous occupation. Accordingly, I went to see a suave gentleman in the Strand, who received me courteously, but without enthusiasm. This gentleman was one of the mediums by which those who would instruct the young find a field for their activities. I paid him a guinea, I think it was, and he then took down my qualifications. When I mentioned my "Blue" with pride, he shook his head. "My dear sir, 'Blues' are now a drug in the market," he said. "Surely you read the daily papers, especially the _Daily Wire_"? "No," I replied, "I am no bookworm." He coughed rather nastily and I began to get irritated with the fellow. "Then I must explain," he continued, "that there has been a great outcry against over-athleticism in the public schools, in all schools, in fact, and I fear your 'Blue' is not worth ..." "Quite so," I broke in; "'not worth a damn,' you were going to say." "I was going to say no such thing, Mr. Carey," he replied stiffly. "At any rate, we will do our best for you. You cannot hope for more than a private school at first, and your success in the profession you have--er--chosen, will depend entirely upon your success in a comparatively humble sphere." A week afterwards, I received two or three little forms telling me to apply to various headmasters. Prospects were not cheering, and the salaries offered would about have kept me in cigarettes at Oxford. To cut a long story short, I eventually became third master--there were only three of us--in Morstone House School in Norfolk, at a salary of eighty pounds a year and all found--except washing. Morstone House School was a sort of discreet modern edition of Dotheboys Hall. I do not mean to say, of course, in these enlightened days, that the boys were starved or ill-treated. But everything was cut down to the very margin--to the margarine, as my colleague Lockhart, who was a cripple, and a wit--the Head got him cheap for that--would occasionally remark. For two years I remained at Morstone, a miserable enough life for an ex-blood, you will say--only there were consolations. One of them, and to me it was a very great one indeed, was that Morstone was situated in a remote village on the east coast, on the edge of vast saltings or sea marshes intersected by great creeks of sullen, tidal water. It was five miles to the nearest little town, Blankington-on-Sea, and as lonely a place as well could be conceived. Nevertheless, these vast marshes stretching for many miles on either side formed one of the finest wild-fowl districts in the whole of England. I was, and always had been, passionately fond of shooting. I had saved my guns from the wreck, and the whole of my leisure time in winter was taken up with perhaps the most fascinating of all sports. The wild geese would fly at night over the lonely mud-flats with a noise like a pack of hounds in the sky. Duck of all sorts abounded, teal, widgeon, mallard, and the rarer pintail and even the crested grebe. There were plenty of snipe, stint, golden plover and shank--in short, it was a paradise for the sportsman. I kept fit and well from the first day of August to the last day of February. My work at the school was easy enough, and I had an absolutely absorbing pursuit to take me out of myself and make me forget what a very sorry part I was playing in the battle of life--for I think it only due to myself to remark that I was a young ass without being a fool. This is a nice distinction, but there are those who will understand my meaning. The second consolation--I do not put it second because it was the lesser of the two, but from a somewhat natural reluctance to speak of it until the last necessary moment--was Doris. This brings me to that extraordinary man, my chief. I am not going to discount the interest of this narrative by saying too much of this gentleman at the outset. His name is familiar enough to England now. I will merely describe him and his surroundings. The Headmaster of Morstone House School was Doctor Upjelly. His qualifications for the position he held were, to say the least of it, peculiar. He was "Doctor" by virtue of a German degree obtained during what must have been a singularly misspent youth--they are coarse brutes at these German universities, or I should be the last to refer to early indiscretions!--at Heidelberg. Love of teaching he had none. Love of money seemed to be his predominating characteristic, though he was as keen on wild-fowling as I was myself. This was the only thing that made me regard him as human--that is to say, at the beginning. What Doctor Upjelly's early life had been, nobody knew. He had travelled much abroad, at any rate, and spoke French, German, and Italian fluently. He had been in England for a great many years, the last six of which he had spent at Morstone House. He had purchased the school from the decayed clergyman who ran it before him, and seemed to be perfectly contented with his life, though he often made visits to London and occasionally entertained visitors at Morstone. He had married an Englishwoman in Germany, we always understood, a lady with two daughters by a former marriage, Doris and Marjorie Joyce. Doris was twenty-two and Marjorie twenty-one. They lived at Morstone and kept house for their stepfather, supervised the school accounts, and generally did work which ought to have been done by the matron, a sinister old hag called Mrs. Gaunt, and apparently the only person in whom Doctor Upjelly ever confided. To say that Doris and Marjorie hated their stepfather would be to put it with extreme mildness. They were both young and high-spirited girls, and they would have left him like a shot had it not been for some promise extorted from them by their dying mother, which they felt bound to observe. This was Mrs. Joyce's only bequest to her daughters, and, like most promises given to a semi-conscious person probably quite unaware of what she is saying, about as cruel and immoral a thing as ever bound quixotic inexperience. Old Upjelly was a tyrant. He did not interfere in the affairs of the school much--that was to his daughters' and the masters' gain, to say nothing of the wretched boys. But the girls were forced to lead a semi-monastic life. They were not allowed to accept invitations to tennis parties at local rectories, or even to play duets at the nasty little schoolroom concerts which were always being got up by fussy parsons' wives. And most of all, they were not allowed to have anything to do with the assistant masters. Now, as both Doris and Marjorie, of whom I naturally saw a great deal, confided to me, they had never wished to have anything to do with the assistant masters until my arrival. This did not make me vain, in view of my two other colleagues and of some who had preceded me and of whom I had heard. The first master, who lived in a cottage in the village with a wife as senile and decrepit as himself, was the Reverend Albert Pugmire. In dim and distant days, he had held various curacies, from which he had been politely requested to retire owing to a somewhat excessive fondness for Old Tom Gin. I understand there had never been any actual inhibition on the part of a justly outraged bishop, but Mr. Pugmire, at any rate, had become chief drudge to Doctor Upjelly. Pugmire was about sixty-two. In appearance he was exactly like one of those tapers with which one lights the gas, thin, white, ghostly, except for one vivid splash of colour, a nose resembling nothing so much as a piece of coral, which he averred was the result of indigestion. He really was a classical scholar of remarkable attainments. He would even teach a boy who wanted to learn, and once, when the son of a local clergyman with a taste for the classics wormed his way into the horrid old man's confidence, I remember with what a thunderclap of amazement it came upon us all when this young Philips gained an open scholarship at Magdalen. The event was so unprecedented that I saw Doctor Upjelly at a loss for the first time in his life. He did not know what to say, and that night old Pugmire had to be carried home. The affair, however, soon sank into oblivion and was never mentioned. The second master, who taught such mathematics as each imp condescended to learn, was poor little Lockhart, a misshapen bundle of bones, as hollow and bitter as a dried lemon. When a baby, his nurse, during a heated altercation with the cook, had thrown him at the latter lady, and the poor chap had never known any happiness since. He had an income of his own of about a hundred a year and was able enough in his way, but he was too acid for ordinary intercourse--though, as will presently appear, he had unsuspected qualities. Then I came, the ex-Blue with the game leg. Having said so much, it will be fairly obvious that the second consolation I have mentioned in my life was Doris. The Great War broke out and, in common with every other decent Englishman of my own age, I heard the call of the country. I am not going to sentimentalise about this--there is no necessity--but, of course, I was keen as mustard to go. I was exactly six feet high; my eyesight was far above the average--the man who does most of his shooting at twilight, by moonlight, or in early dawn and at long ranges, has far keener sight than most men. My teeth were so good that I could eat Upjelly's mutton with ease, if not with satisfaction. As far as personal strength went, I was as strong as a bull--indeed, if the music halls had remained in their pristine simplicity and had not been given over to the elaborate spectacle, I could have earned a living as a weight-lifter in a leopard skin and pink tights; but, and here was the thing that made me lie awake at night grinding my teeth and cursing fate--not knowing what she had in store for me--there was my leg. Now, I could walk and outwalk most men I knew on the marshes, the most difficult form of progression probably known to man, as anyone who has tramped the thick, black mud and the marrum grass well knows. No professional wild-fowler from Stiffkey or Cockthorpe could outdo me. Yet, when I went to Norwich and offered myself for the East Norfolk Territorial Battalion, a fool of a doctor in goggles, with whom I wouldn't have cleaned my ten-bore, rejected me at once, despite all I could say or do--and, what is more, told me that I would have no possible chance elsewhere. I told him what I thought of him, and nearly cried. Then I went out into an adjacent pub, had some beer, and cursed bitterly, until the recruiting sergeant whom I had first interviewed, likewise in search of beer, happened to come into the private bar. He was a decent sort of johnny and told me a few eye-opening things about doctors. He said that he would be proud to have me in his company, and he gave me an invaluable tip. Finding out that I knew something about engineering, he suggested that I should go to London and try and get into the Royal Naval Flying Corps. At that time, the great fleet of armoured motor cars was being got ready. I could drive a car with any man and I was a fairly good motor mechanic. My brother, Bernard, was, as I said, in the Navy. He was, by this time, Lieutenant-Commander in the submarine section, and he was in London, having been shot in the arm during a little scrap off Heligoland. I got leave from old Upjelly, who, for some queer reason or other, did not seem to take to the idea of my enlisting--though, heaven knows, he had never shown any appreciation of my services--and went up to town. I found Bernard just out of hospital. He had to rest for another month, and, as he had hardly any money beyond his pay and special allowances, he wanted to do it on the cheap. I suggested that he should come down to Morstone and stay in the village pub. He was as keen on shooting as I, and he hailed the idea with joy. He took me to the then depôt of the R.N.F.C., at the big _Daily Mail_ air-ship shed at Wormwood Scrubbs, and he used every possible bit of influence he had got to get me in. The naval people were all awfully jolly, but regulations were strict, and though they moved heaven and earth for me, it could not be done. I said good-bye to my brother, who was to come down to Morstone almost immediately, and one dull, bitter afternoon in the middle of December, I found myself in a third-class carriage going home--once more a hopeless failure. I could see old Upjelly's mocking sneer, I could hear little Lockhart's titter; old Pugmire would say, "A gin and soda is clearly indicated in this crisis." And Doris--what would Doris say? Well, Doris, poor Doris, would weep. She would know it was not my fault, dear little girl, but she would weep. And for many days I should read my newspaper, which arrived in the evening, over the fire in my sitting-room in the north wing at the end of the dormitory, and if I did not weep too, it would be because I was a man and not a girl. Other people would be doing glorious things. Two-thirds of the men of my own college were already either at the front or in training. Some smug, who could not get into the second fifteen at Exeter, would become D.S.O. or V.C. Morstone would be full of farm lads, who had gone out louts and come back wounded heroes. And for me, only what some priggish hymn or other describes as "the daily round, the common task," how damnably common, only I myself knew. The afternoon, as I have said, was dark and lowering, and as I changed at Heacham for the local train, a bitter wind, which cut like a knife, swept over the vast flats, straight from Heligoland, the Kiel Canal, and the tossing wastes of the North Sea. We crawled along slowly, stopping at half a dozen stations, until, with a groan, the train drew up in the God-forsaken little terminus of Blankington-on-Sea. The sea was two miles away over the mud flats, and Blankington consisted of an enormous church, five maltsters' yards, a few fly-blown shops, and seventeen public-houses, where the townspeople and labourers on the weekly market day defied the marsh fogs with ardent spirits. Wordingham, the husband of the woman who kept the Morstone Inn, was waiting with his dog-cart. I hoisted in my kit-bag and jumped up beside him and we started off. It was pitch dark, and we had five miles to go along a level road. On the right were huge fields of barley stubble, all in the great shoot of the Earl of Blankington, whose yearly head of "birds," as partridges are called in Norfolk, to say nothing of pheasants, was second only to that of Sandringham itself, not so very far away. To the left were a few more fields where some plovers wailed mysteriously, "it's dark and late," or "it's late and dark," and beyond, the vast creeks and saltings towards the ocean. Even as we got out of the little town, I heard the great boom of a double ten-bore far away. Well, I could at least go back to my wild-fowling, and Wordingham told me that the geese were working backwards and forwards in skeins of at least a hundred, right over the Morstone miels. CHAPTER II "THERE IS SOMETHING VERY WRONG ABOUT THIS HOUSE" We bowled along through the night, and I turned up the collar of my thick ulster, for it was bitterly cold. "Well," I said, "any news, Wordingham?" Wordingham was a big, strong, nut-brown, silent man, who took time before he spoke. At last he did so, but without replying to my question. "My missus," he said slowly, "has got the parlour behind the bar ready for your brother, sir. It is a snug, ship-shape little place, and we will do our best to make him comfortable. And if you and I can't show the Captain a bit of sport, well, there's no one in this part of the country who can." "Good," I said. "My brother has still got a month to get thoroughly fit before he goes back to join the North Sea Squadron. I want him to have as much shooting as possible." Wordingham nodded and flicked up his horse. He was a well-known wild-fowler in East Norfolk and, if report spoke true, a very skilful poacher too. The marshes were free to everyone, right up to where the sea came on rare spring tides. Wordingham had an excellent mahogany punt, with a long, black-powder gun, and he would often get as many as thirty brace of duck at a single shot after hours of cautious water-stalking. But, apart from the wild birds of the saltings, Morstone was in the very heart of one of the most famous shoots in England. The villagers were poachers to a man, and it was well known that fast motor cars often made sudden appearances at night, whereby the poulterers of Leadenhall Market were greatly enriched next morning. Many and many were the "old things" that found their way into the capacious side-pockets of my friend--"old thing" being the local name for hare, a word which is never spoken aloud in a Norfolk village by those who find it "their delight of a moonlight night," &c. &c. I thought none the worse of Sam Wordingham for that. I had no big shoot and no expensive machinery of game-keepers and night-watchers to keep up. I, myself, was a bit of an Ishmael, to say nothing of a lover of sport. "I am sure we can do my brother very well," I said. "It is a fine fowling year with all this cold, and there are a lot of worthy fowl about, as many as I have ever seen. But has there been no news in the village since I left?" "You will be surprised to hear as the Doctor himself dropped in to the private bar yesterday evening." "Doctor Upjelly?" Sam nodded. "It was about nine o'clock. Mr. Pugmire was settin' by the fire, not to say boozed, but as is usual about nine o'clock. 'Muzzy' is how I put it. Thinks I, 'Here's the Doctor come after Mr. Pugmire,' though I never knew such a thing in all these years before, and everyone knows Mr. Pugmire's little failings, the Doctor included." "Was it that?" "No, it weren't," and Sam turned his big, brown face toward me. I knew Sam. Many and many a midnight had we spent together waiting for flighting time. I forbore in anticipation. "'E sets himself down and 'e calls for a bottle of strong, old ale--fowlers' tipple. 'E nods quite pleasant to Mr. Pugmire, what was looking at him like a cat looks when you catch it stealin' cream. 'Pugmire,' says he, 'you will join me in a little refreshment?' But the old gentleman, he was too scairt, and 'e mumbles something and shuffles off 'ome--and I'll lay that's the first time Mr. Pugmire has been 'ome partly sober this year. Then the Doctor, he makes 'imself very pleasant, 'e does. My missus comes in and he begins asking about--what do you think 'e arst about, sir?" "I haven't an idea." "About the Captain, about your brother." I was startled. I hadn't told the Doctor that my brother was coming to stay in the village--it was no business of his, and we had few confidences on any subject. Lockhart knew and, of course, Doris and her sister, but they were not likely to have said anything. "What did he want to know?" I asked. "Where he was sleeping, and if we were going to make the gentleman comfortable, and if he had a taste for shooting, had I heard? Regular lot of questions!" "Well, it's very kind of the Doctor to take an interest in my brother," I replied. "Very, sir," Wordingham answered dryly. "Mr. Jones, he came down last night at ten o'clock, came down from London in his motor car, 'e did. He's at the school now, or leastways, with this tide and the moon getting up in an hour or so, he will be out on the marshes with the Doctor. I heard tell that they was to be out all night. Bill Jack Pearson, from the school, 'e told me." Again there was silence, while I thought over this little bit of information, for anything is news in such a stagnant hole as Morstone. Mr. Jones was a friend of the Doctor's who often came to see him. He was a short, sturdy, red-faced man with bright blue eyes and a very reserved manner. We always understood that he was in business in the city, and well-to-do. Like the Doctor, he had a passion for wild-fowling, or that, at any rate, was supposed to be the reason for his visits, though Doris had more than once hinted to me that she thought Marjorie, her younger sister, was a bit of an attraction too. "Ever been out with Mr. Jones, sir?" Wordingham asked. "Not I. Why, I've only been out with the Doctor once in all the time I've been at Morstone. He seems to prefer to be alone." "Aye, he's a solitary man, is the Doctor. On that time you went out with him, did you get anything, sir?" "I got a couple of brent geese, but the Doctor was not in form at all and missed his one chance when they came over." "Now, would you be surprised, sir, if I was to tell you that the Doctor is one of the worst shots in the parish?" "I should be very surprised indeed. Why? He gets awfully good bags night after night--whenever he goes out, in fact." "You know Jim Long up at Cockthorpe?"--he was mentioning a famous professional wild-fowler who lived by supplying the markets with duck and taking out sportsmen from London over the difficult and intricate marshes at night. "Of course I do. Been out with him lots of times." "Well, sir, don't say as I told you, don't mention it to Jim and don't mention it to a living soul, but I found out only last month, accidental like, that Jim's been supplying the Doctor with teal and widgeon and grey geese and plover and what not for goodness knows 'ow long. 'E leaves a nice little bag in the Doctor's old hulk in Thirty Main Creek, and the Doctor finds 'em there and brings 'em home. And, what's more, Mr. Jones, 'e can't shoot for nuts, neither. I've see'd 'im firing off their guns, to get 'em dirty, from the deck of the hulk!" At this I began to laugh, though the news was a bit of a shock to me, for I had always regarded the Doctor and his friend as true sportsmen. I saw no reason to disbelieve what Wordingham had said, for he was not a man who spoke rashly, and, comic though the business was, I could not help that sort of odd discomfort one feels when an illusion is shattered. The only good thing I knew of Upjelly was now a thing of the past. Of course, I had heard of the type of sportsman who buys a creel of trout at the fishmonger's on his way home, or gets his pheasants at the poulterer's--about the cheapest and nastiest form of vanity that exists, I should think. But I had never heard of anything of the sort in connection with wild-fowling; and indeed, a man who, night after night, will go through the extraordinary discomforts, the freezing cold, the occasional real danger, the weary hours of waiting in the dark, merely to get a reputation as a fowler, must be king and skipper of all the humbugs and pretenders since Mr. Pecksniff himself. I had little more conversation with Sam, his news occupied all my thoughts and for a time I forgot my own troubles. I remember thinking, in a childish sort of way, what a rag it would be to stalk old Upjelly one night, and catch him in the very act. What a hold I should have over him afterwards! We approached the village. The wind cried in the chimneys of the houses with a strange, wailing note. The moon just peeped out behind the gaunt church tower, amid the scud of ghostly clouds, and its light grew brighter as we turned to the left towards the school itself. At the same moment, the wind, smelling salt of the marshes and of the open sea a mile beyond, and carrying particles of sand, struck me with its full force, so that I had to bow my head. In three minutes we were at Morstone House School. It was a long, low building of considerable extent, shaped like the letter L. The shorter arm was three storeys high and was the Doctor's own quarters, together with his cook, housemaid, and the old matron, Mrs. Gaunt. The longer wing contained the schoolrooms on the ground floor, a bare apartment known as the dining-hall, and two dormitories in each of which there were about fifteen boys, the whole school consisting of some fifty boys, thirty of whom were boarders. This part of the building was only two storeys high, save at one end, where there was a small tower. Just outside each dormitory was a master's sitting-room and bedroom. One of these was mine--the top one--the other, down below, that of Lockhart. There were three main entrances to the school. One, the front door, in the middle of the longer portion of the building, another, a small door in the angle, used only by the masters, and the Doctor's private entrance, opening out into his garden on the other side of the block. It was just ten o'clock as I drove through the playing fields and on to the gravel sweep in front of the house. Bill Jack Pearson, the school porter, opened the masters' door and took my bag. He was a pleasant, cheery fellow, who liked me. "Well, Bill Jack," I said, "everything all right?" "Everything all right, Mr. Carey. The Doctor and Mr. Jones, who came last night, have gone out towards Cockthorpe. The geese are working there, and they won't be back till dawn. There's some supper in your room, and I've lit the fire." Then I asked a question which the porter quite understood. "And Mrs. Gaunt?" "The old cat's gone to bed, sir," he said in a lower voice. "I've just come from the Doctor's kitchen, and Cook told me." I passed through the little paved lobby which led to the long corridor of class-rooms, and hurried up the bare, wooden stairs. There was a good fire in my room and the lamp was lit upon the supper-table, where a jug of beer flanked a cold wild goose--and ordinary mortals who have not tasted that delicacy have missed a lot. I took off my coat, went into my bedroom and washed my hands, peeped into the dormitory, where only a single lamp was burning dimly and all the boys seemed asleep, and then returned. As I closed the door and saw my own familiar things around me, the remembrance of what had happened came over me in a great flood. I groaned aloud. Upon the walls, washed with terra-cotta, were my college groups, reminding me of Oxford and happier days. There were some silver cups upon a shelf. In a glass-fronted cupboard by the side of the fireplace were my guns. Over the mirror on the mantelpiece was a faded blue cap, and on the writing-table was a pile of filthy, dogs-eared, little exercise books, in which reluctant urchins had been scribbling attempts at Latin prose. I bit my lip hard and sat down to supper, which did not take more than five or six minutes. Then I prepared myself for something that was yet to come. Against the wall by the window was a bookshelf containing the few volumes I possessed and such schoolbooks as I used in my work. I took down Smith's classical dictionary, and Liddell and Scott's Greek ditto, and, inserting my hand in the place this left, withdrew a pleasant little instrument which I had bought for twenty-seven-and-six--see advertisement in the _Strand Magazine_--from a scientific toy-shop in Holborn. This was known as "Our Portable House Telephone," and, not to elaborate the mystery, a little wire ran out of my window, through the ivy, and round the angle of the building to the Doctor's block, where it found unobtrusive entry through another window. At this end was an instrument exactly like the one I held in my hand, but which rested in a hole made in the plaster of the wall and was concealed by that touching engraving, "The Soul's Awakening." I had fixed up the whole thing myself some two months before, when the Doctor was away in London, Mrs. Gaunt at market in Blankington-on-Sea, and the boys engaged in a paper chase. Doris was waiting, of course. "Dearest, so you've got back--I heard the trap!" "Yes; can you come?" "In a minute. The connecting door to the school is locked, but I made Bill Jack lend me his key." "Right-O!"--and I waited breathlessly for Doris. I daresay such a proceeding as this may strike the ultra-proper with dismay. But we loved each other, there was no harm in it, and, besides, what the deuce were we to do? It was the only way we could meet at all, and even then, it only happened now and again. The door of my sitting-room opened without a sound and Doris entered. Doris's hair is dark red, and, when it is down, it reaches almost to her heels. Titian red, I believe, is the right name for it, though I'm sure I don't know why. Her eyes are dark blue, like the blue on the wing of a freshly killed mallard--I am not good at this sort of thing, but she is a ripper. Directly she had closed the door, which she did noiselessly, she saw from my face what had happened. I felt a rotten tout, I can tell you, to stand there, chucked again. "Well, here I am," I said, "returned empty, declined with thanks, His Majesty having no use for my services! Same old game, Doris dear, and if they lose the war now, they can't blame me!" I spoke bitterly, but lightly also; yet when Doris put her arms round my neck and I held her close, when I could feel warm tears upon my cheek, I was as near breaking down as I have ever been in my life. "Never mind, Johnny darling, never mind," she whispered, "I love you just the same--you've always got me--and it isn't your fault. You've tried as hard as you possibly can to go." She could only stay a quarter of an hour; it wasn't safe longer. Marjorie was keeping cave, for the sisters occupied the same room. I told her everything as shortly as I could, and with a sigh, we both agreed that we must make the best of it. She wanted me to go, she longed for me to go, I knew that. What patriotism there was in Morstone House School was confined to the boys and to the Doctor's stepdaughters. Upjelly himself seemed to take very little interest in the conflagration of the world, or, if he did, he never showed it. But I knew as well as I knew anything that Doris would rather have had me go to the Front and get a bullet through my head than that I should stay at home; which, I may remark, is the right sort of girl. "Well," she said at length, "let us hope the Germans invade us--it will be somewhere about here, I suppose, if they do--and then you can have a smack at them with your single eight-bore, Johnny; that would be something, wouldn't it?" She told me the news of the school, such as it was, and then, with a final kiss, we separated and I was left alone. The bitterness was still in my heart, a deep sort of fire at the bottom of everything which I can't put into words--like the gentlemen in the boys' historical novels, who always begin: "I am but a plain, unlettered yeoman, and more handy with the sword than with the pen"--you know what I mean. Still, I was a man and a strong one, and an Englishman whose brother was fighting for his King. I did not know before that life could hurt so badly as it was hurting now. For nearly an hour, I suppose, I walked up and down my room, until the fire grew low and the wailing of the wind outside seemed to speak of disaster and complete the innuendo of the time. And then, quite suddenly, I do not know what it was, my spirits began to clear. It was like a thick sea-mist on the marshes, which hangs like a dull, grey blanket for hours, with the birds calling all round, only you cannot get a shot at them. Suddenly the sun, or a puff of wind, makes the whole thing roll up like a curtain, and you see a herd of curlew or a wisp of snipe quite close to you. That is how I felt. I caught sight of my face in the glass, and I was surprised. It was positively glowing--just as if I had been made Commander-in-Chief of the R.N.F.C. and Admiral Jellicoe had asked me to come and have a drink. I am not used to analysing my feelings, which seem to me like chemicals--the more you analyse them, the worse they smell; so I could not account in the least for this sudden change. Well, I was wondering at it and thinking that I had better turn in before I got the black dog on my shoulders again, when there was a tap at the door, and in shuffled little Lockhart. He had a bottle of whisky under one arm and a syphon under the other, and he looked, as usual, like a plucked spring chicken that had not been properly fed--bones sticking out everywhere. "Thought perhaps you hadn't any whisky," he said--and then, "Hallo! pulled it off this time?" He was looking at my face. I started, because there was something in his voice I had not heard before, and something in his eyes I had not seen. "My dear chap," he went on, banging down the whisky on the table and holding out his hand. "I can't tell you how glad I am!" Well, this made it rather hard. Of course, I had to tell him that I had got the kick out again, but I didn't feel the depression coming back, all the same. What I did feel, though, was a sudden liking for the odd little fellow who was my colleague. We had always got on well enough together, never had rows or anything of that sort, but he was too cynical for me as a rule. In five minutes, however, I found myself sitting on one side of the fire--which we made up--with Lockhart on the other, talking away as if we had been intimate friends for years. By Jove, how the little fellow came out! If his body was maimed and crippled, he had a big soul, if ever a man had. I can recognise beautiful English when I hear it or read it. This man seemed inspired. His talk of England and what we were going through and of what we still had to go through was like that wonderful passage in Richard II which I had been trying to make my idiot boys learn for rep. He was so awfully kind and sympathetic, too. He said all that Doris had said, though in quite another way. It was like a wise man, who had known and done everything, comforting one. When he had finished, and sat looking at the fire, I had to tell him what I felt. "I'm awfully indebted to you, Lockhart," was what I said. "You've pulled me together and made a man of me again, and I can't thank you enough. I'm afraid we haven't been such friends as we ought to have been"--and I held out my hand. He took it and there was a strained smile upon his wizened little face. "Carey," he said, "don't you be downhearted, for you are going to have your chance yet, unless I am very much mistaken." "What do you mean?" I asked, for there was obviously something behind his words. For answer, he did a curious thing. He slipped out of his arm-chair, hopped across the room like a sparrow, and as quietly, and opened the door, looking into the passage. Then he closed it and came back into the middle of the room. "In the first place, John Carey," he said, "I mean that there is something very wrong about this house." CHAPTER III BERNARD CAREY, LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER OF SUBMARINES I had just finished my tub the next morning, and was about to shave, when there was a knock at my bedroom door. The school porter came in with a message--"the Doctor sends his compliments, sir, and will you give him the pleasure of your company at breakfast this morning?" This was quite unusual on the part of my chief. He always breakfasted alone in his own house; even his daughters did not share the meal with him. Lockhart and myself breakfasted with the boys--that is to say, we sat at a table at one end of the room, while old Mrs. Gaunt, the matron, presided over the bread-and-scrape and the urn of wishy-washy tea which was all the boarders got, unless they provided delicacies for themselves. About half-past eight, I went downstairs, round the rectangular wing, into the Doctor's garden, and knocked at his front door. I was almost immediately shown into the breakfast-room, a comfortable place, with a good many books and a fine view over the marshes. Old Upjelly was standing upon the hearthrug as I entered, and I must describe for you a very remarkable personality indeed. The Doctor was six feet high and proportionately broad. He was not only broad from shoulder to shoulder, but thick in the chest, a big, powerful man of fifty years of age. His face was enormous, as big as a ham almost, and it was of a uniform pallor, rather like badly-cooked tripe, as I once heard Lockhart describe it. A parrot-like nose projected in the centre of this fleshy expanse; small, but very bright eyes, sunk in caverns of flesh, looked out under bushy, black brows which squirted out--there is no other word. He was clean-shaved and his mouth was large, firm and curiously watchful, if I may so express it. Upjelly could make his eyes say anything he pleased, but I have always thought that the mouth is the feature in the human face which tells more than any other. And if Upjelly's mouth revealed anything, it was secretiveness, while there was a curious Chinese insensitiveness about it. Lockhart, who had rather a genius for description, used to say that he could conceive Doctor Upjelly locking himself up in his study and sitting down to spend a quiet and solitary afternoon torturing a cat. He greeted me with his soft, rather guttural voice and with something meant for an expansive smile. "Ah, here we are," he said, "and tell me at once, Mr. Carey, if you have been successful in your application." Of course, I was quite prepared for this question and briefly related the facts of the case, explaining that even my brother's influence had failed to secure my entry into the Royal Naval Flying Corps. "I am truly sorry," he said, with the unctuous manner he reserved for parents, "truly sorry; but you must remember, Mr. Carey, that 'they also serve who only stand and wait.'" And as he said it, or was it my fancy, there came a curious gleam into those little bits of glistening black glass he called his eyes. A minute or two afterwards, and just as the maid was bringing in various hot dishes, the door opened and Mr. Jones entered. I had been introduced to Mr. Jones some months before, though neither he nor Upjelly had ever invited me to shoot with them. I had only met him for a few minutes and had never formed a very definite opinion about him one way or the other. He shook hands with me kindly enough, and I noticed how extremely firm and capable his grip was. It was not at all the sort of grip one would expect from the ordinary city man, though, of course, nowadays everybody plays golf or does something of the kind, even in business circles. Mr. Jones' face was clean-shaved, too, and rather pleasant than otherwise, though it was somewhat heavy. His eyes were bright blue, his hair, thinning a little at the top, a light yellowish colour. He walked with a slight roll or, shall I say swagger?--I really hardly know how to describe it--which somehow or other seemed reminiscent, and he spoke almost pedantically good English. When I say good English, I mean to say that he chose his words with more care than most Englishmen do--almost as if he were writing it down. We sat down to breakfast, and I saw at once that neither Doris nor her sister were to be there. The meal was elaborate; I had no idea Upjelly did himself in such style, for except at Oxford or Cambridge, or in big country houses, breakfast is not generally a very complicated affair in an ordinary English family. The coffee was excellent--there was no tea--and there was a succession of hot dishes. I noticed, however, that Mr. Jones took nothing but coffee, French rolls--I suppose the Doctor's cook knew how to make them--and a little butter. And I noticed also that, after all, he could not be of very great importance or good breeding, because he tucked his table-napkin into his collar round his chin, an odd proceeding enough! We began about the war, of course. Upjelly asked me my impressions of London, and was most interested when I told him of all I had seen going on at the R.N.F.C. Depôt at Wormwood Scrubbs, especially about the great Rolls-Royce cars and the guns they were mounting on them. I never thought the man took such an interest in anything outside his food and his shooting--if indeed he took an interest even in shooting, which Wordingham's story of last night led me to doubt. Somehow or other, I was convinced that Upjelly did not care either way about my failure to enlist. He said the conventional things, but I knew he was inwardly indifferent. It was not the same with Mr. Jones, whom I began to like. He seemed genuinely sorry. "I can understand, Mr. Carey," he said, "that you have been extremely disappointed. I can sympathise with you most thoroughly. It is the duty and the privilege of every man who is capable of bearing arms to fight for the Fatherland which has given him birth." Of course, this was a bit highfalutin, but he meant well. "Thank you," I said, "it certainly has been pretty rotten, but perhaps I may get something to do yet. I would give anything just to have one go at those swines of Germans! You saw what they did yesterday at the little village of Oostcamp, in Belgium?" "We must not believe all we read in the papers, Mr. Carey," Upjelly said, wagging his head and piling his plate with ham--the beast ate butter with his ham! "I know," I replied; "of course, it is not all true, but there have been enough atrocities absolutely proved to show what utter soulless beasts the Germans are. It is a pity that we are not at war with a nation of gentlemen, like the French, if we have to be at war at all!" The Doctor flushed a little. I suppose he thought I was too outspoken. "I have lived much in Germany in my youth," he said, "and always found them most hospitable and kind. You must not condemn a nation for the deeds of a few." "Well, you may have been in Germany," I thought, "but you can't explain away Louvain, for instance, or lots of other places!" Still, it was not my place to shove my oar in too much, and I turned to Jones. "What do you think, Mr. Jones?" I asked. He hesitated for two or three seconds, as if he was trying to make up his mind. "No one deplores certain incidents in Belgium more than I do," he said at length, "but we must hope that, as Doctor Upjelly says, there is a brighter side to the picture. You must remember that even a German probably loves his country just as much as an Englishman." Well, of course I knew that was all rot. I had never been in Germany, but people who let a chap like the Kaiser rule them and who live on sausages and beer about as interesting as ditchwater, must be thorough blighters! However, I changed the subject. "Now, the Navy," I said, "from all accounts, are quite a decent lot of chaps. What a sportsman von Müller was till we bagged the _Emden_. He behaved like a white man all through, and we let him keep his sword, which I think we were quite right in doing." Mr. Jones smiled suddenly, revealing a row of very white and even teeth. "You," he began, "I mean we, are an arrogant people, we English!" and he chuckled as if he were amused at what I had said. "I quite agree with you, however," he went on, "that the German naval officer is a fine fellow. Your brother, by the way, is in our Navy, isn't he?" "Yes," I said; "he was wounded in a little affair off Heligoland the other day. But he is getting fit now. Oh, by the way, Doctor, he is coming down here to get some shooting. He is going to stay at the Morstone Arms." "So I heard," Upjelly answered--the old fox, I thought I was going to catch him out!--"I went in there last night, a thing I don't often do, in order to see if I could find old Mr. Pugmire, and I heard from Mrs. Wordingham. I shall hope to have the pleasure of making his acquaintance when I return." "You are going away, Doctor?" "Yes. That was one of the things I wanted to see you about. Mr. Jones is very kindly going to drive me up to town in his car this morning, and I shall be away for a couple of days. I want to leave you in charge as my representative." "But Lockhart----" I began. "Mr. Lockhart is not quite as capable of keeping discipline in the school as you are, Carey." "Thank you very much, sir," I replied; "I will do my best." The meal continued and we all got on very well. Upjelly seemed really interested in my brother and, after a cigarette, when I rose to go into school, both he and Jones shook me very cordially by the hand. As I was leaving the room, I noticed one curious thing. There was a little writing-table by the door and on it I distinctly saw the Navy List for that month, obviously fresh from London. What old Upjelly could want with a Navy List, a book which, of course, I had upstairs, I could not conceive, and it gave me food for thought, especially in view of what I shall have to relate very shortly. At the eleven o'clock break, when the boys had come out and were punting about a soccer ball in front of the school, I saw Mr. Jones' big green car, with himself at the wheel and the Doctor by his side, come round the house and start off for London. I felt as if a great oppression was removed. My brother would arrive that afternoon; Upjelly was out of the way; I was in charge of the whole place. It would be hard if I did not see more of Doris than I had been able to do for months past. We went into school again. I was taking what, in a pitiful attempt at persuading ourselves we were a public school, we called the Sixth Form, in Virgil. My boys, there were about ten of them, were a pleasant enough set of lads, ranging from fifteen to the two eldest boys, both of whom were seventeen. They were twins, Dickson max. and Dickson major, the sons of a poor clergyman near Norwich, who could not afford to send them to a better school. They had tried for entrance scholarships at Repton and at Denstone, but had failed, and at all that concerns books or learning were rather duffers. Yet they were clever boys in their way, good sportsmen and, despite a perfectly abnormal talent for mischief, could be depended on in the main. I liked them both and I was sorry for them. Their one hope was that the war would last long enough for them to enlist, for their father was too poor even to pay the necessary expenses to send them into the Public Schools Corps, where lads of such physique and cheery manners could have been sure of a welcome. "_Per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum_," droned out Dickson max., in painful endeavour to bury a dead language in the very stiff clay of his mind. "Through various causes ..." "Now how can you say 'causes,' Dickson? You know perfectly well what it is that Aeneas is saying. He is exhorting his followers to press towards Rome against all sorts of bad luck. '_Casus_' should have been translated 'chances.' '_Per tot discrimina rerum_' is, of course, 'through so many changes of fortune.' Imagine Aeneas is Sir John French, pressing onwards to Berlin." It was fatal; that gave the signal. "Sir," said Dickson major instantly, "did you see any of the Royal Naval Flying Corps in London?" Dickson max. put down his Virgil. "Is it true, sir, that they have got a hundred armoured motor cars, each one with a maxim gun on it?"--questions from eager faces were fired at me from all parts of the room. I trust I am no precisian, as the people in Stevenson's stories are always saying, and I confess that, for the next quarter of an hour I held forth in an animated fashion about all that I had seen and done in London. After all, it is the duty of a schoolmaster to encourage patriotism, isn't it? I was just describing some of the new aerial guns that we are mounting on some of the principal London buildings for the defence of the city against Zeppelins, when there was a most appalling crash and howl outside in the corridor. There was dead silence for an instant, then I jumped down from my desk and rushed out. An unpleasant, almost a terrifying spectacle met my eyes. Old Mrs. Gaunt, the matron, was rolling upon the flags of the corridor like a wounded ostrich, yelping, there is really no other word for it, as if in agony. Her face was pale as linen and her mouth was twisted. She was obviously in great pain. "Whatever has happened?" I said, trying to help her, but as I lifted the old thing by the shoulder she shrieked loudly and I had to lay her down again. "My leg's broken!" she cried, "my leg's broken! One of those filthy boys left his ball about, and I trod on it"--and indeed I saw, a few yards away, the white fives ball which had been the cause of her disaster. The porter was summoned, we improvised an ambulance somehow, and took the poor old thing to her room in the Doctor's wing, Doris and Marjorie attending to her, while the porter rushed off on his bicycle for the nearest doctor. In about an hour the doctor came. It was perfectly true, Mrs. Gaunt had broken her leg. It was a simple fracture and, as the Doctor told me afterwards, the woman was as tough as an old turkey, but she would be confined to her bed for a fortnight at least, and the injured limb was already encased in plaster of Paris. It was strictly against the rules for any boy to leave a fives ball about. An accident had nearly happened once before for the same reason. At lunch, I conducted a stern inquisition as to the culprit's identity. It was Dickson max., who owned up at once, and I told him to come to my room after the meal. I could not very well cane a boy of seventeen who would have been at Sandhurst if his people could have afforded. Besides, I was too inwardly grateful to him to have the slightest wish to do anything of the sort. I gave him a thousand Latin lines and told him to stay in that afternoon, which was a half-holiday, and on three subsequent halves, and I am sorry to say that he grinned in my face as I did so. It was not an impudent grin, or I should have known how to deal with it, but it was one of perfect comprehension, and I fear I blushed as I told the young beggar to clear out as quickly as possible. Certainly the fates were working well for me, though I had, even then, not the least idea of what an eventful day this was to prove. Nothing came to tell me that I was already embarked upon the greatest enterprise of my life. I was to know more before night. Now one of my most cherished possessions at that time was a motor bicycle. It was of an antiquated pattern and more often in the workshop than on the road. Fortunately, such engineering knowledge as I had enabled me to tinker at it for myself. To-day, though it had recently been running with a most horrid cacophony resembling the screams of a dying elephant and a machine gun alternately, it would still get along, and I mounted it for Blankington-on-Sea to meet my brother Bernard. I put it up at the hotel--I saw the yard attendant wink at the stable boy as he housed it--ordered a trap and went to the station. The train came in to time and my brother descended from a first-carriage. I had seen him in London only a day before, and despite his natural annoyance at the failure to get me into the R.N.F.C., he had been particularly cheery. As we shook hands and the porter took his kit-bags and gun-cases to the trap, I saw that he had something on his mind. He hardly even smiled. I jumped to a wrong conclusion. "Bernard," I said, "would you like a whisky-soda before we start? You look as if you had been enjoying yourself too much last night." He shook his head. "No peg for me, thanks; let us get on the road." We went out of the station together and as we came into the yard he said in a low voice: "I have a deuce of a lot to tell you, but not now." Then we started for Morstone. Little more than an hour later we were seated in the parlour at the inn. A comfortable fire glowed upon the hearth and sent red reflections round the homely room, lighting up the stuffed pintail in its case, the old-fashioned, muzzle-loading marsh gun over the mantelpiece, the gleaming lustre ware upon a dresser of old oak, and an engraving of old Colonel Hawker himself, the king of wild-fowlers and a name to conjure with in East Anglia. Upon the table was a country tea, piping hot scones made by good Mrs. Wordingham, a regiment of eggs, a Gargantuan dish of blackberry jam. "By Jove, this is a good place!" Bernard said. "Two lumps and lots of cream, please. Look at this egg! Upon my word, I would like to shake by the hand the fowl that laid it!" We made an enormous meal and then, as he pulled out a blackened "B.B.B." and filled it with "John Cotton," my brother began to talk. "We are quite safe here, I suppose?" he said; "nobody can overhear us?" "Safe as houses." "Very well, then; now look here, old chap, you noticed I seemed a bit off colour when you met me. Well, I'm not off colour, but I've had some very serious news and, what is more, a sort of commission in connection with it. After I saw you off yesterday I went to the Army and Navy Club. There I found a letter from Admiral Noyes, written at the Admiralty and asking me to call at once. I was shipmate with Noyes when he was captain of the old _Terrific_, and he has helped me a lot in my service career. It was he who got me transferred into Submarines--where, you know, I have made a bit of a hit. Well, now Noyes is Chief of the Naval Intelligence Department. He sent for me and asked me a lot of questions, specially about Kiel and the Frisian Islands. I was at Kiel for the manoeuvres two years ago and I know all that coast like my hat. I didn't quite see the drift of his questions until he told me what was going on. It seems"--and here Bernard's voice sank very low--"it seems that, recently, there has been a tremendous leakage of information to the enemy--Naval information, I mean. We have our people on the look-out, and there is no doubt whatever that, during the last two months, over and over again the German ships have got information about our movements." "I know. There is a whole lot about it in the _Daily Wire_: flash signals from the Yorkshire coast at night, round about Whitby, and so on." "Oh yes, I saw that too; but the leakage is not there, my boy. That's newspaper talk. The Admiralty know to a dead certainty that the leakage is going on in East Norfolk, round about here." I whistled. "I don't see how that can be," I said. "There is no wireless station anywhere near. The few boats that come into Blankington-on-Sea are only small coasters and they are very carefully scrutinised; and as for flash signals, I am out on the marshes nearly every night, the foreshore is patrolled by sentries, and nothing of the sort has ever been hinted at." "Exactly; that is the point. But that there is a leakage and that it is doing irreparable harm, you may take as an absolute certainty. Noyes knew that I was coming down to Norfolk for a rest and for some shooting. When I applied for leave, I had to state my destination and so forth. Noyes got hold of it by chance and sent for me, knowing he could trust me. The long and short of it is, Johnny, that I have got a roving commission to keep my eyes very wide open indeed, to see if I can't find something out. Don't mistake me. This is not a mere trifling matter. It is one of the gravest things and one of the most perfectly organised systems that has happened during the war. Why," he said, bringing his fist down upon the table so that the cups rattled, his face set and stern, "the safety of the whole of England may depend upon this being discovered and stopped!" "But surely," I asked, "they have had people down here already?" Bernard nodded. "Oh yes," he said, "the coastguards are specially warned, there have been thorough searches, quietly carried out, reports are constantly made from every village by accredited agents--and the Admiralty has not a single clue. Now, old chap, if you can help me, and if we can do anything together, well, here's our chance! There won't be any difficulty about your getting into the R.N.F.C., or any other corps you like, if we can only throw light upon this dark spot." I caught fire from his words. "By Jove!" I cried, "if only there was a chance! I would do anything! But I know every man, woman, and child in this village and the surrounding ones. There is not one of them capable of acting as a spy. There are no suspicious strangers. Even the wild-fowlers who come down here are all regular and known visitors, above suspicion." I said this in all good faith, and then, suddenly, a light came to me like a flash of lightning, and I rose slowly from my chair. Bernard told me afterwards that I had grown paper-white and was trembling. "What is it?" he said quickly. "I hardly dare say," I replied. "It seems wild foolishness and yet----" He waited very patiently, and still I could not bring myself to speak. Then it was his turn to take away my breath. He leant forward on the table and pulled out a pocket-book. "Supposing, John," he said, "that you have been living in a fool's paradise for months. Supposing that, by some means unknown to me and the Admiralty, unknown to anyone, you are actually living in the centre of a cunningly woven web of espionage, whose strands reach from Berlin to Wilhelmshaven, from Kiel to London!" He took a piece of paper from his pocket-book. I saw that there were figures upon it, not letters, but he read it as if they were print. "'Paul Upjelly,'" he said, "'Paul Upjelly, Ph.D.; English subject; possessed of private means; has been for eight years headmaster of Morstone House School; habits'--h'm--h'm--you know all about his habits, John--'man whose past cannot be traced for more than ten years; known to have lived in Germany in youth; no suspicion at present attaches.'" "What on earth does this mean?" I gasped. "It only means that in this pocket-book I have lists of forty or fifty people round these coasts who might or might not be in the pay of Germany. There is not the slightest suspicion attaching to any one of them, but I saw you stand up suddenly and grow pale--well, I played into your strong suit, that was all. Was I right?" "Last night," I said, "I had a very curious and significant talk with a brother-master of mine, whose name is Lockhart." "Get him to come here and have a chat as soon as possible." "That isn't necessary, because Upjelly is away in London and an old beast of a housekeeper he keeps, who tells him everything, is in bed with a broken leg. We can go up to the school all right, and I particularly want to introduce you to Miss Joyce, who is--er----" He nodded. "I know," he said. "You bored me to tears about the young lady last time I saw you. Delighted to meet her. We will toddle up to the school as soon as ever you like and I will hear what Mr. Lockhart has got to say. I suppose you can trust him?" "I am absolutely certain of it," and, with that, things began to fall together in my mind as the glass pieces in a kaleidoscope fall and make a pattern. I mentioned the Navy List that I had seen at breakfast that morning, and I told Bernard what Wordingham had told me concerning the Doctor's knowledge of his visit. A gleam came into his eyes. "Ah!" he said, very softly, and that was all. We got up to go, and as Bernard walked across the room to find his overcoat, for night had fallen and it was bitter cold, I exclaimed aloud. I knew what had puzzled me at breakfast when Mr. Jones came into the room. He walked exactly like my brother. If you go to Chatham, Portsmouth, or Plymouth, almost every other man in the street walks like that. We went straight to the school, only a quarter of a mile away, and entered by the masters' door. I lit the lamp in my sitting-room, put on some coals, and rang a bell which communicated with the upper boys' room, where they were now at preparation. In a minute, there was a knock at the door and Dickson max. entered. "Dickson," I said, "I want you to find Mr. Lockhart and ask him if he would be so very kind as to come to my room--oh and, by the way, this is my brother, Commander Carey, Dickson." The boy grew pale for an instant and then flushed a deep, rosy red. He was a cool young wretch as a rule and I had never seen him so excited before. I loved him for it. The boys knew all about my brother. They had read of his exploits in the Submarine E8. I was always being pestered with questions about him. Bernard shook hands. "I am glad to meet you," he said. Dickson was tongue-tied, but he gazed with an almost painful reverence at Bernard. "Oh, sir," he stammered, "oh, sir"--and then could get no further. In desperation he turned to me. "I've done five hundred of the lines, sir," he said. "Oh well, you needn't do any more," I answered. "And please, sir, I've taken some more snapshots which I think you might like"--and with that the lad pulled out a little bundle of recently developed and printed photographs--he had a small kodak--and laid them on the table. Then he bolted and we could hear him leaping downstairs, bursting with the great news. "He's got it badly," I remarked--"hero worship." "Jolly good thing," my brother answered. "Lord, I remember when I was a midshipman of signals, how I worshipped the flag-lieutenant. I ran after him like a little dog, and I thought he was God. Healthy!" We sat without speaking, waiting for Lockhart. My brother took up the little bundle of snapshots and looked through them. Then we heard a shuffling footstep in the passage and Lockhart entered. I introduced him and we shut and locked the door. Bernard looked the little man up and down for a minute or two, talking on indifferent subjects. And then, as if satisfied, he plunged into business. He didn't tell my colleague all that he had told me, but he told him enough to set Lockhart quivering with eagerness and excitement. "You shall hear all I know, Commander Carey," he said. "After all, it isn't much, though"--he hesitated for a moment and then began: "This man, Upjelly, our chief, is absolutely unfitted to be a schoolmaster. He takes not the slightest interest in the school. John, here, has found out, what I long more than suspected, that the Doctor's wild-fowling is really a colossal pretence." "Does the school pay?" my brother asked. "Just about. There may be a small profit, but not enough to keep any man tied down here if he has the slightest ambition or is anybody at all. And, you haven't met the Doctor, but you may take it from me that he is no ordinary man. There has always been an air of mystery and secretiveness about him. He neither asks nor gives confidences. It struck me from the very first that he was a man with an absorbing mental interest of some sort or other. What was it?--that is what I asked myself. "Three weeks ago, the Doctor had a guest. It was a Mr. Jones, who frequently visits him, apparently for the shooting. My bedroom is on the floor below this. As you see, I am a cripple and an invalid. I often pass nights of pain, when I cannot sleep. On one such night, three weeks ago, the window of my bedroom was open and I lay in the dark. About half-past three in the morning I heard footsteps on the gravel outside, and the Doctor's voice. The night was quite still, though pitch dark. Then I heard another voice which I recognised as that of the man Jones. "The voices drew nearer until the men were almost underneath my window. They were coming back from the marshes. I only know a few words of German, but I recognise the language when I hear it. They were speaking German." My brother nodded. "That Jones," I put in, "I have already told you, Bernard, was here when I arrived last night. He left for London this morning, taking the Doctor up with him in his car." "Four days ago," Lockhart continued, "I wanted some waste paper to wrap up a pair of boots I was sending to be mended. I was in my room and I told one of the boys of my dormitory to go downstairs and get some. It was about nine o'clock at night. The boy brought back two or three newspapers. One of them was the _Cologne Gazette_, very crumpled and torn, but with the date of only five days before. I have got it locked up in my writing-desk. "To-day, being a half-holiday, I thought I would go out for a walk upon the foreshore. An overcoat rather impedes my movements, though I have to wear one sometimes. I thought I would take a scarf instead. I went into the hall, knowing that my scarf was in the pocket of my overcoat, and felt for it. The hall is rather dark and I could not see very well what I was doing. What I brought out of the pocket in which I felt was not my scarf, but--this!" Lockhart quietly laid something upon the table, and we bent over to look at it. To me, at any rate, it was an extraordinary object. It was a sort of cross between a large watch and a compass, with a curious little handle. There were letters or figures, for a moment I could not say which, in a double row round the dial. "Can you tell me what it is?" My brother was shaken from his calm at last. He gave an exclamation. "Yes, I can!" he said. "I know very well. But first, when was this photograph taken?" With dramatic suddenness, he held out one of Dickson's prints. It was a picture of Mr. Jones' motor, with that gentleman at the wheel and the Doctor sitting on the far side, taken that very morning as they left for London. "This morning," I said. "That is the Doctor and Mr. Jones going off to town." "Mr. Jones at the wheel?" my brother asked. "Yes, that is the fellow." "Let me get it quite clear. The man, you say, walks like me?" "Yes." "Ah!" said my brother again, and his eyes had the look of a bloodhound on a leash. "And now I will proceed to explain to you the use of this pretty thing." CHAPTER IV DORIS AND MARJORIE GIVE A SUPPER PARTY. THE ARROW FLIES IN MORSTONE SEA WOOD "This," said my brother, "is what is known as Charles Wheatstone's Cipher Instrument. It is a machine for writing in cipher. You see it has a sort of watch-face, which has the alphabet inscribed round its outer margin in the usual order, plus a blank space. A second alphabet is written on a card or paper and attached to the watch-face within the first alphabet. This has no blank space, and so there are but twenty-six divisions as against twenty-seven in the outer ring. Two hands are attached which travel at different speeds when the handle is turned. Accordingly, each time the long hand is carried forward to the blank space at the end of a word, the short hand will have moved forward one division on the inner ring of letters. Then a word is chosen as a key, written down in separate letters and the remaining letters of the alphabet are written in order beneath it. I'll show you. Suppose, for example, we choose the word 'English,' thus." He took a pencil and scribbled for a moment upon the back of one of Dickson's photographs: ENGLISH ABCDFJK MOPQRTU VWXYZ. "Now, if you read these letters downwards, you get this arrangement: EAMVNBOWGCPXLDQYIFRZSJTHKU. "This cryptographic alphabet is written on the inner card of the instrument, beginning at a point previously agreed on. Then, when a despatch is to be translated into cipher, the long hand is moved to that letter in the outer alphabet, and the letter to which the short hand points in the inner ring is written down. I need not go on, but I am sure the principle will be clear to you. These machines are in use in our Secret Service. But what I should like to point out to you in regard to this example is that the alphabet here _is in German_." [Illustration: THE CIPHER MACHINE THAT MR. LOCKHART FOUND] We all looked at each other in silence. "That is conclusive proof," I said at length. "Of course, you will have Doctor Upjelly arrested directly he comes back." "_And_ thank you!" said my brother. "So kind of you to put up your little turn, Johnny! Will you have a cigar or a cocoanut? My dear boy, if we had this man arrested, ten to one his tracks would be absolutely covered and we could prove nothing. Don't you see, what we want to do is to catch him in the act, to find out what he does and how he does it. No such rough and ready methods!"--his voice became very grave and stern. "Quarter-deck!" I thought to myself. "This has not got to be taken lightly," he went on. "I believe that fate has put my finger upon the very pulse of what has been puzzling the Admiralty for weeks. I honestly believe that here, in this lonely house, is hidden the intellect of the Master Spy of Germany. We are up against it. We must work in silence and in the dark. The slightest slip would be fatal. I cannot exaggerate the importance of this affair, nor," he concluded, looking keenly at Lockhart and myself, "nor the danger." Little Lockhart's face positively brightened at this. "Danger!" he cried, as if someone had made him a present. "Then I shall be able to do something to help! We shall all be able to do something and----" Lockhart started and broke off. At that moment, from behind Smith's classical dictionary and Liddell and Scott's Greek ditto there came a faint, muffled whirr. "Good God, what's that?" said Lockhart. "Oh, it's all right," I answered, and I expect I looked about as big an ass as I felt. "That is--er--a little contrivance of my own. By the way, you fellows must keep it absolutely dark." To say that they watched me with interest is to put it mildly. I withdrew "Our House Telephone, Not a Toy, 27_s._ 6_d._ net" from its hiding place. Doris was speaking. She knew that my brother had come and she was dying to meet him. Old Mrs. Gaunt was sleeping peacefully; in fact I fear, so prone are all of us to error, that Doris had administered just twice the amount of opiate that the doctor had prescribed. Doris suggested that she and Marjorie should come at once to my room. They also suggested that we should dine there, with the connivance of a friendly housemaid. I told her to hold the line for a minute, and explained. My brother's face lost all preoccupation. He was a naval officer, you will remember, and, though a distinguished one, was as young gentlemen in that Service usually are in both age and inclination. "Can a duck swim?" said my brother. "Well, I'll go," Lockhart remarked, with just a trace of his old bitterness. "You sit where you are, old soul," I told him. "Bernard, both the girls are only stepdaughters of the Doctor, who, they have told me, did not treat their mother very well and who is a perfect tyrant to them. They're as true as steel; I can answer for them. They will be of tremendous help." "Leave it all to me," he replied. "I am skipper of this from now onwards. You follow my lead." A minute or two afterwards the girls came in. Doris, as I have already explained, was as pretty as Venus, Cleopatra, and Gertie Millar all in one, and she only beat Marjorie by a short head. All the other girls I've ever met were simply "also ran." Marjorie's hair was black. She was a brunette with olive-coloured skin and green eyes, like very dark, clear emeralds. She was extraordinarily lovely. Indeed, all three of us had seriously considered starting a picture postcard firm, with the girls as models and I to manage it, so that Doris and I could get married and have Marjorie to live with us. Rather a good scheme, only it would have needed at least two hundred pounds capital, which we hadn't got! Doris had on her engagement ring, which she generally wore on a string round her neck, underneath her blouse. I had put thirty shillings each way on "Baby Mine" for the Grand National and it had come off--hence the ring. "Let me introduce you to my fiancée, Miss Joyce," I said to Bernard. He took her hand and bowed over it, looking out of the corner of his eyes at Marjorie. Little Lockhart gasped. "Babe that I am!" he said, "blind mole! To think that I have lived in this house with young John Carey for so long, the house honeycombed with secret wires, and an illicit engagement in progress under my nose, and I knew nothing of it!" "Well, you are not the only person, Mr. Lockhart," Marjorie said. "And now I am going to fetch up dinner. Cook is out for the evening. Amy is in the plot. We've got soup--only tinned, but quite nice; there's a round of cold beef; and we will make an omelette on John's fire." "I'll come and help you carry the things," said my brother, and they left the room as friendly as if they had known each other for years. "Well, what do you think of my brother?" I asked Doris. I'm afraid my arm was round her waist and I had forgotten Lockhart. "I'm decidedly of the opinion," she said, "that Commander Carey knows more than enough to come indoors when it rains." Lockhart here revealed qualities of an unsuspected nature--I had never really appreciated Lockhart until the night before. "I happen to have, locked up in the cupboard of my sitting-room," he said, "a bottle of claret wine and a bottle of sherry wine. I will go and fetch them to grace this feast." "You nasty, horrid villain, so you drink in secret, do you?" I remarked. "Only Bovril, but please don't let it be known," was the reply, and then Doris and I were alone. I have never been one of those people who kiss and tell, so I will pass over the next minute; but after some business of no importance, she put her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the face. "John," she said, "there is something up!" "What do you mean?" "I don't exactly know, but there is something up. I can feel it--and something has happened, too, that I have got to tell you about. Before the Doctor left this morning, he told Marjorie that Mr. Jones had fallen in love with her and that she would have to marry him after the war was over, when he has straightened out his business affairs." "Good Lord!" I said, "that thing? Why----" "What have you got against him?" she asked quickly. "He's wealthy, the Doctor says, he has got good manners; of course, he's older than Marjorie, but he's not an old man. I thought you said you rather liked him?" "I did say so, and I liked him better than ever after meeting him this morning. You know I had breakfast with the Doctor?" "I know, and there is something up. Something to do with your brother--I am certain of it. But why do you object to Mr. Jones for Marjorie?" "What does Marjorie say herself?" "She told the Doctor"--the girls would never call the Doctor "Father"--"that if Mr. Jones had a million a minute and was the last man left on earth after a second flood, she would rather spend her life in the garden eating worms than marry him!" "Marjorie's plenty of pluck," I answered, "and is obviously of romantic temperament. Anyone else in the wind?" "Anyone else?" she said, with a bitter note in her voice, "whom do we ever see? We live as prisoners here, as you very well know, Johnny, and if it were not for you I should long ago have jumped into Thirty Main Creek and ended it all." I held her close to me. "Dear," I said, "it will all come right, I am certain. Somehow or other, we shall be able to be married soon, and then you need never see Morstone or the Doctor any more." "I love Morstone," she replied. "I love the lonely marshes and the bird-noises and the great red dawns and the sweet salt air, but"--she shuddered--"that fiend who married my poor dear mother and drove her to death, I would see burnt to-morrow without a pang of remorse. He has been worse lately, John, far worse. Mrs. Gaunt has been put to watch us like a spy. I can't tell whether he suspects anything about you and me. He may or may not. At any rate, there is something going on which frightens me. I've no doubt you will think me quite hysterical, quite foolish, and I feel it rather than know it, but I am frightened. Only this morning, the Doctor said things to dear Marjorie which were awful. He caught her by the arm and twisted it when she defied him, and his voice was so ugly and cruel, it seemed so inhuman, that I felt as if someone had put ice to the back of my neck. Oh, take me away soon, take Marjorie away too!" She clung to me in a passion of appeal, and then and there I resolved that, come what might, we would marry and leave this ill-omened and mysterious place. "What a long time they are!" Doris said after a moment or two, when I had soothed her. "Oh, here they come!" But it wasn't, it was only Lockhart, who knocked at the door loudly and waited for several seconds before coming in with his contribution to the dinner. "I'll run down and hurry them up, as there is no one about," I said. "You'll do nothing of the sort!" she replied quickly. "Really, what a babe you are, John!" I was just the least bit in the world offended, not seeing why I should not hurry up the truants, especially as I was extremely hungry again; but they came at last, carrying two piled trays of provisions. I had never seen Marjorie look prettier. Her eyes were brighter than ever, and she showed not the slightest trace of unhappiness. Obviously, she had quite forgotten the events of the morning. I cannot tell you what fun the dinner was. The soup was top-hole--mock turtle, and one of Elizabeth Lazenby's finest efforts. Lockhart was a tremendous success as butler, and the "claret wine"--I should have thrown it at my scout's head at Oxford--tasted like "Château la Rose" at least. Bernard and Marjorie made the omelette over my fire, while the rest of us sat waiting and Lockhart and I smoked a cigarette. Marjorie ordered my brother about most unmercifully. Suddenly, it was nearing a critical moment and both of them were crouching over the pan, I happened to turn my eyes in their direction. They were not looking at the omelette at all. They were looking at each other and their faces were almost solemn. Then it burst upon me and I fear I was indiscreet. I said aloud: "The very thing! Oh, my holy aunt, the very thing!" They whipped round. "What is?" Bernard asked. "Why, the omelette, you blighter!" I replied, and kicked Doris under the table. She understood at once. Girls are so quick, aren't they? When we had eaten the omelette and the round of cold beef had "ebbed some," as I once heard a Rhodes' Scholar say at Oxford, my brother rose, glass in hand. "Mr. Vice," he said, "the King!" I had dined in the wardroom with Bernard when he was on board the _Terrific_, and I knew what to do. "Ladies and gentlemen, the King!" I said, and we drank that loyal toast in silence. Somehow it altered the mood of each individual. A gravity fell upon us, not sadness or boredom, but we stopped to think, as it were. Only two hundred miles away, over the marshes and over the sea, the great German battleships were waiting. Nearer than Penzance is to London, the armies of England at that moment were shivering in the trenches round Ostend. And in Morstone House School--what was there that hung undefined, but heavy and secret, like a miasma upon the air? Then Bernard said: "Miss Joyce, I have taken the liberty to bring you a little present from London." "'Doris,' please," she answered. "Very well then, Doris. It is a bracelet, a little affair of turquoises and pearls, to commemorate our meeting and in the hope that you will always be a good girl and love your brother-in-law." "Oh, Commander Carey!" "'Bernard,' please!" "Well then, Bernard, how sweet of you!" Poor Doris, and Marjorie too, were not in the way of getting many presents. Upjelly saw to that! My brother put his hand in his pocket, and then into another pocket, finally into a third. He hesitated, he stammered, and looked positively frightened. It was the first and last time I ever saw the old sport thoroughly done in. "Damn!" he said, and then grew more embarrassed still. "I am the biggest fool in the Service. I remember now I left the case on my dressing-room table at the Morstone Arms." Poor little Doris's face fell. She could not help it. But I had a bright idea. "Oh, that's all right," I said. "There's a certain young imp of mine called Dickson max----" "Dear boy!" Marjorie murmured, and my brother looked at her quickly. "He's seventeen, and quite trustworthy," I went on. "He will be delighted to run and fetch it. Anything to be out of school at night!--and as I am headmaster of this East Anglian Eton, I can do as I like. I will ring for him." Lockhart looked slightly upset, but I didn't care. "But I thought," my brother remarked, "that this was somewhat in the nature of a--well, shall we say 'secure-from-observation' dinner party." "Oh, Billy Dickson won't breathe a word," Marjorie said emphatically. "Well, you command this ship," my brother said, "and it is up to you. Certainly I should like to send for the bracelet, and if you don't keep Whale Island discipline aboard, it's not my affair." I rang for Dickson max. He arrived, knocked at the door, stepped in, and then his eyes grew very round indeed, but he said not a word. I told him what was wanted and asked him if he would go. "Rather, sir," he said, "I would be only too delighted." I gave him the key of the masters' door. "It's a bitter cold night," my brother put in, "supposing you take my coat and this shooting hat. It'll keep you as warm as toast." Of course Dickson max. would have scorned the idea of an overcoat under ordinary circumstances, though Bernard didn't know that. But the opportunity of wearing the ulster of a Wing-Commander of Submarines, who had been wounded off Heligoland, was too much for the youthful mind. He flushed with pleasure, and I won't swear that, as he went out into the passage, he didn't salute. I went downstairs with him, helped him on with the big coat--he was the same height as Bernard and much the same figure--and pressed the heather-mixture shooting hat on his head. "Now scoot as hard as you can go," I told him, opening the door, and he was gone like a flash into the dark night. When I got back there was a curious silence. Somehow or other we none of us seemed to know what to say. I can't account for it, but there it was. It was then that my brother came in and I found a side of him I had only suspected but never seen before. Leaning forward in his chair, he began to talk very quietly, but with great earnestness. I saw what he was up to. He was leading the conversation very near home indeed. It was astonishing how he dominated us all, how we hung on his words and how the sense of sinister surroundings grew and grew as he spoke. It was the girls who responded. The skill with which he introduced the subject was enormous, but they were marvellously "quick in the uptake." It was Marjorie who leant forward, her great eyes flashing and her lips compressed to a thin line of scarlet. "Commander Carey," she said, "don't think that I or my sister are entirely ignorant that there is something very wrong about this place. You have turned our thoughts into a new channel." She was wearing a blouse with loose sleeves, ending in some filmy lace. Suddenly, with her right hand, she pulled up the left-arm sleeve. There were three dark purple marks upon her white arm. "That was this morning," she said, nodding once or twice. "And now speak out, if you have anything to tell us, about the man who killed my mother as surely as if he did it with a gun, and who has done his best to ruin the lives of my sister and myself. Speak without fear!" Then Bernard, in crisp, low sentences, told the girls and Lockhart exactly what he believed. The wind howled outside and hissing drops of rain fell upon the window-pane. The fire crackled on the hearth, the smoke of our cigarettes rose in grey spirals in the pleasant, lamp-lit room. It was a strange night, how fraught with consequences to England, the two beautiful girls, the little cripple, the third-rate schoolmaster, and even the young naval officer himself, did not know! "It has long been suspected," my brother concluded, and his voice sank almost to a whisper, "that one master-mind has been behind all the German espionage, both before and during the war. There is in existence, our Intelligence Department has had indubitable evidence of it, a King of Spies, so subtle of brain, so fertile in resource, that, even now, we cannot find him. We do not know for certain, but it is rumoured that this man's real name is Graf Botho von Vedal, though what name he passes under now none can say." Doris's eyes clouded. She seemed as if she was making an effort of memory. "Was he once 'Wirklicher Geheimrat'--Privy Councillor to the German Emperor?" she asked. Bernard stared at her. "So I am told," he said. "What do you know about him?" "I can't tell you," she answered with a dazed look upon her face--"some childish memory. The name was familiar. My sister and I speak German as well as we speak English, you know." "If I could put my finger upon that man," my brother continued, "then one of the gravest perils to which England lies open at the moment would be removed." "Where is he?" Lockhart asked, speaking like a man in a dream. We all looked at each other, and there was dawning consciousness and horror in every eye. "Yes," came from my brother at length, and as he spoke he withdrew one of Dickson's little photographs from his pocket--I hadn't seen him put it there--"and also, what is Admiral Kiderlen-Waechter doing in England?" We all knew that name. The papers had been full of it at the beginning of the war. Kiderlen-Waechter was the chief of the German Submarine Flotillas. It was owing to his ingenuity and resource that ship after ship of our gallant Navy had been torpedoed, even in the Straits of Dover themselves. "What do you mean?" I gasped. "What I say, John. For, unless I am much mistaken--of course, I may easily be mistaken--the gentleman who drove away with Doctor Upjelly to London this morning is that very man." "Mr. Jones?" Marjorie cried. "The man the Doctor swore that I must marry when the war is over?" Bernard's eyes blazed. "What?" he said quickly, "I heard nothing of that!" The two were looking at each other very strangely when there was a knock at the door. It opened and Dickson max. came in. He went up to my brother and put down a little case of red morocco by his side. "There you are, sir," he said. I looked up sharply. There was something unusual in the lad's voice. He caught hold of the back of Lockhart's chair and swayed as he stood. Then we saw that beneath the upturned collar of the overcoat one cheek was all red and bleeding. There was a line across it like the cut from a knife. "What on earth is the matter?" I cried, in great alarm. "Oh nothing, sir," he answered, "only as I was coming through the Sea Wood--I took the shorter way--I thought I heard someone behind me. I turned round, and just as I did so there was a noise like a banjo string, and something went past my head singing like a wasp. Then I found my cheek all cut." "What did you do? Who was it?" "I plunged into the bushes, sir, but could not find anyone. Then I pulled out my electric torch, and, sticking in the trunk of a tree, I found this." The boy unbuttoned his coat and held out a long, slim shaft. It was an arrow, such as is used in archery competitions, but the edge had been filed sharp. "Some silly blighter trying to frighten me," said Dickson max., and then, with a little sob, he fell in a faint upon the floor. I bent over him and forced some wine between his lips. Bernard looked round the room with a set, stern face. "They are not losing any time," he said quietly. "You see, they know that I am here, already." NOTE.--For convenience sake I end the first portion of this narrative at this point. It divides itself into three parts quite naturally, as I think my readers will agree when they have read it all. At any rate, on this night was formed that oddly assorted, but famous, companionship which led to such great results. We swore no oaths, we made no protestations. There was no need for that. END OF PART I PART II CHAPTER V AT MIDNIGHT ON THE MARSHES. THE SECRET OF THE OLD HULK Doctor Upjelly returned on the afternoon of the third day after he left for London. Directly I heard his trap drive away and knew that he was in his study, I went into his house and knocked at the door. "I have very grave news to tell you, Doctor," I said. He started. I distinctly saw him start and he flashed a quick look at me. One might almost have thought that he was frightened, but he swallowed something in his throat and his voice was calm and cold as ever when he answered. "And what is that, Mr. Carey?" "I am sorry, I am very sorry, to say that Dickson max. has run away." There was a momentary silence. I could almost have sworn it was one of relief on the big man's part. "What do you mean, Mr. Carey? Ran away from school?" "Yes. He got out of his window on the very night you went. We did not discover it until the next morning. We scoured the country round, thinking it was merely a mischievous escapade, but found no traces of him. I then thought it my duty to acquaint his father at once, so I went to Norwich on my bicycle during the afternoon of the day after the discovery. To my immense surprise, I found the boy there. He had walked to Heacham station and taken the train. He stated that he was tired of school and it was his intention to enlist. His father seemed to concur in the view after we had had a long talk together. Of course, I endeavoured to get the boy back, for the sake of the school, but it was useless. Mr. Dickson seems a weak sort of man, and he says that he is going to do his best to get an equipment and pay what is necessary for Dickson to join the Public Schools Corps." The Doctor, who was sitting down, his hand clutching a little brown travelling-bag on the table near him, did his best to show some concern. It was poorly done, however, and I could see that he did not care a rap one way or the other. "I hope you don't blame me, sir?" I said, "but I could not have foreseen anything of the sort. It has never happened before." "No, no. Not in the least, Mr. Carey. I am sure you acted most promptly and wisely in going at once to the boy's father. And his brother?" "His brother is still here and steadfastly refuses to say anything about the affair. As far as I have been able to find out, he was quite in ignorance of his brother's intentions." "Well, well. Of course, I am sorry to lose the boy, but I like his spirit," said Doctor Upjelly, without a gleam in his eyes or any warmth in his voice. "After all, perhaps he will be better employed in defending his country than in learning Latin grammar here--have a cigar, Mr. Carey." He handed me his case, a most unusual proceeding. "And how is your brother?" he said. "I trust he is benefiting by our pure air and that you have already been able to show him some sport." I shook my head. "There is another strange thing I have got to tell you, Doctor," I replied, pretending to be busy with the lighting of my cigar, though I took very good care to watch his face reflected in the mirror over the mantelpiece. What I saw was significant. Now, indeed, the little black eyes gleamed for an instant, and the big, cruel mouth twitched--once. I felt, as surely as if I had been told, that Upjelly knew something of what had happened on the night of his departure. "Yes," I said, "a most unfortunate affair! My brother was coming up to see me at the school during preparation and I had previously directed him to follow the short cut through the Sea Wood. It was quite dark, and as he was coming along, finding his way as well as he could, a most unprovoked attack was made upon him." "An attack, Mr. Carey? You surprise me! Who could attack anyone on our marshes?" "That is just what I cannot understand. He says he heard a sort of twanging noise, unlike anything he had ever heard before. Then something struck him on the cheek, cutting it deeply. He shouted and ran about in the dark, but could hear no sound, nor could he find anyone. He arrived at the school with a bad cut on his face, bleeding profusely. I bandaged it up as well as I could, gave him a little whisky-and-water, and then accompanied him home, taking my ten-bore with me, though we went by the road. Nothing happened, and the thing is a complete mystery. My brother is, of course, not in a very good state of health after his wound. He is confined to the inn, and will be so for some days, so I fear he will get very little shooting at present. He's afraid of the cold getting into his cheek." "Dear me, dear me, what an extraordinary occurrence! Confined to the inn, you say?" "For at least another week, if he is wise." I could have sworn the great, fat face wrinkled with relief, and after we had discussed the incident for some little time, the Doctor advancing all sorts of ingenious theories, I turned to leave. Just as I was going, he asked me if I were going to shoot that night. I said that I should very much like to, as the geese were working well and there were reports of many widgeon about. Still, I thought it my duty to be with my brother; so that, after preparation, I was going down to the inn and should stay there for some time. "Quite so, quite so," Upjelly replied. "I am sorry for both of you in losing your sport; but certainly you ought to be with your brother." "I thought of staying till late, if you don't mind," I said. "He is rather feverish." He swallowed the bait like a fat trout. "All night, if you wish," he said, "all night. You will certainly not be wanted here. Yes! A good idea! Why don't you get Mrs. Wordingham to put you up a bed?" "If you really think I can be spared?" "My dear Carey, on an occasion of this sort it is a pleasure for me to dispense with your services--not that they will be wanted in any way, for I don't suppose any more of my young ruffians are likely to run away to enlist." "Then thank you very much; that is what I will do." "Yes, by all means. And, for my part, I think I shall go out and try my luck. I must see if I can't shoot for both of you and bring back a goose or two." Then I went away. Lockhart and I had tea with the boys as usual. There was an air of suppressed excitement in the dining-hall. The exploit of Dickson max. had fired the imagination of everyone, though possibly a keener observer than was among his companions might have detected a suppressed and unholy joy in Dickson major, which was not entirely due to his brother's escapade. I had always thought that a weak spot in our plan. If the Doctor had known anything at all about the characters of his pupils, he would have realised that where Dickson max. went, Dickson major went too. Fortunately the Doctor did not. At half-past eight I dressed in fowling kit, a grey sweater, a coat of nondescript colour, grey flannel trousers, and great thigh boots for the marsh. My headgear was an old, dun-coloured shooting hat, the lining of which could be pulled down to make a mask for the face, with two holes to see through; for it is essential to the wild-fowler to wear nothing too light or too dark, to show no glimpse of a pink face, because the wild goose, as even the greatest big-game hunters of the day allow, is the wariest of all created things. Then I took my heavy ten-bore, with its dulled barrels and oxydised furniture, slipped my three-inch brass "perfects" loaded with B.B. into my pockets, and telephoned to Doris. It was all right. The Doctor was in his own room having supper, and Marjorie was with him. It was impossible that he could see me leave in fowling kit, and in a moment more I had wished my dear girl good-night and was out in the dark. The wind cried in the chimneys of the old house with a strange and wailing note. The moon was not yet up, and the far-distant sea drummed like an army. As I turned towards the Sea Wood, some great night-bird passed overhead with an eerie cry, like a man in pain. For myself, my heart was beating rapidly, my teeth were set and I felt nothing of the cold. To-night, if ever, we were to discover the secret of the marshes. My brother had taken the helm of the ship, and his decks were cleared for action. His foresight and resource were admirable. Nothing escaped him, and we were meeting the dark plot with another which allowed nothing to chance. This is what had happened. We patched up Dickson max. as well as we could--the cut was not deep--and then my brother took him into Lockhart's room. What he said to the lad I did not know, even now I do not know, but they came back with the boy's eyes sparkling. He walked like a man--in those ten minutes something had transformed him from a laughing schoolboy into a different being. We took him at once to the Morstone Arms, and there my brother spent a long time with Sam Wordingham and his wife. They were as true as steel, this worthy couple. They were not told everything, but it was explained to them that this was "Government business" of the highest importance, and that in the King's name they must aid Bernard in every possible way. It did me good to see Sam's nut-brown face hardening into resolve, and the excitement in his eyes. Dickson was put to bed in an attic of the rambling old inn and the door was locked. Before it was light that morning my brother stole out, walked five miles in the opposite direction to Blankington-on-Sea, caught the fish train from a village in the neighbourhood of Cromer, and was in London at the Admiralty by mid-day. He returned in a fast motor car that night. The car was housed in the garage of the Lieutenant of Coastguards at Cockthorpe, four miles away. It was to be ready for any emergency, and by eleven o'clock my brother was back at the Morstone Arms. On the morning of that day, I indeed went to Norwich on my snorter. She seemed to rise to the occasion, for she did the forty miles to Norwich in two hours and without any mishap. I interviewed the Rev. Harold Dickson and swore him to secrecy, and I never saw a parson more delighted. His sons were true chips of the old block, and after lunch at the "Maiden's Head" the clergyman almost cursed his age and cloth that he was not also available for the service of his country. Finally, and this provision of my brother was extraordinarily wise, as it afterwards appeared--though he could have had no idea of what we were to discover at that moment--three of the crew of his own submarine, all recovering from wounds, but all taught and handy men, were, even now, upon their way from Harwich to lodge unobtrusively at the coastguard station at Cockthorpe, where they could await Bernard's orders. I went through the Sea Wood, towards the inn. This was a place that had been planted to shelter the cultivated fields behind from the keen marsh winds. As one advanced into it from the coast side, the furze, among which innumerable rabbits played, gave way to elders and other hardy shrubs. It was about a quarter of a mile long and not more than two hundred yards in breadth. The timber was all stunted and bushy, the undergrowth was rank and thick. The trees led a life of conflict; they were accustomed to swing there all night long in fierce winter tempests; it was a remote and savage place, where even the pheasants of Lord Blankington hardly ever came. I pressed through the narrow path until I came to a little open space, a cup or hollow through which a sluggish stream wound its way on to the marsh. Here, the bushes were thicker than ever and the stream widened into a pool covered with innumerable water-hen that made cheeping noises in the night. It was covered with them as I came up noiselessly; one could see the little black dots upon the livid, leaden expanse. I sat down, looked at my watch--I had a fowlers' watch with what is called the "radium dial" that showed the time in any darkness--and found it was just half-past nine. Waiting till a gust of wind had died away, I whistled the first three bars of "It's a long way to Tipperary." There was no response and I whistled again. The last note had hardly shivered away when I felt a hand upon my shoulder and I jumped like a shot man. "It's only me, sir," sounded in my ear with a triumphant chuckle; "I stalked you pretty well, didn't I, sir?" "You young devil!" I replied, "you nearly frightened me out of my life!" "I thought I would try and see what I could do, sir," said Dickson max. He was in a black suit. I fear it was his Sunday-best. He wore no collar and his face and hands were covered with burnt cork--a grimy, sooty apparition the young imp looked, but, nevertheless, one couldn't have seen him a yard away. "You've done very well," I said. "Stick to it. The Doctor isn't such a marshman as I am, and if you come up to him like that--well, you won't have a difficult task. You know where I and my brother will be?" "Yes, sir," he whispered--"in the gun-pit at the head of Garstrike." "Right you are. Now out along as quickly as possible and bring us news by midnight if you can." "I am going to lie in the rhododendrons in the Doctor's garden," he said. "He's sure to come out by his private door, and I'll follow him to Heligoland if necessary." I gave him a pat on the back, and as I looked round he had already melted noiselessly into the dark and I was alone. In the inn I found my brother. The kitchen was full of labourers drinking their last pint before closing hour at ten. In the private bar old Pugmire was babbling over his gin, but in the sitting-room beyond, with curtains drawn, Bernard was all ready for the enterprise, dressed just as I was. "Well?" he asked. "It's all serene. I've met Dickson and he is watching the Doctor now. In about three-quarters of an hour the inn will be closed and all the men gone home. Then we can set out." Mrs. Wordingham came in with two bottles of that famous strong ale which is kept for twenty years and which is the best antidote against the cold of the marshes known to the wild-fowler--only an amateur takes spirits upon the saltings. We drank it in silence. "I don't know what is going to turn up to-night," said Bernard. "I trust to your knowledge of the marshes implicitly. But remember this, old soul, it is not a lark of any sort. We shall be in the gravest danger. I cannot exaggerate the importance of what we are doing. The Admiralty itself is waiting for news. I am not dramatic in any way, Heaven knows! but I'll let myself go for a minute. I believe, John, that it may well be that we two, and the others who are helping us, hold the destinies of England in our hands. God grant that we shall be successful!" "I think we shall." "I believe we are on the right track. But there is one thing I want to say. Supposing, just supposing, that one of us does not come back to-night, and assuming it is me"--here Bernard hesitated and looked at me rather ferociously. "Well?" "Well, just give this to Miss Marjorie Joyce, will you?" He pulled a signet-ring from his little finger, a ring that had been our governor's. I told him to keep his hair on and that I would. At a quarter past ten we slipped out of the big door of the inn, skirted the Sea Wood without entering it, and went down upon the foreshore. It is necessary that I should give you some idea of the famous Morstone marshes, and to the description I will add a rough-drawn map which will help to make things clear.[1] [Footnote 1: See Frontispiece.] If you look at the map of England, you will see Wells marked at the top right-hand corner of the Wash. Then comes a long, blank space till you get to Sheringham and finally to Cromer. Blankington-on-Sea was the next town to Wells on the west. Then five miles east of it comes Morstone. So much for our geographical position. Looking north, there was nothing between us and Iceland; looking a little north-east, we were only three hundred miles from Cuxhaven, about three hundred and twenty miles to Heligoland, and nothing like that to the Frisian Islands just below the mouth of the Kiel Canal. So much for that, and now to be more local. From the foreshore, it was about a mile and a half over the marshes to the sea at low tide. At ordinary high tide it was about a mile. With spring tides and a rare off-sea wind blowing due north, the marshes were covered right up to the foreshore. This happened about twice in the year, and then they were only covered for a depth of about five or six feet, if that. The foreshore, as it is called, is a somewhat misleading term. It did not in the least resemble what one generally associates with the word. It was simply a grassy bank covered with furze bushes and with a grass road going right along it. The coarse grass sloped down till the mud was met. Now this mud was a sort of turfy peat on the surface, covered with marrum grass. One could walk on it with perfect safety, it was as hard as an ordinary field, but it was everywhere intersected with creeks of varying depth. Some of these were little runnels a foot deep, some of them had steep sides of ten or twelve feet and were crossed by narrow planks in permanent position. The sides were of mud as black as a truffle--I have really no other simile which so exactly fits the case--and at the bottom was two or three feet of water covering softer and more dangerous mud. At high tide these deeper creeks had seven or eight feet of water in them. Then, at various points upon the marsh, were creeks which were really like tidal rivers, only that they ended at the foreshore, as a railway line ends at a terminus. These were huge trenches, wider than the widest canal, some of them seventy or eighty yards across. The walls of mud were precipitous, twenty and even thirty feet high. The largest of these had many feet of water in them at all states of the ebb and flow, but when the tide was full they were almost brimming and could have floated a fair-sized ship. Anything more utterly desolate and forlorn, even on a bright, sunlit day, than these sullen, winding waterways, so far from the habitations of man, can hardly be conceived. They were the haunt of innumerable fowl. Herons stood on the brink and transfixed flat-fish with their long, spear-like beaks. The wild duck gathered in the little bays and estuaries formed by their convolutions. The red-shank and the green-shank whistled over them at all hours. The two largest creeks of all were known as Garstrike and Thirty Main. It was from the heads of these waters that the gun-punts started on their dangerous nightly mission, following this or that creek in and out, wherever there was water. Garstrike had always ten feet of water in it at low tide, but Thirty Main was the largest by far. It stretched straight away from the sea to the foreshore. There was always at least thirty feet of water in its black, evil-looking depths. At high tide, sixty would have been nearer the mark. It wound among the marsh, the centre of endless smaller creeks which ran into it, the great ganglion of the whole system of nerves. It was the study of months to know the marsh. Death had come to many fowlers there who did not know its complexities and who omitted to carry an illuminated compass for night work. Many men had been cut off on an island of mud covered with the purple sea-thistles, the bronze-green marrum grass, and the rank vegetation of the saltings. And some had been waiting in a minor creek when the tide came fast and swift through all the intricate waterways, who were unable to climb the steep sides of slippery mud, and so met their fate. We crossed the foreshore in a minute and a half and came down upon the mud. The frozen grass crackled under our boots like little rods of glass. The shallow pools were all frozen over as we made our way round the curving shore of Garstrike. We were on the right bank, and here and there we had to go along some of the smaller creeks that flowed into it. It is no joke to walk over a twelve-inch plank in the pitch dark with a ten-foot ditch of mud and water below. As an old marshman, I was used to it, though I had known many new-comers give these bridges a miss at the first start off. But Bernard skipped over like a bird, and after a quarter of a mile or more of slow progress, aided by my illuminated compass and a faint, ghostly light from the rising moon, we got to the gun-pit marked upon the map. Immediately to our left was a low punt-house dug into the steep mud-bank of Garstrike and entered at the shore end by a rough ladder. The pit was five feet deep; there was a rough board for a seat and there was about a foot of water in the bottom--rain-water, which had fallen during the last few days. This, however, was nothing, and we scrambled in and sat down. I had taken my ten-bore to the Morstone Arms, but Bernard had told me to leave it there. He had given me a heavy Service pistol, which fired ten shots in as many seconds, together with an extra clip of cartridges for the magazine. He had another in the pocket of his coat. So we sat and waited. Bent on more pleasant business, we should have had our guns ready in our hands, waiting for the sound of birds flighting overhead as the moon rose, coming from the sand-banks out at sea inland to the stubbles. But now our ears were tuned to a different music, and I am not ashamed to say that I heard some artery within me beating like a drum. It was a solemn hour and strange indeed was the business we were upon. The whole marsh was alive with voices. There was the long, hushed roar of the sea, the fifing of the wind, and then the countless cries of the night-birds. A great heron flapped away somewhere over Thirty Main, with its hoarse "frank, frank"; there was a rustling whistle far overhead as a company of widgeon flashed by at thirty miles an hour; a paddle of duck were quacking somewhere on the other side of the creek; and then, faint at first, but growing nearer and nearer, came that sound which, to the wild-fowler, is the finest in the world and which many and many a man and woman has said to be the strangest sound in nature. The wild geese were coming. I can never think of that sound without a tightening of the muscles, almost a lump in the throat. It is like a vast pack of ghostly hounds up in the sky, which cuts into the night like nothing else can do, and instinctively I felt for my gun. But it was not to be that night. They passed over us not more than eighty yards high--well within the range of a heavy gun--and the noise was deafening in our ears as the great wedge-shaped formation sped by. "By Jove, that's good!" I heard Bernard whisper. It was the one chance of the night. No more geese worked our way, and for an hour we sat motionless, growing colder and colder, but patient still. Then, at last, there was a low whistle and a crouching figure appeared on the edge of the pit. "I've followed him, sir. He came out of the school with his gun and went straight on to the foreshore. He walked for nearly a mile towards Cockthorpe. I crouched behind the furze bushes and he never saw me. He was walking very fast. He passed the head of Thirty Main and then went down on to the mud, following the bank until he came to the Hulk. The bridge was out and he went on board. Then he pulled it up--and there he is now. I saw a light struck and a candle lit from one of the windows in the side. Then something was pulled over it, and I came away here as fast as I could." "The Hulk!" I said. "Of course, I might have thought of that before!" "What is it?" Bernard asked. "It is the hulk of an old coaster of about eighty tons. It is permanently moored in Thirty Main Creek. Upjelly bought it for twenty pounds some two years ago and has had it fitted up. In the summer he sometimes camps out there. In the winter he uses it as a base for shooting on the marshes. There are three or four on the saltings between Wells and Cromer." "Then we must go there at once. How can we approach it?" "It is moored some three yards from the shore--there is deep water right up to the banks on either side of Thirty Main Creek. It's reached by a light bridge and a handrail, which anyone on board can pull up after him by means of a derrick on the stem of the old main-mast. If we were to approach over the mud, we should hear nothing, but we can go by water and get to the far side. Wordingham's punt is ready in the house close by. It will take us half an hour poling up to Garstrike and then back again down the long, winding creek of Morstone Miel. That brings us out into Thirty Main Creek--which we can cross and hug the opposite side. The Hulk lies in a little bay. When we get nearly there, we shall have to paddle, just as we 'set to birds.' We shan't make a sound, and we ought to hear something or see something if there is anything to be seen or heard." "You'll let me come with you, sir?" Dickson asked eagerly. I shook my head. "It's a two-handed punt," I said, "and there's no room for anybody else--you ought to know what a fowling punt is by this time. It's dangerous enough for two experts. No, Dickson, you've done very well indeed and I'm proud of you. You must cut home now as quietly as possible and go to bed at the Morstone Arms. Whatever you do, don't show your face at the window in the morning. I'll come and tell you everything." I could see the boy was very disappointed, but a word from Bernard comforted him. "You're a first-class scout, Dickson," he said; "I wish I had you on board my ship. If you obey orders as you have been doing and anything comes of this business, I'm not at all sure that I can't promise you a billet." If Dickson flushed under his burnt cork, I did not see it, but his voice was tremulous with joy. There was no mistake about it this time. He saluted, and in a moment more was gone. "Now," I said, "come along. You don't understand punt work, do you, Bernard?" "No," he said, "only shore shooting. I've been in some queer craft in my time, but here 'you 'ave me,' as the cabman said. You must be skipper of this cruise!" We hurried over the few yards separating the pit from the punt-shed. I went down the ladder first and unlocked the door. We found ourselves in a long, narrow shed with a little landing-stage along one side and some lockers above it fixed to the wall. In the middle lay the punt, painted a dull green-khaki over its mahogany, almost invisible at night. The big gun stretched out far over the bows; everything was ship-shape and in order, for Wordingham was a tidy man, and this punt, which with its gun had cost a hundred and fifty pounds, had been given him by a wealthy fowler, an officer in the Guards, who loved to come down in peace time for a week on the waterways of East Anglia. "Now," I said, "be careful. You get forrard and lie down on your stomach. Yes, that's it; brace yourself against the recoil piece of the gun. Lie as if you were going to fire it when we come within shot of birds on the water. That'll trim the boat. I'll punt until we get near. Then I'll in-pole and paddle. Remember you mustn't move and you mustn't make a sound." We glided out on to the black water of Garstrike Creek. The banks sheltered us somewhat from the wind, but it was nearly high tide and every now and again a freshet sent waves lapping against the low sides of the punt; and occasionally a cupful of water or a lash of spray came over. My brother told me, long afterwards, that it was one of the strangest experiences of his life, and I suppose that the first night in a punt must indeed be that to the tyro. To me, it was ordinary enough, but my blood ran fast and free as I realised that we were out for bigger game than geese or duck to-night. Our progress will be seen by the dotted line upon the map. We went up Garstrike, keeping close to the right bank. Then, quite suddenly, the smaller miel opened out. We made a sharp turn, and now the banks were scarcely more than two yards from us on either side, while punting was easier owing to the shallow water. At low tide, it would have been almost impossible to go from Garstrike to Thirty Main. We followed the sinuous turnings of the small creek for some twenty minutes, in and out between the black walls, like people walking in some dark alley. Then Miel Creek opened out and we shot on to the broad waters of Thirty Main. Here we were on what seemed a wide river. There was an immediate sense of space and freedom and the sea became more choppy. Punting was impossible. I knelt down and with infinite caution stretched myself upon my stomach, my head between my brother's legs. Then I got out the paddles, which were small implements held in the hand, in shape resembling nothing quite so much as a pair of large butter pats, or shall I say a couple of ladies' hand-mirrors. With my arms over the side, I gradually propelled the punt round the curve where, in a little bay, the Hulk was lying. It is thus one approaches the "paddle" of duck or geese upon the water for the last hundred and fifty yards. Progress is by inches. The long grey punt steals noiselessly towards its quarry until the supreme moment when the gunner pulls the lanyard, the pound and a half of shot speeds upon its mission, and the punt rears like a horse. But there was to be no roar or concussion to-night. The moon was now high, though it was obscured by driving clouds. There was only a faint and phosphorescent radiance. This was all the better for our purpose, and anyone upon the look-out could hardly have distinguished the grey thing creeping towards the Hulk with such infinite slowness. We drew nearer and nearer. Thirty yards ... twenty ... ten. Then I stopped paddling. It was full high tide, absolutely dead; that moment when flow and ebb alike are suspended. We came alongside the high walls of the old ship without a sound, our hands fending the punt from its curved, barnacle-studded timbers. Long swathes of green weed hung from the sternpost as we edged our way round to the port side. Now I had never visited the Doctor's Hulk. When I first went to Morstone I thought it strange that he did not ask me, but he had never done so and the matter passed from my mind. I knew nothing, certainly, of its internal arrangements. At the same time, I had been over a similar hulk moored off Wells-next-to-Sea, which belonged to a wealthy maltster there, and I knew that the same carpenter had fitted up both boats. From what I remember, there was a cabin built out on deck with a glass roof, while the hold below had been fitted up partly as a winter smoking-room and dining-room, partly as berths for sportsmen who wished to sleep after their toil. I was quite right. The old portholes of the boat had all been done away with, but a large square window, some four feet above our heads, bulged in the side of the Hulk. No light could be seen, but the top of the window was open, and, even as we glided up, a whiff of cigar smoke came out and we heard the murmur of voices. The murmur of voices! The Doctor was not alone upon the old coaster. Something was brewing within its sea-worn timbers. We were nearing the heart of the mystery at last! Instinctively, we both stood up. The punt rocked perilously, but we steadied it by holding on to the lower part of the window. Once, it nearly slipped away from beneath our feet and my brother crouched down again and caught at a great clump of barnacles, motioning me to listen. For a moment or two I could hear nothing but a guarded rumble--it was like voices heard by chance through a telephone. Then the wind happened to drop and they became quite clear. I started with surprise, for, though I could see nothing, I was certain that there were three people on board the Hulk. Upjelly's cool, incisive tones struck immediately upon the drum of the ear. Then came another voice, a hoarse, rough voice which I did not know; and finally a third that I did. It was the voice of Mr. Jones, and I bent down and whispered to my brother. Then, as I rose again and listened with my very soul, I shivered with disappointment. The people within were speaking in a language I did not understand--save only a very few words. They were speaking in German! It seemed that Upjelly was giving instructions of some sort or other. His voice had a ring of command in it that I had never heard before. It was like a hammer on an anvil, and unless I was much mistaken, it vibrated with excitement. The answers came quickly enough. "_Ja, gnädiger Herr_," or, "_Gewisz, das hab' ich gleich gethan._" That presented no difficulties whatever. Upjelly was speaking to someone, obviously an inferior, who replied, "Yes, sir," or, "Certainly, I have already done it." Then Jones cut in, and here again I noticed an entire change in the quality of the man's voice. It was not Jones speaking now, it was the renowned Kiderlen-Waechter, of whom my brother had spoken three nights ago, or I would have eaten my hat. There was no mistaking the keen, arrogant note of command. The bland Mr. Jones never spoke like that, though the voice was the same. Then I distinctly heard the sound of a door either being shut or sliding in its grooves. There was the splutter of a match, the sound of a gurgling syphon, and, to my intense relief, Doctor Upjelly and his unseen companion began to speak in English. "No, it's impossible. I have, in my safe at the school, all the plans. Our secret service on this coast has been working untiringly. For three days at least, after to-morrow night, the plans will hold good. In them is the station of every patrolling ship, full maps of this part of the coast, the disposition of forces--everything necessary for the Admiral. The tide to-morrow night will be even higher than it is now. The moon is waning; weather conditions point to a dark, tempestuous night to-morrow. She will come and take you away with the plans." "Which I shall deliver to the Admiral within twenty-four hours, for the rendezvous is arranged, and I shall meet him in the middle of the North Sea." "I shall be sorry to lose you, Admiral Kiderlen-Waechter." "It will only be for a time. I shall soon return--as you know." There was a sound of laughter, low, guttural, and strong. "And what will you do, von Vedal?" "To-morrow night I shall be with you, as you know, and see you go. Then I shall take my stepdaughter to London, to the house you know of, where I shall await you. The issue will not be long and you can claim your reward. I shall leave the school, ostensibly for a day or two, but it will never see me again, as you can understand. Fritz has put that meddling Commander Carey _hors de combat_--the arrow was a clever idea and no one suspects. As a matter of fact, I don't suppose for a moment that his visit was anything but just what it appeared to be--for purposes of rest and a little sport and to see his brother. _Gott im Himmel_, what fools these people are! Now, take for example that brawny young donkey, Mr. John Carey, my assistant-master. He fancies himself in love with my elder stepdaughter, Doris." "And he may well be so, for she is a beautiful and charming young lady. Would I not do anything in the world for her sister?" "Oh well, yes; I forgot, von Waechter. Love is not an event that has occurred to me. But this young Carey has actually rigged up a telephone between his room and Doris's. It is the most transparent device. I knew all about it twenty-four hours after it was done. I shall leave Doris behind at the school, and if this young lout cares to marry her and become headmaster of Morstone College, I'm sure he is very welcome--that is, provided there is any Morstone College left in three days from now." "I will see to that. I rather like that boy, and a detachment of our marines shall guard the place and keep it from harm. That is all, I think." "That is all." "What time is it?" "It's one o'clock--a little too early to go home. We must go upon the marshes and fire a few shots. I have already three duck to carry home as the result of our labours. But let us have another cigar and wait for twenty minutes." Again there was the striking of a match. "Fritz will be all right, I suppose?" said Waechter. "He will be perfectly all right. Not a soul suspects that there is anyone on board this Hulk, and he's well hidden in the fo'c'sle. A faithful fellow that!" "You would say so if you had seen him as I have! He is the cleverest engineer in the whole of our Submarine Service, cunning as one of your own wild geese, and absolutely to be depended upon--unless ..." "Unless?" "Well, I'm a good judge of men, and we must take people as we find them. Chief-officer Fritz Schweitzer is a perfect spy and a first-class officer of submarines. Awash or under the surface, he knows no fear. But a little, able-bodied seaman, six weeks ago at Kiel, gave him a thrashing in a Bierhalle till he wept. One thing we must remember to-morrow--everything must be said in German. I like to talk English, as you know. It pleases me to be taken for a sedentary city gentleman, it's my little vanity, von Vedal, but, for safety's sake, to-morrow night, when She comes ..." "Quite so. Have you finished your cigar? Then let us go up on deck and see what the night is like." There was a slight grating sound and an almost imperceptible swish as the gun-punt swung away from the side of the Hulk, swept round the miniature headland and raced for the mouth of the Miel Creek. CHAPTER VI HOW JOHN CAREY FOUGHT WITH THE GERMAN GIANT IN THE SALOON, AND "MR. JONES" MET UNEXPECTED THINGS IN THE NIGHT It was five o'clock, low tide in the marsh creeks, and snow was falling lightly. At high tide, the Doctor's Hulk rose considerably _above_ the bank of Thirty Main Creek. It was three yards from the solid mud of the salting, and when the bridge was dropped one went up an incline to reach the deck. Now it was low tide. The deck of the hulk was a good five feet below the margin where I stood with my brother. It was still only three yards away--nine feet--nothing to a very moderate athlete. By four o'clock the evening had come. By five it was dark as midnight. Bernard turned behind us to where two people were waiting. "You quite understand?" he said in a low voice. I did not turn round; for certain reasons I could not. "Ready?" Bernard asked. "Yes, old cock," I answered, "and I hope you can jump it!" I was on my own ground. I had won a lot of pots in the long jump at Oxford. I thought I should rather snaffle Bernard on this job, which was wicked enough. We went back ten yards for the run. The snow was still falling softly and thickly. There was the deep ditch between the bank and the deck of the dim, desolate old Hulk. It looked very ugly, and as I held up my elbows and started the run off, I heard a stifled noise behind me. I knew what it meant, but I would not listen. This was no tune for sentiment. I took off on the very edge of the yielding mud-bank, leapt downwards in a great curve, lighted full over the bulwark of the Hulk with a thud, slid forward on the ice-bound deck, and was brought up short against the cabin. I wheeled round as a man does after a long slant at Murren. The whole thing did not take more than a second or two. Turning, I saw Bernard in the air. He lighted as I had done, but his foot slipped before he got his balance and he fell heavily, striking his head against the stump of the main-mast which, with a yard shipped, was used as a derrick to raise the bridge to the marsh. He fell with a noise like a sack of potatoes. I went up to him, tried to raise him, and found that he was unconscious. Something like warm varnish was oozing out of his head. My fingers dabbled in it. What I thought does not matter. If he was dead, he was dead, though I was pretty certain a tough old bird like Bernard was only stunned. But I had my orders, and I left him where he lay. I stood up upon that slippery deck and pulled out my magazine pistol. I looked round. There was nothing whatever to be seen but the softly falling snow. I tried a low whistle to the people on the bank, but there was no answer. It is a good thing to be under discipline. I had my orders, I waited, listened, and heard nothing. Then I crept aft to where a big glass-roofed cabin had been built out on the deck. There was no light shining through the roof. The door was locked. I listened and there was no sound save the soft, falling noise of the snowflakes. It was forrard, then, that I must go; and, treading with the greatest caution, I crept towards the bows of the old ship. The fo'c'sle hatchway loomed up before me. With cold, tingling fingers I felt for the door. It opened in the middle, in the usual way, and the hinges swung back as if they had been well oiled. Before me was the companion ladder--a dark well. With my pistol in my hand, I went down the stairs as noiselessly as a cat. I had only got to the bottom when a warm, stuffy smell came to my nostrils. I was in a triangular space roofed by heavy bulkheads. It was not quite dark, for a long rod of yellow light came from behind the stairs, where there was a door. I went up to it and listened. Everything was perfectly silent. Then I pushed open the door and entered. What I expected to see, I cannot say, but I was prepared for almost anything. What I did see was entirely unexpected. I found myself in a long saloon lit by a swivel lamp hanging from the roof. Dark crimson curtains were drawn over windows and possible portholes. The floor was covered with a faded Turkey carpet. Here and there a mirror was let into the wall. I saw a case of books and an excellent photogravure of the King, over a little grate in which glowed a fire of smouldering coke. There were two or three basket armchairs padded in cretonne. There was a central table, two little smoking-tables, and a sort of buffet at the side of a further door. Upon the buffet were glasses, syphons, and various bottles. There was a box of cigars upon the central table and a silver cigarette-box upon one of the smaller ones. I had come into a little, luxuriously furnished club-room, which struck upon the senses with an irresistibly homely and pleasant note as I looked round in wild amazement. There was even a brass kettle on a trivet by the fire, which was singing melodiously to itself. I stared round the place like a child, and caught sight of my face with open eyes and dropping jaws in one of the looking-glasses. What was I doing here? What had I tumbled into? What?... I came back to myself just in time. There was a loud and sudden creak, the yawn of a partly open door. Then--Bang! The gilt-framed mirror in which I had been gazing at myself smashed in the centre and starred all round, as something whizzed past my head with a ricochet. Instinctively I crouched down upon the carpet, wheeling round as I did so. The door at the opposite end of the saloon had been slid back. In the rather dim light from the hanging lamp, I saw a great, bearded, whiskered face, red, and framed in a fury of lint-coloured hair. It seemed just like a gorilla turned white and malevolent in a sudden ray of sunshine. There was another deafening explosion: One! Two! Three! and the furious noise in the confined space of the cabin filled me with something of its own rage. I saw red. The warm and evil silence of this comfortable place had frightened me far more than this onslaught. Unharmed, I leapt to my feet. As I did so, I saw that the man in the dark oblong beyond was feverishly pressing a clip into his magazine pistol. He would be at me again in a second, but I caught up one of the smoking-tables, heavy as it was, and charged him. The table was iron, covered with beaten copper. I ran at the creature like a bull, and as he advanced a yard into the room I was on him with a frightful crash and down he went. I fell also on to the tripod of the table and bruised myself badly, but I was too angry to think of that. I tore my shoulder from it and flung it to the other side of the saloon. The man growled like a mastiff, half rose from the floor, and then I had him by the throat. I am a strong man; I think I said that at the beginning of this narrative. What I mean is that I could out almost any Sandow pup in no time. But as I caught this hairy-faced creature by the throat and felt his arms seeking for mine, then I knew that I was in for the time of my life. My hands sank into the great, muscular system of his neck. My thumbs were pressed on each side of the Adam's apple--Japanese fashion--and my fingers were feeling upwards for the final pressure on the jugular vein. But, with all my weight upon him, he was so strong from the waist up, there was such a resilience in the massive torso, that he rose slowly, as if pressed by some hydraulic piston. As he rose, my legs slithered backwards. I tried to get some purchase with my toes to force him back, but it was useless. He came up almost to a sitting posture. Great hairy hands felt for my ears, and for a moment I thought it was all U.P. Then I got my right leg under his left and heaved over. We were upon our sides, the German uppermost, my hands still choking his life out of him. Naturally, in that position, my grip was bound to loosen. I could put no weight into it. But his arms were all sprawling. One was partly under himself and partly under me, the other beating me like a flail upon the ribs. I felt the sweat pouring from his face on to mine, and he smelt horribly of garlic. It was just touch and go. Suddenly I whipped my numbed hands from the fellow's throat, slithered my arms down the front of his body, and gripped him round the lower ribs with a hug like a bear. Of course, this was my long suit. There are not many people who can stand my affectionate embrace, especially when I am fighting for my life! I heard one rib crack, and I laughed aloud. I tightened the vice, and as the second went I knew it was all over. The brute made a noise exactly like the water running out of a bath, a sort of choked, trumpeting noise. His body grew limp. I disengaged myself and rose unsteadily to my feet. Wow, but I had had it! The beastly smoking-room waltzed round me; I staggered to the buffet like a drunken man. My hands were dark crimson. Old Upjelly and his confederates were accustomed to do themselves well. I realised it as my eye fell upon the row of bottles--therein was much balm in Gilead. There was a long-necked one with "Boulestin" upon the label. I pulled out the cork at a venture and drank deep. It was just what I wanted. It was cognac, and my eyes cleared and my arms stopped trembling. I do not suppose the whole affair had lasted for more than three minutes, and as I came to myself I realised the necessity for instant action. My late adversary was lying at the other end of the saloon, his head rocking in the open door which led to his own quarters. He was not unconscious. He frothed at the mouth like I once saw an old pike I caught with a spinner in the Broads. His eyes were red and glazed, and he breathed like a suction pump gone wrong. I saw he was harmless as far as further aggression went, but I thought it as well to make sure. I took the bottle and poured as much as I thought right into the chap's mouth. Then I snatched the cloth from the centre table, tore it into strips, rolled it up, and tied Master Fritz Schweitzer round the ankles. I pulled him to the wall and propped him up. I knew two of his ribs were broken, and I felt for his collar-bone. That, as it happened, was not broken. It did not matter much anyway if he died, though he was a long way from that. Still, we wanted him; so I took the cork out of the brandy bottle, wrapped it up in my handkerchief to make a sort of pad, shoved it in his mouth, and tied the end of the handkerchief round the back of his head. Then, when I had secured his hands, I felt we were getting on very well and I took a long breath. I hurried up the companion-way to the deck. The keen night air, the still falling snow, made me sway for a moment like a drunken man. I heard a distant shout from the bank beyond, and with the shout was mingled a high, treble note. That pulled me together more than anything else, and I remembered what a perfect beast I had been not to let them know. Of course, they must have heard the shots and been in an agony of fright. "Cheery-O!" I shouted. "Everything is all right, and I'll let down the bridge in a minute." Then I stumbled aft to find my brother. The fight in the cabin could not have been as long as I thought, for Bernard was just sitting up and rubbing his head. Incidentally, he was swearing sweet wardroom oaths to himself. I forbear to reproduce them; they can only be indicated here. "Help me up.... Have we made too much noise?... Have they heard us below?" "That's all right, old soul," I said. "Feeling better now?" "Don't talk so loud, you fool!" he hissed. "You'll spoil everything!" "It's all right, old soul. I've said a few words to the crew. Now help me to lower this gangway." Bernard never said a word of protest. He somehow felt it was all right, and in a minute more we had knocked the catch out of the toothed wheel which lowered the gangway and I let it gently down by the greased halliards. Dickson max. came over first. Somebody followed him, so like Dickson max. as makes no matter. This someone, a slim boy in appearance, put its arms round my neck and nearly sobbed. "It's all right, dear," I answered; "we've won the first trick. Now you and your knowledge of German come in. Remember you are on the King's service." I do not know whether it was that or her relief at seeing me safe again--for both Doris and Dickson max. had heard the shots and the dulled noise of the fight below--but my girl pulled herself together in a moment. Little sportswoman! she nipped down into the saloon quicker than Dickson max., whose Sunday suit she was wearing. Bernard and I would not have brought her into this business for anything had she not volunteered. But she _would_ come when she knew the truth. Neither of us knew German. It was essential that we should have someone with us who did. And in the wild welter of those momentous three days, I am afraid our sense of proportion was lost. We were all young. We were all out to save England if we could. This is my apology for Doris being with us. I shall not repeat it. The end justified the means so unforgettably, so gloriously. The man, Fritz Schweitzer, was still unconscious. He lay like a log, bound and gagged, and an unpleasant sight, too. I felt rather proud of my work as I looked at him, but Doris ran forward. "Poor fellow!" she said, "I must do what I can for him." "Not now, please," Bernard answered quickly. "The first thing to do is to search ship. Remember that you heard nothing of Kiderlen-Waechter, who is waiting till midnight for Upjelly. The presumption is that he was to stay on board, yet we have seen no sign of him. Up with the drawbridge at once, John and Dickson, and then come back to me." We tumbled up the companion and in a minute had raised the creaking bridge. It was impossible for anyone lurking on the ship to have got off in the short time we had been. "Now then," Bernard said, when we got back to the cabin, "get out your pistol, John, and you and Dickson search this Hulk thoroughly. Miss Joyce will stay here with me. I wish to speak to her. Report to me at once." We went through the narrow door from which Schweitzer had fired at me, and found ourselves in a small compartment in the bows of the boat. There was a cooking-stove, some pots and pans, some shelves of groceries and tinned goods, and a berth with tumbled, frowsy blankets, where the German had obviously been sleeping. Nothing there; and again traversing the cabin, we went up on deck. The deck-house, as I have said before, was locked, but my weight soon disposed of that obstacle and, flashing my electric torch, with my pistol ready, I entered. The place was simply a storeroom. There were eel spears, some leather cartridge magazines, a couple of old "cripple-stopper" guns, and so forth. Only one thing I noticed, and that was a new, stout rope-ladder, with bamboo rungs and zinc hooks at the top. Finally, we prised open an old hatchway and peered down into the musty darkness of the bottom part of the Hulk. Dickson ran and fetched the rope-ladder and I went down first. There was nothing whatever to be seen but the bare timbers of the ship. Everything had been gutted and there was a most horrible smell from a foot or two of bilge-water. It was certain that no one lurked unsuspected on board. When we went down again to the cabin, I saw an extraordinary thing. My brother had picked up what remained of the table-cloth, had twisted it into bands, like what I had used on Schweitzer, and was tying up Doris! Her hair was down, too, flowing in a great mass below the shooting-hat she had worn. "What on earth are you doing?" I asked. "Shut up," he said, "you will see in a minute. Now, Miss Joyce!" With her arms tied closely behind her, her feet free, Doris smiled and went out of the cabin. "Now for this swine," said my brother, and taking the soda-water syphon from the table, he squirted it with great force and precision into the wretched Schweitzer's face, till his beard looked like the fur of a water-rat and his eyes opened slowly. "Take off the gag," said my brother. I did so. "Now prop him up in a sitting position--yes, get one of those cushions--that's it." Then Bernard put some brandy into a tumbler and held it to the fellow's lips. He sucked greedily and gave a great groan. Suddenly, as we stood there, there was a slight thud and patter of feet upon the deck above. We all heard it distinctly, and the German's eyes gleamed. My brother turned and dashed out of the cabin, Dickson and I following him. There was a loud shriek, a girl's shriek, and a scuffle, and then my brother said in an angry voice: "The Fräulein von Vedal--sent to warn these spies. Bring her down!" Then I began to understand. Doris fought like a cat. She was almost too realistic; but we hauled her down into the cabin. "Tie her up," said my brother in a hoarse voice of command. We tied her up, sitting her in an arm-chair, and reefing our ropes so that she could not stir. Then Bernard took off his hat and made a low, ironic bow. "Gute Nacht, gnädiges Fräulein!" he said--I believe it was all the German the fellow knew--and then, with a wave of his hand, summoned us to leave the cabin. We did so; he locked the door and ascended to the deck. "Now then," he whispered, "let down the drawbridge with as much noise as possible and then go over it. Directly we are on the other side, we must take off our boots and creep back down to the cabin door." "What a ruse!" I heard Dickson max. say to himself in an ecstasy of joy--he was given to using words from the more highly coloured adventure books he read--"Oh, my aunt!" We managed it beautifully, and got into the little space at the foot of the companion, outside the cabin door, with hardly a sound. Doris was sobbing bitterly and there was a low growl from the gigantic German, which resolved itself into words at last. Then the sobs ceased and Doris answered. We none of us could understand a word of the ensuing conversation, but I reconstruct it here from what was told me afterwards, and I am sure it is accurate enough. "Who are you, Fräulein? What have they done to you?" "Hush, they may hear!" "Who are they?" "They are the Police, the English Police. Everything is found out. I am the Fräulein von Vedal. My father has been arrested, but I slipped off in these clothes to try and warn you and Admiral Kiderlen-Waechter. He must not be taken if it can be helped. If he escapes, my father says there is yet a chance. He spoke to me in German until the police silenced him. They do not understand our tongue, these dogs of English." "His Excellency has gone with his gun upon the marsh. He wished to pass the time until midnight, when the Graf von Vedal was to arrive with the papers. He will be back at seven. I was about to prepare his coffee, which takes a long time, for His Excellency is very particular. Now what shall we do? Have they gone?" "I think so. I heard them let down the bridge." "And so did I. But they can't be far away. Do they know that the Admiral is here?" "I can't tell, but I don't think so. If only I could get free!" "Oh yes, Fräulein, if only you could! As for me, it matters nothing, but His Excellency must escape. Then he can meet Her to-night and warn Her--even though the precious papers are all lost. He could go off in Her and escape that way. You know all about Her, Fräulein?" Doris shook her head. "No," she said. "Tell me." "If they have not told you already, Fräulein, I must not do so. I am sworn. I thought perhaps you knew everything." "You won't tell me? If I can get away it would be of help for me to know." "No, Fräulein; I am sworn and I must obey orders...." "And now I think," said my brother, unlocking the door and speaking in his usual voice, "we've heard as much as we are likely to." We all trooped into the cabin and, taking out his pocket-knife, Dickson max. cut the cloth strands which held Doris in the chair. The German's face grew dead white. His jaw dropped, his eyes blazed like flames; he gave a roar of baffled fury and strained at his fastenings with gigantic strength, the muscles at his temples standing out like blue cords. I never before or since saw such hideous rage. "Stop that!" my brother said, whipping out his revolver and pointing it straight at the fellow. It was of no use, however. Again that gigantic bellow swelled out into the night. Dickson saved the situation. There must be something in these boys' books after all, for I never saw a gag more quickly and deftly inserted. "And now, tell us exactly what you have learnt, Miss Joyce," Bernard asked. She did so in a very few sentences, putting up her hair at the same time, standing before the mirror which Schweitzer's pot-shot at me had cracked. Strange creatures girls are! "Half-past six," said Bernard, looking at his watch. "Now for the Admiral. Get that drawbridge up again." We did so, and shortly after my brother joined us. "There will be some signal," he said; "one of us must personate that brute down below. You are the biggest, John, and the broadest." "There's an oilskin and a sou'wester hanging in the man's bunk, sir," said Dickson. "Just the thing. Cut along and fetch them." I rigged myself up in these clothes as well as I could, and went down again into the cabin, from where I was to emerge at the signal. "We must manage it as best we can," said my brother. "Dickson and I will go and hide behind the deck-house. When you hear the signal, whatever it is, he will whistle or something, then come up heavily and let down the bridge. He is sure not to speak loudly, so if he asks a question, just growl out something so that he can't hear it till he gets on deck. Remember he has got a gun, and grapple with him the moment you can. We will be with you in a second." I sat and waited, smoking one of the Doctor's cigars and with a brandy-and-soda in front of me--I did not see why I shouldn't. My ears were wide open, but everything had gone so well up to the present that I did not remember any uneasiness or fear. I was just wondering whether I should light another cigar when I heard something so silvery sweet and unexpected that I jumped. Somewhere out in the night, close by, came the silver pipe of a whistle. I never heard anyone whistle so musically before or since. It was the "Lorelei" that I heard, the sweet, plaintive music of the Rhine maiden. I cannot explain it, but it gave me a lump in my throat. At the sound, the bound giant struggled violently, but he made little or no noise, and what he did was drowned by my heavy footsteps as I walked through the cabin and stumbled up the companion. On the shore, three yards away, was a figure in fowler's kit, which I had no difficulty in recognising as that of my friend Mr. Jones. I heard him say something, but there was a good deal of wind all round and I ignored it, letting down the drawbridge slowly for him to come on board. It had hardly bridged the chasm when he stepped briskly on to it and came over like a flash. He had his gun on his left shoulder, and he handed it to me, saying something in German. I took it with my left hand, stepped aside for him to pass, and then kicked him smartly upon the shin. It is an invaluable dodge; a West-end Bobby told me of it; and down he went full length on his face with an oath. Well, the rest was not difficult. My fourteen stone was on the small of his back in a minute. My brother, who had employed the interval of waiting in discovering a coil of wire, had his hands whipped round behind his back in no time, and Dickson max. sat on the wretched Admiral's head as if he had been a horse. We left his feet free, because we wanted to get him down into the cabin. I held him by the shoulder while my brother pressed the barrel of his Mauser pistol--one of the few good things that ever came out of Germany, by the way--into the nape of his neck. He came like a lamb and we sat him down in the same arm-chair that Doris had just occupied. The wire came in very handy indeed. We made a cocoon of it round him until he could not stir hand or foot. "And now," my brother said, "our next guest will not be here for some little time. Supper is, I think, clearly indicated. Doris, supposing you and Dickson see what the galley has to offer--some tinned food, I think you said, and coffee? Excellent. Meanwhile, I and John will talk to this gentleman." Von Waechter--I call him this for short; people should not have such beastly long names--von Waechter glanced slowly round the cabin, taking in everything. He saw Schweitzer lying gagged upon the floor, the smashed mirror, the bottle of cognac, everything, and I will do him the justice to say he never moved a muscle of his face. "Well now, sir, you will understand that the game is up," said my brother quietly. The man nodded in a meditative sort of way, as if he was considering whether that was true or not. "Ah, my friend Mr. John Carey!" he said. "Yes, Mr. Jones," I answered, "and this is my brother, Commander Carey, of His Majesty's Navy." Von Waechter bowed as well as he was able. "Ah," he said, "I am a prisoner of war, I see." My brother shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir," he replied; "I'm afraid you are a captured spy." CHAPTER VII THE MURDER OF MR. LOCKHART Doctor Upjelly, or the Graf von Vedal as my readers may choose to think of him, never came to the Hulk that night. If this is not the most sensational part of my narrative, it is certainly the grimmest. It must be told quickly. It is too horrible to linger upon. I was not there myself, but I put it down from the words of an eye-witness. The reason that I was able to be out on the marsh at five o'clock without suspicion was that, early in the morning after my brother and I had overheard everything in the gun-punt, I went to the Doctor and asked for a day off. I said I was going to London to have a final shot at enlisting. I knew from what I had heard him say to Kiderlen-Waechter that it did not matter twopence to him either way, whether I went or stayed. He, himself, was making all preparations for flight. He gave me leave quite readily. Before I pretended to go I told Lockhart everything. It was arranged that he and Dickson major, whom he was to take into his confidence to a certain extent, were to watch the Doctor with the utmost care. I drove to Blankington-on-Sea in Wordingham's trap, went a station or two up the line, was met by the Admiralty motor car, made a great circuit of country, and got back to Cockthorpe within four hours. Meanwhile Lockhart and Dickson major watched the Doctor. This is the story, the horrible story. Doris slipped out without notice, dressed in Dickson max.'s clothes--that has already been explained. The late afternoon went on. The boys finished their work, played a dreary punt-about of football, and came in to tea. Lockhart was in charge. After tea, 'prep.' began. Old Pugmire had shuffled off home. Old Mrs. Gaunt was still groaning in bed. At eight-thirty the younger boys went up to their dormitories, only four of the elder ones remaining downstairs. Lockhart left them to their own devices--they were roasting chestnuts, I heard--and waited in his own sitting-room. At nine o'clock, Marjorie Joyce came hurriedly from the Doctor's wing and tapped at Lockhart's door. The Doctor had told Amy, the housemaid, to light a fire in his bedroom. He said that he would have much writing to do and that when it was finished he would go out upon the marshes to shoot, as usual. I can picture the scene quite well. Pretty Marjorie, panting, with wide eyes, in the door of Lockhart's sitting-room; the staunch little man, keen as a ferret, wondering what this meant. He knew from me, of course, that Upjelly was to go to the Hulk that night with his _dossier_ of plans and betrayals. They sent for Dickson major from the senior boys' room. They were closeted together for nearly ten minutes. Then Marjorie led them quietly from the school-wing into the Doctor's house. The Doctor, at that moment, was having supper by himself. He would not be upstairs for quarter of an hour. Marjorie showed Lockhart and the lad to the big bedroom with the dancing fire upon the hearth. Dickson major had a nickel-plated revolver, of which he was very proud. "If anything happens, sir," he said, "I can do him in with this." Then Dickson major was put under the bed, where he lay, grasping his revolver, keen as mustard, glad to be in the mysterious business of which he had been told so little and in which his elder twin was so actively engaged. A tear comes into my eye as I think of that quiet bedroom and those two poor conspirators waiting for von Vedal, doing their little best, such as it was. There was a big, green curtain, running on rings, in an alcove of the bedroom. Behind this, the headmaster of Morstone kept a lot of clothes which he never wore and never even looked at. Here the ardent cripple, Lockhart, was ensconced. There is something comic in the business--the schoolboy and the ferret-faced master hidden in this fashion. I think that all sinister tragedies have their bizarre element of comedy--comedy to change so swiftly into horror. In twenty minutes the Doctor came up. He strode into the room with a firm step, carrying a brown leather bag, which he placed upon the table by the fire. Then he locked the door. He took off his coat, warmed his soft, pink hands at the fire, unlocked the bag, spread a mass of documents from it upon the table, and began to write steadily. There was a round clock upon the mantelpiece which ticked incessantly. It was a quick and hurried tick that came from the clock, and sometimes it seemed to be accentuated, to be a race with Time; at others, it was slow as the death-watch. The Doctor wrote on. He covered sheet after sheet with swift, easy writing. When each sheet was done, he blotted it and added it to the pile on his left hand. He had written for three-quarters of an hour, and the hidden watchers had made no sound whatever, when the big man suddenly jumped up from the table. They heard his chair crush over the carpet; they heard him sigh deeply, as if with relief. Then Dickson major, peeping under the valance of the bed, saw his headmaster go to the mantelpiece, open a box of cigars, select one and light it. It was a long, black, rank Hamburg weed, and the pungent smoke curled round the room as the man stood with his back to the fire, looking down upon the table. The smoke went round and round. It grew thick. It curled and penetrated everywhere. It penetrated behind the green curtain where, in an agony of rheumatism and tortured bones, little Lockhart was standing. Lockhart coughed. The boy underneath the bed was watching all this. He saw the Doctor turn quietly and swiftly towards the alcove. He took three soft steps, pulled the curtain aside, and drew Lockhart out. It was horrible. Von Vedal said nothing at all. His great hand descended upon the shoulder of the cripple and he drew him into the middle of the room--into the full light of the lamp--looking down at him with a still, evil scrutiny. Lockhart spoke. He did not seem a bit afraid. His curious voice jarred into the quiet, firelit room with almost a note of triumph in it. "You've found me, Doctor Upjelly; but you've lost everything, Graf von Vedal!" Dickson said that the Doctor, bending lower, turned Lockhart's face upwards with his disengaged hand, pulling it towards the light. The boy was paralysed. The fingers of his right hand grew cold and dead. The revolver lay in them like a ton weight. He could not move or cry out. He could do nothing. With the greatest deliberation, von Vedal took Lockhart by the throat. He felt in his trouser pocket and pulled out an ordinary penknife. Still clasping his prisoner, he opened the blade with his teeth; and then, without the slightest haste or sign of anger--I cannot go on, but there was a thud and the gallant little cripple lay writhing on the floor. Von Vedal peered over the edge of the table at him for a moment, and then pushed him gently away with his foot. Then he sat down and began to write again. It was as if he had brushed away a fly. He wrote on, and the boy beneath the bed fainted dead away. When again the poor lad's eyes opened, he saw the great, white face bent over its papers, the firm hand moving steadily from left to right, heard the resolute scratch and screech of the pen as it traversed the pages. But he saw also that the huddled heap upon the floor was moving slowly. With infinite effort, though without a sound, the cripple's arm crept down the side of his dying body. With infinite effort, and with what agony none of us will ever know, Lockhart withdrew the pistol with which I had provided him. He could not lift his arm, but there was movement in his wrist. Slowly, very slowly, the hand rose from the floor. The flash and crash were simultaneous. Upjelly's mouth opened wide. He tried to turn his head and could not. He coughed twice and then sank quietly forward upon the records of his treachery. The shot broke the nervous bonds in which young Dickson had been held. He scrambled up from beneath the bed. He ran round the table with averted eyes and bent over Lockhart. There was a little hissing noise, like a faint escape of gas. Dickson bent his ear to the mouth of the dying man. "Take Miss Marjorie to Wordingham--Inn--village. Gather up--all those papers. Put them in bag. After--Miss Marjorie--Inn--run--fast as you can--to--Doctor's--old Hulk--Thirty Main. Give everything--Mr. Carey. Good-bye, boy...." One last gasp, and the word "England!" sighed out into the bedroom. CHAPTER VIII THE TRUTH AT LAST, THE INCREDIBLE TRUTH! AND HOW THEY FOUGHT FOR THE SUBMARINE Just after midnight, my brother and myself sat crouching behind the bulwarks of the Hulk. It was the weirdest hour, the strangest scene, that my eyes had ever looked upon. Snow was falling fast, and yet, somewhere above, there was a moon. It was all white and ghostly-green, shifting, moving, unreal, as befitted the horrors which pressed us close. Yet we were exultant; I can testify to that. "The Judge was set, the doom begun"; in our hearts was the fiery certainty of success. In the deck-house were Bernard's three men, Scarlett, Adams, and Bosustow--all of whom had served with him in his own ship. Below, in the saloon, Doris, old Lieutenant Murphy of the Coastguards, and the two Dickson boys were waiting. Let me give the very briefest resumé of events up to the present. Dickson major had fulfilled his trust. He had taken Marjorie Joyce to Mrs. Wordingham at the inn; then he had come to us with the bag of papers. He had told us everything. All we told Doris was that her sister had been taken to the inn and that her stepfather was arrested at the school. We had to keep Doris with us for a time, but old Lieutenant Murphy, who was now entirely in our confidence, would take her back to the village when the adventure of the night was over. His car was waiting there and Doris and Marjorie would both find refuge with Mrs. Murphy at Cockthorpe. The prisoners, Kiderlen-Waechter and the German boatswain, had been moved into the galley, where one of the lads was watching them. It was cold beyond thinking. The snow fell softly on us till we were blanketed with white. Bernard was whispering. "You see, old John, I look at it this way. When we searched Kiderlen-Waechter an hour ago we found the signal. Doris translated it for us. The lamp is lit in that box they fitted up so carefully in the bows. It can only be seen straight up the Creek. They'll make for that." "What do you think it is?" "They've spoken of it as 'She'--it's a boat, of course. I should say either one of those wretched little coasters, or possibly even a fishing-smack. She'll stand a mile out at sea and they'll row into the Creek with a longboat, for the plans. There is a huge manoeuvre on--what it is we can't tell yet, and it's touch and go to-night whether we snooker them or whether we don't. You are ready for anything?" "Anything! So old Upjelly's dead, and poor little Lockhart!" "He died for his country, as you and I may do to-night, old John. Shed the sentimental tear on some future occasion. What?" His voice rose a little. Scarlett, who was on the look-out, had crept along the deck and touched Bernard on the shoulder. "Come forrard, sir, if you please," the man said in a hoarse whisper. He could hardly get the words out, and at first I thought his teeth were chattering with cold, but it was not so. We crept to the bows of the Hulk and peered over the broken, rotting taffrail. Two feet below was the beam of the signal lamp shining up the creek towards the sea. The snow had temporarily stopped in this part of the marsh and the moon was bright. Thirty Main stretched away ahead as far as we could see, two hundred yards long and a hundred wide, of black, gleaming steel. The tide was full at flood. Scarlett handed my brother a pair of night-glasses. Bernard gazed through them for twenty seconds, and then they fell softly on the deck. "Oh God!" he said in a low voice, "so it is _that_, and I never thought of it before! Fool! Fool!" I stared out also, not daring to say a word. No man can see better at night than I. What _was_ that? Something slowly floating down the centre of the creek, a black, oblong patch. Was it two or three duck swimming landwards with the tide? Then the black patch lifted itself from the water. It seemed to have a long, narrow tail--the whole thing was curiously distinct in the moonlight. In a second I realised that something was _being pushed up from below_. I had never seen anything like it before. I experienced that hideous sensation in the pit of the stomach that comes to people who are face to face with the unknown and the unexpected for the first time in their lives. All this happened in half a minute. The black, oblong thing was now high in the air on the end of a pole which came straight up through the middle of the creek. Something else was rising, a black hump, which grew and grew, until a grey tower stood there;--stood there but moved slowly towards us--or did it begin to recede? I heard Bernard's voice: "Stand by the lamp!" "Aye, aye, sir!" Scarlett was bending low over the bows of the Hulk. In the middle of the waterway something long and lean was showing. There was a soft, metallic clang, and then, from the centre of the dark, floating object, a light flashed quickly, three times. Immediately I heard the click of the shutter of our own lamp and saw the occulting beam below flash and disappear in answer. I knew, I think in some subconscious way, I must have known from the very first. The whole thing, in its magnificent and unsuspected daring, its malevolent simplicity, struck me like a blow. This was a German submarine; this was the channel by which the Master-Spy, von Vedal, and his agents had been sending information to the enemy! On my own quiet marshes, in Thirty Main Creek! "One of their 'D' class, sir; same as our 'E.' Crew of fifteen, no quick-firing gun, and probably wireless. Handy little craft, sir!" "They'll be coming aboard in a minute, Scarlett." "Aye, aye, sir. If you look, sir, you'll see they are getting one of those collapsible boats up. New thing, sir, and very handy. Holds six. Ah!" I could see quiet and purposeful activity round the conning-tower of the submarine. A group of dark figures was silhouetted in the moonlight, and presently a little boat, like a bobbing cork, lay by her side. Three men got into it and it pushed off. It went towards the other side of Thirty Main. "Concealed moorings, sir," Scarlett whispered. "They've been here before. It's dead water, and the ship'd drift, if ..." I heard no more. I watched breathlessly. The boat went to the far side of the creek and remained there for nearly two minutes. If there was a cable, I did not see it, but presently the boat turned and came rapidly towards the Hulk. "John, take him quietly to the cabin and shove him in--it's the Commander coming aboard," my brother added. "Scarlett, get back into the deck-house and light that lamp. Mr. Carey is dressed like the German boatswain, and he will show the officer straight into the deck-house. It's ten to one the sailors won't come up. Remember to do your job without the slightest noise--you, Adams, and Bosustow." "Out him, sir?" "I'm afraid so. There is no other way. Directly it is over, take off his clothes and bring them down into the cabin. Mind the men in the boat hear nothing." "Aye, aye, sir." Then my brother turned to me. The boat was now almost by the side of the Hulk. "You understand, John?" he said. I touched his arm, afraid to speak. "Then go and get the rope-ladder." I stepped to the deck-cabin and saw the three sailors standing round it among the litter of shooting gear. A smoky lamp hung from the ceiling. Scarlett passed me the ladder. I took it and went to the side--my brother had disappeared. There was a low hiss seven feet below. I hissed, too, fixed the ladder hooks, and dropped the rest of it. One of the sailors caught it, while the other steadied the boat, and a slim man of just over middle height came up like a cat. He wore some sort of dark uniform, what it was I could not see. The collar was turned up round his face, which appeared to be clean-shaved. I saluted and stepped towards the deck-house. He followed me without a sound. Then I tapped on the door, which opened immediately, and as it did so I shot him in with a smart blow between the shoulder-blades. There was just one little gasping sound, and that was all. The door closed gently. The two sailors below in the boat sat quietly enough. I went down into the saloon. Quick as I was, my brother was before me. He was talking earnestly to Doris in a low voice. I stood at the door at attention, and I think I never saw a stranger scene. Old Lieutenant Murphy, in uniform, was seated at the table. His nostrils were opening and shutting in his tanned face. He was exactly like an old dog brought to the hunt for the last time. The door into the galley was half open. Dickson major stood there with a magazine pistol in his hand. Dickson max. sat opposite the lieutenant, his face a mask of determination and strength. It was wonderful. "You quite understand, Doris? You can be brave?" "I quite understand, Bernard." "Then we will wait a minute. Sit down, John." We all sat down--waiting. One minute--two minutes passed. Then came a light tap upon the door. It opened and Scarlett entered. His face was rather red, and he breathed heavily. On his right arm he carried a bundle of clothes. My brother looked at him with a lift of the eyebrows, and Scarlett nodded, placing the clothes on the table. "Go through these clothes, Lieutenant," Bernard said. Then he turned to Scarlett and whispered. The man saluted and disappeared. A few seconds after, my brother beckoned to Doris. "Now, then," he said, "be brave!"--and then, turning to me, "Stand out of sight on deck, John, and be ready to help." We crept up on deck. To my unutterable surprise, Doris went to the side and leant over. She spoke in German and in a very low voice. "She's telling them that they're to come up on board and have a drink," my brother said. The two figures below rose with alacrity. The first one ascended the ladder as Doris whipped down the hatchway into the cabin. The second sailor followed his companion. I was not called upon to help, thank Heaven! Scarlett, Adams, and Bosustow rose from nowhere. "That accounts for three," said my brother, but I turned my head away not to see what was going on. When we were again down in the cabin I was shaking like a leaf. "Drink this," Bernard said sternly, "and pull yourself together. It is War, don't you understand that, man?" Doris was leaning over the table by the side of Lieutenant Murphy. In front of her was a paper. The lovely face, oddly boyish under its cap, was wrinkled with scrutiny. "It is special orders," she said at length, "addressed to Admiral Kiderlen-Waechter. The plans are to be taken on board the submarine at once." Her voice broke for the moment, but she made a great effort at control, and the next words came from her slowly and distinctly. To me, I think to all of us, they were like the strokes of a tolling bell. "_The German battleship, Friesland, has eluded our Fleet in the North Sea. Our Fleet has been decoyed towards the Scotch coast by a sortie of the enemy from Kiel. The battleship is approaching this part of England. She is attended by destroyers and submarines. She is convoying three troop-ships, each of which contains two thousand German troops. The rendezvous is for two o'clock to-morrow afternoon, when Captain von Benda is to deliver my stepfather's plans to the German Admiral. The landing of the raiding force is to be effected on these marshes some time during to-morrow night._" "To-night," said my brother, looking at his watch and snapping it into his pocket. Then there was a dead silence. Bernard sat down at the table and buried his head in his hands, motioning us to be silent. For fully five minutes he remained thus, and what was going on within his mind I could but faintly guess. I knew, at any rate, and so, I think, did old Lieutenant Murphy, how enormous and incalculable were the issues that hung upon the decision of the young Commander, whose face was hidden from us. When Bernard looked up again his eyes were very bright and he was smiling. "Go on deck, John," he said, "and order the men to come down." They came down, and Scarlett had upon his arm another bundle of clothes. "Attention!" said my brother. The three sailors stood stiffly by the door. "Dickson major!"--Dickson major came out of the galley. "Dickson max.!"--the elder brother sprang to attention also. "John!"--I stood as stiffly as the rest. "These men are under my orders, and they will go to death with me. You three are different. There is no time to explain everything now, but there is just a chance of saving this country from disaster. It is only a chance, mind. It is a forlorn hope. We may fail in half an hour: we may fail in twenty-four hours. In fact, it is almost certain that we shall. Still, are you coming?" Well, of course there wasn't any palaver about that. It was settled in a minute. Then Bernard turned to old Murphy. "Lieutenant," he said, "I am sorry that we are not going to have you with us, but you've got plenty to do ashore." "I'm damned sorry too, sir, for, by George, I'd like to have a smack at 'em before I die!" "You may yet. Now, please take your instructions. You know the marsh. Get off with Miss Joyce as quickly as possible. Take her to join her sister at the Morstone Arms. Then call up the coastguard for miles round. Come here to this Hulk--you won't see us in any case--and have the prisoners secured safely. Then send these despatches." My brother sat down and began to write in cipher on leaves torn from his notebook. He looked up once. "John," he said, "suppose you go up on deck with Doris. Make not the slightest noise, but make your adieux." We stole up, and I held my girl in my arms for a minute. She did not see the dark stains which splashed the snow upon the boards. "Good-bye, dear," I said. "Remember that I loved you more than anything else in the whole world!" Oh, she was wonderful! "Of course, I shall always remember how you left me to-night," she whispered. "But you are coming back. Something tells me that. Yesterday I was a quiet girl living an ordinary life. To-night, nothing can disturb me, nothing can frighten me. I have supped too full of horrors, dear John, but I am glad, and proud and happy!" It is hardly necessary to say more. Within five minutes the old lieutenant and my girl had passed away like ghosts from the near shore and I was down in the cabin again. Bernard was taking off his clothes and putting on those of the dead captain of the submarine. Scarlett and Adams were already dressed in the uniform of the German sailors. Bosustow stood in his shirt and drawers, and so did my two school-boys. "You see, it's like this, Johnny," Bernard said. "As far as we can judge, there are about twelve men in that submarine. We've got to kill them; there is no other way. We've got to take that submarine out into the North Sea and we have got to fight her ourselves. The Germans will be looking out for us. They will think us their despatch boat right enough. We may be able to stop them before our own supports get out of Harwich, for Lieutenant Murphy will be telegraphing all over the country within two hours. It is touch and go, but we've got to do it." There was an odd, dual sound, instantly suppressed. I looked sternly towards the end of the saloon. It came from Dickson max. and Dickson major, and if it was not a chuckle of intense and supreme delight, it was a strangled "hooray." The three sailors standing at attention moved not an inch, but I caught Scarlett winking at his right-hand man. Bernard smiled grimly for an instant. I knew the signs. He was really happy. Then he went on. "Now, Scarlett and Adams will row the boat to the submarine. I shall sit in the stern impersonating the captain, who has recently been killed in action"--and, to my surprise, Bernard saluted. "You will be in the bows, John, and they may take you for that fellow, Schweitzer, in there. Bosustow, and Mr. Dickson, and Mr.----" he looked inquiringly at Dickson major. "Harold," was the reply. "Oh yes, Mr. Harold Dickson will swim in the wake of the boat. We have eight magazine pistols. Three will be in the sternsheets. The brevet-lieutenants and the petty officer"--you should have seen my lads' faces as they were commissioned!--"will swim to the ladder on the submarine's quarter and follow us down. But be careful that, in the rough and tumble, you don't shoot any of the first attacking party. Is all clear?" "Certainly, sir," said Dickson max., with a sublime and effective impudence I could never have compassed. Already, in his magnificent mind, Dickson max. trod the quarter-deck and wore a sword. And the curious thing was, as we all crept up to the deck, that those tried veterans, Scarlett, Adams, and Bosustow, accepted the situation without a doubt. Then we started. My brother gripped me by the hand as I went down the ladder, and it was the only sign of emotion that he showed. "Good old John!" he whispered. "I've sent Marjorie a message by Doris." The submarine lay in the middle of the Creek, a hundred and fifty to two hundred yards away. As our boat drew near, the moonlight became obscured and there was a sudden drift of snow. We shot alongside, and there was a gleam from a lantern shining down upon us. It showed me a curving steel ladder, which went up over the fish-back of the thing to a long, low deck with a light railing running round it. Two men were standing there, and as we made fast, one of them came half-way down the ladder and held out his hand to me. I took it, stumbled for an instant, and found myself upon the steel platform. At my back, the conning-tower rose eight feet high above me. Within three yards was an oblong hatchway, from which a faint, orange light came upwards, turning the snowflakes to dingy gold. Scarlett was beside me in a second. I took the man nearest and caught him by the throat. He had no time to gasp or cry out. I pressed him back over the rail, which held--Krupp steel, I suppose. There was a slight "snick"--it was not that of breaking metal--and I shot the sailor over the far side, where he sank like a log. Then I turned. A furious and silent fight was going on between Scarlett and the other seaman. They swayed and rocked this way and that. They panted just like the sound of a bellows blowing up a fire. I waited, trying to get in a grip. Figures moved past me and disappeared down the hatchway, but I hardly saw them. Scarlett swung his enemy towards the conning-tower, and then I got my chance. I "collared him low"--Rugger three-quarter style--and brought him down upon the deck. The man gave a loud shout, but it was drowned by a furious noise below. There was no more necessity for silence. I pulled out my pistol and there was an end of the German. Scarlett jumped up like a gymnast, and together we heaved the body overboard. "The swine's bin and bit my ear!" said Scarlett. "Now then, sir, come on!" and he swung himself over the hatchway and dropped. I followed. It is impossible to describe what I saw--at any rate, my pen is not equal to the task. For a moment, I was blinded by brilliant light, through which a multitude of figures danced and leapt, like people in a dream. My ear-drums were almost split by the noise. There was a horrible, bitter smell in my nostrils, and my throat felt as if I was swallowing a bullet of lead. Then, as things cleared, and I suppose it could only have been an instant before they did so, I found myself in a gleaming tunnel, surrounded by unfamiliar machinery. A man lying within three yards of me, his face like wet, red velvet, suddenly jerked up his body like a marionette. His arms shot out, there was a deafening explosion, and something rang behind my head like a gong smitten without warning. I shot him in the body, and then I saw three dripping figures growling and worrying upon the floor like wolves. They rolled about with a crash and clank of metal until the great arm of the Cornishman, Bosustow, rose and fell three times like a flail. At the far end of the tunnel, there were more reports, and then I saw my brother walking along a sort of grating and coming towards me. Everything seemed to rock and dissolve. I fell back against an upright of some sort or other and my senses nearly went. I thought I was in bed at Morstone House School and the seven-o'clock bell was tolling. Once more, things cleared. Everything gradually became distinct. The infernal noise, the wild welter of sound, was hushed. Only two yards away from me, a man dressed as a sailor was kneeling before my brother, who held a pistol to his head. The man's hands were held up, his face was a white wedge of terror, and a constant stream of words bubbled from his livid lips. "Yes, sir. Karl, sir. Coming, sir. Porterhouse steak, sir, what you always used to like. No, sir--Swiss really--not a German. Oh, Captain Carey, don't kill me, sir"--the voice rose into a shriek of agony--"_I am Karl, sir!_"--the words came in an ecstasy of conviction. "Karl, head-waiter at the Portsmouth Royal! Why, sir, you've tipped me half a crown twenty times. Oh, sir ..." My brother's face seemed cut in granite, but he began to laugh. "Tie this up!" he said, and Adams ran forward--Adams was all black and red and his clothes were torn. Then Bernard turned to me. "By God!" he said, "we've done it, John, we've done it so far!" Then I realised that, save for the whining creature being trussed upon the grating, the crew of the German submarine were all dead. "Mr. Dickson!" "Sir!" "Instruct the boatswain to pipe all hands tidy ship." It was the man Adams who, fumbling in his clothes, produced a whistle which shrilled loudly and acted as a strange tonic to us all. "I give you quarter of an hour," Bernard said. "Bodies to be heaved overboard; gratings to be swabbed as well as possible in the time. Get a hose overboard, Mr. Dickson, and have the hand-pump manned." Then Bernard took me by the arm and led me up the slippery ladder. We stood upon the long, narrow deck, and the snow fell over us like a mantle. "Now, old boy," he said, "pull yourself together. All has gone well, but in half an hour we must be out in the North Sea, five fathoms deep. Feel a bit sickish? Oh, you'll get over that in a few minutes. We have only just begun." END OF PART II PART III CHAPTER IX OUT IN THE NORTH SEA. PREPARING FOR ACTION The bees were humming through the orchard with a long, droning sound as I lay in the hammock of my old home, once more a careless boy. My eyes were closed, but the bright sun shone upon my face, and Peters, my father's old butler, was coming over the grass to tell me that tea was ready. He touched my arm. It was not Peters; it was a pale, clean-shaved fellow with an obsequious manner, who held a wooden bowl of steaming milk and coffee in his hands. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The deep, droning noise, which had seemed like the bees of childhood in my dream, was the noise of engines not far away. I had slept three hours in the hammock, as my brother had insisted, and here was the captured German waiter bringing me coffee. I took it, but half-awake, and watched the man go to two other hammocks which stretched away in front of me. The Dickson boys tumbled out of them and I became fully conscious of where I was. For the moment, but only for a moment, I was unmanned. The horror of all that we had been through so recently rolled over me like a flood. The shambles that the submarine had become, the ruthless killing of fourteen men--the horrible little snick as I broke the back of my own victim!... But it passed. The coffee was excellent and invigorating, and in a minute I tossed the empty bowl into the hammock and stood upon a steel grating, looking about me with wide eyes. At that moment my brother came up, walking briskly, like a man at home. He seemed changed in some way, and I realised what it was--the policeman on his beat, and unbuttoned and at ease, the parson in his pulpit or trimming roses in the rectory garden, are two very different people. "Where are we?" I said. "What has happened?" "You've had a very good sleep, John. You went off like a log directly I had the hammock slung. It was necessary, too, or you'd never be fit for what is coming." "Have we started?" "Started!" he grinned. "We're thirty miles away from Morstone Marshes, abreast of Skegness, I should judge, which, as far as I can calculate, is about sixty miles to the westward--and heading straight out into the North Sea. We're just crossing the line of the Rotterdam boats from Hull." "But there is no movement!" "No, my son, because we're twenty-five feet under water, that's why. Now, you had better come and look round the boat; I shall have to explain everything to you and show you what you will have to do later on." He turned to the Dicksons. "You come, too," he said, "and if ever the three of you have your wits about you, have them now. You've got to learn in an hour or two what it takes an ordinary seaman six months to learn--or part of it, at any rate." I am not going to describe everything I saw in detail. This is a story of action, and I always skip the descriptive parts in books, myself. The Johnnies only put them in to fill up. I expect they are paid so much a page, if the truth were known! Still, I must try and give some picture of the strange and unfamiliar world in which I found myself. Here I was sailing under the sea for all the world like someone in Jules Verne, experiencing something that only the tried men of the navies ever know. I was in a long, narrow tunnel, most brilliantly lit. The air was warm and close, tainted a little with a faint suggestion of chemical fumes. It was rather like being in a chemist's shop in winter time when a large fire is burning. Immediately to my right, the German waiter was busy over a little electric stove, in a doorless compartment not bigger than a bathing machine, Pots and pans hung above him and there were shelves covered with wire netting containing stores of food. We passed him, and I judged, from the breadth from side to side, that we were standing almost in the middle of the submarine. Upon white-painted gratings, my brother's sailors moved here and there with bare feet, quiet and alert in their jumpers. The light was caught by, and reflected again, from innumerable pieces of shining machinery, brass and silver and dull bronze. There was a tension both of physical atmosphere and mental excitement, strange and unnatural to me, but which those who go beneath the waters and explore the mysterious deep always have with them. We walked down a central gangway and stopped by two powerful gasolene engines, one on each side--long, lean, polished monsters, that lay inert, but ready to leap into action on the turn of a switch and the pulling of a lever. "Those are the engines which run the boat when we are on the surface--'awash,' we call it. We can do seventeen knots then--I am assuming that this German boat is about equal to one of our own of its class, though I have already come across several remarkable improvements in her. We are running now by electric motor and doing about twelve knots, which is first-class, but I'm pushing her along for all I know." We passed onwards and to where Bosustow stood beaming over three great purring, spitting dynamos, a piece of cotton waste in one huge paw. "Oh, they're daisies, sir," he said, as he patted coils of insulated wire in an ecstasy of appreciation. "They can show us something, sir, the Germans can. The sleeve that carries the commutator is keyed to the armature shaft on an entirely new system; it's a fair miracle of ingenuity. But where they beat us hollow is in the accumulators. I've not had time to inspect them thoroughly, but if we get out of this, then the whole of our system will have to be altered." We all bent over a rail towards the great accumulator tanks below, and I felt a faint, acrid odour rising up from them. "You're smelling electricity, sir," said Bosustow to me. Then he turned to a big, table-like switch-board which controlled the flow of current from below and commanded all the electrical machinery on board. He fingered the big, vulcanite handles as if he loved them and stroked the shining flanged rim of the volt meter as a mother strokes her child. "Now Mr. Carey understands something about machinery, Bosustow," said my brother. "You can trust him to follow out your directions without making any blunders, I think. John, your station will be by Bosustow until you are wanted forrard, but there is no need for you to stay now. There is a good deal more that I must say." All the voices were sharp and staccato, my own sounded like that in my ears when I answered. They echoed and rang in the heavy air of the sealed, steel tube, voices that were not quite free and natural, for all their readiness of tone. We turned and went forward again, passing an open doorway and a few steps which led upwards to the conning-tower. The gangway ran at each side of it. The long, tunnel-like vista grew narrower and the roof began to slope downward to a point. In front of us, in the extreme bows of the boat, were two huge, circular steel doors, like the doors of a safe, clamped and locked by an intricate mechanism. "These are the mouths of the torpedo expulsion tubes," said Bernard. "We carry six torpedoes, I am glad to find--two more than I should have expected in a boat of this size--and, by Jove, we shall want 'em! If we throw away a single one, the game will be up, I expect. The torpedoes are run into these tubes along steel rails. They're discharged from the tubes by compressed air from the air tanks below. I see here the pressure is several thousand pounds to the square inch. In some boats we send out the tin fish by exploding a few ounces of cordite, but the air is the better way." He turned to where Scarlett was busy and I saw a submarine torpedo for the first time. I confess there was a little inward shudder as I looked upon the deadly thing that could send the largest battleship afloat to the bottom in a few minutes. It was like a huge fish of steel with a large propeller at one end. "These are beauties," Bernard said, "and to think that we are going to have the chance of using them against their original owners!" He chuckled. "The propelling engines," he went on, "are inside--for you must remember that a torpedo is a little ship in itself and is not a projectile at all. There are three hundred pounds of trinitrotoluene in this beauty--we've done away with the old-fashioned gun-cotton now--and she's got a range of seven thousand yards--over four miles, Johnny, my boy! Now, Mr. Dickson and Mr. Harold Dickson, you will stay here with Scarlett. It will be your part, when we go into action, to fire these torpedoes. There ought to be six or seven of you to do it. There are only three, and two of you are quite untrained. Scarlett, get to work at once and give these gentlemen a practical drill. Show them exactly what they will have to do and explain the orders that will come from me. Miss out anything superfluous; remember we've hardly any time. Just teach them what is absolutely necessary." "Aye, aye, sir!" said Scarlett, and as we turned back I heard him at once beginning his lecture. And now we came to the most interesting part of that world of marvels, to the _brain_ of the submarine. Adams stood in the first stage of the conning-tower, his hands upon a little leather-covered steering-wheel. In front of him was a gyroscopic compass and a row of speaking-tubes. A light threw a bright radiance upon a framed chart hanging on the wall, marked everywhere with faint purple pencil lines. Bernard glanced at the compass and gave the man a few directions. Then we went up a short ladder of half a dozen rungs into the highest chamber of all. It was perfectly circular. There was just room for two or three people, and the steel roof was two feet above our heads. A great tube came down through the roof and disappeared beneath the open grating of the floor. It was like the mast of a ship going through the cabin down to the very gar-board strike. There was a row of brass clock-faces with trembling needles and oddly shaped gauges, in which coloured liquid rose and fell. The whole ganglion of nerves met here in the cerebellum of the ship, and at a glance its commander knew exactly what she was doing, her speed, her depth below the surface of the water, the pressure--a thousand other things which I am not competent to name. The whimsical idea came to me that it was like lifting up the top of a man's head and seeing the thoughts which controlled every motion of his body. There were charts, also, spread upon a semi-circular shelf of mahogany, with dividers, compasses, and a large magnifying glass. Fastened to the wall, just above this shelf, was something that touched me strangely. It was a photograph in a silver frame, the photograph of a young, light-haired girl, and upon it was written in German, "_An meinem lieber Otto_." Bernard saw it too and sighed. "It's the skipper's girl," he said. "Poor chap! he'll never see her again in this world! It was an ugly death to die, John!" and his voice had a note of deep feeling in it. "But it had to be, and Scarlett told me that he didn't know what hurt him. "Now," he continued, "I'm going to show you something." He pulled out his watch and then, leaning over to the wall, he snapped over something like the stunted lever of a signal box. Then he pressed a button and a bell rang somewhere far down below. A hoarse voice sounded in our ears from a speaking-tube, and there was a quick, throbbing, pumping sound from the column in the wall. Looking down, I saw that immediately below us was a circular white table. I put my hand on it and it was painted canvas, dazzlingly white. "The periscope is going up," my brother said. "It should be light, now--watch!" There was a click and the lamp in the roof went out. We were in darkness. A slight creaking sound, a movement of my brother's arm, and there flashed down, in clear light upon the table, a picture of the upper seas. Forty feet above, the eye of the submarine surveyed the dawn, and in that still box where we stood, we saw it also. Dawn upon the waters! A tossing grey expanse of waves. It was like the film of a cinematograph, only in colour, and as Bernard turned the wheel, picture after picture glided over the table--the most incredible thing! Not a sail was in sight. The North Sea was an empty, tossing waste of waters in the cold light of the winter's dawn. The dawn of--what? CHAPTER X THE SPEAR OF FOAM "A little fresh air is clearly indicated," said my brother, "and after that, when I've attended to another little matter, a good breakfast. Some of us may be taking our next meal in Fiddlers' Green, which, they say in the Navy, is nine miles to windward of hell, though I hope not." He switched on the light again and went to the side table, where there was a complicated array of wheels and levers, all of which were duplicated in the chamber immediately below and by means of which the Commander, watching the picture of the periscope, could control every movement of the boat with his own hands if necessary. He pulled a lever and a bell clanged. At once the loud purring of the electric engines ceased. Bernard pulled over another and larger lever with both hands. I suddenly felt myself slipping backwards, until I fetched up against the wall of the conning-tower, narrowly missing the opening to the steersman's chamber. "By Jove! I forgot to tell you," said Bernard. "You see, I've stopped the electric engines and jammed over the horizontal rudders. We're slanting up to the surface--look!" Immediately in front of me and a little above my head, I now saw round portholes filled with amazingly thick, toughened glass. These had been quite black and had escaped my notice before. Now, as I watched, they grew a little lighter. Click! and the lamp went out. The portholes were grey now, grey melting into green, which grew brighter and brighter until it turned into a froth of soda-water, and then there was nothing but white sky. There was a slight jerk and the floor seemed to right itself. "We're just awash now, but we'll get above water." Again the ring of a bell, an order through a speaking-tube. After that came a clang of machinery and an extraordinary bubbling, choking noise, like a giant drinking. "Just blown out the water tanks, old soul. Feel her lift? Now her whale-back is above water and we'll go and say good-morning to the sun, which I perceive is very kindly beginning to show himself. But before that ..." He shouted another order and there came a deafening din from below. Bang! Bang! Bang! till the whole steel hull quivered. "That is the surface engine starting. It'll be all right in a minute," and even as he spoke, the noise subsided into a regular throb. It was for all the world like a motor car starting on bottom speed and then slipping into top gear. Scarlett came hurrying up into the conning-tower and he and my brother unlocked the sliding hatch. In a minute we had emerged into the keen air of the morning. How fresh and sweet it seemed to me it is impossible to say. The sun was rising. The bitter cold of the marshes had gone. The small waves were flecked with gold as we stood upon the wet steel plates and drank in the air as if it had been wine. "An ideal day for a submarine action!" Bernard said, rubbing his hands. "There's just enough ripple on the surface to make us difficult to detect, and yet it is smooth enough to give me a clear view. This boat is beautifully trimmed, she doesn't roll a bit. I'll send those boys up in a minute or two, but meanwhile I've got to play a bit of bluff. A lot depends on it." I nodded. It was not my place to ask questions. "You see," he went on, "of course the German battleship expects us. I know exactly the spot in the North Sea where we are supposed to pick her up some time after lunch--provided, of course, that the Germans have carried out their plans successfully and our scouts really have been decoyed away. It is part of a huge scheme. "Well, assuming that their own plans are successful, they will be on the look-out for us and they'll send us a wireless message when we're within close range. This will be some prearranged signal, a single letter repeated a certain number of times or something of that sort, so that any of our ships picking it up would not know what it meant. We've got a wireless mast on board which can be shoved up at will and there's a complete installation in a little room down below next to the cook's galley. Unfortunately there is not one of us who knows anything about wireless. Bosustow is a capable electrician and could control the machinery, but he can't understand the signals. Therefore, when we sight the _Friesland_--and I want to get as near her as possible so as to make no mistakes--we must signal with flags. "I've got their signal book and in it is a special code made for this occasion. The flags are in the flag locker all right, but I don't understand a word of German and none of us here do, so I'm going to put the fear of God into our friend, Karl of the Portsmouth Royal. A lot depends on that. "Just skip down, young John, and tell Scarlett to bring him up here." "Aye, aye, sir!" I said--it came to me quite naturally, I didn't think about it--and I climbed down into the interior of the submarine. Scarlett was standing by the starboard torpedo tube, while the Dickson brothers, with their backs turned to me, were chuckling delightedly. I heard a fragment of the conversation. "... and so, sir, I ses to the gal, Molly her name was, they used to call her the belle of South-sea pier, 'Molly,' I ses, 'you're a little bit of all right, but ...'" I cut short that anecdote. My pedagogic instincts awoke and I forgot that the Dicksons were now brevet officers of the King. A sharp order did it. The two lads turned away and began to be ostentatiously busy, while Scarlett, his face did not belie his name at that moment, pattered along the grating, caught hold of the ex-German waiter with unnecessary roughness, and kicked him towards the ladder of the conning-tower. I went up first, and when Karl emerged he stood to attention with a very pale face, though I did not miss a quick glance round the horizon. My brother was looking down upon a shining magazine pistol in his hand. Then he raised his head and his voice grated like a file. "Look here, you Karl, or whatever you call yourself, you're a spy!" There was a torrent of expostulation. "No, sir, not a spy; I never was that. I was a reservist in our Navy. I was called out and I had to go. I'm a prisoner of war, sir, that's what I am." My brother shook his head. "You can't prove that," he said, "and the circumstances are most suspicious. I spared you last night, thinking you might be useful, and you certainly made some very good coffee this morning. But I've come to the conclusion ..."--he lifted the pistol. I had had my brother's word for it that Karl was an excellent head-waiter. My own observations showed me that he was a coward, for he fell on his knees and tears began to stream from his eyes. My brother spat over the side in disgust and I kicked the fellow up to attention again. "Well, I'll give you one more chance before shooting you out of hand. You must come down with me and translate the German in the Flag Signal Book. You must tell me all you know about the plans of your late commander. Then, if you make us a good breakfast--I thought I saw some tinned sausages and some marmalade in your rack--I may possibly not shoot you, though I shall tie you up when we go into action. At any rate, you will have the same chance as the rest of us." The fellow's gratitude was painful to see. He was all smiles and obsequiousness at once, and so that little matter was concluded satisfactorily. We had our breakfast, and an excellent one it was, all sharing alike. Afterwards I went up on deck with the Dicksons. We saw the sails of two trawlers a mile away on the port bow, but save for them the sea was deserted. The boys were in high spirits. Not a thought of what was to come troubled them for a moment. "Just think, sir," said Dickson max., "what a bit of luck to be in for a rag like this!" But I won't recount any more of their joyous prattle. It was real enough. They had not a trace of fear, but underlying everything there was a deep seriousness that had made them men in a few short hours. * * * * * For two hours I worked hard with Bosustow at the engines. There was lots to do. The gauges of the petrol tanks needed attention. There were many details which would only interest an engineer were I to recount them. At a quarter to twelve I went forward with my brother. We were still on the surface--heading fast for our destination--and saw the port and starboard torpedo tubes loaded. It was astonishing how the Dicksons had picked up something of their work, and Bernard was very pleased. At twelve we lunched and a tot of rum was served out to the three sailors. Everything was now ship-shape. We were all dressed in uniforms of the dead crew. We tied up Karl and lashed him securely in his galley. Then, Adams being at the wheel in the lower portion of the conning-tower, my brother assembled us aft, by the clanging petrol engines. "In ten minutes," he said, "I shall sound 'Prepare for action,' and from that time onwards you will be at your posts. I believe we are going to surprise the Germans and surprise the whole world. I believe we are going to save England from this raid. But we've got to remember that we may not pull it off. I am very pleased, more than pleased, with all you have done. I never want to command a better crew. It is the best scratch crew in naval history. We are only seven and we ought to be fifteen, but that does not matter. We have shown it does not matter, already. Now before we get to quarters I think we ought to remember what day this is. It happens to be Sunday." I am ashamed to say we all looked up in surprise, but so it was. "Well," my brother continued, "by good luck, I happen to have a prayer-book in my pocket and I am going to read a bit of the service and the ninety-first psalm." Very straight and stiff, he pulled out a battered little book and began. This is not a scene I wish to linger on, but you will understand my reasons. After the last sonorous Amen, Bernard said: "Well, we've said our prayers and we've thought of our wives and--and of our girls. That is all I have got to say." He nodded to Scarlett and a shrill whistle--the trumpet of the Navy--rang and rattled through the tube. The two boys and Scarlett went forward to the torpedoes. Adams was called down from the steering wheel to assist Bosustow at the engines. My brother ordered me up into the conning-tower by his side. "You'll be of more help to me here," he said. "I shall control the ship entirely myself, but I may want your assistance. Watch me carefully in case I have to go below at any moment." At twelve-thirty precisely, the gasolene engines were stopped. Bernard filled the tanks, slightly deflected the horizontal rudders, and we dived into the smooth, green wall of an approaching swell and sank to ten feet. The light was switched off, the periscope rose, and we bent over the white table, white no longer. At five minutes to one the picture of the empty sea was altered. Our range of vision was about two miles, and at that distance to the north-east we observed a cloud of smoke upon the horizon. "There she is!" I said, and put my finger upon the rapidly growing smear. Within twenty minutes, a large battleship raised her hull, making directly towards us. We altered our course a little, and as we swerved I could see she had four funnels which grew larger every moment. Of her accompanying flotilla and of the transports we could see nothing at all. Then we rose to the surface. Our short-handedness became apparent at once. Adams had to be called from the engines to stand at the wheel. Scarlett and my brother went on deck as I was useless at the manipulation of flags. It was a critical moment. "I am determined to take no chances," Bernard said; "that is why I am risking signalling. We could probably get her without showing at all, but as she expects us and will lay to for us, we can make it absolutely certain." He had the signal book, over which he had pencilled translations of the German, in his hand. "That flag, Scarlett--'wireless out of order,' it means." That flag ran up a steel halliard bent to the top of the conning-tower. "Ah, they see us!" Scarcely three-quarters of a mile away, the great battleship was moving at a snail's pace. Her decks were crowded with men--in the clear sunlight I could see every detail. A piece of bunting ran up her mast in a ball and opened to the breeze. "I'm damned if I know what it means, but it's obviously all right. Now then, Scarlett, the black flag with the white stripe. That means 'am successfully bringing despatches'--got it?--good!" There was another signal from the battleship, to which we had now approached within half a mile. The smoke from her funnels had almost ceased. She was lying to and waiting. Slowly we forged onwards. Then came a sharp order. We jumped back into the conning-tower and the sliding hatchway closed. Scarlett had gone like a flash to his torpedo tubes, and we dived. We sank in just a hundred and fifty seconds. "Good!" said Bernard, as the periscope panted up and the battleship lay on the table before us. The hum and tick of the electric motors began again. Bernard turned his wheel and the picture of the battleship opened out in full broadside. "They don't know what to make of it," he remarked, to himself, rather than to me. "Now, I think--steady--steady ..." The ship grew larger every moment, higher and higher. It seemed as if she was rising out of the water. "Now!"--he leant over a speaking tube. He had hardly given his order when a bell rang smartly, close by my head. I heard staccato voices below in the bows of the submarine, and then the clang and swish of the discharge. We were only three hundred yards away. A white streak appeared shooting towards the monster, like a spear of foam. It was so quick that I could hardly have followed it with my finger upon the table. CHAPTER XI THE SUBMARINE FIGHTS FOR ENGLAND Can you imagine a narrow belt of foam, rushing over the sea like a live thing with irresistible and sinister suggestion of _something_ terrible below? That is what I saw as I stared down at the toy theatre, the little, coloured microcosm. Then the inevitable happened. _Der Friesland_ was struck full amidships. A wall of white water rose up out of the sea. Above it, in an instant, spread a huge black fan of smoke, dark as ebony against the sun. At that moment, my brother put the helm hard down and we flew off at an angle. Even as we did so, it seemed that the side of our ship received a terrific blow. We lurched in the conning-tower; we were flung against the starboard wall. There was a nerve-wracking pause, and then, with a jerk, the submarine righted herself, simultaneously as the faintest indication of a mighty explosion fell through the water and came through our armoured walls. "Too close!" my brother gasped. "I ought to have allowed for these German torpedoes--look, John, look!" The recoil from the explosion of _Der Friesland_ had nearly sent us to the bottom, but we were righted again, and we saw upon the table, quivering and indistinct, a piteous mass of unrecognisability, wreathed in black fumes, from which flared out angry bursts of fire, like Vesuvius in eruption. All this horror was sinking--sinking into the table, it seemed. Blazing all over, broken in two, the wreck of the monster went lower and lower in the water. She was done. Bernard gave a great sob, and then hoarse orders rang through the submarine. Within two minutes we were upon the surface. The hatch was open. My brother and myself stood there, gasping in the sunlight at the ruin we had made. The sea was covered with debris and dotted with the heads of swimming sailors. There was one boat afloat, crammed with men, under whose weight it hesitated, trembled, and sank like a stone, as we looked on. "Good God!" I cried, "can't we help them, Bernard?" "No can do," he answered, in Navy slang. "It can't be done, old soul. That's that. I'm damned sorry though." We were rolling in a grey sea, churned by the monster's dying struggles. It was a desolate waste, patched with horror. Far away, on the port bow, something small and blurred was showing. It was either smoke or the hull of a big ship. "The first transport!" Bernard said. "We had better be ..." He did not finish his sentence. Something shrieked overhead like an invisible express train. There was a sound like a clap of thunder, and a fountain of spray rose a hundred yards away from us. We wheeled round. Not quarter of a mile away, and heading straight for us, we saw two immense, white ostrich feathers, divided as by the blade of a knife. Each instant they grew larger. One of the convoying destroyers had made a grand detour and was coming for us at the charge. Then, I cannot say when or how, there was a sound like two great hands clapping together in the air above us. Instantaneously, the plates of the deck and conning-tower rang like gongs, followed by little splashing sounds, as if someone was throwing eggs. I had no idea what it was. "What the devil ..." I was beginning, when Bernard explained. "Shrapnel," he said, and held out his left arm to me. It ended in what looked like a bundle of crimson rags. "Damn the blighters!" he said, "they've blown off my left hand. Quick, John, or we shall lose the trick. Your handkerchief!" I pulled it out mechanically. "Knot it round my arm--yes--there--just above the wrist. Thank God you're strong! Now then, you've got to twist it. Got anything for a lever?" The only thing I could find was a silver-mounted fountain pen, a Christmas present from Doris the year before. I whipped it into the knot of the handkerchief, turned it round and secured it. The whole thing did not take more than ten seconds. I had hardly finished, when Bernard skipped inside the conning-tower. I followed him. The hatchway slid into its place with a clang, and as we heard another terrific explosion above us, I wrenched the rudder lever over, Bernard signalled below to fill the tanks, and through the portholes I saw the welcome green creep up, the light disappear, and felt the gratings sinking beneath my feet. I shouted down for Dickson--the first name I could think of. Dickson max. was up in a second. "Get the bottle of rum," I said, "the Captain's hurt." It came. I held it to my brother's lips. He took a little and gave one deep groan. Dickson max. stood like a statue. He never asked a question. It was wonderful. "Who fired that torpedo?" Bernard asked. "I did, sir. Mr. Scarlett showed me how." "You will be pleased to know, Mr. Dickson, that you have sunk the German battleship, _Der Friesland_, with probably a thousand souls on board. This will be remembered." "You are hurt, sir?" "Get down to the torpedo tubes. Load the empty one and stand by for orders." Dickson vanished. "Are you all right?" I asked. "Right as rain. Now then, we've got to find those transports. I took their bearings before we sank. Meanwhile I think we'll get a little deeper, out of harm's way." He told me what to do. I pulled the necessary lever and spoke orders to Bosustow at the engines. The needle on the manometer quivered and rose. We went down to thirty feet. Immediately, it seemed as if the world above, the noise of battle, everything, faded away. We were buzzing along in the depths of the sea, just as we had been, intact, unhurt, until I looked at Bernard's hand. He was rather pale, but as pleased in face as if he was just tumbling into the "Sawdust Club" at Portsmouth. "I say," he said, "won't the daily papers spread themselves over this!" Somehow or other, a beastly little fly must have got into the conning-tower. It settled on me. I put up my hand to brush it away. My hand came back--pink, and I stared stupidly at it. "You silly blighter!" my brother said, "didn't you know you'd lost half your ear?" I suppose we ran, deep under water, at the top speed of which the motors were capable for at least another ten minutes. Adams was called up to the wheel and Bernard went down. I stood where I was until the man below shouted up. "Captain calling for you, sir!" I tumbled down into the centre of the submarine, looking first aft to where the huge Cornishman, Bosustow, was quietly moving about his engines. "Forrard, sir," said Bosustow, and I hastened round the gangway towards the bows. Scarlett, the Dicksons, and Bernard were standing by the torpedo tubes. Bernard turned to me. "That concussion has snookered our tubes a bit," he said. "You see we aren't quite accustomed to this new German mechanism. Scarlett says, and I quite agree, that it's a toss up if we can make correct aim under water. I think we shall have to go for that transport on the surface." He looked at me with quick interrogation. I knew what he meant. Already we had done more than anyone in the world would have thought possible. It was no time for sentimentalism or heroic thoughts, and we knew that, whatever happened, we had earned imperishable fame. We were safe now. Should we run another risk? That was what my brother was asking me. Even his iron nerve doubted itself for an instant. "The only thing I can see to do," I answered, "is to let 'em have it in the open--out of the trenches, bayonet attack, what?" "My own opinion entirely, sir," said Scarlett. "Damn it, begging your pardon, sir, we've not 'alf give 'em it yet!" For a moment my brother's glance rested on the two eager boys. Was he justified in flinging them to death after they had done so much, behaved so splendidly? They knew it. By some intuition, the young devils saw it at once. "Oh, let's have another smack at them, sir!" they said in chorus. Without another word, Bernard limped along the gratings and I helped him up into the conning-tower again. We rose to the surface. The stars in their courses fought for Sisera! When we went out on deck, the first transport was scarcely a mile away from us on the starboard quarter. We had judged it to a tick. But she was no longer heading west. She had turned tail. She was a Hamburg-Amerika liner converted to a transport, and thick black smoke poured out of her four funnels as she raced back towards Heligoland and safety. "She's got nearly three thousand troops on board, I'll bet you a manhattan," Bernard said. "We _must_ get her, we simply must!" Turning to the west, we saw at least five destroyers rushing for us like express trains. Whether they had seen us come up or not I cannot tell, but they knew well enough what our manoeuvre would be, and they were not a mile and a half away. "Get down. Tell Bosustow to cram it all on. Increase the spark. We've got to do twenty knots if we scrap the whole thing." I was there in a moment, I told Bosustow what the skipper had said. The big man was quietly chewing tobacco, and he spat down on the accumulators as he made a motion to salute. He moved like a slug over his roaring engines, but even as he did so, the angry hum, the muffled explosions, rose into a steel symphony like Tchaikovsky's "1812"! I felt the ship leap forward like a whippet out of leash. When I stumbled up on deck again, the wind was whistling all round the conning-tower. It blew my cap off into the sea. We gained, we gained enormously, but so did the pursuing destroyers. We soon knew that. There were sounds behind us like a little street-boy whistling to a friend. They were firing their bow machine guns, taking no careful aim, at the fearful pace they were going, but all around us fountains of foam rose in the sea as we plunged onwards. "You know, John," said my brother, "it's a difficult thing for any gunners at all to fire their bow chasers at a little bobbing thing like a submarine. Of course, they may get us with a lucky shot, but I don't think they will." They didn't. The great liner saw us coming and slanted off obliquely to the north. It wasn't any use at all. We had the heels of her, though we knew that at any moment our engines might give out, owing to the fearful strain we were putting on them. It was Scarlett who fired the torpedo--"must let the old blighter have his chance!" my brother said--and it went straight and true to the _Princessin Amalia_, as we afterwards learned she was. I think that was the worst of all. We torpedoed her from six hundred yards. There was no explosion, as there was in the case of the battleship. We could see everything far more distinctly. She simply broke in two and sank in three minutes, defenceless, impotent. "Poor chaps!" I said, as we watched. "Fortune of war!" Bernard answered--"Yes, poor chaps! At the same time, remember that they're the same sort of fellows who have been crucifying flappers in Belgium and taking out the whole male population of harmless villages and shooting them before breakfast. They would have been doing that all over Norfolk in thirty hours, if"--he paused--"if you hadn't been rejected by the R.N.F.C. and also been the right hand of the late lamented Doctor Upjelly. We must get down quickly, or else ..." He had turned and was holding his binoculars to his eyes. "Good heavens!" he said, "what's that?" I turned, and I saw that the five destroyers were sweeping away in a great curve to the north. They were pursuing us no longer. "What is it?" I cried. The answer didn't come from my brother, though I heard it plainly enough. It was like thunder many miles away--a huge, dull boom such as I had never heard before. "Why, they're running!" "I should rather think so, old soul!" "Are they afraid of us? What is that noise?" "That, my dear young friend, unless I am very much mistaken, is one of the twelve-inch guns of His Majesty's ship, _Vengeance_. Cruiser-battleship, young John. I happen to know she's been lying off Harwich for the last week, waiting orders. Our friend, Lieutenant Murphy, has sent my wires to good purpose, and 'now we shan't be long!'" Again the great, menacing boom, but this time we saw something. From the deck of a submarine the range of vision is only two miles. The last destroyer was almost disappearing on the horizon, when she suddenly jumped out of the sea and fell to pieces like a pack of cards. "That's old Snorty Bethune-Ranger!" my brother said, wagging his head gravely. "Best gunner commander in the fleet, and I know he's on board the _Vengeance_. Now don't you think we'll have the boys up and let 'em chortle a bit?" "I'll go and call them." I was just going in when I was gripped by the arm so hard that I winced. "Look there!" said my brother. I followed his pointing right arm and saw something far up in the sky, something like a crow, which grew larger every second. "One of their hydroplanes, off the deck of the second transport. She's going to try and drop bombs on us." "Will she do it?" "Can a duck bark?" Bernard answered contemptuously. "Of course, she may be lucky, but it's never happened yet. The worst of it is that they can see us thirty feet below the surface. Still, old sport, she can't do much--hear her coming?" I did. There was a noise like a motor-bicycle in the sky, and the crow grew to an eagle, developed into an aeroplane, such as I had seen so often in the illustrated papers. "I suppose we'd better submerge, though I don't want to run from a beastly mechanical kite, after sinking Kaiser Bill's lovin' enthusiastic soldiers, all in the box, complete, one shilling! I say, John, would you like a little bit of sport?" "What do you mean?" "Well, I don't suppose this fellow is going to do us any harm, and any way, it's a toss up. Now you rather pride yourself as a wild-fowler, don't you?" "If I hadn't been a wild-fowler," I said, "we shouldn't have been where we are now." "Quite so. Now, there's a rack of excellent rifles down below, and dozens of clips; see if you can't pick this Johnny off." He bellowed down through the hatch. "Bring up a magazine rifle and some ammunition. Look sharp!" I got the rifle in a few seconds. I think we were both perfectly reckless. I know I was. I laughed as I tucked the gun into my shoulder. There was a complicated arrangement of sights, but I never even snapped up the foresight. It did not seem worth while; the mark was so big. The hydroplane fetched a sweep of quarter of a mile round us, and then came head on. I could see the pilot distinctly and, a little below him, the gentleman who was getting ready to drop his bombs. It was quite delightful. They were not going at a higher speed than a flock of widgeon. To me, it was child's play. I plugged the bomb expert with the second shot. Then, and I really rather pride myself on what I did next, I hit the long, sausage-like petrol tank and ripped it up. There was a huge roar, an overhead explosion, and as the whole beastly thing turned a somersault and fell, I am pretty certain, too, that I put the pilot out of his pain with my last shot. * * * * * We were surrounded by ships--they had come racing north out of Harwich just in time. The big _Vengeance_ was still booming away, but two snaky-like destroyers were coming up hell for leather and a big seven thousand ton cruiser was not more than three hundred yards from us. Puff! puff! A white pinnace, with a shining brass funnel, swirled round and came up on our quarter. My brother and myself, together with the two Dickson boys, were standing by the conning-tower. The pinnace was full of men. It was steered by a youngish-looking, clean-shaved officer, wearing the badges of a lieutenant. Adams, Scarlett, and Bosustow were over the side in a minute, a coil of rope ran out, boat-hooks appeared from nowhere. There was a subdued hum of chatter, as the men from the cruiser greeted the three heroes of the submarine. Then I heard a sharp and rather squeaky voice. "Hallo, Whelk!" it said. Bernard leant over the rail; he was nearly done, but he found voice to answer that hail. "That you, Reptile?" he muttered, "you are more like a stuffed frog than ever!" Such are the greetings and amenities of the Navy. But the last thing I remember hearing that afternoon came from the lieutenant in charge of the pinnace. "I say, excuse me for mentioning it, but 'well done,' you fellows!" CHAPTER XII THE LAST CHAPTER--IN TWO PARTS PART I.--DORIS AND MARJORIE HAVE A LATE VISITOR NOTE.--I have certainly written this chapter--with a pen, that is. Neither my brother's wife nor my own actually set down a word of the following. I am not responsible, and I will say no more. You will understand why when you have read this last chapter. If I were the usual sort of poopstick that often lurks behind such a story, I should say: "This is put in at the request of my friends." It is not. It is done simply to tell you the end of our little affairs, and rather more with my heart in my mouth than my tongue in my cheek.--J. C. It was Sunday night in Lieutenant Murphy's house at Cockthorpe. The wires had worked. By dawn there was an army of police from Norwich in a fleet of motor cars. They invested Morstone House School. Old Mr. Pugmire, startlingly sober for once, was placed in charge of the boarders, who were all sent home during the course of the next day. Another, and more dangerous reprobate, Mrs. Gaunt with the broken leg, was interrogated by a stern-faced inspector in the presence of a doctor. The hag had been in von Vedal's confidence for years. The police learned much. By ten o'clock, others than the County Police had arrived. There were clean-shaved, quiet-mannered officials from the Admiralty. There was a lean, elderly gentleman in khaki, with the red band round his cap and on his shoulders which pronounced him of the War Office Staff. Admiral Kiderlen-Waechter and the man, Schweitzer, were in Norwich Castle by eleven. The whole countryside and coastline buzzed like swarming bees. A detachment of Territorials patrolled the village. Nobody knew anything at all of what had really happened, but everyone was very excited. All the local people agreed that there had not been a Sunday like this for many years! Doris and Marjorie Joyce were at Cockthorpe, in the Lieutenant's house. They were being looked after by Mrs. Murphy, a jolly old Irishwoman with all the tact and humour of her nation--a woman who knew when to foil hysteria with a jest, to hearten a girl with a sharp word, and, when the final interrogation was over, to invite the warm relieving flood of tears with the instinctive motherhood of one who nightly prayed to Mary to pray for those in distress. The girls were troubled very little. The Lieutenant of the Coastguards had seen almost everything. There would not be an inquest for two or three days. They had made their statement to a courteous person from London. They were to be left in peace. After lunch the old lady came to them--came to the little sitting-room which opened out of the bedroom she had given them. "Now, my dear children," she said, "ye'll just take off your stays and pull down your hair, and I'll tuck ye in under the eiderdown, and ye'll sleep!" She had two tumblers in her plump hands, upon which sparkled many rings--the Irish carbuncles, which are so much larger and more brilliant than mere rubies, the Ballysheen emeralds, "which you can only find at Ballysheen, me dear, and glad the jewellers of Regent Street would be if they could get a supply of 'em! Faith! and the doctor has given me this for you. Bromide to calm the nerves--not that I ever had any nerves, meself, when I was your age! But I never had a crool stepfather lying dead in an adjacent village, nor was mixed up with spies, though in the Sin-fein riots of '84--Marjorie, me darlint, take your shoes off. Now then, I'll tuck ye both up and pull down the blinds to keep out the sunlight, though it's shutters I would be putting up when I was a gurl!" It was like a fairy story, and Mrs. Murphy was the good Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid: "The children sank into a deep, dreamless sleep." Poor dears, how they must have wanted it after all they had been through! I can see them lying there.... (Excision by censor and pencil note in the margin of the manuscript: "John Carey, you liar, don't obtrude yourself and your sickly sentiments.") * * * * * It was about six when Doris and Marjorie awoke. They came out of the bedroom into the sitting-room adjoining. A bright fire burnt upon the hearth with that clear redness which indicates a dry and frosty night. On a little table there was an equipage of tea, and a copper kettle sang gently. These two girls were essentially healthy and plucky. The semi-imprisoned life they had led at Morstone House School had broken nothing of their spirit. The death--the righteous execution--of the man who had hurried their mother into her grave affected them not at all. They were too brave and fine to affect an emotion that they did not, could not, feel. All that had happened in the large, L-shaped house was hideous and horrible, yet not to be overmuch remembered or deplored. They had another subject of discussion, these two beautiful sisters. "Doris, it was desperate from the first." "Yes, it was, Marjorie." "Then, do you think----?" "That they will come out all right, you mean?" "Yes, do you?" "My red-haired sister," Doris answered, "if you go on like this I'll be bound to bite!" "Of course, Commander Carey knows all about submarines, and he's one of the bravest officers...." "Yes, I rather like Bernard myself." "You _rather like_ him, Doris!" "Well, you haven't known him as long as I've known John. What price Johnny, my sweet young sister, and what about the bold, brave Dickson max. and Dickson major?" They kept it up for a minute or two very well, and then their arms went round each other, and one sister held the other close. The bell from the adjacent church tolled for evensong. It was a lovely night, cold and clear with a great, round, green moon. Mrs. Murphy mercifully left them alone. They heard the front door close, and saw her rolling up the path towards the church, a long, dark façade with lit windows. As if in a dream, the girls heard the droning murmur of the Psalms. Their thoughts were far away with a little band of heroes. There was a long pause--it must have been the sermon--and then came a deep, swelling sound. The congregation were singing the last hymn, and it was "for those in peril on the sea." They clasped hands and went to the window, opening it wide to the moonlight. The simple, familiar music flooded into the room. * * * * * Bang! Bang! Bang! The door burst open. It was midnight, and Mrs. Murphy, in an appalling night-cap and a magenta dressing-gown, was standing by the girls' beds. "Get ye up! Get ye up!--no, don't bother about your hair, it's well enough as it is. The Saints be praised--hush, ye'll not say a word, for I'm a good Protestant here, for Murphy's sake, and an old gazaboo the clergyman is, to be shure!--but there's a gintleman come down in a big automobile to see you. Wirra, phwat news!" While she was shouting and gesticulating, the old lady had pulled Doris and Marjorie out of their beds, and was wrapping them up in their dressing-gowns with shaking fingers. "News?" Doris gasped--"news of John?" "News that'll shake England, aye, and Doblin too, to its foundations." "Bernard?" Marjorie said unsteadily. "Ye'll kindly come along with me," said Mrs. Murphy, and a strange procession went down the stairs into the hall. The three servants of the house were bundled into one corner, and the less said about their attire the better. Lieutenant Murphy, in his uniform, was trying to light candles, and his wrinkled face was brighter than the flaring, smoking lamp which hung from the ceiling. In the centre of the hall was a tall, clean-shaved, youngish-looking man. He held a cocked hat in one hand and wore a uniform of dead black-blue. Directly the old lady rolled down the stairs, followed by the frightened girls, this new-comer made a step forward. His manners were perfect, and he bowed as if he were at Court. "Miss Joyce?--Miss Marjorie Joyce?" "Faith, and they're the same, the very gurrls!" said Mrs. Murphy. "I am sent by the First Lord, ladies, to give you some news, which I understand will be most welcome. Lieutenant-Commander Bernard Carey, Mr. John Carey, the two young gentlemen named Dickson, and Commander Carey's three sailors, Scarlett, Adams and Bosustow, have covered themselves with glory." Doris was splendid. "Ah!" she said, "we were waiting for this, my sister and myself. Are they, are they--?" She could not go on. "Madam, they are all safe and sound. Commander Carey is slightly wounded--that is all. They have engaged in action with the great German battleship, _Der Friesland_, and sunk her. They have sunk a transport. They have evaded a flotilla of German destroyers. In short, they have saved England. Our flotilla came up just in time. The Admiralty have had wireless messages during the whole of the afternoon." Hitherto, the officer--he looked thirty-five, was really fifty, and the son of a duke--had spoken formally. "Then?" Marjorie sighed. "Then, it just amounts to this. No more glorious deed had ever been done in the whole history of our Navy, from the days of Sir Francis Drake down to this moment. I was privileged to be at the Palace a few hours ago when the news was brought. Each member of the crew of the submarine is to receive the Victoria Cross. It is not only by order of the First Lord of the Admiralty, but also by express command of His Majesty that I have motored down here to-night to bring you the news. My instructions are to ask you if you will accompany me to-morrow to Harwich, for we expect and hope that, during the earlier part of the afternoon...." "They will come back!" Marjorie shouted. "Precisely," said Lord William, "and, of course, you must be there to meet them!" "Gurrls, I'll chaperone ye! Now, get back to bed, and sleep--if ye can. Shure, and I'm ashamed of ye appearin' in such dishybayle!" concluded the merry old lady, with a wink. She stood at the foot of the stairs and hooshed her young charges away. Then she turned to her guest. "Ye'll forgive an old woman appearin' like this," she said simply. "Pathrick, take Lord William into the dining-room, and we'll make him some supper in a moment. We're all friends in the Navy." Her voice changed and became very grave. "Blessings on you," she said, "that have brought the good news to this house and to those dear gurrls this night!" PART II.--RETURN OF THE SEVEN HEROES It was a tall man with black hair, dark eyes and a pinched face. His black, clerical clothes were rather rusty in the bright morning sunlight, though they were his best. "The young beggars!" he said, "the young beggars!" and there was a catch in his voice. "A commission for both of them and a special allowance, did you say, Lord William?" "The Admiralty could do no less, Mr. Dickson. We want a thousand lads like yours, if we could only get them. Not that any officer of their age in the Navy wouldn't have done the same, but their names will be for ever glorious in the history of the service. It is a feat that England will never willingly forget. You know that they, as well as the rest, are to have the Victoria Cross?" Mr. Dickson stared, as if he saw something at a great distance. "No," he said, "I didn't know that--er--excuse me for a moment." The clergyman turned away to the window of the Admiral's office, which overlooked Harwich Harbour, and his shoulders were shaking. "_Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy word: for mine eyes have seen----_" "Shure, and they can't be long now, the Admiral says," came from Mrs. Murphy, sitting in the Admiral's chair, at the Admiral's table, with all sorts of confidential documents spread in front of her. "Pathrick is to have the rank of Captain for the part he's tuk in it, though that was pure luck and him being on the spot. And, bedad, we'll have that motor cyar--and I never did see why a mere Docthor's wife like Mrs. Pestle, and him little better than a vetherinary surgeon, should keep a cyar when an officer in His Majesty's Navy couldn't!" The Admiral in command at Harwich, a grizzled sailor who had been called up from his peaceful Devon home to leave his pheasants and fat cattle, came into the room, rubbing his hands. "Well, they'll have the reception of their lives, young ladies," he said beaming; and, with a clank of his sword as he sat down, "Mrs. Murphy, if you attempt to read any of the papers on that table, I shall regretfully be compelled to have you shot, which will mar the festivity of the occasion! My dears, a special train full of journalists has just come down from town. There are thousands of people flocking to the quays in the spaces provided, and what the papers are saying about our friends will astonish you." He produced a copy of the _Daily Wire_ and opened it, while they all crowded round to look. Modern journalism had secured a triumph. Short as the time had been, there were columns and columns of description of the events at Morstone of which hardly anybody had been allowed to know anything--and the Battle in the North Sea, about which nobody knew but the Admiralty. There were portraits of the two Dickson boys, each apparently about twelve years of age and in broad Eton collars. There was a truculent, prize-fighting individual, with distinct side-whiskers, labelled, "Mr. John Carey, M.A., the heroic schoolmaster who slew the Master-spy, 'Doctor Upjelly,' with his own hands." A smudge on the top of a uniform represented Lieutenant-Commander Bernard Carey--also "heroic," with sundry other adjectives; and if those excellent Plymouth ladies, Mrs. Bosustow, Mrs. Scarlett and Mrs. Adams, had seen the people represented in the newspaper as their lords and masters walk into Paradise Row, Devonport, they certainly would not have known them. Doris gasped. "To call that _John_!" she said; "what a wicked libel! Couldn't the editor be arrested?" "An editor is one of the people whom nothing can arrest," said the Admiral. "'_In rebus desperatis remedia desperata_,' which means 'What the public wants, the public must have, however short the time in which to fake it up.'" There was a knock at the door, and a young officer entered, saluting. "Destroyers sighted, Sir," he said, not without an appreciative glance at the two pretty girls close by. He handed a piece of paper to the Admiral, adding: "Just come in by wireless from the _Arethusa_, Sir." The old gentleman with the pointed beard and clanking sword read it. He chuckled. "Well," he said, "the public is going to have some fun for its money, for Commander Carey is coming into harbour on board _his own_ boat. Now, then, suppose we all go out to the signalling station at the end of the Mole and get the first sight of them?" * * * * * Half a dozen clouds of black smoke upon the horizon, growing larger and larger every minute; a great murmur of the crowd; officers in dress uniform with binoculars at their eyes; a group of journalists in hard felt hats, making notes!... Now the destroyers can be seen in a half-circle, with three great ships in the background. "The Transports!" the Admiral said--"from seven to eight thousand Germans in them--what a haul! Look, Mrs. Murphy, that is the Cruiser _Arethusa_ by the side of them. I expect they had a handful in disarming all those chaps, and they must be pretty short-handed on board the whole flotilla, for they'll have had to send a lot of men aboard those two liners. Fine boats, the new light cruisers, _Captain_ Murphy?" The old lieutenant of Coastguards flushed with pleasure. "Never had a chance to go to sea in one of them, Sir," he said--"long after my time, I am sorry to say." "Look!" Marjorie whispered to Doris, "they're opening out. Isn't it wonderful? How near they're getting! It's just like a figure in the Lancers." Doris did not answer for a moment. Then she said:--"What's that, right in the middle?" The Admiral overheard her. "You've quick eyes, young lady," he answered; "that, unless I am very much mistaken, is a certain Submarine, lately in possession of the Kaiser, and which people are talking about a good deal just now!" It was so. The destroyers slowed down, and made a great lane upon the sea. In the centre of this lane was something infinitely small, a black speck, like a cork floating on the water. It grew and grew. Then, from somewhere not far away, there was the heavy boom of a gun. Immediately, the air was rent with a noise like hundreds of bellowing bulls as all the ships at anchor opened their steam-sirens until the very stone quays trembled. The cheers of thousands of voices, the wild tossing of hats into the air, the fluttering of hand-kerchiefs like sudden snow; and then, the Submarine, its whale-back ploughing through the Harbour waters, a white wake of foam behind it, came into full view. From the periscope fluttered two little flags, black and white. In half a minute the cheering, delirious crowd saw what they were. "The skull and cross-bones, by Jove--two of 'em!" said a young lieutenant on the Admiral's Staff to his friend, a newly promoted Commander. "So it is! How on earth did they get those on board a German submarine?" "Someone of resource on board has spent a happy hour or two on the cruise home." The young gentleman was right, but he did not know that Dickson max.'s shirt and the back of Dickson major's coat were the materials used by Mr. Scarlett, who was very handy with his needle. "Here they come!" "Here they come!" "Here they come" "Hurrah!" "Hurrah!" Bang! went a whole salvo of guns. Upon the deck of the Submarine was a little group of four figures, and, if the truth must be told, four dirtier and more shame-faced human beings have rarely made a public appearance. "Those must be the boys," the lieutenant shouted in his friend's ear. The other nodded. He was staring at the Submarine. "By Jove!" he cried, "there's the 'Whelk,' the good old Whelk! Look at him! We were at Osborne together, and he always swore he liked the beastly things--so the name stuck to him. That other chap must be his brother, I suppose--the schoolmaster Johnny." "Good old Whe-e-lk!" he shouted, his hands to his mouth. The lieutenant had never been shipmates with Bernard Carey. Also, his eyes were elsewhere. He twitched his friend's arm. "I say," he said, in an awed voice, "look at the faces of those two girls!" The Commander did so. "Lucky old Whelk!" THE END Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. Edinburgh & London 
45554	----	provided by the Internet Archive DOCTOR BIRCH AND HIS YOUNG FRIENDS. By Mr. M. A. Titmarsh. London: Chapman and Hall 1840. [Illustration: 0008] [Illustration: 0009] [Illustration: 00011] DOCTOR BIRCH. THE DOCTOR AND HIS STAFF. |There is no need to say why I became Assistant Master and Professor of the English and French languages, flower-painting, and the German flute, in Doctor Birch's Academy, at Rodwell Regis. Good folks may depend on this that there was good reason for my leaving lodgings near London, and a genteel society, for an under-master's desk in that old school. I promise you, the fare at the Usher's table, the getting up at five o'clock in the morning, the walking out with little boys in the fields, (who used to play me tricks, and never could be got to respect my awful and responsible character as teacher in the school,) Miss Birch's vulgar insolence, Jack Birch's glum condescension, and the poor old Doctor's patronage, were not matters in themselves pleasurable: and that that patronage and those dinners were sometimes cruel hard to swallow. Never mind--my connexion with the place is over now, and I hope they have got a more efficient under-master. Jack Birch (Rev. J. Birch, of St. Neot's Hall, Oxford,) is partner with his father the Doctor, and takes some of the classes. About his Greek I can't say much; but I will construe him in Latin any day. A more supercilious little prig, (giving himself airs, too, about his cousin, Miss Baby, who lives with the Doctor,) a more empty pompous little coxcomb I never saw. His white neckcloth looked as if it choked him. He used to try and look over that starch upon me and Prince the assistant, as if we were a couple of footmen. He didn't do much business in the school; but occupied his time in writing sanctified letters to the boys' parents, and in composing dreary sermons to preach to them. The real master of the school is Prince; an Oxford man too: shy, haughty, and learned; crammed with Greek and a quantity of useless learning; uncommonly kind to the small boys; pitiless with the fools and the braggarts: respected of all for his honesty, his learning, his bravery, (for he hit out once in a boat-row in a way which astonished the boys and the bargemen,) and for a latent power about him, which all saw and confessed somehow. Jack Birch could never look him in the face. Old Miss Z. dared not put off any of _her_ airs upon him. Miss Rosa made him the lowest of curtsies. Miss Raby said she was afraid of him. Good old Prince! many a pleasant night we have smoked in the Doctor's harness-room, whither we retired when our boys were gone to bed, and our cares and canes put by. After Jack Birch had taken his degree at Oxford--a process which he effected with great difficulty--this place, which used to be called "Birch's," "Dr. Birch's Academy," and what not, became suddenly "Archbishop Wigsby's College of Rodwell Regis." They took down the old blue board with the gold letters, which has been used to mend the pig- stye since. Birch had a large school-room run up in the Gothic taste, with statuettes, and a little belfry, and a bust of Archbishop Wigsby in the middle of the school. He put the six senior boys into caps and gowns, which had rather a good effect as the lads sauntered down the street of the town, but which certainly provoked the contempt and hostility of the bargemen; and so great was his rage for academic costumes and ordinances, that he would have put me myself into a lay gown, with red knots and fringes, but that I flatly resisted, and said that a writing-master had no business with such paraphernalia. By the way, I have forgotten to mention the Doctor himself. And what shall I say of him? Well, he has a very crisp gown and bands, a solemn air, a tremendous loud voice, and a grand and solemn air with the boys' parents, whom he receives in a study, covered round with the best bound books, which imposes upon many--upon the women especially--and makes them fancy that this is a Doctor indeed. But, Law bless you! He never reads the books; or opens one of them, except that in which he keeps his bands--and a Dugdale's Monasticon, which looks like a book, but is in reality a cupboard, where he has his almond cakes, and decanter of port wine. He gets up his classics with translations, or what the boys call cribs. They pass wicked tricks upon him when he hears the forms. The elder wags go to his study, and ask him to help them in hard bits of Herodotus or Thucydides: he says he will look over the passage, and flies for refuge to Mr. Prince, or to the crib. He keeps the flogging department in his own hands; finding that his son was too savage. He has awful brows and a big voice. But his roar frightens nobody. It is only a lion's skin, or, so to say, a muff. Little Mordant made a picture of him with large ears, like a well-known domestic animal, and had his own justly boxed for the caricature. The Doctor discovered him in the fact, and was in a flaming rage, and threatened whipping at first; but in the course of the day an opportune basket of game arriving from Mordant's father, the Doctor became mollified, and has burnt the picture with the ears. However I have one wafered up in my desk by the hand of the same little rascal: and the frontispiece of this very book is drawn from it. THE COCK OF THE SCHOOL. |I am growing an old fellow--and have seen many great folks in the course of my travels and time--Louis Philippe coming out of the Tuileries, His Majesty the King of Prussia and the Reichsverweser accolading each other, at Cologne, at my elbow; Admiral Sir Charles Napier (in an omnibus once), the Duke of Wellington, the immortal Goethe at Weimar, the late benevolent Pope Gregory XVI., and a score more of the famous in this world--the whom, whenever one looks at, one has a mild shock of awe and tremor. I like this feeling and decent fear and trembling with which a modest spirit salutes a _Great Man_. Well, I have seen Generals capering on horseback at the head of their crimson battalions; Bishops sailing down cathedral aisles, with downcast eyes, pressing their trencher caps to their hearts with their fat white hands; College heads when her Majesty is on a visit; the Doctor in all his glory at the head of his school on Speech-day, a great sight,--and all great men these. I have never met the late Mr. Thomas Cribb, but I have no doubt should have regarded him with the same feeling of awe with which I look every day at George Champion, the cock of Dr. Birch's school. When, I say, I reflect as I go up and set him a sum, that he could whop me in two minutes, double up Prince and the other assistant, and pitch the Doctor out of window, I can't but think how great, how generous, how magnanimous a creature this is, that sits quite quiet and good-natured, and works his equation, and ponders through his Greek play. He might take the schoolroom pillars and pull the house down if he liked. He might close the door, and demolish every one of us like Antar, the lover of Ibla; but he lets us live. He never thrashes anybody without a cause, when woe betide the tyrant or the sneak! I think that to be strong, and able to whop everybody,--(not to do it, mind you, but to feel that you were able to do it,)--would be the greatest of all gifts. There is a serene good humour which plays about George Champion's broad face, which shows the consciousness of this power, and lights up his honest blue eyes with a magnanimous calm. He is invictus. Even when a cub there was no beating this lion. Six years ago the undaunted little warrior actually stood up to Frank Davison,--(the Indian officer now--poor little Charley's brother, whom Miss Raby nursed so affectionately,)--then seventeen years old, and the cock of Birch's. They were obliged to drag off the boy, and Frank, with admiration and regard for him, prophesied the great things he would do. Legends of combats are preserved fondly in schools; they have stories of such at Rodwell Regis, performed in the old Doctor's time, forty years ago. Champion's affair with the Young Tutbury Pet, who was down here in training,--with Black the Bargeman,--with the three head boys of Doctor Wapshot's academy, whom he caught maltreating an outlying day-boy of ours, &c.,--are known to all the Rodwell Regis men. He was always victorious. He is modest and kind, like all great men. He has a good, brave, honest understanding. He cannot make verses like young Pinder, or read Greek like Lawrence the Prefect, who is a perfect young abyss of learning, and knows enough, Prince says, to furnish any six first-class men; but he does his work in a sound, downright way, and he is made to be the bravest of soldiers, the best of country parsons, an honest English gentleman wherever he may go. [Illustration: 0021] Like all great men, George is good-humoured and lazy. There is a particular bench in the play-ground on which he will loll for hours on half-holidays, and is so affable that the smallest boys come and speak to him. It is pleasant to see the young cubs frisking round the honest lion. His chief friend and attendant, however, is young Jack Hall, whom he saved when drowning, out of the Miller's Pool. The attachment of the two is curious to witness. The smaller lad gambolling, playing tricks round the bigger one, and perpetually making fun of his protector. They are never far apart, and of holidays you may meet them miles away from the school. George sauntering heavily down the lanes with his big stick, and little Jack larking with the pretty girls in the cottage windows. George has a boat on the river, in which, however, he commonly lies smoking, whilst Jack sculls him. He does not play at cricket, except when the school plays the county, or at Lord's in the holidays. The boys can't stand his bowling, and when he hits, it is like trying to catch a cannon-ball. I have seen him at tennis. It is a splendid sight to behold the young fellow bounding over the court with streaming yellow hair, like young Apollo in a flannel jacket. The other head boys are Lawrence the Captain, Bunce, famous chiefly for his magnificent appetite, and Pitman, sur-named Roscius, for his love of the drama. Add to these Swanky, called Macassar, from his partiality to that condiment, and who has varnished boots, wears white gloves on Sundays, and looks out for Miss Pinkerton's school (transferred from Chiswick to Rodwell Regis, and conducted by the nieces of the late Miss Barbara Pinkerton, the friend of Our Great Lexicograplier, upon the principles approved by him and practised by that admirable woman,) as it passes into church. [Illustration: 0025] Representations have been made concerning Mr. Horace Swanky's behaviour; rumours have been uttered about notes in verse, conveyed in three-cornered puffs, by Mrs. Buggies, who serves Miss Pinkerton's young ladies on Fridays--and how Miss Didow, to whom the tart and enclosure were addressed, tried to make away with herself by swallowing a ball of cotton. But I pass over these absurd reports, as likely to affect the reputation of an admirable Seminary conducted by irreproachable females. As they go into church (Miss P. driving in her flock of lambkins with the crook of her parasol,) how can it be helped if her forces and ours sometimes collide, as the boys are on their way up to the organ-loft? And I don't believe a word about the three-cornered puff, but rather that it was the invention of that jealous Miss Birch, who is jealous of Miss Raby, jealous of everybody who is good and handsome, and who has _her own ends_ in view, or I am very much in error. THE LITTLE SCHOOL-ROOM. |What they call the little school-room is a small room at the other end of the great school; through which you go to the Doctor's private house, and where Miss Raby sits with her pupils. She has a half-dozen very small ones over whom she presides and teaches them in her simple way, until they are big or learned enough to face the great school-room. Many of them are in a hurry for promotion, the graceless little simpletons, and know no more than their elders when they are well off. [Illustration: 0029] She keeps the accounts, writes out the bills, superintends the linen and sews on the general shirt-buttons. Think of having such a woman at home to sew on one's shirt-buttons! But peace, peace, thou foolish heart! Miss Raby is the Doctor's niece. Her mother was a beauty (quite unlike old Zoe therefore); and she married a pupil in the old Doctor's time, who was killed afterwards, a Captain in the East India service, at the siege of Bhurtpore. Hence a number of Indian children come to the Doctor's, for Raby was very much liked, and the uncle's kind reception of the orphan has been a good speculation for the school-keeper. It is wonderful how brightly and gaily that little quick creature does her duty. She is the first to rise, and the last to sleep, if any business is to be done. She sees the other two women go off to parties in the town without even so much as wishing to join them. It is Cinderella, only contented to stay at home--content to bear Zoe's scorn and to admit Flora's superior charms,--and to do her utmost to repay her uncle for his great kindness in housing her. So, you see, she works as much as three maid-servants for the wages of one. She is as thankful when the Doctor gives her a new gown, as if he had presented her with a fortune: laughs at his stories most good-humouredly, listens to Zoe's scolding most meekly, admires Flora with all her heart, and only goes out of the way when Jack Birch shows his sallow face: for she can't bear him, and always finds work when he comes near. How different she is when some folks approach her! I won't be presumptuous; but I think, I think, I have made a not unfavourable impression in some quarters. However, let us be mum on this subject. I like to see her, because she always looks good-humoured; because she is always kind, because she is always modest, because she is fond of those poor little brats--orphans some of them,--because she is rather pretty, I dare say, or because I think so, which comes to the same thing. Though she is kind to all, it must be owned she shows the most gross favouritism towards the amiable children. She brings them cakes from dessert, and regales them with Zoe's preserves; spends many of her little shillings in presents for her favourites, and will tell them stories by the hour. She has one very sad story about a little boy, who died long ago; the younger children are never weary of hearing about him; and Miss Raby has shown to one of them a lock of the little chap's hair, which she keeps in her work-box to this day. THE DEAR BROTHERS. _A Melodrama in several Rounds_. The Doctor. Mr. Tipper, Uncle to the Masters Boxall. Boxall Major, Boxall Minor, Brown, Jones, Smith, Robinson, Tiffin Minimus. B. Go it old Boxall. J. Give it him young Boxall. R. Pitch into him old Boxall. S. Two to one on young Boxall. [Enter Tiffin Minimus, _running._ _Tiffin Minimus_. Boxalls! you 're wanted. (_The Doctor to Mr. Tipper._) Every boy in the school loves them, my dear sir; your nephews are a credit to my establishment. They are orderly, well-conducted, gentleman-like boys. Let us enter and find them at their studies. [_Enter_ The Doctor _and_ Mr. Tipper. GRAND TABLEAU. A HOPELESS CASE. |Let us, people who are so uncommonly clever and learned, have a great tenderness and pity for the poor folks who are not endowed with the prodigious talents which we have. I have always had a regard for dunces;--those of my own school-days were amongst the pleasantest of the fellows, and have turned out by no means the dullest in life; whereas many a youth who could turn off Latin hexameters by the yard, and construe Greek quite glibly, is no better than a feeble prig now, with not a pennyworth more brains than were in his head before his beard grew. Those poor dunces! Talk of being the last man, ah! what a pang it must be to be the last boy--huge, misshapen, fourteen years of age,--and "taken up" by a chap who is but six years old, and can't speak quite plain yet! [Illustration: 0037] Master Hulker is in that condition at Birch's. He is the most honest, kind, active, plucky, generous creature. He can do many things better than most boys. He can go up a tree, jump, play at cricket, dive and swim perfectly--he can eat twice as much as almost any lady (as Miss Birch well knows), he has a pretty talent at carving figures with his hack-knife, he makes and paints little coaches, he can take a watch to pieces and put it together again. He can do everything but learn his lesson; and there he sticks at the bottom of the school, hopeless. As the little boys are drafted in from Miss Raby's class, (it is true she is one of the best instructresses in the world,) they enter and hop over poor Hulker. He would be handed over to the governess only he is too big. Sometimes I used to think, that this desperate stupidity was a stratagem of the poor rascal's; and that he shammed dulness so that he might be degraded into Miss Raby's class: if she would teach _me_, I know, before George, I would put on a pinafore and a little jacket--but no, it is a natural incapacity for the Latin Grammar. If you could see his grammar, it is a perfect curiosity of dog's ears. The leaves and cover are all curled and ragged. Many of the pages are worn away, with the rubbing of his elbows as he sits poring over the hopeless volume, with the blows of his fists as he thumps it madly, or with the poor fellow's tears. You see him wiping them away with the back of his hand, as he tries and tries, and can't do it. When I think of that Latin Grammar, and that infernal As in Præsenti, and of other things which I was made to learn in my youth: upon my conscience I am surprised that we ever survived it. When one thinks of the boys who have been caned because they could not master that intolerable jargon! Good Lord, what a pitiful chorus these poor little creatures send up! Be gentle with them, ye schoolmasters, and only whop those who _won't_ learn. The Doctor has operated upon Hulker (between ourselves), but the boy was so little affected you would have thought he had taken chloroform. Birch is weary of whipping now, and leaves the boy to go his own gait. Prince, when he hears the lesson, and who cannot help making fun of a fool, adopts the sarcastic manner with Master Hulker, and says, "Mr. Hulker, may I take the liberty to inquire if your brilliant intellect has enabled you to perceive the difference between those words which grammarians have defined as substantive and adjective nouns?--if not, perhaps Mr. Ferdinand Timmins will instruct you." And Timmins hops over Hulker's head. I wish Prince would leave off girding at the poor lad. He's an only son, and his mother is a widow woman, who loves him with all her might. There is a famous sneer about the suckling of fools and the chronicling of small beer; but remember it was a rascal who uttered it. A WORD ABOUT MISS BIRCH. "The Gentlemen, and especially the younger and more tender of the Pupils, will have the advantage of the constant superintendence and affectionate care of Miss Zoe Birch, sister of the Principal: whose dearest aim will be to supply (as far as may be) the absent maternal friend."--_Prospectus of Rodwell Regis School_. This is all very fine in the Doctor's circulars, and Miss Zoe Birch--(a sweet birch blossom it is, fifty-five years old, during two score of which she has dosed herself with pills; with a nose as red and a face as sour as a crab-apple)--may do mighty well in a prospectus. But I should like to know who would take Miss Zoe for a mother, or would have her for one? [Illustration: 0042] The only persons in the house who are not afraid of her are Miss Flora and I--no, I am afraid of her, though I _do_ know the story about the French usher in 1830--but all the rest tremble before the woman, from the Doctor down to poor Francis the knife-boy, and whom she bullies into his miserable blacking-hole. The Doctor is a pompous and outwardly severe man--but inwardly weak and easy: loving a joke and a glass of port wine. I get on with him, therefore, much better than Mr. Prince, who scorns him for an ass, and under whose keen eyes the worthy Doctor writhes like a convicted impostor; and many a sunshiny afternoon would he have said, "Mr. T., Sir, shall we try another glass of that yellow sealed wine which you seem to like?" (and which he likes even better than I do), had not the old harridan of a Zoe been down upon us, and insisted on turning me out with her miserable weak coffee. She a mother indeed! A sour milk generation she would have nursed. She is always croaking, scolding, bullying,--yowling at the housemaids, snarling at Miss Raby, bowwowing after the little boys, barking after the big ones. She knows how much every boy eats to an ounce; and her delight is to ply with fat the little ones who can't bear it, and with raw meat those who hate underdone. It was she who caused the Doctor to be eaten out three times; and nearly created a rebellion in the school because she insisted on his flogging Goliah Longman. The only time that woman is happy is when she comes in of a morning to the little boys' dormitories with a cup of hot Epsom salts, and a sippet of bread. Boo!--the very notion makes me quiver. She stands over them. I saw her do it to young Byles only a few days since--and her presence makes the abomination doubly abominable. As for attending them in real illness, do you suppose that she would watch a single night for any one of them? Not she. When poor little Charley Davison (that child, a lock of whose soft hair I have said how Miss Raby still keeps) lay ill of scarlet fever in the holidays--for the Colonel, the father of these boys, was in India--it was Anne Raby who tended the child, who watched him all through the fever, who never left him while it lasted, or until she had closed the little eyes that were never to brighten or moisten more. Anny watched and deplored him, but it was Miss Birch who wrote the letter announcing his demise, and got the gold chain and locket which the Colonel ordered as a memento of his gratitude. It was through a row with Miss Birch that Frank Davison ran away. I promise you that after he joined his regiment in India, the Ahmednuggar Irregulars, which his gallant father commands, there came over no more annual shawls and presents to Dr. and Miss Birch, and that if she fancied the Colonel was coming home to marry her (on account of her tenderness to his motherless children, which he was always writing about), _that_ notion was very soon given up. But these affairs are of early date, seven years back, and I only heard of them in a very confused manner from Miss Raby, who was a girl, and had just come to Rodwell Regis. She is always very much moved when she speaks about those boys, which is but seldom. I take it the death of the little one still grieves her tender heart. Yes, it is Miss Birch, who has turned away seventeen ushers and second masters in eleven years, and half as many French masters; inconsolable, I suppose, since the departure of her _favourite_, M. Grinche, with her gold watch, &c.; but this is only surmise--and what I gather from the taunts of Miss Rosa when she and her aunt have a tiff at tea. But besides this, I have another way of keeping her in order. Whenever she is particularly odious or insolent to Miss Raby, I have but to introduce raspberry jam into the conversation, and the woman holds her tongue. She will understand me. I need not say more. _Note, 12th December_.--I _may_ speak now. I have left the place and don't mind. I say then at once, and without caring twopence for the consequences, that I saw this woman, this _mother_ of the boys, _eating jam with a spoon out of Master Wiggins's trunk in the box-room_; and of this I am ready to take an affidavit any day. A TRAGEDY. THIS DRAMA OUGHT TO BE REPRESENTED IN ABOUT SIX CUTS. _[The School is hushed. Lawrence the Prefect, and Custos of the rods, is marching after the Doctor into the operating-room. Master Backhouse is about to follow.]_ [Illustration: 0048] _Master Backhouse_. It's all very well, but you see if I don't pay you out after school--you sneak, you. _Master Lurcher_. If you do I '1l tell again. [Exit Backhouse. [_The rod is heard from the adjoining apartment. Hwish--Hhwish--hwish--hwish--hwish--hwish--hwish._] [Re-enter Backhouse. BRIGGS IN LUCK. _Enter the Knife-boy_.--Hamper for Briggses! _Master Brown._--Hurray, Tom Briggs! I'll lend you my knife. If this story does not carry its own moral, what fable does, I wonder? Before the arrival of that hamper, Master Briggs was in no better repute than any other young gentleman of the lower school; and in fact I had occasion myself, only lately, to correct Master Brown for kicking his friend's shins during the writing-lesson. But how this basket directed by his mother's housekeeper, and marked "Glass with care," (whence I conclude that it contains some jam and some bottles of wine probably, as well as the usual cake and game-pie, and half a sovereign for the elder Master B., and five new shillings for Master Decimus Briggs)--how, I say, the arrival of this basket, alters all Master Briggs's circumstances in life, and the estimation in which many persons regard him! [Illustration: 0051] If he is a good-hearted boy, as I have reason to think, the very first thing he will do, before inspecting the contents of the hamper, or cutting into them with the knife which Master Brown has so considerately lent him; will be to read over the letter from home which lies on the top of the parcel. He does so, as I remark to Miss Raby (for whom I happened to be mending pens when the little circumstance arose), with a flushed face and winking eyes. Look how the other boys are peering into the basket as he reads.--I say to her, "Isn't it a pretty picture?" Part of the letter is in a very large hand. That is from his little sister. And I would wager that she netted the little purse which he has just taken out of it, and which Master Lynx is eyeing. "You are a droll man, and remark all sorts of queer things," Miss Raby says, smiling, and plying her swift needle and fingers as quick as possible. "I am glad we are both on the spot, and that the little fellow lies under our guns as it were, and so is protected from some such brutal school-pirates as young Duval for instance, who would rob him probably of some of those good things, good in themselves, and better because fresh from home. See, there is a pie as I said, and which I dare say is better than those which are served at our table (but you never take any notice of these kind of things, Miss Raby), a cake of course, a bottle of currant wine, jam-pots, and no end of pears in the straw. "With this money little Briggs will be able to pay the tick which that imprudent child has run up with Mrs. Ruggles; and I shall let Briggs Major pay for the pencil-case which Bullock sold to him.--It will be a lesson to the young prodigal for the future. "But, I say, what a change there will be in his life for some time to come, and at least until his present wealth is spent! The boys who bully him will mollify towards him, and accept his pie and sweetmeats. They will have feasts in the bed-room; and that wine will taste more deliciously to them than the best out of the Doctor's cellar. The cronies will be invited. Young Master Wagg will tell his most dreadful story and sing his best song for a slice of that pie. What a jolly night they will have! When we go the rounds at night, Mr. Prince and I will take care to make a noise before we come to Briggs's room, so that the boys may have time to put the light out, to push the things away, and to scud into bed. Doctor Spry may be put in requisition the next morning..." "Nonsense! you absurd creature," cries out Miss Raby, laughing; and I lay down the twelfth pen very nicely mended. "Yes; after luxury comes the doctor, I say; after extravagance, a hole in the breeches pocket. To judge from his disposition, Briggs Major will not be much better off a couple of days hence than he is now, and, if I am not mistaken, will end life a poor man. Brown will be kicking his shins before a week is over, depend upon it. There are boys and men of all sorts, Miss R.--there are selfish sneaks who hoard until the store they daren't use grows mouldy--there are spendthrifts who fling away, parasites who flatter and lick its shoes, and snarling curs who hate and envy, good fortune."--I put down the last of the pens, brushing away with it the quill-chips from her desk first, and she looked at me with a kind wondering face. I brushed them away, clicked the pen-knife into my pocket, made her a bow, and walked off--for the bell was ringing for school. A YOUNG FELLOW WHO IS PRETTY SURE TO SUCCEED. |If Master Briggs is destined in all probability to be a poor man, the chances are, that Mr. Bullock will have a very different lot. He is a son of a partner of the eminent banking firm of Bullock and Hulker, Lombard Street, and very high in the upper school--quite out of my jurisdiction, consequently. He writes the most beautiful current hand ever seen; and the way in which he mastered arithmetic (going away into recondite and wonderful rules in the Tutor's Assistant, which some masters even dare not approach) is described by the Doctor in terms of admiration. He is Mr. Prince's best algebra pupil; and a very fair classic, too, doing everything well for which he has a mind. He does not busy himself with the sports of his comrades, and holds a cricket-bat no better than Miss Raby would. He employs the play hours in improving his mind, and reading the newspaper; he is a profound politician, and, it must be owned, on the Liberal side. The elder boys despise him rather; and when Champion Major passes, he turns his head, and looks down. I don't like the expression of Bullock's narrow, green eyes, as they follow the elder Champion, who does not seem to know or care how much the other hates him. No--Mr. Bullock, though perhaps the cleverest and most accomplished boy in the school, associates with the quite little boys when he is minded for society. To these he is quite affable, courteous, and winning. He never fagged or thrashed one of them. He has done the verses and corrected the exercises of many, and many is the little lad to whom he has lent a little money. It is true he charges at the rate of a penny a week for every sixpence lent out, but many a fellow to whom tarts are a present necessity is happy to pay this interest for the loan. These transactions are kept secret. Mr. Bullock, in rather a whining tone, when he takes Master Green aside and does the requisite business for him, says, "You know you'll go and talk about it everywhere. I don't want to lend you the money, I want to buy something with it. It's only to oblige you; and yet I am sure you will go and make fun of me." Whereon, of course, Green, eager for the money, vows solemnly that the transaction shall be confidential, and only speaks when the payment of the interest becomes oppressive. Thus it is that Mr. Bullock's practices are at all known. At a very early period indeed his commercial genius manifested itself; and by happy speculations in toffey; by composing a sweet drink made of stick liquorice and brown sugar, and selling it at a profit to the younger children; by purchasing a series of novels, which he let out at an adequate remuneration; by doing boys exercises for a penny, and other processes, he showed the bent of his mind. At the end of the half year he always went home richer than when he arrived at school, with his purse full of money. Nobody knows how much he brought: but the accounts are fabulous. Twenty, thirty, fifty--it is impossible to say how many sovereigns. When joked about his money, he turns pale and swears he has not a shilling: whereas he has had a banker's account ever since he was thirteen years old. At the present moment he is employed in negotiating the sale of a knife with Master Green, and is pointing out to the latter the beauty of the six blades, and that he need not pay until after the holidays. [Illustration: 0059] Champion Major has sworn that he will break every bone in his skin the next time that he cheats a little boy, and is bearing down upon him. Let us come away. It is frightful to see that big peaceful clever coward moaning under well deserved blows and whining for mercy. DUVAL, THE PIRATE. (_Jones Minimus passes, laden with tarts._) [Illustration: 0062] _Duval_. Hullo! you small boy with the tarts! Come here, Sir. _Jones Minimus_. Please, Duval, they ain't mine. _Duval._ O you abominable young story-teller. [He confiscates the goods. I think I like young Duval's mode of levying contributions better than Bullock's. The former's, at least, has the merit of more candour. Duval is the pirate of Birch's, and lies in wait for small boys laden with money or provender. He scents plunder from afar off: and pounces out on it. Woe betide the little fellow when Duval boards him! There was a youth here whose money I used to keep, as he was of an extravagant and weak disposition; and I doled it out to him in weekly shillings, sufficient for the purchase of the necessary tarts. This boy came to me one day for half a sovereign, for a very particular purpose, he said. I afterwards found he wanted to lend the money to Duval. The young ogre burst out laughing, when in a great wrath and fury I ordered him to refund to the little boy: and proposed a bill of exchange at three months. It is true Duval's father does not pay the Doctor, and the lad never has a shilling, save that which he levies; and though he is always bragging about the splendour of Freenystown, Co. Cork, and the fox-hounds his father keeps, and the claret they drink there--there comes no remittance from Castle Freeny in these bad times to the honest Doctor, who is a kindly man enough, and never yet turned an insolvent boy out of doors. THE DORMITORIES. _MASTER HEWLETT AND MASTER NIGHTINGALE._ (Rather a cold winter night.) _Hewlett (flinging a shoe at Master Nightingale's bed, with which he hits that young gentleman.)_ Hullo! You! Get up and bring me that shoe. [Illustration: 0066] _Nightingale._ Yes, Hewlett. _(He gets up.)_ _Hewlett_. Don't drop it, and be very careful of it, Sir. _Nightingale_. Yes, Hewlett. _Hewlett_. Silence in the Dormitory! Any boy who opens his mouth I'll murder him. Now, Sir, are not you the boy what can sing? _Nightingale_. Yes, Hewlett. _Hewlett_. Chaunt then till I go to sleep, and if I wake when you stop, you 'll have this at your head. [Master Hewlett lays his Bluchers on the bed, ready to shy at Master Nightingale's head in the case contemplated. _Nightingale (timidly.)_ Please, Hewlett? _Hewlett_. Well, Sir. _Nightingale_. May I put on my trowsers, please? _Hewlett. No_, Sir. Go on, or I '11-- _Nightingale_, "Through pleasures and palaces Though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, There's no place like home. "Home, home! sweet, sweet home! There's no place like ho-ome! There's no place like home!" (Da Capo.) A CAPTURE AND A RESCUE. [Illustration: 0070] My young friend, Patrick Champion, George's younger brother, is a late arrival among us; has much of the family quality and good-nature; is not in the least a tyrant to the small boys, but is as eager as an Amadis to fight. He is boxing his way up the school, emulating his great brother. He fixes his eye on a boy above him in strength or size, and you hear somehow that a difference has arisen between them at football, and they have their coats off presently. He has thrashed himself over the heads of many youths in this manner; for instance, if Champion can lick Dobson, who can thrash Hobson, how much more, then, can he thrash Hobson. Thus he works up and establishes his position in the school. Nor does Mr. Prince think it advisable that we ushers should walk much in the way when these little differences are being settled, unless there is some gross disparity, or danger is apprehended. For instance, I own to having seen the row depicted here as I was shaving at my bed-room window. I did not hasten down to prevent its consequences. Fogle had confiscated a top, the property of Snivins, the which, as the little wretch was always pegging it at my toes, I did not regret. Snivins whimpered; and young Champion came up, lusting for battle. Directly he made out Fogle, he steered for him, pulling up his coat-sleeves, and clearing for action. "Who spoke to _you_, young Champion?" Fogle said, and he flung down the top to Master Snivins. I knew there would be no fight; and perhaps Champion, too, was disappointed. THE GARDEN, _WHERE THE PARLOUR-BOARDERS GO._ Noblemen have been rather scarce at Birch's--but the heir of a great Prince has been living with the Doctor for some years.--He is Lord George Gaunt's eldest son, the noble Plan-tagenet Gaunt Gaunt, and nephew of the Most Honourable the Marquis of Steyne. [Illustration: 0074] They are very proud of him at the Doctor's--and the two Misses and Papa, whenever a stranger comes down whom they want to dazzle, are pretty sure to bring Lord Steyne into the conversation, mentioning the last party at Gaunt House, and cursorily remarking that they have with them a young friend who will be in all human probability Marquis of Steyne and Earl of Gaunt, &c. Plantagenet does not care much about these future honours: provided he can get some brown sugar on his bread and butter, or sit with three chairs and play at coach and horses, quite quietly by himself, he is tolerably happy. He saunters in and out of school when he likes, and looks at the masters and other boys with a listless grin. He used to be taken to church, but he laughed and talked in odd places, so they are forced to leave him at home now. He will sit with a bit of string and play cats-cradle for many hours. He likes to go and join the very small children at their games. Some are frightened at him, but they soon cease to fear, and order him about. I have seen him go and fetch tarts from Mrs. Ruggles for a boy of eight years old; and cry bitterly if he did not get a piece. He cannot speak quite plain, but very nearly; and is not more, I suppose, than three-and-twenty. Of course at home they know his age, though they never come and see him. But they forget that Miss Rosa Birch is no longer a young chit as she was ten years ago, when Gaunt was brought to the school. On the contrary, she has had no small experience in the tender passion, and is at this moment smitten with a disinterested affection for Plantagenet Gaunt. Next to a little doll with a burnt nose, which he hides away in cunning places, Mr. Gaunt is very fond of Miss Rosa too. What a pretty match it would make! and how pleased they would be at Gaunt House, if the grandson and heir of the great Marquis of Steyne, the descendant of a hundred Gaunts and Tudors, should marry Miss Birch, the schoolmaster's daughter! It is true she has the sense on her side, and poor Plantagenet is only an idiot: but there he is, a zany, with such expectations and such a pedigree! If Miss Rosa would run away with Mr. Gaunt, she would leave off bullying her cousin, Miss Anny Raby. Shall I put her up to the notion, and offer to lend her the money to run away? Mr. Gaunt is not allowed money. He had some once, but Bullock took him into a corner, and got it from him. He has a moderate tick opened at the tart-woman's. He stops at Rodwell Regis through the year, school-time and holiday time; it is all the same to him. Nobody asks about him, or thinks about him, save twice a year, when the Doctor goes to Gaunt House, and gets the amount of his bills, and a glass of wine in the steward's room. And yet you see somehow that he is a gentleman. His manner is different to that of the owners of that coarse table and parlour at which he is a boarder, (I do not speak of Miss R. of course, for _her_ manners are as good as those of a Duchess). When he caught Miss Rosa boxing little Fiddes's ears, his face grew red, and he broke into a fierce, inarticulate rage. After that, and for some days, he used to shrink from her; but they are reconciled now. I saw them this afternoon in the garden, where only the parlour-boarders walk. He was playful, and touched her with his stick. She raised her handsome eyes in surprise, and smiled on him very kindly. The thing was so clear, that I thought it my duty to speak to old Zoe about it. The wicked old catamaran told me she wished that some people would mind their own business, and hold their tongues--that some people were paid to teach writing, and not to tell tales and make mischief: and I have since been thinking whether I ought to communicate with the Doctor. THE OLD PUPIL. |As I came into the play-grounds this morning, I saw a dashing young fellow, with a tanned face and a blonde moustache, who was walking up and down the green, arm-in-arm with Champion Major, and followed by a little crowd of boys. They were talking of old times evidently. "What had become of Irvine and Smith?"--"Where was Bill Harris and Jones, not Squinny Jones, but Cocky Jones?"--and so forth. The gentleman was no stranger; he was an old pupil evidently, come to see if any of his old comrades remained, and to revisit the _cari luogi_ of his youth. Champion was evidently proud of his arm-fellow. He espied his brother, young Champion, and introduced him. "Come here, Sir," he called. "The young 'un wasn't here in your time, Davison." "Pat, Sir," said he, "this is Captain Davison, one of Birch's boys. Ask him who was among the first in the lines at Sobraon?" Pat's face kindled up as he looked Davison full in the face, and held out his hand. Old Champion and Davison both blushed. The infantry set up a "Hurray! hurray! hurray!" Champion leading, and waving his wide-awake. I protest that the scene did one good to witness. Here was the hero and cock of the school come back to see his old haunts and cronies. He had always remembered them. Since he had seen them last, he had faced death and achieved honour. But for my dignity I would have shied up my hat too. With a resolute step, and his arm still linked in Champion's, Captain Davison now advanced, followed by a wake of little boys, to that corner of the green where Mrs. Buggies has her tart-stand. "Hullo, Mother Buggies! don't you remember me?" he said, and shook her by the hand. "Lor, if it ain't Davison Major!" she said. "Well, Davison Major, you owe me fourpence for two sausage-rolls from when you went away." Davison laughed, and all the little crew of boys set up a similar chorus. "I buy the whole shop," he said. "Now, young 'uns--eat away!" Then there was such a "Hurray! hurray!" as surpassed the former cheer in loudness. Everybody engaged in it except Piggy Duff, who made an instant dash at the three-cornered puffs, but was stopped by Champion, who said there should be a fair distribution. And so there was, and no one lacked, neither of raspberry open-tarts, nor of mellifluous bull's-eyes, nor of polonies, beautiful to the sight and taste. The hurraying brought out the Doctor himself, who put his hand up to his spectacles and started when he saw the old pupil. Each blushed when he recognised the other; for seven years ago they had parted not good friends. "What--Davison?" the Doctor said, with a tremulous voice. "God bless you, my dear fellow!"--and they shook hands. "A half-holiday, of course, boys," he added, and there was another hurray: there was to be no end to the cheering that day. "How's--how's the family, Sir?" Captain Davison asked. "Come in and see. Flora's grown quite a lady. Dine with us, of course. Champion Major, come to dinner at five. Mr. Titmarsh, the pleasure of your company?" The Doctor swung open the garden-gate: the old master and pupil entered the house reconciled. I thought I would just peep into Miss Raby's room, and tell her of this event. She was working away at her linen there, as usual, quiet and cheerful. "You should put up," I said with a smile; "the Doctor has given us a half-holiday." "I never have holidays," Miss Raby replied. Then I told her of the scene I had just witnessed, of the arrival of the old pupil, the purchase of the tarts, the proclamation of the holiday, and the shouts of the boys of "Hurray, Davison." "_Who_ is it?" cried out Miss Raby, starting and turning as white as a sheet. I told her it was Captain Davison from India, and described the appearance and behaviour of the Captain. When I had finished speaking, she asked me to go and get her a glass of water; she felt unwell. But she was gone when I came back with the water. I know all now. After sitting for a quarter of an hour with the Doctor, who attributed his guest's uneasiness no doubt to his desire to see Miss Laura Birch, Davison started up and said he wanted to see Miss Raby. "You remember, Sir, how kind she was to my little brother," he said. Whereupon the Doctor, with a look of surprise that anybody should want to see Miss Raby, said she was in the little school-room, whither the Captain went, knowing the way from old times. A few minutes afterwards, Miss B. and Miss Z. returned from a drive with Plantagenet Gaunt in their one-horse fly, and being informed of Davison's arrival, and that he was closeted with Miss Raby in the little school-room, of course made for that apartment at once. I was coming into it from the other door. I wanted to know whether she had drunk the water. [Illustration: 0084] This is what both parties saw. The two were in this very attitude. "Well, upon my word!" cries out Miss Zoe, But Davison did not let go his hold; and Miss Raby's head only sank down on his hand. "You must get another governess, Sir, for the little boys," Frank Davison said to the Doctor. "Anny Raby has promised to come with me." You may suppose I shut to the door on my side. And when I returned to the little school-room, it was blank and empty. Everybody was gone. I could hear the boys shouting at play in the green, outside. The glass of water was on the table where I had placed it. I took it and drank it myself, to the health of Anny Raby and her husband. It was rather a choker. But of course I wasn't going to stop on at Birch's. When his young friends re-assemble on the 1st of February next, they will have two new masters. Prince resigned too, and is at present living with me at my old lodgings at Mrs. Cammysole's. If any nobleman or gentleman wants a private tutor for his son, a note to the Rev. F. Prince will find him there. Miss Clapperclaw says we are both a couple of old fools; and that she knew, when I set off last year to Rodwell Regis, after meeting the two young ladies at a party at General Champion's house in our street, that I was going on a goose's errand. Well, well, that journey is over now; I shall dine at the General's on Christmas-day, where I shall meet Captain and Mrs. Davison, and some of the old pupils of Birch's; and I wish a merry Christmas to them, and to all young and old boys. |The play is done; the curtain drops, Slow falling, to the prompter's bell: A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task; And when he 's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay. One word, ere yet the evening ends, Let's close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas-time. On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, That Fate ere long shall bid you play; Good night! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway! Good night!--I'd say, the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age. I 'd say, your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain, than those of men; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen, At forty-five played o'er again. I'd say, we suffer and we strive Not less nor more as men than boys; With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve, in corduroys. And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven, that early Love and Truth May never wholly pass away. And in the world, as in the school, I 'd say, how fate may change and shift; The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man he a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitilessly down. Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessed be He who took and gave! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? * We bow to Heaven that will'd it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, That's free to give or to recall. This crowns his feast with wine and wit: Who brought him to that mirth aud state? His betters, see, below him sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus? Come, brother, in that dust we '11 kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. * C. B., ob. 29 Nov. 1848, set. 42. So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen! whatever fate be sent,-- Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the heart with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter-snow. Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses, or who wins the prize? Go, lose or conquer as you can: But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman, A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays); The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas-days: The shepherds heard it overhead-- The joyful angels raised it then: Glory to Heaven 011 high, it said, And peace 011 earth to gentle men. My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still-- Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will. THE END. 
37254	----	The Gentleman Cadet His Career and Adventures at the Royal Military Academy Woolwich By Lt. Col. A.W. Drayson Illustrations by C.J. Staniland Published by Griffith and Farran, London. The Gentleman Cadet, by Lt. Col. A.W. Drayson. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE GENTLEMAN CADET, BY LT. COL. A.W. DRAYSON. PREFACE. The following pages contain a history of the life of a Woolwich Cadet as it was about thirty years ago. The hero of the tale is taken through the then usual routine of a cram-school at Woolwich, and from thence passed into the Royal Military Academy. The reformation that has taken place--both in the preparatory schools and also at the Academy--may be judged of by those who read this book and are acquainted with existing conditions. The habits and life of a Cadet of the present day are well known, but the singular laws and regulations--written and unwritten--in former times may not be so generally understood; and, as memory of the past fades away, the following pages have been penned, to give a history of the singular life and manners of the old Cadet. The work has no other pretensions than to give this history, and to afford amusement to the young aspirant for military glory. _Southsea, September_, 1874. CHAPTER ONE. MY HOME LIFE. On the borders of the New Forest, in Hampshire, stands an old-fashioned thatch-roofed family-house, surrounded by cedars and firs, with a clean-shaved, prim-looking lawn opposite the drawing-room windows, from which a magnificent view was visible of the forest itself and the Southampton waters beyond. In that house I was born; and there I passed the first fourteen years of my existence in a manner that must be briefly recorded, in order to make the reader acquainted with my state of education previous to a somewhat eventful career in a more busy scene. My father had been intended for the Church, but having at Cambridge taken a dislike to holy orders, and finding himself left, by the death of my grandfather, sole possessor of a sum of about thirty thousand pounds invested in Consols, he decided to live an easy life, and enjoy himself, instead of taking up any profession--an error that caused him to be what may be called "a mistake" all his life, and which was the cause of much suffering to me. Having devoted some eight or ten years to travelling and seeing the world, my father married, and selected for his wife the youngest of seven daughters of a very worthy but very poor clergyman in Wiltshire, who bore him two daughters and myself; after which she sickened and died at the early age of twenty-six. In order to have some one to whom he could entrust the care of his three children, my father took into his house his eldest sister, who was some fifteen years his senior, and to whom was given the sole charge of myself and my two sisters. Aunt Emma, as we used to term her, was my abhorrence; she had a singular facility of making herself disagreeable, especially with us young people. That she used to teach us our letters and our reading and writing was certainly kind on her part--at least, so she assured me--but she had a way of teaching that was not one at all suitable to gaining the esteem or affection of a child. Her principal object in teaching seemed to be to impress on us children that we were the most stupid, dull, and lazy children in the world, whom it was little short of martyrdom to try to teach; whilst we were informed that she, as a child and as a schoolgirl, had always been famous for quickness in learning, attention to her studies, and love to her schoolmistress. We were also being daily impressed with the idea that we were awfully wicked and selfish, and quite unworthy of any kindness from her or our father, whilst we were also accused of having a bad motive for everything we did. Aunt Emma was a great expert in slapping. Often have I lain in bed and cried for hours at the remembrance of the unmerited and severe slaps that my poor little delicate sister had received during the day from Aunt Emma. There was, I feel glad to say, no real anger in those feelings, but a sense of utter misery and regret that Aunt Emma should feel so little for the unhappiness she caused, and for the injustice of which she was guilty. I was a child then, and I had yet to learn that there are people in the world who take a delight in making others unhappy, who attribute to all, except themselves, bad, selfish, or spiteful motives for every word and act, and to whom the world is an enemy on which they are justified in renting their spleen. It may seem to the reader out of place to speak thus of Aunt Emma, but as she had much to do with my early life, and as her specialities must then be brought forward, there is really no object in concealing either her weaknesses or defects. At the date to which I am referring, some forty years ago, there was a great taste in many private families for immoderate physicking. Aunt Emma possessed this taste in no small degree; that she believed in its efficacy there can be no doubt, because she used to physic herself with the same generous freedom that she bestowed on us children. Each spring we regularly, for some five weeks, were put through a course of brimstone and treacle; each morning we were given a spoonful of treacle in which the gritty brimstone had been stirred with a free hand. If we looked pale or tired, or were more than ordinarily stupid at our lessons, Aunt Emma decided that a three-grain blue pill at night, followed by a cup of senna tea in the morning, was urgently needed. These doses came with dangerous frequency, and I can conscientiously say, not once for a fortnight, from the time I was five years old till nearly eleven, was I free of physic. Whether it was from this or from any other cause, I cannot say for certain, but up to twelve years of age I was a pale, weak, sickly boy, given to sick headaches, sleepless nights, vomitings, and general debility, with a strong tendency to get alone somewhere, and either dream away the hours, or read and re-read any book that I was fortunate enough to procure. Up to the age of twelve my life was a kind of tideless sea; time passed, but there were no events to mark it. Companions I had none, except my two sisters, and sometimes a forest lad, the son of a gamekeeper, who used to take me out squirrel-hunting or birds'-nesting. These expeditions, however, were all but forbidden by my aunt, who visited with her severe displeasure either absence from a meal or a late arrival for one. Having given priority in description to my aunt, I must now endeavour to describe my father. If I were to write pages I could not more fully delineate my father's character better than to state that he had but one fault, viz, he was too kind. This kindness actually degenerated into weakness, or, as some people might term it, feebleness or indifference. This peculiar attribute manifested itself in a neglect of my early education, and of that of my sisters. If it were suggested to him that I was old enough to go to a school, he invariably found some excuse, such as that I was just then too much out of health, or he could not spare me, or I was doing very well at home, or he could not select a school where he could be sure I should receive proper attention. The true reason for these excuses was, I believe, that he could not make up his mind to part with me. I was almost his only companion, for our nearest neighbour was three miles off, and he was a man devoted to hunting only, and had none of those refined tastes or love for literature and art that my father was famous for. The result of these conditions was that at the age of thirteen I was very old in manner and thought; I was prematurely old before I was young; but I lacked the knowledge, education, and experience which usually come with age, and I was, as regards other boys, the most veritable ignoramus as to the world--knowing nothing of boys, or of the great school-world, a complete dunce as regards those points of education on which all other lads of my own age were well-informed--having a somewhat exaggerated idea of my own talents, genius, and acquirements, and disposed to look down on those boys, sons of the neighbouring gentry, who about twice a year came to our house to partake of our hospitality, and enjoy a picnic in the forest. My father was a perfect gentleman, in the full meaning of the word. He was most sensitive himself, and, believing all those with whom he associated to be equally gifted, he was most careful and considerate in all he said or did. With him it was little short of a crime to say or do anything that could by any chance hurt the feelings of even an acquaintance. I remember once hearing an anecdote related about my father, which may show how great was the belief at least of his sympathies with others. A guest at his dinner-table, on one occasion, upset by accident a glass of sherry on the table-cloth. The visitor apologised for his awkwardness, in most humble terms, blushed deeply, and again commenced a second apology. My father tried to place the guest at his ease, but, noticing how uncomfortable he appeared, my father (it was said, purposely) upset his own glass of wine, at which he laughed immoderately, and was joined by all at table, the result being that no further apologies were offered or awkwardness exhibited by the clumsy guest. My father's pet hobby was Natural History. He had a splendid collection of all the moths and butterflies to be found in England. It was a great treat for me to walk with him under the wide-spreading arms of the giant beech-trees or grand old oaks that grew around us, and watch him select the grub or cocoon of some insect that would have escaped the attention of common eyes, and hear him describe the changes through which this creature passed in its material career. Many are the happy hours that I have passed with him watching the gambols of the squirrel, or, with a pair of powerful opera glasses, scrutinising the detail labours of various birds as they built their nests. The peculiar habits of various birds and insects were well known to me long before some of them were made known to the reading world by those gentlemen whose books on natural history were written from their experience gained in the library of the British Museum. Long before naturalists had begun to speculate on the cause of that peculiar drumming noise made by the snipe when on the wing, my father and I had convinced ourselves that it was due to the bird spreading open the pinion feathers as it stooped in its flight. The New Forest was especially suited for the residence of a naturalist, as in it were many rare birds and insects, and the opportunities for watching the habits of these were frequent. About my future course in life my father never spoke; he seemed disposed to let matters drift on; and I believe his wish was that I never should leave home for the purpose of taking up a profession, but that at his death I should still continue the quiet, peaceful life that we had hitherto led in the forest. It is possible that I might have continued contented as a mere forest boy with country tastes, somewhat feeble powers, and what may be termed a wasted life, had I not by chance met an individual who in one short day turned the whole current of my thoughts into a new channel, and raised in my mind longings and wishes to which I had hitherto been a stranger. As my whole future life turned at this point I must devote a new chapter to a description of my meeting with this person. CHAPTER TWO. MY FIRST ADVENTURE. I was in the habit of taking long walks, accompanied by my dog, through the forest and over those wastes of moorland which are to be found in various parts of Hampshire. Whilst thus wandering one day, I saw on a prominent knoll, from which an extensive view could be obtained of the surrounding country, two men, one of whom had on a red uniform. My life had been passed so entirely in the wilds of the forest that I had never before seen a soldier, and my curiosity was at once excited by this red-coat, and I consequently made my way towards him, intending to examine him as I would a new specimen of natural history. On coming near the two persons I saw at once that the one in civilian dress was a gentleman. To me he looked old, but I afterwards found out he was only twenty-four; but a man of twenty-four is old to a boy of fourteen. This gentleman was busily occupied with a strange-looking instrument, which seemed made partly of brass and partly of wood. It stood on three legs, which were separated so as to form a pyramid, and on the apex of this was the brass apparatus referred to. I had approached to within about twenty yards of this instrument when the gentleman ceased looking at it, and, turning towards me, said, "Now, young fellow, mind you don't get shot." "I beg pardon," I said, "I didn't know you were going to fire." And as I said so I saw that what appeared rather like a tube was pointing towards me. "If you get shot it will be your own fault," said the gentleman; "so don't expect me to be responsible. Don't you see the muzzle is pointing at you?" I slipped round very quickly, so as to place myself, as I supposed, behind the gun, but, in a moment, round went the instrument with a touch of the gentleman's finger, and again the tube pointed at me. "There you are again, right in the way," said the stranger. "If you are not shot it's a marvel to me." Seeing a smile on the face of the soldier, I began to suspect that I was being made fun of, so I said, "I don't believe that is a gun." "Not a gun? Why, what a disbelieving young Jew you are?" "I'm not a Jew," I replied indignantly. "I'm a gentleman." "That's good," exclaimed the stranger, with a laugh. "Then you mean to assert that a Jew can't be a gentleman? You'd better mind what you're saying, sir, for I'm a Jew." I looked at him with surprise, for I had my own idea of what a Jew was on account of a Jew pedlar coming to our lodge twice a year with a pack of all sorts of odds and ends to sell; and certainly, as I looked at the tall, handsome-looking stranger, I saw no similarity between him and the pedlar. I had lived hitherto in a most matter-of-fact world, where such a thing as a joke was rare, and what is termed "chaff" was unknown, so I did not understand the meaning of these remarks, and certainly felt no inclination to smile. "Do you live in these parts?" asked the stranger. "Yes," I replied. "Do you know the forest well?" "Every part of it." "Now come here," said the stranger. "Do you see those tall pines--those on that hill?" "Yes." "Well, what is the name of that place?" "That's Castle Malwood." "Castle Malwood; and it's well known about here by that name?" "Yes, of course it is." "If I were to ask one of these chawbacon foresters to show me where Castle Malwood was, he would point out that place, eh?" "Yes; every forester knows that." "How about the name of that house down there with the yew-trees round it?" "That's Blackthorn Lodge, where I live." "Oh, that's your house, is it? And what's your governor?" "A gentleman." "I suppose you are home for the midsummer holidays?" "No; I don't go to school." "Tutor at home, I suppose?" "No." "Who teaches you, then?" "Aunt did, and now my father does." "And what are you going to be?" "I don't know." "You ought to be a cadet, and join the Engineers." I made no reply to this; for I had never thought of any career in the future, and had never had any ideas beyond our quiet forest home, so I was not prepared with any remark. "How do you amuse yourself here?" said the stranger. "Rather a dull place, I fancy." "I watch the birds and insects, and study natural history," I replied. "You are fond of that, are you? You should have been with me in Africa, then, where you could have watched a herd of wild elephants, or seen a lion stalk a buck, or a gigantic snake kill a bustard: that's the place for a naturalist." "Have you ever seen a wild elephant or lion?" I inquired, looking with a sudden feeling of respect at the gentleman. "Seen them and shot them, too, and have been in a country where you had to burn fires all round you to prevent being trodden down by the herds of wild animals that come about you of a night." "Are you a soldier?" I inquired. "I flatter myself I am. I am an officer of Engineers, and am here now surveying, and want all the information I can get about the forest; so, if you like, I'll meet you to-morrow near your house, as I shall be taking angles on the heath near you." "Then that thing isn't a gun?" "No; it's a theodolite, used for surveying. I often chaff the chawbacons here, by telling them I am going to fire, and then they don't come bothering. What's your name?" "Shepard." "By George! that's odd; why, my governor was at Cambridge with yours, and told me to call on you when I came down here. Is your governor at home?" "Yes." "Then pack up the instrument, Roberts. I'll come home with you, and see your governor, for I have a letter for him which I ought to have delivered before." The officer watched the instrument being packed up, and then started with me towards our house. On the way he described to me the country from which he had lately returned, and gave a vivid description of the vast plains covered with wild animals, of the forest teeming with strange creatures, and the air frequented by monstrous birds. Then he described a leopard-hunt in which he had taken part, and told me how one of the party had been seized and torn by the animal; and how, at last, it had been shot dead by a lucky shot. On his watch-chain were two of the claws of the leopard, which he showed me, and which gave me an idea of the size and strength of the creature. So vivid was his description, that the whole scene was before me, and I looked at him with mingled feelings of awe and admiration. I had read brief descriptions of lion and tiger hunts, but I had somehow mixed these up with tales from the "Arabian Nights," and such like stories; but to meet a person who had himself been an actor in a lion-hunt, and who had himself killed some of the most powerful savage animals, was to me like a dream. My new acquaintance was to me a hero; and I was at once ready to follow his merest suggestion, if he would only tell me more of his adventures with wild beasts. As we approached my father's house, it occurred to me I had not asked the stranger's name, and I should have to tell my father who he was; so after a little hesitation I inquired what his name was. "Howard," replied the officer. "I'm Jack Howard, Lieutenant Royal Engineers; my governor is the Vicar of Longstone, in Kent; so now you know all about me." As we approached the house we met my father, who, on learning who my companion was, welcomed him in the most cordial manner, and gave him a most pressing invitation to take up his residence at our lodge during the time he was surveying near us. That evening he stopped with us, and as we sat near the dining-room window, looking out on the endless glades of the grandest forest in England, Howard entertained us with descriptions of the scenes and adventures through which he had passed in Africa. He was a good talker, and had devoted much of his time to sport and to natural history, and was thus able to give my father descriptions of the rare animals he had met, and which were then but little known in England. As for me, I was simply entranced, and even my father seemed to listen with delight to descriptions of savage life, of which he had previously only read. I felt utterly miserable when Howard left, although he had promised to come on the following evening and stay with us a few days. When I went to bed that night it was not to sleep; I tossed from side to side without any desire to close my eyes. The scenes of which I had heard were before me as vividly as though I had been an actor in them, and already had I made up my mind that I must be an engineer, and most myself enjoy similar experiences to those of Howard. Of the ways and means by which this result was to be accomplished I knew nothing, but I determined to ask Howard, on the first opportunity, how I could become an engineer officer, and then to try and induce my father to take such steps as would forward my views. Howard came at the hour appointed, and took up his residence with us. I had counted the hours as they passed slowly and drearily till his arrival, and felt inclined to follow him like a dog as soon as he was in the house. I was anxious for an opportunity to tell him of my wish to be an engineer, and to ask him what I was to do to become one, for now it seemed that every hour's delay was so much waste time, whilst the uncertainty as to whether I could or could not be one was a great source of anxiety to me. It was not till the second day after his arrival that I found an opportunity of speaking to him about my wishes. It was towards the afternoon, when he returned early from his surveying, that I met him near the lodge, and summoning courage I said, "I have something I want to ask you." "What is it?" said Howard. "I want to be an engineer officer like you. Can I?" "There is no reason why you should not if you only work hard, but you have no time to lose. What age are you?" "I'm nearly fifteen." "Then it will be sharp work for you, unless you are tolerably well up in Swat." "What is Swat?" I inquired. "We call algebra and Euclid, and all those things, Swat at Woolwich. Are you good at Euclid?" This question was an awkward one. I had been so entirely in the hands of my aunt as regards my education, that there were many subjects that I had never heard of, and which other boys of my own age knew well. Up to the time at which Howard asked me if I was well up in Euclid, I had, to the best of my memory, never even heard of Euclid; whilst algebra was also an unknown science. I had done sums of multiplication, and was supposed to have learnt rule-of-three, but I had yet to learn how little I knew, and to discover the difference between real knowledge and a mere superficial smattering. In reply to Howard's question I had to own I knew nothing of Euclid. "What have you done in algebra?" he next asked. "Nothing. I know nothing about it." "By Jove! you are behindhand then; and unless you are at once sent to a crammer's, you won't get into the Academy even." "But I will work very hard," I said, "for I am so anxious to be an engineer." "Of course, but you can no more learn a heap in a given time than you can eat an ox for dinner. You must have a certain time to prepare, and at sixteen and a half you will be too old for entry. Then, have you interest to get a nomination for Woolwich?" "I must ask my father about that," I replied; "but I wish you would speak to him, and say what a good thing it would be for me." Howard was silent for some minutes, and then said, "I will speak to your governor, for I think it is a great pity for a young fellow like you to waste his time in the country till he is too old to do anything; and as our governors were cronies, I may, perhaps, take the liberty of talking to him." It must have been on that evening, after I had gone to bed, that Howard broached the subject to my father; for on the following morning my father took me into the library, and, shutting the door carefully, as though what he was going to say was a great secret, said, "Howard tells me you are very anxious to be an engineer officer, and have talked to him about it. Now I have no wish to part with you, but if you think you would like such a profession, I will do what I can for you. It is a most gentlemanly profession, admits you to good society, enables you to see the world, and you may make your name known as a clever man. Young Howard is a good example for you. He carried off several prizes at Woolwich, and has always been considered a most promising young man, and he thinks you could not do better than go into the Engineers. You will have to work hard for a year or two, but with what you know already you will soon pick up all that is required, and your knowledge of natural history will no doubt help you on and bring you into notice. So if you think it will suit you I will apply for an appointment to the Academy." On the day following this conversation, Howard left us for a farm-house some eight miles distant, and on the day after his departure my father sent a letter to the Master-General of the Ordnance, asking for an appointment for me to the Academy, and stating that I was clever, and a good naturalist. By return of post a letter was received, the opening of which I awaited with intense anxiety. It was a long rectangular document, with "O.H.M. Service" on the outside; the contents were brief but most decisive. In answer to the application, the Master-General regretted that there was no prospect of a vacancy at the Royal Military Academy before I had passed the age for admission. A shade of disappointment only passed across my father's face as he read this letter, but to me it was a shock that seemed to render my future a blank. I had so set my heart on being an engineer officer, like Howard, that I had thought of nothing else for the past four or five days and nights. My usual amusements had become distasteful, and been neglected; the fire of ambition had entered my mind, and repose was no longer attainable. Castles in the air had been built, and seemed to me substantial edifices; and now to find all my hopes thus cruelly crushed was a blow I could not support. I tried my best to bear up, but I felt broken-hearted. I instantly thought of Howard; might he not help me? He was so clever, and so acquainted with everything, that perhaps he might tell my father what to do. I must find Howard and let him know what had happened; so, soon after breakfast, I started for a long walk to that part of the forest where I hoped to find him. I was in luck that day, for I came on Howard as he was going to his work, told him of the disappointment I had just experienced, and asked him if there was no remedy. He smiled at my eagerness, and said, "Never despair, I will see what can be done. I have a relative in the Cabinet, and he may manage the affair for you; but, really now, it takes as much interest to get a nomination for Woolwich as it does to make a curate a bishop; but I will write about it, and if I get you a nomination you must do me credit, and pass all your examinations well." A week passed after this interview, and I saw nothing of Howard; each day as the post came in I looked anxiously for a letter, but none came, and I at length lost all hope. I had told my father what Howard had said, but he smiled at my sanguine hopes, and told me it was unfortunate, and could not be helped; but there really was no chance of success, as he had ascertained that nearly every nomination for Woolwich was given either through parliamentary interest, or to the sons of distinguished military officers. On the eighth day, however, an official letter was left by the postman at our lodge. My father opened it with eagerness, and scanned its contents before reading it to us. He then said, "Bob, I congratulate you; listen to this:-- "`I have the honour to inform you that the Master-General of the Ordnance has granted a nomination to the Royal Military Academy to your son, Robert Shepard, and I am directed to state that he may present himself at the Academy at the next examination in February. I enclose papers, etc.'" I jumped from my chair, gave my father a hug, exchanged kisses with my two sisters and aunt, and performed various extraordinary capers about the room. In imagination I was already an officer, a traveller, a lion-slayer, and very much what Howard appeared to me. Of the thorny path between me and the position I aspired to I knew nothing. I saw the prize only, and little knew what I had to pass through ere I reached it. If I could have seen the life I should lead during the next three years I doubt whether my ambition would not instantly have been extinguished; and I should have remained a dreamy forest boy, and grown up to the position of a country gentleman of moderate means and somewhat limited abilities. On that morning there was joy in our house; my father was pleased at the success of what he supposed was his application, and because he saw I was pleased. My sisters were pleased at the prospect of having a brother a soldier; and my aunt was, I think, gratified because of late she had lost much of the control over me, which she had wielded when I was a mere child, and did not now care to have me in the house. When the first excitement of the intelligence was over, my father took me into the library to talk over the papers he had read, relative to the examination. "There is Euclid," he said; "three books you will have to take up. That you'll soon learn, because your mind is fresh and has not been crammed like other boys at your age. Then there is arithmetic,--that of course you know; and algebra up to quadratic equations; this you will soon pick up. I remember at Cambridge I soon learnt all these things. History and geography you were always fond of, and, of course, there is nothing to learn there. French and German, too, you can pick up a smattering of--enough to pass an examination--and I fancy your knowledge of natural history will help to make you stand well at an examination. To February is five months, so there is no hurry, and if you go steadily on you ought to pass well. Perhaps, if I get a tutor to come over from Southampton twice a week, we might manage it well." I knew nothing about examinations, or the difficulty of the subjects I was expected to learn, and so could offer no remarks, and could only acquiesce in my father's suggestion, and should probably have dreamed on a few months longer had not Howard that afternoon called at our lodge, to congratulate us on the receipt of the nomination which, he said, he had heard of that morning. He took but little credit to himself for what he had done; but I felt certain then, and I ascertained afterwards, that it was entirely due to his interest that I obtained my nomination. Upon hearing what was proposed to be done in preparing me for the examination, he assured us that it would be impossible for me to qualify by February, even if I went to the best cram-school at Woolwich; but to have a tutor twice a week would be useless. He impressed on my father the necessity for getting my examination postponed till February twelvemonth--the last date that my age would admit of--and recommended that I should at once be sent to Mr Hostler, the best cram-school at Woolwich, who would prepare me if any one could. The high opinion which my father entertained of Howard caused him not only to listen to, but to act on, this advice; and it was decided that on the Monday week following my father was to start with me for Woolwich, and leave me in charge of Mr Hostler, to be prepared for the Royal Engineers, and for the examination on the February twelvemonth from that date. CHAPTER THREE. A CRAM-SCHOOL AT WOOLWICH FORTY YEARS AGO. In the days to which this tale refers, railways did not exist; it was therefore by the Salisbury coach that I travelled with my father to London. I will pass over my wonder and surprise at the size and crowds of London, and of the scenes that presented themselves to me as I for the first time drove through the metropolis. Steam-vessels were then novelties, and it was by a steam-vessel that we journeyed from London Bridge to Woolwich, and were deposited in the lower part of that dirty town, from whence a cab conveyed us to the school-house of Mr Hostler at the early hour of eleven a.m. As, from what I was able to gather at the time, Mr Hostler's was a fair specimen of the Woolwich cram-schools forty years ago, this establishment and the life I led there will be somewhat fully described. After long years of roughing it in various parts of the world, the early impressions of that school are fresh in my memory. Coming as I did to that school, fresh from a quiet country home, where I had led the quietest of lives--where a slap from my aunt was the greatest evil that ever happened to me--where politeness and consideration for others was instilled into me by my father as the essential attribute of a gentleman--I was ill-prepared for Mr Hostler's school, where a somewhat different tone prevailed. On arriving at Mr Hostler's, we were shown into a comfortably-furnished but small room, and were informed that Mr Hostler would come very soon. After about five minutes the door opened, and a short, broad, dark man entered. His eyes were dark and piercing, and his aquiline nose gave him, to my mind, the appearance of a hawk. Without a moment's hesitation he said, "How do you do, Mr Shepard? Lucky to get a nomination for your boy, and lucky I've got room for him. Another day and you'd have been too late." Mr Hostler turned his hawk-like eyes on me and said, "You don't look well: are you ill?" "No, thank you; I'm a little tired--that's all." "He's for the Academy?" said Mr Hostler to my father. "Yes, for the Royal Engineers." "Ah! you must work hard, and we'll make something of you here, you may depend. I think, Mr Shepard, I'd better take him at once, and show him in the school. `Go to harness at once' is my motto." Before I had quite realised my position, I had bid my father good-bye, had cast a longing look after him, and felt a choking feeling in my throat, and a sensation of utter loneliness came over me as I knew I was alone, without a friend near. Mr Hostler took a long look at me, and then, in quite a different tone to that in which he had spoken to my father, said,-- "Come along, youngster. You are like a young bear, I see; all your trouble's to come. You've a lot before you, I can tell you." I followed Mr Hostler out of the room, down about half-a-dozen steps, and into a courtyard, where I heard a noise of voices making so great a din that it was impossible to distinguish the words. These sounds came from a long building on the left, to which Mr Hostler led me. He opened a door and pushed me in before him, when I saw one of the most extraordinary sights that I had ever witnessed. In the room were a number of tables, at which were sitting about fifty boys in about five rows. The majority of these boys were swinging backwards and forwards, like pendulums the wrong end uppermost; others had their hands pressed over their ears, and their heads bent down over a book; the whole of them were repeating words or sentences, portions of which only were audible amidst the deafening din. In after years, when I have stood at night near a tropical swamp, and have listened to the deafening noise of a thousand bull-frogs, I have always had recalled to me my first visit to the schoolroom of Mr Hostler's cram-school at Woolwich. Upon our entering the schoolroom several boys looked up from their books, and the noise for an instant decreased; then, from the far end of the room, a shrill voice exclaimed, "Because the triangle ABC is similar to the triangle DEF, therefore the side AB is to the side DE." Then a chorus of voices drowned the first voice, and again the uproar proceeded. "Stop a minute, boys!" said Mr Hostler in a loud voice. "Here's a new boy--Shepard's his name. He's going into the Royal Engineers. I say, Beck, you look out, or he'll beat you!" As this speech was made to the whole school, I made a bow--such a one as my father had taught me to make to a lady. A titter ran round the various tables as I did so, and I distinctly saw one boy make a grimace at me. "Here, Monk," said Mr Hostler; "you take Shepard; set him his Euclid, and see what he knows in Swat." The person addressed was a hard-featured man, with a surly look about him, who, handing me a book, said,-- "What do you know?" "No Euclid," I replied. "Don't know any Euclid? Why, how old are you?" "Nearly fifteen," I replied. "Oh I nearly fifteen and don't know any Euclid! and you're going to be an engineer?" "Yes," I replied; "I'm going to be an engineer." "Don't you wish you may get it?" said Mr Monk. "Now learn these definitions," he continued, "and let's see what you can do." The book now placed before me was the mysterious Euclid, my first acquaintance with which I was now to make. I looked at the first sentence under the definitions, and thought I had never seen a more extraordinary statement than that there made,-- "A point is that which has no parts and no magnitude." I read this over two or three times, but each time I read it and thought over it the statement seemed more and more curious. On looking further down the page, I saw that "a line was length without breadth," which seemed to me quite a mistake; for, however thin a line might appear to the naked eye, yet I knew, from my experience with the microscope in connexion with natural history, that the thinnest spider's web always showed some breadth when it was looked at through a microscope. It occurred to me that, amidst the noise and confusion that went on in this school, it was possible that the fact of looking at a line through a microscope had never been thought of by any one; and as I felt quite certain that it was impossible that a line could exist without breadth, I determined to point this out to Mr Monk. Watching for an opportunity to catch his eye, I half rose from my seat as I saw him looking at me. He immediately came to where I was sitting, and said,-- "What's the matter? You've only your definitions to learn; can't you understand them?" "Not quite," I said; "but I think this about a line having no breadth is wrong; for, however thin a line may appear, it looks thick if you bring a microscope to see it through." As soon as I commenced speaking to Mr Monk, the boys at the table ceased their sing-song noise and listened to what I was saying. There was a look of astonishment in their faces as I spoke, which quickly changed to a broad grin when they heard what I said; and when Mr Monk said in a sarcastic tone, "Oh, you've found that Euclid's wrong, eh? and that we are all a pack of fools? Now, you just learn three more definitions for your cheek, you young puppy?" the boys actually roared with laughter. "You want a lot taken out of you, I can see," continued Monk, "and I'll pretty soon do it; so mind what you're at." I don't know whether surprise or anger predominated in my mind at the result of my first attempt to show I thought on what I learnt, as well as attempted to learn it by rote. Such downright rudeness I had never before experienced, and I could scarcely believe that the boys around me were the sons of gentlemen, although I had been told by Howard that Hostler's was a first-class school, where none but gentlemen's sons were admitted. I blushed scarlet at the remark made to me, and felt inclined to explain my meaning, but somehow the words would not come, and I therefore gazed steadily at the pages of my book, wondering how it was I seemed so different from other boys. Whilst thus meditating, I raised my eyes to the boy opposite me; he was a cross-looking, sturdy boy, about my own age, and was occupied, as were the rest, in swinging backwards and forwards, whilst he repeated, in a loud tone, "A is to B as B is to C," etc. When this boy saw me looking at him, he made a face at me, and said, "Don't look at me!" As, however, I continued looking at him, he suddenly lowered himself, so that his head only appeared above the table, and, before I suspected what he was doing, I received a tremendous kick on the shins. The noise the boy made caused Mr Monk to look up just in time to see me throw my book at the boy's head. So quick had been my assailant in recovering himself and resuming his proper position, that, when Mr Monk looked round, the only thing he saw was my Euclid flying across the table at the boy's head. "Hullo!" exclaimed Mr Monk, "you're a nice young fellow; what are you at?" "He kicked me on the shins," I exclaimed. "Didn't do anything of the kind," said the boy, whose name was Fraser. "Didn't you kick Shepard?" "No; I stooped under the table to pick up my handkerchief, and he then shied his book at me," said Fraser, with a bare-faced effrontery that startled me. "You come out here, Shepard," said Monk, who seemed not to have got over my remark about the line; "we'll soon stop your larks." I got up from my seat, feeling that I had been most unjustly treated, and that a lie had been told against me; but, not knowing how I could get myself righted, I was puzzling my brain how I should make Mr Monk know what had really occurred, when I received a couple of blows from him on the head that almost stunned me. "That's what you want," said Monk, "to set you to rights! Now go and stand on that stool till you've learnt your Euclid, and if you fail you'll get three cuts as sure as your name's Shepard. We don't stand any tricks here, you see; you've to learn what discipline is." I find it difficult to make the reader fully comprehend my feelings at that time. Up to the age of ten years Aunt Emma had been very free in boxing my ears, and keeping me in what she called "order," but during the past five years I had been treated more like a young man than as a boy. The companionship with my father had given me an old feeling, and I thought more as a man thinks than as a boy does. With such ideas as to my age, it was a great blow to my pride to find myself treated like a child, to be kicked by a boy smaller than myself, and then to have my ears boxed because I retaliated. I tried hard to command myself, but after a brief struggle I fairly cried like a child. I was now the object of attention to every boy in the school. Each boy took his quiet look and grin at me whenever he could take his eyes from his Euclid without being seen by Mr Monk, and this continued till the clock struck the hour, when Mr Monk shouted, "Close books! Come up, Jones and Hunt!" Two boys left their seats and went to the master, who took their books from them and inquired, "What proposition?" "Eighth of the second," said Jones. "Go on, then," said the master; and away went Jones, repeating like a parrot a number of lines about A to B, etc. I listened to this because it was not only all new to me, but because I fancied that very shortly I should follow probably the course of this boy. Jones went on without a stop till he had finished his proposition, when, with a look of delight, he left the room. The boy called Hunt now commenced his proposition, but before he had gone over a dozen lines he began to hesitate, then to stop altogether, and finally burst out crying. My first idea was that his heart was very much in his work, and that his pride was hurt at having failed in his lesson; but I was soon to be undeceived in this respect. Hunt was sent into a corner of the room, where he sat looking the picture of misery, and another boy was called upon by the master to say his Euclid. About fifteen boys were allotted to Mr Monk, and out of these three remained in school, having "failed," as it was termed. As the last boy was sent into the corner Mr Hostler came into the room, looking particularly smiling and active. He carried in his hand a short black stick, which I afterwards learned was whalebone. Seeing me standing on a stool he said, "Hullo! in trouble already? Ah! I thought you were not as quiet as you looked. What's he been doing, Mr Monk?" I listened with astonishment at the statement of my offences. First I had tried to show off before the boys by trying to chaff the master by saying if he looked with a microscope at a line it would show Euclid was wrong; then I suddenly took a dislike to a boy and threw a book at his head. Mr Hostler listened to this account very quietly, and then turning to me said, "Now look here; I've done a great favour to your friends by letting you come here. There's lots would have given a fifty-pound note to get their sons into my establishment. Now, I'm a good mind to pack you off to-day, but I'll give you another trial, so you just look out." I was trying to say something in my defence, but the words hung fire and would not come out, and it was, perhaps, as well I did not say anything, for it would not have been attended to, as Mr Hostler was now inquiring about the boys who had failed. "So you have failed again, Hunt," said Mr Hostler. "Here, you come up, then, and take your three." Hunt left his seat and commenced crying, whilst he blew on and then rubbed his hand in what appeared to me a most singular manner. The reason for this latter proceeding I was soon to learn, for as he came near Mr Hostler he held out his hand as though to show he had nothing in it--the fingers quite straight and the palm horizontal. Mr Hostler took his whalebone stick in his right hand, made one or two feints, and then delivered a smart blow on the boy's hand. The sound of this blow indicated its severity, but the contortions of the boy also showed that there was no mistake as to the punishment intended. "Out with it again?" said Mr Hostler, who now seemed in his element, and who jumped about and flourished his whalebone as if he were riding a race. "Two more. Ah! no shirking. There, that doesn't count." These remarks were uttered as he made an up-cut on the knuckles of the boy, who dropped his hand to avoid the full force of the expected blow. "There, you got that!" exclaimed Hostler, as he delivered a smart cut full on the fingers of Hunt's hands, and elicited a cry of pain as the boy trembled with nervousness and agony. "Now for the last!" said Hostler. "Quick about it! There you are! Now don't you fail again!" Hunt passed me on his way out of the room, and I saw on his hand two blue-looking streaks, that were swollen as though a hot iron had been passed over them. He was crying, but seemed to think less of his pain than I fancied he would. The other boys that had failed were had up by Hostler in the same manner, and each treated to three cuts on the hand with the whalebone. "Now, Shepard," said Hostler, "let's hear you your definitions. Come along sharp, sir; don't lounge like that?" Hostler here caught me by the shoulder, and shouting "Come up--hi! hi!" shook me almost out of my clothes. "I'll wake you up, I will. You've been asleep all your life," he continued. "Now then, go on:--A point--" "A point," I said, "is--a point is part of magnitude." "I'll parts of magnitude you!" said Hostler. "You've been an hour doing nothing. You ought to have three cuts, but I'll let you off as it's the first time; but you stop in till you know this." I now found myself the only boy in the school, where all was as quiet as before it had been noisy. I sat for some minutes as though in a dream. Was all this real? I asked myself, and had I to go through such scenes for a year before I became an engineer officer, or even a cadet? The feeling of loneliness was mixed with utter surprise and astonishment that there should be such a place as this school in England, and that the course here adopted should be found necessary, in order that boys should become learned enough for officers. My thoughts wandered from the schoolroom. I was in the shady paths of the grand old forest, where I had passed my early life, and I compared my present condition with that which it would have been had I remained at home. I thought of Howard, and wondered whether he as a boy had passed through such an ordeal as this school offered; and as I believed it possible he had done so, I began to learn a lesson which only those learn who have themselves had to win their way to excellence by hard work and by surmounting difficulties. This essential lesson is one that too many never learn. When we are witnesses of skill in anything, too many forget that this skill is the result of long thought, labour and perseverance. We too often fail to recollect the hours of wearying labour that have been devoted to the acquirement of those qualifications which, when seen in the results, are much admired. The mathematician or geometrician who attains to eminence must have devoted many years' labour to these subjects, whilst the artist, musician or writer must also have laboured many weary years before he attained even to mediocrity. Even those who excel in games of skill, such as chess, draughts, whist, billiards, cricket, or rackets, must be men who think deeply, and reason on what they see others do, as well as on what they do themselves. When, then, we see excellence in anything, those who have themselves arrived at excellence appreciate skill in others, because ever before them is the idea of the hard work and hard thought that most have been gone through before proficiency could be reached. Those, however, who never have worked to any purpose, who have idled all their lives and failed to attain even mediocrity in anything, usually fail to appreciate in others excellence or skill, and when, after long perseverance and thought, any successful results have been won, idlers not unfrequently term such a result "good luck." When I had seen Howard, and had been impressed by his apparent knowledge and skill on all subjects, I was ambitious at once of being like him. In my ignorance I fancied that just as I grew taller by no thought or trouble, so I might become an officer like him by merely allowing time to work out its course. That I should have to labour, to work my brain in a manner I had never before even dreamed of, had never occurred to me. Now, however, I began to realise the fact that I was a dunce, and that my brain was feeble merely from want of use, and that I was not capable of competing with other boys of my own age, because their brains had been active and used when mine had been merely idle. I was like a horse suddenly taken up from grass, and worked with one that had been thoroughly trained for many months. My brain was flabby and feeble, without that vigour which is requisite for any mental labour. I could feel a presentiment that there was even a greater exposure of my ignorance coming than had yet taken place. Under the most favourable circumstances of quiet which I enjoyed at home, a long-division sum always took me some time, and, though I was supposed to know as far as fractions in arithmetic, yet I was very shaky in a rule-of-three sum, and I knew that, hustled as I was at Hostler's, I should breakdown at what perhaps I might accomplish if left quietly to myself. I found that it was downright exhaustive work to remember the definitions before me. I knew them for a minute, then they left me, and as I realised my state I buried my head in my hands, and felt overcome with despair. Suddenly the door opened, and Hostler appeared and said, "Now, Shepard, do you know your definitions?" "No, sir," I replied; "it is very hard for me to learn them." I expected him to take me out for my three cuts, but instead of this he sat down beside me and said, "Now, look here; you've got to learn how to learn. I see you're been a spoiled child--your mother's pet, I suppose--and have never worked at all, only just fudged on. Now you begin really, and of course it's all new to you. Now just listen to me." "Please, sir," I said, "my mother died when I was a baby, and I never was what you call spoiled by her." "Ah, well, I'm very sorry I said that, but of course I didn't know it; never mind, now try and follow me. A point is that which has no parts and no magnitude--that means, that it's only an imaginary spot, without any size about it. Do you understand that?" "Yes, I think I do." "Then a line is length without breadth--that is, if I draw an imaginary line from here to the moon, that line has length, but it has no breadth. Now think over these, and learn them again to-morrow, and you may go out and join the other boys in the playground." It was quite a relief to me to have this conversation with Mr Hostler, for I felt that I could learn after a time, though at first I experienced all the difficulties of novelty in everything I attempted. CHAPTER FOUR. EXPERIENCES AT SCHOOL--MY FIRST FIGHT. On entering the playground I saw about forty boys amusing themselves in various ways. Some were jumping with a pole, others were leaping over a tape, whilst several were talking in groups. As I approached the ground, I heard several boys call out, "Here he is!" "Now where's Fraser?" whilst eight or ten boys came round me, and seemed looking at me as a curiosity. "You're going to be an engineer, aren't you?" said one boy. "Yes," I replied. A shout of laughter was the result of this remark of mine, the reason for which I could not comprehend. "You're very clever, I suppose," said the same boy; "an awful hand at Swat." "I can do rule-of-three," I replied. "Lor! what a clever fellow!" replied the boy. "I say," he shouted, "Ansell, James, come here! We have a Sir Isaac Newton here!" As he called, four or five boys came up and joined the others near me. "He's going to be an engineer," said the same boy; "and he knows rule-of-three! Isn't he likely to get them?" "Where have you come from?" asked another boy. "From the New Forest, Hampshire," I replied. "Then you'd better go back to the New Forest, Hampshire, and feed the pigs there." "You are very rude," I said, "to speak like that." A shout of laughter greeted this speech, whilst the same boy intimated that I was "a confounded young prig!" "Oh, here you are!" said Fraser, who suddenly appeared on the scene. "I've been looking for you. What do you mean by shying a book at me?" "Why, you kicked me for no reason at all," I replied. "It is I who have cause to complain of you." "Oh, you have, have you? then take that?" Before I knew what was going to be done, Fraser suddenly struck me full in the face. The blow was so severe that for a second or two I scarcely knew what had happened. Then, however, I realised the fact, and, rushing at Fraser, I struck wildly at him. Without seeming to disturb himself much, Fraser either guarded off my blows or quickly dodged so as to avoid them; and when he saw an opportunity, as he soon did, he punished me severely. Fraser was smaller than I was, but was certainly stouter, and he possessed what I did not, viz, skill in the use of his fists. This was the first fight I had ever been in, whilst he was an old hand at pugilistic encounters. The result, consequently, was what might be expected, viz, in ten minutes I was entirely beaten, all my strength seemed gone, and I was unable to raise a hand in my defence. "Don't you shy a book at me again," said Fraser as he left me leaning against the wall, trying to recover myself. "Bravo, Fraser! well done!" said one or two boys who had formed a ring round us as we fought. Not a boy seemed to pity me, or to be disposed to help me, and I felt as utterly miserable as a boy could feel. As I leant against the wall, with my handkerchief to my nose, a boy named Strong came up and said,-- "You'd better wash the blood off your face, Shepard, or there'll be a row." "I don't care," I replied, "whether there's a row or not." "Come along," said Strong; "don't be downhearted. Fraser is an awful mill and a great bully, and always bullies a new boy just to show off his fighting. Come and wash your face." I went with Strong, and removed as much as possible the evidence of my late combat--Strong all the time trying his best to cheer me up. "You've never been at a boarding-school before?" said Strong inquiringly. "No; and I don't think I shall stop here long," I replied. "Oh, there will be another new boy soon, and then you'll lead an easy life." "But is every new boy treated as I am?" "Well, very nearly the same. Then they are down upon you because you boasted you were going to get the Engineers'." "Boasted? I didn't mean to boast. I came here to prepare for the Engineers." "But don't you know that it's only about one in twenty who go to the Academy who are clever enough for the Engineers? and when you say you are going to be an engineer it looks like boasting. You may be very clever, and a first-rate hand at Euclid and Swat; but it doesn't do to boast." This speech opened my eyes at once. In my ignorance I knew no difference between being an engineer or anything else; but I now saw why it was that all the boys seemed to make such game of me when I said I was intended for the Engineers, as it was like asserting that I was very clever, and claiming to have it in my power to beat nineteen out of twenty boys who might compete with me. I now began to realise it as a fact that I was utterly ignorant on nearly every subject that was likely to be of use to me at Mr Hostler's. I knew nothing either of schoolboys or school-life. To me it seemed most ungenerous that I should be laughed at because I made a mistake, not knowing that schoolboys as a rule are disposed to make butts of those who are not as well acquainted as themselves with the few facts on which they pride themselves. In the afternoon of this my first day at Mr Hostler's, my pride again received a severe blow. The subject studied in the afternoon was arithmetic and algebra; and on coming into the schoolroom Mr Monk asked me where I had left off in arithmetic. In order not to make any mistake, I replied that rule-of-three was what I had last done. I remember well that Aunt Emma, who used to teach me arithmetic, had a book out of which she used to copy a sum of a very simple nature, but which she as well as I thought at the time rather difficult. She then used to show me an example to point out how it was done; and, when I had finished it, used to compare my answer with that given in the book. She was rather hazy about the problem as a rule, and never ventured to give me any explanation as to where I was wrong in case my answer did not correspond with that in the book; but still I was supposed to have learnt rule-of-three, though I soon found out my mistake. The style of questions that I used to solve at home were such as the following:-- "If a bushel of coals costs two shillings and sixpence, what would be the price of fifty bushels?" These I could fairly accomplish without much probability of making a mistake; and so I hoped I might succeed in passing Mr Monk's examination of my rule-of-three. "Just write down this question," said Mr Monk; "we shall soon see if you know anything about rule-of-three." The following question was then dictated to me:-- "If 10 men and 6 boys dig a trench 100 feet long, 8 feet wide, and 5 feet deep, in 12 days, how many boys ought to be employed to dig a trench 200 feet long, 3 feet deep, and 6 feet wide, in 8 days, if only 5 men were employed, 2 boys being supposed equal to 1 man?" As I read over this question I felt my heart sink within me. I knew I could not do it properly, and that I should again expose myself to ridicule in having said I could accomplish rule-of-three, when, if this were rule-of-three, I knew nothing of it. I sat for several minutes looking at the question, and trying to discover some means for its solution. Boys were mixed in my mind with ditches, men with days, and deep holes with width. At least a quarter of an hour passed without my making the slightest advance in the way of solution; at the end of this time Mr Monk looked at my slate and said,-- "So you don't seem to know much about rule-of-three?" "I never saw a sum like this before," I replied. "Then why did you tell me that you could do rule-of-three? Do you know your multiplication table?" "Yes," I replied. "What's 12 times 11?" he inquired. Now, of all the multiplication table, 11 times anything was to me the easiest, because I remembered that two similar figures, such as 66, was 6 times 11, 77 was seven times 11, and so on; but 12 times 11 was a number I was always rather shaky about. I hesitated a moment and then made a wild rush at it, and said, "One hundred and twenty-one?" Mr Monk looked at me with a mingled expression of pity and contempt, and said, "You're nearly fifteen, and you don't know your multiplication table, and yet you think you're going to be an engineer! Why there's not a boy at the charity-school who at twelve does not know more than you!" I listened attentively to this remark, for I felt that Mr Monk was a prophet. It was quite true that I was a dunce. I had learnt it, and realised it in half a day. It had been forcibly impressed on me as I tried to learn Euclid, as I was ignominiously defeated by Fraser in a pugilistic encounter in something like ten minutes, and now when it was proved to me! did not know my multiplication table. "You'd better commence at simple addition," said Monk, "and work your way up. You can't join any class; there's no one so backward as you are. Your nursemaid ought to have taught you these things. At Mr Hostler's we don't expect to have to teach even arithmetic. It will take you three years to get up to quadratics!" "Well, Mr Monk," said Hostler, bustling into the room, "I hope Shepard is well up in his algebra?" "He doesn't even know his multiplication table?" said Monk. Hostler stared at me much as he would at a dog with only two legs or a bird with one wing. Having given me a long searching look, under which I blushed and felt inclined to shrink under the form, he said,-- "Poor fellow! your friends have got a lot to answer for! What a pity it is, Mr Monk, that in civilised England people who are gentlefolks are not compelled by law to educate their children! Look at this boy, now. I dare say, at home and in the country, he was thought to be fit to run alone; and yet there he is, a regular dunce! Now, Shepard," he said, "you must begin to learn; you must work hard; and if there's no chance of your getting into the Academy, why, what you learn here will always be of use to you; so don't be idle." Having made this remark, Mr Hostler went about the school, looking at the slates of the various boys, talking to several, and explaining their problems to them. As for me, I was soon busily engaged in adding up a long row of pounds, shillings, and pence, which I did not accomplish without three times failing to obtain the right total. At length, however, I was successful, just as it was time to turn out for our afternoon walk. On going to bed that night I seemed to have passed through more, and to have gained more experience in that one day that I had in years before. I had learnt that I knew nothing--that my supposed knowledge was not real--that I was, in fact, a dunce, far behind all other boys of my own age--that I was weak in physical strength--and though my sisters used to think me awfully strong, yet this, too, was a mistake. Mixed with the depressing effect of this knowledge there was, however, a slight feeling of satisfaction in knowing that now at least I was among realities, whilst before I was among dreams. I had, too, a kind of presentiment that I had within me a capacity for doing work, if I could only get in the way of it. When I used to help my father in his microscope work, and sketched some of the wonderful details of the wings, legs, or bodies of the insects I saw, he always prophesied that I should do great things some day. Now, however, I realised the fact that I was a dunce--that I was so far behind other boys that it was improbable I could ever catch them up, and so to expect to excel was out of the question; if I could only attain to mediocrity I should be satisfied. Such thoughts passed through my mind as I dozed off to sleep, and dreamed I was untangling a skein of wire, that as fast as I undid one part another portion gathered itself in a knot. Suddenly I felt a choking sensation, and started up in bed with a strange bewildered feeling over me. The room was quite dark, and I could not see one of the ten beds occupied by the other boys in the room. I, however, heard a slight noise as of some one getting into bed, and then a smothered laugh. As I fully awoke I found I was drenched with water and my bed and pillow were wet--a fact I was much puzzled at. As I sat up, wondering what had happened, a boy called out, "Shepard! what are you about?" "I am wet through, somehow," I said. "Ah! some one has given you a `cold pig,' I suppose, because you snored so. Don't you make such a row again." When I was at home it was instilled into me that it was almost certain death to sleep in a damp bed, and numerous instances were quoted to me of persons who had either died of consumption, or been cripples for life in consequence of sleeping in wet sheets. In the present instance, however, there was no help for it. I must either sit up all night, or sleep in the bed, wet as it was. I was so completely tired, so utterly worn out, bodily and mentally, that I did not care who it was had thrown the water on me. My head ached, from over-thought as much as from the blows I had received in my fight, and I again laid down in the wet bed, and slept as well as though in my own room at home. I had not half completed what would have been a fair night's rest under ordinary conditions when I was awoke by the shrill voice of a boy shouting "Quarter!" I at first imagined this cry might mean something connected with a battle, and that the enemy were calling out for quarter; but on fully awaking I found each boy jumping up, and rushing to a basin of water and washing in the greatest haste. I followed the example set me by the other boys, from whom I learnt that we all had to be in the schoolroom by six o'clock, and any boy who was not in the room when the clock struck got no breakfast. We all rushed from our room about a minute before the clock struck, and entered the school where I had been on the previous day; and I then found that between six and seven a proposition in Euclid had to be learnt on nearly every morning. So I was at once started at my definitions. In the hour allotted I managed to learn my definitions, and said them to the satisfaction of Mr Monk, and was able, therefore, to go out with the other boys for the half-hour preceding breakfast. During the next two days our routine was very similar to that of the first day. I soon fully realised the fact that I was more backward, if not more stupid, than any boy in the school; and I also learnt that no one believed it possible I could ever be prepared to pass the examination for entrance to the Academy. There were boys at the school of only twelve years of age, who were far beyond me, who were not to be sent up for examination until they were fifteen years of age. In those days a boy was allowed only one trial for entrance, and if he then failed he never had another given him; and he consequently lost all chance of becoming a cadet. So it was, at least, a prudent precaution to keep a boy at school until he was well qualified to pass his examination. There was also then, as now, considerable rivalry amongst the schoolmasters who prepared for Woolwich Academy, and it was considered a feather in the cap of the individual who had prepared the first boy on the list. To send up any boy, therefore, badly prepared was imprudent, and also not likely to reflect any credit on the establishment from which he had been sent. I used my best endeavours to get on, but found that my brain would not work as would that of other boys: it seemed like a limb that has not been used for many weeks and is suddenly called upon for some hard work; it becomes stiff and unable to work in a very short time. I also noticed that none of the masters seemed to take much trouble about me. It appeared as though they had agreed that I was not in the race for the Academy, and therefore it was unnecessary for them to trouble themselves much about me. In three days an entire change had come over me. I had lost all pride in myself, and felt that I must merely drag on an existence at this school for a time. I had not the courage to write to my father and tell him it was impossible I could pass my examination, as I was such a dunce; for I knew such an announcement would not be believed by him, or, if believed, it would be most unpleasant news. I hoped, too, that it was possible I might by practice get accustomed to the noise at the school, and might, like other boys, be able to learn like a parrot the problems in Euclid. My life was certainly a most miserable one. I was still the last new boy, and as such had various tricks played upon me; but it seemed that my nature was somehow changed, and that I did not feel as sensitively as I did on first joining Mr Hostler's. One day per week at Mr Hostler's was devoted to drawing of various kinds, and languages; and this day was a great relaxation after the perpetual Euclid, arithmetic, or algebra. I rather looked forward, also, to seeing Mr Walkwell, the drawing-master, who, I was told, was very amusing and quite a character, and who was very fond of boys. On going into school after breakfast, I saw Mr Walkwell. He was a short, spare man, with a flexible face, which he had the power of altering in a marvellous manner. His arms and legs also he could swing about in a wild kind of way that seemed quite dangerous. As we all entered the school, Mr Walkwell called out in a deep, loud voice that one would scarcely believe possible could emanate from so small a man,-- "Every boy to his seat instantly?" Each boy jumped into a place except myself, and, not knowing where to go, I stood looking at Mr Walkwell. "New boy," said Mr Walkwell, pointing his finger at me threateningly. "New boy! See. Ought to be an artist. Large perceptives, comparison well developed, ideality large, temperament nervous. New boy, you can draw?" "No, sir," I said, "I can't draw." "What's your name, new boy?" "Shepard, sir." "Gentle Shepard--not of Salisbury Plains--come and sit here. That's always to be your place. Now, boys, listen to the three great rules of drawing." Mr Walkwell here took a piece of chalk and sketched on a black board in about half a dozen lines a small landscape. As he drew these lines, he said,-- "Listen, boys! There are three rules in drawing to be attended to. There is the distant, or delicate--see here the distant hills; the middle ground, or spirited; and the foreground, or bold." As he completed his remarks, he lowered his voice from the high falsetto at which he had commenced to the deepest base, whilst at the same time he ran his chalk about in a most skilful manner over the lines he had drawn, and filled in a very effective landscape. "Now, Shepard," he said, "you, as new boy, always remember these golden rules, and you must draw. Take a pencil now and copy this gate." I was here given a copy, a piece of drawing-paper, and a spare piece of paper to try my pencil on. I very soon copied the gate, and then amused myself in sketching a yacht, such as I had seen in the Solent, and making the Isle of Wight the distant, or delicate, and some posts the foreground, or bold. It was a scene I could call to mind, and I seemed to be again in Hampshire, enjoying my liberty. So engrossed was I with this fancy sketch, that at first I did not notice all the boys' eyes turned on me with curiosity. I soon saw, however, that I was the object of general attention; and on looking round I saw Mr Walkwell leaning over me, watching what I was doing. "New boy, give me that," said Mr Walkwell; "you are idling." I gave up the paper, feeling certain that either three cuts on the hand or some other punishment would be given to me. Mr Walkwell looked at the drawing, and then at me, and then said,-- "Shepard, I must report you to Mr Hostler." "Please, sir, don't!" I said; "I'll never idle again." At that instant Mr Hostler came into the room and said,-- "Well, Mr Walkwell, how are you? Are the boys doing well?" "Very fairly, sir, very fairly; but I have to report the new boy to you." "What, Shepard? Ah, I'm afraid he is a failure. Come here, Shepard!" I got up from my seat and walked up to where Hostler and Walkwell were standing, feeling ready to faint from nervousness. "New boy Shepard, Mr Hostler, has told me a story. I asked him if he could draw, and he said `No,' and I have now seen him out of his own head draw this sketch, sir. Look at the curve of that yacht's sails; see the way he has fore-shortened her; look how she rests on the water. Why, for a man that's a work of art. That boy is an artist, sir, and he told me he couldn't draw." It is very difficult to describe my feelings during this conversation. I had twice been surprised at discovering my ignorance during the past few days, and now I had a surprise in discovering that I was possessed of a skill in drawing which was above the average. I used to amuse myself when at home in drawing on a slate vessels and boats that I had seen when I had gone down to Lymington or Beaulieu, but that there was any great difficulty in drawing such things I had never imagined, or had I the slightest idea that other boys could not do so well--if not better than I did. I was certainly pleased to find that there was something in which I was not a dunce; and although I was a laughing-stock of the school on account of my ignorance of mathematics and Euclid, I was held up as something unusually clever in drawing. "Shepard," said Mr Hostler, "I am glad to find you can do something well, but it's a pity you have wasted your time in learning only drawing, to the neglect of mathematics. Drawing never passed a boy into the Academy, and it doesn't count much afterwards. Very well, Mr Walkwell, make a good artist of him, and he'll then have a profession always ready for him in case he wants it; but I wish, for his sake, he'd some knowledge of Euclid, and less of drawing." From that day Mr Walkwell paid great attention to my instruction, and I improved rapidly under his tuition, and after some dozen lessons I was considered the best in the drawing-class. CHAPTER FIVE. MR HOSTLER'S CRAM-SCHOOL. It was the practice for our school to be taken out for a walk on Sunday mornings, and to go on to the barrack-field at Woolwich, to see the march past previous to the troops going to church. At this march past the splendid band of the Royal Artillery used to play at the head of the regiment, whilst immediately following the band, and heading the regiment, were two companies of gentlemen cadets. At the church-parade on Sundays the cadets turned out in full-dress, which consisted of white trowsers, a blue tailed coat with red facings, a shako and plume. Such a dress now would look old-fashioned, but to my boyish eyes it seemed in those days the pattern of neatness, and of a soldierlike appearance. To me everything military possessed the charm of novelty, but I must own that nothing I had ever imagined previously came up, in my ideas, to the magnificent sight that I for the first time now witnessed. I had never before heard a military band, and I gazed with wonder at the immense display of musicians, headed by a splendid-looking man, arrayed in gold lace, and swinging a huge gold-headed stick, as tall as himself, which he dexterously manipulated in time with the music. There is always something spirit-stirring in the sound of martial music, and I stood entranced as the band marched past me, turned sharp to the left as though worked by machinery, and, wheeling about, faced me, as they continued the slow march they were playing. "Here come the gentlemen cadets!" said some of the civilians, who by hundreds had assembled to see the Sunday march past. "Look how splendidly they march?" "What a fine set of young fellows!" I pushed myself into a front position as I heard these remarks, and saw advancing at a slow march a line of soldiers, moving as though they were part and parcel of each other. With heads erect, and shoulders well thrown back, this line advanced; the marching was perfect. As the leading company approached a flag, beside which were several officers, who I noticed were covered with medals, a tall cadet shouted, "Bear rank take open order!" and, coming out to the front, led the company onward. So new was the sight to me, so splendid did it all appear, and so imposing, that I felt a half-choking sensation as I looked at and admired every movement. As the leading cadet passed the flag I saw him go through some movement, which concluded with his raising his hand to his cap in what I knew must be a salute. I heard murmurs of applause among the bystanders, and the deep, decided voice of an old officer at the flagstaff exclaim, "Well marched, gentlemen; very well marched." There was a something, I don't know what to call it, but it seemed like a flash of intelligence passed across the faces of the cadets as they heard these words. They marched on as rigidly as ever, not a cadet an inch before or behind his neighbour, but there was a sparkle in the eye of each cadet that showed the words spoken by the officer had been heard and appreciated by front and rear rank of the cadets. "Who is that officer?" I heard a civilian ask. "That is Lord Bloomfield, the commandant," was the reply. I looked at the commandant, and saw a handsome, soldierlike-looking man in a splendid uniform, but he was too far removed from me in years and rank to produce any special sympathy on my part; the hero of the day in my mind was the cadet who had given the order to open the ranks, whilst every one of the forty cadets forming the first company that had marched past was to me an object of admiration. At that moment I would have given much to have been one among that company, and to have marched past as they had marched. As the cadets marched before us, I could hear some of my schoolfellows calling attention to several cadets who were known to them. "There's Duckworth, who passed third last Christmas," said one of them. "He's second of his batch now, and is sure of the Engineers, they say." "There's Hobson in the rear rank, with the brass collar; he got second-class mathematical prize; and see how well Jackson marches; he's an awful swell now since he got sixty runs and carried out his bat in the last match with the officers. Look at that brute Tims," exclaimed another; "I hope he'll be spun at his probationary, or he'll be an awful bully as an old cadet when I am a neux." These and other similar remarks I heard near me, just as a feeling of utter misery came over me as I realised the fact that it was impossible I could ever be a cadet. What I had seen on that parade had instilled into me military ambition, and if I had then and there been offered the option of a peerage or of being a gentleman cadet, I am perfectly certain I should have jumped at the chance of being a cadet. I now fully realised the absurdity of my having said at Mr Hostler's that I was going to be an engineer, for I had already discovered that I was, compared to other boys, a dunce, and that it required a boy to be not only very clever, but to have been thoroughly well prepared, to stand any chance of being among the first flight in the intellectual race at the Academy. Consequently my remarks about being an engineer, though uttered in all simplicity and ignorance by me, appeared to others as conceited and vain-glorious, as though it were announced that a screw of a horse was going to Epsom to win the Derby. I was now not surprised that I had been, and still remained, a laughing-stock to my schoolfellows on account of my ignorance. A third of a century has passed since that Sunday morning on which I was first a witness of a military display. During the interval, many strange and wonderful scenes have passed before us, and we have seen a large portion of our globe; but we cannot recall any pageant that has produced upon us half the effect that was produced by a simple marching-past parade, in which the gentlemen cadets, as the first company of the Royal Artillery, marched at the head of the regiment. Since those days years have produced their effect upon our mind and body, but we are convinced a far greater effect has been produced on society than on us individually. Formerly any man or boy, who by labour, gallant deeds, intellectual power, or skill, had distinguished himself, and had thereby, even temporarily, gained a position of eminence, received the deference considered then due to him. To the Woolwich schoolboy the gentleman cadet was a being so far above him that he was to be approached only with bated breath and whispering humbleness. To the cadet the officer was an emblem of authority and rank far above criticism, and to be treated only with respect, and obeyed without murmur. To the last-joined cadet the old cadet was an object of mingled fear and admiration--fear because, in the days of which we write, fagging was at its height, and too often was abused, and degenerated into bullying; and admiration because the old cadet had surmounted difficulties which it had yet to be proved the young cadet could surmount. What may be described as "veneration" for rank and seniority was then at its height, and impressed its influence even on the members of a cram-school such as Mr Hostler's. He himself, as master of the school, used his best endeavours to keep this sentiment alive. The career of those boys who had done well at the Academy was often referred to by Hostler, and comparisons made between what had been accomplished by other and former pupils, and what was likely to be done by those now at the school. Amongst those whose reputation stood highest at Hostler's I found the name of my friend Howard was well known. He had done well at the Academy, had gained several prizes, and had left behind him a reputation that was not likely to die out soon. In those days a boy at school used to look with a mingled feeling of respect and fear at a cadet; to be seen speaking familiarly with a cadet was enough to give a boy a position in a school, whilst an officer was regarded as belonging entirely to another order of being, whose sayings and doings were merely to be quoted as examples for future guidance. A change, however, has taken place in these things. Now it is no unusual thing for the visitor to Woolwich to see four or five young men at school lounging down the common arm in arm, each with his pipe in his mouth, jostling off the pavement an officer covered with medals, or puffing their tobacco-smoke in the faces of ladies, whom they almost force into the road, and eye in a half sneering, half patronising manner. To them a cadet is nothing superior in any way to themselves; an officer they imagine to be a man behind his time, and one to whom they could give lots of useful hints. Let people only wait till they become officers, and (so they believe) then they will show how things should be done. Others, again, in the present day, stand on what they imagine their rights, and will not admit that any deference is due to either age, rank, or experience--a sentiment largely demonstrated during the reign of the Paris Commune, a sort of "down with everything that's up" style, that is more dangerous to a country than are the armies of her enemies. Thirty years ago such sentiments had little hold in England, and none whatever among those who were candidates for Woolwich, or who wore the coveted uniform of a gentleman cadet; and we cannot but think that much of that military devotion which so characterised every branch of the army during the earlier part of the present century was due to the _esprit de corps_ felt by all officers at that time, when soldiering was not so much a business as an honourable profession. That men of the Anglo-Saxon race should ever fail in courage, or in a sense of duty, is not likely, but there is a marked difference between work done from a sense of duty and that done _con amore_; and where discontent is not unknown, we too often find mere duty is most irksome. During four months that I remained at Mr Hostler's, previous to a brief vacation, I made very slow progress; it seemed to me that there was a disinclination on the part of the masters to push me forward. I was kept over and over again at the same things, whilst other boys were pushed on to more advanced subjects. I had obtained a reputation for being stupid and having no capacity for mathematics, and this case seemed an example of giving a dog a bad name, and you may as well hang him. The neglect with which I was treated produced its effect on me, for I failed to use all my powers to advance, as it seemed a useless effort on my part; so I only did as much as would save me from the whalebone cane, and this I often failed to escape. I hailed with delight the day that I left Mr Hostler's for a three weeks' holiday, for I hoped I should never return, as I intended to explain to my father how matters were, and to get him either to send me to another school, or to withdraw me entirely from the proposed competition for Woolwich. I had a keen sense of the discredit that would attach to me if I went up for my examination and failed, for I knew slightly a boy near Salisbury, who had been prepared for Woolwich, had gone up to the Academy, and been, as it was termed, "spun." Many persons who knew nothing of the difficulty of the examination, or were unacquainted with the fact that out of forty who went up for examination it was rare for more than twenty or twenty-five to be taken, yet pitied the friends of this boy on account of his "discreditable failure," as they termed it. Believing that it was no question of probability, but a certainty, that I could not qualify for my examination, I considered it would be more prudent to withdraw under some excuse, rather than go up and fail. I was also assured by several boys that Mr Hostler would not allow me to go up unless he was tolerably certain I should pass, as it would bring discredit on his school if I failed. It was late in the evening when I reached my father's lodge, and was welcomed by all my relatives. The change that had taken place in me was marked, and was noticed by all. I was thinner, and the care and thought of the past four months had given me an aged appearance, that made me look a year older than I was. I could scarcely conceal my feelings as my sisters hoped I was getting on splendidly, and would soon be an engineer, like Howard. To enter into all the details of my difficulties with them would, I knew, be useless, and so I avoided answering them, and made up my mind to wait till I could have a quiet talk with my father, and explain matters to him. After dinner that evening I found my opportunity of speaking to my father when we were alone. I was most eager to open my heart to him, and let him know how things really stood. Without any preface I suddenly said, "I want to tell you, there's no possible chance of my passing for a cadet." "No chance! What do you mean? Why, it's nearly ten months to your examination! Don't you mean to try?" "I may try all I can, and yet it's impossible; it would take me two years to get into the class that goes up for examination." "Mr Hostler thinks differently, Bob, for he says that he hopes you will pass, if you will work; but that up to the present time you have been very idle." I listened with astonishment to my father's remarks, and could hardly believe it possible that Mr Hostler had written such words. My doubts, however, were soon removed, by the production of Mr Hostler's letter, in which were the very words quoted. I knew that what I had stated was correct, and that Mr Hostler knew, even better than I did, that there was no chance of my success; but at the time I had no idea of the reason for his sending such a letter to my father. It was, I found, the intention to send me back to Hostler's at the termination of my three weeks' vacation, and I began to count the days and hours of liberty previous to that, to me, unpleasant period. On the following morning I received an invitation from Howard, asking me to go over and pass a few days with him, and, having obtained my father's consent, I started for his lodgings, which were at a farm-house near Lyndhurst. Howard was now to me even a greater hero than he had formerly appeared. I looked on him as one who had passed a distinguished career at Woolwich, and had also been abroad, and I felt somewhat afraid of him now that I knew how much he had done. He was, however, so kind and friendly that I was soon at my ease, and as we sat at our _tete-a-tete_ dinner I found myself telling him all my disappointments, hopes, and fears at Mr Hostler's, and my difficulties as regarded the future. Howard seemed much amused at all I told him, and said that the first thing he must teach me was to be a good "mill,"--that meant, how to use my fists. He did not mean to bother me with work, as he believed I wanted rest more than anything; but he promised to write to Hostler, and ask him to push me on, and he thought that, although it was difficult, yet it was by no means impossible I might pass. On the following morning, soon after breakfast, Howard produced a pair of boxing-gloves, and, taking a seat on a chair, gave me instruction in what he called "the noble art of self-defence." He first showed me how to stand, how to raise and hold my fists, how to strike out and make the foot and hand work together. He pointed out the danger of an open guard by giving me light taps in the face, and then explained how to guard them. "We'll have an hour a day at this fun," he said, "while you are here, and I'll back you to lick Fraser when you go back to Woolwich. There's nothing that can't be done by thought and work." During the week I passed with Howard I changed from a condition of despondency to one of Hope. I learnt from him the power to be derived from thought and work. He explained to me his own difficulties, and how he had overcome them, and encouraged me by saying that, although I was backward, he believed I had brains enough to come to the front after all. By constant practice I had become, as he said, quite a "dab" with my fists, and ought to hold my own with heavier weights than myself. "Don't you ever seek a fight," he advised, "if you are even sure to win, because that's bad style; but, if a boy tries to bully you, never avoid a fight, and you'll soon find you'll lead an easier life, even though you get licked." I returned home from my visit to Howard with a lighter heart than I had gone there, for hope now took the place of despair. If I could only manage to pass into the Academy, I thought, what a triumph it would be! but then the knowledge of the work before me cropped up, and it seemed as impossible I could accomplish what I had to do as that I could accomplish flying, or any other impossibility. Any way, I would try hard on my return to Hostler's, and perhaps he would now push me on faster than he had done before. My three weeks soon passed, and I once more joined Hostler's school at Woolwich. There were two new boys, who had, however, been to other schools, and were fairly forward both in Euclid and algebra, and got on very well after the first few days. I soon became better friends than I had been with Strong and two or three other boys; but Fraser, who was the bully of the school, was still very uncivil to me, and more than once had threatened to thrash me if I interfered with him. Remembering the advice that Howard had given me, I told Strong one day that if Fraser gave me any reason for doing so, I intended to challenge him to fight. Strong warned me against doing anything so rash, for he assured me he knew a case where Fraser had completely cut a boy's cheek open in a fight, and that I should not be able to stand up against him for five minutes. CHAPTER SIX. MY FIRST VICTORY. It was about a month after I had returned from my vacation that Mr Hostler gave us a holiday, and arrangements were made for our playing a match of cricket on Lessness Heath, a piece of open ground near Belvedere. Each boy took out his lunch, and the whole school turned out for the day, Mr Monk being in charge of us. We walked to Belvedere, and soon arranged sides and commenced our match--Mr Monk leaving us to take care of ourselves whilst he went down to Erith to see some friends. After my side had been in and scored forty runs, the other eleven, of which Fraser was one, went in, and had scored thirty-six runs, when Fraser, who had retained his bat during the whole match, was "stumped," and given out by the boy who was umpire. Fraser disputed the decision, and refused to go out, although even his own side owned that there was no doubt about it. At this Fraser became very angry, and declared he would not give in as he had never gone out of his ground. I stood "point," and saw he was more than a foot out of his ground when stumped by the wicket-keeper, and, on being appealed to, said there was no doubt about it. No sooner had I said so than Fraser dropped his bat and rushed at me, striking me on the side of the head. In an instant I returned the blow, and a fight commenced. Several of the older boys, seeing there was to be a fight, suggested we should go into a gravel-pit near the heath, as we should not be seen there, and if Mr Monk came back we should be able to see him from a distance, before he saw us. We both went to the gravel-pit, and a ring was formed--Strong acting as my second, whilst the majority of the boys, feeling that Fraser was in the wrong, were on my side. The reputation, however, which Fraser had obtained as a "mill" caused several of the smaller boys to stand by him for fear of future punishment if they excited his displeasure. We were soon opposite to one another, with our coats off, and our shirt sleeves rolled up, ready to commence, most of the boys looking upon my defeat as certain, and half afraid lest I should be severely punished by my opponent. Fraser was confident of success, and exclaimed, "I'll soon stop your cheek for you; now look out!" He made a rush at me, hitting out vigorously, but I remembered Howard's advice, and determined to keep my head, and try to put in practice what he had taught me. I guarded myself against Fraser's blows, and succeeded in twice giving him straight hits in the face without receiving a touch from him in return. The first round seemed to astonish every one, but none more than Fraser himself. When he had thrashed me before, I knew no more about the use of my fists than a girl, and simply stood up to be knocked about. Now, however, I made use of my legs as well as my fists, and jumped away from Fraser's rushes and blows as expertly as a cat; whilst I instantly recovered myself, and, making my hand and foot keep time, dealt two or three such staggering blows that Fraser was quite bewildered. There is nothing that so soon puts off a bully, or a man accustomed to easy victory, as being "collared." The effect is not unusually to make the too confident man lose his head, forget his skill, and fall an easy victim to his opponent. This was the case with Fraser. In the second round he hit wildly and unskilfully at me, and exposed himself to my blows several times, opportunities which I did not neglect, and, finally, I gave him a fair knock-down blow. There were now cries of "Bravo, Shepard!" whilst several small boys who had been quietly watching the fight, and who had been bullied by Fraser on former occasions, jumped about outside the ring with a delight that they did not attempt to conceal. Three more rounds were fought, during each of which I became more and more confident, as my fear of my adversary's skill and strength was gradually dispelled, and at the sixth round I commenced the attack and completely knocked Fraser out of time. Cheers greeted my victory, whilst I was patted on the back by nearly all the boys, and looked at with admiration by the smallest. Even the older boys looked at me with surprise, for, excepting one blow on the cheek, I was unmarked, and seemed untouched. Strong helped me on with my jacket, and seemed quite delighted at my victory. "This is a great day for you," he said. "There's no one in the school can lick you now; but I'm astonished to find what a mill you are, for six months ago you knew nothing about it." "Ah," I replied, "I did know nothing then but I determined to learn something, and so I got a friend to teach me. Who do you think gave me lessons?" "I can't guess." "Why Howard, who was at the Academy some years ago." "Howard!" exclaimed Strong. "Why, he was the best boxer that was ever at the Academy, and it was he who licked the prizefighter at Charlton Fair. No wonder you thrashed Fraser so easily." Fraser took his defeat with a very bad grace. He was a good deal punished, and I was surprised myself at the effect of my blows. It was my first experience of the result of skill in opposition to brute force, and of the advantage of practice before attempting any performance. It was a small thing, it was true, to merely thrash the bully of a school, but the means by which I had achieved this performance gave me a lesson that has never been forgotten. Labour and thought were the means by which I had gained this victory, as they are the means by which nearly every successful result in life is achieved. From that day I took quite a different position in the school, and led a life free from quizzing or bullying. Fraser hated me, but he feared me too, and to make up for his dislike I found the generality of the boys now sought my society, and always tried to walk with me when we went out for our daily constitutionals. It is a small thing at a school or in afterlife that makes the difference between popularity and unpopularity. Four months passed after my return from my vacation, and my life at Mr Hostler's had grown into a sort of routine. I went through the various daily works there much as did the other boys; but I was not advanced as were the other pupils, and as the time went on and drew nearer to the limit of age at which I could go up for examination I felt more and more certain that my chances of being prepared grew less and less. There were now only six months to the date of my examination, and I had not commenced algebra, yet I had to take up cubic equations and three books of Euclid. In this difficulty and anxiety I wrote to Howard, and told him all my fears and anxieties. As I penned my letter to him I felt ill, and out of health and unfit to do anything; but I sent off the letter, and then hoped I should be more at my ease. On the following morning, when the "quarter" was shouted as usual, I tried to get up, but was unable to stand, and I knew I was very ill. I asked one of the boys to tell Mr Hostler I was too ill to get up, and in an hour a doctor came and immediately ordered me to be removed to a separate room, where I was physicked and attended by an old servant, who acted as nurse to the establishment. I became worse during the day, and at night was delirious, and it was then known that I had a bad attack of measles. During three weeks I was confined to bed, and of course made no progress towards qualifying for my examination, and at the end of that time was only able to walk about my room. It happened that the room in which I had been ill was separated by only a thin partition from a room in which Mr Hostler usually saw visitors, and what was said in the next room could be easily heard in mine. I was sitting one evening looking out of my window and wondering what my future would be, when I heard Mr Hostler's voice in the next room, and my own name mentioned. I listened eagerly to what was said, for I fancied it might be Howard come to see me; but I was soon undeceived, for the second person I ascertained was Monk. "You see," said Hostler, "next examination we must send up Hort and Fox, and perhaps two more. They will pass well, but Fraser we will keep another half. It won't do to send up more than four; besides, I can easily keep him back, on account of his French being bad. Shepard, of course, I never intended to send up. He won't do us any credit, and he can't pass. I'll keep him another month, and then will write to his father, and tell him that this attack of measles destroyed what little chance he had of passing. I think a boy ought to be here at least two years before he goes up, so as to be well grounded; and if Shepard did go up, and did pass by cramming, it would make the parents of other boys discontented if I kept their sons two years." I listened to these words as I should to the revelation of an enemy's plot against me. I now saw why I had been kept back, and why no hurry had been adopted to qualify me for my examination. My blood boiled with rage, as I felt that I had been, sacrificed to the personal interest of Hostler; and I at once wrote a letter to my father, telling him what I knew of Mr Hostler's intentions. Several days passed without my receiving any answer from home, but at length I received a letter from my aunt, saying my father was too busy to write, and had requested her to reply to me. She said my father was much displeased with me for my suspicions of Mr Hostler--that I was like most idle schoolboys who disliked their tutors--that Mr Hostler had written home before I was ill, saying that I was idle, and that all the special attention he was giving me did not seem to have the desired effect, and that he feared I should not qualify. These faults she said she could quite understand, as when under her tuition she had always found me more fond of play than of work. At the receipt of this letter I was at a loss what to do. It seemed as if there was a plot against me, and I was helpless to make the truth known. As a last resource I wrote to Howard, and begged of him to come and see me. Three days after posting this letter, my old nurse came into my room and said a gentleman had come to see me, and I was to go into the dining-room. Upon entering the dining-room I saw, to my delight, Howard, who shook hands with me like an old friend. We drew our chairs together, and I told him how I had been kept back, and how I had heard Mr Hostler's remarks about me, and, lastly, how my father had been prejudiced about me. When he had heard all I had to say, he thought for a minute and then said, "I don't believe Hostler is a bad fellow at heart, and he, no doubt, fully believed that you could not pass. He has his regular routine of cramming, and won't go out of it; and, if you stop here, there is no doubt you won't pass. Now I'm thinking of a plan that may succeed: it is just possible, though not probable. You've four months in which to do twelve months' work; but if it is to be done, I know the only way. There's a man in London who takes only four or five pupils; he is the cleverest fellow I know, for I worked with him half a vacation once, and he got me on wonderfully. His name is Rouse. Now I'll try to persuade your governor to send you there, and that's the only chance I see. I shall be back in Hampshire to-morrow, and will see your governor about it." On the fourth day after Howard's visit I received a letter from my father, telling me to have my trunk packed, as he proposed removing me from Mr Hostler's that day, and transferring me to Mr Rouse's. I bade my schoolfellows good-bye, most of whom were sorry I was going, and I received their condolence in being withdrawn from Hostler's, as having no chance of passing my examination. At about mid-day my father came, and, after a short interview with Mr Hostler, sent for me. "I'm sorry you're obliged to be taken away," said Hostler; "but it wouldn't be fair to your friends to keep you any longer on the chance of your passing. You've only four months now, and it would take the cleverest boy I know a year to pass. If you'd been very quick, I might have done it at first, but now it's too late! But what you've learnt at this school will be of use to you all your life." A steamer was in those days the quickest mode of conveyance from Woolwich to London, and by this means we reached London Bridge, and from thence drove to Trinity Square, Tower Hill, where Mr Rouse lived. On entering Mr Rouse's drawing-room we were soon joined by a clergyman, who was Mr Rouse himself. My father stated the case to Mr Rouse, and informed him of the short time before me, and of Hostler having stated the impossibility of my being able to qualify in a year. "The question now is," said my father, "do you think you can qualify him for the next examination?" Mr Rouse smiled, and said, "You set me rather a difficult task, asking me to accomplish in four months what the celebrated Mr Hostler says can't be done under a year. I can only say it is not probable I can do it, but it is not impossible. It depends entirely on your son's genius and on how well he knows what he has already learnt. I shall be able to tell in a week what he is made of, and what chance there is for me." I had watched Mr Rouse carefully from the time I had entered the room. He was rather tall and stout, with a clear dark eye and a half-bald head. There was a sparkle in his eye that at once indicated quickness and thought, whilst his calm, decided manner spoke of a confidence in himself that was not easily shaken. In ten minutes after entering my father left me, and I was installed as a pupil of Mr Rouse's. "Come upstairs," said Rouse; "I will introduce you to your companions." I followed my new tutor upstairs, speculating on who the boys might be that I should meet, and was shown into a room that looked more like a drawing-room or study than a schoolroom. In it were three young men, whose ages might be about twenty. One was reading the _Times_, another was lounging against the fireplace, and the third helping himself to a sandwich from a plate on a tray at the sideboard. "Let me introduce a new pupil to you," said Mr Rouse, "Mr Shepard, who is going up for Woolwich. Mr Robinson, Mr Welton, and Mr Wynn, Addiscombe cadets. Will you have some lunch, Shepard?" continued Mr Rouse. "There's a sandwich and a glass of ale. We dine at six." I helped myself to a sandwich and a glass of ale, for I had now a tremendous appetite, as I was recovering from my late illness, and I then looked round at my companions. I felt I had come to a very different place to that I had left; my fellow-students were men, and I saw gentlemen, whilst Mr Rouse's manner put me at my ease at once; there was none of the bullying, blustering style there used to be in Hostler, and I felt that I had made a good exchange as far as comfort was concerned, though I feared the manner of the cadets did not seem much like hard work. After about ten minutes' conversation on politics, the performances at the various theatres, and the last good thing in _Punch_, Mr Rouse looked at his watch and said, "Well, shall we commence work again?" The three cadets took chairs beside the table, and commenced reading books. Mr Rouse gave me a slate and said, "I must find out to-day what you know, so that we may go on safe ground. How far have you gone in mathematics?" "I have just commenced addition in algebra," I replied. "Very well, I will give you a couple of questions in rule-of-three, in decimals, in fractions, and in square and cube root, and be careful about your answers." I was soon busily employed at these questions, and found little difficulty in solving them, for they seemed particularly easy questions. After a time I told Mr Rouse I had finished, and at once gave him the answers of each. To my surprise I found not a single answer was correct. Something must be wrong I knew, but where it was I did not know. Mr Rouse smiled, and said, "Now, have a careful look at each question, and don't be in too much of a hurry about them, for sometimes there are difficulties you may not see." I once more carefully examined the problems, and then found I had made a mistake at the very first, and had misread the questions in almost every case. I then reworked these, and eventually brought out the right answers. By the time I had completed my work the hour had arrived for leaving off study. "This evening," said Mr Rouse, "you can work out these questions in this paper and have the answers ready by to-morrow morning." We all dined together that evening like gentlemen. The scramble and noise that used to prevail at Hostler's prevented me from ever enjoying a meal there, so that it was a luxury to sit down to a quiet dinner and to listen to the anecdotes and conversation of Mr Rouse. At no time, either during study hours or at meals, was there anything of the schoolmaster about Mr Rouse; he acted the part of a companion to perfection, and I believe it was as much by his pleasant manner, giving confidence to his pupils, and inducing them to ask his help in every difficulty, as by his knowledge, that he gained the successes he had gained at examinations. After dinner the three cadets went out. I found that my three companions were Addiscombe cadets, who were going into the Indian army, and who were working during the vacation to get either the Artillery or Engineers. They were so much older than I was, that they seemed like men to me, but they had none of the bullying manner about them that the elder boys had at Hostler's. When I found myself alone in the study, at Rouse's, after dinner, I felt I could work and think; everything was so quiet that I was able to get on without interruption, and the time passed rapidly and pleasantly. Question after question I worked out, and by the manner in which the solutions seemed to agree with the questions, I believed I was nearly, if not quite, correct in my work. I continued thus occupied till about ten o'clock, when, having a room to myself, I went to bed, with no fear of being disturbed by a "cold pig," or the miserable cry of "Quarter?" that used to awake me at Hostler's. Before going to sleep, however, I thought over the problems I had worked out, and fancied I had made a mistake in one, which I at once determined to re-examine, and soon found my second thoughts were correct, and that I had made an error. This was the first time I had ever worked out a problem in my head, when in bed, and the room was dark, but after this I regularly used to think over the various things I had done during the day, and try to recall each portion, and endeavour to repeat to myself what I had done. By this means I soon acquired a habit of thought quite new to me; instead of what I learnt seeming to rest only on the surface of my mind, as it had at Hostler's, it seemed to impress itself on the brain, and to leave a mark so distinctly as never to be forgotten. I soon realised the fact that I was passing through a phase of mental development, produced, as I believed, by the quiet, calm, and reasonable manner in which I was now treated. Night after night I used to work out the questions given me, and in the morning handed the solutions to Mr Rouse. In the majority of cases I was correct, but if I were wrong Mr Rouse would go over the work with me, giving me hints as regards the way of arranging my figures or doing portions of the work. I often smiled to myself as I compared this system of teaching with the cramming practised by Hostler, and the reasonable manner in which Mr Rouse pointed out mistakes or want of care, with the three-cuts-on-the-hand system of Hostler. I found, after a week at Rouse's, I had really learnt more than I should have done at Hostler's in many months; and it was not only what I had learnt, but the additional power which seemed to have come to my mind, and the consequent ease with which I grappled with problems, that a month before, in the confusion at Hostler's, would have been to me unintelligible. I discovered, too, at this time, how problems that perhaps for half an hour would appear impossible of solution, if put by for a day and re-tried, would often be found practicable. This, to me, important discovery led me to never give up anything that at first I could not accomplish, but I waited day after day, till I usually found I grew up as it were, so as to surmount the difficulty. Remembering what Mr Rouse had said relative to forming an opinion in a week, I was very anxious, as the week elapsed, to hear the result of his experience. He did not, however, mention a word to me, and I had not the courage to ask him whether he believed I had a chance of success. I worked steadily on, hoping to defer the evil day, when perhaps it would be pronounced that I had no chance. It was after I had been a fortnight at Rouse's that one morning, as I read out the answers to my night's work, Mr Rouse said, "Number six question is one you must look at carefully, for when you are at the Academy you will have many such questions in your half-yearly examinations there." "Do you think I have a chance of passing, then?" I exclaimed. "Certainly; every chance, if you continue going on as well as you have done." These words were long remembered; they gave me hope, and they excited my ambition. If I could only pass, what a blow it would be for Hostler! and what a surprise for many of the boys there, who had put me down as not only a dunce, but as too stupid to learn! I could not, however, believe there was more than a chance of success, though I had hopes now, especially when I found how easily I could solve many of the most difficult questions that Mr Rouse set me. Week after week passed, and I was pushed on with a rapidity that surprised me. I passed through the earlier rules of algebra, came to simple equations, understood them; passed on to quadratics, and at length came to cubics. Mr Rouse's method of teaching was perfect. To him there was no such thing as a difficulty; if he found that I was puzzled at anything, he at once came to the rescue, and asserted that "it was a very simple thing." In a few words he would give an explanation which made the problem thoroughly clear, and often caused me to wonder how I could have been so stupid as not to see clearly before he explained the difficulty to me. On several occasions Mr Rouse had willingly consented to my going to the theatre, his object seeming to be to give all the liberty he could, and to impress on his pupils the importance of self-dependence. Three months after joining Mr Rouse I was working at subjects that only the first and most advanced class attempted at Hostler's. I could scarcely believe that all this was real. It had been so impressed on me at Hostler's that I was intensely stupid, and that even a clever boy could not reach the first class from where I had been in less than a year, that I began to fear I must be cramming and had not a thorough sound knowledge of the subjects I was supposed to have learnt. One day I suggested this difficulty to Mr Rouse, telling him how slowly boys went on at Hostler's, compared to the rate at which I had advanced. Mr Rouse replied that, instead of cramming, he hoped I had thought carefully over and thoroughly understood what I had done, and he believed I was less crammed than Mr Hostler's boys, whom he knew learnt most things by rote like parrots. As regards their Euclid I knew this opinion was correct, for I understood now far more of geometry than I felt certain any of Hostler's boys did. I could turn problems upside down, and prove principles as well as mere cases, this proficiency being due to the clear and quiet way in which Mr Rouse would explain the various propositions. Nothing could be more satisfactory than my progress up to within a month of the examination. I felt considerable hope myself, although I could not get over the feeling that the head boys at Hostler's must know much more than I knew. One morning, however, on waking, I had a very bad fit of coughing; during the day it became worse. I scarcely slept the following night, and on the next day I learnt that I had a bad attack of hooping-cough. Mr Rouse looked very grave at the intelligence given him by the doctor, for he knew that I had to pass a medical as well as a mental examination, and that the doctor would not allow me to pass if I had the hooping-cough. I had now to keep my bed, and was soon leached and blistered, but the cough clung to me most obstinately, and so shook me that I felt too ill to work. I was in this state to within a week of the examination, but I had made up my mind I would take my chance at Woolwich, and well or ill I would go up. It has often since those days occurred to me that there is in the human mind and human will some power which, if exercised, has the effect of driving off or overcoming sickness; men, it is said, often sink and die from despondency, whilst others, by pure energy as it were, get well. To give in, as it were, to sickness often seems to increase the disease, whilst to fight against it staves it off. Whether the will to get well was the cause or the effect of the improvement I cannot state, but I suddenly improved wonderfully, and three days before the examination I scarcely coughed at all, though I was weak and felt barely able to walk. The evening before the examination I started with Mr Rouse for Woolwich, and we took up our quarters at the King's Arms Hotel. There were several other candidates staying in the house, who, I understood, were going up for the examination on the morrow. Previous to going to bed Mr Rouse sat chatting with me in our sitting-room, giving me hints about the examination. "You must remember," he said, "that your success or failure does not depend on what you have done or what you have learnt either with me or at Hostler's, but it depends solely on what you write on your paper to-morrow. I have known boys fail at examinations merely on account of carelessness at the examination. They knew a problem well, but they wrote so carelessly, and described so loosely, that the examiner concluded they knew nothing about the matter. After you have finished a paper, read over slowly and patiently what you have written, and you will almost always find you have made some absurdly simple mistake. I have known men go to an examination as it is said a Dutchman did at a ditch. He ran a mile to get up his speed, and was then so done that, instead of jumping over, he jumped into the ditch. Concentrate all your power on the work in hand; take the easiest questions first, and when you find a difficulty you can't get over, go on to another question; then you will sometimes find, on going back, that you can at once get over what before defeated you. Above all things, keep quite calm and thoughtful, and do not lose your head or get into a funk." These and other similar precepts Mr Rouse gave me, as modern youths would style them, as "straight tips," and I thought over them before I went to sleep, and impressed them on my memory. I woke early on the following morning, and though I tried hard to avoid feeling anxious, yet I could not forget that the whole of my future career hinged on what I did on that and the following days of examination. If I failed, a slur would be on me for life, though perhaps undeserved. If I succeeded, I believed I should accomplish what many considered, if not impossible, at least improbable. After an early breakfast I walked with Mr Rouse towards the Academy, where the examination was to be held, and on the common was joined by five of my old schoolfellows from Hostler's. "What, Shepard!" said one of them, "you don't mean to say you are going to try the examination? Why, I heard you'd given it up!" "Oh, I'm going to try, just for the fun of the thing," I replied. "If I'd been you I'd have cut the affair, for it's far better to withdraw than to have the discredit of being spun." "How Hostler will laugh when he hears of your coming up!" said another of my old schoolfellows. "Fraser!" shouted another boy to some one I saw about a hundred yards ahead, "come here! here's your old antagonist, Shepard?" Fraser waited for us to join him, and then said, "How are you, Shepard? You're looking deuced seedy. What's the matter, and what are you doing here?" "I've had a bad cough," I replied, "and am coming up just for the fun of the examination." "Why, you don't expect you've a chance, do you?" he continued. "Hostler told us you had given it up as the wisest plan." "Oh, I don't suppose I've any chance," I said; "at least, not with you fellows, but I thought I would come up to see what the examination was like." "And have it always said of you that you'd been spun at Woolwich. I think you're a muff for your pains." On entering the Academy grounds we were shown to one of the cadets' rooms, where we had to pass a medical examination. The marks of leeches and blisters on my chest at once attracted the doctor's attention, and he declined to pass me, and sent me at once before a Board. To meet this Board I had to walk down to the hospital near the barracks, which I did with a sergeant of Artillery to show me the way; and I soon found myself being tapped on the chest and examined by the doctors as if I were a piece of goods they were about to buy. As good luck would have it I did not cough, or I might never have had a chance for my examination. But after a slight consultation I was passed, and was sent back to the Academy to commence my examination. I was shown into a fair-sized room, where I found about forty boys at work. They had already an hour's start of me, and a short, smart-looking officer, who gave me a printed paper of questions, advised me to lose no time, as I was already behindhand. "Now for the actual trial," I said to myself, as I looked over the paper, which contained twelve questions in arithmetic and the earlier part of algebra. A feeling of delight came over me as I read this paper, for out of the twelve questions there were eight almost exactly similar to questions I had worked out with Mr Rouse. I commenced my work without delay, but deliberately and carefully. The answers came out without difficulty, and I was tolerably certain that every question but one I had done correctly. When the time was up I gave my paper to the officer, left the Academy, and met Mr Rouse on the common, to whom I related the style of questions, and described how I had treated them. "You ought to have done well if you have been careful," said Rouse, "and I am glad to find that I was correct in my surmise as to the style of questions you would have. The style varies from time to time, but there seems a kind of order in which they return, and on this I trained you. This afternoon you will very likely have a catch equation among the quadratics, such as _x_ = 6. You remember that, don't you?" "Oh, yes," I replied; "I can work that out in my head." "You must be careful about your Euclid, too," he continued; "they lay great stress on that, and cramming won't do for Euclid, because they give you a variation from the book, in order to test if you know principles." In the afternoon a second paper was given me; and there, sure enough, I found the identical equation that Mr Rouse had told me of. This I solved at once, and, looking carefully round, saw that several boys were in difficulties, and seemed to be unable to advance. During the afternoon I felt certain I had done well, and now my only fear was for my Euclid, which would come off on the morrow. That evening Mr Rouse said, "I believe you will have one of five problems I can name in the first, second, and third books of Euclid, so if you are not too tired we will just go over them to-night." An hour was devoted to the explanation of certain propositions, and I, as before, went to bed early, but was at least two hours before going to sleep, occupied in thinking over the various subjects we had worked at. On reaching the Academy on the following morning I found all the candidates assembled in the room in which we had worked on the previous day. From this room the candidates were sent for one by one, in order to be examined in Euclid. When it came to my turn I was shown into a small room, in which I found three officers and a civilian seated at a table, whilst opposite to them was a large black board. "Mr Shepard," said the civilian, "will you tell us what the 20th proposition of the first book of Euclid treats of?" As this question was slowly and deliberately put I felt a strange feeling of nervousness come over me. It suddenly occurred to me, "Suppose I broke down here?" I knew if I did I should be spun to a certainty, and the idea for a moment quite unnerved me. There was a dead silence for about a minute, then, in half-broken sentences, I replied, "To prove two sides greater than the third." "Very well," continued the same gentleman; "will you now draw a figure on that board, and prove the problem, and be kind enough not to prove the same two sides to be greater than the third side that are proved in Euclid?" I took a piece of chalk, and, though my hand trembled, I drew the first line, and then thought which two sides I should prove to be those greater than the third. As I thought over this, my nervousness seemed to leave me, and I saw nothing but the board and the problem. It would have been no matter to me whether four people or four hundred had been present, for I forgot my audience. I experienced no difficulty in demonstrating the problem, thanks to Mr Rouse's training; and having then demonstrated two other problems--one in the third, one in the second book--I was told that that would do. "May I ask who taught you your Euclid?" inquired the examiner. "Mr Rouse, sir." I could not distinctly hear what was said by the examiner to the officers, but the words "that accounts" and "utterly opposed to cramming" were audible. A brief examination in drawing, in Latin, French, and German, and a paper in history and geography, completed the examination; and I returned with Mr Rouse to London, and on the following day started by coach for home. CHAPTER SEVEN. PASSED. It was usually four or five days before the result of the examination became known, and another day for a letter to reach us in Hampshire, so that I fairly calculated a week would pass before I should know my fate. The excitement of the examination, which had kept me up during the past few days, now left me, and a feeling of despondency, caused probably by reaction, came over me. My cough returned, and a low fever came on, which kept me to my bed. Say what I would, I could not help being most anxious about the result of my examination. My nights were sleepless, and each morning, as the time arrived for the postman to come, I could scarcely keep in bed, as I listened to every sound in the hope of hearing that my suspense was ended. It was on the eighth day after my return home that, on the arrival of the postman, I heard anxious voices downstairs; a minute's silence, and then a rush of feet. My two sisters hurried into my room, carrying a large letter, and exclaimed,-- "Bob, you've passed; and have done well, too! Listen to this:-- "`Sir,--I have the honour to inform you that at the late examination at Woolwich, your son, Robert Shepard, was found fully qualified for admission to the Royal Military Academy. I am directed to request that he will join that institution on the 1st proximo, and report himself to the Captain of the Cadet Company. "`I have the honour to be, (signature)' "Some one whose name I can't read," said my sister. "Bravo, Bob! isn't this capital? I knew you'd pass?" Six months previously, if any prophet had informed me that I should pass my examination and become a gentleman cadet, I should have fancied that such a result would have caused me to shout with joy, and to be quite overcome with delight; now, however, that I had passed, and the intelligence had arrived, so as to place the result beyond a doubt, I was myself surprised at the little effect that was produced on me. Although I did not like to give way to any sanguine hopes, still, when the examination was over, I felt tolerably certain I had done well. The examination had been what may be called a lucky one for me. The questions were such as I had been practising for days previous to the examination, and were consequently easy to me. My success, therefore, was not entirely a surprise to me, and I saw clearly the means by which I had gained success. At Hostler's, as soon as a boy came out of school, he tried to forget all about work, and his problems, therefore, made but a small impression on him. At Rouse's, however, the hours of study were so brief by comparison, and reason so completely took the place of cramming, that the mind was not worn out when the evening came, and I often found myself deliberating about a problem as I took a constitutional round the Square gardens. I now knew that the hours of quiet thought I had given to various subjects had enabled me to pass the examination, which to a crammed boy was so very difficult. When I thought of Mr Hostler, his boys, and his prophecies about the impossibility of my passing, I felt a feeling of intense satisfaction, for I believed, in my innocence, that Hostler would own he had made a mistake. I little imagined then that a man of his type of character never owns to a mistake, but invariably claims some merit to himself, even out of his blunders. I afterwards ascertained that Mr Hostler claimed the entire merit of my passing, in consequence, as he said, of the thoroughly sound groundwork he had given me at his school, thus enabling Mr Rouse to give a little superficial polish on it. I continued so weak, and my cough was so bad, that it was considered advisable to apply for sick-leave for me, which was granted, and I remained at home for seven weeks. Howard had been removed to Ireland, so I saw nothing of him, a fact I much regretted, as I hoped to gain from him some hints relative to my course at the Academy, a subject on which I was very anxious; for I had heard various rumours, when at Rouse's, of the "fagging" and "bullying," as it was termed, carried on by the older cadets on their juniors. At length the day arrived when I reached Woolwich with my father, and presented myself at the office of the Captain of the Cadet Company, where I signed a paper to the effect that I was amenable to certain laws, was appointed to a room, and then left to commence my experiences as a gentleman cadet at the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich. CHAPTER EIGHT. WOOLWICH ACADEMY FORTY YEARS AGO--EXPERIENCE OF A LAST-JOINED. Of all the reformations which have taken place during the past thirty-five years in various establishments, none have been greater than that which has occurred at the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich. In the days of which we write fagging was an almost recognised institution, and this so-called fagging in the majority of instances degenerated into bullying. It may seem hard to say it, but we feel compelled to assert our belief that, in the majority of cases, when boys of from fifteen to eighteen have unlimited power entrusted to them they usually become tyrants. What may be termed "the exercise of power" grows more and more severe until it becomes a vice. Boys as a rule are unreflecting, and they are not aware, and scarcely care if they are aware, of the misery or pain they inflict. When, too, a boy in his younger days has been bullied and ill-used, he considers it a point of duty to do unto others as was done unto him, and often this retaliation was passed on with interest. In those days it was considered, too, that fagging to a certain extent aided discipline, and also tended to do away with brute force; for the smallest cadet, if an old cadet, might fag or kick at pleasure a last-joined giant. According to the nature of an old cadet, so did his fag, or "neux," as he was termed, lead a miserable or a tolerably comfortable life; and often the trial through which a last-joined cadet had to pass was so severe that, rather than pass through it, he left the institution. To such an extent did the bullying extend in some institutions at the date to which we refer that it is stated, and on good authority, that a boy was once roasted by his seniors to such an extent that he died from his exposure to the fire, whilst there are men now living who bear on their bodies the scars received by them when fags. That such a system has been done away with is a necessity of the age. That there were and are advantages in teaching lads that brute force is not the only power, and that discipline is an essential of society, is not to be denied; but the disadvantages of entrusting to boys of from fifteen to seventeen such power over their juniors as was given by the fagging system formerly, either recognised or winked at by the authorities at Woolwich, is a mistake, and it is a subject of congratulation that at the present time even fagging is discountenanced with a strong hand. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Having reached the Academy at an early hour, I ascertained that the cadets were then in study, or, as it was termed, "in academy." I was shown to the room to which I was posted, and was shown a bed, which was to be mine. There were four beds in the room, these beds being turned up so as to occupy little or no space. There was one window, which had laced iron bars across it, like a prison window, whilst four cupboards were opposite the fireplace. I was told that in half an hour the cadets would come out of study, when I should see Holms, who was head of the room, and a corporal. I waited with considerable anxiety for this half-hour to pass, and amused myself in the meantime in noting how scanty the furniture of the room was, which consisted of a table, on which was a red cloth, and four stools. The floor was sanded, and of course had no carpet, and no other article of furniture except a small rectangular looking-glass was visible. I turned over in my mind how I should introduce myself to Holms when he came in, and at length decided I would say, "Mr Holms, I believe! I am Shepard, appointed to your room." Having waited a period that seemed quite an hour, I heard a bell ring, and saw about one hundred and fifty cadets run quickly out from the centre building and form into four divisions. These four divisions remained stationary until an officer went on parade, who, having read out something from a paper, gave some word of command, and the four divisions marched off, two in one direction, two in another. One division passed the window where I was standing, but the other was dismissed at the door by which I had entered, and instantly there was the rush of feet as the whole party came into the building I was occupying. The door of my room opened, and a dark, good-looking cadet came in, and, seeing me, said,-- "Hullo! who are you?" "Mr Holms, I believe?" I said in as polite a tone as I could. "I am Shepard, appointed to your room." The cadet I addressed looked at me very hard, and then burst out laughing. "You are rather green, I fancy," he said, "and you look deuced seedy. What's the matter?" "I have only just recovered from the hooping-cough," I replied; "that's why I didn't join before." "Well, you must take care of yourself," said Holms, "for you're not well now." Another cadet now rushed into the room, to whose appearance I at once took a dislike. He had a conceited look about him, and a pale, drawn face, very different from that of Holms. "Hurrah!" he said, "the neux has come at last! Here, Timpson, come and look at the last-joined neux! He doesn't look much of a fellow, does he?" A third cadet here joined us, who was a hard-looking youth, who frowned and looked crossly at me. "He wants teaching manners," said the cadet called Timpson. "What do you mean, sir, by looking at me like that? Take that!" To my surprise and discomfiture, I received a heavy box on the ear which nearly knocked me down. I turned round, and for an instant I thought of returning the blow; but I recalled to mind that I had heard of a neux being all but killed who had struck on old cadet, and, instantly recollecting myself, I said,-- "I did nothing to deserve such a blow as that." "You're cheeky, are you?" said Timpson. "Take that for your cheek!" and another blow was given me as severe as the first. "Come, Timpson," said Holms, "you are not going to bully my neux already. He's seedy, and so let him alone. Brush your hair and wash your face, for you must go on parade in ten minutes." I was half-crying now, as I was considerably hurt by the blows Timpson had given me, and stood hesitating what to do. "Here, brush me!" said the cadet whose name I found was Snipson. I took up a brush and brushed Snipson, but did this by no means to his satisfaction. "You've a deal to learn, sir," he said; "why, you don't even know how to brush one! Give me the brush!" I gave Snipson the brush, upon which he said, "Turn round!" I turned round, thinking he was going to brush my back, and perhaps give me a hint as to using the brush. Suddenly, however, he rubbed the brush over my mouth and nose, whilst he seized me by the back of the neck, so as to hold me firmly and prevent my escape. The pain of this proceeding was so great that I called "Oh, don't!" which brought forth a shout of laughter from Snipson. Holms, however, who was brushing his hair, here interfered and said, "Snipson, I'll lick you if you don't let my neux alone!" "He's mine as much as yours!" replied Snipson. "I'm head of the room, and I won't have this bullying," replied Holms; "so look out!" A bugle now sounded, which caused both Holms and Snipson to hurry on their belts and prepare for parade, for this bugle was "the warning" that was sounded five minutes before parade. On the second bugle sounding the cadets rushed out of the "division," as it was termed, in which we were quartered, and fell in in two ranks, in front of the building, whilst I was told to "fall in" in rear, as I was in plain clothes. When the names of the cadets had been called by Holms, who was corporal on duty, we were marched to the middle of the parade, where soon after three other divisions were marched, and we there waited till an officer came on parade. Whilst we were waiting I could not avoid noticing that I was an object of general attention. I was the only cadet in plain clothes, for the boys who had passed with me were already in uniform, and were also well on with their drill. That I had not joined with the others I soon learnt was a most unfortunate circumstance; amidst the crowd I should then have shared with others the unpleasant notice that a neux usually attracted, but now I was one only, and distinctly marked in consequence of not being in uniform. After being inspected by an officer, parties of cadets were sent to various drills under soldiers who were corporals or sergeants. I had the special attention of a bombardier devoted to me, who commenced by instructing me in the mysteries of "Stand at ease!" and "Attention!" These commands the man shouted at me as though I were deaf, or were half a mile from him; and the commands were pronounced as "Stand at-- hease!"--"'Shon!" An hour of this drill convinced me that it was not such an easy thing to stand at ease as people imagined, and that a man taken from the plough had a very difficult task before him to learn his drill. Upon being dismissed from my drill, I was going to walk about the parade a little, but I soon heard my name shouted by Snipson from the room I was appointed to. Upon entering the room Snipson said, "You're a cool kind of a fellow, swaggering about on parade! You just come here instantly after you're dismissed your drill, every day! Now get my basin filled with water?" "Where is your basin?" I inquired. "Where is my basin? Why, go and find it, and look sharp, or I will give you a licking?" I glanced all round the room, but saw no sign of a basin, so concluded it must be outside. I opened the door, and saw opposite to me four large tin basins. Rejoicing in my luck in finding the basins, I stooped down and selected one, which I was about to take into my room, when I heard a shout close beside me, and saw Timpson in a great rage glaring at me. "You're the coolest young ruffian I ever saw!" said Timpson. "What do you mean by taking my basin?" No sooner had he uttered these words than he lifted his leg and gave me a kick, in much the same manner as though I had been a football. "Drop that basin?" shouted Timpson; "and if I ever catch you touching it again I'll half kill you!" "What! in trouble again?" said Snipson, who had now come to the door. "Serve you right! what a donkey you are! Don't you see our basins are round here?" I now saw that there were three basins on the left-hand side of the door of our room, which I had overlooked when I first went out. I lifted one of these, and, taking it into the room, placed it on the table--the only place that it seemed possible to wash on. "Fat the basin in the proper place!" said Snipson. "You're the greatest idiot I ever saw." I looked round, and, seeing only a stool, was about to put the basin there, but was warned I was wrong by the whiz of a clothes-brush close beside my head. "You don't mean to tell me you can't see where the basin is to go?" said Snipson. "Don't try to make yourself out a fool, for that won't do." I now saw under the window a hanging-shelf, which I raised and propped up with two iron legs. On this I placed the basin, and then went outside for a can of water I had seen beside our door. "That's not my basin!" said Snipson, on my entering. "You don't think I'm such a dirty brute as to wash in another man's basin? That's Holms'--bring mine!" "How am I to know your basin?" I inquired. "Why, find out, to be sure!" I was at a loss to find out, but, thinking it better to bring both in, I did so, and placed them on the shelf. "That's mine!" said Snipson, pointing to one of the basins; "now mind you never make a mistake again!" I looked carefully at the basin, but could see no difference between this and either of the others, and I concluded that Snipson was joking, as they all appeared similar. Holms now came in, and, thinking I would at once make myself useful, I placed a basin for him near Snipson's. "That's not my basin?" said Holms. "Give me the other!" I was now certain there must be some distinguishing mark, but I could see none, and was much puzzled how I should again distinguish one from the other. A bugle again sounded, and I ascertained this was the warning-bugle for dinner-parade. Our division fell in in front of the building as before, the names of the cadets were called, and we were then marched into the inner square, where an officer came, and, having heard the cadets were all present, gave the word, "Right face! quick march!" I was in the rear of the division, and dressed in plain clothes; my hat was what modern slang would term "a top hat," and what in those days we called "a beaver." This beaver I was rather proud of; it was only the second one I had possessed, a cap having previously done duty for the covering of my head. As I approached the dining-hall, a cadet who was a neux in my division whispered to me, "Look out for your hat!" Thinking that this meant that my hat might be spoilt if I let it rest on the floor instead of hanging it up, I said, "All right!" and marched on in the crowd of cadets, who now broke their ranks as they entered the portico leading to the hall. Suddenly, and without any warning, a heavy blow was given on the top of my hat, which sent it down over my ears and eyes, and at once prevented me from seeing anything. As I raised my hands to force the hat up, half-a-dozen more blows were showered on my head with no light hand. I succeeded in pushing off my hat, the crown of which was knocked in, but could not see who had struck me--all the cadets looking much amused, but no one appearing to have been the guilty party. Every cadet at once sat down at a table, there being about twenty tables in the hall; but, being uncertain where I ought to go, I stood in the middle of the hall, a mark for compressed balls of bread, a shower of which quickly rained around and on me. The officer on duty, who had been detained outside to speak to a cadet, now came into the hall, and each cadet stood as rigid as a statue till the officer, calling to the senior cadet, said, "Say grace?" The senior cadet in a loud voice shouted, "For what we're going to receive may we all be thankful!" and the cadets then sat down. I had remained standing all this time, and the officer, now remembering me, came up and said, "You take a seat at this squad." I sat down at the squad where there were four cadets on each side, and one old cadet at the head of the table; they were all strangers to me, and I looked all round the hall to find Fraser or the others of Mr Hostler's who had come up for examination, but I could see none of them. "Now then, sir," said the head of the dinner-squad, "how much longer are you going to stare about before you peel the potatoes?" I was surprised at this request, but the cadet opposite me pushed a plate of potatoes towards me that had been boiled with their jackets on, and signed to me that I was to peel these for the head of the squad. I commenced the operation, but was very clumsy at it, never having attempted such a performance before. I finished, however, after a fashion, and passed the plate up the table, and received in exchange a plate of meat which the cadet at the head of the table had cut for me. "Snooker! beer!" said the cadet. I saw a large jug of beer and a small mug near it, so I tilted up the jug and poured out a mugful of beer and passed this up the table. When the cadet saw this he said, "What do you mean, sir, by pouring out my beer like that! Put it back and froth it! By Jove! if ever you pour out beer like that again I'll have you over to my room and give you an angle of forty-five!" I poured back the beer into the jug, and again filled the mug, this time taking care to froth it. The meat that we had for our dinner was hard and tasteless, and was of a most inferior description. Our meal consisted only of meat, potatoes, bread, and the thinnest of beer, termed "swipes." In those days the food of the cadets was scarcely fit to eat, the tea and coffee were most inferior, and the ration of bread and butter allowed us scarcely sufficient for half the number. That an alteration in this particular was much needed was not long after discovered, but, at the time of which we write, the cadets could scarcely have lived had it not been for the additional food they obtained from pastrycooks in the neighbourhood, or that was smuggled into barracks at various times. After our dinner a quarter of an hour elapsed before we "fell in" for academy. Luckily I found Jenkins, a boy from Hostler's, who had gone to the Academy a half-year before, who told me that I joined the last squad or division which was now termed "a class," otherwise I should have made a mistake. The class I joined was called the fourth class, and on a cadet, who was a corporal, reporting "all present," we were marched into the class-room where we were to study. On looking round at my companions I now found that I recognised several cadets as the candidates who came up for examination with me, and one or two nodded to me, but as we were ordered by the corporal who was in charge of the room to take our seats, I had no opportunity of talking to them. I looked round the room to find some of my companions at Hostler's; I thought it would be great fun to see their surprise at my having passed. I expected to see Fraser high up in the class, and also Fuller and Hunt, and one or two others who at Hostler's were in the first class, and were always held up to me as examples of learning. Low down in the class I saw a cadet who had been at Hostler's; he was called Smart, and was considered rather a dull boy; but, seeing none of the others, I concluded they must be in some other room. As I was re-examining my companions, the cadet in charge called out, "Shepard, look to your front! If I see you locking round again I'll put you in arrest?" I now sat looking straight before me, until called by the mathematical master to the octagon, where I was given some work to do, and again took my place at my desk. On coming out of academy I met Smart, who hook hands with me and congratulated me on passing. "It's quite wonderful," he said; "and Hostler, I hear, is tearing his hair with rage at it, for he laughed at the idea of your having a chance." "Where is Fraser," I inquired, "and Fuller, and all those fellows that came up?" "They are all spun, and I'm the only one from Hostler's who has passed this time. Fraser now is too old, even if he could get another trial, which he can't. I often thought I could beat Fraser and Hunt at exams, for they used to cram fearfully--but how you must have worked!" "Well, I didn't seem to work so much," I replied, "though I got on very fast. It was Mr Rouse's style of teaching that was so good." "Hostler says you are certain to be spun at your probationary, as you must have been crammed just for this examination." "What is a probationary?" "It's the exam, you have to pass at the end of a year. If you don't pass that satisfactorily, you are sent away from here." I then inquired of Smart whether, on his joining, he had met with the same rough treatment that I had, and he informed me he had experienced much the same. The head of his room was a very good fellow, and not at all a bully; but that two cadets who had been smashed from corporals were in his division, and were "awful bullies." He also informed me that Timpson and Snipson had the reputation of being the greatest bullies in the Academy. Smart had to leave me, as he had to go down town for the head of his room, and, on leaving, recommended me to get my uniform as soon as I could, for as long as I was in plain clothes I was a mark to be bullied. Nothing remarkable happened during the remainder of the day. At half-past nine an officer came round the rooms, and received from the senior cadet a report to the effect that all were present, that no lights were concealed in the room, and that he had no intention of procuring a light. The fire was then raked out and the candles carried off by a servant who accompanied the officer, and we were left to get into bed in the dark. I now missed the luxury I had enjoyed at Rouse's, viz, of a room to myself, for my two companions were talking so that I could not go to sleep; and tired as I was, and bruised with the blows I had received, I longed to get to sleep. As I lay thinking over all the strange events of the day, and what a world of itself the Academy was, Snipson shouted out, "Shepard! call me at five to-morrow morning--not a minute later, mind, or I'll break your head for you!" I was wondering how I was possibly to wake at five, when I heard a knock at the door, and on Holms calling, "Come in!" a cadet said, "The fourth of the room is to go to No. 16." I did not at first realise that this had anything to do with me, till Snipson shouted, "Shepard, you'd better look sharp, or Foxey will half kill you?" "What am I to do?" I inquired. "Do, you donkey? why, dress--and sharp too--and go to No. 16! Foxey will soon show you what to do!" I got up and groped for my clothes, and dressed as well as I could in the dark. I then inquired of Snipson which was No. 16. "Why, you've been here all day, and do you mean to say you don't know which 16 is yet? You must go and find out; and I'd advise you to be sharp, for Foxey isn't to be trifled with!" I went out of the room, and tried to remember whether I had noticed 16 on any particular door. I could not recall that I had done so, and, hearing some talking at the end of the passage, I went to a door and knocked. I was told to "Come in!" and, on entering, was asked who I was. I replied, "Shepard; and I was told to come to Foxey in No. 16." There was a shout of laughter from two cadets in the room as I said this, whilst the cadet I first spoke to said,-- "Come here, sir! Who told you to come to Foxey?" "Snipson, the second in my room." "Take that for your impertinence, now; and, when you go back, tell Snipson I will kick him to-morrow!" The article which I was to take was a boot that was hurled at me by this cadet, whose nickname I afterwards ascertained was Foxey--a title that gave him great offence. After having served as a target for a pair of boots, which I had after each shot to bring back to the cadet, I was asked if I could sing. Now it happened that one of our men-servants had been a sailor, and had learnt some of the popular sea-songs of the times. These I had heard him sing when I was quite a boy, and soon learnt the words, and also to sing them. Among these were "The Bay of Biscay," "Tom Bowline," "The Admiral," "The Arethusa," "'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay," etc. In answer to the inquiry whether I could sing, I replied that I thought I knew a song. "Then we'll have it presently," said the cadet. "Now, snooker of No. 10!" he continued, "have you made out that ode to the moon yet? I'll give you another licking if you tell me again you can't!" I now found there were several other cadets in the room, all last-joined, like myself; and, from the remarks made, I found that they had some task set them. The cadet addressed replied in a half-blubbering manner, "I'll try to say something now." "Get onto the table, then," said the cadet, "so that I may have a fair shot at you if you break down! And now go on, sir! You can't sing, so you must make an ode to the moon! Now then, sir, commence!" The cadet, who had now mounted on the table, had evidently had a rough time of it. He was a little fellow, whom I had seen belonged to our division, and who was very fat, and looked very stupid. As he stood on the table he was crying, either from fear or from the punishment he had received, or from both combined. "Now, sir, will you commence?" said the cadet who was the head of the room. In a tremulous voice that made the words uttered sound more ridiculous than they otherwise would, the cadet on the table said, "O moon, how splendid you are! How beautiful you look! And you light up the night! You are full sometimes, and then you shine bright!" "Any fool knows that," interrupted the head of the room, whom I had called Foxey. "Don't tell us what we know; tell us something original!" "O moon?" continued the cadet in the same tremulous voice; "with a face in you, you are not made of green cheese! And you shine by night, and are not seen by day!" "That's a lie!" said Foxey. "The moon can be seen by day, and you are trying to deceive us poor mortals! I'm not going to remain quiet, and hear the moon slandered in that way! You must have a boot at your head for that!" A boot was here hurled at the cadet by Foxey, which seemed by the sound to have struck the mark, and also, from certain sniffling sounds, to have added to the grief of the orator. "Go on!" said Foxey. "O moon!--" "If you commence `O moon!' again, I'll hurl another boot at you!" said Foxey. "Lovely moon!" continued the cadet. "Lovely moon!--I don't know what more to say, please." "You're an idiot!" said Foxey; "and if you don't write out an ode for to-morrow night, I'll give you another licking! Now where's the last-joined neux, Shepard? Now then, up on the table and sing a song!" I climbed onto the table, and hesitated a moment as to which song I should sing. "Look sharp, sir," said Foxey, "or you'll have a boot at you! I'm going to teach you manners." At this warning I at once commenced the "Bay of Biscay," and sang it through without a mistake. "Very well sung," said Foxey; "now give us another!" I now sang the "Arethusa," when Foxey exclaimed, "That's a stunning song! You must write me out the words of that by to-morrow night. Now, as you've sung so well, you may go, but mind, I must have some more songs from you." I thanked Foxey for letting me go, and crept into my room, and went to bed as quietly as I could. Before going to sleep I thought over the events of the day; it seemed to me an age since the morning, and not a few hours only. I had passed through so many different scenes, and had experienced so much anxiety, that each event seemed to have occurred a very long time after its predecessor. The thought uppermost in my mind was, how little the general world knew what a neux had to go through on joining the Academy, and how trying an ordeal it was for a sensitive and delicate boy. I remembered my father saying to me on one occasion, that on joining the Academy I should be fag to an old cadet, and should have to run messages for him, and fag at cricket, but that I was not to mind this, as it was almost a recognised system at all the large public schools, and was supposed to teach a boy the respect due to his seniors. I little imagined at the time, and my father would not have believed, the extent to which fagging had degenerated into bullying, in consequence of its being left in the hands of those totally unfitted to exercise it. That some boys are benefited by being brought under a rigid discipline, and "kept down," as we may term it, by a system of fagging, and thus brought to respect their seniors in a school, there is no doubt; for an "unlicked cub" is undoubtedly a most obnoxious youth, and grows into a disagreeable man. But where fagging is now only winked at by the authorities, it ought to be recognised, and to a great extent be under their surveillance. If such power is left entirely to boys or youths from fifteen to eighteen, it not unusually becomes a system of tyranny, that damages alike the exerciser of the power and the victim of it. At the time of which we write, bullying was at its height at the Woolwich Academy. It was winked at by the authorities, for it was known to exist, and no endeavour was made to put it down. If, however, a case of bullying came so prominently before the officers that they could not avoid taking notice of it, then a rigid inquiry was made, and the cadet found guilty of the offence was severely punished. These examples, however, had little or no effect in checking those who delighted in exercising the power they possessed, and so for several years the same system prevailed, until an entire reorganisation of the establishment occurred. On awaking, on the following morning, there was a feeling of anxiety came over me that something was wrong. I did not at first realise where I was, but soon the events of the preceding day were recalled, and I anticipated with dread what might happen to me on this day. Any feeling of pride or satisfaction at having passed my examination so well had been entirely knocked out of me, and occasionally I believe I regretted that I had passed, for I knew that there were many months of fagging before me, and if each day was like the last, I doubted whether I could endure it. The rule established by the old cadets at that time was that a cadet remained a neux or fag for three half years, and on the fourth became an old cadet, when he could exercise the power of fagging others. It was considered that a third-half cadet should not be fagged except under exceptional circumstances, such as being very unpopular or there being no first or second-half cadet available. Those who had the hardest time of it were of coarse the last-joined, but second-half cadets were often as much bullied as the last-joined. To give an idea of the bad spirit that sometimes was shown by certain individuals at that time, the following fact may be related:--A cadet, whose father was a distinguished officer, but who was considered a Tartar in discipline, was fagged to the end of his third half, because the elder brothers of some of the old cadets had suffered at the hands of the disciplinarian. Another similar case was where a young cadet had had a brother at the Academy, who, as an old cadet, had fagged an individual who now happened to be an old cadet, and who used to boast that he had paid back on the younger brother the thrashings he had received from the elder, with one hundred per cent, interest. My meditations were interrupted by the sound of a bugle which sounded in front of the Academy, and at the same time Snipson called out, "Hullo! what's that? Why, that's _reveille_! Shepard?" he shouted, "I'll lick you to within an inch of your life! Didn't I order you to call me at five o'clock? and now it's half-past six! Now come here!" I got up and was going to put on some clothes, but Snipson made me come to him as I was, when, taking down a racket that was on the wall, he belaboured me with this till I howled. Holms here interfered, and threatened Snipson with a thrashing if he did not desist--a threat that seemed to produce its effect on Snipson, who, warning me never to forget to call him again, told me to get up and dress so as to be ready to hand him the various things he required whilst performing his toilet. I now began my regular duties as fag, and as these, with but slight variations, continued during nearly a year, I can here describe them. About twice a week I had to call Snipson at five o'clock in the morning and light a candle for him, in order that he might work, for he was very much behind in his mathematics and feared he would not qualify for a commission, so he was now working hard to make up leeway. Very often I had to stand beside Snipson's bed for an hour to hold the ink and a candle, because he could see better than if the candle rested on the bed, and could get at his ink more easily. Snipson, I found, had been longer at the Academy than Holms, and had been reduced from the rank of corporal on account of keeping up lights in his room after hours. This, it was said, had made him very savage, and caused him to be one of the greatest bullies at the "shop," as the Academy was termed. Half an hour before Snipson got up I had to be washed and dressed, in order to hand Snipson his sponge, towel, soap, tooth-brush, etc, and to have his coat brushed and held ready to be put on. I then had to inspect him to see if there was a speck of dust on him, and to brush this off if there was. Holms exacted very little fagging from me; he merely required to be brushed and his things kept tidy in his cupboard, so I was mainly occupied with Snipson. One of my most difficult duties was at breakfast parade. For our breakfast we were allowed only bread and butter to eat, and Snipson had a great fancy for jam, hot rolls, and marmalade. It was strictly against orders to take any such things into the dining-hall, and as we were all assembled on parade and inspected by an officer previous to going into breakfast, it required considerable dexterity to convey a pot of jam or a roll into the hall without being discovered. The method in which this was managed was the following-- I, being a small boy, was in the rear rank whilst Snipson was in the front rank. I carried the pot of jam in my tail-pocket until the officer on duty had inspected the front rank and the faces of the rear rank. Just as he reached the end of the line and before he inspected the rear of the rear rank, Snipson used to turn round whilst I, extracting the pot of jam from my tail-pocket, tossed it over to him; he caught it and put it in his tail-pocket. We became quite dexterous at this performance, and accomplished it like a sleight-of-hand trick, till one morning Snipson missed catching it, and the pot fell on parade, broke, and the jam was discovered by the officer on duty. "Fall out, the gentleman who brought that jam on parade!" said the officer. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I hesitated a minute, and then fell out and said I had done so. "Then you will be in arrest, sir, till further orders!" said the officer. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I was rather alarmed at this, for I fancied I might receive some severe punishment for this breach of regulation. Snipson was very angry with me, and accused me of carelessness in pitching the jam to him, so on returning to my room he told me he would give me an angle of forty-five as a punishment. As this angle of forty-five was a very popular punishment in those days, we venture to describe it with some detail. The cadet to be thus treated stood to attention against the cupboards, his arms rigid to his side, and he rigid from head to foot. He then rested the back of his head against the cupboard and gradually moved his feet out till he rested at an angle of nearly forty-five degrees with the cupboards. The old cadet with a kick then kicked the neux's feet outwards, and the victim came down heavily on his back. Cadets upon whom this was practised were not uncommonly so much hurt that they had to go to hospital for several days. At every parade--and there were about six per day--Snipson and Holms had to be brushed, and I was responsible if they were in the least dirty. If the servant (for there was one servant to sixteen cadets) did not put the washing-basins down soon enough, I had at once to do his work for him. At the dinner I had occasionally to secure two large potatoes, and carry these out without being seen by the officer on duty or the head of the squad. These potatoes I had to conceal in my room, and then, when evening came, to bake them under the grate for Snipson. If I forgot salt I was sent down to the far end of Woolwich to buy a small quantity, and the time allowed me for the journey was so limited that I soon became a good runner. Of an evening there were two candles in our room, and when Snipson worked he would not allow me to be in the room, as he said seeing me interrupted him, so I had either to wander about outside on parade or go to the library, where I was almost certain to be called upon by some old cadet to run messages for him, or to go to his room and do something, as it was concluded I was idle, or would not be in the library. About four nights a week I used to be sent for to some of the eight rooms in the division to sing songs. Other neuxes were usually there also, and were also called on to sing, make speeches or odes, or tell stories, and if they did not acquit themselves to the satisfaction of the old cadets, they became the targets for boots, brushes, and other missiles. This may be called the regular routine through which a fag had to pass on first joining and for a year after his being at the Academy. To work out of academy hours at any study was impossible; and, in fact, it was considered "cool" for a neux to work in his room, so that there was an advantage in taking into the Academy a more extended stock of knowledge than was sufficient for passing only. One of the great days of dread to the neux was Saturday afternoon. It was usual then to grant leave, from Saturday at three to Sunday night, to all cadets who could produce invitations; and as all who could do so went away during that time, those who remained were in great request. There were two reasons why a neux could not always get away: one was, that he might not have a written invitation; the other was, that he had been turned out to drill twice during the week, either by a cadet having the rank of corporal, or by the officer on duty, for unsteadiness on parade, or want of attention to drill. The fagging required on Saturday afternoons was somewhat varied. Those old cadets who were not on leave usually made up a party in one of the rooms, and required something to eat and drink. To accomplish this it was necessary to use great caution, for such feasts were against orders, and to bring wine or spirits into the enclosure entailed, if discovered, the gravest punishment. The most successful manner in which the matter was accomplished was the following:-- Two or three fags were sent out of an afternoon with cloaks on; one of these returned with the others and carried two bottles concealed under his cloak. Sometimes as many as six or seven cadets would be sent out, and if any of these were met by an officer and examined, the chances were against the one who had the wine being caught among so many. Snipson sent me on these smuggling expeditions very frequently, and threatened me with the most dire punishment if I ever divulged that he had sent me. He assured me that it would only be by stupidity or carelessness that I should be discovered, and so I must take the blame myself. I had been very successful in avoiding detection until the fifth time; then, however, as I was coming round by the lodge with a bottle of sherry in each hand, and my cloak on, I ran almost against the officer on duty. I tried to slip one bottle under my arm and salute with the other hand, but I did this so awkwardly that he told me to take off my cloak. I did so, and of course was placed in arrest and the bottles taken from me. An inquiry into the matter led to my receiving seven days' arrest and a month's stoppage of leave, with a threat that if I were again found guilty of a similar offence I should be rusticated. From Snipson I received nothing but blame; he declared that it was my own fault that I had been found out, and might consider myself lucky in not getting a thrashing from him for having lost the wine for which he had paid. Some days after this event Snipson received what was called an "inattentive return" in some of his studies; the result was, that he had also seven days' arrest, with its attendant drill. This seemed to utterly sour his temper, for he became a greater bully than ever, and invented an amusement from which I was a sufferer. Being unable, in consequence of his arrest, to leave his room, except for meals, drill, and study in the regular academy hours, Snipson used to send for three last-joined cadets, making, with myself, four. He would then ask Timpson in from the opposite room and commence his amusement, which was carried on as follows:-- Taking a seat about five feet from the angles of the table, he used to provide himself with a towel, which he twisted up and tied at the end; this end he wetted, so as to make it an excellent weapon for flipping. The four last-joined cadets were then started to run round the table-- two in one direction, two in the opposite. When the cadets had to pass one another there was a struggle between them as to which should be the insider. The outsider of course got all the flips with the towel, so there was a reason for the straggle for inside place. Snipson described this amusement as such capital fun that several cadets used to come in to see it; but Holms, who was never present, came in one day and stopped it, saying it was bullying for no reason, and he would not allow it; and I was consequently saved from this in Holms' room; but when Snipson's arrest was over he used to take me to other rooms and there practise the same amusement. When one looks back through the long vista of years to those distant days when one was a cadet, and remembers one's career there as a whole, the reminiscences that come most prominently forward are the agreeable. It seems that by some arrangement of nature the pleasant and agreeable events of the past remain longer in our memory than do those that are disagreeable. We can recall the many agreeable hours we passed with this or that cadet, many of whom have long since fallen, fighting gallantly before the enemy, or have sunk from disease in foreign climates, where their duty called them to serve. Some few still remain, most of whom have made their mark in the world, and whose names are now known, not in the corps alone in which they serve, but to the world at large, who note and remember the names of those who have distinguished themselves in various ways. We can recall, too, how there was a majority at the Academy who had a high sense of honour and of military discipline, and who would willingly have put down bullying had they not somewhat weakly felt that by doing so they were putting themselves forward as "reformers,"--a prominence to which they objected. Though there was an evil crying out for remedy, yet there were good points even then at the Academy, that rendered it a useful school for the soldier. He there learnt to rough it, and to bear hardship, and too often injustice, without complaint. He learnt too the importance of keeping his word and acting up to a promise--matters not unusually neglected in the wide world. We believe that there is not a case on record of a cadet having broken his word of honour, or of having broken his arrest, which he was bound to keep on honour; and at the time we write of, although if a cadet were tipsy (a rare occurrence) all other cadets would try to screen him, yet, if a cadet had been known to break his arrest or his word, every other cadet would have instantly reported him, and used his utmost endeavours to obtain the most severe punishment for the offence. There seems in this condition a vast amount of inconsistency, but inconsistency is the general characteristic of humanity, and is one of its weakest points. We usually find the best men occasionally do the worst things, the wisest men commit the most foolish acts, and the most pious act like the most wicked; misers squander their money on worthless objects, and the cautious become reckless. There was great knowledge of character in the relater of the anecdote of the Roman Catholic who was in prison for murdering his father, but who was indignant at the idea of his being considered such a sinner as to eat meat on "a fast day." Every day we see examples of the grocer who, having ascertained from his assistant that he had mixed the sand with the sugar, and the saw-dust with the coffee, directed him to come in to prayers, and to mind he was attentive. In former times it was not considered at all a dishonourable act to take a knife belonging to another cadet and to appropriate this to oneself; such an act was termed "smoutching," and was looked upon as rather a smart thing. If, however, one cadet took from another cadet a sixpence, or oven a penny, just as he had taken the knife, he would have instantly been reported to the authorities as a thief. To kick, thrash, or fag in any way a neux was considered by old cadets only fair and according to rule; but the instant any neux was on leave, from that instant he was free from fagging, and any old cadet who was known to have fagged a neux who was on leave, even to the extent of requesting to be brushed, would have been tried by his peers. It was ten days after joining the Academy that I first obtained my uniform, and I can recall even now the secret pride with which I first put it on. I felt now that I really had commenced the career of a soldier, and that I had gained an enviable position by passing my examination. There seemed to come upon me a feeling of responsibility as the coat came on me, and I made up my mind not to disgrace my cloth. A boy at sixteen may well be pardoned for feeling that enthusiasm which hardship and neglect sometimes cause to be extinguished in the breast of a veteran. Having, as I may term it, shaken down in my uniform, I asked Smart one day if he would come down with me to Hostler's. The reason proposed for this trip was to see one or two of our schoolfellows; but in my heart the reason was to show myself off in uniform before those boys who had looked down upon me when I was at Hostler's cram-school; and I also suspect that the same reasons induced Smart to accompany me. "We shall just find the boys going out," said Smart, "and it will be great fun to see what they will say to you. What a sell it will be for Tomkins and Hurst--your passing--for I hear, now so many have failed, Hostler won't let them come up for a year, so you will be an old cadet when they are second-half fellows, and will be able to fag them. Walkwell declares it was your drawing that got you into the Academy, and takes great credit to himself for having taught you." We arrived at Mr Hostler's and entered the well-remembered playground, where we found the boys assembling previous to an afternoon walk. We were both welcomed with enthusiasm, whilst we were stared at as objects of wonder and admiration. In those days the difference between a cadet and a schoolboy was very great, and the cadet was looked up to as so far above the schoolboy, that the latter scarcely liked to speak to the former, for fear of meeting a rebuff. Cadets, too, very often cut their old schoolfellows, as they could not speak to anything so low. Our condescension in coming down to Hostler's was therefore fully appreciated, whilst the reception I met from many of my old companions, caused me to believe I had been most prejudiced as regards them. There was Smith, who used to make faces at me, and who used to call me a "Hampshire hog" and "Tomfool" when I was at Hostler's, now came with a deprecating smile on his face and shook hands with me, whilst he intimated he was awfully jolly that I had passed. There was Bones, as we used to call him, Fraser's great chum, who hated me after my victory over Fraser, and who used to spread false reports in the school to my detriment, now came up with "Hullo, Shepard, old fellow! You are a swell now! I'm so glad you're a cadet?" As I stood surrounded by an admiring group of boys I heard the well-known voice of Hostler, and somehow the old influence came over me, and for an instant I had the fear of three cuts on the hand. Hostler had seen us in the school-yard, and came down to speak to us, but I must confess the style of his address entirely took me aback. Hostler was too clever for me. "Ah, Shepard," he said, shaking hands, "glad to see you! Well, so my good groundwork of mathematics and Euclid passed you. I thought it would. And I told Mr Rouse you only wanted a final polish, which I hadn't time to give you here with so many boys on hand, to give you a fair chance. Then, you see, the fact of your having been here was known at the Academy, and no doubt that helped you on. I feel much flattered at your having passed, for it shows my system is a sound one." I was utterly taken aback at this speech of Hostler's after what had happened; I almost expected he would have apologised to me for his behaviour. I forgot he did not know I had overheard his conversation with reference to my not being sent up, and I could almost swear that no communication whatever had taken place between him and Mr Rouse. Thinking I would make an awkward remark for him I said, "I'm sorry Fraser and the others didn't pass." "I never thought they would, Shepard," replied Hostler, who never moved a muscle of his face as he uttered this lie. "Fraser was idle and careless, and his friends would have him pushed on too rapidly, and so he wasn't sound. I protested against this, but it was no use, so I foolishly gave way." Now it happened that Fraser had been four years at Mr Hostler's, and had been over and over again the coarse that he had to be examined in; and when I was at Hostler's he was held up to me as one of the most promising boys, who was to bring honour to the establishment at which he had been prepared, and who was considered very likely to pass at the head of his batch. "You must mind and work hard for your probationary," said Hostler. "You'll find you've plenty to do; and it's no child's play, I can tell you." I thanked, him for his advice, and remarked that, having passed my first examination, I hoped I should not break down at the next. I only once again entered Mr Hostler's establishment from that day, but the remembrance of the misery I endured there, of the false system of teaching (or rather cramming, for he did not teach) he adopted in his school, of the whalebone and cane arguments he used to convince boys of the advantages of learning their Euclid, is still fresh in my memory; and even now the worst nightmare I can suffer from, is that I am again a boy at Hostler's, and have failed in my Euclid. One of the greatest defects at the Academy in former times was the impossibility of ever being alone. We were usually four in each barrack-room; we were marched about by squads, divisions, or classes; we dined, breakfasted, and had tea at squads; we were in classes from thirty to forty for study. At night we could never be alone; the snoring or turning of another cadet in the room disturbed one. Now there are some natures so affected by external influences that they are never thoroughly themselves unless they are entirely alone. Such individuals are never known in their real characters, for before others they are unconsciously actors. Men who appear idlers before the world, mere loungers on society, are not unusually when alone the deepest thinkers or the hardest workers; and to such, solitude is an essential. To many, therefore, especially to those who wished to work hard, it was a great drawback being penned up night and day with companions whose tastes not unfrequently were anything but congenial. In spite of the hard life I led at the Academy, and the amount of fagging and bullying I had to go through, the time passed quickly; there was a novelty in everything, which was very attractive. As I advanced in my drill, and joined the squad of other "last-joined," there was a secret pleasure in feeling I was a soldier, that a splendid career was open before me if I could only manage to pass my examinations, and that when I became an officer my career might be most favourable. I made but little progress, however, in my studies; the hard work I had gone through in order to pass, and the varied scenes and events I was daily passing through, gave me a kind of mental indigestion, and I found it very hard work to learn. Although I had passed into the Academy, I could not get over the idea that it was to a certain extent a bit of good luck that I had done so, and I believed I was somehow less gifted with a capacity for learning mathematics than were other boys, and I began to have doubts and fears whether I should pass my probationary examination, especially considering the impossibility there was in working out of academy hours. I had, after the first two months, got accustomed, to a great extent, to the fagging and bullying. Snipson still continued my greatest tormentor, and had it not have been for him I should not have led so hard a life as I did, for Holms was often very kind, and gave me hints as to what I ought to do under various circumstances. He used also to stop Snipson from bullying me whenever he found him doing so. I consequently looked on Holms as a great friend, and should probably have passed my half-year tolerably had not a circumstance happened which considerably affected my comfort and deprived me of the society and protection of Holms. It happened that Snipson had great difficulty in getting out of the second academy, as he was very bad in mathematics. In order, therefore, that he might work of a night, he asked Holms if he would allow him to keep up lights. I was not aware at the time I heard this request made by Snipson, and agreed to by Holms, of the risk the latter ran of severe punishment in case of detection; but as it was agreed to, that lights were to be kept up, I was called upon to assist at the preparatory arrangements. Between the outside window and the room in which I lived there were iron bars arranged in diamond-shape; between these and the window there was a space of a few inches; between these bars a regimental cloak was carefully drawn and so spread out that from the inside of the room no ray of light could be seen coming through any little chink left by the cloak not being properly arranged. To fill up this space in a satisfactory manner four cloaks were required, which, having been placed between the window and the bars, a careful inspection was made, and matters being considered satisfactory, candles were lighted, the door locked, and Snipson commenced his studies. Holms had gone to bed soon after the cloaks were arranged, but Snipson made me sit up, as he said he should require me to help take down the cloaks when he was tired of working; so I sat up and tried to read, but my eyes gradually closed, and more than once I fell asleep. Snipson, however, took care to wake me by tapping me on the head with a book, and thus we passed the time till about twelve o'clock. It happened that, on the particular night in question, the officer on duty had been dining at mess, and, on returning to his quarters in the Academy, saw a slight speck of light coming from the window of our room, where a flaw had occurred by one of the cloaks slightly slipping. On coming close to the window he found that lights were being kept up, and that he had discovered the delinquents. From the officers' quarters to those of the cadets there was a passage which might be passed through of a night. By this passage the officer entered the division, and came to our door, which he tried, and found fastened. The instant we heard a step approaching our room, Snipson put out the lights, and commenced dragging down the cloaks. The officer, rapping loudly at the door, and requesting to be admitted, Snipson was wonderfully quick in getting down the cloaks, and then, dressed as he was, jumped into bed, telling me to open the door. Holms had slept soundly during the greater part of this disturbance, and only woke as the knocking became more furious. Upon my opening the door, the officer on duty entered with a dark lantern in his hand, and, looking round the room, said, "Mr Holms, you have been keeping up lights!" "I am only just awake, sir," said Holms. "Don't prevaricate, sir!" said the officer. "Look here; here's some tallow on the cloth still warm! You'll be in arrest till further orders, Mr Holms!" As the officer was leaving, I felt inclined to say it was not Holms but Snipson who had kept up the lights, but luckily I said nothing, for no matter who had kept them up, Holms, as head of the room, was responsible, and must bear the blame. As soon as the officer left the room, Snipson said, "I'm awfully sorry, Holms, but it's all the fault of that confounded young donkey, Shepard, who could not have put the cloaks up properly. "You'll get a licking for this to-morrow, Shepard, depend on it," said Snipson. "I'm safe to be smashed," said Holms, "for I was suspected last half of keeping up lights, though they couldn't prove it; and it's a nuisance, as this is my last half-year." After a few minutes' conversation, both Holms and Snipson agreed it couldn't be helped, and we all went to sleep. At the mid-day parade on the following day an order was read out to the effect that Mr Holms, having been found keeping up lights contrary to orders, was reduced from the rank of corporal, and was removed to another room, whilst gentleman cadet Brag was promoted to corporal and was placed in charge of my room. Brag was quite a different character from Holms. He was a very small cadet, not so big as I was, though nearly two years my senior; he was not clever, at least at examinations, and was very low down in his batch, below even Snipson. He had a white, leathery face, with a most disagreeable expression, nearly white hair, a bad figure, and awkward legs and feet. Brag was generally unpopular, and was dreaded by the last-joined cadets, as he delighted in bullying for bullying sake; and as when he was a last-joined he had led a very hard life as a fag, he seemed to think he had a long account to pay back upon those who were now his juniors. Brag came the same afternoon to take charge of my room, and I soon saw that he and Snipson, being birds of a feather, got on well together; they had one point on which they mutually agreed, viz, that I was the slackest neux they had ever seen, and wanted keeping up to the mark. In order that this, condition of keeping me up to the mark might be obtained, Brag ordered me to start at seven o'clock the following morning, and run down to Charlton's and see what o'clock it was by his clock. Now Charlton's happened to be at Green's-end, about one mile from the Academy. As I had to go this mile and return, then to rewash and get brushed and be on parade at a quarter to eight, it did not give me much time for the performance. I started about seven on a drizzling morning, and got as far as the barracks, when I saw a clock there which showed ten minutes after seven. It suddenly occurred to me that I need not go down to Charlton's to find out what o'clock it was, as I could find out by the barrack clock, so, turning back, I came slowly to my room, allowing about as much time as would have elapsed if I had gone all the way to Charlton's. "What! back again?" said Brag. "Well, what's the time?" "Nearly a quarter past seven," I said. "Was that the time by Charlton's clock?" "About that," I replied. "You're telling me a lie," said Brag. "You didn't go to Charlton's." "I didn't go quite down," I answered, as I now felt what a mistake I had made in not obeying the order literally. "You've disobeyed orders, and you've told a lie," said Brag. "Now you come here?" I was now placed by Brag against the cupboards, and put into the position of an "angle of forty-five," when he kicked my feet from under me, and I fell heavily on my back, striking my head against the cupboards as I came down. "Up again!" shouted Brag, who seemed to warm to his work. "I'll teach you what you get for telling me a cram, and disobeying orders." Six times I was brought heavily to the ground, and on the last was half-stunned by the blow my head received in the fall. During this performance Snipson stood opposite, shouting with laughter, and exclaiming, "Bravo, Brag! That's the way to serve him! Give it him again!" At length Brag seemed tired, and having informed me that I was to go down every morning for a week to see what the time was, left me to recover myself as best I could. I was so shaken and hurt by my falls, that for some time I could not stand, and sat on my bed trying to recover myself. As I sat there an idea came into my head that such treatment as this, if carried out on all the cadets who were last-joined, would drive them to desperation, and that it might be possible to organise a mutiny against the authority of the old cadets, used as it was in this brutal way. Thinking over this idea of a strike, I began to count the numbers and size of the first and second-half cadets, and to estimate the probabilities of success. I soon saw, however, that there would be no chance for the juniors; the power entrusted to the corporals of placing any cadet in arrest on the plea of making a disturbance in academy, or for being dirty on parade, was so great, and might be used so freely, that such power alone would make the seniors all-powerful. After due deliberation I decided it was better to endure the bullying, and endeavour to stand it as quietly as possible. Brag was an individual of an inventive turn of mind, and was much pleased with anything original. He was highly amused with the suggestion of Snipson about four neuxes running round the table, whilst he and another cadet flipped them; but he was fond of a little gambling, and so invented another amusement, of which I was one victim. In former times the gymnasium and racket-court were on the east side of the building, and were of small dimensions compared to the magnificent building which now serves as a gymnasium at the Academy. The posts, ropes, etc, for gymnastic exercises were out of doors, and between two high posts was a stout rope, along which it was considered hard work to pass hand over hand. Brag had thought of making this rope of use as a means of producing excitement. His plan was as follows:-- A cadet (last-joined) was made to hold onto this rope with his hands, and his back turned to Brag and another old cadet. Brag, armed with a racket and some old balls, used then to strike a ball at the cadet, and if he hit him he counted one. Alternate shots were taken, and sixpence a shot was paid for each hit. Brag was a capital shot, and I used to be "corked," as he termed it, by him nearly every shot. The distance from the ground to the rope was about twelve feet, so that when we dropped, as we were compelled to at last, we came down rather heavily. As soon as one neux could hold on no longer, another was substituted in his place, who had to pass through the same ordeal. So contagious is bullying of this description, that in two or three days at least twenty old cadets took part in it, and it is difficult to say to what extent it might have been carried had not the officer on duty, suspecting probably that something irregular was going on, paid a visit to the gymnasium, and, seeing what was done, reported the circumstance, on which a court of inquiry was ordered to assemble, composed of officers connected with the Academy, whose duty it was to find out whether any bullying had occurred. The assembly of this court caused quite a sensation in the Academy, as all the last-joined cadets were to be examined. The old cadets who had taken part in this affair now entirely altered their behaviour to their fags. Brag became quite civil to me, and hoped I wouldn't split on him. He told me that he, when a neux, had to go through far worse things, and that by-and-by I should be an old cadet and should have the privilege of fagging; that of course he didn't mean to hurt me, and hoped he hadn't done so, and finished by asking me not to say anything that would get him into a scrape. Snipson was even more anxious to persuade me that it was all a joke, and that it was absurd to make such a fuss about a mere trifle. In his day a neux had, he said, to go through far more, and it did them all good; he himself was a deal better for having the conceit taken out of him. He advised me to be very careful what I said before the court, for if, through anything I said, an old cadet got rusticated or into a scrape, I should lead such a life, he assured me, that I should wish myself a galley-slave instead of a cadet. I had instantly made up my mind that I would say nothing to criminate any one. I hoped that by such a line of conduct I should show both Brag and Snipson that I could be generous. I hated them both, for I soon discovered they were very bad specimens of the old cadet, and that I was unlucky in having two such in my room. Some of the last-joined cadets told me they were not bullied at all, and the head of their room would not allow any other cadet to fag them, and, to prevent them from being fagged, gave them permission to say they were wanted by the head of their room, for "the instant another cadet tries to fag you, then you come to my room." On Saturdays and Sundays I usually went on leave, my father having written to several London friends telling them of my being a cadet at Woolwich. This leave was a great boon; it broke the monotony of the week, freed me from Brag and Snipson for about thirty hours, and gave me new ideas. At the Academy I was but a neux, and led a hard life of it; but when I visited my friends I found that a gentleman cadet was thought a great deal of, and I was considered to be remarkably clever in having passed into the Academy--my friends knowing many lads who were supposed clever, but who had failed at their examinations for Woolwich. These visits did me much good. I looked forward to them from week to week, and they tended to keep my mental balance straight; for as we when young judge often of ourselves by the estimate others form of us, so I had almost decided that I was most stupid, thoughtless, and careless, in consequence of Snipson always impressing upon me that I was so. It not unfrequently happened, however, that I was turned out to extra drill twice during the week for some offences or other, usually for not being properly brushed on parade. It was my business to brush Brag and Snipson, and then Snipson ought to have brushed me. Often he avoided this, and said he "hadn't time." My only chance then was to take off my coat and brash it myself. If the time was limited I then could not get my coat on and get on parade quick enough to avoid being considered "slack in turning out;" for if a neux was not on parade by the time the bugle finished sounding, then he was usually turned out to drill to make him smarter. Two drills stopped one's leave, and I then had the discomfort of remaining at the Academy on Saturday and Sunday. The season of the year then did not admit of the Sunday march past on the barrack-field. The scene I had witnessed when at Hostler's, however, was still fresh in my memory, and I looked forward to the time when I should march past as I had seen others do. If Brag and Snipson were not on leave, I passed a Saturday and Sunday of utter misery. They used to bully me during the whole time. If they were on leave and I was seen about the Academy grounds, I was sure to be seized upon by some old cadet, whose neux was on leave, and who would fag me during the two days. If I remained in my room I was pretty sure to be found, and ordered off to another division, to supply the place of a neux on leave. At length I adopted a plan by which I managed to escape the afternoon fagging on Saturday, and then usually managed to get a walk on Sunday afternoons. As soon as Snipson and Brag had gone on leave I used to take off my coat, get a book, and creep behind my bed, which was doubled up so as to give sufficient space for me to sit there. Having arranged the curtains so as to show no indication of disturbance, I could enjoy a quiet read without the momentary fear that every footstep I heard would be that of an old cadet running to order me off to his room, or on some message. The very first afternoon I tried this plan I found its value. I was snugly concealed when I heard some old cadet ask one of the corporals of my division if there were any neuxes there not on leave. "Shepard is not," said the cadet. "All right?" replied the other. "I want to send him to the `Red Lion' for some lush. Shepard!" he shouted outside my window. I remained perfectly quiet, hoping that my concealment was secure. The cadet then came round to my room, and, opening the door, evidently looked round the room. I was quiet as a mouse, but was in great fear that I might be discovered, and if I had I should have received heavy punishment. "He's not here," said the cadet; "perhaps he's in the back yard." My name was again shouted, but I did not answer; so the old cadet left, and I heard him say on leaving, "I suppose he's fagging over at the `Towers.'" By this artifice I managed to escape much of the fagging on Saturday afternoons, and had several hours' quiet, during which I could read or think as I liked. Unfortunately, however, I in a weak moment confided to another last-joined cadet the plan I practised in order to avoid being fagged on Saturdays. I told him of my plan, because he was rarely on leave, and used to lead a very hard life of it on those days. By some means or other he was found out. I believe his boots were seen protruding from the bed, as he was a very long neux, and he received a severe thrashing for not answering when called. This discovery led the old cadets who wanted a fag on Saturdays to look behind the beds for concealed last-joined, and I became a victim. It happened thus:-- An old cadet, named Lakeman, in my division wanted a fag, and having noted that I was not read out as on leave, came to my room about five o'clock on one Saturday, and called me. I remained quite quiet, hoping not to be discovered, for I had not then heard of the discovery that had been made of the last-joined behind his bed. Suddenly the curtains of my bed were pulled aside, and the foot of the bed let down, when I rolled over on the bed fully exposed to view. "Now come to my room," said Lakeman, "and get a licking! This is the way you shirk, is it?" I knew it was of no use making any excuses, I was found out; and so I went quietly to Lakeman's room, received a thrashing with a racket, and was kept fagging till Sunday evening, when Brag and Snipson returned. Lakeman informed them both of his having found me shirking, and I discovered that I had at once established a bad reputation, and was a mark for all old cadets to fire off their anger upon. The time was now coming for the half-yearly examinations, and the first class of cadets were working very hard--a condition which rendered the life of a fag somewhat easier, for the old cadets, instead of amusing themselves by bullying, used out of study to work in their rooms at mathematics and fortification. It was now a matter of frequent occurrence for lights to be kept up in various rooms in order that the cadets who were either trying for Engineers, or had doubts about getting into the "batch," might work after hours. There was great risk in this keeping up lights; and Brag, who did not want to work, would not let Snipson keep up lights in his room. This made Snipson very angry, but Brag was decided about it, not on principle, but because the situation of his room was such as to make detection easy. At this crisis I obtained for myself considerable reputation for inventing a means by which Snipson could work of a night, and yet stand no chance of being found out keeping up lights. The plan was this:-- Some small squat wax lights, used by nurses to "watch baby," were procured. These were not more than an inch high, and by themselves gave very little light. One of these being lighted was placed at the far end of the large water-can which was used in our room. The inside of this can, being very shiny, reflected the light and increased its power. The can was laid horizontally and in the bed, and was covered over by wet towels, so that it did not get too hot. By turning the can occasionally also, the wax burner shifted its position, and heated another part of the can. By placing a book at the mouth of the can, any one in bed could read easily. Having explained this method to Snipson, he got Brag to consent to his adopting it, and he could then read for an hour or two every night. The safety of the plan was once fully shown, for the officer on duty once took it into his head to come round the rooms about eleven at night, and came very quickly to our room. Snipson had not time to put out the light, so he covered the bedclothes over the mouth of the can, stuck up his knees so as to conceal the shape of it, and lay quite still. The officer turned his dark lantern onto him, gave a good look, and walked out, not the slightest indication of a light being visible. By this means Snipson was enabled to read at night without much risk, and he complimented me by telling me, after all, I was not such a fool as I looked! In my own case I could not study by night, as I was not allowed to keep up lights. Such a proceeding would have been considered "cool," and would have entailed a thrashing. I did not, however, feel disposed to work. I had so much anxiety to avoid my daily thrashing, or extra drill, or kicks, for various things, that actual progress in my studies seemed by comparison a very trifling matter. I hoped I should pull throughout did not think much about it. CHAPTER NINE. I COME OUT AS A RUNNER. I may now devote a few lines to the description of the cadets of my own batch who joined with me, and with whom I was to compete during my career at the Academy. There were among the class some amusing characters, and others who had marked individualities. Boys (for we were boys at that time, being between fifteen and seventeen) have a singular peculiarity of being turned out in similar patterns--that is, two boys belonging to different families, who have never met and never been in similar conditions, yet very often have exactly similar peculiarities. There was Kirk, who never would rub up Indian ink or Prussian blue for himself, but would always take dips from the saucers of other cadets. Then Sykes usually began to work fearfully hard just when it was time to turn out; and Pagner, another cadet, prided himself on being above Swat, and never seemed to work at all--the fact being that he drove off all his half-year's work till the last fortnight, and then tried to make up the leeway by cramming night and day. He, however, could not manage this, and, as the event proved, was spun at his probationary. One of my greatest friends was D'Arcy. He was next above me in the batch, and had been prepared for Woolwich by a private tutor. We found that we had in common a taste for natural history, and whenever we had a chance we used to go out in the Shooter's Hill woods and look for the various grubs or insects that we were interested in. The way we used to race up the hill and back again revealed to me a fact about myself that I was before unacquainted with, viz, that I was a very fast runner for about one hundred and fifty yards. A boy who had been brought up as much alone as I had could not judge of himself by a fair comparison, and though at Hostler's I was considered a good runner, running was not much practised or thought of there. D'Arcy, however, told me that he had been thought a very fast runner by a boy who was a crack runner at Eton, and he was surprised to find how easily I beat him. In those days, at the Academy, there were no annual athletic sports as there are now, for which the cadets regularly trained, and which made a pleasant break during the half-year; and the only use of being a good runner was in securing the first bat at cricket; for this was considered to be the prize of the cadet who first touched the lodge when the parade was broken off. This first bat I had frequently secured, and, though I had not put out all my speed, I found I could beat some of the cadets whose running I had heard spoken of as very good. The subject of running having been discussed one day at our squad at dinner, the head of the squad said he thought Horsford, a cadet in his third term, the fastest hundred-yards' runner he had ever seen. Now, on two occasions that I had run for the first bat I had tried against Horsford, and on each occasion his position in the line had given him at least three yards' start of me; still I had gained on him so that only a yard separated us at last. From these trials I believed I could beat Horsford, and, remembering the advice Howard had given me about being prepared for any contest, I determined to keep up my running, and so I generally ran one or two hundred yards at speed each day. No one besides D'Arcy had noticed that I was very fast in running, so I was what may be called "a dark horse," and I had a certain amount of ambition in wishing to try my speed against Horsford. One evening, when Brag was in a good temper, I said, "Who do you think the fastest runner in the Academy?" "For a hundred and twenty yards Horsford is. He has won nearly every race he has run at that distance," replied Brag. "I don't think he could give me ten yards in one hundred and twenty," I replied. Brag looked at me with curiosity when I said this, and asked if I could run well. I told him I believed I could, as I had tried several times, and generally secured first bat (which, however, I was never allowed to retain if an old cadet was near). "I can run fairly," said Brag, "so I can soon find out what you can do. Come out and have a trial. It's nearly dark, so we can keep the secret." Brag and I went out on the parade and paced off a hundred and twenty yards, and laid down a white handkerchief to mark the distance. We started ourselves, and commenced our race. Before we had gone thirty yards I found I could go away from Brag very, easily. I kept beside him for about seventy yards and then shot away, and beat him by nearly ten yards. When we pulled up, Brag said, "By George, you can run! Let me get my wind, and then see if you can give me ten yards in one hundred and twenty." After a few minutes, Brag announced himself ready, and, having measured ten good paces, we started at "One, two, three, and away!" and commenced our second trial. Not being able to see the handkerchiefs till near them, I did not know how to arrange my speed. I, however, caught and passed Brag, and won by about two yards. "I don't think there is anything the matter with me," said Brag, "and I believe I've run all right; and if so, you've a tremendous turn of speed. Now, you keep quiet about this, and I'll have some fun." We went again to our rooms, and Brag recommenced his work and said nothing to Snipson about our trial race. On the following morning we had examinations, and those who had finished their papers came out of academy. There was no drill, so the cadets were scattered about the parade kicking the football and trying to kick it against the face of the clock. I was looking on at this, and watching for a chance of a kick, when I heard one old cadet call out to another,-- "There's going to be a race soon?" "Is there?" replied the cadet spoken to. "Yes, Brag says he's got a neux he will back for one hundred and twenty yards against Horsford, if he will give the neux five yards' start." "Who is the neux?" inquired the cadet. "I believe it's Brag's own neux--young Shepard." "Oh, he's too short to run! Horsford will lick his head off! Here comes Brag?" I now saw Brag and about twenty old cadets coming from the library, and my name was soon called. I went up to Brag, who said,-- "Shepard, you've to run a race for me, and if you don't win I'll scrag you! It's one hundred and twenty yards, and you get five yards' start." I asked leave to go to my room to get a pair of light shoes to run in, and, on coming out, found Horsford with flannel trousers on, and all ready for the race. By this time all the cadets had come out of academy, and as any excitement was welcome, they all assembled on parade and made two lines, between which we were to run. The distance was carefully measured off, and I was placed five yards in front of Horsford. "Now mind your laurels, Horsford!" said one of his backers; "don't shave it too close!" "I can manage this lot, I think," he replied. "Shepard, you'll get a licking if you're beaten!" said a cadet near. "Who is backing Shepard?" inquired some old cadets. "Only Brag," was the reply. "He's got an idea that Shepard can run, from some trial he had with him, but no one ever heard of Shepard as a runner. Brag has two or three pounds on the race, and I wouldn't be Shepard for something, for Brag will vent his disappointment on him." During this conversation, which I overheard, several cadets had cleared the course and made a line of handkerchiefs at the winning-post, whilst I toed a line five yards before Horsford. I kept taking long breaths so as to oxygenise my blood well, for I hoped to run the whole distance without taking breath. I felt great confidence in myself, because in the races for the bat I fancied I was more speedy than Horsford; for I did not imagine that he was concealing his speed for any purpose, so I saw no reason to doubt the result. Everything being ready, the word "Off!" was given, and away I went. I was very quick at starting, and got well on my legs at once. I could have run the whole distance at speed, but for the first sixty yards I did not do all I knew. I dared not look round, for I had read in sporting works that many races had been lost by doing so, so I could not tell whether Horsford was near me. At about thirty yards from home, however, I could feel that my opponent was close to me. There were shouts of "Go it, Horsford!" "Run, little 'un!" "Now for it, Horsford?" which showed me he was close to me; so, bracing myself up, as it were, I dashed on with all my speed and carried away the line of handkerchiefs on my chest. Brag rushed up to me, and patted me on the back and said,-- "Bravo, youngster! you won cleverly." As I walked back to the winning-post I was the centre of curiosity. All the old cadets were staring at me, and I could not help feeling a certain amount of pride in having won this race. I had been so bullied and snubbed as a last-joined neux that all the conceit was taken out of me, and I felt regularly cowed, so that a triumph like the present was quite refreshing to me. The remarks of the old cadets, too, were amusing; for it was the general opinion that I looked less like a runner than any boy they had ever seen, as I looked delicate and was short. That evening, in our room, Brag was very civil, and even Snipson seemed to think more of me than he did before. When Snipson left the room, which he did to go to the library, Brag asked me if I thought I had won my race easily. I replied that I had, and added, "You won't think me conceited, I hope, if I say I am tolerably sure I can beat Horsford even." "How can that be," said Brag, "when you won by only a yard?" "Because I ran slowly the first part of the race, wanting to try my speed in the last part, and I am certain at about sixty-five yards Horsford was not a foot behind me." "Ah! you can't beat Horsford even," replied Brag; "he's got so much longer a stride than you." "Well, I believe I can." "Horsford says to-day he was out of form, or else he could have won, so perhaps you may have another turn with him. I'll back you at five yards, but not at evens." I met Horsford in the library next day, and he said,-- "You were in great form yesterday, and I was out of sorts, but I didn't know you were such a runner. We must have another spin after the examinations are over, and I'll see if I can't turn the tables on you." I told Brag of this remark, and he replied that he would back me again, but recommended me not to eat too much pastry and "soft tack," or I should get out of form. The examination now went on every day, and I felt I was not doing well. Any way, if I passed out of the junior class I should be satisfied. I found that those boys who had been long at preparatory schools had an advantage over me in knowing languages better than I did. French and German were the only two languages we then learnt at the Academy, and the curious system then was for the professors at the Academy to teach also at the Woolwich cram-schools. A boy who had, therefore, been for a couple of years at a Woolwich school, and in the first class, knew well and was known by the professors of French and German, whereas one who had been trained as I had did not derive the benefit of the former instruction of the professors. It was supposed in those days that if we did not know languages when we joined the Academy we did not pick them up there. This might be explained from the fact that so much individual and personal instruction is required in order to teach languages, and there was only one professor to about thirty-five cadets. Day after day the examination continued, and I worked on, and at length, all being finished, there were about five days during which the results of the examination were being made up, and we had nothing to do but drill. This gave us plenty of spare time, and we had games of football, and various matches at rackets and other games. Several cadets, however, who had lost their half-crowns in the race between Horsford and myself, were anxious to recover these, and there were many opinions about our relative merits in running. I heard from some of my own batch that it was the general opinion that if Horsford gave me three yards out of one hundred, it was a certainty for him. D'Arcy, however, had told the head of his room that he thought I could win at these odds, and I also told Brag I would go halves with him in anything he bet at those odds. A match of this kind caused much interest, and several cadets were interested in the proposed race. I heard that Horsford had been quietly training, in order to get himself into form, and that he had said it was a certainty, as he was seedy when he ran with me, and was called upon all of a sudden to run. Brag said he did not like the match much, but still, having won, he would give the losers a chance. It was decided that we should run on the centre parade in the afternoon, and the whole Academy turned out to witness the match. I had carefully practised of an evening, both starting and running, and I could feel I was going very well. As I ran, I found I could pick up my feet quickly, and could, as far as it was possible to judge, run better than I ever ran. It occurred to me that if I could beat Horsford at these odds I would run him even, and a feeling of ambition came over me that it would be something for a neux to be the best runner at the Academy. The afternoon at length came of the day on which the match was to come off, and all the cadets who could come out came on the centre parade. I had taken the precaution of putting on a pair of loose, plain trousers, and rather tight shoes that I fancied I could run in well. Just as we were assembling, the Captain of the Cadet Company entered the inclosure and inquired what all the assembly was about. He was informed it was for a race, so, being a great advocate for athletic competitions, he stopped to see the match. Horsford, I could see, was in earnest now, and had taken the same precautions that I had. He was dressed in complete running costume--a suit in which he had won several races at Rugby, from which school he had come to Woolwich. All the preliminaries having been arranged, we were placed at our respective scratches--I having three yards' start. I had ascertained that there were five inches difference in our height-- at that time Horsford being five feet six, and I only five feet one--but I believed I had as long a stride as he had, and was as quick on my legs. On the words, "Are you ready?" being asked, I got all my weight on my rear leg, and, bracing myself up, was prepared for "Off!" At the first trial we were off, and I ran as nearly as possible at full speed. I knew I could go a little, though not much, quicker than I was going, so I kept on till about twenty yards from goal. I then glanced round, and found Horsford quite two yards behind me, so I maintained the same pace, and came in a winner by about a yard and a half. The cadets who had lost on this race at once went to Brag and said, "Shepard is too good, you know. Horsford can't give him these three yards' start. Let them run a race even, and we'll back Horsford at two to one." Brag looked at me inquiringly, so I gave him a nod, and he at once said, "All right. I dare say I shall lose, and I only bet just to give you a chance." The idea now came across me that if I won this race I should be the acknowledged best runner at the Academy for a short distance. There was something pleasing to me in this idea, for I then discovered that I had ambition--and what is a boy or a man without? The individual who cares not whether he win or lose in any competition is a poor creature. He who is not to a certain extent downcast by defeat, or elated by a success, is not a man who will ever rise to eminence, for he will never use the exertion necessary to obtain success. In almost every case victory is obtained only by thought and care, expended by those who possess some special gifts of nature; and, although there is no reason why we should be unduly elated by any success, still one's self-love is gratified if we find we succeed above others. I was of course the hero of the day now that I had beaten Horsford, for I heard he had run races with several old cadets and had won all these, so I longed to try conclusions with him at evens. D'Arcy came to me and said, "If you run the whole distance at that speed, I know you'll win, so go in at it in earnest." This race was considered a hollow affair, as it was supposed that my opponent could not pull up a losing race, but could run well at evens. It was supposed that Brag bet on this just to give the losers back some of the shillings they had lost; it was not supposed I had a chance. We had two false starts, but at the third trial we got off together, and for about fifty yards we were shoulder to shoulder. Then Horsford got slightly ahead, not more than the breadth of his own body, but I gradually regained this, and at about ninety yards was even with him and passing him. As soon as I had passed him he seemed to shut up, for he dropped behind all of a sudden, and I ran in a winner by about one yard. Several cadets came up to me and said, "Bravo, youngster! you've run well; you must get me the racket-court when I want it;" whilst my own batch wanted to carry me round the parade. However, I went to my room and changed my clothes, and endeavoured not to show any sign of being gratified at my victory. It was, however, to myself as much a gratification as a surprise. Until I joined the Academy I had no idea I had the qualifications of a good runner; I had never competed with other boys, and had consequently no opportunity of discovering my powers; but suddenly to find that out of nearly one hundred and fifty cadets I was the fastest runner was a great surprise, and I began to ask myself whether I had any other powers of which I knew nothing, and which had never before been called upon. Both Brag and Snipson were now less disposed to bully me than they were before, and so buoyant is youth that all the hard knocks I had received on first joining were almost forgotten, and I began to look forward to the time when I should be an old cadet and have fags of my own. The result of the examinations was now out, and I found I had done very badly; from eleventh of the batch I had dropped to twenty-eighth, and the return was unsatisfactory in several things. I, however, just got into the third academy, though I was last but one, and I hoped that next term, when I should not be so much worried by fagging and bullying, I should be able to think more about my work, so I was not so much cast down as I otherwise should have been if I had not a reasonable excuse for having done badly. What was termed the "Public" in those days was very dissimilar to the "Duke's" day at present. Formerly the "Public" was an examination, though it was a sort of sham affair. As, however, it was a great day, I will give a full description of the proceedings. The "Public" was the day on which the Master-General of the Ordnance, his staff, and all the principal heads of departments came to the Academy to see the cadets. The order of proceeding was as follows:-- The cadets were drawn up on parade and received the Master-General with a salute. They were then put through certain manoeuvres by the senior cadets, and afterwards marched into the dining-hall. In the centre of the dining-hall a table was placed, large enough to enable the batch about to obtain their commissions to be seated at. Near this was a long table, at which the Master-General and officers were seated. An elevated platform, with stair-like seats, was erected at each end and side of the hall. On this the cadets were seated who were not yet qualified for commissions; a portion was also set aside for visitors belonging to the cadets. On all being assembled in the hall, the professors at the Academy, beginning with the head cadet of the batch, asked questions, which each cadet answered in turn. Sometimes these questions required demonstrations on the board, and the cadet used his chalk to draw figures and give demonstrations. After the professors had put questions, any of the officers present might do so, and there was often much amusement at the questions and answers--for very often the inquiries made had no reference whatever to any subject a cadet had learnt at the Academy. One story that used to be told about these questions was, that a cadet was once asked what was sometimes used to wash out the bore of a gun. The cadet did not know what to say, so another cadet beside him whispered, "Tan ash and water." The cadet, standing up, got nervous when he did not know what to say, and only heard imperfectly what his prompter said. "Tan ash and water," again whispered the cadet. "A ten-inch mortar!" blurted out the puzzled cadet. The batch who heard this answer were ready to burst out laughing, especially when the officer who had asked the question, and who was rather deaf, said, "Tan ash and water--very good!" An old officer, who was fond of a joke, was reported to have once asked the head cadet of the batch, "What would be the result, supposing an irresistible body came in contact with an immovable post on a plane?" The cadet answered that the body would come to rest. "No," replied the officer; "you forget the body is irresistible, and therefore cannot come to rest." "It would carry away the post," said the cadet. "No," again said the officer; "the post is immovable." After a little hesitation the cadet said he didn't know what would happen. "Quite right, sir," said the officer, "neither do I, nor any one else, for the conditions are impossible. I only wanted you to say, `I don't know.' Some men would have attempted long explanations." When the cadets had been publicly examined, the various prizes were given, and, after one or two speeches by the senior officers, the Academy broke up. I started for London that afternoon by coach, which was one of about forty four-horse coaches that used then to pass over Shooter's Hill every day _en route_ from London to Dover, slept at a friend's, and on the following day was carried by coach to the New Forest, and once more found myself in the quiet of home. The change that had taken place in me during my first half-year at the Academy was very great. Instead of being a raw country boy I was now a somewhat experienced young man. The knocking about I had received at the Academy had forced me to use my perceptive powers in every way to save myself from being thrashed for neglect; and I had thus cultivated my observational faculties, so that I noticed far more than probably I ever should had I remained at home. Now that I was at home I found I was somewhat of a hero. All the countrymen round--the foresters--who knew me as quite a little boy, now touched their hats to me, for they called me a "sodger-officer!" and had heard I had done something wonderfully clever at an examination. I also found that among our friends I took quite a different position to what I had done four months before. In reality, I learnt now the advantage of being a soldier, for I was looked on as one; and I felt the benefit of this when I heard young ladies tell their brothers what a pity it was they had not been drilled, and taught to stand up, and walk like Mr Shepard! I had been at home about a week when my father told me one morning that he had a letter from Howard, who would be in the neighbourhood shortly. "I will write and ask him to stay here a night or two. You would like to compare notes with him about the Academy, I dare say." "Yes, that I should," I replied, for I still looked, on Howard as a hero, and found my veneration for him by no means decreased when I remembered that he must have gone through all I had, and all I must go through before I obtained my commission; also that he was an old cadet when the present old cadets were only schoolboys. I wanted also to hear from Howard what used to go on when he was a cadet, and compare the bullying, fagging, etc, in his day with what I had myself experienced; for it was a doubtful point in my own mind whether or not I had been more bullied than other neuxes, and whether, if I had been, it was due to any peculiarity in myself, or was owing to the old cadets in my room being what was termed regular bullies. When I met Howard he expressed his surprise at my improved appearance. "You've grown and filled out," he said, "and before long you'll be a formidable antagonist with your fists. And how do you like the shop?" he inquired. I had a brief conversation with Howard then; but it was not till after dinner, when the ladies had left, and Howard, my father, and I were alone, that I became inquiring and confidential; and it was only then that my father became aware of the extent to which bullying was carried at the Academy thirty add years ago. His astonishment was great, for the tales I told were capped by Howard, and there was no margin left on which to place any doubts as regards the truth of our incidents. After I had described the angle of forty-five, and the running round the table whilst the old cadets flipped me, Howard said, "Yes, all that's pretty bad, but were you ever kept up half the night looking out for squalls, or has that gone out of fashion?" "I've never heard of that. What is it?" I inquired. "To look out for squalls a cadet was divested of nearly all his clothes, and was made to climb up the iron bars of the window and there hold on. If he came down without orders he received a tremendous thrashing, and it was supposed to be a trial of a cadet's obedience to orders. I remember, when I was a neux," said Howard, "I was sent up once to the top of the window, and told to remain there till further orders. After some time I heard both the old cadets snoring, so I thought I might as well come down and go to bed. I had scarcely gone down many inches when one of the old cadets called out, `By George, sir, you shall have a thrashing for that! You thought I was asleep, eh? I just pretended to snore, to see if you could be trusted to obey orders. Why, you ought to remain there till you dropped rather than leave your post!' I went up again, and remained for above an hour, when I was so cramped I could with difficulty move. Both cadets were snoring, but I suspected another trap, so hesitated about coming down. At length, however, I could hold on no longer, and fell heavily to the ground, from which I was picked up insensible. But I soon got all right, and wasn't much hurt after all." "But," said my father, "these things are perfectly brutal. Don't the authorities interfere?" "Yes," replied Howard, "they would if what was done was brought before them in any way; but it rarely happens that they hear of these things." "But don't the boys--the fags--complain to the authorities about such ill-usage?" "If they did, the life they would lead would be unendurable. Every cadet, old and young, would cut them, and they would be bullied to such an extent that I don't believe any boy would stay at the Academy. He would be considered a sneak; and if a cadet once gained such a name it would be all over with him. "A case once happened when I was a neux," continued Howard, "where a cadet told his mother of some of the things he had to do as a neux. His mother foolishly wrote to the Captain of the Cadet Company about it, and said she hoped he would see her son was not put to perform menial offices. The captain of course had to treat the matter officially; there was an inquiry, and it resulted in the head of this cadet's room being rusticated for a half-year. Well, the result was that the neux became a marked man; he was fagged, and thrashed, and sent to drill so often, that he could not stand it, and at last ran away from the Academy. It's of no use for a cadet to attempt to go against the stream; he must grin and bear it." "I should think it would entirely break a boy's spirit," said my father, "and ruin him for life." "Not a bit of it," replied Howard. "It is not that I advocate bullying; but I have never seen very much harm done by it. That it ought to be stopped I think there is no doubt, for I believe that of all the despotic tyrants in the world a boy is the greatest. To him there is a delight in tyrannising; and bully he will. Usually it is size and strength that makes the bully; and this is its worst form, and is known to exist everywhere. Now at the Academy it is not size or strength that gives the right to fag, but seniority only. The smallest old cadet may kick or fag a last-joined giant." "It is a bad, brutal system, and ought to be put an end to," said my father. "If I had known the extent to which this system was carried at Woolwich I never would have let Bob go there." "I'm very glad you didn't know then," I replied, "for the worst is over now, and I've really only another half-year of it, and then I shall be tolerably free." "What I believe ought to be done," said Howard, "is to separate fagging from gratuitous bullying. Nothing is more offensive in society than an unlicked cub, and you find many of these in places where men don't belong to either service, or have never been to public schools. I believe, from what I have read in Marryat's novels, that in the navy there is far more bullying with the youngsters than there ever has been at Woolwich; and I fancy also at our principal public schools there is plenty of it. The generality of boys are not so sensitive as we older people are, and we give them credit for feeling much as we should; whereas I know now that I look back with rather a sense of satisfaction to the bullying I went through, and the manner in which I stood it. You see, Mr Shepard," continued Howard, "we men in the army have to lead a roughish life of it; we don't always live in drawing-rooms, or mix with ladies; so a soft, delicate, sensitive sort of fellow, who can't stand a little bullying without crying out for help, is not the sort of man we want for an officer. Now I can see that Bob there is twice the man he was when I first knew him, and he is more fit to battle with the world, than he would have been, if he had merely stopped at home translating Herodotus and catching butterflies. "I'll tell you another advantage there is in having fagging at Woolwich. When an officer gets his commission in either the Artillery or Engineers, his seniors never play tricks on him, or attempt skylarking-- all that was done with when the officers were neuxes at the Academy. In the Line, how ever, unless an ensign joined from Sandhurst, and had passed through a phase of bullying, he was the victim of various practical jokes; and then there was no regular time at which these practical jokes ceased. Now it is not the right thing for a commissioned officer to be made the butt for the jokes of his seniors; still the ensigns are sometimes so raw, so self-sufficient, and require to be put in their proper places so much, that their seniors have no hesitation in bullying them for a time. It is far better, to my mind, that a cadet about fifteen should be subjected to a system of bullying-- if you like to call it so--than that an ensign in her Majesty's service should be. Fancy, too, what a set of fellows we might get in the service if they were not knocked into shape by their companions! Why, look at your neighbour's son, Hynton, who may some day be a baronet! He's nearly twenty, and is little better than a lout, because he has never been to school, but has always had a tutor at home. He is conceited, stupid, and thinks, because he is tall, stout, and strong, that he may do anything. He would have been made into a capital fellow by a little course of fagging when he was a youngster?" "Ah!" replied my father; "you are a thorough advocate for the system, I can see; but I am dead against it. I think it brutalises boys, and makes bullies of them in afterlife." "I don't think that," replied Howard. "I believe men who are bullies will be so under any circumstances, and are not inclined to be so by being first fags and then having the power to fag. In my day, also, at the Academy downright bullying was discountenanced by all the old cadets, or at least nearly all of them, and any cadet known to be a regular bully was stopped from being allowed to fag." "That's not the case now," I remarked. "A cadet may bully as much as he likes." I thought of Snipson and Brag as I said this, and the amount of suffering I had gone through on first joining came fresh to my memory. "Then the Academy is degenerating," said Howard; "and if what I may call wholesome fagging goes out, it will be because a bad style of men get to be old cadets, and carry things so far that the authorities will stop it altogether." On the following morning I took a walk with Howard, and took the opportunity of telling him of my having been obliged to hang by my arms whilst I was pegged at by racket-balls; and I asked if any such thing was done in his day. "The fellow who did that must be a snob," said Howard, "and deserves to be kicked by the old cadets! Unless you or the other neuxes had struck, or been cool in some way, that kind of thing ought not to have been done." Four days Howard stayed with us, and I had learnt much from him during that time. He advised me to work hard all next half, particularly in academy, so as to pass my probationary well, and to make friends with D'Arcy, who, he said, was a very good fellow, and had a brother who was a cadet with him. He also gave me some useful hints about examinations, and recommended a system of artificial memory for remembering formulae and various dates. He also told me I should find the advantage all my life of becoming skilled as a boxer and single-stick player, and that one of the Academy sergeants was a first-rate instructor at both. "You're not a fellow," said Howard, "who would get into a row for the sake of showing off--a gentleman never does that sort of thing--so the knowledge of how to use your fists would not be likely to make you quarrelsome; but it is a pleasure to know that when you see some hulking lout who is a bully, and who is doing what he ought not to do, you can give him a thrashing if you like. I've always felt a sort of pleasure," said Howard, "when walking through the streets of Paris, to think that I could thrash at least ninety-nine out of the hundred of the men one meets, for Frenchmen cannot use their fists. You should go in strong also for rackets and cricket; there is nothing more indicative of a muff than a fellow who is not good at some game or other. I remember hearing once of some general who said he would always select his staff from the men who were best across country, and you may depend on it that there's great truth in the suggestion. I've generally found the best officers were men who were good at games. You can play chess well, I know, as your father told me you were within a pawn of him. So take my advice, and follow the maxim, that `what is worth doing at all is worth doing well!'" My time passed pleasantly enough during the vacation, for I fully appreciated the quiet of the forest and its splendid trees, after having been crowded by my fellows and surrounded by houses during the past year. I did not look forward with much pleasure to my return to the Academy. I knew that some second-half cadets were fagged as much as if they were last-joined, and it was quite possible that such might be my fate; the novelty, too, of being a cadet and wearing uniform was departing, and I looked more to realities than I had at first. The prospect of being turned out at six o'clock a.m. to go and brush clothes in another room was not pleasant, nor did I relish the idea of being once more placed on a table as the target for boots and brushes. In fact, I was getting older rapidly; and as I grew very fast and became much stronger, a rebellious feeling came over me that was not favourable to my future obedience as a neux. On comparing Brag and Snipson with Howard, or oven with several of the other old cadets I knew, I could not but feel that these two were very bad specimens of the cadet of that day. They were both bullies; they excelled in nothing, were low down in their class, and in spite of this were both very conceited. Their style of conversation, too, was inferior to what I had heard from other old cadets. Their ideas were cramped, and they seemed to take a mean or malicious view of everything, and to attribute to all other persons bad motives for what they did or said. I remarked, also, that neither Brag nor Snipson had a good word for any one. If any cadet's name was mentioned, one or the other of these would commence with "Oh, yes! he's all very well in his way, but then he's not such a swell as he thinks himself, for I have good reason to believe that he," etc, etc, etc; and here would follow some disparagement of the individual whose name was mentioned. Brag and Snipson somehow got on well together. They were unpopular at the Academy, and perhaps that gave them some sympathetic feeling for each other; but the principal reason, I believe, was that they used to flatter one another very much. Whatever Brag did, Snipson said was "deuced well done;" and when Snipson did anything, Brag declared it was very clever. There was no use in concealing the fact, between myself and the two old cadets in my room there was a very great antipathy, and I can use no milder term to indicate with truth my feelings towards them than to say I detested them both. To be at the mercy of a bully for whom you have a contempt, is a very trying position, and such had been my fate during the whole of the first term I was a cadet at Woolwich. As the time arrived for my return to Woolwich, I was anxious principally about the room in which I should live. It was quite a chance whether I had a nice or a disagreeable head of the room, but my comfort or misery for five months was dependent on the peculiar character of this cadet. CHAPTER TEN. A "SECOND-HALF" CADET AT WOOLWICH. Having made the journey from Hampshire to Woolwich in one day, I reported myself at the Academy at about six in the evening, and then found that I was appointed to No. 16 room, the head of which was a cadet named Forester. On going to this room I found I was the first arrival, and I also ascertained that the second of my room was Fenton. I was the third, and there was a vacancy for the fourth, who most likely would be a last-joined, and consequently the regular fag of the room. About eight o'clock Forester came, and was very civil to me; asked me if I had been winning any more races during the vacation, and told me I must always secure a racket-court for him. The securing the racket-court was by some cadet, either on coming out from the hall or being broken off at parade, racing to the court and being first in. He could then, if he liked, resign his claim to any one else; so it was not unusual for a neux who could run well to be employed for this purpose. "You'll find Fenton a very good fellow," said Forester; "and I should think you are heartily glad to get out of Brag's room." "Brag and Snipson both used to bully me a great deal," I said; "but I suppose it's the usual thing." I did not yet know Forester well enough to speak freely about the treatment I had received, so I was cautions in my remarks. About nine o'clock Fenton came in, and I at once took a fancy to him. He was short, stoutly built, and very dark. He and Forester were great friends, and were antagonists at rackets, and I also found they both played chess. During the first few days of my second half I was very comfortable. I had little to do for either Forester or Fenton. I brushed them, and they did the same to me; and I brought books, etc, from the library for Forester, but there was no bullying from either of them. In a week after my return a last-joined cadet was appointed to our room, and to him was allotted the work which had hitherto fallen to my share. The last-joined was called Hampden, and was a wild Irishman. He was soon called upon to sing his songs of a night, and make his odes to the moon, but I was never sent for now, as the heads of rooms and old cadets in my division were contented in fagging the last-joined. Hampden could neither sing nor make speeches, and his strong Irish accent was very amusing, so that he was well laughed at, and pelted with boots and brushes, when he failed to make any speeches. He was, however, very good-tempered, and the more he was chaffed the more he seemed pleased. It was about ten days after my return, that Snipson told me one day that he wanted to see me over at his room, which was in the "Towers." On going there he informed me that he had now a single room, and therefore had not a fag, and as there was a last-joined in my room I couldn't have much to do, so he should require me at his room every morning at seven to brush clothes, and look out for things he wanted. This order was a great annoyance to me; I had been so quiet and comfortable in my room that I fancied the worst part of the fagging was over; but now having to turn out and dress by seven, and go over to the "Towers" where Snipson ordered me about, was, as I termed it, "disgusting." I told Forester of the order, and he said I had better go, for it was the custom for one or two cadets of the second term to be fagged at the "Towers," where no last-joined were quartered. I soon found that Snipson seemed to dislike me as much as I did him; there was a natural antipathy between us, and we seemed to have nothing in common. He found fault with all I did, and complained that I mislaid everything and did not brush his clothes properly. I ground my teeth at his complaints and kicks, but I had to bear them nevertheless, for there was in those days the most rigid discipline used against a neux who "struck," as it was termed, against an old cadet. I knew that of the two evils it was the lesser to bear the bullying of Snipson rather than to commit any act as bad for a cadet as mutiny for an officer or soldier. I found there were no other second-half cadets besides myself who were really fagged regularly, except where there was no fourth to a room, so I thought my case a hard one. However, there was no use in complaining, so I did my work and stood my bullying in as dogged a manner as possible. When the idea had first seized me of becoming a soldier, I had taken as my model-man Howard. I was won and almost enchanted by the knowledge and apparent power he possessed. He seemed above what may be termed the little trivialities of life, and to have a wide and general view of everything. To him there seemed to be given a capacity for looking at all subjects with the power of an impartial judge, and at the same time he exhibited an enthusiasm for the service which, though toned down by experience, was yet shown in various ways. When I had been some weeks in the room with Brag and Snipson, and had listened to their conversation, was conversant with their ideas and opinions, I could not but feel disappointed when I knew that two men with such mean sentiments, cramped ideas, and such disparaging views of others, should be so near to becoming officers in one or other of the scientific corps. One of the charms of Howard was the readiness with which he bestowed praise on anything or anybody that deserved it. The beauty of the New Forest, for example, was a subject on which he used to dilate. I was once with him on a lovely autumnal afternoon, when the sun was lighting up the richly-tinted foliage of the forest, amidst which the dark green of the fir-tree was seen; the distant water of the Solent glittering like silver beyond endless waves of forest glades; the far and cloudy-looking hills in the island marking the distance, and presenting a lovely variety of scenery rarely obtainable in England. Howard stopped and looked at the view, and, with a heartiness that showed how he appreciated it, exclaimed, "By Jove! that's a lovely bit of scenery!" "But," I said, "abroad you must have seen far more beautiful views than this?" "Of course I have; I've seen grand mountains rising twelve thousand feet direct from a plain, and I've seen tropical forests with their branches hung with wild vine, whilst gorgeous metallic-looking broad-leaved exotics were scattered about in profusion. But because I've seen that, it does not prevent this from being a perfect bit of English landscape." I compared these remarks of Howard's with those of a gentleman who came to see us some time after Howard had left, and who, on seeing the same view, exclaimed, "Oh, I dare say you think it very fine, but it's nothing to what I have seen in other places." I was young then, and did not know the world or the men comprising it; so, although an uncomfortable feeling came over when I heard this remark, I did not know how to account for the difference between the opinions expressed by Howard and by this visitor. Yet how often in the world do we meet with persons of both the types I have here referred to! We meet men with generous minds, ready to acknowledge merit and to admit its genuineness, who do not condemn that which is good merely because they have seen or heard that which they consider better. These men are usually those who have worked and won themselves, and who know that even mediocrity is not gained without great trouble. They are men whose praise or good opinion is worth having, for they judge of a matter on its merits, not by mere comparison. Others, again, _condemn_ everything which is not what they consider equal to the very best they have seen or heard. With them it is not the merit of a subject which is examined or considered, but the comparison between that and some other. These men are usually ungenerous and conceited, without the slightest cause for being so. They are men who would make the unaspiring believe that to work for success was a mere waste of time--that even if success were gained it would not be worth having. Such men, and women too, are met everywhere; they are the cold sheets of society, who do harm to the weak and infirm of purpose, and in almost every case have no merit of their own, and not one single point of excellence in their nature. That which struck me most forcibly during my first half-year, and my acquaintance with Snipson and Brag, was this "nil admirari" style. Neither of them had a good word for anybody. The cadet who was head of his batch before I joined was once discussed by these two, and the following was the conversation:-- "Some fellows say that London is so awfully clever," said Snipson, "and got a higher decimal than any fellow has since, about four years ago. Now, I don't think him a bit clever--in fact, I think him rather stupid, for he was a most awful `mug.' I don't suppose any fellow swatted harder than he did his last two terms in order to be head of the batch." "Oh, any fellow who mugged as he did could be head of a batch!" replied Brag. "Besides, I don't think passing examinations well is any great proof of being very clever. I dare say if I set to work I might pass well, but it's not worth the trouble." "Hopkins of that batch thinks a deal of himself too," said Snipson, "because he's third of the batch. Why, I remember the time when I could beat him at everything; but then I didn't choose to slave away as he did. There's Dawkins, too, who is fifth; he got to be that I believe merely by sponging; he was always sneaking about the octagon, pretending he was hard at work. I hate a fellow doing like that." Young as I was, I could perceive that neither Brag nor Snipson would have made such remarks unless they had imagined themselves superior to all those whom they had mentioned; and the latent belief thus revealed is, we believe, one of the reasons why the slanderer or even scandal-monger of society is agreeable to some natures, and produces abhorrence in others. To the honest, straightforward, hard-working man, who judges of things by their merits, and who loves the truth and detests the sham, this system of disparaging is offensive and painful. To such a nature it is more pleasant to hear the excellence and the good qualities of people referred to than it is to hear only their defects, supposed or real, or their evil deeds, or those attributed to them, referred to. The thoroughly noble woman who is herself true, and who possesses the gift of charity, finds no pleasure in the society of a person whose conversation consists mainly in slandering her neighbours. The woman who is herself false, and who endeavours to pervert the truth, finds her vanity gratified when she can hear anything related which drags her neighbour's name into the mud. As a corollary, therefore, it may be stated that, given the woman who paints her eyebrows, blackens her eyelids, powders and tints her face, and there you find to a certainty the character whose delight is intense when she can glean any intelligence about her dear friends of such a nature as to damage their characters, and to retail such intelligence with additions is to her a luxury. Having experienced four months of the society of Brag and Snipson, I could not avoid feeling that they were inferior men, who would never by fair means make a mark in the world, and who were not desirable either as friends or enemies. I had been but a very brief time in Forester's room before I became deeply interested in him. He used to read a great deal, and had at that time the rare accomplishment of being able to talk about other matters beside "shop." He was devoted to soldiering, and had studied carefully "Napier's Peninsula" and other similar books, and used to talk of a night, when lights were out, with Fenton about various actions and their results. As I look back on those days, I can recall many of the remarks that Forester made, and have been struck with the value of these, and of their practical application even now. One, in particular, I remember was, "that all the extensive theory that we learnt at the Academy would probably never be of use to one in twenty of the cadets in afterlife, whilst we should know nothing about certain practical matters when we became officers, which every non-commissioned officer would be acquainted with." "An officer's head," said Forester, "ought to be like a soldier's knapsack--have a few useful things in it always handy and ready for use--just the things required for every day." Once, after a long game of chess with Fenton, Forester remarked that people said chess and war were very much alike. "They would be," he said, "more alike if, when playing chess, you were bound to move within one minute after your adversary, and also if you had a drum beating in your ears and a fellow shying racket-balls at you. I believe," he said, "that the men who make the best leaders of troops are usually hard, strong men, without too much brains, whilst the great generals and planners of campaigns are quite different men. These should be careful thinkers, and men with great nervous power, and it is such men who are most upset by disturbing causes. I have often thought," continued Forester, "that we ought to have a thinking general and a working one--the first to think out the moves, the other to execute them." Before I had been long in this room, Forester expressed his opinion about keeping up lights. He said,-- "I think taking away our lights at half-past nine, and leaving us to undress and go to bed in the dark, is absurd; but when I have said to the officer on duty that `I have no lights concealed, and no intention of procuring a light,' I feel bound in honour to act up to what I say." "But no one really looks upon the usual report about lights as given on honour," said Fenton. "I've nothing to do with what other fellows think," said Forester. "I only know what I state to an officer, and if I keep up lights after having stated I will not do so, I consider I have `smashed.'" [Note 1.] I here learnt for the first time the great effect produced on us by the society in which we mix, and the influence that such society has on our opinions. When Snipson wished to keep up lights, Brag did not object from a moral point of view, but because it was not safe. I also turned my attention to a plan of keeping a light burning without reflecting on its being dishonourable. Now, however, when Forester expressed his views about it, I felt I agreed with him, and was ashamed of having aided Snipson to commit an act which I now looked on as dishonourable. There were very curious ideas among the cadets in those days. One of these was, that it was rather a smart thing to get very nearly tipsy-- that is to say, "screwed." If a cadet could prove that he had arrived at this state through drinking champagne or "old port," he thought himself a man of judgment and taste. This peculiar opinion was confined to only a few cadets, a sort of clique, and was much condemned by Forester. "There is no doubt," said Forester, "that of all men in the world who should never be the worse for what they have drunk, a soldier is the one. He and a driver of an engine, if drunk, may cause the death of hundreds of men. Besides, a fellow who gets drunk I look on as a fool, for he must know so little about himself that he cannot tell how much of anything will make him tipsy. I don't know a more disgusting sight than to see a man drunk and incapable, and why some fellows here think it fast I cannot imagine." In our division was an old cadet named Marsden, who was always boasting of the wine he had drank when on leave, or when he had been home. It happened that Marsden's father was an officer retired on full pay; but, like most officers, he was poor, and, though occasionally he asked cadets to dinner, he never produced any wines besides sherry, and, as cadets declared, his sparkling wine was gooseberry. Saumer in those days was unknown. More than once Marsden had returned from leave and made a great shouting in the division, asserting that "the Moet's champagne was so strong." Forester had more than once made remarks about this proceeding, and at length, with three or four other cadets who thought the same as he did, organised a plot against Marsden, which turned out a most amusing affair, but one somewhat unpleasant to Marsden. It wanted about half an hour to roll-call one Sunday evening, when Marsden came into the division shouting. "There's Marsden again?" said Forester. "Now for a lesson for him!" Forester got up and went into the passage, where he was joined by three other cadets, who seemed to have turned out by signal. "What's the matter, Marsden?" said Forester. "Beastly screwed on guv'nor's champagne!" said Marsden as he leant against the wall. "It's close on roll-call," said Forester, "and the officer will see you!" "Blow officer!" muttered Marsden. "We mustn't let him be discovered," said Forester in a compassionate tone. "Let's help him out of it." At a signal, Forester and the other cadets seized Marsden, lifted him off his legs, and carried him to the back yard--he shouting and struggling in a half-drunken way. Suddenly, however, he seemed to foresee what was in store for him, for he called out in quite a sober tone, "I'm not drunk, Forester; I was only humbugging. I'm not drunk; I'm not!" Forester and his companions, whom I had followed, were silent, but very determined. They paid no attention to these shouts, but took off Marsden's coattee, and reduced his dress to a pair of trousers and a shirt. Three cadets then held him, whilst Forester, seizing the handle of the pump, sent a powerful stream of water over Marsden's head and down his back. "Nothing like a cold bath to set a fellow right when he's screwed?" said Forester, as he worked vigorously at the pump-handle and deluged Marsden with a cold stream. "I'm not drunk?" shouted Marsden. "Let me go! I'm not drunk!" Not the slightest attention was paid to Marsden till he had been fully a minute under the pump, when he was released with the inquiry as to his feeling better and more sober. "I'm not drunk, you confounded donkeys!" shouted Marsden again, in a great rage. At this instant the officer on duty, having from his quarters heard the shouting, came through the division, and, seeing Marsden with his hair and clothes all wet, and hearing his shouts of "I'm not drunk?" at once said,-- "Mr Marsden, you're tipsy! You'll be in arrest, sir, till further orders?" "I'm not drunk, sir?" said Marsden. "Go to your room, sir, in arrest!" said the officer, as he walked off from the division. When Forester came into his room he was in fits of laughter. "If that won't cure Marsden of shamming I don't know what will!" he said. "It serves him quite right for humbugging as he does?" On the following morning Marsden asked Forester to give evidence as to his not being drank the night before, "for," said Marsden, "you know I wasn't." "What?" said Forester; "when you told me you were beastly screwed on guv'nor's gooseberry--champagne, I mean? You don't mean to say you told a lie? I was bound to believe you, and did what I thought was best for you to save you from being seen in the state you were by the officer?" "But I wasn't screwed!" said Marsden. "Not when the officer came," replied Forester; "that's very likely. A powerful shower-bath is a wonderful soberer; and next time you come in screwed and shouting from the effects of champagne, you'll find it just as good a cure! No, I can't say you were not screwed; you looked like being so, and you said you were?" There was an audible titter on parade that day when the officer on duty read out, among other orders by the Captain of the Cadet Company, that Mr Marsden, having been under the influence of drink when returning from leave on Sunday evening, was to be in arrest for seven days! Forester's cure was effective. Marsden was never the worse for his governor's wine after that evening. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. "Smashed," in those days, was the familiar term for having broken one's word of honour. CHAPTER ELEVEN. OUTBREAK TO CHARLTON FAIR. Towards the middle of my second half-year two very stirring events occurred at the Academy, in each of which I played a subordinate part. The singular experiences I had in these two affairs are worthy of being recorded. In the neighbourhood of Woolwich is a small village, called Charlton, which at that time was a thoroughly rural place. An old blacksmith's forge stood in the middle of the village, and two old-fashioned-looking inns. At the entrance of this village was a field, termed "The Fair-Field," where a large fair was annually held. This fair was termed "Horn Fair," and was one of the sights of the time. Fairs have now degenerated, and have lost their glory; but thirty years ago Horn Fair day was a kind of Derby day, at which all the _elite_ of the neighbourhood were to be seen from about two till five on one particular day out of the three that the fair lasted. From the entrance to the fair to the branch roads, where the cemetery is now situated, the carriages used to stand two deep during the time their occupiers strolled about the fair. Since those days, however, the railway has given such facility for the East-end of London to send down its unwashed hundreds, that first the fair was deserted by the ladies of the neighbourhood, next by the gentlemen, and finally was done away with as being detrimental to the neighbourhood. During the three days that the fair lasted the cadet company were confined to the enclosure, and were not allowed to visit the village of Charlton. Such a restriction was ordered on account of a row which some years previously had occurred between the cadets and some of the fair people; but it was very obnoxious to the old cadets, and particularly to one who had been reduced from the rank of corporal to that of cadet. This individual had a great deal of influence among the seniors, and on the morning of the second day of the fair he paid a visit to the majority of the rooms, in order to ventilate his ideas and organise a plan he had in his mind for the evening. The cadet, who was named Prosser, came to our room to see Forester, and said, "Don't you think it's an awful shame to confine us to barracks like a set of schoolboys, instead of trusting us to go to the fair? I want your opinion about it, Forester." "Well," replied Forester, "I think it's bad taste, and a mistake, for it seems to say, `If you go to the fair you will get into a row,' but I don't see what's the use of complaining." "I'll tell you what the use is," said Prosser. "I've got a lot of fellows who are game to fall in after tea, and go straight away to the fair--that is, if every one will go. You see, if everybody goes, they can't break a few fellows only, and they can't pitch into everybody, and I believe they will see it won't do to shut us up like sheep, but that we shall get more liberty." "I won't join," said Forester, "if I can help it, and I think it's not the right way to go to work to remedy a grievance." During that afternoon a paper was passed round the Academy, saying that the whole of the first and second class would fall in on the centre parade at half-past eight, and double off to the fair, and the third and fourth class were to fall in at the same hour and place. This came as a kind of order from the old cadets, and we all signed our names as willing to agree to go. Everything was kept very quiet during the afternoon, for fear the authorities might hear of the plot, and at half-past eight every cadet fell in quietly on the grass inside the Academy, and, the words of command being whispered from file to file, we broke into a double, and ran across the common towards Charlton. There were present on that occasion every cadet except the eight corporals on duty, who thought they were bound in honour not to leave their posts. This was a sort of compromise with duty, for these eight corporals were perfectly aware that the breakout of barracks was going to be attempted, and had they done their duty they would have reported this, and put a stop at once to the affair; but the moral courage to do so was wanting. Still, none of these cadets liked to leave their posts--an indication of the right feeling that prevailed at that time in many things at the Academy, and at the same time a proof of the inconsistency in the ideas of the cadets. Forester declined to join the "mutiny," as it might be termed, on principle, but he left Fenton and myself to do as we liked, and we both went. The "Cadet Company," as I might term it, having got well clear of the Academy and across the common, came to a quick march, and the word was then passed down the ranks as to our proceedings at the fair. On nearing the fair we were to form four deep and double through the fair. We were then to enter one of the large dancing-booths, and clear it of its occupants, and finally to "pitch into" any persons who opposed us. Under the influence of the excitement and companionship of the senior cadets, I thought the proceeding a brilliant one. The effect of charging through the fair would be grand, something like a real battle, and the people of the fair would see what a fine set of daring fellows the cadets were. With such ideas I approached the fair-field, little dreaming that three days would not elapse before I had come to the conclusion that a more foolish, stupid, and ridiculous proceeding could not have been proposed or carried out than this one, and that even the most enthusiastic of the party would admit that it was a contemptible and childish display. Most rows or street fights, when looked upon calmly, may be classed under the same head. They arise usually from the combatitive stupidity of some individual or individuals who want excitement, or who imagine that they will exhibit their powers before an admiring audience during some fight in which they may be engaged. Two of the original promoters of the raid to the fair were the two biggest and most powerful cadets at the Academy, and were tolerably sure to hold their own in any row that might take place. For us smaller bodies the prospect was not so promising. On nearing the entrance-gate we formed closely in fours, and at a double charged down between the booths. Men, women, and children were knocked over right and left, and sent sprawling on the ground, whilst we were saluted with stones, sticks, and other weapons seized impromptu by the indignant public. Having made our way down the fair we entered the largest dancing-booth, which was immediately deserted by the occupants. Seizing the chairs, a few of these were smashed, and shots were then taken at the many-coloured oil-lamps, the majority of which were knocked down, but not broken. There was then a shout to extinguish all the lamps in the fair, whilst one or two of the most reckless cadets shouted, "Turn out the menagerie!" By this time, however, there was an organised 'stance to us. The sticks used for knock-'em-downs were seized by a number of men, who commenced using these very freely, and we were soon compelled to retreat, which we did in tolerably good order; not, however, without those in rear receiving some very heavy blows. At the Academy matters had not been idle. The cadets having left the Academy, there was a silence that, to the experienced ears of the officer on duty, at once indicated that something was up. Coming out of his quarters he found the divisions deserted, and, on entering the library, found the corporal on duty, who informed him the cadets had left the enclosure. The assembly was immediately sounded, and was obeyed only by the corporals on duty and two cadets who were ill, having just left hospital. Taking with him the corporals on duty the officer at once started for the fair, giving orders that each cadet seen was at once to be placed in arrest. Now, as a cadet was bound in honour to obey an arrest, this plan would have been effective for sending home the company. When, however, the officer was within a hundred yards of the fair-field he met the cadets returning, and at once ordered the whole of them in arrest to their rooms. For many hundred yards from the fair we were followed by a rabble, which delighted in pelting us with various missiles and abusing us, as they now could do with impunity. On reaching the enclosure we all went to our rooms, relating our individual experiences, escapes, and performances. One cadet had exchanged blows with a supposed prizefighter, and had held his own; another had knocked down a burly rough who was just going to smash the head of a cadet with a life-preserver. This cadet had tripped up a Peeler who was trying to collar a cadet; that cadet had rescued a snooker who was actually in the grasp of two roughs. The feats performed were really marvellous--at least in their accounts--and for that night we were well pleased with ourselves. Forester listened to Fenton's account of the affair, and put a few questions, and then pronounced his verdict, that we had all made a set of fools of ourselves, and that probably the company would be decimated, every tenth cadet being discharged. During the next two or three days there were endless speculations as to what would be the punishment given us for our conduct, and as the excitement of the affair wore off, the corporals and seniors began to get anxious for their prospects, for it was feared a severe example would be made of at least the corporals and under-officers who had gone to the fair. The whole company was confined to barracks, and could not therefore go beyond the "Ha-ha" so that groups of twenty or thirty cadets used to assemble every day and walk about arm-in-arm discussing the proceedings at the fair, and the probable results. About ten days after the breaking out the whole company was assembled on parade, and the decision of the Master-General made known. It was to the effect that every under-officer and corporal present at the fair was to be reduced to the rank of a cadet, all leave stopped till the end of the half, and the question left open whether or not the commission of these should be delayed six months. By many this punishment was considered slight, for they had expected to be rusticated, and to lose, consequently, a term; so that, as soon as the order had been read out, there was a subdued murmur of satisfaction among those who had been the ringleaders of the affair, and whose position as the seniors rendered them responsible. This history of the life of a Woolwich cadet is intended to be a relation of the events that occurred some thirty odd years ago, and to be described as those events presented themselves to the mind of a cadet at that time. To mix up with these relations of incidents anything formal or serious would be to a certain extent out of place. This work is not intended as instructive, or as even suggestive; still, if in it some mention were not made of a most important problem connected with military educational establishments, it certainly would lack one feature, without which it would be destitute of what may be termed "backbone." The problem to which we refer is the discipline necessary in any military educational establishment. When we consider that a large military establishment devoted to educational purposes, such as that of Woolwich, turns out probably eighty officers per year; that these officers become our future captains, colonels, and generals; that to them are entrusted commands over hundreds and thousands of men according as they rise in rank; that on service the very lives even of men are entrusted to their keeping; that at all times the prospects and happiness, comfort and welfare of the men under their commands are in their hands, it is at once evident how great is their responsibility, and how serious become the every-day duties and acts of an officer. In civil life a citizen, unless occupying a public position, has the responsibility only of his own family. He has to do his duty by probably half-a-dozen children, to educate and teach these, and to see them started in life. The officer has on his shoulders the responsibility of a soldier and an officer added to that of his duties as a citizen. He has to instruct, guide, and punish the soldier. He is a despot in a way; his word is law, and the prospects of a man may be ruined or made by an officer. Such being the condition of a soldier's life, it is of importance that the early career of an officer--the period of his life when he receives impressions which he never forgets-- should be under the most careful and thoughtful discipline. The impressions received in our youth are never entirely forgotten; and though individuality of character may force itself prominently forward through a covering of education, still such instances are invariably tinged by education and training. Thus, the discipline and teaching of cadets becomes a matter of the gravest importance when we value the effects thereof on an army. The character and conduct of an officer make themselves felt in a regiment, and even beyond the mere limits of a regiment, for the effects of influence are untold. Man is to a great extent an imitative animal, and when young he is much disposed to be a mere follower of others. He has his tastes, his likes and dislikes; but these are in the generality of cases due more to example than to any natural tendency in the individual to a particular line of pursuits. The importance, then, of instilling into the cadet those principles which are necessary to make the army a safe one cannot be overlooked; and we will therefore refer to the conditions prevailing at the time we write of, and compare them with those now in force at the same institution. In former times a cadet could be punished by a corporal to the extent of a day's arrest to his room, which entailed turning out to morning drill. If the corporal chose, he might order a cadet out to drill merely, without placing him in arrest. This punishment was given usually on account of unsteadiness in the ranks or in the class-rooms, for not being brushed clean on parade, or for any minor offence, according to the fancy of the corporal. This gave enormous powers to the corporals, and was one of the great strongholds of the fagging and bullying systems. A cadet's life might be made a burthen to him by his being placed in arrest day after day offences which were "trumped-up" by a corporal. Two drills daring a week stopped a cadet's leave, and if this occurred he of course had to remain at the Academy during Saturday and Sunday. Instances have taken place where a young cadet committed some offence against the then well-established but unwritten laws of fagging, and thus drew down on himself the odium of the old cadets, who agreed on every possible occasion to place this cadet in arrest. There was no difficulty about carrying out this persecution. A corporal on duty in the class-rooms was absolute; he could place any cadet in arrest for talking, for leaving his desk, for looking round, for making a noise, etc, etc, and one or other of these offences could without difficulty be fixed on any particular individual. It was not till near the end of the half-year that it was discovered that one particular cadet had been placed in arrest by corporals on duty on an average four times a week from the commencement of the half-year. For graver offences than those usually punished by the cadets holding the rank of corporal, the sentence might be arrest from three to seven days, confinement to the enclosure for any length of time, stoppage of leave, twenty-four or forty-eight hours in the "black hole," as it was termed--a dark room, similar to a modern prison cell--rustication for a term, discharge from the Academy, or dismissal. The latter sentence was given only in very bad cases, as the cadet's name was then registered, and he could never enter the army. There was one cadet selected by the Governor as a senior under-officer. To him was entrusted the command of the cadets when no officer was present, and he was a sort of "go-between," a kind of bat among men, a link between the officers and the cadets, to whom considerable responsibility attached. This senior under-officer was not necessarily the senior in the class. He was taken by selection, and sometimes great mistakes were made in taking an indifferent man when a better was available. This is, of course, the risk in all cases of selection, even when authorities are most anxious to be just, and to select the best man. If, however, so disastrous an element as favouritism should ever in the future creep into the army, and should thrive and prevail under the cloak of selecting men by merit, it will be more disastrous to discipline, more ruinous to the tenacity, as we may term it, of the army, than all the bribery or corruption that the most subtle enemy could bring to bear on the weak or vacillating. To be superseded in any way is, of course, annoying to every man. When it was money that enabled one man to go over the head of another, the supersession was accounted for. It was unpleasant, but the one man possessing money where the other did not was to a certain extent acceptable. If, however, a man, whom we feel to be our inferior, and whom our comrades know to be inferior, is selected, and placed over our head, and we are told that he is so elevated because he is a more clever man and a better soldier than we are, the selection by merit becomes one of the most dangerous and offensive elements in an army. An amusing case of selection by supposed merit once came under my notice when a cadet. There was one prize which was given according to the judgment of the Instructor, and not by the result of any examination. It was a supposed selection by merit. There was a cadet whom we will term A, who was well acquainted with the subject for which the prize was given previous to his joining the Academy. Another cadet, B, knew nothing about this subject, and found great difficulty in working it. A and B were friends, so they worked together--that is, A did the work, and B copied from him. At the end of the term the Instructor, who was supposed to have daily seen each cadet's work, examined the whole, and allotted the prize to B, and omitted all notice of A. Strange to say, some years afterwards, B was appointed to a lucrative post in consequence of having been distinguished as a cadet for his knowledge of the subject for which the prize was given, whilst A remained unknown and unrecognised, but soured and disgusted by an injustice which it was impossible to remedy without exposing his friend, and certainly damaging him. The senior under-officer, however, in those days was selected, and was given considerable influence in consequence of his position. It was therefore considered a matter of great importance to be selected as the senior, and to have such a position of responsibility entrusted to one. Corporals were selected from amongst the cadets almost entirely in consequence of their position in the Academy--in fact, by seniority. If the conduct of a cadet had been bad, he was passed over; but such passing over was considered very severe, and was seldom done. The principal punisher of the cadets was the Captain of the Cadet Company, who investigated and tried cases that occurred during any part of the time that cadets were not in study. If any cadet committed a very grave offence he was then brought before the Governor, and received the heaviest punishment. For offences committed in academy, or during hours of study, cadets were amenable to two other authorities, viz, the Inspector and Assistant-Inspector, who used to visit the class-rooms each day, and see that all was going on as it should go. There was in this system the great defect that the cadets were under several authorities, and not under one head, while the system of entrusting to corporals the power to inflict punishment on their juniors, without inquiry or without comment, opened the door to a system of tyranny that was too often practised with the worst effects. Another drawback at that time was the great age of the majority of the professors and senior officers. To deal with young, energetic men, such as the greater number of the senior cadets were, required active and energetic men with judgment and discernment, and thus appointments to posts such as those referred to should not have been allotted merely as quiet sinecures, but should have been given to men capable of real work. In such a Military College as Woolwich a strict discipline is absolutely necessary. The first lesson to teach a soldier is the importance of subordination and obedience. These essentials, it is true, were taught formerly, but there was too often favouritism shown, which made the cadets feel that the scales of justice were often unfairly weighted. To once allow any sign of a want of proper respect for authority to pass over with a light punishment is to sow the seeds of a most dangerous condition. Another necessary item in the training of the cadet is to instil into him a high sense of honour; to teach him that there are certain things which his position as a soldier renders it impossible for him to do without disgrace. At the Academy there seems to have ever been this conscientious feeling, even at times when the discipline and general tone of the establishment was not what it is now. A cadet who was placed in arrest was bound on honour not to break this arrest, and it was often amusing to see two or three cadets in different rooms with their doors open talking to one another and leaning out of the doorways just so far that their centre of gravity was within the room. If one cadet added "honour" to any statement he might make to another, it was always considered certain that this was true. Considering that the course of education at the Academy rarely occupied more than three years, and that many cadets had their characters entirely formed whilst they were at the "shop," it is evident that too much importance cannot be given to the training bestowed during this period. A military training college which is not maintained with the strictest discipline becomes a mere pandemonium, where young men soon endeavour to rival one another in acts of folly, and from which men are turned out unfit for command or for the service. The defects formerly existing at Woolwich have been remedied; the almost irresponsible authority of the older cadets over the juniors does not now exist. The professors, instead of being octogenarians, are men in the prime of life, and are given the authority over the cadets which their position entitles them to; and the result is that with an active, intelligent, and distinguished soldier at the head, the Royal Military Academy at the present time may be fairly claimed as a model establishment. CHAPTER TWELVE. MY FAILURE AT EXAMINATION. My second half-year passed slowly, though it did not drag its slow length along as had my first half. I fagged for Snipson every morning, and was thus treated much as was a last-joined. In my own room and division I was scarcely fagged at all, and as Forester and Fenton used to talk to me, I enjoyed their society, especially after roll-call, when I knew Snipson could not send for me on some pretence or other. More than once Forester had asked me how I was getting on in academy, and seemed interested as to my prospect of passing my probationary examination. This also was a question about which I was anxious, for, unless I passed a satisfactory examination, I might be sent away from the Academy just in the same manner as if I had failed at my first examination. During my first half I had decidedly gone back; the pressure that had been used to prepare for entrance seemed to have tired me mentally, and the perpetual anxiety of being fagged and bullied seemed to paralyse my mind, so that I could learn little or nothing. It was much the same during my second half, although my nights were quieter; but I felt a sort of disinclination to commence work--a feeling I have since learnt is the great drawback to progress in anything. Men mean to begin doing something at some future period; some day they will set to work and do this or learn that; they will give up this or that bad habit, or begin to learn this or that important subject; but the to-morrow on which they are going to begin never comes, for they drive off from day to day until it is too late, and they go to their graves with very good intentions, and meaning to have done something, but they never did it. I drove off regularly working until within a few days of the examinations, and when I tried to learn various formulas I found that my mind seemed out of condition and unable to retain a recollection of what my eyes had seen. It was some time after this that I discovered what seemed to me a new faculty of my mind--that was a capacity of shutting off, as it were, all external matters, and bringing my thoughts to bear on some problem which, with closed eyes or daring the darkness of night, I tried to work out. My first experience of this faculty was in connexion with a game of chess. Forester had been trying to solve a problem of "checkmate in three moves," and I had been looking on. He had failed to solve the problem when the lights were taken away. As I lay in bed thinking over this problem, I pictured to myself the chess-board and men, and I then imagined a move of the knight, which had not been tried before. The new position of the men I seemed to see plainly. Now and then the picture appeared to fade from my imagination, and it was an effort to reproduce it. I, however, managed to do so, and in a short time moved another piece. I went over three moves again and again, and at length was certain I had found out the solution. Forester was asleep, so I said nothing; but as soon as I awoke in the morning I took the chess-board, arranged the men, and found that I had solved the problem, and could checkmate in the required number of moves. On informing Forester of this he was much amused, and seemed to think it a very remarkable performance on my part. Having thus employed my mind on a problem, I tried to make various moves for the openings at chess, and found that by practice I could develop this faculty, and could make seven or eight moves on each side and remember the position of the men. It is impossible to describe the pleasure this sort of mental exercise gave me, for as long as I lay awake I could work out chess-moves; and as the efforts seemed to tire me, I often fell asleep in the midst of some complicated series of moves. The results of this proceeding did not then dawn upon me, for I was but a boy after all, and had really to learn how to think and how to use my brain. The examinations came with their usual regularity, and the questions were unlucky for me. That there should be any luck in examinations may strike some readers as impossible; but those who have had any experience know how much luck there is, and that it is not always a sure test of the relative knowledge of individuals to judge by the results of their examination. When I say that the questions were unlucky, I mean that it appeared as if those particular questions had been selected which referred to problems I had not studied. As an example:--On one occasion I saw the mathematical master looking at a book and copying something from it. I saw the page was 210. On returning to my seat, I told the cadet next me that I had seen this, and that we should probably be required to work out the formula on page 210. "Perhaps it may be the formula on page 211," said my neighbour. "We will toss up, and see which it is--heads 210, tails 211." It came heads, so we in joke said we knew it would be this formula. I must own I had so little faith in what I had asserted that I learnt only superficially problem page 210, and doubt whether I could have worked it out. When, however, the examination questions were given out, I saw a very large number of marks were allotted to the problem on page 211, and this problem I had not worked up. After the examination, however, the cadet next me told me he had learnt both problems well, and expected full marks for this question. Now, perhaps I ought to have done the same, and learnt both problems, but I had devoted my time to some twenty others, all of which I knew well, and not one of which were asked. It has often occurred to me that a different system of examination might be adopted to that now practised, in order to avoid this luck, and also to find out the extent of the knowledge of an individual on any subject. At present a series of questions are asked, these being some ten or twelve in number, and they are supposed to take in every branch of the subject. The individual examined answers these, and these answers are limited to the questions or inquiries made. The amount of knowledge which any one may possess _beyond_ the questions put is not ascertained, and thus the full extent of one person's knowledge may have been reached by the questions, and only half the knowledge of another person who may have done at the examination exactly the same. To draw out the knowledge of a person at an examination, the safest way is to give far more questions in a paper than it is possible the best man can in the time answer; then by the amount of work done a fairer estimate can be formed of the relative knowledge of individuals than if only six or seven questions are given, and where, consequently, luck has a great deal to do with the results. I was certain I had done badly in mathematics at the examination, and this was the subject that counted most; but I was not aware how badly I had done till the result of the examination was made known, when I found I was last but one, and had gained only four in the subject. Now that I believed it was too late I was ready to stamp with rage at my folly in not having worked harder. I felt I had in me certain powers which had not been yet fully called out. It seemed that I was again sinking back into the condition I occupied at Hostler's, and I was looked on by my own batch as very stupid. The examination I had failed to pass was, I understood, my probationary, and that therefore I should now be sent away from the Academy. It turned out, however, that because I had not joined with the remainder of my batch, and had thus been absent several weeks, I was allowed another chance and given another half-year's trial at the Academy. I was sent for to the Inspector's office and briefly informed of this fact in a dry, official manner, an intimation being added that unless I worked very hard I was not likely to remain beyond the next term as a cadet at the Royal Military Academy. I was determined that next term I would work hard and try to recover my position, and it being my third half-year I expected I should not have any fagging, and consequently should have plenty of time for working out of study hours. Forester had passed his examination well and was fourth of his batch, and would next half be down in the Arsenal with what was termed the "practical class." This practical class learnt all the practical work connected with field works, military bridges, military surveying, etc, and were distinguished from the other cadets by wearing epaulettes with bullion about an inch long. The practical class rarely came to the upper Academy, their barracks being down in the Arsenal. Once a month for muster, however, they were marched up to the Academy and were the envy and admiration of the younger cadets. Snipson had failed to qualify for the practical class, and would therefore remain one more half-year at the Academy, when he would have to leave if he did not then pass into the practical class. On my return home I had to break the intelligence to my father that I had been unsuccessful at my examination, but should have another chance for my probationary. He took the news very quietly, and told me he thought that, with the amount of fagging and bullying that was going on, it was wonderful how any cadets managed to pass their examinations at all. During my vacation I used to regularly work every morning before breakfast at mathematics, and at night I tried to work out various problems in geometry just in the same manner as I had solved chess puzzles, and I found I could manage this performance very well. I thus established a sort of test for myself; for if I could in my mind work through a problem, I was certain I knew it, and if I could not, I soon found out where I broke down. I used to practise also raising _x + y_ to various powers without opening my eyes thus: (_x + y_) to the power of six and (_x+y_) to the power of eight, and so on. I found that the practice of doing this gave me a sort of extra power, and I could soon multiply any two figures by two figures in my head and obtain correct results. From commencing such experiments as the best means for qualifying myself for future examinations, I gradually grew to like the work, and in a short time preferred working out some equation or geometrical problem to reading a dull book. After-experience taught me that a man never does anything so well as that for which he has a liking, and as a rule we dislike those things which we know little or nothing of, or which we do badly. We grow to like any subject very often by learning it, and gradually gaining efficiency in it, and we thus are often impelled to proceed until we are surprised, on comparing with others, to find how much we have learnt in a certain time. My vacation passed very quickly, for I was happy at home, and having always some work on hand, I was never thoroughly idle, nor did I ever experience that most disagreeable of states, etc, "How ever was I to pass the time?" On rejoining the Academy for my third half-year, I felt very much more at my ease than I had done on the former occasions. I expected that I should have no fagging, and should do very much as I liked. There were two old cadets in my room, the head being a corporal named Woodville, and the second a cadet named Jamieson, who was only one half my senior. They were both very nice fellows, and Woodville was celebrated as a runner for long distances, he having run a mile in four minutes and fifty seconds. I had grown very much during the past year, and had improved altogether in health and strength, and found also that I could run better than when I had won my hundred and twenty yards' race. I was still supposed to be the best short distance runner at the shop, though there were one or two who were almost equal to me. Upon the last-joined cadets coming to the Academy, which they did the day after the rest of us had joined, they had all to pass through nearly the same ordeal that I had. Hats were smashed on entering the hall, and several new plots were started to make the cadets sharp. One of the favourite tricks to play on a last-joined was to fill one of the tin basins with water, to open the door about afoot, and place the basin on the top of the door, then to call a neux from outside, and tell him to come to the room. The neux, of course, pushed open the door and let the basin fall on his head or back, he getting a good ducking. This invention was very popular for some time, but all the last-joined soon heard of it, and became cautious, and either entered the doorway without opening the door any wider than it was at the time it supported the basin, or they pushed the door open from a distance. Another amusement, which also was soon worn out, was to heat the poker, and then rest it against the handle of the door till the handle got quite hot, then to shut the door and watch from the window for cadets to pass. As soon as a last-joined could be seen, he was told to come round to the room, and naturally he took hold of the handle to open the door. The cadets on the inside of the door held fast, so that the door could not be opened. The result was that the victim burnt his hand, for at first he could not tell the handle was hot, and, never suspecting such a thing, probably fancied that the handle was very cold instead of being as it was, very hot. Any way, nearly every cadet burnt his hand who came to the door, and this was considered an excellent joke by the cadets in the room. At that time bullying was at its height at the Academy, and I heard of various things being done which amounted to the grossest cruelty. One of these was nearly causing the death of a cadet, and exposed to the authorities to what an extent cruelty was carried. An old cadet used to amuse himself by placing a stool upside down on the top of another stool. He then made a cadet climb onto the top of the second stool, and stand balanced on two legs of the stool. When the cadet was thus standing balancing himself, the old cadet kicked away the under stool, and brought the neux down heavily on the top of the stools. This proceeding was much admired by Snipson, who was again in the Towers, and occupying his old room, and I heard that a cadet had been much hurt by falling on the upturned leg of one of the stools, on which he had been made to stand by Snipson. The cadet had to be taken to hospital, and was considered for some time in danger. During the time this cadet was in hospital, Snipson ceased his practices of bullying, and was so very civil to the neux that was hurt that he succeeded in obtaining from him a promise that the authorities should not know by what means he had become hurt. This matter was generally known among the cadets, but so bad a feeling was then prevalent at the Academy that Snipson was not condemned by the other cadets, nor did the practice referred to at all decrease. It happened that at the dinner-squad to which I belonged there was a corporal who was a very quiet, steady fellow, and who disliked bullying. The subject of Snipson's neux having been injured was mentioned at the squad, and I was asked if I had not once been Snipson's fag. I replied that I had, and that he was one of the greatest bullies in the Academy. It happened that this remark of mine came by some means to be retailed to Snipson, and led to an affair which must be described in detail. Two or three days after the conversation at the dinner-squad, Snipson called me as we came out from morning study, and told me to go to his room after parade. To be told to go to an old cadet's room was usually understood to mean that a thrashing was to be administered for some cause or other. I could not recall anything I had done, for I had entirely forgotten the remark I had made at the dinner-table, and I fancied that Snipson might want to fag me for something in order to show he could fag a third-half cadet. When I was broken off drill I went to Snipson's room in the Towers, where I found Snipson standing by his window. On my entering the room he said,--"Shut the door and turn the key!" I did so, and then saw that Snipson looked pale with rage, and that something unpleasant was in store for me. The room in which we were was not more than about ten feet square; the window, like all others at the Academy, was guarded by iron cross-bars, and the furniture of the room consisted of two stools, a small table, a fender and poker, and a bed. Snipson was at that time nearly two years and a half my senior, and was much taller and stouter than I was. He had, however, an awkward way about him, and was not given to any muscle-developing games, such as cricket, football, or rackets. As soon as I had locked the door Snipson said,-- "Look here, Shepard; you are a young blackguard, and I'm going to lick you! What do you mean by telling lies about me?" "I have told no lies about you," I said. "You told the fellows at your squad that I was one of the greatest bullies at the shop, so it's no use your telling another lie to save yourself a licking?" I was taken aback at this remark, for I now remembered what I had said at the dinner-table about his being a bully. I could not, however, see how this remark could be turned into a lie, for there was no doubt about the fact of Snipson being one of the greatest bullies at the Academy; but I did not know how to argue so as to own to having called him a bully, and yet to show I was not guilty of falsehood. "You see you're caught?" said Snipson; "so now just put one of those stools on the other!" I hesitated a moment, and said,--"I remember saying you were a bully, but I didn't think you would mind that, and I don't call that a lie." "Ah, now you acknowledge saying what you before denied! That's three lies you've told since you have been here! Now, get onto the top of that uppermost stool?" So great had been the influence of the authority of old-cadetism on me that I obeyed Snipson's orders, and with some difficulty climbed to the top of the stool. In an instant Snipson kicked over the lower stool, and I fell heavily on my side from a height of about five feet, the leg of the stool striking me on the shin. Before I could recover myself, and when the pain from the blow I had received was gradually spreading, as it were, over my whole body, Snipson, who was grinning maliciously, said,-- "Put the stools in order and up again! Look sharp!" he shouted, as I hesitated to obey. "I won't get up again?" I said. "I may be injured seriously." "Then take that!" said Snipson, as he struck me with his clenched fist on the side of the head. In an instant all fear of old cadets, of fagging, of corporals, and of trials by the seniors left me; and I remembered only Snipson's repeated acts of cruelty to me when I first joined, his general sneering and self-sufficient manner, and his sneaking conduct relative to the neux he had so seriously injured by the very same proceeding that he was now practising on me. These thoughts flashed, as it were, over my mind like an electric message along a wire, and before Snipson could repeat his blow I caught him a fair shoulder-hit at a well-judged distance, and knocked him completely off his legs against his bed. If I had been given time to reflect after striking this blow, I should probably have taken any licking Snipson might have given me quietly; but I was not given time, for he jumped up and exclaimed,-- "I'll half kill you for that!" and rushed at me, trying to close with me. I believed that from his greater size and weight I should soon have got the worst of a close encounter, so I did not give him a chance of doing so, but met him with a right and left, which were delivered with all the force I had gained in hitting under Howard's instruction, and driven by the additional energy derived from my long endurance of bullying. Snipson went down again like a nine-pin, and I now knew I could thrash him in fair fight; but I did not then know how great a coward he was, and how malicious he could be; but I soon found out my danger. Instead of getting up at once and again rushing at me, Snipson lay for a few seconds where he had fallen, and looked round the room. Suddenly he sprang up and made a dash at the fireplace, and seized the poker. He turned towards me, and I saw from his look that my life was in danger. "Now it's my turn?" he hissed, as he came round the table towards me, the poker held ready to strike. In such positions as mine then was there sometimes comes to us a bright idea, which answers the purpose at the time, but which, when thought of in cooler moments, seems most unlikely to have been of any use, as it could be so easily seen through. The conditions, however, of excitement often induce a state quite unfit for calm reasoning, and most unexpected results are then produced which appear afterwards to be absurd. As Snipson was coming towards me, with his poker ready to strike me, his back was towards the door, which, as I said before, was locked, and by which consequently no one could enter. I, however, looked over Snipson's shoulder, and said, "Hullo, Woodville! you are just in time." Snipson instantly turned his head to see whether any one was there, and at the same moment I sprang on him, seized the wrist that held the poker, and, throwing my right arm round his neck, tripped him up, when we both fell on the floor, I being uppermost. In the struggle the poker had fallen out of Snipson's hand, and I instantly gained possession of it, and, jumping on my feet, stood over Snipson, who now did not attempt to rise, but in a half-conciliatory, half-threatening tone, said, "Now you'd better mind what you are about, for the old cadets will give you an awful licking for this!" "If you tell the old cadets that I hit you," I said, "I'll go straight to the Governor, and tell him it was you who injured your neux, and nearly killed him, and I'll report that you tried to hit me with a poker." Saying this, I unlocked the door and rushed out of the room, and went to my own, which I luckily found empty. I closed the door and sat down to consider what I had better do. I had heard that, shortly before I joined the Academy, a neux had struck an old cadet, and had in consequence been tried by a sort of court-martial by the old cadets, and had been severely thrashed. Not content with this, the body corporate of the old cadets had ordered that no neux should speak to the culprit, and, in addition, he was daily placed in arrest and turned out to drill. The neux could not stand this ordeal, and ran away from the Academy to his friends. An inquiry into the matter afterwards took place, but a case of cruelty could not be brought home to any particular individual, and the cadet's friends not having any interest, the affair was dropped. I anticipated that some such treatment would be meted out to me, for, in spite of Snipson's proceedings, I knew that the offence of striking an old cadet was looked on as so heinous, that no extenuating circumstances would be allowed to outweigh the crime. My threat to report Snipson I did not intend to carry out, but made it with the hope that it would prevent him from telling the old cadets that I had knocked him down. After some minutes' consideration I went off to D'Arcy's room to tell him all about the fight, and consult as to what should be done. When I described to D'Arcy how I had knocked Snipson down, and had escaped his attack on me with the poker, he was delighted. He told me also that the old cadets detested Snipson, and he did not believe they would back him up if he told them what I had done. "I'll bet any money," said D'Arcy, "that unless Snipson goes at once now he is in a rage, and tells some of the seniors, he won't say a word about it." "Why not?" I inquired. "Well, because he knows for your own sake that you won't say anything, and he would probably be ashamed to own that a fellow so much smaller than he is gave him a licking. I'd advise you to keep quiet, and don't tell anybody else." When we went into dinner I saw Snipson, who showed no signs of the recent set-to; he took no notice of me, and I could tell that as yet he had made no mention to the old cadets of my performance. The day also passed, and the next, without anything occurring, and I began to think Snipson meant to keep quiet; but on the following morning, after breakfast, Fenton, on returning to our room, said, "So Snipson gave you a thrashing the other day?" I was so taken aback by this remark that I said, "Who told you so?" "Snipson did," replied Fenton. "He said you had been cheeky about him, and he had you over and licked you. He said you seemed disposed to show fight, but he soon took that out of you." I listened with amazement at this speech of Fenton's; it was my first experience of the gross misrepresentation of facts which was possible when only two people were present, and I was astonished and amused at the absurdity of the report. It was my first experience of the wilful perversion of truth possible when two persons were together without witnesses. I wish it had been my last. There will probably be many among the readers of this book who have themselves had similar experiences, for, if they have not, their career must have been singularly limited and lucky. There are men--ay, and women too--who from an inability to represent facts correctly, or from interested motives, or from vanity, will misrepresent occurrencies and make out that black was white, and yes, no. There are men and women whom it is dangerous to speak to or be with without witnesses, and we believe that when all secrets are revealed it will be found that more perjury has been committed in connexion with _tete-a-tete_ interviews than with any other event in life, from the days of Joseph to the present time. During the day D'Arcy came to me, and laughed immensely as he told me that Snipson had told the old cadets what a licking he had given me. "He said you tried to escape from the room, but he locked the door and just polished you off. You are quite certain," said D'Arcy, "that everything occurred as you told me?" "Quite," I replied, "and Snipson is a liar!" "I believe you," replied D'Arcy; "but you had better keep quiet, and you will now escape being thrashed by the old cadets, which is no joke, I can tell you." I followed d'Arcy's advice, and did not even deny that I had been thrashed by Snipson, although I could not help adding, on one or two occasions, that "I should not mind such a licking being repeated." This was my last adventure with Snipson, who had been a thorn in my side since my first joining the Academy. As, however, it was not the last that I knew of his career, I may here mention what I knew of his future, and then expunge his name from these pages. Before the end of the half-year Snipson was found drunk by the officer on duty. As he had been nearly four years at the Academy, and had but little chance of qualifying, it was intimated to his friends that they had better withdraw him from the Academy. Following this hint, Snipson suddenly disappeared, and his name was soon forgotten where it had once been a terror to all last-joined. Twenty years after the events related in this book I was walking down Oxford Street when I saw coming towards me a man with a seedy, threadbare frock-coat, the arms of which were much too short for the wearer, and the collar of which came too high. The coat had evidently previously graced the form of another wearer, and when its youthful beauties had faded had become the property of its present owner. A portion of shirt was visible, and plainly indicated that it had been far too long absent from the washerwoman. A hat bent and without gloss surmounted a red face, with eyes somewhat like those of a crying child, and a beard of about four days' growth. Brown trowsers, creased and frayed, stained and patched, hung over a pair of split, misshapen shoes, and completed the attire of a man whose type is now and then seen in London. Something about the man at once attracted me, and I thus noted his appearance. The face, though altered, and indicating the effect of drink, I yet recognised; and as the man walked past me and turned his head so as to avoid showing me his face, I knew this wretched failure of a man was my once bully, Snipson. He had failed as a cadet and he had failed as a man; and from his appearance it was evident he had not done what some men do, who in their young days have failed, etc, begin again at the bottom of the ladder, and by steady work endeavour to recover, themselves; but he was always scheming to recover himself by one grand coup, and was always being disappointed. I turned round quickly after I had passed Snipson, and saw him peeping at me from a shop-door. When he caught my eye he turned and walked on with an air and style that showed he had not yet suffered enough to make him sensible of his own defects, nor was he yet in a state deserving of sympathy. One of the singular and yet universal peculiarities in the character of such men as Snipson is, that they assert, and evidently believe, that their unfortunate state is in no manner due to any fault or failing of their own. They can always assure you that if this man had not done so-and-so, or that man had not failed them in the most unexpected way, they would have been all right. They are themselves never wrong; they don't ever admit a mistake; they are convinced of their own cleverness, and satisfied with their own knowledge. Former companions who have "got on" in life they speak of as "lucky beggars," and have usually something to say in disparagement of such men, as a sort of attempt to drag down the successful to their own low level. They rarely, if ever, admit any merit or skill in others, and attribute all that others may win, by hard work and thought, to "luck," and all their own failures to "bad luck." This was Snipson's state twenty years after he was a bully--idle and untruthful as a gentleman cadet. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. OUR ROW AT THE RACES. During this my third half-year there were some races by the officers on Woolwich Common, to which the cadets were given leave to go, and a tent was provided for us, in which we had some light refreshment, such as beer and bread and cheese. Now between what is usually termed the "louts" and the schoolboys in any good school in any part of England there seems a natural antagonism, and fights not unusually take place, brought on as much by the insult of the lout as by the natural pugnaciousness of the English well-bred boy. In former times at Woolwich this feeling of antagonism was by no means extinct, for as the cadets marched down the Common to the Arsenal, or out in the country, it was generally found that a number of louts would assemble and hoot them, mewing like cats and calling out "puss"--the term cadet being probably assumed by the unwashed to be an extension of "cat." To English boys such proceedings were most offensive and irritating, and more than once the louts had experienced somewhat rough treatment at the hands of cadets whom they had hooted and mocked in the manner described, and once or twice there had been kind of rough-and-tumble fights on the Common between the louts and the cadets. On the evening after the races, several cadets were in their tent and were laughing and talking, when some louts assembled outside, and commenced imitating the laughter and then calling, "Puss! puss!" Such a challenge was not long in being accepted by the cadets, who suddenly dashed out of the tent and charged about twenty louts, who were assembled within a dozen yards of us. On the party of cadets rushing out (of which I was one) the louts took to their heels, but their clumsy efforts to run were useless, and we soon closed with them, when they turned and showed fight. I soon found myself engaged with a heavy-fisted big youth, who had as much idea of fighting as an ox, but who was heavy and strong. I had plenty to do to guard his blows, and shortly sent him sprawling, when two other louts came on me at once. I dodged and struck for some time, but should soon have got the worst of the fight if D'Arcy had not come to my aid, when the two bolted, as had most of the others. Seeing the enemy in full retreat we gave up the pursuit and returned to our tent, and had just commenced to pack up the things we had used, when some stones were hurled at the tent, and some came in by the door. On looking out we saw that, instead of twenty louts who had at first appeared, there were now above a hundred, some of them being full-grown men. They were shouting at us, and mewing, and calling on us to come out. As there were not two dozen cadets in our tent, it was decided that I, being a fast runner, should run to the cadets' barracks and call for reinforcements. This was a service of some danger, for we were almost surrounded by the enemy; but it was agreed upon to threaten a charge in the front of the tent, and when the enemy assembled there to resist us, I was to creep under the canvas and make a dash to the lodge. The plan succeeded very well. All the louts gathered in front of our tent, and I had crept out and was on my legs and well away before I was seen; then, however, there was a yell, and shouts of "Catch him?" "Stop him!" whilst about a dozen men and boys gave chase to me. The distance from the tent to the lodge was about 300 yards, and as I had about thirty yards' start of my pursuers, I knew that I could easily win my race and reach the lodge, provided it had been a matter of fair running; but the shouts of my pursuers attracted the attention of some other louts who were between me and the lodge, and who I saw were trying to intercept me. I made straight at them, however, and, when close, charged at the biggest. As I expected, he gave way and tried to trip me up. By giving a jump I avoided his leg, continued my course, and entered the Academy grounds in safety. The news that there was a row had spread over the Academy, and fifty or sixty cadets were already provided with sticks or belts, and had assembled at the back of the Academy, ready to go to the rescue. I joined these, and we all immediately started to the rescue, and arrived only just in time, for the louts, finding they were about ten to one, had got very plucky, and were going to pull the tent down. We charged down on the enemy, who, seeing our numbers were nearly equal to their own, turned and ran. We gave chase, and, overtaking some of them, administered a good thrashing. By this time a body of police had come on the scene, and seeming to think it their duty to protect the louts, at once seized two or three of the smallest cadets, and were going to carry them off, when "To the rescue!" was shouted, and we charged on the police. The Peelers drew their truncheons and used them freely, but we were too many for them, and succeeded in recovering the prisoners. Not wishing to have a row with the police, who, we considered, ought to have protected us, we retreated rapidly to the enclosure of the Academy, and dispersed to our various rooms. In about ten minutes after our entrance a check-roll was called by the officer on duty, and we were all confined to barracks in consequence of the row. It happened that the senior under-officer had been in the tent from the first commencement of the row, and on entering the Academy he had at once reported to the officer on duty what had happened, and had told him the provocation had been given by the louts. He also said that we could scarcely avoid doing what we had done. Shortly after we had entered the grounds an inspector of police, who had received from his men their account of the row, came to the officer on duty and said several of his men had been seriously hurt, and that they wished for an opportunity of recognising the ringleaders of the party. To give this opportunity, a parade of the whole cadet company was ordered for the following morning at half-past eleven. We were none of us aware of the importance of the row till we saw in the papers of the following morning a paragraph headed: "Disgraceful Riot at Woolwich by the Gentlemen Cadets!" We then read how the cadets had been drinking in a tent, and had suddenly commenced an unprovoked attack on some boys and women, had pelted them with stones, and had then assaulted and seriously injured the police who had endeavoured to protect the people. "It was hoped," the article continued, "that the cadets would receive such punishment as their disgraceful conduct deserved." We were all very angry at this paragraph in the papers, because we knew how much the outside public is led by such statements, and as they had no means of judging of the truth of the report, they would probably believe what was asserted. On the following morning, at half-past eleven, the whole of the cadets fell in on parade, and with them, and scattered here and there, were twenty-five cadets of the practical class, all of whom had been in study at the Arsenal during the row. The police assembled on the right of the line, and slowly examined each cadet, with a view to swearing to his identity. The first cadet selected was one of the practical class, who had a slightly black eye, which he had received from a blow by a racket-ball. He was fallen out, and took his station on the right of the line. Two other cadets, who had been well in the thick of the fight, were next picked out, then another cadet of the practical class. Altogether, twenty-five cadets were picked out as ringleaders, and sworn to individually by the police as those who had struck them and had taken part in the row. We all now saw the plot that our captain had laid for the police. He suspected they were trying to make out a case against us, and so sprinkled the practical class among the others. The police, having declared that they recognised each of the cadets selected as those who had struck them, had committed themselves, for if they had made such a mistake in identity in five cases, which could be proved, it cast doubt upon the evidence in other cases, which were of a doubtful nature. We were all confined to barracks for a week after this row, and were daily expecting some cadets would be discharged, but finally it ended in the police withdrawing their charge, in consequence, as we heard, of their mistakes relative to the practical class having become known to them. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. I PASS MY EXAMINATION WELL. During this my third half-year I had been steadily working in academy, and every night when in bed, and when the room was quiet and dark, I used to think over and try to work out various problems that I had done daring the day. I found that by concentrating my thoughts on these subjects I impressed them on my mind, and on the following morning could work them out very easily on paper. I found that by this means I could do many problems that had formerly seemed so complicated, that I had failed over and over again, and I hoped that I should find the benefit of this process by-and-by. Woodville more than once had told me that I ought to work hard, as this was my last chance for my probationary; but he was not aware that when he was asleep I was training my brain _to think_, which, after all, is the great object of all learning or teaching. In our public schools and colleges we give too much attention to what is called "learning" different subjects, this "learning" being, in the majority of cases, merely cramming our minds with the facts discovered and the conclusions arrived at by those who have preceded us, and who have written what they knew. We rarely endeavour even to so cultivate the mind as to make it competent to judge of the merits of a novelty, for this calls for a mental exertion that few persons ever attempt. It is far easier to accept what is submitted to us without question than it is to investigate and think out a case which no one has previously thought out, and on which consequently we have no guide which we can follow. The system of cramming for examinations which was prevalent in former times, and has become even more common in the present day, is, we believe, far more detrimental to the mind than it is beneficial. Also we believe that calm reasoning is not certain to be brought out by such examinations as are usually given to students, so that, after all, the power of intellect is, we believe, not likely to be accurately tested by a mere examination. I stood last but one in my batch--a fact due to my having done so very badly in mathematics and geometry at the last two examinations. In drawing I was very good, but this subject counted very little compared to the two in which I was very bad, so that what I needed was more knowledge of mathematics. Time passed on very rapidly and very pleasantly. Now that Snipson had left the Academy I had no one ever to fag for or to fear; and it seemed that his departure had been the signal for the commencement of a better tone among the cadets. There was, I heard from the last-joined, less bullying than there had been whilst Snipson was present, and altogether his departure was hailed with pleasure. The examinations commenced, and I screwed myself up to the mark to see whether I was to pass my probationary and remain at the Academy, or be sent away to seek some other career in life. We had three days for our examination in mathematics and geometry, and I was most careful over my work, reading over my questions deliberately and slowly, and thinking them out before putting pen to paper. As I sat for some time with my eyes shut, trying to recall a somewhat lengthy formula in trigonometry, the examiner saw me, and, supposing I was asleep, called out, "Mr Shepard, you had better wake up and attend to your paper; you cannot afford to sleep!" I was not much pleased at this remark, for there is always in the mind of all those who are examined an impression that examiners may be prejudiced, and may not allot marks fairly. Such an idea is a very pleasant one to those who fail at an examination, and who thus satisfy their vanity by trying to believe that they deserved well, but were marked badly because the examiner was unfair. I fancied that, because I was supposed to be asleep, especial sharpness would be used in marking me--an idea I have since had reason to know was utterly erroneous, for the Academy was, of all places, the most rigid as regards the fairness with which marks were allotted, and the greatest impartiality was shown by those in whose hands the marking was left. After each examination-attendance, I looked over the paper out of academy, and compared my answers and working with the book, and I came to the conclusion that I had done remarkably well, and therefore hoped I should be safe to get a satisfactory return for my probationary. I waited with the greatest anxiety for the result of the examination to be made known, and could scarcely sleep at night for thinking what I should say at home in case I were span. It would, I knew, annoy my father very much, and I should be considered very stupid by probably far more stupid people than I was. At length the morning came when the result of our mathematical examination was to be made known, and I went into academy with a feeling of dogged determination not to show any sign, no matter what the result might be. I fancied that the result would be satisfactory, as far as I was concerned, because, had it been unfavourable, I should have been sent for to the Inspector's office, and told to pack up and be off. We all took our seats and were ready with pencil and paper to copy off the marks as they were read out. The names of the cadets were read out in the order in which they had passed, so that as each name came the excitement as to who would be the next was very great. I was thirty-eighth in the class, out of thirty-nine, but I hoped I should take some places and probably reach to about twenty-fifth of the class, and next half (if I remained at the Academy) I hoped to get on better. As the examiner read out the first name there was no surprise; the cadet who was first was a very good mathematician, who at sixteen had joined the Academy, knowing trigonometry, mechanics, projectiles, and the calculus; he had been pushed on in consequence of his knowledge, and we knew he was almost certain to be first. The second, third, fourth, and fifth cadets were also very good mathematicians, and were known to be tolerably certain of standing high. When the examiner said "Sixth," he waited for some seconds, whilst we listened attentively, and he then repeated "Sixth, Mr Shepard--235 marks, decimal 87." At this announcement all the cadets looked round at me with surprise; it was almost assumed that, judging from my former examinations, I should have great difficulty in passing at all, that is in getting half-marks; when, then, I suddenly shot out from last but one to sixth, and gained so high a decimal as 87, it was like an outsider almost winning the Derby. There were one or two surprises and several disappointments as the result of the examination was read out, and some cadets did not hesitate to proclaim that it was "a chowse." I was quite satisfied, and was glad to find that I had not overrated what I had done at the examination. I little suspected then that my success was likely to place me in a very unpleasant position, which was, perhaps, due in a measure to another cause which I must here relate. It happened that, during the half-year, I was one morning in study when a cadet in the first row, who used to be generally up to some trick, called my name during the time the corporal on duty was absent. I looked up from my drawing and immediately a ball of bread, made out of the crumb of a roll, was thrown at me. I caught the ball and instantly threw it back, but just as the ball was leaving my hand the door opened and the Inspector appeared. The cadet at whom I had thrown the ball failed to catch it, and the ball struck the door within a foot of the Inspector's head. I was immediately placed in arrest, and the next day was taken before the Governor charged with throwing a ball at the Inspector. Luckily the cadet who had thrown the ball to me was available as evidence, and our defence was that we had used the bread to clean our drawings, and had thrown it to one another instead of carrying it from one part of the class-room to another. This defence cleared me in the Governor's mind from the charge of throwing at the Inspector, but I got seven days' arrest for creating a disturbance in academy. The fact of my having suddenly come out as a good mathematician, when hitherto I had shown only as a muff, was a surprise to every one, even to the master himself; but I was completely taken aback when I was sent for to the Inspector's office, and told that there was a strong suspicion against me of having fudged at my examination. I indignantly denied the charge, and said that in consequence of its being my probationary examination I had worked very hard to pass, and had quite expected to get a good decimal. "We have already ascertained," said the Inspector, "that you have not worked in your room, you rarely studied out of academy, and the examiner found you asleep during examination, so that it seems impossible you could by fair means obtain .8, which you have done." "It is very hard on me," I replied, "to be accused of fudging, when I give you my word of honour I have not fudged, merely because I have done well." "We will give you the benefit of the doubt, Mr Shepard," said the Inspector, with anything but a pleasant manner, and I left his office feeling that in his own mind he was confirmed I had fudged--the how or the means by which I had done so alone preventing him from proceeding with his charge. Among the cadets of my class I was considered a martyr, for they accounted for my success by attributing it to "luck in the questions." To me, however, the result was most important. First, it rendered my position at the Academy secure; and, secondly, it showed me that the system I had adopted for gaining a knowledge of mathematics and geometry was a sound one, and that I had a sort of key for the cultivation of the intellect. I now looked forward to my Academy career with hope and pleasure, and a feeling of ambition came upon me which is, perhaps, one of the greatest incentives to work that can be given to a young man. When I joined the Academy I was a boy and felt like a boy, but the rough handling that I had gone through, and the experience I had gained during the eighteen months I had been at the Academy, had aged me beyond my years. I had also grown considerably, and looked older than I was, several persons putting me down as eighteen or nineteen years old, whereas I was not much past seventeen. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I returned home from the Academy for my vacation with much pleasure. I looked forward to the quiet rambles in the forest, the collecting specimens of natural history, and the general peaceful nature of the life there, as a pleasant change after Woolwich. I also felt some pride in going home after so successful an examination, for it was successful even for the Academy. I thought of the satisfaction I should have in meeting Howard and in telling him of the past half-year's events. I plotted many amusements for the vacation, but determined to devote a certain amount of time to mathematics and gaining some knowledge of the subjects I should have to study next half. I was beginning conic sections in the third half-year, and this subject I found was one that I could manage very well by thinking quietly over. I could, in imagination, make my section of the cone and get my co-ordinates very easily without pencil or paper; and more than once I hit off laws that I imagined at first were real discoveries, but I soon found out other men had long since discovered them. This fact, however, showed me that I was on the right road, and that the training of my mind must be going on satisfactorily. Of all the schemes that I had proposed to carry out during the half-year not one had led in the least to prepare me for an event which for a considerable time produced much effect upon me. I was much given to long rambles in the forest, and would often take a seat in some retired glen and dream the idle hours away. As I was sitting thus one day I heard some voices near me--one that of a female. I jumped up, surprised at so unusual a sound, for I was out of the regular beat of picnics, and then heard an altercation going on, evidently between a female and an unruly boy. Moving through the furze outside the glade I came suddenly on a young lady, who was trying to pull back a boy of about ten years old. The young lady was fair, and of middle height, and to me seemed quite lovely. She was dressed in a light summer dress, a straw hat, with a wreath of natural ivy round it, and a light-blue scarf. As I came near she said, "Walter, you stupid boy, I know it's a viper, and it will sting you to death!" "You donkey!" replied the youth, as he struggled to get free, "it's only a common snake, and I want it to take to school next half." These remarks fully explained to me the cause of the dispute between the youth and the lady; and as the question was one of importance I at once jumped forward, and there saw a full-grown vicious-looking viper on the ground close to the boy. In an instant I struck it with my stick, and broke its back, and said, "I tell you what, youngster, before you call people donkeys you ought to know something about what you are talking of. That thing is a viper, and if you had touched it you would have been poisoned by its bite, and probably would have died." "Oh, but I thought it was only a snake!" said the youth, with that air of unmistakable self-satisfaction which at once indicates the unlicked cub. "I told you it was a viper, Walter," said the young lady in a conciliatory tone. "Oh, but you know nothing about it," replied the youth. "The young lady knew better than you," I said, "and you ought to be much obliged to her for having probably saved your life, instead of being as cheeky as you are. If you were my young brother, I'd soon teach you manners!" The boy looked at me with an air of surprise, but seemed indisposed to make any reply, whilst the young lady thanked me for having killed the viper. "You don't remember me, Mr Shepard?" she then said; "I was quite a little girl when we last met, about five years ago, and I have only just returned from Brussels, where I was at school. I was staying with my uncle, General Holloway, near Ringwood, when you came over to fish." I then remembered that, during a short visit to General Holloway's, there was a pretty little girl staying at the house, who used to play and sing very well. I was very bashful at the time, and for the first day or two did not get on with her; but after that we became great friends. "Surely you are not Helen Stanley," I said, "who used to sing to me at General Holloway's?" "Yes, I am," she replied, "but I have grown very much since then, and so have you. I've heard so much of you, and of your success at Woolwich. What a splendid thing it must be to pass examinations, and to be a soldier too!" "Rather hard work, though," I replied. "No one knows till they have tried it what there is to go through." "Oh, but see how much it does for a young man! Why, see the young men about here how awkward they are, how clumsily they walk and stand; they are quite different from a soldier. I'm so glad to have met you; and it's lucky for Walter's sake I did so, or the viper would have stung him." Helen Stanley was at this time about eighteen; but she was older in manner and style than she was in years. It is useless to attempt to describe to the reader a person who attracts us, or who wields an influence over us--the mere detail description of complexion, colour of hair, and of eyes, shape of mouth and nose, giving to a third person no more idea of the individual than if we said nothing. I can only speak, then, of Miss Stanley as a young lady who to me seemed very pretty-- whose hand it was a pleasure to touch on meeting--whose society was a pleasure, and who seemed to call up in me all the better parts of my nature. I had not been five minutes talking to her before I knew that she was one who would produce an influence on me in the future. "How does it happen that you are here?" I inquired. "Our carriage is in the road beyond, and aunt is there. I got out to walk with Walter, and to try and get some fern-roots. Come and see aunt; she wants to see you, and you have never come over to call." I strolled on with Miss Stanley and her young brother, whom I now saw looking at me with staring eyes and evident admiration. A gentleman cadet was in his eyes "somebody," and he already seemed to regret his rudeness at our first meeting. A forest path led us out into the road, and we soon reached the carriage in which Mrs Holloway, or, as the country people styled her, "Mrs General Holloway," was reclining, enjoying the view before her. "Aunt," said Miss Stanley, "whom do you think I've found in the forest?" Mrs Holloway looked with an air of surprise, and I fancied of displeasure, at seeing me walking with her niece. "I cannot imagine," she replied. "Perhaps you had better introduce this gentleman to me." "Oh! aunt, can't you guess? I thought you would know him at once! I did." Mrs Holloway looked at me for a few seconds, and shook her head, indicating her want of recognition. "Why, don't you remember Mr Shepard?" said Miss Stanley. Mrs Holloway looked at me with a surprised air, then, holding out her hand, said, "What! is it possible that little Bob Shepard has in two years grown up to be you? What a splendid thing drill and going out in the world is for a boy! I should not have known you, Bob, or Mr Shepard--I ought to say Gentleman Cadet Shepard, perhaps. I've heard all about you, though--how you passed examinations that every one said you couldn't pass, and how you have just succeeded at your last examination. Your friends must be very proud of you. But why have you not been over to see us?" "I have only been home a few days," I replied, "and have not been anywhere yet." "You must come over and stay with us a few days," said Mrs Holloway. "Helen has no one to accompany her in her rides besides the groom, and she will be glad, I know, of your society; so we will let you know when to come. Can we drive you anywhere?" "No, thank you," I replied. "I am going home through the forest." "Good-bye, then, and don't forget we shall expect you soon." "Good-bye!" The carriage drove off. I waved my hand, and then stood looking after the carriage--a new sphere in my life being thus opened to me. I walked on through winding paths that led towards my home, thinking of the curious meeting with Miss Stanley, and of how charming she looked, and how pleasing her manner was. I had never before been much in young ladies' society, for previous to my going to Hostler's school I avoided girls, as I considered them a nuisance, and they made a practice of laughing at me because I was shy and very small. Three years, however, make a great difference in one's views, especially when those three years come when we are fifteen years of age. At eighteen I was not the same person I was at fifteen. And now, as I walked home, I speculated on how long it would be before I was asked to the General's, and should have an opportunity of again seeing Helen Stanley. On my arrival home I was surprised to find that my aunt and sisters did not seem to appreciate Miss Stanley. She was "stuck up," they said, and gave herself airs, because she had been to school abroad; but it was generally agreed that I should accept the invitation, as the General was a man of considerable influence. "You must mind you don't fall in love with Helen!" said one of my sisters. "She is an awful flirt." "That's not likely," I replied, with an assurance that I by no means felt, for I found my mind running on little else than the remarks made by Miss Stanley, and her image seemed always before me as I saw her when she reminded me of our former meeting. Each day I now looked anxiously for a letter from the Heronry, as General Holloway's house was called, and on the third after my interview with Miss Stanley a formal invitation came, asking me to stay a week at the Heronry, and asking if I could come on the following afternoon. The invitation was, of course, accepted, and on the following afternoon I arrived at the General's, where I was received very kindly by my host and hostess, and by the fair Helen. There are few things more flattering to a youth at the doubtful age at which I was, than to be treated as a man by a handsome girl. Helen Stanley never once in any way indicated that she thought me "young," or anything but a man. I was "Mr Shepard" to her, and whether she meant to flatter me, or whether it was merely the natural agreeableness of her manner, I cannot say, but she had the knack of causing me to think better of myself than I had formerly done. She reminded me how quickly and successfully I had prepared for the Academy, and she compared my success with the failures of some other candidates for Woolwich whom she had known. More than once she had said how she envied me for being a man with such a splendid career before me in the army, either in the Artillery or Engineers, and that she was certain I should distinguish myself in the future. It is not in the nature of man, especially of a very young one, or of woman either, to reason or criticise very closely the truth or foundation of flattery. We stretch many points to make us ready to believe there are grounds for what is said. I had been so unjustly abused by Snipson when his neux, that the conceit had been too much taken out of me, and I had lost too much of that self-possession which we all ought to possess in order to make way in the world. The flattery of Miss Stanley, therefore, came on me with all the charm of novelty, and as I thought over what she had said, I felt bound to acknowledge that praise was due to me for the manner in which I had passed through my hard trials at Hostler's, had succeeded at my examinations, and stood the bullying of my first half-year at the Academy. Any way, it was most agreeable to be in the society of a young lady who seemed to think I deserved to be praised and commended for what I had done. The first few days of my visit at the Heronry passed like a dream. I was as happy as a bird, but was fast drifting into love with Helen. She, however, seemed a very wise young lady, who could talk with me, sing with me, flirt with me, but apparently not be in love with me. I had myself made all sorts of desperate resolves. I should get my commission, distinguish myself in some way, and then propose for Helen. The details of our future life I had not worked out, nor did I consider that I had not calculated the future beyond the period at which I should be twenty-one. Although the time passed rapidly and agreeably, yet I knew I had learnt much in the first three days I was at the Heronry. I had begun a new study, etc, the investigation of the peculiarities and inconsistencies of the feminine mind. At breakfast, on the fourth morning of my visit, Helen Stanley announced to the General that Charles would arrive that afternoon. I looked up surprised at this remark, for I had never heard of a "Charles," and did not know whom he was. Seeing my look of curiosity, Miss Stanley said, "Charles is my cousin. He is at Oxford, and is coming here for a few days. He is very clever, I hear; so you two will get on well together, I hope." I instantly felt certain that cousin Charles and I should not get on well together, and I was most anxious to discover, if possible, whether there was any other relationship between Helen and cousin Charles besides that of cousinship. Miss Stanley, however, gave me no clue, and seemed to avoid being alone with me during the morning, so that I had no opportunity of learning anything except that cousin Charles was at Oxford and very clever. At the expected time cousin Charles, whose surname I ascertained was also Stanley, arrived at the Heronry. I saw him get out of the vehicle he had driven in, and approach the house. From the experience I had gained of men during the past two years I could judge tolerably well of what a young man was by his appearance, and the instant I saw Charles Stanley I concluded that he was "a conceited prig." I entered the drawing-room soon after his arrival, and was introduced to him as Gentleman Cadet Shepard. Stanley nearly closed his eyes as he looked at me for half a minute, and then held out two fingers to me to shake. I just touched his hand and then turned towards the window and looked out on the view, whilst I was estimating in my own mind the value and worthlessness of Mr Charles Stanley. It was soon evident to me that Stanley was on very intimate terms with his cousin Helen, also that he admired her very much. I also became conscious that he was not favourably impressed with me, and I made up my mind that we should certainly not get on well during our visit. At dinner that evening Stanley fired his first shot at me, and it certainly hit its mark, for I was made to look very small whilst he aired his knowledge before Helen Stanley. I happened to mention that I had seen a hawk hovering over the poultry-yard in the afternoon, and I thought it possible that some young chicken might be carried off. "By hawk," said Stanley, "do you mean the `Tinnunculus alaudarius' or the `Accipiter Nisus'?" "I mean what we call here the kestrel," I replied. Stanley put his glass in his eye and looked at me, and said, "Dear me! I was told you were a very clever naturalist." "I don't think natural history consists in giving long names to animals," I said, "but in knowing their habits." "Indeed?" said Stanley. "But I am afraid you don't learn much classics at Woolwich." "None after we enter," I replied. "We then learn only useful things, and don't cram our heads with pedantic knowledge." "I'm very sorry to see the youngsters of the present day so radical in their ideas," said Stanley, addressing the General. "There is no training for a gentleman equal to a thorough classical education." "I don't agree with you," said the General. "Of course you Oxford men think there's nothing like leather, but I would sooner have my son know French and German well, than Greek and Latin, and the latter would be more practically useful to him than the former; and as to a mathematical education, it is essential in the present day. I fancy that your great classics are usually men who live more in the past than for the present or future, and that won't do now." "A man who is not a good classic is always making himself ridiculous because he is sure to make a false quantity, and his ignorance is seen by others." "Ah, that's a sort of pedantry," replied the General, "which is what I set my face against. Your classic belongs to a large school, and prides himself immensely on his knowledge. He only values men according to what he finds they know of classics. Now, this is a mistake. You will find that horse-jockeys and stablemen do the same. If you make a remark to a horsey man, showing you are not up in horse slang, he at once sets you down as a muff, for he has only one standard of excellence, viz, knowledge of horses, just as you have of classics. Just now you took it out of Shepard there about the Latin names of hawks, and then you seemed to think that knowing these names made a naturalist. This I don't agree to. Now, I'd back Shepard to tell quicker than you a summer from a winter cage when he saw one." "I think I could tell that," replied Stanley. "How?" inquired the General. "Well, the winter cage ought to be warmer and hung on the sunny side of the house, and perhaps covered with something to keep the cold wind out." A shout of laughter from the General, in which both I and Miss Stanley joined, interrupted Stanley in his remarks. He looked annoyed and surprised, and seemed waiting for an explanation. "There!" said the General, "you have done worse than make a false quantity; you have shown you know nothing of what I meant. You must know that `a cage' means in the forest a squirrel's nest, and that the squirrel makes a summer and a winter cage--one of sticks, the other of moss." We had several other little "passages of arms" during dinner, much, I fancied, to the amusement of Helen Stanley, who seemed to enjoy seeing her cousin taken down a little. On the following morning a ride was proposed to see one of the largest beech-trees in the forest, which was in Eyeworth Wood. The party consisted of my youngest sister, Miss Stanley, Stanley, and myself. We had scarcely mounted our horses before I saw that Stanley was a very indifferent rider. He tried his best to conceal the fact, but it was of no use. The pony he was riding was a well-bred forest pony, strong, and high spirited. The animal seemed (as horses soon do) to have discovered that his rider was an indifferent horseman, and began to play various tricks, much to the discomfiture of Stanley, who kept his seat with difficulty. I could see that Stanley was fast losing his temper, and when his cousin told him to keep his hands lower, and not to jerk the pony's mouth, he seemed to be ready to quarrel with any one. "I see what you mean," Stanley replied, looking at me. "These forest brutes require riding more in the butcher-boy style." "Yes," I said, "that's the way--more like a butcher-boy and less like a tailor!" I thought Stanley would have hit me with his whip. He raised it, and probably would have done so; but his pony, seeing the whip raised, bounded off, and deposited Stanley on his back on the turf. We saw he was not hurt, so out attention was turned to catching his pony, which we soon succeeded in doing, when he mounted again and safely accomplished the remainder of his ride. Miss Stanley was nearly the whole time by my side, and I found myself more and more charmed with her. I was flattered by her manner, and felt that there would be great satisfaction in gaining her approval in my future career at Woolwich. "I shall always look out for your name in the papers," she said, "to see when you get any prizes. I saw your name in the _Times_ as having passed when I was at Brussels, and I was so glad." "I am not likely to get any prizes," I replied, "except my commission; that will be a good prize." "Oh, you are certain to get some if you try for them! Why, see how well you have done already. I am certain if young men had some one to back them up, and give them encouragement, there would not be so many failures as there are. I think there is nothing so charming as an intellectual, clever man!" I did not know what to reply to this remark, for I was not only very young but very inexperienced at that time, and was not aware of a fact which I believe experience has since taught me, viz, that _young_ ladies usually like a man who is not intellectual, but who can talk any amount of what is termed nonsense, whilst it is usually middle-aged ladies who seek after intellect and prefer the society of those who possess it. A week passed at General Holloway's like a dream, and it came to an end as suddenly, as the General was taken seriously ill, and we all had to leave. Before I left I had confessed to Helen Stanley that I was desperately in love with her, and that I should never be happy without her; but to my utter discomfiture she informed me that she was engaged to her cousin, and had been so from a child, though she did not care for him one bit. I believed fully when I heard this that I should never be happy again, and that I should wander about one of those "blighted beings" that one hears and reads of, and occasionally sees, who have been disappointed in love, and who never recover from it; but I am happy to say that, though for many days I felt terribly desolate, and seemed to live without a purpose, yet before I had been a week at the Academy I had begun to laugh at my own folly in having fallen in love in less than a week with Miss Helen Stanley. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. LIFE AS AN OLD CADET. There is scarcely a more marked difference between the condition of a master and a slave than there was thirty years ago between the state of an old cadet and a neux. On joining the Academy at my fourth half I became an old cadet, and possessed all the rights and privileges of my exalted position. I had now full liberty to wear my chin-strap up, to go out without straps to my trousers, to fag any last-joined or second-half cadet, and, in fact, to do very much as I liked. I was second in my room, the head of the room being a corporal one batch senior to me; the third of the room was a second-half cadet, and the fourth a last-joined. It was now my turn to send for various last-joined cadets, and call upon them to sing songs, make odes to the moon, and speeches in favour of fagging; and I must own that there was very great delight in exercising this authority. Among the last-joined in my division were two of Hostler's boys, who were considerably more advanced than I was when I was at school with them. Now, however, there was a great gulf between us, and I found it necessary to let them know it, for their education had been very much neglected, as they actually gave me a familiar nod and said, "How do, Shepard?" when they first met me at the Academy, they being in plain clothes and last-joined, I in uniform and an old cadet. Although I followed the usual routine of fagging the neuxes on every possible occasion, I strictly avoided what I had considered cruelty when I was myself a neux; so that such amusements as angles of 45 degrees, flipping round tables, climbing stools, etc, I set my face against, and endeavoured to discourage in others. I made up my mind to work this half-year very hard, and to try and prove to all my friends that I had some brains and could pass examinations well. There was a prize given for mathematics in the class in which I was; but this was almost certain to fall to the cadet who was first in my class the last half-year. I, however, hoped to hold my position of sixth in mathematics, if not to take some places, and thus to show that it was neither by fudging nor by a fluke that I had passed so well at the last examination. I had now every opportunity for working; I was not worried by fears of being fagged or disturbed in any way, and could be as quiet as I liked in my room. When a neux got rather forward and seemed likely to pass an old cadet, there was immediately a pressure brought to bear on the junior to prevent him from working. I had not been forward enough in my first or second half to be a dangerous competitor, so I never was warned to leave off "swatting," but others had been. In the same class with me there were no cadets more than one half junior to me, so there was no reason to bring the "old cadet" influence to bear, even had I thought such a proceeding right, which I did not, so we all worked on our merits. Perhaps, as far as exciting incidents happened, my fourth half-year was the most barren of all. The routine through which I had passed had caused me to thoroughly enjoy what would otherwise probably never have been looked upon as an enjoyment. To go to bed and know that I could go to sleep with no risk of being disturbed for the purpose of going to some room to sing, or make speeches, was in itself a luxury, and I believe in afterlife there are few people who so thoroughly enjoy themselves as those who in their younger days have had to rough it on service or in savage or uncivilised countries. Sitting, as we are at present, in a snug room, the windows rattling and the house actually shaking with the south-east gale blowing, we feel the greatest satisfaction in comparing our present condition with that of some years ago, when we were tossing about in the Bay of Biscay in a leaky vessel, short of water and provisions. As we hear the rain dash against our windows at night, and remember that our roof is waterproof, we feel a singular pleasure in thinking what a comfort it is not being in our old bell-tent in the far South, through which the rain would come like a sieve, and which sometimes required us to go out in the rain and slacken the peg-lines, in order to prevent their contraction by wet from pulling up the pegs and dropping the wet tent on us. By comparisons we to a great extent learn to appreciate and enjoy, and the comparison between my position during my first, and fourth half-year, as a cadet was such as to make me thoroughly enjoy my life. There was much in those days that cadets had to complain of, but which defects have since been remedied. Formerly any cadet seen smoking was liable to discharge. If a cadet were seen to enter a billiard-room he would stand a fair chance of being rusticated. Trifling offences were also not unfrequently treated as most grievous crimes, and favouritism, that fatal enemy to all discipline, to all true energy, and to all satisfaction with the service, was not unknown at the Academy. As an example of the severe punishment sometimes inflicted formerly for apparently light offences, a cadet, head of a room, had not reported the second of his room for marking his cupboard by means of a needle arrow blown from a tube. The cupboard of course was marked and slightly damaged, and the head of the room was given seven days' arrest for neglect in not reporting the case. There was in those days a sort of struggle going on between the cadets and the authorities, relative to cadets being put on their honour to own to certain offences committed by them, and which there was no evidence on which to convict them other than their own confession. The cadets were advocates for the system of honour, which may be explained by the following case:-- On the Common there was a house which had on its gates some grotesque figures in stone. These figures attracted the attention of the cadets, who periodically used to remove them, and place them on another gate. When the parade was formed the officer on duty used to call, "Fall out the gentlemen who removed the figures from the house on the Common!" and instantly the culprits would fall out, and would receive a much lighter punishment than if they had been discovered without their own confession. This system worked very well until it became whispered among the cadets that one of the non-commissioned officers attached to the Academy used to practise a system of espionage, and used to watch cadets into a certain public-house on Shooter's Hill, where they used to assemble to smoke and talk of an afternoon. This fact became known, and instantly the cadets, by universal opinion, agreed that this was a breach of faith on the part of the authorities, and consequently they refused any longer to be "on honour." For a time there was a sort of strike between the cadets and the authorities, during which some amusing adventures occurred. In our division there was an old cadet who had been a corporal, but had been reduced for having what was called a "grog party" in his room. This cadet decided to have another party after roll-call, and to bar out the officer on duty, in case he tried to enter the division. To accomplish this, the cadet procured several powerful screws, and actually screwed up the door between the officers' quarters and the division. We all agreed "on honour" not to reveal who the cadet was who performed the deed, and waited in expectation of the event. At about half-past ten we had all assembled in the room of the cadet named, and were very jolly singing, when the neux who had been put on watch over the door reported that the officer was trying to enter. Immediately we all took off our boots, and went to our rooms and got into bed with wonderful rapidity, for we anticipated what would follow. The officer, failing to enter by the side door, soon came round to the front, which we had not attempted to secure, and entering the room of the cadet who had entertained us, asked him what he meant by making such a disturbance, and who it was who had fastened up the door. The cadet looked much surprised, and said he had heard the noise, but could not tell where it was; and that he could not tell anything about the door being fastened. Each of our rooms was visited, but we were all in bed and shammed being asleep, and pretended we knew nothing of the noise that had taken place. On the following morning there was no response to the request of the officer on duty, that the gentleman would fall out who had nailed up the door communicating with the officers' quarters. The consequence was that the whole division were confined to the enclosure, with the threat that they would be so confined until the cadet who had screwed up the door came forward. A consultation was now held among the seniors, and it was agreed to appeal, as there was no proof that the act was committed by any cadet actually belonging to the division, the time at which the screwing was performed was not known, and if it was done before roll-call it might easily be done by any cadet of another division. These probabilities having been brought forward and represented, the authorities released the cadets of our division, and we flattered ourselves we had gained a victory. Some time after this event, the same cadet put in practice a very bold scheme, which was not discovered during the term. His room was on the ground-floor, and the window, like all others, was guarded by cross-bars, arranged diamond-shape. The cadet was very small and thin, and he had found that he could, by removing one entire cross of iron, open four of the diamond patterns. Having procured a file made out of a watch-spring, he sawed the iron bars in two; secured them temporarily with putty, so that they did not show unless closely examined; then removing these after roll-call, he squeezed himself through, and was at liberty. According to his own account, he had wonderful adventures of a night, as he on one occasion pretended to be a highwayman, on another a ghost; but the wonderful part of the affair was, that he was never found out, and it was not till six months afterwards that it was discovered the iron bars had been sawn and were held together only by putty. It was, I believe, a fact that, just at this time, there was less real bullying than there used to be when I first joined; any way, I saw less of it. A healthier tone also seemed to prevail at the Academy--a condition I attributed to a certain extent to the departure of Snipson, and one or two other similar characters--for it is surprising the influence produced in a large establishment by one or two bad style of men. We had started a pack of beagles, and used to run a drag, and now and then turn out a hare, or rabbit, for a hunt. This brought running and athletic exercises into popular favour, and I soon took a most prominent position at the Academy as a runner and boxer. It is often amusing to look back upon the cause of disputes or quarrels, and to see how absurd they are after all, and how out of the merest trifles gigantic events are produced, the original cause of which is not unfrequently forgotten. There was a cadet named Baldock, who was older and bigger than I was, and who was very proud of his skill as a boxer. He was supposed to be the best pugilist at the Academy, and thirty years ago using one's fists well was looked upon in a very different light from what it now is. More than once Baldock and I had put on the gloves and had a friendly spar, and I was tolerably certain I was the better boxer of the two--thanks to Howard's training. No one, however, seemed to be aware of this, not even Baldock, because I had always touched him very lightly when I could have hit him hard, and he had consequently no evidence of my capacity as a hitter. One Friday evening we were boxing, when one of the cadets commenced chaffing him, and telling him he was getting two hits for one; this caused him to lose his temper, and, getting a chance, he struck me a tremendous blow fair on the forehead. I was nearly knocked over by this, but recovered myself, and, after a dodge or two, got equally as fair a hit at Baldock. For three or four minutes we--struck away at each other in earnest; Baldock then said, "It's lucky for you we've gloves on." "I don't think so," I replied; "I'd sooner have them off." In less than a minute our gloves were off and a ring was formed, seconds appointed, and we set to work deliberately to fight, for no other reason than to try who was the best man. I had almost instantly decided what course to adopt in the encounter. Baldock was bigger and I believed stronger than I was, and was a good boxer; but I, from always running, especially with the beagles, was in the best condition. I was also quicker and more active on my legs than he was, and had great confidence in my hitting power. I at once found I had a great advantage in Baldock underrating me, for in the first round he tried to finish me off at once, and I consequently caught him three or four sharp hits without his once breaking through my guard or getting a blow home. This evidently annoyed him, and he did not use his head as well as he might have done. His advantages, therefore, were to some extent lost, and I certainly got the best of the first two rounds. After this Baldock got more steady, and we fought on like two prizefighters for nearly three quarters of an hour, when the cadets round interfered and stopped us, victory having failed to declare on either side. We shook hands at the termination of the affair, and, as is not unusually the case, became the best of friends--so much so that in less than a fortnight afterwards Baldock was my assistant in a row, in which we were enabled to acquit ourselves creditably. Baldock and I were walking one afternoon from Eltham, through the fields by Shooter's Hill Wood, when we came to a stile on which two "louts," as we termed them, were sitting. On our coming near them they did not attempt to move, but sat grinning at us. "Why don't you get off that stile," said Baldock, "when you see people coming?" "You can get through the 'edge as you're a cat," said one of them, "we ain't a going to move for you!" In an instant Baldock seized one of the louts by the legs and tumbled him backwards over the stile; he then jumped over, and I followed him; but as I did so I received a blow on the back of the head from a stone thrown by the lout on the stile. I was nearly stunned by the blow, but, recovering myself, called to Baldock to come back and thrash them. We both turned and walked towards the two men, who shouted, "Come on! we ain't afraid of you!" They certainly looked as if they were not afraid, and as if they ought not to be, for they were half as big again as we were, and in their rough clothes and great hob-nailed boots looked even bigger. The affair was a splendid example of skill and training _versus_ brute force. The two louts had probably never before encountered opponents who were skilled in the use of their fists, and they merely swung their fists round without meaning. The consequence was, that in about seven minutes the louts were half blind, their noses were bleeding, and they were telling us they had had enough. "Take care how you insult gentlemen cadets again," said Baldock, "for there are fifty cadets who can thrash us with one hand!" This was his farewell remark as we doubled off without a scratch or touch, except on our knuckles, from the blows we had given. "I think," said Baldock, "that cram of mine about the cadets will make the louts careful; and I tell you what, Shepard, I'd a deuced deal rather have you alongside of me in a fight than against me. How splendidly you dodged that fellow's round blows, and gave it him straight between the eyes! You'll be as good a boxer as Howard, who used to be so famed at the shop." "Howard taught me how to box," I said. "The deuce he did! Ah, then, I don't mind having fought you for an hour without making much impression on you. I never knew that before. Howard has a tremendous reputation, and I believe deserves it." The half-year was now drawing to a close, and we were all thinking about the examinations. I adopted the same plan that I had formerly, and used to work very hard in academy, and of a night used to think over various problems and test what I actually knew. The head of my room never saw me working out of study hours, and fancied I was not going in to do much; and with him one of the six cadets ahead of me used to work of an evening, whilst I used to read books of sporting or travels. When all was quiet, however, I used to think over various questions, and felt tolerably certain I knew these better than if I had superficially gone over them with another cadet. I was much amused at the general idea that I should go back again near the bottom of the class, as it was not likely I should fluke again, as it was supposed I had last examination. I, however, waited my time, and determined to be very careful at the examination, and not be too sure I had done a question correctly until I had read it over a second time. The mathematical examination at length commenced in my class, and I was surprised to find the cadet absent whom every one thought would be first. I soon heard that he was taken ill the evening before, and had gone to hospital, every one believing he had worked too hard, as he was known to have kept up lights for several nights previous to the examination. I read over the examination paper, and believed I could do each question. I commenced them in order, and arranged my Work very carefully and neatly, and before half the attendance was over I had finished them all. I then carefully read over each of my answers, and corrected some errors that I discovered in the working, and in fact re-did the questions that were wrong. I never took my attention once off my paper after commencing, and at length, when satisfied I had done all I knew, I found I had still an hour to spare. I then took a look round the room, and saw the Inspector in the octagon talking to the mathematical master, and looking at me. I felt certain I was the subject of conversation, and I instantly remembered the suspicion there had been of my having fudged last half. I also saw that the desks had been arranged so that near me were the worst mathematicians in the class, so that, even had it been possible for me to see their work, I could not have gained advantage from it. I saw also that some of the cadets who had beaten me last examination were in difficulties. There is no mistaking this at an examination; there was the usual red-flushed face, the unsettled positions, the biting of nails, the perpetual dipping of the pen in the ink, and yet writing nothing, indicating that there was a fix somewhere. Seeing the Inspector still in the octagon, I took up my paper, and gave it the master, who asked me if I had done all the questions. "I think I have," I replied. "Very well, then, you may leave the room," said the Inspector. I went out and had a game of rackets to take away the heady feeling I had about me; then went and read the papers, and did not look at a book before going in for my afternoon examination. Again I set to work in the same deliberate way, and found that I could, as I believe, do all the questions. The examination in mathematics lasted two days, and I believed I had done far better than at my last trial; but there is always great uncertainty as regards what one has really accomplished, mistakes being made which we never dream of, and usually fail to discover if we read over our own answers, even half a dozen times. The examination in other subjects, such as fortifications, geometrical drawing, French, German, etc, I did well in, but as mathematics counted most, I hoped for much out of that. It was usual formerly to continue studies after the examinations, and we therefore sometimes managed to obtain information from the masters as to how we had done. Believing I might gain some information, I made an excuse for asking the master how I had done, or if he knew yet how any one had done. I saw a pleasant expression in the mathematician's face, who said, "In the first two papers you are several marks ahead of anybody. Have you done as well in the others?" "I think I have," I replied. "I'm very glad of it, as I told the Inspector I believed you would come out well." This information I kept to myself, and waited patiently for the whole examination to be made known, though I could not help being amused at hearing many of the cadets below me speaking of it as a certainty that they were sure to take my place, as I had not worked at all. The morning at length arrived when the marks were to be read out, and we all rushed into academy and waited with great anxiety to hear the result of the examination. The master took the paper in his hand very deliberately, put on his spectacles, and said, "Silence, gentlemen, if you please, and I will read out the marks for the mathematical examination." We were all as quiet as mice, and waited, pencil in hand, for the news. The master then said, "First"--and after waiting half a minute, as though to increase our curiosity, repeated--"First, Mr Shepard; decimal 78. Second, Mr Hackland; decimal 75. Third, Mr Bowden; decimal 8"-- and so on. When my name was read out as first I could scarcely forbear a smile. I knew it was a total surprise to the whole class, and to me it was unexpected, for I never hoped to get higher than third or fourth; and on finding myself first, I would not at the time have changed places with a lord. Helen Stanley came to my mind, and I thought what she would say when she heard I was first, and saw my name in the paper as having gained the second mathematical prize. I lost interest in the reading out of the marks after the first half dozen names had been given. The cadet who stood third had what we called "a shorter coarse" than I had, and was lower than I was, because he gained less marks, though he had done slightly better than I had in his shorter subjects, gaining decimal 8 in what he had done. He was a cadet who had joined three months after me, and who had come to the Academy knowing enough mathematics to pass him through without any further trouble, his father having been a Cambridge Wrangler, who had taught him algebra about the same time he taught him his letters. After the reading out of the marks I was congratulated by several cadets, whilst surprise was expressed as to how I had done so well, when, as was supposed, I had never worked out of academy. In reality, I believe I had worked my brain more than any other cadet in the class, and to this was mainly due my success, for I had developed a power of independent and intense thought, which made thinking easy, and enabled me to solve problems which a superficial or unthinking system of working never would have enabled me to solve. For several days after the examination I felt very happy, little dreaming that a disappointment was in store for me, for the fact of being first in an examination had on all previous occasions secured the mathematical prize. I believed I should not have been first had not the best man been compelled to go to hospital; but this I looked on as the fortune of war, like a horse breaking down in its training. Just before the public examination, however, I learnt that I was not to receive the prize, but that it was to be given to Bowden, who was third, the reason assigned being that he was junior to me in joining the Academy, and had gained a higher decimal than I had. This was my first disappointment and my first experience of what I at least believed to be injustice. During the half-year I had passed Bowden, and during the previous half-year I had come from nearly last of the class to within two places of him. These facts made me feel half angry, half disappointed, and produced on me a sort of irritation that nearly induced me to become insubordinate, for I could not help fancying that favouritism had something to do with the selection. I, however, made no appeal, and took the matter as patiently as I could. It seemed now tolerably certain that the next half-year I should qualify for my commission, and might hope to be in the first four or five of my batch--a position that I never hoped to attain after I had been three months at the Academy, and which seemed impossible when I was straggling to cram at Mr Hostler's academy. The next half-year I should become a corporal, and should be one of the seniors, and should, consequently, have far more authority than I possessed as an old cadet only. It would be my last also at the Academy, for on joining the practical class we were removed to the Arsenal, and there occupied so exalted a rank that we did not mix much with cadets at the Upper Academy, as it was termed, in consequence of its standing on higher ground than the cadet barracks at the Arsenal. I must confess that when I saw Bowden called from his seat at the public examination, and given the second prize for mathematics, which was delivered to him by a handsome old officer, I felt that if our merits had been fairly weighed I ought to have received the prize; but probably, had I received it, his feelings might have been similar. It is hard to be treated with injustice, but we are all inclined to fancy more or less that our merits are never fully acknowledged, and when certain men are selected for honours, while we are left out in the cold, that our claims were greater than theirs, and that we are victims to favouritism or want of perception in those who ought to have seen our value. Although I did well in other branches of study, I stood no chance of gaining a prize in anything except mathematics. In drawing I was good, but there were several cadets much better, whom I was not likely to pass or excel. Just before the vacation I received an invitation from Howard to pass a week with him in London, where he was staying on leave. Such a chance was not to be refused, so on leaving the Academy I went to town and found Howard in lodgings not far from his club. He was very glad to see me, and congratulated me on my success at the Academy, and gave it as his opinion that I had been "chowsed" out of the prize for mathematics. During the week I passed with Howard in London, I, for the first time, had a taste of what London life was like. Out of the six evenings I was twice at the opera, once at the Haymarket theatre, once at a ball, to which Howard took me, once at a bachelors' gathering at Evans's, and the remaining night at Howard's club. For a week this kind of life, from its novelty, was pleasant, but I made up my mind that it was a mistake, and that the quiet of the forest was healthier and better both for mind and body. We visited the Row in the morning and the park in the afternoon, and saw certainly some of the most beautiful women in the world, for, no matter where we may travel or what nations we may visit, we come back and see in old England that her daughters are unrivalled. As I sauntered on with Howard through the crowd I wondered how Helen Stanley would compare with some of the beauties I saw, and, as often happens to us when we think of a person, whom should I suddenly meet but the lady about whom I was thinking. The instant I saw her I knew there was something about her--I could not say what--which made her look different from those near her. She was natural and rather plainly dressed, and not what is, we believe, technically called "made up." There was no paint or powder, false hair, or strengthened eyebrows, and she therefore seemed like a looker-on on the boards of a theatre where all the others were dressed up to act parts. She was only in town for a short time, and hoped to be down at the Heronry before my vacation was over. "How is your cousin?" I inquired. "I believe quite well," replied Miss Stanley; "but I have seen little of him in the last three months, and shall see less now." I looked at Miss Stanley inquiringly, and site read my look correctly, for she volunteered in a low tone the information that it was all off between them. "That is a thorough genuine, nice girl," said Howard, as we parted from her. "Who is she?" I explained to him all I knew about her, and he again declared she was charming. That he thought so, there was no doubt. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. MY LAST HALF. My vacation passed very quietly till within ten days of its termination, at which time Miss Stanley came to stay at the Heronry. I soon went over to call, and found everything much as it was formerly, except that the pedantic cousin was not mentioned. I soon after learnt that he had behaved very discreditably at Oxford and had been obliged to leave, and that his match had been broken off by Miss Stanley. It is a curious fact, but it is one that experience has taught us, that in almost every case where a man assumes a superiority over all others, and is always endeavouring to expose weak points or want of knowledge in others whilst he thrusts his only slender information forward, that man is an impostor, and, if found out, will generally "go to the bad." This was the case with Snipson, with Stanley, and with many others we have known; and, if others will recall their own experiences, we believe they also will find they are led to the same conclusion. There is no necessity for a really clever man to be always blowing his own trumpet; his actual works will show what he has in him; whereas a shallow-pated impostor is always trying by tricks to arrive at a notoriety to which he never could attain by fair work and genuine competition, and so loses no opportunity of taking a prominent position for want of assumption. I found that Miss Stanley had seen Howard several times in London, and pronounced him "charming." It was supposed that Howard would have to go to Southampton on some duty, and if so he was expected to pass a few days at the Heronry. Now, had it been any one else, I believe I should have been jealous, for, although I had ceased to be spoony on Miss Stanley, yet I liked her society, and should not have felt happy in knowing she was much with any one else. He, however, was an exception. Each time I met Howard I found that my latest experience had given me the capacity to appreciate in him some quality which had before escaped my observation, whereas when I met other men whom I had known when I was a boy, and of whom I had thought most highly, I found them to be rough, uncultivated, and unintellectual--the change really being in myself, not in them. I looked forward to Howard's visit to the Heronry, for I hoped then to see more of him and to get more at his mind than I had been able to do in the bustle and gaiety of London. I also wanted to compare his knowledge of mathematics, etc, with mine, in order to see whether the course at the Academy that I had gone through was as sound as it used to be a few years previously. It wanted only five days to the date at which I had to leave for Woolwich, when Howard came down to the Heronry, and I was asked over to dine and stop the next day. Before I had been half an hour in the house I discovered that Howard and Helen Stanley seemed to be equally pleased with each other, and I felt that my presence was not always looked upon as agreeable. I was not, therefore, surprised when on the next day Howard told me in the strictest confidence that he and Miss Stanley were engaged, and that they were going to be married when he was a captain, which he hoped to be in about a year. It being the object of this tale to describe the life of a Woolwich cadet thirty years ago, we must leave our friend Howard and the charming Helen at the Heronry, and return once more to the busy scene of my early labours and competition at Woolwich. On returning to the Academy for my fifth half-year I found I was promoted to corporal, and was third senior. This promotion gave me a pair of epaulettes, which I put on, and wore with great pride. It was the first promotion I had received, and I can fairly say that no step in rank or position that fortune has since favoured me with ever produced one-tenth of the pleasure that I experienced at eighteen years of age in being made a corporal. My life at Woolwich was now very agreeable. I had made the acquaintance of friends in the neighbourhood, and also in London. I usually went on leave from Saturday afternoon to Sunday evening, staying during the time with friends. At the Academy, being a corporal gave me certain privileges and authority, whilst every neux was to all intents and purposes my slave. I had every prospect of taking a high position in my batch, and after four months at the Arsenal, in the practical class, I should obtain my commission, and start as an officer in either the Artillery or Engineers. The friends at whose houses I visited congratulated me on my excellent prospects, and seemed to think I was excessively lucky in having such a chance before me. One of my friends was a retired colonel, who had been through the whole of the Peninsular war, was at Waterloo, and had left the service many years. He was a soldier of the old school, considered the service everything, and that there was only one profession for a gentleman, viz, the army. After dinner, and when he and I were _tete-a-tete_, he used to indulge in various hints and opinions as regards the conduct and character of an officer and a gentleman. "An officer," he used to say, "must be the most honourable and gentlemanly of men. He must resent instantly the slightest insult. If a man even looks insultingly at you, have him out at once. If the day ever does come (as I fear the radical tendency of the age seems to indicate) that duelling is done away with, a snob and a bully will be able to ride roughshod over a gentleman, and there will be no redress. An officer, too, must learn his profession. It is a mistake to think that an officer should be above his work. He ought to know everything and do everything better than his men. More than once in my service, when I commanded a troop of Dragoons, I have taken off my coat and shown a private how to clean a horse. "An officer, too, ought to be able to take his wine, and yet show no signs of it. I can't recommend you any royal road to this," said the colonel, "except practice. I should like to tell you, also," he continued, "that many young officers make or mar their reputation daring their first night at mess. I remember once in my old regiment there was a young cornet joined us, who looked all right, and talked all right, but at mess he had to carve some beef for the colonel. He helped the colonel, and sent him a plate laden with two thick slices of beef, and a lump of fat big enough to choke a dog. `Good heavens!' said the colonel, `what does that young fellow mean by sending me this mass of food? Does he not know I can come again if I want more? Take my plate away; the fellow has spoiled my dinner!' "We were now all rather doubtful about our new cornet, who, however, had plenty of money, and had come from one of our first public schools; and sure enough our suspicions proved to be correct--the cloven hoof had peeped out in the overladen plate of beef. The cornet proved to be the only son of a retired contract butcher, who had made a large fortune during the war, and had retired to the country and had tried to make his son a gentleman, but he couldn't do it, sir; the plate of beef exposed him." These and other similar precepts were instilled into me by my old friend daring the time that I took my first practice under his tuition of testing the strength of my head _versus_ the strength of his port wine, and I am happy to say that I gained the colonel's approval one Saturday evening in an unexpected manner as follows:-- A party of four had been at dinner, all military men. We had sat over our wine a fair time, and, charmed with the conversation, I had done full justice to the port. The colonel then proposed a rubber of whist, at which game he was an adept, and required me to take a hand. I played a fair game of whist for a youngster, and so made up the fourth. Luckily I was on that night a good card-holder, and was the colonel's partner, and we won. He was delighted, for his whole heart was in the game. When we broke up he gave me a pat on the back and said, "Shepard, I always thought well of you, but I never formed so high an opinion of your talents and power as to-night. You may talk about your examinations in Euclid and mathematics, for which a fellow is crammed like a parrot for months, as a test of a man's brains and his fitness for a soldier; I think it's nearly all bosh, and gives no fair test; but if I see a young man do what you've done to-night, that is, put a bottle of port under his waistcoat and afterwards play a quiet, steady rubber, and remember whether the twelfth or thirteenth card is the best, I know that fellow has a good head. I believe there is not one youngster in twenty can do this now-a-day. They are all weeds--haven't the stamina and backbone they used to have--and the Englishman is degenerating to a great extent, I believe, in consequence of the inordinate use of tobacco." Daring the present half-year I had taken up cricket, and was very successful as a "fielder," though my batting was not first-rate. I was good enough, however, to play in the Eleven against the Officers of the Artillery--a match we played each year--and made double figures in my score, and caught out two of the officers. Although I was nearly always on leave from Saturday to Sunday for the "whole shay," as it was termed, yet I on one occasion did not go. The result was that I had command of the first company at church-parade, and marched past on the barrack-field before going to church. Several times I had been in the ranks when we had marched past on Sundays, but this was the first time I had ever commanded the company. There was a great crowd to see us march past and to hear the band, and the company was praised for its steadiness. I remembered well my feelings as a schoolboy when I saw a cadet in a similar position to that I now occupied, and I regretted that I had not now the same delight in being where I was that I fancied formerly I should have. It was not a want of enthusiasm, for I had still plenty of that left; but I felt as if I were performing a mere act of business, and was more occupied in seeing that the ranks kept line and proper distance than I was in the thought of commanding the company. Somehow I had grown to understand that hard work and thought were the means to all success, and that now, when I happened to be senior corporal, it was merely in consequence of others being absent, and that I had attained this position by hard work. I must confess I felt disappointed with myself, for I did not experience one-hundredth part of the pleasure I should have felt had it been possible to transfer me instantly from a schoolboy at Hostler's to the position I now occupied. One little incident, however, as we were marching off, did gave me temporary gratification. As I gave to the company the words "Right turn!" "Left wheel!" and we marched across the gravel to the chapel, I passed close to three of Mr Hostler's masters, who were there with his boys. There was not a face among the boys I recognised. All had changed; but the masters I knew, and I saw they had pointed me out to the youngsters. For a moment the misery of my life at Hostler's came across me, and a vivid remembrance of the sneering self-sufficiency of one of these tutors, as he tried to impress upon me that I was too stupid to ever learn mathematics. I muttered to myself "Pig-headed idiot!" as I recalled this man's proceeding, and now noticed a sort of self-complacency in his manner as he was probably explaining to Hostler's boys that he had trained me for Woolwich. This my fifth half-year seemed to pass more quickly than a week did when I was a neux, and we again began to talk about examinations and our vacation. To me the final trial was now coming, for although we worked at various subjects in the practical class, yet the work did not count. There was no examination, and our relative positions in the batch were unaltered when once we joined the practical class. I had succeeded in all the drawings I had done during the half-year, and had adopted a general polishing up in the various branches of study, for our position in the class for commissions was decided by the amount of marks we obtained as a total for all subjects. Day passed after day, and it was within a fortnight of the examination when I received a letter from Mr Rouse, asking if I would come and pass Saturday and Sunday with him. On receipt of this letter I felt ashamed of never having once been to see the man to whom alone I was indebted for passing into the Academy. I accepted the invitation, and on Saturday afternoon found myself sitting in Mr Rouse's drawing-room, chatting with him a sort of shoppy conversation about examinations, marks, cramming, etc. Mr Rouse was a man who never disappointed me. Whenever I met him, as I did often in afterlife, he invariably showed himself a genius. He was one of those sound thinkers and careful reasoners who are the real discoverers of truths, and who in almost every case remain unknown and unhonoured by the world; whilst superficial men, merely veneered with science by their contact with him, would chatter in learned societies, and be reported in newspapers, and bowed down to as authorities by the ignorant, who could not tell the electro-plated from the real metal. Even when I was a student at Rouse's he used to amuse us by reading out from the papers descriptions of various matters supposed to be scientifically written; he would then criticise these and show us that the writer was evidently unacquainted with his subject, and had written it at so much per line. I was glad to find what an interest he had taken in my career at the Academy; he had noted exactly how I had done at all my examinations, and he said he was very nearly writing to me daring my third half-year to come and work with him occasionally, as he feared I might not pass the probationary examination. During the evening he put me up to what he called useful dodges in connexion with working various branches of higher mathematics, and I found my evening not only interesting, but profitable, as I made several notes which I could think over and which would be useful to me at my final examination. He gave me also great encouragement about the future, and said that he believed the time would come when the officers of both the Engineers and Artillery would take a higher position in the scientific and literary world than they then did. "You have a capital preparatory course at Woolwich," he remarked, "and when you get your commission you could build on this. It has often struck me that it is odd how few officers of either Artillery or Engineers have ever made a mark in the world out of their profession, or have come out as leaders in science, and this in the future is sure to be remedied." Mr Rouse was right at the time, but since those days a change has occurred, the two corps having produced several men distinguished in subjects not strictly professional. I returned to the Academy with a feeling of "wound-upness," and occupied myself in thinking about my coming examination. From being very sickly as a boy (due I believe entirely to the physicking of my aunt), I had become strong and particularly healthy, and found I could stand both mental and bodily work without feeling either much. I took care, however, to follow Mr Rouse's advice, viz, to work my body by exercise after I had worked my brain, and to get as much fresh air as possible after a long bout of "swatting." I never attempted to learn anything when I felt tired, and never forced myself to work; by these means I felt certain I got more knowledge into my head than I should have done had I followed the same plan that several cadets followed of working nearly all night with wet cloths round their heads and a dozen books before them. It was impossible to avoid being anxious about the examination, but I endeavoured to follow my old plan of not driving off everything to the last, and then trying to catch up time by working night and day. I had a sort of idea that the mind was like one's digestion in some respects, and the way to treat it was to treat it reasonably, and not to expect it to digest in a week as much mental food as it ought to have in three months. Some cadets did adopt this plan, and they generally failed, and not unusually knocked themselves up. The first day of the examination commenced, and I found the first paper contained what we should term some very dodgy questions both in mechanics and trigonometry. I saw through the catches, and brought out neat answers, which made me tolerably confident they were correct. Our examinations took nine days altogether, and then day after day the results came out, and we added our marks together, speculating how the next list of marks would alter our relative positions. Until the drawing and mathematical marks came out, I stood twelfth of the batch, but having obtained within one mark of the full amount in drawing, and being second in mathematics, I made up a total that made me third of the batch, which consisted of twenty-five qualified for commissions, or at least for the practical class, which was to all intents the same thing as qualifying for commission. Such a result was to me very satisfactory, and was far beyond what I dreamed of even in my most sanguine moments during my trials at Mr Hostler's. If any prophetic genius had hinted to the young gentlemen at Mr Hostler's that Bob Shepard, who was leaving because he was so stupid that he could not be taught mathematics, would beat all the boys in the school, and would succeed in being second in mathematics at the Academy, this prophet would have found few who put faith in him, for it would have been considered impossible except by magic. A certain kind of magic was, however, practised, and this was by means of the system which Mr Rouse adopted, viz, of calmly reasoning out problems and deliberating on them, and taking a wide and general view of a subject instead of trying to follow blindly rules and systems, uninfluenced by reason or common sense. There was one small piece of "swagger," as it might be fairly termed, which I could not resist, and this was to pay a visit to Mr Hostler's now I had passed all my examinations successfully, and hear what he had to say for himself. I would not call on Hostler himself, but called to see a boy whose brother had been a cadet, and who had asked me to have a look at the youngster at Hostler's. I was shown into the small drawing-room that I remembered so well. There was the same table-cover, the same things on the mantelpiece, the same books, the same pictures as when I went into that room to meet Hostler, and to be told I must give up all chance of Woolwich, as I had no head for mathematics or Euclid. It flashed across me that probably scores of other boys had had their prospects rained in consequence of being put under the change of selfish and bigoted men, who had only one system of teaching, and whose method was unsuited to the mind of the boy on whom they acted. In that room a straw would have turned the scale, and I might have left that place with a stamp of stupidity on me which I should never have had the chance of removing all my life, unless, as really happened, I had gone to Mr Rouse's, and had passed my examinations well. As I was thus meditating, the door opened and Mr Hostler came in. "Ah, Shepard!" he exclaimed, "I am very glad to see you. How are you?" "Quite well, Mr Hostler. I've called to see young Barnes. Is he in?" "Oh yes, he's in. I hope you'll come into the schoolroom and see him; it does the boys good to see a cadet there who has been prepared for the Academy by me, and who has distinguished himself as you have done. I feel very proud of it I can tell you!" "You forget, Mr Hostler; you didn't prepare me for the Academy, but gave me up as too stupid to learn mathematics." "Oh, nothing of the kind, Shepard, you're quite mistaken. I gave you all the groundwork, and you only wanted just a little polishing up, which could be better done by a private tutor like Rouse than in a large school like mine, where we work in classes. No, don't think I'm going to be robbed of the merit of preparing you; besides, you were not three months with Rouse, and here you were over a year. Facts speak for themselves. Depend on it, you passed and got on so well just because you were well grounded here, and saw my system of preparing, which is good." I was not then old enough to answer these misrepresentations of Hostler's, but I knew how false they were, and yet how firmly they would convince the majority of outsiders that to Hostler was due the merit of having trained me for Woolwich. I found afterwards that he had told his boys that I was his special pupil, and that he had also claimed me, in his sort of advertisement list, as one who had been trained by him. Such men succeed in the world as a rule, for the general public judge from superficial evidence, and rarely have the time, if they had the inclination, to look closely into matters that do not specially affect their interests. The case would appear thus:-- "Shepard, a cadet who stood second in mathematics at the Academy, was prepared by Mr Hostler for twelve months, and then sent to finish details at Mr Rouse's for three months, during part of which time he was ill with hooping-cough. He passed in well, and came out well. Honour, then, is due to Mr Hostler for his excellent training, and great credit is reflected on his school." I saw my young acquaintance, who was sent for at my request, as I declined to be made a parade of in the schoolroom, and bidding Mr Hostler farewell, I left his establishment, which I never entered again, and never saw Mr Hostler again, though the scenes through which I passed at his school even now sometimes haunt me in the form of nightmares, when I dream I am again a boy at that place, who has failed in his Euclid, and cannot make the three sides of a triangle join, and who is waiting for his three cuts on the hand. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. FINALE. My career at what may be termed the Academy (proper) terminated with the examinations named in the last chapter. I returned home to rest as it were on my laurels, for I had to pass no farther examinations in order to obtain my commission, and had merely to go through a practical course connected with the various branches in the Arsenal, and also a course of surveying, after which there was the public examination, which was a mere farce, and we were then commissioned in the order in which we stood. Before finally leaving the Academy I once more paid a visit to Mr Rouse and dined with him, where I met a Cambridge man who had just left Cambridge and had taken a Master of Arts degree. When I left Woolwich my coarse in mathematics consisted of plane and spherical trigonometry, conic sections, statics and dynamics, properties of roofs and arches, hydrostatics, projectiles, and the deferential and integral calculus. In this course I had obtained a very good decimal, and therefore might be said to have a fair knowledge of the subjects. I was, therefore, anxious to compare my mathematical knowledge with that of a Master of Arts of Cambridge, and discover, if possible, how much longer it would take me to work up to the extent requisite to become M.A. To my surprise I found that the gentleman from Cambridge knew only as much mathematics as I did when I was in the second class, and, in fact, if I had been at Cambridge instead of at Woolwich, I should have been distinguished all my life as M.A., and should, of course, have been looked on as an authority on such matters as mathematics by people who had no other means of testing one's qualifications than by the literary annex after one's name. I suggested to Mr Rouse that this system of conferring distinguishing honours on men from one or two Universities, which honours carried weight with the public, seemed unfair to those men who were trained at other well-known places, such as Woolwich, where no honours were given, but where they had gone beyond the course required to gain the honours at the Universities. I had a long discussion with Mr Rouse relative to the course of training at Woolwich in my time, and from what I told him we both agreed that the course was not practical enough for a soldier, and that too much time was occupied in theoretical matters which were never likely to be of use to us in afterlife. "It is," said Mr Rouse, "one of the most certain of all things, that men who teach any subject for any length of time gradually grow to refine, as I may term it, on that subject, and go on from theory to theory, and lose sight of the fact that to all practical men, such as soldiers must be to be useful, theory may be even a dangerous study. Mathematicians," he continued, "are especially liable to drift into these habits, and often forget that the object of mathematics is to supply a means of obtaining results, so that they are means to an end, not the end itself. Too, as a practical man, require to know some theory, such as the general rules of mechanics, the way in which trigonometrical formulas are obtained, and so on; but I don't think it is necessary, especially in the short time you have for each subject at Woolwich, that you should devote too long a time to mere theoretical problems." The defects that I experienced after leaving Woolwich were that I found considerable difficulty in writing a clear account of any event in a concise and grammatical manner, so that had I been called on to write a despatch, and describe officially some action or battle, my production would have been discreditable. I could solve an abstruse question in dynamics, but I could not write three sentences in English correctly. Again, as regards the method of conducting discipline with soldiers, what their pay was, how they were paid, how men were treated for various offences, etc, I was as ignorant as a civilian, and there was then no preparatory training for an officer after joining the Artillery by means of which he could learn these matters. The Engineers had then, as now, a course of study at Chatham, after obtaining their commissions, by which such subjects were learnt. Defects such as the above-named have since been almost entirely removed, whilst various other matters have been improved at the Academy, especially as regards the feeding of the cadets, which thirty years ago was simply disgraceful. Bullying and even fagging have ceased to exist; and although there may be, as there always will be, in large establishments, some young men who are disposed to be bullies, and some others whose manners or appearance cause them to be unpopular, yet no recognised system of senior and junior, or of fagging, exists at Woolwich. Thirty years ago the defect at the Academy was the hard life that cadets lived; their food was bad, and their punishment for small offences severe. If there is a defect at the present time at Woolwich, it is that the cadet's comfort is too much cared for, and when he has, as he surely must have, in even peace time, to rough it, he will not, as we did, say, "Well, it's better than being a cadet," but he will probably compare the damp walls of a room in some Fort with his snug room at the Academy, and the absence of many luxuries will be felt the more, because as a mere cadet they were considered essential for him. Taking it all in all, however, we may fairly claim that at the present time the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich is perfect of its kind, and the training given there will compare favourably with that of any military college on the Continent; that it was not always as well regulated this tale will probably induce many to think. Any curious or interested person may learn all about the Academy as it is, but the strange life led by a cadet thirty years ago--the singular inconsistency of highly honourable conduct in some matters, and proceedings which can only be termed "brutal" in others--exhibits peculiarities in the character of English youths which we do not believe is entirely worn out in large educational establishments at the present day. In this tale it has not been our object to moralise, or even to suggest, but merely to give a history of the life of a Woolwich Cadet thirty years ago, and as the cadet's career may fairly be said to terminate when he joined the practical class, we draw the curtain over the future life of Gentleman Cadet Bob Shepard. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The End. 
35008	----	CONCERNING BELINDA BOOKS BY ELEANOR HOYT BRAINERD "CONCERNING BELINDA" "NANCY'S COUNTRY CHRISTMAS AND OTHER STORIES" "THE MISDEMEANORS OF NANCY" [Illustration: "A gay, dimpling girl and a stalwart, handsome man were whirling down Fifth Avenue"] CONCERNING BELINDA BY ELEANOR HOYT BRAINERD ILLUSTRATED BY HARRISON FISHER AND KATHARINE N. RICHARDSON [Illustration] NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1905 Copyright, 1904, 1905, by The Curtis Publishing Company Copyright, 1905, by Doubleday, Page & Company Published, September, 1905 _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian._ [Illustration] AN APOLOGY To all principals of New York boarding-schools, the author of these sketches offers humble apologies for having approached those excellent institutions chiefly from their humorous side. That the city boarding-school has its earnest and serious phases, its charming and sensible pupils, no rational mortal could deny; but each finishing school has, also, its Amelias, and their youthful absurdities offer tempting material to the writer of tales. [Illustration] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Belinda and the Twelve 3 II. The Musical Romance of Amelia 27 III. The Elopement of Evangeline Marie 43 IV. A Wolf in the Fold 59 V. The Black Sheep's Christmas 81 VI. The Blighted Being 99 VII. The Passing of an Affinity 117 VIII. The Queer Little Thing 135 IX. A Continuous Performance 157 X. Adelina and the Drama 177 [Illustration] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "A gay, dimpling girl and a stalwart, handsome man were whirling down Fifth Avenue" _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE "Amelia touched her guitar with a white, pudgy hand" 32 "For a few mornings past Belinda had noticed something unusual about the morning expedition" 36 "'It's scandalous, madam'" 38 "... curled his mustache airily, and allowed his glance to rove boldly over the display of youthful femininity" 46 "'I heard him say, "Grand Central, and hurry"'" 50 "'Your game's up, and you don't marry an heiress this trip'" 54 "The girls on the bed drew their knees up to their chins" 102 "They offered her caramels with fervent sympathy" 106 "'A dark man is coming into your life'" 120 "... wasted her substance in riotous buying of photographs" 124 "Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French class" 126 Concerning Belinda CHAPTER I BELINDA AND THE TWELVE FOR years New York had been beckoning to Belinda. All during her time at the western co-educational college, where she collected an assortment of somewhat blurred impressions concerning Greek roots, Latin depravity, and modern literature, and assisted liberally in the education of her masculine fellow-students, New York, with its opportunities for work and experience, had lured her on. Fortune she would not need. Daddy had attended to that in his will, but success, and a knowledge of the world outside of Indiana, she must have. This fixed purpose rendered her immune from the sentimental and matrimonial epidemics that devastate the Junior and Senior ranks in co-educational institutions. She graduated with honours--and with scalps. Many Seniors went away sorrowful because of her, the French professor lapsed into hopeless Gallic gloom, and even the professor of ancient history was forced into painful recognition of the importance of the moderns. When the fortune which had seemed a premise in life's logic shrunk to proportions barely adequate to support the mother and the younger children, and became for Belinda herself a vague hypothesis, New York still hung mystic and alluring upon the horizon; but a public-school position in the home town offered solid ground upon which to stand, while yearning toward the apparently unattainable star. The public-school career was a success. The English classes attained unheard-of popularity; and, if the number of fights between the big boys swelled amazingly, at least the frays did not, as a rule, occur upon the school grounds, and the casualties were no more dire than those contingent upon football glory. Belinda shone for all. She allowed great and small to adore her. To her pupils she was just but merciful, and stoically impartial. The school superintendent, who had weathered the first throes of widowerhood, and reached the stage where he loved sitting upon a veranda in the twilight and hearing nocturnes played by some feminine personality in the parlour, suffered much emotional stress and strain in the endeavour to decide whether he would rather have nocturnes and a parlour-chained Belinda or a Belinda beside him in the twilight and no nocturnes. Chopin eventually went to the wall; but, just as the superintendent was developing a taste for major harmonies once more, the unexpected happened. Miss Lucilla Ryder came to town. Miss Ryder was one of the Misses Ryder. Apart from the other Miss Ryder was incomplete, but she more nearly approximated completion than did Miss Emmeline Ryder under the same conditions. Together, the elderly maiden sisters made up a composite entity of considerable force; and for something like thirty years this entity had been the mainspring of a flourishing Select School for Young Ladies, located upon a fashionable side street in the most aristocratic district of New York. To the school of the Misses Ryder youthful daughters of New York's first families might be entrusted, with no fear that their expensive and heaven-allotted bloom would be rubbed off by contact with the offspring of second-rate families. As Miss Lucilla Ryder explained, in an effort to soothe the natural fears of a society leader whose great-grandfather had been a most reputable farmer, the young ladies of the school were divided into groups, and the flowers of New York's aristocracy would find in their especial classes only those young ladies with whom they might reasonably expect to be intimate after their school life ended and their social career began. Miss Ryder did not mention this interesting fact to the fond parents from Idaho and Texas who contemplated placing their daughters in the school, in order that they might acquire a New York lacquer, and make acquaintances among the social elect. In fact, Miss Ryder always dangled before the eyes of these ambitious parents a group of names suggesting a list of guests for the most exclusive of Newport functions, and dwelt eloquently upon the privilege of breathing the air which furnished oxygen to members of these exalted families. Nine times out of ten, mere repetition of the sacred names hypnotised the prospective patrons, and they gladly offered up their daughters upon the altar of social advancement. An explanation of the class-system would have marred the optimistic hopes of these fond parents, and the Misses Ryder were too altruistic to disturb the happiness of fellow mortals. Moreover, it was a comparatively simple thing to separate day-scholars from boarders without appearing to make a point of it. In the handling of such delicate matters, the Misses Ryder displayed a tact and a _finesse_ which would have made them ornaments to any diplomatic corps; and, fortunately, the number of the young ladies who were, of necessity, to be kept in cotton wool was small. The great bulk of the school's attendance was more or less genially democratic. School keeping in an aristocratic section of New York is an expensive matter. It must be done upon a large and daring scale. The Misses Ryder occupied two brownstone houses. The rents were enormous. The houses were handsomely furnished. Teachers of ability were a necessity, and such teachers were expensive. A capable housekeeper and efficient servants were required to make domestic affairs run smoothly. In consideration of all this, it was imperative that the Misses Ryder should gather in, each year, enough boarders to exhaust the room capacity of the two big houses, and that these boarders should be able and willing to pay high prices. In order to insure this condition of things, one of the two principals always made summer pilgrimages to remote places, where wealthy families possessed of daughters hungering for New York advantages might reasonably be supposed to exist; and it was in the course of one of these promoting tours that Miss Lucilla Ryder came to Lanleyville--drawn there by knowledge of certain large milling interests in the place. It was--with apologies to Tennyson--"the miller's daughter" who was "dear, so dear," to Miss Lucilla, but an unkind fate had decreed that the miller's daughter should show a pernicious desire for college education, and that the miller himself should be as wax in his daughter's hands. Miss Lucilla did not find pupils in Lanleyville, but she found Belinda. That alone should have repaid her for the trip. The meeting was accidental, being brought about through the aforesaid miller's daughter, who had been, for a High-School period, one of Belinda's adoring slaves. The Misses Ryder needed a teacher of English; Belinda dreamed of New York. To make a long story short, Belinda was engaged to teach to the Ryder pupils such sections and fragments of the English branches as might be introduced into their heads without resort to surgery. The salary offered was meagre, but the work would be in New York; so the contract was made, and Belinda was inclined to look upon Miss Lucilla as angel of light. Miss Lucilla's opinion of the arrangement was summed up briefly in her next letter to Miss Emmeline. "I have secured a teacher of English," she wrote. "The young person is much too pretty and girlish, but she is willing to accept a very small salary and is unmistakably a gentlewoman. Her attractions will give her an influence which we may be able to utilize for the benefit of the school." Two months later Belinda sat upon her trunk in a New York hall bedroom and considered. The room was the smallest in the Misses Ryder's Select School for Young Ladies, and before the introduction of the trunk it had been necessary to evict the one chair which had been a part of the room's furnishing. The bed was turned up against the wall, where it masqueraded, behind denim curtains, as a bookcase. When the bed came down there was no standing room outside of it, and, as Belinda discovered later, getting into that bed without casualties was a feat calling for fine strategy. A chiffonier retired as coyly as possible into the embrace of a recessed doorway; a washstand of Lilliputian dimensions occupied an infinitesimal fraction of a corner. The newly arrived instructor of youth studied her domain ruefully from her vantage point on the trunk; and it might have been observed, had there been any one on hand to observe it, that the study was interrupted by occasional attacks of violent winking, also that much winking seemed to impart a certain odd moisture to the singularly long lashes which shielded a pair of rather remarkable gray eyes. As she winked, the young woman of the gray eyes kicked her heels against the side of the trunk in a fashion that was distinctly undignified, but appeared to be comforting. There was a note of defiance in the heel tattoo, an echo of defiance in the heroic attempt at stubbornness to be noted in a deliciously rounded chin, and a mouth which a beneficent Providence never mapped out upon stubborn lines, but the eyelashes gleamed moistly. If, as has been claimed by worthy persons who have made physiognomy their study, the eyes reflect one's native spirit, and the mouth proclaims one's acquired character, Belinda's spiritual and emotional heritage was in tears, but her mental habit challenged fate to hurl hall bedrooms _ad libitum_ at her curly head. She had wanted to come to New York. Well, she was in New York. The immortal Touchstone loomed up before her with his disgruntled protest: "Now am I in Arden. When I was at home I was in a better place." Belinda quoted the comment softly. Then suddenly she stopped winking and smiled. The chin and mouth incontinently abandoned their stubborn rôle, and showed what they could do in the line of curves and witchery. Dimples dashed boldly into the open. Belinda looked up at the large steel engraving of the Pyramids, which filled most of the room's available wall space, and the smile expanded into a laugh. When Belinda laughs, even a city hall bedroom is a cheerful place. "_J'y suis; j'y reste_," the young woman announced cheerfully to the largest Pyramid. It looked stolidly benignant. The sentiment was one it could readily understand. There came a tap upon the closed door. "Come in," called Belinda. The door opened, and a tall young woman dispassionately surveyed the scene. "It's a mathematical impossibility," she said gravely, "and that's expert testimony, for I'm Miss Barnes, the teacher of Mathematics. Don't apologize. I had this room myself the first year, and I got so used to it that when I moved to one that is six inches larger each way, I positively rattled around in it. Miss Ryder sent me to ask you to go to her sitting-room. I'll come and call as soon as you've unpacked and settled." She went away, and Belinda, after dabbing a powderpuff recklessly over her eyelids and nose, hurried to the private sitting-room, which was the Principal's sanctum. Miss Lucilla, slim, erect, well gowned, superior, sat at a handsome desk between the front windows. Miss Emmeline, a delightful wash drawing of her strongly etched sister, was talking with two twittering girls at the opposite end of the room. Miss Emmeline was always detailed to the sympathetic task. Her slightly vague gentleness was less disconcerting to sentimental or homesick pupils than Miss Lucilla's somewhat glacial dignity. Belinda hesitated upon the threshold. Miss Emmeline bestowed upon her a detached and impersonal smile. Miss Lucilla summoned her with an autocratic move of a slender hand, a gesture so imperious that it was with difficulty the new teacher refrained from an abject salaam. "Miss Carewe," said the smooth, cool voice, "some of the young ladies want to go to the theatre to-night. School does not begin until to-morrow; there are no duties to occupy their time and attention, and we are, of course, liable to an epidemic of homesickness and hysteria. Under the circumstances the theatre idea is a good one. It will distract their minds. I have selected a suitable play, and you will chaperon. The teachers who have been here before will be needed to assist me with certain preliminary arrangements to-night. Moreover, you seem to be cheerful, and at present the young ladies need to be inoculated with cheerfulness. Be very careful, however, to be dignified first and cheerful afterward. Remember, however young you may look or feel, you are a teacher with responsibility upon your shoulders. You must make the pupils understand that you cannot be overrun, even though you are young. Unless you take a very wise stand from the first your position will be difficult and you will be of no value to us. Be reasonable but uncompromising." Belinda had been listening attentively. Already she began to hear the whirring of wheels within wheels in this work of hers, began to understand that in city private-school life "face" must be preserved as religiously as in Chinese ceremonial circles; but she recognised in Miss Lucilla a woman who understood her problem, and she found this middle-aged spinster, with the keen eyes, the Roman nose, the firm lips, and the grande-dame manner, interesting. "How many girls will go?" she asked meekly. "Twelve." Belinda gasped. Twelve strange, homesick girls! She wondered if they would all be as big as the two with Miss Emmeline. "The theatre is the Garrick. You will start at five minutes of eight." Miss Lucilla turned to her desk. The interview was finished. No one ever lingered after Miss Lucilla had said her say. Belinda went back to her room. On the way she met Miss Barnes. "Where is the Garrick Theatre?" she inquired. The teacher of mathematics stopped and looked at her. "Thirty-fifth Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Walk over and take the stage or the Sixth Avenue car. Make the girls walk in twos and the couples close together. Walk behind them. Watch them. They'll stand it. Don't let them laugh or talk loud or giggle like idiots. I suppose you may as well get broken in first as last." The voice and manner were brusque, but the eyes had a kindly gleam, and Belinda was devoutly thankful for the information so curtly given. "Do they ever cry in the street cars?" she asked with an air of grim foreboding. Miss Barnes's eyes relented still further. "No, but they flirt in the street cars." "Not really." Belinda's tone expressed incredulous disgust. "Really. By the time you've chaperoned miscellaneous specimens of the up-to-date young person for a few months, Miss Carewe, you'll not be surprised at any breach of good taste. The girls carry on handkerchief flirtations with strangers from the windows." "Girls from respectable families?" "Girls from excellent families. Of course, there are numbers of well-bred girls who behave correctly; and there's nothing actually bad about the ones who behave badly. They are merely lacking in good taste and overcharged with animal spirits or sentimentality. I'm always surprised that they don't get into all sorts of disgraceful scrapes, but they seldom do. We have to be eternally vigilant, though." "But handkerchief flirtation is so unspeakably common," said Belinda emphatically--then, with a twinkle, "and such a desecration of a really fine art." Miss Barnes shook her head. "The Misses Ryder haven't any sense of humour," she warned; "you'd better let your conversation be yea, yea, and nay, nay"--but she smiled. At five minutes to eight the Youngest Teacher stood in the lower hall, surrounded by schoolgirls of assorted sizes and shapes, and prayerfully hoping that she didn't look as foolish as she felt. One of the older teachers, commissioned by Miss Ryder, had come down to see the expedition fairly started. She was a plump, sleek woman with an automatic smile and a pneumatic manner. "You will all give your car fares to Miss Carewe, young ladies," she purred. "You have your rubbers? That's right. The pavements are damp. Miss Bowers and Miss Somerville, you may lead. Fall in closely, in couples, and be very careful not under any circumstances to become separated from the chaperon. She will report any annoyance you may cause her. I hope you will have a delightful evening." The door closed upon her unnatural amiability. Six couples swung into the street, with Belinda at their heels. Out of the grim, inclosing walls, with the cool, moist air in their faces, the lights reflected gayly in the glistening pavements, the cabs and carriages dashing by, the mystery and fascination of a great city clinging around them, and a matinée idol beckoning them, the girls began to find life more cheerful. Even fat, babyish little Kittie Dayton, whose face was swollen and blotted almost beyond human semblance by six hours of intermittent weeping, stopped blowing her nose long enough to squeal delightedly: "Oh-e-e! The man kissed the lady in that cab." It was with difficulty that Belinda stopped a stampede in the direction of the hansom. This was seeing New York. The melancholy atmosphere of the school was forgotten. They giggled in the car. It worried Belinda. Later she learned to bow to the inevitable. The young man who gave Amelia Bowers his seat was sociably inclined; but, on the whole, Amelia behaved very well, though she admitted, later, that she thought he had "most romantic eyes, and a perfectly elegant waistcoat." Belinda squirmed on the car. Arrived at the theatre she squirmed still more. The lobby was well filled. It was almost time for the curtain. She hated leading her line down the middle aisle to the fourth row; she hated the smiles and comment that followed them; she loathed being made conspicuous--and her sentiments were not modified, as she followed the last of the girls through the door, by hearing the manager say jocularly to the doorkeeper: "My eye! and who's chaperoning the pretty chaperon?" There was a balk, a tangle, when the fourth row was reached. The acquaintances between most of the girls dated from the morning of that day, but already each of the group had strong convictions in regard to the girls beside whom she chose to sit, and hours of discussion and debate could not have solved the problem to the satisfaction of all concerned. Belinda firmly hustled the protestants into the seats without regard to prejudices, and sat down in the end chair exhausted and rebellious. She detested the Young Person, individually and collectively. She resented being bear leader. She thought longingly of the Lanleyville High School and the home friends, and the fact that New York seethed round the theatre in which she sat afforded her no consolation. She was profoundly indifferent to the popular actor before whom her charges became as dumb, adoring worshippers. In a little while she would have to lead her flock of geese home, and she wished she dared lose them and run away. She felt a sudden sympathy for Kittie Dayton, whose pudgy, swollen face, though now radiant, looked like an unfinished biscuit. Belinda, too, was homesick--deeply, darkly, dismally homesick. Even her sense of humour was swamped. June and the end of her contract loomed but vaguely beyond a foggy waste of months. "Isn't he just too perfectly sweet, Miss Carewe?" gurgled Amelia Bowers in her ear. Belinda was non-committal. "Did you ever meet him on the street?" Belinda had never had that rapture. "Well, one might, you know," said Amelia hopefully. "Alice Ransom plumped right into Faversham, one day, when she was in New York, and he took off his hat to her and said, 'Beg pardon.' She said she felt perfectly faint. His voice sounded just like it does on the stage, and he had the most fascinating eyes and the sweetest bulldog. Alice said it seemed like Fate, running right into him that way, the first time she went out alone. She walked down Fifth Avenue at that same time every day for a week, but she never met him again." The star and his leading lady fell into each other's arms for the final curtain and later were brought out to bow their amiable acknowledgements, with results disastrous to the seams of Amelia's white gloves. The crowd rustled to its feet, preened itself, and took lagging flight toward the street. Belinda marshalled her flock and joined the exodus. She would be glad to reach the hall bedroom and shut its door upon a world that was too much with her. She coveted the stolid, tranquil society of the Pyramids. They would watch her cry with the same impenetrable indifference with which they would watch her laugh, but presumably the Garrick Theatre crowd would be impressed if she should burst into floods of tears. Drearily she followed the six couples of chattering girls who dropped adjectives and exclamations as they went, and who were quite unable to keep in line, according to the prescribed formula, in the midst of the jostling, hurrying crowd; but Belinda was little concerned by that. As a matter of fact, her thoughts were self-centred. This was her first view of a New York crowd, but she received no impression save that men and women alike looked tired and dissatisfied, though surely they were not all elected to spend the next nine months in a boarding-school. The middle aisle emptied her into the lobby; and as she stood there, vaguely conscious that something was incumbent upon her, her wandering glance fell upon a young man across the lobby. Belinda gasped, flushed. The young man's eyes met hers from where he was wedged against the wall. His face, too, lighted into incredulous joy. It was a good-looking face, a gay, boyish face, but browned to a hue that contrasted oddly with the city-bleached skins around him. Perhaps that was why he had attracted attention, and why several heads turned to discover the cause of the sudden illumination. When the owners of the heads saw Belinda they understood and smiled benignantly. All the world loves a lover. Belinda was utterly unconscious of the glances, unconscious of anything save that the gods were good. Here was Jack--Jack, of all men, dropped into the midst of her gloom. Hilarious memories and cheerful anticipations swarmed into her mind. Jack stood for home, old days, old larks, old irresponsibility. New York disappeared from the map. The Select School for Young Ladies ceased to exist. The young ladies themselves were blotted out. Beaming, dimpling, Belinda squeezed a way across the outgoing current. Grinning, radiant, Jack Wendell forced an opening for his square shoulders. They met in the whirlpool, and he cleverly hauled her into a high and dry corner. "Belinda!" "Jack!" Everyone near them smiled sympathetically. Belinda's enthusiasm is often misleading, and on this occasion she was unreservedly enthusiastic. "Is the Massachusetts in?" "Docked yesterday." "And you are going to stay?" "Several weeks--and you?" "All winter." Belinda's delight approached effervescence. Jack's face was a luminous harvest moon. Both were oblivious to the fact that he was still holding her hand. They talked breathlessly in laughter-punctuated gusts. They went back to the beginning of things and rapidly worked down past the Deluge which separated them, and the subsequent wanderings. They brought their life histories almost up to date, and then, suddenly, Miss Lucilla Ryder entered Belinda's tale. "Miss Lucilla Ryder!" As she spoke the name she underwent a sudden transformation. Her smiles and dimples vanished, her face lengthened miraculously, her eyes stared fixedly at some awesome vision. Lieutenant Wendell cast an alarmed look over his shoulder. The glance encountered a blank wall and returned to Belinda's face. "For Heaven's sake, what is it?" he asked. "The girls!" said Belinda in a whisper. Once more the Lieutenant looked over his shoulder. "Where?" he inquired, eyeing her anxiously. "I--don't--know," faltered Belinda. "Good Heavens, Belinda," protested the Lieutenant. "Wake up. What's the matter? Are you ill?" Her look and manner distressed him. This was some sort of an attack, and he didn't understand. He didn't know what ought to be done. Belinda had clutched his coat sleeve. He patted her hand encouragingly. "There, there, never mind," he murmured soothingly. Never mind, indeed! Belinda waxed tremblingly wroth. "I'm in a cold sweat. They've gone home alone. Oh, Jack, what shall I do? I don't dare to meet Miss Ryder. She'll send me away to-morrow. It's awful!" Still holding him by the coat sleeve, she was pulling him toward the door. The lobby was almost empty. The few stragglers were eyeing the tableau curiously. Masculine common-sense asserted itself. The Lieutenant drew Belinda's hand through his arm and stopped her under the glare of the electric light. "Don't be an idiot," he said brusquely. "Who is Miss Ryder? Who are the girls?" The bullying stirred the young woman to intelligence. "She's principal of the school. I'm teaching there. I brought twelve pupils to the theatre." Amazement, comprehension, sympathy chased each other across the man's face and were swallowed by wild mirth, but Belinda's eyes filled with tears, and his mirth evaporated. "Never mind. Buck up, little girl. We'll fix it some way. We'll get a cab. We'll kill a horse. We'll get there before they can. Maybe they won't tell." "Oh, yes, they will. If they were only boys--but girls will." Still Belinda revived slightly under the suggestion. "Come on. We must hustle." He hurried her to the door. Alert, energetic, self-confident, he had taken command of affairs. Belinda's spirits soared. After all, she reflected, there's something about a man. He has his moments. It was raining. The crowd had scattered, the carriages had gone. As Lieutenant Wendell raised an umbrella and looked sharply around for a cab Belinda's eyes caught sight of a row of dripping umbrellas ranged along the curb. Below the umbrellas were carefully lifted petticoats. She counted the umbrellas. There were twelve. "Jack, look!" He looked. Belinda darted forward. The umbrellas were lifted and disclosed twelve girlish faces. On each face was a wide-spreading, comprehending, maddening grin, but not a girl spoke. Belinda's cheeks were crimson, but she pulled herself together heroically. "Good night, Mr. Wendell. Come, girls." They dropped into line, still grinning. Jack stepped to Belinda's side for a moment. "Cheer up. They look like a good sort--but if there is any trouble let me know," he said softly. The teacher and her charges made their way silently toward the car. No one mentioned the lieutenant, and Belinda volunteered no explanation or excuse. She would keep at least a shred of dignity. Arrived at the school Belinda saw the girls deposited in their respective rooms, then she pulled down her folding bed, crept into it, and cried into her pillow. If the girls should tell--and they would--and even if they didn't, how could she ever have any authority over them? "Be very careful not under any circumstances to become separated from the chaperon." Miss Spogg's soft voice purred it into her ear. "Remember, however young you may look or feel, you are a teacher with responsibility upon your shoulders. Unless you take a very wise stand from the first you will be of no value to us." Miss Lucilla's voice now smote the ears of memory. If the girls should tell---- "I've changed my mind about girls," Belinda announced to Lieutenant Wendell, on her free evening, a week later. "They are much nicer than boys, and quite as generous." CHAPTER II THE MUSICAL ROMANCE OF AMELIA A SUBTLE thrill was disturbing the atmosphere of high-bred serenity which the Misses Ryder, with a strenuousness far afield from serenity, fostered in their Select School for Young Ladies. As a matter of fact, this aristocratic calm existed only in the intent and the imaginations of the lady principals, and in the convictions of parents credulous concerning school prospectuses. With fifty girls of assorted sizes and temperaments collected under one roof agitation of one sort or another is fairly well assured. Miss Ryder's teachers were by no means blind to the excitement pervading the school, but its cause was wrapped in mystery. Amelia Bowers seemed to be occupying the centre of the stage and claiming the calcium light as her due, while Amelia's own particular clique gathered in knots in all the corners, and went about brimming over with some portentous secret which they imparted to the other girls with a generosity approaching lavishness. It was after running into a crowd of arch conspirators in the music-room alcove and producing a solemn hush that Miss Barnes sought the Youngest Teacher and labored with her. "Belinda," she began in her usual brusque fashion, "what's the matter with the girls?" "Youth," replied the Youngest Teacher laconically. She was trimming a hat, and when Belinda trims a hat it is hard to divert her serious attention to less vital issues. "Have you noticed that something is going on, and that Amelia Bowers is at the bottom of it?" Belinda looked up from her millinery for one fleeting instant of scorn. "Have I noticed it? Am I stone blind?" Miss Barnes ignored the sarcasm. "But what are they doing? The light-headed set is crazy over something, and I suppose there's a man in it. They wouldn't be so excited unless there were. Now, who is he? What is he? Where is he?" "Search me," replied the Youngest Teacher with a flippancy lamentable in an instructor of youth. "I suppose Amelia is making a fool of herself in some way. Sentimentality oozes out of that girl's pores." "And yet I'm fond of Amelia," protested Belinda. Amelia was one of the twelve who had witnessed the Youngest Teacher's first disastrous experiment in chaperoning and had remained loyally mute. Miss Barnes shook her head. "My dear, I can stand sharp angles, but I detest a human feather pillow. Push Amelia in at one spot and she bulges out at another. It's impossible to make a clean-cut and permanent impression upon that girl." The teacher of mathematics always stated her opinions with a frankness not conducive to popularity. Belinda laughed. "It ought to be easy for you to find out what the girls are giggling and whispering about," continued Miss Barnes. "They are so foolish over you." "I hate a sneak." "But, Belinda----" "Yes, I know--the good of the school and all that. I've every intention of earning my salary and being loyal to Miss Ryder. I'll keep my eyes open and try to find out why the girls are whispering and hugging each other; but if you think I'm going to get one of the silly things into my room, and because she's fond of me hypnotise her into a confidence, and then use it to bring punishment down on her and her chums--I'm not!" "But what do you suppose is the trouble?" asked the Elder Teacher. "I don't believe there is any trouble. Probably Amelia's engaged again. If she is it's the sixth time." "That wouldn't stir up the other girls." "Wouldn't it? My dear, you may know cube roots, but you don't know schoolgirls. An absolutely fresh engagement is enough to make a flock of girls twitter for weeks. If there are smuggled love letters it's convulsing, and if there's parental disapproval and 'persecution' the thing assumes dramatic quality. Probably all the third-floor girls gather in Amelia's room after lights are out, and she tells them what he said, and what she said, and what papa would probably say, and they plan elopements and schemes for foiling stern teachers and parents. Amelia won't elope, though. She won't have time before her next engagement." A bell rang sharply below stairs. Miss Barnes sprang to her feet. "There's the evening study bell. I must go. I'm in charge to-night. But they do elope sometimes. This school business isn't all farce. Do watch Amelia, Belinda." Belinda had finished the hat and was trying it on before the glass with evident and natural satisfaction. "My respect for Amelia would soar if she should attempt an elopement, but even the sea-serpent couldn't elope with a jellyfish. Amelia's young man may be a charmer, but he couldn't budge Amelia beyond hysterics." In the history of the school there had been an experiment with silent study in the individual rooms; but an impartial distribution of fudge over the bedroom carpets, gas fixtures and furniture, an epidemic of indigestion, and a falling off in class standing had effected a return to less confiding and more effectual methods of insuring quiet study. As Miss Barnes entered the study-room, after her talk with Belinda, a group of agitated backs surrounding Amelia Bowers dispersed guiltily, and the girls took their seats with the italicized demureness of cats who have been at the cream. Amelia herself radiated modest self-esteem. She was IT; she was up to her eyebrows in romance! What better thing had life to offer her? The teacher in charge looked at her sharply. "Miss Bowers, if you will transfer your attention from the wall paper to your French verbs you will stand a better chance of giving a respectable recitation to-morrow." Amelia's dreamy blue eyes wandered from the intricate design on the wall to the pages of her book, but they were still melting with sentiment, and her pink and white face still held its pensive, rapt expression. "_J'aime, tu aimes, il aime_," she read. "_Il aime!_"--she was off in another trance. Miss Barnes would have builded better had she recommended algebraic equations instead of French verbs. Following the study hour came an hour of recreation before the retiring bell rang. Usually the girls inclined to music and dancing in the parlours, but now the tide set heavily upstairs toward Amelia's room, which was at the back, and was the most coveted room in the house because the most discreetly removed from teachers' surveillance. When Miss Barnes passed the door later she heard the twang of a guitar and Amelia's reedy voice raised in song. The teacher smiled. Harmless enough, certainly. Probably she had been over-earnest and suspicious. Meanwhile, behind the closed door the girls of Amelia's set were showing a strange and abnormal interest in her music--an interest hardly justified by the quality of the performance. The lights in the room were turned down as low as possible. Amelia and her roommate, Laura May Lee, were crouched on the floor close by the open window, beyond which the lights of the houses around the square twinkled in the clear dark of the October night. Huddled close to the two owners of the room on the floor were six other girls, all big-eyed, expectant, athrill with interest and excitement. Amelia touched her guitar with a white, if somewhat pudgy, hand, and sang a few lines of a popular love song. Then suddenly she stopped and leaned forward, her elbows on the windowsill, her lips apart, her plump figure actually intense. The other girls edged closer to the window and listened with bated breath. A moment's hush--then, out of the night, came an echo of Amelia's guitar, and a tenor voice took up the song where she had left it. [Illustration: "Amelia touched her guitar with a white, pudgy hand"] A sigh of satisfaction went up from the group by the window, and Amelia laid one fat hand upon what she fondly believed to be the location of her heart. The stage business was appropriate, but the star's knowledge of anatomy was limited, and the gesture indicated acute indigestion. The other girls, however, were properly impressed. "It's him," murmured the fair one rapturously, as reckless of grammar as of anatomical precision. "Oh, girls, isn't it just too sweet; what a lot of feeling he puts into it!" "The way he sings 'My Love, My Own,' is simply elegant," gasped Laura May. "I shouldn't wonder a bit if he's a foreigner. They're so much more romantic over there. An Italian's just as likely as not to fall in love this way and go perfectly crazy over it." "Maybe he's a prince," Kittie Dayton suggested. "The folks on this block go round with princes and counts and earls and things all the time. Like as not he's visiting somebody, and----" "If he were an Italian prince he wouldn't sing such good English," put in Serena Adams. Serena hailed from Massachusetts and hadn't the fervid exotic imagination characteristic of the daughters of the South. "Well, earls are English." "Earls don't sing." "Why don't they?" Serena tried in vain to imagine the English earl of her fiction reading warbling love songs out of a back window to an unknown charmer, but gave it up. "I think he's a poet," Amelia whispered, "or maybe a musician--one of the high-strung, quivering kind, don't you know." They all knew. "They're so sensitive--and responsive." Amelia spoke as though a host of lute-souled artists had worshipped at her shrine and had broken into melody at her touch. "Like as not he's only a nice American fellow. My cousin Sam at Yale sings like an angel. All he has to do is sing love songs to a girl and she's positively mushy." Amelia looked reflectively at the last speaker. "Well, I wouldn't mind so much," she said. "If he lives on this block his folks must be rich." "Some day, some day," yearned the tenor voice. "Some day I shall meet you." "My, won't it be exciting when he does," gurgled Kittie. "Does he do this every night?" Serena asked. This was her first entrance into the romantic circle. "Five nights now," Laura May explained. "Amelia was just sitting in the window Wednesday night playing and singing, and somebody answered her. Then they played and sang back and forth. We were awfully afraid the servants in the kitchen would hear it and report, but they didn't. It's been going on every night since. We're most afraid to go outside the house for fear he'll walk right up and speak." "He wouldn't know you." Amelia turned from the window to look scornfully at the sordid-souled Serena. "Not know me! Why, he'd feel that I was The One, the moment he saw me. It's like that when you love this way." She pillowed her chin on her arms again and stared sentimentally into the back yard. "Only this, only this, this, that once you loved me. Only this, I love you now, I love you now--I lo-o-ve you-u-u now." The song ended upon a high, quavering note just as the retiring bell clanged in the hall. The visiting girls waited a few moments, then reluctantly scrambled to their feet and started for their rooms. But Amelia still knelt by the window. "I'm positive he has raven black hair and an olive complexion," she said to Laura May as finally she drew the shade and began to get ready for bed. The next morning the Youngest Teacher took the girls for their after-breakfast walk. Trailing up and down the streets at the tail of the "crocodile" was one of the features of the boarding-school work which she particularly disliked; but, as a rule, the proceeding was commonplace enough. For a few mornings past Belinda had noticed something unusual about the morning expedition. She was used to chattering and giggling. She had learned that the passing of a good-looking young man touched off both the giggles and the chatter. She had even forced herself to watch the young man and see that no note found its way from his hand to that of one of the girls; but this new spirit was something she couldn't figure out. [Illustration: "For a few mornings past Belinda had noticed something unusual about the morning expedition"] In the first place the girls developed a mad passion for walking around the block. Formerly they had begged her to ramble to Fifth Avenue and to the Park. One saw more pedestrians on the avenue than elsewhere at that hour of the morning; and, if one walked to the Park, one might perchance be late for chapel and have to stay out in the hall until it was over. But now Fifth Avenue held no charms; the Park did not beckon. Round and round the home block the crocodile dragged its length, with Amelia and Laura May at its head and Belinda bringing up the rear. Men were leaving their homes on their way to business, and every time a young man made his appearance upon the steps of one of the houses on the circuit something like an electric shock ran along the school line and the crocodile quivered from head to tail. The problem was too much for the Youngest Teacher. She led her charges home in time for chapel, and meditated deeply during the morning session. Late on that same afternoon Belinda was conferring with Miss Lucilla Ryder when the maid brought a card to the principal. "'Mr. Satterly'--I don't know the gentleman. What did he look like, Katy?" "Turribly prosperous, ma'am." "Ah! possibly some one with a daughter. Miss Carewe, will you go down with me? I am greatly pressed for time. Perhaps this is something you could attend to." Belinda followed the stately figure in softly flowing black. Miss Ryder always looked the part. No parent could fail to see her superiority and be impressed. The little old gentleman who rose to greet them in the reception-room was not, however, awed by Miss Lucilla's gracious elegance. He was a corpulent, red-faced little man with a bristling moustache and a nervous manner; his voice when he spoke was incisive and crisp. "Miss Ryder, I presume." Miss Ryder bowed. "This is Miss Carewe, one of our teachers," she said, waving both Belinda and the visitor toward seats. Mr. Satterly declined the seat. "I've come to ask you if you know how your pupils are scandalizing the neighborhood," he said abruptly. Belinda jumped perceptibly. Miss Ryder's lips straightened slightly, very slightly, but she showed no other sign of emotion. "I am not aware of any misconduct on the part of the young ladies." Her manner was the perfection of courteous dignity. Belinda mentally applauded. "It's scandalous, madam, scandalous," sputtered the old gentleman, growing more excited with every second. [Illustration: "'It's scandalous, madam'"] "So you observed before, I believe. Will you kindly tell me the nature of the offence?" "Clandestine love-making with the Astorbilt's coachman--for five nights, flirting out of windows, singing mawkish songs back and forth to each other till it's enough to make a man sick. My daughters hanging out of our back window to hear! Nice example for them! Nice performance for a school where girls are supposed to be taken care of!" A faint flush had crept into Miss Ryder's cheeks. A great awakening light had dawned in Belinda's brain. "Amelia," she murmured. Miss Ryder nodded comprehension. "She's so romantic, and she supposed it was Prince Charming." Again the principal nodded. She was not slow of comprehension. "One of our young ladies is excessively romantic," she explained to the irate Mr. Satterly. "I think I understand the situation, and I shall deal with it at once. I am grieved that the neighbors have been annoyed." The old gentleman relented slightly. "Well, of course, I thought you ought to know," he said. "You were quite right. I am deeply indebted to you, and shall be still more so if you will not mention the unfortunate incident to outsiders. Good-morning." The door closed behind him. Principal and teacher faced each other. Miss Ryder's superb calm had vanished. Her eyes were blazing. "Dis-gust-ing!" she said. Belinda wrestled heroically to suppress a fit of untimely mirth. She knew Amelia and her set so well. She could picture each detail of the musical flirtation, each ridiculous touch of sentimentality. "I shall expel her." Miss Ryder's tone was firm. Belinda laid a soft hand impulsively upon the arm of the August One. "She isn't bad--just foolish----" "She's made the school ridiculous." "The school can stand it. She's made herself more ridiculous, and it will be hard for her to stand that." "How would you punish her?" "Tell the story to the whole school to-morrow. Rub in the fact that the serenader is a coarse, common, illiterate groom. Mention that the stablemen and other servants all around the block are chuckling over the thing. Rob the episode of every atom of romance. Make it utterly vulgar, and sordid, and ugly, and absurd." Miss Ryder looked at the Youngest Teacher with something akin to admiration. "I believe you are right, Miss Carewe. It will be punishment enough. I'll mention no names." "Oh, no. Everyone will know." There was a short but dramatic special session the next morning. The principal slew and spared not; and all the guilty squirmed uncomfortably, while the arch offender hid her face in her hands and sobbed miserably over shattered romance and open humiliation. Even her boon companions tittered and grinned derisively at her as she fled to her room when the conference ended. But the Youngest Teacher followed, and her eyes were very kind. CHAPTER III THE ELOPEMENT OF EVANGELINE MARIE EVA MAY rose, like a harvest moon, above the Ryder school horizon late in November. Large bodies being proverbially slow of motion, she had occupied the first two months of the school year in acquiring enough momentum to carry her from Laurelton, Mississippi, to New York and install her in the Misses Ryder's most desirable room--providentially left vacant by a defection in the school ranks. The price of the room was high, but money meant nothing to Eva May. Creature comfort meant much. The new pupil clamoured for a private bath, but finally resigned herself to the least Spartan variety of school simplicity, bought a large supply of novels, made an arrangement by which, for a consideration, the second-floor maid agreed to smuggle fresh chocolates into the house three times a week, unpacked six wrappers, and settled down to the arduous process of being "finished" by a winter in New York. Miss Lucilla Ryder, conscientious to a fault in educational matters, made an effort to plant Eva May's feet upon the higher paths of learning, and enrolled the girl in various classes; but the passive resistance of one hundred and ninety pounds of inert flesh and a flabby mind were too much for the worthy principal. "We must do what we can with her," Miss Lucilla said helplessly to the Youngest Teacher. "She may acquire something by association; and, at least, she seems harmless." Belinda agreed with due solemnity. "Yes, unless she falls upon someone, she'll do no active damage." "But her laziness and lack of ambition set such bad standards for the other girls," sighed Miss Lucilla. Belinda shook her head in protest. "Not at all. She's valuable as an awful example." So Eva May, whose baptismal name was Evangeline Marie, and whose father, John Jenkins, a worthy brewer, had wandered from Ohio to the South, married a French creole, and accidentally made a colossal fortune out of a patent spigot, rocked her ponderous way through school routine, wept over the trials of book heroines, munched sweets, filled the greater part of the front bench in certain classes where she never, by any chance, recited, furnished considerable amusement to her schoolmates, and grew steadily fatter. "If she stays until June we'll never be able to get her out through the door," prophesied Miss Barnes, the teacher of mathematics one morning, as she and Belinda stood at the door of the music-room during Eva May's practice hour, and looked at the avalanche of avoirdupois overflowing a small piano-stool. "Something really must be done." Chance provided something. The ram in the thicket took the form of an epidemic started by Amelia Bowers, whose fond parents conceived the idea that their child was not having exercise enough in city confines and wrote that they wanted her to have a horse and ride in the Park. Being a southern girl she was used to riding, but they thought it would be well for her to have a few lessons at a good riding-school, and, of course, a riding-master or reliable groom must accompany her in the Park. The Misses Ryder groaned. A teacher must chaperon the fair Amelia to riding-school, and sit there doing absent chaperoning until her charge should be restored to her by the riding-master. The teachers were already too busy. Still, as Mr. Bowers was an influential patron, the arrangement must be made. No sooner was the matter noised abroad than the whole school was bitten by the riding mania. Those who could ride wanted to ride. Those who couldn't wanted to learn. Frantic appeals went forth by letters to parents throughout the United States, but riding in New York is an expensive pastime, and only five fathers responded with the desired blessings and adequate checks. Miss Ryder wrote to the head of a popular riding-school and asked that someone be sent to talk the arrangements over with her. The next evening, during recreation hour, the girls fortunate enough to be in the drawing-room saw a radiant vision ushered in by the maid and left to await the coming of the principal. He was slim, he was dapper, he was exquisite, he was French. His small black moustache curved briskly upward from red lips curved like a bow; his nose was faultlessly straight; his black eyes were sparkling; his brows were well marked, his dark hair was brushed to a high, patent-leather polish. He wore riding clothes of the most elaborate type, despite the hour of his visit, and as he sat nonchalantly upon the red-damask sofa he tapped his shining boots with a knowing crop, curled his moustache airily, and allowed his glance to rove boldly over the display of youthful femininity. A number of the older girls rose and left the room, but a majority lingered fearfully, rapt in admiration and wonder. [Illustration: "... curled his mustache airily, and allowed his glance to rove boldly over the display of youthful femininity"] Eva May palpitated upon a commodious window-seat. Here was a realization of her brightest dreams. So Comte Robert Montpelier Ravillon de Brissac must have looked as he sprang lightly from his curveting steed and met the Lady Angélique in the Park of Flambéron. In her agitation she tucked a caramel in each cheek and forgot that they were there. "Young ladies, you may be excused." Miss Emmeline Ryder had arrived. The girls departed, and a buzz of excited conversation floated back from the hall; but Evangeline Marie went silently to her room, sore smitten. If Miss Lucilla Ryder had been selected by the Fates to meet Monsieur Albert de Puys, the chances are that some riding-school other than Manlay's would have been patronized by the Ryder school, for Miss Lucilla was a shrewd judge of men and things; but, as luck would have it, Miss Lucilla was suffering from neuralgia, and Miss Emmeline, gentle, vague, confiding, was sent down to conduct the interview. Monsieur de Puys, clever in his own fashion, was deferential and diplomatic. Miss Emmeline quite overlooked his _beaux yeux_ and the havoc they might work in girlish hearts. She made arrangements for the lessons, settled the details, and reported to Miss Lucilla that everything was satisfactory and that the envoy was "a very pleasant person." So the girls rode, and the teachers chaperoned, and the fathers paid, and on the surface all went well. Belinda was elected, more often than any of her fellow-teachers, to take the girls to the riding-school; and, on the whole, she liked the task, for it gave her a quiet hour with a book while the young equestriennes tore up the tanbark or were out and away in the Park. She merely represented the conventions, and her position was more or less of a sinecure. Occasionally she watched the girls who took their lessons indoors, and she conceived a violent dislike for one of the masters--a Frenchman with an all-conquering manner and an impertinent smile; but she never thought of taking the manner and smile seriously. If it occurred to her that the swaggering Frenchman devoted himself to Eva May more persistently than to any of the other pupils, she set the thing down to Gallic spirit and admired the instructor's bravery. Mounted upon a sturdy horse built more for strength than for speed, Evangeline Marie was an impressive sight, but she brought to the exercise an energy and a devotion that surprised everyone who knew her. "She'll not make the effort more than once," Miss Lucilla had said; but the weeks went by and still Eva May went to her riding-lessons with alacrity and regularity. She said that she was riding to reduce her flesh and had lost six pounds, and the cause seemed so worthy that the phenomenon soon ceased to excite wonder. In course of time the other schoolgirls who belonged to the riding contingent dropped the fad, but still Evangeline Marie was faithful. All through April and into the fragrant Maytime she went religiously to the riding-school twice a week, but all of her lessons were taken outdoors now, and Belinda waited upon a bench near the Park entrance, thankful to be out in the spring world. A good-looking young man, wearing his riding clothes and sitting his horse in a fashion that bespoke long acquaintance with both, passed the bench with surprising frequency, and in course of time it was borne in upon the Youngest Teacher that his unfailing appearance during Eva May's lessons was too methodical to be a mere coincidence. But, beyond a smile in his eyes, the horseman gave no sign of interest in the lonely figure upon the bench, so there was no reason for resentment, and Belinda learned to look for the bay horse and its boyish rider and for the smiling eyes with a certain pleasant expectation that relieved her chaperoning duty of dullness. One morning she sat upon her own particular bench with a book open in her lap and a listless content written large upon her. Green turf and leafy boughs and tufts of blossoms stretched away before her. There were lilac scents in the warm spring air and the birds were twittering jubilates. The man on the bay horse had ridden past once, and the smile in his eyes had seemed more boyish than ever. She wondered when he would come by again--and then, looking down the shaded drive, she saw him coming. Even at a distance she recognised something odd in the fashion of his approach. He was bending forward and riding rapidly--too rapidly for compliance with Park rules. She watched to see him slow down and walk his horse past the bench in the usual lingering way; but, instead, he came on at a run, pulled his horse up abruptly, dismounted and came toward her with his hat in his hand. Belinda drew a quick breath of surprise and embarrassment, but there was no smile in the eyes that met hers, and she realised in an instant that the stranger was in earnest--too much in earnest for thought of flirtation. "I beg your pardon," he was saying. "Maybe I'm making an ass of myself, but I couldn't feel as if it were all quite right. I've seen you here so often, you know, and I knew you were chaperoning those schoolgirls, and I didn't believe you'd allow that fat one to go off in a hansom with that beast of a Frenchman." "Wh-w-what?" she asked breathlessly. "You didn't know? I thought not. You see, I was riding past one of the Fifth Avenue gates in the upper end of the Park, and Peggy here--my horse--went lame for a minute, so I got off to see what was wrong. Just then up came the Frenchman and your fat friend, and he climbed off his horse and helped her down. Anybody could see she was excited and ripe for hysterics, and De Puys looked more like a wax Mephistopheles than usual, so I just fooled with Peg's foot and watched to see what was up. There was a boy on hand and a cab was standing outside the gate. Frenchy gave the horses to the boy and boosted the girl into the cab, and I heard him say, 'Grand Central, and hurry.' They went off at a run, and I mounted and was starting up the drive when all of a sudden it struck me that the thing was deuced queer and that maybe you didn't know anything about it. So I piked off to tell you." [Illustration: "'I heard him say, "Grand Central, and hurry"'"] Belinda looked at him helplessly. "She's eloped with him. It's her money, I suppose. What can I do?" The stranger sprang into his saddle. "Head them off, of course. You wait at the gate until I lose Peggy and get a cab. Perhaps we can catch them at the station." He was gone, and Belinda did as she was told. It was a comfort to have a man take things in hand, and she didn't stop to think that the man was a stranger. In three minutes he was at the gate with a cab, helped her into it and climbed in himself. "There's an extra dollar in it if you break the record," he said cheerfully to the cabby, and off they clattered. Not a word was spoken on the way to the station, but as the stranger paid the extra dollar Belinda fumbled in her purse. "Never mind; we'll settle up afterward. Let's see if they are here." No sign of the runaway couple. Belinda collapsed weakly into a seat and there were tears in her eyes. "Don't, please don't," begged the man beside her. "You sit here and I'll try the gatemen. Anybody'd be likely to spot a freak couple like that. Perhaps their train hasn't gone yet." A few minutes later Belinda saw him bolt into the waiting-room and stop at a ticket window. "Come on," he said, as he rushed up to her. "They've gone to Albany--train left fifteen minutes ago. Gateman thought they were funny, and noticed their tickets. He says the girl was crying. We'll have to step lively." "B-b-but what are we going to do?" stammered Belinda, as he hurried her through the gate and down the long platform. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. We're going to Albany on the Chicago Express." He helped her on the train, deposited her in a seat on the shady side of a Pullman car, sat down beside her and fanned his flushed face with his cap. Belinda strove for speech, but no words came. Things appeared to be altogether out of her hands. "They took a local express," explained the stranger by whom she was being personally conducted. "Afraid to wait in the station, I suppose. Our train passes theirs up the road, and we'll wait for them in Albany." "But perhaps they'll get off before they reach Albany," replied Belinda. "Well, their tickets were for Albany, and we'll have to gamble on that. It's a fair chance. Probably they want to lose themselves somewhere until the storm blows over and papa makes terms." "But why should you go to Albany? You've been awfully good and I'm so much obliged to you, but now I'll just go on by myself." He looked down at the independent young woman, and the familiar smile came back into his eyes. "That would be a nice proposition. I can see a life-size picture of myself letting you go up to Albany alone to handle De Puys. A chap like that needs a man. You can get the girl. I wouldn't attempt to handle her without a derrick, but I'll just make a few well-chosen remarks to that rascally Frenchman myself." "But it is an imposition upon----" "Nothing of the sort. It's an interposition--of Providence. I've spent weeks wondering how it could ever be done." Belinda looked puzzled. "You knew they were going to elope?" "No, that wasn't what I meant." "It's dreadful, isn't it?" wailed Belinda. He shook his head. "It's heavenly," he said. She tried to look puzzled again, but broke down, blushed, and became absorbed in the landscape. "My name is Morgan Hamilton." She shot a swift look at him, then turned to the window again. "I'm Miss Carewe, one of Miss Ryder's teachers." "Yes; I knew you weeks ago." Belinda lost her grasp upon her dignity and laughed. "Then it isn't like going to Albany with a perfect stranger," she said with an air of profound relief. The trip to Albany is a short one--much shorter than the railway time-schedules indicate. Both Belinda and Morgan Hamilton are prepared to testify to that effect. Also, they are willing to swear that the time between the arrival of the Chicago Express at Albany and the coming of the next New York train is grossly over-estimated. As the local train pulled into the Albany station a look of conscious guilt mingled with the excitement upon Belinda's face. "I wonder if they will come," she whispered. "I'd forgotten all about them," confessed the man at her side. The look of guilt deepened. She had forgotten, too. They came. From afar off the waiting couple saw Eva May's mighty bulk and the dapper figure at her side. Belinda stepped forward and the girl saw her. There was a pause, a moment's frightened silence, then Evangeline Marie made a noise 'twixt a groan and a squeal and clutched her beloved one's arm. Monsieur de Puys looked quickly around, saw the small but determined Nemesis in his path, and swore eloquently in good Anglo-Saxon. "Get into a cab," he said harshly to the hysterical girl beside him; and, as she made a move to obey, he turned threateningly to Belinda--but a tall, square-shouldered figure intervened, and two contemptuous eyes looked down at him. "That's enough, you contemptible whelp," said a very low but emphatic voice. "Your game's up, and you don't marry an heiress this trip. Now, get out, before I kick you out. If it weren't for the ladies I'd treat myself to the satisfaction of kicking you before you could go. I'll cut it out on their account, but if ever I hear of your speaking to that girl again or mentioning her name to anyone I'll make it my business to look you up and thrash you within an inch of your scoundrelly life." [Illustration: "'Your game's up, and you don't marry an heiress this trip'"] The red lips of Eva May's hero curled back from his white teeth in a snarl. The shallow, handsome face was white and vicious, but the insolent black eyes of the coward could not meet those of the man before him. A curious crowd was collecting. "Get out of this," said Morgan in a voice that held a warning. And the Frenchman went at once, muttering ineffectual vows of vengeance, but with never a look toward the fair Evangeline Marie, who was weeping upon Belinda's shoulder. The next train from the west took on only three passengers at Albany--a fair, good-looking young fellow in riding clothes, a fat, red-eyed girl in riding habit, and a pretty young woman in conventional garb. The fat girl fell into a seat, shut her eyes, and sobbed occasionally in a spasmodic way. The man held out his hand to the young woman. "I'll go into the smoker. I can't be of use any longer, but I'll see that you get a cab, and----" He hesitated, looked at her imploringly. "And--if--if I---- Belinda smiled. "Why, I'd be delighted," she said in answer to the question in his face. "Oh, may I come? Really? That's awfully good of you." And as he sat in the smoking-car puffing mechanically at a cigar that was not lighted Morgan Hamilton vowed a thank-offering to the god of chance. CHAPTER IV A WOLF IN THE FOLD MISS LUCILLA RYDER, clothed in stateliness as in a garment, was conducting a business interview in her study. Facing her, sat a slender young woman gowned in black. The black frock, the black hat, the black gloves were simple, unobtrusive, altogether suitable for an impecunious instructor of youth; but there was a subtle something about them that would have whispered "French" to a worldly-wise observer, even if their wearer had not been speaking the purest of Parisian French in a voice calculated to impart melody to any language. Miss Lucilla bent upon this attractive applicant for the position left vacant by the illness of Madame Plongeon--long-time French chaperon in the Ryder school--what she fondly believed to be a keen and penetrating scrutiny. Mademoiselle de Courcelles met the judicial glance with a sweet and deprecatory smile. In Miss Lucilla's hand were several letters, each written in flowing, graceful French upon stationery bearing an imposing crest. Madame la duchesse de Rochechouart, Madame la comtesse de Pourtales, Madame la comtesse de St. Narcy had in those gracious letters expressed their enthusiastic appreciation of Mademoiselle de Courcelles's rare qualities of mind and heart, their absolute confidence in her integrity and ability, and their deep regret that they had been unable to persuade her to remain in Paris and continue her supervision of the education of certain prospective dukes and counts. One note, less aristocratic in character, was from Mrs. Dent-Smyth, head of the teachers' agency to which the Misses Ryder resorted in emergencies like the present one. This worthy lady wrote frankly that as Mademoiselle de Courcelles's advent had been almost coincident with Miss Ryder's request for a teacher, there had been no time to investigate the Frenchwoman's Paris references. Mrs. Dent-Smyth was, however, of the opinion that these references seemed most satisfactory, and she believed that a personal interview with the applicant would convince Miss Ryder that the young woman was a very superior person, and her French of a superfine quality. Miss Lucilla, albeit maintaining a non-committal exterior, mentally agreed with Mrs. Dent-Smyth. Mademoiselle de Courcelles was distinguished in appearance, polished in manner, sweet of voice. She spoke English haltingly, but her French was of a quality to suit the most exacting of parents. To all of Miss Ryder's questions she made deferential, modest, yet self-possessed answer. She was, it seemed, but newly come to America. Financial reverses had forced her, an orphan of good family, to earn her living. There were wealthy and influential friends who were willing to help her, but a De Courcelles--Mademoiselle spoke the word proudly--could not live upon charity. She had taught in the families of several of these friends, but the situation was impossible, and she had decided that it would be easier to live her life among strangers, where she would be unhampered by old traditions and associations. Sounding titles flitted through the tale, brought in quite casually, but proving none the less impressive to a thoroughgoing republican. Miss Lucilla listened thoughtfully, glancing from time to time at the crests upon the letters she held. As a freeborn American she scorned to truckle to the effête aristocracy of Europe; but still, she admitted, there was really something pleasing about a title. Of course she had always been very particular about looking up references, but this was an exceptional case. She would consult Miss Emmeline. Now when Miss Lucilla says that she will consult Miss Emmeline, her mind is already made up. Miss Emmeline has never, by any chance, volunteered an opinion upon a subject without having first heard the elder sister's opinion upon the same subject. Having heard, she echoes. "I believe this young person will be a great addition to the staff," said Miss Lucilla. "I'm sure of it," murmured Miss Emmeline. "We might possibly mention in our next circular the names of the noble families with which she has been associated in France." "Certainly," echo answered. So Mademoiselle de Courcelles was engaged. Twenty-four hours later the new French teacher and three large trunks were installed in a small room on the top floor of the Ryder school. The size and number of the trunks excited comment among the servants, but the expressman who carried Mademoiselle's impedimenta up four flights of stairs noticed that the trunks were surprisingly light in weight. From the first Mademoiselle was a success, and by the time she had spent a fortnight in the school her popularity among the girls moved many of the teachers to jealousy, and even wakened in Belinda's heart a slight sense of injury to which she wouldn't have confessed for worlds. Miss Barnes, herself impervious alike to adoration or disapproval, expressed her opinion of the new comer with her usual frankness. "Cat!" she said calmly. "Graceful, sleek, purring, ingratiatory, but cat all the same." "She's very attractive," murmured Belinda. "Bad eyes," Miss Barnes commented curtly. "Handsome eyes." "All the worse for that. Mark my words, that woman isn't to be trusted." But Miss Barnes was alone in her verdict. Mademoiselle taught preparatory French so cleverly yet so modestly that Professor Marceau himself expressed his approval; and Professor Marceau, the distinguished and expensive French instructor-in-chief of the school, had never before unbent to a subordinate. Under Mademoiselle's stimulus the twenty perfunctory French phrases demanded of each pupil during the progress of dinner expanded into something approaching French conversation. Amelia Bowers and Laura May Lee, who had memorized a small section of dialogue from a Labiche play, and were in the habit of reciting it to each other every evening with much expression, thereby impressing distant teachers with the idea of fluent French chat, abandoned their brilliant scheme to talk chaotic French with Mademoiselle. In the drawing-room during evening recreation hour girls who had regarded conversation with Madame Plongeon as punishment dire, crowded around Mademoiselle de Courcelles, listening breathlessly to her vivacious stories, her reminiscences of life among the French nobility. The tide of flowers, fruit, candy, etc., that had flowed Belinda's way set heavily toward the new teacher. A French chaperon--once a calamity to be avoided at all costs--became the heart's desire of all shopping, theatre-going and holiday-making pupils. "She's perfectly lovely, Miss Carewe," gushed Amelia Bowers, "and she's had the most interesting experiences. I should think you and she would be bosom friends. You couldn't help loving her if you'd just get to knowing her well. Why, every single one of our crowd has got the most dreadful crush on her. Laura May says she's just like a heroine out of a book; and you needn't think because she's so gay and jolly that she's always been happy. That's just the French way. She says the French even go to death jesting. Isn't that splendid? But she's had awful sorrows. It would make you cry to hear her talk about them--that is, she doesn't exactly tell you about them, you know, but you can tell from the way she talks that she's had them, and that's what makes her so sympathetic and lovely about other people's troubles. Why, I could just tell her ANYTHING." Amelia heaved a cyclonic sigh, and assumed the expression of one who could reveal much to a properly sympathetic soul. Finding no encouragement in Belinda's face, she plunged again into praise of Mademoiselle. "All the girls feel that way. They tell her every blessed thing that ever happened to them. Laura May says she never saw anybody before that she could reveal her most sacred feelings to. She told Mademoiselle all about Jim Benton the very first night she met her. Mademoiselle says she had almost the same sort of a time--she called it '_une affaire_'--with Comte Raoul de Cretigny, when they were both very young, but that one does get over such things. She encouraged Laura May a lot; but she said such beautiful things about first love and about how no love that came afterward could have just the same exquisite flavour--at least it wasn't exactly 'flavour' she used, and it wasn't 'bloom' either, but it was something like that. Anyway, Laura May cried bucketfuls, and yet she said she felt encouraged to hope she might forget and love again. That's like Mademoiselle. Now some people would have encouraged Laura May too much, and wouldn't have understood how sad the whole thing was, and that would have spoiled everything." The breathless Amelia came of necessity to a full stop, and Belinda went on her way to her room with a queer little smile hovering around her lips. Not only the emotional contingent of the school, but the sensible girls as well, appeared to come under the siren's spell. "She's awfully clever and amusing, Miss Carewe," said Katherine Holland, Belinda's staunch and faithful satellite. "Of course I'm not dotty over her like Amelia's crowd, but she really is great fun, and I like being with her when those girls aren't around. She does talk such sentimental trash to them." "If you want to criticise any of the teachers you may find another room and another listener, my dear." Belinda's dignified reproof was most impressive and Katherine subsided, with a murmured, "Oh, but I do like her, you know." As the weeks passed by the general enthusiasm gradually crystallised into particular adoration. Mademoiselle was still universally popular, but with a certain clique she was a mania. All of the moneyed pupils belonged to this set, and their devotion was such that they were one and all unwilling to go for an outing save under convoy of the French chaperon. Even Evangeline Marie Jenkins was stirred to her depths by Mademoiselle's charm and, rising above the handicap of avoirdupois and temperament, became almost energetic in her shopping and theatre-going, in order to enjoy the privilege of the charmer's society. At first Miss Lucilla Ryder was inclined to interfere in the interest of humanity, and save Mademoiselle de Courcelles from being imposed upon; but the little Frenchwoman met the kindly interference with good-natured protest. "Ah, Miss Ryder, you are so good, so thoughtful," she said in her delicious French. "You have the kind heart; but I must earn my salary, and if it is in this way that I am most useful to you, let me show my goodwill, my devotion to your school, by going where the young ladies will. They amuse me--those dear children. I love being with them, and I am strong and well. I do not tire. "But there is one thing, chère Mademoiselle Ryder. I know that the other teachers--my associates--dislike the shopping. They object to chaperoning the young ladies upon the little expeditions to the shops. Me, I do not mind. I am glad to go if it will save the others from a duty that is disagreeable. It has come to me that perhaps the theatre is more popular than the shopping, that it may give pleasure to chaperon to the theatre, the opera, the concert. That is so, is it not?" Miss Ryder admitted that there might be reason in the theory. Mademoiselle smiled, a sweet, swift smile. "Ah, it is so. Then you will do me a favour? Yes? It would be better that for the theatre other chaperons should be chosen. Me, I will take for myself all the shopping. It will give me pleasure to have it so. I will feel that it is for the happiness of my fellow-teachers, and that will give _me_ happiness. You will arrange it so, is it not?" Miss Lucilla demurred. The arrangement was unfair. Shopping was the teachers' _bête noire_. It would not do to load all of the unpleasant duty upon one pair of shoulders. Mademoiselle refused to be spared. She appreciated her superior's consideration, but she was bent upon being noble, and begged for martyrdom. "After all it is not as if I, too, disliked the thing. Me, I am French. I love the shops. Fatiguing? Yes, the young ladies are slow in making up their minds, but it is all one to me." In the end Miss Lucilla yielded, and in due course the announcement was made in faculty meeting that Mademoiselle de Courcelles would chaperon all shopping expeditions, but would do no evening chaperoning. Miss Lucilla accompanied the announcement by a few remarks concerning the cheerful spirit in which Mademoiselle de Courcelles accepted the undesirable duty. Mademoiselle looked modestly deprecatory. The teachers were surprised and pleased. Only Miss Barnes, unmoved, eyed the willing martyr with a coolly speculative glance. Shopping was always a vital issue with a certain set of the Ryder pupils. The girls were extravagant and amply provided with pocket-money by parents foolishly indulgent. Moreover, shopping commissions from home were many; and, though one of the school rules carefully embalmed in the circulars was to the effect that no pupil could be allowed more than one shopping expedition in any one week, this rule, like many another, was more honored in the breach than in the observance. So Mademoiselle de Courcelles found her hands full with her self-elected task, and not a day went by without her leading forth from one to fifteen girls bent upon storming the shops. As Christmas holidays approached, the shopping fever waxed more violent, and there was no afternoon of rest for the shopping chaperon. Not only had each of the girls a long Christmas list of purchases she must make for herself, but the lists of commissions from home grew and multiplied. Through all the strain and stress Mademoiselle de Courcelles maintained her cheerful serenity. Her amiability never wavered, her gay volatility never flagged. The girls chorused her praises. She was the most helpful of advisers, the most wise of shoppers, the most unwearying of chaperons. Sometimes she came home to dinner with dark circles under her eyes and lines of fatigue about her mouth, but her spirits were always intact, and even Miss Barnes admitted that the Frenchwoman was good-natured and that her amiable self-sacrifice had been a boon to the rest of the resident teachers. During the last week of the term several annoying incidents disturbed the serenity of the Misses Ryder, and caused more or less excitement among the girls. First and most distressing was the loss of Laura May Lee's pocket-book. Under ordinary circumstances this would not have been a calamity, for Laura May's pocket-money melted away as if by magic, and her pocket-book was chronically flat. But, as it happened, Mr. Lee, a wealthy Southern widower, had been confiding enough to send Laura May a check for $500, and commission her to select two rings as Christmas presents for herself and her younger sister. The rings were chosen after several expeditions to famous jewellery shops, and at last one afternoon Laura May and a group of chosen friends, chaperoned by Mademoiselle de Courcelles, set forth to bring home the spoils. Miss Ryder had cashed the check, the $500 in cash reposed snugly in Laura May's purse; but when, at the jeweller's, Laura May opened her shopping-bag, lo! the purse had vanished and the $500 with it--gone, evidently, to swell some pickpocket's holiday harvest. Only a few days later Mademoiselle de Courcelles, in an interview behind closed doors, reported to Miss Ryder that a small sum of money had been stolen from her trunk, and that circumstantial evidence pointed to Ellen, one of the chamber-maids, as the thief. Mademoiselle explained that she did not mind the personal loss, but as the pupils had been complaining of the disappearance of money, jewellery, silver toilet articles, etc., she felt it her duty to report her suspicions. Miss Lucilla promptly ordered Ellen's trunks and bureau drawers searched and, a gold hatpin belonging to Evangeline Marie Jenkins having materialized in one of the bureau drawers, Ellen, weeping and to the last protesting her innocence, was summarily turned out of the house. After this excitement, school life flowed on smoothly until the last Saturday before the holiday vacation. "The whole school's going shopping to-day," Amelia Bowers announced at the breakfast table on this particular Saturday morning. "Everybody's got a Christmas list a mile long, and it's going to be something awful. The stores will be simply jammed and it'll take an hour to buy a paper of pins." Miss Lucilla Ryder smiled tolerantly and omitted her usual criticism of Amelia's extravagant speech. "You will need assistance to-day, Mademoiselle de Courcelles. I will send some of the young ladies out with other teachers." She did; but Mademoiselle's ardent admirers were faithful, and she started out at half-past nine in charge of twelve of the richest girls in the school. From shop to shop the flock fluttered, chattering, giggling, elbowing their way through the crowds, buying many things, inspecting more, meeting smiles and good nature on every hand. There's something about the effervescent exuberance of a boarding-school crowd that thaws even the icy hauteur of the average saleswoman, and stirs any salesman to spectacular affability. It was after a hasty and simple luncheon, beginning with lobster salad and ending with tutti-frutti ice cream and chocolate éclairs, that the Ryder expedition drifted into a well-known jewellery shop. Belinda, helping Katherine Holland to choose a stickpin for her brother, saw the familiar faces and idly watched the girls as they bore down upon a counter where a bland salesman greeted them with welcoming smiles. She knew that Laura May was once more in quest of rings--her long-suffering father having dutifully forwarded a second cheque when told, in a tear-blotted letter, of the fate that had met the first gift--and she smiled when Laura May triumphantly fished a chamois-skin bag out of her blouse front and extracted a roll of bills which she clutched firmly in her hand, while her glance, roaming suspiciously over the surrounding crowd, glared defiance at all pickpockets. Suddenly Belinda's smile faded. Her eyes opened wide in amazement. She had seen a swift, deft movement of Mademoiselle's hand--but no, it was impossible. She had imagined it. Yet she stood staring in a bewildered fashion at the Frenchwoman until Katherine touched her arm. "What's the matter, Miss Carewe? I'm ready to go." Belinda smiled vaguely, and moved toward the door in the wake of Mademoiselle and her charges, who were also leaving. She lost sight of them in the crowd; but, as she neared the door, there was a sudden swirling eddy in the incoming and outgoing tides. Something was happening outside. The sound of excited girlish voices floated into the shop. A crowd was forming on the sidewalk. Belinda's cheeks flamed scarlet. A look of startled comprehension gleamed in her eyes. "Hurry," she urged curtly; and, with her hand on Katherine's arm, forged ahead through the door, unceremoniously pushing aside everyone who interfered with her rapid exit. Once outside, she turned unhesitatingly toward a group blocking the sidewalk. A policeman's helmet loomed large above the heads of the crowd; and, as Belinda approached, the policeman's sturdy form forced a way through the circle. Following came Mademoiselle de Courcelles escorted by two men whose faces wore smiles of quiet satisfaction. Behind was a bewildered, hysterical group of girls, weeping, lamenting, protesting, entreating. Belinda stopped the procession. "There must be some mistake," she said falteringly. "What is wrong?" One of the keen-eyed men took off his hat respectfully. "Sorry, Miss; but it's French Liz, all right. We got the tip from Paris that she was working New York again, but we couldn't spot her till to-day." "B-b-but what has she done?" stammered Belinda, to whom twelve anguish-stricken girls were attempting to cling, while a mixed audience looked on appreciatively. "Cleverest shop-lifter in the graft," explained the detective. "She's got plenty of the goods on her right now; but I say"--and his glance wandered to the girls--"who'd a-thought of this lay except Liz? She's a bird, she is!" He turned to Mademoiselle de Courcelles with honest admiration in his eyes, and she smiled at him recklessly, with white lips. "You'd have been too late to-morrow. I was expecting a telegram calling me away to-night." All the hesitation was gone from her English. She spoke fluently, and a hard metallic ring had crept into the velvety voice. The detective looked at Belinda. "This other fellow is the shop-detective. We'll have to take her in here and see what swag she has beside the diamonds we saw her lift. I don't know as there's any use keeping the young ladies----" Evangeline Marie gave a smothered wail at the suggestion, and Laura May showed signs of fainting in Belinda's arms. "Boarding-school crowd, I see. Now, Miss, if you'll just give me the name of the school and the address, you can take the bunch along home. It isn't likely that any of those babes are in the game with Liz. She's just used them for a blind. Holy smoke! but that was a good idea. Turn a crowd of boarding-school girls loose at a counter, and their teacher could steal the clerks blind without their suspecting her. Lost anything in the school?" Belinda had a sudden vision of the disgraced Ellen's tearful face, and a thought of Laura May's pocket-book smote her, but she merely wrote the address on a card and handed it to the detective. "If you could keep the name of the school out of the scandal it would be worth your while," she said in a low voice. The detective nodded. "I'll try; but I guess the papers will get it one way or another. Don't let anyone touch Liz's trunks. I'll be up to go through them just as soon as I've finished here." For the first time, Mademoiselle faced Belinda and the wide-eyed girls. "_Ces chères demoiselles! Cette superbe_ Mees Ryder! Bah! It was too easy. I mention a duchess, a countess. The lofty Mees Ryder falls upon my neck. I tell stories of the French noblemen who have adored me, persecuted me with their devotion until I fled from France; poor but honest. The little schoolgirls gulp it all down and beg for more. Oh, but they are stupid--these respectable people. You have my sympathy, Mademoiselle Carewe. You must live among them. For me--give me _les gens d'esprit_, give me a society interesting. _Adieu, mes chères._ It was amusing, that boarding-school experience, but to endure it long--_mon dieu_, I prefer even this!" She waved her hand airily toward the policeman and the grinning detectives, and, with a shrug, moved toward the shop door, then paused for a parting message. "My regards to the venerable spinsters. It pains me that I shall never be able to arrange for them a meeting with the Duchesse de Rochechouart and Madame la Comtesse de Pourtales. The maid of the duchess collected stationery for me at one time. It is often of use, the stationery that carries a good crest. Adieu!" Belinda convoyed a subdued group of girls back to the school; but, by the time they reached the door, their spirits had soared. It is sad to be disillusioned, but after all it is something to have been intimately associated with a famous criminal, and to have been an eye-witness of her capture. Only Laura May Lee mourned and refused to be comforted. "I will never again open my soul to anyone," she vowed hysterically. "I said the woman was a cat," commented Miss Barnes when the news reached her ears. What Miss Lucilla Ryder said in the first fervor of her surprise no one save Belinda knew, for their interview was behind closed doors, but when she came from her room to meet the detective Miss Lucilla's calm dignity was without a ripple. The investigation of teachers' credentials is now her pet hobby, and she freezes at the mention of the French nobility. CHAPTER V THE BLACK SHEEP'S CHRISTMAS FIVE days before Christmas the school of the Misses Ryder emptied its pupils and teachers into the bosoms of more or less gratified families, and closed its doors for the holiday season. The principals lingered for two days after the girls left, in order to see that the furniture was covered, the furnace fires were allowed to die, the gas was turned off, the shades were decorously drawn, the regular butcher's, baker's and milkman's supplies were stopped. Then they, too, went out into the world, for they always spent Christmas with the old aunt who lived upon the ancestral Ryder acres in New Hampshire. Five of the servants had joined the exodus. Only Ellen, the fat cook, and Rosie, the laundress, were left in the basement, and in the back hall bedroom on the top floor was the Youngest Teacher, who had submitted to enthusiastic kisses from her departing girl adorers, had responded cheerfully to pleasant adieus from her employers, and had settled down to face a somewhat depressing situation. On Christmas Eve she was still facing it pluckily. A storm of wind and sleet was beating at the windows, and the little hall bedroom, unheated for days past, had taken on the chill that seems to have body and substance. In a wicker chair, beside the small table, Belinda, wrapped in blankets and with a hot-water bag under her feet, sat reading by the light of a kerosene lamp which threw weird, flickering shadows on the ugly gray walls. As a particular vicious blast shrieked at the window the girl dropped her book into her lap, drew the blankets more closely about her, looked around the room, and made a heroic effort to smile. Then she smiled spontaneously at the lamentable failure of the attempt, but the smile left the corners of her mouth drooping. She was tired of being brave. Somewhere out across the night there were love and laughter and friends. She wondered what the home folk were doing. Probably they missed her, but they were together and they had no idea how things were with her, for her letters had been framed to suggest festive plans and a school full of holiday sojourners. She had written those letters with one eye upon the Recording Angel and the other upon her mother's loving, anxious face, and it had seemed to her that the Recording Angel's smile promised absolution. She was glad she hadn't been frank, but--she wanted her mother. The quivering face was buried in the rough folds of the blankets, and a queer, stifled sound mingled with the noise of the storm. The Youngest Teacher was only twenty-two, and this was her first Christmas away from home. But the surrender did not last long. Belinda sprang to her feet, hurled a remark that sounded like "maudlin idiot" at a dishevelled vision in the mirror, picked up the lamp, and went down to the gymnasium on the second floor. When she came back she was too warm to notice the chill of the room, too tired to think. She pulled down the folding bed, tumbled into it, and dreamed of home. Christmas morning was clear and cold. Belinda awoke late, and, as the realities crowded in upon her, shut her eyes and tried to dodge the fact that there was no one to wish her a merry Christmas. She was crying softly into her pillow when the room door was opened cautiously and two ruddy Irish faces peered through the crack. "A merry Christmas to ye, Miss!" shouted two voices rich in creamy brogue. Belinda opened her eyes. "Sure, Oi said to Rosie, 'It's a shame,' sez Oi, 'the young leddy up there wid divil a wan to wish her luck. Let's go up,' sez Oi. So we come." Then Ellen, who was an excellent cook and a tough citizen, had the surprise of her life, for a slim, pretty girl sprang out of bed, threw her arms around the cook's portly form, and kissed the broad, red face. Rosie had her turn while Ellen was staggering under the shock. "Bless you both," said Belinda, looking at them through wet eyes. The cook opened and shut her mouth feebly, but her own eyes held a responsive moisture. "Aarrah, now, was it ez bad ez that?" she asked with rough gentleness. "We were thinkin' maybe we'd be so bold as to ask wud ye come down to the kitchen and have a drop av coffee and a bit av toast wid us. It's bitter cold the mornin' to be goin' out to an eatin'-house, and there's a grand foire in the stove." The invitation was accepted, and the guest stayed in the warm kitchen until Rosie's young man materialised. Then Belinda retreated to her own room, made her bed, tucked herself up snugly in the big chair, and once more turned to the consolations of literature. She was still grimly reading when, at eleven o'clock, Ellen tapped on the door. "If ye plaze, Miss, there's a man wud loike to be spakin' wid yez." Belinda looked blankly incredulous. Then a gleam of hope flashed across her face. By a miracle, Jack's boat might have come back--or somebody from home---- "Yis; he sez his name's Ryder." "Ryder?" echoed Belinda. "He wuz afther askin' fer Miss Ryder and Miss Emmiline furrst, and he luked queer loike when I told him they wuz gone away. "'Who's here, onyway,' sez he, sort o' grinnin' as if it hurt him. "'There's Miss Carewe,' sez Oi, 'wan av th' tachers.' "'Ask her will she see me fer a minute,' sez he; an' wid that I come fer yez." "What's he like, Ellen?" "Well, he's bigger than most and kind av gruff spoken, as though he'd as lave hit ye if he didn't loike yer answers; but it's nice eyes and good clothes he has. He's a foine figger av a man, and he do be remindin' me some way av Miss Ryder. I doubt he's a relation." Belinda was straightening her hair and putting cologne on her swollen eyelids. "I'll have to go down. Where is he?" "In the back parlour, Miss." "Did you raise the shades?" "Divil a bit. It's ez cheerful ez a buryin' vault in there." It was. John Ryder had grasped that fact as he sat waiting, upon one of the shrouded chairs. He turned up his coat collar with a shiver. "Lord, how natural it seems," he muttered. "They did the same sort of thing at home. Give me the ranch." The portière before the hall door was pushed aside and the man rose. He was prepared for a gaunt, forbidding, elderly spinster. He saw a girl in a dark blue frock that clung to the curves of the slender figure as though it loved them. He saw a waving mass of sunny brown hair that rippled into high lights even in the darkened room and framed a piquant face whose woeful brown eyes were shadow-circled. "Merry Christmas!" he said abruptly. "Merry Christmas!" Belinda replied before she realised the absurdity of it. "You don't look it," commented John Ryder frankly. Belinda crossed the room, threw up the shades, and turned to look at the amazing visitor, who stood the scrutiny with imperturbable calm. "I am Miss Carewe. You wish to see me?" The tone was frigid, but its temperature had no apparent effect. "Yes. I'm John Ryder," the man announced tranquilly; then, seeing that she didn't look enlightened, he added, "I'm Miss Ryder's brother, you know." Belinda thawed. "Why, I didn't know----" she began, then stopped awkwardly. "Didn't know the girls had a brother. No; I fancy they haven't talked about me much. You see, I'm the 'black sheep.'" The statement was brusque, but the smile was disarming. "I've been thoroughly bleached, Miss Carewe. Don't turn me out." She had no intention of turning him out. His voice had an honest note, his eyes were very kind, and she lacked supreme confidence in her employers' sense of values; so she sat down upon an imposing chair swathed in brown Holland and looked at the "Black Sheep." "What have they been doing to you?" he asked. "I'm homesick." She essayed gay self-derision, but her lips trembled, and to John Ryder's surprise he found his blood boiling, despite the icy temperature of the room. "Did they leave you here all alone?" "Nobody left me. I stayed." Belinda was conscious that the conversation had taken an amazing leap into intimacy, and clutched at her dignity, but she felt bewildered. There was something overpowering and masterful about this big, boyish man. "Nobody else here?" "Servants." "House shut up like this?" "Naturally." "No heat?" "I can't see that the matter concerns you, Mr. Ryder--unless----" "Oh, no. I'm not thinking of staying." Her attempt at rebuff had not the smallest effect. "No gas, either, I suppose?" She didn't answer. He said something under his breath that appeared to afford him relief. "No friends in town, evidently?" Belinda rose with fine stateliness. "If there's nothing I can do for you, Mr. Ryder----" "Sit down." She sat down involuntarily, and then felt egregiously foolish because she had done it; but John Ryder was leaning forward with his honest eyes holding hers and was talking earnestly. "Please don't be angry. I've been out in the Australian bush so long that I've forgotten my parlour tricks. Men say what they think, and ask for what they want, and do pretty well as they please--or can--out there. I've hardly seen a woman. I suppose they'd cut down the independence if they entered into the game. But, see here, Miss Carewe, you're homesick. I'm homesick, too--and I'm worse off than you, for I'm homesick at home. It's rather dreadful being homesick at home." There was a note, half bitter, half regretful, in the voice and a look in the eyes that was an appeal to generosity. Belinda's conventionality crumpled up and her heart warmed toward the fellow-waif. "I've been counting a good deal upon a home Christmas," he went on; "more than I realised; and this isn't exactly the real thing." Belinda nodded comprehension. The "Black Sheep" read the sympathy in her eyes. "It's good of you to listen. You see, I've been away twenty years. It's a long time." He sat silent for a moment staring straight before him, but seeing something that she could not see. Then he came back to her. "Yes; it's a long time. One imagines the things one has left stand still, but they don't. I thought I'd find everything pretty much the same. Of course I might have known better, but--well, a fellow's memory and imagination play tricks upon his intelligence sometimes. I liked New York, you know. It's the only place, but I made the mistake of thinking I could fill it, and it was bigger than I had supposed. I swelled as much as I could, but I finally burst, like the ambitious frog in the fable. I'd made a good many different kinds of a fool of myself, Miss Carewe." He hesitated, but her eyes encouraged him. "I'd made an awful mess of things, and the family were down on me--right they were, too. The girls were pretty bitter. It was hard on them, you see, and I deserved all I got. Emmy would have forgiven me, but Lou was just rather than merciful. You know justice is Lou's long suit. Well, I cut away to Australia, and I didn't write--first because I hadn't anything good to tell, and then because I didn't believe anybody'd care to hear, and finally because it had got to be habit. It'd a' been different if mother had been alive. Probably I'd never have run--or if I had run I'd have written, but sisters--sisters are different. Mothers are----" His voice stuck fast with a queer quaver, and Belinda nodded again. She knew that mothers were---- He found his voice. "I struck it rich after a while and I was too busy making money to think much; but by-and-by, after the pile was pretty big, I got to thinking of ways of spending it, and then old New York began bobbing into my world again, and I thought about the girls and the things I could do to make up, and about the good times I could give some of the old crowd who had stood by me when I was good for nothing and didn't deserve a friend. And then I began planning and planning--but I didn't write. I used to go to sleep planning how I'd drop back into this little village and what I'd do to it. Finally I decided to get here for Christmas. The schoolgirls would be away then and I would walk in here and pick Emmy and Lou up, and give them the time of their lives during the holidays. All the way across the Pacific and the continent I was planning the surprise. I've got two ten-thousand-dollar checks made out to the girls here in my pocket, and I've got a list a mile long of other Christmas presents I was going to get for them. I even had the Christmas dinner menu fixed--and here I am." He looked uncommonly like a disappointed child. Belinda found herself desperately sorry and figuratively feeling in her pocket for sugar-plums. "Your friends----" she began. He interrupted. "I tried to hunt up five of the old crowd, over the 'phone. Two are dead. One's in Europe. One's living in San Francisco. The other didn't remember my name until I explained, and then he hoped he'd see me while I was in town. It's going to be a lively Christmas." Suddenly he jumped up and walked to the window, then came back and stood looking down at the Youngest Teacher. "Miss Carewe, we are both Christmas outcasts. Why can't we make the best of it together?" Belinda flushed and sat up very straight, but he went on rapidly: "What's the use of your moping here alone and my wandering around the big empty town alone? Why can't we spend the day together? You'll dine with me and go to a matinée, and we'll have an early supper somewhere, and then I'll bring you home and go away. We can cheer each other up." "But it's so----" "Yes, I know it's unconventional, but there's no harm in it--not a bit. You know my sisters, and nobody knows me here--and anyway, as I told you, I'm bleached. Word of honor, Miss Carewe, I'm a decent sort as men go--and I'm old enough to be your father. It would be awfully kind in you. A man has no right to be sentimental, but I'm blue. The heart's dropped out of my world. I'm not a drinker nowadays, but if I hadn't found you here I'm afraid I'd have gone out and played the fool by getting royally drunk. Babies we are, most of us. Please come. It will make a lot of difference to me, and it would be more cheerful for you than this sort of thing. Come! Do, won't you?" And Belinda, doubting, wondering, hesitating, longing for good cheer and human friendliness, turned her back upon Dame Grundy and said yes. Half an hour later a gay, dimpling girl, arrayed in holiday finery, and a stalwart, handsome man with iron-gray hair but an oddly boyish face, were whirling down Fifth Avenue, in a hansom, toward New York's most famous restaurant. The man stopped the cab in front of a florist's shop, disappeared for a moment, and came out carrying a bunch of violets so huge that the two little daintily gloved hands into which he gave the flowers could hardly hold them. The restaurant table, reserved by telephone while Belinda was making a hasty toilette, was brave with orchids. An obsequious head waiter, impressed by the order delivered over the wire, conducted the couple to the flower-laden table and hovered near them with stern eyes for the attendant waiters and propitiatory eyes for the patron of magnificent ideas. Even the invisible chef, spurred by the demand upon his skill, wrought mightily for the delectation of the Christmas outcasts--and the outcasts forgot that they were homesick, forgot that they were strangers, and remembered only that life was good. John Ryder told stories of Australian mine and ranch to the girl with the sparkling eyes and the eager face: talked, as he had never within his memory talked to anyone, of his own experiences, ambitions, hopes, ideals; and Belinda, radiant, charming, beamed upon him across the flowers and urged him on. Once she pinched herself softly under cover of the table. Surely it was too good to be true, after the gloom of the morning. It was a dream: a violet-scented, French-cookery-flavoured dream spun around a handsome man with frank, admiring eyes and a masterful way. But the dream endured. They were late for the theatre, but that made little difference. Neither was alone, forlorn, homesick. That was all that really counted. After the theatre came a drive, fresh violets, despite all protest, an elaborate supper, which was only an excuse for comradeship. As the time slipped by a shadow crept into John Ryder's eyes, his laugh became less frequent. He stopped telling stories and contented himself with asking occasional questions and watching the girl across the table, who took up the conversation as he let it fall and juggled merrily with it, although the colour crept into her cheeks as her eyes met the gray eyes that watched her with some vague problem stirring in their depths. "We must go," she said at last. John Ryder pushed his coffee-cup aside, rose, and wrapped her cloak around her, without a word. Still silent, he put her into the cab and took a seat beside her. "I shall go to-night," he said after a little. "Go? Where?" Belinda's voice was surprised, regretful. The man looked down at her. "It's a good deal better. I belong out there. There's no place for me here, unless----" He stopped and shook his head impatiently. "I'd better go. I'd only make a fool of myself if I stayed. I'll run up and spend a day with the girls and then I'll hit the trail for the ranch again. I'll be contented out there--perhaps. There's something here that gets into a man's veins and makes him want things he can't have." "I'm sorry," Belinda murmured vaguely. "It's been very nice, hasn't it?" He laid a large hand over her small ones. "Nice--that's a poor sort of a word, little girl." The cab stopped before the school door. The two Christmas comrades went slowly up the steps and stood for a moment in the dark doorway. "You are surely going?" "Yes, I'm going." "You've been very good to me. I shall remember to-day----" "And I." He put a hand on each of her shoulders. "I'm forty-five and I'm--a fool. You've given me a happy day, little girl, but some way or other I'm more homesick than ever. I've had a vision--and I think I shall always be homesick now. Good-by. God bless you!" Belinda climbed the stairs to her room with a definite sense of loss in her heart. "Still," she admitted to herself, as she put the violets in water, "he was forty-five." CHAPTER VI THE BLIGHTED BEING KATHARINE HOLLAND was distinctly unpopular during her first weeks in the Ryder School. Miss Lucilla Ryder treated her courteously, but Miss Lucilla's courtesy had a frappé quality not conducive to heart expansion. Miss Emmeline showed even more than her usual gentle propitiatory kindliness toward the quiet, unresponsive girl, but kindliness from Miss Emmeline had the flavour of overtures from a faded daguerreotype or a sweetly smiling porcelain miniature. It was a slightly vague, impersonal, watery kindliness not calculated to draw a shy or sensitive girl from her reserve. The teachers, all save Belinda, voted Katharine difficult and unimpressionable. As for the girls, having tried the new pupil in the schoolgirl balance, and having found her lamentably wanting in appreciation of their friendliness, they promptly voted her "snippy," and vowed that she might mope as much as she pleased for all they cared--but that was before they knew that she was a "Blighted Being." The moment that the cause of Katharine's entrance into the school fold and of her listless melancholy was revealed to her schoolfellows, public opinion turned a double back-somersault and the girl became the centre of school interest. Her schoolmates watched her every move, hung upon her every word, humbly accepted any smallest crumbs of attention or comradeship she vouchsafed to them. No one dared hint at a knowledge of her secret, but in each breast was nursed the hope that some day the heroine of romance might throw herself upon that breast and confide the story of her woes. Meanwhile, it was much to lavish unspoken sympathy upon her and live in an atmosphere freighted with romance. Amelia Bowers was the lucky mortal who first learned the new girl's story and had the rapture of telling it under solemn pledge of secrecy to each of the other girls. Sentiment gravitates naturally toward Amelia. She is all heart. Possibly it would be more accurate to say she is all heart and imagination; and if a sentimental confidence, tale, or situation drifts within her aura it invariably seeks her out. Upon this occasion the second-floor maid was the intermediary through which the romantic tale flowed. She had been dusting the study while Miss Lucilla and Miss Emmeline discussed the problem of Katharine Holland, and happening to be close to the door--Norah emphasised the accidental nature of the location--she had overheard the whole story. Norah herself had loved, early and often. Her heart swelled with sympathy, and she sped to Amelia, in whom she had discovered a kindred and emotional soul. Fifteen minutes later Amelia, in one of her many wrappers, and with but one side of her hair done up in kids, burst in upon Laura May Lee and Kittie Dayton, who were leisurely preparing for bed. Excitement was written large upon the visitor's pink and white face. She swelled proudly with the importance of a bearer of great tidings. "Girls, what do you think?" She paused dramatically. The girls evidently didn't think, but they sat down upon the bed, big-eyed and expectant. "Cross your hearts, hope to die?" They crossed their hearts and solemnly hoped they might perish if they revealed one word of what was coming. "You know Katharine Holland?" They did. "Awful stick," commented Laura May. Amelia flamed into vivid defence. "Nothing of the sort. I guess you'd be quiet too, Laura May Lee, if your heart was broken." With one impulse the girls on the bed drew their knees up to their chins and hugged them ecstatically. This was more than they had hoped for. [Illustration: "The girls on the bed drew their knees up to their chins"] "Yes, sir, broken," repeated Amelia emphatically. "How d'you know?" asked Kittie Dayton. "Never you mind. I know all about it." "She didn't tell you?" "No, she didn't tell me, but I know. She's madly in love with an enemy of her house." "Not really?" Laura May's tone was tremulous with interest. Kittie gave her knees an extra hug. "It's like Romeo and Juliet," she said. Kittie was a shining light in the English Literature classes. Satisfied with the impression she had made Amelia gathered her forces for continuous narrative. "You see, her folks have got lots of money, and she's their only child, but her father's an awful crank and her mother don't dare say her soul's her own." "Don't Katharine's father like her?" Amelia was annoyed. "If you'll keep still, Kittie, I'll tell you all about it. If you can't wait I won't tell you at all." Kittie subsided, and the story flowed on. "He adores her, but he's very stubborn, and there's a man he hates worse than poison. They had some sort of a business quarrel a long time ago, and Mr. Holland is as bitter as can be yet and never allows one of his family to speak to one of the other family. He said he'd shoot any Clark who stepped a foot on his grounds." Amelia's face was radiant with satisfaction. Her voice was hushed for dramatic effect. "There's a Clark boy," she went on; then, not pleased with the ring of her sentence, began again. "The hated enemy has a son." That was much better, and it gave her a good running start. "He's handsome as a prince, and perfectly lovely in every way." Miss Lucilla hadn't confided this fact to Miss Emmeline, but there are some things one knows instinctively, and Amelia believes in poetic license as applied to drama. "He's been away at school, but he came home last June, and he and Katharine got acquainted somewhere. She didn't dare tell her father she had met him, but she loved him desperately at first sight." Once more Miss Lucilla's bald facts were being elaborated. "Did he fall in love that way, too?" Kittie was athirst for detail. "He was crazy over her the minute he set eyes on her, and he just had to see her again, and he got a friend to take her walking and let him meet them, and it went on that way until they got so well acquainted that he could make love to her, and then they got rid of the friend and used to go walking all by themselves, and finally somebody saw them and told Katharine's father. My, but he was mad. He sent for Katharine and she wouldn't lie to him. She said she and the young man were engaged and she was going to marry him, and her father swore something awful, and her mother cried, and Katharine was just as white as marble, but she kept perfectly calm." Amelia was warming to her work. "And they imprisoned her in her room, and her father used to go and try to make her promise she'd never speak to her lover again, and her mother used to cry and beg her to give him up. But they couldn't break her spirit or make her false to her vows, and finally they decided to send her away, so they wrote to Miss Lucilla and told her all about it. Miss Lucilla said she hated to have such a responsibility, but that they offered so much money she didn't feel she could refuse to take the girl--and that, anyway, the parents probably knew best, and it was for Katharine's best interests she should be separated from the boy. So Mr. Holland brought Katharine here, and she's not to stir out without a teacher, and she's not to have any mail save what passes through Miss Lucilla's hands and is opened by her, and she's not to receive any callers unless they bring a note from her father, and she's not to write letters except to her mother." "How'll they help it, I'd like to know? They can't watch her all the time," chorused the two listeners, each mentally devoting her inkstand, pen, stationery and services as postman to the cause of unfortunate love. "How we've misjudged her," sighed Laura May. "I thought it was funny she came here when she's so old. She must be eighteen, isn't she?" asked Kittie. "Pretty near. I'd elope and defy my cruel parents if I was eighteen, but she says she won't elope--that she'll wait until she's twenty-one, and then if her father won't give in, and can't show her anything bad about the man, she'll marry him anyhow. Miss Lucilla had a talk with her, and she said Katharine seemed to be a very nice girl and very reasonable except when it came to breaking off her love affair, but that she was just as stubborn as a rock about that." "What do you suppose they'll do?" Amelia meditated, turning the searchlight of memory upon her favourite novels. "Well, she may waste away. She's pretty thin. I guess her father would feel dreadful when he stood by her deathbed. And then her lover may persuade her to fly with him. I wish she'd let me help her fly. Or she may just wait till she's twenty-one and then leave home with her father's curses on her head, and if she did that her mother'd probably die of grief, and everything her father'd touch would fail, and finally he'd be a lonely, miserable old man and send for Katharine to forgive him, and she'd bring her little daughter to him and----" "Why, Amelia Bowers!" protested Kittie, whose slow brain had been following the rapid pace with difficulty, and who had not lost her schoolmate in the cursed and married heroine. "Well, it's pretty dreadful any way you fix it. She's a Blighted Being," said Amelia cheerfully. "We must be very considerate of her. Good-night." She hurried away, intent upon spreading her news before the "lights-out" bell should ring, and with each telling the tale grew in detail and picturesqueness. The next morning the girls began being considerate of Katharine. If the Blighted Being noticed the sudden change of attitude it must have occasioned her some wonder, if not considerable annoyance. She was not a girl to air her wrongs nor bid for sympathy, although she was not brave enough to assume a cheerful manner and keep her heartache out of her face. She learned her lessons, did her tasks, was respectful to the teachers, polite to the girls, but she held aloof from everyone--was, in the arrogant fashion of youth, absorbed in her own unhappiness. Occasionally, when she met Belinda's smiling, friendly eyes, her face softened and an answering smile hovered around her sensitive lips, but the relaxing went no further. Amelia and her mates found the victim of parental tyranny an absorbing interest. They missed no word or act or movement of hers when she was with them. They offered her caramels and fudge with an air of fervent sympathy. They left the best orange for her at breakfast. They allowed her to head the crocodile during morning walk, day after day, and allotted the honor of walking with her to a different girl each day, the names being taken in alphabetical order. [Illustration: "They offered her caramels with fervent sympathy"] They gave her the end seat on the open cars, in church, at the theatre. They surreptitiously sharpened her pencils and cleaned her desk for her. They made offerings of flowers. They volunteered to loan her their novels even before they had read them. And Katharine, not understanding the spring from which all this friendliness flowed, unbent slightly as the days went by, paid more attention to the life around her, yet kept the tightly closed lips and the unhappy eyes. She was very young, very much in love, and her pride suffered even more than her heart. Mr. Holland's method of parental government was, to put it mildly, not diplomatic. James, the handy man of the school, was the only person upon whom she was ever actually seen to smile, but she appeared to have a liking for James. Amelia several times saw her talking to the man in the hall, and once something white and square passed from the girl's hands to the man's. "She's getting James to mail letters," announced Amelia breathlessly, breaking in upon Laura May and Kittie. "Bully for James!" crowed Kittie inelegantly. "But won't he catch it if Miss Lucilla finds out." Miss Lucilla didn't find out, but an avenging Nemesis apparently overtook James, for a few days later he failed to appear at the school in the morning, and the cook had to attend to the furnace. Later came a most apologetic note from the missing handy man. He was ill--seriously ill. The doctor had forbidden his leaving the house for at least a week. He was greatly distressed--in English of remarkable spelling--because he was inconveniencing Miss Ryder, but he didn't want to give up the place altogether, and if he might be allowed to send a substitute for a week or so he would surely be able to take up work again at the end of that time. He had a friend in mind--a nice, respectable young fellow who would do the work well and could be trusted even with the silver--a bit youngish, perhaps, but willing and handy. Should he send him? Miss Lucilla answered by messenger. The young man was to come at once. The snow must be shoveled from the steps and walk before time for the day scholars to arrive. She hoped James would soon be able to return, but she would give his friend a trial. Half an hour later a manly young fellow in very shabby clothes presented himself, had an interview with Miss Lucilla, who told her sister that he seemed a very decent person, and adjusted to his shoulders the burden of duties laid down by James. He bore the burden lightly, did his work with cheerful conscientiousness, and made himself useful in many ways unknown to the former incumbent. Norah and the other maid smiled upon him ineffectively. "Always ready to lend ye a hand at an odd job, but divil a kiss or a bit of love-making behind the door," Norah explained to Amelia, who had sniffed an incipient romance below stairs when she first saw the new man. Miss Lucilla congratulated herself upon the addition to her staff of servants and sought an excuse for letting James go altogether and cleaving to his friend. The teachers sang the praises of Augustus, the girls found him obliging and resourceful in smuggling, the servants couldn't pick quarrels with him. Evidently here was a gem of purest ray serene--that pearl beyond price, a perfect servant. The incomparable Augustus was seldom in evidence above the basement, save when he went to the study for orders, moved the furniture, or did odd jobs of carpentering; but he was intrusted with the cleaning and setting in order of the big schoolroom, and Katharine Holland was occasionally in his way there. She liked to study before breakfast. One Tuesday night, when study hour was over, the girls had gone to their rooms, and the downstairs lights were out, Belinda sat in her room, correcting examination papers. She struggled through the pile, reached the last paper, and found that several sheets of it were missing. A careful search in the room failed to bring them to light; and the Youngest Teacher, with a frown of vexation between her pretty brows, picked up a match, girded her dressing gown about her, and making no noise in her knitted bedside slippers, went swiftly down the stairs. The door of the large schoolroom, where she expected to find her missing papers, was closed; and as Belinda stopped before it she fancied that she heard a murmur of voices beyond the door. She hesitated, smiled at herself, struck a match sharply, and threw open the door. There was a sudden movement in the room--a smothered exclamation. The light of the match fell full upon a man who held a girl in his arms. So much Belinda saw before she put out her hand to the electric button and turned on the light. Before her stood the incomparable Augustus, shabby, handsome, defiant; and to his arm clung Katharine Holland, white and frightened, but with her head up and a challenge in her eyes. Belinda stared for a second in bewilderment. Then she understood. She tried to remember that she was a teacher and to fix the culprits with an icy glare, but Belinda is not very old herself, and in common with all the world she loves a lover. The situation was shocking--but--the look on the girl's face was too much for the Youngest Teacher's severity. Impulsively Belinda held out her arms. "Oh, you poor child," she said. "You poor, foolish, hurt child." Her voice was athrill with tenderness. Her face was aglow with the mother-love that lives in the woman heart from doll days to the end of life. With a little sob the girl moved forward blindly. Belinda's arms went round her and drew her close. "Hush, dear. Don't cry. This is all wrong, but you've been very unhappy and you didn't mean to do wrong." The Youngest Teacher's eyes met those of the boy who stood, crimson-cheeked, uncertain, under the glare of the electric light; and she studied his face--a good-looking, determined face, with honest manliness under its boyish recklessness. "It wasn't fair," she said softly. "It wasn't fair to her. You would take care of her better than this if you loved her." The recklessness faded, leaving the manliness. "They've treated us abominably." "Yes, I know, but she is only seventeen--and clandestine meetings are vulgar and dangerous." "Her father can't give any reason except that ridiculous family feud." "A scandal would furnish an excellent reason, and justify him in his attitude toward you." "But there isn't going to be any scandal." "Suppose someone else had found you here and told the story broadcast." He winced. "But I can't live without seeing her sometimes." "Then your love is a very small, boyish thing. A man who loved her could wait." He had come forward now and was looking straight into her accusing face. "I suppose you are going to tell Miss Ryder, and Katharine will be sent home in disgrace?" Belinda shook her head. "What I do depends upon you. Perhaps I ought to tell. I owe a duty to Miss Ryder--but then I owe something to Katharine, too. She needs sympathy and sane counsel more than harshness. I think you are honest--though that was a dishonest, underhand trick of yours. If you will give me your word of honour as a gentleman not to try to see Katharine again while she is here I will say nothing about this." He hesitated, looked down at the rumpled head upon Belinda's shoulder. "Shall I do it, Katharine?" Belinda's face flamed indignantly. "Are you coward enough to shift the responsibility to her? Aren't you man enough to do what is best for her, no matter what she says?" The broad shoulders squared themselves. "I'll promise." "Does any one know about this escapade?" "James." "Can you shut his mouth securely?" "I will." "You would better go now." He moved a step nearer. "Good-by, dear." Katharine lifted a tear-stained face. "You'll not stop caring?" There was a sob in her voice. "It's only a question of waiting, sweetheart," he said gently; "and we love each other well enough to wait." He looked beseechingly at the Youngest Teacher, who, being a very human pedagogue, turned her back upon the tragic young things; but a moment later she held out a friendly hand to the departing lover. "Good-by. I'll trust you." "Good-by. You may. I do love her. Be good to her," he added brokenly as he disappeared through the door. Belinda was good to her; and long after the girl was asleep, the Youngest Teacher lay awake, puzzling over problems of right and wrong, of duty and impulse, of justice and mercy. "They are only children," she said from her pinnacle of two-and-twenty years. "But children's hurts are hard to bear while they last," her heart answered promptly. "Perhaps I was all wrong. Probably I ought to have been more severe--but now I've promised"--and Belinda was asleep. The next morning the incomparable Augustus had disappeared from the horizon. The faithful James, attired in a sporty new suit, new shoes and necktie, and looking astonishingly well and prosperous for a man who reported himself as just back from the gates of death, was once more in his accustomed place. "James is a good soul, but Augustus had so much more resourcefulness and initiative," said Miss Lucilla regretfully. "He had," agreed Belinda. CHAPTER VII THE PASSING OF AN AFFINITY MADAME NOVERI, reader of palms and cards, and dabbler in astrology, was an institution in the Ryder school. The Misses Ryder did not wholly approve of her, but when Miss Lucilla felt qualms of conscience concerning traffic with the black arts, Miss Emmeline reminded her that Madame had been patronized by the Vanderhuysens, and the older sister, whose creed included a belief that the Four Hundred, like the King, can do no wrong, smoothed the wrinkles from her brow and her conscience. "I suppose it would be foolish not to allow her to come occasionally. The young ladies like it, and she has promised not to tell them anything tragic," she said reluctantly. So Madame Noveri came to the school once or twice a year, and she kept her word about the tragedy, but as for sentiment--little did the Misses Ryder know of the romances she evoked from rosy palms and greasy cards. It was Amelia Bowers who suggested calling in the priestess of the occult to lighten the general gloom following the end of the Christmas holidays and a return to the Ryder fold. "This is simply too dead slow for anything," groaned the fair Amelia. "Let's ask Miss Ryder if we may send for Madame Noveri. I'd like to see whether meeting George Pettingill at the New Year's dance did anything to the lines in my hand. Good gracious! I should think it would have made a perfect furrow." The other girls seconded Amelia's motion, a deputation waited upon Miss Ryder, and, within an hour, the palmist was holding Amelia's hand in the little waiting-room to which the other seekers after knowledge were admitted, one by one. Madame instantly detected the havoc wrought by young Pettingill; or, at least, as Amelia said afterward, "she didn't see his name, but she knew right away that there had been _some one_ during the holidays." But it was for Cynthia Weston that Madame Noveri flung wide the gates of the future and revealed coming events of absorbing interest. Cynthia enjoyed the enviable distinction of being the prettiest girl in the school, and disputed with Laura May Lee the honor of being the best dressed of the Ryder pupils. In addition she was a good student, she was amiable, and her manners were the admiration of the faculty. Taking all this into consideration, the fact that she was even more sentimental than the ever-gushing Amelia could not effectually dim her radiance. Moreover, her sentimentality was of a finer fibre than that of her chum. She did not fall in love with the lightning-change-artist celerity displayed by Amelia. Man dominated her horizon as well as that of her friend, but for her man was an abstraction, a transcendentally perfect being, who might come around any corner to meet her, and for whom she waited breathlessly. She read novels and dreamed of a hero. Amelia read the same novels and saw a hero in every man she met. As it happened, for one reason or another, Cynthia had never consulted Madame Noveri, but the occult note appealed to her romantic side, and she needed only slight evidence to convince her that Madame was, as Amelia contended, "a wonder." The evidence was speedily forthcoming. Closeted with the fortune-teller, Cynthia heard an analysis of her own character and tastes, which owed its accuracy to skillful pumping of Amelia, but which impressed the listener profoundly. By the time Madame Noveri had thrown in a few facts concerning the Weston family history--also gathered from the unsuspecting Amelia--Cynthia was ready to accept as inspired truth any revelations that might be made to her. Then Madame, shrewd in knowledge of schoolgirl logic, felt that it was safe to turn to prophecy. "A crisis is coming in your life," she said solemnly. "It is written in your hand. Let me see what the cards tell." She shuffled the cards and bent over them, while Cynthia, thrilled by the thought of an approaching crisis, watched eagerly. "Yes; it is here, too. I knew the hand could not lie. A dark man is coming into your life." [Illustration: "'A dark man is coming into your life'"] Cynthia gasped ecstatically. She admired dark men. "It is all clear in the cards. There is the fate card, and there is the dark man." "I do hope he hasn't a moustache," murmured the listener. "Can you see his name?" "No." "And you can't tell where I'll met him, or how, or when?" "The cards don't say, but it will be soon, and there's the money card, so he'll be rich. You'll both fall in love the moment you meet. He's your affinity." Cynthia went out of the room in a sentimental trance. At last her dream was coming true. Not a tinge of skepticism lurked in her mind. Hadn't Madame told her all about her innermost feelings, and about her sister Molly having been ill with diphtheria, and about her father having made a big fortune out of pine lands, and about her having refused little Billy Bennington, whose father was a millionaire and had a huge house on Fifth Avenue? No; there was no room for doubt. She laughed off the questions of the girls. What she had learned was too sacred to be told to anyone except Amelia and Laura May, and possibly Blanche White. After the lights were out that night she told them, and their sympathy and excitement were all she could have desired. "Goodness, but I just envy you, Cynthia Weston," said Amelia in a stage whisper, which was a concession to the faculty's unreasonable prejudice against visiting after "lights-out" bell. "It's the most exciting thing I ever heard. He may pop out at you anywhere. She said it would be soon, didn't she?" "Very soon." There was a soulful pride in Cynthia's manner, a tremulous thrill in her voice. "Well, we'll all watch out for him. I'm almost as interested as if I were it," said Laura May generously; and Cynthia crept cautiously to her own room, to dream of a beautiful being with raven hair and piercing black eyes--and no moustache. The days following that eventful evening were agitating ones for Cynthia. Every dark-haired man who passed the school procession during the morning excursion set her heart palpitating. Katharine Holland's dark-eyed brother turning up unexpectedly at the school was flattered by the tremendous impression he made upon his sister's friend, Miss Weston; a swarthy book-agent who succeeded in obtaining an interview with Miss Ryder was surprised when a pretty girl whom he passed on the stairs grasped hastily at the baluster and seemed quite overcome by emotion. At any moment the affinity might appear; but the days went by and still he delayed his coming. A new play, fresh from Western successes, had begun a New York run upon the preceding Monday night; and with its advent a new matinée idol had dawned upon the theatrical horizon. Critics chanted praises of his _beaux yeux_, a strenuous press-agent scattered broadcast tales of his conquests, of the countless letters he had received from infatuated maidens, of the heiresses and society belles who had fallen victims to his charms. Occasionally someone mentioned that he could act, but that was a minor consideration. Rumors of his fatal beauty reached the school by way of a day pupil who had seen the play on its first night, and Amelia, Laura May, Cynthia, Blanche and Kittie Dayton promptly bought tickets for the Saturday matinée and asked Belinda to chaperon them. They were in their seats early, and tranquilly watched the curtain go up upon a conventional drawing-room scene; but as Cecil Randolph, the leading man, turned from the window at the back of the stage and strolled toward the footlights, Belinda heard a queer little choking sound from Cynthia, who sat beside her, and saw her clutch Amelia's arm. The matinée idol was tall, he had black hair and eyes, he was smooth-shaven--and Cynthia _knew_! The other girls were inclined to discount her claim when they had a chance to talk the matter over. Friendship is all very well, but to give a matinée idol up to any one girl, without entering a protest, would be more than human. Still there was no denying that the event fitted into Madame Noveri's prediction at every point, and it was natural to suppose that if Cynthia had met her affinity according to schedule she would be absolutely certain of his identity, so the confidants finally accepted the situation and gave themselves up to vital interest in their friend's romance, while Cynthia herself went about with her head in the clouds, drove her teachers to despair by her absent-mindedness, read the theatrical columns of all the papers, and wasted her substance in riotous buying of photographs. As for the amount of money squandered upon matinée tickets during those weeks--only the long-suffering fathers who were called upon for supplementary pocket-money could do justice to that tale of extravagance. [Illustration: "... wasted her substance in riotous buying of photographs"] Amelia and Laura May and Blanche stood by nobly. If anything exciting were going to happen they wanted to be there when it happened; so they went with Cynthia to all her affinity's matinées and occasionally to an evening performance. All of the teachers were successively pressed into service, and when the list gave out the girls began again with Belinda. Sometimes, when the other girls' pocket-money ran short, Cynthia paid for all the seats. In due course Cecil Randolph noticed the group that invariably occupied seats in the third row, and smiled upon the girls--not his inclusive, catholic, matinée-idol smile, which might be taken to heart by any girl in the audience, but a personal, italicized smile all their own. The chaperon missed the phenomenon, but all four girls thrilled with delight, though three loyal hearts passed the smile on to Cynthia, its rightful owner. Even the idol himself accentuated his smile when it reached the fair girl with the blushing cheeks and eager eyes. She was so uncommonly pretty, and though it paid him to be adored by the plain it was a pleasant thing to be adored by the pretty. On the eleventh of February Cynthia gave a luncheon and box party to her faithful three with Miss Spogg as chaperon. Mr. Weston's monthly check had been more liberal than usual, and a box is even nearer the stage than the third row of the orchestra chairs. The idol's special smile followed the group to the box. Perhaps it was even warmer, more melting than usual; for the four girls were uncommonly good to look at, in their dainty frocks and hats, and with the great bunches of long-stemmed single violets, which had been luncheon favors, nestling among their laces and chiffons and furs. During his great scene in the last act the actor faced the Ryder box and Cynthia bore the brunt of his wild raving. Even near-sighted Miss Spogg had an uncomfortable feeling that all was not quite as it should be, and registered a mental vow that she would protest to Miss Ryder against the conspicuousness of box seats; but the girls were too completely absorbed to feel conspicuous, and Cynthia, cheeks flaming, eyes glowing, red lips apart, drank in the love scene as though she hadn't already known it by heart and were not sharing it with hundreds of strangers. She was absurdly young, unspeakably foolish, but she was beyond a shadow of a doubt enjoying life--and it is hard to be severe with any one so pretty and impractical as Cynthia. As the curtain fell upon the hero's hopeless passion the little maid's hands went to her breast, and an instant later a huge bunch of long-stemmed violets dropped at the idol's feet. He did not ruin his curtain pose by picking them up, but for one fleeting second he smiled his thanks. Miss Spogg was, of course, irate; but there were ways of appeasing Miss Spogg, and Cynthia knew them. On Valentine's Day morning the school postman's load was heavy, and the solemnity of chapel was marred by a pervading excitement. Cynthia had valentines--several of them--yet she did not look happy. All of her envelopes bore home postmarks, and she had expected--well, she hardly knew what she had expected, but something, surely. After chapel came French recitation, and the Disappointed One was wrestling in melancholy fashion with the imperfect subjunctive, when a maid appeared at the door. "A box for Miss Weston," she announced to the teacher. "Put it in her room," commanded Mademoiselle. "Please, ma'am, it's flowers. Should I open them?" Mademoiselle smiled. She remembered valentine offerings of her own. "You may be excused to attend to the flowers, Miss Weston. Come back as soon as possible." Cynthia took the big, square box and fled to her room. Her prophetic soul told her what the contents would be. She removed the wrapping and the lid. A gust of fragrance sweetened the room. The blonde head went down over the flowers and the pretty face was hidden in them. Then Cynthia lifted from the box a great mass of long-stemmed single violets, and with fast-beating heart read the legend on the little valentine tucked among the blossoms. "Love's offering," said the valentine. Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French class; and when, at the end of the period, Amelia, Laura May and Blanche burst in upon her, she was still sitting with the flowers in her lap and the card in her hand. [Illustration: "Cynthia quite forgot to go back to the French class"] "From _him_?" chorused the girls. Cynthia nodded dreamily and handed them the card. Of course they were from _him_. If the history of that week could be adequately written the chapter might be headed "The Cult of the Violet." Cynthia worshipped at the shrine of the valentine violets. She clipped their stems, she changed the water in the vase, she opened the window and shut the register because the room was too warm for violets, she shut the window and opened the register for fear of chilling the flowers. When not on duty elsewhere she might ordinarily be seen sitting in her own room gazing at the purple blossoms like a meditating Yogi. Some time the flowers would fade and she would dry them and lay them away; but if she could only keep them fresh enough to wear to the matinée on Saturday! Of course they would be a little withered, but he would understand that. Friday night, both Cynthia and Amelia were elected to dine at the Waldorf with Kittie Dayton and her uncle--an old bachelor uncle who spent several months in New York each winter, and, feeling that he must do something for Kittie at least once during his stay, lightened his penance by inviting two of her prettiest friends to share his hospitality with her. Cynthia was too deep in romance to be enthusiastic about the outing, but the engagement was of long standing, and even the most love-lorn of boarding-school girls is not wholly impervious to the charms of a good dinner. So the three girls were escorted to the hotel and left in Mr. Dayton's charge. Under his wing they entered the dining-room, found the table reserved for them, and were seated by an impressive head-waiter. Then they looked about them and Cynthia stiffened suddenly in her chair, while Amelia gave vent to a smothered "Oh!" Kittie followed their eyes, but couldn't fully appreciate their emotion. "Why, there's Cecil Randolph at the next table," she whispered joyously. "What larks to meet him off the stage. Isn't he perfectly seraphic?" Mr. Dayton's glance travelled idly to the adjoining table. "Yes, that's Randolph and his wife. Handsome couple, aren't they?" Amelia swallowed an oyster whole, and created a fortunate though involuntary diversion by choking violently; while Cynthia, under cover of the excitement, clutched at composure and fought a sharp but successful battle against tears. Married! Her affinity married! Well, after all, Madame Noveri had never promised she would marry the dark man. She had only foretold a coming crisis--and this was the crisis. The thought of being in the middle of a bona-fide crisis was distinctly uplifting. She must be brave. Her favourite heroines always smiled bravely with white lips when they were sorely smitten by grief. She and the idol could never marry and live happily ever afterward, but there was a certain consoling splendour in having been loved hopelessly by such a perfect hero--for he did love her. She was sure of that. Of course he ought not to have done it, ought not to have sent her the violets and the love message; but that was Fate! Hadn't Madame Noveri known all about the thing before it happened? Cynthia sighed miserably. She was quite sure that her heart was broken, but she was glad he loved her, and she would treasure his violets always, though she would not go to the matinée to see him again. All was over. The dinner ended at last; and as the Dayton party filed past the Randolph table their progress was blocked by an incoming group. Cynthia did not raise her eyes; but suddenly her affinity's jovial voice fell upon her ears like a blow. "Look, Daisy, there's the little girl who's so silly over me--yes; the blonde one. Pretty child, isn't she? Too bad to encourage such infants, but they mean box-office receipts, and we have to earn terrapin like this, in one way or another." Just how Cynthia got out of the room she will never know. She was blushing furiously, for shame's sake, and the tears of mortification in her eyes kept her from recognizing Billy Bennington immediately when he appeared at her elbow. "Oh, I say, Miss Weston, this _is_ jolly. Let me go out to the carriage with you." Billy was a nice little boy, but she hated him. She hoped she'd never see a man again. She wished she were dead. She rather thought she'd go into a convent. "D-d-id you g-get my valentine?" stammered Billy. He knew that something had gone wrong with his divinity, and he was embarrassed, but his conscience was clear. Cynthia shook her head. "What? You never got my violets?" She turned toward him swiftly. "Violets?" "Why, yes. I sent you those big single ones you like best, and I put a little valentine in with them." She looked at the chubby little figure, the round, rosy face, the neatly-parted blond hair, the downy moustache. For a moment a resplendent vision of a raven-haired hero blotted out poor Billy's image, and the little girl winked fast to keep back the tears. She had learned a lesson not down on the Ryder schedule and found it overwhelming, but she managed to smile faintly. "Yes, I did get the flowers. Thank you so much," she said in a small, wobbly voice. The carriage door slammed and she was whirled away, while Billy stood gazing fatuously into the night. The next morning there were long-stemmed single violets and shredded photographs in the Ryder ash-can. CHAPTER VIII THE QUEER LITTLE THING BONITA ALLEN was a queer little thing. Everyone in the school, from Miss Ryder down to the chambermaid, had made remarks to that effect before the child had spent forty-eight hours in the house, yet no one seemed able to give a convincing reason for the general impression. The new pupil was quiet, docile, moderately well dressed, fairly good looking. She did nothing extraordinary. In fact, she effaced herself as far as possible; yet from the first she caused a ripple in the placid current of the school, and her personality was distinctly felt. "I think it's her eyes," hazarded Belinda, as she and Miss Barnes discussed the newcomer in the Youngest Teacher's room. "They aren't girl eyes at all." "Fine eyes," asserted the teacher of mathematics with her usual curtness. Belinda nodded emphatic assent. "Yes, of course; beautiful, but so big and pathetic and dumb. I feel ridiculously apologetic every time the child looks at me, and as for punishing her--I'd as soon shoot a deer at six paces. It's all wrong. A twelve-year-old girl hasn't any right to eyes like those. If the youngster is unhappy she ought to cry twenty-five handkerchiefs full of tears, as Evangeline Marie did when she came, and then get over it. And if she's happy she ought to smile with her eyes as well as her lips. I can't stand self-repression in children." "She'll be all right when she has been here longer and begins to feel at home," said Miss Barnes. But Belinda shook her head doubtfully as she went down to superintend study hour. Seated at her desk in the big schoolroom she looked idly along the rows of girlish heads until she came to one bent stoically over a book. The new pupil was not fidgeting like her comrades. Apparently her every thought was concentrated upon the book before her, and her elbows were on her desk. One lean little brown hand supported the head, whose masses of straight, black hair were parted in an unerring white line and fell in two heavy braids. The face framed in the smooth, shining hair was lean as the hand, yet held no suggestion of ill-health. It was clean-cut almost to sharpness, brown with the brownness that comes from wind and sun, oddly firm about chin and lips, high of cheekbones, straight of nose. As Belinda looked two dark eyes were raised from the book and met her own--sombre eyes with a hurt in them--and an uncomfortable lump rose in the Youngest Teacher's throat. She smiled at the sad little face, but the smile was not a merry one. In some unaccountable way it spoke of the sympathetic lump in the throat, and the Queer Little Thing seemed to read the message, for the ghost of an answering smile flickered in the brown depths before the lids dropped over them. When study hour was over the Youngest Teacher moved hastily to the door, with some vague idea of following up the successful smile and establishing diplomatic relations with the new girl; but she was not quick enough. Bonita had slipped into the hall and hurried up the stairs toward her own room. Shrugging her shoulders Belinda turned toward the door of Miss Ryder's study and knocked. "Come in." The voice was not encouraging. Miss Lucilla objected to interruptions in the late evening hours, when she relaxed from immaculately fitted black silk to the undignified folds of a violet dressing-gown. When she recognised the intruder she thawed perceptibly. "Oh, Miss Carewe. Come in. Nothing wrong, is there?" Belinda dropped into a chair with a whimsical little sigh. "Nothing wrong except my curiosity. Miss Ryder, do tell me something about that Allen child." Miss Lucilla eyed her subordinate questioningly. "What has she been doing?" "Nothing at all. I wish she would do something. It's what she doesn't do, and looks capable of doing, that bothers me. There's simply no getting at her. She's from Texas, isn't she?" The principal regarded attentively one of the grapes she was eating, and there was an interval of silence. "She is a queer little thing," Miss Lucilla admitted at last. "Yes, she's from Texas, but that's no reason why she should be odd. We've had a number of young ladies from Texas, and they were quite like other schoolgirls only more so. Just between you and me, Miss Carewe, I think it must be the child's Indian blood that makes her seem different." "Indian?" Belinda sat up, sniffing romance in the air. "Yes, her father mentioned the strain quite casually when he wrote. It's rather far back in the family, but he seemed to think it might account for the girl's intense love for Nature and dislike of conventions. Mrs. Allen died when the baby was born, and the father has brought the child up on a ranch. He's completely wrapped up in her, but he finally realised that she needed to be with women. He's worth several millions, and he wants to educate her so that she'll enjoy the money--'be a fine lady,' as he puts it. I confess his description of the girl disturbed me at first, but he was so liberal in regard to terms that----" Miss Lucilla left the sentence in the air and meditatively ate another bunch of grapes. "Did her father come up with her?" Belinda asked. "No; he sent her with friends who happened to be coming--a highly respectable couple, but breezy, very breezy. They told me that Bonita could ride any bronco on the ranch and could shoot a Jack-rabbit on the run. They seemed to think she would be a great addition to our school circle on that account. Personally I'm much relieved to find her so tractable and quiet, but I've noticed something--well--er--unusual about her." As Belinda went up to bed she met a slim little figure in a barbaric red and yellow dressing-gown crossing the hall. There was a shy challenge in the serious child face, although the little feet, clad in soft, beaded moccasins, quickened their steps; and Belinda answered the furtive friendliness by slipping an arm around the girl's waist and drawing her into the tiny hall bedroom. "You haven't been to see me. It's one of the rules of the school that every girl shall have a cup of cocoa with me before she has been here three evenings," she said laughingly. The Queer Little Thing accepted the overture soberly, and, curled up in the one big chair, watched the Youngest Teacher in silence. The cocoa was soon under way. Then the hostess turned and smiled frankly at her guest. Belinda's smile is a reassuring thing. "Homesick business, isn't it?" she said abruptly, with a warm note of comradeship in her voice. The tense little figure in the big chair leaned forward with sudden, swift confidence. "I'm going home," announced Bonita in a tone that made no reservations. Belinda received the news without the quiver of an eyelash or a sign of incredulity. "When?" she asked with interest warm enough to invite confession and not emphatic enough to rouse distrust. "I don't know just when, but I have to go. I can't stand it, and I've written to Daddy. He'll understand. Nobody here knows. They're all used to it. They've always lived in houses like this, with little back yards that have high walls around them, and sidewalks and streets right outside the front windows, and crowds of strange people going by all the time, and just rules, rules, rules everywhere! Everybody has so many manners, and they talk about things I don't know anything about, and nobody would understand if I talked about the real things." "Perhaps I'd understand a little bit," murmured Belinda. The Queer Little Thing put out one brown hand and touched the Youngest Teacher's knee gently in a shy, caressing fashion. "No, you wouldn't understand, because you don't know; but you could learn. The others couldn't. The prairie wouldn't talk to them and they'd be lonesome--the way I am here. Dick says you have to learn the language when you are little, or else have a gift for such languages, but that when you've once learned it you don't care to hear any other." "Who's Dick?" Belinda asked. "Dick? Oh, he's just Dick. He taught me to ride and to shoot, and he used to read poetry to me, and he told me stories about everything. He used to go to a big school called Harvard, but he was lonesome there--the way I am here." "The way I am here" dropped into the talk like a persistent refrain, and there was heartache in it. "I want to go home," the child went on. Now that the dam of silence was down the pent-up feeling rushed out tumultuously. "I want to see Daddy and the boys and the horses and the cattle, and I want to watch the sun go down over the edge of the world, not just tumble down among the dirty houses, and I want to gallop over the prairie where there aren't any roads, and smell the grass and watch the birds and the sky. You ought to see the sky down there at night, Miss Carewe. It's so big and black and soft and full of bright stars, and you can see clear to where it touches the ground all around you, and there's a night breeze that's as cool as cool, and the boys all play their banjos and guitars and sing, and Daddy and I sit over on our veranda and listen. There's only a little narrow strip of sky with two or three stars in it out of my window here, and it's so noisy and cluttered out in the back yards--and I hate walking in a procession on the ugly old streets, and doing things when bells ring. I hate it! I hate it!" Her voice hadn't risen at all, had only grown more and more vibrant with passionate rebellion. The sharp little face was drawn and pale, but there were no tears in the big, tragic eyes. Belinda had consoled many homesick girls, but this was a different problem. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Don't you think it will be easier after a while?" The small girl with the old face shook her head. "No, it won't. It isn't in me to like all this. I'm so sorry, because Daddy wants me to be a lady. He said it was as hard for him to send me as it was for me to come, but that I couldn't learn to be a lady, with lots of money to spend, down there with only the boys and him. There wasn't any lady there on the ranch at all, except Mammy Lou, the cook, and she didn't have lots of money to spend, so she wasn't the kind he meant. I thought I'd come and try, but I didn't know it would be like this. I don't want to be a lady, Miss Carewe. I don't believe they can be very happy. I've seen them in the carriages and they don't look very happy. You're nice. I like you, and I'm most sure Daddy and Dick and the boys would like you, but then you haven't got lots of money, have you? And you were born up here, so you don't know any better, anyway. I'm going home." The burst of confidence ended where it had begun. She was going home, and she was so firm in the faith that Belinda, listening, believed her. "But if your father says no?" The dark little face was quiet again, all save the great eyes. "I'll _have_ to go," said the Queer Little Thing slowly. Four days later Miss Lucilla Ryder called the Youngest Teacher into the study. "Miss Carewe, I'm puzzled about this little Miss Allen. I had a letter from her father this morning. He says she has written that she is very homesick and unhappy and doesn't want to stay. He feels badly about it, of course, but he very wisely leaves the matter in our hands--says he realises she'll have to be homesick and he'll have to be lonesome if she's to be made a lady. But he wants us to do all we can to make her contented. He very generously sends a check for five hundred dollars, which we are to use for any extra expense incurred in entertaining her and making her happy. Now I thought you might take her to the theatre and the art museum, and the--a--the aquarium, and introduce her to the pleasures and advantages of city life. She'll soon be all right." With sinking heart Belinda went in search of the girl. She found her practising five-finger exercises drearily in one of the music-rooms. As Belinda entered the child looked up and met the friendly, sympathetic eyes. A mute appeal sprang into her own eyes, and Belinda understood. The thing was too bad to be talked about, and the Youngest Teacher said no word about the homesickness or the expected letter. In this way she clinched her friendship with the Queer Little Thing. But, following the principal's orders, she endeavoured to demonstrate to Bonita the joy and blessedness of life in New York. The child went quietly wherever she was taken--a mute, pathetic little figure to whom the aquarium fish and the Old Masters and the latest matinée idol were all one--and unimportant. The other girls envied her her privileges and her pocket-money, but they did not understand. No one understood save Belinda, and she did her cheerful best to blot out old loves with new impressions; but from the first she felt in her heart that she was elected to failure. The child was fond of her, always respectful, always docile, always grave. Nothing brought a light into her eyes or a spontaneous smile to her lips. Anyone save Belinda would have grown impatient, angry. _She_ only grew more tender--and more troubled. Day by day she watched the sad little face grow thinner. It was pale now, instead of brown, and the high cheekbones were strikingly prominent. The lips pressed closely together drooped plaintively at the corners, and the big eyes were more full of shadow than ever; but the child made no protest nor plea, and by tacit consent she and Belinda ignored their first conversation and never mentioned Texas. Often Belinda made up her mind to put aside the restraint and talk freely as she would to any other girl, but there was something about the little Texan that forbade liberties, warned off intruders, and the Youngest Teacher feared losing what little ground she had gained. Finally she went in despair to Miss Ryder. "The Indian character is too much for me," she confessed with a groan half humorous, half earnest. "I give it up." "What's the matter?" asked Miss Ryder. "Well, I've dragged poor Bonita Allen all over the borough of Manhattan and the Bronx and spent many ducats in the process. She has been very polite about it, but just as sad over Sherry's tea hour as over Grant's tomb, and just as cheerful over the Cesnola collection as over the monkey cage at the Zoo. The poor little thing is so unhappy and miserable that she looks like a wild animal in a trap, and I think the best thing we can do with her is to send her home." "Nonsense," said Miss Lucilla. "Her father is paying eighteen hundred dollars a year." Belinda was defiant. "I don't care. He ought to take her home." "Miss Carewe, you are sentimentalising. One would think you had never seen a homesick girl before." "She's different from other girls." "I'll talk with her myself," said Miss Lucilla sternly. She did, but the situation remained unchanged, and when she next mentioned the Texan problem to Belinda, Miss Lucilla was less positive in her views. "She's a very strange child, but we must do what we can to carry out her father's wishes." "_I'd_ send her home," said Belinda. It was shortly after this that Katharine Holland, who sat beside Bonita at the table, confided to Belinda that that funny little Allen girl didn't eat a thing. The waitress came to Belinda with the same tale, and the Youngest Teacher sought out Bonita and reasoned with her. "You really must eat, my dear," she urged. "Why?" "Why, you'll be ill if you don't." "How soon?" Belinda looked dazed. "I'm afraid I don't understand." "How soon will I be sick?" "Very soon, I'm afraid," the puzzled teacher answered. "That's good. I don't feel as if I could wait much longer." Belinda gasped. "Do you mean to say you want to be ill?" "If I get very sick Daddy will come for me." The teacher looked helplessly at the quiet, great-eyed child, then launched into expostulation, argument, entreaty. Bonita listened politely and was profoundly unimpressed. "It's wicked, dear child. It would make your father wretchedly unhappy." "He'd be awfully unhappy if he understood, anyway. He thinks I'm not really unhappy and that it's his duty to keep me up here and make a lady of me, no matter how lonely he is without me. He wrote me so--but I know he'd be terribly glad if he had a real excuse for taking me home." Belinda exhausted her own resources and appealed to Miss Lucilla, who stared incredulously over her nose-glasses and sent for Bonita. After the interview she called for the Youngest Teacher, and the two failures looked at each other helplessly. "It's an extraordinary thing," said Miss Lucilla in her most magisterial tone--"a most extraordinary thing. In all my experience I've seen nothing like it. Nothing seems to make the slightest impression upon the child. She's positively crazy." "You will tell her father to send for her, won't you?" Miss Lucilla shook her head stubbornly. "Not at all. It would be the ruination of the child to give in to her whims and bad temper now. If she won't listen to reason she must be allowed to pay for her foolishness. When she gets hungry enough she will eat. It's absurd to talk about a child of twelve having the stoicism to starve herself into an illness just because she is homesick at boarding-school." Belinda came back to her threadworn argument. "But Bonita is different, Miss Ryder." "She's a very stubborn, selfish child," said Miss Ryder resentfully, and turning to her desk she closed the conversation. Despite discipline, despite pleadings, despite cajolery, Bonita stood firm. Eat she would not, and when, on her way to class one morning, the scrap of humanity with the set lips and the purple shadows round her eyes fainted quietly, Belinda felt that a masterly inactivity had ceased to be a virtue. James, the house man, carried the girl upstairs, and the Youngest Teacher put her to bed, where she opened her eyes to look unseeingly at Belinda and then closed them wearily and lay quite still, a limp little creature whose pale face looked pitifully thin and lifeless against the white pillow. The Queer Little Thing's wish had been fulfilled, and illness had come without long delay. For a moment Belinda looked down at the girl. Then she turned and went swiftly to Miss Ryder's study, her eyes blazing, her mouth so stern that Amelia Bowers, who met her on the stairs, hurried to spread the news that Miss Carewe was "perfectly hopping mad about something." Once in the presence of the August One the little teacher lost no time in parley. "Miss Ryder," she said crisply--and at the tone her employer looked up in amazement--"I've told you about Bonita Allen. I've been to you again and again about her. You knew that she was fretting her heart out and half sick, and then you knew that for several days she hasn't been eating a thing. I tried to make you understand that the matter was serious and that something radical needed to be done, but you insisted that the child would come around all right and that we mustn't give in to her. I begged you to send for her father and you said it wasn't necessary. I'm here to take your orders, Miss Ryder, but I can't stand this sort of thing. I know the girl better than any of the rest of you do, and I know it isn't badness that makes her act so. She's different, queer, capable of feeling things the ordinary girl doesn't know. She isn't made for this life. There's something in her that can't endure it. She's frantic with homesickness, and it's perfectly useless to try to keep her here or make her like other girls. Now she's ill--really ill. I've just put her to bed, and, honestly, Miss Ryder, if we don't send for her father we'll have a tragedy on our hands. It sounds foolish, but it's true. If nobody else telegraphs to Mr. Allen _I'm_ going to do it." The gauntlet was down. The defiance was hurled, and as Belinda stood waiting for the crash she mentally figured out the amount of money needed for her ticket home; but Miss Ryder was alarmed, and in the spasm of alarm she quite overlooked the mutiny. "Oh, my dear Miss Carewe. This will never do, never do," she said uncertainly. "It would sound so very badly if it got out--a pupil so unhappy with us that she starved herself into an illness. Oh, no, it would never do. We must take steps at once. I wish the child had stayed in Texas--but who could have foreseen--and eighteen hundred dollars is such an excellent rate. I do dislike exceptions. Rules are so much more satisfactory. Now as a rule----" "She's an exception," interrupted Belinda. "I'll telephone for the doctor while you are writing the telegram." "Oh, no, not the doctor. He wouldn't understand the conditions, and he might talk and create a false impression." "I'll manage all that," Belinda assured her soothingly. Miss Lucilla Ryder in a panic was a new experience. When the doctor came there were bright red spots on the Queer Little Thing's cheeks and she was babbling incoherently about prairie flowers and horses and Dick and Daddy. "Nerve strain, lack of nourishment, close confinement after an outdoor life," said the doctor gravely. "I'm afraid she's going to be pretty sick, but beef broth and this Daddy and a hope of homegoing will do more for her than medicine. Miss Ryder has made a mistake here, Miss Carewe." Meanwhile a telegram had gone to Daddy, and the messenger who delivered it heard a volume of picturesque comment that was startling even on a Texas ranch. "Am coming," ran the answering dispatch received by Miss Ryder that night; but it was not until morning that Bonita was able to understand the news. "He's scared, but I know he's glad," she said, and she swallowed without a murmur the broth against which even in her delirium she had fought. One evening, three days later, a hansom dashed up to the school and out jumped a tall, square-shouldered man in a wide-brimmed hat, and clothes that bore only a family resemblance to the clothing of New York millionaires, though they were good clothes in their own free-and-easy way. A loud, hearty voice inquiring for "My baby" made itself heard even in the sick-room, and a sudden light flashed into the little patient's eyes--a light that was an illumination and a revelation. "Daddy!" she said weakly; and the word was a heart-throb. Mr. Allen wasted no time in a polite interview with Miss Ryder. Hypnotised by his masterfulness, the servant led him directly up to the sick-room and opened the door. The man filled the room, a high breeze seemed to come with him, and vitality flowed from him in tangible waves. Belinda smiled, but there were tears in her eyes, for the big man's heart was in his face. "Baby!" "Daddy!" Belinda remembered an errand downstairs. When she returned the big Texan was sitting on the side of the bed with both the lean little hands in one of his big, brawny ones, while his other hand awkwardly smoothed the straight, black hair. "When will you take me home, Daddy?" said the child with the shining eyes. "As soon as you're strong enough, Honey. The boys wanted me to let them charge New York in a bunch and get you. It's been mighty lonesome on that ranch. I wish to Heaven I'd never been fool enough to let you come away." He turned to Belinda with a quizzical smile sitting oddly on his anxious face. "I reckon she might as well go, miss. I sent her to a finishing school, and, by thunder, she's just about finished." There was a certain hint of pride in his voice as he added reflectively: "I might have known if she said she'd have to come home she meant it. Harder to change her mind than to bust any bronco I ever tackled. Queer little thing, Baby is." CHAPTER IX A CONTINUOUS PERFORMANCE BELINDA paused in the doorway of the Primary School room, which adjoined her bedroom, and stared in amazement at the five scribes. The girls were absorbed in their writing, but the Youngest Teacher was reasonably certain that a fine frenzy of studiousness was not the explanation of the phenomenon. When had Amelia and her "set" ever devoted recreation hour to voluntary study? Suddenly Amelia put down her pen, sat back in her chair and spoke. "I simply will not have Aunt Ellen ride in the third carriage. So there! She'll think she ought to because she's one of the nearest relatives, but I can't bear her, and I don't care whether she goes to the funeral at all. I'd a good deal rather put May Morton in with cousin Jennie, and cousin Sue, and Uncle Will." "It'll make an awful fuss in the family," protested Laura May, while all the girls stopped writing to consider the problem. "I don't care if it does," said Amelia stoutly. "Well, I don't know," Blanche White put in, nibbling the end of her pen reflectively. "Seems as if everything ought to be sort of sweet and solemn and Christian at a time like that." "Christian nothing!" Opposition only strengthened Amelia's opinion. "I'd like to know whose funeral it is anyhow! If you can't have your way about your own funeral it's a funny thing. I never did like Aunt Ellen. She's always telling tales on me and saying that Mamma lets me have too much freedom, and talking about the way girls were brought up when she was young. Mamma makes me be nice to her because she's papa's sister, but when I'm dead I can be honest about her--and anyway if there's a family fuss about it, I'll be out of it. I'm not going to plan any place at all for Aunt Ellen in the carriages." "Your father'll put her in with the rest of the family." "No, he won't--not if I fill every single seat and say that it's my last solemn wish that people should ride just that way." "For charity's sake, girls, tell me what it all means," urged Belinda, seating herself at one of the small desks and eyeing the sheets of paper covered with schoolgirl hieroglyphics. "We're writing our wills, Miss Carewe," said Amelia with due solemnity. "Your wills?" "Yes; I think everybody ought to do it, don't you? I told the girls we all had things we'd like to leave to certain people, and of course we want our funerals arranged to suit us, and there's no telling when anybody may die. It seems to me it's right to be prepared even if we are young." The five looked preternaturally solemn, and Belinda wrestled triumphantly with her mirth. Much of her success with the girls was due to the fact that she usually met their vagaries with outward seriousness, if with inward glee. "Now, there's my diamond ring," Amelia went on. "I want Laura May to have it, and I'm perfectly sure they'd give it to Cousin Sue; so I'm going to say, in my will, that it's for Laura May, and she's going to will me her turquoise bracelet. She'd like to give me her sapphire and diamond ring, but she thinks her sister would expect that, and that all the family would think she ought to have it. Of course she can do as she likes, but, as for me, I think when you are making your will is the time to be perfectly independent. I'm leaving Blanche my chatelaine and my La Vallière, and I don't care what anybody thinks about it." "Is there anything of mine you'd like to have, Miss Carewe?" Kittie Dayton asked with a benevolent air. "I'd just love to leave you something nice, but I've given away most everything--that is, I've willed it away. Would you care about my pigskin portfolio? It's awfully swell, and Uncle Jack paid fifteen dollars for it. I know because I went to the shop the next day and priced them--but I upset the ink bottle over it twice, so it isn't so very fresh." "I'd love to have it," said Belinda. "I've got you down for my fan with the inlaid pearl sticks," announced Amelia, with a dubious tilt of her curly head, "but I don't know. It came from Paris, but one of the sticks is broken. Of course it can be mended, but I kind of think I'd like to leave you something whole, and I can give the fan to one of my cousins. I've got a perfect raft of cousins and they can't all expect to have whole things. There's my gold bonbonière. I might leave you that. Anyway, I've put you in the second carriage." "The second carriage?" Belinda looked puzzled. "Yes, at the funeral, you know. I want you to be right with the family. You see there's Papa and Mamma and my brother and George Pettingill in the first carriage." The Youngest Teacher gasped. "George Pettingill?" she echoed weakly. "Yes; I know everybody'll be surprised. They don't know we're engaged. It only happened last week. That's one reason why I had to change my will. You see I was engaged to Harvey Porter before Christmas, and of course I put him in the first carriage. Mamma and Papa'd have been surprised about him too; but when it was my last will and testament, they couldn't have had the heart to object to his riding with them. I couldn't die happy if I thought George wouldn't ride in the first carriage. Poor fellow! He'll be perfectly broken-hearted." Amelia sniffed audibly and her eyes filled with tears. She was revelling in the luxury of woe. "I hope it will be a cloudy day," she said in a choked voice. "A cloudy day always seems so much more poetic and appropriate for a funeral. Oh, but I was going to tell you about the other carriages. Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary and Cousin Dick--he's my favourite cousin--and you will be in the second carriage; and then the other relatives will be in the other carriages--all except Aunt Ellen. When I was home for Christmas, she told Mamma, right before me, that I was a sentimental chit, and that I ran after Harvey Porter. As if everybody couldn't see that Harvey was crazy over me and that I didn't have to run a step!" "Don't you think I'd be out of place ahead of so many of the relatives?" Belinda inquired modestly. "Oh, no; not a bit. We girls talked it over and we decided we'd all put you in the second carriages. Blanche says she thinks there's a peculiarly intimate tie between a young girl and the teacher who moulds her mind and character, and you're the only one who has moulded us a bit--and then we all simply adore you, anyway." The Youngest Teacher bowed her head upon her hands as if overcome by emotion at the success of her moulding process or at the prospect of five free rides in second carriages, and her shoulders shook gently. "We've talked a lot about our funerals, and I've got mine all arranged, even the hymns," continued Amelia, who was always spokesman for her crowd. "I'm going to be buried in the white chiffon dress I wore at the New Year's dance and with that big bunch of pink roses on my breast--the dried bunch in my green hatbox. I met George at that dance and he gave me the roses. I _was_ going to wear my blue silk in my last will. Harvey loved light blue, but, anyway, white's more appropriate and sweet, don't you think so?" The Youngest Teacher was driven, by a sense of duty, to extinguish her mirth and remonstrate. "Do you know, girls, I think this is all very foolish and sentimental," she said sternly. "There's no probability of your dying within fifty years." "Well, it won't do any harm to be prepared," interrupted Amelia. "It's absolutely silly and morbid to sit down and deliberately work yourselves into a green and yellow melancholy by thinking about your deaths and your funerals. I'm disgusted with you." "But, Miss Carewe"--Laura May's voice was plaintive--"the Bible says you ought to think about dying, and only last Sunday the rector said we were too indifferent and that we ought to realise how uncertain life is and make some preparation, instead of just going to dances, and card parties, and eating, and drinking, and doing things like that." "I hope you don't call sickly sentimentalising over the stage effects for your funerals preparing for death. If you'd stop thinking about your silly selves altogether and think of other people, you'd come nearer preparing for the hereafter." Amelia's plump face took on an expression of pained surprise. "Why, Miss Carewe, you don't suppose I'm thinking about the chiffon dress and the roses and all that on my own account, do you? I'd be so dead I wouldn't know anything about it; but I think it would be perfectly sweet for George. He'd know I had planned it all because I was so devoted to him, and I should think that would be a great comfort to him, shouldn't you, Laura May?" Laura May agreed, and Belinda shrugged her shoulders helplessly. Serious argument was always wasted upon this light-headed group of sentimentalists. There had been a time when, urged on by conscience, she had considered it necessary to labor with Amelia about her lightning-change _affaires de coeur_, had talked to her as she would have talked to an ordinary, reasonable girl about the folly and cheapness of such episodes, had tried to open her eyes to the fine ideals of girlhood, had urged upon her the desirability of perfect frankness and confidence in her relations with her mother and father. Amelia had only opened her big blue eyes wider and listened politely but uncomprehendingly to a language she could not understand. She adored Miss Carewe, but she realised that the adored one had the failings common to aged folk and lacked, entirely, any understanding of love's young dream. "You'd think Miss Carewe wasn't too old to understand," she said to Laura May later; "but perhaps she's had an unfortunate love affair that has made her bitter and suspicious." And, out of the softness of her heart, she forgave, in one who had "suffered," even a callous lack of sympathy concerning matters of the affections. Belinda took her failure to Miss Ryder, who smiled as she listened. "My dear Miss Carewe," she said, when the tale was ended, "you are right in being conscientious, but you mustn't tilt at windmills. There are girls and girls. Fortunately, a majority of them are amenable to reason, simple minded and comparatively sensible. They have had wise mothers and proper home training. But I've seen a great many girls of Amelia's type, too far advanced in foolishness before they come to us to be straightened out here. They pass silly girlhoods and usually develop into plump, amiable women, devoted to husbands and babies, and given to talking about servants and clothes when they don't talk about the husbands and babies. We must do all we can for such girls, see that they are carefully taught and zealously guarded. No young gentleman calls here on reception night unless I have had a written permission from the parents of the girl upon whom he calls; but because a few of the girls are silly, I will not shut the sensible girls away from social training. "You can influence the Amelias--but within certain limitations. As for making them see things in the sane way--the thing isn't humanly possible. Do your best with them, but don't take their absurdities too seriously." In time Belinda had learned that her employer's philosophy was wise, though it did not altogether agree with certain theories set forth in the school prospectus; so the funeral problem did not distress her. It was only one phase of a monumental sentimentality and it would pass as a host of other phases quite as foolish had passed. The girls gathered up their writing materials as the retiring bell rang, but Amelia lingered for a private word with her teacher. "Miss Carewe," she said, as the last petticoat whisked down the stairs, "I wish you'd think of something nice to put on my tombstone. You know such a lot about poetry and things of that kind. I've thought and thought, and I went through a whole book of Bible verses, and that Dictionary of Familiar Quotations down in the library, but I couldn't find a single thing that really suited me--and then the ones I did like best seemed sort of conceited for me to pick out. Now, if you'd select something nice and pathetic and complimentary, I could just say, in my will, that you wanted me to have that epitaph and that I had promised you I would." She checked her eloquence, and waited in the hall until the teacher had turned out the school-room lights and joined her; then the tide of prattle swept on. "Do you know, Miss Carewe, I'd simply love to be buried in that Protestant cemetery in Rome--the one where Sheets and Kelly are buried." "Keats and Shelley," corrected the teacher of English literature, with lively horror written on her face. "Oh, was it that way? Well, anyway, the men who wrote Deserted Village and Childe Harold and the other things. You told us all about the graveyard in literature class, and it sounded so perfectly lovely and romantic, with the big Roman wall, and old what's-his-name's pyramid, and daisies and violets and things running all over everything--and that epitaph on Keats' stone was simply splendid--something about his name being made out of water, wasn't it? I don't remember it exactly, but I just loved it. It was so sort of discouraged and blue and mournful. We girls talked about it that night and we all cried like everything over the poor fellow--only Blanche said she did wish his father hadn't been a butcher. You know Blanche is awfully cranky about families, because her mother was a Lee of Virginia and her aunt married a Randolph. It was awfully sad anyway, even if his father was a butcher, and that epitaph was lovely. I do wish I could think of something as good as that for myself. You'll try, won't you, Miss Carewe? Good-night." "Good-night," replied Belinda in smothered tones, as she closed her bedroom door. There are times when the Youngest Teacher's sense of humour and her dignity meet in mortal combat, and she felt that one of the times was close at hand. She had rather fancied that talk of hers about Keats, and had been flattered by the sympathetic interest displayed by even the most shallow members of the class. She sighed in the midst of her laughter--if only one could make even the Amelias understand world beauty and world pathos!--but the laughter triumphed. "Sheets and Kelly" could not be viewed seriously. Nothing more was heard of the Funeral Association, Limited, until a week later, when Belinda, noticing a light in the third-floor classroom, investigated and found Amelia and Laura May bending over one sheet of foolscap. "More wills?" asked the teacher. Amelia lifted a flushed and tear-stained face. "I'm cutting Blanche White out of my will. I've been deceived in her, Miss Carewe. She isn't a true friend, is she, Laura May?" Laura May shook her head emphatically. "Perhaps you are mistaken," Belinda suggested, in the interests of peace. "I _heard_ her!" Amelia's tone was tragic. "She told Lizzie Folsom that I was a conceited thing and always wanted to run everything and that I thought every boy that looked at me was in love with me, and that she'd heard lots of boys make fun of me. I was in the next room and couldn't help hearing, so I walked right straight out in front of them and told Blanche what I thought of her. "'You're a false, double-dealing hypocrite,' I said, 'and I'd scorn to have you for a friend,' and then I walked out of the room, and I could hardly wait till after study hour to come up here and change my will. Just to think that if anything had happened to me last week, that horrid thing would have had my chatelaine and my La Vallière! Sometimes I don't believe anybody's true--except Laura May. I told everything to Blanche, and I suppose she's betrayed every single thing to that freckled Lizzie Folsom. It's just because Lizzie has so much money for matinées and Huylers." "That doesn't sound well, Amelia." Belinda's tone was reproving. "Lizzie is a very attractive girl, and though Blanche wasn't very loyal, she may have said some things that were true. I'd advise you to think her criticisms over and see if any of them fit. As for her repeating what you've told her, when one doesn't want things known, one would better keep them to herself. You talk too much." "I could tell Laura May anything." Laura May looked modest. "And I'm going to leave my chatelaine and La Vallière to Laura May." The Only True One's face brightened. "Besides the pearl ring?" she asked. "Yes." Laura May beamed self-righteously. Apparently true friendship was practically remunerative as well as theoretically fine. The next night Amelia spent with a day pupil who was to have a birthday party; and the following evening she was in the Primary room as soon as she could escape from study hour. There Belinda found her alone, and the girl looked slightly confused as she met the teacher's questioning glance. "Another quarrel?" Amelia blushed. "Oh, no; I was just changing the carriages a little. I had a heavenly time last night, Miss Carewe." "Pretty party, was it?" "Perfectly lovely. Do you know many Columbia men, Miss Carewe?" "A few." "Don't you think they're splendid?" "Well, some of them are pleasant enough." "I simply adore Columbia men. Their colors are lovely, aren't they?" "Rather wishy-washy." "Oh, Miss Carewe, I don't see how you can think that. I think light blue and white are perfectly sweet together--not a bit crude and loud like orange and black or red and black or that ugly bright blue." Belinda wakened to suspicion. "Why, Amelia, I thought George Pettingill was a Yale man." Amelia examined carefully a picture on the other side of the room. "Well, he is, but only a Freshman, and I don't think bright blue's a nice color. The Yale men are sort of like the color too. Don't you think they're a little bit loud and conceited, Miss Carewe?" This was rank heresy. Belinda smiled and waited. "There was a Columbia man at Daisy's party--a Sophomore. He's the most elegant dancer. His name's Lawrence--Charlie Lawrence. He says my step just suits his. We had five two-steps and three waltzes." For a few moments Amelia lapsed into reminiscent silence, but silence is not her _métier_. "He has three brothers, but no sister at all, and he says a fellow needs a girl's influence to keep him straight. There's such a lot of wickedness in college life, and by the time you're a Sophomore, you know the world mighty well." There was the glibness of quotation about the recital, and Belinda indulged in a little smiling reminiscence on her own account. She, too, in earlier days, had been in Arcady--with desperately wicked and blasé Sophomores who needed a nice girl's gentle influence. Verily, the old methods wear well. "He's coming to see me next reception night, if I can get permission from Mamma before then," said Amelia. "Miss Carewe!" called a voice in the hall. Belinda turned to go. "But what was wrong with the carriages?" she asked. Amelia bent her fair head over the will until her face was hidden, but the tips of her ears reddened. "Oh, I was just thinking that it didn't seem very respectful to Mamma and Papa to put George in the first carriage with them when they haven't known anything about him, so I thought I'd move him back a little way." "Oh!" commented Belinda, with comprehension in her voice. A quarrel between Amelia and Laura May, the Only True One, necessitated much remodelling of the unstable will during the next week, but the trouble was finally smoothed over and the pearl ring clause reinstated, though the chatelaine and La Vallière were lost to Laura May forever. Friday evening was reception evening, and on Saturday morning Amelia flew to the Primary room immediately after breakfast. She lifted a beaming face when Belinda looked in upon her. "Do you believe in love at first sight, Miss Carewe?" she asked. "No." "Oh, don't you? Why, I _know_ it's possible." Belinda didn't argue the question. "I'm writing out a whole new will. The other was all mussy and scratched up from being changed so often. Doesn't that look neat?" She held up a sheet of paper which bore, in systematic grouping, a plan for filling the funeral carriages. Belinda glanced at it. "Why, where's George Pettingill?" she asked, with a twinkle in her eye. Amelia tossed her head. "If he goes to my funeral he can take the trolley," she said with profound indifference. "You see I've only put three people down for the first carriage. I thought I'd just leave one place vacant, in case----" "Exactly," said Belinda. Before the successor to the Columbia Sophomore appeared upon the horizon to complicate the carriage problem anew, the funeral fad had run its course and the wills of Amelia and her satellites had gone the way of all waste paper. CHAPTER X ADELINA AND THE DRAMA THE Youngest Teacher looked across the room at the new girl and tried to goad her conscience into action. New girls were her specialty. She was an expert in homesickness, a professional drier of tears and promoter of cheerfulness. When she really brought her batteries into action the most forlorn of new pupils wiped her eyes and decided that boarding-school life might have its sunny side. Gradually the Misses Ryder and Belinda's fellow-teachers had recognised the masterly effectiveness of her system and her personality, and had shifted the responsibility of "settling" the new girls to the Youngest Teacher's shoulders. As a rule, Belinda cheerfully bowed her very fine shoulders to the burden. She knew that as an accomplished diplomat she was of surpassing value, and that her heart-to-heart relations with the pupils were of more service than her guidance in the paths of English. She comforted the homesick, set the shy at ease, drew confidences from the reserved, restrained the extravagances of the gushing. But on this January evening she felt a colossal indifference concerning the welfare of girls in general and of new girls in particular--a strong disinclination to assume any responsibility in regard to the girl who sat alone upon the highly ornamental Louis Quinze sofa. The newcomer was good looking, in an overgrown, florid, spectacular fashion. Belinda took note of her thick yellow hair, her big blue eyes, her statuesque proportions. She noted, too, that the yellow hair was dressed picturesquely but untidily, that the big eyes rolled from side to side self-consciously, that the statuesque figure was incased in a too tightly laced corset. Miss Adelina Wilson did not look promising, but her family was--so Miss Ryder had been credibly informed--an ornament to Cayuga County, and Mr. Wilson, père, who had called to make arrangements for his daughter's schooling, had seemed a gentlemanly, mild, slightly harassed man, of a type essentially American--a shrewd, successful business man, embarrassed by the responsibility of a family he could support but could not understand. "She's my only daughter, and her mother is gone," he explained to Miss Ryder, leaving her to vague speculation concerning the manner of Mrs. Wilson's departure. "The boys are all right. I can fix them, but Addie's different, and I guess she needs a good school and some sensible women to look after her. She's a good girl, but she has some silly notions." Looking at Addie, Belinda accepted the theory of the silly notions, but wondered just what those notions might be. She would have to find out, sooner or later, and it might as well be sooner; so she rose, set her diplomatic lance at rest, and charged the young woman. "I'm afraid you'll feel a trifle lonely at first," she said with her most friendly smile. The new girl made room for the Youngest Teacher upon the sofa beside her, and executed a smile of her own--a mechanical, studied, carefully radiant smile that left Belinda gasping. "Oh, no; I'm never lonely. I'm used to being apart," said Adelina in resigned and impressive tones. Belinda met the shock with admirable calm. "Yes, you have no sisters," she said; "brothers are nice, but they're different." Adelina sighed. "It isn't my being an only daughter that makes the difference," she explained. "It's my genius, my ambition. Nobody understands and can really sympathise with me, so I've worked on alone." The "alone" was tolled sadly and accompanied by a slow, sweet, die-away smile that worked automatically. Belinda's brain fumbled for a clew to the girl's words and affectation, and she looked closely for any earmarks of genius that might clear up the situation. Suddenly Adelina clasped her hands around her crossed knees, struck a photographic pose, and languishingly turned her great eyes full upon Belinda. "Do you think I look like Langtry?" she asked. "Lots of people have noticed the resemblance. Of course, I don't know, but I can't help believing what people tell me. There's a young gentleman who crossed on the same steamer with Langtry, and he says I'm the very image of her--only more spiritual." The Youngest Teacher had found her clew. She was sitting beside an embryonic tragedy queen, a histrionic genius in the rough. "Well, you're near Langtry's size," she admitted, "and the shape of your face is something like hers." Adelina relaxed her pose. "Yes, I guess it's so. At first I wasn't very well suited, I'd hoped I'd be more like Bernhardt. I just adore the thin, mysterious, snaky kind, don't you? I think those serpentine, willowy, tigerish, squirmy actresses are perfectly splendid. They're so fascinating, and they can wear such lovely, queer clothes. I wouldn't have minded being like Mrs. Pat Campbell, either. There's something awfully taking about that hollow-chested, loppy sort of woman. But you just can't choose what you'll look like. I got long enough for anything, but then I just began to spread out and get fat, and there wasn't any stopping it, so I had to give up any idea of being the willowy kind. I was awfully disappointed for a while, and I hardly ate anything for months, trying to stay thin, but it didn't make a bit of difference. I kept right on getting fat just the same. After all, it isn't shape that counts so much if you've got genius. Mary Anderson's pictures look awfully healthy, and I know lots of folks think Langtry's finer than Bernhardt. Which do you like best?" Belinda diplomatically evaded the question. "You hope to go on the stage?" she asked. Adelina lapsed into tragedy. "I'd die if I couldn't. I was just born for the stage. Papa and the boys don't seem to understand. They think I'm silly, stage-struck, like girls who go on in the chorus and are Amazons and things. I can't make them see that I'm going to be a star, and that being a great actress is an entirely different thing from being an Amazon. Folks up home are all so dreadfully narrow. A genius hardly ever gets sympathy in her own home, though. I've read lots of lives that showed that--but you can't keep real genius down." The retiring bell rang. Belinda rose with alacrity. In her own room, with the door closed behind her, she gave way to unseemly mirth. Then she sallied forth to tell Miss Barnes of the young Rachel within their gates; but there was a troubled look from between her twinkling eyes. "She's silly enough to do something foolish," she thought. "I hope she's _too_ silly to do it." The stage-struck Adelina's hopes and ambitions were known throughout the length and breadth of the school within twenty-four hours. Some of the girls thought her ridiculous. Some of the romantic set sympathised with her aims. All found her a source of considerable entertainment and treated her with good-natured tolerance. Miss Ryder and the teachers shook their heads disapprovingly, but had no real cause for complaint. The Stage-struck One didn't shine in her classes, but the same criticism might have been made concerning a large assortment of girls who made no pretensions to dramatic talent. Adelina obeyed the rules, attended recitations, was respectful to her teachers and amiable toward her schoolmates. If she spent her recreation hours in memorising poetry and drama, or spouting scenes from her favourite plays, the proceedings could hardly be labelled misdemeanors. To be sure, she broke considerable bedroom crockery in the course of strenuous scenes, and in one of her famous death falls she dislodged plaster on the ceiling of the room below, but she cheerfully provided new crockery and paid for ceiling repairs, so Miss Ryder's censure, though earnest and emphatic, was not over-severe. Belinda's English literature class became popular to an unusual degree, and its sessions were diverting rather than academic. In this class only did Adelina take a fervid interest. The midwinter semester was being devoted to consideration of Elizabethan drama, and in the Shakespearian readings, recitations and discussions which were a feature of the study the Cayuga County genius played a star rôle. The other girls might search out and memorise the shortest possible quotations--Adelina absorbed whole scenes, entire acts, and ranted through them with fine frenzy, until stopped in full career by the teacher's stern command. With folded arms and frowning brow she rendered Hamlet's soliloquy. She gave a version of Ophelia that proved beyond question that luckless heroine's fitness for a padded cell. She frisked through Rosalind's coquetries like a gamesome calf, and kept Lady Macbeth's vigils with groans and sighs and shuddering horrors. Only by constantly snuffing her out could the Youngest Teacher maintain anything like order in the class; and, as it was, the enjoyment of Adelina's classmates often verged upon hysteria. As for the Gifted One's own honest pride and satisfaction in her prowess, words cannot do justice to it, and it would have been pathetic had it not been so amusing. But it was in her own room that Adelina was at her best. There she rendered with wild intensity scenes from a score of plays, and there the girls resorted during their leisure hours, in full certainty of prodigal entertainment. In one of the trunks brought from home Langtry's counterpart had a choice assortment of costumes, constructed chiefly from cheesecloth and cotton flannel, but reënforced by tinsel paper, beads, swan's-down and other essentials for regal rôles. There were artificial flowers, too, among the supplies, and a make-up box--jealously guarded from the notice of a faculty prone to narrow prejudices--was used by the tragédienne with wonderful and fearful results. Adelina did not--intentionally--lean toward comedy. Tragedy was her sphere. She loved to shiver, and shudder, and groan, and shriek, and swoon, and die violent deaths; and although she admitted, as all true artists must, the claims of Shakespeare, she, in her secret soul, considered Sardou the immortal William's superior. An indiscriminate course of theatre-going during visits to New York with an indulgent and unobservant father had introduced her to a class of modern dramas that are, to put it mildly, not meant for babes--though the parents of New York babes seem blandly indifferent to the unfitness--and the chances are that had the teachers been thoroughly posted as to her repertoire it would have been suddenly and forcibly abridged; but she reserved Shakespearian rôles for the edification of the faculty. Miss Emmeline passing through the hall one day was much perturbed by hearing from behind a closed door emphatic iteration of "Out, damned spot," and even Miss Lucilla's firm assurance that the lines were Shakespeare's could not wholly reconcile the younger principal to such language. Heavy sobbing, maniacal laughter, and cries of "My child, my child!" or "Spare him! I will tell all," ceased to attract the slightest attention upon the third floor. Beyond restricting performances to recreation hours, insisting that they should not interfere with regular study, and supervising strictly the choice of real plays which Adelina and her fellow-pupils were allowed to attend, the powers that be did not take the dramatic mania seriously nor attempt to suppress it. So many fads come and go during a boarding-school year, perishing usually of their own momentum. "The girls will soon tire of it," said Miss Ryder, very sensibly, "and Adelina will be through with the nonsense the more quickly for being allowed to work it off." Incidentally she wrote to Mr. Wilson, père, asking for his opinion. He replied in a typewritten, businesslike note that he, too, believed the stage fever would soon run its course; and there, so far as official action was concerned, the matter dropped. Gradually the girls ceased to find sport in the dramatic exhibitions and fell away, but Adelina pursued her course valiantly and unflaggingly. Occasionally Belinda labored with her honestly, trying to insert into her brain some rational and practical ideas concerning stage life, dramatic art and vaulting ambition; but her efforts were of no avail, and she, too, fell into an attitude of tolerant amusement, quite free from alarm. It was during the last week of March that the unexpected happened. One Tuesday morning Adelina failed to appear at chapel. The teacher sent to investigate reported her room in order but without occupant. A maid was sent to look through the house for the recreant, but came back without her. Then Belinda, with a flash of intuition, ran up to the vacant room. The bed had not been slept in. The trunks were there, but the girl's dress-suit case, coat, hat, furs and best street frock were missing. Pinned to the pincushion Belinda found a note, written in Adelina's spidery hand. It ran: "I am going away to carve out a career for myself. It will be useless to try to find me. I have some money, and, if necessary, I will pawn my jewels; but I will soon be making plenty of money, and as soon as I am famous I will come back to see you all. "Tell my father not to worry. I will be all right and he won't miss me, and I can't let him keep me from my Art any longer. If he is willing to let me study for the stage he can advertise in the papers." Even in the midst of her annoyance and her apprehension the Youngest Teacher could not smother a chuckle over the melodramatic tone of the letter, the reference to the jewels--consisting of three rings, a breastpin and a watch--the serene egotism and confidence in imminent fame and fortune. But there was a serious side to the complication. There was no telling into what hands the stage-struck girl had fallen, nor where she might have been persuaded to take refuge. It would probably be an easy matter to find her with the aid of detectives, even if she had confided her plans to no one in the school; but meanwhile she might have an unpleasant experience. So Belinda's face was grave as she ran down to Miss Ryder's study with the letter, and it was still grave as she went out, a little later, to send a telegram to Mr. Wilson, and visit the office of a well-known detective agency. In the interval everyone in the house had been questioned and professed complete ignorance. The detective was smilingly optimistic--even scornful. The thing was too easy. But when Mr. Wilson, torn 'twixt distress and vexation, arrived that evening the self-confident sleuth had made no progress. Adelina had apparently vanished off the face of the earth. The very simplicity of her disappearance was baffling. That she would, sooner or later, apply to some theatrical manager or agency, or interview some teacher of dramatic art, was a foregone conclusion, and on the second day after her departure it was found that she had tried to obtain interviews with several managers, and had had a talk with one, who good-naturedly told what had taken place at the interview. "Handsome young idiot," he said to the detective. "That's why they let her in; but she hasn't a gleam of intelligence concealed about her, and it would take her a lifetime to get rid of her crazy ideas and mannerisms, even if there were any hope of her amounting to anything after she did get rid of them. Her idea of stage life is a regular pipe dream, and she'd never be willing to begin at the bottom. She wouldn't stand the hard work twenty-four hours. She had sort of an idea that she was a howling beauty with a genius that didn't need any training, and that if she could only get to see me I'd throw a fit over her and start her out on the road at five hundred dollars a week to star in 'Camille,' or something of that kind. She made me tired. I've seen thousands of the same kind, but I talked to her like a Dutch uncle; told her she wasn't so much as a beauty, and that she had a voice like a hurdy-gurdy, and that all her ideas about acting were crazy. Kind of rough, of course, but wholesome, that sort of straight talk is. I told her genius in the stage line was twins with slaving night and day; that they looked so much alike you couldn't tell them apart, and that the kind of genius she was ranting about was all hot air. I said if she could take some lessons and learn to sing and dance a little she might go on in the chorus, but that I'd advise charwork ahead of that, and that I didn't see the faintest illusive twinkle of a star about her. She cried and looked sick, but she seemed to be discouraged and open to conviction. So then I told her the best thing she could do was to go home to her folks and marry some decent fellow and look at the stage across the footlights--not too much of that, either. Yet the Gerry Society doesn't think much of us managers, and nobody'd suspect me of heading rescue brigades. I've got a daughter of my own, and she isn't on the stage--not by a blamed sight." All this was interesting, but the clew began and ended at the manager's office door, and no further trace of Adelina was found during the day. About nine o'clock that evening Maria, the parlour maid at the school, knocked at Belinda's door in a fine state of excitement. "If you please, Miss Carewe, Miss Wilson's come back. I let her in and she's gone up to her room, and Miss Ryder ain't here, and she looks fit to drop, and her face is that swollen from crying, and----" Belinda cut the monologue short and hurried down to the front room on the third floor. It was dark, but by the gleam from the street lamps the teacher made out a bulky form on the bed, and the sound of stifled sobbing came to her ears. She went over and knelt by the bed. "I'm glad you've come back, dear," she said in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice. "Your father will be so relieved, and it isn't quite right for a girl to be alone in a big city, you know." The figure on the bed gave a convulsive flop and the sobbing redoubled. "Don't cry any more. It will make you ill. Nothing very bad has happened, has it?" Belinda was still prosaically cheerful. "Oh, it was horrid," wailed the youthful tragédienne with more spontaneous feeling than she had ever put into Ophelia's ravings or Juliet's anguish. "They wouldn't take me in at boarding-houses, and when I did find a place it was so smelly, and they had corned beef for dinner, and I loathe corned beef, and the people were so queer, and the sheets weren't clean, and the bed had lumps; and I thought when Mr. Frohman saw me and heard me give the sleep-walking scene he'd be glad to educate me for the stage like they do in books, but he wouldn't even see me. Hardly anybody would see me, and when one manager did he told me I hadn't any talent, and that I wasn't even fit for an Amazon unless I could learn to dance, and that I'd better do charwork, and he said such dreadful things about the stage and the work; and then I went back to the boarding-house, and it smelled worse than ever, and one of the men spoke to me in the hall, and--Oh, dear. Oh, d-e-a-r!" She ran out of breath for anything save wailing, and Belinda patted her on the back encouragingly without speaking. "And then I felt so sick, and I was afraid to stay alone all night, and I just left my bag and slipped out--and I really do feel dreadfully sick, Miss Carewe. I guess it's a judgment. It'd be a good thing if I'd die. I'm not any good and I can't be a star, and papa and the boys'll never forgive me." "Nonsense," laughed Belinda. "It wasn't nice of you, but fathers are not so unforgiving as all that, and if you'll just give up raving about the stage----" "I never want to hear of acting again." "Well, I don't think your father will be very angry if he hears that." "But suppose I die?" Belinda lighted the gas. In the light the girl's cheeks showed scarlet, and when the Youngest Teacher felt Adelina's hands and face she found them burning with fever. "Small danger of your dying within fifty years, child, but you are tired and nervous. I'll have the doctor come in and see you." She put the returned wanderer to bed and telephoned for the doctor, but while she waited for him there was a ring at the bell and she heard Mr. Wilson's voice in the hall. He was standing in the doorway, uncertainly twirling his hat in nervous hands, and looking even more harassed than usual, when Belinda went down to him. "I don't suppose----" he began. "She's here," interrupted Belinda. The father's face flushed swiftly. "And she's all right, only I'm afraid she's going to be ill from the excitement. She's very much ashamed and very much disillusioned, Mr. Wilson. I think she's had her lesson, and I don't think I'd scold much if----" There was an odd moisture on the glasses which Mr. Wilson removed from his nose and wiped with scrupulous care; and he cleared his voice several times before he spoke. "I won't scold, Miss Carewe. I guess I'm a good deal to blame. She didn't have any mother, and I was pretty busy, and nobody paid much attention to what she was doing and reading and thinking. I just gave her money and thought I'd done all that was necessary; but I expect the carpet business could have got along without me occasionally, and I could have known my girl a little better." They climbed the stairs together, but Belinda left him at his daughter's door. When she went up, later, with the doctor Mr. Wilson looked more at ease in the world than usual, and Adelina's face was cheerful, though grotesquely swollen from much crying. "Papa and I are going to Europe for the summer, Miss Carewe," she called out excitedly. Then, as she saw the doctor, her dramatic habit reasserted itself, and she fell into one of her most cherished death-scene poses, looking as limp and forlorn as circumstances and a lack of rehearsal would permit. With melancholy languor she held out her hand to the doctor. He took it, felt her pulse, looked her over quickly and keenly. "Measles," he said crisply. "You'd better look out for the other girls, Miss Carewe." Adelina sank back in her pillows with a sigh of profound despair. "I might have known I wouldn't have anything romantic," she said with gloomy resignation. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Some of the illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so they correspond to the text, thus the page number of the illustration might no longer matches the page number in the List of Illustrations. Repeated chapter titles have been deleted. The first letter of each chapter had a drop cap, which is not reproduced here. Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_) On page 20, "Belinda's enthusiasm are" was replaced with "Belinda's enthusiasm is". On page 21, the quotation mark after "what shall I do?" was deleted. On page 20, a quotation mark was added after "her next engagement." and another quotation mark was added before "There's the evening study bell". On page 33, a quotation mark was added after "is simply elegant,". On page 33, the comma after "earls are English" was replaced with a period. On page 34, a quotation mark was added after "she's positively mushy." On page 37, the double quotation mark after "Mr. Satterly" was replaced with a single quotation mark. On page 50, a quotation mark was added after "beast of a Frenchman.". On page 56, a quotation mark was added after "if----if I----". On page 63, "preparatoy" was replaced with "preparatory". On page 76, "smpathy" was replaced with "sympathy". On page 89, a quotation mark was added before "Yes; it's a long time". On page 111, "your poor child" was replaced with "you poor child", and the quotation mark was deleted before "With a little sob". On page 122, "some one" was replaced with "someone". On page 164, the [oe] ligature was replaced with "oe". 
43697	----	[Illustration: CHICKENS AND "POETRY." Page 111.] THE MARTIN AND NELLY STORIES. NELLY'S FIRST SCHOOLDAYS. BY JOSEPHINE FRANKLIN. AUTHOR OF "NELLY AND HER FRIENDS." BOSTON: FRED'K A. BROWN & CO., PUBLISHERS, 29 CORNHILL. 1862. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by BROWN AND TAGGARD, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. LIST OF THE "MARTIN AND NELLY STORIES." I. NELLY AND HER FRIENDS. II. NELLY'S FIRST SCHOOLDAYS. III. NELLY AND HER BOAT. IV. LITTLE BESSIE. V. NELLY'S VISIT. VI. ZELMA. VII. MARTIN. VIII. COUSIN REGULUS. IX. MARTIN AND NELLY. X. MARTIN ON THE MOUNTAIN. XI. MARTIN AND THE MILLER. XII. TROUTING, OR GYPSYING IN THE WOODS. CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. MILLY 7 CHAPTER II. "MELINDY" 25 CHAPTER III. COMFORT'S NEFFY 51 CHAPTER IV. "LET'S MAKE FRIENDS!" 72 CHAPTER V. CHICKENS AND "POETRY" 109 CHAPTER VI. GETTING LOST 129 NELLY'S FIRST SCHOOL-DAYS. CHAPTER I. MILLY. Not very far from Nelly's home, stood a small, time-worn, wooden house. It was not a pleasant object at which to look. A few vines that had been trained over one of the front windows, and a stunted currant-bush which stood by the door, were the only green things within the broken fence. In summer, the cottage looked bald and hot, from its complete exposure to the sun (no trees grew near to shade it), and in winter, the rough winds rattled freely around its unprotected walls. In this house lived a family by the name of Harrow. It consisted of the widowed mother, a woman who had once moved in a far higher sphere of life, and her two daughters, Milly and Elinor. There was a son, too, people said, but he did not live at home, having had the ingratitude, some time before the Harrows moved to the village, to desert his home and run away to sea. Mrs. Harrow and her children were very poor. No one knew but themselves how hard they found it to get work enough to earn their daily bread. The neighbors, among whom they were much respected, had long supposed from many outward signs that the family had no means to spare, but they were far from conjecturing that often, the mild, patient-looking Mrs. Harrow, and her two gentle girls, were losing their strength from actual famine. The little money they had, came to them through their own exertions; their needle-work was celebrated far and near for its delicacy and exquisite finish. In that small neighborhood, however, the sewing which was brought to them to undertake, did not amount to much, and the prices, too, were low, and provision-rates very high. At last, just as despair was dawning on the household, Elinor, the eldest daughter, heard of a situation as domestic in the family of a farmer, who lived over the mountains, near Nancy's old home. The poor girl's pride was dreadfully wounded at the thought of applying for such a place, she a lady born and bred, but necessity knew no law, and a few days only elapsed before pretty Miss Elinor was located at the farm as a servant. It was a hard trial; mournful tears forced themselves from her eyes whenever she gave herself time to think about such a state of affairs. The farmer was a poor, hard-working, painstaking man, and his wife was quite as thrifty and industrious, so that between them they managed to lay by a little money, every year, in the Savings Bank. When Elinor came to them, the bustling farmer's wife could not realize that the tall, pale, elegant-looking creature was not quite as able to rub and scrub from morning to night as she was herself. She did not take into consideration that the girl was unaccustomed to much hard labor, and that her frame was not equal to the burdens that were put upon it. The consequence was that when Elinor went to her room at night, she was too completely worn out to sleep, and in the mornings, rose feeling sick and weary. She did not complain, however, but went about her duties day after day, growing gradually more pale and feeble, and storing in her system the seeds of future disease. When the farmer's wife saw her moving slowly around her tidy, spotless kitchen, she thought her a lazy girl, and often told her so in a loud, sharp tone, that was a very great trial to hear patiently, which Elinor always did, and then set about working more steadily than ever. So the weeks went on, till, one morning, the maid of all work was missing from her place. She had been seized with a sickness, that had long been secretly hanging over her, and now she could not rise from her bed. Martin, a boy who lived at Mr. Brooks', told Nelly that Miss Elinor fell at her post like a sentinel wounded on duty. When the doctor came, he informed the farmer and his wife that their servant had lost the use of her limbs, through an affection of the spine, which had been brought on by lifting too heavy burdens, and she was indeed as unable to move hand or foot to help herself as a baby could be. Her mind, however, was not impaired. The farmer thought it would have been fortunate if it had been, for she seemed to suffer such terrible mental anguish about her misfortune, and the new care and misery she was bringing on her mother and sister. The farmer took her home in his wagon, a confirmed cripple. Her mother and Milly helped him to carry her up to her old bedroom, and there she lay, suffering but little pain, it is true, but at the time of our story, having no hope of recovery. The days were very long to Elinor now. She despised herself for ever having repined at fate before. What was all she had endured previously, to this trial? There was no light work of any kind, not even sewing, which she could do, as she lay on her bed, and this made the time seem longer. She was forced to be idle from daylight till dark. She could have read, it is true, but she had no books, and to buy any was an extravagance, of which, with the scanty means of the family, she did not allow herself to dream. The neighbors were shocked to hear of Elinor's misfortune. They visited her, and at first, sent her little delicacies to tempt her appetite, but by and by, although they pitied her as much as ever, they forgot her in the events of their own domestic circles. One very cold winter night Milly came into Mrs. Brooks's kitchen, and asked Comfort, a colored woman who worked for the family, where her mistress was. Comfort promptly led the way to the sitting-room, where grouped coseyly around the centre-table were the different members of the farmer's family. A bright fire blazed on the hearth, and the woolen curtains were tightly drawn to keep out the winds that whistled around the farm-house. At the sight of this picture of comfort, Milly's pretty lips quivered. She took kind-hearted Mrs. Brooks aside. "Dear Mrs. Brooks," said Milly, "I _must_ say it; we are starving! Elinor lies dying with cold and hunger, in her bed. Mother has not tasted a mouthful since yesterday, and she is so proud she would not let me beg. What _are_ we to do? I have run over here to ask your sympathy and aid, for we have not one friend to whom we feel as though we might apply." Tears gathered in Milly's eyes. "And pray," said the farmer's wife, "what do you consider _me_, Milly, if not a friend? You ought not to have delayed so long in this matter. I feel really hurt. Why did you not come to me before?" She led the way into the kitchen that the young girl's sad tale might not draw upon her too close attention from the children. Milly Harrow sank upon a seat, before the fire on the hearth, and wept such bitter, heart-breaking tears as it is to be hoped no one who reads her story has ever known. She was a gentle, refined, well-educated girl of twenty, and had met much more sorrow than happiness. "Milly," said the farmer's wife kindly, and advancing as she spoke, from the open door of the pantry, "come here to the table and see how a bit of this roast fowl tastes. And try this glass of currant wine,--you need not be afraid of it, it is home-made. While you are busy with it, I'll get a little basket ready, and put on my cloak to run over with you when you go back." Milly blushed crimson. It was difficult to her to learn the hard lessons of poverty. Nevertheless, she ate some bread and cold chicken, and was quite ready to praise the delicate wine for the grateful warmth it sent thrilling throughout her frame. When she had finished, Mrs. Brooks was ready to accompany her, and Comfort too, having received private instructions, stood with her shawl over her head, and a large basket of wood in her hand. So they set out together, Milly leading the way, the snow crunching under their feet, along the path. In a short time, a bright fire was burning in patient Elinor's room, while the remains of a little feast on a table in the centre, showed that the family suffered no longer from the pangs of actual starvation. Elinor was bolstered up in bed, looking like a wan, despairing woman of fifty, instead of a girl of twenty-two. Care and sickness had aged her before her time. A faint, sweet flush was dawning on her cheeks to-night, however, for she was not now enduring hunger, and Mrs. Brooks sat there by the cheerfully blazing hearth with her mother and sister, and talked hope into all their hearts. "I tell you what it is, Mrs. Harrow," said the farmer's wife, in a pleasant, hearty tone, "we must set this Milly of yours to work. Things ought not to go on this way with your family any longer." "Work!" echoed Milly, a little bitterly. "I've seen the time, dear Mrs. Brooks, when I would have given anything for a month's work. Only tell me something to do, and see how grateful I shall be." "Well," said the farmer's wife, "the darkest hour is just before day, Milly; who knows but that yours is now over, and dawn is coming. I have been thinking about your opening a school." Mrs. Harrow clasped her hands eagerly. "Oh, if she could! oh, if she could!" she cried. "But who would think of sending their children to us, when there are already two or three other schools in the village?" "Miss Felix is just giving hers up, and is going to the city," said Mrs. Brooks. "I know it to be a fact, because I went to see her about taking Nelly last week. That will be quite an opening. I can go to her to-morrow, get a list of her pupils, and call on the parents to secure their good-will, if you say so, Milly." Milly could scarcely answer for sobbing. At last she said in a broken voice, "dear, dear Mrs. Brooks, this is more than I have any reason to hope. How can I ever repay you for your kindness?" "By taking good care of Nelly when I send her to you as your first pupil," was the cheerful reply. "And now let me see what are your accommodations. You must have our Martin for a day or two, to knock you together some long benches with backs, and Comfort can help you cover and cushion them with some old green baize that I have in the garret. What room can you give to the use of the schoolmistress, Mrs. Harrow?" "Well," said the old lady, smiling for the first time in a month, "the front room, down-stairs, is best, I think, because it opens directly on the road. I can take the furniture out, (what there is of it!) and clean it up like a June pink, in a day or two." "The carpet is rather shabby and threadbare," suggested Milly. "And little pegged shoes will soon spoil it completely," added Mrs. Brooks. "I should say a better plan will be to take it up entirely. A clean board floor, nicely swept and sanded every morning, is plenty good enough. What books have you, Milly?" "All my old school-books, and brother's, and Elinor's too," said the young girl. "That will do to begin on till the pupils purchase their own." "I could teach French," put forth Elinor's voice from the bed,--"that is, if it would answer for the class to come up here. You know, mother, I used to speak it fluently when I was at Madame Thibault's. Don't you think I might try? My voice and my patience are strong, if _I_ am not;" and she smiled, oh, such a smile! It brought tears into the eyes of all in that poor, little, desolate apartment. "Try!" said the farmer's wife; "why, Elinor, that is just the thing for you! You may count _me_ as one in your class. It was only yesterday I was regretting having no opportunity to practise what little of the language I know already. We must arrange your room a little, Ellie, and have everything looking spruce, and Frenchified, eh?" At this Elinor herself began to cry. "You are so, s-o-o g-o-o-o-d," she exclaimed. "Good! Not at all!" said Mrs. Brooks; and by way of proving how far from good she was really, she hopped up like a bird, and was at the bedside in a minute, smoothing out the pillows and kissing Elinor's pale forehead. "I'll take my first lesson to-morrow afternoon," she said, "if you have no objections; and your kind mother here, can begin to profit herself at once by your labor, and send over to our meal-bag and dairy as often as she pleases." CHAPTER II. "MELINDY." Mrs. Brooks fulfilled her promise, and so faithfully did she work in the good cause, that a dozen little pupils were engaged for Miss Milly's school before preparations were fairly made to open it. These did not take long, however, as Miss Felix, the teacher, who was going away, sent to Mrs. Harrow's house two long forms of desks and benches, with her compliments and best wishes to Milly for her future success. Milly fairly began to dance around the room, in the new joy of her heart, on receiving this, to her, valuable present. "Everybody," she said, "must not be so kind to us, or I shall have a sickness brought on by too much happiness." Poor Milly! she had so long had a "sorrow-sickness," that the present good fortune was almost too much to endure. For a week she went about cleaning, and sweeping, and dusting, and making ready generally, for the great event, the opening of her school. Singing as gayly as a lark, she moved furniture up-stairs and down, and debated over and over again upon the best arrangement for effect. The front room was to be especially devoted to the use of her class. The carpet was removed, and thoughtful Miss Felix's desks and benches placed in it, along the walls. Mrs. Brooks sent an old white muslin dress to be made into window-curtains, and Martin spent a whole day in forming a little platform out of boards, on which, when covered with green baize, the teacher's table and chair were to rest. Even Elinor's sick-chamber assumed a different aspect. One day, when Mr. Brooks was in the village on business, he stepped into a paper-hanger's, and chose a cheap, but pretty paper for the lime-washed wall. It was very cheerful-looking, being formed of alternate stripes of white and rose-color; "for," said the farmer, when he reached home, "I warrant Miss Elinor grows tired of seeing the same cracks in the plaster, year in and year out. She must have something new and gay, like this, that will help to keep her spirits up!" Mrs. Harrow and the farmer's wife pasted this paper on the walls themselves, with a little assistance from Nelly, who stood ready to lift benches, hand the scissors back and forth, and give any other slight aid of which she was capable. The house was only one-story high, with a garret, so Elinor's room had a slanting roof and a dormer window. Mrs. Brooks said it would be a great improvement, if the striped paper were pasted on the ceiling too, and joined in the peak with a wood-colored border resembling a heavy cord or rope. This made the place look, when it was done, like a pink canvas tent. The change was wonderful. An imitation of a pair of tassels of the same color and style as the rope border, which the paper-hanger, hearing of the design, sent to the house as a present to Miss Elinor, when pasted carefully at each end of the peak, against the wall, made the illusion perfect. Elinor said she lived in the Tent of Kindness. The neighbors who came in to inspect all these preparations, said Elinor's was the very prettiest dormer-room they had ever seen. There was enough left of the old dress to curtain the single window, which being done, everything was at last pronounced to be in a state of readiness. And now we must go back to Nelly, who, I suppose, some of my readers remember, is the adopted daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Brooks. Nelly had known much sorrow in her short life, as will be seen on reference to the little story called "NELLY AND HER FRIENDS." She had never experienced what it was to be loved by father and mother till now; and when the farmer and his wife began to teach her to call them by those sacred titles, she felt herself a very happy little girl. She was delighted at the prospect of attending school. She had never been to one, and, therefore, perhaps, the novelty of the thing was half the attraction. When the important day arrived, and the child found herself seated in the class-room with twelve or fourteen other little folks, she was filled with awe and dismay, so much so, that she scarcely dared turn around to take a good look at her next neighbor, a girl of twelve, in the shy dread that she might be caught in the act, which circumstance would, doubtless, have occasioned her much confusion. Miss Harrow did not give her pupils any lessons to learn this first morning. She said, as no one had books, it should be a day of pleasure and not of work, and on the morrow they would begin to study in earnest. So, during the whole morning, the children drew funny little pictures on slips of paper, which were handed them for the purpose of amusing them; and in the afternoon, the teacher made them pull their benches close to the fire, in cosy rows, while she told them stories. As, with the deepest interest, Nelly gravely listened, she came to the conclusion that this was just the best school of which she had ever heard, everything was _so_ pleasant. There was a little dark-haired boy in a blue jacket, who sat near, and who whittled her pencil, oh _so_ sharp, every time she blunted it! She told Comfort, in confidence, when she went home, that this little boy's pictures were quite as good as any Martin could make. He drew ships under full sail, oh, beautiful! and as for those men, squaring off to fight, up in the corner of the paper, they made you think at once of Uz and Buz the two roosters, that quarrelled every morning in the barnyard, about which should have the most corn. In a week or two, however, Nelly's rapture abated somewhat; and one day she came home with her books in her hands, and threw herself on one of the chairs in the kitchen, crying heartily. "Heyday," cried Comfort, looking up from the fire, over which she was broiling a fish. "Heyday, what ar's the matter now?" "O Comfort," cried Nelly, "she struck me, she struck me, before them all!" "What!" cried Comfort, standing erect with surprise. "Miss Nelly's been for whippin' a'ready? Why, Nelly, shame, shame! Dis yer conduct is oncommon bad of yer." "It wasn't Miss Harrow, at all," said Nelly, reddening; "it was that horrid, old thing, Melindy." "Oh, Melindy," echoed Comfort, in a tone of relief. "Yes," continued Nelly, "she tries to get me to laugh in school, every day. She makes eyes at me, big, round ones, _so_, Comfort." Comfort chuckled. "I don't wonder yer laugh, if she does that way, chile." "But that isn't all," added Nelly indignantly. "She chews paper-balls, and sends them over the room, right at the tip of my nose. Sometimes they stick there a second or so, till I can put up my hand; and then the scholars giggle-like. Oh, you've no idea, Comfort, what an awful girl Melindy is. She punches me, too." "Punches, Nelly?" "Yes, and to-day, when school was out, she gave me _such_ a whack,--right in my ribs; shall I show you how, Comfort?" "No, thank yer," answered the old woman, laughing. She had a cause for being good-humored that day. "But why whack such a little critter as you be, Nell?" "Oh," said Nelly, hesitating, "_she_ knows." Something in her manner made Comfort suspicious. She sat down and called Nelly to her. Taking hold of both her hands, she looked her full in the eyes. "Speak the truff," she said; "didn't yer whack Melindy _fust_?" "Yes," said Nell, with a curious mixture of honesty and triumph, "I did, Comfort; I gave her a _good_ one, _I tell you_! I didn't stop to think about what I was doin' till I felt her whackin' o' _me_ back again." "Then she sarved yer right," said the old colored woman, going back to her fish, "and I hope she'll treat yer so every time yer begin the aggrawation." "But she snowballed _me_ first, and called out that I was nobody's child, and was taken out of the streets, and such like. I couldn't stand _that_, anyhow. I _had_ to whack her, Comfort." "No you hadn't," said Comfort, sternly, and at the same time gesticulating earnestly with the fish-fork. "It wasn't your part to do any punishin', whatsomever. Leastways, no punishment but one." "And what's that?" demanded Nelly, making large A's and O's in the steam that had settled on the windows. Here Martin suddenly put down a big newspaper he had been reading in a corner, and which had hidden him entirely from view. "Have you so soon forgotten your old rule of good for evil, Nell?" he asked. "Don't you know that is what Comfort means?" Comfort nodded at him approvingly. "But Melindy is ugly, _powerful_ ugly, Martin," said Nell, coloring, "and anyway she _will_ knock all us little girls. It's born in her. I think she must have been meant for an Indian, that pulls the hair off your head, like mother told us about. Doing good to Melindy is just of no account at all." "Did you ever try it?" asked Martin. "Well, no-o. You see I could tell it was of no use. And Miss Harrow, she stands Melindy on a chair with a paper cap on her head, every day, at dinner-time." "Poor girl," said Martin, "I am sorry for her." "I'm not," said Nell, promptly, "it keeps her from mischief, you know." Martin was silent. Comfort began to sing a tune over her fish, interrupting herself at times with a low, quaint laugh, as though particularly well pleased with some thought. "What's the matter, Comfort?" asked Nelly. "Oh, nuthin'," was the answer; "I guess I'm not very miserable to-day, that's all;" and off she went in a chuckle again. "Nelly," said Martin, after another grave pause, "you used to be a better girl than you are now. Last summer, about the time Marm Lizy died, you tried ever so hard to be good, and you improved very much indeed." "I know it," said Nell, a little sadly, "and I would be good now, if it wasn't for Melindy Porter. Ever since I've been to school I've felt hard and wicked. She torments and worries me so, that I think sometimes there's no use in tryin' to be good at all. I do and say wrong things, just when I don't mean to, all along o' Melindy." "If you and Melindy were friends, you wouldn't feel so, would you?" "I s'pose not, but who wants to be friends with anybody like _that_?" was the ready retort. "Still, you would rather be friends than enemies, Nell, wouldn't you? You would prefer that this little girl"-- "Big one, ever so big," interrupted Nelly, quickly. "You would prefer that this big girl, then, should bear you no malice, even if you didn't like her, and she didn't like you. Isn't it so?" "Well, yes. I would like to have her stop pinchin' and pullin' the hairs of all o' us little ones. That's what I'd like, Martin." "That's easy done, Nelly," said Martin in a confident tone. "Easy, Martin? How easy?" "_Be kind to her._ Show her that you bear her no ill feeling." "But I _do bear her ill feeling_, Martin! What's the good of fibbing about it to her? I can't go to her and say, 'Melindy, I like you ever so much,' when all the time I despise her like poison, can I? I am sure that wouldn't be right." "No," broke in Comfort, "that ar wouldn't be right, Martin, for sartain." Martin looked a little puzzled. "But, Comfort," he said at length, "I don't want her to speak pleasantly to Melindy till she _feels_ pleasantly. _That's_ the thing. I wouldn't have Nell _act_ an untruth, a bit more than I'd have her tell one. But I _do_ want her to try to _feel_ like givin' Melindy a little good for her evil." Martin said this with such a pleading, earnest look, smiling coaxingly on Nelly as he spoke, that, for the moment, the heart of the little girl was softened. "Well, Martin," she said, "you are _always_ preachin' ar'n't you? But it's nice preachin' and I don't hate it a bit. Some day, when I get real, _awful_ good, you'll leave off, won't you? I'll think about Melindy, and may-be I can screw my courage up to not mind bein' cracked at by her." "Pray for them that uses yer spitefully," said Comfort with solemnity. Nelly seemed struck by this. "What, pray for Melindy?" she asked meditatingly. "Chil'en," said the old woman, "don't never forget that ar mighty sayin'. Yer may be kind and such like to yer enemys, but if yer don't take time to _pray_ for his poor ole soul's salvation, you might as well not do nuthin'. That's the truff, the Gospil truff." "Well," said Nell with a deep sigh, "I'll pray for Melindy then, and for that bad, little Johnny Williams, too, to-night when I go to bed; but I shall have, oh, Comfort, _such_ hard work to _mean_ it, _here_!" and her hands were pressed for an instant over her breast. The next morning, just as Nelly was starting for school, Martin drew her, mysteriously, aside. "Which hand will you have, Nell?" he asked, holding both behind him. "This one," she said, eagerly, touching the right hand, in which she had caught a side glimpse of something glittering like burnished gold. Martin smilingly extended towards her a small, oval box, covered with a beautiful golden paper. "How very, very lovely," cried Nell, opening it. "It is yours," said Martin, "but only yours to give away. I want you to do something with it." "Can't I keep it? Who must I give it to?" "Melindy!" "Oh, Martin, I can't, I just can't,--there!" "Then you don't wish to make her good, Nell! You want her to be cruel and wicked and hard as long as she lives!" "Oh no, no, I don't wish that _now_. I _prayed_ for her last night." The last sentence was added in a very low tone. "You refuse then?" She looked at him, sighed, and turned away. Martin put his box in his pocket, and walked off in the direction of the barn. At dinner-time, Nelly came home quite radiant. Lessons had gone smoothly. Miss Harrow had praised her for industry at her books, "and, would you believe it, Martin," she added in an accent of high satisfaction, "Melinda didn't make but two faces at me all the whole morning! Wasn't that nice? They were pretty bad ones, though,--bad enough to last! She screwed her nose all up, this way! Well, if you'll give me the box now, I'll take it to her this afternoon. I don't feel hard against Melindy at all, now." Martin brought it to her after dinner, with great alacrity; and Nell walked very slowly to school with it in her hands, opening and shutting the lid a dozen times along the road, and eyeing it in an admiring, fascinated way, as though she would have no objection in the world to retain possession of it herself. It was a hard effort to offer it to Melinda. So pretty a box she had never seen before. "I mean to ask Martin," she thought, "if he cannot find me another just like it." Near the door of Mrs. Harrow's little house, Nelly encountered her tormentor, quite unexpectedly. She was standing outside, talking in a loud, boisterous way to two or three of the other children. Melinda was a tall, rather good-looking girl, of about fourteen years of age. She was attired in a great deal of gaudy finery, but was far from being neat or clean in appearance. At the present time, a large, freshly-torn hole in her dress, showed that in the interval between schools, she had been exercising her warlike propensities, and had come off, whether victor or not, a little the worse for wear. Her quilted red silk hood was now cocked fiercely over her eyes, in a very prophetic way. Nelly knew from that, as soon as she saw her, that she was in a bad frame of mind. Not daring to speak to her then, Nelly was quietly proceeding towards the door of the school, when with one or two tremendous strides, Melinda met her face to face. "How did you like the big thumping I gave you yesterday?" she asked, with a grim smile. Nelly walked on very fast, trying to keep from saying anything at all, in the fear that her indignation might express itself too plainly. "Why don't you speak up?" cried Melinda. Still Nelly went on in silence. Melinda walked mockingly side by side with her, burlesquing her walk and serious face. At last, irritated beyond control, Melinda put out suddenly one of her feet, and deliberately tripped up her little schoolmate, who, before she could even cry out, found herself lying flat on her nose, on the snow. The attack was made so abruptly, that Nelly had no time to see what was coming. Confused, stunned, angry, and hurt, she raised herself slowly to her knees and looked around her. There was at first, a dull, bruised feeling, about her head, but this passed away. Something in the deadly whiteness of her face made Melinda look a little alarmed, as she stood leaning against the wall, ready to continue the battle, if occasion required any efforts of the kind; but knowing well, in the depths of her cowardly heart, that, as the largest and strongest child at school, her victims could not, personally, revenge themselves upon her, to any very great extent. Looking her companion in the eyes, like a hunter keeping a wild animal at bay, Nelly staggered to her feet. She had meant to be so good that day! And this was the encouragement she received! Truly, the influence of Melinda on Nelly's character was most pernicious. All the evil in her nature seemed aroused by the association. Tears, not resulting from physical pain, but from the great effort she still made to control her temper, rose to her eyes, as she saw a sneering smile on Melinda's countenance. Till now she had striven to bear Martin's advice in mind; but as this sneering smile broke into an ill-natured laugh, Nelly's self-control gave way. Her face burned. She tossed the little golden gift, with disdainful roughness, at her persecutor's feet, and said, in a gruff, and by no means conciliating voice,-- "There's a box for you, Melindy. And Martin says I mustn't hate you any more. But I do, worse than ever! There!" Melinda gave a contemptuous snort. She walked up to the little gilt box, set her coarse, pegged shoe upon it, and quietly ground it to pieces. Then, without another word, she pushed open the school-room door, entered, and banged it to again, in poor Nelly's red and angry face. The child leaned against the house and cried quietly, but almost despairingly. "I wanted to be good," she sobbed; "I wanted to be good so much, but she will not let me!" CHAPTER III. COMFORT'S NEFFY. "Comfort," said Nell, that night, leaning her head on her hand, and looking at the old woman sideways out of one eye, as she had seen the snowbirds do when they picked up the crumbs every morning around the kitchen door, "Comfort, can't you tell me what you were laughing about yesterday afternoon, when you were br'iling of the fish for tea?" "Yes," said Comfort, "I think I can." Nelly sat waiting to hear the expected revelation, yet none came. Comfort was busy with her pipe. She paused every now and then to puff out great misty wreaths of bluish-gray smoke, but she didn't condescend to utter one word. "Comfort," said Nelly, getting impatient, "why don't you tell me, then, Comfort?" "Tell yer what, chile?" "What you said you would." "I never said I _would_; I said I _could_. Be more petik'lar with yer 'spressions, Nelly. And 'sides that, yer hadn't oughter say '_br'iling_ fish.' Missus don't. Leave such words to cullu'd passons, like me." "Well, but tell me," persisted Nelly, smilingly, brimming with the curiosity she could not restrain. "I know it was something good, because you don't often laugh, Comfort." "No," said Comfort, "that ar's a fact. I don't 'prove of little bits o' stingy laughs, every now and then. I likes one good guffaw and done with it." "Well," said Nelly, "go on. Tell me about it." "Yer see," said Comfort, taking her pipe from between her lips, and giving a sudden whirl to the smoke issuing from them, "Yer see, Nelly, I was laughin' 'bout my neffy." "Your neffy, Comfort? What's that?" "Lor! do tell! Don't yer know what a neffy is _yet_? I didn't 'spect yer to know much when yer was Marm Lizy's gal, but now, when Mrs. Brooks has adopted of yer, and sent yer to school to be edicated, we look for better things. Don't know what a neffy is, eh?" "No," said Nelly, looking somewhat disturbed. "Tell me, Comfort. Is it something that grows?" "Grows!" screamed Comfort, bursting into a laugh that certainly was not a stingy one; "Grows! Goodness! hear this yere chile! Ho, ho, ho! I--b'lieve--I shall--crack my poor ole sides! Grows! Oh my!" "You mustn't laugh so, Comfort," said Nelly, with dignity, "you make me feel,--well, leastways, you make me feel real bad." "Oh dear, dear," mumbled the old woman in a faint voice. "That does beat all! Why, see here, Nelly,--s'pose now, I had a sister once, and that ar sister got married and had a little boy, what ought he to call _me_, eh?" "Why, his Aunt Comfort, to be sure," was the reply. "And I ought to call him neffy John, or Johnny, for short, oughtn't I? Well, it was 'bout my neffy Johnny I was laughin' yesterday. Now I'll tell yer how it was, sence I've done laughin' 'bout him to-day,--oh my! You see, Johnny is a slave down South, ever so far off, on a rice plantation." "_Slave?_" repeated Nelly, with growing interest; "what's _slave_, Comfort?" "Oh, somethin' that grows," answered Comfort, chuckling. "A slave is a black man, woman, or chile that has a marster. This _marse_, as we call him, can sell the slave to anybody for a lot o' money, and the poor slave, as has been a t'ilin', strivin' soul all his days, can say nuthin' ag'in' it. It's the _law_, yer see." "Comfort," said Nelly, "stop a minute. Do you think that is a right law?" "No," said Comfort, "I can't say as I does. Some marsters are good, and some, on the contrary, are oncommon bad. Now my little neffy has a good 'un. Ever sence his poor mammy's death, I've been savin' and savin', and t'ilin' and t'ilin', to buy Johnny and bring him North, 'cause I set a good deal on him. This ere good marse of his agreed to let me buy him, when he was nuffin' but a baby; and he's been keepin' of him for me all this yere long time." "I'm glad I'm not Johnny," said Nell, earnestly; "If bein' a slave is getting bought and sold like a cow or a dog, a slave is just what I don't want to be. Hasn't Johnny any relations down there, Comfort?" The old woman shook her head. "I'm the only one of his kin in the 'varsel world." "Poor little fellow!" said Nelly meditating; "I don't wonder you want to buy him. How old is he?" "Twelve year." "And you've got enough money, Comfort?" A bright smile beamed suddenly all over that dark face. "Ho!" she cried, "that ar's just what I was laughin' at yesterday. I want only a leetle more, and 'deed, my neffy will have no marse ag'in,--only a missus, and that'll be _me_, thank the Lord!" The old colored woman tossed her apron over her head, and from the odd puffing noises that immediately began to sound from behind it, Nelly supposed she was weeping. She thought she must have been mistaken, however, the next moment, for Comfort pulled down the apron a little savagely, as though ashamed of having indulged in such a luxury as a private groan or two, and in a stern voice bade Nelly go up in her (Comfort's) room, feel under the bolster, on the side nearest the wall, and bring down to her the foot of a stocking which she would find there. "And don't let the grass grow under yer feet, neither," said Comfort, by way of a parting benediction, as the child softly closed the door. It was reopened almost immediately, and Nelly's smiling face appeared. "I say, Comfort." "Well chile, what now?" "I'm real, _real_ sorry for that little neffy of yours you've been tellin' me about. And, Comfort, when he comes I'll be as good to him as I can. I was thinkin' I would knit a pair of gray, woollen stockings to have ready for him, shall I? How big is he?" "'Bout your size," replied Comfort. "The notion of them stockings is quite nice. I'm much obleeged to yer, Nelly." Nelly looked delighted, and started to go up-stairs once more. In about a minute and a half, her face was peering into the kitchen again. "Comfort, I guess I'll knit a red binding at the top of the stockings, to look handsome, shall I?" "Why, yes," said Comfort, mightily pleased; "that will make 'em smart, won't it?" "A red yarn binding," continued the little girl, "knit on after the stocking is toed off,--a binding full of little scallops and such like!" "Laws, chile," said Comfort, benignantly, "I sorter think yer might stop short of them scallops. Neffy won't be anxious about scallops, I reckon, seein' as how he has only wored nater's stockings so far, with no petik'lar bindin' at all, that I knows on. Come, now, mind yerself and run up-stairs. I can't be wastin' all my time, a-waitin'." Nelly shut the door, and went singing up-stairs, two at once, while the old woman employed her valuable time in smoking her pipe. In a short time eager, young footsteps were heard dancing along the entry, and into the room came Nelly, looking as happy as though for her there existed no ill-natured schoolmate in all the world. "Here it is!" she said, holding triumphantly up the foot of an old stocking, ragged at the edges, but scrupulously clean,--the same in fact, from which Comfort had once given her a small gift of money; "here it is, Comfort; but didn't I have a powerful hunt for it! I dived under the bolster and under the mattrass,--at the foot,--at the head,--at the sides,--and then I found it on the sacking. Hear how it jingles! What fun it must be to earn money, Comfort! Do look at my hair,--if I haven't got it full of feathers, poking among your pillows!" Sure enough, starting up all over her curls were gray and white downy particles. "Laws sakes," exclaimed Comfort, helping her to pick them off, "that ar hole must a broke loose ag'in in my bolster! I can sew it up every Saturday night, and sure as I'm livin', it bursts ag'in Monday mornin'." "That's 'cause your brain is too heavy; you've got too many thoughts in it, perhaps," laughed Martin, who entered at that moment, and began to stamp the snow from his feet on the kitchen doormat. "O Martin," cried Nell, "see how rich Comfort is! She has saved that fat stocking full of money, to buy her neffy." "Buy her neffy!" repeated Martin, unbuttoning his overcoat. "Yes, he's a slave, you know." "No," said the boy, "I don't know, Nelly; I never even heard of neffy before." "Oh, his _name_ isn't neffy, Martin. Oh, no, not at all," said the little girl, with an air of importance. "He is called John, and Comfort is going to buy him, and I am to begin a pair of stockings for him to-morrow." Comfort held up her bag half full. "This yere is my money-box," she said, overflowing with satisfaction. "_Box!_" repeated Nell. "Why, it is not a _box_ at all, Comfort. It's the foot of a worn-out stocking." The old woman turned upon her a little grimly, "Stockin' or no stockin' I _calls_ it my money-box, and that's enough. Box it is." "That's funny," said Nelly; "I don't see much good in calling a stocking a box as long as it is a stocking." "Well, I does," said Comfort, sharply; and with some of the old ill-temper she once used to vent so largely on Nell, she snatched up the bag, and giving it a toss upon a pantry shelf, slammed the door with a mighty noise. For a little while silence descended on the group. It was an uncomfortable silence. No one in the room felt happy or at ease. Of such power is a single ill-natured expression! Comfort was restless, because her conscience reproached her, while at the same time Nelly was experiencing secret remorse for having irritated her by thoughtless words. Perhaps Martin Wray was more distressed than either of his companions, at what had taken place. His was naturally a peaceable disposition, and he could not bear to witness scenes of discord. The sight of his pleasant face saddened, did not tend to make little Nell feel happier. She longed to have him reprove her, or exhort her, as he so often did, to better behavior; but Martin sat in his chair by the fire, sorrowful and mute. Nothing was heard but the hissing of the burning wood on the wide hearth, and the whistling sounds and muffled roars of the wind without. It was too much to bear this any longer. Nelly got up with a long, penitent face, and hovered rather wistfully around the chair where Comfort sat, still smoking her pipe. The old domestic had taken advantage of the fact of her eyes being half closed, to pretend that she did not see the little figure standing at her side, on account of just going off into a most delightful doze. She even went so far as to get up a gentle, extempore fit of snoring, but Nelly was not to be deceived. "Comfort," she said, in a mild, quiet voice. No answer, excepting three exceedingly distinct snores. "Com_fort_," was repeated, in a louder tone. "WHAT!!" growled the old woman, opening her eyes so suddenly that the child started back. Comfort began to laugh, however, so Nell felt no fear of having disturbed her in reality. "I am sorry I said that wasn't your money-box, Comfort. I didn't mean to contradict, or such like. It was all along o' my contrary temper, and if you'll forgive me, I'll try not to act so again." The old colored woman appeared a little confused. "'Deed, honey," she said, "yer haven't done nuthin' wrong; it's all _me_. I dunno what gits into me sometimes. Well, now, hand me that ar plaguey stocking, and I'll let you and Martin count my money." Nelly smiled, looked delighted at being restored to favor, and flew to the pantry. The bag was on too high a shelf for her to reach, however, and she had got the poker and was in the act of violently punching and hooking it down, as she best could, her eyes and cheeks bright with the exertion, when Martin--the sadness quite gone from his face--advanced to help her. Comfort took the bag from him, and with a grand flourish, emptied it on the vacant table. The flourish was a little _too_ grand, however, and much more effective than Comfort had intended. The shining silver dollars, with which the stocking was partially filled, fell helter-skelter on the table, and many of them rolled jingling and glittering over the floor. Nelly laughed and scrambled after them, Martin shouted and tumbled down on hands and knees to help find them, while the owner, quite dismayed, stood still and did nothing. "'Deed, 'deed!" she said; "how could I be so keerless? But there's thirty of 'em, and thirty I'll find." Before the children knew what she was about, she seized the broom and began to sweep the rag-carpet with great nervous dashes, that had no other effect than to raise a tremendous dust. [Illustration: "Comfort relinquished the broom at this, and began to count." Page 69] "Stop!" cried Martin; "don't sweep, please, Comfort; Nelly and I will find them for you. That dust just goes into our eyes and blinds us. If you are sure there were thirty, it is easy enough to search till we make up the number." Comfort relinquished the broom at this, and began to count; as fast as the children found any of the coins they dropped them into her lap. "Twenty-six, twenty-seven," she said, at length; "three more, and we've got all the little shiners back." "Here's two," cried Martin, "behind the dust-pan." "And here's the thirtieth," exclaimed Nelly, "sticking out from under your shoe, Comfort! How funny!" And so, laughing, the children saw Comfort's money-box bulge again to its original size. "That ar's only my last five months' wages. Mrs. Brooks paid me yesterday," said the old woman, proudly, as she tied the stocking together with a piece of yellow, time-stained tape. "I've got three hundred jes' like 'em in a bank in the city; and when with a little extry t'ilin' and savin', I git in all, three hundred and fifty, my neffy will never be a slave no more!" Here the kind voice of Mrs. Brooks was heard calling the children into the sitting-room. "Good-night, Comfort," said Martin; "I wish _I_ had thirty dollars; yet I do not envy you yours, one bit,--no, not one bit!" "Yes," added Nell, rising to go, "and _I_ don't envy either, but I wouldn't mind owning another stocking just like that. And, Comfort, I am going to ask mother to let me set all the eggs of my white bantam hen, early in the spring; and I'll _sell_ the chickens and give you the money to help buy your neffy." CHAPTER IV. "LET'S MAKE FRIENDS!" The beams of the afternoon sun streamed gayly through the windows of Miss Harrow's school-room, and fell, like a crown of light, on the head of the young teacher, as she sat at her desk making copies for her pupils. It was writing afternoon, and on this particular occasion, that which was considered a high reward was to be given to the most diligent child. Whoever showed the greatest interest, neatness and industry, was to be allowed to remain for a few hours after the closing of the school, in order to make a wreath of evergreen to decorate a certain picture in Miss Elinor's apartment. The Christmas holidays were near, and the little school-room had already received, at the willing hands of the children, a thorough dressing with laurel, pine, and hemlock-boughs. It had been for a week past the great delight of the pupils to weave, after school-hours, festoons for the whitewashed walls, and garlands for Miss Milly's desk. Many were the regrets that the work was now almost over. Miss Elinor's gentle ways had, from the first, made her a great favorite. There were never any rebellions, any doubtful conduct, in the few classes she undertook to hear recite in her sick-room. Her very infirmity endeared her to the hearts of her scholars. This wreath for an engraving that hung at the foot of her bed, was the only Christmas-green Elinor desired to have placed in her apartment, and on that account, as well as from devotion to her personally, many pairs of little hands were eager to achieve the honor of the task. Very patient, therefore, were their youthful owners with their writing, this afternoon,--very exact were they to cross the t's, dot the i's, and avoid pens, as Melinda expressed it, "that scratched like sixty." Miss Milly had done very wisely in holding out this reward, for never before had such attention and such care been visible in the class. Nelly sat at her high desk, as busy and as excited to win as any child there. Her copy-book lay before her, and though she had not as yet reached beyond "pot-hooks and trammels," she was quite as likely to come off victor as those who wrote with ease and accuracy, because it was not a question of penmanship, but of neatness and industry, as I have already said; for the first quality, the books themselves were to speak; and Miss Milly's watchful eyes were the judges of the latter, as, from time to time, she raised them from her own writing and scanned the little group. Scratch, scratch, scratch went the pens, and papers rustled, and fingers flew about their work till the hour being up, Miss Milly rang her bell as a signal for perfect silence. "It is time to put away your pens, children," she said, in a clear voice; and at once they were laid aside. Nelly was just placing her blotting paper between the leaves of her writing-book, when a sorrowful exclamation near her made her turn her head. This exclamation came from Melinda, who sat a few benches off. Her eyes were fixed with a look of most profound distress on a large blot which a drop of ink from her pen had just left in the centre of the day's copy. Her sleeve had accidentally swept over it too,--and there it was, a great, black disfigurement! And on this afternoon of all others! Melinda wrote a very pretty hand. She was an ambitious girl, and had done her very best, that she might win the prize. Nelly saw the tears rise in her eyes, and her cheeks flush with the bitterness of her disappointment. "Oh, dear!" cried Lucy Rook, a little girl, who sat next; "Oh, dear! there's a blot, Melindy!" "Yes," was the answer; "I wonder if I could scratch it out, so that the page will look neatly again. Lucy, lend me your knife, will you?" Mistress Lucy looked straight at Melinda, and laughed a little cruel, mocking laugh. In the rattle of papers and temporary confusion of the room, she thought herself unheard by the teacher. "Who wouldn't play tag, yesterday, eh?" asked Lucy. "Who spoiled the game; did you hear anybody say?" "Why, I did, I s'pose," spoke Melinda roughly; "and what of it?" "I guess I want my knife, myself, that's all," was Lucy's reply. "I don't think I could conclude to lend it to-day," and she laughed again. Nelly involuntarily put her hand in her pocket, where lay a little penknife Nancy had given her, as a keepsake, a few weeks before. The thought flashed through her mind, "Shall I, or shall I not?" and the next moment she reached over, and the little knife was glittering on Melinda's blotted copy. She did not speak; she only blushed, and smiled, and nodded pleasantly, to show her good-will. Melinda looked at her with a frowning brow. Then a better impulse seemed to prevail; she glanced gratefully back at Nelly, and taking up the penknife began to give some doleful scratches over the blot. Presently, however, Miss Milly's command was heard from the desk: "All arms to be folded!" Melinda, with a sigh, folded hers, and sat like a picture of despair. The books were then collected, and examined carefully, while the scholars began to prepare to go home. Nelly was quite ready, when she was startled by hearing Miss Milly pronounce her name to the school as the winner of the prize. "I find," said Miss Harrow, "that almost every child has taken unusual pains to-day, in writing; and I am pleased to see it, I can assure you. Where all have been so careful, it is very difficult to find one who stands highest; Nelly Box, however, I think deserves the reward. Never, before, has she evinced such diligence and patience; hoping that she will always do as well in future, I give her permission to go up to Miss Elinor's room to begin the wreath, at once. Elinor will give you instructions, Nelly, and perhaps tell you some little story while you are busy with your task." At first Nelly's face shone with delighted triumph, at the news of her success. But in a little while she began to realize that many of the pupils were sorely disappointed at this award not falling on themselves, and the thought dampened her ardor. She had reached the door to leave the room, when Miss Milly added: "Melinda, I am glad to see that you, too, have been attentive and anxious to do well. If it were not for this huge blot, I should have given the palm to you." "I couldn't help it," said Melinda, eagerly. "I was just folding it up, when it happened. I am as sorry as can be." "Are you?" said Miss Milly, kindly. "Yes," broke in Nelly, with honest warmth; "and it was an--an _accident_, as I think they call it, Miss Milly. The girls who saw it, say so. The ink just dropped right down, _ker-splash_." Melinda held down her head and looked conscious. "Well, then," said the good teacher, smiling at the "_ker-splash_," "if it was an accident, I think we will have _two_ wreath-makers, instead of one. Melinda may go up-stairs with Nelly, if she wishes, and both are to be very quiet and orderly, for Miss Elinor is not quite as well as usual, to-day." Melinda glanced towards Nelly, and was silent. She did not like to go, under such circumstances as these. She wished the honor of making the wreath, it is true, but she did not desire that distinction to be bestowed upon her as _a favor_. She felt galled too, that this very favor was accorded to her through Nelly Box's means,--little Nelly, whom, every day, she had been in the habit of cuffing about as though she were an animal of totally inferior condition. She happened to raise her eyes, however, and they fell on the glad, beaming face of this same Nelly Box, who stood waiting for her. It was so evident that Nelly's good-will towards her was sincere, it was so plain that this little schoolmate of hers desired to be friends with her, and to forget and forgive all the unpleasantness of the past, that Melinda could not resist the good impulse which impelled her onward. A feeling of shame and awkwardness was all that hindered her from accompanying Nelly up-stairs at once. She stood looking very foolish, her glance on the floor, and her fingers twitching at the upturned corner of her apron. "Come, Melinda," said Miss Milly, in a gentle, but brisk tone; "don't keep Nelly waiting." The young girl could resist no longer. She smiled, in spite of herself, a great, ear-to-ear, bashful, happy, half-ashamed smile, and followed Nelly slowly up-stairs to Miss Elinor's room, where they found her bolstered up in bed, as usual, and quite ready to give them instructions how to form her wreath. A sheet was already spread in the middle of the floor, and on this was a pile of evergreens. "What, _two_!" said Miss Elinor, smiling, as they entered. "I am glad to see you both, although I expected but one. How is your mother, Melinda?" "Better, ma'am," said Melinda; "she is coming to see you next week, if she is well enough. What shall we do first, Miss Elinor?" The sick girl told the children how to begin, and, half sitting up in bed as she was, showed them how to tie together the fragments of evergreen with strings, so as to form the wreath. At first, the girls thought it hard work enough. The little sprays of hemlock would stand up, as Nelly termed it, "seven ways for Sunday," and all they could do did not bring them into shape. Miss Elinor could not help them much more than to give directions. She lay looking at them from her bed, half amused, and entirely interested in the proceedings. "Dear, dear!" said Melinda, after she had endeavored several times, quite patiently for her, to force a sprig to keep its place; "dear me, I don't think we can ever make this 'ere wreath look like anything but father's stump fences. Just see how that hemlock sticks out!" "Well," said Miss Elinor, "I like to see stump fences, very much indeed, Melinda. I think they are beautiful. The great roots look like the hands of giants, with the fingers stretched out to grasp something. So you see, I don't mind if you make my wreath look like them." "Father says stump fences are the very best kind," remarked Melinda, knowingly. "I guess not the _very best_, Melindy," Nell ventured to say. "Yes, they are," persisted Melinda, with a toss of her head; "father says they last _forever_,--and he _knows_, for he has tried 'em!" The young teacher smiled, and turned away her head. "Did you ever see a church dressed with evergreens, Miss Elinor?" asked one of the children. "Often," said the sick girl; "not here, in the village, but in the city. I have not been able to attend church much since we have been here. They entwine garlands around the high pillars, and put wreaths of laurel over the arched windows. The reading-desk and pulpit have their share too, and above the altar is placed a beautiful cross. Sometimes the font is filled with delicate white flowers, that are renewed each Sabbath as long as the evergreens are permitted to remain." "I wish I could see a church looking like that," remarked Nelly, stopping in her work, and looking meditatively about her. "Miss Elinor," said Melinda, "what do they mean when they say 'as poor as a church-mouse?' Why are _church_-mice poorer than house-mice?" "Because," was the reply, "in churches there are no nice pantries, filled with bread and meat, for the little plagues to feed upon. No stray crumbs lie on the floor,--no pans of milk are to be found at which to sip. So, you see, church-mice _have_ a right to be considered poor." "Well," said Melinda, "how funny! I never thought of that before." "Once," continued her teacher, "I saw an odd scene with a church-mouse. I'll tell you about it. I was visiting in the country, a great many miles from here; such a kind of country as you can have but a faint idea of, unless you should see it yourself. It was out West. The houses there are not like those you have always been accustomed to see, but are built of the trunks of trees. They are called log cabins. The gaps, or holes, between these logs are filled with mud and moss, which keep out the rain in summer, and the wind and snow in winter." "What do they do for windows?" asked Nell. "Some of them have none,--others make an opening in the logs; a small shutter, hinged with stout leather, is its only protection in time of storms. Glass is too expensive to be used, for the people are very poor. Well, I was visiting once a family who lived in one of these log huts. It was somewhat better than its neighbors, certainly, and much larger, but it was not half as comfortable as the little house we are in. It was in October, and I remember as I lay awake in bed, at night, I felt the autumn wind whistle over me. It makes my nose cold to think of it," laughed Elinor. "When Sunday came, I was surprised to find that, although the church was five miles distant, no one thought of staying at home. "'What!' said my uncle, 'do you think, Elinor, we are short-walk Christians? No indeed,--five miles through the woods is nothing to us when a good, sound sermon, and a couple of beautiful hymns are at the end of it!'" "It was your uncle, then, you were visiting?" questioned Melinda. "Yes; he had moved out West some years before, bought a farm, and built himself a log cabin. He lives there now, and is fast making a fortune." "Is he?" said Nell. "Did you go to the church, Miss Elinor, in the woods?" "Yes; no one stayed at home. We had the dinner-table set before we started, which was early, on account of the distance. I think it was about half past eight o'clock in the morning (for we did not want to hurry), when uncle shut the cabin door, and saw that everything was right." "Didn't you lock it?" asked Melinda. "Lock what?" "The door." "No. Not a man, woman, or child thinks of locking doors, out in that wild country. Thieves don't seem to be found there, and everybody trusts his neighbor. If a tramper comes along, he is welcome to go in and help himself to whatever he wants. It is not an unusual thing on reaching home, after an absence of an hour or so, to find a poor, tired traveller, asleep in his chair, before the fire. Besides," said Miss Elinor, with a twinkle in her eyes, "there is another excellent reason why the farmers out there never think of locking their doors." "Oh, I know!" cried Melinda; "I know!" "Well, why is it?" "They have no locks!" And the two children began to laugh as if they had never heard anything so funny in all their lives. "I like that," said Nell; "I want to live in just such an honest country, and where they are good to poor travellers, too. That's the splendid part. I feel as if I wanted to settle there, this very minute. Well, Miss Elinor, don't forget about going to church." "We got off the track so, I had nearly forgotten what my story is about," said Miss Elinor. "We started very early to go to church. Uncle had no wagon, so driving was out of the question; but he had a beautiful mare called 'Lady Lightfoot,' and an old side-saddle, which my aunt had owned ever since she was a girl. It was settled that my aunt and I were to take turns riding on Lady Lightfoot, so that neither should get too fatigued. Uncle and cousin Robert were to walk, and Lightfoot's pretty little long-legged colt ambled in the rear. My aunt took the first ride, and I was talking quietly to uncle and Robert, when I saw, bounding along a rail fence at the side of the road, the old fat cat, Wildfire. Her name just suited her, for she was one of the most restless, proud, affectionate, daring cats I had ever seen. "'Why!' I exclaimed; 'see Wildfire on the fence! she will get lost,--we must send her home.' "'Lost, eh?' said Cousin Robert; 'I reckon not. If any one can lose Wildfire, I'll give him a treat in the strawberry patch next summer, and no mistake.' "'But what shall we do?' I asked; 'we don't want her to go to church with us. Make her go home, Robert, do.' "'Not a bit of it,' said Robert, laughing; 'did you never see a cat go to meeting before? Wildfire has attended regularly, every summer, for the last three years. She always follows us. The minister would not know how to preach without her.' "'But,' said I, 'how it must look! a cat in church! A dog would not be so bad. But a cat! Go home, Wildfire!' and I took off my red shawl and shook it at her, and stamped my foot. "Robert laughed again, and told me it was no use; that they had often tried to send her back, and sometimes had fastened her up, but that she almost always broke loose, and would come bounding after them, kicking her heels in the air, as though to show her utter defiance of any will but her own. When I shook my shawl at her, she just rose quietly up on her hind legs, and while her green eyes darted flames of anger, she ruffled her fur as cats do when attacked by dogs, indicating as plainly as possible that go she would; and go, indeed, she did. Robert saw I was mortified at the thought of walking to meeting in company with a cat, and he told me I needn't be ashamed, because the churches out there were vastly different from those I had been in the habit of attending. 'Women,' said he, 'who can't afford them, come without hats, and men, on hot days, walk up to their seats in their shirt-sleeves, with their house-dogs tagging after them. I counted ten dogs in meeting once. The animals seem to understand the necessity for good behavior, for they are as quiet as their masters; perhaps more so, sometimes. They lie down under the seats of their friends, and go to sleep, only opening their eyes and mouths now and then to snap at some flies, buzzing around their noses. Wildfire does the same. Our bench is near the door, and we could easily put her out if she did not behave as becomes a good, well-reared cat. If people didn't _know_ that she followed us each Sunday, they would never find it out from her behavior in meeting-time.' "Seeing there was no help for it, and understanding there was no fear of mortification, I dismissed the thought of Wildfire from my mind. Shortly afterwards, my aunt dismounted to give me my turn. Cousin Robert helped me on, handed me the lines, and gently touching Lady Lightfoot with my twig-whip, I began to trot a little away from the party. The road was magnificent. None, my dear children, in our village can compare with it. The earth was smooth and hard, and but very little broken by wheels. Something in the character of the soil kept it generally in this condition. We had just entered the woods. Overhead the stately branches of old trees met and laced themselves together. It was like one long arbor. Scarcely any sunshine came through on the road, and when it did, the little wavy streaks looked like threads of gold. The morning was mild and cool, almost too cool for the few autumn birds that twittered their cheerful songs far and near. I was enjoying myself very much, when, suddenly, I heard a snorting noise just beside me. I could not imagine what it was. I looked down, and there--what do you think I saw?" "Wildfire!" cried the two children. "Yes, it was Wildfire, on the full trot, snorting at me her delight in the race. I slackened my pace, and the cat and I walked peaceably all the rest of the way to the meeting-house. "When we arrived there, I was as much surprised as amused at the scene which presented itself. The church was a nice, neatly-painted building, in the midst of a small clearing." "Clearing?" said Nell. "A clearing is a piece of ground from which the trees have been removed. One or two young oaks, however, were left in this instance, to serve as hitching posts, if any should be required, which was very seldom the case. "Many of the farmers of the vicinity had arrived when we got there. They had unharnessed their animals and left them to graze around the meeting-house, a young colt accompanying almost every turn-out. At the first glance I thought the spot was full of colts, such a frisking and whisking was going on around the entrance. One impertinent little thing even went so far as to poke its head in the door-way and take a survey of the congregation. "Some of the families who attended there, came from ten to fifteen miles,--for the country was by no means thickly settled. A large dinner-basket, nicely packed under the wagon-seat, showed which these families were. "All the people were more or less roughly dressed; none were attired in a way that looked like absolute poverty. "Cousin Robert aided me to dismount, left Lady Lightfoot and her colt free to graze with the other animals, and with aunt and uncle we went in the church. The walls were plaster, with no lime or wood-work to improve their appearance. Behind a pine desk at one end of the room sat the minister. A bunch of white pond-lilies, which some one had just given him, rested beside the Bible lying before him." "And Wildfire,--where was Wildfire?" asked Nelly, with great eagerness. "She followed us in, very demurely, and the moment that her favorite, Robert, sat down, she curled herself in a round, soft ball at his feet, and went to sleep. I was soon so interested in the sermon that I forgot all about her. The minister's text seemed to have been suggested by his flowers. It was 'Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet, I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?' The sermon was not well delivered, because of the lack of knowledge in the preacher, but it was pure and sound, and full of a true, tender, and loving regard for the welfare of that people in the wilderness. The heartiness with which all present joined in the closing hymn, proved that the effect of the discourse was a good one on the congregation. Just as the last note died away, my attention was suddenly attracted to a little moving object near the door. I looked twice before I could realize that it was a mouse. It peered about with its pretty, bright eyes, as if it were too frightened and bewildered to know what to do next. It was a little thing, and must have strayed unknowingly away from its companions. "From a slow, stealthy sound, that came all at once from Cousin Robert's feet, I knew that Wildfire had seen it too, and was preparing an attack. The minister was pronouncing the final benediction, however, and I did not dare to look around, for fear of attracting attention. Scarcely was the closing word uttered, when there was a sudden spring from the cat, and a shrill squeak on mousey's part. Proudly lashing her tail, like a panther, Wildfire laid her victim, in an instant, dead at her young master's feet, (we sat very near the door, I believe I told you,) gazing in his face with such an air of triumph, and such an anxious request for praise in her glittering eyes, that cousin Robert, very thoughtlessly, as it seemed to me, stooped and patted her head." "Did she eat it?" asked Melinda. "No," replied the sick girl; "she left it lying there, on the floor, and followed us unconcernedly out, as if there were not such a thing as a mouse in the world. She had no desire to be left behind." "Perhaps," said Melinda, "as it was a church-mouse, she thought it too poor to eat. I wish I had such a cat as Wildfire, Miss Elinor." "And so do I," cried Nelly. "I'll teach my cat, Nancy, to be knowing, just like her. Look at the wreath, Miss Elinor! Hasn't it grown handsome while you were telling about Wildfire? It don't seem a bit like a stump fence now, does it?" It was, indeed, very beautiful. Miss Elinor raised herself on her elbow and said so, as she looked at it. All that it wanted now, she told them, was a few scissors clips on the ends of the longest sprays, to make them even with the others. Melinda leaned it against the wall, and clipped away with great care and precision. Nelly stood gazing at it lovingly and admiringly. Before the children were quite ready to go home, Miss Milly came in and hung the precious wreath on a couple of nails which she drove for that purpose, over the picture, for which it was intended. It represented a little bare-footed gypsy-girl dancing a wild, fantastic dance, with her brown arms flung gracefully out, and mischief and innocent fun gleaming in her black eyes. "Of all the engravings I have ever seen," said Miss Elinor, "this one is the best calculated for an evergreen frame. Thank you, dears, for making it. I hope each of you will pass a merry Christmas and a happy New Year." As the two children went down the stairs together, Nelly said, "Isn't she good, Melindy?" Melinda was not accustomed to behave herself for so great a length of time; her stock of good conduct was now pretty nearly exhausted, so she answered rather sharply, "Of course she is. I know that as well as you, without bein' told." Nelly felt something choking her in her throat. "_I will not_," she said firmly to herself, "I will not answer back. I'll do as Martin says, and make a friend of Melindy, if I can. She isn't so very bad, after all. Why, I do believe I rather like her." They gathered their books together in the school-room. Melinda opened the door first, to go. "Well, good-bye," she said, gruffly, looking back at Nell. "Good-bye," replied Nelly; and then she added, bravely, "Oh, Melindy, we needn't quarrel any more, need we? _I_ don't wish to, do you? Let us be friends; come, shake hands." Melinda turned very red, indeed. "I am not going to be forced to make friends with any one," she said, in a most forbidding voice. She gave the school-door a terrific bang as she spoke, and darted off homeward. But in that last rough action the final trace of the ill-will she bore Nelly disappeared forever. The next morning, as the family were sitting at breakfast, there came a knock at the door. Comfort, hastily setting her dress to rights, went to answer it. There stood Melinda, her school-books in one hand, and in the other, two of the biggest and roundest and reddest apples she had been able to find in all her father's bins. "Give them to Nelly, if you please," she said. "And I declar'," added Comfort, when she came in and told the family, "the minit she spoke that ar' she ran off frightened like, and in a mos' drefful hurry." From that day Melinda and Nelly were friends. CHAPTER V. CHICKENS AND "POETRY." Spring came again, and deepened slowly towards the summer. Leaves budded on the trees, herbs sprouted from the warm earth, and birds sang in all the hedges. "I am _so_ glad!" said Nelly; "for I love the spring sunshine, and all the pleasant things that come with it." When the weather grew mild, Nelly was as good as her word about raising chickens for the benefit of Comfort's nephew, the little slave. The eggs of the favorite hen were carefully put aside to accumulate, and as soon as she had done laying, and went about the barnyard clucking, with her feathers ruffled and her wings drooping, Nelly knew, with joy, that it was time to set her. So she filled the same nest in which the eggs had been laid, with clean, fresh straw, and placed them in it, ready for the bantam when Martin could catch her to put her on. They found that the hen needed no coaxing, but settled herself at once in the well-filled nest, giving at the same time an occasional cluck of high satisfaction. In three weeks from that time she came off with eleven chicks,--all safe and well. When she was put in her coop, under the big apple-tree by the fence, Nelly fed her with moistened Indian meal, every day. She thought it a pretty sight, when biddy minced up the food for her babies, and taught them how to drink out of the flower-pot saucer of water that stood within her reach. Nelly seemed never to get tired of looking at her little snow-white pets. She felt that they were her own, and therefore she took a double interest in them. When she was home from school, and lessons were studied for the next morning, she would go out to the apple-tree, and sit on the clean grass an hour or two, to watch every movement of the brood, and the solicitude of the caged mother when her offspring wandered too far away. One day in particular, as she sat there, the child's thoughts were busy with the future; her imagination pictured the time when full-grown, and more beautiful than any others, as she thought they were sure to become, her eleven chickens were to be sent to market. "I hope," she said half aloud; "I hope they will bring a good price, for Comfort's sake; I should not like to offer her anything less than five dollars. That is very little, I think, compared to all the trouble I have had night and morning to feed and take care of them." She stopped a moment, and heaved a deep sigh, as she saw the little yellow dots flit back and forth through the long grass, some of them running now and then to nestle lovingly under the wings of the mother. "Oh dear!" she went on; "I do believe I am getting to love my hen and chickens too much to part with them; every day I think more and more of them, and all the while they grow prettier and sweeter and tamer. I wish I could keep them and have the money too! Dear little chickies! Oh, Comfort, Comfort!" She pronounced the last two words so ruefully, that her mother, who was passing along the garden-path, near the apple-tree, called out,-- "Well, Nelly dear, what is the matter with your precious Comfort, eh? Has she met any great misfortune?" "No, ma'am," said Nelly; "I was only talking to myself about how hard it would be to sell the little chickens, even for dear Comfort's sake, when I love them so." Mrs. Brooks drew near. "Well, my child, that is a dilemma I have not thought of before. Perhaps, who knows, something will turn up to keep your darlings nearer home. When autumn comes, if I feel desperately in want of bantams, I may purchase your brood myself,--but I will not promise about it. In the meantime, don't get to loving them too much; and remember, that if you told Comfort you would give her the money, you must keep your word." "Yes," said Nell, with another sigh; "there is just my trouble; I want to be honorable to Comfort, and kind to myself too." Mrs. Brooks passed on. She went into a little vegetable garden beyond, found what she wanted, and came back. She paused again, and with the little girl, looked at the chickens. "Nelly," she said, "it has just struck me that you have been a great deal in the kitchen with Comfort, lately, of evenings. Now, though I respect and love Comfort for many things, I want you to stay more with your father, and Martin, and myself, in the sitting-room." "What?" Nelly cried, in innocent wonder; "isn't Comfort good any longer?" Mrs. Brooks smiled. "Yes, dear, Comfort's as good as ever. She tries to do her duty, and is a faithful old creature. She has many excellent qualities, but she is not educated nor refined, as I hope one day _you_ will be. You are too young to be exposed to her influence constantly, proper as it may be in most respects. I want you to fill a different rank in life from Comfort's, Nelly." Tears were in Nelly's eyes as she answered gravely, "Yes, ma'am." "Comfort is a servant, and you are my little daughter. I want you to be diligent, and cultivate a love of books. If you grow up in ignorance, you can never be esteemed a lady, even if you were as rich as an empress. I will give you the credit to say that you have improved very much since you have been with me, both in your conduct and in the language you use." "Comfort told me I mustn't say 'br'iling fish,' as she did, because _you_ did not! _That_ was kind of her, wasn't it?" Mrs. Brooks felt her eyes moisten at this unexpected remark, more, perhaps, at the tone than at the words themselves. She saw that Nelly was deeply attached to Comfort, and she felt almost that she was wrong in seeking to withdraw the child from the grotesque attraction she had lately seemed to feel for her society. But duty was duty, and she was firm. She stooped and imprinted a light kiss on Nelly's cheek. "Yes," she said, "Comfort is very kind to you. But I do not wish you to spend more time with her when you are out of school than you do with the rest of the family. Remember not to hurt her feelings by repeating to her this conversation." "Yes, ma'am," said Nelly; and then she added, "Comfort was going to show me how to write poetry, to-night, when she got through with her work. Couldn't I go in the kitchen for this one evening?" "Comfort--teach--poetry?" echoed Mrs. Brooks, with some dismay and amusement. "Yes, ma'am." "Well,--yes,--you may stay in the kitchen, if you like, for this once. Certainly, I have no objection to your learning to write poetry," and she walked away, laughing quietly. Surely enough, when night fell, and Comfort, radiant in a showy, new, red cotton turban, sat down to her knitting,--her day's work over, everything in its place, and the kitchen-floor white with extreme cleanliness,--Nell came skipping into the room, pencil and paper in hand. "You see," she said, as she arranged her writing materials on the table, and drew the solitary tallow candle towards her; "you see, Comfort, school breaks up next week, and the spring vacation begins. It lasts a month, only think of it! Will not I have good times, eh? Johnny Bixby,--you know Johnny Bixby, Comfort? well, he goes to his home in the city as soon as vacation commences, and as we may not see him again, he wants each of the little girls to write him some poetry so that he can remember us by it; and that's the way I come to want to learn how." "Oh," said Comfort, "I understand now. Johnny boards with those ar Harrowses, eh?" "Yes," said Nell; "and he's such a very quiet boy, you've no idea, Comfort." "He's the fust _quiet_ boy ever _I_ heerd on, then," said Comfort. "Weel, what do you want to say to Johnny in your poetry? That's the first and important p'int; don't begin to write till you finds what you are a goin' to say." "Oh, I want to tell him good-bye, and all that sort of thing, Comfort, and how I hope we will meet again. I've got the first line all written; that's some help isn't it? Melindy's and my first lines are just alike, 'cause we made it up between us." "How does it go?" asked Comfort, puffing at her pipe. "This way," said Nelly, taking up her paper and reading: "Our days of youth will soon be o'er." "Well," said Comfort, after a moment's reflection, "I think that's very good. Now you must find something to rhyme with that ar word 'o'er.'" Nelly bent over her papers, and seemed to be considering very hard indeed. Once she put forth her hand as if she were going to write, but drew it back again. Evidently she found writing poetry very difficult work. Comfort was looking at her, too, and that made her nervous, and even the solemn stare of the cat, Nancy, from the hearth, where she sat purring, added to her embarrassment. "Oh, Comfort," she said, at last, with a deep sigh; "I can't! I wonder if Johnny Bixby would take as much trouble as this for me. Do tell me what rhymes with 'o'er,' Comfort!" "'O'er,' 'o'er,'" repeated Comfort, slowly; "why, tore, gnaw, boar, roar, and such like. Roar is very good." "But I don't want 'roar' in poetry, Comfort," said Nelly, considerably ruffled. "I don't see how you can bring 'roar' in. I wonder if 'more' would not do." She took up her pencil, and in a little while, with beaming eyes, read to her listener these lines: "Our days of youth will soon be o'er, In Harrows' school we'll meet no more." "That's pretty fair, isn't it, Comfort?" "'Pears like," was the answer that came from a cloud of smoke on the other side of the room. "I'm sorry the 'roar' couldn't come in, though. Don't disremember to say something nice about his writin' to tell yer if he gits safe home, and so, and so." "No," said Nell; "I'll not"--"forget" she meant to have added, but just then came a heavy knock on the kitchen-door that made both of them start. Comfort opened it, and there stood a boy, nearly a man, in the dress of a sailor. His hair was long and shaggy, his face was brown, and over his shoulder swung a small bundle on a stick. He was not, however, as rough as he looked, for he took off his hat and said in a pleasant voice, "Can you tell me where a widow by the name of Harrow lives in this neighborhood? I was directed this way, I think." "Over yonder is the house," said Comfort, pointing out into the night. "And the next time yer come, be keerful not to thump so hard. We are not used to it in this 'ere part of the country." Nelly heard the young man laugh as he walked down the path from the house; and something in the sound brought Miss Milly to her mind. The more she thought of it, the more certain she became that the young man's voice was like her teacher's. She sat still a little while, thinking, and idly scratching her pencil back and forth. At length she said, quite forgetful of her writing, "Comfort, didn't Mrs. Harrow's son run away to sea, ever so long ago?" This question, simple as it was, seemed to fill Comfort with sudden knowledge. She clapped her hands together joyfully. "My stars! ef that don't beat all! I do b'lieve Sidney Harrow is come back again!" She went to the door to look after him, but his figure had long since vanished down the path. The gloom of night reigned, undisturbed, without. There was no sailor-boy to be seen. "My stars!" said Comfort, again and again; "ef that was only Miss Milly's brother come back to help keer for the family, instead of runnin' off like a bad ongrateful feller, as he was, I'll be glad for one." "And I'll be glad too," cried Nelly; "and then dear Miss Elinor need not teach, but can read books all day, if she likes, and be happy. Oh, kitty, kitty! will not that be nice?" and in the delight of her heart, the little girl caught up the cat from the hearth, and began to caress her in a joyful manner, that the sober puss must have considered rather indecorous, for she sat still in her lap, looking as grave as a judge, and never winked or purred once at her young mistress. Here the clock struck nine. "Dear, dear!" said Nelly; "and I haven't finished my poetry yet! and very soon I must go to bed." Back she went with renewed vigor. "What were you saying, Comfort, when that young man knocked? Oh, I know,--to tell Johnny to write to me; I remember now. Don't you think it will seem strange to Johnny to be with his mother all the time, instead of sending her letters from school? eh, Comfort?" But the old woman was lost in her thoughts and her smoking, and did not reply. Nelly bent over her paper, read, and re-read the two lines already accomplished, and after musing in some perplexity what should come next, asked, "Comfort, what rhymes with B?" "Stingin' bee, Nell?" "No, the _letter_ B." "Oh, that's it, is it? Well, let me think. I haven't made poetry this ever so long. There's 'ragin' sea,'--how's that?" said Comfort, beginning to show symptoms of getting deeply interested. "Now take to 'flectin' on that ar, Nell." Nell did reflect some time, but to no purpose. Some way she could not fit in Comfort's "ragin' sea." It was no use, it would not go! She wrote and erased, and erased and wrote, for a full quarter of an hour. After much anxious labor, she produced finally this verse, and bidding Comfort listen, read it aloud, in a very happy, triumphant way. Then she copied it neatly on a piece of paper, in a large, uneven, childish handwriting, which she had only lately acquired. It was now ready to be presented on the morrow. TO JOHNNY BIXBY. Our days of youth will soon be o'er, In Harrow's school we'll meet no more; You'll write no more to Mrs. B., Oh then, dear Johnny, write to me! "And now," said Nelly, as she folded up the precious paper, after having duly received Comfort's congratulations and praise,--"and now I'm going straight to tell mother about Sidney Harrow." CHAPTER VI. GETTING LOST. The next day, when Nelly went to school with her verse-paper in her hand, all ready for presentation, she found the children talking together in little groups, in tones of great surprise and delighted satisfaction. Melinda, now grown kind and loving to Nelly, as a consequence of that little girl's own patience and affectionate effort, came forward at once to tell the news. "Only think!" she said; "Mrs. Harrow's son, Sidney, has come home, and oh, Miss Milly and Miss Elinor are _so_ glad!" "And so am I," cried Nelly; "if ever there was good luck, that is." "I am not so sure about that," said Melinda, with a sage, grown-up air; for she liked to seem like a woman, and often told her companions, "dear knows, if _she_ wasn't big enough to be thought one, she would like to know who _was_!" "Why, isn't Mr. Sidney a nice young man, Melindy?" asked Nelly, in bewilderment. "Hush!" said Melinda, drawing her into a corner; "don't talk so loud. You see, he's come home as poor as he went, and folks are afraid that he will go on just as he did before,--that is, spend all his own earnings and plenty of his mother's, too." "Dear, dear!" said Nelly; "that will be hard for Miss Milly." "Anyway," continued Melinda, wisely, "we can hope for the best, you know. Miss Milly is so glad to have him back, that she came into this 'ere school-room, this very morning, and told the scholars she was going to take them all on a picnic, to-morrow, up yonder, on Mr. Bradish's mountain. We are to ask our mothers if we can go, and then come here with our dinners in our baskets, and set off together as soon as the grass dries. Fun, isn't it?" Nelly's eyes danced. "A picnic! well, if that isn't nice! I hope Comfort will put something real good in my basket, to-morrow." Then she added, thoughtfully, "I wonder if Martin might not go, too?" "I'll ask," said Melinda; and up she went to Miss Milly, who at that moment entered. Little Johnny Bixby, a boy of ten, now came up to wish Nell good-morning, and talk about the picnic. Nelly gave him her poetry, and he read it, and said, "It's splendid, Nelly; I'll show it to mother as soon as I get home." The next day came. The skies were clear, but the wind was high, and swayed the branches of the trees around the farm-house, and swept the long, wet grass to and fro. "Is it going to storm?" asked Nelly, anxiously, of Martin, as immediately after breakfast they stood together in the door-way and looked forth. "No," said Martin; "I think it will not storm, but the breeze will be a pretty stiff one all day. Perhaps Miss Milly will postpone the picnic." "Oh, dear!" cried Nelly; "I hope not. What! put it off after Comfort has baked us that great, bouncing sponge-cake, Martin?" Martin was going too, for Miss Milly had sent him an invitation, and Mr. Brooks had granted him, very willingly, a holiday. He had only to help milk the cows early in the morning, and then he was free to follow his pleasure till sundown. He was dressed now in his Sunday suit; his hair was combed smoothly over his forehead, and his best cloth cap was in his hands. Altogether he looked so tidy, so good, so happy, that when Mr. Brooks came in the room, he asked Comfort, with a smile, if she didn't think a lad of about the age of Martin ought to have at least a dime of spending money, when he went to picnics. On Comfort's saying heartily, without taking one single instant for reflection, "Yes, Sir," the farmer put his hand in his pocket, drew out a new and bright quarter of a dollar, and dropped it in Martin's cap. Martin tried to return it, but Mr. Brooks would not hear to any such thing, but shouldered his hoe and went off, whistling, into the garden. "I'll tell you what to do with it," said Nelly, in a confidential whisper; "buy round hearts; they're four for a penny. Only think of four times twenty-five round hearts! How much is that, Martin?" Martin laughed, and said he guessed he would not invest in round hearts, for Comfort's cake was so large. "So _monstrous_ large," put in Nelly, dividing a glance of affection between Comfort and the cake. "Yes," continued Martin; "it is so _monstrous_ that it ought to last, at least, two whole days." The farmer's wife came in just then, and told them she would pack the dinner-basket herself, to see that everything was right, and that it was full enough, for she said she had heard somebody remark that good appetites were sure to go along on picnics. Nelly and Martin stood by and looked at her as she unfolded a clean white towel, and outspread it in the basket, so that the ends hung over the sides. After this she took some thin pieces of cold beef and put them between slices of bread and butter, and these she packed away first. Now came Comfort's sponge-cake, cut in quarters, and as many little lady-apples as remained from the winter's store,--for it was late in the spring. A cup to drink out of the mountain streams was also added, and the towel-ends were nicely folded over the whole and pinned together. A happy pair they were, when they set out,--Martin carrying the provisions, and Nelly singing and making flying skips beside him. When they reached the school-house, nearly all the children were assembled. Miss Milly was there, and her brother too, a handsome young lad, of about eighteen, with a very brown, sunburnt face. Nelly knew him, the moment she saw him, to be the same person she had seen before. They were not to start for an hour yet, for, high as the wind had been, and was, the grass was still glittering with dew. The little road-side brooks were furrowed into white-crested waves, and the school-house creaked and moaned with the gusts that blew against it. "I am almost afraid to venture taking the children out," said Miss Milly; but upon hearing this, such a clamor of good-humored expostulation arose, and so many sorrowful "oh's," and "oh dear me's," resounded through the room, that Sidney Harrow, as any other boy would have done, begged his sister to have mercy and never mind the wind. In a little while the party started. Mr. Bradish's mountain, the proposed scene of the picnic, was distant about one mile from the school-house. The route to it lay through a long, shady lane that gradually wound towards the woods, and lost itself at last amid the huge, gray rocks and dense shade of the hill-top itself. It was spring-time, and the grass was very green, and delicate wild flowers starred all the road-side. Here and there, in the crevice of a mossy stone, grew a tuft of wild pinks, nodding against a group of scarlet columbines, while, wherever the ground afforded unusual moisture, blue violets thrust up their graceful heads in thick masses. "Hurrah!" cried Johnny Bixby, as they reached the summit of the mountain; "Hurrah! here we are at last. The picnic's begun!" Miss Milly said the children might stray around together for some time before it would be the dinner-hour, and they might gather as many wild flowers as they wished, to decorate the picnic grounds. All the girls set to work, and such a crowd of violets, anemones, wild buckwheat, and pinks as was soon piled around Miss Milly's feet, was a sight to behold. While Sidney Harrow with Martin and the rest of the boys were fishing in a little stream that ran over the mountain, about one quarter of a mile distant, Miss Milly's party tied bouquets to the branches of the trees, and hung garlands on the bushes, around the spot where they were to dine. The wind died away, the birds sung out merrily, and the air grew soft and warm, so that, after all, there was no fear of little folks taking cold. The brook where Sidney and Martin led the boys was not a very deep one, and therefore it was not dangerous, but it was celebrated for miles around for its fish. A large, overhanging rock, under the shade of a tree, served, as Martin said, for a "roosting-place," and from it they found the bites so frequent that quite a little string of fish was made, and hung on some dead roots that projected from the bank. "What a wild place this is," said Martin, looking around him, as he drew in his line for the fourth time. "Yes," said Sidney; "it is. That is the best of it. I wouldn't give a fig for it if it wasn't. Look at that cow coming to drink. I wonder where she hails from! How she looks at us!" The cow did indeed regard them with a long stare of astonishment, and then, scarcely tasting the water, she plunged, bellowing, into the woods again. "She is frightened," said Martin; "that's old Duchess, one of Mr. Bradish's cows. He turns them out with their calves every summer, to take care of themselves till fall." "Why, is the pasture good enough for that, up here on this mountain?" asked Sidney, baiting his hook. "Yes," replied Martin; "I think so; it's rather rough, but cows are mighty knowin', and pick out the best. Besides, they have their freedom, and they thrive on that as much as anything. Then the calves are so well grown in the fall by these means, that when farmers, who put them out, go to drive them home to winter-quarters, they hardly know their own again." "There, she's coming back!" cried a little boy; "and a whole lot with her!" Martin looked where the crashing of boughs told of the approach, and saw about a dozen cows, headed by Duchess, making for that part of the stream where they were fishing. Some half-grown calves scampered at their heels, in a frightened way, that showed they were not much accustomed to the sight of human beings. "Poor Duchess! Good Duchess!" said Martin, in a kind tone; but Duchess tossed up her nice, brown nose, and snorted at him. "She don't like the looks of us, that's flat," said Sidney, with a little alarm that made Martin smile; "I'm sure I don't like _her_ appearance one bit. Suppose she should horn us!" And he jumped hastily up from the rock. "What!" said Martin; "you, a sailor, who know what it is to face death on the ocean, every day of your life, and yet afraid of a cow! Besides, she hasn't a horn to her head! Just look at her. She has nothing but two little, miserable stumps!" Sidney came back again, for he had retreated a step or two, under the trees, and looked somewhat ashamed. "What's the use of jumpin'?" said Johnny Bixby, in a big, pompous tone, that he meant to be very courageous and manly; "Duchess is only frightened at seeing us. This is her drinking-place, may be." "Oh!" said Sidney; "of course _I_ am not afraid;" but his lips turned blue as Duchess made a sudden move, half-way across the stream, and then stood still, and roared again. "She's a little scared at us, that's all," said Martin; "she'll get used to the sight of us pretty soon." "After she's made the water muddy and spoiled the fishing," said Sidney, in an ill-natured tone. Martin took off his shoes and stockings, rolled up his trousers, and waded slowly across the brook towards the herd of cattle, holding out his hand and speaking to one or two of the animals by name, in a coaxing, petting way: "Come here, Spotty,--come here, good little White Sue,--come here, my poor old Duchess!" The cows stood and looked at him, very quietly. The one he called Sue, was small, and entirely white, with the exception of a bright red star on her forehead; she was a very pretty creature. She seemed to remember having seen Martin before, for presently she marched slowly up to him and sniffed his hand, while staring at him from head to foot. The boy scratched her ears, as he had often done before upon passing Mr. Bradish's barnyard; she appeared to be pleased, and rubbed her head against his shoulder. "Softly, there, Susie," said Martin; "I don't like that. That's my Sunday go-to-meeting coat." He stepped back as he spoke, and the abrupt movement alarmed the whole troop. White Sue gave a loud bellow, and dashed abruptly across the stream into the woods on the other side,--her companions hurriedly following, splashing the water over themselves and their calves as they did so. Sidney Harrow dropped his pole, and with a half-shriek, ran in the opposite direction, towards the picnic ground. As the fishing at that place was now over, on account of the disturbance of the water, Martin told the boys they had better join the rest of the party; so they gathered up the fish and bait, and left the spot, Martin carrying the rod of the brave sailor in addition to his own. They found Miss Milly building a fire in a small clearing, where it would not scorch the trees. Sidney was with her. As he saw the boys approach he got down on his knees and began to blow the flame into a blaze, and puffed and panted so hard at his work, that he could not even get his breath to say "thank you," when Martin remarked, "Here is your rod, Sidney. You left it on the rock. I'll lean it against this maple, till you are ready to take charge of it." "I am glad you have come," said Miss Milly to the group of boys; "for we are getting magnificent appetites, and I wanted Sidney and Martin to roast the clams." "Clams!" cried Martin; "that was what made Sidney's load so heavy, then, coming up the hill. How I like roasted clams!" Miss Milly showed him Sidney's empty basket, and told him that she and Melinda had prepared a compact bed of the clams on the ground, and that they had then placed over them a quantity of dry branches, ready to kindle when Sidney should come with the matches, which he carried in his pocket, and had brought for the purpose. The tablecloth was already spread on a flat rock near at hand, and the little girls were still busy arranging the contents of their baskets upon it, for, by general consent, they were to dine together that day, and share with each other the eatables that had been provided for the excursion. Martin reached down his and Nelly's basket, from a high limb where he had hung it for safety, and Comfort's big cake, which Mrs. Brooks had cut in quarters, was fitted together and placed in the centre of the cloth for the chief ornament. "Will not Comfort feel proud when she hears it?" whispered Nelly to Martin, as she passed him with her hands full of knives and forks. The fire was soon blazing and sputtering over the clams, and in a short time Sidney pronounced them cooked. With branches of trees, the boys then drew the burning fragments away, and scattered the red coals till the bed of baked clams presented itself. Miss Milly tried one and found it was just in a fine state to eat, and then the children were told that all was ready. Armed with plates, pieces of bread and butter, and knives and forks, they drew near, and the talking and laughing that ensued, as each opened the hot shells, for his or herself, made a merry scene of it. There were enough for all, and to spare; and when they left the clam-bed, still smoking and smouldering, to assemble around "table-rock," as Melinda called it, where the daintier part of the feast was spread, Martin said he had never tasted such finely roasted clams in his life. "I expect," said Miss Milly, "that the charm lies in our appetites." "Yes," said Johnny Bixby, taking an enormous bite of cake, and, to Nelly's great horror, speaking with his mouth full--"yes, I think goin' on picnics and such like, is real hungry work." This speech was received with a shout of approbation; and, on Sidney remarking that he thought that Johnny should be made the orator of the occasion, the children laughed again, and quite as heartily as though they fully understood what _orator_ meant. When the dinner was over, and the larger girls began to gather up the fragments, and restore plates and spoons to their owners, the rest prepared for a ramble. Miss Milly said they must not go far, nor stay long, and, promising to obey, the children set out together. As soon as they were separated from the others, which happened insensibly, Johnny Bixby gave Nelly, with whom he was walking, a very animated account of Sidney Harrow's behavior at the fishing-ground. "Afraid of cows!" said Nell; "well, that beats all I ever heard. I am afraid that Sidney will not help Miss Milly along much. Come, show me where you fished, Johnny, will you?" Johnny led the way, and in a little while he and Nelly stood on the very rock from which the boys had dropped their lines in the morning. The moss upon it was trodden under foot, and it was quite wet where the fish had been hauled in. "I wonder if this is a creek," said Nell, looking up and down the brook with an admiring gaze; "Marm Lizy used often to tell me of a creek where she rowed a boat, when she was young." "Marm Lizy?" asked Johnny; "who's that, Nell?" Nelly turned very red, and was silent. She remembered, like a flash of lightning, that John was a stranger in the village, his home being in the adjacent city, and that therefore he had, perhaps, never heard the story of her degraded childhood. Pride rose up and made her deceitful. "Marm Lizy!" she repeated, carelessly; "oh, I don't know; somebody or other who used to live in the village. What's that, Johnny, flopping about in the grass?" She pointed to the rock-side, where, as Johnny soon saw, a decided "flopping" was indeed going on. "A fish! a fish!" cried the boy, catching it and holding it up in both hands, so that Nell could look at it; "I'll take it to Martin to put on the string with the rest. It must have floundered off." "Oh, let us put it back," cried Nelly; "poor Mr. Fish! I think you would really like to try your hand at swimming again." "Fin, you mean," laughed John; "fishes don't have hands that ever _I_ heard tell. Shall I let it go?" "Oh, yes!" cried Nell; "but wait till I get down from the rock so that I can see it swim away." She clambered down, and soon stood by Johnny's side on the long grass that grew close to the brook's edge, and mingled with the little white bubbles on its surface. Johnny stooped, and, holding the fish, put his hands under the water. The moment the poor, tortured thing felt the touch of its native element, it gave a start and would have darted away. "Oh, Johnny!" exclaimed Nell; "don't tease it so cruelly. Please let it go." Johnny lifted up his hands, and instantly the fish swam off so swiftly that they could scarcely see which way it went. At last Nelly espied it under the shadow of the rock, puffing its little sides in and out, and looking at them with its keen, bright eyes, in a very frightened way. [Illustration: "Johnny lifted up his hands, and instantly the fish swam off." Page 154.] "Poor fish!" said Johnny; "swim away, and remember not to nibble at boy's hooks again. A worm is a very good thing for you when it isn't at the end of a piece of string." The fish gazed at him a little longer, then seeming to take his advice, darted from the rock to where the water was deeper and darker, and was soon lost to sight. "That's the place Sidney's cows came from," said Johnny, pointing to the opposite side of the stream, where the bushes were torn and trodden, and marks of hoofs were in the mud and grass. "Let us take off our shoes and stockings and wade over and follow their track, to see where it leads," cried Nelly; and, suiting the action to the word, the two children soon found themselves bare-footed,--Nell tying her boots to dangle one from each of her apron-strings, and Johnny carrying his in his hands. Nell got her feet in first, but drew back, saying it was cold; so Johnny dashed over, splashing his little bare legs, and leaving a muddy track all across the brook. "There," said he, somewhat boastfully, "that's the way! I am glad I'm not afraid like girls." Nelly did not like this treatment, and she was about giving a hasty and angry answer, when, sobered by the recollection of the deep fault she had already committed, by her late untruth, she only said,-- "Sidney was afraid of _cows_!" and waded slowly and silently through the water. They found the path to be quite a well-worn one. It was evidently that by which the cows were in the habit of coming to drink. It was pretty, too, and very wild. In a little while, as they left the brook farther and farther behind them, the walking became dry and very good, so that they resumed their shoes, but not their stockings,--Johnny stating that he hated the latter, and would rather "scratch himself to pieces" on the blackberry thorns than put them on again. The shade was very pleasant. Once or twice they paused to rest on the large stones which were scattered here and there through the path, but this was not for any great length of time; they wandered on and on, taking no note of time, nor of their prolonged absence from their companions, but enjoying every thing they saw, and wishing all the days in the year were like this one. The openings in the trees were very few; they were penetrating, although they did not know it, into the very heart of the wood. Once, and once only, they caught a glimpse, through the branches, of a small clearing. Half-burned stumps still showed themselves amid the rank grass. On the top of an elevation, at one side of this clearing, a horse was quietly grazing. As he moved, Johnny saw he was lame, and from this the children judged that, like the cows, he was turned out to pasture for the summer. As Nelly parted the bushes to look at him, he gave a frightened start, and began to paw the grass. He still stood on the little hill, in beautiful relief against the soft blue of the sky, the rising breeze of the coming sunset blowing his long, black mane and tail gracefully in the air as the children turned away to pursue their journey. The cow-path soon branched into others more winding and narrow than the one they had just quitted. The time since dinner had passed so rapidly and happily, that they did not dream night was coming, or that they had strayed too far away from their companions. The wild flowers grew so thickly, and the mosses were of such surprising softness and length, that it was scarcely any wonder they forgot their teacher's parting injunction. When night at last really began to approach, and Nelly looked anxiously around at the gathering twilight in the woods, Johnny said it was nothing but the natural shadows of the trees, and so they concluded to go on a little farther to gather a few of the laurel blossoms they saw growing amid their shining green leaves, a short distance beyond. When they had reached this spot, and captured the desired treasures, Nelly saw with dismay, that the path ended abruptly against the side of an immense rock, quite as large, she thought, as the whole of the farm-house at home. "Nell!" said Johnny, suddenly; "I believe we are lost! How to find our way back again over these long paths we have been walking through all the afternoon, I am sure I do not know." "And I am so tired now, I can hardly stir," said Nelly, in a complaining tone; "and night is near, as I told you before." Johnny looked around without answering. He saw that there was no help for it; they must return the way they came, long as it was, or stay in the woods all night. "Come, Nelly," he said, "we must go back on the same path, if we can." It was getting quite dusky. They took each other by the hand and trudged along. One by one the flowers dropped from Nelly's full apron, to the ground, and at length her weary fingers unclasped, and the apron itself resumed its proper position. Everybody knows how easy it is to lose one's way, and what a difficult thing it is to find it again. Our wanderers discovered it to be so. They got upon a wrong path that led them into soft, wet ground, where, the first thing they knew, they were up to their ankles in mud; and when they had extricated themselves as well as they could, and struck out boldly for home, confident that they were now making a direct short-cut for it, they found themselves, in a little while, on the same path, at the foot of the same large rock where they were before. This was a little too much for the patience of the two picnickers. Johnny looked at Nell gravely. "Don't!" he said, "don't, Nelly dear!" "Don't what?" asked Nelly, dropping down where she stood, so completely exhausted as to be glad of a moment's rest. "Don't cry. You look just like it. All girls cry, you know." [Illustration: "They saw then, that this huge rock was on the very summit of the mountain." Page 163.] "Do they?" asked Nell, absently looking about her. Then she asked, with energy, "Johnny, do you know what I think we ought to do? We must climb this big mountain of a rock, some way, and see what there is on the other side of it. Maybe we are near home." "I guess not," said Johnny; "but I can climb it if you can." After thinking the case over, they clasped hands once more, and began the ascent. They had to sit down several times, to rest, on the way. The sharp points of the rock and the narrow crevices which they mounted, hurt their tired feet. At last they reached the top, and found themselves in comparative daylight, because they were now out of the woods. They saw then, that this huge rock was on the very summit of the mountain on which the picnic had taken place. They beheld from it, distinctly, their homes in the valley beneath. The rock was entirely free from foliage, and nothing obscured the splendor of the landscape below. The sun had just set red and misty in the west, shedding his parting glow over the peaceful village and the scattered farm-houses, on its outskirts. No wonder the two children were overcome by fatigue,--they had been gradually, but unconsciously ascending the hill the whole afternoon. They stood there now, hand in hand, looking down upon their far-off homes. "Are you afraid, Nell?" asked her companion, in a low voice. "No," said Nell; "not now, that we are out of those dark woods; besides, I have thought of a plan to make them see us from below. Look here." She put her hand in her pocket and drew forth a match. "Sidney Harrow dropped this when he was kindling the fire, and I thought of Comfort's savin' ways and picked it up. Can you guess what I am going to do? We must get together some brush-wood, and make a fine blaze that they will see in the village." "And even if they don't come to bring us home," said Johnny, "it will keep us warm till morning, and then we can find our own way. But we must go down the rock to get the wood. Oh dear! I don't think much of picnics, do you, Nell?" Very soon a fire burned on the top of the rock, and notwithstanding their fatigue, the children kept it in a broad blaze. As the last bright cloud of sunset faded away, the flames spread boldly into the night air, a signal of distress to those who were safely housed in the farm-houses beneath. Having got the fire well going, and a large stock of wood on hand to feed it, the weary, dispirited children sat down to rest, beside it. Neither spoke for a long time. They listened intently for the expected aid, yet nothing but the dreary hoot of the owls met their ears, mingled with the moan of the wind, which now being steadily increasing, blew the flames high in the air. Nelly got up to poke the coals with a branch she kept for that purpose, and when she had done so, she stood leaning upon it and looking sorrowfully into the valley, where she saw lights twinkling from windows. "Johnny," she said, softly, "do you believe anybody can be _perfectly_ good in this world?" "Yes," said Johnny, carelessly, "I s'pose so, if a fellow tries hard enough. I guess it's pretty tough work though, don't you?" "The more _I_ try, the worse I seem to be; at least,--well, you see, the worse I _feel_ myself to be." "We've neither of us been very good to-day, Nell. Miss Milly told us not to go far, nor to stay long, and I believe we've gone as far as we could, and I'm sure we've stayed a deal longer than we want to,--_I_ have. Are you afraid _now_, Nell?" "God takes care of us, always," said little Nell, solemnly, still leaning on her branch and crossing her feet. "Comfort tells me that, and mother reminds me of it when she hears me say my prayers on going to bed." "Do you believe it? Does He see us _now_?" questioned her companion, raising himself on his elbow and gazing at her as she stood between him and the bright fire. "I believe it," was the reverent answer. "Dear Johnny, let us not forget our prayers to-night, if we stay up here." There was another long, long pause. "Johnny?" "Well, Nell." "I was wicked to you to-day. I was proud, and told you I didn't know who Marm Lizy was, when you asked me. That wasn't true, and now I'm sorry." "Well, who was she, Nell?" Tears of repentance for her own sin, and likewise of sorrow at the recollection of poor Marm Lizy's misspent life, rose to Nelly's eyes, and glittered on her cheeks in the red firelight, like rubies. Johnny looked at her with redoubled interest. "Marm Lizy," said Nell, getting through her self-imposed confession with a little difficulty, "Marm Lizy was a--a--a sort of mother to me. She wasn't good to me, and I wasn't good to her. She beat me sometimes, and--and I didn't know any better than to hate her. I wouldn't do so _now_, I think. I should be sorry for her." "Where is Marm Lizy now, Nelly?" The boy did not know what remembrances that simple question awoke. Nelly did not answer, but crouched down by the fire, and buried her face in her hands. After a long interval she started up again. She heard shouts, faint at first, but gradually growing nearer. She and Johnny set up a long, loud, eager cry in return, that woke a dozen mountain echoes. Then dogs barked, lanterns gleamed through the dark woods, the shouts burst forth again, and many voices were heard calling them by name! The fire had done its work. The LOST were FOUND at last, for in a short time Nelly was clasped in her father's arms. So terminated the picnic. THE END. Transcriber's Note: Spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained as in the original publication except as follows: Page 36 fish-fork. It wasn't your _changed to_ fish-fork. "It wasn't your Page 54 I--'blieve--I shall--crack _changed to_ I--b'lieve--I shall--crack Nelly,--'spose now, I had _changed to_ Nelly,--s'pose now, I had Page 55 growing interest; what's _slave_ _changed to_ growing interest; "what's _slave_ Page 63 little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' _changed to_ little grimly, "Stockin' or no stockin' Page 87 evergreens are permitted to remain. _changed to_ evergreens are permitted to remain." Page 89 'What!' said my uncle _changed to_ "'What!' said my uncle Page 100 All the people were more _changed to_ "All the people were more Page 104 It do'n't seem a bit _changed to_ It don't? seem a bit Page 162 patience of the two picnicers _changed to_ patience of the two picnickers 
45746	----	LEARNING TO BE A SCHOOLMASTER by THOMAS R. COLE Superintendent of Schools, Seattle Formerly Assistant State Superintendent of Schools, Village School Superintendent, and City High School Principal New York The Macmillan Company 1922 All rights reserved. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright, 1922, By the Macmillan Company. Set up and electrotyped. Published August, 1922. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ FOREWORD In "Learning to be a Schoolmaster" the author has related some of his personal experiences, which he trusts will be suggestive to those who are just entering the teaching profession. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TABLE OF CONTENTS I. Entering the Teaching Profession 1 II. Getting a Position 7 III. Before School Opens--After Getting the First Superintendency 13 IV. Teachers' Meetings 17 V. Meeting with the School Board 22 VI. School Activities 28 VII. The Janitor--His Relation to the School 39 VIII. How the Principal Can Help the Teacher 44 IX. The School and the Community 56 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ENTERING THE TEACHING PROFESSION Little did I think, during my college days, that I should ever become a teacher. It would have made me unpopular to have said so, even if I had had any designs in that direction. My college mates, who were planning to be lawyers, engineers, or commercial men of prominence, considered teaching creditable only as a "fill in job." I joined them in their happy aspirations and tried to think I was preparing for something. Just what that "something" was, I was unable to say. Finally the day of graduation arrived. I was ready to go out into the world with a college diploma, but was unprepared for a definite position. My false aspirations had failed, and I was looking hopelessly about for something to do that would save my pride. I must not accept just a mere job, and to escape that humiliation I became a teacher. It certainly was not a very creditable manner for a young man to enter a profession, to say nothing of the doubtful compliment of such an entry to the teaching profession. Such a confession, however, could be made by many of my associates of fifteen years ago. The situation that confronted me after deciding to become a teacher _temporarily_, and two ways of meeting it, can be illustrated by the experiences of two young men who entered the teaching profession under similar conditions. A few years ago I made a trip to a neighboring state to visit a friend who was engaged in farming. On a sunny July morning I arrived in an enterprising village a few miles from his home. While sitting on the porch of the hotel waiting for my friend, I met a man whom I had known years before. He recognized me. After stating that he was president of the local board of education, he invited me to go out to their school building, which was being remodeled. One of the first rooms that we visited was the study hall. We found the janitor busily engaged in arranging the seats. He said he didn't know just which way the desks should face, as no one had told him, but he remembered that the pupils needed plenty of light, so he was facing the desks toward the side of the room which had the most windows. We then went to a room set apart for manual training work. There was one bench in evidence and Mr. ---- told me that the board had not decided on the kind of benches or tools to buy, as the superintendent had not said in what grades the manual training work would be offered. "In fact," he said, "the superintendent forgot to tell us anything about the building equipment before he left for his vacation." We next visited a room which, he explained, might be used for a gymnasium; but, since the superintendent had made no plans for using it, they were leaving it unfinished. We looked through some of the grade rooms which had been in use for years. The seating was in bad condition, as little or no care had been taken to keep the proper distance between the desks and the seats. Some of the third grade seats were out of alignment at least four inches. I pointed out the irregular distances between the seats and the desks and asked my guide if it were due to the different sizes of the children. He said, "I think so." I made no comment, as remarks were unnecessary. As we left the building he said, "I guess our superintendent is more interested in something else than he is in his job here." This statement proved true. Now for the second young man I have in mind. At one time it was customary for me to represent the state superintendent's office at county school board meetings that were held during the summer months in the different parts of one of the leading middle western states. On this particular trip, I was forced to stop over in a small town for about two hours, in order to make connection with the train that would take me to my destination. I was now really interested in education and thought it would be well to visit the school building. The first thing to attract my attention was the well-kept lawn, with flower beds along the walk that led from the street to the building. This was somewhat unusual for a school yard. I noticed that the front door was open, and entered the building. After looking through the well-kept lower rooms, I ascended the stairs to see the high school portion of the building, which contained eight rooms. Upon reaching the second story landing, I heard some hammering in one of the rooms and proceeded to locate it. I soon found myself confronted by a young man about twenty-five years of age, whose face gave the expression of accomplishment. He enthusiastically told me that he was interested in the agricultural conditions in the surrounding districts, and was preparing boxes and equipment to offer a course in agriculture to the boys in and out of school who might wish to elect it. "The course," he said, "will be offered outside of the regular school hours, at a time that will be best suited to those who may wish to attend. I hope to make it an evening class, and that the fathers may also become interested." He told me about the short summer course he had taken at the state agricultural school and the help that he expected to get from the dean through booklets and suggestive lessons. He then invited me to go through the rooms of the building. When we reached the fifth and sixth grade room he said, "In this room I have corrected a condition that caused the failure of one or more teachers. When I was elected here a year ago, the president of the board told me they had been unfortunate for years in securing a satisfactory fifth and sixth grade teacher. The teachers had all failed because they were unable to maintain good order. I was asked to secure a teacher for the room, which I did, after careful investigation. It was less than three weeks, however, after the semester started, when the restlessness of the pupils became apparent. I was at a loss to know the source of the trouble until a bulletin from the state superintendent's office reached me, which gave suggestions as to the care and equipment of school grounds and buildings. I noticed in this bulletin that the correct distance between No. 3 seats is twelve inches. I thought immediately of our troublesome fifth and sixth grade room. It took me but a few moments to discover that the distances between the seats in this room ranged from twelve to fifteen inches. I observed how the pupils were forced to sit on the edges of the seats in order to work at the desks and soon became tired and restless. The desks were changed immediately and the "teacher problem" in this room was solved. That experience was a lesson to me, and since then I have given much time and attention to making the building attractive and comfortable for the teachers and pupils." It was quite evident, as we went from room to room, that he had put the lesson into practice. I shall never forget that young man. Three years later he was at the head of one of the largest consolidated high schools in the state, and when I met him at the meeting of the Department of Superintendence in Detroit in 1916 he told me that he had recently been appointed to take charge of one of the state agricultural schools. One man had made school teaching a _job_; the other had made it a _profession_. GETTING A POSITION Many young men and women enter the educational field without giving due consideration to the type of work they are best fitted to do. A large percentage of the teacher failures belongs to this class. I am often interviewed by candidates who are seeking positions. When I ask them the kind of work they can do the best, I occasionally receive the reply, "In what grades do you have the greatest number of openings?" Others will say, "I am prepared to teach any of the grades. I have no preference, for I am as good in one as I am in another." In the case of some candidates the last statement is likely to be true. Boards of education usually grade applicants on three main points: personality, preparation, experience. The first two, every candidate who has completed a normal school or college course possesses to a greater or less degree. The third must be gained by actual work in teaching. A pleasing yet forceful personality is one of the leading factors in any teacher's success and it should be cultivated to the greatest possible degree. I feel that I was influenced in a large measure to complete my high school education by the attractive personality of the principal of our village school. His predecessor by harsh and dictatorial discipline had driven many boys out of school, and I came near being one of them. I found my ideal in the principal who succeeded him; and when I meet the inspirational teacher--the teacher with a personality that attracts young people--I can see the picture of that splendid young man who gave me the first real desire for an education. A teacher should always be desirous of making a good personal impression, yet I have seen young women seeking positions waiting at the big counter in the superintendent's office who were dressed more suitably for a social function than for a business call. Not long ago we were greatly in need of a commercial teacher. A young woman of otherwise good qualifications made application. Her attire was somewhat extreme and we decided it would be well to have her visit the principal of the school who needed the teacher. He reported that he could not use a teacher to instruct young men and women in commercial work who lacked one of the first requisites of business--"dress sense." The time is rapidly drawing to a close when mediocre preparation will be accepted in the field of education. The teacher for elementary or high school work must first secure a good general education. Specializing in one or more subjects based upon a fragmentary educational foundation is the cause of many failures in the teaching profession. One of the chief weaknesses of such teachers has usually been found to be in English. In reading applications I have often noticed statements of this character given by one of the references: "Mr. ---- is good in his particular subject, but his use of English is so bad that I cannot recommend him for a position where he comes in contact daily with young people." "I can recommend Miss ---- for a position, as for example penmanship teaching, but that is the only thing she can do as her educational vision is very limited." After a teacher has secured adequate general education and finds his "bent," he should then give particular attention and study to his chosen field. A teacher, however, should never cease to utilize every opportunity of broadening his general education. To do so means a narrowing of his viewpoint and the power of associating his special subject with the larger field of education. In filling out application blanks teachers are sometimes careless in giving the information requested. Failure to do this often results in obtaining little or no consideration for the position desired. The references named should be responsible persons who know of the applicant's real qualifications and teaching work. It is always well for an applicant to secure the permission of the people chosen as references before using their names. A superintendent is much more likely to understand a teacher's motive for applying elsewhere if he has been interviewed. When the motive is understood, he is in a better position to serve the applicant as well as the officials to whom the applicant has applied. The large majority of superintendents encourage their teachers to feel that they want them to improve professionally and are ready to assist them in doing so. Not long ago a young man came to see me about a promotion. I asked him in what line of work he was best fitted for advancement. He said he didn't know, but he wanted the job that paid the most money. It was interesting to note his idea of the teaching profession as contrasted with that of a young woman who had interviewed me a short time before concerning a possible opening in one of the high schools. She had taught for two years and realized the need of further specialization in her chosen field. To obtain this training, she had spent a year's time and her savings in taking post-graduate work. I was interested in the frank statement that she gave concerning her teaching experience, which she confessed had been very ordinary in character. It was also pleasing to note the feeling of gratitude she had for those who had encouraged her to take the post-graduate training. We had no opening for her at that time, but I took her name and address in order that she might be considered for vacancies that might occur later. It so happened that a few days later a superintendent from a near-by town called to see me, and stated his need of a high school teacher who could teach mathematics, English, and history. It was quite a range of work, but I thought of my visitor of a few days before and made an appointment for her to meet this superintendent. After the interview was over, she came in with tears in her eyes, to tell me that she had declined the offer. She said she was financially much in need of a position, but she could not again go into a classroom to teach work in a department that she was ill prepared to handle. A short time later one of our teachers resigned. The place was given to this young woman. She has proved to be one of our best classroom teachers, and has been an inspiration to the other instructors in her department. Self-examination and study had caused her to realize the real strength, as well as the limitations, of her teaching power, and she made the most of it. BEFORE SCHOOL OPENS--AFTER GETTING THE FIRST SUPERINTENDENCY Four years as a high school teacher had given me an opportunity to study the educational field. During that time I had made a practice of attending county, sectional, state, and, whenever possible, national teachers' meetings, so that I might become acquainted with current school problems and with the men and women who were educational leaders. After considering carefully my possible qualifications for administrative work, I decided that to secure the superintendency of schools in a small town was the proper educational step for me to take. By an application through regular channels I succeeded in being elected to the coveted position and thereby gained what I was seeking--administrative opportunity. As the election had been given me without a personal application, I decided to invest eighteen dollars in a trip to my new field of labor during the spring vacation, so that I might get acquainted with the general school situation. The first important discovery that I made was that the superintendent who was leaving had the ill will of a part of the community, but still had the loyal support of the teachers. My problem was to get his coöperation so that I could enter the work with as little friction as possible, and to obtain general knowledge of his plans of school administration. Both these factors were very essential to a succeeding superintendent. He gave me the coöperation and information most willingly--a service which I have never ceased to appreciate. I met the members of the board as individuals and was received very cordially by them. No doubt they were interested in seeing me and appreciated the interest I showed in getting acquainted with the work in advance. We moved to the town during the middle of August. As soon as we became settled, my attention was turned to the work of the new position. I had already given a close study to the grade and high school programs and course of study. Copies of the different courses of study offered in well-organized neighboring schools were also obtained in order that I might get a broader view of the school conditions in that section of the state. Ten days before the opening of school I placed a notice in the town paper inviting all the high school pupils who had attended school the year before to call at the building and see me. A considerable number responded to this request, and through these pupils I received a large amount of valuable information. One of my first tasks was to prepare a high school program which would permit the pupils to carry the work that they should pursue in accordance with their chosen courses of study. We had only three teachers for the high school, including myself, which narrowed the range of subjects that might be offered each semester. Before attempting to make a program I compiled a list of names of all the pupils who had attended high school the year before, with the lists of the subjects each pupil had completed. I then made a statement of the subjects that each pupil should take during the ensuing year. This gave the necessary information for making a program. When school opened each pupil was given a slip of paper showing the credits he had made to date and the subjects for which he was to register. By checking carefully, all conflicts were eliminated and the first day of instruction went off without delay or friction. This was worth much to the school and to me. Not all my time, however, was given to the making of a high school program. I prepared a tentative time schedule for the subjects in the elementary grades. This schedule, with a few minor changes, was afterward adopted by the grade teachers. The business side of the school was especially interesting to me. I believed then, and still believe, that a successful superintendent must be a close student of school costs. He must know and keep constantly in mind the amount of money available for school expenses and be able to recommend how that money can be expended to the best advantage. Too often the superintendent, by the nature of his tenure, is forced to plan only for the one year--a policy that is wasteful to the district and harmful to the general efficiency of the school. In order to secure a comprehensive idea of the school supplies on hand and what would be needed, I asked the janitor to assist me in making a complete check of all the books and supplies in the building. This work proved very helpful to me later and was alone worth the two extra weeks I had given to my new position. With the school program made, supplies checked, and a good preliminary acquaintance with the board members and school conditions, I left the building on Friday evening preceding the opening of school feeling _ready_ for the year's work to begin. TEACHERS' MEETINGS A teacher said to me recently, "I wish Mr. ---- had remained at A---- as superintendent. We always had splendid teachers' meetings when he was with us." This comment interested me and I asked her the character of the meetings. She replied, "We had regular sectional meetings once a month and a general teachers' meeting every six weeks. The sectional meetings were for the purpose of giving and getting definite suggestions that would be helpful to the teachers of each individual group. The general meeting was always a happy gathering. Mr. ---- would make his message cheerful and inspirational and we left those meetings _with a spirit of wanting to do more than we had ever done before_." What this young woman said is true. Teachers want meetings that give something _tangible_ and _definite_ to assist them in their work. The first teachers' meeting that I ever conducted was held about a library table where we could all look at one another and get the feeling of fellowship. A few definite points that the teachers needed to know on the _first day_ of school were prepared and everything else was left for subsequent meetings. It was my business to help the teachers get started and lighten a part of their regular work, rather than to add to their burden things unnecessary at that time. One of the best talks I ever heard delivered by a superintendent was given to the new teachers a few years ago at the opening of the school year. He gave the teachers a hearty and sincere welcome and told them nothing about what their duties were to be. He advised them to _say but little_ at first about what they had done at their former places, but urged them to "_listen_ and to _learn our ways_ and then, with that knowledge in mind, to help by suggestions to make our schools better." How very differently is such a welcome received by teachers from that given by a superintendent who feels that he must place before the teachers, at the first meeting, an outline in detail of what is expected throughout the year! The latter plan was unfortunately followed by a superintendent of my acquaintance. He went to his new position in ample time to get the school conditions well in hand and everything boded well for his future. His first teachers' meeting, however, ruined his chances of succeeding in that place. As one teacher reported, "He talked about everything in the educational catalog that had nothing to do with the opening weeks of school, and the teachers left the meeting with an adverse opinion concerning him that he was unable to change." The meetings he held throughout the year were of the same rambling type. The result was that he failed to secure the cooperation of his teachers and was asked to resign at the close of the year. This is an example of one who knew much--talked much--but gave little assistance of any constructive value to his teachers. As a superintendent I always found it profitable, after the school year was well started, to hold sectional meetings for teachers of the lower grades, intermediate grades, grammar grades, and high school. Each section met every two weeks about a table and took up definite topics of the teachers' own choosing. The result was that our course of study and the methods of work were constantly being improved _and the teachers were causing the improvement_. A general meeting for all the teachers was held from time to time when a good speaker could be secured or when I wished to present a phase of school work that should be understood by all. During the past year a series of meetings of the English teachers in one of our high schools demonstrated what can be accomplished if the topics for discussion are of a concrete nature. The teaching of the English classics has been somewhat varied in plan and the results accomplished have not always been satisfactory. The English teachers realized this and suggested that we make the classics the subject of professional study for the year. The classics selected were: Lady of the Lake, Ivanhoe, Old Testament Stories, Silas Marner, Idylls of the King, Birds and Bees, Clive and Hastings, and Emerson's Essays. A teacher was chosen to discuss each of the classics according to the following outline: 1. Spend thirty minutes in explaining the methods used and the results expected in the teaching of the classic. 2. Provide a written outline which gives the main points a teacher should keep in mind in teaching the classic, copies of the outline to be provided for distribution at the time of the meeting. 3. Be prepared to make a typical assignment of a lesson in teaching the classic. 4. State where supplementary material can be obtained to aid in teaching the classic. 5. Answer questions. At the conclusion of the year the general expression of the English teachers was that the meetings held were among the most profitable professional gatherings that they had ever attended. The same definite plan could well be followed with other subjects. There is still another type of meeting of even greater importance to the superintendent and teachers. That meeting is the personal talk that the superintendent should have with each teacher, as often as possible, to enable him to learn how her work is getting on and the difficulties she is meeting, and to welcome any suggestions she has to make. Such talks will give a superintendent a key to the real school situation, and the teacher will appreciate his close, personal interest as shown by his suggestions and encouragement. MEETING WITH THE SCHOOL BOARD A few days previous to the opening of school at ----, a member of the school board dropped in one morning to see me. In the course of the conversation he said that the board would meet the second evening after the opening of school, and invited me to be present, if I cared to come. I thanked him for the invitation and assured him that I should be glad to attend the meeting. At the teachers' meeting on the Saturday before the school opened, I gave each teacher a blank, and asked for a report at the close of the first day of school, somewhat as follows: 1. Number of pupils enrolled. 2. Number of boys and number of girls and their respective ages. 3. Number of pupils who were attending school for the first time. 4. Supplies, if any, that were needed immediately. From this information, which was easily obtained by the teachers, I compiled a definite report which showed the school attendance the first day compared with the opening days of the two previous years; the grades having largest number of retarded pupils; and the extra supplies that would soon be needed. The report concluded with a brief statement of my appreciation of the hearty coöperation that I had received from the teachers and pupils. I wrote the report very carefully and placed it in my pocket, hoping that it might be presented at the board meeting. The first board meeting meant much to me, for I was desirous of having the members feel that the success of the school depended very largely upon having the administrative head take an active part in the deliberations. I was present promptly at eight o'clock, the time set for the meeting, and the gentleman who had invited me explained to the other members how I happened to be present. Before the close of the meeting, the president of the board asked how I liked the place and how many I had found it necessary to "strap" the first day. I replied that I was well pleased with the school conditions, and that if there were no objection I would like to read a short report that might be of some interest to the board. There was no objection and I read the report. At the conclusion of the reading, one member of the board said, "By Jimminy, I have been on this board for seven years and that is the first time I have ever heard a report like that. I move, Mr. Chairman, that we thank the superintendent for bringing in the report, that we file it with the secretary, and that we extend a standing invitation to him to attend all our meetings." The vote in favor of the motion was unanimous. I went home that evening feeling that I had been well repaid for the time spent in compiling the report. From that time on I made a regular monthly report at the board meetings, which resulted in the extension of my authority. I was soon permitted to order supplies when needed, if the requisitions were approved by the secretary of the board. This was a great help to the school. It saved much delay, and we always knew what we could get and when we could expect it. The teachers often spoke of how much more definitely they could plan their work. Great care was exercised to purchase only such supplies as were needed, and we turned in many of the worn-out books as partial payment for new texts. Hence, at the end of the year the cost of school supplies had been cut nearly in half as compared with that of the previous year. It was a matter of pleasure to have the board realize that a superintendent might be a business man as well as an educator. The next extension of authority was in regard to the employment of teachers. It had been the general policy of the board to engage and discharge teachers without consulting the superintendent. I anticipated this by making, at the end of the fourth month, a report as to the general efficiency of the teachers. Not a word was written in the report that _the individual teacher concerned did not know_. The members of the board expressed themselves as being much pleased with the teacher report idea and I was told that I would be asked to recommend the teachers when the time came for their election. This confidence of the board was a great inspiration to me, and helped me more than anything else to decide that I would remain a schoolmaster. My experience with the board in another community is equally suggestive. During the five years previous to my superintendency at this place, the board had voted against the introduction of manual training each time it came up for discussion. I was interested in having manual training introduced, but before making a formal request of the board, I decided to give the subject a very careful study. I spent a number of Saturdays going from town to town to inspect the manual training equipment and courses of study. At that time, manual training was very much in the experimental stage, and I found something new at each place. After settling upon the plan that I considered best suited to our accommodations, I arranged to have an evening meeting of the parents at the school building where an exhibit of the regular school work was displayed in each room. During the evening a talk was given on the topic of manual training by a neighboring superintendent, who was especially well qualified to discuss the subject. I wanted to create a public sentiment in favor of manual training before asking the board to introduce it into the school system. At the next regular board meeting I presented a definite, written plan for the introduction of manual training, stating the space in the building for it, the grades that would be given the work, the number of times per week that it would be offered, and the cost of the benches and tools. Without a moment's hesitation, the leading member of the board said, "I have objected to the introduction of manual training for five years, not because I was opposed to the subject but owing to the fact we never had a report made to us as to its cost, where it could be placed in the building, or the grades in which it would be offered. I move that the recommendation be adopted and the material purchased as designated in the report." The motion was adopted without a dissenting vote. I have had many other experiences with school boards similar to those cited above. School boards have not always purchased everything that I have requested, but I have found in the vast majority of cases that if the board has faith in the superintendent and feels that _he knows what he wants, and what he will do with it after he gets it_, he will not have much difficulty in obtaining what the school really needs. Too many superintendents go to board meetings with no definite report as to what is being done in the schools or what is really needed to make them efficient. This inability or failure to assume leadership causes the board to lose confidence in the superintendent, and soon reacts detrimentally upon the school system. SCHOOL ACTIVITIES Not long ago a teacher asked me in what manner a person with executive ability has the best opportunity of showing it. I replied, "Ask your principal for the privilege of taking charge of some school activity." I dare say more principals and superintendents have been found through their ability to handle student activities than in any other way. Too often teachers who are really capable of doing executive work object to this extra duty and thereby miss the opportunity of demonstrating their real capacity for leadership. They also lose at the same time one of the most fruitful and pleasant experiences in school work. I could give many illustrations of teachers who have "found themselves" through being associated with student enterprises. Some superintendents feel that student activities are a waste of time, and in a measure this is likely to be true unless the activities are carefully supervised. In one of the towns where I was superintendent, the school had had no student activities during the preceding year except football and baseball. The teams had been coached by an outsider who was intensely interested in having a winning team but cared little for the value of athletics to the boys or to the school. With this condition in mind, I called the boys together and asked them how it would appeal to them if we formed an athletic association and had rules governing athletics similar to those followed in the larger towns in that vicinity. The boys agreed to the plan and elected a committee to prepare a set of rules that were to be submitted to them for approval. After a couple of meetings, the committee outlined the rules in accordance with the general high school athletic regulations, and they were formally adopted. The results of the formation of the association were threefold: First, good scholarship and deportment were required of all pupils who participated in athletics. Second, no money could be expended except with the approval of the faculty adviser. Third, the coaching of all athletic teams was placed under the direction of the superintendent. The last point did not necessarily eliminate the assistance that might be secured from outside coaches, provided they were made directly responsible to the school. The new plan for athletics worked splendidly with the exception of a few vigorous protests from boys who were debarred from playing on account of poor scholarship. Sufficient money was saved during the year to pay back the amount that had been advanced for athletic supplies and we were able to complete equipments for first and second football teams for the succeeding fall. The boys were proud of this accomplishment and when I occasionally hear from some of them, they often remark, "_We_ put ---- on the map in athletics." The second activity needed was a "literary society." There had been no such organization in the school for five years. The janitor told me that the last literary society had ended in a "rough-house" and he hoped that was the end of it for all time. He further declared he was not in favor of coming to the building in the evening. I told him that we would attend to the opening and closing of the building if we started the organization, and that I hoped we could get along without any rough-housing. The pupils in ---- had little or no opportunity for group evening entertainment and heartily welcomed the suggestion of forming a literary society. Officers were elected with the understanding that they would be given full charge of the organization, subject to the regulations of the faculty adviser. Meetings were held twice a month on Friday evenings at 7:30. No program was arranged that required more than one and a half hours' time. It usually consisted of a debate, music, school news, and readings. The school auditorium held about 150 people and on many occasions the room would be crowded in order to accommodate those who wished to attend. Many of the parents made it an opportunity for meeting the teachers. It might be mentioned that the janitor never missed a meeting and was one of the most interested listeners. After getting the athletic association and literary society organized, I interviewed the editors of the two local papers relative to getting some space for school news. Both were glad to publish any information concerning the school that I might wish to furnish. Student editors were then elected for the different high school classes and the upper grade rooms. The news items were given to me on Wednesday of each week to be edited and sent to the papers. The school news had its immediate effect, and greater interest was taken in the school by the pupils and patrons. The literary programs which appeared in the papers every two weeks gave much prominence to that activity. The newspaper publishers were not slow to see the effect the school news had in increasing their subscriptions, so we all had reason to be pleased with the results of the enterprise. There are many other valuable school organizations that have not been mentioned. The number of activities should depend largely on the size of the school. The real purpose and local value of each activity should be given careful consideration before it is organized. Much harm can come from poorly supervised student enterprises or from a student organization that is permitted to take more of the time of pupils and teachers than is justified. The time for the preparation of plays should be limited and the work should be distributed among as many pupils as possible. The centering of effort on one debating team or on a first athletic team may help, or the showing that a school will make against competitors (although I doubt it), but such a plan will not develop the power and training within the school that should be desired. I quote the following from a report of a Seattle high school principal regarding extra-curricular activities: "The extra-curricular activities in a high school can be divided into two classes, the minor and the major activities. The minor activities are such as arise out of a desire to vitalize certain studies; the Science Club, the Short Story Club, the French Club are illustrations. For the most part these meet only once or twice a month for an afternoon program in which students who are interested participate themselves or occasionally invite some outsider to take part. Teachers desiring to stimulate greater interest in their specialties are usually enthusiastic supporters of such clubs. The programs are informal, held after school and requiring comparatively little effort on the part of the teachers; and those teachers who are alive to their work welcome the opportunities which these small clubs offer in the way of stimulating interest and adding zest to studies. "Furthermore, these informal gatherings afford teachers and students an opportunity to meet outside the classroom and become better acquainted, which is always an important factor in successful school work. No teacher worthy of the name is averse to such organizations. It is difficult to find a single objectionable feature in them. Of course, they require some after-school time occasionally, and some planning on the part of the responsible adviser. No conscientious teacher begrudges this extra time and effort and every enterprising teacher finds enough in them to compensate him liberally for his efforts. "The major activities such as class organizations, glee clubs, dramatic clubs, athletic associations, boys' and girls' clubs, the school paper, the Senior Ball, the Junior Prom, and the interschool debates offer more problems in the nature of care. They take in larger groups, are more formal or more pretentious, and demand a larger amount of time from teachers directing them. Not only that, but they also require a larger organizing capacity on the part of the advisers. Not all teachers can assume sponsorship for such organizations. "These activities are to the school what the Fourth of July parade, the Elks' big-brother picnic, and the Wayfarer are to the city. A city could get along without these activities and save itself a deal of hard work and expense. But enterprising men consider them worth ten times the effort and expense to the community as a whole. Some undesirable features follow in the wake of all these large city enterprises. Streets become congested, the police have to do double duty; there may be some accidents, some thefts, some people overworked. But in life unpleasant things are organically connected with the pleasant and if you would have the one you must have at least some of the other. "In like manner the major school activities benefit the entire school. They have the effect of welding the large school into something like a homogeneous unit. They develop school pride and school interest. A large school can no more get along without these and be a live institution than can a church without its young peoples' societies and programs, its men's club suppers, and its ladies' aid societies and be a live church organization. "But aside from welding the school into a unit of effort and purpose, these organizations, like the minor activities, serve to socialize the institution, to bring pupils and teachers together in a way that the classroom does not afford, to 'bring out' students, to discover latent talents, and to spur students on to a maximum standard of excellence. "Aside from their socializing value, these organizations have an ethical purpose. Group interests are developed through them which teach pupils to work together for a common end. School enthusiasm and loyalty are developed which broaden in later years to interest in and loyalty to community and nation. "Teachers have not introduced these activities as a rule. They came in response to a recognized need. No more can teachers put them out. They can, however, help to direct them into proper channels, supervise them, and keep them within proper bounds, all of which is a task worthy of a real teacher. Those instructors who can recall the turbulent days of the secret societies and cliques, of the unsupervised and unmanaged athletics, have no doubt that progress has been made, and are ready to help to keep up the good work. "The objectionable features of the major activities are naturally more pronounced. It is easy to make too much of such activities, to make them too pretentious, to consume too much time with them so that they sometimes interfere with the curricular work of the school. As a rule principals and teachers strive to keep these activities within reasonable bounds. Sometimes they find themselves involved in a bigger undertaking than they planned for. However, unbounded American enthusiasm is in no small measure to blame for the overdoing of some of these activities. "Organized athletics in all schools are here to stay. In fact a much larger participation is noticeable each year. Even grammar schools, churches, business houses, and other corporations have their teams. Athletics, however, beneficial as they are, can be overdone and in some respects are being overdone. So with all the other extra-curricular activities. They must be properly directed and sanely managed. This sane management and proper direction must be encouraged by the public as a whole. "Necessarily, too, such activities as have proved their worth will have to be provided for by the employment of teachers who are capable of handling them and wherever they are a large drain on the adviser's time and effort, that, too, must be taken care of. Improvements and adjustments in looking after these activities are sure to come as the result of increased experience. That there is much room for improvement along these lines no one doubts. Let those who have experience and can offer constructive suggestions do so freely. Their suggestions will be gladly received, for nowhere in the high schools of the country has that problem been solved. "There is another form of organization commonly associated with high school activities for which the high school management is in no wise responsible and over which it claims no jurisdiction. It is the social and club dances managed entirely outside of the schools and chaperoned or patronized by people not connected officially with the schools. These purely social activities are the most time-consuming and costly of all. Many of these formal and informal functions occur every week in the long dancing season, and because they are patronized by boys and girls of high school age are mistakenly called high school functions. Many parents are deceived into the belief that the schools are sponsoring these club dances. For these the schools assume no responsibility and should not be blamed." THE JANITOR--HIS RELATION TO THE SCHOOL A few months ago the vice-president of a large manufacturing establishment invited me to accompany him and the president on a trip to their factories. Having heard that the president of the company was a self-made man, I was anxious to learn something about his plan of business administration. When we reached the office of the first plant, I was impressed with the cordial greeting the president gave to _all_ the employees. Their attitude toward him was equally cordial. I recognized one of the clerks, who was a former school pupil, and made use of the acquaintance to ask some questions concerning the management of the factory. He said, "We feel like a family here. Mr. ---- gets everyone from the errand boy to the manager to take a personal interest in the business." As I went about the big establishment with one of the workmen, I was impressed with the truthfulness of the statement. That evening when I was conversing with the president, I mentioned the fine coöperative spirit that I had noticed among his men. He said in reply, "I learned a long time ago as a day worker that in order to get the largest returns from your men, you must treat them all well and feed them well. Some managers forget, in these days of keen competition, that the lowest salaried employees are often the persons who make a business a success or a failure." I thought how simple was his formula of success, yet how few possess the inspirational power of leadership to follow it successfully. The same principle applies equally well to the school business. I shall never forget the August morning that I reported at one school building to begin my duties as superintendent. I had not seen the janitor, and proceeded to air the office, dust the chairs and desk, and get the place in readiness for work. The noise attracted the attention of the janitor, who finally appeared at the door, and after giving me a cold, casual inspection, introduced himself by saying, "I am the janitor," and left the room before I could engage him in conversation. I had heard of him before--how he considered the superintendent nothing more than a boss whom he must endure. It was no surprise to me, therefore, when he left the room without waiting to become acquainted or offering to assist in the house cleaning. Later he brought to the office some mail that had been accumulating during the summer. I thanked him and asked him to be seated. We talked over a few matters of interest and then made a trip through the building. I carefully avoided saying anything about the janitor's duties. Before leaving that afternoon, he met me in the lower hall and said it was not customary to keep the office cleaned during the summer, but if I intended to be at the building again before the school opened, he would sweep it out. I told him that I had a few things that I should like to do during the two weeks' interval before the opening of school, and would probably be at the building daily, but I could easily look after the cleaning of the office during that time. He looked at me with some astonishment. I don't know whether it was due to the statement that I expected to have something to do at the building for two weeks before school opened, or because I was willing to clean the room. He said nothing and, with a "good evening," we parted at the end of the first day--with the question of _coöperation_ or _no coöperation_ somewhat unsettled in the janitor's mind. When I reported for work the next morning the office had been thoroughly cleaned, which I considered quite a victory. As the janitor did not make his appearance during the forenoon, I went in search of him to inquire about some record books. He then proceeded to tell me what he thought of the teachers and superintendents in general and how I would do well if I could find anything, and showed me a closet in a teacher's room that was filled with a pile of books, supplies, and record sheets. I listened to what he had to say, and then suggested that it might be well if we put some shelves in the closets, and arranged all the books and supplies in an orderly manner before the teachers reported for work. I told him I was interested in what the closets contained, and if he would build some shelves, I would do the rest. He was sure that the shelves would do no good, and that his time and mine would be wasted. We said nothing more about it at that time, but the next day I started on a closet-cleaning crusade. I do not know when I have received greater value for the time spent. Two days of work gave me an educational and business insight into the school that was invaluable. I learned the courses of study and the texts that were used in all of the grades. After three days' delay, the janitor decided that I had done a fairly good job, and that he would put in the shelves. I gave him some assistance and the books and supplies were listed, recorded, and put into place. This work was appreciated by the teachers, even though we had entered their private domain, and, I dare say, gave them a feeling that good housekeeping would be expected throughout the year. The janitor had now learned to know me fairly well. He found that we could work together, and by the time that school opened we were quite friendly. I was amused some months later when a teacher told me of the account the janitor had given her and the other teachers at the opening of school, of the new superintendent. When I reported at the end of the year the splendid services the janitor had rendered, the members of the board were so well pleased with the change in "Rosy" that they raised his salary for the ensuing year. I am not sure but that the raise in salary pleased me more than it did him. The help that I received from this janitor throughout the year is no exception to the general rule. I do not wish to give the impression, however, that all the janitors with whom I have worked have been efficient, but I do wish to say that I have received from each of them a much greater degree of coöperation when I caused him to feel that I was his _co-worker_ and not his boss. HOW THE PRINCIPAL CAN HELP THE TEACHER The principals of our city schools have for two years been carrying on a series of monthly evening meetings which have proved to be highly interesting and instructive. The topics chosen have been along lines that directly affected the work they are doing. One of the meetings was devoted to the subject "How the Principal Can Help the Teacher." The topic was assigned to two principals, who prepared questionnaires which were sent to all the teachers in the city. The questions asked were along three lines: (1) What can the principal do to help the teacher in a professional way? (2) What can the principal do to help the teacher in an administrative way? (3) What can the principal do in making his personal relationship to the teacher more effective? Replies were received from about fifty per cent of the teachers and were classified as follows. Percentages indicate the number of teachers giving the replies which they follow: I. In a professional way. 1. Assistance with the exceptional child, 37%. 2. Interpretation of the course of study, 29%. 3. As a professional leader, 20%. a. The recommendation of good professional literature, 18%. b. Sound advice, 11%. c. Assistance by teaching, 6%. II. In an administrative way. 1. Furnishing supplies and equipment, 50%. 2. Definite directions, 28%. 3. Distribution of building load, 13%. 4. Regime so planned that interruption of classroom instruction is minimized, 9%. 5. Management of halls, basements, and playgrounds, and of difficult disciplinary cases, 12%. 6. Teachers' meetings, 5%. III. In personal relationships. 1. The higher human qualities, 60%. 2. Constructive criticism, 16%. 3. Poise, 7%. 4. Helping teachers in self-analysis and mannerisms, 1%. I shall discuss briefly some of the main suggestions made by the teachers. I. How the principal can help the teacher in a professional way. a. _Assistance with the exceptional child._ In these replies it will be noted that thirty-seven per cent of the teachers advocated assistance with the exceptional child. This gives further emphasis to the need of greater attention being given to the classification of pupils in the public schools. The use of tests and measurements has demonstrated the wide range of abilities that can usually be found in different pupils of the same grade. The teacher with from thirty-five to forty-five pupils must handle the work of her room more or less in groups, which often fails to reach the retarded or the accelerated pupil. Too often the teacher through her efforts to give extra assistance needed by the backward pupils gives them a disproportionate amount of time. The entire class suffers from such a procedure. It is unfair to the ninety per cent of pupils of average ability to have one fourth of the teacher's time given to the other ten per cent of the pupils in the room. How to care for the special pupil is a difficult problem. No plan thus far advanced seems to meet it entirely. The ungraded room with an auxiliary teacher has proved to be fairly satisfactory in schools sufficiently large to justify such an arrangement. The principal in the smaller school as well as in the larger must give greater attention to the use of intelligence tests as an aid in classifying the pupils so that they can be better graded according to their ability. No teacher should be required to keep a pupil in her room indefinitely who is not mentally able to do the work or who is a constant disturber. The "ninety and nine" who "can do" are more important to save than the one lost sheep who may never be able "to do" if saved. b. _Interpretation of the course of study._ Twenty-nine per cent of the teachers called attention to the need of greater assistance in interpreting the course of study. I am not surprised to get this expression from the teachers, as they are sometimes given at the opening of the term a new course of study with little or no explanation of the plan back of it or how it is to be administered. I question if any course of study entirely new in content should be put into operation until the teachers have had at least a semester's time to study it thoroughly and get explanations from those who have been instrumental in working it out. A good illustration of the difficulty in getting satisfactory results from plans new to the teachers has been demonstrated by some of the results obtained with the problem and project methods. It is very easy for a supervisor to pick out some good problems and illustrate them before the teachers and thus leave the impression that all topics can be handled in a similar manner. The teacher goes back to her classroom and attempts to follow the directions given. Some of the teachers have gone so far as to attempt to make every lesson in geography or history a problem lesson regardless of the nature of the topics to be covered or the reference material or textbook assistance that is available. The results from such a procedure are certain to lead to a poorly connected, piecemeal knowledge by the pupil of the subject as a whole. A semester of practical study of the problem method for any given subject before introducing it would give the teachers, and I dare say the supervisors, a better knowledge of what can reasonably be expected to be accomplished. It is this failure to be able to reach that visionary goal that discourages teachers and causes them to lose confidence in many methods that are excellent in themselves if they are used with moderation and sense. After a course of study has been in operation for a few months it is well to ask some of the teachers who have been the most successful in getting satisfactory results to explain what they have done and how they have done it. Small groups can then discuss such a report with much profit to all. I have never experienced any difficulty in getting large attendance at a teachers' meeting if the program provided concrete help for the group in the work they were doing. This is indeed a rich field for the principal to cultivate. Supplementary books are often purchased and sent to the teachers as a means of interpretation of a subject. They, too, need explanation and discussion. c. _As a professional leader._ The desire for professional leadership is coupled with the need of interpretation of the course of study. There is probably no more damaging contribution to the teaching profession than the presence now and then of school executives who give but little, if any, of their time to the professional inspiration of the teacher. The teachers in a building with such a principal in charge soon lose their spirit of wanting to serve and become a part of a routine business organization. The lack of holding power of such a school is soon apparent. Some principals and department heads feel that they make a sufficient contribution professionally when they say to a new teacher, "I am glad you are to be with us. If you have any trouble, come and see me." This is one of the best invitations one could possibly give to get a teacher to remain away. The best evidence that a principal can show that he wishes to help the teacher is really to help her, and, best of all, to find means to help her without being asked. Not long ago a teacher who wished a transfer came to see me. He said, "I have been in ---- building for five years, during which time I cannot recall having received any professional suggestion from the head of the department. He sees that I have ample supplies and textbooks, but that is merely routine work. What I need is to be encouraged and shown how I can grow." I wonder how many teachers have had a similar experience. Two years ago I visited an algebra teacher who happened to be assigned to a portable building. He had five classes daily in the same subject. I had known this teacher for a number of years and had regarded him as an average instructor. On this visit I said, "You are out here by yourself and I would like to see what kind of record your pupils can make at the end of the year in the competitive tests which will be given to the algebra pupils in all the city high schools." His face brightened and he said, "All right, I welcome the invitation." Six months later the test was given and his five classes of pupils made more A and B grades than all the algebra pupils combined in any other one building of the city. To-day, this teacher is easily one of our best instructors in mathematics, and he has recently prepared suggestions as to the teaching of mathematics by the supervised study method which have proved to be of great assistance to the other teachers. He simply caught the spirit; his pupils also caught it, and the results were assured. It did not require professional suggestion to arouse this teacher, but rather a real chance of recognition to show what he could do. II. In an administrative way. a. _Furnishing supplies and equipment._ One half of the teachers have apparently suffered from the delay that so often occurs when school material is not ready when it is needed. Sometimes conditions arise due to the shifting of pupils or other unforeseen difficulties which make a delay in the furnishing of supplies and equipment unavoidable. In the large majority of cases, however, there is no excuse for the delay other than "Order too late," "Board held up requisitions for investigation," "Copy of outlines not ready to be printed," etc. No efficient business establishment would make a practice of permitting highly paid help to remain idle a part of the time waiting for necessary material. In the schools the loss is much greater than in business because it affects the work of the pupils, who form bad habits early in the semester which are hard to correct later on. Some principals make a practice of keeping their stock rooms in perfect order. Pupils often assist in this work. This makes it possible to keep a close check on where material can be found and how soon the supply will be exhausted. Such a spirit of order is contagious and teachers and pupils are unconsciously encouraged to give greater attention to the proper use of school material. Thousands of dollars are saved annually in some school systems having free textbooks and supplies by the careful checking and transferring of the supplies. We must not forget that some of the most valuable lessons for the girls and boys come from experiences gained in other avenues than those learned from textbooks. b. _Definite directions._ The lack of a well-defined plan of administration is called to the attention of the principal by one third of the teaching force. It is sometimes astonishing to note how little some of us practice what we preach to the pupils and the teachers about the need of being punctual and definite in the work to be done. Not long ago, a questionnaire was sent to the teachers of the high schools asking for suggestions for the handling of school activities. One of the outstanding replies was--"make a definite schedule for activity needs and assemblies." One teacher stated it as follows: "I will plan my work with the classes for tomorrow with the expectation of having a full period for its recitation and development. On the following day, without a moment's notice, the bell is likely to ring for an assembly which will mean a shortening of all the forenoon periods about one half. My plan of work for the day is practically ruined and the worth of the period to the class is lost." While it is not always possible to foretell the time of an assembly or school meeting, it is generally known by the principal a day or more in advance. A knowledge of the schedule of such meetings on the part of all the teachers a month in advance would often save much confusion and embarrassment. Rules covering tardiness, the issuance of report cards, school discipline, and general building routine should be definitely understood by all. Much of the friction between teachers often arises from lack of well-understood building rules or of enforcement of rules that have been made. III. In personal relationships. a. _The higher human qualities._ The last item of the three main suggestions by the teachers was the subject of the greatest unanimity of opinion. The human element is one of the greatest prerequisites to successful leadership. Time and again I have heard teachers say, "I do not want to ask Mr. ----. May I take the matter up with Mr. ----, for he is much more approachable?" The irate parent is usually quickly calmed when he is met with a feeling of friendly welcome that puts him at ease. It is hard for the majority of people to tell their troubles to anyone, much more so to tell them to a superior in authority who has an outward coat of formality that is difficult to penetrate. Too much of the principal's time is often given to looking for the difficulties that arise in the administration of a school with a view to checking them. This naturally gives the teacher the impression that such a principal is always looking for trouble, and he is not, as a rule, a welcome visitor. The principal should endeavor to find something the teacher is doing that is worth while and to give it the proper recognition. No principal, however, can see what to commend unless he keeps closely in touch at all times with the work the teachers are doing. Idle flattery is far worse than no praise at all. The kind word or a pleasant "good morning" sincerely spoken by the teacher has always meant much to me. Why should not a similar expression on the part of the principal be equally refreshing to her? It is one of the biggest dividend-paying investments a principal can make. Try it! THE SCHOOL AND THE COMMUNITY Never before in the history of America has the public school been such an important factor in the life of the child. In fact, to some extent it has become too great a factor and the home has permitted or even forced the school to take over certain responsibilities that cannot well be delegated. The high school enrollment is gaining at a tremendous pace and with the rapid growth comes the problem of greater diversity of student ability to serve. Twenty years ago the best of the students in the elementary schools continued their education in the high school. This made a much simpler problem in the providing of courses of study and equipment. To-day, however, many of the children who enter the high schools are able to pursue only such subjects as will fit them for industrial or commercial occupations. Unless a reasonable amount of such work is provided, these pupils soon drop out of school and add to the large army of untrained workers. The adjusting of boys and girls to proper vocations is one of the big problems confronting the home and the school. The patron often fails to understand what the school has to offer and the pupil, with little or no definite knowledge as to what he is best fitted to do, struggles along hoping that through the aid of the school he may find himself. In fact, this country's future depends to a considerable degree upon the educational adjustment that can be made for its boys and girls during the upper grade and high school period of their lives. It is no wonder, then, that vocational guidance departments, trade schools, part-time schools, and continuation schools have come into prominence during the last decade. One of the first things to be done in any community is to study the industrial and commercial conditions in that locality and then attempt to offer such special subjects as the district can afford. The students must be encouraged to learn what the requirements are for certain vocations. Some schools have provided special courses of study along vocational lines, while others use student club organizations as a means of giving information to the pupils. A good example of the club organization was worked out recently in one of our high schools. The eight hundred high school boys in attendance were divided into three groups. One group consisted of those interested in the study of opportunities offered by the different professions; the second group, those interested in commercial work; and the third group, those who wished to enter the industrial and engineering field. One of these groups met each week on Tuesday morning, forty-five minutes before the opening of school. An outside speaker, actually engaged in one of the vocations, would address the meeting and answer questions. Special provision was made to see that the speaker gave the information needed, and he was asked to answer the following questions: 1. How did you happen to enter the profession? 2. What are the advantages that you have experienced in your profession? 3. What are the disadvantages that you have experienced in your profession? 4. What is the remuneration in your profession? 5. If you were to attend high school again, to what subjects would you give special attention in order to make yourself better fitted for your profession? The interest that was created by these meetings and the value of the work accomplished went beyond the expectations of the principal. Many of the pupils changed their programs for the succeeding term so that they might select subjects that would fit them better for the vocations they expected to follow. Other pupils stated that it was through what they had learned at the meetings they had decided to change the vocation they had previously had in mind. Many of the student difficulties are due to the unfamiliarity of the parent with what the school has to offer. I recall one instance in which a gentleman called at the office and openly criticized the high school for not offering work whereby his daughter could learn something that would be useful to her in earning a living. I listened to his complaint, and then asked him if he would spend five minutes in going about the building with me. He refused at first to do so but finally consented to my request. I took him to the sewing rooms, the cooking rooms, the art rooms, and finally to the typewriting and office-practice rooms. He was astonished to see that the very subjects he was criticizing the schools for not offering were available at any time for his daughter if she wished to take them. He apologized for his attack on the school and assured me that henceforth he would give attention to the work his daughter pursued in school. A few years ago the mayor of the city was invited to address the pupils at an assembly. At the conclusion of the program I asked him to spend a few minutes viewing the work offered in the school. After some hesitation he accepted the invitation, and before he left the building he said, "I am ashamed to say it, but I have lived in this city for twenty years and this is the first time that I have had any idea of the work that our high schools are offering. I feel very much better prepared now to champion the cause of education." It is easy for some patrons to feel that a high school education is useless because now and then they see a boy or girl fail in a position who had previously had some high school training. They forget that the high school of to-day is called upon to serve a much more diversified group of pupils than ever before, and it is not always able to determine in every case just the type of work that the boy or girl needs in order to make a success in life. The schools are making strenuous efforts to give each individual pupil a chance to adjust himself to a vocation. The junior high school organization, classification of pupils according to ability, tests and measurements, and vocational guidance are all means to this end. The schoolmaster of tomorrow must realize that there is much good in the education of the past, but that the changing conditions in our social and industrial life must be met with similar readjustments in the program of education. 
28545	----	[Transcriber's note: Susan Warner (1819-1885) & Anna Warner (1824-1915), _Say and seal_ (1860), Tauchnitz edition 1860 volume 2] COLLECTION OF BRITISH AUTHORS VOL. CCCXCIX. SAY AND SEAL. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. SAY AND SEAL. BY THE AUTHOR OF "WIDE WIDE WORLD," AND THE AUTHOR OF "DOLLARS AND CENTS." COPYRIGHT EDITION. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. LEIPZIG BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 1860. SAY AND SEAL. VOL. II. CHAPTER I. So came the holiday week, wherein was to be done so much less than usual--and so much more. Mr. Linden's work, indeed, was like to double on all hands; for he was threatened with more tea-drinkings, dinners, suppers, and frolics, than the week would hold. How should he manage to give everybody a piece of him, and likewise present himself entire to the assembled boys when ever they chose to assemble?--which promised to be pretty often. How should he go skating, sliding, and sleigh-riding, at all hours of the day and night, and yet spend all those hours where he wanted to spend them? It was a grave question; and not easy, as he remarked to Faith, to hold so many feelings in his hands and hurt none of them. So with the question yet undecided, Christmas day came. It was a brilliant day--all white and blue; the sky like a sapphire, the earth like a pearl; the sunbeams burnished gold. "Ha' ye but seen the light fall of the snow, Before the soil hath smutched it?"-- Such was Pattaquasset, Christmas morning. And the bright lily, "Before rude hands have touched it," that was Faith Derrick when she came down stairs. The dainty little crimson silk hood which Mrs. Derrick had quilted for her, was in her hand, brought down for display; but at present the sitting-room was empty, and Faith passed on to her work-basket, to put the hood in safe keeping. She found a pre-occupied basket. At some unknown hour of the night, Santa Claus had come and left upon it his mark in the shape of a package: a rather large and rather thin package, but done up with that infallible brown paper and small cord which everybody knows by instinct. Who ever looked twice at a parcel from _that_ wagon, and doubted whence it came? Faith's cheeks took an additional tinge, quite as brilliant as if the crimson hood had been on. What doubtful fingers lifted the package from the basket! The thing--whatever it was--had been done up carefully. Beneath the brown paper a white one revealed itself, beneath that a red leather portfolio--made in the pretty old-fashioned style, and securing its contents by means of its red leather tongue. But when Faith had withdrawn this, and with the caution always exercised on such occasions had also drawn out the contents, she found the prettiest continuation of her Italian journey, in the shape of very fine photographs of all sorts of Italian places and things, mingled with here and there an excursion into the Swiss mountains. A few almost awe-stricken glances Faith gave; then she put the photographs in the portfolio again, scarcely seen, and looked at the outside of the red leather; felt of its smooth surface with admiring fingers that hardly believed what they touched, and a face glowing with a very deep glow by this time. Faith thought herself rich, beyond the imagination of a millionaire. But after a little mute amazed consideration of her happiness, she rushed off to the kitchen to signalize the Christmas breakfast--and perhaps spend a few of her too many thoughts--by the preparation and production of one of Madame Danforth's nice, but in Pattaquasset unheard of, delicacies; and when all the rest of the breakfast was ready, Faith demurely went in with her dish. She had not a word of acknowledgment for Mr. Linden, which was ungrateful. She gave him her hand, however, with a manner and look which were graceful enough; being at once open and shy, very bright, and yet veiled with a shade of reserve. She had been over the fire, so her face was naturally a little rosy. There was no particular reserve about him,--his "Merry Christmas" was not only wished but carried out, so far as breakfast time extended. Faith might be as demure as she liked, but she had to be merry too; so on the whole the breakfast room was beaming with more than sunlight. Yes, it was a merry Christmas!--merry without and merry within,--that sort of merriment which "doeth good like a medicine." Gay voices and steps and snowballing on the broad street; gay snowbirds and chickadees in the branches; in the house glad faces; over and upon all, clear sunshine and the soft hush of a winter's morning. "What are you going to do to-day, mother?" said Faith towards the close of breakfast time. "I'd rather look at you than anything else, child," said her mother, "but I've got to go out, you know. What are _you_ going to do Faith?" "All sorts of things, mother. Mr. Linden?"-- "All sorts of things, Miss Faith--therefore we shall probably meet quite often in the course of the day," he said smiling. "Will you give me any commands?" "Perhaps--if I can. Mother, how are we to get to Mrs. Somers to-night?--is Crab well?" "O Crab's gone away for the winter, child, and we've got Mr. Stoutenburgh's Jerry. To be sure--that's since you went away." The first thing for Faith was the Christmas dinner, into which she plunged, heart and hand. The turkey, the apples, and the pies, were all seen to at last; and about an hour before dinner Faith was ready to take off her kitchen apron and go into the parlour. She longed for a further touch and eyesight of that red leather. She had it, for that hour; as dainty a luxuriating over her treasures as anybody ever had. Faith pondered and dreamed over the photographs, one after another; with endless marvel and querying of numberless questions springing out of them,--general and particular, historical, natural, social, and artistic or scientific. Questions that sometimes she knew only enough to form vaguely. What a looking over of prints that was! such an hour as is known by few, few of those who have seen engravings all their lives. Nay, further than that;--such as is not known by many a one that stands on the Bridge of sighs, and crosses the Mer de glace, and sees the smoke curling up from Vesuvius. For once in a while there is an imaginary traveller at home to whom is revealed more of the spirit of beauty residing in these things, than hundreds of those who visit them do ever see. Who "Feels the warm Orient in the noontide air, And from cloud-minarets hears the sunset call to prayer." Before dinner time was quite on the stroke came home Mr. Linden, who betaking himself first upstairs and then into the sitting-room, brought Faith her Christmas breastknot of green and red. Stiff holly leaves, with their glossy sheen, and bright winterberries--clear and red, set each other off like jewellers' work; and the soft ribbon that bound them together was of the darkest possible blue. It was as dainty a bit of floral handicraft as Faith had often seen. "Will you wear it, Miss Faith?" Mr. Linden said as he laid it on the table by her. Faith had come out of her dream, and gave the holly and winterberries a downcast look of recognition. It was given in silence, but the pleasure which had been uppermost for some time presently made her overcome shyness, and looking up gratefully she exclaimed, "Mr. Linden--what pleasure you have given me!"--The soft colour which had been in her cheeks before, mounted instantly to deep crimson, and she added timidly, "Wasn't it you?" "What pleasure you give me!"--he said with a smile at her crimson and all. "Yes, it was I." "It seems to me I have been at those places to-day," she went on, looking over at the sofa where her portfolio lay. "I have been fancying your sister standing here and there and looking at something I saw in the picture. Now I can understand a little better what she was writing about." "I am very glad you like them! Some time you must let me give you any explanations they may need. What have you found for me to do this afternoon?" "Aren't you going to be busy, Mr. Linden?" "About something--your business shall come first." "It can wait," said Faith very brightly. "It was just that, Mr. Linden.--I was going to ask you some time to shew them to me. I have been looking at some of them by myself, and going into a great many things over them that I could not understand. But any time will do for that--as well as to-day." "And to-day as well as any time"--he said smiling; "but I suppose we must wait till after dinner." There was great satisfaction at that dinner, not to say in it--which indeed the dinner merited. There was the remaining glow of the pleasant morning, and a little dawning of the afternoon, besides the hour's own light. Faith indeed was the radiating point of pleasure, which the two others watched and furnished with new supplies. Then after dinner came the Italian work, and she had as elaborate and careful answers and information as she wished for. Mr. Linden could go back and tell her where each place got its name, and what had been its history, with many stories of its climate and productions and traditions; and so one by one Faith went over again her new treasures. One by one,--until the short afternoon began to fade, and it was time to dress for Mrs. Somers'; and they had made but little progress into the portfolio, after all. Yet it was a great "progress" to Faith;--a grand procession through the years of history and the stages of civilization and the varying phases of nature and humanity. Very tenderly the photographs were restored to the portfolio and the red leather tongue drawn through, with a little breath heavy with pleasure, and Faith carried off the whole to be put where profane hands should not get hold of it. Then the comparatively ignoble business of dressing occupied her. And Mrs. Derrick yet more, who of course was there to help and look on; while Faith's head was erratically in her portfolio, or at Rome, or at Florence, or--elsewhere,--as the case might be. Her dress was this evening the same she had worn to Mrs. Stoutenburgh's, but the knot of holly and winterberries transformed her more than the rose and myrtle had done; and she stood an undoubted guest of Christmas night. Faith herself took somewhat of the effect, which her thought however concentrated. "Mother," she said as she looked in the glass,--"I never saw anything so pretty!" "Neither did I, child," said Mrs. Derrick smiling. Faith took still closer note of the beauty of her breastknot; and then gathering up her crimson hood and cloak, they went down stairs. It was not quite the hour yet for Mrs. Somers'. Mr. Linden was ready and in the sitting-room; but Faith did not this time call his attention to her bouquet. She came in and sat down very quietly in a corner of the sofa. He paused in his walk up and down the room however, noting her well as she came in and took her seat; coming presently to take one at her side; and then catching up a book from the table he proceeded to give her the ice palace of the little brook, with which he had threatened her before.-- "Down swept the cold wind from the mountain peak, From the snow five thousand summers old"--etc. "O," exclaimed Faith, "I have seen just such a brook! I have played in it; when mother was afraid I should take cold, and wouldn't let me stay. But that's as good as the brook," she added timidly. "Without the danger of taking cold. You are quite sure it has not chilled you, Miss Faith?--do you feel 'winter-proof'?" "I think I do, for to-day," said Faith. "If the evening were to be even very disagreeable, I think I could stand it." Which remark was perhaps significant. The tinkle of Jerry's bells now made itself heard at the door, and Faith was shawled and cloaked and wrapped up by her mother in the house and by Mr. Linden in the sleigh. He was more skilful about it than Squire Stoutenburgh; and contrived to enclose Faith in a little wigwam of buffalo robes, without letting her feel the weight of them. Then they dashed off--Jerry well disposed for exercise after his five minutes' stand, and spurning the snow from a light enough pair of heels. How merrily the bells jingled! how calmly and steadily the stars shone down! There was no moon now, but the whitened earth caught and reflected every bit of the starlight, and made it by no means dark; and the gleams from cottage windows came out and fell on the snow in little streaks of brightness. Sleighs enough abroad!--from the swift little cutters and large family sleighs that glided on towards the parsonage, down to sledding parties of boys, cheered only by a cow-bell and their own laughter. Tinkle, tinkle--everywhere,--near by and in the distance; the dark figures just casting a light shadow on the roadside, the merry voices ignoring anything of the kind. Mrs. Somers' house was a good long drive from Mrs. Derrick's. The road was first on the way to Mr. Simlins'; from there it turned off at right angles and went winding crookedly down a solitary piece of country; rising and falling over uneven ground, twisting out of the way of a rock here and there, and for some distance skirting the edge of a woodland. There was light enough to see by, but it was not just the piece of road one would choose of a dark night; and Faith felt thankful Squire Deacon was gone to Egypt. CHAPTER II. In the dressing-room Faith was seized upon in the warmest manner by Mrs. Stoutenburgh, who looked very pretty in her dress of bright crimson silk. "I'm so glad you've come back, dear. And how well you're looking!--a little thin, though. But you'll soon make up for that. You're just as lovely as you can be, Faith--do you know it?" "No, ma'am."--Her _flowers_, she knew, were as lovely as they could be. "Jerry brought us, Mrs. Stoutenburgh, after all, and pretty fast too." "O he can go fast enough. You needn't look so sober, child--of course no one thinks so but me, and nobody ever minds what I say. _That's_ pretty, I suppose you'll allow," she said laughing, and bending down closer to Faith's holly leaves,--"what is it, Faith? basswood?" "Don't you know holly, Mrs. Stoutenburgh? And the berries are winterberries." "Yes my dear--I perceive. You mustn't get angry with me, child--I tell you nobody does, not even your grave escort. At least not for anything I do to _him_. Well I'll go down and electrify people with the news that you're coming." And the crimson dress floated off to the tune of a light step and a merry voice. And more slowly and more doubtfully the black dress and winterberries followed her. Perhaps in very truth Faith would have been willing that Mr. Stoutenburgh should have taken her under his broad wing for that going down stairs. At least she was as absolutely grave and quiet as anybody ever saw her, and a little more inclined to be shrinking. But Mr. Linden was alone in the hall at that minute, so there was no one else to shrink from; and if Faith wanted to shrink from him, she hardly could,--there was such an absence of anything to alarm her, both in his look and manner. Therefore, though she had to go down stairs upon his arm, and pass sundry people on their way up, Faith felt that he was a shield between her and the glances and words which he so little regarded. Eyes and tongues indeed ventured hut little in his presence; but that protection of course extended only to the centre of the drawing-room, and the welcome which Faith received from Mrs. Somers,--then she must shield herself. Then truly, for a while, she was taken possession of by Squire Stoutenburgh, who walked with her up and down, and said all manner of kind things. Faith had no particular skill to shield herself from anything, and indeed gave herself no thought about it. She took what came, in a simple and quiet spirit, which was very apt to strike like a bee the right part of every flower; or that perhaps carried its own honey along. So she walked up and down with Mr. Stoutenburgh; and so she afterwards entered into the demands of a posse of her old and young friends who had not seen her for a good while. Amidst a little group of these people, collected benignly around Faith, Dr. Harrison presently intruded himself. Now Dr. Harrison was a lion, and the smaller animals naturally fell off from him, which was precisely what he expected them to do. The doctor had the field soon clear. "What have you been doing to yourself?" he said to Faith with the kindly, familiar manner which had grown up between them. "Taking good care,"--she said, in smiling answer to his question. "Who took the care? yourself?" "Yes." "I thought so." "Why, Dr. Harrison?" "Excuse me," said he. "Anybody else would have done it better." "No," said she shaking her head,--"you are wrong." "You have been--" said he, looking at her,--"you have been 'doing your duty' too hard." "Can one do that, Dr. Harrison?" "Certainly!" "I haven't been doing it this time." "Do you remember," he said sitting down by her and lowering his voice,--"what you said once about the flowers of the wilderness?" "Yes." "Would you like to see some of them?" "In the wilderness?" "No," said he smiling. "I can shew you one family of them, by their portraits, here--to-night." "I would like to see them in the wilderness or anywhere!" said Faith. "Then if you'll come with me"-- And the next thing was Dr. Harrison's walking off the black silk and winterberries before all the eyes of the people and through one room after another, till a little one-side room was reached which was not a thoroughfare to anything. In this little room was a table and a lamp upon it, and also several very large thin books. There was also, which was singular, a very comfortable easy chair. In this Dr. Harrison installed his charge close by the table, and drew up one of the volumes. "I am going to introduce to you," he said, "the whole family of the Rhododendrons." "Rhododendron?"--said Faith. "I never saw them." "It is their loss," said the doctor; "but here they are." It was as he said;--the whole family of the plant, in the most superb style of portraiture and presentation. Full size and full colour; one of the most magnificent of such works. Faith had never seen a Rhododendron, and even in her dreams had never visited a wilderness where such flowers grew. Her exquisite delight fully satisfied Dr. Harrison, and quite kept her attention from herself and the fact of her being shut off from the rest of the company. Now and then one and another would drop in and look at what they were about, with curiosity if not with sympathy; but Rhododendrons were not alluring to most of the people, nor to say truth was Dr. Harrison. With most urbane politeness he dispersed any desire to remain and look over his proceedings which might have been felt by some of the intruders; or contrived that they should find nothing to detain them. It was a long business, to turn over all those delicious portraits of floral life and give anything like a sufficient look at each one. Such glories of vegetable beauty Faith had never imagined. It was almost a new revelation. There were deep brilliant crimsons; there was the loveliest rose-colour, in large heads of the close elegant flowers; there were, larger still and almost incredible in their magnificence, enormous clusters of cream-coloured and tinted and even of buff. There were smaller and humbler members of the family, which would have been glorious in any other companionship. There were residents of the rich regions of the tropics; and less superb members of the temperate zones; there were trees and shrubs; and there were little bushy, hardy denizens of the highest and barrenest elevations of rocks and snow to which inflorescence ever climbs. Faith almost caught her breath. "And these are in the wilderness!" she said. "Yes. What then?" said the doctor. Faith did not say. "You are thinking they 'waste their sweetness'?" "O no, indeed! I don't think that." "You are thinking something. Please let me be the better for it." "One ought to be the better for it," said Faith. "Then I hope you won't refuse it to me," said Dr. Harrison gently laughing at her. "I was thinking, Dr Harrison, what the Bible says,--'He hath made everything beautiful in his time';--and, 'God saw everything that he had made, and behold it was very good.'" The doctor turned over the leaf to a new Rhododendron. Faith's thoughts went to Pequot, and her heart gave a bound of joy at the remembrance of the sick woman there. Mrs. Stoutenburgh's crimson dress was so softly worn and managed, that the wearer thereof was close in Dr. Harrison's neighbourhood for a minute before he was aware of her presence; which quiet motions, it should be observed, were habitual to Mrs. Stoutenburgh, and not at all assumed for the occasion. Therefore it was with no idea of startling anybody, that she said presently, "My dear Faith, what _are_ you looking at through those Rhododendrons?" Faith started, and looked up with a bit of a smile. "What do you see, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?" said the doctor. "O several things," said the lady, passing her hand softly over Faith's brow, and then with one of her sudden impulses putting her lips there. "Do you like them, Faith?" "Does not Mrs. Stoutenburgh like them?" said the doctor, as he placed a chair for her in the best position left for seeing. "Thank you," said she laughing. "I came here to be seen this evening. And so ought some other people. How much do you pay for the monopoly, doctor?" "I really don't know!" said Dr. Harrison with a very slight rise of his handsome eyebrows. "I am in Pattaquasset--which is to me a region of uncertainties. You will know better than I, Mrs. Stoutenburgh." "Well," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh with a wicked look at the doctor for his sole benefit,--"speaking of Rhododendrons, which you've seen often enough before,--don't you admire _this_--which you have _not_ seen before?" and she touched Faith's holly leaves with the tip of her little glove. "I should think it must stir what Mr. Linden calls your 'nerves of pleasant sensation'." "I am honoured by your estimation," said the doctor laughing slightly. "Miss Derrick's taste is matchless. It is an act of benevolence for her to wear flowers." Faith's very brow crimsoned, till she bent it from view as much as she could. In all her truth she could not rise up there and confess that her skill was not the skill to be commended. She wanted a shield then. "Don't flatter yourself that you are an object of charity," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh turning over another leaf to give Faith employment. "They're talking of games in the other room, dear," she added in a gentle voice,--"may I tell Mrs. Somers you will play too?" "Yes ma'am, certainly!" "They're not ready yet--sit still and enjoy your prints--I'll see what they are about." And the lady left the room. Dr. Harrison sought some particularly fine specimens and engaged Faith in talk about them and their localities and habits, till her self-possession was restored. "Have you heard the news about Mr. Linden?" he asked with most nonchalant carelessness. "What news?" said Faith, doubtful whether he meant Squire Stoutenburgh's chapter or some other. "Then he hasn't told you himself?" "No," said Faith. "I thought you ought to be authority," the doctor went on in the same tone. "It is very good news--for him--I hope it is true. They say--I have heard,--how beautiful the droop of those petals is!--and the shade of colour is rare--They say, that he has a very dear friend abroad; I mean in Europe, somewhere. Do you think it is true?" "Yes," said Faith. She thought it was not wonderful news. "I mean a lady friend?" said the doctor. "Yes," said Faith again. She knew now what the doctor meant, but she did not feel inclined to enter into the subject or to enlighten him at all. Then too Mr. Linden might have more friends than _one_ abroad!--It flashed upon her like a curious illumination. "Then the story is true?" said the doctor. "I don't know, sir," said Faith in some distress. "I know nothing about it." "But you don't know that it is not true?" said he looking at her. "No, sir. I don't know." Dr. Harrison's further questions and remarks were cut short by the entrance of the very person referred to; who coming up with his usual light, alert step, held out his hand first of all to the questioner. "Good evening, doctor!--how do you do again? Miss Faith, may I take you away from these beauties?" And the released hand was offered to her. She put hers in it very willingly but very silently; Faith dared not say a word to him about the Rhododendrons or about anything else. "Ah, you have two hands again," said Dr. Harrison, "and you turn it against me!" "Not that fact--" Mr. Linden said as he went off. And then slackening his step, he talked or made Faith talk--and laugh--every inch of the way into the room where all the rest were clustered ready for blind man's buff. It was a triumph of his skill,--or of his power,--for she had left the Rhododendrons in a mood most shy and quiet, and disposed to keep so. Dr. Harrison had not followed them, but soon made his entrance upon the company by another door. "What is going on? or off, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?" he whispered to that lady. "Why the bandage is going on, and we're going off," said she laughing. "Will you be blinded first, doctor?" "Blind man's buff!" said the doctor shrugging his shoulders comically. "Barbarous! I would rather 'go off' too--but anything to please you, Mrs. Stoutenburgh. A game to see how much a man without his five senses can do against other people who have them." But the doctor gallantly stepped up to Mrs. Somers. "I represent the forlorn hope for the evening, aunt Ellen. Has anybody volunteered to be the first victim?" "You are the last person in the room that ought to volunteer," said Mrs. Somers,--"however, blindness is proverbial in some cases. Miss Essie will bandage your eyes, Julius--and use her own for you in the meanwhile, I dare say. Miss Essie, here is a candidate." "Not for Miss Essie's good offices!" said the doctor. "I know her. I shall not trust her. I will put myself in safe hands." And with an inexpressible air of carelessness and easy pleasure-taking, Dr. Harrison carried his handsome person across the room to where Faith yet stood by the side of Mr. Linden; stood looking rather sober. She had not brought any of the rosy Rhododendron colour away in her face; or else it had faded. The doctor came up and spoke in an undertone as wilfully and gracefully independent as his manner. "If I ask you to do me the honour to put this handkerchief over my eyes, Miss Derrick, I suppose you will not know what it signifies?" "No, sir," said Faith, with a very slight smile and extra colour. "Where I have been," said the doctor,--"where we never play it!--it is played in this way. My entreating you to blind my eyes, signifies that without them I shall endeavour to find you." "Then I wish you'd get somebody else to do it, Dr. Harrison." "You are not in earnest?" said the doctor. "Very much in earnest." "But I should observe," said he smiling, "that even the unkindness of your refusal would not change my endeavour. I only give you, as in honour bound, the chance of doing all you can to prevent my succeeding. Will you do it?" He tendered the handkerchief. Faith coloured a little more, but to put a stop to his absurdities, as they seemed to her, and to her consequent prominence before the eyes of people, she accepted the office. Dr. Harrison kneeled at her feet, and Faith put the handkerchief round his eyes and tied it on; endeavouring, to do her justice, to perform the task thoroughly. She was not quite sure how well it was done, after all,--for the doctor had interposed a gentle "Softly," as she was drawing the knot and had at the same time also raised his hand to ease the bandage. But Faith had to let it go so; and simply resolved to take care of herself. Many eyes, meanwhile, surveyed this performance with much edification, glancing too at the motionless figure who at Faith's side looked down upon it. But when the smile in those eyes touched the lips as well, Mrs. Stoutenburgh was roused to a pitch of delight; and running into the middle of the room to meet the doctor as he came to take his stand, she clapped her hands exclaiming, "O, doctor! doctor!--how could you let anybody tie anything over your eyes!" "Is there treachery, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?" said the doctor with a comic stop. "Where?"--said the lady. "Nay,--I know where," said the doctor. And turning from her he addressed himself to the game. But though Dr. Harrison shewed himself a keen player the game came to no sudden termination. And Faith could not help doubting that her work had not been too effectual. It was beyond question, even if she had not been forewarned, that the doctor was endeavouring to find--or endeavouring to catch her. In vain Mrs. Stoutenburgh's crimson and Miss Essie's blue floated past him and rustled behind him. In vain Mrs. Somers' purple stood in his way. The skirt of that one black silk could go nowhere that some one of the doctor's senses did not inform him of it. Closely he followed upon her flight, and keen work Faith found it, play as well as she would. She began to get out of breath, and the amusement and fun grew uproarious. It was when her foot was failing that the doctor's gained strength: between him and the prize there was now no barrier; no leap could avail Faith in the corner where she was at last hemmed in. Slowly and securely the doctor advanced, first himself and then his hands, and caught--Mr Linden! Caught him unmistakeably too,--there was no help for it; and Dr. Harrison in his astonishment forgot to pronounce him somebody else! "Confound you!" said the doctor slowly and comically--"how did you get here?" "Are you fatigued?" said Mr. Linden, taking off the bandage. "Miss Faith, you did _this_ part of your work very ill." "How did you get here?" repeated the doctor, taking hold of his arm and shaking it slightly. "I wasn't looking for _you_, man." "What were you _looking_ for?" said Mr. Linden, with a laughing return of the doctor's gaze. "Shall I put that on for you?" said the latter with a sort of complicate expression, which however never lost its grace and ease. And then began another chase--but not of Faith this time,--perhaps Mr. Linden thought she needed rest. And the changes ran round the company, but never (as it happened) including Faith or Dr. Harrison, until they reached the finishing round of the game. Then it was Mr. Linden's turn again to wear the bandage, and then he gave Faith the sort of run he had given her before at Mrs. Stoutenburgh's--and with the same success. "Haven't they played blind man's buff long enough?" Faith whispered, when the bandage was taken off her captor. She was flushed, a little, and sober more than a little. "Yes--I will move a change," he answered in the same tone. Which he did, after a short consultation. "Dr. Harrison--you have seen the 'Butterfly,' I suppose?" "_The_ butterfly?" said the doctor. "I have seen many--of all colours; but the butterfly par excellence, I know not. Unless it is one with white wings and black body, and spots of most brilliant red on the breast." "The one I mean combines more colours," said Mr. Linden. "What were you doing in France, not to see it?" "Seeing other things, I suppose. However, now you speak of it, I believe that butterfly has flown over me--sometime." "Please to imagine yourself a gay rover for the nonce," said Mr. Linden, leading the doctor persuasively into the middle of the floor. "Just suppose you are a Purple Emperor--will you doctor? Miss Essie wants a story and forfeits,--I shall leave you to gratify her." But he himself went to give Miss Faith a seat. That was done with a very different manner from the gay, genial way in which he had addressed the doctor: it was genial enough, certainly, but grave. "You do not feel well?" he said, as he wheeled up an easy chair for her. It was spoken too low for any one else to hear. "Yes, I do,"--said Faith quickly. But her face flushed deep, and her eye though it glanced towards him, failed timidly of meeting his; and her voice had lost all the spring of pleasure. "Then cannot you keep the promise you made about a disagreeable evening?" The tone was very low still--(he was arranging her footstool and chair) a little concerned too, a little--or Faith fancied it--but indeed she was not quite sure what the third part was; and then the doctor began his work. For a minute or two she did not hear him, or heard without heed. She was thinking over Mr. Linden's question and struggling with it. For its slight tone, of remonstrance perhaps, only met and stirred into life the feeling she was trying to keep down. Her lip took one of its sorrowful curves for an instant; but then Dr. Harrison came towards them. "What insect on the face of the earth, Linden, will you be? What does he resemble most, Miss Derrick?" "I am not particular about being on the face of the earth," said Mr. Linden,--"the air will do just as well." The doctor was waiting for Faith's answer. Under the exigency of the moment she gave it him, glancing up first at the figure beside her, perhaps to refresh her memory--or imagination--and smiling a little as she spoke. "I don't think of any he is like, Dr. Harrison." "Do you think I am like a purple butterfly?" said the doctor. "Yes, a little,"--said Faith. But it was with a face of such childlike soberness that the doctor looked hard at her. "What do you think you are like yourself?" said he; not lightly. "I think I am a little like an ant," said Faith. The doctor turned half round on his heel. "'Angels and ministers of grace'!" was his exclamation. "Most winged, gentle, and etherial of all the dwellers in, or on, anthills,--know that thy similitude is nothing meaner than a flower. You must take the name of one, Miss Faith--all the ladies do--what will you be?" "What will you be?" Mr. Linden repeated,--"Mignonette?--that is even below the level of some of your anthills." "If you please,"--she said. "Or one of your Rhododendrons?" said the doctor--"that is better; for you have the art--or the nature, indeed,--of representing all the tints of the family by turns--except the unlovely ones. Be a Rhodora!" "No"--said Faith--"I am not like that--nor like the other, but I will be the other." "Mignonette"--said the doctor. "Well, what shall we call him? what is _he_ like?" "I think," said Faith, looking down very gravely, not with the flashing eye with which she would have said it another time,--"he is most like a midge." The little laugh which answered her, the way in which Mr. Linden bent down and said, "How do you know, Miss Faith?" were slightly mystifying to Dr. Harrison. "I don't know,"--she said smiling; and the doctor with one or two looks of very ungratified curiosity left them and returned to his post. "What are they going to play, Mr. Linden?" said Faith. The doctor's explanation, given to the rest generally, she had not heard. "Do you know what a family connexion you have given me, Miss Faith?--The proverb declares that 'the mother of mischief is no bigger than a midge's wing.'" An involuntary little caught breath attested perhaps Faith's acquiescence in the truth of the proverb; but the doctor's words prevented the necessity of her speaking. "Miss Essie--Ladies and gentlemen! Please answer to your names, and thereby proclaim your characters. Mrs. Stoutenburgh, what are you?" "A poppy, I think," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing. "I like to be beforehand with the public." "Will you please to name your lord and master? He is incapable of naming himself." "I think you've named him!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh with a gay toss of her pretty head. "I'm not learned in insects, doctor,--call him anything that eats up butter-flies." "Mr. Stoutenburgh will--you be a grub?" said the doctor. "Or a beetle? I don't know anything else that I--as a butterfly--dislike more." "No, I'll be a cricket--I'm so spry," said the Squire,--"and I'll be down upon _you_ in some other form, doctor." "You'll have to fly higher first," said the doctor. "Miss Essie declares herself to be a purple Althaea. Miss Davids--an evening primrose. Miss Deacon--a cluster rose. Miss Fax--a sweet pink. Miss Chester--a daisy. Miss Bezac--what shall I put you down?" The butterfly was making a list of his flowers and insects, and cards had been furnished to the different members of the party, and pencils, to do as much for themselves. "I'd as lieve be balm as anything else, if I knew how," said Miss Bezac; "but I shouldn't call _that_ putting me down." "That fits, anyhow," said Squire Stoutenburgh. "'Balm for hurt minds'"--said Dr. Harrison writing. "Miss Julia De Staff is a white lily. Miss Emmons--a morning glory. Mrs. Churchill a peony. Miss Derrick is mignonette. Mrs. Somers--?" "I may as well be lavender," said Mrs. Somers. "You say I am in a good state of preservation." "What is Mr. Somers?" "Mr. Somers--what are you?" said his wife. "Ha!--I don't know, my dear," said Mr. Somers blandly. "I think I am--a--out of place." "Then you're a moth," said the doctor. "That is out of place too, in most people's opinion. Miss Delaney, I beg your pardon--what are you?" "Here are the two Miss Churchills, doctor," said Miss Essie--"hyacinth and laburnum." "I am sure you have been sponsor, Miss Essie. Well this is my garden of flowers. Then of fellow insects I have a somewhat confused variety. Mr. Stoutenburgh sings round his hearth in the shape of a black cricket. Mr. Linden passes unnoticed in the invisibility of a midge--nothing more dangerous. Mr. Somers does all the mischief he can in the way of devouring widows' houses. The two Messrs. De Staff" (two very spruce and moustachioed young gentlemen) "figure as wasp and snail--one would hardly think they belonged to the same family--but there is no accounting for these things. Mr. George Somers professes to have the taste of a bee--but luckily the garden belongs to the butterfly." "In other words, some one has put Dr. Harrison in a flutter," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "I haven't begun yet," said the doctor wheeling round to face her; "when I do, my first business will be to cut you up, Mrs. Stoutenburgh." "Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden while the roll went on, "I have not forgotten your question,--they, and we, are going to play a French game called 'the Butterfly and the Flowers;' wherein I, a midge, am in humble attendance oh a sprig of mignonette. Whenever our butterfly gardener chooses to speak the name of any flower or insect, that Flower or insect must reply: when he speaks of the gardener, you flowers must extend one hand in token of welcome, we insects draw back in dismay: if the gardener brings his watering-pot, or there falls a shower of rain, you must hold up your head for joy--I must kneel down for fear. If the sunshine is mentioned, we are free to rejoice together--standing up and making demonstrations. You may reply, Miss Faith, either in your own words or quotations, so that you mention some one of your companions; but if you fail to speak, or break any other rule, you must pay a forfeit first and redeem it afterwards." "I may mention either insect or flower?" said Faith. "Yes, just what you like." "If everybody is ready," said the doctor, "I will begin by remarking that I find myself in an 'embarras de richesses'--so many sweets around me that I--a butterfly--know not which to taste first; and such an array of enemies, hostile alike to the flowers and me, that I know not which to demolish first. I hope a demolishing rain will fall some of these days--ah! that is gratifying! behold my enemies shrinking already, while the flowers lift up their heads with pleasure and warm themselves in the rays of the sun. What is mignonette doing?" There was a general outcry of laughter, for as the gentlemen had kneeled and bent their heads, and the flowers had risen to greet the sun,--Faith, in her amusement and preoccupation had sat still. She rose now, blushing a little at being called upon. "Mignonette loves the sun without making any show for it. She has no face to lift up like the white lily." "The white lily isn't sweet like lavender," said Miss Julia. "And the lavender has more to do in the linen press than among butterflies," said Mrs. Somers. "It is good to know one's place," said the doctor. "But the butterfly, seeking a safe resting place, flutters with unpoised flight, past the false poppy which flaunts its gay colours on the sight." "And fixes its eyes on the distant gardener with his watering-pot," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, stretching forth her hand, sibyl-like, towards the now prostrate doctor,--"whereat the mignonette rejoices." "All the flowers rejoice," said the mignonette, "and the cricket jumps out of the way." "Into the sunshine"--said Mr. Stoutenburgh, laughing;--"but the moth feels doubtful." "The moth"--said Mr. Somers--"he--don't like the sunshine so well as the rain. He--ha--he wishes he was a midge there, to get under shelter." "A midge _here_ he can't be," said Mr. Linden, dropping his voice for Faith's benefit,--"'Two suns hold not their courses in one sphere!'"--Then aloud--"Invisibility is a great thing--when you can make up your mind to it, but 'Althaea with the purple eye' looks on life differently." "I look on it soberly," said Miss Essie.-- "'Flutter he, flutter he, high as he will, A butterfly is but a butterfly still. And 'tis better for us to remain where we are, In the lowly valley of duty and care, Than lonely to soar to the heights above, Where there's nothing to do and nothing to love.'" "I'll flutter no more! after that"--said the doctor. "I'll creep into the heart of the white lily and beg it to shelter me." "It won't hide you from the sun nor from the rain," said the white lily,--"and I'd as lieve shelter a spider besides." Faith forgot again that she must welcome the sun; but she was not the only one who had incurred forfeits. Nor the last one who should. For while that interesting member of society who called himself spider, made his reply, Mr. Linden's attention naturally wandered--or came back; and the lively dialogue which then ensued between Messrs. Snail, Wasp, Beetle, etc. failed to arouse him to the duties of a midge or the fear of the gardener: he forgot everything else in the pleasure of making Mignonette laugh. Standing half before her at last, in some animated bit of talk, more than one sunbeam and watering-pot had come and gone, unnoticed by both midge and mignonette,--a fact of which some other people took note, and smilingly marked down the forfeits. "Mr. Linden"--said the voice of Miss Essie at his elbow--"do you know what the doctor is saying?--'The mother of mischief is no bigger than a midge's wing!' You'd better speak to him." Mr. Linden turned, with a laughing, recollective glance-- "Who speaks slightingly of the midge?--let him have a dose of syrup of poppies!" "I guess you can find balm," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh gaily. "He shall have it if he wants it," said Miss Bezac--"that is if _I_'ve got it,--though I rather guess he's got it himself,--I'm sure I don't know what he hasn't got. And it don't strike me he looks as if he wanted it, either, if I _had_. But it's funny I should and not the doctor--though to be sure most things are,--and _he_'s gone to 'the butterfly's ball and the grasshopper's feast.'" "The grasshopper's feast being just now announced," said Mrs. Somers stepping forward, "I shall hope to set the flowers free from their natural enemies without more delay." "I shall not confess to that!" said Mr. Linden under-tone. "But will you come, Miss Faith--the insects are all gone-- 'Save the few that linger, even yet, Round the Alyssum's tuft and the Mignonette.'" The midge's prompt action had perhaps disappointed several other people. Dr. Harrison at any rate contrived with Miss Essie to be the immediately preceding couple in the walk to the supper-room. "I'm glad of some refreshment!" said the doctor; "butterflies cannot live on the wing. Linden! have you been singing all the evening, in the character of a midge?" "No," said Mr. Linden--"all the singing I have done has been in my own character." "I am glad to hear it. By the way," said Dr. Harrison as they reached the supper-room and paired off from their respective charges,--"I am sorry to hear that Pattaquasset has no hold on you, Linden." "Indeed?" said Mr. Linden,--an "indeed" which might refer to the doctor's sorrow, or the supposed fact. "Nay I know nothing about it!" said the doctor lightly as he attacked the supper-table--"but Miss Derrick tells me it is true that your heart is in another place." "Dr. Harrison!" Mr. Linden said, with a momentary erectness of position. But he said no more; turning off then towards Faith with her oysters. And the gentle respect and quick attention with which she was served, Faith might feel, and take note of--yet not guess that its peculiar tone this night was warring, hand to hand, with the injustice done her name. The doctor had unwittingly betrayed at least one point of talk held over the Rhododendrons--furnished a clue he dreamed not of; and stirred a power of displeasure which perhaps he thought Mr. Linden did not possess. Faith did not indeed guess anything from the manner of the latter to her, although she felt it; she felt it as his own, kind and watchful and even affectionate; but like him, belonging to him, and therefore not telling upon the question. With a very humbled and self-chiding spirit, she was endeavouring to keep the face and manner which suited the place, above a deep sinking of heart which was almost overcoming. Her success was like the balance of her mind--doubtful. Gentle her face was as ever; all the crosses of the evening had not brought an angle there; but it was shadowed beyond the fitness of things; and she was still and retiring so far as it was possible to be, shrinking into a very child's lowness of place. Ladies were in the majority that night and the gentlemen were obliged to be constantly on the move. In one of the minutes when Faith was alone, Mrs. Stoutenburgh came up. "Faith," she whispered, "have you been doing anything to vex my friend?" Faith started a little, with a sort of shadow of pain crossing her face. "Who is your friend, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?" "Hush, child!" she answered--"_your_ friend, if you like it better." And she added softly but seriously, "Don't vex him,--he doesn't deserve it." Faith's lip was that touchingly sorrowful child's lip for an instant. She was beyond speaking. Then came up help, in the shape of Miss Essie; with questions about the forfeits and about Mr. Linden. All Mrs. Stoutenburgh's kindness made itself into a screen for Faith, on the instant,--neither eyes nor tongues were allowed to come near her. "Mr. Linden!" said Miss Essie as he just then came up, "will you help us give out forfeits? Who do you think is best to do it?" "Mr. Linden," said Mrs. Somers, "we are all very anxious to know whether all the reports about you are true." Mr. Linden bowed to the anxiety, but gave it no further heed. "Are they?" she repeated. "Do all the reports agree, Mrs. Somers?" "I must confess they are at swords' points." "Then they cannot all be true,--let them fight it out." "But suppose some of the fighting should come upon you?" "That is a supposition I have just refused to take up," said Mr. Linden, stepping towards the table and bringing a bunch of grapes to Faith's plate. "Yes, but everybody hasn't the patience of Job," said Mrs. Somers. "Julius, for instance." "He has at least his own ways of obtaining information," said Mr. Linden, and Faith felt the slight change of voice. "Miss Essie, what will you have?" "Has the doctor any forfeits to pay?" was the somewhat irrelevant answer. "I should so like to see you two set against each other! Dr. Harrison!--have you any forfeits?" "No," said the doctor;--"but as severe service to perform as if I had. Linden, we shall want your help--it's too much for one man." Faith edged away behind this growing knot of talkers, and presently was deeply engaged in conversation with Miss Cecilia Deacon, at a table in the corner, and alternating her attention between grapes and words. Then Squire Stoutenburgh walked softly up and stood behind Faith's chair. "My dear, will you have anything more?" "No, sir, thank you." "Then I am going to carry you off!" said the Squire,--"if I wait a quarter of a second more I shall lose my chance. Come!" Faith was very willing to come, indeed; and they went back to the drawing-room, all the company pouring after them; and Faith feeling as if she had got under a kind of lee shore, on Mr. Stoutenburgh's arm. It could not shelter her long, for the forfeits began. The doctor and Mr. Linden, with Miss Essie and Mrs. Stoutenburgh for coadjutors, were constituted the awarding committee; and the forfeits were distributed to them indifferently. There were many to be redeemed; and at first there was a crowd of inferior interest, Messrs. Spider and Wasp, Mesdemoiselles White Lily and Cluster rose; who were easily disposed of and gallantly dismissed. But there were others behind. One of Faith's forfeits came up; it was held by Dr. Harrison. "Please to stand forth, Miss Derrick, and hear your sentence," said the doctor, leading her to a central position in the floor; which Faith took quietly, but with what inward rebellion one or two people could somewhat guess. "Have the goodness to state to the company what you consider to be the most admirable and praiseworthy of all the characters of flowers within your knowledge; and to describe the same, that we may judge of the justness of your opinion." "Describe the character?" said Faith in a low voice. "Yes. If you please." She stood silent a moment, with downcast eyes, and did not raise them when she spoke. Her colour was hardly heightened, and though her voice rose little above its former pitch, its sweet accents were perfectly audible everywhere. The picture would have been enough for her forfeit. "The prettiest character of a flower that I know, is that of a little species of Rhododendron. It is one of the least handsome, to look at, of all its family; its beauty is in its living. It grows on the high places of high mountains, where frost and barrenness give it no help nor chance; but there, where no other flower ever blossoms, it opens its flowers patiently and perseveringly; and its flowers are very sweet. Nothing checks it nor discourages it. As soon as the great cold lets it come, it comes; and as long as the least mildness lets it stay, it stays. Amidst snow and tempest and desolation it opens its blossoms and spreads its sweetness, with nobody to see it nor to praise it; where from the nature of the place it lives in, its work is all alone. For no other flower will bear what it bears.--Will that do?" said Faith, looking up gravely at her questioner. Very gently, very reverently even, he took her hand, put it upon his arm and led her to a seat, speaking as he went low words of gratified pardon asking. "You must forgive me!" he said. "Forfeits must be forfeits, you know. I couldn't resist the temptation." "Now wasn't that pretty?" whispered Miss Essie in the mean time in Mr. Linden's ear. He had listened, leaning against the mantelpiece, and with shaded eyes looking down; and now to Miss Essie's question returned only a grave bend of the head. "If you have been looking at the floor all this while, you have lost something," said the lady. "Do you know your turn comes next? Mr. Linden--ladies and gentlemen!--is condemned to tell us what he holds the most precious thing in this world; and to justify himself in his opinion by an argument, a quotation, and an illustration!"-- "Now will he find means to evade his sentence!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing. "He has confessed himself addicted to witchcraft in my hearing," said the doctor, who had remained standing by Faith's chair. "The most precious thing in the world," said Mr. Linden, in a tone as carelessly graceful as his attitude, "is that which cannot be bought,--for if money could buy it, then were money equally valuable. Take for illustration, the perfection of a friend." "_I_ don't understand,"--said Miss Essie; "but perhaps I shall when I hear the rest." He smiled a little and gave the quotation on that point in his own clear and perfect manner. "'A sweet, attractive kind of grace; A full assurance given by looks; Continual comfort in a face; The lineaments of gospel books,-- I trow that countenance cannot lye Whose thoughts are legible in the eye.'" The quotation was received variously, but in general with vast admiration. Miss Essie turned to Mrs. Stoutenburgh and remarked, half loud, "_That's_ easy to understand. I was dull." "What do you think of it?" said the doctor softly, stooping towards Faith. But if she heard she did not answer him. She sat with downcast eyes that did not move. She had been wondering whether that was a description of "Pet,"--or of somebody else. "Faith," whispered Mrs. Stoutenburgh's kind mischievous voice in her ear,--"in whose face do you suppose he finds 'continual comfort'?" But she was sorry the next instant, for the pained, startled look which flashed up at her. Sorry and yet amused--the soft little kiss on Faith's cheek was smiling although apologetic. "Mr. Linden," said the doctor, who held the bag of forfeits,--"it is your duty to punish Miss Essie with some infliction, such as you can devise." "Miss Essie," said Mr. Linden, walking gravely up to her, "if there is any person in this room towards whom you entertain and practise malicious, mischievous, and underhand designs, you are hereby sentenced to indicate the person, declare the designs, and to 'shew cause.'" "Why I never did in my life!" said Miss Essie, with a mixture of surprise and amusement in her gracious black eyes. "The court is obliged to refuse an unsupported negative," said Mr. Linden bowing. "Well," said Miss Essie, with no diminishing of the lustre of her black orbs,--"I had a design against you, sir!" "Of what sort?" said Mr. Linden with intense gravity, while everybody else laughed in proportion. "I had a design to enter your mind by private fraud, and steal away its secrets;--and the reason was, because the door was so terribly strong and had such an uncommon good lock! and I couldn't get in any other way." "I hope that is news to the rest of the company," said Mr. Linden laughing as he bowed his acknowledgments. "It is none to me! Miss Essie, may your shadow never be less!"-- "Aint you ashamed!" said Miss Essie reproachfully. "Didn't such a confession deserve better? Who's next, Mr. Harrison?" Some unimportant names followed, with commonplace forfeits according; then Faith's name came to Mr. Linden. Then was there an opening of eyes and a pricking of ears of all the rest of the company. Only Faith herself sat as still as a mouse, after one little quick glance over to where the person stood in whose hands she was. He stood looking at her,--then walked with great deliberation across the room to her low seat, and taking both her hands lifted her up. "You need not be frightened," he said softly, as keeping one hand in his clasp he led her back to where he had been standing; then placed her in a great downy easy chair in that corner of the fireplace, and drew up a footstool for her feet. "Miss Faith," he said, "you are to sit there in absolute silence for the next fifteen minutes. If anybody speaks to you, you are not to answer,--if you are longing to speak yourself you must wait. It is also required that you look at nobody, and hear as little as possible." With which fierce sentence, Mr. Linden took his stand by the chair to see it enforced. "What a man you are!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing. "That's not fair play!" said Mrs. Somers. "She don't want to sit there--if you think she does, you're mistaken." "She should have been more careful then," said Mr. Linden. "Dr. Harrison, you have the floor." Dr. Harrison did not appear to think that was much of a possession;--to judge by his face, which cast several very observant glances towards the chair, and by his manner which for a moment was slightly abstracted and destitute of the spirit of the game. Miss Essie's eyes took the same direction, with a steady gaze which the picture justified. Faith sat where she had been placed, in most absolute obedience to the orders she had received,--except possibly--not probably--the last one. The lids drooped over her eyes, which moved rarely from the floor, and never raised themselves. Her colour had risen indeed to a rich tint, where it stayed; but Mrs. Somers' declaration nevertheless was hardly borne out by a certain little bit-in smile which lurked there too, spite of everything. Otherwise she sat like an impersonation of silence, happily screened, by not looking at anybody, from any annoyance of the eyes that were levelled at her and at the figure that held post by her side. "Mrs. Stoutenburgh," said the doctor, "you have my aunt Ellen." Mrs. Stoutenburgh however was lenient in that quarter, and told Mrs. Somers they would require nothing of her but the three last items of Pattaquasset news--which she, as pastor's wife, was bound to know. And Mrs. Somers was not backward in declaring them; the first being the engagement of two people who hated each other, the second the separation of two people who loved each other; the third, that Mr. Linden shot himself--to make a sensation. "Mr. Linden," said the doctor, "you come next--and you are mine. What shall I do with you?" "Why--anything," said Mr. Linden. "Well--I am greatly at a loss what you are good for," said the doctor lightly,--"but on the whole I order you to preach a sermon to the company." "Have you any choice as to the text?" "I am not in the way of those things," said the doctor laughingly. "Give us the lesson you think we want most." The clear, grave look that met him--Dr. Harrison had seen it before. The change was like the parting of a little bright vapour, revealing the steadfast blue beneath. "Nay doctor, you must bid me do something else! I dare not play at marbles with precious stones." There was probably a mixture of things in the doctor's mind;--but the outward show in answer to this was in the highest degree seemly and becoming. The expression of Dr. Harrison's face changed; with a look gentle and kind, even winning, he came up to Mr. Linden's side and took his hand. "You are right!" said he, "and I have got my sermon--which I deserve. But now, Linden, _that_ is not your forfeit;--for that you must tell me--honestly--what you think of me." There was always a general air of carelessness about Dr. Harrison, as to what he said himself or what others said in his presence. Along with this carelessness, which whether seeming or real was almost invariable, there mingled now a friend's look and tone and something of a friend's apology making. "But do you want me to tell everybody else?" said Mr. Linden, smiling in his old way at the doctor. "Do you like to blush before so many people?" "That's your forfeit!" said the doctor resuming also his old-fashioned light tone. "You're to tell me--and you are _not_ to tell anybody else!" "Well--if you will have it," said Mr. Linden looking at him,--"Honestly, I think you are very handsome!--of course that is news to nobody but yourself." "Mercy on you, man!" said the doctor; "do you think that is news to _me?_" "It is supposed to be--by courtesy," said Mr. Linden laughing. "Well--give me all the grace courtesy will let you," said the doctor; whether altogether lightly, or with some feeling, it would have been hard for a by-stander to tell. "Is Miss Derrick's penance out? She comes next--and Miss Essie has her." "No,"--said Mr. Linden consulting his watch. "I am sorry to interfere with your arrangements, doctor, but justice must have its course." "Then there is a 'recess'"--said the doctor comically. "Ladies and gentlemen--please amuse yourselves."-- He had no intention of helping them, it seemed, for he stood fast in his place and talked to Mr. Linden in a different tone till the minutes were run out. No thing could be more motionless than the occupant of the chair. "Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said then, "it is a little hard to pass from one inquisitor to another--but I must hand you over to Miss Essie." Faith's glance at him expressed no gratification. Meanwhile the doctor had gone for Miss Essie and brought her up to the fireplace. "Miss Derrick," said the black-eyed lady, "I wish you to tell--as the penalty of your forfeit--why, when you thought the Rhododendron the most perfect flower, you did not take it for your name?" If anybody had known the pain this question gave Faith--the leap of dismay that her heart made! Nobody knew it; her head drooped, and the colour rose again to be sure; but one hand sheltered the exposed cheek and the other was turned to the fire. She could not refuse to answer, and with the doctor's weapons she would not; but here, as once before, Faith's straightforwardness saved her. "Why didn't you call yourself Rhodora?" repeated Miss Essie. And Faith answered,-- "Because another name was suggested to me." The question could not decently be pushed any further; and both Miss Essie and the doctor looked as if they had failed. Faith's own tumult and sinking of heart prevented her knowing how thoroughly this was true. "And you two people," said Mr. Linden, "come and ask Miss Derrick why she chose to appropriate a character that she thought fell short of perfection!--what is the use of telling anybody anything, after that?" "I am only one people," said Miss Essie. "I am another," said the doctor; "and I confess myself curious. Besides, a single point of imperfection might be supposed, without injury to mortal and human nature." "Julius," said Miss Harrison, "will you have the goodness to do so impolite a thing as to look at your watch? Aunt Ellen will expect us to set a proper example. Dear Faith, are you bound to sit in that big chair all night?" Then there was a general stir and break-up of the party. One bit of conversation Faith was fated to hear as she slowly made her way out of the dressing-room door, among comers and goers: the first speaker was a young De Staff. "Since that shooting affair there's been nothing but reports about you, Linden." "Reports seldom kill," said Mr. Linden. "Don't trust to that!" said another laughing moustache,--"keep 'em this side the water. By the way--is there any likeness of that fair foreigner going? How do you fancy _she_ would like reports?" "When you find out I wish you would let me know," said Mr. Linden with a little accent of impatience, as he came forward and took Faith in charge. CHAPTER III. It was pretty late when Jerry and his little sleigh-load got clear of the gates. The stars were as bright as ever, and now they had the help of the old moon; which was pouring her clear radiance over the snow and sending long shadows from trees and fences. The fresh air was pleasant too. Faith felt it, and wondered that starlight and snow and sleigh-bells were such a different thing from what they were a few hours before. She chid herself, she was vexed at herself, and humbled exceedingly. She endeavoured to get back on the simple abstract ground she had held in her own thoughts until within a day or two; she was deeply ashamed that her head should have allowed even a flutter of imagination from Mr. Stoutenburgh's words, which now it appeared might bear a quite contrary sense to that which she had given them. What was _she_, to have anything to do with them? Faith humbly said, nothing. And yet,--she could not help that either,--the image of the possibility of what Dr. Harrison had suggested, raised a pain that Faith could not look at. She sat still and motionless, and heard the sleigh-bells without knowing to what tune they jingled. It was a quick tune, at all events,--for the first ten or fifteen minutes Jerry dashed along to his heart's content, and his driver even urged him on,--then with other sleighs left far behind and a hill before him, Jerry brought the tune to a staccato, and Mr. Linden spoke. But the words were not very relevant to either stars or sleigh-bells. "Miss Faith, I thought you knew me better." They startled her, for she was a minute or two without answering; then came a gentle, and also rather frightened, "Why?--why do you say that, Mr. Linden?" "Do you think you know me?" he said, turning towards her with a little bit of a smile, though the voice was grave. "Do you think you have any idea how much I care about you?" "I think you do," she said. "I am sure you do--very much!" "Do you know how much?"--and the smile was full then, and followed by a moment's silence. "I shall not try to tell you, Miss Faith; I could not if I would--but there is something on the other side of the question which I want you to tell me." And Jerry walked slowly up the snowy hill, and the slight tinkle of his bells was as silvery as the starlight of Orion overhead. Faith looked at her questioner and then off again, while a rich colour was slowly mantling in her cheeks. But the silence was breathless. Jerry's bells only announced it. And having by that time reached the top of the hill he chose--and was permitted--to set off at his former pace; flinging off the snow right and left, and tossing his mane on the cool night air. Down that hill, and up the next, and down that--and along a level bit of road to the foot of another,--then slowly. "Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden when they were half way up, "do you never mean to speak to me again?" A very low-breathed although audible "yes." "Is that all you mean to say?--I shall take it very comprehensively." She was willing probably that he should take it any way that he pleased; but to add was as much beyond Faith's power at the moment as to subtract from her one word. She did not even look. "Do you know what this silence is promising?" Mr. Linden said in the same tone, and bending down by her. "I do--and yet I want to hear you speak once more. If there is any reason why I should try not to love you better than all the rest of the world, you must tell me now." One other quick, inquiring, astonished glance her eyes gave into his face; and then, as usual, his wish to have her speak made her speak, through all the intense difficulty. There was a minute's further hesitation, and then the words, very low, very simple, and trembling, "Do--if you can." "Do _try?_" he said in a lower and graver tone. "Try?"--she said; then with a change of voice and in very much confusion,--"O no, Mr. Linden!" "I should not succeed"--was all his answer, nor was there time for much more; for having now turned into the main street where other homeward-bound sleighs were flying along, there was nothing to do but fly along with the rest; and a very few minutes brought them home. Mr. Skip was probably reposing in parts unknown, for there was no sign of him at his post; and when Faith had been silently taken out of the sleigh and into the hall, Mr. Linden went back to Jerry--telling her she must take good care of herself for five minutes. Bewilderedly, and trembling yet, Faith turned into the sitting-room. It was warm and bright, Mrs. Derrick having only lately left it; and taking off hood and cloak in a sort of mechanical way, with fingers that did not feel the strings, she sat down in the easy chair and laid her head on the arm of it; as very a child as she had been on the night of that terrible walk;--wondering to herself if this were Christmas day--if she were Faith Derrick--and if anything were anything!--but with a wonder of such growing happiness as made it more and more difficult for her to raise her head up. She dreaded--with an odd kind of dread which contradicted itself--to hear Mr. Linden come in; and in the abstract, she would have liked very much to jump up and run away; but that little intimation was quite enough to hold her fast. She sat still drawing quick little breaths. The loud voice of the clock near by, striking its twelve strokes, was not half so distinct to her as that light step in the hall which came so swiftly and quick to her side. "What is the problem now, pretty child?" Mr. Linden said, laying both hands upon hers,--"it is too late for study to-night. You must wait till to-morrow and have my help." She rose up at that, however gladly she would have hidden the face her rising revealed; but yet with no awkwardness she stood before him, rosily grave and shy, and with downcast eyelids that could by no means lift themselves up to shew what was beneath; a fair combination of the child's character and the woman's nature in one; both spoken fairly and fully. Mr. Linden watched her for a minute, softly passing his hand over that fair brow; then drew her closer. "I suppose I may claim Mr. Stoutenburgh's privilege now," he said. But it was more than that he took. And then with one hand still held fast, Faith was put back in her chair and wheeled up to the fire "to get warm," and Mr. Linden sat down by her side. Did he really think she needed it, when she was rosy to her fingers' ends? But what could she do, but be very still and very happy Even as a flower whose head is heavy with dew,--never more fragrant than then, yet with the weight of its sweet burden it bends a little;--like that was the droop of Faith's head at this minute. Whither had the whirl of this evening whirled her? Faith did not know. She felt as if, to some harbour of rest, broad and safe; the very one where from its fitness it seemed she ought to be. But shyly and confusedly, she felt it much as a man feels the ground, who is near taken off it by a hurricane. Yet she felt it, for her head drooped more and more. "Faith," Mr. Linden said, half smiling, half seriously, "what has made you so sober all this evening--so much afraid of me?" The quick answer of the eye stayed not a minute; the blush was more abiding. "You don't want me to tell you that!"--she said in soft pleading. "Do you know now who I think has-- 'A sweet attractive kind of grace'?" "O don't, please, speak so, Mr. Linden!" she said bowing her face in her hands,--"it don't belong to me."--And pressing her hands closer, she added, "_You_ have made me all I am--that is anything." "There is one thing I mean to make you--if I live," he answered smiling, and taking down her hand. "Faith, what do you mean by talking to me in that style?--haven't you just given me leave to think what I like of you? You deserve another half hour's silent penance." A little bit of smile broke upon her face which for an instant she tried to hide with her other hand. But she dropped that and turned the face towards him, rosy, grave, and happy, more than she knew, or she perhaps would have hidden it again. Her eyes indeed only saw his and fell instantly; and her words began and stopped. "There is one comfort--" "What, dear child?" "That you know what to think," she said, looking up with a face that evidently rested in the confidence of that fact. "About what?" Mr. Linden said with an amused look. "I have known what to think about _you_ for some time." "I meant that,"--she said quietly and with very downcast eyes again. "I am not in a good mood for riddles to-night," said Mr. Linden,--"just what does this one mean?" "Nothing, only--" said Faith flushing,--"you said--" She was near breaking down in sheer confusion, but she rallied and went on. "You said I had given you leave to think what you liked of me,--and I say it is a comfort that you know _what_ to think." Mr. Linden laughed. "You are a dear little child!" he said. "Being just the most precious thing in the world to me, you sit there and rejoice that I am in no danger of overestimating you--which is profoundly true. My comfort in knowing what to think, runs in a different line." It is hard to describe Faith's look; it was a mixture of so many things. It was wondering, and shamefaced; and curious for its blending of humility and gladness; but gladness moved to such a point as to be near the edge of sorrowful expression. She would not have permitted it to choose such expression, and indeed it easily took another line; for even as she looked, her eye caught the light from Mr. Linden's and the gravity of her face broke in a sunny and somewhat obstinate smile, which Faith would have controlled if she could. "That penance was not so very bad," she said, perhaps by way of diversion. "I enjoyed it," said Mr. Linden,--"I am not sure that everybody else did. Are you longing for another piece of rest?--Look up at me, and let me see if _I_ ought to keep you here any longer." She obeyed, though shyly; the smile lingering round her lips yet, and her whole face, to tell the truth, bearing much more resemblance to the dawn of a May morning than to the middle of a December night. Mr. Linden was in some danger of forgetting why he had asked to see it; but when her eyes fell beneath his, then he remembered. "I must let you go," he said,--"I suppose the sooner I do that, the sooner I may hope to see you again. Will you sleep diligently, to that end?" "I don't know--" she said softly; rising at the same time to gather up her wrappers which lay strewed about, around and under her. Her lips had the first answer to that; only as he let her go Mr. Linden said, "You must try." And a little scarce-spoken "yes" promised it. It was easier than she thought. When Faith had got to her room, when she had as usual laid down her heart's burden--joyful or careful--in her prayer, there came soon a great subsiding; and mind and body slept, as sleep comes to an exhausted child; or as those sleep, at any age, whose hearts bear no weight which God's hand can bear for them, and who are contented to leave their dearest things to the same hand. There was no "ravelled sleeve of care" ever in Faith's mind, for sleep to knit up; but "tired nature's sweet restorer" she needed like the rest of the human family; and on this occasion sleep did her work without let or hindrance from the time ten minutes after Faith's head touched her pillow till the sun was strong and bright on the morning of the 26th of December. Yes, and pretty high up too; for the first thing that fell upon her waking senses was eight clear strokes of the town clock. Faith got up and dressed herself in a great hurry and in absolute dismay; blushing to think where was her mother; and breakfast--and everybody--all this while, and what everybody was thinking of her. From her room Faith went straight to dairy and kitchen. She wanted her hands full this morning. But her duties in the kitchen were done; breakfast was only waiting, and her mother talking to the butcher. Faith stood till he was dismissed and had turned his back, and then came into Mrs. Derrick's arms. "Mother!--why _didn't_ you call me!" "Pretty child!" was the fond answer, "why should I?--I've been up to look at you half a dozen times, Faith, to make sure you were not sick; but Mr. Linden said he was in no hurry for breakfast--and of course I wasn't. Did you have a good time last night?" "I should think you _ought_ to be in a hurry for breakfast by this time." And Faith busied herself in helping Cindy put the breakfast on the table. "You run and call Mr. Linden, child," said her mother, "and I'll see to this. He was here till a minute ago, and then some of the boys wanted to see him." Faith turned away, but with no sort of mind to present herself before the boys, and in tolerable fear of presenting herself before anybody. The closing hall door informed her that one danger was over; and forcing herself to brave the other, she passed into the sitting-room just as Mr. Linden reëntered it from the hall. Very timidly then she advanced a few steps to meet him and stood still, with cheeks as rosy as it was possible to be, and eyes that dared not lift themselves up. The greeting she had did not help either matter very much, but that could not be helped either. "What colour are your cheeks under all these roses?" Mr. Linden said smiling at her. "My dear Faith, were you quite tired out?" "No--You must think so," she said with stammering lips--"but breakfast is ready at last. If you'll go in--I'll come, Mr. Linden." "Do you want me to go in first?" "Yes. I'll come directly." He let her go, and went in as she desired; and having persuaded Mrs. Derrick that as breakfast was on the table it had better have prompt attention, Mr. Linden engaged her with a lively account of the people, dresses, and doings, which had graced the Christmas party; keeping her mind pretty well on that subject both before and after Faith made her appearance. How little it engrossed him, only one person at the table could even guess. But she knew, and rested herself happily under the screen he spread out for her; as quiet and demure as anything that ever sat at a breakfast table yet. And all the attention she received was as silent as it was careful; not till breakfast was over did Mr. Linden give her more than a passing word; but then he inquired how soon she would be ready for philosophy. Faith's hesitating answer was "Very soon;"--then as Mr. Linden left the room she asked, "What are you going to do to-day, mother?" "O just the old story," said Mrs. Derrick,--"two or three sick people I must go and see,--and some well people I'd rather see, by half. It's so good to have you home, dear!" And she kissed Faith and held her off and looked at her--several feelings at work in her face. "Pretty child," she said, "I don't think I ever saw you look so pretty." Faith returned the kiss, and hid her face in her mother's neck; more things than one were in her mind to say, but not one of them could get out. She could only kiss her mother and hold her fast. The words that at last came, were a very commonplace remark about--"going to see to the dinner." "I guess you will!" said Mrs. Derrick--"with Mr. Linden waiting for you in the other room. I wonder what he'd say to you, or to me either. And besides--people that want to see about dinner must get up earlier in the morning." The words, some of them, were a little moved; but whatever Mrs. Derrick was thinking of, she did not explain, only bade Faith go off and attend to her lessons and make up for lost time. Which after some scouting round kitchen and dairy, Faith did. She entered the sitting-room with the little green book in her hand, as near as possible as she would have done three weeks ago. Not quite. She had a bright smile of welcome, and Mr. Linden placed a chair for her and placed her in it; and then the lessons went on with all their old gentle care and guidance. More, they could hardly have--though Faith sometimes fancied there was more; and if the old sobriety was hard to keep up, still it was done, for her sake. A little play of the lips which she could sometimes see, was kept within very quiet bounds; whatever novelty there might be in look or manner was perhaps unconscious and unavoidable. She might be watched a little more than formerly, but her work none the less; and Mr. Linden's explanations and corrections were given with just their old grave freedom, and no more. And yet how different a thing the lessons were to him!-- As to Faith, her hand trembled very much at first, and even her voice; but for all that, the sunshine within was easy to see, and there came a bright flash of it sometimes. In spite of timidity and shyness, every now and then something made her forget herself, and then the sunlight broke out; to be followed perhaps by a double cloud of gravity. But for the rest, she worked like a docile pupil, as she always had done. Apparently her teacher's thoughts had not been confined to the work, if they had to her; for when all was done that could be done before dinner, he made one of those sudden speeches with which he sometimes indulged himself. "Faith--I wish you would ask me to do half a dozen almost impossible things for you." What a pretty wondering look she gave him. One of the flashes of the sunlight came then. But then came an amused expression. "What would be the good of that, Mr. Linden?" "I should have the pleasure of doing them." "I believe you would," said Faith. "I think the only things quite impossible to you are wrong things." "The only thing you ever did ask of me was impossible," he said with a smile, upon which there was a shadow too--as if the recollection pained him. "Child, how could you?--It half broke my heart to withstand you so, do you know that? I want the almost impossible things to make me forget it." Her lip trembled instantly and her command of herself was nearly gone. She had risen for something, and as he spoke she came swiftly behind him, putting herself where he could not see her face, and laid her hand on his shoulder. It lay there as light as thistle-down; but it was Faith's mute way of saying a great many things that her voice could not. Very quick and tenderly Mr. Linden drew her forward again, and tried the power of his lips to still hers. "Hush, dear child!" he said--"you must not mind any thing I say,--I am the last person in the world you ought to be afraid of. And you must not claim it as your prerogative to get before me in danger and behind me at all other times--because that is just reversing the proper order of things. Faith, I am going to ask an almost impossible thing of you." "What is it?" Faith was secretly glad, for afraid of his _requests_ she could not be. "You will try to do it?" "Yes--certainly!" "It is only to forget that 'Mr. Linden' is any part of my name," he said smiling. She had been rosy enough before, but now the blood reddened her very brow, till for one instant she put up her hands to hide it. "What then?"--she said in a breathless sort of way. "What you like"--he answered brightly. "I have not quite as many names as a Prince Royal, but still enough to choose from. You may separate, combine, or invent, at your pleasure." There came a summons to dinner then; and part of the hours which should follow thereafter, Mr. Linden was pledged to spend somewhere with somebody--away from home. But he promised to be back to tea, and before that, if he could; and so left Faith to the quiet companionship of her mother and her lessons--if she felt disposed for them. They were both in the sitting-room together, Mrs. Derrick and the books,--both helping the sunlight that came in at the windows. But Faith neglected the books, and came to her mother's side. She sat down and put her arms round her, and nestled her head on her mother's bosom, as she had done in the morning. And then was silent. That might have been just what Mrs. Derrick expected, she was so very ready for it; her work was dropped so instantly, her head rested so fondly on Faith's. But her silence was soon broken. "How long do you think I can wait, pretty child?" she said in the softest, tenderest tone that even she could use. "Mother!" said Faith startling. "For what?" "Suppose you tell me." "Do you know, mother?" said Faith in a low, changed tone and drawing closer. But Mrs. Derrick only repeated, "What, child?" "What Mr. Linden has said to me,"--she whispered. "I knew what he would"--but the words broke off there, and Mrs. Derrick rested her head again in silence as absolute as Faith's. For awhile; and then Faith lifted up her flushed face and began to kiss her. "Mother!--why don't you speak to me?" It was not very easy to speak--Faith could see that; but Mrs. Derrick did command her voice enough to give a sort of answer. "He had my leave, child,--at least he has talked to me about you in a way that I should have said no to, if I had meant it,--and he knew that. Do you think I should have let him stay here all this time if I had _not_ been willing?" Faith laid her head down again. "Mother--dear mother!"--she said,--"I want more than that!"-- She had all she wanted then,--Mrs. Derrick spoke clearly and steadily, though the tears were falling fast. "I am as glad as you are, darling--or as he is,--I cannot say more than that. So glad that you should be so happy--so glad to have such hands in which to leave you." The last words were scarce above a whisper. Faith was desperate. She did not cry, but she did everything else. With trembling fingers she stroked her mother's face; with lips that trembled she kissed her; but Faith's voice was steady, whatever lay behind it. "Mother--mother!--why do you do so? why do you speak so? Does this look like gladness?" And lips and hands kissed away the tears with an eagerness that was to the last degree tender. "Why yes, child!" her mother said rousing up, and with a little bit of a smile that did not belie her words,--"I tell you I'm as glad as I can be!--Tears don't mean anything, Faith,--I can't help crying sometimes. But I'm just as glad as he is," she repeated, trying her soothing powers in turn,--"and if you'd seen his face as I did when he went away, you'd think that was enough. I don't know whether I _could_ be," she added softly, "if I thought he would take you away from me--but I know he'll never do that, from something he said once. Why pretty child! any one but a baby could see this long ago,--and as for that, Faith, I believe I love him almost as well as you do, this minute." The last few minutes had tried Faith more than she could bear, with the complete reaction that followed. The tears that very rarely made their way from her eyes in anybody's sight, came now. But they were not permitted to be many; her mother hardly knew they were come before they were gone; and half nestling in her arms, Faith lay with her face hid; silent and quiet. It seemed to Mrs. Derrick as if she was too far off still, for she lifted Faith softly up, and took her on her lap after the old childish fashion, kissing her once and again. "Now, pretty child," she said, softly stroking the uncovered cheek, "keep your hands down and tell me all about it. I don't mean every word," she added smiling, "but all you like to tell." But Faith could not do that. She made very lame work of it. She managed only with much difficulty to give her mother a very sketchy and thin outline of what she wanted to know; which perhaps was as much as Mrs. Derrick expected; and was given with a simplicity as bare of additions as her facts were. A very few words told all she had to tell. Yes, her mother was satisfied,--she loved to hear Faith speak those few words, and to watch her the while--herself supplying all deficiencies; and then was content that her child should lie still and go to sleep, if she chose--it was enough to look at her and think: rejoicing with her and for her with a very pure joy, if it was sometimes tearful. Faith presently changed her position, and gave a very particular attention to the smoothing of the hair over her mother's forehead. Then pulling her cap straight, and giving her a finishing look and kiss, she took a low seat close beside her, laid one of her study books on her mother's lap, resting one arm there fondly, and went hard to work remarking however that Mrs. Derrick might talk as much as she liked and she would talk too. But Mrs. Derrick either did not want to talk, or else she did not want to interrupt; for she watched Faith and smiled upon her, and stroked her hair, and said very little. Just at the end of the afternoon, when Faith was finishing her work by firelight, Mr. Linden came in. She did not see the look that passed between her mother and him--she only knew that they held each other's hands for a minute silently,--then one of the hands was laid upon her forehead. "Little student--do you want to try the fresh air?" She said yes; and without raising her eyes, ran off to get ready. In another minute she was out in the cool freshness of the December twilight. CHAPTER IV. The walk lasted till all the afterglow had faded and all the stars come out, and till half Pattaquasset had done tea; having its own glow and starlight, and its flow of conversation to which the table talk was nothing. Of course, Faith's first business on reaching home was to see about the tea. She and Mrs. Derrick were happily engaged together in various preparations, and Mr. Linden alone in the sitting-room, when the unwelcome sound of a knock came at the front door; and the next minute his solitude was broken in upon. "Good evening!" said the doctor. "Three-quarters of a mile off 'I heard the clarion of the unseen midge!' so I thought it was best to come to close quarters with the enemy.--There is nothing so annoying as a distant humming in your ears. How do you do?" He had come up and laid his hand on Mr. Linden's shoulder before the latter had time to rise. "What a perverse taste!" Mr. Linden said, laughing and springing up. "All the rest of the world think a near-by humming so much worse." "Can't distinguish at a distance," said the doctor;--"one doesn't know whether it's a midge or a dragon-fly. How is Mignonette? and Mignonette's mother?" "They were both well the last time I saw them. In what sort of a calm flutter are you, doctor?" "Do you think that is my character?" said the doctor, taking his favourite position on the rug. "You go straight to the fire--like all the rest of the tribe," said Mr. Linden. "Is it inconsistent with the character of such an extra ordinary midge, to go straight to the mark?" "Nobody ever saw a midge do that yet, I'll venture to say." "And you are resolved to act in character," said the doctor gravely. "You have got clean away from the point. I asked you last night to tell me what you thought of me. We are alone now--do it, Linden!" "Why do you want to know?" "I don't know. A man likes to talk of himself--cela s'entend--but I care enough about you, to care to know how I stand in your thoughts. If you asked me how I stand in my own, I could not tell you; and I should like to know how the just balances of your mind--I'm not talking ironically, Linden,--weigh and poise me;--what sort of alloy your mental tests make me out. No matter why!--indulge me, and let me have it. I presume it is nothing better than philosophical curiosity. I am--every man is to himself--an enigma--a mystery;--and I should like to have a sudden outside view--from optics that I have some respect for." "I gave you the outside view last night," Mr. Linden said. But then he came and stood near the doctor and answered him simply; speaking with that grave gentleness of interest which rarely failed to give the speaker a place in people's hearts, even when his words failed of it. "I think much of you, in the first place,--and in the second place, I wish you would let me think more;--you stand in my thoughts as an object of very warm interest, of very earnest prayer. Measured--not by my standards, but by those which the word of God sets up, you are like your own admirably made and adjusted microscope, with all the higher powers left off. The only enigma, the only mystery is, that you yourself cannot see this." Dr. Harrison looked at him with a grave, considerative face, drawing a little back; perhaps to do it the better. "Do you mean to say, that _you_ do such a thing as pray for _me?_" A slight, sweet smile came with the answer--"Can you doubt it?" "Why I might very reasonably doubt it,--though not your word. Why do you,--may I ask?" "What can I do for a man in deadly peril, whom my arm cannot reach?" The tone was very kindly, very earnest; the eyes with their deep light looked full into the doctor's. Dr. Harrison was silent, meeting the look and taking the depth and meaning of it, so far as fathomable by him. The two faces and figures, fine as they both were, made a strange contrast. The doctor's face was in one of its serious and good expressions; but the other had come from a region of light which this one had never entered. And even in attitude--the dignified unconsciousness of the one, was very different from the satisfied carelessness of the other. "May I further ask," he said in a softened tone,--"why you do this for me?" "Because I care about you." "It's incredible!" said the doctor, his eye wavering, however. "One man care about another! Why, man, I may be the worst enemy you have in the world, for aught you know." "That cannot hinder my being your friend." "Do you know," said the other looking at him half curiously,--"I am ready to do such a foolish thing as to believe you? Well--be as much of a friend to me as you can; and I'll deserve it as well as I can--which maybe won't be very well. Indeed that is most likely!" He had stretched out his hand to Mr. Linden however, and clasped his warmly. He quitted it now to go forward and take that of Faith. She came in just as usual, and met the doctor with her wonted manner; only the crimson stain on her cheek telling anything against her. She did not give him much chance to observe that; for Cindy followed her with the tea things and Faith busied herself about the table. The doctor went back to his stand and watched her. "Mignonette has changed colour," he remarked presently. "How is that, Miss Derrick?" "How is what, sir?" "How come you to change the proper characteristics of mignonette? Don't you know that never shews high brilliancy?" "I suppose I am not mignonette to-night," said Faith, returning to the safer observation of the tea-table. "Are you my flower, then? the Rhodora?" he said with a lowered tone, coming near her. If Faith heard, she did not seem to hear this question. Her attention was bestowed upon the preparations for tea, till Mrs. Derrick came in to make it; and then Faith found a great deal to do in the care of the other duties of the table. It was a mystery, how she managed it; she who generally had as much leisure at meals as anybody wanted. Dr. Harrison's attention however was no longer exclusively given to her. "Do you _always_ have these muffins for tea, Mrs. Derrick?" he remarked with his second essay. "Why no!" said Mrs. Derrick,--"we have all sorts of other things. Don't you like muffins, doctor?" "Like them!" said the doctor. "I am thinking what a happy man Mr. Linden must be." "Marvellously true!" said Mr. Linden. "I hope you'll go home and write a new 'Search after happiness,' ending it sentimentally in muffins." "Not so," said the doctor. "I should only begin it in muffins--as I am doing. But my remark after all had a point;--for I was thinking of the possibility of detaching anybody from such a periodical attraction. Mrs. Derrick, I am the bearer of an humble message to you from my sister and father--who covet the honour and pleasure of your presence to-morrow evening. Sophy makes me useful, when she can. I hope you will give me a gracious answer--for yourself and Miss Faith, and so make me useful again. It is a rare chance! I am not often good for anything." "I don't know whether I know how to give what you call gracious answers, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick pleasantly. "I'm very much obliged to Miss Sophy, but I never go anywhere at night." With the other two the doctor's mission was more successful; and then he disclosed the other object of his visit. "Miss Derrick, do you remember I once threatened to bring the play of Portia here--and introduce her to you?" "I remember it," said Faith. "Would it be pleasant to you that I should fulfil my threat this evening?" "I don't know, sir," said Faith smiling,--"till I hear the play." "Mr. Linden,--what do you think?" said the doctor, also with a smile. "I am ready for anything--if you will let me be impolite enough to finish writing a letter while I hear the first part of your reading." "To change the subject slightly--what do you suppose, Mr. Linden, would on the whole be the effect, on society, if the hand of Truth were in every case to be presented without a glove?" The doctor spoke gravely now. "The effect would be that society would shake hands more cordially--I should think," said Mr. Linden; "though it is hard to say how such an extreme proposition would work." "Do you know, it strikes me that it would work just the other way, and that hands would presently clasp nothing but daggers' hilts. But there is another question.--How will one fair hand of truth live among a crowd of steel gauntlets?" "_What?_" Mr. Linden said, with a little bending of his brows upon the doctor. "I am wearing neither glove nor gauntlet,--what are you talking about?--And my half-finished letter is a fact and no pretence." "I sha'n't believe you," said the doctor, "if you give my fingers such a wring as that. Well, go to your letter, and I'll take Miss Derrick to Venice--if she will let me." Venice!--That exquisite photograph of the Bridge of Sighs, and "the palace and the prison on each hand," about which such a long, long entrancing account had been given by Mr. Linden to her--the scene and the talk rose up before Faith's imagination; she was very ready to go to Venice. Its witching scenery, its strange history, floated up, in a fascinating, strange cloud-view; she was ready for Shylock and the Rialto. Nay, for the Rialto, not for Shylock; him, or anything like him, she had never seen nor imagined. She was only sorry that Mr. Linden had to go to his letter; but there was a compensative side to that, for her shyness was somewhat less endangered. With only the doctor and Shylock to attend to, she could get along very well. Shyness and fears however, were of very short endurance. To Venice she went,--Shylock she saw; and then she saw nothing else but Shylock, and those who were dealing with him; unless an occasional slight glance towards the distant table where Mr. Linden sat at his writing, might be held to signify that she _had_ powers of vision for somewhat else. It did not interrupt the doctor's pleasure, nor her own. Dr. Harrison had begun with at least a double motive in his mind; but man of the world as he was, he forgot his unsatisfied curiosity in the singular gratification of reading such a play to such a listener. It was so plain that Faith was in Venice! She entered with such simplicity, and also with such intelligence, into the characters and interests of the persons in the drama; she relished their words so well; she weighed in such a nice balance of her own the right and the wrong, the true and the false, of whatever rested on nature and truth for its proper judgment;--she was so perfectly and deliciously ignorant of the world and the ways of it! The fresh view that such pure eyes took of such actors and scenes, was indescribably interesting; Dr. Harrison found it the best play he had ever read in his life. He made it convenient sometimes to pause to indoctrinate Faith in characters or customs of which she had no adequate knowledge; it did not hurt her pleasure; it was all part of the play. In the second scene, the doctor stopped to explain the terms on which Portia had been left with her suitors. "What do you think of it?" "I think it was hard," said Faith smiling. "What would you have done if you had been left so?" "I would not have been left so." "But you might not help yourself. Suppose it had been a father's or a mother's command? that anybody might come up and have you, for the finding--if they could pitch upon the right box of jewelry?" "My father or mother would never have put such a command on me," said Faith looking amused. "But you may _suppose_ anything," said the doctor leaning forward and smiling. "_Suppose_ they had?" "Then you must suppose me different too," said Faith laughing. "Suppose me to have been like Portia; and I should have done as she did." The doctor shook his head and looked gravely at her. "Are you so impracticable?" "Was she?" said Faith. "Then you wouldn't think it right to obey Mrs. Derrick in all circumstances?" "Not if she was Portia's mother," said Faith. "Suppose you had been the Prince of Arragon--which casket would you have chosen?" said Mr. Linden, as he came from his table, letter in hand. "I suppose I should have chosen as he did," said the doctor carelessly--"I really don't remember how that was. I'll tell you when I come to him. Have you done letter-writing?" "I have done writing letters, for to-night. Have I permission to go to Venice in your train?" "I am only a locomotive," said the doctor. "But you know, with two a train goes faster. If you had another copy of the play, now, Linden--and we should read it as I have read Shakspeare in certain former times--take different parts--I presume the effect would excel steam-power, and be electric. Can you?" This was agreed to, and the "effect" almost equalled the doctor's prognostications. Even Mrs. Derrick, who had somewhat carelessly held aloof from his single presentation of the play, was fascinated now, and drew near and dropped her knitting. It would have been a very rare entertainment to any that had heard it; but for once an audience of two was sufficient for the stimulus and reward of the readers. That and the actual enjoyment of the parts they were playing. Dr. Harrison read well, with cultivated and critical accuracy. His voice was good and melodious, his English enunciation excellent; his knowledge of his author thorough, as far as acquaintanceship went; and his habit of reading a dramatically practised one. But Faith, amid all her delight, had felt a want in it, as compared with the reading to which of late she had been accustomed; it did not give the soul and heart of the author--though it gave everything else. _That_ is what only soul and heart can do. Not that Dr. Harrison was entirely wanting in those gifts either; they lay somewhere, perhaps, in him; but they are not the ones which in what is called "the world" come most often or readily into play; and so it falls out that one who lives there long becomes like the cork oak when it has stood long untouched in _its_ world; the heart is encrusted with a monstrous thick, almost impenetrable, coating of bark. When Mr. Linden joined the reading, the pleasure was perfect; the very contrast between the two characters and the two voices made the illusion more happy. Then Faith was in a little danger of betraying herself; for it was difficult to look at both readers with the same eyes; and if she tried to keep her eyes at home, that was more difficult still. In the second act, Portia says to Arragon, "In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes," etc. "What do you think of that, Miss Derrick?" said the doctor pausing when his turn came. "Do you think a lady's choice ought to be so determined?" Faith raised her eyes, and answered, "No, sir." "By what then? You don't trust appearances?" Faith hesitated. "I should like to hear how Portia managed," she said, with a little heightened colour. "I never thought much about it." "What do you think of Portia's gloves, doctor?" said Mr. Linden. "Hum"--said the doctor. "They are a pattern!--soft as steel, harsh as kid-leather. They fit too, so exquisitely! But, if I were marrying her, I think I should request that she would give her gloves into my keeping." "Then would your exercise of power be properly thwarted. Every time you made the demand, Portia would, like a juggler, pull off and surrender a fresh pair of gloves, leaving ever a pair yet finer-spun upon her hands." "I suppose she would," said the doctor comically. "Come! I won't marry her. And yet, Linden,--one might do worse. Such gloves keep off a wonderful amount of friction." "If you happen to have fur which cannot be even _stroked_ the wrong way!" The doctor's eye glanced with fun, and Faith laughed The reading went on. And went on without much pausing, until the lines-- "O ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly To seal love's bonds new made, than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited! ----Who riseth from a feast, With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse, that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoyed." "Do you believe in that doctrine, Miss Faith?" said the doctor, with a gentle look in her direction. "I suppose it is true of some things,"--she said after a minute's consideration. "What a wicked truth it is, Linden!" said the doctor. "There is 'an error i' the bill,'" said Mr. Linden. Faith's eyes looked somewhat eagerly, the doctor's philosophically. "Declare and shew," said the doctor. "I thought it was a universal, most deplorable, human fact; and here it is, in Shakspeare, man; which is another word for saying it is in humanity." "It is true only of false things. The Magician's coins are next day but withered leaves--the real gold is at compound interest." The doctor's smile was doubtful and cynical; Faith's had a touch of sunlight on it. "Where is your 'real gold'?" said the doctor. "Do you expect me to tell you?" said Mr. Linden laughing. "I have found a good deal in the course of my life, and the interest is regularly paid in." "Are you talking seriously?" "Ay truly. So may you." "From any other man, I should throw away your words as the veriest Magician's coin; but if they are true metal--why I'll ask you to take me to see the Mint some day!" "Let me remind you," said Mr. Linden, "that there are many things in Shakspeare. What do you think of this, for a set-off?-- 'Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.'" "There's an error proved upon _me_," said the doctor, biting his lips as he looked at Faith who had listened delightedly. "Come on! I'll stop no more. The thing is, Linden, that I am less happy than you--I never found any real gold in my life!" "Ah you expect gold to come set with diamonds,--and that cannot always be. I don't doubt you have gold enough to start a large fortune, if you would only rub it up and make it productive." The doctor made no answer to that, and the reading went on; Faith becoming exceedingly engrossed with the progress of the drama. She listened with an eagerness which both the readers amusedly took heed of, as the successive princes of Morocco and Arragon made their trial: the doctor avowing by the way, that he thought he should have "assumed desert" as the latter prince did, and received the fool's head for his pains. Then they came to the beautiful "casket scene." The doctor had somehow from the beginning left Portia in Mr. Linden's hands; and now gave with great truth and gracefulness the very graceful words of her successful suitor. He could put truth into these, and did, and accordingly read beautifully; well heard, for the play of Faith's varying face shewed she went along thoroughly with all the fine turns of thought and feeling; here and elsewhere. But how well and how delicately Mr. Linden gave Portia! That Dr. Harrison could not have done; the parts had fallen out happily, whether by chance or design. Her ladylike and coy play with words--her transparent veil of delicate shifting turns of expression--contriving to say all and yet as if she would say nothing--were rendered by the reader with a grace of tone every way fit to them. Faith's eye ceased to look at anybody, and her colour flitted, as this scene went on; and when Portia's address to her fortunate wooer was reached--that very noble and dignified declaration of her woman's mind, when she certainly pulled off her gloves, wherever else she might wear them;--Faith turned her face quite away from the readers and with the cheek she could not hide sheltered by her hand--as well as her hand could--she let nobody but the fire and Mrs. Derrick see what a flush covered the other. Very incautious in Faith, but it was the best she could do. And the varied interests that immediately followed, of Antonio's danger and deliverance, gradually brought her head round again and accounted sufficiently for the colour with which her cheeks still burned. The Merchant of Venice was not the only play enacting that evening; and the temptation to break in upon the one, made the doctor, as often as he could, break off the other; though the interest of the plot for a while gave him little chance. "So shines a good deed in a naughty world." "Do you suppose, Miss Derrick," said Dr. Harrison with his look of amused pleasure,--"that is because the world is so dark?--or because the effects of the good deed reach to such a distance?" "Both," said Faith immediately. "You think the world is so bad?" "I don't know much of the world," said Faith,--"but I suppose the _shining_ good deeds aren't so very many." "What makes a good deed _shining?_" said the doctor. Faith glanced at Mr. Linden. But he did not take it up, and she was thrown back upon her own resources. She thought a bit. "I suppose,"--she said,--"its coming from the very spirit of light." "You must explain," said the doctor good-humouredly but smiling,--"for that puts me in absolute darkness." "I don't know very well how to tell what I mean," said Faith colouring and looking thoughtful;--"I think I know. Things that are done for the pure love of God and truth, I think, shine; if they are ever so little things, because really there is a great light in them. I think they shine more than some of the greater things that people call very brilliant, but that are done from a lower motive." "I should like"--said the doctor--"Can you remember an instance or two? of both kinds?" Well Faith remembered an instance or two of _one_ kind, which she could not instance. She sought in her memory. "When Daniel kneeled upon his knees three times a day to pray, with his windows open, after the king's law had for bidden any one to do it on pain of death,--" said Faith.--"I think that was a shining good deed!" "But that was a very notable instance," said the doctor. "It was a very little thing he did," said Faith. "Only kneeled down to pray in his own room. And it has shined all the way down to us." "And in later times," said Mr. Linden,--"when the exploring shallop of the Mayflower sought a place of settlement, and after beating about in winter storms came to anchor Friday night at Plymouth Rock;--all Saturday was lost in refitting and preparing, and yet on Sunday they would not land. Those two dozen men, with no human eye to see, with every possible need for haste!" "That hasn't shined quite so far," said the doctor, "for it never reached me. And it don't enlighten me now! I should have landed." "Do you know nothing of the _spirit_ of Say and Seal, as well as the province?" said Mr. Linden. "As how, against landing?" "They rested that day '_according to the commandment_.' Having promised to obey God in all things, the seal of their obedience was unbroken." "Well, Miss Faith," said the doctor--"Now for a counter example." "I know so little of what has been done," said Faith. "Don't you remember some such things yourself, Dr. Harrison?--Mr. Linden?"--The voice changed and fell a little as it passed from one to the other. "General Putnam went into the wolf's den, and pulled him out"--said the doctor humorously,--"that's all I can think of just now, and it is not very much in point. I don't know that there was anything very bright about it except the wolf's eyes!--But here we are keeping Portia out of doors, and Miss Derrick waiting! Linden--fall to." And with comical life and dramatic zeal on the doctor's part, in a few minutes more, the play was finished. "Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor gravely as he rose and stood before her,--"I hope you approve of plays." Mrs. Derrick expressed her amusement and satisfaction. "Miss Faith," he said extending his hand,--"I have to thank you for the most perfect enjoyment I have ever had of Shakspeare. I only wish to-morrow evening would roll off on such swift wheels--but it would be too much. Look where this one has rolled to!" And he shewed his watch and hurried off; that is, if Dr. Harrison could be said to do such a thing. The rest of the party also were stirred from their quiet. Mrs Derrick went out; and Mr. Linden, coming behind Faith as she stood by the fire, gently raised her face till he could have a full view of it, and asked her how she liked being in Venice? "Very much," she said, smiling and blushing at him,--"very much!" "You are not the magician's coin!" he said, kissing her. "You are not even a witch. Do you know how I found that out?" "No"--she said softly, the colour spreading over her face and her eyes falling, but raised again immediately to ask the question of him. "A witch's charms are always dispelled whenever she tries to cross running water!"-- She laughed; an amused, bright, happy little laugh, that it was pleasant to hear. "But what did Dr. Harrison mean,--by what he said when he thanked me? What did he thank me for?" "He _said_--for a new enjoyment of Shakspeare." "What did he mean?" "Do you understand how the sweet fragrance of mignonette can give new enjoyment to a summer's day?" She blushed exceedingly. "But, Mr. Linden, please don't talk so! And I don't want to give Dr. Harrison enjoyment in that way." "Which part of your sentence shall I handle first?" he said with a laughing flash of the eyes,--"'Dr. Harrison'--or 'Mr. Linden'?" "The first," said Faith laying her hand deprecatingly on his arm;--"and let the other alone!" "How am I to 'please not to talk'?" "So--as I don't deserve," she said raising her grave eyes to his face. "I would rather have you tell me my wrong things." He looked at her, with one of those rare smiles which belonged to her; holding her hand with a little soft motion of it to and fro upon his own. "I am not sure that I dare promise 'to be good,'" he said,--"I am so apt to speak of things as I find them. And Mignonette you are to me--both in French and English. Faith, I know there is no glove upon your hand,--and I know there is none on mine; but I cannot feel, nor imagine, any friction,--can you?" She looked up and smiled. So much friction or promise of it, as there is about the blue sky's reflection in the clear deep waters of a mountain lake--so much there was in the soft depth--and reflection--of Faith's eyes at that moment. So deep,--so unruffled;--and as in the lake, so in the look that he saw, there was a mingling of earth and heaven. CHAPTER V. Wednesday morning was cold and raw, and the sun presently put on a thick grey cloak. There were suspicions abroad that it was one made in the regions of perpetual snow, for whatever effect it might have had upon the sun, it made the earth very cold. Now and then a little frozen-up snowflake came silently down, and the wind swept fitfully round the corners of houses, and wandered up and down the chimneys. People who were out subsided into a little trot to keep themselves warm, all except the younger part of creation, who made the trot a run; and those who could, staid at home. All of Mrs. Derrick's little family were of this latter class, after the very early morning; for as some of them were to brave the weather at night, there seemed no reason why they should also brave it by day. As speedily as might be, Mr. Linden despatched his various matters of outdoor business, of which there were always more or less on his hands, and then came back and went into the sitting-room to look for his scholar. In two minutes she came in from the other door, with the stir of business and the cold morning fresh in her cheeks. But no one would guess--no one could ever guess, from Faith's brown dress and white rufffles, that she had just been flying about in the kitchen--to use Cindy's elegant illustration--"like shelled peas"; not quite so aimlessly, however. And her smiling glance at her teacher spoke of readiness for all sorts of other business. The first thing she was set about was her French exercise, during the first few lines of which Mr. Linden stood by her and looked on. But then he suddenly turned away and went up stairs--returning however, presently, to take his usual seat by her side. He watched her progress silently, except for business words and instructions, till the exercise was finished and Faith had turned to him for further directions; then taking her hand he put upon its forefinger one of the prettiest things she had ever seen. It was an old-fashioned diamond ring; the stones all of a size, and of great clearness and lustre, set close upon each other all the way round; with just enough goldsmith's work to bind them together, and to form a dainty frill of filagree work above and below--looking almost like a gold line of shadow by that flashing line of light. "It was my mother's, Faith," he said, "and she gave it to me in trust for whatever lady I should love as I love you." Faith looked down at it with very, very grave eyes. Her head bent lower, and then suddenly laying her hands together on the table she hid her face in them; and the diamonds glittered against her temple and in contrast with the neighbouring soft hair. One or two mute questions came there, before Mr. Linden said softly, "Faith!" She looked up with flushed face, and all of tears in her eyes _but_ the tears; and her lip had its very unbent line. She looked first at him and then at the ring again. Anything more humble or more grave than her look cannot be imagined. His face was grave too, with a sort of moved gravity, that touched both the present and the past, but he did not mean hers should be. "Now what will you do, dear child?" he said. "For I must forewarn you that there is a language of rings which is well established in the world." "What--do you mean?" she said, looking alternately at the ring and him. "You know what plain gold on this finger means?" he said, touching the one he spoke of. She looked at first doubtfully, then coloured and said "yes." "Well diamonds on _this_ finger are understood to be the avant-couriers of that." Faith had never seen diamonds; but that was not what she was thinking of, nor what brought such a deep spot of colour on her cheeks. It was pretty to see, it was so bright and so different from the flush which had been there a few minutes before. Her eyes considered the diamonds attentively. "What shall I do?" she said after a little. "I don't know--you must try your powers of contrivance." "I cannot contrive. I could keep ray glove on to-night; but I could not every day. Shall I give it back to you to keep for me?"--she said looking at it lovingly. "Perhaps that will be best!--What would you like me to do?" "Anything _but_ that," he said smiling,--"I should say that would be worst. You may wear a glove, or glove-finger--what you will; but there it must stay, and keep possession for me, till the other one comes to bear it company. In fact I suppose I _could_ endure to have it seen!" Her eyes went down to it again. Clearly the ring had a charm for Faith. And so it had, something beyond the glitter of brilliants. Of jewellers' value she knew little; the marketable worth of the thing was an enigma to her. But as a treasure of another kind it was beyond price. His mother's ring, on _her_ finger--to Faith's fancy it bound and pledged her to a round of life as perfect, as bright, and as pure, as its own circlet of light-giving gems. That she might fill to him--as far as was possible--all the place that the once owner of the diamonds would have looked for and desired; and be all that _he_ would look for in the person to whom the ring, so derived, had come. Faith considered it lovingly, with intent brow, and at last lifted her eyes to Mr. Linden by way of answer; without saying anything, yet with half her thoughts in her face. His face was very grave--Faith could see a little what the flashing of that ring was to him; but her look was met and answered with a fulness of warmth and tenderness which said that he had read her thoughts, and that to his mind they were already accomplished. Then he took up one of her books and opened it at the place where she was to read. The morning, and the afternoon, went off all too fast, and the sun went down sullenly. As if to be in keeping with the expected change of work and company, the evening brought worse weather,--a keener wind--beginning to bestir itself in earnest, a thicker sky; though the ground was too snow-covered already to allow it to be very dark. With anybody but Mr. Linden, Mrs. Derrick would hardly have let Faith go out; and even as it was, she several times hoped the weather would moderate before they came home. Faith was so well wrapped up however, both in the house and in the sleigh, that the weather gave her no discomfort; it was rather exhilarating to be so warm in spite of it; and they flew along at a good rate, having the road pretty much to themselves. "Faith," Mr. Linden said as they approached Judge Harrison's, "I cannot spend all the evening here with you--that is, I ought not. I had a message sent me this afternoon--too late to attend to then, which I cannot leave till morning. But if I see you safe by the fire, I hope Miss Harrison will take good care of you till I get back." "Well," said Faith,--"I wouldn't meddle with your 'oughts,'--if I could. I hope you'll take care of Jerry!"-- "What shall I do with him?" "Don't you know?" said Faith demurely. "I suppose I ought to drive him so fast that he'll keep warm," said Mr. Linden. "What else?" Faith's little laugh made a contrast with the rough night. "You had better let me get out to the fire," she said joy fully,--"or _I_ sha'n't keep warm." "You sha'n't?" he said bending down by her, as they reached the door,--"your face has no idea of being cold!--I'll take care of Jerry, child--if I don't forget him in my own pleasant thoughts." Faith threw off her cloak and furs on the hall table where some others lay, and pulled off one glove. "Keep them both on!" Mr. Linden said softly and smiling,--"enact Portia for once. Then if you are much urged, you can gracefully yield your own prejudices so far as to take off one." She looked at him, then amusedly pulled on her glove again; and the door was opened for them into a region of warmth and brightness; where there were all sorts of rejoicings over them and against the cold night. Mr. Linden was by force persuaded to wait till after coffee before braving it again; and the Judge and his daughter fairly involved Faith in the meshes of their kindness. A very mouse Faith was to-night, as ever wore gloves; and with a little of a mouse's watchfulness about her, fancying cat's ears at every corner. A brown mouse too; she had worn only her finest and best stuff dress. But upon the breast of that, a bunch of snowy Laurustinus, nestling among green leaves, put forth a secret claim in a way that was very beautifying. The Judge and Miss Sophy put her in a great soft velvet chair and hovered round her, both of them conscious of her being a little more dainty than usual. Sophy thought perhaps it was the Laurustinus; her father believed it intrinsic. The coffee came, and the doctor. "I have something better for you than Portia to-night"--he said as he dealt out sugar,--"though not something better than muffins." "Faith, my dear child," said Miss Sophy,--"you needn't be so ceremonious--none of us are wearing gloves." Faith laughed and blushed and pulled off one glove. "You are enacting Portia, are you?" said Dr. Harrison. "Even she would not have handled wigs with them. I see I have done mischief! But the harm I did you last night I will undo this evening. Ladies and Gentlemen!--I will give you, presently, the pleasure of hearing some lines written expressive of my wishes toward the unknown--but supposed--mistress of my life and affections. Any suggestions toward the bettering of them--I will hear." "The bettering of what?" said Mrs. Somers,--"your life and affections?" "I am aware, my dear aunt Ellen, you think the one impossible--the other improbable. I speak of bettering the wishes." "'Unknown but supposed'"--said Mr. Linden. "'Item--She hath many nameless virtues'." "That is not my wish," said the doctor gravely looking at him, "I think nameless virtues--deserve their obscurity!" "What do you call your ideal?" "Psyche,--" said the doctor, after a minute's sober consideration apparently divided between Mr. Linden's face and the subject. "That is not so uncommon a name as Campaspe," said Mr. Linden, with a queer little gesture of brow and lips. "Who is Campaspe?" said the doctor; while Faith looked, and Miss Essie's black eyes sparkled and danced, and everybody else held his coffee cup in abeyance. "Did you never hear of my Campaspe?" said Mr. Linden, glancing up from under his brows. "We will exchange civilities," said the doctor. "I should be very happy to hear of her." Laughing a little, his own cup sending its persuasive steam unheeded, his own face on the sparkling order--though the eyes looked demurely down,--Mr. Linden went on to answer. "'Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid payed; He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves, and teame of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lippe, the rose Growing on's cheek, (but none knows how) With these, the crystal of his browe, And then the dimple of his chinne; All these did my Campaspe winne. At last he set her both his eyes,-- She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me!'" There was a general little breeze of laughter and applause. The doctor had glanced at Faith;--her colour was certainly raised; but then the old Judge had just bent down to ask her "if she had ever heard of Campaspe before?" The doctor did not hear but he guessed at the whisper, and saw Faith's laugh and shake of the head. "Is that a true bill, Linden?" "Very true,--" said Mr. Linden, trying his coffee. "But it is not yet known what will become of me." "What has become of Campaspe?" "She is using her eyes." "Are they _those_ eyes, Mr. Linden?" said Miss Essie coming nearer and using her own. "What was the colour of Cupid's?" "Blue, certainly!" "Miss Derrick!"--said the doctor,--"let us have your opinion." Faith gave him at least a frank view of her own, all blushing and laughing as she was, and answered readily,--"As to the colour of Cupid's eyes?--I have never seen him, sir." The doctor was obliged to laugh himself, and the chorus became general, at something in the combination of Faith and her words. But Faith's confusion thereupon mastered her so completely, that perhaps to shield her the doctor requested silence and attention and began to read; of a lady who, he said he was certain, had borrowed of nobody--not even of Cupid.-- "'Whoe'er she be, That not impossible she, That shall command my heart and me.'" "I believe she _is_ impossible, to begin with," said Miss Essie. "You will never let any woman command you, Dr. Harrison." "You don't know me, Miss Essie," said the doctor, with a curiously grave face, for him. "He means-- 'Who shall command my heart--_not_ me.'" said Mr. Linden. "If she can command my heart--what of me is left to rebel?" said the doctor. "Sophy," said Mrs. Somers, "how long has Julius been all heart?" "Ever since my aunt Ellen has been _all_ eyes and ears. Mr. Somers, which portion of your mental nature owns the supremacy of your wife? may I inquire, in the course of this investigation?" "Ha!" said Mr. Somers blandly, thus called upon--"I own her supremacy, sir--ha--in all proper things!" "Ha! Very proper!" said the doctor. "That is all any good woman wants," said the old Judge benignly. "I take it, that is all she wants." "Then you must say which are the proper things, father!" said Miss Sophy laughing. "You'll have to ask every man separately, Sophy," said Mrs. Somers,--"they all have their own ideas about proper things. Mr. Somers thinks milk porridge is the limit." "Mr. Stoutenburgh," said the doctor, "haven't you owned yourself commanded, ever since your heart gave up its lock and key?" "Yes indeed," said the Squire earnestly,--"I am so bound up in slavery that I have even forgotten the wish to be free! All my wife's things are proper!" "O hush!" his wife said laughing, but with a little quick bright witness in her eyes, that was pretty to see. Dr. Harrison smiled. "You see, Miss Derrick!" he said with a little bow to her,--"there is witness on all sides;--and now I will go on with my _not impossible_ she."-- He got through several verses, not without several interruptions, till he came to the exquisite words following;-- "'I wish her beauty, That owes not all his duty To gaudy tire or glistring shoetye. 'Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 'More than the spoil Of shop, or silk-worm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile.'" While Miss Essie exclaimed, Miss Harrison stole a look at Faith; who was looking up at the doctor, listening, with a very simple face of amusement. Her thoughts were indeed better ballasted than to sway to such a breeze if she had felt it. But the real extreme beauty of the image and of the delineation was what she felt; she made no application of them. The doctor came to this verse. "'A well-tamed heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart.'-- What does that mean, Linden?--isn't that an error in the description?" "Poetical license," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Psyche will give you trouble enough, wings and all,--there is no fear you will find her 'tamed'." "How is Campaspe in that respect?" "She has never given me much trouble yet," said Mr. Linden. "What I object to is the 'long choosing'," said the doctor. "Miss de Staff--do you think a good heart should be very hard to win?" "Certainly!--the harder the better," replied the lady. "That's the only way to bring down your pride. The harder she is, the more likely you are to think she's a diamond." "Mrs. Stoutenburgh!"-- "What has been the texture of yours all these years, doctor?" "He thinks that when he has dined the rest of the world should follow suit--like the Khan of Tartary," said Mrs. Somers. "Miss Derrick!" said the doctor--"I hope for some gentleness from you. Do you think such a heart as we have been talking of, should be very difficult to move?" Faith's blush was exquisite. Real speech was hard to command. She knew all eyes were waiting upon her; and she could not reason out and comfort herself with the truth--that to them her blush might mean several things as well as one. The answer came in that delicate voice of hers which timidity had shaken. "I think--it depends on what there is to move it." "What do you call sufficient force?" said Mrs. Somers. "I?"--said Faith.-- "Yes, you," replied the parson's wife with a look not unkindly amused. "What sort and degree of power should move 'such a heart'?--to quote Julius." Faith's blush was painful again, and it was only the sheer necessity of the case that enabled her to rally. But her answer was clear. "Something better than itself, Mrs. Somers." "I should like to know what that is!" said Mrs. Somers. Mr. Linden's involuntary "And so should I"--was in a different tone, but rather drew eyes upon himself than Faith. "It's of no consequence to you!" said the doctor, with a funny, mock serious tone of admonition. Mr. Linden bowed, acquiescingly.--"Psychology is an interesting study"--he added, in qualification. "But let me return your warning, doctor--you have a formidable rival." "Qui donc?" "Cupid carried off Psyche some time ago--do you suppose you can get her back?" And with a laughing sign of adieu, Mr. Linden went away. Luckily for Faith, she was not acquainted with the heathen mythology; and was also guiltless of any thought of connexion between herself and the doctor's ideal. So her very free, unsuspicious face and laughter quite reassured him. "Mr. Linden is an odd sort of person," said Miss Essie philosophically. "I have studied him a good deal, and I can't quite make him out. He's a very interesting man! But I think he is deeper than he seems." "He's deeper than the salt mines of Salzburg then!" said the doctor. "Why?" said Miss Essie curiously. The doctor answered gravely that "there were beautiful things there";--and went on with his reading. And Faith listened now with unwavering attention, till he came to-- "'Sydnean showers Of soft discourse, whose powers Can crown old winter's head with flowers.'" Faith's mind took a leap. And it hardly came back again. The reading was followed by a very lively round game of talk; but it was not _such_ talk; and Faith's thoughts wandered away and watched round that circlet of brightness that was covered by her glove; scattered rays from which led them variously,--home, to her Sunday school, to Pequot,--and to heaven; coming back again and again to the diamonds and to the image that was in the centre of them. No wonder her grave sweet face was remarked as being even graver and sweeter than usual; and the doctor at last devoted himself to breaking up its quiet. He took her into the library to finish the Rhododendrons--ostensibly--but in reality to get rid of the stiff circle in the other room. The circle followed; but no longer stiff; under the influence of the cold weather and the big fires and good prompting, their spirits got up at last to the pitch of acting charades. Miss Harrison brought down her stores of old and new finery; and with much zeal and success charades and tableaux went on for some length of time; to the extreme amusement of Faith, who had never seen any before. They did not divert her from watching for the sound of Mr. Linden's return; but it came not, and Miss Essie expected and hoped aloud in vain. The hour did come, and passed, at which such gatherings in Pattaquasset were wont to break up. That was not very late to be sure. The Stoutenburghs, and the De Staffs, and finally Mr. and Mrs. Somers, went off in turn; and Faith was left alone to wait; for she had refused all offers of being set down by her various friends. It happened that Mr. Linden had been, by no harmful accident but simply by the untowardness of things, delayed beyond his time; and then having a good distance to drive, it was some while after the last visiters had departed when he once more reined up Jerry at the door. No servant came to take him, and Mr. Linden applied himself to the bell-handle. But there seemed a spell upon the house--or else the inmates were asleep--for ring as he would, no one came. To fasten Jerry and let himself in were the next steps--neither of which took long. But in the drawing-room, to which he had been ushered in the beginning of the evening, there was now no one. The lights and the fires and the empty chairs were there; that was all. Mr. Linden knew the house well enough to know where next to look; he crossed the hall to a room at the other side, which was the one most commonly used by the family, and from which a passage led to the library. No one was here, and the room was in a strange state of confusion. Before he had well time to remark upon it, Faith came in from the passage bearing a heavy marble bust in her arms. The colour sprang to her cheeks; she set down Prince Talleyrand quickly and came towards Mr. Linden, saying, "There's fire in the library." "My dear child!" he said softly, "what is the matter? What are you about?" "Why there is fire in the library--it's all on fire, or soon will be," she said hurriedly, "and we are bringing the things out. The fire can't get in here--its a fireproof building only the inside will all burn up. The servants are carrying water to the roof of the house, lest that should catch. I am so glad to see you!"-- And Miss Sophy and the doctor came in, carrying one a picture, the other an armful of books. Faith ran back through the passage. But before she could set her foot inside the library, Mr. Linden's hand was on her shoulder, and he stepped before her and took the survey of the room in one glance. Its condition was sufficiently unpromising. The fire had kindled in a heap of combustible trumpery brought there for the tableaux. It had got far beyond management before any one discovered it; and now was making fast work in that corner of the room and creeping with no slow progress along the cornices of the bookshelves. Short time evidently there was for the family to remove their treasures from its destructive sweep. One corner of the room was in a light blaze; one or two lamps mockingly joined their light to the glare; the smoke was curling in grey wreaths and clouds over and around almost everything. Here an exquisite bust of Proserpine looked forlornly through it; and there a noble painting of Alston's shewed in richer lights than ever before, its harmony of colouring. The servants were, as Faith had said, engaged in endeavouring to keep the roof of the house from catching; only one old black retainer of the family, too infirm for that service, was helping them in the labour of rescuing books and treasures of art from the tire, which must take its way within the library. The wall it could not pass, that being, as Faith had also said, proof against it. "Stay where you are," Mr. Linden said, "and I will hand things to you"--adding under his breath, "if you love me, Faith!" And passing into the room he snatched Proserpine from her smoky berth and gave her to the old servant, handing Faith a light picture. "Don't let your sister come in here, Harrison," he said, springing up the steps to the upper shelves of the bookcase nearest the fire--"and don't let everybody do everything,--keep half in the passage and half here." "Yes, Sophy," said the doctor, "that is much better--don't you come in here, nor Miss Faith. And don't work too hard," he said gently to the latter as she came back after bestowing the picture. "I won't ask you not to work at all, for I know it would be of no use." "Just work like monkeys," Mr. Linden said from his high post, which was a rather invisible one. "Reuben!--I am glad of your help." "Reuben!" exclaimed Faith joyously. "How good that is. Give me those books, Reuben."-- And after that the work went on steadily, with few words. It was too smoky an atmosphere to speak much in; and the utmost exertions on the part of every one of the workers left no strength nor time for it. "Like monkeys" they worked--the gentlemen handing things out of the smoke to the willing fingers and light feet that made quick disposition of them. Quick it had need to be, for the fire was not waiting for them. And in an incredibly short time--incredible save to those who have seen the experiment tried,--books and engravings were emptied from shelf after shelf--compartment after compartment--and lodged within the house. Not a spare inch of space--not a spare second of time, it seemed, was gone over; and the treasures of the library were in quick process of shifting from one place to another. It was rather a weary part Faith had to play, to stop short at the doorway and see the struggle with smoke and fire that was going on inside; and an anxious eye and trembling heart followed the movements of one of the workers there whenever she returned to her post of waiting. She would rather have been amid the smoke and the fire too, than to stand off looking on; but she did what she was desired--and more than she was desired; for she said not a word, like a wise child. Only did her work with no delay and came back again. Two excellent workers were the doctor and Mr. Linden; Reuben was a capital seconder; and no better runners than the two ladies need have been found; while the old Judge and his old serving man did what they could. There was every appearance that their efforts would be successful; the fire was to be sure, greatly increased and fast spreading, but so also the precious things that it endangered were already in great measure secured. Probably very little would have been lost to be regretted, if the workers had not suffered a slight interruption. Mr. Linden was in the middle of the room unlocking the drawers of the library table, which was too large to be removed. Old Nero, the black man, had taken one of the lamps which yet remained burning, a large heavy one, to carry away. He was just opposite the table, when a stone bust of some weight, which had stood above the bookcases, detached by the failure of its supports, came down along with some spars of the burning wood and fell against a rich screen just on the other side of Nero. The screen was thrown over on him; he struggled an instant to right himself and it, holding his lamp off at an awful angle towards Mr. Linden; then, nobody could tell how it was, Nero had saved himself and struggled out from the falling screen and burning wood, and Faith and the lamp lay under it, just at Mr. Linden's feet. Yet hardly under it--so instantly was it thrown off. The lamp was not broken, which was a wonder; but Faith was stunned, and the burning wood had touched her brow and singed a lock of hair. In such a time of confusion all sorts of things come and go, unseen but by the immediate actors. Dr. Harrison and Reuben were intent upon a heavy picture; the Judge and his daughter were in the other room. And Faith was lifted up and borne swiftly along to the drawing-room sofa, and there was cold water already on her brow, before the others reached her. She was only a little stunned and had opened her eyes when they came up. They came round her, all the gang of workers, like a swarm of bees, and with as many questions and inquiries. Faith smiled at them all, and begged they would go back and finish what they were doing. "I'll stay here a little while," she said; "my fall didn't hurt me a bit, to speak of. Do go! don't anybody wait for me." There seemed nothing else to be done; she would own to wanting nothing; and her urgency at length prevailed with them, however reluctantly, to leave her and go back to the library. But Mr. Linden stood still as the others moved off. "Where are you hurt?" he said in a low voice. "I suppose the fall bruised me a little bit. It didn't do me any real harm. Don't wait here for me." "Where?" Mr. Linden said. "Where it bruised me? A little on my head--and elbow--and side; altogether nothing!" He sat down by her, passing his hand softly over the scorched hair; then said, "Let me see your arm." "Oh no!--that's not necessary. I said I was bruised, but it isn't much." "Faith, you have not told me the whole." Her eye shrank from his instantly, and her colour flitted from red to pale. "There is nothing more I need tell you. They will all be back here--or some of them--if you stay. I'll tell you anything you please to morrow," she added with a smile. But he only repeated, "Tell me now--I have a right to know." Her lip took its childish look, but her eye met him now. "Don't look so!"--she said, "as if there was any reason for it. I think some of the fluid from that lamp ran down on my arm--and it smarts. Don't stay here to look grave about me!--it isn't necessary." He bent his head and gave her one answer to all that--then sprang up and went for Dr. Harrison. Faith tried to hinder him, in vain. There was little now to detain anybody in the library, he found, and a good deal to drive everybody out of it. The fire had seemed to take advantage of its unwatched opportunity and had put it pretty well out of any one's power to rescue much more from its rapacity. Reuben and Dr. Harrison were carrying out the drawers of the table, which Mr. Linden had been unlocking; and the doctor dropped the one he held the instant he caught the sense of Mr. Linden's words. He went through the other way, summoning his sister. Faith was lying very quietly and smiled at them, but her colour went and came with odd suddenness. She would not after all let the doctor touch her; but rising from the sofa said she would go up stairs and let Sophy see what was wanting. The three went up, and Mr. Linden was left alone. He stood still for a moment where they left him, resting his face upon his hand, but then he went back to the burning room; and stationing himself at the doorway, bade all the rest keep back, and those that could to bring him water. Reuben sprang to this work as he had done to the other; some of the servants had come down by this time; and Mr. Linden stood there, dashing the water about the doorway and into the room, upon the floor, the great table, and such of the bookcases as he could come near. The effect was soon evident. The blazing bits of carved moulding as they fell to the floor, went out instead of getting help to burn; and the heavier shelves and wainscot which being of hard wood burned slowly, began to give out steam as well as smoke. The door and doorway were now perfectly safe--the fire hardly could spread into the passage, a danger which had been imminent when Mr. Linden came, but which the family seemed to have forgotten; secure in their fireproof walls, they forgot the un-fireproof floor, nor seemed to remember how far along the passage the cinders might drift. When there was really nothing more for him to do, and he had given the servants very special instructions as to the watch they should keep, then and not till then did Mr. Linden return to the parlour; the glow of his severe exercise fading away. He found the Judge there, who engaged him in not too welcome conversation; but there was no help for it. He must hear and answer the old gentleman's thanks for his great services that night--praises of his conduct and of Faith's conduct; speculations and questions concerning the evening's disaster. After a time that seemed tedious, though it was not really very long, Miss Harrison came down. "She'll be better directly," she said. "Do sit down, Mr. Linden!--I have ordered some refreshments--you must want them, I should think; and you'll have to wait a little while, for Faith says she will go home with you; though I am sure she ought not, and Julius says she must not stir." Mr. Linden bowed slightly--answering in the most commonplace way that he was in no hurry and in no need of refreshments; and probably he felt also in no need of rest--for he remained standing. "How is she, dear? how is she?" said the Judge. "Is she much hurt?" "Just _now_," said Miss Harrison, "she is in such pain that she cannot move--but we have put something on that will take away the pain, Julius says, in fifteen minutes; and she will be quite well this time to-morrow, he says." "But is she much hurt?" Judge Harrison repeated with a very concerned face. "She'll be well to-morrow, father; but she was dreadfully burned--her arm and shoulder--I thought she would have fainted upstairs--but I don't know whether people _can_ faint when they are in such pain. I don't see how she can bear her dress to go home, but she says she will; Mrs. Derrick would be frightened. Mr. Linden, they say every body does what you tell them--I wish you'd persuade Faith to stay with me to-night! She won't hear me." "How soon can I see her?"--The voice made Miss Harrison look--but her eyes said her ears had made a mistake. "Why she said she would come down stairs presently--as soon as the pain went off enough to let her do anything--and she wanted me to tell you so; but I am sure it's very wrong. Do, Mr. Linden, take something!"--(the servant had brought in a tray of meats and wine)--"While you're waiting, you may as well rest yourself. How shall we ever thank you for what you've done to-night!" Miss Harrison spoke under some degree of agitation, but both she and her father failed in no kind or grateful shew of feeling towards their guest. "How did it happen, Mr. Linden?" she said when she had done in this kind all she could. He said he had not seen the accident--only its results. "I can't imagine how Faith got there," said Miss Harrison. "She saw the screen coming over on Nero, I suppose, and thought she could save the lamp--she made one spring from the doorway, he says, to where he stood. And in putting up her hand to the lamp, I suppose that horrid fluid ran down her arm and on her shoulder--when Nero put out the lamp he must have loosened the fastening; it went all over her shoulder. But she'll be well to-morrow night, Julius says." "Who's with her now, my dear?" said the Judge. "O Julius is with her--he said he'd stay with her till I came back--she wanted Mr. Linden to know she would go home with him. Now, Mr. Linden, won't you send her word back that you'll take care of Mrs. Derrick if she'll stay?" "I will go up and see her, Miss Harrison." That was anticipated however, by the entrance of the doctor; who told his sister Miss Derrick wanted her help, then came gravely to the table, poured out a glass of wine and drank it. His father asked questions, which he answered briefly. Miss Derrick felt better--she was going to get up and come down stairs. "But ought she to be suffered to go out to-night, Julius?--such a night?" "Certainly not!" The Judge argued the objections to her going. The doctor made no answer. He walked up and down the room, and Mr. Linden stood still. Ten or fifteen minutes passed; and then the door opened softly and Faith, all dressed, cloaked, and furred, came in with her hood, followed by her friend. Miss Sophy looked very ill satisfied. Faith's face was pale enough, but as serenely happy as release from pain can leave a face that has no care behind. A white embodiment of purity and gentleness she looked. The doctor was at her side instantly, asking questions. Mr. Linden did not interrupt him,--he had met her almost before the doctor, and taken her hand with a quietness through which Faith could perceive the stir of feelings that might have swept those of all the others out into the snow. But he held her hand silently until other people had done their questions--then simply asked if she was quite sure she was fit to ride home? Then, with that passing of the barrier, look and voice did change a little. "I mean to go,"--she said without looking at him,--"if you'll please to take me." "She ought not,--I am sure she ought not!" exclaimed Miss Harrison in much vexation. "She is just able to stand." "You know," Mr. Linden said,--not at all as if he was urging her, but merely making a statement he thought best to make; "I could even bring your mother here, in a very short time, if you wished it." "O I don't wish it. I can go home very well now." He gave her his arm without more words. Miss Harrison and the Judge followed regretfully to the door; the doctor to the sleigh. "Are you well wrapped up?" he asked. "I have got all my own and all Sophy's furs," said Faith in a glad tone of voice. "Take care of yourself," he said;--"and Mr. Linden, you must take care of her--which is more to the purpose. If I had it to do, this ride would not be taken. Linden--I'll thank you another time." They drove off. But as soon as they were a few steps from the house, Mr. Linden put his arm about Faith and held her so that she could lean against him and rest; giving her complete support, and muffling up the furs about her lightly and effectually, till it was hardly possible for the cold air to win through; and so drove her home. Not with many words,--with only a whispered question now and then, whether she was cold, or wanted any change of posture. The wind had lulled, and it was much milder, and the snow was beginning to fall softly and fast; Faith could feel the snow crystals on his face whenever it touched hers. Mr. Linden would have perhaps chosen to drive gently, as being easier for her, but the thick air made it needful. Once only he asked any other question.-- "Faith--is my care of you in fault, that it lets you come home?" "No, I think not," she said;--"you hold me just so nicely as it is possible to be! and this snow-storm is beautiful." Which answer, though she might not know it, testified to her need of precisely the care he was giving her. "Are you suffering much now, dear child?" "Not at all. I am only enjoying. I like being out in such a storm as this.--Only I am afraid mother is troubled." "No--I sent Reuben down some time ago, to answer her questions if she was up, and to have a good fire ready for you." "O that's good!" she said. And then rested, in how luxurious a rest! after exertion, and after anxiety, and after pain; so cared for and guarded. She could almost have gone to sleep to the tinkle of Jerry's bells; only that her spirit was too wide awake for that and the pleasure of the time too good to be lost. She had not all the pleasure to herself--Faith could feel that, every time Mr. Linden spoke or touched her; but what a different atmosphere his mind was in, from her quiet rest! Pain had quitted her, but not him, though the kinds were different. Truly he would have borne any amount of physical pain himself, to cancel that which she had suffered,--there were some minutes of the ride when he would have borne it, only to lose the thought of that. But Faith knew nothing of it all, except as she could feel once or twice a deep breath that was checked and hushed, and turned into some sweet low-spoken word to her; and her rest was very deep. So deep, that the stopping of the sleigh at last, was an interruption. The moment Jerry's bells rang their little summons at the door, the door itself opened, and from the glimmering light Reuben ran out to take the reins. "Is Mrs. Derrick up?" Mr. Linden asked, when the first inquiry about Faith had been answered. "I don't know, sir. I told her you wore afraid Miss Faith would take cold without a fire in her room--and she let me take up wood and make it; and then she said she wasn't sleepy, and she'd take care it didn't go out. I haven't seen her since." "Thank you, Reuben--now hold Jerry for me,--I shall keep you here to-night," Mr. Linden said as he stepped out. And laying his hand upon the furs and wrappers, he said softly,--"Little Esquimaux--do you think you can walk to the house?" "O yes!--certainly." A little bit of a laugh answered her--the first she had heard since Campaspe; and then she was softly lifted up, and borne into the house over the new-fallen snow as lightly as if she had been a snowflake herself. The snow might lay its white feathers upon her hood, but Faith felt as if she were in a cradle instead of a snow-storm. She was placed in the easy chair before the sitting-room fire, and her hood and furs quickly taken off. "How do you feel?" Mr. Linden asked her. She looked like one of the flakes of snow herself, for simplicity and colour; but there was a smile in her eyes and lips that had come from a climate where roses blow. "I feel nicely.--Only a little bruised and battered feeling, which isn't unpleasant." "Will you have anything?--a cup of tea?--that might do you good." Faith looked dubious at the cup of tea; but then rose up and said it would disturb her mother, and she would just go and sleep. "It won't disturb her a bit,"--Mr. Linden said, reseating her,--"sit still--I'll send Reuben up to see." He left her there a very few minutes, apparently attending to more than one thing, for he came back through the eating-room door; bringing word to Faith that her fire and room were in nice order, and her mother fast asleep there in the rocking-chair to keep guard; and that she should have a cup of tea in no time. And with a smile at her, he went back into the eating-room, and brought thence her cup and plate, and requested to be told just how the tea should be made to please her, and whether he might invade the dairy for cream. "If I could put this cloak over my shoulders, I would get some myself. Will you put it on for me? please.--Is there fire in the kitchen? I'll go and make the tea." "Is there nothing else you would like to do?" he said standing before her,--"you shall not stir! Do you think I don't know cream when I see it?"--and he went off again, coming back this time in company with Reuben and the tea-kettle, but the former did not stay. Then with appeals to her for directions the tea was made and poured out, and toast made and laid on her plate; but she was not allowed to raise a finger, except now to handle her cup. "It's very good!" said Faith,--"but--don't you remember you once told me two cups of cocoa were better than one?" It is to be noted in passing, that all Faith's _nameless_ addresses were made with a certain gentle, modulated accent, which invariably implied in its half timid respect the "Mr. Linden" which she rarely forgot now she was not to say. "Dear child! I do indeed," he said, as if the remembrance wore a bright one. "But I remember too that my opinion was negatived. Faith, I used to wish then that I could wait upon you--but I would rather have you wait upon me, after all!" Faith utterly disallowed the tone of these last words, and urged her request in great earnest. He laughed at her a little--but brought the cup and drank the tea,--certainly more to please her than himself; watching her the while, to see if the refreshment were telling upon her cheeks. She was very little satisfied with his performance. "Now I'll go and wake up mother," she said at last rising. "Don't think of this evening again but to be glad of everything that has happened. I am." "I fear, I fear," he said looking at her, "that your gladness and my sorrow meet on common ground. Child, what shall I do with you?"--but what he did with her then was to put her in that same cradle and carry her softly upstairs, to the very door of her room. CHAPTER VI. The same soft snow-storm was coming down when Faith opened her eyes next morning; the air looked like a white sheet; but in her room a bright fire was blazing, reddening the white walls, and by her side sat Mrs. Derrick watching her. Very gentle and tender were the hands that helped her dress, and then Mrs. Derrick said she would go down and see to breakfast for a little while. "Wasn't it good your room was warm last night?" she said, stroking Faith's hair. Faith's eyes acknowledged that. "And wasn't it good you were asleep!" she said laughing and kissing Mrs. Derrick. "Mother!--I was so glad!" "That's the funny part of it," said Mrs. Derrick. "Reuben's just about as queer in his way as Mr. Linden. The only thing I thought from the way he gave the message, was that somebody cared a good deal about his new possession--which I suppose is true," she added smiling; "and so I just went to sleep." Mrs. Derrick went down; and Faith knelt on the rug before the fire and bent her heart and head over her bible. In great happiness;--in great endeavour that her happiness should stand well based on its true foundations and not shift from them to any other. In sober endeavour to lay hold, and feel that she had hold, of the happiness that cannot be taken away; to make sure that her feet were on a rock, before she stooped to take the sweetness of the flowers around her. And to judge by her face, she had felt the rock and the flowers both, before she left her room. The moment she opened her door and went out into the hall, Mr. Linden opened his,--or rather it was already open, and he came out, meeting her at the head of the stairs. And after his first greeting, he held her still and looked at her for a moment--a little anxiously and intently. "My poor, pale little child!" he said--"you are nothing but a snowdrop this morning!" "Well that is a very good thing to be," said Faith brightly. But the _colour_ resemblance he had destroyed. She was lifted and carried down just as she had been carried up last night, and into the sitting-room again; for breakfast was prepared there this morning, and the sofa wheeled round to the side of the fire all ready for her. How bright the room looked!--its red curtains within and its white curtains without, and everything so noiseless and sweet and in order. Even the coffeepot was there by this time, and Mrs. Derrick arranged the cups and looked at Faith on the sofa, with eyes that lost no gladness when they went from her to the person who stood at her side. Faith's eyes fell, and for a moment she was very sober. It was only for a moment. "What a beautiful storm!" she said. "I am glad it snows. I am going to do a great deal of work to-day." Mr. Linden looked at her. "Wouldn't you just as lieve be talked to sleep?" She smiled. "You--couldn't--do that, Mr. Linden." "Mr. Linden can do more than you think--and will," he said with a little comic raising of the eyebrows. For a while after breakfast Faith sat alone, except as her mother came in and out to see that she wanted nothing,--alone in the soft snowy stillness, till Mr. Linden came in from the postoffice and sat down by her, laying against her cheek a soft little bunch of rosebuds and violets. "Faith," he said, "you have been looking sober--what is the reason?" "I haven't been looking _too_ sober, have I? I didn't know I was looking sober at all." She was looking quaint, and lovely; in the plain wrapper she had put on and the soft thoughtful air and mien, in contrast with which the diamonds jumped and flashed with every motion of her hand. A study book lay in her lap. "How did all that happen last night?" said Mr. Linden abruptly. "Why!"--said Faith colouring and looking down at her ring--"I was standing in the doorway and Nero was coming out with that great lamp; and when he got opposite the screen something fell on it, I believe, from the burning bookcases, and it was thrown over against him--I thought the lamp and he would all go over together--and I jumped;--and in putting up my hand to the lamp I suppose, for I don't remember, the fluid must have run down my arm and on my shoulder--I don't know how it got on fire, but it must have been from some of the burning wood that fell. The next I knew, you were carrying me to the drawing-room--I have a recollection of that." He listened with very grave eyes. "Were you trying to take the lamp from Nero?" "O no. I thought it was going to fall over." "What harm would it have done the floor?" The tinge of colour on Faith's cheek deepened considerably, and her eyes lifted not themselves from the diamonds. She was not ready to speak. "I did not think of the floor"-- "Of what then?" She waited again. "I was afraid some harm would be done,"-- "Did you prevent it?" "I don't know"--she said rather faintly. Gently her head was drawn down till it rested on his shoulder. "Faith," he said in his own low sweet tones, "I stretched a little silken thread across the doorway to keep you out--did you make of that a clue to find your way in?" She did not answer--nor stir. There were no more questions asked--no more words said; Mr. Linden was as silent as she and almost as still. Once or twice his lips touched her forehead, not just as they had ever done it before, Faith thought; but some little time had passed, when he suddenly took up the book which lay in her lap and began the lesson at which it lay open; reading and explaining in a very gentle, steady voice, a little moved from its usual clearness. Still his arm did not release her. Faith listened, with a semidivided mind, for some time; there was something in this state of things that she wished to mend. It came at last, when there was a pause in the lesson. "I am glad of all that happened last night," she said, "except the pain to you and mother. There is nothing to be sorry for. You shouldn't be sorry." "Why not, little naughty child?--and why are you glad?" "Because--it was good for me,"--she said, not very readily nor explicitly. "In what way?" "It was good for me,"--she repeated;--"it put me in mind of some things." "Of what, dear child?" It was a question evidently Faith would rather not have answered. She spoke with some difficulty. "That there are such things in the world as pain--and trouble. It is best not to forget it." Mr. Linden understood and felt; but he only answered, "It will be the business of my life to make you forget it. Now don't you think you ought to put up this book, and rest or sleep?" "I dare say _you_ ought," said Faith,--"and I wish you would. _I_ want to work." He gave her a laugh, by way of reply, and then gave her work as she desired; watching carefully against her tiring herself in any way, and making the lessons more of talk on his part and less of study on hers. They were none the less good for that, nor any the less pleasant. Till there came a knock at the front door; and then with a little sigh Faith leaned back against the sofa, as if lessons were done. "There is Dr. Harrison." "And I shall have to be on my good behaviour," Mr. Linden said, quitting the sofa. "But I suppose he will not stay all the rest of the day." And as Cindy was slow in her movements, he went and opened the door; Faith the while fitting on a glove finger. "First in one element, and then in another--" Mr. Linden said, as the doctor came in from a sort of simoon of snow. "This one for me!" said Dr. Harrison shaking herself;--"but I should say you must be out of your element to-day." "Wherefore, if you please?" said Mr. Linden, as he endeavoured to get the doctor out of his. "Unless you live in a variety! I thought you were in your element last night." And the doctor went forward into the sitting-room. The first move was to take a seat by Faith and attend to her; and his address and his inquiries, with the manner of them, were perfect in their kind. Interested, concerned, tender, grateful, to the utmost limit of what might have been in the circumstances testified by anybody, with equal grace and skill they were limited there. Of special individual interest he allowed no testimony to escape him--none at least that was unequivocal. And Faith gave him answers to all he said, till he touched her gloved finger and inquired if the fire had been at work there too. Faith rather hastily drew it under cover and said no. "What is the matter with it?" "There is nothing bad the matter with it," said Faith, very imprudently letting her cheeks get rosy. The doctor looked at her--told her he could cure her finger if she would let him; and then rose up and assumed his position before the fire, looking down at Mr. Linden. "There isn't much of a midge about you, after all," he said. "I suppose in the matter of wings we are about on a par. What is the extent of the damage?" "It is nothing worth speaking of--I think now," said the doctor. "But we are under an extent of obligation to you, my dear fellow,--which sits on me as lightly as obligation so generously imposed should;--and yet I should be doubly grateful if you could shew me some way in which I could--for a moment--reverse the terms on which we stand towards each other." "I don't think of any generous imposition just now," said Mr. Linden smiling. "How are your father and sister?--I was afraid they would suffer from the fright, if nothing else." "Strong nerves!" said the doctor shrugging his shoulders. "We all eat our breakfast this morning, and wanted the chops done as much as usual. Sophy _did_ suffer, though; but it was because Miss Faith would do nothing but get hurt in the house and wouldn't stay to be made well." "I am sure I did something more than _that_," said Faith, to whom the doctor had looked. "You don't deserve any thanks!" he said sitting down again beside her;--"but there is somebody else that does, and I wish you would give me a hint how to pay them. That young fellow who says he is no friend of yours--he helped us bravely last night. What can I do to please him?" "Mr. Linden can tell best," said Faith looking to him. The doctor turned in the same direction. "Thank you!" Mr. Linden said, and the words were warmly spoken, yet not immediately followed up. "Thank you very much, doctor!" he repeated thoughtfully--"I am not sure that Reuben wants anything just now,--next summer, perhaps, he may want books." "I see _you_ are his friend?" "Yes--if you give the word its full length and breadth." "What is that?" said Dr. Harrison. "Don't go off to 'Nought and All.'" "I suppose in this case I may say, a mutual bond of trust, affection, and active good wishes." "There's something in that fellow, I judge?" "You judge right." "A fisherman's son, I think you said. Well--I share the 'active good wishes,' at least, if I can't assume the 'affection'--so think about my question, Linden, and I'll promise to back your thoughts. What do you do with yourself such a day? I was overcome with ennui--till I got out into the elements." "Ennui is not one of my friends," said Mr. Linden smiling--"not even an acquaintance. In fact I never even set a chair for him, as the woman in Elia set a chair for the poor relation, saying, 'perhaps he will step in to-day.' I have been busy, doctor--what shall I do to amuse you? will you have a foreign newspaper?" The doctor looked dubious; then took the newspaper and turned it over, but not as if he had got rid of his ennui. "This smoke in the house will drive us out of Pattaquasset a little sooner than we expected." "Not this winter?" "Yes. _That's_ nothing new--but we shall go a few days earlier than we meant. I wish you were going too." "When to return?" said Mr. Linden. "I mean you--not myself." "I?--I am a wandering comet," said the doctor. "I have astonished Pattaquasset so long, it is time for me to flare up in some other place. I don't know, Linden. Somebody must be here occasionally, to overlook the refitting of the inside of that library--perhaps that agreeable duty will fall on me. But Linden,"--said the doctor dropping the newspaper and turning half round on his chair, speaking gracefully and comically,--"_you_ astonish Pattaquasset as much as I do; and to tell you the truth you astonish me sometimes a little. This is no place for you. Wouldn't you prefer a tutorship at Quilipeak, or a professor's chair in one of the city colleges? You may step into either berth presently, and at your pleasure,--I know. I do not speak without knowledge." There was a stir of feeling in Mr. Linden's face--there was even an unwonted tinge of colour, but the firm-set lips gave no indication as to whence it came; and he presently looked up, answering the doctor in tones as graceful and more simple than his own. "Thank you, doctor, once more! But I have full employment, and am--or am not--ambitious,--whichever way you choose to render it. Not to speak of the pleasure of astonishing Pattaquasset," he added, with a smile breaking out,--"I could not hope to do that for Quilipeak." "Please know," said the doctor, both frankly and with much respect in his manner, "that I have been so presumptuous as to concern my mind about this for some time--for which you will punish me as you think I deserve. How to be so much further presumptuous as to speak to you about it, was my trouble;--and I ventured at last," he said smiling, "upon my own certain possession of certain points of that 'friend' character which you were giving just now to Reuben Taylor--or to yourself, in his regard." "I am sure you have them!--But about Reuben,--though I know reward is the last thing he thought of or would wish,--yet I, his friend, choose to answer for him, that if you choose to give him any of the books that he will need in college, they will be well bestowed." "In college!" said the doctor. "Diable! Where is he going?" "Probably to Quilipeak." "You said, to college, man. I mean, what is college the road to, in the youngster's mind?" "I am not sure that I have a right to tell you," said Mr. Linden,--"it is in his mind a road to greater usefulness--so much I may say." "He'll never be more useful than he was last night. However, I'm willing to help him try.--What is Mignonette going to do with herself this afternoon?"--said the doctor throwing aside his newspaper and standing before her. "I don't know," said Faith. "Sit here and work, I suppose." "I'll tell you what she ought to do," the doctor went on impressively. "She ought to do what the flowers do when the sun goes down,--shut up her sweetness to herself, see and be seen by nobody, and cease to be conscious of her own existence." Faith laughed, in a way that gave doubtful promise of following the directions. The doctor stood looking down at her, took her hand and gallantly kissed it, and finally took himself off. "There is a good little trial of my patience!" Mr. Linden said. "I don't know but it is well he is going away, for I might forget myself some time, and bid him hands off." At which Faith looked thoughtful. "Faith," Mr. Linden said, gently raising her face, "would you like to live at Quilipeak?" The answer to that was a great rush of colour, and a casting down of eyes and face too as soon as it was permitted. "Well?" he said smiling--though she felt some other thread in the voice. "What did you think of the words that passed between the doctor and me? Would you like to have me agree to his proposal?" "You would do what is best," she said with a good deal of effort. "I couldn't wish anything else."-- He answered her mutely at first, with a deep mingling of gravity and affection, as if she were very, very precious. "My dear little child!" he said, "if anything on earth could make me do it, it would be you!--and yet I cannot." She looked up inquiringly; but except by that look, she asked nothing. "You strengthen my hands more than you weaken them," he said. "I am so sure that you would feel with me!--I know it so well! I have a long story to tell you, dear Faith,--some time, not now," he added, with a sort of shadow coming over his face. "Will you let me choose my own time? I know it is asking a good deal." "It would be asking a great deal more of me to choose any other," Faith said with a sunny smile. "I like that time best." He passed his hand softly once or twice across her forehead, giving her a bright, grateful look, though a little bit of a sigh came with it too,--then drew her arm within his and led her slowly up and down the room. But after dinner, and after one or two more lessons--under careful guardianship, Faith was persuaded to lay herself on the sofa and rest, and listen,--first to various bits of reading, then to talk about some of her photographic pictures; the talk diverging right and left, into all sorts of paths, fictional, historic, sacred and profane. Then the light faded--the out-of-door light, still amid falling snow; and the firelight shone brighter and brighter; and Mrs. Derrick stopped listening, and went to the dining-room sofa for a nap. Then Mr. Linden, who had been sitting at Faith's side, changed his place so as to face her. "How do you feel to-night?" he asked. "Perfectly well--and as nicely as possible. Just enough remains of last night to make it pleasant to lie still." "You are a real little sunbeam! Do you know I want you to go off with me on a shining expedition?" "On _what_ sort of expedition?" said Faith laughing. "A shining one--I want to carry your bright face into all the darkest places I can find." There was an alternation of amusement and a grave expression in her face for a minute, one and the other flitting by turns; but then she said quietly, "When, Mr. Linden?" "What shall I do with you?" he said,--"shall I call you Miss Derrick?" "No indeed!" she said colouring. "I don't often forget myself." "No, I shall not do that, for it would punish myself too much, but I shall do something else--which will not punish me at all, and may perhaps make you remember. What do you suppose it will be?" "I don't know"--she said flushing all over. "Nothing worse than this"--he said, bending his face to hers. "Faith! I did not mean to frighten you so! I'll tell you where I want to take you.--You know Monday is the first of January, and I want to go with you to those houses in the neighbourhood where the wheels of the new year drag a little, and try to give them a pleasant start. Would you like it?" "O!"--she said, springing forward with a delighted exclamation.--"Tell me, just what you mean. To which houses?" "I mean that if you are well, we will have a long, long sleigh ride, and leave as many little pieces of comfort and pleasure by the way as we can. The houses, dear, will be more than you think--I must make out a list." Faith clapped her hands. "O delicious! That is the best thing we could possibly do with Monday! and there are two days yet this week--I shall have plenty of chance, mother and I, to make everything. O what sorts of things shall we take? and what are some of the houses? There is Mrs. Dow, where we went that night,"--she said, her voice falling,--"and Sally Lowndes--what places are you thinking off?" "I think we might give Reuben at least a visit, if nothing else,--and there are a good many such houses down about those points, and far on along the shore. I was thinking most of them--though there are some nearer by. But my Mignonette must not tire herself,--I did not mean to bring anything but pleasure upon her hands." "You can't! in this way," said Faith in delighted eagerness. "Who keeps house in Reuben's home? he has no mother." "No--I suppose I may say that he keeps house,--for his father is away a great deal, and Reuben always seems to be doing what there is to do. As to things--you will want some for well people, and some for sick,--at some houses the mere necessary bread and meat, and at others any of those little extras which people who spend all their money for bread and meat can never get. But little child," Mr. Linden said smiling, "if I let you prepare, you must let me send home." "What?" said she. "I thought you said we would both take them together?" He laughed--taking her hand and holding it in both his. "And so we will!--I meant, send home here, to prepare." "Oh!--Well," said Faith, "but we have a great deal now, you know; and I can send Mr. Skip to get more. But one thing I know--we will take Reuben a roast turkey!" I wonder if she could tell, in the firelight, with what eyes he watched her and listened to her! Probably not, for his back was towards the fire, and the changing light and shade on his face was a little concealed. But the light had the mastery. "Faith," he said, "I shall send you home some sugar-plums--upon express condition that you are not to eat them up; being quite sweet enough already." His face was so hid that probably Faith thought her own was hid too, and did not know how clearly its moved timid changes were seen. She leaned forward, and touching one hand lightly to his shoulder, said, "What do you mean to make me,--Endecott?" It was a thing to hear, the soft fall and hesitancy of Faith's voice at the last word. Yet they hardly told of the struggle it had cost. How the word thrilled him she did not know,--the persons living from whom he ever had that name were now so few, that there was a strange mingling with the exquisite pleasure of hearing it from her lips,--a mingling of past grief and of present healing. He changed his place instantly; and taking possession of her, gave her the most gentle, tender, and silent thanks. Perhaps too much touched to speak--perhaps feeling sure that if he spoke at all it would be in just such words as she had so gently reproved. The answer at last was only a bright, "I told you I could not promise--and I will not now!" She pushed her head round a little so that she could give a quick glance into his face, in which lay her answer. Her words, when she spoke, made something of a transition, which however was proved by the voice to be a transition in words only. "Wouldn't a bag of potatoes be a good thing for us to take?" "Certainly!--and we must take some books, and some orders for wood. And you must have a basket of trifles to delight all the children we meet." "That's easy! And books, will you take? that's delicious! that's better than anything, for those who can enjoy them. Do you think any of them want bibles?" "We will take some, at a venture--I never like to go anywhere without that supply. And then we shall both have to use our wits to find out just what is wanted in a particular place,--the people that tell you most have often the least to tell. And above all, Faith, we shall want plenty of sympathy and kind words and patience,--they are more called for than anything else. Do you think you can conjure up a sufficient supply?" "It is something I know so little about!" said Faith. "I have never had very much chance. When I went to see Mrs. Custers I didn't in the least know how to speak to her. But these people where we are going all know _you_, I suppose?"--she said with another and not a little wistful look up into his face. "Most of them--more or less. What of it?" "That makes it easy," she said quietly. "But I suppose it would be just the same if you didn't know them! About the sick people,--Endecott--if you can tell us _how_ they are sick, mother and I between us can make out what things to prepare for them." "Did you think I was in earnest, dear Faith, when I asked about your sympathy?" Mr. Linden said, drawing her closer. "No.--I think I have the sympathy, but I don't so well know how to shew it. Then loaves of bread, I suppose, wouldn't come amiss?--And above all, meat. Where else do you think a roast turkey ought to go?" "To one particular far-off house on the shore that is brim full of little children--and nothing else!" "We'll take them a big one," said Faith smiling,--"and I suppose it is no matter how many cakes! You'll have to make a very particular list, with some notion of what would be best at each place; because in some houses they wouldn't bear what in others they would be very glad of. Wouldn't that be good? So that we might be sure to have the right thing everywhere--_one_ right thing, at any rate. The other things might take their chance." "Yes, I will do that. But you know the first thing is, that you should get well, and the next that you should _not_ get tired,--and these must be secured, if nobody ever has anything." Faith's laugh was joyous. "To-morrow I mean to make cakes and pies," she said,--"and the next day I will bake bread and roast turkeys and boil beef! And you have no idea what a quantity of each will be wanted! I think I never saw anybody so good at talking people to sleep!--that didn't want to go. Now what is that?" For the knocker of the front door sounded loudly again. "It is something to send people away--that don't want to go!" Mr. Linden said, as he put her back in her old position on the cushions, and moved his chair to a respectful distance therefrom. But nothing worse came in this time than a note, well enveloped and sealed, which was for Mr. Linden. It ran after this fashion.-- "_In the snow--yet and the chair not only set for Ennui, but ennui in the chair!_ "_This 28th Dec_. 18 "DEAR LINDEN, You see my condition. I am desperate for want of something to do--_so_ I send you this. Enclosed you will please find--if you haven't dropped it on the floor!--$25, for the bibliothecal and collegiate expenses of 'Miss Derrick's friend.' If you should hereafter know him to be in further want of the same kind of material aid and comfort--please convey intelligence of the same to myself or father. He---i. e-. said 'friend'--saved to _us_ last night far more than the value of this. I am sorry I have no more to say! for your image--what else could it be?--has for the moment frightened Ennui into the shadow--but he will come back again as soon as I have sealed this. By which you will know when you read the (then) present condition of Your friend most truly JULIUS HARRISON. In Pattaquasset, is it?" Mr. Linden read the note by firelight and standing--then came and sat down by Faith and put it in her hands. By firelight Faith read it hastily, and looked up with eyes of great delight. "Oh!" she said,--"isn't that good!" Then she looked down at the note soberly again. "Well, little child? what?" he said smiling. "Yes, I am very glad. What are you doubting about?" "I am not doubting about anything," she said giving him the note,--"only thinking of this strange man." "Is he very strange?" Mr. Linden said. But he did not pursue the subject, going back instead to the one they had been upon, to give her the information she had asked for about the sick people they were likely to meet in their rounds; passing gradually from that to other matters, thence into silence. And Faith followed him, step by step,--only when he was quite silent, she was--asleep! CHAPTER VII. The next two days were busy ones, all round; for though Faith was carefully watched, by both her guardians, yet she was really well and strong enough again to be allowed to do a good deal; especially with those intervals of rest and study which Mr. Linden managed for her. His work, between these intervals, took him often out of doors, and various were the tokens of that work which came home--greatly to Faith's interest and amusement. They were curiously indicative, too, both of the varied wants of the poor people in the neighbourhood, and of his knowledge on the subject. From a little pair of shoes which was to accompany one roast turkey, to the particular sort of new fishing net which was to go with the other, it really seemed as if every sort of thing was wanted somewhere,--simple things, and easy to get, and not costing much,--but priceless to people who had no money at all. Faith was appointed receiver general, and her hands were full of amusement as well as business. And those two things were the most of all that Mr. Linden suffered to come upon them,--whatever his own means might be, it was no part of his plan to trench upon Mrs. Derrick's; though she on her part entered heart and hands into the work, with almost as much delight as Faith herself, and would have given the two carte-blanche to take anything she had in the house. Faith didn't ask _him_ what she should take there, nor let him know much about it till Monday. By this time, what with direct and indirect modes of getting at the knowledge, Faith had become tolerably well acquainted with the class or classes of wants that were to be ministered to. Many were the ovenfuls that were baked that Friday and Saturday! great service did the great pot that was used for boiling great joints! nice and comforting were the broths and more delicate things provided, with infinite care, for some four or five sick or infirm people. But Faith's delight was the things Mr. Linden sent home; every fresh arrival of which sent her to the kitchen with a new accession of zeal, sympathy, and exultation,--sympathy with him and the poor people; exultation in the work--most of all in him! Great was the marvelling of Cindy and Mr. Skip at these days' proceedings. So passed Friday and Saturday; and Sunday brought a lull. Faith thought so, and felt so. Her roast turkeys and chickens were reposing in spicy readiness; her boiled meats and bakeries were all accomplished and in waiting; and dismissing all but a little joyful background thought of them, Faith gave her whole heart and mind to the full Sabbath rest, to the full Sabbath rising; and looked, in her deep happiness, as if she were--what she was--enjoying the one and striving after the other. But the ways by which we are to find the good we must seek, are by no means always those of our own choosing. It was a clear, cold, still, winter's day. Cold enough by the thermometer; but so still that the walking to church was pleasant. They had come home from the afternoon service--Faith had not taken off her things--when she was called into the kitchen to receive a message. The next minute she was in the sitting-room and stood by the side of Mr. Linden's chair. "Mrs. Custers is dying--and has sent for me." "For you, dear child?--Well--Are you able to go?" "Oh yes." He looked at her in silence, as if he were making up his own mind on the subject, then rose up and gently seating her on the sofa, told her to rest there till he was ready; but before he came back again Mrs. Derrick came to Faith's side with a smoking cup of chicken broth and a biscuit. "You've got to eat it, pretty child," she said fondly,--"we're both agreed upon that point." Which point mandate Faith did not try to dispute. The town clock had struck four, all counted, when Jerry dashed off from the door with the little sleigh behind him. No other sleigh-bells were abroad, and his rang out noisily and alone over the great waste of stillness as soon as they were quit of the village. The air happily was very still and the cold had not increased; but low, low the sun was, and sent his slant beams coolly over the snow-white fields, glinting from fences and rocks and bare thickets with a gleam that threatened he would not look at them long. The hour was one of extreme beauty,--fair and still, with a steady strength in its stillness that made the beauty somewhat imposing. There was none of the yielding character of summer there; but a power that was doing its work and would do it straight through. "He giveth forth his ice like morsels; who can stand before his cold?"--thought Faith. The sleighing was excellent; the roads in perfect condition. "How long is it since you were here?" Mr. Linden said as the house came in sight, shewn only by its twinkling panes of glass. "Not since before I went to Pequot--not since a day or two after that ride we took with Dr. Harrison, when you rode 'Stranger' the first time." "How was she then?" "Not much different from what she had been before--she didn't say much--she seemed to like to listen to me, or to see me, or both. That was all I could be sure of." "Try not to let her spend her strength in examining the past state of her mind. Bid her lay hold of the promise now. A present hold will answer all her questions--and is all the oldest Christian can rest in." "I wish you could speak to her instead of me," said Faith. "Perhaps she will let you." "It is not you nor I, my child.--Fix your heart upon Christ, and let him speak,--fix your eyes upon him, and let his light shine." "I know it. O I do!--" she said, looking up at him with an humble, moved face. He lifted her out of the sleigh and led her up to the house, where they were presently admitted; into an outer room first, where Faith could lay off her furs. "She's some brighter to-night," the woman in attendance said, in answer to Mr. Linden's questions. "I guess she'll be real glad to see you"--this was addressed to Faith. Faith left Mr. Linden there, and went into the sick chamber alone; where she was always received as if she had brought an olive branch, or a palm branch, or both of them, in her hand. The spirit of both, no doubt, was in her; the gentle face looked the promise of both peace and victory, as only humility can look it. Mrs. Custers on her part looked--as the other had said--glad; if so bright a word could be applied to a face that had lost all its own light, and where no reflected light as yet shone. Yet she was quieter than when Faith had first seen her, whether from mental relief or physical prostration, and was most eager for all Faith's words,--listening for the most part in silence, but with eyes that never said "enough." As some poor exhausted traveller takes the water which he has at last reached in the desert, nor knows yet whether its bright drops can avail to save his life, but lays him down by the fountain--there to live or die. And Faith, feeling that her hand was ministering those drops of life, lost every other thought,--except to wish for a hand that could do it better. Once she ventured a proposition. "I have a friend here, Mrs. Custers, who can tell you about all these things much better than I can. Will you let him? May I ask him to come in and see you?" "Better?" she said slowly--"I don't believe it. Who is he? your brother?" "No--I haven't any brother. But that don't matter. He's somebody that is a great deal better than I am. May I let him come in? He's here," said Faith very quietly, along with her flushing cheek. There was a poor little faint smile for a moment upon the sick woman's lips while Faith spoke, but it passed and she answered in the same tone--"I'll see him--to please you--before you go. I just want the words now--and I like you best." Faith troubled her no more with unnecessary suggestions, and gave her "the words." Gave them with the fragrance of her own love about them, which certainly is the surest human vehicle for the love above human that is in them. As on that first occasion, Faith placed herself on the side of the bed; and holding one of Mrs. Custers' hands in her own, bending her soft quiet face towards the listening eyes and ears, she gave her one by one, like crumbs of life-giving food, the words of promise, of encouragement, of invitation, of example. No answer cheered or helped her; no token of pleasure or even of assent met her; only those fixed listening eyes bade her go on, and told that whether for life and refreshment or no, the words were eagerly taken in, each after the other, as she said them. There was something in the strong sympathy of the speaker--in her own feeling and joy of the truths she told--that might give them double power and life to the ears of another. Faith reported the words of her Master with such triumphant prizing of them and such leaning on their strength; she gave his invitations in such tones of affection; she told over the instances of others' prevailing faith with such an evident, clear, satisfying share in the same;--the living words this time lost nothing of their power by a dead utterance. Of her own words Faith ventured few; now and then the simplest addition to some thing she had repeated, to make it more plain, or to carry it further home; such words as she could not keep back; such words, very much, as she would have spoken to Johnny Fax; not very unlike what Johnny Fax might have spoken to her. But there was not a little physical exhaustion about all this after a while, and Faith found she must have some help to her memory. She went into the other room. "I want a bible," she said looking round for it--"Is there one here?" Yes there was one, but it was Mr. Linden's. That was quickly given her. "I forgot it at the moment you went in," he said, "and then I did not like to disturb you. My dear Faith!--" and he held her hand and looked at her a little wistfully. She brought her other hand upon his, and looked down and looked up wistfully too; like one with a heart full. "Can I help you? can I take your place?" "She won't let you," said Faith shaking her head. "She says she will see you by and by--but she must take her own time for it." And Faith went back to her ministrations. Of all bibles, she would have had that one in her hand then! And yet its companionship bowed down her heart with a sense of weakness;--but that was the very position for the next move; a spring beyond weakness to the only real and sufficient ground of strength. The afternoon merged into the evening. A tallow candle had been brought by the attendant into the room in which Mr. Linden was waiting; and its dim smoky light would have made a dismal place of it if he had had no other to go by. He could sometimes hear the low tones of a word or two in the other room; more often the tones were so low that they failed to reach him. When this state of things had lasted a long time--as it seemed--there came an interruption in the form of quick steps on the snow; then the door was pushed open, and Dr. Harrison appeared. "You here!" was his astonished salutation. "What upon earth has brought you?" "I came to bring some one else." "_She_ isn't here?" said the doctor. "You don't mean that?" His emphatic pronouns were a little smile-provoking, in spite of the grave thoughts upon which they intruded--or rather perhaps because of them; but if Mr. Linden's face felt that temptation, it was only for a moment,--he answered quietly, "If you mean Miss Faith, she has been here a long time." The doctor knew that! if she came when she was called. _He_ had stopped to eat his dinner. "I mean her, of course," he said with his tone a little subdued. "I shouldn't think her mother would have let her come--such a night!--" Which meant very plainly that Dr. Harrison would not have let her.--"Is she in there with the woman now?" "Yes." The doctor went with grave aspect to the door of communication between the two rooms and softly opened it and went in; so softly, that Faith, engaged in her reading, did not hear anything; the sick woman's eyes were the first that perceived him. Hers rested on him a moment--then came back to Faith, and then again met the doctor's; but not just as they had been wont. And her first words bore out his impression. "You may come in," she said, slowly and distinctly,--"I'm not afraid of you to-night." He came forward, looked at her, touched her hand, kindly; and then without a word turned to Faith. Faith did not dare ask a question, but her eyes put it silently. "She don't want anything," said he meaningly. "Not from me. She may have anything she fancies to have." Faith's eyes went back to the other face. That the doctor's words had been understood there too, was evident from the little flitting colour, and the sick woman lay still with closed eyes, clasping Faith's hand as if she were holding herself back from drifting out on "that great and unknown sea." But she roused herself and spoke hurriedly. "Won't somebody pray for me?" Faith bent over until her lips almost touched the sufferer's cheek and her warm breath floated in the words, "I'll bring somebody--" then loosing her hold, she sprang from the bed and out into the other room. But when she had clasped Mr. Linden's hand, Faith bent down her head upon it, unable to speak. The strength it could, his hand gave her--and his voice. "What, my dear child?" Then Faith looked up. "She wants you to pray for her." And without waiting for the unnecessary answer, she led Mr. Linden to the door of the room, there dropped his hand and went in before him. Dr. Harrison was standing by the bedpost, and looked wordlessly upon the two as they entered. Mrs. Custers scanned the stranger's face as he came to wards her, with an anxious, eager look, as if she wanted to know whether he could do anything for her; the look changing to one of satisfaction. But to his low-spoken question as he took her hand, she gave an answer that was almost startling in its slow earnestness. "Pray that I may believe--and that _he_ may--and that God would bless her forever!" How was such a request to be met! then and there!--for a moment Mr. Linden's eyes fell. But then he knelt by her side, and met it most literally,--in tones very low and clear and distinct, in words that might have been angels' plumage for their soft bearing upward of the sufferer's thoughts. Faith could feel a slight trembling once or twice of the hand that held hers, but the bitterness of its grasp had relaxed. Dr. Harrison was behind her; whether he stood or knelt she did not know; but _he_ knew that when the other two rose to their feet, one of them was exceedingly pale; and his move, made on the instant, was to get her a glass of water. Faith only tasted it and gave it him back, and mounted to her former place on the bed. And for a little all was still, until Mr. Linden spoke again in the same clear, guiding tones. "'My God, within thy hand My helpless soul I trust! Thy love shall ever stand-- Thy promise must!--'" Then Mrs. Custers opened her eyes; and her first look was at Dr. Harrison. But whether the relaxed mental tension let the bodily weakness appear, or whether the tide was at that point where it ebbs most rapidly, her words were spoken with some trouble--yet spoken as if both to make amends and give information. "You meant to be very kind--" she said--"and you have--But _now_ I want to believe--even if it isn't any use." Her eyes passed from him--rested for a minute on Mr. Linden--then came to Faith, and never wavered again. "Read"--was all she said. With unnerved lip and quivering breath Faith began again her sweet utterance of some of those sweetest things. For a moment she longed to ask the other two listeners to go away and leave her alone; but reasons, different and strong, kept her mouth from speaking the wish; and then, once dismissed, it was forgotten. Her voice steadied and grew clear presently; its low, distinct words were not interrupted by so much as a breath in any part of the room. They steadied her; Faith rested on them and clung to them as she went along, with a sense of failing energy which needed a stay somewhere. But her words did not shew it, except perhaps that they came more slowly and deliberately. Mr. Linden had drawn back a little out of sight. Dr. Harrison kept his stand by the bedpost, leaning against it; and whatever that reading was to him, he was as motionless as that whereon he leaned. Till some little length of time had passed in this way, and then he came to Faith's side and laid his hand on her open book. "She does not hear you," he said softly. Faith looked at him startled, and then bent forward over the woman whose face was turned a little from her. "She is sleeping"--she said looking up again. "She will not hear you any more," said the doctor. "She breathes, regularly,--" "Yes--so she will for perhaps some hours. But she will not waken again,--probably." "Are you sure?" Faith said with another look at the calm face before her. "Very sure!"-- Was it true? Faith looked still at the unconscious form,--then her bible fell from her hands and her head wearily sunk into them. The strain was over--broken short. She had done all she could,--and the everlasting answer was sealed up from her. Those heavy eyelids would not unclose again to give it; those parted lips through which the slow breath went and came, would never tell her. It seemed to Faith that her heart lay on the very ground with the burden of all that weight resting upon it. She was not suffered to sit so long. "May I take you away?"--Mr. Linden said,--"you must not stay any longer." "Do you think it is no use?" said Faith looking up at him wearily. "It is of no use," said Dr. Harrison. He had come near, and took her hand, looking at her with a moved face in which there was something very like tender reproach. But he only brought her hand gravely to his lips again and turned away. Mr. Linden's words were very low-spoken. "I think the doctor is right.--But let me take you home, and then I will come back and stay till morning if you like--or till there comes a change. _You_ must not stay." "I don't like to go,"--said Faith without moving. "She may want me again." "There may be no change all night," said the doctor;--"and when it comes it will not probably be a conscious change. If she awakes at all, it will be to die. You could do nothing more." Faith saw that Mr. Linden thought so, and she gave it up; with a lingering unwillingness got off the bed and wrapped her furs round her. Mr. Linden put her into the sleigh, keeping Jerry back to let the doctor precede them; and when he was fairly in front, Faith was doubly wrapped up--as she had been the night of the fire, and could take the refreshment of the cool air, and rest. Very wearily, for a while, mind and body both dropped. Faith was as still as if she had been asleep; but her eyes were gazing out upon the snow, following the distant speck of the doctor's sleigh, or looking up to the eternal changeless lights that keep watch over this little world and mock its changes. Yet not so! but that bear their quiet witness that there is something which is not "passing away;"--yea, that there is something which "endureth forever." "He calleth them all by their names; for that he is strong in power, not one faileth." That was in Faith's mind along with other words--"The Lord knoweth them that are his." Her mind was in a passive state; things floated in and floated out. It was some time before Mr. Linden said anything--he let her be as silent and still as she would; but at last he bent over her and spoke. "My Mignonette"--and the thought was not sweeter than the words--"are you asleep?" "No--" she said in one of those etherial answering tones which curiously say a great many things. "Are you resting?" "Yes. I am rested." "You must try not to bear the burden of your work after it is done. Now lay it off--and leave your poor friend in the hands where I trust she has left herself. Her senses are not closed to his voice." "I do"--she said with a grateful look. "I know it is not my work--nor anybody's." He drew the furs up about her silently, arranging and adjusting them so as to keep off the wind which had risen a little. "We are not very far from home now,--we have come fast." And as Jerry did not relax his pace, the little distance was soon travelled over. How fair the lights in their own windows looked then!--with their speech of blessing and comfort. They all came together round the fire first, and then round the tea-table; Faith being specially watched over and waited on by both the others. Mrs. Derrick's half developed fear at their long stay, had given place to a sort of moved, untalkative mood when she heard the explanation, but a mood which relieved itself by trying every possible and impossible thing for Faith's refreshment. Every possible thing except refreshing talk--and that Mr. Linden gave her. Talk which without jarring in the least upon the evening's work, yet led her thoughts a little off from the painful part of it. Talk of the Christian's work--of the Christian's privilege,--of "Heaven and the way thither,"--of the gilding of the cross, of the glory of the crown. Faith heard and joined in it, but there was a point of pressure yet at her heart; and when they left the table and went into the other room, a slight thing gave indication where it lay. Faith took a little bench by Mrs. Derrick's side, drew her mother's arms round her close, and laid her head down on her lap. How softly, how tenderly, did Mrs. Derrick answer the caress, as if she read it perfectly!--touching Faith's hands and brow and cheeks with fingers that were even trembling. And at last--whether her child's mute pleading was too much for her,--whether the pain which had never left her heart since the day of Faith's overturn had by degrees done its work,--she bent down her lips to Faith's cheek and whispered--"Yes, pretty child--I mean to try." And so the door opened, and Cindy and Mr. Skip came in for prayers. Faith hid her face, but otherwise did not stir. How sweet the service was to them all that night!--yes, to them all; there was not one who could help feeling its influence. And yet it was very simple, and not very long,--Mr. Linden read first a few Bible passages, and then Wesley's hymn of the New Year,--with its bugle note of action,--and then to prayer, for which, by that time, every heart was ready. "Come let us anew our journey pursue, Roll round with the year, And never stand still till the Master appear. His adorable will let us gladly fulfil, And our talents improve, By the patience of hope and the labours of love. "Our life is a dream; our time, as a stream, Glides swiftly away, And the fugitive moment refuses to stay. The arrow is flown--the moment is gone; The millennial year Rushes on to our view, and eternity's here. "O that each, in the day of his coming, may say, I have fought my way through; I have finished the work thou didst give me to do. O that each from his Lord may receive the glad word, Well and faithfully done! Enter into my joy, and sit down on my throne." CHAPTER VIII. The first morning of the new year turned out as bright as could be desired for the great sleigh-riding expedition; the very day for it. And in the very mood for it were the people who were to go. Not but somewhat of last night's gravity hung about Faith's bright face; the one did no hurt to the other; for the best brightness is always sure to be grave, and the best gravity is almost sure to be bright, on some side. However there was nothing _contemplative_ about the character of things this morning; there was too much action afoot. Such an army of meats and drinks, with all sorts of odd ends and varieties, from the shoes to the fishing-net, and such an array of apples and sugarplums!--to marshal and order them all in proper companies and ranks, wanted a general! But Faith was by no means a bad general, and up to the act of stowing the sleigh, at which point the things were made over to Mr. Linden and Mr. Skip, her part was well done. And Mr. Linden found in the course of _his_ part of the business that Mrs. Derrick and Faith had followed a lead of their own. There had been a pretty packing and tying up and labelling at the table, before the sleigh-packing began,--Faith's busy little fingers went in and out with great dexterity; and either Mr. Linden thought it was pleasant to her--or knew it was pleasant to him, to have them so engaged; for though he stood by and talked to her, and laughed at her, he let the said little fingers have their way; except when they touched some harsh bit of string, or rough bit of paper, or unmanageable package, and then his own interfered. It was a bright packing up--without a shadow, at least that could be called such. But once or twice, when with some quick movement of Faith's hand the diamonds flashed forth their weird light suddenly,--she did see that Mr. Linden's eyes went down, and that his mouth took a set which if not of pain, was at least sad. It never lasted long--and the next look was always one of most full pleasure at her. But the second time, Faith's heart could hardly bear it. She guessed at the why and the what; but words were too gross a medium to convey from spirit to spirit the touch that love could give and pain bear. She watched her chance; and when one of Mr. Linden's hands was for a moment resting on a package that the other was busied in arranging, suddenly laying the jewelled hand on his, Faith's lips kept it company. "Faith!" he said. And then as if he saw it all, he did not say another word, only held her for a minute in a very, very close embrace. But then he whispered, "Faith--you must give me that in another way." Faith appeared to have exhausted her ammunition, for she only answered by hiding her face. "Faith"--Mr. Linden repeated. She looked up slowly, blushing all over; and her very doubtful face seemed to negative the whole proceeding. But then an irrepressible little laugh began to play. "I wouldn't do it," she said unsteadily,--"at least, I don't know that I would--if I hadn't wished so very much to give you something to-day;--and I have nothing else!--" And nerving herself desperately, Faith laid one hand on Mr. Linden's shoulder and slightly raising herself on her toes, did bestow on his lips as dainty a kiss as ever Santa Claus brought in his box of New Year curiosities. But she was overcome with confusion the moment she had done it, and would have rushed off if that had been possible. "Let me go"--she said hastily--"let me go!"-- In answer to which, she was held as securely fast as she ever had been in her life. Covering and hiding all of her face that she could, Faith renewed her request, in a comical tone of humility--as if she didn't deserve it. "I never felt less inclined to let you go!" "There is all that work to be done," said Faith, by way of possibly useful suggestion. "Mignonette, will you remember your new lesson?" She whispered softly, "No.--It was only Santa Claus." "Not Campaspe?" "No--Certainly not!" "You remember," said Mr. Linden, "that when--'Cupid and Campaspe played at cards for kisses, _Cupid paid_.'--I was unavoidably reminded of that. But you may go on with your work,--you know what happens when lessons are learned imperfectly." And liberty for her work she had; no more. "Child," said her mother coming in, "are you ready for your lunch?" "Why no, mother," said Faith with a little laugh,--"of course not! but I can take it as I go on. There's a good deal of 'sorting' to do yet. I hope the sleigh is big." "Take it as you go on, indeed!" said Mrs. Derrick. "You've got to stop and eat, child,--you can't live till night with nothing but other folk's dinners." Faith however declared she could not _stop_ to eat; and she contrived to carry on both the rival occupations together; and even to make right sure that no one else should attempt to live upon anything more etherial than sandwiches and pumpkin pie. She drank her coffee in the intervals of tying packages and writing labels, and ran about with a sandwich in one hand and a basket in the other; filling Mr. Linden's cup and putting tempting platefuls in his way. But he was as busy as she,--spending much of his time at the barn, where Squire Stoutenburgh's pretty little box sleigh was in process of filling with cloaks, buffalo robes, and commodities! At last everything was in, and Mr. Linden came to announce that fact to Faith,--furs and hood were donned, and the sleigh was off with its whole load. Bright, bright the snow was, and blue the shadows, and fair the white expanse of hill and meadow, all crisp and sparkling. Everybody was out--which was not wonderful; but so well had Mr. Linden disposed and covered up his packages, that all anybody could see was that he and Faith were taking a sleigh-ride,--which was not wonderful either. And before long they left the more frequented roads, and turned down the lane that led to the dwelling of Sally Lowndes. How different it looked now, from that summer evening when Faith had gone there alone. What a colouring then lay on all the ground that was now white with sunlight and blue with shade! And also, what a difference in the mental colouring. But Jerry, travelling faster than her feet had done, soon brought them to the house. Mr. Linden buckled the tie, and helped Faith to emerge from the buffalo robes; the winter wind blowing fresh from the sea, and sweeping over the down till Jerry shook his blanket in disapproval. "Now my little counsellor," said Mr. Linden, "what does your wisdom say should go in here--besides this basket of substantiate? I think you know more of these people than I do?"--And the surf in its cold monotony, said--"Anything warm!" "Mother has put in a shawl for Sally," said Faith, getting out the package;--(it was one that Mrs. Derrick found she could do without,)--"and a little paper of tea,--tea is Sally's greatest delight,--here it is!" Sally's abode was in nothing different from the run of poor houses in the country; unpainted of course, outside and inside; a rag carpet on the floor, a gay patchwork coverlet on the bed. Sally herself was in the rocking-chair before a little wood fire. But there was not the look of even poor comfort which may sometimes be seen; want, that told of lack of means and that also went deeper, was visible in everything. "I've come to wish you a happy new year, Sally," said Faith brightly. "Laws! I wonder where it's to come from!" said Sally. "If _wishin'_ I would fetch it--I've wished it to myself till I'm tired. Happy new years don't come to all folks. Aint that--How do you do, sir!--aint it the gentleman Jenny told of? that fell down at Mr. Simlins' door?" "And got up again?" said Mr. Linden. "Yes, I presume I am the very person Jenny told of. I remember that Jenny was very kind to me, too. Where is she?" "O she's to Mr. Simlinses all along! she's got a good place; she knows when she's comfortable. She don't think of me stayin' here all alone." "But aren't you comfortable, Sally?" said Faith. "I should like to know how I would be! Folks that _is_ comfortable thinks all the world is like them! If they didn't they'd help." "Well what is the first thing that would help to make you comfortable?" said Mr. Linden. Sally looked at him, up and down. "I'd like to see a speck o' somebody's face now and then. I mope and mope, till I wish I'd die to get rid of it! You see, sir, I aint as I used to was; and my family aint numerous now. There's no one lives in this house over my head but me and a girl what stays by me to do chores. Aint that a life for a spider?" Faith had been stealthily unfolding the shawl and now put it round Sally's shoulders. "Will _that_ help to make you comfortable?" she said gently. "Laws!" said Sally--"aint that smart! That's good as far as it goes. Where did that come from?" "Mother sent it to you, for New Year." "It's real becoming of her!" said Sally in a mollified tone, feeling of the shawl. "Well I won't say this New Years haint brought me something." "It brings you too much cold air at present," Mr. Linden said. "Do you know that window lets in about as much cold as it keeps out?" "Well I reckon I do," said Sally. "I've nothin' to do all day but sit here and realize onto it. There aint no such a thing as buildin' a fire in the chimney that'll keep out the cold from that winter." "I should think not!--the way is to attack the window itself," he said, looking at it as if he were studying the attack. "We've brought you something else here, Sally, to help keep out the cold," said Faith. "May I put the things in your closet--so as to carry home my basket?" "Yes, if you like. What have you got there, Faith?" said Miss Lowndes looking into the closet after her. "There's a piece of beef, Sally, of mother's own curing--all ready cooked--so you'll have nothing to do but cook your potatoes--and mother thought you'd like a few of our potatoes, they're good this year. Then here is a little paper of tea she sent you, and I've brought you one of my own pumpkin pies--so you must say it is good, Sally." "Well I'm beat!" said Sally. "Haint you got something else?" She was like to be beat on all hands; for Mr. Linden who had been examining the window while Faith emptied her basket, now went out and presently brought back hammer and nails and strips of lath, that made Faith wonder whether he had brought a tool-chest along. But the noise of his hammer was much more cheerful than the rattling of the window, and when it had done its work outside as well as in, the wind might whistle for admission in vain. He came in and stood by the fire for a moment then, before they set off, and asked Faith softly what else was wanted? And Faith whispered in answer-- "'The Dairyman's Daughter?' but you must give it." "Can't you get some comfort in reading your Bible, Sally?" said Faith while Mr. Linden went out to the sleigh with his hammer and nails. "Laws!" said Sally--"what's the use! I haint got the heart to take the trouble to read, half the time." "If you read one half the time, and pray too, Sally, you'll soon get heart for the other half." "It's easy talkin'"--was Sally's encouraging view of the case. "It's a great deal easier doing," said Faith. "If you try it, Sally, it'll make you so glad you'll never say you want comfort again." "Well you've brought me a heap to-day anyhow," said Sally. "Just look at that winder! I declare!--I 'spect I'll make out to eat my dinner to-day without scolding." Mr. Linden came back with the tract, but kept it in his hand for a minute. "Do you know, Sally, how a house is built upon the bare ground?" he said. "The mason lays down one stone, and then another on that; and if he cannot have his choice of stones he takes just what come to hand--little and big, putting in plenty of mortar to bind all together. Now that's the way you must build up a happy year for yourself,--and in that way every one can." The words were spoken very brightly, without a touch of faultfinding. "Well"--said Sally rocking herself back and forth in the rocking-chair--"I 'spect you know how."--Which might have been meant as a compliment, or as an excuse. "I think you do," said Mr. Linden smiling; "and I am going to leave you a true story of how it was really done by somebody else. Will you read it?" "Yes"--said Sally continuing to rock. "I'll do any thing you ask me to--after that winder. You've given me a good start--anyways. I'd as lieves hear you talk as most things." There was not time for much more talk then, however. Mr. Linden and Faith went away, leaving the little book on the table. But when Sally went to take a nearer view of its words of golden example, there lay on it the first real little gold piece Sally had ever possessed. "That was a good beginning," said Faith in a sort of quiet glee, after she had got into the sleigh again. "I knew, before, we were like a butcher and baker setting off on their travels; but I had no idea there was a carpenter stowed away anywhere!" And her laugh broke forth upon the air of those wild downs, as Jerry turned his head about. "I must be something, you know," said Mr. Linden,--"and I don't choose to be the butcher--and certainly am not the baker." They turned into the village again, and then down towards the shore; getting brilliant glimpses of the Sound now and then, and a pretty keen breeze. But the sun was strong in its modifying power, and bright and happy spirits did the rest. One little pause the sleigh made at the house where Faith had had her decisive interview with Squire Deacon, but they did not get out there; only gave a selection of comforts into the hands of one of the household, and jingled on their way shorewards. Not turning down to the bathing region, but taking a road that ran parallel with the Sound. "Do you remember our first walk down here, Faith?" said Mr. Linden,--"when you said you had shewed me the shore?" "Well I did," said Faith smiling,--"I shewed you what I knew; but you shewed me what I had never known before." "I'm sure you shewed me some things I had never known before," he said laughing a little. "Do you know where we are going now?"--they had left the beaten road, and entered a by-way where only footsteps marked the snow, and no sleigh before their own had broken ground. It seemed to be a sort of coast-way,--leading right off towards the dashing Sound and its low points and inlets. The shore was marked with ice as well as foam; the water looked dark and cold, with the white gulls soaring and dipping, and the white line of Long Island in the distance. "No, I don't know. Where are we going? O how beautiful! O how beautiful!" Faith exclaimed. "Hasn't every time its own pleasure! Where are we going, Endecott?" "To see one who Dr. Harrison 'fancies' may have 'something in him.' Whatever made the doctor take such a dislike to Reuben?" Faith did not answer, and instead looked forward with a sort of contemplative gravity upon her brow. Her cheeks were already so brilliant with riding in the fresh air that a little rise of colour could hardly have been noticed. "Do you know?" Faith presently replied that she supposed it was a dislike taken up without any sort of real ground. "Well to tell you the truth, my little Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "the doctor's twenty-five dollars gives me some trouble in that connexion. Reuben will take favours gladly from anybody that likes him, but towards people who do not (they are very few, indeed) he is as proud as if he had the Bank of England at his back. _I_ might send him a dinner every day if I chose; but if Reuben were starving, his conscience would have a struggle with him before he would take bread from Dr. Harrison." Faith listened very seriously and her conclusion was a very earnest "Oh, I am sorry!--But then," she went on thoughtfully,--"I don't know that Dr. Harrison _dislikes_ Reuben.--He don't understand him, how should he?--and I know they have never seemed to get on well together.--" "I chose to answer for him the other day," said Mr. Linden--"and I shall not let him refuse; but I have questioned whether I would tell him anything about the money till he is ready for the books. Then if he should meet the doctor, and the doctor should ask him!--" Faith was silent a bit. "But Reuben will do what you tell him," she said. "And besides, Reuben was doing everything he could for Dr. Harrison the other night--he can't refuse to let Dr. Harrison do something for him. I don't think he ought." "He had no thought of reward. Still, he would not refuse, if he supposed any part of the 'doing' was out of care for him,--and you know I cannot tell him that I think it is. But I shall talk to him about it. Not to-day: I will not run the risk of spoiling his pleasure at the sight of us. There--do you see that little beaver-like hut on the next point?--that is where he lives." Faith looked at it with curious interest. That little brown spot amidst the waste of snow and waters--that was where the fisherman's boy lived; and there he was preparing himself for college. And for what beside? "Will Reuben or his father be hurt at all at anything we have brought them?" she said then. "No, they will take it all simply for what it is,--a New Year's gift. And Reuben would not dream of being hurt by anything we could do,--he is as humble as he is proud. We are like enough to find him alone." And so they found him. With an absorbed ignoring of sleigh-bells and curiosity--perhaps because the former rarely came for him,--Reuben had sat still at his work until his visiters knocked at the low door. But then he came with a step and face ready to find Mr. Linden--though not Faith; and his first flush of pleasure deepened with surprise and even a little embarrassment as he ushered her in. There was no false pride about it, but "Miss Faith" was looked upon by all the boys as a dainty thing; and Reuben placed a chair for her by the drift-wood fire, with as much feeling of the unfitness of surrounding circumstances, as if she had been the Queen. Something in the hand that was laid on his shoulder brushed that away; and then Reuben looked and spoke as usual. Surrounding circumstances were not so bad, after all. Faith had noticed how carefully and neatly the snow was cleared from the door and down to the water's edge, and everything within bore the same tokens. The room was very tiny, the floor bare--but very clean; the blazing drift-wood the only adornment. Yet not so: for on an old sea chest which graced one side of the room, lay Reuben's work which they had interrupted. An open book, with one or two others beside it; and by them all, with mesh and netting-kneedle and twine, lay an old net which Reuben had been repairing. The drift-wood had stone supporters,--the winter wind swept in a sort of grasping way round the little hut; and the dashing of the Sound waters, and the sharp war of the floating ice, broke the stillness. But they were very glad eyes that Reuben lifted to Mr. Linden's face and a very glad alacrity brought forward a little box for Faith to rest her feet. "Don't you mean to sit down, Mr. Linden?" he said. "To be sure I do. But I haven't wished you a happy New Year yet." And the lips that Reuben most reverenced in the world, left their greeting on his forehead. It was well the boy found something to do--with the fire, and Faith's box, and Mr. Linden's chair! But then he stood silent and quiet as before. "Don't _you_ mean to sit down, Reuben?" said Faith. Reuben smiled,--not as if he cared about a seat; but he brought forward another little box, not even the first cousin of Faith's, and sat down as she desired. "Didn't you find it very cold, Miss Faith?" he said, as if he could not get used to seeing her there. "Are you getting warm now?" Faith said she hadn't been cold; and would fast enough have entered into conversation with Reuben, but she thought he would rather hear words from other lips, and was sure that other lips could give them better. "And have you got quite well, ma'm?" said Reuben. "Don't I look well?" she said smiling at him. "What are you doing over there, Reuben?--making a net?" "O I was mending it, Miss Faith." "I can't afford to have you at that work just now," said Mr. Linden,--"you know we begin school again to-morrow. You must tell your father from me, Reuben, that he must please to use his new one for the present, and let you mend up that at your leisure. Will you?" Reuben flushed--looking up and then down as he said, "Yes, sir,"--and then very softly, "O Mr. Linden, you needn't have done that!" "Of course I need not--people never need please themselves, I suppose. But you know, Reuben, there is a great deal of Santa Glaus work going on at this time of year, and Miss Faith and I have had some of it put in our hands. I won't answer for what she'll do with you!--but you must try and bear it manfully." Reuben laughed a little--half in sympathy with the bright words and smile, half as if the spirit of the time had laid hold of him. "You know, Mr. Linden," said Faith laughing, but appealingly too,--"that Reuben will get worse handling from you than he will from me!--so let him have the worst first." "I'll bring in your basket," was all he said,--and the basket came in accordingly; Reuben feeling too bewildered to even offer his services. Faith found herself in a corner. She jumped up and placed herself in front of the basket so as to hide it. "Wait!"--she said. "Reuben, how much of a housekeeper are you?" "I don't know, Miss Faith,--I don't believe I ever was tried." "Do you know how to make mince pies, for instance?" But Reuben shook his head, with a low-spoken, "No, Miss Faith,"--a little as if she were somehow transparent, and he was viewing the basket behind her. "Never mind my questions," said Faith, "but tell me. Could you stuff a turkey, do you think, if you tried?" "I suppose I could--somehow," Reuben said, colouring and laughing. "I never tried, Miss Faith." "Then you couldn't!" said Faith, her laugh rolling round the little room, as softly as the curls of smoke went up the chimney. "You needn't think you could! But Reuben, since you can't, don't you think you would let me do it once for you?" Reuben's words were not ready in answer. But a bashful look at Faith's face--and her hands,--one that reminded her of the clam-roasting,--was followed by a grateful, low-spoken--"I don't think you ought to do anything for _me_, Miss Faith." "I have had so much pleasure in it, Reuben, you'll have to forgive me;"--Faith answered, withdrawing from the basket. "You must look into that at your leisure, Reuben," Mr. Linden said, as he watched the play of feeling in the boy's face. "Miss Faith is in no hurry for her basket." Reuben heard him silently, and as silently lifted the basket from where it stood and set it carefully on the table. But then he came close up to Faith and stood by her side. "You are _very_ good, Miss Faith!" he said. "I don't know how to thank you." "Reuben!" said Faith colouring--"you mustn't thank me at all. I've just had the pleasure of doing--but it is Mr. Linden that has brought the basket here, and me too." "And he must take you away," Mr. Linden said. "Reuben, you may thank Miss Faith just as much as you please. If I had nothing else to do, I should invite my self here to dinner, but as it is I must be off. Are you ready?" he said to Faith, while in silence Reuben knelt down to put on again the moccasins which she had thrown off, and then she followed Mr. Linden. Reuben followed too,--partly to help their arrangements, partly at Mr. Linden's bidding to bring back the net. But when there was added thereto a little package which could only mean books, Reuben's cup of gravity, at least, was full; and _words_ of good-bye he had none. And for a few minutes after they drove away Faith too was silent with great pleasure. She hardly knew, though she felt, how bright the sun was on the snow, and how genial his midday winter beams; and with how crisp a gleam the light broke on ice points and crests of foam and glanced from the snow-banks. The riches of many days seemed crowded into the few hours of that morning. Were they not on a "shining" expedition! Had they not been leaving sunbeams of gladness in house after house, that would shine on, nobody knew how long! Faith was too glad for a little while not to feel very sober; those sunbeams came from so high a source, and were wrought in with others that so wrapped her own life about. So she looked at Jerry's ears and said nothing. "Faith," Mr. Linden said suddenly, "I wish I could tell you what it is to me to be going these rounds with you!" Faith shewed a quick, touched little smile. "I've been thinking just now,--what it means." "I should like to have the explanation of those last three words." "What it means?"--and the slight play of her lips did not at all hinder the deep, deep strength of her thought from being manifest.--"It means, all you have taught me and led me to!--" "You don't intend to lead me to a very clear understanding," he said playfully, and yet with a tone that half acknowledged her meaning. "Do you ever remember what you have taught me?--They say one should at the end of the year, reckon up all the blessings it has brought,--but I know not where to begin, nor how to recount them. This year!--it has been like the shield in the old fable,--it seemed to me of iron to look forward to--so cold and dark,--and it has been all gold!" "Did it look so?" she said with quick eyes of sympathy. "Yes, little Sunbeam, it looked so; and there were enough earthly reasons why it should. But unbelief has had a rebuke for once;--if I know myself, I am ready now to go forward without a question!" Over what Hill Difficulty did that future road lie?--He did not explain, and the next words came with a different tone,--one that almost put the other out of Faith's head. "My little Sunbeam, do you keep warm?" "Yes"--she said with a somewhat wistful look that came from a sunbeam determined upon doing its very best of shining, for him. But she was silent again for a minute. "There are plenty of sunbeams abroad to-day, Endecott," she said then with rare sweetness of tone, that touched but did not press upon his tone of a few minutes ago. "Dear Faith," he said looking at her, and answering the wistfulness and the smile and the voice all in one,--"do you know I can never find words that just suit me for you?--And do you know that I think there was never such a New Year's day heard of?--it is all sunshine! Just look how the light is breaking out there upon the ice, and touching the waves, and shining through that one little cloud,--and guess how I feel it in my heart. Do you know how much work of this sort, and of every sort, you and I shall have to do together, little child, if we live?" It was a look of beauty that answered,--so full in its happiness, so blushing and shy; but Faith's words were as simple as they were earnest. "I wish it. There can't be too much." Their course now became rather irregular; crossing about from one spot to another, and through a part of the country where Faith had never been. Here was a sort of shore population,--people living upon rocks and sand rent free, or almost that; and supporting themselves otherwise as best they might. A scattered, loose-built hamlet, perching along the icy shore, and with its wild winds to rock the children to sleep, and the music of the waves for a lullaby. But the children throve with such nursing, if one might judge by the numbers that tumbled in the snow and clustered on the doorsteps; and the amusement they afforded Faith was not small. The houses were too many here to have time for a _visit_ to each,--a pause at the door, and the leaving of some little token of kindness, was all that could be attempted; and the tokens were various. Faith's loaves of bread, and her pieces of meat, or papers from the stock of tea and sugar with which she had been furnished, or a bowl of broth jelly for some sick person,--a pair of woollen stockings, perhaps, or a flannel jacket, for some rheumatic old man or woman,--or a bible,--or a combination of different things where the need demanded. But Faith's special fun was with the children. When they first entered the hamlet, Mr. Linden brought forward and set at her feet one basket of trifling juvenile treasures, and another filled more substantially with apples and cakes and sugarplums; and then as all the children were out of doors, he drove slowly and let her delight as many of them as she chose. What pleasure it was!--those little cold hands, so unwonted to cakes and that could hardly hold apples,--how eagerly, how shyly, they were stretched out!--with what flourishes of bare feet or old shoes the young ones scampered away, or stood gazing after Jerry's little dust-cloud of snow;--ever after to remember and tell of this day, as one wherein a beautiful lady dressed up like a pussy cat, gave them an apple, or a stick of candy, or a picture book! Faith was in a debate between smiles and tears by the time they were through the hamlet and dashing out again on the open snow, for Mr. Linden had left all that part of the business to her; though the children all seemed to know him--and he them--by heart. And good note Faith took of that, and laid up the lesson. She had been a very good Santa Claus the while, and had acted the part of a sunbeam indifferent well; being just about so bright and so soft in all her dealings with those same little cold hands and quick spirits; giving them their apples and candy with a good envelope of gentle words and laughter. Seeing that she had it to do, she went into the game thoroughly. But once she made a private protest. "Do you know, Endecott, these things would taste a great deal sweeter if your hand gave them?" "I know nothing of the sort! Sweeter?--look at that urchin deep in peppermint candy,--could anything enhance the spice or the sweetness of that?" "Yes," said Faith shaking her head--"and look at that little girl before him, who took the apple and looked at you all the while!" "She has an eye for contrast," he said laughing, "and is probably wondering why all people can't look alike!" Faith did not secretly blame her, but she left that subject. It was to the furthest point of their round that they went now,--another fisherman's house--far, far off, on the shore. A little larger than Reuben's, but not so neatly kept; as indeed how could it be? with so many children,--or how could the house hold them, in those times of weather when they condescended to stay in! They were in pretty good order, to do their mother justice, and she in great delight at the sight of her visiters. There was no room for silence here--or at least no silence in the room, for Mrs. Ling was never at a loss for words. And there was no need of much circumlocution in presenting the turkey,--nothing but pleasure could come of it, let it enter on which foot it would; and the train of potatoes, and tea, and bread, and other things, fairly made Mrs. Ling's eyes shine,--though she talked away as fast as ever. The children were in spirits too great to be got rid of in any ordinary way, especially the youngest walking Ling; whose turn having not yet come for a pair of shoes from his father's pocket, was now to be fitted out of Mr. Linden's sleigh. And the shoes did fit--and little Japhet marked his sense of the obligation by at once requesting Faith to tie them. Which Faith did in a state of delight too great for words. "Now what do you feel like?" she said, when Japhet was fairly shod and she still stooping at his feet. "I feel like a king!" said Japhet promptly,--which had been the height of his unrepublican ambition for some time. "Dear sakes!" said his mother, who had heard the child's request too late to interfere,--"I hope you'll not mind him, ma'am,--he oughter know better, but he don't. And poor things, when they gets pleased--it aint often, you see, ma'am, so I can't be hard upon 'em. Do you feel warm?--we do make out to keep warm, most times." "I am quite warm, thank you; but I should think you'd feel the wind down here. Japhet,"--said Faith, who had brought in her basket of varieties and whose quiet eyes were fairly in a dance with fun and delight,--"which do you think kings like best--cookies or candy?" To which Japhet with equal promptness replied, "Candy--and cookies." "Don't!"--his mother said again,--but the basket of varieties looked almost as wonderful to her eyes as to those of the children, who now gathered round as near as they dare come, while Mrs. Ling cautiously peeped over their heads. "I see you feel like a king!" said Faith filling both Japhet's hands.--"There! now I hope you don't feel like Alexander." "Alexander haint got nothin'!" said Japhet, looking towards his eldest brother. Which did not overset Faith's gravity, because by this time she had none to speak of. Alexander's delight was found to be in red apples, and he thought a little common top a treasure such as neither Diogenes nor the real Alexander knew of between them! One little girl was made happy with a wonderful picture-book in which there were a dog, a cat, and a lion with a great mane just ready to eat a man up, with the stories thereto pertaining; and a neat little slate seemed a most desirable acquisition to the bright eyes of an older girl. They were all more satisfied than the conqueror of the world by the time Faith rose from the basket; and then she offered her tribute of gingerbread to Mrs. Ling. The little girl with the slate, once released from the spell of the basket, went up to Mr. Linden (who had stood looking on) and said,--"She's awake now, if you please, sir,"--and he turned and went into the next room, leaving Mrs. Ling to entertain Faith as best she might. For which Mrs. Ling was most ready. "Ma always does want to see him"--she said. "You see, ma'am, she can't never get up now, so it's a play to hear somebody talk. And ma likes him special. Mr. Somers he's been kind too--and Mrs.--he come down when ma was first took, and since; but someways she don't just see into him much. I don' know but it's along of his bein' better than other folks--but after all, a person wants to have even good things talked to 'em so's they can understand. Now Mr. Linden,--my Mary there 'll listen to him for an hour, and never lose a word." And Mary's bright little eyes answered that readily, while Mrs. Ling's went back to the basket. "I can't believe!" she said. "You don't know what you've done, ma'am! Why there aint one o' them children as ever see a real live turkey cooked, in their existence." "You don't know what pleasure I had in doing it for them, Mrs. Ling. Mr. Linden told me there was a houseful of children." "Well so there is!" said Mrs. Ling looking round the room,--"and it's no wonder he thinks so, for they tease him most out of his life sometimes when he's here,--or would if he wam't as good-natured as the day's long. But there aint one too many, after all said and done, for I've got nothing else,--so if it warn't for them I should be poorly off." With which reverse statement of the case, Mrs. Ling complacently smoothed down four or five heads, and tied as many aprons. "Ma," said little Mary, "will Mr. Linden sing for us to-day?" "I dare say--if you ask him pretty," said her mother. "No, I guess he's busy and won't be bothered." "He never _is_ bothered," said Mary persistently, while two or three of the others recovering from their apples and shyness, ventured up to Faith again and began to stroke her furs. "What does he sing for you, Jenny?" said Faith, taking the little picture-book girl on her lap, and glad to put her own face down in a somewhat sheltered position. "O he sings hymns--" said Jenny, gazing abstractedly at the lion and the cat by turns,--"and other things too, sometimes." "Hymns are very interesting. And beautiful--don't you think so?" said Mary drawing nearer. "Yes, indeed I do," said Faith stretching out her hand and pulling the little girl up to her. "What ones do you like best, Mary?" But Mary's answer stayed, for Mr. Linden came back at that moment, and skilfully making his way up to Faith without running over any of the little throng, he told her he was ready. And Faith, though secretly wishing for the song as much as any of the children, set Jenny on the floor and rose up; while Mr. Linden laughingly shewed her "an excellent way of investing ten cents," by giving the children each one. Meanwhile Mrs. Ling had been emptying the basket. There was the cold turkey in the full splendour of its rich brown coat--a good large turkey too; but lest there should not be enough of it to go round to so many mouths, Mrs. Derrick and Faith had added a nice piece, ready boiled, of salt pork. Then there were potatoes, and some of Faith's bread,--and a paper of tea and another of sugar; and there was arrowroot, made and unmade, for the sick woman, with some broth jelly. It was one of those houses where a good deal was wanted, and the supply had been generous in proportion. Mrs. Ling was at her wits' end to dispose of it all; and the children watched her in a gale of excitement, till the last thing was carried off, and Mrs. Ling began to shake out the napkins and fold them up. But then they came round Mr. Linden with their petition, urging it with such humble pertinacity, that he was fain at last to comply. It was only a child's Christmas hymn, set to a simple, bright, quick tune, which at first kept some of the smallest feet in a greater state of unrest than the older children thought at all respectful. "O little children, sing! Jesus, your Lord and King For you a child became: On that bright Christmas day He in a manger lay, Who hath the one Almighty name! "Come children, love him now, Before the Saviour bow, Give him each little heart. His spotless nature see,-- Then like him spotless be, And choose his service for your part. "The joy of loving him Shall never fade nor dim,-- While worldly joys fly fast:-- Jesus to see and love, First here and then above, Such joy shall ever, ever last. "I'll give myself away On this new Christmas day,-- He gave his life for me! Jesus, my heart is thine, O make it humbly shine With ever-living love to thee! "O Jesus, our Great Friend, Our Saviour, without end Thy praises we will bring! Glory to God's high throne! Peace now on earth is known, And we for joy may ever sing!" "There"--Mr. Linden said, breaking the hush into which the children had subsided, and gently disengaging himself from them,--"now I have given you something to think of, and you must do it, and let me go." And he and Faith were presently on their way; Faith feeling that she had "something to think of" too. The sun was westing fast as they turned, but now their way lay towards home, via sundry other places. The long sunbeams were passing lovely as they lay upon the snow, and the fantastic shadows of Jerry and the sleigh and all it held, were in odd harmony and contrast. The poverty-stricken house to which the two had walked that memorable night, had been already visited and passed, and several others with sick or poor inhabitants. Then Mr. Linden turned off down one of the scarce broken by-roads, and stopped before a little lonely brown house with an old buttonwood tree in front. "There is a blanket to go in here, Faith," he said as he took her out, "and also my hammer!--for there is always something to do." "Always something to do at this house?" "Yes," he answered laughingly,--"so you must hold in check your aversion to carpenters." "If you'll please have a charity for the butcher and baker, and tell me what I shall take in here? for my part." "O we'll go in and find out,--these good people are never just suited unless they have the ordering of everything. They'll tell us what they want fast enough, but if we guessed at it beforehand, they would maybe find out that those were just the things they did _not_ want. Only my hammer--I'm sure of that." The "good people" in question, were an old man and his wife, living in one little room and with very little furniture. Very deaf the old man was, and both of them dimsighted, so that the old bible on the shelf was only a thing to look at,--if indeed it had ever been anything more, which some people doubted. This was one of the first things Mr. Linden took hold of after the kind greetings were passed, and he gave it to Faith; telling her that old Mr. Roscom always expected his visitors to read to him, and that if she would do that, he would mend Mrs. Roscom's spinning-wheel--which he saw was ready for him. Faith threw back her hood and her furs, and took a seat close by the old man; and the first thing he heard was her sweet voice asking him where she should read, or if he liked to hear any part in particular. "No," he said, "he liked to have it surprise him." Faith pondered how she should best surprise him, but she had not much time to spare and no chance to ask counsel. So she read as her heart prompted her,--first the fifth chapter of II. Corinthians--with its joyful Christian profession and invitation to others; then she read the account of Jesus' healing the impotent man and bidding him "sin no more"; and then she turned over to the Psalms and gave Mr. Roscom the beautiful 103d psalm of thanksgiving,--which after those other two passages seemed particularly beautiful. This was work that Faith loved, and she read so. How softly the hammer worked while she read, she might have noticed if her mind had not been full; but though she had no word from that quarter, Mr. Roscom's opinion was clear. "That's good," he said,--"and strong;--and I'm obleeged to ye." And then, the wheel being near done, there was a little skilful talk gone into; in the course of which Faith and Mr. Linden learned, that the old couple were "real tired of salt meat, some days"--and that rye bread "warnt thought wholesome by itself"--and that "if their tea should give out they didn't know what they _should_ do!"--and that "times when the old man was a little poorly, nothing on airth would serve him but a roasted potato!" All of which was said just for the pleasure of talking to sympathizing faces,--without the least idea of what was at the door. The blanket was too old a want to be spoken of, but Faith needed only to look at the bed. And then she looked at Mr. Linden, in delighted watch to see what his next move would be; in the intervals of her chat with Mr. Roscom, which was very lively. Mr. Linden had finished his work, and stood balancing his hammer and listening to the catalogue of wants with a smile both grave and bright. "Are these just the things you wish for?" he said. "Well--'your Father knoweth that ye have need of them,'--and he has sent them by our hands to-day; so you see that you may trust him for the future." He laid his hand on Faith's shoulder as an invitation to her to follow, and went out to the sleigh. She was at the side of it as soon as he, and in it the next minute, stopping to give him only with the eye one warm speech of sympathy and joy. "You haven't put up a basket specially for these people, of course," she said,--"so we shall have to take the things from everywhere. There's a beautiful chicken in that basket, Endecott--I know; that's the largest one we have left; and bread--there aren't but two loaves here!--shall we give them both? Or do we want one somewhere else?" "I think we may give them both. And Faith--don't you think a roasted apple might alternate usefully with the potato?" Faith dived into the receptacle for apples and brought out a good quantity of the right kind. Potatoes were not in very large supply, but tea and sugar were--blessed things!--unfailing. "And here is a pumpkin pie!" said Faith--"I am sure they'll like that--and as many cookies and cruller as you like. And what else, Endecott?--O here's a pair of those big socks mother knit--wouldn't they be good here?" "Very good, dear child!--and this blanket must go--and some tracts,--that will furnish more reading. You run in with those, Faith--these other things are too heavy for you." "I've strength enough to carry a blanket," said Faith laughing. "Well, run off with that too, then," said Mr. Linden, "only if your strength gives out by the way, please to fall on the blanket." Faith managed to reach the house safely and with a bright face deposited the blanket on a chair. "I got leave to bring this in to you, Mrs. Roscom," she said. "I suppose you know what Mr. Linden means you to do with it." Perhaps they had seen no two people in the course of the day more thoroughly pleased than these two. The sources of pleasure were not many in that house, and the expectation of pleasure not strong; and the need of comforts had not died out with the supply; and old and alone as they were, the looking forward to possible cold and hunger was a trial. It was easy to see how that blanket warmed the room and promised a mild winter, and how the socks be came liniment,--and it seemed doubtful whether the old man would ever be sick enough for roast potatoes, with the potatoes really in the house. So with other things,--they took a childish pleasure even in the cakes and pie, and an order for wood was a real relief. And what a dinner they were already eating in imagination! Mr. Linden had put Faith in the sleigh, with the last sunset rays playing about her; and he stood wrapping her up in all sorts of ways, and the old man and the old woman stood in the door to see. Then in a voice which he supposed to be a whisper, Mr. Roscom said,-- "Be she his wife?" "He didn't say--and I don' know _what_ he said," screamed Mrs. Roscom. "Wal--she's handsome enough for it--and so's he," said the old man contemplatively. "I hope he'll get one as good!" Very merrily Mr. Linden laughed as they drove away. "I hope I shall!" he said. "Faith, what do you think of that? And which of us has the compliment?" But Faith was engaged in pulling her furs and buffalo robes round her, and did not appear to consider compliments even a matter of moonshine; much less of sunshine. Her first words were to remark upon the exceeding beauty of the last touch the sunlight was giving to certain snowy heights and white cumuli floating above them; a touch so fair and calm as if heaven were setting its own seal on this bright day. "Is your heart in the clouds?" Mr. Linden said, bending down to look at her with his laughing eyes. "How can you abstract your thoughts so suddenly from all sublunary affairs! Do you want any more wrapping up?" A little flashing glance of most naive appeal, and Faith's eyes went down absolutely. "You may as well laugh!" he said. "One cannot get through the world without occasionally hearing frightful suggestions." Faith did laugh, and gave him another _good_ little look, about which the only remarkable thing was that it was afraid to stay. "What were your cloudy remarks just now?" said Mr. Linden. "I wanted you to look at the beautiful light on them and those far-off ridges of hill--it is not gone yet." "Yes, they are very beautiful. But I believe I am not in a meditative mood to-day,--or else the rival colours distract me. Faith, I mean to put you in the witness-box again." "In the witness-box?"--she said with a mental jump to Neanticut, and a look to suit. "Yes--but we are not on the banks of Kildeer river, and need not be afraid," he said with a smile. "Faith--what ever made you take such an aversion to Phil Davids?" "I don't dislike him,"--she said softly. "I did not mean to doubt your forgiving disposition! But what did he do to displease you?" Did Mr. Linden know? or did he _not_ know! Faith looked up to see. He was just disentangling one of the lines from Jerry's tail, but met her look with great composure. "It's an old thing,"--said Faith. "It's not worth bringing up." "But since I have brought it--won't you indulge me?" The red on Faith's cheeks grew brilliant. "It isn't anything you would like,--if I told it to you.--Won't you let me let it alone?" "I should like to hear you tell it." "He made one or two rude speeches"--said Faith in very great doubt and confusion;--"that was all." "_That_ I knew before." "Did you?" said Faith looking at him. "How did you know it, Endecott?" There was a curious gentle, almost tender, modulation of tone in this last sentence, which covered a good deal of possible ground. Mr. Linden drew up one of her mufflers which had fallen off a little, giving her as he did so a silent though laughing answer, as comprehensive as her question. "You are just the dearest and most precious little child in the whole world!" he said. "But why are you afraid to tell me _now?_--and why did Phil's insinuation cause you such dismay?" Faith's confusion would have been, as her rosy flush was, extreme,--if something in Mr. Linden's manner had not met that and rebuked it, healing the wound almost before it was made. Between the two Faith struggled for a standing-ground of equanimity,--but words, though she struggled for them too, in her reason or imagination she could not find. "I want an answer to one of these questions,"--Mr. Linden said, in a playful sort of tone. "Dr. Harrison used to ask me if you lived upon roses--but do you think I can?" Faith made an effort. "What do you want me to say?" "What was it in Phil's words that troubled you so much?" The crimson rush came back overwhelmingly. "Oh Endy--please don't ask me!" "Not quite fair,"--he said smiling. "I'm sure I am willing to tell _you_ anything. Though indeed I do not suppose you need much telling. But Faith--is _that_ the system of tactics by which you intend always to have your own way? I shall have to be philosophical to any point!" "That speech is so very zigzag," said Faith, "that I cannot follow it. How are you going to be philosophical, Mr. Linden?" "Not by forgetting to exact your forfeit, Miss Derrick." "That isn't fair," said Faith laughing. "I didn't for get!--I shouldn't think you had gone all day without eating anything!--and yet you must be starving." "For what? little provider." "For something to eat, I should think." "Does that mean that you are suffering?--because if that be the case, I will refresh you (cautiously) with sugar-plums! A very superfluous thing, to be sure, but the most suitable I can think of." Faith's laugh came clear now. "No indeed. Suffering! I never eat so many dinners in one day in my life. But I am hungry though, I believe. How many more places are we going to? I don't care how many," she said earnestly. "I like to be hungry." "Well, keep up your spirits,--the next turn will bring us out of the woods, and a three-minute stay at one or two doors will end our work for this time. Meanwhile, do you want to hear a little bit of good poetry--on an entirely new subject?" "Oh yes! if you please." Demurely enough it was given.-- "'Her true beauty leaves behind Apprehensions in my mind Of more sweetness, than all art Or inventions can impart. Thoughts too deep to be expressed, And too strong to be repressed.'" She gave him a wistful look as he finished the lines; and then sat among her furs, as quiet again as a mouse. "Do you like them, Mignonette?" "Yes--very much." "Would you like to tell me then why the hearing of them makes you sober?" "Yes--if you wish"; she said gently. "I know--a little--I believe,--what you think of me; but what I seem to your eyes on the outside--and much more!--I want to be really, really--in the sight of the eye that tries the heart--and I am not now, Endy." "My dear child--" he said,--and was silent a minute, speeding smoothly along through the starlight; then went on. "Yes, dear Faith,--that is what I wish for you--and for myself. That is where we will most earnestly try to help each other." And presently, as eye and thoughts were caught and held by the wonderful constellation above in the clear sky, yet not drawn away from what they had been talking of, Mr. Linden said,-- "'Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion,--that bringeth the shadow of death upon the day, and turneth the night into morning!'" And so, in the thought of that, they went home; Orion looking down upon them, and they leaving bits of brightness by the way at the two or three houses which yet remained. The box sleigh got home at last emptied of all its load but the two travellers. Mrs. Derrick and supper were ready for them, and had been a good while; and by this time Mr. Linden and Faith were ready for supper. And much as Mrs. Derrick had to hear, she had something to tell. How Judge Harrison had come to make a visit and say good-bye, and how he had put in her hands another twenty-five dollars to be added to those his son had already bestowed on Reuben. Squire Stoutenburgh too had been there; but his errand was to declare that Jerry could never be received again into his service, but must henceforth remain in Mrs. Derrick's stable and possession. Altogether, the day even at home had been an exciting one. A little time after supper Faith went into the sitting-room. Mr. Linden was there alone. Faith came up to the back of his chair, laid a hand on his shoulder, and bent her head into speaking neighbourhood. It may be remarked, that though Faith no longer said "Mr. Linden," yet that one other word of his name was _never_ spoken just like her other words. There was always a little lowering or alteration of tone, a slight pause before--or after it, which set and marked it as bordered round with all the regards which by any phrase could be made known. "Endecott"--she said very softly,--"do you know what you have been doing to-day?" "Comprehensively speaking--I have been enjoying myself," he said with a bright smile at her. "You have been giving me a lesson all the while, that I felt through and through." "Through and through?" he repeated. "Come round here, little bird--you need not perch on the back of my chair. What are you singing about?" "Of what you have taught me to-day." "I must have fallen into a very unconscious habit of lesson-giving. What have I taught you?--suppose you teach me." "How one should 'hold forth the word of life.'" "Ah little bird!"--he said, with a look at her which said his day's lesson had been the same, yet on different grounds. "Well--if you can learn anything from so imperfect a teacher, I am glad. But do not rest there,--take up the olive leaf and bear it on!" CHAPTER IX. Mrs Derrick went to Pequot the next day, and found Miss Danforth as Faith had left her; or rather, somewhat more failing in everything but mind-strength. Mrs. Derrick was greatly welcomed by both ladies; but she had not been there three hours when Miss Dilly spoke out what was on her heart. "Isn't Faith coming back to me again?" For Faith's sake her mother hesitated, and yet it was for Faith's sake that she answered,--"Yes, if you want her." "It won't be for long I shall want her,"--said Miss Dilly with a quietness very unlike her old self:--"but I would like to have her dear face and music about me once more--if she can let me." Mrs. Derrick came back with Mr. Stoutenburgh to Pattaquasset that same evening; and Faith put up her books and made immediate preparations for going to Pequot in her stead. "I must let you go, child," said her mother,--"I couldn't refuse." "And I am so glad to-morrow is Wednesday, for I can take you over," said Mr. Linden. Wednesday afternoon was very fair, and after dinner Faith and all her needful baggage were bestowed in the little sleigh, and the journey began. Not very much of a journey indeed, unless compared with the length of day-light; but as fair and bright and pleasant as a journey could be. Full of talk of all sorts,--gliding on through the fading day and the falling night, until ----"the floor of heaven Was thick inlaid with patines of bright gold." Very bright the stars were, very dark the sky, when Jerry's bells began to mingle with a crowd of others in the streets of Pequot. Faith had insisted that Mr. Linden should come in and have a cup of tea or coffee before he went back again; and this being a not unreasonable request, besides a pleasant one, she had her way. Miss Danforth was in her room and could not see Mr. Linden. Faith with a kiss and a word established the little Frenchwoman to talk to him, obtaining leave to do what she pleased; though Madame Danforth managed to have her share in the hospitality; got out cups and saucers for Faith and Mr. Linden both on a little table by the fire,--her rolls and her butter; talking all the while to him; and took a minute to run down into the kitchen and see that Faith and the coffee-pot were getting on properly. And it may be said in passing that the result did credit to both. The coffee served to Mr. Linden was faultless. Madame Danforth however had hardly presented him his cup, when she was called off and her guests were left alone. "Faith," said Mr. Linden, "you must not forget that you have something to do for me as well as for other people while you are here." "I don't forget it. But what do you mean, Endecott?" "To put it in the most effective way--I mean that you must take care of me!" he said smiling. "I will. As good care as you would take of yourself." "That is a little ambiguous! But will you send me word very often of your success?" Faith looked up and looked at him, a little startled. "Do you mean--" "I mean that there is a postoffice in Pattaquasset--and another in Pequot." She coloured, and somewhat hastily busied herself with refilling Mr. Linden's cup. Then she folded her hands and sat looking into the fire with a face on which there was a touching expression of humbleness. "My little Mignonette," he said, "what are you thinking of?" "I am thinking of that,"--she said with a smile which did not change the expression. "Of what you want me to do--and about it." "What about it? Are you inditing a letter to me on the spot?" "No." "What then?" Faith would have liked to have her face out of sight, but she couldn't, conveniently. "I am thinking, how I shall do it--and how you will not like it." "_You_ don't know"--said Mr. Linden. "Let me tell you how I shall like it. I shall read it, and love it, and answer it--will that satisfy you? or do you want me to hang it round my neck by a blue ribband?--because if you do, I will." The laughing flash of Faith's eye contained nevertheless a protest. "No, you will not like it, because it will not be fit for you to like; but you will have patience with it,"--she said with a smile which did in its loveliness bid good-bye to shadows. Mr. Linden left the table, and standing before her as she had risen too, took her face softly in both hands and raised it up for his inspection. "Do you know what a naughty child you are?" A most quaint little "yes." "Then why don't you behave better?" he said, enforcing his question but not releasing her. "I suppose you will teach me, in time"--she said, blushing and sparkling under his hands. He seemed to like to study her face--or was thinking that he should not see it again for some time,--the expression on his own belonged to more than one thing. "You must not make me wait for that letter, Faith," he said--"and I must not let you keep me any longer here! But if you want anything, of any sort, you must send to me." "Yes!--to you or to mother." "To me--if it is anything I can do," he said as he bade her good-bye. "And take care of yourself, dear child, for me." And releasing her at last, none too willingly, Mr. Linden went out alone into the starlight. He did not see--nor guess--how Faith stood before the fire where he had left her, looking down into it,--motionless and grave until Madame Danforth came back. Then all that part of her life was shut up within her, and Faith was again to other eyes what she had been before at Pequot. Yet not so entirely the same, nor was all that part of her life so entirely shut up to herself, that both her aunt and Madame Danforth did not have a thought and exchange a word on the subject. "The sun has found the blossom!" said the little Frenchwoman knowingly one day; "they do not open so without that!" "Nonsense!" said Miss Danforth. "I will ask her." But she never did. And for a little while again Faith filled her old office. Miss Dilly had no troubles or darkness to clear away now; the Bible was plain sailing to her; but she could never spread her sails too soon or too full for that navigation. Early and late, as before, Faith read to her, with a joy and gladness all brightened from the contrast of that Sunday night's reading, and coming with a fuller spring since that one little word of her mother the same night. Indeed the last few days had seemed to make the Bible even greatly more precious to Faith than ever before. She clung more fast, she searched more eagerly, among its treasures of riches, to its pillars of strength; valuing them all, as it seemed to her, with a new value, with a fresh knowledge of what might be found and won there for others and herself. So with the very eagerness of love Faith read the Bible to Miss Dilly; and so as she had done before, many a time, early and late, in childlike simpleness prayed at her bedside and by her chair. And as before when she was at Pequot she won Madame Danforth's heart, she intrenched herself there now. She was all over the house, carrying a sunbeam with her; but Faith never thought it was her own. She was a most efficient maid of all work, for nursing and too much care had worn poor Madame Danforth not a little. Faith was upper servant and cook by turns; and sometimes went to market; made every meal pleasant with her gentle happy ways; and comforted the two old ladies to the very top of comfort. Whether she wanted to be at home or not, Faith did not stop to ask herself. But those letters--those letters--they were written, and they were carried to the postoffice--and others were found at the postoffice in reply to them. And what had been such trial in the proposition, became, even in the first instance, the joy of Faith's life. She wrote hers how she could; generally at night, when she could be quite uninterrupted and alone. It was often very late at night, but it was always a time of rare pleasure and liberty of heart; for if the body were tired, the spirit was free. And Faith's was particularly free, for the manacles and fetters of pride which weigh so bitter heavy on many a mind and life, her gentle and true spirit had let fall. She knew--nobody better--that her letters were not like those letters of Mr. Linden's sister, Pet:--those exquisite letters, where every grace and every talent of a finely gifted and fully cultivated mind seemed playing together with all the rich stores of the past and realities of the present. She knew, that in very style and formalities of execution, her own letters were imperfect and unformed. But she was equally sure that in time what was wrong in this kind would be made right; and she was not afraid to be found wrong, at all, for her own sake. It was because of somebody else, that she had flinched from this writing proposal; because she felt that what was wrong in _her_ touched him now. But there again, Faith wrote, trusting with an absolute trust in the heart and hand to which she sent her letters; willing to be found wrong if need be; sure to be set right truly and gently. And so, Faith wrote her own heart and life out, from day to day, giving Mr. Linden precisely what he wanted, and with a child's fearlessness. It was a great thing to go to the postoffice those days! Faith left it to nobody else to do for her. And how strange--how weird, almost, the signature of those letters and her own name on the outside looked to her, in the same free, graceful handwriting which she had read on that little card so long ago! And the letters themselves?--enough to say, that they made Faith think of the way she had been sheltered from the wind, and carried upstairs when her strength failed, and read to and talked to and instructed,--that they made her long to be home and yet content to be there; giving her all sorts of details, of things in Pattaquasset and things elsewhere--just as the writer would have talked them to her; with sometimes a word of counsel, or of caution, or of suggestion,--or some old German hymn which she might find of use in her ministrations, written out in full. It may be mentioned in passing, that the fair little face he had been looking at, or her evident fear of writing to him, made Mr. Linden write to her that very night; a little sugarplum of a letter, which Faith had for her dinner next day. And Faith read these letters at all sorts of times, and thought of them at other times; and made them next to her Bible--as she should. CHAPTER X. Two weeks passed quietly, without much apparent change in Miss Danforth; and Faith was beginning to think of appointing a time to go home. But the necessity for that was suddenly superseded. The Friday following, Miss Dilly took a change for the worse, and Saturday she died. Faith sent off tidings immediately to Pattaquasset; but her letter could not reach there till Monday; and Monday came a very great fall of snow which made travelling impossible. Faith waited patiently, comforting Madame Danforth as she might, and endeavouring to win her to some notion of that joy in the things of the Bible in which Miss Dilly had lived and died. For no change had come over Miss Dilly's sky; and she had set sail from the shores of earth in the very sunlight. It fell out, that Faith's letter of Saturday afternoon had been five minutes too late for the mail; and after lying in the office at Pequot over Sunday, had been again subjected to the delays of Monday's storm, which in its wild fury put a stop to everything else; and thus, when Mr. Linden went to the office Tuesday morning before school time, the mail had not yet got in. Not long after, however, Mr. Skip brought home the letters; and Mrs. Derrick reading hers, at once took Mr. Skip and Jerry and set off for Pequot; minding neither snowdrifts nor driving wind, when the road to Faith lay through them, and arriving there quite safe about the hour of midday. The delayed funeral took place the same afternoon. And the next morning, in a brilliant cold day, snow all over the ground and the sky all blue, the mother and daughter set forth homewards. Madame Danforth was going to take another relation in, and live on still in the little house where she and her sister-in-law had made a happy home for so many years. Miss Danforth had left a few hundreds, three or four, to Faith. It was all she had owned in the world; her principal living having been an annuity settled upon her by her brother, which reverted to Madame Danforth. It was about mid-afternoon when they reached home, and of course the house held no one but Cindy; except indeed that sort of invisible presence which books and other inanimate things make known; and Cindy had to tell of two or three visiters, but otherwise nothing. Very fair it all looked to Faith,--very sweet to her ear was the sound of the village clock, although as yet it was only striking three. She did not say much about the matter. A gleeful announcement that she was glad to be at home, she made to Mrs. Derrick; but after that she expressed herself in action. One of her first moves was to the kitchen, determined that there should be a double consciousness of her being at home when supper-time came. Then books were got out, and fires put in wonderful order. Mr. Linden might guess, from the state in which he found his room, that it had come under its old rule. No such fire had greeted him there for weeks; no such brushed-up clean hearth; no such delicate arrangement of table and chairs and curtains and couch. But the fire burned quietly and told no tales, otherwise than by its very orderly snapping and sparkling. And indeed it so happened, that Mr. Linden went first into the sitting-room,--partly to see if any one was there, partly because the day was cold, and under Cindy's management there was small reason to suppose that his room was warm. And once there, the easy-chair reminded him so strongly that he was tired, that he even sat down in it before going upstairs,--which combination a long walk through the snowdrifts since school, made very acceptable. Five minutes after, Faith having got rid of her kitchen apron, opened softly the door of the sitting-room. She stopped an instant, and then came forward, her gladness not at all veiled by a very rosy veil of shy modesty. There was no stay in his step to meet her,--he had sprung up with the first sound of her foot on the threshold; and how much she had been missed and longed for Faith might guess, from the glad silence in which she was held fast and for a minute not allowed to speak herself. So very glad!--she could see it and feel it exceedingly as he brought her forward to the fire, and lifted up her face, and looked at it with eyes that were not easily satisfied. "My little Sunbeam," he said, "how lovely you are!" She had been laughing and flushing with a joy almost as frankly shewn as his own; but that brought a change over her face. The eyes fell, and the line of the lips was unbent after a different fashion. "I don't know what it is like to see you again," Mr. Linden said as his own touched them once more,--"like any amount of balm and rest and refreshment! How long have you been here, dear child? and how do you do?--and have you any idea how glad I am to have you home?" She answered partly in dumb show, clasping one hand upon his shoulder and laying down her head upon it. Her words were very quiet and low-spoken. "We came home a while ago--and I am very well." Mr. Linden rested his face lightly upon her shining hair, and was silent--till Faith wondered; little guessing what thoughts the absence and the meeting and above all her mute expression, had stirred; nor what bitterness was wrapped in those sweet minutes. But he put it aside, and then took the sweetness pure and unmixed; giving her about as much sunshine as he said she gave him. "How do you like writing to me, Faith?" he said. "Am I, on the whole, any more terrific at a distance than near by?" "I didn't know you could be so good at a distance,"--she said expressively. "Did you find out what reception your letters met?" "I didn't want to find out." "Do you call that an answer?" he said smiling. "Why didn't you want to find out?--and _did_ you?" "Why!"--said Faith,--"I didn't want to find out because it wasn't necessary. I _did_ find out that I liked to write. But you wouldn't have liked it if you had known what time of night it was, often." "What do you think of taking up a new study?" said Mr. Linden. "It strikes me that it would do you good to stand in the witness-box half an hour every day,--just for practice. Faith--did you find out what reception your letters met?" "I knew before--" she said, meeting his eyes. "Did you!--then what made you assure me I should not like them?" "I don't think you did, Endecott--the parts of them that you oughtn't to have liked." "Truly I think not!" he said laughing. "You are on safe ground there, little Mignonette. But speaking of letters--do you want more tidings from Italy?" "O yes I if you please. Are they good? And has all been good here with you and the school since I have been away?" "Yes, they are good,--my sister--and yours--is enjoying herself reasonably. And the boys have been good,--and I--have wanted my Mignonette." One word in that speech brought a soft play of colour to Faith's face, but her words did not touch that point. The days went on very quietly after that, and the weeks followed,--quietly, regularly, full of business and pleasure. Quick steps were made in many things during those weeks, little interrupted by the rest of Pattaquasset, some of the most stirring people of that town being away. An occasional tea-drinking did steal an evening now and then, but also furnished the before and after walk or ride, and so on the whole did little mischief; and as Faith was now sometimes taken on Mr. Linden's visits to another range of society, she saw more of him than ever; and daily learned more and more--not only of him, but of his care for her. His voice--never indeed harsh to any one--took its gentlest tones to her; his eye its softest and deepest lustre: no matter how tired he came home--the first sight of her seemed to banish all thought of fatigue. Faith could feel that she was the very delight of his life. Indeed, by degrees, she began to understand that she had long been so--only there had once been a qualification,--now, the sunshine of his happiness had nothing to check its expression, or its endeavour to make her life as bright. That he took "continual comfort" in her, Faith could see. And--child!--he did not see what this consciousness spurred her to do; how the strength of her heart spent itself--yet was never spent--in efforts to grow and become more worthy of him and more fit for him to take comfort in. The days were short, and Faith's household duties not few, especially in the severe weather, when she could not let her mother be tried with efforts which in summer-time might be easy and pleasant enough. A good piece of every day was of necessity spent by Faith about house and in the kitchen, and faithfully given to its work. But her heart spurred her on to get knowledge. The times when Mr. Linden was out of school could rarely be study times, except of study with him; and to be prepared for him Faith was eager. She took times that were hers all alone. Nobody heard her noiseless footfall in the early morning down the stair. Long before it was light,--hours before the sun thought of shewing his face to the white Mong and the snowy houseroofs of Pattaquasset, Faith lighted her fire in the sitting-room, and her lamp on the table; and after what in the first place was often a good while with her Bible, she bent herself to the deep earnest absorbed pressing into the studies she was pursuing with Mr. Linden--or such of them as the morning had time for. Faith could not lengthen the day at the other end; to prevent the sun was her only chance; and day after day and week after week, through the short days of February, she had done solid work and a deal of it before anybody in the house saw her face in the kitchen or at breakfast. They saw it then as bright as ever. Mr. Linden only knew that his scholar made very swift and smooth progress. He would have known more, for Faith would have shewn the effects of her early hours of work in her looks and life the rest of the day, but happiness is strong; and a mind absolutely at peace with God and the world has a great rest! Friction is said to be one of the notable hindering powers in the world of matter--it is equally true, perhaps, of the world of spirit. Without it, in either sphere, how softly and with how little wear and tear, everything moves! And Faith's life knew none. CHAPTER XI. It was near the end of February,--rather late in the afternoon of a by no means balmy day, in the course of which Dr. Harrison had arrived to look after his repairs. But the workmen had stopped work and gone home to supper, and the doctor and his late dinner sat together. Luxuriously enough, on the doctor's part, for the dinner was good and well cooked, the bottles of wine irreproachable (as wine) in their silver stands, the little group of different coloured glasses shining in the firelight. The doctor's fingerbowl and napkin stood at hand, (at this stage of the proceeding) his half-pared apple was clearly worth the trouble, and he himself--between the fire and his easy-chair--might be said to be "in the lap of comfort." Comfort rarely did much for him but take him on her lap, however--he seldom stayed there; and on the present occasion the doctor's eyes were very wide open and his thoughts at work. It might be presumed that neither process was cut short, when the old black man opened the door and announced Mr. Linden. But if Mr. Linden could have seen the doctor's face just before, he might have supposed that his entrance had produced rather a sedative effect. For the brow smoothed itself down, the eye took its light play and the mouth its light smile, and the doctor's advance to meet his friend was marked with all its graceful and easy unconcern. He did not even seem energetic enough to be very glad; for grace and carelessness still blended in his welcome and in his hospitable attentions, nothing of which however was failing. He had presently made Mr. Linden as comfortable as himself, so far as possible outward appliances could be effectual; established him at a good side of the table; Burnished him with fruit and pressed him with wine; and then sitting at ease at his own corner, sipped his claret daintily, eyeing Mr. Linden good humouredly between sips; but apparently too happily on good terms with comfort to be in any wise eager or anxious as to what Mr. Linden's business might be, or whether he had any. "Has the news of my arrival flown over Pattaquasset already?" said he. "I thought I had seen nothing but frieze jackets, and friezes of broken plaster--and I have certainly felt so much of another kind of _freeze_ that I should hardly think even news could have stirred." Mr. Linden's reception of the doctor's hospitality had been merely nominal--except so far as face and voice had the receiving, and he answered quietly-- "I don't know. I happened to want you, doctor, and so I found out that you were here." "Want me? I am very glad to be wanted by you--so that it be not _for_ you. What is it, my dear Linden?" "No--you will not be glad," said Mr. Linden,--"though it is both for me and not for me. I want you to go with me to see one of my little scholars who is sick." "Who is he?" "One whom you have seen but will not remember,--Johnny Fax." "Fax--" said the doctor--"I remember the name, but no particular owner of it. What's the matter with him?" "I want you to come and see." "Now?"-- "As near that as may be." "Now it shall be, then; though with such a February night on one side, it takes all your power on the other to draw me out of this chair. You don't look much like Comedy, and I am very little like the great buskin-wearer--but I would as lieve Tragedy had me by the other shoulder as February, when his fingers have been so very long away from the fire. Did you ever read Thomson's 'Castle of Indolence,' Linden?" "Not to much purpose--the name is all I remember." "Stupid book,"--said the doctor;--"but a delightful place!" The luxury of broadcloth and furs in which the doctor was presently involved might have rendered him reasonably independent, one would think, of February or any other of Jack Frost's band. Jerry was at the door, and involving themselves still further in buffalo robes the two gentle men drove to the somewhat distant farm settlement which called Jonathan Fax master. Mr. Fax was a well-to-do member of the Pattaquasset community, as far as means went; there was very little knowledge in his house how to make use of means. Nor many people to make use of the knowledge. The one feminine member of the family had lately married and gone off to take care of her own concerns, and Jonathan and his one other child lived on as best they might; the child being dependant upon the maid of all work for his clothes and breakfast, for his Sunday lessons upon Faith, for the weekday teaching and comfort of his little life upon Mr. Linden. Living along in this somewhat divided way, the child had suddenly taken sick--no one just knew how; nor just what to do with him--except to send Mr. Linden word by one of the other boys, which had been done that afternoon. And thus it was, that Dr. Harrison had been looked for, found, and drawn out into the February night with only the slight protection of furs and broadcloth. Thus it was that after a short and rather silent drive, the two gentlemen went together into the last-century sort of a house, received the angular welcome of Jonathan Fax, and stood side by side by the bed where the sick child lay. Side by side--with what different faces! A difference which Johnny was quick to recognize. He lay on the bed, wrapped in a little old plaid cloak, and with cheeks which rivalled its one remaining bright colour; and half unclosing his heavy eyes to see the doctor, he stretched out his arms to Mr. Linden, clasping them round his neck as his friend sat down on the bedside and gently lifted him up, and receiving the kiss on his flushed cheek with a little parting of the lips which said how glad he was. But then he lay quite still in Mr. Linden's arms. Whatever attractions the Castle of Indolence might have for Dr. Harrison upon occasion, he never seemed so much as to look that way when he was at his work. Now, it made no difference that _he_ was no friend of Johnny's; he gave his attention thoroughly and with all his skill to the condition and wants of his little patient. "Is there nobody to take care of him?" he asked in French, for Jonathan Fax with his square and by no means delicate and tender physiognomy stood at the other side of the bed heavily looking on. "I shall, to-night," said Mr. Linden. "You may give me your directions." The doctor proceeded to do this; but added, "He wants care and good nursing; and he'll suffer if he don't have it. He is a sick child." "He shall have it," was all the answer; and when the doctor had finished his work for the time, Mr. Linden laid the child on the bed again, giving him a whispered promise to come back and stay with him all night; upon the strength of which promise Johnny fell into a deep sleep. "Has the creature nobody to take care of him?" said the doctor as they went out. "Nobody at home." "I shall be here a day or two, Linden--I'll see him early in the morning again." Mr. Linden's next move through the biting air was to drive home. At the door of the sitting-room Faith met him. "Endecott--how is he?" "Less well than I expected to find him, dear Faith. I found Dr. Harrison and took him there with me." "And what did Dr. Harrison say of him?" "That he wanted good care and nursing." "And who is there to give it to him, Endy?" she said with a very saddened and earnest face. "Why I shall give it to him to-night, my child, and we'll see about to-morrow. The doctor promised to go there again in the morning." She stood a moment silent, and then said, "I'll go with you." "Not to-night, dear--it is not needful. He will not want more than one watcher." "But he might want something else--something to be done that a woman about the house might be wanted for--let me go too!--" "No indeed! you must go to sleep. And he will hardly want anything but what I can give him to-night. I know well what your little hands are in a sick room," he said taking them in his own,--"I know well!--but they are not made of iron--nor are you." Faith looked ill satisfied. "Well, you'll not hinder my taking your place by him to-morrow, Endy?" "If I can," Mr. Linden said, "I shall come home to breakfast, and then I may know what you had better do; but if I should be detained there, and so not get here till midday, wait for me--I should not like to have you go without seeing me again; and I can leave Reuben there for the morning if need be." "Oh Endecott!--" she said with a heart full; but she said no more and ran away. She came back soon to call Mr. Linden to tea, which had waited; and after tea when he was about going she put a basket in his hand. "I hope Mr. Fax has wood in his house, so that you can keep a fire,--but you are not likely to find anything else there. You'll want everything that is in this, Endy--please remember." "I will not forget," he said, as he gave her his thanks. "But what did that exclamation mean, before tea?" "What exclamation?--Oh--" said Faith, smiling somewhat but looking down, "I suppose it meant that I was disappointed." "My dear little child--you must try not to feel disappointed, because I am quite sure you ought not to go; and that must content both you and me. So good night."-- Faith tried to be contented, but her little scholar lay on her heart. And it lay on her heart too, that Mr. Linden would be watching all night and teaching all day. He did not know how much he had disappointed, for she had laid a fine plan to go by starlight in the morning to take his place and send him home for a little rest before breakfast and school. Faith studied only one book that night, and that was her Bible. It was a night of steady watching,--broken by many other things, but not by sleep. There was constantly some little thing to do for the sick child,--ranging from giving him a drink of water, to giving him "talk," or rocking and--it might be--singing him to sleep. But the restless little requests never had to wait for their answer, and with the whole house sunk in stillness or sleep, Mr. Linden played the part of a most gentle and efficient nurse--and thought of Faith, and her disappointment. And so the night wore away, and the morning star came up, and then the red flushes of sunrise. "Who turneth the night into day"--Mr. Linden thought, with a grave look from the window to the little face beside him--and then the words came,-- "In the morning, children, in the morning; We'll all rise together in the morning!" It was very early indeed, earlier even than usual, when Faith came down and kindled her fire. And then leaving it to burn, she opened the curtains of the window and looked out into the starlight. It was long before the red flush of the morning; it was even before the time when Faith would have gone to relieve the guard in that sick room; her thoughts sped away to the distant watcher there and the sick child. Faith could guess what sort of a watching it had been, and it was a comfort to think that Johnny had it. But then as she looked out into the clear still starlight, something brought up the question, what if Johnny should die?--It was overwhelming to Faith for a minute; her little scholar's loveliness had got fast hold of her heart; and she loved him for deep and far-back associations too. She could not bear to think that it might be. Yet she asked herself if this was a reasonable feeling? Why should she be sorry--if it were so--that this little blossom of Heaven should have an early transplanting thither? Ah, the fragrance of such Heaven-flowers is too sweet to be missed, and Earth wants them. As Faith looked sadly out into the night, watched the eternal procession of bright stars, and heard the low sweep of the wind, the words came to her,--separated from their context and from everything else as it seemed,--"I, the Lord, do all these things." Her mind as instantly gave a glad assent and rested itself in them. Not seen by her or by mortal the place or fitting of any change or turn of earthly things, in the great plan,--every one such turn and change had its place, as sure as the post of each star in the sky--as true to its commission as that wind, which came from no one knew where to go no one knew whither. Faith looked and listened, and took the lesson deep down in her heart. Mr. Linden's little basket had stood him well in stead that long night,--for Faith had said truth; nothing was for him in Mr. Fax's house. Mr. Fax was well enough satisfied that Johnny's teacher should take the trouble of nursing the child, had no idea that such trouble would necessarily involve much loss of sleep, and still further no notion of the fact that a watcher at night needs food as much as fire. Fire Mr. Linden had, but he would have been worse off without the stores he found in his basket. In truth the supply generally was sufficient to have kept him from starving even if he had been obliged to go without his breakfast; but Dr. Harrison concerned himself about his little patient, and was better than Mr. Linden's hopes. He came, though in the cold short February morning, a good while before eight o'clock. He gave Mr. Linden a pleasant clasp of the hand; and then made his observations in silence. "Is this one of your favourites?" he said at length. A grave "yes." "I am sorry for it." Mr. Linden was silent at first, looking down at the child with a sort of expression the doctor had not often seen, and when he spoke it was without raising his eyes. "Tell me more particularly." "I don't know myself,"--said the doctor with a frankness startling in one of his profession; but Dr. Harrison's characteristic carelessness nowhere made itself more apparent than in his words and about what people might think of them.--"I don't say anything _certainly_--but I do not like appearances." "What is the matter?" "It's an indefinite sort of attack--all the worse for that!--the root of which is hid from me. All you can do is to watch and wait. Have you been here through the night?" "Yes," Mr. Linden answered--and put the further question, "Do you think there is any danger of contagion?" "O no!--the fever, what there is, comes from some inward cause--a complicated one, I judge. I can guess, and that's all. Are there no women about the house?" "None that are good for much." And looking at his watch, Mr. Linden laid the child--who had fallen asleep again--out of his arms among the pillows, arranging them softly and dextrously as if he were used to the business. "Reuben Taylor will stay with him for the present," he said as he turned to Dr. Harrison. "I'll come again by and by," the doctor said. "Meanwhile all that can be done is to let him have this, as I told you." The directions were given to Reuben, the doctor drove off, and Mr. Linden set out on his quick walk home; after the confinement of the night, the cold morning air and exercise were rather resting than otherwise. It was a very thoughtful half hour--very sorrowful at first; but before he reached home, thought, and almost feeling, had got beyond "the narrow bounds of time," and were resting peacefully--even joyfully--"where bright celestial ages roll." He entered the house with a light step, and went first upstairs to change his dress; but when he came down and entered the sitting-room, there was the tone of the whole walk upon his face still. Faith put her question softly, as if she expected no glad answer. And yet it was partly that, though given in very gentle, grave tones. "There is more to fear than to hope, dear Faith,--and there is everything to hope, and nothing to fear!" She turned away to the breakfast-table; and said little more till the meal was over. Then she rose when he did. "I am going now, Endy!"--The tone was of very earnest determination, that yet waited for sanction. "Yes," he answered--"Dr. Harrison says the fever is not contagious, I waited to know that. If I can I shall get free before midday, so I may meet you there. And can you prepare and take with you two or three things?"--he told her what. Faith set about them; and when they were done, Mr. Skip had finished his breakfast and got Jerry ready. Some other preparations Faith had made beforehand; and with no delay now she was on her swift way to little Johnny's bedside. She came in like a vision of comfort upon the sick room, with all sorts of freshness about her; grasped Reuben's hand, and throwing back her hood, stooped her lips to Johnny's cheek. And Johnny gave her his usual little fair smile--and then his eyes went off to the doorway, as if he half expected to see some one else behind her. But it was from no want of love to _her_, as she knew from the way the eyes came back to her face and rested there, and took a sort of pleased survey of her hood and, her fur and her dress. "Dear Johnny!--Can you speak to me?" said Faith tenderly touching her cheek again to his. "Oh yes, ma'am," he said, in a quiet voice and with the same bit of a smile. That was what Faith wanted. Then she looked up. "Are you going to school now, Reuben?" "I didn't expect to this morning, Miss Faith," Reuben said with a sober glance at his little comrade. "Then you can wait here a bit for me." Leaving Reuben once more in charge, Faith went on a rummaging expedition over the house to find some woman inmate. Not too easily or speedily she was found at last, the housekeeper and all-work woman deep in _all work_ as she really seemed, and in an outer kitchen of remote business, whither Faith had traced her by an exercise of determinate patience and skill. Having got so fur, Faith was not balked in the rest; and obtaining from her some of Johnny's clean linen which she persuaded her to go in search of, she returned to the room where she had left Reuben; and set about making the sick child as comfortable as in his sickness he could be. It was a day or two already since Johnny had lain there and had had little effectual attention from anybody, till Mr. Linden came last night. The child might well look at his new nurse, for her neat dress and gentle face and soft movements were alone a balm for any sick place. And in her quiet way, Faith set about changing the look of this one. There was plenty of wood, and she made a glorious fire. Then tenderly and dextrously she managed to get a fresh nightgown on Johnny without disturbing him more than pleasantly with her soft manipulations; and wrapping him in a nice little old doublegown which she had brought with her and which had been a friend of her own childish days, Faith gave him to Reuben to hold while she made up the bed and changed the clothes, the means for which she had also won from the housekeeper. Then having let down the chintz curtains to shield off the intense glare of the sunny snow, Faith assumed Johnny into her own arms. She had brought vinegar from home, and with it bathed the little boy's face and hands and brushed his hair, till the refreshed little head lay upon her breast in soothed rest and comfort. "There, Johnny!"--she whispered as her lips touched his brow,--"Mr. Linden may come as soon as he pleases--we are ready for him!" The child half unclosed his eyes at the words, and then sunk again into one of his fits of feverish sleep, the colour rising in his cheeks a little, the breath coming quick. Reuben knelt down at Faith's side and watched him. "I used to wonder, Miss Faith," he said softly, "what would become of him if Mr. Linden ever went away"--and the quiet pause told what provision Reuben thought was fast coming for any such contingency. "You can't think what Mr. Linden's been to Johnny, Miss Faith," he went on in the same low voice,--"and to all of us," he added lower still. "But he's taken such care of him, in school and out. It was only last week Johnny told me he liked coming to school in the winter, because then Mr. Linden always went home with him. And whenever he could get in Mr. Linden's lap he was perfectly happy. And Mr. Linden would let him, sometimes, even in school, because Johnny was so little and not very strong,--and he'd let him sit in his lap and go to sleep for a little while when he got tired, and then Johnny would go back to his lessons as bright as a bee. That was the way he did the very first day school was opened, for Johnny was frightened at first, and a mind to cry--he'd never had anybody to take much care of him. And Mr. Linden just called him and took him up and spoke to him--and Johnny laid his head right down and went to sleep; and he's loved Mr. Linden with all his heart ever since. I know we all laughed--and he smiled himself, but it made all the rest of us love him too." Reuben had gone on talking, softly, as if he felt sure of sympathy in all he might say on the subject. But that "first day school was opened!"--how Faith's thoughts sprang back there,--with what strange, mixed memories the vision of it came up before her! That day and time when so many new threads were introduced into her life, which were now shewing their colours and working out their various patterns. It was only a spring there and back again, however, that her thoughts took; or rather the vision was a sort of background to Reuben's delineations, and her eye was upon these; with what kind of sympathy she did not care to let him see. Her cheek was bent down to the sick child's head and Faith's face was half hidden. Until a moment later, when the door opened and Johnny's father came in to see what was become of him; and then Mr. Fax had no clue to the lustrous softness of the eyes that looked up at him. He could make nothing of it. "What!" said he. "Why who's Johnny got to look after him now?" "I am his teacher, sir." "His teacher, be you? Seems to me he's a lot of 'em. One teacher stayed with him last night. How many has he got, among you?" "Only two--" said Faith, rejoicing that she was _one_. "I am his Sunday school teacher." "Well what's your name, now?" "Faith Derrick." "_That's_ who you be!" said Mr. Fax in surprise. "Don't say! Well Johnny's got into good hands, aint he? How's he gettin' along?" Faith's eye went down to the little boy, and her hand passed slowly and tenderly over his hair; she was at a loss how to answer, and Reuben spoke for her. "He's been sleeping a good deal this morning." The father stooped towards the child, but his look went from him to Faith, with a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness as he spoke. "Sleepin', is he?--Then I guess he's gettin' along first-rate--aint he?" Again Faith's look astonished the man, both because of its intent soft beauty and the trembling set of her lip. But how to answer him she did not know. Her head sunk over the child's brow as she exclaimed, "His dear Master knows what to do with him!" Jonathan Fax stood up straight and looked at Reuben. "What does she mean!" "She means that he is in God's hands, and that we don't know yet what He will do," Reuben answered with clear simplicity. Yet it was a strange view of the subject to Mr. Fax; and he stood stiff and angular and square, looking down at Faith and her charge, feeling startled and strange. Her face was bent so that he could not see that quiver of her lip now; but he did see one or two drops fall from the lowered eyelids on Johnny's hair. Perhaps he would have asked more questions, but he did not; something kept them back. He stood fixed, with gathering soberness growing over his features. Little he guessed that those tears had been half wrung from Faith's eyes by the contrast between his happy little child and him. It was with something like a groan at last that he turned away, merely bidding Reuben Taylor to call for anything that was wanted. The morning wore on softly, for Johnny still slept. Reuben went quietly about, giving attention where it was needed; to the fire, or to the curtains--drawn back now as the sun got round--or bringing Faith a footstool, or trying some other little thing for her comfort; and when he was not wanted remaining in absolute stillness. As it neared midday, however, he took his stand by the window, and after a short watch there suddenly turned and left the room. And a moment after Mr. Linden came in. Faith met him with a look of grave, sweet quiet; in which was mingled a certain joy at being where she was. She waited for him to speak. But something in her face, or her office, moved him,--the gravity of his own look deepened as he came forward--his words were not ready. He sat down by her, resting his arm on the back of her chair and giving her and Johnny the same salutation--the last too softly to rouse him. "Has the doctor been here?" he said first. "No." He was silent again for a minute, but then Johnny suddenly started up--waking perhaps out of some fever dream; for he seemed frightened and bewildered, and almost ready to cry; turning his head uneasily away from everything and everybody as it seemed, until his eyes were fairly open, and then giving almost a spring out of Faith's arms into those of Mr. Linden; holding him round the neck and breathing little sobbing breaths on his shoulder, till the resting-place had done its work,--till Mr. Linden's soft whispered words had given him comfort. But it was a little wearily then that he said, "Sing." Was it wearily that the song was given? Faith could not tell,--she could not name those different notes in the voice, she could only feel that the octave reached from earth to heaven. "'How kind is Jesus, Lord of all! To hear my little feeble call. How kind is Jesus, thus to be Physician, Saviour, all to me! 'How much he loves me he doth shew; How much he loves I cannot know. I'm glad my life is his to keep, Then he will watch and I may sleep. 'Jesus on earth, while here I lie; Jesus in heaven, if I die: I'm safe and happy in his care, His love will keep me, here or there. 'An angel he may send for me, And then an angel I shall be. Lord Jesus, through thy love divine, Thy little child is ever thine.'" Faith had drawn her chair a little back and with her head leaning on the back of Mr. Linden's chair, listened--in a spirit not very different from Johnny's own. She looked up then when it was done, with almost as childlike a brow. It had quieted him, as with a charm, and the little smile he gave Faith was almost wondering why she looked grave. "You've been here a good while," he said, as if the mere announcement of the fact spoke his thanks. "Has she?" Mr. Linden said. "What has Miss Faith done with you, Johnny, if she has been here a good while?" "All sorts of things," Johnny answered, with another comprehensive expression of gratitude. "I thought so!" said Mr. Linden. "I shouldn't wonder a bit if she had dressed you up in something she used to wear herself." "She wasn't ever so little," the child said softly. Faith had been preparing for him a cup of some light nourishment which he was to take from time to time, and now coming to Mr. Linden's side kneeled down there before Johnny to give it to him. The child took the delicate spoonfuls as she gave them, turning his fair eyes from her to Mr. Linden as if he felt in a very sweet atmosphere of love and care; and when she went away with the cup he said in his slow fashion, "I love her very much." And Faith heard the answer-- "And so do I." Coming up behind Mr. Linden she laid her hand on his shoulder. "Endecott--where are you going to take dinner and rest to-day?" "O I will take rest by the way," he answered lightly, and with a smile at her. "There is dinner enough in my supper basket--I have not much time for it, neither." "School again this afternoon?" "Yes I must be there for awhile." Faith moved away, remarking in a different tone, "Your supper basket is at home, sir!"--and busied her energies about serving him as she had just served Johnny. With something more substantial however. Faith had brought a lunch basket, and in five minutes had made Mr. Linden a cup of home tea. "Now how shall we manage?" she said;--"for Johnny must have you every minute while you are here--and there is no such thing as a little table. I shall have to be table and dumb waiter for you--if you won't mind." And so Faith pulled up her chair again and sat down, with the basket open on her lap and Mr. Linden's cup in her hand. "I only hope," she said, "that Dr. Harrison will not choose this particular minute to come in! If he does, catch the cup of tea, Endecott!--for I won't answer for anything." "I don't know whether I should be most sorry or proud, in case of such event," said Mr. Linden,--"however, I do not wish the doctor anything so disagreeable. But I will promise to catch the cup of tea--and everything else, down to his displeasure. Only you must not be a _dumb_ waiter; for that will not suit me at all." It was one of those pretty bits of sunshine that sometimes shew themselves in the midst of a very unpromising day, the time when they sat there with the lunch basket between them. The refreshment of talk and of lunch (for lunch _is_ refreshing when it is needed) brightened both faces and voices; and Mr. Linden's little charge, in one of his turns of happy rest and ease, watched them--amused and interested--till he fell asleep. By that time Mr. Linden's spare minutes were about over. As he was laying Johnny gently down on the bed, Faith seized her chance. "You'll let me stay here to-night--won't you, Endecott?" "It would not be good for you, dear child,--if you stay until night it will be quite as much as you ought to do. But I will see you again by that time." "I am strong, Endecott." "Yes, you are strong, little Sunbeam," he said, turning now to her and taking both her hands,--"and yet it is a sort of strength I must guard. Even sunbeams must not be always on duty. But we'll see about it when I come back." Mr. Linden went off to his other sphere of action, and soon after Reuben came softly in, just to let Faith know that he was at hand if she wanted anything, and to offer to take her place. "Reuben!" said Faith suddenly, "have you had any dinner?" "O yes, ma'am--enough," Reuben said with a smile. "I brought something with me this morning." Faith put her lunch basket into his hand, but her words were cut short; for she saw Dr. Harrison just coming to the house. She moved away and stood gravely by the fire. The doctor came in pulling off his glove. He gave his hand to Faith with evident pleasure, but with a frank free pleasure, that had nothing embarrassing about the manner of it; except the indication of its depth. After a few words given with as easy an intonation as if the thermometer were not just a few degrees above zero outside where he had come from, the doctor's eye went over to the other person in the room; and then the doctor himself crossed over and offered his hand. "I shall never see you, Reuben,"--said he with a very pleasant recollective play of eye and lip,--"without thinking of a _friend_." The doctor had a more full view of Reuben's eyes, thereupon, than he had ever before been favoured with,--for one moment their clear, true, earnest expression met his. But whatever the boy read--or tried to read--or did not read, he answered simply, as he looked away again, "You have been that to me, sir." "I don't know--" said the doctor lightly. "I am afraid not according to your friend. Mr. Linden's definition. But reckon me such a one as I _can_ be, will you?"--He turned away without waiting for the answer and went back to Faith. "Do you know," he said, "I expected to find you here?" "Very naturally," said Faith quietly. "Yes--it is according to my experience. Now how is this child?"-- He turned to see, and so did Faith. He looked at the child, while Faith's eye went from Johnny to him. Both faces were grave, but Faith's grew more grave as she looked. "How is this child?" she repeated. "He is not worse," said the doctor; "except that not to be better is to be worse. Are you particularly interested in him?" Faith looked down at the sweet pure little face, and for a minute or two was very still. She did not even think of answering the doctor, nor dare speak words at all. Her first movement was to push away softly a lock of hair from Johnny's forehead. "What can I do for him, Dr. Harrison?" "Not much just now--go on as you have been doing. I will be here to-night again, and then perhaps I shall know more." He gave her a new medicine for him however; and having said all that was needful on that score, came back with her to the fire and stood a little while talking--just so long as it would do for him to stay with any chance of its being acceptable; talking in a tone that did not jar with the place or the time, gravely and pleasantly, of some matters of interest; and then he went. And Faith sat down by the bedside, and forgot Dr. Harrison; and thought of the Sunday school in the woods that evening in October, and the hymn, "I want to be an angel"; and looked at Johnny with a very full heart. Not a very long time had passed, when Faith heard sleigh bells again, and a person very different from the doctor came softly in; even Mrs. Derrick. She smiled at Reuben and Faith, and going close up to the bed folded her hands quietly together and stood looking at the sick child; the smile vanishing from her face, her lips taking a tender, pitiful set--her eyes in their experience gravely reading the signs. She looked for a few minutes in silence, then with a little sorrowful sigh she turned to Faith. "Pretty child," she said, "can't you take a little rest? I'll sit by him now." "O mother I'm not tired--much. I have not been very busy." Mrs. Derrick however took the matter into her own hands, and did not content herself till she had Faith on a low seat at her side, and Faith's head on her lap; which was a rest, to mind and body both. Reuben replenished the fire and went out, and the two sat alone. "Faith," her mother said softly, "don't you think he'd be content with me to-night? I can't bear to have Mr. Linden sit up." "I want to stay myself, mother, if he would let me." "I don't believe he'll do that, Faith--and I guess he's right But you must make him go home to tea, child, and he might rest a little then; and I'll stay till he comes back, at least." There was not much more to be said then, for Johnny woke up and wanted to be taken on Faith's lap, and talked to, and petted; answering all her efforts with a sort of grateful little smile and way; but moving himself about in her arms as if he felt restless and uneasy. It went to her heart. Presently, in the low tones which were music of themselves, she carried his thoughts off to the time when Jesus was a little child; and began to give him, in the simplicity of very graphic detail, part of the story of Christ's life upon earth. It was a name that Johnny loved to hear; and Faith went from point to point of his words, and wonders, and healing power and comforting love. Not dwelling too long, but telling Johnny very much as if she had seen it, each gentle story of the sick and the weary and the troubled, who came in their various ways to ask pity of Jesus, and found it; and reporting to Johnny as if she had heard them the words of promise and love that a little child could understand. Mrs. Derrick listened; she had never heard just such a talk in her life. The peculiarity of it was in the vivid faith and love which took hold of the things as if Faith had had them by eyesight and hearing, and in the simplicity of representation with which she gave them, as a child to a child. And all the while she let Johnny constantly be changing his position, as restlessness prompted; from sitting to kneeling and lying in her arms; sometimes brushing his hair, which once in a while he had a fancy for, and sometimes combing it off from his forehead with her own fingers dipped in the vinegar and water which he liked to smell. Nothing could be more winning--nothing more skilful, in its way, than Faith's talk to the sick child that half hour or more. And Johnny told its effect, in the way he would bid her "talk," if she paused for a minute. So by degrees the restless fit passed off for the time, and he lay still in her arms, with drooping heavy eyelids now. Everything was subsiding;--the sun sank down softly behind the wavy horizon line, the clouds floated silently away to some other harbour, and the blasts of wind came fainter and fainter, like the music of a retreating army. Swiftly the daylight ebbed away, and still Faith rocked softly back and forth, and her mother watched her. Once in a while Reuben came silently in to bring wood or fresh water,--otherwise they had no interruption. Then Mr. Linden came, and sitting down by Faith as he had done before, asked about the child and about the doctor. "He came very soon after you went away," said Faith. "He said that he was no better, and that to be no better was to be worse." It was plain that she thought more than she said. Faith had little experience, but there is an intuitive skill in some eyes to know what they have never known before. Mr. Linden bent down over the child, laying cheek to cheek softly and silently, until Johnny rousing up a little held up his lips to be kissed,--and he did not raise his head then. "Have you been asleep, Johnny?" he said. "I don't know," the child said dreamily. "Has Miss Faith taken care of you ever since I went?" "Yes," Johnny said, with a little faint smile--"and we've had talk." "I wish I had been here to hear it," said Mr. Linden. "What was it about?--all sorts of sweet things?" "Yes," Johnny said again, his face brightening--"out of the Bible." "Well they are the sweetest things I know of," said Mr. Linden. "Now if you will come on my lap, I am sure Miss Faith will get you something to eat--she can do it a great deal better than I can." Faith had soon done that, and brought the cup to Johnny, of something that he liked, and fed him as she had done at noon. It seemed to refresh him, for he fell into a quieter sleep than he had had for some time, and was oftly laid on the bed. "Now dear Faith," Mr. Linden said coming back to her, "it is time for you to go home and rest." "Do you mean to send me?" she said wistfully. "Or take you--" he said, with a soft touch of his fingers on her hair. "I don't know but I could be spared long enough for that." It was arranged so, Mrs. Derrick undertaking to supply all deficiencies so far as she could, until Mr. Linden should get back again. The fast drive home through the still cold air was refreshing to both parties; it was a still drive too. Then leaving Mr. Linden to get a little rest on the sofa, Faith prepared tea. But Mr. Linden would not stay long after that, for rest or anything. "I am coming very early to-morrow, Endecott," Faith said then. "You may, dear child--if you will promise to sleep to-night. But you must not rouse yourself _too_ early. You know to-morrow is Saturday--so I shall not be called off by other duties." He went, and Mrs. Derrick came; but Faith, though weary enough certainly, spent the evening in study. CHAPTER XII. There is no knowing what Mr. Linden would have considered "too early," and Faith had prudently omitted to enquire. She studied nothing but her Bible that morning and spent the rest of the time in getting ready what she was to take with her; for Mr. Linden would not come home to breakfast. And it was but fair day, the sun had not risen, when she was on her way. She wondered, as she went, what they would have done that winter without Jerry; and looked at the colouring clouds in the east with a strange quick appreciation of the rising of that other day told of in the Bible. Little Johnny brought the two near; the type and the antitype. It was a pretty ride; cold, bright, still, shadowless; till the sun got above the horizon, and then the long yellow faint beams threw themselves across the snow that was all a white level before. They reached Faith's heart, as the commissioned earnest of that other Sun that will fill the world with his glory and that will make heaven a place where "there shall be no night." The room where little Johnny was,--lay like the chamber called Peace, in the Pilgrim's Progress--towards the sunrising; but to reach it Faith had first to pass through another on the darker side of the house. The door between the two stood open, perhaps for fresher air, and as Faith came lightly in she could see that room lit up as it were with the early sunbeams. It was an old-fashioned room;--the windows with chintz shades, the floor painted, with a single strip of rag carpet; the old low-post bed-stead, with its check blue and white spread, the high-backed splinter chairs, told of life that had made but little progress in modern improvement. And Jonathan Fax himself, lean, long-headed, and lantern-jawed, looked grimmer than ever under his new veil of solemn feeling. He sat by the window. The wood fire in the low fireplace flickered and fell with its changing light, on all; but within the warm glow a little group told of life that _had_ made progress--progress which though but yet begun, was to go on its fair course through all the ages of eternity! Little Johnny sat in his teacher's lap, one arm round his neck, and his weary little head resting as securely on Mr. Linden's breast as if it had been a woman's. The other hand moved softly over the cuff of that black sleeve, or twined its thin fingers in and out the strong hand that was clasped round him. Sometimes raising his eyes, Johnny put some question, or asked for "talk;" his own face then much the brighter of the two,--Faith could see the face that bent over him not only touched with its wonted gravity, which the heavenly seal set there, but moved and shaken in its composure by the wistful eyes and words of the little boy. The answering words were too low-spoken for her to hear. She could see how tenderly the child's caresses were returned,--not the mother whose care Johnny had never known, could have given the little head gentler rest. Nay, not so good,--unless she could have given the little heart such comfort. For Johnny was in the arms of one who knew well that road to the unseen land--who had studied it; and now as the child went on before him, could still give him words of cheer, and shew him the stepping-stones through the dark river. It seemed to Faith as if the river were already in sight,--as if somewhat of "that strange, unearthly grace Which crowns but once the children of our race--" already rested upon Johnny's fair brow. Yet he looked brighter than yesterday, bright with a very sweet clear quietness now. Faith stood still one minute--and another; then pulling off her hood, she came in with a footfall so noiseless that it never brought Mr. Fax's head from the window, and knelt down by the side of that group. She had a smile for Johnny too, but it was a smile that had quite left the things of the world behind it and met the child on his own ground; and her kiss was sweet accordingly. A look and a clasp of the hand to Mr. Linden; then she rose up and went round to the window to take the hand of Mr. Fax, who had found his feet. "I'm very much beholden to ye!" said he in somewhat astonished wise. "You're takin' a sight o' trouble among ye." "It's no trouble, sir." Mr. Fax looked bewildered. He advanced to Mr. Linden. "Now this girl's here," said he, "don't you think you hadn't better come into another room and try to drop off? I guess he can get along without you for a spell--can't he?" "I am not quite ready to leave him," Mr. Linden said,--"and I am not at all sleepy, Mr. Fax. Perhaps I will come by and by." "We'll have breakfast, I conclude, some time this forenoon. I'll go and see if it's ever comin'. Maybe you'll take that first." He went away; and Faith, rid of her wrappers, came up again behind Johnny, passing her fingers through his hair and bending down her face to his; she did not speak. Only her eye went to Mr. Linden for intelligence, as the eye will, even when it has seen for itself! "Dr. Harrison is coming this morning," was all he said. She did not need to ask any more. "May Johnny have anything now?" "O yes--and he will like it," Mr. Linden said in a different tone, and half addressing the child. "He asked me some time ago when you were coming--but not for that." Faith brought something freshly prepared for Johnny and served him tenderly. Meanwhile her own coffee had been on the fire; and after making two or three simple arrangements of things she came back to them. "Will you sit with me now, Johnny, and let Mr. Linden have some breakfast?" "In here?" the child said. But being reassured on that point, he came to Faith's arms very willingly, or rather let Mr. Linden place him there, when she had drawn her chair up nearer the table so that he could look on. And with her arms wrapped tenderly round him, but a face of as clear quiet as the morning sky when there are no clouds before the sunrise, she sat there, and she and Johnny matched Mr. Linden's breakfast. There was no need to talk, for Johnny had a simple pleasure in what was going on, and in everything his friend did. And if the little face before him hindered Mr. Linden's enjoyment of breakfast, that was suffered to appear as little as possible. Breakfast was even rather prolonged and played with, because it seemed to amuse him; and the word and the smile were always ready, either to call forth or to answer one from the child. Nor from him alone, for by degrees even Faith was drawn out of her silence. Mr. Linden had not yet changed his place, when on the walk that led up to the house Faith saw the approach of Dr. Harrison. The doctor as he came in gave a comprehensive glance at the table, Mr. Linden who had risen, and Faith with Johnny in her lap; shook hands with Mr. Linden, and taking the chair he had quitted sat down in front of Faith and Johnny. A question and answer first passed about her own well-being. "You've not been here all night?" said he. "No, sir. I came a while ago." The doctor's unsatisfied eye fell on the child; fell, with no change of its unsatisfied expression. It took rapid and yet critical note of him, with a look that Faith knew through its unchangingness, scanned, judged, and passed sentence. Then Dr. Harrison rose and walked over to Mr. Linden. "There is nothing to be done," he said in a low tone. "I would stay--but I know that it would be in vain. _She_ ought not to be here." For the first remark Mr. Linden was prepared,--the second fell upon a heart that was already keeping closer watch over her strength and happiness than even the doctor could. He merely answered by a quiet question or two as to what could be done for the child's comfort--as to the probable length of time there would be to do anything. "He may have any simple thing he likes," said the doctor--"such as he has had. I need not give you directions for more than to-day. I am sorry I cannot stay longer with you--but it does not matter--you can do as well as I now." He went up to Faith and spoke with a different manner. "Miss Faith, I hope you will not let your goodness forget that its powers need to be taken care of. You were here yesterday--there is no necessity for you to be here to-day." "I don't come for necessity, Dr. Harrison." "I know!" said he shaking his head,--"your will is strong! but it ought not to have full play. You are not wanted here." Faith let him go without an answer to that. As soon as the doctor was gone, Mr. Linden came and sat down by Johnny again, kissing the child's brow and cheek and lips, with a face a little moved indeed, and yet with its clear look unclouded; and softly asked what he should do for him. But though Johnny smiled, and stroked his face, he seemed rather inclined to be quiet and even to sleep; yielding partly to the effect of weakness and fever, partly to the restless night; and his two teachers watched him together. Faith was very silent and quiet. Then suddenly she said, "Go and take some rest yourself, won't you, Endecott--now." "I do not feel the need of it--" he said. "I had some snatches of sleep last night." She looked at him, but the silence was unbroken again for some little time longer. At length, pushing aside a lock of hair from the fair little brow beneath which the eyelids drooped with such unnatural heaviness, Faith said,--and the tone seemed to come from very stillness of heart, the words dropped so grave and clear,-- "The name of Christ is good here to-day, Endecott." "How good! how precious!" was his quick rejoinder. "And how very precious too, is the love of his will!"--and he repeated softly, as if half thinking it out-- "'I worship thee, sweet will of God! And all thy ways adore! And every day I live, I seem To love thee more and more.'" An earnest, somewhat wistful glance of Faith's eye was the answer; it was not a dissenting answer, but it went back to Johnny. Her lip was a child's lip in its humbleness. "It was very hard for me to give him up at first--" Mr. Linden went on softly; and the voice said it was yet; "but that answers all questions. 'The good Husbandman may pluck his roses, and gather in his lilies at mid-summer, and, for aught I dare say, in the beginning of the first summer month.'"-- Faith looked at the little human flower in her arms--and was silent. "Reuben was telling me yesterday--" she said after a few minutes,--"what you have been to him." But her words touched sweet and bitter things--Mr. Linden did not immediately answer,--his head drooped a little on his hand, and he did not raise it again until Johnny claimed his attention. The quiet rest of the little sleeper was passing off,--changing into an unquiet waking; not with the fear of yesterday but with a restlessness of discomfort that was not easily soothed. Words and caresses seemed to have lost their quieting power for the time, though the child's face never failed to answer them; but he presently held out his arms to Mr. Linden, with the words, "Walk--like last night." And for a while then Faith had nothing to do but to look and listen; to listen to the soft measured steps through the room, to watch the soothing, resting effect of the motion on the sick child, as wrapped in Mr. Linden's arms he was carried to and fro. She could tell how it wrought from the quieter, unbent muscles--from the words which by degrees Johnny began to speak. But after a while, one of these words was, "Sing."--Mr. Linden did not stay his walk, but though his tone was almost as low as his foot-steps, Faith heard every word. "Jesus loves me--this I know, For the Bible tells me so: Little ones to him belong,-- They are weak, but he is strong. "Jesus loves me,--he who died Heaven's gate to open wide; He will wash away my sin, Let his little child come in. "Jesus loves me--loves me still, Though I'm very weak and ill; From his shining throne on high Comes to watch me where I lie. "Jesus loves me,--he will stay Close beside me all the way. Then his little child will take Up to heaven for his dear sake." There were a few silent turns taken after that, and then Mr. Linden came back to the rocking-chair, and told Faith in a sort of bright cheerful way--meant for her as well as the child--that Johnny wanted her to brush his hair and give him something to eat. Which Johnny enforced with one of his quiet smiles. Faith sprang to do it, and both offices were performed with hands of tenderness and eyes of love, with how much inner trembling of heart neither eyes nor hands told. Then, after all that was done, Faith stood by the table and began to swallow coffee and bread on her own account, somewhat eagerly. Mr. Linden watched her, with grave eyes. "Now you must go and lie down," he said. "Not at all!" Faith said with a smile at him. "I hadn't time--or didn't take time--to eat my breakfast before I came away from home--that is all. It is you who ought to do that, Endy,"--she added gently. She put away the things, cleared the table, made up the fire, and smoothed the bed, ready for Johnny when he should want it; and then she came and sat down. "Won't you go?" she said softly. "I would rather stay here." Faith folded her hands and sat waiting to be useful. Perhaps Mr. Linden thought it would be a comfort to her if he at least partly granted her request, perhaps he thought it would be wise; for he said, laying his cheek against the child's,-- "Johnny, if you will sit with Miss Faith now, I will lay my head down on one of your pillows for a little while, and you can call me the minute you want me." The child was very quiet and resting then, and leaning his head happily against Faith, watched Mr. Linden as he sat down by the bedside and gave himself a sort of rest in the way he had proposed; and then Faith's gentle voice was put in requisition. It was going over some things Johnny liked to hear, very softly so that no ears but his might be the wiser,--when the door opened and Jonathan Fax came in again. He glanced at Mr. Linden, and advanced softly up to Faith. There stood and looked down at his child and her with a curious look--that half recognized what it would not see. "You're as good to him as if he belonged to ye!--" said Jonathan, in a voice not clear. "So he does--" was Faith's answer, laying her cheek to the little boy's head. "By how many ties," she thought; but she added no more. The words had shaken her. "How's he gettin' on?" was the uneasy question next, as the father stooped with his hands on his knees to look nearer at the child. Did he not know? Faith for a minute held her breath. Then she lifted her face and looked up--looked full into his eyes. "Don't you know, Mr. Fax, that Johnny cannot go any way but _well?_" The words were soft and low, but the man stood up, straightening himself instantly as if he had received a blow. "Do you mean to say," he asked huskily, "that he is goin' to _die?_" It startled Faith fearfully. She did not know how much Johnny would understand or be moved by the words. And she saw that they had been heard and noted. With infinite softness and quietness she laid her cheek to the little boy's, answering in words as sweet as he had ever heard from her voice--as unfearful-- "Johnny knows where he is going, if Jesus wants him." "Jesus is in heaven," the child said instantly, as if she had asked him a question, and with the same deliberate manner that he would have answered her in Sunday school, and raising his clear eyes to hers as he had been wont to do there. But the voice was fainter. Faith's head drooped lower, and her voice was fainter too--but clear and cheery. "Yes, darling--and we'll be with him there by and by." "Yes," the child repeated, nestling his head against her in a weary sort of way, but with a little smile still. The father looked at Faith and at the child like one mazed and bewildered; stood still as if he had got a shock; then wheeling round spoke to nobody and went out. Faith pressed her lips and cheek lightly to Johnny's brow, in a rush of sorrow and joy; then began again some sweet Bible story for his tired little spirit. Mr. Linden did not long keep even his resting position, though perhaps longer than he would but for the murmuring talk which he did not want to interrupt. But when that ceased, he came back to his former seat, leaning his arm on Faith's chair in a silence that was very uninterrupted. There were plenty of comers and goers in the outer room,--Miss Bezac, and Mrs. Stoutenburgh, and Mrs. Derrick, and Mrs. Somers, were all there with offers of assistance; but Mr. Linden knew well that little Johnny had all he could have, and his orders to Reuben had been very strict that no one should come in. So except the various tones of different voices--which made their way once in a while--the two watchers had nothing to break the still quiet in which they sat. Their own words only made the quiet deeper, as they watched the little feet which they had first guided in the heavenward path, now passing on before them. "We were permitted to shew him the way at first, Faith," Mr. Linden said, "but he is shewing it to us now! But 'suffer them to come'! in death as in life." Much of the time the child slumbered--or lay in a half stupor, though often this was uneasy unless Mr. Linden walked with him up and down the room. Then he would revive a little, and look and speak quite brightly, asking for singing or reading or talk,--letting Faith smooth his hair, or bathe his face and hands, or give him a spoonful or two from one of her little cups; his face keeping its fair quiet look, even though the mortal began to give way before the immortal. In one of these times of greater strength and refreshment, when he was in Mr. Linden's arms, he looked up at him and said, "Read about heaven--what you used to." Mr. Linden took his little Bible--remembering but too readily what that "used" to be, and read softly and clearly the verses in Revelation-- "'And he shewed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem.--And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. And the nations of them that are saved shall walk in the light of it, and the kings of the earth do bring their glory and honour unto it. And the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day, for there shall be no night there. And there shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth, or whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie, but they that are written in the Lamb's book of life.'" The child listened, with his eyes upon his teacher's face and his arm round him, as he had been "used," too, and when the reading was finished lay quiet for a little time; while his friends too were silent--thinking of "the city that hath foundations." "That's the same gate," Johnny said in his slow, thoughtful way, as if his mind had gone back to the morning hymn. "Yes," Mr. Linden said, with lips that would not quite be controlled, and yet answering the child's smile, "that is the gate where his little child shall go in! And that is the beautiful city where the Lord Jesus lives, and where my Johnny is going to be with him forever--and where dear Miss Faith and I hope to come by and by." The child's hands were folded together, and with a fair, pure smile he looked from one face to the other; closing his eyes then in quiet sleep, but with the smile yet left. It was no time for words. The gates of the city seemed too near, where the little traveller's feet were so soon to enter. The veil between seemed so slight, that even sense might almost pass beyond it,--when the Heaven-light was already shining on that fair little face! Faith wiped away tears--and looked--and brushed them away again; but for a long time was very silent. At last she said, very low, that it might be quietly,-- "Endecott--it seems to me as if I could almost hear them!" He half looked the question which yet needed no answer, looking down then again at the little ransomed one in his arms, as he said in the same low voice, wherein mingled a note of the church triumphant through all its deep human feeling,-- "'And they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book and to open the seals thereof, for thou wast slain: and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people and nation'!" "And," said Faith presently, lower still,--"can't you, as Bunyan says, hear the bells of the city ringing for joy!--" Those "choral harmonies of heaven, heard or unheard," were stilling to mortal speech and even mortal feeling. Very quietly the minutes and the hours of that day succeeded each other. Quietly even on the sick child's part; more so than yesterday; nature succumbed gently, and the restless uneasiness which had marked the night and the preceding day gave place gradually before increasing faintness of the bodily powers. There was little "talk" called for after that time--hardly any, though never a word met his waking ear that did not meet the same grateful, pleased manner and smile. But the occasions became fewer; Johnny slumbered gently, but more plainly a sleep that was nearing the end, in the arms of his best friend, who would let him even when unconscious have no worse resting-place--would let every faint waking minute find the same earthly love about him that had been his dearest earthly refuge and stay. But earth was having less and less of her little immortal tenant; and as the hours of the afternoon began to tell of failing light and a fading day, it was plain that the little spirit was almost ready to wing its way to the "city that hath no need of the sun." Mr. Fax came in sometimes to look at the child, but never staid long--never offered to take him out of the hands he perhaps unconsciously felt were more of kin to him, spiritually, than his own. Out of the room, he sat down in the midst of his visitors and said nothing. He seemed bewildered--or astounded. "I never knowed," he said once, "till that girl told me. I heard what the doctor said at night--but I didn't think as he was any wiser than other doctors--and their word's about as good one side as 'tother." At the edge of the evening Reuben came in to say that Mr. Skip was there with the sleigh. "Let him put Jerry in the stable and go home," Faith said softly to Mr. Linden. "One of Mr. Fax's men can harness him any time." "Dear Faith!" he said, "you had better go with him." "I can't go, Endecott. Don't tell me to go,"--she said with a determinate quietness. "How can I let you stay?--you ought not to watch here all night--unless there were something for you to do." "There may be something for me to do," she said, but not as if that were what she wanted to stay for. "I think not," he said softly, and looking down again,--"Faith--it is near the dawning!--and yet it may not be till the dawning. And dear child, you ought not to watch here." "It will not hurt me," she said under her breath. "I know--" he said with a gentle admission of all her reasons and full sympathy with all her wishes,--"but I think you ought not." "Do you mean," she said after a minute's pause,--"that you wish me to go?" It was hard for him to say yes--but he did. She sat still a moment, with her face in the shade; then rose up and arranged everything about the room which her hands could better; made a cup of tea and brought it to Mr. Linden; and prepared herself for her ride. When she came at last, ready, with only her hood to put on, her face was almost as fair as Johnny's. There was no shadow on it of any kind, but clear day, as if a reflection from the "city" she had been looking towards. She put her hand in Mr. Linden's and knelt down as she had done in the morning to kiss Johnny. Her lips trembled--but the kisses were quietly given; and rising to her feet without speaking or looking, Faith went away. If quietness was broken on the ride home, it was restored by the time she got there; and with the same clear look Faith went in. That Mrs. Derrick was much relieved to see her, was evident, but she seemed not very ready to ask questions. She looked at Faith, and then with a little sigh or two began softly to unfasten her cloak and furs, and to put her in a comfortable place by the fire, and to hasten tea, but all in a sort of sorrowful subdued silence; letting her take her own time to speak, or not speak at all, if she liked it better. Faith's words were cheerfully given, though about other things. And after tea she did in some measure justify Mr. Linden's decision in sending her home; for she laid herself on the couch in the sitting-room and went into a sleep as profound and calm as the slumbers she had left watching. Her mother sat by her in absolute stillness--thinking of Faith as she had been in her childhood and from thence until now; thinking of the last time she herself had been in that sick room, of the talk she had heard there--of the silence that was there now: wiping away some tears now and then--looking always at Faith with a sort of double feeling; that both claimed her as a child, and was ready to sit at her feet and learn. But as it came to the hour of bedtime, and Faith still slept, her mother stooped down and kissed her two or three times to wake her up. "Pretty child," she said, "you'd better go to bed." Faith started with a recollective look and asked what time it was; then sank down again. "I'll wait an hour yet." "Had you better?" her mother said gently. "I'll sit up, dear, and call you if you're wanted. Did you think they'd send?" "Send?--O no, mother!" Mrs. Derrick was silent a minute. "Mr. Linden wouldn't come home to-night, dear." "Wouldn't he?" said Faith startling; and for a minute the sorrowful look came back to her face. But then it returned to its high quiet; she kissed her mother and they went up stairs together. No, he did not come home,--and well assured that he would not, Faith ceased to watch for him, and fatigue and exhaustion again had their way. The night was very still--the endless train of stars sweeping on in their appointed course, until the morning star rose and the day broke. Even then Faith slept on. But when the more earthly light of the sun came, with its bestirring beams, it roused her; and she started up, in that mood where amid quick coming recollections she was almost breathless for more tidings--waiting, as if by the least noise or stir she might lose something. It was then that she heard Mr. Linden come in--even as she sat so listening,--heard him come in and come up stairs, with a slow quiet step that would have told her all, if the fact of his coming had not been enough. She heard his door close, and then all was still again, except what faint sounds she might hear from the working part of the house below. Faith sat motionless till she could hear nothing more up stairs--and then kept her position breathlessly for a second or two longer, looking at the still sunbeams which came pouring into her room according to their wont, with their unvarying heavenly message;--and then gave way--rare for her--to a burst of gentle sorrow, that yet was not all sorrow, and which for that very mingling was the more heart-straitening while it lasted. The light of the fair clear Sunday morning bore such strange testimony of the "everlasting day" upon which her little charge of yesterday had even entered! But the sense of that was quieting, if it was stirring. Not until the breakfast hour was fully come did Mr. Linden make his appearance; but then he came, looking pale indeed, and somewhat worn, yet with a face of rest. He gave his hand to Mrs. Derrick, and coming up to Faith took her in his arms and kissed her, and gently put her in her chair at the table; waiving all questions till another time. There were none asked; Mrs. Derrick would not have ventured any; and the tinge in Faith's cheeks gave token of only one of various feelings by which she was silenced. Yet that was not a sorrowful breakfast--for rest was on every brow, on two of them it was the very rest of the day when Christ broke the bars of death and rose. Breakfast had been a little late, and there was not much time to spare when it was over. "You had better not try to go out this morning, dear Faith," Mr. Linden said as they left the table and came round the fire in the sitting-room. "O yes! I can go.--I _must_ go"--she added softly. "I have not much to tell you,"--he said in the same tone,--"nothing, but what is most sweet and fair. Would you like to go up there with me by and by?" "Yes.--After church?" "After church in the afternoon would give us most time." The Sunday classes were first met--_how_ was not likely to be forgotten by scholars or teachers. It was an absorbing hour to Faith and her two little children that were left to her; an hour that tried her very much. She controlled herself, but took her revenge all church time. As soon as she was where nobody need know what she did, Faith felt unnerved, and a luxury of tears that she could not restrain lasted till the service was over. It lasted no longer. And the only two persons that knew of the tears, were glad to have them come. After the afternoon service, when people were not only out of church but at home, Mr. Linden and Faith set out on their solitary drive--it was too far for her to walk, both for strength and time,--the afternoon was well on its way. The outer room into which Faith had first gone the day before, had a low murmur of voices and a little sprinkling of people within; but Mr. Linden let none of them stop her, and merely bowing as he passed through, he led her on. In the next room were two of the boys, but they went away at once; and Mr. Linden put his arm round Faith, letting her lean all her weight on him if she chose, and led her up to the bedside. They stood there and looked--as one might look at a ray of eternal sunlight falling athwart the dark shadows of time. The child lay in his deep sleep as if Mr. Linden had just laid him down; his head a little turned towards them, a little drooping, his hands in their own natural position on breast and neck. A faint pink-tinted wrapper lay in soft folds about him, with its white frills at neck and wrists,--on his breast a bunch of the first snowdrops spoke of the "everlasting spring, and never withering flowers!" With hearts and faces that grew every moment more quiet, more steady, Johnny's two teachers stood and looked at him,--then knelt together, and prayed that in the way which they had shewed him, they might themselves be found faithful. "You shouldn't say _we_"--said Faith when they had risen and were standing there again. "It was _you_--to him and me both." And bending forward to kiss the little face again, she added, "He taught me as much as he ever learned from me!" But the words were spoken with difficulty, and Faith did not try any more. They stood there till the twilight began to fall, and then turned their faces homewards with a strange mingling of joy and sorrow in their hearts. How many times Mr. Linden went there afterwards Faith did not know--she could only guess. There was no school for the next two days. Tuesday was white with snow,--not falling thick upon the ground, but in fine light flakes, and few people cared to be out. Mr. Linden had been, early in the morning,--since dinner he had been in his room; and now as it drew towards three o'clock, he came down and left the house, taking the road towards that of Jonathan Fax. Other dark figures now appeared from time to time, bending their steps in the same direction,--some sturdy farmer in his fearnought coat, or two of the school-boys with their arms round each other. Then this ceased, and the soft falling snow alone was in the field. The afternoon wore on, and the sun was towards the setting, when a faint reddish tinge began to flush along the western horizon, and the snowflakes grew thinner. Then, just as the first sunbeams shot through their cloudy prison, making the snow a mere white veil to their splendour, the little carriage of Mr. Somers came slowly down the road, and in it Mr. Somers himself. A half dozen of the neighbouring farmers followed. Then the little coffin of Johnny Fax, borne by Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh and Phil Davids and Joe Deacon, each cap and left arm bound with crape; followed by Johnny's two little classmates--Charles Twelfth and Robbie Waters. Then the chief mourners--Jonathan Fax and Mr. Linden, arm in arm, and Mr. Linden wearing the crape badge. After them the whole school, two and two. The flickering snowflakes fell softly on the little pall, but through them the sunbeams shot joyously, and said that the child had gone-- "Through a dark stormy night, To a calm land of light!"-- "Meet again? Yes, we shall meet again, Though now we part in pain! His people all Together Christ shall call, Hallelujah!" "Child," said Mrs. Derrick in a choked voice, and wiping her eyes, when the last one had long passed out of view, "it's good to see him and Jonathan Fax walking together! anyway. I guess Jonathan 'll never say a word against _him_ again. Faith, he's beautiful!" CHAPTER XIII. It seemed to Faith as if the little shadow which February had brought and left did not pass away--or rather, as if it had stretched on till it met another; though whence that came, from what possible cloud, she could not see. _She_ was not the cloud--that she knew and felt: if such care and tenderness and attention as she had had all winter _could_ be increased, then were they now,--every spare moment was given to her, all sorts of things were undertaken to give her pleasure, and that she was Mr. Linden's sunbeam was never more clear. Yet to her fancy that shadow went out and came in with him--lived even in her presence,--nay, as if she had been a real sunbeam, grew deeper there. And yet not that,--what was it? The slight change of voice or face in the very midst of some bright talk, the eyes that followed her about the room or studied her face while she studied her lesson--she felt if she did not see them,--even the increased unwillingness to have her out of his sight,--what did they all mean? So constant, yet so intangible,--so going hand in hand with all the clear, bright activity that had ever been part of Mr. Linden's doings; while the pleasure of nothing seemed to be checked, and yet a little pain mingled with all,--Faith felt puzzled and grieved by turns. She bore it for a while, in wondering and sorrowful silence, till she began to be afraid of the shadow's spreading to her own face. Nay, she felt it there sometimes. Faith couldn't stand it any longer. He had come in rather late one evening. It was a bleak evening in March, but the fire--never more wanted--burned splendidly and lit up the sitting-room in style. Before it, in the easy-chair, Mr. Linden sat meditating. He might be tired--but Faith fancied she saw the shadow. She came up behind his chair, put both hands on one of his shoulders and leaned down. "Endecott"--she said in some of her most winning tones,--"may I ask you something?" He came out of his muse instantly, and laying his hand on hers, asked her "what she thought about it herself?" "I think I may, if you'll promise not to answer me--unless you have a mind!" "_Do_ you suppose I would?" Mr. Linden said laughing. "What trust you have in your own power!" "No, not a bit," said Faith. "Then shall I ask you?" "You are beginning to work upon my timid disposition!--of which I believe I once told you. What are you going to ask me?--to challenge Dr. Harrison?--or to run for President?" "Would you like to do either of those two things?" "I was only putting myself at your disposal--as I have done before." "Would you do either of 'em if I asked you?" said Faith softly. "I suppose I am safe in saying yes!" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Little bird--why do you keep on the wing?" "I wanted to make sure of lighting in a right place," said Faith. "Endy"--and her voice came back to the rich softness of the tones of her first question, a little dashed with timidity,--"has anybody been putting 'nonsense' into your head?" He lifted her hand from its resting place, bringing it round to his cheek and lips at first in silence, "Do you know," he said, "that is just the point over which I thought you were hovering?"--But the certainty had changed his tone. And rising up quick and suddenly, he drew her off to the sofa and seated her there, keeping his arm still about her as if for a shield. "Faith," he said, "do you remember that I promised some time to tell you a long story?" She looked up into his face gravely and affectionately, reading his look. "But you won't have time for it now, Endecott--tea will be ready directly. We must wait till by and by." "My little Sunbeam," he said, looking at her and gently pushing back her hair, "do you know I love you very much!--What made you think there was anything in my head but the most profound and abstract sense?" Faith shook her head with a little bit of a smile. "I saw that you were growing either more sensible of late--or _less_,--and I wanted to know which it was." "Please to explain yourself! How could I grow more sensible?--and in what way did I grow less?" "I am talking nonsense," said Faith simply. "But if it _was_ sense in your head, Endy, there was a little too much of it; and I had seen nonsense look so--so I wanted to know." "Faith," Mr. Linden said, "you remind me often of that Englishman Madame D'Arblay tells about,--who to the end of his life declared that his wife was the most beautiful sight in the world to him! Do you know I think he will have a successor?" Her colour rose bright, and for a minute she looked down at her diamonds. Then looked up demurely, and asked who Madame D'Arblay was? "She was an English woman, an authoress, a maid of honour to the Queen. Do you wish to know anything about the other two persons I alluded to?" One sparkling flash of Faith's soft eye, was all she gave him. "No, I don't think I do," she said. "You know enough already?--or too much? Faith--are Christmas roses to be in season all the year round?" "I don't know,--but tea is. Suppose I go and see about it--Monsieur?" "Eh bien--Mademoiselle," he said gravely but holding her fast,--"suppose you do!" "Then we should have it." "Undoubtedly, Mademoiselle! Vous avez raison." "And what have you?" said Faith laughing. "I have _you!_--Love and Reason did meet once, you know." "Did they?" said Faith looking up. "How should I know?" "You never found it out in your own personal experience?" "You say it's a fact," said Faith. "I thought you referred to it as a former fact." "Like tea--" said Mr. Linden. "Like tea, Endecott!--what are you talking of?" "Former facts."-- "I wonder what I shall get you to-night, Endecott"--she said merrily twisting round to look at him,--"you must want something! Is a thing properly said to be former, as long as it is still present?" "What is present?" "Tea isn't past"--said Faith with another little flash of her eye. "If you are going to set up for Reason," said Mr. Linden, "there is no more to be done; but as for me, I may as well submit to my fate. Shakspeare says, 'To love, and to be wise, exceeds man's might.'" "I don't think I set up for reason," said Faith,--"only for tea; and you obliged me to take reason instead. I guess--Shakspeare was right." "Unquestionably!" said Mr. Linden laughing. "Faith, did you ever hear of 'Love in a Cottage'?" "I believe I have." "I hope you don't think that includes tea?" "I never thought it included much good," said Faith. "I always thought it was something foolish." "There spoke Reason!" said Mr. Linden,--"and I shall not dare to speak again for ten minutes. Faith, you will have time to meditate." And his eyes went to the fire and staid there. Faith meditated--or waited upon his meditations; for her eyes now and then sought his face somewhat wistfully to see if she could read what he was thinking of--which yet she could not read. But her exploring looks in that direction were too frequent to leave room for the supposition that Reason made much progress. "Faith," Mr. Linden said, suddenly intercepting one of these looks, "now let us compare results--before we meditate any further. What have you to shew?" "Nothing"--said Faith frankly. "I on my part have made a great discovery, which will perhaps answer for us both. It is very simple, as most great discoveries are, being merely this: that I prefer other things than reproofs from the lips of Reason. Will you have an illustration?" "Can't I understand without?" said Faith laughing, but with also a little rising colour. And very smilingly she had her answer--the only answer she could expect. "I believe you are principled against saying yes!" said Mr. Linden. "The most encouraging thing you ever said to me was 'Oh no!'" What swift recollection, what quick sympathy with that time, spoke in the crimson of Faith's cheeks! It was something to see "the eloquent blood." Eyes were not to be seen. Mr. Linden smiled, touching his hand softly to her cheeks. "O Mignonette!" he said--"or I should rather say, O Roses! or O Carnation! Is there anything beyond that in your Flora?" In the emergency Faith took possession of the hand that invaded her carnations and turning the full display upon him asked if he would not like to have something more substantial. Apparently "the display" was approved, though there were no words to that effect. "I suppose I must let you go," he said, "because if we are to study all the evening after tea, it will not do to talk away the whole evening before. You shall choose your own time for hearing my story, dear child--only let me know when the time comes." There was no shadow upon the tea hour, on Faith's part, nor on the hours of study that followed. The wind swept round the house, March fashion, but the fire and the open books laughed at him. There seemed even a little more than usual of happy gayety in Faith's way of going through her work; she and the fire played at which should get ahead of the other; and between whiles she was obliged to use a little caution to obviate Mr. Linden's surprise at finding how far she was getting ahead of herself. For Faith's early morning studies were not now by any means confined to the lessons he set for her and expected her to do; her object and endeavour was to prevent his requirements, and so prepare the ground _before_ his teachings that without finding out how it came to be so ready, he should simply occupy more of it and cultivate higher. It was rather a nice matter! not to let him see that she had done too much, and yet to make him know that he might take what harvests he pleased off the ground; with such keen eyes too, that knew so well all the relative forces of soil and cultivation and could estimate so surely the fruits of both. Faith managed by not managing at all and by keeping very quiet, as far as possible shewing him nothing he did not directly or indirectly call for; but sometimes she felt she was grazing the edge of discovery, which the least lifting of the veil of Mr. Linden's unsuspiciousness would secure. She felt it to-night, and the fire and she had one or two odd little consultations. Just what Mr. Linden was consulting with himself about at those times, she did not know; but she half fancied it was something. Once the fire called her off at the end of a lesson, and when she came back to the table he had the next book open; but it was not till this set of questions and answers and explanations was half through, that Faith discovered he had opened the book at a different place from the one where it had been closed the day before,--then it suddenly flashed upon her; but whether it had been by accident, or of intent, she did not know. One last consultation Faith held with the fire while Mrs. Derrick was gathering her work together to go to bed. Then she brought a low seat to Mr. Linden's feet. "Now, Endy,--I am ready." A little smile--a soft, lingering touch upon her forehead, came with his words. "My little Mignonette, what do you suppose I came to Pattaquasset for?" She looked rather wondering at him, and then said, "I supposed--to teach the school." "Yes, but to what end?--I mean in my intent. I know now what I came for, in one sense," he said, securing one of her hands. "Why--Endecott, do you want me to tell you?" "If you know or guess." "I don't know nor guess anything. I supposed merely that you did that as other people do other things--and for the same reason." "It was for a very commonplace reason," Mr. Linden said, watching her face with two or three things at work in his own: "it was to get money to finish my studies for your favourite profession." "My favourite profession!--Which do you mean?" "Have you forgotten Miss Essie's question? I have not--nor the dear child who was so unwilling to answer it." Faith's mind went back to Miss Essie, the question and answer,--and took the round of the subject,--and even as she did so her face changed, a sort of grave light coming into it, "Do you mean _that_, Endy?" she said half under her breath. "I mean that, and no other." The light brightened and deepened--her colour flushed like a morning sky,--till at last the first sunbeam struck athwart her face, in the shape of a smile. It was not a lip smile--it was on eye and brow and lip and cheek together. Mr. Linden bent down by her, lifting her face to meet his eyes, which through all their intentness smiled too. "Faith, I want to hear every word of that." "Of what?" "Of all that is in your mind and face just now." Her two little answering sentences evidently only gave the key of very deep tones. "I think it is good, Endy. I am glad." "I thought you would be. But that does not satisfy me, dear Faith--I want you to say to me all the different things that your thoughts were saying to you. You are not afraid of me at this time of day?" he said bringing her face closer. "I have nothing to say I need be afraid to say," Faith answered slowly,--"but it is hard to disentangle so many thoughts. I was thinking it is such great and high work--such happy work--and such honour--and then that you will do it right, Endecott--" she hesitated.--"How could I help but be glad?" "Do you like your new prospective position, little Sunbeam?" A deep colour came over her face, and the eyes fell Yet Faith folded her hands and spoke. "I was glad to think--" She got so far, but the sentence was never finished. "Glad to think what, dear child?" Faith glanced up. She did not want to answer. Then she said with the greatest simplicity, "I am glad if I may do something." "Glad that I should realize my ideal?" Mr. Linden said with a smile, and softly bringing her face round again. "Faith, do you know what a dear little 'minister's wife' you will make?--Mignonette is so suitable for a parsonage!--so well calculated to impress the people with a notion of the extreme grave propriety which reigns there! For is not Mignonette always sweet, demure, and never--by any chance!--high coloured?" She would not let her face be held up. It went down upon her lap--into her hands, which she pressed close to hide it. "Oh Endecott!--" she said desperately.--"You'll have to call me something else." "O Faith!" was his smiling reply,--"I will, just so soon as I can. Don't you want to come over to the sofa and hear the rest of my story?" "Your story! Oh yes!"-- And first having a sympathizing interview with the fire, Faith went over to the sofa and sat down; but hid her face no more. Much as he had done before tea, Mr. Linden came and sat down by her,--with the same sort of gentle steadiness of manner, as if some strong thread of feeling had wrapped itself round an equally deep thread of purpose,--his gay talk now as then finding always some contrast in his face. But of this Faith had seen little or nothing--her eyes had not been very free to look. She did notice how silently he stood by her as she put the fire in order, she did notice the look that rested on her as she took her seat, but then he began his story and she could thing of nothing else. "It was given to me, dear Faith," he said, "to spend my boyhood in an atmosphere more like the glow of that firelight than anything I can compare it to, for its warmth and radiance; where very luxurious worldly circumstances were crowned with the full luxury of earthly love. But it was a love so heaven-directed, so heaven-blessed, that it was but the means of preparing me to go out into the cold alone. That was where I learned to love your diamonds," he added, taking the jewelled hand in his,--"when I used to see them not more busy among things of literature and taste, than in all possible ministrations to the roughest and poorest and humblest of those whom literature describes and taste shrinks from!--But I used to think," he said speaking very low, "that the ring was never so bright, nor so quick moving, as when it was at work for me." Faith's eye fell with his to the diamonds. She was very still; the flash all gone. "That time of my life," Mr. Linden presently went on, "was passed partly in Europe and partly here. We came home just after I had graduated from a German University, but before I went away again--almost everything I had in the world went from me." He was silent for a little, drawing Faith's head down upon his shoulder and resting his lightly upon it, till she felt what she was to him. Then he looked up and spoke quietly as before. "Pet and I were left alone. A sister of my father's was very anxious to take her, but Pet would not hear of it, and so for a year we lived together, and when I went to the Seminary she went too,--living where I lived, and seeing what she could of me between times. It was not very good for her, but it was the best we could do then. I suppose there was some mismanagement on the part of my father's executors--or some complication in his affairs, I need not trouble you with details; but we were left without much more than enough to give her the income I wished her to have for her own private use. Of course I would not touch that for our joint expenses. But until a year ago we did still live together--by various means. Then this sister of my father's set her heart upon taking Pet with her to Europe--and I set mine almost as much; I could better bear to live alone, than to have her; and her life then amounted to that. And so between us both she consented--very unwillingly; and she went to Italy, and I studied as long as I had ways and means, and then came here to get more. So you see, dear child," Mr. Linden said with a smile, "it is not my fortune I have asked you to share, but my fortunes." She gave him a smile, as bright and free as the glancing of a star; then her look went away again. And it was a good little while before perhaps she dared speak--perhaps before she wanted to speak. So very steady and still her look and herself were, it said that they covered thoughts too tender or too deep to be put into words. And the thoughtfulness rather deepened as minutes rolled on--and a good many of them rolled on, and still Faith did not speak. Mr. Linden's watch ticked its remarks unhindered. Words came at last. "Endecott--you said something about 'means' for study. How much means does it want?--and how much study?" The interest at work in the question was deeper than Faith meant to shew, or knew she shewed. He told her the various expenses, ordinary and contingent, in few words, and was silent a moment. But then drawing her close to him, with that same sort of sheltering gesture she had noticed before, he went on to answer her other question; the voice and manner giving her a perfect key to all the grave looks she had mused over. "Do you remember, dear Faith, that I once called you 'a brave little child'?" "Yes." "You must be that now," he said gently,--"you and I must both be brave, and cheerful, and full of trust. Because, precious child, I have two years' work before me--and the work cannot be done here." She looked in his face once, and was silent;--what her silence covered could only be guessed. But it lasted a little while. "It must be done at that place where you were with your sister?" "Yes, little Mignonette, it must be done there." "And when must you begin the work, Endecott?" If the words cost her some effort, it only just appeared. "I came for a year, dear Faith--and I ought not to stay much beyond that." Faith mentally counted the months, in haste, with a pang; but the silence did not last long this time. Her head left its resting place and bending forward she looked up into Mr. Linden's face, with a sunny clear look that met his full. It was not a look that could by any means be mistaken to indicate a want of other feeling, however. One might as soon judge from the sunshine gilding on the slope of a mountain that the mountain is made of tinsel. "Endecott--is that what has been the matter with you?" She needed no answer but his look, though that was a clear as her own. "I could easier bear it if _I_ could bear the whole," he said. "But you can understand that Dr. Harrison's proposal tried, though it did not tempt me." She scarce gave a thought to that. "There is one thing more I wanted to ask. Will there be--" she paused, and went on,--"no time at all that you can be here?" "Dear Faith!" he said kissing her, "do you think I could bear that? How often I shall be able to come I cannot quite tell, but come I shall--from time to time, if I live. And in the meanwhile we must make letters do a great deal." Her face brightened. She sat quietly looking at him. "Will that shadow come any more,--now that you have told me?" "I will give you leave to scold me, if you see it," Mr. Linden said, answering her smile,--"I ought not to be in shadow for a minute--with such a sunbeam in my possession. Although, although!--do you know, little bright one, that the connexion between sunbeams and shadows is very intimate? and very hard to get rid of?" "Shall I talk to you about 'nonsense' again?"--she said half lightly, resting her hand on his arm and looking at him. Yet behind her light tone there was a great tenderness. "You may--and I will plead guilty. But in which of the old classes of 'uncanny' folk will you put me?--with those who were known by their having no shadow, or with those who went always with two?" "So I suppose one must have a _little_ shadow, to keep from being uncanny!" "You and I will not go upon that understanding, dear Faith." Faith did not look like one who had felt no shadow; rather perhaps she looked like one who had borne a blow; a look that in the midst of the talk more than once brought to Mr. Linden's mind a shadowy remembrance of her as she was after they got home that terrible evening; but her face had a gentle brightness now that then was wanting. "I don't know"--she said wistfully in answer to his last words.--"Perhaps it is good. I dare say it is, for me. It is a shame for me to remind you of anything--but don't you know, Endecott--'all things are ours'? _both_ 'things present and things to come?'" And her eye looked up with a child's gravity, and a child's smile. Bear it alone?--yes, he could have done that--as he had borne other things,--it tried him to see her bear it. It touched him to see that look come back--to see any tempering of the bright face she had worn so long. Faith hardly knew perhaps with what eyes he had watched her through all the conversation, eyes none the less anxious for the smile that met hers so readily; she hardly guessed what pain her bright efforts at keeping up, gave him. To shelter and gladden her life was the dearest delight of his; and just now duty thwarted him in both points. And he knew--almost better than she did--how much she depended on him. He looked down at her for a moment with a face of such grave submission as Faith had never seen him wear. "My dear little child!" he said. But that sentence was let stand by itself. The next was spoken differently. "I do know it, dear Faith,--and yet you do well to remind me. I need to be kept up to the mark. And it is not more true that each day has sufficient evil, than that each has sufficient good--if it be only sought out. There cannot much darkness live in the light of those words." "How far have you to go," she said with demure archness,--"to find the good of these days?" "You are quick at conclusions"--said Mr. Linden,--"how far do you think it is between us at present?" "Endecott"--she said gravely--"it will never be further!" He laughed a little--with a half moved half amused expression, wrapping her up like some dainty piece of preciousness. "Because every day that I am away will bring us nearer together? I suppose that is good measurement." "You know," she said, "you have told me two things to-night, Endecott; and if one makes me sorry, the other makes me glad." "I was sure of that!--And it is such great, great pleasure to think of the times of coming back--and of leaving you work to do, and of writing to you about it,--and then of finding out how well it is done! You must keep my books for me, Mignonette--mine, I say!--they are as much yours as mine--and more." "Your books?"--she said with a flush. "Yes--there are but a few of these that I shall want with me,--the most of _my_ study books I did not bring here." "But won't you want these with you?" "As far from that as possible. Do you think you could make up your mind to let me tell Reuben a secret?--and give him a reason for being even more devoted to you than he is now?" She coloured very brightly again. "I am willing--if you wish it. Why, Endecott?" "The chief reason is, that I do not wish to lose any of your letters, nor have you lose any of mine. And small postoffices are not so safe as large ones, nor are their managers proverbially silent. I should like to make Reuben a sort of intermediate office." "And send your letters to him?" "Yes. Would you mind that?" "And my letters?" "And yours in like manner, little Mignonette. He could either enclose them to me, or put them in some neighbouring office,--I think Reuben would enjoy an eight miles walk a day, taken for me. Or you could hide your envelope with another, and let him direct that. You need not be afraid of Reuben,"--Mr. Linden said smiling,--"you might give him forty letters without his once daring to look at you." "But I thought--you said--he was going to college next summer?" "That was talked of, but I think he will stay another year at home, and then enter a higher class. It will save expense, and he will be longer with his father. Reuben and I hope to be brother ministers, one day, Faith." "Do you! Does he!"--said Faith astonished. "That is good! I am glad of it. But what will _he_ do for money, Endecott?" "We shall see--part of the way is clear, so we may hope the rest will be. Perhaps I may let him do some of his studying with me. Do you think you would object to that?" "Object to it! How could I? What do you mean, Endecott?" "O little Mignonette!" he said smiling, "how sweet you are!--and what joy it would be to see you wear the only title I can give you! Don't you know, pretty child, that if I gave Reuben Hebrew you might be called upon to give him--tea!" Faith's eyes went down and her colour mounted, and mounted. But her next remark was extremely collected. "How good it was Dr. Harrison's money came!"-- "I believe you stipulated that we were to have tea ourselves," said Mr. Linden, "but the question remains whether you would dispense it to any one else." Faith was only restrained from covering her face again by the feeling that it would be foolish; and withal a little laughter could not be prevented. She did shield one side of her face with her hand, and leaning upon it looked into the fire for suggestions. Finally answered sedately, "I should think you and he might have it together!" "Have it--yes, if we could get it; but I am ignorant of any but the chemical properties of milk and sugar." "I thought you said you knew cream when you saw it!" said Faith from behind her shield. "That is knowing its appearance--not its properties, Miss Reason." "What does reason want to know more, for a cup of tea?" "But you have declared once to-night that I am not Reason," said Mr. Linden laughing. "For instance--I once made the sudden acquaintance of a particular person, who made as sudden an impression on my mind,--after those three minutes I should have known her by sight (like cream) to the end of my life. But I went on trying experiments--(as one might taste successive drops of cream) finding out more and more sweetness each time; until (like cream again) I discovered that she was perfectly indispensable to my cup of tea!" Faith bowed her glad little head, laughing, though feeling much deeper was at work. "After this," she said, "I shall always be greatly at a loss what you are thinking of when you are looking at me." "Will your reflections be carried on with such a face?" said Mr. Linden. "Do you remember that afternoon, Faith?--when I so nearly laid hold of you--and you wanted to laugh, and did not dare?" "What afternoon?"-- "The one wherein I first had the pleasure of seeing you. How demurely you eyed me!--and wondered in your little sensible heart what sort of a person I could possibly be!" "How did you know I wondered?" said Faith colouring. "By your very gentle, modest, and fearful examinations, your evident musings over my words, and the bright look now and then that told of progress." Faith laughed. "You made me begin to think and wish immediately," she said.--"It was no wonder I wondered." "Yes, and how I longed to give you your wish, so far as I could,--and how afraid I was to offer my services,--and how you would persist in thanking me for pleasing myself, do you remember, little Sunbeam?--and your fright when I asked about Prescott?" She looked up with the prettiest, rosiest remembrance of it all; and then her face suddenly changed, and turning from him she shielded it again with her hand, but not to hide the rosy colour this time. Mr. Linden drew her close to him, resting his face upon her other cheek at first without words. "Dear child!" he said,--"my own little Mignonette!--you must not forget what you said to me,--and you must not forget that I hope to come home quite often. There was a time, when I thought I might have to go away and never have the right to come and see you again. And you must think to yourself--though you will not speak of it to me--that after this bit of time, all our life will be spent together. You need not expect me to wait for anything--not even the cottage you like so much." She did not answer immediately, as was natural, his last suggestions not being very word-provoking with her. But when she did speak, it was in a clear, cheerful tone. "I'll bear my part, Endy--I should be very ungrateful if I couldn't. And you can bear your part--I am glad to think of that!--for you are working for a Master that always gives full pay." "We can always bear God's will," he said, a little gravely,--"it is only our own that points the trial and makes it unbearable." CHAPTER XIV. Faith had no chance to think that night. She went to sleep conscientiously. And a chance the next morning was out of the question. She dared not come down as early as usual, if her own strength would have let her. The few minutes before breakfast were busy ones; and the few hours after breakfast. Faith went about with the consciousness of something on her heart to be looked at; but it had to bide its time. Her household duties done, her preparations for Mr. Linden being already in advance, she had leisure to attend to this other thing. And alone Faith sat down and looked at it. It was the first real steady trial her life had known. Her father's death had come when she was too young to feel deeply any want that her mother could not fill. To be away from anything she much loved was a sorrow Faith hardly knew by experience. But a two years' separation was a very, very heavy and sharp pain to think of; and Faith had an inward assurance that the reality would be heavier and sharper than her thoughts beforehand could make it. Perhaps it was too great a pain to be struggled with; for Faith did not struggle--or not long. She sat down and looked at it,--what she had not dared to do the night before;--measured it and weighed it; and then bowed her heart and head to it in utter submission. With it came such a crowd of glad and good things, things indeed that made the trial and were bound up with it,--that Faith locked the one and the other up in her heart together. And remembering too the sunshine of joy in which she had lately lived, she humbly confessed that some check might be needed to remind her and make her know that earth has not the best sunshine, and that any gain would be loss that turned her eyes away from that best, or lessened her sense of its brightness. So there came no shadow over her at all, either that day or afterwards. The clear light of her face was not clouded, and her voice rung to the same tune. There was no shadow, nor shade of a shadow. There _was_ a little subdued air; a little additional gravity, a trifle more of tenderness in her looks and ways, which told of the simpleness of heart with which she had quietly taken what God gave and was content with it. To Mr. Linden the trial was not new, and to sorrow of various kinds he was wonted; but it was new to him to see her tried, and to that he found it hard to accustom himself. Yet he carried out his words,--Faith could feel a sort of atmosphere of bright strength about her all the time. How tenderly she was watched and watched over she could partly see, but pain or anxiety Mr. Linden kept to himself. He set himself to work to make her enjoy every minute. Yet he never shunned the subject of his going away,--he let her become used to the sound of the words, and to every little particular connected with it--they were all told her by degrees; but told with such bright words of hope and trust, that Faith took the pain as it were diluted. Before all this had gone far--indeed not many days after the first telling of his story, Faith had come down as usual one early morning to her work. She had been down about an hour, when she heard the door open and Mr. Linden came in. He had two seconds' view of the picture before she rose up to meet him. There was no lamp yet burning in the room. A fire of good hard wood threw its light over everything, reflected back from the red curtains which fell over the windows. In the very centre of the glow, Faith sat on a low cushion, with her book on a chair. She was dressed exactly, for nicety, as if she might have been going to Judge Harrison's to tea. And on the open pages, and on Faith's bright hair, edging her ruffles, and warming up her brown dress, was the soft red fall of the firelight. She rose up immediately with her usual glad look, behind which lay a doubtful surmising as to his errand. It was on her lips to ask what had brought him down so early, but she was prudently silent. He came forward quick and quietly, according to his wont, not at all as if she were about anything unusual, and giving her one of those greetings which did sometimes betray the grave feeling he kept so well in hand, he brought her back to the fire. "Little bird," he said, "what straws are you weaving in at present?" "I don't know. Not any--unless thoughts." "Will it please you to state what you are doing?" "I was reading. I had just got to the end of the story of Moses blessing Israel. I was thinking of these words--" and she took up her book and shewed him. "Happy art thou, O Israel, saved of the Lord, the shield of thy help, and who is the sword of thy excellency." "Did you ever look out any of the answering passages in other parts of the Bible?" "Not often. I don't know them. Once in a while I think of one. And then they are so beautiful!" Mr. Linden took the book from her hand, turning from place to place and reading to her. "'Happy is he that hath the God of Jacob for his help, whose hope is in the Lord his God: which made heaven, and earth, the sea, and all that therein is: which keepeth truth forever.' That is what David said,--then hear how Isaiah answers--'Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and not be afraid: for the LORD JEHOVAH is my strength and my song; he also is become my salvation.'--And again--'Israel shall be saved in the Lord with an everlasting salvation: ye shall not be ashamed nor confounded, world without end.'" Faith drew a little quick breath. "Doesn't it seem," she said, "as if words were heaped on words to prevent our being afraid?" "I think it really is so; till we have a shield of promises as well as protection. After Abraham had gone out of his own country, 'not knowing whither he went', 'the word of the Lord came to him, saying, Fear not, Abraham, I am thy shield and thy exceeding great reward.' Then David takes that up and expatiates upon it,--finding in it 'both things present and things to come,' dear Faith." "'For the Lord God is a sun and a shield: the Lord will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly. O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee.'" She looked down at the words, then up at him with a glad, sunshiny light in her eyes. Her comment on the whole was heartfelt, and comprehensive. "How good it was you came down this morning!" "Would you like to have me come every morning?" "Oh how much!--But that's no use, Endecott." "Why not?" "I mustn't get to depending upon you too much," she said with a smile. "What had you been musing about--to make you so glad this morning?" he said looking at her. "Nothing!--but those passages as you read them one after the other were so beautiful, and felt so strong.--It was a great pleasure to hear you read them,"--she said dropping her voice a little in confession. "It shall be as you like, darling, about my coming again. But dear Faith, of this other morning work you must let me say a word." "What, Endecott?" "You are doing too much." "No. What makes you think so?" Significantly Mr. Linden laid his hand on the pile of study books. "Well?" "Well.--For the future please to let these gentry rest in peaceful seclusion until after breakfast." "Oh no, Endy!" "My dear, I shall have you turning into a moonbeam. Just imagine what it would cost me to call you 'pale Cynthia'!" "You needn't imagine it, Endecott." "Only so far as to prevent the reality. Do you know I have been afraid of this for some time." "Of what?" "Afraid that you were disregarding the bounds I have laid down for study and the sun for sleep." "I didn't know you had laid down any bounds," she said gaily again--"and I never did mind the sun." "Well won't you mind me?" said he smiling. "I have a right to expect that in study matters, you know." "Don't try me--" said Faith, very winningly, much more than she knew. He stood looking at her, with the sweet unbent expression which was her special right. "Faith, don't you mean to love to have me take care of you?" That brought a change of look, and it was curious to see the ineffectual forces gather to veil what in spite of them wreathed in her smile and laid an additional roseleaf upon each cheek. The shy eyes retreated from view; then they were raised again as she touched his arm and said, with a demure softness, "What must I do, Endy?" "Be content with the old study hours, my dear child. They are long enough, and many enough." "Oh Endy!--not for me." "For thee." Faith looked down and looked disturbed. "Then, Endecott, I sha'n't be as wise as I want to be,--nor as you want to have me." "Then you will be just as wise as I want you to be," he said with a smile. "As to the rest, pretty child,--do you mean that my wife shall deprive me of my scholar?" Faith turned away and said rather quickly, "Endy, how did you know?" "From some lesson evidence. And I always hear you come down--and whiles I see a face at breakfast which has not lately come from rest." Faith's secret thought was that it was better than rest. But after folding her hands with a grave face, she looked up at Mr. Linden with a smile which yielded the whole question. "To prove to you what a naughty child you have been," said Mr. Linden, "I shall give you an increase of outdoor lessons, and take you off on an expedition the first mild day. On which occasion you may study me--if you have any of Miss Essie's curiosity." "Don't I?" said Faith. "And I am going to do it more. What expedition are you going on, Endecott?" "Up to Kildeer river--I have business there. Will you trust yourself to me in a boat--if I will let you steer?" "I'll do anything to go," said Faith. "And I suppose if I steered wrong, the helm would come about pretty quick!" And so ended her last early morning studies. It was in the afternoon of the same day that Faith put in practice what she had been thinking of when she avowed her determination of further studying Mr. Linden. He had come home from school, and it was the dusky hour again; the pleasant interregnum between day and night when even busy folk take a little time to think and rest. Mr. Linden was indulging in both apparently; he was in one of those quiet times of doing nothing which Faith chose for making any of her very gentle attacks upon him. One seemed to be in meditation now. She stole up behind him and leaned down on the back of his chair, after her wont. "Endecott"--she said softly. Faith's voice was in ordinary a pleasant thing to hear; but this name from her lips was always a concretion of sweetness, flavoured differently as the case might be. Sometimes with mere gladness, sometimes with the spirit of fun, often enough with a little timidity, and sometimes with a rose-drop from the very bottom of her heart's well; with various compounds of the same. But this time it was more than timidity; Faith's one word was spoken as from lips that were positively afraid to follow it with others. "That note," said Mr. Linden smiling, "seems to come from the top of a primeval pine tree--with a hawk in sight! Little bird, will you please come down into the lower regions of air?--where you can be (comparatively) safe." Faith laughed; but the hawk remained in sight--of her words. "You said this morning I never asked you any but impossible things." "Most sorrowfully true!--have you another one ready?" "If I ask you something possible, what will you do?" she said, softly touching the side of his head with her hand. It was Faith's utmost freedom; a sort of gentle admiring touch of her fingers which the thick locks of hair felt hardly more than a spider's feet. "That depends so much upon the thing!" he said, half turning to give her the look which belonged to his words. "There are such a variety of ways in which I might deal with it--and with you." "I am not going to ask you anything but what would be right." "You do not doubt that my answer will be conformable?" "Yes I do. It will be your 'right,' but it may not be my 'right,' you know." "If you get what is not your right, you ought to be contented," said Mr. Linden. "Now you have turned me and my meaning round! Endecott--you know Aunt Dilly gave me something?--mayn't I--won't you let me lend it to you?" Very low and doubtfully the words came out! But if Faith had any more to say, she had little chance for a while. One quick look round at her Mr. Linden gave, but then he sprang up and came to where she stood, lifting her face and giving her her "right" in one sense at least. Other answer he made none. "Endy--have I asked a possible thing this time?" she said under breath. "My precious child!--Do you think it possible?" "It ought to be possible, Endecott." And if ever an humble suggestion of a possibility was made, Faith made it then. "I shall have to go back to my first answer," said Mr. Linden,--"I have no words for any other. Faith, dearest--don't you know that it is not needful? Will that content you, little sweet one?" A soft "no." "Why not?" he said, making good his threat. "What do you want me to have more than I need?" "I fear the ways you will take to make that true. I should think you might, Endecott!"--The ellipsis was not hard to supply. "I shall not take any unlawful means--nor any unwise ones, I hope," he said lightly. "What are you afraid I shall do?" "Get up early in the morning," she whispered. "But that is so pleasant! Do you suppose I get up late now, little bird?" "Not late, with breakfast at seven. How early do you?" "Philosophically early! Do you know you have not had your poem to-day?--what shall it be? sunrise or sunset?" "Which you please," she said gently, with the tone of a mind upon something else. Mr. Linden looked down at her in silence for a minute. "Dear Faith," he said, "I told you truly that there is no need. This year's work has done quite as much as I thought it would. What are you afraid of?" "I am not afraid of much," she said, looking up at him now with a clear brow. "But Endy, I have changed my mind about something. Could you easily come down and read with me a little while every morning?--or are you busy?" "I am never too busy to spend time with you, my child,--that is one piece of pleasure I shall always allow myself. At what hour shall I come?" "At six o'clock, can you?" said Faith. "If you gave me a quarter of an hour then, I should still have time enough for breakfast work. This morning I was afraid--but I was foolish. This evening I want all I can get. And when you read me a _ladder of verses_ again," she said smiling, "I shall mark them in my Bible, and then I shall have them by and by--when you are gone." "Yes, and I can send you more. It is good to go up a ladder of Bible verses when one is afraid--or foolish," he said gently and answering her smile. "One end of it always rests on earth, within reach of the weakest and weariest." "That is just it! Oh Endy," she said, clasping her hands sadly and wishfully before her and her eyes tilling as she spoke--"I wish there were more people to tell people the truth!" CHAPTER XV. It was a fair, fair May morning when Mr. Linden and Faith set forth on their expedition to Kildeer river. After their early rising and early breakfast, they took their way down to the shore of the Mong, where the little sail-boat lay rocking on the incoming tide, her ropes and streamers just answering to the morning breeze. The soft spring sunlight glinted on every tree and hillside. The "Balm of a Thousand Flowers"--true and not spurious--was sprinkled through the air, under the influence of which unseen nectar the birds became almost intoxicated with joy; pouring out their songs with a sort of spendthrift recklessness,--the very fish caught the infection, and flashed and sparkled in the blue water by shoals at a time. In the sailboat now stood baskets and shawls, a book or two, an empty basket for wild flowers, and by the tiller sat Faith--invested with her new dignity but not yet instructed therein. Mr. Linden stood on the shore, with the boat's detaining rope in his hand, looking about him as if he had a mind to take the good of things as he went along. Up the hill from the shore, trotted Jerry and Mr. Skip. "Endecott," said Faith joyously,--"Goethe would have more than enough if he was here." She was not a bad part of the picture herself; fair and glad as she looked, as fair as the May morning and the birds and the sunlight.-- "Isn't this air sweet?" "Very! But Goethe would choose my point of view. So much depends, in a picture, upon the principal light!" "I wonder which is the principal light to-day!" said Faith laughing. "How it sparkles all over the river, and then on the young leaves and buds;--and then soft shining on the clouds. And they are all May! Look at those tiny specks of white cloud scattered along the horizon, up there towards Neanticut." "The principal light to-day," said Mr. Linden, "is one particular sunbeam, which as it were leads off the rest. It's a fair train, altogether!" and he threw the rope into the little vessel, and jumped in himself; then lifting Faith a little from her place, and arranging and disposing of her daintily among shawls and cushions, and putting her unwonted fingers upon the tiller. "Now Miss Derrick," he said, "before we go any further, I should like to know your estimate and understanding of the power at present in your hands." "I know what a rudder is good for," said Faith merrily. "I know that this ship, 'though it be so great, and driven of fierce winds, yet is it turned about with a very small helm whithersoever the governor listeth.' That is what you may call theoretical knowledge." "Clearly your estimate covers the ground! But you perceive, that while you take upon yourself the guiding of the boat--(if I might venture to suggest!--our course lies up the Mong, and not out to sea)--I, with my sail, control the motive power." "You mean that if I don't go right, you'll drop the sail?"-- "Not at all!--I shall navigate, not drift. Do you suppose I shall surrender at the first summons?" "What would you consider a 'summons'?" said Faith with a funny look. "I don't think your sail can do much against my rudder." "My sail regulates the boat's headway--which in its turn affects the rudder. (If we run down those fishermen the damages may be heavy.) But you see I have this advantage,--I know beforehand your system of navigation--you don't know mine. Let me inform your unpractised eyes, Miss Derrick, that the dark object just ahead of us is a snag." "My eyes don't see any better for that information," said Faith; with great attention however managing to guide their little craft clear of both snag and fishermen, and almost too engaged in the double duty to have leisure for laughing. But practice is the road to excellence and ease; Faith learned presently the correspondence between the rudder and her hand, and in the course of a quarter of an hour could keep the north track with tolerable steadiness. The wind was fair for a straight run up the Mong. The river stretching north in a diminishing blue current (pretty broad however at Pattaquasset and for some miles up) shewed its low banks in the tenderest grading of colour; very softly brown in the distance, and near the eye opening into the delicate hues of the young leaf. The river rolled its bright blue, and the overarching sky was like one of summer's. Yet the air was not so,--spicy from young buds; and the light was _Springy_; not Summer's ardour nor Summer's glare, but that loveliest promise of what is coming and oblivion of what is past. So the little boat sailed up the Mong. Mr. Linden's sail was steady, Faith's rudder was still. "Faith," Mr. Linden said suddenly, "have you made up your mind to my letter plan?" "About Reuben? O yes. I am willing." "You know you are to send me every possible question that comes up in the course of your studies, and every French exercise, and every doubt or discomfort of any kind--if any should come. I shall not be easy unless I think that." "But you won't have time for my French exercises!" "Try me. And you are to take plenty of fresh air, and not a bit of fatigue; and in general are to suppose yourself a rare little plant belonging to me, which I have left in your charge for the time being. Do you understand, Mignonette?" Her blush and smile, of touched pleasure, shewed abundance of understanding. "But I want you to tell me, Endecott, all the things in particular you would like to have me do or attend to while you are away--besides my studies. I have been thinking to ask you, and waiting for a good time." "'All the things'?--of what sort, dear child?" "Aren't there some of your poor people you would like to have particularly attended to? I could get Reuben to go with me, you know, where it was too far for me to go alone--or mother." "Yes, there are some things you might do," said Mr. Linden, "for me and for them, though more in the way of sending than going; the places are too far off. But I should like to know that Mrs. Ling's mother had a bunch of garden flowers now and then, and that another went to that little lame girl on the Monongatesak road; and once in a great while (not often, or they will lose their charm) you may send the Roscoms two fresh eggs!--not more, on any account. Reuben will go for you, anywhere--and the Roscoms are old protégées of his." "I didn't mean to forget the Roscoms," said Faith. "But must one manage with them so carefully?" "In matter of favours, yes. And even in matter of visits, to a certain degree,--their life is so monotonous that novelty has a great charm. Reuben used to go and read to them almost every day on his way from school, but I found it best to make my coming an event." "Can I do anything for Reuben?" "Nothing new that I know of, at present--you are doing something for him all the while,--and it will be a wonderful delight to him to bring you letters. Then if you are ever driving down that Monongatesak road, with nothing to hinder, take the little lame child with you for a mile or two,--she so pines to be out of the house and moving. Would it be disagreeable to you?--there is nothing but what is pleasant in her appearance." "What if there were?" she said with a wistful look at him. "Do _you_ mind disagreeablenesses? and do you want to have me mind them?" "No, dear child, but you must get wonted by degrees,--and some temperaments can never bear what others can. What if we were to overhaul those fishermen?" "What do you want?" said Faith, as she carefully set the boat's head that way. "A fish for dinner?" "No"--said Mr. Linden,--"I have too much respect for that basket at my feet. But you know, Faith, we are having a sort of preliminary play-practice at seeking our fortune, to-day--we must carry it out. Just imagine, my dear, that we are adrift in this boat, with nothing at all for dinner, and supper a wild idea!--not the eastern fisherman who for four fish received from the Sultan four hundred pieces of gold, would then appear so interesting as these." "If you wanted dinner from them--but you say you don't," said Faith laughing. "Endecott, I don't understand in the least! And besides, you said you wouldn't 'drift' but navigate!" And her soft notes rolled over the water, too soft to reach the yet somewhat distant fishermen. "And so because I turn navigator you turn Siren!" said Mr. Linden. "But I have you safe in my boat--I need not stop to listen." "But what did you mean?" "By what?" "All that." "Short and comprehensive!" said Mr. Linden--"come up on the other side, Faith, the current is less strong. All about seeking our fortune, do you mean? Did you never hear of any other extraordinary prince and princess who did the same?" "If I am not adrift in the boat, I am in my wits!" said Faith,--"and with no sail nor rudder either. Why are those fishermen interesting, Endecott?" "Why my child," he said, "in the supposititious case which I put, they were interesting as having fish, while we had none. But in the reality--they were picturesque in the distance,--what they are near by we will see," he added with a smile at her, as the sail came round and the little boat shot up alongside of her rough-looking relation. "Well friends, what cheer?--besides a May morning and a fair wind?" The fishermen slowly dragging their net, hoarsely speculating on its probable weight of fish, paused both their oars and tongues and looked at him. One of the men had the oars; the other at the end of the boat was hauling in, hand over hand. "That's about all the cheer you want, I guess,--aint it?" said this man. It was said freely enough, but with no incivility. "Not all _I_ want," said Mr. Linden,--while the oarsman, rolling his tobacco in his mouth, came out with-- "Shouldn't wonder, now, if 'twan't much in your line o' business!--guess likely you be one o' the mighty smart folks that don't do nothin'." "I've no objection to being 'mighty smart'," said Mr. Linden, belaying his rope with a light hand, "but I shouldn't like to pay such a price for it. Smartness will have to come down before I'm a purchaser." The man looked at him with a queer little gleam crossing his face-- "Shouldn't wonder if you hadn't took it when it was down!" he said. "It's a great thing to know the state of the market," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose you find that with your fish." "Gen'lly do, when we take 'em,"--said the man at the net, who never took his eye off the overhauling boat and its crew. He was not a young man, but a jovial-looking fellow. "What fish be _you_ arter, stranger?" "Somewhat of a variety," Mr. Linden said with a smile. "What makes the fish come into your net?" "Haven't an idee!" said the man--"without it bees that fish is very onintelligent creturs. I don't suppose fish has much brains, sir. And so they goes further and fares worse." Which statement of the case he appeared to think amusing. "But then why do they sometimes stay out?" said Mr. Linden,--"because I have read of men who 'toiled all the night and caught nothing'." "Wall, you see," said the fisher, "they goes in shoals or flocks like, and they's notional. Some of 'em won't come at one time o' tide, and some won't come at another--and they has their favourite places too. Then if a man sets his nets where the fish _aint_, all creation might work and catch nothin'. This side the river is better now than over there." "These men that I was talking of," said Mr. Linden, "once found a difference even between the two sides of their ship. But the other time, when they had caught nothing all the night, in the morning they caught so many that their net broke and both their ships began to sink." "What kind o' folks was them?" said the oarsman a little scornfully. "Why they were fishermen," said Mr. Linden. "They followed your calling first, and then they followed mine." "What's yourn?" said the other, in his tone of good-humoured interest. "Guess you're a speaker o' some sort--aint ye?" "Yes--" Mr. Linden said, with a little demure gesture of the head,--"I am--'of some sort,' as you say. But I've got an account of these men in my pocket--don't you want to hear it?--it's more interesting than any account you could have of me." "Like to hear it well enough--" said the man at the net, setting himself astride the gunwale to listen, with the net hanging from his hand. "I wouldn't mind knowing how they worked it--" said the other man, while Mr. Linden threw a rope round one of the thole-pins of the fishing boat and gave the other end to Faith, and then took out his book. And Faith was amused at the men's submissive attention, and the next minute did not wonder at all!--as she noted the charm that held them--the grace of mingled ease, kindliness, and power, in Mr. Linden's manner and presence. Nothing could have greater simplicity, and it was not new to Faith, yet she looked at him as if she had never seen him before. "A great many years ago," he said, "when the Son of God, our Lord Jesus Christ, was in this world, he went about healing sick people, and teaching every one the way to heaven; and the people came in great numbers to hear him. "'And it came to pass, that, as the people pressed upon him to hear the word of God, he stood by the lake of Gennesareth, and saw two ships standing by the lake; but the fishermen were gone out of them, and were washing their nets.'" "We wash our'n by pullin' 'em through the water," said the net man. "The Lord entered one of the ships, which belonged to a man named Simon, and asked him to push out a little from the shore. 'And he sat down, and taught the people out of the ship. Now, when he had left speaking, he unto Simon, Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a draught. And Simon answering, said unto him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing; nevertheless, at thy word I will let down the net.'" "In course! whether 'twas any use or not,"--the man with the net said approvingly. "So he had oughter." "Yes, and he knew it would be of use in some way, for God never gives a command without a reason. And when they had let down the net, 'they enclosed a great multitude of fishes: and their net brake. And they beckoned unto their partners, which were in the other ship, that they should come and help them. And they came, and filled both the ships, so that they began to sink.'" "That was a bigger haul than ever I see, yet," remarked the man. "Neither had Simon ever seen anything like it--he knew that it was brought about by the direct power of God. "When Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus' knees, saying, 'Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord.' For he was astonished, and all they that were with him, at the draught of the fishes which they had taken." "Can't see what he said _that_ fur," said the oarsman. "No more don't I!" said the other. "He had got a good haul o' fish, anyway--if he was ever so!--and we aint none of us white lilies." "But then Peter knew that he ought to be a white lily--and such a new view of God's power and greatness made him feel it more than ever. So that he was both afraid and ashamed,--he thought himself unworthy to have the Lord in his ship, and was afraid to have him stay there." "I wouldn't have asked him to go out, if he had been in mine,--_I_ don't think!"--said the elder fisher slowly. "I don't see as that chap need to ha' been afeard--he hadn't done nothin' but good to him." "But it's what we do ourselves that makes us afraid," said Mr. Linden. "So it was with Adam and Eve in the garden, you know--God had talked to them a great many times, and they were never afraid till they disobeyed him--then the moment he spoke they ran and hid themselves." The oarsman was silent, the other man gave a sort of grunt that betokened interest. "What shines had this feller been cuttin' up?" "Why!" said Mr. Linden, starting up and taking his stand by the mast, as the little boat curtseyed softly over the waves, "if you tell one of your boys always to walk in one particular road, and you find him always walking in another--I don't think it matters much what he's doing there, to him or to you." "Wall?"--said the man, with a face of curiosity for what was to come next, mingled with a certain degree of intelligence that would not confess itself. "Well--Peter knew he was not in the way wherein the Lord commands us all to walk." "I guess every feller's got to pick out his own road for himself!" said the fisher, pulling up a foot or two of his net carelessly. "That's what Peter had thought,--and so he had lived, just as he chose. But when he saw more of the glory of God, then he was afraid and confessed his sin. And what do you suppose the Lord said to him then?" "What did Peter own up to?" "The account gives only the general confession--that he was a sinful man, not worthy to have the Lord look upon him except in anger. You see he falls down at his feet and prays him to depart--he could not believe that the Lord would stay there to speak good to him." "Well--what _did_ he say to him?" "'He said unto him, Fear not'. And no one need fear, who humbly confesses his sins at the feet of Jesus, 'for if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' Then the Lord bade Simon and all his companions to follow him--and they obeyed. And now I want to tell you what this following means." He put one arm round the mast, half leaning against it, and gave them what Faith would have called a 'ladder'--passing from the 'Follow me,' spoken to Peter,--to the young man who being bid to follow, 'went away sorrowful',--to the description of the way given in the tenth chapter of John,--to the place whither the flock follow Christ-- "'And I looked, and lo, a Lamb stood on the mount Zion, and with him an hundred forty and four thousand, having his Father's name written in their foreheads.' 'These are they which follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth.'"-- The men listened, open-mouthed and with intent eyes;--partly to the speaker, it was evident, and partly to what the speaker said. And that his words took hold, it was also evident. When he ceased, the man at the net dropped his eyes for a moment, a curious look of meditation covering his face. "It's easy to talk of follerin'," he said with a half laugh which was not of carelessness,--"and one might like to,--but it's plaguey hard to know where to start!--" "It's easy for God to teach you and easy to ask him to do it. If it was anything else you wanted to do, you would not stop trying till you found out," said Mr. Linden--"and that is just the way here. Now I am going to give you a copy of all this," he said, throwing his own little Bible softly into Faith's lap and stepping forward to the prow of the boat (which she thought held only lunch baskets)--"and I shall turn down a leaf at the story of the net full of good fishes--and another at a place that tells of a net full 'of every kind, both bad and good.' And I want you to read them, and think about them, and find out how to follow Christ--and then come on!" He took his seat once more in the stern of the boat, and held out the Bible to the fisherman. The other man, slowly dipping his oars in and out, met his look too, but made no answer. The man at the net took the book and turned over the leaves with a wondering, considering air. "What do you reckon this here's worth?" he said somewhat awkwardly, without raising his eyes from it. "Worth daily reading and study--worth all you have in the world, if you will use it right," said Mr. Linden. "You need not think about any other value--I had it in trust to give away." "I'm much obleeged to you,--I'll take a look at it now and then. Do you live along here, anywheres?" "In Pattaquasset, just now," Mr. Linden said, as he prepared to make sail again. "I don't very often come to this part of the river." "Well hold on!" said the man, beginning to pull in his net with great vivacity,--"I'm bound to give you a fish--if I've got one here. Bear a hand, Dick! Haint you got a place on board there that you can stow it, without skeerin' the lady?"-- "I'll try to find one!" said Mr. Linden, answering the proposal just as it was meant. "If the lady is scared she shall turn her face the other way." "She'll turn it which way you say?--" ventured the fisher insinuatingly. Faith did not seem afraid of the fish, by the way she leaned over the stern of the boat and eyed the up-coming nets which the men were drawing in. She had listened to the foregoing talk, to the full as intently as those for whom it was meant, and with a multitude of interests at work in her mind and heart of which they had never dreamed. And now her eye was bent on the net; but her thoughts were on that other kind of fishing of which she had just seen an example--the first she had ever seen of Mr. Linden's!--and her full heart was longingly thinking, among other thoughts, of the few there were to draw those nets, and the multitude to be drawn! What Faith saw in the meshes the man's hands were slowly pulling up!-- But the fisherman only saw--what pleased him greatly, some very fine fish; shad they were for the greater part; from which he selected a noble specimen and cast it over into Mr. Linden's boat. Then standing up in his own he wiped his hands on the sleeves of his coat. "Hope you'll come along again some day," said he. "And" (waggishly) "don't come without the lady!"-- The rope was drawn in and the little skiff shot ahead smoothly and silently from the great brown fishing boat and her equally brown owners. Gliding on--watched for a little by the fishers, then their attention was claimed by the flapping shad in the net, and the sail boat set her canvas towards Kildeer river. Mr. Linden went forward and bestowed his prisoner a little more out of sight and sound in some place of safety, and then sitting down in the prow dipped his hands in the blue water and took a survey of Faith, as she sat in the stern--the tiller in her hand, the shadow of the sail falling partly across; the spring zephyrs playing all about her. "Little bird," he said, "why don't you sing?" A smile of much and deep meaning went back from the stern to the prow; but she presently made the somewhat obvious remark that "birds do not always sing." "A melancholy fact in natural history! the truth of which I am just now experiencing. What shall be done with them at these times--are they to be coaxed--or chidden or fed with sponge cake? Have you got any in your basket?" "Are you hungry?" said Faith. "Only for words--or songs--or some other commodity of like origin," Mr. Linden said, coming back to his old place. "What shall I have?--if I cannot get the two first?" "You might have a little patience?--" "'Patience', my dear, 'is a good root'--but nothing akin to sugar canes." "There's no need of it, either," said Faith laughing,--"for _you_ can sing if I can't." "No, there is no need of it, and therefore--Now, little bird, will you please not to fly past the outlet of Kildeer river?" Laughing, colouring, Faith nevertheless bent a very earnest attention upon this difficult piece of navigation. For the opening of Kildeer river was as yet but slightly to be discerned;--a little break in the smooth shore line,--a very little atmospheric change in the soft leafy hues of the nearer and further point. Faith watched, as only a young steersman does, for the time and place where her rudder should begin to take cognizance of the approaching change of course. A little wider the break in the shore line grew,--more plain the mark of a break in the trees,--and almost suddenly the little stream unfolded its pretty reach of water and woodland, stretching in alluringly with picturesque turns of its mimic channel. Faith needed a little help now, for the river was not everywhere navigable; but after a few minutes of pretty sailing among care-requiring rocks and sand-banks, where the loss of wind made their progress slow, the little skiff was safely brought to land at a nice piece of gravelly shore. It was wonderful pretty! The trees with their various young verdure came down to the water's edge, with many a dainty tint; here one covered with soft catkins of flower,--there one ruddy with not yet opened buds. The winding banks of the stream on one hand; and on the other the little piece of it they had passed over, with the breadth of the Mong beyond. Through all, May's air and Spring's perfume, and the stillness of noonday. "Inverted in the tide Stand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows throw. And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below." So Mr. Linden told Faith, as he was putting his sail in trim repose, and then--telling her that the guiding power was still in her hands, requested to know what they should do next. "Why," said Faith merrily, "I thought you had business to attend to?" "I had--" said Mr. Linden,--"but I reflected that you would probably give me full occupation, and so got rid of the business first." "Then you have nothing to do here?" "A great deal, I suppose; but I know not what." Faith fairly sat down to laugh at him. "What do you think of having lunch, and then going after flowers?" "I consider that to be a prudent, bird-like suggestion. Do you expect me to cook this fish for you? or will you be content to take it home to your mother, and let us feast upon-- "'Herbs, and such like country messes, Which neat-handed Phyllis dresses'?" "_Have_ you all the books in the world in your head?"--said Faith, laughing her own little laugh roundly. "How plain it is Mr. Linden has nothing to do to-day!--Would you like to help me to gather some sticks for a fire, sir? I think you had better have something on your hands." "Do you?" he said lifting her out of the boat in his curiously quick, strong, light way,--"that was something on my hands--not much. What next?--do you say we are to play Ferdinand and Miranda?" Faith's eye for an instant looked its old look, of grave, intelligent, doubtful questioning: but then she came back to Kildeer river. "I haven't played that play yet," she said gaily; "but if you'll help me find some dry sticks--your reward shall be that you shall not have what you don't like! I can make a fire nicely here, Endecott; on this rock." "Then it was not about them you were reading in that focus of sunbeams?" "What?--" she said, looking. "Once upon a time--" Mr. Linden said smiling,--"when you and Shakspeare got lost in the sunlight, and wandered about without in the least knowing where you were." "When, Endecott?" "Leave that point," he said,--"I want to tell you about the story. Ferdinand, whom I represent, was a prince cast away upon a desert shore--which shore was inhabited by the princess Miranda, whom you represent. Naturally enough, in the course of time, they came to think of each other much as we do--perhaps 'a little more so' on the part of Miranda. But then Miranda's father set Ferdinand to carrying wood,--as you--acting conscientiously for Mrs. Derrick--do me." "I wonder if I ever shall understand you!" exclaimed Faith desperately, as her laugh again broke upon the sweet air that floated in from the Mong. "What has my conscience, or Mrs. Derrick, to do with our lunch fire? Why was the other prince set to carrying wood?" "For the same reason that I am!" said Mr. Linden raising his eyebrows. "To prove his affection for Miranda." How Faith laughed. "You are mistaken--O how mistaken you are!" she exclaimed. "It shews that though you know books, you don't know everything." And running away with her own armful of sticks and leaves, back to the rock spoken of near where the vessel lay, Faith was stopped and relieved of her load, with such an earnest-- "'No, precious creature, I'd rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonour undergo'--" that she could do nothing but laugh, till the sticks were fairly on the rock. Then Faith went to laying them daintily together. "I hope you've no objection to my making the fire," she said; "because I like it. Only, Endecott! the matches are in the basket. Could you get them for me? Indeed I shall want the basket too out of the boat." Whereupon Mr. Linden-- "'The very instant I saw you, did My heart fly to your service: there reside, To make me slave to it; and for your sake, Am I this patient log man'!--" But anything less like those two last words than the way in which he sprang into the boat, and brought the basket, and got out what she called for, could hardly be. "How many matches do you want?" he said, looking demurely at her as he gave her one. "All of them,--basket and all, Endecott. You are so patient that you do not hear." "And you so impatient that you do not see--'basket and all' are at your side, fair princess.--Stand back,--it may be very well for the winds to 'blow, and crack their cheeks,' but I think it should be confined to them." And she was laughingly held back, where she could only use her eyes about the fire. "That's my province," said Faith. "I think any effort to make a princess of me, will--fail. Did Miranda pick up any wood herself?" "You can't help being a princess if I am a prince," said Mr. Linden. "I don't see how it follows," said Faith. "Only let me get at that fire, and the fancy will pass away. Endecott!--it is absolutely necessary that some wood should be put on; and I don't believe princes know how." "Princes," said Mr. Linden, holding her a little off with one hand, while with the other he replenished the fire, "are especially famed for their power of doing impossible things in desert places. And the princess will follow--whether you can see it or not. Is that blaze aspiring enough for you?" "Yes, but it needs to be kept up--I want a good bed of coals." A fine fire was on its way at last, and while waiting for it to burn down to the desired bed of coals, the temporary prince and princess sat down on the rock to feast their eyes in the mean time. A little past midday, it was not the picturesque hour for another season; but now, in the freshness of Spring, the delicate beauties of colour and light could bear the full meridian sun and not ask for shadows to set them off; other than the tender shade under the half-leaved trees. It was a warm enough day too, and those same leaves were making a great spring towards their full unfolding. Birds were twittering all around, and they only filled up the silence. "Isn't it worth coming for!--" said Faith, when they had taken it all in for a few minutes without interrupting the birds. "More than that--and the 'it' is very plural. Faith, do you see that butterfly?"--A primrose-winged rover was meandering about in the soft air before them, flitting over the buttercups with a listless sort of admiration. "Poor thing, he has come out too soon," said Faith. "He will have some frost yet, for so summery as it is to-day." But Faith gave a graver look at the butterfly than his yellow wings altogether warranted. "Among the ancients," said Mr. Linden, "the word for a butterfly and the word for the soul were the same,--they thought the first was a good emblem of the lightness and airiness of the last. So they held, that when a man died a butterfly might be seen flitting above his head. I was thinking how well this one little thing shews the exceeding lowness of heathen ideas." "Did they think the butterfly was his very spirit, in that form?" "I suppose so--or thought they did. But look at that creature's wavering, unsteady flight; his aimless wanderings, anywhere or nowhere; and compare it with the 'mounting up with wings as eagles', which a Christian soul may know, even in this life,--compare it with the swift 'return to God who gave it'--with the being 'caught up to meet the Lord' which it shall surely know at death." "And the butterfly isn't further from that," said Faith clasping her hands together,--"than many a real, living soul in many a living person!"-- "No, not further; and so what the old Greeks made an emblem of the immortal soul, gives name, with us, to those persons who are most tied down to mortality. What were you thinking of, a minute ago, when I shewed you the butterfly?" "I was thinking of somebody that I am afraid a butterfly will always remind me of,"--Faith answered with a slight colour;--"and of the time he got the name." "He got it by favour of his office, you know--not otherwise." "I know--" But with that, Faith jumped up to see to the state of the fire; and then after some conjuration in her basket produced a suspicious-looking tin vessel, for which the proper bed of coals was found. Leaving it and the fire to agree together, Faith came back to the rock and Mr. Linden and stood a little while silently looking and breathing the sweetness. "I always did love everything in the world, that my eyes could see," she said gravely. "But I love them so much more now!--now that the hand that made them is not such a strange far-off hand to me. It makes a kind of new world to me, Endecott." "Yes--and you can understand how--even without physical changes--when we 'shall know as we are known,' the 'heavens and earth wherein dwelleth righteousness' may be preëminently 'new'." Faith stood without reply a few minutes longer, then ran back to her fire; and after a short space called to Mr. Linden to ask if he would like to come and see what the prince had been picking up wood for? To which the prince responded with very un-royal alacrity, bringing a well-put-together knot of buttercups to adorn one side of Miranda's head; which he declared looked better than gold beads, if they didn't cost as much. A napkin was spread on the rock, conveniently near to the fire; on which plates and bread and a bottle of cream and a dainty looking pasty were irregularly bestowed. Mr. Linden threw himself down on the moss; and Faith had got a cup and saucer out of her basket and was just sugaring and creaming the prince's reward before applying to her dish on the fire for the crowning coffee; when her eye was caught by a spectator lately come upon the scene. No other than a somewhat ragged little boy, who eyeing them from the bank had been irresistibly lured nearer and nearer, by the grace of the preparations and the steam of the hot coffee perhaps, till he now stood by the trunk of the nearest tree. "What are you doin'?" he said. "What are you?" said Mr. Linden, turning to look at the boy--not just as _he_ looked at the coffee, but very much as the coffee looked at him. "Did you never see people eat dinner?" The boy stood his ground with, "What you got?" "When was the last time?" said Mr. Linden. ("Princess--this may turn out to be a subject!") "Last time _what?_" said the "subject" stoutly. "The last time you saw people eating dinner," said Mr. Linden. "Did you ever go to the Museum?" "I've went to Pettibaug!"-- "When is the last time you saw people eating dinner?" said Faith. "We haint got none to our house." "What's the matter?" "Mintie said there warn't nothin' to eat and I might go a blackberryin'." "You've come to the right place," said Mr. Linden,--"I don't believe they're ripe anywhere else. Who is 'Mintie'? and who stays with her while you're after blackberries?" "Mintie's sissy. There aint nobody stayin' with her--she's stayin' along o' mother--when she's up." "Where is she?--I mean where does she live--and you, and Mintie. Where is your house?" "Round there--'Taint fur. What you got?" Faith set down her cup and looked at Mr. Linden. "What is the matter with your mother?" "She's sick." "Well if I give you a basket, and this lady puts some dinner in it for your mother and Mintie and you, do you think you can carry it home?" "Is your sister sick too?" said Faith. "She's got the fever nagur." "Endecott," said Faith softly,--"shall we go and see them?" "Yes, of course. What's your name, child?" "My name's Bob Tuck." Mr. Linden looked at him. "How comes it that you and Dromy are no more alike?" he said. "Mother says Dromy aint like nothin' _I_ be." "Well Bob Tuck," said Mr. Linden smiling, "have you got a broom at home?" "There's two old ones." "Then if you will go home and sweep the floor as well as you can, with the two old brooms, and set the table, I'll bring this lady to see you and we'll carry the basket--(which means, Princess, that _I_ will!)--and you can let the blackberries hang on till they get ripe. Do you understand?" "If I'll sweep the floor, you'll fetch the basket?" said Bob. "Yes. And you can wash your hands nicely and be ready to help me take the things out of it." Bob started. "How soon 'll you come?" "As soon as I finish my dinner." "How good it is I brought the whole pie!" said Faith, as she poured the delayed coffee upon the cream and sugar. "And there's your shad, Endecott! unless you prefer to take that home, and we'll send something else.--Now you see what you picked up sticks for?" "I see--" Mr. Linden said, looking at her. "And you see, Princess, what royalty is apt to meet if it will go wandering round the world." "What?" "Bob Tuck!--" "Well--it's a good thing for Bob Tuck to meet with royalty,"--said Faith, looking at the pie Mr. Linden was cutting. "Princess," said Mr. Linden, "have you any 'Queen Anne' in your basket?" Faith looked, her merry, puzzled, grave look of inquiry,--and then there was nothing for it but a ringing laugh again. "I would rather have that at a venture, if I were the sick one," said Mr. Linden. "But the specific most prized by that class of the population who have 'fever nagur', is called in their vernacular 'Queen Anne'--anglice, quinine. Faith, you have no idea how those buttercups are beautified!" "Flowers always are, that you handle," said Faith. "You see how appropriate they are to my Sunbeam--for 'The buttercup catches the sun in his chalice'." "What is a chalice?" "A sort of cup--a church service cup, generally. Did you admire so much the head of clover I gave you once down at the shore?" Faith gave him a curious glance of recollection; but though there was a half smile on her face too, she remained silent. "Well, little bird?" he said smiling. "Of what is that look compounded?" "Various things, I suppose. Let me have your cup, Endecott?" "Do you know," he said, "that for a scholar, you are--remarkably--unready to answer questions?" "I didn't know it." "Are you not aware of any class of recollective remarks or inquiries which now and then break forth, and which you invariably smother with a thick blanket of silence?" There was another quick glance and smile, and then Faith said as she handed him his cup,-- "What do you want to know, Endecott?" "I want to know where there was ever just such another princess. And by the way, speaking of the shore--I have something that belongs to her." "To me?" "Oui, mademoiselle." "May I know what?" "You may, yet not just now. You may guess what it is." But Faith gave up guessing in despair at one of Mr. Linden's puzzles. The basket was repacked when the lunch was done; and they set out on their walk. The way, following Bob's direction, led along the bank under the trees, turning a little before the Mong was reached. The house was soon found; standing alone, in an enclosed garden ground where no spade had been struck that season; and at the end of a farm road that shewed no marks of travel. Bob had not only swept the room, but his tidings had roused apparently his sister to prepare herself also; for Mintie met them as they came in. She was a handsome girl, with a feverish colour in her cheeks that made her appearance only more striking. There was pride and poverty here, clearly. Faith's simple words neither assumed the one nor attacked the other. The girl looked curiously at her and at the other visiter. "Who be you?" "We do not live in this neighbourhood," said Faith. "We came up to Kildeer river to-day, and met your little brother down by the shore." "What did he say to you?" "He told us you were sick and in want of help." Another look laid the girl's jealousy asleep. She told her story--her father had died six months ago; she and her mother and brother lived there alone. It was an "unlikely place to get to," and no neighbours very near. Her mother had been sick abed for a number of weeks; and she had had all to do, and now for a week past had been unable to do anything, go to Pettibaug or anywhere else, to get what they wanted. And so they "had got out of 'most everything." Dromy Tuck, Mr. Linden's scholar, lived at Farmer Davids' in the capacity of farm-boy; Mrs. Davids being a far-off connexion. So much was all pride permitted to be told. Without much questioning, her visiters contrived to find out what they could do for her. Faith put the coffee-pot on the fire, declaring that it would do Mintie good like medicine; and served it to her when it was hot, with some bread and chicken, as if it had been indeed medicine and Faith a doctor. Then while Bob and she were dining, Faith went in to see the sick woman. _She_ was much more communicative, and half avowed that she believed what she wanted now was "nourishing things"--"but with me lyin' here on my back," she said, "'taint so easy to find 'em." Faith gave her a cup of coffee too and some bread; she had hardly drunk any herself at lunch; and leaving her patient much inspirited, came back to Mr. Linden in the other room. Apparently his words and deeds had been acceptable too,--Bob's face was shining, not only with dinner but with the previous cold water applications which Mr. Linden had insisted on, and Mintie's mind was evidently at work upon various things. The basket was soon emptied of all but its dishes, and the prince and princess went on their way down the hill. "Faith," said Mr. Linden, "shall we go and sit in the boat for half an hour, considering various things, and then have our wild flower hunt? Or would you prefer that first?" "O no! I would rather have the half hour in the boat." It was good time yet in the afternoon, and though the little boat now lay partly shadowed by the hill, it was none the worse resting place for that. Again Faith was seated there in all the style that shawls and cushions furnished, and just tired enough to feel luxurious in the soft atmosphere. Mr. Linden arranged and established her to his liking; then he took out of his pocket a letter. It was one which had been opened and read; but as he unfolded it, there appeared another--unopened, unread; its dainty seal unbroken, and on the back in fair tracery, the words, "Miss Faith Derrick." As Faith read them and saw the hand, her eye glanced first up at Mr. Linden with its mute burden of surprise, and then the roses bloomed out over her cheeks and even threw their flush upon her brow. Her eye was cast down now and fixed on the unopened letter, with the softest fall of its eyelid. "Shall I read you a part of mine first?" "If you please. I wish you would." "Only a little bit," he said smiling--thinking perhaps that she did not know to what she gave her assent so readily,--"you shall read the whole of it another time." The "little bit" began rather abruptly. "'I have written to your darling, Endy--Not much, tell her; because what I have in my heart for her cannot be told. I know how precious any one must be whom you love so much. But make her love me a little before she reads my letter--and don't let her call me anything but Pet--and then I shall feel as if I had a sister already. And so I have, as you say. What a glad word!--I could cry again with the very writing of it. 'Endy--I did cry a little over your letter, but only for joy: if it had been for sorrow I should have cried long ago; for I knew well enough what was coming. Only I want more than ever to be at home,--and to see you, and to see Faith--don't let her think I am like you! 'My letter wouldn't hold much, as I told you. But I give you any number of (unspeakable!) messages for her, John Endy. I suppose you will take charge of them? I may feel sure they have all reached their destination?'" Long before the reading was finished, Faith's head had sunk--almost to the cushions beside her. The reader's voice and intonation had given every word a sort of ring in her heart, though the tone was low. One hand came round her when she put her head down, taking possession of her hand which lay so still, with the unopened letter in its clasp. But now she was gently raised up. "Precious child," Mr. Linden said, "what are you drooping your head for?" "For the same reason she had, I suppose,--" said Faith half laughing, though witnesses of another kind were in her eyes. "Who are you talking about?" "Your sister." "Why don't you begin to practise your lesson?" Perhaps Faith thought that she _was_. She looked at nothing but her letter. "Will you wait for your messages till we get home?--this place not being absolute seclusion." "Shall I read this now?" said Faith rather hastily. "I should think there would be no danger in that." With somewhat unsteady fingers, that yet tried to be quiet, Faith broke the seal; and masking her glowing face with one hand, she bent over the letter to read it. "My very dear, and most unknown, and most well-known little sister! I have had a picture sent me of you--as you appeared one night, when you sat for your portrait, hearing Portia; and with it a notice of several events which occurred just before that time. And both picture and events have gone down into my heart, and abide there. Endecott says you are a Sunbeam--and I feel as if a little of the light had come over the water to me,--ever since his letter came I have been in a state of absolute reflection! "I thought my love would not be the first to 'find out the way'--even then when I wrote it! Faith--do you know that there is nobody in the world just like him? because if you do not--you will find it out!--I mean! like Endecott--_not_ like Love. My dear, I beg pardon for my pronoun! But just how _I_ have loved you all these months, for making him so happy, I cannot tell you. "And I cannot write to-day--about anything,--my thoughts are in too uneven a flow to find their way to the end of my pen, and take all possible flights instead. Dear Faith, you must wait for a _letter_ till the next steamer. And you cannot miss it--nor anything else, with Endecott there,--it seems to me that to be even in the same country with him is happiness. "You must love me too, Faith, and not think me a stranger,--and let me be your (because I am Endy's) "PET." Faith took a great deal more time than was necessary for the reading of this letter. Very much indeed she would have liked to do as her correspondent confessed she had done, and cry--but there was no sign of such an inclination. She only sat perfectly moveless, bending over her letter. At last suddenly looked up and gave it to Mr. Linden. "Well?" he said with a smile at her as he took it. "You'll see--" she said, a little breathlessly. And still holding her hand fast, Mr. Linden read the letter, quicker than she had done, and without comment--unless when his look shewed that it touched him. "You will love her, Faith!" he said as he folded the letter up again,--"in spite of all your inclinations to the contrary!" "Do you think that is in the future tense? But I am afraid," added Faith,--"she thinks too much of me now." "She does not think as much of you as I do," Mr. Linden said, with a look and smile that covered all the ground of present or future fear. "And after all it is a danger which you will share with me. It is one of Pet's loveable feelings to think too much of some people whom she loves just enough." Humility is not a fearful thing. Whatever had been in Faith's speech, her look, bright, wistful, and happy, had no fear, truly bumble though it was. "There is no danger of my loving this letter too much"--she said as she carefully restored it to its envelope; said with a secret utterance of great gratification. The promised half hour was much more than up, and the broadening shadow on Kildeer river said that the time which could be given to wild flowers was fast running away. Perhaps, too, Mr. Linden thought Faith had mused and been excited enough, for he made a move. Everything in the boat was put up in close order, and then the two went ashore again, flower basket in hand. The long shadows heightened the beauty of the woods now, falling soft and brown upon the yet browner carpet of dry leaves, and the young leaves and buds overhead shewed every tint, from yellow to green. Under the trees were various low shrubs in flower,--shad-blossom, with its fleecy stems, and azalia in rosy pink; and the real wild flowers--the dainty things as wild in growth as in name, were sprinkled everywhere. Wind flowers and columbine; orchis sweet as any hyacinth; tall Solomon's seal; spotless bloodroot; and violets--white, yellow, and purple. The dogwood stretched its white arms athwart hemlock and service; the creeping partridge berry carried its perfumed white stars over rocks and moss in the deep shade below. Yellow bellwort hung its fair flowers on every ridge; where the ground grew wet were dog's-tooth violet and chick wintergreen. There the red maples stood, with bunches of crimson keys,--at the edge of the higher ground their humbler growing sister the striped bark, waved her green tresses. There seemed to be no end to the flowers--nor to the variety--nor to the pleasure of picking. "Faith--" said Mr. Linden. Faith looked up from a bunch of Sanguinaria beside which she was crouching. "I find so much Mignonette!--do you?" Faith's eye flashed, and taking one of those little white stars she threw it towards Mr. Linden. It went in a graceful parabolic curve and fell harmlessly, like her courage, at his feet. "What has become of the princess?" "You ought rather to ask after the prince!" said Mr. Linden, picking up the Sanguinaria with great devotion. "Is this the Star of the Order of Merit?" "I am not Queen Flora. I don't know." "As what then was it bestowed?" "It might be Mignonette's shield, which she used as a weapon because she hadn't any other! Endy, look at those green Maple flowers! You can reach them." He gathered some of the hanging clusters, and then came and sat down where she was at work and began to put them into her basket, arranging and dressing the other flowers the while dextrously. "Do you know, my little Sunbeam," he said, "that your namesakes are retreating?" "I know it, Endy," she said hastening her last gatherings--"and I am ready." They began their homeward way to the boat, wandering a little still, for flowers, and stopping to pick them, so that the sun was quite low before Kildeer river was reached. There Mr. Linden stood a moment looking about. "Do you see the place where we sat, Faith?" he said,--"over on the other bank?" She looked, and looked at him and smiled--very different from her look then! A glance comprehensive and satisfactory enough without words, so without any more words they went on their way along the shore of the river. As they neared their boat, the rays of the setting sun were darted into Kildeer river and gilded the embayed little vessel and all the surrounding shores. Rocks and trees and bits of land glowed or glistened in splendour wherever a point or a spray could catch the sun; the water in both rivers shone with a long strip of gold. They had had nothing so brilliant all day. In the full glow and brightness Faith sat down in the boat with her flowers near her, and Mr. Linden loosened the sail. How pretty the bank looked as they were leaving it! the ashes of their fire on the rock, and the places where they had sat or wandered, and talked--such happy words! "I shall always love Kildeer river," said Faith with little long breath, "because I read my letter here." "And so shall I," said Mr. Linden,--"but my love for it dates back to the first piece of reading I ever did in its company." He looked back for a minute or two--at the one shore and the other--the sunlight, the trees, the flowery hillside, and it was well then that his face was not seen by Faith--there fell on it such a shadow of pain. But he presently turned to her again with just the former look. "Now," he said, "do you think you can steer home in the twilight?" "I don't know. Can I? I can follow directions." "And I can give them." And with that arrangement they ran out from the clean woody shores of Kildeer river, and set their sail for Pattaquasset. How fair, at that point of weather and day! a little quieter than the morning spring-tide of everything, but what was less gay was more peaceful; and against a soft south wind the little boat began to beat her way down, favoured however by the tide. These tacks made Mr. Linden's counsels more especially needed, but the short swift runs back and forth across the river were even more inspiriting than a steady run before the wind, and the constant attention which helm and sail required made talk and action lively enough. "This is good, Endecott!" said Faith as the little boat came about for the fifth or sixth time. "Faith," he said, smiling at her, "you look just as fresh as a rose!--the day does not seem to have tired you one bit." "Tired!" she said,--"yes, I am a little bit tired--or hungry--but was there ever such a day as we have had?--since the first of January!" "My dear little Mignonette!" Mr. Linden said--but if it was a "message" Faith had then, it came from somewhere nearer than across the water. "If you are tired, dear child, give up the rudder to me, and lay down your head and rest. Do you see after what a sleep-inviting fashion the lights are twinkling all down the shore?" "I'm not sleepy a bit;" said Faith,--"nor tired, except just enough; and I like this small portion of power you have put in my hands. How beautiful those lights look!--and the lights overhead, Endy. How beautiful every thing is!"-- "Yes," said Mr. Linden, "when there is light within.-- 'He that hath light within his own clear breast, May sit i' the centre and enjoy bright day.'" "That's beautiful!" said Faith after a pause. And now the brush and stir of "coming about" again claimed their attention, and in a minute more they were stretching away on a new tack, with another set of constellations opposite to them in the sky. The breeze was fresh, though as mild as May; the boat made good speed; and in spite of beating down the river the mouth of the Mong was neared fast. Pattaquasset lights, a little cluster of them, appeared unmistakably; for down by the point there was a little knot of houses, variously concerned in trade or fisheries. Mr. Linden had to put his hand upon the tiller sometimes then, till they got in. Mr. Skip and Jerry were in waiting; had been, "a sight o' half hours," the former stated. Baskets and shad and passengers were transferred to the wagon, and within a moderate time thereafter welcomed (the latter) by Mrs. Derrick and supper--wherein, after a little delay therefor, the shad played a conspicuous and most satisfactory part. Now there are no shad like the shad that come out of the Mong. CHAPTER XVI. So passed the days. Not indeed all at Kildeer river, but all in sweet, peaceful, bright occupations, whether of work or play. The trustees had received their notice, with much dismay; a little alleviated by the fact that Mr. Linden was willing to stay at his post for a few weeks after the end of the year. It was almost a wonder, as the weeks went on, that Mr. Linden kept down the shadows as well as he did,--to leave Faith in the morning, and go to his devoted set of scholars--every one of whom had some particular as well as general hold on him and love for him; and then to get away by the hardest from their words and looks of sorrow and regret, and come back to the presence of her brave little face--Mr. Linden was between two fires. And they wrought a sort of deepening of everything about him which was lovely or loveable--which did not make it easier for Pattaquasset to let him go. As far as anybody could be a help to him, Faith was one. In a gentleness of spirit that was of no kin to weakness, she took to her heart the good that she had, and was quite as much of a sunbeam as ever. How it would be when Mr. Linden was gone, Faith did not know; but she did know that that was one of to-morrow's cares, with which she had no business to-day. If the thought ever came up in its strength, strong enough to bring down her heart and head,--if there were times when Faith shewed herself to herself--the revelation was made to no other person. And therefore it is probable that it was a view she did not often indulge in. Dr. Harrison was not much at Pattaquasset these days He found it convenient to be away. Dr. Harrison was a man who did not like to throw away his ammunition. He by no means absented himself because of any failing in his fancy for somebody in Pattaquasset; the working of cause and effect was on a precisely opposite principle. The truth was, the fancy had grown to a strength that would not well bear the doubtful kind of intercourse which had been kept up between the parties; yet doubtful it remained, and must remain for the present. With Mr. Linden there in the family; with the familiar habits that naturally grow up between hostess and guest, friend and friend, fellow inmates of the same house--it was very difficult for the doctor to judge whether those habits had any other and deeper groundwork. It was impossible, with his scanty and limited chances of observation. At the same time there was too great a possibility--his jealousy called it more,--for him to be willing to take any forward and undoubtful steps himself. He did not find sea-room to put in his oar. In this state of things, all that his pride and his prudence would suffer him to do, was to wait--wait till either by Mr. Linden's stay or departure the truth might be made known. But to abide in Pattaquasset and watch patiently the signs of things, was more than Dr. Harrison's feeling,--for it was far more than fancy,--could bear. Just now, in despair or disgust, he had taken a longer enterprise than usual; and was very far indeed from Pattaquasset when the news of Mr. Linden's going set all the country in a flame. So, greatly to Faith's satisfaction, he could not for some time be there to add any flame of his own. The morning readings with Mr. Linden were great and chief treasures to her all these days. She was always ready for him before six o'clock. Not now in a firelit room, with curtains drawn against the cold; but in the early freshness of the spring and summer mornings, with windows open and sweet air coming in. Duly Faith noted every "ladder of verses"--till her Bible grew to be well dotted with marks of red ink. They looked lovely to her eyes. So they might; for they were records of many very deep and sweet draughts from that well of water which the word is to them that love it; draughts deeper and sweeter than Faith could have drawn by herself--or she thought so. No quarter of an hour in the day Faith loved so well. It was often more. One morning the "ladder" began with the silver trumpets made for the service of God in the hands of the priests of Israel. Faith, looking quietly out of the window, went roving in thought over the times and occasions Mr. Linden read of, when their triumphal blast had proclaimed the name and the glory of God in the ears of the thousands of Israel; times of rejoicing, of hope, of promise and of victory. Scenes of glory in the old Jewish history floated before her--with the sublime faith of the actors in them, and the magnificent emblematic language in which they read the truth. Faith only came fairly back to New England and Pattaquasset at David's declaration-- "Blessed are the people that know the joyful sound; they shall walk, O Lord, in the light of thy countenance." The words thrilled her. She thought of the many who had never heard the sound at all; and entered into Isaiah's foresight of a day when "the great trumpet shall be blown, and they shall come that were ready to perish in the land of Assyria, and the outcasts in the land of Egypt."-- "How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good; that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth!" Then came Isaiah's own blast of the trumpet, and then the sweet enlargements and proclamations of the gospel, and the Lord's own invitation to all who are "weary and heavy laden." But also-- "How shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent? as it is written, How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!"-- "And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely." Faith sat by the open window, no sound abroad but the stir in the leaves and the low music of birds. The very still peace without, rather seemed to heighten and swell the moving of thoughts within, which surged like the sea. Mr. Linden stopped reading and was silent; and so was she, with nothing of all this appearing otherwise than in the fixed, abstracted look which went out into Pattaquasset but also went far beyond. And when she spoke, it was earnestly and with the same clear quiet. "Endy--I am _glad_ to have you go, for the reason you are going for. I wouldn't have you be anything else than what you mean to be,--not for the pleasure of having you here." Her voice did not tremble, though indeed it told of feelings that were less assured. "Dear Faith!" Mr. Linden said, with a bright flash of pleasure at her words, which changed even while he spoke, "you do not know what a comfort it is to me to feel that! And do you realize, little Sunbeam, what joy it is, that however far apart we can still work together--in the same cause, for the same master? The work which I take upon me by name, belongs as really to you,--for the call should be given by every one that heareth to every one that is athirst." "I know--" she said quietly. "How grand those words are you have been reading!" "Faith," Mr. Linden said presently, "have you any special attachment to this particular little Bible?" "I have my red notes in it," she said with a bright smile. "I am not quite satisfied with the paper and type, for your eyes--by firelight and twilight. Shall I break up any train of old association if I send you another?" She gave him a look of what Dr. Harrison might have called "compound interest"; but assured him at the same time with sedate earnestness that the one she had would do very well. This was but a day or two before Mr. Linden's leaving Pattaquasset. He had paid his many farewell visits before the last week came, and before that, too, had given up his weekday scholars,--those last days were all given to Faith. Given to her in every possible way--out of doors and within; in that fair summer weather the open air was the best of all places for talking, and the least liable to intrusion. It was a great relief to get away from village sights and sounds to the still woods, or the fresh shore,--it was a great help towards cheerfulness. And the help was needed. Wherever Mr. Linden went, among people, he met nothing but sorrow for his going away,--wherever he went, to house or woods, he carried the deep-hidden double sorrow in his heart, which no one guessed of all who so loudly bewailed his departure. Faith herself perhaps hardly realized what his part of that sorrow was; but he knew hers, and bore it--as one bears the trials of the dearest friend one has on earth. He was to go very early in the morning, but when the late evening talk had impinged upon the night as much as it could be allowed to do, he gave Faith the unexpected promise of coming down to read with her just as usual next day. It was very, very early this time, in the summer twilight dawn, when the kildeers were in their full burst of matins, and all the other birds coming in one by one. Faith did not say many words, but she was as quiet as the hour. Then she went to the breakfast-room to arrange and hasten matters there; and Mr. Linden followed, and stood watching her--she did not know how,--she only knew how he talked. But he took her into the sitting-room the moment breakfast was over and stood by her, giving her the mute caresses he could not put in words. And for words there was little time. The morning light came up and up into the sky, the candles burned dim, as they stood there; and then he bade her "'be perfect, be of good comfort,'" and so went away. CHAPTER XVII. When Mr. Linden was out of sight from the porch, Faith went to the deserted room. It was in the latter end of summer. The windows were open, and the summer wind blowing the muslin curtains flutteringly in. The maple shaded Faith's old reading window, the leaves not changing yet; one cupboard door a little open, shewed the treasures of books within. The chintz couch stood empty, so it always stood when Faith saw it, except only in those days of Mr. Linden's confinement with his wound. But now her mind leaped back to that time; and the couch and the table and the books, the very windows and fireplace, looked deserted. The red maple leaves floating in--the dancing flames in the chimney--her lessons by the side of that couch--her first exercise, which she had been sent to do at that table;--all that and everything beside seemed to make its passage through Faith's mind in tumultuous procession. She sat down on the couch and leaned her head on the back of it; but only a few nervous tears came, and oppressed sobbing breaths took the place of them. For a little while then Faith fell on her knees, and if she could not speak connectedly, nor think connectedly, she yet poured out her heart in the only safe channel; and grew quiet and self-possessed. After an hour she left the couch and turned to go down and join her mother. Passing the table on her way out, with a glance which had been called off by other things as she came in, Faith's eye was caught and stayed. There was no exercise left there for her, but the very gold pen with which she had written that first one--and which she had used so many times since, lay there; and by the pen a letter. The blood rushed to Faith's heart as if Mr. Linden had come back again, or rather as if he had not taken quite all of himself away. In a flood of gladness and thankfulness and sorrow, Faith took up the letter and standing there by the table read it. MY OWN LITTLE PRECIOUS MIGNONETTE, I have a love for this sheet of paper, because it will be in your hands when I cannot touch them nor see them,--how often they have ministered to me just where I am writing this! just where you will find it. I know _you_ will find it, Faith--I know where you will go as soon as I am out of sight,--but dear child, do not let any sight or association in this room make you anything but glad: they are all very dear to me. That first day when you came in here to see me--and all the days that followed,--and all the sweet knowledge I gained of my little Mignonette, while she was learning other things. Faith, I can even forgive Dr. Harrison his questions that day, for the delight it was to me to shield you. Dear child, you must let me do that now whenever I can,--it is one of the griefs of this separation that I cannot do it all the time. I must go back to our Bible verses!--Do you remember that first 'ladder' we went up together? 'The Lord God is a sun and a shield; the Lord will give grace and glory.'--In that sunlight I shall think of you as abiding,--I will remember that you are covered by that shield. I know that the Lord will keep all that I have committed to him! Now darling, if I could leave you 'messages,' I would; but they must wait till I come and deliver them myself. Take, in the mean while, all possible love and trust; and all comfort from the cause of my absence, from our mutual work, from my expected coming home now and then--from the diamonds on your finger and what they betoken! The diamonds stay with you, Faith, but their light goes with me. My child, I have too much to say to write any longer!--I shall be drawn on too far and too long,--it is not far from daybreak now. Take the best possible care of your self, and 'be strong and of a good courage,' and 'the Lord that made heaven and earth, bless thee out of Zion'! Precious child, you do not know how deeply I am Always your own-- ENDECOTT." The first lines of the letter wrung some tears from Faith's eyes, but afterwards the effect of the whole was to shake her. She sat down on the couch with the letter fast in her hand, and hid her head; yet no weeping, only convulsive breaths and a straitened breast. Faith was wonderful glad of that letter! but the meeting of two tides is just hard to bear; and it wakened everything as well as gladness. However, in its time, that struggle was over too; and she went down to Mrs. Derrick looking much like her wonted self. She went about so, all the day; nervously busy, though never more orderly about her business. In the kitchen and dairy and storeroom, and with her mother, Faith seemed as usual, with a very little of grave thoughtfulness or remembrance thrown over her natural pleasantness; only she gave books a wide berth, and took care to see no face that came to the house. One would have thought her--perhaps Mrs. Derrick even did--quietly composed and patiently submitting to trial, as if Mr. Linden had been already weeks away. Perhaps Faith herself thought so. A little thing shewed how much this quiet was worth. The day had been gone through; the tea was over, as it might, with the two alone; and mother and daughter had gone into the other room. Faith lit the lamp, and then began a sentence to her mother about laying the Bible in its place for prayer--when she stopped short. For a moment she stood still with the revulsion; then she fell on her knees and hid her face in Mrs. Derrick's lap, and the tears that had kept back so long came in a stormy flood; clearing the sky which had not been clear before. She was quiet really after that; she had no more fear of her books; and the first thing Faith did was to take pen and paper and pour out an answer to her morning's letter; an answer in which she gave Mr. Linden the history of her whole day, with very little reservation. Her mother watched her,--sat and looked at her as she wrote, with eyes very glistening and tremulous in their fond admiration. Indeed that had been their character all day, though Mrs. Derrick had followed Faith in her busy work, with no attempt to check her, with no allusion to what they both thought of uninterruptedly. Now, however, that Faith's tears had made their own way, her mother's heart was easier; and she watched the pretty writer by the lamp with all sorts of sweet and tender thoughts. A day or two passed, in great quiet and tender ministering to each other of the mother and daughter. Faith had taken deep hold of her studies again and every minute of the day was filled up as busily as ever. So the sitting-room wore in all things minus one its wonted aspect, when, the third evening, it received Dr. Harrison. He came in looking remarkably well, in his light dainty summer dress, and with that gentle carelessness of movement and manner that suited the relaxing persuasions of a hot summer day. He came in, too, a little like a person who through long absences has forgotten how wonted he used to be in a certain place or how fond he was of what he found there. Nothing further from the truth! He accosted both ladies after his usual gay fashion, and talked for a while about nothings and as if he cared about nothing. He could make nothing of Faith, except perhaps that she was a trifle shy of him. That did not mean evil necessarily; it was natural enough. He wouldn't disturb her shyness! "I have a sympathetic feeling for you, Mrs. Derrick," he remarked. "I miss Mr. Linden so much in Pattaquasset, I can't think how you must do in the house." "No, doctor, you can't," was Mrs. Derrick's quiet rejoinder. "How do you?" "Why I can't tell you, either," said Mrs. Derrick. "Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor, "I shouldn't like to be a lawyer and have to examine you as a witness. Unless it wasn't August!" "Well I suppose we should agree upon that, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't know what August has to do with it." "My dear madam, it would be too much trouble!--Apparently it isn't August everywhere!"--A very peremptory rap at the front door came in the train of footsteps that were loud and brisk as by authority, and that had quite survived the enervating effects referred to by the doctor. "Miss Faith," said Cindy appearing at the parlour door, "here's a man's got something--and he won't give it to me without I'll take oath I'm you--which of course I dursn't. I'm free to confess, I can't even get sight of it. Shall I fetch him in--thing and all?" Faith went to the door. It was nobody more terrific than an express-man, who seemed to recognize "Miss Faith Derrick" by instinct, for he asked no questions--only put a package into her hands, and then gave her his book to sign. Faith signed her name, eagerly, and then ran up stairs with her treasure and a beating heart, and struck a light. There was no need to ask where it came from--the address was plain enough; nor much need to ask what it was--she knew that it must be her Bible. Yet that only heightened the pleasure and interest, as she took off one wrapping paper after another, till its own beautiful morocco covers appeared. Within was the perfection of type and paper, with here and there a fine coloured map; in size and shape just that medium which seems to combine the excellencies of all the rest. There was no letter in the package, but a slip of paper with a new "ladder of verses" marked the place where they began; and on the fly leaf, below the inscription, was written the first verse of the ninety-first psalm. This was the leading reference on the slip of paper. Has any one--with any heart--ever received such a package? To such a one there is no need to tell the glow of pleasure, the rush of affection and joy, which filled Faith's heart and her face; to anybody else it's no use. She had to exercise some care to prevent certain witnesses of the eyes from staining the morocco or spotting the leaves. The paper of references she left, to be enjoyed more leisurely another time; and went on turning over the pages, catching glimpses of the loved words that she had never seen so fairly presented to the eye before; when after a good deal of this sort of delectation, through half of which she was writing a letter to Mr. Linden, Faith suddenly recollected Dr. Harrison! Softly the paper wrappers enfolded her treasure, and then Faith went down stairs with the high colour of pleasure in her cheeks. The doctor took several observations. He had not been profiting by any opportunity to "examine" Mrs. Derrick. On the contrary, he had talked about everything else, somewhat August fashion, in manner, but yet so cleverly that even Mrs. Derrick confessed afterwards she had been entertained. Now, on Faith's reappearance, he went on with his subject until he came to a natural pause in the conversation; which he changed by remarking, in a simple tone of interest, "I haven't learned yet satisfactorily what took Mr. Linden away?" "His own business," said Mrs. Derrick. "You must have heard what he is about now, doctor?" "I have heard--but one hears everything. It is true then?" "O yes, it's true," said Mrs. Derrick with an even play of her knitting-needles. "But then follows another very natural question," said the doctor.--"Why did he come here at all?" "I dare say he'd tell you if he was here--as I wish he was," said Mrs. Derrick,--"Mr. Linden always seemed to have good reasons for what he did." "I think that too," said the doctor. "I am not quite so sure of his telling them to me. But Pattaquasset has reason to be very sorry he is gone away! What sort of a preacher will he make, Mrs. Derrick?" "He's a good one now--" said Mrs. Derrick with a smile that was even a little moved. "Don't you think so, doctor?" "How dare you ask me that, Mrs. Derrick?" said the doctor with slow funny utterance. "But I will confess this,--I would rather have _him_ preach to me than you." "What sort of a bad reason have you got for that?" she said, looking at him. "Miss Faith," said the doctor with the mock air of being in a dilemma,--"you are good at definitions, if I remember--what is the proper character of a _bad reason!_" Faith looked up--he had never seen her look prettier, with a little hidden laughter both on and under her face and that colour she had brought down stairs with her. But her answer was demure enough. "I suppose, sir, one that ought not to be a reason at all,--or one that is not reason enough." "Do you consider it a bad reason for my not liking Mrs. Derrick's preaching, that I am afraid of her?" "I shouldn't think it was reason enough," said Faith. "Do you like preaching from people that you are afraid of?" "Yes. At least I think I should. I don't know that I ever really was afraid of anybody." These words, or the manner which went with them, quite obliterated the idea of Mrs. Derrick from the doctor's head. But his manner did not change. He only addressed his talk to Faith and altered the character of it. Nothing could be more cool and disembarrassed. He had chosen his tactics. They were made to regulate likewise the length of his visit, though the short summer evening had near run its course before he (in parliamentary phrase) "was on his legs" not to speak but to go. Then strolling on to the front door, he there met Reuben Taylor; flush in the doorway. The boy stept back into the hall to let him cone out; whence, as the doctor saw through the open window,--he went at once to Faith's side. But either accidentally or of design, Reuben stood so directly before her, that Dr. Harrison could see neither face--indeed could scarce see her at all. The little business transaction that went on then--the letter which Reuben took from his pocket and then again from its outer enveloppe,--the simple respect and pleasure with which he gave it to Faith--though colouring a little too,--all this was invisible, except to Mrs. Derrick. Faith's face would have told the doctor the whole. The pretty colour--the dropped eyes--and the undertone of her grateful, "I am very much obliged to you, Reuben!" Reuben made no verbal answer, and staid not a minute longer, but the pleasure of his new trust was wonderful! CHAPTER XVIII. Faith did not have as uninterrupted a time for studies as she had counted upon for the next few months. In the first place, letters took a great many hours. In the second place, her studies were pretty frequently broken up of an evening by Dr. Harrison. He certainly came often; whether it was because of the strength of attraction in that particular house, or the failure of any attraction beside in all the coasts of Pattaquasset, was a problem which remained unsolved by anything in the doctor's manner. His manner was like what it had been the evening just recounted. He amused himself, after his nonchalant fashion, and amused his hearers; he did not in the mean time call upon them for any help at all. He discerned easily that Faith had a little shyness about her; that might mean one thing or it might mean another; and Dr. Harrison was far too wise to risk the one thing by endeavouring to find out whether it was the other. The doctor was no fisher had no favour for the sport; but if he had been, he might have thought that now he was going to give his fish a very long line indeed, and let it play to any extent of shyness or wilfulness; his hand on the reel all the time. The talk that would do for Miss Essie would not please Faith. The doctor knew that long ago. He drew upon his better stores. His knowledge of the earth we live on; his familiarity with nature's and art's wonders; history and philosophy; literature and science; and a knowledge of the world which he used as a little piquant spice to flavour all the rest of his knowledge. Thrown in justly, with a nice hand, so as not to offend, it did rather serve to provoke a delicate palate; while it unmistakably gratified his own. It was the salt to the doctor's dish. But everything wants breaking up with variety, and variety itself may come to be monotonous. He asked Faith one evening if she knew anything of chymistry; and proceeded upon her reply to give her sundry bits of detail and some further insight into the meaning and bearing of the science. It was not August then, but it might have been, for the leisurely manner in which the doctor "unwound his skein" of talk, as if he were talking to himself or _for_ himself; and yet he was, and he knew it, filling Faith's ears with delight. He took up the same subject afterwards from time to time; beginning from any trifle of suggestion, he would go off into an exquisite chymical discussion, illustrated and pointed and ornamented, as no lecturer but one loving both his subject and his _object_ could ever make it. After a while the doctor began to come with bits of metal and phials of acids, and delight Faith and astonish Mrs. Derrick by turning her sitting-room into an impromptu laboratory. Such fumes! such gaseous odours! such ominous "reports", were never known in and about Mrs. Derrick's quiet household; nor were her basins and tumblers ever put to such strange, and in her view hideous, uses. But Dr. Harrison rather seemed to enjoy what appeared at first sight inconveniences; triumphed over the imperfections of tools and instruments, and wrought wonders over which Faith bent with greater raptures than if the marvels of Aladdin's lamp had been shewn before her. The doctor began by slow degrees; he let all this grow up of itself; he asked only for a tumbler the first time. And insensibly they went on, from one thing to another; till instead of a tumbler, the doctor would sometimes be surrounded with a most extraordinary retinue and train of diversified crockery and china. An empty butter-tub came to do duty for a water-bath; bottles and jars and cups and glasses, of various shapes and dimensions, attended or waited upon the doctor's operations; and with a slight apology and assurance to Mrs. Derrick he on more than one or two occasions appropriated the clock-shade for his use and behoof as a receiver. Then siphons began to come in the doctor's pocket; and glass tubes, bent and straight, open and sealed, in the doctor's hand; and one of his evenings came to be "better than a play." A most beautiful and exquisite play to Faith. Yet Dr. Harrison never forgot his tactics; never let his fish feel the line; and to Faith's joyous "How shall I ever thank you, Dr. Harrison!"--would reply by a dry request that she would induce Mrs. Derrick to have muffins for tea some evening and let him come. And what did Dr. Harrison gain by all this? He did gain some hours of pleasure--that would have been very exquisite pleasure, but for the doubt that haunted him, and respecting which he could get no data of decision. The shyness and reserve did pass away from Faith; she met him and talked with him as a pleasant intimate friend whose company she enjoyed and who had a sort of right to hers; the right of friendship and kindliness. But then he never did anything to try her shyness or to call up her reserve. He never asked anything of her that she _could_ refuse. He never advanced a step where it could with decency be repressed. He knew it. But he bided his time. He did not know what thorough and full accounts of all his evenings went--through the post-office. He knew, and it rather annoyed him, that Reuben Taylor was very freely admitted and very intimately regarded in the house. There was perhaps no very good reason why this should have annoyed the doctor. Yet somehow he always rather identified Reuben Taylor with another of his friends. He found out, too, that Reuben much preferred the times when he, the doctor, was not there; for after once or twice coming in upon sulphuric acid and clock shades (from which he retreated faster than if it had all been gun-powder) Reuben changed his hour; and the doctor had the satisfaction of wishing him good evening in the porch--or of passing him on the sidewalk--or of hearing the swing of the little gate and Reuben's quick bound up the steps when his own feet were well out in the common ground of the road. Mrs. Derrick expressed unequivocally (to Faith, not the doctor) her dislike of all chymical "smells" whatever, and her abhorrence of all "reports" but those which went off after the doctor's departure; the preparation of which Mrs. Derrick beheld with a sort of vindictive satisfaction. Mr. Linden enjoyed his letters unqualifiedly, sometimes wrote chymical answers--now and then forestalling the doctor, but rarely saying much about him. Faith was in little danger of annoyance from anything with her mother sitting by, and for the rest Dr. Harrison was at his own risk. Letters were too precious--every inch of them--to be much taken up with discussing _him_. Other things were of more interest,--sometimes discussion, sometimes information, oftenest of all, talk; and now and then came with the letter some book to give Faith a new bit of reading. Above all, the letters told her--in a sort of indefinable, unconscious way, how much, how much her presence was missed and longed for; it seemed to her as if where one letter laid it down the next took it up--not in word but in atmosphere, and carried it further. In that one respect (though Faith never found it out) the chymical accounts gave pain. Faith in her letters never spoke directly of this element of his; but she made many a gentle effort to meet it and soothe what could be soothed. To this end partly were her very full accounts of all the course of her quiet life. As fearlessly and simply as possible Faith talked, to him; quite willing to be found wrong and to be told so, wherever wrong was. It was rather by the fulness of what she gave him, than by any declaration of want on her own part, that Mr. Linden could tell from her letters how much she felt or missed in his absence. She rarely put any of that into words, and if it got in atmospherically it was by the subtlest of entrances. When she spoke it at all, it was generally a very frank and simple expression of strong truth. Of out-door work, during all this time, she had a variety. For some time after Mr. Linden's going away, neither Mrs. Stoutenburgh nor the Squire had been near the house; but then they began to amuse themselves with taking her to drive, and whenever Faith could and would go she was sure of a pleasant hour or two out in the brisk autumn air, and with no danger of even hearing Mr. Linden's name mentioned. The silence indeed proved rather too much, but it was better than speech. Then she and Reuben had many excursions, short and long. Sometimes the flowers or eggs or tracts were sent by him alone, but often Faith chose to go too; and he was her ever ready, respectful, and efficient escort,--respect it was truly, of the deepest and most affectionate kind. And thus--on foot or with Jerry--the two went their rounds; but at such houses Faith must both hear and speak of Mr. Linden--there was always some question to answer, some story to hear. It happened, among Dr. Harrison's other pleasures, that he several times met them on these expeditions; generally when he was driving, sometimes when they were too; but one late November afternoon--not late in the month but late in the day, fortune favoured him. Strolling along for an unwonted walk, the doctor beheld from a little hill Faith and Reuben in the valley below,--saw them go up to the door of a cottage, saw Faith go in, and Reuben sit down in the porch and take out his book. It was a fair picture,--the brown woodland, the soft sunlight, the little dark cottage, the pretty youthful figures with their quick steps and natural gestures, and the evening hue and tone of everything. But the doctor did not admire it--and went down the hill without even taking off his hat to the chickadees that bobbed their black caps at him from both sides of the road. By the porch the doctor suddenly slackened his pace, looked within, nodded to Reuben, and came to a halt. "Have I accidentally found out where you live, Reuben?" "I live down by the shore, sir," said Reuben standing up. "I thought--" said the doctor, "I had got an impression that you were not a thorough-going Pattaquasseter--but you looked so much at home there.--Where _do_ you live? whereabouts, I mean; for the shore stretches a long way." Reuben gave the vernacular name of the little rocky coast point which was his home, but the point itself was too much out of the doctor's 'beat' to have the name familiar. "How far off is that?" "About four miles from here, sir." "May I ask what you are studying so diligently four miles from home at this hour?" Reuben coloured a good deal, but with not more than a moment's reluctance held out his book for the doctor's inspection. It was a Bible. The doctor's face changed, ever so little; but with what feeling, or combination of feelings, it would have taken a much wiser reader of men and faces than Reuben to tell. It was only a moment, and then he stood with the book in his hand gravely turning it over, but with his usual face. "I once had the pleasure of asking you questions on some other matters," he remarked,--"and I remember you answered well. Can you pass as good an examination in this?" "As to the words, sir? or the thoughts?--I don't quite know," said Reuben modestly. "Words are the signs of thoughts, you know." "Yes, sir--but nobody can know all the Bible thoughts--though some people have learned all the Bible words." The doctor gave a little sort of commenting nod, rather approving than otherwise. "You are safe here," he paid as he handed the book back to Reuben; "for in this study I couldn't examine you. What are you pursuing the study for?--may I ask?" "If you don't know!" was in the boy's full gaze for a moment. But he looked down again, answering steadily--"'Thy word have I hid in my heart, that I might not sin against thee!'--I love it, Dr. Harrison--and it shews me the way to serve God." "Well," said the doctor rather kindly--"if I hadn't interrupted you, how much more study would you have accomplished before you thought it time to set oft for that four miles' walk home--to that unpronounceable place?" "I don't know, sir--I am not obliged to be there by any particular time of night." "No, I know you are not. But--excuse my curiosity!--are you so fond of the Bible that you stop on the way home to read it as you go along? or are you waiting for somebody?" The words brought the colour back with a different tinge, but Reuben simply answered, "No, sir--I did not stop here to read. I am waiting." "For Miss Derrick, are you not?" "Yes, sir." "Then I dare say Miss Derrick will release you for this time, and allow me to attend her home, whither I am going myself." "I must wait till she comes out, sir," Reuben said, with the respectful intractability which the doctor remembered. "Of course!" he said. "Did you ever take lessons of anybody but Mr. Linden?--" But at this point the house door opened and Faith came out. "Miss Faith," said the doctor, after his greeting which was thoroughly in character, "if you will tell your escort here--who I am sure is a staunch one--that you need him no longer, he will feel free to begin his long walk to the shore,--and I shall have the rare pleasure and honour of going home with you." Faith turned frankly. "Do you want to go home, Reuben?" "No, Miss Faith"--was the equally frank, low-spoken answer,--"not unless you want me to go." Reuben could but speak the truth--and he did try to speak it with as little offence as possible; though with an instinctive feeling that the time "when truth will be truth and not treason," had not yet arrived. "I mean, that I want to do just what you wish," he added looking up at her. "I don't want you to go, then," said Faith laughing, "for I mean that you shall come home to tea with me. Dr. Harrison, I will invite you too," she said turning her bright face towards him. "I _believe_--there are muffins to-night." "Miss Faith,"--said the doctor,--"you are an angel!" "What is the connexion between that and muffins?" said Faith merrily, for Reuben was at her side and she felt free. "You mistake the connexion," said the doctor gravely. "Angels are supposed to be impartial in their attentions to the human race, and not swayed by such curious--and of course arrogant--considerations as move the lower herd of mortals. To an immaterial creature, how can the height of a door be material!" "But I think you are mistaken," said Faith gently. "I don't believe any creatures mind more what they find inside the door." "What did you find inside that door?" said the doctor. Faith hesitated. "Do you know to-morrow is Thanksgiving day, Dr. Harrison?" "I am not quite sure that I ought to say I know it--though my father did read the proclamation. I suppose I know it now." "I found inside of that door some people who could not make pumpkin pies--and Reuben and I have been carrying them one of mother's." "What a day they will have of it!" said the doctor,--"if Mrs. Derrick's pies are made in the same place as her muffins. But can _you_ find nothing better to do than running round the country to supply the people that haven't pies?" "Not many things pleasanter,"--said Faith looking at him. "I see I was right," said he smiling. "I have no doubt angels do that sort of thing. But it is a sort of pleasure of which I have no knowledge. All my life I have pleased only myself. Yet one would wish to have some share in it, too. I can't make pies! And if I could, I shouldn't know in the least where to bestow them. Do you think you could take this now," said he producing a gold eagle, "and turn it into pumpkins or anything else that you think will make people happy--and see that they get to the right places?--for me?" "Do you mean it seriously, Dr. Harrison?" "If you will have the condescension!" "Oh thank you!" said Faith flushing with joy,--"oh thank you! I am very glad of this, and so will many others be. Dr. Harrison, I wish you could know the pleasure this will give!--the good it will do." "I don't think a ten-dollar piece ever gave _me_ so much pleasure," said he looking a little moved. "About the good I don't know; that's not so easy." Faith left that point for him to consider, though with many a wish in her own heart. But the walk home brightened into a very pleasant one after that. CHAPTER XIX. The soft grey clouds which had hung about the setting sun only waited his departure to double their folds and spread them all over the sky. Then the wind rose, sweeping gustily through the bare branches, and heavy drops of rain fell scatteringly on the dead leaves. But when wind and rain had taken a little more counsel together, they joined forces in a wild stormy concert which swept on with increasing tumult. It did not disturb Faith and her mother, at their quiet work and reading,--it did not deter Cindy from going over night to spend Thanksgiving day with her friends,--but it was a wild storm nevertheless; and while the hours of the night rolled on over the sleepers in Mrs. Derrick's house, still wind and rain kept up their carousal, nor thought of being quiet even when the morning broke. "But rather, giving of thanks."--That was the motto of the day--the one answer to the many vexed questions of life and care. Care was pressing, and life distracting, and everywhere was something that seemed to call for tears or complaints. To all of these the day answered--"But rather, giving of thanks." It was dark enough when Faith awoke; and she sat up in bed a minute or two, listening to the wild blasts of wind and the heavy pattering of the rain,--hearing the screech of the locomotive as the train swept by in the distance, with a pang at the thought of its freight of homeward-bound and expected dear ones,--then taking the day's motto, and gently and quietly going about the day's work. But the first of its work for her, was to cancel the bit of work it had already done by itself; and for that Faith went to her Bible,--went first to the list of texts that had come with it; endeavouring to realize and make sure her ground on that verse of the 91st Psalm--then on from that to its following-- "For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion." It was not a "time of trouble." Faith would not call it so. Never so bright a Thanksgiving day had risen upon her, spite of its clouds. But trouble might come; in the course of life-experience she knew it was pretty sure to come; and she sought to refuge herself beforehand in the promise of that pavilion of hiding. The driving wind and storm that emblematized another kind, gave emphasis also to the emblem of shelter. How Faith blessed her Bible! The next verse enlarged a little.-- "Thou shalt hide them in the secret of thy presence from the pride of man: thou shalt keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of tongues." Then followed the joyful acceptance of that promise-- "Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance." Then its result-- "I am like a green olive tree in the house of God: I trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever." "From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy. I will abide in thy tabernacle for ever; I will trust in the covert of thy wings." What strong refuge! what riches of trust!--How very bright Faith's fire-lit room looked, with the wind whistling all about, and the red light on her open Bible. She turned on. And like the full burst of a chorus after that solo, she seemed to hear the whole Church Militant say,-- "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations." Her mind swept back to the martyr ages,--to times when the church's road has been in darkness and in light, and the long train of pilgrims have gone over it in light and in darkness, each with that staff in his hand. Faith looked long at those words, seeming to see the great "cloud of witnesses" pass in procession before her. How true the words were to Abraham, when he left his home. How true to Daniel when he was thrown to the lions. How true they were to Stephen when he uttered his dying cry!--how true to the little child whom she had seen go to be with Christ for ever!--"In all generations." The prophets, true to their office, threw the light for ward.-- "He shall be for a sanctuary." "Although I have cast them far off among the heathen, and although I have scattered them among the countries, yet will I be to them as a little sanctuary in the countries where they shall come." "I will be as the dew unto Israel: he shall grow as the lily, and cast forth his roots as Lebanon. His branches shall spread, and his beauty shall be as the olive tree, and his smell as Lebanon." The next words gave the whole description, the whole key of entrance. "Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him and he in God. And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him." Here was the "Sanctuary" on earth,--the foreshewing image of the one on high. "I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it." How far Faith had got from the earthly Thanksgiving day--even to that finished and everlasting one on high! She had of course read and studied these passages all before--once; and then she had shut them up as a particular casket of treasures that she would not grow too familiar with suddenly, but would keep to enjoy their brightness another time. Something this Thanksgiving morning had made Faith want them. She now sat looking at the last words, feeling as if she wanted nothing. The wind and the rain still raged without, drowning and merging any sounds there might be in the road, though truly few animate things were abroad at that hour in that weather. Mr. Skip had roused himself, indeed, for his day's pleasure, and after lighting the kitchen fire had gone forth--leaving it to take care of itself; but when the door closed after him, Faith and her fire looked at each other in the same stillness as before. Until she heard the front door open and shut,--that was the first sound, and the last,--no unwonted one, either; that door opened and shut twenty times a day. What intangible, well-recognized modification in its motions now, made Faith's heart bound and sink with sudden belief--with swift denial? Who was it? at that hour! Faith sprang to the parlour door, she did not know how, and was in the dark hall. A little gleam of firelight followed her--a little faint dawn came through the fanlight of the door: just enough to reveal to Faith those very outlines which at first sight she had pronounced "pleasant." One more spring Faith made; with no scream of delight, but with a low exclamation, very low, that for its many-folded sweetness was like the involutions of a rosebud. "Faith!" he exclaimed. "Don't touch me till I get out of the rain!"--which prohibition Faith might consider useless, or might think that--shuttlecock fashion--it had got turned round in the air. "The best place to get out of the rain is in here," she said trying to draw him along with her. "Oh Endy! how came you in it?" "If you say three words to me, I shall give you the benefit of all the remaining raindrops," said Mr. Linden, disengaging himself to throw off his overcoat,--"how can one do anything, with you standing there? How came I in it?--I came in it! Precious child! how do you do?" And she was taken possession of, and carried off into the next room, like a rosebud as she was, to have the same question put a great many times in a different way. More words for her, just then, Mr. Linden did not seem to have. Nor Faith for him. She stood very still, her face in a glow of shy joy, but her eyes and even her lips grave and quiet; except when sometimes a very tiny indicatory smile broke half way upon them. "When did you come?" "I came in the night train. Mignonette--are you glad to see me?" The smile shewed her teeth a little. They would bear shewing, but this was only a glimmer of the white enamel. "Then you have been travelling all night?" "Yes. How are you going to prove your position?" "What position, Endy?" "That you are glad to see me." "I don't know,"--she said looking up at him. "You cannot think of any proof to give me?" "I can think of a great many." "I am ready to take them!" said Mr. Linden demurely. "Then if you will sit down and let me leave you for a few minutes, I will see what I can do." "Thank you--the proofs that I mean would by no means take you further off. Suppose you see what you can do without going away." She laid her head down for a minute, colouring too, even the cheek that was high-coloured before; but she looked up again. "Stoop your high head, then, Endy!"--she said;--and she gave him two kisses, as full and earnest as they were soft. There was no doubt Faith had proved her position! "Faith, darling," he said, "have you been growing thin?--or is it only that I have had to do with such substantial humanity of late. Look up here and let me see--are you anything but the essence of Mignonette?" The face she shewed was aptly named; about as pure as that. With grave, loving intentness--not the less grave for its little companion smile--Mr. Linden studied her face for a minute,--pushing back her hair. "Do you think,"--she said then in a light soft tone--a departure from the last words,--"do you think you won't want the essence of something else by and by, Endecott?" "No,"--decidedly,--"I want nothing but you--so you may as well make up your mind to want nothing but me." "Do you know what that would end in?" "Not necessarily in such a simple duet," said Mr. Linden smiling,--"people do not always realize their ideal. Mignonette, you are just as lovely as you can be!--and you need not bring Miss Reason to keep me in order. I suppose if _she_ were in the house it would end in her wanting her breakfast." "I don't like Miss Keason," said Faith, "and the only thing I am thinking of putting in order is the kitchen fire. Would you like to go there with me? Nobody's in the house--Cindy went yesterday to a wedding, and Mr. Skip is gone home to keep Thanksgiving." "That is the best thing I ever heard of Cindy," said Mr. Linden. "Of course I will go!--and play Ferdinand again Faith, would the doctor call me an 'acid'--come to dissolve all his crystals?" "Dr. Harrison gave me ten dollars yesterday for the poor people," said Faith as she led the way to the kitchen. Arrived there, she placed a chair for Mr. Linden and requested him to be seated; while she examined into the state of the fire. The chair was disregarded--the fire received double attention. "Faith," he said laughingly, "I bear the curb about as well as Stranger. I have a great mind to tell you how that eagle stands in the doctor's memorandum book!" Faith dropped her hands for the moment and looked at him, with grave eyes of wide-open attention. The look changed Mr. Linden's purpose,--he could not bear to take away all the pleasure the eagle had brought on his gold wings. "I don't believe there is such a book in existence," he said lightly. "Miranda, what would you like to have me do for you now?--the fire is ready for anything." "I haven't anything ready for it yet," said Faith, "but I will have--if you'll wait a bit."--She left him there, and ran off--coming back in a little while. And then Mr. Linden was initiated, if he never was before, in kitchen mysteries. Faith covered herself with a great apron, rolled up her sleeves above the elbows, and with funny little glances at him between whiles, went round the room about various pieces of work. Almost noiselessly, with the utmost nicety of quick and clean work, she was busy in one thing after another and in two or three at the same time; while Mr. Linden stood or sat by the fire looking on. Two things he comprehended; the potatoes which were put over the fire to boil and the white shortcakes which finally stood cut out on the board ready for baking. The preliminary flour and cream and mixing in the bowl had been (culinary) Sanscrit to him. He had watched her somewhat silently of late, but none the less intently: indeed in all his watching there had been a silent thread woven in with its laughing and busy talk,--his eyes had followed her as one follows a veritable sunbeam, noting the bright gleams of colour here, and the soft light there, and thinking of the time when it must quit the room. "Faith," he said as she cut out her cakes, "are these what you made for me the first night I came here?" "I believe so!" "What do you suppose you look like--going about the kitchen in this style?--you make me think irresistibly of something." "I should like to know," said Faith with an amused laugh. "I shall make you blush, if I tell you," said Mr. Linden. That was enough to do it! Faith gave him one look, and went on with her shortcakes. "You don't care about knowing, after all?" said Mr. Linden. "Well,--Faith, do you expect ever to make such things in my house?--because if you do, I think it will ensure my coming down stairs before breakfast." How she flushed--over cheek and brow,--then remarked gravely that, "she was glad he liked it." "Yes, and you have no idea what effects my liking will produce!" said Mr. Linden. "You see, Faith, it may happen to us now and then to be left without other hands than our own in the house (there is no reliance whatever to be placed upon cottages!) and then you will come down, as now, and I shall come too--taking the precaution to bring a book, that nobody may suspect what I come for. Then enter one of my parishioners--Faith, are you attending?" Faith had stopped, and poising her rolling pin the reverse way on the board--that is, on end,--had leaned her arms upon it,--giving up shortcakes entirely for the time being. "You will not be in that position," said Mr. Linden, "but going on properly with your cakes--as you should be now. Then enter one of my parishioners who lives six miles off, to ask me to come over to his house and instruct him in the best way of hanging his gate,--which I of course promise to do, notwithstanding your protestations that I know nothing of that--nor of anything else. Parishioner goes away and reports. One part of the people say how economical we are!--to make one fire do our cooking and studying. Another part have their suspicions that you keep me at hand to lift off the teakettle (much strengthened by report of your protest.) And the charitable part at once propose to raise my salary--so that we may have as many fires as we like. Faith--what should we do in the circumstances?" Faith was biting her lips and rolling out cakes with the swiftest activity, not allowing Mr. Linden a sight of her face. "If you hung the gate, I should think you would take the money"--she answered demurely. "I said you would say I could not do it!" said Mr. Linden. "Which being duly reported and considered by certain other people, will cause them to shake their heads, and wish in half audible (but most telegraphic!) whispers, 'that Mr. Linden were half as smart as his wife'!" Faith stopped again. "Oh Endy!"--she exclaimed between laughing and pleading. "Que voulez-vous, Mademoiselle?" But Faith went at her cakes and finished the few that were left. "I think you must be very much in want of your breakfast," she said coming to the fire. "You have played Prince Ferdinand--do you think you would mind acting the part of King Alfred, for once?" "My dear, I will play any part for you whatever!--in our duet. Shall I practise taking off the kettle to begin with?" "I don't think you had better,"--Faith said with a kept down laugh,--"for it doesn't boil." "Shall I take you off then? What are you going to do while I play Alfred?--I will not answer for my solo performances." "I shall not be gone but a few minutes. Do you think you could take this little skillet from the fire if it _did_--boil?" Mr. Linden might have got into a reverie after she ran away;--but certain it is that the skillet was in imminent danger of "boiling over" when Faith appeared at his side and with a laughing look at him gently lifted it off. "You are an excellent Alfred!" "What version of Alfred have you learned?" he said laughing, and catching it from her hand before it reached the hearth. "I thought hot water was his reward--not his work." "I thought, Endy, you would like to go up to your room before breakfast. Mother will be down presently." "And am I to find the perfection of a fire, as usual?" said Mr. Linden, taking both her hands in his and looking at her. "Little Sunbeam!--you should not have done that! Do you know what you deserve?" She stood before him rather soberly, glancing up and down; but he little guessed what her quietness covered. Though the lines of her lip did give tiny indication that quietness was stirred somewhere. He drew her to him for a moment, with one or two unconnected words of deep affection, then turned and went away. Faith listened to hear the well known run up the stairs--the familiar closing of that door,--how strange it sounded! how gladsome, how sorrowful. She stood still just where Mr. Linden had left her, as if sorrow and joy both held her with detaining hands. "Why child? Faith!"--said Mrs. Derrick coming into the kitchen, "what _are_ you about? What made you get up so early, Faith? What's the matter?--breakfast ready at this time of day! Couldn't you sleep, pretty child?" she added tenderly. "I didn't get up very much earlier than usual, mother. Don't you want breakfast?" "Whenever you like, child," said her mother, taking hold in her turn,--"but what's made you in such a hurry? And what makes you look so, Faith?--You're not pale, neither,--how _do_ you look?" Faith came so close that her mother could not see, and kissed her. "Mother, Mr. Linden is here." "Here!" said Mrs. Derrick with a little sympathetic start--it was not all surprise, nor all joy.--"Pretty child! how glad I am! But why didn't you call me, Faith?--and why don't you go and sit down and be quiet--now you've just been tiring yourself, and I could have done the whole! And of all things, how could he get here in such weather? No wonder you're in a hurry, child!"--and Mrs. Derrick began to work in earnest. Faith gave her the word or two more that she could give, and went to the dairy. It was Faith's domain; she was alone, and her industry fell from her hands. Breakfast and all might wait. Faith set down her bowl and spoon, sat down herself on the low dairy shelf before the window, cold and November though it was, and let the tears come, of which she had a whole heartful in store; and for a little while they fell faster than the raindrops which beat and rattled against the panes. But this was a gentler shower, and cleared the sky. Faith rose up from the shelf entirely herself again. So busy, skimming off the smooth cream, she felt the light touch of hands on her shoulders--felt more than that on her cheek. Had the tears left any trace there?--that Mr. Linden brought her face round into view. He asked no such question, however, unless with his eyes. "Mignonette, what are you about?" "King Alfred's breakfast. I forgot you knew the way to the dairy!" "Or could find it if I did not. What shape does my breakfast take in these regions?" "It takes the shape--Let us go back to the kitchen and we will see." It was spry work in the kitchen now! How Faith's fingers went about. But Mr. Linden could make nothing of the form his breakfast was taking--nothing of Faith's mysterious bowl, in which the cream he had seen her skim went into compound with the potatoes he had seen boiling and with also certain butter and eggs. The mixture went into the oven, and then Faith went off to set the table in the parlour. As they were alone to-day the fire in the dining-room was not to be kindled. The storm beat so differently upon the windows now!--now, when it was only a barrier against people who were not wanted to come in. Mr. Linden followed Faith in her motions, sometimes with eye and voice, sometimes with his own steps; confusing both her and her arrangements, making her laugh, and himself the cause of various irregularities in the table-setting, which he was very quick to point out. "Mignonette," he said, "I think it is a perfect day! Do you hear how it storms?" "And aren't you glad Cindy went to a wedding? And oh, Endy!--how many people will be coming after you to-day?" Faith stopped, knife in hand. "Did you suppose that I would come here to see you, and then be obliged to see half Pattaquasset instead? I stopped at Patchaug station,--there Reuben met me, and we had as pleasant a four mile drive in the rain as I ever remember. As to the wedding--I think there can never be more than one other so felicitous." Faith ran off. And presently the breakfast came in, variously, in her hands and in Mrs. Derrick's. It was broad light now, and the curtains drawn back, but the red firelight still gave the hue of the room; and the breakfast-table and the three people round it wanted for no element or means of comfort. There were the shortcakes, which Mr. Linden might more readily recognize now in their light brown flakiness--his coffee was poured upon the richest of cream; the potatoes came out of the oven in the shape of a great puff-ball, of most tender consistency; and the remains of a cold chicken had been mystified into such a dish of delicacy as no hands but a Frenchwoman's--or Faith's--could concoct. It's a pleasant thing to be catered for by hands that love you. Mr. Linden had found that pleasure this morning before. But both Faith and he were undoubtedly ready for their breakfast! After breakfast came the consideration of a basketful of things Mr. Linden had brought her. Very simple things they were, and unromantic enough to be useful; yet with sentiment enough about them,--if that name might be given to the tokens of a care that busied itself about all the ins and outs of her daily life, and sought out and remembered the various little things that she wanted and could not get; for the various papers of sugarplums in which the whole were packed, Mr. Linden declared them to be nothing but epithets and adjectives. The weather held on its way into the afternoon; but what was most unexpected, the afternoon brought a visiter. Mr. Linden and Faith, deep in talk, heard the sound of a foot on the scraper and then of a knock at the door, which made them both start up. Faith went to the door. But before she could open it, Mrs. Derrick came up behind her with swift steps and remanded Faith to the parlour. "I'll open it, child," she said,--"it's no use for you to run the risk of seeing anybody you don't want to." So Faith returned to Mr. Linden. But the first word set all fears at rest--it was only Reuben Taylor. He presented himself with many apologies, and would fain have told his errand to Mrs. Derrick, but as it was for Faith, the good lady opened the parlour door and bade Reuben go in,--which, as he could not help it, Reuben did. But the colour of his face as he came in!--Mr. Linden took the effect of it--Faith was partly occupied with her own; and Reuben, thinking the sooner the quicker--walked straight up to her. "Miss Faith," he said, trying to speak as usual, "I beg your pardon--but I was sent here with this,"--and Reuben presented a moderately large round basket, without a handle. "Reuben, come up to the fire," said Mr. Linden; while Faith took the basket and exclaimed, "This! Who in the world sent you, Reuben?--Yes, come to the fire." "I am not cold, sir," Reuben said with a look towards where Mr. Linden stood by the mantelpiece, as if his desire was to get out of the room--instead of further in, though he did follow Faith a step or two as she went that way. "I didn't mean to come here to-day, Mr. Linden, but--" "Didn't mean to come here?" said Mr. Linden smiling,--"what have you been doing, to be afraid of me? Faith, has your postman been remiss?" They were a pair, Reuben and Faith! though the colour of the one was varying, while Reuben's was steady. Faith nevertheless seized the boy's hand and drew him with gentle violence up to the fire. "Who sent you with this, Reuben?" "Dr. Harrison, Miss Faith. I was off on an errand after church, and one of his men came after me and told me to come to the house. And there I saw the doctor himself--and ho told me to bring you this basket, ma'am, and that he didn't like to trust it to any one else. And--" but there Reuben hesitated. "And that you were the only person he knew who would go through fire and water for him?" said Mr. Linden. "No, sir, but--I suppose I've got to say it, since he told me to,--Dr. Harrison said, Miss Faith, that--" the message seemed to stir both Reuben's shame and laughter--"that he had begged a cake of his sister, to go with your Thanksgiving pies--and that it was in the basket. And that I needn't tell anybody else about it." "Reuben," said Mr. Linden laughing, "you needn't tell him that I shall eat half the cake." "No, sir"--Reuben said,--and tried not to laugh, and couldn't help it. The third member of the trio shewed no disposition at all to much laughter. She had put the basket down on the table and looked at it from a distance, as if it had contained the four and twenty live blackbirds--or a small powder magazine. The effect of his message Reuben did not stay to see. He went round to Mr. Linden to ask if the morning orders were unchanged, clasped hands with him--then bowed low to Faith and went out. With very demure face Mr. Linden seated himself in one of the easy-chairs, and looked towards the table, with the air of one who expects--something! And not demurely but with grave consciousness, Faith stood looking in the same direction; then her eyes went to Mr. Linden. But his face did not relax in the least. "Do you suppose that basket holds a kitten?" he said contemplatively. Faith did not answer but walked over to the table and began the work of investigation. Mr. Linden came too. "If you are to make feline discoveries, I must stand by you, little bird," he said. The basket was carefully tied with a network of strings over the top; then followed one paper after another, a silk paper at last,--and the cake was revealed. The low exclamation that burst from Faith might be characterized as one of mingled admiration and dismay. Certainly Dr. Harrison had amused himself that Thanksgiving day! perhaps in terror of his old enemy, ennui. At least his basket looked so. The cake lay upon a white paper in the basket, with a little space all around. It was a rather small loaf with a plain icing. But round the sides of it were trailed long sprays of ivy geranium, making a beautiful bordering. The centre was crowned with a white camellia in its perfection. From the tip edge of each outer petal depended a drop of gold, made to adhere there by some strong gum probably; and between the camellia and the ivy wreaths was a brilliant ring of gold spots, somewhat larger, set in the icing. Somebody, and it was probably the doctor, for want of better to do,--had carefully prepared the places to receive them, so that they were set in the white like a very neat inlay. It was presently seen that quarter eagles made the inlay, and that the camellia was dropped with gold dollars. On the ivy lay a note. Faith looked at Mr. Linden as she took it up; broke the seal, and hastily running over the paper gave it to him-- "MY DEAR MISS FAITH, My yesterday's speculation in pumpkins proved so successful, that like a true speculator it made me want to plunge deeper--into the pumpkin field! I find myself this morning dissatisfied with what I have done--and beg to send a cake to go along with the pies--to be apportioned of course as your judgment shall suggest. I begged the cake from Sophy, who I am sure would not have given it to me if she had known what I was going to do with it. Your pleasure, personal and representative, last night, is a reproach to me whenever I think of it. Yet my unwonted hand knows neither how to cut up cake, nor what to do with it when it is cut--except--_avaler!_ Am I wrong in hoping that you will do me the grace to make available what I should only--if I tried to do better with it--throw away? and that as a token of your forgiveness and grace you will on the next opportunity bestow a piece of pumpkin pie, such as you carried the other night, on Your very respectful and most obedient servant, JULIUS HARRISON." PATTAQUASSET, Nov. 15, 18--. Mr. Linden read the note more deliberately than Faith had done, but his face, the while, she could not read; though (fascinated by the difficulty) her glances changed to a steady gaze. It was quietly grave--that was all and not all,--and the note was given back to her with a smile that spoke both "thoughts" of the doctor, and pleasure for any pleasure Faith might have from his basket. But then some of the deeper feeling came out in his comments--and they were peculiar. He had stood still for a second after reading the note,--his eyes looking down at the cake--gravely; but then they came to her; and suddenly taking her in his arms Mr. Linden gave her--it would be hazardous to say, as many kisses as Dr. Harrison had gold pieces--but certainly as many as he had put in the basket, and more. Faith did not read them, either, at first,--till the repetition--or the way of it, told what they were; the glad saying that she was his, beyond any one's power to buy her,--more than all, an indemnification to himself for all the gold he could not lay at her feet! There needed no speech to tell her both. A word or two had answered his demonstrations, first a wondering word, and then afterwards a low repetition of his name, in a tone of humble recognition and protest. Now she looked up at him with a child's clear face, full of the colour he had brought into it. "Little darling," he said, "you will have your hands full of business!" "Oh Endy--I am very sorry!" "Sorry?" Mr. Linden said. "What about?" "I'm sorry that basket has come here!" "It gives you the means of making other people glad." "Yes--but,"--Faith looked uncomfortably at the basket. Then brought her eyes back to Mr. Linden's face. "What ought I to do, Endecott?" "The most good and the least harm you can in the circumstances." "How shall I,--the last?"--she said with a manner like a beautiful child, truth struggling through embarrassment. "If you could contrive to make yourself disenchanting!" Faith passed that, and waited, her eyes making a grave appeal. Mr. Linden smiled. "I am afraid you can only be yourself," he said. "And if Dr. Harrison will not remove himself to a safe distance, there is not much to be done, except with the money. Let him understand that you consent for once to be his almoner, merely because you know better than he where the need is,--that you take from him, as from anybody, a donation for your poor and sick neighbours." "Must I write?" "No." "But, Endecott--is that all?" "All that I need say. You never did encourage him, Faith,--it may be a long time before he gives you a chance to _dis_courage. There is one thing I can do, if you wish." She had stood with an awakened, sorrowful look, the colour burning all over face and brow. Now she startled and asked "What?" "Something you do _not_ wish. I can tell him that you belong to me." But that indeed Faith did not wish. "Oh no, Endecott--I would rather manage it some other way. Now don't let us lose any more of our afternoon with it--but come and tell me what will be the best things to do with this money." "It is hard to tell all at once," Mr. Linden said as they once more took their seats by the fire. "What have you thought of yourself?" "I know where one or two blankets are wanting. And O, Endy! there is one place where I should like to send a rocking-chair--ever so common a one, you know." "And if Ency Stephens had one of those little self-locomotive carriages, she could go about by herself all day long." "How good that would be! as soon as the spring opens. You could send one up from New York, Endecott. Do they cost much?" "I think not. And what do you say to taking a little portion of this for the beginning of a free library for the poor people? If the thing were once begun, Mr. Stoutenburgh would give you what you please to carry it on,--and Mr. Simlins would help,--and so would I." "I was thinking of books!" said Faith, her eye dancing in an unknown "library";--"but these would be books to _lend_. I think a great many would like that, Endecott! O yes, we could get plenty of help. That is a delightful plan!--I don't think I ought to be sorry that basket came, after all," she added smiling. Mr. Linden smiled too--she was a pretty Lady Bountiful! "Faith," he said, "suppose (it is a very presumptuous supposition, but one may _suppose_ anything) suppose when my hands are free to take care of my Mignonette, that I should have the offer of two or three different gardens wherein to place her. How should I choose?" She coloured and looked at him somewhat inquiringly, then turned away with a kept-in but very pretty smile. "I know," she said, "how you would choose--and you would not ask me." "Yes I should, little unbeliever--I ask you now." "You would go," she said gravely--"where your hands were most wanted." "There spoke a true Sunbeam!" said Mr. Linden. But perhaps the word--or something in the changing light of the afternoon--carried his thoughts on to the night train which was to bear him away; for he left Dr. Harrison, and baskets, and schemes, in the background; and drawing her closer to his side talked of her affairs--what she had been doing, what she meant to do, in various ways,--trying to leave as it were a sort of network of his care about her. Then came twilight, and Mrs. Derrick and tea; with Faith's light figure flitting to and fro in preparation; and then prayers. And then--how fast the clock ticked! how fast the minutes began to run away! The storm did not rest,--it blew and beat and poured down as hard as ever, eddying round the house in gusts that made every word and every minute within doors seem quieter and sweeter. And the words were many, and the minutes too--yet they dropped away one by one, and the upper glass was empty! CHAPTER XX. Faith fortified herself with a triple wall of mental resolves against Dr. Harrison's advances. But when the doctor came again, a night or two after Thanksgiving, there did not seem to be much that she could do--or hinder. The doctor's lines of circumvallation were too skilfully drawn for an inexperienced warrior like Faith to know very well where to oppose him. He was not in a demonstrative mood at all; rather more quiet than usual. He had just pushed an advanced work in the shape of his golden cake; and he rested there for the present. To Faith's great joy, midway in the evening the doctor's monopoly was broken by the entrance of Squire Stoutenburgh and a very round game of talk. Faith seized the opportunity to present her claim for a free library--answered with open hand on the spot. And when he was gone, she sat meditating a speech, but she was prevented. The doctor, as if unconsciously amusing himself, started a chymical question; and went on to give Faith a most exquisite analysis and illustration. It was impossible to listen coldly; it was impossible to maintain reserve. Faith must be herself, and delight shone in every feature. Now could Dr. Harrison enjoy this thoroughly and yet give no sign that he did so; his eye watched hers, while Faith thought he was looking into depths of science; his smile was a keen reflection of that on her lips, while she fancied it called forth only by his own skill, or success, or scientific power. He had produced the very effect he wanted; for the moment, he had her all to himself. "Miss Faith," he said gently, as his demonstration came to an end,--"you may command me for that library." Faith drew back and her mind returned to business again. The doctor saw it, and was instantly sorry he had started the subject. "I was going to speak to you about that, Dr. Harrison. If you have no objection, I shall take a little of that money you entrusted to me, for it--the beginning of it. Only a little. The rest shall go as I suppose you meant it to go." "I knew it was very sure to go right after it got into your hands. I don't think I followed it any further." "It will make a great many people happy this winter, Dr. Harrison." "I hope it will," said he very sincerely; for he knew that if it made _them_ it would her. "You have little notion how much," Faith went on gravely. "I will do the best I can with it,--and if you had patience to hear, I would let you know what, Dr. Harrison." "You do me less than justice, Miss Faith. You can hear me rant about philosophical niceties,--and yet think that I would not have patience to listen to a lecture from you upon my neglected duties!" "I didn't mean that, sir." He gave her a genial, recognizing little smile, which was not exactly in his "part"--but came in spite of him. "Do you know, I should like to hear it, Miss Faith. I always like lectures illustrated. What have you done already?" "There is an almost bed-ridden woman two miles off, who will bless somebody all winter for the comfort of a rocking-chair--all her life, I may rather say;--a common wooden one, Dr. Harrison." "That is a capital idea," said the doctor. "She will bless _you_, I hope." "No, certainly! I shall tell her the money is not mine,--I am only laying it out for a kind somebody." "Miss Faith," said the doctor,--"I am not kind!" "I think you are,"--was her gentle, somewhat wistful answer. The doctor sprung up. "Mrs. Derrick," said he with all his comicality alive,--"Miss Faith promised me a piece of pumpkin pie." He had it, and taking his old place on the rug slowly demolished it, qualifying every morsel with such ridiculous correlative remarks, allusions, and propositions,--that it was beyond the power of either Mrs. Derrick or Faith to retain her gravity. But the moment the door closed upon him, Faith looked sober. "Well, child?" said her mother. "Well, mother--I haven't written my French." And she sat down to write it, but studied something else. "Manage it some other way"--she had said she would; it was not easy! What was she going to do? the doctor asked nothing of her but ordinary civility; how could she refuse him that? It was a puzzle, and Faith found it so as the weeks went on. It seemed to be as Mr. Linden had said; that she could do little but be as she had been, herself. That did not satisfy Faith. It was a great relief, when about the middle of December the family went to New York for a few weeks, and Dr. Harrison went with his family. Once more she breathed freely. Then Faith and Reuben made themselves very busy in preparing for the Christmas doings. Means enough were on hand now. Reuben was an invaluable auxiliary as a scout;--to find out where anything was pressingly wanted and what; and long lists were made, and many trains laid in readiness against Mr. Linden's arrival. And then he came! It was for a good week's holiday this time, and how it was enjoyed two people knew--which was enough. Studies went on after the old fashion during that week, and dinners and teas out made some unavoidable interruptions, yet not on the whole unpleasant. And sleigh rides were taken, day and night; and walks and talks not to be mentioned. Then the Newyear's visiting--with such a budget of new varieties!--how pleasant it was to go that round again together; and it was hard to make short visits, for everybody wanted to see and hear so much of Mr. Linden. He stayed one extra day after that--to see Faith when he had done seeing everybody else, but then he went; and the coldness and quiet of winter set in, broken only by letters. There was a break of another kind when Dr. Harrison came back, in the middle of January; such a break to Faith's quiet that the coldness was well nigh forgotten. She had doubly resolved she would have as little as possible to do with him; and found presently she was having quite as much as ever. The plan of rendering him a grave account of what she had done or was doing with his money, so far as the plan regarded keeping him at a distance, was a signal failure. Very simply and honestly it was done, on her part; but it suited the doctor admirably; nothing could better serve his purposes. Dr. Harrison heard her communication about some relieved family or project of relief, with a pleasant sort of attention and intelligence; and had skill, although really and professedly unwonted in the like things, to take up her plans and make the most happy suggestions and additions--often growing a large scheme upon a small one, and edging in the additional means so insensibly, so quietly, that though Faith saw he did it she could not tell how to hinder and did not know that she ought. Mr. Linden had sent, as he promised, his help for the library,--indeed sent from time to time some new parcel; and without inquiring whether the money he had left for _his_ poor people was exhausted, had sent her a fresh supply. But she had none too much, from all sources. It was a winter of great severity among the poorer portion of the community; work was hard to come by, and the intense weather made food and clothing and tiring doubly in demand. There were few starving poor people in Pattaquasset; but many that winter lacked comforts, and some would have wanted bread, without the diligent care of their better-off neighbours. And there as everywhere, those who gave such care were few. Faith and Reuben had plenty to do. But indeed not merely, nor chiefly, with the furnishing of food to the hungry and firing to the cold; neither were those the points where Dr. Harrison's assistance came most helpfully in. Little Ency Stephens wanted a flower now and then, as well as a velocipede; and Dr. Harrison gave--not to Faith, but to Faith's hands for her--a nice little monthly rose-bush out of the greenhouse. How it smiled in the poor cottage and on the ailing child!--and what could Faith do but with a swelling heart to wish good to the giver. A smoky chimney was putting out the eyes of a poor seamstress. Dr. Harrison quietly gave Reuben orders to have a certain top put to the chimney and send the bill to him. He even seemed to be undertaking some things on his own account. Faith heard through Reuben that he had procured the office of post-mistress in Pattaquasset to be given to the distressed family she and Mr. Linden had visited at Neanticut; and that Mrs. Tuck and Mintie were settled at the post-office, in all comfort accordingly. But worst of all! there were some sick people; and one or two for whom Faith dared not refuse his offer to go with her to see them. Dared still less after the first time he had actually gone; so great and immediate she found the value, not of his medicines only, but of the word or two of hint and direction which he gave her towards their help and healing. Faith began to look forward to May with a breath of almost impatience. But a change came before that. CHAPTER XXI. The spring came, with all its genial influences. Not now with such expeditions as the last spring had seen, but with letters to take their place, and with walks of business and kindness instead of pleasure. Yes, of pleasure too; and Faith began to find her "knight" not only a help and safeguard, but good company. Reuben was so true, so simple and modest--was walking in such a swift path of improvement; was so devoted to Faith and her interests, besides the particular bond of sympathy between them, that she might have had many a brother and fared much worse. The intercourse had not changed its character outwardly--Reuben's simple ceremonial of respect and deference was as strict as ever; but the thorough liking of first acquaintanceship had deepened into very warm affection on both sides. With Dr. Harrison Reuben gained no ground--or the doctor did not with him. Though often working for him and with him, though invariably courteous with the most respectful propriety, Faith could see that Reuben's old feeling was rather on the increase. With the spring thaw came a freshet. It came suddenly, at the end of the week; every river and stream rising into a full tide of insurrection with the melting snows of Saturday, and Saturday night bridges and mill dams went by the board. Among the rest, one of the railway bridges near Pattaquasset gave way, and a full train from the east set down its freight of passengers in Pattaquasset over Sunday. They amused themselves variously--as such freight in such circumstances is wont to do. Faith knew that the church was well filled that Sunday morning, but the fact or the cause concerned her little--did not disturb the quiet path of her thoughts and steps, until church was out and she coming home, alone that day, as it happened. Then she found the walk full and _her_ walk hindered. Especially by two gentlemen--who as the others thinned off, right and left, still went straight on; not fast enough to get away from Faith nor slow enough for her to pass them. They were strangers, evidently, and town bred. One of them reminded Faith of Dr. Harrison, in dress and style--both belonged to a class of which she had seen few specimens. But she gave them little heed (save as they detained her,) nor cared at all for their discussion of the weather, or the place. Then suddenly her attention was caught and held. "By the way!" said one--"this is the very place where Linden was so long." "Who? Endecott Linden?" said Dr. Harrison's likeness. "What was he here for?" "Teaching school." "Teaching school!" echoed the other,--"Endecott Linden teaching school!--Pegasus in pound!--How did the rustics catch him?" "Pegasus came of his own accord, if I remember." "Pshaw, yes!--but Linden. For what conceivable reason did he let himself down to teach school?" "He didn't--" said the other a little hotly. "He wouldn't let himself down if he turned street-sweeper." "True--he has a sort of natural dais which he carries about with him,--I suppose he'd make the crossing the court end. But I say, what did he do _this_ for?" "Why--for money!" said the first speaker. "What an ado about nothing!" "Inconceivable! Just imagine, George, a man who can sing as he does, teaching a, b, ab!" "Well--imagine it," said George,--"and then you'll wish you were six years old to have him teach _you_." "How cross you are," said his friend lazily. "And despotic. Was there nothing left of all that immense property? I've just come home, you know." "Not much," said George. "A little--but Endecott wouldn't touch that--it was all put at interest for Miss Pet. He would have it so, and even supported her as long as she staid in the country. What he works so hard for now I don't understand." "Works, does he? I thought he was studying for the church--going to bury himself again. It's a crying shame! why he might be member, minister, Secretary, President!" "He!" cried George in hot disdain,--"he soil his fingers with politics! No--he's in the right place now,--there's no other pure enough for him." "I didn't know you admired the church so much," said his friend ironically. "I don't--only the place in it where he'll stand. That's grand." "And so he's at work yet?" "Yes indeed--and it puzzles me. That year here ought to have carried him through his studies." "Why what can he do?--not teach school now,--he's no time for it." "He can give lessons--and does. Makes the time, I suppose. You know he has learned about everything _but_ Theology. Olyphant was telling me about it the other day." "What a strange thing!" said the other musingly, "such a family, so swept overboard! What a house that was! You remember his mother, George?" "I should think so!--and the way Endecott used to sing to her every night, no matter who was there." "Yes," said the doctor's confrère--"and come to her to be kissed afterwards. I should have laughed at any other man--but it set well on him. So did her diamond ring in his hair, which she was so fond of handling. How did he make out to live when she died?" "I don't know--" said George with a half drawn breath--a little reverently too: "I suppose he could tell you. But all that first year nobody saw him--unless somebody in need or sorrow: _they_ could always find him. He looked as if he had taken leave of the world--except to work for it." "How courted he used to be!"--said the other--"how petted--_not_ spoiled, strange to say. Do you suppose he'll ever marry, George? will he ever find any one to suit his notions? He's had enough to choose from already--in Europe and here. What do they say of him off yonder--where he is now?" "They say he's--rock crystal,--because ice will melt," said George. "So I suppose his notions are as high as ever." "You used to admire Miss Linden, if I remember," said his friend. "What a ring that was!--I wonder if she's got it. George--I sha'n't walk any further in this mud--turn about." Which the two did, suddenly. Both stepped aside out of Faith's way, in surprise--her light footfall had not made them lower their voices. But in that moment they could see that she was a lady; in acknowledgment of which fact the one gentleman bowed slightly, and the other lifted his hat. Faith had thrown back her veil to hear better what they were saying, not expecting so sudden an encounter; and as she passed, secure in being a stranger, gave them both a view of as soft a pair of eyes as they had either of them ever looked into, which also sought theirs with a curious intentness, borne out by the high bright tinge which excitement had brought into her cheeks. Both of them saw and remembered, for swift as it was, the look was not one to forget. But the glance added little to what Faith knew already about the strangers, and she went on her way feeling as if a stricture had been bound tight round her heart. The words about Mr. Linden's fastidiousness she knew quite enough of him to verify; and in the light of these people's talk it almost seemed to Faith as if there had been some glamour about her--as if she should some day prove to be "magician's coin" after all. But though the old sense of unworthiness swept over her, Faith was not of a temper to dwell long or heavily upon such a doubt. Her heart had been strangely stirred besides by what was said of his mother, and his old way of life, and his changes. She knew about them of course before; yet as a trifle, the touching of a single ray, will often give a new view of an old scene,--those side words of strangers set all Mr. Linden's time of joy and sorrow with such vivid reality before her, that her heart was like to break with it. That effect too, more or less, passed away from her mind,--never entirely. Another thing staid. "What he works so hard for now"--Then he was working hard! and doing his own studies and correcting her French exercises, and giving her lessons all the while, as well as to other people; and bringing her gifts with the fruit of his work! And not an atom of it all could Faith touch to change. She pondered it, and she knew it. She doubted whether she could with any good effect venture so much as a remonstrance; and the more Faith thought, the more this doubt resolved itself into certainty. And all the while, he was working hard! Round that fact her thoughts beat, like an alarmed bird round its nest; about as helplessly. Mrs. Derrick thought Faith was more grave and abstracted than usual that day, and sometimes thought so afterwards; that was all Faith made known. Dr. Harrison thought the same thing on the next occasion of his seeing her, and on the next; or rather he thought she held off from him more than usual; what the root of it might be he was uncertain. And circumstances were unfavourable to the exactness of his observations for some time thereafter. It was yet early in March, when Mrs. Stoutenburgh took a very troublesome and tedious fever, which lasted several weeks. It was reckoned dangerous, part of the time, and Mrs. Derrick and Faith were in very constant attendance. Faith especially, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh liked no one else so well about her; and gratitude and regard made her eager to do all she might. So daily and nightly she was at Mrs. Stoutenburgh's bedside, ministering to her in all the gentle offices of a nurse, and in that line besides where Mr. Linden had declared Dr. Harrison but half knew his profession. And there, and about this work, Dr. Harrison met her. Their meetings were of necessity very often; but no lectures, nor discussions, nor much conversation, were now possible. Faith felt she had a vantage ground, and used it The doctor felt he had lost ground, or at the least was not gaining; and against some felt but unrecognized obstacle in his way his curiosity and passion chafed. He could see Faith nowhere else now; she contrived not to meet him at home. She was out with Reuben--or resting--or unavoidably busy, when he came there. And Dr. Harrison knew the resting times were needed, and could only fume against the business--in which he sometimes had some reason. One day he found her at her post in the sick room, when Mrs. Stoutenburgh had fallen asleep. It was towards the end of the afternoon. An open Bible lay on the bed's side; and Faith sat there resting her head on her hand. She was thinking how hard Mr. Linden was working, and herself looking somewhat as if she were following his example. "What are you doing?" said the doctor softly. "I have been reading to Mrs. Stoutenburgh." "Feverish--" whispered the doctor. "No;--she has gone to sleep." "Tired her!--" "No," said Faith with a smile, "it's resting. The Bible never tired any one yet, that loved it--I think." "Well people--" said the doctor. "Sick people! You're mistaken, Dr. Harrison. Sick people most of all." "Do you know that you will be sick next," said he gravely, "if you do not take more care?" A fair little smile denied any fear or care on that subject, but did not satisfy the doctor. "I do not approve of what you are doing," said he seriously. "Reading this?" "Even the same." "But you are mistaken, Dr. Harrison," she said gently. "There is nothing so soothing, to those that love it. I wish you loved it! Don't you remember you confessed to me once that somebody had told you you had but half learned your profession?" Faith trembled, for she had said those last words wittingly. She could not have spoken them, if the light in the room had not been such as to hide her change of colour; and even then she dared not speak the name she alluded to. But she had said it half as a matter of conscience. It drew forth no answer from the doctor, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh just then stirred and awoke. And Faith little guessed the train she had touched. There were no indications of manner; and she could not, as Dr. Harrison went leisurely down the stairs, see the tremendous bound his mind made with the question,-- "Is it _that book_ that stands in my way?--or HE!" CHAPTER XXII. Mrs. Stoutenburgh got well. And it was in Faith's mind then, by some means to see very little more of Dr. Harrison till Mr. Linden should be in Pattaquasset again. So much for human intentions. Faith fell sick herself; and instead of being kept at a distance Dr. Harrison saw her twice at least in the twenty-four hours. It was a doubtful privilege to see those soft eyes lustrous with fever and a steady glow take place of the changing and flitting hues which were as much a part of Faith's language, at times, as the movements of a horse's ears are part of his. But as after a few days it became evident that there was nothing dangerous about Faith's attack, it is probable that the doctor rather enjoyed his position than otherwise. The freedom and authority of his office were a pleasant advance upon the formalities of ordinary intercourse; and to see Faith and speak to her and touch her hand without any ceremonial but that of friendship, was an advantage great enough to desire the prolonging thereof. Faith was a gentle patient; and Dr. Harrison's care was unbounded; though it was not alarming, even to Mrs. Derrick, as he assured her there was no cause. For a week however Faith kept her bed, and even Dr. Harrison was glad when at the end of a week she was able to be up again. Especially perhaps as it was only in her wrapper and an easy chair; his office was not at an end; the fever, in a remittent or intermittent form, still hung about her and forbade her doing anything but taking care of herself. Not precisely in this category of duty were the letters Faith had written all that week. She had written them, how was best known by an aching head and burning fingers and feverish vision. But an interruption of them would have drawn on Mr. Linden's knowing the reason; and then Faith knew that no considerations would keep him from coming to her. It was towards the end of the study term; he was working hard already; she could not endure that any further bar should be placed in his way. None should for her. And so, bit by bit when she could do but a bit at a time, the letters were written. Exercises had to be excused. And Faith was at heart very thankful when at the end of a sick week, she was able to get up and be dressed and sit in the easy-chair and see the diamonds sparkling against her brown wrapper again. It was April now, and a soft springy day. A fire burned gently in the chimney, while a window open at a little distance let in Spring's whispers and fragrances; and the plain old-fashioned room looked cosy and pretty, as some rooms will look under undefinable influences. Nothing could be plainer. There was not even the quaint elegance of Mr. Linden's room; this one was wainscotted with light blue and whitewashed, and furnished with the simplest of chintz furniture. But its simplicity and purity were all in tone with the Spring air and the cheer of the wood fire; and not at all a bad setting for the figure that sat there in the great chintz chair before the fire; her soft hair in bright order, the quiet brown folds of the wrapper enveloping her, and the flash of the diamonds giving curious point and effect to the whole picture. Faith was alone and looking very happy. It wanted but a few weeks now of Mr. Linden's coming home,--coming home for a longer rest and sight of her; and Faith had not seen him since January. Mrs. Stoutenburgh's illness and Faith's consequent fatigue had in part accounted to him for the short letters and missing French exercises, but she could see that such excuse would not long be made for her,--his last one or two letters had been more anxious, more special in their inquiries: how glad she was that he need have no further cause for either. Partly musing on all this, partly on what she had been reading, Faith sat that afternoon, when the well-known single soft knock at her door announced Reuben Taylor. He came in with a glad face--how sad it had lately been Faith had seen, sick as she was,--and with both hands full of pleasant things. One hand was literally full, of cowslips; and as he came up and gave her his other hand, it seemed to Faith as if a great spot of Spring gold was before her eyes. "Dear Miss Faith," Reuben said, "I wonder if anybody can ever be thankful enough, to see you better! You feel stronger than yesterday, don't you, ma'am?" "_I_ can't be thankful enough, Reuben--I feel that to-day. How good you are to bring me those cowslips! O yes,--I am stronger than I was yesterday." That Faith was not very strong was sufficiently shewn by the way her hands lay in her lap and on the arm of the chair, and by the lines of her pale quiet face. _Bodily_ strength was not flourishing there. Reuben looked at her wistfully, with a half-choked sigh, then knelt down beside her chair, as he often did. "I didn't bring them all, Miss Faith--I mean, I didn't _pick_ them all. Charlie and Robbie saw me in the meadow, and nothing would do but they must help. I don't think they always knew which to pick--but I thought you wouldn't mind that," he said as he laid the cowslips on the table, their fair yellow faces shewing very fair in the sick room. Faith's face was bright before, but it brightened still. "They look lovely to me--tell Charlie and Rob I will thank them when I can. I don't thank _you_, Reuben,"--she said turning from the flowers to him. "No, ma'am, I should hope not," he said, answering her smile gratefully. "But that's not all, Miss Faith--for Ency Stephens sent you one of her rosebuds,"--and Reuben took a little parcel carefully from his pocket. "It's only wrapped up in brown paper, because I hadn't time to go home for white. And she told me to tell you, Miss Faith," he added, both eyes and cheek flushing--"that she prays every day for you to get well and for Mr. Linden to come home." The smile died on Faith's face and her eyes fell. "He ought to have this," she said presently, with a little flush on her own cheek. "I don't feel as if it should come to me. Reuben, does she want anything?" It was very rare, even now, for Faith to speak directly to Reuben of Mr. Linden, though she was ready enough to hear Reuben speak of him. "No, ma'am, I think not," he said in answer to net question. "You know--did you ever hear, Miss Faith?--that when Mr. Linden first went there she was kept in the house the whole time,--nobody knew how to take her out--or took the trouble; and Mr. Linden carried her half a mile down the lane that very first day. And you can guess how he talked to her, Miss Faith,--they said she looked like another child when she came back. But is there anything I can do for you, ma'am, before I go to the post-office?--it's almost time." "If you'll fill that glass with water for me, Reuben--that I mayn't let my sweet cowslips fade--that's all. They'll do me good all to-morrow." Reuben went off, his place presently supplied by Mrs. Stoutenburgh; who against all persuasion had insisted upon coming down to see Faith. And then Faith was left to the calm companionship of her cowslips till Reuben came back from the post-office. He came up to Faith's chair, and taking out the letter broke the outer seal, (a ceremony he generally performed in her presence) and was just removing the envelope when the doctor came in for his evening visit. The doctor saw a tableau,--Faith, the cowslips, and Reuben,--Mrs. Derrick by the window he hardly saw, nor what the others were about. But that he had interrupted _something_ was clear--the very atmosphere of the room was startled; and though Reuben's position hid both letter and hands, it was certain the hands were busy. What was in them, and what became of it, the doctor could not tell. Before he was fairly in the room the letter had retreated to Reuben's pocket, and Reuben stepped back and stood behind Faith's chair. The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder with a "How do you do" as he passed; and accosted Faith with all the free kindliness which his office of physician permitted him to add to the friend. The doctor took all his advantage; he did not take more; and not Faith herself could see that there was any warmer feeling behind his pleasant and pleased eye and smile. But it is true Faith was a simpleton. She did not see that his pleasantness covered keen scrutiny. The scrutiny found nothing. "How do you do?" he said. "I don't suppose I need say a word to tell you," Faith answered smiling. "I am well enough to enjoy cowslips." The doctor's eye fell slightingly upon them, which was not wonderful. "I think you must be very well!" he said with some trifle of addenda from lip and eye. "You see you are mistaken. I shouldn't have known how well, except from your words." "_You_ are mistaken now, Dr. Harrison," said Faith in the slow quiet way in which she spoke to-day. "You think these are not splendid--but they are bits of spring!" "They are not Spring's best bits, I hope," said the doctor. "What do you think of that?" The doctor took the rosebud and looked at it. "If I were to tell you what I think of it," he said with a sort of grave candour, "you would dismiss me, and I should come here no more!" "Reuben brought me that, Dr. Harrison, from the little lame girl you sent the rosebush to, in the winter. I wish you knew how much good that rosebush has done!" "I sometimes wish," said the doctor, "that I had been born in a cottage!" "Why, in the world?" "It would be so pleasant to have people come and bring me rosebushes!" "Or cowslips?" said Faith. "Then you would have a taste for cowslips." "But then the people might get sick," said the doctor, waiving the "bits of spring;"--"so I am content. How are you to-day?" He took Faith's hand and felt it, and looked at her. The result did not seem to be unsatisfactory on the whole. "You mustn't read too much in that book," said he, glancing over at it. "Why not?" "You must keep quiet." "For how long?" "It depends. There is a little enemy of fever hanging about your skirts, that I will oppose with something else; but all you can oppose to him is quietness." Faith thought of the words--"The rock of my defence and my refuse"--what quietness was like that of their giving; but she said nothing to the doctor. Dr. Harrison gave Mrs. Derrick her directions on various points; then taking his old-fashioned stand on the rug, surveyed the easy-chair and its occupant and Reuben still behind it. "By the way, Mrs. Derrick," said he carelessly,--"I have heard a pretty story of your friend Mr. Linden." He noticed, but only that Faith had glanced at him and was to all appearance quietly looking down at her cowslips. "I dare say, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick placidly. "I've heard a great many." "Have you heard it?" "Heard what?" said Mrs. Derrick. "It's an old pretty story that everybody loves him." "I heard this only the other day," said the doctor. "It's not of that kind. But stories will be stories--and people will tell them." How the colour flushed and paled in Reuben's cheek!--he stood resting his hands lightly on the back of Faith's chair, looking down. The colour on Faith's cheek did not change. "Who told this?" said Mrs. Derrick. "People that have known the family. They say, he has managed to run through a very large property, and that he leaves his sister now to live upon charity." It was impossible to tell from the doctor's manner whether he put any faith in his story himself. It was as much like delivering a report as bringing a charge. It might have been either! He saw Reuben's colour become fixed and very high, but though the doctor could almost have sworn that there was a rush of hid tears under the boy's drooping eyelids, yet the lines about the mouth took the curl of an irrepressible smile. Mrs. Derrick picked up two stitches, made a third--then answered. "So that's what _you_ call a pretty story! It was hardly worth remembering to tell us, doctor,--you and I, and Reuben, and Faith, know better." Now could not the doctor tell for the life of him, whether the words were simply innocent, or--simply malicious! Mrs. Derrick was so imperturbable there, at her knitting! Neither did the doctor much care. It sounded to him just like Mrs. Derrick. He looked at Faith; and remarked lightly that "he didn't know anything!" Faith was very quiet; he could not see that her colour had risen more than a little, and a little was not enough to judge by in her face. But in an instant more after he had spoken, she looked full and gravely up at him. "Do you believe everything about everybody, Dr. Harrison?" "On the contrary! I don't believe anything of anybody--Except you," he added with a little smile. "Do you believe such a story?" Her steady soft eyes, which did not move from him, gave him an uncomfortable feeling--perhaps of undefined remembrance. "I don't believe it," he said returning her gaze. "I don't do anything with it. Such things are said of everybody--and of almost everybody they are true. I take them as they come. But about this particular case," he said with one of his gentle looks, "I will do just what you say I must do." Faith smiled. "I don't say you must do anything. I am sorry for you, Dr. Harrison." "I am glad you are sorry!" he said sitting down by her. "And there is reason enough; but what is this one?" "You lose a great pleasure." "What one?"-- "You don't know how to trust." "Do I not?" said the doctor, looking at the rosebud still in his hand. "Well--you shall teach me!" And springing up he bowed to Mrs. Derrick and went off--rosebud and all. Reuben stood still for about half a minute--then came round, and silently gave Faith her letter. "Reuben Taylor!"--said Faith, as he was going after the doctor. "You have been standing so long--suppose you sit down for a minute?" Whatever Reuben thought of the request, he said nothing, but obeyed her, bringing a foot cushion to her chair and bestowing himself upon it. Faith smiled at him as she spoke again, though there was an unwonted fire in her owe eyes; and the blood came fast now to her face. "Reuben, I wanted to ask you what all that colour is in your cheeks for?" Reuben hesitated--there seemed a stricture across his breast which made speaking hard work; but at last he said frankly, though in none of the clearest tones, "Because I'm angry, Miss Faith--and hurt too." Faith's next words fell like pearls-- "It isn't worth the while." "No, Miss Faith," he answered without looking up. "It's too much honour to something that doesn't deserve it,--and--Reuben--it's too little to something that does." "O no, ma'am! it's not _that!_" Reuben said, raising his eyes to her face with the old earnest look. "But Miss Faith, there are some things he can't bear to hear said--and said _so_," he added a little lower, and looking down again. "And then--he's Dr. Harrison, and I'm only a poor boy and mayn't answer him--and that fretted me; and it isn't the first time, neither," Reuben said, as if he were making a clean breast of it. "Oh Miss Faith! I'd rather have had him knock me down, than speak such words!" Tears were getting the upper hand in the boy's voice. "Dear Reuben," said Faith, very quietly, though her cheeks were two carnations,--"what I am most sorry for is Dr. Harrison." Reuben drew a long breath, with his "Yes, ma'am--I'm sorry for him too, very often--when he talks about other things. But I don't believe even you know just--just how false that was." Reuben spoke as if the words choked him. "It's maybe never come in your way to know all he did here for everybody, and--for me." There was a quick pulsation at that instant from Faith's heart to the hand that held her letter,--but she only said, "Tell me!" "I couldn't begin to tell you all, ma'am," Reuben said, a smile coming over his face now,--"nobody could but himself--and _he_ wouldn't remember. I couldn't even tell you all he's done for me; but one thing"--Reuben's eyes and voice fell and he spoke very low. "You know, Miss Faith, the rate of schooling here is fixed by the trustees. And the first day I came father told me to say he didn't know that he could find the money for more than one quarter, but he had so much all ready, and he wanted me to have so much. I thought it would be hard to ask, but it was so easy--of him," Reuben said with that same smile. "Mr. Linden didn't say much about it--only yes--but then he spoke to father (that very day we were at the shore Miss Faith) and told him I should come all the time--for the pleasure of teaching me." (Reuben thought the compliment went all to Mr. Linden, or he would not have told it.) "But father wouldn't do that,--he said Mr. Linden should have the money as fast as he could get it; and if he didn't take it I shouldn't come. And it was paid all the year, regularly. But then, Miss Faith----" there was a pause. "What, Reuben?" she whispered. "Then instead of keeping it for himself, he put it all in the bank for me.--And I never knew it till I opened the letter he gave me when he was going away." The brightness of the hidden diamonds danced in Faith's face for a minute--half hidden too, but it was there. "Reuben," she whispered, as he was starting up to go,--"what we have to do is to pray for Dr. Harrison." "Miss Faith, how do people live who do not pray?" "I don't know!" But Faith's voice did not speak the thanksgiving which bounded in her heart to Reuben's words. She sat back in her chair looking tired, with her letter clasped fast in her hand. Reuben stepped forward and arranged the fire softly--then giving her another wistful look he bowed and went lightly out of the room. With gentle step Mrs. Derrick came up to Faith, to kiss her and ask how she felt. Faith's eyelids unclosed. "Very happy, mother,--and tired too. Don't you think I could have a light presently?" "This minute, pretty child. But lie down on the couch, Faith, and I'll bring up the little table." That was done, and then Faith read her letter, with first a rapid and then a slow enjoyment of it, making every word and sentence do more than double duty, and bring the very writer near. And then she lay with it clasped upon her bosom, thinking those flowing trains of half feverish thought which are so full of images, but which in her case flowed with a clear stream over smooth channels, nor ever met a rough break or jar. Even Dr. Harrison did not make an exception, for Faith's thought of him was constantly softened by her prayer for him. Her mother drew near when the letter was at last folded up, and watched her from the other side of the stand; but though mind and heart too were full enough, she rightly judged that Faith needed no more excitement; and so never mentioned Dr. Harrison's name, nor even asked how he came to carry off the rosebud. Faith's trains of thought ended at last in a sleep which lasted till past her tea-time. Mrs. Derrick was still by her side when she awoke, and Faith opening her eyes as quietly as she had shut them, remarked, "Mother!--letters are great things." "Why child," said her mother smiling, "what have you been dreaming about?" "Nothing.--That isn't a dream; it's a reality." Blessing in her heart the sender of the reality which gave such pleasure, Mrs. Derrick answered, "Yes, child, it's real--and so's he." Faith said nothing to that except by her smile. She only spoke the hope that she might be stronger the next day; a sentiment which though at first sight it might seem to have nothing to do with the former subject, was really in very close connexion with it. But Faith was not stronger the next day. The fever was not driven away and strength was in the grip of it yet. The doctor gave her no new directions, but insisted very much on quietness and care. There was nothing to be apprehended of the fever but tediousness, and the further and prolonged loss of strength; but that was quite enough to have to avoid. For that she must take all sorts of care. He also said that the case might go on without his oversight for a day or two, and that for that space of time in the middle of the week he should be absent from Pattaquasset, having a very urgent call of business elsewhere. And whether for that reason or needing no fresh one, the doctor having stated so much went on to tell about other things, and made a long visit. The talk came upon the Bible again, Faith didn't know how, and grew very animated. Dr. Harrison had brought with him this morning one of his pleasantest moods, or manners; he thought yesterday that Faith's eyes had given him a reproof for slander, and he had no intent to offend in the like way again. He was grave, gentle, candid, seemingly--willing to listen, but that he always was to Faith; and talked sense or feeling in a most sensible and simple way. Yet the conversation ended with giving Faith great pain. He had asked her to read something confirmatory or illustrative of the statement she was making, out of the Bible; and Faith had complied with his wish. That was nothing strange. She had often done it. To-day the reading had been followed by a little observation, acutely put, which Faith felt raised a barrier between him and the truth she had been pressing. She felt it, and yet she could not answer him. She knew it was false; she could see that his objection was foundationless--stood on air; but she did not see the path by which she might bring the doctor up to her standing-point where he might see it too. It was as if she were at the top of a mountain and he at the bottom; her eye commanded a full wide view of the whole country, while his could see but a most imperfect portion. But to bring him up to her, Faith knew not. It is hard, when feet are unwilling to climb! And unskilled in the subtleties of controversy, most innocent of the duplicities of unbelief, Faith saw her neighbour entangled, as it seemed, in a mesh of his own weaving and had not power to untie the knot. It distressed her. Other knots of skepticism or ignorance that he had presented to her she had cut easily with the sword of truth if she could not untie; he had offered her one to-day that she could cut indeed as easily for herself,--but not for him. To do that called for not better wits, but for far greater controversial acumen and logical practice than Faith knew. He did not press his point, not even for victory; he gave the objection to her and left it there; but while to her it was mere rottenness of reasoning, she knew that for him it stood. It grieved her deeply; and Mrs. Derrick saw her worn and feverish all the day, without knowing what special reason there had been. She tried to stop Faith's working; but though not fit for it, Faith would not be stopped. She dared not trust Mr. Linden with any more excuses or put-offs; and a feverish cheek and hand that day and the next went over her exercise and letter. And enjoyed both, in spite of fever. But when they were done, late in the next day, Faith lay down wearily on the couch and consoled herself with the thoughts of the letter to come; it was the evening for one. It was the evening for one and yet one came not. Other letters came--the great leather bag was tossed out on the station-house steps, and thence borne off to the post-office, where five minutes later Reuben Taylor came to wait for his share of the contents. But when with the assurance which has never yet known disappointment, Reuben applied at the window, Mintie gave him a rather coquettish-- "No, Mr. Taylor--you're not in luck to-day,--there's nothing for you." In his surprise Reuben tried every means to make himself and her believe that she was mistaken; and urged a new examination of all the letters, till Mintie made--or feigned to make--it, with the same success. Reuben turned away from the office in real sorrow of heart. He had not now to learn what store was set by those letters--especially now, when Faith was sick,--he had noticed her holding of that very last one which had come. And then, not merely to lose the pleasure, but to have the disappointment!--Then too, what had hindered the letter? One sometimes came out of time, but the expected one had never yet failed. Was Mr. Linden sick?--and what would Miss Faith think?--the letter might fail from other causes (hardly, Reuben thought) but what would _she_ think?--herself so far from well. And then, should he go at once and tell her--or let her find it out from his non-appearance? That last idea was promptly rejected,--she should at least not be in suspense, and Reuben was soon at her door, as soon admitted. But he came in very quietly, without that spring of step which had so often brought a letter, and standing by her chair said gently,-- "Miss Faith, I didn't find anything to-night--but I thought I'd come and tell you, for fear you'd be expecting." "Not find anything!"--said Faith raising herself half up, with the start of colour into her pale cheeks. "No, ma'am,--they said at the office there was nothing. Maybe it will come to-morrow." It hurt him to see the little patient droop of each feature as Faith laid herself down again. "Thank you, Reuben," she said. "O yes, maybe it will." Words of consolation Reuben did not presume to offer, but there was a great deal in his face and quiet low-spoken "Can I do anything to-night, Miss Faith?" "No," she said cheerfully. "There's nothing. Isn't it time Mr. and Mrs. Roscom had some fresh eggs, Reuben? Mother will give you them." Reuben only said he would stop there and see them. The letter did not come next day. Reuben came, as usual, in the afternoon, but only to tell his bad success. He had not the heart to bring cowslips again, and ventured no words to Faith but about some of her poor people. That subject Faith went into fully. After Reuben was gone she lay quiet a while; and took her indemnification in the evening by getting Mrs. Derrick to read to her one or two of those strings of passages which Faith called ladders. Whether she could mount by them or not just then, her mother might; and hearing them Faith went to sleep. She said nothing about her letters, except to tell Mrs. Derrick they had not come. That day and the next were quiet days, being the days of Dr. Harrison's absence. And if some accident had befallen Wednesday's letter, there was good hope of one Friday. And as Friday wore away, Faith did not know that she was counting the hours, and yet could at any time have answered any question as to the time of day. It was one of those calm days, within doors and without, which ebb away so noiselessly, that only the clock tells their progress. Faith's little clock--(Mr. Linden had amused himself with sending her one about as big as a good-sized watch on a stand)--ticked musically on the table, suggesting a good many things. Not merely the flight of time--not merely that the train would soon be in, not merely that she might soon have a letter; nor even that it, the clock, had seen Mr. Linden since she had. All these thoughts mingled, but with them something else. They would tick on, those minutes, relentlessly, no matter what they were to bring or take away,--steady, unalterable, unchecked,--like the old idea of Fate. She tried to be steady too--tried to have that fixedness of heart which says confidently, "I will sing and give praise." But she was weak yet, with the effect and even the presence of fever, and through all her thoughts she seemed to feel those minutes tracking with light steps across her breast. She lay with her hands clasped there, to still them. The sun began to slant his beams in at the window, and then with one long screeching "Whew!"--the afternoon train flew through Pattaquasset, tossing out the letter bag on its way. Then Faith waited--watching intently for Reuben's step on the stairs. Reuben on his part had watched the letter-bag from the moment it was thrown out, had followed it to the office, and there posted himself near the window to have the first chance. But his prize was a blank. Sick at heart, Reuben drew back a little, giving way before Mintie's rather sharp "I tell you no, Mr. Taylor," and other people's earnest pressing forward to the window. But when the last one had gone--those happy people, who had got their letters!--Reuben again presented himself, and braved Mintie's displeasure by further inquiries; which produced nothing but an increase of the displeasure. He turned and walked slowly away. It might have been any weather--he might have met anybody or heard anything; but when Reuben reached Mrs. Derrick's the whole walk was a blank to him. What was the matter--how would Miss Faith bear it--these two questions lay on his heart. In vain he tried to lay them down,--for the very words which told him that "the Lord doth not afflict willingly," said also that he doth afflict; and Reuben's heart sank. He stood for a moment in the porch, realizing "how people live who do pray"--then went in and straight upstairs, walked up to Faith's couch when admitted, and without giving himself much time to think, told his news. "Dear Miss Faith, you must wait a little longer yet. May I write by to-night's mail and ask why the letter hasn't come?--it may have been lost." Faith started up, with first a flush and then a great sinking of colour, and steadying herself with one hand on the back of the couch looked into her messenger's face as if there she could track the missing letter or discern the cause that kept it from her. But Reuben's face discovered nothing but his sorrow and sympathy; and Faith sank back on her pillow again with a face robbed of colour beyond all the power of fever's wasting to do. "Yes--write!" she said. Reuben stood still, his hands lightly clasped, his heart full of thoughts he had perhaps no right to utter, if he could have found words. "I wish you'd write, Reuben," she repeated after a moment. "Yes, ma'am," he said, "I will. Only--dear Miss Faith! you know 'the darkness and the light are both alike to Him.'" Reuben was gone. Faith lay for a few minutes as he had left her, and then slipped off the couch and kneeled beside it; for she felt as if the burden of the time could be borne only so. She laid her head and heart down together, and for a long time was very still; "setting her foot on the lowest step" of some of those ladders, if she could not mount by them. A foot-hold is something. She was there yet, she had not stirred, when another foot-step in the passage and other fingers at the door made her know the approach of Dr. Harrison. Faith started up and met him standing. The doctor looked at her as he came up. So pale, so very quiet, so purely gentle, and yet with such soft strength in her eye,--he had not seen her look just so, nor anybody else, before. "How do you do?" he said reverentially as he took her hand. "I am--well,"--said Faith. "Are you?" said the doctor gravely, eyeing the mark of unconquered fever and its wasting effects even on her then.--"I am very glad to hear it, indeed!" "I mean, that I feel--well," said Faith correcting herself. "You will feel better if you will take a more resting position," said the doctor putting her into the chair. And then he stood and looked at her; and Faith looked at her little clock, with her foot on that step of her "ladder."--"He knoweth thy walking through this great wilderness." "What have you been doing to yourself these two days?" said the doctor. "Nothing--" she said;--"more than usual." He laid her appearance all to the account of the fever, she was so quiet; and proceeded to a new examination of the state of her hand, and to give her various professional orders. "Miss Faith, can you do anything in the way of eating?" Her very face as well as her tongue seemed to answer him, "Not much." "Do you think of anything you could fancy?" "No."-- "I brought some birds home with me that I believe I can answer for. Try to demolish the pinion of one of them--will you? It is a duty you owe to society." "I will try,"--she said gravely. The doctor wondered whether she had laid up against him any of his former conversation. "What do you think," he said with a kind of gentle insinuation,--"of that argument I ventured to advance the other day, on the matter we were speaking of?" "I don't like to think of it at all, Dr. Harrison." "May I know why not?" "Because I know it is false, and yet I cannot make you see it." "Can you make yourself see it?" "I don't need to take any pains for that. I see it very well." "Perhaps you will find the way to make me see it," said the doctor pleasantly. "That would be easy," said Faith, "if--" "If what? May I not know the difficulty?" "If you really cared about it." "I do care about it. You mistake me when you think that. But you must not think about anything now. Did you know I carried off your rosebud the other night?" "Yes." It was impossible to tell from the doctor's accent how _he_ viewed the transaction, and equally impossible from Faith's answer to tell what she thought of it. Extremes meet--as Mr. Linden had once remarked. "I'll endeavour to atone for that presumption to-morrow," said he rising, for Mrs. Derrick now entered the room. To her Dr. Harrison repeated his orders and counsels, and to Faith's relief took himself away. Her mother came up to the easy-chair with a smothered sigh on her lips, and laid her gentle hand on Faith's forehead and wrist. "Child," she said, "has that man talked you into a fever again? I've a great mind not to let him come any more--I guess I could cure you better myself. If you'd send word to somebody else, Faith, we'd have you well in no time." "I haven't heard from him to-night, mother." Faith felt the little start of her mother's hand. "Maybe he's coming then," said Mrs. Derrick,--"he might have meant to come yesterday and been hindered." Faith did not think that. "We shall know," she said to her mother. "We have only to wait and be quiet." And she carried out both parts of her stated duty to perfection. There is a strange sort of strength in a certain degree of weakness--or it may be that weakness runs sooner to its refuge, while strength stands outside to do battle with the evil felt or feared. Faith's gentle and firm temper was never apt for struggling, with either pain or fear; it would stand, or yield, as the case called for; and now, whether that her mind had been living in such a peaceful and loving atmosphere, both earthly and heavenly, that it could settle upon none but peaceful views of things, or that bodily weakness made her unable to bear any other, she did mount upon one of those "ladders" and left her burden on the ground. She thought she did. She was as quiet outwardly as before; she told Mrs. Derrick, who looked at her in misery,--and told her with a steady cheerful little smile, that "she dared say the letter would come to-morrow." But it is true that Faith had no power to eat that night nor the next day; and that she did not know the hidden slow fever--not of disease--which was running through all her veins and making the other fever do its work again, bright in her cheek and eye and beating at her temples and wrist. But she was as still and quiet through it all--quiet in voice and brow--as if letters had been full and plenty. CHAPTER XXIII. It was about midday of Saturday, when Reuben Taylor, proceeding up the main street of Pattaquasset on some business errand for his father, was joined by Phil Davids--no wonted or favourite associate or companion. But Phil now walked up the street alongside of the basket which had come "into town" with fish. "I say, Reuben," said Phil after some unimportant remarks had been made and answered,--"does Mr. Linden ever write to you?" Reuben started--as if that touched some under current of his thoughts, and answered "yes." "I wish he'd write to me," said Phil. "I know I'd like it. I say, Taylor, what does he send you such thick letters about?" "Such thick letters!" Reuben repeated, with a quick look at his companion. "People put a great many things in a letter, Phil." "I guess likely. That's what I say. What does he write to you about?" "Maybe I'll bring up one of 'em for you to read," said Reuben. "You've heard him talk, Phil--he writes just so." "Does he? I guess you wouldn't like to miss one of his letters then, Reuben,--would you?" "No." "I s'pose it would be a worse job yet to miss two of 'em--wouldn't it?" said Phil with a perfectly grave face. "Phil Davids!" Reuben exclaimed, facing round upon him, with such a flash of joy and hope and surprise and eagerness, as made Phil wonder. "What do you mean?" he added checking himself. "Just turn your pockets inside out, Phil, before we go any further." "When were you at the post-office?" "Last night--and this morning." Reuben forced himself to be quiet. "Well look here,--when you go there, don't you ask for letters?" "Ask!--I've asked till they were all out of patience." "Suppose you come to the right shop next time!" said Phil, importantly producing the missing papers. "Phil! Phil!--" was all Reuben said. He caught the letters--and stood looking at them with a face that made Phil look. "Mr. Linden will love you all his life for this. But how in the world did you get them?" "That's exactly what I'd like somebody to tell me!" said Phil. "I know who put the monkey's paw in the fire--but how the chestnuts got there, I'm beat!" "What do you know?" said Reuben,--"where did you get these? Oh Phil! I never can thank you enough!" "It was because they were _his_ letters I did it," said Phil bluntly. "I wasn't going to let Mintie Tuck have 'em. But I say, Reuben! what have you done to spite her? or has she a spite against Mr. Linden? or who has she a spite against?" "I don't know. Did _she_ give 'em to you, Phil?" "Not by a precious sight nor to anybody else. Dromy saw 'em in her drawer, and for all the gumph he is, he knew the writing; and I made him get 'em for me this morning while they were at breakfast. Now Taylor," said Phil settling his hands further down in his pockets as they rapidly walked along,--"what bird's on _that_ nest?" Reuben listened--with an intentness that spoke of more than wonder. "In her _drawer?_" he repeated,--"what, down in the office?" "Not a bit of it! Stowed away with her earrings and ribbands upstairs somewhere." "Phil," said Reuben when he had pondered this strange information in silence for a minute, "will you be in the office when the mail comes in for a night or two?--and don't tell this to any one till Mr. Linden sends word what should be done." "You expect more letters?" said Phil, with a not stupid glance at his fellow. "Yes," Reuben said, too frankly to increase suspicion; "and if one should come it's very important that I should get it. And of course _I_ can't watch." "_She_ sha'n't get it!" said Phil. "I'll be there. I'll be Sinbad's old man of the mountain for Mintie. I won't sit on her shoulders, but I'll sit on the counter; and if there's a scratch of Mr. Linden's in the mail-bag, I'll engage I'll see it as fast as she will. I know his seal too." "_Could_ she have done it to tease me?" Reuben said,--"I've never had the least thing to do with her but through that post-office window." "What did you ever give her through the post-office window?" Phil asked half laughingly. "Questions enough--" Reuben said, his thoughts too busy to notice any underhand meaning,--"and lately she's given me rather cross answers. That's all." "Well what do you suppose she stole your letters for?" "I don't know enough about her to guess," Reuben said frankly. "Well," said Phil, "_I_ guess Dr. Harrison won't appoint the postmaster of Pattaquasset when I am President. I rather think he won't." "I wish you'd make haste and be President," Reuben said. "But if he didn't know anything about Mrs. Tuck, Phil, other people did--and thought she was honest at least. And you know _she_'s postmaster, by right." "_She_--is the female of Dromy!" said Phil with intense expression. "But Mintie aint a fool, and it's _she_'s post-master--anyhow Dromy says it's she that's Dr. Harrison's friend;--so that makes it. But that don't tell why she wants the letters." "Dr. Harrison's friend?" said Reuben,--"what does she have to do with him?" "I aint a friend of either of 'em, so I don't know," said Phil. "But girls with pretty faces will make friends with anybody!" A very high degree of masculine charity and correctness of judgment was expressed in Phil's voice and words. Reuben made no reply--his charity, of any sort, was not in a talkative mood, and the two parted kindly at Phil's cross road. Not home to dinner now, for Reuben! The minutes of talk had seemed long to his impatience; he had borne them, partly to get information, partly to keep down suspicion. But now with Phil out of sight, he turned short about and took the way to Mrs. Derrick's with almost flying steps. True, he was not dressed for "Miss Faith's" room--but Reuben Taylor was always neat and in order, and she must not wait. He hurried into Mrs. Roscom's--there to leave his basket and every removable trace of his work,--then on! Faith had spent the early morning upon her couch;--no need to ask if she felt stronger than yesterday,--every line and feature shewed prostration--and patience. Breakfast had been passed over nominally. What Mrs. Derrick could do for her was done; what she could not, lay heavy on the hearts of both as the one went down to make the days arrangements, and the other lay still to endure. Reuben had not come after the morning train--there was nothing even to expect till night, and Faith lay listening to her little clock and watching the passage of the April sunbeams through her room. Suddenly a loud startling rap at the front door. But she was powerless to go and see, and after that one sound the house seemed to sink into perfect stillness. Then the door of her room opened, and Mrs. Derrick came in bearing a large basket. A heavy one too, but Mrs. Derrick would have spent her last atom of strength before she would have let any one else bring it up. Her face looked quite radiant. "Pretty child!" she said, "here's something for you!" It was needless to ask questions,--Mrs. Derrick's face could have but one meaning. Faith neither asked nor answered, except by the sudden start of the blood into cheeks which were pale enough before. Slipping from the couch she was on her knees by the basket, pulling out the ends of the knots by which it was tied, with just a tiny beautiful smile at work on her changed lips. Her mother went softly away (she thought the first sight of anything in _that_ line belonged to Faith alone) and the April sunbeams took a new view of things. The knots gave way, and the basket cover swung round, and the white wrapping paper came off; and within lay something for her truly!--most appropriate! A great stem of bananas and another of plantains, thick set with fruit, displayed their smooth green and red coats in very excellent contrast, and below and around and doing duty as mere packing, were sunny Havana oranges, of extra size, and of extra flavour--to judge by the perfume. But better than all, to Faith's eye, was a little slip of blackmarked white paper, tucked under a red banana--it had only these words-- 'Sweets to the sweet.' "Faith, I should put in more, but the basket refuses. It is the measure of only one part of the proverb--do you understand?" Faith knew oranges, she had never seen bananas or plantains before. It was all one; for the time being they were not bananas or oranges but hieroglyphics; and the one fruit looked as much like Mr. Linden's handwriting as the other. She sat with her arm resting on the couch supporting her head, and looking at them. Not the finest picture that Goethe ever viewed, or bade his friends view as part of their "duty," was so beautiful as that basket of red and yellow fruit to Faith's eye. And all the more for that foreign look they were like Mr. Linden; for the common things which they said, it was like him to say uncommonly. How very sweet was the smell of those oranges! and how delicious the soft feeling of peace which settled down on all Faith's senses. Very different from the sort of quiet she was in a quarter of an hour ago. She did not trouble herself now about the missing letters. This told that Mr. Linden was well, or he could hardly have been out to buy fruit and pack it and pack it off to her. So Mrs. Derrick found her--reading not words, but oranges and bananas; with a face it was a pity Mr. Linden could not see. It may be remarked in passing that the face was not lost upon the one who did see it. Mrs. Derrick came and stooped down by Faith and her basket in great admiration and joy and silence for a moment--the sight almost put everything else out of her head; but then she exclaimed, "Child, the doctor's coming!--I saw him driving up to the door." Faith put the cover on the basket, and while Mrs. Derrick set it out of sight, she received the doctor as yesterday, standing. But with a nice little colour in her cheeks to-day, in place of yesterday's sad want of it. Dr. Harrison came up with one hand full of a most rare and elegant bunch of hothouse flowers. "My amends-making--" he said as he presented it. It was not in Faith's nature not to look pleasure and admiration at such bits of kindred nature. They were very exquisite, they were some of them new to her, they were all most lovely, and Faith's eyes looked love at them. Dr. Harrison was satisfied, for in those eyes there was to-day no shadow at all. Their gravity he was accustomed to, and thought he liked. "How do you do?" he said. "I am--a great deal better. O mother--may I have a glass of water for these?" "You said yesterday you were well, Miss Faith." "You saw I wasn't," said Faith as she put her flowers in the glass. "That is very true. And I see also that your statement to-day is not of much juster correctness. How came you to say that?" "I said, it without knowing--what I said," Faith answered simply. "What is this, Dr. Harrison?" The doctor puzzled over her answer and could make nothing of it. "That is a Fuchsia--and that is another." "How beautiful!--how beautiful. They are not sweet?" "You cannot _always_ have sweetness in connexion with everything else," he said with a slight emphasis. Faith's mind was too far away from the subject to catch his innuendo; unless other lips had spoken it. "Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor, "I should like as a professional man, to know what portion of the wing of a robin this lady can manage for her breakfast?" "Some days more and some days less," said Mrs. Derrick. "She was not very hungry this morning." (A mild statement of the case.) "Some days less than the wing of a robin!" said the doctor. "The robin himself is a better feeder. Mrs. Derrick, what fancies does this bird live upon?" The allusion drew a smile to Faith's face, which Mrs Derrick did not understand. "She don't tell all her fancies,--she has _seemed_ to live on tea and toast, for eatables." The doctor smiled, and went back to Faith who was busy with the flowers; or as Mrs. Derrick said, seemed to be busy with them. "Are those better than cowslips?" he asked lightly. "They are more wonderfully beautiful--they are not better in their place." "How is that?" "I told you cowslips were bits of spring," said Faith smiling. "These are not that. I think everything in the world--I mean, the natural world--has its place, that it fills." "Better than any other would?" "I suppose so. Yes." "That is admirable philosophy," said the doctor. "Excellent to keep one contented. Three feet of snow is then as good as May zephyrs! Daisies and dandelions are fair substitutes for geraniums and cacti! And these barren granite fields, where the skeleton rock has hardly covered itself skin deep with soil, are better than flowery prairies of rolling land, and fertile wildernesses of roses!" "Well," said Faith; "you needn't laugh. I think they are." "By what transmutation of philosophy?" Faith's philosophy was put to the test by certain sounds which just then came to her ear; the hall door opened and shut quick though softly, and Reuben came lightly upstairs--two stairs at a time!--but his knock at Faith's door was almost as quiet as usual. Whatever spirit of energy was at work in him, however, calmed itself down at sight of Dr. Harrison--whom he did not then stay to greet, but coming up with a swift steady step to Faith's chair, knelt down there and gave her his hand with, "Miss Faith, are you better to-day?" If a rosebud yesterday shut up in the cold had opened all its beams to the sun,--that was Faith to-day, as she took Reuben's hand and held it. "That is a very devoted servant of yours, Miss Faith," said the doctor pointedly. "I notice he gives you homage in true chivalric style. Does the transmuting philosophy extend thus far also?" Faith turned the light of her face upon him as she answered, "I shouldn't be worthy of one of those knights or of this, Dr. Harrison, if I would change one for the other." Reuben had risen to his feet as the doctor spoke, and as he quitted Faith's hand laid his own, with the slightest possible gesture, upon the left breast of his coat; which did not mean (as it would with Sam Stoutenburgh) that there was his heart--but that there were the letters! Then stepping back with a bow acknowledging Dr. Harrison's presence, Reuben went over to the window to speak to Mrs. Derrick. The doctor had seen him before that morning from the window, as with some ordered fish Reuben entered Judge Harrison's gate, and his dress was the same now as then,--how the different offices could be so different and so reconciled--or what _this_ office was, were matters of study. But clearly Faith was as strong for her knight as her knight was for her. "I didn't understand the transmuting philosophy in the former case," the doctor remarked. "It is not that," said Faith with rising colour, for she had seen Reuben's hand gesture. "It is just taking things as they are." "That is a philosophy deeper than that of transmutation!" said the doctor. "I give it up. But what is the philosophy in this case?--" and he nodded slightly towards Reuben. "If you ever know him, you'll know, Dr. Harrison," Faith said softly. "Is he so trustworthy?" said the doctor thoughtfully looking at him; but then he gave his attention to Faith, and talked of herself and what she was to do for herself; until seeing no prospect of the doctor's being out of his way, Reuben was again passing them on his way out. The doctor arrested him by a slight but pleasant gesture. "What are you doing now, Taylor?" "Nothing new, sir,--a little for my father and a little for myself." "I saw you doing something for your father, I think to-day. Doesn't that hinder your studies?" "Mr. Linden used to say that one duty never _really_ hinders another, sir." "Pleasant doctrine!" said the doctor. "I am tempted to try it now. If you bestow a little time upon me, it will not perhaps interfere with your going to dinner afterwards. Does Mr. Linden continue to hold some of his supervision over you? Do you hear from him sometimes?" "Yes sir--both,"--was Reuben's prompt answer. "Then you have something to do with the post-office occasionally?" "Yes sir." "And know pretty well what everybody in Pattaquasset says of every other body,--don't you?" "I don't need to go to the post office for that, sir," Reuben said quietly. "No--I mean by virtue of another office--that which you exercise for your father. But it is true, isn't it?" "Not quite, sir. Some people do not talk to me--and some I never stop to hear." The doctor smiled a little, along with an acute look of approving intelligence. "Well--do you happen to know what is said or thought of the people I was the means of putting into the post-office, half a year ago?" "Not very well, sir. I haven't heard much said about them." "As far as your knowledge goes, they seem to be doing their duty?" "I make no complaint, sir." Dr. Harrison glanced at Faith with a not pleased expression, and back again. "Does that mean that you have none to make, or that you will make none? I am asking, you surely must know, not officially nor judicially; but to gain private information which it is desirable I should have; and which I ask, and expect to receive, confidentially." "Sir," Reuben said gravely, though with a manner perfectly respectful, "why do you ask _me?_ The gentlemen of Pattaquasset should know more about their own post-office, than the poor fishers of Quapaw. There is a clannishness among poor people, sir,--if I had heard anything, I should not like to tell you." The doctor got up and took his old position on the carpet rug, a very slight air of haughty displeasure mixing with his habitual indolent gracefulness. "This is your knight, Miss Derrick! Apparently the proverb of 'friends' friends' does not hold good with him. When you are a little older, sir, you will know--if you grow correspondingly wiser--that the fishers of Quapaw or of any other point are precisely the people to know in such a matter what the gentlemen whom it more nearly concerns, cannot get at; and you have yourself given the reason." Faith looked at Reuben with a little inquiring wonder. But he made no answer, either to her look or the doctor's words; indeed perhaps did not see the former, for his own eyes were cast down. He stood there, the fingers of both hands lightly interlaced, his face quiet to the last degree of immovability. The doctor's first words, to Faith, had brought a moment's flush to his cheeks, but it had passed with the moment; gravity and steadiness and truth were all that remained. The doctor recognized them all, but all as adverse or opposition forces. "I will not detain you longer, sir!--I told you, Miss Faith," he said sitting down and changing his tone, "that I did not know how to cut up cake--still less how to administer it. I found this family--very poor--over at Neanticut, on some of my excursions;--and somewhat carelessly thought they could perform the duty of taking papers out of a bag, as well as wiser people. There is a girl too, the daughter, who seemed clever enough. But I have had reason to doubt my own wisdom in the proceeding, after all." Faith heard the door close after Reuben with the first of the doctor's words to her. She listened to the rest with a divided interest. Her mind had gone off to her basket of bananas, and was besides occupied with a little lurking wonder at Reuben's impracticability. But with nothing strongly, the feeling of weakness and lassitude was so taking the upper hand of every other. The relaxing now began to tell of the great tension she had borne for a day or two; the relaxing was entire, for what the basket had begun Reuben's appearance had finished. Faith was sure he had a letter for her, and so sat and looked at the doctor like one whose senses were floating away in a dream--one of those pleasant dreams that they do not wish to break. "You are faint!" said the doctor suddenly. "Mrs. Derrick, have you any wine in the house? I should like some here." But Mrs. Derrick's first step (it seemed but that) was to Faith--taking her out of the easy-chair and putting her on the couch before any one had time to say ay or no. There she left her while she opened the closet and got out the wine; bringing it then to Faith and setting the doctor aside most unceremoniously. Faith had not quite reached the fainting point, though she was near it from mere inanition. She drank the wine, and smiled at them both like one who had a secret wine of her own that she was taking privately. "What _will_ she eat, Mrs. Derrick?" said the doctor in real concern. "Tea and toast won't do!" "I will take something presently," Faith said with another of those childlike satisfied looks. They made Dr. Harrison very unlike himself, always. He stood so now. "Doctor," said Mrs. Derrick, in her odd, free, rather blunt and yet kindly way, "you are a very good doctor, I dare say, but you're not much of a nurse. Now I am--and I'll find her something to eat,--you needn't be uneasy." He looked at her with one of the best smiles that ever came over his face; bright, free and kindly; then turned to Faith. "What made your knight so cross with me?" he said as he bent over her to take her hand. "I don't know--" said Faith. "I am sure he had some good reason." "Reason to be cross!"-- "He didn't mean to be cross. You don't know Reuben Taylor." The doctor was inclined to be of a different opinion, for his brows knit as soon as he had closed her door. "Now mother!" said Faith half raising herself,--"please let me have my basket. I am going to try one of those queer things. That is what I want." "Do you know what I want?" said Mrs. Derrick as she brought up the basket. "Just to have Dr. Harrison find Mr. Linden here some day!" Which severe sentence was so much softened down by the weight of the basket, that it sounded quite harmless. Faith was too eager to get the cover off to pay present attention to this speech. There they were again! the red and yellow strange, beautiful, foreign-looking things which she was to eat; too handsome to disturb. But finally a red plump banana was cut from the stem, and Faith looked at it in her fingers, uncertain how to begin the attack. Looking back to the little empty space where it had been, Faith became "ware" of an end of blue ribband beneath said space. Down went the banana and down went Faith. The loop of ribband being pulled gently suggested that it was not able to contend with an unknown weight of bananas; but when Faith partly held these up, the ribband yielded to persuasion, and tugged after it into the daylight a tiny package--which being unwrapped revealed a tiny oval case; wherein lay, last of all, a delicate silver knife. Faith's face of overflowing delight it was good to see. "O mother!--how just like him!--Mother!" exclaimed Faith,--"this is to eat those with!" Could anything more be wanting to give bananas a flavour? They happened moreover to hit the fancy the doctor had been so anxious to suit. Faith liked her first one very much, and pronounced it very nearly the best of all fruits. But being persuaded to try one, Mrs. Derrick avowed that she could not eat it and wondered how Faith could; declaring that in her judgment if a thing was sweet at all, it ought to be sweeter. If Dr. Harrison could have seen the atmosphere of peace and delight his knit brows had left behind them! As soon as he was gone, Reuben brought up the letters. And with sunshine all round her, Faith read them and went to sleep, which she did with the little case that held her knife clasped in her hand. Sleep claimed her while fever took its turn and passed away for the day. Faith woke up towards evening, weak and weary in body, unable to make much lively shew of the "merry heart" which "doeth good like a medicine". "My studies don't get on very fast at this rate, mother," she remarked as she sat in the easy-chair at her tea, unable to hold her head up. "This has been a hard day," her mother said sadly as she looked at her. "Faith, I won't let Dr. Harrison pay any more such long visits! he tires you to death." "It wasn't that. Mother--I think I'll have one of those things out of my basket--I wish Mr. Linden had told me what to call them." Mrs. Derrick brought the basket and looked on intently. "When is he coming, child?" she said. Faith did not certainly know. Under the influence of a plantain and the silver knife she revived a little. "Mother--what made you wish Dr. Harrison might meet Mr. Linden here?" "It would save him a world of trouble," said Mrs. Derrick kindly. "And besides, child, I'm tired seeing him buzz round you, myself. Faith, Mr. Linden would say that _he_ ought to be told you're sick." "I can judge for him once in a while," Faith said with a little bit of a triumphing smile. "Well--" said her mother,--"you'll see what he'll say. I guess he'd rather you'd judge for him about something else." From that time letters went and came through the Patchaug post-office. CHAPTER XXIV. Faith rallied somewhat from the prostration that succeeded those days of anxiety; but then the fever again asserted its empire, and strength, little by little but daily, lost ground rather than gained it. Though not ever very high, the fever came back with persevering regularity; it would not be baffled; and such always recurring assaults are trying to flesh and blood and to spirit too, be they of what they may. Faith's patience and happy quiet never left her; as the weeks went on it did happen that the quiet grew more quiet, and was even a little bordering on depression. One or two things helped this uncomfortably. The sense of the extreme unpleasantness of such a meeting as her mother had wished for, perhaps startled Faith to a fresh sense of what she had to do in the premises. She resolved to be as grave and cool as it was possible to be, in Dr. Harrison's presence. She would keep him at such a distance as should wean him from any thoughts of her. Faith tried faithfully to do what she had purposed. But it was very difficult to keep at a distance a person who did not pretend to be near, or only pretended it in a line where he could not be repulsed. He must see her every day as her physician. He must be allowed the kindly expression of kind feelings; he could not be forbidden to bring to his patient, as her friend and physician, such things as he thought her strength, or weakness, needed. These instances of thoughtfulness and care for her were many. Birds, old wine from his father's cellar, flowers from the greenhouse, and fruit from nobody knows where, came often; and the manner of offering them, the quiet, unobtrusive, unexacting kindness and attention, it was scarce possible to reject without something that would have seemed churlishness. Faith took them as gravely as she could without being unkind. Her illness helped her, and also hindered the effect she wished to produce. Feeling weak and weary and unable for any sort of exertion, it was the easier for her to be silent, abstracted, unresponsive to anything that was said or done. And also her being so signified the less and testified the less of her real purpose. Faith knew it and could not help it. She could not besides be anything but natural; and she felt kindly towards Dr. Harrison; with a grave kindness, that yet was more earnest in its good wishes for him than any other perhaps that existed for Dr. Harrison in the world. Faith could not hide that, careful as she was in her manner of shewing it. And there was one subject upon which she dared not be unresponsive or abstracted when the doctor brought it up. He brought it up now very often. She did not know how it was, she was far from knowing why it was; but the pleasant talk with which the doctor sought to amuse her, and which was most skilfully pleasant as to the rest, was very apt to glance upon Bible subjects; and as it touched, to brush them with the wing of doubt--or difficulty or--uneasiness. Dr. Harrison did not see things as she did--that was of old; but he contrived to let her see that he doubted she did not see them right, and somehow contrived also to make her hear his reasons. It was done with the art of a master and the steady aim of a general who has a great field to win. Faith did not want to hear his suggestions of doubt and cavil. She remembered Mr. Linden's advice long ago given; repeated it to herself every day; and sought to meet Dr. Harrison only with the sling stone of truth and let his weapons of artificial warfare alone. Truly she "had not proved these," and "could not go with them." But whatever effect her sling might have upon him, which she knew not, his arrows were so cunningly thrown that they wounded her. Not in her belief; she never failed for a moment to be aware that they were arrows from a false quiver, that the sword of truth would break with a blow. And yet, in her weak state of body and consequent weak state of mind, the sight of such poisoned arrows flying about distressed her; the mere knowledge that they did fly and bore death with them; a knowledge which once she happily had not. All this would have pained her if she had been well; in the feverish depression of illness it weighed upon her like a mountain of cloud. Faith's shield caught the darts and kept them from herself; but in her increasing nervous weakness her hand at last grew weary; and it seemed to Faith then as if she could see nothing but those arrows flying through the air. But there was one human form before which, she knew, this mental array of enemies would incontinently take flight and disappear; she knew they would not stand the first sound of Mr. Linden's voice; and her longing grew intense for his coming. How did she ever keep it out of her letters! Yet it hardly got in there, for she watched it well. Sometimes the subdued "I want to see you very much,"--at the close of a letter, said, more than Faith knew it did; and she could not be aware how much was told by the tone of her writing. That had changed, though that too was guarded, so far as she could. She could not pour out a light, free, and joyous account of all that was going on within and about her, when she was suffering alternately from fever and weakness, and through both from depression and nervous fancies. Most unlike Faith! and she tried to seem her usual self then when she came most near it, in writing to him. But it was a nice matter to write letters for so many weeks out of a sick room and not let Mr. Linden find out that she herself was there all the while. His letters however were both a help and a spur; Faith talked a good deal of things not at Pattaquasset; and through all weakness and ailing sent her exercises prepared with utmost care, regularly as usual. It hurt her; but Faith would not be stopped. Her sickness she knew after all was but a light matter; and nothing could persuade her to break in upon Mr. Linden's term of study with any more interruptions for her. And even to Mrs. Derrick she did not tell the keen heart-longing, which daily grew more urgent, for that term to come to an end. Mrs. Derrick did sometimes connect the cause of her weariness with Dr. Harrison, and was indignant in proportion. Faith looked at him with different eyes, and her feeling was of very gentle and deep sorrow for him. It was by the appeal to that side of her character that Dr. Harrison gained all his advantage. Faith's shield caught his arrows of unbelieving suggestion and threw them off from her own heart; she could not put that shield between them and the doctor, and that was her grief. It grieved her more than he thought. And yet, it was with a half conscious, half instinctive availing himself of this feeling that he aimed and managed his attacks with such consummate tact and skill. Faith would not have entered into controversy; she would not have taken up a gauntlet of challenge; did he know that? His hints and questions were brought into the subject, Faith knew not how; but the point of view in which they always presented themselves was as troublers of his own mind--difficulties he would willingly have solved--questions he would like to see answered. And Faith's words, few or many, for she was sometimes drawn on, were said in the humble yearning desire to let him know what she rejoiced in and save him from an abyss of false fathomless depth. It was more than she could do. Dr. Harrison's subtle difficulties and propositions had been contrived in a school of which she knew nothing; and were far too subtle and complicate in their false wit for Faith's true wit to answer. Not at all for lack of wit, but for lack of skill in fencing and of experience in the windings of duplicity. So she heard things that grieved her and that she could not shew up to the doctor for what she knew them to be. "I am no better than this little knife!" she thought bitterly one day, as she was looking at her favourite silver banana-carver;--"it can go through soft fruit well enough, but it isn't strong enough or sharp enough to deal with anything harder!--" Faith did herself injustice. It takes sometimes little less than Ithuriel's spear to make the low, insidious, unobtrusive forms of evil stand up and shew themselves what they are--the very Devil! "Reuben," said Faith one time when they were alone together,--"did you ever hear any of the mischievous talk against the Bible, of people who don't love it?" "Yes, Miss Faith,--I never heard a great deal at a time--only little bits now and then. And I've felt some times from a word or two what other words the people had in their hearts." "Don't ever let people talk it to you, Reuben, unless God makes it your duty to hear it," she said wearily. Reuben looked at her. "Do you think he _ever_ makes it our duty, Miss Faith?" "I don't know!" said Faith, a little as if the question startled her. "But you might be where you could not help it, Reuben." He was silent, looking rather thoughtfully into the fire. "Miss Faith," he said, "you remember when Christian was going through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, the fiends came and whispered to him all sorts of dreadful things which he would not have thought of for the world. 'But,' as Mr. Bunyan says, 'he had not the discretion either to stop his ears, or to know from whence those blasphemies came.'" Reuben blushed a little at his own advice-giving, but made no other apology. There was much love and respect and delight in Faith's swift look at him. Her words glanced. "Reuben, I am glad you are going to be a minister!"--She added with the sorrowful look stealing over her face, "I wish the world was full of ministers!--if they were good ones." His face was very bright and grateful, and humble too. "Miss Faith," he said, taking up her words, "don't you love to think of that other definition of minister?--you know--'ye ministers of his, that do his pleasure.'" "In that way the world is full now," said Faith; "in all things except men. But by and by 'the great trumpet will be blown' and 'they that were ready to perish' shall come, from everywhere. It's good to know that." "It's such a beautiful thing to know, just by believing!" Reuben said,--"don't you think so, Miss Faith? And then whatever people say or do, and if we can't find a word to answer them, we _know_ down in our hearts, that the Bible is true. And so 'by faith we stand.'" "But we ought to find words to answer them, Reuben--or else, though _we_ stand, they fall!" "Yes, ma'am--sometimes," Reuben said rather hesitatingly. "Only--I've heard Mr. Linden say that a Christian must take care of his own standing _first_, and do nothing to shake that; or else he may have his own light blown out while he's trying to light other people's. You know, Miss Faith, the five wise virgins would not give their oil to the others. I've heard Mr. Linden talk about it very often," Reuben added softly, as if he wanted to screen himself from the charge of presumption. If Faith was bringing charges, it was against herself, for she sat very silent and thoughtful, and weary also; for when for the fifth or sixth time Reuben brought his eyes from the fire to her face he saw that she had fallen asleep. Mr. Linden's letters about this time told two or three things, among the rest that he might soon be looked for instead of letters. Moreover that he felt sure he was wanted--and further, that Faith's letters had changed. These two last things were not said in words, but Faith read them none the less surely--read thus first that her letters really _were_ different. Just what cause Mr. Linden assigned to himself, she did not know, nor whether he had fixed upon any; but it was clear that nothing but the fact that his freedom was so close at hand, kept him from freeing himself at once and coming to Pattaquasset. And second only to Faith did Mrs. Derrick long for his appearance. She had heard bits of the doctor's talk from time to time, but for a while with some doubt of their meaning,--as whether he was reporting what other people said, or whether she had heard him correctly. But when by degrees the goodness of her hearing attested itself, _then_ Mrs. Derrick's indignation began to follow suit. The doctor's object she did not at first guess (perhaps made it, if possible, worse than it was) but that made little difference. On this particular afternoon, when Faith woke up she found Reuben gone and her mother keeping watch. The fair look that always greeted Mrs. Derrick was given her, but otherwise the face she was studying was not satisfactory. The roundness of the cheek was much lessened, the colour was gone, and the lines of expression were weary though she had slept. Or rather perhaps they were too gravely drawn. "Faith," said her mother decisively, "you want your tea. Can you eat a broiled pigeon, if I broil it myself?" "I can eat a piece of one, if you'll take the rest, mother," she said with a smile at her. "I eat a whole banana just before I went to sleep." "Well this ain't the doctor's pigeon, so I guess it will be good," said Mrs. Derrick. "Sam Stoutenburgh brought it.--And I'm going to cook it here, pretty child, because I want to be here myself. I suppose the smoke won't trouble you if it goes up chimney?" "I'd like it, smoke and all, mother," said Faith, changing the resting-place for her head. "But you needn't slight the doctor's birds--they were as fine birds as could be--when I could eat them." "'Birds of a feather'"--said Mrs. Derrick laconically. And she drew out some of the glowing and winking embers, and set thereon the tiny gridiron with its purplish plump pigeon. "Sam's home now, Faith, and you'd think he'd been through every degree of everything. But the first thing he did was to go off and shoot pigeons for you." Faith was inclined to think he had not got above one degree. She sat in her easy-chair and watched the play cookery with amused pleased eyes. "I should like to be in the kitchen again, mother--doing something for you." "You shall do something for me presently," said her mother, as the pigeon began to send out little puffs of steam and jets of juice, which the coals resented. "_This_ one's fat, anyway--and there's a half dozen more. The fun of it is, child, that Sam was afraid there weren't enough!--he wanted to know if I was _sure_ they'd last till to-morrow!--so I guess _he's_ not in a fainting away state. I told him we'd roast beef in the house, for you to fall back upon, child," she added with a little laugh, as she turned the pigeon. But her face was very grave the next moment, with the sorrowful reality. "Pretty child," she said tenderly, "do you feel as if you could eat a muffin or a biscuit best?" "Mother, that pigeon is making me hungry, it smells so nice. I am sure I can eat anything." "Well I _made_ muffins," said Mrs. Derrick, bustling softly about with the little table and the tea-things. "Faith, I'm afraid to have Mr. Linden come home and find your cheeks so thin." "I'm not," said Faith quietly. "My!" said her mother, "you never were afraid of anything he'd a mind to do, child. But for all _I_ know, he may carry you off to Europe in the next steamer. He's up to 'most anything," said Mrs. Derrick stooping down by the pigeon, and giving it the persuasion of a few more coals. Faith said languidly that she did not think there was much danger, and Mrs. Derrick for the present concentrated her attention upon the tea preparations. Cindy came up with a little teakettle, and Mrs. Derrick made the tea, and then went down stairs to superintend the first baking of the muffins, leaving the teakettle to sing Faith into a very quiet state of mind. Then presently reappearing, with a smoking plate of cakes in her hand, Mrs. Derrick took up the pigeon, with due applications of butter and salt and pepper, and the tea was ready. It was early; the sunbeams were lingering yet in the room, the air wafted in through the window the sweet dewy breath of flowers and buds and springing grass over the pigeon and muffins; and by Faith's plate stood the freshest of watercresses in a little white bowl. These Reuben brought her every day, wet from the clear stream where they grew, shining with the drops of bright water, and generally sprinkled too with some of the spring flowers. To-day the plate on which the bowl stood had a perfect wreath or crown of mouse-ear,--the pale pink blossoms saying all sorts of sweet things. The room was well off for flowers in other respects. Dr. Harrison's hothouse foreigners looked dainty and splendid, and Mrs. Stoutenburgh's periwinkle and crocuses and daffodils looked springlike and fresh; while in another glass a rich assortment of dandelions spoke a prettier message yet, from Charles twelfth and his little compeers. "And the mouse-ear is come!" said Faith as she applied herself to the refreshment of salt and watercresses. "I wonder whether Reuben does this because he loves flowers him self, or because he knows I do. I guess it's both. How lovely they are! How my dairy must want me, mother." Which was said with a little recollective patient sigh. "I guess it can wait," said her mother cheerfully. "And I guess it'll have to. You needn't think you'll be let do anything for one while, Faith." "I guess I shall, mother. I am sure I am stronger to-day,--and Dr. Harrison said I had less fever. And your pigeon is good. Besides, I _must_,--if I can,"--said Faith, with an anticipative glance this time. "It's my belief, child," said her mother, "that if Dr. Harrison had staid away altogether--or never staid here more than five minutes at a time, you'd have been better long ago. But I think you _are_ better--in spite of him." Of the two subjects Faith preferred the pigeon to Dr. Harrison, and discussed it quite to her mother's satisfaction. But if silent, she thought never the less. Both Reuben Taylor's words and her mother's words quickened her to thinking, and thinking seemed of very little use. The next day when the doctor came she was as grave and still and unresponsive as she could be. And it had no effect on him whatever. He was just as usual, he talked just as usual; and Faith could but be grieved, and be silent. It did not enter her gentle imagination that the very things which so troubled her were spoken on purpose to trouble her. How could it? when they made their way into the conversation and into her hearing as followers of something else, as harpies that worried or had worried somebody else, as shapes that a cloud might take and be a cloud again--only she could not forget that shape. It was near now the time for Mr. Linden to come home, and Faith looked for his coming with an hourly breath of longing. It seemed to her that his very being there would at once break the mesh Dr. Harrison was so busy weaving and in which she had no power to stop him. But the doctor's opportunity for playing this game was nearing an end, and he knew it. He did not know that Mr. Linden was coming; he did know that Faith was getting well. A day or two after the talk with Reuben it happened that Mrs. Derrick was detained down stairs when the doctor came up to see Faith. The room was full of a May warmth and sweetness from the open windows; and Faith herself in a white dress instead of the brown wrapper, looked May-like enough. Not so jocund and blooming certainly; she was more like a snowdrop than a crocus. Her cheeks were pale and thin, but their colour was fresh; and her eye had the light of returning health,--or of returning something else! "You are getting well!" said the doctor. "I shall lose my work--and forgive me, my pleasure!" "I will give you some better work to do, Dr. Harrison." "What is that? Anything for you!--" "It is not for me. That little lame child to whom you sent the rose-tree, Dr. Harrison,--she is very sick. Would you go and see her?" "Did you think I would not?" he said rather gravely. "I want to see her very much myself," Faith went on;--"but I suppose I could not take so long a ride yet. Could I?" The doctor looked at her. "I think the mother of the Gracchi must have been something such a woman!" he said with an indescribable grave comic mien;--"and the other Roman mother that saved Rome and lost her son! Or that lady of Sparta who made the affectionate request to _her_ son about coming home from the battle on his shield! I thought the race had died out." Faith could not help laughing. He had not been sure that she would understand his allusions, but his watchful eye saw that she did. "Were you educated in Pattaquasset?" he said. "Pardon me!"-- All Faith's gravity returned, and all her colour too. "No, sir," she said, "I have never been educated. I am studying now." "Studying!" said he gently. "You have little need to study." "Why, sir?" "There are minds and natures so rich by their original constitution, that their own free growth is a fuller and better harvest than all the schoolmasters in the world can bring out of other people." Again Faith's cheek was dyed. "I was poor enough," she said bowing her head for a moment. "I am poor now,--but I am studying." In which last words lay perhaps the tiniest evidence of an intention not to be poor always. A suspicious glance of thought shot from the doctor's mind. But as it had happened more than once before, the simplicity of Faith's frankness misled him, and he dismissed suspicion. "If you want an illustration of my meaning," he went on without change of manner, "permit me to remind you that your paragon of character,--the Rhododendron--does no studying. My conclusion is plain!" "The Rhododendron does all it can." "Well--" said the doctor,--"it is impossible to trace the limits of the influences of mignonette." Faith looked grave. She was thinking how very powerless her influences had been. "Don't you see that I have made out my position?" "No." "What sort of studying--may I ask it?--do you favour most?" he said with a smile. "I like all kinds--every kind!" "I believe that. I know you have a love for chymistry, and Shakspeare, and natural history. But I should like to know Mignonette's favourite atmosphere." "The study I like best of all is the one you like least, Dr. Harrison." "What may that be, Miss Faith?" "The study of the Bible." "The Bible! Surely you know that already," he said in an interested voice. "Did you think so?" said Faith quickly and with secret humbleness. "You made a great mistake, Dr. Harrison. But there is nothing I take such deep lessons in;--nor such pleasant ones." "You mistake me too, Miss Faith. I do like it. You are strong enough for it to-day--I wish you would give me one of those lessons you speak of?" "If you loved it, sir, you would not ask me. You would find them for yourself." "Another mistake!" said the doctor. "I might love them, and yet ask you. Won't you give me one?" She lifted to his a look so gentle and grave that he could not think she was displeased, or harsh, or even unkind. But she answered him, "No." "Don't you feel strong enough for it?" he said with a shade of concern. "Yes." "You think you have given me one lesson already," he said smiling, "which I am not attending to. I will go and see your little sick child immediately. But I don't know the way! I wish you were well enough to pilot me. I can't find her by the sign of the rosebush?" "Reuben Taylor will take you there, Dr. Harrison, if you will let him. He goes there often." "If I will let him! Say, if he will let me! Your knight does not smile upon me, Miss Faith." "Why not?" "I'm sure I'm not qualified to give evidence," said the doctor half laughing at having the tables turned upon him. "Unless his chivalric devotion to you is jealous of every other approach--even mine. But you say he will guide me to the rosebush?" "I am sure he will with great pleasure, Dr. Harrison." "And I will go with great pleasure--for you." He was standing before her, looking down. There was something in the look that made Faith's colour come again. She answered seriously, "No sir--not for me." "Why not?" "I can't reward you," said Faith; trembling, for she felt she was speaking to the point. "Do it for a better reason." "Will you shew me a better?" She answered instantly with a bright little smile, "'Give, and it shall be given unto you; full measure, pressed down, heaped up, and running over, shall men give into your bosom.'" "In another world!--" said the doctor. "No--in this. The promise stands for it." "It's your part of this world--not mine; and unless you shew me the way, Miss Faith, I shall never get into it."--Then more gently, taking her hand and kissing it, he added, "Are you tired of trying to help me?" Faith met his keen eye, reddened, and drooped her head; for indeed she felt weak. And her words were low and scarce steady. "I will not be tired of praying for you, Dr Harrison." What swift electric current along the chain of association moved the doctor's next question. He was silent a minute before he spoke it; then spoke in a clear even voice. "May I ask you--is it impertinent--what first led you to this way of thinking?--Sophy says you were not always so." The colour deepened on Faith's cheek, he saw that, and deepened more. "The teaching is always of heaven, sir. But it came to me through the hands of the friend who was so long in our house--last year." "And has that adventurer counselled you to trust no friend that isn't of his way of thinking?" the doctor said with some haughtiness of accent. Faith raised her eyes and looked at him, the steady grave look that the doctor never liked to meet from those soft eyes. It fixed his, till her eyes fell with a sudden motion, and the doctor's followed them--whither? To that gloved forefinger which he had often noticed was kept covered. Faith was slowly drawing the covering off; and something in her manner or her look kept his eyes rivetted there. Slowly, deliberately, Faith uncovered the finger, and in full view the brilliants sparkled; danced and leapt, as it seemed to Faith, whose eyes saw nothing else. She did not dare look up, nor could, for a double reason. She sat like a fair statue, looking still and only at the diamond sign, while the blood in her cheeks that bore witness to it seemed the only moving thing about her. That rose and deepened, from crimson to scarlet, and from her cheeks to the rim of her hair. She never saw the changes in her neighbour's face, nor what struggles the paleness and the returning flush bore witness to. She never looked up. She had revealed all; she was willing he should conceal all,--that he could. It was but a minute or two, though Faith's measurement made it a more indefinite time; and Dr. Harrison took her hand again, precisely in his usual manner, remarked that it was possible he might be obliged to go south in a day or two _for_ a day or two, but that he rather thought he had cured her; and so went off, with no difference of tone that any stranger could have told, and Faith never raised her eyes to see how he looked. CHAPTER XXV. Dr. Harrison sent away his curricle and walked home,--slowly, with his hands behind him, as if the May air had made him lazy. To any one that met him, he wore as disengaged an air as usual; his eye was as coolly cognizant of all upon which it fell, and his brow never looked less thoughtful. While his head never had been more busy. He kept the secret of his pride--he had kept and would keep it, well; no one should guess what he bore; but he bore a writhing brain and a passion that was heaving with disappointment. To no end--except to expose himself--he had worked at his mining operations all these months; nothing could be more absolute than the silence of Faith's answer; nothing could be more certain than the fixedness of her position. Against the very impassableness of the barrier the doctor's will chafed, even while his hope gave way. He ruthlessly called himself a fool for it too, at the minute. But he was unused to be baffled; and no man pursues long with such deliberate energy a purpose upon which he has set his heart, without having all the cords of his will and his passion knit at last into a cable of strength and tenacity. The doctor's walk grew slower, and his eyes fell on the ground. How lovely Faith had looked--even then, when she was putting him and herself to pain; how speakingly the crimson hues had chased each other all over her face, and neck; how shyly her eyelashes had kept their place on her cheek; with how exquisite grace her still attitude had been maintained. And withal what a piece of simplicity she was! What a contrast those superb diamonds had made with the almost quaint unadornedness of her figure in its white wrapper. A contrast that somehow was not inharmonious, and with which the doctor's artistic taste confessed itself bewitched, though Faith's only other remotest ornament was that very womanly one of her rich brown hair. A piece of simplicity? Could she be beyond his reach? With duty between,--yes; otherwise,--no! as all the doctor's experience told him. And he walked leisurely past his own door, past the houses of the village, on almost to the entrance of the woody road; then turned and came with a brisker pace back. He still called himself a fool, secretly; but he went into the library and wrote a letter. Which in course of time was received and read by Mr. Linden between two of his pieces of work. It appeared the next day that Dr. Harrison had changed his mind, or his plans, about going south; for he came as usual to see Faith. In every sense as usual; to her astonishment no traces remained of the yesterday's conversation. The ease and kindliness of his manner had suffered no abatement, although a little touch of regretfulness, just allowed to appear, forbade her to doubt that she had been understood. Spite of herself, she could not help being presently again almost at ease with him. Nevertheless Faith wished he had gone south. She did not feel sure that Mr. Linden would be pleased with the state of matters, as days went on, and she was sure she was not pleased herself. There was something she did not understand. The doctor's manner was not presuming, in a way; neither did he obtrude even his sorrow upon her; yet he took the place of a privileged person--she felt that--and she was obliged to see his pain in the very silence and in the play of words or of face which she thought assumed to conceal it. She was very sorry for him, and in the same breath thought she must have been wrong in something, though she could not see how, or things would never have come to such a point. She could not guess--how could she!--that the doctor was playing a desperate game and had thrown his last stake on the chance of a flaw in Mr. Linden's confidence towards her or in hers towards him, or of a flaw in the temper of either of them, or a flaw in their pride, or affection! There are flaws in so many characters! Did but either of them lack moral courage, or truth, or trust, or common sense, like a great many of the rest of the world--and the doctor had gained his ground! For Dr. Harrison had determined that Faith's religious opinions should not stand in his way; she should think as he did, or--he would think with her! Of all this Faith knew nothing. She had only an intuitive sense that something was not right; and doubt and annoyance kept her strength back. She lost ground again. All summed itself up in a longing for Mr. Linden to come. Meanwhile Mr. Linden had received and read the following despatch, and studied and taught before and after it as best he might. _Pattaquasset_, _April_, 18--. "MY DEAR LINDEN, I do not know what impulse prompts me to write this letter to you--A very strong one, probably, that makes fools of men--Yet even with my eyes open to this, I go on. I have unwittingly become your rival. Not in fact, indeed, but in character. I have been so unfortunate as to love a person you are somehow concerned in--and before I knew that you had any concern of the kind. That is a very simple story, and only one to be smothered--not to be brought to open air,--were it all. But the course of the months past, which has too late brought me this knowledge of myself, has also made me believe that--had I a fair field--were there no contrary ties or fetters of conscience--I should not love in vain. What those ties are I know nothing--I have not asked--but the existence of _some_ obligation I have been given to understand. With certain natures of truth and duty, that is a barrier impassable. You would be safe, were I to act out of honour. I am a fool, I believe; but I am not yet such a fool as not to know that there is but one man in the world to whom I could write such a confession. Nothing better prompts it than pure selfishness, I am aware--but with me that is strong. I have that notion of you that you would not care to keep what you held _only_ by priority of claim. I may be wrong in the supposition upon which I am going--yet it is my chance for life and I cannot yield it up. That were the lady _free_--in conscience as well as in fact--she might be induced to look favourably on me. I ought to add, that I believe such a consciousness has never shaped itself to her mind--the innocence with which she may at first have entered into some sort of obligation, would not lessen or alter its truth or stringency to her pure mind. The game is in your own hands, Linden--so is Your unworthy friend JULIUS HARRISON. P.S.--One thing further I ought to add--that a somewhat delicate state of nerves and health, over which I have been for some time watching, would make any rash broaching of this subject very inexpedient and unsafe. I need not enforce this hint." CHAPTER XXVI. The spring opened from day to day, and the apple blossoms were bursting. Mr. Linden might soon be looked for, and one warm May afternoon Faith went in to make his room ready. It was the first day she had been fit for it, and she was yet so little strong that she must take care of her movements. With slow and unable fingers she did her pleasant work, and then very tired, sat down in her old reading window-seat and went into a long dream-meditation. It was pleasant for a while, in harmony with the summer air and the robins in the maple; it got round at last into the train of the last weeks. A fruitless reverie ended in Faith's getting very weary; and she went back to her own room to put herself on the couch cushions and go to sleep. Sleep held on its way after a peaceful fashion, yet not so but that Faith's face shewed traces of her thoughts. Mrs. Derrick came softly and watched her, and the spring air blew back the curtains and fanned her, and brushed her hair with its perfumed wings; and one or two honey bees buzzed in and sought honey from the doctor's flowers, and forsook them again for the fields. Up there at last, following Mrs. Derrick, came Mr. Linden. With few reasons asked or told of his sudden appearance; with little said even of Faith's illness but the mere fact, he went up to the sunlit room and there staid. Not restingly in Faith's easy-chair, but standing by the low fire-place, just where he could have the fullest view of her. Mrs. Derrick came and went,--he never stirred. The sunbeams came and went--wrapped Faith in their bright folds and lay at his feet, then began to withdraw altogether. They had shewed him the unwontedly pale and worn face, and lit up the weary lines in which the lips lay asleep; and just when the sunbeams had left it all, Mr. Linden became aware that two dark eyes had softly opened and were gazing at him as if he were a figure in a dream. So perhaps for a minute he seemed, touched with the light as he was, which made a glorification in the brown locks of his hair and gleamed about "pleasant outlines" standing as fixed and still as a statue. But they were not statue eyes which looked into hers, and Faith's dreamlike gaze was only for a moment. Then every line of her face changed with joy--and she sprang up to hide it in Mr. Linden's arms. He stood still, holding her as one holds some rescued thing. For Faith was too weak to be just herself, and weariness and gladness had found their own very unusual expression in an outflow of nervous tears. Something seemed to have taken away Mr. Linden's power of words. He did place her among the cushions again, but if every one of her tears had been balm to him he could not have let them flow more unchecked. Perhaps the recollection that they _were_ tears came suddenly; for with very sudden sweet peremptoriness he said, "Faith, hush!--Are you so glad to see me?" She was instantly still. No answer. "What then?" The intonation was most tender,--so, rather than by any playfulness, cancelling his own question. She raised her head, she had dismissed her tears, yet the smile with which her glance favoured him was a sort of rainbow smile, born of clouds. "That is a very struggling and misty sunbeam!" said Mr. Linden. "Is that why I was kept out of its range so long?" Faith's head drooped. Her forehead lay lightly against him; he could not see what sort of a smile she wore. "Whereupon it goes into seclusion altogether. Mignonette, look up and kiss me--how much longer do you suppose I can wait for that?" He had no longer to wait at that time, and the touch of her lips was with a tremulous gladness which was tale-telling. And then the position of the lowered head and the hand which kept its place on his shoulder shewed him that she was clinging, though with shy eagerness, like a bird that with tired wing has found her nest. With one of those quick impulses which to-day seemed to have taken the place of his usual steadiness, Mr. Linden bent down and blessed her; in words such as she never remembered from other lips. Not many indeed, but deep and strong,--as the very depth and strength of his own human and religious nature; words that stilled Faith's heart as with the shadowing of peace; so that for the time she could not wonder, but only rest. They made her tremble a moment; then she rested as if the words had been a spell. But the rest wrought action. Faith drew back presently and looked up at Mr. Linden to see how he looked. And then she could not tell. Her puzzled eyes found nothing to remark upon. "Endy--I thought you would not be here for two or three days yet." "It was nearly impossible. My child, when did you get sick?" "O--a good while ago." "'A good while,'"--Mr. Linden repeated with grave emphasis. "Well do you think it would have lengthened the time to have me come and see you?" Faith's heart was too full, and her answer, looking down, was a tremulous, quiet and tender, "I don't think it would." "Then wherefore was I not permitted?" "I didn't want you to come then." "And again, wherefore?" "Why you know, Endy. I couldn't want you till you were ready to come." "I should have been most emphatically ready! What sort of medical attendance have you had?" "Good, you know. I had Dr. Harrison." "And he did his duty faithfully?" "I guess he always does--his medical duty," said Faith somewhat quietly. "Duty is a sort of whole-souled thing, to my mind," said Mr. Linden. "Do you think all his ministrations did you good?" There was pain and wonder, and even some fear in Faith's eyes as she looked at Mr. Linden. "They ought not to have done me any harm"--she said meekly. "_Did_ they, Faith? I thought--" Very softly and thoughtfully his fingers came about her hair, his eyes looking at her, Faith could hardly tell how. The pain of those weeks stung her again--the sorrow and the shame and the needlessness. Faith's head sunk again upon Mr. Linden's breast, for the tears came bitterly; though he could not know that. He only knew that they came. Holding her with a strong arm--as if against some one else; soothing her with grave kisses, not with words, Mr. Linden waited for her to speak. "Child," he said at last, "you will do yourself harm. Has _he_ brought on this state of the nerves that he talks about? And in what possible way?" "Don't talk about it, Endy!--" said Faith struggling for self-command--"I am foolish--and wrong--and weak. I'll tell you another time."--But Faith's head kept its position. "Do you think I can wait, to know what has made my coming home such a tearful affair?" "Yes. Because it's all over now." "What is over?" "All--that you wouldn't like." "Faith, you talk in perfect riddles!--It is well that what I can see of this very pale little face is less puzzling. Did you tell Dr. Harrison of your claim upon me?" "What?--" she said looking up. "Well.--You know what that claim is. Did you tell him, Faith?" Her eyes fell again. "Yes--at least--I shewed him my ring." "In answer to his suit, Faith?" "No.--He was talking as I did not like, one day."--Faith's cheeks were growing beautifully rosy. "Was it to protect yourself, or me?" said Mr. Linden watching her. Faith's glance up and down, was inexpressibly pretty. "Myself, I think." "You have a strange power of exciting and keeping down my temper, at one and the same time!" said Mr. Linden. "What did he dare say to you?" "Nothing about me. It was something--about you--which I did not choose to have him say." Mr. Linden smiled, and called her a little crusader, but the grave look came back. Dr. Harrison had known, then, just what ties he was trying to break,--had felt sure--_must_ have felt sure--that they were bonds of very deep love and confidence; and thereupon, had coolly set himself to sow mistrust! Mr. Linden was very silent,--the keen words of indignation that rose to his lips ever driven back and turned aside by Faith's face, which told so plainly that she could bear no excitement. He spoke at last with great deliberation. "You may as well shew it to all Pattaquasset, Mignonette!--for all Pattaquasset shall know before I have been here much longer." "What?--why?" she said startling. "For what you will, love. I think you need the protection of my name." Faith could not deny it; howsoever she looked quaintly grave upon the proposition. "Do you know how you will have to scour the country now, and make yourself as much as possible like cowslips and buttercups and primroses and mouse-ear?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "One day you may be a Spring beauty, and the next Meadow-sweet, and when I see you a wild pink I shall feel comparatively happy." Faith with a very little laugh remarked that she did not feel as if she ever should be anything _wild_. "What is your definition of wild?" "Not tame." "Does that meek adjective express the kind of pink you intend to be?" "I didn't say what I should be--I only spoke of what I am." "Shall I tell you the future tense of this very indicative mood?" he said touching her cheeks. "If you know it!" "If I know it!--You will be (some months later) a Linden flower!--whether wild or tame remains to be been." Unless Linden flowers can be sometimes found a good deal deeper-coloured than pinks, there was at least very little present resemblance. The only notice Faith took of this prophecy was an involuntary one. The door softly opened at this point, and Mrs. Derrick came in to announce tea. She stood still a moment surveying them both. "How do you think she looks, Mr. Linden?" His eyes went back to Faith, giving a quick reply which he did not mean they should. "She looks like a dear child--as she is, Mrs. Derrick. I cannot say much more for her. But I shall take her down to tea." Mrs. Derrick went joyfully off for shawls and wrappers. Mr. Linden was silent; his eyes had not stirred. But he amused himself with taking some of the violets from the table near by and fastening them in her belt and hair; the very touch of his fingers telling some things he did not. "Sunbeam, do you feel as if you could bear transportation?" "Not as a sunbeam. I could walk down, I think," said Faith. Mr. Linden remarked that the truth of that proposition would never be known; and then she was muffled in a large soft shawl, and carried down stairs and laid on the sofa in the sitting-room. The windows were open for the May wind, but there was a dainty little fire still--everything looked strangely familiar; even Mr. Linden; though his face wore not just its most wonted expression. He had laid her down among the cushions and loosened her wrapping shawl, and paid a little attention to the fire; and now stood in Dr. Harrison's favourite place, looking at her,--perhaps trying to see whether she looked more like herself down stairs than she had done above. He could not find that she did. Faith felt as if a great cloud had rolled over and rolled off from her; yet in her very happiness she had a great desire to cry; her weakness of body helped that. Her head lay still upon the cushions with fingers pressed upon her brow. She hardly dared look at Mr. Linden; her eye wandered over less dangerous things; yet it saw him not the less. How sweetly the wind blew. Mr. Linden went off to the window and picked three or four of the May roses that grew there, and then coming to sit down by Faith's sofa softly pushed one of the buds in between her fingers, and made the rest into a breast knot which he laid on the white folds of her dress. He put other roses in her cheeks then, but it was all done with a curious quietness that covered less quiet things. Faith took the flowers and played with them, venturing scarce a look of answer. With the wasted cheek, the delicate flush on it, and all the stirred fountain of feeling which she was not so able as usual to control, Faith was very lovely; to which effect the roses and violets scattered over her lent a help of their own. Mr. Linden looked at her,--giving now and then a little arranging touch to flowers or hair--with an unbending face, which ended at last in a very full bright smile; though just why it rouged her cheeks so instantly Faith did not feel quite sure. She felt the rouge. "I am glad you feel like yourself again," she remarked. "How do you know that I do?" "I think you look so." "Quite a mistake. I am only bewitched. That is somewhat like myself, I must own." Faith's face made a remonstrance, not at all calculated to be successful. "Please don't bewitch me then!" said Mr. Linden answering the look. "You know I cannot help it--and on the whole you don't wish I could. What do you think of her now, Mrs. Derrick?" he added, getting up to roll the tea-table close to the sofa. The folding of Mrs. Derrick's hands was significant. "Yes, but you must not look at her _so_," said Mr. Linden demurely arranging the table and sofa angles in harmonious relation. "You should look with cool unconcern--as I do." "_You!_" said Mrs. Derrick. "Well I should like to see that for once." Faith laughed again, and was ready for her supper after a new fashion from what she had known for many a day past. There is no doubt but cresses and broiled pigeon were good that night! CHAPTER XXVII. What a twitter of birds was in Faith's ears as she awoke next morning! Perhaps they were not really more noisy than usual, but she seemed to hear them more; and then it was a soft balmy morning, with a joyous spring sunshine and a dancing spring air, which gave full effect to all the bird voices. Faith listened to the chorus, the choir, the concert, the solos, with a charmed ear. The minute's hush; the low twitter--answered softly from bush and tree; the soft chiming in of other notes; the swelling, quickening, increasing song--till every sparrow and kildeer in all Pattaquasset drew his bow and clattered his castanets with the speed and the eagerness of twenty fiddlers. Only in this orchestra the heads turned gracefully on swelling throats, and for the angular play of elbows there was the lifting flutter of joyous wings; and the audience of opening leaves "clapped their little hands" for an encore. Such were the sounds that came to Faith from without;--within her room, Mrs. Derrick moved silently about, lighting the fire, arranging the window curtains, the table and couch, laying out Faith's dressing gown to air, but not saying a word to her yet, lest she might be asleep. Faith could see the relief and gladness in every step her mother took--and well knew why. On the white spread before her lay a glowing little bunch of spring flowers, the last night's dew yet hiding in the depths of the violets, and sprinkling the leaves of the May roses, and making the windflowers look at her with wet eyes. Faith grasped these and held a considerably long conversation with them; then found it in her heart to speak otherwise. "Mother," said she, with a little smile upon the contented languor of convalescence,--"you feel better!" Mrs. Derrick came quick to her side, and kissed her and stroked her face. "Pretty child," she said, "so do you." Which fact Faith confirmed by setting about the business of dressing with more energy and good will than she had for many a day brought to it. The pale cheeks were not quite so pale this morning. The white dress was tied round the waist with _that_ blue ribband of long ago--never yet spoiled with wearing; and in it the roses and violets made a spot of warmer colour. When at last she was ready, and had stepped out into the hall, Mr. Linden met her there as he had done the night after the fire; and as then, stayed her for a minute and scanned her face: with a different look from then, with a different sort of gravity, which gladness did not quite cover up. He asked no questions but with his eyes, and did not say much but with his lips; then carried her down to the breakfast-room. "Mignonette," he said, "what time to-day will it please you to take a drive?" The pleasure of the idea brought the colour to Faith's cheeks. "I suppose I had better ask Dr. Harrison first whether I may go," she said gravely. "Not at all. He has nothing whatever to say about it." "Then as soon as he is gone, I am ready." "We will not wait for him," said Mr. Linden. "But Endy, later will do just as well, won't it?" "No, love--not half so well." "Why?" "Principally, because I want you to be out when Dr. Harrison comes." And quitting that subject, Mr. Linden wheeled her round to the nearer consideration of biscuits and coffee; leaving Dr. Harrison, for the time, quite out of sight. Out of his own sight, that is; for Faith plainly did not forget him. She was a delicious thing to take care of this morning; in that delicacy of bodily condition to which the strong love to minister, and a tenderness of spirit which grew out of other things and which to-day she had no force to hide. And there was an apprehension which Mr. Linden could see behind her eyes every time they came to his face. Faith was gathering her powers for a struggle. Yet she had no mind to begin it, and waited after breakfast till Mr. Linden should bring up the subject again. He seemed in no haste to bring it up. For some reason or other, he was in a mood that could not do enough for her. It was a mood Faith must try. As the morning had worn on and she saw some preliminary movement on Mr. Linden's part, which looked like action, she put her hand in his and lifted her eyes to his face, with a gentle plea in them, speaking in musical softness. "Endy, will you let me wait till Dr. Harrison has made his visit?" The little hand was clasped and held fast. "He would not wish to see you with me, Mignonette--and I certainly will not let him see you without." "O why, Endy?" "Because--Mignonette I cannot tell you. Don't ask me." Faith flushed and looked troubled but somewhat timid too, and asked no more. She puzzled over the subject. "Then, Endy, suppose we don't go out to drive to-day?" "Suppose we do. What are you rouging your cheeks for?" he added smiling. "Faith, I know I have no legal right to control your actions--and yet in this case you must let me say for you what I should for my sister or my wife." How Faith wished to know why. The rouge grew bright; but forbidden to ask, she dared not ask. "Would you care if we did not go out to-day?" she said with some timid hesitation. "Very much." She was silenced. That Mr. Linden had some strong reason it was plain; not the less the thought of Dr. Harrison grieved her. But she said nothing. Nor did he, upon that subject,--threw it to the winds apparently. The first move was to take her up stairs again and bestow her daintily among cushions, then to sit by her and spice her cup of chicken broth with pepper and talk, till both it and Faith were warm, and Mrs. Derrick in a state of delight. The good, sweet effect of which mode of treatment, was shewn in the way "the fringed curtains" of Faith's eyes were by and by dropped by sleep herself. When she awoke Mr. Linden was gone; and Mrs. Derrick sat there keeping watch. "Has the doctor been here, mother?" "Why child," said her mother, "he's slipped off Stranger, in some of his capers, and hurt his ancle,--so Reuben says he won't come till to-morrow. Shall I tell Mr. Linden he may come up?" "Yes." Faith felt it a relief. Mr. Linden came to tell her the carriage was ready. It seemed to Faith as if Jerry knew his old driver, with such good will did he set forth, with such little snorts of high spirit and tossings of head and mane. Down the old farm road, among fields of fresh grain and fresh ploughing, where blue birds sat on the fences, and jocund dandelions sunned themselves by the wayside. The breeze came fresh into Faith's face, tossing back her hair; and presently with the scent of buds and flowers and ploughed land came a mingling of the sea breeze, for Mr. Linden was driving that way. He was right to make her come!--Faith felt it in her heart, and so did he. There had been few words spoken hitherto, but now he turned to her with a smile of great satisfaction, saying, "Mignonette, this breeze is telling upon your cheeks." "It is going all through me!" said Faith, drawing an eager breath of appreciation. Mr. Linden gave her shawls and cushions some arranging touches, and to her a glad word or two of answer, then drove on down to the shore. Not at their usual bathing and picnic place, but at the further out Barley Point; where the breeze came in its full freshness and the waves rolled in white-crested. There he made Jerry stand still for a while, and made Faith lean upon him and so rest. They were somewhat elevated above the sea, where the barren face of the land broke down suddenly some twenty feet. With what a sweet dash the waves broke upon the beach, chasing up the wet sand and laying down a little freight of seaweed here and there: how the water sparkled and glittered, and was blue and white and green and neutral tint,--how the gulls soared and stooped and flapped their wings in the gay breeze, before which the white-winged vessels flew on a more steady course. Jerry pawed the turf, and shook his head in approbation, and Faith's head lay very still. Perhaps Mr. Linden thought she had done talking enough that day, for he was rather silent; only watching her lest she should be tired, or have too much of the air. What he watched her for all the rest of the time, was best known to himself. Her brow had its old quiet again now, though her face was grave beyond its old wont; and the eyes, as he could see them, were softly grave and softly glad together, intently going from the white-tipped water to the white-winged gulls and the clouds grey and white that sailed above them. Suddenly, after a long roaming over the fresh life that was abroad there, the eyes were lifted to his face. "Endecott--if I don't say anything, it is because I can't say anything good enough!" "Faith," he said with that same glad look at her, "your face says that you are getting better every minute. Not tired yet?" "I feel as if I was in a grand dream." "Do you?" said Mr. Linden,--"I am glad I do not. It brings me out of a dream to see you begin to look like yourself. I have not felt so real before since I came home." "You are real enough," said Faith; "and so is everything else. It is only my feeling that is dreamy. And this air will wake me up, if I stay here a little while longer. How good it is!" "Do you see that dark rock out in the midst of the waves? and how the waves half cover and then leave it bare?" "Yes." "I was thinking of what Rutherford says of the changing, swaying, unsteady tide of life-joys and sorrows,--'Our rock doth not ebb and flow, but our sea.'" Faith thought her own life had not been much like that changing tide; then remembered his had, in nearer measure. The next question was not far off; she put it, looking up anxiously and regretfully. "Endecott, what are you working so hard for?" A very gay change of face answered her. "So hard as what?" "As you do." "What makes you think I am working 'so hard,' little Mignonette?--have I given you that impression? I did not mean it. Do I look overworked?" "No--" said Faith--"I think not,--but that is not the thing. Why do you, Endecott?" It was a very gently put question, but put with eyes and lips as well as the sweet voice, dainty in its half timidity mixed with the sweetness. Mr. Linden looked down at her till the question was finished, but then he looked off at the dancing water; the smile which had been dawning upon his lips breaking out into very full sunshine. It was a strange smile--very enjoying and yet a little moved. "Mignonette," he said looking down at her again, "do you know what a dear little child you are?" Her eyes wavered, then faced him again with a sort of smiling gravity, as not relinquishing their answer. "You will be dreadfully shocked if I tell you." "Shall I?"--she said, not believing him. "Yes. But what do you suppose I am doing?--what has put all this into your head?" "I heard it," said Faith. "From whom?" "I don't know. But somebody that wondered what you were doing it for." "Most enigmatical information! What 'it' did somebody say I was doing?" "Working hard--giving lessons," said Faith dropping her voice. "Well--what else was I doing when I was here? _That_ should not shock you, dear child." "You were _not_ doing anything else when you were here--that is the very thing, Endecott." "Mignonette--I have done nothing to hurt myself, as you may see. I am very strong to work." She gave a little grave glance at him, grave with a background of regretfulness, and placed herself back in her former position; pushing her questions no further. But Mr. Linden did not look grave. "I am quite willing to tell you all about my work," he said,--"that I did not long ago was for two or three reasons which you will understand. I told you once, dear Faith--upon a night which I shall never forget--that I had means enough to carry me through my studies; but two things made me take measures to earn a good deal more. One was, that I would always rather work than not to have what I want to spend in various good and pleasant ways." "Yes--?" she said a little eagerly. He looked at her with that same smile coming over his face. "It will shock you," he said,--"however--The other reason was this. We agreed how I should choose between two gardens wherein to place my Mignonette. But it may chance that for even the offer of one I shall have to wait--and for Mignonette I cannot. Voyez-vous, Mademoiselle?" Yes, plainly enough; as he could tell by the bright flush which mounted up to her forehead and made her a Rhodora again. And doubtless Faith would have said several things, only--she could _not!_ and so sat like the stillest of scared mice; with no more words at command. Mr. Linden laughed telling her he thought there was no hope of benefitting her cheeks any further that day, and that to judge by her eyelids sleep would be the next thing; and so turned the little carriage round and Jerry's head towards home. CHAPTER XXVIII. Dinner was ready when they reached home, so that Faith was taken at once to the table; and when dinner was over, up stairs to go to sleep. And sleep held her well nigh all the afternoon. The sunbeams were long, the light of day was growing gentle, when Faith at last awoke and arose, with a tinge in her cheeks and a face getting to be itself again. She put her hair and her dress in fresh order, and went softly about doing the same office for several things in the room; thinking all the while what Mr. Linden had been working for, and how shut her mouth was from saying anything about it. "Where is Mr. Linden, mother?" "Down stairs." "I am going down too. I am quite well enough without being carried. Come, mother." "He won't like it, child,--you'd better let me call him." "No indeed," said Faith. "I'll just take your arm, mother. It will do me good." So softly and with a little wilful pleasure on Faith's part, the stairs were descended; and not content with that, Faith went into the tea-room and began as of old to give a delicate hand to the tea-table arrangements. Then when all was done, slowly made her entrance into the other room. But there, to Faith's dismay, were two gentlemen instead of one, standing in the middle of the floor in earnest conversation. Both turned the minute she opened the door, and Squire Stoutenburgh came towards her, exclaiming, "Why Miss Faith!--nobody gave me any hope of seeing you. My dear, are you as well as you look?" Faith's instant extreme desire was to quit the field she had so rashly ventured upon. Her answer to Mr. Stoutenburgh, if made, was too unintelligible to be understood or remembered; and meanwhile she was as the Squire had hinted, looking very well, and a picture of dainty confusion. It might not help the confusion, though it did put her face more out of sight, to be rescued from the Squire's hands and placed in the easy-chair. "No, she is not as well as she looks, Mr. Stoutenburgh, and therefore you must not keep her standing." "I won't keep her--nor you neither--long," said the Squire. "Miss Faith, I hope you'll keep _him_--standing or kneeling or something--all summer. How long are you going to stay, sure enough?" "Till I must go." Faith heard the smile with which it was spoken. "Then I shall go home a happy man!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh, with a sort of earnest heartiness which became him very well. "My dear, I'm as glad as if you were my own daughter--and you'll let me say that, because your father and I were such friends." With which original and sincere expression of feeling the Squire went off. "You naughty child," Mr. Linden said, coming back to Faith's chair, "who gave you leave to come down stairs? I shouldn't be at all surprised if you had been after cream." "No I haven't, Endy,"--said Faith lifting up her face which was in a sort of overwhelmed state. "What is the matter?" he said smiling. "Don't mind me," said Faith passing her hands over her face. "I am half ashamed of myself--I shall be better in a day or two." "How do you feel, after your ride and your sleep?" "O well!--nicely,"--she said in happy accents. "What made you try to walk down stairs?" "I thought I could do it." "And knew I would not let you. Will you be in a talking mood after tea?" "I am now. I have been wanting to talk to you, Endecott, ever since you got home." "What about?" "About these weeks." The summons to tea came then, however; but when tea was disposed of, and Faith had come back to her sofa in the sitting-room, Mr. Linden took his place at her side. "Now I am ready for 'these weeks,'" he said. Faith was less ready than he, though she had wished for the talk. Her face darkened to something of the weary look with which he had found her. "Endecott, I have wanted to see you dreadfully!" He looked pained--not merely, she knew, because of that: but the thought had no further expression. "What has been the matter, my dear child?" Faith's hand and head went down on his shoulder, as on a rest they had long coveted. "I am afraid you will be ashamed of me, Endecott,--but I will tell you. You know since I have been sick I have seen a great deal of Dr. Harrison--every day, and twice a day. I couldn't help it." "No." "And Endy,--he used to talk to me." "Yes,"--the word was short and grave. "I don't know why he did it; and I did not like it, and I could not help it. He would talk to me about Bible things." "Well?--He used to do that long ago." "And long ago you told me not to let him talk to me of his doubts and false opinions. Endecott, I didn't forget that--I remembered it all the while,--and yet he _did_ talk to me of those things, and I could not tell how to hinder it. And then, Endecott--the things were in my head--and I could not get them out!"--The manner of Faith's slow words told of a great deal of heart-work. Mr. Linden did not start--but Faith felt the thrill which passed over him, even to the fingers that held hers. Clearly _this_ was not what he expected. "Faith,"--he said,--"has he touched _your_ faith?" Faith's head drew nearer to his, with a manner half caressing, half shrinking, but the answer was a low, "No--never." "Child!" he said with a sort of deep terror in his voice,--"I think I could not have borne that. I would rather he had won away your heart from me!" Faith did not move, and seemed to herself scarce to breathe, such a spasm of various feelings was upon her heart. "It did not, Endy,"--she whispered. He stooped to kiss her, as if that was the only answer he could give just then; merely saying, "Tell me all about it." "I don't know how he did it"--Faith went on hesitatingly, as if the words were not easy to her;--"and always before I knew it was coming, it was said,--something that troubled me; almost every time he came. I don't know whether it troubled him too, or whether--But no matter what it was said for! He would tell me of some question that had occurred to him, or some difficulty that he could not understand; or else it was a contrary fact that somebody else had stated, or a cunning explanation that somebody had found out, or a discovery that was against the truth, or some train of consequences and inferences that would undermine it. And these things were always so curiously put, that though I knew they were false, Endy--I never doubted that--I knew they were not the truth;--yet I could not shew him that they were not; and that hurt me. It pained me by day and by night;--but that was not all." Faith hesitated. "These things never did touch my faith, Endecott--but it seems to me now as if they had shut it up in a fortress and besieged it. I hadn't a bit of comfort of it except by snatches--only I knew it was there--for ever so long. When I tried to read the Bible, often I could think of nothing but these thoughts would push themselves in between--like a swarm of gnats humming in my ears;--and often I had no good of prayer,"--she added in a yet lower voice. "Have you now?" Mr. Linden said. "Has that passed away?" She hesitated again, perhaps struggling with some emotion which she would not let get the better of her. Her words were quiet. "It is passing. Earth and sky are all cleared since you came--as I knew they would be." Mr. Linden was silent and motionless,--looking down at her, curbing as he best might the grief and indignation which were by turns as much as he could manage. He did not speak for some time. "I think, Endy," said Faith, "I shouldn't have felt so if I had been well and strong. I am almost sure it was partly that. I wasn't strong in mind or body--and how I wanted you!" "And where _was_ my place in the world if not here!" "I didn't want you till you came," she said in a very sweet low tone. "Ah, child! you do not know what you are talking of,--nor what a snare was spread for you." "Do you think that, Endy?" she said in a scared way. "What else?" "But he always seemed--I always hoped, he was really interested in those things himself." "No man carries truth in one hand and falsehood in the other," said Mr. Linden sternly. Faith was sitting upright, looking very thoughtful and very grieved. "But you do not think, Endecott,--you do not think--there was no truth in it?" His face caught her grieved look,--he answered slowly, "Child, you must leave all that. I only know that he tried to get rid of every barrier in his way." "And how in this, Endecott?--What?" "He doubtless thought your belief stood between him and your favour." "And that if he could change that!"--Faith's head sank with a low word of pain. Mr. Linden was silent. She looked up again, with a face of yearning sorrow which it was a pity perhaps Dr. Harrison could not see. "And now," she said, "we never can do anything more for him!" But Mr. Linden was not ready for the wish,--the sternness of his face did not relax this time even under the power of hers. Until as he looked, with the sight of all her loveliness and the thought of all the wrong done her, came the keen realization of why it had been done;--then his look changed and saddened. "Endecott," she said after a while, humbly, "do you think any one who loves Christ could be brought to disbelieve him?" "No--not really and permanently. The promise says, 'Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him.'" "Then what did you fear so much for me, Endy?" She had cause for the question; he had spoken and looked and listened with that intentness of sense which shews some hidden anxiety,--measuring jealously every look and word of hers by some old well-remembered standard. "You remember, dear Faith," he said, "that when the thieves set upon one of the pilgrims, though he made out to keep his jewels yet they took from him all his spending money; and in the want of that he went to the end of his life." But the smile that answered him was an answering smile. Though there was sorrow in it, and humbleness, and even fear, its fullest burdens were the free guaranty that she was not hurt, and an untold wealth of affection, that almost breathed out of the moving and parted lips. "Endy,--it was only a cloud--I knew at the time it would scatter away just as soon as you came. I knew it was a cloud, but I wasn't well." Mr. Linden lifted her face, gazing at it intently. "My little Mignonette," he said, "are you sure that you 'hold fast the beginning of your confidence?' Are you sure he has not dimmed the light that used to shine so bright in your heart?--that he has not made heaven seem less real, nor the promises of less effect? Are you sure, Faith?--If he has, find it out now!" She had never seen him look so--never heard him speak with such earnestness. The words seemed to come from the very depths of his heart; freighted not only with their own moment, but with the pain which the raising such questions had stirred in him. Faith knew little of even the pictures of angels--if she had she might have thought of one then. Her child nature would have thrown itself into his arms to give the answer; as it was, the woman drew a little back and spoke with veiled eyes. "If he has, I don't know it, Endecott. It was a cloud that hindered all enjoyment from me,--I knew at the time it was no more. It is gone, or almost. It was wrong to be on me at all--but I was weak and not well." Her speech was very humble, and the innocent trembling of the lips was as one might answer an angel. His eyes changed as she spoke, watching her still, but less clearly; and bringing her where she had not dared to place herself, Mr. Linden kissed her again and again--as one rejoices over what has been lost or in deadly peril. Not many words--and those low and half uttered, of deep thanksgiving, of untold tenderness. But Faith hid her face in her hands, and though she did not shed any tears, shook and trembled. "This will not do, for you nor for me," said Mr. Linden. "Mignonette--have my words grieved you? they need not--there was not a breath in them harsher than a summer wind." "I didn't think it, Endy." "What are you thinking of, my child?" "Nothing--Never mind me,--" she said deprecatingly. "Tell me, Faith," he repeated. But she did not. The quivering emotion passed away or was overcome; and then her answer was a very grave and sweet look and smile; still such a one as might without any force have been given to an angel. "Faith, what will make you speak?--this?--Tell me what you were trembling about--I shall begin to think you have grown afraid of me." "I don't think I have,--" she said very quietly. "You are a sort of willowbranch,--so very pliant that you glide out of reach on the very breath that comes after you. Now I think the very profound confidence I reposed in you this morning, deserves some return. I'm afraid I cannot ask for it with such persuasive eyes." "It's no confidence--" said Faith. "I didn't know I had been in such danger; and"--she spoke with some difficulty--"I didn't know what it would be to offend you." "Did you think you could?" "If I did wrong--?" "Faith," he said, "do you know what I should expect 'if I did wrong,' as you say?--that you would break your heart, perhaps, but never that you would be offended. I should expect to find you more than ever my sweet ministering spirit." A look of intense grave earnestness followed and echoed his thought with one or two of her own; then her gravity broke in a radiant little smile. "I am not exactly like you, Endecott," she said. "What is the precise bearing of that remark?" "You might be offended--where I should have no right,--" she said with slow utterance and consideration of her words. "But _why_--little Arabic poem?" The colour started into Faith's cheeks, but she answered. "You are better than I,--and besides,--you know, Endy!--it would be right for you to do what it wouldn't be right for me to do." Her colour deepened to brightness and her eyes were very cast down. Mr. Linden looked at her--smiling a grave sweet smile. "Faith," he said, "I have heard--or imagined--that a man might have an angel for his wife, but I never heard yet of a woman who had an angel for her husband--did you?" Faith endeavoured to shield her eyes and cheek with a very insufficient hand. "You put me in the witness-box,--what can I do?" she said. "You can do one thing as well as anybody I ever saw," Mr. Linden said, taking her hand down. "Faith, where did you get such pink cheeks?" "What is an Arabic poem?" said Faith gravely. "A pretty thing that requires translating. Faith, I have a great desire to take you all about Pattaquasset and tell everybody what you are to be." "Endecott!"--said Faith with a startled glance. "What?" he answered laughing. "Why do you say so?" "Just imagine the delight of all Quapaw, and the full satisfaction of the Roscoms. Shouldn't you like to see it?" Faith looked at him in a sort of frightened mood of mind, discerning some earnest in the play. Mr. Linden's face did not reassure her, though he carried the play at that time no further. CHAPTER XXIX. If the fears of the night before had not quite been slept off, if the alarming ideas had not all been left in dreamland, still it was hard for anything but peace and pleasure to shew its head that morning. In at Faith's window came the sunbeams, the tiny panes of glass shewed each a patch of the bluest sky, and through some unseen open sash the morning air swept in full sweetness. When Faith opened her own window, the twitter and song of all manner of birds was something to hear, and their quick motions were something to see. From the sweetbriar on the house to the trees in the orchard,--from the mud nest under the eaves to the hole in the barn wall,--what darting and skimming and fluttering! Off in the orchard the apple trees were softly putting on their nonpareil dress of blossoms, feeding the air with nectar till it was half intoxicated; and down in the garden a little bevy of bells stood prim and soft and sweet, ringing their noiseless spring chimes under Faith's window. Under her window too, that is within close sight of it, stood Reuben Taylor and Mr. Linden. Not watching for her just then as it appeared, but intent upon their own concerns. Or rather, Reuben--in his usual dark, neat dress and straw hat, with hands neither busy nor at rest, but waiting and ready--was intent upon Mr. Linden--and Mr. Linden upon his work. His hat was off, on the grass beside him, and he himself--half sitting half leaning upon an old crooked apple tree, had his hands full of cowslips--though what he was doing with them Faith could not tell. Only from a fluttering end of blue ribband that appeared, she could guess their destination. The two friends were talking busily and merrily, with little cowslip interludes, and the yellow blossoms sprinkled the grass all about the tree, some having dropped down, others been tossed off as not worthy a place in the ball. For that was the work in Mr. Linden's hands--something which Faith had never seen. It was so very pretty a picture that Faith sat down to look at it, and thoughtless of being found out, looked on in a dream. Mr. Linden's threats of yesterday did come back to her shrinkingly, but she threw them off; the time was too happy to bear the shadow of anything weightier than apple blossoms. Faith looked out through them admiringly, marvelling anew how Mr. Linden had ever come to like her; and while her soft eyes were studying him, her heart made many a vow before the time. She only felt the birds fly past; her mind was taking strange glimpses into the future. Stepping jauntily out from the house, Sam Stoutenburgh came next upon the scene, the springtime of his man's attire suiting well enough with his years but not so well with his surroundings; too desperately smart for the cowslips, bright and shining as they were there in the sun, too _new_ for the tulips--though they had been out of the ground but a few days. For In a little bit of garden ground Where many a lovely plant was found, Stood a tulip in gay attire! His pantaloons green as ever were seen, His cap was as red as fire. But the tulip was at least used to his cap--which was more than could be said of Sam and his hat. "Mrs. Derrick told me to come out here and find you, sir," he said. "But what _are_ you doing, Mr. Linden?" "I am making a ball." "A ball!" "Yes," said Mr. Linden,--"gratifying one of my youthful tastes. Sam, I'll lend you my hat." "Why! what for, sir?" said Sam, a little confused and a good deal puzzled, while Reuben smiled. "Just to save you from the headache while you stand there in the sun," said Mr. Linden, tying the ends of his ribband together. "It's a man's hat, Sam--you need not be afraid of it. That's a good lesson in whistling!" he said, looking up into the tree over his head, where a robin had just come to exercise his powers. But as Mr. Linden's eyes came back from the robin they caught sight of Faith at her window, and instantly he was on his feet and made her a most graceful and low reverence. Instinctively the two boys turned and followed suit--the one with his straw hat the other with his beaver. Faith's contemplative quiet was broken up, and her face grew shy and flushed as she gave her tiny grave signs of recognition; but a soft "good morning" floated down to them, followed--nobody knows why--by a more particular "Good morning, Sam." "Miss Faith!" said Sam affectingly, "are you always going to stay up stairs?" "No--I am coming down presently. You are early to-day, Sam." "Not earlier than I've been some other days, Miss Faith." Faith nodded at him and left the window; threw round her the light shawl which she was expected to wear because she had been sick, rather than because the May air called for it, and prepared to go down. But in the second of time which all this took, she heard her name called from the orchard--not very loud but very distinct. "Faith!" She knew who called, and it was with a little startled thrill that she presented herself at the window to answer the summons. Mr. Linden stood close beneath it. "Can you catch this?" he said, looking up at her with laughing eyes. And the soft cowslip ball came whirling up to bury its golden head in her hands. If Faith saw anything else, it was the very evident astonishment of one of the standers-by. But nevertheless she bravely put her bright blushing face out again. "Thank you, Mr. Linden," she said. "It's too pretty to be thrown more than once." "Are you ready to come yourself?" "Yes, I'm coming." He bowed and turned away, passing on into the house with so quick a step that he was at the head of the stairs as soon as she was. "You are not going to carry me down to-day!"--said Faith starting back. "I can walk down as well as you can--or at least I can as well walk down." "There is no one in the parlour, Mignonette." "Then I'll not go there," said Faith smiling. "I'll take you to the garden, if you prefer it. Is the supposed fact of your being able to walk down stairs any reason why you should not bid me good morning?" There was neither that nor any other existing reason, to judge by the quiet grace with which Faith drew near to give the required good morning, or rather to permit Mr. Linden to take it; and then placed her hand in his, as willing to have so much aid from him as that could give. He held it fast, and her too, for a minute, while his other hand busied itself with fastening in her belt a dewy, sweet, sonsie looking little sprig of May roses. "How do you feel this morning?" he said when he was gravely considering the effect. "Very much like Spring!"--Faith looked so, with her other hand full of primroses. "And otherwise?" "I don't feel otherwise!" said Faith laughing; the first really free merry look of laughter he had seen on her face since he came home. "You are the sweetest of all spring blossoms," Mr. Linden said, carrying her off with perfect disregard of the supposed fact of her being able to walk. At the foot of the stairs, however, she was permitted to find her feet again. "Where will you go, dear child?--the orchard is very wet, but you may venture as far as the door." "No, I have something to do," said Faith. "What have you to do?" "What I used to take care of--part of it. I'm so glad to do it again." "Not to-day--you ought not!--nor to-morrow. You must come in here and sit quiet till breakfast, and for a few days more be content to be 'Love in idleness' as well as Mignonette. Will you promise?" he said, seating her in the easy-chair, with open window, and breakfast table, and a gay little fire to make the captivity pleasant. "But I like work, Endy--and a little won't hurt me. Those boys want you--and I'll make the coffee." "Do you know, Mignonette, how pale you would be if I were away?" She shook her head. "I do," said Mr. Linden,--"and as I am in a mood for roses this morning, I want you to let me bring 'those boys' in here--then they can see me and I can see you." The roses came, started and brightened, and her eyes looked a soft protest; but it was a minority protest and gave way, and her face after all told him he might do what he liked. He gave her a reassuring smile, and went back to the orchard, presently returning with Reuben and Sam,--the one wearing a face of unqualified pleasure, the other of almost as unqualified shyness. Sam was not quite sure that his ears had reported correctly, but the doubt and the new idea were enough to discompose him thoroughly. He listened eagerly to the answers Reuben's words called forth, but seemed afraid to venture many himself. As for Mr. Linden, he was combining another handful of flowers--covering his amusement with very grave composure. It was not bad amusement; for the exquisite simplicity in Faith's manner, with the contrast of the coming and going colour and the shy eyelashes, made a picture that any one claiming interest in it would have been a little proud of. And the roses in her belt and the cowslips in her hand and the delicate lines of her face which health had not yet rounded out again, all joined to make the vision a very fair one. She was most shy of Sam, and did not look at Mr. Linden. "I haven't thanked you for your pigeons, Sam," she said, after a few lively words with Reuben. "No, Miss Faith, please don't!" was the gallant rejoinder. "Weren't they worth thanks?" inquired Mr. Linden. "I thought they were, when I was eating them; and mother said they were the best I had. Don't you like to be thanked, Sam?" "When it's worth while," said Sam. "But you know, ma'am--You know, Mr. Linden, it's thanks enough to do anything for Miss Faith." "I know that very well." Quiet as the words were they brought all Sam's ideas to the ground like his own pigeons. "Where are you now in college, Sam?" Faith went on perhaps because she felt herself a coward. Sam made answer, in a more subdued state of mind than was usual when he announced his Sophomorical distinctions. "What are you going to do when you come out?" "O I don't know, Miss Faith,--father says I can do just what I like." "And you don't know what that will be, Sam?" "No--" said Sam. "I can't even guess." "A man who can do what he likes ought to do a great deal," said Mr. Linden. "Reuben, will you take the upper road home, and give these flowers to Ency Stephens for Miss Faith?" "O yes, sir!" Reuben said. "No, Reuben! I didn't send them," said Faith eagerly. "Tell her," said Mr. Linden smiling, "that they came from Miss Faith's garden, and that I shall bring Miss Faith herself to see her, just so soon as she can bear such a long drive." The bunch of flowers was laid lightly on her hands for her disposal. "Now I must send you two collegians--present and future--away, for you have had your breakfast and we have not had ours." At which remark Sam took Faith's hand with a bow of great perplexity and reverence, and Reuben drew near and waited for the flowers. "Give them to her from Mr. Linden," said Faith, rosy red, as she put them in his keeping;--"she will like that best, Reuben." Reuben thought he knew how to combine the two messages, and the boys went off just as the coffee-pot came in. "Faith," said Mr. Linden coming back to sit down by her, "here is a rosebud so much like you that I think I ought to wear it. What do you consider the most appropriate way?" "How do gentlemen wear flowers?--You'll have to stick it in a buttonhole," said Faith half grave and half laughing,--"if it must be worn." "But that is to treat it as a common flower!" "You'll have to treat it so," said Faith glancing from the rosebud to him. "Look at it," said Mr. Linden,--"do you see how very lovely it is?" She did look at it, more closely, and then at him with an appeal of grave remonstrance, deep though unspoken. But it was met defiantly. "If I am to wear this, Mignonette, you must put it in place." Faith was a little shy of even doing so much, and besides was aware that her mother as well as the coffee-pot had come upon the scene. However she took the flower and succeeded in attaching it securely where she thought it ought to go, on the breast of Mr. Linden's waistcoat; by which time the resemblance between the two rosebuds was perfect, and striking; and Faith drew back to her breakfast, glad to have everybody's attention diverted to coffee, which she declared was good with cowslips. It may be said that the diversion was not immediate; for though her chair was at once wheeled round to the table, yet Faith had to take her thanks then and there--in full defiance of Mrs Derrick's presence. After that, however, Mr. Linden--to do him justice--did change the subject. Cowslips and coffee went on well till near the end of breakfast, which to say truth had been rather prolonged as well as delayed; and then there came a front door knock. It was of no use for Faith to start, for breakfast was not absolutely finished; and the next minute who should come in from the hall but Miss Essie de Staff. As fresh as possible, in white dress and black silk apron; her black hair from which she had drawn off the sunbonnet, in shining order; the black eyes as well! Perhaps they dilated on first seeing the party; more sparkling they could not be. She advanced at a moderate pace towards the table, looking and speaking. "Mrs. Derrick!--I didn't know you were such late people. I have come to run away with your daughter, and thought I should find the coast clear. Mr. Linden! I didn't know Pattaquasset was so happy as to have you back, sir." "We have breakfast late for Faith's sake," said Mrs. Derrick, while Mr. Linden rose and gave the lady first his hand and then a chair, remarking that the happiness of Pattaquasset was pleasant news to him too. "But Faith's well again, isn't she?" said Miss Essie, waiting to get breath, mentally. "She's better," said Mrs. Derrick. "She goes out?" "She has been once." "Is that all? Well it will do her good to go again. Sophy Harrison and I made up our minds that she and I and Faith would spend the day together--and so I've come to fetch her. Do you believe in the possibility of ladies falling in love with ladies, Mr. Linden?" "I have more knowledge of gentlemen's possibilities. Who is supposed to be in danger, Miss Essie?" "Faith cannot go out to spend the day," said Mrs. Derrick decidedly. "Is it _danger?_" said Miss Essie. "Mrs. Derrick, why can't Faith go with me? Faith, won't you go?"--She had come up close to the table and stood by Faith's side, whom her eyes were now reading, or at least endeavouring to spell out. "Not to-day, Miss Essie, thank you." "Thank me? you ought to apologize to me." Miss Essie took a chair in that place, where she could "rake" the whole table. "Here will be Sophy and me horribly disappointed. We had counted on you. Sophy is all alone. You know, Faith, the doctor is laid up?" "We heard of it,"--Faith answered, not very easily. "Well, do you know he says he is going South?" "I heard so," said Faith. Miss Essie could not make much of the rising colour in her cheeks, it came and went so easily! "What takes him off just now in such haste?--business?" Faith looked up and gave her inquisitor a full clear look, such as curiosity never cares for, while she answered with quiet dignity, "He did not tell me, Miss Essie." "It's a pity Dr. Harrison's just going now that you're just come," said the lady of the black eyes, shifting her ground. "You used to be such friends." "What is a friend?" said Mr. Linden--"By the way, Miss Essie, you should make these cresses an excuse for at least eating salt with us, and so prove your title to the name." "Dear me!" said the lady taking a handful,--"I thought a friend was something more--more etherial than that!" "Than what, if you please?" "A person who eats your salt!--I don't love cresses. I am not one of Nebuchadnezzar's family. Where did you get the fashion? It's French. Dr. Harrison eats them. Did he teach it to you, Faith?" "I think I had that honour," said Mr. Linden. "I dare say you gave more lessons than were given in school," said Miss Essie significantly. "What else did you learn of him, Faith?" Faith gave the lady only a glance of her soft eye, but her face and her very throat were charged with varying colour. Her attention went from cresses to cowslips. "I am saucy!" said the lady.--"Mr. Linden, are you coming back to the bona fide school here? there'll be a great many glad." A very involuntary lesson to Miss Essie herself came longingly to Mr. Linden's lips, but except from the slight play and compression of the same she had not the benefit of it. He spoke as usual. "She has never learned the art of self-defence, Miss Essie, therefore I pray you attack me. No, I am not coming back to the school--and to say truth, I think there would be some people sorry--as well as glad--if I did." "Your bad scholars?"--said the lady, not intent upon her question. "No--my good friends." "_I_ should be glad," said Miss Essie. "Who are your friends that would be sorry? Dr. Harrison, for instance?" "The friends who like my present work better." "And you are going to be a clergyman?" said Miss Essie, leaning her elbow on the table and 'studying' Mr. Linden, perhaps some other things too, with her eyes. He smiled under the scrutiny, but merely bowed to her question. "It's dreadful hard work!--" said Miss Essie. "Dreadful?--Miss Essie, you have not studied the subject." "No," said she laughing,--"I said 'dreadful _hard_.' And so it is, I think." "'There be some sports are painful, but their labour delight in them sets off'--is not that equally true of some work?" said Mr. Linden, making one or two quiet additions to the breakfast on Faith's plate. Which means of assistance Faith inadvertently disregarded and pushed her plate away. "Do you suppose anybody delights in them?" said Miss Essie. "I can't understand it--but perhaps they do. A minister is very much looked up to. But one thing is certain--of all things the hardest, it is to be a minister's wife!" "Of _all_ things! He must be a poor sort of a minister who lets his wife have a harder life than his own." "He can't help it--" said Miss Essie, walking her black eyes about. "Of course he don't wish it--but women always do have a harder time than men, and a minister's wife particularly." "It's a comfort to think he don't wish it," said Mr. Linden with a sort of resigned gravity. "Well it would not be much comfort to me," said Miss Essie. "When a woman marries, she naturally expects her husband to belong to her;--but a minister belongs to everybody else!" "I see I have not studied the subject," said Mr. Linden. "Miss Essie, you are giving me most important information. Is this so inevitable that I ought in conscience to warn the lady beforehand?" Miss Essie smiled graciously. "It would be no use,--she wouldn't believe you. _I_ might warn her. I have seen it." "What have you seen?" "Why that!--that a woman who marries a minister needn't expect to have any more of her husband than his clothes to mend." "Melancholy statement!" said Mr. Linden. "It's of no use to tell it to a man!" said Miss Essie. "But I have seen it." "Not in my house." "I shall see it in your house, if you ever let me in there--but it will be too late to warn then. Very likely _you_ will not see it." Faith sat with one hand shielding her face from this speaker, though by that means it was more fully revealed to the other. Her other hand, and her eyes as far as possible, were lost in the bunch of cowslips; her colour had long ceased to be varying. She sat still as a mouse. "No, I shall not see it. To what end would your warnings be directed, if they could reach her in time?" "To keep her from taking such a trying position." "Oh--" said Mr. Linden. "Have you no feeling for me, Miss Essie? It is very plain why you scrupled to eat salt with me this morning!" "I'll eat salt with you as a single man," said Miss Essie,--"but if you are going to be a minister, be generous, and let your wife go! Any other woman will tell you so." "Let her go where? With me?--that is just what I intend." "Yes," said Miss Essie,--"and then--you'll never know it--but she will sit alone up stairs and sew while you are writing your sermons, and she'll sit down stairs and sew while you're riding about the country or walking about the town; and she'll go out alone of your errands when you have a cold that keeps you at home; and the only time she hears you speak will be when you speak in the pulpit! And if you ask her whether she is happy, she will say yes!--" Despite all her desperate contusion, the one visible corner of Faith's mouth shewed rebellion against order. Mr. Linden laughed with most unterrified amusement. "If she says that, it will be so, Miss Essie--my wife will be a most uncompromising truth-teller. But in your picture _I_ am the one to be pitied. Will she never sit on the same floor with me under _any_ circumstances?" "More than you deserve!" said Miss Essie. "You to be pitied, indeed! You know the man has the stir, and the talk, and the going from place to place, and the being looked up to, and the having everybody at his feet; and what has she?" Mr. Linden did not answer, even with his eyes, which were looking down; and the smile which came at Miss Essie's last words, was clearly not meant for her. His wife would have something--so it said and asserted,--and his wife was not an indefinite, imaginary person,--it said that too. And she was worth all that could be laid at her feet. How much he had to lay there--what homage _his_ homage was--even of this the face gave unconscious token. Miss Essie looked, and read it or at least felt it, much more than she could well have put into words. Then taking in review Faith's bowed head, she turned and spoke in quite a different tone. "There is no use in talking to people, Mrs. Derrick. After all, mayn't I have Faith?" "To spend the day? Oh no, Miss Essie!--she's not strong enough," said Mrs. Derrick, rising from the table and beginning to put the cups together. Faith left the party and went to the fire, which in the advanced state of the May morning needed no tending. "Yet she must spend the day somewhere," said Miss Essie wheeling round. "Faith!--what are you going to do with yourself?" "Nothing, Miss Essie,"--came softly from the fire-mender. But as her hand moved to and fro with the tongs, the sparkle of the diamonds caught Miss Essie's eye. "Child!--how did you get that?"--she exclaimed, springing to her side and arresting the tongs. Faith's low "I don't know, ma'am"--was inimitable. It was well neither lady had sight of Mr. Linden's face. "It's very beautiful!" said Miss Essie, controlling herself into some order, and poring over the little hand she had made captive. "I never saw a greater beauty of a ring--never. Do you know what it means, Faith?" She dropped her voice and tapped significantly the finger. Faith answered like a person put to the question,--"Yes." "Do you?" said Miss Essie in the same low aside and half laughing. "I am so glad. I always thought it. But this is splendid, Faith. _You_ don't know how handsome it is. It is easy to know where this came from. I needn't ask." "I must ask you both to sit down," said Mr. Linden,--"Faith is not strong enough for much standing, Miss Essie." "I can't sit down--I'm going away," said the lady. "I'll tell Sophy she may expect you the first day you can go out for so long,"--she went on renewing her half whisper to Faith. "Does she know of this?"--touching the diamonds which Miss Essie had not yet let go. "No, Miss Essie--" Faith stood in great confusion. Mr. Linden left the table, and gently disengaging her from Miss Essie placed her in the great chair, and stood resting one hand on the back of it. "Miss Essie," he said, "Faith belongs to me--and therefore if I take care of her strength in a somewhat summary way, you will forgive me." Miss Essie paused and looked at him in most bewildering confusion. He had spoken and she had heard, very clearly. "I don't believe it!"--she said with an attempt at jocularity in which there mingled somehow, inexplicably, a quality that was not pleasure. "Faith!--no double-dealing. Two is too much." "Or even the suggestion of two," Mr. Linden said. "Do you mean," said Miss Essie looking at him with a semi-comical endeavour to cover up discomfiture and other things--"do you mean to say that I have made nothing here but an abominable mistake?" "I should give it a different adjective." Miss Essie made a despairing gesture. "Oh!--I might well say it's no use talking to people! Will you ever for give me, Mr. Linden, for all the mischief I have tried to do you? I didn't know _both_ parties were within hearing of me, you know, sir?--" "Miss Essie, I hope you may always be as successful." Perhaps Miss Essie wondered, as she glanced at Faith, whether she had done any "mischief" or no; but she ventured no sort of repartee, being altogether in an uncomfortable and somewhat awed state of mind. She made hurried adieus to Mrs. Derrick, more formal and extremely civil leave-taking of Mr. Linden, parted in a sort of astonished wise with Faith and the diamonds which evidently bewildered her yet, and made what was also evidently an escape out of the house. While Mr. Linden attended the lady to the door, Faith softly and swiftly passed behind them and made her escape too, up stairs. She was gone before he turned. It was perhaps an hour after this, when Cindy entered Faith's room and gave her a note. "I'm free to confess," said Cindy, "that Mr. Linden gave it to me, but who writ it I don't know." But Faith did. It ran thus:-- "Mademoiselle--With great impatience I have waited for my Sunbeam to break through the gloomy clouds of doubt which surround me--but I perceive the 'warning' has taken effect! In keeping with this is the state of the outer world, which is even rainy!--so that my purpose to take said Sunbeam out to drive is for the present thwarted. Conceive of my state of mind! In vain I repeat to myself the comforting truth, that my Sunbeam is shining somewhere, if not on me,--there are circumstances where philosophical truths lose all their power. I remember that the 'warning' contained some notable mistakes,--as for instance, that I should ever--my pen refuses to write the words!--or I do. As well might it be said that I should----. Mademoiselle, you must perceive the obvious bearing of these two upon each other. If your interest in the writer has carried you so far, perhaps he may indulge the hope that at some future time it may carry you further--even to the head of the stairs--where it is needless to say you will be received with open arms. It is also needless to sign this--it could come from but one person!" Some two minutes after, Faith's room door opened, and a very flashing bright sunbeam came out upon the place indicated, only a little peachblossom tinge in her cheeks witnessing to any consciousness. She was met according to promise--then held off and looked at with serio-comic eyes. "What a cruel child you are!" Mr. Linden said. "What do you want, Endecott?" said Faith trying to be serious. "How can you have the heart to sit up stairs and sew while I am down stairs in my study?" Faith instantly came so close, taking the nearest refuge, that he could not very well see her face; but that she was laughing still he knew. "Endecott!--don't talk so. I didn't know where you were." "Will it be in this sort of weather that you will 'go out to do errands' and leave me at home?" "Endecott!--If you don't want anything more of me," said Faith lifting up a face which was an array of peach-blossoms,--"I'll go back again." "Will you?--" with a little tightening of his hold, and signification of his approval of peachblossoms. "Faith, you are a lovely child! Will it distress you very much if I go off and ride about the country alone?" But now,--seeing she could not get away,--she stood graver; and the answer was very gentle, almost tender--"No." "Then you will not confess that you were frightened out of your wits at the picture?" said Mr. Linden smiling, though with an answering change of tone. "Did you think I was?" "No--you are too much of a woman for that, even if you had believed it true." "Then _you_ were not frightened?--" she said with some comicality. "I? desperately!--my note did not give you any idea of the state of my mind! Imagine me sitting down stairs and saying to myself--(words naturally suggested by the state of the weather)-- 'O how this spring of love resembleth Th' uncertain glories of an April day, Which now shews all the beauties of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away!'" One of the soft flashes of Faith's eye came first to answer him; and then she remarked very coolly, (N.B. her face was not so,) "I think it will clear at noon, Endecott." "Do you?" he said looking towards the window with a counterfeit surprise that was in comical antithesis to his last words,--"does it rain still!" Faith's eye came back quick from the window to him, and then, for the first time in many a long day, her old mellow sweet laugh rolled over the subject, dismissing make-believes and figures of speech in its clear matter-of-fact rejoicing. "My dear little Mignonette!" Mr. Linden said, "that does my very heart good. You are really getting better, in spite of lessons and warnings, and all other hindrances. Do you want to know what I have truly been thinking of since you came up stairs? Shall we exchange thoughts?" "Please give me yours," she answered. "They sprang from Miss Essie's question. Faith, when she asked me what my wife would have, I could not tell her--I could not answer it to myself afterwards very definitely. Only so far--she will have all I have to give." His hand was smoothing and arranging her hair as he spoke--his look one that nobody but Faith ever had from Mr. Linden. She had looked up once and seen it; and then she stood before him, so still and silent as if she might have had nothing to say; but every line of her brow, her moved lip, her attitude, the very power of her silence, contradicted that, and testified as well to the grace of a grave and most exquisite humility which clothed her from head to foot. Mr. Linden was as silent as she, watching her; but then he drew her off to the low couch in the wide old-fashioned entry window, and seated her there in a very bath of spring air and struggling sunbeams. "I suppose it is useless to say 'Please give me yours'," he said smiling. "Mignonette, we have had no reading to-day--do you like this time and place?--and shall it be with you or to you?" "It will be both, won't it?" said Faith; and she went for her Bible. CHAPTER XXX. The day was struggling into clearness by the time dinner was over. Patches of blue sky looked down through grey, vapoury, scattering clouds; while now and then a few rain drops fell to keep up the character of the morning, and broad warm genial sunbeams fell between them. It was not fair yet for a drive; and Mr. Linden went out on some errands of business, leaving Faith with a charge to sleep and rest and be ready against his return. He was but a little while gone when Jem Waters made his appearance and asked for Faith. Mr. Simlins had been ill--that Faith knew--but Jem brought a sad report of how ill he had been, and a message that he was "tired of not seeing Faith and wished she would let Jem fetch her down. She might go back again as soon as she'd a mind to." He wanted to see her "real bad," according to Jem; for he had ordered the best wagon on the premises to be cleaned and harnessed up, and the best buffalo robe put in, and charged Jem to bring Miss Faith "if she could anyways come." And there was Jem and the wagon. Faith demurred; she had not had her sleep and didn't know, or rather did know, how the proceeding would be looked upon; but she also fancied more meaning in the summons than Jem had been commissioned to make known. And perhaps another little wee feminine thought came in to help her decision. "Mother," she said, "I shall go. You need not say anything about it unless you are asked. It isn't far to Mr. Simlins--I shall be home in time for my ride." So, quickly ready, Jem drove her down. Mr. Simlins she found sitting up, in a nondescript invalid's attire of an old cloak and a summer waistcoat; and warm as the day was, with a little fire burning, which was not unnecessary to correct the damp of the unused sitting-room. He was, as he said, "fallen away considerable, and with no more strength than a spring chicken," but for the rest looked as usual. And so spoke. "Well,--why haint you been to see me before?" "I have been sick, sir." "Sick?" said he, his voice softening unconsciously towards her sweet tones. "Sit there and let me see.--I believe you have. But you aint fur from well now!" He had some reason, for the face he had turned to the sunlight bore all the quiet lines of happiness, and its somewhat faint colour was replaced under his scrutiny by a conscious deep rose. "Don't you know," said he settling himself back in his chair,--"I don't think I see the sun and moon when I don't see you? Or the moon, anyways--you aint but the half of my Zodiack." "What did you want to see the moon for, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith willing to interrupt him. "Well--you see, I've been a kind of a latudinarian too," said Mr. Simlins doubtfully.--"It pulls a man's mind down; as well as his flesh--and I got tired of thinkin' to-day and concluded I'd send for you to stop it." His look confessed more than his words. Faith had little need to ask what he had been thinking about. "What shall I do to stop it, sir?" "Well, you can read--can't you?--or talk to me." There was a strange uneasy wandering of his eye, and a corresponding unwonted simplicity and directness in his talk. Faith noted both and silently went for a Bible she saw lying on a table. She brought it to Mr. Simlins' side and opened its pages slowly, questioning with herself where she should read. Some association of a long past conversation perhaps was present with her, for though she paused over one and another of several passages, she could fix upon none but the parable of the unfruitful tree. "Do you mean that for me?" said the farmer a minute after she had done. "Yes sir--and no, dear Mr. Simlins!" said Faith looking up. "Why is it 'yes' and 'no'? how be I like that?"--he growled, but with a certain softening and lowering of his growl. "The good trees all do the work they were made for. God calls for the same from us," Faith said gently. "I know what you're thinkin' of," said he;--"but haint I done it? Who ever heerd a man say I had wronged him? or that I have been hard-hearted either? I never was." It was curious how he let his thoughts out to her; but the very gentle, pure and true face beside him provoked neither controversy nor mistrust, nor pride. He spoke to her as if she had only been a child. Like a child, with such sympathy and simplicity, she answered him. "Mr. Simlins, the Bible says that 'the fruits of righteousness are by Jesus Christ.'--Do you know him?--are you in his service?" "I don't know as I understand you," said he. "I can't make you understand it, sir." "Why can't you? who can?" said he quickly. "It is written, Mr. Simlins,--'They shall be all taught of God.'"--She shewed him the place. "And it is written, 'Come, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, and to the house of the God of Jacob; and _he will teach us_ of his ways, and we will walk in his paths.'--That is it. If you are willing to walk in his paths, he will shew them to you." Faith looked eagerly at the farmer, and he looked at her. Neither heart was hid from the other. "But supposin' I was willin'--which I be, so fur's I know--I don't know what they be no more'n a child. How am I goin' to find 'em out?" Faith's eyes filled quick as she turned over the leaves again;--was it by sympathy alone that occasion came for the rough hand to pass once or twice hastily across those that were looking at her? Without speaking, Faith shewed him the words,--"If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine." "That is the question, dear Mr. Simlins. On that 'if' it all hangs." The farmer took the book into his own hands and sat looking steadily at the words. "Well," said he putting it back on her lap--"supposin' the 'if' 's all right--Go ahead, Faith." "Then the way is clear for you to do that; and it's all easy. But the first thing is here--the invitation of Jesus himself." "'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.'" "You see," she went on very gently,--"he bids you _learn of him_--so he is ready to teach you. If you are only willing to take his yoke upon you,--to be his servant and own it,--he will shew you what to do, step by step, and help you in every one." "I don't see where's the beginning of the way yet," said the farmer. "_That_," said Faith. "Be the servant of Jesus Christ and own it; and then go to him for all you want. He is good for all." There was a pause. "I s'pose you've been goin' on in that way a good while." "A good while--yes,"--Faith almost whispered. "Well, when you are goin' to him sometimes, ask somethin' for me,--will you?" He had bent over, leaning on his knees, to speak it in a lower growl than ordinary. Faith bowed her head at first, unwilling to speak; but tears somehow started, and the drops followed each other, as she sat gazing into the black fireplace,--she could not help it--till a perfect shower of weeping brought her face into her hands and stirred her not very strong frame. It stirred the farmer, robust as he was in spite of illness; he shifted his chair most uneasily, and finally laid down his head on his folded arms on the table. Faith was the first to speak. "Mr. Simlins, who takes care of you?" "Ugh!" (a most unintelligible grunt,) "they all do it by turns--Jenny and all of 'em." "What have you had for dinner to-day?" "Didn't want anything!" He sat up and brushed his cloak sleeve across his forehead. "Mr. Simlins, I shall send you down something from home and you must eat it." "The doctor said I was to take wine--but I haint thought of it to-day." "Where is it?" He nodded his head in the direction of the cupboard. Faith went rummaging, poured him out a glass and brought it. "You see," said he after he had taken it--"I've been pretty well pulled down--I didn't know--one time--which side of the fence I was goin' over--and I didn't see the ground on the other side. I don't know why I should be ashamed to say I was afeard!"--There was a strong, stern, truth-telling about this speech that thrilled his hearer. She sat down again. "You had best take some yourself," he said. "Do Faith!" "No sir--I'm going. I must go," she answered rising to make ready. It was strange how the door could have opened and she not heard it--neither she nor Mr. Simlins in fact,--perhaps because their minds were so far away. That the incoming steps were unheard was not so strange, nor new, but the first thing of which Faith was conscious was the soft touch of a hand on either side of her face--she was a prisoner. Faith's instant spring to one side brought her face to face with everybody. Mr. Simlins looked from one to the other, and his first remark was characteristically addressed to Faith. "Why you didn't tell me that!" "Has she told you everything _but_ that?" said Mr. Linden smiling, and giving the farmer's hand good token of his presence. "Where under the sun did you come from?" said the farmer returning his grasp with interest, and looking at Mr. Linden as if indeed one of the lights of the solar system had been out before his arrival. Faith sat down mutely and as quietly as possible behind Mr. Linden. "From under the sun very literally just now--before that from under a shower. I have been down to Quapaw, then home to Mrs. Derrick's, then here. Mr. Simlins, I am sorry to see that you are nursing yourself instead of me. What is the matter?" "I'd as lieves be doin' this, of the two," said the farmer with a stray smile. "There aint much the matter. How long have you been in this meridian?" "Two days." And stepping from before Faith, Mr. Linden asked her "if she had come there in a dream?" "Do you ever see such good-lookin' things in your dreams?" said the farmer. "My visual pictures are all broken down fences, or Jem or Jenny doin' somethin' they haint ought to do. How long're you goin' to stay in Pattaquasset, Dominie?" "Some time, I hope. Not quite so long as the first time, but longer than I have been since that. Do you know, Mr. Simlins, your coat collar is a little bit turned in?--and why don't you give the sunshine a better welcome?--you two sick people together want some one to make a stir for you." Which office Mr. Linden took upon himself--lightly disengaging the collar, and then going to the window to draw up the shade and throw back the shutters, stopping on his way back to straighten the table cover, and followed by a full gush of sunlight from the window. "It is so glorious this afternoon!" he said. And standing silent a moment in that brilliant band of light-looking out at the world all glittering and sparkling in the sun, Mr. Linden repeated,--"'Unto you that fear my name, shall the Sun of Righteousness arise, with healing in his wings.'--What a promise that is!" "Where did you get those words?"--said Mr. Simlins, after the sunlight and the silence had given them their full effect. "From the Bible--God's book of promises. Do you want to see the place?" Mr. Simlins turned down a corner of the leaf and laid the book, still open, on the table. Then looked at Mr. Linden with a mixture of pleasure and humour in his eyes. "Are you any nearer bein' a minister than you was a year ago?" "Nearer in one way. But I cannot lay claim to the title you gave me for another year yet, Mr. Simlins." "You're Say and Seal as much as ever. What more fixin' have you got to do?" "A little finishing," said Mr. Linden with a smile. And he got up and went for Faith's shawl and gloves which were on the table. Mr. Simlins watched the shawling and gloving with attention. "You can tell Jem he won't be wanted again, Faith," he said. "I guess you'll see him at the gate." Mr. Linden smiled, but some other thought was on his mind,--the face that he turned to Mr. Simlins shewed concern that was both grave and kind. "What can I do for you?" he said. "This aint the prettiest place in Pattaquasset; but maybe you'll come and see me sometimes--till I can get out my self," Mr. Simlins said considerately. "You may be sure I will. And will you let me pray with you now, before I go?" The farmer hesitated--or was silent--one instant, then with a sort of subdued abruptness said, "I'm ready!"-- They knelt there in the sunlight; but when the prayer was over Mr. Simlins felt half puzzled to know for whose sake it had been proposed. For with the telling of his doubts and hindrances and wants--things which he had told to no one, there mingled so much of the speaker's own interest,--which could not be content to leave him but in Christ's hands. There was not a word spoken after that for a minute,--Mr. Linden stood by the low mantelpiece resting his face on his hand. The farmer, busy with the feelings which the prayer had raised, sat with downcast eyes. And Faith was motionless with a deep and manifold sense of happiness, the labyrinth of which herself could not soon have threaded out. The silence and stillness of his two companions drew the farmer's eyes up; he read first, with an eager eye that nobody saw, the sweet gravity on one half hidden face, and the deep pure joy written in all the lines of the other; and secret and strong, though half unknown to himself, the whole tide of his heart turned that way. If not before, then at least, something like Ruth's resolution came up within him;--"thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God!" Mr. Linden was the first one that moved. "Are you ready, dear child?" The farmer's eyes were on her too, even while he wrung Mr. Linden's hand. But he only said before he let it go,--"Give a glass of wine to her when she gets home." Out in the sweet afternoon air, and driving through the gate which opened on the highway, with Jem Waters on hand to shut it, Mr. Linden brought Faith's face round towards him and scanned it earnestly. "My child, how tired you are! I wish I knew whether it would do you most good to go straight home, or to breathe this air a little longer." "I hope you won't conclude to take me home," said Faith. "I have been looking for this all day." "Do you think you deserve to have it?" said Mr. Linden, turning Jerry's head however the way that was _not_ straight home. "Why didn't you sleep, and wait for me to bring you down here?" "One reason was, Endy, that I half guessed Mr. Simlins wanted to talk to me and that it might be better for him to see one than two. "I could have left you there for a while." "No you couldn't!" she said. "And I couldn't have driven off Jerry and left you--though that would have been better." "You could have driven me off. What was the other reason?" "The other reason isn't really worth your hearing. Don't you think this afternoon is too pretty to spoil with bad reasons?"--she said with gentle eyes, half fun, half confession. "Entirely. Faith--I think you would bear the ride better if you had a sort of afternoon lunch,--shall we stop at Miss Bezac's for a glass of milk?" "Oh no!"--she said hastily. "Oh no, Endecott! I don't want anything but to ride." "And to hide--" said Mr. Linden laughingly. "Another bad reason, Faith?" She gave him a little blushing look, very frank and happy, that also bore homage to his penetration. "Stop anywhere you please, Endy," she said honestly. "I was very glad you came to Mr. Simlins'." "Would you rather get it from Mrs. Davids?" he inquired demurely. "No, not rather. Whichever you like, Endecott," Faith said, hiding the start which the question in this real form gave her. The afternoon sun through which they were riding was very bright; the washed leaves were brilliantly green; sweet scents of trees and buds filled the air, and opening apple blossoms were scattering beauty all over the land. Nothing could spoil that afternoon. Faith had a secret consciousness besides that the very thing from which she shrank was by no means disagreeable to Mr. Linden. She did not care what he did! And he,--in the joy of being with her, of seeing her grow stronger every hour, Mr. Linden was in a 'holiday humour'--in the mood for work or play or mischief; and took the road to Miss Bezac's for more than a glass of milk. "Mignonette," he said, "what varieties of pride do you consider lawful and becoming?" "I know only a few innocent sorts," said Faith,--"that I keep for myself." "Luxurious child! 'A few innocent sorts of pride that you keep for yourself'! You must divide with me." How Faith laughed. "You wouldn't thank me for one of them all, Endecott. And yet--" She stopped, and coloured brilliantly on the sudden. "Explain and finish," said Mr. Linden laconically. "If I told you what they are you would laugh at me." "That would not hurt me. What are they, Mignonette?" She spoke gravely, though smiling sometimes; answering to the matter of fact, as she had been asked. "I am proud, a little, of very fine rolls of butter, or a particularly good cheese. I think I am proud of my carnations, and perhaps--" she went on colouring--"of being so good a baker as I am. And perhaps--I think I am--of such things as sewing and dressmaking;--but I don't think there is much harm in all that. I know myself sometimes proud of other things, where I know it is wrong." "How do you know but I am proud of your rolls of butter too?" said Mr. Linden looking amused. "But Mignonette, what called forth such a display of the carnations you are _not_ proud of? What was the force of that 'And yet'?" It brought the colour again, and Faith hesitated and looked puzzled, Then she tried a new way of escape. "Don't you mean to let me have any of my thoughts to myself?" she said playfully. "Don't you mean to let me have any of them for myself?" "You?--Haven't you them almost all?" "My dear I beg pardon!--one for every carnation,--but I did not know that I had so nearly made the tour of your mind. I was under the impression that my passports were not yet made out--and that my knowledge of your thoughts was all gained from certain predatory excursions, telescopic observations, and such like illegal practices. I am sure all my attempts to cross the frontier in the ordinary way are met by something more impassable than a file of bayonets." Faith looked up at him as if to see how much of this was meant for true. "But," said she naively, "I feel as if I had been under a microscope." "My dear!" said Mr. Linden again, with an air at once resigned and deprecating. But then his gravity gave way. "Faith!--is _that_ your feeling in my company? I wonder you can endure the sight of me." "Why?"--said she timidly. "If I seem to you like a microscope." "Only your eyes, like those power-glasses.--Not for size!" said Faith, laughing now herself. "Ah little Mignonette," he said smiling, "some things can be seen without microscopic vision. And do not you know, my child, that carnations must draw attention to the particular point round which they bloom?" "Endy, you shall know what I was thinking of," she said. "You touched it already. It was only--that perhaps sometime you _would_ be a little proud even of those little things in me--because--Now you can punish me for being proud in earnest!"--It was said in great confusion; it had cost Faith a struggle; the white and red both strove in her downcast face. Mr. Linden might not fathom what was not in a man's nature; but Faith had hardly ever perhaps given him such a token of the value she set upon his pleasure. "Punish you?" he said, leaving Jerry to find the road for himself for a minute,--"how shall I do it?--so? And how much punishment do you require? I think a little is not enough. 'Because' what, love?" "Endy!--" she said under her breath,--"you know!--don't ask me." "Then--if I exceed your limits--you will not blame me?" "Limits of what?" "Limits of this species of executive justice." "I don't think you would keep limits of anybody else's setting," said Faith with a little subdued fun. "Look, Endy!--we are coming to Miss Bezac's." "Most true," said Mr. Linden,--"now shall you see (perhaps!) one of the innocent sorts of pride that I keep for myself. What have we come for?" he added laughing, as Jerry trotted up the side hill to the cottage,--"is it butter, or carnations, or dressmaking?--they all make a rare combination in my mind at present." "She is at home!" said Faith,--"if she wasn't, the window-curtains would be down. Now she is going to be pleased,--and so am I, for she will give me something to eat." Faith looked as if she wanted it, as she softly opened the door of the dressmaker's little parlour, or workroom, and softly went in. The various business and talk of the afternoon had exhausted her. Miss Bezac, having in her young days been not only rich, but also a firstrate needlewoman, now that she was older and poor plied her needle for a different purpose. Yet something of old habits clung to her still; she would not take the common work of the village; but when Mrs. Stoutenburgh wanted a gay silk dress, or Miss De Staff a delicate muslin, or Mrs. Somers an embroidered merino--then Miss Bezac was sure to have them go through her hands; and for these ladies she took the fashions and dispensed them exceeding well. Strangers too, in Pattaquasset for the summer, often came to her,--and had not Miss Bezac made the very first embroidered waistcoat that ever Squire Deacon wore, or Sam Stoutenburgh admired himself in? So her table was generally covered with pretty work, and on this particular afternoon she was choosing the patterns for a second waistcoat for the young member from Quilipeak, a mantilla for his mother, and a silk apron for Miss Essie, all at once. In deep cogitation Faith found her, and Faith's soft salutation,-- "Dear Miss Bezac, will you let strangers come in?" How gloriously Faith blushed. "Strangers!" cried Miss Bezac, turning round. "Why Faith!--you don't mean to say it's you?--though I don't suppose you mean to say it's anybody else. Unless--I declare I don't know whether it is you or not!" said Miss Bezac, looking from her to Mr. Linden and shaking hands with both at once. "Though if it isn't I ought to have heard--only folks don't always do what they ought--at least I don't,--nor much of anything." "It is nobody else yet," said Mr. Linden smiling. Whereat Miss Bezac laid one hand on the other, and stepping back a little surveyed the two "as a whole." "Do you know," she said, "(you wouldn't think it) but sometimes I can't say a word!" "You must not expect Faith to say much--she is tired," said Mr. Linden putting her in a chair. "Miss Bezac, I brought her here to get something to eat." "Well I don't believe--I don't really believe that anybody but you would ever do such a kind thing," said Miss Bezac. "What shall I get? Faith--what will you have? And you're well enough to be out again!--and it's so well I'm not out myself!--I'll run and see if the fire ain't,--the kettle ought to be boiled, for I wanted an early cup of tea." "No, dear Miss Bezac, don't!" said Faith. "Only give me some bread and milk." Miss Bezac stopped short. "Bread and milk?" she said--"is that good for you? The bread's good, I know, baked last night; and the milk always is sweet, up here with the cowslips--and most things are sweet when you're hungry. But ain't you more hungry than that?--and somebody else might be, if you ain't--and one always must think of somebody else too. But you do, I'll say that for you. And oh didn't I say long ago!--" A funny little recollective pause Miss Bezac made, her thoughts going back even to the night of the celebration. Then she ran away for the bread and milk,--then she came back and put her head in at the door. "Faith, do you like a cup or a bowl?--I like a cup, because I always think of a cup of comfort--and I never heard of a bowl of anything. But you can have which you like." "I like the cup too," said Faith laughing. "But even the bowl would be comfort to-day, Miss Bezac." The cup came, and a little pitcher for replenishing, and a blue plate of very white bread and very brown bread, and one of Miss Bezac's old-fashioned silver spoons, and a little loaf of "one, two, three, four, cake", that looked as good as the bread. All of which were arranged on a round stand before Faith by Miss Bezac and Mr. Linden jointly. He brought her a footstool too, and with persuasive fingers untied and took off her bonnet--which supplementary arrangements Miss Bezac surveyed with folded hands and great admiration. Which also made the pale cheeks flush again, but that was pretty to look upon. Faith betook herself to the old-fashioned spoon and the milk, then gave Mr. Linden something to do in the shape of a piece of cake; and then resigning herself to circumstances broke brown bread into the milk and eat it with great and profitable satisfaction, leaving the conversation in the hands of the other two. The sun sank lower and lower, sending farewell beams into the valleys, and shaking out gold pieces in Miss Bezac's little brown sitting-room like the Will-o'-wisps in the "Tale of tales". Through the open door her red cow might be seen returning home by a winding and circuitous path, such as cows love, and a little sparrow hopped in and out, from the doorstep, looking for "One, two, three, four", crumbs. Faith from her seat near the fire could see it all--if her eyes chose to pass Mr. Linden,--what he saw, she found out whenever they went that way. It was not wonderful that Faith turned from the table at last with a very refreshed face. "Miss Bezac, you have made me up," she said smiling. "Have I?" said her little hostess,--"well that comes pretty near it. Do you know when I saw you--I mean when I saw _both_ of you, I really thought you had come for me to make up something else? And I must say, I wish you had,--not that I haven't dresses enough, and too many--unless I had a new pair of eyes--but I always did set my heart on making that one. And I haven't set my heart upon many things for a good while, so of course I ain't used to being disappointed. You won't begin, will you, Faith?" Faith kissed her, hastily expressing the unsentimental hope that her tea would be as good as her bread and milk; and ran out, leaving Mr. Linden to follow at his leisure. Faith was found untying Jerry. "What do you mean?" said Mr. Linden staying her hands and lifting her in the most summary manner into the wagon. "Bread and milk is too stimulating for you, child,--we must find something less exciting. What will you see fit to do next?" "I can untie a bridle," said Faith. "Or slip your head through one. But you should have seen the delight with which Miss Bezac entered upon the year of patience that I prescribed to her!--and the very (innocuous) pride that lay hid in the prescription. Do you feel disposed to punish me for that, Mignonette?" One of Faith's grave childish looks answered him; but then, dismissing Mr. Linden as impracticable, she gave herself to the enjoyment of the time. It was a fit afternoon! The sunbeams were bright on leaves and flowers, with that fairy brightness which belongs peculiarly to spring. The air was a real spring air, sweet and bracing, full of delicate spices of May. The apple blossoms, out and bursting out, dressed the land with the very bloom of joy. And through it all Mr. Linden drove her, himself in a "holiday humour." Bread and milk may be stimulating, but health and happiness are more stimulating yet; and Faith came home after a ride of some length looking not a bit the worse, and ready for supper. CHAPTER XXXI. A month passed away,--with apple blossoms, strawberry flowers, now with strawberries themselves. Roses coming into splendour, carnations in full force, and both re-established in the cheeks of Faith Derrick. What a month it had been!--of weather, of work, of society. Lessons after the old fashion, reading aloud, talking; going round the country at Jerry's heels, or on the back of Mrs. Stoutenburgh's pony--for there she was put, just so soon as she could bear it, passing by degrees from a gentle trot on level ground to a ladylike scamper over the hills. Faith had not been so strong for many a day as the longest day of that summer found her. Coming home from their afternoon ride by the way of the postoffice, Mr. Linden found there a letter from Europe; the seal of which he broke as they entered, the house, just in time to give Faith a little enclosed note to herself as she went up stairs to change her dress. Its words were few. Referring Faith to Mr. Linden for particulars, it asked her to let him come to Germany without delay. The aunt with whom Miss Linden lived was at the point of death, apparently--she herself in danger of being left quite alone in a strange land. Yet with all the urgency of the case, the whole breathing of Miss Linden's note was, "Faith--can you spare him?--will you let him come?" The question was settled before it was asked, in Faith's mind; but what a laying down of pleasure and what a taking up of pain was there! The rest of the vacation was gone at once; for Mr. Linden could not go to Europe and come back, even on the wings of steam, and have a day left before study would begin again. No more of him--except, at the best, snatches--till next year; and next year was very far off, and who could tell what might be next year? But at the best, she must see little more of him until then; and in the mean time he must put half the world between them. Nobody saw how fast the roses faded on Faith's cheek; she sat and looked at the matter all alone, and looked it through. For one few minutes; and then she rose up and began dressing slowly, looking at it still, but gathering all her forces together to deal with it. And when her dressing was done, she still stood leaning one hand and her head on the dressing table, thinking over all that was to do. She had remembered, as with a flash of remembrance, what day the next steamer would sail--from what port--she knew the hour when Mr. Linden must leave Pattaquasset. And when her mind had seen all the preparations to be made, and she thought she was strong enough, she turned to go down stairs; but then feeling very weak Faith turned again and kneeled down to pray. And in a mixed feeling of strength and weakness, she went down stairs. First to the kitchen, where she quietly looked after the state of the clothes in the wash, and desired Cindy to have all Mr. Linden's things ready for ironing that evening. Then attended to the supply of bread and the provision for breakfast; saw that one or two things about the supper were in proper order and progress; asked Mrs. Derrick to make the tea when it was time, and finally, as quietly as if the afternoon's ride had been the only event of the afternoon, opened the door of the sitting-room and softly went in. For a while after reading his own letter Mr. Linden had sat absolutely still,--then with a sort of impatience to see Faith, to give her what comfort he could, at least to have her with him every minute, he had paced up and down the sitting-room till she appeared. Now he took her in his arms with all sorts of tender caresses--with no words at first but, "My little Mignonette!" Faith herself was quite still and wordless; only once, and that suddenly and earnestly, she gave his cheek the salutation she had never given him before unbidden. From her it was a whole volume, and thoroughly peace-speaking, although it might intimate a little difficulty of words. Keeping one arm round her, Mr. Linden began again his walk up and down the room; beginning to talk as well--telling her what was in his letter, how long the journey would take, and more than all, what she must do while he was away. How long the absence would be--when he should be at home again, that was little touched upon by either; the return might be very speedy--that seemed most probable, but neither he nor Faith cared to put in words all the uncertainties that hung about it. From every point he came back to her,--with injunctions about her strength, and directions about her studies, and charges to take care of herself _for him_--with other words of comfort and cheering, spoken cheerfully from a very sorrowful heart. One other charge he gave-- "My little Sunbeam, my dearest Faith, keep both your names unclouded!" "I have had one lesson, Endy"-- She was a little pale, but had listened to him quietly as intently; voice and smile both ready to do their part, albeit gravely, whenever there was a part for them. "I shall not forget--" she added now with a smile, a rare one, after a little pause. He brought her back to the sofa then, kissing the pale cheeks as if he missed their carnations. Yet--with the stringency of the old law which saith that "Doublet and hose must shew itself courageous to petticoat"--Mr. Linden gave her bright words, although they were words of a very grave brightness--not contradicted, but qualified by his eyes. "Mignonette," he said, "I did not think next year could gain brightness from anything--but I cannot tell you how it has looked to me within these last two hours. If I could but call in Mr. Somers, and then take you with me!" It brought a rush of the carnations; but Faith did not think so extravagant a wish required any combating. Neither did she say what _she_ thought of "next year." That evening at least they had quietly together. What Faith did after they had separated for the night, Mr. Linden never knew; but the morning saw everything ready for his departure,--ready down to the little details which a man recognizes only (for the most part) by the sense of want. And if cheeks were paler than last night, they were only now and then less steady--till he was gone. CHAPTER XXXII. Dr. Harrison took passage in the steamship Vulcan, C. W. Cyclops, commander, for the Old World; having come to the conclusion that the southern country was not sufficiently remote, and that only a change of hemispheres would suit the precise state of his mind. Letters of combined farewell and notice-giving, reached Pattaquasset too late to cumber the doctor with a bevy of friends to see him off; but his sudden motions were too well known, and his peculiarities too long established, to excite much surprise or dismay by any new manifestations. The Vulcan lay getting her steam up in that fair June morning, with very little regard to the amount of high pressure that her passengers might bring on board. Nothing could be more regardless of their hurry and bustle, the causes that brought them, the tears they shed, the friends they left behind, than the ship with her black sides and red smoke pipe. Tears did indeed trickle down some parts of her machinery, but they were only condensed steam--which might indeed be true of some of the tears of her passengers. Punctual to her time she left her moorings, steaming down the beautiful bay with all the June light upon her, throwing back little foamy waves that glittered in the sun, making her farewell with a long train of blue rollers that came one after another to kiss the shore. What if tears sprinkled the dusty sidewalks of Canal St.?--what if that same light shone on white handkerchiefs and bowed heads?--The answering drops might fall in the state-rooms of the Vulcan, but on deck bustle and excitement had their way. So went on the miles and the hours,--then the pilot left the vessel, taking with him a little handful of letters; and the passengers who had been down stairs to write were on deck, watching him off. In the city business rolled on with its closing tide,--far down on the Long Branch shore people looked northward towards a dim outline, a little waft of smoke, and said--"There goes the Vulcan." The freshening breeze, the long rolls of the Atlantic, sent some passengers below, even now,--others stood gazing back at the faint city indications,--others still walked up and down--those who had left little, or cared little for what they had left. Of these was Dr. Harrison, who paced the deck with very easy external manifestations. Some change of mind--some freak of fancy, sent him at last to the other side of the ship--then to the prow. Here sailors were busy,--here one passenger stood alone: but if there had been twenty more, Dr. Harrison could have seen but this one. He was standing with arms folded, in a sort of immoveable position, that yet accommodated itself easily to the ship's slow courtseying; as regardless of that as of the soft play of the sea breeze; looking back--but not to the place where the Vulcan had lain a few hours before. He was rather looking forward,--looking off to some spot that lay north or northeast of them: some spot invisible, yet how clearly seen! Looking thither,--as if in all the horizon that alone had any interest. So absorbed--so far from the ship,--his lips set in such grave, sad lines; his eyes so intent, as if they could by no means look at anything else. Nay, for the time, there was nothing else to see! Dr. Harrison might come or go--the sailors might do their utmost,--far over the rolling water, conscious of that only because it was a barrier of separation, the watcher's eyes rested on Mignonette. If once or twice the eyelids fell, it was not that the vision failed. Dr. Harrison stopped short, unseen, and not wishing at that moment to meet the consequences of being seen. Yet he stood still and looked. The first feeling being one of intense displeasure and disgust that the Vulcan carried so unwelcome a fellow-passenger; the second, of unbounded astonishment and wonder what he did there. _He_ putting the ocean between him and Pattaquasset? _he_ setting out for the Old World, with all his hopes just blossoming in the New? What could be the explanation? Was it possible, Dr. Harrison asked himself for one moment, that he could have been mistaken? that he could have misunderstood the issue of the conversation that morning in Faith's sick room? A moment resolved him. He recalled the steady, dauntless look of Faith's eyes after his words,--a look which he had two or three times been privileged to receive from her and never cared to meet;--he remembered how daintily her colour rose as her eyes fell, and the slow deliberate uncovering of her diamond finger from which the eyes were not raised again to look at him; he remembered it with the embittered pang of the moment. No! he had not been mistaken; he had read her right. Could it be--it crossed the doctor's mind like a flash of the intensest lightning--that _his letter_ had done its work? its work of separation? But the cool reminder of reason came like the darkness after the lightning. Mr. Linden would not have been at Mrs. Derrick's, as the doctor had heard of his being there, if any entering wedge of division had made itself felt between his place there and him. No, though now he was here in the Vulcan. And Dr. Harrison noticed anew, keenly, that the expression of the gazer's face, though sorrowful and grave, was in nowise dark or desponding. Nothing of that! The grave brow was unbent in every line of it; the grave lips had no hard set of pain; the doctor read them well, both lips and brow! Mr. Linden was no man to stand and look towards Pattaquasset if he had nothing there. And with a twinge he now recollected the unwonted sound of that name from the pilot's mouth as he took charge of the letters and went off. Ay! and turning with the thought the doctor paced back again, as unregardful now of the contents of the Vulcan, animate or inanimate, as the man himself whom he had been watching. What should he do? he must meet him and speak to him, though the doctor desired nothing less in the whole broad earth. But he must do it, for the maintenance of his own character and the safety of his own secret and pride that hung thereby. That little piece of simplicity up there in the country had managed to say him no without being directly asked to say anything--thanks to her truthful honesty; and perhaps, a twinge or two of another sort came to Dr. Harrison's mind as he thought of his relations with her,--yes, and of his relations with _him_. Not pleasant, but all the more, if possible, Dr. Harrison set his teeth and resolved to speak to Mr. Linden the first opportunity. All the more, that he was not certain Mr. Linden had received his letter,--it was likely, yet Dr. Harrison had had no note of the fact. It might have failed. And not withstanding all the conclusions to which his meditations had come, curiosity lingered yet;--a morbid curiosity, unreasonable, as he said to himself, yet uncontrollable, to see by eye and ear witness, even in actual speech and conversation, whether all was well with Mr. Linden or not. His own power of self-possession Dr. Harrison could trust; he would try that of the other. Yet he took tolerably good care that the opportunity of speaking should not be this evening. The doctor did not come in to supper till all the passengers were seated, or nearly so, and then carried himself to the end of the apartment furthest from his friend; where he so bore his part that no mortal could have supposed Dr. Harrison had suffered lately in mind, body, or estate. Mr. Linden's part that night was a quiet one, the voluntary part of it, and strictly confined to the various little tea-table courtesies which with him might indeed be called involuntary. But it so happened that the Vulcan carried out quite a knot of his former friends--gentlemen who knew him well, and these from their various places at the table spoke either to him or of him frequently. Dr. Harrison in the pauses of his own talk could hear, "Linden"--"Endecott Linden"--"John, what have you been doing with yourself?"--in different tones of question or comment,--sometimes caught the tones of Mr. Linden's voice in reply; but as they were both on the same side of the table eyesight was not called for. The doctor sat in his place until the table was nearly cleared; then sauntered forth into the evening light. Fair, bright, glowing light, upon gay water and a gay deck-full; but Dr. Harrison gaining nothing from its brightness, stood looking out on its reflection in the waves more gloomily than he had seen another look a little time ago. Then a hand was laid lightly on his shoulder, making its claim of acquaintanceship with a very kind, friendly touch. The doctor turned and met hand and eye with as far as could be seen his old manner, only perhaps his fingers released themselves a little sooner than once they would, and the smile was a trifle more broad than it might if there had been no constraint about it. "I am not altogether taken now by surprise," said he, "though surprise hasn't yet quit its hold of me. I heard your name a little while ago. What are you doing here, Linden?" "Rocking in the cradle of business as well as of the deep," said Mr. Linden. "The last steamer brought word that I must sail by this, and so here I am." "Who rocks the cradle of business?" said the doctor, with the old comical lift of the eyebrows with which he used to begin a tilt with Mr. Linden. "Duty and Interest rock it between them,--singing of rest, and keeping one awake thereby." "A proper pair of nurses!" said the doctor. "Why man, they would tear the infant Business to pieces between them! Unless one of them did as much for the other in time to prevent it." "Never--unless Inclination took the place of Interest." "Don't make any difference," said the doctor;--"Inclination always follows the lead of Interest.--Except in a few extraordinary specimens of human nature." Mr. Linden turned towards the scattered groups of passengers, and so doing his eye caught the shining of that very star which was rising over Pattaquasset as he and Mignonette rode home two nights before. Only two nights!--For a minute everything else might have been at the antipodes--then Mr. Linden brought at least his eyes back to the deck of the Vulcan. "What sort of a motley have we here, doctor? Do you know many of them?" "Yes," said the doctor slightly;--"the usual combinations of Interest and Inclination. I wonder if we are exceptions, Linden?" "The _usual_ combination is not, perhaps, just the best,--it is a nice matter for a man to judge in his own case how far the proportions are rectified." "He can't do it. Human machinery can't do it. Can you measure the height of those waves while they dazzle your eyes with gold and purple as they do now?" "Nay--but I can tell how much they do or do not throw me out of my right course." "What course are you on now, Linden?" said the doctor with his old-fashioned assumption of carelessness, dismissing the subject. "Now?" Mr. Linden repeated. "Do you mean in studies, travels, or conversation?" "In conversation, you have as usual brought me to a point! I mean--if I mean anything,--the other two; but I mean nothing, unless you like." "I do like. Just now, then, I am in the vacation before the last year of my Seminary life,--for the rest, I am on my way to Germany." "Finish your course there, eh?" said the doctor. "Why man, I thought you had found the 'four azure chains' long ago." "No, not to finish my course,--if I am kept in Germany more than a few weeks, it will not be by 'azure' chains," said Mr. Linden. "That it will not!" said one of the young men coming up, fresh from the tea-table and his cigar. "Azure chains?--pooh!--Linden breaks _them_ as easy as Samson did the green withs. How biblical it makes one to be in company with such a theologian! But I shouldn't wonder if he was going to Europe to join some order of friars--he'll find nothing monastic enough for him in America." "Mistaken your man, Motley!" said the doctor; who for reasons of his own did not choose to quit the conversation. "The worst _I_ have to say of him is, that if he spends an other year in Germany his hearers will never be able to understand him!" "Mistaken him!" said Mr. Motley--"at this time of day,--that'll do! Where did you get acquainted with him, pray?" "Once when I had the management of him," said the doctor coolly. "There is no way of becoming acquainted with a man, like that." "Once when you _thought_ you had," said Mr. Motley. "Well, where was it?--in a dark passage when you got to the door first?" "Whenever I have had the misfortune to be in a dark passage with him, he has _shewed_ me the door," said the doctor gravely but gracefully, in his old fashion admirably maintained. "If one of you wasn't Endecott Linden," said Mr. Motley throwing the end of his cigar overboard, "I should think you had made acquaintance on a highway robbery." "Instead of which, it was in the peaceful town of Pattaquasset," said Mr. Linden. "Permit me to request the reason of Mr. Motley's extraordinary guess," said the doctor. "So natural to say where you've met a man--if there's no reason against it," said the other coolly. "But you don't say it was in Pattaquasset, doctor? Were _you_ ever there?" "Depends entirely on the decision of certain questions in metaphysics,"--said the doctor. "As for instance, whether anything that is, _is_--and the matter of personal identity, which you know is doubtful. I know the _appearance_ of the place, Motley." "Are there any pretty girls there?" said Mr. Motley, carelessly, but keeping his eye rather on Mr. Linden than the doctor. "Mr. Linden can answer better than I," said Dr. Harrison, whose eye also turned that way, and whose tone changed somewhat in spite of himself. "There are none there that could not answer any question about Mr. Linden."-- "By the help of a powerful imagination," said the person spoken of. Mr. Motley looked from one to the other. "I don't know what to make of either of you," he said. "Why doctor, Endecott Linden is a--a mere--I don't like to call him hard names, and I can't call him soft ones! However--to be sure--the cat may look at the king, even if his majesty won't return the compliment. Well--you and I were never thought hard-hearted, so I'll tell you my story. Did it ever happen--or _seem_ to happen, doctor--that you, _seeming_ to be in Pattaquasset, went--not to church--but along the road therefrom? Preferring the exit to the entrance--as you and I too often do?" "It has seemed to happen to me,"--said Dr. Harrison, as if mechanically. "Well--George Alcott and I--do you know George?--no great loss--we were kept one Sunday in that respectable little town by a freshet. Whether it was one of those rains that bring down more things from the sky than water, I don't know,--George declared it was. If it wasn't, we made discoveries." "If you and George both used your eyes, there must have been discoveries," said Mr. Linden. "Did you take notice how green the grass looked after the rain? and that when the clouds were blown away the sun shone?" "You're not all theology yet!" said Mr. Motley. "Be quiet--can't you? I'm not talking to you. We were sauntering down this same road, doctor--after church,--falling in with the people, so that we could see them and be taken for churchgoers. But there wasn't much to see.--Then George declared that here was the place where Linden had secluded himself for nobody knows what,--then we fell naturally into lamenting the waste of such fine material, and conned over various particulars of his former life and prospects--the great promise of past years, the present melancholy mania to make money and be useful. Upon which points George and I fought as usual. Then we grew tired of the subject and of the mud--turned short about--and beheld--what do you suppose, doctor?" "How far you had come for nothing?" "Imagine," said Mr. Motley, taking out a fresh cigar and a match and proceeding to put them to their respective uses,--"Imagine the vision that appeared to Balaam's ass--and how the ass felt." "Nay, that we cannot do," said Mr. Linden. "You tax us too far." "In both requisitions--" added the doctor. "There stood," said Mr. Motley, removing his cigar and waving it gracefully in one hand. "There stood close behind us on the mud--she could not have been in it--an immortal creature, in mortal merino! We--transfixed, mute--stepped aside right and left to let her pass,--I believe George had presence of mind enough to take off his hat; and she--'severe in youthful beauty', glorious in youthful blushes--walked on, looking full at us as she went. But such a look! and from such eyes!--fabulous eyes, doctor, upon my honour. Then we saw that the merino was only a disguise. Imagine a search warrant wrapped up in moonbeams--imagine the blending of the softest sunset reflection with a keen lightning flash,--and after all you have only words--not those eyes. Linden!--seems to me your imagination serves you better here,--your own eyes are worth looking at!" "It has had more help from you," Mr. Linden said, controlling the involuntary unbent play of eye and lip with which he had heard the description. "Well, George raved about them for a month," Mr. Motley went on, "and staid in Pattaquasset a whole week to see them again--which he didn't; so he made up his mind that they had escaped in the train of events--or of ears, and now seeks them through the world. Some day he will meet them in the possession of Mrs. Somebody--and then hang himself." And Mr. Motley puffed out clouds of smoke thereupon. "According to your account, he could not do better," said the doctor cynically. "I suppose the world would get on, if he did," said Mr. Motley with philosophical coolness. "But the queerity was," he added, removing the cigar once more, "what made her look at us so? Did she know by her supernatural vision that we had not been to church?--for I must say, Linden, she looked like one of your kind. Or were her unearthly ears charmed by the account of your unearthly perfections?--for George and I were doing the thing handsomely." "It was probably that," said Mr. Linden. "Few people, I think, can listen to your stories unmoved." "Hang it," said Mr. Motley, "I wish I could!--This vixenish old craft is behaving with a great deal too much suavity to suit my notions. I don't care about making a reverence to every wave I meet if they're going to tower up at this rate. But I guess you're right, Linden--the description of you can be made quite captivating--and her cheeks glowed like damask roses with some sort of inspiration. However, as George pathetically and poetically remarks, 'I only know she came and went!'-- the last part of which illustrious example I shall follow. Linden, if any story don't move _you_, you're no better than the North Cape." "Can you stand it?"--asked the doctor suddenly of his remaining companion. "Yes--I have known Motley a long time." "Pshaw! no, I mean this wind." "I beg your pardon! Yes--for anything I have felt of it yet." "If you will excuse me, I will get something more on. I have come from a warmer part of the world lately." The doctor disappeared, and found something in another part of the boat to detain him. Dr. Harrison had stood one conversation, but he had no mind to stand a second. He did not think it necessary. If by any possibility he could have put himself on board of another steamer, or packet; or have leaped forward into France, or back into America!--he would have done it. But since he must see Mr. Linden from time to time in their present situation, he contrived that that should be all. Even that was as seldom and as little as possible; the art _not to see_, Dr. Harrison could practise to perfection, and did now; so far as he could without rendering it too obviously a matter of his own will. That would not have suited his plans. So he saw his one-time friend as often as he must, and then was civil invariably, civil with the respect which was Dr. Harrison's highest degree of civility and which probably in this instance was true and heartfelt; but he was cool, after his slight gay surface manner, and even when speaking kept at a distance. For the rest, it is notable, even in so small a space as the walls of a steamer shut in, how far apart people can be that have no wish to be near. Days passed that saw at the utmost only a bow exchanged between these two; many days that heard but one or two words. Mr. Linden's own plans and occupations, the arrangement of his time, helped to further the doctor's wish. There was many an hour when Dr. Harrison would not have found him if he had tried, but when they were really together the non-intercourse was the doctor's fault. For all that had been, Mr. Linden was still his friend,--he realized more and more every day the value of the prize for which Dr. Harrison had played and lost; and pity had made forgiveness easy. He was ready for all their old kindly intercourse, but seeing the doctor shunned him there was nothing to do but follow the lead. Sometimes indeed they came together for a few minutes--were thrown so--in a way that was worse than hours of talk. The Vulcan had made about half her passage, and a fair, fresh morning had brought most of the passengers on deck. Mr. Linden was not there, but the rest were grouped and watching the approach of a homeward bound steamer; when as she neared them Mr. Linden too came on deck. It was to talk with the Captain however, not the passengers--or to consult with him, for the two stood together speaking and smiling. "You can try," Dr. Harrison heard the Captain say; and then he lifted his trumpet and hailed--the other Captain responding. Still the steamer came on, nearer and nearer,--still the two on the deck of the Vulcan stood side by side; till at a certain point, just where the vessels were at the nearest, Captain Cyclops gave his companion a little signal nod. And Mr. Linden stepping forward a pace or two, lent the whole power of his skill and strength to send a despatch on board the Polar Bear. The little packet sped from his hand, spinning through the air like a dark speck. Not a person spoke or moved--Would it reach?--would it fail?--until the packet, just clearing the guards, fell safe on the deck of the other vessel, was picked up by her Captain and proclaimed through the speaking trumpet. Slightly raising his hat then, Mr. Linden drew back from his forward position; just as a shout of delighted acclaim burst from both the boats. "That went with a will, I tell _you!_" said Captain Cyclops with a little nod of his head. "I say, Linden!" spoke out one of the young men--"is that your heart you sent home?" "I feel it beating here yet," Mr. Linden answered. But just how much of it he carried back to his state-room for the next hour has never been ascertained. Society had no help from Dr. Harrison for more than that length of time. Neither could proximity nor anything else make him, visibly, aware of Mr. Linden's existence during the rest of the day. Mr. Linden knew the doctor too well--and it maybe said, knew Faith too well--to be much surprised at that. If he could have spared Dr. Harrison the pain of seeing his little air-sent missive, he would have done it; but the letter could go but at one time, and from one side of the ship--and just there and then Dr. Harrison chose to be. But though the sort of growing estrangement which the doctor practised sprang from no wish nor feeling but his own, yet Mr. Linden found it hard to touch it in any way. Sometimes he tried--sometimes he left it for Time's touching, which mends so many things. And slowly, and gently, _that_ touch did work--not by fading one feeling but by deepening another. Little as Dr. Harrison had to do with his friend, almost every one else in the ship had a good deal, and the place which Mr. Linden soon took in the admiration as well as the respect of the passengers, could not fail to come to the doctor's notice. Men of very careless life and opinions pruned their language in his presence,--those who lived but for themselves, and took poor care of what they lived for, passed him reverently on some of his errands through the ship. Dr. Harrison had never lived with him before, and little as they saw each other, you could as well conceal the perfume of a hidden bunch of violets--as well shut your senses to the spring air--as could the doctor shut his to the beauty of that well-grown Christian character. The light of it shone, and the influence of it went forth through all the ship. "What a strange, incomprehensible, admirable fellow, Linden is!" said Mr. Motley one day when he and the doctor were sunning themselves in profound laziness on deck. It was rather late Sunday afternoon, and the morning service had left a sort of respectful quietness behind it. "He must be!" said the doctor with a slight indescribable expression,--"if at this moment you can be roused to wonder at anything." Mr. Motley inclined his head with perfect suavity in honour of the doctor's words. "It's a glorious thing to lie here on deck and do nothing!" he said, extending his elegantly clad limbs rather more into the distance. "How fine the breeze is, doctor--what do you think of the day, as a whole?" "Unfinished, at present,--" "Well--" said Mr. Motley,--"take that part of it which you with such precision term 'this moment',--what do you think of it as it appears here on deck?" "Sunny--" said the doctor,--"and we are flies. On the whole I think it's a bore, Motley." "What do you think of the Black Hole of Calcutta, in comparison?" said Mr. Motley closing his eyes. "The difference is, that _that_ would have been an insufferable bore." Mr. Motley smiled--stroking his chin with affectionate fingers. "On the whole," he said, "I think you're right in that position. What do you suppose Linden's about at this moment?" "Is he your ward?" said the doctor. "He's down below--" said Mr. Motley with a significant pointing of his train of remarks. "By which I don't mean! that he's left this planet--for truly, when he does I think it will be in a different direction; but he's down in the steerage--trying to get some of those creatures to follow him." "Which way?" "You and George Alcott have such a snappish thread in you!" said Mr. Motley yawning--"only it sits better on George than it does on you. But I like it--it rather excites me to be snubbed. However, here comes Linden--so I hope they'll not follow him _this_ way." "This way" Mr. Linden himself did not come, but chose another part of the deck for a somewhat prolonged walk in the seabreeze. The doctor glanced towards him, then moved his chair slightly, so as to put the walker out of his range of vision. "He's a good fellow enough," he remarked carelessly. "You were pleased to speak of him just now as 'incomprehensible'--may I ask how he has earned a title to that?" The tone was a little slighting. "Take the last instance--" said Mr. Motley,--"you yourself were pleased to pronounce the steerage a more insufferable bore than the deck--yet he chooses it,--and not only on Sundays. I don't believe there's a day that he don't go down there. He's popular enough without it--'tisn't that. And nobody knows it--one of the sailors told me. If he was a medico, like you, doctor, there'd be less wonder--but as it is!--" and Mr. Motley resigned himself again to the influence of the sunshine. A moment's meditation on the doctor's part, to judge by his face, was delectable. "There isn't any sickness down there?" he said then. "Always is in the steerage--isn't there?" said Mr. Motley,--"I don't know!--the surgeon can tell you." "There's no occasion,--" said the doctor with a little haughtiness. "He knows who I am." And Dr. Harrison too resigned himself, apparently, to the sunny influences of the time and was silent. But as the sun went down lower and lower, Mr. Motley roused himself up and went off to try the effect upon his spirits of a little cheerful society,--then Mr. Linden came and took the vacant chair. "How beautiful it is!" he said, in a tone that was half greeting, half meditation. The start with which Dr. Harrison heard him was skilfully transformed into a natural change of position. "Beautiful?--yes," said he. "Has the beauty driven Motley away?" "He is gone.--Your waves are very dazzling to-night, doctor." "They are helping us on," said the doctor looking at them. "We shall be in after two days more--if this holds." Helping us on--perhaps the thought was not unqualified in Mr. Linden's mind, for he considered that--or something else--in grave silence for a minute or two. "Dr. Harrison," he said suddenly, "you asked me about my course--I wish you would tell me yours. Towards what--for what. You bade me call myself a friend--may I use a friend's privilege?" He spoke with a grave, frank earnestness. The doctor's face shewed but a small part of the astonishment which this speech raised. It shewed a little. "I can be but flattered!--" he said with something of the old graceful medium between play and earnest. "You ask me what I am hardly wise enough to answer you. I am going to Paris, and you to Germany. After that, I really know about as much of one 'course' as of the other." "My question referred, not to the little daily revolutions, but to the great life orbit. Harrison, what is yours to be?" Evidently it was an uneasy question. Yet the power of influence--or of associations--was such that Dr. Harrison did not fling it away. "I remember," he said, not without some bitterness of accent--"you once did me the honour to profess to care." "I do care, very much." And one of the old looks, that Dr. Harrison well remembered--said the words were true. "You do me more honour than I do myself," he said, not so lightly as he meant to say it. "I do not care. I see nothing to care for." "You refuse to see it--" Mr. Linden said gently and sorrowfully. Dr. Harrison's brow darkened--it might be with pain, for Mr. Linden's words were the echo of others he had listened to--not long ago. In a moment he turned and spoke with an impulse--of bravado? Perhaps he could not have defined, and his companion could not trace. "I refuse to see nothing!--but I confess to you I see nothing distinctly. What sort of an 'orbit' would you propose to me?" The tone sounded frank, and certainly was not unkind. Mr. Linden's answer was in few words--"'To them who by patient continuance in well doing seek for glory and honour and immortality, eternal life'." Dr. Harrison remained a little while with knitted brow looking down at his hands, which certainly were in an order to need no examination. Neither was he examining them. When he looked up again it was with the frankness and kindliness both more defined. Perhaps, very strange to his spirit, a little shame was at work there. "Linden," he said, "I believe in you! and if ever I enter upon an orbit of any sort, I'll take up yours. But--" said he relapsing into his light tone, perhaps of intent,--"you know two forces are necessary to keep a body going in one--and I assure you there is none, of any sort, at present at work upon me!" "You are mistaken," said Mr. Linden,--"there are two." "Let's hear--" said the doctor without looking at him. "In the first place your conscience, in the second your will." "You have heard of such things as both getting stagnant for want of use--haven't you?" "I have heard of the one being half choked by the other," said Mr. Linden: "It's so warm this afternoon that I can't contradict you. What do you want me to do, Linden?" "Let conscience do its work--and then you do yours." A minute's silence. "You do me honour, to believe I have such a thing as a conscience,"--said the doctor again a little bitterly. "I didn't use to think it, myself." He was unaware that it was that very ignored principle which had forced him to make this speech. "My dear friend--" Mr. Linden began, and he too paused, looking off gravely towards the brightening horizon. "Then do yourself the honour to let conscience have fair play," he went on presently,--"it is too delicate a stream to bear the mountain torrents of unchecked will and keep its clearness." "Hum!--there's no system of drainage that ever I heard of that will apply up in those regions!" said the doctor, after again a second's delay to speak. "And you are doing my will too much honour now--I tell you it is in a state of stagnation, and I don't at present see any precipice to tumble down. When I do, I'll promise to think of you--if that thought isn't carried away too.--Come, Linden!" he said with more expression of kindliness than Mr. Linden had seen certainly during all the voyage before,--"I believe in you, and I will!--though I suppose my words do seem to you no better than the very spray of those torrents you are talking about. Will you walk?--Motley put me to sleep, but you have done one good thing--you have stirred me to desire action at least." It was curious, how the power of character, the power of influence, had borne down passion and jealousy--even smothered mortification and pride--and made the man of the world speak truth. Mr. Linden rose--yet did not immediately begin the walk; for laying one hand on the doctor's shoulder with a gesture that spoke both regard and sorrow and entreaty, he stood silently looking off at the colours in the west. "Dr. Harrison," he said, "I well believe that your mother and mine are dear friends in heaven--God grant that we may be, too!" Then they both turned, and together began their walk. It lasted till they were summoned to tea; and from that time till they got in there was no more avoidance of his old friend by the doctor. His manner was changed; if he did not find enjoyment in Mr. Linden's society he found somewhat else which had value for him. There was not again a shade of dislike or of repulsion; and when they parted on landing, though it might be that there lay in Dr. Harrison's secret heart a hope that he might never see Mr. Linden again, there lay with it also, as surely, a secret regret. Now all that Faith knew of this for a long time, was from a newspaper; where--among a crowd of unimportant passengers in the Vulcan's list--she read the names of Dr. Harrison and J. E. Linden. CHAPTER XXXIII. Faith and her mother sat alone at breakfast. About a fortnight of grave quiet had followed after the joyous month that went before, with little enlivening, few interruptions. Without, the season had bloomed into greater luxuriance,--within, the flowers now rarely came; and Faith's flowerless dress and belt and hair, said of themselves that Mr. Linden was away. Roses indeed peeped through the windows, and thrust their heads between the blinds, but no one invited them in. Not so peremptorily as the roses--and yet with more assurance of welcome--Reuben Taylor knocked at the door during breakfast time; scattering the abstract musings that floated about the coffee-pot and mingled with its vapoury cloud. "Sit down, Reuben," said Faith jumping up;--"there's a place for you,--and I'll give you a plate." To which Reuben only replied, "A letter, Miss Faith!"--and putting it in her hands went off with quick steps. On the back of it was written, up in one corner--"Flung on board the Polar Bear, by a strong hand, from steamship Vulcan, half way across." There was no need of flowers now truly in the house, for Faith stood by the table transformed into a rose of summer joy. "Mother!" she exclaimed,--"It's from sea--half way across."-- "From sea!--half way across--" her mother repeated. "Why child, what are you talking about? You don't mean that Mr. Linden's contrived to make a letter swim back here already, do you?" Faith hardly heard. A minute she stood, with her eyes very like what Mr. Motley had graphically described them to be, breaking the seal with hurried fingers,--and then ran away. The breakfast table and Mrs. Derrick waited--they waited a long time before Faith came back to eat a cold breakfast, which tasted of nothing but sea-breezes and was therefore very strengthening. The strengthening effect went through the day; there was a fresh colour in Faith's face. Fifty times at least the "moonbeams" of her eyes saw a "strong hand" throw her packet across the sea waves that separated the two steamers; the master of the "Polar Bear" might guess, but Faith knew, that a strong heart had done it as well. And when her work was over Faith put a rose in her belt in honour of the day, and sat down to her books, very happy. The books were engrossing, and it was later than usual when she came down stairs to get tea, but Mrs. Derrick was out. That wasn't very strange. Faith went through the little routine of preparation,--then she took another book and sat down by the sweet summer air of the open window to wait. By and by Mrs. Derrick came slowly down the road, opened and shut the gate with the same air of abstracted deliberateness, and came up the steps looking tired and flushed. In the porch Faith met and kissed her. "Where have you been now, mother? tea's ready." "Pretty child!" was Mrs. Derrick's answer, "how glad I am you got that letter this morning!" Faith smiled; _she_ didn't forget it, but it was not to be expected that it should be quite so present to Mrs. Derrick's mind. Yet almost at the same instant she felt that her mother had some particular reason for saying that just then. "Where have you been, mother?" "Up to Squire Stoutenburgh's," said Mrs. Derrick, putting herself wearily in the rocking-chair,--"and they were all out gone--to Pequot to spend the day. So I lost my labour." Gently Faith stood before her and took off her bonnet. "What did you go there for, mother?" "I wanted to see him--" said Mrs. Derrick. "Squire Deacon's been here, Faith." "Mother! Is he back again?--What for?" "Settle here and live, I suppose. He's married--that's one thing. What was he here for?--why the old story, Faith,--he wants the place." And Mrs. Derrick's eyes looked as if she wanted it too. "Does he want it very much, mother?" "Means to have it, child--and I don't feel as if I could live in any other house in Pattaquasset. So I thought maybe Mr. Stoutenburgh would make him hold off till next year, Faith," said Mrs. Derrick, a little smile coming back to her lips. "I guess I'll go up again after tea." Faith coaxed her mother into the other room and gave her her tea daintily; revolving in her mind the while many things. When tea was over and Mrs. Derrick was again bent upon business, Faith ventured a question. "Mother, what do you suppose Squire Stoutenburgh can do to help us?" "I can't tell, child,--he might talk Sam Deacon into letting us keep the house, at least. We've got to live somewhere, you know, Faith. It's no sort of use for me to talk to him,--he's as stiff as a crab tree--and I aint. I think I'll try." "To-night, mother?" "I thought I would." Faith hesitated, putting the cups together. "Mother, I'll go. I dare say I shall do as well." "I'm afraid you're tired too, pretty child," said Mrs. Derrick, but with evident relief at the very idea. "I tired?--Never," said Faith. "You rest, mother--and don't fear," she added, kissing her. "I'll put on my bonnet--and be there and back again in a little while." The summer twilight was falling grey, but Faith knew she could have a guardian to come home; and besides the road between the two houses was thickly built up and perfectly safe. The evening glow was almost gone, the stars faintly gleaming out in the blue above; a gentle sea breeze stirred the branches and went along with Faith on her errand. Now was this errand grievously unpleasing to Faith, simply because of the implication of that _one year_ of reprieve which she must ask for. How should she manage it? But her way was clear; she must manage it as she could. Spite of this bugbear, she had gone with a light free step all along her road, walking rather quick; for other thoughts had kept her company, and the image of her little flying packet shot once and again through her mind. At length she came to Mr. Stoutenburgh's gate, and Faith's foot paused. Light shone through the muslin curtains; and as her step neared the front door the broken sounds of voices and laughter came unwelcomely through. A most unnecessary formality her knock was, but one of the children came to the door and ushered her at once into the tea-room, where the family were waiting for their late tea. Mrs. Stoutenburgh--looking very pretty in her light summer dress--was half reclining on the sofa, professing that she was tired to death, but quite failing to excite any sympathy thereby in the group of children who had not seen her since morning. The Squire himself walked leisurely up and down, with his hands behind him, sometimes laughing at the children sometimes helping on their play. Through the room was the full perfume of roses, and the lamplight could not yet hide the departing glow of the western horizon. Into this group and atmosphere little Linda brought the guest, with the simple announcement, "Mother, it's Miss Faith." "Miss Faith!" Mrs. Stoutenburgh exclaimed, starting up and dispersing the young ones,--"Linda, you shall have a lump of sugar!--My dear other child, how do you do?--and what sweet corner of your little heart sent you up here to-night? You have not--no, that can't be,--and you wouldn't come here if you had. But dear Faith, how are you?"--and she was rescued from the Squire and carried off to the sofa to answer at her leisure. With a sort of blushing, steadfast grace, which was common with her in the company of friends who were in her secret, Faith answered. "And you haven't had tea yet,"--she said remorsefully. "I came to give Mr. Stoutenburgh some trouble--but I can do it in three minutes." Faith looked towards the Squire. "My dear," he said, "it would take you three years!" "But Faith," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh--"here comes the tea, and you can't go home without Mr. Stoutenburgh,--and nothing qualifies him for business like a contented state of his appetite!" Faith laughed and sat down again, and then was fain upon persuasion to take a place at the table, which was a joyous scene enough. Faith did little but fill a place; her mind was busy with thoughts that began to come pressingly; she tried not to have it seem so. "My dear," said the Squire as he helped Faith to raspberries, "what fine weather we have had, eh?" "Beautiful weather!"--Faith responded with a little energy. "Papa," said one of the children, "do you think Mr. Linden's had it fine too?" "What tangents children's minds go off in!" observed Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "Faith! don't eat your raspberries without sugar,--how impatient you are. You used to preach patience to me when I was sick." "I can be very patient, with these raspberries and no sugar," said Faith, wishing she could hide the bloom of her cheeks as easily as she hid that of the berries under the fine white shower. "Poor child!" said her friend gently,--"I think you have need of all your patience." And her hands came softly about Faith's plate, removing encumbrances and adding dainties, with a sort of mute sympathy that at the moment could find no more etherial channel. "Mr. Stoutenburgh drove down to Quapaw the other day," she went on in a low voice, "to ask those fishing people what indications our land weather gave of the weather at sea; and--he couldn't half tell me about his visit when he came home," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, breaking short off in her account. "Linda, go get that glass of white roses and set it by Miss Faith,--maybe she'll take them home with her." Faith looked at the white roses and smelled their sweetness; and then she said, "Who did you see, Mr. Stoutenburgh?--down at Quapaw?" "None of the men, my dear--they were all away, but I saw half the rest of the village; and even the children knew what report the men had brought in, and what _they_ thought of the weather. Everybody had a good word to say about it, Miss Faith; and everybody--I do believe!" said the Squire reverently, "had been on their knees to pray for it. Jonathan Ling's wife said that was all they could ever do for him." Which pronoun, be it understood, did not refer to Jonathan Ling. "They're Mr. Linden's roses, Miss Faith," said little Linda, who stood waiting for more marked admiration,--"do you like them? He always did." Faith kissed the child, partly to thank her and to stop her lips, partly to hide her own which she felt were tale-telling. "Where did you get the roses, Linda?" "O off the bush in the garden. But Mr. Linden always picked one whenever he came, and sometimes he'd stop on his way to school, and just open the gate and get one of these white roses and then go away again. So we called it Mr. Linden's bush." Faith endeavoured to attend to her raspberries after this. When tea was over she was carried off into the drawing-room and the children were kept out. "If you want me away too, Faith," Mrs. Stoutenburgh said as she arranged the lamp and the curtains, "I'll go." "I don't want you to go, ma'am."--And then covering her trepidation under the simplest of grave exteriors, Faith spoke to the point. "It is mother's business. Squire Deacon has come home, Mr. Stoutenburgh." "My dear," said the Squire, "I know he has. I heard it just before you came in. But he's married, Miss Faith." "That don't content him," said Faith, "for he wants our farm." "Rascal!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh in an emphatic under tone,--"the old claim, I suppose. What's the state of it now, my dear?" "Nothing new, sir; he has a right to it, I suppose. The mortgage is owing, and we haven't been able to pay anything but the interest, and that must be a small rent for the farm." Faith paused. Mrs. Stoutenburgh was silent; looking from one to the other anxiously,--the Squire himself was not very intelligible. "Yes"--he said,--"of course. Your poor father only lived to make the second payment. I don't know why I call him poor--he's rich enough now. But Sam Deacon!--a small rent? too much for him to get,--and too little.--Why my dear!" he said suddenly sitting up straight and facing round upon Faith, "I thought--What does your mother expect to do, Miss Faith?--has she seen Sam? What does he say?" "He came to see her this afternoon, sir--he is bent upon having the place, mother says. And she don't like to leave the old house," Faith said slowly. "He will take the farm, I suppose,--but mother thought, perhaps, sir--if you would speak to Mr. Deacon, he would let us stay in the house--only the house without anything else--for another year. Mother wished it--I don't know that your speaking to him could do any good." Faith went straight through, but the rosy colour sprung and grew till its crimson reached her forehead. Not the less she went clearly through with what she had to say, her eyes only at the last words drooping. Mr. Stoutenburgh rose up with great energy and stood before her. "My dear," he said, "he shall do it! If it was any other man I'd promise to make him do more, but Sam always must have some way of amusing himself, and I'm afraid I can't make this as expensive as the last one he tried. You tell your mother, Miss Faith, that she shall stay in her house till she'd rather go to yours. I hope that won't be more than a year, but if it is she shall stay." "That's good, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said his wife with a little clap of her hands. Whether Faith thought it was 'good' might be a question; her eyes fell further, she did not offer to thank Mr. Stoutenburgh for his energetic kindness, nor to say anything. Yet Faith had seemingly more to say, for she made no motion to go. She sat quite still a few minutes, till raising her eyes fully to Mr. Stoutenburgh's face she said gravely, "Mother will feel very glad when I tell her that, sir." "She may make herself easy But tell her, my dear," said the Squire, again forgetting in his earnestness what ground he was on,--"tell her she's on no account to tell Sam _why_ she wants to stay. Will you recollect that, Miss Faith?" Faith's eyes opened slightly. "I think he must know--or guess it, Mr. Stoutenburgh? Mother says she could hardly bear to live in any other house in Pattaquasset." "My dear Miss Faith!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh,--"I mean!--why she don't want to stay any longer. _That's_ what Sam mustn't know. I'm very stupid about my words, always." Faith was again obliged to wait a few minutes before she could go on. Mrs. Stoutenburgh was the first to speak, for the Squire walked up and down, no doubt (mentally) attacking Mr. Deacon. "I'm so glad!" she said, with the old dance of her eyes--and yet a little sigh too. "So glad and so happy, that I could cry,--I know I shall when the time comes. Dear Faith, do you feel quite easy about this other business now?" "What, ma'am?--about Mr. Deacon?" "Why yes!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing,--"isn't that the only one you've been uneasy about?" "I am not uneasy now," said Faith. "But Mr. Stoutenburgh--if Mr. Deacon takes the farm back again, whom does the hay belong to, and the cattle, and the tools and farm things?" "All that's _on the land_--all that's growing on it, goes with it. All that's under cover and moveable belongs to you." "Then the hay in the barn is ours?" "Everything in the barn." "There's a good deal in the barn," said Faith with a brightening face. "You know the season has been early, sir, and our hay-fields lie well to the sun; and a great deal of the hay is in. Mr. Deacon will want some rent for the house I suppose,--and I guess there will be hay enough to pay it, whatever it is. For I can't sell my cows!--" she added laughing a little. Her two friends--the Squire on the floor and his wife on the sofa--looked at her and then at each other. "My dear," the Squire began, "I want to ask you a question. And before I do, let me tell you--which perhaps you don't know--just what right I"-- "Oh Mr. Stoutenburgh!" cried his wife, "do please hush!--you'll say something dreadful." "Not a bit of it--" said the Squire,--"I know what to say this time, my dear, and when to stop. I wanted to tell you, Miss Faith, that I am your regularly appointed guardian--therefore if I ask questions you will understand why." But what more on that subject the Squire might have said, and said not, was left to conjecture. Faith looked at him, wondering, colouring, doubting. "I never heard of it before, sir," she said. "You shouldn't say _regularly_, Mr. Stoutenburgh," said his wife,--"Faith will think she is to be under your control." "I shouldn't say _legally_," said the Squire, "and I didn't. No she aint under my control. I only mean, Miss Faith," he said turning to her, "that I am appointed to look after your interests, till somebody who is better qualified comes to do it." "There--Mr. Stoutenburgh,--don't go any further," said his wife. "Not in that direction," said the Squire. "Now my dear, if Sam Deacon will amuse himself in this way, as I said, what will you do? Do the farm and the house about counterbalance each other most years?" Faith never knew how she separated the two parts of her nature enough at this moment to be practical, but she answered. "We have been able to pay the interest on the mortgage, sir, every year. That's all. Mother has not laid up anything." The Squire took a turn or two up and down the room, then came and stood before her again. "My dear," he said, "you can't tell just yet what your plans will be, so I won't ask you to-night, but you had better let me deal with Sam Deacon, and the new tenant, and the hay, and everything else. And you may draw upon me for something more solid, to any amount you please." "Something more solid than yourself!--O Mr. Stoutenburgh!" his wife said, though her eyes were bright with more than one feeling. Faith was silent a minute, and then gave Mr. Stoutenburgh a full view of those steady eyes that some people liked and some did not care _just so_ to meet. "No, sir!--" she said with a smile and also a little wistful look of the gratitude she did not speak,--"if the hay will pay the rent, I don't want anything else. Mother and I can do very well. We will be very much obliged to you to manage Mr. Deacon for us--and the hay. I think I can manage the rest. I shall keep the cows and make butter,"--she said with a laughing flash of the eye. "O delicious!" cried Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "(I mean the butter, Faith)--but will you let me have it?" "You don't want it," said Faith. "I do!--nobody makes such butter--I should eat my breakfast with a new appetite, and so would Sam. We never can get butter enough when he's in the house. I'll send down for it three times a week--how often do you churn, Faith?" Faith came close up to her and kissed her as she whispered laughingly, "Every day!" "Then I'll send every day!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh clapping her hands. "And then I shall hear of you once in a while.--Ungrateful child, you haven't been here before since--I suppose it won't do to say when," she added, kissing Faith on both cheeks. "I shall tell Mr. Linden it is not benevolent to pet you so much." "But my dear--my dear--" said the Squire from one to the other. "Well, well,--I'll talk to you another time, Miss Faith,--I can't keep up with more than one lady at once. You and Mrs. Stoutenburgh have gone on clean ahead of me." "What's the matter, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith. "I would like to hear it now, for there is something I want settled." "What's that?" said the Squire. "Will you please go on, sir?" "I guess I'll hear you first," said the Squire. "You seem to know just what you want to say, Miss Faith, and I'm not sure that I do." "You said we had gone on ahead of you, sir. Shall we go back now?" "Why my dear," said the Squire smiling, "I thought you two were settling up accounts and arrangements rather fast, that's all. If they are the beginning and end, _that's_ very well; but if they're only premonitory symptoms, that again's different." "And not 'very well'?" said Faith, waiting. "Not very," said Mr. Stoutenburgh shaking his head. "How should it be better, sir?" "My dear, in general, what is needless can be spared." "I don't know what I am going to do, Mr. Stoutenburgh. I am going to do nothing needless, not wilfully needless. But I am going to do it _without help_." She stood before him, with perfect gentleness but with as clear determination in both look and manner, making her meaning known. Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughed, the Squire stood looking at her in a smiling perplexity. Finally went straight to the point. "Miss Faith, it is doubly needless that you should do anything more than you've been doing--everybody knows that's enough. In the first place, my dear, you are your father's child--and that's all that need be said, till my purse has a hole at both ends. In the next place--shall I tell her what she is in the next place, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?" "I fancy she knows," said his wife demurely. "Well," said the Squire, "the next place is the first place, after all, and I haven't the right to do much but take care of her. But my dear, I have it under hand and seal to take better care than that." "Than what, sir?"--said Faith with very deep colour, but unchanged bearing. "I don't know yet," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "any more than you know what you are going to do. Than to let you do anything that would grieve your dear friend and mine. If I could shew you the letter you'd understand, Miss Faith, but I'm not good at repeating. 'To take care of you as lie would'--that was part of it. And because I can't half carry out such instructions, is no sign I shouldn't do it a quarter." And the Squire stood as firm on his ground as Faith on hers. No, not quite; for in her absolute gentleness there was a power of intent expressed, which rougher outlines could but give with less emphasis. The blood spoke for her eloquently before Faith could find any sort of words to speak for herself, brought now by more feelings than one; yet still she stood before the Squire, drooping her head a little, a soft statue of immoveability. Only once, just before she spoke, both Faith's hands went up to her brow to push the hair back; a most unusual gesture of agitation. But her look and her words were after the same steady fashion as before, aggravated by a little wicked smile, and Faith's voice sounded for sweetness like silver bells. "You can't do it, Mr. Stoutenburgh!--not that way. Take care of me every other way;--but I'll not have--of that sort--a bit of help."-- The Squire looked at her with a mixture of amusement and perplexity. "Pin to follow suit--" he said,--"but then I don't just know what Mr. Linden would do in such a case! Can you tell me, Miss Faith?" "It is no matter--it would not make any difference." "What would not?" said the Squire innocently. "Anything that he could do, sir;--so you have no chance." She coloured gloriously, but she smiled at him too with her last words. "Well, Miss Faith," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "I have my doubts as to the correctness of that first statement; but I'll tell you what _I_ shall do, my refractory young lady. If you set about anything outside the limits, I'll do my best to thwart you,--there!" If Faith was not a match for him, there was no meaning in the laugh of her dark eye. But she only bade Mrs. Stoutenburgh an affectionate good night, took her bunch of white roses and Mr. Stoutenburgh's arm and set out to go home. CHAPTER XXXIV. Faith put her roses in water and listened half a minute to their strange silent messages. But after that she did a great deal of thinking. If all went well, and Mr. Linden got home safe from abroad,--and _this_ year were all she had to take care for, it was a very little matter to keep the year afloat, and very little matter, in her estimation, whatever she might have to do for the purpose. But those "ifs" no mortal could answer for. Faith did not look much at that truth, but she acted upon it; prayed over her thoughts and brought her plans into shape in very humble consciousness of it. And at the early breakfast the next morning she began to unfold them; which as Mrs. Derrick did not like them, led on to a long talk; but Faith as usual had her way. After some preliminary arrangements, and late in the day, she set off upon a long walk to Miss Bezac's. The slant beams of the summer sun were again upon the trim little house as Faith came up towards it. Things were changed since she was there before! changed a good deal from the gay, joyous playtime of that visit. Mr. Linden in Europe, and she--"It is very well," thought Faith; "it might not have been good for me to have too much of such a time. Next year"-- Would if it brought joy, bring also an entering upon real life-work. Faith knew it; she had realized long before with a thought of pain, that this summons to Europe had perhaps cut short her last time of absolute holiday pleasure. Mr. Linden could hardly now be more than a few days in Pattaquasset before "next year" should come--and Faith did not stop to look at that; she never thought of it three minutes together. But life-work looked to her lovely;--what did not? Even the little pathway to Miss Bezac's door was pleasant. She was secretly glad of that other visit now, which had made this one so easy; though yet a sympathetic blush started as she went in. "Why Faith!" said Miss Bezac,--"you're the _very_ person I was thinking of, and the very one I wanted to see! though I always do want to see you, for that matter, and don't often get what I want. Then I don't generally want much. But what a beautiful visit we had last time! Do you know I've been conjuring ever since how your dress should be made? What'll it be, to begin with?--I always do like to begin with that--and it's bothered me a good deal--not knowing it, I mean. I couldn't arrange so well about the making. Because making white satin's one thing, and muslin's another,--and lace is different from 'em both--and indeed from most other things except spider's webs." All which pleasant and composing sentiments were uttered while Miss Bezac was clearing a chair for Faith, and putting her in it, and laying her various pieces of work together. "I shouldn't be the least bit of help to you," said Faith who couldn't help laughing. "Can't it wait?" "Why it'll have to," said Miss Bezac; "he said it must,--but that's no reason I should. I always like a reason for everything. It took me an age and a quarter to find out why Miss Essie De Staff always will wear aprons. She wears 'em out, too, in more ways than one, but that's good for me. Only there's so many ways of making them that I get in a puzzle. Now this one, Faith--would you work it with red flowers or green?--I said black, but she will have colours. You've got a good colour to-day--O don't you want some bread and milk?" said Miss Bezac, dropping the apron. "No, thank you!" said Faith laughing again,--"not to-day. I should work that with green, Miss Bezac." "But I'm afraid green won't do, with black above and black below," said Miss Bezac. "Two sides to things you know, Faith,--aprons and all the rest. I'd a great mind to work it with both, and then she couldn't say she'd rather have had 'tother. What things I _have_ worked in my day!--but my day's twilight now, and my eyes find it out." "Do you have more to do than you can manage, generally?" said Faith. "Why no, child, because I never take any more,--that's the way not to have things--troubles or aprons. I could have my hands full of both, but what's the use?--when one hasn't eyes--for sewing or crying. Mrs. Stoutenburgh comes, and Mrs. Somers, and Miss Essie--and the landlord, and sometimes I let 'em leave me a job, and sometimes I don't,--send 'em, dresses, and all, off to Quilipeak." "Then I'll tell you what you shall give me to-day--instead of bread and milk;--some of the work that you would send off. Don't you remember," said Faith, smiling quietly at Miss Bezac's eyes,--"you once promised to teach me to embroider waistcoats?" "Why yes!" said Miss Bezac--"and so I will. But, my dear, are you sure he would wear it?--and after all, isn't it likely he'll get everything of that sort he wants, in Paris? And then the size!--who's to tell what that should be? To be sure you could do the fronts, and have them made up afterwards--and of course he _would_ wear anything you made.--I'll go right off and get my patterns." Faith's confusion was startled. It was Miss Bezac's turn to look at her. She caught hold of the seamstress and brought her back to listening at least. "Stop!--Miss Bezac!--you don't understand me. I want work!--I want work. I am not talking of making anything for anybody!--" Faith's eyes were truthful now, if ever they were. "Well then--how can you work, if you won't make anything for anybody? Want work, Faith?--you don't mean to say all that story about Sarn Deacon's _true?_ Do you know," said Miss Bezac, dropping into a chair and folding her hands, "when I heard that man had gone out of town, I said to myself, it would be a mercy if he never came back!"--which was the severest censure Miss Bezac ever passed upon anybody. "I really did," she went on,--"and now he's come, and I s'pose I've got to say _that_'s a mercy too--and this,--though I wouldn't believe it last night." "Then you have heard it?" "My ears did, and they're pretty good ears too,--though I do get out of patience with them now and then." "It's true," said Faith, "and it's nothing very dreadful. Mother and I have nothing to live upon but what I can make by butter; so I thought I would learn and take work of you, if you had it for me. I could soon understand it; and then you can let people bring you as much as they will--what you cannot do, I will do. I could think of nothing so pleasant;--no way to make money, I mean." For a minute Miss Bezac sat quite still,--then she roused up. "Nothing to live upon but butter!"--she said,--"well that's not much,--at least if there's ever so much of it you want something else. And what you want you must have--if you can get it. And I can get you plenty of work--and it's a good thing to understand this sort of work too, for he might carry you off to some random place where they wear calico just as they can put it on--and that wouldn't suit you, nor him neither. I don't believe _this_'ll suit him though--and it don't me, not a bit. I'm as proud as a Lucifer match for anybody I love. But I'll make you proud of your work in no time. What'll you do first? embroider or stitch or cut out or baste or fit?" "What you please--what you think best. But Miss Bezac, what are you 'proud' about?" "O I've my ways and means, like other folks," said Miss Bezac. "And you can do something more striking than aprons for people that don't need 'em. But I'm not going to give you _this_ apron, Faith--I sha'n't have her wearing your work all round town, and none the wiser. See--this is nice and light and pretty--like the baby it's for,--you like green, don't you? and so will your eyes." "I'd as lieve have Miss Essie wear my work as eat my butter," said Faith. "But," she added more gravely,--"I think that what God gives me to do, I ought to be proud to do,--and I am sure I am willing. He knows best." "Yes, yes, my dear--I believe that,--and so I do most things you say," answered Miss Bezac, bringing forth from the closet a little roll of green calico. "Now do you like this?--because if you don't, say so." "I'll take this," said Faith, "and the next time I'll take the apron. I must do just as much as I can, Miss Bezac; and you must let me. Would you rather have the apron done first? I want Miss Essie's apron, Miss Bezac!" "Well you can't have it," said Miss Bezac,--"and what you can't, you can't--all the world over. Begin slow and go on fast--that's the best way. And I'll take the best care of you!--lay you up in lavender,--like my work when it's done and isn't gone home." So laughingly they parted, and Faith went home with her little bundle of work, well contented. A very few days had seen the household retrenchments made. Cindy was gone, and Mr. Skip was only waiting for a "boy" to come. Mother and daughter drew their various tools and conveniences into one room and the kitchen, down stairs, to have the less to take care of; abandoning the old eating-room except as a passage-way to the kitchen; and taking their meals, for greater convenience, in the latter apartment. Faith did not shut up her books without some great twinges of pain; but she said not one word on the matter. She bestowed on her stitching and on her housework and on her butter the diligent zeal which used to go into French rules and philosophy. But Mrs. Stoutenburgh had reckoned without her host, for there was a great deal more of the butter than she could possibly dispose of; and Judge Harrison's family and Miss De Staff's became joint consumers and paid the highest price for it, that Faith would take. But this is running ahead of the story. Some days after Faith's appeal to Mr. Stoutenburgh had passed, before the Squire presented himself to report progress. He found both the ladies at work in the sitting-room, looking very much as usual, except that there was a certain not inelegant disposition of various pieces of muslin and silk and ribbon about the room which carried the appearance of business. "What rent will Mr. Deacon have, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith looking up from her needle. "My dear, he'll have what he can get," said the Squire, "but what _that_'ll be, Miss Faith, he and I haven't just made up our minds." "How much ought it to be, sir, do you think?" "Nothing at all," said the Squire,--"not a cent." "Do you think not, sir?" said Faith doubtfully. "Not a cent!" the Squire repeated,--"and I told him so, and said he might throw the barn into the bargain and not hurt himself." "Will he agree to that, Mr. Stoutenburgh?--I mean about the house. We can pay for it." "My dear, I hope to make him agree to that, and more too. So just let the hay stand, and the house, and the barn, and everything else for the present. I'll tell you time enough--if quarter day must come. And by the way, talking of quarters, there's one of a lamb we killed yesterday,--I told Tim to leave it in the kitchen. How does your ice hold out?" "Do you want some, sir?" said Faith, in whose eyes there shone a soft light the Squire could be at no loss to read. "No my dear, I don't--though Mrs. Stoutenburgh does tell me sometimes to keep cool. But I thought maybe _you_ did. Do you know, Miss Essie De Staff never sees me now if she can help it--what do you suppose is the reason?" "I don't think there can be any, sir." "Must be!" said the Squire,--"always is a reason for every fact. You know what friends we used to be,--it was always, 'Hush, Mr. Stoutenburgh!' or, 'How do you know anything about it?' Ah, he's a splendid fellow!--My dear, I don't wish to ask any impertinent questions, but when you do hear that he's safe across, just let me know--will you?" And the Squire bowed himself off without waiting for an answer. CHAPTER XXXV. Faith found that sewing and housework and butter-making took not only her hands but her minutes, and on these little minute wheels the days glided off very fast. She had plenty of fresh air, withal, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh would coax her into a horseback ride, or the Squire take her off in his little wagon; or Mrs. Derrick and Jerry go with her down to the shore for clams and salt water. The sea breeze was more company than usual, this summer. By the time August days came, there came also a letter from Europe; and thereafter the despatches were as regular and as frequent as the steamers. But they brought no special news as to the point of coming home. Mrs. Iredell lingered on in the same uncertain state, neither worse nor better,--there was no news to send. Everything else the letters had; and though Faith might miss that, she could not complain. So the summer days slipped away peacefully; and when the mother and daughter sat sewing together in the afternoon, (for Mrs. Derrick often took some little skirt or sleeve) nobody would have guessed why the needles were at work. There was one remarkable thing about the boy Reuben had found to supply Mr. Skip's place--he was never visible. Nor audible either, for that matter, except that Faith at her own early rising often heard the wood-saw industriously in motion. He was not to sleep in the house for the first month,--that had been agreed; but whether he slept anywhere seemed a matter of doubt. A doubt Faith resolved to set at rest; and one August morning, while the birds were a-twitter yet with their first getting up and the sun had not neared the horizon, Faith crossed the yard to the woodshed and stood in the open doorway,--the morning light shewing the soft outlines of her figure in a dark print dress, and her white ruffles, and gleaming on her faultlessly soft and bright hair. The woodshed was in twilight yet; its various contents shewing dimly, the phoebe who had built her nest under the low roof just astir, but the wood work was going on briskly. Not indeed under the saw--that lay idle; but with the sort of noiseless celerity which was natural to him, Reuben Taylor was piling the sticks of this or yesterday's cutting: the slight chafing of the wood as it fell into place chiming with the low notes of a hymn tune which Faith well remembered to have heard Mr. Linden sing. She did not stir, but softly, as she stood there, her voice joined in. For a minute Reuben did not hear her,--then in some pause of arrangement he heard, and turned round with a start and flush that for degree might have suited one who was stealing wood instead of piling it. But he did not speak--nor even thought to say good morning; only pushed the hair back from his forehead and waited to receive sentence. "Reuben!"--said Faith, stepping in the doorway. And she said not another word; but in her eyes and her lips, even in her very attitude as she stood before him, Reuben Taylor might read it all!--her knowledge for whose love he was doing that work, her powerlessness of any present means of thanks, and the existence of a joint treasury of returned affection that would make itself known to him some day, if ever the chance were. The morning sun gleamed in through the doorway on her face, and Reuben could see it all there. He had raised his eyes at the first sound of her voice, but they fell again, and his only answer was a very low spoken "Good morning, Miss Faith." Faith sat down on a pile of cut sticks and looked up at him. "Reuben--what are you about?" "Putting these sticks out of the way, Miss Faith"--with a half laugh then. "I shall tell Mr. Linden of you," (gravely.) "I didn't mean you should have a chance, Miss Faith." "Now you are caught and found--do you know what your punishment will be?" Reuben looked up again, but did not venture to guess. "You will be obliged to come in and take a cup of coffee with me every morning." "O that's not necessary!" Reuben said with a relieved face,--"thank you very much, Miss Faith." "It is necessary," said Faith gravely;--"and you are not to thank me for what you don't like." "It was partly for what I do like, ma'am," said Reuben softly pitching up a stick of hickory. "It's so pleasant to have you do this, Reuben," said Faith, watching him, "that I can't tell you how pleasant it is; but you must drink my coffee, Reuben, or--I will not burn your wood! You know what Mr. Linden would make you do, Reuben." Faith's voice lowered a little. Reuben did not dispute the commands so urged, though a quick glance said that her wish was enough. "But dear Reuben, who's coming when you're gone?" "Would you like Dromy Tuck, Miss Faith?--but I don't know that you ever saw him. He's strong, and honest--he's not very bright. I'll find somebody." And so the matter ended. August went on,--Reuben sawed his last stick of wood and eat his last breakfast at Mrs. Derrick's, and then set forth for Quilipeak, to begin his new life there. The little settlement at Quapaw was not alone in feeling his loss,--Mrs. Derrick and Faith missed him every day. One of Reuben's last doings in Pattaquasset, was the giving Dromy Tuck in charge to Phil Davids. "Look after him a little, Phil," he said, "and see that he don't go to sleep too much daytimes. He means to go straight, but he wants help about it; and I don't want Mrs. Derrick to be bothered with him." Which request, enforced as it was by private considerations, favoured Dromy with as strict a censorship as he desired. From Germany news came at last,--but it was of the sort that one can bear to wait for. Mrs. Iredell was not able to be moved nor certain to get well. Mr. Linden could neither come with his sister nor from her. And thus, hindered from getting home to his Seminary duties in America, there was but one thing he could do--finish his course in a German University. But that ensured his being in Europe the whole year! No question now of fall or winter or spring,--summer was the first time that could be even thought of; and in this fair September, when Faith had been thinking of the possibility of his sudden appearance, he was beginning his work anew in a foreign land. It came heavily at first upon her. Faith had not known how much she counted on that hope or possibility. But now when it was gone she found she had lost a large piece of her sunlight. She had read her letter alone as usual, and alone she struggled with her sorrow. It cost Faith for once a great many tears. Prayer was always her refuge. But at last after the tears and the signs of them were gone, Faith went into her mother's company again, looking wistful and as gentle and quiet. Perhaps it was well for Faith that her mother knew what this quiet meant--it saved her countless little remarks of wonder and comment and sorrow. More devoted to her Mrs. Derrick could not be, but she had her own strong box of feeling, and there locked up all her sorrow and anxiety out of sight. Yet it was some time before the little sitting-room, with its scattered bits of work, could look bright again. "And I sha'n't see him again till----." It gave Faith a great pang. That "next year" she never looked at much. She would have liked a little more of those innocent play days which had been so unexpectedly broken off. "Next year" looked serious, as well as glad. "But it is good for me," she said to herself. "It must be good for me, to be reminded to live on what cannot fail. I suppose I was getting to be too very happy."--And after a few such talks with herself Faith went straight on, for all that appeared, as peacefully as ever, and as cheerfully. It was not long after this, that passing Mr. Simlins' gate one afternoon, as she was coming home from a walk, Faith was hailed by the farmer. She could not but stop to speak to him, and then she could not prevent his carrying her off into the house. "'Twont hurt you to rest a minute--and 'twont hurt _me_," said he. "Why I haint seen you since----How long do you s'pose folks can live and not see moonshine? Now you pull off your bonnet, and I'll tell Mrs. Hummins to give us something good for tea." "What would mother do for hers, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith resisting this invitation. "Well you can sit down anyhow, and read to me," said Mr. Simlins, who had already taken a seat himself in preparation for it. "People can't get along without light from one phenomenon or the other, you know, Faith." She took off her bonnet, and brought the Bible. "What do you want, Mr. Simlins?" her sweet voice said meaningly. "Fact is," said the farmer rather sorrowfully, "I s'pose I want about everything! I don't feel to know much more'n a baby--and there aint more'n three grains of corn to the bushel in our minister's preachin'. I go to meetin' and come home with my head a little more like a bell than 'twas; for there's nothing more in it but a ringin' of the words I've heerd. Do you mind, Faith, when somebody--I don't know whether you or I like him best--wanted me to try a new kind of farming?--you mind it? I guess you do. It never went out o' _my_ head again, till I set out to try;--and now I find I don't know nothin' at all how to work it!" "What is the trouble, dear Mr. Simlins?" said Faith looking up. The farmer hesitated, then said low and huskily, "I don't know what to do about joinin' the church." "The Bible says, 'If a man love God, the same is known of him,'"--Faith answered softly. "Well, but can't it be known of him without that? Fact is, Faith, I'm afeard!"--and a rough hand was drawn across the farmer's eyes--"I'm afeard, if I do, I'll do something I hadn't ought to do, and so only just dishonour the profession--and I'd better not have anything to do with it!" Faith turned back the leaves of the Bible. "Listen to what God said to Joshua, Mr. Simlins, when he was going to lead the people of Israel over into a land full of enemies.-- 'Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed.'" "It's easy to say 'be strong'," said the farmer after pausing a minute,--"but how are you going to contrive it?" Faith read from the Psalms; and her words fell sweeter every one. "'In the day when I cried thou answeredst me, and strengthenedst me with strength in my soul.' That is what David says, Mr. Simlins; and this is Isaiah's testimony.--'They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.'" "Go ahead, Faith!"--said the farmer, who was sitting with his head down in his hands. "You aint leavin' me much of a corner to hide in. Turn down a leaf at them places." Faith was still again, turning over leaves. "Paul was in trouble once, Mr. Simlins, and prayed earnestly about something; and this is what he says of the Lord's answer to him.--'And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.'--'When I am weak, then am I strong.'--And in another place--'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.'" "But he wa'n't much like me," said Mr. Simlins "he was an apostle and had inspiration. I hain't none." "He was a man, though," said Faith, "and a weak one, as you see he calls himself. And he prays for the Christians at Ephesus, that God would grant them 'to be strengthened with might by his Spirit;' and they were common people. And the Bible says 'Be strong in the Lord and in the power of his might;'--we aren't bid to be strong in ourselves; but here again, 'Strengthened with might, according to his glorious power, unto all patience and long-suffering with joyfulness.' Won't that do?" said Faith softly. "Have you put marks in all them places?" said the farmer. "I will." "If that don't do, I s'pose nothing will," said Mr. Simlins. "They're mighty words! And they've stopped _my_ mouth." Faith was silently marking the places. The farmer sat looking at her. "You do know the Scripturs--I can say that for you!" he remarked. "No, Mr. Simlins!--" said Faith looking up suddenly, "I don't know this string of passages of myself. Mr. Linden shewed them to me," she said more softly and blushing. She went on with what she was about. "Well don't he say you like to speak truth rayther than anything else?" said the farmer. "If he don't, I wouldn't give much for his discretion. When's he going to have leave to take you away, Faith?" It was half sorrowfully spoken, and though Faith rose up and blushed, she did not answer him quickly. "My business must take me away now, sir;--good night." But Mr. Simlins shouted to Jem Waters, had the wagon up, put Faith in with infinite care and tenderness, and sent her home so. One rainy, stormy, wild equinoctial day in the end of September--not long after that letter had come, Squire Stoutenburgh came to the door. Faith heard him parleying with her mother for a minute--heard him go off, and then Mrs. Derrick entered the sitting-room, with her eyes full of tears and her heart, at least, full of a little package,--it did not quite fill her hands. "Pretty child!" she said, "I'm so thankful!"--and she went straight off to the kitchen, and the little package lay in Faith's lap. The thick brown paper and wax and twine said it had come a long way. The rest the address told. It was a little square box, the opening of which revealed at first only soft cotton; except, in one corner, there was an indication of Faith's infallible blue ribband. Fastened to that, was a gold locket. Quite plain, alike on both sides, the tiny hinge at one edge spoke of a corresponding spring. That touched, Faith found Mr. Linden. Admirably well done and like, even to the expression, which had probably struck the artist's fancy; for he had contrived to represent well both the pleasure and the pain Mr. Linden had felt in sitting for this picture, for such a reason. The dress was that of the German students--such as he was then wearing. Faith had never guessed--till her wondering fingers had persuaded the locket to open--she had never guessed what she should find there; at the utmost she looked to find a lock of hair; and the joy was almost as overwhelming as a little while ago pain had been. Faith could hardly see the picture for a long time; she called herself foolish, but she cried and laughed the harder for joy; she reproached herself for past ungratefulness and motions of discontent, which made her not deserve this treasure; and the joy and the tears were but enhanced that way. Faith could hardly believe her eyes, when they were clear enough to see; it seemed,--what they looked at,--too good to be true; too precious to be hers. But at last she was fain to believe it; and with blushes that nobody saw, and a tiny smile that it was a pity somebody _didn't_ see, she put the blue ribband round her neck and hid the locket where she knew it was expected to find its place. But Faith forgot her work, and her mother found her sitting there doing nothing, looking with dreamy happy thoughtfulness into distance, or into herself; all Miss Bezac's silks and stuffs neglected around her. And work, diligent, happy, contented, continued, was the order of the day, and of many days and weeks after. Miss Bezac giving out that she would take as much work as was offered her, she and Faith soon had both their hands completely full. The taste and skill of the little dressmaker were so well acknowledged that even from Pequot there was now many an application for her services; and many a lady from there and from Pattaquasset, came driven in a wagon or a sleigh to Miss Bezac's cottage door. CHAPTER XXXVI. It was the month "When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue bird's warble know,"-- the month of the unbending of Nature--of softening skies and swelling streams and much underground spring work. As for instance, by the daffodils; which by some unknown machinery pushed their soft, pliant leaves up through frozen clods into the sunshine. Blue birds fluttered their wings and trilled their voices through the air, song sparrows sang from morning to night, and waxwings whistled for cherries in the bare tree tops. There the wind whistled too, "whiles," with the fall approbation of snow birds and chickadees,--the three going out of fashion together. It was a busy month at Miss Bezac's--two weddings at Pequot and one in Pattaquasset kept her hands full,--and Faith's too. Just now the great point of interest was the outfit of Miss Maria Davids--the wedding dress, especially, being of the most complicate and ornamented description. Miss Bezac and Faith needed their heads as well as their hands, Miss Maria's directions with regard to flowers and furbelows being somewhat like the Vicar of Wakefield's in respect of sheep--only Miss Maria was willing to pay for all that went on, whereas the Vicar wanted the sheep for nothing. Thus they stood, the two friends and co-workers, with the dress spread out on a table, contriving where the flowers should go and how many it would be possible to put on. Miss Maria's box of Pequot flowers on a chair near by, was as full as her directions. "It would be better to take the box and turn it right over her after she's dressed, and let 'em stick where they would!" said Miss Bezac in some disgust. Whereupon, dropping her grave look of thought, Faith's laugh broke up the monotony of the occasion. "Well _that's_ good any way," said Miss Bezac. "And I'm sure everything's 'any way' about this dress. But I won't have you about it a bit longer,--you're tired to death standing up." "I'm not much tired. Miss Bezac, let the lilacs have the bottom of the dress, and the roses and lilies of the valley trim the body.--And it will be like a spotted flower-garden then!" said Faith laughing anew. How little like her occupation she looked,--with her brown stuff dress, to be sure, as plain as possible; her soft brown hair also plain; her quaint little white ruffles; and that brilliant diamond ring flashing wherever her hand went! N.B. A plain dress on a pretty person has not the effect of plainness, since it lets that better be seen which is the highest beauty. Up Miss Bezac's mountain road came a green coach drawn by two fat grey horses; the coachman in front and the footman behind being in the same state of plethoric comfort. They addressed themselves to the hill with no hasty approbation yet with much mind to have their own way, and the hill yielded the ground step by step. At Miss Bezac's door hill and horses made a pause. "Coaches already!" said Miss Bezac,--"that's a sign of summer, as good as wild geese. And you'd think, Faith, not having had much experience, that it was the sign of another wedding dress--but nothing worse than a calico wrapper ever comes out of a coach like that." "Why?"--said Faith looking amused. "The people that drive such coaches drive 'em to town for a wedding dress," said Miss Bezac sagely. "There's a blue bird getting out of this one, to begin with." While she spoke, a tiny foot emerged from the coach, and after it a dress of blue silk, which so far from "standing alone" followed softly every motion of the wearer. A simply plain shirred spring bonnet of blue and white silk, made the blue bird comparison not altogether unapt,--the bird was hardly more fair and dainty in his way than the lady in hers. She stood still for a minute, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking off down the road; a slight, delicate figure, with that sort of airy grace which has a natural poise for every position,--then she turned abruptly and knocked at the door. Now it was Miss Bezac's custom to let applicants open and shut for themselves, her hands being often at a critical point of work; so in this case, with a refractory flower half adjusted--while Faith was in the intricacies of a knot of ribband, she merely cried, "Come in!" And the young lady came--so far as across the threshold,--there she stopped. A quick, sudden stop,--one little ungloved hand that looked as if it had never touched anything harsher than satin, clasped close upon its gloved companion; the shawl falling from her shoulders and shewing the bunch of crocuses in her belt; the fair, sweet, high bred face--sparkling, withal flushing like a June rose. For a minute she stood, her bright eyes seeing the room, the work, and Miss Bezac, but resting on Faith with a sort of intenseness of look that went from face to hand. Then her own eyes fell, and with a courteous inclination of her head, she came for ward and spoke. "I was told," she said, advancing slowly to the table, and still with downcast eyes,--"I was told that--I mean--Can you make a sunbonnet for me, Miss Bezac?" She looked up then, but only at the little dressmaker, laying one hand on the table as if to support herself, and with a face grave enough to suit a nun's veil instead of a sunbonnet. Faith's eyes were held on this delicate little figure with a sort of charm; she was very unlike the Pattaquasset models. At the antipodes from Miss Essie De Staff--etherial compared to the more solid proprieties of Sophy Harrison,--Faith recognized in her the type of another class of creatures. She drew back a little from the table, partly to leave the field clear to Miss Bezac, partly to please herself with a better view. "A sunbonnet?" Miss Bezac repeated,--"I should be sorry if I couldn't, and badly off too. But I'm afraid you'll be, for a pattern,--all I've got are as common as grass. Not that I wish grass was uncommon, either--but what's the stuff?" "When I came out this morning," said the lady, glancing at Faith and then down again, "I did not expect to come here. And--I have brought no stuff. Can you send some one down to the village?--this young lady, perhaps.--May I take her with me now?" "Why of course you may!" said Miss Bezac delightedly.--"Just as much as if I was glad to get rid of her--which I aint,--and am too,--for she's tired to death, and I was just wishing somebody that wasn't would take her home. Or some horses." There was a sweet amused play of the lips in answer to this lucid statement of facts, and then turning towards Faith, the stranger said, "Will you go?"--the words were in the lowest of sweet tones. "Where do you wish me to go?" said Faith, coming a step forward. "With me--down into the village." "I will go," said Faith. "Then I will take these two mantillas, Miss Bezac,--and you shall have them the day after to-morrow." The straw bonnet and shawl were put on in another minute, and not waiting for her gloves she followed the "blue bird" to the carriage, rather pleased with the adventure. The little ungloved hand took firm hold of hers as they stepped out of Miss Bezac's door, and but that the idea was absurd Faith would have thought it was trembling. Once in the carriage, the two side by side on the soft cushions, the orders given to the footman, the coach rolling smoothly down the hill, the stranger turned her eyes full upon Faith; until the tears came too fast, quenching the quivering smile on her lips. Her head dropped on Faith's shoulder, with a little cry of, "Faith, do you know who I am?" A sort of whirlwind of thoughts swept over Faith--nothing definite; and her answer was a doubtful, rather troubled, "No."-- "I know who you are!" said the stranger. "You are Mignonette." "Who told you so?" said Faith, drawing back from her to look. "Some one who knew!"--the face was lovely in its April of mischief and tears. Faith's face grew very grave, with doubt, and bewilderment, and growing certainty, and drew yet further off. Rosy blushes, more and more witchingly shy, chased in and out of her cheeks; till obeying the certainty which yet was vague, Faith's head stooped and her two hands covered her face. She was drawn back into the stranger's arms, and her hands and face (what there could) were covered with kisses. "Faith, is it strange your sister should know?--and why don't you let me have the rest of your face to kiss?--I haven't half seen it yet. And I'm sure Endy would not like to have his message delivered in these out of the way places." Even as she spoke, the hands quitted the face, veiled only by the rosiest consciousness; and laying both hands on the stranger Faith gave her warm kisses--on cheeks and lips; and then looked at her, with eyes alternately eager and shy, that rose and fell at every new stir of feeling. "How did you come here?"--she said with a sort of soft breathlessness. The eyes that looked at her were as intent, a little laughing, a little moved. "How did I come here?--Faith, I knew you at the first glance,--how came you not to know me?" "I--could not!" said Faith. "How came you here?" "Here? in Pattaquasset--how I love the name! Faith, I shall expect you to take me to every place where Endecott set his foot when he was here." Faith's eye gave a little answering flash. "I don't believe I know them all. Then--" she checked herself--"But how did you come here? You--were in Germany." "Then what?--please answer me first." How Faith blushed!--and laughed; but she grew very grave almost immediately. "Please answer me!" she said. "Yes, I was there--and I could not help coming here," Miss Linden answered. "To leave him there, after all! But I could not help it, Faith. When he determined to spend the year there--and I never saw him look so grave over a determination--it was for one reason alone. You know what?" Faith did not assent nor dissent, but her eyes were swallowing every word. "It seemed then as if it might not much lengthen his absence, and would ensure its being the last. And by-the-by, fair ladye, Endecott said I might make the most of you before he got home; for _then_ he meant to have you all to himself for six months, and nobody else should have a sight of you." As far as they could go, Faith's eyes fell; and her new sister might study the fair face and figure she had not had so good an opportunity of studying before. Perfectly grave, and still to her folded hands. "After he was fairly launched in his work," Miss Linden went on, "Aunt Iredell began slowly to grow better; and as the winter passed she took the most earnest desire to come home--to America. Nothing could shake it; and the doctors approved and urged that there should be no delay. Then, Faith, _I_ would have stayed,--but she was exceedingly dependent upon me, and most of all, Endecott said I ought to come. I believe he was glad to think of my being here for another reason. He came with us to Paris--it happened just then that he _could come_--and put us on board the steamer. But we were three days in Paris first,--O such pretty days!" she added smiling. "I'll tell you about them another time." The downcast eyes were lifted and rested for a minute on the sparkling face before them. If a little warm light in their glance meant that all was "pretty" about which those two had to do, it said part at least of what was in Faith's mind. "Now I am to be your neighbour for a while," said Miss Linden. "Aunt Iredell was ordered out of town at once, and last night we came up to Pequot,--so you must not wonder if you see me every other day after this. O how good it is to see you! Do you know," she said, wrapping her arms round Faith again, and resting the soft cheeks and lips upon hers, "do you know how much I have to say of this sort, for somebody else?" "You are not going back to Pequot to-day?" said Faith softly. "May I stay in Pattaquasset till to-morrow?" "If I can take good enough care of you!" said Faith, kissing her half gladly, half timidly. "And may I go home with you now?" "Where are we going?" said Faith looking out. "My dear, you ought to know! but I do not. I told them to drive about till I gave contrary orders. Now you must give them." And the check string brought the horses to a stand and the footman ditto. A half minute's observation enabled Faith to give directions for reaching the main Pattaquasset road and taking the right turn, and the carriage rolled on again. There was a little pause then, till Faith broke it. A rich preparatory colour rose in her cheeks, and the subject of her words would certainly have laughed to see how gravely, with what commonplace demureness, the question was put. "Was Mr. Linden well, when you came from Germany?" "Faith!" was his sister's prompt reply. Faith's glance, soft and blushing, yet demanded reason. Whereupon Miss Linden's face went into a depth of demureness that was wonderful. "Yes my dear, Mr. Linden was well--looking well too, which is an uncommon thing with him." "Is it?"--said Faith somewhat wistfully. "Not in the way I mean," said her new sister smiling,--"I thought nothing could have improved his appearance but--Mignonette. And I suppose he thought so himself, for he was never seen without a sprig of the little flowers." Faith's look in answer to that was given to nothing but the ground, and indeed it was worthy to have been seen by only one person. "Faith," said Miss Linden suddenly, "are there many French people in Pattaquasset?" "No,--not any. Why?" "Because Endecott gave me a message to you, part of which I did not understand. But I suppose you will, and that is enough." "What is it?" said Faith eagerly. "You would not understand the other part, to-day." Faith went back to her thoughtfulness But as the carriage turned into the Pattaquasset high street she suddenly faced round on Miss Linden, flushing again before she spoke. "Pet," she said a little timidly--it was winning, this air of timidity that was about her,--"don't say--don't tell Mr. Linden where you found me." "Faith! does he not know? is it something new? O dear child, I am very sorry!"--and Miss Linden's other hand came caressingly upon the one she held. "Don't be sorry!--" said Faith, looking as fearless and sonsy as any real piece of mignonette that ever shook its brown head in the wind;--"I wouldn't tell you, only you must see it. You know, perhaps, that mother lived by a farm.--Last summer the farm was taken away and we had nothing left but the house. We had to do something, and I took to dressmaking with Miss Bezac--where you found me. And it has been very pleasant and has done very well," said Faith, smiling at Miss Linden as honestly as if the matter had been of music lessons or any other accomplishment. Miss Linden looked at her--grave and bright too. Then with a sparkle of her eyes--"I won't tell Endecott now, but some time I _will_ tell him over what sort of a wedding-dress I found you poring. But my dear child!--" and she stopped with a look of sudden thought that was both grave and gay. Faith's eyes asked what the matter was. "No, I will not tell him now," Miss Linden repeated,--"it is so little while--he could not know it in time for anything but his own sorrow. But Faith! I am going to make one of those mantillas!"--and she looked a pretty piece of defiant resolution. "You shall do what you please," Faith said gayly. "But--will you stop them?--there is the house." The coach came to a stand before Mrs. Derrick's little gate and the two ladies alighted. Miss Linden had been looking eagerly out as they drove up--at the house, the fence, the little garden courtyard, the steps,--but she turned now to give her orders, and taking Faith's hand again, followed her in, looking at every inch of the way. Faith drew the easy-chair out before the fire, put Miss Linden in it, and took off her bonnet and shawl. She staid but to find her mother and introduce her to the parlour and her guest; and she herself ran away to Mr. Linden's room. She knew that the brown woodbox was near full of wood which had been there since his sudden departure nine months ago. It was well dried by this time. Faith built a fire and kindled it; made the bed, and supplied water and towels; opened the blinds of one or two windows, laid books on the table, and wheeled up the couch. The fire was blazing by that time and shone warm and glowingly on the dark wood and furniture, and everything wore the old pleasant look of comfort and prettiness. Then Faith went for her guest. "You will know where you are," she said a little vaguely,--"when you open the cupboard doors." Miss Linden stood still for a moment, her hands folded, her lips again taking their mixed expression. "And _that_ is where he lay for so long," she said. It was a mixed remembrance to Faith; she did not like to answer. A moment's silence, and she turned her bright face to Miss Linden. "Let me do what I can for you," she said with that mixture of grace and timidity.--"It isn't much. What may I now, Pet?" "You did a lifetime's work then, you dear child!--and how I used to hear of it." And putting her arm round Faith's waist Miss Linden began to go slowly about the room, looking at everything--out of the windows and into the cupboards. "If you could have known, Faith--if you could have seen Endecott in some of the years before that, you would have known a little how very, very glad I was. I hardly believed that he would ever find any one who could charm him out of the solitary life into which sorrow had led him." "I didn't do it!" said Faith simply. "What do you suppose did?" "I think he charmed himself out of it,"--Faith said blushing. Miss Linden laughed, holding her very fast. "You are clear from all charge of malice prepense," she said. "And I will not deny his powers of charming,--but they are powerless upon himself." "Do you think so?" said Faith. "A charm comes at the rebound, doesn't it sometimes?" "_Does_ it? How do I know?" Faith laughed a little, but very softly. "Now shall I leave you for a little while?" she said. "Will you be busy, or may I come down when I like?" "I am going into the kitchen,--You wouldn't like to follow me there?" "If I have leave--I am in the mind to follow you everywhere." "Come then!" said Faith joyously. Miss Linden might not be accustomed to seeing kitchens, or she might! there was no telling from her manner. Certainly that kitchen was a pleasant one to see. And she "followed," as she had said, wherever Faith went and watched her whatever she did, conversation going on meanwhile amusingly enough. Faith was making some cakes again; and then concocting coffee, the Pattaquasset fête dish in ordinary; while Mrs. Derrick broiled the chicken. With a great white apron enveloping her brown stuff dress, and her arms bared, running about the kitchen and dairy in her quick still way, Faith was a pretty contrast to the "blue bird" who smiled on her and followed her and talked to her throughout. Then the cakes were baking, and Faith came back to the sitting-room; to set the table and cover it with all dainty things that farm materials can produce. And if ever "Pet" had been affectionately served, she was that night, and if ever a room was fresh and sweet and warm and glowing, the fire-lit room where she went to sleep afterwards was such a one. But before that, when they had done tea, and talk and motion had subsided a little, Miss Linden brought a low seat to Faith's side, and taking that left hand in hers looked silently at the ring for a few minutes,--then laid her cheek down upon it in Faith's lap. Faith's lip trembled; but she only sat still as a statue till the cheek was lifted up. CHAPTER XXXVII. In the early morning which Faith and her mother enjoyed next day together, Mrs. Derrick was in a contemplative and abstracted state of mind; assenting indeed to all Faith's words of pleasure and praise, but evidently thinking of something else. At last the matter came out. "Faith, how much money have we?--I mean, to last how long, suppose you didn't do anything else but the butter?" "Why, mother?" "Why child, I've been thinking--do you know how much you've got to do for yourself?--it won't do to put that off for Miss Bezac." Faith's lips softly touched Mrs. Derrick's. "Hush, mother, please!--Don't you think Dromy could find some water-cress at the foot of the Savin hill?" "Yes--like enough," said Mrs. Derrick,--"Reuben could if he was here. And child, you may say 'hush,' but things won't hush, after all." With which sentiment Mrs. Derrick gave attention to the tea-kettle, just then a practical illustration of her remark. About as bright and fresh and sweet as the morning Miss Linden looked when she came down, but warmer and gentler than March in his best mood. Her interest in everything about the house and its two tenants was unbounded, and without being really like her brother, there was enough family likeness in manner and voice to give a pleasant reminder now and then. While they were at breakfast the man came from Pequot according to order, but she went out alone to attend to him, coming back to the table with a sort of gleeful face that spoke of pleasure or mischief in prospect. "Faith," she said, "we cannot touch those mantillas this morning." "Can't we?" said Faith. "Which part of Pattaquasset shall we go to see?" "Suppose we go up to my room and discuss matters."-- Faith was ready. Ready as a child, or as the "bird" she used to be called, for any innocent play or work. "My dear little sister," said Miss Linden as they ran up stairs, the glee working out at the dainty finger ends that were on Faith's belt, "don't you know that I promised you a 'message'? and don't you want to have it?--O how lovely this room is! That trunk is not lovely, standing just there. Dear Faith, you need not think all my baggage is coming after it!" "I wish it could,"--said Faith, looking after her "message." "I want to shew you the key of this--it has something peculiar about it," said Miss Linden searching in her bag. "Endecott said, Faith, that as you and he had been together so much in a French atmosphere, you must let him do one thing in the French style. To which message, as well as to the trunk, you will find this the key." Now attached to the key was a little card, on which was written simply the word, "Trousseau." Faith understood the word well enough, and it seemed to turn her into a pretty petrifaction--with internal life at work indeed, as the rising and falling colours witnessed. She stood with bended head looking at the mysterious key; then making a swift transit to the window she opened it and threw back the blinds and stood looking out, the key in one hand giving little impatient or abstracted taps against the fingers of the other. It was a pretty landscape certainly, but Faith had looked at it often before. Miss Linden on her part followed Faith to the window with her eyes and a smile, then sat looking at the great leathern trunk in its travelling cover, which it wore still. Once she made a motion to take this off--then laid her hands back in their former position and waited for Faith to come. "Pet," said Faith presently,--"have you looked out of the window this morning?" Which question brought two hands round her shoulders in no time. "Yes my dear, I have. What new beauties have you discovered?" "It looks pretty in the spring light.--But I wasn't thinking of it, either," said Faith blushing. And without raising her eyes, looking distressed, she softly insinuated the key with its talismanic card back into Miss Linden's hand. "Well? what, dear Faith?" "I don't know,"--said Faith softly. "You know." "I know,"--said Miss Linden, "that Endecott locked the trunk and tied the label to the key, and it is a great mistake to suppose that I will unlock the one or take charge of the other. In the second place, I need not even look on unless you wish. It can go to another room, or I will leave you in undisturbed possession of this. So speak," she said, kissing her. Faith did not immediately. She wound her arms round her new sister and hid her face in Miss Linden's neck, and stood so clasping her silently for a few minutes. But when she raised her head she went straight to the "trousseau" trunk; pulled off, business fashion, the travelling cover; set the key in the lock, and lifted the lid. "I should tell you, dear," said Miss Linden while this was doing--she had seated herself a little way off from Faith and the trunk, "I should tell you, that if it had been possible to get a pattern dress and so forth, you would have found nothing here to do _but_ look. As it is, there is some work for your fingers, and I hope for mine." The lid was now open, and between the two next protecting covers lay a letter. A recognizing flash of eye greeted that; Faith put it out of sight and lifted the second cover. From where she sat Miss Linden could see her hand tremble. There were two or three characteristics that applied to the whole arrangement, choice, and filling of the "trousseau." The absence of things useless was not more notable than the abundance of things useful; and let not useful be understood to mean needful,--for of the little extras which are so specially pleasant to those who never buy them for themselves, there was also a full supply. The daintiness of everything was great, but nothing was out of Faith's line: the stuffs might be finer than she had always worn, but the colours were what she had always liked, and in any one of those many dresses she might feel at home in five minutes--they suited her so well. She could see, well enough, that Mr. Linden not only remembered "her style" but loved it,--in the very top rack, that was first laid open, she had proof of this--for besides the finest of lawn and cambric, there were dainty bands of embroidery and pieces of lace with which Faith could ruffle herself to her heart's content. At this point Faith drew a rather quick breath. She was on her knees before the trunk, and shielding her face a little from Miss Linden, she sat looking in--steadfastly at bits of French needlework and lappings of the daintier texture, lifting now and then, also daintily--the end or fold of something to see what lay underneath. There was so much food for meditation, as well as for industry, in this department, that Faith seemed not likely to get through it. How clearly she saw any one thing might be doubted. She made no progress. "You may see Endecott in everything, Faith," said Miss Linden. "In the matter of quantity I could sometimes give him help, but every colour and style had to be matched with the particular pattern in his mind. I wish you could have seen it!--it was one of the prettiest things I ever saw. Those three days in Paris!--I told you they were pretty days." Faith gave her a swift look, very flushed and very grave. A pretty picture of wonder and humility she was; and something more was borne witness to by those soft eyes, but Miss Linden had only a second's look of them. The racks seemed to hold the light varieties, each done up by itself. There was the little French parasol in its box; the fan box, with most pretty contents. There was the glove box, beautifully filled, and holding among the rest the prettiest of riding gauntlets--all of just the right size, by some means. At the other end to keep this in countenance, was a little French riding hat in its own pasteboard container. The riding whip Mr. Linden had given her long before. There were stockings in pretty variety; and handkerchiefs--not laced and embroidered, but of fine material and dainty borders. The various minor things were too many to mention. Faith was in an overwhelmed state, though she hardly shewed that. Her fingers made acquaintance almost fearfully with the various items that lay in sight; finally she laid both hands upon the edge of the rack. "It is exactly like him!--" she said in profound gravity. His sister laughed--a gay, pleased little laugh. "_He_ said they were all like you, Faith. His fear of touching your individuality was comical. Do you know he says he shall expect you always to have a brown merino?--so you will find one there." But first, at the bottom of the rack, under all the others, was the flat mantilla box; and its contents of muslin and silk, in their elegant simpleness, left Miss Bezac's "nowhere". How Faith would have liked to shut up the trunk then and run away--nobody knew! For she only quietly lifted out the rack and took the view of what came next. It was not the brown merino!--it was something made up,--the gayest, prettiest, jauntiest dressing gown; with bunches of tiny carnations all over it, as bright as Faith's own. Though that be saying much, for at this hers reached their acme. "How beautiful--" she said gravely, while her poor fluttering thoughts were saying everything else. "How perfectly beautiful!--" And as delicately as if it had been made of silver tissue, Faith laid it off on the rack. Laid it off to find the next stagc in the shape of morning wrappers, also made up. "They fit so loosely at best--" Miss Linden explained,--"and Endecott knew your height." Now neither in these nor in what lay beneath was there such profusion as would furnish a new dress every day (for an indefinite number) at a watering place; but there was just such as befitted a young lady, who being married in summer-days yet looked forward to winter, and was to be the delight of somebody's eyes summer and winter. They were downcast and wonderfully soft eyes that looked at those morning dresses now,--as Miss Linden could see when by chance they were lifted. But that was not generally; with lowered eyelids and unsteady lips Faith went on taking out one after the other. Below, the packages were more solid and compact, some close at both ends, others shewing shawl fringes. Dress after dress lay in close order--muslin and silk and stuff; under them pieces of linen and flannel such as Pattaquasset could hardly have furnished. One particular parcel, long and soft, was tied with white ribband. Faith looked at it doubtfully. "Must I open this, Pet?" "It is tied up for that express purpose." A little suspicious of each new thing, Faith pulled the easy knot of white ribband and uncovered what lay within. It was a white embroidered muslin, fine and beautiful in its clear texture, as was the wrought tracery upon it. No colour relieved this white field,--a pair of snowy gloves lay upon it, with the lace and sash for its finish of adornment; with them a folded handkerchief, plain like the rest but particularly fine. Separately wrapped up in soft paper that but half hid them, were the little rosetted slippers. "He said you must have none but real flowers," Miss Linden said--too softly to call for a look in answer. That dress was what not even Miss Bezac had been able to make Faith look at in imagination--and there it lay before her! Perhaps, to tell the truth, she had been hardly willing to realize to herself the future necessity of such a thing. The blood came deeper to her cheeks, then left them in another moment pale. Faith laid her face in her hands on the edge of the trunk,--for once overcome. Again Miss Linden's quick impulse was to come to Faith's side, and again she checked herself; thinking perhaps that she was too new a friend to have her words pleasant just then--feeling that there was but one person who _could_ say what ought to be said. So she sat quite still, nor even turned her eyes towards Faith except now and then in a quick glance of sympathy and interest; both which were shewn in her folded hands and averted head. But very soon Faith was softly doing the parcel up again in its white ribbands; and then she began to lay the things back in the trunk, with quick hands but dainty. Half way through, Faith suddenly stopped. "Shall I put these back here for the present?"--she said, looking towards Miss Linden. "For the present, dear?--I am not sure that I understand." "Just now--till I can arrange some other place to put them." "I have nothing to do with 'this place'," said Miss Linden smiling,--"it came with my trunks, that is all." Faith coloured again and went on with what she was doing. Miss Linden watched her. "Faith," she said, "don't finish that work just now,--sit still there and read Endy's letter--won't you, darling? I am going down to pay your mother a visit." And with a kiss and embrace she was gone. Faith's hands stopped their work as the door closed, and she sat still, looking at the voiceless messages of love, care, thought, and anticipation, which surrounded her. Looking dreamily, and a little oppressed; and when she moved her hand it was not first to get her letter, but to draw out the locket from her bosom and see Mr. Linden's face; as if she wanted his look to authenticate all these messages, or to meet her own heart's answer. At any rate it was not till after a good study of the little picture that Faith put it away and took out her letter. It was not _just_ like having him there to talk or caress away her discomfort--and yet it was like it, though the pages were well on their way before the trousseau was even alluded to. But the words, the atmosphere of the letter made Faith breathe easier,--it was like the wand of the Fairy Order, smoothing out the little tangled skeins of silk. And when that subject came up, it was touched so lightly, so delicately, yet with such evident pleasure,--there was such mingling of play and earnest in the charge given her to be ready before he came, and such a strong wish that he could have saved her all the work,--the terror of the trousseau could not stand before it. And at the hope that her taste would be suited, Faith's heart made a spring the other way. She drank in every word of the letter; and then feeling healed, though tender-spirited yet, she finished putting away her riches and went down stairs. Mrs. Derrick having gone off to attend to dinner preparations, Miss Linden sat alone, singing to herself softly in company with the March wind and the fire, and (of all things!) at work upon one of Miss Bezac's mantillas. Faith's two hands were laid upon the one which held the needle. "Not to-day--" said the silver voice which Miss Linden must learn to know. "Yes--unless you'll give me somewhat else to do!" she said leaning her sunshiny head back against Faith. "I was out of patience with myself because I could not do what no one but Endecott could--so in my woman's pride I took up something which he couldn't. What are _you_ going to do, darling?" Faith thought she knew why she was called "Pet"--but she only kissed her. "I shall have to ask you a great deal about those things up stairs," she said;--"but to-day I want to see you What would you like?" The thing Miss Linden liked best, was to see some of her brother's old haunts; and a notable drive the two had that afternoon. Wherein, under the light of a Spring day, Miss Linden saw Pattaquasset, the Quapaw people, (part of them) and not least of all, Faith herself, who shewed herself very much as the Spring day. And of Mr. Linden his sister talked the while, to her heart's content, and Faith's--in the full joy of that affection which can never say enough, speaking to that which can never hear too much. It would be long to tell how the trousseau was made up. Mrs. Iredell came from Pequot and established herself in a farmhouse at Pattaquasset; and the two future sisters put their heads and their hands--a good deal of their hearts too--into the work that was done in Faith's blue-wainscotted white room. There they sat and sewed, day after day; while the days grew warm, and the apple blossoms burst, and the robins whistled. They whistled of Mr. Linden's coming home, to Faith, and sent her needle with a quicker impulse. She never spoke of it. But Miss Linden knew whither the look went, that seemed to go no further than the apple trees; and what was the pressure that made a quick breath now and then and a hurried finger. Perhaps her own pulses began to move with accelerated beat. And when towards the end of May Mrs. Iredell found business occasion for being in Quilipeak a fortnight, Pet so urged upon Mrs. Derrick the advantages of the scheme, that she carried off Faith with her. It would break the waiting and watching, and act as a diversion, she said,--and Faith did not contradict her. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Established fairly in that great Quilipeak hotel, Faith found her way of life very pleasant. Mrs. Iredell was much in her own room, coming out now and then for a while to watch the two young things at their work. A pretty sight!--for some of _the_ work had been brought along,--fast getting finished now, under the witching of "sweet counsel." Miss Linden declared that for her part she was sorry it was so near done,--what Faith thought about it she did not say. Meantime, June was using her rosy wings day by day, and in another week Mr. Linden might be looked for. Just what steamer he would take was a. little uncertain, but from that time two people at least would begin to hope, and a day or two before that time they were to go back to Pattaquasset. The week was near the ending--so was the work,--and in their pretty parlour the two ladies wrought on as usual. The morning had been spent in explorations with Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh, and now it was afternoon of a cool June day, with a fresh breeze scouting round to see what sweets it could pick up, and coming in at the open window to report. On the table was a delicate tinted summer muslin spread out to receive its trimming, over which Faith and Miss Linden stood and debated and laughed,--then Faith went back to her low seat in the window and the hem of a pocket handkerchief. So--half looking out and half in,--the quiet street sounds murmuring with the rustle of the many elm leaves,--Faith sat, the wind playing Cupid to her Psyche; and Miss Linden stood by the table and the muslin dress. "Faith," she said contemplatively, "What flowers do you suppose Endecott would get you to wear with this--out of a garden full?" "It is difficult to tell"--said Faith; "he finds just what he wants, just where I shouldn't look for it." And a vision of red oak-leaves, and other illustrations, flitted across Faith's fancy. "Very true," said Miss Linden,--"precisely what Aunt Iredell said when she first saw you,--but I am inclined to think, that the first day you appear in this you will see him appear with a bunch of white roses--probably Lamarques; if--" "Why Lamarques?" said Faith sewing away. "Pet, how pleasant this wind is." Miss Linden did not immediately answer. She stood resting her finger tips on the muslin dress, looking down at it with an intentness that might have seen through thicker stuff, the colour in her cheeks deepening and deepening. "Why?" she said abstractedly,--"they're beautiful--don't you think so?--Oh Faith!"--With a joyous clasp of the hands she sprang to the window, and dropped the curtain like a screen before her. There was no time to ask questions--nor need. Faith heard the opening door, the word spoken to the waiter,--saw Mr. Linden himself come in. Pet sprang towards him with a joyful exclamation--an unselfish one, as it seemed; for after a moment's concentrated embrace which embodied the warmth of half a dozen, she disappeared out of the room. Mr. Linden came forward, looking after her at first with surprise,--then as if a possible explanation occurred to him, he stood still by the mantelpiece, watching the door by which she had gone. Faith had waited behind her screen--she could not have told why--utterly motionless for that minute; then a little quick push sent the curtain aside, and she came to him, "Faith!" he exclaimed--"are you hiding from me?--My dear Mignonette--" She hid from him then,--all her face could; for her gladness was of that kind which banishes colour instead of bringing it. He let her stand so a few minutes, himself very silent and still; then one hand brought her face within reach. "Little bird!" he said, "I have you safe now,--you need not flutter any more!" Perhaps that thought was hardly composing, for Faith's head drooped yet, in a statue-like stillness. Not very unlike a bird on its rest however, albeit her gravity was profound. And rest--to speak it fairly--is a serious thing to anybody, when it has been in doubt or jeopardy, or long withheld. What could be done to bring the colour back, that Mr. Linden tried. "Faith," he said, "is this all I am to have from your lips--of any sort? Where did you get such pale cheeks, precious one?--did I frighten you by coming so suddenly? You have not been ill again?" "No,"--she said, raising her eyes for the first time to look fairly in his face. But that look brought Faith back to herself; and though she drooped her head again, it was for another reason, and her words were in a different key. "We didn't expect you for a week more." "No--because I didn't want you to be watching the winds. Mignonette, look up!" Which she did, frankly,--her eyes as delicious a compound of gravity and gladness as any man need wish to have bestowed upon him. "Pet brought me here,--" she said. "Well do you suppose _I_ have brought an invoice of Dutch patience?" "I don't think you are particularly patient,"--said Faith demurely,--"except when you choose. Oh Endy!--" That last note had the true ring of joy. Her forehead touched his shoulder again; the rest of her sentence was unspoken. "I do not choose, to-day. Mignonette, therefore tell me--do you think I have had all I am fairly entitled to?" She flushed all over, but lifted up her head and kissed him. Mr. Linden watched her, smiling then though she might not see it. "My little beauty," he said, "you have grown afraid of me--do you know that?" "Not very--" she said. Certainly Faith was not good at defending herself. "No, not very. Just enough to give us both something to do. Mignonette, are you ready for me?" Faith's face was bowed again almost out of sight. "Don't you think," she half whispered, "that Pet must be ready to see you, by this time?" For all answer--except a smile--she was led across the room to a seat near the window. But _just_ there, was the table and its muslin dress! Mr. Linden stopped short, and Faith felt and understood the clasp of his arm about her waist, of his hand upon hers. But he only said laughingly, "Faith, was _that_ what made you hide away?" "Pet hid me," Faith said very much abashed;--"not I. She let fall the curtain." Mr. Linden let it fall again, in effect, for he quitted all troublesome subjects, and sat down by her side; not loosing his hold of her, indeed, nor taking his eyes from her, but in the gravity of his own deep happiness there was not much to disturb her quiet. "I sent you a telegraphic despatch this morning to Pattaquasset, dear Faith,--I did not mean to take you quite by surprise. And my stopping anywhere short of that was merely because the arrangement of trains forced me to lose an hour here on the way. I thought it lost." "It hasn't proved so." "There was such a doubt of my being in time for this steamer, that I would not even speak of it. Faith, I have not often heard such music as the swash of the water about her paddle-wheels as we set off." "Didn't you hear the swash of her paddle-wheels as you came in?" said Faith merrily. "No!" The wistful gladness of her eye was a pretty commentary. "Is Miss Reason in full activity yet?" said Mr. Linden smiling,--_his_ comment. "She has had no interruption, you know, for a great while." "Take care of her, Faith,--she has a great deal of work before her." The look that answered this was a little conscious, but shewed no fear. There was nothing very unreasonable in the face that bent over hers; the eyes with their deep look, lit up now and then with flashes of different feelings; the mouth wearing its sweet changeable expression. A little browner than usual, from the voyage,--a little thinner, perhaps, with hard work; Mr. Linden still looked remarkably well and like himself; though Faith felt that nameless change--that mingling of real and unreal, of friend and stranger, which a long absence always brings. One minute he was himself, as he had been in Pattaquasset,--giving her lessons, riding with her, reading to her, going off to school with one of Mrs. Stoutenburgh's white roses. The next--he was a gentleman just arrived from Europe!--from whom she could not get away. Perhaps the last impression was the most remarkable. But in spite of this, Faith was herself, every inch of her; with the exception of that one little difference which Mr. Linden had pointed out and which was not to be denied. Some time had passed, when Faith felt Pet's little hand come round her neck--the other was round Mr. Linden. Faith's start was instant; springing up she went to the window where behind the curtain lay the work her hand had dropped. Faith gathered it up. She would have put that muslin dress out of the way then!--but there it lay in plain sight and close neighbourhood. Yet somebody must do it, and it was her business; and with cheeks of a very pretty deep rose that set off her white drapery, Faith applied herself to the due folding of the troublesome muslin. In two minutes Pet came to help her, but in a different mood, though her eyelashes were glittering. "Endy, come here and look at this--I think it is so pretty. What flowers must Faith wear with it?" "Carnations look very well." "I said white roses."-- "Which will you wear, Mignonette?" said Mr. Linden. He was favoured with a glance from two gentle eyes, which it was worth a little wickedness to get. It was only a flash. "I think Pet is right,"--she answered with great gravity. He came close to her side, the low-spoken "you shall have them--" touched more things than one. "What do you suppose I found her doing?" said Pet, folding down a sleeve. "Pet!"--said Faith. "Don't touch that! Not to-night." "Do you wish me to leave it unfolded?--the servants will perhaps sweep in the morning." "Pet," said Faith softly,--"don't _you_ raise a dust! We might not lay it so soon." "Endy," said his sister, "how do you do?--you haven't told me." "Perfectly well, dear Pet." "Turn round to the light and let me see--You've grown, thin, child!" He laughed--giving her a kiss and embrace to make up for that; which was only half successful. But she spoke in her former tone. "He looks pretty strong, Faith,--I think I might tell him." "Mr. Linden," said Faith, "won't you please ask Pet not to tell you something?" "I will ask _you_," he said softly, laying his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Faith--I think we may dispense with 'Mr. Linden' _now_, even before people." She was oddly abashed; glanced up at him and glanced down, with the grave air of a rebuked child. There was nothing about it that was not pretty; and the next thing her eyes went to Pet. How lovely and precious she looked as she stood there! with her sweet shy face and changing colours. Mr. Linden held her to his breast and kissed her more than once,--but in a way that was beyond chiding. "Why must I ask Pet not to tell me something?" "It is nothing great!"--said Faith stammering over her words--"Only you won't like it very well--but you will have to hear it. I thought another time--that's all." "He'll never hear it from you--what I mean," said Miss Linden, "so he shall from me. We'll see whether he likes it. Know then, Endecott, that I found this child absorbed in wedding dresses!" "Wedding dresses!" he repeated. "More than one?" "Oh Endy," said his sister with a sort of laughing impatience, "what a boy you are! I mean other people's." Faith stood smiling a little, letting her manage it her own way. "Imagine it," Miss Linden went on,--"imagine this one little real flower bending over a whole garden of muslin marigolds and silk sunflowers and velvet verbenas, growing unthriftily in a bed of white muslin!" Mr. Linden laughed, as if the picture were a pleasant one. "Mignonette," he said,--"how could you bear the sight?" "I was trying to make the best of it." "In whose behalf were you so much interested?" "Maria Davids," said Faith glancing up at him. "But I was _not_ interested,--only so far as one is in making the best of anything." "Who is trying to make the best of her?" Faith looked down and looked grave as she answered--"Jonathan Fax." Mr. Linden's face was grave too, then, with the recollections that name brought up. "There is one place in the house she cannot touch," he said. "Faith, I am glad she is not to take care of _him_." "I have thought that so often!" "Do you like my story, Endy?" said Miss Linden presently. "Very much--the subject. I am less interested in the application. Who next is to be married in Pattaquasset?" "I don't know."-- "Aunt Iredell says she wishes _you_ would be married here," observed Pet demurely. To which insinuation Faith opposed as demure a silence. "Oh Endecott," said his sister changing her tone and speaking in that mixed mood which so well became her,--"I'm so happy that you are here! This week Faith has been pretty quiet, by dint of being away from home; but nothing would have kept her here next week--and I had been thinking what we should do,--if the week should run on into two--or if the wind should blow!" She spoke laughingly, yet with a voice not quite steady. "'So he bringeth them to the haven where they would be'!" Mr. Linden said. But his voice was clear as the very depth of feeling of which it told. "Aunt Iredell cannot have her wish, Pet," he added presently,--"there would be at least three negative votes." "I suppose that! But I shall come down Saturday to hear what wishes _are_ in progress." "Won't you go with us, Pet, to-morrow?" said Faith earnestly. She had been standing in a sort of abstracted silence. "No, pretty sister, I will not. But I shall keep all those ruffles here to finish, and Saturday Reuben Taylor shall escort them and me to Pattaquasset." CHAPTER XXXIX. Things were yet in their morning light and shadow when Faith set off on this her first real journey with Mr. Linden. She felt the strangeness of it,--in the early breakfast, the drive alone with him to the station,--to stand by and see him get her ticket, to sit with him alone in the cars (there seemed to be no one else there!) were all new. The towers of Quilipeak rose up in the soft distance, shining in the morning sun: over meadow and hillside and Indian-named river the summer light fell in all its beauty. Dewdrops glittered on waving grain and mown grass; labourers in their shirt-sleeves made another gleaming line of scythe blades, or followed the teams of red and brindled oxen that bowed their heads to the heavy yoke. Through all this, past all this, the Pequot train flew on towards Pattaquasset; sending whole lines of white smoke to scour the country, despatching the shrill echoes of its whistle in swift pursuit. Faith saw it all with that vividness of impression which leaves everything sun-pictured on the memory forever. In it all she felt a strange "something new;"--which gave the sunlight such a marked brilliancy, and made dewdrops fresher than ordinary, and bestowed on mown grass and waving grain such rich tints and gracious motion. It was not merely the happiness of the time;--Faith's foot had a little odd feeling that every step was on new ground. It was a thoughtful ride to Pattaquasset, though she was innocently busy with all pleasant things that came in her way, and the silveriest of tones called Mr. Linden's attention to them. He did not leave her thoughts too much chance to muse: the country, the various towns, gave subject enough for the varied comment and information Faith loved so much. Mr. Linden knew the places well, and their history and legends, and the foreign scenes that were like--or unlike--them, or perhaps a hayfield brought up stories of foreign agriculture, or a white sailing cloud carried them both off to castles in the air. One thing Mr. Linden might have made known more fully than he did--and that was his companion. For several times in the course of the morning, first in the station at Quilipeak, then in the cars, some friend or acquaintance of his own came to greet or welcome him. And Faith could see the curiosity that glanced at so much of her as her veil left in view,--Mr. Linden saw it too, with some amusement. And yet though all this was a little rouging, it was interesting to her in another way,--shewing her Mr. Linden as she had never seen him, among the rest of the world,--giving her little glimpses of his former life; for the bits of talk were sometimes quite prolonged. "Mignonette," he said after one of these occasions, "some people here are very anxious to make your acquaintance." "I am glad you don't want to gratify them." "Why?--In the first place, I do." "Do you!"--said Faith, somewhat fearfully. "Certainly. I, like you, am 'a little proud of my carnations'. How do you like this way of travelling?" "I like it such a morning as this," said Faith. "I don't think it's the pleasantest. But to-day it's delicious." "Yes--to-day," he repeated. "What way of travelling do you like best?" "You know I never travelled at all, except to Quilipeak and Pequot. I believe I like a wagon or a sleigh better than this,--in general." "That is our last whistling post!" said Mr. Linden "Faith, I shall be glad to get rid of that veil. And I have so many things to say to you that cannot be said here. Is Mr. Somers in Pattaquasset still?" "Everybody's there--" Faith answered. The little shake of the head with which this intelligence (so far as regarded Mr. Somers) was received, Faith might understand as she pleased, for in another minute they were at the Pattaquasset station; the train was puffing off, and she standing there on the platform with Mr. Linden. A little way back was Jerry and the wagon--that Faith saw at a glance; but there too, and much nearer, was Squire Stoutenburgh--in doubt whether to handle the new corners separately or together, in his great delight. From all this Mr. Linden rescued Faith with most prompt skill; carried her off to the wagon, shook hands with Dromy and dismissed him, and then with the reins in his own hands had her all to himself once more. And Jerry dashed on as if he knew his driver. "Mignonette, please put back your veil," were the first words. Which Faith did, and looked at him, laughing, blushing and a little shy, all in one pleasant combination. "What have you been doing to make yourself lovelier, little Sunbeam?" "I have been a year without seeing you,"--said Faith with excellent seriousness. "My presence seems to have no counteracting effect. By the same rule, I should be--marvellous! To you perceive it?" Her eye gave one of its little flashes, but Faith immediately looked away. "Do you know," said Mr. Linden, "I can hardly believe that this year of exile is over--and that there are none others to follow it. What do you suppose will be the first subject you and I shall consider?" "Mr. Skip," said Faith gravely. "Mr. Skip merits no consideration whatever. Is Miss Bezac at work on that dress?" "Because he don't live with us any longer, Endecott." "Does he not?--Unfortunate man!" "And Dromy is in his place." "My dear, my own place is the only one I can think of with any intense interest. Except yours." "Because we have had no farm to manage this winter," said Faith; "so Dromy could do what we wanted." "I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Linden,--"he never used to be able to do what I wanted. Who has managed for you? Mr. Simlins? And has Mr. Skip gone off in a pumpkin with Cinderella? Faith, there is the door where I had the first sight of you--my Rose of delight!" he added softly, as if all the days since then were passing through his mind in sweet procession. Faith was silent, for she too had something to think of; and there was no more time to finish either train of conversation that had been started. Both dropped, even before Jerry drew up at the gate; and if she had not gained one object she had the other. By this time it was about eleven o'clock. It was rarely very hot in Pattaquasset; and now though under a sunny sky there were summer breezes rustling in the trees. Both mingled in Faith's senses with the joy of going into that house again so accompanied. That gladness of getting home in a pleasant hour! No one was in the cool sitting-room--Faith pushed open the door between and went into the eating-room, followed by Mr. Linden. There was Mrs. Derrick; and what of all things doing but _doing up_ some of Faith's new ruffles! It was a glad meeting,--what though Mrs. Derrick had no hand to give anybody. Then she went to get rid of the starch, and the two others to their respective rooms. But in a very few minutes indeed Faith was by her side again. "Mother--has Cindy come?" "She's coming to-morrow, child. But there's not much to do for dinner,--_that_'s all under way." Faith bared her arms and plunged into dairy and kitchen to do all that her mother characterized as "not much," and a little more. When every possible item had been cared for--the strawberries looked over--the cream made ready--the table set--the lettuce washed--the dishes warming for the vegetables--the pickles and bread on the table--and Faith had through all this delighted Mrs. Derrick as much as possible with her company, sight and presence at least,--for Faith's words were a trifle less free than usual;--when it was all done and the eating-room in a state of pleasant shady summer readiness, Faith went "ben," as they say in Scotland. She came into the sitting-room, as quietly as usual, and coming up to Mr. Linden laid a hand on his shoulder. "My own dear little Mignonette!--Do you feel less afraid of me, now I am here?" She hesitated to answer at first, then spoke with a very dainty shy look--"I don't think I ever had fear enough of you to hurt anything." "See that you do not begin now! What have you been about, all these long months? You were as chary of details as if I had no right to them." Faith looked gravely out of the window before she said, "I have not been studying this year, Endecott." There was so clearly some reason for it, that Mr. Linden's first thought was one of anxiety. "What has been the matter?" "You know I told you Mr. Skip had gone away?" "Yes." "And that he went because we hadn't any farm to manage?" "What has the farm to do with your studies?" "What shall I do if I make you very angry with me?" said Faith, the least touch of seriousness mingling with her words, "You had better ask what I shall do. Has Mr. Deacon come back and taken possession?" "Yes--And you know, Endy, we used to live by the farm. When that was gone we had to live by something else. I wouldn't tell you if I could help your knowing it." "Mignonette, what have you been doing?" "You know what Pet found me at?" "Yes."--She could not tell whether he saw the whole,--he was clearly in the mind to hear it, taking both her hands in his. "I did that," said Faith. "Did what?" "I got work from Miss Bezac.--She gave me lessons." "For how long?" "Since--about a fortnight after you went away. It was then Squire Deacon took away the farm. From that time until Pet came--" she added with a little rise of colour in her cheeks. "And that all the daylight and candlelight hours of each day?" "O no, not that. I had long walks to Miss Bezac's, you know--or rides--every day or two; for we kept Jerry; and I never sewed before breakfast. And in the evening I used to write letters--part of the evening." "Child! child!"--He dropped her hands, and began to pace up and down the moderate limits of Mrs. Derrick's best carpet. Until after a few turns Faith put herself straight in his way and intercepted him, with a very innocent face. "Faith, did no one protest against this--for me?" "Yes, sir."-- "And you knew that I had guarded--that I had _tried_ to guard you against any such possibility?" Faith paused. "Yes, I knew,--but Endy, that couldn't make any difference." "It did not--How, could not?" "It ought not," she said softly and colouring. "Can you tell why?" "You know, Endy, it was better,--it was right,--it was better that I should work for myself." "Never, Mignonette--while I could work for you. How do you expect to manage when you are my wife?--And do you think I had no right even to _know_ about it?" "I thought--now was the best time--" Faith said. "Am I to learn from this and similar instances what my wife will expect of me if I chance to be sick or in trouble?" It touched her. She coloured again to the roots of her hair. "Do you think I did wrong, Endy?" she said doubtfully, yet in an appealing fashion. "I cannot say you did right." "But when you could do me no good,"--said Faith very gently,--"and I should only have given you pain--for nothing?" "It would not have given me pain to have you tell it--and the thing does now. Besides, in a great many cases the thought that it is pain 'for nothing' is a mistake. I might know some remedy when you did not. Self sacrifice will never run wild in my nature--as it is inclined to do in yours, but just imagine it once in the ascendant and me with a bad headache (which I never have),--it can only give you pain to hear of it--so I tell you of it the next day. But if I had told you at the time--what conjurations of your little fingers! what quick-witted alleviations!--till the headache becomes almost a pleasure to both of us." Faith was very near the unwonted demonstration of tears. She stood still, looking down, till she could look up safely. "I will not do so again, Endy.--About important things, I mean," "You know, Faith, I am speaking less of this one case, than of the daily course of future action. Is not perfect frankness, as well as perfect truth, best? And if I call for your sympathy in all manner of small and great things, will you let mine lie idle?" "I might like it,"--said Faith honestly. "But in great things I will not again, Endecott." "Take care you get the right measure for things," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Frankness makes a deliciously plain way for one's feet." Faith looked sober again, at the idea that she should have failed in frankness. Then put her hand in his and looked smiling up at him. "There is one thing I will not keep from you any longer,"--she said. "What is that?--the seal of this little compact of plain speaking?" "Strawberries!"-- "Only another style of nomenclature,"--said Mr. Linden. "You must take the trouble to go into the other room for them." And light-heartedly Faith preceded him into the other room, where the dinner was ready. A very simple dinner, but Mrs. Derrick would not have had anything less than a roast chicken for Mr. Linden, and the lettuce and potatoes did very well for a summer day; and Faith's waiting on table made it only more pleasant. Talk flowed all the while; of a thousand and one things; for Mrs. Derrick's sympathies had a wider range since Mr. Linden had been in Germany. Indeed the talk was principally between those two. It was a remarkably long dinner, without multiplication of courses--there was so much to say! Many were the pleasant things swallowed with the strawberries. It is said hunger is the best sauce; it's not true; happiness is a better. And then--what came then? Truly, the same over again--looking and talking, without the strawberries. Which were not wanted; especially when Faith was dressed out with roses, as she was presently after dinner. As she _would_ wash the tumblers and spoons in the dining-room, spite of all Mrs. Derrick could say, so Mr. Linden would stay there too; not indeed to do anything but look on, and bestow the roses as aforesaid. Talking to her sometimes in English, sometimes in French, with preliminary instructions in German. "Mignonette," he said, "I have three letters for you to read." "Letters, Endecott!--Who has written to me?" "Through me--three regions of country." "What do you mean?" Just as she spoke the words, Faith paused and set down the tumbler she was wiping. Her ears had caught the sound of a modest knock at the front door. She looked at Mr. Linden. "Stay here, Endy--please!" she said as she threw down her towel and ran off. But Faith's hope of a chance was disappointed. She ushered somebody into the sitting-room and came back gravely and flushed to Mr. Linden. "It's Mr. Somers--and he wants to see you, Endecott!" Faith went at her tumblers, and simultaneously, greatly to the dismay of one party as to the surprise of the other, in walked Mr. Somers after her. "Miss Derrick told me you were in this room, sir," said the clergyman shaking Mr. Linden's hand,--"so I came in. Ha! I am glad to be one of the first to welcome you back. How do you do, Mr. Linden? You've been a great while from Pattaquasset!--and you've been missed, I don't doubt." Apparently not by Mr. Somers! But Mr. Linden met all the advances as he should, merely stating his belief in the general proposition that "there is always somebody to miss everybody." "Will you take a seat here, sir?" he said--"or may I go with you to the next room?" "I--have no choice," said Mr. Somers looking benignantly around;--"it is very pleasant here, very!--cool;--perhaps Miss Derrick will have no objection to our taking our seats here?" Faith did not say, but as Mr. Somers had taken her leave for granted, and his seat consequently, she was saved that trouble. How she reddened at the thought of the roses with which she was dressed! And there she stood in full view, washing her spoons! But Mr. Somers looked the other way. "I--I am very happy to see you again, Mr. Linden--very happy indeed, sir! I heard from Squire Stoutenburgh that you were expected, and I lost no time. How have you enjoyed your health, sir, this year? A year's a long time! isn't it?" Mr. Linden, taking his seat as in duty bound, looked abstractedly at Faith and the spoons and the roses, and answered according to the evidence. "Yes, Mr. Somers,--and yet it depends very much upon how far the two ends of the year are apart in other respects. The 'Voyage autour de ma chambre' could never _seem_ very long, whatever time it took." "Ha!"--said Mr. Somers blandly,--he hadn't the remotest idea what this speech might mean,--"no. Did you have a good passage coming over? We had every sign of it." "Very good,"--said Mr. Linden smiling,--"and very stormy." "Ah?"--said Mr. Somers,--"very good and very stormy? Well I shouldn't have thought that. But I suppose you have got to be such a traveller that you don't mind which way the wind blows, if it blows you on, ha?--like Dr. Harrison. _He_ never minds the weather. Dr. Harrison's a great loss to Pattaquasset too," said Mr. Somers looking at Faith and smiling a little more openly;--"all our--ha!--our pleasantest members of society seem to be running away from us! That's what Mrs. Somers says." "One more spoon--and put them up,"--thought Faith,--"and then I'll be away!"-- "But I've come to see if I can't get you to do me a favour, Mr. Linden," said Mr. Somers withdrawing his eyes and mind from her. "I--should be very much obliged to you indeed! I'm almost afraid to ask, for fear I sha'n't get it." Faith wiped her spoon slowly. "I like to do favours," said Mr. Linden,--"at least I think I should. But I cannot imagine how you can give me a chance, Mr. Somers." "Don't you think it would be a great gratification to all your old friends in Pattaquasset, if you would consent to fill my pulpit next Sunday? They--I believe they'd come from all over the country!--and it would be--a--it would be a very great gratification indeed to me. Can't I prevail with you?" Faith had ceased her work and was standing quite still, with bended head, and cheeks which had gathered their colour into two vivid spots. On those carnations Mr. Linden's eyes rested for a moment, with a strange feeling of pleasure, of emotion. The sort of touched smile upon his lips when he spoke, did not, it may be said, belong to Mr. Somers. His answer was very simple and straightforward. "I should like to see and speak to all my old friends again, sir, more than I can tell you--and I think they would be glad to see me. I could do it so well in no other way. Thank you, Mr. Somers!--it is you who confer the favour." "Then you'll do it?" said Mr. Somers, delighted. "I am very happy--very fortunate indeed! It will be quite a relief. And a pleasure--a very great pleasure--a--I assure you, sir. It's profitable for--a--people to have a change--they listen--ha!--they hear the same things said in a different way; and it is often striking. And it is certainly profitable to the pastor. Well, Mr. Linden, I shall make a great many people happy,--and Mrs. Somers, she'll set off on her side to tell the news. How long are you going--a--to remain in Pattaquasset?--But I don't know," added he laughing,--"as I ought to ask!" Faith had carried her spoons summarily to the cup-board, and was sitting at an open window near it, looking out. "And I cannot answer," said Mr. Linden. "I have hardly got past my arrival yet, sir." "No--certainly. I was--a--premature. You must excuse me. And I have no right to take up any more of your time,--as you have so kindly--a--consented to give me Sunday. What is the state of religion now, abroad, sir?" The answer to which comprehensive enquiry drew on into a talk of some length, although Mr. Somers had declared he must go and had no right to stay. For a little while Faith sat still by her window, but then she vanished and appeared at Mrs. Derrick's side in the kitchen. The dishes were all done there too, and Mrs. Derrick was "ticing" about,--talking to Faith and wishing Mr. Somers would go, some time before he went. Faith heard the closing door, and the light returning step,--then a clear--not loud-spoken--"Mignonette--where are you?" Faith sprang back through the passage, and stood in the eating-room again. With a very sweet sort of gravity. All her mind and her face full of the thought that he was going to preach for Mr. Somers. "What are you about, little Sunbeam?--are you busy?" "No." "Then first I want a talk with you, and then a walk with you,--do you want the same with me?--or are you tired?" "No--yes;--I'm not tired a bit." "Are you nervous?" he said, drawing her off into the next room. "No!" she said laughing a little,--"did you ever think I was, Endecott?"--But Faith's heart beat somewhat strangely. "I am going to try you--" he said as he sat down by her; "so if you are, shut up your eyes." There was no sign of shutting up in Faith's eyes. She looked at him, not indeed assuredly, but steadily, and with a wee smile. Eye and smile were met and held, until he had taken her left hand and held that too; but then looking down at it, Mr. Linden gravely took out a little gold ring and proceeded to try how well its dimensions agreed with those of the finger for which it was destined. Nothing moved of Faith but her eyes, which followed his, and the fluttering colour--which fluttered indeed! went and came like the lights on a wreath of vapour. Silently the hand, with both rings on, was looked at for a few moments--then held to his lips, with special greeting of those two fingers; and then, as he took off the second ring, Mr. Linden looked up at her. "Mignonette, when may I put it on again?" There seemed to be difficulty in Faith's answering. Probably she was making up her mind to speak, but he had to wait for her words to be ready. He waited quietly, as if he expected it; looking down at the hand he held, and saying nothing unless by the clasp of its little fingers. "Do you know where you are going yet Endy?"--she said in a very low voice. "No, darling--not certainly." "Then--do you want to know this yet?" "Very much." Faith had expected no less; she had had fair warning; and besides in her heart could not but confess that Mr. Linden had reason. Little as she might care to disturb the existing state of things, which to her mind was pleasant enough, it was clear that his mind on the subject was different; and she could not find fault with that. There was a pause again, of quiet waiting on one side and great difficulty of utterance on the other, and the words when they came were in the lowest possible key. "What do you wish?" "What I have been waiting for all these years." "But as to time?" "As little as possible." "I know,--but what is that, Endy?"--she said with very timid intonation. "'As little as possible'?" he said, raising his eyes with a laughing look to her face,--"the words hardly need explanation--I might have stayed Mr. Somers this afternoon. It cannot be too soon for me, Mignonette--but I do not know what is possible for you." What was possible for her! It almost took Faith's breath away. Because she acknowledged Mr. Linden's right to his wish. She was in great confusion, besides. "I will do what you please!" she said at length. "You may arrange it with mother." "No, with you," said Mr. Linden,--"what do you please? Am I to repeat the passage of Quapaw creek?" She looked up and looked at him, and said yes. It was a look any man would have liked to have given him. Not without a little fear of what he might say, those eyes put such a pure faith in him and were so ready to answer his pleasure. She waited for his answer, though her eyes did not. "You know, dear Faith, I sent you word to be ready for me,--is that done?" "Yes nearly." "'Nearly' is soon despatched," said Mr. Linden,--"and this is the month when, 'if ever, come perfect days'--Shall we say a week from to-day?" She looked very startled, soft though the glance was that again met his face. And for a moment the roses fairly fled away. "As soon as possible" this was, sure enough. They came back however, first stealthily and then swiftly, till Faith's face was bowed and her right hand with futile intent of concealment was interposed between it and Mr. Linden. But whether Faith meant to speak or meant not to speak, certain it is that words were none. "I cannot have this!" said Mr. Linden, as he took the shielding hand into his own possession,--"Faith, you shall not look pale about it. This is the second time I have banished the colour in the first twenty-four hours I have been home. And these roses I see now, seem to me to come from the same tree as the white ones. If you would look more boldly at the subject it would appear much less terrific--and the same might be said of me. What sort of a face have I down there in the carpet?" There was a little clasp of his hand which answered that; but though he could see Faith's lips give way he did not hear them speak. "Mignonette, the treaty waits your signature." "Yes, Endy,"--she said quaintly enough. Mr. Linden brought her face round within sight, saying--much as he had done at Quapaw creek--"Are you afraid, dear child?" "No--" she said timidly, and yet "no" it was. "Then it only needs my seal.--In one of the northern countries of Europe, Mignonette, the bride and bridegroom are expected to stand at the open window for an hour or two, in full dress,--so you see things are not so bad as they might be. Now my little beauty--are you ready for your walk?" CHAPTER XL. It was the pretty time of a summer afternoon. The sun, in the last quarter of almost his longest journey of the year, but high yet, sent warm rays to rest in the meadows and dally with the tree tops and sparkle on the Mong and its salt outlet. The slight rustle of leaves now and then was as often caused by a butterfly or a kildeer as by the breeze; sometimes by a heavy damask rose that suddenly sent down its rosy shower upon the ground. It was the very pastime of birds and insects and roses,--with that slight extra stir which told the time of day and that the afternoon siesta was at an end. Gathering roses as he went along, fastening them in her belt or her bonnet, Mr. Linden led Faith down the farm road by which he had driven her to the shore that first day after her illness. There was small danger of meeting any one,--it was not the time for loads of hay and grain, and little else passed that way: the labourers in the fields were seen and heard only at a distance Mr. Linden himself was in as gay and gladsome a mood as the day,--more lively indeed, and active--taking the "dolce far" without the "niente;" witnessing what "the year of exile" had been, by his joy in being at home, with June and Mignonette. The afternoon's talk had added something even to both their perfections--he could not forget it though he talked of other things. Neither did Faith forget it. Yet she laughed at Mr. Linden and with him; though as far as conversation was concerned she took a secondary part. She started no subject whatever, of the least moment. Subjects started of themselves--in numbers somewhat like the little butterflies that roused out of the clover as the intruding feet came by,--about as airy, about as flitting, not quite so purposeless. And thus in a way more summery than summary, Mr. Linden and Faith arrived at the shore. He found a shady seat for her, and with no "by your leave," except in manner, transferred her bonnet to an airy situation on a wild thorn. "Mignonette, do you know what I mean to do with you after Thursday?" "No, Endecott."-- "I shall put you before me on the wooden horse spoken of in the fairy tale, turn the pin under his right ear, and be off." "What's that story!"--said Faith, looking round at him (he was standing behind her) with the prettiest of bright flushed faces. "An authentic account of how a prince carried off a princess." "How did he?" "Got her consent first--(couldn't get anybody's else, but that did not matter)--ordered some one to bring the wooden horse to the front of the palace, placed her and himself as aforesaid, turned the pin, and disappeared from the curious eyes of the whole court. The story goes on to state that they both enjoyed the ride." "Was that what you meant when you asked me if I liked travelling in cars?--" said Faith, a very little laugh speaking her sense of the application. "Quick witted little princess!" said Mr. Linden. "The horse that refuses to carry double for your service, shall be dismissed from mine." "But I don't see much, yet," said Faith. "I don't understand the story nor you. I think you have taken me a great many rides on that horse." "Not en princesse," said Mr. Linden smiling. "The story is very simple, my dear. After shewing his wife various places of interest, and letting his friends see her, the prince arrives at home. It is said that he then finds his fortune--but I think that part of the story is fabulous, so don't set your heart upon it." "That's the story--but what do you mean, Endy?" "To give you such a ride. I mean that I am the prince, and that you (will be) the princess, who shall do all these things." Faith jumped up. "Do you!"-- "Truly I do, dear Mignonette." Faith's face was changing. The undoubted joy in her eye had yet a check somewhere. "But Endecott--" "Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?" "You haven't a wooden horse!"--she said with a delicious and most delicate mixture of frankness and timidity. "Are you sure of the fact?--and after all, Mademoiselle, what then?" The same look almost answered him without words. "I am not sure--" she said. "I thought so." "What is the point of the remark?" She hesitated between the two feelings. But frankness, or duty, carried it. "Because, Endy--if that were so,--I don't want to go!" "How did your royal pride get turned about?--that you will look at none _but_ a wooden horse?" She smiled at him, a little puzzled as of old, and not choosing to venture any further. "I suppose I know what you mean, my dear one," Mr. Linden said, taking both her hands in his, and smiling too; "but as I do not intend to be John Gilpin, you need not be his wife,--not yet. Besides, the horse--of whatever sort--will require less than you suppose; and for the prince and princess, they, Being in the air, Will not care How they fare!"-- Which words had an overcoming effect not only upon Faith's nascent scruples, but upon Faith herself; and a perfect series of little laughs of the most musical description rolled along a very limited extent of the shore, kept company by flushing colours as fair as the lights which were just then playing in the clouds overhead. Mr. Linden holding her hands still, watched his princess with the most perfect satisfaction. "Is your mind at rest?" he said. "You know I threatened to keep you all to myself for six months--though I'm afraid four will be as near as I can come to it." "But where are you going, Endy?" "That waits partly on your choice. In general, to hills, cities, and rivers,--the Falls, the White Mountains, Washington, and the pictured rocks of Lake Superior. Then to some shore where you can see real surf--and to delight the eyes of some of my old friends by the way." Faith's eye went gravely over to the sunny Long Island shore, but her mind had made a perfect leap. The only outward token of which was the unconsciously playing line of her lips. Such a journey!--with him! The breeze from the White Mountains seemed to blow in her face already, and the capital of the country rose before her in a most luminous cloud-view. With Mr. Linden to guide her and to tell her everything!--She did not see the eyes that were watching her, but when she suddenly noticed the silence and turned towards Mr. Linden, the smile was on his lips too. "I thought I should go right to work," she said,--"to study--to make up for lost time. Can't I do that too?" "As much as you like! But don't you know there is a lost holiday to be made up, as well?" "It is made up,"--she said gently, after a minute's hesitation. "How that grieved me when I went away!" said Mr. Linden,--"to take from you what I might never be able to replace. But sit down, dear child--I want to consult you about various things." Faith sat down and looked--like a grave child indeed. Her journey for the present forgotten, and all her mind bent on something more weighty and worthy. "I told you I had three letters for you to read," said Mr. Linden. "One reached me in Germany, two I found waiting for me here. They are all about the same subject, Mignonette: where you and I shall establish ourselves." A flush rose, but she looked steadily. "You told me once," Mr. Linden went on, "that in such a case I should choose the place where I was most needed--where there was most work for me to do. Now you shall judge. The pastor of a large manufacturing town in Pennsylvania (I may say of the town--it is so in effect) has accepted a call to Baltimore. I knew him formerly, and I suppose it is through his influence that the people have applied to me." Faith thought it very likely. "How large is the town, Endy?" "Ten or fifteen thousand--I do not know precisely." "And no other churches?" "Yes, but this is so much the leading one that the others hardly hold their ground; and by the way, I think I would rather have a call from one of them. Apparently the churchgoers are in the minority." Faith thought there must be work enough to do in that place; but she only listened more gravely. "An old friend of my father's writes the second letter. He lives at Newport, and has pleased himself with building a new church in a part of the island not much adorned with spires. Climate and society are good, scenery picturesque, and he is quite sure if I will only bring--Mrs. Linden!--to his house, she will decide in favour of Newport at once." Faith's eyes went down, and rouge of the richest and frankest coloured her cheeks. "Do you think she will?" said Mr. Linden demurely. "What is the other, Endy?--You said three." "The other, love, is from those very White Mountains you are going to see. Another friend writes the letter,--one who has built himself a nest there for summer migrations. It is a strange place, Faith, by all accounts--I have never been to that part of the mountains. A scattered population, sprinkled about on the hills like their own dewberries, and to be found in much the same manner. Neither church nor chapel, but only an unused schoolhouse--of which Mr. Olyphant prays I will come and take possession. Snow and frost, the valleys and the everlasting hills--that would be your society." Faith's eyes were raised now and met Mr. Linden's. Grave, as one who felt the weight of the question to be settled; but with a brow unshadowed, and eyes unfearing. A child's look still! "Mr. Olyphant says there could not be better air for my bird to sing in," he went on with a smile,--"there was one great objection to the place in Pennsylvania. How does this seem to you, dear Faith?--it is rather on a spur of the mountains--not absolutely shut in. Then I am not sure how much society you would have but mine,--what do you think of it, in comparison with Newport?" She answered at first with a rare little smile, so happy in its grave trust, and which withal a little significantly deferred the question. "I know you will go where you think you ought to go. Endy--I don't know about places." "I doubt whether I shall grant more than half of Mr. Alcott's request," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose if George has not got home I may venture to grant that. Faith, it is a very singular fact that everybody falls in love with you." To judge by Faith's blush, it was a somewhat painful "fact." "Whom are you talking of?" she said doubtfully. "The present occasion of my remark is George Alcott--said to be absent on a crusade of search after a pair of eyes he saw in Pattaquasset." "I don't know him," said Faith laughing a little; but instantly recurring to business she asked very earnestly, "Then, Endy, you think you will go to that place in the mountains?--or haven't you made up your mind?" "I am inclined to that one, of the three--I cannot say my mind is absolutely made up. It has had so much else to do since I came home! Faith, do you mean to have any bridesmaids?" Faith jumped up off her rock. "Endy, I want to run down and look at these little fish. And it's growing late, besides!"-- "Yes, but, you must answer me first," said Mr. Linden laughing and holding her fast. "It is needful I should know beforehand, because they will want supporters, if I do not." "I don't want any, Endy," said Faith with cheeks like two pink roses, but standing very still now. "Then come and shew me the fish. Don't you think it would be gladsome work to seek out those untaught and uncared for people up in the mountains?" They had come down to the rocks between and among which at low tide the shell fish played in an inch or two of water; and sitting on one of the mossy stones Faith was watching the mimic play of evil passions which was going on among that tribe of Mollusca below her; but her mind was on something else. "I read the other day," she said, "those words of Paul, where he says to the Thessalonians 'we were allowed of God _to be put in trust with the gospel_'.--They made me very happy--they make me happy now. What I thought of in connexion with them, I mean." "And what was that?" "That they are your words too,"--she said after looking up as if she thought her meaning must be known.--"And that even I--have something to do," she added lower. Mr. Linden stood by her, looking off at the rippling waves, then down at his fair little helper. "Yes, Faith--it is a glorious thing to have any part of that work in trust,--and the part which makes least show may be no less in reality. 'In trust'!" he repeated, looking off again. "Such beautiful words!--such terrible." "No!"--she said with a smile,--"I don't think so." "Nor I, dear, from your point of view. But in the world, Faith, where you have been so little, I have seen the words of the trust to be boundless--the faithfulness of the trustees within very narrow limits. And to be always ready to 'sow beside all waters'--who is? 'Freely ye have received, freely give,' is the command--but what Christian sees with half perception what he has received!" Faith paused and looked thoughtful, and then smiled again. "I always think of the words you read to me one day,--'Only be thou strong and very courageous,--for the Lord, thy God is with thee, whithersoever thou goest.'"-- The answering look told that if Mr. Linden's words had not been said for the purpose of drawing her out, they had at least served that purpose. "You are a dear little Sunbeam!" he said. "Acting out your name, as I told you long ago. There is nothing needful to get _you_ ready for the White Mountains but a fur cloak. Now come--it is growing late, as you say." It was a late tea-time when they got home. They sat down to tea and Faith had not told her mother yet! which she remembered with a somewhat uneasy mind. There was nothing uneasy about the third member of the family!--the poise and balance of the white strawberries upon each other was not more complete than the resting adjustment of all his thoughts. "Mrs. Derrick," he said as she handed him his cup of tea, "what do you consider the prettiest time of day?" "The prettiest time of day?" Mrs. Derrick repeated,--"do you mean when the day looks best--or the people? I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Linden,--I never watch anybody from morning to night but Faith." "I am talking of Faith--or what concerns her." "O well all times of day are alike to her," said her mother fondly,--"she's just as pretty one time as another,--and one day as another. Only the days when she used to get letters." "Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "when should I have heard such a piece of news from you?" "I never knew it before," said Faith. "How many hours does she need for a morning toilette?" said he, pursuing his researches. "Hours!" said Mrs. Derrick--"you'd better say minutes. It's less than an hour, commonly." "But I mean uncommonly." Mrs. Derrick looked thoroughly puzzled. But Faith had got the key, and hopeless of stopping Mr. Linden she thought the next best thing was to expedite matters. "When I take longest, mother,"--she suggested in a low voice. "How long would she need to arrange orange flowers to her satisfaction--" said Mr. Linden,--"or white muslin?" "O!--" said Mrs. Derrick setting down the teapot with her cup half filled. "I didn't know what you _were_ talking about." "I am talking about next Thursday," said Mr. Linden, with a gay gentleness of manner. "Because we have decided--or I have--that Thursday is to be the prettiest day of the week, and now we want to choose the prettiest time of day." A little flush came into Mrs. Derrick's quiet face,--she said not a word. "You are willing it should be then?" Mr. Linden said. The mother's "yes" was very firm and clear, and yet not in just her usual tone. That came back a minute after with the relief which a thought of business always brings. "That dress isn't made!" she said. Mr. Linden's "Faith!--" was expressive. "I knew that it could be done in a day at any time, Endecott,"--said Faith, very grave and flushed. "It is up stairs in my drawer, mother." "Kept there by what piece of superstition?" he said smiling. "Did you think if you made it up that I would never come back?" CHAPTER XLI. Friday passed all too swiftly. Not in much _work_, so far as Faith was concerned--unless so far as Mr. Linden gave her work. Apparently she had been out of his sight long enough--he was not in the mood to let her be so any more. Saturday followed close in Friday's steps until after dinner, then came a move. For Pet and Reuben were to come in the afternoon train; and Mr. Linden going with Jerry to the station to meet them, summoned Faith to give "her sweet company." So far as the station, Faith gave it; but there she drew back into the furthest corner of the wagon, and waited, while Mr. Linden walked up and down between the wagon and the front platform. Waited, and watched, furtively, everything; him and the people that spoke to him; with those strange eyes that saw everything new. Then came the whistle! the rush and roar of the train--the moment's lull; and then Faith saw the three she looked for coming towards her. Reuben a little in advance with Miss Linden's travelling bag, she with one hand on her brother's shoulder and her eyes on his face, coming rather slowly after,--talking, asking questions, some of which Faith could almost guess from the look and smile with which they were answered. It was a pretty picture; she felt as if she knew them both better for seeing it. Before they had quite reached the wagon, Pet received an answer which made her quit Mr. Linden with a little spring and leave him to follow with Reuben. And Faith had opened the wagon door. "Faith! you dear child!" said Miss Linden, "what have you been doing with yourself--or what has anybody done with you, to stow you away here like a forgotten parcel?" She had entered the wagon no further than to rest one knee there holding both Faith's hands and looking at her with full, bright, loving eyes. "How came Endecott to leave you here, alone?" "Two people must be alone--if they are not together," said Mr. Linden. "Pet, shall I put you in or out?" She laughed, jumping into the wagon then and twining one arm about Faith's waist, much like a spray of woodbine. "What do you think I have asked him?" she whispered,--"and what do you think he has told me?" "I don't know," said Faith;--"but I guess." A significant clasp of the woodbine answered that--then the hand rested in a quiet embrace. "How well he looks!" she said, her eyes taking glad note of one figure on the seat before them. "Faith, how are you?" "I am well."--Nothing could be quieter in its kind. "Did he tell you what he is going to do to-morrow, Pet?" "No--" she said looking her quick inquiry. Faith's face might have told her before she spoke; such a joy sat gravely on her brow and in the depth of her eyes. "If you go to church to-morrow, you will know." A sudden flush, both of cheeks and eyes, bore witness to the interest of this news. The look met Faith's for a moment--then rested on Mr. Linden, and then with that little tide of feeling deepening its sweet flow, the eyes fell, the unbent lips wavered and trembled. Faith ventured only a silent act of free-masonry; a fast clasp of her fingers round Miss Linden's hand that rested on her waist; but maybe never yet in their short friendship had they felt their hearts beat so close together. With one, there was perhaps some old recollection or association--some memory of the time when such a day had been first talked of, that made self-command a hard matter; for though the lips presently grew still, and the eyes quiet, the gravity that remained was easily stirred, and the voice spoke doubtfully. There was more discussion of various things that evening than Faith cared for, but it could not be helped. Sunday brought a lull of discussions. But the gravity which sat on Faith's face that morning was not the less but the more. If a guardian angel had shewn himself bodily, his face might have worn such a pure distance from low and trifling things and like kindred with the blue sky and the truth it emblematizes. That day was the first of her new life to Faith. Not such to Mr. Linden; but it was the first of her seeing him publicly take the office to which his life was to be given, and in which hers was to be by his side. She was a very grave "sunbeam" when she set out to walk to church--and as clear! There were sunbeams in plenty of the literal kind abroad; it was a perfect day; and everybody was glad of that, though some people remarked it would have made no difference if it had rained cannon-balls. Never did Pattaquasset see such a coming to church! never in the remembrance of Mr. Somers. They came from all over; the country was gleaned; and many a fire was raked up on the hearthstone that day which most Sundays got leave to burn and somebody to watch it. The fishermen came from Quapaw, and the labourers from the farms all over the country; those who did not directly know Mr. Linden, knew of him; and knew such things of him that they would not have missed this opportunity of hearing him speak, for a week's wages. The fathers and mothers of the boys he had taught, _they_ knew him; and they came in mass, with all their uncles, aunts and cousins to the remotest degree, provided they were not geographically too remote. The upper society of Pattaquasset lost not a man nor a woman; they were all there, some with great love, others with great curiosity. The Stoutenburghs had plumed themselves. Mr. Simlins was as upright as his new beaver. Miss Essie De Staff with magnified black eyes; Judge Harrison with benevolent anticipation. Mr. Stephens the fisherman had driven his little lame child down to the Pattaquasset church, "for once;" Jonathan Ling was there with his wife, having left the eldest child to keep house, and both being in great smartness and expectation. Jonathan Fax was there and his new wife; the one with a very grave head, the other with a very light one, and faces accordingly. Mrs. Derrick and Pet had long ago been quietly seated; when through that full house, after her Sunday school duties were over, Faith came in. Her colour was very bright, and she trembled; but it was not because many saw in her an object of curiosity; though Faith remembered it, at that minute she did not care. She felt the stillness of expectation that filled the house, with which the little murmur of sound now and then chimed so well; the patter of childish feet that followed her up the aisle spoke so keenly to her wrought up feeling of the other one of her class, who used to follow him with such delight, that Faith felt as if the happy little spirit long since received in at the golden gates, was even there in the church, to hear once more his beloved teacher. Who else?--what other angel wings stirred in the soft breeze that floated through from door to door?--what other unseen, immortal senses waited on those dear mortal lips?--Faith's step grew lighter, her breath more hushed; eyes might look at her--she looked not at them. And eyes did look, from all sorts of motives; perhaps in the whole church there was not a person who did not try to see her, except the one who next to herself was the most interested--Pet never moved. Her head was bent, her hand half supporting half concealing in its position, like any statue she sat there, nor even stirred when the stir of every one else told who had come in. If she held her breath to bear every one of her brother's steps as he passed by, she did not look at him; did not raise her head till his first prayer was ended; then her rapt gaze was as unwavering. The service which followed could not be measured by the ordinary line and rule of pulpit eloquence and power,--could not be described by most of the words which buzz down the aisles after a popular sermon. There was not the "newness of hand" of a young preacher--for almost from boyhood Mr. Linden had been about his Master's work. To him it was as simple a thing to deliver his message to many as to one,--many, many of those before him had known his private ministrations, and not a few had through them first known the truth; and now to all these assembled faces he was just what each had seen him alone; as humble, as earnest, as affectionate, as simply speaking not his own words,--for "Who hath made man's mouth--have not I, the Lord?" No one who heard the ambassador that day, doubted from what court he had received his credentials. "In trust with the gospel!" Yes, it was that; but that with a warm love for the truth and the people that almost outran the trust. As the traveller in the fountain shade of the desert calls to the caravan that passes by through the sand,--as one of the twelve of old, when Christ "blessed and brake and gave to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude"; so did he speak from the words-- "Eat, O friends!--drink, yea drink abundantly, O beloved!" There were some there who would never forget that day. There were many to whom it seemed, that not the warm summer breeze that floated in was gentler or sweeter than the feeling that filled the place. The little lame girl, and her older and rougher father and mother, listened alike to their dear friend with moveless eyes; and drank such a draught of those sweet waters as it was long, long since either of them had tasted in a church. It was a white day for all the fishing population; and nothing would have kept them from coming in the afternoon. Miss Essie's black eyes lost all their fire. Farmer Simlins, unknown to himself, sat and smiled. And the one who listened most tenderly and joyfully, listened indeed quietly to the last word, or till her face had leave to bow itself from sight; quietly then no longer, only that such tears come from no broken-up fountains of unrest. They came freely, as Faith recalled and applied the whole of her quoted sentence of Paul to the Thessalonians-- "_For as we were allowed of God to be put in trust with the gospel_, SO WE SPEAK." She was very quiet when the benediction was spoken, but she drew her veil closely as they left the church. It was a lingering getting out, even for them, because others would linger. Some turned to look, some stopped to speak; and if Mr. Linden had had twenty hands they would all have found employment. Part of this the two veiled figures saw as they made their way to the door, and there Miss Linden paused and looked back. The broad stream of sunlight that lay across the church, the shadowy background figures,--in that very spot of light, Mr. Linden,--made a never-to-be-forgotten picture. Reuben Taylor stood close behind him, a step back, looking down; little Ency Stephens perched up on the pew cushions had one hand; Robbie Waters--far down below the other. Phil Davids and his father, Squire Stoutenburgh, and some of the Quapaw fishermen made up the group. Pet gave one look, and then she went swiftly down the steps and on. Slowly the people scattered away, up and down the road; not with the brisk steps and busy voices that give token the church service has but interrupted--not suspended--the current of everyday thought and behaviour. It was a fair picture of a Sunday in a New England village; the absolute repose of nature copied and followed by hands that other days let nothing stand still. Before Faith and Pet got home the road was almost empty. Mr. Linden had overtaken them, but all his greeting was to put Faith's hand on his arm--then he walked as silent as they. It was a little thing, and yet it touched the very feeling she had had all day--the beginning of her new way of life, with him. The afternoon was like the morning. Not a creature was missing of all who from far and near had filled the house in the former part of the day! and doubtless it was well that Mr. Somers could not hear the spoken and unspoken wishes that would have unseated him and caused him to relinquish for ever his charge in Pattaquasset. The afternoon air was enticing, the afternoon walk home very lingering; then standing in the hall to look and taste it still, the sweet peace of everything seemed to enter every heart. Even Pet, who all day had been unheard and almost unseen, stood with clasped hands looking out; and only the heavy eyes spoke of the oppression that had been. But as she looked the tears came back again, and then she turned to Mr. Linden--wrapping her arms round his neck. "Endy, Endy!--do you remember the first time we talked of this day?" Mr. Linden gave back her caresses without a word, but with a look of pain that Faith had rarely seen on his face. It was some minutes before he spoke. "Dear Pet--she knows it now!" Miss Linden looked up then, mastering her tears, and with a broken "Forgive me, Endy--" she kissed him and went away up stairs. But Mr. Linden did not look out any more. He went into the sitting-room, and resting his face on his hand sat there alone and still, until Faith came to call him to tea. CHAPTER XLII. "Now my two pets," said Mr. Linden as they left the table Monday morning, "what are you going to do?" "_I_ am going to work," said his sister. "Mrs. Derrick and I have business on hand. You can have Faith." "There is an impression of that sort on my own mind." "But I mean to-day. Except for about five minutes every half hour." "It would be needless for me to say what I am going to do," observed Faith quietly. "If that is a little piece of self assertion," said Mr. Linden, "allow me respectfully to remark that my 'impression' had no reference to the present time. Do you feel mollified?" "No," said Faith laughing. "You are wide of the mark." "Then will you please to state your intentions?--So far from being needless, it will be what Mr. Somers would call 'gratifying.'" "I don't know," said Faith merrily. "I understand that if I tell you, you will say I have no time for them!"-- "For them!--enigmatical. Who told you what I would say?--Ask me." But Faith laughed. "I am going to make Pet and you some waffles for tea." "Do they require more time than shortcakes?" Faith stood before him quietly as if she had a great deal to say. "I am going to make bread, for mother and all of us." "What else?" "Sponge cake, I think." "And after that?" "Crust for pot-pie." "De plus?" "Curds,"--said Faith, looking down now. "Pourquoi, Mademoiselle?" "To eat," said Faith demurely. "You like them." "Mademoiselle, I prefer you." "Each in its way,"--replied Faith admirably well, but with a glance, nevertheless. "There is only one in my way," said Mr. Linden. "Well does that complete the circuit?--I suppose nothing need go between cheese and bread _but_ waffles?" "I shall wish--and I suppose you would wish that I should, look over strawberries." "Where do you commonly do all these things?" "The sponge cake and the strawberries in the other room--other things in the kitchen." "We may as well begin as we are to go on!" said Mr. Linden. "If you will not come and keep me company I must do that for you. Faith, I think Miss Essie's statement of facts was much like the artistic representation of lions and men, in the fable!" Faith did not at all dislike this compounding of matters; and so the strawberries were looked over, and the sponge cake beaten in the dining-room; with various social enlivenings. For besides Mr. Linden's calls upon her attention, and the subjects by him presented to be looked over along with the strawberries, Faith made now and then a run into the kitchen to see Mrs. Derrick or Cindy there; and if the runs up stairs were less frequent, they took more time. For Miss Bezac had arrived, and she and Miss Linden were deep in the white folds of Faith's muslin dress. There too was Mrs. Derrick, for the touch and the making of that dress stirred her very heart. Faith was often in demand,--not to use her needle, but her taste--or to be fitted, or 'tried on,' as Miss Bezac said. Coming back from one of these "trying" visits to the three workers, Faith found Mr. Linden by the sitting-room table; before him a package, in his hands a letter. "Faith," he said, "come and look at this." Faith ran in from the strawberries. "Rosy fingers are not needed," said Mr. Linden, "but as eyes are first called for they may pass. Sit down here by me, Mignonette, and take off this wrapping paper." Which very curiously and amusedly, and now with a little suspicious tinge in her cheeks, Faith did; remarking that she could not help her fingers being rosy. "Keep the roses to their chosen location," said Mr. Linden gravely, as the first paper parted right and left and shewed a second, which bore this inscription.--"For Mrs. Endecott Linden--with the warmest regards and respects of W. and L. Olyphant." Faith suddenly jumped up, pushed back her chair and whisked back to the strawberries, where she was found diligently putting the hulls into a dish by themselves. "Mignonette, your fingers will be more rosy than ever." Mr. Linden spoke from the doorway where he stood watching her. Then coming forward he laid a key on the table. "That belongs to you." "Wouldn't you be so good as to take care of it? You see I am busy." "No my dear, I will not be so good. You shall have that pleasure--as a reward for running away. Would you like to hear this letter?" "If you please--" Faith said with a little hesitation. "You shall read it to yourself if you like better--" but he read it to her, after all. It was a pretty letter, shewing so well Mr. Linden's place in the writer's affection that Faith could not but enjoy it. Neither could she dislike the messages to herself though they did cost her a few roses. As to the contents of the package the letter gave no hint. "What is that the key of, Endy?" she said, glancing up after the letter was finished. "I don't know!"--Faith went on with her strawberries. Through the open hall door came little uneven steps, tracking on through other open doors even to the dining-room,--there the steps and Charles twelfth came to a pause. "Ma said," he began,--then fixed his eyes and mind on Mr. Linden with a concentration that was marvellous. The general attire and appearance of the little potentate were as usual, but both hands were in use to support a heavy mass of red coral, hugged up to his blue apron in the most affectionate manner. With a sigh of relief Charles twelfth withdrew his attention from Mr. Linden long enough to set the coral on the floor, then gazed anew, with his hands behind him. "Charley!" said Faith laughing,--"what are you doing!--and what have you done?" "Ma said--" began the child, stopping short as before. "Charles twelfth," said Mr. Linden holding out his hand "do you never use anything but your eyes? Come here and speak to me. Who is prime minister now?" "You,"--was the very prompt reply. "Ma said so yesterday." The laugh in Mr. Linden's eyes as he looked at Faith, was a thing to see. "Faith," he said, "the conversation is in your hands!" Faith was in doubtful readiness to speak. "Charley!"--she said as soon as she could,--"come here. Was that all your ma said?" "No," said the boy, "she said a heap more." "Well what did you come here for to-day?" "I came to fetch that--" said Charles twelfth with another sigh. "Poor child!--What did you bring it for, Charley?" "Why for you," said Charley. "Ma said she didn't know when it oughter come--and she guessed you'd like it, 'cause it used to live off in the place where you said they eat up babies and people!" and Charles twelfth's eyes grew large and round with the announcement. "And ma said she's sorry 'twarnt more. I ain't." Faith's eyes went to Mr. Linden with a flash and a burst of the uncontrollable little laugh; but after that they were suspiciously downcast, and Faith busied herself in providing little Charles twelfth with the refreshment of a good saucer of sugared strawberries, with which he sat down in a corner much consoled. And when he was setting off again, Faith gave him a whispered message to ask his mother to come and see her Thursday. Just what Mr. Linden saw in the piece of red coral he did not declare, but when Faith came back to the table he was looking at it very fixedly. "Faith," he said, "that is not the worst token, nor the worst envoy--that might be. What a shy child you were that first time I took you down there! And you have not changed any too much," he added, carrying her off to the other room. "I am not sure that you ought to be indulged--suppose you open this box." "You do it, please, Endecott!"--she said with a crimson rush to her cheeks. "I do not believe there is any explosive material under such an address,--however, if there is I prefer that my hands should fire the train. Stand back, Faith!"--and with cautious and laughing deliberation the key was turned and the lid raised. It was a very plain lid, by the way--mere white pine. "There is nothing here (that appears) but silk paper and cotton,--not gun cotton, probably," said Mr. Linden. "Faith, do you wish me to risk my safety any further?" "Yes."-- "My dear, you must have more courage. If I am to open all your boxes I shall have my hands full, and--ne vous en déplaise--I would rather see the work in yours." And she was seated before the portentous pine box, Mr. Linden keeping his stand at her side. Faith blushed and didn't like it; but applied her fingers with a sort of fearful delicacy to the silk paper and cotton, removing one after the other. The box had interior divisions, by way of help to the silk paper, its different contents being thus more securely separated. Faith's fingers exploring among the papers brought out first a silver chocolate pot, then the dainty china cups for the same, then the spoons, in size and shape just suiting the cups. Spoons and chocolatière were marked with the right initials; the cups--chocolate colour themselves, that no drop of the dark beverage might hurt their beauty--had each a delicate gilt F. L. twining about the handle. If the givers could have seen the gift uncovered and inspected!--the rosy delight in Faith's cheeks, the pleasure in her eye! They would have considered themselves rewarded. She looked and bent over the pretty things, her attitude and blush half veiling her admiration and satisfaction, but there was no veiling them when she looked up at Mr. Linden. "I am so glad you like chocolate!"--she said naively. But it was worth a hundred remarks of aesthetic criticism. "I am so glad I do!" he said, stooping to kiss her. "Faith, one would almost imagine some bird of the air had told them our chocolate associations." "Now won't you put these back for me?" said Faith,--"because, if that sponge cake is to get done to-day I haven't two minutes to lose!" The pretty chocolatière was but the beginning, as Faith soon found. Found to her most utter and unbounded astonishment--though to that of no one else. Tuesday arrived a packet from Madame Danforth, accompanied by a note of affection and congratulation. The present was peculiar. A satin sachet, embroidered after the little Frenchwoman's desire, and to do it justice very exquisitely scented, was the first thing. A set of window curtains and toilet cover, of a curious and elaborate pattern of netting, made of very fine thread,--a manufacture in which Madame Danforth delighted and on which she prided herself,--was the second thing. The third was a pretty breakfast service of French china. Faith enjoyed them all, with some amusement and some pleasure of possession, and not a little affectionate remembrance. Even the sachet, in this view, was particularly precious; that was the only use Faith saw in it. But the next arrival gave her a great start. It was again this time a deal box, but immensely heavy; and it was a strong box that Faith did not attempt to open; marked only 'Grover & Baker', which told her nothing. There was no occasion indeed. A note was delivered with the box, and a small covered basket. The note conveyed the assurance of Sophy Harrison's love and a request that Faith would let her shew it on the present occasion. It went on.-- "Papa has sent you, dear Faith, an odd thing for a present--for _such_ a present--but I haven't been able to put it out of his head. He insists it is what you ought to have, and that he shall have the pleasure of giving it to you To save you the trouble of opening the box before you want it, I will state that it contains a _sewing machine_. Papa has taken great pains to satisfy himself--and it is certainly the best or one of the best. My offering, dear Faith, is in the basket, and may be looked at with less difficulty." Miss Sophy's offering was a kindly one. She had sent a little invoice of silver spoons and forks. Faith was pleased; and yet she looked grave, and very grave, over these things. She made no remark whatever to say why. If no one else knew there was to be a wedding, at least the express man did!--and probably in his mind joined these new packages with those he had so often brought before, very comfortably. The next arrival was a delicate pair of silver salt-cellars and spoons from Mr. Alcott,--then a little framed sketch from the Captain of the Vulcan, portraying the meeting of two steamers at sea, with these words underneath--'The despatch post'. At which Mr. Linden looked with much amusement. Faith was delighted. First on Wednesday morning came Miss Bezac,--bringing the well assorted tokens of an elaborate needlebook and a simple bread trencher and knife; and staying only long enough to say, "You see, Faith, what made me think of this, was that the first time I heard of _that_, was when you came in for bread and milk. And now you'll have to think of me, whether you sew or eat!"--with which triumphant sentiment Miss Bezac departed. They say ill news flies fast,--in this case so did the good: certainly people are quick to hear and understand what pleases them. The friends who had heard from Pet or Mrs. Iredell what was to be, had spread the information: and in the same sort of way, from two or three old family dependants another class of Mr. Linden's friends had heard it. Perhaps among all her presents the little tokens from these people touched her most. They came queerly done up and directed, sometimes the more formal 'Mrs. Linden' changed into an ill-spelled '_For Mr. Endecott's wife_'--or '_For the young lady, in care of Mr. Linden_'. She knew the names thereto appended as little as they knew hers,--could only guess the vocations,--the tokens were various. A pair of elaborately carved brackets,--a delicate rustic footstool, trimmed with acorns and cones,--a wooden screw pincushion, with a flaming red velvet top,--a case of scissors, pretty enough to have come from anybody, declared the trade of the sender by the black finger marks on the brown wrapper, and a most mysteriously compiled address. One of the old sailors who had crossed with Mr. Linden long ago, sent by Pet's hands a stuffed tropical bird of gorgeous colours; a woman who had once been upper servant in his mother's house, sent by the same messenger a white toilet cushion, made exactly after one that had belonged to her mistress and which she had been allowed to keep. It was worth while to see Mr. Linden examine these things,--every name was familiar to him, every one called up some story or recollection. Alternating with these, came richer presents,--books and vases and silver; then from the poor people in and about Pattaquasset, a couple of corn husk mats, a nest of osier baskets. The children brought wild flowers and wild strawberries, the fishermen brought fish, till Mrs. Derrick said, "Child, we might as well begin to lay down for winter!" Ency Stephens, having got Reuben to bring her two fine long razor shells, had transformed them into a pincushion. This she sent, with a kiss, by Mr. Linden. "I half promised her that she might come before the rest of the world to-morrow, Faith," he said. "She never saw any one married, and has the greatest desire to see you--and I said if you were willing, Reuben should bring her here at one o'clock." Faith was just then exploring the contents of a new package--or rather two: one of as many spools of white thread as she had scholars in her little class, (presented by Robbie Waters,) the other a wee far-sent carved box of curled maple. She looked up with wet eyes. "Oh let her come, Endecott--I should like to have her here." Faith had been living in a strange atmosphere this week. The first presents that came simply pleased and amused her to a great degree; Judge Harrison's and his daughter's she saw with a strong admixture of painful feeling. But as tokens from rich and poor began to throng in--not of respect for her wedding-day so much as of respect and love for Mr. Linden,--Faith's mood grew very tender and touched. Never perhaps, since the world stood, did anybody receive wedding presents from friends known and unknown with a more gentle and humble heart-return to the senders. There was no least thing of them all that Faith did not dearly value; it told her of something so much better than the gifts, and it signified of a link that bound her with that. How beautiful to her eyes the meanest of all those trifles did seem! and for the rest, she was as quick to be delighted with what was really beautiful and glad of what would be really useful, as any sensible child could have been. So the amusement with which the week began changed into a grave, loving, and somewhat timid appreciation of each new arrival. Meanwhile, on Faith's table stood a little silver saucepan sent by Mrs. Somers with the sage remark that she would want it for others if not for herself; and near by, a beautiful butter cup and knife from Mrs. Stoutenburgh. With the butter cup trotted down a little mountain pony, with the daintiest saddle and bridle that the Squire could find for money. Miss Linden's love had chosen for itself sundry channels; from the silver knives--of all sorts--which made their appearance now, to various comforts, great and small, which were to await her brother and sister in their new home. In those Mrs. Iredell too had a share; her present token was a silver tea-service, whereon the chasing developed itself in sprays of mignonette. A mark of attention which Mr. Linden at least appreciated. CHAPTER XLIII. It was very early indeed in the still sweet morning of Thursday, when Faith threw open the windows and blinds of the sitting-room. No one was abroad, and not even a wind moving. The leaves of the trees hung motionless; except where a bird stirred them; the dawn was growing slowly into day; sweet odours called forth by the dew, floated up to the windows, and the twitter and song of the birds floated in. The freshness and stillness and calmness of all the earth was most sweet. Faith could not read; she knelt upon a low cushion at the open window and leaned her arms upon the sill to look out, and breathe, and think and pray. The morning was not unlike her. She was as fresh, and as grave, and as still; and there was a little flutter now and then too in her heart, that went with nothing worse than the song of the birds, though it stirred something more than the leaves of the branches. So Mr. Linden found her. So she met them all at breakfast, with the same unready eyes and lips that Mr. Linden had seen before. It was odd how Faith seemed to have put off the full realization of Thursday till Thursday came. After breakfast she was making her escape, but was detained before she reached the staircase. What it was that Mr. Linden fastened in her dress, Faith could not have told; neither did his words tell her. "You must not think me extravagant, Mignonette,--these are some old gems of mine which I want you to wear in this form." He gave her one grave kiss and let her go. Faith sped up stairs; and with a fluttering heart went to see what Mr. Linden had done.--Yes, they were gems,--clear, steadfast, as the eternal truth which they signified, the blue sapphires shone upon Faith's white dress. Faith was alone; and she sat before the glass an odd long while, studying the brooch where Mr. Linden had placed it. Her head upon her hand, and with much the same sort of face with which she used long ago to study Pet's letters, or some lesson that Pet's brother had set her. From the sapphires Faith turned to her Bible. She was not, or would not be interrupted, till it was time to attend to business. The first business was presented for her attention by Miss Linden, who came in, basket in hand. There was no need to ask what it was, such a breath of orange flowers and roses filled the room. She found Faith ready; her hair dressed as it always was; her mind too, to judge by appearances. Only Faith was a little more quiet than usual. With the very quietness of love and sympathy, Pet did her part; with the swiftest fingers, the most noiseless steps. Silent as Mrs. Derrick or Faith herself, only a sparkle of the eyes, a pretty flush on the cheeks, said that she viewed the matter from a greater distance. And yet hardly that, so far as one of the parties was concerned. Never putting her hand forward where Mrs. Derrick's liked to be, it was most efficient in other places. Both used their skill to put the soft muslin safely over Faith's smooth hair, but then Mrs. Derrick was left to fasten and adjust it--Pet applied herself to adjusting the flowers. How dainty they were: those tiny bunches! sprays of myrtle and orange flowers, or a white rose-bud and a more trailing stem of ivy geranium; the breast-knot just touched with purple heliotrope and one blush rose. Kneeling at her feet to put on the rosetted slippers, Pet looked up at her new sister with all her heart in her eyes. And Faith looked down at her--like a child. She had been dressed in Pet's room--her own, as being larger and more commodious than the one where Faith had stowed herself lately; and when the dressing was done she sat down by the open window, and with the odd capriciousness of the mind at certain times, thought of the day when Mr. Linden had thrown her up the cowslip ball,--and in the same breath wondered who was going to take her down stairs! But she sat quiet, looking as fair in her soft robe with its orange flowers as if they and she had been made for each other. Faith's hair, in its rich colour, was only dark enough to set off the tender tints of her flowers and dress; it wanted neither veil nor adornment. The very outlines of her figure betokened, as outlines are somewhat apt to do, the spirit within; without a harsh angle or line. And nothing could be too soft, or strong, or pure, to go with those eyes. She sat looking out into the orchard, where now the noonday of summer held its still reign--nothing there but the grass and the trees and the insects. The cowslips were gone; and Mr. Linden---- Pet finished all that had been left unfinished of her own dress, then in her rose-coloured summer silk, white gloves in her hand, white flowers on her breast, she came and stood by Faith. Mrs. Derrick had gone down stairs. It was close upon one o'clock now; the shadows were losing their directness and taking a slant line, the labourers were coming back to their work, standing about and taking off their coats, waiting for the clock to strike. Miss Linden stood drawing on her gloves. Faith gave her one swift glance, which rested for a second on her face with a look of loving gratitude. A flush rose to her cheek, as if it might have been the reflection of Miss Linden's dress; but it was not that, for it paled again. One o'clock! It would have seemed a less weird sort of thing if the clock had made a little more fuss,--twelve strokes, or even eleven, would have been something tangible; but that one clang--scarce heard before it was gone, dying away on the June breeze,--what a point of time it seemed! The waves of air were but just at rest, when Mrs. Derrick opened the door and came in; her black dress and white cap setting off a face and demeanour which, with all their wonted sweet placidness, and amid all the tender influences of the day, kept too their wonted energy. "Come, pretty child!" she said. Faith was ready, and followed her mother without a question. In the hall Mr. Linden stood waiting for her, and she was given into his care; though again Faith lost the look which passed between the two,--she saw only the startling white of Mr. Linden's gloves. He handed her down stairs, then gave her his arm and took her in; Mrs. Derrick going first, and Pet following. There were but six or eight people there. On one side sat Mrs. Iredell in her rich dress; the rest were standing, except little Ency Stephens, who was in one of her perched-up positions by the window. Mr. Somers was lingering about _his_ position, his wife and Mr. and Mrs. Stoutenburgh were opposite to Mrs. Iredell. Reuben Taylor furthest back of all, in the shadow of Ency's window. Her little cry was the only sound as they came in, and that hardly louder than a sigh of delight. Faith did not hear it nor look at anybody. Yet she did not look dismayed at all nor abashed. A piece of very timid gravity the person nearest her knew her to be; but hardly any person further off. A very lovely mingling of shy dignity and humility was in her face and air as she stood before Mr. Somers; those who saw it never forgot. Except I must that same Mr. Somers! He saw only a pretty bride, whose orange flowers and roses were very sweet. He had seen many pretty brides before, and orange flowers were not new to him. And he pronounced his part of the service which followed, with gratification, certainly. Mr. Somers was always gracious, and to-day he was admiring; but yet with no more sense of what he was about than when a hundred times before he had pronounced it for--very different people! However, there is a great system of compensations in this world; and on this occasion there was in other members of the party so much sense of what was doing, that it mattered little about Mr. Somers' want of it. It mattered nothing to Faith, how his words were spoken; nobody that heard them forgot how _hers_ were--the sweet clear sounds of every syllable; only that once or twice she said "yes" where by established formula she should have said the more dignified "I do." Perhaps "yes" meant as much. Those who heard it thought it did. For Mr. Linden, his senses not being troubled by shyness, just because his own heart was so thoroughly in what he was about he did perceive the want of heart in Mr. Somers. And, in the abstract, it did not suit his notions that even a man who had married five hundred other people should put such questions to Mignonette, or to him, in a commonplace way. So far his senses perceived, but Mr. Somers could reach no further. One touch of Faith's hand had banished the officiate to another planet; and the vow to love, cherish, and honour, was taken, word for word, deep in his own heart; the grave, deliberate accents of assent seeming to dwell upon each specification. Yes, he took her "for better for worse, in sickness or health, for richer for poorer," every word was like the counting over of gold to him, it was all "richer." Even the last words, the limit fixed, shone with light from another world. "Till death shall you part;" yes, but to them death would be but a short parting. And standing side by side there with the blessing of his earthly life, Mr. Linden thanked God in his heart for the future "life and immortality" to which He had called them both. Mysterious is the way in which events are telegraphed from the inside of a house to the exterior thereof. Hardly were Mr. Somers' last words spoken, Faith was not yet out of Mr. Linden's hands, when there came a peal from the little white church as if the bell-ringing of two or three Sundays were concentrated in one. Much to the surprise of Mr. Somers; who, to speak truth, rather thought the bells were his personal property, and as such playing truant. But in two seconds the other bell chimed in; and all that could ever be known, was, that Phil Davids and Joe Deacon had been seen in closer attendance on the two churches than they were wont to be week days. Meantime the bells rang. It was done; and those downcast eyes must be lifted up, if they could. But Faith was not unlike her usual manner. The slight air of timidity which sat with such grace upon her was not so very unusual; and that besides touched only or mainly one person. With blushing quietness she let her friends kiss and congratulate her. It was rather kiss and caress her; for they came about her, that little bevy of friends, with a warmth that might have thawed Mr. Somers. Mrs. Derrick and Pet glad and silent, Reuben Taylor very shy, the Stoutenburghs in a little furor of interest which yet did not break pretty bounds. And then Faith went up to Ency where she sat by the window, and gave her two kisses, very grave and sweet. "How beautiful you are, ma'am!" was the child's truthful comment. "Do you know who 'Miss Faith' is now, Ency?"--"Yes sir," the child said, then shy of speaking it out, "Stoop down and I'll tell you." Mr. Linden bent his head to hear the whisper, giving her a kiss in return, and then carried Faith off to the next room; where presently too the little lame girl was perched up at such a table as she had never dreamed of before. It was a pretty gathering, both on the table and around it. The party of friends, few enough to be choice, were good and different enough to be picturesque; and had among them a sufficient amount of personal advantages to be, as Ency said, "beautiful." The table itself was very plain with regard to china and silver; but fruit is beautiful, and there was an abundance of that. Coffee of course; and cream, yellow as gold, for coffee and fruit both. There were more substantial things, to serve as substitutes for dinner, attesting Mrs. Derrick's good housekeeping at once, and the loving remembrance of friends. There had been little need to do much in the house. Mrs. Iredell had taken the wedding cake into her charge, which Mrs. Stoutenburgh not knowing had taken it into hers, and into her hands as well; so Faith had both the bought cake, of the richest and best ornamented to a point, and the home-made; with plain icing indeed, but wherein every raisin had been put with a sweet thought. "This is--ha!--a very agreeable occasion!" said Mr. Somers, smiling at the ornamented plum cake which was before him. "I--a--really, I don't see, Mrs. Derrick, how anything could be improved for the pleasure of the party. We have done a good thing, and to good people, and it's been well done;" (Mr. Somers vaunted himself), "and in a good time,--ha--this is the prettiest month in the year, Mr. Linden; and now we are all enjoying a pleasant sight, before us and around us, and I enjoy my coffee also very much, Mrs Derrick. The only bad thing about it is--ha--that it rather spoils one for the next occasion. I assure you I haven't seen anything like it in Pattaquasset, since I have lived here! I wasn't married here, Mrs. Stoutenburgh, take notice." "I hope you don't mean to say you saw anything that was on the table the day _you_ were married, Mr. Somers!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh irreverently. "Let's hear what you mean by well done,--let's hear, Mr. Somers," said the Squire. "He means securely," said Mrs. Somers. "I feel sure," said Mr. Somers with exquisite significancy, "I feel sure that _part_ of my audience were at no loss for the meaning of my words. Experience, somebody says, is the best commentary--hey, Mr. Linden? is it not so?"--"What, sir?" Mr. Somers laughed, gently. "I see you coincide with me in opinion, sir." "I coincide with him in the opinion that it was well done to ring the bells," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "Reuben, I guess that was your doing." "Never mind whose it was," said the Squire, "the bells were never put to a better use, week days, I'll venture. Mr. Linden, won't that lady by you let me give her another piece of chicken?"--"No, sir," came in a low voice that had a private chime of its own. "Little bird," said Mr. Linden, softly, "do you know that all your compeers live by eating?"--"Crumbs" said Faith with equal softness. "But of proportionate size!"--"Yes," said Faith. "You know," he said in the same low voice, "to go back to our old maxim those bells may stand for the music, and we have certainly spoken a few sensible words; but if you do not look up how will you find the picture?"--She raised her eyes, but it was for a swift full glance up into his face; she looked nowhere else, and her eyes went back to her plate again. The involuntary, unconscious significance of the action made Mr. Linden smile. "I have had mine now, Mignonette, and Ency spoke true." "How long does it take people to get married," came in a good-humoured kind of a growl from the room they had left, the door to which was ajar. "Ain't it done yet?" "There's Mr. Simlins, Endecott," whispered Faith, colouring. "Come in and see," said Squire Stoutenburgh. "Who wants to know?" Wherewith the door was pushed open, and Mr. Simlins long figure presented itself, and stood still. "What are you uneasy about, Mr. Simlins?" the Squire went on. "You may go and shake hands with Mr. Linden, but don't congratulate anybody else." The farmer's eye rested for a moment on Faith; then he went round and shook hands with the bridegroom. "Is it done?" he asked again in the midst of this ceremony.--"Yes." "Past all help, Mr. Simlins," said Mrs. Somers. "I am glad, for one!" Mr. Simlins answered. "Mayn't I see this cretur here? I wish you'd stand up and let me look at you." Faith rose up, he had edged along to her. He surveyed her profoundly. "Be you Faith Derrick?" he said.--"Yes, sir." He shook _her_ hand then, holding it fast. "It's the true, and not a counter," he remarked to Mr. Linden. "Now, if you'd only take Neanticut, I could die content, only for liking to live and see you. Where _are_ you going to take her to?"--"I am not sure yet." "I guess I don't want you at Neanticut," said the farmer, taking a cup of coffee which Faith gave him. "Last Sunday fixed that. But there'll a bushel of Neanticut nuts follow you every year as long as I'm a Simlins, if you go to the Antipathies. No, I don't want anythin' to eat--I've done my eatin' till supper-time." The door-knocker warned the party that they must not tarry round the lunch-table, and before Mr. Simlins had a chance to say anything more he had on his mind, the principal personages of the day were receiving Judge Harrison and his daughter in the other room. Mr. Simlins looked on, somewhat grimly, but with inward delight and exultation deep and strong. Miss Sophy was affectionate, the judge very kind; the congratulations of both very hearty; though Judge Harrison complained that Mr. Linden was robbing Pattaquasset, and Sophy echoed the sorrow if not the complaint. In the midst of this came in Miss Essie de Staff, with a troop of brothers and sisters; and they had scarcely paid their compliments when they were obliged to stand aside to make room for some new comers. Miss Essie's eyes had full employment, and were rather earnest about it. "She's beautifully dressed," she remarked to Mrs. Stoutenburgh, evidently meditating a good deal more than her words carried. "Why, of course!" was Mrs. Stoutenburgh's quick response, "and so is he. Don't be partial in your examinations." "Oh he, of course!" said Miss Essie, in the same manner. "I never saw two people set each other off better," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "Set each other off?" repeated Miss Essie. "Why he'd set anybody off! I always admired him. Look at her! she hasn't an idea how to be ceremonious." Faith had been speaking to Mrs. Iredell. Just then a rosebud having detached itself from her dress, she went round the room to Ency by her window and gave it to her. Near this window Miss Linden had placed herself; the table before her covered with wedding cake and white ribbon, Reuben Taylor at her side to cut and fold, her little fingers daintily wrapping and tying up. Ency already held her piece of cake and white ribbon, and with the promise of other pieces to take home, watched Miss Linden's proceedings with interest. It was a busy table, for thither came everybody else after cake and white ribbon. Thither came Mrs. Stoutenburgh now, quitting Miss Essie. "Faith, what do you think Mr. Stoutenburgh asked me Sunday?"--"I don't know. What?" asked Faith, with her half-shy, half free, very happy face. "You should have heard him!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, laughing, but speaking in the softest of whispers. "You should have heard the dismal way in which he asked me if Mr. Somers would go anywhere else, if he could get a chance." Faith smiled, but evidently to her the question whether Mr. Linden should stay in Pattaquasset had lost its interest. "O I can find her, never fear!" said Miss Bezac, followed by Mr. Linden in Faith's direction. "Though I don't suppose you ever did fear anything. And I do suppose, if I've thought once I have fifty times how she'd look to-day, and I was right every time. Don't she look! I always told her she didn't know what she wanted--and I'm sure she don't now." With which Miss Bezac gave Faith as hearty a congratulation as she had yet received. "Well," she said, turning to Mr. Linden, "do you wonder I wanted to make it?"--"Not in the least." "But what do I want, Miss Bezac?" said Faith laughing and looking affectionately at her old friend and fellow-work-woman. "Why I should think nothing," said Miss Bezac. "So it seems to me. And talking of seams--didn't I do yours! Do you know I should have come before, but I never can see two people promise to love each other forever without crying--and crying always makes rusty needles--so I wouldn't come till now, when everybody's laughing." Faith was an exception, for her amusement grew demure. And Miss Essie approached. Now Miss Essie's black eyes, although bright enough, were altogether gracious, and in a certain way even propitiatory. They were bent upon the gentleman of the group. "Mr. Linden," said the lady with her most flattering manner, "I want to know if you have forgiven me all my dreadful speeches that I made once." "Miss Essie, I never questioned your right to make them, therefore you see my forgiveness has no place." Miss Essie looked as if her "study" of Mr. Linden hadn't been thorough. "That's very polite," she said; "too polite. But do you think Mrs. Linden will ever let me come into her house?" "Why not? It cannot be worse than you imagined." "Because," said Miss Essie, earnestly, "I want to come, and I am afraid she will not ask me. I go everywhere, and wherever you are I shall be sure to come there some time; and then I want to see you and see how you live, and see if my theory was mistaken. But I drew it from experience!" "Did you ever hear of the ice palace the little brook built for himself?" said Mr. Linden.--"Lowell, oh yes!" "Mrs. Linden thinks she would like to try that." If ever black eyes were thoroughly puzzled, that were Miss Essie's. She glanced from Mr. Linden to Faith, who had fallen back towards another part of the room, but whose cheek gave token of her having heard and noticed. Miss Essie's eyes came back; she looked a little mortified. "I see you have not forgiven me," she said. "But, Mr. Linden, I only spoke of what I had seen. I had been unfortunate; and I am sure I needn't confine myself to the past tense! I knew nothing, you know." "Miss Essie," he said, smiling, "your frame for the picture may be correct, but the picture will be different. As you will see when you come." "Then you will let me come?"--"I will let you come. Only if you hear that Faith is not at home, do not feel sure of the fact till you have looked in my study." Miss Essie's face for a moment was notable. She was in a certain way satisfied, and yet it wore a sort of compound mortification inexplicable very likely, to the lady herself, and perhaps, that only an acute eye of another would have read. Before this dialogue had reached so much of a culmination, Mr. Simlins, who had been standing looking at everything like a good-humoured bear, made his way across the room, and through the people to Faith, where she had shrunk back out of the way. "I can't stay here all the afternoon!" said he, "and I s'pose it aint expected of me. Can't you step over yonder and let a man have a chance to say a word to you, before I go?" Faith agreed to this proposition, not knowing that it was going to take her literally into a corner; but to one of the further corners of the room Mr. Simlins strode, and Faith went after him; and there he sat down and she was fain to do likewise. Then he wasn't ready. "I had somethin' to say to you," said he, "but I don't know how to say it!"--"Try, Mr. Simlins," said Faith, smiling. "How does the dominie manage to talk to you?" said he, looking at her. "_I_ don't see how he can get on with it." Faith grew crimson, and grave. "Well," said the farmer, smiling a bit, "I s'pose I'll have to get it out somehow. You see, Faith, the thing is, in my mind, I want you to have something that'll make you--you and him too--think of Pattaquasset and me once in a while. Now I'm goin' to give you that black heifer. If you can, I hope you'll take her with you whereever you're goin'--if you can't, why you may turn her into cash; but I guess you can. She's a real Simlins--she'll run, if you don't keep a fence round her; but if you treat her right, she'll give you all _your_ dairy'll want for some time to come; and the very plague you'll be at to keep her shut up, will make you think of me." "Dear Mr. Simlins!" Faith said with her eyes full, "there is no danger about that!"-- "No!" said he rising; "and when you think of me I know you'll do something else for me. Good-bye, till you get back again." Off he went. Other people followed. The room had thinned a little, when Pet left her table in Reuben's charge and came to Faith's corner. "Poor child," she said, "you must be tired. Faith, I shall defy ceremony, and put you in Aunt Iredell's chair; she is going to lie down. Oh! how did that man get here?--and George Alcott!" Pet faced round upon Faith, folding her hands with an air of dismayed resignation. "What's the matter, Pet?"--"I thought I was safe here," said Miss Linden. "Faith, I did not suppose ubiquitous people found their way to Pattaquasset. You'll have to run the gauntlet of that man's compliments, child, however, Endy is a pretty good safeguard." Before Faith could see much of what was going on, Mr. Linden was at her side. "Mrs. Linden--_Mr. Motley_," was all he said; and Faith found herself face to face with one of those two well-remembered strangers. So well remembered that a slight glance at him was arrested, by what at first she did not recognize, and unconsciously she gave Mr. Motley for a second a look sufficiently like what he had seen before to identify her. That second brought it all back. A blush of most rosy beauty came upon Faith's face, and her eyes fell as if no one was ever to see them again. Mr. Motley's eyes, on the contrary, expanded. But the whistle which rose politely to his lips, was held in polite check--by Mr. Linden's presence or some other consideration--and with no further sign than an under breath "Linden!" Mr. Motley gave the bride his hand, claiming that privilege in easy, musky words, on the score of old acquaintanceship with the bridegroom. "I trust Mrs. Linden has been well since I last (and first!) had the pleasure of seeing her? Apart from the occasion--it seems to me that she is looking even better than then--though _then_ I should not have believed that possible." "It is a long time, sir," Faith said gravely. "Linden," said Mr. Motley in a sort of aside, "even your symmetrical taste must be satisfied!" "With what?" said Mr. Linden. Which rather shortly--put question brought Mr. Motley to a stand. Much as when one pushes on into daylight through the filmy finespun work of a spider, that respectable insect looks about, considering where he shall begin anew. "It is so long," said Mr. Motley with soft emphasis, "that I could hardly have hoped to be remembered." "If I recollect right," said Mr. Linden, "if you did not misstate the case, it was the charms of your conversation that made the impression." "You are the most inconvenient person to talk to!" said Mr. Motley with a glance at the handsome face. "Like a quicksand--closing around one. Mrs. Linden, do you not find it so? Ah George!--talking to Miss Pet as usual. Permit me--Mrs. Linden, Mr. Alcott. George, you cannot have forgotten Mrs. Linden?" That George had not was very clear. And that Faith had not forgotten, was very clear. She lifted her eyes once more, to see if the second _was_ the second; and then stood with the most exquisite cheeks, though perfectly quiet. Her gloves had not been put on again since the lunch, and the hand that held them bore also the ring which had been the gentlemen's admiration. "Now what do you think, George," said Mr. Motley, "of Linden's letting me tell Julius Harrison that whole story, and never giving the least hint that he knew the lady referred to? Except, yes once indeed, I do remember, Mrs. Linden, his face took a warm reflection of the subject, but I thought that was due to my powers as a colourist." "You couldn't high-colour that picture," said Mr. Alcott, in a tone Faith remembered well. "Mrs. Linden, I hope we are to see you at Newport." Faith felt in a tumult with all these "Mrs. Lindens." But all that seemed unquiet about her, besides her cheeks, was the flashing ring. "Well, we must tear ourselves away from this place of fascination," said Mr. Motley. "I believe, Mrs. Linden, we ought to apologize for our intrusion, but it was an old saying among this gentleman's friends that he never would submit to 'bonds and imprisonments'--(there goes the Bible again!) and some of them had a long-standing permission to come and believe their eyes if such an event ever should take place. I can hardly, now!" "Why do you, sir?" Faith asked simply. "Really, madam, because I can't help it! One look at you, Mrs. Linden, is enough. In some circumstances all a man can do is to surrender!" "He needn't till he's summoned," said George Alcott shortly. Though whether he had acted so wisely himself was a question, as Mr. Linden said amusedly after they were gone. Faith turned away, feeling as if she had rather more than enough, and occupied herself with Reuben and Ency again. Then came in Farmer Davids and his wife, and Phil. Phil was forthwith in a state of "glamour;" but Faith brought him to the table and gave him cake and discoursed to him and Reuben; while Mrs. Davids talked to Mrs. Derrick in wonderful delighted admiration; and the farmer as usual fixed upon Mr. Linden. "We had the uncommon pleasure of hearin' you speak last Sunday, sir," said Mr. Davids with great seriousness. "I sha'n't forget it, what you said. And you don't know where you're going to fix yourself, sir?" "Not certainly." "I would rather than half what I sell off the farm, that it was going to be where I could be within reach of you, sir! But wherever 'tis Phil, and I, we consulted how we could contrive to show our sense of this day; we're plain folks, Mr. Linden, and we didn't know how to fit; but if you'll let us know where you're goin' to be, Mrs. Davids she wants to send your wife a cheese, and there's some of Phil's apples, and I want you to have some Pattaquasset flour to make you think of us. And if you'll only think of us every year as long as they come, it's all I ask!" It was said with the most honest expression of struggling regard, and respect, that wanted to show itself. Then Mr. Linden was claimed by a new comer. Sam Stoutenburgh, fresh from College, Quilipeak, and the tailor, presented himself. Now it was rather a warm day, and trains are not cool, and haste is not a refrigerator, nevertheless Sam's cheeks were high coloured! His greeting of Mr. Linden was far less off-hand and dashing than was usual with this new Junior; and when carried off to Mrs. Linden, Sam (to use an elegant word) was "flustered." "Miss Faith," he began. "No I don't mean that! I beg your pardon, but I'm very glad to see you again, and I wish you were going to stay here always." Faith laughed. "Will you stay here always yourself, Sam?" "O I don't know," said Sam. "It's a while before I've got to do anything yet. But Miss Faith--I mean! since you will go, won't you please take this?" and Sam presented a tiny box containing a pretty gold set cornelian seal, engraved with a spirited Jehu chariot running away! "It'll remind you of a day _I_ shall never forget," said Sam both honestly and sentimentally. If Mr. Linden could have helped Faith answer, he would! Faith's face was in a quiver, between laughter and very much deeper and stronger feeling; but she shook Sam's hand again gratefully.--"I shall never forget it, Sam, nor what you did for me that day. And I hope you'll come and see me somewhere else, some time." Then Mr. Linden spoke. "No one can owe you so much for that day's work as I, Sam; and since she is running away again you must do as you did then, and find her." Sam was somewhat touched and overwhelmed, and went off to talk to Reuben about Miss Linden's dress. A little while longer and the room was cleared. The two collegians came last of all to say good-bye, Reuben lingering behind his friend. "You know," said Mr. Linden, holding the boy's hand, "you are coming to study with me, Reuben, if I live; we will not call it good-bye. And I shall expect to see you before that in vacation." "And you know, Reuben," said Faith, very low, "you have been a brother to me this great while." Reuben looked down, trying for words. Then meeting Faith's eyes as he had done that very first time--what though his own were full--he said, "I am not sorry, ma'am, I am glad: so glad!" he repeated, looking from her face to Mr. Linden's. But his eyes fell then; and hastily clasping the hand she held out to him, he bent his face to Mr. Linden's and turned away. One quick step Mr. Linden took after him, and they left the room arm in arm, after the old fashion. With Mr. Linden, when he came back, was an oldish gentleman, silver-haired, with a fresh ruddy face; not very tall, _very_ pleasant-looking. Pet's exclamation was of joy, this time, and she ran forward to meet him. Then Mr. Linden brought him up to Faith. "Mignonette, this is my dear friend, Mr. Olyphant." And Mr. Olyphant took both her hands and kissed her on both cheeks, as if he meant to be her friend too: then looked at her without letting go. "Endecott!" he said, turning to Mr. Linden, "whatever you undertake you always do well!" And he shook Faith's hands again, and told her he could wish her joy with a clear conscience. The timid little smile which this remark procured him, might have confirmed the old gentleman in his first-expressed opinion. Mr. Olyphant studied her a minute, not confusingly, but with a sort of touched kindliness. "_What_ do you call her, Endecott?" he said.--"Any sweet name I can think of," said Mr. Linden, smiling, "just now, Mignonette." Which remark had a merciless effect upon Faith's cheeks. "It suits her, Mr. Olyphant," said Pet. "So I see, Miss Pet. Do you think I have lost my eyes? Endecott, are you going to bring her to the White Mountains?"--"I think so, sir: that is my present inclination." "How would you like it, Mrs. Linden?"--"I think I should like it, sir." "Not afraid of the cold?"--Faith's smile clearly was not afraid of anything. So was her answer. "You must have a house midway on the slope," said Mr. Olyphant; "half your parish above your heads, half at your feet: and you will have plenty of snow, and plenty of work, and not much else, but each other. Endecott's face says that is being very rich but he always was an unworldly sort of fellow, Mrs. Linden; I don't think he ever saw the real glitter of gold, yet." Did her eyes? But they were unconsciously looking at riches of some kind; there was no poverty in them. "I like work, sir." "Do you think she could bear the cold, Mr. Olyphant? how are the winters there? That is what I have thought of most." "I am no more afraid of the cold than you are, Endecott." How gently the last word was spoken! But Faith clearly remembered her lesson. Mr. Linden smiled. "She is a real little Sunbeam," he said. "You know they make light of cold weather." "Light of it in two ways," said Mr. Olyphant. "No, I don't think you need fear the winters for her; we'd try and protect her." "Do you see how much good the Sunbeam has done him, Mr. Olyphant?" said Pet.--"I see it, Miss Pet; it does me good. I meant to have been here to see you married, Endecott, and missed the train. I shall miss it again, now, if I am not careful. But you must come up and stay with us, and we'll arrange matters. Such neighbours may tempt me to winter in the mountains myself, and then I shall take charge of you, Miss Pet." "I should like that," said Pet. "I see, my dear Mrs. Linden," said Mr. Olyphant, smiling at her, "I see you follow one of the old Jewish laws." "What is that, sir?"--"You know it was required of the Jews that they should bear the words of the law 'as frontlets between the eyes'. Now--if you will forgive me for saying so--in your eyes is written one of the proverbs." "Look up, Mignonette, and let me see," said Mr. Linden. But oddly, Faith looked down first; then the eyes were lifted. "Is truth a proverb?" said Pet laughing.--"O you see too many things there!" said Mr. Olyphant,--"this is what I see, Endecott--'The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.'" A little veil of shyness and modesty suddenly fell around Faith. Even her head drooped. But Mr. Linden's lips touched the fair brow between those very fair eyes. "I cannot praise your discernment, sir," he said. "It is not more true than evident." "I cannot half congratulate either of you," said Mr. Olyphant, smiling, "so I'll go. Good-bye, Miss Pet--remember next winter. Mrs. Linden, we shall expect to see you long before that time. Let me have a word with you, Endecott." And Faith was again left alone, entirely this time, for Miss Linden went up stairs to attend Mrs. Iredell. As they turned to go out, Faith turned the other way, and sat down, feeling overwhelmed. Everything was very still. Pet's light steps passed off in the distance; through the open windows came the song of kildeers and robins, the breath of roses, the muslin-veiled sunshine. Then she heard Mr. Olyphant's carriage drive off, and Mr. Linden came back. Faith started up, and very lovely she looked, with the timid grace of those still dyed cheeks and vailed brow. "My poor little tired Mignonette!" he said as he came up to her. Then lifted her face, and looking at it a moment with a half smile, pressed his lips again where they had been so lately. But this time that did not satisfy him. "Endy," she said presently, "please don't praise me before other people!" "What dreadful thing did I say?" inquired Mr. Linden, laughing. "Do you know I have hardly seen my wife yet?"--To judge by Faith's face, neither had she. "If I speak of her at all I must speak the truth. But Mr. Olyphant knows me of old; he will not take my words for more than they are worth." A slight commentary of a smile passed, but Faith did not adventure any repartee. "Are you very tired?"--"Oh no!" "Little bird!" said Mr. Linden, holding her close. "What sort of a sweet spirit was it that said those words at my side this morning?" There was no answer at first; and then, very quaint and soft the words--"Only Faith Derrick." "'Only.'--Faith, did you hear my parting direction to Miss Essie?"--"Yes." "Do you agree to it, Mrs. Linden?" He had spoken that name a good many times that day, and to be sure her cheeks had more or less acknowledged it; but this time it brought such a rush of colour that she stooped her face to be out of sight. "Do you want Miss Reason to answer that question, sir?"--"No, nor Miss anybody." "Prudence would say, there are shortcakes," said Faith. "Where?"--"In--hypothesis." "If your shortcakes outweigh my study, Faith, they will be heavier than I ever saw them!" "You wouldn't take Reason's answer," said Faith. "What would it have been?" She looked up, a swift little laughing glance into his face. "Parlez, Madame, s'il vous plaît." Her look changed. "You know, Endy, I would rather be there than anywhere else in the world." It moved him. The happiness to which his look bore witness was of a kind too deep for words. "Do you know, love, if we had been going at once to our work in the mountains, I should have asked a great many people to come here to-day." "Would you? why, Endy?"--"To let them see my wife. Now, I mean to take her to see them." Faith was willing he should take her where he pleased, though she made no remark. Her timidity moved in a small circle, and touched principally him. Mingling with this, and in all she did, ever since half past one o'clock to-day, there had been a sort of dignity of grave happiness; very rare, very beautiful. "I wonder if you know half how lovely and dear you are?" said Mr. Linden, studying the fair outlines of character, as well as of feature. But Faith's eye went all down the pattern of embroidery on her white robe, and never dared meet his. "Have you any idea, little Mignonette of sweetness, after what fashion that proverb is true?" She looked up, uncertain what proverb he meant; but then immediately certain, bent her head again. Faith never thought of herself as Mr. Linden thought of her. Movings of humility and determination were in her heart now, but she knew he would not bear to hear her speak them, and her own voice was not just ready. So she was only silent still. "What will make you speak?" said Mr. Linden, smiling. "I am like Ali Baba before the storehouse of hid treasure. Is this the 'Sesame' you are waiting for?" he added, raising her face and trying two or three persuasive kisses. "There was nothing in the storehouse," said Faith laughingly. "No words I mean."--"I am willing to take thoughts." "How?"--"Which way you like!" "Then you will have to wait for them, Endy." "Mignonette, I am of an impatient disposition." "Yes I know it." "Is it to be your first wifely undertaking to cure me?" he said, laughing.--"It takes time to put thoughts into action," said Faith, blushing.--"Not all thoughts, Mignonette." She coloured beautifully; but anything more pure and sweet than those first wifely kisses of Faith could not be told. Did he know, had he felt, all the love and allegiance they had so silently and timidly spoken? She had reason to think so. CHAPTER XLIV. In a low whitewashed room, very clean though little and plain, where the breeze blew in fresh from the sea, Faith found herself established Friday afternoon. Mr. Linden had promised to show her the surf, and so had brought her down to a little village, long ago known to him, on the New England shore; where the people lived by farming and fishing, and no hotel attracted or held an influx of city life. It was rather late in the day, for the journey had been in part off the usual route of railway and steam, and therefore had been longer if not wearier. But when Faith had got rid of the dust, Mr. Linden came to her door to say that it would be half an hour to supper, and ask if she was too tired to walk down to the beach. The shore was but a few hundred yards from the little farmhouse; green grass, with interrupting rocks, extending all the way. Faith hardly knew what she was corning to till she reached the brink. There the precipitous rocks rose sheer a hundred feet from the bottom, and at the bottom, down below her, a narrow strip of beach was bordered with the billowy crest and foam of the sea. Nothing but the dark ocean and the illimitable ocean line beyond; there was not even a sail in sight this evening; in full uninterrupted power and course, from the broad east, the swells of the sea rolled in and broke--broke, with their graceful, grand monotony. The beach was narrow at height of tide; now the tide was out. Fishermen's boats were drawn up near to the rocks, and steep narrow pathways along and down the face of them allowed the fishermen to go from the top to the bottom. "Can't we get down there?" said Faith, when she had stood a minute looking silently. Her face showed an eager readiness for action. "Can you fly, little bird?"--"Yes--as well as the fishermen can!" "If you cannot I can carry you," said Mr. Linden.--And doubtless he would have found some way to make his words good had there been need; as it was, he only guarded her down the steep rocky way, going before her and holding her hand in a grasp she would have been puzzled to get away from. But Faith was light and free of foot, and gave him no trouble. Once at the bottom, she went straight towards those in-coming big waves, and in front of them stood still. The sea-breeze blew in her face; the roar of the breakers made music in her ears. Faith folded one hand upon the other, and stood motionless. Now and then the wind caught the spray from some beaten rock and flung it in her face, and wave after wave rose up and donned its white crest; the upstanding green water touched with sunlight and shadow, and changing tints of amber and olive, down which the white foam came curling and rushing--sweeping in knots of seaweed, and leaving all the pebbles with wet faces. Mr. Linden let her look without the interruption of a word; but he presently put his arm round her, and drew her a little into shelter from the strong breeze. It was a while before she moved from her steady gaze at the water; then she looked up, the joy of her face breaking into a smile. "Endecott, will you show me anything more grand than this?" "You shall tell me when you have seen the uprising mists of Niagara," he answered, smiling, "or the ravines between snowcaps 'five thousand summers old.'" Her eye went back to the sea. "It brings before me, somehow," she said slowly, "all time, and all eternity! I have been thinking here of myself as I was a little child, and as I shall be, and as I am," she added, with her inveterate exactness, and blushing. "I seem to see only the great scale of everything." "Tell me a little more clearly what you see," said Mr. Linden. "It isn't worth telling. I see everything here as belonging to God. The world seems his great work-place, and life his time for doing the work, and I--and you," she said, with a flash of light coming across her face, "his work-people. And those great breaking waves, somehow, seem to me like the resistless, sure, beautiful, doings of his providence." She spoke very quietly, because she was bidden, evidently. "Do you know how many other things they are like?--or rather how many are likened to them in the Bible?"--"No! I don't know the Bible as you do." "They seem to be a never-failing image--an illustration suiting very different things. 'The wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest,' and then, 'O that thou hadst hearkened to me I then had thy peace been as a river, and thy righteousness as the waves of the sea.'" "There is the endless struggle of human will and purpose against the divine--'The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.' 'Fear ye not me? saith the Lord: will ye not tremble at my presence, which have placed the sand for the bound of the sea by a perpetual decree, that it cannot pass it: and though the waves thereof toss themselves, yet can they not prevail: though they roar, yet can they not pass over it?' And so in another place the image is reversed, and God says, 'Behold I am against thee, O Tyrus, and will cause many nations to come up against thee, as the sea causeth his waves to come up.' Could anything be more forcible?" A look was Faith's answer; it spoke the kindled thoughts at work. "Then you know," Mr. Linden went on, "how often the troubles of God's children are compared to the ocean; as David says, 'All thy waves are gone over me.' But then the Lord answers to that, 'When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee, and through the floods, they shall not overwhelm thee;' and David himself in another place declares it to be true--'O Lord God of hosts, who is a strong Lord like unto thee? or to thy faithfulness round about thee? Thou rulest the raging of the sea: when the waves thereof arise, thou stillest them.'--I suppose," he added, thoughtfully, taking both her hands in his, "this is one sense in which by-and-by 'there shall be no more sea'--except that 'sea of glass, upon which they stand who have gotten the victory!'" Another look, a grave, full look, came to him from Faith; and grave and soft her eye went back to the sea. The sunbeams were all off it; it was dark and foamy. Speaking rather low, half to her half to himself, Mr. Linden went on,--"'And they overcame by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony: and they loved not their lives unto the death.'" Her look did not move. Mr. Linden's went with it for a minute or two, but then it came back to her differently. "My darling, I am afraid to have you stay here any longer." "We can come again!" said Faith gleefully, as she turned away. "I want to look at them a great deal." "We will come again and try how far a 'ladder' can reach from this low sand." She looked back for another glance as she began to mount the rocky way. The mounting was an easy matter, for Mr. Linden came close and took hold of her in such fashion that she was more than half carried up. "Do you feel as if you had wings now?" he asked her, after a somewhat quick "flight" up half the way. "Folded ones," said Faith, laughing and breathless. "I don't know what sort yours can be! I can go up by myself, Endecott." "With folded wings, as you remark, Mrs. Linden. Do you remember that infallible way of recognizing 'earth's angels,' when they are not pluming themselves?"--"They never do plume themselves," said Faith, stopping to look at him. "Not when they are carried!" Faith's laugh rolled down the rocks; and then as they reached the top she grew timid and quiet, a mood which came over her whenever she remembered her new position and name in the world. There is no room to tell all the seaside doings of those days; the surf bathing, and fishing beyond the surf. A week passed there, or rather more; then, Mr. Linden having business in New York, the "wooden horse" went that way. We cannot follow all its travels. But we must stay with it a day in the city. CHAPTER XLV. Everybody who has travelled on the great route from Pattaquasset to New York, knows that the scenery is not striking. Pleasant it is, and fresh, in fresh seasons of the year; cornfields and hayfields and sparkling little rivers always make up a fair prospect: but, until the towers of Quilipeak rise upon the sight, with their leafy setting of green, there is nothing to draw much notice. And less, afterwards. The train flies on, past numberless stopping-posts, over bridges, through towns; regaling its passengers with hay, salt water, bony fish, and (in the season) dust; until the matchless flats, marshes, pools, sights, and smells crowd thick about Haarlem river, and lure the traveller on through the sweet suburbs of New York. Hither, business demanded that the "wooden horse" should come for a day or two; here they were to be received by one of the many old friends who were claiming, all over the country, a visit from Mr. Linden and his bride. Through the dark tunnel the train puffed on, the passengers winking and breathing beneath the air-holes, dark and smothered where air-holes were not; then the cars ran out into the sunlight, and, in a minute more, two of the passengers were transferred to the easy rolling coach which was in waiting for them, and drove away. Past warm brick fronts and pavements; past radish boys and raspberry girls; past oranges, pineapples, vegetables, in every degree of freshness except fresh. Of all which, even the vegetables, Faith's eyes took most curious and intent notice--for one minute; then the Avenue and fruit stalls were left behind; the carriage had turned a corner, and, in another minute or two, drew up before an imposing front in Madison Square. And there, at the very steps, was a little raspberry girl. How Faith looked at her! "Raspberries to-day, ma'am?" said the child, encouraged by the look, or the sweet face.--"No, dear, I don't want any." Faith went gravely up the steps. It was her first introduction to New York. But Mr. Linden's face wore a smile. There was no time to remark on it, for the door opened and a second introduction awaited her. An introduction to another part of the world. A magnificent house, every square yard of which, perhaps, taken with its furniture and adornments, had cost as much as the whole of Faith's old home. A palace of luxury, where no want of any kind, material, could be known or fancied. In this house they were welcomed with a great welcome by a stately lady, Mr. Linden's old friend and his mother's; and by her family of sons and daughters, who were in another style, and whose vivacious kindness seemed disposed to take up Faith bodily and carry her off. It was a novel scene for Faith, and she was amused. Amused too with the overpowering curiosity which took the guise, or the veil, of so much kindness, and beset her, because--Mr. Linden had married her. Yet Faith did not see the hundredth part of their curiosity. Mr. Linden, whose eyes were more open, was proportionably amused, both with that and with Faith's simplicity, which half gratified and at least half baffled it. The young ladies at last took Faith up to her room; and, after lavishing all sorts of attentions upon her, and making various vain efforts to understand her, gave her the information that a good deal of company was expected to dinner, and left her, baffled and attracted almost in an equal degree. They did not seem to have as puzzling an effect on Faith; for when Mr. Linden came out of his own dressing-room, he found her ready, and looking as fresh and cool as if she had just come up from the sands at Bankhead. She was dressed in a light muslin, but no more elaborately than she used to be at Pattaquasset; only that this time her ruffles were laces. She was a little more dainty for the dinner-party. Mr. Linden came with a knot of glowing geraniums--"Jewess," and "Perfection," and "Queen of the Fairies;" which, bound together as they were with white ribband, he first laid against her dress to try the effect (well deserving his smile of comment) then put in her hand to make fast. They set off all the quiet elegance of her figure after their own style, which was not quiet. "Now, Mignonette," he said, "I suppose you know that I am to have the pleasure of introducing my wife to sundry people?"--"I heard they were coming," said Faith. "If you will only stand by and look on, it will amuse you very much." "It will amuse me anyway," said Faith, "if,"--and what a rose colour came up into her face--"if, Endy, you are satisfied." Mr. Linden folded his arms and looked at her. "If you say anything against my wife, Mrs. Linden, her husband will not like it--neither will yours." "That is all I care about, not pleasing those two gentlemen," said Faith, laughing. "Is that all? I shall report your mind at rest. Come, it is time this little exotic should appear." Faith thought as she went with him, that she was anything but an _exotic;_ she did not speak her thoughts. There was a large dinner company gathered and gathering; and the "pleasure" Mr. Linden had spoken of--introducing his wife--was one enjoyed, by him or somebody, a great many times in the course of the evening. This was something very unlike Pattaquasset or anything to be found there; only in Judge Harrison's house little glimpses of this sort of society might be had; and these people seemed to Faith rather in the sphere of Dr. Harrison than of his father and sister. People who had rubbed off every particle of native simplicity that ever belonged to them, and who, if they were simple at all--as some of them were--had a different kind of simplicity, made after a most exquisite and refined worldly fashion. How it was made or worn, Faith could not tell; she had an instinctive feeling of the difference. If she had set on foot a comparison, she would soon have come to the conclusion that "Mr. Linden's wife" was of another pattern altogether. But Faith never thought of doing that. Her words were so true that she had spoken, she cared so singly to satisfy one person there, and had such an humble confidence of doing it, that other people gave her little concern. She had little need, for no word or glance fell upon Faith that did not show the eye or the speaker won or attracted. The words and glances were very many, but Faith never found out or suspected that it was to see _her_ all this party of grand people had been gathered together. She thought they were curious about "Mr. Linden's wife;" and though their curiosity made her shy, and her sense of responsibility gave an exquisite tenderness to her manner, both effects only set a grace upon her usual free simplicity. That was not disturbed, though a good deal of the time Faith was far from Mr. Linden's kelp or protection. A stranger took her in to dinner, and among strangers she made her way most of the evening. But though she was shy, Faith was afraid never but of one person, nor much of him. For him--among old acquaintances, beset with all manner of inquiries and congratulations--he yet heard her voice whenever it was possible, and knew by sight as well as hearing all the admiration she called forth. He might have said as at Kildeer river, that he found "a great deal of Mignonette." What he _did_ tell her, when the evening was over, was that people were at a loss how to name the new exotic. "How to name _me_, Endecott?"--"As an exotic." "I don't wonder!" said Faith with her merry little laugh. "Don't philosophers sometimes get puzzled in that way, Endecott?"--"Scientific philosophers content themselves with the hardest names they can find, but in this case such will not suit. Though Dr. Campan may write you in his books as 'Lindenethia Pattaquassetensis--exotic, very rare. The flower is a double star--colour wonderful.'" Faith stopped to laugh. "What a blunder he will make if he does!" she said. "It will show, as Mr. Simlins says--that he don't understand common vegetables." "Well translated, Mignonette. How will it show that, if you please?"--"He has mistaken one for a trumpet creeper." "A scarlet runner, I suppose." "Was I?" said Faith seriously. "According to you. I am in Dr. Campan's predicament." "I should think _you_ needn't be," said Faith, simply. "Because you know, Endy I never knew even how to climb till you showed me." Mr. Linden faced round upon her, the quick flashing eyes answering even more than his. "Faith! what do you mean?" But his lips played then in a rare little smile, as he said, very quietly, in his former position, "Imagine Mignonette, with its full sweetness--and more than its full colour--suddenly transplanted to the region where Monkeys and Geraniums grow--I like to think of the effect." "I can't think of any effect at all," said Faith. "_I_ should look at the Monkeys and Geraniums!" "Of course--being Mignonette. And clearly that you are; but then how can Mignonette so twine itself round things?" Faith thought it did not, and also thought of Pet's charge about "charming;" but she left both points. "Most climbers," said Mr. Linden, with a glance at her, "have but one way of laying hold; but this exotic has all. There are the tendrils when it wants support, and the close twining that makes of two lives one, and the clasp of a hundred little stems that give a leaf or a flower wherever they touch." "Endecott!" said Faith, with a look of astonished remonstrance and amusement in one.--"What?" But the smile and blush with which Faith turned away bespoke her not very much displeased; and she knew better by experience than to do battle with Mr. Linden's words. She let him have it his own way. The next day business claimed him. Faith was given up to the kindness and curiosity of her new friends. They made good use of their opportunity, and their opportunity was a good one; for it was not till late in the day, a little while before the late dinner hour, that Mr. Linden came home. He found Faith in her room; a superbly appointed chamber, as large as any three of those she had been accustomed to. She was standing at the window, thoughtfully looking out; but turned joyfully to meet Mr. Linden. Apparently he was glad too. "My dear little Mignonette! I feel as if I had not seen you for a week." "It has been a long day," said Faith; who looked rather, it may be remarked, as if the day had freshly begun. "Mignonette, you are perfectly lovely! Do you think you will condescend to wear these flowers?" said Mr. Linden, drawing her to a seat by the table, and with one arm still round her beginning to arrange the flowers he had thrown down there as he came in. Faith watched him, and then looked up. "Endecott you shouldn't talk to me so. You wouldn't like me to believe you." Mr. Linden finished setting two or three ruby carnations in the green and purple of heliotrope and sweet-scented verbena; then laid the bunch lightly upon her lips and gravely inquired if they were sweet. "Yes," Faith said, laughing behind them. "You are not hungry?" "Why? and what of it?"--"You don't seem to remember it is near dinner-time." "Dinner time is a myth. My dear, I am sorry I give you so much uneasiness. I wish you could feel as composed about me as I do about you. What have I done with that white ribband!--don't stir--it is in some pocket or other." And the right one being found, Mr. Linden unwrapped the piece of ribband and cut off what he wanted, remarking that he could not get used to giving her anything but blue. "Well, why do you then?" said Faith.--"I feel in a subdued state of mind, owing to reproofs," said Mr. Linden, with the white satin curling round his fingers. "I may not tell anybody what I think of my wife!" Faith looked amused, and yet a soft glance left the charge and the "reproof" standing. "I feel so composed about you," Mr. Linden went on, drawing his white bows--Faith did think the eyes flashed under the shading lashes--"so sure that you will never over-estimate me, much less speak of it. But then you know, Mignonette, I never did profess to follow Reason." He was amused to see the little stir his words called up in Faith. He could see it in the changing colour and rest less eye, and in one look of great beauty which Faith favoured him with. Apparently the shy principle prevailed, or Faith's wit got the better of her simplicity; for she rose up gravely and laying her hand on the bunch of flowers asked if she should put them on. "Unless you prefer my services." She sat down again immediately, with a face that very plainly preferred them. Half smiling, with fingers that were in no haste about their work, Mr. Linden adjusted the carnations; glancing from them to her, trying them in different positions, playing over his dainty task as if he liked it. The flowers in place, his full smiling look met hers, and she was carried off to the glass "to see his wife." Hardly seen, after all, but by himself. "She looks ready for dinner," said Faith. "Your eyes are only to look at," said Mr. Linden with a laughing endorsement of _his_ thoughts, and putting her back in the dormeuse. "Suppose you sit there, and tell me what efforts they have made in the way of seeing, to-day." "Efforts to see all before them, which was more than they could," said Faith. "What did they see? not me, nor I them, that I know." "That was another sort of effort they made," said Faith smiling--"efforts to see what was _not_ before them. I watched, whenever I thought there was a chance, but I couldn't see anything that looked like you. We must have gone half over the city, Endecott; Mrs. Pulteney took me all the morning, and her daughters and Mr. Pulteney all the afternoon." "Know, O little Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "that in New York it is 'morning' till those people who dine at six have had their dinner. "Like the swell of some sweet tune Morning rises into noon,-- was written of country hours." "I guess that is true of most of the other good things that ever were written," said Faith. Mr. Linden looked amused. "What do you think of this?-- And when the hours of rest Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Hushing its billowy breast-- The quiet of that moment too is thine; It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps." "I never saw the city when it was asleep," said Faith, smiling. "It didn't look to-day as if it could sleep. But, Endecott, I am sure all the pretty part of those words comes from where we have been." "The images, yes. But connect any spot of earth with heaven, by any tie, and it must have a certain sort of grandeur. You have been working in brick and mortar to-day, Mignonette, to-morrow I must give you a bird's-eye view." Faith was silent a minute; and then said, "It don't look a happy place to me, Endecott." "No, it is too human. You want an elm tree or a patch of dandelions between every two houses." "That wouldn't do," said Faith, "unless the people could be less ragged, and dirty, and uneasy; and their houses too. There's nothing like it in Pattaquasset." "I have great confidence in the comforting and civilizing power of elm trees and green grass," said Mr. Linden. "But Carlyle says 'Man is not what you can call a happy animal, his appetite for sweet victual is so enormous;' and perhaps New York suffers as much from the fact that everybody wants _more_, as that some have too little and others too much." "Do _these_ people want more?" said Faith softly. "Without doubt! So does everybody in New York but me." "But why must people do that in New York, when they don't do it in Pattaquasset?" said Faith, who was very like mignonette at the moment. "The appetite grows with indulgence, or the possibility of it. Besides, little bird, in Pattaquasset you take all this breeze of humanity winnowed through elm branches. There, you know, 'My soul into the boughs does glide.'" "No," said Faith; "it is not that. When my soul glides nowhere, and there are no branches, either; in the Roscoms' house, Endecott--and poor Mrs. Dow's, and Sally Lowndes',--people don't look as they look here. I don't mean _here_, in Madison Square--though yes I do, too; there was that raspberry girl; and others, worse, I have seen even here. But I have been in other places--Mr. Pulteney and his sisters took me all the way to the great stone church, Endecott." "Well, Sunbeam, it has been a bright day for every raspberry girl that has come in your way. What else did you see there."--"I saw the church." "Not the invisible" said Mr. Linden, smiling, "remember that." "Invisible! no," said Faith. "There was a great deal of this visible." "What thoughts did it put in your head?"--"It was very--wonderfully beautiful," said Faith, thoughtfully. "What else?"--"I cannot tell. You would laugh at me if I could. Endecott, it didn't seem so much like a church to me as the little white church at home." "I agree with you there--the less show of the instrument the sweeter the music, to me. But the street in front of the church, so specially filled with beggars and cripples, I never go by there, Faith, without a feeling of joy; remembering the blind man who sat at the Beautiful gate of the temple; knowing well that there is as 'safe, expeditious, and easy a way' to heaven from that dusty side-walk, as from any other spot of earth. The triumph of grace!--how glorious it is! _I_ cannot speak to all of them together, nor even one by one, but grace is free! 'Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts.' Faith, I have been thinking of that all day!" She could see it in his face--in the flush on the cheek and the flash in the eye as he came and stood before her. She could see what had been all day before his eyes and mind; and how pain and sympathy and longing desire had laid hold of the promise and rested there--"Ask and ye shall receive." Unconsciously Faith folded her hands, and the least touch of a smile in the corners of her mouth was in no wise contradictory of her eyes' sweet gravity. "I saw them too," she said, in a low tone. "Endecott, I would rather speak to them out there, under the open sky, if it wasn't a crowd--than in the church?" "I should forget where I was, after I began to speak," said Mr. Linden; "though I do love 'that dome--most catholic and solemn,' better than all others." "Mr. Pulteney asked me how I liked the church," said Faith. "He did not understand your answer," said Mr. Linden smiling, "I know that beforehand. What was it?"--"I think he didn't like it," said Faith. "I told him it seemed to me a great temple that men had built for their own glory and pleasure, not for the glory and pleasure of God." "Since when, you have been to Mr. Tom Pulteney like a fable in ancient Greek to one who has learned the modern language at school and forgotten it." "He did not understand me," said Faith, laughing and blushing a little. "And I was worse off; for I asked him several questions he could not answer me. I wanted to go to the top, but he was certain I would be too tired if I did. But I heard the chime, Endecott! that was beautiful. Beautiful! I am very glad I was there." "I'll take you to the top" said Mr. Linden, "it will not tire me. Faith, I have brought you another wedding present--talking of 'ancient' things." "What is that, Endecott?" she said, with a bright amused face.--"Only a fern leaf. One that waved a few thousand years before the deluge, and was safely bedded in stone when the children of Israel passed through the Red Sea. I went to see an old antiquarian friend this morning, and out of his precious things he chose one for mine." And Mr. Linden laid in her hand the little rough stone; rough on one side, but on the other where the hammer had split it through, the brown face was smooth, and the black leaf lay marked out in all its delicate tracery. "Endecott, what is this?" Faith exclaimed, in her low tones of delight.--"A fossil leaf." "Of a fern? How beautiful! Where did it come from?" She had risen in her delight, and stood by Mr. Linden at the dressing-table.--"This one from Bohemia. Do you see the perfection of every leafet?" "How wonderful! how beautiful!" Faith repeated, studying the fossil. "It brings up those words, Endecott:--'A thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past; or as a watch in the night.'" "Yes, and these--'The counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.' Compare this fern leaf with the mighty palaces of Babylon and Nineveh. Through untold ages this has kept its wavy fragile outline, _they_ are marked only by 'the line of confusion and the stones of emptiness.'" Faith looked up, with such an eye of intelligence and interest as again would have puzzled Mr. Pulteney. "Did your old antiquary send this to me, Endecott?" she said looking down at it again.--"To you, darling." "I have seen nothing so good to-day, Endy. I am very glad of it." "Do you remember, Sunbeam, the time when I told you I liked stones? and you looked at me. I remember the look now!" So did Faith, by the conscious light and colour that came into her face, different from those of three minutes ago, and the grateful recognition her eyes gave to Mr. Linden. "I don't know much more now," she said, in very lowliness, "about stones, but you can teach me, Endecott." "Yes, I will leave no stone unturned for your amusement," he said, laughing. "Faith, if I were not so much afraid of you I should tell you what you are like. What else have you seen?" "Tell me what I am like, Endecott." "What sort of consistency is that--to coax me when I don't tell you, and scold me when I do?" "It's curiosity, I suppose," said Faith. "But it's no matter. I saw all that strange place, Broadway, Endecott; we drove through the whole length of it." "Well?" said Mr. Linden, throwing himself down in the arm-chair and looking gravely up at her. But then the lips parted, not only to smile but to sing a wild Scotch tune. "O wat ye wha that lo'es me, And has my heart in keeping? O sweet is she that lo'es me, As dews o' summer weeping, In tears the rosebuds steeping; O that's the lassie o' my heart, My lassie ever dearer; O that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her!" "If thou hast heard her talking, And thy attention's plighted, That ilka body talking But her by thee is slighted, And thou art all delighted. O that's the lassie o' my heart, My lassie ever dearer; O that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her!" "Did you see anybody like that in Broadway, Faith?" Blushing how she blushed! but she would not say a word nor stir, to interrupt the singing; so she stood there, casting a shy look at him now and then till he had stopped, and then coming round behind him, she laid her head down upon his shoulder. Mr. Linden laughed, caressing the pretty head in various ways. "My dear little bird!" he said. Then presently--"Mignonette, _I_ have been looking at fur cloaks." "Don't do such a thing again, Endy." "I shouldn't, if I could have quite suited myself to-day." "I don't want it. I can bear the cold as well as you." "Let it make up for something which you do want and haven't got, then; you must bear the cold Polar fashion. But at present, there is the dinner-bell." They went down; but with the fossil and the fur, Faith was almost taken out of New York; and astonished Mr. Pulteney once or twice more in the course of the evening, to Mr. Linden's amusement. CHAPTER XLVI. The Hudson river railway, on a summer Saturday afternoon. Does everybody know it? If not, let me tell the people who have not tried it, or those more unfortunate ones who are tried by it, and driven into the depths of newspapers and brown literature by the steam pressure of mountains, clouds, and river, that it is glorious. Not on a dusty afternoon, but when there has been or is a shower. Not the locomotive, or the tender, or the cars, though the long chain has a sort of grandeur, as its links wind into the bays and round the promontories, express. But get a river-side seat, and keep your patience up the lumbered length of Tenth Avenue, and restrain your impatience as the train goes at half-stroke along that first bit of road where people are fond of getting on the track; watch the other shore, meantime, or the instructive market gardens on this; then feel the quickened speed, as the engine gets her "head;" then use your eyes. Open your windows boldly; people don't get cold from our North river air; never mind the sun; hold up a veil or a fan; only look. See how the shore rises into the Palisades, up which the March of Improvement finds such uncertain footing: how the rising points of hill are rounded with shadow and sunlight, and green from river to crown. See how the clouds roll softly up on the further side, giving showers here and there--how the white-winged vessels sail and careen and float. Look up the river from Peekskill, and see how the hills lock in and part. Think of the train of circumstances that rushed down Arnold's point that long ago morning, where a so different train now passes. Mark the rounding outlines of the green Highlands, and as you near Garrisons' let your eye follow the sunbeam that darts down the little mill creek just opposite the tunnel. Then on through those beloved hills, till they fall off right and left, and you are out upon Newburgh bay in the full glory of the sunset. After this (if you are tired looking) you may talk for a while, till the blue heads of the Catskill catch your eye and hold it. The blue range was a dim outline--hardly that--when Faith reached her journey's end that night. She could hear the dash of the river, and see the brilliant stars, but all details waited for morning; and the morning was Sunday. Balmy, cloudless, the very air put Faith almost in Elysium; and between dreamy enjoyment, and a timid sense of her own new name and position, she would have liked for herself an oriole's nest on one of the high branches. Failing that, she seemed--as her hostess and again an old friend of Mr. Linden's told him--"like a very rosebud; as sweet, and as much shut up to herself." Truth to tell, she kept something of the same manner and seeming next day. The house was very full, and of a very gay set of people; of whom Faith's friend, Mr. Motley, was one. Faith met their advances pleasantly, but she was daintily shy. And besides, the scene and the time were full of temptations to dream over the out-of-door beauty. The people amused her, but often she would rather have lost them in the hills or the sunset; and was for various reasons willing that others should talk while she looked. So passed the first two days, and the third brought an excursion, which kept the whole party out till lunch-time. But towards the end of the day Mr. Linden was witness to a little drama which let him know something more of Faith than he had just seen before. It was near the time of dressing for dinner. Mr. Linden was already dressed and had come to the library, where, in a deep recess on one side of the window, he was busy with a piece of study. The window was very large, and opened upon a green terrace; and on the terrace, in a garden chair, just outside the open window, sat Faith; quietly and intensely, he knew, enjoying the broad river and the mountain range that lay blue in the sunlight a few miles beyond; all in the soft still air of the summer day. She distracted Mr. Linden's thoughts from his study. He could see her perfectly, though he was quite out of her view. She was in one of the dainty little morning dresses he had sent her from the place of pretty things; nothing could be more simple, and it suited her; and she looked about as soft and still as the day. Meanwhile some gentlemen had entered the library, and drew near the window. Faith was just out of their range, and Mr. Linden was completely hid in his recess, or doubtless their remarks would have had a different bearing The remarks turned upon Faith, who was here as well as in New York an object of curiosity to those who had known Mr. Linden; and one of the speakers expressed himself as surprised that "Linden" should have married her. "Wouldn't have thought it,--would you?" said Mr. Motley. "To be sure; he's able to do all the talking." "She does very well for the outside," said another. "Might satisfy anybody. Uncommon eyes." "Eyes!" said Mr. Motley. "Yes, she has eyes!--and a mouth. I suppose Linden gets some good of it--if nobody else does. And after all, to find a woman that is all eyes and no tongue, is, as you remark, uncommon." "She's not quite stylish enough for him," said a third. "I thought Linden would have married a brilliant woman." "He'll be a brilliant man, if you tell him that," said Mr. Motley. "Corruscations, and so forth. I never thought I should see him bewitched--even by a rose leaf monopoly." The conversation was interrupted. It had not been one which Mr. Linden could very well break; all he could do was to watch Faith. He could see her slightly-bent head and still face, and the colour which grew very bright upon the cheek nearest him. She was motionless till the last words were broken off; then, with a shy movement of one hand to her cheek, covering it, she sprang away, as lightly as any bird she was ever named after. Mr. Linden was detained in the library, where, as the dinner-hour drew near, other members of the family began to gather. A group of these were round the table, discussing an engraving; when Mr. Linden saw Faith come in. He was no longer in the dangerous recess; but Faith did not come near him; she joined the party at the table. Mr. Linden watched her. Faith's dressing was always a quiet affair; to-day somehow the effect was very lovely. She wore a soft muslin which flowed about her in full draperies; with a breast-knot of roses on its white folds. Faith rarely put on flowers that Mr. Linden had not given her. To-day was an exception; and her white robe with no setting off but those roses and her rich hair, was faultless. Not merely that; the effect was too striking to be absolutely quiet; all eyes were drawn to her. The gentlemen whom she had heard speak were among the party; and no eyes were more approving. Mr. Linden watched, as he might, without being seen to watch. Faith joined not only the party, but the conversation; taking her place in it frankly; showing no unwillingness to give opinions or to discuss them, and no desire to avoid any subject that came up. She was taking a new stand among these strangers. Mr. Linden saw it, and he could guess the secret reason; no one else could guess that there was anything to give a reason for, so coolly, so naturally, it was done. But the stand was taken. Faith had not stepped in the least out of her own bounds; she had abated not a whit of her extreme modesty. She was never more herself, only it was as if she had laid down a self-indulgent shyness which she had permitted herself before, and allowed Mr. Linden's friends to become acquainted with Mr. Linden's wife. But with herself! Her manner to-day was exceedingly like her dress; the plainest simplicity, the purest quality, and the roses blushing over all. It fascinated the gentlemen, every one of them. They found that the little demure piece of gravity could talk; and talk with a truth and freshness of thought too, which was like the rest of her, uncommon and interesting, soft and free, at once. Faith went off to dinner on the arm of one of her maligners, and was very busy with company all the evening after, having little to do with Mr. Linden. She had escaped to her room earlier than he, however; and when he came in she was sitting thoughtfully before the open window. She rose up directly, and came to him, with the usual smile, and with a little hidden triumph dancing in her eyes, and an odd wistful look besides of affection and humility. She only came close to him for a caress, without speaking. Mr. Linden took her face in both hands and looked at it--a beautiful smile mingling with the somewhat moved look of his own. "What a child you are!" The colour rushed all over Faith's cheeks. "Why?--" she whispered. The answer to which, cheeks and brow, and lips, might spell out as best they could. "Do you know why I did not come with your flowers, Mignonette?"--"Before dinner?--no. I got some for myself." "I was on my way for them, and was entrapped and held fast. My little Mignonette! I never thought to have you put your hand to your cheek in that way again!" "Again, Endecott! Who told you?" said Faith, as usual jumping to conclusions. "Who told me what, my beauty?" Faith's eye fell in doubt, then looked up searchingly. "I believe you know everything; but you don't look displeased. How _did_ you know, Endecott?"--"I saw and heard. And have seen and heard since," he added, smiling. A question or two found out exactly how it had been; and then Faith put the inquiry, simple to quaintness, "Did I do better to-day?"--"If you are so anxious for me--" he said, stroking back her hair. "They did not deserve to have one of my wife's words, but her words were admirable." It was worth while to see Faith's cheeks. "Will you trust me to ride with Mr. Middleton to-morrow?" she asked presently, smiling. "No. Yes--I will trust you but not him." "Does that mean that you will trust me to go?"--"Not with him." "But what shall I do?" said Faith, flushing after a different fashion--half laughing too--"I told him I would go, or that I thought I would go." "Tell him that you think you will not." Faith looked a little troubled: she foresaw a charge of questions she did not like to meet. "Are you afraid of the horse, Endy?" she said, after a pause, a little timidly. "No, darling." Faith was pretty just now, as she stood with her eyes cast down: like a generous tempered horse first feeling the bit; you can see that the creature will be as docile as possible, yet he is a little shy of your curb. Anything like control was absolutely new to her; and though her face was never more sweet, there was with that a touch of embarrassment which made an inexpressibly pretty mixture. Mr. Linden might well be amused and touched, and charmed too, all in one. "Mr. Motley asked me to ride too," she said after a minute, blushing a little deeper, and speaking as if it were a supplement to her former words. "He wanted to show me the Belle Spring. I had better give them both the same answer." "Has nobody else preferred his request? they are just the two people with whom I do not want you to ride," said Mr. Linden, smiling. "I shall have to ask you myself, or claim you. Mrs. Linden, may I have the honour?"--Faith gave him a very bright answer of a smile, but with a little secret wish in her heart that the other people had not asked her. Her denial, however, was perfectly well taken by Mr. Motley; not indeed without a little bantering talk and raillery upon the excessive care Mr. Linden bestowed on her. But Mr. Middleton, she saw, was not pleased that she disappointed him. Within two or three days Faith had become unmistakeably the centre of attraction to all the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. To walk with her, to talk to her, to attend upon her, were not a coveted honour merely, but a coveted pleasure. It was found wonderfully refreshing to talk to Faith: her eyes were something pleasant to look at, for more than George Alcott; and the truth of her enjoyment and gratitude made it a captivating thing to be the means of exciting them. Mr. Middleton was one of those men who think very much indeed of the value of their approbation, and never bestow it but where they are sure the honour of their taste and judgment is like to be the gainer--one of those men who in ordinary keep their admiration for themselves, and bestow in that quarter a very large amount. Faith's refusal to ride with him touched him very disagreeably. It was impossible to be offended with her, but perhaps all the more he was offended with somebody; and it happened unluckily that some reported light words of Mr. Motley about Mr. Linden's care of his wife, and especial distrust of the gentlemen who had asked her to ride, reached Mr. Middleton's ear in a very exaggerated and opprobrious form. Mr. Middleton did not know Mr. Linden, nor know much of him; his bottled-up wrath resolved that Mr. Linden should not continue long in his reciprocal ignorance. And so it fell out, that as this week began with showing Mr. Linden something of Faith that he had not seen before, it did not end without giving her a new view of him. It was a captivating summer morning when the cavalcade set forth from Rye House, on a picnic to Alderney, one of the show places in the neighbourhood. It seemed fairyland to Faith. The beautiful country over which they travelled, in summer's luxuriance of grass and grain; the river rolling below at a little distance, sometimes hidden only to burst upon the view again; and towering above all, unchanged beyond the changing lights and shades of the nearer landscape, the long mountain range. The air was perfection; the sounds of voice and laughter and horses' brisk feet helped the exhilaration, and the lively colours and fashion of caps and habits and feathers made pretty work for the eye. Faith's ears and eyes were charmed. At a cross road the party was joined by Mr. Middleton; whose good humour, at present in a loose-jointed state, was nowise improved at the sight of Faith. She rode then, at any rate; and she sat well and rode fearlessly, that he could see; and his eye keen for such things, noted too the neat appointments of her dress, and saw that they were all right, and fitted her, and she fitted them; and that her figure altogether was what no man might dislike to have beside him, even a man so careful of his appearance as Mr. Middleton. Not near Faith did he come; but having noted all these things with gathering ire, he sheered off to another part of the troop. It was a pretty day to Faith, the whole first part of it. The ride, and the viewing the grounds they went to see. These were indeed naturally very noble; and to Faith's eyes every new form of natural beauty, of which her range had hitherto been so very small, was like a fresh draught of water to thirsty lips. It was a great draught she had this morning, and enjoyed almost to the forgetfulness of everything else. Then came the lunch. And that was picturesque, too, certainly; on such a bank, under such trees, with such a river and mountains in front; and Faith enjoyed it and them so far. But it was splendid too, and noisy; and her thoughts went at one time away very far, to Kildeer river, and remembered a better meal taken under the trees, with better talk, and only Bob Tuck to look at them. She stole a glance at Mr. Linden. He was doing his part, and making somebody very comfortable indeed--Faith half smiled to see it. Mr. Middleton at another part of the assembled company, had been getting his temper up with wine and his ill humour with the various suggestions and remarks of some careless gossipers at his side. Finding that he winced under the mention of Mrs. Linden and the ride, they gave him that subject with as many variations as the Katydid polka,--the simple "She did"--(or rather "She _didn't_")--skilfully diversified and touched up,--which brought Mr. Middleton's heavy piece of displeasure, already primed, loaded, and at full cock, to the very point where his temper struck fire. He left the table and drew towards Mr. Linden, who was talking in the midst of a group of ladies and gentlemen. Middleton knew which was he that was all. "You, sir!" he said, like a surly bull-dog, which term describes both his mental and physical features, "my name's Middleton; I want you to take back what you've said about me." Mr. Linden at the moment was in the full tide of German talk with one of his old fellow students from abroad; his excellent poise and play of conversation and manner setting off the gesticulations of the foreigner. With a look of more surprise than anything else he brought eyes and attention to bear upon Mr. Middleton. "What, sir?" he said. "Will you take back what you've said about me?" The dogged wrath of the man was beyond the use of many words, to which indeed he was never given. "I have not said anything, sir, which requires that." And with a bend of the head, cool and courteous as his words, Mr. Linden dismissed the subject; and placing himself on the grass with his friend and some others, fell back into the German. Middleton followed fuming. "I've come to speak to you!" he said, beginning with an execration, "and you must get up and answer me. Will you take back what you said?" Stooping down, he had thrown these words into Mr. Linden's ear in a way to leave no doubt whom they were meant for. "I have answered you, sir." "That is to tell you what I think of it!" said Middleton, dashing in his face the remains of a glass of wine which he had brought with him from the board on purpose. He was on his feet then! with what a spring! as in the fairy tale the beautiful princess of a sudden became a sword. Just such eyes of fire Mr. Middleton had never been privileged to see. But Faith saw the hands drop and grasp each other, she saw the eyes fall, and the colour go and come and go again, with a rush and swiftness that was startling to see. Absolutely motionless, the very breath kept down, so he stood. And even his assailant gazed, in a sort of spell-bound wonder. The twittering birds overhead, how they carolled; how softly the leaves rustled, and the river sent up its little waves: and the sunshine and shadow crept on, measuring off the seconds. The pure peace and beauty of everything, the hush of human voices, were but the setting of the deep human struggle. The victory came. With a face from which at last the colour had taken its permanent departure, Mr. Linden looked up and spoke; and something made the very low tones ring in the air. "I have said nothing about you which needed apology, Mr. Middleton. You have been misinformed, sir." And with that same bend of dismissal Mr. Linden drew himself up and walked away, bareheaded as he was. The trees hid him in a moment. Then there came a stir. "What a coward!" cried George Alcott, pressing forward, "to do that to a man who you knew wouldn't knock you down!" The young German had started up, sputtering strange things in his native tongue. "Mr. Linden is an excellent commentator," said one young lady, who took the liberty of speech pretty freely. "How clear he makes it that 'The discretion of a man deferreth his anger; and it is his glory to pass by a transgression.'" "I really thought," said Mr. Motley, in a make-believe whisper, "when Middleton first came up, that he had been taking a glass too much, but now I see that he took just half a glass too little!" "Sir," said Colonel Rye, stepping forward, a man of most noble character and presence both, "Mr. Linden is my guest and friend, you must answer this to me." Before Mr. Middleton could make answer, Faith had come in between and laid hold of the Colonel's hand. She was white, and quiet, but she could not at once speak. All around stood still. "Sir," she said, in words that were well heard for everybody held his breath, "Colonel Rye, this is Mr. Linden's affair." "I beg your pardon, my dear young lady--it is mine." "No, sir," said Faith he felt how eagerly her fingers grasped his, "it is in Mr. Linden's hands. He forgives Mr. Middleton entirely." "I don't forgive him!" said the Colonel, shortly. "Sir," said Faith, "Colonel Rye, this is not what Mr. Linden would wish. Endecott will tell you, sir, that he has passed it by. Don't undo what he has done! No true friend of Mr. Linden will make any more of this." "I am willing to answer it to anybody," said Middleton, gruffly, but as if half ashamed of himself. "There is nothing to answer to any one," said Faith, quitting the Colonel, and turning to him; her face was so white and gentle that it smote him, and those very steady sweet eyes had a power in them just now that broke his doggedness. "There is nothing to answer to any one, unless Mr. Middleton," (how soft her voice was), "unless you find you were wrong, and choose to tell Mr. Linden, which I dare say you will. Colonel Rye, will you see, for Mr. Linden's honour, that this goes to no harm?"--The extreme gentleness and the steady firmness of Faith ruled them all; and at her last appeal the Colonel's only answer was to take her in his arms and kiss her, an acknowledgment Faith would willingly have gone without. But it was good for a promise. "Mr. Alcott," she said seeking him in the group, "you said we would go down the bank--." Faith did not finish her sentence, but he saw her wish to finish it by action. She went with him till they were out of sight and away from everybody; then slipped her arm from his and begging him not to wait for her sat down on the grass. For a while she sat very still, whether her heart was fuller of petition or thanksgiving she hardly knew. She would have rejoined Mr. Alcott much sooner if she had guessed he was waiting for her--like an outpost among the trees; but all the time had not brought back Faith's colour. After a while, other steps came swiftly over the turf as she sat there, and before she had raised her head it was lifted up for her. "My precious wife! what are you doing here?" Very low the tones were, very grave, very tender. Faith sprang, and after an exploring glance into his face, knelt on the grass beside him and threw her arms round his neck, pressing her cheek very close as if she would take off or share the affront that had been offered to his. That for a minute--and then changing characters--she raised her head and pushing the hair back from his brow with her soft hurried fingers, she covered that and his face with kisses--with a kind of eager tenderness that could not say enough nor put enough love and reverence into every touch. All this while she was still; she did not shed tears at all, as some women would have done; and she said not one word. Perhaps surprise made him passive: perhaps the soothing of her caresses was too sweet and too much needed to be interrupted, even by a return. He let her have her way, nor even raised his eyes. One arm indeed was round her, but it left her free to do what she liked. If Faith needed any light on what the morning's work had been, it was furnished by those few minutes. Only at last, with a sudden motion Mr. Linden brought her lips to his, and gave her back principal and interest. "You blessed child!" he said. "Are you a veritable angel already?"--"I should have brought you a palm-branch, Endy." For almost the first time he had ever heard it so, Faith's voice was unsteady. Had she not done it? Mr. Linden did not say so, as he took grave note of her pale cheeks. Presently rising up he passed his arm round her, and took her up the bank to the rest of the party, nor let go his hold till she was seated between Mrs. Rye and himself. Then from the fern leaf in his hand, he proceeded to give them both an account of ferns in general--living and fossil, extant and extinct; with his usual happy skill and interest, and--except that the lips never broke into a smile--with just his usual manner. And never had the grave depth of eye been more beautiful, more clear. Not Faith alone watched it with loving admiration, but no one any more than she ventured word or look of sympathy. When at last the various groups began to draw in towards a centre, and ladies put on their riding hats, and grooms were buckling girths again, Mr. Middleton with two or three others was seen advancing towards Mr. Linden's quarter. Mrs. Rye rose hastily. "I am sorry to find that I made a mistake, sir," said Middleton, with a sort of unwilling courtesy; "I was under misinformation--and I was not aware of your profession. I beg your pardon for what has occurred." Mr. Linden had risen too, and with folded arms and the most unmoved face stood watching the party as they came up. "It is granted," he said, offering his hand. "But permit me to say, Mr. Middleton, that you made a third mistake, equally great if the other two had not existed." Mr. Middleton's private thoughts were perhaps not clearly disentangled. At all events he had no desire to multiply words, and turned off. "So, he has spoken, has he!" said Colonel Rye, coming up. "Like a bear, I dare say. Why do you think I didn't fight him, Endecott?" A smile came over Mr. Linden's face then--bright and stirred. "I think, sir, you yielded to Mignonette's power, as I did long ago." "You?--Did he?" said the Colonel, turning.--"No, sir; never!" said Faith, laughing and blushing till her cheeks were brilliant. The Colonel smiled at her. "My dear," said he, "you conquered me! and I don't believe any other man more invincible than myself. Is this your horse? No, Motley; no, George; she is going to have an old cavalier for her ride home." And much to Faith's pleasure, so she had. CHAPTER XLVII. October's foliage had lost its distinct red and purple and brown, and had grown merely sunburnt; but the sky overhead still kept its wonderful blue. Down the ravines, over their deep shadow, October breathed softly; up the mountain road, past grey boulders and primeval trees and wonderful beds of moss, went the stage waggon. The travellers were going by a somewhat long and irregular route, first up one of the great highways, then across to that spur of the mountains where they were to live. Mrs. Derrick was to follow in a few weeks with Mr. Stoutenburgh. It was late and dusky when the stage waggon transferred the travellers to Mr. Olyphant's carriage, which was waiting for them at a certain turn of the road. Mr. Olyphant himself was there, with extra wrappings for Faith; and muffled in them she sat leaning in the corner of the carriage, tired enough to make the rest pleasant, awake enough to hear the conversation; feeling more like a bird than ever, with that unwonted night air upon her face, and the wild smell of woods and evergreens and brooks floating about her. At Mr. Olyphant's they were received with warm wood fires and excellent supper, the welcome spending itself in many other ways. But though Mr. Linden did take her to the door for one minute to hear a pouring mountain torrent, she could see nothing that night. The stars overhead were brilliant, the dark hill outline dim--the rushing of that stream--how it sounded! Faith's whisper was gleeful. "Endy, I can't see much, but it feels lovely! I am so glad to be here!" The morning was wonderful. Such a sunlight, such an air, such rejoicings of birds and brook and leaves. Mr. Olyphant's house stood on one side of a woody slope, rocks and trees crowned to the very top; in the ravine below, the brook Faith had heard. She could see it now, foaming along, quieting itself as it came into smoother circumstances. The most of its noise indeed seemed to be made in some place out of sight, higher up. This slope was not very high, other ridges before and beyond it looked down, not frowningly, in their October dress. Not much else could be seen, it was a mere leafy nest. A little faint line of smoke floated over the opposite ridge, glimpses of mountain paths here and there caught the sunlight, below Faith's window Mr. Linden stood, like some statue, with folded arms. Faith hastily finished her dressing. As soon as that was done she knelt at her window again, to look and to pray. Those hills looked very near the sky; life-work there seemed almost to touch heaven. Nay, did it not? Heaven bent over the glorious earth and over the work to be done there, with the same clear, fair, balmy promise and truth. Faith could almost have joined the birds in their singing; her heart did; and her heart's singing was as pure and as grave as theirs. Not the careless glee that sees and wants nothing but roses in the way; but the deep love and gladness, both earthly and heavenly, that makes roses grow out of every soil. So she looked, when Mr. Linden first discerned her, venturing from the hall door and searching round for him. "O little Sunbeam!" he said, "how you 'glint' upon everything! there is a general illumination when you come out of the door. How do you feel this morning?--rested?"-- "As if I never had been tired." And Faith might have said, as if she never would be tired again; but only her eye revelled in such soft boasting. "Where is our home now, Endecott?" The ridge before them, on the other side of the ravine, rose up with swifter ascent into the blue air, and looked even more thick set with orange trees: but where it slanted down towards the more open country, a little break in the trees spoke of clearing and meadow and cultivation. The clearing was for the most part on the other side, but a bit of one green field, dotted with two or three dark objects, swept softly over the ridge line. "Are you in the sight-seeing mood?" said Mr. Linden, with a look as gladsome as her own.--"Yes; and seeing sights too. But where is that, Endy?" "I shall take you there by degrees; wait a moment," and he went in for the glass. "Now, Mignonette," he said, adjusting it for her, "I wish to ask your notice for a little black spot on that bit of clearing. But first, what does it look like to you, a hut or a summerhouse?"--"It's too far off; it looks like nothing but a black spot." "Now, look," said Mr. Linden, smiling. O wondrous power of the glass! the black spot remained indeed a black spot still, but with the improvements of very decided horns, black tail, and four feet. "Somebody lives there," said Faith. "It's a cow."--"Most true! What cow do you suppose it is, Mrs. Linden?" Faith put down her glass to laugh at him. "It's no friend of mine," she said. "I have a few friends among cows, but not many." "My dear Mrs. Linden, you always were rather quick at conclusions. If you look again, you will see that the cow has a surrounding fence of primeval roots, which will keep even her from running away." Faith obeyed directions, carefully. "Endy," she said in an oddly changed tone, "is it my black heifer?"--"It is not mine," said Mr. Linden. "But I didn't know she had come!" said Faith; then putting up her glass again to scan the far-off "black spot" and all around it, with an intenseness of feeling which showed itself in two very different spots on her cheeks. "Put down your glass, Faith," said Mr. Linden, "and look up along the ridge to that faint blue wreath over the yellow treetops; that is your first welcome from my study." She looked eagerly, and then a most delighted bright smile broke over her face as it turned to Mr. Linden. "How do you know it is in your study, Endecott?--and who has lighted it?"--"Some one! We'll go over after breakfast and see." At breakfast many things were discussed besides broiled chicken. And afterwards there came to the door two of the rugged, surefooted, mountain horses, saddled and bridled for the expedition. On the porch steps a great lunch basket told of Mrs. Olyphant's care; Faith was up stairs donning her habit. Mr. Linden ran up to meet her. "Faith," he said, laughingly, "Malthus has just confided to me, that 'if Mrs. Endecott has any things to take over,' they would make the way wonderfully pleasant to him." "Who is Malthus?" The shy blush on Faith's cheek was pretty to see. "He is an old servant of mine, who has been with Mr. Olyphant, and is coming to me again." Faith thought it was good news, and as good for Malthus as anybody. An important little travelling-bag was committed to him, and the cavalcade set forth. The way was far longer than the distance seemed to promise, having to follow the possibilities of the ground. A wild way--through the forest and over the brook; a good bridle path, but no better. The stillness of nature everywhere; rarely a human habitation near enough to afford human sounds. Frost and dew lay sparkling yet on moss and stone, in the dells where the sun had not looked; though now and then a sudden opening or turn showed a reach or a gorge of the mountains all golden with sunlight. Trees such as Faith had never seen, stood along the path in many places, and under them the horses' footfalls frightened the squirrels from tree to tree. "Is this the only way of getting about here, Endecott?" "This, or on foot, in many directions. That part of our parish which lies below us, as Mr. Olyphant says, can be reached with wheels. But look, Mignonette!" The road turned sharply round a great boulder, and they were almost home! There it lay before them, a little below, an irregular, low, grey stone cottage, fitting itself to the ground as if fitting the ground to it had been an impossibility. It was not on a ravine; the slope went down, down, till it swept off into the stubble fields and cleared land below. There was the sound of a great waterfall in the distance; close by the house a little branch stream went bounding down, and spread itself out peaceably in the valley. Dark hemlocks guarded the cottage from too close neighbourhood of the cliffs at the back, but in front the subsiding roughness of nature kept only a few oaks and maples here and there. The cleared ground was irregular, like the house, running up and down, as might be. No moving thing in sight but the blue smoke and the sailing clouds and cloud shadows. The tinkle of a cow-bell made itself heard faintly; the breeze rushed through the pines, then slowly the black heifer came over the brow of her meadow and surveyed the prospect. Faith had checked her horse, and looking at it all, up and down, turned to Mr. Linden. There was a great deal in her look, more than words could bear the burden of, and she said none. He held out his hand and clasped hers speakingly, the lips unbent then, though they went back to the grave lines of thought and interest and purpose. It was not merely _his_ home he was looking at--it was the one to which he was bringing her. Was it the place for Mignonette? would it be too lonely, too cold? or was the whole scene that lay before them, in its wild beauty, the roughness covered and glorified by that supreme sunlight, a fair picture of their life together, wherever it might be? So he believed; the light grew and deepened in his own eyes as he looked,--the grave purpose, the sure hope; and Mignonette's little hand the while was held as she had rarely felt him hold it before. Presently she bent down so that she could look up in his face, answering him then with a smile. "Endy, what are you thinking of? I am very happy." The last words were lowered a little. Mr. Linden's eyes came to her instantly, with something of their former look, but very bright; and bending off his horse he put one arm round her, with as full and earnest a kiss as she had ever had from him. "That is what I was thinking of," he said, "I was thinking of my wife, Mignonette." "Aren't you satisfied?" she said in her former tone.--"Perfectly." The look made a very personal application.--Faith shook her head a little, and they rode on. The cottage door was very near presently: Faith could see all the minor points of interest. Malthus, who had got there by a short cut, waited to take their horses; then a white cap and apron appeared in the doorway for a second and vanished again. "You will find another of our old dependants here, Faith," said Mr. Linden. "Who is that?" she said quickly.--"There were three women in our house," said Mr. Linden, "that Pet and I called respectively, 'Good,' 'Better,' and 'Best,' this is Best. Hers was a name in earnest, for we never called her anything else; and it was always the desire of her heart first to see my wife and then to live with her. And I was sure she would please you." "What must I call her?--_Mrs_. Best?" said Faith. "No, you must call her nothing but 'Best.'" "That's excellent!" said Faith gleefully. "I thought there was nobody here but _one_ friend of yours, Endecott. Now I shall get in order directly." "_That_ is what you thought you were coming to," he said, coming to her side to lift her down. "How would you like to be taken right back to Mr. Olyphant's?"--"Not at all!" In answer to which she was lightly jumped down from the saddle and carried off into the house; where Mr. Linden and Best shook hands after a prolonged fashion, and the old servant--not that she was very old neither--turned glad, and eager, and respectful eyes upon her new mistress, touching that little hand with great satisfaction of heart. "It's warmer in the study, sir," she said, "and there's a fire in the kitchen, if Mrs. Endecott would like to see that. And shall I make one anywhere else, ma'am?" Best's white cap and apron were very attractive, and so, on the other hand were Faith's blush and smile. The hall in which they stood, rather a wide one, cut the house from front to back, with no break of stairway. Through the open back door Faith could see the dark cliff, and hear the brook. Mr. Linden asked where "she would go first?" Faith whispered, "To the study." He smiled, and opened the one door at her left hand, and led her in. Not yet in perfect order, the bookshelves yet unfurnished, it looked a very abode of comfort; for there were basking sunbeams and a blazing fire, there were shelves and cupboards of various size and shape, there were windows, not _very_ large, it is true, but giving such views of the fair country below, and the brook, and the ascent, and the distant blue peaks of the range. Warm-coloured curtains, and carpet, and couch had been put here under Mr. Olyphant's orders; and here were things of Mr. Linden's which Faith had never seen--his escritoire and study table among others. _Her_ table, with a dainty easy-chair, at the prettiest of all the windows, she knew at a glance--unknown as it was before; but the desk which she had had long ago, stood on the study table, nearer his. Mr. Linden brought her up to the fire, and stood silent, with his arms wrapped about her for a minute; then he stooped and kissed her. "How does it look, Sunbeam?" Faith was grave, and her eye went silently from one thing to another even after he spoke, then turned its full sunny answer upon him. Faith certainly thought he did too much for her; but she spoke no such thought, leaving it as she had once meant to leave other thoughts, for action. "You can put your books right in, and then it will be beautiful," she remarked. "And look down the mountain, out of that window, Endecott." She was taken over to the window for a nearer view and placed in her easy-chair to take the good of it. "Do you see that little red speck far down at the foot of the hill?" Mr. Linden said, "in that particularly rough steep place?"--"Yes." "That is the best thing we can get for a church at present." Faith thought it would be a very good sort of a "thing" when he was in it; but, as usual, she did not tell all her thoughts. They came back to her easy-chair and table, and from them to Mr. Linden's face, with a look which said "How could you?" But he only smiled, and asked her if she felt disposed to go over the rest of the house. For a house that was not in order, this one was singularly put to rights. Boxes and packages and trunks there were in plenty; rolls of carpet and pieces of bedsteads, and chairs and tables, and everything else; but they were all snugly disposed by the wall, so that the rooms could be entered and the windows reached. The inside of the cottage was, like the outside, irregular, picturesque, and with sufficient capabilities of comfort. The kitchen was in a state of nicety to match that of Best; in a piece of ground behind the house, partly prepared for a garden, Malthus was at work as composedly as if they had all been settled in the White Mountains for the last ten years. Lunch was taken somewhat informally; then the riding habit being changed for a working dress, Faith set about reducing the rebellion among boxes and furniture. Best had reason presently to be satisfied not only with the manners but the powers of her new mistress; though she also judged in her wisdom that the latter needed some restriction in their exercise. Gentleness was never more efficient. The sitting-room began to look like a sitting-room; tables and bookshelves and chairs marched into place. Meanwhile Faith had been getting into pleasant order one of the rooms up stairs, which, with what Mrs. Olyphant had done, was easy; enjoying the mountain air that came in through the window, and unpacking linen and china. Mr. Linden, on his part, had been as busy with some of the rougher and heavier work, opening boxes and unpacking books, and especially taking care of Faith; which last work was neither rough nor heavy. She was amused (edified too) at the new commentary on his former life which this day gave her: to call upon servants when they were present, seemed as natural as to do without them when they were absent. Faith mused and wondered a little over the old habit which showed itself so plainly, thinking too of his life in Pattaquasset. The day had worn on and faded, and Faith was still busy in a hunt for some of her wedding presents which she wanted to have on the tea-table. But Mr. Linden for some time had missed her; and entering upon a tour of search, found her in a large closet near the kitchen, with a great deal chest on one side and a trunk on the other. Between them, on her knees, Faith was laying out package after package, and pile after pile of naperies lay on the floor around her; in the very height of rummaging, though with cheeks evidently paled since the morning. Mr. Linden took an expressive view of the subject. "Mignonette, I want my tea." "Yes!" said Faith eagerly, looking up and then at her work again, "just so soon as I find some things--" "I don't want 'things,' I want tea." "Yes; but you can't have tea without things." "I will be content with six napkins and ten tablecloths--just for to-night, as we are in confusion." "And no spoons?" said Faith. "Here they are." "Yes; here they are," said Mr. Linden, "and here is everything else. Just look at the state of the floor, for me to walk over." "Not at all," said Faith; "please keep out. I will have tea ready very soon, Endy." "You shall not have anything ready," and Faith found herself lifted from her kneeling position, and placed in a not uncomfortable nest of things, "Now, Mrs. Linden, whatever of those packages your hands may touch, shall lie on the floor all night. But as you see, my hands have a different effect." And swiftly and surely the "things" began to find corner room in the closet. "Endy," said Faith, catching his hands, "please don't! Just go away, and leave me here for three minutes." "Not for one. I'll turn them all out again in the morning, after the most approved fashion." Faith sat down, the swift colour in her cheeks testifying to a little rebellion. It was swift to go, however, as it had been to come; and she sat still, looking on at Mr. Linden's work, with a little soberness of brow. That broke too, when she met his eye, in a very frank and deep smile. "Well?" he said, laughing and leaning back against the closet door. "Will you let me go and get tea now?" she said, with the same look.--"You pretty child! No, I want Best to get tea--and you to be quiet." "I'll come and be quiet in three minutes, Endy, after I get rid of the dust," she said, winningly. "Genuine minutes? If Ariel 'put a girdle round the earth' in forty, you should be able to put one round your waist in three--I suppose that is included in a feminine 'getting rid of the dust.'" Faith's face promised faithfulness, as she ran off towards the kitchen; where in less than three minutes she and Best had proved the (sometimes) excellence of women's business faculties. Meantime a strange man lifted the latch of the kitchen door, and carefully closing it after him, remained upon the scene of action. "How d'ye do?" he said. "Is the new man come?"--"Everybody's new here," said Faith. "Whom do you mean?"--"Couldn't tell ye the first word! But I've been after him better'n three times, if he ain't," the man spoke as if it was "worse" instead of better. "Whom do you mean?" said Faith more gravely; "the minister?"--"Now that's what I call hitting the nail," said her visitor. "Well if he's here, just tell him to come up the mounting, will ye?"--"When?" "Moon sets close on to nine, and its lighter afore that." "Where is the place?" said Faith, now very serious indeed; "and what do you want the minister for?"--"I don't want him, bless you!" said the man. "If I did, I shouldn't be standin' here. It's an old soul up our way. He's got to go up to the bridge and over the bridge and 'tother side of the bridge, and so on till he comes to it. And the bridge is slippy." With which summing up, the man turned to the door, rattling the latch in a sort of preparatory way, to give Faith a chance for remarks. "But who wants him there and what for? you haven't told me."--"Why it's old Uncle Bias. Sen he's sick he's got something on his mind, never seemed to afore, and he's in a takin' to tell it. That's all." And he opened the door. "Why won't to-morrow do as well as to-night?"--"Wal," said the man slowly, "s'pose it might. Nevertheless, to-morrow ain't worth much to him. Nobody'd give much for it." "Why?"--"'Taint certain he'd get what he paid for." "Is he very sick?"--"Very enough," said the man with a nod, and opening the door. Faith sprang forward. "Stop a minute, will you, friend, and see Mr. Linden." "That's his name, as sure as guns," said he of the "mounting." "No, thankee, I don't care about seein' him now, next time'll do just as well, and it's time he was off." "Then wait and show him the way, will you? how is he to find it?"--"Do tell!" said the man slowly, "if he can't find his way round in the moonlight?"--"Better than most people," said Faith; "but I think he would like to see you." The man however chose to defer that pleasure also to "next time," and went off. Faith went to the study. Coming up behind Mr. Linden where he was sitting, and laying both hands on his shoulders, she said in a very low and significant voice, "Endy, some one wants you." "Only that you never assert your claims," he said, bringing the hands together, "I should suppose it must be the very person whom I want." Her head stooped lower, till the soft cheek and hair lay against his. But she only whispered, "Endy, it is some one up the mountain." "Is it?" he said, rousing up; but only turning his lips to her cheek. "Well, people up the mountain must have what they want. Is it now, Faith?" "Endy--they say it's a dying man." "Where? Is the messenger here?"--"I couldn't make him wait--he thought he had business somewhere else. The place is--I dare say Malthus knows--up the mountain, beyond the bridge--you are to go over the bridge and on till you come to the house. And he says the bridge is slippery." Only a fine ear could detect the little change in Faith's voice. But she knew it was noticed, from the smile on the lips that kissed her, two or three times. Then Mr. Linden disengaged himself and rose up. "Faith," he said, "you are to wait tea for me, and in the mean time you must take one of Miss Bezac's cups of comfort and lie down on the sofa and go to sleep. Your eyes will be just as good guiding stars sleeping as waking." She said not another word, but watched him go off and out into the half dark wilderness. The moon shone bright indeed, but only touched the tops of many a woody outline, and many a steep mountain side rose up and defied her. Faith smelled the wild sweet air, looked up and down at the gleams of light and bands of shadow; and then came back to the study where the fire blazed, and sat down on the floor in front of it; gazing into the red coals, and following in fancy Mr. Linden on his walk and errand. It took him away from her, and so many such an errand would, often; but to speak comfort to the dying and tell the truth to the ignorant.--Faith gloried in it. He was an ambassador of Christ; and not to have him by her side would Faith keep him from his work. That he might do his work well--that he might be blessed in it, both to others and himself, her very heart almost fused itself in prayer. So thinking, while every alternate thought was a petition for him, weariness and rest together at last put her to sleep; and she slept a dreamless sweet sleep with her head on Mr. Linden's chair. She awoke before he got back, though the evening was long set in. Feeling refreshed, Faith thought herself at liberty to reverse orders and went to the forbidden closet again, and to further conjurations with Best. They could not have taken long; for when, some hour later, Mr. Linden was nearing the house on his return, he had a pretty view of her, standing all dressed before the fire in his study. The glow shone all over her--he could see her well, and her fresh neatness. He could see more. Faith Linden to-night was not just the Faith Derrick of old time; nor even of six months ago. The old foundations of character were all there, intact; but upon them sat a nameless grace, not simply of cultivation, nor of matured intelligence, nor even of happiness. A certain quiet elegance, a certain airy dignity--which had belonged to her only since she had been _Mr. Linden's wife_. She stood there, waiting now for him to come home. The firelight caught behind her the gleam of silver, whether Mr. Linden could see it or not, where the little chocolatière stood brilliant. Faith had found that in her last rummaging. Miss Bezac's new trencher and bread knife were on the table too, with a loaf of Mrs. Olyphant's bread; and the fireshine gleamed on Mr. Alcott's saltcellars, and on the Mignonette tea service. Faith evidently had pleased her fancy. But now her fancy had forgotten it or left it in the background; and for what, was well shown by her spring as she caught the sound of the coming step. She met Mr. Linden at the door, gladness in every line and movement, and yet the same grace over all her action now, that a minute before was in all her repose. She said nothing at all. "Watching for me, my dear child!" he said. "Faith, you have been on my heart all these hours." She waited till he had come up to the fire, and then softly inquired, "What for?"--"'What for no?'" he said, smiling, but giving her face a somewhat earnest consideration. "Have you been asleep?"--"Yes. And then I thought I might go after my chocolate pot, in the closet." "Sensible child! What did you think upon the great question of setting forth to see me safe over the bridge?"--Her face changed, though smiling. She whispered--"I did see you safe over it." But his lips were grave instantly, and the eyes even flushed. And Faith could see then that he was exceedingly tired. Gently her hands rather insinuated than pushed him into the chair, and she ran away to give an order; coming back to do two or three other things for his comfort. Still silent, standing there beside his chair, she presently stooped and put her fresh sweet lips to his. Roses full of dew are not sweeter; and if roses were sentient things their kisses could not give sympathy more fragrantly, nor with more pure quiet. Holding her fast, Mr. Linden asked what she thought of her share of clerical duties, on the whole? Faith answered somewhat quaintly, "Not much." "You don't!--What a triumph for Miss Essie! Were you lonely, Faith?" She was going to answer, then sprang away from him, for Malthus came to the door. And the table was spread, with as dainty exactness as if there were no disorder anywhere in Mr. Linden's household. The little chocolatière steamed out its welcome, Malthus was gone, and Faith stood by Mr. Linden's chair again. "It is ready, Endecott." He had watched her from under the shadow of his hand, her soft arranging steps and touches. "Faith," he said, looking up, "is this the night when I am to have sugarless tea, to remind me of the over-sweetened cup of long ago?" Her smile and flash of the eye were conscious as well as bright. "I guess, sugar is 'potent' yet, Endy." "_You_ are!" he said. "Have you been lonely, my dear child? You don't answer me." She hesitated a very little. "I felt you were away, Endy--but I didn't wish you here. No, I wasn't lonely." His eyes spoke a full understanding of both parts of her sentence. But his words touched somewhat else. "Those poor people up on the mountain! poor as unbelief could make them. Faith, I must go there again in the morning." "Is it far?"--"Pretty far. On the crest of the ridge." "What about them, Endy?" "What were you looking for, here in the embers?"--"I?" she said, the colour instantly starting as she understood his question. "I was looking for you, then." "I was sure of it. I saw myself distinctly portrayed in a piece of charcoal." She laughed, gaily and softly. "Wouldn't you like to have some tea, and then tell me what you saw up on the mountain?" she whispered.--"Ah, little Sunbeam," he said, "I spent some weary hours there. No, I don't want to tell you about it to-night. And so at last I came home, thinking of the scene I had been through, and of you, left alone here in this strange place. And then I had that vision of my wife." She was silent, her face showing certainly a grave consciousness that he was tired, and a full entering into the feeling of his work; but for herself, a spirit as strong in its foundations of rest, as full of joy both in his work and in him as a spirit could be. So till her eyes met his, then the look broke in a winsome little confessing smile, and the eyes fell. "Don't you want something better than visions?" she said.--"Is that a challenge?" He laughed and rose up, carrying her off to her place at the table, and installing her with all the honours; and still holding her by the shoulders asked "if she felt like the head of the house?"--"No indeed!" said Faith. "What then?"--"You know," said Faith, colouring, "what I am." "Mrs. Endecott, I suppose. I have noticed, Mignonette," said Mr. Linden as he went round to his chair, "that when ever you see fit to agree with me, it is always in your own words!" Which remark Faith benevolently answered with a cup of cocoa, which was good enough to answer anything. THE END. PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. Typographical errors silently corrected: Chapter 2: =who have them.= replaced =by who have them."= Chapter 2: =in one sphere!"= replaced by =in one sphere!'"= Chapter 2: =down the forfeits."= replaced by =down the forfeits.= Chapter 3: =looked her eye= replaced by =looked, her eye= Chapter 4: =spirit of light.= replaced by =spirit of light."= Chapter 4: =commandment.= replaced by =commandment.'= Chapter 5: ="don't you come= replaced by =don't you come= Chapter 7: =Sally. I've nothin'= replaced by =Sally. "I've nothin'= Chapter 7: =hammer and nails."= replaced by =hammer and nails.= Chapter 8: =ever was tired= replaced by =ever was tried= Chapter 11: ="Now how is this= replaced by =Now how is this= Chapter 14: =truth forever.'"= replaced by =truth forever.'= Chapter 15: =drop the sail?= replaced by =drop the sail?"= Chapter 15: =old protegées= replaced by =old protégées= Chapter 15: =pullin' em through= replaced by =pullin' 'em through= Chapter 15: =what he said that for= replaced by =what he said that fur= Chapter 28: =Endy," said Faith", "I shouldn't= replaced by =Endy," said Faith, "I shouldn't= Chapter 30: =Look Endy= replaced by =Look, Endy= Chapter 33: ="What's the state= replaced by =What's the state= Chapter 33: =make butter, she said= replaced by =make butter," she said= Chapter 35: =Faith, I'm afeard!= replaced by =Faith, I'm afeard!"= Chapter 39: =so Dromy could do= replaced by ="so Dromy could do= Chapter 42: =deplaise= replaced by =déplaise= Chapter 43: =want anything to eat= replaced by =want anythin' to eat= Chapter 43: =gentleman's admiration= replaced by =gentlemen's admiration= Chapter 43: =I do remember= replaced by =I do remember,= Chapter 43: =vous plait= replaced by =vous plaît= Chapter 43: =where her pleased= replaced by =where he pleased= Chapter 44: =been in part of= replaced by =been in part off= Chapter 44: ='And they overcame= replaced by ="'And they overcame= Chapter 44: =only to look at;"= replaced by =only to look at,"= Chapter 44: =O litte Mignonette= replaced by =O little Mignonette= Chapter 45: =heard her talking.= replaced by =heard her talking,= 
43147	----	A World of Girls By L.T. Meade Published by The New York Book Company, New York. This edition dated 1910. A World of Girls, by L.T. Meade. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ A WORLD OF GIRLS, BY L.T. MEADE. CHAPTER ONE. "GOOD-BYE" TO THE OLD LIFE. "Me want to see Hetty," said an imperious baby voice. "No, no; not this morning, Miss Nan, dear." "Me do want to see Hetty," was the quick, impatient reply. And a sturdy indignant little face looked up at Nurse, to watch the effect of the last decisive words. Finding no affirmative reply on Nurse's placid face, the small lips closed firmly--two dimples came and went on two very round cheeks--the mischievous brown eyes grew full of laughter, and the next moment the little questioner had squeezed her way through a slightly open door, and was toddling down the broad stone stairs and across a landing to Hetty's room. The room door was open, so the truant went in. A bed with the bedclothes all tossed about, a half worn-out slipper on the floor, a very untidy dressing-table met her eyes, but no Hetty. "Me want Hetty, me do," piped the treble voice, and then the little feet commenced a careful and watchful pilgrimage, the lips still firmly shut, the dimples coming and going, and the eyes throwing many upward glances in the direction of Nurse and the nursery. No pursuit as yet, and great, great hope of finding Hetty somewhere in the down-stair regions. Ah, now, how good! those dangerous stairs had been descended, and the little voice calling in shrill tones for Hetty rang out in the wide hall. "Let her come to me," suddenly said an answering voice, and a girl of about twelve, dressed in deep mourning, suddenly opened the door of a small study and clasped the little one in her arms. "So you have found me, my precious, my dearest! Brave, plucky little Nan, you have got away from Nurse and found me out! Come into the study, now, darling, and you shall have some breakfast." "Me want a bicky, Hetty," said the baby voice; the round arms clasped Hester's neck, but the brown eyes were already travelling eagerly over the breakfast table in quest of spoil for those rosy little lips. "Here are two biscuits, Nan. Nan, look me in the face--here, sit steady on my knee; you lose me, don't you Nan?" "Course me do," said the child. "And I'm going away from you, Nan, darling. For months and months I won't see anything of you. My heart will be always with you, and I shall think of you morning, noon, and night. I love no one as I love you, Nan. You will think of me, and love me too; won't you, Nan?" "Me will," said Nan; "me want more bicky, Hetty." "Yes, yes," answered Hester; "put your arms tight round my neck, and you shall have sugar, too. Tighter than that, Nan, and you shall have two lumps of sugar--oh, yes, you shall--I don't care if it makes you sick-- you shall have just what you want the last moment we are together." Baby Nan was only too pleased to crumple up a crape frill and to smear a black dress with sticky little fingers for the sake of the sugar which Hetty plied her with. "More, Hetty," she said; "me'll skeeze 'oo vedy tight for more." On this scene Nurse unexpectedly entered. "Well, I never! and so you found your way all downstairs by yourself, you little toddle. Now, Miss Hetty, I hope you haven't been giving the precious lamb sugar; you know it never does suit the little dear. Oh, fie! baby; and what sticky hands! Miss Hetty, she has crumpled all your crape frills." "What matter?" said Hester. "I wanted a good hug, and I gave her three or four lumps. Babies won't squeeze you tight for nothing. There, my Nancy, go back to Nurse. Nurse, take her away; I'll break down in a minute if I see her looking at me with that little pout." Nurse took the child into her arms. "Good-bye, Miss Hester, dear. Try to be a good girl at school. Take my word, missy--things won't be as dark as they seem." "Good-bye, Nurse," said Hester hastily. "Is that you, father? are you calling me?" She gathered up her muff and gloves, and ran out of the little study where she had been making believe to eat breakfast. A tall, stern-looking man was in the hall, buttoning on an overcoat; a brougham waited at the door. The next moment Hester and her father were bowling away in the direction of the nearest railway station. Nan's little chubby face had faded from view. The old square grey house, sacred to Hester because of Nan, had also disappeared; the avenue even was past, and Hester closed her bright brown eyes. She felt that she was being pushed out into a cold world, and was no longer in the same snug nest with Nan. An intolerable pain was at her heart; she did not glance at her father, who during their entire drive occupied himself over his morning paper. At last they reached the railway station, and just as Sir John Thornton was handing his daughter into a comfortable first-class carriage, marked "For Ladies only," and was presenting her with her railway ticket and a copy of the last week's illustrated newspaper, he spoke-- "The guard will take care of you, Hester. I am giving him full directions, and he will come to you at every station, and bring you tea or any refreshment you may require. This train takes you straight to Sefton, and Mrs Willis will meet you, or send for you there. Good-bye, my love; try to be a good girl, and curb your wild spirits. I hope to see you very much improved when you come home at Midsummer. Good-bye, dear, good-bye. Ah, you want to kiss me--well, just one kiss. There-- oh, my dear! you know I have a great dislike to emotion in public." Sir John Thornton said this because a pair of arms had been flung suddenly round his neck, and two kisses imprinted passionately on his sallow cheek. A tear also rested on his cheek, but that he wiped away. CHAPTER TWO. TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. The train moved rapidly on its way, and the girl in one corner of the railway carriage cried silently behind her crape veil. Her tears were very subdued, but her heart felt sore, bruised, indignant; she hated the idea of school-life before her, she hated the expected restraints and the probable punishments; she fancied herself going from a free life into a prison, and detested it accordingly. Three months before, Hester Thornton had been one of the happiest, brightest, and merriest of little girls in ---shire; but the mother who was her guardian angel, who had kept the frank and spirited child in check without appearing to do so, who had guided her by the magical power of love and not in the least by that of fear, had met her death suddenly by means of a carriage accident, and Hester and baby Nan were left motherless. Several little brothers and sisters had come between Hester and Nan, but from various causes they had all died in their infancy, and only the eldest and youngest of Sir John Thornton's family remained. Hester's father was stern, uncompromising. He was a very just and upright man, but he knew nothing of the ways of children, and when Hester in her usual tom-boyish fashion climbed trees and tore her dresses, and rode bare-backed on one or two of his most dangerous horses, he not only tried a little sharp, and therefore useless, correction, but determined to take immediate steps to have his wild and rather unmanageable little daughter sent to a first-class school. Hester was on her way there now, and very sore was her heart, and indignant her impulses. Father's "good-bye" seemed to her to be the crowning touch to her unhappiness, and she made up her mind not to be good, not to learn her lessons, not to come home at Midsummer crowned with honours and reduced to an every-day and pattern little girl. No, she would be the same wild Hetty as of yore: and when father saw that school could do nothing for her, that it could never make her into a good and ordinary little girl, he would allow her to remain at home. At home there was, at least, Nan to love, and there was mother to remember. Hetty was a child of the strongest feelings. Since her mother's death she had scarcely mentioned her name. When her father alluded to his wife, Hester ran out of the room: when the servants spoke of their late mistress, Hester turned pale, stamped her feet, and told them to be quiet. "You are not worthy to speak of my mother," she electrified them all one day by exclaiming. "My mother is an angel now, and you--oh, you are not fit to breathe her name!" Only to one person would Hetty ever voluntarily say a word about the beloved dead mother, and that was to little Nan. Nan said her prayers, as she expressed it, to Hetty now; and Hetty taught her a little phrase to use instead of the familiar "God bless mother." She taught the child to say, "Thank God for making mother into a beautiful angel;" and when Nan asked what an angel was, and how the cosy mother she remembered could be turned into one, Hester was beguiled into a soft and tearful talk, and she drew several lovely pictures of white-robed angels, until the little child was satisfied and said-- "Me like that, Hetty--me'll be angel too, Hetty, same as mamma." These talks with Nan, however, did not come very often, and of late they had almost ceased, for Nan was only two and a half, and the strange sad fact remained that in three months she had almost forgotten her mother. Hester on her way to school this morning cried for some time, then she sat silent, her crape veil still down, and her eyes watching furtively her fellow-passengers. They consisted of two rather fidgety old ladies, who wrapped themselves in rugs, were very particular on the question of hot bottles, and watched Hester in their turn with considerable curiosity and interest. Presently one of them offered the little girl a sandwich, which she was too proud or too shy to accept, although by this time she was feeling extremely hungry. "You will, perhaps, prefer a cake, my dear?" said the good-natured little old lady. "My sister Agnes has got some delicious queen-cakes in her basket--will you eat one?" Hester murmured a feeble assent, and the queen-cake did her so much good that she ventured to raise her crape veil and to look around her. "Ah, that is much better," said the first little old lady. "Come to this side of the carriage, my love; we are just going to pass through a lovely bit of country, and you will like to watch the view. See; if you place yourself here, my sister Agnes's basket will be just at your feet, and you can help yourself to a queen-cake whenever you are so disposed." "Thank you," responded Hester, in a much more cheerful tone, for it was really quite impossible to keep up reserve with such a bright-looking little old lady; "your queen-cakes are very nice, and I liked that one, but one is quite enough, thank you. It is Nan who is so particularly fond of queen-cakes." "And who is Nan, my dear?" asked the sister to whom the queen-cakes specially belonged. "She is my dear little baby sister," said Hester in a sorrowful tone. "Ah, and it was about her you were crying just now," said the first lady, laying her hand on Hester's arm. "Never mind us, dear, we have seen a great many tears--a great many. They are the way of the world. Women are born to them. As Kingsley says--`women must weep.' It was quite natural that you should cry about your sweet little Nan, and I wish we could send her some of these queen-cakes that you say she is so fond of. Are you going to be long away from her, love?" "Oh, yes, for months and months," said Hester. "I did not know," she added, "that it was such a common thing to cry. I never used to." "Ah, you have had other trouble, poor child," glancing at her deep mourning frock. "Yes, it is since then I have cried so often. Please, I would rather not speak about it." "Quite right, my love, quite right," said Miss Agnes in a much brisker tone than her sister. "We will turn the conversation now to something inspiriting. Jane is quite right, there are plenty of tears in the world; but there is also a great deal of sunshine and heaps of laughter, merry laughter--the laughter of youth, my child. Now, I dare say, though you have begun your journey so sadly, that you are really bound on quite a pleasant little expedition. For instance, you are going to visit a kind aunt, or some one else who will give you a delightful welcome." "No," said Hester, "I am not. I am going to a dreadful place, and the thought of that, and parting from little Nan, are the reasons why I cried. I am going to prison--I am, indeed." "Oh, my dear love!" exclaimed both the little old ladies in a breath. Then Miss Agnes continued: "You have really taken Jane's breath away-- quite. Yes, Jane, I see that you are in for an attack of palpitation. Never mind her, dear, she palpitates very easily; but I think you must be mistaken, my love, in mentioning such an appalling word as `prison.' Yes, now I come to think of it, it is absolutely certain that you must be mistaken; for if you were going to such a terrible place of punishment you would be under the charge of a policeman. You are given to strong language, dear, like other young folk." "Well, I call it prison," continued Hester, who was rather flattered by all this bustle and Miss Jane's agitation; "it has a dreadful sound, hasn't it? I call it prison, but father says I am going to school--you can't wonder that I am crying, can you? Oh! what is the matter?" For the two little old ladies jumped up at this juncture, and gave Hetty a kiss apiece on her soft young lips. "My darling," they both exclaimed. "We are so relieved and delighted! your strong language startled us, and school is anything but what you imagine, dear. Ah, Jane! can you ever forget our happy days at school?" Miss Jane sighed and rolled up her eyes, and then the two commenced a vigorous catechising of the little girl. Really, Hester could not help feeling almost sunshiny before that long journey came to an end, for she and the Misses Bruce made some delightful discoveries. The little old ladies very quickly found out that they lived close to the school where Hetty was to spend the next few months. They knew Mrs Willis well-- they knew the delightful rambling, old-fashioned house where Hester was to live--they even knew two or three of the scholars: and they said so often to the little girl that she was going into a life of clover-- positive clover--that she began to smile, and even partly to believe them. "I am glad I shall be near you, at least," she said at last, with a frank sweet smile, for she had greatly taken to her kind fellow-travellers. "Yes, my dear," exclaimed Miss Jane. "We attend the same church, and I shall look out for you on Sunday, and," she continued, glancing first at her sister and then addressing Hester, "perhaps Mrs Willis will allow you to visit us occasionally." "I'll come to-morrow, if you like," said Hester. "Well, dear, well--that must be as Mrs Willis thinks best. Ah, here we are at Sefton at last. We shall look out for you in church on Sunday, my love." CHAPTER THREE. AT LAVENDER HOUSE. Hester's journey had really proved wonderfully agreeable. She had taken a great fancy to the little old ladies who had fussed over her and made themselves pleasant in her behalf. She felt herself something like a heroine as she poured out a little, just a little, of her troubles into their sympathising ears; and their cheerful remarks with regard to school and school-life had caused her to see clearly that there might be another and a brighter side to the gloomy picture she had drawn with regard to her future. But during the drive of two and a half miles from Sefton to Lavender House, Hester once more began to feel anxious and troubled. The Misses Bruce had gone off with some other passengers in a little omnibus to their small villa in the town, but Lavender House was some distance off, and the little omnibus never went so far. An old-fashioned carriage, which the ladies told Hester belonged to Mrs Willis, had been sent to meet her, and a man whom the Misses Bruce addressed as "Thomas" helped to place her trunk and a small portmanteau on the roof of the vehicle. The little girl had to take her drive alone, and the rather ancient horse which drew the old carriage climbed up and down the steep roads in a most leisurely fashion. It was a cold winter's day, and by the time Thomas had executed some commissions in Sefton, and had reached the gates of the avenue which led to Lavender House, it was very nearly dark. Hester trembled at the darkness, and when the gates were shut behind them by a rosy-faced urchin of ten, she once more began to feel the cruel and desolate idea that she was going to prison. They drove slowly down a long and winding avenue, and, although Hester could not see, she knew they must be passing under trees, for several times their branches made a noise against the roof of the carriage. At last they came to a standstill. The old servant scrambled slowly down from his seat on the box, and, opening the carriage-door, held out his hand to help the little stranger to alight. "Come now, missy," he said in cheering tones, "come out, and you'll be warm and snug in a minute. Dear, dear! I expect you're nearly froze up, poor little miss, and it _is_ a most bitter cold night." He rang a bell which hung by the entrance of a deep porch, and the next moment the wide hall door was flung open by a neat maid-servant, and Hester stepped within. "She's come," exclaimed several voices in different keys, and proceeding apparently from different quarters. Hester looked around her in a half-startled way, but she could see no one, except the maid, who smiled at her and said-- "Welcome to Lavender House, miss. If you'll step into the porter's room for one moment, there is a good fire there, and I'll acquaint Miss Danesbury that you have arrived." The little room in question was at the right-hand side of a very wide and cheerful hall, which was decorated in pale tints of green, and had a handsome encaustic-tiled floor. A blazing fire and two lamps made the hall look cheerful, but Hester was very glad to take refuge from the unknown voices in the porter's small room. She found herself quite trembling with shyness, and cold, and an indescribable longing to get back to Nan; and as she waited for Miss Danesbury and wondered fearfully who or what Miss Danesbury was, she scarcely derived any comfort from the blazing fire near which she stood. "Rather tall for her age, but I fear, I greatly fear, a little sulky," said a voice behind her; and when she turned round in an agony of trepidation and terror, she suddenly found herself face to face with a tall, kind-looking, middle-aged lad and also with a bright gipsy-looking girl. "Annie Forest, how very naughty of you to hide behind the door! You are guilty of disobedience in coming into the room without leave. I must report you, my dear; yes, I really must. You lose two good conduct marks for this, and will probably have thirty lines in addition to your usual quantity of French poetry." "But she won't tell on me, she won't, dear old Danesbury," said the girl; "she couldn't be so hard-hearted, the precious love, particularly as curiosity happens to be one of her own special little virtues! Take a kiss, Danesbury, and now, a you love me you'll be merciful!" The girl flitted away, and Miss Danesbury turned to Hester, whose face had changed from red to pale during this little scene. "What a horrid, vulgar, low-bred girl!" she exclaimed with passion, for in all the experiences of her short life Hester had never even imagined that personal remarks could be made of any one in their very presence. "I hope she'll get a lot of punishment--I hope you are not going to forgive her," she continued, for her anger had for the time quite overcome her shyness. "Oh, my dear, my dear! we should all be forgiving," exclaimed Miss Danesbury in her gentle voice. "Welcome to Lavender House, love; I am sorry I was not in the hall to receive you. Had I been, this little _rencontre_ would not have occurred. Annie Forest meant no harm, however--she's a wild little sprite, but affectionate. You and she will be the best friends possible by-and-by. Now, let me take you to your room; the gong for tea will sound in exactly five minutes, and I am sure you will be glad of something to eat." Miss Danesbury then led Hester across the hall and up some broad, low, thickly-carpeted stairs. When they had ascended two flights, and were standing on a handsome landing, she paused. "Do you see this baize door, dear?" she said. "This is the entrance to the school part of the house. This part that we are now in belongs exclusively to Mrs Willis, and the girls are never allowed to come here without leave. All the school-life is lived at the other side of this baize door, and a very happy life I assure you it is for those little girls who make up their minds to be brave and good. Now kiss me, my dear, and let me bid you welcome once again to Lavender House." "Are you our principal teacher, then?" asked Hester. "I? oh dear, no, my love. I teach the younger children English, and I look after the interests and comforts of all. I am a very useful sort of person, I believe, and I have a motherly heart, dear, and it is a way with little girls to come to me when they are in trouble. Now, my love, we must not chatter any longer. Take my hand, and let us get to your room as fast as possible." Miss Danesbury pushed open the baize door, and instantly Hester found herself in a different region. Mrs Willis's part of the house gave the impression of warmth, luxuriance, and even elegance of arrangement. At the other side of the door were long, narrow corridors, with snow-white, but carpetless floors, and rather cold, distempered walls. Miss Danesbury, holding the new pupil's hand, led her down two corridors, and past a great number of shut doors, behind which Hester could near suppressed laughter and eager, chattering voices. At last, however, they stopped at a door which had the number "32" written over it. "This is your bedroom, dear," said the English teacher, "and to-night you will not be sorry to have it alone. Mrs Willis received a telegram from Susan Drummond, your room-mate, this afternoon, and she will not arrive until to-morrow." However bare and even cold the corridors looked, the bedroom into which Hester was ushered by no means corresponded with this appearance. It was a small, but daintily-furnished little room. The floor was carpeted with green felt, the one window was hung with pretty draperies, and two little, narrow, white beds were arranged gracefully with French canopies. All the furniture in the room was of a minute description, but good of its kind. Beside each bed stood a mahogany chest of drawers. At two corresponding corners were marble washhand-stands, and even two pretty, toilet tables stood side by side in the recess of the window. But the sight that perhaps pleased Hester most was a small bright fire which burnt in the grate. "Now, dear, this is your room. As you have arrived first you can choose your own bed and your own chest of drawers. Ah, that is right, Ellen has unfastened your portmanteau; she will unpack your trunk to-night, and take it to the box-room. Now, dear, smooth your hair and wash your hands. The gong will sound instantly. I will come for you when it does." CHAPTER FOUR. LITTLE DRAWING-ROOMS AND LITTLE TIFFS. Miss Danesbury, true to her word, came to fetch Hester down to tea. They went down some broad carpetless stairs, along a wide stone hall, and then paused for an instant at a half-open door from which a stream of eager voices issued. "I will introduce you to your school-fellows, and I hope your future friends," said Miss Danesbury. "After tea you will come with me to see Mrs Willis--she is never in the school-room at tea-time. Mdlle. Perier or Miss Good usually superintends. Now, my dear, come along-- why, surely you are not frightened?" "Oh, please, may I sit near you?" asked Hester. "No, my love; I take care of the little ones, and they are at a table by themselves. Now, come in at once--the moment you dread will soon be over, and it is nothing, my love--really nothing." Nothing! never, as long as Hester lived, did she forget the supreme agony of terror and shyness which came over her as she entered that long, low, brightly-lighted room. The forty pairs of curious eyes which were raised inquisitively to her face became as torturing as forty burning suns. She felt an almost uncontrollable desire to run away and hide--she wondered if she could possibly keep from screaming aloud. In the end she found herself, she scarcely knew how, seated beside a gentle, sweet-mannered girl, and munching bread and butter which tasted drier than sawdust, and occasionally trying to sip something very hot and scalding which she vaguely understood went by the name of tea. The buzzing voices all chattering eagerly in French, and the occasional sharp, high-pitched reprimands coming in peremptory tones from the thin lips of Mdlle. Perier, sounded far off and distant--her head was dizzy, her eyes swam--the tired and shy child endured tortures. In after-days, in long after-years when the memory of Lavender House was to come back to Hetty Thornton as one of the sweetest, brightest episodes in her existence--in the days when she was to know almost every blade of grass in the gardens, and to be familiar with each corner of the old house, with each face which now appeared so strange, she might wonder at her feelings to-night, but never even then could she forget them. She sat at the table in a dream, trying to eat the tasteless bread and butter. Suddenly and swiftly the thick and somewhat stale piece of bread on her plate was exchanged for a thin, fresh, and delicately-cut slice. "Eat that," whispered a voice--"I know the other is horrid. It's a shame of Perier to give such stuff to a stranger." "Mdlle. Cecile, you are transgressing: you are talking English," came in a torrent of rapid French from the head of the table. "You lose a conduct mark, ma'amselle." The young girl who sat next Hester inclined her head gently and submissively, and Hester, venturing to glance at her, saw that a delicate pink had spread itself over her pale face. She was a plain girl; but even Hester, in this first moment of terror, could scarcely have been afraid of her, so benign was her expression, so sweet the glance from her soft, full brown eyes. Hester now further observed that the thin bread and butter had been removed from Cecil's own plate. She began to wonder why this girl was indulged with better food than the rest of her comrades. Hester was beginning to feel a little less shy, and was taking one or two furtive glances at her companions, when she suddenly felt herself turning crimson, and all her agony of shyness and dislike to her school-life returning. She encountered the full, bright, quizzical gaze of the girl who had made personal remarks about her in the porter's room. The merry black eyes of this gipsy maiden fairly twinkled with suppressed fun when they met hers, and the bright head even nodded audaciously across the table to her. Not for worlds would Hester return this friendly greeting--she still held to her opinion that Miss Forest was one of the most ill-bred people she had ever met, and, in addition to feeling a considerable amount of fear of her, she quite made up her mind that she would never be on friendly terms with so underbred a girl. At this moment grace was repeated in sonorous tones by a stern-looking person who sat at the foot of the long table, and whom Hester had not before noticed. Instantly the girls rose from their seats, and began to file in orderly procession out of the tea-room. Hester looked round in terror for the friendly Miss Danesbury, but she could not catch sight of her anywhere. At this moment, however, her companion of the tea-table touched her arm. "We may speak English now for half an hour," she said, "and most of us are going to the play-room. We generally tell stories round the fire upon these dark winter's nights. Would you like to come with me to-night? Shall we be chums for this evening?" "I don't know what `chums' are," said Hester; "but," she added, with the dawning of a faint smile on her poor, sad little face, "I shall be very glad to go with you." "Come then," said Cecil Temple, and she pulled Hester's hand within her arm, and walked with her across the wide stone hall, and into the largest room Hester had ever seen. Never, anywhere, could there have been a more delightful play-room than this. It was so large that two great fires which burned at either end were not at all too much to emit even tolerable warmth. The room was bright with three or four lamps which were suspended from the ceiling, the floor was covered with matting, and the walls were divided into curious partitions, which gave the room a peculiar but very cosy effect. These partitions consisted of large panels, and were divided by slender rails the one from the other. "This is my cosy corner," said Cecil, "and you shall sit with me in it to-night. You see," she added, "each of us girls has her own partition, and we can do exactly what we like in it. We can put our own photographs, our own drawings, our own treasures on our panels. Under each division is our own little work-table, and, in fact, our own individual treasures lie round us in the enclosure of this dear little rail. The centre of the room is common property, and you see what a great space there is round each fire-place where we can chatter and talk, and be on common ground. The fire-place at the end of the room near the door is reserved especially for the little ones, but we elder girls sit at the top. Of course you will belong to us. How old are you?" "Twelve," said Hester. "Oh, well, you are so tall that you cannot possibly be put with the little ones, so you must come in with us." "And shall I have a railed-in division and a panel of my own?" asked Hester. "It sounds a very nice arrangement. I hope my department will be close to yours, Miss?" "Temple is my name," said Cecil, "but you need not call me that. I am Cecil to all my friends, and you are my friend this evening, for you are my chum, you know. Oh, you were asking me about our departments--you won't have any at first, for you have got to earn it, but I will invite you to mine pretty often. Come now, let us go inside. Is not it just like the darlingest little drawing-room? I am so sorry that I have only one easy chair, but you shall have it to-night, and I will sit on this three-legged stool. I am saving up my money to buy another armchair, and Annie has promised to upholster it for me." "Is Annie one of the maids?" "Oh, dear, no!--she's dear old Annie Forest, the liveliest girl in the school. Poor darling, she's seldom out of hot water; but we all love her, we can't help it. Poor Annie, she hardly ever has the luxury of a department to herself, so she is useful all round. She's the most amusing and good-natured dear pet in Christendom." "I don't like her at all," said Hester; "I did not know you were talking of her--she is a most rude, uncouth girl." Cecil Temple, who had been arranging a small dark green table-cloth with daffodils worked artistically in each corner on her little table, stood up as the newcomer uttered these words, and regarded her fixedly. "It is a pity to draw hasty conclusions," she said. "There is no girl more loved in the school than Annie Forest. Even the teachers, although they are always punishing her, cannot help having a soft corner in their hearts for her. What can she possibly have done to offend you?--but oh!--hush--don't speak--she is coming into the room." As Cecil finished her rather eager defence of her friend, and prevented the indignant words which were bubbling to Hester's lips, a gay voice was heard singing a comic song in the passage--the play-room door was flung open with a bang, and Miss Forest entered the room with a small girl seated on each of her shoulders. "Hold on, Janny love; keep your arms well round me, Mabel. Now then, here we go--twice up the room and down again. No more, as I'm alive. I've got to attend to other matters than you." She placed the little girls on the floor amid peals of laughter, and shouts from several little ones to give them a ride too. The children began to cling to her skirts and to drag her in all directions, and she finally escaped from them with one dexterous bound which placed her in that portion of the play-room where the little ones knew they were not allowed to enter. Until her arrival the different girls scattered about the large room had been more or less orderly, chattering and laughing together, it is true, but in a quiet manner. Now the whole place appeared suddenly in an uproar. "Annie, come here--Annie, darling, give me your opinion about this-- Annie, my precious, naughty creature, come and tell me about your last scrape." Annie Forest blew several kisses to her adorers, but did not attach herself to any of them. "The Temple requires me," she said, in her sauciest tones; "my beloved friends, the Temple as usual is vouchsafing its sacred shelter to the stranger." In an instant Annie was kneeling inside the inclosure of Miss Temple's rail and laughing immoderately. "You dear stranger!" she exclaimed, turning round and gazing full into Hester's shy face, "I do declare I have been punished for the intense ardour with which I longed to embrace you. Has she told you, Cecil darling, what I did in her behalf? How I ventured beyond the sacred precincts of the baize door and hid inside the porter's room? Poor dear, she jumped when she heard my friendly voice, and as I spoke Miss Danesbury caught me in the very act. Poor old dear, she cried when she complained of me, but duty is Danesbury's motto; she would go to the stake for it, and I respect her immensely. I have got my twenty lines of that horrible French poetry, to learn--the very thought almost strangles me, and I foresee plainly that I shall do something terribly naughty within the next few hours; I must, my love--I really must. I have just come here to shake hands with Miss Thornton, and then I must away to my penance. Ah, how little I shall learn, and how hard I shall think! Welcome to Lavender House, Miss Thornton; look upon me as your devoted ally, and if you have a spark of pity in your breast, feel for the girl whom you got into a scrape the very moment you entered these sacred walls." "I don't understand you," said Hester, who would not hold out her hand, and who was standing up in a very stiff, shy, and angular position. "I think you were very rude to startle me, and make personal remarks the very moment I came into the house." "Oh, dear!--I only said you were tall, and looked rather sulky, love-- you did, you know, really." "It was very rude of you," repeated Hester, turning crimson, and trying to keep back her tears. "Well, my dear, I meant no harm; shake hands, now, and let us make friends." But Hester felt either too shy or too miserable to yield to this request--she half turned her back, and leaned against Miss Temple's panel. "Never mind her," whispered gentle Cecil Temple; but Annie Forest's bright face had darkened ominously--the school favourite was not accustomed to having her advances flung back in her face. She left the room singing a defiant, naughty song, and several of the girls who had overheard this scene whispered one to the other-- "She can't be at all nice--she would not even shake hands with Annie. Fancy her turning against our Annie in that way!" CHAPTER FIVE. THE HEAD-MISTRESS. Annie Forest had scarcely left the room before Miss Danesbury appeared with a message for Hester, who was to come with her directly to see Mrs Willis. The poor shy girl felt only too glad to leave behind her the cruel, staring, and now by no means approving eyes of her school-mates. She had overheard several of their whispers, and felt rather alarmed at her own act. But Hester, shy as she was, could be very tenacious of an idea. She had taken a dislike to Annie Forest, and she was quite determined to be true to what she considered her convictions--namely, that Annie was underbred and common, and not at all the kind of girl whom her mother would have cared for her to know. The little girl followed Miss Danesbury in silence. They crossed the stone hall together, and now passing through another baize door, found themselves once more in the handsome entrance-hall. They walked across this hall to a door carefully protected from all draughts by rich plush curtains, and Miss Danesbury, turning the handle, and going a step or two into the room, said in her gentle voice-- "I have brought Hester Thornton to see you, Mrs Willis, according to your wish." Miss Danesbury then withdrew, and Hester ventured to raise her eyes and to look timidly at the head-mistress. A tall woman, with a beautiful face and silvery white hair, came instantly to meet her, laid her two hands on the girl's shoulders, and then, raising her shy little face, imprinted a kiss on her forehead. "Your mother was one of my earliest pupils, Hester," she said, "and you are--no--" after a pause, "you are not very like her. You are her child, however, my dear, and as such you have a warm welcome from me. Now, come and sit by the fire, and let us talk." Hester did not feel nearly so constrained with this graceful and gracious lady as she had done with her school-mates. The atmosphere of the room recalled her beloved mother's boudoir at home. The rich, dove-coloured satin dress, the cap made of Mechlin lace which softened and shaded Mrs Willis's silvery hair, appeared homelike to the little girl, who had grown up accustomed to all the luxuries of wealth. Above all, the head-mistress's mention of her mother drew her heart toward the beautiful face, and attracted her toward the rich, full tones of a voice which could be powerful and commanding at will. Mrs Willis, notwithstanding her white hair, had a youthful face, and Hester made the comment which came first to her lips-- "I did not think you were old enough to have taught my mother." "I am sixty, dear, and I have kept this school for thirty years. Your mother was not the only pupil who sent her children to be taught by me when the time came. Now, you can sit on this stool by the fire and tell me about your home. Your mother--ah, poor child, you would rather not talk about her just yet. Helen's daughter must have strong feelings-- ah, yes; I see, I see. Another time, darling, when you know me better. Now tell me about your little sister, and your father. You do not know, perhaps, that I am Nan's godmother?" After this the head-mistress and the new pupil had a long conversation. Hester forgot her shyness; her whole heart had gone out instantly to this beautiful woman who had known, and loved, and taught her mother. "I will try to be good at school," she said at last; "but, oh, please, Mrs Willis, it does not seem to me to-night as if school-life could be happy." "It has its trials, Hester; but the brave and the noble girls often find this time of discipline one of the best in their lives--good at the time, very good to look back on by-and-by. You will find a miniature world around you; you will be surrounded by temptations; and you will have rare chances of proving whether your character can be strong and great and true. I think, as a rule, my girls are happy, and as a rule they turn out well. The great motto of life here, Hester, is earnestness. We are earnest in our work, we are earnest in our play. A half-hearted girl has no chance at Lavender House. In play-time, laugh with the merriest, my child: in school-hours, study with the most studious. Do you understand me?" "I try to, a little," said Hester, "but it seems all very strange just now." "No doubt it does, and at first you will have to encounter many perplexities and to fight many battles. Never mind, if you have the right spirit within you, you will come out on the winning side. Now, tell me, have you made any acquaintances as yet among the girls?" "Yes--Cecil Temple has been kind to me." "Cecil is one of my dearest pupils; cultivate her friendship, Hester-- she is honourable, she is sympathising. I am not afraid to say that Cecil has a great heart." "There is another girl," continued Hester, "who has spoken to me. I need not make her my friend, need I?" "Who is she, dear?" "Miss Forest--I don't like her." "What! our school favourite. You will change your mind, I expect--but that is the gong for prayers. You shall come with me to chapel, to-night, and I will introduce you to Mr Everard." CHAPTER SIX. "I AM UNHAPPY." Between forty and fifty young girls assembled night and morning for prayers in the pretty chapel which adjoined Lavender House. This chapel had been reconstructed from the ruins of an ancient priory, on the site of which the house was built. The walls, and even the beautiful eastern window, belonged to a far-off date. The roof had been carefully reared in accordance with the style of the east window, and the whole effect was beautiful and impressive. Mrs Willis was particularly fond of her own chapel. Here she hoped the girls' best lessons might be learned, and here she had even once or twice brought a refractory pupil, and tried what a gentle word or two spoken in these old and sacred walls might effect. Here, on wet Sundays the girls assembled for service; and here, every evening at nine o'clock, came the vicar of the large parish to which Lavender House belonged, to conduct evening prayers. He was an old man, and a great friend of Mrs Willis's, and he often told her that he considered these young girls some of the most important members of his flock. Here Hester knelt to-night. It is to be doubted whether in her confusion, and in the strange loneliness which even Mrs Willis had scarcely removed, she prayed much. It is certain she did not join in the evening hymn, which, with the aid of an organ and some sweet girl-voices, was beautifully and almost pathetically rendered. After evening prayers had come to an end, Mrs Willis took Hester's hand and led her up to the old, white-headed vicar. "This is my new pupil, Mr Everard, or rather I should say, our new pupil. Her education depends as much on you as on me." The vicar held out his hands, and took Hester's within them, and then drew her forward to the light. "This little face does not seem quite strange to me," he said. "Have I ever seen you before, my dear?" "No, sir," replied Hester. "You have seen her mother," said Mrs Willis--"Do you remember your favourite pupil, Helen Anstey, of long ago?" "Ah! indeed--indeed! I shall never forget Helen. And are you her child, little one?" But Hester's face had grown white. The solemn service in the chapel, joined to all the excitement and anxieties of the day, had strung up her sensitive nerves to a pitch higher than she could endure. Suddenly, as the vicar spoke to her, and Mrs Willis looked kindly down at her new pupil, the chapel seemed to reel round, the pupils one by one disappeared, and the tired girl only saved herself from fainting by a sudden burst of tears. "Oh, I am unhappy," she sobbed, "without my mother! Please, please, don't talk to me about my mother." She could scarcely take in the gentle words which her two friends said to her, and she hardly noticed when Mrs Willis did such a wonderful thing as to stoop down and kiss a second time the lips of a new pupil. Finally she found herself consigned to Miss Danesbury's care, who hurried her off to her room, and helped her to undress and tucked her into her little bed. "Now, love, you shall have some hot gruel. No, not a word. You ate little or no tea, to-night--I watched you from my distant table. Half your loneliness is caused by want of food--I know it, my love; I am a very practical person. Now, eat your gruel, and then shut your eyes and go to sleep." "You are very kind to me," said Hester, "and so is Mrs Willis, and so is Mr Everard, and I like Cecil Temple--but, oh. I wish Annie Forest was not in the school!" "Hush, my dear, I implore of you. You pain me by these words. I am quite confident that Annie will be your best friend yet." Hester's lips said nothing, but her eyes answered "Never" as plainly as eyes could speak. CHAPTER SEVEN. A DAY AT SCHOOL. If Hester Thornton went to sleep that night under a sort of dreamy, hazy impression that school was a place without a great deal of order, with many kind and sympathising faces, and with some not so agreeable; if she went to sleep under the impression that she had dropped into a sort of medley, that she had found herself in a vast new world where certain personages exercised undoubtedly a strong moral influence, but where on the whole a number of other people did pretty much what they pleased-- she awoke in the morning to find her preconceived ideas scattered to the four winds. There was nothing of apparent liberty about the Lavender House arrangements in the early morning hours. In the first, place, it seemed quite the middle of the night when Hester was awakened by a loud gong, which clanged through the house and caused her to sit up in bed in a considerable state of fright and perplexity. A moment or two later a neatly-dressed maid-servant came into the room with a can of hot water; she lit a pair of candles on the mantelpiece, and, with the remark that the second gong would sound in half an hour, and that all the young ladies would be expected to assemble in the chapel at seven o'clock precisely, she left the room. Hester pulled her pretty little gold watch from under her pillow, and saw with a sigh that it was now half-past six. "What odious hours they keep in this horrid place!" she said to herself. "Well, well, I always did know that school would be unendurable." She waited for five minutes before she got up, and then she dressed herself languidly, and, if the truth must be told, in a very untidy fashion. She managed to be dressed by the time the second gong sounded, but she had only one moment to give to her private prayers. She reflected, however, that this did not greatly matter as she was going down to prayers immediately in the chapel. The service in the chapel the night before had impressed her more deeply than she cared to own, and she followed her companions downstairs with a certain feeling of pleasure at the thought of again seeing Mr Everard and Mrs Willis. She wondered if they would take much notice of her this morning, and she thought it just possible that Mr Everard, who had looked at her so compassionately the night before, might be induced, for the sake of his old friendship with her mother, to take her home with him to spend the day. She thought she would rather like to spend a day with Mr Everard, and she fancied he was the sort of person who would influence her and help her to be good. Hester fancied that if some very interesting and quite out of the common person took her in hand, she might be formed into something extremely noble--noble enough even to forgive Annie Forest. The girls all filed into the chapel, which was lighted as brightly and cheerily as the night before; but Hester found herself placed on a bench far down in the building. She was no longer in the place of honour by Mrs Willis's side. She was one of a number, and no one looked particularly at her or noticed her in any way. A shy young curate read the morning prayers; Mr Everard was not present, and Mrs Willis, who was, walked out of the chapel when prayers were over without even glancing in Hester's direction. This was bad enough for the poor little dreamer of dreams, but worse was to follow. Mrs Willis did not speak to Hester, but she did stop for an instant beside Annie Forest. Hester saw her lay her white hand on the young girl's shoulder and whisper for an instant in her ear. Annie's lovely gipsy face flushed a vivid crimson. "For your sake, darling," she whispered back; but Hester caught the words, and was consumed by a fierce jealousy. The girls went into the school-room, where Mdlle. Perier gave a French lesson to the upper class. Hester belonged to no class at present, and could look around her, and have plenty of time to reflect on her own miseries, and particularly on what she now considered the favouritism shown by Mrs Willis. "Mr Everard at least will read through that girl," she said to herself; "he could not possibly endure any one so loud. Yes, I am sure that my only friend at home, Cecilia Day, would call Annie very loud. I wonder Mrs Willis can endure her. Mrs Willis seems so ladylike herself, but--Oh, I beg your pardon, what's the matter?" A very sharp voice had addressed itself to the idle Hester. "But, mademoiselle, you are doing nothing! This cannot for a moment be permitted. Pardonnez-moi, you know not the French? Here is a little easy lesson. Study it, mademoiselle, and don't let your eyes wander a moment from the page." Hester favoured Mdlle. Perier with a look of lofty contempt, but she received the well-thumbed lesson-book in absolute silence. At eight o'clock came breakfast, which was nicely served, and was very good and abundant. Hester was thoroughly hungry this morning, and did not feel so shy as the night before. She found herself seated between two strange girls, who talked to her a little and would have made themselves friendly had she at all encouraged them to do so. After breakfast came half an hour's recreation, when, the weather being very bad, the girls again assembled in the cosy play-room. Hester looked round eagerly for Cecil Temple, who greeted her with a kind smile, but did not ask her into her inclosure. Annie Forest was not present, and Hester breathed a sigh of relief at her absence. The half-hour devoted to recreation proved rather dull to the newcomer. Hester could not understand her present world. To the girl who had been brought up practically as an only child in the warm shelter of a home, the ways and doings of school-girl life were an absolute enigma. Hester had no idea of unbending or of making herself agreeable. The girls voted her to one another stiff and tiresome, and quickly left her to her own devices. She looked longingly at Cecil Temple; but Cecil, who could never be knowingly unkind to any one, was seizing the precious moments to write a letter to her father, and Hester presently wandered down the room and tried to take an interest in the little ones. From twelve to fifteen quite little children were in the school, and Hester wondered with a sort of vague half-pain if she might see any child among the group the least like Nan. "They will like to have me with them," she said to herself. "Poor little dots, they always like big girls to notice them, and didn't they make a fuss about Miss Forest last night! Well, Nan is fond enough of me, and little children find out so quickly what one is really like." Hester walked boldly into the group. The little dots were all as busy as bees, were not the least lonely, or the least shy, and very plainly gave the intruder to understand that they would prefer her room to her company. Hester was not proud with little children--she loved them dearly. Some of the smaller ones in question were beautiful little creatures, and her heart warmed to them for Nan's sake. She could not stoop to conciliate the older girls, but she could make an effort with the babies. She knelt on the floor and took up a headless doll. "I know a little girl who had a doll like that," she said. Here she paused and several pairs of eyes were fixed on her. "Poor dolly's b'oke," said the owner of the headless one in a tone of deep commiseration. "You _are_ such a breaker, you know, Annie," said Annie's little five-year-old sister. "Please tell us about the little girl what had the doll wifout the head," she proceeded, glancing at Hester. "Oh, it was taken to a hospital, and got back its head," said Hester quite cheerfully; "it became quite well again, and was a more beautiful doll than ever." This announcement caused intense wonder and was certainly carrying the interest of all the little ones. Hester was deciding that the child who possessed the headless doll _had_ a look of Nan about her dark brown eyes, when suddenly there was a diversion--the play-room door was opened noisily, banged-to with a very loud report, and a gay voice sang out-- "The fairy queen has just paid me a visit. Who wants sweeties from the fairy queen?" Instantly all the little feet had scrambled to the perpendicular, each pair of hands was clapped noisily, each little throat shouted a joyful-- "Here comes Annie!" Annie Forest was surrounded, and Hester knelt alone on the hearth-rug. She felt herself colouring painfully--she did not fail to observe that two laughing eyes had fixed themselves with a momentary triumph on her face; then, snatching up a book, which happened to lie close, she seated herself with her back to all the girls, and her head bent over the page. It is quite doubtful whether she saw any of the words, but she was at least determined not to cry. The half-hour so wearisome to poor Hester came to an end, and the girls, conducted by Miss Danesbury, filed into the school-room and took their places in the different classes. Work had now begun in serious earnest. The school-room presented an animated and busy scene. The young faces with their varying expressions betokened on the whole the preponderance of an earnest spirit. Discipline, not too severe, reigned triumphant. Hester was not yet appointed to any place among these busy workers, but while she stood wondering, a little confused, and half intending to drop into an empty seat which happened to be close, Miss Danesbury came up to her. "Follow me, Miss Thornton," she said, and she conducted the young girl up the whole length of the great school-room, and pushed aside some baize curtains which concealed a second smaller room, where Mrs Willis sat before a desk. The head-mistress was no longer dressed in soft pearl-grey and Mechlin lace. She wore a black silk dress, and her white cap seemed to Hester to add a severe tone to her features. She neither shook hands with the new pupil nor kissed her, but said instantly in a bright though authoritative tone-- "I must now find out as quickly as possible what you know, Hester, in order to place you in the most suitable class." Hester was a clever girl, and passed through the ordeal of a rather stiff examination with considerable ability. Mrs Willis pronounced her English and general information quite up to the usual standard for girls of her age--her French was deficient, but she showed some talent for German. "On the whole I am pleased with your general intelligence, and I think you have good capacities, Hester," she said in conclusion. "I shall ask Miss Good, our very accomplished English teacher, to place you in the third-class. You will have to work very hard, however, at your French, to maintain your place there. But Mdlle. Perier is kind and painstaking, and it rests with yourself to quickly acquire a conversational acquaintance with the language. You are aware that, except during recreation, you are never allowed to speak in any other tongue. Now, go back to the school-room, my dear." As Mrs Willis spoke she laid her finger on a little silver gong which stood by her side. "One moment, please," said Hester, colouring crimson, "I want to ask you a question, please." "Is it about your lessons?" "No--oh, no; it is--" "Then pardon me, my dear," uttered the governess, "I sit in my room every evening from eight to half-past, and I am then at liberty to see a pupil on any subject which is not trifling. Nothing but lessons are spoken of in lesson hours, Hester. Ah, here comes Miss Good. Miss Good, I should wish you to place Hester Thornton in the third-class. Her English is up to the average. I will see Mdlle. Perier about her at twelve o'clock." Hester followed the English teacher into the great school-room, took her place in the third-class, at the desk which was pointed out to her, was given a pile of new books, and was asked to attend to the history lesson which was then going on. Notwithstanding her confusion, a certain sense of soreness, and some indignation at what she considered Mrs Willis's altered manner, she acquitted herself with considerable spirit, and was pleased to see that her class companions regarded her with some respect. An English literature lecture followed the history, and here again Hester acquitted herself with _eclat_. The subject to-day was "Julius Caesar," and Hester had read Shakespeare's play over many times with her mother. But when the hour came for foreign languages, her brief triumph ceased. Lower and lower did she fall in her school-fellows' estimation, as she stumbled through her truly English-French. Mdlle. Perier, who was a very fiery little woman, almost screamed at her--the girls coloured and nearly tittered. Hester hoped to recover her lost laurels in German, but by this time her head ached, and she did very little better in the German which she loved than in the French which she detested. At twelve o'clock she was relieved to find that school was over for the present, and she heard the English teacher's voice desiring the girls to go quickly to their rooms, and to assemble in five minutes' time in the great stone hall, equipped for their walk. The walk lasted for a little over an hour, and was a very dreary penance to poor Hester, as she was neither allowed to run, race, nor talk a word of English. She sighed heavily once or twice, and several of the girls who looked at her curiously agreed with Annie Forest that she was decidedly sulky. The walk was followed by dinner; then came half an hour of recreation in the delightful play-room, and eager chattering in the English tongue. At three o'clock the school assembled once more; but now the studies were of a less severe character, and Hester spent one of her first happy half-hours over a drawing lesson. She had a great love for drawing, and felt some pride in the really beautiful copy which she was making of the stump of an old gnarled oak-tree. Her dismay, however, was proportionately great when the drawing-master drew his pencil right across her copy. "I particularly requested you not to sketch in any of the shadows, Miss Thornton. Did you not hear me say that my lesson to-day was in outline? I gave you a shaded piece to copy in outline--did you not understand?" "This is my first day at school," whispered back poor Hester, speaking in English in her distress. Whereupon the master smiled, and even forgot to report her for her transgression of the French tongue. Hester spent the rest of that afternoon over her music lesson. The music-master was an irascible little German, but Hester played with some taste, and was therefore not too severely rapped over the knuckles. Then came tea and another half-hour of recreation, which was followed by two silent hours in the school-room, each girl bent busily over her books in preparation for the next day's work. Hester studied hard, for she had made up her mind to be the intellectual prodigy of the school. Even on this first day, miserable as it was, she had won a few plaudits for her quickness and powers of observation. How much better could she work when she had really fallen into the tone of the school, and understood the lessons which she was now so carefully preparing! During her busy day she had failed to notice one thing: namely, the absence of Annie Forest. Annie had not been in the school-room, had not been in the play-room; but now, as the clock struck eight, she entered the school-room with a listless expression, and took her place in the same class with Hester. Her eyes were heavy, as if she had been crying, and when a companion touched her, and gave her a sympathising glance, she shook her head with a sorrowful gesture, but did not speak. Glasses of milk and slices of bread and butler were now handed round to the girls, and Miss Danesbury asked if any one would like to see Mrs Willis before prayers. Hester half sprang to her feet, but then sat down again. Mrs Willis had annoyed her by refusing to break her rules and answer her question during lesson hours. No, the silly child resolved that she would not trouble Mrs Willis now. "No one to-night, then?" said Miss Danesbury, who had noticed Hester's movement. Suddenly Annie Forest sprang to her feet. "I'm going, Miss Danesbury," she said. "You need not show me the way; I can find it alone." With her short, curly hair falling about her face, she ran out of the room. CHAPTER EIGHT. "YOU HAVE WOKEN ME TOO SOON." When Hester reached her bedroom after prayers on that second evening, she was dismayed to find that she no longer could consider the pretty little bedroom her own. It had not only an occupant, but an occupant who had left untidy traces of her presence on the floor, for a stocking lay in one direction and a muddy boot sprawled in another. The newcomer had herself got into bed, where she lay with a quantity of red hair tossed about on the pillow, and a heavy freckled face turned upward, with the eyes shut and the mouth slightly open. As Hester entered the room, from these parted lips came unmistakable and loud snores. She stood still dismayed. "How terrible!" she said to herself--"oh, what a girl! and I cannot sleep in the room with any one who snores--I really cannot!" She stood perfectly still, with her hands clasped before her, and her eyes fixed with almost ludicrous dismay on this unexpected trial. As she gazed, a fresh discovery caused her to utter an exclamation of horror aloud. The newcomer had curled herself up comfortably in _her_ bed. Suddenly, to her surprise, a voice said very quietly, without a flicker of expression coming over the calm face, or the eyes even making an effort to open-- "Are you my new school-mate?" "Yes," said Hester, "I am sorry to say I am." "Oh, don't be sorry, there's a good creature; there's nothing to be sorry about. I'll stop snoring when I turn on my side--it's all right. I always snore for half an hour to rest my back, and the time is nearly up. Don't trouble me to open my eyes, I am not the least curious to see you. You have a cross voice, but you'll get used to me after a bit." "But you're in my bed," said Hester. "Will you please to get into your own?" "Oh, no, don't ask me; I like your bed best. I slept in it the whole of last term. I changed the sheets myself, so it does not matter. Do you mind putting my muddy boots outside the door, and folding up my stockings? I forgot them, and I shall have a bad mark if Danesbury comes in. Good-night--I'm turning on my side--I won't snore any more." The heavy face was now only seen in profile, and Hester, knowing that Miss Danesbury would soon appear to put out the candle, had to hurry into the other bed as fast as she could; something impelled her, however, to take up the muddy boots with two very gingerly fingers, and place them outside the door. She slept better this second night, and was not quite so startled the next morning when the remorseless gong aroused her from slumber. The maid-servant came in as usual to light the candles, and to place two cans of hot water by the two wash-handstands. "You are awake, miss?" she said to Hester. "Oh, yes," replied Hester almost cheerfully. "Well, that's all right," said the servant. "Now I must try and rouse Miss Drummond, and she always takes a deal of waking; and if you don't mind, miss, it will be an act of kindness to call out to her in the middle of your own dressing--that is, if I don't wake her effectual." With these words, the housemaid approached the bed where the red-haired girl lay again on her back, and again snoring loudly. "Miss Drummond, wake, miss; it's half-past six. Wake up, miss--I have brought your hot water." "Eh?--what?" said the voice in the bed sleepily; "don't bother me, Hannah--I--I've determined not to ride this morning; go away--" then more sleepily, and in a lower key, "Tell Percy he can't bring the dogs in here." "I ain't neither your Hannah, nor your Percy, nor one of the dogs," replied the rather irate Alice--"There, get up, miss, do. I never see such a young lady for sleeping, never." "I won't be bothered," said the occupant of the bed, and now she turned deliberately on her side and snored more loudly than ever. "There's no help for it," said Alice: "I have to do it nearly every morning, so don't you be startled, miss. Poor thing, she would never have a good conduct mark but for me. Now then, here goes. You needn't be frightened, miss--she don't mind it the least bit in the world." Here Alice seized a rough Turkish towel, placed it under the sleepy head with its shock of red hair, and, dipping a sponge in a basin of icy cold water, dashed it on the white face. This remedy proved effectual; two large pale blue eyes opened wide, a voice said in a tranquil and unmoved tone-- "Oh, thank you, Alice. So I'm back at this horrid, detestable school again?" "Get your feet well on the carpet, Miss Drummond, before you falls off again," said the servant. "Now then, you'd better get dressed as fast as possible, miss--you have lost five minutes already." Hester, who had laughed immoderately during this little scene, was already up and going through the processes of her toilet. Miss Drummond, seated on the edge of her bed, regarded her with sleepy eyes. "So you are my new room-mate?" she said--"What's your name?" "Hester Thornton," replied Hetty with dignity. "Oh--I'm Susy Drummond--you may call me Susy if you like." Hester made no response to this gracious invitation. Miss Drummond sat motionless, gazing down at her toes. "Had not you better get dressed?" said Hester after a long pause, for she really feared the young lady would fall asleep where she was sitting. Miss Drummond started. "Dressed! So I will, dear creature. Have the sweet goodness to hand me my clothes." "Where are they?" asked Hester rather crossly, for she did not care to act as lady's-maid. "They are over there, on a chair, in that lovely heap with a shawl flung over them. There, toss them this way--I'll get into them somehow." Miss Drummond did manage to get into her garments; but her whole appearance was so heavy and untidy when she was dressed, that Hester by the very force of contrast felt obliged to take extra pains with her own toilet. "Now, that's a comfort," said Susan, "I'm in my clothes. How bitter it is! There's one comfort, the chapel will be warm. I often catch forty winks in chapel--that is, if I'm lucky enough to get behind one of the tall girls, where Mrs Willis won't see me. It does seem to me," continued Susan in a meditative tone, "the strangest thing why girls are not allowed sleep enough." Hester was pinning a clean collar round her neck when Miss Drummond came up close, leaned over the dressing-table, and regarded her with languid curiosity. "A penny for your thoughts. Miss Prunes and Prism." "Why do you call me that?" said Hester angrily. "Because you look like it, sweet. Now, don't be cross, little pet--no one ever yet was cross with sleepy Susy Drummond. Now, tell me, love, what had you for breakfast yesterday?" "I'm sure I forget," said Hester. "You _forget_?--how extraordinary! You're sure that it was not buttered scones? We have them sometimes, and I tell you they are enough even to keep a girl awake. Well, at least you can let me know if the eggs were very stale, and the coffee very weak, and whether the butter was second-rate Dorset, or good and fresh. Come now--my breakfast is of immense importance to me, I assure you." "I dare say," answered Hester. "You can see for yourself this morning what is on the table--I can only inform you that it was good enough for me, and that I don't remember what it was." "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Susan Drummond, "I'm afraid she has a little temper of her own--poor little room-mate. I wonder if chocolate-creams would sweeten that little temper?" "Please don't talk--I'm going to say my prayers," said Hester. She did kneel down, and made a slight effort to ask God to help her through the day's work and the day's play. In consequence, she rose from her knees with a feeling of strength and sweetness which even the feeblest prayer when uttered in earnest can always give. The prayer-gong now sounded, and all the girls assembled in the chapel. Miss Drummond was greeted by many appreciative nods, and more than one pair of longing eyes gazed in the direction of her pockets, which stuck out in the most ungainly fashion. Hester was relieved to find that her room-mate did not share her class in school, nor sit anywhere near her at table. When the half-hour's recreation after breakfast arrived, Hester, determined to be beholden to none of her school-mates for companionship, seated herself comfortably in an easy chair, with a new book. Presently she was startled by a little stream of lollipops falling in a shower over her head, down her neck, and into her lap. She started up with an expression of disgust. Instantly Miss Drummond sank into the vacated chair. "Thank you, love," she said, in a cosy, purring voice. "Eat your lollipops, and look at me; I'm going to sleep. Please pull my toe when Danesbury comes in. Oh, fie! Prunes and Prisms--not so cross--eat your lollipops; they will sweeten the expression of that--little--face." The last words came out drowsily. As she said "face," Miss Drummond's languid eyes were closed--she was fast asleep. CHAPTER NINE. WORK AND PLAY. In a few days Hester was accustomed to her new life. She fell into its routine, and in a certain measure won the respect of her fellow-pupils. She worked hard, and kept her place in class, and her French became a little more like the French tongue and a little less like the English. She showed marked ability in many of her other studies, and the mistresses and masters spoke well of her. After a fortnight spent at Lavender House, Hester had to acknowledge that the little Misses Bruce were right, and that school might be a really enjoyable place for some girls. She would not yet admit that it could be enjoyable for her. Hester was too shy, too proud, too exacting to be popular with her school-fellows. She knew nothing of school-girl life--she had never learned the great secret of success in all life's perplexities, the power to give and take. It never occurred to Hester to look over a hasty word, to take no notice of an envious or insolent look. As far as her lessons were concerned she was doing well; but the hardest lesson of all, the training of mind and character, which the daily companionship of her school-fellows alone could give her, in this lesson she was making no way. Each day she was shutting herself up more and more from all kindly advances, and the only one in the school whom she sincerely and cordially liked was gentle Cecil Temple. Mrs Willis had some ideas with regard to the training of her young people which were peculiarly her own. She had found them successful, and, during her thirty years' experience, had never seen reason to alter them. She was determined to give her girls a great deal more liberty than was accorded in most of the boarding-schools of her day. She never made what she called impossible rules; she allowed the girls full liberty to chatter in their bedrooms; she did not watch them during play-hours; she never read the letters they received, and only superintended the specimen home letter which each girl was required to write once a month. Other head-mistresses wondered at the latitude she allowed her girls, but she invariably replied-- "I always find it works best to trust them. If a girl is found to be utterly untrustworthy. I don't expel her, but I request her parents to remove her to a more strict school." Mrs Willis also believed much in that quiet half-hour each evening, when the girls who cared to come could talk to her alone. On these occasions she always dropped the school-mistress and adopted the _role_ of the mother. With a very refractory pupil she spoke in the tenderest tones of remonstrance and affection at these times. If her words failed--if the discipline of the day and the gentle sympathy of these moments at night did not effect their purpose, she had yet another expedient--the vicar was asked to see the girl who would not yield to this motherly influence. Mr Everard had very seldom taken Mrs Willis's place. As he said to her, "Your influence must be the mainspring. At supreme moments I will help you with personal influence, but otherwise, except for my nightly prayers with your girls, and my weekly class, and the teachings which they with others hear from my lips Sunday after Sunday, they had better look to you." The girls knew this rule well, and the one or two rare instances in the school history where the vicar had stepped in to interfere, were spoken of with bated breath and with intense awe. Mrs Willis had a great idea of bringing as much happiness as possible into young lives. It was with this idea that she had the quaint little compartments railed off in the play-room. "For the elder girls," she would say, "there is no pleasure so great as having, however small the spot, a little liberty hall of their own. In her compartment each girl is absolute monarch. No one can enter inside the little curtained rail without her permission. Here she can show her individual taste, her individual ideas. Here she can keep her most-prized possessions. In short, her compartment in the play-room is a little home to her." The play-room, large as it was, admitted of only twenty compartments; these compartments were not easily won. No amount of cleverness attained them; they were altogether dependent on conduct. No girl could be the honourable owner of her own little drawing-room until she had distinguished herself by some special act of kindness and self-denial. Mrs Willis had no fixed rule on this subject. She alone gave away the compartments, and she often made choice of girls on whom she conferred this honour in a way which rather puzzled and surprised their fellows. When the compartment was won it was not a secure possession. To retain it depended also on conduct; and here again Mrs Willis was absolute in her sway. More than once the girls had entered the room in the morning to find some favourite's furniture removed and her little possessions taken carefully down from the walls, the girl herself alone knowing the reason for this sudden change. Annie Forest, who had been at Lavender House for four years, had once, for a solitary month of her existence, owned her own special drawing-room. She had obtained it as a reward for an act of heroism. One of the little pupils had set her pinafore on fire. There was no teacher present at the moment--the other girls had screamed and run for help, but Annie, very pale, had caught the little one in her arms and had crushed out the flames with her own hands. The child's life was spared, the child was not even hurt, but Annie was in the hospital for a week. At the end of a week she returned to the school-room and play-room as the heroine of the hour. Mrs Willis herself kissed her brow, and presented her in the midst of the approving smiles of her companions with the prettiest drawing-room of the sets. Annie retained her honourable post for one month. Never did the girls of Lavender House forget the delights of that month. The fantastic arrangements of the little drawing-room filled them with ecstasies. Annie was truly Japanese in her style--she was also intensely liberal in all her arrangements. In the tiny space of this little inclosure wild pranks were perpetrated, ceaseless jokes made up. From Annie's drawing-room issued peals of exquisite mirth. She gave afternoon tea from a Japanese set of tea-things. Outside her drawing-room always collected a crowd of girls, who tried to peep over the rail or to draw aside the curtains. Inside the sacred spot certainly reigned chaos, and one day Miss Danesbury had to fly to the rescue, for in a fit of mad mirth Annie herself had knocked down the little Japanese tea-table, the tea-pot and tea-things were in fragments on the floor, and the tea and milk poured in streams outside the curtains. Mrs Willis sent for Annie that evening, and Miss Forest retired from her interview with red eyes and a meek expression. "Girls," she said, in confidence that night, "good-bye to Japan. I gave her leave to do it--the care of an empire is more than I can manage." The next day the Japanese drawing-room had been handed over to another possessor, and Annie reigned as queen over her empire no more. Mrs Willis, anxious at all times that her girls should be happy, made special arrangements for their benefit on Sunday. Sunday was by no means dull at Lavender House--Sunday was totally unlike the six days which followed it. Even the stupidest girl could scarcely complain of the severity of Sunday lessons--even the merriest girl could scarcely speak of the day as dull. Mrs Willis made an invariable rule of spending all Sunday with her pupils. On this day she really unbent--on this day she was all during the long hours, what she was during the short half-hour on each evening in the week. On Sunday she neither reproved nor corrected. If punishment or correction were necessary, she deputed Miss Good or Miss Danesbury to take her place. On Sunday she sat with the little children round her knee, and the older girls clustering about her. Her gracious and motherly face was like a sun shining in the midst of these young girls. In short, she was like the personified form of Goodness in their midst. It was necessary, therefore, that all those who wished to do right should be happy on Sunday, and only those few who deliberately preferred evil should shrink from the brightness of this day. It is astonishing how much a sympathising and guiding spirit can effect. The girls at Lavender House thought Sunday the shortest day in the week. There were no unoccupied or dull moments--school toil was forgotten--school punishment ceased, to be resumed again if necessary on Monday morning. The girls in their best dresses could chatter freely in English--they could read their favourite books--they could wander about the house as they pleased: for on Sunday the two baize doors were always wide-open, and Mrs Willis's own private suite of rooms was ready to receive them. If the day was fine they walked to church, each choosing her own companion for the pleasant walk; if the day was wet there was service in the chapel, Mr Everard always conducting either morning or evening prayers. In the afternoon the girls were allowed to do pretty much as they pleased, but after tea there always came a delightful hour, when the elder girls retired with their mistress into her own special boudoir, and she either told them stories or sang to them as only she could sing. At sixty years of age Mrs Willis still possessed the most sympathetic and touching voice those girls had ever listened to. Hester Thornton broke down completely on her first Sunday at Lavender House when she heard her school-mistress sing "The Better Land." No one remarked on her tears, but two people saw them; for her mistress kissed her tenderly that night, and said a few strong words of help and encouragement, and Annie Forest, who made no comment, had also seen them, and wondered vaguely if this new and disagreeable pupil had a heart after all. On Sunday night Mrs Willis herself went round to each little bed and gave a mother-kiss to each of her pupils--a mother-kiss and a murmured blessing; and in many breasts resolves were then formed which were to help the girls through the coming week. Some of these resolves, made not in their own strength, bore fruit in long after-years. There is no doubt that very few girls who lived long enough at Lavender House ever in after-days found their Sundays dull. CHAPTER TEN. VARIETIES. Without any doubt, wild, naughty, impulsive Annie Forest was the most popular girl in the school. She was always in scrapes--she was scarcely ever out of hot water--her promises of amendment were truly like the proverbial pie-crust: but she was so lovable, so kind-hearted, so saucy and piquant and pretty, that very few could resist the nameless charm which she possessed. The little ones adored Annie, who was kindness itself to them; the bigger girls could not help admiring her fearlessness and courage; the best and noblest girls in the school tried to influence her for good. She was more or less an object of interest to every one; her courage was of just the sort to captivate school-girls, and her moral weakness was not observed by these inexperienced young eyes. Hester alone, of all the girls who for a long time had come to Lavender House, failed to see any charm in Annie. She began by considering her ill-bred, and when she found she was the school favourite, she tossed her proud little head and determined that she for one would never be subjugated by such a naughty girl. Hester could read character with tolerable clearness; she was an observant child--very observant, and very thoughtful for her twelve years; and as the little witch Annie had failed to throw any spell over her, she saw her faults far more clearly than did her companions. There is no doubt that this brilliant, charming, and naughty Annie had heaps of faults; she had no perseverance; she was all passion and impulse; she could be the kindest of the kind, but from sheer thoughtlessness and wildness she often inflicted severe pain, even on those she loved best. Annie very nearly worshipped Mrs Willis, she had the most intense adoration for her, she respected her beyond any other human being. There were moments when the impulsive and hot-headed child felt that she could gladly lay down her life for her school-mistress. Once the mistress was ill, and Annie curled herself up all night outside her door, thereby breaking rules, and giving herself a severe cold; but her passion and agony were so great that she could only be soothed by at last stealing into the darkened room and kissing the face she loved. "Prove your love to me, Annie, by going downstairs and keeping the school rules as perfectly as possible," whispered the teacher. "I will--I will never break a rule again as long as I live, if you get better, Mrs Willis," responded the child. She ran downstairs with her resolves strong within her, and yet in half an hour she was reprimanded for wilful and desperate disobedience. One day Cecil Temple had invited a select number of friends to afternoon tea in her little drawing-room. It was the Wednesday half-holiday, and Cecil's tea, poured into the tiniest cups and accompanied by thin wafer biscuits, was of the most _recherche_ quality. Cecil had invited Hester Thornton, and a tall girl who belonged to the first-class and whose name was Dora Russell, to partake of this dainty beverage. They were sitting round the tiny tea-table, on little red stools with groups of flowers artistically painted on them, and were all three conducting themselves in a most ladylike and refined manner, when Annie Forest's curly head and saucy face popped over the inclosure, and her voice said eagerly-- "Oh, may I be permitted to enter the shrine?" "Certainly, Annie," said Cecil, in her most cordial tones. "I have got another cup and saucer, and there is a little tea left in the tea-pot." Annie came in, and ensconced herself cosily on the floor. It did not matter in the least to her that Hester Thornton's brow grew dark, and that Miss Russell suddenly froze into complete indifference to all her surroundings. Annie was full of a subject which excited her very much; she had suddenly discovered that she wanted to give Mrs Willis a present, and she wished to know if any of the girls would like to join her. "I will give her the present this day week," said excitable Annie. "I have quite made up my mind. Will any one join me?" "But there is nothing special about this day week, Annie," said Miss Temple. "It will neither be Mrs Willis's birthday, nor Christmas Day, nor New Year's Day, nor Easter Day. Next Wednesday will be just like any other Wednesday. Why should we make Mrs Willis a present?" "Oh, because she looks as if she wanted one, poor dear. I thought she looked sad this morning; her eyes drooped and her mouth was down at the corners. I am sure she's wanting something from us all by now, just to show that we love her, you know." "Pshaw!" here burst from Hester's lips. "Why do you say that?" said Annie, turning round with her bright eyes flashing. "You've no right to be so contemptuous when I speak about our--our head-mistress. Oh, Cecil," she continued, "do let us give her a little surprise--some spring flowers, or something just to show her that we love her." "But _you_ don't love her," said Hester, stoutly. Here was throwing down the gauntlet with a vengeance! Annie sprang to her feet and confronted Hester with a whole torrent of angry words. Hester firmly maintained her position. She said over and over again that love proved itself by deeds, not by words; that if Annie learned her lessons, and obeyed the school rules, she would prove her affection for Mrs Willis far more than by empty protestations. Hester's words were true, but they were uttered in an unkind spirit, and the very flavour of truth which they possessed caused them to enter Annie's heart and to wound her deeply. She turned, not red, but very white, and her large and lovely eyes grew misty with unshed tears. "You are cruel," she gasped, rather than spoke, and then she pushed aside the curtains of Cecil's compartment and walked out of the play-room. There was a dead silence among the three girls when she left them. Hester's heart was still hot, and she was still inclined to maintain her own position, and to believe she had done right in speaking in so severe a tone to Annie. But even she had been made a little uneasy by the look of deep suffering which had suddenly transformed Annie's charming childish face into that of a troubled and pained woman. She sat down meekly on her little three-legged stool and, taking up her tiny cup and saucer, sipped some of the cold tea. Cecil Temple was the first to speak. "How could you?" she said, in an indignant voice for her. "Annie is not the girl to be driven, and, in any case, it is not for you to correct her. Oh, Mrs Willis would have been so pained had she heard you--you were not _kind_, Miss Thornton. There, I don't wish to be rude, but I fear I must leave you and Miss Russell--I must try and find Annie." "I'm going back to my own drawing-room," said Miss Russell, rising to her feet. "Perhaps," she added, turning round with a very gracious smile to Hester, "you will come and see me there, after tea, this evening." Miss Russell drew aside the curtains of Cecil Temple's little room, and disappeared. Hester, with her eyes full of tears, now turned eagerly to Cecil. "Forgive me, Cecil," she exclaimed. "I did not mean to be unkind, but it is really quite ridiculous the way you all spoil that girl--you know as well as I do that she is a very naughty girl. I suppose it is because of her pretty face," continued Hester, "that you are all so unjust, and so blind to her faults." "You are prejudiced the other way, Hester," said Cecil in a more gentle tone. "You have disliked Annie from the first. There, don't keep me--I must go to her now. There is no knowing what harm your words may have done. Annie is not like other girls. If you knew her story, you would perhaps be kinder to her." Cecil then ran out of her drawing-room, leaving Hester in sole possession of the little tea-things and the three-legged stools. She sat and thought for some time; she was a girl with a great deal of obstinacy in her nature, and she was not disposed to yield her own point, even to Cecil Temple; but Cecil's words had, nevertheless, made some impression on her. At tea-time that night, Annie and Cecil entered the room together. Annie's eyes were as bright as stars, and her usually pale cheeks glowed with a deep colour. She had never looked prettier--she had never looked so defiant, so mischievous, so utterly reckless. Mdlle. Perier fired indignant French at her across the table. Annie answered respectfully, and became demure in a moment; but even in the short instant in which the governess was obliged to lower her eyes to her plate, she had thrown a look so irresistibly comic at her companions, that several of them had tittered aloud. Not once did she glance at Hester although she occasionally looked boldly in her direction; but when she did so, her versatile face assumed a blank expression, as if she were seeing nothing. When tea was over, Dora Russell surprised the members of her own class by walking straight up to Hester, putting her hand inside her arm, and leading her off to her own very refined-looking little drawing-room. "I want to tell you," she said, when the two girls found themselves inside the small inclosure, "that I quite agree with you in your opinion of Miss Forest. I think you were very brave to speak to her as you did to-day. As a rule, I never trouble myself with what the little girls in the third-class do, and of course Annie seldom comes under my notice; but I think she is a decidedly spoiled child, and your rebuff will doubtless do her a great deal of good." These words of commendation, coming from tall and dignified Miss Russell, completely turned poor Hester's head. "Oh, I am so glad you think so!" she stammered, colouring high with pleasure. "You see," she added, assuming a little tone of extra refinement, "at home I always associated with girls who were perfect ladies." "Yes, any one can see that," remarked Miss Russell approvingly. "And I do think Annie underbred," continued Hester. "I cannot understand," she added, "why Miss Temple likes her so much." "Oh, Cecil is so amiable; she sees good in every one," answered Miss Russell. "Annie is evidently not a lady, and I am glad at last to find some one of the girls who belong to the middle school capable of discerning this fact. Of course, we of the first-class have nothing whatever to say to Miss Forest, but I really think Mrs Willis is not acting quite fairly by the other girls when she allows a young person of that description into the school. I wish to assure you, Miss Thornton, that you have at least my sympathy, and I shall be very pleased to see you in my drawing-room now and then." As these last words were uttered, both girls were conscious of a little rustling sound not far away. Miss Russell drew back her curtain, and asked very sharply, "Who is there?" but no one replied, nor was there any one in sight, for the girls who did not possess compartments were congregated at the other end of the long play-room, listening to stories which Emma Marshall, a clever elder girl, was relating for their benefit. Miss Russell talked on indifferent subjects to Hester, and at the end of the half-hour the two entered the class-room side by side, Hester's little head a good deal turned by this notice from one of the oldest girls in the school. As the two walked together into the school-room, Susan Drummond, who, tall as she was, was only in the fourth class, rushed up to Miss Forest, and whispered something in her ear. "It is just as I told you," she said, and her sleepy voice was quite wide awake and animated. Annie Forest rewarded her by a playful pinch on her cheek; then she returned to her own class, with a severe reprimand from the class teacher, and silence reigned in the long room, as the girls began to prepare their lessons as usual for the next day. Miss Russell took her place at her desk in her usual dignified manner. She was a clever girl, and was going to leave school at the end of next term. Hers was a particularly fastidious, but by no means great nature--she was the child of wealthy parents, she was also well-born, and because of her money, and a certain dignity and style which had come to her as nature's gifts, she held an influence, though by no means a large one, in the school. No one particularly disliked her, but no one, again, ardently loved her. The girls in her own class thought it well to be friendly with Dora Russell, and Dora accepted their homage with more or less indifference. She did not greatly care for either their praise or blame. Dora possessed in a strong degree that baneful quality, which more than anything else precludes the love of others--she was essentially selfish. She sat now before her desk, little guessing how she had caused Hester's small heart to beat by her patronage, and little suspecting the mischief she had done to the girl by her injudicious words. Had she known, it is to be doubted whether she would have greatly cared. She looked through the books which contained her tasks for the next day's work, and, finding they did not require a great deal of preparation, put them aside, and amused herself during the rest of preparation time with a story-book, which she artfully concealed behind the leaves of some exercises. She knew she was breaking the rules, but this fact did not trouble her, for her moral nature was, after all, no better than poor Annie's, and she had not a tenth of her lovable qualities. Dora Russell was the soul of neatness and order. To look inside her school-desk was a positive pleasure; to glance at her own neat and trim figure was more or less of a delight. Hers were the whitest hands in the school, and hers the most perfectly kept and glossy hair. As the preparation hour drew to a close, she replaced her exercises and books in exquisite order in her school-desk and shut down the lid. Hester's eyes followed her as she walked out of the school-room, for the head class never had supper with the younger girls. Hester wondered if she would glance in her direction; but Miss Russell had gratified a very passing whim when she condescended to notice and praise Hester, and she had already almost forgotten her existence. At bed-time that night Susan Drummond's behaviour was at the least extraordinary. In the first place, instead of being almost overpoweringly friendly with Hester, she scarcely noticed her; in the next place, she made some very peculiar preparations. "What _are_ you doing on the floor, Susan?" inquired Hetty in an innocent tone. "That's nothing to you," replied Miss Drummond, turning a dusky red, and looking annoyed at being discovered. "I do wish," she added, "that you would go round to your side of the room and leave me alone; I sha'n't have done what I want to do before Danesbury comes in to put out the candle." Hester was not going to put herself out with any of Susan Drummond's vagaries; she looked upon sleepy Susan as a girl quite beneath her notice, but even she could not help observing her, when she saw her sit up in bed a quarter of an hour after the candles had been put out, and in the flickering firelight which shone conveniently bright for her purpose, fasten a piece of string first round one of her toes, and then to the end of the bed-post. "What _are_ you doing?" said Hester again, half laughing. "Oh, what a spy you are!" said Susan. "I want to wake, that's all; and whenever I turn in bed that string will tug at my toe, and, of course, I'll rouse up. If you were more good-natured, I'd give the other end of the string to you; but, of course, that plan would never answer." "No, indeed," replied Hester; "I am not going to trouble myself to wake you. You must trust to your sponge of cold water in the morning, unless your own admirable device succeeds." "I'm going to sleep now, at any rate," answered Susan; "I'm on my back, and I'm beginning to snore; good-night." Once or twice during the night Hester heard groans from the self-sacrificing Susan, who, doubtless, found the string attached to her foot very inconvenient. Hester, however, slept on when it might have been better for the peace of many in the school that she should have awakened. She heard no sound when, long before day, sleepy Susan stepped softly out of bed, and wrapping a thick shawl about her, glided out of the room. She was away for over half an hour, but she returned to her chamber and got into bed without in the least disturbing Hester. In the morning she was found so soundly asleep that even the sponge of cold water could not arouse her. "Pull the string at the foot of the bed, Alice," said Hester: "she fastened a string to her toe, and twisted the other end round the bed-post, last night--pull it, Alice, it may effect its purpose." But there was no string now round Susan Drummond's foot, nor was it found hanging to the bed-post. CHAPTER ELEVEN. WHAT WAS FOUND IN THE SCHOOL-DESK. The next morning, when the whole school were assembled, and all the classes were getting ready for the real work of the day, Miss Good, the English teacher, stepped to the head of the room, and, holding a neatly bound volume of "Jane Eyre" in her hand, begged to know to whom it belonged. There was a hush of astonishment when she held up the little book, for all the girls knew well that this special volume was not allowed for school literature. "The house maid who dusts the school-room found this book on the floor," continued the teacher. "It lay beside a desk near the top of the room. I see the name has been torn out, so I cannot tell who is the owner. I must request her, however, to step forward and take possession of her property. If there is the slightest attempt at concealment, the whole matter will be laid before Mrs Willis at noon to-day." When Miss Good had finished her little speech, she held up the book in its green binding and looked down the room. Hester did not know why her heart beat--no one glanced at her, no one regarded her; all eyes were fixed on Miss Good, who stood with a severe, unsmiling, but expectant face. "Come, young ladies," she said, "the owner has surely no difficulty in recognising her own property. I give you exactly thirty seconds more; then, if no one claims the book, I place the affair in Mrs Willis's hands." Just then there was a stir among the girls in the head class. A tall girl in dove-coloured cashmere, with a smooth head of golden hair, and a fair face which was a good deal flushed at this moment, stepped to the front, and said in a clear and perfectly modulated voice-- "I had no idea of concealing the fact that `Jane Eyre' belongs to me. I was only puzzled for a moment to know how it got on the floor. I placed it carefully in my desk last night. I think this circumstance ought to be inquired into." "Oh! oh!" came from several suppressed voices here and there through the room; "whoever would have supposed that Dora Russell would be obliged to humble herself in this way?" "Attention, young ladies!" said Miss Good; "no talking, if you please. Do I understand, Miss Russell, that `Jane Eyre' is yours?" "Yes, Miss Good." "Why did you keep it in your desk--were you reading it during preparation?" "On, yes, certainly." "You are, of course, aware that you were breaking two very stringent rules of the school. In the first place, no story-books are allowed to be concealed in a school-desk, or to be read during preparation. In the second place, this special book is not allowed to be read at any time in Lavender House. You know these rules, Miss Russell?" "Yes, Miss Good." "I must retain the book--you can return now to your place in class." Miss Russell bowed sedately, and with an apparently unmoved face, except for the slightly deepened glow on her smooth cheek, resumed her interrupted work. Lessons went off as usual, but during recreation the mystery of the discovered book was largely discussed by the girls. As is the custom of school-girls, they took violent sides in the matter--some rejoicing in Dora's downfall, some pitying her intensely. Hester was, of course, one of Miss Russell's champions, and she looked at her with tender sympathy when she came with her haughty and graceful manner into the school-room, and her little heart beat with a vague hope that Dora might turn to her for sympathy. Dora, however, did nothing of the kind. She refused to discuss the affair with her companions, and none of them quite knew what Mrs Willis said to her, or what special punishment was inflicted on the proud girl. Several of her school-fellows expected that Dora's drawing-room would be taken away from her, but she still retained it; and after a few days the affair of the book was almost forgotten. There was, however, an uncomfortable and an uneasy spirit abroad in the school. Susan Drummond, who was certainly one of the most uninteresting girls in Lavender House, was often seen walking with and talking to Miss Forest. Sometimes Annie shook her pretty head over Susan's remarks; sometimes she listened to her; sometimes she laughed and spoke eagerly for a moment or two, and appeared to acquiesce in suggestions which her companion urged. Annie had always been the soul of disorder--of wild pranks, of naughty and disobedient deeds--but, hitherto, in all her wildness she had never intentionally hurt any one but herself. Hers was a giddy and thoughtless, but by no means a bitter tongue--she thought well of all her school-fellows--and on occasions she could be self-sacrificing and good-natured to a remarkable extent. The girls of the head class took very little notice of Annie, but her other school-companions, as a rule, succumbed to her sunny, bright, and witty ways. She offended them a hundred times a day, and a hundred times a day was forgiven. Hester was the first girl in the third-class who had ever persistently disliked Annie and Annie, after making one or two overtures of friendship, began to return Miss Thornton's aversion; but she had never cordially hated her until the day they met in Cecil Temple's drawing-room and Hester had wounded Annie in her tenderest part by doubting her affection for Mrs Willis. Since that day there was a change very noticeable in Annie Forest--she was not so gay as formerly, but she was a great deal more mischievous-- she was not nearly so daring, but she was capable now of little actions slight in themselves, which yet were calculated to cause mischief and real unhappiness. Her sudden friendship with Susan Drummond did her no good, and she persistently avoided all intercourse with Cecil Temple, who hitherto had influenced her in the right direction. The incident of the green book had passed with no apparent result of grave importance, but the spirit of mischief which had caused this book to be found was by no means asleep in the school. Pranks were played in a most mysterious fashion with the girls' properties. Hester herself was the very next victim. She too was a neat and orderly child--she was clever and thoroughly enjoyed her school work. She was annoyed, therefore, and dreadfully puzzled, by discovering one morning that her neat French exercise-book was disgracefully blotted, and one page torn across. She was severely reprimanded by Mdlle. Perier for such gross untidiness and carelessness, and when she assured the governess that she knew nothing whatever of the circumstance, that she was never guilty of blots, and had left the book in perfect order the night before, the French lady only shrugged her shoulders, made an expressive gesture with her eyebrows, and plainly showed Hester that she thought the less she said on that subject the better. Hester was required to write out her exercise again, and she fancied she saw a triumphant look in Annie Forest's eyes as she left the school-room, where poor Hester was obliged to remain to undergo her unmerited punishment. "Cecil," called Hester, in a passionate and eager voice, as Miss Temple was passing her place. Cecil paused for a moment. "What is it, Hetty?--oh, I am so sorry you must stay in this lovely bright day." "I have done nothing wrong," said Hester; "I never blotted this exercise-book; I never tore this page. It is most unjust not to believe my word; it is most unjust to punish me for what I have not done." Miss Temple's face looked puzzled and sad. "I must not stay to talk to you now, Hester," she whispered; "I am breaking the rules. You can come to my drawing-room by-and-by, and we will discuss this matter." But Hester and Cecil, talk as they would, could find no solution to the mystery. Cecil absolutely refused to believe that Annie Forest had anything to do with the matter. "No," she said, "such deceit is not in Annie's nature. I would do anything to help you, Hester; but I can't, and I won't, believe that Annie tried deliberately to do you any harm." "I am quite certain she did," retorted Hester, "and from this moment I refuse to speak to her until she confesses what she has done and apologises to me. Indeed, I have a great mind to go and tell everything to Mrs Willis." "Oh, I would not do that," said Cecil; "none of your school-fellows would forgive you if you charged such a favourite as Annie with a crime which you cannot in the least prove against her. You must be patient, Hester, and if you are, I will take your part, and try to get at the bottom of the mystery." Cecil, however, failed to do so. Annie laughed when the affair was discussed in her presence, but her clear eyes looked as innocent as the day, and nothing would induce Cecil to doubt Miss Forest's honour. The mischievous sprite, however, who was sowing such seeds of unhappiness in the hitherto peaceful school was not satisfied with two deeds of daring; for a week afterwards Cecil Temple found a book of Mrs Browning's, out of which she was learning a piece for recitation, with its cover half torn off, and, still worse, a caricature of Mrs Willis sketched with some cleverness and a great deal of malice on the title-page. On the very same morning, Dora Russell, on opening her desk, was seen to throw up her hands with a gesture of dismay. The neat composition she had finished the night before was not to be seen in its accustomed place, but in a corner of the desk were two bulky and mysterious parcels, one of which contained a great junk of rich plum-cake, and the other some very sticky and messy "Turkish delight;" while the paper which enveloped these luxuries was found to be that on which the missing composition was written. Dora's face grew very white--she forgot the ordinary rules of the school, and, leaving her class, walked down the room, and interrupted Miss Good, who was beginning to instruct the third-class in English grammar. "Will you please come and see something in my desk, Miss Good?" she said in a voice which trembled with excitement. It was while she was speaking that Cecil found the copy of Mrs Browning mutilated, and with the disgraceful caricature on its title-page. Startled as she was by this discovery, and also by Miss Russell's extraordinary behaviour, she had presence of mind enough to hide the sight which pained her from her companions. Unobserved, in the strong interest of the moment, for all the girls were watching Dora Russell and Miss Good, she managed to squeeze the little volume into her pocket. She had indeed received a great shock, for she knew well that the only girl who could caricature in the school was Annie Forest. For a moment her troubled eyes sought the ground, but then she raised them and looked at Annie. Annie, however, with a particularly cheerful face, and her bright dark eyes full of merriment, was gazing in astonishment at the scene which was taking place in front of Miss Russell's desk. Dora, whose enunciation was very clear, seemed to have absolutely forgotten herself; she disregarded Miss Good's admonitions, and declared stoutly that at such a moment she did not care what rules she broke. She was quite determined that the culprit who had dared to desecrate her composition, and put plum-cake and "Turkish delight" into her desk, should be publicly exposed and punished. "The thing cannot go on any longer, Miss Good," she said; "there is a girl in this school who ought to be expelled from it, and I for one declare openly that I will not submit to associate with a girl who is worse than unladylike. If you will permit me, Miss Good, I will carry these things at once to Mrs Willis, and beg of her to investigate the whole affair, and bring the culprit to justice, and to turn her out of the school." "Stay, Miss Russell," exclaimed the English teacher, "you strangely and completely forget yourself. You are provoked. I own, but you have no right to stand up and absolutely hoist the flag of rebellion in the faces of the other girls. I cannot excuse your conduct. I will myself take away these parcels which were found in your desk, and will report the affair to Mrs Willis. She will take what steps she thinks right in bringing you to order, and in discovering the author of this mischief. Return instantly to your desk, Miss Russell; you strangely forget yourself." Miss Good left the room, having removed the plum-cake and "Turkish delight" from Dora Russell's desk, and lessons continued as best they could under such exciting circumstances. At twelve o'clock that day, just as the girls were preparing to go up to their rooms to get ready for their usual walk, Mrs Willis came into the school-room. "Stay one moment, young ladies," said the head-mistress in that slightly vibrating and authoritative voice of hers. "I have a word or two to say to you all. Miss Good has just brought me a painful story of wanton and cruel mischief. There are fifty girls in this school, who, until lately, lived happily together. There is now one girl among the fifty whose object it is to sow seeds of discord and misery among her companions. Miss Good has told me of three different occasions on which mischief has been done to different girls in the school. Twice Miss Russell's desk has been disturbed, once Miss Thornton's. It is possible that other girls may also have suffered who have been noble enough not to complain. There is, however, a grave mischief, in short, a moral disease in our midst. Such a thing is worse than bodily illness--it must be stamped out instantly and completely at the risk of any personal suffering. I am now going to ask you, girls, a simple question, and I demand instant truth without any reservation. Miss Russell's desk has been tampered with--Miss Thornton's desk has been tampered with. Has any other girl suffered injury--has any other girl's desk been touched?" Mrs Willis looked down the long room--her voice had reached every corner, and the quiet, dignified, and deeply-pained expression in her fine eyes was plainly visible to each girl in the school. Even the little ones were startled and subdued by the tone of Mrs Willis's voice, and one or two of them suddenly burst into tears. Mrs Willis paused for a full moment, then she repeated her question. "I insist upon knowing the exact truth, my dear children," she said gently but with great decision. "My desk has also been tampered with," said Miss Temple in a low voice. Every one started when Cecil spoke, and even Annie Forest glanced at her with a half-frightened and curious expression. Cecil's voice indeed was so low, so shaken with doubt and pain, that her companions scarcely recognised it. "Come here, Miss Temple," said Mrs Willis. Cecil instantly left her desk and walked up the room. "Your desk has also been tampered with, you say?" repeated the head-mistress. "Yes, madam." "When did you discover this?" "To-day, Mrs Willis." "You kept it to yourself?" "Yes." "Will you now repeat in the presence of the school, and in a loud enough voice to be heard by all here, exactly what was done?" "Pardon me," answered Cecil, and now her voice was a little less agitated and broken, and she looked full into the face of her teacher, "I cannot do that." "You deliberately disobey me, Cecil?" said Mrs Willis. "Yes, madam." Mrs Willis's face flushed--she did not, however, look angry--she laid her hand on Cecil's shoulder and looked full into her eyes. "You are one of my best pupils, Cecil," she said tenderly. "At such a moment as this honour requires you to stand by your mistress. I must insist on your telling me here and now exactly what has occurred." Cecil's face grew whiter and whiter. "I cannot tell you," she murmured; "it breaks my heart, but I cannot tell you." "You have defied me, Cecil," said Mrs Willis in a tone of deep pain. "I must, my dear, insist on your obedience, but not now. Miss Good, will you take Miss Temple to the chapel? I will come to you, Cecil, in an hour's time." Cecil walked down the room crying silently. Her deep distress and her very firm refusal to disclose what she knew had made a great impression on her school-fellows. They all felt troubled and uneasy, and Annie Forest's face was very pale. "This thing, this wicked, mischievous thing has gone deeper than I feared," said Mrs Willis, when Cecil had left the room. "Only some very strong motive would make Cecil Temple behave as she is now doing. She is influenced by a mistaken idea of what is right; she wishes to shield the guilty person. I may as well tell you all, young ladies, that, dear as Cecil is to me, she is now under the ban of my severe displeasure. Until she confesses the truth and humbles herself before me, I cannot be reconciled to her. I cannot permit her to associate with you. She has done very wrong, and her punishment must be proportionately severe. There is one chance for her, however. Will the girl whom she is mistakenly, though generously, trying to shield, come forward and confess her guilt, and so release poor Cecil from the terrible position in which she has placed herself? By doing so, the girl who has caused all this misery will at least show me that she is trying to repent." Mrs Willis paused again, and now she looked down the room with a face of almost entreaty. Several pairs of eyes were fixed anxiously on her, several looked away, and many girls glanced in the direction of Annie Forest, who, feeling herself suspected, returned their glances with bold defiance, and instantly assumed her most reckless manner. Mrs Willis waited for a full minute. "The culprit is not noble enough," she said then. "Now, girls, I must ask each of you to come up one by one and deny or confess this charge. As you do so, you are silently to leave the school-room and go up to your rooms, and prepare for the walk which has been so painfully delayed. Miss Conway, you are at the head of the school, will you set the example?" One by one the girls of the head class stepped up to their teacher, and of each one she asked the same question-- "Are you guilty?" Each girl replied in the negative and walked out of the school-room. The second-class followed the example of the first, and then the third-class came up to their teacher. Several ears were strained to hear Annie Forest's answer, but her eyes were lifted fearlessly to Mrs Willis's face, and her "No!" was heard all over the room. CHAPTER TWELVE. IN THE CHAPEL. The bright light from a full noontide sun was shining in coloured bars through the richly-painted windows of the little chapel when Mrs Willis sought Cecil Temple there. Cecil's face was in many ways a remarkable one. Her soft brown eyes were generally filled with a steadfast and kindly ray. Gentleness was her special prerogative, but there was nothing weak about her--hers was the gentleness of a strong and pure and noble soul. To know Cecil was to love her. She was a motherless girl, and the only child of a most indulgent father. Colonel Temple was now in India, and Cecil was to finish her education under Mrs Willis's care, and then, if necessary, to join her father. Mrs Willis had always taken a special interest in this girl. She admired her for her great moral worth. Cecil was not particularly clever, but she was so studious, so painstaking, that she always kept a high place in class. She was without doubt a religious girl, but there was nothing of the prig about her. She was not, however, ashamed of her religion, and, if the fitting occasion arose, she was fearless in expressing her opinion. Mrs Willis used to call Cecil her "little standard-bearer," and she relied greatly on her influence over the third-class girls. Mrs Willis considered the third-class, perhaps, the most important in the school. She was often heard to say-- "The girls who fill this class have come to a turning-point--they have come to the age when resolves may be made for life, and kept. The good third-class girl is very unlikely to degenerate as she passes through the second and first classes. On the other hand, there is very little hope that the idle or mischievous third-class girl will mend her ways as she goes higher in the school." Mrs Willis's steps were very slow, and her thoughts extremely painful, as she entered the chapel to-day. Had any one else offered her defiance she would have known how to deal with the culprit, but Cecil would never have acted as she did without the strongest motive, and Mrs Willis felt more sorrowful than angry as she sat down by the side of her favourite pupil. "I have kept you waiting longer than I intended, my dear," she said. "I was unexpectedly interrupted, and I am sorry; but you have had more time to think, Cecil." "Yes, I have thought," answered Cecil, in a very low tone. "And, perhaps," continued her governess, "in this quiet and beautiful and sacred place, my dear pupil has also prayed?" "I have prayed," said Cecil. "Then you have been guided, Cecil," said Mrs Willis in a tone of relief. "We do not come to God in our distress without being shown the right way. Your doubts have been removed, Cecil; you can now speak fully to me; can you not, dear?" "I have asked God to tell me what is right," said Cecil. "I don't pretend to know. I am very much puzzled. It seems to me that more good would be done if I concealed what you asked me to confess in the school-room. My own feeling is that I ought not to tell you. I know this is great disobedience, and I am quite willing to receive any punishment you think right to give me. Yes, I think I am quite willing to receive _any_ punishment." Mrs Willis put her hand on Cecil's shoulder. "Ordinary punishments are not likely to affect you, Cecil," she said; "on you I have no idea of inflicting extra lessons, or depriving you of half-holidays, or even taking away your drawing-room. But there is something else you must lose, and that I know will touch you deeply--I must remove from you my confidence." Cecil's face grew very pale. "And your love, too?" she said, looking up with imploring eyes: "oh, surely not your love as well?" "I ask you frankly, Cecil," replied Mrs Willis, "can perfect love exist without perfect confidence? I would not willingly deprive you of my love, but of necessity the love I have hitherto felt for you must be altered--in short, the old love which enabled me to rest on you and trust you, will cease." Cecil covered her face with her hands. "This punishment is very cruel," she said. "You are right; it reaches down to my very heart. But," she added, looking up with a strong and sweet light in her face, "I will try and bear it, and some day you will understand." "Listen, Cecil," said Mrs Willis, "you have just told me you have prayed to God, and have asked Him to show you the right path. Now, my dear, suppose we kneel together, and both of us ask Him to show us the way out of this difficult matter. I want to be guided to use the right words with you, Cecil. You want to be guided to receive the instruction which I, as your teacher and mother-friend, would give you." Cecil and Mrs Willis both knelt down, and the head-mistress said a few words in a voice of great earnestness and entreaty; then they resumed their seats. "Now, Cecil," said Mrs Willis, "you must remember in listening to me that I am speaking to you as I believe God wishes me to. If I can convince you that you are doing wrong in concealing what you know from me, will you act as I wish in the matter?" "I long to be convinced," said Cecil, in a low tone. "That is right, my dear; I can now speak to you with perfect freedom. My words you will remember, Cecil, are now, I firmly believe, directed by God; they are also the result of a large experience. I have trained many girls. I have watched the phases of thought in many young minds. Cecil, look at me. I can read you like a book." Cecil looked up expectantly. "Your motive for this concealment is as clear as the daylight, Cecil. You are keeping back what you know because you want to shield some one. Am I not right, my dear?" The colour flooded Cecil's pale face. She bent her head in silent assent, but her eyes were too full of tears, and her lips trembled too much to allow her to speak. "The girl you want to defend," continued Mrs Willis, in that clear patient voice of hers, "is one whom you and I both love; is one for whom we both have prayed; is one for whom we would both gladly sacrifice ourselves if necessary--her name is--" "Oh, don't," said Cecil imploringly--"don't say her name; you have no right to suspect her." "I must say her name, Cecil dear. If you suspect Annie Forest, why should not I? You do suspect her, do you not, Cecil?" Cecil began to cry. "I know it," continued Mrs Willis. "Now, Cecil, we will suppose, terrible as this suspicion is, fearfully as it pains us both, that Annie Forest _is_ guilty. We must suppose for the sake of my argument that this is the case. Do you not know, my dear Cecil, that you are doing the falsest, cruellest thing by dear Annie in trying to hide her sin from me? Suppose, just for the sake of our argument, that this cowardly conduct on Annie's part was never found out by me; what effect would it have on Annie herself?" "It would save her in the eyes of the school," said Cecil. "Just so, but God would know the truth. Her next downfall would be deeper. In short, Cecil, under the idea of friendship you would have done the cruellest thing in all the world for your friend." Cecil was quite silent. "This is one way to look at it," continued Mrs Willis, "but there are many other points from which this case ought to be viewed. You owe much to Annie, but not all--you have a duty to perform to your other school-fellows. You have a duty to perform to me. If you possess a clue which will enable me to convict Annie Forest of her sin, in common justice you have no right to withhold it. Remember that while she goes about free and unsuspected some other girl is under the ban--some other girl is watched and feared. You fail in your duty to your school-fellows when you keep back your knowledge, Cecil. When you refuse to trust me, you fail in your duty to your mistress; for I cannot stamp out this evil and wicked thing from our midst unless I know all. When you conceal your knowledge, you ruin the character of the girl you seek to shield. When you conceal your knowledge, you go against God's express wish. There--I have spoken to you as He directed me to speak." Cecil suddenly sprang to her feet. "I never thought of all these things," she said. "You are right, but it is very hard, and mine is only a suspicion. Oh, do be tender to her, and--forgive me--may I go away now?" As she spoke, she pulled out the torn copy of Mrs Browning, laid it on her teacher's lap, and ran swiftly out of the chapel. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. TALKING OVER THE MYSTERY. Annie Forest sitting in the midst of a group of eager admirers, was chatting volubly. Never had she been in higher spirits, never had her pretty face looked more bright and daring. Cecil Temple, coming into the play-room, started when she saw her. Annie, however, instantly rose from the low hassock on which she had perched herself and, running up to Cecil, put her hand through her arm. "We are all discussing the mystery, darling," said she; "we have discussed it, and literally torn it to shreds, and yet never got at the kernel. We have guessed and guessed what your motive can be in concealing the truth from Mrs Willis, and we all unanimously vote that you are a dear old martyr, and that you have some admirable reason for keeping back the truth. You cannot think what an excitement we are in-- even Susy Drummond has stayed awake to listen to our chatter. Now, Cecil, do come and sit here in this most inviting little armchair, and tell us what our dear head-mistress said to you in the chapel. It did seem so awful to send you to the chapel, poor dear Cecil." Cecil stood perfectly still and quiet while Annie was pouring out her torrent of eager words; her eyes, indeed, did not quite meet her companion's, but she allowed Annie to retain her clasp of her arm, and she evidently listened with attention to her words. Now, however, when Miss Forest tried to draw her into the midst of the eager and animated group who sat round the play-room fire, she hesitated and looked longingly in the direction of her peaceful little drawing-room. Her hesitation, however, was but momentary. Quite silently she walked with Annie down the large play-room and entered the group of girls. "Here's your throne, Queen Cecil," said Annie trying to push her into the little armchair; but Cecil would not seat herself. "How nice that you have come, Cecil!" said Mary Pierce, a second-class girl. "I really think, we all think, that you were very brave to stand out against Mrs Willis as you did. Of course we are devoured with curiosity to know what it means; aren't we, Flo?" "Yes, we're in agonies," answered Flo Dunstan, another second-class girl. "You will tell exactly what Mrs Willis said, darling heroine?" proceeded Annie in her most dulcet tones. "You concealed your knowledge, didn't you? you were very firm, weren't you? dear, brave love!" "For my part, I think Cecil Temple the soul of brave firmness," here interrupted Susan Drummond. "I fancy she's as hard and firm in herself when she wants to conceal a thing as that rocky sweetmeat which always hurts our teeth to get through. Yes, I do fancy that." "Oh, Susy, what a horrid metaphor!" here interrupted several girls. One, however, of the eager group of school-girls had not opened her lips or said a word; that girl was Hester Thornton. She had been drawn into the circle by an intense curiosity; but she had made no comment with regard to Cecil's conduct. If she knew anything of the mystery she had thrown no light on it. She had simply sat motionless, with watchful and alert eyes and silent tongue. Now, for the first time, she spoke. "I think, if you will allow her, that Cecil has got something to say," she remarked. Cecil glanced down at her with a very brief look of gratitude. "Thank you, Hester," she said. "I won't keep you a moment, girls. I cannot offer to throw any light on the mystery which makes us all so miserable to-day; but I think it right to undeceive you with regard to myself. I have not concealed what I know from Mrs Willis. She is in possession of all the facts, and what I found in my desk this morning is now in her keeping. She has made me see that in concealing my knowledge I was acting wrongly, and whatever pain has come to me in the matter, she now knows all." When Cecil had finished her sad little speech she walked straight out of the group of girls, and, without glancing at one of them, went across the play-room to her own compartment. She had failed to observe a quick and startled glance from Susan Drummond's sleepy blue eyes, nor had she heard her mutter--half to her companions, half to herself--"Cecil is not like the rocky sweetmeat; I was mistaken in her." Neither had Cecil seen the flash of almost triumph in Hester's eyes, nor the defiant glance she threw at Miss Forest. Annie stood with her hands clasped, and a little frown of perplexity between her brows, for a moment; then she ran fearlessly down the play-room, and said in a low voice at the other side of Cecil's curtains-- "May I come in?" Cecil said "Yes," and Annie, entering the pretty little drawing-room, flung her arms round Miss Temple's neck. "Cecil," she exclaimed impulsively, "you're in great trouble. I am a giddy, reckless thing, I know, but I don't laugh at people when they are in real trouble. Won't you tell me all about it, Cecil?" "I will, Annie. Sit down there and I will tell you everything. I think you have a right to know, and I am glad you have come to me. I thought, perhaps--but no matter. Annie, can't you guess what I am going to say?" "No, I'm sure I can't," said Annie. "I saw for a moment or two to-day that some of those absurd girls suspected me of being the author of all this mischief. Now, you know, Cecil, I love a bit of fun beyond words. If there's any going on I feel nearly mad until I am in it; but what was done to-day was not at all in accordance with my ideas of fun. To tear up Miss Russell's essay and fill her desk with stupid plum-cake and Turkish delight seems to me but a sorry kind of jest. Now, if I had been guilty of that sort of thing, I'd have managed something far cleverer than that. If _I_ had tampered with Dora Russell's desk, I'd have done the thing in style. The dear, sweet, dignified creature should have shrieked in real terror. You don't know perhaps, Cecil, that our admirable Dora is no end of a coward. I wonder what she would have said if I had put a little nest of field-mice in her desk. I saw that the poor thing suspected me, as she gave way to her usual little sneer about the `underbred girl:' but, of course, _you_ know me, Cecil. Why, my dear Cecil, what is the matter? How white you are, and you are actually crying! What is it, Cecil? what is it, Cecil, darling?" Cecil dried her eyes quickly. "You know my pet copy of Mrs Browning's poems, don't you, Annie?" "Oh, yes, of course. You lent it to me one day. Don't you remember how you made me cry over that picture of little Alice, the over-worked factory girl? What about the book, Cecil?" "I found the book in my desk," said Cecil, in a steady tone, and now fixing her eyes on Annie, who knelt by her side--"I found the book in my desk, although I never keep it there; for it is quite against the rules to keep our recreation books in our school-desks, and you know, Annie, I always think it is so much easier to keep these little rules. They are matters of duty and conscience after all. I found my copy of Mrs Browning in my desk this morning with the cover torn off, and with a very painful and ludicrous caricature of our dear Mrs Willis sketched on the title-page." "What?" said Annie. "No, no; impossible." "You know nothing about it do you, Annie?" "I never put it there, if that's what you mean," said Annie. But her face had undergone a curious change. Her light and easy and laughing manner had altered. When Cecil mentioned the caricature she flushed a vivid crimson. Her flush had quickly died away, leaving her olive-tinted face paler than its wont. "I see," she said, after a long pause, "you, too, suspected me, Cecil, and that is why you tried to conceal the thing. You know that I am the only girl in the school who can draw caricatures, but did you suppose that I would show _her_ dishonour? Of course things look ugly for me, if this is what you found in your book; but I did not think that _you_ would suspect me, Cecil." "I will believe you, Annie," said Cecil eagerly. "I long beyond words to believe you. With all your faults, no one has ever yet found you out in a lie. If you look at me, Annie, and tell me honestly that you know nothing whatever about that caricature, I will believe you. Yes, I will believe you fully, and I will go with you to Mrs Willis and tell her that, whoever did the wrong, you are innocent in this matter. Say you know nothing about it, dear, dear Annie, and take a load off my heart." "I never put the caricature into your book, Cecil." "And you know nothing about it?" "I cannot say that; I never--never put it in your book." "Oh, Annie, exclaimed poor Cecil, you are trying to deceive me. Why won't you be brave? Oh, Annie, I never thought you would stoop to a lie!" "I'm telling no lie," answered Annie with sudden passion. "I do know something about the caricature, but I never put it into that book. There! you doubt me, you have ceased to believe me, and I won't waste any more words on the matter." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. "SENT TO COVENTRY." There were many girls in the school who remembered that dismal half-holiday--they remembered its forced mirth and its hidden anxiety; and as the hours flew by the suspicion that Annie Forest was the author of all the mischief grew and deepened. A school is like a little world, and popular opinion is apt to change with great rapidity. Annie was undoubtedly the favourite of the school; but favourites are certain to have enemies, and there were several girls unworthy enough and mean enough to be jealous of poor Annie's popularity. She was the kind of girl whom only very small natures could really dislike. Her popularity arose from the simple fact that hers was a peculiarly joyous and unselfish nature. She was a girl with scarcely any self-consciousness; those she loved, she loved devotedly; she threw herself with a certain feverish impetuosity into their lives, and made their interests her own. To get into mischief and trouble for the sake of a friend was an every-day occurrence with Annie. She was not the least studious; she had no one particular talent, unless it was an untrained and birdlike voice; she was always more or less in hot water about her lessons, always behindhand in her tasks, always leaving undone what she should do, and doing what she should not do. She was a contradictory, erratic creature--jealous of no one, envious of no one--dearly loving a joke, and many times inflicting pain from sheer thoughtlessness, but always ready to say she was sorry, always ready to make friends again. It is strange that such a girl as Annie should have enemies, but she had, and in the last few weeks the feeling of jealousy and envy which had always been smouldering in some breasts took more active form. Two reasons accounted for this: Hester's openly avowed and persistent dislike to Annie, and Miss Russell's declared conviction that she was underbred and not a lady. Miss Russell was the only girl in the first-class who had hitherto given wild little Annie a thought. In the first-class, to-day, Annie had to act the unpleasing part of the wicked little heroine. Miss Russell was quite certain of Annie's guilt; she and her companions condescended to discuss poor Annie and to pull all her little virtues to pieces, and to magnify her sins to an alarming extent. After two or three hours of judicious conversation, Dora Russell and most of the other first-class girls decided that Annie ought to be expelled, and unanimously resolved that they at least, would do what they could to "send her to Coventry." In the lower part of the school Annie also had a few enemies, and these girls, having carefully observed Hester's attitude toward her, now came up close to this dignified little lady, and asked her boldly to declare her opinion with regard to Annie's guilt. Hester, without the least hesitation, assured them that "of course Annie had done it." "There is not room for a single doubt on the subject," she said; "there--look at her now." At this instant Annie was leaving Cecil's compartment, and with red eyes, and hair, as usual, falling about her face, was running out of the play-room. She seemed in great distress; but, nevertheless, before she reached the door, she stopped to pick up a little girl of five, who was fretting about some small annoyance. Annie took the little one in her arms, kissed her tenderly, whispered some words in her ear, which caused the little face to light up with some smiles and the round arms to clasp Annie with an ecstatic hug. She dropped the child, who ran back to play merrily with her companions, and left the room. The group of middle-class girls still sat on by the fire, but Hester Thornton now, not Annie, was the centre of attraction. It was the first time in all her young life that Hester had found herself in the enviable position of a favourite; and without at all knowing what mischief she was doing, she could not resist improving the occasion, and making the most of her dislike for Annie. Several of those who even were fond of Miss Forest came round to the conviction that she was really guilty, and one by one, as is the fashion not only among school-girls but in the greater world outside, they began to pick holes in their former favourite. These girls, too, resolved that, if Annie were really so mean as maliciously to injure other girls' property and get them into trouble, she must be "sent to Coventry." "What's Coventry?" asked one of the little ones, the child whom Annie had kissed and comforted, now sidling up to the group. "Oh, a nasty place, Phena," said Mary Bell, putting her arm round the pretty child and drawing her to her side. "And who is going there?" "Why, I am afraid it is naughty Annie Forest." "She's not naughty! Annie sha'n't go to any nasty place. I hate you, Mary Bell." The little one looked round the group with flashing eyes of defiance, then wrenched herself away to return to her younger companions. "It was stupid of you to say that, Mary," remarked one of the girls. "Well," she continued, "I suppose it is all settled, and poor Annie, to say the least of it, is not a lady. For my own part, I always thought her great fun, but if she is proved guilty of this offence I wash my hands of her." "We all wash our hands of her," echoed the girls, with the exception of Susan Drummond, who, as usual, was nodding in her chair. "What do you say, Susy?" asked one or two--"you have not opened your lips all this lime." "I--eh?--what?" asked Susan, stretching herself and yawning, "oh, about Annie Forest--I suppose you are right, girls. Is not that the tea-gong? I'm awfully hungry." Hester Thornton went into the tea-room that evening feeling particularly virtuous, and with an idea that she had distinguished herself in some way. Poor foolish, thoughtless Hester, she little guessed what seed she had sown, and what a harvest she was preparing for her own reaping by-and-by. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. ABOUT SOME PEOPLE WHO THOUGHT NO EVIL. A few days after this Hester was much delighted to receive an invitation from her little friends, the Misses Bruce. These good ladies had not forgotten the lonely and miserable child whom they had comforted not a little during her journey to school six weeks ago. They invited Hester to spend the next half-holiday with them, and as this happened to fall on a Saturday, Mrs Willis gave Hester permission to remain with her friends until eight o'clock, when she would send the carriage to fetch her home. The trouble about Annie had taken place the Wednesday before, and all the girls' heads were full of the uncleared-up mystery when Hester started on her little expedition. Nothing was known; no fresh light had been thrown on the subject. Everything went on as usual within the school, and a casual observer would never have noticed the cloud which rested over that usually happy dwelling. A casual observer would have noticed little or no change in Annie Forest; her merry laugh was still heard, her light step still danced across the play-room floor, she was in her place in class, and was, if anything, a little more attentive and a little more successful over her lessons. Her pretty, piquant face, her arch expression, the bright, quick and droll glance which she alone could give, were still to be seen; but those who knew her well and those who loved her best saw a change in Annie. In the play-room she devoted herself exclusively to the little ones; she never went near Cecil Temple's drawing-room, she never mingled with the girls of the middle school as they clustered round the cheerful fire. At meal-times she ate little, and her room-fellow was heard to declare that she was awakened more than once in the middle of the night by the sound of Annie's sobs. In chapel, too, when she fancied herself quite unobserved, her face wore an expression of great pain; but if Mrs Willis happened to glance in her direction, instantly the little mouth became demure and almost hard, the dark eyelashes were lowered over the bright eyes, the whole expression of the face showed the extreme of indifference. Hester felt more sure than ever of Annie's guilt; but one or two of the other girls in the school wavered in this opinion, and would have taken Annie out of "Coventry" had she herself made the smallest advance toward them. Annie and Hester had not spoken to each other now for several days; but on this afternoon, which was a bright one in early spring, as Hester was changing her school-dress for her Sunday one, and preparing for her visit to the Misses Bruce, there came a light knock at her door. She said "Come in," rather impatiently, for she was in a hurry, and dreaded being kept. To her surprise Annie Forest put in her curly head, and then, dancing with her usual light movement across the room, she laid a little bunch of dainty spring flowers on the dressing-table beside Hester. Hester stared, first at the intruder and then at the early primroses. She passionately loved flowers, and would have exclaimed with ecstasy at these had anyone brought them in except Annie. "I want you," said Annie, rather timidly for her, "to take these flowers from me to Miss Agnes and Miss Jane Bruce. It will be very kind of you if you will take them. I am sorry to have interrupted you--thank you very much." She was turning away when Hester compelled herself to remark-- "Is there any message with the flowers?" "Oh, no--only Annie Forest's love. They'll understand." She turned half round as she spoke, and Hester saw that her eyes had filled with tears. She felt touched in spite of herself. There was something in Annie's face now which reminded her of her darling little Nan at home. She had seen the same beseeching, sorrowful look in Nan's brown eyes when she had wanted her friends to kiss her and take her to their hearts and love her. Hester would not allow herself, however, to feel any tenderness toward Annie. Of course she was not really a bit like sweet little Nan, and it was absurd to suppose that a great girl like Annie could want caressing and petting and soothing; still, in spite of herself, Annie's look haunted her, and she took great care of the little flower-offering, and presented it with Annie's message instantly on her arrival to the little old ladies. Miss Jane and Miss Agnes were very much pleased with the early primroses. They looked at one another and said-- "Poor dear little girl," in tender voices, and then they put the flowers into one of their daintiest vases, and made much of them, and showed them to any visitors who happened to call that afternoon. Their little house looked something like a doll's house to Hester, who had been accustomed all her life to large rooms and spacious passages; but it was the sweetest, daintiest, and most charming little abode in the world. It was not unlike a nest, and the Misses Bruce in certain ways resembled bright little robin redbreasts, so small, so neat, so chirrupy they were. Hester enjoyed her afternoon immensely; the little ladies were right in their prophecy, and she was no longer lonely at school. She enjoyed talking about her school-fellows, about her new life, about her studies. The Misses Bruce were decidedly fond of a gossip, but something which she could not at all define in their manner prevented Hester from retailing for their benefit any unkind news. They told her frankly at last that they were only interested in the good things which went on in the school, and that they found no pursuit so altogether delightful as finding out the best points in all the people they came across. They would not even laugh at sleepy, tiresome Susan Drummond; on the contrary, they pitied her, and Miss Jane wondered if the girl could be quite well, whereupon Miss Agnes shook her head, and said emphatically that it was Hester's duty to rouse poor Susy, and to make her waking life so interesting to her that she should no longer care to spend so many hours in the world of dreams. There is such a thing as being so kind-hearted, so gentle, so charitable as to make the people who have not encouraged these virtues feel quite uncomfortable. By the mere force of contrast they begin to see themselves something as they really are. Since Hester had come to Lavender House she had taken very little pains to please others rather than herself, and she was now almost startled to see how she had allowed selfishness to get the better of her. While the Misses Bruce were speaking, old longings, which had slept since her mother's death, came back to the young girl, and she began to wish that she could be kinder to Susan Drummond, and that she could overcome her dislike to Annie Forest. She longed to say something about Annie to the little ladies, but they evidently did not wish to allude to the subject. When she was going away, they gave her a small parcel. "You will kindly give this to your schoolfellow, Miss Forest, Hester dear," they both said, and then they kissed her, and said they hoped they should see her again: and Hester got into the old-fashioned school brougham, and held the brown-paper parcel in her hand. As she was going into the chapel that night, Mary Bell came up to her and whispered-- "We have not got to the bottom of that mystery about Annie Forest yet. Mrs Willis can evidently make nothing of her, and I believe Mr Everard is going to talk to her after prayers to-night." As she was speaking, Annie herself pushed rather rudely past the two girls; her face was flushed, and her hair was even more untidy than was its wont. "Here is a parcel for you, Miss Forest," said Hester, in a much more gentle tone than she was wont to use when she addressed this objectionable school-mate. All the girls were now filing into the chapel, and Hester should certainly not have presented the little parcel at that moment. "Breaking the rules, Miss Thornton," said Annie; "all right, toss it here." Then, as Hester failed to comply, she ran back, knocking her school-fellows out of place, and, snatching the parcel from Hester's hand, threw it high in the air. This was a piece of not only wilful audacity and disobedience, but it even savoured of the profane, for Annie's step was on the threshold of the chapel, and the parcel fell with a noisy bang on the floor some feet inside the little building. "Bring me that parcel, Annie Forest," whispered the stern voice of the head-mistress. Annie sullenly complied; but when she came up to Mrs Willis, her governess took her hand, and pushed her down into a low seat a little behind her. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. "AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS." The short evening service was over, and one by one, in orderly procession, the girls left the chapel. Annie was about to rise to her feet to follow her school-companions, when Mrs Willis stooped down and whispered something in her ear. Her face became instantly suffused with a dull red; she resumed her seat, and buried her face in both her hands. One or two of the girls noticed her despondent attitude as they left the chapel, and Cecil Temple looked back with a glance of such unutterable sympathy that Annie's proud, suffering little heart would have been touched could she but have seen the look. Presently the young steps died away, and Annie, raising her head, saw that she was alone with Mr Everard, who seated himself in the place which Mrs Willis had occupied by her side. "Your governess has asked me to speak to you, my dear," he said, in his kind and fatherly tones; "she wants us to discuss this thing which is making you so unhappy quite fully together." Here the clergyman paused, and, noticing a sudden wistful and soft look in the girl's brown eyes, he continued: "Perhaps, however, you have something to say to me which will throw light on this mystery?" "No, sir, I have nothing to say," replied Annie, and now again the sullen expression passed like a wave over her face. "Poor child," said Mr Everard. "Perhaps, Annie," he continued, "you do not quite understand me--you do not quite read my motive in talking to you to-night. I am not here in any sense to reprove you. You are either guilty of this sin, or you are not guilty. In either case I pity you; it is very hard, very bitter, to be falsely accused--I pity you much if this is the case; but it is still harder, Annie, still more bitter, still more absolutely crushing to be accused of a sin which we are trying to conceal. In that terrible case God Himself hides His face. Poor child, poor child, I pity you most of all if you are guilty." Annie had again covered her face, and bowed her head over her hands. She did not speak for a moment, but presently Mr Everard heard a low sob, and then another, and another, until at last her whole frame was shaken with a perfect tempest of weeping. The old clergyman, who had seen many strange phases of human nature, who had in his day comforted and guided more than one young school-girl, was far too wise to do anything to check this flow of grief. He knew Annie would speak more fully and more frankly when her tears were over. He was right. She presently raised a very tear-stained face to the clergyman. "I felt very bitter at your coming to speak to me," she began. "Mrs Willis has always sent for you when everything else has failed with us girls, and I did not think she would treat me so. I was determined not to say anything to you. Now, however, you have spoken good words to me, and I can't turn away from you. I will tell you all that is in my heart. I will promise before God to conceal nothing, if only you will do one thing for me." "What is that, my child?" "Will you believe me?" "Undoubtedly." "Ah, but you have not been tried yet. I thought Mrs Willis would certainly believe; but she said the circumstantial evidence was too strong--perhaps it will be too strong for you." "I promise to believe you, Annie Forest; if, before God, you can assure me that you are speaking the whole truth, I will fully believe you." Annie paused again, then she rose from her seat and stood a pace away from the old minister. "This is the truth before God," she said, as she locked her two hands together and raised her eyes freely and unshrinkingly to Mr Everard's face. "I have always loved Mrs Willis. I have reasons for loving her which the girls don't know about. The girls don't know that when my mother was dying she gave me into Mrs Willis's charge, and she said, `You must keep Annie until her father comes back.' Mother did not know where father was; but she said he would be sure to come back some day, and look for mother and me: and Mrs Willis said she would keep me faithfully until father came to claim me. That is four years ago, and my father has never come, nor have I heard of him, and I think, I am almost sure, that the little money which mother left must be all used up. Mrs Willis never says anything about money, and she did not wish me to tell my story to the girls. None of them know except Cecil Temple. I am sure some day father will come home, and he will give Mrs Willis back the money she has spent on me; but never, never, never can he repay her for her goodness to me. You see I cannot help loving Mrs Willis. It is quite impossible for any girl to have such a friend and not to love her. I know I am very wild, and that I do all sorts of mad things. It seems to me that I cannot help myself sometimes: but I would not willingly, indeed, I would not willingly hurt anybody. Last Wednesday, as you know, there was a great disturbance in the school. Dora Russell's desk was tampered with, and so was Cecil Temple's. You know, of course, what was found in both the desks. Mrs Willis sent for me, and asked me about the caricature which was drawn in Cecil's book. I looked at it and I told her the truth. I did not conceal one thing. I told her the whole truth as far as I knew it. She did not believe me. She said so. What more could I do then?" Here Annie paused, she began to unclasp and clasp her hands, and she looked full at Mr Everard with a most pleading expression. "Do you mind repeating to me exactly what you said to your governess?" he questioned. "I said this, sir. I said, `Yes, Mrs Willis, I did draw that caricature. You will scarcely understand how I, who love you so much, could have been so mad and ungrateful as to do anything to turn you into ridicule. I would cut off my right hand now not to have done it; but I did do it, and I must tell you the truth.' `Tell me, dear,' she said, quite gently then. `It was one wet afternoon about a fortnight ago,' I said to her; `a lot of us middle-school-girls were sitting together, and I had a pencil and some bits of paper, and I was making up funny little groups of a lot of us, and the girls were screaming with laughter, for somehow I managed to make the likeness that I wanted in each case.' It was very wrong of me, I know. It was against the rules; but I was in one of my maddest humours, and I really do not care what the consequences were. At last one of the girls said: `You won't dare to make a picture like that of Mrs Willis, Annie--you know you won't dare.' The minute she said that name I began to feel ashamed. I remembered I was breaking one of the rules, and I suddenly tore up all my bits of paper and flung them into the fire, and I said, `No, I would not dare to show her dishonour.' Well, afterwards, as I was washing my hands for tea up in my room, the temptation came over me so strongly that I felt I could not resist it, to make a funny little sketch of Mrs Willis. I had a little scrap of thin paper, and I took out my pencil and did it all in a minute. It seemed to me very funny, and I could not help laughing at it; and then I thrust it into my private writing-case, which I always keep locked, and I put the key in my pocket and ran downstairs. I forgot all about the caricature. I had never shown it to anyone. How it got into Cecil's book is more than I can say. When I had finished speaking Mrs Willis looked very hard at the book. `You are right,' she said; `this caricature is drawn on a very thin piece of paper, which has been cleverly pasted on the title-page.' Then, Mr Everard, she asked me a lot of questions. Had I ever parted with my keys? Had I ever left my desk unlocked? `No,' I said, `my desk is always locked, and my keys are always in my pocket. Indeed,' I added, `my keys were absolutely safe for the last week, for they went in a white petticoat to the wash, and came back as rusty as possible.' I could not open my desk for a whole week, which was a great nuisance. I told all this story to Mrs Willis, and she said to me, `You are positively certain that this caricature has been taken out of your desk by somebody else, and pasted in here? You are sure that the caricature you drew is not to be found in your desk?' `Yes,' I said; `how can I be anything but sure; these are my pencil marks, and that is the funny little turn I gave to your neck which made me laugh when I drew it. Yes; I am certainly sure.' "`I have always been told, Annie,' Mrs Willis said, `that you are the only girl in the school who can draw these caricatures. You have never seen an attempt at this kind of drawing amongst your school-fellows, or amongst any of the teachers?' "`I have never seen any of them try this special kind of drawing,' I said. `I wish I was like them. I wish I had never, never done it.' "`You have got your keys now?' Mrs Willis said. "`Yes,' I answered, pulling them all covered with rust out of my pocket. "Then she told me to leave the keys on the table, and to go upstairs and fetch down my little private desk. "I did so, and she made me put the rusty key in the lock and open the desk, and together we searched through its contents. We pulled out everything, or rather I did, and I scattered all my possessions about on the table, and then I looked up almost triumphantly at Mrs Willis. "`You see the caricature is not here,' I said, `somebody picked the lock and took it away.' "`This lock has not been picked,' Mrs Willis said, `and what is that little piece of white paper sticking out of the private drawer?' "`Oh, I forgot my private drawer,' I said; `but there is nothing in it-- nothing whatever,' and then I touched the spring, and pulled it open, and there lay the little caricature which I had drawn in the bottom of the drawer. There it lay, not as I had left it, for I had never put it into the private drawer. I saw Mrs Willis's face turn very white, and I noticed that her hands trembled. I was all red myself, and very hot, and there was a choking lump in my throat, and I could not have got a single word out even if I had wished to. So I began scrambling the things back into my desk, as hard as ever I could, and then I locked it, and put the rusty keys back in my pocket. "`What am I to believe now, Annie?' Mrs Willis said. "`Believe anything you like now,' I managed to say; and then I took my desk and walked out of the room, and would not wait even though she called me back. "That is the whole story, Mr Everard," continued Annie. "I have no explanation whatever to give. I did make the one caricature of my dear governess. I did not make the other. The second caricature is certainly a copy of the first, but I did not make it. I don't know who made it. I have no light whatever to throw on the subject. You see after all," added Annie Forest, raising her eyes to the clergyman's face, "it is impossible for you to believe me. Mrs Willis does not believe me, and you cannot be expected to. I don't suppose you are to be blamed. I don't see how you can help yourself." "The circumstantial evidence is very strong against you, Annie," replied the clergyman; "still, I promised to believe, and I have no intention of going back from my word. If, in the presence of God in this little church you would willingly and deliberately tell me a lie I should never trust human being again. No, Annie Forest, you have many faults, but you are not a liar. I see the impress of truth on your brow, in your eyes, on your lips. This is a very gainful mystery, my child; but I believe you. I am going to see Mrs Willis now. God bless you, Annie. Be brave, be courageous, don't foster malice in your heart to any unknown enemy. An enemy has truly done this thing, poor child; but God Himself will bring this mystery to light. Trust Him, my dear; and now I am going to see Mrs Willis." While Mr Everard was speaking, Annie's whole expressive face had changed; the sullen look had left it; the eyes were bright with renewed hope; the lips had parted in smiles. There was a struggle for speech, but no words came; the young girl stooped down and raised the old clergyman's withered hands to her lips. "Let me stay here a little longer," she managed to say at last; and then he left her. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. "THE SWEETS ARE POISONED." "I think, my dear madam," said Mr Everard to Mrs Willis, "that you must believe your pupil. She has not refused to confess to you from any stubbornness, but from, the simple reason that she has nothing to confess. I am firmly convinced that things are as she stated them, Mrs Willis. There is a mystery here which we neither of us can explain, but which we must unravel." Then Mrs Willis and the clergyman had a long and anxious talk together. It lasted for a long time, and some of its results at least were manifest the next morning, for, just before the morning's work began, Mrs Willis came to the large school-room, and, calling Annie Forest to her side, laid her hand on the young girl's shoulder. "I wish to tell you all, young ladies," she said, "that I completely and absolutely exonerate Annie Forest from having any part in the disgraceful occurrence which took place in this school-room a short time ago. I allude, of course, as you all know, to the book which was found tampered with in Cecil Temple's desk. Some one else in this room is guilty, and the mystery has still to be unravelled, and the guilty girl has still to come forward and declare herself. If she is willing at this moment to come to me here, and fully and freely confess her sin, I will quite forgive her." The head-mistress paused, and, still with her hand on Annie's shoulder, looked anxiously down the long room. The love and forgiveness which she felt shone in her eyes at this moment. No girl need have feared aught but tenderness from her just then. No one stirred; the moment passed, and a look of sternness returned to the mistress's fine face. "No," she said, in her emphatic and clear tones, "the guilty girl prefers waiting until God discovers her sin for her. My dear, whoever you are, that hour is coming, and you cannot escape from it. In the meantime, girls, I wish you all to receive Annie Forest as quite innocent. I believe in her, so does Mr Everard, and so must you. Anyone who treats Miss Forest except as a perfectly innocent and truthful girl incurs my severe displeasure. My dear, you may return to your seat." Annie, whose face was partly hidden by her curly hair during the greater part of this speech, now tossed it back, and raised her brown eyes with a look of adoration in them to her teacher. Mrs Willis's face, however, still looked harassed. Her eyes met Annie's, but no corresponding glow was kindled in them; their glance was just, calm, but cold. The childish heart was conscious of a keen pang of agony, and Annie went back to her lessons without any sense of exultation. The fact was this: Mrs Willis's judgment and reason had been brought round by Mr Everard's words, but in her heart of hearts, almost unknown to herself, there still lingered a doubt of the innocence of her wayward and pretty pupil. She said over and over to herself that she really now quite believed in Annie Forest, but then would come those whisperings from her pained and sore heart. "Why did she ever make a caricature of one who has been as a mother to her? If she made one caricature, could she not make another? Above all things, if _she_ did not do it, who did?" Mrs Willis turned away from these unpleasant whispers--she would not let them stay with her, and turned a deaf ear to their ugly words. She had publicly declared in the school her belief in Annie's absolute innocence, but at the moment when her pupil looked up at her with a world of love and adoration in her gaze, she found to her own infinite distress that she could not give her the old love. Annie went back to her companions, and bent her head over her lessons, and tried to believe that she was very thankful and very happy, and Cecil Temple managed to whisper a gentle word of congratulation to her, and at the twelve o'clock walk Annie perceived that a few of her school-fellows looked at her with friendly eyes again. She perceived now that when she went into the play-room she was not absolutely tabooed, and that, if she chose, she might speedily resume her old reign of popularity. Annie had, to a remarkable extent, the gift of inspiring love, and her old favourites would quickly have flocked back to their sovereign had she so willed it. It is certainly true that the girls to whom the whole story was known in all its bearings found it difficult to understand how Annie could be innocent; but Mr Everard's and Mrs Willis's assertions were too potent to be disregarded, and most of the girls were only too willing to let the whole affair slide from their minds, and to take back their favourite Annie to their hearts again. Annie, however, herself did not so will it. In the play-room she fraternised with the little ones who were alike her friends in adversity and sunshine; she rejected the overtures of her old favourites, but played, and romped, and was merry with the children of the sixth class. She even declined Cecil's invitation to come and sit with her in her drawing-room. "Oh, no," she said, "I hate being still; I am in no humour for a talk. Another time, Cecil, another time. Now then, Sybil, my beauty, get well on my back, and I'll be the willing dog carrying you round and round the room." Annie's face had not a trace of care or anxiety on it, but her eyes would not quite meet Cecil's, and Cecil sighed as she turned away, and her heart, too, began to whisper little, mocking, ugly doubts of poor Annie. During the half-hour before tea that evening Annie was sitting on the floor with a small child in her lap, and two other little ones tumbling about her, when she was startled by a shower of lollipops being poured over her head, down her neck, and into her lap. She started up and met the sleepy gaze of Susan Drummond. "That's to congratulate you, Miss," said Susan; "you're a very lucky girl to have escaped as you did." The little ones began putting Susan's lollipops vigorously into their mouths. Annie sprang to her feet, shaking the sticky sweetmeats out of her dress on to the floor. "What have I escaped from?" she asked, turning round and facing her companion haughtily. "Oh, dear me!" said Susan, stepping back a pace or two. "I--ah--" stifling a yawn--"I only meant you were very near getting into an ugly scrape. It's no affair of mine, I'm sure; only I thought you'd like the lollipops." "No, I don't like them at all," said Annie, "nor you either. Go back to your own companions, please." Susan sulkily walked away, and Annie stooped down on the floor. "Now, little darlings," she said, "you mustn't eat those. No, no, they are not good at all; and they have come from one of Annie's enemies. Most likely they are full of poison. Let us collect them all, every one, and we will throw them into the fire before we go to tea." "But I don't think there's any poison in them," said little Janie West in a regretful tone, as she gobbled down a particularly luscious chocolate cream; "they are all big, and fat, and bursty, and _so_ sweet, Annie, dear." "Never mind, Janie, they are dangerous sweeties all the same. Come, come, throw them into my apron, and I will run over and toss them into the fire, and we'll have time for a game of leap-frog before tea; oh, fie, Judy," as a very small fat baby began to whimper, "you would not eat the sweeties of one of Annie's enemies." This last appeal was successful. The children made a valiant effort, and dashed the tempting goodies into Annie's alpaca apron. When they were all collected, she marched up the play-room and in the presence of Susan Drummond, Hester Thornton, Cecil Temple, and several more of her school-companions, threw them into the fire. "So much for _that_ overture, Miss Drummond," she said, making a mock curtsey, and returning once more to the children. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. IN THE HAMMOCK. Just at this time the weather suddenly changed. After the cold and dreariness of winter came soft spring days--came longer evenings and brighter mornings. Hester Thornton found that, she could dress by daylight, then that she was no longer cold and shivering when she reached the chapel, then that she began intensely to enjoy her mid-day walk, then that she found her winter things a little too hot, until at last, almost suddenly it seemed to the expectant and anxious girls, glorious spring weather broke upon the world, the winds were soft and westerly, the buds swelled and swelled into leaf on the trees, and the flowers bloomed in the delightful old-fashioned gardens of Lavender House. Instantly, it seemed to the girls, their whole lives had altered. The play-room was deserted or only put up with on wet days. At twelve o'clock, instead of taking a monotonous walk on the roads, they ran races, played tennis, croquet, or any other game they liked best in the gardens. Later on in the day, when the sun was not so powerful, they took their walk; but even then they had time to rush back to their beloved shady garden for a little time before tea and preparation for their next day's work. Easter came this year about the middle of April, and Easter found these girls almost enjoying summer weather. How they looked forward to their few Easter holidays! what plans they made, what tennis matches were arranged, what games and amusements of all sorts were in anticipation! Mrs Willis herself generally went away for a few days at Easter; so did the French governess, and the school was nominally placed under the charge of Miss Good and Miss Danesbury. Mrs Willis did not approve of long Easter holidays; she never gave more than a week, and in consequence only the girls who lived quite near went home. Out of the fifty girls who resided at Lavender House about ten went away at Easter; the remaining forty stayed behind, and were often heard to declare that holidays at Lavender House were the most delightful things in the world. At this particular Easter time the girls were rather surprised to near that Mrs Willis had made up her mind not to go away as usual; Miss Good was to have a holiday, and Mrs Willis and Miss Danesbury were to look after the school. This was felt to be an unusual, indeed unheard-of, proceeding, and the girls commented about it a good deal, and somehow, without absolutely intending to do so, they began to settle in their own minds that Mrs Willis was staying in the school on account of Annie Forest, and that in her heart of hearts she did not absolutely believe in her innocence. Mrs Willis certainly gave the girls no reason to come to this conclusion; she was consistently kind to Annie, and had apparently quite restored her to her old place in her favour. Annie was more gentle than of old, and less inclined to get into scrapes; but the girls loved her far less in her present unnatural condition of reserve and good behaviour than they did in her old daring and hoydenish days. Cecil Temple always spent Easter with an old aunt who lived in a neighbouring town; she openly said this year that she did not wish to go away, but her governess would not allow her to change her usual plans, and she left Lavender House with a curious feeling of depression and coming trouble. As she was getting into the cab which was to take her to the station Annie flew to her side, threw a great bouquet of flowers which she had gathered into her lap, and, flinging her arms tightly round her neck, whispered suddenly and passionately: "Oh, Cecil, believe in me." "I--I--I don't know that I don't," said Cecil, rather lamely. "No, Cecil, you don't--not in your heart of hearts. Neither you nor Mrs Willis--you neither of you believe in me from the very bottom of your hearts; oh, it is hard!" Annie gave vent to a little sob, sprang away from Cecil's arms, and disappeared into a shrubbery close by. She stayed there until the sound of the retreating cab died away in the avenue, then, tossing back her hair, rearranging her rather tattered garden hat, and hastily wiping some tears from her eyes, she came out from her retreat, and began to look around her for some amusement. What should she do? Where should she go? How should she occupy herself? Sounds of laughter and merriment filled the air; the garden was all alive with gay young figures running here and there. Girls stood in groups under the horse chestnut tree--girls walked two and two up the shady walk at the end of the garden--little ones gambolled and rolled on the grass--a tennis match was going on vigorously, and the croquet ground was occupied by eight girls of the middle school. Annie was one of the most successful tennis players in the school; she had indeed a gift for all games of skill, and seldom missed her mark. Now she looked with a certain wistful longing toward the tennis-court; but, after a brief hesitation, she turned away from it and entered the shady walk at the farther end of the garden. As she walked along, slowly, meditatively, and sadly, her eyes suddenly lighted up. Glancing to one of the tall trees she saw a hammock suspended there which had evidently been forgotten during the winter. The tree was not yet quite in leaf, and it was very easy for Annie to climb up its branches, to readjust the hammock, and to get into it. After its winter residence in the tree this soft couch was found full of withered leaves, and otherwise rather damp and uncomfortable. Annie tossed the leaves on to the ground, and laughed as she swung herself gently backwards and forwards. Early as the season still was the sun was so bright and the air so soft that she could not but enjoy herself, and she laughed with pleasure, and only wished that she had a fairy tale by her side to help to soothe her off to sleep. In the distance she heard some children calling "Annie," "Annie Forest;" but she was far too comfortable and too lazy to answer them, and presently she closed her eyes and really did fall asleep. She was awakened by a very slight sound--by nothing more nor less than the gentle and very refined conversation of two girls, who sat under the oak-tree in which Annie's hammock swung. Hearing the voices, she bent a little forward, and saw that the speakers were Dora Russell and Hester Thornton. Her first inclination was to laugh, toss down some leaves, and instantly reveal herself: the next she drew back hastily, and began to listen with all her ears. "I never liked her," said Hester--"I never even from the very first pretended to like her. I think she is underbred, and not fit to associate with the other girls in the school-room." "She is treated with most unfair partiality," retorted Miss Russell in her thin and rather bitter voice. "I have not the smallest doubt, not the smallest, that she was guilty of putting those messes into my desk, of destroying my composition, and of caricaturing Mrs Willis in Cecil Temple's book. I wonder after that Mrs Willis did not see through her, but it is astonishing to what lengths favouritism will carry one. Mrs Willis and Mr Everard are behaving in a very unfair way to the rest of us in upholding this commonplace, disagreeable girl; but it will be to Mrs Willis's own disadvantage. Hester, I am, as you know, leaving school at Midsummer, and I shall certainly use all my influence to induce my father and mother not to send the younger girls here; they could not associate with a person like Miss Forest." "I never take much notice of her," said Hester; "but of course what you say is quite right, Dora. You have great discrimination, and your sisters might possibly be taken in by her." "Oh, not at all, I assure you; they know a true lady when they see her. However, they must not be imperilled. I will ask my parents to send them to Mdlle. Lablanche. I hear that her establishment is most _recherche_." "Mrs Willis is very nice herself, and so are most of the girls," said Hester, after a pause. Then they were both silent, for Hester had stooped down to examine some little fronds and moss which grew at the foot of the tree. After a pause, Hester said-- "I don't think Annie is the favourite she was with the girls." "Oh, of course not; they all, in their heart of hearts, know she is guilty. Will you come indoors, and have tea with me in my drawing-room, Hester?" The two girls walked slowly away, and presently Annie let herself gently out of her hammock and dropped to the ground. She had heard every word; she had not revealed herself, and a new and terrible--and, truth to say, absolutely foreign--sensation from her true nature now filled her mind. She felt that she almost hated those two who had spoken so cruelly, so unjustly of her. She began to trace her misfortunes and her unhappiness to the date of Hester's entrance into the school. Even more than Dora Russell did she dislike Hester; she made up her mind to revenge herself on both these girls. Her heart was very, very sore; she missed the old words, the old love, the old brightness, the old popularity; she missed the mother-tones in Mrs Willis's voice--her heart cried out for them, at night she often wept for them. She became more and more sure that she owed all her misfortunes to Hester, and in a smaller degree to Dora. Dora believed that she had deliberately insulted her, and injured her composition, when she knew herself that she was quite innocent of even harbouring such a thought, far less carrying it into effect. Well, now, she would really do something to injure both these girls, and perhaps the carrying out of her revenge would satisfy her sore heart. CHAPTER NINETEEN. CUP AND BALL. Just toward the end of the Easter holidays, Hester Thornton was thrown into a great tumult of excitement, of wonder, of half regret and half joy, by a letter which she received from her father. In this letter he informed her that he had made up his mind to break up his establishment for several years, to go abroad, and to leave Hester altogether under Mrs Willis's care. When Hester had read so far, she flung her letter on the table, put her head into her hands, and burst into tears. "Oh, how cruel of father!" she exclaimed; "how am I to live without ever going home--how am I to endure life without seeing my little Nan?" Hester cried bitterly; the strongest love of her nature was now given to this pretty and sweet little sister, and dismal pictures rose rapidly before her of Nan growing up without in the least remembering her-- perhaps, still worse, of Nan being unkindly treated and neglected by strangers. After a long pause, she raised her head, wiped her eyes, and resumed her letter. Now, indeed, she started with astonishment, and gave an exclamation of delight--Sir John Thornton had arranged that Mrs Willis was also to receive little Nan, although she was younger than any other child present in the school. Hester scarcely waited to finish her letter. She crammed it into her pocket, rushed up to Susan Drummond, and astonished that placid young lady by suddenly kissing her. "Nan is coming, Susy!" she exclaimed; "dear, darling, lovely little Nan is coming--oh, I am so happy!" She was far too impatient to explain matters to stolid Susan, and danced downstairs, her eyes sparkling and smiles on her lips. It was nothing to her now how long she stayed at school--her heart's treasure would be with her there, and she could not but feel happy. After breakfast Mrs Willis sent for her, and told her what arrangements were being made; she said that she was going to remove Susan Drummond out of Hester's bedroom, in order that Hester might enjoy her little sister's company at night. She spoke very gently, and entered with full sympathy into the girl's delight over the little motherless sister, and Hester felt more drawn to her governess than she had ever been. Nan was to arrive at Lavender House on the following evening, and for the first week her nurse was to remain with her until she got accustomed to her new life. The morning of the day of Nan's arrival was also the last of the Easter holidays, and Hester, awakening earlier than her wont, lay in bed, and planned what she would do to welcome the little one. The idea of having Nan with her continually had softened and touched Hester. She was not unhappy in her school-life--indeed, there was much in its monotonous, busy, and healthy occupation to stimulate and rouse the good in her. Her intellect was being vigorously exercised, and, by contact with her school-fellows, her character was being moulded; but the perfect harmony and brightness of the school had been much interrupted since Hester's arrival; her dislike to Annie Forest had been unfortunate in more ways than one, and that dislike, which was increasing each day, was hardening Hester's heart. But it was not hard this morning--all that was sweetest, and softest, and best in her had come to the surface--the little sister, whom her mother had left in her charge, was now to be her daily and hourly companion. For Nan's sake, then, she must be very good; her deeds must be gentle and kind, and her thoughts charitable. Hester had an instinctive feeling that baby eyes saw deep below the surface; Hester felt if Nan were to lose even a shadow of her faith in her she could almost die of shame. Hester had been very proud of Dora Russell's friendship. Never before had it been known in the school that a first-class girl took a third into such close companionship, and Hester's little head had been slightly turned by the fact. Her better judgment and her better nature had been rather blinded by the fascinations of this tall, graceful, satirical Dora. She had been weak enough to agree with Dora with her lips when in her heart of hearts she knew she was all wrong. By nature Hester was an honourable girl, with many fine traits in her character-- by nature Dora was small and mean and poor of soul. This morning Hester ran up to her favourite. "Little Nan is coming to-night," she said. Dora was talking at the moment to Miss Maitland, another first-class girl, and the two stared rather superciliously at Hester, and, after a pause, Dora said in her finest drawl-- "Who _is_ little Nan?" It was Hester's turn to stare, for she had often spoken of Nan to this beloved friend, who had listened to her narrative and had appeared to sympathise. "My little sister, of course," she exclaimed. "I have often talked to you about her, Dora. Are you not glad she is coming?" "No, my dear child, I can't say that I am. If you wish to retain my friendship, Hester, you must be careful to keep the little mite away from me; I can't bear small children." Hester walked away with her heart swelling, and she fancied she heard the two elder girls laughing as she left the play-room. Many other girls, however, in the school thoroughly sympathised with Hester, and amongst them no one was more delighted than Susan Drummond. "I am awfully good-natured not to be as cross as two sticks, Hetty," she exclaimed, "for I am being turned out of my comfortable room; and whose room do you suppose I am now to share? why, that little imp Annie Forest's." But Hester felt charitable, even toward Annie, on this happy day. In the evening little Nan arrived. She was a very pretty, dimpled, brown-eyed creature, of just three years of age. She had all the imperious ways of a spoilt baby, and, evidently, fear was a word not to be found in her vocabulary. She clung to Hester, but smiled and nodded to the other girls, who made advances to her, and petted her, and thought her a very charming baby. Beside Nan, all the other little girls in the school looked old. She was quite, two years the youngest, and it was soon very evident that she would establish that most imperious of all reigns--a baby reign--in the school. Hester fondled her and talked to her, and the little thing sat on her knee and stroked her face. "Me like 'oo, Hetty," she said several times, and she added many other endearing and pretty words which caused Hester's heart to swell with delight. She alone, of all the girls, had taken no notice of the new plaything. She walked to her usual corner, sat down on the floor, and began to play cup and ball for the benefit of two or three of the smallest children. Hester did not regard her in the least; she sat with Nan on her knee, stroking back her sunny curls, and remarking on her various charms to several of the girls who sat round her. "See, how pretty that dimple in her chin is," she said, "and oh, my pet, your eyes look wiser, and bigger, and saucier than ever. Look at me, Nan; look at your own Hetty." Nan's attention, however, was diverted by the gayly-painted cup and ball which Annie was using with her wonted dexterity. "Dat a pitty toy," she said, giving one quick and rather solemn glance at her sister, and again fixing her admiring gaze on the cup and ball. Annie Forest had heard the words, and she darted a sudden, laughing look at the little one. Annie's power over children was well-known. Nan began to wriggle on Hester's knee. "Dat a pitty lady," she said again, "and dat a pitty, tibby [little] toy; Nan go see." In an instant, before Hester could prevent her, she had trotted across the room, and was kneeling with the other children and shouting with delight over Annie's play. "She'll get her, you'll see, Hester," said one of the girls maliciously; "she'll soon be much fonder of Annie Forest than of you. Annie wins the heart of every little child in the school." "She won't win my Nan's from me," said Hester in a confident tone; but in spite of her words a great pang of jealousy had gone through her. She rose to her feet and followed her little sister. "Nan, you are sleepy, you must go to bed." "No, no, Hetty; me not s'eepy, me kite awake; go 'way, Hetty, Nan want to see the pitty tibby toy." Annie raised her eyes to Hester's. She did not really want to be unkind, and at that moment it had certainly never entered into her head to steal Hester's treasure from her, but she could not help a look of suppressed delight and triumph filling her eyes. Hester could scarcely bear the look; she stooped down, and taking one of Nan's little dimpled hands tried to drag her away. Instantly Annie threw the cup and ball on the floor. "The play is all over to-night, little darling," she said; "give Annie Forest one kiss, and run to bed with sister Hester." Nan, who had been puckering up her face to cry, smiled instantly; then she scrambled to her feet, and flung her little fat arms round Annie's neck. "Dat a vedy pitty p'ay," she said in a patronising tone, "and me like 'oo, me do." Then she gave her hand willingly to Hester, and trotted out of the play-room by her side. CHAPTER TWENTY. IN THE SOUTH PARLOUR. Immediately after Easter the real excitement of the school-year began. All the girls who had ambition, who had industry, and who had a desire to please distant fathers, mothers, or guardians, worked hard for that great day at Midsummer when Mrs Willis distributed her valuable prizes. From the moment of Hester's entrance into the school she had heard this day spoken of. It was, without doubt, the greatest day of the year at Lavender House. Smaller prizes were given at Christmas, but the great honours were always reserved for this long sunshiny June day, when Mrs Willis herself presented her marks of approbation to her successful pupils. The girls who had lived in the school for two or three years gave Hester vivid descriptions of the excitements, the pleasures, the delights of this day of days. In the first place, it was the first of the holidays, in the second it was spent almost from morning to night in the open air--for a great tent was erected on the lawn; and visitors thronged to Lavender House, and fathers and mothers, and aunts and uncles, arrived from a distance to witness the triumphs of the favoured children who had won the prizes. The giving away of the prizes was, of course, _the_ event of the day; but there were many other minor joys. Always in the evenings there was some special entertainment. These entertainments differed from year to year, Mrs Willis allowing the girls to choose them for themselves, and only making one proviso, that they must take all the trouble, and all the pains--in short, that they themselves must be the entertainers. One year they had tableaux vivants; another a fancy ball, every pretty dress of which had been designed by themselves, and many even made by their own industrious little fingers. Mrs Willis delighted in the interest and occupation that this yearly entertainment gave to her pupils, and she not only, encouraged them in their efforts to produce something very unique and charming, but took care that they should have sufficient time to work up their ideas properly. Always after Easter she gave the girls of the three first classes two evenings absolutely to themselves; and these they spent in a pretty room called the South Parlour, which belonged to Mrs Willis's part of the house, and was rarely used, except for these great preparations. Hester, therefore, after Easter found her days very full indeed. Every spare moment she devoted to little Nan, but she was quite determined to win a substantial prize, and she was also deeply interested in various schemes proposed in the South Parlour. With regard to prizes, Mrs Willis also went on a plan of her own. Each girl was expected to come up to a certain standard of excellence in all her studies, and if she fell very much below this standard she was not allowed to try for any prize; if she came up to it, she could select one subject, but only one, for competition. On the Monday after the Easter holidays the special subjects for the Midsummer prizes were given out, and the girls were expected to send in their answers as to the special prize they meant to compete for by the following Friday. When this day arrived Hester Thornton and Dora Russell both discovered that they had made the same choice--they were going to try for the English composition prize. This subject always obtained one of the most costly prizes, and several of the girls shook their heads over Hester's choice. "You are very silly to try for that, Hetty," they exclaimed, "for Mrs Willis has such queer ideas with regard to English composition. Of course, we go in for it in a general way, and learn the rules of grammar and punctuation, and so forth, but Mrs Willis says that school-girls' themes are so bad and affected, as a rule, and she says she does not think anyone will go in for her pet prize who has not natural ability. In consequence, she gives only one prize for composition between the three first classes. You had better change your mind, Hetty, before it is too late, for much older girls will compete with you, and there are several who are going to try." Hester, however, only smiled, and assured her eager friend that she would stick to her pet subject, and try to do the best she could. On the morning when the girls signified their choice of subject, Mrs Willis came into the school-room and made one of her little yearly speeches with regard to the right spirit in which her girls should try for these honours. The few and well-chosen words of the head-mistress generally roused those girls who loved her best to a fever of enthusiasm, and even Hester, who was comparatively a newcomer, felt a great wish, as she listened to that clear and vibrating voice and watched the many expressions which passed over the noble face, that she might find something beyond the mere earthly honour and glory of success in this coming trial. Having finished her little speech, Mrs Willis made several remarks with regard to the choice of subjects. She spoke of the English composition prize last, and here she heightened the interest and excitement which always hung around this special prize. Contrary to her usual rule, she would this year give no subject for an English theme. Each girl might choose what pleased her best. On nearing these words Annie Forest, who had been sitting by her desk looking rather dull and dejected, suddenly sprang to her feet, her face aglow, her eyes sparkling, and began whispering vigorously to Miss Good. Miss Good nodded, and, going up to Mrs Willis, said aloud that Annie had changed her mind, and that from not wishing to try for any of the prizes, she now intended to compete for the English composition. Mrs Willis looked a little surprised, but without any comment she immediately entered Annie's name in the list of competitors, and Annie sat down again, not even glancing at her astonished school-fellows, who could not conceal their amazement, for she had never hitherto shown the slightest desire to excel in this department. On the evening of this Friday the girls of the three first classes assembled for the first time in the South Parlour. Hitherto these meetings had been carried on in a systematic and business-like fashion. It was impossible for all the girls who belonged to these three large classes to assemble on each occasion. Careful selections, therefore, were, as a rule, made from their numbers. These girls formed a committee to superintend and carry on the real preparations for the coming treat, and the others only met when specially summoned by the committee to appear. As usual now the three classes found themselves in the South Parlour--as usual they chattered volubly, and started schemes, to reject them again with peals of laughter. Many ideas were put forward, to be cast aside as utterly worthless. No one seemed to have any very brilliant thought, and as the first step on these occasions was to select what the entertainment should be, proceedings seemed to come to a standstill. The fact was the most daring originator, the one whoso ideas were always flavoured with a spice of novelty, was absolutely silent. Cecil Temple, who had taken a seat near Annie, suddenly, bent forward and spoke to her aloud. "We have all said what we would like, and we none of us appear to have thought of anything at all worth having," she said; "but you have not spoken at all, Annie. Give us an idea, dear--you know you originated the fancy ball last year." Thus publicly appealed to, Annie raised her full brown eyes, glanced at her companions, not one of whom, with the exception of Cecil, returned her gaze fully; then, rising to her feet, she spoke in a slightly contemptuous tone. "These preparations seem to me to be much ado about nothing; they lake up a lot of our time, and the results aren't worth the trouble--I have nothing particular to say. Oh, well, yes, if you like--let's have blind man's buff and a magic lantern;" and then, dropping a mock curtsey to her companions, she dashed out of the South Parlour. "Insufferable girl!" said Dora Russell; "I wonder you try to draw her out, Cecil. You know perfectly that we none of us care to have anything to do with her." "I know perfectly that you are all doing your best to make her life miserable," said Cecil, suddenly and boldly. "No one in this school has obeyed Mrs Willis's command to treat Annie as innocent--you are practically sending her to Coventry, and I think it is unjust and unfair. You don't know, girls, that you are ruining poor Annie's happiness." "Oh, dear! she doesn't seem at all dull," said Miss West, a second-class girl. "I do think she's a hardened little wretch." "Little you know about her," said Cecil, the colour fading out of her pale face. Then, after a pause, she added, "The injustice of the whole thing is that in this treatment of Annie you break the spirit of Mrs Willis's command--you, none of you, certainly tell her that she is guilty, but you treat her as such." Here Hester Thornton said a daring thing. "I don't believe Mrs Willis in her heart of hearts considers Annie guiltless." These words of Hester's were laughed at by most of the girls, but Dora Russell gave her an approving nod, and Cecil, looking paler than ever, dropped suddenly into her seat, and no longer tried to defend her absent friend. "At any rate," said Miss Conway, who as the head girl of the whole school was always listened to with great respect. "It is unfortunate for the success of our entertainment that there should be all this discussion and bad feeling with regard to Miss Forest. For my own part, I cannot make out why the poor little creature should be hunted down, or what affair it is of ours whether she is innocent or not. If Mr Everard and Mrs Willis says she is innocent, is not that enough? The fact of her guilt or innocence can't hurt us one way or another. It is a great pity, however, for our own sakes, that we should be out with her now, for, whatever her faults, she is the only one of us who is ever gifted with an original thought. But, as we can't have her, let us set to work without her--we really can't waste the whole evening over this sort of talk." Discussions as to the coming pleasure were now again resumed with vigour, and after a great deal of animated arguing it was resolved that two short plays should be acted; that a committee should be immediately formed, who should select the plays, and apportion their various parts to the different actors. The committee selected included Miss Russell, Miss Conway, Hester Thornton, Cecil Temple, and two other girls of the second-class. The conference then broke up, but there was a certain sense of flatness over everything, and Cecil was not the only girl who sighed for the merry meetings of last year--when Annie had been the life and soul of all the proceedings, and when one brilliant idea after another with regard to the costumes for the fancy ball had dropped from her merry tongue. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. STEALING HEARTS. When Annie ran out of the South Parlour she found herself suddenly face to face with Mrs Willis. "Well, my dear child," said the head-mistress in her kindest voice, "where are you running to? But I suppose I must not ask; you are, of course, one of the busy and secret conclave in the South Parlour?" "No. I have left them," said Annie, bending her head, and after her usual habit when agitated, shaking her hair about her face. "Left them?" repeated Mrs Willis, "you mean, dear, that they have sent you for some message." "No. I am not one of them. May I go into the garden, Mrs Willis?" "Certainly, my dear." Annie did not even glance at her governess. She pushed aside the baize door, and found herself in the great stone hall which led to the play-room and school-room. Her garden hat hung on a peg in the hall, and she tossed it off its place, and holding it in her hand ran toward the side door which opened directly into the garden. She had a wild wish to get to the shelter of the forsaken hammock and there cry out her whole heart. The moment she got into the open air, however, she was met by a whole troop of the little children, who were coming in after their usual short exercise before going to bed. Miss Danesbury was with them, and when Annie ran out by the open door, she entered holding two little ones by the hands. Last in this group toddled Hester's little sister Nan. The moment she saw Annie her little face broke into smiles; she held out two hands eagerly, and fled to the young girl's side. "Where dat pitty toy?" she said, raising her round face to Annie's; "some one did buy dat toy, and it's vedy pitty, and me wants it--where's dat toy?" Annie stooped down, and spoke suddenly and impulsively to the little child. "You shall have the toy for your very own, Nan, if you will do something for me?" Nan's baby eyes looked straight into Annie's. "Me will," she said emphatically; "me want dat toy." "Put your arms round me, little darling, and give me a great, tight hug." This request was great fun to Nan, who squeezed her little arms round Annie's neck, and pressed her dimpled cheek to her lips. "Dere," she said triumphantly, "will dat do?" "Yes, you little treasure, and you'll try to love me, won't you?" "Me do," said Nan, in a solemn voice; but then Miss Danesbury called her, and she ran into the house. As Nan trotted into the house she put up her dimpled hand to wipe something from her round cheek--it was a tear which Annie Forest had left there. Annie herself, when all the little ones had disappeared, walked slowly and sadly down toward the shady walk. The sun had just set, and though it was now nearly May, and the evenings long, the wind was sufficiently cold to cause Annie to shiver in her thin house frock. At all times utterly fearless with regard to her health, she gave it no thought now, but entering the walk where she knew she should not be disturbed, she looked up at the hammock, and wondered whether she should climb into it. She decided, however, not to do so--the great and terrible weight of tears which had pressed close to her heart were relieved by Nan's embrace; she no longer cared to cry until she could cry no longer--the worst of her pain had been soothed by the sweet baby graciousness of the little one. Then there darted into poor Annie's sore heart and perplexed brain that dangerous thought and temptation which was to work so much future pain and trouble. She already loved little Nan, and Nan, as most children did, had taken a fancy to her. Annie stood still, and clasped her hands as the dark idea came to her to steal the heart of little Nan from Hester, and so revenge herself on her. By doing this she would touch Hester in her most vulnerable point--she would take from her what she valued most. The temptation came swiftly, and Annie listened to it, and thought how easy it would be to carry it into effect. She knew well that no little child could resist her when she chose to exercise her charms--it would be easy, easy work to make that part of Nan which was most precious all her own. Annie became fascinated by the idea; how completely then she would have revenged all her wrongs on Hester! Some day Hester would bitterly repent of her unjust prejudice toward her; some day Hester would come to her, and beg of her in agony to give her back her darling's love; ah! when that day came it would be her turn to triumph. She felt more than satisfied as the temptation grew upon her; she shut out persistently from her view all the other side of the picture; she would not let herself think that the work she was about to undertake was cruel and mean. Hester had been more than unjust, and she was going to punish her. Annie paced faster and faster up and down the shady walk, and whenever her resolution wavered, the memory of Hester's face as she had seen it the same night in the South Parlour came visibly back and strengthened it. Yes, her turn had come at last. Hester had contrived since her entrance into the school to make Annie's life thoroughly miserable. Well, never mind, it was Annie's turn now to make her wretched. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. IN BURN CASTLE WOOD. In concentrating her thoughts of revenge on Hester Annie ceased to trouble her head about Dora Russell. She considered Hester a crueller enemy than Dora. Hester belonged to her own set, worked in her own class, and would naturally, had things not turned out so unjustly, so unfairly, have been her friend, and not her enemy. Dora had nothing to say to Annie, and before Hester's advent into the school had scarcely noticed her existence. Annie therefore concentrated all her powers on punishing Hester. This gave her an aim and an occupation, and at first she felt that her revenge might give her real pleasure. Susan Drummond now shared Annie's bedroom, and Annie was rather startled one evening to hear this phlegmatic young person burst out into a strong tirade against Hester and Dora. Dora had managed, for some inexplicable reason, to offend Susan, and Susan now looked to Annie for sympathy, and boldly suggested that they should get up what she was pleased to call "a lark" between them for the punishment of this very dignified young lady. Annie had never liked Susan, and she now stared at her, and said in her quick way-- "You won't catch me helping you in any of your larks. I've had trouble enough on that score as it is." Susan gazed at her stupidly, and a dull read spread over her face. "But I thought you hated Dora and Hester," she said--"I'm sure they hate you." Annie was silent. "You do hate them, don't you?" persisted Miss Drummond. "It's nothing to you what I feel toward them, Susy," said Annie. "Please don't disturb me with any more of your chatter; I am very sleepy, and you are keeping me awake." Thus silenced, Susan had to content herself by turning on her back, and going into the land of dreams; but she was evidently a good deal surprised and disappointed, and began to entertain a certain respect, and even fear, of Annie, which had been hitherto unknown to her. Meanwhile Hester was very busy, very happy, and more satisfied--brighter and better employed than she had ever been in her life before. Nan's love satisfied the affectionate side of her nature, and all her intellect was strained to the utmost to win honours in the coming struggle. She had stuck firmly to her resolve to work for the English composition prize, and she firmly made up her own mind to leave no stone unturned to win it. What affection she, possessed for Miss Russell was not at all of a character to prevent her from thoroughly enjoying taking the prize out of her hands. Her love for Dora had been fed by vanity, and was not at all of a deep or noble character. She was some time carefully choosing the subject of her theme, and at last she resolved to write a brief historical description of the last days of Marie Antoinette. To write properly on this subject she had to read up a great deal, and had to find references in books which were not usually allowed as school-room property. Mrs Willis, however, always allowed the girls who were working for the English composition prize to have access to her rather extensive library, and here Hester was often to be found during play-hours. Two evenings in the week were also taken up in preparation for the coming plays, and as Hester was to take rather an important part in one, and a small character in another, she was obliged to devote herself to getting up her parts during the weekly half-holidays. Thus every moment was busy, and, except at night, she had little time to devote herself to Nan. Nan slept in a pretty crib in Hester's room, and each evening the young girl knelt down by her sister's side, and gazed at her with love which was almost motherly swelling in her breast. All that was best of Hester was drawn out at these moments; something greater than ambition--something far and away above school triumphs and school jealousies spoke then in her heart of hearts. These moments found her capable of being both sympathising and forgiving; these moments followed out in her daily life might have made Hester almost great. Now was the time, with her eyes full of tears and her lips trembling with emotion, for Annie Forest to have caught a glimpse of the divine in Hester; the hardness, the pride, the haughty spirit were all laid aside, and hers was the true child-heart as she knelt by the sleeping baby. Hester prayed earnestly at these moments, and, in truth, Nan did better for her than any sermon; better for her than even Mrs Willis's best influences. Nan was as the voice of God to her sister. Hester, in her very busy life, had no time to notice, however, a very slight and almost imperceptible change in bright little Nan. In the mornings she was in too great a hurry to pay much heed to the little one's chatter; in the afternoons she had scarcely an instant to devote to her, and when she saw her playing happily with the other children she was quite content, and always supposed that when a spare half-hour did come in her busy life Nan would rush to her with the old ecstasy, and give her the old devotion. One day, toward the end of a very fine May, the girls were all to go for a picnic to some woods about four miles away. They had looked forward for several days to this relaxation, and were in the highest state of delight and the wildest spirits. After an early dinner they were to drive in several large waggonettes to the place of _rendezvous_, where they were to be regaled with gypsy-tea, and were to have a few hours in the lovely Woods or Burn Castle, one of the show places of the neighbourhood. Mrs Willis had invited the Misses Bruce to accompany them, and they were all to leave the house punctually at two o'clock. The weather was wonderfully fine and warm, and it was decided that all the children, even Nan, should go. Perhaps none of the girls looked forward to this day's pleasure with greater joy than did Hester; she determined to make it a real holiday, and a real time of relaxation. She would forget her English theme; she would cease to worry herself about Marie Antoinette; she would cease to repeat her part in the coming play; and she would devote herself exclusively and determinedly to Nan's pleasure. She pictured the little one's raptures; she heard her gay shouts of joy, her ceaseless little rippling chatter, her baby glee, and, above all things, her intense happiness at being with her own Hetty for the greater part of a whole day. Hester would ride her on her shoulder, would race with her; all her usual, companions would be as nothing to her on this occasion, she would give herself up solely to Nan. As she was dressing that morning she said a word or two to the child about the coming treat. "We'll light a fire in the wood, Nan, and hang a kettle over it, and make tea--such good tea; won't it be nice?" Nan clapped her hands. "And may I take out my little ummabella (umbrella), case it might wain?" she asked anxiously. Hester flew to her and kissed her. "You funny darling!" she said. "Oh, we shall have such a day! You'll be with your own Hetty all day long--your own Hetty; won't you be glad?" "Me am," said Nan; "own Hetty, and own Annie; me am glad." Hester scarcely heard the last words, for the prayer-gong sounded, and she had to fly downstairs. At dinner time the girls were discussing who would go with each, and all were very merry and full of fun. "Miss Danesbury will take the little children," said Miss Good. "Mrs Willis says that all the little ones are to be in Miss Danesbury's charge." "Oh, please," said Hester suddenly, "may Nan come with me, Miss Good? She'll be so disappointed if she doesn't, and I'll take such care of her." Miss Good nodded a careless acquiescence, and Hester proceeded with her dinner, feeling thoroughly satisfied. Immediately after dinner the girls flew to their rooms to prepare for their expedition. Hastily opening a drawer, Hester pulled out a white frock, white pique pelisse, and washing hat for Nan--she meant her darling to look as charming as possible. "Oh, dear, Miss Danesbury should have brought her here by now," she said to herself impatiently, and then, hearing the crunching of carriage wheels on the drive, she flew to the bell and rang it. In a few moments one of the maids appeared. "Do you know where Miss Nan is, Alice? She is to go to Burn Castle with me, and I want to dress her, for it is nearly time to go." Alice looked a little surprised. "If you please, Miss," she said, "I think Miss Nan has just gone." "What do you mean, Alice? Miss Good said especially she was to go with me." "I know nothing about that, Miss; I only know that I saw Miss Forest carrying her downstairs in her arms about three minutes ago, and they went off in the waggonette with all the other little children and Miss Danesbury." Hester stood perfectly still, her colour changed from red to white; for full half a minute she was silent. Then, hearing voices from below calling to her, she said in a cold, quiet tone-- "That will do, Alice; thank you for letting me know." She turned to her drawer and put back Nan's white and pretty things, and also replaced a new and very becoming shady hat which she had meant to wear herself. In her old winter hat, and looking almost untidy for her, she walked slowly downstairs and took her place in the waggonette which was drawn up at the door. Cecil Temple and one or two other girls whom Hester liked very much were in the same waggonette, but she scarcely cared to talk to them, and only joined in their laughter by a strong effort. She was deeply wounded, but her keenest present desire was to hide any feelings of jealousy she had toward Annie from the quick eyes of her school-fellows. "Why," suddenly exclaimed Julia Morris, a particularly unobservant girl, "I thought you were going to bring that dear baby sister with you, Hester. Oh, I do hope there is nothing the matter with her." "Nan has gone on in the first waggonette with the little children," said Hester as cheerfully as she could speak, but she coloured slightly, and saw that Cecil was regarding her attentively. Susan Drummond exclaimed suddenly-- "I saw Annie Forest rushing down the stairs with little Nan, and Nan had her arms round her neck, and was laughing merrily. You need not be anxious about Nan, Hester; she was quite content to go with Annie." "I did not say I was anxious," replied Hester in a cold voice. "How very beautiful that avenue of beech trees is, Cecil!" "But Annie heard Miss Good say that you were to take Nan," persisted Julia Morris. "She could not but have noticed it, for you did flush up so, Hester, and looked so eager. I never saw anyone more in earnest about a trifle in my life; it was impossible for Annie not to have heard." "The great thing is that Nan is happy," said Hester in a fretted voice. "Do let us change the subject, girls." Cecil instantly began talking about the coming plays, and soon the conversation became of an absorbing character, and Hester's voice was heard oftener than the others, and she laughed more frequently than her companions. For all this forced merriment, however, Cecil did not fail to observe that when Hester got to the place of meeting at Burn Castle she looked around her with a quick and eager glance. Then the colour faded from her face, and her eyes grew dim. That look of pain on Hester's face was quite enough for kind-hearted Cecil. She had thrown herself on the grass with an exclamation of delight, but in an instant she was on her feet. "Now, of course, the first thing is to find little Nan," she said; "she'll be missing you dreadful, Hetty." Cecil held out her hand to Hester to run with her through the wood, but, to her surprise, Hester drew back. "I'm tired," she said; "I daresay we shall find Nan presently. She is sure to be safe, as she is under Miss Danesbury's care." Cecil made no remark, but set off by herself to find the little children. Presently, standing on a little knoll, and putting her two hands round her lips, so as to form a speaking trumpet, she shouted to Hester. Hester came slowly and apparently unwillingly toward her, but when she got to the foot of the knoll, Cecil flew down, and, taking her by the hand, ran with her to the top. "Oh, do come quick!" she exclaimed; "it is such a pretty sight." Down in the valley about fifty yards away were the ten or twelve little children who formed the infant portion of the school. Miss Danesbury was sitting at some distance off quietly reading, and the children, decked with flowers, and carrying tall grasses and reeds in their hands, were flying round and round in a merry circle, while in their midst, and the centre of attraction, stood Annie, whose hat was tossed aside, and whose bright, curling hair was literally crowned with wild flowers. On Annie's shoulder stood little Nan, carefully and beautifully poised, and round Nan's wavy curls was a starry wreath of wood-anemones. Nan was shouting gleefully and clapping her hands, while Annie balanced her slightest movement with the greatest agility, and kept her little feet steady on her shoulders with scarcely an effort. As the children ran round and round Annie she waltzed gracefully backwards and forwards to meet them, and they all sang snatches of nursery rhymes. When Cecil and Hester appeared they had reached in their varied collection-- "Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall." Here Nan exclaimed, in her clear, high-pitched voice-- "Me no fall, Annie," and the small children on the ground clapped their hands and blew kisses to her. "Isn't it pretty? Isn't Annie sweet with children?" said Cecil, looking round to Hester with all the admiration she felt for her friend shining in her face. The expression, however, which Hester wore at that moment really startled Cecil: she was absolutely colourless, and presently she called aloud in a harsh, strained voice-- "Be careful of her! How wicked of you to put her like that on your shoulder! She will fall--yes, I know she will fall; oh, do be careful!" Hester's voice startled the children, who ceased sinking and dancing: Annie made a hasty step forward, and one little voice alone kept singing out the words-- "Humpty Dumpty got a great fall!" when there was a crash and a cry, and Nan, in some inexplicable way, had fallen backwards from Annie's shoulders. In one instant Hester was in the midst of the group. "Don't touch her," she said, as Annie flew to pick up the child, who, falling with some force on her head, had been stunned; "don't touch her--don't dare! It was your doing; you did it on purpose--you wished to do it!" "You are unjust," said Annie, in a low tone. "Nan was perfectly safe until you startled her. Like all the rest you are unjust. Nan would have come to no harm if you had not spoken." Hester did not vouchsafe another word. She sat on the ground with the unconscious and pretty little flower-crowned figure laid across her lap; she was terrified, and thought in her inexperience that Nan must be dead. At the first mention of the accident Cecil had flown to fetch some water, and when she and Miss Danesbury applied it to little Nan's temples, she presently sighed, and opened her brown eyes wide. "I hope--I trust she is not much hurt," said Miss Danesbury; "but I think it safest to take her home at once. Cecil, dear, can you do anything about fetching a waggonette round to the stile at the entrance of the wood? Now the puzzle is, who is to take care of the rest of the little children? If only they were under Miss Good's care, I should breathe more easily." "I am going home with Nan," said Hester, in a hard voice. "Of course, my love: no one would think of parting you from your little sister," said the governess soothingly. "If you please, Miss Danesbury," said Annie, whose face was quite as pale as Hester's, and her eyes heavy as though she longed to cry, "will you trust me with the little ones? If you do, I will promise to take them straight to Miss Good, and to be most careful of them." Miss Danesbury's gentle and kind face looked relieved. "Thank you, Annie--of course I trust you, dear. Take the children at once to the meeting-place under the great oak, and wait there until Miss Good appears." Annie suddenly sprang forward, and threw her arms round Miss Danesbury's neck. "Miss Danesbury, you comfort me," she said, in a kind of stifled voice, and then she ran off with the children. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. "HUMPTY DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL." All the stupor and languor which immediately followed Nan's fall passed off during her drive home; she chatted and laughed, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. Hester turned with a relieved face to Miss Danesbury. "My little darling is all right, is she not?" she said. "Oh, I was so terrified--oh, how thankful I am no harm has been done!" Miss Danesbury did not return Hester's full gaze; she attempted to take little Nan on her knee, but Nan clung to Hetty. Then she said-- "You must be careful to keep the sun off her, dear--hold your parasol well down--just so. That is better. When we get home, I will put her to bed at once. Please God, there _is_ nothing wrong; cut one cannot be too careful." Something in Miss Danesbury's manner affected Hester strangely; she clasped Nan's slight baby form closer and closer to her heart, and no longer joined in the little one's mirth. As the drive drew to a close, Nan again ceased talking, and fell into a heavy sleep. Miss Danesbury's face grew graver and graver, and, when the waggonette drew up at Lavender House, she insisted on lifting the sleeping child out of Hester's arms, and carrying her up to her little crib. When Nan's little head was laid on the cool pillow, she again opened her eyes, and instantly asked for a drink. Miss Danesbury gave her some milk and water, but the moment she drank it she was sick. "Just as I feared," said the governess; "there is some little mischief-- not much, I hope--but we must instantly send for the doctor." As Miss Danesbury walked across the room to ring the bell, Hester followed her. "She's not in danger?" she whispered in a hoarse voice; "if she is, Annie is guilty of murder." "Don't, my dear," said the governess; "you must keep quiet for Nan's sake. Please God, she will soon be better. All I really apprehend is a little excitement and feverishness, which will pass off in a few days with care. Hester, my dear, I suddenly remember that the house is nearly empty, for all the servants are also enjoying a holiday. I think I must send you for Dr Mayflower. The waggonette is still at the door. Drive at once to town, my dear, and ask the coachman to take you to Number 10, The Parade. If you are very quick, you will catch Dr Mayflower before he goes out on his afternoon rounds." Hester glanced for half an instant at Nan, but her eyes were again closed. "I will take the best care of her," said the governess in a kind voice; "don't lose an instant, dear." Hester snatched up her hat and flew downstairs. In a moment she was in the waggonette, and the driver was speedily urging his horses in the direction of the small town of Sefton, two miles and a half away. Hester was terrified now--so terrified, in such an agony, that she even forgot Annie; her hatred toward Annie became of secondary importance to her. All her ideas, all her thoughts, were swallowed up in the one great hope--Should she be in time to reach Dr Mayflower's house before he set off on his afternoon rounds? As the waggonette approached Sefton she buried her face in her hands and uttered a sharp inward cry of agony. "Please God, let me find the doctor!" It was a real prayer from her heart of hearts. The waggonette drew up at the doctor's residence, to discover him stepping into his brougham. Hester was a shy child, and had never seen him before; but she instantly raised her voice, and almost shouted to him--"You are to come with me; please, you are to come at once. Little Nan is ill--she is hurt. Please, you are to come at once." "Eh! young lady?" said the round-faced doctor. "Oh! I see; you are one of the little girls from Lavender House. Is anything wrong there, dear?" Hester managed to relate what had occurred; whereupon the doctor instantly opened the door of the waggonette. "Jump out, young lady," he said; "I will drive you back in my brougham. Masters," addressing his coachman, "to Lavender House." Hester sat back in the soft-cushioned carriage, which bowled smoothly along the road. It seemed to her impatience that the pace at which they went was not half quick enough--she longed to put her head out of the window to shout to the coachman to go faster. She felt intensely provoked with the doctor, who sat placidly by her side reading a newspaper. Presently she saw that his eyes were fixed on her. He spoke in his quietest tones. "We always take precisely twenty minutes to drive from the Parade to Lavender House--twenty minutes, neither more nor less. We shall be there now in exactly ten minutes." Hester tried to smile, but failed; her agony of apprehension grew and grew. She breathed more freely when they turned into the avenue. When they stopped at the wide stone porch, and the doctor got out, she uttered a sigh of relief. She took Dr Mayflower herself up to Nan's room. Miss Danesbury opened the door, the doctor went inside, and Hester crouched down on the landing and waited. It seemed to her that the good physician would never come out. When he did she raised a perfectly blanched face to his, she opened her lips, tried to speak, but no words would come. Her agitation was so intense that the kind-hearted doctor took instant pity on her. "Come into this room, my child," he said. "My dear, you will be ill yourself if you give way like this. Pooh! pooh! this agitation is extreme--is uncalled for. You have got a shock. I shall prescribe a glass of sherry at once. Come downstairs with me, and I will see that you get one." "But how is she, sir--how is she?" poor Hester managed to articulate. "Oh! the little one--sweet, pretty, little darling. I did not know she was your sister--a dear little child. She got an ugly fall, though-- came on a nasty place." "But, please, sir, how is she? She--she--she is not in danger?" "Danger? by no means, unless you put her into it. She must be kept very quiet, and, above all things, not excited. I will come to see her again to-morrow morning. With proper care she ought to be quite herself in a few days. Ah! now you've got a little colour in your cheek, come down with me and have that glass of sherry, and you will feel all right." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. ANNIE TO THE RESCUE. The picnic-party arrived home late. The accident to little Nan had not shortened the day's pleasure, although Mrs Willis, the moment she heard of it, had come back; for she entered the hall just as the doctor was stepping into his carriage. He gave her his opinion, and said that he trusted no further mischief, beyond a little temporary excitement, had been caused. He again, however, spoke of the great necessity of keeping Nan quiet, and said that her school-fellows must not come to her, and that she must not be excited in any way. Mrs Willis came into the great hall where Hester was standing. Instantly she went up to the young girl, and put her arm around and drew her to her side. "Darling," she said, "this is a grievous anxiety for you; no words can express my sorrow and my sympathy; but the doctor is quite hopeful, Hester, and, please God, we shall soon have the little one as well as ever." "You are really sorry for me?" said Hester, raising her eyes to the head-mistress's face. "Of course, dear; need you ask?" "Then you will have that wicked Annie Forest punished--well punished-- well punished." "Sometimes, Hester," said Mrs Willis very gravely, "God takes the punishment of our wrongdoings into His own hands. Annie came home with me. Had you seen her face as we drove together you would not have asked _me_ to punish her." "Unjust, always unjust," muttered Hester, but in so low a voice that Mrs Willis did not hear the words. "Please may I go to little Nan?" she said. "Certainly, Hester--some tea shall be sent up to you presently." Miss Danesbury arranged to spend that night in Nan's room. A sofa bed was brought in for her to lie on, for Mrs Willis had yielded to Hester's almost feverish entreaties that she might not be banished from her little sister. Not a sound reached the room where Nan was lying-- even the girls took off their shoes as they passed the door--not a whisper came to disturb the sick child. Little Nan slept most of the evening, only sometimes opening her eyes and looking up drowsily when Miss Danesbury changed the cold application to her head. At nine o'clock there came a low tap at the room door. Hester went to open it; one of her school-fellows stood without. "The prayer-gong is not to be sounded to-night. Will you come to the chapel now? Mrs Willis sent me to ask." Hester shook her head. "I cannot," she whispered; "tell her I cannot come." "Oh, I am so sorry?" replied the girl; "is Nan very bad?" "I don't know: I hope not. Good-night." Hester closed the room door, took off her dress, and began very softly to prepare to get into bed. She put on her dressing-gown, and knelt down as usual to her private prayers. When she got on her knees, however, she found it impossible to pray; her brain felt in a whirl, her feelings were unprayerlike; and with the temporary relief of believing Nan in no immediate danger came such a flood of hatred toward Annie as almost frightened her. She tried to ask God to make Nan better--quite well; but even this petition seemed to go no way--to reach no one--to fall flat on the empty air. She rose from her knees, and got quietly into bed. Nan lay in that half-drowsy and languid state until midnight. Hester, with all her very slight expedience of illness, thought that as long as Nan was quiet she must be getting better; but Miss Danesbury was by no means so sure, and, notwithstanding the doctor's verdict, she felt anxious about the child. Hester had said that she could not sleep; but at Miss Danesbury's special request she got into bed, and before she knew anything about it was in a sound slumber. At midnight, when all the house was quiet, and Miss Danesbury kept a lonely watch by the sick child's pillow, there came a marked change for the worse in the little one. She opened her feverish eyes wide and began to call out piteously; but her cry now was, not for Hester, but for Annie. "Me want my Annie," she said over and over, "me do, me do. No, no; go 'way, naughty Daybury, me want my Annie; me do want her." Miss Danesbury felt puzzled and distressed. Hester, however, was awakened by the piteous cry, and sat up in bed. "What is it, Miss Danesbury?" she asked. "She is very much excited, Hester; she is calling for Annie Forest." "Oh, that is quite impossible," said Hester, a shudder passing through her. "Annie can't come here. The doctor specially said that none of the girls were to come near Nan." "Me want Annie; me want my own Annie," wailed the sick child. "Give me my dressing-gown, please, Miss Danesbury, and I will go to her," said Hester. She sprang out of bed, and approached the little crib. The brightness of Nan's feverish eyes was distinctly seen. She looked up at Hester, who bent over her; then she uttered a sharp cry and covered her little face. "Go 'way, go 'way, naughty Hetty--Nan want Annie; Annie sing, Annie p'ay with Nan--go 'way, go 'way, Hetty." Hester's heart was too full to allow her to speak; but she knelt by the crib and tried to take one of the little hot hands in hers. Nan, however, pushed her hands away, and now began to cry loudly. "Annie!--Annie!--Annie! me want 'oo; Nan want 'oo--poor tibby Nan want 'oo, Annie!" Miss Danesbury touched Hester on her shoulder. "My dear," she said, "the child's wish must be gratified. Annie has an extraordinary power over children, and under the circumstances I shall take it upon me to disobey the doctor's directions. The child must be quieted at all hazards. Run for Annie, dear--you know her room. I had better stay with little Nan, for, though she loves you best, you don't soothe her at present--that is often so with a fever case." "One moment," said Hester. She turned again to the little crib. "Hetty is going to fetch Annie for Nan. Will Nan give her own Hetty one kiss?" Instantly the little arms were flung round Hester's neck. "Me like 'oo now, dood Hetty. Go for Annie, dood Hetty." Instantly Hester ran out of the room. She flew quickly down the long passage, and did not know what a strange little figure she made as the moon from a large window at one end fell full upon her. So eerie, so ghost-like was her appearance as she flew noiselessly with her bare feet along the passage that some one--Hester did not know whom--gave a stifled cry. The cry seemed to come from a good way off, and Hester was too preoccupied to notice it. She darted into the room where Susan Drummond and Annie Forest slept. "Annie you are to come to Nan," she said in a sharp high-pitched voice which she scarcely recognised as her own. "Coming," said Annie, and she walked instantly to the door with her dress on, and stood in the moonlight. "You are dressed!" said Hester in astonishment. "I could not undress--I lay down as I was. I fancied I heard Nan's voice calling me. I guessed I should be sent for." "Well, come now," said Hester in her hardest tones. "You were only sent for because Nan must be quieted at any risk. Come, and see if you can quiet her. I don't suppose," with a bitter laugh, "that you will succeed." "I think so," replied Annie, in a very soft and gentle tone. She walked back by Hester's side and entered the sick-room. She walked straight up to the little cot, and knelt down by Nan, and said, in that strangely melodious voice of hers-- "Little darling, Annie has come." "Me like 'oo," said Nan, with a satisfied coo in her voice, and she turned round on her side, with her back to Miss Danesbury and Hester, and her eyes fixed on Annie. "Sing `Four-and-twenty,' Annie; sing `Four-and-twenty,'" she said presently. "Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie," sang Annie in a low clear voice, without a moment's hesitation. She went through the old nursery rhyme once--twice. Then Nan interrupted her fretfully-- "Me don't want dat 'dain; sing `Boy Blue,' Annie." Annie sang. "`Tree Little Kittens,' Annie," interrupted the little voice presently. For more than two hours Annie knelt by the child, singing nursery rhyme after nursery rhyme, while the bright beautiful eyes were fixed on her face, and the little voice said incessantly-- "Sing, Annie--sing." "`Baby Bun,' now," said Nan, when Annie had come almost to the end of her selection. "Bye baby bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting-- He's gone to fetch a rabbit-skin, To place the baby bunting in." Over and over and over did Annie sing the words. Whenever, even for a brief moment she paused, Nan said-- "Sing, Annie--sing `Baby Bun.'" And all the time the eyes remained wide-open, and the little hands were burning hot; but, gradually, after more than two hours of constant singing, Annie began to fancy that the burning skin was cooler. Then-- could she believe it?--she saw the lids droop over the wide-open eyes. Five minutes later, to the tune of "Baby Bunting," Nan had fallen into a deep and sound sleep. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. A SPOILT BABY. In the morning Nan was better, and although for days she was in a very precarious state, and had to be kept as quiet as possible, yet Miss Danesbury's great dread that fever would set in had passed away. The doctor said, however, that Nan had barely escaped real injury to her brain, and that it would be many a day before she would romp again, and play freely and noisily with the other children. Nan had chosen her own nurse, and with the imperiousness of all babies--to say nothing of sick babies--she had her way. From morning till night Annie remained with her, and when the doctor saw how Annie alone could soothe and satisfy the child he would not allow it to be otherwise. At first Nan would lie with her hand in Annie's, and her little cry of "Sing, Annie," going on from lime to time; but as she grew better Annie would sit with her by the open window, with her head pillowed on her breast, and her arm round the little slender form, and Nan would smile and look adoringly at Annie, who would often return her gaze with intense sadness, and an indescribable something in her face which caused the little one to stroke her cheek tenderly, and say in her sweet baby voice-- "Poor Annie; poor tibby Annie!" They made a pretty picture as they sat there. Annie, with her charming gypsy face, her wild, luxuriant, curly hair, all the sauciness and unrest in her soothed by the magic of the little child's presence; and the little child herself, with her faint wild-rose colour, her dark deep eyes, clear as summer pools, and her sunshiny golden hair. But pretty as the picture was Hester loathed it, for Hester thought during these wretched days that her heart would break. Not that Nan turned away from Hetty; she petted her and kissed her and sometimes put an arm round Hetty and an arm round Annie, as though, if she could, she would draw them together; but anyone could see that her heart of hearts was given to Annie, and that Hester ranked second in her love. Hester would not for worlds express any of her bitter feelings before Annie; nay, as the doctor and Miss Danesbury both declared that, however culpable Annie might have been in causing the accident, she had saved little Nan's life by her wonderful skill in soothing her to sleep on the first night of her illness, Hester had felt obliged to grumble something which might have been taken for "thanks." Annie, in reply to this grumble, had bestowed upon Hester one of her quickest, brightest glances, for she fathomed the true state of Hester's heart toward her well enough. These were very bad days for poor Hester, and but for the avidity with which she threw herself into her studies she could scarcely have borne them. By slow degrees Nan got better; she was allowed to come downstairs and to sit in Annie's arms in the garden, and then Mrs Willis interfered, and said that Annie must go back to her studies, and only devote her usual play-hours and half-holidays to Nan's service. This mandate, however, produced woe and tribulation. The spoilt child screamed and beat her little hands, and worked herself up into such a pitch of excitement that that night she found her way in her sleep to Annie's room, and Annie had to quiet her by taking her into her bed. In the morning the doctor had to be sent for, and he instantly prescribed a day or two more of Annie's company for the child. Mrs Willis felt dreadfully puzzled. She had undertaken the charge of the little one: her father was already far away, so it was impossible now to make any change of plans; the child was ill--had been injured by an accident caused by Annie's carelessness and by Hester's want of self-control. But weak and ill as Nan still was, Mrs Willis felt that an undue amount of spoiling was good for no one. She thought it highly unjust to Annie to keep her from her school employments at this most important period of the year. If Annie did not reach a certain degree of excellence in her school marks she could not be promoted in her class. Mrs Willis did not expect the wild and heedless girl to carry off any special prizes; but her abilities were quite up to the average, and she always hoped to rouse sufficient ambition in her to enable her to acquire a good and sound education. Mrs Willis knew how necessary this was for poor Annie's future, and, after giving the doctor an assurance that Nan's whims and pleasures should be attended to for the next two or three days, she determined at the end of that time to assert her own authority with the child, and to insist on Annie working hard at her lessons, and returning to her usual school-room life. On the morning of the third day Mrs Willis made inquiries, heard that Nan had spent an excellent night, eaten a hearty breakfast, and was altogether looking blooming. When the girls assembled in the school-room for their lessons, Annie brought her little charge down to the large play-room, where they established themselves cosily, and Annie began to instruct little Nan in the mysteries of-- "Tic, tac, too, The little horse has lost his shoe." Nan was entering into the spirit of the game, was imagining herself a little horse, and was holding out her small foot to be shod, when Mrs Willis entered the room. "Come with me, Nan," she said; "I have got something to show you." Nan got up instantly, held out one hand to Mrs Willis and the other to Annie, and said, in her confident baby tones-- "Me tum; Annie tumming too." Mrs Willis said nothing, but, holding the little hand, and accompanied by Annie, she went out of the play-room, across the stone hall, and through the baize doors until she reached her own delightful private sitting-room. There were heaps of pretty things about, and Nan gazed round her with the appreciative glance of a pleased connoisseur. "Pitty 'oom," she said approvingly. "Nan likes this 'oom. Me'll stay here, and so will Annie." Here she uttered a sudden cry of rapture--on the floor, with its leaves temptingly open, lay a gayly-painted picture-book, and curled up in a soft fluffy ball by its side was a white Persian kitten asleep. Mrs Willis whispered something to Annie, who ran out of the room, and Nan knelt down in a perfect rapture of worship by the kitten's side. "Pitty tibby pussy!" she exclaimed several times, and she rubbed it so persistently the wrong way that the kitten shivered and stood up, arched its beck very high, yawned, turned round three times, and lay down again. Alas! "tibby pussy" was not allowed to have any continuous slumber. Nan dragged the Persian by its tail into her lap, and when it resisted this indignity, and with two or three light bounds disappeared out of the room, she stretched out her little hands and began to cry for it. "Turn back, puss, puss--turn back, poor tibby puss--Nan loves 'oo. Annie, go fetch puss for Nan." Then for the first time she discovered that Annie was absent, and that she was alone, with the exception of Mrs Willis, who sat busily writing at a distant table. Mrs Willis counted for nothing at all with Nan--she did not consider her of the smallest importance, and after giving her a quick glance of some disdain she began to trot round the room on a voyage of discovery. Any moment Annie would come back--Annie had, indeed, probably gone to fetch the kitten, and would quickly return with it. She walked slowly round and round, keeping well away from that part of the room where Mrs Willis sat. Presently she found a very choice little china jug, which she carefully subtracted with her small fingers from a cabinet, which contained many valuable treasures. She sat down on the floor exactly beneath the cabinet, and began to play with her jug. She went through in eager pantomime a little game which Annie had invented for her, and imagined that she was a little milkmaid, and that the jug was full of sweet new milk; she called out to an imaginary set of purchasers, "Want any milk?" and then she floured some by way of drops of milk into the palm of her little hand, which she drank up in the name of her customers with considerable gusto. Presently, knocking the little jug with some vehemence on the floor she deprived it with one neat blow of its handle and spout. Mrs Willis was busily writing, and did not look up. Nan was not in the least disconcerted; she said aloud-- "Poor tibby zug b'oke," and then she left the fragments on the floor, and started off on a fresh voyage of discovery. This time she dragged down a large photographic album on to a cushion, and, kneeling by it, began to look through the pictures, flapping the pages together with a loud noise, and laughing merrily as she did so. She was now much nearer to Mrs Willis, who was attracted by the sound, and looking up hastened to the rescue of one of her most precious collections of photographs. "Nan, dear," she said, "shut up that book at once. Nan mustn't touch. Shut the book, darling, and go and sit on the floor, and look at your nice-coloured pictures." Nan, still holding a chubby hand between the leaves of the album, gave Mrs Willis a full defiant glance, and said-- "Me won't." "Come, Nan," said the head-mistress. "Me want Annie," said Nan, still kneeling by the album, and, bending her head over the photographs, she turned the page and burst into a peal of laughter. "Pitty bow vow," she said, pointing to a photograph of a retriever; "oh, pitty bow woo, Nan loves 'oo." Mrs Willis stooped down and lifted the little girl into her arms. "Nan, dear," she said, "it is naughty to disobey. Sit down by your picture-book, and be a good girl." "Me won't," said Nan again, and here she raised her small dimpled hand and gave Mrs Willis a smart slap on her cheek. "Naughty lady, me don't like 'oo; go 'way. Nan want Annie--Nan do want Annie. Me don't love 'oo, naughty lady; go 'way." Mrs Willis took Nan on her knee. She felt that the little will must be bent to hers, but the task was no easy one. The child scarcely knew her, she was still weak and excitable, and she presently burst into storms of tears, and sobbed and sobbed as though her little heart would break, her one cry being for "Annie, Annie, Annie." When Annie did join her in the play hour, the little cheeks were flushed, the white brow ached, and the child's small hands were hot and feverish. Mrs Willis felt terribly puzzled. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. UNDER THE LAUREL-BUSH. Mrs Willis owned to herself that she was nonplussed; it was quite impossible to allow Annie to neglect her studies, and yet little Nan's health was still too precarious to allow her to run the risk of having the child constantly fretted. Suddenly a welcome idea occurred to her; she would write at once to Nan's old nurse, and see if she could come to Lavender House for the remainder of the present term. Mrs Willis dispatched her letter that very day, and by the following evening the nurse was once more in possession of her much-loved little charge. The habits of her babyhood were too strong for Nan; she returned to them gladly enough, and though in her heart of hearts she was still intensely loyal to Annie, she no longer fretted when she was not with her. Annie resumed her ordinary work and though Hester was very cold to her, several of the other girls in the school frankly confided to their favourite how much they had missed her, and how glad they were to have her back with them once more. Annie found herself at this time in an ever-shifting mood--one moment she longed intensely for a kiss, and a fervent pardon from Mrs Willis's lips; another, she said to herself defiantly she could and would live without it; one moment the hungry and sorrowful look in Hester's eyes went straight to Annie's heart, and she wished she might restore her little treasure whom she had stolen; the next she rejoiced in her strange power over Nan, and resolved to keep all the love she could get. In short, Annie was in that condition when she could be easily influenced for good or evil--she was in that state of weakness when temptation is least easily resisted. A few days after the arrival of Nan's nurse Mrs Willis was obliged unexpectedly to leave home; a near relative was dangerously ill in London, and the school-mistress went away in much trouble and anxiety. Some of her favourite pupils flocked to the front entrance to see their beloved mistress off. Amongst the group Cecil stood, and several girls of the first-class; many of the little girls were also present, but Annie was not amongst them. Just at the last moment she rushed up breathlessly; she was tying some starry jasmine and some blue forget-me-nots together, and as the carriage was moving off she flung the charming bouquet into her mistress's lap. Mrs Willis rewarded her with one of her old looks of confidence and love; she raised the flowers to her lips and kissed them, and her eyes smiled on Annie. "Good-bye, dear," she called out; "good-bye, all my dear girls; I will try and be back to-morrow night. Remember, my children, during my absence I trust you." The carriage disappeared down the avenue, and the group of girls melted away. Cecil looked round for Annie, but Annie had been the first to disappear. When her mistress had kissed the flowers and smiled at her, Annie darted into the shrubbery and stood there wiping the fast-falling tears from her eyes. She was interrupted in this occupation by the sudden cries of two glad and eager voices, and instantly her hands were taken, and some girls rather younger than herself began to drag her in the opposite direction through the shrubbery. "Come, Annie--come at once, Annie, darling," exclaimed Phyllis and Nora Raymond. "The basket has come; it's under the thick laurel-tree in the back avenue. We are all waiting for you; we none of us will open it till you arrive." Annie's face, a truly April one, changed as if by magic. The tears dried on her cheeks; her eyes filled with sunlight; she was all eager for the coming fun. "Then we won't lose a moment, Phyllis," she said; "we'll see what that duck of a Betty has done for us." The three girls scampered down the back avenue, where they found five of their companions, amongst them Susan Drummond, standing in different attitudes of expectation near a very large and low-growing laurel-tree. Everyone raised a shout when Annie appeared; she was undoubtedly recognised as queen and leader of the proceedings. She took her post without an instant's hesitation, and began ordering her willing subjects about. "Now, is the coast clear? yes, I think so. Come, Susie, greedy as you are, you must take your part. You alone of all of us can cackle with the exact imitation of an old hen: get behind that tree at once and watch the yard. Don't forget to cackle for your life if you even see the shadow of a footfall. Norah, my pretty birdie, you must be the thrush for the nonce; here, lake your post, watch the lawn and the front avenue. Now then, girls, the rest of us can see what spoils Betty has provided for us." The basket was dragged from its hiding-place, and longing faces peered eagerly and greedily into its contents. "On, oh! I say, cherries! and what a lot! Good Betty! dear, darling Betty! you gathered those from your own trees, and they are as ripe as your apple-blossom cheeks! Now then, what next? I do declare, meringues! Betty knew my weakness. Twelve meringues--that is one and a half apiece; Susan Drummond sha'n't have more than her share. Meringues and cheesecakes and--tartlets--oh! oh! what a duck Betty is! A plum-cake--good, excellent Betty, she deserves to be canonised! What have we here? Roast chickens--better and better! What is in this parcel? Slices of ham; Betty knew she dare not show her face again if she forgot the ham. Knives and forks, spoons--fresh rolls--salt and pepper, and a dozen bottles of ginger-beer, and a little corkscrew in case we want it." These various exclamations came from many lips. The contents of the basket were carefully and tenderly replaced, the lid was fastened down, and it was once more consigned to its hiding-place under the thick boughs of the laurel. Not a moment too soon, for just at this instant Susan cackled fiercely, and the little group withdrew, Annie first whispering-- "At twelve to-night, then, girls--oh, yes, I have managed the key." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. TRUANTS. It was a proverbial saying in the school that Annie Forest was always in hot water; she was exceedingly daring, and loved what she called a spice of danger. This was not the first stolen picnic at which Annie reigned as queen, but this was the largest she had yet organised, and this was the first time she had dared to go out of doors with her satellites. Hitherto these naughty sprites had been content to carry their baskets full of artfully-concealed provisions to a disused attic which was exactly over the box-room, and consequently out of reach of the inhabited part of the house. Here, making a table of a great chest which stood in the attic, they feasted gloriously, undisturbed by the musty smell or by the innumerable spiders and beetles which disappeared rapidly in all directions at their approach; but when Annie one day incautiously suggested that on summer nights the outside world was all at their disposal, they began to discover flaws in their banqueting-hall. Mary Price said the musty smell made her half sick; Phyllis declared that at the sight of a spider she invariably turned faint; and Susan Drummond was heard to murmur that in a dusty, fusty attic even meringues scarcely kept her awake. The girls were all wild to try a midnight picnic out of doors, and Annie in her present mood, was only too eager for the fun. With her usual skill she organised the whole undertaking, and eight agitated, slightly frightened, but much excited girls retired to their rooms that night. Annie, in her heart of hearts, felt rather sorry that Mrs Willis should happen to be away; dim ideas of honour and trustworthiness were still stirring in her breast, but she dared not think now. The night was in every respect propitious; the moon would not rise until after twelve, so the little party could get away under the friendly shelter of the darkness, and soon afterwards have plenty of light to enjoy their stolen feast. They had arranged to make no movement until close on midnight, and then they were all to meet in a passage which belonged to the kitchen regions, and where there was a side door which opened directly into the shrubbery. This door was not very often unlocked, and Annie had taken the key from its place in the lock some days before. She went to bed with her companions at nine o'clock as usual, and presently fell into an uneasy doze. She awoke to hear the great clock in the hall strike eleven and a few minutes afterwards she heard Miss Danesbury's footsteps retiring to her room at the other end of the passage. "Danesbury is always the last to go to bed," whispered Annie to herself; "I can get up presently." She lay for another twenty minutes, then, softly rising, began to put on her clothes in the dark. Over her dress she fastened her waterproof, and placed a close-fitting brown velvet cap on her curly head. Having dressed herself, she approached Susan's bed with the intention of rousing her. "I shall have fine work now," she said, "and shall probably have to resort to cold water. Really, if Susy proves too hard to wake, I shall let her sleep on--her drowsiness is past bearing." Annie, however, was considerably startled when she discovered that Miss Drummond's bed was without an occupant. At this moment the room door was very softly opened, and Susan, fully dressed and in her waterproof, came in. "Why, Susy, where have you been?" exclaimed Annie. "Fancy you being awake a moment before it is necessary!" "For once in a way I was restless," replied Miss Drummond, "so I thought I would get up, and take a turn in the passage outside. The house is perfectly quiet, and we can come now; most of the girls are already waiting at the side door." Holding their shoes in their hands, Annie and Susan went noiselessly down the carpetless stairs, and found the remaining six girls waiting for them by the side door. "Rover is our one last danger now," said Annie, as she fitted the well-oiled key into the lock. "Put on your shoes, girls, and let me out first; I think I can manage him." She was alluding to a great mastiff which was usually kept chained up by day. Phyllis and Norah laid their hands on her arm. "Oh, Annie, oh, love, suppose he seizes on you, and knocks you down--oh, dare you venture?" "Let me go," said Annie a little contemptuously; "you don't suppose I am afraid?" Her fingers trembled, for her nerves were highly strung; but she managed to unlock the door and draw back the bolts, and, opening it softly, she went out into the silent night. Very slight as the noise she made was, it had aroused the watchful Rover, who trotted around swiftly to know what was the matter. But Annie had made friends with Rover long ago by stealing to his kennel door and feeding him, and she had now but to say "Rover" in her melodious voice, and throw her arms around his neck, to completely subvert his morals. "He is one of us, girls," she called in a whisper to her companions; "come out. Rover will be as naughty as the rest of us, and go with us as our bodyguard to the fairies' field. Now, I will lock the door on the outside, and we can be off. Ah, the moon is getting up splendidly, and when we have secured Betty's basket, we shall be quite out of reach of danger." At Annie's words of encouragement the seven girls ventured out. She locked the door, put the key into her pocket, and, holding Rover by his collar; led the way in the direction of the laurel-bush. The basket was secured, and Susan, to her disgust, and Mary Morris were elected for the first part of the way to carry it. The young truants then walked quickly down the avenue until they came to a turn-stile which led into a wood. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. IN THE FAIRIES' FIELD. The moon had now come up brilliantly, and the little party were in the highest possible spirits. They had got safely away from the house, and there was now, comparatively speaking, little fear of discovery. The more timid ones, who ventured to confess that their hearts were in their mouths while Annie was unlocking the side door, now became the most excited, and perhaps the boldest, under the reaction, which set in. Even the wood, which was comparatively dark, with only patches of moonlight here and there, and queer weird shadows where the trees were thinnest, could not affect their spirits. The poor, sleepy rabbits must have been astonished that night at the shouts of the revellers, as they hurried past them, and the birds must have taken their sleepy heads from under their downy wings, and wondered if the morning had come some hours before its usual time. More than one solemn old owl blinked at them, and hooted as they passed, and told them in owl language what silly, naughty young things they were, and how they would repent of this dissipation by-and-by. But if the girls were to have an hour of remorse, it did not visit them then; their hearts were like feathers, and by the time they reached the fields where the fairies were supposed to play their spirits had become almost uncontrollable. Luckily for them this small green field lay in a secluded hollow, and more luckily for them no tramps were about to hear their merriment. Rover, who constituted himself Annie's protector, now lay down by her side, and as she was the real ringleader and queen of the occasion, she ordered her subjects about pretty sharply. "Now, girls, quick; open the basket. Yes, I'm going to rest. I have organised the whole thing, and I'm fairly tired; so I'll just sit quietly here, and Rover will take care of me while you set things straight. Ah! good Betty; she did not even forget the white table-cloth." Here one of the girls remarked casually that the grass was wet with dew, and that it was well they had all put on their waterproofs. Annie interrupted again in a petulant voice-- "Don't croak, Mary Morris. Out with the chickens, lay the ham in this corner, and the cherries will make a picturesque pile in the middle. Twelve meringues in all, that means a meringue and a half each. We shall have some difficulty in dividing. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how hungry I am! I was far too excited to eat anything at supper-time." "So was I," said Phyllis, coming up and pressing close to Annie. "I do think Miss Danesbury cuts the bread and butter too thick--don't you, Annie? I could not eat mine at all, to-night, and Cecil Temple asked me if I was not well." "Those who don't want chicken hold up their hands," here interrupted Annie, who had tossed her brown cap on the grass, and between whose brows a faint frown had passed for an instant at the mention of Cecil's name. The feast now began in earnest, and silence reigned for a short time, broken only by the clatter of plates, and such an occasional remark as "Pass the salt, please," "Pepper this way, if you've no objection," "How good chicken tastes in fairy-land," etc. At last the ginger-beer bottles began to pop--the girl's first hunger was appeased. Rover gladly crunched up all the bones, and conversation flowed once more, accompanied by the delicate diversion of taking alternate bites at meringues and cheesecakes. "I wish the fairies would come out," said Annie. "Oh, don't!" shivered Phyllis, looking round her nervously. "Annie, darling, do tell us a ghost story," cried several voices. Annie laughed, and commenced a series of nonsense tales, all of a slightly eerie character, which she made up on the spot. The moon riding high in the heavens looked down on the young giddy heads, and their laughter, naughty as they were, sounded sweet in the night air. Time flew quickly, and the girls suddenly discovered that they must pack up their table-cloth and remove all traces of the feast unless they wished the bright light of morning to discover them. They rose hastily, sighing, and slightly depressed now that their fun was over. The white table-cloth, no longer very white, was packed into the basket, the ginger-beer bottles placed on top of it, and the lid fastened down. Not a crumb of the feast remained; Rover had demolished the bones, and the eight girls had made short work of everything else, with the exception of the cherry-stones, which Phyllis carefully collected and popped into a little hole in the ground. The party then progressed slowly homewards, and once more entered the dark wood. They were much more silent now; the wood was darker, and the chill which foretells the dawn was making itself felt in the air. Either the sense of cold, or a certain effect produced by Annie's ridiculous stories, made many of the little party unduly nervous. They had only taken a few steps through the wood when Phyllis suddenly uttered a piercing shriek. This shriek was echoed by Nora and by Mary Morris, and all their hearts seemed to leap into their mouths when they saw something move among the trees. Rover uttered a growl, and, but for Annie's detaining hand, would have sprung forward. The high-spirited girl was not to be easily daunted. "Behold, girls, the goblin of the woods," she exclaimed. "Quiet, Rover; stand still." The next instant the fears of the little party reached their culmination when a tall, dark figure stood directly in their paths. "If you don't let us pass at once," said Annie's voice, "I'll set Rover at you." The dog began to bark loudly, and quivered from head to foot. The figure moved a little to one side, and a rather deep and slightly dramatic voice said-- "I mean you no harm, young ladies; I'm only a gypsy-mother from the tents yonder. You are welcome to get back to Lavender House. I have then one course plain before me." "Come on, girls," said Annie, now considerably frightened, while Phyllis, and Nora, and one or two more began to sob. "Look here, young ladies," said the gypsy in a whining voice, "I don't mean you no harm, my pretties, and it's no affair of mine telling the good ladies at Lavender House what I've seen. You cross my hand, dears, each of you, with a bit of silver, and all I'll do is to tell your pretty fortunes, and mum is the word with the gypsy-mother as far as this night's prank is concerned." "We had better do it, Annie--we had better do it," here sobbed Phyllis. "If this was found out by Mrs Willis we might be expelled--we might, indeed; and that horrid woman is sure to tell of us--I know she is." "Quite sure to tell, dear," said the tall gypsy, dropping a curtsey in a manner which looked frightfully sarcastic in the long shadows made by the trees. "Quite sure to tell, and to be expelled is the very least that could happen to such naughty little ladies. Here's a nice little bit of clearing in the wood, and we'll all come over, and Mother Rachel will tell your fortunes in a twinkling, and no one will be the wiser. Sixpence apiece, my dears--only sixpence apiece." "Oh, come; do, do come," said Nora, and the next moment they were all standing in a circle round Mother Rachel, who pocketed her black-mail eagerly, and repeated some gibberish over each little hand. Over Annie's palm she lingered for a brief moment, and looked with her penetrating eyes into the girl's face. "You'll have suffering before you, miss; some suspicion, and danger even to life itself. But you'll triumph, my dear, you'll triumph. You're a plucky one, and you'll do a brave deed. There--good-night, young ladies; you have nothing more to fear from Mother Rachel." The tall dark figure disappeared into the blackest shadows of the wood, and the girls, now like so many frightened hares, flew home. They deposited their basket where Betty would find it, under the shadow of the great laurel in the back avenue. They all bade Rover an affectionate "good-night." Annie softly unlocked the side door, and one by one, with their shoes in their hands, they regained their bedrooms. They were all very tired, and very cold, and a dull fear and sense of insecurity rested over each little heart. Suppose Mother Rachel proved unfaithful, notwithstanding the sixpences? CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. HESTER'S FORGOTTEN BOOK. It wanted scarcely three weeks to the holidays, and therefore scarcely three weeks to that auspicious day when Lavender House was to be the scene of one long triumph, and was to be the happy spot selected for a Midsummer holiday, accompanied by all that could make a holiday perfect--for youth and health would be there, and even the unsuccessful competitors for the great prizes would not have too sore hearts, for they would know that on the next day they were going home. Each girl who had done her best would have a word of commendation, and only those who were very naughty, or very stubborn, could resist the all-potent elixir of happiness which would be poured out so abundantly for Mrs Willis's pupils on this day. Now that the time was drawing so near, those girls who were working for prizes found themselves fully occupied from morning to night. In play-hours even, girls would be seen with their heads bent over their books, and, between the prizes and the acting, no little bees in any hive could be more constantly employed than were these young girls just now. No happiness is, after all, to be compared to the happiness of healthful occupation. Busy people have no time to fret and no time to grumble. According to our old friend, Dr Watts, people who are healthily busy have also no time to be naughty, for the old doctor says that it is for idle hands that mischief is prepared. Be that as it may, and there is great truth in it, some naughty sprites, some bad fairies, were flitting around and about that apparently peaceful atmosphere. That sunny home, governed by all that was sweet and good, was not without its serpent. Of all the prizes which attracted interest and aroused competition, the prize for English composition was this year the most popular. In the first place, this was known to be Mrs Willis's own favourite subject. She had a great wish that her girls should write intelligibly--she had a greater wish that, if possible, they should think. "Never was there so much written and printed," she was often heard to say; "but can anyone show me a book with thoughts in it? Can anyone show me, unless as a rare exception, a book which will live? Oh, yes, these books which issue from the press in thousands are, many of them, very smart, a great many of them clever, but they are thrown off too quickly. All great things, great books amongst them, must be evolved slowly." Then she would tell her pupils what she considered the reason of this. "In these days," she would say, "all girls are what is called highly educated. Girls and boys alike must go in for competitive examinations, must take out diplomas, and must pass certain standards of excellence. The system is cramming from beginning to end. There is no time for reflection. In short, my dear girls, you swallow a great deal, but you do not digest your intellectual food." Mrs Willis hailed with pleasure any little dawnings of real thought in her girls' prize essays. More than once she bestowed the prize upon the essay which seemed to the girls the most crude and unfinished. "Never mind," she would say, "here is an idea--or at least half an idea. This little bit of composition is original, and not, at best, a poor imitation of Sir Walter Scott or Lord Macaulay." Thus the girls found a strong stimulus to be their real selves in these little essays, and the best of them chose their subject and let it ferment in their brains without the aid of books, except for the more technical parts. More than one girl in the school was surprised at Dora Russell exerting herself to try for the prize essay. She was just about to close her school career, and they could not make out why she roused herself to work for the most difficult prize, for which she would have to compete with any girl in the school who chose to make a similar attempt. Dora, however, had her own, not very high motive for making the attempt. She was a thoroughly accomplished girl, graceful in her appearance and manner; in short, just the sort of girl who would be supposed to do credit to a school. She played with finish, and even delicacy of touch. There was certainly no soul in her music, but neither were there any wrong notes. Her drawings were equally correct, her perspective good, her trees were real trees, and the colouring of her water-colour sketches was pure. She spoke French extremely well, and with a correct accent, and her German also was above the average. Nevertheless, Dora was commonplace, and those girls who knew her best spoke sarcastically, and smiled at one another when she alluded to her prize essay, and seemed confident of being the successful competitor. "You won't like to be beaten, Dora, say, by Annie Forest," they would laughingly remark; whereupon Dora's calm face would slightly flush and her lips would assume a very proud curve. If there was one thing she could not bear it was to be beaten. "Why do you try for it, Dora?" her class-fellows would ask; but here Dora made no reply: she kept her reason to herself. The fact was Dora, who must be a copyist to the end of the chapter, and who could never to her latest day do anything original, had determined to try for the composition prize because she happened accidentally to hear a conversation between Mrs Willis and Miss Danesbury, in which something was said about a gold locket with Mrs Willis's portrait inside. Dora instantly jumped at the conclusion that this was to be the great prize bestowed upon the successful essayist. Delightful idea; how well the trinket would look round her smooth white throat! Instantly she determined to try for this prize, and of course as instantly the bare idea of defeat became intolerable to her. She went steadily and methodically to work. With extreme care she chose her subject. Knowing something of Mrs Willis's peculiarities, she determined that her theme should not be historical; she believed that she could express herself freely and with power if only she could secure an un-hackneyed subject. Suddenly an idea which she considered brilliant occurred to her. She would call her composition "The River." This should not bear reference to Father Thames, or any other special river of England, but it should trace the windings of some fabled stream of Dora's imagination, which, as it flowed along, should tell something of the story of the many places by which it passed. Dora was charmed with her own thought, and worked hard, evening after evening, at her subject, covering sheets of manuscript paper with pencilled jottings, and arranging and rearranging her somewhat confused thoughts. She greatly admired a perfectly rounded period, and she was most particular as to the style in which she wrote. For the purpose of improving her style she even studied old volumes of Addison's _Spectator_; but after a time she gave up this course of study, for she found it so difficult to mould her English to Addison's that she came to the comfortable conclusion that Addison was decidedly obsolete, and that if she wished to do full justice to "The River" she must trust to her own unaided genius. At last the first ten pages were written. The subject was entered upon with considerable flourishes, and some rather apt poetical quotations from a book containing a collection of poems; the river itself had already left its home in the mountain, and was careering merrily past sunny meadows and little rural, impossible cottages, where the golden-haired children played. Dora made a very neat copy of her essay so far. She now began to see her way clearly--there would be a very powerful passage as the river approached the murky town. Here, indeed, would be room for powerful and pathetic writing. She wondered if she might venture so far as to hide a suicide in her rushing waters; and then at last the brawling river would lose itself in the sea; and, of course, there would not be the smallest connection between her river, and Kingsley's well-known song, "Clear and cool." She finished writing her ten pages, and being now positively certain of her gold locket, went to bed in a happy state of mind. This was the very night when Annie was to lead her revellers through the dark wood, but Dora, who never troubled herself about the younger classes, would have been certainly the last to notice the fact that a few of the girls in Lavender House seemed little disposed to eat their suppers of thick bread-and-butter and milk. She went to bed and dreamt happy dreams about her golden locket, and had little idea that any mischief was about to be performed. Hester Thornton also, but in a very different spirit, was working hard at her essay. Hester worked conscientiously; she had chosen "Marie Antoinette" as her theme, and she read the sorrowful story of the beautiful queen with intense interest, and tried hard to get herself into the spirit of the times about which she must write. She had scarcely begun her essay yet, but she had already collected most of the historical facts. Hester was a very careful little student, and as she prepared herself for the great work. She thought little or nothing about the prize; she only wanted to do justice to the unfortunate Queen of France. She was in bed that night, and just dropping off to sleep, when she suddenly remembered that she had left a volume of French poetry on her school-desk. This was against the rules, and she knew that Miss Danesbury would confiscate the book in the morning, and would not let her have it back for a week. Hester particularly wanted this special book just now, as some of the verses bore reference to her subject, and she could scarcely get on with her essay without having it to refer to She must lose no time in instantly beginning to write her essay, and to do without her book of poetry for a week would be a serious injury to her. She resolved, therefore, to break through one of the rules, and, after lying awake until the whole house was quiet, to slip downstairs, enter the school-room and secure her poems. She heard the clock strike eleven, and she knew that in a very few moments Miss Danesbury and Miss Good would have retired to their rooms. Ah, yes, that was Miss Danesbury's step passing her door. Ten minutes later she glided out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown, and opening her door, ran swiftly down the carpetless stairs, and found herself in the great stone hall which led to the school-room. She was surprised to find the school-room door a little ajar, but she entered the room without hesitation, and, dark as it was, soon found her desk, and the book of poems lying on the top. Hester was about to return when she was startled by a little noise in that portion of the room where the first-class girls sat. The next moment somebody came heavily and rather clumsily down the room, and the moon which was just beginning to rise fell for an instant on a girl's face. Hester recognised the face of Susan Drummond. What could she be doing here? She did not dare to speak, for she herself had broken a rule in visiting the school-room. She remained, therefore, perfectly still until Susan's steps died away, and then, thankful to have secured her own property, returned to her bedroom, and a moment or two later was sound asleep. CHAPTER THIRTY. "A MUDDY STREAM." In the morning Dora Russell sat down as usual before her orderly and neatly-kept desk. She raised the lid to find everything in its place-- her books and exercises all as they should be, and her pet essay in a neat brown-paper cover, lying just as she had left it the night before. She was really getting quite excited about her river, and as this was a half-holiday, she determined to have a good work at it in the afternoon. She was beginning also to experience that longing for an auditor which occasionally is known to trouble the breasts of genius. She felt that those graceful ideas, that elegant language, those measured periods, might strike happily on some other ears before they were read aloud as the great work of the Midsummer holidays. She knew that Hester Thornton was making what she was pleased to term a poor little attempt at trying for the same prize. Hester would scarcely venture to copy anything from Dora's essay; she would probably be discouraged, poor girl, in working any longer at her own composition; but Dora felt that the temptation to read "The River," as far as it had gone, to Hester was really too great to be resisted. Accordingly, after dinner she graciously invited Hester to accompany her to a bower in the garden, where the two friends might revel over the results of Dora's extraordinary talents. Hester was still, to a certain extent, under Dora's influence, and had not the courage to tell her that she intended to be very busy over her own essay this afternoon. "Now, Hester, dear," said Dora, when they found themselves both seated in the bower, "you are the only girl in the school to whom I could confide the subject of my great essay. I really believe that I have hit on something absolutely original. My dear child, I hope you won't allow yourself to be discouraged. I fear that you won't have much heart to go on with your theme after you have read my words; but, never mind, dear, it will be good practice for you, and you know it _was_ rather silly to go in for a prize which I intended to compete for." "May I read your essay, please, Dora?" asked Hester. "I am very much interested in my own study, and, whether I win the prize or not, I shall always remember the pleasure I took in writing it." "What subject did you select, dear?" inquired Miss Russell. "Well, I am attempting a little sketch of Marie Antoinette." "Ah, hackneyed, my dear girl--terribly hackneyed; but, of course, I don't mean to discourage you. _Now_!--I draw a life--picture, and I call it `The River.' See how it begins--why, I declare I know the words by heart, `_As our eyes rest on this clear and limpid stream, as we see the sun sparkle_.' My dear Hester, you shall read me my essay aloud. I shall like to hear my own words from your lips, and you have really a pretty accent, dear." Hester folded back the brown-paper cover, and wanting to have her task over began to read nastily. But, as her eyes rested on the first lines, she turned to her companion, and said-- "Did you not tell me that your essay was called `The River'?" "Yes, dear; the full title is `The Windings of a Noble River.'" "That's very odd," replied Hester. "What I see here is `The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream.' `_As our dull orbs rest on this turbid water on which the sun cannot possibly shine_.' Why, Dora, this cannot be your essay, and yet, surely, it is your handwriting." Dora, with her face suddenly flushing a vivid crimson, snatched the manuscript from Hester's hand, and looked over it eagerly. Alas! there was no doubt. The title of this essay was "The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream," and the words which immediately followed were a smart and ridiculous parody on her own high-flown sentences. The resemblance to her handwriting was perfect. The brown-paper cover, neatly sewn on to protect the white manuscript, was undoubtedly her cover; the very paper on which the words were written seemed in all particulars the same. Dora turned the sheets eagerly, and here for the first time she saw a difference. Only four or five pages of the nonsense essay had been attempted, and the night before, when finishing her toil, she had proudly numbered her tenth page. She looked through the whole thing, turning leaf after leaf, while her cheeks were crimson, and her hands trembled. In the first moment of horrible humiliation and dismay she literally could not speak. At last, springing to her feet, and confronting the astonished and almost frightened Hester, she found her voice. "Hester, you must help me in this. The most dreadful, the most atrocious fraud has been committed. Some one has been base enough, audacious enough, wicked enough, to go to my desk privately, and take away my real essay--my work over which I have laboured and toiled. The expressions of my--my--yes, I will say it--my genius, have been ruthlessly burnt, or otherwise made away with, and _this_ thing has been put in their place. Hester, why don't you speak--why do you stare at me like this?" "I am puzzled by the writing," said Hester; "the writing is yours." "The writing is mine!--oh, you wicked girl! The writing is an imitation of mine--a feeble and poor imitation. I thought, Hester, that by this time you knew your friend's handwriting. I thought that one in whom I have confided--one whom I have stooped to notice because I fancied we had a community of soul, would not be so ridiculous and so silly as to mistake this writing for mine. Look again, please, Hester Thornton, and tell me if I am ever so vulgar as to cross my _t's_. You know I _always_ loop them; and do I make a capital B in this fashion? And do I indulge in flourishes? I grant you that the general effect to a casual observer would be something the same, but you, Hester--I thought you knew me better." Here Hester, examining the false essay, had to confess that the crossed _t's_ and the flourishes were unlike Miss Russell's calligraphy. "It is a forgery, most cleverly done," said Dora. "There is such a thing, Hester, as being wickedly clever. This spiteful, cruel attempt to injure another can have but proceeded from one _very_ low order of mind. Hester, there has been plenty of favouritism in this school, but do you suppose I shall allow such a thing as this to pass over unsearched into? If necessary, I shall ask my father to interfere. This is a slight--an outrage; but the whole mystery shall at last be cleared up. Miss Good and Miss Danesbury shall be informed at once, and the very instant Mrs Willis returns she shall be told what a serpent she has been nursing in this false, wicked girl, Annie Forest." "Stop, Dora," said Hester suddenly. She sprang to her feet, clasping her hands, and her colour varied rapidly from white to red. A sudden light poured in upon her, and she was about to speak when something-- quite a small, trivial thing--occurred. She only saw little Nan in the distance flying swiftly, with outstretched arms, to meet a girl, whose knees she clasped in baby ecstasy. The girl stooped down and kissed the little face, and the round arms were flung around her neck. The next instant Annie Forest continued her walk alone, and Nan, looking wistfully back after her, went in another direction with her nurse. The whole scene took but a moment to enact, but as she watched, Hester's face grew hard and white. She sat down again, with her lips firmly pressed together. "What is it, Hester?" exclaimed Dora. "What were you going to say? You surely know nothing about this?" "Well, Dora, I am not the guilty person. I was only going to remark that you cannot be _sure_ it is Annie Forest." "Oh, so you are going to take that horrid girl's part now? I wonder at you! She all but killed your little sister, and then stole her love away from you. Did you see the little thing now, how she flew to her? Why, she never kisses you like that." "I know--I know," said Hester, and she turned away her face with a groan, and leant forward against the rustic bench, pressing her hot forehead down on her hands. "You'll have your triumph, Hester, when Miss Forest is publicly expelled," said Dora, tapping her lightly on the shoulder, and then, taking up the forged essay, she went slowly out of the garden. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD AND BAD ANGELS. Hester stayed behind in the shady little arbour, and then, on that soft spring day, while the birds sang overhead, and the warm light breezes came in and fanned her hot cheeks, good angels and bad drew near to fight for a victory. Which would conquer? Hester had many faults, but hitherto she had been honourable and truthful; her sins had been those of pride and jealousy, but she had never told a falsehood in her life. She, knew perfectly--she trembled as the full knowledge overpowered her--that she had it in her power to exonerate Annie. She could not in the least imagine now stupid Susan Drummond could contrive and carry out such a clever and deep-laid plot; but she knew also that if she related what she had seen with her own eyes the night before, she would probably give such a clew to the apparent mystery that the truth would come to light. If Annie was cleared from this accusation, doubtless the old story of her supposed guilt with regard to Mrs Willis's caricature would also be read with its right key. Hester was a clever and sharp girl; and the fact of seeing Susan Drummond in the school-room in the dead of night opened her eyes also to one or two other apparent little mysteries. While Susan was her own room-mate she had often given a passing wonder to the fact of her extraordinary desire to overcome her sleepiness, and had laughed over the expedients Susan had used to wake at all moments. These things, at the time, had scarcely given her a moment's serious reflection; but now she pondered them carefully, and became more and more certain that, for some inexplicable and unfathomable reason, sleepy, and apparently innocent, Susan Drummond wished to sow the seeds of mischief and discord in the school. Hester was sure that if she chose to speak now she could clear poor Annie, and restore her to her lost place in Mrs Willis's favour. Should she do so?--ah! should she? Her lips trembled, her colour came and went as the angels, good and bad, fought hard for victory within her. How she had longed to revenge herself on Annie! How cordially she had hated her! Now was the moment of her revenge. She had but to remain silent now, and to let matters take their course; she had but to hold her tongue about the little incident of last night, and, without any doubt, circumstantial evidence would point at Annie Forest, and she would be expelled from the school. Mrs Willis must condemn her now. Mr Everard must pronounce her guilty now. She would go, and when the coast was again clear the love which she had taken from Hester--the precious love of Hester's only little sister--would return. "You will be miserable: you will be miserable," whispered the good angels sorrowfully in her ear; but she did not listen to them. "I said I would revenge myself, and this is my opportunity," she murmured. "Silence--just simply silence--will be my revenge." Then the good angels went sorrowfully back to their Father in heaven, and the wicked angels rejoiced. Hester had fallen very low. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. FRESH SUSPICIONS. Mrs Willis was not at home many hours before Dora Russell begged for an interview with her. Annie had not as yet heard anything of the changed essay; for Dora had resolved to keep the thing a secret until Mrs Willis herself took the matter in hand. Annie was feeling not a little anxious and depressed. She was sorry now that she had led the girls that wild escapade through the wood. Phyllis and Nora were both suffering from heavy colds in consequence, and Susan Drummond was looking more pasty about her complexion, and was more dismally sleepy than usual. Annie was going through her usual season of intense remorse after one of her wild pranks. No one repented with more apparent fervour than she did, and yet no one so easily succumbed to the next temptation. Had Annie been alone in the matter she would have gone straight to Mrs Willis and confessed all; but she could not do this without implicating her companions, who would have screamed with horror at the very suggestion. All the girls were more or less depressed by the knowledge that the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, shared their secret; and they often whispered together as to the chances of her betraying them. Old Betty they could trust; for Betty, the cake-woman, had been an arch-conspirator with the naughty girls of Lavender House from time immemorial. Betty had always managed to provide their stolen suppers for them, and had been most accommodating in the matter of pay. Yes, with Betty they felt they were safe; but Mother Rachel was a different person. She might like to be paid a few more sixpences for her silence; she might hover about the grounds; she might be noticed. At any moment she might boldly demand an interview with Mrs Willis. "I'm awfully afraid of Mother Rachel," Phyllis moaned, as she shivered under the influence of her bad cold. Nora said "I should faint if I saw her again, I know I should while the other girls always went out provided with stray sixpences, in case the gypsy-mother should start up from some unexpected quarter and demand black-mail." On the day of Mrs Willis's return, Annie was pacing up and down the shady walk, and indulging in some rather melancholy and regretful thoughts, when Susan Drummond and Mary Morris rushed up to her, white with terror. "She's down there by the copse, and she's beckoning to us! Oh, do come with us--do, darling, dear Annie." "There's no use in it," replied Annie; "Mother Rachel wants money, and I am not going to give her any. Don't be afraid of her, girls, and don't give her money. After all, why should she tell on us? she would gain nothing by doing so." "Oh, yes, she would, Annie--she would, Annie," said Mary Morris, beginning to sob; "oh, do come with us, do! We must pacify her, we really must." "I can't come now," said Annie; "hark! some one is calling me. Yes, Miss Danesbury--what is it?" "Mrs Willis wishes to see you at once, Annie, in her private sitting-room," replied Miss Danesbury; and Annie, wondering not a little, but quite unsuspicious, ran off. The fact, however, of her having deliberately disobeyed Mrs Willis, and done something which she knew would greatly pain her, brought a shade of embarrassment to her usually candid face. She had also to confess to herself that she did not feel quite so comfortable about Mother Rachel as she had given Mary Morris and Susan Drummond to understand. Her steps lagged more and more as she approached the house, and she wished, oh, how longingly! oh, how regretfully! that she had not been naughty and wild and disobedient in her beloved teacher's absence. "But where is the use of regretting what is done?" she said, half aloud. "I know I can never be good--never, never!" She pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains which shaded the door of the private sitting-room, and went in, to find Mrs Willis seated by her desk, very pale and tired and unhappy looking, while Dora Russell, with crimson spots on her cheeks and a very angry glitter in her eyes, stood by the mantelpiece. "Come here, Annie dear," said Mrs Willis in her usual gentle and affectionate tone. Annie's first wild impulse was to rush to her governess's side, to fling her arms round her neck, and, as a child would confess to her mother, to tell her all that story of the walk through the wood, and the stolen picnic in the fairies' field. Three things, however, restrained her-- she must not relieve her own troubles at the expense of betraying others; she could not, even if she were willing, say a word in the presence of this cold and angry-looking Dora; in the third place, Mrs Willis looked very tired and very sad. Not for worlds would she add to her troubles at this instant. She came into the room, however, with a slight hesitation of manner, and a clouded brow, which caused Mrs Willis to watch her with anxiety, and Dora with triumph. "Come here, Annie," repeated the governess. "I want to speak to you. Something very dishonourable and disgraceful has been done in my absence." Annie's face suddenly became as white as a sheet. Could the gypsy-mother have already betrayed them all? Mrs Willis, noticing her too evident confusion, continued in a voice, which, in spite of herself, became stern and severe. "I shall expect the truth at any cost, my dear. Look at this manuscript-book. Do you know anything of the handwriting?" "Why, it is yours, of course, Dora," said Annie, who was now absolutely bewildered. "It is _not_ mine," began Dora, but Mrs Willis held up her hand. "Allow me to speak, Miss Russell. I can best explain matters. Annie, during my absence some one has been guilty of a very base and wicked act. One of the girls in this school has gone secretly to Dora Russell's desk, and taken away ten pages of an essay which she had called `The River,' and which she was preparing for the prize competition next month. Instead of Dora's essay this that you now see was put in its place. Examine it, my dear. Can you tell me anything about it?" Annie took the manuscript-book, and turned the leaves. "Is it meant for a parody?" she asked, after a pause; "it sounds ridiculous. No, Mrs Willis, I know nothing whatever about it; some one has imitated Dora's handwriting. I cannot imagine who is the culprit." She threw the manuscript-book with a certain easy carelessness on the table by her side, and glanced up with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes at Dora. "I suppose it is meant for a clever parody," she repeated; "at least it is amusing." Her manner displeased Mrs Willis, and very nearly maddened poor Dora. "We have not sent for you, Annie," said her teacher, "to ask you your opinion of the parody, but to try and get you to throw light on the subject. We must find out, and at once, who has been so wicked as to deliberately injure another girl." "But why have you sent for _me_?" asked Annie, drawing herself up, and speaking with a little shade of haughtiness. "Because," said Dora Russell, who could no longer contain her outraged feelings, "because you alone can throw light on it--because you alone in the school are base enough to do anything so mean--because you alone can caricature." "Oh, that is it," said Annie; "you suspect me, then. Do _you_ suspect me, Mrs Willis?" "My dear--what can I say?" "Nothing, if you do. In this school my word has long gone for nothing. I am a naughty, headstrong, wilful girl, but in this matter I am perfectly innocent. I never saw that essay before; I never in all my life went to Dora Russell's desk. I am headstrong and wild, but I don't do spiteful things. I have no object in injuring Dora; she is nothing to me--nothing. She is trying for the essay prize, but she has no chance of winning it. Why should I trouble myself to injure her? why should I even take the pains to parody her words and copy her handwriting? Mrs Willis, you need not believe me--I see you do not believe me--but I am quite innocent." Here Annie burst into sudden tears, and ran out of the room. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. UNTRUSTWORTHY. Dora Russell had declared, in Hester's presence, and with intense energy in her manner, that the author of the insult to which she had been exposed should be publicly punished, and, if possible, expelled. On the evening of her interview with the head teacher, she had so far forgotten herself as to reiterate this desire with extreme vehemence. She had boldly declared her firm conviction of Annie's guilt, and had broadly hinted at Mrs Willis's favouritism toward her. The great dignity, however, of her teacher's manner, and the half-sorrowful, half-indignant look she bestowed on the excited girl, calmed her down after a time. Mrs Willis felt full sympathy for Dora, and could well understand how trying and aggravating this practical joke must be to so proud a girl; but although her faith was undoubtedly shaken in Annie, she would not allow this sentiment to appear. "I will do all I can for you, Dora," she said, when the weeping Annie had left the room; "I will do everything in my power to find out who has injured you. Annie has absolutely denied the accusation you bring against her, and unless her guilt can be proved it is but right to believe her innocent. There are many other girls in Lavender House; and to-morrow morning I will sift this unpleasant affair to the very bottom. Go, now, my dear, and if you have sufficient self-command and self-control, try to have courage to write your essay over again. I have no doubt that your second rendering of your subject will be more attractive than the first. Beginners cannot too often re-write their themes." Dora gave her head a proud little toss, but she was sufficiently in awe of Mrs Willis to keep back any retort, and she went out of the room feeling unsatisfied and wretched, and inclined for a sympathising chat with her little friend, Hester Thornton. Hester, however, when she reached her, seemed not at all disposed to talk to anyone. "I've had it all out with Mrs Willis, and there is no doubt she will be exposed to-morrow morning," said Dora, half aloud. Hester, whose head was bent over her French history, looked up with an annoyed expression. "Who will be exposed?" she asked, in a petulant voice. "Oh, how stupid you are growing, Hester Thornton!" exclaimed Dora; "why, that horrid Annie Forest, of course--but really I have no patience to talk to you; you have lost all your spirit. I was very foolish to demean myself by taking so much notice of one of the little girls." Dora sailed down the play-room to her own drawing-room, fully expecting Hester to rise and rush after her; but to her surprise Hester did not stir, but sat with her head bent over her book, and her cheeks slightly flushed. The next morning Mrs Willis kept her word to Dora, and made the very strictest inquiries with regard to the practical joke to which Dora had been subjected. She first of all fully explained what had taken place in the presence of the whole school, and then each girl was called up in rotation, and asked two questions: first, had she done this mischievous thing herself? second, could she throw any light on the subject? One by one each girl appeared before her teacher, replied in the negative to both queries, and returned to her seat. "Now, girls," said Mrs Willis, "you have each of you denied this charge. Such a thing as has happened to Dora could not have been done without hands. The teachers in the school are above suspicion; the servants are none of them clever enough to perform this base trick. I suspect one of you, and I am quite determined to get at the truth. During the whole of this half-year there has been a spirit of unhappiness, of mischief, and of suspicion in our midst. Under these circumstances love cannot thrive; under these circumstances the true and ennobling sense of brotherly kindness, and all those feelings which real religion prompt must languish. I tell you all now plainly that I will not have this thing in Lavender House. It is simply disgraceful for one girl to play such tricks on her fellows. This is not the first time nor the second time that the school-desks have been tampered with. I will find out--I am determined to find out, who this dishonest person is; and as she has not chosen to confess to me, as she has preferred falsehood to truth, I will visit her, when I do discover her, with my very gravest displeasure. In this school I have always endeavoured to inculcate the true principles of honour and of trust. I have laid down certain broad rules, and expect them to be obeyed; but I have never hampered you with petty and humiliating restraints. I have given you a certain freedom, which I believed to be for your best good, and I have never suspected one of you until you have given me due cause. "Now, however, I tell you plainly that I alter all my tactics. One girl sitting in this room is guilty. For her sake I shall treat you all as guilty, and punish you accordingly. For the remainder of this term, or until the hour when the guilty girl chooses to release her companions, you are all, with the exception of the little children and Miss Russell, who can scarcely have played this trick on herself, under punishment. I withdraw your half-holidays--I take from you the use of the South Parlour for your acting, and every drawing-room in the play-room is confiscated. But this, is not all that I do. In taking from you my trust, I must treat you as untrustworthy--you will no longer enjoy the liberty you used to delight in--everywhere you will be watched. A teacher will sit in your play-room with you, a teacher will accompany you into the grounds, and I tell you plainly, girls, that chance words and phrases which drop from your lips shall be taken up, and used, if necessary, to the elucidation of this disgraceful mystery." Here Mrs Willis left the room, and the teachers desired the several girls in their classes to attend to their morning studies. Nothing could exceed the dismay which her words had produced. The innocent girls were fairly stunned, and from that hour for many a day all sunshine and happiness seemed really to have left Lavender House. The two, however, who felt the change most acutely, and on whose altered faces their companions began to fix suspicious eyes, were Annie Forest and Hester Thornton. Hester was burdened with an intolerable sense of the shameful falsehood she had told; Annie, guilty in another matter, succumbed at last utterly to a sense of misery and injustice. Her orphaned and lonely position for the first time began to tell on her; she ate little and slept little, her face grew very pale and thin, and her health really suffered. All the routine of happy life at Lavender House was changed. In the large play-room the drawing-rooms were unused; there were no pleasant little knots of girls whispering happily and confidentially together, for whenever two or three girls sat down to have a chat they found that one or another of the teachers was within hearing. The acting for the coming play progressed so languidly that no one expected it would really take place, and the one relief and relaxation to the unhappy girls lay in the fact that the holidays were not far off, and that in the meantime they might work hard for the prizes. The days passed in a truly melancholy fashion, and, perhaps, for the first time the girls fully appreciated the old privileges of freedom and trust which were now forfeited. There was a feeble little attempt at a joke and a laugh in the school at Dora's expense. The most frivolous of the girls whispered of her as she passed as "the muddy stream;" but no one took up the fun with avidity--the shadow of somebody's sin had fallen too heavily upon all the bright young lives. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. BETTY FALLS ILL AT AN AWKWARD TIME. The eight girls who had gone out on their midnight picnic were much startled one day by an unpleasant discovery. Betty had never come for her basket. Susan Drummond, who had a good deal of curiosity, and always poked her nose into unexpected corners, had been walking with a Miss Allison in that part of the grounds where the laurel-bush stood. She had caught a peep of the white handle of the basket, and had instantly turned her companion's attention to something else. Miss Allison had not observed Susan's start of dismay; but Susan had taken the first opportunity of getting rid of her, and had run off in search of one of the girls who had shared in the picnic. She came across Annie Forest, who was walking, as usual, by herself, with her head slightly bent, and her curling hair in sad confusion. Susan whispered the direful intelligence that old Betty had forsaken them, and that the basket, with its ginger-beer bottles and its stained table-cloth, might be discovered at any moment. Annie's pale face flushed slightly at Susan's words. "Why should we try to conceal the thing?" she said, speaking with sudden energy, and a look of hope and animation coming back to her face. "Susy, let's go, all of us, and tell the miserable truth to Mrs Willis; it will be much the best way. We did not do the other thing, and when we have confessed about this our hearts will be at rest." "No, we did not do the other thing," said Susan, a queer grey colour coming over her face; "but confess about this, Annie Forest!--I think you are mad. You dare not tell." "All right," said Annie, "I won't, unless you all agree to it," and then she continued her walk, leaving Susan standing on the gravelled path with her hands clasped together, and a look of most genuine alarm and dismay on her usually phlegmatic face. Susan quickly found Phyllis and Nora, and it was only too easy to arouse the fears of these timid little people. Their poor little faces became almost pallid, and they were not a little startled at the fact of Annie Forest, their own arch-conspirator, wishing to betray their secret. "Oh," said Susan Drummond, "she's not out and out shabby; she says she won't tell unless we all wish it. But what is to become of the basket?" "Come, come, young ladies; no whispering, if you please," said Miss Good, who came up at this moment. "Susan, you are looking pale and cold, walk up and down that path half-a-dozen times, and then go into the house. Phyllis and Nora, you can come with me as far as the lodge. I want to take a message from Mrs Willis to Mary Martin about the fowl for to-morrow's dinner." Phyllis and Nora, with dismayed faces, waited solemnly away with the English teacher, and Susan was left to her solitary meditations. Things had come to such a pass that her slow wits were brought into play, and she neither felt sleepy, nor did she indulge in her usual habit of eating lollipops. That basket might be discovered any day, and then--then disgrace was imminent. Susan could not make out what had become of old Betty; never before had she so utterly failed them. Betty lived in a little cottage about half a mile from Lavender House. She was a sturdy, apple-cheeked, little old woman, and had for many a day added to her income--indeed, almost supported herself--by means of the girls at Lavender House. The large cherry trees in her little garden bore their rich crop of fruit year after year for Mrs Willis's girls, and every day at an early hour Betty would tramp into Sefton and return with a temptingly-laden basket of the most approved cakes and tarts. There was a certain paling at one end of the grounds to which Betty used to come. Here on the grass she would sit contentedly with the contents of her basket arranged in the most tempting order before her, and to this seductive spot she knew well that those little Misses who loved goodies, cakes, and tartlets would be sure to find their way. Betty charged high for her wares; but, as she was always obliging in the matter of credit the thoughtless girls cared very little that they paid double the shop prices for Betty's cakes. The best girls in the school, certainly, never went to Betty; but Annie Forest, Susan Drummond, and several others had regular accounts with her, and few days passed that their young faces would not peep over the paling and their voices ask-- "What have you got to tempt me with to-day, Betty?" It was, however, in the matter of stolen picnics, of grand feasts in the old attic, etc, etc, that Betty was truly great. No one so clever as she in concealing a basket of delicious eatables, no one knew better what school-girls liked. She undoubtedly charged her own prices, but what she gave was of the best, and Betty was truly in her element when she had an order from the young ladies of Lavender House for a grand secret feast. "You shall have it, my pretties--you shall have it," she would say, wrinkling up her bright blue eyes, and smiling broadly. "You leave it to Betty, my little loves; you leave it to Betty." On the occasion of the picnic to the fairies' field Betty had, indeed, surpassed herself in the delicious eatables she had provided; all had gone smoothly, the basket had been placed in a secure hiding-place under the thick laurel. It was to be fetched away by Betty herself at an early hour on the following morning. No wonder Susan was perplexed as she paced about and pretended to warm herself. It was a June evening, but the weather was still a little cold. Susan remembered now that. Betty had not come to her favourite station at the stile for several days. Was it possible that the old woman was ill? As this idea occurred to her, Susan became more alarmed. She knew that there was very little chance of the basket remaining long in concealment. Rover might any day remember his pleasant picnic with affection, and drag the white basket from under the laurel-bush. Michael the gardener would be certain to see it when next he cleaned up the back avenue. Oh, it was more than dangerous to leave it there, and yet Susan knew of no better hiding-place. A sudden idea came to her: she pulled out her pretty little watch, and saw that she need not return to the house for another half-hour. "Suppose she ran as fast as possible to Betty's little cottage, and begged of the old woman to come by the first light in the morning and fetch away the basket?" The moment Susan conceived this idea she resolved to put it into execution. She looked around her hastily; no teacher was in sight, Miss Good was away at the lodge, Miss Danesbury was playing with the little children. Mademoiselle, she knew, had gone indoors with a bad headache. She left the broad walk where she had been desired to stay, and, plunging into the shrubbery, soon reached Betty's paling. In a moment she had climbed the bars, had jumped lightly into the field, and was running as fast as possible in the direction of Betty's cottage. She reached the high road, and started and trembled violently as a carriage with some ladies and gentlemen passed her. She thought she recognised the faces of the two little Misses Bruce, but did not dare to look at them, and hurried panting along the road, and hoping she might be mistaken. In less than a quarter of an hour she had reached Betty's little cottage, and was standing trying to recover her breath by the shut door. The place had a deserted look, and several overripe cherries had fallen from the trees and were lying neglected on the ground. Susan knocked impatiently. There was no discernible answer. She had no time to wait, she lifted the latch, which yielded to her pressure, and went in. Poor old Betty, crippled, and in severe pain with rheumatism, was lying on her little bed. "Eh, dear--and is that you, my pretty Missy?" she asked, as Susan, hot and tired, came up to her side. "Oh, Betty, are you ill?" asked Miss Drummond. "I came to tell you you have forgotten the basket." "No, my dear, no--not forgot. By no means that, lovey; but I has been took with the rheumatism this past week, and can't move hand nor foot. I was wondering how you'd do without your cakes and tartlets, dear, and to think of them cherries lying there good for nothing on the ground is enough to break one's 'eart." "So it is," said Susan, giving an appreciative glance toward the open door. "They are beautiful cherries, and full of juice, I am sure. I'll take a few, Betty, as I am going out, and pay you for them another day. But what I have come about now is the basket. You must get the basket away, however ill you are. If the basket is discovered we are all lost, and then good-bye to your gains." "Well, Missy, dear, if I could crawl on my hands and knees I'd go and fetch it, rather than you should be worried; but I can't set fool to the ground at all. The doctor says as 'tis somethink like rheumatic fever as I has." "Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Susan, not wasting any of her precious moments in pitying the poor suffering old woman. "What _is_ to be done? I tell you, Betty, if that basket is found we are all lost." "But the laurel is very thick, lovey; it ain't likely to be found--it ain't, indeed." "I tell you it _is_ likely to be found, you tiresome old woman, and you really must go for it or send for it. You really must." Old Betty began to ponder. "There's Moses," she said, after a pause of anxious thought; "he's a 'cute little chap, and he might go. He lives in the fourth cottage along the lane. Moses is his name--Moses Moore. I'd give him a pint of cherries for the job. If you wouldn't mind sending Moses to me, Miss Susan, why, I'll do my best; only it seems a pity to let anybody into your secrets, young ladies, but old Betty herself." "It is a pity," said Susan; "but, under the circumstances, it can't be helped. What cottage did you say this Moses lived in?" "The fourth from here, down the lane, lovey--Moses is the lad's name; he's a freckled boy, with a cast in one eye. You send him up to me, dearie, but don't mention the cherries, or he'll be after stealing them. He's a sad rogue, is Moses; but I think I can tempt him with the cherries." Susan did not wait to bid poor old Betty "good-bye," but ran out of the cottage, shutting the door after her, and snatching up two or three ripe cherries to eat on her way. She was so far fortunate as to find the redoubtable Moses at home, and to convey him bodily to old Betty's presence. The queer boy grinned horribly, and looked as wicked as boy could look; but on the subject of cherries he was undoubtedly susceptible, and after a good deal of haggling and insisting that the pint should be a quart, he expressed his willingness to start off at four o'clock on the following morning, and bring away the basket from under the laurel-tree. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. "YOU ARE WELCOME TO TELL." Annie continued her walk. The circumstances of the last two months had combined to do for her what nothing had hitherto effected. When a little child she had known hardship and privation, she had passed through that experience which is metaphorically spoken of as "going down hill." As a baby little Annie had been surrounded by comforts and luxuries, and her father and mother had lived in a large house, and kept a carriage, and Annie had two nurses to wait on herself alone. These were in the days before she could remember anything. With her first early memories came the recollection of a much smaller house, of much fewer servants, of her mother often in tears, and her father often away. Then there was no house at all that the Forests could call their own, only rooms of a tolerably cheerful character, and Annie's nurse went away, and she look her daily walks by her mother's side and slept in a little cot in her mother's room. Then came a very, very sad day, when her mother lay cold and still and fainting on her bed, and her tall and handsome father caught Annie in his arms and pressed her to his heart, and told her to be a good child and to keep up her spirits, and, above all things, to take care of mother. Then her father had gone away; and though Annie expected him back, he did not come, and she and her mother went into poorer and shabbier lodgings, and her mother began to try her tear-dimmed eyes by working at church embroidery, and Annie used to notice that she coughed a good deal as she worked. Then there was another move, and this time Mrs Forest and her little daughter found themselves in one bedroom, and things began to grow very gloomy and food even was scarce. At last there was a change. One day a lady came into the dingy little room, and all of a sudden it seemed as if the sun had come out again. This lady brought comforts with her--toys and books for the child, good, brave words of cheer for the mother. At last Annie's mother died, and she went away to Lavender House to live with this good friend who had made her mother's dying hours easy. "Annie, Annie," said the dying mother, "I owe everything to Mrs Willis; we knew each other long ago when we were girls, and she has come to me now and made everything easy. When I am gone she will take care of you. Oh, my child, I cannot repay her; but will you try?" "Yes, mother," said little Annie, gazing full into her mother's face with her sweet bright eyes, "I'll--I'll love her, mother; I'll give her lots and lots of love." Annie had gone to Lavender House, and kept her word, for she had almost worshipped the good mistress who was so true and kind to her, and who had so befriended her mother. Through all the vicissitudes of her short existence Annie had, however, never lost one precious gift. Hers was an affectionate, but also a wonderfully bright, nature. It was as impossible for Annie to turn away from laughter and merriment as it would be for a flower to keep its head determinedly turned from the sun. In their darkest days Annie had managed to make her mother laugh; her little face was a sunbeam, her very naughtinesses were of a laughable character. Her mother died--her father was still away, but Annie retained her brave and cheerful spirit, for she gave and received love. Mrs Willis loved her--she bestowed upon her amongst all her girls the tenderest glances, the most motherly caresses. The teachers undoubtedly corrected and even scolded her, but they could not help liking her, and even her worst scrapes made them smile. Annie's companions adored her; the little children would do anything for their own Annie, and even the servants in the school said that there was no young lady in Lavender House fit to hold a candle to Miss Forest. During the last half-year, however, things had been different. Suspicion and mistrust began to dog the footsteps of the bright young girl; she was no longer a universal favourite--some of the girls even openly expressed their dislike of her. All this Annie could have borne, but for the fact that Mrs Willis joined in the universal suspicion. The old glance now never came to her eyes, nor the old tone to her voice. For the first time Annie's spirits utterly flagged; she could not bear this universal coldness, this universal chill. She began to droop physically as well as mentally. She was pacing up and down the walk, thinking very sadly, wondering vaguely if her father would ever return, and conscious of a feeling of more or less indifference to everything and everyone, when she was suddenly roused from her meditation by the patter of small feet and by a very eager little exclamation-- "Me tumming--me tumming, Annie!" and then Nan raised her charming face and placed her cool baby hand in Annie's. There was delicious comfort in the clasp of the little hand, and in the look of love and pleasure which lit up the small face. "Me yiding from naughty nurse--me 'tay with 'oo, Annie--me love 'oo, Annie." Annie stooped down, kissed the little one, and lifted her into her arms. "Why ky?" said Nan, who saw with consternation two big tears in Annie's eyes; "dere, poor ickle Annie--me love 'oo--me buy 'oo a new doll." "Dearest little darling," said Annie in a voice of almost passionate pain; then, with that wonderful instinct which made her in touch with all little children, she cheered up, wiped away her tears, and allowed laughter once more to wreathe her lips and fill her eyes. "Come, Nan," she said, "you and I will have such a race." She placed the child on her shoulder, clasped the little hands securely round her neck, and ran to the sound of Nan's shouts down the shady walk. At the farther end Nan suddenly tightened her clasp, drew herself up, ceased to laugh, and said with some fright in her voice-- "Who dat?" Annie, too, stood still with a sudden start, for the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, was standing directly in their path. "Go 'way, naughty woman," said Nan, shaking her small hand imperiously. The gypsy dropped a low curtsey, and spoke in a slightly mocking tone. "A pretty little dear," she said. "Yes, truly now, a pretty little winsome dear; and oh, what shoes! and little open-work socks! and I don't doubt real lace trimming on all her little garments--I don't doubt it a bit." "Go 'way--me don't like 'oo," said Nan. "Let's wun back--gee, gee," she said, addressing Annie, whom she had constituted into a horse for the time being. "Yes, Nan; in one minute," said Annie. "Please, Mother Rachel, what are you doing here?" "Only waiting to see you, pretty Missie," replied the tall gypsy. "You are the dear little lady who crossed my hand with silver that night in the wood. Eh, but it was a bonny night, with a bonny bright moon, and none of the dear little ladies meant any harm--no, no. Mother Rachel knows that." "Look here," said Annie, "I'm not going to be afraid of you. I have no more silver to give you. If you like, you may go up to the house and tell what you have seen. I am very unhappy, and whether you tell or not can make very little difference to me now. Good-night; I am not the least afraid of you--you can do just as you please about telling Mrs Willis." "Eh, my dear?" said the gypsy; "do you think I'd work you any harm--you, and the seven other dear little ladies? No, not for the world, my dear--not for the world. You don't know Mother Rachel when you think she'd be that mean." "Well, don't come here again," said Annie. "Good-night." She turned on her heel, and Nan shouted back-- "Go 'way, naughty woman--Nan don't love 'oo, 'tall, 'tall." The gypsy stood still for a moment with a frown knitting her brows; then she slowly turned, and, creeping on all-fours through the underwood, climbed the hedge into the field beyond. "Oh, no," she laughed, after a moment; "the little Missy thinks she ain't afraid of me; but she be. Trust Mother Rachel for knowing that much. I make no doubt," she added after a pause, "that the little one's clothes are trimmed with real lace. Well, little Missie Annie Forest, I can see with half an eye that you set store by that baby-girl. You had better not cross Mother Rachel's whims, or she can punish you in a way you don't think of." CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. HOW MOSES MOORE KEPT HIS APPOINTMENT. Susan Drummond got back to Lavender House without apparent discovery. She was certainly late when she took her place in the class-room for her next day's preparation; but, beyond a very sharp reprimand from Mademoiselle, no notice was taken of this fact. She managed to whisper to Nora and Phyllis that the basket would be moved by the first dawn the next morning, and the little girls went to bed happier in consequence. Nothing ever could disturb Susan's slumbers, and that night she certainly slept without rocking. As she was getting into bed she ventured to tell Annie how successfully she had manoeuvred; but Annie received her news with the most absolute indifference, looking at her for a moment with a queer smile, and then saying-- "My own wish is that this should be found out. As a matter of course, I sha'n't betray you, girls; but as things now stand I am anxious that Mrs Willis should know the very worst of me." After a remark which Susan considered so simply idiotic, there was, of course, no further conversation between the two girls. Moses Moore had certainly promised Betty to rise soon after dawn on the following morning and go to Lavender House to carry off the basket from under the laurel-tree. Moses, a remarkably indolent lad, had been stimulated by the thought of the delicious cherries which would be his as soon as he brought the basket to Betty. He had cleverly stipulated that a quart--not a pint--of cherries was to be his reward, and he looked forward with considerable pleasure to picking them himself, and putting a few extra ones into his mouth on the sly. Moses was not at all the kind of boy who would have scrupled to steal a few cherries; but in this particular old Betty, ill as she was, was too sharp for him, or for any of the other village lads. Her bed was drawn up close to her little window, and her window looked directly on to the two cherry trees. Never, to all appearance, did Betty close her eyes. However early the hour might be in which a village boy peeped over the wall of her garden, he always saw her white night-cap moving, and he knew that her bright blue eyes would be on him, and he would be proclaimed a thief all over the place before many minutes were over. Moses, therefore, was very glad to secure his cherries by fair means, as he could not obtain them by foul; and he went to bed and to sleep determined to be off on his errand with the dawn. A very natural thing, however, happened. Moses, unaccustomed to getting up at half-past three in the morning, never opened his eyes until the church clock struck five. Then he started upright, rubbed and rubbed at his sleepy orbs, tumbled into his clothes, and, softly opening the cottage door, set off on his errand. The fact of his being nearly an hour and a half late did not trouble him in the least. In any case, he would get to Lavender House before six o'clock, and would have consumed his cherries in less than an hour from that date. Moses sauntered gayly along the roads, whistling as he went, and occasionally tossing his battered cap in the air. He often lingered on his way, now to cut down a particularly tempting switch from the hedge, now to hunt for a possible bird's nest. It was very, nearly six o'clock when he reached the back avenue, swung himself over the gate, which was locked, and ran softly on the dewy grass in the direction of the laurel-bush. Old Betty had given him most careful instructions, and he was far too sharp a lad to forget what was necessary for the obtaining of a quart of cherries. He found his tree, and lay flat down on the ground in order to pull out the basket. His fingers had just clasped the handle when there came a sudden interruption--a rush, a growl, and some very sharp teeth had inserted themselves into the back of his ragged jacket. Poor Moses found himself, to his horror, in the clutches of a great mastiff. The creature held him tight, and laid one heavy paw on him to prevent him rising. Under these circumstances, Moses thought it quite unnecessary to retain any self-control. He shrieked, he screamed, he wriggled; his piercing yells filled the air, and, fortunately for him, his being two hours too late brought assistance to his aid. Michael, the gardener, and a strong boy who helped him, rushed to the spot, and liberated the terrified lad, who, after all, was only frightened, for Rover had satisfied himself with tearing his jacket to pieces, not himself. "Give me the b-basket," sobbed Moses, "and let me g-g-go." "You may certainly go, you little tramp," said Michael, "but Jim and me will keep the basket. I much misdoubt me if there isn't mischief here. What's the basket put hiding here for, and who does it belong to?" "Old B-B-Betty," gasped forth the agitated Moses. "Well, let old Betty fetch it herself. Mrs Willis will keep it for her," said Michael. "Come along, Jim, get to your weeding, do. There, little scamp, you had better make yourself scarce." Moses certainly look his advice, for he scuttled off like a hare. Whether he ever got his cherries or not, history does not disclose. Michael, looking gravely at Jim, opened the basket, examined its contents, and, shaking his head solemnly, carried it into the house. "There's been deep work going on, Jim, and my Missis ought to know," said Michael, who was an exceedingly strict disciplinarian. Jim, however, had a soft corner in his heart for the young ladies, and he commenced his weeding with a profound sigh. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. A BROKEN TRUST. The next morning Annie Forest opened her eyes with that strange feeling of indifference and want of vivacity which come so seldom to youth. She saw the sun shining through the closed blinds; she heard the birds twittering and singing in the large elm-tree which nearly touched the windows; she knew well how the world looked at this moment, for often and often in her old light-hearted days she had risen before the maid came to call her, and, kneeling by the deep window-ledge, had looked out at the bright fresh, sparkling day. A new day, with all its hours before it, its light vivid but not too glaring, its dress all manner of tender shades and harmonious colourings! Annie had a poetical nature, and she gloried in these glimpses which she got all by herself of the fresh, glad world. To-day, however, she lay still, sorry to know that the brief night was at an end, and that the day, with its coldness and suspicion, its terrible absence of love and harmony, was about to begin. Annie's nature was very emotional; she was intensely sensitive to her surroundings; the greyness of her present life was absolute destruction to such a nature as hers. The dressing-bell rang; the maid came in to draw up the blinds, and call the girls. Annie rose languidly, and began to dress herself. She first finished her toilet, and then approached her little bed, and stood by its side for a moment hesitating. She did not want to pray, and yet she felt impelled to go down on her knees. As she knelt with her curls falling about her face, and her bands pressed to her eyes, one line of one of her favourite poems came flashing with swiftness and power across; her memory-- "A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again." The words filled her whole heart with a sudden sense of peace and of great longing. The prayer-bell rang: she rose, and, turning to Susan Drummond, said earnestly-- "Oh, Susy, I do wish Mrs Willis could know about our going to the fairy-field; I do so want God to forgive me." Susan stared in her usual dull, uncomprehending way; then she flushed a little, and said brusquely-- "I think you have quite taken leave of your senses, Annie Forest." Annie said no more, but at prayers in the chapel she was glad to find herself near gentle Cecil Temple, and the words kept repeating themselves to her all during the morning lessons-- "A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again." Just before morning school, several of the girls started and looked distressed when they found that Mrs Willis lingered in the room. She stood for a moment by the English teacher's desk, said something to her in a low voice, and then, walking slowly to her own post at the head of the great school-room, she said suddenly-- "I want to ask you a question, Miss Drummond. Will you please just stand up in your place in class and answer me without a moment's hesitation?" Phyllis and Nora found themselves turning very pale; Mary Price and one or two more of the rebels also began to tremble, but Susan looked dogged and indifferent enough as she turned her eyes toward her teacher. "Yes, madam," she said, rising and dropping a curtsey. "My friends, the Misses Bruce, came to call on me yesterday evening, Susan, and told me that they saw you running very quickly on the high road in the direction of the village. You, of course, know that you broke a very distinct rule when you left the grounds without leave. Tell me at once where you were going." Susan hesitated, coloured to her dullest red, and looked down. Then, because she had no ready excuse to offer, she blurted out the truth-- "I was going to see old Betty." "The cake-woman?" "Yes." "What for?" "I--I heard she was ill." "Indeed--you may sit down. Miss Drummond. Miss Good, will you ask Michael to step for a moment into the school-room?" Several of the girls now indeed held their breath, and more than one heart beat with heavy, frightened bumps as a moment later Michael followed Miss Good into the room, carrying the redoubtable picnic-basket on his arm. "Michael," said Mrs Willis, "I wish you to tell the young ladies exactly how you found the basket this morning. Stand by my side, please, and speak loud enough for them to hear." After a moment's pause Michael related somewhat diffusely and with an occasional break in his narrative the scene which had occurred between him and Moses that morning. "That will do, Michael; you can now go," said the head-mistress. She waited until the old servant had closed the door, and then she turned to her girls-- "It is not quite a fortnight since I stood where I now stand, and asked one girl to be honourable and to save her companions. One girl was guilty of sin and would not confess, and for her sake all her companions are now suffering. I am tired of this sort of thing--I am tired of standing in this place and appealing to your honour, which is dead, to your truth, which is nowhere. Girls, you puzzle me--you half break my heart. In this case more than one is guilty. How many of the girls in Lavender House are going to tell me a lie this morning?" There was a very brief pause; then a slight cry, and a girl rose from her seat and walked up the long school-room. "I am the most guilty of all," said Annie Forest. "Annie!" said Mrs Willis, in a tone half of pain, half of relief, "have you come to your senses at last?" "Oh, I'm so glad to be able to speak the truth," said Annie. "Please punish me very, very hard; I am the most guilty of all." "What did you do with this basket?" "We took it for a picnic--it was my plan, I led the others." "Where was your picnic?" "In the fairies' field." "Ah! At what time?" "At night--in the middle of the night--the night you went to London." Mrs Willis put her hand to her brow; her face was very white and the girls could see that she trembled. "I trusted my girls--" she said; then she broke off abruptly. "You had companions in this wickedness--name them." "Yes, I had companions; I led them on." "Name them, Miss Forest." For the first time Annie raised her eyes to Mrs Willis's face: then she turned and looked down the long school-room. "Oh, won't they tell themselves?" she said. Nothing could be more appealing than her glance. It melted the hearts of Phyllis and Nora, who began to sob, and to declare brokenly that they had gone too, and that they were very, very sorry. Spurred by their example Mary Price also confessed, and one by one all the little conspirators revealed the truth, with the exception of Susan, who kept her eyes steadily fixed on the floor. "Susan Drummond," said Mrs Willis, "come here." There was something in her tone which startled every girl in the school. Never had they heard this ring in their teacher's voice before. "Susan," said Mrs Willis, "I don't ask you if you are guilty; I fear, poor miserable girl, that if I did you would load your conscience with a fresh lie. I don't ask you if you are guilty because I know you are. The fact of your running without leave to see old Betty is circumstantial evidence. I judge you by that and pronounce you guilty. Now, young ladies, you who have treated me so badly, who have betrayed my trust, who have been wanting in honour, I must think, I must ask God to teach me how to deal with you. In the meantime, you cannot associate with your companions. Miss Good, will you take each of these eight girls to their bedrooms." As Annie was leaving the room she looked full into Mrs Willis's face. Strange to say, at this moment of her great disgrace the cloud which had so long brooded over her was lifted. The sweet eyes never looked sweeter. The old Annie, and yet a better and a braver Annie than had ever existed before, followed her companions out of the school-room. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. IS SHE STILL GUILTY? On the evening of that day Cecil Temple knocked at the door of Mrs Willis's private sitting-room. "Ah, Cecil! is that you?" said her governess. "I am always glad to see you, dear; but I happen to be particularly busy to-night. Have you anything in particular to say to me?" "I only wanted to talk about Annie, Mrs Willis. You believe in her at last, don't you?" "Believe in her at last!" said the head-mistress in a tone of astonishment and deep pain. "No, Cecil, my dear; you ask too much of my faith. I do not believe in Annie." Cecil paused; she hesitated, and seemed half afraid to proceed. "Perhaps," she said at last in a slightly timid tone, "you have not seen her since this morning?" "No; I have been particularly busy. Besides, the eight culprits are under punishment; part of their punishment is that I will not see them." "Don't you think, Mrs Willis," said Cecil, "that Annie made rather a brave confession this morning?" "I admit, my dear, that Annie spoke in somewhat of her old impulsive way; she blamed herself, and did not try to screen her--misdemeanours behind her companions. In this one particular she reminded me of the old Annie who, notwithstanding all her faults. I used to trust and love. But as to her confession being very brave, my dear Cecil, you must remember that she did not _confess_ until she was obliged; she knew, and so did all the other girls, that I could have got the truth out of old Betty had they chosen to keep their lips sealed. Then, my dear, consider what she did. On the very night that I was away she violated the trust I had in her--she bade me `good-bye' with smiles and sweet glances, and then she did this in my absence. No, Cecil, I fear poor Annie is not what we thought her. She has done untold mischief during the half-year, and has willfully lied and deceived me. I find, on comparing dates, that it was on the very night of the girls picnic that Dora's theme was changed. There is no doubt whatever that Annie was the guilty person. I did my best to believe in her, and to depend on Mr Everard's judgment of her character, but I confess I can do so no longer. Cecil, dear, I am not surprised that you look pale and sad. No, we will not give up this poor Annie; we will try to love her even through her sin. Ah! poor child, poor child! how much I have prayed for her! She was to me as a child of my own. Now, dear Cecil, I must ask you to leave me." Cecil went slowly out of her governess's presence, and, wandering across the wide stone hall, she entered the play-room. It happened to be a wet night, and the room was full of girls, who hung together in groups and whispered softly. There were no loud voices, and, except from the little ones, there was no laughter. A great depression hung over the place, and few could have recognised the happy girls of Lavender House in these sad young faces. Cecil walked slowly into the room, and presently finding Hester Thornton, she sat down by her side. "I can't get Mrs Willis to see it," she said very sadly. "What?" asked Hester. "Why, that we have got our old Annie back again; that she did take the girls out to that picnic, and was as wild, and reckless, and naughty as possible about it; and then, just like the old Annie I have always known, the moment the fun was over she began to repent, and that she has gone on repenting ever since, which has accounted for her poor, sad little face and white cheeks. Of course she longed to tell--Nora and Phyllis have told me so--but she would not betray them. Now at last there is a load off her heart, and, though she is in great disgrace and punishment, she is not very unhappy. I went to see her an hour ago, and I saw in her face that my own darling Annie has returned. But what do you think Mrs Willis does, Hester? She is so hurt and disappointed, that she believes Annie is guilty of the other thing--she believes that Annie stole Dora's theme, and that she caricatured her in my book some time ago. She believes it--she is sure of it. Now, do you think, Hester, that Annie's face would look quite peaceful and happy to-night if she had only confessed half her faults--if she had this meanness, this sin, these lies still resting on her soul? Oh! I wish Mrs Willis would see her! I wish--I wish I but I can do nothing. You agree with me, don't you, Hester? Just put yourself in Annie's place, and tell me if _you_ would feel happy, and if your heart would be at rest, if you had only confessed half your sin, and if through you all your school-fellows were under disgrace and suspicion? You could not, could you, Hester? Why, Hester, how white you are!" "You are so metaphysical," said Hester, rising; "you quite puzzle me. How can I put myself in your friend Annie's place? I never understood her--I never wanted to. Put myself in her place?--no, certainly that I'm never likely to. I hope that I shall never be in such a predicament." Hester walked away, and Cecil sat still in great perplexity. Cecil was a girl with a true sense of religion. The love of God guided every action of her simple and straightforward life. She was neither beautiful nor clever; but no one in the school was more respected and honoured, no one more sincerely loved. Cecil knew what the peace of God meant, and when she saw even a shadowy reflection of that peace on Annie's little face, she was right in believing that she must be innocent of the guilt which was attributed to her. The whole school assembled for prayers that night in the little chapel, and Mr Everard, who had heard the story of that day's confession from Mrs Willis, said a few words appropriate to the occasion to the unhappy young girls. Whatever effect his words had on the others, and they were very simple and straightforward, Annie's face grew quiet and peaceful as she listened to them. The old clergyman assured the girls that God was waiting to forgive those who truly repented, and that the way to repent was to rise up and sin no more. "The present fun is not worth the after-pain," he said in conclusion. "It is an old saying that stolen waters are sweet, but only at the time: afterwards only those who drink of them know the full extent of their bitterness." This little address from Mr Everard strengthened poor Annie for an ordeal which was immediately before her, for Mrs Willis asked all the school to follow her to the play-room, and there she told them that she was about to restore to them their lost privileges; that circumstances, in her opinion, now so strongly pointed the guilt of the stolen essay in the direction of one girl, that she could no longer ask the school to suffer for her sake. "She still refuses to confess her sin," said Mrs Willis, "but, unless another girl proclaims herself guilty, and proves to me beyond doubt that she drew the caricature which was found in Cecil Temple's book, and that she changed Dora Russell's essay, and, imitating her hand, put another in its place, I proclaim the guilty person to be Annie Forest, and on her alone I visit my displeasure. You can retire to your rooms, young ladies. To-morrow morning Lavender House resumes its old cheerfulness." CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. HESTER'S HOUR OF TRIAL. However calmly or however peacefully Annie slept that night, poor Hester did not close her eyes. The white face of the girl she had wronged and injured kept rising before her. Why had she so deceived Annie? Why from the very first had she turned from her and misjudged her, and misrepresented her? Was Annie, indeed, all bad? Hester had to own to herself that to-night Annie was better than she--was greater than she. Could she now have undone the past, she would not have acted as she had done; she would not for the sake of a little paltry revenge have defiled her conscience with a lie, have told her governess that she could throw no light on the circumstance of the stolen essay. This was the first lie Hester had ever told; she was naturally both straightforward and honourable, but her sin of sins, that which made her hard and almost unlovable, was an intensely proud and haughty spirit. She was very sorry she had told that lie; she was very sorry she had yielded to that temptation; but not for worlds would she now humble herself to confess-- not for worlds would she let the school know of her cowardice and shame. No, if there was no other means of clearing: Annie except through her confession, she must remain with the shadow of this sin over her to her dying day. Hester, however, was now really unhappy, and also truly sorry for poor Annie. Could she have got off without disgrace or punishment, she would have been truly glad to see Annie exonerated. She was quite certain that Susan Drummond was at the bottom of all the mischief which had been done lately at Lavender House. She could not make out how stupid Susan was clever enough to caricature and to imitate peoples' hands. Still she was convinced that she was the guilty person, and she wondered and wondered if she could induce Susan to come forward and confess the truth, and so save Annie without bringing her, Hester, into any trouble. She resolved to speak to Susan, and without confessing that she had been in the school-room on the night the essay was changed, to let her know plainly that she suspected her. She became much calmer when she determined to carry out this resolve, and toward morning she fell asleep. She was awakened at a very early hour by little Nan clambering over the side of her crib, and cuddling down cosily in a way she loved by Hester's side. "Me so 'nug, 'nug," said little Nan. "Oh, Hetty, Hetty, there's a wy on the teiling!" Hester had then to rouse herself, and enter into an animated conversation on the subject of flies generally, and in especial she had to talk of that particular fly which would perambulate on the ceiling over Nan's head. "Me like wies," said Nan, "and me like 'oo, Hetty, and me love--me love Annie." Hester kissed her little sister passionately; but this last observation, accompanied by the expression of almost angelic devotion which filled little Nan's brown eyes, as she repeated that she liked flies and Hetty, but that she loved Annie, had the effect of again hardening her heart. Hester's hour of trial, however, was at hand, and before that day was over she was to experience that awful emptiness and desolation which those know whom God is punishing. Lessons went on as usual at Lavender House that morning, and, to the surprise of several, Annie was seen in her old place in class. She worked with a steadiness quite new to her; no longer interlarding her hours of study with those indescribable glances of fun and mischief, first at one school-companion and then at another, which used to worry her teachers so much. There were no merry glances from Annie that morning: but she worked steadily and rapidly, and went through that trying ordeal, her French verbs, with such satisfaction that Mademoiselle was on the point of praising her, until she remembered that Annie was in disgrace. After school, however, Annie did not join her companions in the grounds, but went up to her bedroom, where, by Mrs Willis's orders, she was to remain until the girls went in. She was to take her own exercise later in the day. It was now the tenth of June--an intensely sultry day; a misty heat brooded over everything, and not a breath of air stirred the leaves in the trees. The girls wandered about languidly, too enervated by the heat to care to join in any noisy games. They were now restored to their full freedom, and there is no doubt they enjoyed the privileges of having little confabs, and whispering secrets to each other without having Miss Good and Miss Danesbury for ever at their elbows. They talked of many things--of the near approach of the holidays, of the prize day which was now so close at hand, of Annie's disgrace, and so on. They wondered, many of them, if Annie would ever be brought to confess her sin, and, if not, how Mrs Willis would act toward her. Dora Russell said in her most contemptuous tones-- "She is nothing, after all, but a charity child, and Mrs Willis has supported her for years for nothing." "Yes, and she's too clever by half; eh, poor old Muddy Stream?" remarked a saucy little girl. "By the way, Dora, dear, how goes the river now?-- has it lost itself in the arms of mother ocean yet?" Dora turned red and walked away, and her young tormentor exclaimed with considerable gusto-- "There, I have silenced her for a bit; I do hate the way she talks about charity children. Whatever her faults, Annie is the sweetest and prettiest girl in the school, in my opinion." In the meantime Hester was looking in all directions for Susan Drummond. She thought the present a very fitting opportunity to open her attack on her, and she was the more anxious to bring her to reason as a certain look in Annie's face--a pallid and very weary look--had gone to her heart, and touched her in spite of herself. Now, even though little Nan loved her, Hester would save Annie could she do so not at her own expense. Look, however, as she would, nowhere could she find Miss Drummond. She called and called, but no sleepy voice replied. Susan, indeed, knew better; she had curled herself up in a hammock which hung between the boughs of a shady tree, and though Hester passed under her very head, she was sucking lollipops and going off comfortably into the land of dreams, and had no intention of replying. Hester wandered down the shady walk, and at its farther end she was gratified by the sight of little Nan, who, under her nurse's charge, was trying to string daisies on the grass. Hester sat down by her side, and Nan climbed over and made fine havoc of her neat print dress, and laughed, and was at her merriest and best. "I hear say that that naughty Miss Forest has done something out-and-out disgraceful," whispered the nurse. "Oh, don't!" said Hester impatiently. "Why should everyone throw mud at a girl when she is down? If poor Annie is naughty and guilty, she is suffering now." "Annie _not_ naughty," said little Nan. "Me love my own Annie; me do, me do." "And you love your own poor old nurse, too?" responded the somewhat jealous nurse. Hester left the two playing happily together, the little one caressing her nurse, and blowing one or two kisses after her sister's retreating form. Hester returned to the house, and went up to her room to prepare for dinner. She had washed her hands, and was standing before the looking-glass re-plaiting her long hair when Susan Drummond, looking extremely wild and excited, and with her eyes almost starting out of her head, rushed into the room. "Oh, Hester, Hester!" she gasped, and she flung herself on Hester's bed, with her face downwards; she seemed absolutely deprived for the moment of the power of any further speech. "What is the matter, Susan?" inquired Hester half impatiently. "What have you come into my room for? Are you going into a fit of hysterics? You had better control yourself, for the dinner gong will sound directly." Susan gasped two or three times, made a rush to Hester's wash-handstand, and taking up a glass, poured some cold water into it, and gulped it down. "Now I can speak," she said. "I ran so fast that my breath quite left me. Hester, put on your walking things or go without them, just as you please--only go at once if you would save her." "Save whom?" asked Hester. "Your little sister--little Nan. I--I saw it all. I was in the hammock, and nobody knew I was there, and somehow I wasn't so sleepy as usual, and I heard Nan's voice, and I looked over the side of the hammock, and she was sitting on the grass picking daisies, and her nurse was with her, and presently you came up. I heard you calling me, but I wasn't going to answer. I felt too comfortable. You stayed with Nan and her nurse for a little, and then went away; and I heard Nan's nurse say to her: `Sit here, Missy, till I come back to you; I am going to fetch another reel of sewing cotton from the house. Sit still, Missy; I'll be back directly.' She went away, and Nan went on picking her daisies. All on a sudden I heard Nan give a sharp little cry, and I looked over the hammock, and there was a tall dark woman, with such a wicked face, and she snatched up Nan in her arms, and put a thick shawl over her face, and ran off with her. It was all done in an instant. I shouted, and I scrambled out of the hammock, and I rushed down the path; but there wasn't a sign of anybody there. I don't know where the woman went--it seemed as if the earth swallowed up both her and little Nan. Why, Hester, are you going to faint?" "Water!" gasped Hester--"one sip--now let me go." CHAPTER FORTY. A GIPSY MAID. In a few moments everyone in Lavender House was made acquainted with Susan's story. At such a time ceremony was laid aside, dinner forgotten, teachers, pupils, servants all congregated in the grounds, all rushed to the spot where Nan's withered daisies still lay, all peered through the underwood, and all, alas! looked, in vain for the tall dark woman and the little child. Little Nan, the baby of the school, had been stolen--there were loud and terrified lamentations. Nan's nurse was almost tearing her hair, was rushing frantically here, there, and everywhere. No one blamed the nurse for leaving her little charge in apparent safety for a few moments, but the poor woman's own distress was pitiable to see. Mrs Willis took Hester's hand, and told the poor stunned girl that she was sending to Sefton immediately for two or three policemen, and that in the meantime every man on the place should commence the search for the woman and child. "Without any doubt," Mrs Willis added, "we shall soon have our little Nan back again; it is quite impossible that the woman, whoever she is, can have taken her so far away in so short a time." In the meantime, Annie in her bedroom heard the fuss and the noise. She leaned out of her window and saw Phyllis in the distance; she called to her. Phyllis ran up, the tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh, something so dreadful!" she gasped; "a wicked, wicked woman has stolen little Nan Thornton. She ran off with her just where the undergrowth is so thick at the end of the shady walk. It happened to her half an hour ago, and they are all looking, but they cannot find the woman or little Nan anywhere. Oh, it is so dreadful! Is that you, Mary?" Phyllis ran off to join her sister, and Annie put her head in again, and looked round her pretty room. "The gipsy," she murmured, "the tall, dark gipsy has taken little Nan!" Her face was very white, her eyes shone, her lips expressed a firm and almost obstinate determination. With all her usual impulsiveness, she decided on a course of action--she snatched up a piece of paper and scribbled a hasty line: ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Dear Mother-friend,--However badly you think of Annie, Annie loves you with all her heart. Forgive me, I must go myself to look for little Nan. That tall, dark woman is a gipsy--I have seen her before; her name is Mother Rachel. Tell Hetty I won't return until I bring her little sister back.--Your repentant and sorrowful Annie." Annie twisted up the note, directed it to Mrs Willis, and left it on her dressing-table. Then, with a wonderful amount of forethought for her, she emptied the contents of a little purse into a tiny gingham bag, which she fastened inside the front of her dress. She put on her shady hat, and threw a shawl across her arm, and then, slipping softly downstairs, she went out through the deserted kitchens, down the back avenue, and past the laurel-bush, until she came to the stile which led into the wood--she was going straight to the gipsies' encampment. Annie, with some of the gipsy's characteristics in her own blood, had always taken an extraordinary interest in these queer wandering people. Gipsies had a fascination for her, she loved stories about them; if a gipsy encampment was near, she always begged the teachers to walk in that direction. Annie had a very vivid imagination, and in the days when she reigned as favourite in the school she used to make up stories for the express benefit of her companions. These stories, as a rule, always turned upon the gipsies. Many and many a time had the girls of Lavender House almost gasped with horror as Annie described the queer ways of these people. For her, personally, their wildness and their freedom had a certain fascination, and she was heard in her gayest moments to remark that she would rather like to be stolen and adopted by a gipsy tribe. Whenever Annie had an opportunity she chatted with the gipsy wives, and allowed them to tell her fortune, and listened eagerly to their narratives. When a little child she had once for several months been under the care of a nurse who was a reclaimed gipsy, and this girl had given her all kinds of information about them. Annie often felt that she quite loved these wild people, and Mother Rachel was the first gipsy she cordially shrank from and disliked. When the little girl started now on her wild-goose chase after Nan she was by no means devoid of a plan of action. The knowledge she had taken so many years to acquire came to her aid, and she determined to use it for Nan's benefit. She knew that the gipsies, with all their wandering and erratic habits, had a certain attachment, if not for homes, at least for sites; she knew that as a rule they encamped over and over again in the same place; she knew that their wanderings were conducted with method, and their apparently lawless lives governed by strict self-made rules. Annie made straight now for the encampment, which stood in a little dell at the other side of the fairies' field. Here for weeks past the gipsies' tents had been seen; here the gipsy children had played, and the men and women smoked and lain about in the sun. Anne entered the small field now, but uttered no exclamation of surprise when she found that all the tents, with the exception of one, had been removed, and that this tent also was being rapidly taken down by a man and a girl, while a tall boy stood by, holding a donkey by the bridle. Annie wasted no time in looking for Nan here. Before the girl and the man could see her, she darted behind a bush, and removing her little bag of money, hid it carefully under some long grass; then she pulled a very bright yellow sash out of her pocket, tied it round her blue cotton dress, and leaving her little shawl also on the ground, tripped gayly up to the tent. She saw with pleasure that the girl who was helping the man was about her own size. She went up and touched her on the shoulder. "Look here," she said, "I want to make such a pretty play by-and-by--I want to play that I'm a gipsy girl. Will you give me your clothes, if I give you mine? See, mine are neat, and this sash is very handsome. Will you have them? Do. I am so anxious to play at being a gipsy." The girl turned and stared. Annie's pretty blue print and gay sash were certainly tempting bait. She glanced at her father. "The little lady wants to change," she said in an eager voice. The man nodded acquiescence, and the girl taking Annie's hand, ran quickly with her to the bottom of the field. "You don't mean it, surely?" she said. "Eh, but I'm uncommon willing." "Yes, I certainly mean it," said Annie. "You are a dear, good, obliging girl, and how nice you will look in my pretty blue cotton! I like that striped petticoat of yours, too, and that gay handkerchief you wear round your shoulders. Thank you so very much. Now, do I look like a real, real gipsy?" "Your hair ain't ragged enough, miss." "Oh, clip it, then; clip it away. I want to be quite the real thing. Have you got a pair of scissors?" The girl ran back to the tent, and presently returned to shear poor Annie's beautiful hair in truly rough fashion. "Now, miss, you look much more like, only your arms are a bit too white. Stay, we has got some walnut-juice; we was just a-using of it. I'll touch you up fine, miss." So she did, darkening Annie's brown skin to a real gipsy tone. "You're, a dear, good girl," said Annie, in conclusion; and as the girl's father called her roughly at this moment, she was obliged to go away, looking ungainly enough in the English child's neat clothes. CHAPTER FORTY ONE. DISGUISED. Annie ran out of the field, mounted the stile which led into the wood, and stood there until the gipsy man and girl, and the boy with the donkey, had finally disappeared. Then she left her hiding-place, and taking her little gingham bag out of the long grass, secured it once more in the front of her dress. She felt queer and uncomfortable in her new dress, and the gipsy girl's heavy shoes tired her feet; but she was not to be turned from her purpose by any manner of discomforts, and she started bravely on her long trudge over the dusty roads, for her object was to follow the gipsies to their next encampment, about ten miles away. She had managed, with some tact, to obtain a certain amount of information from the delighted gipsy girl. The girl told Annie that she was very glad they were going from here; that this was a very dull place, and that they would not have stayed so long but for Mother Rachel, who for some reasons of her own, had refused to stir. Here the girl drew herself up short, and coloured under her dark skin. But Annie's tact never failed. She even yawned a little, and seemed scarcely to hear the girl's words. Now, in the distance, she followed these people. In her disguise, uncomfortable as it was, she felt tolerably safe. Should any of the people in Lavender House happen to pass her on the way, they would never recognise Annie Forest in this small gipsy maiden. When she did approach the gipsies' dwelling she might have some hope of passing as one of themselves. The only one whom she had really to fear was the girl with whom she had changed clothes, and she trusted to her wits to keep out of this young person's way. When Zillah, her old gipsy nurse, had charmed her long ago with gipsy legends and stories, Annie had always begged to hear about the fair English children whom the gipsies stole, and Zillah had let her into some secrets which partly accounted for the fact that so few of these children are ever recovered. She walked very fast now; her depression was gone, a great excitement, a great longing, a great hope, keeping her up. She forgot that she had eaten nothing since breakfast: she forgot everything in all the world now but her great love for little Nan, and her desire to lay down her very life, if necessary, to rescue Nan from the terrible fate which awaited her if she was brought up as a gipsy's child. Annie, however, was unaccustomed to such long walks, and besides, recent events had weakened her, and by the time she reached Sefton--for her road lay straight through this little town--she was so hot and thirsty that she looked around her anxiously to find some place of refreshment. In an unconscious manner she paused before a restaurant, where she and several other girls of Lavender House had more than once been regaled with buns and milk. The remembrance of the fresh milk and the nice buns came gratefully before the memory of the tired child now. Forgetting her queer attire, she went into the shop, and walked boldly up to the counter. Annie's disguise, however, was good, and the young woman who was serving, instead of bending forward with the usual gracious "What can I get for you, miss?" said very sharply-- "Go away at once, little girl; we don't allow beggars here; leave the shop instantly. No, I have nothing for you." Annie was about to reply rather hotly, for she had an idea that even a gipsy's money might purchase buns and milk, when she was suddenly startled, and almost terrified into betraying herself, by encountering the gentle and fixed stare of Miss Jane Bruce, who had been leaning over the counter and talking to one of the shop-women when Annie entered. "Here is a penny for you, little girl," she said. "You can get a nice hunch of stale bread for a penny in the shop at the corner of the High Street." Annie's eyes flashed back at the little lady, her lips quivered, and, clasping the penny, she rushed out of the shop. "My dear," said Miss Jane, turning to her sister, "did you notice the extraordinary likeness that little gipsy girl bore to Annie Forest?" Miss Agnes sighed. "Not particularly, love," she answered; "but I scarcely looked at her. I wonder if our dear little Annie is any happier than she was. Ah, I think we have done here. Good afternoon, Mrs Tremlett." The little old ladies, trotted off, giving no more thoughts to the gipsy child. Poor Annie almost ran down the street, and never paused till she reached a shop of much humbler appearance, where she was served with some cold slices of German sausage, some indifferent bread and butter, and milk by no means over-good. The coarse fare, and the rough people who surrounded her, made the poor child feel both sick and frightened. She found she could only keep up her character by remaining almost silent, for the moment she opened her lips people turned round and stared at her. She paid for her meal, however, and presently found herself at the other side of Sefton, and in a part of the country which was comparatively strange to her. The gipsies' present encampment was about a mile away from the town of Oakley, a much larger place than Sefton. Sefton and Oakley lay about six miles apart. Annie trudged bravely on, her head aching; for, of course, as a gipsy girl, she could use no parasol to shade her from the sun. At last the comparative cool of the evening arrived, and the little girl gave a sigh of relief, and looked forward to her bed and supper at Oakley. She had made up her mind to sleep there, and to go to the gipsies' encampment very early in the morning. It was quite dark by the time she reached Oakley, and she was now so tired, and her feet so blistered from walking in the gipsy girl's rough shoes, that she could scarcely proceed another step. The noise and the size of Oakley, too, bewildered and frightened her. She had learnt a lesson in Sefton, and dared not venture into the more respectable streets. How could she sleep in those hot, common, close houses? Surely it would be better for her to lie down under a cool hedge-row-- there could be no real cold on this lovely summer's night, and the hours would quickly pass, and the time soon arrive when she must go boldly in search of Nan. She resolved to sleep in a hayfield which took her fancy just outside the town, and she only went into Oakley for the purpose of buying some bread and milk. Annie was so far fortunate as to get a refreshing draught of really good milk from a woman who stood by a cottage door, and who gave her a piece of girdle-cake to eat with it. "You're one of the gipsies, my dear?" said the woman. "I saw them passing in their caravans an hour back. No doubt you are for taking up your old quarters in the copse, just alongside of Squire Thompson's long acre field. How is it you are not with the rest of them, child?" "I was late in starting," said Annie. "Can you tell me the best way to get from here to the long acre field?" "Oh! you take that turn-stile, child, and keep in the narrow path by the cornfields; it's two miles and a half from here as the crow flies. No, no, my dear, I don't want your pennies; but you might humour my little girl here by telling her fortune--she's wonderful taken by the gipsy folk." Annie coloured painfully. The child came forward, and she crossed her hand with a piece of silver. She looked at the little palm and muttered something about being rich and fortunate, and marrying a prince in disguise, and having no trouble whatever. "Eh! but that's a fine lot, is yours, Peggy," said the gratified mother. Peggy however, aged nine, had a wiser head on her young shoulders. "She didn't tell no proper fortune," she said disparagingly, when Annie left the cottage. "She didn't speak about no crosses, and no biting disappointments, and no bleeding wounds. I don't believe in her, I don't. I like fortunes mixed, not all one way; them fortunes ain't natural, and I don't believe she's no proper gipsy girl." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. HESTER. At Lavender House the confusion, the terror, and the dismay were great. For several hours the girls seemed quite to lose their heads, and just when, under Mrs Willis's and the other teachers' calmness and determination, they were being restored to discipline and order, the excitement and alarm broke out afresh when some one brought Annie's little note to Mrs Willis, and the school discovered that she also was missing. On this occasion no one did doubt her motives; disobedient as her act was, no one wasted words of blame on her. All, from the head-mistress to the smallest child in the school, knew that it was love for little Nan that had taken Annie off; and the tears started to Mrs Willis's eyes when she first read the tiny note, and then placed it tenderly in, her desk. Hester's face became almost ashen in its hue when she heard what Annie had done. "Annie has gone herself to bring back Nan to you, Hester," said Phyllis. "It was I told her, and I know now by her face that she must have made up her mind at once." "Very disobedient of her to go," said Dora Russell; but no one took up Dora's tone, and Mary Price said, after a pause-- "Disobedient or not, it was brave--it was really very plucky." "It is my opinion," said Nora, "that if anyone in the world can find little Nan it will be Annie. You remember. Phyllis, how often she has talked to us about gipsies, and what a lot she knows about them?" "Oh, yes; she'll be better than fifty policemen," echoed several girls; and then two or three young faces were turned toward Hester, and some voice said almost scornfully--"You'll have to love Annie now; you'll have to admit that there is something good in our Annie when she brings your little Nan home again." Hester's lips quivered; she tried to speak, but a sudden burst of tears came from her instead. She walked slowly out of the astonished little group, who none of them believed that proud Hester Thornton could weep. The wretched girl rushed up to her room, where she threw herself on her bed and gave way to some of the bitterest tears she had ever shed. All her indifference to Annie, all her real unkindness, all her ever-increasing dislike came back now to torture and harass her. She began to believe with the girls that Annie would be successful; she began dimly to acknowledge in her heart the strange power which this child possessed; she guessed that Annie would heap coals of fire on her head by bringing back her little sister. She hoped, she longed, she could almost have found it in her heart to pray that some one else, not Annie, might save little Nan. For not yet had Hester made up her mind to confess the truth about Annie Forest. To confess the truth now meant humiliation in the eyes of the whole school. Even for Nan's sake she could not, she would not, be great enough for this. Sobbing on her bed, trembling from head to foot, in an agony of almost uncontrollable grief, she could not bring her proud and stubborn little heart to accept God's only way of piece. No, she hoped she might be able to influence Susan Drummond and induce her to confess, and if Annie was not cleared in that way, if she really saved little Nan, she would doubtless be restored to much of her lost favour in the school. Hester had never been a favourite at Lavender House; but now her great trouble caused all the girls to speak to her kindly and considerately, and as she lay on her bed she presently heard a gentle step on the floor of her room--a cool little hand was laid tenderly on her forehead, and opening her swollen eyes, she met Cecil's loving gaze. "There is no news yet, Hester," said Cecil; "but Mrs Willis has just gone herself into Sefton, and will not lose an hour in getting further help. Mrs Willis looks quite haggard. Of course she is very anxious both about Annie and Nan." "Oh, Annie is safe enough," murmured Hester, burying her head in the bedclothes. "I don't know; Annie is very impulsive, and very pretty; the gipsies may like to steal her too--of course she has gone straight to one of their encampments. Naturally Mrs Willis is most anxious." Hester pressed her hand to her throbbing head. "We are all so sorry for you, dear," said Cecil gently. "Thank you--being sorry for one does not do a great deal of good, does it?" "I thought sympathy always did good," replied Cecil, looking puzzled. "Thank you," said Hester again. She lay quite still for several minutes with her eyes closed. Her face looked intensely unhappy. Cecil was not easily repelled, and she guessed only too surely that Hester's proud heart was suffering much. She was puzzled, however, how to approach her, and had almost made up her mind to go away and beg of kind-hearted Miss Danesbury to see if she could come and do something, when through the open window there came the shrill sweet laughter and the eager, high-pitched tones of some of the youngest children in the school. A strange quiver passed over Hester's face at the sound; she sat up in bed, and gasped out in a half-strangled voice-- "Oh! I can't bear it--little Nan, little Nan! Cecil, I am very, very unhappy." "I know it, darling," said Cecil, and she put her arms round the excited girl. "Oh, Hester! don't turn away from me; do let us be unhappy together." "But you did not care for Nan." "I did--we all loved the pretty darling." "Suppose I never see her again?" said Hester half wildly. "Oh, Cecil! and mother left her to me! mother gave her to me to take care of, and to bring to her some day in heaven. Oh, little Nan, my pretty, my love, my sweet! I think I could better bear her being dead than this." "You could, Hester," said Cecil, "if she was never to be found; but I don't think God will give you such a terrible punishment. I think little Nan will be restored to you. Let us ask God to do it, Hetty--let us kneel down now, we two little girls, and pray to Him with all our might." "I can't pray; don't ask me," said Hester, turning her face away. "Then I will." "But not here, Cecil. Cecil, I am not good--I am not good enough to pray." "We don't want to be good to pray," said Cecil. "We want perhaps to be unhappy--perhaps sorry; but if God waited just for goodness, I don't think He would get many prayers." "Well, I am unhappy, but not sorry. No, no; don't ask me, I cannot pray." CHAPTER FORTY THREE. SUSAN. Mrs Willis came back at a very late hour from Sefton. The police were confident that they must soon discover both children, but no tidings had yet been heard of either of them. Mrs Willis ordered her girls to bed, and went herself to kiss Hester and give her a special "good-night." She was struck by the peculiarly unhappy, and even hardened, expression on the poor child's face, and felt that she did not half understand her. In the middle of the night Hester awoke from a troubled dream. She awoke with a sharp cry, so sharp and intense in its sound that had any girl been awake in the next room she must have heard it. She felt that she could no longer remain close to that little empty cot. She suddenly remembered that Susan Drummond would be alone to-night: what time so good as the present for having a long talk with Susan and getting her to clear Annie? She slipped out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and softly opening the door, ran down the passage to Susan's room. Susan was in bed, and fast asleep. Hester could see her face quite plainly in the moonlight, for Susan slept facing the window, and the blind was not drawn down. Hester had some difficulty in awakening Miss Drummond, who, however, at last sat up in bed, yawning prodigiously. "What is the matter? Is that you, Hester Thornton? Have you got any news of little Nan? Has Annie come back?" "No, they are both still away. Susy, I want to speak to you." "Dear me! what for? must you speak in the middle of the night?" "Yes, for I don't want anyone else to know. Oh, Susan, please don't go to sleep." "My dear, I won't, if I can help it. Do you mind throwing a little cold water over my face and head? There is a can by the bed-side. I always keep one handy. Ah, thanks--now I am wide awake. I shall probably remain so for about two minutes. Can you get your say over in that time?" "I wonder, Susan," said Hester, "if you have got any heart--but heart or not, I have just come here to-night to tell you that I have found you out. You are at the bottom of all this mischief about Annie Forest." Susan had a most phlegmatic face, an utterly unemotional voice, and she now stared calmly at Hester and demanded to know what in the world she meant. Hester felt her temper going, her self-control deserting her. Susan's apparent innocence and indifference drove her half frantic. "Oh, you are mean," she said. "You pretend to be innocent, but you are the deepest and wickedest girl in the school. I tell you, Susan, I have found you out--you put that caricature of Mrs Willis into Cecil's book; you changed Dora's theme. I don't know why you did it, nor how you did it, but you are the guilty person, and you have allowed the sin of it to remain on Annie's shoulders all this time. Oh, you are the very meanest girl I ever heard of!" "Dear, dear!" said Susan, "I wish I had not asked you to throw cold water over my head and face, and allow myself to be made very wet and uncomfortable, just to be told I am the meanest girl you ever met. And pray what affair is this of yours? You certainly don't love Annie Forest." "I don't, but I want justice to be done to her. Annie is very, very unhappy. Oh, Susy, won't you go and tell Mrs Willis the truth?" "Really, my dear Hester, I think you are a little mad. How long have you known all this about me, pray?" "Oh, for some time since--since the night the essay was changed." "Ah, then, if what you stale is true, you told Mrs Willis a lie, for she distinctly asked you if you knew anything about the `Muddy Stream,' and you said you didn't. I saw you--I remarked how very red you got when you plumped out that great lie! My dear, if I am the meanest and wickedest girl in the school, prove it--go, tell Mrs Willis what you know. Now, if you will allow me, I will get back into the land of dreams." Susan curled herself up once more in her bed, wrapped the bedclothes tightly round her, and was to all appearance oblivious of Hester's presence. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. UNDER THE HEDGE. It is one thing to talk of the delights of sleeping under a hedge-row and another to realise them. A hayfield is a very charming place, but in the middle of the night, with the dew clinging to everything, it is apt to prove but a chilly bed; the most familiar objects put on strange and unreal forms, the most familiar sounds become loud and alarming. Annie slept for about an hour soundly; then she awoke, trembling with cold in every limb, startled and almost terrified by the oppressive loneliness of the night, sure that the insect life which surrounded her, and which would keep up successions of chirps, and croaks, and buzzes, was something mysterious and terrifying. Annie was a brave child, but even brave little girls may be allowed to possess nerves under her present conditions, and when a spider ran across her face she started up with a scream of terror. At this moment she almost regretted the close and dirty lodgings which she might have obtained for a few pence at Oakley. The hay in the field which she had selected was partly cut and partly standing. The cut portion had been piled up into little cocks and hillocks, and these, with the night shadows round them, appeared to the frightened child to assume large and half-human proportions. She found she could not sleep any longer. She wrapped her shawl tightly round her, and, crouching into the hedge-row, waited for the dawn. That watched-for dawn seemed to the tired child as if it would never come; but at last her solitary vigil came to an end, the cold grew greater, a little gentle breeze stirred the uncut grass, and up in the sky overhead the stars became fainter and the atmosphere clearer. Then came a little faint flush of pink, then a brighter light, and then all in a moment the birds burst into a perfect jubilee of song, the insects talked and chirped and buzzed in new tones, the hay-cocks became simply hay-cocks, the dew sparkled on the wet grass, the sun had risen, and the new day had begun. Annie sat up and rubbed her tired eyes. With the sunshine and brightness her versatile spirits revived; she buckled on her courage like an armour, and almost laughed at the miseries of the past few hours. Once more she believed that success and victory would be hers, once more in her small way she was ready to do or die. She believed absolutely in the holiness of her mission. Love--love alone simple and pure, was guiding her. She gave no thought to after-consequences, she gave no memory to past events: her object now was to rescue Nan, and she herself was nothing. Annie had a fellow-feeling, a rare sympathy with every little child; but no child had ever come to take Nan's place with her. The child she had first begun to notice simply out of a naughty spirit of revenge, had twined herself round her heart, and Annie loved Nan all the more dearly because she had long ago repented of stealing her affections from Hester, and would gladly have restored her to her old place next to Hetty's heart. Her love for Nan, therefore, had the purity and greatness which all love that calls forth self-sacrifice must possess. Annie had denied herself, and kept away from Nan of late. Now, indeed, she was going to rescue her; but if she thought of herself at all, it was with the certainty that for this present act of disobedience Mrs Willis would dismiss her from the school, and she would not see little Nan again. Never mind that, if Nan herself was saved. Annie was disobedient, but on this occasion she was not unhappy; she had none of that remorse which troubled her so much after her wild picnic in the fairies' field. On the contrary, she had a strange sense of peace and even guidance; she had confessed this sin to Mrs Willis, and, though she was suspected of far worse, her own innocence kept her heart untroubled. The verse which had occurred to her two mornings before still rang in her ears-- "A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again." The impulsive, eager child was possessed just now of something which men call True Courage; it was founded on the knowledge that God would help her, and was accordingly calm and strengthening. Annie rose from her damp bed, and looked around her for a little stream where she might wash her face and hands; suddenly she remembered that face and hands were dyed, and that she would do best to leave them alone. She smoothed out as best she could the ragged elf-locks which the gipsy maid had left on her curly head, and then, covering her face with her hands, said simply and earnestly--"Please, my Father in heaven, help me to find little Nan;" then she set off through the cornfields in the direction of the gipsies' encampment. CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. TIGER. It was still very, very early in the morning, and the gipsy folk, tired from their march on the preceding day, slept. There stood the conical, queer-shaped tents, four in number; at a little distance off grazed the donkeys and a couple of rough mules; at the door of the tents lay stretched out in profound repose two or three dogs. Annie dreaded the barking of the dogs, although she guessed that if they set up a noise, and a gipsy wife or man put out their heads in consequence, they would only desire the gipsy child to lie down and keep quiet. She stood still for a moment--she was very anxious to prowl around the place and examine the ground while the gipsies still slept, but the watchful dogs deterred her. She stood perfectly quiet behind the hedge-row, thinking hard. Should she trust to a charm she knew she possessed, and venture into the encampment? Annie had almost as great a fascination over dogs and cats as she had over children. As a little child going to visit with her mother at strange houses, the watch-dogs never barked at her; on the contrary, they yielded to the charm which seemed to come from her little fingers as she patted their great heads. Slowly their tails would move backwards and forwards as she petted them, and even the most ferocious would look at her with affection. Annie wondered if the gipsy dogs would now allow her to approach without barking. She felt that the chances were in her favour; she was dressed in gipsy garments, there would be nothing strange in her appearance, and if she could get near one of the dogs she knew that she could exercise the magic of her touch. Her object, then, was to approach one of the tents very, very quietly-- so softly that even the dog's ears should not detect the light footfall. If she could approach close enough to put her hand on the dog's neck all would be well. She pulled off the gipsy maid's rough shoes, hid them in the grass where she could find them again, and came gingerly, step by step, nearer and nearer the principal tent. At its entrance lay a ferocious-looking half-bred bull-dog. Annie possessed that necessary accompaniment to courage--great outward calm; the greater the danger, the more cool and self-possessed did she become. She was within a step or two of the tent when she trod accidentally on a small twig: it cracked, giving her foot a sharp pain, and, very slight as the sound was, causing the bull-dog to awake. He raised his wicked face, saw the figure like his own people, and yet unlike, but a step or two away, and, uttering a low growl, sprang forward. In the ordinary course of things this growl would have risen in volume and would have terminated in a volley of barking; but Annie was prepared: she went down on her knees, held out her arms, said, "Poor fellow!" in her own seductive voice, and the bull-dog fawned at her feet. He licked one of her hands while she patted him gently with the other. "Come, poor fellow," she said then in a gentle tone, and Annie and the dog began to perambulate round the tents. The other dogs raised sleepy eyes, but seeing Tiger and the girl together, took no notice whatever, except by a thwack or two of their stumpy tails. Annie was now looking not only at the tents, but for something else which Zillah, her nurse, had told her might be found near to many gipsy encampments. This was a small subterranean passage, which generally led into a long-disused underground Danish fort. Zillah had told her what uses the gipsies liked to make of these underground passages, and how they often chose those which had two entrances. She told her that in this way they eluded the police, and were enabled successfully to hide the goods which they stole. She had also described to her their great ingenuity in hiding the entrances to these underground retreats. Annie's idea now was that little Nan was hidden in one of these vaults, and she determined first to make sure of its existence, and then to venture herself into this underground region in search of the lost child. She had made a decided conquest in the person of Tiger, who followed her round and round the tents, and when the gipsies at last began to stir and Annie crept into the hedge-row, the dog crouched by her side. Tiger was the favourite dog of the camp, and presently one of the men called to him; he rose unwillingly, looked back with longing eyes at Annie, and trotted off, to return in the space of about five minutes with a great bunch of broken bread in his mouth. This was his breakfast, and he meant to share it with his new friend. Annie was too hungry to be fastidious, and she also knew the necessity of keeping up her strength. She crept still farther under the hedge, and the dog and girl shared the broken bread between them. Presently the tents were all astir; the gipsy children began to swarm about, the women lit fires in the open air, and the smell of very appetising breakfasts filled the atmosphere. The men also lounged into view, standing lazily at the doors of their tents, and smoking great pipes of tobacco. Annie lay quiet. She could see from her hiding-place without being seen. Suddenly--and her eyes began to dilate, and she found her heart beating strangely--she laid her hand on Tiger, who was quivering all over. "Stay with me, dear dog," she said. There was a great commotion and excitement in the gipsy camp; the children screamed and ran into the tents, the women paused in their preparation for breakfast, the men took their short pipes out of their mouths; every dog, with the exception of Tiger, barked ferociously. Tiger and Annie alone were motionless. The cause of all this uproar was a body of police, about six in number, who came boldly into the field, and demanded instantly to search the tents. "We want a woman who calls herself Mother Rachel," they said. "She belongs to this encampment. We know her: let her come forward at once; we wish to question her." The men stood about; the women came near; the children crept out of their tents, placing their fingers to their frightened lips, and staring at the men who represented those horrors to their unsophisticated minds called Law and Order. "We must search the tents. We won't stir from the spot until we have had an interview with Mother Rachel," said the principal member of the police force. The men answered respectfully that the gipsy mother was not yet up; but if the gentlemen would wait a moment she would soon come and speak to them. The officers expressed their willingness to wait, and collected round the tents. Just at this instant, under the hedge-row, Tiger raised his head. Annie's watchful eyes accompanied the dog's. He was gazing after a tiny gipsy maid who was skulking along the hedge, and who presently disappeared through a very small opening into the neighbouring field. Quick as thought Annie, holding Tiger's collar, darted after her. The little maid heard the footsteps: but seeing another gipsy girl, and their own dog, Tiger, she took no further notice, but ran openly and very swiftly across the field until she came to a broken wall. Here she tugged and tugged at some loose stones, managed to push one away, and then called down into the ground-- "Mother Rachel!" "Come, Tiger," said Annie. She flew to a hedge not far off, and once more the dog and she hid themselves. The small girl was too excited to notice either their coming or going; she went on calling anxiously into the ground-- "Mother Rachel! Mother Rachel!" Presently a black head and a pair of brawny shoulders appeared, and the tall woman whose face and figure Annie knew so well stepped up out of the ground, pushed back the stones into their place, and, taking the gipsy child into her arms, ran swiftly across the field in the direction of the tents. CHAPTER FORTY SIX. FOR LOVE OF NAN. Now was Annie's time. "Tiger," she said, for she had heard the men calling the dog's name. "I want to go right down into that hole in the ground, and you are to come with me. Don't let us lose a moment, good dog." The dog wagged his tail, capered about in front of Annie, and then with a wonderful shrewdness ran before her to the broken wall, where he stood with his head bent downwards and his eyes fixed on the ground. Annie pulled and tugged at the loose stones; they were so heavy and so cunningly arranged that she wondered how the little maid, who was smaller than herself, had managed to remove them. She saw quickly, however, that they were arranged with a certain leverage, and that the largest stone that which formed the real entrance to the underground passage, was balanced in its place in such a fashion that when she leant on a certain portion of it, it moved aside, and allowed plenty of room for her to go down into the earth. Very dark and dismal and uninviting did the rude steps, which led nobody knew where, appear. For one moment Annie hesitated; but the thought of Nan hidden somewhere in this awful wretchedness nerved her courage. "Go first, Tiger, please," she said, and the dog scampered down, sniffing the earth as he went. Annie followed him, but she had scarcely got her head below the level of the ground before she found herself in total and absolute darkness; she had unwittingly touched the heavy stone, which had swung back into its place. She heard Tiger sniffing below, and, calling to him to keep by her side, she went very carefully down and down and down, until at last she knew by the increase of air that she must have come to the end of the narrow entrance passage. She was now able to stand upright, and raising her hand, she tried in vain to find a roof. The room where she stood, then, must be lofty. She went forward in the utter darkness very, very slowly; suddenly her head again came in contact with the roof; she made a few steps farther on, and then found that to proceed at all she must go on her hands and knees. She bent down and peered through the darkness. "We'll go on, Tiger," she said, and, holding the dog's collar and clinging to him for protection, she crept along the narrow passage. Suddenly she gave an exclamation of joy--at the other end of this gloomy passage was light--faint twilight surely, but still undoubted light, which came down from some chink in the outer world. Annie came to the end of the passage, and, standing upright, found herself suddenly in a room; a very small and miserable room, certainly, but with the twilight shining through it, which revealed not only that it was a room, but a room which contained a heap of straw, a three-legged stool, and two or three cracked cups and saucers. Here, then, was Mother Rachel's lair, and here she must look for Nan. The darkness had been so intense that even the faint twilight of this little chamber had dazzled Annie's eyes for a moment; the next, however, her vision became clear. She saw that the straw bed contained a bundle; she went near--out of the wrapped-up bundle of shawls appeared the head of a child. The child slept, and moaned in its slumbers. Annie bent over it and said, "Thank God!" in a tone of rapture, and then, stooping down, she passionately kissed the lips of little Nan. Nan's skin had been dyed with the walnut-juice, her pretty soft hair had been cut short, her dainty clothes had been changed for the most ragged gipsy garments, but still she was undoubtedly Nan, the child whom Annie had come to save. From her uneasy slumbers the poor little one awoke with a cry of terror. She could not recognise Annie's changed face, and clasped her hands before her eyes, and said piteously-- "Me want to go home--go 'way, naughty woman, me want my Annie." "Little darling!" said Annie, in her sweetest tones. The changed face had not appealed to Nan, but the old voice went straight to her baby heart; she stopped crying and looked anxiously toward the entrance of the room. "Turn in, Annie--me here, Annie--little Nan want 'oo." Annie glanced around her in despair. Suddenly her quick eyes lighted on a jug of water. She flew to it, and washed and laved her face. "Coming, darling," she said, as she tried to remove the hateful dye. She succeeded partly, and when she came back, to her great joy, the child recognised her. "Now, little precious, we will get out of this as fast as we can," said Annie, and clasping Nan tightly in her arms, she prepared to return by the way she had come. Then and there, for the first time, there flashed across her memory the horrible fact that the stone door had swung back into its place, and that by no possible means could she open it. She and Nan and Tiger were buried in a living tomb, and must either stay there and perish, or await the tender mercies of the cruel Mother Rachel. Nan, with her arms tightly clasped round Annie's neck, began to cry fretfully. She was impatient to get out of this dismal place; she was no longer oppressed by fears, for with the Annie whom she loved she felt absolutely safe; but she was hungry and cold and uncomfortable, and it seemed but a step, to little inexperienced Nan, from Annie's arms to her snug, cheerful nursery at Lavender House. "Turn, Annie--turn home, Annie," she begged, and, when Annie did not stir, she began to weep. In truth, the poor, brave little girl was sadly puzzled, and her first gleam of returning hope lay in the remembrance of Zillah's words, that there were generally two entrances to these old underground forts. Tiger, who seemed thoroughly at home in this little room, and had curled himself up comfortably on the heap of straw, had probably often been here before. Perhaps Tiger knew the way to the second entrance. Annie called him to her side. "Tiger," she said, going down on her knees, and looking full into his ugly but intelligent face, "Nan and I want to go out of this." Tiger wagged his stumpy tail. "We are hungry, Tiger, and we want something to eat, and you'd like a bone, wouldn't you?" Tiger's tail went with ferocious speed, and he licked Annie's hand. "There's no use going back that way, dear dog," continued the girl, pointing with her arm in the direction they had come. "The door is fastened, Tiger, and we can't get out. We can't get out because the door is shut." The dog's tail had ceased to wag; he took in the situation, for his whole expression showed dejection, and he drooped his head. It was now quite evident to Annie that Tiger had been here before, and that on some other occasion in his life he had wanted to get out and could not because the door was shut. "Now, Tiger," said Annie, speaking cheerfully, and rising to her feet, "we must get out. Nan and I are hungry, and you want your bone. Take us out the other way, good Tiger--the other way, dear dog." She moved instantly toward the little passage; the dog followed her. "The other way," she said, and she turned her back on the long narrow passage, and took a step or two into complete darkness. The dog began to whine, caught hold of her dress, and tried to pull her back. "Quite right, Tiger, we won't go that way," said Annie instantly. She returned into the dimly-lighted room. "Find a way--And a way out, Tiger," she said. The dog evidently understood her; he moved restlessly about the room. Finally he got up on the bed, pulled and scratched and tore away the straw at the upper end, then, wagging his tail, flew to Annie's side. She came back with him. Beneath the straw was a tiny, tiny trap-door. "Oh, Tiger!" said the girl; she went down on her knees, and, finding she could not stir it, wondered if this also was kept in its place by a system of balancing. She was right; after a very little pressing the door moved aside, and Annie saw four or five rudely carved steps. "Come, Nan," she said joyfully, "Tiger has saved us; these steps must lead us out." The dog, with a joyful whine, went down first, and Annie, clasping Nan tightly in her arms, followed him. Four, five, six steps they went down; then, to Annie's great joy, she found that the next step began to ascend. Up and up she went, cheered by a welcome shaft of light. Finally she, Nan, and the dog found themselves emerging into the open air, through a hole which might have been taken for a large rabbit burrow. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. RESCUED. The girl, the child, and the dog found themselves in a comparatively strange country--Annie had completely lost her bearings. She looked around her for some sign of the gipsies' encampment; but whether she had really gone a greater distance than she imagined in those underground vaults, or whether the tents were hidden in some hollow of the ground, she did not know; she was only conscious that she was in a strange country, that Nan was clinging to her and crying for her breakfast, and that Tiger was sniffing the air anxiously. Annie guessed that Tiger could take them back to the camp, but this was by no means her wish. When she emerged out of the underground passage she was conscious for the first time of a strange and unknown experience. Absolute terror seized the brave child: she trembled from head to foot, her head ached violently, and the ground on which she stood seemed to reel, and the sky to turn round. She sat down for a moment on the green grass. What ailed her? where was she? how could she get home? Nan's little piteous wail, "Me want my bekfas', me want my nursie, me want Hetty," almost irritated her. "Oh, Nan," she said at last piteously, "have you not got your own Annie? Oh, Nan, dear little Nan, Annie feels so ill!" Nan had the biggest and softest of baby hearts--breakfast, nurse, Hetty, were all forgotten in the crowning desire to comfort Annie. She climbed on her knee and stroked her face and kissed her lips. "'Oo better now?" she said in a tone of baby inquiry. Annie roused herself with a great effort. "Yes, darling," she said; "we will try and get home. Come, Tiger. Tiger, dear, I don't want to go back to the gipsies; take me the other way--take me to Oakley." Tiger again sniffed the air, looked anxiously at Annie, and trotted on in front. Little Nan in her ragged gipsy clothes walked sedately by Annie's side. "Where 'oo s'oes?" she said, pointing to the girl's bare feet. "Gone, Nan--gone. Never mind, I've got you. My little treasure, my little love, you're safe at last." As Annie tottered, rather than walked, down a narrow path which led directly through a field of standing corn, she was startled by the sudden apparition of a bright-eyed girl, who appeared so suddenly in her path that she might have been supposed to have risen out of the very ground. The girl stared hard at Annie, fixed her eyes inquiringly on Nan and Tiger, and then, turning on her heel, dashed up the path, went through a turn-stile, across the road, and into a cottage. "Mother," she exclaimed, "I said she warn't a real gipsy: she's a-coming back, and her face is all streaked like, and she has a little 'un along with her, and a dawg, and the only one as is gipsy is the dawg. Come and look at her, mother; oh, she is a fine take-in!" The round-faced, good-humoured looking mother, whose name was Mrs Williams, had been washing and putting away the breakfast things when her daughter entered. She now wiped her hands hastily and came to the cottage door. "Cross the road, and come to the stile, mother," said the energetic Peggy--"oh, there she be a-creeping along--oh, ain't she a take-in?" "'Sakes alive!" ejaculated Mrs Williams, "the girl is ill! why, she can't keep herself steady! There! I knew she'd fall; ah! poor little thing--poor little thing." It did not take Mrs Williams an instant to reach Annie's side; and in another moment she had lifted her in her strong arms and carried her into the cottage, Peggy lifting Nan and following in the rear, while Tiger walked by their sides. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. DARK DAYS. A whole week had passed, and there were no tidings whatever of little Nan or of Annie Forest. No one at Lavender House had heard a word about them; the police came and went, detectives even arrived from London, but there were no traces whatever of the missing children. The Midsummer holiday was now close at hand, but no one spoke of it or thought of it. Mrs Willis told the teachers that the prizes should be distributed, but she said she could invite no guests and could allow of no special festivities. Miss Danesbury and Miss Good repeated her words to the school-girls, who answered without hesitation that they did not wish for feasting and merriment; they would rather the day passed unnoticed. In truth, the fact that their baby was gone, that their favourite and prettiest and brightest school-mate had also disappeared, caused such gloom, such distress, such apprehension that even the most thoughtless of those girls could scarcely have laughed or been merry. School-hours were still kept after a fashion, but there was no life in the lessons. In truth, it seemed as if the sun would never shine again at Lavender House. Hester was ill; not very ill--she had no fever, she had no cold; she had, as the good doctor explained it, nothing at all wrong, except that her nervous system had got a shock. "When the little one is found, Miss Hetty will be quite well again," said the good doctor: but the little one had not been found yet, and Hester had completely broken down. She lay on her bed, saying little or nothing, eating scarcely anything, sleeping not at all. All the girls were kind to her, and each one in the school took turns in trying to comfort her; but no one could win a smile from Hester, and even Mrs Willis failed utterly to reach or touch her heart. Mr Everard came once to see her, but he had scarcely spoken many words when Hester broke into an agony of weeping, and begged him to go away. He shook his head when he left her, and said sadly to himself-- "That girl has got something on her mind; she is grieving for more than the loss of her little sister." The twentieth of June came at last, and the girls sat about in groups in the pleasant, shady garden, and talked of the very sad breaking-up day they were to have on the morrow, and wondered if, when they returned to school again, Annie and little Nan would have been found. Cecil Temple, Dora Russell, and one or two others were sitting together, and whispering in low voices. Mary Price joined them, and said anxiously-- "I don't think the doctor is satisfied about Hester. Perhaps I ought not to have listened, but I heard him talking to Miss Danesbury just now; he said she must be got to sleep somehow, and she is to have a composing draught to-night." "I wish poor Hetty would not turn away from us all," said Cecil; "I wish she would not quite give up hope; I do feel sure that Nan and Annie will be found yet." "Have you been praying about it, Cecil?" asked Mary, kneeling on the grass, laying her elbows on Cecil's knees, and looking into her face. "Do you say this because you have faith?" "I have prayed, and I have faith," replied Cecil in her simple, earnest way. "Why, Dora, what is the matter?" "Only that it's horrid to leave like this," said Dora; "I--I thought my last day at school would have been so different, and somehow I am sorry I spoke so much against that poor little Annie." Here Cecil suddenly rose from her seat, and, going up to Dora, clasped her arms round her neck. "Thank you, Dora," she said with fervour; "I love you for those words." "Here comes Susy," remarked Mary Price. "I really don't think _anything_ would move Susy; she's just as stolid and indifferent as ever. Ah, Susy, here's a place for you--oh, what _is_ the matter with Phyllis? see how she's rushing toward us! Phyllis, my dear, don't break your neck." Susan, with her usual nonchalance, seated herself by Dora Russell's side. Phyllis burst excitedly into the group. "I think," she exclaimed, "I really, really do think that news has come of Annie's father. Nora said that Janet told her that a foreign letter came this morning to Mrs Willis, and somebody saw Mrs Willis talking to Miss Danesbury--oh, I forgot, only I know that the girls of the school are whispering the news that Mrs Willis cried, and Miss Danesbury said, `After waiting for him four years, and now, when he comes back, he won't find her!' Oh, dear, oh, dear! there is Danesbury. Cecil, darling love, go to her, and find out the truth." Cecil rose at once, went across the lawn, said a few words to Miss Danesbury, and came back to the other girls. "It is true," she said sadly; "there came a letter this morning from Captain Forest; he will be at Lavender House in a week. Miss Danesbury says it is a wonderful letter, and he has been shipwrecked, and on an island by himself for ever so long; but he is safe now, and will soon be in England. Miss Danesbury says Mrs Willis can scarcely speak about that letter; she is in great, great trouble, and Miss Danesbury confesses that they are all more anxious than they dare to admit about Annie and little Nan." At this moment the sound of carriage wheels was heard on the drive, and Susan, peering forward to see who was arriving, remarked in her usual nonchalant manner-- "Only the little Misses Bruce in their basket-carriage--what dull-looking women they are!" Nobody commented, however, on her observation, and gradually the little group of girls sank into absolute silence. From where they sat they could see the basket-carriage waiting at the front entrance--the little ladies had gone inside, all was perfect silence and stillness. Suddenly on the stillness a sound broke--the sound of a girl running quickly; nearer and nearer came the steps, and the four or five who sat together under the oak-tree noticed the quick panting breath, and felt even before a word was uttered that evil tidings were coming to them. They all started to their feet, however; they all uttered a cry of horror and distress when Hester herself broke into their midst. She was supposed to be lying down in a darkened room, she was supposed to be very ill--what was she doing here? "Hetty!" exclaimed Cecil. Hester pushed past her; she rushed up to Susan Drummond, and seized her arm. "News has come!" she panted; "news--news at last! Nan is found!--and Annie--they are both found--but Annie is dying. Come, Susan, come this moment; we must both tell what we know now." By her impetuosity, by the intense fire of her passion and agony, even Susan was electrified into leaving her seat and going with her. CHAPTER FORTY NINE. TWO CONFESSIONS. Hester dragged her startled and rather unwilling companion in through the front entrance, past some agitated-looking servants who stood about in the hall, and through the velvet curtains into Mrs Willis's boudoir. The Misses Bruce were there, and Mrs Willis in her bonnet and cloak was hastily packing some things into a basket. "I--I must speak to you," said Hester, going up to her governess. "Susan and I have got something to say, and we must say it here, now at once?" "No, not now, Hester," replied Mrs Willis, looking for a moment into her pupil's agitated face. "Whatever you and Susan Drummond have to tell cannot be listened to by me at this moment. I have not an instant to lose." "You are going to Annie?" asked Hester. "Yes; don't keep me. Good-bye, my dears; good-bye." Mrs Willis moved toward the door. Hester, who felt almost beside herself, rushed after her, and caught her arm. "Take us with you, take Susy and me with you--we must we must see Annie before she dies." "Hush, my child," said Mrs Willis very quietly; "try to calm yourself. Whatever you have got to say shall be listened to later on--now moments are precious, and I cannot attend to you. Calm yourself, Hester, and thank God for your dear little sister's safety. Prepare yourself to receive her, for the carriage which takes me to Annie will bring little Nan home." Mrs Willis left the room, and Hester threw herself on hen knees and covered her face with her trembling hands. Presently she was aroused by a light touch on her arm; it was Susan Drummond. "I may go now, I suppose, Hester? You are not quite determined to make a fool of me, are you?" "I have determined to expose you, you coward, you mean, mean girl!" answered Hester, springing to her feet. "Come, I have no idea of letting you go. Mrs Willis won't listen--we will find Mr Everard." Whether Susan would really have gone with Hester remains to be proved, but just at that moment all possibility of retreat was cut away from her by Miss Agnes Bruce, who quietly entered Mrs Willis's private sitting-room, followed by the very man Hester was about to seek. "I thought it best, my dear," she said, turning apologetically to Hester, "to go at once for our good clergyman; you can tell him all that is in your heart, and I will leave you. Before I go, however. I should like to tell you how I found Annie and little Nan." Hester made no answer; just for a brief moment she raised her eyes to Miss Agnes's kind face, then they sought the floor. "The story can be told in a few words, dear," said the little lady. "A work-woman of the name of Williams, whom my sister and I have employed for years, and who lives near Oakley, called on us this morning to apologise for not being able to finish some needlework. She told us that she had a sick child, and also a little girl of three, in her house. She said she had found the child, in ragged gipsy garments, fainting in a field. She took her into her house, and, on undressing her, found that she was no true gipsy, but that her face and hands and arms had been dyed; she said the little one had been treated in a similar manner. Jane's suspicions and mine were instantly roused, and we went back with the woman to Oakley, and round, as we had anticipated, that the children were little Nan and Annie. The sad thing is that Annie is in high fever, and knows no one. We waited there until the doctor arrived, who spoke very, very seriously of her case. Little Nan is well, and asked for you." With these last words Miss Agnes Bruce softly left the room, closing the door after her. "Now, Susan," said Hester, without an instant's pause; "come, let us tell Mr Everard of our wickedness. Oh, sir," she added, raising her eyes to the clergyman's face, "if Annie dies I shall go mad. Oh, I cannot, cannot bear life if Annie dies!" "Tell me what is wrong, my poor child," said Mr Everard. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and gradually and skillfully drew from the agitated and miserable girl the story of her sin, of her cowardice, and of her deep, though until now unavailing repentance. How from the first she had hated and disliked Annie; how unjustly she had felt toward her; how she had longed and hoped Annie was guilty; and how, when at last the clew was put into her hands to prove Annie's absolute innocence, she had determined not to use it. "From the day Nan was lost," continued Hester, "it has been all agony and all repentance; but, oh, I was too proud to tell! I was too proud to humble myself to the very dust!" "But not now," said the clergyman very gently. "No, no; not now. I care for nothing now in all the world except that Annie may live." "You don't mind the fact that Mrs Willis and all your school-fellows must know of this, and must--must judge you accordingly?" "They can't think worse of me than I think of myself. I only want Annie to live." "No, Hester," answered Mr Everard, "you want more than that--you want far more than that. It may be that God will take Annie Forest away. We cannot tell. With Him alone are the issues of life or death. What you really want, my child, is the forgiveness of the little girl you have wronged, and the forgiveness of your Father in heaven." Hester began to sob wildly. "If--if she dies--may I see her first?" she gasped. "Yes; I will try and promise you that. Now, will you go to your room? I must speak to Miss Drummond alone; she is a far worse culprit than you." Mr Everard opened the door for Hester, who went silently out. "Meet me in the chapel to-night," he whispered low in her car, "I will talk with you and pray with you there." He closed the door, and came back to Susan. All throughout this interview his manner had been very gentle to Hester; but the clergyman could be stern, and there was a gleam of very righteous anger in his eyes as he turned to the sullen girl who leaned heavily against the table. "This narrative of Hester Thornton's is, of course, quite true, Miss Drummond?" "Oh, yes; there seems to be no use in denying that," said Susan. "I must insist on your telling me the exact story of your sin. There is no use in your attempting to deny anything; only the utmost candour on your part can now save you from being publicly expelled." "I am willing to tell," answered Susan. "I meant no harm; it was done as a bit of fun. I had a cousin at home who was very clever at drawing caricatures, and I happened to have nothing to do one day, and I was alone in Annie's bedroom, and I thought I'd like to see what she kept in her desk. I always had a fancy for collecting odd keys, and I found one on my bunch which fitted her desk exactly. I opened it, and I found such a smart little caricature of Mrs Willis. I sent the caricature to my cousin, and begged of her to make an exact copy of it. She did so, and I put Annie's back in her desk, and pasted the other into Cecil's book. I didn't like Dora Russell, and I wrapped up the sweeties in her theme; but I did the other for pure fun, for I knew Cecil would be so shocked; but I never guessed the blame would fall on Annie. When I found it did, I felt inclined to tell once or twice, but it seemed too much trouble, and, besides, I knew Mrs Willis would punish me, and, of course, I didn't wish that. "Dora Russell was always very nasty to me, and when I found she was putting on such airs, and pretending she could write such a grand essay for the prize, I thought I'd take down her pride a bit. I went to her desk, and I got some of the rough copy of the thing she was calling `The River,' and I sent it off to my cousin, and my cousin made up such a ridiculous paper, and she hit off Dora's writing to the life, and, of course, I had to put it into Dora's desk and tear up her real copy. It was very unlucky Hester being in the room. Of course I never guessed that, or I wouldn't have gone. That was the night we all went with Annie to the fairies' field. I never meant to get Hester into a scrape, nor Annie either, for that matter; but, of course, I couldn't be expected to tell on myself." Susan related her story in her usual monotonous and singsong voice. There was no trace of apparent emotion on her face, or of regret in her tones. When she had finished speaking Mr Everard was absolutely silent. "I took a great deal of trouble," continued Susan, after a pause, in a slightly fretful key. "It was really nothing but a joke, and I don't see why such a fuss should have been made. I know I lost a great deal of sleep trying to manage that twine business round my foot. I don't think I shall trouble myself playing any more tricks upon school-girls-- they are not worth it." "You'll never play any more tricks on these girls," said Mr Everard, rising to his feet, and suddenly filling the room and reducing Susan to an abject silence by the ring of his stern, deep voice. "I take it upon me, in the absence of your mistress, to pronounce your punishment. You leave Lavender House in disgrace this evening. Miss Good will take you home, and explain to your parents the cause of your dismissal. You are not to see _any_ of your school-fellows again. Your meanness, your cowardice, your sin require no words on my part to deepen their vileness. Through pure wantonness you have cast a cruel shadow on an innocent young life. If that girl dies, you indeed are not blameless in the cause of her early removal, for through you her heart and spirit were broken. Miss Drummond, I pray God you may at least repent and be sorry. There are some people mentioned in the Bible who are spoken of as past feeling. Wretched girl, while there is yet time, pray that you may not belong to them. Now I must leave you, but I shall lock you in. Miss Good will come for you in about an hour to take you away." Susan Drummond sank down on the nearest seat, and began to cry softly; one or two pin-pricks from Mr Everard's stern words may possibly have reached her shallow heart--no one can tell. She left Lavender House that evening, and none of the girls who had lived with her as their school-mate heard of her again. CHAPTER FIFTY. THE HEART OF LITTLE NAN. For several days now Annie had lain unconscious in Mrs Williams's little bedroom; the kind-hearted woman could not find it in her heart to send the sick child away. Her husband and the neighbours expostulated with her, and said that Annie was only a poor little waif. "She has no call on you," said Jane Allen, a hard-featured woman who lived next door. "Why should you put yourself out just for a sick lass? and she'll be much better on in the workhouse infirmary." But Mrs Williams shook her head at her hard-featured and hard-hearted neighbour, and resisted her husband's entreaties. "Eh!" she said, "but the poor lamb needs a good bit of mothering, and I misdoubt me she wouldn't get much of that in the infirmary." So Annie stayed, and tossed from side to side of her little bed, and murmured unintelligible words, and grew daily a little weaker and a little more delirious. The parish doctor called, and shook his head over her: he was not a particularly clever man, but he was the best the Williamses could afford. While Annie suffered and went deeper into that valley of humiliation and weakness which leads to the gate of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, little Nan played with Peggy Williams, and accustomed herself after the fashion of little children to all the ways of her new and humble home. It was on the eighth day of Annie's fever that the Misses Bruce discovered her, and on the evening of that day Mrs Willis knelt by her little favourite's bed. A better doctor had been called in, and all that money could procure had been got now for poor Annie; but the second doctor considered her case even more critical, and said that the close air of the cottage was much against her recovery. "I didn't make that caricature; I took the girls into the fairies' field, but I never pasted that caricature into Cecil's book. I know you don't believe me, Cecil; but do you think I would really do anything so mean about one whom I love? No, no! I am innocent! God knows it. Yes, I am glad of that--God knows it." Over, and over in Mrs Willis's presence these piteous words would come from the fever-stricken child, but always when she came to the little sentence "God knows I am innocent," her voice would grow tranquil, and a faint and sweet smile would play round her lips. Late that night a carriage drew up at a little distance from the cottage, and a moment or two afterwards Mrs Willis was called out of the room to speak to Cecil Temple. "I have found out the truth about Annie; I have come at once to tell you," she said; and then she repeated the substance of Hester's and Susan's story. "God help me for having misjudged her," murmured the head-mistress; then she bade Cecil "good-night," and returned to the sick-room. The next time Annie broke out with her piteous wail, "They believe me guilty--Mrs Willis does--they all do," the mistress laid her hand with a firm and gentle pressure on the child's arm. "Not now, my dear," she said, in a slow, clear, and emphatic voice. "God has shown your governess the truth, and she believes in you." The very carefully-uttered words pierced through the clouded brain; for a moment Annie lay quite still, with her bright and lovely eyes fixed on her teacher. "Is that really you?" she asked. "I am here, my darling." "And you believe in me?" "I do most absolutely." "God does, too, you know," answered Annie--bringing out the words quickly, and turning her head to the other side. The fever had once more gained supremacy, and she rambled on unceasingly through the dreary night. Now, however, when the passionate words broke out, "They believe me guilty," Mrs Willis always managed to quiet her by saying, "I know you are innocent." The next day at noon those girls who had not gone home--for many had started by the morning train--were wandering aimlessly about the grounds. Mr Everard had gone to see Annie, and had promised to bring back the latest tidings about her. Hester, holding little Nan's hand--for she could scarcely bear to have her recovered treasure out of sight--had wandered away from the rest of her companions, and had seated herself with Nan under a large oak-tree which grew close to the entrance of the avenue. She had come here in order to be the very first to see Mr Everard on his return. Nan had climbed into Hester's lap, and Hester had buried her aching head in little Nan's bright curls, when she started suddenly to her feet and ran forward. Her quick ears had detected the sound of wheels. How soon Mr Everard had returned; surely the news was bad! She flew to the gate, and held it open in order to avoid the short delay which the lodge-keeper might cause in coming to unfasten it. She flushed however, vividly, and felt half inclined to retreat into the shade, when she saw that the gentleman who was approaching was not Mr Everard, but a tall, handsome, and foreign-looking man, who drove a light dog-cart himself. The moment he saw Hester with little Nan clinging to her skirts he stopped short. "Is this Lavender House, little girl?" "Yes, sir," replied Hester. "And can you tell me--but of course you know--you are one of the young ladies who live here, eh?" Hester nodded. "Then you can tell me if Mrs Willis is at home--but of course she is." "No, sir," answered Hester; "I am sorry to tell you that Mrs Willis is away. She has been called away on very, very sad business; she won't come back to-night." Something in Hester's tone caused the stranger to look at her attentively; he jumped off the dog-cart and came to her side. "See, here, Miss--" "Thornton," put in Hester. "Yes, Miss--Miss Thornton, perhaps you can manage for me as well as Mrs Willis; after all I don't particularly want to see her. If you belong to Lavender House, you, of course, know my--I mean you have a school-mate here, a little, pretty gipsy rogue called Forest--little Annie Forest. I want to see her--can you take me to her!" "You are her father?" gasped Hester. "Yes, my dear child, I am her father. Now you can take me to her at once." Hester covered her face. "Oh, I cannot," she said--"I cannot take you to Annie. Oh, sir, if you knew all, you would feel inclined to kill me. Don't ask me about Annie--don't, don't." The stranger looked fairly nonplussed and not a little alarmed. Just at this moment Nan's tiny fingers touched his hand. "Me'll lake 'oo to my Annie," she said--"mine poor Annie. Annie's vedy sick, but me'll take 'oo." The tall, foreign-looking man lifted Nan into his arms. "Sick, is she?" he answered. "Look here young lady," he added, turning to Hester, "whatever you have got to say, I am sure you will try and say it; you will pity a father's anxiety and master your own feelings. Where _is_ my little girl?" Hester hastily dried her tears. "She is in a cottage near Oakley, sir." "Indeed! Oakley is some miles from here?" "And she is very ill." "What of?" "Fever; they--they fear she may die." "Take me to her," said the stranger. "If she is ill and dying she wants me. Take me to her at once. Here, jump on the dog-cart; and, little one, you shall come too." So furiously did Captain Forest drive that in a very little over an hour's time his panting horse stopped at a few steps from the cottage. He called to a boy to hold him, and, accompanied by Hester, and carrying Nan in his arms, he stood on the threshold of Mrs Williams' humble little abode. Mr Everard was coming out. "Hester," he said, "you here? I was coming for you." "Oh, then she is worse?" "She is conscious, and has asked for you. Yes, she is very, very ill." "Mr Everard, this gentleman is Annie's father." Mr Everard looked pityingly at Captain Forest. "You have come back at a sad hour, sir," he said. "But no, it cannot harm her to see you. Come with me." Captain Forest went first into the sick-room; Hester waited outside. She had the little kitchen to herself, for all the Williamses, with the exception of the good mother, had moved for the time being to other quarters. Surely Mr Everard would come for her in a moment? Surely Captain Forest, who had gone into the sick-room with Nan in his arms, would quickly return? There was no sound. All was absolute quiet. How soon would Hester be summoned? Could she--could she bear to look at Annie's dying face? Her agony drove her down on her knees. "Oh, if you would only spare Annie!" she prayed to God. Then she wiped her eyes. This terrible suspense seemed more than she could bear. Suddenly the bedroom door was softly and silently opened, and Mr Everard came out. "She sleeps," he said; "there is a shadow of hope. Little Nan has done it. Nan asked to lie down beside her and she said, `Poor Annie! poor Annie!' and stroked her cheek; and in some way, I don't know how, the two have gone to sleep together. Annie did not even glance at her father; she was quite taken up with Nan. You can come to the door and look at her, Hester." Hester did so. A time had been when she could scarcely have borne that sight without a pang of jealousy; now she turned to Mr Everard: "I--I could even give her the heart of little Nan to keep her here," she murmured. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. THE PRIZE ESSAY. Annie did not die. The fever passed away in that long and refreshing sleep, while Nan's cool hand lay against her cheek. She came slowly, slowly back to life--to a fresh, a new, and a glad life. Hester, from being her enemy, was now her dearest and warmest friend. Her father was at home again, and she could no longer think or speak of herself as lonely or sad. She recovered, and in future days reigned as a greater favourite than ever at Lavender House. It is only fair to say that Tiger never went back to the gipsies, but devoted himself first and foremost to Annie, and then to the Captain, who pronounced him a capital dog, and when he heard his story vowed he never would part with him. Owing to Annie's illness, and to all the trouble and confusion which immediately ensued, Mrs Willis did not give away her prizes at the usual time; but when her scholars once more assembled at Lavender House she astonished several of them by a few words. "My dears," she said, standing in her accustomed place at the head of the long school-room, "I intend now, before our first day of lessons begins, to distribute those prizes which would have been yours, under ordinary circumstances, on the twenty-first of June. The prizes will be distributed during the afternoon recess: but here, and now, I wish to say something about--and also to give away--the prize for English composition. Six essays, all written with more or less care, have been given to me to inspect. There are reasons which we need not now go into which made it impossible to me to say anything in favour of a theme called `The River,' written by my late pupil, Miss Russell: but I can cordially praise a very nice historical sketch of Marie Antoinette, the work of Hester Thornton. Mary Price has also written a study which pleases me much, as it shows thought and even a little originality. The remainder of the six essays simply reach an ordinary average. You will be surprised therefore, my dears, to learn that I do not award the prize to any of these themes, but rather to a seventh composition, which was put into my hands yesterday by Miss Danesbury. It is crude and unfinished, and doubtless but for her recent illness would have received many corrections: but these few pages, which are called `A Lonely Child,' drew tears from my eyes; crude as they are, they have the merit of real originality. They are too morbid to read to you, girls, and I sincerely trust and pray the young writer may never pen anything so sad again. Such as they are, however, they rank first in the order of merit, and the prize is hers. Annie, my dear, come forward." Annie left her seat, and, amid the cheers of her companions, went up to Mrs Willis, who placed a locket, attached to a slender gold chain, round her neck; the locket contained a miniature of the head-mistress's much-loved face. "After all, think of our Annie Forest turning out clever, as well as being the prettiest and dearest girl in the school I exclaimed several or her companions." "Only I do wish," added one, "that Mrs Willis had let us see the essay. Annie, treasure, come here; tell us what the `Lonely Child' was about." "I don't remember," answered Annie. "I don't know what loneliness means now, so how can I describe it?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The End. 
57028	----	A DOMINIE'S LOG WHAT THIS BOOK IS ABOUT. "A Dominie's Log" was directly due to the Scottish code of Education, by which it is forbidden to enter general reflections or opinions in the official log-book. Requiring a safety-valve, a young Dominie decides to keep a private log-book. In it he jots down the troubles and comedies of the day's work. Sometimes he startles even his own bairns by his unconventionality. There is a lot in Education that he does not understand. The one thing, however, that he does comprehend is the Child Mind, and he possesses the saving quality of humour. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ A DOMINIE ABROAD 7s. 6d. net. A DOMINIE DISMISSED 2s. 6d. net. A DOMINIE IN DOUBT 2s. 6d. net. THE BOOMING OF BUNKIE 2s. 6d. net. CARROTY BROON 2s. 6d. net. A DOMINIE'S LOG BY A. S. NEILL HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED YORK STREET ST. JAMES'S S.W.1. [Illustration: A HERBERT JENKINS' BOOK] _Printed in Great Britain at the Athenæum Printing Works, Redhill._ AS A BOY I ATTENDED A VILLAGE SCHOOL WHERE THE BAIRNS CHATTERED AND WERE HAPPY. I TRACE MY LOVE OF FREEDOM TO MY FREE LIFE THERE, AND I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY FORMER DOMINIE, MY FATHER. PREFACE. The first four installments of this Log were published in the _Educational News_, under the acting editorship of Mr. Alexander Sivewright, who was very anxious to publish the Log in full, but apparently public opinion on the subject of the indiscriminate kissing of girls forced him to hold up the remainder. Then teachers began to write me letters. Some of them were very complimentary; others weren't. These letters worried me, for I couldn't quite determine whether I was a lunatic or a genius. Then an unknown lady sent me a tract. The title of the tract was: "The Sin That Found Him Out." The hero was a boy called Willie. He never told a lie, and when other boys smote him he turned the other cheek and prayed for them. "Life to him was one long prayer," said the tract. Then troubles came. He grew up and his father took to drink. His elder brother had a disagreement with the local police about his whereabouts on the night of a certain robbery, and was decidedly unconvincing. Willie stepped in and took all the blame. The next chapter takes Willie as a private to the fields of Flanders, and the penultimate chapter sees him a major-general. The last chapter contains the moral, but what the moral is I cannot well make out. In fact I don't know whether the title refers to Willie or his transgressing brother, but I feel that somewhere in that pamphlet there is a lesson for me. Before the tract arrived I thought of publishing the Log as a brilliant treatise on education. Its arrival altered all my values. I then knew that I was the educational equivalent of the "awful example" who sits on the platform at temperance meetings, and with great humility I besought Mr. Herbert Jenkins to publish my Log as a terrible warning to my fellow sinners. A. S. N. 1915. A DOMINIE'S LOG I. "No reflections or opinions of a general character are to be entered in the log-book."--Thus the Scotch Code. I have resolved to keep a private log of my own. In the regulation volume I shall write down all the futile never-to-be-seen piffle about Mary Brown's being laid up with the measles, and about my anxiety lest it should spread. (Incidentally, my anxiety is real; I do not want the school to be closed; I want a summer holiday undocked of any days.) In my private log I shall write down my thoughts on education. I think they will be mostly original; there has been no real authority on education, and I do not know of any book from which I can crib. To-night after my bairns had gone away, I sat down on a desk and thought. What does it all mean? What am I trying to do? These boys are going out to the fields to plough; these girls are going to farms as servants. If I live long enough the new generation will be bringing notes of the plese-excuss-james-as-I-was-washing type ... and the parents who will write them went out at that door five minutes ago. I can teach them to read, and they will read serials in the drivelling weeklies; I can teach them to write, and they will write pathetic notes to me by and bye; I can teach them to count, and they will never count more than the miserable sum they receive as a weekly wage. The "Three R's" spell futility. But what of the rest? Can I teach them drawing? I cannot. I can help a boy with a natural talent to improve his work, but of what avail is it? In their future homes they will hang up the same old prints--vile things given away with a pound of tea. I can teach them to sing, but what will they sing?... the _Tipperary_ of their day. My work is hopeless, for education should aim at bringing up a new generation that will be better than the old. The present system is to produce the same kind of man as we see to-day. And how hopeless he is. When first I saw Houndsditch, I said aloud: "We have had education for generations ... and yet we have this." Yes, my work is hopeless. What is the use of the Three R's, of Woodwork, of Drawing, of Geography, if Houndsditch is to remain? What is the use of anything? * * * I smile as I re-read the words I wrote yesterday, for to-day I feel that hope has not left me. But I am not any more hopeful about the three R's and the others. I am hopeful because I have found a solution. I shall henceforth try to make my bairns realise. Yes, realise is the word. Realise what? To tell the truth, I have some difficulty in saying. I think I want to make them realise what life means. Yes, I want to give them, or rather help them to find an attitude. Most of the stuff I teach them will be forgotten in a year or two, but an attitude remains with one throughout life. I want these boys and girls to acquire the habit of looking honestly at life. Ah! I wonder if I look honestly at life myself! Am I not a very one-sided man? Am I not a Socialist, a doubter, a heretic? Am I not biassed when I judge men like the Cecils and the Harmsworths? I admit it. I am a partisan, and yet I try to look at life honestly. I try ... and that is the main point. I do not think that I have any of the current superstitions about morality and religion and art. I try to forget names; I try to get at essentials, at truth. The fathers of my bairns are, I think, interested in names. I wonder how many of them have sat down saying: "I must examine myself, so that I may find out what manner of man I am." I hold that self-knowledge must come before all things. When one has stripped off all the conventions, and superstitions, and hypocrisies, then one is educated. * * * These bairns of mine will never know how to find truth; they will merely read the newspapers when they grow up. They will wave their hats to the King, but kingship will be but a word to them; they will shout when a lawyer from the south wins the local seat, but they will not understand the meaning of economics; they will dust their old silk hats and march to the sacrament, but they will not realise what religion means. I find that I am becoming pessimistic again, and I did feel hopeful when I began to write. I _should_ feel hopeful, for I am resolved to find another meaning in education. What was it?... Ah, yes, I am to help them to find an attitude. * * * I have been thinking about discipline overnight. I have seen a headmaster who insisted on what he called perfect discipline. His bairns sat still all day. A movement foreshadowed the strap. Every child jumped up at the word of command. He had a very quiet life. I must confess that I am an atrociously bad disciplinarian. To-day Violet Brown began to sing _Tipperary_ to herself when I was marking the registers. I looked up and said: "Why the happiness this morning, Violet?" and she blushed and grinned. I am a poor disciplinarian. I find that normally I am very, very slack; I don't mind if they talk or not. Indeed, if the hum of conversation stops, I feel that something has happened and I invariably look towards the door to see whether an Inspector has arrived. I find that I am almost a good disciplinarian when my liver is bad; I demand silence then ... but I fear I do not get it, and I generally laugh. The only discipline I ask for usually is the discipline that interest draws. If a boy whets his pencil while I am describing the events that led to the Great Rebellion, I sidetrack him on the topic of rabbits ... and I generally make him sit up. I know that I am teaching badly if the class is loafing, and I am honest enough in my saner moments not to blame the bairns. I do not like strict discipline, for I do believe that a child should have as much freedom as possible. I want a bairn to be human, and I try to be human myself. I walk to school each morning with my briar between my lips, and if the fill is not smoked, I stand and watch the boys play. I would kiss my wife in my classroom, but ... I do not have a wife. A wee lassie stopped me on the way to school this morning, and she pushed a very sticky sweetie into my hand. I took my pipe from my mouth and ate the sweetie--and I asked for another; she was highly delighted. Discipline, to me, means a pose on the part of the teacher. It makes him very remote; it lends him dignity. Dignity is a thing I abominate. I suppose the bishop is dignified because he wants to show that there is a real difference between his salaried self and the underpaid curate. Why should I be dignified before my bairns? Will they scorn me if I slide with them? (There was a dandy slide on the road to-day. I gave them half-an-hour's extra play this morning, and I slid all the time. My assistants are adepts at the game.) But discipline is necessary; there are men known as Inspectors. And Johnny must be flogged if he does not attend to the lesson. He must know the rivers of Russia. After all, why should he? I don't know them, and I don't miss the knowledge. I couldn't tell you the capital of New Zealand ... is it Wellington? or Auckland? I don't know; all I know is that I could find out if I wanted to. I do not blame Inspectors. Some of them are men with what I would call a vision. I had the Chief Inspector of the district in the other day, and I enjoyed his visit. He has a fine taste in poetry, and a sense of humour. The Scotch Education Department is iniquitous because it is a department; a department cannot have a sense of humour. And it is humour that makes a man decent and kind and human. If the Scotch Education Department were to die suddenly I should suddenly become a worse disciplinarian than I am now. If Willie did not like Woodwork, I should say to him: "All right, Willie. Go and do what you do like, but take my advice and do some work; you will enjoy your football all the better for it." I believe in discipline, but it is self-discipline that I believe in. I think I can say that I never learned anything by being forced to learn it, but I may be wrong. I was forced to learn the Shorter Catechism, and to-day I hate the sight of it. I read the other day in Barrie's _Sentimental Tommy_ that its meaning comes to one long afterwards and at a time when one is most in need of it. I confess that the time has not come for me; it will never come, for I don't remember two lines of the Catechism. It is a fallacy that the nastiest medicines are the most efficacious; Epsom Salts are not more beneficial than Syrup of Figs. A thought!... If I believe in self-discipline, why not persuade Willie that Woodwork is good for him as a self-discipline? Because it isn't my job. If Willie dislikes chisels he will always dislike them. What I might do is this: tell him to persevere with his chisels so that he might cut himself badly. Then he might discover that his true vocation is bandaging, and straightway go in for medicine. Would Willie run away and play at horses if I told him to do what he liked best? I do not think so. He likes school, and I think he likes me. I think he would try to please me if he could. * * * When I speak kindly to a bairn I sometimes ask myself what I mean (for I try to find out my motives). Do I want the child to think kindly of me? Do I try to be popular? Am I after the delightful joy of being loved? Am I merely being humanly brotherly and kind? I have tried to analyse my motives, and I really think that there is little of each motive. I want to be loved; I want the bairn to think kindly of me. But in the main I think that my chief desire is to make the bairn happy. No man, no woman, has the right to make the skies cloudy for a bairn; it is the sin against the Holy Ghost. I once had an experience in teaching. A boy was dour and unlovable and rebellious and disobedient. I tried all ways--I regret to say I tried the tawse. I was inexperienced at the time yet I hit upon the right way. One day I found he had a decided talent for drawing. I brought down some of my pen-and-ink sketches and showed him them. I gave him pictures to copy, and his interest in art grew. I won him over by interesting myself in him. He discovered that I was only human after all. Only human!... when our scholars discover that we are only human, then they like us, and then they listen to us. I see the fingers of my tawse hanging out of my desk. They seem to be two accusing fingers. My ideals are all right, but.... I whacked Tom Wilkie to-night. At three o'clock he bled Dave Tosh's nose, and because Dave was the smaller, I whacked Tom. Yet I did not feel angry; I regret to say that I whacked Tom because I could see that Dave expected me to do it, and I hate to disappoint a bairn. If Dave had been his size, I know that I should have ignored their battle. * * * I have not used the strap all this week, and if my liver keeps well, I hope to abolish it altogether. To-day I have been thinking about punishment. What is the idea of punishment? A few months ago a poor devil of an engine-driver ran his express into a goods, and half-a-dozen people were killed. He got nine months. Why? Is his punishment meant to act as a deterrent? Will another driver say to himself: "By Jove, I'll better not wreck my train or I'll get nine months." Nine months is not punishment, but the lifelong thought: "I did it," is hell. I am trying to think why I punished Lizzie Smith for talking last Friday. Bad habit, I expect. Yet it acted as a deterrent; it showed that I was in earnest about what I was saying--I was reading the war news from the _Scotsman_. I am sorry that I punished her; it was weakness on my part, weakness and irritation. If she had no interest in the war, why should she pretend that she had? But no, I cannot have this. I must inculcate the idea of a community; the bairn must be told that others have rights. I often want to rise up and contradict the minister in kirk, but I don't; the people have rights; they do not come out to listen to me. If I offend against the community, the community will punish me with ostracism or bitterness. We have all a right to live our own lives, but in living them we must live in harmony with the community. Lizzie must be told that all the others like the war news, and that in talking she is annoying them. Yes, I must remember to emphasise continually the idea of a corporate life. * * * I see that it is only the weak man who requires a strap. Lord Kitchener could rule my school without a strap, but I am not Kitchener. Moreover, I am glad I'm not. I do not want to be what is called a strong man. John Gourlay, in _The House with the Green Shutters_ was strong enough to rule every school in Scotland with Sir John Struthers superadded; yet I do not want to be Gourlay. His son would have been a better teacher, for he was more human. Possibly Kitchener is very human; I do not know. II. I heard a blackie this morning as I went to school, and when I came near to the playground I heard the girls singing. And I realised that Lenten was come with love to Town. The game was a jingaring, and Violet Brown was in the centre. The wind and the wind and the wind blows high, The rain comes pattering from the sky. Violet Brown says she'll die For the lad with the rolling eye. She is handsome, she is pretty, She is the girl of the golden city; She is counted one, two, three, Oh! I wonder who he'll be. Willie Craig says he loves her.... My own early experiences told me that Willie wasn't far off. Yes, there he was at the same old game. When Vi entered the ring Willie began to hammer Geordie Steel with his bonnet. But I could see Violet watch him with a corner of her eye, and I am quite sure that she was aware that the exertion of hammering Geordie did not account for Willie's burning cheeks. Then Katie Farmer entered the ring ... and Tom Dixon at once became the hammerer of Geordie. Poor wee Geordie! I know that he loves Katie himself, and I know that between blows he is listening for the fatal "Tom Dixon says he loves her." I re-arranged seats this morning, and Willie is now sitting behind his Vi, but Tom Dixon is not behind Katie. Poor despised Geordie is there, but I shall shift him to-morrow if he does not make the most of his chances. * * * This morning Geordie passed a note over to Katie, then he sat all in a tremble. I saw Katie read it ... and I saw her blush. I blew my nose violently, for I knew what was written on that sacred sheet; at least I thought I knew.... "Dear Katie, will you be my lass? I will have you if you will have me--Geordie." At minutes I listened for the name when Katie went into the ring. It was "Tom Dixon" again. I blew my whistle and stopped the game. At dinner-time I looked out at the window, and rejoiced to see poor Geordie hammering Tom Dixon. I opened the window and listened. Katie was in the ring again, and I almost shouted "Hurrah!" when I heard the words, "Geordie Steel says he loves her." But I placed Tom Dixon behind Katie in the afternoon; I felt that I had treated poor Tom with injustice. To-night I tried to tackle Form 9b, but I could not concentrate. But it wasn't Violet and Katie that I was thinking of; I was thinking of the Violets and Katies I wrote "noties" to many years ago. I fear I am a bit of a sentimentalist, yet ... why the devil shouldn't I be? * * * I have discovered a girl with a sense of humour. I asked my Qualifying Class to draw a graph of the attendance at a village kirk. "And you must explain away any rise or fall," I said. Margaret Steel had a huge drop one Sunday, and her explanation was "Special Collection for Missions." Next Sunday the congregation was abnormally large; Margaret wrote "Change of Minister." Few bairns have a sense of humour; their's is a sense of fun. Make a noise like a duck and they will scream, but tell them your best joke and they will be bored to tears. I try hard to cultivate their sense of humour and their imagination. In their composition I give them many autobiographies ... a tile hat, a penny, an old boot, a nose, a tooth. To-day I asked them to describe in the first person a snail's journey to the end of the road. Margaret Steel talked of her hundred mile crawl, and she noted the tall forests on each side of the road. "The grass would be trees to a snail," she explained. Poor Margaret! When she is fourteen she will go out to the fields, and in three years she will be an ignorant country bumpkin. Our education system is futile because it does not go far enough. The State should see to it that each child has the best of chances. Margaret should be sent to a Secondary School and to a University free of charge. Her food and clothes and books and train fares should be free by right. The lassie has brains ... and that is argument enough. Our rulers do realize to a slight extent the responsibility of the community to the child. It sends a doctor round to look at Margaret's teeth; it may feed her at school if she is starving; it compels her to go to school till she is fourteen. At the age of fourteen she is free to go to the devil--the factory or the herding. But suppose she did go to a Secondary School. What then? Possibly she would become a Junior Student or a University Student. She would learn much, but would she think? I found that thinking was not encouraged at the university. * * * To-day I asked Senior I. to write up "A hen in the Kirk," and one or two attempts showed imagination. Is it possible that I am overdoing the imagination business? Shall I produce men and women with more imagination than intellect? No, I do not think there is danger. The nation suffers from lack of imagination; few of us can imagine a better state of society, a fuller life. Who are the men with great imagination?... Shelley, Blake, Browning, Nietzsche, Ibsen, Tolstoy. These men were not content with life as it was; they had ideals, and ideals are creatures of the imagination. I once saw a book by, I think, Arnold Forster; a book that was meant to teach children the meaning of citizenship. If I remember aright it dealt with parliament and law, and local government. Who was Arnold Forster? Why cannot our bairns have the best? Why tell them all the stale lies about democracy, the freedom of the individual, the justice of our laws? Are Forster's ideas of citizenship as great as the ideas of Plato, of More, of Morris, of Wells? I intend to make an abridgement of Plato's _Republic_, More's _Utopia_, William Morris's _News from Nowhere_, Bacon's _A New Atlantis_, H. G. Wells' _A Modern Utopia_, and _New Worlds for Old_. Arnold Forster was with the majority. Nearly every day I quote to my bairns Ibsen's words from _An Enemy of the People_.... "The Majority _never_ has right on its side. _Never_ I say." Every lesson book shouts aloud the words: "The majority is always right." Do I teach my bairns Socialism? I do not think so. Socialism means the owning of a State by the people of that State, and this State is not fit to own anything. For at present the State means the majority in Parliament, and that is composed of mediocre men. A State that takes up Home Rule while the slums of the East End exist is a State run by office boys for office boys ... to adapt Salisbury's description of a London daily. We could not have Socialism to-day; the nation is not ripe for it. The Germans used to drink to "The Day"; every teacher in Britain should drink daily to "The Day" when there shall be no poor, when factory lasses will not rise at five and work till six. I know that I shall never see the day, but I shall tell my bairns that it is coming. I know that most of the seed will fall on stony ground, but a sower can but sow. * * * I have been image-breaking to-day, and I feel happy. It began with patent medicines, but how I got to them I cannot recollect. I remember commencing a lesson on George Washington. The word hatchet led naturally to Women's Suffrage; then ducks came up.... Heaven only knows how, and the word quack brought me to Beans for Bibulous Britons. I told how most of these medicines cost half a farthing to make, and I explained that the manufacturer was spending a good part of the shilling profit in advertising. Then I told of the utter waste of material and energy in advertising, and went on to thunder against the hideous yellow tyre signs on the roadside. At dinner-time I read in my paper that some knight had received his knighthood because of his interest in the Territorial Movement. "Much more likely that he gave a few thousands to the party funds," I said to my wondering bairns. Then I cursed the cash values that attach to almost everything. I am determined to tear all the rags of hypocrisy from the facts of life; I shall lead my bairns to doubt everything. Yet I want them to believe in Peter Pan, or is it that I want them to believe in the beauty of beautiful stories? I want them to love the alluring lady Romance, but I think I want them to love her in the knowledge that she is only a Dream Child. Romance means more to the realist than to the romancist. * * * I wish I were a musician. If I could play the piano I should spend each Friday afternoon playing to my bairns. I should give them Alexander's Ragtime Band and Hitchy Coo; then I should play them a Liszt Rhapsody and a Chopin waltz. Would they understand and appreciate? Who knows what raptures great music might bring to a country child? The village blacksmith was fiddling at a dance in the Hall last night. "Aw learnt the fiddle in a week," he told me. I believed him. What effect would Ysaye have on a village audience? The divine melody would make them sit up startled at first, and, I think, some of them might begin to see pictures. If only I could bring Ysaye and Pachmann to this village! What an experiment! I think that if I were a Melba or a Ysaye I should say to myself:--"I have had enough of money and admiration; I shall go round the villages on an errand of mercy." The great, they say, begin in the village hall and end in the Albert Hall. The really great would begin and end in the village hall. III. A very young calf had managed to get into the playground this morning, and when I arrived I found Peter Smith hitting it viciously over the nose with a stick. I said nothing. I read the war news as usual. Then I addressed the bairns. "What would you do to the Germans who committed atrocities in Belgium?" I asked. Peter's hand went up with the others. "Well, Peter?" "Please sir, shoot them." "Cruelty should be punished, eh?" I said. "Yes, sir." "Then come here, you dirty dog!" I cried, and I whacked Peter with a fierce joy. I have often wondered at the strain of cruelty that is so often found in boys. The evolutionists must be right: the young always tend to resemble their remote ancestors. In a boy there is much of the brute. I have seen a boy cut off the heads of a nest of young sparrows; I wanted to hit him ... but he was bigger than I. This morning I was bigger than Peter; hence I do not take any credit to myself for welting him. I can see that cruelty does not disappear with youth. I confess to a feeling of unholy joy in leathering Peter, but I think that it was caused by a real indignation. What made Peter hurt the poor wee thing I cannot tell. I am inclined to think that he acted subconsciously; he was being the elemental hunter, and he did not realise that he was giving pain. I ought to have talked to him, to have made him realise. But I became elemental also; I punished with no definite motive ... and I would do it again. * * * We have had a return of wintry weather, and the bairns had a glorious slide made on the road this morning. At dinner-time I found them loafing round the door. "Why aren't you sliding," I asked. They explained that the village policeman had salted the slide. After marking the registers I took up the theme. "Why did he salt the slide?" I asked. "Because the farmers do not want their horses to fall," said one. Then I took them to laws and their makers. "Children have no votes," I said, "farmers have; hence the law is with the farmers. Women have no votes and the law gives them half the salary of a man." "But," said Margaret Steel, "would you have horses break their legs?" I smiled. "No," I said, "and I would not object to the policeman's salting the slide if the law was thinking of animals' pain. The law and the farmers are thinking of property. "Property in Britain comes before everything. I may steal the life and soul from a woman if I employ her at a penny an hour, and I may get a title for doing so. But if I steal Mr. Thomson's turnips I merely get ten days' hard." "You bairns should draw up a Declaration of Rights," I added, and I think that a few understood my meaning. * * * I find that my bairns have a genuine love for poetry. To-day I read them Tennyson's _Lady of Shalott_; then I read them _The May Queen_. I asked them which was the better, and most of them preferred, _The Lady of Shalott_. I asked for reasons, and Margaret Steel said that the one was strange and mysterious, while the other told of an ordinary death-bed. The whole class seemed to be delighted when I called _The May Queen_ a silly mawkish piece of sentimentality. I have made them learn many pieces from Stevenson's _A Child's Garden of Verses_, and they love the rhythm of such pieces as _The Shadow March_. Another poem that they love is _Helen of Kirkconnell_; I asked which stanza was the best, and they all agreed on this beautifully simple one:-- O Helen fair, beyond compare, I'll mak a garland o' thy hair; Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee, I believe in reading out a long poem and then asking them to memorise a few verses. I did this with _The Ancient Mariner_. Long poems are an abomination to children; to ask them to commit to memory a piece like Gray's _Elegy_ is unkind. I have given them the first verse of Francis Thompson's _The Hound of Heaven_. I did not expect them to understand a word of it; my idea was to test their power of appreciating sound. Great music might convey something to rustics, but great poetry cannot convey much. Still, I try to lead them to the greater poetry. I wrote on the board a verse of _Little Jim_ and a verse of _La Belle Dame sans Merci_, and I think I managed to give them an inkling of what is good and what is bad verse. I begin to think that country children should learn ballads. There is a beauty about the old ballads that even children can catch; it is the beauty of a sweet simplicity. When I think of the orchestration of Swinburne, I think of the music of the ballads as of a flute playing. And I know that orchestration would be lost on country folk. I hate the poems that crowd the average school-book ... _Little Jim_, _We are Seven_, _Lucy Gray_, _The Wreck of the Hesperus_, _The Boy stood on the Burning Deck_, and all the rest of them. I want to select the best of the Cavalier lyrists' works, the songs from the old collections like Davison's _Poetical Rhapsody_ and England's _Helicon_, the lyrics from the Elizabethan dramatists. I want to look through moderns like William Watson, Robert Bridges, George Meredith, Thomas Hardy, Henley, Dowson, Abercrombie, William Wilfred Gibson ... there must be many charming pieces that bairns would enjoy. I read out the old _Tale of Gamelyn_ the other day, and the queer rhythm and language seemed to interest the class. * * * I think that the teaching of history in schools is all wrong. I look through a school-history, and I find that emphasis is laid on incident. Of what earthly use is the information given about Henry VIII.'s matrimonial vagaries? Does it matter a rap to anyone whether Henry I.--or was it Henry II.?--ever smiled again or not? By all means let us tell the younger children tales of wicked dukes, but older children ought to be led to think out the meaning of history. The usual school-history is a piece of snobbery; it can't keep away from the topic of kings and queens. They don't matter; history should tell the story of the people and their gradual progress from serfdom to ... sweating. I believe that a boy of eleven can grasp cause and effect. With a little effort he can understand the non-sentimental side of the Mary Stewart-Elizabeth story, the result to Scotland of the Franco-Scottish alliance. He can understand why Philip of Spain, a Roman Catholic, preferred that the Protestant Elizabeth should be Queen of England rather than the Catholic Mary Stewart. The histories never make bairns think. I have not seen one that mentioned that Magna Charta was signed because all classes in the country happened to be united for the moment. I have not seen one that points out that the main feature in Scots history is the lack of a strong central government. Hume Brown's school _History of Scotland_ is undoubtedly a very good book, but I want to see a history that will leave out all the detail that Brown gives. All that stuff about the Ruthven Raid and the Black Dinner of the Douglases might be left out of the books that the upper classes read. My history would tell the story of how the different parts were united to form the present Scotland, without mentioning more than half-a-dozen names of men and dates. Then it would go on to tell of the struggles to form a central government. Possibly Hume Brown does this. I don't know; I am met with so much detail about Perth Articles and murders that I lose the thread of the story. Again, the school-histories almost always give a wrong impression of men and events. Every Scots schoolboy thinks that Edward I. of England was a sort of thief and bully rolled into one, and that the carpet-bagger, Robert Bruce, was a saint from heaven. Edward's greatness as a lawgiver is ignored; at least we ought to give him credit for his statesmanship in making an attempt to unite England, Scotland, and Wales. And Cromwell's Drogheda and Wexford affair is generally mentioned with due emphasis, while Charles I.'s proverbial reputation as "a bad king but a good father" is seldom omitted. I expect that the school-histories of the future will talk of the "scrap of paper" aspect of the present war, and they will anathematise the Kaiser. But the real historians will be searching for deeper causes; they will be analysing the national characteristics, the economical needs, the diplomatic methods, of the nations. The school-histories will say: "The war came about because the Kaiser wanted to be master of Europe, and the German people had no say in the matter at all." The historians will say ... well, I'm afraid I don't know; but I think they will relegate the Kaiser to a foot-note. * * * The theorist is a lazy man. MacMurray down the road at Markiton School is a hard worker; he never theorises about education. He grinds away at his history and geography, and I don't suppose he likes geography any more than I do. I expect that he gives a thorough lesson on Canada, its exports and so on. I do not; I am too lazy to read up the subject. My theory says to me: "You are able to think fairly well, and a knowledge of the amount of square miles in Manitoba would not help you to think as brightly as H. G. Wells. So, why learn up stuff that you can get in a dictionary any day?" And I teach on this principle. At the same time I am aware that facts must precede theories in education. You cannot have a theory on, say, the Marriage Laws, unless you know what these laws are. However, I do try to distinguish between facts and facts. To a child (as to me), the fact that Canada grows wheat is of less importance than the fact that if you walk down the street in Winnipeg in mid winter, you may have your ears frost-bitten. The only information I know about Japan consists of a few interesting facts I got from a lecture by Arthur Diosy. I don't know what things are manufactured in Tokio, but I know that a Jap almost boils himself when he takes a bath in the morning. I find that I am much more interested in humanity than in materials, and I know that the bairns are like me in this. A West African came to the school the other day, and asked me to allow him to tell (for a consideration) the story of his home life. When I discovered that he did not mean his own private home life I gladly gave him permission. He talked for half-an-hour about the habits of his home, the native schools, the dress of the children (I almost blushed at this part, but I was relieved to find that they do dress after all); then he sang the native version of 'Mary had a little Lamb' (great applause). The lecture was first-rate; and, in my lazy--I mean my theoretical moments, I squint down the road in hopes that an itinerant Chinaman will come along. I would have a coloured band of geographers employed by the Department. * * * I am chuckling at myself to-night. A day or two ago I lectured about the policeman's action in salting the slide, and I certainly did not think of the farmer's position. To-day I wore a new pair of very light spats ... and Lizzie Adam has a horrid habit of shaking her pen after dipping. "Look what you've done!" I cried in vexation, "can't you stop that silly habit of chucking ink all over the school?" Then I laughed. "Lizzie," I said sadly, "you won't understand, but I am the farmer who wants the slide salted. The farmer does not want to have his horse ruined, and I do object to having my new spats ruined." The truth is that the interests of the young and of the old are directly antagonistical. I can argue with delightful sophistry that I am better than the farmer. I can say that throwing ink is a silly habit, with no benefit to Lizzie, while sliding brings joy to a schoolful of bairns; hence the joy of these bairns is of greater importance than the loss of a horse. But I know what I should think if it were my horse, yes, I know. I find it the most difficult thing in the world to be a theorist ... and an honest man at the same time. IV. A Junior Inspector called to-day. His subject was handwriting, and he had theories on the subject. So have I. We had an interesting talk. His view is that handwriting is a practical science; hence we must teach a child to write in such a way as to carry off the job he applies for when he is fourteen. My view is that handwriting is an art, like sketching. My view is the better, for it includes his. I am a superior penman to him, and in a contest I could easily beat him. I really failed to see what he was worrying his head about. What does the style matter. It is the art that one puts into a style that makes writing good. I can teach the average bairn to write well in two hours; it is simply a matter of writing slowly. I like the old-schoolmaster hand, the round easy writing with its thick downstrokes and thin upstrokes. I like to see the m's with the joinings in the middle. The _Times_ copy-book is the ideal one--to me. But why write down any more. The topic isn't worth the ink wasted. * * * I picked up a copy of a Popular Educator to-day. Much of the stuff seems to be well written, but I cannot help thinking that the words "low ideals" are written over the whole set of volumes. Its aim is evidently to enable boys and girls to gain success ... as the world considers success. "Study hard," it blares forth, "and you will become a Whiteley or a Gamage. Study if you want wealth and position." What an ideal! Let us have our Shorthand Classes, our Cookery Classes, our Typewriting Classes, but for any sake don't let us call them education. Education is thinking; it should deal with great thoughts, with the æsthetic things in life, with life itself. Commerce is the profiteer's god, but it is not mine. I want to teach my bairns how to live; the Popular Educator wants to teach them how to make a living. There is a distinction between the two ideals. The Scotch Education Department would seem to have some of the Educator's aspirations. It demands Gardening, Woodwork, Cookery; in short, it is aiming at turning out practical men and women. My objection to men and women is that they are too practical. I used to see a notice in Edinburgh: "John Brown, Practical Chimney Sweep." I often used to wonder what a theoretical chimney sweep might be, and I often wished I could meet one. My view is that a teacher should turn out theoretical sweeps, railwaymen, ploughmen, servants. Heaven knows they will get the practical part knocked into them soon enough. * * * I have been experimenting with Drawing. I have been a passable black-and-white artist for many years, and the subject fascinates me. I see that drawing is of less importance than taste, and I find that I can get infants who cannot draw a line to make artistic pictures. I commence with far-away objects--a clump of trees on the horizon. The child takes a BB pencil and blocks in the mass of trees. The result is a better picture than the calendar prints the bairns see at home. Gradually I take nearer objects, and at length I reach what is called drawing. I ignore all vases and cubes and ellipses; my model is a school-bag or a cloak. The drawing does not matter very much; but I want to see the shadows stand out. I find that only a few in a class ever improve in sketching; one is born with the gift. Designing fascinates many bairns. I asked them to design a kirk window on squared paper to-day. Some of the attempts were good. I got the boys to finish off with red ink, and then I pasted up the designs on the wall. I seem to recollect an Inspector who told me to give up design a good few years ago. I wouldn't give it up now for anyone. It is a delightful study, and it will bring out an inherent good taste better than any branch of drawing I know. Drawing (or rather, Sketching) to me means an art, not a means to cultivating observation. It belongs solely to Aesthetics. Sketching, Music, and Poetry are surely intended to make a bairn realise the fuller life that must have beauty always with it. I showed my bairns two sketches of my own to-day ... the Tolbooth and the Whitehorse Close in Edinburgh. A few claimed that the Whitehorse Close was the better, because it left more out. "It leaves something to the imagination," said Tom Dixon. * * * When will some original publisher give us a decent school Reader? I have not seen one that is worth using. Some of them give excerpts from Dickens and Fielding and Borrow (that horrid bore) and Hawthorne (another). I cannot find any interest in these excerpts; they have no beginning and no end. Moreover, a bairn does like the dramatic; prosiness deadens its wee soul at once. I want to see a Reader especially written for bairns. I want to see many complete stories, filled with bright dialogue. Every yarn should commence with dialogue. I always think kindly of the late Guy Boothby, because he usually began with, "Hands up, or I fire!" or a kindred sentence. I wish I could lay hands on a Century Reader I used as a boy. It was full of the dramatic. The first story was one about the Burning of Moscow, then came the tale of Captain Dodds and the pirate (from Reade's novel, _Hard Cash_, I admit. An excerpt need not be uninteresting), then a long passage from _The Deerslayer_ ... with a picture of Indians throwing tomahawks at the hero. I loved that book. I think that dramatic reading should precede prosy reading. It is life that a child wants, not prosy descriptions of sunsets and travels; life, and romance. I have scrapped my Readers; I don't use them even for Spelling. I do not teach Spelling; the teaching of it does not fit into my scheme of education. Teaching depends on logic. Now Spelling throws logic to the winds. I tell a child that "cough" is "coff," and logic leads him to suppose that rough is "roff" and "through" is "throff." If I tell him that spelling is important because it shows whence a word is derived, I am bound in honesty to tell him that a matinee is not a "morning performance," that manufactured goods are not "made by hand." Hence I leave Spelling alone. At school I "learned" Spelling, and I could not spell a word until I commenced to read much. Spelling is of the eye mainly. Every boy can spell "truly" and "obliged" when he leaves school, but ten years later he will probably write "truely" and "oblidged." Why? I think that the explanation lies in the fact that he does not read as a growing youth. Anyway, dictionaries are cheap. * * * To-night I sat down on a desk and lit my pipe. Margaret Steel and Lizzie Buchan were tidying up the room. Margaret looked at me thoughtfully for a second. "Please, sir, why do you smoke?" she said. "I really don't know, Margaret," I said. "Bad habit, I suppose ... just like writing notes to boys." She suddenly became feverishly anxious to pick up the stray papers. "I wonder," I mused, "whether they do it in the same old way. How do they do it, Margaret?" She dived after a piece of paper. "I used to write them myself," I said. Margaret looked up quickly. "You!" she gasped. "I am not so old," I said hastily. "Please, sir, I didn't mean that," she explained in confusion. "You did, you wee bissom," I chuckled. "Please, sir," she said awkwardly, "why--why are you not--not-m-married?" I rose and took up my hat. "I once kissed a girl behind the school door, Margaret," I said absently. She did not understand ... and when I come to think of it I am not surprised. * * * To-day was prize-giving day. Old Mr. Simpson made a speech. "Boys," he said, "study hard and you'll maybe be a minister like Mr. Gordon there." He paused. "Or," he continued, "if you don't manage that, you may become a teacher like Mr. Neill here." Otherwise the affair was very pathetic: the medallist, a girl, had already left school and was hired as a servant on a farm. And old Mr. Simpson did not know it; I thought it better not to tell the kindly soul. He spoke earnestly on success in life. I hate prizes. To-day, Violet Brown and Margaret Steel, usually the best of friends, are looking daggers at each other. To-morrow I shall read them the story of the Judgment of Paris. And what rubbish these books are! There isn't a decent piece of literature in the bunch--_Matty's Present_, _The Girl Who Came to School_. Jerusalem! V. The more I see of it the more I admire the co-education system. To me it is delightful to see boys and girls playing together. Segregate boys and you destroy their perspective. I used to find at the university that it was generally the English Public School Boy who set up one standard of morals for his sisters and another for the shop-girls. Co-education is the greatest thing in our State educational system. The bairns early learn the interdependence of the sexes; boys and girls early begin to understand each other. All danger of putting women on a pedestal is taken away; the boys find that the girls are ordinary humans with many failings ("Aw'll tell the mester!"), and many virtues. The girls find that boys ... well, I don't exactly know what the girls find. Seldom is there any over-familiarity. The girls have a natural protective aloofness that awes the boys; the boys generally have strenuous interests that lead them to ignore the girls for long periods. At present the sexes are very friendly, for love-making (always a holy thing with bairns), has come with spring; but in a few weeks the boys will be playing football or "bools," and they will not be seen in the girls' playground. I can detect no striving after what is called chivalry (thank heaven!) If Maggie and Willie both lay hands on a ruler, they fight it out, but Maggie generally gets it; she can say more. Mr. Henpeck begins life as a chick. I hate the popular idea of chivalry, and I want my boys to hate it. Chivalry to me means rising in the Tube to offer a typist your seat, and then going off to the city to boss a score of waitresses who are paid 6s. a week. As a nation we have no chivalry; we have only etiquette. We hold doors open for nice women, and we tamely suffer or forget about a society that condemns poor women to slave for sixteen hours a day sewing shirts at a penny an hour. We say "Thank you" when the lady of the house stops playing, and we banish the prostitutes of Piccadilly from our minds. Chivalry has been dead for a long time now. I want to substitute kindness for the word chivalry. I want to tell my bairns that the only sin in the world is cruelty. I do not preach morality for I hardly know what morality is. I have no morals, I am an a-moralist, or should it be a non-moralist? I judge not, and I mean to school my bairns into judging not. Yet I am not being quite consistent. I do judge cruelty and uncharitableness; but I judge not those who do not act up to the accustomed code of morals. A code is always a temptation to a healthy person; it is like a window by a railway siding: it cries out: "Chuck a chunk of coal through me." Codes never make people moral; they merely make them hypocritical. I include the Scotch code. * * * Until lately I thought that drill was unnecessary for rural bairns. It was the chief inspector of the district who converted me. He pointed out that country children are clumsy and slack. "A countryman can heave a sack of potatoes on his back," he said, "but he has no agility, no grace of movement." I agree with him now. I find that drill makes my bairns more graceful. But I am far from being pleased with any system that I know. I don't really care tuppence whether they are physically alert or not, but I want them to be graceful, if only from an artistic point of view. The system I really want to know is Eurhythmics. I recently read an illustrated article by (or on?) Jacques Dalcroze, the inventor of the method, and the founder of the Eurhythmics School near Dresden. The system is drill combined with music. The pupils walk and dance, and I expect, sit to music. The photographs were beautiful studies in grace; the school appears to be full of Pavlovas. I think I shall try to found a Eurhythmics system on the photographs. I cannot surely invent anything more graceless than "'Shun!" Grace is almost totally absent from rural dances. The ploughman takes off his jacket, and sweats his roaring way through "The Flowers o' Edinburgh"; but the waltz has no attraction for him. Waltzing is a necessity in a rural scheme of education ... and, incidentally, in a Mayfair scheme of education, now that the "Bunny Hug" and the "Turkey Trot" and the "Tango" have come to these isles. * * * Robert Campbell left the school to-day. He had reached the age limit. He begins work tomorrow morning as a ploughman. And yesterday I wrote about introducing Eurhythmics! Robert's leaving brings me to earth with a flop. I am forced to look a grim fact in the face. Truly it is like a death; I stand by a new made grave, and I have no hope of a resurrection. Robert is dead. Pessimism has hold of me to-night. I have tried to point the way to what I think best in life, tried to give Robert an ideal. Tomorrow he will be gathered to his fathers. He will take up the attitude of his neighbours: he will go to church, he will vote Radical or Tory, he will elect a farmer to the School Board, he will marry and live in a hovel. His master said to me recently: "Bairns are gettin' ower muckle eddication noo-a-days. What eddication does a laddie need to herd kye?" Yes, I am as pessimistic as any Schopenhauer to-night, I cannot see the sun. * * * My pessimism has remained with me all day. I feel that I am merely pouring water into a sieve. I almost feel that to meddle with education is to begin at the wrong end. I may have an ideal, but I cannot carry it out because I am up against all the forces of society. Robert Campbell is damned, not because education is so very wrong, but because education is trying to adapt itself to commerce and economics and convention. I think I am right in holding that our Individualist, as opposed to a Socialist, system is to blame. "Every man for himself" is the most cursed saying that was ever said. If we are to allow an idle rich to waste millions yearly, if we are to allow profiteers to amass thousands at the expense of the slaving majority, what chance has poor Robert Campbell? I complete the saying--"and the Deil tak the henmost." Robert is the henmost. O! the people are poor things. Democracy is the last futility. Yet I should not blame the people; they never get a chance. Our rulers are on the side of the profiteers, and the latter take very good care that Robert Campbell shall leave school when he is fourteen. It isn't that they want more cheap labour; they are afraid that if he is educated until he is nineteen he will be wise enough to say: "Why should I, a man made in the image of God, be forced to slave for gains that you will steal?" Yet, the only way is to labour on, to strive to convey some idea of my ideal to my bairns. If every teacher in Scotland had the same ideal as I have I think that the fight would not be a long one. But how do I know that my ideal is the right one? I cannot say; I just _know_. Which, I admit, is a woman's reason. * * * I was re-reading _An Enemy of the People_ last night, and the thought suddenly came to me: "Would my bairns understand it?" This morning I cut out Bible instruction and read them the first act. I then questioned them, and found to my delight that they had grasped the theme. It was peculiarly satisfying to me to find that they recognized Dr. Stockmann as a better man than his grovelling brother Peter. If my bairns could realise the full significance of Ibsen's play, "The Day" would not be so far off as I am in the habit of thinking it is. I must re-read Shaw's _Widowers' Houses_; I fancy that children might find much thought in it. It is one of his "Unpleasant Plays," but I see no reason for keeping the unlovely things from bairns. I do not believe in frightening them with tales of murder and ghosts. Every human being has something of the gruesome in his composition; the murder cases are the most popular readings in our press. I want to direct this innate desire for gruesome things to the realising of the most gruesome things in the world--the grinding of soul and body in order to gain profits, the misery of poverty and cold, the weariness of toil. If our press really wants to make its readers shudder, why does it not publish long accounts of infant mortality in the slums, of gin fed bairns, of back-doors used as fuel, of phthisical girls straining their eyes over seams? I know why the press ignores these things, the public does not want to think of them. If the public wanted such stories every capitalist owner of a newspaper would supply them, grudgingly, but with a stern resolve to get dividends. To-day the papers are mostly run for the rich and their parasites. The only way in which 'Enery Smith can get his photograph into the papers is by jumping on Mrs. 'Enery Smith until she expires. I wonder that no criminologist has tried to prove that publicity is the greatest incentive to crime. When I read the daily papers to my bairns I try to tell them what is left out. "Humour at Bow Street," a heading will run. Ye Gods! Humour! I have as much humour as most men, but if anyone can find humour in the stupid remarks of a law-giver he must be a W. W. Jacobs, a Mark Twain, a George A. Birmingham, and a Stephen Leacock rolled into one ... with the Devil thrown in. Humour at Bow Street. I have been there. I have seen the poor Magdalenes and the pitiable Lazaruses shuffle in with terror in their eyes. I have seen the inflexible mighty law condemn them to the cells, I have heard their piteous cries for mercy. And the newspapers talk of the humour of the courts. I once read that law's primary object is to protect the rich from the poor. The appalling truth of that saying dawned on me in Bow Street. Humour! Yes, there is humour in Bow Street. The grimmest, ugliest joke in the world is this.... Covent Garden Opera House stands across the street from the court. * * * To-day I told Senior II. to write up the following story, I advised them to add graces to it if they could. "A farmer went to Edinburgh for the day. He was walking down the High Street with open mouth when the fire engine came swinging round the corner. The farmer gave chase down the North Bridge and Leith Street, and owing to the heavy traffic the engine's rate was so slow that he could easily keep up with it. But it turned down London Road, and in the long silent street soon outdistanced him. He ran until he saw that it was hopeless. Then he stopped and held up a clenched fist. "Ye can keep yer dawmed tattie-chips," he cried, "Aw'll get them some other place." Mary Peters began thus:-- "Mr. Peter Mitchell went to Edinburgh for the day...." Mr. Peter Mitchell is Chairman of the School Board. * * * Why did I substitute "auld" for "dawmed" tattie-chips when I told the bairns the story. Art demands the "dawmed." I think I substituted the "auld" because I like a quiet life. I have no time to persuade indignant parents that "damn" is not a sin. But it was weakness on my part; I compromised, and compromise is always a lie. VI. This morning I had a note from a farmer in the neighbourhood. "DEAR SIR,--I send my son Andrew to get education at the school not Radical politics. I am, Yours respectfully, Andrew Smith." I called Andrew out. "Andrew," I said, with a smile, "when you go home to-night tell your father that I hate Radicalism possibly more than he does." The father came down to-night to apologise. "Aw thocht ye was ane o' they wheezin' Radicals," he explained. Then he added, "And what micht yer politics be?" "I am a Utopian," I said modestly. He scratched his head for a moment, then he gave it up and asked my opinion of the weather. We discussed turnips for half-an-hour, at the end of which time I am sure he was wondering how an M.A. could be such an ignoramus. We parted on friendly terms. * * * I do not think that I have any definite views on the teaching of religion to bairns; indeed, I have the vaguest notion of what religion means. I am just enough of a Nietzschean to protest against teaching children to be meek and lowly. I once shocked a dear old lady by saying that the part of the Bible that appealed to me most was that in which the Pharisee said: "I thank God that I am not as other men." I was young then, I have not the courage to say it now. I do, however, hold strongly that teaching religion is not my job. The parish minister and the U.F. minister get good stipends for tending their flocks, and I do not see any reason in the world why I should have to look after the lambs. For one thing I am not capable. All I aim at is teaching bairns how to live ... possibly that is the true religion; my early training prevents my getting rid of the idea that religion is intended to teach people how to die. To-day I was talking about the probable formation of the earth, how it was a ball of flaming gas like the sun, how it cooled gradually, how life came. A girl looked up and said: "Please, sir, what about the Bible?" I explained that in my opinion the creation story was a story told to children, to a people who were children in understanding. I pointed out a strange feature, discovered to me by the parish minister, that the first chapter of Genesis follows the order of scientific evolution ... the earth is without form, life rises from the sea, then come the birds, then the mammals. But I am forced to give religious instruction. I confine my efforts to the four gospels; the bairns read them aloud. I seldom make any comment on the passages. In geography lessons I often take occasion to emphasise the fact that Muhammudans and Buddhists are not necessarily stupid folk who know no better. I cannot lead bairns to a religion, but I can prevent their being stupidly narrow. No, I fear I have no definite opinions on religion. I set out to enter the church, but I think that I could not have stayed in it. I fancy that one fine Sunday morning I would have stood up in the pulpit and said: "Friends, I am no follower of Christ. I like fine linen and tobacco, books and comfort. I should be in the slums, but I am not Christlike enough to go there. Goodbye." I wonder! Why then do I not stand up and say to the School Board: "I do not believe in this system of education at all. I am a hypocrite when I teach subjects that I abominate. Give me my month's screw. Goodbye." I sigh ... yet I like to fancy that I could not have stayed in the kirk. One thing I am sure of: a big stipend would not have tempted me to stay. I have no wish for money; at least, I wouldn't go out of my way to get it. I wouldn't edit a popular newspaper for ten thousand a year. Of that I am sure. Quite sure. Quite. Yet I once applied for a job on a Tory daily. I was hungry then. What if I were hungry now? The flesh is weak ... but, I could always go out on tramp. I more than half long for the temptation. Then I should discover whether I am an idealist or a talker. Possibly I am a little of both. I began to write about religion, and I find myself talking about myself. Can it be that my god is my ego? * * * I began these log-notes in order to discover my philosophy of education, and I find that I am discovering myself. This discovery of self must come first. Personality goes far in teaching. May it go too far? Is it possible that I am a danger to these bairns? May I not be influencing them too much? I do not think so. Anything I may say will surely be negatived at home; my word, unfortunately, is not so weighty as father's. In what is called Spelling Reform we cannot have a revolution; all we can hope for is a reform within Spelling, a reform that will abolish existing anomalies. So in education we cannot have a revolution. All we can hope for is a reform wrought within education by the teacher. If every teacher were a sort of Wellsian-Shavian-Nietzschean-Webbian fellow, the children would be directly under two potent influences--the parents and teachers. "What is Truth?" millions of Pilates have asked. It is because we have no standard of Truth that our education is a failure. Each of us gets hold of a corner of the page of Truth, but the trouble is that so many grasp the same corner. It is a corner dirty with thumb-marks ... "Humour in Bow Street," "Knighthood for Tooting Philanthropist," "Dastardly Act by Leeds Strikers," "Special Service of Praise in the Parish Kirk" ... marks do not obliterate the page. My corner is free from thumbmarks, and anyone can read the clear type of "Christlessness in Bow Street," "Jobbery in the Sale of Honours," "Murder of Starving Strikers," "Thanksgiving Service for the Blessing of Whitechapel" ... but few will read this corner's story; the majority likes the filthy corner with the beautiful news. I have discovered my mission. I am the apostle of the clean corner with the dirty news written on it. * * * I began to read the second act of _An Enemy of the People_ this morning, but I had to give it up; the bairns had lost interest. I closed the book. "Suppose," I said, "suppose that this village suddenly became famous as a health-resort. People would build houses and hotels, your fathers would grow richer; and suppose that the doctor discovered that the water supply was poisonous, that the pipes lay through a swamp where fever germs were. What would the men who had built hotels and houses say about the doctor? What would they do about the water supply?" The unanimous opinion was that the water-pipes would be relaid; the people would not want visitors to come and take fever. This opinion leads me to conclude that bairns are idealists; childhood takes the Christian view. Barrie says that genius is the power of being a boy again at will; I agree, but Barrie and I are possibly thinking of different aspects. Ibsen was a genius because he became as a little child. Dr. Stockmann (Ibsen) is a simple child; he cannot realise that self-interest can make his own brother a criminal to society. I told my bairns what the men in the play did. "But," said one in amazement, "they would not do that in real life?" "They are doing it every day," I said. "This school is old, badly ventilated, overcrowded. It is a danger to your health and mine. Yet, if I asked for a new school, the whole village would rise up against me. 'More money on the rates!' they would cry, and they would treat me very much as the people in the play treated Dr. Stockmann." * * * I find it difficult to discuss the causes of the war with the bairns. I refuse to accept the usual tags about going to the assistance of a weak neighbour whom we agreed to protect. We all want to think that we are fighting for Belgium but are we? I look to Mexico and I find it has been bathed in blood because the American Oil Kings and the British Oil Kings were at war. President Diaz was pro-English, Madero was pro-American, Huerta was pro-English ... and the United States supported the notorious Villa. Villa's rival, Carranzo, was pro-English. It is an accepted belief that the American Oil Kings financed the first risings in order to drive the British oil interests out of the country. Hence, widows and orphans in Mexico are the victims of a dollar massacre. Can we trace the present war to the financiers? It is said that the Triple Entente is the result of Russia's receiving loans from France and Britain. I cannot find a solution. I am inclined to attach little value to what is called national feeling. The workers are the masses, and I cannot imagine a German navvy's having any hatred of a British navvy. A world of workers would not fight, but at present the workers are so badly organised that they fight at the bidding of kings and diplomatists and financiers. War comes from the classes above, and by means of their press the upper classes convert the proletariat to their way of thinking. A more important subject is that of the ending of wars. The idealistic vapourings of the I.L.P. with its silly talk of internationalism will do nothing to stop war. Norman Angell's cry that war doesn't pay will not stop war. But a true democracy in each country will stop it. I think of Russia with all its darkness and cruelty, and I am appalled; a true democracy there will be centuries in coming. For Germany I do not fear; out of her militarism will surely arise a great democratic nation. And out of our own great trial a true democracy is arising. Capitalism has failed; the State now sees that it must control the railways and engineering shops in a crisis. The men who struck work on the Clyde are of the same class as the men who are dying in Flanders. Why should one lot be heroes and the other lot be cursed as traitors? The answer is simple. The soldiers are fighting for the nation; the engineers are working primarily for the profiteers, and only secondarily for the nation. Profiteering has not stood the test, and the workers are beginning to realise the significance of its failure. VII. To-day I have scrapped somebody's Rural Arithmetic. It is full of sums of the How-much-will-it-take-to-paper a-room? type. This cursed utilitarianism in education riles me. Who wants to know what it will take to paper a room? Personally I should call in the painter, and take my meals on the parlour piano for a day or two. Anyway, why this suspicion of the poor painter? Is he worse than other tradesmen? If we must have a utilitarian arithmetic then I want to see a book that will tell me if the watchmaker is a liar when he tells me that the mainspring of my watch is broken. I want to see sums like this:--How long will a plumber take to lay a ten foot pipe if father can do it at the rate of a yard in three minutes? (Ans., three days). To me Arithmetic is an art not a science. I do not know a single rule; I must always go back to first principles. I love catch questions, questions that will make a bairn think all the time. Inspectors' Tests give but little scope for the Art of Arithmetic; they are usually poor peddling things that smell strongly of materialism. In other words, they appeal to the mechanical part of a bairn's brain instead of to the imagination. I want to see a test that will include a sum like this:--23.4 × .065 × 54.678 × 0. The cram will start in to multiply out; the imaginative bairn will glance along and see the nought, and will at once spot that the answer is zero. * * * I have just discovered an excellent song-book--Curwen's _Approved Songs_. It includes all the lovely songs of Cavalier and Puritan times, tunes like _Polly Oliver_ and _Golden Slumbers_. At present my bairns are singing a Christmas Carol by Bridge, _Sweeter than Songs of Summer_. They sing treble, alto, and tenor, while I supply the bass. The time is long past Christmas, but details like that don't worry me. This carol is the sweetest piece of harmonising I have heard for a long time. * * * I have been re-reading Shaw's remarks on Sex in Education. I cannot see that he has anything very illuminating to say on the subject; for that matter no one has. Most of us realise that something is wrong with our views on sex. The present attitude of education is to ignore sex, and the result is that sex remains a conspiracy of silence. The ideal some of us have is to raise sex to its proper position as a wondrous beautiful thing. To-day we try to convey to bairns that birth is a disgrace to humanity. The problem before me comes to this: How can I bring my bairns to take a rational elemental view of sex instead of a conventional hypocritical one? How can I convey to them the realisation that our virtue is mostly cowardice, that our sex morality is founded on mere respectability? (It is the easiest thing in the world to be virtuous in Padanarum; it is not so easy to be a saint in Oxford Street. Not because Oxford Street has more temptation, but because nobody knows you there.) In reality I can do nothing. If I mentioned sex in school I should be dismissed at once. But if a philanthropist would come along and offer me a private school to run as I pleased, then I should introduce sex into my scheme of education. Bairns would be encouraged to believe in the stork theory of birth until they reached the age of nine. At that age they would get the naked truth. A friend of mine, one of the cleverest men I know, and his wife, a wise woman, resolved to tell their children anything they asked. The eldest, a girl of four, asked one day where she came from. They told her, and she showed no surprise. But I would begin at nine chiefly because the stork story is so delightful that it would be cruel to deprive a bairn of it altogether. Yet, after all, the stork story is all the more charming when you know the bald truth. Well, at the age of nine my bairns would be taken in hand by a doctor. They would learn that modesty is mainly an accidental result of the invention of clothes. They would gradually come to look upon sex as a normal fact of life; in short, they would recognise it as a healthy thing. Shaw is right in saying that children must get the truth from a teacher, because parents find a natural shyness in mentioning sex to their children. But I think that the next generation of parents will have a better perspective; shyness will almost disappear. The bairns must be told; of that there is no doubt. The present evasion and deceit lead to the dirtiness which constitutes the sex education of boys and girls. The great drawback to a frank education on sex matters is the disgusting fact that most grown-up people persist in associating sex with sin. The phrase "born in sin" is still applied to an illegitimate child. When I think of the damnable cruelty of virtuous married women to a girl who has had a child I want to change the phrase into "born into sin." * * * I have just discovered a section of the Code that deals with the subject of Temperance. I smile sadly when I think that my bairns will never have more than a pound a week to be intemperate on. I suspect that if I had to slave for a week for a pound I should trek for the nearest pub on pay night; I should seek oblivion in some way. Temperance! Why waste time telling poor bairns to be temperate? When they are fourteen they will learn that to be intemperate means the sack. If we must teach temperance let us begin at Oxford and Cambridge; at Westminster (I really forget how much wine and beer was consumed there last year; the amount raised a thirst in me at any rate). Temperance! The profiteers see to it that the poor cannot afford to be intemperate. Coals are up now, the men who draw a royalty on each ton as it leaves the pit do not know the meaning of temperance. I want to cry to my bairns: "Be intemperate! Demand more of the fine things of life. Don't waste time in the beershops, spend your leisure hours persuading your neighbour to help you to impose temperance on your masters." The Code talks about food. But it does not do so honestly. I would insert the following in the Code:-- "Teachers in slum districts should point out to the children that most of their food is adulterated. Most of their boots are made of paper. Most of their clothes are made of shoddy." * * * The best thing I have found in the Code is the section on the teaching of English. I fancy it is the work of J. C. Smith, the Editor of the Oxford _Spenser_. I used to have him round at my classes; he was a first-rate examiner. If a class had any originality in it he drew it out. But I never forgave J. C. Smith for editing _Much Ado About Nothing_. He made no effort to remark on the absurdity of the plot and motives. To me the play is as silly as _Diplomacy_ or _Our Boys_. "No grammar," says the Code, "should be taught until written composition begins." I like that, but I should re-write it thus: "No grammar should be taught this side the Styx." Grammar is always changing, and the grammar of yesterday is scrapped to-day. A child requires to know how to speak and how to write correctly. I can write passably well, and when I write I do not need to know whether a word is an adjective or an adverb, whether a clause is a noun clause or an adverbial clause of time modifying a certain verb ... or is it a noun? Society ladies speak grammatically (I am told), and I'm quite sure that not three people in the Row could tell me whether a word is a verb or an adverb (I shouldn't care to ask). The fact that I really could tell what each word is makes absolutely no difference to me. A middle-class boy of five will know that the sentence "I and nurse is going to the Pictures" is wrong. But I must confess that grammar has influenced me in one way. I know I should say "Whom did you see?" but I always say "Who did you see?" And I used to try not to split my infinitives until I found out that you can't split an infinitive; "to" has nothing to do with the infinitive anyway. I want to abolish the terms Subject, Predicate, Object, Extension, Noun, Verb, &c. I fancy we could get along very well without them. Difficulties might arise in learning a foreign tongue. I don't know anything about foreign tongues; all I know is the Greek alphabet and a line of Homer, and the fact that all Gaul is divided into three parts. Yet I imagine that one could learn French or German as a child learns a language. Good speaking and writing mean the correct use of idiom, and idiom is the best phrasing of the best people--best according to our standards at the present time. I have heard Parsing and Analysis defended on the ground of their being an exercise in reasoning. I admit that they do require reasoning, but I hold that the time would be better spent in Mathematics. I hope to take my senior pupils through the first and third books of Euclid this summer. Personally, I can find much pleasure in a stiff deduction, but I find nothing but intense weariness in an analysis of sentences. My theories on education are purely personal; if _I_ don't like a thing I presume that my bairns dislike it. And the strange thing is that my presumptions are nearly always right. * * * Folklore fascinates me. I find that the children of Forfarshire and Dumfriesshire have the same ring song, _The Wind and the Wind and the Wind Blows High_. I once discovered in the British Museum a book on English Folksongs, and in it I found the same song obtaining in Staffordshire. Naturally, variations occur. Did these songs all spring from a common stock? Or did incomers bring them to a district? When I am sacked ... and I half expect to be some day soon ... I shall wander round the schools of Scotland collecting the folk-songs. I shall take a Punch and Judy show with me, for I know that this is a long felt want in the country. That reminds me:--a broken-down fellow came to me to-day and told pathetically how he had lost his school ... "wrongous dismissal" he called it. I wept and gave him sixpence. To-night I visited the minister. "I had a sad case in to-day," he began, "a poor fellow who had a kirk in Ross-shire. Poor chap, his wife took to drink, and he lost his kirk." "Chap with a reddish moustache?" I asked. "Yes, did you see him?" I ignored the question. "Charity," I said, "is foolish. I don't believe in charity of that kind. You gave him something?" "Er--a shilling." "You have too much heart," I said, and I took my departure. If I have to go on tramp I shall try to live by selling sermons after school-hours. VIII. To-day I discussed the Women's Movement with my class. They were all agreed that women should not have votes. I asked for reasons. "They can't fight like men," said a boy. I pointed out that they risk their lives more than men do. A woman risks her life so that life may come into the world; a soldier risks his life so that death may come into the world. "Women speak too much," said Margaret Steel. "Read the Parliamentary debates," said I. "Women have not the brains," said a boy. I made no reply, I lifted his last exam. paper, and showed the class his 21 per cent, then I showed him Violet Brown's 93 per cent. But I was careful to add that the illustration was not conclusive. I went on to tell them that the vote was of little use to men, and that I did not consider it worth striving for. But I tried to show them that the Women's Movement was a much bigger thing than a fight for political power. It was a protest against the system that made sons doctors and ministers, and daughters typists and shopgirls, that made girls black their idle brothers' boots, that offered £60 to a lady teacher who was doing as good work as the man in the next room with his £130. I did not take them to the deeper topics of Marriage, Inheritance, the economic dependence of women on men that makes so many marry for a home. But I tried to show that owing to woman's being voteless the laws are on the man's side, and I instanced the Corporation Baths in the neighbouring city. There only one day a week is set aside for women. Then it struck me that perhaps the women of the city have municipal votes, and I suggested that if this were the case, women are less interested in cold water than men, a circumstance that goes to show that women have a greater need of freedom than I thought they had. On the whole it was a disappointing discussion. * * * I went up to see Lawson of Rinsley School to-night. I talked away gaily about having scrapped my Readers and Rural Arithmetic. He was amused; I know that he considers me a cheerful idiot. But he grew serious when I talked about my Socialism. "You blooming Socialists," he said, with a dry laugh, "are the most cocky people I have yet struck. You think you are the salt of the earth and that all the others are fatheads." "Quite right, Lawson," I said with a laugh. And I added seriously: "You see, my boy, that if you have a theory, you've simply _got_ to think the other fellow an idiot. I believe in Socialism--the Guild Socialism of _The New Age_, and naturally I think that Lloyd George and Bonar Law and the Cecils, and all that lot are hopelessly wrong." "Do you mean to tell me that you are a greater thinker than Arthur James Balfour?" Lawson sat back in his chair and watched the effect of this shot. I considered for a minute. "It's like this," I said slowly, "you really cannot compare a duck with a rabbit. You can't say that Shakespeare is greater than Napoleon or Burns than Titian. Balfour is a good man in his own line, and--" "And you?" "I sometimes think of great things," I replied modestly. "Balfour has an ideal; he believes, as Lord Roberts believed, in the Public Schools, in Oxford and Cambridge, in the type of Englishman who becomes an Imperialist Cromer. He believes in the aristocracy, in land, in heredity of succession. His ideal, so far as I can make out, is to have an aristocracy that behaves kindly and charitably to a deserving working-class--which, after all, is Nietzsche's ideal. I believe in few of these things. I detest charity of that kind; I hate the type of youth that our Public Schools and Oxfords turn out. I want to see the land belong to the people, I want to see every unit of the State working for the delight that work, as opposed to toil, can bring. The aristocracy has merits that I appreciate. Along with the poor they cheerfully die for their country ... it is the profiteering class with its "Business as Usual" cant that I want to slay. I want to see all the excellent material that exists in our aristocracy turned to nobler uses than bossing niggers in India so that millionaires at home may be multi-millionaires, than wasting time and wealth in the social rounds of London." "Are you a greater thinker than Balfour?" I sighed. "I think I have a greater ideal," I said. "And," I added, "I am sure that if Balfour were asked about it he would reply: 'I wish I could have got out of my aristocratic environment at your age.'" "Lawson," I continued, "I gathered tatties behind the digger once. That is the chief difference between me and Balfour. When first I went through Eton on a motor-bus and saw the boys on the playing grounds, I said to myself, 'Thank God I wasn't sent to Eton!'" "Class prejudice and jealousy," said Lawson. "Will the Rangers get into the Final?" * * * I met Wilkie the mason, on the road to-night. He cannot write his name, and he is the richest man in the village. "What's this Aw hear aboot you bein' are o' they Socialists?" he demanded. "Aw didna ken that when Aw voted for ye." "If you had?" "Not a vote wud ye hae gotten frae me. Ye'll be layin' yer bombs a' ower the place," he said half jocularly. "Ye manna put ony o' they ideas in the bairns' heids," he continued anxiously. "Politics have no place in a schule." I did not pursue the subject; I sidetracked him on to turnips, and by using what I had picked up from Andrew Smith I made a fairly good effort. When we parted Wilkie grasped my hand. "Ye're no dozzent," he said kindly, "but, tak ma advice, and leave they politics alone. It's a dangerous game for a schulemester to play." * * * I find that I am becoming obsessed by my creed. I see that I place politics before everything else in education. But I feel that I am doing the best I can for true education. After all it isn't Socialism I am teaching, it is heresy. I am trying to form minds that will question and destroy and rebuild. Morris's _News from Nowhere_ appeals to me most as a Utopia. Like him I want to see an artistic world. I travelled to Newcastle on Saturday, and the brick squalor that stretches for miles out Elswick and Blaydon way sickened me. Dirty bairns were playing on muddy patches, dirty women were gossiping at doors, miners were wandering off in twos and threes with whippets at their heels. And smoke was over all. Britain is the workshop of the world. Good old Merrie England! These are strange entries for a Dominie's Log. I must bring my mind back to Vulgar Fractions and Composition. * * * There was a Cinema Show in the village hall to-night. My bairns turned out in force. Most of the pictures were drivel ... the typist wrongly accused, the seducing employer; the weeping parents at home. The average cinema plot is of the same brand as the plots in a washerwoman's weekly. Then we had the inevitable Indian chase on horseback, and the hero pardoned after the rope was round his neck. I enjoyed the comic films. To see the comic go down in diver's dress to wreck a German submarine was delightfully ludicrous. He took off his helmet under water and wiped the sweat from his brow. Excellent fun! I have often thought about the cinema as an aid to education. At the present time it is a drag on education, for its chief attraction is its piffling melodrama. Yet I have seen good plays and playlets filmed ... that is good melodramatic and incident plays. I have seen _Hamlet_ filmed, and then I understood what Tolstoi (or was it Shaw?) meant when he said that Shakespeare without his word music is nowhere. Yet I must be just; philosophy had to go along with music when the cinema took up _Hamlet_. The cinema may have a future as an educational force, but it will deal with what I consider the subsidiary part of education--the facts of life. Pictures of foreign countries are undoubtedly of great use. The cinema can never give us theories and philosophy. So with its lighter side. _Charley's Aunt_ might make a good film; _The Importance of Being Earnest_ could not. The cinema can give us humour but not wit. What will happen when the cinema and the phonograph are made to work together perfectly I do not know. I may yet be able to take my bairns to a performance of _Nan_ or _The Wild Duck_ or _The Doctor's Dilemma_. * * * "Please, sir, Willie Smith was swearing." Thus little Maggie Shepherd to me to-day. I always fear this complaint, for what can I do? I can't very well ask Maggie what he said, and if he says he wasn't swearing ... well, his word is as good as Maggie's. I can summon witnesses, but bairns have but the haziest notion of what swearing is. (For that matter so do I.) If a boy shoves his fingers to his nose.... "Please, sir, he swore!" I try to be a just man, and ... well, I was bunkered at the ninth hole on Saturday, and I dismissed Willie Smith--without an admonition. But I am worried to-night, for I can't recollect whether Willie has ever caddied for me; I have a shrewd suspicion that he has. IX. The word "republican" came up to-day in a lesson, and I asked what it meant. Four girls told me that their fathers were republicans, but they had no idea of the meaning of the word. One lassie thought that it meant "a man who is always quarrelling with the Tories" ... a fairly penetrating definition. I explained the meaning of the word, and said that a republican in this country was wasting his time and energy. I pointed to America with its Oil Kings, Steel Kings, Meat Kings, and called it a country worse than Russia. I told of the corruption of politics in France. Then I rambled on to Kings and Kingship. It is a difficult subject to tackle even with children, but I tried to walk warily. I said that the notion of a king was for people in an elementary stage of development. Intellectual folk have no use for all the pomp and pageantry of kingship. Royalty as it exists to-day is bad for us and for the royal family. The poor princes and princesses are reared in an atmosphere of make-believe. Their individuality and their loves are crushed by a system. And it is really a system of lies. "In the King's name!" Why make all this pretence when everyone knows that it is "In the Cabinet's name"? It is not fair to the king. I am no republican; I do not want to see monarchy abolished in this land. I recognise that monarchy is necessary to the masses. But I want to bring my bairns to see monarchy stripped of its robes, its pageantry, its remoteness, its circumstance. Loyalty is a name to most of us. People sing the National Anthem in very much the same way as they say Grace before Meat. The Grace-sayer is thinking of his dinner; the singer is wondering if he'll manage to get out in time to collar a taxi. I do not blame the kings; I blame their advisers. We are kept in the dark by them. We hear of a monarch's good deeds, but we never hear the truth about him. The unwritten law demands that the truth shall be kept secret until a few generations have passed. I know nothing about the king. I don't know what he thinks of Republicanism (in his shoes I should be a red-hot Republican), Socialism, Religion, Morals; and I want to know whether he likes Locke's novels or Galsworthy's drama. In short, I want to know the man that must of necessity be greater than the king. I am tired of processions and functions. I became a loyalist when first I went to Windsor Castle. Three massed bands were playing in the quadrangle; thousands of visitors wandered around. The King came to the window and bowed. I wanted to go up and take him by the arm and say: "Poor King, you are not allowed to enjoy the sensation of being in a crowd, you are an abstraction, you are behind a barrier of nobility through which no commoner can pass. Come down and have a smoke with me amongst all these typists and clerks." And I expect that every man and woman in that crowd was thinking: "How nice it must be to be a king!" Yet if a king were to come down from the pedestal on which the courtiers have placed him, I fear that the people would scorn him. They would cry: "He is only a man!" I am forced to the conclusion that pomp and circumstance are necessary after all. The people are to blame. The King is all right; he looks a decent, kindly soul with a good heart. But the people are not interested in good hearts; the fools want gilt coaches and crimson carpets and all the rubbish of show. * * * A lady asked me to-day whether I taught my children manners. I told her that I did not. She asked why. I replied that manners were sham, and my chief duty was to get rid of sham. Then she asked me why I lifted my hat to her ... and naturally I collapsed incontinently. Once again I write the words, "It is a difficult thing to be a theorist ... and an honest man at the same time." On reflection I think that it is a case of personality _versus_ the whole community. No man can be consistent. Were I to carry my convictions to their natural conclusion I should be an outcast ... and an outcast is of no value to the community. I lift my hat to a lady not because I respect her (I occasionally do. I always doff my hat to the school charwoman, but I am rather afraid of her), but because it is not worth while to protest against the little things of life. Incidentally, the whole case against hat-lifting is this:--In the lower and lower middle classes the son does not lift his hat to his mother though he does to the minister's wife. No, I do not teach manners. If a boy "Sirs" me, he does it of his own free will. I believe that you cannot teach manners; taught manners are always forced, always overdone. My model of a true gentleman is a man with an innate good taste and artistry. My idea of a lady ... well, one of the truest ladies I have yet known kept a dairy in the Canongate of Edinburgh. I try to get my bairns to do to others as they would like others to do to them. Shaw says "No: their tastes may not be the same as yours." Good old G. B. S.! I once was in a school where manners were taught religiously. I whacked a boy one day. He said, "Thank you, sir." * * * I wonder how much influence on observation the so-called Nature Study has. At one time I attended a Saturday class. We went botanising. I learned nothing about Botany, but that was because Margaret was there. I observed much ... her eyes were grey and her eyelashes long. We generally managed to lose the class in less than no time. Yet we did pretend. She was pretending to show me the something or other marks on a horse-chestnut twig when I first kissed her. She is married now. I don't believe in Saturday excursions. I got up my scanty Nature Study from Grant Allen's little shilling book on plants. It was a delightful book full of an almost Yankee imagination. It theorised all the way ... grass developed a long narrow blade so that it might edge its way to the sun; wild tobacco has a broad blade because it doesn't need to care tuppence for the competition of other plants, it can grow on wet clay of railway bankings. I think now that Grant Allen was a romancer not a scientist. I do not see the point in asking bairns to count the stamens of a buttercup (Dr. Johnson hated the poets who "count the streaks of the tulip"). But I do want to make them Grant Allens; I want them to make a theory. Nature Study has but little result unless bairns get a lead. No boy will guess that the lines on a petal are intended to lead bees to the honey; at least, I know I would never have guessed it. I should never have guessed that flowers are beautiful or perfumed in order to attract insects. But I am really no criterion. I could not tell at this moment the colour of my bedroom wallpaper; I can't tell whether my father wears a moustache or side-whiskers. Until I began to teach Woodwork I never observed a mortise, or if I did, I never wondered how it was made. I never noticed that the tops of houses sloped downward until I took up Perspective. Anyway, observation is a poor attainment unless it is combined with genius as in Darwin's case. Sherlock Holmes is a nobody. Observation should follow fancy. The average youth has successive hobbies. He takes up photography, and is led (sometimes) to enquire into the action of silver salts; he takes up wood-carving, and begins to find untold discoveries in the easy-chair. I would advocate the keeping of animals at school. I would have a rabbit run, a pigeon loft, one or two dogs, and a few cats for the girls. Let a boy keep homers and fly them, and he will observe much. Apart from the observation side of the question I would advocate a live stock school-farm on humanitarian grounds; every child would acquire a sense of duty to animals. I am sure all my bairns would turn out on a Sunday to feed their pets. And what a delightful reward for kindness ... make a boy or girl "Feeder-in-Chief" for the week! Incidentally, the study of pigeons and rabbits would conduce to a frank realisation of sex. * * * I have just bought the new shilling edition of H. G. Wells's _New Worlds for Old_, and I have come upon this passage ... " ... Socialists turn to the most creative profession of all, to that great calling which, with each generation, renews the world's 'circle of ideas,' the Teachers!" But why he puts the mark of exclamation at the end I do not know. On the same page he says: "The constructive Socialist logically declares the teacher master of the situation." If the Teachers are masters of the situation I wish every teacher in Scotland would get _The New Age_ each week. Orage's _Notes of the Week_ are easily the best commentary on the war I have seen. _The New Age_ is so very amusing, too; its band of "warm young men" are the kind who "can't stand Nietzsche because of his damnable philanthropy" as a journalist friend of mine once phrased it. They despise Shaw and Wells and Webb ... the old back-numbers. The magazine is pulsating with life and youth. Every contributor is so cock-sure of himself. It is the only fearless journal I know; it has no advertisements, and with advertisements a journal is muzzled. * * * One or two bairns are going to try the bursary competition of the neighbouring Secondary School, and I have just got hold of the last year's papers. "Name an important event in British History for each of any eight of the following years:--1314, 1688, 1759, &c." ... and Wells says that teaching is the most creative profession of all! "Write an essay of twenty lines or so on any one of these subjects:--School, Holidays, Examinations, Bursaries, Books." The examiners might have added a few other bright interesting topics such as Truth, Morals, Faith, Courage. "Name the poem to which each of the following lines belongs, and add, if you can, the next line in each case, &c." There are ten lines, and I can only spot six of them. And I am, theoretically, an English scholar; I took an Honours English Degree under Saintsbury. But my degree is only a second class one; that no doubt accounts for my lack of knowledge. That the compilers of the paper are not fools is shown by the fact that they ask a question like this:--"A man loses a dog, you find it; write and tell him that you have found it." The Arithmetic paper is quite good. My bairns are to fail; I simply cannot teach them to answer papers like these. X. I tried an experiment to-day. I gave an exam. in History, and each pupil was allowed to use a text-book. The best one was first, she knew what to select. I deprecate the usual exam. system of allotting a prescribed time to each paper. Blyth Webster, the racy young lecturer in English in Edinburgh University, used to allow us an indefinite time for our Old English papers. I generally required a half hour to give him all I knew about Old English, but I believe that some students sat for five hours. Students write and think at different rates, and the time limit is always unjust. I wish the Department would allow me to set the Higher Grade Leavings English papers for once. My paper would certainly include the following:-- "If Shakespeare came back to earth what do you think would be his opinion of Women's Suffrage (refer to _The Taming of the Shrew_) Home Rule, Sweated Labour, the Kaiser?" "Have you read any Utopia? If not, it doesn't matter; write one of your own. (Note ... a Utopia is an ideal country--this side the grave.)" "Discuss Spenser's idea of chivalry, and state what you think would be his opinion on table manners, Soho, or any slum you know, "the Present State of Ireland." "What would Burns have thought of the prevalence of the kilt among the Semitic inhabitants of Scotland? Is Burns greater than Harry Lauder? Tell me why you think he isn't or is." "Discuss the following humorists and alleged humorists:--Dickens, Jacobs, Lauder, Jerome, Leacock, Storer Clouston, Wells (in _Kipps_, and _Mr. Polly_), Locke (in _Septimus_), Bennett (in _The Card_), Mark Twain, your class teacher, the average magistrate." "If you have not read any humour at all, write a humorous dialogue between a brick and the mongrel dog it came in contact with." I hold that my exam. paper would discover any genius knocking about in ignorance of his or her powers. I intend to offer it to the Department ... when I am out of the profession. * * * It is extremely difficult for any teacher to keep from getting into a rut. The continual effort to make things simple and elementary for children is apt to deaden the intellect. To-night I felt dull; I simply couldn't think. So I took up a volume of Nietzsche, and I now know the remedy for dullness. Nietzsche is a genius; he dazzles one ... and he almost persuades. To-night I am doubting. Is my belief in a great democracy all wrong? Is it true that there is a slave class that can never be anything else? Is our Christian morality a slave morality which is evolving the wrong type of human? I think of the pity and kindness which is making us keep alive the lunatic and the incurable; I am persuaded to believe that our hospitals are in the long run conducing to an unfit race. Unfit physically; but unfit mentally? Is Sandow the Superman? Will Nietzsche's type of Master man with his physical energy and warlikeness prove to be the best? I think that the journalists who are anathematising Nietzsche are wrong; I don't believe the Kaiser ever read a line of his. But I think that every German is subconsciously a believer in energy and "Master Morality"; Nietzsche was merely one who realised his nature. The German religion is undoubtedly the religion of the Old Testament; to them "good" is all that pertains to power; their God is the tyrant of the Old Testament. Nietzsche holds that the New Testament code of morals was invented by a conquered race; the poor were meek and servile, and they looked forward to a time when they would be in glory while the rich man frizzled down below. No man can scorn Nietzsche; you are forced to listen to him. Only fools can dismiss him with the epithet "Madman!" But I cannot follow him; I believe that if pity and kindness are wrong, then wrong is right. Yet I see that Nietzsche is wise in saying that there must always be one stone at the top of the pyramid. The question is this:--Will a democracy always be sure to choose the right man? I wonder. I found one arresting statement in the book:--"If we have a degenerate mean environment, the fittest will be the man who is best adapted to degeneracy and meanness; he will survive." That is what is happening now. I believe that the people will one day be capable of altering this basis of society; Nietzsche believed that the people are mostly of the slave variety, and that a better state of affairs could only come about through the breeding of Supermen ... masters. "The best shall rule," says he. Who are the best? I ask, and I really cannot answer myself. * * * As I go forward with these notes I find that I become more and more impelled to write down thoughts that can only have a remote connection with the education of children. I think the explanation lies in the fact that every day I realise more and more the futility of my school-work. Indeed, I find myself losing interest sometimes; I go through a lesson on Geography mechanically; in short, I drudge occasionally. But I always awake at Composition time. I find it useless to do home correction; a bairn won't read the blue pencil marks. I must sit down beside him while I correct; and this takes too much time ... from a timetable point of view. But the mistakes in spelling and grammar are minor matters, what I look for are ideas. I never set a dull subject of the How-I-spent-my-holidays type; every essay must appeal to the imagination. "Suppose you go to sleep for a thousand years," I said, "and tell the story of your awaking." I asked my Qualifying to become invisible; most of them took to thieving and spying. I gave them Wells's _The Invisible Man_ and _When the Sleeper Wakes_ to read later. "Go to Mrs. Rabbit's Garden Party, and describe it." One boy went as a wolf, and returned with the party inside. A girl went as a weasel and left early because she could not eat the lettuce and cabbage on the table. One boy went as an elephant and could not get in. "Write a child of seven's account of washing day," I said to my Qualifying, and I got some delightful baby-talk from Margaret Steel and Violet Brown. "Imagine that you are the last man left alive on earth." This essay produced some good work; most of the girls were concerned about the fact that there was no one to bury them when they died. The best results of all came from this subject:--"Die at the age of ninety, and write the paragraph about yourself to the local paper." Most of them made the present minister make a few pious remarks from the pulpit; one girl was clever enough to name a strange minister. A newspaper correspondence interests a class. "Make a Mr. James Smith write a letter to _The Scotsman_ saying that he saw a cow smoking a cigar one night; then write the replies." One boy made a William Thomson suggest that a man must have been standing beside the cow in the darkness. Smith replied that this was impossible, for any man standing beside a cow would be a farmer or a cattleman, and "neither of them can afford to smoke cigars." * * * I notice that many School Boards insist on having Trained Teachers. Is it possible to "train" a teacher? Are teachers not born like poets? I think they are. I have seen untrained teachers at work, and I have seen trained teachers; I never observed a scrap of difference. All I would say to a young teacher is: "Ask questions. Ask why there is a fence round the field, ask why there is a fence round that tree in the field, then ask whether any plant or tree has a natural fence of its own." And I think I should say this: "A good teacher will begin a lesson on Cromwell, touch, in passing, Jack Johnson, Charlie Chaplin, Votes for Women, guinea pigs, ghosts, and finish up with an enquiry into Protective Coloration of Animals." The Code seems to be founded on the assumption that the teachers of Scotland don't know their business. Why specify that Nature Study will be taught? Any good teacher will refer to Nature every five minutes of the day. To me teaching is a ramble through every subject the teacher knows. No, I don't think a teacher can be trained, but I am prejudiced; I took the Acting Teachers' Certificate Exam ... and passed Third Class. In the King's Scholarship I was ninety-ninth in the list of a hundred and one. Luckily, the Acting Teachers' list was given in alphabetical order. I had a friend at the university, Anderson was his name, a medical. He had passed in Physics, and naturally his name was near the beginning of the list. His local paper had it "A Brilliant Student." Anderson got through at the ninth shot. * * * To-day I talked about crime and punishment. I told my bairns that a criminal cannot help himself; heredity and environment make a man good or bad. I spoke of the environment that makes millions of children diseased morally and physically, and of the law that punishes a man for the sins of the community. I told them that there should be no prisons; if a man is a murderer he is not responsible for his actions, and he must be confined ... but not in prison. Our present system is not justice; it is vengeance. I once saw a poor waif sent to prison for stealing a pair of boots, sent to the care of warders, sent to acquire a hatred of his fellowmen. Justice would have asked: "Why did he steal? Why had he no boots? What sort of life has he been forced to lead?" and I know that the waif would have been acquitted. I told my bairns that to cure any evil you must get at the root of it, and I incidentally pointed to the Insurance Act, and said that it was like treating a man with a suppurating appendix for the headache that was one of the symptoms. I told them that their fathers have not tried to get at the root of evil, that their prisons and cats and oakum are cowardly expedients. The evil is that the great majority of people are poor slaves, while the minority live on their earnings. That isn't politics; it is truth. I told them that if I had been born in the Cowgate of Edinburgh I should have been a thief and a drunkard ... and society would have added to my curse of heredity and environment the pains and brutishness of a prison. And yet men accuse me of attaching too much importance to material reforms. * * * I have not used the strap for many weeks now. I hope that I shall never use it again. I found a boy smoking a cigarette to-day. Four years ago I should have run him into the school and welted him. To-day I spoke to him. "Joseph," I said, "I smoke myself, and at your age I smoked an occasional Woodbine. But it isn't really good for a boy, and I hope you won't get into the habit of buying cigs. with your pocket money." He smiled and told me that he didn't really like it; he just smoked for fun. And he tossed the cigarette over a wall. A very clever friend of mine talks about the "Hamlet cramp." I've got it. Other men have a definite standard of right and wrong; I have none. The only original sin that I believe in is the cruelty that has come to man from the remote tree-dweller. XI. A villager stopped me on my way to school this morning. "Look at that," he cried, pointing to a broken branch on a tree in his garden, "that's what comes o' yer nae discipline ideas. That's ane o' yer laddies that put his kite into ma gairden. Dawm it, A'll no stand that! Ye'll jest go doon to the school and gie that boy the biggest leathering that he's ever had in his life." I explained patiently that I was not the village constable, and I told him that the broken branch had nothing to do with me. He became angry, but he became speechless when I said, "I sympathise with you. Had it been my garden I should have sworn possibly harder than you have done. On the other hand, had it been twenty years ago and my kite, well, I should have done exactly what the boy did. Good morning." Although it was no concern of mine I called the boy out, and advised him to try to think of other people. Then I addressed the bairns. "You might convey to your parents," I said, "that I am not the policeman in this village; I'm a schoolmaster." I think that many parents are annoyed at my giving up punishment. They feel that I am not doing their work for them; they think that the dominie should do the training of children ... other people's children, not their own. I find that I am trying to do a very difficult thing. The home influence is bad in many cases; the children hear their parents slight the teacher, and they do not know what to think. The average parent looks upon the teacher as an enemy. If I hit a boy the parents side with him, if I don't hit the boy who hit their boy, they indignantly ask what education is coming to. Many a night I feel disheartened. I find that I am on the side of the bairns. I am against law and discipline; I am all for freedom of action. * * * At last I have attained my ambition. As a boy my great ambition was to possess a cavalry trumpet and bugle. I have just bought both. I call the bairns to school with "Stables" or the "Fall In," and I gleefully look forward to playtime so that I may have another tootle. The bairns love to hear the calls, but I think I enjoy them most. I try hard to share the bairns' joys. At present I am out with them every day flying kites, and I never tire of this. The boys bring me their comic papers, but I find that I cannot laugh at them as I used to do. Yet, I like to see _Chips_; Weary Willie and Tired Tim are still figuring on the front page, but their pristine glory is gone. When I first knew them they were the creation of Tom Browne, and no artist can follow Tom in his own line. I miss the old "bloods"; I used to glory in the exploits of Frank Reade and Deadwood Dick. I have sat on a Sunday with _Deadwood Dick_ in the covers of a family Bible, and my old grandmother patted my head and told me I was a promising lad. Then there was Buffalo Bill--tuppence coloured; I never see his name now. I wonder why so many parents and teachers cuff boys' heads when they find them reading comic papers and "bloods." I see no harm in either. I wish that people would get out of the absurd habit of taking it for granted that whatever a boy does is wrong. I hold that a boy is nearly always right. I see in to-day's _Scotsman_ that a Sheriff substitute in Edinburgh has sentenced two brothers of nine and ten to twelve stripes with the birch rod for stealing tuppence ha'penny. The account remarked that the brothers had previously had a few stripes for a similar theft. That punishment is no prevention is proved in this case. The Sheriff Substitute must have a very definite idea of righteousness; I envy him his conscience free from all remembrance of shortcomings in the past. For my part had I been sitting in judgment on the poor laddies I should have recollected the various times I have travelled first with a third ticket, sneaked into circuses by lifting the tent cover, laid farthings on the railway so that they might become ha'pennies, or, with a special piece of luck--a goods train--pennies. Then I should have invited the boys to tea, and sent them home with _Comic Cuts_, two oranges, and a considerable bit of chewing gum. Anyhow, my method would have brought out any good in the boys. The method of the judge will bring out no good; it may make the boys feel that they are enemies of society. And I should like to ask the gentleman what he would do if his young son stole the jam. I'm sure he would not send for the birch rod. The damnable thing about the whole affair is that he is probably a very nice kindly man who would not whip a dog with his own hand. His misfortune is his being part of a system. * * * I have just added a few volumes to my school library. I tried to recollect the books that I liked as a youth; then I wrote for catalogues of "sevenpennies." The new books include these:--_The Prisoner of Zenda_ and its sequel, _Rupert of Hentzau_, _King Solomon's Mines_, _Montezuma's Daughter_, _The Four Feathers_, _A Gentleman of France_, _White Fang_, _The Call of the Wild_, _The Invisible Man_, _The War of the Worlds_, _The War in the Air_, _Dr. Nikola_, _A Bid for Fortune_, _Micah Clarke_. I find that the average bairn of thirteen cannot appreciate these stories. Margaret Steel was the only one who read _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ and asked for the sequel. Most of them stuck half way with _Zenda_. Guy Boothby's novels, the worst of the lot possibly, appealed to them strongly. The love element bores the boys, but the girls rather like it. One boy sat and yawned over _King Solomon's Mines_; then he took out a coloured comic and turned to the serial. I took the book away and told him to read the serial. Violet Brown prefers a book about giants from the infant room to all the romantic stories extant. After all, they are but children. * * * I am delighted with my sketching results. We go out every Wednesday and Friday afternoon, and many bairns are giving me good work. We usually end up with races or wading in the sea. There was much wonder when first they saw my bare feet, but now they take my feet for granted. Modesty is strong here. The other day the big girls came to me and asked if they could come to school slipshod. "You can come in your nighties for all I care," I said, and they gasped. We sit outside all day now. My classes take books and wander away down the road and lie on the banks. When I want them I call with the bugle. Each class has a "regimental call," and they come promptly. They most of them sit down separately, but the chatterers like to sit together. I force no bairn to learn in my school. The few who dislike books and lessons sit up when I talk to the class. The slackers are not always the most ignorant. I am beginning to compliment myself on having a good temper. For the past six weeks I have left the manual room open at playtime and the boys have made many toys. But they have made a woeful mess of the cutting tools. It is trying to find that your favourite plane has been cracked by a boy who has extreme theories on the fixing of plane irons. But it is very comforting to know that the School Board will have to pay for the damage. Yes, my temper is excellent. * * * On Saturday I went to a Bazaar, and various members of the aristocracy talked to me. They talked very much in the manner they talk to their gardeners, and I was led to muse upon the social status of a dominie. What struck me most was the fact that they imitate royalty in the broaching of topics of conversation; I knew that I presumed when I entered new ground of conversation. The ladies were very polite and very regal, and very well pleased with themselves. One of them said: "I hope that you do your best to make these children realise that there are classes in society; so many of their parents refuse to see the good in other classes!" "For my part," I answered, "I acknowledge one aristocracy--the aristocracy of intellect. I teach my children to have respect for thinking." She stared at me, and went away. I am not prejudiced against the county people, but any superiority of manner annoys me. I simply have no use for ladies who live drifting lives. The lady-bountifuls, or should it be the ladies-bountiful? of Britain would be much better as typists; in these days of alleged scarcity of labour they might come down and mix with the lower orders. Their grace and breeding would do much to improve us, and we might be able to help them in some ways. I am not being cynical, I have a genuine admiration for the breeding and beauty of some society women. The doctor and the minister are seldom patronised. I cannot for the life of me see why it is more lowly to cure a child of ignorance than measles. I have heard it said that the real reason of the teacher's low social status is the fact that very often he is the son of a humble labourer. There is some truth in this. At the Training College and the University the student meets men of his own class only; he never learns the little tricks of deportment that make up society's criterion of a gentleman. But for my part I blame the circumstances under which a dominie works. In Scotland he is the servant of a School Board, and a School Board is generally composed of men who have but the haziest notion of the meaning of education. That is bad enough, but very often there is a feud between one or two members and the teacher. Perhaps the teacher does not get his coals from Mr. Brown the Chairman, perhaps Mr. Brown voted for another man when the appointment was made. It is difficult for a man who is ruled by a few low-idealed semi-illiterate farmers and pig-dealers to emphasise his social position. Larger areas have been spoken of by politicians. Personally, I don't want larger areas; I want to see the profession run by the members, just as Law and Medicine are. It is significant that the medical profession has dropped considerably in the social scale since it allowed itself to work under the Insurance Act. My ideal is an Education Guild which will replace the Scotch Education Department. It will draw up its own scheme of instruction, fix the salaries of its members, appoint its own inspectors, build its own schools. It will be directly responsible to the State which will remain the supreme authority. I blame the teachers for their low social status. To-day they have no idea of corporate action. They pay their subscriptions to their Institute, and for the most part talk of stopping them on the ground that it is money wasted. The authorities of the Institute try to work for a better union, but they try clumsily and stodgily. They never write or talk forcibly; they resemble the Labour Members of Parliament in their having an eager desire to be respectable at any price. I don't know why it is, but when a professional man tries to put his thoughts on paper he almost always succeeds in saving nothing in many fine phrases. What is really wrong with the Educational Institute of Scotland is hoary-headedness. It is run by old men and old wives. A big man in the Institute is usually a teacher with thirty years' experience as a headmaster. Well ... if a man can teach under the present system for thirty years and retain any originality or imagination at the end of that time he must be a genius. I object to age and experience; I am all for youth and empiricism. After all, what is the use of experience in teaching? I could bet my boots that ninety-nine out of a hundred teachers use the methods they learned as pupil-teachers. Experience! I have heard dominies expatiate on innovations like Kindergarten and Blackboard Drawing. I still have to meet a dominie of experience who has any name but "fad" for anything in education later than 1880. I have never tried to define the word "fad." I should put it thus:--A fad is a half-formed idea that a sub-inspector has borrowed from a bad translation of a distinguished foreigner's treatise on Education, and handed on to a deferential dominie. * * * An inspector called to-day; a middle-aged kindly gentleman with a sharp eye. His chief interest in life was tables. "How many pence in fifty-seven farthings?" he fired at my highest class. When he found that they had to divide mentally by four, he became annoyed. "They ought to know their tables," he said to me. "What tables?" I asked. "O, they should learn up that; why I can tell you at once what sixty-nine farthings are." I explained humbly that I couldn't, and should never acquire the skill. I did not like his manner of talking _at_ the teacher through the class. When an inspector says, "You ought to know this," the scholars glance at the teacher, for they are shrewd enough to see that the teacher is being condemned. He fired his parting shot as he went out. "You must learn not to talk in school," he said. I am a peaceful man, and I hate a scene. I said nothing, but I shall do nothing. If he returns he will find no difference in the school. The bairns did talk to each other when the inspector talked to me, but when he asked for attention he got it. I am surprised to find that his visit does not worry me; I have at last lost my fear of the terror of teaching--H.M.I.S. XII. I went "drumming" last night. I like the American word "drummer," it is so much more expressive than our "commercial traveller." I made a series of postcards, and I went round the shops trying to place them. One man refused to take them up because the profits would not be large enough. As the profits work out at 41½ per cent I begin to wonder what he usually makes. To-day I talked to the bairns about commerce, and I pointed out that much in commerce was thieving. "This is commerce," I said: "Suppose I am a pig-dealer. I hear one day from a friend that pigs will rise in price in a few days. I at once set out on a tour of neighbouring farms, and by nightfall I have bought twenty pigs at the market price. Next morning pigs have doubled in price, and these farmers naturally want to shoot me. Why don't they shoot me?" "They would be hanged," said Violet Brown. "Because they would buy pigs in the same way if they had the chance," said Margaret Steel. I went on to say that buying pigs like that is stealing, and I said that the successful business man is usually the man who is most unscrupulous. I told them of the murderous system that allows a big firm to place a shop next door to a small merchant and undersell him till his business dies. It is all done under the name of competition, but of course there is no more competition about the affair than there is about the relationship between a wolf and a lamb. I try very very hard to keep my bairns from low ideals. Some one, Oscar Wilde or Shaw, I think, says that love of money is the root of all good. That is the sort of paradox that isn't true, and not even funny. I see farmers growing rich on child labour: fifteen pence a day for spreading manure. I meet the poor little boys of thirteen and fourteen on the road, and the smile has gone from their faces; their bodies are bent and racked. When I was thirteen I went to the potato-gathering at a farm. Even now, when I pass a field where potatoes are being lifted, the peculiar smell of potato earth brings back to me those ten days of misery. I seldom had time to straighten my back. I had but one thought all day: When will that sun get down to the west? My neighbour, Jock Tamson, always seemed fresh and cheerful, but, unfortunately, I did not discover the cause of his optimism until the last day. "Foo are you feenished so quick, Jock?" I asked. Jock winked and nodded his head in the direction of the farmer. "Look!" he said, and he skilfully tramped a big potato into the earth with his right foot; then he surreptitiously happed it over with his left. I have never forgiven Jock for being so tardy in spreading his gospel. * * * To-day I received from the Clerk the Report on my school. "Discipline," it says, "which is kindly, might be firmer, especially in the Senior Division, so as to prevent a tendency to talk on the part of the pupils whenever opportunity occurs." An earlier part runs thus: "The pupils in the Senior Division are intelligent and bright under oral examination, and make an exceedingly good appearance in the class subjects." I scratch my head thoughtfully. If the inspector finds the bairns intelligent and bright, why does he want them to be silent in school? I cannot tell; I suspect that talking children annoy him. I fancy that stern disciplinarians are men who hate to be irritated. "More attention, however, should be paid to neatness of method and penmanship in copybooks and jotters." I wonder. I freely admit to myself that the jotters are not neat, but I want to know why they should be. I can beat most men at marring a page with hasty figures; on the other hand I can make a page look like copperplate if I want to. I find that my bairns do neat work on an examination paper. The truth is that I am incapable of teaching neatness. My desk is a jumble; my sitting-room is generally littered with books and papers. Some men are born tidy: some have tidiness thrust upon them. I am of the latter crowd. Between the school charwoman and my landlady I live strenuously. I object to my report. I hate to be the victim of a man I can't reply to, even when he says nice things. But the main objection I have to the report is this: the School Board gets not a single word of criticism. If I were not almost proud of my lack of neatness, I might argue that no man could be neat in an ugly school. It is always filthy because the ashed playground is undrained. Broken windows stand for months; the plaster of the ceiling came down months ago, and the lathes are still showing. The School Board does not worry; its avowed object is to keep down the rates at any price in meanness (some members are big ratepayers). The sanitary arrangements are a disgrace to a long-suffering nation. Nothing is done. * * * It would be a good plan to make teachers forward reports of inspectors' visits to the Scotch Education Department. I should love to write one. "Mr. Silas K. Beans, H.M.I.S., paid a visit to this school to-day, and he made quite a passable appearance before the pupils. "It was perhaps unfortunate that Mr. Beans laboured under the delusion that Mrs. Hemans wrote _Come into the Garden, Maud_, but on the whole the subject was adequately treated. "The geography lesson showed Mr. Beans at his best, but it might be advisable for him to consider whether the precise whereabouts of Seville possesses the importance in the scheme of things that he attributes to it. And it might be suggested that children of twelve find some difficulty in spelling Prsym--Prysem--Pryems----anyway, the name of the town that has kept the alleged comic weeklies alive during a trying period. "The school staff would have liked Mr. Beans to have stayed long enough to discover that a few of the scholars possessed imagination, and it hoped that he will be able to make his visit longer than four hours next time. "Mr. Beans's knowledge of dates is wonderful, and his parsing has all the glory of Early Victorian furniture." XIII. To-night MacMurray invited me down to meet his former head, Simpson, a big man in the Educational Institute, and a likely President next year. Mac introduced me as "a chap with theories on education; doesn't care a rap for inspectors and abominates discipline." Simpson looked me over; then he grunted. "You'll grow out of that, young man," he said sagely. I laughed. "That's what I'm afraid of," I said, "I fear that the continual holding of my nose to the grindstone will destroy my perspective." "You'll find that experience doesn't destroy perspective." "Experience," I cried, "is, or at least, should be one of Oscar Wilde's Seven Deadly Virtues. The experienced man is the chap who funks doing a thing because he's had his fingers burnt. 'Tis experience that makes cowards of us all." "Of course," said Simpson, "you're joking. It stands to reason that I, for instance, with a thirty-four years' experience of teaching know more about education than you do, if you don't mind my saying so." "Man, I was teaching laddies before your father and mother met," he added. "If you saw a lad and a lass making love would you arrange that he should sit near her?" "Good gracious, no!" he cried. "What has that got to do with the subject." "But why not give them chances to spoon?" I asked. "Why not? If a teacher encouraged that sort of thing, why, it might lead to anything!" "Exactly," I said, "experience tells you that you have to do all you can to preserve the morals of the bairns?" "I could give you instances--" "I don't want them particularly," I interrupted. "My main point is that experience has made you a funk. Pass the baccy, Mac." "Mean to tell me that's how you teach?" cried Simpson. "How in all the world do you do for discipline?" "I do without it." "My goodness! that's the limit! May I ask why you do without it?" "It is a purely personal matter," I answered. "I don't want anyone to lay down definite rules for me, and I refuse to lay down definite rules of conduct for my bairns." "But how in all the earth do you get any work done?" "Work," I said, "is an over-rated thing, just as knowledge is overrated." "Nonsense," said Simpson. "All right," I remarked mildly, "if knowledge is so important, why is a university professor usually a talker of platitudes? Why is the average medallist at a university a man of tenth-rate ideas?" "Then our Scotch education is all in vain?" "Speaking generally, it is." I think it was at this stage that Simpson began to doubt my sanity. "Young man," he said severely, "one day you will realise that work and knowledge and discipline are of supreme importance. Look at the Germans!" He waved his hand in the direction of the sideboard, and I looked round hastily. "Look what Germany has done with work and knowledge and discipline!" "Then why all this bother to crush a State that has all the virtues?" I asked diffidently. "It isn't the discipline we are trying to crush; it is the militarism." "Good!" I cried, "I'm glad to hear it. That's what I want to do in Scotland; I want to crush the militarism in our schools, and, as most teachers call their militarism discipline, I curse discipline." "That's all rubbish, you know," he said shortly. "No it isn't. If I leather a boy for making a mistake in a sum, I am no better than the Prussian officer who shoots a Belgian civilian for crossing the street. I am equally stupid and a bully." "Then you allow carelessness to go unpunished?" he sneered. "I do. You see I am a very careless devil myself. I'll swear that I left your garden gate open when I came in, Mac, and your hens will be all over the road." Mac looked out at the window. "They are!" he chuckled, and I laughed. "You seem to think that slovenliness is a virtue," said Simpson with a faint smile. "I don't, really, but I hold that it is a natural human quality." "Are your pupils slovenly?" he asked. "Lots of 'em are. You're born tidy or you aren't." "When these boys go out to the workshop, what then? Will a joiner keep an apprentice who makes a slovenly job?" "Ah!" I said, "you're talking about trade now. You evidently want our schools to turn out practical workmen. I don't. Mind you I'm quite willing to admit that a shoemaker who theorises about leather is a public nuisance. Neatness and skill are necessary in practical manufacture, but I refuse to reduce education to the level of cobbling or coffin-making. I don't care how slovenly a boy is if he thinks." "If he is slovenly he won't think," said Simpson. I smiled. "I think you are wrong. Personally, I am a very lazy man; I have my library all over the floor as a rule. Yet, though I am lazy physically I am not lazy mentally. I hold that the really lazy teacher is your "ring the bell at nine sharp" man; he hustles so much that he hasn't time to think. If you work hard all day you never have time to think." Simpson laughed. "Man, I'd like to see your school!" "Why not? Come up tomorrow morning," I said. "First rate!" he cried, "I'll be there at nine." "Better not," I said with a smile, "or you'll have to wait for ten minutes." * * * He arrived as I blew the "Fall in" on my bugle. "You don't line them up and march them in?" he said. "I used to, but I've given it up," I confessed. "To tell the truth I'm not enamoured of straight lines." We entered my classroom. Simpson stood looking sternly at my chattering family while I marked the registers. "I couldn't tolerate this row," he said. "It isn't so noisy as your golf club on a Saturday night, is it?" He smiled slightly. Jim Burnett came out to my desk and lifted _The Glasgow Herald_, then he went out to the playground humming _On the Mississippi_. "What's the idea?" asked Simpson. "He's the only boy who is keen on the war news," I explained. Then Margaret Steel came out. "Please, sir, I took _The Four Feathers_ home and my mother began to read them; she thinks she'll finish them by Sunday. Is anybody reading _The Invisible Man_?" I gave her the book and she went out. Then Tom Macintosh came out and asked for the Manual Room key; he wanted to finish a boat he was making. "Do you let them do as they like?" asked Simpson. "In the upper classes," I replied. Soon all the Supplementary and Qualifying pupils had found a novel and had gone out to the roadside. I turned to give the other classes arithmetic. Mary Wilson in the front seat held out a bag of sweets to me. I took one. "Please, sir, would the gentleman like one, too?" Simpson took one with the air of a man on holiday who doesn't care what sins he commits. "I say," he whispered, "do you let them eat in school? There's a boy in the back seat eating nuts." I fixed Ralph Ritchie with my eye. "Ralph! If you throw any nutshells on that floor Mrs. Findlay will eat you." "I'm putting them in my pooch," he said. "Good! Write down this sum." "What are the others doing?" asked Simpson after a time. "Margaret Steel and Violet Brown are reading," I said promptly. "Annie Dixon is playing fivies on the sand, Jack White and Bob Tosh are most likely arguing about horses, but the other boys are reading, we'll go and see." And together we walked down the road. Annie was playing fivies all right, but Jack and Bob weren't discussing horses; they were reading _Chips_. "And the scamps haven't the decency to hide it when you appear!" cried Simpson. "Haven't the fear," I corrected. On the way back to the school he said: "It's all very pleasant and picnicy, but eating nuts and sweets in class!" "Makes your right arm itch?" I suggested pleasantly. "It does," he said with a short laugh, "Man, do you never get irritated?" "Sometimes." "Ah!" He looked relieved. "So the system isn't perfect?" "Good heavens!" I cried, "What do you think I am? A saint from heaven? You surely don't imagine that a man with nerves and a temperament is always able to enter into the moods of bairns! I get ratty occasionally, but I generally blame myself." I sent a girl for my bugle and sounded the "Dismiss." "What do you do now?" I pulled out my pipe and baccy. "Have a fill," I said, "it's John Cotton." * * * To-night I have been thinking about Simpson. He is really a kindly man; in the golf-house he is voted a good fellow. Yet MacMurray tells me that he is a very strict disciplinarian; he saw him give a boy six scuds with the tawse one day for drawing a man's face on the inside cover of his drawing book. I suppose that Simpson considers that he is an eminently just man. I think that the foundation of true justice is self-analysis. It is mental laziness that is at the root of the militarism in our schools. Simpson is as lazy mentally as the proverbial mother who cried: "See what Willie's doing and tell him he musn't." I wonder what he would have replied if the boy had said: "Why is it wrong to draw a man's face in a drawing book?" Very likely he would have given him another six for impertinence. It is strange that our boasted democracy uses its power to set up bullies. The law bullies the poor and gives them the cat if they trespass; the police bully everyone who hasn't a clean collar; the dominie bullies the young; and the School Board bullies the dominie. Yet, in theory, the judge, the constable, the dominie, and the School Board are the servants of democracy. Heaven protect us from the bureaucratic Socialism of people like the Webbs! It is significant that Germany, the country of the super-official is the country of the super-bully. Paradoxically, I, as a Socialist, believe that the one thing that will save the people is individualism. No democracy can control a stupid teacher or a stupid judge. If our universities produce teachers who leather a boy for drawing a face, and judges who give boys the cat for stealing tuppence ha'penny, then our universities are all wrong. Or human nature is all wrong. If I admit the latter I must fall back on pessimism. But I don't admit it. Our cruel teachers and magistrates are good fellows in their clubs and homes; they are bad fellows in their schools and courts because they have never come to think, to examine themselves. In my Utopia self-examination will be the only examination that will matter. H. G. Wells in _The New Machiavelli_ talks of "Love and Fine Thinking" as the salvation of the world. I like the phrase, but I prefer the word Realisation. I want men like Simpson to realise that their arbitrary rules are unjust and cowardly and inhuman. * * * I saw a good fight to-night. At four o'clock I noticed a general move towards Murray's Corner, and I knew that blood was about to be shed. Moreover I knew that Jim Steel was to tackle the new boy Welsh, for I had seen Jim put his fist to his nose significantly in the afternoon. I followed the crowd. "I want to see fair play," I said. Welsh kept shouting that he could "fecht the hale schule wi' wan hand tied ahent 'is back." In this district school fights have an etiquette of their own. One boy touches the other on the arm saying: "There's the dunt!" The other returns the touch with the same remark. If he fails to return it he receives a harder dunt on the arm with the words, "And there's the coordly!" If he fails to return that also he is accounted the loser, and the small boys throw divots at him. Steel began in the usual way with his: "There's the dunt!" Welsh promptly hit him in the teeth and knocked him down. The boys appealed to me. "No," I said, "Welsh didn't know the rules. After this you should shake hands as you do in boxing." Welsh never had a chance. He had no science; he came on with his arms swinging in windmill fashion. Jim stepped aside and drove a straight left to the jaw, and before Welsh knew what was happening Jim landed him on the nose with his right. Welsh began to weep, and I stopped the fight. I told him that Steel had the advantage because I had taught my boys the value of a straight left, but that I would give him a few lessons with the gloves later on. Then I asked how the quarrel had arisen. As I had conjectured Steel and Welsh had no real quarrel. Welsh had cuffed little Geordie Burnett's ears, and Geordie had cried, "Ye wudna hit Jim Steel!" Welsh had no alternative but to reply: "Wud Aw no!" Straightway Geordie had run off to Steel saying: "Hi! Jim! Peter Welsh says he'll fecht ye!" So far as I can remember all my own battles at school were arranged by disobliging little boys in this manner. If Jock Tamson said to me: "Bob Young cud aisy fecht ye and ca' yer nose up among yer hair!" I, as a man of honour, had to reply: "Aw'll try Bob Young ony day he likes!" And even if Bob were my bosom friend, I would have to face him at the brig at four o'clock. I noticed that the girls were all on Steel's side before the fight began, and obviously on Welsh's side when he was beaten, the bissoms! XIV. I gave a lecture in the village hall on Friday night, and many parents came out to hear what I had to say on the subject of _Children and their Parents_. After the lecture I invited questions. "What wud ye hae a man do if his laddie wudna do what he was bidden?" asked Brown the joiner. "I would have the man think very seriously whether he had any right to give the order that was disobeyed. For instance, if you ordered your Jim to stop singing while you were reading, you would be taking an unfair advantage of your years and size. From what I know of Jim he would certainly stop singing if you asked him to do so as a favour." "Aw dinna believe in askin' favours o' ma laddies," he said. I smiled. "Yet you ask them of other laddies. You don't collar Fred Thomson and shout: 'Post that letter at once!' You say very nicely: 'You might post that letter like a good laddie,' and Fred enjoys posting your letter more than posting a ton of letters for his own father." The audience laughed, and Fred's father cried: "Goad! Ye're quite richt, dominie!" "As a boy," I continued, "I hated being set to weed the garden, though I spent hours helping to weed the garden next door. A boy likes to grant favours." "Aye," said Brown, "when there's a penny at the tail end o' them!" "Yes," I said after the laughter had died, "but your Jim would rather have Mr. Thomson's penny than your sixpence. The real reason is that you boss your son, and nobody likes to be bossed." "Believe me, ladies and gentlemen, I think that the father is the curse of the home. (Laughter.) The father never talks to his son as man to man. As a result a boy suppresses much of his nature, and if he is left alone with his father for five minutes he feels awkward, though not quite so awkward as the father does. You find among the lower animals that the father is of no importance; indeed, he is looked on as a danger. Have you ever seen a bitch flare up when the father comes too near her puppies? Female spiders, I am told, solve the problem of the father by eating him." (Great laughter.) "What aboot the mothers?" said a voice, and the men cackled. "Mothers are worse," I said. "Fathers usually imagine that they have a sense of justice, but mothers have absolutely no sense of justice. It is the mother who cries, 'Liz, ye lazy slut, run and clean your brother's boots, the poor laddie! Lod, I dinna ken what would happen to you, my poor laddie, if your mother wasna here to look after you.' You mothers make your girls work at nights and on Saturdays, and you allow your boys to play outside. That is most unjust. Your boys should clean their own boots and mend their own clothes. They should help in the washing of dishes and the sweeping of floors." "Wud ye say that the mother is the curse o' the hame, too?" asked Brown. "No," I said, "she is a necessity, and in spite of her lack of justice, she is nearer to the children than the father is. She is less aloof and less stern. You'll find that a boy will tell his mother much more than he will tell his father. Speaking generally, a stupid mother is more dangerous than a stupid father, but a mother of average intelligence is better for a child than a father of average intelligence. "This is a problem that cannot be solved. The mother must remain with her children, and I cannot see how we are to chuck the father out of the house. As a matter of fact he is usually so henpecked that he is prevented from being too much of an evil to the bairns. "The truth is that the parents of to-day are not fit to be parents, and the parents of the next generation will be no better. The mothers of the next generation are now in my school. They will leave at the age of fourteen--some of them will be exempted and leave at thirteen--and they will slave in the fields or the factory for five or six years. Then society will accept them as legitimate guardians of the morals and spiritual welfare of children. I say that this is a damnable system. A mother who has never learned to think has absolute control of a growing young mind, and an almost absolute control of a growing young body. She can beat her child; she can starve it. She can poison its mind with malice, just as she can poison its body with gin and bitters. "What can we do? The home is the Englishman's castle! Anyway, in these days of high explosives, castles are out of date, and it is high time that the castle called home had some airing." * * * I cannot flatter myself that I made a single parent think on Friday night. Most of the villagers treated the affair as a huge joke. I have just decided to hold an Evening School next winter. I see that the Code offers _The Life and Duties of a Citizen_ as a subject. I shall have the lads and lasses of sixteen to nineteen in my classroom twice a week, and I guess I'll tell them things about citizenship they won't forget. It occurs to me that married people are not easily persuaded to think. The village girl considers marriage the end of all things. She dons the bridal white, and at once she rises meteorically in the social scale. Yesterday she was Mag Broon, an outworker at Millside; to-day she is Mrs. Smith with a house of her own. Her mental horizon is widened. She can talk about anything now; the topic of childbirth can now be discussed openly with other married wives. Aggressiveness and mental arrogance follow naturally, and with these come a respect for church-going and an abhorrence of Atheism. I refuse to believe those who prate about marriage as an emancipation for a woman. Marriage is a prison. It shuts a woman up within her four walls, and she hugs all her prejudices and hypocrisies to her bosom. The men who shout "Women's place is the home!" at Suffragette meetings are fools. The home isn't good enough for women. A girl once said to me: "I always think that marriage makes a girl a 'has been.'" What she meant was that marriage ended flirtation, poor innocent that she was! Yet her remark is true in a wider sense. The average married woman is a "has been" in thought, while not a few are "never wasers." Hence I have more hope of my evening school lasses than of their mothers. They have not become smug, nor have they concluded that they are past enlightenment. They are not too omniscient to resent the offering of new ideas. A man's marriage makes no great change in his life. His wife replaces his mother in such matters as cooking and washing and "feeding the brute." He finds that he is allowed to spend less, and he has to keep elders' hours. But in essentials his life is unchanged. He still has his pint on a Saturday night, and his evening crack at the Brig. He has gained no additional authority, and he is extremely blessed of the gods if he has not lost part of the authority he had. The revolution in his mental outfit comes later when he becomes a father. He thinks that his education is complete when the midwife whispers: "Hi, Jock, it's a lassie!" He immediately realises that he is a man of importance, a guide and preacher rolled into one; and he talks dictatorially to the dominie about education. Then he discovers that precept must be accompanied by example, and he aspires to be a deacon or an elder. Now I want to get at Jock before the midwife gets at him. I don't care tuppence whether he is married or not ... but he mustn't be a father. * * * To-day I began to read Mary Johnston's _By Order of the Company_ to my bairns. I love the story, and I love the style. It reminds me of Malory's style; she has his trick of running on in a breathless string of "ands." When I think of style I am forced to recollect the stylists I had to read at the university. There was Sir Thomas Browne and his _Urn Burial_. What the devil is the use of people like Browne I don't know. He gives us word music and imagery I admit, but I don't want word music and imagery from prose, I want ideas or a story. I can't think of one idea I got from Browne or Fisher or Ruskin, or any of the stylists, yet I have found many ideas in translations of Nietzsche and Ibsen. Style is the curse of English literature. When I read Mary Johnston I forget all about words. I vaguely realise that she is using the right words all the time, but the story is the thing. When I read Browne I fail to scrape together the faintest interest in burials; the organ music of his _Dead March_ drowns everything else. When a man writes too musically and ornately I always suspect him of having a paucity of ideas. If you have anything important to say you use plain language. The man who writes to the local paper complaining of "those itinerant denizens of the underworld yclept hawkers, who make the day hideous with raucous cries," is a pompous ass. Yet he is no worse than the average stylist in writing. I think it was G. K. Chesterton who said that a certain popular authoress said nothing because she believed in words. He might have applied the phrase to 90 per cent of English writers. Poetry cannot be changed. Substitute a word for "felicity" in the line: "Absent thee from felicity awhile" and you destroy the poetry. But I hold that prose should be able to stand translation. The prose that cannot stand it is the empty stuff produced by our Ruskins and our Brownes. Empty barrels always have made the most sound. * * * There must be something in style after all. I had this note from a mother this morning. "DEAR SIR, Please change Jane's seat for she brings home more than belongs to her." I refuse to comment on this work of art. * * * I must get a cornet. Eurhythmics with an artillery bugle is too much for my wind and my dignity. Just when the graceful bend is coming forward my wind gives out, and I make a vain attempt to whistle the rest. Perhaps a concertina would be better than a cornet. I tried Willie Hunter with his mouth-organ, but the attempt was stale and unprofitable, and incidentally flat. Then Tom Macintosh brought a comb to the school and offered to perform on it. After that I gave Eurhythmics a rest. When the war is over I hope that the Government will retain Lloyd George as Minister of Munitions ... for Schools. I haven't got a tenth of the munitions I should have; I want a player-piano, a gramophone, a cinematograph with comic films, a library with magazines and pictures. I want swings and see-saws in the playground, I want rabbits and white mice; I want instruments for a school brass and wood band. I like building castles in Spain. The truth is that if the School Board would yield to my importunities and lay a few loads of gravel on the muddy patch commonly known as the playground I should almost die of surprise and joy. One learns to be content with small mercies when one is serving those ratepayers who control the rates. XV. Margaret Steel has left school, and to-morrow morning she goes off at five o'clock to the factory. To-day Margaret is a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked lassie; in three years she will be hollow-eyed and pale-faced. Never again will she know what it is to waken naturally after sleep; the factory syren will haunt her dreams always. She will rise at half-past four summer and winter; she will tramp the two mile road to the factory, and when six comes at night she will wearily tramp home again. Possibly she will marry a factory worker and continue working in the factory, for his wage will not keep up a home. In the neighbouring town hundreds of homes are locked all day ... and Bruce the manufacturer's daughters are in county society. Heigh ho! It is a queer thing civilisation! I wonder when the people will begin to realise what wagery means. When they do begin to realise they will commence the revolution by driving women out of industry. To-day the women are used by the profiteer as instruments to exploit the men. Surely a factory worker has the right to earn enough to support a family on. The profiteer says "No! You must marry one of my hands, and then your combined wages will set up a home for you." I spoke of this to the manager of Bruce's factory once. "But," he said, "if we did away with female labour we'd have to close down. We couldn't compete with other firms." "Not if they abolished female labour too?" "I was thinking of the Calcutta mills where labour is dirt cheap," he said. "I see," I said, "so the Scotch lassie is to compete with the native?" "It comes to that," he admitted. I think I see a very pretty problem awaiting Labour in the near future. As the Trade Unions become more powerful and show their determination to take the mines and factories into their own hands, capitalists will turn to Asia and Africa. The exploitation of the native is just beginning. At a time when Britain is a Socialistic State all the evils of capitalism will be reproduced with ten-fold intensity in India and China and Africa. I see an Asia ruled by lash and revolver; the profiteer has a short way with the striker in Eastern climes. The recent history of South Africa is sinister. A few years ago our brothers died presumably that white men should have the rights of citizenship in the Transvaal. What they seemed to have died for was the right of profiteers to shoot white strikers from the windows of the Rand Club. If white men are treated thus I tremble for the fate of the black man who strikes. Yes, the present profiteering system is a preparation for an exploited East. Margaret Steel and her fellows are slaving so that a Persia may be "opened up," a Mexico robbed of its oil wells. * * * To-day I gave a lesson on Capital. "If," I said, "I have a factory I have to pay out wages and money for machinery and raw material. When I sell my cloth I get more money than I paid out. This money is called profit, and with this money I can set up a new factory. "Now what I want you to understand is this:--Unless work is done by someone there is no wealth. If I make a fortune out of linen I make it by using the labour of your fathers, and the machinery that was invented by clever men. Of course, I have to work hard myself, but I am repaid for my work fully. Margaret Steel at this moment standing at a loom, is working hard too, but she is getting a wage that is miserable. "Note that the owner of the factory is getting an income of, say, ten thousand pounds a year. Now, what does he do with the money?" "Spends it on motor cars," said a boy. "Buys cigarettes," said a girl. "Please, sir, Mr. Bruce gives money to the infirmary," said another girl. "He keeps it in a box beneath the bed," said another, and I found that the majority in the room favoured this theory. This suggestion reminded me of the limitations of childhood, and I tried to talk more simply. I told them of banks and stocks, I talked of luxuries, and pointed out that a man who lived by selling expensive dresses to women was doing unnecessary labour. Tom Macintosh showed signs of thinking deeply. "Please, sir, what would all the dressmakers and footmen do if there was no money to pay them?" "They would do useful work, Tom," I said. "Your father works from six to six every day, but if all the footmen and chauffeurs and grooms and gamekeepers were doing useful work, your father would only need to work maybe seven hours a day. See? In Britain there are forty millions of people, and the annual income of the country is twenty-four hundred million pounds. One million of people take half this sum, and the other thirty-nine millions have to take the other half." "Please, sir," said Tom, "what half are you in?" "Tom," I said, "I am with the majority. For once the majority has right on its side." * * * Bruce the manufacturer had an advertisement in to-day's local paper. "No encumbrances," says the ad. Bruce has a family of at least a dozen, and he possibly thinks that he has earned the right to talk of "encumbrances." I sympathise with the old chap. But I want to know why gardeners and chauffeurs must have no encumbrances. If the manorial system spreads, a day will come when the only children at this school will be the offspring of the parish minister. Then, I suppose, dominies and ministers will be compelled to be polygamists by Act of Parliament. I like the Lord of the Manor's damned impudence. He breeds cattle for showing, he breeds pheasants for slaughtering, he breeds children to heir his estates. Then he sits down and pens an advertisement for a slave without "encumbrances." Why he doesn't import a few harem attendants from Turkey I don't know; possibly he is waiting till the Dardanelles are opened up. * * * I have just been reading a few schoolboy howlers. I fancy that most of these howlers are manufactured. I cannot be persuaded that any boy ever defined a lie as "An abomination unto the Lord but a very present help in time of trouble." Howlers bore me; so do most school yarns. The only one worth remembering is the one about the inspector who was ratty. "Here, boy," he fired at a sleepy youth, "who wrote _Hamlet_?" The boy started violently. "P--please, sir, it wasna me," he stammered. That evening the inspector was dining with the local squire. "Very funny thing happened to-day," he said, as they lit their cigars. "I was a little bit irritated, and I shouted at a boy, 'Who wrote _Hamlet_?' The little chap was flustered. 'P--please, sir, it wasna me!' he stuttered." The squire guffawed loudly. "And I suppose the little devil had done it after all!" he roared. * * * Lawson came down to see me to-night, and as usual we talked shop. "It's all very well," he said, "for you to talk about education being all wrong. Any idiot can burn down a house that took many men to build. Have you got a definite scheme to put in its place?" The question was familiar to me. I had had it fired at me scores of times in the days when I talked Socialism from a soap-box in Hyde Park. "I think I have a scheme," I said modestly. Lawson lay back in his chair. "Good! Cough it up, my son!" I smoked hard for a minute. "Well, Lawson, it's like this, my scheme could only be a success if the economic basis of society were altered. So long as one million people take half the national yearly income you can't have any decent scheme of education." "Right O!" said Lawson cheerfully, "for the sake of argument, or rather peace, we'll give you a Utopia where there are no idle rich. Fire away!" "Good! I'll talk about the present day education first. "Twenty years ago education had one aim--to abolish illiteracy. In consequence the Three R.'s were of supreme importance. Nowadays they are held to be quite as important, but a dozen other things have been placed beside them on the pedestal. Gradually education has come to aim at turning out a man or a woman capable of earning a living. Cookery, Woodwork, Typing, Bookkeeping, Shorthand ... all these were introduced so that we should have better wives and joiners and clerks. "Lawson, I would chuck the whole blamed lot out of the elementary school. I don't want children to be trained to make pea-soup and picture frames, I want them to be trained to think. I would cut out History and Geography as subjects." "Eh?" said Lawson. "They'd come in incidentally. For instance, I could teach for a week on the text of a newspaper report of a fire in New York." "The fire would light up the whole world, so to speak," said Lawson with a smile. "Under the present system the teacher never gets under way. He is just getting to the interesting part of his subject when Maggie Brown ups and says, 'Please, sir, it's Cookery now.' The chap who makes a religion of his teaching says 'Damn!' very forcibly, and the girls troop out. "I would keep Composition and Reading and Arithmetic in the curriculum. Drill and Music would come into the play hours, and Sketching would be an outside hobby for warm days." "Where would you bring in the technical subjects?" "Each school would have a workshop where boys could repair their bikes or make kites and arrows, but there would not be any formal instruction in woodwork or engineering. Technical education would begin at the age of sixteen." "Six what?" "Sixteen. You see my pupils are to stay at school till they are twenty. You are providing the cash you know. Well, at sixteen the child would be allowed to select any subject he liked. Suppose he is keen on mechanics. He spends a good part of the day in the engineering shop and the drawing room--mechanical drawing I mean. But the thinking side of his education is still going on. He is studying political economy, eugenics, evolution, philosophy. By the time he is eighteen he has read Nietzsche, Ibsen, Bjornson, Shaw, Galsworthy, Wells, Strindberg, Tolstoi, that is if ideas appeal to him." "Ah!" "Of course, I don't say that one man in a hundred will read Ibsen. You will always have the majority who are averse to thinking if they can get out of it. These will be good mechanics and typists and joiners in many cases. My point is that every boy or girl has the chance to absorb ideas during their teens." "Would you make it compulsory? For instance, that boy Willie Smith in your school; do you think that he would learn much more if he had to stay at school till he was twenty?" "No," I said, "I wouldn't force anyone to stay at school, but to-day boys quite as stupid naturally as Smith stay at the university and love it. A few years' rubbing shoulders with other men is bound to make a man more alert. Take away, as you have done for argument's sake, the necessity of a boy's leaving school at fourteen to earn a living and you simply make every school a university." "And it isn't three weeks since I heard you curse universities!" said Lawson with a grin. "I'm thinking of the social side of a university," I explained. "That is good. The educational side of our universities is bad because it is mostly cram. I crammed Botany and Zoo for my degree and I know nothing about either; I was too busy trying to remember words like Caryophylacia, or whatever it is, to ask why flowers droop their heads at night. So in English I had to cram up what Hazlitt and Coleridge said about Shakespeare when I should have been reading _Othello_. The university fails because it refuses to connect education with contemporary life. You go there and you learn a lot of rot about syllogisms and pentameters, and nothing is done to explain to you the meaning of the life in the streets outside. No wonder that Oxford and Cambridge dons write to the papers saying that life has no opening for a university man." "But I thought that you didn't want education to produce a practical man. You wanted a theoretical chimney-sweep, didn't you?" said Lawson smiling. "The present university turns out men who are neither practical nor theoretical. I want a university that will turn out thinkers. The men who have done most to stimulate thought these past few years are men like Wells and Shaw and Chesterton; and I don't think that one of them is a 'varsity man.'" "You can't run a world on thought," said he. "I don't know," I said, "we seem to run this old State of ours _without_ thought. The truth is that there will always be more workers than thinkers. While one chap is planning a new heaven on earth, the other ninety-nine are working hard at motors and benches. "H. G. Wells is always asking for better technical schools, more research, more invention. All these are absolutely necessary, but I want more than that; along with science and art I want the thinking part of education to go on." "It goes on now." "No," I said, "it doesn't. Your so-called educated man is often a stupid fellow. Doctors have a good specialist education, yet I know a score of doctors who think that Socialism means 'The Great Divide.' When Osteopathy came over from America a few years ago thousands of medical men pronounced it 'damned quackery' at once; only a few were wide enough to study the thing to see what it was worth. So with inoculation; the doctors follow the antitoxin authority like sheep. At the university I once saw a raid on an Anti-Vivisection shop, and I'm sure that not one medical student in the crowd had ever thought about vivisection. Mention Women's Freedom to the average lawyer, and he will think you a madman. "Don't you see what I am driving at? I want first-class doctors and engineers and chemists, but I want them to think also, to think about things outside their immediate interests. This is the age of the specialist. That's what's wrong with it. Somebody, Matthew Arnold, I think, wanted a man who knew everything of something and something of everything. It's a jolly good definition of education." "That is the idea of the Scotch Code," said Lawson. "Yes, perhaps it is. They want our bairns to learn tons of somethings about everything that doesn't matter a damn in life." * * * My talk with Lawson last night makes me realise again how hopeless it is to plan a system of education when the economic system is all out of joint. I believe that this nation has the wealth to educate its children properly. I wonder what the Conscriptionists would say if I hinted to them that if a State can afford to take its youth away from industry to do unprofitable labour in the army and navy it can afford to educate its youth till the age of twenty is reached. The stuff we teach in school leads nowhere; the Code subjects simply lull a child to sleep. How the devil is a lad to build a Utopia on Geography and Nature Study and Woodwork? Education should prove that the world is out of joint, and it should point a Kitchener finger at each child and say, "Your Country Needs _You_ ... to set it Right." XVI. This has been a delightful day. About eleven o'clock a rap came at the door, and a young lady entered my classroom. "Jerusalem!" I gasped. "Dorothy! Where did you drop from?" "I'm motoring to Edinburgh," she explained, "on tour, you know, old thing!" Dorothy is an actress in a musical comedy touring company, and she is a very old friend of mine. She is a delightful child, full of fun and mischief, yet she can be a most serious lady on occasion. She looked at my bairns, then she clasped her hands. "O, Sandy! Fancy you teaching all these kiddies! Won't you teach me, too?" And she sat down beside Violet Brown. I thanked my stars that I had never been dignified in that room. "Dorothy," I said severely, "you're talking to Violet Brown and I must give you the strap." The bairns simply howled, and when Dorothy took out her wee handkerchief and pretended to cry, laughter was dissolved in tears. It was minutes time, and she insisted on blowing the "Dismiss" on the bugle. Her efforts brought the house down. The girls refused to dismiss, they crowded round Dorothy and touched her furs. She was in high spirits. "You know, girls, I'm an actress and this big bad teacher of yours is a very old pal of mine. He isn't such a bad sort really, you know," and she put her arm round my shoulders. "See her little game, girls?" I said. "Do you notice that this woman from a disreputable profession is making advances to me? She really wants me to kiss her, you know. She--" But Dorothy shoved a piece of chalk into my mouth. What a day we had! Dorothy stayed all day, and by four o'clock she knew all the big girls by their Christian names. She insisted on their calling her Dorothy. She even tried to talk their dialect, and they screamed at her attempt to say "Guid nicht the noo." In the afternoon I got her to sing and play; then she danced a ragtime, and in a few minutes she had the whole crowd ragging up and down the floor. She stayed to tea, and we reminisced about London. Dear old Dorothy! What a joy it was to see her again, but how dull will school be tomorrow! Ah, well, it is a workaday world, and the butterflies do not come out every day. If Dorothy could read that sentence she would purse up her pretty lips and say, "Butterfly, indeed, you old bluebottle!" The dear child! * * * The school to-day was like a ballroom the "morning after." The bairns sat and talked about Dorothy, and they talked in hushed tones as about one who is dead. "Please, sir," asked Violet, "will she come back again?" "I'm afraid not," I answered. "Please, sir, you should marry her, and then she'll always be here." "She loves another man, Vi," I said ruefully, and when Vi whispered to Katie Farmer, "What a shame!" I felt very sad. For the moment I loved Dorothy, but it was mere sentimentalism, Dorothy and I could never love, we are too much of the pal to each other for emotion to enter. "She is very pretty," said Peggy Smith. "Very," I assented. "P--please, sir, you--you could marry her if you really tried?" said Violet. She had been thinking hard for a bit. "And break the other man's heart!" I laughed. Violet wrinkled her brows. "Please, sir, it wouldn't matter for him, we don't know him." "Why!" I cried, "he is a very old friend of mine!" "Oh!" Violet gasped. "Please, sir," she said after a while, "do you know any more actresses?" I seized her by the shoulders and shook her. "You wee bissom! You don't care a rap about me; all you want is that I should marry an actress. You want my wife to come and teach you ragtimes and tangoes!" And she blushed guiltily. * * * Lawson came down to see me again to-night; he wanted to tell me of an inspector's visit to-day. "Why don't you apply for an inspectorship?" he asked. I lit my pipe. "Various reasons, old fellow," I said. "For one thing I don't happen to know a fellow who knows a chap who lives next door to a woman whose husband works in the Scotch Education Department. "Again, I'm not qualified; I never took the Education Class at Oxford." "Finally, I don't want the job." "I suppose," said Lawson, "that lots of 'em get in by wire-pulling." "Very probably, but some of them probably get in straight. Naturally, you cannot get geniuses by wire-pulling; the chap who uses influence to get a job is a third-rater always." Lawson reddened. "I pulled wires to get into my job," he said. "That's all right," I said cheerfully, "I've pulled wires all my days." "But," I added, "I wouldn't do it again." "Caught religion?" "Not quite. The truth is that I have at last realised that you never get anything worth having if you've got to beg for it." "It's about the softest job I know, whether you have to beg for it or not. The only job that beats it for softness is the kirk," he said. "I wouldn't exactly call it a soft job, Lawson; a rotten job, yes, but a soft job, no. Inspecting schools is half spying and half policing. It isn't supposed to be you know, but it is. You know as well as I do that every teacher starts guiltily whenever the inspector shoves his nose into the room. Nosing, that's what it is." "You would make a fairly decent inspector," said Lawson. "Thanks," I said, "the insinuation being that I could nose well, eh?" "I didn't mean that. Suppose you had to examine my school how would you do it?" "I would come in and sit down on a bench and say: 'Just imagine I am a new boy, and give me an idea of the ways of the school. I warn you that my attention may wander. Fire away! But, I say, I hope you don't mind my finishing this pie; I had a rotten breakfast this morning.'" "Go on," said Lawson laughing. "I wouldn't examine the kids at all. When you let them out for minutes I would have a crack with you. I would say something like this: 'I've got a dirty job, but I must earn my screw in some way. I want to have a wee lecture all to myself. In the first place I don't like your discipline. It's inhuman to make kids attend the way you do. The natural desire of each boy in this room was to watch me put myself outside that pie, and not one looked at me. "'Then you are far too strenuous. You went from Arithmetic to Reading without a break. You should give them a five minutes chat between each lesson. And I think you have too much dignity. You would never think of dancing a ragtime on this floor, would you? I thought not. Try it, old chap. Apart from its merits as an antidote to dignity it is a first-rate liver stimulator.' Hello! Where are you going? Time to take 'em in again? "'O, I say, I'm your guest, uninvited guest, I admit, but that's no reason why you should take advantage of me. Man, my pipe isn't half smoked, and I have a cigarette to smoke yet. Come out and watch me play footer with the boys.'" "You think you would do all that," said Lawson slowly, "but you wouldn't you know. I remember a young inspector who came into my school with a blush on his face. 'I'm a new inspector,' he said very gingerly, 'and I don't know what I am supposed to do.' A year later that chap came in like whirlwind, and called me 'young man.' Man, you can't escape becoming smug and dignified if you are an inspector." "I'd have a darned good try, anyway," I said. "Getting any eggs just now?" * * * To-night I have been glancing at _The Educational News_. There is a letter in it about inspectors, it is signed "Disgusted." That pseudonym damns the teaching profession utterly and irretrievably. Again and again letters appear, and very seldom does a teacher sign his own name. Naturally, a letter signed with a pseudonym isn't worth reading, for a moral coward is no authority on inspectors or anything else. It sickens me to see the abject cringing cowardice of my fellow teachers. "Disgusted" would no doubt defend himself by saying, "I have a wife and family depending on me and I simply can't afford to offend the inspector." I grant that there is no point in making an inspector ratty, or for that matter making anyone ratty. I don't advise a man to seize every opportunity for a scrap. There is little use in arguing with an inspector who has methods of arithmetic different to your methods; it is easier to think over his advice and reject it if you are a better arithmetician than he. But if a man feels strongly enough on a subject to write to the papers about it, he ought to write as a man not as a slave. Incidentally, the habit of using a pseudonym damns the inspectorate at the same time. For this habit is universal, and teachers must have heard tales of the victimising of bold writers. Most educational papers suggest by their contributed articles that the teachers of Britain are like a crowd of Public School boys who fear to send their erotic verses to the school magazine lest the Head flays them. No wonder the social status of teachers is low; a profession that consists of "Disgusted" and "Rural School" and "Vindex" and their kind is a profession of nonentities. * * * Once in my palmy days I told a patient audience of Londoners that the Post Office was a Socialist concern. "Any profits go to the State," I said. A postman in the crowd stepped forward and told me what his weekly wage was, and I hastily withdrew my statement. To-day I should define it as a State Concern run on the principles of Private Profiteering, _i.e._, it considers labour a commodity to be bought. The School Board here is theoretically a Socialistic body. Its members are chosen by the people to spend the public money on education. No member can make a profit out of a Board deal. Yet this board perpetrates all the evils of the private profiteer. Mrs. Findlay gets ten pounds a year for cleaning the school. To the best of my knowledge she works four or five hours a day, and she spends the whole of each Saturday morning cleaning out the lavatories. This sum works out at about sixpence a day or three ha'pence an hour. Most of her work consists of carrying out the very considerable part of the playground that the bairns carry in on their boots. Yet all my requests for a few loads of gravel are ignored. The members do not think that they are using sweated labour; they say that if Mrs. Findlay doesn't do it for the money half a dozen widows in the village will apply for the job. They believe in competition and the market value of labour. A few Saturdays ago I rehearsed a cantata in the school, and I offered Mrs. Findlay half a crown for her extra trouble in sweeping the room twice. She refused it with dignity, she didn't mind obliging me, she said. And this kindly soul is merely a "hand" to be bought at the lowest price necessary for subsistence. Sometimes I curse the Board as a crowd of exploiters, but in my more rational moments I see that they could not do much better if they tried. If Mrs. Findlay had a pound a week the employees of the farmers on the Board would naturally object to a woman's getting a pound a week out of the public funds for working four hours a day while they slaved from sunrise to sunset for less than a pound. A public conscience can never be better than the conscience of the public's representatives. Hence I have no faith in Socialism by Act of Parliament; I have no faith in municipalisation of trams and gas and water. Private profit disappears when the town council takes over the trams, but the greater evil--exploitation of labour remains. Ah! I suddenly recollect that Mrs. Findlay has her old age pension each Friday. She thus has eight and six a week. I wonder did Lloyd George realise that his pension scheme would one day prevent fat farmers from having conscience qualms when they gave a widow sixpence a day? * * * As I came along the road this morning I saw half a dozen carts disgorging bricks on one of Lappiedub's fields. Lappiedub himself was standing by, and I asked him what was happening. "Man," he cried lustily, "they've fund coal here and they're to sink pits a' ower the countryside." When I reached the school the bairns were waiting to tell me the news. "Please, sir," said Willie Ramsay, "they're going to build a town here bigger than London." "Bigger than Glasgow even," said Peter Smith. A few navvies went past the school. "They're going to build huts for thousands of navvies," said a lassie. "Please, sir, they'll maybe knock down the school and have a mine here," suggested Violet Brown. "They won't," I said firmly, "this ugly school will stand until the countryside becomes as ugly as itself. Poor bairns! You don't know what you're coming to. In three years this bonny village will be a smoky blot on God's earth like Newcastle. Dirty women will gossip at dirty doors. You, Willie, will become a miner, and you will walk up that road with a black face. You, Lizzie, will be a trollop of a wife living in a brick hovel. You can hardly escape." "Mr. Macnab of Lappiedub will lose all his land," said a boy. "He didn't seem sad when I saw him this morning," I remarked. "Maybe he's tired of farming," suggested a girl. "Perhaps," I said, "if he is he doesn't need to worry about farming. He will be a millionaire in a few years. He will get a royalty on every ton of coals that comes up from the pit, and he will sit at home and wait for his money. Simply because he is lucky he will be kept by the people who buy the coals. If he gets sixpence a ton your fathers will pay sixpence more on every ton. I want you to realise that this is sheer waste. The men who own the mines will take big profits and keep up big houses with servants and idle daughters. Then Mr. Macnab will have his share. Then a man called a middleman will buy the coals and sell them to coal merchants in the towns, and he will have his share. And these men will sell them to the householders. When your father buys his ton of coals he is paying for these things:--the coalowner's income, Mr. Macnab's royalty, the middleman's profit, the town coal merchant's profit, and the miners' wages. If the miners want more wages and strike, they will get them, but these men won't lose their profits; they will increase the price of coals and the householders will pay for the increase. "Don't run away with the idea that I am calling Mr. Macnab a scoundrel. He is a decent, honest, good-natured man who wouldn't steal a penny from anyone. It isn't his fault or merit that he is to be rich, it is the system that is bad." Thomas Hardy somewhere talks about "the ache of modernism." I adapt the phrase and talk about the ache of industrialism. I look out at my wee window and I see the town that will be. There will be gin palaces and picture houses and music-halls--none of them bad things in themselves, but in a filthy atmosphere they will be hideous tawdry things with horrid glaring lights. I see rows of brick houses and acres of clay land littered with bricks and stones thrown down any way. Stores will sell cheap boots and frozen meat and patent pills, packmen will lug round their parcels of shoddy and sheen. And education! They will erect a new school with a Higher Grade department, and the Board will talk of turning out the type of scholar the needs of the community require. They will have for Rector a B.Sc., and technical instruction will be of first importance. When that happens I shall trek inland and shall seek some rural spot where I can be of some service to the community. I might be able to stand the smoke and filth, but before long there would be a labour candidate for the burgh, and I couldn't stand hearing him spout. XVII. I have been considering the subject of school magazines, and I wonder whether it would be possible to run a school magazine here. I have had no experience with a school magazine, but I edited a university weekly for a year. It wasn't a success. I wrote yellow editorials and placarded the quadrangles with flaring bills which screamed "Liars!" "Are School Teachers Socially Impossible?" "The Peril and the Pity of the Princes Street Parade," at the undergraduates passing by. It was of no use. No one bothered to reply to my philippics, and I had to sit down and write scathing replies to my own articles. I could never bring my circulation up to the watermark of a previous editor who had written editorials on such bright topics as "The Medical Congress" and "The Work of the International Academic Committee." In Edinburgh the students are indifferent to their 'varsity magazine, but in St. Andrews the publication of _College Echoes_ is the event of the week. The reason is that the St. Andrew's students form a small happy family; if a reference is made to Bejant Smith everyone understands it. If you mentioned Bejant Smith in the Edinburgh _Student_ no one would know whom you were referring to. The success of _College Echoes_ gives me the idea of a school magazine that would succeed. A magazine for my hundred and fifty bairns would be useless; what I want is a magazine for parents and children. It would be issued weekly, and would mingle school gossip with advice. If Willie Wilson knew that Friday's edition might contain a paragraph to the effect that he had been discovered murdering two young robins, I fancy that he would think twice before he cut their heads off. I imagine entries like the following:-- "Peter Thomson said on Thursday that it was Lloyd George who said 'Father, I cannot tell a lie,' and he was caned by the master who, by the way, has just been appointed President of the Conservative Association." "Mary Brown was late every morning this week." "John Mackenzie is at present gathering potatoes at Mr. Skinnem's farm, and is being paid a shilling a day of ten hours. Mr. Skinnem has been made an elder of the Parish Kirk." Someone has said that the most arresting piece of literature is your own name in print. That is true, although I suppose that the thrill wears off when you become as public as Winston Churchill or Charlie Chaplin. Why shouldn't the bairns experience this thrill? When I write the report of a local concert for the local papers I always give prominence to the children who performed. Incidentally, when I have sung at a concert I omit all reference to my part; I hate to remind the audience that I sang. I am a true altruist in both cases. Publicity is the most pleasing thing in life, and that's why patent medicines retain their popularity. At present the village cobbler is figuring in the local paper as a "Cured by Bunkum's Bilious Backache Bunion Beans" example, and beneath his photograph (taken at the age of nineteen; he is fifty-four now) is a glowing testimonial which begins with these words:--"For over a decade I have suffered from an excess of Uric Acid, from Neurotic Dyspepsia, and from Optical Derangements. Until I discovered that marvellous panacea...." I marvel at his improved literary style; it is only a month since he wrote me as follows:--"Sir, i will be oblidged if you will let peter away at three oclock tonight hoping that you are well as this leaves me i am your obidt servent peter Macannish." The magazine would also contain interesting editorials for the parents. Art would have a prominent place; if a bairn made a good sketch or a bonny design it would be reproduced. Of course, the idea cannot be carried out for lack of funds. Yet I fancy that the money now spent on hounds and pet dogs would easily run a magazine for every school in Scotland. The technical difficulties could easily be overcome. The bigger bairns could read the proofs and paste up the magazine, and the teachers would revise it before sending it to the printers. I must get estimates from the printers, and if they are moderate I shall try to raise funds by giving a school concert. * * * I see that the Educational Institute is advertising for a man who will combine the post of Editor of _The Educational News_ with the office of Secretary to the Institute. The salary is £450 per annum. This combining of the offices seems to me a great mistake. For an editor should be a literary man with ideas on education, while a good secretary should be an organizer. Because a man can write columns on education, that is no proof that he is the best man to write to the office washerwoman telling her not to come on Monday because it is a holiday. I could edit the paper (I would take on the job for a hundred a year and the sport of telling the other fellow that his notions of education were all wrong), but I couldn't organise a party of boys scouts. Kitchener is a great organiser, but I shouldn't care for the editorials of _The New Statesman_ if he were editor. I think that the Institute does not want a man with ideas. It wants a man who will mirror the opinions of the Institute. To do this is a work of genius, for the Institute has no opinions. No man can represent a body of men. Suppose the Institute decides by a majority that it will support the introduction of "Love" as a subject of the curriculum. The editor may be a misogynist, or he may have been married eight times, yet the poor devil has to sit down and write an editorial beginning: "Love has too long been absent from our schools. Who does not remember with holy tenderness his first kiss?..." A paper can be a force only when it is edited by a man of force and personality. A man who writes at the dictation of another is a tenth-rater. That, of course, is why our press says nothing. * * * Little Mary Brown was stung by a wasp the other day as she sat in the class. "Henceforward," I said, "the wasp that enters this room is to be slain. Tom Macintosh I appoint you commander in chief." I begin to think that I prefer the wasp to the campaign against it. To-day I was in the midst of a dissertation on Trusts when Tom started up. "Come on lads, there's a wasp!" They broke a window and two pens; then they slew the wasp. The less studious boys keep one eye on the window all day, and I found Dave Thomson chasing an imaginary wasp all round the room at Arithmetic time. Dave detests Arithmetic. But when I found that Tom Macintosh was smearing the inside window-sill with black currant jam, I disbanded the anti-wasp army. * * * The Inspectors refuse to allow teachers to use slates nowadays on the ground that they are insanitary. To-day I reintroduced slates to all classes. My one reason was that my bairns were missing one of the most delightful pastimes of youth--the joy of making a spittle run down the slate and back again. I always look back with tenderness to my old slate. It was such a serviceable article. By running my slate-pencil up it I got all the beats of a drum; its wooden sides were the acknowledged tests for a new knife, as a hammer it had few rivals. Then you could play at X-es and O-ies with impunity; you simply licked your palm and rubbed the whole game out when the teacher approached. In the afternoon half a dozen bairns brought sponges, and I sighed for the good old days when sanitary authorities were plumbers on promotion. * * * I have given my bairns two songs--_Screw-Guns_ and _Follow Me Home_, both by Kipling. I prefer them to the usual "patriotic" song that is published for school use. I don't see the force of teaching children to be patriotic; the man who imagines that a dominie can teach a bairn to love his neighbour or his country is fatuous. Flag-waving is the last futility of noble minds. The queer thing is that all these titled men who spout about Imperialism and Patriotism, and "Make the Foreigner Pay" are enemies of the worker. They don't particularly want to see a State where slums and slavery will be no more; they are so busy thinking out a scheme to extend the Empire abroad that they haven't time to think about the Empire at home. What is the use of an India or a South Africa if East Ham is to remain? No, I refuse to teach my bairns to sing, "Britons never, never, never shall be slaves." My sense of humour won't allow me to introduce that song. Although I like Kipling's verses I abominate Kipling's philosophy and politics. He is always to be found on the same platform with the Curzons and Milners and Roosevelts. He believes in "the big stick"; to him Britain is great because of her financiers, her viceroys, her engineers. He glories in enterprise and big ships. He believes with the late Lord Roberts that the Englishman is the salt of the earth. I should define Kipling as a Grown-up Public School Boy. I always think that the "Patriot's" main contention is that a man ought to be ready to die for his country. I freely grant that it is a great thing to die for your country, but I contend that it is still greater to live for your country; and the man who tries to live for his country usually earns the epithet "Traitor." "What do they know of England who only England know?" Kipling says this, or words to this effect. That's the worst of these travelled Johnnies; they go out to India or Africa, and two months after their arrival they pity the narrow vision of the people at home. After having talked much to travelled men I have come to the conclusion that travel is the most narrowing thing on earth. "If I went out to India," I remarked one day to an Anglo-Indian friend at College, "and if I started to talk about Socialism in a drawing-room, what would happen?" "Oh," he said with a smile, "they would listen to you very politely, but, of course, you wouldn't be asked again." When I went down to Tilbury to see this friend off to India I looked at the crowd on the first-class deck. "Dick," I said, "these people are awful. Look at their smugness, their eagerness to be correct at any expense. They are saying good-bye to wives and mothers and sweethearts, and the whole blessed crowd of 'em haven't an obvious emotion among 'em. I'll bet my hat that they won't even wave their hands when the tender goes off." As I left the boat the first-class passengers stood like statues, but one fat woman, with a delightfully plebeian face cried: "So long, old sport!" to a man beside me. "Good!" cried Dick to me with a laugh. "Lovely!" I called, and waved my hat frantically to the fat woman. Poor soul, I fear that society out East will be making her suffer for her lapse into bad form. Travel is like a school-history reader; it forces you to study mere incident. The travelled man is an encyclopædia of information; but I don't want to know what a man has seen; I want to know what he has thought. I am certain that if I went to live in Calcutta I should cease to think. I should marvel at the colour and life of the streets; I should find great pleasure in learning the lore of the native. But in a year I should very probably be talking of "damned niggers," and cursing the India Office as a crowd of asses who know nothing about India and its problems. I once lent _Ann Veronica_ to a clever young lady. Her father, an engineer who had been all over the world, picked up the book. Two days later he returned it with a final note dismissing me as a dangerous character for his daughter to know. The lady was clever, and had mentality enough to read anything with impunity. No, travel doesn't broaden a man's outlook. My writing is like my teaching, it is an irresponsible ramble. I meant to write about songs all the time to-night. I curse my luck in not being a pianist. I want to give my bairns that loveliest of tenor solos--the _Preislied_ from _The Meistersingers_. I want to give them Lawrence Hope's _Slave's Song_ from her _Indian Love Lyrics_--"_Less than the Dust beneath thy Chariot Wheel_." And there are one or two catchy bits in _Gipsy Love_ and _The Quaker Girl_ that I should like them to know. I am sure that they would enjoy _Mr. Jeremiah, Esquire_, and _The Gipsy's Song_. XVIII. The essay I set to-day was this:--"Imagine that you are an old lady who ordered a duck from Gamage's, and imagine that they sent you an aeroplane in a crate by mistake. Then describe in the first person the feelings of the aviator who found the duck awaiting him at breakfast time." One girl wrote:--"Dear Mr. Gamage, I have not opened the basket, but it seems to be an ostrich that you have sent. What will I feed it on?" A boy, as the aviator, wrote: "If you think I am going to risk my life on the machine you sent you are wrong. It hasn't got a petrol tank." The theme was too difficult for the bairns; they could not see the ludicrous side. I don't think one of them visualised the poor old woman gazing in dismay on the workmen unloading the crate. H. M. Bateman would have made an excellent drawing of the incident. I tried another theme. "A few days ago I gave you a ha'penny each," I said. "Write a description of how you spent it, and I'll give sixpence to the one who tells the biggest lie." I got some tall yarns. One chap bought an aeroplane and torpedoed a Zeppelin with it; one girl bought a thousand motor-cars. But Jack Hood, the dunce of the class, wrote these words: "I took it to the church on Sunday and put it in the clecshun bag." I gave him the tanner, although I knew that he had won it by accident. I don't think that Jack will ever get so great a surprise again in this life. * * * We rambled out to sketch this afternoon. It was very hot, and we lay down under a tree and slept for half-an-hour. Suddenly Violet Brown started up. "Here's Antonio!" she cried, and the Italian drew his van to the side of the road. "A slider for each of us," I said, and he began to hustle. My turn came last. "You like a glass, zir, instead of a zlider?" said Antonio. "Yes," I replied, "a jolly good suggestion; I haven't had the joy of licking an ice-cream glass dry for many a long day." It was glorious. On the way back a girl bought sweets at the village shop. She gave me one. "Please, sir, it's one of them changing kind," she said. "Eh?" I hastily took it out and looked at it. "By George, so it is, Katie!" I cried, "I thought they were dead long since." It was white at first but it changed to blue, then red, then green, then purple. Unfortunately, I bit it unthinkingly, and I never discovered its complete spectrum. I call this a lucky day; ice cream and changing balls in one afternoon are the quintessence of luck. But man is insatiable; to-night I have a great craving for a stick of twisted sugarelly--the polite call it liquorice. * * * A couple of Revivalists came to the village a week ago, and they have made a few converts. One of them stopped me on the road to-night and asked if I were saved. "I am, or, at least, was, a journalist," I said, and walked on chuckling. Of course he gaped, for he did not know why I chuckled. I was thinking of the reporter sitting in the back seat at a Salvationist Meeting. A Salvation lass bent over him. "Are you saved, my friend?" she whispered. He looked up in alarm. "I'm a journalist," he said hastily. "O! I beg your pardon," she said, and moved on. I don't like Revivalism. A couple of preachers came to our village when I was a lad, and for a month I thought of nothing but hell. "Only believe!" one of them used to say when he met you on the road; the other one had a shorter salutation: "Glory!" he shouted at you fiercely. Incidentally, the village was a hotbed of petty strife when they departed. And the young women who had stood up to give their "Testimony" were back to the glad-eye phase again within three weeks. Lizzie Jane Gunn was a typical convert. Lizzie Jane used to describe the night of her testimony-giving thus:--"Mind you, Aw was gaein' alang the road, and Aw had just been gieing ma testimony, and it was gye dark and Aw was by ma leensome. Weel, a' at eence something fell into ma hand, and Aw thocht that it was a message frae the Loard; so Aw just grippit ma hand ticht, an' Aw didna look to see fat it wuz. Fan Aw got hame Aw lookit to see fat wuz in ma hand, an' d'ye ken fat it wus?... a button aff ma jaicket!" I have no sympathy with all this "saving" business. It's a cowardly selfish religion that makes people so anxious about their tuppence-ha'penny souls. When I think of all the illiterate lay preachers I have listened to I feel like little Willie at the Sunday School. "Hands up all those who would like to go to Heaven!" said the teacher. Willie alone did not put his hand up. "What! Mean to tell me, Willie, that you don't want to go to Heaven?" Willie jerked a contemptuous thumb towards the others. "No bloomin' fear," he muttered, "not if that crowd's goin'." Shelley says that "most wretched men are cradled into poetry through wrong." I think that most wretched preachers are cradled into preaching through conceit. It is thrilling to have an audience hang upon your words; we all like the limelight. Usually we have to master a stiff part before we can face the audience. Preaching needs no preparation, no thinking, no merit; all you do is to stand up and say: "Deara friendsa, when I was in the jimmynasium at Peebles, a fellow lodger of mine blasphemeda. From that daya, deara friendsa, that son of the devila nevera prospereda. O, friendsa! If you could only looka into your evila heartsa...." I note that when Revivalists come to a village the so-called village lunatic is always among the first to give his testimony. Willie Baffers has been whistling _Life, Life, Eternal Life_ all the week, but I was glad to note that he was back to _Stop yer Ticklin', Jock_, to-night. * * * I have introduced two new text-books--_Secret Remedies_, and _More Secret Remedies_. These books are published by the British Medical Association at a shilling each, and they give the ingredients and cost of popular patent medicines. These books should be in every school. Everyone should know the truth about these medicines, and unless our schools tell the truth, the public will never know it. No daily newspaper would think of giving the truth, for the average daily is kept alive by patent medicine advertisements. I marvel at the mentality of the man who can sell a farthing's worth of drugs for three and sixpence. I don't blame the man; I merely marvel at him. What is his standard of truth? What does he imagine the purpose of life to be? Poor fellow! I fancy he is a man born with a silver knife in his mouth, as Chesterton says in another context; either that, or he is born poor in worldly goods and in spirit. He is dumped down in an out-of-joint world where money and power are honoured, where honesty is never the best policy; the poor, miserable little grub realises that he has not the ability to earn money or power honestly; but he knows that people are fools, and that a knave always gets the better of a fool. Our laws are really funny. I can swindle thousands by selling a nostrum, but if I sign Andrew Carnegie's name on a cheque I am sent to Peterhead Prison. Britain is individualistic to the backbone. The individual must be protected, but the crowd can look after itself. If I steal a pair of boots and run for it, I am a base thief; if I turn bookie and become a welsher I have entered the higher realms of sport, and I get a certain amount of admiration ... from those who didn't plunge at my corner. I have seen a cheap-jack swindle a crowd of Forfarshire ploughmen out of a month's earnings, but not one of them thought of dusting the street with him. Honesty must be a relative thing. Personally I will "swick" a railway company by travelling without a ticket on any possible occasion; yet, when a cycle agent puts a new nut on my motor-bike and charges a shilling I call him a vulgar thief. Of course he is; there is no romance in making a broken-down motor-cyclist pay through the nose, but a ten mile journey without a ticket is the only romantic experience left in a drab world. I once saw an article on _Railway Criminals_ in, I think, _Tit-Bits_. It pointed out that the men who are convicted of swindling the railway companies have well marked facial characteristics. I recollect going to the mirror at the time and saying "Tu quoque!" In these days I had a firm belief in physiognomy; I believed that you had only to gaze into a person's eyes to see whether he was telling the truth or not. I am wiser now that I know Peter Young. Pete is ten, and he has a clear, honest countenance. To-night I found him tinkering with the valve of my back tyre. "Who loosened that valve?" I demanded. "Please, sir, it was Jim Steel," he said unblushingly, and he looked me straight in the eyes. "All right, George Washington," I remarked. "There's a seat in the Cabinet, waiting for you, my lad." And I meant it too. I believe in the survival of the fittest, and I know that Peter is the best adapted to survive in a modern civilisation. It is said of his father that he bought an old woman's ill-grown pig, a white one, and promised her a fine piebald pig in a week's time. He brought her the piebald. Then rain came.... I often condemn the press for not seeking truth, yet no man has a greater admiration for a good liar than I have. When I hear a fellow break in on a conversation with the words: "Talking of Lloyd George, when I was in the Argentine last winter...." I grapple him to my soul with hoops of steel. I can't stand the common or garden liar with his trite expressions.... "So the missis is keeping better, old man? Glad to hear it." "Your singing has improved wonderfully, my dear." "I was kept late at the office," and all that sort of lie. All the same I recognise that we are all liars, and few of us can evade the trite manner of lying. I met a man on the road to-night, and he stopped to talk. I hate the fellow; he is one of those mean men who would plant potatoes on his mother's grave if the cemetery authorities would allow it. Yet I shook his greasy hand when he held it out. If I had had the tense honesty of Ibsen's _Brand_ I should have refused to see his hand. But we all lie in this way; indeed, life would be intolerable if we were all _Brands_ and cried "All or Nothing!" We all compromise, and compromise is the worst lie of all. Compromise I can pardon, but not gush. I know men who could say to old greasy-fist: "Man, I'm glad to see you looking so well!" men who would cut his throat if they had the pluck. Nevertheless gush is not one of the Scot's chief characteristics. There is a shepherd's hut up north, and George Broon lives there alone. Once another shepherd came up that way, and he thought he would settle down with George for a time. The newcomer, Tam Kennedy, came in after his day's work, and the two smoked in silence for two hours. Then Tam remarked: "Aw saw a bull doon the road the nicht." Next morning George Broon said: "It wasna a bull; it was a coo." Tam at once set about packing his bag. "Are ye gaein' awa?" asked George in surprise. "Yus," said Tam savagely, "there's far ower much argy-bargying here." * * * Summer holidays at last! Many a day I have longed for them, but now that they are here I feel very very sad. For to-day some of these bairns of mine sat on these benches for the last time. When I blow my bugle again I shall miss familiar faces. I shall miss Violet with her bonny smile; I shall miss Tom Macintosh with his cheery face. Vi is going to the Secondary School, and Tom is going to the railway station. They are sweethearts just now, and I know that both are sad at leaving. "Never mind, Tam," I heard her say, "Aw'll aye see ye at the station, ilka mornin' and nicht." "We'll get merried when Aw'm station mester, Vi," said Tom hopefully, and she smiled and blushed. Poor Tom! I'm sorry for you my lad. In three years you will be carrying her luggage, and she won't take any notice of you, for she is a lawyer's daughter. Confound realism! Once I felt as Tom feels. I loved a farmer's daughter, and I suffered untold agony when she told me that her father's lease expired in seventeen years. "Then we're flittin' to Glesga," she said, and I was wretched for a week. She was ten then; now she is the mother of four. Annie and her seventeen years reminds me of the professor who was lecturing on Astronomy to a village audience. "In seven hundred million years, my friends," he said solemnly, "the sun will be a cold body like the moon. There will be no warmth on earth, no light, no life ... nothing." A chair was pushed back noisily at the back of the hall, and a big farmer got up in great agitation. "Excuse me, mister, but hoo lang did ye say it wud be till that happened?" "Seven hundred million years, my friend." The farmer sank into his chair with a great sigh of relief. "Thank Goad!" he gasped, "Aw thocht ye said seven million." They say that when a man dies after a long life he looks back and mourns the things that he's left undone. I suppose that some teachers look back over a year's work and regret their sins of omission. I do not. I know that I have had many lazy days this session; I know that there were exercises that I failed to correct, subjects that I failed to teach. I regret none of these things, for they do not count. Rachel Smith is leaving the district, and to-day Mary Wilson shook her hand. "Weel, by bye, Rachel, ye'll have to gang to anither schule, and ye'll maybe have to work there," she said. "Eh?" I cried, "do you mean to say, Mary Wilson, that Rachel hadn't to work in this school?" "No very much," said Mary, "ma father says that we just play ourselves at this school." Mary's father is right; I have converted a hard-working school into a playground. And I rejoice. These bairns have had a year of happiness and liberty. They have done what they liked; they have sung their songs while they were working at graphs, they have eaten their sweets while they read their books. They have hung on to my arms as we rambled along in search of artistic corners. It was only yesterday that Jim Jackson marched up the road to meet me at dinner-time with his gun team and gun, a log of wood mounted on a pair of perambulator wheels. As I approached I heard his command: "Men, lay the gun!" and when I was twenty yards off he shouted "Fire!" "Please, sir," he cried, "you're killed now, but we'll take you prisoner instead." And the team lined up in two columns and escorted me back to the school to the strains of _Alexander's Ragtime Band_ played on the mouth-organ. "Is it usual, Colonel," I asked, "for the commander of the gun team to act as the band?" Jim scratched his head. "The band was all killed at Mons," he said, "and the privates aren't musical." Then he struck up _Sister Susie's Sewing Shirts for Soldiers_. I know that I have brought out all the innate goodness of these bairns. When Jim Jackson came to the school he had a bad look; if a girl happened to push him he turned on her with a murderous scowl. Now that I think of it I realise that Jim is always a bright cheery boy now. When I knew him first I could see that he looked upon me as a natural enemy, and if I had thrashed him I might have made him fear me, but the bad look would never have left his face. If I told anyone that I had made these bairns better I should be met with the contemptuous glance that usually greets the man who blows his own horn. Stupid people can never understand the man who indulges in introspection; they cannot realise that a man can be honest with himself. If I make a pretty sketch I never hesitate to praise it. On the other hand I am readier than anyone else to declare one of my inferior sketches bad. Humility is nine-tenths hypocrisy. I do have a certain amount of honesty, and I close my log with a solemn declaration of my belief that I have done my work well. As for the work that the Scotch Education Department expected me to do ... well, I think the last entry in my official Log Book is a fair sample of that. "The school was closed to-day for the summer holidays. I have received Form 9b from the Clerk." ADVERTISEMENTS _HERBERT JENKINS'_ New Popular Novels 2/6 net 1 McPHEE A football story by Sydney Horler. 2 GENTLEMAN BILL A boxing story by Philip MacDonald, telling how Bill Tressider's left made boxing history. Published in the first instance at 2 6 net. 3 A DOMINIE'S LOG The frank confessions of a Scottish schoolmaster, by A. S. Neill, which created a sensation when originally published. Popular edition. 4 A DOMINIE DISMISSED Some further leaves from the note-book of a Scottish schoolmaster, dismissed for his educational indiscretions. By A. S. Neill. Popular edition. 5 A DOMINIE IN DOUBT Still franker confessions of a Scottish schoolmaster that, after all, he may have been wrong in his previous conclusions. By A. S. Neill. Popular edition. 6 CHEIRO'S GUIDE TO THE HAND A practical book on palmistry, based on the system and experience of "Cheiro." With numerous illustrations. Popular edition. 7 WHEN WERE YOU BORN? A book that will bring you success, your character told, your tendencies explained, your future indicated. With engravings illustrating life's mysterious triangles. By Cheiro. Popular edition. 8 HANDY ANDY A popular edition of Samuel Lever's famous story of the man who possessed the ingenious knack of doing the right thing in the wrong way. A full list of the famous Green Label popular novels will be sent on application to Herbert Jenkins, Ltd., Three, York Street, St. James's, London, S.W.1. _HERBERT JENKINS'_ New Popular Novels 3/6 net 1 KLONDYKE KIT'S REVENGE By George Goodchild, author of _Colorado Jim_. Out in the icy solitudes of Klondyke, Kit closes the eyes of his pal, and pockets a scrap of paper that appoints him the dead man's heir. He comes to England to claim his inheritance, and finds to his astonishment that it comprises an enormous estate, and that others are in possession. He decides to wait and watch. In the process he falls in love. "Klondike Kit's Revenge" has all the dramatic qualities of that great popular success, "_Colorado Jim_." 2 THE SECRET of the SANDHILLS By Arthur Gask. In shabby cloths and frayed collar, John Stratton stood watching the life and bustle outside the post office, conscious that his position was desperate. A grey motor-car, a pretty girl, and a dropped pocket-book, temporarily send up his stock. Then comes the murder on Henley Beach, the police, and--danger. John Stratton has to confess that he is in rather a tight corner; but there are always the blue eyes of the girl in the grey car. 3 CONFESSIONS OF MRS. MAY By T. le Breton, author of _Mrs. May_. Mrs. May is a typical cockney, with a cockney's dislike of being "put upon." To call her a woman, or even a charwoman, is to earn her undying enmity. She has very clearly defined views on life and her own rights. In her confessions she tells of some further episodes in her career. "I reckon I've a 'ead on me," says Mrs. May, and there are few who would venture to question the statement, particularly as she has a brawny arm and an absent-minded habit of rolling up her sleeves. A full list of the famous Green Label popular novels will be sent on application to Herbert Jenkins, Ltd., Three, York Street, St. James's, London, S.W.1. _HERBERT JENKINS'_ Green Label Novels 1 THE ADVENTURES OF SALLY A new book of laughter by P. G. Wodehouse, author of _Jill the Reckless_, _Piccadilly Jim_, etc. 7s. 6d. net. 2 RACHEL BLAND'S INHERITANCE By W. Riley, author of _Windyridge_. A powerful story of Yorkshire life and character. 7s. 6d. net. 3 AN ORDINARY COUPLE A novel by J. E. Buckrose, dealing with the domestic experiences and adventures of a newly married pair. Crown 8vo. 4 THE RETURN OF CLUBFOOT By Valentine Williams, author of _The Man with the Clubfoot_, further adventures of Desmond Okewood on an island in the Pacific. 7s. 6d. net. 5 THE RETURN OF BLUE PETE Another thrilling adventure of the famous Blue Pete and his horse, Whiskers. By Luke Allan, author of _Blue Pete: Half-Breed_. 7s. 6d. net. 6 The MYSTERIOUS Mr. GARLAND Another Anthony Trent Story by Wyndham Martyn, author of _Anthony Trent, Master Criminal_, and _The Secret of the Silver Car_. 7s. 6d. net. 7 THE SMUGGLED MASTERPIECE A comedy novel by Edgar Jepson, author of _The Whiskered Footman_, full of humour and dramatic incident. 7s. 6d. net. 8 THE MAZAROFF MURDER By J. S. Fletcher, author of _The Markenmore Mystery_. Who killed Mr. Mazaroff, and why did it become known as "the Mazaroff affair" throughout three continents. By J. S. Fletcher. 7s. 6d. net. 9 THE HOUSE OF MARNEY By John Goodwin, author of _Without Mercy_. The yachting adventure gives a new atmosphere to this striking drama of the East Coast. 7s. 6d. net. BOOKS BY W. RILEY Upwards of half a million copies of W. Riley's books have already been called for in this country. The following is a complete list: WINDYRIDGE 2/- net. NETHERLEIGH 2/- net. THE WAY OF THE WINEPRESS 2/- net. NUMBER SEVEN BRICK ROW 2/- net. OLIVE OF SYLCOTE 2/- net. JERRY AND BEN 2/- net. THE LADY OF THE LAWN 2/- net. MEN OF MAWM 7/6 net. RACHEL BLAND'S INHERITANCE 7/6 net. THROUGH A YORKSHIRE WINDOW 7/6 net. A YORKSHIRE SUBURB 7/6 net. With 16 Illustrations. With Coloured Illustrations by C. Morse. HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED, THE HOUSE OF THE GREEN LABEL 
59853	----	+-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ [Illustration: "The lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(See page 71.)] A YOUNG HERO; OR, FIGHTING TO WIN. BY EDWARD S. ELLIS, _Author of_ "Adrift in the Wilds," etc., etc. ILLUSTRATED. [Illustration: Logo] NEW YORK: A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER. COPYRIGHT 1888, BY A. L. BURT. A YOUNG HERO. CHAPTER I. THE PEACEMAKER. "A fight! A fight! Form a ring!" A dozen or more excited boys shouted these words, and, rushing forward, hastily formed a ring around two playmates who stood in the middle of the road, their hats off, eyes glaring, fists clenched, while they panted with anger, and were on the point of flying at one another with the fury of young wildcats. They had been striking, kicking and biting a minute before over some trifling dispute, and they had now stopped to take breath and gather strength before attacking each other again with a fierceness which had become all the greater from the brief rest. "Give it to him, Sam! Black his eyes for him! Hit him under the ear! Bloody his nose!" Thus shouted the partisans of Sammy McClay, who had thrown down his school books, and pitched into his opponent, as though he meant to leave nothing of him. The friends of Joe Hunt were just as loud and urgent. "Sail in, Joe! You can whip him before he knows it! Kick him! Don't be a coward! You've got him!" A party of boys and girls were on their way home from the Tottenville public school, laughing, romping and frolicking with each other, when, all at once, like a couple of bantam chickens, these two youngsters began fighting. The girls looked on in a horrified way, whispering to each other, and declaring that they meant to tell Mr. McCurtis, the teacher, including also the respective mothers of the young pugilists. The other boys, as is nearly always the case, did their utmost to urge on the fight, and, closing about Sam and Joe, taunted them in loud voices, and appealed to them to resume hostilities at once. The fighters seemed to be equally matched, and, as they panted and glared, each waited for the other to renew the struggle by striking the first blow. "You just hit me if you dare! that's all I want!" exclaimed Sammy McClay, shaking his head so vigorously that he almost bumped his nose against that of Joe Hunt, who was just as ferocious, as he called back: "You touch me, Sam McClay, just touch me! I dare you! double, double dare you." Matters were fast coming to the exploding point, but not fast enough to suit the audience. Jimmy Emery picked up a chip, and running forward, balanced it in a delicate position on the shoulder of Sam McClay, and, addressing his opponent said: "Knock that off, Joe!" "Yes, knock it off!" shouted Sam, "I dare you to knock it off!" "Who's afraid?" demanded Joe, looking at the chip, with an expression which showed he meant to flip it to the ground. "Well, you just try it--that's all!" Joe was in the very act of upsetting the bit of wood, when a boy about their own age, with a flapping straw hat, and with his trousers rolled far above his knees, ran in between the two, and used his arms with so much vigor that the contestants were thrown quite a distance apart. "What's the matter with you fellows?" demanded this boy, glancing from one to the other. "What do you want to make fools of yourselves for?" "He run against me," said Sammy McClay, "and knocked me over Jim Emery." "Well, what of it?" asked the peacemaker. "Will it make you feel any better to get your head cracked? What's the matter of _you_, Joe Hunt?" he added, turning his glance without changing his position, toward the other pugilist. "What did he punch me for, when I stubbed my toe and run agin him?" and Joe showed a disposition just then to move around his questioner, so as to get at the offender. The other boys did not like this interference with their enjoyment, and called on the peacemaker to let them have it out; but he stood his ground, and shaking his right fist at Sammy McClay, and his left at Joe Hunt, he told them they must let each other alone, or he would whip them both. This created some laughter, for the lad was no older than they, and hardly as tall as either; but there is a great deal in the manner of a man or boy. If his flashing eye, his stern voice, and look of determination show that he means what he says, or is in dead earnest, his opponent generally yields. At the critical juncture, the girls added their voices in favor of peace, and their champion, stooping down, picked up the hats from the ground, and jammed them upon their owners' heads with a force that nearly threw them off their feet. "That's enough! now come on!" Sam and Joe walked along, rather sullenly at first. They glowered on each other, shook their heads, muttered and seemed on the point of renewing the contest more than once; but the passions of childhood are brief, and the storm soon blew over. Before the boys and girls had reached the cross-roads, Sam McClay and Joe Hunt were playing with each other like the best of friends, as indeed they were. The name of the lad who had stopped the fight was Fred Sheldon, and he is the hero of this story. CHAPTER II. THE CALL TO SCHOOL. Fred Sheldon, as I have said, is the hero of this story. He was twelve years of age, the picture of rosy health, good nature, bounding spirits and mental strength. He was bright and well advanced in his studies, and as is generally the case with such vigorous youngsters he was fond of fun, which too often, perhaps, passed the line of propriety and became mischief. On the Monday morning after the fight, which Fred Sheldon interrupted, some ten or twelve boys stopped on their way to the Tottenville Public School to admire in open-mouthed wonder, the gorgeous pictures pasted on a huge framework of boards, put up for the sole purpose of making such a display. These flaming posters were devoted to setting forth the unparalleled attractions of Bandman's great menagerie and circus, which was announced to appear in the well-known "Hart's Half-Acre," near the village of Tottenville. These scenes, in which elephants, tigers, leopards, camels, sacred cows, and indeed an almost endless array of animals were shown on a scale that indicated they were as high as a meeting-house, in which the serpents, it unwound from the trees where they were crushing men and beasts to death, would have stretched across "Hart's Half-Acre" (which really contained several acres), those frightful encounters, in which a man, single-handed, was seen to be spreading death and destruction with a clubbed gun among the fierce denizens of the forest; all these had been displayed on the side of barns and covered bridges, at the cross-roads, and indeed in every possible available space for the past three weeks; and, as the date of the great show was the one succeeding that of which we are speaking, it can be understood that the little village of Tottenville and the surrounding country were in a state of excitement such as had not been known since the advent of the preceding circus. Regularly every day the school children had stopped in front of the huge bill-board and studied and admired and talked over the great show, while those who expected to go in the afternoon or evening looked down in pity on their less fortunate playmates. The interest seemed to intensify as the day approached, and, now that it was so close at hand, the little group found it hard to tear themselves away from the fascinating scenes before them. Down in one corner of the board was the picture of a hyena desecrating a cemetery, as it is well known those animals are fond of doing. This bad creature, naturally enough, became very distasteful to the boys, who showed their ill-will in many ways. Several almost ruined their new shoes by kicking him, while others had pelted him with stones, and still others, in face of the warning printed in big letters, had haggled him dreadfully with their jack-knives. It was a warm summer morning and most of the boys not only were bare-footed, but had their trousers rolled above their knees, and, generally, were without coat or vest. "To-morrow afternoon the show will be here," said Sammy McClay, smacking his lips and shaking his head as though he tasted a luscious morsel, "and I'm going." "How are you going," asked Joe Hunt, sarcastically, "when your father said he wouldn't give you the money?" "Never you mind," was the answer, with another significant shake of the head. "I'm goin'--that's all." "Goin' to try and crawl under the tent. I know. But you can't do it. You'll get a whack from the whip of the man that's watching that you'll feel for six weeks. Don't I know--'cause, didn't I try it?" "I wouldn't be such a dunce as you; you got half way under the tent and then stuck fast, so you couldn't go backward or forward, and you begun to yell so you like to broke up the performance, and when the man come along why he had the best chance in the world to cowhide you, and he did it. I think I know a little better than that." At this moment, Mr. Abijah McCurtis, the school teacher in the little stone school-house a hundred yards away, solemnly lifted his spectacles from his nose to his forehead, and grasping the handle of his large cracked bell walked to the door and swayed it vigorously for a minute or so. This was the regular summons for the boys and girls to enter school, and he had sent forth the unmusical clangor, summer and winter, for a full two-score years. Having called the pupils together, the pedagogue sat down, drew his spectacles back astride of his nose, and resumed setting copies in the books which had been laid on his desk the day before. In a minute or so the boys and girls came straggling in, but the experienced eye of the teacher saw that several were missing. Looking through the open door he discovered where the four delinquent urchins were; they were still standing in front of the great showy placards, studying the enchanting pictures, as they had done so many times before. They were all talking earnestly, Sammy McClay, Joe Hunt, Jimmy Emery and Fred Sheldon, and they had failed for the first time in their lives to hear the cracked bell. Most teachers, we are bound to believe, would have called the boys a second time or sent another lad to notify them, but the present chance was one of those which, unfortunately, the old-time pedagogue was glad to have, and Mr. McCurtis seized it with pleasure. Rising from his seat, he picked up from where it lay across his desk a long, thin switch, and started toward the four barefooted lads, who were admiring the circus pictures. Nothing could have been more inviting, for, not only were they barefooted, but each had his trousers rolled to the knee, and Fred Sheldon had drawn and squeezed his so far that they could go no further. His plump, clean legs offered the most inviting temptation to the teacher, who was one of those sour old pedagogues, of the long ago, who delighted in seeing children tortured under the guise of so-called discipline. "I don't believe in wearing trousers in warm weather," said Fred, when anybody looked wonderingly to see whether he really had such useful garments on, "and that's why I roll mine so high up. Don't you see I'm ready to run into the water, and----" "How about going through the bushes and briars?" asked Joe Hunt. "I don't go through 'em," was the crushing answer. "I feel so supple and limber that I just jump right over the top. I tell you, boys, that you ought to see me jump----" Fred's wish was gratified, for at that moment he gave such an exhibition of jumping as none of his companions had ever seen before. With a shout he sprang high in air, kicking out his bare legs in a frantic way, and ran with might and main for the school-house. The other three lads did pretty much the same, for the appearance of the teacher among them was made known by the whizzing hiss of his long, slender switch, which first landed on Fred's legs, and was then quickly transferred to the lower limbs of the other boys, the little company immediately heading for the school house, with Fred Sheldon at the front. Each one shouted, and made a high and frantic leap every few steps, believing that the teacher was close behind him with upraised stick, and looking for the chance to bring it down with effect. "I'll teach you not to stand gaping at those pictures," shouted Mr. McCurtis, striding wrathfully after them. A man three-score years old cannot be expected to be as active as a boy with one-fifth as many years; but the teacher had the advantage of being very tall and quite attenuated, and for a short distance he could outrun any of his pupils. The plump, shapely legs of Fred Sheldon, twinkling and doubling under him as he ran, seemed to be irresistibly tempting to Mr. McCurtis, who, with upraised switch, dashed for him like a thunder-gust, paying no attention to the others, who ducked aside as he passed. "It's your fault, you young scapegrace," called out the pursuer, as he rapidly overhauled him; "you haven't been thinking of anything else but circuses for the past month and I mean to whip it out of you--good gracious sakes!" Fred Sheldon had seen how rapidly the teacher was gaining, and finding there was no escape, resorted to the common trick among boys of suddenly falling flat on his face while running at full speed. The cruel-hearted teacher at that very moment made a savage stroke, intending to raise a ridge on the flesh of the lad, who escaped it by a hair's breadth, as may be said. The spiteful blow spent itself in vacancy, and the momentum spun Mr. McCurtis around on one foot, so that he faced the other way. At that instant his heels struck the prostrate form of the crouching boy, and he went over, landing upon his back, his legs pointing upward, like a pair of huge dividers. There is nothing a boy perceives so quickly as a chance for fun, and before the teacher could rise, Sammy McClay also went tumbling over the grinning Fred Sheldon, with such violence, indeed, that he struck the bewildered instructor as he was trying to adjust his spectacles to see where he was. Then came Joe Hunt and Jimmy Emery, and Fred Sheldon capped the climax by running at full speed and jumping on the struggling group, spreading out his arms and legs in the effort to bear them down to the earth. But the difficulty was that Fred was not very heavy nor bony, so that his presence on top caused very little inconvenience, the teacher rising so hurriedly that Fred fell from his shoulders, and landed on his head when he struck the earth. The latter was dented, but Fred wasn't hurt at all, and he and his friends scrambled hastily into the school-house, where the other children were in an uproar, fairly dancing with delight at the exhibition, or rather "circus," as some of them called it, which took place before the school-house and without any expense to them. By the time the discomfited teacher had got upon his feet and shaken himself together, the four lads were in school, busily engaged in scratching their legs and studying their lessons. Mr. McCurtis strode in a minute later switch in hand, and in such a grim mood that he could only quiet his nerves by walking around the room and whipping every boy in it. CHAPTER III. STARTLING NEWS. Fred Sheldon was the only child of a widow, who lived on a small place a mile beyond the village, and managed to eke out a living thereon, assisted by a small pension from the government, her husband having been killed during the late war. A half-mile beyond stood a large building, gray with age and surrounded with trees, flowers and climbing vines. The broad bricks of which it was composed were known to have been brought from Holland long before the revolution, and about the time when George Washington was hunting for the cherry-tree with his little hatchet. In this old structure lived the sisters Perkinpine--Annie and Lizzie--who were nearly seventy years of age. They were twins, had never been married, were generally known to be wealthy, but preferred to live entirely by themselves, with no companion but three or four cats, and not even a watch-dog. Their ancestors were among the earliest settlers of the section, and the Holland bricks could show where they had been chipped and broken by the bullets of the Indians who howled around the solid old structure, through the snowy night, as ravenous as so many wolves to reach the cowering women and children within. The property had descended to the sisters in regular succession, and there could be no doubt they were rich in valuable lands, if in nothing else. Their retiring disposition repelled attention from their neighbors, but it was known there was much old and valuable silver, and most probably money itself, in the house. Michael Heyland was their hired man, but he lived in a small house some distance away, where he always spent his nights. Young Fred Sheldon was once sent over to the residence of the Misses Perkinpine after a heavy snowstorm, to see whether he could do anything for the old ladies. He was then only ten years old, but his handsome, ruddy face, his respectful manner, and his cheerful eagerness to oblige them, thawed a great deal of their natural reserve, and they gradually came to like him. He visited the old brick house quite often, and frequently bore substantial presents to his mother, though, rather curiously, the old ladies never asked that she should pay them a visit. The Misses Perkinpine lived very well indeed, and Fred Sheldon was not long in discovering it. When he called there he never could get away without eating some of the vast hunks of gingerbread and enormous pieces of thick, luscious pie, of which Fred, like all boys, was very fond. There was no denying that Fred had established himself as a favorite in that peculiar household, as he well deserved to be. On the afternoon succeeding his switching at school he reached home and did his chores, whistling cheerily in the meanwhile, and thinking of little else than the great circus on the morrow, when he suddenly stopped in surprise upon seeing a carriage standing in front of the gate. Just then his mother called him to the house and explained: "Your Uncle William is quite ill, Fred, and has sent for me. You know he lives twelve miles away, and it will take us a good while to get there; if you are afraid to stay here alone you can go with us." Fred was too quick to trip himself in that fashion. To-morrow was circus day, and if he went to his Uncle Will's, he might miss it. "Miss Annie asked me this morning to go over and see them again," he said, alluding to one of the Misses Perkinpine, "and they'll be mighty glad to have me there." "That will be much better, for you will be so near home that you can come over in the morning and see that everything is right, but I'm afraid you'll eat too much pie and cake and pudding and preserves." "I ain't afraid," laughed Fred, who kissed his mother good-by and saw the carriage vanish down the road in the gloom of the gathering darkness. Then he busied himself with the chores, locked up the house and put everything in shape preparatory to going away. He was still whistling, and was walking rapidly toward the gate, when he was surprised and a little startled by observing the figure of a man, standing on the outside, as motionless as a stone, and no doubt watching him. He appeared to be ill-dressed, and Fred at once set him down as one of those pests of society known as a tramp, who had probably stopped to get something to eat. "What do you want?" asked the lad, with an air of bravery which he was far from feeling, as he halted within two or three rods of the unexpected guest, ready to retreat if it should become necessary. "I want you to keep a civil tongue in your head," was the answer, in a harsh rasping voice. "I didn't mean to be uncivil," was the truthful reply of Fred, who believed in courtesy to every one. "Who lives here, then?" asked the other in the same gruff voice. "My mother, Mrs. Mary Sheldon, and myself, but my mother isn't at home." The stranger was silent a moment, and then looking around, as if to make sure that no one was within hearing, asked in a lower voice: "Can you tell me where the Miss Perkinpines live?" "Right over yonder," was the response of the boy, pointing toward the house, which was invisible in the darkness, but a star-like twinkle of light showed where it was, surrounded by trees and shrubbery. Fred came near adding that he was on his way there, and would show him the road, but a sudden impulse restrained him. The tramp-like individual peered through the gloom in the direction indicated, and then inquired: "How fur is it?" "About half a mile." The stranger waited another minute or so, as if debating with himself whether he should ask some other questions that were in his mind; but, without another word, he moved away and speedily disappeared from the road. Although he walked for several paces on the rough gravel in front of the gate, the lad did not hear the slightest sound. He must have been barefooted, or more likely, wore rubber shoes. Fred Sheldon could not help feeling very uncomfortable over the incident itself. The question about the old ladies, and the man's looks and manner impressed him that he meant ill toward his good friends, and Fred stood a long time asking himself what he ought to do. He thought of going down to the village and telling Archie Jackson, the bustling little constable, what he feared, or of appealing to some of the neighbors; and pity it is he did not do so, but he was restrained by the peculiar disposition of the Misses Perkinpine, who might be very much displeased with him. As he himself was about the only visitor they received, and as they had lived so long by themselves, they would not thank him, to say the least--that is, viewing the matter from his standpoint. "I'll tell the ladies about it," he finally concluded, "and we'll lock the doors and sit up all night. I wish they had three or four dogs and a whole lot of guns; or if I had a lasso," he added, recalling one of the circus pictures, "and the tramp tried to get in, I'd throw it over his head and pull him half way to the top of the house and let him hang there until he promised to behave himself." Fred's head had been slightly turned by the circus posters, and it can hardly be said that he was the best guard the ladies could have in case there were any sinister designs on the part of the tramp. But the boy was sure he was never more needed at the old brick house than he was on that night, and hushing his whistle, he started up the road in the direction taken by the stranger. It was a trying ordeal for the little fellow, whose chief fear was that he would overtake the repulsive individual and suffer for interfering with his plans. There was a faint moon in the sky, but its light now and then was obscured by the clouds which floated over its face. Here and there, too, were trees, beneath whose shadows the boy stepped lightly, listening and looking about him, and imagining more than once he saw the figure dreaded so much. But he observed nothing of him, nor did he meet any of his neighbors, either in wagons or on foot, and his heart beat tumultuously when he drew near the grove of trees, some distance back from the road, in the midst of which stood the old Holland brick mansion. To reach it it was necessary to walk through a short lane, lined on either hand by a row of stately poplars, whose shade gave a cool twilight gloom to the intervening space at mid-day. "Maybe he isn't here, after all," said Fred to himself, as he passed through the gate of the picket fence surrounding the house, "and I guess----" Just then the slightest possible rustling caught his ear, and he stepped back behind the trunk of a large weeping willow. He was not mistaken; some one was moving through the shrubbery at the corner of the house, and the next minute the frightened boy saw the tramp come stealthily to view, and stepping close to the window of the dining-room, peer into it. As the curtain was down it was hard to see how he could discover anything of the inmates, but he may have been able to detect something of the interior by looking through at the side of the curtain, or possibly he was only listening. At any rate he stood thus but a short time, when he withdrew and slowly passed from view around the corner. The instant he was gone Fred moved forward and knocked softly on the door, so softly indeed, that he had to repeat it before some one approached from the inside and asked who was there. When his voice was recognized the bolt was withdrawn and he was most cordially welcomed by the old ladies, who were just about to take up their knitting and sewing, having finished their tea. When Fred told them he had come to stay all night and hadn't had any supper, they were more pleased than ever, and insisted that he should go out and finish a large amount of gingerbread, custard and pie, for the latter delicacy was always at command. "I'll eat some," replied Fred, "but I don't feel very hungry." "Why, what's the matter?" asked Miss Annie, peering over her spectacles in alarm; "are you sick? If you are we've got lots of castor oil and rhubarb and jalap and boneset; shall I mix you up some?" "O my gracious! no--don't mention 'em again; I ain't sick that way--I mean I'm scared." "Scared at what? Afraid there isn't enough supper for you?" asked Miss Lizzie, looking smilingly down upon the handsome boy. "I tell you," said Fred, glancing from one to the other, "I think there's a robber going to try and break into your house to-night and steal everything you've got, and then he'll kill you both, and after that I'm sure he means to burn down the house, and that'll be the last all of you and your cats." When the young visitor made such a prodigious declaration, he supposed the ladies would scream and probably faint away. But the very hugeness of the boy's warning caused emotions the reverse of what he anticipated. They looked kindly at him a minute or so and then quietly smiled. "What a little coward you are, Fred," said Miss Annie; "surely there is nobody who would harm two old creatures like us." "But they want your money," persisted Fred, still standing in the middle of the floor. Both ladies were too truthful to deny that they had any, even to such a child, and Lizzie said: "We haven't enough to tempt anybody to do such a great wrong." "You can't tell about that, then I 'spose some of those silver dishes must be worth a great deal." "Yes, so they are," said Annie, "and we prize them the most because our great, great, great-grandfather brought them over the sea a good many years ago, and they have always been in our family." "But," interposed Lizzie, "we lock them up every night." "What in?" "A great big strong chest." "Anybody could break it open, though." "Yes, but it's locked; and you know it's against the law to break a lock." "Well," said Fred, with a great sigh, "I hope there won't anybody disturb you, but I hope you will fasten all the windows and doors to-night." "We always do; and then," added the benign old lady, raising her head so as to look under her spectacles in the face of the lad, "you know we have you to take care of us." "Have you got a gun in the house?" "Mercy, yes; there's one over the fire-place, where father put it forty years ago." "Is there anything the matter with it?" "Nothing, only the lock is broke off, and I think father said the barrel was bursted." Fred laughed in spite of himself. "What under the sun is such an old thing good for?" "It has done us just as much good as if it were a new cannon--but come out to your supper." The cheerful manner of the old ladies had done much to relieve Fred's mind of his fears, and a great deal of his natural appetite came back to him. He walked into the kitchen, where he seated himself at a table on which was spread enough food for several grown persons, and telling him he must not leave any of it to be wasted, the ladies withdrew, closing the door behind them, so that he might not be embarrassed by their presence. "I wonder whether there's any use of being scared," said Fred to himself, as he first sunk his big, sound teeth into a huge slice of buttered short-cake, on which some peach jam had been spread! "If I hadn't seen that tramp looking in at the window I wouldn't feel so bad, and I declare," he added in dismay, "when they questioned me, I never thought to tell 'em that. Never mind, I'll give 'em the whole story when I finish five or six slices of this short-cake and some ginger-cake, and three or four pieces of pie, and then, I think, they'll believe I'm right." For several minutes the boy devoted himself entirely to his meal, and had the good ladies peeped through the door while he was thus employed they would have been highly pleased to see how well he was getting along. "I wish I was an old maid and hadn't anything to do but to cook nice food like this and play with the cats--my gracious!" Just then the door creaked, and, looking up, Fred Sheldon saw to his consternation the very tramp of whom he had been thinking walk into the room and approach the table. His clothing was ragged and unclean, a cord being drawn around his waist to keep his coat together, while the collar was up so high about his neck that nothing of the shirt was visible. His hair was frowsy and uncombed, as were his huge yellow whiskers, which seemed to grow up almost to his eyes, and stuck out like the quills on a porcupine. As the intruder looked at the boy and shuffled toward him, in his soft rubber shoes, he indulged in a broad grin, which caused his teeth to shine through his scraggly beard. He held his hat, which resembled a dishcloth, as much as anything, in his hand, and was all suavity. His voice sounded as though he had a bad cold, with now and then an odd squeak. As he bowed he said: "Good evening, young man; I hope I don't intrude." As he approached the table and helped himself to a chair, the ladies came along behind him, Miss Lizzie saying: "This poor man, Frederick, has had nothing to eat for three days, and is trying to get home to his family. I'm sure you will be glad to have him sit at the table with you." "Yes, I'm awful glad," replied the boy, almost choking with the fib. "I was beginning to feel kind of lonely, but I'm through and he can have the table to himself." "You said you were a shipwrecked sailor, I believe?" was the inquiring remark of Miss Lizzie, as the two sisters stood in the door, beaming kindly on the tramp, who began to play havoc with the eatables before him. "Yes, mum; we was shipwrecked on the Jarsey coast; I was second mate and all was drowned but me. I hung to the rigging for three days and nights in the awfullest snow storm you ever heard of." "Mercy goodness," gasped Annie; "when was that?" "Last week," was the response, as the tramp wrenched the leg of a chicken apart with hands and teeth. "Do they have snow storms down there in summer time?" asked Fred, as he moved away from the table. The tramp, with his mouth full of meat, and with his two hands grasping the chicken-bone between his teeth, stopped work and glared at the impudent youngster, as if he would look him through and through for daring to ask the question. "Young man," said he, as he solemnly resumed operations, "of course, they have snow storms down there in summer time; I'm ashamed of your ignorance; you're rather small to put in when grown-up folks are talking, and I'd advise you to listen arter this." Fred concluded he would do so, using his eyes meanwhile. "Yes, mum," continued the tramp; "I was in the rigging for three days and nights, and then was washed off by the breakers and carried ashore, where I was robbed of all my clothing, money and jewels." "Deary, deary me!" exclaimed the sisters in concert. "How dreadful." "You are right, ladies, and I've been tramping ever since." "How far away is your home?" "Only a hundred miles, or so." "You have a family, have you?" "A wife and four babies--if they only knowed what their poor father had passed through--excuse these tears, mum." The tramp just then gave a sniff and drew his sleeve across his forehead, but Fred Sheldon, who was watching him closely, did not detect anything like a tear. But he noted something else, which had escaped the eyes of the kind-hearted ladies. The movement of the arm before the face seemed to displace the luxuriant yellow beard. Instead of sitting on the countenance as it did at first, even in its ugliness, it was slewed to one side. Only for a moment, however, for by a quick flirt of the hand, as though he were scratching his chin, he replaced it. And just then Fred Sheldon noticed another fact. The hand with which this was done was as small, white and fair as that of a woman--altogether the opposite of that which would have been seen had the tramp's calling been what he claimed. The ladies, after a few more thoughtful questions, withdrew, so that their guest might not feel any delicacy in eating all he wished--an altogether unnecessary step on their part. Fred went out with them, but after he had been gone a few minutes he slyly peeped through the crack of the door, without the ladies observing the impolite proceeding. The guest was still doing his best in the way of satisfying his appetite, but he was looking around the room, at the ceiling, the floor, the doors, windows and fire-place, and indeed at everything, as though he was greatly interested in them, as was doubtless the case. All at once he stopped and listened, glancing furtively at the door, as if he feared some one was about to enter the room. Then he quietly rose, stepped quickly and noiselessly to one of the windows, took out the large nail which was always inserted over the sash at night to keep it fastened, put it in his pocket, and, with a half chuckle and grin, seated himself again at the table. At the rate of eating which was displayed, he soon finished, and, wiping his greasy hands on his hair, he gave a great sigh of relief, picked up his slouchy hat, and moved toward the door leading to the room in which the ladies sat. "I'm very much obleeged to you," said he, bowing very low, as he shuffled toward the outer door, "and I shall ever remember you in my prayers; sorry I can't pay you better, mums." The sisters protested they were more than repaid in the gratitude he showed, and they begged him, if he ever came that way, to call again. He promised that he would be glad to do so, and departed. "You may laugh all you're a mind to," said Fred, when he had gone, "but that's the man I saw peeping in the window, and he means to come back here to-night and rob you." The boy told all that he knew, and the ladies, while not sharing his fright, agreed that it was best to take extra precautions in locking up. CHAPTER IV. ON GUARD. The sisters Perkinpine always retired early, and, candle in hand, they made the round of the windows and doors on the first floor. When they came to the window from which the nail had been removed, Fred told them he had seen the tramp take it out, and he was sure he would try and enter there. This served to add to the uneasiness of the sisters, but they had great confidence in the security of the house, which had never been disturbed by burglars, so far as they knew, in all its long history. "The chest where we keep the silver and what little money we have," said Lizzie, "is up-stairs, next to the spare bed-room." "Leave the door open and let me sleep there," said Fred, stoutly. "Gracious alive, what can you do if they should come?" was the amazed inquiry. "I don't know as I can do anything, but I can try; I want that old musket that's over the fire-place, too." "Why, it will go off and kill you." Fred insisted so strongly, however, that he was allowed to climb upon a chair and take down the antiquated weapon, covered with rust and dust. When he came to examine it he found that the description he had heard was correct--the ancient flintlock was good for nothing, and the barrel, when last discharged, must have exploded at the breach, for it was twisted and split open, so that a load of powder could only injure the one who might fire it, were such a feat possible. The sisters showed as much fear of it when it was taken down as though it were in good order, primed and cocked, and they begged the lad to restore it to its place as quickly as possible. But he seemed to think he had charge of the business for the evening, and, bidding them good-night, he took his candle and went to his room, which he had occupied once or twice before. It may well be asked what young Fred Sheldon expected to do with such a useless musket, should emergency arise demanding a weapon. Indeed, the boy would have found it hard to tell himself, excepting that he hoped to scare the man or men away by the pretence of a power which he did not possess. Now that the young hero was finally left alone, he felt that he had a most serious duty to perform. The spare bedroom which was placed at his disposal was a large, old-fashioned apartment, with two windows front and rear, with a door opening into the next room, somewhat smaller in size, both being carpeted, while the smaller contained nothing but a few chairs and a large chest, in which were silver and money worth several thousand dollars. "I'll set the candle in there on the chest," concluded Fred, "and I'll stay in here with the gun. If he comes up-stairs and gets into the room I'll try and make him believe I've got a loaded rifle to shoot him with." The door opening outward from each apartment had nothing but the old-style iron latch, large and strong, and fastened in place by turning down a small iron tongue. It would take much effort to force such a door, but Fred had no doubt any burglar could do it, even though it were ten times as strong. He piled chairs against both, and then made an examination of the windows. To his consternation, the covered porch extending along the front of the house, passed beneath every window, and was so low that it would be a very easy thing to step from the hypostyle to the entrance. The room occupied by the ladies was in another part of the building, and much more inaccessible. Young as Fred Sheldon was, he could not help wondering how it was that where everything was so inviting to burglars they had not visited these credulous and trusting sisters before. "If that tramp, that I don't believe is a tramp, tries to get into the house he'll do it by one of the windows, for that one is fastened down stairs, and all he has to do is to climb up the portico and crawl in here." The night was so warm that Fred thought he would smother when he had fastened all the windows down, and he finally compromised by raising one of those at the back of the house, where he was sure there was the least danger of any one entering. This being done, he sat down in a chair, with the rusty musket in his hand, and began his watch. From his position he could see the broad, flat candlestick standing on the chest, with the dip already burned so low that it was doubtful whether it could last an hour longer. "What's the use of that burning, anyway?" he asked himself; "that fellow isn't afraid to come in, and the candle will only serve to show him the way." Acting under the impulse, he walked softly through the door to where the yellow light was burning, and with one puff extinguished it. The wick glowed several minutes longer, sending out a strong odor, which pervaded both rooms. Fred watched it until all became darkness, and then he was not sure he had done a wise thing after all. The trees on both sides of the house were so dense that their leaves shut out nearly all the moonlight which otherwise would have entered the room. Only a few rays came through the window of the other apartment, and these, striking the large, square chest showed its dim outlines, with the phantom-like candlestick on top. Where Fred himself sat it was dark and gloomy, and his situation, we are sure all will admit, was enough to try the nerves of the strongest man, even if furnished with a good weapon of offence and defence. "I hope the ladies will sleep," was the unselfish thought of the little hero, "for there isn't any use of their being disturbed when they can't do anything but scream, and a robber don't care for that." One of the hardest things is to keep awake when exhausted by some unusual effort of the bodily or mental powers, and we all know under how many conditions it is utterly impossible. The sentinel on the outpost or the watch on deck fights off his drowsiness by steadily pacing back and forth. If he sits down for a few minutes he is sure to succumb. When Fremont, the pathfinder, was lost with his command in the Rocky Mountains, and was subjected to such arctic rigors in the dead of winter as befell the crew of the Jeannette in the ice-resounding oceans of the far north the professor, who accompanied the expedition for the purpose of making scientific investigations, warned all that their greatest peril lay in yielding to the drowsiness which the extreme cold would be sure to bring upon them. He begged them to resist it with all the energy of their natures, for in no other way could they escape with their lives. And yet this same professor was the first one of the party to give up and to lie down for his last long sleep, from which it was all Fremont could do to arouse him. Fred Sheldon felt that everything depended on him, and with the exaggerated fears that come to a youngster at such a time he was sure that if he fell asleep the evil man would enter the room, take all the money and plate and then sacrifice him. "I could keep awake a week," he muttered, as he tipped his chair back against the wall, so as to rest easier, while he leaned the musket along side of him, in such position that it could be seized at a moment's warning. The night remained solemn and still. Far in the distance he could hear the flow of the river, and from the forest, less than a mile away, seemed to come a murmur, like the "voice of silence" itself. Now and then the crowing of a cock was answered by another a long distance off, and occasionally the soft night wind stirred the vegetation surrounding the house. But among them all was no sound which the excited imagination could torture into such as would be made by a stealthy entrance into the house. In short, everything was of the nature to induce sleep, and it was not yet ten o'clock when Fred began to wink, very slowly and solemnly, his grasp on the ruined weapon relaxed, his head bobbed forward several times and at last he was asleep. As his mind had been so intensely occupied by thoughts of burglars and their evil doings, his dreams were naturally of the same unpleasant personages. In his fancy he was sitting on the treasure-chest, unable to move, while an ogre-like creature climbed into the window, slowly raised an immense club and then brought it down on the head of the boy with a terrific crash. With an exclamation of terror Fred awoke, and found that he had fallen forward on his face, sprawling on the floor at full length, while the jar tipped the musket over so that it fell across him. In his dream it had seemed that the burglar was a full hour climbing upon the roof and through the window, and yet the whole vision began and ended during the second or two occupied in falling from his chair. In the confusion of the moment Fred was sure the man he dreaded was in the room, but when he had got back into the chair he was gratified beyond measure to find his mistake. "I'm a pretty fellow to keep watch," he muttered, rubbing his eyes; "I don't suppose that I was awake more than a half hour. It must be past midnight, so I've had enough sleep to last me without any more of it before to-morrow night." He resumed his seat, never more wide awake in all his life. It was not as late as he supposed, but the hour had come when it was all-important that he should keep his senses about him. Hearing nothing unusual he rose to his feet and walked to the rear window and looked out. It was somewhat cooler and a gentle breeze felt very pleasant on his fevered face. The same stillness held reign, and he moved to the front, where he took a similar view. So far as could be told, everything was right and he resumed his seat. But at this juncture Fred was startled by a sound, the meaning of which he well knew. Some one was trying hard to raise the dining-room window--the rattling being such that there was no mistake about it. "It's that tramp!" exclaimed the boy, all excitement, stepping softly into the next room and listening at the head of the stairs, "and he's trying the window that he took the nail out of." The noise continued several minutes--long after the time, indeed, when the tramp must have learned that his trick had been discovered--and then all became still. This window was the front, and Fred, in the hope of scaring the fellow away, raised the sash, and, leaning out, peered into the darkness and called out: "Halloo, down there! What do you want?" As may be supposed, there was no answer, and after waiting a minute or two, Fred concluded to give a warning. "If I hear anything more of you, I'll try and shoot; I've got a gun here and we're ready for you!" This threat ought to have frightened an ordinary person away, and the boy was not without a strong hope that it had served that purpose with the tramp whom he dreaded so much. He thought he could discern his dark figure among the trees, but it was probably fancy, for the gloom was too great for his eyes to be of any use in that respect. Fred listened a considerable while longer, and then, drawing his head within, said: "I shouldn't wonder if I had scared him off----" Just then a soft step roused him, and turning his head, he saw that the very tramp of whom he was thinking and of whom he believed he was happily rid, had entered the room, and was standing within a few feet of him. CHAPTER V. BRAVE WORK. When Fred Sheldon turned on his heel and saw the outlines of the tramp in the room behind him he gave a start and exclamation of fear, as the bravest man might have done under the circumstances. The intruder chuckled and said in his rasping, creaking voice: "Don't be skeert, young man; if you keep quiet you won't get hurt, but if you go to yelping or making any sort of noise I'll wring your head as if you was a chicken I wanted for dinner." Fred made no answer to this, when the tramp added, in the same husky undertone, as he stepped forward in a threatening way: "Do you hear what I said?" "Yes, sir; I hear you." "Well, just step back through that door in t'other room and watch me while I look through this chest for a gold ring I lost last week." Poor Fred was in a terrible state of mind, and, passing softly through the door opening into his bed-room, he paused by the chair where he had sat so long, and then faced toward the tramp, who said, by way of amendment: "I forgot to say that if you try to climb out of the winder onto the porto rico or to sneak out any way I'll give you a touch of that." As he spoke he suddenly held up a bull's-eye lantern, which poured a strong stream of light toward the boy. It looked as if he must have lighted it inside the house, and had come into the room with it under his coat. While he carried this lantern in one hand he held a pistol, shining with polished silver, in the other, and behind the two objects the bearded face loomed up like that of some ogre of darkness. The scamp did not seem to think this remark required anything in the way of response, and, kneeling before the huge oaken chest, he began his evil work. For a few moments Fred was so interested that he ceased to reproach himself for having failed to do his duty. The tramp set the lantern on the floor beside him, so that it threw its beams directly into the room where the boy stood. The marauder, it must be said, did not act like a professional. One of the burglars who infest society to-day would have made short work with the lock, though it was of the massive and powerful kind, in use many years ago; but this person fumbled and worked a good while without getting it open. He muttered impatiently to himself several times, and then caught up the bull's-eye, and, bending his head over, carefully examined it, to learn why it resisted his vigorous efforts. The action of the man seemed to rouse Fred, who, without a moment's thought, stepped backward toward the open window at the rear, the one which had been raised all the time to afford ventilation. He thought if the dreadful man should object, he could make excuse on account of the warmth of the night. But the lad moved so softly, or the wicked fellow was so interested in his own work that he did not notice him, for he said nothing, and though Fred could see him no longer he could hear him toiling, with occasional mutterings of anger at his failure to open the chest, which was believed to contain so much valuable silverware and money. The diverging rays from the dark-lantern still shot through the open door into the bed-room. They made a well-defined path along the floor, quite narrow and not very high, and which, striking the white wall at the opposite side, terminated in one splash of yellow, in which the specks of the whitewash could be plainly seen. It was as if a great wedge of golden light lay on the floor, with the head against the wall and the tapering point passing through the door and ending at the chest in the other room. While Fred Sheldon was looking at the curious sight he noticed something in the illuminated path. It would be thought that, in the natural fear of a boy in his situation, he would have felt no interest in it, but, led on by a curiosity which none but a lad feels, he stepped softly forward on tip-toe. Before he stooped over to pick it up he saw that it was a handsome pocket-knife. "He has dropped it," was the thought of Fred, who wondered how he came to do it; "anyway I'll hold on to it for awhile." He quietly shoved it down into his pocket, where his old Barlow knife, his jewsharp, eleven marbles, two slate pencils, a couple of large coppers, some cake crumbs and other trifles nestled, and then, having succeeded so well, he again went softly to the open window at the rear. Just as he reached it he heard an unusual noise in the smaller apartment where the man was at work, and he was sure the burglar had discovered what he was doing, and was about to punish him. But the sound was not repeated, and the boy believed the tramp had got the chest open. If such were the fact, he was not likely to think of the youngster in the next room for several minutes more. Fred was plucky, and the thought instantly came to him that he had a chance to leave the room and give an alarm; but to go to the front and climb out on the roof of the porch would bring him so close to the tramp that discovery would be certain. At the rear there was nothing by which he could descend to the ground. It was a straight wall, invisible in the darkness and too high for any one to leap. He might hang down from the sill by his hands and then let go, but he was too unfamiliar with the surroundings to make such an attempt. "Maybe there's a tub of water down there," he said to himself, trying to peer into the gloom; "and I might turn over and strike on my head into it, or it might be the swill barrel, and I wouldn't want to get my head and shoulders wedged into that----" At that instant something as soft as a feather touched his cheek. The gentle night wind had moved the rustling limbs, so that one of them in swaying only a few inches had reached out, as it were, and kissed the chubby face of the brave little boy. "Why didn't I think of that?" he asked himself, as he caught hold of the friendly limb. "I can hold on and swing to the ground." It looked, indeed, as if such a movement was easy. By reaching his hand forward he could follow the limb until it was fully an inch in diameter. That was plenty strong enough to hold his weight. Glancing around, he saw the same wedge of golden light streaming into the room, and the sounds were such that he was sure the burglar had opened the chest and was helping himself to the riches within. The next minute Fred bent forward, and, griping the limb with both hands, swung out of the window. All was darkness, and he shut his eyes and held his breath with that peculiar dizzy feeling which comes over one when he cowers before an expected blow on the head. The sensation was that of rushing into the leaves and undergrowth, and then, feeling himself stopping rather suddenly, he let go. He alighted upon his feet, the distance being so short that he was scarcely jarred, and he drew a sigh of relief when he realized that his venture had ended so well. "There," he said to himself, as he adjusted his clothing, "I ain't afraid of him now, I can outrun him if I only have a fair chance, and there's plenty of places where a fellow can hide." Looking up to the house it was all dark; not a ray from the lantern could be seen, and the sisters were no doubt sleeping as sweetly as they had slept nearly every night for the past three-score years and more. But Fred understood the value of time too well to stay in the vicinity while the tramp was engaged with his nefarious work above. If the law-breaker was to be caught, it must be done speedily. But there were no houses near at hand, and it would take fully an hour to bring Archie Jackson, the constable, to the spot. "The nearest house is Mike Heyland's, the hired man, and I'll go for him." Filled with this thought, Fred moved softly around to the front, passed through the gate, entered the short lane, and began walking between the rows of trees in the direction of the highway. An active boy of his age finds his most natural gait to be a trot, and Fred took up that pace. "It's so dark here under these trees that if there's anything in the road I'll tumble over it, for I never miss----" "Halloo there, you boy!" As these startling words fell upon young Sheldon's ear, the figure of a man suddenly stepped out from the denser shadows and halted in front of the affrighted boy, who stopped short, wondering what it meant. There was nothing in the voice and manner of the stranger, however, which gave confidence to Fred, who quickly rallied, and stepping closer, caught his hand with the confiding faith of childhood. "O, I'm so glad to see you! I was afraid I'd have to run clear to Tottenville to find somebody." "What's the matter, my little man?" "Why, there's a robber in the house back there; he's stealing all the silver and money that belongs to the Misses Perkinpine, and they're sound asleep--just think of it--and he's got a lantern up there and is at work at the chest now, and said he would shoot me if I made any noise or tried to get away, but I catched hold of a limb and swung out the window, and here I am!" exclaimed Fred, stopping short and panting. "Well now, that's lucky, for I happen to have a good, loaded pistol with me. I'm visiting Mr. Spriggins in Tottenville, and went out fishing this afternoon, but stayed longer than I intended, and was going home across lots when I struck the lane here without knowing exactly where I was; but I'm glad I met you." "So'm I," exclaimed the gratified Fred; "will you help me catch that tramp?" "Indeed I will; come on, my little man." The stranger stepped off briskly, Fred close behind him, and passed through the gate at the front of the old brick house, which looked as dark and still as though no living person had been in it for years. "Don't make any noise," whispered the elder, turning part way round and raising his finger. "You needn't be afraid of my doing so," replied the boy, who was sure the caution was unnecessary. Fred did not notice the fact at the time that the man who had come along so opportunely seemed to be quite familiar with the place, but he walked straight to a rear window, which, despite the care with which it had been fastened down, was found to be raised. "There's where he went in," whispered Fred's friend, "and there's where we're going after him." "All right," said Fred, who did not hesitate, although he could not see much prospect of his doing anything. "I'll follow." The man reached up and catching hold of the sash placed his feet on the sill and stepped softly into the room. Then turning so his figure could be seen plainly in the moonlight, he said in the same guarded voice: "He may hear me coming, do you, therefore, go round to the front and if he tries to climb down by way of the porch, run round here and let me know. We'll make it hot for him." This seemed a prudent arrangement, for it may be said, it guarded all points. The man who had just entered would, prevent the thieving tramp from retreating by the path he used in entering, while the sharp eyes of the boy would be quick to discover him the moment he sought to use the front window. "I guess we've got him," thought Fred, as he took his station by the front porch and looked steadily upward, like one who is studying the appearance of a new comet or some constellation in the heavens; "that man going after him ain't afraid of anything, and he looks strong and big enough to take him by the collar and shake him, just as Mr. McCurtis shakes us boys when he wants to exercise himself." For several minutes the vigilant Fred was in a flutter of excitement, expecting to hear the report of firearms and the sound of struggling on the floor above. "I wonder if Miss Annie and Lizzie will wake up when the shooting begins," thought Fred; "I don't suppose they will, for they are so used to sleeping all night that nothing less than a big thunder-storm will start them--but it seems to me it's time that something took place." Young Sheldon had the natural impatience of youth, and when ten minutes passed without stirring up matters, he thought his friend was too slow in his movements. Besides, his neck began to ache from looking so steadily upward, so he walked back in the yard some distance, and leaning against a tree, shoved his hands down in his pockets and continued the scrutiny. This made it more pleasant for a short time only, when he finally struck the happy expedient of lying down on his side and then placing his head upon his hand in such an easy position that the ache vanished at once. Fifteen more minutes went by, and Fred began to wonder what it all meant. It seemed to him that fully an hour had gone since stationing himself as a watcher, and not the slightest sound had come back to tell him that any living person was in the house. "There's something wrong about this," he finally exclaimed, springing to his feet; "maybe the tramp got away before I came back; but then, if that's so, why didn't the other fellow find it out long ago?" Loth to leave his post, Fred moved cautiously among the trees a while longer, and still failing to detect anything that would throw light on the mystery, he suddenly formed a determination, which was a rare one, indeed, for a lad of his years. "I'll go in and find out for myself!" Boy-like, having made the resolve, he acted upon it without stopping to think what the cost might be. He was in his bare feet, and it was an easy matter for a little fellow like him to climb through an open window on the first floor without making a noise. When he got into the room, however, where it was as dark as the darkest midnight he ever saw, things began to appear different, that is so far as anything can be said to appear where it is invisible. He could see nothing at all, and reaching out his hands, he began shuffling along in that doubting manner which we all use under such circumstances. He knew that he was in the dining-room, from which it was necessary to pass through a door into the broad hall, and up the stairs to the spare room, where it was expected he would sleep whenever he favored the twin maiden sisters with a visit. He could find his way there in the dark, but he was afraid of the obstructions in his path. "I 'spose all the chairs have been set out of the way, 'cause Miss Annie and Lizzie are very particular, and they wouldn't----" Just then Fred's knee came against a chair, and before he could stop himself, he fell over it with a racket which he was sure would awaken the ladies themselves. "That must have jarred every window in the house," he gasped, rubbing his knees. He listened for a minute or two before starting on again, but the same profound stillness reigned. It followed, as a matter of course, that the men up-stairs had heard the tumult, but Fred consoled himself with the belief that it was such a tremendous noise that they would mistake its meaning altogether. "Any way, I don't mean to fall over any more chairs," muttered the lad, shuffling along with more care, and holding his hands down, so as to detect such an obstruction. It is hardly necessary to tell what followed. Let any one undertake to make his way across a dark room, without crossing his hands in front and the edge of a door is sure to get between them. Fred Sheldon received a bump which made him see stars, but after rubbing his forehead for a moment he moved out into the broad hall, where there was no more danger of anything of the kind. The heavy oaken stairs were of such solid structure that when he placed his foot on the steps they gave back no sound, and he stepped quite briskly to the top without making any noise that could betray his approach. "I wonder what they thought when I tumbled over the chair," pondered Fred, who began to feel more certain than before that something was amiss. Reaching out his hands in the dark he found that the door of his own room was wide open, and he walked in without trouble. As he did so a faint light which entered by the rear window gave him a clear idea of the interior. With his heart beating very fast Fred tip-toed toward the front until he could look through the open door into the small room where the large oaken chest stood. By this time the moon was so high that he could see the interior with more distinctness than before. All was still and deserted; both the men were gone. "That's queer," muttered the puzzled lad; "if the tramp slipped away, the other man that I met on the road ought to have found it out; but what's become of him?" Running his hand deep down among the treasures in his trousers pocket, Fred fished out a lucifer match, which he drew on the wall, and, as the tiny twist of flame expanded, he touched it to the wick of the candle that he held above his head. The sight which met his gaze was a curious one indeed, and held him almost breathless for the time. The lid of the huge chest was thrown back against the wall, and all that was within it were rumpled sheets of old brown paper, which had no doubt been used as wrappings for the pieces of the silver tea-service. On the floor beside the chest was a large pocket-book, wrong side out. This, doubtless, had once held the money belonging to the old ladies, but it held it no longer. Money and silverware were gone! "The tramp got away while we were down the lane," said Fred, as he stood looking at the signs of ruin about him; "but why didn't my friend let me know about it, and where is he?" Fred Sheldon stopped in dismay, for just then the whole truth came upon him like a flash. These two men were partners, and the man in the lane was on the watch to see that no strangers approached without the alarm being given to the one inside the house. "Why didn't I think of that?" mentally exclaimed the boy, so overcome that he dropped into a chair, helpless and weak, holding the candle in hand. It is easy to see how natural it was for a lad of his age to be deceived as was Fred Sheldon, who never in all his life had been placed in such a trying position. He sat for several minutes looking at the open chest, which seemed to speak so eloquently of the wrong it had suffered, and then he reproached himself for having failed so completely in doing his duty. "I can't see anything I've done," he thought, "which could have been of any good, while there was plenty of chances to make some use of myself if I had any sense about me." Indeed there did appear to be some justice in the self-reproach of the lad, who added in the same vein: "I knew, the minute he stopped to ask questions at our front gate, that he meant to come here and rob the house, and I ought to have started right off for Constable Jackson, without running to tell the folks. Then they laughed at me and I thought I was mistaken, even after I had seen him peeping through the window. When he was eating his supper I was sure of it, and then I should have slipped away and got somebody else here to help watch, but we didn't have anything to shoot with, and when I tried to keep guard I fell asleep, and when I woke up I was simple enough to think there was only one way of his coming into the house, and, while I had my eye on that, he walked right in behind me." Then, as Fred recalled his meeting with the second party in the lane, he heaved a great sigh. "Well, I'm the biggest blockhead in the country--that's all--and I hope I won't have to tell anybody the whole story. Halloo!" Just then he happened to think of the pocket-knife he had picked up on the floor, and he drew it out of his pocket. Boy-like, his eyes sparkled with pleasure when they rested on the implement so indispensable to every youngster, and which was much the finest one he had ever had in his hand. The handle was pearl and the two blades were of the finest steel and almost as keen as a razor. Fred set the candle on a chair, and leaning over, carefully examined the knife, which seemed to grow in beauty the more he handled it. "The man that dropped that is the one who stole all the silverware and money, and there's the letters of his name," added the boy. True enough. On the little piece of brass on the side of the handle were roughly cut the letters, "N. H. H." CHAPTER VI. ON THE OUTSIDE. When Fred Sheldon had spent some minutes examining the knife he had picked up from the floor, he opened and closed the blades several times, and finally dropped it into his pocket, running his hand to the bottom to make sure there was no hole through which the precious implement might be lost. "I think that knife is worth about a thousand dollars," he said, with a great sigh; "and if Aunt Lizzie and Annie don't get their silverware and money back, why they can hold on to the jack-knife." At this juncture it struck the lad as a very strange thing that the two ladies should sleep in one part of the house and leave their valuables in another. It would have been more consistent if they had kept the chest in their own sleeping apartment, but they were very peculiar in some respects, and there was no accounting for many things they did. "Maybe they went in there!" suddenly exclaimed Fred, referring to the tramp and his friend. "They must have thought it likely there was something in their bed-room worth hunting for. I'll see." He felt faint at heart at the thought that the good ladies had been molested while they lay unconscious in bed, but he pushed his way through the house, candle in hand, with the real bravery which was a part of his nature. His heart was throbbing rapidly when he reached the door of their apartment and softly raised the latch. But it was fastened from within, and when he listened he distinctly heard the low, gentle breathing of the good souls who had slumbered so quietly all through these exciting scenes. "I am so thankful they haven't been disturbed," said Fred, making his way back to his own room, where he blew out his light, said his prayers and jumped into bed. Despite the stirring experiences through which he had passed, and the chagrin he felt over his stupidity, Fred soon dropped into a sound slumber, which lasted until the sun shone through the window. Even then it was broken by the gentle voice of Aunt Lizzie, as she was sometimes called, sounding from the foot of the stairs. Fred was dressed and down in a twinkling, and in the rushing, headlong, helter-skelter fashion of youngsters of his age, he told the story of the robbery that had been committed during the night. The old ladies listened quietly, but the news was exciting, indeed, and when Aunt Lizzie, the mildest soul that ever lived, said: "I hope you are mistaken, Fred; after breakfast we'll go up-stairs and see for ourselves." "I shall see now," said her sister Annie, starting up the steps, followed by Fred and the other. There they quickly learned the whole truth. Eight hundred and odd dollars were in the pocketbook, and the intrinsic worth of the silver tea service amounted to fully three times as much, while ten times that sum would not have persuaded the ladies to part with it. They were thrown into dismay by the loss, which grew upon them as they reflected over it. "Why didn't you call us?" asked the white-faced Aunt Lizzie. "Why, what would you have done if I had called you?" asked Fred, in turn. "We would have talked with them and shown them what a wicked thing they were doing, and reminded them how unlawful and wrong it is to pick a lock and steal things." "Gracious alive! if I had undertaken to call you that first man would have shot me, and it was lucky he didn't see me when I swung out the back window; but they left something behind them which I'd rather have than all your silver," said Fred. "What's that?" He drew out the pocket-knife and showed it, looking so wistfully that they did not even take it from his hand, but told the gleeful lad to keep it for himself. "You may be sure I will," was his comment as he stowed it away once more; "a boy don't get a chance at a knife like that more than once in a lifetime." The old ladies, mild and sweet-tempered as they were, became so faint and weak as they fully realized their loss, that they could eat no breakfast at all, and only swallowed a cup of coffee. Fred was affected in the same manner, but not to so great an extent. However, he was anxious to do all he could for the good ladies, and spending only a few minutes at the table he donned his hat and said he would go for Constable Archie Jackson. The hired man, Michael Heyland, had arrived, and was at work out-doors, so there was no call for the boy to remain longer. As Fred hastened down the lane, he was surprised to hear sounds of martial music, but when he caught sight of a gorgeous band and a number of square, box-like wagons with yellow animals painted on the outside, he recalled that this was the day of the circus, and his heart gave a great bound of delight. "I wish Miss Annie and Lizzie hadn't lost their money and silver," he said, "for maybe I could have persuaded them to go to the circus with me, and I'm sure they would have enjoyed themselves." Running forward, Fred perched himself on the fence until the last wagon rattled by, when he slipped to the ground and trotted behind it, feeling that delight which comes to all lads in looking upon the place where wild animals are known to be housed. At every dwelling they passed the inmates hastened out, and the musicians increased the volume of their music until the air seemed to throb and pulsate with the stirring strains. When the town of Tottenville was reached, the whole place was topsy-turvy. The men and wagons, with the tents and poles, had been on the ground several hours, hard at work, and crowds had been watching them from the moment of their arrival. As the rest of the vehicles gathered in a circle, which was to be enclosed by the canvas, the interest was of such an intense character that literally nothing else was seen or thought of by the countrymen and villagers. There was no one who gaped with more open-mouthed wonder than Fred Sheldon, who forgot for the time the real business which had brought him to Tottenville. As usual, he had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and with his hands deep in his pockets, walked about with his straw hat flapping in the slight breeze, staring at everything relating to the menagerie and circus, and tasting beforehand the delights that awaited him in the afternoon, when he would be permitted to gaze until tired, if such a thing were possible. "That's the cage that has the great African lion," said Fred to Jimmy Emery and Joe Hunt, who stood beside him; "just look at that picture where he's got a man in his jaws, running off with him, and not caring a cent for the hunters firing at him." "Them's Tottenhots," said Joe Hunt, who was glad of a chance of airing his knowledge of natural history; "they live in the upper part of Africa, on the Hang Ho river, close to London." "My gracious," said Fred, with a laugh; "you've got Europe, Asia and Africa all mixed up, and the people are the Hottentots; there isn't anybody in the world with such a name as Tottenhots." "Yes, there is, too; ain't we folks that live in Tottenville Tottenhots, smarty?" "Let's ask that big boy there about them; he belongs to the show." The young man to whom they alluded stood a short distance off, with a long whip in his hand, watching the operations of those who were erecting the canvas. He was quite red in the face, had a bushy head of hair almost of the same hue, and was anything but attractive in appearance. His trousers were tucked in his boot-tops; he wore a blue shirt, sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a strong briar-wood pipe, occasionally indulging in some remark in which there was a shocking amount of profanity. The boys started toward him, and had nearly reached him when Jimmy Emery said in an excited undertone: "Why, don't you see who he is? He's Bud Heyland." "So he is. His father told me last spring he had gone off to join a circus, but I forgot all about it." Bud Heyland was the son of Michael Heyland, the man who did the work for the sisters Perkinpine, and before he left was known as the bully of the neighborhood. He was a year or two older than the oldest in school, and he played the tyrant among the other youngsters, whose life sometimes became a burden to them when he was near. He generally punished two or three of the lads each day after school for some imaginary offense. If they told the teacher, he would scold and threaten Bud, who would tell some outlandish falsehood, and then whip the boys again for telling tales. If they appealed to Mr. McCurtis, the same programme was gone through as before; and as the original victims continued to be worsted, they finally gave it up as a losing business and bore their sorrows uncomplainingly. Fred Sheldon tried several times to get up a confederation against the bully, with a view of bringing him to justice, but the others were too timid, and nothing came from it. Bud was especially ugly in his actions toward Fred, who had no father to take the matter in hand, while Mr. Heyland himself simply smoked his pipe and grunted out that he couldn't do anything with Bud and had given him up long ago. Finally Mr. McCurtis lost all patience, and summoning his energies he flogged the young scamp most thoroughly and then bundled him out of the door, forbidding him to come to school any more. This suited Bud, who hurled several stones through the window, and then went home, stayed several days and finally went off with a circus, with one of whose drivers he had formed an acquaintance. The boys were a little backward when they recognized Bud, but concluded he would be glad to see them, especially as they all intended to visit the menagerie during the afternoon. "Halloo, Bud!" called out Fred, with a grin, as he and his two friends approached; "how are you?" The boy, who was sixteen years old, turned about and looked at them for a minute, and then asked: "Is that you, younkers? What'er you doin' here?" "Oh, looking around a little. We're all coming this afternoon." "You are, eh? Do you expect to crawl under the tent?" "No, we're going to pay our way in; Jim and Joe didn't know whether they could come or not, but it's all fixed now." "I watch outside with this cart-whip for boys that try to crawl under, and it's fun when I bring the lash down on 'em. Do you see?" As he spoke, Bud gave a flourish with the whip, whirling the lash about his head and causing it to snap like a firecracker. CHAPTER VII. "THE LION IS LOOSE!" "I'll show you how it works," he called out, with a grin, and without a word of warning he whirled it about the legs and bodies of the boys, who jumped with pain and started to run. He followed them just as the teacher did before, delivering blows rapidly, every one of which fairly burned and blistered where it struck. Bud laughed and enjoyed it, because he was inflicting suffering, and he would have caused serious injury had not one of the men shouted to him to stop. Bud obeyed, catching the end of the lash in the hand which held the whipstock, and slouching back to his position, said: "They wanted me to give 'em free tickets, and 'cause I wouldn't they told me they were going to crawl under the tent; so I thought I would let 'em have a little taste beforehand." "You mustn't be quite so ready," said the man; "some time you will get into trouble." "It wan't be the first time," said Bud, looking with a grin at the poor boys, all three of whom were crying with pain; "and I reckon I can get out ag'in, as I've done often enough." Fred Sheldon, after edging away from the other lads and his friends, all of whom were pitying him, recalled that he had come into the village of Tottenville to see the constable, Archie Jackson, and to tell him about the robbery that had been committed at the residence of the Misses Perkinpine the preceding evening. Archie, a short, bustling, somewhat pompous man, who turned in his toes when he walked, was found among the crowd that were admiring the circus and menagerie, and was soon made acquainted with the alarming occurrence. "Just what might have been expected," he said, severely, when he had heard the particulars; "it was some of them circus people, you can make up your mind to that. There's always an ugly crowd going along with 'em, and sometimes a little ahead. It's been some of 'em, I'm sure; very well, very well, I'll go right out and investigate." He told Fred it was necessary he should go along with him, and the boy did so, being informed that he would be permitted to attend the show in the afternoon. The fussy constable made the investigation, assisted by the sisters, who had become much calmer, and by Fred, who, it will be understood, was an important witness. The officer went through and through the house, examining the floor and chairs and windows and furniture for marks that might help him in ferreting out the guilty parties. He looked very wise, and, when he was done, said he had his own theory, and he was more convinced than ever that the two burglars were attachés of Bandman's menagerie and circus. "Purely as a matter of business," said he, "I'll attend the performances this afternoon and evening; I don't believe in circuses, but an officer of the law must sometimes go where his inclination doesn't lead him. Wouldn't you ladies like to attend the show?" The sisters were quite shocked at the invitation, and said that nothing could induce them to go to such an exhibition, when they never attended one in all their lives. "In the meantime," added the bustling officer, "I suggest that you offer a reward for the recovery of the goods." "The suggestion is a good one," said Aunt Annie, "for I do not believe we shall ever get back the silverware unless we make it an inducement for everybody to hunt for it." After some further words it was agreed that the constable should have a hundred posters printed, offering a reward for the recovery of the stolen property, nothing being said about the capture and conviction of the thieves. Nor would the conscientious ladies consent to make any offer that could be accepted by the thieves themselves, by which they could claim protection against prosecution. They would rather bear their irreparable loss than consent to compound crime. "I know Mr. Carter, a very skillful detective in New York," said Archie Jackson, as he prepared to go, "and I will send for him. He's the sharpest man I ever saw, and if the property can be found, he's the one to do it." The confidence of the officer gave the ladies much hope, and they resumed their duties in their household, as they had done so many times for years past. As the afternoon approached, the crowds began streaming into Tottenville, and the sight was a stirring one, with the band of music inside, the shouts of the peddlers on the outside, and the general confusion and expectancy on the part of all. The doors were open early, for, as is always the case, the multitude were ahead of time, and were clamoring for admission. As may be supposed, the boys were among the earliest, and the little fellows who had suffered at the hands of the cruel Bud Heyland forgot all their miseries in the delight of the entertainment. On this special occasion Fred had rolled down his trousers and wore a pair of shoes, although most of his playmates preferred no covering at all for their brown, expanding feet. The "performance," as the circus portion was called, did not begin until two o'clock, so that more than an hour was at the disposal of the visitors in which to inspect the animals. These were found to be much less awe-inspiring than they were pictured on the flaming posters and on the sides of their cages. The hippopotamus, which was represented as crushing a large boat, containing several men, in his jaws, was taken for a small, queer-looking pig, as it was partly seen in the tank, while the grizzly bear, the "Monarch of the Western Wilds," who had slain any number of men before capture, did not look any more formidable than a common dog. The chief interest of Fred and two or three of his young friends centered around the cage containing the Numidian lion. He was of pretty fair size, looked very fierce, and strode majestically back and forth in his narrow quarters, now and then giving vent to a cavernous growl, which, although not very pleasant to hear, was not so appalling by any means as some travelers declare it to be. Most of the boys soon went to the cage of monkeys, whose funny antics kept them in a continual roar; but Fred and Joe Hunt, who were about the same age, seemed never to tire of watching the king of beasts. "Come, move on there; you've been gaping long enough, and it's time other folks had a chance." It was Bud Heyland, who had yielded his position on the outside for a few minutes to one of the men, and had come in to look around. He raised his whip in a threatening manner, but did not let it descend. "I'm not in anybody's way," replied the indignant Fred, "and I'll stand here as long as I want to." "You will, eh? I'll show you!" This time the bully drew back his whip with the intention of striking, but before he could do so Archie Jackson, standing near, called out: "You touch him if you dare!" Bud turned toward the constable, who stood at his elbow, with flashing eyes, and demanded: "What's the matter with you?" "That boy isn't doing any harm, and if you touch him I'll take you by the collar and lock you up where you'll stay a while after this miserable show has gone." Bud knew the officer and held him in more fear than any one else in the community, but he growled: "This boy crawled under the tent, and he's no business in here." "That's a falsehood, for I saw him buy his ticket. Come now, young man, I _know something about last night's nefarious proceedings_." It would be hard to describe the significance with which these words were spoken, but it may be said that no one could have made them more impressive than did the fiery constable, who said them over a second time, and then, shaking his head very knowingly, walked away. It may have been that Bud Heyland was such a bad boy that his conscience accused him at all times, but Fred Sheldon was certain he saw the red face grow more crimson under the words of the hot-tempered constable. "Can it be Bud knows anything about last night?" Fred asked himself, attentively watching the movements of Bud, who affected to be interested in something going on a rod or two distant. He walked rapidly thither, but was gone only a short while when he came back scowling at Fred, who looked at him in an inquiring way. "What are you staring at me so for?" asked Bud, half raising his hand as if he wanted to strike, but was afraid to do so. Fred now did something which bordered on insolence, though the party of the other part deserved no consideration therefor. The little fellow looked steadily in the red, inflamed face, and with that peculiar grin that means so much in a boy, said in a low, confidential voice: "Bud, how about last night?" Young Sheldon had no warrant to assume that Bud Heyland knew anything of the robbery, and he was only following up the hint given by Archie Jackson himself. This may have been the reason that Fred fancied he could detect a resemblance--very slight though it was--between the voice of Bud Heyland and that of the tramp who sat at the table in the old brick house, and who, beyond question, had a false beard on. The young man with the whip in his hand simply looked back at the handsome countenance before him, and without any appearance of emotion, asked in turn: "What are you talking about?" Fred continued to look and smile, until suddenly Bud lost all self-command and whirled his whip over his head. As he did so, the lash flew through the bars of the cage and struck the Numidian lion a sharp, stinging blow on the nose. He gave a growl of anger, and half-rearing on his hind feet, made a furious clawing and clutching with both paws. The end of the lash seemed to have hit him in the eye, for he was furious for a minute. Bud Heyland knew what the sounds behind him meant, and instead of striking the young lad whom he detested so much, he turned about in the hope of soothing the enraged lion. He spoke kindly to the beast, and failing to produce any effect, was about to call one of the men to bring some meat, but at that instant every one near at hand was startled by a crashing, grinding sound, and the cage was seen to sway as if on the point of turning over. Then, before any one could comprehend fully what had occurred, a huge form was seen to bound through the air in front of the cage, landing directly among the terrified group, who stood spell-bound, scarcely realizing their fearful peril. "The lion is loose! the lion is loose!" was the next cry that rang through the enclosure. [Illustration: "The lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(See page 71.)] CHAPTER VIII. A DAY OF EXCITEMENT IN TOTTENVILLE. If any of our readers were ever so unfortunate as to be in the neighborhood of a menagerie of animals when one of the fiercest has broken loose he can form some idea of the confusion, terror and consternation caused by the escape of the lion from his cage. Strong men rushed headlong over each other; parents caught up their children and struggled desperately to get as far as possible from the dreadful beast; the other animals uttered fierce growls and cries; women and children screamed and fainted; brave escorts deserted young ladies, leaving them to look out for themselves, while they joined in the frantic struggle for life; some crawled under the wagons; others clambered upon the top, and one man, original even in his panic, scrambled into the cage just vacated by the lion, intending to do his utmost to keep the rightful owner from getting back again. Could any one have looked upon the exciting scene, and preserved his self-possession, he would have observed a burly boy climbing desperately up the center pole, never pausing until he reached the point where the heavy ropes of the canvas converged, when he stopped panting, and looked down on what was passing beneath him. The name of that young man was Bud Heyland. Among the multitude that swarmed through the entrance to the tent, which was choked until strong men fought savagely to beat back the mad tide, were three boys who got outside safely on their feet, and, drawing in their breath, broke into a blind but very earnest run that was intended to take them as far as possible from the dangerous spot. They were Jimmy Emery, Joe Hunt and Fred Sheldon. The last-named saw the lion make a tremendous bound, which landed him almost at his feet, and Fred was sure it was all over with him; but he did not stand still and be devoured, but plunged in among the struggling mass and reached the exterior of the tent without a scratch. High above the din and tumult rose the shout of the principal showman: "Don't kill the lion! Don't kill the lion!" It was hard to see the necessity for this cry, inasmuch as the danger seemed to be altogether the other way, but the one who uttered the useless words was evidently afraid some of the people would begin shooting at the beast, which was altogether too valuable to lose, if there was any way of avoiding it. It may be, too, that he believed a general fusillade, when the confusion was so great, would be more perilous to the people than to the lion. There is reason in the belief that, as some scientists claim, there is a sense of humor which sometimes comes to the surface in certain animals, and the action of the Numidian lion when he broke out tended to confirm such a statement. He seemed to forget all about the sharp cut he had received across the nose and eyes the moment he was clear of his cage and to enjoy the hubbub he created. Had he chosen he could have lacerated and killed a score of children within his reach, but instead of doing so he jumped at the terrified crowd, striking them pretty hard blows with his fore paws, then wheeling about and making for another group, who were literally driven out of their senses by the sight of the brute coming toward them. One young gentleman who was with a lady left her without a word, and, catching sight of a small ladder, placed it hastily against the center pole and ran rapidly up the rounds, but the ladder itself stood so nearly perpendicular that when he reached the top and looked around to see whether the king of beasts was following him, it tipped backward, and he fell directly upon the shoulders of the lion, rolling off and turning a back somersault, where he lay kicking with might and main, and shouting to everybody to come and take him away. The brute paid no attention to him except to act in a confused manner for a minute or two, when he darted straight across the ring to an open space in the wall of the tent, made by some men who had cut it with their knives. The next moment he was on the outside. The bewilderment and consternation seemed to increase every minute, and did not abate when the lion was seen to be galloping up the road toward a forest, in which he disappeared. A number of the show people ran after him, shouting and calling continually to others to keep out of his way and not to kill him. The beast had entered a track of dense woodland, covering fully a dozen acres, and abounding with undergrowth, where it was probable he could hide himself for days from his would-be captors. The incident broke up the exhibition for the afternoon, although it was announced that it would go on again as usual in the evening, when something like self-possession came back to the vast swarm of people scattered through the village and over the grounds, it was found that although a number had been severely bruised and trampled upon, no one was seriously injured, and what was the strangest fact of all, no one could be found who had suffered any hurt from the lion. This was unaccountable to nearly every one, though the explanation, or partial one, at least, appeared within the succeeding few days. Had the lion been able to understand the peril into which he entered by this freak of his it may be safely said that he would not have left his cage, for no sooner had the community a chance to draw breath and realize the situation than they resolved that it would never do to allow such a ferocious animal to remain at large. "Why, he can hide in the woods there and sally out and kill a half dozen at a time, just as they do in their native country," said Archie Jackson, discussing the matter in the village store. "Yes," assented a neighbor; "the lion is the awfulest kind of a creature, which is why they call him the king of beasts. In Brazil and Italy, where they run wild, they're worse than--than--than a--that is--than a steam b'iler explosion." "We must organize," added the constable, compressing his thin lips; "self-protection demands it." "I think we had better call on the Governor to bring out the military, and to keep up the hunt until he is exterminated." "No need of calling on the military, so long as the civil law is sufficient," insisted Archie. "A half-dozen of us, well armed, will be able to smoke him out." "Will you j'ine?" asked one of the neighbors. The constable cleared his throat before saying: "I've some important business on my hands that'll keep me pretty busy for a few days. If you will wait till that is over, it will give me pleasure--ahem!--to j'ine you." "By that time there won't be any of us left to j'ine," said the neighbor with a contemptuous sniff. "It looks very much, Archie, as though you were trying to get out of it." The constable grew red in the face at the general smile this caused, and said, in his most impressive manner: "Gentlemen, I'll go with you in search of the lion; more than that, gentlemen and fellow-citizens, I'll lead you." "That's business; you ain't such a big coward as people say you are." "Who says I'm a coward--show him to me----" At this moment one of the young men attached to the menagerie and circus entered, and when all became still said: "Gentlemen, my name is Jacob Kincade, and I'm the keeper of the lion which broke out to-day and is off somewhere in the woods. He is a very valuable animal to us, we having imported him directly from the Bushman country, at a great expense. His being at large has created a great excitement, as was to be expected, but we don't want him killed." "Of course not," said Archie Jackson, who echoed the sentiment of his neighbors, as he added, "You prefer that he should go raging 'round the country and chaw us all up instead. My friend, that little scheme won't work; we're just on the point of organizing an exploring expedition to shoot the lion. Our duty to our wives and families demands that we should extirpate the scourge. Yes, sir," added Archie, rising from his chair and gesticulating like an orator, "as patriots we are bound to prevent any foreign monsters, especially them as are worshiped by the red-coats, to squat on our soil and murder our citizens. The glorious American eagle----" "One minute," interrupted Mr. Kincade, with a wave of his hand. "It isn't the eagle, but the lion we are considering. The menagerie, having made engagements so far ahead, must show in Lumberton to-morrow evening, but two of us will stay behind to arrange for his recapture. Bud Heyland, whose home is in this vicinity, and myself would like to employ a dozen of you to assist. You will be well paid therefor, and whoever secures him, without harm, will receive a reward of a hundred dollars." While these important words were being uttered, Archie Jackson remained standing on the floor, facing the speaker, with his hand still raised, as if he intended resuming his patriotic speech at the point where it had been broken in upon. But when the showman stopped Archie stood staring at him with mouth open, hand raised and silent tongue. "Go on," suggested one at his elbow. But the constable let his arm fall against his side, and said: "I had a good thing about the emblem of British tyranny, but he put me out. Will give a hundred dollars, eh? That's another matter altogether. But I say, Mr. Kincade, how shall we go to work to capture a lion? That sort of game ain't abundant in these parts, and I don't think there's any one here that's ever hunted 'em." Old Mr. Scrapton, who was known to be the teller of the most amazing stories ever heard in the neighborhood, opened his mouth to relate how he had lassoed lions forty years before, when he was hunting on the plains of Texas, but he restrained himself. He thought it best to wait till this particular beast had been disposed of and was out of the neighborhood. "I may say, gentlemen," added the showman, with a peculiar smile, "that this lion is not so savage and dangerous as most people think. You will call to mind, although he broke loose in the afternoon, when the tent was crowded with people, and when he had every opportunity he could wish, yet he did not hurt any one." "That is a very remarkable circumstance," said the constable, in a low voice, heard by all. "I am warranted, therefore," added Mr. Kincade, "in saying that there is no cause for such extreme fright on your part. You should fix some sort of cage and bait it with meat. Then watch, and when he goes in spring the trap, and there he is." "Yes, but will he stay there?" "If the trap is strong enough." "How would it do to lasso him?" "If you are skilled in throwing the lasso and can fling several nooses over his head simultaneously from different directions. By that I mean if three or four of you can lasso him at the same instant, from different directions, so he will be held fast, why the scheme will work splendidly." All eyes turned toward old Mr. Scrapton, who cleared his throat, threw one leg over the other and looked very wise. It was known that he had a long buffalo thong looped and hanging over his fire-place at home, with which, he had often told, he used to lasso wild horses in the Southwest. When the old gentleman saw the general interest he had awakened, he nodded his head patronizingly and said: "Yes, boys, I'll go with you and show you how the thing is done." The important conversation, of which we have given a part, took place in the principal store in Tottenville late on the evening succeeding the escape of the lion and after the performance was over. Mr. Kincade, by virtue of his superior experience with wild animals, gave the men a great many good points and awakened such an ambition in them to capture the beast that he was quite hopeful of his being retaken in a short time. It was understood that if the lion was injured in any way not a penny's reward would be paid, and a careful observer of matters would have thought there was reason to fear the neighbors were placing themselves in great personal peril, through their anxiety to take the king of beasts alive and unharmed. On the morrow, when the children wended their way to the old stone school-house again, they stopped to look at Archie Jackson, who was busy tearing down the huge posters of the menagerie and circus, preparatory to tacking up some others which he had brought with him and held under his arm. The constable dipped into several professions. He sometimes dug wells and helped to move houses for his neighbors. Beside this, he was known as the auctioneer of the neighborhood, and tacked up the announcement posters for himself. As soon as he had cleared a space, he posted the following, printed in large, black letters: ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD. The above reward will be paid for the capture of the lion which escaped from Bandman's great menagerie and circus on Tuesday the twenty-first instant. Nothing will be paid if the animal is injured in any manner. The undersigned will be at the Tottenville Hotel for a few days, and will hand the reward named to any one who will secure the lion so that he can be returned to his cage. JACOB KINCADE. Directly beneath this paper was placed a second one, and it seemed a curious coincident that it also was the announcement of a reward. FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD. The above reward will be paid for the recovery of the silver tea-service stolen from the residence of the Misses Perkinpine on the night of the twentieth instant. A liberal price will be given for anything in the way of information which may lead to the recovery of the property or the detection of the thieves. Attached to the last was a minute description of the various articles stolen, and the information that any one who wished further particulars could receive them by communicating with Archibald Jackson, constable, in Tottenville. The menagerie and circus had departed, but the excitement which it left behind was probably greater and more intense than that which preceded its arrival. Its coming was announced by a daring robbery, and when it went the most terrible animal in its "colossal and unparalleled collection" remained to prowl through the woods and feast upon the men, women, boys and girls of the neighborhood, to say nothing of the cows, oxen, sheep, lambs and pigs with which it was to be supposed the king of beasts would amuse himself when he desired a little recreation that should remind him of his native, far-away country. Around these posters were gathered the same trio which we pictured on the opening of our story. "I tell you I'd like to catch that lion," said Jimmy Emery, smacking his lips over the prospect; "but I don't see how it can be done." "Why couldn't we coax him into the school-house this afternoon after all the girls and boys are gone?" asked Joe Hunt; "it's so low and flat he would take it for his den, that is, if we kill a calf and lay it inside the door." "But Mr. McCurtis stays an hour after school to set copies," said Fred Sheldon. Joe Hunt scratched his arms, which still felt the sting of the blows for his failure in his lessons, and said: "That's one reason why I am so anxious to get the lion in there." "Well, younkers, I s'pose you're going to earn both of them rewards?" It was Bud Heyland who uttered these words, as he halted among the boys, who were rather shy of him. Bud had his trousers tucked in the top of his boots, his sombrero and blue shirt on, his rank brier-wood pipe in his mouth, and the whip, whose lash looked like a long, coiling black snake, in his hand. His face was red as usual, with blotches on his nose and cheeks, such as must have been caused by dissipation. He was ugly by nature, and had the neighborhood been given the choice between having him and the lion as a pest it may be safely said that Bud would not have been the choice of all. "I don't think there's much chance for us," said Fred Sheldon, quietly edging away from the bully; "for I don't see how we are to catch and hold him." "It would not do for him to see you," said Bud, taking his pipe from his mouth and grinning at Fred. "Why not?" "He's so fond of calves he'd be sure to go for you." "That's why he tried so hard to get at you, I s'pose, when you climbed the tent pole and was so scared you've been pale ever since." Bud was angered by this remark, which caused a general laugh, and he raised his whip, but just then he saw the teacher, Mr. McCurtis, close at hand, and he refrained. Although large and strong, like all bullies, he was a coward, and could not forget the severe drubbing received from this severe pedagogue, "all of ye olden times." He walked sullenly away, resolved to punish the impudent Fred Sheldon before he left the neighborhood, while the ringing of the cracked bell a minute or two later drew the boys and girls to the building and the studies of the day were begun. Young Fred Sheldon was the brightest and best boy in school, and he got through his lessons with his usual facility, but it may be said that his thoughts were anywhere but in the school-room. Indeed, there was plenty to rack his brain over, for during the few minutes when Bud Heyland stood talking to the boys before school Fred was impressed more than ever with the fact that his voice resembled that of the tramp who had been entertained by the Misses Perkinpine a couple of nights before. "I s'pose he tried to make his voice sound different," thought Fred, "but he didn't remember it all the time. Bud's voice is coarser than it used to be, which I s'pose is because it's changing, but every once in awhile it sounded just like it did a few minutes ago. "Then it seems to me," added our hero, pursuing the same train of perplexing thought, "that the voice of the other man--the one that come on to me in the lane--was like somebody I've heard, but I can't think who the person can be." Fred took out his new knife and looked at it in a furtive way. When he had admired it a few minutes he fixed his eyes on the three letters cut in the brass piece. "They're 'N. H. H.,'" he said, "as sure as I live; but 'N. H. H.' don't stand for Bud Heyland, though the last name is the same. If that was Bud who stole the silver then he must have dropped the knife on the floor, though I don't see how he could do it without knowing it. I s'pose he stole the knife from some one else." The boy had not shown his prize to any of his playmates, having thought it best to keep it out of sight. He could not help believing that Bud Heyland had something to do with the robbery, but it was difficult to think of any way by which the offense could be proven against him. "He'll deny it, of course, and even Aunt Annie and Lizzie will declare that it wasn't him that sat at the table the other night and eat enough for a half-dozen men, or as much as I wanted, anyway. He's such a mean, ugly boy that I wish I could prove it on him--that is, if he did it." That day Fred received word from his mother that she would not return for several days, and he was directed to look after the house, while he was permitted to sleep at the old brick mansion if he chose. Accordingly Fred saw that all his chores were properly done after he reached home that afternoon, when he started for the home of the maiden ladies, where he was more than welcome. The boy followed the same course he took two nights before, and his thoughts were so occupied that he went along at times almost instinctively, as may be said. "Gracious," he muttered, "but if I could find that silver for them--she don't say anything about the money that was taken--that would be an awful big reward. Five hundred dollars! It would more than pay the mortgage on our place. Then that one hundred dollars for the lion--gracious alive!" gasped Fred, stopping short and looking around in dismay. "I wonder where that lion is. He's been loose twenty-four hours, and I should like to know how many people he has killed. I heard he was seen up among the hills this morning, and eat a whole family and a team of horses, but I think maybe there's some mistake about it. "I wonder why he didn't kill somebody yesterday when he had such a good chance. He jumped right down in front of me, and I just gave up, and wished I was a better boy before I should go and leave mother alone; but he didn't pay any attention to me, nor anybody else, but he's a terrible creature, for all that." Now that Fred's thoughts were turned toward the beast that was prowling somewhere in the neighborhood, he could think of nothing else. There was the fact that this peril was a present one, which drove all thoughts of Bud Heyland and the robbery from the mind of the boy. The rustling wind, the murmur of the woods, and the soft, hollow roar of the distant river were all suggestive of the dreaded lion, and Fred found himself walking on tip-toe and peering forward in the gloom, often stopping and looking behind and around, and fancying he caught an outline of the crouching beast. But at last he reached the short lane and began moving with a rapid and confident step. The moon was shining a little more brightly than when he went over the ground before, and here and there the rays found their way between the poplars and served to light the road in front. "I guess he is asleep in the woods and will keep out of sight till he's found----" The heart of Fred Sheldon rose in his throat, and, as he stopped short, it seemed that his hair rose on end. And well it might, for there, directly in the road before him, where the moon's rays shot through the branches, the unmistakable figure of the dreaded lion suddenly appeared. CHAPTER IX. SEVERAL MISHAPS. On this same eventful evening, Archie Jackson, the constable of Tottenville, started from the residence of the Misses Perkinpine for his own house in the village. He had been out to make some inquiries of the ladies, for it will be remembered that he had two very important matters on hand--the detection of the robbers who had taken the property of the sisters and the leadership of the party who were to recapture the lion. At the close of the day, as he moved off toward the village, some time before the arrival of Fred Sheldon, he could not console himself with the knowledge that anything like real progress had been made in either case. "I've sent for that New York detective, Carter, to come down at once, and he ought to be here, but I haven't seen anything of him. Like enough he's off somewhere and won't be heard from for a week. I don't know as I care, for I begin to feel as though I can work out this nefarious proceeding myself. "Then the lion. Well, I can't say that I desire to go hunting for that sort of game, for I never studied their habits much, but as this cretur' doesn't seem to be very ferocious we ought to be able to run him in. I've organized the company, and Scrapton says he'll bring out his lasso and show two or three of us how to fling the thing, so we can all neck him at the same time. "If I can work up this matter and the other," continued the constable, who was "counting his chickens before they were hatched," "I shall make a nice little fee. I'm sure the lion will stay in the woods till he's pretty hungry. All the wild reports we've heard to-day have nothing in them. Nobody has seen him since he took to the forest yesterday afternoon, and what's more, nobody will----" And just then came the greatest shock of Archie Jackson's life. He was walking along the road toward Tottenville, and had reached a place where a row of trees overhung the path. He had taken a different route home from that pursued by Fred Sheldon, and was in quite a comfortable frame of mind, as the remarks quoted will show, when he gave a gasp of fright, for there, at the side of the path, he was sure he saw the lion himself sitting on his haunches and waiting for him to come within reach of his frightful claws and teeth. The constable did not observe him until he was within arm's length, as may be said, and then the poor fellow was transfixed. He stood a minute or so, doing nothing but breathe and staring at the monster. The lion seemed to comprehend that he was master of the situation, for he quietly remained sitting on his haunches, no doubt waiting for his victim to prepare for his inevitable fate. Finally, Archie began to experience something like a reaction, and he asked himself whether he was to perish thus miserably, or was there not some hope, no matter how desperate, for him. Of course he had no gun, but he generally carried a loaded revolver, for his profession often demanded the display of such a weapon; but to his dismay, when he softly reached his right hand back to his hip to draw it, he recalled that he had cleaned it that afternoon, and left it lying on his stand at home. The situation was enough to make one despair, and for an instant after the discovery the officer felt such a weakness in the knees that it was all he could do to keep from sinking to the ground in a perfect collapse; but he speedily rallied, and determined on one great effort for life. "I will strike him with my fist--that will knock him over--and then run for a tree." This was his resolve. Archie could deliver a powerful blow, and, believing the lion would not wait any longer, he drew back his clenched hand and aimed for the forehead directly between the eyes. He measured the distance correctly, but the instant the blow landed he felt he had made a mistake; it was not the runaway lion which he had struck, but the stump of an old tree. It is hardly necessary to say that the constable suffered more than did the stump, and for a minute or two he was sure he had fractured the bones of his hand, so great was the pain. He danced about on one foot, shaking the bruised member and bewailing the stupidity that led him to make such a grievous error. "That beats anything I ever knowed in all my life," he exclaimed, "and how glad I am that nobody else knows it; if the folks ever hear of it, they will plague me forever and----" "Halloo, Archie, what's the matter?" The cold chills ran down the officer's back as he heard this hail, and suppressing all expression of pain, he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked quickly around. In the dim moonlight he saw old man Scrapton and two neighbors, Vincent and Emery, fathers respectively of two playmates of Fred Sheldon. Each carried a coil of long, strong rope in his right hand and seemed to be considerably excited over something. "We're after the lion," said Mr. Scrapton; "have you seen him?" "No, I don't think he's anywhere around here." "I've had Vincent and Emery out in the meadow nearly all day, practicing throwing the lasso, and they've got the hang of it exactly. Emery can fling the noose over the horns of a cow a dozen yards away and never miss, while Vincent, by way of experiment, dropped the noose over the shoulders of his wife at a greater distance." "Yes," said Mr. Vincent, "but I don't regard that as much of a success. Mrs. Vincent objected, and before I could let go of my end of the lasso, she drawed me to her and--well, I'd prefer to talk of something else." The constable laughed and said: "It's a good thing to practice a little beforehand, when you are going into such a dangerous business as this." "I suppose that's the reason you've been hammering that white oak stump," suggested Mr. Scrapton, with a chuckle. Archie Jackson saw he was caught, and begged his friends to say nothing about it, as he had already suffered as much in spirit as body. "But do you expect to find the lion to-night?" he asked, with unaffected interest. "Yes, we know just where to look for him," said Mr. Scrapton; "he stayed in the woods all day, but just as the sun was setting I catched sight of him along the edge of the fence, and he isn't far from there this very minute." "Do you want me to go with you?" "Certainly." "But I have no weapon." "All the better; I made each leave his gun and pistols at home, for they'd be so scared at the first sight of the cretur' they'd fire before they knowed it and spoil everything. Like the boys at Ticonderoga, if their guns ain't loaded, they can't shoot 'em." "But I don't see what help I can give you, as I haven't got a rope; and even if I had, I wouldn't know how to use it." "Come along, any way; we'll feel safer if we have another with us." It cannot be said that the constable was very enthusiastic, for there was something in the idea of hunting the king of beasts without firearms which was as terrifying as it was grotesque. However, he could not refuse, and the four started down the road and across the field, in the direction of the large tract of forest in which it was known the lion had taken refuge when he broke from his cage the day before. A walk of something like a third of a mile took the party to the edge of the wood, where they stopped and held a consultation in whispers. None of them were so brave as they seemed a short time before, and all secretly wished they were safe at home. "I don't see how you can expect to find him by hunting in the night time, when you have made no preparation," said Archie Jackson, strongly impressed with the absurdity of the whole business. "But I have made preparation," answered Scrapton, in the same guarded undertone. "How?" "I killed a pig and threw him over the fence yonder by that pile of rocks--good heavens!" At the moment of pointing his finger to indicate the spot, all heard a low cavernous growl, which sent a shiver of affright from head to foot. They were about to break into a run, when the constable said: "If you start, he will be after us; let's stand our ground." "Certainly," assented Mr. Vincent, through his chattering teeth. "Certainly, certainly," added his neighbor, in the same quaking voice. Toning down their extreme terror as best they could, the four frightened friends strained their eyes to catch a sight of the animal. "He's there," said Scrapton, fingering his lasso in a way which showed he was very eager to hurl it. "Where?" "Right behind the fence; I see him; he's crouching down and eating the carcass of the pig." "When he gets through with that he will come for us." "Like enough--but that will be all right," said the old gentleman, who really showed more self-possession than any of the others; "for it will give us just the chance we want." "How so?" "When he comes over the fence we'll sort of scatter and throw our lassoes together; then each will pull with all his might and main." "But," said Mr. Vincent, "s'posing we pull his head off, we won't get any of the reward." "We can't pull hard enough to do that, but if we hold on we'll keep him fast, so he can't move any way at all, and bime-by he'll get so tired that he'll give up, and we'll have him, certain sure." "That is, if he don't happen to have us," said Mr. Jackson. "As I haven't got any rope, s'pose I climb over the fence and scare him up so he will come toward you." The idea seemed to be a good one, as the others looked at it, but when the constable moved off to carry out his proposition they thought he was making altogether too extended a circuit, and that it would be a long while before he would succeed in his undertaking. Archie finally vanished in the gloom, and climbing over the fence into the woods moved a short distance toward the spot where the animal lay, when he paused. "The man who goes to hunt a wild lion with nothing but a jack-knife with both blades broke out is a natural-born idiot, which his name isn't Archie Jackson. I've business elsewhere." And thereupon he deliberately turned about and started homeward by a circuitous route. Meanwhile old Mr. Scrapton and Vincent and Emery stood trembling and waiting for the appearance of the lion, which, judging from the sounds that reached their ears, was busy crunching the bones of the young porker that had been slain for his special benefit. They didn't know whether to stay where they were or to break into a run. The danger seemed great, but the reward was so tempting that they held their ground. "He may start to run away," weakly suggested Mr. Vincent. "I don't think so, now that he's tasted blood, but if he does," said the leader of the party, "we must foller." "But he can run faster than we----" "There he comes!" In the darkness they saw the faintly-outlined figure of an animal clambering over the fence, with growls and mutterings, and hardly conscious of what they were doing, the three men immediately separated several yards from each other and nervously clutched their ropes, ready to fling them the instant the opportunity presented itself. "There he comes!" called out Mr. Scrapton again; "throw your lassoes!" At the same instant the three coils of rope whizzed through the air as a dark figure was seen moving in a direction which promised to bring him to a point equidistant from all. Mr. Vincent was too enthusiastic in throwing his noose, for it went beyond the animal and settled around the neck of the astonished Mr. Emery, who thought the lion had caught him in his embrace, thrown as he was off his feet and pulled fiercely over the ground by the thrower. Mr. Emery missed his mark altogether, although Mr. Scrapton had to dodge his head to escape the encircling coil. The old gentleman would have lassoed the animal had he not discovered at the very instant the noose left his hand that it was his own mastiff, Towser, that they were seeking to capture instead of a runaway lion. CHAPTER X. A BRAVE ACT. Meanwhile Fred Sheldon had become involved in anything but a pleasant experience. There might be mistakes ludicrous and otherwise in the case of others, but when he saw the animal in the lane before him, as revealed by the rays of the moon, there was no error. It was the identical lion that had escaped from the menagerie the day previous, and the beast must have noted the presence of the terrified lad, who stopped such a short distance from him. Master Fred was so transfixed that he did not stir for a few seconds, and then it seemed to him that the best thing he could do was to turn about and run, and yell with might and main, just as he did some weeks before when he stepped into a yellow-jackets' nest. It is hard to understand how the yelling helps a boy when caught in such a dilemma, but we know from experience that it is easier to screech at the top of one's voice, as you strike at the insects that settle about your head, than it is to concentrate all your powers in the single act of running. Almost unconsciously, Fred began stepping backward, keeping his gaze fixed upon the lion as he did so. If the latter was aware of the stratagem, which is sometimes used with advantage by the African hunter, he did not immediately seek to thwart it, but continued facing him, and occasionally swaying his tail, accompanied by low, thunderous growls. The boys of the school had learned a great deal of natural history within the last day or two, and Fred had read about the king of beasts. He knew that a lion could crouch on his belly, and, with one prodigious bound, pass over the intervening space. The lad was afraid the one before him meant to act according to the instincts of his nature, and he retreated more rapidly, until all at once he whirled about and ran for dear life, directly toward the highway. He did not shout, though, if he had seen any other person, he would have called for help; but, when he reached the road, he cast a glance over his shoulder, expecting to feel the horrible claws at the same instant. The lion was invisible. Fred could scarcely believe his eyes; but such was the fact. "I don't understand him," was the conclusion of the boy, who kept moving further away, scarcely daring to believe in his own escape even for a few brief minutes. Fred had been too thoroughly scared to wish to meet the lion again, but he wanted to get back to the house that the Misses Perkinpine could be told of the new danger which threatened them. "I think they'll be more likely to believe me than night before last," said the lad to himself. But nothing could tempt him to venture along the lane again after such an experience. It was easy enough to reach the house by a long detour, but the half belief that the lion was lurking in the vicinity made the effort anything but assuring. However, Fred Sheldon thought it his duty to let his good friends know the new peril to which they were subject, in the event of venturing out of doors. So slow and stealthy was his next approach to the building that nearly an hour passed before he found himself in the small yard surrounding the house; but, when once there, he hastened to the front door and gave such a resounding knock with the old-fashioned brass knocker that it could have been heard a long distance away, on the still summer night. It seemed a good while to Fred before the bolt was withdrawn, and Aunt Annie appeared in her cap and spectacles. "Oh, it's you, Fred, is it?" she exclaimed with pleasure, when she recognized the young man who was so welcome at all times. "You are so late that we had given you up, and were going to retire." "I started early enough, but it seems to me as if every sort of awful thing is after us," replied Fred, as he hastily followed the lady into the dining-room, where the sisters began preparing the meal for which the visitor, like all urchins of his age, was ready at any time. "What's the matter now, Freddy?" asked Aunt Lizzie. "Why, you had a tramp after you night before last, and now you've got a big, roaring lion." "A what?" asked the two in amazement, for they had not heard a syllable of the exciting incident of the day before. "Why, there's a lion that broke out of the menagerie yesterday, and they haven't been able to catch him yet." "Land sakes alive!" gasped Aunt Annie, sinking into a chair and raising her hands, "what is the world coming to?" Aunt Lizzie sat down more deliberately, but her pale face and amazed look showed she was no less agitated. Fred helped himself to some more of the luscious shortcake and golden butter and preserves, and feeling the importance of his position told the story with which our readers are familiar, though it must be confessed the lad exaggerated somewhat, as perhaps was slightly excusable under the circumstances. Still it was not right for him to describe the lion as of the size of an ordinary elephant, unless he referred to the baby elephant, which had never been seen in this country at that time. Nor should he have pictured his run down the lane, with the beast behind him all the way, snapping at his head, while Fred only saved himself by his dexterity in dodging him. There was scarcely any excuse for such hyperbole, though the narrative was implicitly believed by the ladies, who felt they were in greater danger than if a score of burglarious tramps were planning to rob them. "They've offered one hundred dollars to any one who catches the lion without hurting him," added Fred, as well as he could speak with his mouth filled with spongy gingerbread. "A hundred dollars!" exclaimed Aunt Lizzie; "why, he'll kill anybody who goes near him. If I were a man I wouldn't try to capture him for a million dollars." "I'm going to try to catch him," said Fred, in his off-hand fashion, as though it was a small matter, and then, swallowing enough of the sweet food to allow him to speak more plainly, he added: "Lions ain't of much account when you get used to 'em; I'm beginning to feel as though I'm going to make that hundred dollars." But the good ladies could not accept this statement as an earnest one, and they chided their youthful visitor for talking so at random. Fred thought it best not to insist, and finished his meal without any further declarations of what he intended to do. "They've left two persons behind to look after the lion," he said; "one is named Kincade and the other is Bud Heyland, you know him--the son of Michael, your hired man." "Yes; he called here to-day." "He did. What for?" "Oh, nothing in particular; he said he heard we had had our silverware stolen, and he wanted to tell us how sorry he felt and to ask whether we had any suspicion of who took it." "He did, eh?" said Fred, half to himself, with a belief that he understood the real cause of that call. "I think Bud is getting to be a much better boy than he used to be," added Aunt Annie; "he was real sorry for us, and talked real nice. He said he expected to be at home for two or three days, though he didn't tell us what for, and he would drop in to see us." Master Sheldon made no answer to this, but he "had his thoughts," and he kept them to himself. The hour was quite advanced, for the days were long, so that the fastenings of the house were looked to with great care, and Fred went to the same room he had occupied two nights before, the one immediately preceding having been spent at home, as he partly expected the return of his mother. After saying his prayers and extinguishing the light, he walked to the rear window and looked out on the solemn scene. Everything was still, but he had stood thus only for a minute or two, when in the quiet, he detected a peculiar sound, which puzzled him at first; but as he listened, he learned that it came from the smoke-house, a small structure near the wood-house. Like the residence, it was built of old-fashioned Holland brick, and was as strong as a modern prison cell. "Somebody is in there stealing meat," was the conclusion of Fred; "I wonder who it can be." He listened a moment longer, and then heard the same kind of growl he had noticed the day before when standing in front of the lion's cage. Beyond a doubt the king of beasts was helping himself to such food as suited him. In a twinkling Fred Sheldon hurried softly down stairs, cautiously opened the kitchen door, and looked out and listened. Yes, he was in there; he could hear him growling and crunching bones, and evidently enjoying the greatest feast of his life. "Now, if he don't hear me coming, I'll have him sure," Fred said to himself, as he began stealing toward the door through which the lion had passed. CHAPTER XI. A REWARD WELL EARNED. The smoke-house attached to the Perkinpine mansion, as we have already said, was made of bricks, and was a strong, massive structure. Although originally used for a building in which meat was cured, it had been adapted to the purposes of a milk store-house. A stream of water ran through one side and the milk and fresh meats were kept there so long as it was possible during the summer weather. A supply of mutton and lamb had been placed in it the evening before by Michael, the hired man, a portion for the use of the ladies and a portion for himself, when he should come to take it away in the morning. There had never been an ice-house on the property, that luxury having been much less known a half a century ago than it is to-day. The lion, in snuffing around the premises, had scented this store-house of meat, and was feasting himself upon it when detected by Fred Sheldon, who, with very little hesitation, covered the couple of rods necessary to reach it. It is difficult to comprehend the trying nature of such a venture, but the reward was a gigantic one in the eyes of Fred, who was very hopeful also of the chance being favorable for capturing the animal. Having started he did not dare to turn back, but hastened forward on tip-toe, and with a firm hand caught the latch of the door. The instant he did so the latter was closed and fastened. He expected the lion would make a plunge against it, and break out. Having done all he could to secure him, Fred scurried back through the kitchen door, which he nervously closed after him, and then scampered in such haste to his room that he feared he had awakened the two ladies in the other part of the house. Hurrying to the window, the lad looked anxiously out and down upon the smoke-house as it was called. To his delight he saw nothing different in its appearance from what it was when he left it a few moments before. It followed, therefore, that the lion was within, as indeed was proven by the sounds which reached the ears of the listening lad. But was the little structure strong enough to hold him? When he broke through his own cage with such ease, would he find any difficulty in making his way out of this place? These were the questions our hero asked himself, and which he could not answer as he wished. While the walls of the little building were strong and secure, yet the door was an ordinary one of wood, fastened by a common iron latch and catch, supplemented by a padlock whenever Michael Heyland chose to take the trouble; but the door was as secure against the animal within with the simple latch in place as it was with the addition of the lock, for it was not to be expected that he would attempt to force his way out in any manner other than by flinging himself against the door itself whenever he should become tired of his restraint. After a while all became still within the smoke-house, and it must have been that the unconscious captive, having gorged himself, had lain down for a good sleep. Fred Sheldon was all excitement and hope, for he felt that if the creature could be kept well supplied with food, he was likely to remain content with his quarters for a considerable time. Tired and worn out, the boy finally lay down on his bed and slept till morning. The moment his eyes were open, he arose and looked out. The smoke-house showed no signs of disturbance, the door remaining latched as it was the night before. "He's there yet," exclaimed the delighted boy, hurriedly donning his clothes and going down the stairs in three jumps. He was right in his guess, for when he cautiously peeped through the slats of the window he saw the monster stretched out upon the floor in a sound slumber. When Fred told the Misses Perkinpine that the lion was fastened in the smoke-house their alarm passed all bounds. They instantly withdrew to the uppermost room, where they declared they would stay until the neighbors should come and kill the creature. Fred tried to persuade them out of their fears, but it was useless, and gathering what meat he could in the house he shoved it through the small window, and then hurried off toward Tottenville. "The lion has got plenty of food, and there is the little stream of water running through the smoke-house, so he ought to be content to stay there for the day." Jacob Kincade sat on the porch of the Tottenville Hotel, smoking a cigar and talking with a number of the villagers, who were gathered around him. Bud Heyland stayed with his folks up the road, and he had not come down to the village yet. The talk, as a matter of course was about the lion, which was believed to be ranging through the country, and playing havoc with the live stock of the farmers. Among the listeners were several boys, with open mouths and eyes, and when Fred joined them no one paid any attention to him. "As I was saying," observed Mr. Kincade, flinging one of his legs over the other, and flirting the ashes from his cigar, "the lion is one of the most valuable in the country. He has a wonderful history, having killed a number of people before he was captured in Africa. Colonel Bandman has been offered a large price for him, which explains why he is so anxious to secure him unhurt." "What is the reward?" asked one of the bystanders. "It was originally a hundred dollars, but I've just received a letter from Colonel Bandman, in which he instructs me to make the reward two hundred, provided the animal is not injured at all." "What does that offer imply?" asked another of the deeply interested group. "The only feasible plan, in my judgment, is to construct a large cage and to lure the lion into that. I have a couple of carpenters hard at work, but the trouble is the animal has such a good chance now of getting all the meat he wants that it will be difficult to get him inside of anything that looks like a cage." "If he could be got into a place where he could be held secure until you brought up his own cage, that would be all you would ask?" continued the speaker, who evidently was forming some plan of operations in his own mind. "That is all, sir." "_I've got your lion for you!_" This rather weighty assertion was made by Fred Sheldon, from his position in the group. An instant hush fell upon all, who looked wonderingly at the lad, as if uncertain whether they had heard aright. Before any comment was made our hero, somewhat flushed in the face, as he summoned up his courage, added: "I've got the lion fast, and if you will go with me I will show you where he is." Mr. Kincade laughed, as did one or two others. Taking a puff or two of his cigar, the showman added: "Run home, sonny, and don't bother us any more." But in that little party were a number who knew Fred Sheldon to be an honest and truthful boy. They made inquiries of him, and when his straightforward answers had been given they told the showman he could rely on what had been said. Mr. Kincade thereupon instantly made preparations, the group swelling to large proportions, as the news spread that the wild beast had been captured. The cage of the lion, which had been strongly repaired, was driven to the front of the hotel; Jake Kincade mounted, took the lines in hand and started toward the home of the Misses Perkinpine, the villagers following close beside and after him. Just as they turned into the short lane leading to the place, whom should they meet but Bud Heyland in a state of great excitement. He was seen running and cracking his whip over his head, and shouting---- "I've got him! I've got him! I've got the lion!" The wagon and company halted for him to explain. "I've got him up here in the old maids' smoke-house. I put some meat in there last night, for I seen tracks that showed me he had been prowling around, and this morning when me and the old man went over to look there he was! I'll take that reward, Jacob, if you please." And the boy grinned and ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice, while the others turned inquiringly toward Fred Sheldon, whose cheeks burned with indignation. "He tells a falsehood," said Fred. "He never knew a thing about it till this morning." "I didn't, eh?" shouted Bud. "I'll show you!" Thereupon he raised his whip, but Mr. Emery stepped in front and said, calmly: "Bud, it won't be well for you to strike that boy." "Well, I don't want anybody telling me I don't tell the truth, for I'm square in everything I do, and I won't be insulted." Mr. Kincade was on the point of taking the word of Bud Heyland that the reward had been earned by him, when he saw from the disposition of the crowd that it would not permit any such injustice as that. "If you've got the animal secure I'm satisfied," called out the showman from his seat, as he assumed an easy, lolling attitude. "You two chaps and the crowd can settle the question of who's entitled to the reward between you, and I only ask that you don't be too long about it, for the critter may get hungry and eat his way out." Mr. Emery, at the suggestion of several, took charge of the investigation. Turning to Fred he said: "The people here have heard your story, and Bud can now tell his." "Why, I hain't got much to tell," said the big boy, in his swaggering manner. "As I said awhile ago, I seen signs around the place last night which showed the lion was sneaking about the premises. He likes to eat good little boys, and I s'pose he was looking for Freddy there," said young Heyland, with a grinning leer at our hero, which brought a smile to several faces. "So I didn't say anything to the old man but just flung a lot of meat in the smoke-house and went home to sleep. This morning the old man awoke afore I did, which ain't often the case, and going over to his work found the trap had been sprung and the game was there. "The old man (Bud seemed to be proud of calling his father by that disrespectful name) came running home and pitched through the door as white as a ghost, and it was a minute or two before he could tell his story. When he had let it out and the old woman begun to shiver, why I laughed, and told 'em how I'd set the trap and earned the reward. With that the old man cooled down, and I got him back with me to look at the beast, which is still asleep, and then I started to tell you about it, Jake, when I meets this crowd and hears with pain and surprise the awful whopper this good little boy tells. I believe he slept in the house there last night, and when he woke up and went out in the smoke-house to steal a drink of milk and seen the lion, he was so scared that he nearly broke his neck running down to the village to tell about it." This fiction was told so well that several looked at Fred to see what he had to say. The lad, still flushed in the face, stepped forward and said: "I'd like to ask Bud a question or two." As he spoke, Fred addressed Mr. Emery, and then turned toward the grinning bully, who said: "Go ahead with all you're a mind to." "You say you put the meat in there on purpose to catch the lion last night?" "That's just what I done, Freddy, my boy." "Where did you get the meat?" "At home of the old woman." "After you put it in the smoke-house, you didn't go back until this morning?" "No, sir; my little Sunday school lad." "Who, then, shut and fastened the door, after the lion walked in the smoke-house to eat the meat?" Bud Heyland's face flushed still redder, and he coughed, swallowed and stuttered---- "Who shut the door? Why--that is--yes--why what's the use of asking such infarnal questions?" demanded Bud in desperation, as the listeners broke into laughter. Mr. Emery quietly turned to Kincade, who was leaning back on his elevated seat and said: "The reward of two hundred dollars belongs to Master Fred here," and the decision was received with shouts of approbation. Bud Heyland's eyes flashed with indignation, and he muttered to himself; but, in the face of such a number, he dared not protest, and he followed them as they pushed on toward the little structure where the escaped beast was restrained of his liberty. A reconnoissance showed that he was still there, and the arrangements for his transfer were speedily made and carried out with much less difficulty than would have been supposed. The cage was placed in front of the door of the smoke-house, communication being opened, after an inclined plane was so arranged that the beast could not walk out without going directly into his old quarters. Several pounds of raw, bleeding meat were placed in the cage, and then the animal was stirred up with a long pole. He growled several times, got on his feet, looked about as if a little confused, and then seemed to be pleased at the familiar sight of his old home, for he walked deliberately up the inclined plane into the cage, and lay down as if to complete his nap, so rudely broken a few minutes before. The door was quickly closed and fastened, and the escaped lion was recaptured! When all saw how easily it was done, and recalled the fact that the king of beasts, so far as was known, had injured no person at all, there was a great deal of inquiry for the explanation. Why was it that, with such opportunities for destroying human life, he had failed to rend any one to fragments? Jacob Kincade, after some laughter, stated that the lion, although once an animal of tiger-like ferocity and strength, was now so old that he was comparatively harmless. His teeth were poor, as was shown by the little progress he had made with the bony meat in the smoke-house. If driven into a corner he might make a fight, but if he had been loose for a month it was hardly likely he would have killed anybody. The blow which he received in the eye from Bud Heyland's whip incited him to fury for the moment, but by the time he got fairly outside he was comparatively harmless, and the hurried climbing of the center-pole by Bud Heyland was altogether a piece of superfluity. As Fred Sheldon had fairly earned the two hundred dollars, he was told to call at the hotel in Tottenville that afternoon and it would be paid him. It is not necessary to say that he was there punctually, for the sum was a fortune in his eyes. As he came to the porch a number of loungers were there as usual, and Fred found himself quite a hero among his playmates and fellows. Not only was Jake Kincade present, with his cigar alternately between his finger and lips, but Bud Heyland and a stranger were sitting on the bench which ran along the porch, their legs crossed, one smoking his briar-wood and the other a cigar. Despite Fred's agitation over his own prospects, he could not help noticing this stranger whom, he believed, he had never seen before. His dress and appearance were much like those of a cattle drover. He wore a large, gray sombrero, a blue flannel shirt, had no suspenders, coarse corduroy trousers, though the weather was warm, with the legs tucked in the tops of his huge cowhide boots, the front of which reached far above his knees, like those of a cavalryman. He had frowsy, abundant hair, a smoothly-shaven face--that is, the stubby beard was no more than two or three days old--and he seemed to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age. Looking at his rather regular features, it would be hard to tell whether he was a good or evil man, but it was very evident that he and Bud Heyland had struck up a strong intimacy, which was growing. They sat close together, chatted and laughed, and indulged in jokes at the expense of those around them, careless alike of the feelings that were hurt or the resentment engendered. As Fred approached he saw Bud turn his head and speak to the stranger, who instantly centered his gaze on the boy, so there could be no doubt that his attention was called to him. Fred was moving rather timidly toward Kincade, when the stranger raised his hand and crooked his finger toward him. Wondering what he could want, Fred Sheldon diverged toward him and took off his hat. "I wouldn't stand bareheaded, Freddy, dear," said Bud, with his old grin; "you might catch cold in your brains." Neither of the others noticed this course remark, and the stranger, scrutinizing the boy with great interest, said: "What is your name, please?" "Frederick Sheldon." "And you are the boy who locked the lion in the smoke-house last night when you heard the poor fellow trying to use his aged teeth on some bones?" "Yes, sir." "Well, you deserve credit; for you thought, like everybody else, that he was as fierce as he was a dozen years ago. Well, all I want to say, Fred, is that I'm Cyrus Sutton, stopping here at the hotel, and I'm somewhat interested in cattle. Bud, here, doesn't feel very well, and he's got leave of absence for two or three days and is going to stay at home. Bud and I are strong friends, and I've formed a rather good opinion of you and I congratulate you on having earned such a respectable pile of money. Mr. Kincade is ready and glad to pay you." Squire Jones, a plain, honest, old man, who had been justice of the peace for fully two score years, went into the inner room with Fred Sheldon and Jacob Kincade to see that everything was in proper shape; for as the boy was a minor his rights needed careful protection. All was done deliberately and carefully, and the entire amount of money, in good, crisp greenbacks, was placed in the trembling hands of Fred Sheldon, who felt just then as though he would buy up the entire village of Tottenville, and present it to his poor friends. "Come over to my office with me," said the squire, when the transaction was finished. The lad willingly walked across the street and into the dingy quarters of the old man, who closed the door and said: "I am real glad, Frederick, that you have earned such a sum of money, for your mother needs it, and I know you to be a truthful and honest boy; but let me ask you what you mean to do with it?" "Save it." "I know, but how and where? It will not be safe in your house nor at the Misses Perkinpines', as the events of the other night prove. It ought to be placed somewhere where it will be safe." "Tell me where to put it." "There is the Lynton Bank ten miles away, but you couldn't drive there before it would be closed. I have a good, strong, burglar-proof safe, in which I have many valuable papers. If you wish it, I will seal the money in a large envelope, write your name on the back and lock it up for you. Then, whenever you want it, I will turn it over to you." Fred replied that he would be glad to have him do as proposed, and the old squire, with solemn deliberation, went through the ceremony of placing the two hundred dollars safely among his other papers and swinging the ponderous safe-door upon them. Fred would have liked to keep the money to look at and admire and show to his playmates, but he saw how much wiser the course of the squire was, and it was a great relief to the boy to have the custody of such riches in other hands. When he came out on the street again he looked across to the hotel and noticed that Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton were no longer visible. He supposed they were inside visiting the bar, and without giving them any further thought, Fred started for his home to complete his chores before going over to stay with the Misses Perkinpine. After reaching a certain point up the road a short cut was almost always used by Fred, who followed quite a well-beaten path through a long stretch of woods. The boy was in high spirits, for he could not feel otherwise after the wonderful success which had attended his efforts to capture the astray lion. "If I could only get on the track of the men that stole the silverware and money, why, I would retire wealthy," he said to himself, with a smile; "but I don't see where there is much chance----" "Halloo, there, Freddy dear!" It was Bud Heyland who hailed the startled youngster in this fashion, and when our hero stopped and looked up, he saw the bully standing before him, whip in hand and waiting for him to approach. CHAPTER XII. A BUSINESS TRANSACTION. When Fred Sheldon saw Bud Heyland standing before him in the path, his impulse was to whirl about and run, for he knew too well what to expect from the bully; but the latter, reading his thoughts called out: "Hold on, Freddy, I won't hurt you, though you deserve a good horsewhipping on account of the mean way you cheated me out of the reward for capturing the lion; but I have a little business with you." Wondering what all this could mean Fred stood still while the red-faced young man approached, though our hero wished as fervently that he was somewhere else as he did when he found himself face to face with the lion in the lane. "Jake sent me," added Bud in his most persuasive manner, and with a strong effort to win the confidence of the boy, who was somewhat reassured by the last words. "What does Mr. Kincade want?" asked Fred. "Why, he told me to hurry after you and say that he had made a mistake in paying you that money." "I guess he didn't make any mistake," replied the surprised boy. "Yes, he did; it's twenty dollars short." "No, it isn't, for Squire Jones and I counted it over twice." "That don't make any difference; I tell you there was a mistake and he sent me to correct it." "Why didn't you come over to Squire Jones' office, then, and fix it?" "I didn't know you was there." Fred knew this was untrue, for Bud sat on the porch and watched him as he walked across the street with the squire. "Well, if you are so sure of it, then you can give me the twenty dollars and it will be all right." "I want you to take out the money and count it here before me." "I sha'n't do it." "I guess you will; you've got to." "But I can't." "What's the reason you can't?" "I haven't got the money with me." "You haven't!" exclaimed Bud, in dismay. "Where is it?" "Locked up in Squire Jones' safe." The bully was thunderstruck, and gave expression to some exclamations too forcible to be recorded. It was evident that he was unprepared for such news, and he seemed to be eager to apply his cruel whip to the little fellow toward whom he felt such unreasonable hatred. "I've got a settlement to make with you, any way," he said, advancing threateningly toward him. "What have I done," asked Fred, backing away from him, "that you should take every chance you can get, Bud, to hurt me?" "What have you done?" repeated the bully, "you've done a good deal, as you know well enough." But at this juncture, when poor Fred thought there was no escape for him, Bud Heyland, very curiously, changed his mind. "I'll let you off this time," said he, "but it won't do for you to try any more of your tricks. When I come to think, it was ten dollars that the money was short. Here is a twenty-dollar bill. I want you to get it changed and give me the ten dollars to-morrow." Fred Sheldon was bewildered by this unexpected turn to the interview, but he took the bill mechanically, and promised to do as he was told. "There's another thing I want to say to you," added Bud, stopping as he was on the point of moving away: "You must not answer any questions that may be asked you about the bill." The wondering expression of the lad showed that he failed to take in the full meaning of this warning, and Bud added, impatiently. "Don't tell anybody I gave it to you. Say you found it in the road if they want to know where you got it; that's all. Do you understand?" Fred began to comprehend, and he resolved on the instant that he would not tell a falsehood to save himself from a score of whippings at the hands of this evil boy, who would not have given the caution had he not possessed good reasons for doing so. Bud Heyland repeated the last warning, word for word, as first uttered, and then, striding by the affrighted Fred, continued in the direction of Tottenville, while the younger boy was glad enough to go homeward. The sun had not set yet when he reached the house where he was born, and he hurried through with his work and set out for the old brick dwelling, which had been the scene of so many stirring incidents within the last few days. He was anxious to see his mother, who had been away several days. He felt that she ought to know of his great good fortune, that she might rejoice with him. "If she doesn't get there by to-morrow or next day I'll have to go after her," he said to himself, "for I'll burst if I have to hold this news much longer. And won't she be glad? It's hard work for us to get along on our pension, and I can see she has to deny herself a good many things so that I can go to school. I thought I would be happy when I got the money, and so I am, but it is more on her account than on my own--halloo!" It seemed as if the lane leading to the old brick mansion was destined to play a very important part in the history of the lad, for he had reached the very spot where he met the lion the night before, when a man suddenly stepped out from behind one of the trees and stood for a moment, with the setting sun shining full on his back, his figure looking as if it were stamped in ink against the flaming horizon beyond. As Fred stared at him, he held up his right hand and crooked his finger for him to approach, just as he did when sitting on the porch of the village hotel, for it was Cyrus Sutton. The boy was not pleased, by any means, to meet him in such a place, for he had felt suspicious of him ever since he saw him sitting in such familiar converse with Bud Heyland and Jacob Kincade. Nevertheless, our hero walked boldly toward him, and with a faint "Good-evening, sir," waited to hear what he had to say. "Your name is Frederick Sheldon, I believe?" Fred nodded to signify that he was correct in his surmise. "You met Bud Heyland in the woods over yonder, didn't you?" "Yes, sir; how could you know it?" "I saw him going in that direction, and I saw you come out the path; what more natural than that I should conclude you had met? He gave you a twenty-dollar bill to get changed, didn't he?" "He did, sir," was the answer of the amazed boy, who wondered how it was this person could have learned so much, unless he got the news from Bud Heyland himself. "Let me see the money." Fred did not like this peremptory way of being addressed by a person whom he had never seen until that afternoon, but he drew the bill from his pocket. As he did so he brought several other articles with it, among them his new knife, which dropped to the ground. He quickly picked them up, and shoved them hurriedly out of sight. Mr. Sutton did not seem to notice this trifling mishap, but his eyes were bent on the crumpled bill which was handed to him. As soon as he got it in his hands he turned his back toward the setting sun, and placing himself in the line of some of the horizontal rays which found their way between the trees he carefully studied the paper. He stood full a minute without moving, and then merely said, "Ahem!" as though he were clearing his throat. Then he carefully doubled up the piece of national currency, and opening his pocket-book placed it in it. "Are you going to keep that?" asked Fred. "It isn't yours." "He wanted you to get it changed, didn't he?" "Yes, sir; but he didn't want me to give it away." "Of course not, of course not; excuse me, but I only wanted to change the bill for you. Here you are." Thereupon he handed four five-dollar bills to Fred, who accepted them gladly enough, though still wondering at the peculiar actions of the man. "One word," he added. "Bud told you not to answer any questions when you got the bill changed. I haven't asked you any, but he will have some to ask himself, which he will be very anxious you should answer. Take my advice, and don't let him know a single thing." "I won't," said Fred, giving his promise before he thought. "Very well, don't forget it; he will be on the lookout for you to-morrow, and when you see him, hand him his ten dollars and keep the rest for yourself, and then end the interview. Good evening, my son." "Good evening," and Fred was moving on, when Mr. Cyrus Sutton said: "Hold on a minute," at the same time crooking his forefinger in a way peculiar to himself; "I understand you were in the house there the other night, when it was robbed by a tramp." "I was, sir; the whole village knows that." "You were lucky enough to get away while it was going on, though you were deceived by the man whom you met here in the lane." The lad assured him he was correct, as he seemed to be in every supposition which he made. "Do you think you would know either of those men if you met them again?" The question was a startling one, not from the words themselves, but from the peculiar manner in which it was asked. Cyrus Sutton bent forward, thrusting his face almost in that of the boy and dropping his voice to a deep guttural bass as he fixed his eyes on those of Fred. The latter looked up and said: "The voice of the man I met in the lane sounded just like yours. Are you the man?" It surely was a stranger question than that to which the lad had made answer, and Sutton, throwing back his head, laughed as if he would sink to the earth from excess of mirth. "Well, that's the greatest joke of the season. Am I the other tramp that led you on such a wild-goose chase? Well, I should say not." Nevertheless Fred Sheldon felt absolutely sure that this was the man he accused him of being. Mr. Sutton, with a few jesting remarks, bade the boy good-evening, and the latter hastened on to the brick mansion, where he busied himself for a half hour in doing up a few chores that Michael, the hired man, had left for him. When these were finished, he went into the house, with a good appetite for his supper, which was awaiting him. The old ladies were greatly pleased to learn he had been paid such a large sum for capturing the lion, and they did not regret the fright they had suffered, since it resulted in such substantial good for their favorite. "Now, if you could only find our silverware," said Aunt Annie, "what a nice sum you would earn!" "Wouldn't I? I'd just roll in wealth, and I'd make mother so happy she'd feel miserable." "But I'm afraid we shall never see the silver again," observed Miss Lizzie, with a deep sigh. "Wasn't there some money taken, too?" "Yes; several hundred dollars. But we don't mind that, for we can get along without it; but the silverware, you know, has been in the family for more than two centuries." "You haven't owned it all that time, have you?" "My goodness! How old do you suppose we are?" asked the amused old lady. "I never thought, but it would be a good thing to get the money, too, wouldn't it? Has Archie Jackson been here to-day?" "Yes. He says that the officer he sent for doesn't come, and so he's going to be a detective himself." "A detective," repeated Fred to himself. "That's a man, I believe, that goes prying around after thieves and bad people, and is pretty smart in making himself look like other folks." "Yes," said Aunt Lizzie, "he went all over the house again, and climbed out on top of the porch, and was crawling around there, 'looking for signs,' as he called them. I don't know how he made out, but he must have been careless, for he slipped off and came down on his head and shoulders, and when we ran out to help him up, said some awful bad words, and went limping down the lane." "He don't know how to climb," said Fred, as he disposed of his usual supply of gingerbread; "it takes a boy like me to climb, a man is always sure to get in trouble." "Archibald seems to be very unfortunate," said Aunt Annie mildly, and with a meek smile on her face, "for just before he fell off the roof of the porch, he came bumping all the way down-stairs and said the bad man had put oil on them, so as to make him slip to the bottom. I am quite anxious about him, but I hope no bones were broken." "I saw that his hand was swelled up too," said the sister, "and when I inquired about it he said he caught it in the crack of the door, playing with his little boy, though I don't see how that could make such a hurt as his was. But there has been some one else here." "Who was that?" asked Fred, excitedly. "A very nice, gentlemanly person, though he wasn't dressed in very fine clothes. His name was--let me see, circus-circum--no----" "Cyrus Sutton?" "That's it--yes, that's his name." "What was he after?" demanded Fred, indignantly. "He said he was staying in the village a little while, and, having heard about our loss, he came out to make inquiries." "I would like to know what business he had to do that," said the boy, who was sure the old ladies were altogether too credulous and kind to strangers who presented themselves at their doors. "Why, Frederick, it was a great favor for him to show such an interest in our affairs." "Yes; so it was in them other two chaps, I s'pose; this ain't the first time Mr. Cyrus Sutton has been in your house." "What do you mean, Frederick?" "I mean this," answered Fred, wheeling his chair about and slapping his hand several times upon the table, by way of emphasis, "that Mr. Cyrus Sutton, as he calls himself, is the man I met in the lane the other night, and who climbed into the window and helped the other fellow carry off your plate and money; there!" The ladies raised their hands in protesting amazement. "Impossible! You must be mistaken!" "I know it, and I told him so, too!" "You did! Didn't he kill you?" "Not that I know of," laughed Fred. "I don't feel very dead, anyway; but though he had on whiskers the other night as the other one did, I knew his voice." Young Sheldon did not think it best to say anything about the suspicion he had formed against Bud Heyland, for that was coming so near home that it would doubtless cause immediate trouble. Nor did he tell how he was sure, only a short time before, that Jacob Kincade was the partner of Bud in the theft, but that the latter, who handed him the two hundred dollars, was relieved from all suspicion, at least so far as the lad himself was concerned. "Have you told Archibald of this?" asked Aunt Lizzie, when Fred had repeated his declaration several times. "What's the use of telling him? He would start in such a hurry to arrest him that he would tumble over something and break his neck. Then, he'd get the reward, too, and I wouldn't have any of it." "We will see that you have justice," said Miss Lizzie, assuringly; "you deserve it for what you have already done." "I don't want it, and I won't have it until I can earn it, that's certain. I must go to school to-morrow, and I brought over two of my books to study my lessons. I had mother's permission to stay home to go to the circus, but I was out to-day, and I s'pose Mr. McCurtis will give me a good whipping for it to-morrow. Anyway, I'll wear my trousers down, instead of rolling 'em up, till I learn how the land lies." This seemed a prudent conclusion, and as the ladies were anxious that their favorite should keep up with his classes they busied themselves with their household duties while the lad applied himself with might and main to his mental work. At the end of half an hour he had mastered it, and asked the ladies if there was anything he could do for them. "I forgot to tell Michael," said Aunt Annie, "before he went home, that we want some groceries from the store, and I would like him to give the order before coming here in the morning." "I'll take the order to him if you will write it out." Thanking him for his courtesy, the order was prepared, and, tucking it in his pocket, Fred Sheldon started down the road on a trot to the home of Michael Heyland, the hired man. "I wonder whether Bud is there?" he said to himself, as he approached the humble house. "I don't s'pose he'll bother me, but he'll want to know about that money as soon as he sees me." Without any hesitation the lad knocked at the door and was bidden to enter. As he did so he saw that Mrs. Heyland was the only one at home. "Michael has gone to the village," said the lady of the house, in explanation; "but I'm expecting him home in the course of an hour or so, and perhaps you had better wait." "I guess there isn't any need of it. Aunt Annie wants him to take an order to the store to-morrow morning before he comes up to the house, and I can leave it with you." "Is it writ out?" "Yes; here it is," said Fred, laying the piece of folded paper on the stand beside the Bible and a copy of the Tottenville _Weekly Illuminator_. The lad had no particular excuse for staying longer, but he was anxious to ask several questions before going back, and he was in doubt as to how he should go about it. But when he was invited to sit down he did so, and asked, in the most natural manner: "Where is Bud?" "He's down to the village, too." "When will he be home?" "That's a hard question to answer, and I don't think Bud himself could tell you if he tried. You know he's been traveling so long with the circus and has so many friends in the village that they are all glad to see him and won't let him come home. Bud was always a good boy, and I don't wonder that everybody thinks so much of him." Fred Sheldon indulged in a little smile for his own amusement, but he took care that the doting mother did not notice it. "Michael was always hard on Bud, but he sees how great his mistake was, and when he rode by on the big wagon, cracking his whip, he felt as proud of him as I did." "Is Bud going to be home long?" "He got leave of absence for a few days, because the boy isn't feeling very well. They've worked him too hard altogether. You observed how pale-looking he is?" Fred could not say that he had noticed any alarming paleness about the young man, but he did not deny the assertion of the mother. "Does Bud like it with the circus?" "Oh, yes, and they just dote on him. Bud tells me that Colonel Bandman, the owner of the circus and menagerie, has told him that if he keeps on doing so well he's going to take him in as partner next year." "Mrs. Heyland, why do you call him Bud?" "He was such a sweet baby that we nick-named him 'Birdy,' and it has stuck by him since. When he went to school he was called Budman, that being a cunning fancy of the darling boy, but his right name is Nathaniel Higgens, though most people don't know it." Fred Sheldon had got the information he was seeking. CHAPTER XIII. THE EAVESDROPPER. Fred Sheldon had learned one most important fact. Beyond all doubt the letters "N. H. H." stood for the name Nathaniel Higgens Heyland, who for some months past had been attached as an employee to Colonel Bandman's menagerie and circus. By some means, hard to understand, this young man had dropped his pocket-knife, bearing these initials, on the floor of the upper room of the brick mansion, at the time he entered it disguised as an ordinary tramp, and with the sole purpose of robbery. It was proven, therefore, that Bud had committed that great offense against the laws of his country, as well as against those of his Maker, and he was deserving of severe punishment. But young, as bright, honest Fred Sheldon was, he knew that the hardest work of all remained before him. How was the silver plate to be recovered, for the task would be less than half performed should the owners fail to secure that? How could the guilt of Bud Heyland be brought home to him, and who was his partner? Although Fred was sure that the stranger who called himself Cyrus Sutton was the other criminal, yet he saw no way in which that fact could be established, nor could he believe that the proof which he held of Bud's criminality would convince others. Bud was such an evil lad that he would not hesitate to tell any number of falsehoods, and he was so skilled in wrong talking, as well as wrong doing, that he might deceive every one else. Fred Sheldon felt that he needed now the counsel of one person above all others. The one man to whom his thoughts first turned was Archie Jackson, the constable, and he was afraid to trust him, for the temptation of obtaining the large reward offered was likely to lead him to do injustice to the boy. The one person whom he longed to see above all others was his mother--that noble, brave woman whose love and wisdom had guided him so well along his journey of life, short though it had been. It was she who had awakened in him the desire to become a good and learned man, who had cheered him in his studies, who had entertained him with stories culled from history and calculated to arouse an honorable ambition in his heart. The memory of his father was dim and misty, but there was a halo of glory that would ever envelop that sacred name. Fred could just remember the bright spring morning when the patriot, clad in his uniform of a private, had taken his wee baby boy in his arms, tossed him in the air, and, as he came down, kissed him over and over again, and told him that he was the son of a soldier who intended to fight for his country; and commending him to God and his wife, had resigned him to the weeping mother, who was pressed to his heart, and then, catching up his musket he had hurried out the little gate and walked rapidly down the road. Held in the mother's arms, Fred had strained his baby eyes until the loved form of his father faded out in the distance, and then the heavy-hearted wife took up the burden of life once more. But, though she shaded her weary eyes and looked down the road many a time, the husband never came back again. Somewhere, many long miles away, he found his last resting place, there to sleep until the last trump shall wake the dead, and those who have been separated in this life shall be reunited, never to part again. Fred's memories of those sad days, we say, were dim and shadowy, but he saw how bravely his mother fought her own battle, more sorrowful than that in which the noble husband went down, and Fred, young though he was, had been all that the fondest mother could wish. "Let him be spared to me, oh, Heavenly Father," she plead, and henceforth she lived only for him. It was she who taught him to kneel at her knee and to murmur his prayers morning and evening; who told him of the Gracious Father who will reward every good deed and punish every evil one not repented of; it was she who taught him to be manly and truthful and honest and brave for the right, and whose counsel and guidance were more precious than those of any earthly friend ever could be. Fred had no secret from her, and now that so much had taken place in the last few days he felt that he could not stand it much longer without her to counsel and direct him. "I sha'n't tell anybody a word of what I've found out," he said to himself, as he walked thoughtfully along the road, in the direction of the old brick mansion, where he expected to spend the night; "the Misses Perkinpine are such simple souls that they can't help a big boy like me, and though they might give me something, I don't want it unless I earn it. I'll bet mother can give me a lift." And holding this very high and not exaggerated opinion of his parent's wisdom, he continued onward, fervently hoping that she would return on the morrow. "We've never been apart so long since I can remember," he added, "and I'm beginning to feel homesick." The night was clear and starlight, the moon had not yet risen, but he could see very distinctly for a short distance in the highway. He was thinking of nothing in the way of further incident to him, but, as it sometimes happens in this world, the current of one's life, after flowing smoothly and calmly for a long time, suddenly comes upon shoals and breakers and everything is stormy for a while. Fred, in accordance with his favorite custom, had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and was barefooted. In the dust of the road he walked without noise, and as the night was very still he could hear the least sound. Though involved in deep thought he was of such a wide-awake nature that he could never be insensible to what was going on around him. He heard again the soft murmur of the wind in the forest, the faint, distant moan of the river, the cock crowing fully a mile away, answered by a similar signal of a chanticleer still further off, and then all at once he distinctly caught the subdued sound of voices. He at once stopped in the road and looked and listened. He could see nothing, but his keen ears told him the faint noise came from a point directly ahead, and was either in or at the side of the road. His intimate knowledge of the highway, even to the rocks and fences and piles of rails, that here and there lined it, enabled him to recall that there was a broad, flat rock, perhaps a hundred rods ahead, on the right side of the path, and that it was the one on which many a tired traveler sat down to rest. No doubt the persons whose voices reached him were sitting there, holding some sort of conference, and Fred asked himself how he should pass them without discovery, for, like almost every one, he was timid of meeting strangers on a lonely road after dark. His recourse suggested itself the next minute--he had only to climb the fence and move around them. At this point there was a meadow on each side of the highway, without any trees near the road, so that great care was needed to avoid observation, but in the starlight night Fred had little doubt of being able to get by without detection. Very carefully he climbed the fence, and, dropping gently upon the grass on the other side, he walked off across the field, peering through the gloom in the direction of the rock by the roadside, whence came the murmur of voices. The boy was so far away that, as yet, he had not caught a glimpse of the others, but when he stopped at the point where he thought it safe to begin to approach the road again, one of the parties gave utterance to an exclamation in a louder voice than usual. Fred instantly recognized it as that of Cyrus Sutton, the cattle drover, who had formed such a strong friendship for Bud Heyland. "I'll bet that Bud is there, too," muttered Fred, moving stealthily in the direction of the rock; "they are always--halloo!" In imitation of the loud voice of Sutton, the other did the same, and in the still night there could be no mistaking it; the only son of Michael Heyland was sitting at the roadside, in conversation with Cyrus Sutton. It was natural that Young Sheldon should conclude they were discussing the subject of the robbery, and he was at once seized with the desire to learn what it was they were saying, for, more than likely, it would throw some light on the matter. Fred had been taught by his mother that it was mean to tell tales of, or to play the eavesdropper upon, another, but in this case he felt warranted in breaking the rule for the sake of the good that it might do. Accordingly, he crept through the grass toward the highway until he caught the outlines of the two figures between the fence rails and thrown against the sky beyond. At the same time the rank odor of tobacco came stealing through the summer air, as it floated from the strong briar-wood pipe of Bud Heyland. It was not to be supposed that two persons, engaged in an unlawful business, would sit down beside a public highway and hold a conversation in such a loud voice that any one in the neighborhood would be able to learn all their secrets. Fred Sheldon got quite close, but though the murmur was continued with more distinctness than before, he could not distinguish many words nor keep the run of the conversation. There may have been something in the fact that the faces of the two, as a rule, were turned away from the listener, but now and then in speaking one of them would look at the other and raise his voice slightly. This indicated that he was more in earnest just then, and Fred caught a word or two without difficulty, the fragments, as they reached him, making a queer jumble. Bud Heyland's voice was first identified in the jumble and murmur. "Big thing--clean two thousand--got it down fine, Sutton." The reply of the companion was not audible, but Bud continued staring at him and smoking so furiously that the boy, crouching behind them, plainly saw the vapor as it curled upward and tainted the clear summer air above their heads. In a moment, however, Fred caught the profile of Cyrus Sutton against the starlight background, while that of young Heyland and his briar-wood looked as if drawn in ink against the sky. Both were looking at each other, and the words reached him more distinctly. "Must be careful--dangerous business--been there myself, Bud, don't be in a hurry." This, of course, was spoken by the cattle drover, and it was plain that it must refer to the robbery. Bud was laboring under some impatience and was quick to make answer. "Can't play this sick bus'ness much longer--must join the circus at Belgrade in a few days--must make a move pretty soon." "Won't keep you waiting long--but the best jobs in--country--spoiled by haste. Take it easy till you can be sure how the land lies." "That may all be--but----" Just then Bud Heyland turned his head so that only the back portion was toward the listener, and his voice dropped so low that it was some time before another word could be distinguished. Fred Sheldon was deeply interested, for a new and strong suspicion was beginning to take possession of him. It seemed to him on the sudden that the two worthies were not discussing the past so much as they were the future. That is, instead of talking about the despoiling of the Perkinpine mansion, a few nights before, they were laying plans for the commission of some new offense. "That Sutton is a regular burglar," thought Fred, "and he has come down here to join Bud, and they're going to rob all the houses in the neighborhood. I wonder whom they're thinking about now." The anxiety of the eavesdropper to hear more of what passed between the conspirators was so great that he grew less guarded in his movements than he should have been. His situation was such already that had the suspicion of the two been directed behind them they would have been almost sure to discover the listener; but, although they should have been careful themselves, it was hardly to be expected that they would be looking for spies in such a place and at such a time. Fred caught several words, which roused his curiosity to such a point that he determined to hear more, though the risk should be ten times as great. As silently, therefore, as possible, he crept forward until he was within a dozen feet of the rock on which Heyland and Sutton sat. The fact that the two had their faces turned away from him, still interfered with the audibility of the words spoken in a lower tone than the others, but the listener heard enough to fill him not only with greater anxiety than ever, but with a new fear altogether. Without giving all the fragments his ear caught, he picked up enough to convince him that Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton were discussing their past deeds and laying plans for the commission of some new act of evil. It was the latter fact which so excited the boy that he almost forgot the duty of using care against being discovered, and gradually crept up near enough to keep the run of the conversation. But, when he had secured such a position, he was annoyed beyond bearing by the silence, occasionally broken, of the two. It looked, indeed, as if they had got through the preliminaries of some evil scheme, and were now speaking in a desultory way of anything which came in their heads, while one smoked his pipe and the other his cigar. Cyrus Sutton held a jack-knife in his hand, which he now and then rubbed against a portion of the rock, as if to sharpen the blade, while he puffed the smoke first on the one side of his head and then on the other. Bud was equally attentive to his pipe, the strong odor of which at times almost sickened young Sheldon. Bud had not his whip with him, and he swung his legs and knocked his heels against the rock and seemed as well satisfied with himself as such worthless fellows generally are. "It's a pretty big thing and it will take a good deal of care and skill to work it through." This remark was made by Sutton, after a minute's pause on the part of both, and was instantly commented upon by Bud in his off-hand style. "Of course it does, but don't you s'pose we know all that? Haven't we done it in more than one other place than Tottenville?" "Yes," said Sutton, "and I've run as close to the wind as I want to, and closer than I mean to again, if I can help it." "Well, then," said Bud, "we'll fix it to-morrow night." "All right," said the drover, "but remember you can't be too careful, Bud, for this is a dangerous business." "I reckon I'm as careful as you or any one else," retorted the youth, "and ain't in any need of advice." These words disclosed one important fact to Fred Sheldon; they showed that the unlawful deed contemplated was fixed for the succeeding night. "They're going to break into another house," he mentally said, "and to-morrow is the time. Now, if I can only learn whose house it is, I will tell Archie Jackson." This caused his heart to beat faster, and again the lad thought of nothing else than to listen and catch the words of the conspirators. "Do you think we can manage it alone?" asked Sutton, turning his head so that the words were unmistakably distinct. "What's to hinder? Halloo! what's that?" Bud Heyland straightened himself and looked up and down the road. The affrighted Fred Sheldon saw his head and shoulders rise to view as he glanced about him, while his companion seemed occupied also in looking and listening. What was it they had heard? The lad was not aware that he had made the slightest noise, but the next guarded remark of Heyland startled him. "I heard something move, as if in the grass." "It would be a pretty thing if some one overheard our plans," said Cyrus Sutton, turning squarely about, so that his face was toward the crouching lad; "we ought to have looked out for that. Where did it seem to come from?" "Maybe I was mistaken; it was very faint, and I couldn't think of the right course; it may have been across the road or behind us." Fred Sheldon began to think it was time for him to withdraw, for his situation was becoming a dangerous one, indeed. "I guess you were mistaken," said Sutton, off-hand; "this is a slow neighborhood and the people don't know enough to play such a game as that." "You was saying a minute ago that you couldn't be too careful; I'll take a look across the road and up and down, while you can see how things are over the fence there." The last clause referred to the hiding place of Fred Sheldon, who wondered how it was he had not already been seen, when he could distinguish both forms so plainly, now that they stood up on their feet. It looked as if detection was certain, even without the two men shifting their positions in the least. The lad was lying flat on the ground and so motionless that he might have hoped to escape if special attention were not called to him. But he felt that if the cattle-drover came over the fence it would be useless to wait a second. As Bud Heyland spoke he started across the highway, while Cyrus Sutton called out: "All right!" As he did so he placed his hand on the top rail of the fence and with one bound leaped over, dropping upon his feet within a few steps of poor Fred Sheldon, who, with every reason for believing he had been seen, sprang to his feet and ran for dear life. CHAPTER XIV. FRED'S BEST FRIEND. Fred Sheldon sprang up from his hiding-place in the grass, almost before the drover vaulted over the fence, and ran across the meadow in the manner he did when he believed the wandering lion was at his heels. Cyrus Sutton seemed to be confused for the minute, as though he had scared up some strange sort of animal, and he stared until the dark figure began to grow dim in the distance. Even then he might not have said or done anything had not Bud Heyland heard the noise and come clambering over the fence after him. "Why don't you shoot him?" demanded Bud; "he's a spy that has been listening! Let's capture him! Come on! It will never do for him to get away! If we can't overhaul him, we can shoot him on the fly!" The impetuous Bud struck across the lot much the same as a frightened ox would have done when galloping. He was in dead earnest, for he and Sutton had been discussing some important schemes, which it would not do for outsiders to learn anything about. He held his pistol in hand, and was resolved that the spy should not escape him. The skurrying figure was dimly visible in the moonlight, but in his haste and excitement Bud probably did not observe that the object of the chase was of very short stature. Sutton kept close beside Bud, occasionally falling a little behind, as though it was hard work. "He's running as fast as we," said Sutton; "you had better hail him." Bud Heyland did so on the instant. "Hold on there! Stop! Surrender and you will be spared! If you don't stop I'll shoot!" Master Frederick Sheldon believed he was running for life, and, finding he was not overtaken, he redoubled his exertions, his chubby legs carrying him along with a speed which astonished even himself. The terrible hail of his pursuer instead of "bringing him to," therefore, only spurred him to greater exertions. "I give you warning," called out Bud, beginning to pant from the severity of his exertion, "that I'll shoot, and when I take aim I'm always sure to hit something." "That's what makes me so afraid," said Sutton, dropping a little behind, "for I think I'm in more danger than the one ahead." Bud Heyland now raised his revolver and sighted as well as he could at the shadowy figure, which was beginning to edge off to the left. A person on a full run is not certain to make a good shot, and when the weapon was discharged, the bullet missed the fugitive by at least a dozen feet if not more. Bud lowered the pistol and looked to see the daring intruder fall to the ground, but he did not do so, and continued on at the same surprising gait. "That bullet grazed him," said Bud, bringing up his pistol again; "just see how I'll make him drop this time; fix your eye on him, and when I pull the trigger he'll give a yell and jump right up in the air." To make his aim sure, beyond all possibility of failure, the panting pursuer came to a halt for a moment, and resting the barrel on his left arm, as though he were a duelist, he took "dead aim" at the lad and again pulled the trigger. But there is no reason to believe that he came any nearer the mark than in the former instance; and when Sutton said with a laugh: "I don't see him jump and yell, Bud," the marksman, retorted: "You'd better shoot yourself, then." "No; I was afraid you would shoot me instead of him. I think you came nearer me than you did him. Hark! Did you hear the man laugh then. He don't mind us so long as we keep shooting at him." "Did he laugh?" demanded Bud, savagely. "If he laughed at me he shall die!" Hurriedly replacing his useless pistol in his pocket he resumed his pursuit with fierce energy, for he was resolved on overhauling the man who had dared to listen to what had been said. Had Bud been alone he would have left the pursuit to some one else, but with the muscular Cyrus Sutton at his back he was running over with courage and vengeance. Although the halt had been a brief one, yet it could not fail to prove of advantage to the fugitive, who was speeding with might and main across the meadow, and had begun to work off to the left, because he was anxious to reach the shelter of some woods, where he was hopeful of dodging his pursuers. It would seem that Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton could easily outspeed such a small boy as Fred Sheldon, but they were so bulky that it was much harder work for them to run, and they could not last so long. Hitherto they had lumbered along pretty heavily, but now they settled down to work with all the vigor they possessed, realizing that it was useless to expect to capture the fugitive in any other way. Meanwhile Fred Sheldon was doing his "level best;" active and quick in his movements he could run rapidly for one of his years, and could keep it up much longer than those behind him, though for a short distance their speed was the greater. Dreading, as he did, to fall into the hands of Bud Heyland and his lawless companion, he put forth all the power at his command, and glancing over his shoulder now and then he kept up his flight with an energy that taxed his strength and endurance to the utmost. When he found that they were not gaining on him he was encouraged, but greatly frightened by the pistol-shots. He was sure that one of the bullets went through his hat and the other grazed his ear, but so long as they didn't disable him he meant to keep going. He was nearly across the meadow when he recalled that he was speeding directly toward a worm-fence which separated it from the adjoining field. It would take a few precious seconds to surmount that, and he turned diagonally toward the left, as has been stated, because by taking such a course, he could reach the edge of a small stretch of woods, in whose shadows he hoped to secure shelter from his would-be captors. This change in the line of flight could not fail to operate to the disadvantage of the fugitive, for a time at least, for, being understood by Bud and Cyrus, they swerved still more, and sped along with increased speed, so that they rapidly recovered the ground lost a short time before. They were aiming to cut off Fred, who saw his danger at once, and changed his course to what might be called "straight away" again, throwing his pursuers directly behind him. This checked the scheme for the time, but it deprived Fred of his great hope of going over the fence directly into the darkness of the woods. As it was, he was now speeding toward the high worm-fence which separated the field he was in from the one adjoining. Already he could see the long, crooked line of rails, as they stretched out to the right and left in front of him, disappearing in the gloom and looking like mingling lines of India ink against the sky beyond. Even in such stirring moments odd thoughts come to us, and Fred, while on the dead run, compared in his mind the fence rails to the crooked and erratic lines he had drawn with his pen on a sheet of white paper. Although he could leap higher in the air and further on the level than any lad of his age, he knew better than to try and vault such a fence. As he approached it, therefore, he slackened his gait slightly, and springing upward with one foot on the middle rail, he placed the other instantly after on the topmost one and went over like a greyhound, with scarcely any hesitation, continuing his flight, and once more swerving to the left toward the woods on which he now fixed his hopes. Possibly Bud Heyland thought that the fact of his being attached to Colonel Bandman's great menagerie and circus called upon him to perform greater athletic feats; for instead of imitating the more prudent course of the fugitive, he made a tremendous effort to clear the fence with one bound. He would have succeeded but for the top three rails. As it was his rather large feet struck them, and he went over with a crash, his hat flying off and his head ploughing quite a furrow in the ground. [Illustration: Bud Heyland fell headlong over the fence in pursuit of Fred. --(See page 151.)] He rolled over several times, and as he picked himself up it seemed as if most of his bones were broken and he never had been so jarred in all his life. "Did you fall?" asked Cyrus Sutton, unable to suppress his laughter, as he climbed hastily after him. "I tripped a little," was the angry reply, "and I don't see anything to laugh at; come on! we'll have him yet!" To the astonishment of the cattle dealer, Bud caught up his hat and resumed the pursuit with only a moment's delay, and limping only slightly from his severe shaking up. Fred Sheldon was dimly visible making for the woods, and the two followed, Sutton just a little behind his friend. "You might as well give it up," said the elder; "he's got too much of a start and is making for cover." "I'm bound to have him before he can reach it, and I'll pay him for all this." No more than one hundred feet separated the parties, when Fred, beginning to feel the effects of his severe exertion, darted in among the shadows of the wood, and, hardly knowing what was the best to do, threw himself flat on the ground, behind the trunk of a large tree, where he lay panting and afraid the loud throbbing of his heart would betray him to his pursuers, who were so close behind him. Had he been given a single minute more he would have made a sharp turn in his course, and thus could have thrown them off the track without difficulty; but, as it was--we shall see. Bud Heyland rushed by within a few feet, and halted a couple of yards beyond, while Sutton stopped within a third of that distance, where Fred lay flat on the ground. "Do you hear him?" asked Bud. "Hear him? No; he's given us the slip, and it's all time thrown away to hunt further for him." Bud uttered an angry exclamation and stood a few minutes listening for some sound that would tell where the eavesdropper was. But nothing was heard, and Sutton moved forward, passing so close to Fred that the latter could have reached out his hand and touched him. "How could he help seeing me?" the boy asked himself, as the man joined Bud Heyland, and the two turned off and moved in the direction of the highway. Some distance away Bud Heyland and Sutton stopped and talked together in such low tones that Fred Sheldon could only hear the murmur of their voices, as he did when he first learned of their presence beside the road. But it is, perhaps, needless to say that he was content to let them hold their conference in peace, without any effort on his part to overhear any more of it. He was only too glad to let them alone, and to indulge a hope that they would be equally considerate toward him. Bud would have continued the search much longer and with a strong probability of success had not Sutton persuaded him that it was only a waste of time to do so. Accordingly they resumed their walk, with many expressions of impatience over their failure to capture the individual who dared to discover their secrets in such an underhanded way. "He looked to me like a very small man," said Bud, as he walked slowly along, dusting the dirt from his clothing and rubbing the many bruised portions of his body. "Of course he was," replied Sutton, "or he wouldn't have gone into that kind of business." "I don't mean that; he seemed like a short man." "Yes, so he was, but there are plenty of full-grown men in this world who are no taller than he." "It's too bad, I broke my pipe all to pieces when I fell over the fence, and jammed the stem half way down my throat." "I thought you had broken your neck," said Sutton, "and you ought to be thankful that you did not." Bud muttered an ill-natured reply, and the two soon after debouched into the highway, along which they continued until the house of the younger was reached, where they stopped a minute or so for a few more words, when they separated for the night. Fred Sheldon waited until they were far beyond sight and hearing, when he cautiously rose to his feet and stood for a short time to make sure he could leave the spot without detection. "I guess I've had enough for one night," he said with a sigh, as he turned off across the meadow until he reached the border of the lane, along which he walked until he knocked at the door of the Misses Perkinpine, where he was admitted with the same cordiality that was always shown him. They seemed to think he had stayed at the hired man's house for a chat with Bud, and made no inquiries, while the boy himself did not deem it best to tell what had befallen him. His recent experience had been so severe upon him that he felt hungry enough to eat another supper, and he would not have required a second invitation to do so, but, as the first was not given, he concluded to deny himself for the once. Fred expected to lie awake a long time after going to bed, trying to solve the meaning of the few significant words he had overheard, but he fell asleep almost immediately, and did not wake until called by Aunt Lizzie. This was Friday, the last school-day of the week, and he made sure of being on hand in time. As he had been absent by the permission of his mother, made known through a note sent before she went to see her brother, Mr. McCurtis could not take him to task for his failure to attend school, but a number of lads who had been tempted away by the circus and the excitement over the escaped lion were punished severely. However, they absented themselves with a full knowledge of what would follow, and took the bitter dregs with the sweet, content to have the pain if they might first have the pleasure. "I have excused several of you," said the teacher, peering very keenly through his glasses at Fred, "for absence, but I have not been asked to excuse any failure in lessons, and I do not intend to do so. Those who have been loitering and wasting their time will soon make it appear when called on to recite, and they must be prepared for the consequences." This remark was intended especially for Fred, who was thankful that he found out what the lessons of the day were, for he had prepared himself perfectly. And it was well he did so, for the teacher seemed determined to puzzle him. Fred was asked every sort of question the lesson could suggest. It had always been said by Mrs. Sheldon that Fred never knew a lesson so long as he failed to see clear through it, and could answer any question germane to it. He felt the wisdom of such instruction on this occasion, when the teacher at the end of the examination allowed him to take his seat and remarked, half angrily: "There's a boy who knows his lessons, which is more than I can say of a good many of you. I think it will be a good thing for him to go out and hunt a few more lions." This was intended as a witticism on the part of the teacher, and, like the urchins of Goldsmith's "Deserted Village," they all laughed with "counterfeit glee," some of the boys roaring as if they would fall off the benches from the excess of their mirth. Mr. McCurtis smiled grimly, and felt it was another proof that when he became a school teacher the world lost one of its greatest comedians and wits. At recess and noon Fred was quite a hero among the scholars. They gathered about him and he had to tell the story over and over again, as well as the dreadful feelings that must have been his when he woke up in the night and found that a real, live burglar was in his room. Like most boys of his age, Fred unconsciously exaggerated in telling the narratives so often, but he certainly deserved credit, not only for his genuine bravery, but for the self-restraint that enabled him to keep back some other things he might have related which would have raised him still more in the admiration of his young friends. "I'm going to tell them to mother first of all," was his conclusion, "and I will take her advice as to what I should do." He brought the lunch the Misses Perkinpine had put up for him, and stayed in the neighborhood of the school-house all noon, with a number of others, who lived some distance away. As the weather was quite warm, the boys sat under a tree, talking over the stirring incidents of the preceding few days. Fred was answering a question for the twentieth time, when he was alarmed by the sudden appearance of Bud Heyland, with his trousers tucked in his boots, his briar-wood pipe--that is, a new one--in his mouth, and his blacksnake-whip in hand. As he walked along he looked at the school-house very narrowly, almost coming to a full stop, and acting as though he was searching for some one. He did not observe that half a dozen boys were stretched out in the shadow of the big tree across the road. "Keep still!" said Fred, in a whisper, "and maybe he won't see us." But young Heyland was not to be misled so easily. Observing that the school was dismissed, he looked all around him, and quickly espied the little fellows lolling in the shade, when he immediately walked over toward them. Fred Sheldon's heart was in his mouth on the instant, for he was sure Bud was looking for him. "He must have known me last night," he thought, "and as he couldn't catch me then he has come to pay me off now." But it would have been a confession of guilt to start and run, and Bud would be certain to overtake him before he could go far, so the boy did not stir from the ground on which he was reclining. "Halloo, Bud," called out several, as he approached. "How are you getting along?" "None of your business," was the characteristic answer; "is Fred Sheldon there?" "I'm here," said Fred, rising to the sitting position. "What do you want of me?" Bud Heyland acted curiously. He looked sharply at the boy, and then said: "I don't want anything of you just now, but I'll see you later," and without anything further he moved on, leaving our hero wondering why he had not asked for the ten dollars due him. Fred expected he would return, and was greatly relieved when the teacher appeared and school was called. Fearful that the bully would wait for him on the road, Fred went to the old brick mansion first, where he stayed till dark, when he decided to run over to his own home, look after matters there, and then return by a new route to the old ladies who were so kind to him. He kept a sharp lookout on the road, but saw nothing of either Bud or Cyrus Sutton. "It seems to me," said Fred to himself, as he approached the old familiar spot, "that I ought to hear something from mother by this time. There isn't any school to-morrow, and I'll walk over to Uncle Will's and find out when she's coming home, and then I'll tell her all I've got to tell, which is so much, with what I want to ask, that it'll take me a week to get through--halloo! What does that mean?" He stopped short in the road, for through the closed blinds of the lower story he caught the twinkling rays of a light that some one had started within. "I wonder whether it is our house they're going to rob to-night," exclaimed Fred, adding the next moment, with a grim humor: "If it is, they will be more disappointed than they ever were in their lives." A minute's thought satisfied him that no one with a view to robbery was there, for the good reason that there was nothing to steal, as anyone would be quick to learn. "It must be some tramp prowling around in the hope of getting something to eat. Anyway, I will soon find out----" Just then the window was raised, the shutters thrown wide open by some person, who leaned part way out the window in full view. One glance was enough for Fred Sheldon to recognize that face and form, the dearest on earth, as seen in the starlight, with the yellow rays of the lamp behind them. "Halloo, mother! Ain't I glad to see you? How are you? Bless your dear soul! What made you stay away so long?" "Fred, my own boy!" And leaning out the window she threw both arms about the neck of the lad, who in turn threw his about her, just as the two always did when they met after a brief separation. The fact of it was, Fred Sheldon was in love with his mother and always had been, and that sort of boy is sure to make his mark in this world. A few minutes later the happy boy had entered the house and was sitting at the tea table, eating very little and talking very much. The mother told him that his uncle had been dangerously ill, but had begun to mend that day, and was now believed to have passed the crisis of his fever, and would soon get well. She therefore expected to stay with her boy all the time. And then the delighted little fellow began his story, or rather series of stories, while the kind eyes of the handsome and proud parent were fixed on the boy with an interest which could not have been stronger. Her face paled when, in his own graphic way, he pictured his lonely watch in the old brick mansion, and the dreadful discovery that the wicked tramp had entered the building stealthily behind him. She shuddered to think that her loved one had been so imperiled, and was thankful indeed that Providence had protected him. Then the story of the lion, of its unexpected breaking out from the cage, the panic of the audience, his encounter with it in the lane, its entry into the smoke-house, his shutting the door, and finally how he earned and received the reward. All this was told with a childish simplicity and truthfulness which would have thrilled any one who had a less personal interest than the boy's mother. As I have said, there were no secrets that the son kept from his parent. He told how he saw that the tramp wore false whiskers and how he dropped a knife on the floor, which he got and showed to his mother, explaining to her at the same time that the letters were the initials of the young man known through the neighborhood as "Bud" Heyland. "That may all be," said she, smilingly, "and yet Bud may be as innocent as you or I." "How is that?" asked Fred, wonderingly. "He may have traded or lost the knife, or some one may have stolen it and left it there on purpose to turn suspicion toward Bud. Such things have been done many a time, and it is odd that anyone could drop a knife in such a place without knowing it." Fred opened his eyes. "Then Bud is innocent, you think?" "No, I believe he is guilty, for you say you were pretty sure of his voice, but it won't do to be too certain. As to the other man, who misled you when you met him in the lane, it is a hard thing to say who he is." "Why, mother, I'm surer of him than I am of Bud, and I'm dead sure of him, you know." "What are your reasons?" Fred gave them as they are already known to the reader. The wise little woman listened attentively, and said when he had finished: "I don't wonder that you think as you do, but you once was as sure, as I understand, of Mr. Kincade, the one who paid you the reward." "That is so," assented Fred, "but I hadn't had so much time to think over the whole matter." "Very probably you are right, for they are intimate, and they are staying in the neighborhood for no good. Tell me just what you heard them say last night, when they sat on the rock by the roadside. Be careful not to put in any words of your own, but give only precisely what you know were spoken by the two." The boy did as requested, the mother now and then asking a question and keeping him down close to the task of telling only the plain, simple truth, concerning which there was so much of interest to both. When he was through she said the words of the two showed that some wicked scheme was in contemplation, though nothing had been heard to indicate its precise nature. The matter having been fully told the question remained--and it was the great one which underlay all others--what could Fred do to earn the large reward offered by the two ladies who had lost their property? "Remember," said his mother, thoughtfully, "you are only a small boy fourteen years old, and it is not reasonable to think you can out-general two bad persons who have learned to be cunning in all they do." "Nor was it reasonable to think I would out-general a big lion," said Fred, with a laugh, as he leaned on his mother's lap and looked up in her eyes. "No; but that lion was old and harmless; he might have spent the remainder of his days in this neighborhood without any one being in danger." "But we didn't know that." "But you know that Bud Heyland and this Mr. Sutton are much older than you and are experienced in evil doing." "So was the lion," ventured Fred, slyly, quite hopeful of earning the prize on which he had set his heart. "I have been thinking that maybe I ought to tell Mr. Jackson, the constable, about the knife, with Bud's name on it." "No," said the mother. "It isn't best to tell him anything, for he has little discretion. He boasts too much about what he is going to do; the wise and skilful man never does that." Mrs. Sheldon had "gauged" the fussy little constable accurately when she thus described him. "Fred," suddenly said his mother, "do not the Misses Perkinpine expect you to stay at their house to-night?" "Yes, I told them I would be back, and they will be greatly surprised, for I didn't say anything about your coming home, because I thought Uncle Will was so sick you wouldn't be able to leave him." "Then you had better run over and explain why it is you cannot stay with them to-night." The affectionate boy disliked to leave his mother when they were holding such a pleasant conversation, but he could please her only by doing so, and donning his broad-brimmed straw hat, and bidding her good-night, passed out the door, promising soon to return. Fred was so anxious to spend the evening at home that he broke into a trot the instant he passed out the gate, and kept it up along the highway until he reached the short lane, which was so familiar to him. The same eagerness to return caused him to forget one fact that had hitherto impressed him, which was that the conspiracy of Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton was intended to be carried out this same evening. The boy had gone almost the length of the lane when he was surprised to observe a point of light moving about in the shadow of the trees, the night being darker than the previous one. "What under the sun can that be?" he asked, stopping short and scrutinizing it with an interest that may be imagined. Viewed from where he stood, it looked like a jack-o'-lantern, or a candle which some one held in his hand while moving about. It had that swaying, up-and-down motion, such as a person makes when walking rapidly, while now and then it shot up a little higher, as though the bearer had raised it over his head to get a better view of his surroundings. "Well, that beats everything I ever heard of," muttered Fred, resuming his walk toward the house; "it must be some kind of a lantern, and maybe it's one of them dark ones which robbers use, and they are taking a look at the outside to see which is the best way of getting inside, though I don't think there is anything left for them." The distance to the house was so short that Fred soon reached the yard. On his way thither the strange light vanished several times, only to reappear again, its occasional eclipse, no doubt, being due to the intervening vegetation. When the boy came closer he saw that the lantern was held in the hand of Aunt Lizzie, who was walking slowly around the yard, with her sister by her side, while they peered here and there with great deliberation and care. "Why, Aunt Lizzie!" called out Fred, as he came up, "what are you looking for?" The good ladies turned toward him with a faint gasp of fright, and then gave utterance to an expression of thankfulness. "Why, Frederick, we are looking for you," was the reply, and then, complimenting his truthfulness, she added, "you promised to come back, and we knew you wouldn't tell a story, and sister and I thought maybe you were hungry and sick somewhere around the yard, and if so we were going to get you into the house and give you some supper." "Why, aunties, I've had supper," laughed Fred, amused beyond measure at the simplicity of the good ladies. "We didn't suppose that made any difference," was the kind remark of the good ladies, who showed by the observation that they had a pretty accurate knowledge after all of this particular specimen of boyhood. CHAPTER XV. THE MEETING IN THE WOOD. Fred Sheldon told his good friends that inasmuch as his mother had returned, he would stay at home hereafter, though he promised to drop in upon them quite often and "take dinner or supper." The lantern was blown out and the sisters went inside, where, for the present, we must bid them good-night, and the lad started homeward. He had not quite reached the main highway, when, in the stillness of the night, he caught the rattle of carriage or wagon wheels. There was nothing unusual in this, for it was the place and time to look for vehicles, many of which went along the road at all hours of the day and night. But so many strange things had happened to Fred during the week now drawing to a close that he stopped on reaching the outlet of the lane, and, standing close to the shaded trunk of a large tree, waited until the wagon should go by. As it came nearer he saw that it was what is known in some parts of the country as a "spring-wagon," being light running, with a straight body and without any cover, so that the driver, sitting on the front seat, was the most conspicuous object about it. As it came directly opposite Fred could see that the driver wore a large sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a pipe. At the same moment, too, he gave a peculiar sound, caused by an old habit of clearing his throat, which identified him at once as Bud Heyland. "That's odd," thought Fred, stepping out from his place of concealment and following after him; "when Bud goes out at night with a strange wagon or alone, or with Cyrus Sutton, there's something wrong on foot." Not knowing what was best for him to do, Fred walked behind the wagon a short distance, for the horse was going so slow that this was an easy matter. But all at once Bud struck the animal a sharp blow, which sent him spinning forward at such a rate that he speedily vanished in the darkness. Young Sheldon continued walking toward home, his thoughts busy until he reached the stretch of woods, where the courage of any boy would have been tried in passing it after nightfall. Brave as he undoubtedly was, Fred felt a little shiver, when fairly among the dense shadows, for there were some dismal legends connected with it, and these had grown with the passage of years. But Fred had never turned back for anything of the kind, and he was now so cheered by the prospect of being soon again with his mother that he stepped off briskly, and would have struck up one of his characteristic whistling tunes had he not heard the rattle of the same wagon which Bud Heyland drove by a short while before. "That's strange," thought the lad; "he couldn't have gone very far, or he wouldn't have come back so soon." The darkness was so profound over the stretch of road leading through the wood that Fred had no fear of being seen as he stepped a little to one side and waited for the vehicle to pass. Fortunately for night travel, the portion of the highway which led through the forest was not long, for, without the aid of a lantern, no one could see whither he was going, and everything had to be left to the instinct of the horse himself. The beast approached at a slow walk, while Bud no doubt was perched on the high front seat, using his eyes for all they were worth, which was nothing at all where the gloom was so impenetrable. He must have refilled his pipe a short time before, for he was smoking so vigorously that the ember-like glow of the top of the tobacco could be seen, and the crimson reflection even revealed the end of Bud's nose and the faintest possible glimpse of his downy mustache and pimply cheeks, as they glided through the darkness. The light from this pipe was so marked that Fred moved back a step or two, afraid it might reveal him to his enemy. His withdrawal was not entirely satisfactory to himself, as he could not observe where to place his feet, and striking his heels against a fallen limb, he went over backward with quite a bump. "Who's that?" demanded Bud Heyland, checking his horse and glaring about in the gloom; "is that you, Sutton?" Fred thought it wiser to make no response, and he silently got upon his feet again. Bud repeated his question in a husky undertone, and receiving no reply muttered some profanity and started the horse forward at the same slow, deliberate pace. Wondering what it could all mean, young Sheldon stood in the middle of the road, looking in the direction of the vanishing wagon, of which, as a matter of course, he could not catch the slightest glimpse, and asking himself whether it would be wise to investigate further. "There's some mischief going on, and it may be that I can--halloo!" Once more Bud Heyland drew his horse to a halt, and the same solemn stillness held reign as before. But it was only for a minute or two, when Bud gave utterance to a low whistle, which sounded like the tremolo notes of a flute, on the still air. Fred Sheldon recalled that the bully used to indulge in that peculiar signal when he attended school, merely because he fancied it, and when there could be no significance at all attached to it. It was now repeated several times, with such intervals as to show that Bud was expecting a reply, though none could be heard by the lad, who was listening for a response. All at once, yielding to a mischievous impulse, Fred Sheldon replied, imitating Bud's call with astonishing accuracy. Instantly the bully seized upon it, and the signal was exchanged several times, when Bud sprang out of his wagon and came toward the spot where the other stood. Fred was frightened when he found there was likely to be a meeting between him and the one he dreaded so much, and he became as silent as the tomb. Bud advanced through the gloom, continually whistling and giving utterance to angry expressions because he was not answered, while Fred carefully picked his way a few paces further to the rear to escape discovery. "Why don't you speak?" called out Bud; "if you can whistle you can use your voice, can't you?" Although this question could have been easily answered, Fred Sheldon thought it best to hold his peace. "If you ain't the biggest fool that ever undertook to play the gentleman!" added the disgusted bully, groping cautiously among the trees; "everything is ready for----" Just then an outstretching limb passed under the chin of Bud Heyland, and, though walking slowly, he thought it would lift his head off his shoulders before he could stop himself. When he did so he was in anything but an amiable mood, and Fred, laughing, yet scared, was glad he had the friendly darkness in which to find shelter from the ugliness of the fellow. Bud had hardly regained anything like his self-possession when he caught a similar signal to those which had been going on for some minutes between Fred Sheldon and himself. It came from some point beyond Fred, but evidently in the highway. The angry Heyland called out: "What's the matter with you? Why don't you come on, you fool?" The person thus addressed hurried over the short distance until he was close to where Bud stood rubbing his chin and muttering all sorts of bad words at the delay and pain to which he had been subjected. "Halloo, Bud, where are you?" Guarded as the voice was, Fred immediately recognized it as belonging to Cyrus Sutton, the cattle drover. "I'm here; where would I be?" growled the angry bully. "Tumbling over a fence, or cracking your head against a tree, I suppose," said Sutton, with a laugh; "when I whistled to you, why didn't you whistle back again, as we agreed to do?" It is easy to picture the scowling glare which Bud Heyland turned upon Sutton as he answered: "You're a purty one to talk about signals, ain't you? After answering me half a dozen times, and I got close to you, you must shut up your mouth, and while I went groping about, I came near sawing my head off with a knotty limb. When you heard me, why did you stop?" "Heard you? What are you talking about?" "Didn't you whistle to me a while ago, and didn't you keep it up till I got here, and then you stopped? What are you talking about, indeed!" "I was a little late," said Sutton, who began to suspect the truth, "and have just come into the wood; I whistled to you, and then you called to me in a rather more personal style than I think is good taste, and I came forward and here I am, and that's all there is about it." "Wasn't that you that answered my whistling a little while ago?" asked Bud Heyland in an undertone, that fairly trembled with dread. "No, sir; as I have explained to you, I signaled to find where you were only a minute since, and I heard nothing of the kind from you." "Then we're betrayed!" Words would fail to depict the tragic manner in which Bud Heyland gave utterance to this strange remark. His voice was in that peculiar condition, known as "changing," and at times was a deep bass, sometimes breaking into a thin squeak. He sank it to its profoundest depths as he slowly repeated the terrifying expression, and the effect would have been very impressive, even to Cyrus Sutton, but for the fact that on the last word his voice broke and terminated with a sound like that made by a domestic fowl when the farmer seizes it by the head with the intention of wringing its neck. But Cyrus Sutton seemed to think that it was anything else than a laughing matter, and he asked the particulars of Bud, who gave them in a stealthily modulated voice, every word of which was plainly heard by Fred Sheldon, who began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. "You remember the man that was behind us listening when we sat on the rock last night?" asked Bud. "Of course I do." "Well, he's watching us still, and ain't far off this very minute. I wish I had a chance to draw a bead on him." "You drew several beads last night," said Sutton. "See here," snarled Bud, "that's enough of that. I'll give you a little advice for your own good--let it drop." "Well, Bud," said the other, in an anxious voice, "it won't do to try it on now if some one is watching us. So drive back to Tottenville, put the horse away and we'll take a look around to-morrow night. If the coast is clear we'll wind the business up." "It's got to be wound up then," said the bully, earnestly; "it won't do for me to wait any longer; I've got to j'ine the circus on Monday, and I must start on Sunday to make it." "Very well; then we'll take a look around to-morrow and fix things at night." "Agreed," said Bud, "for you can see that if some officer is watching us--halloo!" This exclamation was caused by the sudden sound of wagon wheels, and man and boy knew at once that Bud's horse, probably tired of standing still, had started homeward with the enthusiasm of a steed who believes that a good supper is awaiting him. CHAPTER XVI. BUD'S MISHAPS. When a horse takes it into his head to go home, with a view of having a good meal, the attraction seems to become stronger from the moment he makes the first move. Bud Heyland's animal began with a very moderate pace, but he increased it so rapidly that by the time the angry driver was on the run, the quadruped was going almost equally as fast. In the hope of scaring the brute into stopping Bud shouted: "Whoa! whoa! Stop, or I'll kill you!" If the horse understood the command, he did not appreciate the threat, and, therefore, it served rather as a spur to his exertion, for he went faster than ever. It is well known, also, that under such circumstances the sagacious animal is only intent on reaching home with the least delay, and he does not care a pin whether his flight injures the vehicle behind him or not. In fact, he seems to be better pleased if it does suffer some disarrangement. When, therefore, the animal debouched from the wood into the faint light under the stars he was on a gallop, and the wagon was bounding along from side to side in an alarming way. Bud was not far behind it, and shouting in his fiercest manner, he soon saw that he was only wasting his strength. He then ceased his outcries and devoted all his energies to overtaking the runaway horse. "It'll be just like him to smash the wagon all to flinders," growled Bud, "and I'll have to pay for the damages." As nearly as could be determined, horse and lad were going at the same pace, the boy slightly gaining, perhaps, and growing more furious each minute, for this piece of treachery on the part of the horse. Some twenty yards separated the pursuer from the team, when a heavy, lumbering wagon loomed to view ahead. "Get out of the road!" called Bud, excitedly. "This hoss is running away, and he'll smash you if you don't!" At such times a farmer is slow to grasp the situation, and the old gentleman, who was half asleep, could not understand what all the rumpus was about, until the galloping horse was upon him. Then he wrenched his lines, hoping to pull his team aside in time, but his honest nags were as slow as their owner, and all they did was to get themselves out of the way, so as to allow the light vehicle to crash into that to which they were attached. It is the frailer vessel which generally goes to the wall at such times, though Bud's was armed with a good deal of momentum. As it was the front wheel was twisted off, and the frightened horse continued at a swifter gait than ever toward his home, while Bud, seeing how useless it was to try to overtake him, turned upon the old farmer, who was carefully climbing out of his wagon to see whether his property had suffered any damage. "Why didn't you get out the way when I hollered to you?" demanded the panting Bud, advancing threateningly upon him. "Why didn't you holler sooner, my young friend?" asked the old gentleman, in a soft voice. "I yelled to you soon enough, and you're a big fool that you didn't pull aside as I told you. I hope your old rattle-trap has been hurt so it can't be fixed up." "I can't diskiver that it's been hurt at all, and I'm very thankful," remarked the farmer, stooping down and feeling the spokes and axletree with his hands; "but don't you know it is very disrespectful for a boy like you to call an old man a fool?" Bud snarled: "I generally say just what I mean, and what are you going to do about it, old Hay Seed?" The gentleman thus alluded to showed what he meant to do about it, for he reached quietly upward and lifted his whip from its socket in the front of the wagon. "I say again," added Bud, not noticing the movement, and swaggering about, "that any man who acts like you is a natural born fool, and the best thing you can do is to go home----" Just then something cracked like a pistol shot and the whip of the old farmer whizzed about the legs of the astounded scapegrace, who, with a howl similar to that which Fred Sheldon uttered under similar treatment, bounded high in air and started on a run in the direction of his flying vehicle. At the second step the whip descended again, and it was repeated several times before the terrified Bud could get beyond reach of the indignant gentleman, who certainly showed more vigor than any one not knowing him would have looked for. "Some boys is very disrespectful, and should be teached manners," he muttered, turning calmly about and going back to his team, which stood sleepily in the road awaiting him. "What's getting into folks?" growled Bud Heyland, trying to rub his smarting legs in half a dozen places at once; "that's the sassiest old curmudgeon I ever seen. If I'd knowed he was so sensitive I wouldn't have argued the matter so strong. Jingo! But he knows how to swing a whip. When he brought down the lash on to me, I orter just jumped right into him and knocked him down, and I'd done it, too, if I hadn't been afraid of one thing, which was that he'd knocked me down first. Plague on him! I'll get even with him yet. I wish----" Bud stopped short in inexpressible disgust, for just then he recalled that he had his loaded revolver with him, and he ought to have used it to defend himself. The assault of the old gentleman was so sudden that his victim had no time to think of anything but to place himself beyond reach of his strong and active arm. "I don't know what makes me so blamed slow in thinking of things," added Bud, resuming the rubbing of his legs and his walk toward Tottenville, "but I must learn to wake up sooner. I'm sure I got in some good work to-day, and I'll finish it up in style to-morrow night, or my name ain't Nathaniel Higgins Heyland, and then I'm going to skip out of this slow place in a hurry and have a good time with the boys. What's that?" He discerned the dim outlines of some peculiar looking object in the road, and going to it, suddenly saw what it was. "Yes, I might have knowed it!" he muttered, with another forcible expression; "it's a wagon wheel; the second one off that good-for-nothing one I hired of Grimsby, and I'll have a pretty bill to pay when I get there. I 'spose I'll find the rest of the wagon strewed all along the road; yes----" Bud was not far wrong in his supposition, for a little further on he came upon a third wheel, which was leaning against the fence, as though it were "tired," and near by was the fourth. After that the fragments of the ruined vehicle were met with continually, until the angered young man wondered how it was there could be so much material in such an ordinary structure. "It's about time I begun to find something of the horse," he added, with a grim sense of the grotesque humor of the idea; "I wouldn't care if I came across his head and legs scattered along the road, for I'm mad enough agin him to blow him up, but I won't get the chance, for old Grimsby won't let me have him agin when I go out to take a ride to-morrow night." Things could not have been in a worse condition than when Bud, tired and angry, walked up on the porch of the hotel and dropped wearily into one of the chairs that were always there. Old Mr. Grimsby was awaiting him, and said the animal was badly bruised, and as for the wagon, the only portion he could find any trace of was the shafts, which came bounding into the village behind the flying horse. Mr. Grimsby's principal grief seemed to be that Bud himself had not shared the fate of the wagon, and he did not hesitate to so express himself. "The damages won't be a cent less than a hundred dollars," added the angry keeper of the livery stable. "Will you call it square for that?" asked Bud, looking at the man, who was leaning against the post in front of him. "Yes, of course I will?" "Very well; write out a receipt in full and sign it and I'll pay it." Mr. Grimsby scanned him curiously for a minute, and then said: "If you're in earnest come over to my office." Bud got up and followed him into his little dingy office, where he kept a record of his humble livery business, and after considerable fumbling with his oil-lamp, found pen and paper and the receipt was written and signed. While he was thus employed Bud Heyland had counted one hundred dollars in ten-dollar bills, which he passed over to Mr. Grimsby, who, as was his custom, counted them over several times. As he did so he noticed that they were crisp, new bills, and looked as if they were in circulation for the first time. He carefully folded them up and put them away in his wallet with a grim smile, such as is apt to be shown by a man of that character when he thinks he has got the better of a friend in a bargain or trade. And as Bud Heyland walked out he smiled, too, in a very meaning way. CHAPTER XVII. TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS. Fred Sheldon did not give much attention to Bud Heyland after he started in pursuit of his runaway horse, but, turning in the opposite direction, he moved carefully through the wood toward his mother's house. He did not forget that Cyrus Sutton was somewhere near him, and the boy dreaded a meeting with the cattle drover almost as much as he did with Bud Heyland himself; but he managed to get out of the piece of wood without seeing or being seen by him, and then he made all haste to his own home, where he found his mother beginning to wonder over his long absence. Fred told the whole story, anxious to hear what she had to say about a matter on which he had made up his own mind. "It looks as though Bud Heyland and this Mr. Sutton, that you have told me about, are partners in some evil doing." "Of course they are; it can't be anything else, but what were they doing in the woods with the wagon?" "Perhaps they expected to meet some one else." "I don't think so, from what they said; it would have been better if I hadn't whistled to Bud, wouldn't it?" "Perhaps not," replied the mother, "for it looks as if by doing so you prevented their perpetrating some wrong for which they had laid their plans, and were frightened by finding some one else was near them." "I'm going to take a look through that wood to-morrow and keep watch; I think I will find out something worth knowing." "You cannot be too careful, Fred, for it is a wonder to me that you have kept out of trouble so long----" Both were startled at this moment by the closing of the gate, followed by a rapid footstep along the short walk, and then came a sharp knocking on the door. Fred sprang up from his seat beside his mother and quickly opened the door. The fussy little constable, Archie Jackson, stood before them. "Good evening, Frederick; good evening, Mrs. Sheldon," he said, looking across the room to the lady and taking off his hat to her, as he stepped within. The handsome little lady arose, bowed and invited him to a seat, which he accepted, bowing his thanks again. It was easy to see from the manner of Archie that he was full of the most important kind of business. He was in danger of tipping his chair over, from the prodigious extent to which he threw out his breast, as he carefully deposited his hat on the floor beside him and cleared his throat, with a vigor which could have been heard by any one passing outside. "A pleasant night," he remarked, looking benignantly upon Mrs. Sheldon, who nodded her head to signify that she agreed with him in his opinion of the weather. After this preliminary he came to the point--that is, in his own peculiar way. "Mrs. Sheldon, you have a very fine boy there," he said, nodding toward Fred, who turned quite red in the face. "I am glad to hear you have such a good opinion of him," was the modest manner in which the mother acknowledged the compliment to her only child. "I understand that he is the brightest scholar in school, and has the reputation of being truthful and honest, and I know him to be as full of pluck and courage as a--a--spring lamb," added the constable, clearing his throat again, to help him out of his search for a metaphor. Mrs. Sheldon simply bowed and smiled, while Archie looked at his right hand, which was still swollen and tender from its violent contact with the stump that he mistook for the lion some nights before. He remarked something about hurting it in the crack of the door when playing with his children, and added: "Fred has become quite famous from the shrewd manner in which he captured the lion." "I don't see as he deserves any special credit for that," observed the mother, "for I understand the animal was such an old one that he was almost harmless, and then he was kind enough to walk into the smoke-house and give Fred just the chance he needed. I regard it rather as a piece of good fortune than a display of courage." "You are altogether too modest, Mrs. Sheldon--altogether too modest. Think of his stealing up to the open door of the smoke or milk-house when the creatur' was crunching bones inside! I tell you, Mrs. Sheldon, it took a great deal more courage than you will find in most men to do that." The lady was compelled to admit that it was a severe test of the bravery of a boy, but she insisted that Fred had been favored by Providence, or good fortune, as some called it. "What I want to come at," added Archie, clearing his throat again and spitting in his hat, mistaking it for the cuspidor on the other side, "is that I would be pleased if he could secure the reward which the Misses Perkinpine have offered for the recovery of their silverware, to say nothing of the money that was taken." "It would be too unreasonable to hope that he could succeed in such a task as that." "I'm not so sure, when you recollect that he saw the two parties who were engaged in the burglarious transaction. I thought maybe he might have some clew which would enable the officers of the law to lay their fingers on the guilty parties." Fred was half tempted to say that he had such a clew in his pocket that very minute, but he was wise enough to hold his peace. Once more the constable cleared his throat. "But such is not the fact--ah, excuse me--I thought that was the spittoon, instead of my hat--how stupid!--and to relieve his mind of the anxiety which I know he must feel, I have called to make a statement." Having said this much the visitor waited until he thought his auditors were fully impressed, when he added: "When this robbery was made known to me I sent to New York city at once for one of the most famous detectives, giving him full particulars and urging him to come without delay; but for some reason, which I cannot understand, Mr. Carter has neither come nor written--a very discourteous proceeding on his part, to say the least; so I undertook the whole business alone--that is, without asking the help of anyone." "I hope you have met with success," was the truthful wish expressed by Mrs. Sheldon. "I have, I am glad to inform you. I have found out who the man was that, in the disguise of a tramp, eat a meal at the house of the Misses Perkinpine on Monday evening, and who afterward entered the building stealthily, and with the assistance of a confederate carried off all their valuable silverware and a considerable amount of money." "You've fastened it on Bud, eh?" asked Fred, greatly interested. The constable looked impressively at the lad, and said: "There's where you make a great mistake; in fact, nothing in this world is easier than to make an error. I was sure it was Bud from what you told me, and you will remember I hinted as much to him on the day of the circus." "Yes, and he turned red in the face and was scared." "His face couldn't turn much redder than it is, and blushing under such circumstances can't always be taken as a proof of guilt; but I set to work and I found the guilty man." "And it wasn't Bud?" "He hadn't anything to do with it." "But there were two of them, for I saw them." "Of course; and I know the other man also." This was important news indeed, and mother and son could only stare at their visitor in amazement. The constable, with all the pomposity of which he was master, picked up his hat from the floor and arose to his feet. "Of course a detective doesn't go round the country boasting of what he has done and is going to do. Those who know me, know that I am one of the most modest of men and rarely speak of my many exploits. But I may tell you that you can prepare yourselves for one of the greatest surprises of your life." "When is it going to come?" asked Fred. "Very soon; in a day or two; maybe to-morrow; at any rate by Monday at the latest." Mrs. Sheldon saw that the fussy officer was anxious to tell more and needed but the excuse of a question or two from her. But she did not ask him anything, for with the intuition of her sex she had read his nature the first time she talked with him, and she had little faith in his high-sounding declaration of success. Still, she knew that it was not unlikely he had stumbled upon the truth, while groping about; but she could form no idea, of who the suspected parties were, and she allowed her visitor to bid her good evening without gaining any further knowledge of them. Archie was heard walking down the path and out the gate, still clearing his throat, and doubtless with his shoulders thrown to the rear so far that he was in danger of falling over backwards. Mrs. Sheldon smiled in her quiet way after his departure, and said: "I can't feel much faith in him, but it may be he has found who the guilty ones are." "I don't believe it," replied Fred, stoutly; "for, when he declares that Bud had nothing to do with it, I know he is wrong. Suppose I had taken out this knife and told him all about it, what would he have said?" "It wouldn't have changed his opinion, for he is one of those men whose opinions are set and very difficult to change. He is confident he is right, and we shall know what it all means in a short time." "Perhaps I will find out something to-morrow." "More than likely you will fail altogether----" To the surprise of both, they heard the gate open and shut again, another series of hastening steps sounded upon the gravel, and in a moment a quick, nervous rap came upon the door. "Archie has come back to tell us the rest of his story," said Fred, springing up to answer the summons; "I thought he couldn't go away without letting us know----" But the lad was mistaken, for, when he opened the door, who should he see standing before him but Cyrus Sutton, the cattle drover, and the intimate friend of Bud Heyland? He smiled pleasantly, doffed his hat, bowed and apologized for his intrusion, adding: "I am sure you hardly expected me, and I only came because it was necessary that I should meet you both. Ah!" Mrs. Sheldon had risen and advanced a couple of steps to greet her visitor, but, while the words were in her mouth she stopped short and looked wonderingly at him. And Cyrus Sutton did the same respecting her; Fred, beholding the interesting spectacle of the two, whom he had believed to be utter strangers, staring at each other, with a fixidity of gaze, followed the next moment by an expression of looks and words which showed that this was not the first time they had met. Fred's first emotion was that of resentment that such a worthless and evil-disposed man should presume to smile, extend his hand and say, as he advanced: "This is a surprise, indeed! I had no idea that Mrs. Sheldon was you." "And when I heard of Mr. Cyrus Sutton I never dreamed that it could be you," she answered. She was about to add something more when he motioned her not to speak the words that he had reason to believe were on her tongue, and Fred knew not whether to be still angrier or more amazed. Mr. Cyrus Sutton took the chair to which he was invited and began talking about unimportant matters which it was plain were of no interest to either and were introductory to something that was to follow. This continued several minutes, and then Mrs. Sheldon asked her visitor to excuse her for a minute or two while she accompanied her son to bed. "My dear boy," she said, after they were alone in his little room, and he was about to kneel to say his prayers, "you must not be displeased at what you saw to-night. I know Mr. Cyrus Sutton very well and he has called on some business which he wishes to discuss with me alone." "But he's a thief and robber," said Fred, "and I don't like to have him in the house unless I'm awake to take care of you." "You need have no fears about me," replied the mother, stroking back his hair and kissing the forehead of the manly fellow. "I would be willing to talk before you, but I saw that he preferred not to do so, and as the matter is all in my interest, which you know is yours, it is proper that I should show that much deference to him." "Well, it's all right if you say so," was the hearty response of Fred, who now knelt down and went through his prayers as usual. His mother kissed him good-night and descended the stairs, and in a few minutes the murmur of voices reached the ears of the lad, who could have crept part way down-stairs and heard everything said. But nothing in the world would have induced him to do such a dishonorable thing, and he finally sank to slumber, with the dim words sounding to him, as they do to us in dreams. In the morning his mother laughingly told him he would have to restrain his curiosity for a day or two, but she would tell him all as soon as Mr. Sutton gave his permission. Fred felt all the eagerness natural to one of his years to know the meaning of the strange visit, but he was content to wait his mother's own good time, when she could make known the strange story which he realized she would soon have to tell him. This day was Saturday, and Fred Sheldon determined to use it to the utmost, for he knew the singular incidents in which he had become involved were likely to press forward to some conclusion. After breakfast and his morning chores, he started down the road in the direction of the village, it being his intention to pass through or rather into the wood where Sutton and Bud Heyland had held their meeting of the night before. He had not reached the stretch of forest when he caught sight of Bud himself coming toward him on foot. The sombrero-like hat, the briar-wood pipe and the big boots, with the trousers tucked in the top, could be recognized as far as visible. The bully had not his whip with him, both hands being shoved low down in his trousers pockets. He slouched along until close to Fred, when he stopped, and, leaning on the fence, waited for the boy to come up. Fred would have been glad to avoid him, but there was no good way of doing so. He walked forward, whistling a tune, and made a move as if to go by, nodding his head and saying: "Halloo, Bud." "Hold on; don't be in a hurry," said the other, "I want to see you." "Well, what is it?" asked Fred, stopping before him. "You want to play the thief, do you?" "I don't know what you mean," replied Fred, a half-dozen misgivings stirring his fears. "How about that twenty dollars I gave you to get changed?" "I declare I forgot all about it," replied Fred, greatly relieved that it was no worse. "Did you get it changed?" "Yes, and here are your ten dollars." Bud took the bills and scanned them narrowly, and Fred started on again. "Hold on!" commanded the other; "don't be in such a hurry; don't start ahead agin till I tell you to. Did they ask you any questions when you got it changed?" "Nothing very particular, but changed it very gladly." "Who was it that done it for you?" "I told him the one who gave me the bill didn't wish me to answer any questions, and then this gentleman said it was all right, and just for the fun of the thing I mustn't tell anything about him." Bud Heyland looked at the fellow standing a few feet away as if he hardly understood what this meant. Finally he asked, in his gruff, dictatorial way: "Who was he?" "I cannot tell you." "You cannot? You've got to." "But I can't break my promise, Bud; I wouldn't tell a story to save my life." "Bah, that's some of your mother's stuff; I'll soon take it out of you," said the bully, advancing threateningly toward him. "If you don't tell me all about him I'll break every bone in your body." "You can do it then, for you won't find out." Believing that he would have to fight for his very life, as the bully could catch him before he could get away, Fred drew his knife from his pocket, intending to use it as a weapon of defense. While in the act of opening it, Bud Heyland caught sight of it, and with an exclamation of surprise, he demanded: "Where did you get that?" "I found it," replied Fred, who saw how he had forgotten himself in his fear; "is it yours?" "Let me look at it," said Bud, reaching out his hand for it. Fred hardly knew whether he ought to surrender such a weapon or not, but, as the interest of the bully seemed to center entirely in it, he thought it best to do so. Bud Heyland examined the jack-knife with great interest. One glance was enough for him to recognize it as his own. He opened the blades and shut them two or three times, and then dropped it into his pocket with the remark: "I'll take charge of that, I reckon." "Is it yours?" "I rather think it is, now," answered Bud, with an impudent grin! "Where did you find it?" "Down yonder," answered Fred, pointing in a loose kind of way toward the old brick mansion. "It was stole from me two weeks ago by a tramp, and it's funny that he lost it in this neighborhood. You can go now; I'll let you off this time, 'cause I'm so glad to get my old knife agin that was give to me two years ago." And to the surprise and delight of Fred Sheldon, he was allowed to pass on without further questioning. "I wonder whether I was wrong," said Fred, recalling the words of the bully; "he said he had it stolen from him two weeks ago by a tramp, and mother says that it isn't any proof that Bud is guilty because his knife was found there. Some one might have put it on the floor on purpose, and she says that just such things have been done before by persons who didn't want to be suspected." "That agrees with what the constable says, too," added the boy, still following the same line of thought, "he is sure he has got the right man and it isn't Bud or Cyrus Sutton. Bud is bad enough to do anything of the kind, but maybe I was mistaken." The lad was sorely puzzled, for matters were taking a shape which would have puzzled an older head than his. Everything he had seen and heard for the last few days confirmed his theory that Heyland and Sutton were the guilty ones, and now the theory was being upset in a singular fashion. Fred was in this mental muddle when he awoke to the fact that he had passed the boundary of the wood and would soon be beyond the place where he had intended to make some observations that day. "I don't know whether there's any use in my trying to do anything," he said, still bewildered over what he had seen and heard within the last few hours. Nevertheless, he did try hard, and we may say, succeeded, too. He first looked hastily about him, and seeing no one, turned around and ran back into the wood. He did not remain in the highway itself, but entered the undergrowth, where it would be difficult for any one in the road to detect him. "I noticed that when I spoke about coming here this morning, mother encouraged me, and told me to be careful, and so I will." He now began picking his way through the dense wood with the care of a veritable American Indian stealing upon the camp of an enemy. CHAPTER XVIII. EUREKA! This was the wood where Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton held their stolen interview the night before. The former was now in the immediate neighborhood, so that Fred Sheldon had reason to think something would be done in the same place before the close of day, or at most, before the rising of to-morrow's sun. No one could have been more familiar with this small stretch of forest than was our young hero, who did not take a great while to reach a point close to the other side. He was near the road which wound its way through it, but was on the watch to escape being seen by any one passing by. Having reached this point, Fred stood several minutes, uncertain what he ought to do. Evidently there was nothing to be gained by advancing further, nor by turning back, so he waited. "I wonder where Bud has gone. There is something in the wood which he is interested in----" The thought was not expressed when the rustling of leaves was heard, and Fred knew some one was near him. Afraid of being discovered, he shrank close to the trunk of a large tree, behind which he could hide himself the moment it became necessary. No doubt the person moving through the wood was using some care, but he did not know how to prevent the rustling of the leaves, and it is not likely he made much effort. At any rate the advantage was on the side of Fred, who, a minute later, caught sight of a slouchy sombrero and briarwood pipe moving along at a height of five feet or so above the ground, while now and then the motion of the huge boots was seen beneath. "It's Bud, and he's looking for something," was the conclusion of Fred, fairly trembling with excitement; "and it won't do for him to see me watching him." The trouble was that it was now broad daylight, and it is no easy matter for one to shadow a person without being observed; but Fred had the advantage of the shelter in the dense growth of shrubbery which prevailed in most parts of the wood. However, he was in mortal dread of discovery by Bud, for he believed the ugly fellow would kill him should he find him watching his movements. It was this fear which caused the lad to wait a minute or two after Bud Heyland had disappeared, and until the rustling of the leaves could no longer be heard. Then, with the utmost care, he began picking his way through the undergrowth, stopping suddenly when he caught the sound again. The wood was not extensive enough to permit a very extended hunt, and when Fred paused a second time he was sure the end was at hand. He was alarmed when he found, from the stillness, that Bud Heyland was not moving. Fred waited quietly, and then began slowly rising until he stood at his full height, and looked carefully around him. Nothing could be seen of the bully, though the watcher was confident he was not far off, and it would not do to venture any further just then. "If it was only the night time," thought Fred, "I wouldn't be so scared, for he might take me for a man; but it would never do for him to find me here." The sudden ceasing of the rustling, which had betrayed the passage of Bud Heyland a few minutes previous could not be anything else but proof that he was near by. "Maybe he suspects something, and is waiting to find whether he is seen by any one. Strange that in looking round he does not look up," whispered Fred to himself, recalling an anecdote which he had once heard told in Sunday-school: "Bud looks everywhere but above, where there is that Eye which never sleeps, watching his wrong-doing." A boy has not the patience of a man accustomed to watching and waiting, and when several minutes had passed without any new developments, Fred began to get fidgety. "He has gone on further, and I have lost him; he has done this to lead me off, and I won't see anything more of him." But the boy was in error, and very speedily saw a good deal more of Bud Heyland than he wished. The rustling of the leaves, such as is heard when one is kicking them up as he walks along, aroused the watcher the next minute, and Fred stealthily arose, and scanned his surroundings. As he did so, he caught sight of Bud Heyland walking in such a direction that he was certain to pass close to him. Luckily the bully was looking another way at that moment, or he would have seen the scared face as is presented itself to view. As Fred dropped out of sight and hastily crept behind the large tree-trunk he felt that he would willingly give the two hundred dollars that he received in the way of a reward could he but be in any place half a mile or more away. It would never do to break into a run as he felt like doing, for then he would be sure to be discovered and captured, while there was a slight probability of not being seen if he should remain where he was. Shortly after Fred caught sight of a pair of huge boots stalking through the undergrowth, and he knew only too well what they contained. He shrank into as close quarters as possible, and prayed that he might not be noticed. The prayer was granted, although it will always remain a mystery to Fred Sheldon how it was Bud Heyland passed so very close to him and yet never turned his eyes from staring straight ahead. But Bud went on, vanished from sight, and in a few minutes the rattling of the dry leaves ceased and all was quiet. The sound of wagon wheels, as a vehicle moved over the road, was heard, and then all became still again. Not until sure the fellow was out of sight did Fred rise to his feet and move away from his hiding place. Then, instead of following Bud, he walked in the opposite direction. "He has been out here to hunt for something and didn't find it." Looking down to the ground the bright-eyed lad was able to see where Bud had stirred the leaves, as he carelessly walked along, no doubt oblivious of the fact that his own thoughtlessness might be used against him. "He's the only one who has been here lately, and I think I can track him through the wood. If he had been as careful as I, he wouldn't have left such tell-tale footprints." The work of trailing Bud, as it may be called, was not such an easy matter as Fred had supposed, for he soon found places where it was hard to tell whether or not the leaves had been disturbed by the boots of a person or the hoofs of some quadruped. But Fred persevered, and at the end of half an hour, by attentively studying the ground, he reached a point a little over two hundred yards from where he himself had been hiding, and where he was certain Bud Heyland had been. "Here's where he stopped, and after a while turned about and went back again," was the conclusion of Fred; "though I can't see what he did it for." It was no longer worth while to examine the ground, for there was nothing to be learned there, and Fred began studying the appearance of things above the earth. There were a number of varieties of trees growing about him--oak, maple, birch, chestnut and others, such as Fred had looked on many a time before, and nothing struck him as particularly worthy of notice. But, hold! only a short ways off was an oak, or rather the remains of one, for it had evidently been struck by lightning and shattered. It had never worn a comely appearance, for its trunk was covered with black, scraggy excrescences, like the warts which sometimes disfigure the human skin. Furthermore, the lower portion of the trunk was hollow, the width of the cavity being fully a foot at the base. The bolt from heaven had scattered the splinters, limbs and fragments in all directions, and no one could view this proof of the terrific power of that comparatively unknown force in nature without a shudder. Fred Sheldon stood looking around him until his eye rested on this interesting sight, when he viewed it some minutes more, with open eyes and mouth. Then, with a strange feeling, he walked slowly toward the remains of the trunk, and stepping upon one of the broken pieces, drew himself up and peered down into the hollow, rotten cavity. He had been standing in the sunshine but a short time before, and it takes the pupil of the eye some time to become adapted to such a sudden change. At first all was blank darkness, but shortly Fred saw something gleaming in the bottom of the opening. He thought it was that peculiar fungus growth known as "fox-fire," but his vision rapidly grew more distinct, and drawing himself further up, he reached down and touched the curious objects with his hand. Eureka! There was all the silver plate which had been stolen from the old brick mansion a few nights before. Not a piece was missing! Fred Sheldon had discovered it at last, and as he dropped back again on his feet, he threw his cap into the air and gave a shout, for just about that time he felt he was the happiest youngster in the United States of America! [Illustration: On finding the stolen silver, Fred threw his cap in the air and gave a shout.] CHAPTER XIX. A SLIGHT MISTAKE. When Archibald Jackson, constable of Tottenville and the surrounding country, strode forth from the home of Widow Sheldon on the night of the call which we have described, he felt like "shaking hands with himself," for he was confident he had made one of the greatest strikes that ever came in the way of any one in his profession--a strike that would render him famous throughout the country, and even in the city of New York. "A man has to be born a detective," he said, as he fell over a wheelbarrow at the side of the road; "for without great natural gifts he cannot attain to preeminence, as it were, in his profession. I was born a detective, and would have beaten any of those fellows from Irish Yard or Welsh Yard or Scotland Yard, or whatever they call it. "Queer I never thought of it before, but that was always the trouble with me; I've been too modest," he added, as he climbed over the fence to pick up his hat, which a limb had knocked off; "but when this robbery at the Misses Perkinpine's occurred, instead of relying on my own brains I must send for Mr. Carter, and was worried half to death because he didn't come. "I s'pose he found the task was too gigantic for him, so he wouldn't run the risk of failure. Then for the first time I sot down and begun to use my brains. It didn't take me long to work the thing out; it came to me like a flash, as it always does to men of genius--confound that root; it's ripped the toe of my shoe off." But Archie was so elevated in the region of conceit and self-satisfaction that he could not be disturbed by the petty annoyances of earth; he strode along the road with his chest thrust forward and his head so high in air that it was no wonder his feet tripped and bothered him now and then. "I don't see any use of delaying the blow," he added, as he approached his home; "it will make a sensation to-morrow when the exposure is made. The New York papers will be full of it and they will send their reporters to interview me. They'll print a sketch of my life and nominate me for governor, and the illustrated papers will have my picture, and my wife Betsey will find what a man of genius her husband--ah! oh! I forgot about that post!" He was recalled to himself by a violent collision with the hitching-post in front of his own house, and picking up his hat and waiting until he could gain full command of his breath, he entered the bosom of his family fully resolved to "strike the blow" on the morrow, which should make him famous throughout the country. With the rising of the sun he found himself feeling more important than ever. Swallowing his breakfast hastily and looking at his bruised knuckles, he bade his family good-by, telling his wife if anybody came after him they should be told that the constable had gone away on imperative business. With this farewell Archie went to the depot, boarded the cars and started for the country town of Walsingham, fifty miles distant. He bought a copy of a leading daily, and after viewing the scenery for several miles, pretended to read, while he gave free rein to his imagination and drew a gorgeous picture of the near future. "To-morrow the papers will be full of it," he said, not noticing that several were smiling because he held the journal upside down, "and they'll want to put me on the force in New York. They've got to pay me a good salary if they get me--that's sartin." Some time after he drew forth a couple of legal documents, which he read with care, as he had read them a score of times. They were correctly-drawn papers calling for the arrest of two certain parties. "The warrants are all right," mused the officer, as he replaced them carefully in the inside pocket of his coat, "and the two gentlemen--and especially one of them--will open his eyes when I place my hand on his shoulder and tell him he is wanted." A couple of hours later, the constable left the cars at the town of Walsingham, which was in the extreme corner of the county that also held Tottenville, and walked in his pompous fashion toward that portion where Colonel Bandman's menagerie and circus were making ready for the usual display. It was near the hour of noon, and the regular street parade had taken place, and the hundreds of people from the country were tramping back and forth, crunching peanuts, eating lunch and making themselves ill on the diluted stuff sold under the name of lemonade. The constable paid scarcely any heed to these, but wended his way to the hotel, where he inquired for Colonel Bandman, the proprietor of the establishment which was creating such an excitement through the country. Archie was told that he had just sat down to dinner, whereupon he said he would wait until the gentleman was through, as he did not wish to be too severe upon him. Then the officer occupied a chair by the window on the inside, and feeling in his pockets, to make sure the warrants were there, he kept an eye on the dining-room, to be certain the proprietor did not take the alarm and get away. After a long time Colonel Bandman, a tall, well-dressed gentleman, came forth, hat in hand, and looked about him, as if he expected to meet some one. "Are you the gentleman who was inquiring for me?" he asked, advancing toward the constable, who rose to his feet, and with all the impressiveness of manner which he could assume, said, as he placed his hand on his shoulder: "Colonel James Bandman, you are my prisoner!" The other donned his hat, looked somewhat surprised, as was natural, and with his eyes fixed on the face of the constable, asked: "On what charge am I arrested?" "Burglary." "Let me see the warrant." "Oh, that's all right," said Mr. Jackson, drawing forth a document from his pocket and opening it before him; "read it for yourself." The colonel glanced at it for a moment, and said with a half smile: "My name is not mentioned there; that calls upon you to arrest Thomas Gibby, who is my ticket agent." "Oh, ah--that's the wrong paper; here's the right one." With which he gave Colonel James Bandman the pleasure of reading the document, which, in due and legal form, commanded Archibald Jackson to take the gentleman into custody. "I presume the offense is bailable?" asked the colonel, with an odd smile. "Certainly, certainly, sir; I will accompany you before a magistrate who will fix your bail. Where can I find Mr. Gibby?" "I will bring him, if you will excuse me for a minute." Colonel Bandman started to enter the hotel again, but the vigilant constable caught his arm: "No you don't; I'll stay with you, please; we'll go together; I don't intend you shall slip through my fingers." The colonel was evidently good-natured, for he only laughed and then, allowing the officer to take his arm, started for the dining-room, but unexpectedly met the individual whom they wanted in the hall. When Gibby had been made acquainted with the business of the severe-looking official he was disposed to get angry, but a word and a suggestive look from Colonel Bandman quieted him, and the two walked with the officer in the direction of a magistrate. "I've got this thing down fine on you," ventured Mr. Jackson, by way of helping them to a feeling of resignation, "the proofs of the nefarious transaction in which you were engaged being beyond question." Colonel Bandman made no answer, though his companion muttered something which their custodian did not catch. As they walked through the street they attracted some attention, but it was only a short distance to the magistrate's office, where the official listened attentively to the complaints. When made aware of its character he turned smilingly toward the chief prisoner and said: "Well, colonel, what have you to say to this?" "I should like to ask Mr. Jackson on what grounds he bases his charge of burglary against me." "The house of the Misses Perkinpine, near Tottenville, in this county, was robbed of a lot of valuable silver plate and several hundred dollars in money on Monday night last. It was the night before the circus showed in that town. Fortunately for the cause of justice the two parties were seen and identified, especially the one who did the actual robbing. A bright young boy, who is very truthful, saw the robber at his work, identified him as the ungrateful wretch who was given his supper by the two excellent ladies, whom he basely robbed afterward. The description of the pretended tramp corresponds exactly with that of Colonel Bandman--so closely, indeed, that there can be no mistake about him. The account of his confederate is not so full, but it is sufficient to identify him as Mr. Gibby, there. When I was assured beyond all mistake that they were the two wretches I took out them warrants in proper form, as you will find, and I now ask that they may be held to await the action of the grand jury." Having delivered himself of this rather grandiloquent speech, Mr. Jackson bowed to the court and stepped back to allow the accused to speak. Colonel Bandman, instead of doing so, turned to the magistrate and nodded for him to say something. That official, addressing himself to the constable, asked: "You are certain this offense was committed on last Monday evening?" "There can be no possible mistake about it." "And it was done by these two?" "That is equally sartin." "If one is guilty both are; if one is innocent so is the other?" "Yes, sir; if you choose to put it that way." "It becomes my duty to inform you then, Mr. Jackson, that Colonel Bandman has not been out of the town of Walsingham for the past six weeks; he is an old schoolmate of mine, and on last Monday night he stayed in my house with his wife and daughter. This complaint is dismissed, and the best thing you can do is to hasten home by the next train. Good day, sir." Archie wanted to say something, but he could think of nothing appropriate, and, catching up his hat, he made haste to the station where he boarded the cars without a ticket. He was never known to refer to his great mistake afterward unless some one else mentioned it, and even then the constable always seemed anxious to turn the subject to something else. CHAPTER XX. ALL IN GOOD TIME. Between nine and ten o'clock on the Saturday evening succeeding the incidents I have described, a wagon similar to the one wrecked the night before, drove out of Tottenville with two persons on the front seat. The driver was Jacob Kincade, who, having safely passed the recaptured lion over to Colonel Bandman, secured a couple of days' leave of absence and hurried back to Tottenville, where he engaged the team, and, accompanied by Bud Heyland, drove out in the direction of the wood where matters went so unsatisfactorily when Bud assumed charge. "I was awful 'fraid you wouldn't come to time," said Bud, when they were fairly beyond the village, "which is why I tried to run the machine myself and got things mixed. Sutton insisted on waiting till you arriv', but when he seen how sot I was he give in and 'greed to meet me at the place." "That was all well enough," observed Mr. Kincade; "but there's some things you tell me which I don't like. You said some one was listening behind the fence the other night when you and Sutton was talking about this business." "That's so; but Sutton showed me afterwards that the man, who was short and stumpy, couldn't have heard anything that would let him know what he was driving at. We have a way of talking that anybody else might hear every word and yet he wouldn't understand it. That's an idee of mine." "But you said some one--and I've no doubt it's the same chap--was whistling round the wood last night and scared you, so you made up your mind to wait till to-night." "That rather got me, but Sut says that no man that 'spected anything wrong would go whistling round the woods in that style. That ain't the way detectives do." "Maybe not, but are you sure there ain't any of them detectives about?" "Me and Sut have been on the watch, and there hasn't been a stranger in the village that we don't know all about. That's the biggest joke I ever heard of," laughed Bud, "that 'ere Jackson going out to Walsingham and arresting the colonel and Gibby." "Yes," laughed Kincade, "it took place just as I was coming away. I wish they'd locked up the colonel for awhile, just for the fun of the thing. But he and Gibby were discharged at once. I came on in the same train with Jackson, though I didn't talk with him about it, for I saw he felt pretty cheap. "However," added Kincade, "that's got nothing to do with this business, which I feel a little nervous over. It was a mighty big load for us to get out in the wood last Monday night, and I felt as though my back was broke when we put the last piece in the tree. S'pose somebody has found it!" "No danger of that," said Bud. "I was out there to-day and seen that it was all right." "Sure nobody was watching you?" "I took good care of that. We'll find it there just as we left it, and after we get it into the wagon we'll drive over to Tom Carmen's and he'll dispose of it for us." Tom Carmen lived at the "Four Corners," as the place was called, and had the reputation of being engaged in more than one kind of unlawful business. It was about ten miles off, and the thieves intended to drive there and place their plunder in his hands, he agreeing to melt it up and give them full value, less a small commission for his services. The arrangement with Carmen had not been made until after the robbery, which accounts for the hiding of the spoils for several days. It did not take long, however, to come to an understanding with him, and the plunder would have been taken away the preceding night by Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton but for the mishaps already mentioned. "You're sure Sutton will be there?" asked Kincade, as they approached the wood. "You can depend on him every time," was the confident response; "he was to go out after dark to make sure that no one else is prowling around. He's one of the best fellows I ever met," added Bud, who was enthusiastic over his new acquaintance; "we've fixed up half a dozen schemes that we're going into as soon as we get this off our hands." "Am I in?" "Of course," said Bud; "the gang is to be us three, and each goes in on the ground floor. We're going to make a bigger pile than Colonel Bandman himself, even with all his menagerie and circus." "I liked Sutton--what little I seen of him," said Kincade. "Oh, he's true blue--well, here we are." Both ceased talking as they entered the shadow of the wood, for, bad as they were, they could not help feeling somewhat nervous over the prospect. The weather had been clear and pleasant all the week, and the stars were shining in an unclouded sky, in which there was no moon. A few minutes after they met a farmer's wagon, which was avoided with some difficulty, as it was hard to see each other, but the two passed in safety, and reached the spot they had in mind. Here Bud Heyland took the reins, because he knew the place so well, and drew the horse aside until he and the vehicle would clear any team that might come along. To prevent any such accident as that of the preceding night the animal was secured, and the man and big boy stepped carefully a little further into the wood, Bud uttering the same signal as before. It was instantly answered from a point near at hand, and the next minute Cyrus Sutton came forward, faintly visible as he stepped close to them and spoke: "I've been waiting more than two hours, and thought I heard you coming a half dozen times." He shook hands with Kincade and Bud, the latter asking: "Is everything all right?" "Yes, I've had my eyes open, you may depend." "Will there be any risk in leaving the horse here?" asked Kincade. "None at all--no one will disturb him." "Then we had better go on, for there's a pretty good load to carry." "I guess I can find the way best," said Bud, taking the lead. "I've been over the route so often I can follow it with my eyes shut." Sutton was also familiar with it, and though it cost some trouble and not a little care, they advanced without much difficulty. Bud regretted that he had not brought his bull's eye lantern with him, and beyond question it would have been of service, but Sutton said it might attract attention, and it was better to get along without it if possible. The distance was considerable, and all of half an hour was taken in making their way through the wood, the darkness being such in many places that they had to hold their hands in front of them to escape collision with limbs and trunks of trees. "Here we are!" It was Bud Heyland who spoke, and in the dim light his companions saw that he was right. There was a small, natural clearing, which enabled them to observe the blasted oak without difficulty. The little party stood close by the hiding-place of the plunder that had been taken from the old brick mansion several nights before. "You can reach down to it, can't you?" asked Sutton, addressing Bud Heyland. "Yes; it's only a little ways down." "Hand it out, then," added Kincade; "I shan't feel right till we have all this loot safely stowed away with Tom Carmen at the 'Four Corners.'" "All right," responded Bud, who immediately thrust his head and shoulders into the cavity. He remained in this bent position less than a minute, when he jerked out his head as though some serpent had struck at him with his fangs, and exclaimed: "It's all gone!" "What?" gasped Jake Kincade. "Somebody has taken everything away----" In the dim light, Bud Heyland at that juncture observed something which amazed him still more. Instead of two men there were three, and two of them were struggling fiercely together. These were Cyrus Sutton and Jacob Kincade, but the struggle was short. In a twinkling the showman was thrown on his back, and the nippers placed on his wrists. "It's no use," said Sutton, as he had called himself, in a low voice; "the game is up, Jacob." Before Bud Heyland could understand that he and Kincade were entrapped, the third man sprang forward and manipulated the handcuffs so dexterously that Bud quickly realized he was a helpless captive. This third man was Archie Jackson, the constable, who could not avoid declaring in a louder voice than was necessary. "We've got you both, and you may as well take it like men. This gentleman whom you two took for Cyrus Sutton, a cattle drover, is my old friend James Carter, the detective, from New York." And such was the truth indeed. CHAPTER XXI. HOW IT WAS DONE. As was intimated at the close of the preceding chapter, the individual who has figured thus far as Cyrus Sutton, interested in the cattle business, was in reality James Carter, the well-known detective of the metropolis. When he received word from Archie Jackson of the robbery that had been committed near Tottenville, he went out at once to the little town to investigate. Mr. Carter was a shrewd man, who understood his business, and he took the precaution to go in such a disguise that the fussy little constable never once suspected his identity. The detective wished to find out whether it would do to trust the officer, and he was quick to see that if Jackson was taken into his confidence, he would be likely to spoil everything, from his inability to keep a secret. So the real detective went to work in his own fashion, following up the clews with care, and allowing Jackson to disport himself as seemed best. He was not slow to fix his suspicions on the right parties, and he then devoted himself to winning the confidence of Bud Heyland. It would have been an easy matter to fasten the guilt on this bad boy, but the keen-witted officer was quick to perceive that he had struck another and more important trail, which could not be followed to a successful conclusion without the full confidence of young Heyland. He learned that Bud was being used as a tool by other parties, who were circulating counterfeit money, and Jacob Kincade was one of the leaders, with the other two who composed the company in New York. The detectives in that city were put to work and captured the knaves almost at the same time that Bud and Kincade were taken. It required a little time for Mr. Carter to satisfy himself beyond all mistake that the two named were the ones who were engaged in the dangerous pursuit of "shoving" spurious money, and he resolved that when he moved he would have the proof established beyond a shadow of doubt. He easily drew the most important facts from Bud, and thus it will be seen the recovery of the stolen silverware became secondary to the detection of the dealers in counterfeit money. The officer was annoyed by the failure of Kincade to appear on the night he agreed, and was fearful lest he suspected something and would keep out of the way. He could have taken him at the time Fred Sheldon was paid his reward, for he knew the showman at that time had a lot of bad money in his possession, though he paid good bills to Fred, who, it will be remembered, placed them in the hands of Squire Jones. Bud was determined to exchange bad currency for this, and waylaid Fred for that purpose, but failed, for the reason already given. He, however, gave Fred twenty dollars to change, which it will also be remembered fell into the hands of the detective a few minutes later, and was one of the several links in the chain of evidence that was forged about the unsuspecting youth and his employer. Then Bud, like many beginners in actual transgression, became careless, and worked off a great deal of the counterfeit money in the village where he was staying, among the lot being the one hundred dollars which he paid the liveryman for wrecking his wagon. When Fred Sheldon came into the village to claim his reward for securing the estray lion, Cyrus Sutton, as he was known, who was sitting on the hotel porch, became interested in him. He scrutinized him sharply, but avoided asking him any questions. It was natural, however, that he should feel some curiosity, and he learned that what he suspected was true; the boy was the child of Mary Sheldon, who was the widow of George Sheldon, killed some years before on the battle-field. George Sheldon and James Carter had been comrades from the beginning of the war until the former fell while fighting for his country. The two had "drank from the same canteen," and were as closely bound together as if brothers. Carter held the head of Sheldon when he lay dying, and sent the last message to his wife, who had also been a schoolmate of Carter's. An aptitude which the latter showed in tracing crime and wrong-doers led him into the detective business, and he lost sight of the widow of his old friend and their baby boy, until drawn to Tottenville in the pursuit of his profession. He reproached himself that he did not discover the truth sooner, but when he found that Mrs. Sheldon was absent he could only wait until she returned, and as we have shown, he took the first occasion to call upon her and renew the acquaintance of former years. But the moment Carter identified the brave little fellow who had earned his reward for capturing the wild beast he made up his mind to do a generous thing for him and his mother; he was determined that if it could possibly be brought about Fred should receive the five hundred dollars reward offered for the recovery of the silver plate stolen from the Misses Perkinpine. Circumstances already had done a good deal to help him in his laudable purpose, for, as we have shown, Fred had witnessed the robbery, and, in fact, had been brought in contact with both of the guilty parties. Mr. Carter was afraid to take Fred into his entire confidence, on account of his tender years; and though he was an unusually bright and courageous lad, the detective was reluctant to bring him into any more intimate association with crime than was necessary from the service he intended to do him. As he was too prudent to trust the constable, Archie Jackson, it will be seen that he worked entirely alone until the night that Mrs. Sheldon returned home. Then he called upon her and told her his whole plans, for he knew that Fred inherited a good deal of his bravery from her, and though it was contrary to his rule to make a confidant of any one, he did not hesitate to tell her all. She was deeply grateful for the kindness he contemplated, though she was not assured that it was for the best to involve Fred as was proposed. The detective, however, succeeded in overcoming her scruples, and they agreed upon the plan of action. The boy was encouraged to make his hunt in the wood, for Carter had already learned from Bud Heyland that the plunder was hidden somewhere in it, and he had agreed to assist in bringing it forth, though Bud would not agree to show him precisely where it was, until the time should come for taking it away. When Fred found the hiding place he was so overjoyed that for awhile he did not know what to do; finally he concluded, as a matter of safety, to remove and hide it somewhere else. Accordingly he tugged and lifted the heavy pieces out one by one, and then carried them all some distance, placed them on the ground at the foot of a large beech tree and covered them up as best he could with leaves. This took him until nearly noon, when he ran home to tell his mother what he had done. Within the next hour James Carter knew it and he laughed with satisfaction. "It was the wisest thing that could have been done." "Why so?" asked the widow. "Don't you see he has already earned the reward, and, what is more, he shall have it, too. He has recovered the plate without the slightest assistance from any one." "But the thieves have not been caught." "That is my work; I will attend to that." "And what shall Fred do?" "Keep him home to-night, give him a good supper and put him to bed early, and tell him it will be all right in the morning." Mrs. Sheldon did not feel exactly clear that it was "all right," but the good-hearted Carter had a way of carrying his point, and he would not listen to any argument from her. So she performed her part of the programme in spirit and letter, and when Fred Sheldon closed his eyes in slumber that Saturday evening it was in the belief that everything would come out as his mother promised, even though he believed that one of the guiltiest of the criminals was the man known as Cyrus Sutton. Mrs. Sheldon wanted to tell the little fellow the whole story that night, but the detective would not consent until the "case was closed." When Archie Jackson was called upon late in the afternoon by James Carter and informed how matters stood, he was dumfounded for several minutes. It seemed like doubting his own senses, to believe that the cattle drover was no other than the famous New York detective, but he was convinced at last, and entered with great ardor into the scheme for the capture of the criminals. Mr. Carter impressed upon the constable the fact that the offered reward had already been earned by Master Fred Sheldon. Archie was disposed to demur, but finally, with some show of grace, he gave in and said he would be pleased to extend his congratulations to the young gentleman. A little judicious flattery on the part of the detective convinced Archie that a point had been reached in the proceedings, where his services were indispensable, and that, if the two law breakers were to be captured, it must be through the help of the brave Tottenville constable, who would receive liberal compensation for his assistance. Accordingly, Archie was stationed near the spot where it was certain Bud Heyland and Jacob Kincade would appear, later in the evening. At a preconcerted signal, he sprang from his concealment, and the reader has learned that he performed his part in really creditable style. CHAPTER XXII. AN ATTEMPTED RESCUE. Now since the reader knows how it happened that Archie Jackson and he who had masqueraded under the name of Cyrus Sutton chanced to be at this particular spot in the woods when the thieves would have removed their booty, and also why the silver could not be found by these worthies, it is necessary to return to the place where the arrest was made. Bud Heyland did not take kindly to the idea of being a prisoner. None knew better than himself the proofs which could be brought against him, and, after the first surprise passed away, his only thought was of how he might escape. While the valiant Archie stood over him in an attitude of triumph, the detective was holding a short but very concise conversation with the second captive. "I'll make you smart for this," Bud heard Kincade say. "Things have come to a pretty pass when a man who is invited by a friend to stop on the road a minute in order to look for a whip that was lost while we were hunting for the lion, gets treated in this manner by a couple of drunken fools." Taking his cue from the speech, Bud added in an injured tone: "That's a fact. I was on my way to join the show; but thought it might be possible to find the whip, for it belongs to Colonel Bandman, an' he kicked because I left it." "After the plans we have laid, Heyland, do you think it is well to try such a story on me," Carter asked sternly. "I don't know what you're talkin' about. Jake has told how we happened to come here." "He didn't explain why you wanted Fred Sheldon to change a twenty-dollar bill for you, nor how it happened that you had an hundred dollars to pay for the wagon which was smashed." "I've got nothing to do with any counterfeit money that has been passed, and I defy you to prove it," Kincade cried, energetically. "Who said anything about counterfeits?" the detective asked, sternly. "It will be well for you to keep your mouth shut, unless you want to get deeper in the mire than you are already. It so chances, however, that I have ample proof of your connection with the robbery, aside from what Bud may have let drop, and, in addition, will show how long you have been engaged in the business of passing worthless money, so there is no need of any further talk. Will you walk to the road, or shall we be forced to carry you?" This question was asked because Bud had seated himself as if intending to remain for some time; but he sprung to his feet immediately, so thoroughly cowed, that he would have attempted to obey any command, however unreasonable, in the hope of finding favor in the sight of his captors. "We've got to do what you say, for awhile, anyhow," Kincade replied, sulkily; "but somebody will suffer because of this outrage." "I'll take the chances," Carter replied, laughingly. "Step out lively, for I intend to get some sleep to-night." "Hold on a minute," the fussy little constable cried, as he ran to the side of the detective and whispered: "I think we should take the silver with us. There may be more of this gang who will come after it when they find we have nabbed these two." "I fancy it's safe," was the careless reply, "and whether it is or not, we must wait until we see Fred again, for I haven't the slightest idea where he hid it." "But, you see----" "Now, don't fret, my friend," the detective interrupted, determined that Fred should take the silver himself to the maiden ladies. "You have conducted the case so admirably thus far that it would be a shame to run the risk of spoiling the job by loitering here where there may be an attempt at a rescue." This bit of flattery, coupled with the intimation that there might be a fight, caused Archie to remain silent. He was eager to be in town where he could relate his wonderful skill in trapping the thieves, as well as his fear lest there should be a hand-to-hand encounter with desperate men, and these desires caused him to make every effort to land the prisoners in jail. He even lost sight of the reward, for the time being, through the anxiety to sing his own praises, and in his sternest tones, which were not very dreadful, by the way, he urged Bud forward. "If you make the slightest show of trying to run away, I'll put a dozen bullets in your body," he said, and then, as he reached for his weapon to further intimidate the prisoner, he discovered, to his chagrin, that, as on a previous occasion, his revolver was at home; but in its place, put there while he labored under great excitement, was the tack-hammer, symbol of his trade as bill-poster. The two men went toward the road very meekly, evidently concluding that submission was the best policy, and for once Carter made a mistake. Having worked up the case to such a satisfactory conclusion, and believing these were the only two attachés of the circus in the vicinity, he allowed Archie Jackson to manage matters from this point. The valiant constable, thinking only of the glory with which he would cover himself as soon as he was at the hotel amid a throng of his acquaintances, simply paid attention to the fact that the prisoners were marching properly in front of him, heeding not the rumble of distant wheels on the road beyond. Kincade heard them, however, and he whispered softly to Bud: "There's just a chance that some of our people are coming. I heard Colonel Bandman say he should send Albers and Towsey back to look up some harness that was left to be repaired, and this is about the time they ought to be here." "Much good it will do us with that fool of a Jackson ready to shoot, the first move we make," Bud replied petulantly. "Go on without so much talk," Archie cried fiercely, from the rear. "You can't play any games on me." "From what I've heard, you know pretty well how a man can shoot in the dark, an' I'll take my chances of gettin' a bullet in the back rather than go to jail for ten years or so. When I give the word, run the best you know how." Bud promised to obey; but from the tone of his voice it could be told that he had much rather shoot at a person than act as target himself, and Archie ordered the prisoners to quicken their speed. Carter was several paces in the rear, remaining in the background in order, for the better carrying out of his own plans in regard to Fred, it should appear as if the constable was the commanding officer, and when the party arrived at the edge of the road where Bud had fastened the horse, the rumble of the approaching team could be heard very distinctly. "Now's our time! Run for your life!" Kincade whispered, staring up the road at the same instant, and as Bud followed at full speed both shouted for help at the utmost strength of their lungs. It was as if this daring attempt at escape deprived Archie of all power of motion. He lost several valuable seconds staring after his vanishing prisoners in speechless surprise, and followed this officer-like proceeding by attempting to shoot the fugitives with the tack-hammer. Carter, although not anticipating anything of the kind, had his wits about him, and, rushing past the bewildered constable, darted up the road in silence. He was well armed; but did not care to run the risk of killing one of the thieves, more especially since he felt positive of overtaking both in a short time, owing to the fact that the manacles upon their wrists would prevent them from any extraordinary speed. Neither Bud nor Kincade ceased to call for help, and almost before Carter was well in pursuit a voice from the oncoming team could be heard saying: "That's some of our crowd. I'm sure nobody but Jake could yell so loud." "It _is_ me!" Kincade shouted. "Hold hard, for there are a couple of officers close behind!" By the sounds which followed, Carter understood that the new-comers were turning their wagon, preparatory to carrying the arrested parties in the opposite direction, and he cried to the valiant Archie, who as yet had not collected his scattered senses sufficiently to join in the pursuit: "Bring that team on here, and be quick about it!" Now, to discharge a weapon would be to imperil the lives of the new actors on the scene, and this was not to be thought of for a moment. Carter strained every muscle to overtake his prisoners before they could clamber into the wagon; but in vain. Even in the gloom he could see the dark forms of the men as they leaped into the rear of the vehicle, and in another instant the horse was off at a full gallop in the direction from which he had just come. For the detective to go on afoot would have been folly, and once more he cried for Archie to bring the team, which had been left by the roadside when Kincade and Bud arrived. The little constable had by this time managed to understand at least a portion of what was going on around him, and, in a very bungling fashion, was trying to unfasten the hitching-rein; but he made such a poor job of it that Carter was forced to return and do the work himself. "Get in quickly," the detective said, sharply, as he led the horse into the road, and following Archie, the two were soon riding at a mad pace in pursuit, regardless alike of possible vehicles to be met, or the danger of being overturned. "Why didn't you shoot 'em when you had the chance?" Archie asked, as soon as he realized the startling change in the condition of affairs. "Because that should be done only when a man is actually in fear of his life, or believes a dangerous prisoner cannot be halted in any other way." "But that was the only chance of stoppin' them fellers." "I'll have them before morning," was the quiet reply, as the driver urged the horse to still greater exertions. "Those men have been traveling a long distance, while our animal is fresh, therefore it's only a question of time; but how does it happen that you didn't shoot? I left the fellows in your charge." "I was out putting up some bills this afternoon, and had my hammer with me, of course. When we got ready for this trip, I felt on the outside of my hip pocket, and made sure it was my revolver that formed such a bunch." "Another time I should advise you to be certain which of your many offices you intend to represent," Carter said, quietly. "I'm not positive, however, that we haven't cause to be thankful, for somebody might have been hurt." "There's no question about it, if I had been armed," was the reply, in a blood-thirsty tone, for Archie was rapidly recovering his alleged courage. "And I, being in the rear, stood as good a chance of receiving the bullet as did the men." "You have never seen me shoot," the little constable said, proudly. "Fortunately, I never did," Carter replied, and then the conversation ceased, as they were at the forks of a road where it was necessary to come to a halt in order to learn in which direction the fugitives had gone. This was soon ascertained, and as the detective applied the whip vigorously, he said, warningly: "Now keep your wits about you, for we are where they will try to give us the slip, and it is more than possible Heyland and Kincade may jump out of the wagon, leaving us to follow the team, while they make good their escape." Archie tried very hard to do as he was commanded; he stared into darkness, able now and then to distinguish the outlines of the vehicle in advance, and at the same time was forced to exert all his strength to prevent being thrown from his seat, so recklessly was Carter driving. "We'll be upset," he finally said, in a mild tone of protest. "The road seems to be very rough, and there must be considerable danger in going at such a pace." "No more for us than for them. I'll take a good many chances rather than go back to Tottenville and admit that we allowed two prisoners to escape after we had them ironed." The little constable had nothing more to say. He also thought it would be awkward to explain to his particular friends how, after such a marvelous piece of detective work, the criminals had got free. This, coupled with the story of his bruised hand, would give the fun-loving inhabitants of the village an opportunity to make his life miserable with pointless jokes and alleged witticisms, therefore he shut his teeth firmly, resolved not to make any further protest even though convinced that his life was actually in danger. During half an hour the chase continued, and for at least twenty minutes of this time the pursuers were so near the pursued that it would have been impossible for either occupant of the wagon to leap out unnoticed. Now the foremost horse was beginning to show signs of fatigue, owing to previous travel and the unusual load. Both whip and voice was used to urge him on; but in vain, and Carter said, in a low tone to Archie: "The chase is nearly ended! Be ready to leap out the instant we stop." Then, drawing his revolver, he cried, "There's no chance of your giving us the slip. Pull up, or I shall fire! If the prisoners are delivered to me at once there will be nothing said regarding the effort to aid them in escaping; but a delay of five minutes will result in imprisonment for the whole party." Kincade's friends evidently recognized the folly of prolonging the struggle, and, to save themselves from possible penalties of the law, the driver shouted: "I'll pull up. Look out that you don't run into us!" It required no great effort to bring both the panting steeds to a stand-still, and in a twinkling Carter was standing at one side of the vehicle with his revolver in hand, while Archie, with a boldness that surprised him afterward, stationed himself directly opposite, holding the tack-hammer as if on the point of shooting the culprits. Kincade realized that it was best to submit to the inevitable with a good grace, and he descended from the wagon, saying to the little constable as he did so: "Don't shoot! I'll agree to go peacefully." "Then see that you behave yourself, or I'll blow the whole top of your head off," Archie replied, in a blood-thirsty tone; but at the same time he took very good care to keep the hammer out of sight. Bud Heyland resisted even now when those who had tried to aid were ready to give him up. "I won't go back!" he cried, kicking vigorously as the detective attempted to pull him from the wagon. "I've done nothing for which I can be arrested, and you shan't take me." The long chase had exhausted all of Carter's patience, and he was not disposed to spend many seconds in expostulating. Seizing the kicking youth by one foot he dragged him with no gentle force to the ground, and an instant later the men in the wagon drove off, evidently preferring flight to the chances that the detective would keep his promise. "Bundle them into the carriage, and tie their legs," Carter said to the constable, and in a very short space of time the thieves were lying in the bottom of the vehicle unable to move hand or foot. Now that there was not the slightest possibility the culprits could escape, Archie kept vigilant watch over them. The least movement on the part of either, as Carter drove the tired horse back to the village, was the signal for him to use his hammer on any portion of their bodies which was most convenient, and this repeated punishment must have caused Bud to remember how often he had ill-treated those who were quite as unable to "strike back" as he now was. Not until the prisoners were safely lodged in the little building which served as jail did Archie feel perfectly safe, and then all his old pompous manner returned. But for the detective he would have hurried away to tell the news, late in the night though it was, for in his own opinion at least, this night's work had shown him to be not only a true hero, but an able detective. "It is considerably past midnight," Carter said, as they left the jail, "and we have a great deal to do before this job is finished." "What do you mean?" "Are we to leave the silver and money?" "Of course not; but you said we'd have to wait until we saw Fred." "Exactly so; but what is to prevent our doing that now? When the property has been delivered to its rightful owners you and I can take our ease; until then we are bound to keep moving." Archie was disappointed at not being able to establish, without loss of time, his claim to being a great man; but he had no idea of allowing anything to be done in the matter when he was not present, if it could be avoided, and he clambered into the wagon once more. The two drove directly to the Sheldon home, and Fred was dreaming that burglars were trying to get into the house, when he suddenly became conscious that some one was pounding vigorously on the front door. Leaping from the bed and looking out of the window he was surprised at seeing the man whom he knew as Cyrus Sutton, and at the same moment he heard his mother ask: "What is the matter, Mr. Carter?" "Nothing, except that we want Fred. The case is closed, and to save time we'd better get the property at once. Have you any objection to his going with me?" "Not the slightest. I will awaken him." "I'll be down in a minute," Fred cried, as he began to make a hurried toilet, wondering meanwhile why Bud Heyland's friend should be trusted so implicitly by his mother. As a matter of course it was necessary for Mrs. Sheldon to explain to her son who Cyrus Sutton really was and Fred was still in a maze of bewilderment when his mother admitted the detective. "Why didn't you tell me," he cried reproachfully. "No good could have come of it," the gentleman replied laughingly, "and, besides, I can't see how you failed to discover the secret, either when you ran away after listening behind the rock on the road-side, or when I passed so near while supposed to be hunting for you." "Did you see me then?" "Certainly, and but for such slight obstructions as I placed in Bud's way, he might have overtaken you." "Where is Archie?" "Out in the wagon waiting for you. Kincade and Bud are in the lock-up where we just left them, and now it is proposed to get the silver in order to deliver it early in the morning." "Did mother tell you I found it?" "She did, and I am heartily glad, since now the reward will be yours, and with it you can clear your home from debt." Fred did not wait to ask any further questions. In a very few moments he was ready for the journey, and, with the promise to "come home as soon as the work was done," he went out to where Archie greeted him in the most effusive manner. "We have covered ourselves with glory," the little constable cried. "This is a case which will be told throughout the country, and the fact that we arrested the culprits and recovered the property when there was absolutely no clew on which to work, is something unparalleled in the annals of detective history." Fred was neither prepared to agree to, nor dispute this statement. The only fact which remained distinct in his mind was that the reward would be his, and if there was any glory attached he felt perfectly willing Archie should take it all. "Get into the wagon, Fred," Carter said impatiently. "It will take us until daylight to get the stuff, and we don't want to shock the good people of Tottenville by doing too much driving after sunrise." Fred obeyed without delay, and during the ride Archie gave him all the particulars concerning the capture of the thieves, save in regard to his own stupidity which permitted the temporary escape. Knowing the woods in the vicinity of his home as well as Fred did, it was not difficult for him to go directly to the place where he had hidden the silver, even in the night, and half an hour later the stolen service was in the carriage. "It is nearly daylight," Carter said, when they were driving in the direction of the village again, "and the best thing we can do will be to go to Fred's home, where he and I can keep guard over the treasure until it is a proper time to return it to its owners." "In that case I may as well go home awhile," Archie said reflectively. "Doubtless my wife will be wondering what has kept me, and there is no need of three to watch the silver." "Very well, we shall not leave there until about nine o'clock," and Carter reined in the horse as they were in front of the fussy little constable's house, for him to alight. CHAPTER XXIII. THE SILVERWARE RETURNED. The sabbath morning dawned cool, breezy and delightful, and the maiden twin sisters, Misses Annie and Lizzie Perkinpine, made their preparations for driving to the village church, just as they had been in the habit of doing for many years. It required a storm of unusual violence to keep them from the Sunday service, which was more edifying to the good souls than any worldly entertainment could have been. They were not among those whose health permits them to attend secular amusements, but who invariably feel "indisposed" when their spiritual duties are involved. "I was afraid, sister," said Annie, "that when our silver was stolen, the loss would weigh so heavily upon me that I would not be able to enjoy the church service as much as usual, but I am thankful that it made no difference with me; how was it with _you_?" "I could not help feeling disturbed for some days," was the reply, "for it _was_ a loss indeed, but, when we have so much to be grateful for, how wrong it is to repine----" "What's that?" interrupted the other, hastening to the window as she heard the rattle of carriage wheels; "some one is coming here as sure as I live." "The folks must have forgot that it is the Sabbath," was the grieved remark of the other. "But this is something out of the common. Heigho!" This exclamation was caused by the sight of Cyrus Sutton, as he leaped lightly out of the wagon and tied his horse, while Fred Sheldon seemed to be tugging at something on the floor of the vehicle, which resisted his efforts. Mr. Sutton, having fastened the horse, went to the help of the youngster, and the next moment the two approached the house bearing a considerable burden. "My gracious!" exclaimed Aunt Lizzie, throwing up her hands, and ready to sink to the floor in her astonishment; "they have got our silverware." "You are right," added her sister, "they have the whole six pieces, slop-jar, sugar bowl, cream pitcher--not one of the six missing. They have them _all_; _now_ we can go to church and enjoy the sermon more than ever." The massive service of solid silver quaintly fashioned and carved by the puffy craftsmen of Amsterdam, who wrought and toiled when sturdy old Von Tromp was pounding the British tars off Goodwin Sands, more than two centuries ago, was carried into the house with considerable effort and set on the dining-room table, while for a minute or two the owners could do nothing but clasp and unclasp their hands and utter exclamations of wonder and thankfulness that the invaluable heirlooms had at last come back to them. The detective and lad looked smilingly at the ladies, hardly less pleased than they. "Where did you find them?" asked Aunt Lizzie, addressing herself directly to Mr. Carter, as was natural for her to do. The detective pointed to the boy and said: "Ask him." "Why, what can Fred know about it?" inquired the lady, beaming kindly upon the blushing lad. "He knows everything, for it was not I, but he, who found them." "Why, Fred, how can that be?" "I found them in an old tree in the woods," replied the little fellow, blushing to his ears. "This gentleman helped me to bring them here, for I never could have lugged them alone." "Of course you couldn't, but since you have earned the reward, you shall have it. To-day is the holy Sabbath, and it would be wrong, therefore, to engage in any business, but come around early to-morrow morning and we will be ready." "And I want to say," said Aunt Annie, pinching the chubby cheek of the happy youngster, "that there isn't any one in the whole world that we would rather give the reward to than you." "And there is none that it will please me more to see receive it," was the cordial remark of Mr. Carter, who, respecting the scruples of the good ladies, was about to bid them good-morning, when Aunt Lizzie, walking to the window, said: "I wonder what is keeping Michael." "I am afraid he will not be here to-day," said the officer. "Why not?" asked the sisters together in astonishment. "Well, to tell you the truth, he is in trouble." "Why, what has Michael done." "Nothing himself, but do you remember the tramp who came here last Monday night, and, after eating at your table, stole, or rather helped to steal, your silver service?" "Of course we remember him." "Well, that tramp was Michael's son Bud, who had put on false whiskers and disguised himself so that you never suspected who he was. Bud is a bad boy and is now in jail." "What is the world coming to?" gasped Aunt Lizzie, sinking into a chair with clasped hands, while her sister was no less shocked. In their kindness of heart they would have been glad to lose a large part of the precious silverware could it have been the means of restoring the boy to honesty and innocence. But that was impossible, and the sisters could only grieve over the depravity of one whom they had trusted. They asked nothing about the money that was taken with the silver, but Mr. Carter handed more than one-half of the sum to them. "Bud had spent considerable, but he gave me this; Kincade declared that he hadn't a penny left, but I don't believe him; this will considerably decrease your loss." At this moment, there was a resounding knock on the door, and in response to the summons to enter, Archie Jackson appeared, very red in the face and puffing hard. Bowing hastily to the ladies, he said impatiently to the officer: "It seems to me you're deef." "Why so?" "I've been chasing and yelling after you for half a mile, but you either pretended you didn't hear me or maybe you didn't." "I assure you, Archie, that I would have stopped on the first call, if I had heard you, for you know how glad I am always to have your company, and how little we could have done without your help." The detective knew how to mollify the fussy constable, whose face flushed a still brighter red, under the compliments of his employer, as he may be termed. "I knowed you was coming here," explained Archie, "and so I come along, so as to vouch to these ladies for you." "You are very kind, but they seem to be satisfied with Master Fred's indorsement, for he has the reputation of being a truthful lad." "I'm glad to hear it; how far, may I ask," he continued, clearing his throat, "have you progressed in the settlement of the various questions and complications arising from the nefarious transaction on Monday evening last?" "The plate has been returned to the ladies, as your eyes must have told you; but, since this is the first day of the week, the reward will not be handed over to Fred until to-morrow morning. "Accept my congratulations, sir, accept my congratulations," said the constable, stepping ardently toward the boy and effusively extending his hand. The ladies declined to accept the money which the detective offered, insisting that it belonged to him. He complied with their wishes, and, since it was evident that Archie had hastened over solely to make sure he was not forgotten in the general distribution of wages, the detective handed him one hundred dollars, which was received with delight, since it was far more than the constable had ever earned in such a short time in all his life before. "Before I leave," said Mr. Carter, addressing the ladies, "I must impress one important truth upon you." "You mean about the sin of stealing," said Aunt Annie; "Oh, we have thought a good deal about _that_." The officer smiled in spite of himself, but quickly became serious again. "You mistake me. I refer to your practice of keeping such valuable plate as loosely as you have been in the habit of doing for so many years. The fact of the robbery will cause it to be generally known that your silver can be had by any one who chooses to enter your house and take it, and you may rest assured, that if you leave it exposed it won't be long before it will vanish again, beyond the reach of all the Fred Sheldons and detectives in the United States." "Your words are wise," said Aunt Annie, "and I have made up my mind that we must purchase two or three more locks and put them on the chest." "I think I know a better plan than _that_," Aunt Lizzie hastened to say. "What's that?" inquired the visitor. "We'll get Michael to bring some real heavy stones to the house and place them on the lid of the chest, so as to hold it down." "Neither of your plans will work," said Mr. Carter solemnly; "you must either place your silver in the bank, where you can get it whenever you wish, or you must buy a burglar-proof safe and lock it up in that every night." "I have heard of such things," said Aunt Lizzie, "and I think we will procure a safe, for it is more pleasant to know that the silver is in the house than it is to have it in the bank, miles off, where it will be so hard to take and bring it. What do you think, sister?" "The same as you do." "Then we will buy the safe." "And until you do so, the silver must be deposited in the bank; though, as this is Sunday, you will have to keep it in the house until the morrow." "I shall not feel afraid to do that," was the serene response of sister Lizzie, "because no man, even if he is wicked enough to be a robber, would be so abandoned as to commit the crime on _Sunday_." The beautiful faith of the good soul was not shocked by any violent results of her trust. Though the silver remained in her house during the rest of that day and the following night, it was not disturbed, and on the morrow was safely delivered to the bank, where it stayed until the huge safe was set up in the old mansion, in which the precious stuff was deposited, and where at this writing it still remains, undisturbed by any wicked law-breakers. You may not know it, but it is a fact that there are circuses traveling over the country to-day whose ticket-sellers receive no wages at all, because they rely upon the short change and the bad money which they can work off on their patrons. Not only that, but I know of a case where a man paid twenty dollars monthly for the privilege of selling tickets for a circus. From this statement, I must except any and all enterprises with which my old friend, P. T. Barnum, has any connection. Nothing could induce him to countenance such dishonesty. Trained in this pernicious school, Jacob Kincade did not hesitate to launch out more boldly, and finally he formed a partnership with two other knaves, for the purpose of circulating counterfeit money, engaging now and then in the side speculation of burglary, as was the case at Tottenville, where he arrived a few hours in advance of the show itself. He and his two companions were deserving of no sympathy, and each was sentenced to ten years in the State prison. The youth of Bud Heyland, his honest repentance and the grief of his father and mother aroused great sympathy for him. It could not be denied that he was a bad boy, who had started wrong, and was traveling fast along the downward path. In truth, he had already gone so far that it may be said the goal was in sight when he was brought up with such a round turn. A fact greatly in his favor was apparent to all--he had been used as a cat's paw by others. He was ignorant of counterfeit money, though easily persuaded to engage in the scheme of passing it upon others. True, the proposition to rob the Perkinpine sisters came from him, but in that sad affair also he was put forward as the chief agent, while his partner took good care to keep in the background. Bud saw the fearful precipice on whose margin he stood. His parents were almost heart-broken, and there could be no doubt of his anxiety to atone, so far as possible, for the evil he had done. Fortunately, the judge was not only just but merciful, and, anxious to save the youth, he discharged him under a "suspended sentence," as it was called, a most unusual proceeding under the circumstances, but which proved most beneficent, since the lad never gave any evidence of a desire to return to his evil ways. As for Master Fred Sheldon, I almost feel as though it is unnecessary to tell you anything more about him, for, with such a mother, with such natural inclinations, and with such training, happiness, success and prosperity are as sure to follow as the morning is to succeed the darkness of night. I tell you, boys, you may feel inclined to slight the old saying that honesty is the best policy, but no truer words were ever written, and you should carry them graven on your hearts to the last hours of your life. Fred grew into a strong, sturdy boy, who held the respect and esteem of the neighborhood. The sisters Perkinpine, as well as many others, took a deep interest in him and gave him help in many ways, and often when the boy was embarrassed by receiving it. The time at last came, when our "Young Hero" bade good-by to his loved mother, and went to the great city of New York to carve his fortune. There he was exposed to manifold more temptations than ever could be the case in his simple country home, but he was encased in the impenetrable armor of truthfulness, honesty, industry and right principles, and from this armor all the darts of the great adversary "rolled off like rustling rain." Fred is now a man engaged in a prosperous business in the metropolis of our country, married to a loving and helpful wife, who seems to hold the sweetest and tenderest place in his affection, surpassed by that of no one else, but equalled by her who has been his guardian angel from infancy--HIS MOTHER. THE WALNUT ROD. BY R. F. COLWELL. My father was a physician of good practice in a wealthy quarter of Philadelphia, and we boys, four in number, were encouraged by him to live out of doors as much as possible. We played the national game, rowed, belonged to a well-equipped private gymnasium, and were hale and hearty accordingly; but especially did we prize the spring vacation which was always spent at our grandfather's farm, a beautiful spot in the Juanita valley, shut in by hills and warmed by the sunshine, which always seemed to us to shine especially bright on our annual visit, as if to make up for the cloudy and stormy weather of March. At the time of which I speak, the anticipations before starting were especially joyous. Harry, Carl and Francis, aged respectively eleven, fourteen and sixteen, had after earnest efforts in their school work been promoted each to the class above his former rank, and were in consequence proud and happy, though tired. I, Royal by name, a junior in a well-known New England college, working steadily in the course, was not unwilling to spend a week or two in quiet, searching the well-stored library which had the best that three generations of book lovers could buy on its shelves, and before whose cheery open fire we gathered at evening for stories and counsel from older and wiser minds. We packed our bags, took our rods--for trout fishing was often good, even in early April, in a well-stocked brook that ran along willow-fringed banks in the south pasture--and boarded the train. At the station the hired man met us with a pair of Morgan horses than which I do not remember to have seen better from that day to this, and we were soon at the hall door, shaking hands with grandmother and grandfather, and, to our pleasant surprise, with Aunt Celia, who, unexpectedly to us, was at home. She was a widow, having lost her husband in the Mexican war, and was a teacher of modern languages in a girl's private school in southern New York. She was one of those rare natures that the heart instinctively trusts, and no one of the many grandchildren hesitated about telling Aunt Celia his or her troubles, always confident that something would be done toward making the rough place smooth or gaining the object sought. We had a cozy tea. The special good things that only grandmothers seem to remember that a boy likes were found beside our plates, and we did them ample justice. This was Saturday evening. The next morning we occupied the family pew, and raised our young voices in the familiar hymns so clearly and joyously, that I remember to have seen many of the older people looking in our direction, and one old lady remarked as we were going out, "Henry's boys take after him for their good voices." Father had led the village choir for several years before he went away from his home to the medical school. The next morning we took our rods and went off for a long tramp. We fished some, and between us brought home enough for next morning's breakfast. The next day we climbed the favorite hills and gathered four large bunches of that spring beauty _Epigæa repens_, arbutus, or May flowers, whose pink cups and delicious woody fragrance we entrusted to damp moss, and sent the box with our cards to mother, for we knew how she loved the flowers she had picked from these same hills. Their scent comes back to me now, though it is many years since I have picked one. Carl and Francis were just at the age when feats of daring were a delight to them. Harry was of a naturally timid nature, modest, and lacking sometimes in confidence, and so was often urged on by the other two, when he shrank from attempting anything, by such expressions as "Don't be a coward, Harry!" "A girl could do that!" which, by such a sensitive spirit, were felt more than blows of the lash would be. When I was by, the boys would not indulge in these trials of strength or endurance, but in my absence I knew they hurt his tender feelings by their taunts, though really they did not intend to. A boy looks for what he calls courage in his playmate, and, if he does not see what apparently corresponds to his own, he thinks him a coward, while the braver of the two may really be the more diffident and shrinking one. It was Saturday afternoon; we were to leave Monday morning, and I had gone to the post-office to mail a letter to our father, telling him to expect us Monday noon. Behind the barn was a large oak tree from whose trunk a long branch ran horizontally toward the shed roof, though at a considerable distance above it. The boys had been pitching quoits near the tree, and, having finished the game, looked about for some more exciting sport. Francis thought he saw it, so he climbed the tree, crept out on the limb, hung by the arms a moment and then dropped, with something of a jar, to be sure, but safely, on the roof, where he sat with a satisfied look. He called to Carl to follow him. Carl, though unwilling to try it, was still more unwilling to acknowledge any superiority of his older brother in that line, so he, too, climbed up, crept out, and, when he had found what he thought was a good place, and had called out two or three times, "Fran, shall I strike all right?" dropped and was happy. Then they both called to Harry, "Come on, Hal," but he, overcome by the fear he had felt that they would fall while attempting it, refused to make the trial. When they began to speak about what "a girl could do," grandfather came out of the back door, where he had been a silent spectator of the whole affair, patted Harry on the shoulder, assuring him that he'd more good sense than Carl and Francis together, and bade the climbers come down at once. Grandfather was a man of few words, and they obeyed. Nothing more was said. I returned soon after. We had tea as usual and adjourned to the library, where a genial fire of hickory logs warmed and lighted the room. Grandmother and grandfather sat in their armchairs on each side of the broad hearth. I occupied an antique chair I had found in the attic, and which I was to carry home for my own room. Carl and Francis sat on old-fashioned crickets, while Aunt Celia had her low willow rocker in front of the fire, and Harry leaned against her, with her arm around his neck. We remained silent for some moments, when grandfather said quietly, "Celia, hadn't you better tell the boys the story of the walnut rod?" We looked up in swift surprise. The walnut rod spoken of was one that had rested, ever since we could remember, across a pair of broad antlers over the fireplace, with an old sword and two muskets that had seen service at Bunker Hill and Yorktown. Often had we, in boyish curiosity, asked what it was, and why it was kept there, tied by a piece of faded ribbon to one of the antlers, but had always been put off with "by-and-by," and "when you are older." Now, when we saw a chance to know about it, we chorused, "Oh, yes, Aunt Celia, do tell, please," and she quietly saying, "I suppose they can learn its lesson now," began: "I was, as you know, the only girl of the family, and also the youngest child, your father being two years older. There were few neighbors when we first came here to live; indeed, our nearest was fully a quarter of a mile away, so we saw few beside our own family. Your uncles, John, William, and Elijah, were several years older, and so were busy helping father in clearing the land and in its care. Accordingly, Henry and I were much together. We studied the same book at our mother's knee, played with the same toys, and were together so much that the older boys sometimes called us 'mother's two girls.' But your father, though tender and gentle in appearance, had a brave heart under his little jacket, and I knew better than they, that he was no coward. They called him so sometimes, thinking, because he seemed fearful about some things they counted trifles, that he really had no courage. I'm afraid boys have forgotten nowadays, that mere daring is no test of true courage." Here Francis and Carl felt their faces grow hot, but Aunt Celia said no more and went on. "It was one day in April, very like to-day, that we all went upon the side hill to pick May flowers. Henry was nearly twelve years old--his birthday, as you know, is next month--and I was ten. It had always been a habit, when people went out in the spring for flowers, to cut a stout stick, to be used partly as a walking-stick, and partly as a protection against snakes, which were often seen, but which usually escaped before they could be reached. Old people told of rattlesnakes that used to be seen, but they were very scarce, even then, and none of us had ever seen one. "We all had sticks, cut from a bunch of hickory saplings that grew beside the path, and your uncle Elijah said, as we were going along, 'I wonder what Hen would do if he heard a rattlesnake; turn pale and faint away, I guess,' at which the others laughed loudly, but Henry said nothing, though I saw his lips quiver at the taunt. "We found the flowers, thick and beautiful, just as you have this week. We picked all we wished, ate the lunch which mother had put up for us, and were sitting on a large, flat stone, talking of starting for home. I saw a bit of pretty moss under some twigs at the edge of the stone, and stepped down to get it, when suddenly a peculiar whir-r-r, that we never had heard before, struck our ears. All the boys started up, looking about eagerly. The bushes at my side parted slightly, and the flattened head of a large rattlesnake protruded, and again came that dreadful sound. Then the boys jumped from the rock, each in a different direction, and screamed, rather than cried, 'Jump, Celia, it's a rattlesnake!' "I could not move. I must have been paralyzed by fear, for, though I was but a child, I could not misunderstand my danger. Of course, what I am telling happened in a few seconds, but I remember hearing the swish that a stick makes when it cuts through the air, and the horrible head, with its forked, vibrating tongue, was severed from the writhing body, and fell at my feet. "Harry had quietly stepped down by my side, and with his stick--the one you see on the antlers yonder--had saved me from a dreadful death. There he stood, pale and trembling to be sure, but with such a light in his blue eyes, that none of his older brothers dared ever call him coward, or girl, again. We walked quietly home, bringing the body with its horrible horny scales to show to father and mother. I shall never forget how they clasped us in their arms as they listened to the story, and how I wondered, as a child will, if everybody, when they were grown up, cried when they were very glad. "Nothing was ever said to the older boys. They had learned what true bravery was, the scorn of self-protection when another needed help, and they have been better for it ever since. Your father has never had the story told to you, thinking that some time it might also teach you the lesson that true courage from its root word, the Latin _cor_, and down through the French _coeur_, is both below and above any outward manifestations, and belongs to the heart. "The snake must have come out into the sun from his den under the rock, and was not as active as in warmer weather, or the bite would have followed the first alarm. There has never since been seen another in this locality." We sat in silence for awhile, and then grandfather spoke, laying his hand on Harry's curls: "I seem to see my boy Henry again in his son, Harry. I hope he will grow up into the same brave, though tender manhood of his father, and remember, boys," he said, turning toward Francis and Carl, "that recklessness and a desire to be thought bold and daring are not an index of true courage and often have no connection with it. If the walnut rod teaches you this lesson, its story will be of great value to you." HOW THE HATCHET WAS BURIED. BY OCTAVIA CARROLL. A feud, as fierce as that between the Montagues and Capulets, had for several years raged between the boys of Valleytown and the country lads living on the breezy hills just above the small village. Originating in a feeling of jealousy, it waxed hotter and more bitter with every game of ball and every examination at the "Academy" where they were forced to meet the rival factions, tauntingly dubbing each other "Lilies of the Valley" and "Ground Moles," while if a Lily chanced to whip a Mole in a fair fight all the town-bred youths immediately stood on their heads for joy, and if a Mole went above a Lily in class, the entire hill company crowed as loudly as the chanticleers of the barnyard. By general consent two boys had come to be considered the leaders of the respective factions; handsome, quick-witted Roy Hastings of the former, and stronger, bright Carl Duckworth of the latter; while it was an annoyance to each that their sisters had struck up a "bosom friendship" and stubbornly refused to share in their brothers' feud. "It is so absurd in Roy," said Helen Hastings, "to want me not to visit Maizie, whom I love so dearly, just because one of her family has beaten him at baseball and shot more pigeons this spring." "And Helen shall come to tea as often as she likes to put up with our plain fare," declared little Miss Duckworth, "even if Carl does look like a thunder-cloud all supper time and has hardly enough politeness to pass the butter." So matters stood when, one evening in early June, the commander of the heights' coterie summoned his followers to a meeting in the loft of an old barn on his father's estate, that was only used as a storehouse since a better one had been built. "Hello, fellows, what is this pow-wow about?" asked agile Mark Tripp, as he sprang up a rickety ladder and popped his head through the square opening in the attic floor. "Dun'no; some bee, Duckworth, here, has buzzing round in his bonnet," replied lazy Hugh Blossom from the hay, where he reclined. "It takes the captain to have 'happy thoughts,'" while, playfully pulling a refractory lock of hair sticking out from Carl's head, he gaily chanted: "And the duck with the feather curled over his back, He leads all the others, with his quack! quack! quack!" "Good enough! All right, Ducky, proceed with your quacking! Let's know what's up! Are the 'low-ly lil-is of the val-ly' once more on the war path? And to what do they challenge us--a spelling match or a swimming race?" "To neither. Those very superior posies are about to seek glory in another way. I have learned from a most reliable source that they are now hoarding all their pocket money in order to astonish the natives. In fact, fellers, they intend to fresco Valleytown a decided carmine on the 'Glorious Fourth,' and we have got to make the hills hum to quench 'em." "What form is their celebration to take?" asked little Peter Wheatly. "Fireworks, principally. Real stunners! Not just a few Roman candles and sky-rockets, but flower-pots throwing up colored balls that burst into stars, zigzagging serpents, and all sorts of things, such as have never been seen round here before. Why, our big bonfire and giant crackers will be nowhere." "Right you are there, Cap," said Hugh. "They will have all the country down on the Green patting them on the back for their public spirit, while we occupy a back seat. It's a pretty bright move for the Lilies, and I don't see how we can prevent it." "Get up a counter-attraction. Pyro--pyro--what do you call 'em will make a good deal finer show from Round Knob than down yonder in the dale." "Sure. But where are your pyrotechnics to come from?" "From the city, of course. See here, I wrote to a firm there as soon as I learned the Lilies' secret, and they sent me a price-list." Young Duckworth produced a very gay red and yellow circular, but the boys only looked at each other in blank amazement. The hillside farmers were nearly all land poor, gaining but a bare subsistence out of the rocky New England soil and seldom had a dime, much less dollars, to squander on mere amusement. "Guess you think we are Rothschilds or Vanderbilts," snickered small Peter. "Pennies always burn a hole in my pocket and drop right out," said Mark. "I might chip in a copper cent and a nickel with a dig in it," drawled Hugh, and there was no one else who could do better. "Well, I know you are an impecunious lot," continued Carl, "but next week the strawberries will be dead ripe. If you fellows will only be patriotic and pitch in and pick for the cause we can put Roy Hastings and his top-lofty crowd to the blush by getting up a really respectable show with a 'piece' as a topper off. I don't believe the Valleyites ever thought of a 'piece.'" "What sort of a piece?" asked Bud Perkins. "Why, a fancy piece of fireworks, of course. Just listen to what Powder & Co. offer!" and Carl read aloud: "'Realistic spectacle of Mother Goose, in peaked hat and scarlet cloak, with her gander by her side. The head of George Washington, the Father of his Country, surrounded by thirteen stars. Very fine. Superb figure of Christopher Columbus landing from his Spanish galleon upon the American shore. One of our most magnificent designs." "There, don't that sound prime? They're expensive, awfully expensive, but we can economize on the rockets and little things to come out strong, in a blaze of glory, at the end. I warrant a Mother Goose or, better yet, a Washington would shut up the Lilies' leaves in a jiffy." "Or Christopher Columbus--I vote for old Chris," shouted Mark. "Yes, yes, Chris and his galleon," chorused the others. "It is the dearest of them all," remarked Carl, somewhat dubiously. "No matter, 'Chris or nothing,' say we." So it was decided, and before the boys parted they had all agreed, if they could win their parents' consent, to hire out for the berry-picking and to contribute every cent thus earned toward the Fourth of July celebration. There is no spur like competition, and for the next three weeks the ambitious youths devoted themselves heart, and soul, and fingers to the cause; but the pickers had their reward, when, the berry harvest over, they found they could send a tolerably satisfactory order to Powder & Co., and when, on the third of July, a great box arrived by express, was unpacked, and its contents secretly, and under the cover of night, stored away in the lower part of Farmer Duckworth's discarded barn, their exuberant delight burst forth in sundry ecstatic somersaults and Indian-like dances. It may be, however, that their exultation might have been tempered with caution had they been aware of two figures gliding stealthily through the darkness without, and known that the case, bearing the name of the city firm, when it was taken from the train, had not escaped the sharp eyes of Roy Hastings and his chum Ed Spafford. "How do you suppose they ever raised the money to buy all those fireworks?" asked one shadow of another shadow, as they flitted down the hill. "I don't know, confound 'em! But I do know their show is better than ours, and something has got to be done!" "Yes, indeed, and surely, Roy, there must be some way!" "There always is where there is a will, and--and--_matches_!" Boom, boom, boom! Old Captain Stone's ancient cannon announced the advent of another Independence Day shortly after midnight, and Young America was quickly abroad with the Chinese cracker and torpedo. Helen Hastings disliked the deafening racket of the village and, therefore, early beat a retreat to the hills, determined to enjoy the day in her own fashion with Maizie, who welcomed her with open arms. "I am so glad you have come, Nell, dear, for I was feeling as blue as your sash, if it is the Fourth of July!" "Why, darling, what is the matter?" "Oh, I am so worried because pa is worried. He don't act a bit like his dear, jolly, old self, but goes round with a long face and can neither eat nor sleep. Ma says it is because a mortgage or something is coming due, and the crops have been so bad for several years that he is afraid he may have to sell the farm and move out West. It would just break my heart to leave this place." "So it would mine. But there, Maizie, it is foolish to be troubled about what may never happen. It is so warm let us find a nice cool spot and finish the book we commenced the other day." "There is a good current of air through the loft of the old barn. We will go there if you can scramble up the ladder." This, with some assistance, Helen succeeded in doing, and the two girls were soon nestling in the sweet, new-mown hay. "Eleven o'clock," announced Helen, consulting her little chatelaine watch as they finally laid down the entertaining story they had been reading, "and I am both sleepy and thirsty." "Well, my dear, lie back and take a nap and I will go and make lemonade for us both." "Really? Oh, that will be delicious!" and throwing herself back on the fragrant mow she closed her eyes as her blithe, hospitable friend skipped off toward the house. The twittering of the swallows in the eaves and the hum of the insects in the meadows without were curiously soothing, and the fair maid fell into a light doze from which, however, she was rudely awakened by a terrific explosion. She sprang to her feet in alarm to find the floor heaving like the deck of a ship at sea and feel the tumble-down building rocking as though shaken to its very foundation. "What has happened! Is it an earthquake?" she gasped, rushing to the ladder-way; but she started back in affright at sight of a mass of flame and flying, fiery objects below. "Oh, this is terrible!" Was she, Helen Hastings--her father's pride, her brothers' pet--to meet a violent death here in this lonely spot? Expecting every instant to have the boards give way beneath her, she flew to the window and, in her desperation, would have leaped out, regardless of a huge pile of stones beneath, had not the voice of Maizie at that moment reached her ear calling: "Don't jump, Helen; don't jump! You will be killed! Wait! courage! I am going for help." Even as she faltered hesitatingly, her strength failed, her senses reeled and she fell fainting to the ground. Across lots from Round Knob, where they had been preparing for the evening exhibition, came Carl Duckworth, Hugh Blossom and Bud Perkins. They were in high spirits, discussing with animation the anticipated fun, when Bud suddenly stopped short, asking, "Who are those fellows making tracks so fast down the road?" "Looks like Roy Hastings and Ed Spafford," replied Hugh. "Though what brings them this way on such a day as this puzzles me." "I hope they haven't got wind of our plans and been up to some mischief," said Carl, uneasily, instinctively quickening his footsteps. A moment later, as they entered the farm gate, the explosion that had awakened Helen made them also start and gaze at each other in dismay. Then a howl of mingled rage, grief and astonishment burst from the trio as through the open door of the old barn shot a confused medley of rockets, pin-wheels, snakes and grasshoppers, popping and fizzing madly in the garish sunlight; a howl that culminated in a shriek when whirling and spinning out whizzed the famous "piece," the Landing of Columbus, thrown by the concussion far upon the grass, where it went off in a highly erratic manner, poor Christopher appearing perfectly demoralized as he stood on his head in the brilliant galleon, with his feet waving amid a galaxy of stars. "All our three weeks' labor and all our money gone up in smoke!" groaned Bud, flinging himself down in an agony of despair. "And it is Roy Hastings' mean, dastardly work," growled Hugh; while Carl turned pale with wrath and shook his fist in a way that boded no good to his enemy. Indeed, at that instant, he felt that revenge, swift and telling, would be the sweetest thing in life. Truly, then, it seemed the very irony of fate, when, from amid the wreaths of smoke pouring from the upper loft window, emerged for a brief second a girlish, white-robed figure, with beseeching, outstretched hands, that paused, swayed, then fell back and disappeared, while Maizie rushed toward them crying, "Oh, Carl, Carl! The old barn is on fire, and Helen is in there!" "What! Roy Hastings' sister?" and Hugh actually laughed aloud. "Serves the mean rascal right, too, if she was killed, for he would have no one but himself to blame," said Bud Perkins, whose bark was always worse than his bite, and who was really as kind-hearted a chap as ever lived. "Oh, you bad, cruel boys!" exclaimed Maizie; "but Carl, I know, will not be so wicked," and she turned imploringly to her brother, in whose mind a fierce struggle was going on. In a flash, he saw his foe bowed and crushed with remorse, a "paying back" far beyond anything he could have dreamed of! Besides, the risk was tremendous, and why should he endanger his life? But the next moment humanity triumphed, and shouting, "We can't stand idle and see a girl perish before our eyes! So here goes," he sped off toward the burning building, stripping off his jacket, as he ran, which he plunged into a barrel of water and then wrapped closely about his head. Thus protected, he bravely dashed through the flames lapping at him with their fiery tongues. His breath came in short, quick pants, he was nearly suffocated, and falling rafters warned him that he had no time to spare. Valiantly, however, he struggled to the already charred ladder and groped his way up it, until, gasping and exhausted, he reached the window with the unconscious girl in his arms, as the fire was eating through the floor at his feet. To the anxious watchers outside, it appeared an eternity before the lad reached the window and deftly caught the rope they had ready to toss to him. With trembling fingers he knotted this about Helen's waist, gently let her down into the arms of Bud and Hugh and then prepared to descend himself, when a groan of horror from the onlookers rent the air; there was a quiver, a sudden giving way, a deafening crash and roar. The flooring had at length succumbed to the destroying element and gone down. Mrs. Duckworth sank on her knees sobbing. "Oh, my boy! my boy!" and Maizie hid her face. But, as the smoke cleared away, the groan changed to a joyous shout and all looked up to behold the youth clinging to the casement, which was still upheld by two feeble supports. Hugh sprang forward. "Carl, drop! Let yourself drop," he called. "We will catch you," and Carl, as a great darkness overwhelmed him, dropped like a dead weight and was borne, a begrimed and senseless burden, to his own little room in the cozy old homestead. Summer was over ere a mere wraith of sturdy, lively Carl Duckworth was able to creep down stairs to sit on the veranda and gaze listlessly out upon the mountain landscape in its early autumn dress. But, after weary weeks of pain and anxiety, he was on the mend, and there was something of the old merriment in his laugh when he caught sight of a row of urchins, perched on the fence like a motley flock of birds, singing with hearty good will, "See, the Conquering Hero Comes!" and he was surprised to recognize in the welcoming choristers many "Lilies" of Valleytown, as well as his own familiar friends. It was something of an astonishment, too, to have Roy Hastings hurry forward to offer his hand and say: "I can't tell you, Duckworth, how glad I am to see you out again and only wish you would give me a good sound kicking;" while surely there were tears in his eyes and a curious break in his voice. It was a boy's way of begging pardon, but, being a boy, Carl understood, while as he looked into the other's white worn face, so changed since he saw it last, he dimly comprehended that there might be "coals of fire" which burn more sharply even than the blisters and stings that had caused him such days and nights of agony. So the grasp he gave Roy was warm and cordial as he said, "Well, I'm not equal to much kicking yet, old fellow; but, for one, I am tired of this old feud and think it is time we buried the hatchet." "Oh, I am so glad!" cried a merry voice in the doorway, and out danced Helen with her hands full of flowers. "You dear, heroic Carl. I have come to thank you, too, though I never, never can, for rescuing me on that dreadful day, and, as some small return, they have let me be the first to tell you of the silver lining hidden behind that cloud of smoke." "What do you mean?" asked Carl, thoroughly mystified. "I mean that Christopher Columbus and his combustible companions did a pretty good turn after all. They plowed up the ground under the old barn so well that when the rubbish was cleared away there came to light what promises to be the finest paint mine in the whole country." "Paint mine!" "Yes, sir. Non-inflammable, mineral paint that will not only save the farm, but, perhaps, make all our fortunes." "It's true, Carl, every word true," laughed Maizie, who had stolen softly up. "Papa has had the ore analyzed, and is so happy he beams like a full moon. Judge Hastings, too, has been so kind, advancing funds, getting up a company and preparing to build a kiln. It has been quite the excitement of the summer in Valleytown." "Well, well! This is glorious news! Hip, hip, hooray!" a feeble cheer that was echoed and re-echoed by the faction on the fence. "Dear me, haven't you finished your revelations yet?" exclaimed Mark Tripp, suddenly tumbling up the steps. "For if you have the 'Lilies of the Valley' request the captain of the 'Ground Moles' and the young ladies to occupy the piazza chairs and witness a pyrotechnical display postponed from the Fourth of July, but now given in honor of the recovery of our esteemed citizen, Carl Duckworth, and of our Peace Jubilee." All laughed at Mark's pompous little speech and hastened to take their places. So at last in a shower of golden sparks they buried the hatchet and the feud between Valleytown and Hillside ended forever amid a generous display of fire-works. HANSCHEN AND THE HARES. FROM THE GERMAN, BY ELLEN T. SULLIVAN. Long ago, in a little house near a forest in Germany lived a shoemaker and his wife. They were poor but contented and happy; for they were willing to work and they had their snug little house and food enough for themselves and their little Hanschens. "Oh! if Hanschen would only grow like other boys, I should be the happiest woman in the land," the mother used to say. "He is six years old, yet he can stand on the palm of my hand." "Well, if he is not so big as some of our neighbors' boys, he is brighter than many of them," the father used to answer. Then the mother felt so glad she would dance around the room with Hans and say, "Yes, he is bright as a child can be and as spry too. When he runs around the room I can hardly catch him." One day she said to her husband, "I am going to the forest meadow to cut fodder for the goat. The grass there is so sweet and juicy that, if the goat eats it, we shall have the richest milk for Hanschen. That will make him grow faster. I will take him with me; he can sit in the grass and play with the flowers." "Very well," said the father; "take care that he does not stray away from you. Give him some clover blossoms to suck. We are too poor to buy candy for him." Out through the green forest went Hanschen and his mother. The boy was so happy that his mother could hardly hold him, as he laughed and jumped and clapped his hands. He thought the blue sky was playing hide-and-seek with him through the treetops; that the birds were singing a welcome to him, and that the bees, the butterflies, and great dragon-flies were all glad to see him. When they came to the meadow his mother put him down and gave him some clover blossoms. Then she began to cut the grass and soon she was quite a way from Hanschen, who was entirely hidden by the tall grass. While the mother was working Hanschen sat sucking his sweet clover blossoms. All at once he heard a rustling, and there, beside him were two little hares. He was not at all afraid. He nodded to them and said, "How do you do?" The little hares had never seen a child. They thought he was a hare, dressed up in a coat and having a different kind of face from their own. They stared at him a minute and then one said, "Hop! hop!" and sprang over a grass stalk. "Can you do that?" said they to Hanschen. "Yes, indeed!" said he, leaping quickly over a stalk, as he spoke. "Now," said the hares, "we shall have a fine time playing together." And a fine time they did have, leaping and racing until the sun was low in the west, and the little hares began to think of supper and bed. "Come home with us; our father and mother will be good to you;" they said to Hanschen. So he leaped away with the little hares toward the green bushes where they lived. Now there was another little hare, who had staid at home with his mother that day. His bright eyes were the first to see the three merry friends leaping toward the bushes. "Oh, mammy! mammy!" he cried: "Just look through the bushes. Did you ever see such a queer-looking hare as that little chap with my brothers?" "Bring me my spectacles, child," said Mrs. Hare. "It may be the poor thing has been hurt. That terrible hunter is around again. He chased your poor father yesterday. Then that wicked old fox is prowling about, too. It may be that one of them hurt the poor little stranger so that he does not look natural. If so, I'll soon cure him by good nursing." That was what kind Mrs. Hare said to her little son. He brought her spectacles, which she wiped and put on. Then she cried out, "Why bless me! this is no hare! This is a human child! He is lost and his parents will be wild with grief for him. My children, I fear you led him astray. Tell just where you found him and we will carry him back there in the morning. It is so late now he must stay with us to-night." "We thought he was a hare because he can spring and leap as well as we can. We found him in the forest meadow and we have had splendid fun together," said the little hares. Then good Mrs. Hare gave Hanschen some hares' bread for his supper, and soon after she tucked him snugly in bed with her sons. Before putting him to bed she drew over him, a soft silky hare coat. It fitted him nicely from the two furry ears to the little stubby tail. The three little hares were delighted and said, "He's a hare now, isn't he, mammy?" "Well, dears, he does look just like one of you; but you must all lie still now and go to sleep for we must get up with the sun, to-morrow," said Mrs. Hare. In the meantime Hanschen's mother had finished cutting the grass, and she looked for Hanschen and called him until it grew quite dark. Then she went home, weeping bitterly, and told her husband that their child was lost. Out ran the father then to look for his boy; but he could not find him. All that night the poor parents wept and moaned, while Hanschen was sleeping peacefully with the little hares. The Hare family got up at daylight, and all of them put on their Sunday clothes, for Mr. Hare had said to his wife, "I want folks to see that their child has been with good company; so please put on your very best cap and brush all our children's coats until they shine. I'll wear a high collar and my tall silk hat, and you must tie my cravat in a nice bow." When all were dressed they ate a good breakfast, locked up their green gate and started for the meadow. They had scarcely reached the edge of the forest, when they heard Hanschen's mother calling, "Hanschen! Hanschen! darling!" "Here I am, mother;" cried he. "I hear him! I hear him! Oh husband! don't you?" said the mother. "I do hear his voice but I can see nothing except a little brown hare." Hanschen laughed in delight--sprang forward and pulled off his furry coat. How surprised his father and mother were! By this time the Hare family had come up and Mr. Hare took off his hat and bowing very low, he said, "Mr. Man, this is my good wife and these youngsters are my three sons. Their mother and I try to teach them to do right, and they really are pretty good children. Two of them were playing around here yesterday, and invited your son to play with them, not knowing what sorrow and trouble they caused you by leading him astray. They brought him home with them last night. My good wife gave him plenty to eat; he slept with my sons and you see the fine suit of hare-clothes he has just taken off. I hope you will let him keep it to remember us by. It is a present from all of us. We are only hares but we have done by your child just what we should like you to do by one of our children if you should find one of them astray. And now, my dear sir, we will bid you farewell and go back to our home." "Not yet! not yet!" cried Hanschen's father and mother. "Tell us, do you have sorrows or troubles? One good turn deserves another. We should be so glad to do something for you." "Sorrows and troubles are plentiful in our lives," said Mr. Hare. "If you can stop that terrible hunter from chasing us; and if you can manage to trap that wicked Mr. Fox, will make us very happy. And good Mrs. Man, if you will just throw a few cabbage leaves out on the snow for us in the winter, when every green thing is dead or buried; then we shall not have to go to bed hungry." Hanschen's father and mother gladly promised to do all they could for the good Hare family; then the two happy families went home. One day soon after Hanschen's visit to the hares, his father got up very early, for he had two pairs of shoes to finish that day. He had scarcely begun his work when a very loud knock was heard at the door. "Who can it be so early as this?" thought the shoemaker. He opened the door and there stood--Mr. Fox! "Good morning, shoemaker," said he; "I want you to make me a pair of shoes and do it right off, too, or I'll kill every one of your hens to-night. I'm hare hunting, to-day. I know where a whole family of hares live, down near the forest. I mean to bag them all before they leave their house this morning. They run so fast it is hard to catch them when they are out. But, see one of my shoes is torn, so I must have a new pair before I can walk so far." The shoemaker bowed and invited the fox to come in and sit down. Then he said, "Mr. Fox, a great hunter like you ought to wear high boots; not low shoes like common folks." That pleased Mr. Fox, so he said, "Well, make high boots; but make them of the finest, softest leather, and do not make them tight." The shoemaker took the hardest, heaviest, leather he could find and soon finished the boots. He put a piece of sticky wax into each boot. He said to himself, "Mr. Fox thinks he is very sly but we'll see whether he can catch our friends, the hares, when he puts on these boots." Mr. Fox proudly drew on his boots but he said: "They seem stiff and tight. I fear I cannot run very fast in them." "Just wait till you have worn them a little while--new boots generally feel stiff," said the shoemaker. "Well, I will hurry off now; but I'll soon come back and bring you the hares' skins to pay for the boots," said Mr. Fox. A little while after the fox had gone the shoemaker's wife jumped up in alarm from her chair. A hare had leaped in through the window behind her. It was one of their friends--the father of the Hare family. "Save me! the hunter is after me," he cried. "Here, quick! jump into bed," said the shoemaker's wife. He did so, and she covered him up, then she dressed Hanschen in the suit that the hares had given him. She had scarcely done so when the hunter came in and said, "Give me the hare that I have been chasing. I saw him leap into your window. I must have him. There he is now, springing on your table." "There is my little Hanschen," said the shoemaker. "No wonder you think he is a hare, for he can run as fast and leap as well as any hare." "Yes," said Hanschen's mother, "and he often goes out to play in this hare-suit--see how nicely it fits him. But, Mr. Hunter, you must not shoot my Hanschen when you are out chasing hares." "Well," said the hunter, "if that isn't wonderful. But say, good people, how in the world am I to know whether I am chasing Hanschen or a hare?" "Oh, easily enough," said the shoemaker. "You have only to wait a minute and call out, 'Hanschen!' If the little creature sits up still and straight like a child, don't shoot, for that will be Hanschen." "I will remember and call out," said the hunter. "Well, then, to pay you for your kindness, I'll tell you that if you hurry toward the forest, now, you will be able to bag a fox that cannot be far away; for the rogue has on a pair of boots of my making, and he has hard work to move with them by this time, I'll be bound." "Thank you, Mr. Shoemaker," said the hunter; "I'll soon finish him and bring you his hide to prove it. Only last night he killed three of my hens." The hunter soon caught up with the fox, brought his hide to the shoemaker and went away. Then Hanschen's father told the hare to go home to his folks and tell them that the old fox would never trouble them again, and when they heard the hunter they were just to sit still and straight on their hind legs. Mr. Hare flew over the ground on his way home. His good news made him light-hearted and swift-footed. Oh, how happy the hares were! To this day hares often sit up like a child. Hanschen often spent a day with the hares, and learned to run so well, and spring forward so quickly, that all the people said when he grew up, "He is the best man to have for a postman for the villages around." So Hanschen became postman. He never forgot his friends, the hares, but always carried some cabbage leaves for them when snow and ice covered up or killed the green leaves. 'Tis said the hares used to watch for his coming, and sing this song when they caught sight of him: "Our good friend, Hans, Is a brave young man; hip, hurrah! He springs as well As the best hare can; hip, hurrah! Beneath his coat Is a good, warm heart; hip, hurrah! We may be sure He will take our part; hip, hurrah! We need not starve Though the world be white; hip, hurrah! Our good friend, Hans Will give us a bite; hip, hurrah! This is his time He is drawing near; hip, hurrah! Off with hats; now Cheer upon cheer; hip, hip, hurrah!" THE END. 
48912	----	http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) THE LITTLE DEMON BY FEODOR SOLOGUB AUTHORISED TRANSLATION BY JOHN COURNOS AND RICHARD ALDINGTON ALFRED A. KNOPF NEW YORK MCMXVI TRANSLATORS' PREFACE "_The Little Demon" is a successful and almost imperceptible merging of comedy with tragedy. It is in fact a tragedy in which the comic forms an integral part and is not sandwiched in superficially merely to please the reader. The method resembles in a measure that of Gogol's "Dead Souls," with which "The Little Demon" was compared upon its first appearance in_ 1907. _It is a work of art--and it is a challenge; and this challenge is addressed not to Russia alone, but to the whole world._ "_What a sad place Russia is!" exclaimed Pushkin when Gogol read his story to him. But what the world knows to-day is that Gogol gave us a portrait of the human soul, and that only the frame was Russian. Prince Kropotkin assures us that there are Chichikovs in England, and Professor Phelps of Yale is equally emphatic about their presence in America._ _And this is also true of Peredonov, of "The Little Demon."_ _In spite of its "local colour" and its portrayal of small town life in Russia, this novel has the world for its stage, and its chief actor, Peredonov, is a universal character. He is a Russian--an American--an Englishman. He is to be found everywhere, and in every station of life. Both translators agree that they have even met one or two Peredonovs at London literary teas--and not a few Volodins, for that matter._ _Certainly there is a touch of Peredonov in many men. It is a matter of degree. For the extraordinary thing about this book is that nearly all the characters are Peredonovs of a lesser calibre. Their Peredonovism lacks that concentrated intensity which lifts the unfortunate Peredonov to tragic--and to comic--heights in spite of his pettiness; or perhaps because his pettiness is so gigantic._ _"The Little Demon" is a penetration into human conscience, and a criticism of the state of petty "provinciality" into which it has fallen._ "_The Kingdom of God is within you." So is the kingdom of evil. That is the great truth of "The Little Demon." And in Peredonov's case, the inner spirit takes possession of external objects, and all the concrete things that his eyes see become symbols of the evil that is within himself. More than that: this spirit even creates for him a "little grey, nimble beast"--the Nedotikomka--which is the sum of the evil forces of the world, and against which he has to contend._ _The author enters his "hero's" condition so deeply that even people and objects and scenery are rendered, as it were, through Peredonov's eyes--and the mood created by this subjective treatment helps to inveigle the reader into comprehending the chief character._ _The beautiful Sasha-Liudmilla episode relieves the Peredonovian atmosphere as a dab of vermilion relieves grey. But what the author shows us is that even such an idyllic love episode is affected by contact with this atmosphere, and that its beauty and innocence become obscured under the tissue of lies as under a coat of grey dust. This, as well as other aspects of "The Little Demon," are dealt with at length in my article on Feodor Sologub in "The Fortnightly Review" (September, 1915), and if I refrain from going over the ground again, it is because I hope that the tale is simple and clear enough to provide its own comment._ _Finally, I may be pardoned for speaking of the difficulties of translating "The Little Demon." Not only is the original extraordinarily racy in parts and rich in current Russian slang--at times almost obscure in meaning, but the characters occasionally indulge in puns or speak in rhymes--rhyme-speaking is not uncommon among the peasant classes in Russia. In every case the translators have striven to give the English equivalent; where the difficulty was of a nature rendering this impossible, the translators have had to make use of absolutely unavoidable footnotes. The translators have also made every effort to preserve the mood of Sologubian descriptive prose, which is not always an easy matter, when you consider the natural pliancy of Russian and the comparatively rigid nature of English._ _JOHN COURNOS_ _December_ 1915 AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE SECOND RUSSIAN EDITION, 1908 _This novel, "The Little Demon," was begun in_ 1892 _and finished in_ 1902. _It originally appeared in_ 1905 _in the periodical "Voprosi Zhizni," but without its final chapters. It was first published in its complete form in March,_ 1907, _in the "Shipovnik" edition._ _There are two dissenting opinions among those I have seen expressed in print as well as among those I have chanced to hear personally:_ _There are some who think that the author, being a very wicked man, wished to draw his own portrait, and has represented himself in the person of the instructor Peredonov. To judge from his frankness it would appear that the author did not have the slightest wish to justify or to idealise himself, and has painted his face in the blackest colours. He has accomplished this rather astonishing undertaking in order to ascend a kind of Golgotha, and to expiate his sins for some reason or other. The result is an interesting and harmless novel._ _Interesting, because it shows what wicked people there are in this world. Harmless, because the reader can say: "This was not written about me."_ _Others, more considerate toward the author, are of the opinion that the Peredonovstchina portrayed in this novel is a sufficiently widespread phenomenon._ _Others go even further and say that if every one of us should examine himself intently he would discover unmistakable traits of Peredonov_. _Of these two opinions I give preference to the one most agreeable to me, namely, the second. I did not find it indispensable to create and invent out of myself; all that is episodic, realistic, and psychologic in any novel is based on very precise observation, and I found sufficient "material" for my novel around me. And if my labours on this novel have been rather prolonged, it has been in order to elevate to necessity whatever is here by chance; so that the austere Ananke should reign on the throne of Aisa, the prodigal scatterer of episodes._ _It is true that people love to be loved. They are pleased with the portrayal of the nobler, loftier aspects of the soul. Even in villains they want to see a spark of nobility, "the divine spark," as people used to say in the old days. That is why they do not want to believe the picture that confronts them when it is true, exact, gloomy, and evil. They say: "It is not about me."_ _No, my dear contemporaries, it is of you that I have written my novel, about the Little Demon and his dreadful Nedotikomka, about Ardalyon and Varvara Peredonov, Pavel Volodin, Darya, Liudmilla, and Valeria Routilov, Aleksandr Pilnikov and the others. About you._ _This novel is a mirror--very skilfully made. I have spent a long time in polishing it, I have laboured over it zealously._ _The surface of my mirror is pure. It has been remeasured again and again, and most carefully verified; it has not a single blemish._ _The monstrous and the beautiful are reflected in it with equal precision._ AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE FIFTH RUSSIAN EDITION, 1909 _I once thought that Peredonov's career was finished, and that he was not to leave the psychiatric hospital where he was placed after cutting Volodin's throat. But latterly rumours have begun to reach me to the effect that Peredonov's mental derangement has proved to be only temporary, and that after a brief confinement he was restored to freedom. These rumours sound hardly plausible. I only mention them because even in our days the unplausible happens. Indeed, I have read in a newspaper that I am preparing to write a sequel to "The Little Demon."_ _I have heard that Varvara has apparently succeeded in convincing someone that Peredonov had cause for behaving as he did--that Volodin uttered more than once objectionable words, and had betrayed objectionable intentions--and that before his death he said something amazingly insolent which led to the fatal catastrophe. I am told that Varvara has interested the Princess Volchanskaya in this story, and the Princess, who earlier had neglected to put in a word for Peredonov, is now taking a keen interest in his fate._ _As to what happened to Peredonov after he had left the hospital, my information is rather vague and contradictory. Some people have told me that Peredonov has entered the police department, as he had been advised to do by Skouchayev, and has served as a councillor in the District Government. He has distinguished himself in some way or other, and is making a fine career._ _I have heard from others, however, that it was not Ardalyon Borisitch who served in the police, but another Peredonov, a relative of our Peredonov. Ardalyon Borisitch himself did not succeed in entering the service, or else he did not wish to; instead, he has taken up with literary criticism. His articles reveal those qualities which distinguished him before._ _This rumour strikes me as being even more unlikely than the first._ _In any case, if I should succeed in receiving precise information about the latest doings of Peredonov, I will try to relate it in all its adequate detail._ DIALOGUE TO THE SEVENTH RUSSIAN EDITION, MAY 1913 "_My soul, why are you thus dismayed?"_ "_Because of the hate that surrounds the name of the author of 'The Little Demon.' Many people who disagree upon other things are agreed on this._" "_Accept the malice and the abuse submissively._" "_But is not our labour worthy of gratitude? Why then this hate?_" "_This hate is rather like fear. You waken the conscience too loudly, you are too frank."_ "_But isn't there some use in my truth?"_ "_You want compliments! But this is not Paris."_ "_Oh, no, it is not Paris!"_ "_My soul, you are a true Parisienne, a child of European civilisation. You have come in a charming dress and in light sandals to a place where they wear smocks and greased boots. Do not be astonished if the greased boot sometimes steps rudely on your tender foot. Its possessor is an honest fellow."_ "_But what a morose, what an awkward fellow!"_ AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION TO THE ENGLISH EDITION _It is quite natural for the author of a novel to experience pleasure and pride upon learning that his work is about to become accessible to a new circle of readers. Upon learning, however, that Mr. John Cournos was translating my novel,_ "_The Little Demon," into English I experienced not a little apprehension. In days of Anglo-Russian rapprochement, in days of great stress, when a common danger unites the two great nations, it seemed to me perhaps unseasonable to acquaint England with this sombre picture. It occurred to me that there was a danger of my new readers accepting this novel as a precise and characteristic portrayal of Russian life. But my friends told me that Mr. John Cournos was fulfilling his task with great love and care_, _and this gives me the hope that the true meaning of my work will be also understood in the translation, reproducing so accurately the original._ _In any case, I should like to warn my readers against the temptation of seeing only Russian traits in this novel. The portrait of Peredonov is an expression of the all-human inclination towards evil, of the almost disinterested tendency of a perverse human soul to depart from the common course of universal life directed by one omnipotent Will; and, taking vengeance upon the world for its own grievous loneliness, to bring into the world evil and abomination, to mutilate the given reality and to defile the beautiful dreams of humanity._ _This inclination towards evil, raging in the hearts of mankind in all latitudes and longitudes, invests itself only outwardly with an appearance of selfish expedience. A soul marred by this tragic affliction, that of a morose separation from the world, is borne along by a sovereign justice, which rules worlds and hearts, upon disastrous paths, towards madness and towards death._ _The afflicted soul does not rejoice at its gains, to such a degree visionary, to such a degree worthless. A foreboding of ultimate destruction torments it with a gnawing sadness._ _Where then, in what blessed land, is not man tormented with this agonising sadness, these true tokens of the same morose and sombre affliction? The Russian "khandra" and the English spleen are the expression of one and the same malady of the spirit. Even in more noble souls, these harsh visitors, so familiar to both Englishmen and Russians, have been created by the omnipotent Will not without a beneficent design. They incessantly remind the soul, succumbing in the life struggle, that the enemy is near, cunning and strong._ _I would be glad if my new readers should appraise not only the detestable sinfulness and perversity of a soul warped by the force of evil, but also the great yearning of this soul--the evil evil atones to a certain degree in this truly human feeling; and in this feeling the afflicted man also communes with each one of us._ _This novel will not be accepted by you in condemnation of my country--my country has not a few enchantments, which make her beloved not only by her own, but also by the observant stranger. Perhaps the attentive reader will find even in this sombre novel certain reflections of enchanting Russian nature, and of the live Russian soul._ _FEODOR SOLOGUB_ _January_ 1916 CHAPTER I After Mass the members of the congregation scattered to their homes. A few stopped to talk under the old maples and lindens near the white stone walls, within the enclosure. All were in holiday dress and looked at one another cheerily. It appeared as if the inhabitants of this town lived peacefully and amicably--even happily. But it was only in appearance. Peredonov, a schoolmaster in the _gymnasia_, stood among his friends, and as he looked at them gravely out of his small, stealthy eyes, across the golden rims of his spectacles, he remarked: "Princess Volchanskaya herself made the promise to Vara. 'As soon,' she said, 'as you marry him, I'll hunt up an inspector's job for him.'" "But how can you think of marrying Varvara Dmitrievna?" asked the red-faced Falastov. "She's your first cousin." Everyone laughed. Peredonov's usually rosy, unconcerned, somnolent face showed anger. "Second cousin," he said gruffly, as he looked angrily past his companions. "Did the Princess give you the promise herself?" asked Routilov, a tall, pale, smartly dressed man. "She didn't give it to me, but to Vara," answered Peredonov. "Of course, you are ready to believe all she tells you," said Routilov with animation. "It's easy enough to make up a tale. Why didn't you see the Princess herself?" "This is how it was: I went with Vara, but we didn't find her in, missed her by just five minutes," explained Peredonov. "She had gone to the country, and wouldn't be back for three weeks or so. I couldn't wait for her, because I had to be back here for the exams." "It sounds suspicious," laughed Routilov, showing his yellow teeth. Peredonov grew thoughtful. His companions left him; Routilov alone remained. "Of course," said Peredonov, "I can marry whom I like. Varvara is not the only one." "You're quite right, Ardalyon Borisitch, anyone would be glad to marry you," Routilov encouraged him. They passed out of the gate, and walked slowly in the unpaved and dusty square. Peredonov said: "But what about the Princess? She'll be angry if I chuck Varvara." "What's the Princess to you?" said Routilov. "You're not going with her to a kitten's christening. She ought to get you the billet first. There'll be time enough to tie yourself up--you're taking things too much on trust!" "That's true," agreed Peredonov irresolutely. "You ought to say to Varvara," said Routilov persuasively, "'First the billet, my dear girl, then I'll believe you.' Once you get your place, you can marry whom you like. You'd better take one of my sisters--your choice of the three. Smart, educated, young ladies, any one of them, I can say without flattery, a queen to Varvara. She's not fit to tie their shoe-strings." "Go on," shouted Peredonov. "It's true. What's your Varvara? Here, smell this." Routilov bent down, broke off a fleecy stalk of henbane, crumpled it up in his hand, together with the leaves and dirty white flowers, and crushing it all between his fingers, put it under Peredonov's nose. The heavy unpleasant odour made Peredonov frown. Routilov observed: "To crush like this, and to throw away--there's your Varvara for you; there's a big difference between her and my sisters, let me tell you, my good fellow. They are fine, lively girls--take the one you like--but you needn't be afraid of getting bored with any of them. They're quite young too--the eldest is three times younger than your Varvara." Routilov said all this in his usual brisk and happy manner, smiling--but he was tall and narrow-chested, and seemed consumptive and frail, while from under his new and fashionable hat his scant, close-trimmed bright hair stuck out pitifully. "No less than three times!" observed Peredonov dryly, as he took off his spectacles and began to wipe them. "It's true enough!" exclaimed Routilov. "But you'd better look out, and don't be slow about it, while I'm alive; they too have a good opinion of themselves--if you try later you may be too late. Any one of them would have you with great pleasure." "Yes, everyone falls in love with me here," said Peredonov with a grave boastfulness. "There, you see, it's for you to take advantage of the moment," said Routilov persuasively. "The chief thing is that she mustn't be lean," said Peredonov with anxiety in his voice. "I prefer a fat one." "Don't you worry on that account," said Routilov warmly. "Even now they are plump enough girls, but they have far from reached their full growth; all this will come in good time. As soon as they marry, they'll improve, like the oldest--well, you've seen our Larissa, a regular fishpie!" "I'd marry," said Peredonov, "but I'm afraid that Vara will make a row." "If you're afraid of a row--I'll tell you what you ought to do," said Routilov with a sly smile. "You ought to make quick work of it; marry, say, to-day or to-morrow, and suddenly show up at home with your young wife. Say the word, and I'll arrange it for to-morrow evening? Which one do you want?" Peredonov suddenly burst into loud, cackling laughter. "Well, I see you like the idea--it's all settled then?" asked Routilov. Peredonov stopped laughing quite as suddenly, and said gravely, quietly, almost in a whisper: "She'll inform against me--that miserable jade!" "She'll do nothing of the sort," said Routilov persuasively. "Or she'll poison me," whispered Peredonov in fear. "You leave it all to me," Routilov prevailed upon him, "I'll see that you are well protected----" "I shan't marry without a _dot,_" said Peredonov sullenly. Routilov was not astonished by the new turn in the thoughts of his surly companion. He replied with the same warmth: "You're an odd fellow. Of course, my sisters have a _dot._ Are you satisfied? I'll run along now and arrange everything. Only keep your mouth shut, not a breath, do you hear, not to anyone!" He shook Peredonov's hand, and made off in great haste. Peredonov looked silently after him. A picture rose up in his mind of the Routilov girls, always cheerful and laughing. An immodest thought squeezed a degrading likeness of a smile to his lips--it appeared for an instant and vanished. A confused restlessness stirred within him. "What about the Princess?" he reflected. "The others have the cash without her power; but if I marry Varvara I'll fall into an inspector's job, and later perhaps they'll make me a Head-Master." He looked after the bustling, scampering Routilov and thought maliciously: "Let him run!" And this thought gave him a lingering, vague pleasure. Then he began to feel sad because he was alone; he pulled his hat down over his forehead, knitted his bright eyebrows, and quickly turned towards his home across the unpaved, deserted streets, overgrown with pearl grass and white flowers, and water-cress and grass that had been stamped down into the mud. Someone called to him in a quick, quiet voice: "Ardalyon Borisitch, come in to us." Peredonov raised his gloomy eyes, and looked angrily beyond the hedge. In the garden behind the gate stood Natalya Afanasyevna Vershina, a small, slender, dark-skinned woman, black-browed and black-eyed, and all in black. She was smoking a cigarette, in a dark, cherry-wood mouthpiece, and smiling lightly, as though she knew something that was not to be said, but to be smiled at. Not so much by words, as by her light, quick movements, she asked Peredonov into her garden; she opened the gate and stood aside, smiled invitingly, and at the same time motioned persuasively with her hands, as if to say: "Enter, why do you stand there?" And Peredonov entered, submitting to her witching, silent movements. But he soon paused on the sand path where a few broken twigs caught his eye, and he looked at his watch. "It's time for lunch," he grumbled. Though his watch had served him a long time, yet even now, in the presence of people, he would glance with satisfaction at its large gold case. It was twenty minutes to twelve. Peredonov decided that he would remain for a short time. He walked morosely after Vershina along the garden-path, past the neglected clumps of raspberry canes and currants with their red and black clusters. The garden was growing yellow and variegated with fruits and late flowers. There were many fruit and other trees and bushes; low-spreading apple trees, round-leafed pear trees, lindens, cherry trees with smooth, glossy leaves, plum trees and honeysuckle. The elderberry trees were red with berries. Close to the fence was a dense growth of Siberian geraniums--small pale-rose flowers with purple veins. Thorny purple buds stood out with intense vividness among the bushes. A small, one-storey, grey, wooden house stood near by, and a path at its door opened out wide into the garden. It seemed charming and cosy. A part of the vegetable garden was visible behind it. The dry poppy heads rocked there, as well as the large, white-yellow caps of camomile. The yellow heads of sunflowers were beginning to droop with ripeness, while among the useful herbs, some hemlock lifted its white, and the hemlock geranium its pale purple umbrellas. Here bright yellow buttercups and small slipper flowers also flourished. "Were you at Mass?" asked Vershina. "Yes, I was," answered Peredonov gruffly. "I hear Marta has just returned also," said Vershina. "She often goes to our church. I often laugh at her. 'On whose account,' I say to her, 'do you go to our church?' She blushes and says nothing. Let us go and sit in the summer-house," she added abruptly. In the garden, in the shade of the spreading maples, stood an old, grey little summer-house. It had three small steps and a mossy floor, low walls, six roughly-cut posts, a sloping slate roof with six angles. Marta was sitting in the summer-house, still in her best clothes. She had on a brightly coloured dress with bows, which were very unbecoming to her. Her short sleeves showed her sharp, red elbows and her large, red hands. In other respects Marta was not unpleasant to look at. Her freckles did not spoil her face; she was even considered something of a beauty, especially by her own people, the Poles, of whom there were a number in the district. Marta was rolling cigarettes for Vershina. She was very anxious for Peredonov to see her and admire her. This desire gave her ingenuous face an expression of agitated affability. It was not that Marta was altogether in love with Peredonov but rather that Vershina wanted to get her a home--for her family was a large one. Marta was anxious to please Vershina, with whom she had lived several months, ever since the death of Vershina's old husband; not only on her own account but on that of her young brother, a schoolboy, who was also living with Vershina. Vershina and Peredonov entered the summer-house. Peredonov greeted Marta rather gloomily, and sat down. He chose a place where one of the posts protected his back from the wind and kept the draught out of his ears. He glanced at Marta's yellow boots with their rose pompoms and thought that they were trying to entrap him into marrying Marta. He always thought this when he met girls who were pleasant to him. He only noticed faults in Marta--many freckles, large hands and a coarse skin. He knew that her father held a small farm on lease, about six versts from the town. The income was small and there were many children: Marta had left her preparatory school, his son was at school, the other children were still smaller. "Let me give you some beer," said Vershina quickly. There were some glasses, two bottles of beer and a tin box of granulated sugar on the table, and a spoon which had been dipped in the beer lay beside them. "All right," said Peredonov abruptly. Vershina glanced at Marta, who filled the glass and handed it to Peredonov. A half-pleased, half-timorous smile passed over her face as she did this. "Put some sugar into the beer," suggested Vershina. Marta passed Peredonov the tin sugar-box. But Peredonov exclaimed irritatedly: "No, sugar makes it disgusting!" "What do you mean?" said Vershina, "sugar makes it delicious." "Very delicious," said Marta. "I say disgusting!" repeated Peredonov, looking angrily at the sugar. "As you please," said Vershina, and changing the subject at once, she remarked with a laugh: "I get very tired of Cherepnin." Marta also laughed. Peredonov looked indifferent: he did not take any interest in other people's lives--he did not care for people and he never thought of them except as they might contribute to his own benefit and pleasure. Vershina smiled with self-satisfaction and said: "He thinks that I will marry him." "He's very cheeky," said Marta, not because she thought so, but because she wished to please and flatter Vershina. "Last night he looked into our window," related Vershina. "He got into the garden while we were at supper. There was a rain-tub under the window, full of water. It was covered with a plank. The water was hidden. He climbed on the tub and looked in the window. As the lamp on the table was lighted he could see us, but we couldn't see him. Suddenly we heard a noise. We were frightened at first and ran outside. The plank had slipped and he had fallen into the water. However, he climbed out before we got there and ran away, leaving wet tracks on the path. We recognised him by his back." Marta laughed shrilly and happily like a good-natured child. Vershina told this in her usual quick, monotonous voice and then was suddenly silent, and smiled at the corners of her mouth, which puckered up her smooth, dry face. The smoke-darkened teeth showed themselves slightly. Peredonov reflected a moment and suddenly burst into a laugh. He did not always respond at once to what he thought was funny--his receptivity was sluggish and dull. Vershina smoked one cigarette after another. She could not live without tobacco smoke under her nose. "We'll soon be neighbours," announced Peredonov. Vershina glanced quickly at Marta, who flushed slightly and looked at Peredonov with a timorous air of expectation, and then at once turned away towards the garden. "So you're moving?" asked Vershina; "why?" "It's too far from the _gymnasia_," explained Peredonov. Vershina smiled incredulously. It's more likely, she thought, he wants to be nearer Marta. "But you've lived there for several years," she said. "Yes," said Peredonov angrily. "And the landlady's a swine." "Why?" asked Vershina, with an ambiguous smile. Peredonov grew somewhat animated. "She's repapered the rooms most damnably," he exclaimed, "one piece doesn't match another. When you open the dining-room door you find quite another pattern. Most of the room has bunches of large and small flowers, while behind the door there is a pattern of stripes and nails. And the colours are different too. We shouldn't have noticed it, if Falastov had not come and laughed. And everybody laughs at it." "It certainly must be ridiculous," agreed Vershina. "We're not telling her that we're going to leave," said Peredonov, and at this he lowered his voice. "We're going to find new apartments and we shall go without giving notice." "Of course," said Vershina. "Or else she'll make a row," said Peredonov, with a touch of anxiety in his eyes. "That means that we should have to pay her a month's rent for her beastly hole." Peredonov laughed with joy at the thought of leaving the house without paying. "She's bound to make a demand," observed Vershina. "Let her--she won't get anything out of me," replied Peredonov angrily. "We went to Peter[1] and we made no use of the house while we were away." "But you had rented it." "What then? She ought to make a discount; why should we have to pay for time when we weren't there? Besides, she is very impertinent." "Well, your landlady is impertinent because she's yours--your cousin is particularly quarrelsome," said Vershina, with an emphasis on the "cousin." Peredonov frowned and looked dully in front of him with his half-sleepy eyes. Vershina changed the subject. Peredonov pulled a caramel out of his pocket, tore the paper off and began to chew it. He happened to glance at Marta and thought that she wanted a caramel. "Shall I give her one or not?" thought Peredonov. "She's not worth it. I suppose I ought to give her one to show that I'm not stingy. After all, I've got a pocketful." And he pulled out a handful of caramels. "Here you are!" he said, and held out the sweets, first to Vershina and then to Marta. "They're very good bonbons," he said, "expensive ones--thirty kopecks a pound." Each of the women took a sweet. "Take more," he said, "I've lots of them. They're very nice bonbons--I wouldn't eat bad ones." "Thank you, I don't want any more," said Vershina in her quick, monotonous voice. And Marta repeated after her the same words, but with less decision. Peredonov glanced incredulously at Marta and said: "What do you mean--you don't want them? Have another." He took a single caramel for himself from the handful and laid the others before Marta. She smiled without speaking and bent her head a little. "Little idiot!" thought Peredonov, "she doesn't even know how to thank one properly." He did not know what to converse about with Marta. She had no interest for him, like all objects and people with which he had no well-defined relations, either pleasant or unpleasant. The rest of the beer was poured into Peredonov's glass. Vershina glanced at Marta. "I'll get it," said Marta. She always guessed what Vershina wanted without being told. "Send Vladya--he's in the garden," suggested Vershina. "Vladislav!" shouted Marta. "Yes?" answered the boy from so close that it seemed as if he had been listening to them. "Bring some more beer--two bottles," said Marta, "they're in the box in the corridor." Vladislav soon came back noiselessly, handed the beer to Marta through the window and greeted Peredonov. "How are you?" asked Peredonov with a scowl. "How many bottles of beer have you got away with to-day?" Vladislav smiled in a constrained way and said: "I don't drink beer." He was a boy of about fourteen with a freckled face like Marta's, and with uneasy, clumsy movements like hers. He was dressed in a blouse of coarse linen. Marta began to talk to her brother in whispers. They both laughed. Peredonov looked suspiciously at them. Whenever people laughed in his presence without his knowing the reason he always supposed that they were laughing at him. Vershina felt disturbed and tried to catch Marta's eye. But Peredonov himself showed his annoyance by asking: "What are you laughing at?" Marta started and turned towards him, not knowing what to say. Vladislav smiled, looking at Peredonov, and flushed slightly. "It's very rude," said Peredonov, "to laugh like that before guests. Were you laughing at me?" Marta blushed and Vladislav looked frightened. "Oh! no," said Marta. "We weren't laughing at you. We were talking about our own affairs." "A secret?" exclaimed Peredonov angrily. "It is rude to discuss secrets before guests." "It isn't at all a secret," said Marta, "but we laughed because Vladya hasn't all his clothes on and feels bashful about coming in." Peredonov was mollified and began to think of jokes about Vladya and presently gave him a caramel. "Marta, bring me my black shawl," said Vershina. "And at the same time look into the oven to see how that pie's getting on." Marta went out obediently. She understood that Vershina wanted to talk with Peredonov, and felt glad of the respite. "And you run away and play, Vladya," said Vershina, "there's nothing for you to chatter about here." Vladya ran off and they could hear the sand crunching under his feet. Vershina gave a quick, cautious side-glance at Peredonov through the clouds of cigarette smoke she was ceaselessly puffing out. Peredonov sat solemnly and gazed straight in front in a befogged sort of way and chewed a caramel. He felt pleased because the others had gone--otherwise they might have laughed again. Though he was quite certain that they had not been laughing at him, the annoyance remained--just as after contact with stinging nettles the pain remains and increases even though the nettles are left behind. "Why don't you get married?" said Vershina very abruptly, "What are you waiting for, Ardalyon Borisitch. You must forgive me if I speak frankly, but Varvara is not good enough for you." Peredonov passed his hand over his slightly ruffled chestnut-brown hair and announced with a surly dignity: "There is no one here good enough for me!" "Don't say that," replied Vershina, with a wry smile. "There are plenty of girls better than she is here and every one of them would marry you." She knocked the ash off her cigarette with a decisive movement as if she were emphasising her remark with an exclamation point. "Everyone wouldn't suit me," retorted Peredonov. "We're not discussing everyone," said Vershina quickly, "you're not the kind of man who'd run after a _dot_ if the girl were a fine girl. You yourself earn quite enough, thank God." "No," replied Peredonov, "it would be more of an advantage for me to marry Varvara. The Princess has promised her patronage. She will give me a good billet," he went on with grave animation. Vershina smiled faintly. Her entire wrinkled face, dark as if saturated with tobacco smoke, expressed a condescending incredulousness. She asked: "Did the Princess herself tell _you_ this?" She laid an emphasis on the word "you." "Not me, but Varvara," admitted Peredonov. "But it comes to the same thing." "You rely too much on your cousin's word," said Vershina spitefully. "But tell me, is she much older than you? Say, by fifteen years? Or more? she must be under fifty." "Nonsense," said Peredonov angrily, "she's not yet thirty!" Vershina laughed. "Please tell me," she said with unconcealed derision. "Surely, she looks much older than you. Of course, it's not my business, it's not my affair. Still, it is a pity that such a good-looking, clever young man should not have the position he deserves." Peredonov surveyed himself with great self-satisfaction. But there was no smile on his pink face and he seemed hurt because everybody did not appreciate him as Vershina did. "Even without patronage you'll go far," continued Vershina, "surely the authorities will recognise your value. Why should you hang on to Varvara? And none even of the Routilov girls would suit you; they're too frivolous and you need a more practical wife. You might do much worse than marry Marta!" Peredonov looked at his watch. "Time to go home," he observed and rose to say good-bye. Vershina was convinced that Peredonov was leaving because she had put to him a vital question and that it was only his indecision that prevented him from speaking about Marta immediately. [1] St. Petersburg. CHAPTER II Varvara Dmitrievna Maloshina, the mistress of Peredonov, awaited him. She was dressed in a slovenly fashion, and her face was powdered and rouged. Jam tarts were being baked in the oven for lunch: Peredonov was very fond of them. Varvara ran about the kitchen on her high heels, preparing everything for Peredonov's arrival. Varvara was afraid that Natalya, the stout, freckled servant-maid, would steal one of the tarts and possibly more. That was why Varvara did not leave the kitchen and, as she habitually did, was abusing the servant. Upon her wrinkled face, which still kept the remains of beauty, there was a continual expression of discontented maliciousness. A feeling of gloom and irritation came over Peredonov, as always happened when he returned home. He entered the dining-room noisily, flung his hat on the window-sill, sat down at the table and shouted: "Vara! Where's my food?" Varvara brought in the food, skilfully limping in her narrow, fashionable shoes, and waited upon Peredonov herself. When she brought the coffee Peredonov bent down to the steaming glass and smelt it. Varvara was disturbed and looked a little frightened; she asked: "What's the matter with you, Ardalyon Borisitch? Does the coffee smell of anything?" Peredonov looked morosely at her and said: "I'm smelling to see whether you haven't put poison in it!" "What's the matter with you, Ardalyon Borisitch?" said Varvara again. "God help you, how did you get that into your head?" "You mixed hemlock with it, perhaps," he grumbled. "What could I gain by poisoning you?" asked Varvara reassuringly. "Don't make a fool of yourself." Peredonov continued smelling the coffee, but eventually became reassured. "If it were poison," he said, "you'd be able to tell by the heavy smell, but you have to put your nose right into the steam!" He was silent a while and then suddenly said, spitefully and sarcastically: "The Princess!" Varvara looked distressed. "What about the Princess?" asked Varvara. "The Princess," he said, "let her give me the job first and then I'll get married--you write her that." "But you know, Ardalyon Borisitch," Varvara began in a persuasive voice, "that the Princess had made her promise on condition that I marry first. Otherwise, it is awkward for me to ask on your behalf." "Write her that we're already married," said Peredonov, rejoicing in his sudden inspiration. Varvara was for a moment disconcerted, but quickly recovered herself, and said: "What's the use of lying, the Princess might investigate. You'd better arrange the date for the marriage; it's time to begin making the dress." "What dress?" demanded Peredonov, gruffly. "Could anyone get married in these rags?" shouted Varvara. "You had better give me some money, Ardalyon Borisitch, for the dress." "Are you preparing yourself for your coffin?" asked Peredonov. "You're a beast, Ardalyon Borisitch!" Peredonov suddenly felt a desire to provoke her still further. He asked her: "Varvara, do you know where I've been?" "Where?" she inquired anxiously. "At Vershina's," he said, and burst out laughing. "Well, you were in nice company, I must say!" "I saw Marta," Peredonov continued. "She's covered with freckles," said Varvara, spitefully. "And she's got a mouth that stretches from ear to ear. You might as well sew up her mouth, like a frog's." "Anyway, she's handsomer than you," said Peredonov. "I think I'll take her and marry her." "You dare marry her," shouted Varvara, reddening and trembling with rage, "and I'll burn her eyes out with vitriol!" "I'd like to spit on you," said Peredonov, quite calmly. "Just try it!" said Varvara. "Well, I will," answered Peredonov. He rose, and with a sluggish and indifferent expression, spat in her face. "Pig!" said Varvara, as quietly as if his spitting on her had refreshed her. And she began to wipe her face with a table napkin. Peredonov was silent. Latterly he had been more brusque with her than usual. And even in the beginning he had never been particularly gentle with her. Encouraged by his silence, she repeated more loudly: "Pig! You are a pig!" Just then they heard in the next room the bleating of an almost sheep-like voice. "Don't make such a noise," said Peredonov. "There's someone coming." "It's only Pavloushka," answered Varvara. Pavel Vassilyevitch Volodin entered with a loud, gay laugh. He was a young man who, face, manners and all, strangely resembled a young ram; his hair, like a ram's, was curly; his eyes, protruding and dull; everything, about him, in fact, suggested a lively ram--a stupid young man. He was a carpenter by trade. He had first studied in a Manual Training School, but now was an instructor of the trade in the local school. "How are you, old friend?" he said gaily. "You're at home, drinking coffee, and here am I! Here we are together again!" "Natashka, bring a third spoon," shouted Varvara. "Eat, Pavloushka," said Peredonov, and it was evident that he was anxious to be hospitable to Volodin. "You know, old chap, I shall soon get an inspector's billet--the Princess has promised Vara." Volodin seemed pleased and laughed. "And the future inspector is drinking coffee," he exclaimed, slapping Peredonov on the back. "And you think it's easy to get an inspector's job," said Peredonov. "Once you're reported, that's the end of you." "And who's going to report you?" asked Varvara. "There are plenty to do that," said Peredonov. "They might say I'd been reading Pisarev.[1] And there you are!" "But, Ardalyon Borisitch, you ought to put Pisarev behind your other books," advised Volodin, sniggering. Peredonov glanced cautiously at Volodin and said: "Perhaps I've never even had Pisarev. Won't you have a drink, Pavloushka?" Volodin stuck out his lower lip and made a significant face, like a man who was conscious of his own value, and bent his head rather like a ram: "I'm always ready to drink in company," he said, "but not on my lonesome!" And Peredonov was also always ready to drink. They drank their vodka and ate the jam tarts afterwards. Suddenly Peredonov splashed the dregs of his coffee-cup on the wall-paper. Volodin goggled his sheepish eyes, and gazed in astonishment. The wall-paper was soiled and torn. Volodin asked: "What are you doing to your wall-paper?" Peredonov and Varvara laughed. "It's to spite the landlady," said Varvara. "We're leaving soon. Only don't you chatter." "Splendid!" shouted Volodin, and joined in the laughter. Peredonov walked up to the wall and began to wipe the soles of his boots on it. Volodin followed his example. Peredonov said: "We always dirty the walls after every meal, so that they'll remember us when we've gone!" "What a mess you've made!" exclaimed Volodin, delightedly. "Won't Irishka be surprised," said Varvara, with a dry, malicious laugh. And all three, standing before the wall, began to spit at it, to tear the paper, and to smear it with their boots. Afterwards, tired but pleased, they ceased. Peredonov bent down and picked up the cat, a fat, white, ugly beast. He began to torment the animal, pulling its ears, and tail, and then shook it by the neck. Volodin laughed gleefully and suggested other methods of tormenting the animal. "Ardalyon Borisitch, blow into his eyes! Brush his fur backwards!" The cat snarled, and tried to get away, but dared not show its claws. It was always thrashed for scratching. At last this amusement palled on Peredonov and he let the cat go. "Listen, Ardalyon Borisitch, I've got something to tell you," began Volodin. "I kept thinking of it all the way here and now I'd almost forgotten it." "Well?" asked Peredonov. "I know you like sweet things," said Volodin, "and I know one that will make you lick your fingers!" "There's nothing you could teach me about things to eat," remarked Peredonov. Volodin looked offended. "Perhaps," he said, "you know all the good things that are made in your village, but how can you know all the good things that are made in my village, if you've never been there?" And satisfied that this argument clinched the matter, Volodin laughed, like a sheep bleating. "In your village they gorge themselves on dead cats," said Peredonov. "Permit me, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Volodin. "It is possible that in your village they eat dead kittens. We won't talk about it. But surely you've never eaten _erli_?" "No, that's true," confessed Peredonov. "What sort of food is that?" asked Varvara. "It's this," explained Volodin, "You know what _koutia_[2] is?" "Well, who doesn't know?" said Varvara. "Well, this is what it is," went on Volodin. "Ground _koutia,_ raisins, sugar and almonds. That's _erli_." And Volodin began to describe minutely how they cook _erli_ in his village. Peredonov listened to him in an annoyed way. "_Koutia_," thought Peredonov, "why does he mention that? Does he want me to be dead?" Volodin suggested: "If you'd like to have it done properly, give me the stuff, and I'll cook it myself for you." "Turn a goat into a vegetable garden," said Peredonov, gravely. "He might drop some poison-powder into it," thought Peredonov. Volodin was offended again. "Now if you think, Ardalyon Borisitch, that I shall steal some of your sugar, you're mistaken. I don't want your sugar!" "Don't go on making a fool of yourself," interrupted Varvara. "You know how particular he is. You'd better come here and do it." "Yes, and you'll have to eat it yourself," said Peredonov. "Why?" asked Volodin, his voice trembling with indignation. "Because it's nasty stuff." "As you like, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Volodin, shrugging his shoulders. "I only wanted to please you, and if you don't want it, you don't want it." "Now tell us about the reprimand the General gave you," said Peredonov. "What General?" asked Volodin, and flushed violently as he protruded an offended lower lip. "It's no use pretending. We've heard it," said Peredonov. Varvara grinned. "Excuse me, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Volodin, hotly. "Likely enough you've heard about it, but you haven't heard the right story. Now I'll tell you exactly what happened." "Fire away," said Peredonov. "It happened three days ago, about this time," began Volodin. "In our school, as you know, repairs are going on in the workroom. And here, if you please, comes in Veriga with our inspector to look around, and we are working in the back room. So far, good. It doesn't matter what Veriga wanted or why he came--that's no concern of mine. Suppose he is a nobleman? Still he's no connection with our school. But that's no concern of mine. He comes in, and we don't take any notice of him and go on working. When suddenly they come into our room, and Veriga, if you please, has his hat on." "That was an insult to you," said Peredonov. "But you must know," interrupted Volodin, eagerly. "There's an ikon in our room, and we had our hats off. And he suddenly appears like a Mohammedan dog. And I up and said to him quietly, and with great dignity: 'Your Excellency,' I say to him, 'Will you be good enough to take your hat off, because,' I say to him, 'there's an ikon in the room.' Now, was that the right thing to say?" asked Volodin, opening his eyes, questioningly. "That was clever, Pavloushka," shouted Peredonov. "He got what he deserved." "Yes, that was quite proper," chimed in Varvara. "People like that shouldn't be let off. You're a smart young fellow, Pavel Vassilyevitch." Volodin, with an air of injured innocence, went on: "And then he says to me: 'Each to his trade.' Then he turns and goes out. That's all there was to it and nothing else." Volodin nevertheless felt himself a hero. Peredonov, to mollify him, gave him a caramel. A new visitor arrived--Sofya Efimovna Prepolovenskaya, the wife of the forester, a fat woman, with a face half good-natured, half cunning--brisk in her movements. She sat down at the table and asked Volodin slyly: "Pavel Vassilyevitch, why do you come so often to visit Varvara Dmitrievna?" "I don't come to visit Varvara Dmitrievna," answered Volodin bashfully, "but to see Ardalyon Borisitch." "You haven't yet fallen in love with anyone?" asked Prepolovenskaya with a laugh. Everyone knew Volodin was looking for a wife with a dowry, offered himself to many and was always rejected. Prepolovenskaya's joke seemed to him out of place. In a manner resembling that of an injured sheep, he said in a trembling voice: "If I fell in love, Sofya Efimovna, that wouldn't concern anyone except my own self and her. And in such an affair you wouldn't be considered." But Prepolovenskaya refused to be suppressed. "Suppose," she said, "that you fell in love with Varvara Dmitrievna, who would make jam tarts for Ardalyon Borisitch?" Volodin again protruded his lips and lifted his eyebrows. He was at a loss what to say. "Don't be faint-hearted, Pavel Vassilyevitch," Prepolovenskaya went on. "Why aren't you engaged? You're young and handsome." "Perhaps Varvara Dmitrievna wouldn't have me," said Volodin, sniggering. "Why shouldn't she? You're much too timid!" "And perhaps I wouldn't have her," said Volodin, in desperation. "Perhaps I don't want to marry other people's cousins; perhaps I have a cousin of my own in my village." He was already beginning to believe that Varvara would marry him. Varvara was angry; she considered Volodin a fool, and moreover, his wages were only three-quarters of Peredonov's. Prepolovenskaya wanted to marry Peredonov to her sister, the fat daughter of a priest. That is why she tried to create a quarrel between Peredonov and Varvara. "Why are you trying to marry us?" asked Varvara, in an irritated way. "You'd better try to marry your little fool of a sister to Pavel Vassilyevitch." "Why should I take him from you?" said Prepolovenskaya, jokingly. Prepolovenskaya's jests gave a new turn to Peredonov's slow thoughts, and the _erli_ had already taken possession of his mind. Why did Volodin advise such a dish? Peredonov disliked thinking. He believed at once everything he was told; that was why he began to believe that Volodin was in love with Varvara. He thought: they would entangle Varvara, and then when he left for the inspector's job, they would poison him on the way with _erlis,_ and Volodin would take his place; he would be buried as Volodin, and Volodin would become inspector. A clever trick! There was a sudden noise in the passage. Peredonov and Varvara were frightened. Peredonov fixed his screwed-up eyes on the door. Varvara crept up to the parlour door, looked in, then, just as quietly, on tip-toe, balancing her arms and smiling in a distracted way, returned to the table. From the passage came a noise and shrill outcries as if two people were wrestling. Varvara whispered: "That's Ershova, frightfully drunk. Natashka won't let her in and she's trying to get into the parlour." "What shall we do?" asked Peredonov, fearfully. "I suppose we'd better go into the parlour," decided Varvara, "so that she shan't get in here." They entered the parlour and closed the door tightly behind them. Varvara went into the passage in the faint hope of restraining the landlady, or of persuading her to sit down in the kitchen. But the insolent woman kept pushing her way in, propped herself up against the door-post and poured out abusive compliments on the whole company. Peredonov and Varvara fussed about her and tried to make her sit down on a chair near the passage and farther from the dining-room. Varvara brought her from the kitchen, on a tray, vodka, beer and some tarts, but the landlady would not sit nor drink anything and kept on edging towards the dining-room, but she could not exactly find the door. Her face was red, her clothes were disordered, she was filthy and smelt of vodka, even at a distance. She shouted: "No! You must let me sit at your own table. I'll not have it on a tray. I want it on a tablecloth. I'm the landlady and I will be respected. Never mind if I'm drunk. I'm at least honest and a good wife to my husband." Varvara, smiling at once with contempt and fear, said: "Yes, we know." Ershova winked at Varvara, laughed hoarsely and snapped her fingers defiantly. She became more and more arrogant. "Cousin!" she shouted. "We know the sort of cousin you are. Why doesn't the Head-Master's wife come to see you, eh?" "Don't make so much noise," said Varvara. But Ershova began to shout even louder: "How dare you order me about? I'm in my own house and I can do what I please. If I like I can have you thrown out so that there'd not even be a smell of you left behind. Only I'm too kind-hearted." Meanwhile Volodin and Prepolovenskaya sat timidly at the window in silence. Prepolovenskaya smiled slightly, looking at the shrew out of the corner of her eye, but pretended that she was looking into the street. Volodin sat with an injured expression on his face. Ershova eventually became more good-humoured and gave Varvara a friendly slap on the shoulder, saying with a drunken smile: "Now listen to me. Put me at your table and treat me like a lady. Then give me some _zhamochki_[3], and treat your landlady decently. Come, my dear girl!" "Here are some tarts," said Varvara. "I don't want tarts!" shouted Ershova. "I want some _zhamochki_." And she waved her hands. "The masters have them, and I want some too." "I haven't any _zhamochki_ for you," answered Varvara, growing bolder as the landlady became more good-tempered. "Now here's some tarts. Gorge yourself!" Ershova suddenly perceived the door into the dining-room, and cried out furiously: "Out of my way, viper!" She pushed Varvara aside and threw herself towards the door. There was no time to restrain her. Lowering her head and clenching her fists, she broke into the dining-room, throwing back the door with a crash. There she paused just inside the door and saw the soiled wall-paper. She uttered a long "whew" of astonishment. She stood with her hands on her hips and her legs crossed, shouting with rage: "Then it's true that you're leaving!" "Who put that into your head, Irinya Stepanovna?" said Varvara, trembling. "We've no such idea. Someone's been fooling you." "We're not going anywhere," declared Peredonov. "We're quite contented here." The landlady did not listen to them, she walked up to the panic-stricken Varvara, and shook her fist in her face. Peredonov got behind Varvara. He would have run away, but he wanted to see if Varvara and the landlady would come to blows. "I will step on one of your legs," exclaimed the landlady, furiously, "and tear you in half with the other." "Be quiet, Irinya Stepanovna," said Varvara, persuasively. "We have visitors." "You can bring your visitors along too," said the landlady. "I'll do the same to them." She reeled and made a dash into the parlour, and suddenly changing her demeanour and tactics she said quietly to Prepolovenskaya, bowing so low before her that she almost fell on the floor: "My dear lady, Sofya Efimovna, forgive a drunken old woman; I have something I'd like to say to you. You come to visit these people and yet you don't know that they're gossiping about your sister. And who to, d'you suppose? Me! A bootmaker's drunken wife! And why? So I'd tell everyone--that's why!" Varvara grew purple in the face and said: "I said nothing of the sort." "You didn't? Do you mean to deny it, you mean cat?" shouted Ershova, coming up to Varvara, with clenched fists. "Be quiet, will you?" muttered Varvara, in confusion. "No," said the landlady, spitefully, "I won't be quiet," and she turned again to Prepolovenskaya. "Do you know what she says, the little beast? She tried to make out that your sister is carrying on with your husband!" Sofya's sly eyes gleamed angrily at Varvara; she rose and said with a feigned laugh: "Thank you humbly, I didn't expect that." "Liar!" screamed Varvara, turning on Ershova. Ershova gave an angry exclamation, stamped her foot, shook her hand at Varvara, and turned again to Prepolovenskaya. "Yes, and do you know what he says about you, ma'am? He makes out that you carried on before you met your husband. That's the sort of dirty people they are! Spit in their mugs, my good lady! It's no use having anything to do with such low creatures!" Prepolovenskaya flushed, and went silently into the passage. Peredonov ran after her, trying to explain: "She's lying, don't believe her. I only said once before her that you were a fool and that was in a spiteful mood. But more than that, honest to God, I never said anything. She invented it." Prepolovenskaya reassured him: "Don't think about it, Ardalyon Borisitch, I can see myself that she's drunk and babbling. Only, why do you permit this in your house?" "Well, what's to be done with her?" asked Peredonov. Prepolovenskaya, confused and angry, was putting on her jacket. Peredonov did not offer to help her. He kept on mumbling excuses, but she paid no attention to him. He returned to the parlour. Ershova began to reproach him loudly, while Varvara ran out on the verandah to try and mollify Prepolovenskaya: "You know yourself what a fool he is, he sometimes says anything that comes into his head." "All right, all right! Don't mention it," replied Prepolovenskaya. "A drunken woman might babble anything." Tall, dense nettles grew in the yard near the verandah. Prepolovenskaya smiled slightly and the last shadow of displeasure vanished from her plump white face. She became affable again towards Varvara. She would be revenged without an open quarrel. Together they went into the garden to wait until the landlady's eruption was over. Prepolovenskaya kept looking at the nettles which grew in abundance along the garden fence. She said at last: "You have enough nettles here. Don't you find any use for them?" Varvara laughed and answered: "What an idea! What could I do with them?" "If you don't mind, I'd like to take some with me, as I haven't any." "What will you do with them?" asked Varvara, in astonishment. "Oh, I'll find a use for them," said Prepolovenskaya, smiling. "But, my dear, do tell me for what?" entreated Varvara, inquisitively. Prepolovenskaya, bending towards Varvara, whispered in her ear: "By rubbing your body with nettles, you keep fat. That's why my Genichka is so plump." It was well known that Peredonov preferred fat women, and that he detested thin ones. Varvara was distressed because she was thin and was growing still thinner. How could she get a little plumper?--was one of her chief worries. She used to ask everyone: "Do you know any remedy for thinness?" And now Prepolovenskaya was convinced that Varvara would follow her suggestion and rub herself with nettles, and in this way be her own punisher. [1] Pisarev (1840-68), a revolutionary writer and a precursor of Nihilism. [2] A kind of rice pudding eaten at funerals in Russia. [3] _Zhamochki_, an apparently invented word, meaning something particularly nice to eat. CHAPTER III Peredonov and Ershova went out into the open. He growled: "Come this way." She shouted with all her might, though gaily. They were apparently getting ready to dance. Prepolovenskaya and Varvara passed through the kitchen into another room, where they sat down at the window to see what would happen. Peredonov and Ershova embraced each other, and began to dance around the pear tree. Peredonov's face remained dull as before and did not express anything. Mechanically, as upon an automaton, his golden-rimmed spectacles sprang up and down his nose, and his hair flopped up and down on his head. Ershova screamed, shouted, waved her arms, and at times reeled. She shouted to Varvara, whom she espied at the window: "Hey you, don't be such a lady, come out and dance. Are you disgusted with our company?" Varvara turned away. "The deuce take you! I'm dead tired," shouted Ershova, and fell back on the grass, drawing down Peredonov with her. They sat a while in each other's embrace, then got up and once more began to dance. This they repeated several times: now they danced, now they rested under the pear tree, upon the bench, or simply on the grass. Volodin enjoyed himself thoroughly, as he watched the dancers from the window. He roared with laughter, made extraordinarily funny faces, and bent his body in two. He shouted: "They're cracked! How funny!" "Accursed carrion!" said Varvara angrily. "Yes, carrion," agreed Volodin with a grin. "Just wait, my dear landlady, I'll show you something! Let's go and make a mess in the parlour too. She won't come back again to-day anyhow, she'll tire herself out and go home to sleep." He burst into his bleating laughter and jumped about like a great ram. Prepolovenskaya encouraged him: "Yes, go ahead, Pavel Vassilyevitch, and make a mess. We don't care a rap for her! If she does come back we can tell her that she did it herself when she was drunk." Volodin, skipping and laughing, ran into the parlour and began to smear and rub his boots on the wall-paper. "Varvara Dmitrievna, get me a piece of rope!" he shouted. Varvara, waddling like a duck, passed through the parlour into the bedroom and brought back with her a piece of frayed, knotted rope. Volodin made a noose, then stood up on a chair in the middle of the room and hung the noose on the lamp-bracket. "That's for the landlady," he explained. "So that when you leave she'll have somewhere to hang herself in her rage!" Both women squealed with laughter. "Now get me a bit of paper and a pencil," shouted Volodin. Varvara searched in the bedroom and discovered a pencil and a piece of paper. Volodin wrote on it: "For the landlady," and pinned the paper on the noose. He made ridiculous grimaces all the time he was doing this. Then he began to jump furiously up and down along the walls, kicking them every now and again with his boots, shaking with laughter at the same time. His squeals and bleating laughter filled the whole house. The white cat, putting back its ears in terror, peered out of the bedroom and seemed undecided where to run. Peredonov at last managed to disengage himself from Ershova and returned to the house. Ershova really did get tired and went home to bed. Volodin met Peredonov with uproarious laughter: "We've made a mess of the parlour too! Hurrah!" "Hurrah!" shouted Peredonov, bursting into a loud, abrupt laugh. The women also cried "Hurrah," and a general gaiety set in. Peredonov cried: "Pavloushka! let's dance." "Yes, let's, Ardalyosha!" replied Volodin, with a stupid grin. They danced under the noose and kicked up their legs awkwardly. The floor trembled under Peredonov's heavy feet. "Ardalyon Borisitch's got a dancing fit," said Prepolovenskaya with a smile. "That's nothing new, he has his little whims," grumbled Varvara, looking admiringly at Peredonov nevertheless. She sincerely thought that he was handsome and clever. His most stupid actions seemed to her perfectly fitting. To her he was neither ridiculous nor repulsive. "Let's sing a funeral mass over the landlady," shouted Volodin. "Fetch a pillow here." "What will they think of next?" said Varvara laughingly. She threw out from the bedroom a pillow in a dirty calico slip. They put the pillow on the floor to represent the landlady and began to chant over it with wild discordant voices. Then they called in Natalya, and made her turn the ariston[1]; all four of them began to dance a quadrille with strange antics, kicking up their legs. After the dance Peredonov felt generous. A dim, morose sort of animation lit up his plump face; he was inspired by a sudden, almost automatic decision, a consequence, perhaps, of his sudden muscular action. He pulled out his wallet, counted several notes, and with a proud self-laudatory expression, threw them towards Varvara. "Here you are, Varvara!" he exclaimed. "Get yourself a wedding dress!" The notes fluttered across the floor. Varvara eagerly picked them up; she was not in the least offended at the way the gift was made. Prepolovenskaya thought: "Well, we shall see who's going to have him." And she smiled maliciously. Volodin, of course, did not think of helping Varvara to pick up the money. Soon Prepolovenskaya left. In the passage she met another visitor, Grushina. Marya Ossipovna Grushina was a young widow, with a prematurely faded appearance. She was thin--her dry skin was covered with small wrinkles which looked filled with dust. Her face was not unpleasant, but her teeth were black and unbrushed. She had long hands, long grasping fingers and dirty finger-nails. At the first glance she not only looked dirty but gave the impression that she and her clothes had been beaten together. It really looked as if a column of dust would rise up into the sky if she were struck several times with a carpet beater. Her clothes hung upon her in crumpled folds; she might have been just released from a tightly-bound bundle. Grushina lived on a pension, on petty commissions, and by lending money on mortgages. Her conversation was mostly on immodest lines, and she attached herself to men in the hope of getting a second husband. One of her rooms was always let to some one among the bachelor officials. Varvara was pleased to see Grushina. She had something to tell her. They began to talk immediately about the servant-maid in whispers. The inquisitive Volodin edged closer to them and listened. Peredonov sat morosely by himself in front of the table crumpling the corner of the tablecloth in his fingers. Varvara was complaining to Grushina about Natalya. Grushina suggested a new servant, Klavdia, and praised her. They decided to go after her at once, to Samorodina where she was living in the house of an excise officer, who had just been transferred to another town. Varvara paused when she heard the maid's name; and asked in a doubtful voice: "Klavdia? What on earth shall I call her,--Klashka?" "Why don't you call her Klavdiushka?" suggested Grushina. This pleased Varvara. "Klavdiushka, diushka!" she said with a crackling laugh. It should be observed that in our town a pig is called a "diushka." Volodin grunted; everyone laughed. "Diushka, diushenka," lisped Volodin between the laughter, screwing up his stupid face and protruding his underlip. And he kept on grunting and making a fool of himself until he was told that he was a nuisance. Then he left his chair, with an expression of injury on his face, and sat down beside Peredonov. He lowered his large forehead like a ram and fixed his eyes on a spot on the soiled tablecloth. On the way to Samorodina Varvara decided that she would buy the material for her wedding dress. She always went shopping with Grushina who helped her to make selections and to bargain. Unseen by Peredonov, Varvara had stealthily stuffed Grushina's deep pockets with sweets and tarts and other gifts for her children. Grushina surmised that Varvara was in great need of her services. Varvara's narrow, high-heeled shoes would not allow her to walk much. She quickly became fatigued. It was for this reason that she usually took a cab, though the distances in our town are not great. Latterly, she had frequented Grushina's house. The cabbies had noticed this, for there were only about a score of them. When Varvara entered a cab they never asked her where she wanted to go. They seated themselves in a drozhky and were driven to the house where Klavdia was servant-maid, in order to make inquiries about her. The streets were dirty almost everywhere although it had rained only the day before. The drozhky no sooner rattled on to a solid paved part of the road than it plunged again into the clinging mud of the unpaved sections. But, by way of compensation, Varvara's voice rattled on continuously, now and then accompanied by Grushina's sympathetic chatter. "My goose has been to Marfushka's again," said Varvara. Grushina answered in a sympathetic outburst: "That's how they're trying to catch him. And why not, he'd be a great catch, especially for Marfushka. She never dreamt of anyone like him." "Really, I don't know what to do," confessed Varvara. "He's become so obstinate lately--it's simply awful. Believe me, my head's in a constant whirl. He'll really marry and then there's nothing for me but the streets." "Don't worry, darling Varvara," said Grushina consolingly. "Don't think about it. He'll never marry anyone but you. He's used to you." "He sometimes goes off in the evening, and I can't get to sleep afterwards," said Varvara. "Who knows? Perhaps he's courting some girl. Sometimes I toss about all night. Everyone has her eye on him--even those three Routilov mares of women--but of course they'd hang around any man's neck. And that fat Zhenka's after him too." Varvara went on complaining for a long time, and all her conversation led Grushina to think that Varvara had some favour to ask of her, and she was gratified at the prospect of a reward. Klavdia pleased Varvara. The excise officer's wife strongly recommended her. They engaged her and told her to come that evening, as the excise officer was leaving at once. At last they came to Grushina's house. Grushina lived in her own house in a slovenly enough fashion. The three children were bedraggled, dirty, stupid and malicious, like dogs that have just come out of water. Their confidences were just beginning. "My fool, Ardalyosha," began Varvara, "wants me to write to the Princess again. It's a waste of time to write to her. She'll either not answer or she'll answer unsatisfactorily. We're not on very intimate terms." The Princess Volchanskaya, with whom Varvara had lived in the past as a seamstress for simple domestic things, could have helped Peredonov, since her daughter was married to the Privy-Councillor Stchepkin, who held an important position in the department of Education. She had already written in answer to Varvara's petitions in the past year that she could not ask anything for Varvara's fiancé, but she might for her husband, if the opportunity offered. This letter did not satisfy Peredonov, since it expressed merely a vague hope, and did not definitely state that the Princess would actually find Varvara's husband an inspector's position. In order to clear up this doubt they had lately gone to St. Petersburg; Varvara went to the Princess and later she took Peredonov with her, but purposely delayed the visit so that they did not find the Princess at home: Varvara realised that at best the Princess would merely have advised them to get married soon, making a few vague promises which would not have satisfied Peredonov. And Varvara decided not to let Peredonov meet the Princess. "I've no one to depend upon but you," said Varvara. "Help me, darling Marya Ossipovna!" "How can I help, my dearest Varvara Dmitrievna?" asked Grushina. "Of course you know I'm ready to do anything I can for you. Shall I read your fortune for you?" Varvara laughed and said: "I know how clever you are, but you must help me another way." "How?" asked Grushina, with a tremulous, expectant pleasure. "That's very simple," replied Varvara. "You write a letter in the Princess's handwriting and I'll show it to Ardalyon Borisitch." "But, my dear, how can I do it?" said Grushina, pretending to be alarmed. "What would become of me if I should be found out?" Varvara was not in the least disconcerted by her answer, but pulled a crumpled letter out of her pocket, saying: "I've brought one of the Princess's letters for you to copy." Grushina refused for a long time. Varvara saw clearly that Grushina would consent, but that she was bargaining for a bigger reward, while Varvara wanted to give less. She gradually increased her promises of various small gifts, among them an old silk dress, until Grushina saw that Varvara could not be persuaded to give any more. A stream of entreaties poured from Varvara's mouth, and Grushina finally took the letter, making it appear from the expression of her face that she did so out of pity. [1] A musical instrument. CHAPTER IV The billiard-room was full of tobacco-smoke. Peredonov, Routilov, Falastov, Volodin and Mourin were there. The last of these was a robust landed proprietor of stupid appearance; he was the owner of a small estate and a good business man. The five of them, having finished a game, were preparing to go. It was dusk. The number of empty beer bottles on the soiled wooden table was increasing. The players had drunk a good deal during the game; their faces were flushed, and they were getting noisy. Routilov alone kept his usual consumptive pallor. He really drank less than the others and his pallor was only increased by heavy drinking. Coarse words flew about the room. But no one was offended; it was all said among friends. Peredonov had lost, as nearly always happened. He played billiards badly. But his face kept its expression of unperturbed moroseness and he paid his due grudgingly. Mourin shouted out: "Bang!" And he aimed his billiard-cue at Peredonov. Peredonov exclaimed in fright and collapsed into a chair. The stupid idea that Mourin wanted to shoot him glimmered in his dull mind. Everyone laughed. Peredonov grumbled in irritation: "I can't stand jokes like that." Mourin was already regretting that he had frightened Peredonov. His son was attending the _gymnasia_ and he considered it his duty to be affable to the _gymnasia_ instructors. He began to apologise to Peredonov and treated him to hock and seltzer. Peredonov said morosely: "My nerves are rather unstrung. I'm having trouble with the Head-Master." "The future inspector has lost," exclaimed Volodin in his bleating voice. "He's sorry for his money." "Unlucky in games, lucky in love," said Routilov, smiling slightly and showing his decaying teeth. This was the last straw. Peredonov had already lost money and had a fright and now they were taunting him about Varvara. He exclaimed: "I'll get married and then Varka can clear out!" His friends roared with laughter and continued provoking him: "You won't dare!" "Yes I will dare: I'll get married to-morrow!" "Here's a bet!" said Falastov. "I'll bet ten roubles he doesn't do it!" But Peredonov thought of the money; if he lost he would have to pay. He turned away and lapsed into gloomy silence. At the garden gates they parted and scattered in different directions. Peredonov and Routilov went together. Routilov began to persuade Peredonov to marry one of his sisters at once. "Don't be afraid. I've prepared everything," he assured Peredonov. "But the banns haven't been published," objected Peredonov. "I tell you I've prepared everything," argued Routilov. "I've found the right priest, who knows that you're not related to us." "There are no bride-men," said Peredonov. "That's quite true, but I can get them. All I have to do is to send for them and they'll come to the church immediately. Or I'll go after them myself. It wasn't possible earlier, your cousin might have found out and hindered us." Peredonov did not reply. He looked gloomily about him, where, behind their drowsy little gardens and wavering hedges, loomed the dark shapes of a few scattered houses. "You just wait at the gate," said Routilov persuasively, "I'll bring out the loveliest one--whichever one you like. Listen, I'll prove it to you. Twice two is four, isn't it?" "Yes," assented Peredonov. "Well, as twice two is four, so it's your duty to marry one of my sisters." Peredonov was impressed. "It's quite true," he thought, "of course, twice two is four." And he looked respectfully at the shrewd Routilov. "Well, it'll come to marrying one of them. You can't argue with him." The friends at that moment reached the Routilovs' house and stopped at the gate. "Well, you can't do it by force," said Peredonov angrily. "You're a queer fellow," exclaimed Routilov. "They've waited until they're tired." "And perhaps I don't want to!" said Peredonov. "What do you mean by that? You are a queer chap. Are you going to be a shiftless fellow all your life?" asked Routilov. "Or are you getting ready to enter a monastery? Or aren't you tired of Varya yet? Think what a face she'll make when you bring your young wife home." Peredonov gave a cackle, but immediately frowned and said: "And perhaps they also don't want to?" "What do you mean--they don't want to? You are an odd fellow," answered Routilov, "I give you my word." "They'll be too proud," objected Peredonov. "Why should that bother you? It's all the better." "They're gigglers." "But they never giggle at your expense," said Routilov comfortingly. "How do I know?" "You'd better believe me. I'm not fooling you. They respect you. After all you're not a kind of Pavloushka, who'd make anybody laugh." "Yes, if I take your word for it," said Peredonov incredulously. "But no, I want to be convinced myself." "Well, you are an odd fellow!" said Routilov in astonishment. "But how would they dare laugh at you? Still, is there any way I can prove it to you?" Peredonov reflected and said: "Let them come into the street at once." "Very well, that's possible," agreed Routilov. "All three of them," continued Peredonov. "Very well." "And let each one say how she'll please me." "Why all this?" asked Routilov in astonishment. "I'll find out what they want, and then you won't lead me by the nose." "No one's going to lead you by the nose." "Perhaps they'll want to laugh at me," argued Peredonov. "Now if they come out and want to laugh, it is I who'll be able to laugh at them!" Routilov reflected, pushed his hat on to the back of his head and then forward over his forehead, and said at last: "All right, you wait here and I'll go in and tell them--but you're certainly an odd fellow. You'd better come into the front garden or else the devil'll bring someone along the street and you'll be seen." "I'll spit on them," said Peredonov. Nevertheless, he entered the gate. Routilov went into the house to his sisters while Peredonov waited in the garden. All the four sisters were sitting in the drawing-room, which was situated in the corner of the house that could be seen from the garden. They all had the same features and they all resembled their brother; they were handsome, rosy and cheerful. They were Larissa, a tranquil, pleasant, plump woman, who was married; the quick, agile Darya, the tallest and the slenderest of the sisters; the mischievous Liudmilla, and Valeria who was small, delicate and fragile-looking. They were eating nuts and raisins. They were obviously waiting for something and were therefore rather agitated and laughed more than usual as they recalled the latest town gossip. They ridiculed both their own acquaintances and strangers. Ever since the early morning they had been quite prepared to be married. It was only necessary for one of them to put on a suitable dress with a veil and flowers. Varvara was not mentioned in the sisters' conversation, as though she did not exist. But it was sufficient that they, the pitiless gossips, who pulled everyone to pieces, should refrain from mentioning Varvara; this complete silence showed that the idea of Varvara was fixed like a nail in the mind of each. "I've brought him," announced Routilov entering the drawing-room. "He's at the gate." The sisters rose in an agitated way and all began to talk and laugh at the same time. "There's only one difficulty," said Routilov laughingly. "And what's that?" asked Darya. Valeria frowned her handsome, dark eyebrows in a vexed way. "I don't know whether to tell you or not," hesitated Routilov. "Be quick about it," urged Darya. Routilov in some confusion told them what Peredonov wanted. The girls raised an outcry and they all began to abuse Peredonov; but little by little their indignation gave place to jokes and laughter. Darya made a face of grim expectation and said: "But he's waiting at the gate!" It was becoming an amusing adventure. The girls began to peep out the window towards the gate. Darya opened the window and cried out: "Ardalyon Borisitch, can we say it out of the window?" The morose answer came back: "No!" Darya quickly slammed down the window. The sisters burst into gay, unrestrained laughter, and ran from the drawing-room into the dining-room so that Peredonov might not hear them. The members of this family were so constituted that they could easily pass from a state of the most intense anger into a state of merriment, and it was the cheerful word that usually decided a matter. Peredonov stood and waited. He felt depressed and afraid. He thought he would run away, but could not decide. Somewhere from afar the sounds of music reached him: the frail, tender sounds poured themselves out in the quiet, dark, night air, and they awoke sadness, and gave birth to pleasant reveries. At the beginning, Peredonov's reveries took on an erotic turn. He imagined the Routilov girls in the most seductive poses. But the longer he waited, the more irritated he became at being forced to wait. And the music, which had barely aroused his hopelessly coarse emotions, died for him. All around him the night descended quietly, and rustled with its ill-boding hoverings and whisperings. And it seemed even darker everywhere because Peredonov stood in an open space lit up by the drawing-room lamp; its two streaks of light broadened as they reached the neighbouring fence, the dark planks of which became visible. The trees in the depth of the garden assumed dark, suspicious, whispering shapes. Someone's slow, heavy footsteps sounded near-by on the street pavement. Peredonov began to feel apprehensive that while waiting here he might be attacked, and robbed, even murdered. He pressed against the very wall in the shadow, and timidly waited. But suddenly long shadows shot out across the streaks of light in the garden, a door slammed, and voices were heard on the verandah. Peredonov grew animated. "They are coming," he thought joyously, and agreeable thoughts about the three beauties stole softly once more into his mind--disgusting children of his dull imagination. The sisters stood in the passage. Routilov walked to the gate and looked to see if anyone was in the street. No one was to be seen or heard. "There's no one about," he whispered loudly to his sisters, using his hands as a speaking-trumpet. He remained in the street to keep watch. Peredonov joined him. "They're coming out to speak to you," said Routilov. Peredonov stood at the gate and looked through the chink between the gate and the gate-post. His face was morose and almost frightened, and all sorts of fancies and thoughts expired in his mind and were replaced by a heavy, aimless desire. Darya was the first to come up to the open gate. "What can I do to please you?" she asked. Peredonov was morosely silent. Darya said: "I will make you the crispest pancakes piping hot--only don't choke over them." Liudmilla cried over her shoulder: "I'll go down every morning and collect all the gossip to tell you. That will make us jolly." Between the two girls' cheerful faces showed for a moment Valeria's slender, capricious face, and her slight, frail voice was heard: "I wouldn't tell you for anything how I shall please you--you'd better guess yourself." The sisters ran away laughing. Their voices and laughter ceased directly they were in the house. Peredonov turned away from the gate; he was not quite satisfied. He thought: "They babbled something and then ran away." It would have been far better if they'd put it on paper. But he had already stood here waiting long enough. "Well, are you satisfied?" asked Routilov. "Which one do you like best?" Peredonov was lost in thought. Of course, he concluded at last, he ought to take the youngest. A young woman is always better than an older one. "Bring Valeria here," he said decisively. Routilov went into the house and Peredonov again entered the garden. Liudmilla looked stealthily out of the window, trying to make out what they were saying, without any success. But suddenly there were sounds of someone approaching by the garden path. The sisters kept silent and sat there nervously. Routilov entered and announced: "He's chosen Valeria, and he's waiting at the gate!" The sisters grew noisy at once and began to laugh. Valeria went slightly pale. "Well, well," she said ironically, "I needed him very badly." Her hands trembled. All three of the sisters began to fuss about her and to put finery on her. She always spent a lot of time over her toilette--the other sisters hurried her. Routilov kept continually babbling with pleasure and excitement. He was delighted that he had managed the matter so cleverly. "Did you get the cabbies?" asked Darya with a worried air. Routilov answered with slight annoyance: "How could I? The whole town would have heard of it. Varvara would have come and dragged him away by his hair." "Well, what shall we do?" "Why, we can go to the Square in pairs and hire them there. It's quite simple. You and the bride go first. Then Larissa with the bridegroom--now, mind you, not all together or we shall be noticed in town. Liudmilla and I will stop at Falastov's. The two of them will go together and I will get Volodin." Once alone Peredonov became immersed in pleasant reveries. He imagined Valeria in all the bewitchment of the bridal night--undressed, bashful but happy. All slenderness and subtlety. He dreamed, and at the same time he pulled out of his pocket some caramels that had stuck there and began to chew them. Then he remembered that Valeria was a coquette. Now she'll want expensive dresses, he thought. That meant that he would not only be unable to save money every month but that he would have to spend what he had saved. She would be hard to please. She would never even enter the kitchen. Besides, his food might get poisoned; Varvara, from spite, would bribe the cook. And on the whole, thought Peredonov, Valeria is a slender doll. It's difficult to know how to treat a girl like that. How could one abuse her? And how could one give her an occasional push? How could one spit on her? It would end in tears and she would shame him before the whole town. No, it was impossible to tie oneself to her. Now Liudmilla was simpler; wouldn't it be better to take her? Peredonov walked up to the window and knocked with his stick on the pane. After a few moments Routilov stuck his head out of the window. "What do you want?" he asked anxiously. "I've thought it over," growled Peredonov. "Well?" exclaimed Routilov in apprehension. "Bring Liudmilla here!" said Peredonov. Routilov left the window. "He's a devil in spectacles," he grumbled to himself and went to his sisters. Valeria was glad. "It's your happiness, Liudmilla," she said cheerfully. Liudmilla began to laugh. She threw herself back in a chair and laughed and laughed. "What shall I tell him?" asked Routilov. "Are you willing?" Liudmilla could not speak for laughing, and only waved her hands. "Of course she's willing," said Darya for her. "You'd better tell him at once, or else he may go off in a huff." Routilov entered the drawing-room and said in a whisper through the window: "Wait, she'll be ready at once." "Let her make haste," said Peredonov angrily. "Why are they so long?" Liudmilla was soon dressed. She was entirely ready in five minutes. Peredonov began to think about her. She was cheerful and plump. But she was a giggler. She would always be laughing at him. That was terrible. Darya, though she was lively, was more sober. But she was quite handsome. He had better take her. He knocked once more on the window. "There! he's knocking again," said Larissa. "I wonder if he wants you now, Darya?" "The devil!" said Routilov irritatedly, and ran to the window. "What now?" he asked in an angry whisper. "Have you thought it over again?" "Bring Darya," answered Peredonov. "Well, just wait!" whispered Routilov in a rage. Peredonov stood there and thought of Darya, and again his brief seductive vision of her was replaced by apprehension. She was too quick and impertinent. She would make life intolerable to him. "And what on earth's the good of standing here waiting," reflected Peredonov, "I might get a cold. And you can't tell, there may be someone hiding in the ditch or behind the grass, who'll suddenly jump out and murder me." Peredonov grew very depressed. Then again none of them had any dowry to speak of. That could command no patronage in the department of Education. Varvara would complain to the Princess. As it was the Head-Master was sharpening his teeth for Peredonov. Peredonov began to get vexed with himself. Why was he here, entangling himself with the Routilovs? It must be that Routilov had bewitched him. Yes, he must really have bewitched him! He must make a counter-charm at once. Peredonov twirled round on his heels, spat on each side of him and mumbled: "_Chure-churashki. Churki-balvashki, buki-bukashkii, vedi-tarakashki. Chure menya. Chure menya. Chure, chure, chure. Chure-perechure-raschiure_."[1] His face wore an expression of stern attention, as if at the carrying out of a dignified ceremony. After this indispensable action he felt himself out of danger of Routilov's spells. He struck the window decisively with his stick and muttered angrily: "I've had enough of this! I won't be enticed any further. No, I don't want to get married to-day," he announced to Routilov, whose head was thrust out of the window. "What on earth's the matter with you, Ardalyon Borisitch? Why, everything's ready!" said Routilov persuasively. "I don't want to," repeated Peredonov with decision. "You'd better come along with me and have a game of cards." "The devil take you," exclaimed Routilov. "He doesn't want to get married. He's funked it!" he announced to his sisters. "But I'll persuade the fool yet. He's asked me to play cards with him." All the sisters cried out at once, abusing Peredonov loudly. "And you're going out with this blackguard?" asked Valeria angrily. "Yes, and I'll get even with him. He has not escaped us yet by any means," said Routilov, trying to keep a tone of assurance, but feeling very awkward. The girls' anger with Peredonov soon gave place to laughter. Routilov left. The girls ran to the windows. "Ardalyon Borisitch," exclaimed Darya. "Why can't you make up your mind. You shouldn't do things like this!" "Kislyai Kislyaevitch! (Sour Sourson!)" exclaimed Liudmilla, laughingly. Peredonov was angry. In his opinion the sisters ought to have wept with disappointment that he had rejected them. "They're pretending," he thought, as he left the garden silently. The girls ran to the windows facing the street and shouted gibes after him until he was lost in the darkness. [1] This is an exaggeration of a Russian charm used against witchcraft. The word "chure" implies, "Hence! away!" and is addressed to the evil spirits. The whole charm is a jargon practically untranslatable. CHAPTER V Peredonov felt depressed. He had no more caramels in his pocket and this added to his depression and distress. Routilov was the only one to speak almost the whole way. He continued to laud his sisters. Only once did Peredonov break into speech, when he asked angrily: "Has a bull horns?" "Well, yes, but what of it?" asked the astonished Routilov. "Well, I don't want to be a bull," explained Peredonov. "Ardalyon Borisitch," said Routilov in tones of annoyance, "you will never be a bull, for you are a real swine." "Liar," said Peredonov morosely. "I'm not a liar--I can prove I'm not," said Routilov spitefully. "Go ahead and prove it." "Just wait, I'll prove it," said Routilov. They walked on silently. Peredonov waited apprehensively and his anger with Routilov tormented him. Suddenly Routilov asked: "Ardalyon Borisitch, have you got a _piatachek_?"[1] "I have, but I won't give it to you," answered Peredonov. Routilov burst out laughing. "If you have a _piatachek_, then you are a swine," he exclaimed. Peredonov in his apprehension grabbed his nose and exclaimed: "You're lying! I haven't a _piatachek_--I've got a man's face," he growled. Routilov was still laughing. Peredonov, angry and rather frightened, looked cautiously at Routilov and said: "You've led me purposely to-day by the _durman_[2] and you've _durmanised_ me so as to lure me for one of your sisters. As if one witch wasn't enough for me--you tried to make me marry three at once." "You are a queer fellow. And why didn't I get _durmanised?_" asked Routilov. "You've got some way or other," said Peredonov, "perhaps you breathed through your mouth instead of your nose, or you may have recited a charm. For my part, I don't know at all how to act against witchcraft. I don't know much about black magic. Until I recited the counter-charm I was quite _durmanised_." Routilov laughed. "Well, and how did you make the exorcism?" he asked. But Peredonov did not reply. "Why do you tie yourself up with Varvara?" asked Routilov. "Do you think that you'll be happier if she gets the inspectorship for you? She'll rule the roost then!" This was incomprehensible to Peredonov. After all, he thought, she was really acting in her own interests. She herself would have an easier time if he became an important official, and she would have more money. That meant that she would be grateful to him and not he to her. And in any case she was more congenial to him than anyone else. Peredonov was accustomed to Varvara. Something drew him to her--perhaps it was his habit, which was very pleasant to him, of bullying her. He would not find another like her however much he sought. It was already late. The lamps were lit at Peredonov's house; the lighted windows were conspicuous in the dark street. The tea-table was surrounded with visitors: Grushina--who now visited Varvara every day--Volodin, Prepolovenskaya, and her husband Konstantin Petrovitch, a tall man, under forty, with a dull, pale face and black hair, a person of an amazing taciturnity. Varvara was in a white party dress. They were drinking tea, and talking. Varvara, as usual, was distressed because Peredonov had not yet returned home. Volodin, with his cheerful bleat, was telling her that Peredonov had gone off somewhere with Routilov. This only increased her distress. At last Peredonov appeared with Routilov. They were met with outcries, laughter, stupid coarse jokes. "Varvara, where's the vodka?" exclaimed Peredonov gruffly. Varvara quickly left the table, smiling guiltily, and brought the vodka in a decanter of rudely cut glass. "Let's have a drink," was Peredonov's surly invitation. "Just wait," said Varvara; "Klavdiushka will bring the _zakouska._[3] You great lump," she shouted into the kitchen, "hurry up!" But Peredonov was already pouring the liquor into the vodka glasses. He growled: "Why should we wait? Time doesn't wait!" They drank their vodka and helped it down with tarts filled with black currant jam. Peredonov had always two stock entertainments for visitors--cards and vodka. But as they could not sit down to cards before the tea was served, only vodka remained. In the meantime the _zakouska_ also were brought in so that they could drink some more vodka. Klavdia did not shut the door when she went out, which put Peredonov into a bad humour. "That door is never shut!" he growled. He was afraid of the draught--he might catch cold. This was why his house was always stuffy and malodorous. Prepolovenskaya picked up an egg. "Fine eggs!" she said. "Where do you get them?" Peredonov replied: "They're not bad, but on my father's estate there was a hen that laid two large eggs every day all the year round." "That's nothing to boast of," said Prepolovenskaya; "now in our village there was a hen that laid two eggs every day and a spoonful of butter." "Yes, yes, we had one like that too," said Peredonov, not noticing that he was being made fun of. "If others could do it, ours did it too. We had an exceptional hen." Varvara laughed. "They're having a little joke," she said. "Such nonsense makes one's ears wither!" said Grushina. Peredonov looked at her savagely and replied: "If your ears wither they'll have to be pulled off!" Grushina was disconcerted. "Well, Ardalyon Borisitch, you're always saying something nasty," she complained. The others laughed appreciatively. Volodin opened his eyes wide, twitched his forehead and explained: "When your ears start withering it's best to pull them off, because if you don't they'll dangle and swing to and fro." Volodin made a gesture with his fingers to indicate how the withered ears would dangle. Grushina snapped at him: "That's the sort you are. You can't make a joke yourself. You have to use other people's." Volodin was offended and said with dignity: "I can make a joke myself, Maria Ossipovna, but when we're having a pleasant time in company, why shouldn't I keep up someone else's joke? And if you don't like it, you can do what you please. Give and take." "That's reasonable, Pavel Vassilyevitch," said Routilov encouragingly. "Pavel Vassilyevitch can stand up for himself," said Prepolovenskaya with a sly smile. Varvara had just cut off a piece of bread and, absorbed by Volodin's ingenious remarks, held the knife in the air. The edge glittered. Peredonov felt a sudden fear--she might suddenly take it into her head to slash him. "Varvara!" he exclaimed. "Put that knife down!" Varvara shivered. "Why do you shout so? You frightened me," she said, and put the knife down. "He has his whims, you know," she went on, speaking to the silent Prepolovensky, who was stroking his beard and apparently about to speak. "That sometimes happens," said Prepolovensky; "I had an acquaintance who was afraid of needles. He was always imagining that someone was going to stick a needle into him and that the needle would enter his inside. Just imagine how frightened he would get when he saw a needle----" And once he had begun to speak he was quite unable to stop, and went on telling the same story with different variations until someone interrupted him and changed the subject. Then he lapsed again into silence. Grushina changed the conversation to erotic themes. She began to relate how her deceased husband was jealous of her, and how she deceived him. Afterwards she told a story she had heard from an acquaintance in the capital about the mistress of a certain eminent personage who met her patron while driving in the street. "And she cries to him: 'Hullo, Zhanchick!'" Grushina related, "mind you, in the street." "I have a good mind to report you," said Peredonov angrily. "Is it actually permitted for such nonsense to be talked about important people?" Grushina gabbled rapidly to try and appease him: "It's not my fault. That's how I heard the story. What I've bought I sell." Peredonov maintained an angry silence and drank tea from a saucer, with his elbows resting on the table. He reflected that in the house of the future inspector it was unbecoming to speak disrespectfully of the higher powers. He felt annoyed with Grushina. This feeling was intensified by his suspicion of Volodin, who too frequently referred to him as "the future inspector." Once he even said to Volodin: "Well, my friend, I see that you are jealous, but the fact is I'm going to be an inspector and you aren't!" Volodin, with an insinuating look on his face, had replied: "Each to his own. You're a specialist in your business and I in mine." "Our Natashka," said Varvara, "went straight from us and got a place with the Officer of the gendarmes." Peredonov trembled, and his face had an expression of fear. "Are you telling a lie?" he demanded. "Why should I want to tell you a lie about that?" answered Varvara. "You can go and ask him yourself, if you like." This unpleasant news was confirmed by Grushina. Peredonov was stupefied with astonishment. It was impossible to know what she might say, and then the gendarmes would take up the matter and report it to the authorities. It was a bad look-out. At the same second Peredonov's eyes rested on the shelf under the sideboard. There stood several bound volumes: the thin ones were the works of Pisarev and the larger ones were the "Annals of the Fatherland."[4] Peredonov went pale and said: "I must hide those books or I shall be reported." Earlier Peredonov had displayed these books ostentatiously to show that he was a man of emancipated ideas, though actually he had no ideas at all and no inclination towards reflection. And he only kept these books for show, not to read. It was now a long time since he had read a book--he used to say he had no time--he did not subscribe to a newspaper. He got his news from other people. In fact there was nothing he wanted to know--there was nothing in the outside world he was interested in. He used even to deride subscribers to newspapers as people who wasted both time and money. One might have thought that his time was very valuable! He went up to the shelf, grumbling. "That's what happens in this town--you may get reported any minute. Lend a hand here, Pavel Vassilyevitch," he said to Volodin. Volodin walked towards him with a grave and comprehending countenance and carefully took the books that Peredonov handed to him. Peredonov, carrying a heap of books, went into the parlour, followed by Volodin, who carried a large pile. "Where do you mean to hide them, Ardalyon Borisitch "he asked. "Wait and you'll see," replied Peredonov with his usual gruffness. "What are you taking away there, Ardalyon Borisitch?" asked Prepolovensky. "Most strictly forbidden books," answered Peredonov from the door. "I should be reported if they were found here." Peredonov sat on his heels before the brick stove in the parlour. He threw down the books on the iron hearth and Volodin did the same. Peredonov began with difficulty to force book after book into the small opening. Volodin sat on his heels just behind Peredonov and handed him the books, preserving at the same time an air of profound comprehension on his sheepish face, his protruded lips and heavy forehead expressing his sense of importance. Varvara looked at them through the door. She said laughing: "They've got a new joke!" But Grushina interrupted her: "No, dearest Varvara Dmitrievna, you shouldn't say that. Things might be very unpleasant if they found out. Especially if it happens to be an instructor. The authorities are dreadfully afraid that the instructors will teach the boys to rebel." After tea they sat down to play Stoukolka [_a card game_], all seven of them around the card-table in the parlour. Peredonov played irritatedly and badly. After every twenty points, he had to pay out to the other players, especially to Prepolovensky, who received for himself and his wife. The Prepolovenskys won more frequently than anyone. They had certain signs, like knocks and coughs, by which they told each other what cards they held. That night Peredonov had no luck. He made haste to win back his money, but Volodin was slow in dealing and spent too much time in shuffling. "Pavloushka, hurry up and deal," shouted Peredonov impatiently. Volodin, feeling himself the equal of anybody in the game, looked important and asked: "What do you mean by 'Pavloushka'? Is it in friendship? Or how?" "Of course, in friendship," replied Peredonov carelessly. "Only deal quicker." "Well, if you say it in friendship then I'm glad, very glad," said Volodin, laughing happily and stupidly as he dealt the cards. "You're a good fellow, Ardasha, and I'm very fond of you. But if it weren't in friendship it would be another matter, but as it is in friendship I'm glad. I've given you an ace for it," said Volodin and turned up trumps. Peredonov actually had an ace, but it wasn't the ace of trumps and he had to sacrifice it. Routilov babbled on incessantly; told all sorts of tales and anecdotes, some of an exceedingly indelicate character. In order to annoy Peredonov, Routilov began to tell him that his older pupils were behaving very badly, especially those who lived in apartments: they smoked, drank vodka and ran after girls. Peredonov believed him, and Grushina confirmed what Routilov said. These stories gave her especial pleasure: she herself, after her husband's death, had wanted to board three or four of the students at her house, but the Head-Master would not give her the requisite permission, in spite of Peredonov's recommendations--Grushina's reputation in the town was not very good. She now began to abuse the landladies of the houses where the students had apartments. "They're bribing the Head-Master," she declared. "All the landladies are carrion!" said Volodin with conviction; "take mine, for instance. When I took my room, mine agreed to give me three glasses of milk every evening. For the first two months I got it." "And you didn't get drunk?" asked Routilov. "Why should I get drunk?" said Volodin in offended tones, "milk's a useful product. It's my habit to drink three glasses of milk every night. When all of a sudden I see that they bring me only two glasses. 'What's the meaning of this?' I ask; the servant says: 'Anna Mikhailovna says she begs your pardon because the cow, she says, doesn't give much milk now.' What's that to do with me? An agreement is more sacred than money. Suppose their cow gave no milk at all--does that mean I'm not to have any milk? 'No,' I say. 'If there is no milk, then tell Anna Mikhailovna to give me a glass of water. I'm used to three glasses and I must have them.'" "Our Pavloushka's a hero," said Peredonov. "Tell them how you argued with the General, old chap." Volodin eagerly repeated his story. But this time they laughed at his expense. He stuck out an offended underlip. After supper they all got drunk, even the women. Volodin proposed that they should dirty the walls some more. They were delighted: almost before they had finished supper they acted on this suggestion and amused themselves prodigiously. They spat on the wall-paper, poured beer on it, and they threw at the walls and ceiling paper arrows whose ends were smeared with butter, and they flipped pieces of moist bread at the ceiling. Afterwards they invented a new game which they played for money; they tore off strips of the wall-paper to see who could get the largest. But at this game the Prepolovenskys won another rouble and a half. Volodin lost. Because of his loss and his intoxication he became depressed and began to complain about his mother. He made a dolorous face, and gesticulating ridiculously with his hand, said: "Why did she bear me? And what did she think at the time? What's my life now? She's not been a mother to me, she only bore me. Because whereas a real mother worries about her child, mine only bore me and sent me to a charitable home when I was a mere baby." "Well, you've learnt something by it--it made a man of you," said Prepolovenskaya. Volodin bent his head, wagged it to and fro and said: "No, what's my life? A dog's life. Why did she bear me? What did she think then?" Peredonov suddenly remembered yesterday's _erli._ "There," he thought, "he complains about his mother, because she bore him. He doesn't want to be Pavloushka. It's certain that he envies me. It may be that he's thinking of marrying Varvara and of getting into my skin." And he looked anxiously at Volodin. He must try to marry him to someone. * * * * * At night in the bedroom Varvara said to Peredonov: "You think that all these girls who are running after you are really good-looking? They're all trash, and I'm prettier than any of them." She quickly undressed herself and, smiling insolently, showed Peredonov her rosy, graceful, flexible and beautiful body. Though Varvara staggered from drunkenness and her face would have repelled any decent man with its flabby-lascivious expression, she really had the beautiful body of a nymph, with the head of a faded prostitute attached to it as if by some horrible black magic. And this superb body was for these two drunken and dirty-minded people merely the source of the vilest libidinousness. And so it often happens in our age that beauty is debased and abused. Peredonov laughed gruffly but boisterously as he looked at his naked companion. The entire night he dreamed of women of all colours, naked and hideous. * * * * * Varvara believed that the friction with nettles, which she applied at Prepolovenskaya's advice, helped her. It seemed to her that she got plumper almost at once. She asked all her acquaintances: "It's true, isn't it, that I'm a little fuller?" And she thought that now Peredonov would surely marry her, seeing that she was plumper, and that he would receive the forged letter. Peredonov's expectations were far from being so agreeable as hers. He had become convinced some time before that the Head-Master was hostile to him--and as a matter of fact the Head-Master considered Peredonov a lazy, incapable instructor. Peredonov imagined that the Head-Master told the boys not to respect him, which it is obvious was an absurd invention of his own. But it inspired Peredonov with the idea that he must be on his guard against the Head-Master. From spite against the Head-Master he spoke slightingly of him more than once in the classes of the older students. This pleased many of the students. Now that Peredonov was hoping to become an inspector the Head-Master's attitude towards him seemed particularly unpleasant. Let it be admitted that if the Princess should so desire, her protection would override the Head-Master's unfriendliness, still it was not without its dangers. And there were other people in the town--as Peredonov had lately noticed--who were hostile to him and wanted to hinder his appointment to the inspectorship. There was Volodin; it was not for nothing that he continually repeated the words, "The future inspector." There have been occasions when people have assumed another man's name with great profit to themselves. Of course, Volodin would find it difficult to impersonate Peredonov, but after all even such a fool as Volodin might have the idea that he could. It is certain that we ought to fear every evil man. And there were still the Routilovs, Vershina with her Marta, and his envious colleagues--all equally ready to do him harm. And how could they harm him? It was perfectly clear they could vilify him to the authorities and make him out to be an unreliable man. So that Peredonov had two anxieties: one, to prove his reliableness and the other to secure himself from Volodin--by marrying him to a rich girl. Peredonov once asked Volodin: "If you like, I'll get you engaged to the Adamenko girl, or are you still pining for Marta? Isn't a month long enough for you to get consoled?" "Why should I pine for Marta?" replied Volodin, "I've done her a great honour by proposing to her, and if she doesn't want me, what's that to me? I'll easily find someone else--there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it." "Well, but Marta's pulled your nose for you nicely," said Peredonov tauntingly. "I've no notion what sort of a husband they're looking for," said Volodin with an offended air. "They haven't even any dowry to speak of. She's after you, Ardalyon Borisitch." Peredonov advised him: "If I were in your place I should smear her gates with tar." Volodin grinned and calmed down at once. He said: "But if they catch me it might be unpleasant." "Hire somebody; why should you do it yourself?" said Peredonov. "And she deserves it--honest to God!" said Volodin animatedly. "A girl who won't get married and yet lets young fellows in through the window! That means that human beings have no shame or conscience!" [1] "Piatachek" means a "five kopek piece" and also a "pig's snout." Routilov puns on the word. [2] _Durman_, the thorn apple or datura, a very poisonous plant. The Russians have a verb "durmanised," meaning bewitched or stupefied by the durman. [3] Zakouska, savoury salt eatables, rather like _hors d'oeuvres,_ eaten with vodka. [4] A journal of revolutionary tendencies, suppressed in 1881. CHAPTER VI The next day Peredonov and Volodin went to see the Adamenko girl. Volodin was in his best clothes; he put on his new, tight-fitting frock-coat, a clean-laundered shirt and a brightly-coloured cravat. He smeared his hair with pomade and scented himself--he was in fine spirits. Nadezhda Vassilyevna Adamenko lived with her brother in town in her own red-brick house; she had an estate not far from town which she let on lease. Two years before she had completed a course in the local college and now she occupied herself in lying on a couch to read books of every description and in coaching her brother, an eleven-year-old schoolboy, who always protected himself against his sister's severities by saying: "It was much better in Mamma's time--she used to put an umbrella in the corner instead of me." Nadezhda Vassilyevna's aunt lived with her. She was a characterless, decrepit woman with no voice in the household affairs. Nadezhda Vassilyevna chose her acquaintances with great care. Peredonov was very seldom in her house and only his lack of real acquaintance with her could have given birth to his idea of getting her to marry Volodin. She was therefore extremely astonished at their unexpected visit, but she received the uninvited guests quite graciously. She had to amuse them, and it seemed to her that the most likely and pleasant method of entertaining an instructor of the Russian language would be to talk of educational conditions, school reform, the training of children, literature, Symbolism and the Russian literary periodicals. She touched upon all these themes, but received no response beyond enigmatic remarks, which showed that these questions had no interest for her guests. She soon saw that only one subject was possible--town gossip. But Nadezhda Vassilyevna nevertheless made one more attempt. "Have you read the 'Man in the Case,' by Chekhov?" she asked. "It's a clever piece of work, isn't it?" As she turned with this question to Volodin he smiled pleasantly and asked: "Is that an essay or a novel?" "It's a short story," exclaimed Nadezhda. "Did you say it was by Mister Chekhov?" inquired Volodin. "Yes, Chekhov," said Nadezhda and smiled. "Where was it published?" asked Volodin curiously. "In the 'Russkaya Misl,'" the young woman explained graciously. "In what number?" continued Volodin. "I can't quite remember. I think it was in one of the summer numbers," replied Nadezhda, still graciously but with some astonishment. A schoolboy suddenly appeared from behind the door. "It was published in the May number," he said, with his hand on the door-knob, glancing at his sister and her guests with cheerful blue eyes. "You're too young to read novels!" growled Peredonov angrily. "You ought to work instead of reading indecent stories." Nadezhda Vassilyevna looked sternly at her brother. "It is a nice thing to stand behind doors and listen," she remarked, and lifting her hands crossed her little fingers at a right angle. The boy made a wry face and disappeared. He went into his own room, stood in the corner and gazed at the clock; two little fingers crossed was a sign that he should stand in the corner for ten minutes. "No," he thought sadly, "it was much better when Mamma was alive. She only put an umbrella in the corner." Meanwhile in the drawing-room Volodin was promising his hostess that he would certainly get the May number of the "Russkaya Misl," in order to read Mister Chekhov's story. Peredonov listened with an expression of unconcealed boredom on his face. At last he said: "I haven't read it either. I don't read such nonsense. There's nothing but stupidities in stories and novels." Nadezhda Vassilyevna smiled amiably and said: "You're very severe towards contemporary literature. But good books are written even nowadays." "I read all the good books long ago," announced Peredonov. "I don't intend to begin to read what's being written now." Volodin looked at Peredonov with respect. Nadezhda Vassilyevna sighed lightly and--as there was nothing else for her to do--she began a string of small-talk and gossip to the best of her ability. Although she disliked such conversation she managed to keep it up with the ease and buoyancy of a lively, well-trained girl. The guests became animated. She was intolerably bored, but they thought that she was particularly gracious and they put it down to the charm of Volodin's personality. Once in the street Peredonov congratulated Volodin upon his success. Volodin laughed gleefully and skipped about. He had already forgotten all the other girls who had rejected him. "Don't kick up your heels like that," said Peredonov. "You're hopping about like a young sheep! You'd better wait; you may have your nose pulled again." But he said this only in jest, and he fully believed in the success of the match he had devised. * * * * * Grushina came to see Varvara almost every day. Varvara was at Grushina's even oftener, so that they were scarcely ever parted from each other. Varvara was agitated because Grushina delayed--she assured Varvara that it was very difficult to copy the handwriting so that the resemblance would be complete. Peredonov still refrained from fixing a date for the wedding. Again he demanded his inspector's post first. Recollecting how many girls were ready to marry him, he more than once, as in the past winter, said to Varvara threateningly: "I'm going out to get married. I shall be back in the morning with a wife and then out you go. This is your last night here!" And having said this he would go--to play billiards. From there he would sometimes return home, but more often he would go carousing in some dirty hole with Routilov and Volodin. On such nights Varvara could not sleep. That is why she suffered from headaches. It was not so bad if he returned at one or two--then she could breathe freely. But if he did not turn up till the morning then the day found Varvara quite ill. At last Grushina had finished the letter and showed it to Varvara. They examined it for a long time and compared it with the Princess's letter of last year. Grushina assured her that the letter was so like the other that the Princess herself would not recognise the forgery. Although there was actually little resemblance, Varvara believed her. She also realised that Peredonov would not remember the Princess's unfamiliar handwriting so minutely that he would see it was a forgery. "At last!" she said joyously. "I have waited and waited, and I'd almost lost patience. But what shall I tell him about the envelope if he asks?" "You can't very well forge an envelope; there's the post-mark," said Grushina laughing as she looked at Varvara with her cunning unequal eyes, one of them wider open than the other. "What shall we do?" "Varvara Dmitrievna darling, just tell him that you threw the envelope into the fire. What's the good of an envelope?" Varvara's hopes revived. She said: "Once we're married, he won't keep me any longer on the run. I'll do the sitting and he can do the running for me." * * * * * On Saturday after dinner Peredonov went to play billiards. His thoughts were heavy and melancholy. He thought: "It's awful to live among hostile and envious people. But what can one do--they can't all be inspectors! That's the struggle for existence!" At the corner of two streets he met the Officer of the gendarmerie--an unpleasant meeting. Lieutenant-Colonel Nikolai Vadimovitch Roubovsky, a medium-sized, stout man with heavy eyebrows, cheerful grey eyes, and a limping gait which made his spurs jingle unevenly and loudly, was a very amiable person and was therefore popular in society. He knew all the people in town, all their affairs and relations, and loved to hear gossip, but was himself as discreet and silent as the grave, and caused no one any unnecessary unpleasantness. They stopped, greeted each other and entered into conversation. Peredonov looked frowningly on each side and said cautiously: "I hear that our Natasha is with you now. You mustn't believe anything she tells you about me, because she's lying." "I don't listen to servants' gossip," said Roubovsky with dignity. "She's really a bad one," said Peredonov, paying no attention to Roubovsky's remark; "her young man is a Pole; very likely she came to you on purpose to get hold of some official secret." "Please don't worry about that," said the Lieutenant-Colonel dryly. "I haven't any plans of fortresses in my possession." This introduction of fortresses perplexed Peredonov; it seemed to him that Roubovsky was hinting at something--that he thought of imprisoning Peredonov in a fortress. "It's nothing to do with fortresses--it's a very different matter," he muttered. "But all sorts of stupid things are being said about me, for the most part from envy. Don't believe any of them. They're informing against me in order to get suspicion away from themselves, but I can do some informing myself." Roubovsky was mystified. "I assure you," he said, shrugging his shoulders and jingling his spurs, "that no one has informed against you. It is obvious that someone has been pulling your leg--people of course will talk nonsense sometimes." Peredonov was mistrustful. He thought that the Lieutenant-Colonel was concealing something, and he suddenly felt a terrible apprehension. Every time that Peredonov walked past Vershina's garden, Vershina would stop him and with her bewitching gestures and words would lure him into the garden. And he would enter, unwillingly yielding to her quiet witchery. Perhaps she had a better chance of succeeding in her purpose than the Routilovs--for was not Peredonov equally unrelated to them all, and therefore why should he not marry Marta? But it was evident that the morass into which Peredonov was sinking was so tenacious that no magic could ever have got him out of it into another. And now after this meeting with Roubovsky, as Peredonov was walking past Vershina's, she, dressed in black as usual, enticed him in. "Marta and Vladya are going home for the day," she said, looking tenderly at Peredonov with her cinnamon-coloured eyes through the smoke of her cigarette. "It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to spend the day with them in the village. A workman had just come in a cart for them." "There isn't enough room," said Peredonov morosely. "I think you could manage it," said Vershina, "and even if you have to squeeze in a little, it won't be a great hardship--you've only got six versts to go." Meanwhile Marta ran out of the house to ask Vershina something. The excitement of getting off dissipated her usual languor and her face was livelier and more cheerful. They both tried to persuade Peredonov to go. "You'll manage quite comfortably," Vershina assured him; "you and Marta can sit at the back, and Vladya and Ignaty in front. Look, there's the cart in the yard now." Peredonov followed them into the yard where the cart was standing. Vladya was fussing about, putting various things in it. The cart was quite a large one, but Peredonov morosely surveyed it and announced: "I'm not going. There isn't enough room. There are four of us and those things besides." "Well, if you think it's going to be a tight squeeze," said Varshina, "Vladya can go on foot." "Of course," said Vladya, with a suppressed grin. "I'll start at once and I'll get there before you." Then Peredonov declared that the cart would jolt and that he did not like jolts. They returned to the summer-house. Everything was ready, but Ignaty was still in the kitchen eating slowly and solidly. "How does Vladya get on with his lessons?" asked Marta. She did not know what else to talk about with Peredonov, and Vershina had more than once reproached her for not knowing how to entertain him. "Badly," said Peredonov; "he's lazy and doesn't pay attention." Vershina loved to grumble. She began to scold Vladya. The boy flushed and smiled, and shrivelled into his clothes as if he were cold, lifting one shoulder higher than the other, as his habit was. "The year has only just begun," he said, "I've got plenty of time to catch up." "You ought to start from the very beginning," said Marta in a very grown-up way, which slightly embarrassed her. "Yes, he's always in mischief," said Peredonov. "Only yesterday, he was running about with some of the others as if they were street boys. He's impertinent too. Last Thursday he was quite cheeky to me." Vladya suddenly flushed up with indignation, yet still smiled, and said: "I wasn't impertinent. I only told the truth. The other copy-books had five mistakes not marked, and all mine were marked. And I only got two though mine was better than the boys who got three." "And that wasn't the only time you were impertinent," persisted Peredonov. "I wasn't impertinent, I only said that I would tell the inspector," said Vladya heatedly. "Vladya, you forget yourself!" said Vershina angrily; "instead of apologising you're only repeating what you said." Vladya suddenly remembered that he ought not to provoke Peredonov, as he might marry Marta. He grew even redder and in his confusion shifted his belt and said timidly: "I'm sorry. I only meant to ask you to make the correction." "Be quiet, please!" interrupted Vershina. "I can't stand such wrangling--I really can't," she repeated, and her thin body trembled almost imperceptibly. "You're being spoken to, so be silent," and Vershina poured out on Vladya many reproachful words, puffing at her cigarette and smiling her wry smile, as she usually did when she was talking, no matter what the subject was. "We shall have to tell your father, so that he can punish you," she concluded. "He needs birching," suggested Peredonov, and looked angrily at the offending Vladya. "Certainly," agreed Vershina. "He needs birching." "He needs birching," repeated Marta and blushed. "I'm going with you to your father to-day," said Peredonov, "and I'll see that he gives you a good birching." Vladya looked silently at his tormentors, shrank within himself and smiled through his tears. His father was a harsh man. Vladya tried to console himself with the thought that these were only threats. Surely, he thought, they would not really spoil his holiday. For a holiday was a specially happy occasion and not a schoolday affair. But Peredonov was always pleased when he saw boys cry, especially when he so arranged it that they cried and apologised at the same time. Vladya's confusion, the suppressed tears in his eyes and his timid, guilty smile, all these gave Peredonov joy. He decided to accompany Marta and Vladya. "Very well, I'll come with you," he said to Marta. Marta was glad but a little frightened. Of course she wanted Peredonov to go with them, or it would perhaps be more truthful to say that Vershina wanted it for her, and had instilled the desire into her by suggestion. But now that Peredonov said that he would come, Marta somehow felt uneasy on Vladya's account--she felt sorry for him. Vladya also became sad. Surely Peredonov was not going on his account? In the hope of appeasing Peredonov, he said: "If you think, Ardalyon Borisitch, that it will be a tight squeeze, then I will go on foot." Peredonov looked at him suspiciously and said: "That's all very well, but if I let you go alone, you'll run away somewhere. No, I think we had better take you to your father and he'll give you what you deserve!" Vladya flushed once more and sighed. He began to feel uneasy and depressed, and indignant at this cruel, morose man. To soften Peredonov's heart, he decided to make his seat more comfortable. "I'll make it so that you won't feel the jolts," he said. And he scurried hastily towards the cart. Vershina looked after him, still smoking, with her wry smile, and said quietly to Peredonov: "They're all afraid of their father. He's very stern with them." Marta flushed. Vladya wanted to take with him to the village his new English fishing-rod, bought with his saved-up money. And he wanted to take something else. But this would have occupied room in the cart and so Vladya carried all his goods back into the house. The weather was moderate, the sun was beginning to decline. The road, wet with the morning rain, was free of dust. The cart rolled evenly over the fine stones, carrying its four passengers from the town; the well-fed grey cob trotted along as if their weight were nothing, and the lazy, taciturn driver, Ignaty, drove the cob on a light rein. Peredonov was seated beside Marta. They had made him a wide seat, so that Marta's was very uncomfortable. But he did not notice this. And even if he had noticed it, he would have thought it quite proper, since he was the guest. Peredonov felt on very good terms with himself. He decided to talk very amiably to Marta, to joke with her and to entertain her. This is how he began: "Well, are you going to rebel soon?" "Why rebel?" asked Marta. "You Poles are always getting ready to rebel--but it's useless." "I'm not thinking about it at all," said Marta, "and there's no one among us who wants to rebel." "Oh, you only say that--you really hate the Russians." "We haven't any such idea," said Vladya, turning to Peredonov from the front seat. "Yes, we know what sort of an idea you have about it," answered Peredonov. "But we're not going to give Poland back to you. We have conquered you. We have conferred many benefits on you and yet it's true that however well you feed a wolf he always looks towards the wood." Marta said nothing. After a short silence Peredonov said abruptly: "The Poles have no brains." Marta flushed. "There are all kinds of people among both Russians and Poles," she said. "No, what I say is true," persisted Peredonov, "the Poles are stupid. They only submit to force. Take the Jews--they're clever." "The Jews are cheats--they're not clever at all," said Vladya. "No, the Jews are a very clever people. The Jew always gets the best of a Russian, but a Russian never gets the best of a Jew." "It isn't a great thing to get the best of other people," said Vladya. "Is mind only to be used for cheating?" Peredonov looked angrily at Vladya. "The mind is for learning, and you don't learn," he said. Vladya sighed and turned away and began to watch the cob's even trotting. But Peredonov continued: "The Jews are clever in everything. Clever in learning and in everything. If the Jews were allowed to become professors, all professors would be Jews. But the Polish women are all sluts." He looked at Marta and noted with satisfaction that she blushed violently. He became amiable: "Now, don't think that I'm talking about you. I know that you would be a good housekeeper." "All Polish women are good housekeepers," replied Marta. "Well, yes," said Peredonov, "they're good housekeepers. They're clean on top, but their petticoats are dirty. But then you had Mickiewicz.[1] He's better than our Pushkin. He hangs on my wall--Pushkin used to hang there, but I took him down and hung him in the privy. He was a lackey." "But you're a Russian," said Vladya. "What's our Mickiewicz to you? Pushkin's a good poet and Mickiewicz's a good poet." "Mickiewicz is better," asseverated Peredonov. "The Russians are fools. They've invented only the samovar--nothing else." Peredonov looked at Marta, screwed up one eye and said: "You've got a lot of freckles. That's not pretty." "What can one do?" asked Marta, smiling. "I've got freckles too," said Vladya, turning round on his narrow seat and brushing against the silent Ignaty. "You're a boy," said Peredonov, "and so it doesn't matter. A man needn't be handsome; but it doesn't become a girl," he went on, turning to Marta. "No one will want to marry you. You ought to bathe your face in cucumber-brine." Marta thanked him for his advice. Vladya looked smilingly at Peredonov. "What are you grinning at?" said Peredonov. "Just wait till we're there--then you'll get what's waiting for you." Vladya, shifting in his seat, looked attentively at Peredonov and tried to find out if he were joking or speaking seriously. But Peredonov could not bear to have anyone stare at him. "What are you eyeing me for?" he asked harshly. "There are no patterns on me. Are you trying to cast a spell on me?" Vladya was frightened and turned away his eyes. "I'm sorry," he added timidly, "I didn't do it on purpose." "And do you believe in the evil eye?" asked Marta. "Of course the evil eye is a superstition," said Peredonov angrily. "But it's so awfully rude to stare at people." There was an awkward silence for the next few minutes. "You're very poor, aren't you?" said Peredonov suddenly. "Well, we're not rich," said Marta, "but still we're not so poor. Each one of us has a little something put aside." Peredonov looked at her incredulously and said: "I'm sure you're poor. You go barefoot at home every day." "We don't do it from poverty," exclaimed Vladya. "What then? From wealth?" asked Peredonov, and burst into a laugh. "Not at all from poverty," said Vladya flushing. "It's very good for the health. It hardens one, and it's very pleasant in summer." "You're lying," said Peredonov coarsely, "rich people don't go barefoot. Your father has a lot of children and hasn't got tuppence to keep them on. You can't afford to buy so many boots." [1] Great Polish poet (1798-1855) who "is held to have been the greatest Slavonic poet with the exception of Pushkin." CHAPTER VII Varvara had no knowledge of Peredonov's trip. She passed an extremely distressing night. When Peredonov returned to town in the morning he did not go home, but asked to be driven to church--it was time for Mass. It seemed dangerous to him now not to go to church often--they might inform against him if he did not. At the church gate he met a pleasant-looking schoolboy, with a rosy, ingenuous face and innocent blue eyes. Peredonov said to him: "Hullo there, Mashenka, hullo, girlie!" Misha Koudryavtsev flushed painfully. Peredonov often teased him by calling him "Mashenka"--Misha did not understand why and could not make up his mind to complain. A number of his companions, stupid youngsters elbowing each other, laughed at Peredonov's words. They too liked to tease Misha. The church, dedicated to the prophet Elias, an old structure built in the days of Tsar Mikhail, stood in the square, facing the school. For this reason, on church holidays, at Mass and for Vespers, the schoolboys had to gather here and to stand in rows on the left by the chapel of St. Catherine the Martyr, while behind them stood one of the assistant masters in order to keep discipline. Here also in a row, nearer the centre of the church, stood the form masters, as well as the inspector and the Head-Master, with their families. It was usual for nearly all the orthodox schoolboys to gather here, except the few who were permitted to attend their parish churches with their parents. The choir of schoolboys sang well, and for this reason the church was attended by merchants of the First Guild, officials and the families of landed gentry. There were only a few of the common folk--especially since, in conformity with the Head-Master's wish, Mass was celebrated there later than in other churches. Peredonov stood in his usual place, from which he could see all the members of the choir. Screwing up his eyes, he looked at them and thought that they were standing out of their places. If he had been inspector he would have pulled them up. There was, for example, a smooth-faced boy, named Kramarenko, a small, thin, fidgety youngster who was constantly turning this way and that way, whispering, smiling--and there was no one to keep him in order. It seemed to be no one's affair. "What confusion!" thought Peredonov. "These choir-boys are all good-for-nothings. That dark youngster there has a fine, clear soprano--so he thinks he can whisper and grin in church." And Peredonov frowned. At his side stood a late-comer, the inspector of the National Schools, Sergey Potapovitch Bogdanov, an oldish man with a brown, stupid face, who always looked as if he wanted to explain to somebody something which he could never make head or tail of himself. No one was easier to frighten or to astonish than Bogdanov: no sooner did he hear anything new or disquieting than his forehead would become wrinkled from his inward, painful efforts and from his mouth would issue a string of incoherent and perplexed exclamations. Peredonov bent towards him and said in a whisper: "One of your schoolmistresses walks about in a red shirt!" Bogdanov was alarmed. His white Adam's apple twitched with fear under his chin. "What do you say?" he whispered hoarsely. "Who is she?" "The loud-voiced, fat one--I don't know what her name is," whispered Peredonov. "The loud-voiced one, the loud-voiced one," repeated Bogdanov in a confused way, "that must be Skobotchkina. Yes?" "Yes, that must be the one," declared Peredonov. "Well! Good heavens! Who'd have thought that!" exclaimed Bogdanov. "Skobotchkina in a red shirt! Well! Did you see it with your own eyes?" "Yes, I saw her, and they tell me she goes into school like that. And sometimes even worse; she puts on a sarafan[1] and walks about like a common girl." "You don't say so! I must look into it! We can't have that! We can't have that! She'll have to be dismissed, dismissed, I say," babbled on Bogdanov. "She was always like that." Mass was over. As they were leaving the church, Peredonov said to Kramarenko: "Here, you whippety-snippet! Why were you grinning in church? Just wait, I shall tell your father!" Kramarenko looked at Peredonov in astonishment and ran past him without speaking. He belonged to that number of pupils who thought Peredonov coarse, stupid and unjust, and who therefore disliked and despised him. The majority of the pupils thought similarly. Peredonov imagined that these were the boys who had been prejudiced against him by the Head-Master, if not personally, at least through his sons. Peredonov was approached on the other side of the fence by Volodin. He was chuckling happily, and his face was as cheerful as if it were his birthday; he wore a bowler hat and carried his cane in the fashionable way. "I've something to tell you, Ardalyon Borisitch," he said gleefully. "I've managed to persuade Cherepnin, and very soon he's going to smear Marta's gate with tar!" Peredonov said nothing for a moment. He seemed to be considering something, and then suddenly burst into his usual morose laughter. Volodin at once ceased grinning, assumed a sober look, straightened his bowler hat, looked at the sky, swung his stick and said: "It's a fine day, but it looks as if it will rain this evening. Well, let it rain; I shall spend the evening at the future inspector's house." "I can't waste any time at home now," said Peredonov, "I've got more important affairs to attend to in town." Volodin looked as if he comprehended, though he really had no idea what business Peredonov had to attend to. Peredonov determined that he must, without fail, make several visits. Yesterday's chance meeting with the Lieutenant-Colonel had suggested to him an idea which now seemed to him very important: to make the rounds of all important personages of the town to assure them of his loyalty. If he should succeed, then, in an emergency, Peredonov would find defenders in the town who would testify to the correctness of his attitude. "Where are you going, Ardalyon Borisitch?" asked Volodin, seeing that Peredonov was turning off from the path by which he usually went back from church. "Aren't you going home?" "Yes, I'm going home," answered Peredonov, "but I don't like to go along that street now." "Why?" "There's a lot of _durman_[2] growing there, and the smell's very strong. I'm very much affected by it--it stupefies me. My nerves are on edge just now. I seem to have nothing but worries." Volodin's face once more assumed a comprehending and sympathetic expression. On the way Peredonov pulled off some thistle-heads and put them in his pocket. "What do you want those thistle-heads for?" asked Volodin with a grin. "For the cat," answered Peredonov gruffly. "Are you going to stick them in its fur?" asked Volodin. "Yes." Volodin sniggered. "Don't begin without me," he cried. Peredonov asked him to come in at once, but Volodin declared that he had an appointment: he suddenly felt that it wasn't the right thing not to have appointments; Peredonov's words about his affairs had inspired him with the idea that it would be well for him to visit the Adamenko girl on his own, and to tell her that he had some new, splendid drawings which needed framing--perhaps she would like to look at them. "In any case," thought Volodin, "Nadezhda Vassilyevna will ask me to have a cup of coffee." And so that was what Volodin did. He suddenly invented another scheme: he proposed to Nadezhda Vassilyevna that her brother should take up carpentry. Nadezhda Vassilyevna imagined that Volodin was in need of money, and she immediately consented. They agreed to work for two hours three times a week, for which Volodin was to get thirty roubles a month. Volodin was in raptures--here was some cash and the possibility of frequent meetings with Nadezhda Vassilyevna. Peredonov returned home gloomy as usual. Varvara, pale from her sleepless night, grumbled: "You might have told me yesterday that you weren't coming home." Peredonov provoked her by saying maliciously that he had been on a trip with Marta. Varvara was silent. She held the Princess's letter in her hand. It was a forged letter, but still----. She said to him at luncheon, with a meaning smile: "While you were gadding about with Marfushka, I received an answer from the Princess." "I didn't know you wrote to her." Peredonov's face lighted up with a gleam of dull expectation. "Well, that's good! Didn't you yourself tell me to write?" "Well, what did she say?" asked Peredonov with some agitation. "Here's the letter--read it for yourself." Varvara fumbled for a long time in her pockets and finally found the letter and gave it to Peredonov. He stopped eating and grabbed the letter eagerly. He read it and was overjoyed. Here at last was a clear and definite promise. At the moment no doubts entered his mind. He quickly finished his luncheon and went out to show the letter to his acquaintances and friends. With a grim animation he entered Vershina's garden. Vershina, as nearly always, was standing at the gate smoking. She was very pleased: formerly, she had to lure him in, now he came in himself. Vershina thought: "That comes of his going on a trip with Marta; he spent some time with her and now he's come again. I wonder if he means to propose to her?" Peredonov disillusioned her immediately by showing her the letter. "You kept disbelieving it," he said, "and here the Princess has written. Read that and see for yourself." Vershina looked incredulously at the letter, quickly blew tobacco smoke on it several times running, made a wry smile and asked quietly and quickly: "But where's the envelope?" Peredonov suddenly felt alarmed. He suspected that Varvara was trying to deceive him and had written the letter herself. He must get the envelope from her at once. "I don't know," he said, "I must ask." He said good-bye to Vershina and went quickly back to his own house. It was absolutely necessary for him to assure himself as soon as possible of the source of the letter--the sudden doubt tormented him. Vershina, standing at the gate, looked after him with her wry smile, rapidly puffing out cigarette smoke, as if she were trying to finish the cigarette like a tiresome lesson. Peredonov came running home with a frightened and tormented face, and while yet in the passage he shouted in a voice hoarse with agitation: "Varvara! Where's the envelope?" "What envelope?" asked Varvara in a trembling voice. She looked at Peredonov insolently and would have flushed had she not been already rouged. "The envelope, from the Princess, of the letter you gave me to-day," explained Peredonov, with a look half-frightened, half-malignant. Varvara gave a forced laugh. "I burnt it. What good was it to me?" she said. "Why should I keep it? I'm not making a collection of envelopes. You can't get any money for envelopes. You can only get money for empty bottles at a pub." Peredonov walked gloomily about the rooms and growled: "There are all sorts of Princesses--we know that. Perhaps this Princess lives here." Varvara pretended not to understand his suspicions, but yet trembled violently. When, towards evening, Peredonov strolled past Vershina's cottage, she stopped him. "Have you found the envelope?" she asked. "Vara tells me she burnt it." Vershina laughed, and the white, thin clouds of tobacco smoke wavered before her in the quiet, cool air. "It's strange," she said, "that your cousin is so careless. Here's an important letter--and no envelope! You might have been able to tell from the post-mark when it was sent and where from." Peredonov was extremely irritated. In vain Vershina invited him into the garden; in vain she promised to look in the cards for him--Peredonov left. Nevertheless, he showed the letter to his friends and boasted. And his friends believed him. But Peredonov did not know whether to believe or not. At all events, he decided to begin on Tuesday his round of visits to important personages in the town to strengthen his position. He decided not to begin on Monday, as it was an unlucky day. [1] Sarafan, national peasant-woman's costume. [2] See note above. Search for: thorn apple or datura. CHAPTER VIII As soon as Peredonov left to play billiards Varvara went off to see Grushina. They argued for a long time, and at last decided to mend the matter with another letter. Varvara knew that Grushina had friends in Peterburg. With their assistance it would be easy to get the letter posted in Peterburg. Just as on the first occasion, Grushina for a long time pretended to have scruples. "Oh, Varvara Dmitrievna darling!" she said. "Even the first letter makes me tremble. I'm always afraid. Whenever I see a police inspector near the house I almost faint. I think they're coming for me to take me to jail." For a whole hour Varvara tried to persuade her. She promised her all sorts of gifts, and even offered a little money in advance. In the end Grushina agreed. They decided to act in this way: First, Varvara would say that she had replied to the Princess's letter, thanking her; then, after several days, a letter would arrive, ostensibly from the Princess. In that letter it would be even more definitely stated that there were certain positions in view, and that as soon as they were married it would be possible, with a little effort, to procure one for Peredonov. This letter, like the first, would be written by Grushina--then they would seal it up, put a seven kopeck stamp on it, Grushina would enclose it in a letter to her friend in Peterburg, who would drop it into a letter-box. Presently Varvara and Grushina set out to a shop at the extreme end of the town and there bought a packet of narrow envelopes with a coloured lining, and some coloured paper, the last of the kind in the shop. This precaution had been suggested by Grushina in order to help conceal the forgery. The narrow envelopes were chosen so that the forged letter could easily be enclosed in another envelope. When they got back to Grushina's house they composed the Princess's letter. When, in the course of a couple of days, the letter was ready, they scented it with Chypre. The remaining envelopes and paper they burnt, so that no trace should be left. Grushina wrote to her friend, telling her the precise day on which the letter was to be posted--they calculated for the letter to arrive on Sunday, when Peredonov was at home. This would be an additional proof of the letter's genuineness. On Tuesday Peredonov tried to get home earlier from school. Circumstances helped him: his last lesson was in a class-room whose door opened into the corridor where the clock hung and where the school porter, an alert ex-sergeant, rang the bell at stated intervals. Peredonov sent the porter into the office to get the class-book, and himself put the clock a quarter of an hour forward. No one noticed him. At home Peredonov refused his luncheon and asked for dinner to be prepared later--he had certain business to attend to. "They tangle and tangle and I must untangle," said he angrily, thinking of the snares which his enemies were preparing for him. He put on a frock-coat which he seldom wore and in which he felt constrained and uneasy: his body had grown stouter with years, and the frock-coat sat badly on him. He was annoyed because he had no orders or decorations to wear. Other people had them--even Falastov of the Town School had--and he, Peredonov, had none. It was all the Head-Master's malice: not once had he been nominated. He was sure of his rank: this the Head-Master could not take away--but what was the use of that, if there were no visible signs of it? However, his new uniform would show his rank: it was pleasant to think that the epaulettes of this uniform would be according to the rank and not according to the class he taught. This would look important--the epaulettes like a general's and one large star. Everyone in the street could see at once that a State Councillor was walking by. "I shall have to order my new uniform soon," thought Peredonov. He went into the street and only then he began to wonder with whom he should begin. It seemed to him that in his circumstances the most important people were the Commissioner of Police and the District Attorney. It was obvious that he ought to begin with them or possibly with the Marshal of the Nobility. But at the thought of starting with them he was seized with apprehension. Marshal Veriga was after all a general who had a governorship in view. The Commissioner of Police and the District Attorney were the terrible representatives of the police and the law. "At the beginning," thought Peredonov, "I ought to begin with the lesser officials and then look about me and nose around--then it will be clear how they'll treat me and what they'll say about me." This is why Peredonov decided that it would be wiser to begin with the Mayor. Although he was a merchant and had only been educated in the District school, still he went about everywhere and everyone came to his house. His position gave him the respect of the town, and even in other towns and in the capital he had quite important acquaintances. And Peredonov resolutely turned in the direction of the Mayor's house. The weather was gloomy, the leaves fell from the boughs submissively and wearily. Peredonov felt somewhat apprehensive. In the Mayor's house a smell of freshly-waxed parquet floors mingled with a barely perceptible and yet pleasant odour of food. It was quiet and depressing there. The Mayor's children, a schoolboy and a growing girl--"She has a governess to look after her," her father used to say--were decorously in their rooms. There it was cosy, restful and cheerful; the windows looked out on the garden; the furniture was comfortable; there were all sorts of games in the rooms and in the garden. The children's voices sounded cheerfully. In the first-floor rooms, facing the street, where visitors were received, everything was affected and severe. The red wood furniture was like immensely magnified toy models; it was quite awkward for ordinary people to sit in--when you sat down you felt as if you had dropped on a stone, but the heavy host seemed to sit down quite comfortably. The Archimandrite of the suburban monastery, who often visited the Mayor, called these "soul-saving chairs," to which the Mayor would answer: "Yes, I don't like those womanish luxuries that you see in other houses. You sit down on springs and you shake--you shake yourself and the furniture shakes--what's the use of that? And in any case the doctors also don't approve of soft furniture." The Mayor, Yakov Anikyevitch Skouchayev, met Peredonov on the threshold of his drawing-room. He was a tall, robust man with closely cropped dark hair; he comported himself with dignity and courtesy, though not altogether free from contemptuousness towards people of small means. Peredonov sat down heavily in a broad chair and said in answer to his host's first polite questions: "I've come on business." "With pleasure. What can I do for you?" said the Mayor politely. In his cunning little black eyes suddenly glimmered a spark of contempt. He thought that Peredonov had come to borrow money, and decided that he could not let him have more than a hundred and fifty roubles. There were quite a number of officials in town who owed Skouchayev more or less significant sums. Skouchayev never referred to the loan, but he never extended further credit to the delinquent debtors. He always gave willingly the first time according to the standing and condition of the borrower. "You, as Mayor, Yakov Anikyevitch, are the first personage in the town," said Peredonov. "That's why I came to have a talk with you." Skouchayev assumed an important air and inclined his head slightly as he sat in the chair. "All sorts of scandal are being spread about me," said Peredonov morosely. "They invent things that never happened." "You can't gag other people's mouths," said the Mayor. "And, in any case, in our little Palestines it's well known that gossips have nothing to do except to wag their tongues." "They say I don't go to church, but that's not true," continued Peredonov. "I do go; it's true I didn't go on St. Elias' day, but that was because I had a stomach ache. Otherwise I always go." "That's quite true," the host confirmed, "I happened to see you there myself, though I don't often go to your church, I usually go to the monastery. It's been a custom of our family for a long time." "All sorts of scandal are being spread about me," said Peredonov. "They say that I tell the schoolboys nasty tales, but that's nonsense. Of course, I sometimes tell them something amusing at a lesson, to make it interesting. You yourself have a boy at school. Now, he hasn't told you anything of the sort about me, has he?" "That's quite true," agreed Skouchayev. "Nothing of the sort has happened. However, youngsters are usually cunning, they never repeat what they know they oughtn't to repeat. Of course, my boy is still quite small. He's young enough to have repeated something silly, but I assure you he has said nothing of the sort." "And in the elder classes they know everything for themselves," went on Peredonov. "But, of course, I never say anything improper there." "Naturally," replied Skouchayev, "a school is not a market place." "That's the kind of people they are here," complained Peredonov. "They invent tales of things that never happened. That's why I've come to you--you're the Mayor of the town." Skouchayev felt very flattered that Peredonov had come to him. He did not understand what it was all about, but he was shrewd enough not to show his lack of comprehension. "And there are other things being said about me," continued Peredonov. "For one thing that I live with Varvara--they say that she's not my cousin but my mistress. And she's only a cousin to me--honest to God! She's a very distant relative--only a third cousin; there's nothing against marrying her. Indeed I'm going to marry her." "So-o. So-o. Of course!" said Skouchayev reflectively. "Besides, a bride's wreath ends the matter." "It was impossible earlier," said Peredonov. "I had important reasons. It was utterly impossible, or I should have married long ago, believe me." Skouchayev assumed an air of dignity, frowned, and, tapping on the dark tablecloth with his plump white fingers, said: "I believe you. If that is so, it alters the case entirely. I believe you now. I must confess that it was a little dubious for you to live, if you will permit me to say so, with your companion without marrying her. It was very dubious, perhaps because--well, you know children are an impressionable race; they're apt to pick things up. It's hard to teach them what's good, but the bad comes easily to them. That's why it was really dubious. And besides, whose business is it? That's how I look at it. It flatters me that you've come to complain to me, because although I'm only one of the common folk--I didn't go beyond the District school--still I have the respect and confidence of society. This is my third year as Mayor, so that my word counts for something among the burgesses." Skouchayev talked and all the time entangled himself in his own thoughts, and it seemed as if he would never end his tongue-spinning. He stopped abruptly and thought irritatedly: "This is a waste of time. That's the trouble with these learned men. You can't understand what they want. Everything's clear to him, to the learned man, in his books, but as soon as he gets his nose out of his books, he tangles up himself and tangles up other people." He fixed his eye on Peredonov with a look of perplexity, his keen eyes grew dull, his stout body relapsed into the chair, and he seemed no longer the brisk man of action but simply a rather foolish old man. Peredonov was silent for a while, as if he were bewitched by his host's last words. Then, screwing up his eyes with an indefinable clouded expression, he said: "You're the Mayor of the town, so you can say that it's all nonsense." "That is, in what respect?" inquired Skouchayev cautiously. "Well," explained Peredonov, "if they should inform against me in the District--that I don't go to church or something or other--then if they should come and ask you might put in a word for me." "This we can do," said the Mayor. "In any case, you can rely on us. If anything should happen, then we'll stand up for you--why shouldn't we put in a word for a good man? We might even send in a testimonial from the Town Council. That's all we can do. Or perhaps, if you like, we can give you a personal recommendation from some prominent citizen. Why not? We can do it, if it comes to the pinch." "So I may depend on you?" said Peredonov gravely, as if replying to something not altogether pleasant to him. "There's the Head-Master always persecuting me." "You don't say so!" exclaimed Skouchayev, shaking his head sympathetically. "I can't imagine how that can be, except from slanders. Nikolai Vlasyevitch, it seems to me, is a very reliable man, who wouldn't injure anyone for nothing. I can judge that from his son. He's a serious, rigid man, who allows no indulgences and makes no personal distinctions. In short, he's a reliable man. It couldn't be except from slanders. Why are you at loggerheads?" "We don't agree in our views," explained Peredonov. "And there are people in the school who are jealous of me--they all want to be inspectors. It's because Princess Volchanskaya has promised to get me an inspector's job, and so they're mad with jealousy." "So-o. So-o," said Skouchayev cautiously. "But in any case, why should we go on with our tongues dry? Let's have a snack and a drink." Skouchayev pressed the button of the electric bell near the hanging lamp. "That's a handy trick!" said he to Peredonov. "I think it wouldn't be bad for you to get into another official position. Now, Dashenka," he said to the pleasant looking maid-servant of heavy build who came in answer to the bell, "bring in some _zakouska_ and some coffee, piping hot kind--d'you understand?" "Yes," replied Dashenka, smiling, as she walked out with a remarkably light step considering her heaviness. "Yes, in another department," Skouchayev turned to Peredonov again. "Say, in the ecclesiastical. If you take holy orders, you would make quite a serious, reliable priest. I could help you into it. I have influential friends among the Church dignitaries." Skouchayev named several diocesan and suffragan bishops. "No, I don't want to be a priest," answered Peredonov. "I'm afraid of the incense--it makes me feel sick and giddy." "Well, if that's the case, why don't you join the police," advised Skouchayev. "You might, for example, become a Commissioner of Police. Do you mind telling me what your rank is?" "I'm a State Councillor," said Peredonov importantly. "Well, well!" exclaimed Skouchayev in surprise. "You certainly get high rank in your profession--and all that because you teach the youngsters? That shows knowledge is something! Though nowadays there are certain gentlemen who attack it, still we can't do without it. Though I only went to a District school, I am sending my boy to a University. When you send him to a _gymnasia_ you have to force him to go, sometimes with a birch, but he'll go to a University of his own free will. Let me say that I never birch him, but if he gets lazy or does something naughty, I simply take him by the shoulders to the window--there are birch trees in the garden. I point to the trees--'Do you see that?' I say to him. 'I see, papa,' he says; 'I won't do it again!' And true enough it helps--the youngster mends his ways as if he'd actually been whipped. Ah, those children! those children!" concluded Skouchayev with a sigh. Peredonov remained two hours at Skouchayev's. The business talk was followed by abundant hospitality. Skouchayev regaled him--as he did everything else--very solidly, as if he were conducting an important affair. At the same time he tried to introduce some ingenious tricks into his hospitality. They brought punch in large glasses like coffee, and the host called it his "little coffee." The vodka glasses looked as if the foot had been broken off and the stem sharpened so that they would not stand upright on the table. "Now I call these, 'Pour in and pour out,'" exclaimed the host. Then the merchant Tishkov arrived, a small, grey-haired, brisk and cheerful man in very long boots. He drank a great deal of vodka and said all sorts of absurdities in rhyme[1], briskly and gaily, and it was obvious that he was very satisfied with himself. Peredonov decided at last that it was time to go home, and he rose to take his leave. "Don't be in such a hurry," said the host, "stay a while." "Stay a while and help us smile," said Tishkov. "No, it's time to leave," replied Peredonov with a preoccupied air. "It's time to leave or his cousin'll grieve," said Tishkov and winked at Skouchayev. "Just now I'm a busy man," said Peredonov. "He who's a busy man we praise him all we can," answered Tishkov promptly. Skouchayev escorted Peredonov to the hall. They embraced and kissed each other at parting. Peredonov was pleased with his visit. "The Mayor's on my side," he thought confidently. When he returned to Tishkov, Skouchayev said: "They gossip about that youth." "They may gossip about that youth, but they don't know the truth," Tishkov caught him up immediately, deftly pouring himself a glass of English bitter. It was evident that he was not paying attention to what was said to him, but that he only caught up words for the sake of rhyme. "He's not a bad fellow," said Skouchayev. "He's a hearty chap and he's not a fool at drinking," continued Skouchayev as he poured himself a drink, paying no attention to Tishkov's rhyming. "If he's not a fool at drinking, then he's not an ass at thinking," shouted Tishkov gaily, swallowing his drink at one gulp. "That he's fussing around with a Mam'zell--what does that matter!" said Skouchayev. "Well, he's got a Mam'zell, but she may be a damn sell," replied Tishkov. "He who has not sinned against God is not responsible to the Tsar." "Against God we've all sinned; by love we're all pinned." "But he wants to hide his sin under a bridal-wreath." "They'll hide sin under a bridal wreath and tear each other with furious teeth." Tishkov always talked in this way when the conversation did not concern his own affairs. He might have bored everybody to tears, but they had all got used to him and did not notice his brisk rhyming; but occasionally they let him loose on a new-comer. But it was all the same to Tishkov whether they listened to him or not; he could not help catching up other people's words to make rhymes, and he acted with the infallibility of a shrewdly devised boring-machine. If you looked at his quick, precise movements, you might conclude that he was not a living person, that he was already dead or had never lived, and that he saw nothing in the living world and heard nothing but dead-sounding words. [1] This rhyming fellow is not such a rare specimen as may seem to the English reader. The tendency to speak in rhymes is rather common among Russian peasants. The _rayeshnik_ is an interesting native institution. He usually improvises rhymes at gatherings and entertainments in open places, especially at carnivals and fairs. There is also the _balagani d'yed_ (the tent grandfather), who appears in a tent in a long white beard of flax, and makes jests in rhymes. It is an institution that is gradually disappearing. CHAPTER IX The next day Peredonov went to see the District Attorney Avinovitsky. Again it was a gloomy day. The wind came in violent blasts, and whirled clouds of dust before it. The evening was coming on, and everything was permeated with the dead melancholy light of bleak skies. A depressing silence filled the streets, and it seemed as if all these pitiful houses had sprung up to no purpose, as if these hopelessly decayed structures timidly hinted at the poor tedious life that lurked within their walls. A few people walked in the streets--and they walked slowly, as if they barely conquered the drowsiness that inclined them to repose. Only children, eternal, unwearying vessels of divine joy, were lively, and ran about and played--but even they showed signs of inertia, and some sort of ugly, hidden monster, nestling behind their shoulders, looked out now and then with eyes full of menace upon their suddenly dulled faces. In the midst of the depression of these streets and houses, under estranged skies, upon the unclean and impotent earth, walked Peredonov, tormented by confused fears--there was no comfort for him in the heights and no consolation upon the earth, because now, as before, he looked upon the world with dead eyes, like some demon who, in his dismal loneliness, despaired with fear and with yearning. His feelings were dull, and his consciousness was a corrupting and deadening apparatus. All that reached his consciousness became transformed into abomination and filth. All objects revealed their imperfections to him and their imperfections gave him pleasure. When he walked past an erect and clean column, he had a desire to make it crooked and to bespatter it with filth. He laughed with joy when something was being besmirched in his presence. He detested very clean schoolboys, and persecuted them. He called them "the skin scrubbers." He comprehended the slovenly ones more easily. There were neither beloved objects for him, nor beloved people--and this made it possible for nature to act upon his feelings only one-sidedly, as an irritant. The same was true of his meetings with people. Especially with strangers and new acquaintances, to whom it was not possible to be impolite. Happiness for him was to do nothing, and, shutting himself in from the world, to gratify his belly. "And now I must go against my will," he thought, "and explain matters." What a burden! What a bore! If he had an opportunity at least of besmirching the place he was about to visit--but even this consolation was denied to him. The District Attorney's house only intensified Peredonov's feeling of grim apprehension. And really, this house had an angry, evil look. The high roof descended gloomily upon the windows which came in contact with the ground. And its wooden border, and the roof itself had at one time been painted gaily and brightly, but time and the rains had turned the colouring gloomy and grey. The huge ponderous gates, towering above the house, and fitted as it were to repel hostile attacks, were always bolted. Behind them rattled a chain and a huge dog howled in a hoarse bass at every passer-by. All around were uncultivated spots, vegetable gardens and hovels which stood awry. In front of the District Attorney's house, was a long hexagonal space, the middle of which, somewhat deeper than the rest, was all unpaved, and overgrown with grass. At the house itself stood a lamp-post, the only one to be seen. Peredonov slowly and unwillingly ascended the four high steps leading to the porch which was covered with a double-sloped roof, and pulled the begrimed handle of the bell. The bell resounded quite close to him, with a sharp and continuous tinkle. Soon stealthy footsteps were heard. Someone seemed to approach the door on tip-toes, and then remained standing there intensely still. Very likely someone was looking at him through some invisible crevice. Then there was the creak of iron hinges, and the door opened--a gloomy, black-haired, freckled girl stood on the threshold and looked at him with eyes full of suspicious scrutiny. "Whom do you want?" she asked. Peredonov said that he had come to see Aleksandr Alekseyevitch on business. The girl let him in. No sooner had he crossed the threshold than he made haste to pronounce a charm. And it was well that he did so: he had not yet had time to take off his coat when he heard Avinovitsky's sharp, angry voice coming from the drawing-room. There was always something terrifying in the District Attorney's voice--he could not speak otherwise. So even now he was already shouting in the drawing-room in his angry and abusive voice a greeting of welcome and joy that Peredonov had at last thought of coming to him. Aleksandr Alekseyevitch Avinovitsky was a man of gloomy appearance; and seemed by nature fitted to reprimand and overbear others. A man of impeccable health--he bathed from ice to ice--he appeared nevertheless lean because of his shaggy, overgrown black beard, with a tinge of blue in it. He brought uneasiness if not fear upon everyone, because he incessantly shouted at someone, and threatened someone with hard labour in Siberia. "I've come on business," said Peredonov confusedly. "Have you come with a confession? Have you killed a man? Have you committed arson? Have you robbed the post?" asked Avinovitsky angrily as he admitted Peredonov into the drawing-room. "Or have you been the victim of a crime yourself, which is more possible in our town. Ours is a filthy town and its police is even worse. I'm astonished that you don't find dead bodies every morning lying about the place. Well, sit down. What is your business? Are you the criminal or the victim?" "No," said Peredonov, "I haven't done anything of the kind. Now there's the Head-Master who'd undoubtedly like to settle my hash for me, but I haven't any such thing in mind." "So you haven't come with a confession?" asked Avinovitsky. "No, I can't say that I have," mumbled Peredonov timidly. "Well, if that's the case," said the District Attorney with savage emphasis, "then let me offer you something." He picked up a small handbell from the table and rang it. No one came. Avinovitsky took the handbell in both hands, raised a furious racket, then threw the bell on the floor, stamped his feet and shouted in a savage voice: "Malanya! Malanya! Devils! Beasts! Demons!" Unhurried footsteps were heard and a schoolboy came in, Avinovitsky's son, a stubby, black-haired boy of about thirteen years of age with an air of confidence and self-assurance. He greeted Peredonov, picked up the bell, put in on the table and said quietly: "Malanya is in the vegetable garden." Avinovitsky recovered his calm for a moment, and looking at his son with a tenderness that did not altogether become his overgrown and angry face, he said: "Now run along, sonny, and tell her to bring us something to drink and some _zakouska_." The boy leisurely walked out of the room. His father looked after him with a pleased and proud smile. But while the boy was still on the threshold Avinovitsky suddenly frowned savagely and shouted in his terrible voice which made Peredonov tremble: "Look alive!" The schoolboy began to run and they could hear how impetuously he slammed the doors. Avinovitsky, smiling with his heavy red lips, again renewed his angry-sounding conversation: "My heir--not bad, eh? What's he going to turn out like? What do you say? He may become a fool, but a knave, a coward or a rag--never!" "Well--a----" mumbled Peredonov. "People are trivial nowadays--they're a parody of the human race!" roared Avinovitsky. "They consider health a trifle. Some German invented under-waistcoats. Now I would have sent that German to hard labour. Imagine my Vladimir suddenly in an under-waistcoat! Why all summer he walked about in the village without once putting his boots on, and then think of him in an under-waistcoat! Why, he even gets out of his bath and runs naked in a frost and rolls in the snow--think of him in an under-waistcoat. A hundred lashes for the accursed German!" Avinovitsky passed from the German who invented under-waistcoats to other criminals. "Capital punishment, my dear sir, is not barbarism!" he shouted. "Science admits that there are born criminals. There's nothing to be said for them, my friend. They ought to be destroyed and not supported by the State. A man's a scoundrel--and they give him a warm corner in a convict prison. He's a murderer, an incendiary, a seducer, but the tax-payer must support him out of his pocket. No-o! It's much juster and cheaper to hang them." The round table in the dining-room was covered with a white tablecloth with a red border, and upon it were distributed plates with fat sausages and other salted, smoked, and pickled eatables, and decanters and bottles of various sizes and forms, containing all sorts of vodkas, brandies and liqueurs. Everything was to Peredonov's taste, and even the slight carelessness of their arrangement pleased him. The host continued to shout. Apropos of the food, he began to abuse the shopkeepers, and then for some reason began to talk about ancestry. "Ancestry is a big thing," he shouted savagely, "for the muzhiks to enter the aristocracy is stupid, absurd, impractical and immoral. The soil is getting poorer and the cities are filled with unemployed. Then there are bad harvests, idleness and suicides--how does that please you? You may teach the muzhik as much as you like but don't give him any rank--it makes a peasantry lose its best members and it always remains rabble and cattle. And the gentry also suffer detriment from the influx of uncultured elements. In his own village he was better than others, but when he gets into a higher rank he brings into it something coarse, unknightly and plebeian. In the first case the most important things are gain and his stomach. No-o, my dear fellow, the castes were a wise institution." "Here, for instance, our Head-Master lets all sorts of riff-raff into the school," said Peredonov angrily. "There are even peasant children there and many commoners' children." "Fine doings, I must say!" shouted the host. "There's a circular saying that we shouldn't admit all kinds of riff-raff, but he does as he likes," complained Peredonov. "He refuses hardly anyone. Life is rather poorish in our town, he says, and there are too few pupils as it is. What does he mean by few? It would be better if there were less. It's all we can do to correct the exercise-books alone. There's no time to read the school-books. They purposely write dubious words in their compositions--you have to look in Grote to see how they're spelled." "Have some brandy," suggested Avinovitsky. "Well, what is your business with me?" "I have enemies," growled Peredonov, as he looked dejectedly into his glass of yellow vodka before drinking it. "There was once a pig who lived without enemies," said Avinovitsky, "and he also was slaughtered. Have a bit--it was a very good pig." Peredonov took a slice of ham and said: "They're spreading all sorts of scandal about me." "Well, as for gossip I can assure you that no town is worse," shouted the host. "What a town! No matter what you do, all the pigs begin to grunt at you at once." "Princess Volchanskaya has promised to get me an inspector's job, and suddenly they all begin to gossip. This might hurt my prospects. It all comes from envy. Now there's the Head-Master, he's corrupted the entire school--the schoolboys, who live in apartments, smoke, drink and run after girls and even the town-boys are no better. He's done all the corrupting himself and now he persecutes me. It's likely that someone's carried tales to him about me. And then it goes still farther. It might reach the Princess." Peredonov dwelt long and incoherently on his apprehensions. Avinovitsky listened with an angry countenance and punctuated his discourse with exclamations: "Villains! Scamps! Children of Herod!" "What sort of Nihilist am I?" said Peredonov. "It's ridiculous. I have an official cap with a badge, but I don't always wear it--and I sometimes wear a bowler. As for the fact that Mickiewicz hangs on my wall, I put him there because of his poetry and not because he was a rebel. I haven't even read his 'Kolokol.'"[1] "Well, you've caught that from another opera," said Avinovitsky unceremoniously. "Herzen published it and not Mickiewicz." "That was another 'Kolokol,'" said Peredonov. "Mickiewicz also published a 'Kolokol.'" "I didn't know it--you'd better publish the fact. It would be a great discovery. You'd become celebrated." "It's forbidden to publish it," said Peredonov angrily; "I'm not allowed to read forbidden books. And I never read them. I'm a patriot." After lengthy lamentations in which Peredonov poured himself out, Avinovitsky concluded that someone was trying to blackmail Peredonov, and with this purpose in view was spreading rumours about him in order to frighten him and to prepare a basis for a sudden demand for money. That these rumours did not reach him, Avinovitsky explained by the fact that the blackmailer was acting skilfully upon Peredonov's immediate circle--because it was only necessary to frighten Peredonov. Avinovitsky asked: "Whom do you suspect?" Peredonov fell into thought. Quite by chance Grushina came into his mind, he recalled confusedly the recent conversation with her, during which he interrupted her by a threat of informing against her. The fact that it was he who had threatened to inform against Grushina became in his mind a vague idea of informing in general. Whether he was to inform against someone or whether they were to inform against him was not clear, and Peredonov had no desire to exert himself to recall the matter precisely--one thing was clear, that Grushina was an enemy. And what was worse she had seen where he hid Pisarev. He would have to hide the books somewhere else. Peredonov said at last: "Well, there's Grushina." "Yes, I know, she's a first class rogue," said Avinovitsky sharply. "She's always coming to our house," complained Peredonov. "And always nosing around. She's very grasping--she takes all she can get. It's possible that she wants money from me in order to keep her from reporting that I once had Pisarev. Or perhaps she wants to marry me. But I don't want to pay her. And I have someone else I want to marry--let her inform against me--I'm not guilty. Only it's unpleasant to me to have this gossip as it might prevent my appointment." "She's a well-known charlatan," said the District Attorney. "She wanted to take up fortune-telling by cards here, and to get money out of fools. But I asked the police to stop it. At that time they were sensible and did what I told them." "Even now she tells fortunes," said Peredonov. "She spread out the cards for me and she always saw a long journey and an official letter for me." "She knows what to say to everybody. Just wait, she'll set a trap for you and then she'll try and extort money from you. Then you come to me and I'll give her a hundred of the hottest lashes," said Avinovitsky, using his favourite expression. This expression was not to be taken literally, it merely meant an ordinary rebuke. Thus Avinovitsky promised his protection to Peredonov, but Peredonov left him agitated by vague fears inspired by Avinovitsky's loud, stern speeches. * * * * * In this manner Peredonov made a single visit every day before dinner--he could not manage more than one because everywhere he had to make circumstantial explanations. In the evening, as was his custom, he went to play billiards. As before, Vershina enticed him in by her witching invitations, as before Routilov praised his sisters to him. At home Varvara used her persuasive powers to make him marry her sooner--but he came to no resolution. He indeed thought sometimes that to marry Varvara would be the best thing he could do--but suppose the Princess should deceive him? He would become the laughing-stock of the town, and this possibility made him pause. The pursuit of him by would-be brides, the envy of his comrades, more often the product of his imagination than an actual fact, all sorts of suspected snares--all this made his life wearisome and unhappy, like the weather which for several successive days had been bleak, and often resolved itself into slow and scant, but cold and prolonged rains. Peredonov felt that life was becoming a detestable thing--but he thought that he would soon become an inspector, and then everything would take a turn for the better. [1] Alexander Herzen's periodical, the "Kolokol" (The Bell), was suppressed in 1863 for its sympathy with the Poles. CHAPTER X On Thursday, Peredonov went to see the Marshal of the Nobility. The Marshal's house reminded one of a palatial cottage in Pavlovsk or in Tsarskoye Selo, with full conveniences even for winter residence. Though there was no blatant display of luxury, the newness of many articles seemed unnecessarily pretentious. Aleksandr Mikhailovitch Veriga received Peredonov in his study. He pretended to hurry forward to greet his guest, and gave the impression that it was only his extreme busyness that kept him from meeting Peredonov earlier. Veriga held himself extraordinarily erect even for a retired cavalry officer. It was whispered that he wore corsets. His clean-shaven face was a uniform red, as if it were painted. His head was shorn by the closest-cutting clippers--a convenient method of minimising his bald patch. His eyes were grey, affable, but cold. In his manner he was extremely amiable to everyone, but his views were decided and severe. A fine military discipline was apparent in all his movements, and there was a hint in his habits of the future Governor. Peredonov began to explain his business to him across a carved oak table: "All sorts of rumours are being spread about me and, as a gentleman,[1] I turn to you. All sorts of nonsense is being said about me, your Excellency, none of which is true." "I haven't heard anything," replied Veriga, smiling amiably and expectantly, and fixing his attentive grey eyes on Peredonov. Peredonov looked fixedly in one corner of the room and said: "I never was a Socialist. But if it sometimes happened that I said something I oughtn't to say, you must remember that one is apt to be a little careless in one's young days. But I've given up thinking of such things altogether." "So you were quite a Liberal?" asked Veriga with an amiable smile. "You wanted a Constitution, isn't that so? But we all wanted a Constitution when we were young. Have one of these." Veriga pushed a box of cigars towards Peredonov who was afraid to take one and refused. Veriga lighted his own. "Of course, your Excellency," admitted Peredonov, "in the University I, and only I, wanted a different kind of Constitution from the others." "And what sort precisely?" asked Veriga with a shade of approaching displeasure in his voice. "What I wanted was a Constitution without a Parliament," explained Peredonov, "because in a Parliament they only wrangle." Veriga's eyes lit up with quiet amusement. "A Constitution without a Parliament!" he said reflectively. "Do you think it's practical?" "But even that was a long time ago," said Peredonov. "Now I want nothing of the sort." And he looked hopefully at Veriga. Veriga blew a thin wisp of smoke from his lips, was silent a moment, and then said slowly: "Well, you're a schoolmaster. And my duties in the district have something to do with the schools. Now, in your opinion, to what kind of school would you give preference: to the Parish Church Schools or to the so-called secularised District Schools?" Veriga knocked the ash from his cigar and fixed an amiable but very attentive gaze on Peredonov. Peredonov frowned, looked into the corners and said: "The District Schools ought to be reorganised." "Reorganised," repeated Veriga in an indefinite tone. "So-o." And he fixed his eyes on the smouldering cigar, as if he were awaiting a long explanation. "The Instructors there are Nihilists," said Peredonov. "The Instructresses don't believe in God. They stand in church and blow their noses." Veriga glanced quickly at Peredonov and said with a smile: "But that's necessary sometimes, you know." "Yes, but the one I mean blows her nose like a horn, so that the boys in the choir laugh," growled Peredonov. "She does it on purpose. That's the sort Skobotchkina is." "Yes, that is unpleasant," said Veriga, "but in Skobotchkina's case it's due to a bad bringing up. She's a girl altogether without manners, but an enthusiastic schoolmistress. In any case it's not nice: she must be told about it." "And she walks about in a red shirt. And sometimes she even walks barefoot in a sarafan. She practises at the high-jumps with the little boys. It's too free in the schools," went on Peredonov. "There's no discipline of any kind. They actually don't want to chastise the pupils. The muzhiks' children shouldn't be treated in the same way as the children of gentlemen--they have to be birched." Veriga looked calmly at Peredonov, then, as if feeling uneasy at Peredonov's untactful remarks, he lowered his eyes, and said in a cold, almost gubernatorial tone: "I must say that I have noticed many good qualities in pupils from District Schools. Undoubtedly, in the great majority of cases, they do their work very conscientiously. Of course, as everywhere, the children are sometimes guilty of offences. In consequence of a bad upbringing and of a poor environment, these offences can take a coarse form, all the more since among the Russian village population the general feelings of duty, of honour and respect of private ownership are little developed. The school should concern itself with these offences attentively and sternly. When all methods of persuasion are exhausted and if the offence is a severe one, then of course it should follow that in order not to ruin the boy extreme measures must be taken. Besides, this should apply to all children, even to those of gentlemen. In general, however, I agree with you that in schools of this kind training is not satisfactorily organised. Madame Shteven,[2] in her extremely interesting book--have you read it?" "No, your Excellency," said Peredonov in confusion, "I never have the time. There's so much work in school. But I will read it." "Well, that's not altogether necessary," said Veriga with a smile, as if he were forbidding Peredonov's reading it. "Yes, Madame Shteven recounts with distress that two of her pupils, young men of seventeen, were sentenced to be birched by the District Court. You see, they were proud young fellows--let me add that we all suffered while they suffered the execution of the sentence--this penalty was afterwards abolished. And, let me say that if I were in Madame Shteven's place I would like to let all Russia know that this has happened: because, just imagine, they were sentenced for stealing apples. Observe, for stealing! And what's more she writes that they were her very best pupils. Yet they stole the apples! Fine bringing up! It must frankly be admitted that we don't respect the rights of ownership." Veriga rose from his place in agitation, made two steps forward, but controlled himself and immediately sat down again. "Now when I am an inspector of National Schools I shall do things differently," said Peredonov. "Have you that position in prospect?" asked Veriga. "Yes, Princess Volchanskaya has promised me." Veriga assumed an expression of pleasure. "I shall be very glad to congratulate you. I have no doubt that in your hands things will be improved." "But, your Excellency, in the town they're spreading all sorts of nonsense about me--you can't tell, someone in the district may inform against me and hinder my appointment, and I haven't done anything." "Whom do you suspect in the spreading of these false rumours?" asked Veriga. Peredonov mumbled in confusion: "Who should I suspect? I don't know, but they do gossip about me. And I have come to you because they might injure my position." Veriga reflected that he would not know who was spreading the gossip, because he was not yet Governor. He again assumed his role of Marshal, and made a speech which Peredonov listened to with fear and depression: "I appreciate the confidence which you have shown me in calling upon my"--(Veriga wanted to say "patronage" but refrained)--"intervention between you and the society in which, according to your information, these detrimental rumours about you are being disseminated. These rumours have not yet reached me, and you may depend upon it that the calumnies, which are being spread in connection with you, dare not venture to rise from the low places of the town public, and, in other words, they will not go beyond the secret darkness in which they are confined. But it is very pleasant to me that you, who hold your official post by appointment, at the same time value so highly the importance of public opinion and the dignity of the position you occupy as a trainer of youth, one of those to whose enlightening solitude we, the parents, entrust our most priceless inheritance, namely, our children, the heirs of our name and of our labours. As an official you have your chief in the person of your honoured Head-Master, but as a member of society and as a gentleman you have always the privilege of counting on ... the co-operation of the Marshal of Nobility in questions concerning your honour and your dignity as a man and a gentleman." As he continued to speak, Veriga rose and, pressing heavily on the edge of the table with the fingers of his right hand, looked at Peredonov with that impersonally affable and attentive expression with which an orator looks at a crowd when pronouncing benevolent official speeches. Peredonov rose also, and crossing his hands on his stomach, looked morosely at the rug under the Marshals feet. Veriga went on: "I am glad that you turned to me, because in our time it is especially useful to members of the official classes always and everywhere to remember above all things that they are gentlemen and to value their membership of this class--not only in the matter of privileges but also in responsibilities and in their dignity as gentlemen. Gentlemen, in Russia, as you know, are pre-eminently of the Civil Service. Strictly speaking, all governmental positions, except the very lowest, it goes without saying, should be found only in gentlemen's hands. The presence of commoners in the Government service constitutes of course one of the causes of undesirable occurrences such as that which has disturbed your tranquillity. Intrigue and calumny, these are the weapons of people of lower breed, not brought up in fine gentlemanly traditions. But I hope that public opinion will make itself heard clearly and loudly on your behalf, and in this connection you can fully count on my co-operation." "I thank your Excellency most humbly," said Peredonov, "and I am glad that I can count on you." Veriga smiled amiably and did not sit down, giving Peredonov to understand that the interview was closed. As he finished his speech he suddenly realised that what he had said was out of place and that Peredonov was nothing but a timorous place-seeker, knocking at doors in his search for patronage. As the footman in the hall helped him on with his coat he heard the sounds of a piano in a distant room. Peredonov thought that in this house lived people of great self-esteem whose manner of life was really seigneurial. "He has a Governorship in view," thought Peredonov with a feeling of respectful and envious astonishment. On the stairs he met two of the Marshal's boys returning from a walk with their tutor. Peredonov looked at them with morose curiosity. "How clean they are!" he thought. "There's not a speck of dirt even in their ears. How alive they are, and they're trained to hold themselves straight as a taut fiddle-string. And they're never even whipped, if you please," thought Peredonov. And he looked angrily after them as they ran up the stairs, chattering gaily. It astonished Peredonov that the tutor treated them as equals--he did not frown at them nor did he scold them. * * * * * When Peredonov returned home he found Varvara in the drawing-room with a book in her hands, which was a rare occurrence. Varvara was reading a cookery book, the only one she had, and which she sometimes looked into. The book was old, ragged and had black binding. The binding caught Peredonov's eye, and it depressed him. "What are you reading, Varvara?" he asked angrily. "What? Can't you see? A cookery book," replied Varvara. "I haven't time to read nonsense." "Why a cookery book?" asked Peredonov in fright. "What do you mean, why? I want to find some new dishes for you--you're always grumbling about the food," said Varvara with a sort of sarcastic self-satisfaction. "I won't eat from a black book," announced Peredonov decisively, and quickly tore the book from Varvara's hands and took it into the bedroom. "A black book! The idea of preparing dinners from it!" The thought filled him with fear. It had come to that: he was to be ruined openly with black magic! "I must destroy this awful book," he thought, and paid no attention to Varvara's grumbling. * * * * * On Friday Peredonov went to see the President of the District Landlords' Board. Everything in this house pointed to a love of simplicity and good living, and to the fact that the occupants had public interest at heart. Many objects of good furniture, reminding one of village life, were about, among other things a chair with a back made of a harness arch and hand supports resembling axe handles; an inkwell shaped like a horse-shoe; and an ash-pan that resembled a peasant's shoe. Several corn measures containing samples of corn were lying about in the parlour--on the window-sills, on the tables, on the floor, while here and there were pieces of "hungry" bread[3]--dirty lumps that resembled peat. In the drawing-room were designs and models of agricultural machines. Several cases of books on rural economy and school matters encumbered the study. The table was covered with papers, printed forms, paste-board boxes containing cards of various sizes. There was much dust, and not a single picture. The master of the house, Ivan Stepanovitch Kirillov, was very anxious, on the one hand, to be amiable--in the European fashion--on the other not to detract from his own dignity as a district landowner. He was a strange contradiction, as if welded from two halves. It was evident from all his surroundings that he did a great deal of work with intelligence. But to look at him you might imagine that his work in the district was only a temporary distraction and that his real cares were somewhere before him. This was evident in his eyes, which now and then stared into the distance--eyes alert yet inanimate in their tinny gleam. It was as if someone had taken out his live soul and put it into a long box, and had replaced it with a skilful, bustling machine. He was of low stature, thin, youngish--so youngish and ruddy that now and then he looked like a boy who had glued on a false beard and had assumed grown-up manners with complete success. His movements were quick but precise; when he greeted anyone he bowed elaborately, and he seemed to glide on the soles of his fancy boots. One's impulse was to call his clothes a "small costume": he wore a grey jacket, a shirt of unstarched batiste with turned-down collar, a blue cord tie, narrow trousers and grey socks. And his always courteous conversation was also ambiguous: he would speak quite gravely and then suddenly an ingenuous smile, like a child's, would appear, and then next moment he would be grave again. His wife, a quiet, sedate woman, who seemed older than her husband, came into the study a number of times while Peredonov was there, and each time she asked her husband for some detailed information about the affairs of the district. Their household in town was always confused--there were always visitors on business and constant teas. Hardly had Peredonov seated himself when they brought him a glass of lukewarm tea and some rolls on a plate. Before Peredonov arrived there was already a visitor there. Peredonov knew him--but then who is not known to everyone in our town? Everyone knows everyone else, but some have quarrelled and broken off the acquaintance. This was the District physician, Georgiy Semenovitch Trepetov, a little man--even smaller than Kirillov--with a pimply, insignificant, sharp-featured face. He wore blue spectacles, and he always looked under or to the side of them, as if it were an effort to look at his companion. He was unusually upright, and never gave a single kopeck for anyone else's benefit. He detested deeply everyone who was a government official: he would go so far as to shake hands at meeting but stubbornly refrained from conversation. For this he was reputed a shining light--like Kirillov--although he knew very little and was a poor physician. He was all the time getting ready to lead the simple life, and with this intention he looked on at the muzhiks when they blew their noses and scratched the back of their heads and wiped their mouths with the back of their hands; when he was alone he sometimes imitated them, but he always put off his simplification till next summer. Peredonov here also repeated his usual complaints against the town gossip, such as he had made during the last few days, and against the envious people who wanted to hinder his obtaining an inspector's position. At the beginning Kirillov felt rather flattered by this attention. He exclaimed: "Now you can see what goes on in provincial towns. I always said that the one deliverance for thinking people is to join hands--and I'm glad that you've come to the same conclusion." Trepetov snorted angrily, as if affronted. Kirillov looked at him timorously. Trepetov said with contempt: "Thinking people!" and then he snorted again. After a short silence he began again in his thin, indignant voice: "I don't know how thinking people can serve a musty classicism." Kirillov said irresolutely: "But, Georgiy Semenovitch, you never realise that a man does not always choose his own profession." Trepetov snorted contemptuously, which finally settled the amiable Kirillov, and became immersed in a deep silence. Kirillov turned to Peredonov when he heard that he was talking of an inspector's position. Kirillov looked worried. He imagined that Peredonov wanted to be an inspector in our district. In the District Council there had matured a project to establish the position of their Inspector of schools, who was to be chosen by the Council, the appointment to be approved by the Educational Commission. Then, the Inspector Bogdanov, who had charge of the schools of three districts, would be transferred to one of the neighbouring towns, and the schools of our district would be turned over to the new Inspector. For this position the members of the Council had in view an instructor in a pedagogical seminary in the neighbouring town, Safata. "I have patrons," said Peredonov, "but I'm afraid that the Head-Master here will harm my chances--yes, and other people too. All sorts of nonsense is being spread about me. So that in case of any inquiries concerning me, I want to say now that all this talk is rubbish. Don't you believe any of it." Kirillov replied alertly: "I have no time, Ardalyon Borisitch, to give attention to all the town rumours and gossip; I'm up to my neck in work. If my wife didn't help me, I don't know what I should do. But I am fully convinced that all that is being said about you--though I assure you I haven't heard anything--is mere gossip. But the position you have in view doesn't depend on me alone." "They might ask you about it," said Peredonov. Kirillov looked at him in astonishment, and said: "Of course they will. But the real point at issue is that we have in view ..." At this moment Kirillov's wife appeared at the door and said: "Stepan Ivanitch, just a moment." The husband went to her. She whispered to him in a worried way: "I think you'd better not tell this creature that we have Krasilnikov in view. I mistrust this creature--he will try to spoil Krasilnikov's chances." "You think so?" whispered Kirillov. "Yes, yes, you may be right. It's an unpleasant business." He clutched his head. His wife looked at him with professional sympathy and said: "It is better to tell him nothing at all about it--as if there were no vacancy." "Yes, yes, you're right," whispered Kirillov. "But I must run along--it's discourteous." He ran back into his study and began to converse amiably with Peredonov. "So you will--if ..." began Peredonov. "Please rest assured. Please rest assured. I'll have it in view," said Kirillov quickly. "We haven't yet fully decided this question." Peredonov did not understand to what question Kirillov referred, and he felt oppressed and apprehensive. Kirillov went on: "We are establishing a school-map. We've had experts from Peterburg. They've worked at it the whole summer. It cost us nine hundred roubles. We're preparing now for the District meeting. It's a remarkably efficient plan--all distances have been considered and all school points have been mapped out." And Kirillov explained the school-map minutely and at length, that is, the apportioning the District into several small divisions, with a school in each, so that every village would have its school close at hand. Peredonov understood nothing of this and became entangled with his dull thoughts in the wordy strands of the net which Kirillov handled so deftly and quickly. At last he took his leave, hopelessly oppressed. In this house, he thought, they did not want to understand him or even to listen to what he had to say. The host babbled something unintelligible. Trepetov snorted angrily for some reason or other. The hostess came in ungraciously and walked out again--strange people lived in this house, thought Peredonov. A lost day! [1] _Dvoryanin_ actually means a nobleman, but certain professions--that of a schoolmaster, for instance--entitle a man to the rank of "dvoryanin." We have used the English word "gentleman," to avoid confusing the reader. [2] Madame Shteven gave all her energy to the education of peasants, but her efforts were ultimately curtailed by the authorities. [3] Very inferior bread used during the famine. CHAPTER XI On Saturday Peredonov prepared to visit the Commissioner of Police. "Though he is not so big a bird as the Marshal of the Nobility," thought Peredonov, "he might do me greater harm than anyone else. On the other hand he might help me a great deal with the authorities. The police are, after all, very important." Peredonov took from its box his official cap with its badge. He decided that henceforth he would wear no other hat. It was all very well for the Head-Master to wear any hat he liked--he stood well with the authorities, but Peredonov was still seeking his inspector's position; it was not enough for him to depend upon patrons, he must do something himself to show his mettle. Already, several days earlier, before he had begun to go about among the authorities, he had thought of this, but somehow his hat only came to his hand. Now Peredonov arranged things differently: he threw his hat on top of the stove--to make certain that he would not pick it up by accident. Varvara was not at home; Klavdia was washing the floors. Peredonov went into the kitchen to wash his hands. He saw on the table there a roll of blue paper from which a few raisins had fallen. This was a pound of raisins bought for the tea-cake to be baked at home. Peredonov began to eat the raisins as they were, unwashed and unstoned. He quickly and avidly ate the whole pound as he stood at the table, keeping one eye on the door so that Klavdia should not surprise him. Then he carefully folded up the thick, blue paper and carried it into the front room under his coat and there put it in the pocket of his overcoat so that he could throw it away in the street and thus get rid of all traces of it. He walked out. Soon Klavdia went to get the raisins, and then began to hunt for them unsuccessfully in a frightened way. Varvara returned and discovered the loss of the raisins and began to abuse Klavdia: she was certain that Klavdia had eaten them. * * * * * It was quiet in the streets with a slight breeze. There was only an occasional cloud. The pools were drying up. There was a pale glow in the sky. But Peredonov's soul was heavily oppressed. On the way he went into the tailor's in order to hurry along the new uniform he had ordered three days ago. As he walked past the church he took his hat off and crossed himself three times elaborately and sweepingly, so that everyone should see how the future inspector walked past the church. He was not accustomed to do it before, but now he had to be on the look-out. It was possible that some spy was walking stealthily behind or was hiding around a corner or behind a tree and was watching him. The Commissioner of Police lived in a remote street of the town. In the gates, which were flung wide open, Peredonov met a police constable--a meeting which now always made Peredonov feel dejected. There were several muzhiks visible in the courtyard, but not the kind one meets everywhere--these were an unusually orderly and quiet sort. The courtyard was dirty. Carts stood about covered with matting. In the dark corridor Peredonov met another police constable, a small, meagre man of capable yet depressed appearance. He stood motionless and held under his arm a book in black leather binding. A ragged, barefoot girl ran out from a side door and helped Peredonov off with his coat; as she led him into the drawing-room, she said: "Please come in, Semyon Grigoryevitch will be here soon." The drawing-room ceiling was low and this oppressed Peredonov. The furniture was huddled against the wall. Rope-mats lay on the floor. To the right and to the left noises and whisperings could be heard behind the walls. Pale women and scrofulous boys looked out from the doors, all with avid glistening eyes. Among the whisperings certain questions and answers spoken in a louder tone could be heard: "I brought ..." "Where shall I take this?" "Where do you want this put?" "I've brought it from Ermoshkin, Sidor Petrovitch." The Commissioner soon appeared. He was buttoning up his uniform and smiling amiably. "Pardon me for keeping you waiting," he said, as he pressed Peredonov's hand in both his huge grasping hands. "I've had many business callers. Our work is such that it won't bear delay." Semyon Grigoryevitch Minchukov a tall, robust, black-haired man, with a thinness of hair on the top of his scalp, stooped slightly. His hands hung down and his fingers were like rakes. He often smiled in such a way as to suggest that he had just eaten something that was forbidden but very pleasant and was now licking his lips. His lips were bright red, thick; his nose fleshy; his face was eager, zealous but stupid. Peredonov was perturbed by everything he saw and heard in this place. He mumbled incoherent words and as he sat on his chair he tried to hold his cap in such a way that the Commissioner should see the badge. Minchukov sat opposite him on the other side of the table, very erect, and kept his amiable smile, while his rake-like fingers quietly moved on his knees, opening and shutting. "They're saying I don't know what about me," said Peredonov. "Things that never happened. I can do some informing myself, but I don't want to. I'm nothing of what they say, but I know what _they_ are. Behind your back they spread all sorts of scandal and then laugh in your face. You must admit that, in my position, this is very annoying. I have patronage, but these people go about throwing mud at me. All their following me about is useless. They only waste time and annoy me. Wherever you go, the whole town knows about it. So I hope that if anything happens you'll support me." "Of course, of course! with the greatest pleasure! But how?" asked Minchukov, gesticulating with his large hands. "Still the police ought to know whether you suspect anyone." "Of course, it's really nothing to me," said Peredonov angrily. "Let them chatter if they like. But they might injure my position. They're cunning. You don't notice that they all chatter, like Routilov, for instance. How do you know that he's not plotting to blow up the Treasury? It's one way of shifting the blame." Minchukov at first thought that Peredonov was drunk and talking nonsense. Then as he listened further he imagined that Peredonov was complaining of someone who was spreading calumnies about him and that he had come to ask Minchukov to take certain measures. "They're young people," continued Peredonov, thinking of Volodin, "and have a very good opinion of themselves. They're plotting against other people and are dishonest themselves. Young people, as everyone knows, are liable to temptation. Some of them are even in the police service, and they too are busybodies." For a long time he talked about young people but for some reason or other did not want to name Volodin. At any rate, he wanted Minchukov to understand that certain young police officials were not free from his suspicions. Minchukov concluded that Peredonov was hinting at two young officials in the police bureau--two very young men who were rather frivolous and were always running after girls. Peredonov's confusion and manifest nervousness infected Minchukov. "I'll look into the matter," he said with some anxiety. For a moment he was lost in thought and then again began to smile. "I have two quite young officials--their mothers' milk isn't dry on their lips. Believe me, one of them is still put in the corner by his mother, honest to God!" Peredonov broke into a cackling laugh. * * * * * In the meantime Varvara had gone to Grushina's house where she learned an astonishing piece of news. "Varvara Dmitrievna darling," said Grushina rapidly, before Varvara had time to cross the threshold, "I have a piece of news for you that will make you stare." "What is it?" asked Varvara. "Just think what low people there are in this world! What tricks they'll play to reach their purpose!" "What is the matter?" "Just wait and I'll tell you." But first of all the cunning Grushina gave Varvara coffee; then chased her children out into the street, which made the elder of her girls unwilling to go. "Ah, you little brat!" Grushina shouted at her. "You're a brat yourself!" answered the little girl and stamped her foot at her mother. Grushina caught the child by the hair, pushed her out the door and slammed it.... "The little beast!" she complained to Varvara. "These children are a great worry. I'm alone with them and I never get any peace. If only they had their father!" "Why don't you marry again, then they'd have a father," said Varvara. "You never can tell how a man'll turn out, Varvara Dmitrievna darling. He might treat them badly." In the meantime the little girl ran back from the street and threw into the window a handful of sand which fell on to her mother's head and dress. Grushina put her head out of the window and shouted: "Wait till I catch you, you little devil, and see what you'll get!" "You're a devil yourself, you silly fool!" shouted the little girl from the street, jumping on one foot and clenching her dirty little fist at her mother. "You just wait!" shouted Grushina. And she shut the window. Then she sat down calmly as if nothing had happened and began to talk: "I have a piece of news for you, but I don't know if I ought to tell you. But don't worry, Varvara Dmitrievna darling, they won't succeed." "Well, what is it?" asked Varvara in affright, and the saucer of coffee trembled in her hand. "You know that a young student by the name of Pilnikov has just entered the school and been put straight into the fifth form as if he'd come from Rouban, for his aunt has bought an estate in our district." "Yes, I know," said Varvara, "I saw him when he came with his aunt. Such a pretty boy, almost like a girl, and always blushing." "But, dearest, why shouldn't he look like a girl? He is a girl dressed up!" "What do you mean!" exclaimed Varvara. "They've thought of it on purpose to catch Ardalyon Borisitch," said Grushina quickly with many gesticulations, very happy that she had such important news to tell. "You see this girl has a first cousin, a boy, an orphan, who went to school at Rouban. And this girl's mother took him away from Rouban and used his papers to send the girl here. And you will notice that they have put him in a house where there are no other boys. He's there alone, so that the whole matter, they thought, would be kept secret." "And how did you find out?" asked Varvara incredulously. "Varvara darling, news gets about quickly. It was suspicious at once: all the other boys are like boys, but this one is so quiet and walks about as if he had just been dipped in the water. To look at he's a fine-looking fellow, red-cheeked and chesty, but his companions notice that he's very modest--they tell him a word and he blushes at once. They tease him for being a girl. They do it for a lark and don't realise that it's the truth. And just think how shrewd they've been--why, even the landlady doesn't know anything." "How did you find out?" repeated Varvara. "But, Varvara darling, what is there that I don't know! I know everyone in the district. Why everyone knows that they have a boy at home the same age as this one. Why didn't they send them to school together? They say that he was ill last summer and that he was to spend a year recuperating and then go back to school. But that's all nonsense. The real schoolboy is at home. And then everyone knows that they had a girl and they say that she was married and went off to the Caucasus. But that's another lie--she didn't go away. She's living here disguised as a boy." "But what's the object of it?" asked Varvara. "What do you mean, 'What's the object?'" said Grushina animatedly. "To get hold of one of the instructors--there are plenty of them bachelors. Or perhaps someone else. Disguised as a boy, she could go to men's apartments, and there isn't much she couldn't do." "You say she's a pretty girl?" said Varvara in apprehensive tones. "Rather! She's a fabulous beauty!" said Grushina. "She may be a little constrained now, but just wait, she'll get used to things and show her true colours. She'll turn plenty of heads in the town. And just think how shrewd they've been: as soon as I found out about this I tried to meet his landlady, or perhaps I should say her landlady." "It's a topsy-turvy affair. Pah! God help us!" said Varvara. "I went to Vespers at the parish church on St. Pantelemon's day. She's very pious. 'Olga Vassilyevna,' I say to her, 'why do you keep only one student in your house now?' 'It seems to me,' I say to her, 'that one is not enough for you.' And she says, 'Why should I have any more? They're a great trouble.' And so I say, 'Why, in past years you used to have two or three.' And then she says--just imagine, Varvara darling--'They stipulated that Sashenka alone should live in my house. They are well-to-do people,' she says to me, 'and they pay me a little more, as if they were afraid that the other boys would do him harm.' Now what do you think of that?" "Aren't they sly blighters," said Varvara indignantly. "Well, did you tell her that he was a wench?" "I said to her: 'Olga Vassilyevna, are you sure they haven't foisted a girl upon you instead of a boy?'" "Well, and what did she say?" "She thought at first that I was joking, and she laughs. Then I say to her more seriously, 'My dear Olga Vassilyevna,' I say, 'd'you know they say that this is a girl?' But she wouldn't believe me. 'Nonsense,' she says, 'who put that into your head? I'm not blind.'" This tale left Varvara dumbfounded. She believed the whole story just as she heard it, and she believed that an assault from yet another side was being prepared for her intended husband. She must somehow have the mask torn off this disguised girl as quickly as possible. For a long time they deliberated as to how this was to be done, but so far they could not think of any way. When Varvara got home her annoyance was further increased by the disappearance of the raisins. When Peredonov returned Varvara quickly and agitatedly told him that Klavdia had hidden away somewhere the pound of raisins and would not admit it. "And what is more," said Varvara, "she suggests that they've been eaten by the master. She says that you were in the kitchen for some reason or other when she was washing the floors and that you stopped there for a long time." "I didn't stop there at all long," said Peredonov glumly, "I only washed my hands there and I didn't see any raisins." "Klavdiushka! Klavdiushka!" shouted Varvara, "Master says he didn't even see the raisins--that means you must have hidden them somewhere." Klavdia showed her reddened, tear-stained face from the kitchen. "I didn't take your raisins!" she shouted in a tear-choked voice. "I'll pay for them, but I didn't take them." "You'll pay for them all right," shouted Varvara angrily. "I'm not obliged to feed you on raisins." Peredonov burst out laughing and shouted: "Diushka's got away with a whole pound of raisins!" "Heartless wretches!" shouted Klavdia, and slammed the door. After dinner Varvara could not help telling Peredonov what she had heard about Pilnikov. She did not stop to reflect whether this would help her or do her harm, or how Peredonov would act--she spoke simply from malice. Peredonov tried to recall Pilnikov to his mind, but somehow he could not clearly visualise him. Until now, he had given little attention to this new pupil, and detested him for his prettiness and cleanness, and because he conducted himself so quietly, worked well, and was the youngest of the students in the fifth form. But now Varvara's story aroused in him a mischievous curiosity. Immodest thoughts slowly stirred in his obscure mind. "I must go to Vespers," he thought, "and take a look at this disguised girl." Suddenly Klavdia came in rejoicing and threw on the table a piece of crumpled blue paper and exclaimed: "There! You blamed me for taking the raisins, but what's this? As if I needed your raisins." Peredonov guessed what was the matter; he had forgotten to throw the paper bag away in the street and now Klavdia had found it in his overcoat pocket. "Oh! The devil!" he exclaimed. "What is it? Where did you get it?" cried Varvara. "I found it in Ardalyon Borisitch's pocket," said Klavdia triumphantly. "He ate them himself and I'm blamed for it. Everyone knows that Ardalyon Borisitch likes sweet things. But why should it be put on others when ..." "Don't go so fast," said Peredonov, "you're telling lies. You put it there yourself. I didn't touch them." "Why should I do that, God forgive you!" said Klavdia, nonplussed. "How did you dare to touch other people's pockets!" shouted Varvara. "Are you looking for money?" "I don't touch other people's pockets," answered Klavdia angrily, "I took the coat down to brush it. It was covered with mud." "But why did you put your hand in the pocket?" "It fell out of the pocket by itself," said Klavdia, defending herself. "You're lying, Diushka," said Peredonov. "I'm not a 'diushka'--what sneerers you are!" shouted Klavdia. "The devil take you. I'll pay for those raisins and you can choke on them--you've gorged on them yourself and now I must pay for them. Yes, I'll pay for them--you've no conscience, you've no shame, and yet you call yourself gentry!" Klavdia went into the kitchen crying and abusing them. Peredonov suddenly began to laugh and said: "She's very touchy, isn't she?" "Yes, let her pay for them," said Varvara. "If you let them, they'll eat anything, these ravenous devils." And for a long time afterwards they tormented Klavdia with having eaten a pound of raisins. They deducted the price of the raisins from her wages and told the story to everyone who came to the house. The cat, as if attracted by this uproar, had left the kitchen, sidling along the walls, sat down near Peredonov and looked at him with its avid, evil eyes. Peredonov bent down to catch the animal, which snarled savagely, scratched Peredonov's hand and ran and hid behind the sideboard. It peeped out from there and its narrow green eyes gleamed. "It might be a were-wolf!" thought Peredonov in fear. In the meantime Varvara, still thinking about Pilnikov, said: "Why do you spend all your evenings playing billiards? You might occasionally drop in at the students' lodgings. They know that the instructors rarely come to see them and that the inspector only comes once a year, so that all sorts of indecencies, card-playing and drunkenness go on. You might, for instance, call on this disguised girl. You'd better go late, about bed-time--that would be a good time to find her out and embarrass her." Peredonov reflected a while and then burst out laughing. "Varvara's certainly a sly rogue!" he thought, "she can teach me a thing or two." CHAPTER XII Peredonov went to Vespers in the school chapel. There he placed himself behind the students and looked attentively to see how they behaved. It seemed to him that some of them were mischievous, talked, whispered and laughed. He noticed who they were and tried to memorise their names. There were a number of them and he reproached himself for not having brought a piece of paper and a pencil with him to write their names down. He felt depressed because the students behaved so badly and no one paid any attention to it, although the Head-Master and the inspector with their wives and children were present. As a matter of fact, the students were orderly and quiet--some of them crossed themselves absently, with their thoughts far away from the church, others prayed diligently. Only very rarely did one of them whisper to his neighbour--two or three words perhaps, without turning their heads, and the other always replied as briefly and quietly, sometimes with no more than a quick movement, a look, a shrug or a smile. But these insignificant movements, unnoticed by the form master, aroused an illusion of great disorder in Peredonov's dull, perturbed mind. Even in his tranquil moments Peredonov, like all coarse people, could not appraise small incidents: either he did not notice them at all or he exaggerated their importance. Now that he was agitated by expectations, his perceptions served him even worse, and little by little the whole reality became obscured before him by a thin smoke of detestable and evil illusions. And after all, what were the students to Peredonov even earlier? Were they not merely an apparatus for the spreading of ink and paper by means of the pen, and for the retelling in ready-made language what had been said before in live human speech! In his whole educational career Peredonov never for a moment reflected that the students were the same human beings as grown-ups. Only bearded students with awakened inclinations towards women suddenly became in his eyes equal to himself. After he had stood behind the boys for some time and gathered enough of depressing reflections, Peredonov moved forward toward the middle rows. There, on the very edge, to the right, stood Sasha Pilnikov; he was praying earnestly and often went down on his knees. Peredonov watched him, and it gave him pleasure to see Sasha on his knees like one chastised, and looking before him at the resplendent altar with a concerned and appealing expression on his face; with entreaty and sadness in his black eyes shaded by long intensely black eyelashes. Smooth-faced and graceful, his chest standing out broad and high as he rested there, calm and erect on his knees, as if under some sternly observing eye, he appeared at that moment to Peredonov altogether like a girl. Peredonov now decided to go directly after Vespers to Pilnikov's rooms. They began to leave the church. It was noticed that Peredonov no longer wore a hat but a cap with a badge. Routilov asked laughingly: "Ardalyon Borisitch, how is that you're strolling about with your badge nowadays? That comes of having an inspectorship in view." "Will the soldiers have to salute you now?" asked Valeria with pretended ingenuousness. "What nonsense!" said Peredonov angrily. "You don't understand, Valerotchka," said Darya. "Why do you say soldiers! But Ardalyon Borisitch will get a great deal more respect from his pupils now than before." Liudmilla laughed. Peredonov made haste to take leave of them in order to get away from their sarcasms. It was too early to go to Pilnikov and he had no desire to go home. Peredonov walked about the dark streets wondering how he could waste an hour. There were many houses, and lights shone from many windows, sometimes voices could be heard from the open windows. The church-goers walked in the streets, and gates and doors could be heard opening and shutting. All around lived people, strange and hostile to Peredonov, and it was possible that at this very moment some of them were devising evil against him. Perhaps someone was wondering why he walked alone at this late hour and where he was going. It seemed to Peredonov that someone was following him stealthily. He began to feel depressed. He walked on hurriedly and aimlessly. He thought that every house here had its dead. And that all who lived in the old houses fifty years ago were now dead. Some of the dead he still remembered. When a man dies his house should be burnt afterwards, thought Peredonov dejectedly, because it makes one feel horribly. * * * * * Olga Vassilyevna Kokovkina, with whom Sasha Pilnikov lived, was a paymaster's widow. Her husband had left her a pension and a small house, which was sufficiently large to accommodate two or three lodgers, but she gave preference to students. It so happened that the quietest boys were always placed at her house, those who studied diligently and completed their courses. At other students' lodgings there were a considerable number of boys who went from one school to another and always left their studies unfinished. Olga Vassilyevna, a lean, tall and erect old woman with a good-natured face, to which, however, she tried to give a stern expression; and Sasha Pilnikov, a well-fed youngster, carefully trained by his aunt, sat at the supper table. That evening it was Sasha's turn to supply the jam, which he had bought in the village, and therefore he felt as if he were the host and ceremoniously attended to Olga Vassilyevna, and his black eyes shone brightly. A ring at the door was heard--and a moment afterwards Peredonov appeared in the dining-room. Kokovkina was astonished at such a late visit. "I've come to take a look at our pupil," he said, "and to see how he lives." Kokovkina asked Peredonov to take some refreshment, but he refused. He wanted them to finish their supper, so that he could be alone with his pupil. They finished their supper and went into Sasha's room, but Kokovkina did not leave them and talked incessantly. Peredonov looked morosely at Sasha, who was timidly silent. "Nothing will come of this visit," thought Peredonov with annoyance. The maid-servant for some reason or other called out for Kokovkina. Sasha looked dejectedly after her. His eyes grew dull, they were covered by his eyelashes--and it seemed that these eyelashes, which were very long, threw a shadow on his smooth and suddenly pallid face. He felt uneasy in the presence of this morose man. Peredonov sat down beside him, put his arm awkwardly around him and without altering the immobile expression on his face asked: "Well, Sashenka, has the little girl said her prayers yet?" Sasha, shamefaced and frightened, looked at Peredonov and was silent. "Well? Eh?" asked Peredonov. "Yes," said Sasha at last. "What red cheeks you've got," said Peredonov. "Well--a--you are a little girl? Yes? A girl, you rogue!" "No, I'm not a girl," said Sasha, and suddenly angry at his own timidity, he asked in a shrill voice, "How am I like a girl? That's the fault of your students who try to tease me, because I don't say nasty words; I'm not used to saying them. Why should I say them?" "Will Mamma punish you?" asked Peredonov. "I have no mother," said Sasha. "My mother died long ago. I have only an aunt." "Well then, will Aunt punish you?" "Of course she'll punish me if I use nasty words. It isn't nice, is it?" "And how will your aunt know?" "I don't like it myself," said Sasha quietly. "And there are several ways Aunt may find out. I might give myself away." "And which of your companions say nasty words?" asked Peredonov. Sasha again blushed and was silent. "Well, go on," insisted Peredonov. "You've got to tell me. You mustn't conceal things." "No one says them," said Sasha in confusion. "But you yourself just complained." "I did not complain." "Why do you deny it?" said Peredonov angrily. Sasha felt himself caught in a detestable trap. He said: "I only explained to you why some of my companions tease me with being a girl. But I didn't want to tell tales about them." "So that's it. And why so?" asked Peredonov indignantly. "It isn't nice," said Sasha with an annoyed smile. "Well, I shall speak to the Head-Master and he'll make you tell," said Peredonov spitefully. Sasha looked at Peredonov with anger in his eyes. "No, please don't tell him, Ardalyon Borisitch," he entreated. And from the agitated tones of his voice it could be perceived that he tried to entreat but that he wanted to shout fierce, insulting words. "No, I'll tell. Then you'll see whether you can hide nasty things. You should have complained of them at once. But just wait, you'll get it." Sasha rose and in confusion he shifted his belt. Kokovkina entered. "Your quiet one is a good boy, I must say," said Peredonov malignantly. Kokovkina was frightened. She quickly walked up to Sasha and sat down at his side--in her agitation she always stumbled--and asked timorously: "What's the matter, Ardalyon Borisitch? What has he done?" "You'd better ask him," replied Peredonov with morose spite. "What is it, Sashenka? What have you done?" asked Kokovkina, touching Sasha's elbow. "I don't know," said Sasha and began to cry. "Well, what's the matter? What is it? Why are you crying?" asked Kokovkina. She laid her hands on the boy's shoulders and pulled him towards her; she did not notice that this disturbed him further. He stood there, stooping, and kept his handkerchief to his eyes. Peredonov explained: "He's being taught nasty words in the _gymnasia_ and he won't say who it is. He oughtn't to conceal things. He not only learns nasty words himself but he shields the other boys." "Oh, Sashenka, Sashenka. How could you do it? Aren't you ashamed?" said Kokovkina in a flustered way, as she released Sasha. "I did nothing," replied Sasha, crying. "I did nothing that was wrong. Indeed, they tease me because I don't use bad words." "Who says bad words?" asked Peredonov again. "No one says them," exclaimed Sasha in despair. "There, you see how he lies?" said Peredonov. "He ought to be well punished. He must tell the truth as to who says these nasty words, because our _gymnasia_ might get a bad name and we could do nothing against it." "You had better let him go, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Kokovkina. "How can he inform against his companions? They'd make his life unbearable if he did." "He's obliged to tell," said Peredonov angrily. "Because it would be very useful. We will take measures to stop it." "But they'll beat him," said Kokovkina irresolutely. "They won't dare. If he's afraid, then let him tell in secret." "Well, Sashenka, tell in secret. No one will know that it's you." Sasha cried silently. Kokovkina drew him to her, embraced him, and for a long time whispered in his ear, but he shook his head negatively. "He doesn't want to," said Kokovkina. "Try a birch on him, then he'll talk," said Peredonov savagely. "Bring me a birch, I'll make him talk." "Olga Vassilyevna! But why?" exclaimed Sasha. Kokovkina rose and embraced him. "That's enough crying," she said gently but sternly, "no one shall touch you." "As you like," said Peredonov. "But I must tell the Head-Master. I thought it might have been better to keep at home. Perhaps your Sashenka really knows more than he'll tell. We don't know yet why he's teased with being a girl--perhaps it's for something else entirely. Perhaps it's not he who's being taught, but he who's corrupting others." Peredonov left the room angrily. Kokovkina followed him. She said reproachfully: "Ardalyon Borisitch, how can you worry a boy for I don't know what? It's as well that he doesn't understand what you say." "Well, good-bye," said Peredonov angrily. "But I shall tell the Head-Master. This must be investigated." He left. Kokovkina went to console Sasha. Sasha sat gloomily at his window and looked at the starry sky. His black eyes were now tranquil and strangely sad. Kokovkina silently stroked his head. "It's my fault," he said. "I told him why they were teasing me and he wouldn't let it drop. He's a very coarse man. Not one of the students likes him." * * * * * The next day Peredonov and Varvara moved into their new house. Ershova stood at the gate and exchanged violently abusive words with Varvara. Peredonov hid himself behind the furniture vans. As soon as they got in they had their new house blessed. It was necessary, according to Peredonov's calculations, to show that he was one of the faithful. During this ceremony the fumes of incense made his head dizzy and induced in him a religious mood. One strange circumstance puzzled him. There came running from somewhere a strange indescribable creature--a small, grey and nimble _nedotikomka._[1] It nodded, and it trembled, and circled round Peredonov. When he stretched out his hand to catch it, it glided swiftly out of sight, hid itself behind the door or the sideboard, but reappeared a moment later, and trembled and mocked again--the grey, featureless, nimble creature. At last when the blessing was over Peredonov, suspecting something, repeated a charm in a whisper. The nedotikomka hissed very, very quietly, shrivelled into a little ball and rolled away behind the door. Peredonov gave a sigh of relief. "Yes, it's good that it has rolled away altogether, but it's possible that it lives in this house somewhere under the floor and will come out again to mock at me." Peredonov felt cold and depressed. "What's the use of all these unclean demons in the world?" he thought. When the ceremony was over and the visitors gone Peredonov thought a longtime as to where the nedotikomka could have hidden itself. Varvara left with Grushina, and Peredonov began to search and rummage among her things. "I wonder if Varvara carried it away in her pocket," thought Peredonov. "It doesn't need much room. It could hide in a pocket and stay there until its time comes to show itself." One of Varvara's dresses attracted Peredonov's attention. It was made up of flounces, bows and ribbons, as if made purposely to hide something. Peredonov examined it for a long time, then by force and with the help of a knife he partly tore, partly cut away, the pocket and threw it on the stove, and then began to tear and cut the whole dress into small pieces. Strange, confused thoughts wandered through his brain and his soul felt hopelessly gloomy. Soon Varvara returned--Peredonov was still cutting the remains of the dress into shreds. She thought he was drunk and began to abuse him. Peredonov listened for a long time and said at last: "What are you barking at, fool! Perhaps you're carrying a devil in your pocket. I must think about it and see what's going on here." Varvara was taken aback. Gratified by the impression he had produced, he made haste to find his cap and went out to play billiards. Varvara ran out into the passage and while Peredonov was putting on his overcoat she shouted: "It's you, perhaps, who're carrying the devil in your pocket, but I haven't got any kind of devil. Where should I get your devil? Shall I order one for you from Holland?" * * * * * The young official, Cherepnin, the man about whom Vershina had told the story of his looking into the window, had paid attentions to her when she first became a widow. Vershina did not object to marrying a second time but Cherepnin seemed to her utterly worthless. Therefore he felt maliciously towards her. With great delight he fell in with Volodin's suggestion of smearing Vershina's gate with tar. He agreed, but later he felt some qualms. Suppose they should catch him? It would be awkward; after all he was an official. He decided to shift the matter on to other shoulders. He bribed two young scapegraces with a quarter of a rouble and promised them another fifteen kopecks each if they would get it done--if they would do it one dark night. If anyone in Vershina's house had opened the window after midnight he might have heard the rustle of light feet on the wood pavement, a quiet whispering and certain soft sounds giving the impression that the fence was being swept; then a slight clinking, a fast pattering of feet, going faster and faster, distant laughing and the angry barking of dogs. But no one opened the window. And in the morning ... the gate and the fence between the garden and the yard were covered with yellow-cinnamon coloured tar. Indecent words were written in tar on the gates. Passers-by stopped and laughed. The word soon went round and many inquisitive people came. Vershina walked about quickly in the garden and smoked; her smile was even more wry than usual and she mumbled angrily. Marta did not leave her room and wept bitterly. The maid-servant Marya tried to wash off the tar and some words of abuse passed between her and the onlookers, who were laughing uproariously. That same day Cherepnin told Volodin what he had done. Volodin wasted no time in telling Peredonov. Both of them knew the boys, who were well-known for their daring pranks. Peredonov on his way to billiards stopped at Vershina's. The weather was gloomy, so Vershina and Marta sat in the drawing-room. "Your gates have been smeared with tar," said Peredonov. Marta blushed. Vershina quickly related how they had got up in the morning and saw people laughing at the gate and how Marya had washed the fence. "I know who did it," said Peredonov. Vershina looked questioningly at Peredonov. "How did you find out?" she asked. "I found out all right." "Tell us then who did it," said Marta crossly. She had become altogether unattractive because she now had tear-stained eyes with red swollen eyelids. Peredonov replied: "Of course I'll tell you--I've come for that reason. Such impertinent fellows ought to be punished. But you must promise not to say who told you." "But why, Ardalyon Borisitch?" asked Vershina in astonishment. Peredonov kept significantly silent. Then he said in explanation: "They're such dare-devils that they might break my head if they found I'd given them away." Vershina promised. "And don't you tell either," said Peredonov to Marta. "Very well, I won't tell," Marta agreed quickly because she wanted to know as quickly as possible who had done it. She thought they ought to be made to suffer a cruel and ignominious punishment. "No, you'd better swear," said Peredonov cautiously. "Well, honest to God, I won't tell anyone," said Marta, trying to convince him. "But tell us quickly." Vladya was listening behind the door. He was glad that he had not thought of going into the drawing-room: he would not be compelled to promise and he could tell it to anyone he liked. And he smiled with delight to think that he would be avenged on Peredonov. "Last night, about one o'clock, I was going home along your street," began Peredonov, "and I heard someone moving by your gate. I thought at first it was thieves. 'What shall I do?' I thought, when suddenly I heard them running straight towards me. I pressed close against the wall and they didn't see me, but I recognised them. One had a brush and the other had a pail. They're well-known rascals, the sons of Avdeyev, the blacksmith. They ran, and I heard one say to the other: 'We haven't wasted the night,' he said, 'we've earned fifty-five kopecks.' I wanted to catch one of them but I was afraid they would smear my face, and besides I had a new overcoat on." * * * * * No sooner had Peredonov gone than Vershina went to the Commissioner of Police with a complaint. The Commissioner, Minchukov, sent a constable for Avdeyev and his sons. The boys came boldly, thinking they were suspected on account of previous pranks. Avdeyev, a tall dejected old man, was, on the other hand, fully convinced that his sons were guilty of some fresh mischief. The Commissioner told Avdeyev of what his sons were accused, and Avdeyev replied: "I can't control them. Do what you like with them. I've already hurt my hands beating them." "It's not our doing," announced the elder boy Nil, who had curly red hair. "No matter who does a thing we're blamed for it," said Ilya the younger, whose hair was also curly but white. "We've once done something and now we have to answer for everything." Minchukov smiled amiably, shook his head and said: "You'd better make a clean breast of it." "There's nothing to confess," said Nil. "Nothing? Who gave you fifty-five kopecks for your work, eh?" And seeing from the boys' momentary confusion that they were guilty, Minchukov said to Vershina: "It's obvious that they did it." The boys renewed their denials. They were taken into a small room and whipped. Not being able to endure the pain, they confessed. But even then they were unwilling to say who had given them the money. "We did it on our own," they said. They were whipped again until they confessed that Cherepnin had given them the money. The boys were then turned over to their father. "Well, we've punished them--that is their father punished them," said the Commissioner to Vershina, "and now you know who's responsible." "I won't let that Cherepnin off easily," said Vershina. "I'll prosecute him." "I shouldn't advise you to, Natalya Afanasyevna," said Minchukov abruptly. "You'd better let the thing drop." "What! Let such wretches go! No, never!" exclaimed Vershina. "After all, you have had no real proof," said the Commissioner quietly. "What do you mean by no proof, when the boys themselves have confessed it?" "That doesn't count, they might deny it before the judge and there'd be no one to flog them there." "How can they deny it? There are the constables who were witnesses," said Vershina confidently. "Where are your witnesses? When you beat a man he'll confess anything, even something that never happened. They're rascals, of course, and they got what they deserved. But you'll get nothing out of them in court." Minchukov smiled and looked calmly at Vershina. Vershina left the Commissioner very dissatisfied, but after reflection admitted to herself that it was difficult to accuse Cherepnin, and that only publicity and scandal would come of it. [1] _nedotikomka_, an invention of the author. The word means "the touch-me-not-creature." It is presumably an elemental, a symbol of the evil of the world. Sologub begins one of his poems-- "The grey Nedotikomka Wriggles and turns, round and round me...." CHAPTER XIII Towards evening Peredonov appeared before the Head-Master--to talk on business. The Head-Master, Nikolai Vlasyevitch Khripatch had a certain number of rules which were sufficiently practical and not difficult to keep. He calmly fulfilled all the school laws and regulations and also kept to the rules of a generally-accepted mild Liberalism. This was why the school authorities, the parents and the students were equally satisfied with the Head-Master. He had no moments of doubt, no indecisions and no hesitations--what was the use of them?--one could always rely on the decisions of the Pedagogical Council or on the instructions of the Educational authorities. He was no less calm and correct in his personal relations. His very appearance gave the impression of good-nature and steadiness. He was short, robust, active, with keen eyes, and with a confident voice. He seemed a man who ordered his life well and who was always ready to improve. There were many books on the shelves in his study. He made notes from them. When he had accumulated a sufficient number of notes, he would put them in order and paraphrase them--that was how a text-book was compiled, published and circulated, of course not so successfully as the text-books of Ushinsky and Evtoushevsky but still they were not a failure. Sometimes he put together, chiefly from foreign books, a compilation which was very respectable and quite unnecessary to anyone and published it in a periodical equally respectable and equally unnecessary. He had a number of children and all of them, boys and girls, already gave indication of various talents: some wrote verses, some drew, some made rapid progress in music. Peredonov said morosely: "You're always down on me, Nikolai Vlasyevitch. Perhaps someone has been slandering me to you, but I've done nothing of the kind." "I beg your pardon," the Head-Master interrupted him, "I don't understand what slanders you have in mind. In the management of the _gymnasia_ entrusted to me, I make use of my own observations, and I dare hope that my educational experience is sufficient to estimate with proper correctness what I see and what I hear, all the more in view of my close attention to my duties which I have made an unbreakable rule." Khripatch said this quickly and decisively, and his voice sounded dry and clear, like the sharp noise given out by a zinc bar when bent. He went on: "As far as it concerns my personal opinion of you, I still continue to think that there are sad lapses in your professional activity." "Yes," said Peredonov morosely. "You've taken it into your head that I'm good for nothing. Yet I'm always preoccupied with the _gymnasia."_ Khripatch lifted his eyebrows in astonishment and glanced questioningly at Peredonov. "You haven't noticed," continued Peredonov, "that there's a possibility of a scandal in our _gymnasia._ No one has noticed it--I alone have detected it." "What scandal?" asked Khripatch with a dry smile, pacing up and down his study. "You arouse my curiosity, though, to speak candidly, I hardly believe in the possibility of a scandal in our school." "Yes, but you don't know who you have recently admitted to the school," said Peredonov with such malevolence that Khripatch paused and looked attentively at him. "I know all the new students perfectly well," he said dryly. "Besides, it goes without saying that the new boys in the first form have never been excluded from another school, and the only one who has just entered the fifth form came to us with such recommendations that preclude all possibility of suspicion." "Yes, but he shouldn't have come to us but to some other kind of institution," said Peredonov morosely and as if reluctantly. "Please explain, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Khripatch. "I hope you don't mean to say that Pilnikov ought to have been sent to a Reformatory." "No, that creature should be sent to a pension where they don't learn ancient languages,"[1] said Peredonov maliciously, and his eyes gleamed with spite. Khripatch put his hands into the pockets of his short jacket and looked at Peredonov with unusual astonishment. "What pension?" he asked. "Do you know what institutions are designated in that way? And if you do know, how could you venture to make such an unseemly suggestion?" Khripatch flushed violently and his voice sounded drier and even more decisive. At another time these symptoms of the Head-Master's anger would have flustered Peredonov. But this time he was not flustered. "Of course, you think Pilnikov's a boy," he said screwing up his eyes in derision, "but he's not a boy at all, but a girl, and what sort of a girl!" Khripatch uttered a dry, abrupt laugh, but his laughter sounded affected, it was so loud and mechanical--he always laughed like that. "Ha! Ha! Ha!" he laughed mechanically, and when he had finished laughing he sat down in the chair and threw his head back as if he had dropped exhausted from laughing. "You astonish me, my good Ardalyon Borisitch! Ha! Ha! Ha! Be so kind as to tell me upon what you base your supposition, if the premises which have led you to this conclusion are not secret! Ha! Ha! Ha!" Peredonov recounted everything that he had heard from Varvara, and incidentally he dilated on the poor qualities of Kokovkina. Khripatch listened and now and then gave vent to his dry, mechanical laughter. "I'm afraid, my dear Ardalyon Borisitch, that your imagination has played pranks with you," he said, as he rose and caught Peredonov by the sleeve. "I, as well as many of my esteemed friends, have children, we're not in our swaddling clothes. Surely you don't think that we would have admitted a disguised girl as a boy?" "That's your opinion," said Peredonov. "But if anything should happen who's going to be responsible?" "Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Khripatch. "What consequences are you afraid of?" "It'll demoralise the school," said Peredonov. Khripatch frowned and said: "You're presuming too far. All that you have told me so far doesn't give me the slightest cause for sharing in your suspicion." * * * * * That same evening Peredonov rapidly went round to all his colleagues, from the inspector down to the form-masters, and told everyone that Pilnikov was a girl in disguise. They all laughed and refused to believe him, but when he left several of them began to wonder if it were not true. The Masters' wives believed it immediately. Next morning many came to their classes with the thought that Peredonov was possibly right. They did not speak of this openly, yet they no longer argued with Peredonov and limited themselves to indecisive and ambiguous answers; each was afraid that he would be considered stupid if he argued about the matter, should it afterwards prove to be true. Many would have liked to know what the Head-Master thought of it, but the Head-Master stopped in his own house more than usual. He came very late to the one lesson he gave that day to the sixth form, remained there hardly more than five minutes and then went to his study without speaking to anyone. At last, before the fourth lesson, the grey-haired Divinity Master and two other instructors went to the Head-Master's study on the pretext of business and the Divinity Master cautiously led up to the subject of Pilnikov. But the Head-Master laughed so confidently and so indifferently that all three became convinced that the whole thing was an invention. The Head-Master quickly went on to other subjects, told a new piece of town news, complained about his bad headache and said that he would probably have to call in the _gymnasia_ doctor, Evgeny Ivanovitch. Then he told them in a very good-natured voice that his lesson that day had only made his headache worse, for, as it happened, Peredonov was in the next class and the students had for some reason or other laughed frequently and with extraordinary loudness. Khripatch laughed dryly and said: "This year fate has not been kind to me--three times a week I am compelled to sit in a class-room next to Ardalyon Borisitch, And just imagine! There is constant boisterous laughter. One would think that Ardalyon Borisitch was not at all an amusing man and yet he always arouses merriment!" And without giving them time to comment on this, Khripatch changed the subject. It was true that recently there had been a good deal of laughter at Peredonov's classes--though they did not particularly please him. On the contrary, children's laughter annoyed Peredonov, but he could not restrain himself from saying things which were malapropos and unnecessary: now he would tell a stupid anecdote, now he would try to subdue one of the most quiet boys by sneering at him. In his classes there were also a number of boys who were glad of every opportunity to create disorder--and at every one of Peredonov's sallies they would roar with laughter. After school Khripatch sent for the physician, picked up his hat and went into his garden which was situated between the school and the river-bank. The garden was large and shady. The little boys loved it. They were allowed to run about in it freely during recreation, but this was the reason why the assistant masters did not like it. They were afraid that something would happen to the boys. But Khripatch insisted that the boys should spend their recreation time in the garden. This was necessary in order to make his reports appear more imposing. As he walked through the corridor he stopped outside the Gymnasium hall for a while, and then walked in with bent head. From his cheerless face and slow walk, everyone knew that he had a headache. The fifth form was getting ready for its exercises. They stood in a row and the Athletic instructor, a lieutenant of the local reserve battalion, was about to give a command, but, on seeing the Head-Master, he went forward to meet him. Khripatch shook his hand and looking somewhat confusedly at the students asked: "Are you satisfied with them? Do they work well? Do any of them get tired?" The lieutenant deep in his heart detested those students, who, in his opinion, had not and could never have a military bearing. If they had been cadets he would have told them at once what he thought of them, but it was not worth while to tell the unpleasant truth about these sluggards to the man on whom these lessons depended. And so with a smile on his thin lips he looked at the Head-Master in a friendly way and said: "Oh, yes, they're fine boys." The Head-Master walked past some of the boys in the line and was about to leave when he stopped short as if he had suddenly remembered something. "And are you satisfied with the new boy? Is he doing well? Does he tire quickly?" he asked languidly and cheerlessly, putting his hand to his forehead. The lieutenant said for the sake of variety--the boy in any case was a stranger: "He's a little frail--he gets tired quickly." But the Head-Master seemed not to listen to him and he left the hall. The outdoor air rather refreshed Khripatch. He returned in half an hour and again standing in the door looked on at the exercises. The boys were using various gymnastic appliances. Two or three idle students who did not notice the Head-Master were leaning against the wall, taking advantage of the fact that the lieutenant was not looking at them. Khripatch walked up to them. "But Pilnikov," he said, "why are you leaning against the wall?" Sasha flushed violently, straightened himself and said nothing. "If you get tired so quickly then perhaps the exercises are injurious to you," said Khripatch sternly. "It's my fault, I'm not tired," said Sasha timidly. "You must choose between two things," said Khripatch, "either not to attend the gymnastic exercises or... In any case come in and see me after the exercises." He went away hurriedly and left Sasha standing confused and frightened. "You're in for it," said the other boys to him. "He'll lecture you till evening." Khripatch loved to deliver lengthy reprimands and the students dreaded his invitations above everything. After the exercises Sasha timidly went to the Head-Master. Khripatch received him promptly. He went close to Sasha, looked intently into his eyes and asked: "Tell me, Pilnikov, do the gymnastic exercises really tire you? You look quite a healthy youngster but 'appearances are deceptive.' Are you sure you haven't some illness? Perhaps it's injurious for you to do these exercises." "No, Nikolai Vlasyevitch, I'm quite well," answered Sasha, red with confusion. "However," said Khripatch, "Aleksey Alekseyevitch was complaining about your languidness and that you get tired soon. And I myself noticed to-day that you had a tired look. Or perhaps I was mistaken?" Sasha did not know how to shield his eyes from Khripatch's penetrating look. He muttered in a confused way: "I'm very sorry--I won't do it again--I was just a little lazy--really I'm quite well. I will work hard at the exercises." Suddenly, quite unexpectedly to himself, he burst into tears. "You see," said Khripatch, "it's obvious that you're tired: you cry as if I had given you a severe scolding. Now, quiet yourself." He laid his hand on Sasha's shoulder and said: "I called you in not to lecture you but to make things clear.... Sit down, Pilnikov, I can see you're tired." Sasha quickly dried his wet eyes with his handkerchief and said: "I'm not a bit tired." "Sit down, sit down," said Khripatch, not unkindly, and pushed a chair over to Sasha. "Really I'm not tired, Nikolai Vlasyevitch," Sasha assured him. Khripatch took him by the shoulders and made him sit down, sat down himself opposite the boy and said: "Let's talk the matter over quietly, Pilnikov. You yourself cannot tell the actual condition of your health. You're very good and conscientious in all respects. That is why I can understand your wanting to be relieved from the gymnastic exercises. By the way, I've asked Evgeny Ivanovitch to come here to-day as I don't feel quite myself; he might incidentally look at you. I hope you have nothing against that?" Khripatch looked at his watch and without waiting for an answer began to talk with Sasha as to how he had spent the summer. Evgeny Ivanovitch Sourovtsev, the school physician, a little dark alert man, soon appeared; he delighted in conversations on politics and news generally. His knowledge was not great but he attended his patients conscientiously, and as he preferred diet and hygiene to medicines he was generally successful in his cases. Sasha was asked to undress. Sourovtsev examined him attentively but found nothing wrong with him. As for Khripatch he was now convinced that Sasha was not a girl. Though he was convinced of this even before, still he considered it proper that in the event of any possible inquiries from the district, the school physician could certify to the facts without further investigation. As Khripatch let Sasha go he said to him kindly: "Now, we know that you're well, and I will tell Aleksey Alekseyevitch that he's not to let you off!" * * * * * Peredonov had no doubt that the discovery of a girl among the students would turn the attention of the authorities to himself, and that, aside from promotion, he would be given a decoration. This encouraged him to look vigilantly after the conduct of the students. As the weather for some days now had been bleak and cold, there were few people in the billiard-room, so there was nothing for him to do but to walk about town and visit students' lodgings, and even those students who lived with their parents. Peredonov chose the parents who were simple folk; he would come, he would complain about the boy, the boy would be whipped--and Peredonov would be satisfied. In this way he first of all complained to Yosif Kramarenko's father, who kept a brewery in the town--he told him that Yosif misbehaved in church. The father believed him and punished his son. The same fate befell several others. Peredonov did not go to those who, he thought, would defend their sons--they might complain to the authorities. Every day he visited at least one student's lodgings. He conducted himself then like an official, he reprimanded, gave orders and threatened. Still the students felt themselves more independent in their own lodgings than at school, and at times they were rebellious. Aside from this there was Flavitskaya, a tall, loud-voiced, energetic woman, who, acting on Peredonov's suggestion, beat severely her young lodger, Vladimir Boultyakov. On the following day Peredonov would relate his exploits to his class. He did not name his victims but they usually gave themselves away by their embarrassment. [1] This expression implies a house of ill-fame. CHAPTER XIV Rumours that Pilnikov was a disguised girl soon spread about the town. Among the first to hear of it were the Routilovs. The inquisitive Liudmilla always tried to see everything new with her own eyes. She had a burning curiosity about Pilnikov. Of course, she would have to see the masquerading trickster. She knew Kokovkina, and so one evening Liudmilla announced to her sisters: "I'm going to take a look at this girl." "Busybody!" said Darya indignantly. "She's got on her best clothes," said Valeria with a restrained smile. They were annoyed because they had not thought of it first and it would be awkward for the three of them to go. Liudmilla was dressed more elaborately than usual--she herself could not tell why. Apart from other considerations, she liked to dress up. She dressed more lightly than her sisters: her arms and her shoulders were a little more bared, her dress a little shorter, her shoes a little lighter, her stockings a little thinner, more transparent and of a flesh colour. At home she liked to go about in a petticoat, without stockings, but with shoes on her bared feet--moreover her petticoat and her chemise were very charmingly embroidered. The weather was cold, windy, and the fallen leaves floated on the speckled pools. Liudmilla walked quickly, and under her thin cloak she almost did not feel the cold. Kokovkina and Sasha were drinking tea. Liudmilla looked at them with searching eyes--they were sitting quietly, drinking tea, eating rolls and chatting. Liudmilla kissed Kokovkina and said: "I've come on business, dear Olga Vassilyevna, but that can wait--first warm me up with a little tea. But who is this young man here?" Sasha flushed and bowed uneasily. Kokovkina introduced them. Liudmilla sat down at the table and began to gossip in an animated way. The townspeople liked to see her because she could recount things prettily. Kokovkina, who was a stay-at-home, was openly glad to see her, and welcomed her heartily. Liudmilla chattered on merrily, laughed, and jumped up now and then to mimic someone and incidently to tease Sasha. She said to Kokovkina: "You must feel lonely, my dear, from sitting always at home with this grumpy little schoolboy. You might look in on us now and then." "But how can I?" answered Kokovkina. "I'm too old to go visiting." "Don't call it visiting," said Liudmilla. "Just come in when you like and make yourself at home. This infant needs no swaddling." Sasha assumed an injured expression and blushed. "What a stick-in-the-corner he is," said Liudmilla to annoy him, and nudged Sasha. "You ought to talk to your visitors." "He's still only a youngster," said Kokovkina. "He's very modest." "I'm modest too," said Liudmilla with a smile. Sasha laughed and said ingenuously: "Really, are you modest?" Liudmilla burst out laughing. Her laughter, as always, was delightfully gay. As she laughed, she flushed very much and her eyes became mischievous and guilty, and their glance attempted to dodge those of her companions. Sasha was flustered and tried eagerly to explain. "I didn't mean that--I wanted to say that you were very gay and not modest--and not that you were immodest." Then feeling what he had said was not as clear as it might be, he grew more confused and blushed. "What impertinence!" exclaimed Liudmilla laughing and flushing. "What a jewel he is!" "You've embarrassed my Sashenka," said Kokovkina, looking affectionately at both Liudmilla and Sasha. Liudmilla, leaning forward with a cat-like movement, stroked Sasha's head. He gave a loud, embarrassed laugh, turned from under her hands and ran into his room. "My dear, find me a husband," said Liudmilla without any ado. "Well, you've found a nice matchmaker, I must say!" said Kokovkina with a smile, but it was evident from the expression of her face that she would have undertaken to make a marriage with great enjoyment. "How are you not a matchmaker and why shouldn't I make a bride?" said Liudmilla. "Surely you wouldn't be ashamed to make a marriage for me." Liudmilla put her arms on her hips and danced a few steps in front of her hostess. "Well," said Kokovkina, "what a wood flower you are!" "You might do it in your spare time," said Liudmilla with a laugh. "What sort of husband would you like?" asked Kokovkina with amusement. "Let him be--let him be dark--my dear, he must certainly be dark, very dark, dark as a--well, you have a model here--your student--his eyebrows must be black and his eyes languishing, and his eyelashes must be long--long, blue-black eyelashes--your schoolboy's certainly handsome--really handsome--I'd like one of his sort." Soon Liudmilla made ready to leave. It had grown quite dark. Sasha went out to escort her. "Only as far as the cabby," said Liudmilla in a gentle voice, and looked at Sasha with her caressing eyes, blushing guiltily. Once on the street Liudmilla became gay once more and began to cross-examine Sasha. "Well, are you always at your lessons? Do you read much?" "Yes, I love reading," replied Sasha. "Andersen's fairy-tales?" "No, not fairy-tales, but all sorts of books. I like history and poems too." "Do you like poetry? And who's your favourite poet?" asked Liudmilla gravely. "Nadson, of course,"[1] replied Sasha, with the deep conviction of the impossibility of any other answer. "So, so!" said Liudmilla encouragingly. "I like Nadson too, but only in the morning. In the evening, my dear, I like to dress up. And what do you like to do?" Sasha looked at her with his soft, dark eyes--they suddenly became moist--and he said quietly: "I like to caress." "Well, you are a nice boy," said Liudmilla, putting her arm on his shoulder. "So you like to caress? But do you like to splash[2] in your bath?" Sasha smiled. Liudmilla went on: "In warm water?" "Yes, in warm and in cold," said the boy shamefacedly. "And what sort of soap do you like?" "Glycerine." "And do you like grapes?" Sasha began to laugh. "You're a queer girl! It's a different thing and you ask as if it were the same. You can't take me in." "As if I wanted to!" said Liudmilla laughing. "I know what you are--you're a giggler." "Where did you get that?" "Everyone says so," said Sasha. "You're a little gossip," said Liudmilla with assumed severity. Sasha blushed again. "Well, here's a cabby. Cabby!" shouted Liudmilla. "Cabby!" shouted Sasha also. The cabman came up in his shaky drozhky. Liudmilla told him where to go. He thought a while and demanded forty kopecks. Liudmilla said: "Do you think it's far? That shows that you don't know the road." "Well, how much will you give?" asked the cabman. "You can take which half you like." Sasha laughed. "You're a cheerful young lady," said the cabby with a grin. "You might add another five-kopeck piece." "Thank you for escorting me, my dear," said Liudmilla, as she pressed Sasha's hand tightly and seated herself in the drozhky. Sasha ran back to the house thinking cheerfully about the cheerful maiden. * * * * * Liudmilla returned home in a cheerful mood, smiling and thinking of something pleasant. The sisters awaited her. They sat at a round table in the dining-room, lit up by a hanging lamp. The brown bottle of cherry-brandy on the white tablecloth looked very cheerful; the silver paper round the bottle's neck glittered brightly. It was surrounded by plates containing apples, nuts, and sweets made of honey and nuts. Darya was slightly tipsy. Her face was red and her clothes were a little dishevelled; she was singing loudly. Liudmilla as she came heard the last couplet but one of the well-known song: "Her dress is gone, her reed is gone. Naked, he leads her naked along the dune. Fear drives out shame, shame drives out fear, The shepherdess is all in tears: 'Forget what you have seen.'" Larissa was also present. She was sprucely dressed. She was tranquilly cheerful and eating an apple, cutting off the slices with a small knife and was laughing. "Well," she asked, "what did you see?" Darya stopped singing and looked at Liudmilla. Valeria leaned her head on her hand with the little finger against her temple and smiled responsively at Larissa. She was slender, fragile, and her smile was unreposeful. Liudmilla poured herself a cherry-red liqueur and said: "It's all nonsense! He's a real boy and quite sympathetic. He's very dark and his eyes sparkle, but he's quite young and innocent." Then she burst into a loud laugh. The sisters when they looked at her began to laugh also. "Well, what's one to say? It's all Peredonovian nonsense," said Darya, and waved her hand contemptuously; she grew thoughtful for a moment, leaning her head on her hands, with her elbows on the table. "I might as well go on singing," she said, and began to sing with piercing loudness. There was an intensely grim animation in her squeals. If a dead man should be released from the grave on condition of his singing perpetually, he would sing in this way. But the sisters had already become used to Darya's tipsy bawling, and at times even joined in with her in purposely ranting voices. "Well, she's let herself loose," said Liudmilla laughing. It was not that she objected to the noise, but she wanted her sisters to listen to her. Darya shouted angrily, interrupting her song in the middle of a word: "What's the matter with you? I'm not interfering with you!" And immediately she took up the song at the very place she had left off. Larissa said amiably: "Let her sing." "It's raining hard on me, There's no roof for a girl like me--" bawled Darya, imitating the sounds and drawing out the syllables as the simple folk-singers do to make a song more pathetic. For example, it sounded like this: "O-o-oh; it's a-rai-ai-ning ha-a-a-rd on me-e-e!" Particularly unpleasant were the sounds stretched out where the accents did not fall. It produced a superlative impression: it would have brought a mortal depression on a new listener. A sadness resounding through our native fields and villages, a sadness consuming with a hideous flame the living word, debasing a once living song with senseless howling.... Suddenly Darya sprang up, put her hand on her hips and began to shout out a gay song,[3] dancing and snapping her fingers: "Go away, young fellow, go away-- I am a robber's daughter A fig for your good looks-- I'll stick a knife in your belly. I'll not have a muzhik. I'm going to love a bossiak."[4] Darya danced and sang, and her eyes seemed as motionless as the dead moon in its orbit. Liudmilla laughed loudly--and her heart now felt faint, now felt oppressed, from gay joyousness or from the cherry-sweet cherry brandy. Valeria laughed quietly with glass-sounding laughter, and looked enviously at her sisters; she wished she were as cheerful as they, but somehow she felt anything but cheerful--she thought that she was the last, the youngest, "the left-over"; hence her frailty and her unhappiness. And though she was laughing she was almost on the point of bursting into tears. Larissa looked at her, and winked--and Valeria suddenly grew more cheerful. Larissa rose, and moved her shoulders--presently, in a single instant, all four sisters were whirling round madly, as in a mystic dance, and, following Darya's lead, were shouting new _chastushki,_ one more gay and absurd than the other. The sisters were young, handsome, and their voices sounded loud and wild--the witches on the Bald hill might have envied this mad whirl. All night Liudmilla dreamt such sultry African dreams! Now she dreamt that she was lying in a smotheringly hot room, and her bedcover slipping from her left her hot body naked--and then a scaly, ringed serpent crept into the room, and climbing up a tree coiled itself round the branches of its naked, handsome limbs.... Then she dreamt of a hot summer evening by a lake under threatening, cumbrously-moving clouds--she was lying on its bank, naked, with a smooth golden crown across her forehead. There was a smell of tepid stagnant water and of grass withered by the heat--and upon the dark, ominous, calm water floated a white, powerful swan of regal stateliness. He beat the water noisily with his wings, and, hissing loudly, approached her and embraced her--and it felt delicious, and languorous and sad.... And both the serpent and the swan, in bending over her, showed Sasha's face, almost bluely pale, with dark, enigmatically sad eyes--their blue-black eyelids, jealously covering their witching glance, descended heavily and apprehensively. Then Liudmilla dreamt of a magnificent chamber with low, heavy arches--it was crowded with strong, naked, beautiful boys--the handsomest of all was Sasha. She was sitting high, and the naked boys in turn beat one another. And when Sasha was laid on the floor, his face towards Liudmilla, and beaten, he loudly laughed and wept--she was also laughing, as one laughs only in dreams, when the heart begins to beat intensely, and when one laughs long, unrestrainedly, the laughter of oblivion and of death.... In the morning after all these dreams Liudmilla felt that she was passionately in love with Sasha. An impatient desire to see him seized hold of her--but the thought that she would see him dressed made her sad. How stupid that small boys don't go about naked! Or at least barefoot, like the streets gamins in summer upon whom Liudmilla loved to gaze because they walked about barefoot, and sometimes showed their bared legs quite high. "As if it were so shameful to have a body," thought Liudmilla, "that even small boys hide it!" [1] Simon Yakovlevitch Nadson (1862-86), a poet of considerable merit, who was popular in spite of his monotony and melancholy. [2] This word in Russian is "poloskatsya" and is a pun on "laskatsya," which is to caress. [3] The original word is "chastushka," which is a town song put to the tune of an old folk-song. This is a recent development of town life in Russia. [4] "Bossiak" is literally "bare-foot," a vagabond. The "bossiak" has become quite a marked type in Russia since Gorky took to writing of him. The bossiak is often referred to in a satiric way in modern Russian literature. CHAPTER XV Volodin went punctually to the Adamenkos to give his lessons. His hopes that the young woman would invite him to take coffee were not realised. Each time he came he was taken straight to the little shanty used for carpentry. Misha usually stood in his linen apron at the joiner's bench, having got ready what was necessary for the lesson. He did obediently but unwillingly all that Volodin told him to do. In order to work less, Misha tried to drag Volodin into conversation, but Volodin wished to work conscientiously and refused to comply. "Mishenka," he would say, "you had better do your work for a couple of hours and then, if you like, we can have a talk. Then as much as you like, but now not a bit--business before everything." Misha sighed lightly and went on with his work, but at the end of the lesson he had no desire to talk: he said he had no time and that he had much home work to do. Sometimes Nadezhda came to the lesson to see how Misha was getting along. Misha noticed--and made use of the fact--that in her presence Volodin could much more easily be lured into conversation. When Nadezhda saw that Misha was not working she immediately said to him: "Misha, don't be lazy!" And when she left she said to Volodin: "I'm sorry that I've interrupted. If you give him a little leeway he gets very lazy." At the beginning Volodin was mortified by Nadezhda's behaviour; then he thought that she hesitated to ask him to take coffee in case there should be gossip. Then he thought that she need not have come to look on at the lessons at all and yet she came--was it because she liked to see him? So Volodin reasoned to his advantage from the fact that Nadezhda from the very first had eagerly agreed that he should give lessons and had not stopped to bargain. He was encouraged in these suppositions by Peredonov and Varvara. "It is clear that she's in love with you," said Peredonov. "And what better fiancé could she have?" added Varvara. Volodin tried to look modest and felt pleased with his prospects. Once Peredonov said to him: "You're a fiancé and yet you wear that shabby tie!" "I'm not her fiancé yet, Ardasha," said Volodin soberly, nevertheless trembling with pleasure. "But I can easily get a new tie." "Buy yourself one with a pattern in it," advised Peredonov. "So that it will be clear that love is burning within you." "Better get a red one," said Varvara, "and the fancier the better. And a tie-pin. You can buy a tie-pin cheaply and with a stone too--it will be quite _chic_." Peredonov thought that possibly Volodin had not enough money. Or he might think of economising and buy a simple black one. And that would be fatal, thought Peredonov: Adamenko is a fashionable girl and if he should come to propose to her in any kind of a tie she might be offended and reject him. Peredonov said: "Only don't buy a cheap one. Pavloushka, you've won from me enough money to pay for a tie. How much do I owe you? I think it's one rouble forty kopecks, isn't it?" "You're quite right about the forty kopecks," said Volodin with a wry smile, "only it's not one rouble but two." Peredonov knew himself that it was two roubles, but it was more pleasant to pay only one. He said: "You're a liar! What two roubles?" "Varvara Dmitrievna's my witness," said Volodin. "You'd better pay, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Varvara, "since you lost--and I remember that it was two forty." Peredonov thought that as Varvara was interceding for Volodin, that meant that she was going over to his side. He frowned, produced the money from his purse and said: "All right, let it be two forty--it won't ruin me. You're a poor man, Pavloushka. Well, here it is." Volodin took the money, counted it, then assumed an offended expression and bent down his thick forehead, stuck out his lower lip and said in a bleating, cracked voice: "Ardalyon Borisitch, you happen to be in debt to me and therefore you've got to pay, and that I happen to be poor has nothing to do with the matter. I haven't yet come down to begging my bread off anyone, and as you know the only poor devil is the one that hasn't any bread to eat, and as I eat bread, and butter with it, that means I'm not poor." And he became mollified and at the same time blushed with joy to think that he had answered so cleverly, and twisted his lips into a smile. * * * * * At last Peredonov and Volodin decided to go and fix up the match. They arranged themselves very elaborately and they had a solemn and more than usually stupid look. Peredonov put on a white stock. Volodin a vivid red tie with green stripes. Peredonov argued thus: "As I am to do the match-making, mine is a sober role. I must live up to it. So I must wear a white tie, and you, the lover, should show your flaming feelings." With intense solemnity Peredonov and Volodin seated themselves in the Adamenkos' drawing-room. Peredonov sat on a sofa and Volodin in an arm-chair. Nadezhda looked at her visitors in astonishment. The visitors talked about the weather and various bits of news, with the look of people who had come upon a delicate affair and did not know how to approach it. At last Peredonov coughed, frowned and began: "Nadezhda Vassilyevna, we've come on business." "On business," said Volodin, making a significant face; and he protruded his lips. "It's about him," said Peredonov, and pointed at Volodin with his forefinger. "It's about me," echoed Volodin, and pointed his own forefinger at his breast. Nadezhda smiled. "Please go on," she said. "I'm going to speak for him," said Peredonov. "He's bashful, he can't make up his mind to do it himself. He's a worthy, non-drinking, good man. He does not earn much, but that's nothing. Everyone needs a different thing--one needs money, another needs a man. Well, why don't you say something?" He turned to Volodin, "Say something!" Volodin lowered his head and spoke in a trembling voice, like a bleating ram: "It's true I don't earn high wages. But I shall always have my crumb of bread. It's true that I didn't go to a university, but I live as may God grant everyone to do. But I don't know anything against myself--and besides, let everyone judge for himself. But I, well, I'm satisfied with myself." He spread out his arms, lowered his forehead as if he were about to butt and grew silent. "And so, as you see," said Peredonov, "he's a young man. And he shouldn't live like this. He ought to marry. In any case the married man is always better off." "And if his wife suits him, what can be better?" added Volodin. "And you," continued Peredonov, "are a girl. You also ought to marry." From behind the door there came a slight rustle, abrupt smothered sounds, as though someone were breathing or laughing with a closed mouth. Nadezhda looked sternly in the direction of the door and said coldly: "You are too concerned about me," with an annoying emphasis on the word "too." "You don't want a rich husband," said Peredonov, "you're rich yourself. You need someone to love you and gratify you in everything. And you know him, you could understand him. He's not indifferent to you and perhaps you're not indifferent to him either. So you see I have the merchant and you have the goods. That is, you are the goods yourself." Nadezhda blushed and bit her lip to keep from laughing. The same sounds continued behind the door. Volodin bashfully lowered his eyes. It seemed to him that his affair was going well. "What goods?" asked Nadezhda cautiously. "Pardon me, I don't understand." "What do you mean, 'you don't understand'?" asked Peredonov incredulously. "Well, I'll tell you straight. Pavel Vassilyevitch has come to ask for your hand and heart. I ask on his behalf." Behind the door something fell to the floor and rolled and snorted and panted. Nadezhda, growing red with suppressed laughter, looked at her visitors. Volodin's proposal seemed to her a ridiculous impertinence. "Yes," said Volodin, "Nadezhda Vassilyevna, I've come to ask for your hand and heart." He grew red and rose from his chair--his foot awkwardly rumpled the carpet--bowed and quickly sat down again. Then he got up again, put his hand on his heart and said as he looked tenderly at the girl: "Nadezhda Vassilyevna, permit me to say a few words! As I have loved you for some time you surely will not say 'no' to me?" He threw himself forward and let himself down on one knee before Nadezhda and kissed her hand. "Nadezhda Vassilyevna, believe me! I swear to you!" he exclaimed, and lifted his hand high in the air and with a wild swing hit himself full on the chest so that the sound re-echoed through the room. "What's the matter with you! Please get up," said Nadezhda in embarrassment. "Why are you doing this?" Volodin rose and with an injured expression on his face returned to his seat. There he pressed both his hands on his chest and again exclaimed: "Nadezhda Vassilyevna, do believe me! Until death, from all my soul." "I'm sorry," said Nadezhda, "but I really can't. I must bring up my brother--even now he's crying behind the door." "Bring up your brother," said Volodin, protruding an offended lip. "I fail to see why that should prevent it." "No, in any case it concerns him," said Nadezhda, rising hurriedly. "He must be asked. Just wait." She quickly ran from the drawing-room, rustling with her bright yellow dress, caught Misha by the shoulder behind the door and ran with him to his room; as she stood there by the door panting with running and suppressed laughter, she said in a breathless voice: "It's quite useless to ask you not to listen behind doors. Must I really be very stern with you?" Misha, catching her by the waist, with his head against her, laughed and shook with his efforts to suppress his laughter. She pushed Misha into his room, sat down on a chair near the door and began to laugh. "Did you hear what he's thinking of, your Pavel Vassilyevitch?" she said. "Come with me into the drawing-room and don't you dare to laugh. I will ask you in their presence and don't you dare say 'yes.' Do you understand?" "Oo-hoo," blurted out Misha, and stuck a corner of his handkerchief in his mouth to stop his laughing, but with little success. "Cover your face with your handkerchief when you want to laugh," his sister advised him, and led him by his shoulder into the drawing-room. There she placed him in an arm-chair and sat down on a chair at his side. Volodin looked offended and lowered his head like a little ram. "You see," she said, pointing at her brother, "I've barely dried his tears, poor boy! I have to be a mother to him, and he has a sudden idea that I'm going to leave him." Misha covered his face with his handkerchief. His whole body shook. In order to hide his laughter he uttered a protracted moan: "Oo-oo-oo." Nadezhda embraced him, pinched his hand secretly and said: "Well, stop crying, my dear, stop crying." Misha for a moment unexpectedly felt touched and tears came into his eyes. He lowered his handkerchief and looked angrily at his sister. "The youngster might suddenly get into a fit," thought Peredonov, "and begin to bite; human spit, they say, is poisonous." He moved closer to Volodin, so that in case of danger he could hide behind him. Nadezhda said to her brother: "Pavel Vassilyevitch asks for my hand." "Hand and heart," corrected Peredonov. "And heart," added Volodin modestly but with dignity. Misha covered his face with his handkerchief and choking with suppressed laughter said: "No, don't marry him. What would become of me?" Volodin, hurt but agitated, said in a trembling voice: "I'm surprised, Nadezhda Vassilyevna, that you are asking your brother, who is besides quite a child. Even if he were a grown-up young man you might speak for yourself. But at your asking him now, Nadezhda Vassilyevna, I am not only surprised but shocked." "To ask little boys seems ridiculous to me," said Peredonov gravely. "Whom have I to ask? It's all the same to my aunt, and as I'm responsible for his upbringing how can I marry you. Perhaps you would treat him harshly. Isn't it so, Mishka, that you're afraid of his harshness?" "No, Nadya," said Misha, looking out with one eye from behind his handkerchief. "I'm not afraid of his harshness. Why should I? But I am afraid that Pavel Vassilyevitch would spoil me and not allow you to put me in the corner." "Believe me, Nadezhda Vassilyevna," said Volodin, pressing his hands to his heart, "I won't spoil Mishenka. I always think: 'Why should a boy be spoiled?' He's well fed, well dressed, well shod, as for spoiling--no! I too can put him into the corner and not spoil him at all. I can do even more. As you're a girl, that is, a young lady, it's a little inconvenient to you, but I could easily birch him." "He's not only going to put me into a corner," said Misha whimpering, having again covered his face with his handkerchief, "but he'll even birch me! No, that doesn't suit me. No, Nadya, don't you dare to marry him." "Well, do you hear? I decidedly can't," said Nadezhda. "It seems very strange to me, Nadezhda Vassilyevna, that you're acting in this way," said Volodin. "I come to you with all my affections and one might even say with fiery feelings, and you give your brother as an excuse. If you now give your brother as an excuse, another might give her sister, a third her nephew, or perhaps some other relative, and so no one would marry--so that the whole human race would come to an end." "Don't worry about that, Pavel Vassilyevitch," said Nadezhda, "the world is not threatened yet by such a possibility. I don't want to marry without Misha's consent, and he, as you have heard, is not willing. Besides, as it's clear that you have promised to beat him straight away, you might also beat me." "Please, Nadezhda Vassilyevna, surely you don't think that I would permit myself such a disgraceful action," exclaimed Volodin desperately. Nadezhda smiled. "And I myself have no desire to marry," she said. "Perhaps you think of entering a nunnery?" asked Volodin in an offended voice. "More likely you'll join the Tolstoyan sect," corrected Peredonov, "and manure the fields." "Why should I go anywhere?" asked Nadezhda coldly, as she rose from her seat. "I'm perfectly well off here." Volodin rose also, protruded his lips in a hurt way and said: "Since Mishenka feels this way towards me and you are on his side, then I suppose I'd better stop the lessons, for how can I go to the lessons if Mishenka behaves towards me in this way?" "Why not?" asked Nadezhda. "That's quite another affair." Peredonov thought he ought to make yet another effort to prevail upon the young woman: perhaps she would consent. He said to her gloomily: "You'd better think it over well, Nadezhda Vassilyevna--why should you do it post-haste? He's a good man. He's my friend." "No," said Nadezhda. "What is there to think about? I thank Pavel Vassilyevitch very much for the honour, but I really can't." Peredonov looked angrily at Volodin and rose. He thought that Volodin was a fool, he couldn't make the young woman fall in love with him. Volodin stood beside his chair with lowered head. He asked reproachfully: "So that means it's all over, Nadezhda Vassilyevna? Ah! If so," said he waving his hand, "then may God be good to you, Nadezhda Vassilyevna. It means that is my miserable fate. Ah! A youth loved a maiden and she did not love him. God sees all! Ah, well, I'll grieve and that's all." "You're rejecting a good man and you don't know what sort you may get," persisted Peredonov. "Ah!" exclaimed Volodin once more and turned to the door. But suddenly he decided to be magnanimous and returned to shake hands with the young woman and even with the juvenile offender Misha. * * * * * In the street Peredonov grumbled angrily. All the way Volodin complained bleatingly in an offended voice. "Why did you give up your lessons?" growled Peredonov. "You must be a rich man!" "Ardalyon Borisitch, I only said that if this is so I ought to give them up, and she said to me that I needn't give them up, and as I replied nothing then it follows that she begged me to continue. And now it all depends upon me--if I like, I'll refuse; if I like, I'll continue them." "Why should you refuse?" said Peredonov. "Keep on going as if nothing had happened." "Let him at least get something out of this--he'll have less cause for envy," thought Peredonov. Peredonov felt terribly depressed. Volodin was not yet settled. "If I don't keep a look-out on him he may begin plotting with Varvara. Besides, it's possible that Adamenko will have a grudge against me for trying to marry her to Volodin. She has relatives in Peterburg; she might write to them and hurt my chances." The weather was unpleasant. The sky was cloudy; the crows flew about cawing. They cawed above Peredonov's head, as if they taunted him and foreboded new and worse disappointments. Peredonov wrapped his scarf round his neck and thought that in such weather it was easy to catch cold. "What sort of flowers are those, Pavloushka?" he asked as he pointed out to Volodin some small yellow flowers by a garden fence. "That's _liutiki_,[1] Ardasha," said Volodin sadly. Peredonov recalled that many such flowers grew in his own garden, and what a terrible name they had! Perhaps they were poisonous. One day Varvara would take a handful of them and boil them instead of tea, and would poison him--then when the inspector's certificate arrived, she would poison him and make Volodin take his place. Perhaps they had already agreed upon it. It was not for nothing that he knew the name of this flower. In the meantime Volodin was saying: "Let God be her judge! Why did she humiliate me? She's waiting for an aristocrat and it doesn't occur to her that there are all sorts of aristocrats--she might be miserable with one of them; but a simple, good man might make her happy. And now I'll go to church and put a candle for her health and pray: May God give her a drunken husband, who will beat her, who will squander her money and leave her penniless in the world. Then she will remember me, but it will be too late. She will dry her tears with her hand and say, 'What a fool I was to reject Pavel Vassilyevitch. There's no one to direct me now. He was a good man!'" Touched by his own words, a few tears came into Volodin's eyes and he wiped them from his sheepish, bulging eyes with his hands. "You'd better break some of her windows one night," advised Peredonov. "Well, God be with her," said Volodin sadly. "I might be caught. No, and what a miserable little boy that is! O Lord, what have I done to him that he should think of harming me? Haven't I tried hard for him, and look what mischief he's done me! What do you think of such an infant; what will become of him? Tell me." "Yes," said Peredonov savagely, "you couldn't even manage the little boy. Oh, you lover!" "Well, what of that?" said Volodin. "Of course I'm a lover. I'll find another. She needn't think that I'll grieve for her." "Oh, you lover," Peredonov continued to taunt him. "And he put a new tie on! How can a chap like you expect to be a gentleman? Lover!" "Well, I'm the lover and you're the match-maker, Ardasha," argued Volodin. "You yourself aroused hopes in me and couldn't fulfil them. Oh, you matchmaker!" And they began zealously to taunt one another and to argue as if they were discussing some important business matter. * * * * * Nadezhda escorted her visitors to the door and returned to the drawing-room. Misha was lying on the sofa laughing. His sister pulled him off the sofa by his shoulders and said: "But you have forgotten that you oughtn't to listen behind doors." She lifted her hands and made as if to cross her little fingers at an angle, a sign for him to go into the corner, but suddenly burst out laughing, and the little fingers did not come together. Misha threw himself towards her. They embraced and laughed for a long time. "All the same," she said, "you ought to go in the corner for listening." "You ought to let me off," said Misha. "I saved you from that bridegroom, so you ought to be grateful." "Who saved whom? You heard how they were talking of giving you a birching. Now go into the corner." "Well, I'd better kneel here," said Misha. He lowered himself on to his knees at his sister's feet and laid his head in her lap. She caressed him and tickled him. Misha laughed, scrabbling with his knees on the floor. Suddenly his sister pushed him from her and sat down on the sofa. Misha remained alone. He stayed awhile on his knees, and looked questioningly at his sister. She seated herself more comfortably and picked up a book as if to read, but watched her brother over it. "Well, I'm tired now," he said plaintively. "I'm not keeping you there, you put yourself there," answered Nadezhda, smiling over her book. "Well, I've been punished, let me go, please," entreated Misha. "Did I put you on your knees?" said Nadezhda in a voice of assumed indifference. "Why do you bother me?" "I'll not get up until you've forgiven me." Nadezhda burst out laughing, put the book aside, and taking hold of Misha's shoulders, pulled him to her. He gave a squeal and threw himself into her arms exclaiming: "Pavloushka's bride!" [1] _Liutiki,_ a sort of buttercup. The word "liuti" means "cruel, ferocious, violent," which gives the point of Peredonov's reflection. CHAPTER XVI The dark-eyed boy occupied all Liudmilla's thoughts. She often talked about him with her own family and with acquaintances, sometimes unseasonably. Almost every night she saw him in a dream, sometimes quiet and ordinary but often in a wild and fantastic guise. Her accounts of these dreams became so habitual with her that her sisters began to ask her every morning how she had dreamed of Sasha. She spent all her leisure thinking about him. On Sunday Liudmilla prevailed on her sisters to ask Kokovkina in after Mass and to keep her a while. She wanted to find Sasha alone. She herself did not go to church. She instructed her sisters: "Tell her that I overslept myself." Her sisters laughed at her plot but agreed to help her. They lived very amicably together. Besides this suited them admirably--Liudmilla would occupy herself with a boy and that would leave them the more eligible young men. And they did as they promised--they invited Kokovkina to come in after Mass. In the meantime Liudmilla got ready to go. She dressed herself very gaily and handsomely and scented herself with soft syringa perfume, and she put a new bottle of scent and a small sprinkler into her white bead-trimmed hand-bag, and stood just behind the blind in the drawing-room so that she could see whether Kokovkina was coming. She had thought of taking the scent before this--to scent the schoolboy so that he would not smell of his detestable Latin, ink and boyishness. Liudmilla loved perfumes, ordered them from Peterburg and consumed a great deal of them. She loved aromatic flowers. Her room was always full of some sweet scent--with flowers, with perfumes, with pines, and in the spring with birch-twigs. But here were the sisters, and Kokovkina with them. Liudmilla ran through the kitchen, across the vegetable garden, by the little gate, along a lane in order not to meet Kokovkina. She smiled happily, walked quickly towards Kokovkina's house and playfully swung her hand-bag and white parasol. The warm autumn day gladdened her and it seemed as if she were bringing with her and spreading around her her own spirit of gaiety. At Kokovkina's the maid told her that her mistress was not at home. Liudmilla laughed noisily and joked with the red-cheeked girl who opened the door. "But perhaps you're fooling me," she said; "perhaps your mistress is hiding from me." "He-he! Why should she hide?" replied the maid with a laugh. "But you can come in if you don't believe me." Liudmilla looked into the drawing-room and shouted playfully: "Is there a live person in the place? Ah, a student!" Sasha looked out from his room and was delighted to see Liudmilla, and seeing his joyous eyes Liudmilla became even gayer. She asked: "And where's Olga Vassilyevna?" "She's not at home," replied Sasha, "that is, she hasn't come back yet. She must have gone somewhere after church. Here I'm back and she's not here yet." Liudmilla pretended to be astonished. She swung her parasol and said as if in annoyance: "How can it be? Everyone else is back from church. She's always at home, and then I come and she's out. Is it because you make such a noise, young man, that the old woman can't sit at home?" Sasha smiled quietly. He was delighted to hear Liudmilla's voice, Liudmilla's cheerful laughter. He was wondering at the moment how he could best offer to escort her--so that he would be with her even a few more minutes, to look at her and to listen to her. But Liudmilla did not think of going. She looked at Sasha with a shy smile and said: "Well, why don't you ask me to sit down, you polite young man? Don't you see that I'm tired! Let me rest for a moment." And she entered the drawing-room laughing and caressing Sasha with her quick, tender eyes. Sasha grew red with confusion but was glad that she would remain longer with him. "If you like I'll scent you," said Liudmilla gaily. "Would you like it?" "What a person you are!" said Sasha. "You suddenly want to suffocate[1] me! Why are you so cruel?" Liudmilla burst out laughing and threw herself back in her chair. "You stupid! You don't understand. I don't mean to suffocate with the hands, but with scents." Sasha said: "Ah! Scents! I don't mind that." Liudmilla took the sprinkler from her hand-bag and turned before Sasha's eyes the pretty little glass vessel, dark red with gold ornaments, with its rubber ball and bronze mouthpiece, and said: "Do you see, I bought a new sprinkler and I forgot to take it out of my bag at home." Then she took out a large scent-bottle with a varicoloured label--Guerlain's Roa-Rosa. Sasha said: "What a deep hand-bag you've got!" Liudmilla answered: "Well, you needn't expect anything else. I haven't brought you any ginger-bread." "Ginger-bread!" repeated Sasha in amusement. He looked on with curiosity as Liudmilla uncorked the scent-bottle. He asked: "And how will you pour it out from that without a funnel?" "I expect you to get me a funnel," said Liudmilla. "But I haven't one," said Sasha. "Do as you like, but you must get me a funnel," persisted Liudmilla, laughing. "I would get one from Milanya, only it's used for paraffin," said Sasha. Liudmilla again burst into gay laughter. "Oh, you dull young man, get me a piece of paper, if you can spare it--and there's your funnel." "That's true," exclaimed Sasha joyously, "it's easy to make one from paper. I'll get it at once." Sasha ran into his room. "Shall I take it from an exercise-book?" he shouted from his room. Liudmilla replied: "You can tear it out from a book--a Latin grammar if you like. I don't mind." "No, I'd better take it from the exercise-book," said Sasha laughingly. He found a clean exercise-book, tore out the middle page and was about to run back to the drawing-room when he saw Liudmilla at the door. "May I come in, master of the house?" she asked playfully. "Please, I shall be very glad!" exclaimed Sasha. Liudmilla seated herself at his table and twisted a funnel from a piece of paper. With a preoccupied expression, she began to pour the scent from the bottle into the sprinkler. The paper funnel, at the bottom and the side, where the trickle of scent ran, became wet and dark. The aromatic liquid accumulated in the funnel and dripped into the sprinkler below. There was a warm, sweet aroma of rose mixed with a poignant odour of spirit. Liudmilla poured half of the scent from the bottle into the sprinkler and said: "That'll be enough." And she began to screw the top on the scent-sprinkler. Then she rolled up the piece of wet paper and rubbed it between the palms of her hands. "Smell!" she said to Sasha and put her palm to his face. Sasha bent over, closed his eyes, and inhaled. Liudmilla laughed, lightly touched his lips with her palm and held her hand to his mouth. Sasha blushed and kissed her warm, scented hand with a gentle contact of his trembling lips. Liudmilla sighed; a tender expression crossed her attractive face, and then changed to her habitual expression of careless gaiety. She said: "Now, just keep still while I sprinkle you." And she pressed the rubber bulb. The aromatic spray-dust spurted out, spreading into minute drops upon Sasha's blouse. Sasha laughed as he turned obediently when Liudmilla pushed him. "It smells nice, eh?" she asked. "Very nice," replied Sasha. "What sort of scent is it?" "What a baby you are!" said Liudmilla in a teasing voice. "Look on the bottle and you'll see." Sasha looked at the label and said: "It smells of oil of roses." "Oil!" she said reproachfully, and struck Sasha lightly on the shoulder. Sasha laughed, gave a slight scream and thrust out his tongue, curving it in the shape of a tube. Liudmilla rose, and began to turn over Sasha's school books. "May I look?" she asked. "Of course," said Sasha. "Where are your ones and your noughts? Show me." "I haven't yet had any such thing," said Sasha with an injured look. "No, you're fibbing," asserted Liudmilla. "I'm sure you get noughts. You must have hidden them." Sasha smiled. "I'm sure you're bored with Latin and Greek," said Liudmilla. "No," answered Sasha, but it was evident that the mere conversation about school-books would bring upon him their habitual tediousness. "It is a little boring to learn mechanically," he admitted. "But I have a good memory. I only like solving problems--that I like." "Come to me to-morrow after lunch," said Liudmilla. "Thank you, I will," said Sasha blushing. He felt very happy that Liudmilla had invited him. Liudmilla asked: "Do you know where I live? Will you come there?" "Yes, I know. I'll come there," said Sasha happily. "Now, be sure to come," repeated Liudmilla sternly. "I'll wait for you, do you hear!" "But suppose I should have a lot of lessons?" asked Sasha, more from scruple than from any idea that he would not come because of his lessons. "That's all nonsense. You must come," insisted Liudmilla. "They won't give you a nought." "But why?" asked Sasha laughingly. "Because you've got to come. Come, for I've something to tell you and something to show you," said Liudmilla dancing about and humming a song, and lifting her skirt as she did so, and playfully sticking out her pink little fingers. "Come to me, sweet one, sober one, golden one," she sang. Sasha began to laugh. "You'd better tell me to-day," he entreated. "I mustn't to-day. And how can I tell you to-day? You won't come to-morrow if I do. You'll say there's nothing to come for." "Very well, I'll come without fail, if they'll let me." "Of course they'll let you. No one's holding you on a chain." When she said good-bye, Liudmilla kissed Sasha's forehead, and put her hand to his lips--he had to kiss it. And Sasha was happy to kiss again her white, gentle hand--and a little shy. And why not? But Liudmilla, as she left, smiled archly and tenderly. And she looked back several times. "How charming she is," thought Sasha. He was left alone. "How soon she left," he thought. "She suddenly went and it's hard to realise that she's gone. She might have stayed a little longer." And he felt ashamed that he had not offered to escort her. "It wouldn't have been a bad idea to walk along with her," he thought. "Shall I run after her? Has she gone far, I wonder. Perhaps if I run fast I might overtake her." "But perhaps she would laugh," he continued to himself. "And besides she might not like it." And so he could not make up his mind to go after her. He suddenly felt depressed and uneasy. The gentle tremor from the contact of her hand still remained on his lips, and on his forehead her kiss still burned. "How gently she kisses," Sasha mused. "Like a sweet sister." Sasha's cheeks burned. He felt deliciously ashamed. Vague reveries stirred within him. "If she were only my sister," thought Sasha tenderly, "then I might go to her and kiss her and say an affectionate word. Then I might call her 'Liudmillotchka dearest,' or I might call her by some special pet-name: 'Booba' or 'Strekoza.' And she would respond. Now that would be a joy. "But instead," thought Sasha sadly, "she's a stranger. Lovely, but a stranger. She came and she went. And it's likely she's not even thinking about me. And she's left behind her a sweet scent of rose and lilac, and the feeling of two gentle kisses--and a vague movement in the soul giving birth to a sweet vision as the waves gave birth to Aphrodite." * * * * * Soon Kokovkina returned. "Phew! how strong it smells here," she said. Sasha blushed. "Liudmillotchka was here," he said. "And she didn't find you at home, so she sat a while and sprinkled me with scent and left." "What tenderness!" said the old woman in astonishment, "and Liudmillotchka too!" Sasha laughed confusedly and ran into his own room. As for Kokovkina, she thought that the Routilov sisters were very gay and affectionate girls--and that they could captivate both the young and the old with their affectionate ways. * * * * * On the next day, from the morning onward, Sasha felt happy because he had been invited to the Routilovs. At home he waited impatiently for lunch. After lunch, blushing with embarrassment, he asked permission of Kokovkina to go to the Routilovs till seven o'clock. Kokovkina was astonished but let him go. Sasha ran off gaily. He had carefully combed his hair and put pomade on it. He felt happy and slightly nervous, as one is before something important and pleasant. It pleased him to think that he would come and kiss Liudmilla's hand and that she would kiss his forehead--and then when he left the same kisses would be exchanged. He thought with delight of Liudmilla's white gentle hand. All the three sisters met Sasha in the hall. They liked to sit by the window and look out on the street and that was why they saw him from a distance. Gay, well-dressed, chattering, they surrounded him with a noisy, impetuous gaiety--and he at once felt at ease with them and quite happy. "Here he is, the mysterious young person!" exclaimed Liudmilla. Sasha kissed her hand and he did it gracefully and with great pleasure to himself. At the same time he kissed Darya's hand and Valeria's--it was impossible to pass them by--and found this also very agreeable. All the more, since all three of them kissed his cheek. Darya kissed him loudly and indifferently, as though he were a board; Valeria kissed him gently, lowering her eyes with a sidelong glance, smiled slightly and barely brushed him with her light lips--touching his cheek with the faint colour of an apple--while Liudmilla gave him a gay, strong kiss. "He's my visitor," she announced, as she took Sasha by the shoulders and led him to her room. Darya was rather annoyed at this. "Ah, so he's yours. Well, you can go on kissing him!" she exclaimed. "You've found a treasure. As if anyone would want to take him away from you." Valeria said nothing but only smiled--it was not interesting, after all, to talk with a mere boy! What could he understand? Liudmilla's room was spacious, cheerful and very light, because of two large windows giving on to the garden; these were curtained with light, yellow tulle. There was a perfume in the room. Everything was neat and bright. The chairs and the arm-chairs were covered with a golden yellow chintz, marked with a white almost indistinguishable pattern. Various bottles of scents and scented waters, and small jars, boxes and fans and several Russian and French books lay about the room. "I saw you in a dream last night," Liudmilla began with a laugh. "You were swimming in the river and I was sitting on the bridge and I caught you with a fishing-rod." "And I suppose you put me in a little jar?" asked Sasha jokingly. "Why in a little jar?" "Where, then?" "Where? Why, I simply pulled you by the ears and threw you back in the water." And Liudmilla laughed for a long time. "You're a strange girl," said Sasha. "But what is it you were going to tell me to-day?" But Liudmilla went on laughing and did not reply. "I see you've fooled me," said he. "And you also promised to show me something," he said reproachfully. "I'll show you! Would you like something to eat?" asked Liudmilla. "I've had lunch," said Sasha. "But you are a deceiver." "As if I needed to deceive you! But what a strong smell of pomade?" Liudmilla suddenly exclaimed. Sasha blushed. "I can't stand pomade," said Liudmilla with annoyance. "You're smeared up like a young lady!" She ran her hand down his hair and struck his cheek with her grease-smeared palm. "Please don't you dare to use pomade," she said. Sasha felt flustered. "Very well, I won't do it," he said. "How severe you are! But you scent yourself with perfumes!" "Scents are one thing, but pomade is another, you stupid. A fine comparison!" exclaimed Liudmilla. "I never pomade myself. Why should one glue one's hair down! It's different with scents. Now, let me scent you. Would you like it? Let us say lilac. Would you like it?" "Yes, I would like it," said Sasha. It was pleasant to think that he would take that scent home again and astonish Kokovkina. "Who would like it?" asked Liudmilla, taking the bottle and looking archly at Sasha. "I'd like it," repeated Sasha. "You like it--so you bark do you?"[2] she teased him. Sasha and Liudmilla both laughed. "So you're not afraid that I'll suffocate you?" asked Liudmilla. "Do you remember how you were afraid yesterday?" "I wasn't afraid at all," replied Sasha hotly. Liudmilla, smiling and still teasing the boy, began to sprinkle him with lilac scent. Sasha thanked her and once more kissed her hand. "And please you must get your hair cut," said Liudmilla sternly. "What's the use of wearing long locks? You only frighten the horses." "All right, I'll have my hair cut," agreed Sasha. "You're terribly severe! My hair is very short. Not more than half an inch. The inspector never grumbled at me for it." "I like young people with short hair," said Liudmilla impressively, and threatened him with her finger. "But I'm not an inspector, I've got to be obeyed!" * * * * * From that time on Liudmilla made it a habit to go frequently to Kokovkina--to see Sasha. She tried, especially at the beginning, to go when Kokovkina was not at home. Sometimes she even tried little tricks to lure the old woman out of the house. Darya once said to her: "Ah, what a coward you are! You're afraid of an old woman. You'd better go when she's at home and take him out for a walk." Liudmilla followed this advice and began to call at odd times. If she found Kokovkina at home she would sit with her for a while and then take Sasha out for a walk, in which case she always kept him for a short time only. Liudmilla and Sasha became friends with a gentle yet not tranquil friendship. Without noticing it herself Liudmilla had awakened in Sasha premature though as yet vague inclinations and desires. Sasha often kissed Liudmilla's hands and her thin, supple wrists, covered with a soft elastic skin; through her thin yellow sleeve showed her frail, sinuous, blue veins. And above were her long slender arms which could be kissed to the very elbows when the sleeves were pushed back. Sasha sometimes concealed from Kokovkina the fact that Liudmilla had been to the house. He didn't lie about it, but he kept silent. It was impossible for him to lie--as the maid-servant could easily have contradicted him. And to remain silent about Liudmilla's visits was also difficult for Sasha: Liudmilla's laughter echoed in his ears. He wanted to talk about her. But to talk about her was somehow awkward. Sasha quickly made friends with the other sisters also. He would kiss their hands and soon even began to call the girls "Dashenka," "Liudmillotchka" and "Valerotchka." [1] "Doosheet" means "to scent" and also "to suffocate." [2] There is a pun here. The phrase "ti zhelayesh" means, "You like, you want it." When split into three words, "ti zhe layesh," it means, "You do bark." CHAPTER XVII Liudmilla met Sasha one day in the street and said to him: "To-morrow the Head-Master's wife is having a birthday party for her eldest daughter--is the old lady going?" "I don't know," said Sasha. But already the hope stirred within him, not so much a hope as a desire, that Kokovkina would go and Liudmilla come and stay with him a while. In the evening he reminded Kokovkina of the morrow's party. "I'd almost forgotten it," said Kokovkina, "of course, I must go. She's such a charming girl." And, next day, as soon as Sasha had returned from school, Kokovkina went to the Khripatch's. Sasha was delighted with the idea that he had helped to get Kokovkina out of the house that day. He felt certain that Liudmilla would find time to come. So it happened--Liudmilla came. She kissed Sasha's cheek and gave him her hand to kiss, and again she laughed and he blushed. A moist, sweet and flower-like odour came from Liudmilla's clothes--rose and orris, the fleshly and voluptuous orris blooming among roses. Liudmilla brought a long narrow box wrapped up in thin paper through which showed dimly a yellow label. She sat down, put the box on her knees, and looked archly at Sasha. "Do you like dates?" she asked. "Yes, I do," said Sasha with an amused grimace. "Well, I've got some here for you," she said with a serious air. She took the cover from the box and said: "Take some." She herself took the dates one by one from the box and put them in Sasha's mouth, making him kiss her hand after each. Sasha said: "But my lips are sticky." "That doesn't matter much. Kiss, it's good for your health," replied Liudmilla gaily. "I don't object." "Perhaps I'd better give you all the kisses at once," said Sasha laughingly. And he stretched out his hand to take a date himself. "You'll cheat me! You'll cheat, me!" exclaimed Liudmilla, and quickly shut the lid down, pinching Sasha's fingers. "What an idea! I'm quite honest. I won't cheat you," said Sasha reassuringly. "No, no, I don't believe you," asserted Liudmilla. "Well, if you like I'll give you the kisses beforehand," suggested Sasha. "That looks more like business," said Liudmilla. "Here you are." She stretched out her hand to Sasha. He took her long thin fingers, kissed them once and asked with a sly smile, without letting go of her hand: "And you'll not cheat me, Liudmillotchka?" "Do you think I'm dishonest!" answered Liudmilla. "You can kiss without suspicion." Sasha bent over her hand and gave it quick kisses; he covered her hand with loud kisses, pressing his open lips against her hand, and feeling happy that he could kiss her so often. Liudmilla carefully counted the kisses. When she had counted ten, she said: "It must be very awkward for you to stand and bend over." "Well, I'll make myself more comfortable," said Sasha. He went down on his knees and kissed her hand with renewed zeal. Sasha loved sweets. He was pleased that Liudmilla had brought him some sweet things. For this he loved her still more tenderly. * * * * * Liudmilla sprinkled Sasha with lusciously aromatic scents. Their aroma astonished Sasha. It was at once overpoweringly sweet, intoxicating and radiantly hazy--like a sinful golden sunrise seen through an early white mist. Sasha said: "What a strange perfume!" "Try it on your hand," advised Liudmilla. And she gave him an ugly, four-cornered jar, rounded at the edges. Sasha looked at it against the light. It was a bright yellow liquid. It had a large, highly coloured label with a French inscription--it was cyclamen from Piver's. Sasha took hold of the flat glass stopper, pulled it out and smelled at the perfume. Then he did as Liudmilla liked to do--he put his palm on the mouth of the bottle, turned it over quickly and then turned it upright again. Then he rubbed between his palms the few drops of cyclamen that remained and smelled his hand attentively. The spirit in the scent evaporated and the pure aroma remained. Liudmilla looked at him with expectancy. Sasha said indecisively: "It smells a little of insects." "Don't tell lies, please," said Liudmilla in vexation. She put some of the scent on her hand and smelled it. Sasha repeated: "Yes, of insects." Liudmilla suddenly flared up, so that small tears glistened in her eyes. She struck Sasha across the cheek and cried: "Oh, you wicked boy! That's for your insects!" "That was a healthy smack," said Sasha, and he laughed and kissed Liudmilla's hand. "But why are you so angry, dearest Liudmillotchka? What do you think it does smell of?" He was not at all angry at the blow--he was completely bewitched by Liudmilla. "What does it smell of?" asked Liudmilla, and caught hold of Sasha by the ear. "I'll tell you what, but first I'm going to pull your ear for you." "Oi-oi-oi! Liudmillotchka darling, I won't do it again!" exclaimed Sasha, frowning with pain and pulling away from her. Liudmilla let go of the reddened ear, gently drew Sasha to her, seated him on her knees and said: "Listen--three scents live in the cyclamen--the poor flower smells of ambrosia--that is for working bees. You know, of course, that in Russian this is called 'sow-bread.'" "Sow-bread," repeated Sasha laughingly. "That's a funny name." "Now, don't laugh, you young scamp," said Liudmilla as she caught hold of his other ear, and continued: "Ambrosia, and the bees humming over it, that's the flower's joy. The flower also smells of vanilla. Now this is not for the bees, but for him of whom they dream, and this is the flower's desire--the flower and the golden sun above it. The flower's third perfume smells of the sweet tender body for the lover, and this is its love--the poor flower and the heavy midday sultriness. The bee, the sun and the sultriness--do you understand, my dear?" Sasha silently shook his head. His smooth face flamed and his long dark eyelashes trembled slightly. Liudmilla looked dreamily into the distance and said: "It gives one joy--the gentle and sunny cyclamen--it draws one towards desires, which give sweetness and shame, and it stirs the blood. Do you understand, my little sun, when it feels sweet and happy and sad and one wants to cry? Do you understand? That's what it is." She pressed her lips in a long kiss on Sasha's. Liudmilla looked pensively in front of her. Suddenly a smile came across her lips. She lightly pushed Sasha away and asked: "Do you like roses?" Sasha sighed, opened his eyes, smiled tenderly and whispered: "Yes." "Large roses?" asked Liudmilla. "Yes, all sorts--large and small," replied Sasha quickly, and he gracefully left her knees. "And so you like _rosotchki_[1] (little roses)?" asked Liudmilla gently, and her sonorous voice trembled from suppressed laughter. "Yes, I like them," answered Sasha quickly. Liudmilla began to laugh. "You stupid, you like _rosotchki_ (strokes with a rod), and there's no one to whip you," she exclaimed. They both laughed and flushed. Desires innocent by reason of their being aroused unavoidably, made the chief charm of their relation for Liudmilla. They stirred one, and yet they were far from the coarse, repulsive attainment. * * * * * They began to argue as to who was the strongest. Liudmilla said: "Well, suppose you are the strongest, what then? The thing is, who's the quickest." "Well, I'm also the quickest," boasted Sasha. "So you're quick," exclaimed Liudmilla teasingly. They discussed the matter at length. At last Liudmilla suggested: "Well, let's wrestle." Sasha laughed and said: "Well, you can't get the best of me!" Liudmilla began to tickle him. "So that's your way," he exclaimed as he giggled, and he wriggled away from her and caught her around the waist. Then a tussle began. Liudmilla saw at once that Sasha was the stronger. As she could not beat him by strength, she cunningly made the best of an opportune moment and tripped up Sasha's foot--he fell and pulled Liudmilla down with him. Liudmilla easily freed herself and pressed him down on the floor. Sasha cried: "That's not fair!" Liudmilla put her knees on his stomach and held him on the floor with her hands. Sasha made great efforts to get free. Liudmilla began to tickle him again. Sasha's loud laughter mingled with hers. She laughed so much that she had to let Sasha go. She fell to the floor, still laughing. Sasha jumped to his feet. He was red and rather provoked. "Russalka (water nymph)!" he shouted. But the Russalka was lying on the floor, laughing. Liudmilla seated Sasha on her knees. Tired with the wrestling, they sat happily and closely, looking into each other's eyes and smiling. "I'm heavy for you. I shall hurt your knee. You'd better let me go." "Never mind, sit still," replied Liudmilla affectionately. "You yourself said you liked to caress." She stroked his head. He gently put his head against her. She said: "You're very handsome, Sasha." Sasha grew red and laughed. "What an idea!" said he. Conversations and thoughts about beauty, when applied to himself, somehow perplexed him; he had never as yet been curious to find out whether people considered him handsome or a monster. Liudmilla pinched Sasha's cheek, which made him smile. A pretty red spot showed on his cheek. Liudmilla pinched the other cheek also. Sasha did not protest. He only took her hand, kissed it and said: "You've done enough pinching. It hurts me, and you'll make your fingers stiff." "It may be painful, but what a flatterer you've become." "I shall have to do my lessons," said Sasha. "You must caress me a little while longer for good luck, so that I can get a five for my Greek." "So you're sending me away," said Liudmilla. She caught hold of his hand and rolled the sleeve above the elbow. "What are you doing?" asked Sasha in confusion, blushing guiltily. But Liudmilla looked at his arm admiringly and turned this way and that way. "What beautiful arms you've got!" she said clearly and happily, and suddenly kissed it near the elbow. Sasha tried to drag his arm away. Liudmilla held it and kissed it several more times. Sasha became still and cast down his eyes. And a strange expression came over his clear, half-smiling lips--and under the shadow of his thick eyelashes his hot cheeks began to pale. * * * * * They said good-bye to each other. Sasha escorted Liudmilla as far as the gate. He would have gone further but she forbade it. He paused at the gate and said: "Come again oftener, my dear, bring sweeter cakes, do you hear?" He used the familiar "thou" to her for the first time, and it sounded in her ear like a gentle caress. She embraced and kissed him impetuously, and ran away. Sasha stood like one dazed. * * * * * Sasha had promised to come. The appointed hour had passed by and Sasha had not arrived. Liudmilla waited impatiently--she fidgeted about and felt distressed and looked out of the window. Whenever she heard steps in the street she put her head out of the window. Her sisters teased her. She said angrily: "Let me alone!" Then she threw herself stormily at them with reproaches, because they laughed at her. It was already evident that Sasha would not come. Liudmilla cried with vexation and disappointment. Darya continued to tease her. Liudmilla spoke quietly between her sobs, and in the midst of her distress she forgot to be angry with them: "That detestable old hag wouldn't let him come. She keeps him tied to apron strings to make him learn Greek." "Yes, and he's a hobbledehoy, because he couldn't get away," said Darya with rough sympathy. "She has tied herself up with a child," said Valeria contemptuously. Both sisters, though they laughed, sympathised with Liudmilla. They loved each other, and they loved tenderly but not strongly: a superficial, tender love. Darya said: "Why are you crying? Why should you weep your eyes out for a young milksop? Well, you might say that the devil has bound himself to an infant!" "Who's a devil?" shouted Liudmilla angrily. "Why you," answered Darya calmly, "are young, but ..." Darya did not end her sentence, but whistled piercingly. "Nonsense," said Liudmilla, and her voice sounded strangely. A strange, severe smile shone on her face through her tears, like a bright, flaming ray at sunset through the last drops of a weary rain. Darya said in a rather annoyed way: "What do you find interesting in him? Tell me, please." Liudmilla, still with the same curious smile on her face, said slowly and pensively: "How beautiful he is! How many untouched possibilities he has!" "That's very cheap," said Darya decidedly. "All small boys have them." "No, it isn't cheap," said Liudmilla. "They're unclean boys." "And is he clean?" asked Valeria; she pronounced the word "clean" rather contemptuously. "A lot you understand," said Liudmilla, and again began to speak quietly and pensively. "He's quite innocent." Darya smiled. "Oh, is he?" said Darya ironically. "The best age for a boy is fourteen or fifteen. He doesn't understand anything and yet he has a kind of intuition. And he hasn't a disgusting beard." "A wonderful pleasure!" said Valeria with a contemptuous grimace. She was feeling sad. It seemed to her that she was small, weak and frail, and she envied her sisters--she envied Darya her gay laughter and even Liudmilla's tears. Liudmilla said again: "You don't understand anything. I don't love him at all as you think. To love a boy is better than to fall in love with a commonplace face with moustaches. I love him innocently. I don't want anything from him." "If you don't want anything from him, why do you torment him?" said Darya harshly. Liudmilla grew red and a guilty expression came on to her face. Darya took pity on her; she walked up to Liudmilla, put her arms round her and said: "Don't mind what we say--it's only our spitefulness!" Liudmilla began to cry again, and pressing against Darya's shoulder, said sadly: "I know there's nothing for me to hope for from him but if he would only caress me a little!" "What's the matter?" said Darya as she walked away from Liudmilla; she put her hands on her hips and sang loudly: "Last night I left my darling ..." Valeria broke into a clear, fragile laugh. And Liudmilla's eyes looked gay and mischievous again. She walked into her room impetuously and sprinkled herself with Korylopsis--the sweet, piquant, odour seized upon her seductively. She walked out into the street, in her best clothes, feeling distraught; and an indiscreet attractiveness was wafted from her. "Perhaps I shall meet him," she thought. She did meet him. "Well, you're a nice one," she exclaimed reproachfully and yet happily. Sasha felt both confused and glad. "I had no time," he said. "There are too many lessons to do. Really I had no time." "You're fibbing, little one, but come along." He resisted for a while, but it was clear that he was glad to let Liudmilla take him away with her. And Liudmilla brought him home. "I've found him," she said to her sisters triumphantly, and taking Sasha by the shoulders, she led him into her room. Sasha, putting his hands inside his belt, stood uneasily in the middle of the room, and felt both happy and sad. There seemed to be an odour of new pleasant scents there, and in this odour there was something that provoked and irritated the nerves like the contact of living rough little snakes. [1] "Rosotchki" means "little roses" and also "rods" and "strokes from a rod." CHAPTER XVIII Peredonov was returning from the lodgings of one of his pupils. Quite suddenly he was caught in a drizzling rain. He tried to think where he could shelter for a while, so as not to spoil his new silk umbrella in the rain. Across the way was a detached, two-storeyed, stone house; on it was the brass plate of the Notary Public, Goudayevsky. The notary's son was a pupil in the second form of the _gymnasia._ Peredonov decided to go in. Incidentally he would make a complaint against the notary's son. He found both parents at home. They met him with a good deal of fuss. Everything was done there in that way. Nikolai Mikhailovitch Goudayevsky was a short, robust, dark man, bald and with a long beard. His movements were impetuous and unexpected. He seemed not to walk but to flutter along. He was small like a sparrow, and it was always impossible to tell from his face and attitude what he would do the next minute. In the midst of a serious conversation he would suddenly throw out his knee, which would not so much amuse people as perplex them as to his motive. At home or when visiting he would sit quiet for a long time and then suddenly jump up without any visible cause, pace quickly up and down the room, and exclaim or knock something. In the street he would walk, then suddenly pause, or make some gesture or gymnastic exercise, and then he would continue his walk. On the documents which he drew up or attested Goudayevsky liked to write ridiculous remarks, as, for example, instead of writing about Ivan Ivanitch Ivanov that he lived on the Moscow Square in Ermillova's house, he would write Ivan Ivanitch Ivanov who lived on the Market Square in that quarter where it was impossible to breathe for the stench; and so forth; and he even made a note sometimes of the number of geese and hens kept by the man whose signature he was attesting. Julia Goudayevskaya was a tall, slim, bony woman, passionate and extremely sentimental, who, in spite of the disparity of their figures, resembled her husband in certain habits: she had the same impetuous and disproportionate movements, unlike those of other people. She was dressed youthfully and in colours, and whenever she made her quick movements the long variegated ribbons, with which she loved to adorn in abundance her dress and hair, flew in all directions. Antosha, a slender, alert boy, bowed courteously. Peredonov was seated in the drawing-room and he immediately began to complain of Antosha: that he was lazy, inattentive, and did not listen in class but chattered and laughed, and was mischievous during recess. Antosha was astonished--he did not know that he was considered such a wicked boy--and he began to defend himself hotly. Both parents were annoyed. "Will you be good enough to tell me," shouted the father, "in what precisely his mischievousness consists?" "Nika, don't defend him," cried the mother. "He shouldn't get up to mischief." "But what mischief has he done?" enquired the father, running, almost rolling on his short legs. "He's generally mischievous. He raises a racket and he fights," said Peredonov morosely. "He's always in mischief." "I don't fight at all," exclaimed Antosha dolefully. "Ask anyone you like. I haven't fought with anybody." "He doesn't let anyone pass," said Peredonov. "Very well, I'll go to the _gymnasia_ myself and I'll ask the inspector," said Goudayevsky decisively. "Nika, Nika, why don't you believe him?" cried Julia. "Would you like to see Antosha turn out a good-for-nothing? He needs a beating." "Nonsense, nonsense!" cried the father. "I'll give him a beating without fail," exclaimed Julia, as she caught her son by the shoulder and was about to drag him into the kitchen. "Antosha!" she cried. "Come along; I'll give you a whipping." "I'll not let you have him," cried the father, tearing his son away from her. His mother held on to him; Antosha made despairing outcries, and the parents tustled with each other. "Help me, Ardalyon Borisitch," cried Julia. "Hold this monster while I settle with Antosha." Peredonov went to help. But Goudayevsky got his son away from Julia, pushed her aside, sprang towards Peredonov and cried threateningly: "Don't you come here! When two dogs are fighting the third one had better keep away! Yes, and I'll see to you!" Red, unkempt, perspiring, he shook his fist in the air. Peredonov retreated, muttering inaudible words. Julia ran round her husband and tried to catch hold of Antosha. His father hid him behind and pulled him by the arm, now to the right, now to the left. Julia, her eyes gleaming, cried: "He'll grow up to be a cut-throat! He'll get into gaol! Hard labour'll be his fate." "A plague on your tongue!" cried Goudayevsky. "Shut up, you wicked fool." "Oh, you tyrant!" screamed Julia, and running up to her husband hit him with her fist on the back and ran impetuously out of the drawing-room. Goudayevsky clenched his fists and ran up to Peredonov. "So you've come to raise a riot here!" he cried. "You say Antosha's mischievous? You're a liar. He's not mischievous. And if he were, I should know it without you; and I don't want anything to do with you. You go about the town taking in fools. You beat their little boys, and expect to get a Master's diploma for birching. But you've come to the wrong place. Sir, I ask you to clear out!" As he was saying this he jumped towards Peredonov and got him into a corner. Peredonov was frightened and would have been glad to run away, but Goudayevsky in his excitement did not notice that he was standing in his way. Antosha seized hold of the tails of his father's frock-coat and began to tug at them. His father angrily turned on him and tried to kick him. But Antosha quickly jumped aside without, however, letting go of his father's coat. "Be quiet there," exclaimed Goudayevsky. "Don't forget yourself, Antosha." "Papotchka," cried Antosha, continuing to tug at his father's coat-tails, "you are keeping Ardalyon Borisitch from going." Goudayevsky quickly jumped to the side, Antosha barely managed to escape him. "I beg your pardon," said Goudayevsky and pointed to the door, "that's the way out, and I won't detain you." Peredonov quickly left the room. Goudayevsky put his fingers to his nose at him, then made a motion with his knee as if he were kicking him out. Antosha sniggered. Goudayevsky turned on him savagely: "Antosha, don't forget yourself! Don't forget to-morrow. I'm going to the _gymnasia,_ and if it's true I'll hand you over to your mother for a whipping!" "I wasn't mischievous. He's a liar," said Antosha piteously and in a squeaking voice. "Antosha, don't forget yourself," shouted his father. "You shouldn't say that he's a liar, but that he's made a mistake. Only little boys tell lies--grown-ups make mistakes." In the meantime Peredonov managed to find his way into the half-dark hall, discovered his overcoat with some difficulty and began to put it on. His fear and nervousness hindered him from finding his sleeve. No one came to his assistance. Quite suddenly Julia ran out from a side door, rustling her flying ribbons, and whispered excitedly in his ear, making wild gestures and standing on tip-toe. Peredonov did not at first understand. "I'm so grateful to you," he heard at last. "It's so good of you to take such an interest in the boy. Most people are so indifferent, but you understand a mother's difficulties. It is so hard to bring children up; you can't imagine how hard it is. I have only two and they give me no end of worry. My husband is a tyrant; he's a terrible, terrible man. Don't you think so? You've seen for yourself." "Yes," mumbled Peredonov. "Well, your husband--er--well, he shouldn't ... I give a good deal of attention to it and he ..." "Oh, don't say any more," whispered Julia, "he's a terrible man. He's bringing me down to my grave, and he'll be glad of it, and then he'll corrupt my children, my dear Antosha. But I'm a mother, I won't give him up; I'll give him a beating all the same." "He won't let you," said Peredonov, and jerked his head in the direction of the drawing-room. "Wait till he goes to his club. He won't take Antosha with him! He'll go and I shall keep quiet until then, as if I agreed with him; but once he goes I'll give Antosha a beating and you will help me. You will help me, won't you?" Peredonov reflected and then said: "Very well, but how shall I know when to come?" "I'll send for you," whispered Julia. "You wait, and as soon as he goes to his club I'll send for you." In the evening Peredonov received a note from Goudayevskaya. It ran: "MOST ESTEEMED ARDALYON BORISITCH, "My husband has gone to his club, and now I am free from his savagery until one o'clock. Do me the kindness to come as soon as you can and help me with my misbehaving son. I realise that he must be rid of his faults while he's still young, for afterwards it may be too late. "With genuine respect, "JULIA GOUDAYEVSKAYA. "P.S.--Please come as soon as possible, otherwise Antosha will go to sleep and I shall have to wake him." Peredonov quickly put on his overcoat, wrapped a scarf round his neck and prepared to go. "Where are you going so late, Ardalyon Borisitch?" asked Varvara. "I'm going on business," replied Peredonov morosely, and left abruptly. Varvara reflected sadly that again she would be unable to sleep for some time. If she could only hasten the marriage. Then she could sleep both night and day--that would be bliss! * * * * * Once in the street, Peredonov was assailed by doubts. Suppose it was a trap? And suppose it suddenly turned out that Goudayevsky was at home, and they should seize him and beat him? Wouldn't it be better for him to turn back. "No, I'd better go as far as the house, and then I shall see," Peredonov decided. The night was quiet, cold and dark. It enveloped him on all sides and compelled him to walk slowly. Fresh gusts of wind blew from the neighbouring fields. Light, rustling noises could be heard in the grass along the fences, and everything around him seemed suspicious and strange--perhaps someone was following stealthily behind and watching him. All objects were strangely and unexpectedly concealed by the darkness, as if another different nocturnal life awoke in them, incomprehensible to man and hostile to him. Peredonov walked quickly in the streets and mumbled: "You won't gain anything by following me. I'm not going on any bad business. I'm going in the interest of my work. So there!" At last he reached Goudayevsky's house. A light was visible in one of the windows facing the street; the remaining four were dark. Peredonov ascended the steps very quietly, stood a while and put his ears to the door and listened--everything was quiet. He lightly pulled the brass handle of the bell--a distant, faint tinkle of a bell was heard. But, faint though it was, it frightened Peredonov, as if this sound would awaken all the hostile powers and make them come to this door. Peredonov quickly ran down the steps and hid behind a post, pressing close against the wall. Several moments passed. Peredonov's heart jumped and beat heavily. Presently light footsteps could be heard and the noise of a door opening. Julia looked out into the street and her black, passionate eyes gleamed in the darkness. "Who's there?" she asked in a loud whisper. Peredonov stepped a little away from the wall and looked into the narrow opening of the door where it was dark and quiet, and asked also in a tremulous whisper: "Has Nikolai Mikhailovitch gone?" "Yes, he's gone, he's gone," she whispered joyously. Peredonov glanced timidly around him and followed her into the dark passage. "I'm sorry I have no light," whispered Julia, "but I'm afraid someone might see and they might gossip." She led Peredonov up the staircase into a corridor, where a small lamp hung, throwing a dim light on the upper stairs. Julia laughed quietly and joyously, and her ribbons trembled from her laughter. "Yes, he's gone," she whispered gleefully, as she looked around and scrutinised Peredonov with passionately burning eyes. "I was afraid he would remain at home to-night as he was in a great rage. But he couldn't do without his game of whist. I've even sent the maid away--there's only the baby's nurse in the house--otherwise we might be interrupted. For you know what sort of people there are nowadays." A heat came from Julia--she was hot and dry, like a splinter. Once or twice she caught Peredonov by the sleeve, and these quick contacts seemed to send small dry fires through his whole body. They walked quietly and on tip-toe through the corridor, past several closed doors, and stopped at the last--it was the door of the children's room.... * * * * * Peredonov left Julia at midnight, when she began to expect her husband's return. He walked in the dark streets, morose and gloomy. It seemed to him that someone had been standing by the house and was now following him. He mumbled: "I went on account of my work. It wasn't my fault. She wanted it herself. You can't deceive me--you've got the wrong man." Varvara was not yet asleep when he returned. Her cards were lying in front of her. It seemed to Peredonov that someone might step in when he entered. It was possible that Varvara herself had let the enemy come in. Peredonov said: "If I go to sleep you'll bewitch me with the cards. Give me the cards, or you'll bewitch me." He took the cards away and hid them under his pillow. Varvara smiled and said: "You're making a fool of yourself. I haven't the power to bewitch anyone, and as if I wanted it!" He felt vexed and frightened because she was smiling: that meant, he thought, that she might bewitch him even without cards. The cat was shrinking under the bed, and his green eyes sparkled--one might be bewitched by his fur, if it were stroked in the dark so that electric sparks flew from it. Behind the chest of drawers the grey nedotikomka gleamed again--was it not Varvara who called it up at nights with a slight whistle like a snore! Peredonov dreamed a repulsive, terrible dream: Pilnikov came, stood on the threshold, beckoned him and smiled. It was as if someone drew him towards Pilnikov, who led him through dark, dirty streets while the cat ran beside and his green eyes gleamed and shone.... CHAPTER XIX Peredonov's strange behaviour worried Khripatch more and more. He consulted the school physician and asked him whether Peredonov were not out of his mind. The doctor laughingly replied that Peredonov had no mind to be out of, and that he was simply acting stupidly. There were also complaints. Adamenko's was the first: she sent to the Head-Master her brother's exercise-book which had been given only one mark for a very good piece of work. The Head-Master, during one of the recesses, asked Peredonov to come and see him. "Yes, it's quite true, he does look a little mad," thought Khripatch when he saw traces of perplexity and terror on Peredonov's dull, gloomy face. "I've got a bone to pick with you," said Khripatch quickly and dryly. "Whenever I have to work in a room next to yours my head is split--there's such an uproar of laughter in your class. May I request you to give lessons of a less cheerful nature? 'To scoff and always scoff--don't you get tired?'"[1] "It isn't my fault," said Peredonov, "they laugh by themselves. It is impossible to mention anything from the grammar or the satires of Kantemir without their laughing. They are a bad lot. They ought to be well scolded." "It's desirable and even necessary that the work in class should be of a serious character," said Khripatch sarcastically. "And another thing----" Khripatch showed Peredonov two exercise-books and said: "Here are two exercise-books from two students of one class on your subject: Adamenko's and my son's. I have compared them and I am compelled to make the inference that you are not giving your full attention to your work. Adamenko's last work which was done very satisfactorily was marked one, while my son's work, written much worse, was marked four. It is evident that you have made a mistake, that you have given one pupil's marks to another and vice versa. Though it is natural for a man to make mistakes, still I must ask you to avoid such errors in future. It quite properly arouses dissatisfaction in the parents and in the pupils themselves." Peredonov mumbled something inaudible. * * * * * From spite he began to tease the smaller boys who had been recently punished at his instigation. He was especially severe on Kramarenko. The boy kept silent and went pale under his dark tan; his eyes gleamed. As Kramarenko left the _gymnasia_ that day, he did not hasten home. He stood at the gates and watched the entrance. When Peredonov went out Kramarenko followed him at some distance, waiting till a few passers-by had got between him and Peredonov. Peredonov walked slowly. The cloudy weather depressed him. During the last few days his face had assumed a duller expression. His glance was either fixed on something in the distance or wandered strangely. It seemed as if he were constantly looking into an object. To his eyes objects appeared vague or doubled or meaningless. Who was he scrutinising so closely? Informers. They concealed themselves behind every object, they whispered and laughed. Peredonov's enemies had sent against him a whole army of informers. Sometimes Peredonov tried quickly to surprise them. But they always managed to escape in time--as if they sank through the earth.... Peredonov suddenly heard quick, bold footsteps on the pavement behind him, and looked around him in fright--Kramarenko paused near him and looked at him decidedly, resolutely and malignantly, with burning eyes; pale, thin, like a savage ready to throw himself at an enemy. This look frightened Peredonov. "Suppose he should suddenly bite me?" he thought. He walked quicker, but Kramarenko did not leave him; he walked slowly and Kramarenko kept pace with him. Peredonov paused and said angrily: "Why are you following me, you little dark wretch? I'll take you to your father at once." Kramarenko also paused and continued to look at Peredonov. They stood facing one another on the loose pavement of the deserted street, beside the grey, depressing fence. Kramarenko trembled and said in a hissing voice: "Scoundrel!" He smiled and turned to go away. He made three steps, paused, looked around and repeated louder: "What a scoundrel! Vermin!" He spat and walked away. Peredonov looked after him and then turned homewards. Confused and timorous thoughts crowded through his head. Vershina called to him. She stood smoking behind the bars of her garden-gate, wrapped up in a large black shawl. Peredonov did not at once recognise her. Something malignant in her figure seemed to threaten him. She stood like a black sorceress and blew out smoke, as if she were casting a spell. He spat and pronounced an exorcism. Vershina laughed and asked: "What's the matter with you, Ardalyon Borisitch?" Peredonov looked vaguely at her and said at last: "Ah, it's you! I didn't recognise you." "That's a good sign. It means I'll soon be rich," said Vershina. This did not please Peredonov, he wanted to be rich himself. "Get away!" he exclaimed angrily. "Why should you be rich--you'll always be what you are now." "Never mind, I shall win twenty thousand," said Vershina with a wry smile. "No, I shall win the twenty thousand," argued Peredonov. "I shall be in one drawing and you'll be in another," said Vershina. "You're lying," said Peredonov angrily. "Who ever heard of two people winning at once in the same town. I tell you I'm going to win it." Vershina noticed that he was angry. She ceased to argue. She opened the gate to entice him in and said: "There's no reason for you to stand there. Come in, Mourin's here." Mourin's name recalled something pleasant to Peredonov--drink and _zakouska._ He entered. In the drawing-room, darkened by the trees outside, sat Marta, looking very happy, with a red sash on and with a kerchief round her neck, Mourin, more unkempt than usual, and very cheerful for some reason or other, and a grown-up schoolboy, Vitkevitch. He paid attentions to Vershina, and imagined that she was in love with him: he thought of leaving the school, marrying Vershina and managing her estate. Mourin met Peredonov with exaggeratedly cordial exclamations, his expression became even gayer and his little eyes looked fat--all this did not go with his stout figure and untidy hair in which even some whisps of straw could be seen. "I'm attending to business," he said loudly and hoarsely. "I've business everywhere, and here these charming ladies are spoiling me with tea." "Business?" replied Peredonov gruffly. "What sort of business have you got? You are not in Government Service and you've got money coming in. Now I have business." "Well, what if you have, it's only getting other people's money," said Mourin with a loud laugh. Vershina smiled wryly and seated Peredonov near the table. On a round table near the sofa glasses and cups of tea, rum and cranberry jam were crowded together with a filigree silver dish, covered with a knitted doyley, a small cake-basket of tea-cake and home-made gingerbread stuck with almonds. A strong odour of rum came from Mourin's glass of tea, while Vitkevitch put a good deal of jam into a small glass plate, shaped like a shell. Marta was eating little slices of tea-cake with visible satisfaction. Vershina offered Peredonov refreshments--he refused to take tea. "I might be poisoned," he thought. "It's very easy to poison you--you simply drink and don't notice anything--there are sweet poisons--and then you go home and turn up your toes." And he felt vexed because they put jam before Mourin, and when he came they didn't take the trouble to get a new jar of better jam. They hadn't cranberry jam only but several other kinds. Vershina really did give a good deal of attention to Mourin. Seeing that she had little hope of Peredonov, she was looking elsewhere for a husband for Marta. Now she was trying to catch Mourin. Half-civilised by his pursuit of hard-earned gains, this landed proprietor eagerly fell to the lure. Marta pleased him. Marta was happy because it was her constant desire to find a husband and to have a good house and home--that would be complete happiness. And she looked at Mourin with loving eyes. The huge forty-years-old man, with his coarse voice and plain face, seemed to her in every movement a model of manly strength, cleverness, beauty and goodness. Peredonov noticed the loving glances exchanged by Mourin and Marta--he noticed them because he expected Marta to pay attention to him. He said gruffly to Mourin: "You sit there like a bridegroom. Your whole face is shining." "I have reason to be happy," said Mourin in a brisk, cheerful voice. "I have managed my business very well." He winked at his hostesses. They both had gay smiles. Peredonov asked gruffly, contemptuously screwing up his eyes: "What is it? Have you found a bride? Has she a big dowry?" Mourin went on as if he had not heard these questions: "Natalya Afanasyevna there--may God be good to her--has agreed to take charge of my Vaniushka. He'll live here as if he were in Christ's bosom, and my mind will be at rest, knowing that he won't be spoiled." "He'll get into mischief with Vladya," said Peredonov morosely. "They'll burn the house down." "He wouldn't dare," shouted Mourin. "Don't you worry about that, my dear Natalya Afanasyevna, you'll find him as straight as a fiddle-string." To cut short this conversation, Vershina said with her wry smile: "I should like to eat something tart." "Perhaps you'd like some bilberries and apples--I'll get them," said Marta quickly rising from her chair. "Do, please." Marta ran out of the room. Vershina did not even look after her. She was used to taking Marta's services for granted. She was sitting deep in her sofa puffing out blue curling clouds of smoke, and compared the two men talking to each other, looking at Peredonov angrily and indifferently, at Mourin gaily and animatedly. Mourin pleased her more of the two. He had a good-natured face, while Peredonov could not even smile. She liked everything in Mourin--he was large, stout, attractive, spoke in an agreeable, low voice, and was very respectful to her. Vershina even thought at certain moments that she ought to arrange the matter so that Mourin should become engaged not to Marta but to herself. But she always ended her reflections by magnanimously yielding him to Marta. "Anyone would marry me," she thought, "because I have money. I can choose almost anyone I like. If I liked, I could even take this young man," and she rested her glance, not without satisfaction, on Vitkevitch's youthful, impudent, yet handsome face--a boy who spoke little, ate a great deal and looked continuously at Vershina, smiling insolently. Marta brought the bilberries and apples in an earthen-ware cup and began to relate how she had dreamed the night before that she had gone to a wedding as a brides-maid, where she ate pine-apples and pancakes with mead; on one pancake she had found a hundred-rouble note and she cried when they took it from her, and woke up in tears. "You should have hidden it on the quiet so that no one could see it," said Peredonov rather gruffly. "If you can't even keep money in a dream, what sort of a housewife will you make?" "There's no reason to feel sorry for this money," said Vershina. "There are many things seen in dreams!" "I feel as if I'd really lost the money," said Marta ingenuously. "A whole hundred roubles!" Tears appeared in her eyes, and she forced a laugh in order not to cry. Mourin anxiously put his hands into his pocket and exclaimed: "My dear Marta Stanislavovna, don't feel so put out about it, we can soon mend the matter." He took a hundred-rouble note from his wallet, put it before Marta on the table, and slapped his hand into her palm, shouting: "Permit me! No one will take this away!" Marta was about to rejoice but suddenly flushed violently and said in confusion: "Oh, Vladimir Ivanovitch, I didn't mean that! I can't take it. Really you are ..." "Now, don't offend me by refusing it," said Mourin with a laugh, not taking up the money. "Let's say that your dream has become realised." "No, but how can I? I feel ashamed. I wouldn't take it for anything." Marta resisted, looking with desirous eyes upon the hundred-rouble note. "Why do you protest when it's given to you?" said Vitkevitch. "It's good luck falling right into your hands," he continued with an envious sigh. Mourin stood in front of Marta and said in a persuasive voice: "My dear Marta Stanislavovna, believe me, I give it with all my heart--please take it! And if you don't want to take it for nothing, then take it for looking after Vaniushka. As to my agreement with Natalya Afanasyevna, let that stand. But this is for you--for looking after Vanya." "But how can I, it's too much," said Marta irresolutely. "It's for the first half-year," and he bowed very low to Marta. "Don't offend me by refusing it. Take it and be a sister to Vaniushka." "Well, Marta, you'd better take it," said Vershina. "And thank Vladimir Ivanitch." Marta, flushing with shame and pleasure, took the money. Mourin began to thank her ardently. "You'd better marry at once--it would be cheaper," said Peredonov gruffly. "How generous he's got all of a sudden!" Vitkevitch roared with laughter, which the others pretended they had not heard. Vershina began to tell a dream of her own, but Peredonov interrupted her before she had finished by saying good-bye. Mourin invited him to his house for the evening. "I must go to Vespers," said Peredonov. "Ardalyon Borisitch has suddenly become very zealous in church-going," said Vershina with a quick, dry laugh. "I always go," he answered. "I believe in God--unlike the others. Perhaps I am the only one of that kind in the _gymnasia._ That's why I'm persecuted. The Head-Master is an atheist." "When you are free, let me know," said Mourin. Peredonov said, twisting his cap irritatedly in his hands: "I have no time to go visiting." But suddenly he recalled that Mourin was very hospitable with food and drink, so he said: "Well, I can come to you on Monday." Mourin showed great pleasure at this, and was about to ask Vershina and Marta also, but Peredonov said: "I don't want any ladies. We might get a little tipsy and blurt out something which would be awkward in their presence." When Peredonov left, Vershina said sneeringly: "Ardalyon Borisitch is acting curiously. He would very much like to be an inspector, and it looks to me as if Varvara were leading him by the nose. So he's up to all sorts of tricks." Vladya--who had hidden himself while Peredonov was there--came out and said with a malicious smile: "The locksmith's sons have found out from someone that it was Peredonov who told about them." "They'll break his windows," exclaimed Vitkevitch laughing gleefully. * * * * * Everything in the street seemed hostile and ominous to Peredonov. A ram stood at the cross-roads and looked stupidly at him. This ram so closely resembled Volodin that Peredonov felt frightened. He thought that possibly Volodin had turned into a ram to spy upon him. "How do we know?" he thought. "Perhaps it is possible; science has not discovered everything and it's possible someone does know something. Now there are the French--a learned people, and yet magicians and mages have begun to spread there." And a fear took possession of him. "This ram might kick me," he thought. The ram began to bleat, and its bleat resembled Volodin's laughter. It was sharp, piercing and unpleasant. Then he met the Officer of the gendarmerie. Peredonov went up to him and said in a whisper: "You'd better watch Adamenko. She corresponds with Socialists. She's one of them." Roubovsky looked at him in silent astonishment. Peredonov walked on further and thought dejectedly: "Why do I always keep coming across him? He must be watching me, and he has put policemen everywhere." The dirty streets, the gloomy sky, the pitiful little houses, the ragged, withered-looking children--all these breathed depression, neglect and a hopeless sadness. "It's a foul town," thought Peredonov. "The people here are disgusting and malignant; the sooner I get to another town the better, where the instructors would bow down to one and the schoolboys will be afraid and whisper in fear: 'The inspector is coming.' Yes! The higher officials always live differently in the world." "Inspector of the second District of the Rouban Government," he mumbled under his nose. "The Right Honourable the State Councillor, Peredonov--that's the way! Do you know who I am? His Excellency, Head-Master of the National Schools of the Rouban Government, the Actual State Councillor Peredonov. Hats off! Hand in your resignation! Get out! I'll manage you!" Peredonov's countenance became arrogant. In his poor imagination he had already received his share of power. * * * * * When Peredonov returned home, while he was taking off his overcoat, he heard shrill sounds from the dining-room--it was Volodin laughing. Peredonov's spirits fell. "He's managed to get here already," he thought. "Perhaps he's now conspiring with Varvara against me. That's why he's laughing; he's glad because Varvara agrees with him." He walked angrily and dejectedly into the dining-room. The table was already set for dinner. Varvara met Peredonov with an anxious face. "Ardalyon Borisitch," she exclaimed, "think what's happened! The cat's run away." "Well," exclaimed Peredonov with an expression of fear in his face, "why did you let it go?" "You didn't expect me to sew his tail to my petticoat, did you?" asked Varvara in irritation. Volodin sniggered. Peredonov thought it had perhaps gone to the Officer of the gendarmerie to purr out all it knew about Peredonov and about where and why he went out at night--she would reveal everything and would even mew a little more than had happened. More troubles! Peredonov sat down on a chair at the table, bent his head, twirled the end of the tablecloth in his fingers and became lost in gloomy reflections. "Cats always run back to their old home," said Volodin, "because cats get used to a place and not to their master. A cat should be swung round several times and then taken to her new home. She mustn't be shown the way or otherwise she'll go back." Peredonov listened and felt consoled. "So you think he's gone back to the old house, Pavloushka?" he asked. "Undoubtedly, Ardasha," replied Volodin. Peredonov rose and shouted: "Well, we'll have a drink, Pavloushka!" Volodin sniggered. "That's a possibility, Ardasha," he said. "It's always possible to take a drink." "We must get that cat back," decided Peredonov. "A treasure," replied Varvara sarcastically. "I'll send Klavdiushka for it after dinner." They sat down to dinner. Volodin was in a cheerful mood and chattered and laughed a great deal. His laughter sounded to Peredonov like the bleating of the ram he had met in the street. "Why has he got evil intentions against me?" thought Peredonov. "What does he want?" And Peredonov thought that he would get Volodin on his side. "Listen, Pavloushka," he said, "if you'll stop trying to injure me, then I'll buy you a pound of the best sugar-candy every week--you can suck it to my good health." Volodin laughed, but immediately afterwards looked hurt and said: "Ardalyon Borisitch, I have no idea of injuring you, and I don't want your sugar-candy because I don't like it." Peredonov became depressed. Varvara said sneeringly: "You've made a big enough fool of yourself, Ardalyon Borisitch. How can he do you any injury?" "Any fool can do you harm," said Peredonov dejectedly. Volodin thrust out an offended lip, shook his head and said: "If you have such an idea about me, Ardalyon Borisitch, then I can only say one thing: I thank you most humbly. If you think that way about me, what have I to say? What shall I understand by this, in what sense?" "Take a drink, Pavloushka, and pour me one too," said Peredonov. "Don't pay any attention to him, Pavel Vassilyevitch," said Varvara consolingly. "He's only talking, his heart doesn't know what his tongue blabs." Volodin said nothing, and preserving his injured look began to pour the vodka from the decanter into the glasses. Varvara said sarcastically: "How is it, Ardalyon Borisitch, that you're not afraid to drink vodka when he pours it out? Perhaps he's exorcising it--don't you see his lips moving?" Peredonov's face bore an expression of terror. He caught the glass which Volodin had filled and flung the vodka on to the floor, shouting: "Chure me! Chure--chure--chure![2] A spell against the spell-weaver--may the evil tongue die of thirst, may the black eye burst. To him Karachoun [death], to me chure-perechure!" Then he turned to Volodin with a malignant face, snapped his fingers and said: "That's for you. You're cunning, but I'm more cunning." Varvara laughed uproariously. Volodin bleating in an offended, trembling voice said: "It's you, Ardalyon Borisitch, who know and pronounce all sorts of magic words, but I never occupied myself with black magic. I hadn't any idea of bedevilling your vodka or anything else, but it's possible that it's you who've bewitched my brides from me." "What an idea!" said Peredonov angrily. "I don't want your brides. I can get them by cleaner means." "You've cast a spell to burst my eyes," continued Volodin, "but mind your spectacles don't burst sooner." Peredonov caught his glasses in fear. "What nonsense!" he growled. "You let your tongue run away with you." Varvara looked warningly at Volodin and said crossly: "Don't be spiteful, Pavel Vassilyevitch, eat your soup, or else it'll get cold. Eat, you spiteful thing!" She thought that Ardalyon Borisitch had exorcised himself in time. Volodin began to eat his soup. They were all silent for a while, and presently Volodin said in a hurt voice: "No wonder I dreamed last night that I was being smeared with honey. Did you smear me, Ardalyon Borisitch?" "That's not the way you ought to be smeared," said Varvara still crossly. "Why should I be? Be good enough to tell me. I don't see why I should be," said Volodin. "Well, because you've got a nasty tongue," explained Varvara. "You oughtn't to babble everything that comes into your mind immediately." [1] A quotation from Griboyedov's, "The Misfortune of Being too Clever." [2] See note above. Search for "chure" implies, "Hence! away!" CHAPTER XX In the evening Peredonov went to the Club--he had been invited to play cards. Goudayevsky, the notary, was also there. Peredonov was frightened when he saw him, but Goudayevsky conducted himself quietly and Peredonov felt reassured. They played a long time and drank a good deal. Late at night in the refreshment room Goudayevsky ran up to Peredonov and without any explanation hit him several times in the face, broke his glasses and quickly left the Club. Peredonov showed no resistance, pretended he was drunk, then fell to the floor, and began to grunt. They shook him and carried him home. The next day the whole town was talking about this scuffle. That same evening Varvara found an opportunity to steal the first forged letter from Peredonov. Grushina had insisted on this so that no discrepancies might be found by comparing the two forgeries. Peredonov carried this letter about with him, but on this evening he happened to leave it at home: while changing into his dress clothes, he had taken the letter from his pocket, put it under a text-book on the chest of drawers and promptly forgotten it. Varvara burnt it over a candle at Grushina's. When Peredonov returned home late that night and Varvara saw his broken spectacles, he told her that they had burst of themselves. She believed him and imagined that it was all the fault of Volodin's evil tongue. Peredonov also persuaded himself that it was due to Volodin. The next day, however, Grushina told Varvara the details of the scuffle at the Club. In the morning, when dressing, Peredonov suddenly remembered the letter, looked for it unavailingly, and felt terrified. He shouted in a savage voice: "Varvara! Where's that letter?" Varvara was disconcerted. "What letter?" she asked, looking at Peredonov with frightened eyes. "The Princess's!" shouted Peredonov. Varvara somehow collected herself. She said with an impudent smile: "How should I know where it is? You must have thrown it among the waste paper and Klavdiushka has probably burnt it. You'd better look in your pockets for it, if it's still to be found." Peredonov went to the _gymnasia_ in a gloomy state of mind. Yesterday's unpleasantness came into his mind. He thought of Kramarenko: how did this impudent boy dare to call him a scoundrel? That meant that he was not afraid of Peredonov. Perhaps the boy knew something about him and would inform against him. In class Kramarenko stared at Peredonov and smiled, which terrified Peredonov even more. After the third class, Peredonov was again called to see the Head-Master. He went, vaguely apprehending something unpleasant. Rumours of Peredonov's doings reached Khripatch from all sides. That morning he had been told about last night's occurrence at the Club. Yesterday, also, after lessons, Volodya Boultyakov had come to see him--the boy who had been punished by his landlady at Peredonov's request. To prevent a repetition of this visit with similar consequences the boy complained to the Head-Master. In a dry, sharp voice Khripatch repeated to Peredonov the reports that had reached him--from reliable sources, he added--of how Peredonov had been going to his students' homes giving their parents and guardians false information about the children's conduct and progress, demanding that the boys should be whipped, in consequence of which certain disagreeable incidents had occurred among the parents, as, for instance, last night's affair at the Club with the notary Goudayevsky. Peredonov listened fearfully and yet irritatedly. Khripatch was silent. "What of that?" said Peredonov in a surly voice. "It was he who struck me. Is that the way to behave? He had no right to fly into my face. He doesn't go to church. He believes in a monkey and he's corrupting his son into the same sect. He ought to be reported--he's a Socialist." Khripatch listened attentively to Peredonov and said insinuatingly: "All this is not our affair, and I don't understand at all what you mean by the original expression 'he believes in a monkey.' In my opinion there's no need to enrich the history of religion with newly-devised cults. As for the affront you received, you ought to have brought him before a court of magistrates. But the very best thing for you to do, is to leave the school. This would be the best way out for you personally and for the _gymnasia_." "I shall be an inspector," said Peredonov angrily. "But until then," continued Khripatch, "you should restrain yourself from these extraordinary visits. You will agree that such conduct is unbecoming to a schoolmaster, and it loses the master his dignity in the eyes of his pupils. To go about from house to house, whipping young boys--this you must agree ..." Khripatch did not finish, and merely shrugged his shoulders. "But after all," said Peredonov, "I did it for their good." "Please don't let us argue about it," Khripatch interrupted him sharply. "I request you most emphatically not to let this happen again." Peredonov looked angrily at the Head-Master. That evening they decided to have a house-warming. They invited all their acquaintances. Peredonov walked about the rooms to see that everything was in order and that there was nothing which could be the cause of his being informed against. He thought: "Well, everything seems all right--there are no forbidden books visible, the ikon-lamps are alight, the Royal portraits are hanging in the place of honour on the wall." Suddenly Mickiewicz winked at him from the wall. "He might get me into trouble," thought Peredonov in fear. "I'd better take the portrait and put it in the privy and bring Pushkin back here." "After all Pushkin was a courtier," he thought, as he hung the portrait on the dining-room wall. Then he remembered that they would play cards in the evening, so he decided to examine the cards. He took the opened pack of cards which had only been used once and looked through them as if he were trying to find something. The faces of the court cards did not please him--they had such big eyes. Latterly when he was playing it seemed to him that the cards smiled like Varvara. Even the ordinary six of spades had an insolent and unfriendly look. Peredonov gathered together all the cards he had and put out the eyes of all the kings, queens and knaves, so that they should not stare at him. He did this first with the cards that had already been used, and afterwards he unsealed the new packs. He did this with furtive glances around him, as if he were afraid that he would be detected. Luckily for him, Varvara was busy in the kitchen and did not come into the rooms,--how could she leave such an abundance of eatables: Klavdia might help herself. When she wanted anything from one of the rooms, she sent Klavdia. Each time Klavdia came into the room, Peredonov trembled, hid the scissors in his pocket and pretended that he was dealing the cards for patience. While Peredonov was in this way depriving the kings and queens of any possibility of their irritating him with their stares, an unpleasantness was approaching him from another side. The hat, which Peredonov had thrown on the stove of his former house in order to keep from wearing it, had been found by Ershova. She suspected that the hat had not been left there by a simple accident: her former tenants detested her and it was likely, Ershova thought, that they had put a spell in the hat which would prevent others from taking the house. In fear and vexation she took the hat to a sorceress. The latter looked at the hat, whispered something over it mysteriously and severely, spat to each of the four quarters and said to Ershova: "They've done you some harm and you ought to pay them back. A strong sorcerer has made the spell, but I am more cunning and I will outdo him and I'll get the better of him." And for a long time she recited her spells over the hat, and having received generous gifts from Ershova she told her that she was to give the hat to a young man with red hair, and that he should take it to Peredonov's house, give it to the first person he met there and then run away without turning round. As it happened, the first red-haired boy whom Ershova met was one of the locksmith's sons, who had a grudge against Peredonov for revealing their nocturnal prank. He took with great satisfaction the five-kopeck piece Ershova gave him, and on the way he spat zealously into the hat on his own account. He met Varvara herself in the dark hall of Peredonov's house. He stuck the hat into her hand and ran away so quickly that Varvara had not time to recognise him. Peredonov had barely time enough to blind the last knave, when Varvara entered his room, astonished and rather frightened, and said in a trembling voice: "Ardalyon Borisitch! Look at this!" Peredonov looked and almost fell over in his terror. The very hat which he had tried to get rid of was now in Varvara's hands, all crumpled up, dusty, with scarcely a trace of its former magnificence. He asked, panting with fear: "Where did it come from?" Varvara recounted in a frightened voice how she had received the hat from a nimble boy who seemed to rise from the ground in front of her and then vanish into it again. She said: "It must be Ershikha. She has thrown a spell on to your hat. There can't be any doubt about it." Peredonov mumbled something incoherent, and his teeth chattered with fear. Gloomy fears and forebodings tormented him. He walked up and down frowning and the grey nedotikomka ran under the chairs and sniggered. The guests arrived early. They brought many tarts, apples and pears to the house warming. Varvara accepted everything gladly, saying, merely from politeness: "Why did you take the trouble to bring such lovely things?" But if she thought that someone had brought something poor or cheap she felt angry. She was also displeased when two guests brought the same thing. They lost no time, but sat down at once to play cards. They played stoukolka. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Grushina suddenly. "I've got a blind king!" "And my queen has no eyes," said Prepolovenskaya, examining her cards. "And the knave too!" The guests laughingly examined their cards. Prepolovensky said: "I wondered why these cards kept catching each other. That's the reason. I kept feeling. Why is it, I thought, that they have such rough backs? Now I see it comes from these little holes. That's it--it's the backs that are rough!" Everyone laughed except Peredonov, who looked morose. Varvara said with a smile: "You know my Ardalyon Borisitch has strange whims. He's always thinking of different tricks." "Why did you do it?" asked Routilov with a loud laugh. "Why should they have eyes?" said Peredonov morosely. "They don't need to see!" Everyone roared with laughter, but Peredonov remained morose and silent. It seemed to him that the blinded figures were making wry faces, mocking at him and winking with the gaping little holes in their eyes. "Perhaps," thought Peredonov, "they've managed to learn to see with their noses." He had bad luck, as he nearly always did, and it seemed to him that the faces of the kings, queens and knaves expressed spite and mockery; the queen of spades even gritted her teeth, evidently enraged by his blinding her. Finally, after a heavy loss, Peredonov seized the pack of cards and in his rage began to tear them to shreds. The guests roared with laughter. Varvara said with a smile: "He's always like that--whenever he takes a drop he always does strange things." "You mean when he's drunk," said Prepolovenskaya spitefully. "Do you hear, Ardalyon Borisitch, what your cousin thinks of you?" Varvara flushed and said angrily: "Why do you twist my words?" Prepolovenskaya smiled and was silent. A new pack of cards was produced in place of the torn pack, and the game was continued. Suddenly a crash was heard--a pane of glass was broken and a stone fell on the floor near Peredonov. Under the window could be heard a whispering, laughter and then quickly receding footsteps. Everyone jumped from his place in alarm; the women screamed--as they always do. They picked up the stone and examined it fearfully; no one ventured near the window--they first sent Klavdia into the street, and only when she came back, saying that the street was deserted, did they examine the broken window. Volodin suggested that the stone had been thrown by some schoolboys. His guess seemed a likely one, and everyone looked significantly at Peredonov. Peredonov frowned and mumbled something incoherently. The guests began to talk of the boys of the place, remarking how impudent and wild they were. It was, of course, not the schoolboys, but the locksmith's sons. "The Head-Master put the boys up to it," announced Peredonov suddenly, "he's always trying to pick a quarrel with me. He's thought of this to annoy me." "Well, that _is_ a fine idea," shouted Routilov with a loud laugh. Everyone laughed. Grushina alone said: "Well, what do you expect? He's such a poisonous man. Anything might be expected of him. He doesn't do it himself, but puts his sons up to it." "It doesn't make any difference that they're aristocrats," bleated Volodin in an injured tone. "Anything might be expected from aristocrats." Many of the guests then began to think that perhaps it was time they stopped laughing. "You seem to have bad luck with glass, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Routilov. "First your spectacles were broken and now they've smashed your window." This evoked a new outburst of laughter. "Broken windows mean long life," said Prepolovenskaya with a restrained smile. When Peredonov and Varvara were going to bed that night, it seemed to him that Varvara had something evil in her mind; he took from her the knives and forks and hid them under the mattress. He mumbled in a slow, dull way: "I know you: as soon as you marry me you'll inform against me in order to get rid of me. You'll get a pension and I'll be in Petropavlosk jail working on the treadmill." That night Peredonov's mind wandered. Dim, terrible figures walked about noiselessly, kings and knaves, swinging their sceptres. They whispered to each other, tried to hide from Peredonov, and stealthily crept towards him under the pillow. But soon they grew bolder and began to walk and run and stir around Peredonov everywhere, upon the floor, upon the bed, upon the pillows. They whispered, they mocked at Peredonov, thrust out their tongues at him, made terrible grimaces before him, stretching out their mouths into deformed shapes. Peredonov saw that they were little and mischievous, that they would not kill him, but were only deriding him, and foreboding evil. But he felt a terrible fear--now he muttered exorcisms, fragments of spells he had heard in his childhood, now he began to curse them and to drive them from him, waving his arms and shouting in a hoarse voice. Varvara woke and called out irately: "What are you making such a row about, Ardalyon Borisitch? You won't let me sleep." "The queen of spades is annoying me. She's got a quilted capote on," mumbled Peredonov. Varvara rose, grumbling and cursing, and gave Peredonov some medicine. * * * * * In the local district newspaper a short article appeared recounting how a certain Madame K. whipped schoolboys who lived in her house--sons of the best local gentry. The notary, Goudayevsky, carried this news over the whole town and waxed indignant. And various other absurd rumours about the local _gymnasia_ went through the town: they talked about the girl who was dressed up as a schoolboy, later the name of Pilnikov came gradually to be mentioned with Liudmilla's. Sasha's companions began to tease him about his love for Liudmilla. At first he regarded their jests lightly, but later he would sometimes get indignant and defend Liudmilla, trying to convince them that nothing of the sort had happened. This made him ashamed to go to Liudmilla, and yet it drew him more strongly to her: confused, burning feelings of shame and attraction agitated him and vaguely passionate visions filled his imagination. CHAPTER XXI On Sunday when Peredonov and Varvara were lunching, someone entered the hall. Varvara went up to the door stealthily, as was her habit, and looked out. With the same stealthiness she returned to the table and whispered: "The postman. We'd better give him a vodka--he's brought another letter." Peredonov silently nodded,--he didn't grudge anyone a glass of vodka. Varvara shouted: "Postman! Come in here." The postman entered the room. He rummaged in his bag and pretended to be searching for the letter. Varvara filled a large vodka-glass and cut off a piece of pie. The postman watched her greedily. In the meantime Peredonov was trying to think whom the postman resembled. At last he recalled--he was the same red-pimpled knave who had made him lose so heavily at cards. "He'll trick me again," thought Peredonov dejectedly, and made a Koukish[1] in his pocket. The red-haired knave gave the letter to Varvara. "It's for you," he said respectfully, thanked them for the vodka, drank it, grunted with satisfaction, picked up the piece of pie and walked out. Varvara turned the letter and without opening it held it out to Peredonov. "There, read it--I think it's from the Princess," she said with a smile. "What's the good of her writing? It would be much better if she gave you the job instead." Peredonov's hands trembled. He tore open the envelope and quickly read the letter. Then he jumped up from his place, waved the letter and cried out: "Hurrah! Three inspector's jobs, and I can have which one I want. Hurrah, Varvara, we've got it at last!" He began to dance and twirl round the room. With his immovably red face and dull eyes he seemed like a monstrously large mechanical dancing doll. Varvara smiled and looked at him happily. He shouted: "Now it's decided, Varvara--we'll get married." He caught Varvara by the shoulders and began to whirl her around the table, stamping with his feet. "A Russian dance, Varvara!" he shouted. Varvara put her arms akimbo and glided off into a dance, Peredonov danced before her in the Russian squat. Volodin entered and bleated joyously: "The future inspector is hopping the _trepak!_"[2] "Dance, Pavloushka!" cried Peredonov. Klavdia looked in at the door. Volodin shouted at her, laughing and grimacing: "Dance, Klavdiusha, you too! All together! We'll make merry with the future inspector." Klavdia gave a hoot and glided into the dance, moving her shoulders. Volodin adroitly whirled round in front of her--now he squatted, now he whirled round, now he jumped forward, clapping his hands together. He was especially adroit when he lifted his knee and clapped his hands underneath the knee. The floor vibrated under their heels. Klavdia was overjoyed to have such a clever partner. When they got tired they sat down at the table and Klavdia ran off into the kitchen laughing gaily. They drank vodka and they drank beer. They jingled bottles and glasses, they shouted, laughed, waved their arms, embraced and kissed each other. Afterwards Peredonov and Volodin went off to the Summer-garden--Peredonov was in a hurry to boast about the letter. In the billiard-room they found the usual company. Peredonov showed his letter to his friends. It created a great impression. Everyone examined it trustfully. Routilov went pale, muttered something and spat. "The postman brought it when I was there!" exclaimed Peredonov. "I unsealed the letter myself. That means that there's no mistake." His friends looked at him with respect. A letter from a Princess! Peredonov went impetuously from the Summer-garden to Vershina's. He walked quickly and evenly, swinging his arms measuredly and mumbling to himself; his face had no apparent expression of any kind--it was motionless like that of a wound-up doll--and a sort of avid fire gleamed dully in his eyes. * * * * * The day turned out clear and warm. Marta was knitting a sock. Her thoughts were confused and devout. At first she thought about sins, but later she turned her thoughts to something more pleasant and began to reflect about virtues. Her thoughts became over-clouded with drowsiness and assumed the forms of definite images, and proportionately at their comprehensibility ceased to be expressible in words, their chimerical contours increased in clearness. The virtues stood up before her like big pretty dolls in white dresses, all shining and fragrant. They promised her rewards, and keys jingled in their hands, and bridal veils fluttered on their heads. One among them was curious and different from the others. She promised nothing but looked reproachfully, and her lips moved with a noiseless threat; it seemed that if she spoke a word one would feel terrible. Marta guessed that this was Conscience. She was in black, this strange painful visitor, with black eyes, and black hair--and she suddenly began to talk about something very quickly and glibly. She began to resemble Vershina. Marta started, answered something to her question, answered almost unconsciously and then drowsiness again overcame her. Whether it was Conscience, or whether it was Vershina sitting opposite her, talking quickly and glibly but incomprehensibly, smoking something exotic, this person was assertive, quiet and determined that everything should be as she wanted it. Marta tried to look this tedious visitor straight in the eyes but somehow she couldn't--the visitor smiled strangely, grumbled, and her eyes wandered off somewhere and rested on distant, unknown objects, which Marta found fearful to look at.... Loud talk awakened Marta. Peredonov stood in the summer-house and greeted Vershina in a loud voice. Marta looked around in fear. Her heart beat, her eyes were still half-shut, and her thoughts were still wandering, where was Conscience? Or had she not been there at all? And ought she to have been there? "Ah, you've been snoozing there," said Peredonov to her. "You were snoring in all sorts of ways. Now you're a pine."[3] Marta did not understand his pun, but smiled, guessing from the smile on Vershina's lips that something had been said which had to be accepted as amusing. "You ought to be called Sofya," continued Peredonov. "Why?" asked Marta. "Because you're Sonya[4] and not Marta." Peredonov sat down on the bench beside Marta and said: "I have a very important piece of news." "What sort of news can you have?" said Vershina. "Share it with us." And Marta immediately envied Vershina because she had such a vast number of words to express the simple question: "What is it?" "Guess!" said Peredonov in a morose, solemn voice. "How can I guess what sort of news you have?" replied Vershina. "You tell us, and then we shall know what your news is." Peredonov felt unhappy because they did not want to try and guess his news. He sat there silently, hunched up awkwardly, dull and heavy, and looked motionlessly before him. Vershina smoked and smiled wryly, showing her dark yellow teeth. "Why should I guess your news this way?" she said after a short silence. "Let me find it out in the cards. Marta, bring the cards here." Marta rose but Peredonov gruffly stopped her: "Sit still, I don't want them. Find out without them, but don't bother me with the cards. But now you can't do it at my expense. I'll show you a trick that'll make you open your mouths wide." Peredonov took his wallet quickly from his pocket and showed Vershina a letter in an envelope, without letting it go from his hands. "Do you see?" he said. "Here's the envelope. And here's the letter." He took out the letter and read it slowly with a dull expression of gratified spite in his eyes. Vershina was dumbfounded. To the very last she had not believed in the Princess, but now she understood that the affair with Marta was conclusively off. She smiled wryly and said: "Well, you're in luck." Marta with an astonished and frightened face, smiled in a flustered way. "Well, what do you think now?" said Peredonov maliciously. "You thought I was a fool, but I've come out best. You spoke about the envelope. Well, here's the envelope. No, there's no mistake about it." He hit the table with his fist, neither violently nor loudly--and his movement and the sound of his words remained somehow strangely distant, as if he were foreign and indifferent to his own affairs. Vershina and Marta exchanged glances in a perplexed way. "Why are you looking at each other?" said Peredonov crossly. "There's nothing for you to look at each other about: everything's settled now and I shall marry Varvara. There were a lot of little girls trying to catch me here." Vershina sent Marta for cigarettes and Marta gladly ran from the summer-house. She felt herself free and light-spirited as she went over the little sandy paths strewn with the bright-coloured autumn leaves. Near the house she met Vladya barefoot--and she felt even gayer and more cheerful. "He's going to marry Varvara, that's decided," she said happily in a low voice as she drew her brother into the house. In the meantime Peredonov, without waiting for Marta, abruptly took his leave. "I have no time," he said, "getting married is not making a pair of _lapti."_[5] Vershina did not detain him and said good-bye to him coldly. She was intensely vexed: until now she still had kept the frail hope that she would marry Marta to Peredonov and keep Mourin for herself. And now the last hope had vanished. Marta caught it hot that day! That made her cry. * * * * * Peredonov left Vershina and thought he would like to smoke. He suddenly saw a policeman--standing in the corner of the street, shelling dry sunflower seeds.[6] Peredonov felt depressed. "Another spy," he thought, "they're watching so as to have some excuse for finding fault with me." He did not dare to light the cigarette which he had taken from his pocket, but walked up to the policeman and asked timidly: "Mr. Policeman, is one allowed to smoke here?" The policeman touched his cap and inquired respectfully: "Why do you ask me, sir?" "A cigarette," explained Peredonov, "may one smoke a cigarette here?" "There's been no law about it," replied the policeman evasively. "There hasn't been any?" repeated Peredonov in a depressed voice. "No, there hasn't been any. We aren't ordered to stop gentlemen from smoking, and if such a rule has been passed I don't know about it." "If there hasn't been any, then I won't begin," said Peredonov humbly, "I am a law-abiding person. I will even throw the cigarette away. After all, I'm a State Councillor." Peredonov crumpled up the cigarette and threw it on the ground, and already began to fear that he had said something inadvised, and walked rapidly home. The policeman looked after him in perplexity and at last decided that the gentleman "had had a drop too much," and, comforted by this, recommenced his peaceful shelling of sunflower seeds. "The street is standing up on end," muttered Peredonov. The hill ran up a not very steep incline and then went down abruptly on the other side. At the crest of the street between two hovels was a sharp outline against the blue, melancholy evening sky. Poor life seemed to have shut herself in within these quiet narrow limits and suffered keen torments. The trees thrust their branches over the fences, they peered over and obstructed the way, and there was a taunt and menace in their whispering. A ram stood at the cross-roads and looked dully at Peredonov. Suddenly the sound of bleating laughter came from round a corner; Volodin appeared and went to greet Peredonov. Peredonov looked at him gloomily and thought of the ram which had been there a moment ago and had now disappeared. "That," he thought, "is certainly because Volodin can turn himself into a ram. He doesn't resemble a ram for nothing, and it's difficult to tell whether he's laughing or bleating." These thoughts so preoccupied him that he did not hear what Volodin was saying to him. "Why are you kicking me, Pavloushka?" he said dejectedly. Volodin smiled and said bleatingly: "I'm not kicking you, Ardalyon Borisitch, I'm shaking hands with you. It's possible that in your village they kick with their hands, but in my village they kick with their feet. And even then it is not people but, if I may say so, ponies." "You'll butt me yet," growled Peredonov. Volodin was offended and said in a trembling voice: "I haven't grown any horns yet, Ardalyon Borisitch, but it's very likely you'll grow them before I do." "You've got a long tongue that babbles nonsense," said Peredonov angrily. "If that's your idea of me, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Volodin quickly, "then I'll be silent." And his face bore an injured expression and his lips protruded; nevertheless he walked at Peredonov's side; he had not yet dined and he counted on having dinner with Peredonov: luckily they had invited him that morning. An important piece of news awaited Peredonov at home. While still in the hall it was easy to guess that something unusual had happened--a bustling could be heard in the rooms mingled with frightful exclamations. Peredonov at once thought that the dinner was not ready, and that when they saw him coming they had been frightened and were now hurrying. It was pleasant to him to know that they were afraid of him! But it turned out to be quite another matter. Varvara ran out into the hall and shouted: "The cat's been sent back!" In her excitement she did not notice Volodin at first. As usual, her dress was untidy--a greasy blouse over a grey dirty skirt and worn-out house slippers. Her hair was uncombed and tousled. She said to Peredonov excitedly: "It's Irishka again! She's played us a new trick out of spite. She sent a boy here again to throw the cat in here--and the cat has rattles on its tail and they keep on rattling. The cat has got under the sofa and won't come out." Peredonov felt terribly alarmed. "What's to be done now?" he asked. "Pavel Vassilyevitch," said Varvara, "you're younger, fetch the cat out from under the sofa." "We'll fetch him out, we'll fetch him out," said Volodin with a snigger, and went into the parlour. Somehow they managed to drag out the cat from under the sofa and took the rattles off his tail. Peredonov found some thistle heads and began to stick them into the cat's fur. The cat spat violently and ran into the kitchen. Peredonov, tired of his messing about with the cat, sat down in his usual position--his elbows on the arms of the chair, his fingers interlaced, his legs crossed, his face motionless and morose. * * * * * Peredonov kept the Princess's second letter more zealously than the first: he always carried it about with him in his wallet and showed it to everyone, looking mysterious as he did so. He looked vigilantly to see that no one took the letter away from him. He did not give it into anyone's hands, and after each showing he put it away in his wallet, which he put into the side-pocket of his frock-coat, buttoned up his coat and looked gravely and significantly at his companions. "Why do you hide it away like that?" Routilov once asked him laughingly. "As a precaution," said Peredonov morosely, "who can tell? You might take it from me." "It'd be a case for Siberia," said Routilov with a contemptuous laugh, slapping Peredonov on the back. But Peredonov preserved an imperturbable dignity. In general he had lately been assuming an air of greater importance. He often boasted: "I'll be an inspector. You will go sour here, but I shall have two districts to begin with. And then perhaps three, Oh--ho--ho!" He was quite convinced that he would receive his inspector's position very soon. More than once he said to the schoolmaster, Falastov: "I'll get you too out of here, old chap." And the schoolmaster, Falastov, was more respectful in his bearing to Peredonov. [1] Koukish, a clenched fist with the thumb thrust between the first and second fingers. This gesture is a great insult in Russia. To make it is as much as to say, "A fig for you!" [2] A Russian popular dance. [3] "Sosna" means "pine" and "so sna" "from sleep." Peredonov puns on it. [4] Variation on the pun. "Sonya" is another form of "Sofya." [5] _Lapti_, rough shoes worn by the peasants. [6] Russians eat dried sunflower seeds as Americans eat peanuts. CHAPTER XXII Peredonov began to attend church frequently. He always stood in a conspicuous place. At one time he crossed himself more often than was necessary, at another he stood like a person in a trance and looked stupidly before him. It seemed to him that spies were hiding behind the columns, and were peeping out from there, trying to make him laugh. But he did not yield. Laughter, the quiet, faint laughter, the giggling and the whispering of the Routilov girls, sounded in Peredonov's ears, and grew at times to an extraordinary pitch--as if the cunning girls were laughing straight into his ears, to make him laugh and to disgrace him. But Peredonov did not yield. At times a smoke-like, bluish nedotikomka appeared among the clouds of incense smoke; its eyes gleamed like little fires; with a slight rustle it lifted itself into the air, though not for long, but for the most part it rolled itself at the feet of members of the congregation, it jeered at Peredonov and tormented him obtrusively. Of course, it wanted to frighten him so that he would leave the church before Mass was over. But he understood its cunning design--and he did not yield. The church service--so dear to many people not in its words and ceremonies but in its innermost appeal--was incomprehensible to Peredonov. That is why it frightened him. The swinging of the censers frightened him as if it had been a mysterious incantation. "What's he swinging it so hard for?" he thought. The vestments of those serving the Mass seemed to him coarse, vari-coloured rags--and when he looked at the array of priests he felt malignant, and he wanted to tear the vestments and break the sacred vessels. The church ceremonies and mysteries seemed to him an evil witchcraft, intended to subject the common people. "He's crumbled the wafer into the communion cup," he thought angrily of the priest. "It's cheap wine. They deceive the people to get more money for their church celebrations." The mystery of the eternal transformation of inert matter into a force breaking the fetters of death was for ever hidden from him. A walking corpse! The absurd mingling of unbelief in a living God and His Messiah, with his absurd belief in sorcery! The people were leaving the church. The village schoolmaster, Machigin, a simple young man, was standing near the girls, smiling and conversing freely with them. Peredonov thought that it was not quite becoming for him to conduct himself so freely before the future inspector. Machigin wore a straw hat. But Peredonov remembered that in the summer he had seen him just outside the town wearing an official cap with a badge. Peredonov decided to complain about it. As it happened, Inspector Bogdanov was also present. Peredonov walked up to him and said: "Your Machigin has been wearing a cap with a badge. He's trying to look like a gentleman." Bogdanov was alarmed, trembled, and his grey Adam's apple quivered. "He has no right! No right whatever!" he exclaimed anxiously, blinking his red-rimmed eyes. "He has no right, but he's been wearing it," complained Peredonov. "He ought to be stopped--I told you that long ago. Or else any boor of a muzhik can wear a badge; and what will come of it?" Bogdanov, who had been frightened by Peredonov before, was even more alarmed. "How does he dare, eh?" he wailed. "I will call him up at once, at once. And I'll reprimand him most severely." He left Peredonov and quickly ran off home. Volodin walked at Peredonov's side and said in a reproachful, bleating voice: "He's wearing a badge. What do you think of that! As if he had an official rank! Why is it allowed!" "You mustn't wear a badge either," said Peredonov. "I mustn't and I don't want to," said Volodin. "Still I sometimes put on a badge--only I know where and when one can do it. I go out of the town and I put it on there. It gives me great pleasure, and there's no one to stop me. And when you meet a muzhik you get more respect----" "A badge doesn't become your mug, Pavloushka," said Peredonov; "and keep farther off, you're making me dusty with your hoofs." Volodin relapsed into an injured silence, but still walked beside him. Peredonov said in a preoccupied way: "The Routilov girls ought to be informed against too. They only go to church to chatter and to laugh. They rouge themselves, they dress themselves up and then go to church. And then they steal incense to make scents of--that's why they have such a strong smell." "What do you think of that?" said Volodin shaking his head with his bulging, dull eyes. The shadow of a cloud ran quickly over the ground, and brought a feeling of dread on Peredonov. Sometimes the grey nedotikomka glimmered in the clouds of dust. Whenever the grass stirred in the wind Peredonov saw the nedotikomka running through it, feeding on the grass. "Why is there grass in the town?" he thought. "What neglect; it ought to be rooted out." A twig stirred in the tree, it rolled up, cawed and flew away in the distance. Peredonov shivered, gave a wild cry and ran off home. Volodin ran after him anxiously, and, with a perplexed expression in his bulging eyes, clutched at his bowler hat and swung his stick. * * * * * That same day Bogdanov asked Machigin to come and see him. Before entering the inspector's house Machigin stood in the street with his back to the sun, took off his hat and combed his hair with his fingers, noticing from his shadow that his hair was unkempt. "Explain yourself, young man. What are you thinking of, eh?" Bogdanov assailed Machigin with these words. "What is the matter?" asked Machigin unconcernedly, playing with his straw hat and swinging his left foot. Bogdanov did not ask him to sit down as he intended to reprimand him. "How is it, young man, how is it that you've been wearing a badge, eh? What made you infringe the rule?" he asked, assuming an expression of sternness and shaking his Adam's apple. Machigin flushed but answered boldly: "What of it? Haven't I a right to?" "Are you an official, eh? An official?" said Bogdanov excitedly. "What sort of an official are you, eh? A copying clerk, eh?" "It's a sign of a schoolmaster's calling," said Machigin, boldly, and suddenly smiled as he called to mind what the dignity of a schoolmaster's vocation was. "Carry a stick in your hand, a stick. That's the sign of your schoolmaster's calling," said Bogdanov shaking his head. "But please, Sergey Potapitch," said Machigin in an injured tone, "what's the good of a stick? Anyone can do that, but a badge gives a man prestige." "What sort of prestige, eh? What sort of prestige?" Bogdanov shouted at him. "What sort of prestige do you want, eh? Are you an official?" "Oh, but forgive me, Sergey Potapitch," said Machigin persuasively and reasonably. "Among the ignorant peasant classes a badge immediately arouses a feeling of respect--they've been much more respectful lately." Machigin stroked his red moustache in a self-satisfied way. "It can't be allowed, young man, it can't be allowed under any consideration," said Bogdanov shaking his head stiffly. "But please, Sergey Potapitch, a schoolmaster without a badge is like the British lion without a tail," protested Machigin. "He's only a caricature." "What's a tail got to do with it, eh? Why drag in the tail, eh?" said Bogdanov excitedly. "Why are you mixing it up with politics, eh? What business is it of yours to discuss politics, eh? No, young man, you'd better dispense with the badge. For Heaven's sake, give it up. No, it's impossible. How could it be possible. God preserve us, we can't tell who might find it out!" Machigin shrugged his shoulders and was about to say something else, but Bogdanov interrupted him--what Bogdanov considered a brilliant idea flashed into his head. "But you came to me without the badge, without the badge, eh? You yourself feel that it's not the right thing to do." Machigin was nonplussed for a moment, but found an answer even to this: "As we are rural schoolmasters we need this privilege in the country, but in town we are known to belong to the intellectual classes." "No, young man, you know very well that this is not allowed. And if I hear of it again we shall have to get rid of you." * * * * * From time to time Grushina arranged evening parties for young people, from among whom she hoped to find another husband. To conceal her purpose she also invited married people. The guests came early to one of these parties. Pictures covered in thick muslin hung on the walls of Grushina's drawing-room. There was really nothing indecent in them. When Grushina, with an arch, wanton smile, raised these curtains, the guests gazed at badly-drawn figures of naked women. "Why is this woman so crooked?" asked Peredonov morosely. "She's not crooked at all," Grushina defended the picture warmly. "She's only bending over." "She is crooked," repeated Peredonov, "and her eyes are not the same--like yours." "Much you understand about it," said Grushina offendedly. "These pictures are very good and very expensive. Artists always prefer such models." Peredonov suddenly burst out laughing: he recalled the advice he had given Vladya a few days ago. "What are you neighing at?" asked Grushina. "Nartanovitch, the schoolboy, is going to singe Marta's dress. I advised him to," he explained. "Let him just do it! He's not such a fool," said Grushina. "Of course he'll do it," said Peredonov confidently. "Brothers always quarrel with their sisters. When I was a kid I always played tricks on my sisters--I pummelled the little ones and I used to spoil the older ones' clothes." "Everyone doesn't," said Routilov. "I don't quarrel with my sisters." "Well, what do you do? Kiss them?" asked Peredonov. "You are a swine and a scoundrel, Ardalyon Borisitch, I'll give you a black eye," said Routilov calmly. "I don't like such jokes," said Peredonov, and moved away from Routilov. "Yes," thought Peredonov, "he might really do it. He's got such a mean face." "She has only one dress, a black one," he went on, referring to Marta. "Vershina will make her a new one," said Varvara with spiteful envy, "she'll make all her dowry for her. She's such a beauty that even the horses are frightened," she grumbled on quietly, looking maliciously at Mourin. "It's time for you to marry too," said Prepolovenskaya. "What are you waiting for, Ardalyon Borisitch?" The Prepolovenskys already saw that after the second letter Peredonov was determined to marry Varvara. They also believed in the letter. They began to say that they had always been on Varvara's side. There was no good in their quarrelling with Peredonov--it was profitable to play cards with him. As for Genya, there was nothing to do but to wait--they would have to look for another husband. "Of course you ought to marry," said Prepolovensky. "It will be a good thing in itself, and you'll please the Princess; the Princess will be pleased that you're married, and so you will please her and you'll do a good thing, yes, a good thing, and yes, really, you'll be doing a good thing and you'll please the Princess." "Yes, and I say the same thing," said Prepolovenskaya. But Prepolovensky was unable to stop, and seeing that everyone was walking away from him he sat down beside a young official and began to explain the same thing to him. "I've decided to get married," said Peredonov, "only Varvara and I don't know how to do it. I really don't know how to go about it." "It's not such a difficult business," said Prepolovenskaya. "Now, if you like, my husband and I will arrange everything. You just sit still and don't think about anything." "Very well," said Peredonov, "I'm agreeable. Only everything must be done well and in proper style. I don't mind what it costs." "Everything will be quite all right, don't worry about that," Prepolovenskaya assured him. Peredonov continued to state his conditions: "Other people through stinginess buy thin wedding rings or silver ones gilt over, but I don't want to do that. I want pure gold ones. And I even prefer wedding bracelets to wedding rings--they are more expensive and more dignified." Everyone laughed. "Bracelets are impossible," said Prepolovenskaya smiling slightly. "You must have rings." "Why impossible?" asked Peredonov in vexation. "Simply because it's not done." "But perhaps it is done," said Peredonov increduously. "I will ask the priest. He knows best." Routilov advised him with a snigger: "You'd better order wedding belts, Ardalyon Borisitch." "I haven't got money enough for that," said Peredonov, not noticing the smiles. "I'm not a banker. Only the other day I dreamed that I was being married, and that I wore a velvet frock-coat and that Varvara and I had gold bracelets. And behind us were two head-masters holding the crowns over us, singing 'Hallelujah.'" "I also had an interesting dream last night," announced Volodin. "But I don't know what it can mean. I was sitting, as it were, on a gold throne with a gold crown on, and there was grass in front of me and on the grass were little sheep, all little sheep, all little sheep, ba-a!--ba-a! And the little sheep walked about and moved their heads like this and kept on their ba-a! ba-a! ba-a!" Volodin walked up and down the room, shaking his head, protruded his lips and bleated. The guests laughed. Volodin sat down on a chair with an expression of bliss on his face, looked at them with his bulging eyes and laughed with the same sheep-like bleating laughter. "What happened then?" asked Grushina, winking at the others. "Well, it was all little sheep and little sheep, and then I woke up," concluded Volodin. "A sheep has sheepish dreams," growled Peredonov. "It isn't such great shakes being Tsar of the sheep." "I also had a dream," said Varvara with an impudent smile, "only I can't tell it before men. I'll tell it to you alone." "Ah, my dear Varvara Dmitrievna, it's strange I had one too," sniggered Grushina, winking at the others. "Please tell us, we're modest men, like the ladies," said Routilov. The other men also besought Varvara and Grushina to tell them their dreams. But the pair only exchanged glances, laughed meaningly and would not tell. They sat down to play cards. Routilov assured everyone that Peredonov played cards well. Peredonov believed him. But that evening he lost as usual. Routilov was winning. This elated him and he talked more animatedly than usual. The nedotikomka mocked at Peredonov. It was hiding somewhere near by--it would show itself sometimes, peering out from behind the table or from behind someone's back, and then hide again. It seemed to be waiting for something. He felt dismayed. The very appearance of the cards dismayed him. He saw two queens in the place of one. "And where's the third," thought Peredonov. He dully examined the queen of spades, then turned it round to see if the third queen was hiding on the back. Routilov said: "Ardalyon Borisitch is looking behind the queen's shirt."[1] They all laughed. In the meantime two young police officials sat down to play _douratchki.[2]_ They played their hands very quickly. The winner laughed with joy and made a long nose at the other. The loser growled. There was a smell of food. Grushina called the guests into the dining-room. They all went, jostling each other, and with an affected politeness. Somehow they managed to seat themselves. "Help yourselves, everyone," said Grushina hospitably. "Now then, my dears, stuff without fears to your very ears."[3] "Eat the cake for the hostess' sake," shouted Mourin gleefully. He felt very gay, looking at the vodka and thinking about his winnings. Volodin and the two young officials helped themselves more lavishly than anyone else, they picked out the choicest and most expensive things, and ate caviare greedily. Grushina said with a forced laugh: "Pavel Ivanitch is drunk, but still knows the difference between bread and cake." As if she had bought the caviare for him! And under the pretext of serving the ladies she took the best dishes away from him. But Volodin was not disconcerted and was glad to take what was left: he had managed to eat a good deal of the best things and it was all the same to him now. Peredonov looked at the munchers and it seemed to him that everyone was laughing at him. Why? For what reason? He ate piggishly and greedily everything that came to his hand. After supper they sat down to play cards again. But Peredonov soon got tired of it. He threw down the cards and said: "To the devil with you! I have no luck. I'm tired! Varvara, let's go home." And the other guests got up at the same time. Volodin saw in the hall that Peredonov had a new stick. He smiled and turned the stick over in front of him, asking: "Ardasha, why are these fingers bent into a little roll? What does it mean?" Peredonov angrily took the stick from him and put the handle with a Koukish[4] carved out of black wood on it to Volodin's nose and said: "A fig with butter for you!" Volodin looked offended. "Allow me to say, Ardalyon Borisitch," he said, "that I eat bread with butter, but that I do not want to eat a fig with butter." Peredonov, without listening to him, was solicitously wrapping up his neck in a scarf and buttoning up his overcoat. Routilov said with a laugh: "Why are you wrapping yourself up, Ardalyon Borisitch? It's quite warm." "Health before everything," replied Peredonov. It was quiet in the street--the street was stretched out in the darkness as if asleep and snored gently. It was dark, melancholy and damp. Heavy clouds moved across the sky. Peredonov growled: "They've let loose the darkness. Why?" He was not afraid now--he was walking with Varvara and not alone. Soon a small, rapid, continuous rain began to fall. Everything was still. And only the rain babbled something obtrusively and quickly, sobbing out incoherent, melancholy phrases. Peredonov felt in nature the reflection of his own dejection, his own dread before the mask of her hostility to him--he had no conception of that inner life in all nature which is inaccessible to external decrees, the life which alone creates the true, deep and unfailing relations between man and nature, because all nature seemed to him permeated with petty human feelings. Blinded by the illusions of personality and distinct existence he could not understand elemental Dionysian exultations rejoicing and clamouring in nature. He was blind and pitiful, like so many of us. [1] "Roubaska" generally means "shirt," but also is used to express the "back" of a card. Hence Routilov's pun. [2] Diminutive of "dourak"--fool. A Russian card game. [3] See note above. Search for The tendency to speak ... [4] See note above. Search for Koukish, a clenched fist ... CHAPTER XXIII The Prepolovenskys undertook the arrangement of the wedding. It was decided that they should be married in a village six versts from the town. Varvara felt uneasy about marrying in the town, after they had lived together so many years as relatives. The day fixed for the wedding was concealed. The Prepolovenskys spread a rumour that it was to take place on Friday, but it was really to be on Wednesday. They did it to prevent curiosity seekers from coming to the wedding. Varvara more than once said to Peredonov: "Ardalyon Borisitch, don't you say a word of when the wedding is to be or they might hinder us." Peredonov gave the expenses for the wedding unwillingly and with humiliations for Varvara. Sometimes he brought his stick with the Koukish head and said to Varvara: "Kiss the Koukish and I'll give you the money. If you don't, I won't." Varvara kissed the Koukish. "What of that, it won't split my lips," she said. The date of the wedding was kept secret even from the bride's-men until the day itself, so that they might not chatter about it. At first Routilov and Volodin were invited as bride's-men and both eagerly accepted; Routilov looked for an amusing experience, while Volodin felt flattered to play such an important role at such a distinguished event in the life of such an esteemed personage. Then Peredonov considered that one bride's-man was not enough for him. He said: "Varvara, you can have one, but I must have two. One isn't enough for me--it will be difficult to hold the crown[1] over me. I'm a tall man." And Peredonov invited Falastov as his second bride's-man. Varvara grumbled: "To the devil with him! We've got two, why should we have any more?" "He's got gold spectacles. He'll look important," said Peredonov. On the morning of the wedding Peredonov washed in hot water, as he always did, to avoid catching cold, and then demanded rouge, explaining: "Now I have to rouge myself every day or else they'll think I'm getting old and they won't appoint me as inspector." Varvara disliked giving him any of her rouge, but she had to yield--and Peredonov coloured his cheeks. He muttered: "Veriga himself paints so as to look younger. You don't expect me to get married with white cheeks." Then, shutting himself in his bedroom, he decided to mark himself, so that Volodin could not change places with him. On his chest, on his stomach, on his forearms and in various other places he marked in ink the letter "P". "Volodin ought to be marked too. But how can he be? He would see it and rub it off," thought Peredonov dejectedly. Then a new thought came into his mind--to put on a pair of corsets so that he should not be taken for an old man if he happened to bend over. He asked Varvara for a pair of corsets, but Varvara's corsets proved to be too tight--they would not come together. "They ought to have been bought earlier," he said savagely. "You never think of anything in time." "What man wears corsets?" said Varvara. "No one does." "Veriga does," said Peredonov. "Yes, Veriga is an old man, but you, Ardalyon Borisitch, thank God, are in your prime." Peredonov smiled with self-satisfaction, looked in the mirror and said: "Of course, I shall live another hundred and fifty years." The cat sneezed under the bed. Varvara said with a smile: "There, even the cat's sneezing! That shows it's true." But Peredonov suddenly frowned. The cat now aroused dread in him and its sneezing seemed to him a sign of ominous cunning. "He'll sneeze something that's not wanted," he thought, and got under the bed and began to drive the cat out. The cat mewed savagely, pressed against the wall, and suddenly with a loud, piercing mew, jumped between Peredonov's hands and ran out of the room. "A Dutch devil," Peredonov abused the animal savagely. "He's certainly a devil," affirmed Varvara. "He's become altogether wild. He won't let himself be stroked, as if the devil had got into him." The Prepolovenskys sent for the bride's-men early in the morning. At ten o'clock all had gathered at Peredonov's. Grushina also came, and Sofya with her husband. They were handed vodka and the usual _zakouska._ Peredonov ate little and thought dejectedly as to how he could distinguish himself from Volodin. "He's curled like a sheep," he thought maliciously, and suddenly imagined that he too might comb his hair in a special way. He rose from the table and said: "You go on eating and drinking--I don't object; but I'll go to the hairdresser and I'll have my hair done in the Spanish style." "What is the Spanish style?" asked Routilov. "Wait and you'll see." When Peredonov went to get his hair trimmed, Varvara said: "He's always inventing new notions. He sees devils. If he only drank less gin, the cursed tippler!" Prepolovenskaya said with a sly smile: "Well, as soon as you are married, Ardalyon Borisitch will get his place and settle down." Grushina sniggered. She was amused by the secrecy of this wedding, and she was excited by an intense desire to create an ignominious spectacle of some sort and yet not be mixed up with it. On the day before she had whispered in an underhand way to her friends the place and hour of the wedding. And early that morning she had called in the blacksmith's younger son, had given him a five-kopeck piece, and hinted to him that towards evening he should wait outside the town where the newly married couple would pass, to throw rubbish at them. The boy gladly agreed and gave his sworn promise not to betray her. Grushina reminded him: "You did give away Cherepnin when they beat you." "We were fools," said the boy. "Now, let 'em hang us and we won't tell." And the boy, in confirmation of his oath, ate a small handful of loam. For this Grushina added another three kopecks. At the hairdresser's Peredonov demanded the barber himself. The barber, a young man who had lately finished a course at the town school and who had read books from the rural library, was just finishing cutting the hair of a landed proprietor. When he had finished, he came up to Peredonov. "Let him go first," said Peredonov angrily. The man paid and left. Peredonov sat down in front of the mirror. "I want my hair trimmed and properly arranged," said he. "I have an important affair on to-day, something special, and so I want my hair arranged in the Spanish style." The boy apprentice, who stood at the door, snorted with amusement. His master looked sternly at him. He had never had occasion to trim anyone's hair in Spanish style, and did not know what the Spanish style was or even if there were such a style. But if the gentleman demanded such a thing, then it must be assumed that he knew what he wanted. The young hairdresser did not want to betray his ignorance. He said respectfully: "It's impossible to do it with your hair, sir." "Why impossible?" said Peredonov taken aback. "Your hair is badly nourished," explained the hairdresser. "Do you expect me to pour beer over it?" growled Peredonov. "Excuse me, why beer?" said the hairdresser affably. "When your hair is trimmed your head shows signs of baldness and what's left isn't enough to do the thing in the Spanish style." Peredonov felt himself crushed by the impossibility of having his hair trimmed in the Spanish style. He said dejectedly: "Well, cut it as you like." He began to wonder whether the hairdresser had been persuaded not to cut his hair in a distinguished style. He ought not to have spoken about it at home. Evidently, while he was walking gravely and sedately along the street, Volodin had run like a little sheep by back streets and had conspired with the hairdresser. "Would you like a spray, sir?" said the hairdresser, having finished trimming his hair. "Spray me with mignonette. The more, the better," demanded Peredonov. "You might at least make up by spraying me with plenty of mignonette." "I'm sorry, but we don't keep mignonette," said the hairdresser in confusion. "How will opopanax do?" "You can't do anything I want," said Peredonov bitterly. "Go ahead, and spray me with whatever you've got." He returned home in vexation. It was a windy day. The gates kept banging, yawning and laughing in the wind. Peredonov looked at them dispiritedly. How could he face the drive? But everything arranged itself. Three carriages were waiting--they had to sit down and drive away at once, in order not to attract attention. Many curiosity mongers might collect and follow them to the wedding, if the carriages waited about too long. They took their places and drove off: Peredonov with Varvara, the Prepolovenskys with Routilov, Grushina with the other bride's-men. A cloud of dust rose in the square. Peredonov heard a noise of axes. Barely visible through the dust, a wooden wall loomed and grew. They were building a fortress. Muzhiks, savage and morose-looking, glimmered in their red shirts through the dust. The carriages ran past; the terrible vision flashed by and vanished. Peredonov looked around in terror, but nothing was visible, and he could not decide to tell anyone about his vision. A sadness tormented Peredonov the whole way. Everything looked hostilely at him. The wind blew ominously. The sky was black. The wind was in their faces and seemed to moan for something. The trees gave no shadow--they kept their shadows within themselves. But the dust rose, a long grey, half-transparent serpent. The sun hid behind the clouds--did it look out from under them? The road was undulating. Unexpected bushes, copses and fields rose from behind low hillocks, and streams appeared under the hollow-sounding, wooden arched bridges. "The eye-bird flew by," said Peredonov morosely, looking into the whitish, misty distance of the sky. "One eye and two wings, and nothing more." Varvara smiled. She thought that Peredonov had been drunk since the morning. But she did not argue with him--"for," she thought, "he might get angry and refuse to go to the wedding." All four of Routilov's sisters were already in a corner of the church, hiding behind a column. Peredonov did not see them at first, but later during the ceremony when they appeared from their ambush and came forward, he saw them and felt frightened. They actually did not do anything unpleasant, they did not demand (as he had been afraid at first) that he should chase Varvara away and take one of them. They only kept laughing all the time. And their laughter, quiet at first, resounded louder and more evil in his ears all the time, like the laughter of untameable furies. There were practically no outsiders in the church. Only two or three old women came from somewhere or other. And this was fortunate, for Peredonov conducted himself curiously and stupidly. He yawned, mumbled, nudged Varvara, complained about the smell of incense, wax and muzhiks. "Your sisters are always laughing," he grumbled, turning to Routilov. "They'll perforate their livers with laughing." Besides that, the nedotikomka disturbed him. It was dirty and dusty and kept hiding under the priest's vestments. Both Varvara and Grushina thought the church ceremonies amusing. They giggled continuously. The words about a woman cleaving to her husband evoked special merriment. Routilov also giggled. He considered it his duty always and everywhere to amuse the ladies. Volodin conducted himself sedately, and crossed himself, preserving an expression of profundity on his face. The church ceremonies did not suggest to his mind anything but that they were an established custom which ought to be fulfilled, and that the fulfilment of all ceremonies leads one to a certain inner convenience: he went to church on Sundays, and he prayed, and was absolved, he had sinned and repented and again he was absolved. Now this is excellent and convenient--all the more convenient because once outside the church he did not have to think about churchly matters, but was guided entirely by quite different and worldly rules. The ceremony was barely over and they had not yet had time to leave the church when suddenly a drunken crowd tumbled noisily into the church. It was Mourin and his friends. Mourin, dusty and tousled, as usual, embraced Peredonov and shouted: "You can't hide it from us, old boy! We're such fast friends that you can't part us by pouring cold water on us. And yet you hid it from us, you tricky fellow!" Exclamations came from all sides: "Villain, you didn't invite us!" "But we're here all the same!" "Yes, we found it out without you!" The new-comers embraced and congratulated Peredonov. Mourin said: "We missed the way because we stopped for a drink, or else we'd have conferred the pleasure of our company on you earlier." Peredonov looked at them gloomily and did not reply to their congratulations. Malevolence and fear tormented him. "They're always tracking me everywhere," he thought dejectedly. "You might have crossed your foreheads," he said angrily. "Or possibly you were thinking evil against me." The visitors crossed themselves, laughed and joked. The young officials especially distinguished themselves. The deacon reproached them. Among the visitors was a young men with red moustaches whom Peredonov did not even know. He resembled a cat to an extraordinary degree. Wasn't it their cat turned into human shape? It was not for nothing that this young man kept snarling--he had not forgotten his cattish habits. "Who told you?" asked Varvara angrily of the new guests. "A nice young woman told us," replied Mourin. "But we have forgotten who it was." Grushina turned around and winked at them. The new guests smiled back but did not give her away. Mourin said: "As you like, Ardalyon Borisitch, but we're coming with you and you must give us champagne. Don't be a skinflint. You can't pour cold water on such friends as we are, and yet you've tried to get married on the quiet." When the Peredonovs returned from the wedding the sun had gone down, but the sky was all fiery and golden. But this did not please Peredonov. He growled: "They've dabbed pieces of gold on the sky and they're falling off. Who ever saw such a waste!" The locksmith's sons met them just outside the town in a crowd of other street boys. They ran alongside and hooted. Peredonov trembled with fear. Varvara uttered curses, spat at the boys, and showed them the Koukish. The guests and the bride's-men roared with laughter. At last they reached home. The entire company tumbled into Peredonov's house with a shout, a hubbub and whistling. They drank champagne, then took to vodka and began to play cards. They kept on drinking all night. Varvara got tipsy, danced, and was happy; Peredonov was also happy--Volodin had not yet been substituted for him. As always, the visitors conducted themselves disrespectfully and indecently towards Varvara; this seemed to her to be in the order of things. * * * * * After the wedding the Peredonovs' existence changed very little. Only Varvara's attitude towards her husband became more assured and independent. She ran about less for her husband--but, through deep-rooted habit, she was still a little afraid of him. Peredonov, also from habit, shouted at her as he used to do and sometimes even beat her. But he too scented the assurance she had acquired with her new position. And this depressed him. It seemed to him that if she was not so afraid of him as she had been, it was because she had strengthened her criminal idea to leave him and get Volodin into his place. "I must be on my guard," he thought. Varvara triumphed. She, together with her husband, paid visits to the town ladies, even to those with whom she was little acquainted. At these visits she showed a ridiculous pride and awkwardness. She was received everywhere though in many houses with astonishment. Varvara had ordered in good time for these visits a hat from the best local modiste. The large vivid flowers set abundantly on the hat delighted her. The Peredonovs began their visits with the Head-Master's wife. Then they went to the wife of the Marshal of the Nobility. On the day that the Peredonovs had prepared to make the visits--of which, of course, the Routilovs knew beforehand--the sisters went to Varvara Nikolayevna Khripatch, to see out of curiosity how Varvara Peredonov would conduct herself. The Peredonovs soon arrived. Varvara made a curtsy to the Head-Master's wife, and in a more than usually jarring voice said: "Well, we've come to see you. Please love us and be kind to us." "I'm very glad," replied the Head-Master's wife constrainedly. And she seated Varvara on the sofa. Varvara sat down with obvious pleasure in the place indicated, spread out her rustling green dress, and said, trying to appear at ease: "I've been a Mam'zell until now, but now I've become a Madam. We're namesakes--I'm Varvara and you're Varvara--and we've not been to each other's houses. While I was a Mam'zell, I sat at home most of the time. What's the good of sitting by one's stove all the time! Now Ardalyon Borisitch and I will live more socially. Grant me a favour--we will come to you and you will come to us, Mossure to Mossure and Madame to Madame." "But I hear that you're not going to stay here long," said the Head-Master's wife. "I'm told that you and your husband are going to be transferred." "Yes, the paper will come soon and then we shall leave here," replied Varvara. "But as the paper has not yet come, we must stay here a little longer and show ourselves." Varvara had hopes of the inspector's position. After the wedding she wrote a letter to the Princess. She had not yet received an answer. She decided to write again at the New Year. Liudmilla said: "But we thought, Ardalyon Borisitch, that you were going to marry the young lady, Pilnikov?" "What's the good of me marrying anyone else?" said Peredonov. "I need patronage." "But how did your affair with Mademoiselle Pilnikov get broken off," Liudmilla teased him. "Didn't you pay her attentions? Did she refuse you?" "I'll show her up yet," growled Peredonov morosely. "That's an _idée fixe_ of Ardalyon Borisitch," said the Head-Master's wife with a dry laugh. [1] Crowns are held over the bride and bridegroom at Russian weddings in church. CHAPTER XXIV The Peredonov's cat acted wildly, snarled and refused to come when called--it had become quite incorrigible. The animal alarmed Peredonov. He sometimes pronounced exorcisms over it. "I wonder whether it will help," he thought. "There's strong electricity in a cat's fur. That's where the trouble is." Once the idea came into his mind to have the cat shorn. No sooner thought of than done. Varvara was not at home. She had gone to Grushina's, after having put a bottle of cherry brandy into her pocket. There was no one to hinder her. Peredonov tied the cat on a cord--he had made a collar out of a pocket handkerchief--and led the animal to the hairdresser. The cat mewed wildly, and struggled. Sometimes it threw itself in desperation at Peredonov--but Peredonov kept it at a distance with his stick. A crowd of small boys ran behind him, hooting and laughing. Passers-by paused to look. People looked out of their windows to see what the noise was about. Peredonov morosely dragged the cat along on the cord without the least embarrassment. He succeeded in getting the cat to the hairdresser and said: "Shave the cat, barber, the closer the better." The small boys crowded at the shop door, roaring with laughter and making faces. The hairdresser felt offended and grew red. He said in a slightly trembling voice: "I beg your pardon, sir, we don't undertake such jobs. And who ever heard of a shaved cat? It must be the very latest fashion which hasn't reached us yet." Peredonov listened to him with stupefied disappointment. He shouted: "You'd better admit that you can't do it, incompetent!" And he walked away, dragging after him the cat, which mewed continuously. On the way he thought dejectedly that everywhere and always everyone laughed at him and no one wanted to help him. His sadness oppressed his heart. Peredonov went with Volodin and Routilov to the Summer-garden to play billiards. The marker said to them with embarrassment: "I'm sorry, gentlemen, you can't play to-day." "Why not?" asked Peredonov irritatedly. "Well, I'm sorry to say there are no billiard balls," replied the marker. "Someone pinched them when he wasn't looking," said the bar-tender sternly, leaning across the counter. The marker trembled and suddenly twitched his reddened ears, as a hare does, and whispered: "They were stolen." Peredonov exclaimed in a frightened voice: "Good Lord! Who stole them?" "It's not known," said the marker; "no one seemed to have been here, and then when I went to look for the balls they weren't there." Routilov sniggered and exclaimed: "What a funny thing!" Volodin assumed an injured look and scolded the marker: "If you allow the billiard balls to be stolen when you are somewhere else and the billiard balls disappear, then you ought to have provided others for us to have something to play with. We come here and want to play, and if there are no billiard balls, how can we play?" "Don't whine, Pavloushka," said Peredonov, "it's bad enough without you. Now, marker, you go and look for those balls, we must play--but meanwhile bring us a couple of beers." They began to drink the beer. But it was tedious. The billiard balls could not be found. They wrangled with one another and they cursed the marker. The latter felt guilty and said nothing. Peredonov detected in this theft a new intrigue, hostile to himself. "Why?" he thought dejectedly, and could not understand. He went into the garden, sat down on a bench near the pond--he had never sat there before--and fixed his eyes dully on the weed-clogged water. Volodin sat down beside him and shared his grief, looking also at the pond with his sheepish eyes. "Why is there such a dirty mirror here, Pavloushka," said Peredonov, pointing at the pond with his stick. Volodin smiled and replied: "It's not a mirror, Ardasha, it's a pond. And as there's no breeze just now the trees are reflected in it as if in a mirror." Peredonov looked up; a fence on the other side of the pond separated the garden from the street. Peredonov asked: "Why is the cat on that fence?" Volodin looked in the same direction and said with a snigger: "It was there, but it's gone." There really had been no cat--it was an illusion of Peredonov's--a cat with wide green eyes, his cunning, tireless enemy. Peredonov began to think about the billiard balls: "Who needed them? Has the nedotikomka devoured them? Perhaps that's why I haven't seen it to-day," thought Peredonov. "It must have gorged itself and be asleep somewhere now." Peredonov went home dejectedly. The sunset was fading. A small cloud was wandering across the sky. She moved stealthily on her soft shoes, and peeped out at him. On her dark edges a reflection smiled enigmatically. Above the stream, which flowed between the garden and the town, the shadows of the houses and the bushes wavered, whispered to each other, and seemed to be searching for someone. And on the earth, in this dark and eternally hostile town, all the people he met were evil and malicious. Everything became mingled in a general ill-will towards Peredonov, the dogs laughed at him and the people barked at him. * * * * * The ladies of the town began to visit Varvara. Some of them with an eager curiosity had managed to pay a visit on the second or third day, to see how Varvara looked at home. Others delayed a week or more. And still others did not come at all--as, for instance, Vershina. The Peredonovs awaited return visits every day with anxious impatience; they counted up those who had not yet come. They awaited the Head-Master and his wife with special impatience. They waited and were immensely agitated for fear that the Khripatches should suddenly arrive. A week had passed. The Khripatches had not yet come. Varvara had got into a temper and began to pour out abuse. This waiting plunged Peredonov into a deeply depressed state of mind. Peredonov's eyes became entirely vacant. It was as if they were becoming extinguished, and sometimes they seemed like the eyes of a dead man. Absurd fears tormented him. Without any visible cause he began to be afraid of one or another object. An idea somehow came into his head--and tormented him for several days--that they would cut his throat; he was afraid of everything sharp and hid the knives and the forks. "Perhaps," he thought, "they've been bewitched by whispered spells. It might happen that I might cut myself with them." "Why are there knives?" he asked Varvara. "Chinamen eat with chopsticks." For a whole week after this they did not cook any meat, but lived on cabbage-soup and gruel. Varvara, to get even with Peredonov for the troubles he had caused her before their wedding, sometimes agreed with him and encouraged him to think that his fancies and superstitions had a basis in reality. She told him that he had many enemies and that they had every reason to envy him. More than once she told Peredonov tauntingly that he had been informed against and slandered to the authorities and the Princess. And she rejoiced at his visible fear. It seemed clear to Peredonov that the Princess was dissatisfied with him. Why couldn't she have sent him for his wedding an ikon or cake. He thought: Oughtn't he to earn her favour? But how? By falsehood? Should he slander someone, calumniate someone, inform against someone? He knew that all women love tittle-tattle--and so couldn't he invent something, something pleasant and _risqué_ about Varvara and write it to the Princess? She would laugh and give him the place. But Peredonov was not able to write the letter, and felt apprehensive about writing to a Princess. And later he forgot all about this scheme. Peredonov gave ordinary visitors vodka and the cheapest port-wine. But he bought a three-rouble bottle of Madeira for the Head-Master. He considered this wine extremely expensive, kept it in his bedroom and showed it to his visitors, saying: "It's for the Head-Master!" Routilov and Volodin were once sitting at Peredonov's. Peredonov showed them the Madeira. "What's the good of looking at the outside, it doesn't taste well," said Routilov with a snigger, "you might treat us to some of your expensive Madeira." "What an idea!" exclaimed Peredonov angrily. "What should I give the Head-Master?" "The Head-Master could drink a glass of vodka," said Routilov. "Head-Masters don't drink vodka, they have to drink Madeira," said Peredonov reasonably. "But suppose he likes vodka?" persisted Routilov. "Good heavens! You don't suppose a general would like vodka!" said Peredonov with conviction. "All the same you'd better give us some of it," insisted Routilov. But Peredonov quickly took away the bottle and they heard the click of the lock on the little cupboard in which he kept the wine. When he came back to his guests he began to talk about the Princess to change the conversation. He said quite gravely: "The Princess! Why she sold rotten apples in the market and managed to get hold of a Prince." Routilov burst out laughing and shouted: "Do Princes walk about markets?" "Oh, she knew how to entice him in," said Peredonov. "You're making it up, Ardalyon Borisitch, it's a cock-and-bull story," argued Routilov. "The Princess is a born lady." Peredonov looked at him malignantly and thought: "He's defending her. That means he's siding with the Princess. It's clear that she's bewitched him although she lives at a distance." And the nedotikomka wriggled about him, laughed noiselessly and shook all over with laughter. It reminded Peredonov of various dreadful circumstances. He looked around timidly and whispered: "In every town there's a sergeant of the gendarmes in the secret service. He wears civilian clothes, sometimes he's in the civil service, sometimes he's a tradesman, or he does something else, but at night when everyone is asleep he puts on his blue uniform and suddenly becomes a sergeant of the gendarmes." "But why the uniform?" inquired Volodin reasonably. "Because no one dares to appear before the authorities without a uniform. You might get beaten for doing it." Volodin sniggered. Peredonov bent over him closer and whispered: "Sometimes he even lives in the shape of a were-wolf. You may think it's simply a cat, but that's an error, it's really a gendarme running about. No one hides from a cat, and he listens to everything that's said." * * * * * At last, after a week and a half, the Head-Master's wife paid a visit to Varvara. She arrived with her husband on a week-day at four o'clock, all dressed up, attractive-looking, bringing a perfume of violets with her--altogether unexpectedly for the Peredonovs, who for some reason had expected the Khripatches on a Sunday, earlier in the day. They were dumbfounded. Varvara was in the kitchen half-dressed and dirty. She rushed away to get dressed and Peredonov received the visitors, looking as if he had been just awakened. "Varvara will be here immediately," he mumbled, "she's dressing herself. She was working--we have a new servant who doesn't understand our ways. She's a hopeless fool." Soon Varvara came in, dressed somehow, with a flushed, frightened face. She extended to her visitors a dirty, damp hand, and said in a voice trembling with agitation: "You must forgive me for keeping you waiting--we didn't expect you on a week-day." "I seldom go out on a Sunday," said Madame Khripatch. "There are drunkards in the street. I let my servant-maid have her day out." The conversation somehow started, and the kindness of the Head-Master's wife somewhat encouraged Varvara. Madame Khripatch treated Varvara with a slight contemptuousness, but graciously--as with a repented sinner who had to be treated kindly but who might still soil one's hands. She gave Varvara several hints, as if incidentally, about clothes and housekeeping. Varvara tried to please the Head-Master's wife, but her red hands and chapped lips still trembled with fear. This embarrassed Madame Khripatch. She tried to be even more gracious, but an involuntary fastidiousness overcame her. By her whole attitude she showed Varvara that there could never be a close acquaintance between them. But she did this so graciously that Varvara did not understand, and imagined that she and Madame Khripatch would become great friends. Khripatch had the look of a man out of his element, but he concealed the fact skilfully and manfully. He refused the Madeira on the ground that he was not used to drinking wine at that hour of the day. He talked about the local news, about the approaching changes in the composition of the district court. But it was very noticeable that he and Peredonov moved in different circles of local society. They did not make a long visit. Varvara was glad when they left; they just came and went. She said with relief as she took off her clothes: "Well, thank God they've gone. I didn't know what to talk to them about. When you don't know people you can't tell how to get at them." Suddenly she remembered that when the Khripatches left they had not invited her to their house. This distressed her at first, but afterwards she thought: "They'll send a card with a note when to come. Gentry like them have a time for everything. I suppose I ought to have a go at French. I can't even say 'Pa' and 'Ma' in French." When they got home the Head-Master's wife said to her husband: "She's simply pitiful, and hopelessly vulgar; it's utterly impossible to be on equal terms with her. There's nothing in her to correspond with her position." Khripatch replied: "She fully corresponds with her husband. I'm impatiently waiting for them to take him away from us." * * * * * After the wedding Varvara began to drink now and then--most frequently with Grushina. Once when she was a little tipsy Prepolovenskaya was at her house and Varvara blabbed about the letter. She didn't tell everything but she hinted sufficiently clearly. This was enough for the cunning Sofya--it was a sudden revelation to her. "But why didn't I guess it at once," she mentally reproached herself. She told Vershina in confidence about the forged letters--and from her it spread all over the town. Prepolovenskaya could not help laughing at Peredonov's credulousness whenever she met him. She said to him: "You're very simple, Ardalyon Borisitch." "I'm not simple at all," he replied, "I'm a graduate of a University." "You may be a graduate, but anyone who wants to can take you in." "I can take in everyone myself," argued Peredonov. Prepolovenskaya smiled slyly and left him. Peredonov was dully perplexed. "What does she mean? It's out of spite," he thought. "Everyone's my enemy." And he made a Koukish after her. "You'll get nothing out of me," he thought, consoling himself, but he was tormented by dread. Her hints did not seem very satisfactory to Prepolovenskaya. But she did not want to tell him everything in plain words. Why should she quarrel with Varvara? From time to time she sent Peredonov anonymous letters in which the hints were clearer. But Peredonov misunderstood them. Sofya once wrote him: "You had better see whether that Princess, who wrote you the letter, doesn't live here." Peredonov thought that perhaps the Princess had really come to the town to watch his movements. "It's obvious," he thought, "that she's in love with me and wants to get me away from Varvara." And these letters both frightened and angered him. He kept asking Varvara: "Where is the Princess? I hear that she has come to the town." Varvara, to get even with him for what had happened before the marriage, tormented him with vague hints, taunts and half-timid, malignant insinuations. She smiled insolently, and said to him in that strained voice which is usually heard from a person who lies knowingly without the hope of being believed: "How should I know where the Princess lives now?" "You're lying--you do know!" said Peredonov in terror. He did not know what to believe--the meaning of her words, or the lie betrayed in the sound of her voice--and this, like everything he did not understand, terrified him. Varvara retorted: "What an idea! Perhaps she left Peter for somewhere else. She doesn't have to ask me when she goes away." "But perhaps she really has come here?" asked Peredonov timidly. "Perhaps she really has come here!" Varvara mimicked him. "She's smitten with you and she's come here to see you." "You're a liar! Is it likely that she'd fall in love with me?" Varvara laughed spitefully. From that time Peredonov began to look about attentively for the Princess. Sometimes it seemed to him that she was looking in at the window, through the door, eavesdropping, and whispering with Varvara. * * * * * Time passed by and the paper, announcing his appointment as inspector, so eagerly expected day after day, still did not come. He had no private information of the situation. Peredonov did not dare to find out from the Princess herself--Varvara constantly frightened him by saying that the Princess was a very great lady, and he thought that if he wrote to her it might cause him extreme unpleasantness. He did not know precisely what they could do to him if the Princess complained of him, but this made him think of dreadful possibilities. Varvara said to him: "Don't you know aristocrats? You must wait until they act of themselves. But once you remind them, they get offended, and it'll be the worse for you. They're so touchy. They're proud, and they like to be taken at their word." And Peredonov was still credulous. But he got angry with the Princess. Sometimes he even thought that the Princess would inform against him in order to rid herself of her obligations to him. Or else she would inform against him because he had married Varvara when perhaps she herself was in love with him. That was why she had surrounded him with spies, he thought, who kept an eye on him everywhere. They had so hemmed him in that he had no air to breathe, no light. She was not an eminent lady for nothing. She could do whatever she liked. From spite he invented most unlikely stories about the Princess. He told Routilov and Volodin that he had formerly been her lover and that she had given him large sums of money. "But I've drunk it all away," he said. "Why the devil should I save it! She also promised me a pension for life, but she took me in over that." "And would you have accepted it?" asked Routilov with a snigger. Peredonov was silent. He did not understand the question. But Volodin answered for him gravely and judiciously: "Why not accept it, if she's rich? She's gratified herself with pleasures and she ought to pay for them." "If she were at least a beauty," said Peredonov mournfully. "She's freckled and pug-nosed. She paid very well, otherwise I wouldn't even want to spit at the hag! She must attend to my request." "You're a liar, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Routilov. "A liar! What an idea! Do you suppose she paid me for nothing? She's jealous of Varvara, and that's why she doesn't give me the job at once." Peredonov did not feel any shame when he said that the Princess paid him. Volodin was a credulous listener, and did not notice the absurdities and contradictions in his stories. Routilov protested, but thought that without fire there can be no smoke. He thought there must have been something between Peredonov and the Princess. "She's older than the priest's dog,"[1] said Peredonov convincingly, as if it were to the point; "but see that you don't blab about it, because it might come to her ears and do no good. She paints herself, and she tries to make herself as young as a sucking-pig by injecting things in her veins. And you know that she's old. She's really a hundred." Volodin nodded his head and clicked his tongue affirmatively. He believed it all. It so happened that on the day after this conversation Peredonov read Krilov's fable, "The Liar." And for several days afterwards he was afraid to go over the bridge, but crossed the river in a boat, for fear that the bridge should tumble down.[2] He explained to Volodin: "What I said about the Princess was the truth, only the bridge might take a sudden notion not to believe my story, and tumble down to the devil." [1] There is a popular Russian tale about a priest who had a very old dog. It begins, "The priest had a dog ..." [2] Krilov's fable is of a returned traveller who tells his friend at home about a cucumber he saw at Rome as large as a mountain. The incredulous friend tells him about one of the home wonders--a bridge which tumbles every liar who attempts to cross it into the river. The traveller gradually reduces the size of the cucumber, but even then he finally suggests that they find a place where they might ford the stream. CHAPTER XXV Rumours of the forged letters spread about the town. Conversations about them preoccupied the townsmen and gave them great pleasure. Nearly everyone took Varvara's part and was glad that Peredonov had been made a fool of. And all those who had seen the letters asserted as with one voice that they had guessed it at once. Especially great was the rejoicing in Vershina's house: Marta, though she was going to marry Mourin, had nevertheless been rejected by Peredonov; Vershina wanted Mourin for herself but she had to yield him to Marta; Vladya had his obvious reasons for hating Peredonov and for rejoicing at his discomfiture. Though he felt vexed to think that Peredonov would remain at the _gymnasia,_ still this vexation was outweighed by his pleasure at the fact that Peredonov had been let down badly. And besides this, during the last few days there was a persistent rumour that the Head-Master had informed the Director of the National Schools that Peredonov was out of his mind. And someone was going to be sent to examine him, after which he would be taken away. Whenever her acquaintances met Varvara they would refer more or less openly to her stratagem, accompanying their words with coarse jokes and impudent winks. She would smile insolently and would not admit it, but she did not deny it. Others hinted to Grushina that they knew of her share in the forgery. She was frightened and came to Varvara, reproaching her for gossiping too much. Varvara said to, her with a smile: "Now, don't make such a fuss. I never had the least intention of telling anyone." "How did they find it out then?" asked Grushina hotly. "Of course I shouldn't tell anyone, I'm not such a fool." "And I haven't told anyone," asserted Varvara. "I want the letter back," demanded Grushina, "or else he'll begin to look at it closely and he'll recognise from the handwriting that it's a forgery." "Well, let him find out!" said Varvara. "Why should I stop to consider a fool?" Grushina's eyes gleamed and she shouted: "It's all very well for you who've got all you wanted, but I might be jailed on your account! No, I must have that letter, whatever you do. Because they can unmarry you as well, you know." "That's all nonsense," replied Varvara with her arms insolently akimbo. "You might announce it in the market-place, but you couldn't undo the marriage." "Not nonsense at all," shouted Grushina. "There is no law that permits you to marry through deception. If Ardalyon Borisitch should let the authorities know about this affair and the affair went up to the Higher Court they'd settle your hash for you." Varvara got frightened and said: "Now don't be angry--I'll get you the letter. There's nothing to be afraid of--I'll not give you away. I'm not such a beast as all that. I've got a soul too." "What's a soul got to do with it?" said Grushina harshly. "A dog and a man have the same breath, but there is no soul. You live while you live." Varvara decided to steal the letter, though this was difficult. Grushina urged her to hurry. There was one hope--to take the letter from Peredonov when he was drunk. And he drank a great deal now. He had even not infrequently appeared at the _gymnasia_ in a rather tipsy state and had made unpleasant remarks which had aroused repugnance in even the worst of the boys. * * * * * Once Peredonov returned from the billiard saloon more drunk than usual: they had baptised the new billiard balls. But he never let go of his wallet. As he managed to undress somehow, he stuck it under his pillow. He slept restlessly but profoundly, and during his sleep his mind wandered and he babbled about something terrible and monstrous. And these words inspired Varvara with a painful apprehension. "Well, it's nothing," she encouraged herself. "So long as he doesn't wake up." She had tried to waken him. She nudged him--he only muttered something and cursed violently, but did not awaken. Varvara lit a candle and placed it so that the light should not fall into Peredonov's eyes. Numb with terror, she rose in the bed and slipped her hand under Peredonov's pillow. The wallet was quite close but for a long time it seemed to elude her fingers. The candle burned dimly. Its light wavered. Timorous shadows ran on the walls and on the bed--evil little devils flashed by. The air was close and motionless. There was a smell of badly-distilled vodka. Peredonov's snores and drunken ravings filled the bedroom. The whole place was like the incarnation of a nightmare. Varvara took the letter with trembling hands and replaced the wallet. In the morning Peredonov looked for his letter, failed to find it, and shouted in a fright: "Where's the letter, Varya?" Varvara felt very much afraid but concealed it and said: "How should I know, Ardalyon Borisitch? You keep showing it to everyone, you must have dropped it. Or else someone has stolen it from you. You have a lot of friends and acquaintances that you get drunk with at night." Peredonov thought that the letter had been stolen by his enemies, most likely by Volodin. The letter was now in Volodin's hands and later he would get the other papers and the appointment into his clutches, and he would go away to his inspectorship while Peredonov remained a disappointed beggar. * * * * * Peredonov decided that he must defend himself. Every day he wrote denunciations of his enemies: Vershina, the Routilovs, Volodin, his colleagues, who, it seemed to him, had their eye on the same position. In the evening he would take these denunciations to Roubovsky. The Officer of the gendarmerie lived in a prominent place on the square near the _gymnasia._ Many people observed from their windows how often Peredonov entered the gates of the Officer of the gendarmerie. But Peredonov thought that he was unobserved. He had good reason to take these denunciations at night, by the back way through the kitchen. He kept the papers under his coat. It was noticeable at once that he was holding something. When it happened that he had to take his hand out to shake hands with someone, he clutched the papers under his coat with his left hand, and imagined that no one would guess that anything was there. When his acquaintances asked him where he was going he lied to them very clumsily, but was very satisfied himself with his awkward inventions. He explained to Roubovsky: "They're all traitors. They pretend to be your friends so as to be more certain of deceiving you. But none of them stop to think that I know things about them that would send them all to Siberia." Roubovsky listened to him in silence. The first denunciation, which was patently absurd, he sent to the Head-Master, and he did the same thing with several others. He kept certain others in case he should need them. The Head-Master wrote to the Director of National Schools that Peredonov was showing clear symptoms of mental disease. At home Peredonov constantly heard ceaseless, exasperating and mocking rustlings. He said to Varvara dejectedly: "Someone's walking about on tip-toe. There are so many spies in the house, jostling each other. Varya, you're not taking care of me." Varvara did not understand the meaning of Peredonov's ravings. At one time she taunted him, at another she felt afraid. She said to him malignantly and yet with fear: "You see all sorts of things when you're drunk." The door to the hall seemed especially suspicious to Peredonov. It did not close tightly. The crevice between the two halves hinted at something that was hiding outside. Wasn't it the knave who was peeping through it? Someone's evil, penetrating eye gleamed behind it. The cat followed Peredonov everywhere with its wide, green eyes. Sometimes it blinked its eyes, sometimes it mewed fearfully. It was obvious that the animal wanted to catch Peredonov at something, but it could not and was therefore angry. Peredonov exorcised the cat by spitting, but the cat remained unmoved. The nedotikomka ran under the chair and in the corners, and squealed. It was dirty, evil-smelling, repulsive and terrifying. It was already quite clear that it was hostile to Peredonov, and rolled in entirely on his account, and that it had not existed anywhere before. It had been created--and it had been bewitched. And this evil, many-eyed beast lived here to his dread and to his perdition--followed him, deceived him, laughed at him--now rolled upon the floor, now turned into a rag, a ribbon, a twig, a flag, a small cloud, a little dog, a pillar of dust in the street, and everywhere it crawled and ran after Peredonov. It harassed him, it wearied him with its vacillating dance. If only someone would deliver him from it, with a word or with a downright blow. But he had no friends here, there was no one to come to save him. He must use his own cunning or the malicious beast would ruin him. * * * * * Peredonov thought of a device. He smeared the entire floor with glue so that the nedotikomka should get stuck. What did stick to the floor was the soles of Varvara's shoes and the hems of her dress, but the nedotikomka rolled on freely and laughed shrilly. Varvara abused him loudly. Persistent suspicions of being under constant persecution frightened him. More and more he became immersed in a world of wild illusions. This reflected itself in his face, which became a motionless mask of terror. In the evenings Peredonov no longer went to play billiards. After dinner he shut himself in his bedroom, barricaded the room with various objects--a chair upon a table--and very carefully surrounded himself with crosses and exorcisms and sat down to write denunciations against everyone he could think of. He wrote denunciations not only against people but against playing-card queens. As soon as he had written one he would take it immediately to the Officer of the gendarmerie. And in this way he spent every evening. Everywhere card-figures walked before Peredonov's eyes, as if they were alive--kings, queens and knaves. Even the other cards walked about. These consisted of people with silver buttons: schoolboys and policemen. There was the ace of spades--stout, with a protruding stomach, almost entirely stomach. Sometimes the cards became transformed into his acquaintances. Living people were mixed up with these strange phantasms. Peredonov was convinced that a knave was standing behind the door and that he had strength and power--something like a policeman's--and that he could take you away somewhere to some terrible jail. Under the table sat the nedotikomka. And Peredonov was afraid to glance either under the table or behind the door. The nimble eights of the pack, like little boys, mocked at Peredonov--these were the phantasms of schoolboys. They lifted their legs with strange, stiff movements, like the legs of a compass, but their legs were shaggy and with hoofs. Instead of tails they had whipping rods, which they swung with a swish, and at each flourish they gave a squeak. The nedotikomka grunted from under the table, and laughed at the play of these eights. Peredonov thought with rage that the nedotikomka would not have dared to come to an official. "They surely wouldn't let it in," he thought enviously. "The lackeys would drive it out with their mops." At last Peredonov could no longer stand its evil, insolently shrill laughter. He brought an axe from the kitchen and he split the table under which the nedotikomka was hiding. The nedotikomka squeaked piteously and furiously. It dashed out from under the table and rolled away. Peredonov trembled. "It might bite," he thought, and screamed with terror and sat down, but the nedotikomka hid itself peacefully. Not for long.... Sometimes Peredonov took the cards and with a ferocious expression on his face cut the heads off the court cards. Especially those of the queens. In cutting the kings, he glanced around him so as not to be detected and not to be accused of a political crime. But even these executions did not help for long. Visitors came, cards were brought and evil spies again took possession of the cards. Peredonov already began to consider himself a secret criminal. He imagined that even from his student days he had been under the surveillance of the police. For some reason he thought that they were watching him. This terrified and yet flattered him. The wind stirred the wall-paper. It shook with a quiet, evil rustling. And soft half-shadows glided over their vividly coloured patterns. "There's a spy hiding behind the wall-paper," thought Peredonov sadly. "Evil people! No wonder they put the paper on the wall so unevenly and so poorly, for a skilful, patient, flat villain to creep in and hide behind. Such things have happened even before." Confused recollections stirred in his mind. Someone had hidden behind the wall-paper; someone had been stabbed either with a poignard or an awl. Peredonov bought an awl. And when he returned home the wall-paper stirred unevenly and restlessly--a spy felt his danger and was perhaps trying to creep in farther. A shadow jumped to the ceiling and there threatened and grimaced. Peredonov was infuriated. He struck the wall-paper impetuously with the awl. A shiver ran over the wall. Peredonov began to sing triumphantly and to dance, brandishing the awl. Varvara came in. "Why are you dancing by yourself, Ardalyon Borisitch?" she asked, smiling stupidly and insolently as always. "I've killed a beetle," explained Peredonov morosely. His eyes gleamed in wild triumph. Only one thing annoyed him; the disagreeable odour. The murdered spy stank putridly behind the wall-paper. Horror and triumph shook Peredonov--he had killed an enemy! He had hardened his heart to the very end of the deed. It was not a real murder--but for Peredonov it was quite real. A mad horror had forged in him a readiness to commit the crime--and the deep, unconscious image of future murder, dormant in the lower strata of spiritual life, the tormenting itch to murder, a condition of primitive wrath, oppressed his diseased will. The ancient Cain--overlaid by many generations--found gratification in his breaking and damaging property, in his chopping with the axe, in his cutting with the knife, in his cutting down trees in the garden to prevent the spies from looking out behind them. And the ancient demon, the spirit of prehistoric confusion, of hoary chaos, rejoiced in the destruction of things, while the wild eyes of the madman reflected horror, like the horror of the death agonies of some monster. And the same illusions tormented him again and again. Varvara, amusing herself at Peredonov's expense, sometimes hid herself behind the door of the room where he was sitting, and talked in assumed voices. He would get frightened, walk up quietly to catch the enemy--and find Varvara. "Whom were you whispering to?" he asked sadly. Varvara smiled and replied: "It only seemed to you, Ardalyon Borisitch." "Surely everything doesn't merely seem to me," muttered Peredonov sadly. "There must be also truth upon the earth." Even Peredonov, in common with all conscious life, strove towards the truth, and this striving tortured him. He was not conscious that he, like all people, was striving towards the truth, and that was why he suffered this confused restlessness. He could not find the truth he sought, and he was caught in the toils and was perishing. * * * * * His acquaintances began to taunt him with being a dupe. With the usual cruelty of our town towards the weak, they talked of this deception in his presence. Prepolovenskaya asked with a derisive smile: "How is it, Ardalyon Borisitch, that you haven't gone away to your inspector's job yet?" Varvara answered for him with suppressed anger: "We shall get the paper soon, and we shall leave at once." But these questions depressed him. "How can I live, if the place isn't given to me?" he thought. He kept devising new plans of defence against his enemies. He stole the axe from the kitchen and hid it under the bed. He bought a Swedish knife and always carried it about in his pocket. He frequently locked himself in his room. At night he put traps around the house and in the rooms and later he would examine them. These traps were, of course, so constructed that they could not catch anyone. They gripped but could not hold anyone, and it was easy to walk away with them. But Peredonov had no technical knowledge and no common sense. When he saw each morning that no one was caught Peredonov imagined that his enemies had tampered with the traps. This again frightened him. Peredonov watched Volodin with special attention. He frequently went to Volodin when he knew that Volodin would not be at home and rummaged among the papers to see if there were any stolen from himself. * * * * * Peredonov began to suspect what the Princess wanted--it was that he should love her again. She was repugnant to him, a decrepit old woman. "She's a hundred and fifty years old," he thought with vexation. "Yes, she's old, but then how powerful she is!" And his repulsion became mingled with an allurement. "She's an almost cold little old woman, she smells slightly of a corpse," he imagined, and he felt faint with a savage voluptuousness. "Perhaps it would be possible to arrange a meeting, and her heart would be touched. Oughtn't I to send her a letter?" This time Peredonov, with slight hesitation, composed a letter to the Princess. He wrote: "I love you, because you are cold and remote. Varvara perspires, it is hot to sleep with her, it is like the breath of an oven. I would like to have a cold and remote love. Come here and respond to me." He wrote it and posted it--and then repented. "What will come of it?" he thought. "Perhaps I ought not to have written. I should have waited until the Princess came here." This letter was an accidental occurrence, like so much that Peredonov did--he was like a corpse moved by external powers, and moved as if these powers had no desire to busy themselves with him for long: one would play with him and then cast him to another. Soon the nedotikomka reappeared--for a long time it rolled around Peredonov as if it were on the end of a lasso, and kept mocking him. And it was now noiseless, and laughed only with a shaking of its body. The evil, shameless beast flared up with dimly golden sparks--it threatened and burned with an intolerable triumph. And the cat threatened Peredonov; its eyes gleamed and it mewed arrogantly and fiercely. "Why are they so glad?" thought Peredonov dejectedly, and suddenly understood that the end was approaching, that the Princess was already here, close, quite close. Perhaps she was in this very pack of cards. Yes, undoubtedly she was the queen of spades or the queen of hearts. Perhaps she was hiding in another pack, or in other cards, but he did not know what she looked like. The difficulty was that Peredonov had never seen her. It would be useless to ask Varvara--she would tell lies. At last Peredonov thought he would burn the whole pack. Let them all burn! If they creep into the cards to his ruin, then it's their own fault. Peredonov chose a time when Varvara was not at home. The stove in the parlour was alight--and he threw all the cards into the stove. With a crackling the marvellous pale red flowers opened out--they burned but were black at the edges. Peredonov looked in horror at these flaming blossoms. The cards contracted, bent over and moved as if they were trying to escape from the stove. Peredonov caught hold of the poker and began to beat the lighted cards with it. There was a shower of tiny bright sparks on all sides--and suddenly in a bright, wild riot of sparks the Princess rose out of the fire, a little ash-grey woman, bestrewn with small dying sparks; she wailed piercingly in her shrill voice and hissed and spit on the flames. Peredonov fell backward. He cried out in horror. The darkness embraced him, tickled him, and laughed with a thousand jarring little noises. CHAPTER XXVI Sasha was fascinated by Liudmilla, but something prevented him from talking about her to Kokovkina. He felt somehow ashamed, and sometimes he came to be afraid of her visits. His heart would feel faint and his eyebrows contract involuntarily when he saw her rose-yellow hat pass quickly under his window. Nevertheless he awaited her with anxiety and impatience--he was sad when she did not come for a long time. Contradictory feelings were mingled in his soul, feelings dark and vague--morbid because premature, and sweet because morbid. Liudmilla had called neither yesterday nor to-day. Sasha exhausted himself with waiting and had already ceased to expect her. Suddenly she came. He grew radiant and rushed forward to kiss her hand. "Well, have you forgotten me?" he reproached her. "I haven't seen you for two days." She laughed happily and a sweet, languid and piquant odour of Japanese _funkia_ emanated from her, as if it came from her light hair. Liudmilla and Sasha went out for a walk in the town. They invited Kokovkina but she would not go. "How could an old woman like me go out with you? I'd only get in your way. You'd better go out by yourselves." "But we'll get into mischief," laughed Liudmilla. * * * * * The warm, languid air caressed them and called to remembrance the irrevocable. The sun, as if diseased, burned dimly and lividly in the pale, tired sky. The dry leaves lay humbly on the dark earth, dead. Liudmilla and Sasha went into a hollow. It was cool, refreshing, almost damp there--a tender autumn weariness reigned there within its shady slopes. Liudmilla walked in front. She lifted her skirt. She showed her small shoes and flesh-coloured stockings. Sasha looked on the ground, so as not to stumble over roots, and saw the stockings. It seemed to him that she had put on shoes without stockings. He flushed. He felt giddy. "If only I could fall suddenly before her," he thought, "snatch off her shoes, and kiss her delicate feet!" Liudmilla instinctively felt Sasha's passionate glance, his impatient desire. She laughed and turned to him with a question: "Are you looking at my stockings?" "No, I--er----" mumbled Sasha in confusion. "What dreadful stockings I've got on," said Liudmilla laughing and not listening to him. "It almost looks as if I had put my shoes on my bare feet--they're absolutely flesh-coloured. Don't you think they're dreadfully ridiculous stockings?" She turned her face to Sasha and lifted the hem of her dress. "Aren't they ridiculous?" she asked. "No, they're beautiful," said Sasha, red with embarrassment. Liudmilla pretended to be surprised, raised her eyebrows and exclaimed: "And what do you know about beauty?" Liudmilla laughed and walked on. Sasha, burning with confusion, walked uneasily after her, stumbling frequently. They managed to get through the hollow. They sat down on a birch trunk thrown down by the wind. Liudmilla said: "My shoes are full of sand. I can't go on any further." She took off her shoes, shook out the sand and looked archly at Sasha. "Do you think it's a pretty foot?" she asked. Sasha flushed even more and did not know what to say. Liudmilla pulled off her stockings. "Don't you think they're very white feet?" she asked and smiled strangely and coquettishly. "Down on your knees! Kiss them!" she said severely, and a commanding severity showed on her face. Sasha went down on his knees quickly and kissed Liudmilla's feet. "It's much nicer without stockings," said Liudmilla as she placed her stockings in her pocket and stuck her feet into her shoes. And her face again became gay and calm as if Sasha had not just been on his knees before her, kissing her naked feet. Sasha asked: "Won't you catch cold, dear?" His voice sounded tender and tremulous. Liudmilla laughed. "What a notion! I'm used to it. I'm not so delicate as that." * * * * * Liudmilla once came to Kokovkina's just before dusk and called Sasha: "Come and help me put up a new shelf." Sasha loved to knock nails in, and somehow he had promised to help Liudmilla in arranging her room. And now he eagerly consented, glad that there was an innocent pretext to go to Liudmilla's house. And now the innocent, pungent odour of essence of _muguet_ blew from Liudmilla's greenish dress and gently soothed him. For the work Liudmilla redressed herself behind a screen, and came out to Sasha in a short, spruce skirt, and short sleeves, perfumed with the pleasant, languid, pungent Japanese _funkia._ "Oh, but how spruced up you are!" said Sasha. "Yes, I am," said Liudmilla laughing. "Look, my feet are bare," she said, drawling out her words in a half-ashamed, half-provoking way. Sasha shrugged his shoulders and said: "You're always spruce. Well, let's begin to work. Have you got any nails?" "Wait a bit," replied Liudmilla. "Sit still a moment with me. You seem as if you had come on business and found it a bore to talk to me." Sasha flushed and said tenderly: "Dear Liudmillotchka, I would like to sit with you as long as you want, until you drove me out, but I've got my lessons to do." Liudmilla sighed and said slowly: "You're getting handsomer, Sasha." Sasha reddened, laughed and protruded the end of his curled-up tongue. "What a thing to say! You might think I was a girl from the way you talk." "A beautiful face, but what kind of body? You might show it, at least to the waist," entreated Liudmilla caressingly, and put her arm round his shoulder. "What an idea!" said Sasha, ashamed and vexed at the same time. "Why, what's the matter?" asked Liudmilla in a different voice. "What have you got to hide?" "Someone might come," said Sasha. "Who'll come in?" said Liudmilla as gaily and carelessly as before. "We can lock the door and then no one will come in." Liudmilla walked quickly up to the door and bolted it. Sasha felt that Liudmilla was serious. He flushed so deeply that little drops of perspiration came out on his forehead and he said: "We oughtn't to do it, Liudmillotchka." "Stupid! Why not?" asked Liudmilla in a persuasive voice. She pulled Sasha to her and began to undo his blouse. Sasha resisted and caught her wrists. His face looked frightened--and an equal shame possessed him, and these emotions made him feel suddenly weak. Liudmilla contracted her eyebrows and began to undress him determinedly. She took off his belt and somehow pulled off his blouse. Sasha resisted more and more desperately. They tussled with each other about the room, stumbling against tables and chairs. A pungent scent came from Liudmilla, intoxicated Sasha and weakened him. With a quick thrust against his chest Liudmilla pushed Sasha on to the sofa. A button flew off from the shirt she was pulling at. Liudmilla bared Sasha's shoulder, and began to pull his arm out of the sleeve. Sasha resisted and accidently struck Liudmilla's cheek with his hand. He did not want to strike her, but the blow fell hard on Liudmilla's cheek. Liudmilla shook, staggered, her cheeks went a violent red, but she did not let go of Sasha. "You wicked boy to fight!" she exclaimed in a choking voice. Sasha felt distressed, dropped his arms and looked guiltily at the white marks of his fingers on Liudmilla's left cheek. Liudmilla took advantage of his confusion. She quickly pulled the shirt from both shoulders to his elbows. Sasha recovered himself, tried to get away from her but only made things worse--Liudmilla pulled the sleeves off his arms and his shirt fell down to his waist. Sasha felt cold, and a new flood of shame, hard and pitiless, made his head whirl. He was now naked to the waist. Liudmilla held his arms tightly and patted his back with her trembling hand, looking at the same time into his downcast, strangely gleaming eyes under their blue-black eyebrows. Suddenly these eyelashes trembled, his face was wrinkled by a pitiful, childish grimace, and he began to sob. "You wicked girl!" he exclaimed in a sobbing voice. "Let me go!" "Cry-baby!" said Liudmilla angrily, and pushed him away. Sasha turned away, drying his tears on the palms of his hands. He felt ashamed because he was crying. He tried to hold back his tears. Liudmilla looked eagerly at his naked back. "How much beauty there is in the world!" she thought. "People hide so much beauty from themselves. Why?" Sasha, shrinking ashamedly with his naked shoulders, tried to put on his shirt, but it only became entangled in his trembling hands and he could not get his arms into the sleeves. Sasha caught hold of his blouse--let the shirt remain as it was for the present. "Oh, you're afraid for your property. No, I shan't steal it!" said Liudmilla in a loud, angry voice, ringing with tears. She threw him the belt impetuously, and turned towards the window. Much she wanted him, wrapped up in his grey blouse, the horrid boy! Sasha quickly put on his blouse, somehow arranged his shirt and looked at Liudmilla cautiously, indecisively and shamefacedly. He saw that she was wiping her cheeks with her fingers; he walked up to her timidly and looked into her face--and the tears which were trickling down her cheeks weakened him into pity--and he felt no longer ashamed and angry. "Why are you crying, dear Liudmillotchka?" he asked quietly. And suddenly he flushed--he remembered that he had struck her. "I hit you--forgive me! I didn't do it on purpose," he said timidly. "Are you afraid you'll melt away, you silly boy, that you won't sit with your shoulders naked?" said Liudmilla reproachfully. "Or are you afraid that you'll get sunburnt, or your beauty and innocence be lost?" "But why do you want me to do it, Liudmillotchka?" said Sasha with a grimace of embarrassment. "Why?" said Liudmilla passionately, "because I love beauty. Because I am a pagan, a sinner. I ought to have been born in ancient Athens. I love flowers, perfumes, brightly coloured clothes, the naked body. They say there is a soul. I don't know, I've never seen it. And what is it to me? Let me die altogether like an Undine, let me melt away like a cloud under the sun. I love the body, the strong, agile, naked body, which is capable of enjoyment." "Yes, but it can suffer also," said Sasha quietly. "And to suffer is also good," whispered Liudmilla. "There is sweetness in pain--if only to feel the body, to see its nakedness and bodily beauty." "But it is shameful to be without clothes," said Sasha timidly. Liudmilla impetuously threw herself on her knees before him. She kissed his hands and whispered breathlessly: "My dear, my idol, divine boy, just for a moment, only for a moment, let me see your beautiful shoulders." Sasha sighed, looked down, flushed and took off his blouse awkwardly. Liudmilla caught him with her warm hands and covered his shoulders, which trembled with shame, with kisses. "Do you see how obedient I am?" said Sasha with a forced smile, trying to get rid of his embarrassment with a jest. Liudmilla quickly kissed his arms from the shoulders to the fingers, and Sasha, immersed in passionate, grave thoughts, did not take them away. Liudmilla's kisses were warm with adoration--and it was as if her lips were kissing not a boy but a boy-god in a mysterious worship of the blossoming Body. Darya and Valeria were standing behind the door, looking through the keyhole in turns, jostling each other with impatience, and their hearts were sick with a passionate, burning agitation. * * * * * "It's time to dress," said Sasha at last. Liudmilla sighed, and with the same reverent expression helped him on with his clothes. "So you're a pagan?" asked Sasha. Liudmilla laughed. "And you?" she asked. "What a question?" said Sasha with assurance. "I've learned the whole catechism." Liudmilla laughed loudly. Sasha looked at her smiling and asked: "If you're a pagan, why do you go to church?" Liudmilla ceased laughing and reflected. "Well," she said, "one has to pray. One has to pray, to weep, to burn a candle, and do something for the dead. And I love it all, the candles, the image-lamps, the incense, the vestments, the singing--if the singers are good--the ikons, with their trimmings and ribbons. Yes, all that is beautiful. And I also love Him ... you know ... the Crucified One...." Liudmilla pronounced the last words very quietly, almost in a whisper, blushed like a guilty person and cast down her eyes. "Do you know I sometimes dream of Him on the cross, and there are drops of blood on His body." * * * * * From that time on Liudmilla more than once took Sasha to her room and began to unbutton his blouse. At first he was ashamed to tears, but he soon got used to it. And already he looked clearly and calmly when Liudmilla bared his shoulders and caressed his back. In the end he would take off his clothes himself. And Liudmilla found it very pleasant to hold him half-naked on her knees, kissing him. * * * * * Sasha was alone at home. He thought of Liudmilla and of his naked shoulders under her passionate glances. "And what does she want?" he thought. And suddenly he grew livid and his heart beat rapidly. A tumultuous happiness seized him. He turned several somersaults, threw himself on the floor, jumped on the furniture--a thousand absurd movements threw him from one corner to another and his gay, clear laughter resounded through the house. Kokovkina, who had returned home, heard this extraordinary din and went into Sasha's room. She stood on the threshold in perplexity, shaking her head. "Why are you making such a row, Sashenka?" she said. "You might have an excuse to do it with other boys, but you're alone. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young man--you're not a child any longer." Sasha stood still and in his embarrassment seemed to lose the use of his hands--his whole body trembled with excitement. * * * * * Once Kokovkina came home and found Liudmilla there. She was giving Sasha sweets. "You're spoiling him," said Kokovkina affectionately. "He loves sweets." "Yes, and yet he calls me a wicked girl," complained Liudmilla. "Oh, Sashenka, how could you!" said Kokovkina reproachfully. "Why did you say that?" "She's teasing me," said Sasha falteringly. He looked at Liudmilla with vexation and flushed. Liudmilla laughed. "Story-teller!" Sasha whispered to her. "Don't be rude, Sashenka," said Kokovkina, "it isn't nice!" Sasha glanced at Liudmilla with a smile and said quietly: "Well, I won't do it again." * * * * * Each time that Sasha came now Liudmilla locked the door and dressed him up in various costumes. Their sweet shame was dressed up in laughter and jokes. Sometimes Liudmilla pulled Sasha into corsets and dressed him in one of her gowns. In the low-cut dress Sasha's full, gently-rounded arms and round shoulders looked very beautiful. His skin was yellowish, but of an even, soft complexion--a rare occurrence. Liudmilla's skirt, sleeves and stockings were all becoming to Sasha. Dressed entirely in woman's clothes Sasha sat down obediently and waved a fan. In this costume he really resembled a girl, and he tried to behave like one. There was only one flaw--Sasha's short hair. Liudmilla thought it would be ugly to put a wig on Sasha's hair or to tie on a plait of hair. Liudmilla taught Sasha to curtsy. He did this awkwardly and shyly at first. But he was graceful in spite of his boyish angularity. Blushing and laughing, he learned diligently to curtsy and he coquetted furiously. Sometimes Liudmilla seized his bare, graceful arms and kissed them. Sasha did not resist, and looked laughingly at Liudmilla. Sometimes he held out his hands to her lips and said: "Kiss them!" But he liked most of all other costumes, which Liudmilla herself made, particularly the dress of a fisher-boy with bare legs, the tunic of a bare-foot Athenian boy. Liudmilla would dress him up and admire him. But she herself would go pale and look melancholy. * * * * * Sasha was sitting on Liudmilla's bed, playing with the folds of his tunic and dangling his naked legs. Liudmilla stood in front of him and looked at him with an expression of happiness and surprise. "How stupid you are!" said Sasha. "There's so much happiness in my stupidity," said Liudmilla, pale and crying, and kissing Sasha's hands. "Why are you crying?" asked Sasha, smiling unconcernedly. "My heart is stung with happiness. My breast is pierced with seven swords of happiness--how can I help crying?" "You are a little fool, really you're a little fool," said Sasha with a laugh. "And you're wise!" replied Liudmilla in sudden vexation and sighed, wiping her tears away. "Understand, little stupid," she said in a quiet, persuasive voice, "that happiness and wisdom are only to be found in madness." "Yes, yes?" said Sasha incredulously. "You must forget and forget yourself and then you'll understand everything," whispered Liudmilla. "In your opinion, do wise men think?" "And what else should they do?" "They simply know. It's given to them at once; they only have to look and everything's opened to them." * * * * * The autumn evening dragged along quietly. A barely audible rustle came now and then through the window when the wind moved the tree branches. Sasha and Liudmilla were alone. Liudmilla had dressed him up as a bare-legged fisher-boy--in a costume of thin blue canvas. He was lying on a low couch and she sat on the floor by his bare feet, herself bare-foot and in a chemise. She sprinkled Sasha's clothes and body with perfume--a dense, grassy smell like the motionless odour of a strangely blossoming valley locked in hills. Large, bright Roman pearls sparkled on Liudmilla's neck, and golden, figured bracelets rang on her arms. Her body was scented with orris--it was an overpowering, fleshly, provoking perfume, bringing drowsiness and langour, created from the distillations of slow waters. She languished and sighed, looking at his smooth face, at his bluish-black eyelashes and at his night-dark eyes. She laid her head on his bare knees, and her bright hair caressed his smooth skin. She kissed his body, and her head whirled from the strange aroma, mingling with the scent of young flesh. Sasha lay there and smiled a quiet, indefinite smile. A vague desire awoke in him, and sweetly tormented him. And when Liudmilla kissed his knees and feet the kisses aroused languorous, half-dreaming musings in him. He wanted to do something, something pleasant or painful, gentle or shameful--but what? To kiss her feet? Or to beat her long, hard, with long flexible twigs, so that she would laugh with joy or cry with pain? Perhaps she desired one or the other. But that was not enough. What then did she want? Here they were both half-naked, and with their freed flesh was bound desire and a restraining shame--but what then was the mystery of the flesh? And how then could he bring his blood and his body as an exquisite sacrifice to her desires, and to his shame? And Liudmilla languished and stirred at his feet, going pale from impossible desires, now growing cold. She whispered passionately: "Am I not beautiful? Haven't I burning eyes? Haven't I wonderful hair? Then caress me! Take me close to you! Tear off my bracelets, pull off my necklace!" Sasha felt terrified, and impossible desires tormented him agonisingly. CHAPTER XXVII Peredonov awoke in the morning. Someone was looking at him with huge, cloudy, four-cornered eyes. Wasn't it Pilnikov? Peredonov walked up to the window and spat on the evil apparition. Everything seemed bewitched. The wild nedotikomka squealed and the people and the beasts looked malignantly and craftily at Peredonov. Everything was hostile to him, he was one against all. During lessons at the _gymnasia_ Peredonov slandered his colleagues, the Head-Master, the parents and the pupils. The students listened to him in astonishment. Some, vulgarians by nature, truckled to Peredonov and showed their sympathy with him. Others remained gravely silent or defended their parents hotly, when Peredonov assailed them. Peredonov looked morosely and timorously on these boys, and avoided them, muttering something to himself. At some of the lessons Peredonov amused his pupils by absurd comments. They were reading the lines from Pushkin: "The sun rises in a cold mist; The harvest-fields are silent; The wolf goes out on the road With his hungry mate." "Let us stop here," said Peredonov. "This needs to be thoroughly understood. There's an allegory concealed here. Wolves go in pairs, that is, the wolf with his hungry mate. The wolf is fed, but she is hungry. The wife should always eat after the husband. The wife should be subject to the husband in everything." Pilnikov was in a cheerful mood, he smiled and looked at Peredonov with his elusively fine, dark eyes. Sasha's face annoyed and yet attracted Peredonov. The cursed boy bewitched him with his artful smile. Was it really a boy? Or perhaps there were two of them: a brother and a sister. But it was difficult to tell who was there. Or perhaps it was even possible for him to change himself from a boy into a girl. There must be some reason for his being so clean--when he changed his form he splashed in magical waters--otherwise how could he transform himself? And he always smelt of scents. "What have you scented yourself with, Pilnikov?" asked Peredonov. "Was it patchkouli?"[1] The boys laughed. Sasha grew red at the insult, but said nothing. Peredonov could not understand the disinterested desire to please, not to be repulsive to others. Every such manifestation, even on the part of a boy, he considered a design against himself. He who was neatly dressed evidently was trying to gain Peredonov's favour. Otherwise, why should he go to so much trouble? Neatness and cleanliness were repulsive to Peredonov. Perfumes seemed to him to be bad smells. He preferred the stink of a manured field--which he considered good for the health--to all the perfumes of the world. To be neatly dressed, washed, clean, all this required time and labour; and the thought of labour depressed and dejected Peredonov. How good it would be to do nothing, and only eat, drink and sleep! Sasha's companions teased him about his scenting himself with "patchkouli" and about Liudmillotchka's being in love with him. This angered him, and he replied hotly that it was not true, she was not in love with him--that it was all an invention of Peredonov, who had paid court to Liudmilla and had been snubbed; this was why he was angry with her and was spreading all sorts of evil rumours about her. His companions believed him--they knew Peredonov--but they did not stop teasing Sasha; it was such a pleasure to tease someone. Peredonov persisted in telling everyone about Pilnikov's viciousness. "He's got himself mixed up badly with Liudmillka," he said. The townspeople gossiped of Liudmilla's affection for the schoolboy in a greatly exaggerated way, and with stupid, unseemly details. But there were only a few who believed this: Peredonov had overdone it. Ill-natured people--of whom there are not a few in our town--asked Liudmilla: "What made you fall in love with a small boy? It's an insult to the cavaliers of our town." Liudmilla laughed and said: "Nonsense!" The townspeople regarded Sasha with ugly curiosity. Sasha sometimes reproached Liudmilla because he was teased about her. It even happened that he slapped her, because she laughed so loudly. To put an end to this stupid gossip, and to save Liudmilla from unpleasant scandal, all the Routilovs and their numerous friends and relatives acted against Peredonov and persuaded people that all his tales were the inventions of a madman. Peredonov's wild actions compelled many people to believe this explanation. At the same time many denunciations of Peredonov were sent to the Director of the School District. From the District headquarters they sent an enquiry to the Head-Master. Khripatch referred them to his previous reports, and added that the further presence of Peredonov in the _gymnasia_ was a positive danger, as his mental disease was visibly increasing. Peredonov was now entirely governed by wild illusions. The world was screened off from him by apparitions. His vacant, dull eyes wandered, and were unable to rest on objects as if he wanted to look beyond them on the other side of the objective world, and as if he sought for chinks of light between them. When he was alone he talked to himself and shouted senseless threats at some unknown person: "I will kill you! I will cut your throat! I'll caulk you up!" Varvara listened with a smile. "Make all the row you want," she thought malignantly. It seemed to her that it was only his rage; he must have guessed that they had fooled him and was angry. He wouldn't go out of his mind--a fool has no mind to go out of. And even if he did--well, madness cheers the stupid! * * * * * "Do you know, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Khripatch, "you look very unwell?" "I have a headache," said Peredonov morosely. "Do you know, my friend," continued the Head-Master in a cautious voice, "I would advise you not to come to the _gymnasia_ at present. You ought to attend to yourself--to give a little attention to your nerves, which are obviously a little unstrung." "Not come to the _gymnasia!_ Of course," thought Peredonov, "that's the best thing to do. Why didn't I think of it before! I'll look ill, and stay at home and see what will come of it." "Yes, yes, I'd better not come. I am rather unwell," he said eagerly to Khripatch. At the same time Khripatch wrote again to the Head Office of the District and awaited from day to day the appointment of the physicians for an examination of Peredonov. But the officials were very leisurely. That was because they were officials. Peredonov did not go to the _gymnasia_ and awaited something. During the last few days he had clung more and more to Volodin. Directly he opened his eyes in the morning Peredonov thought gloomily of Volodin: where was he now? Was he up to something? Sometimes he had visions of Volodin: clouds floated in the sky like a flock of sheep, and Volodin ran among them, bleating with laughter, with a bowler hat on his head; sometimes he floated by in the smoke issuing from the chimneys, making monstrous grimaces and leaping in the air. Volodin thought and told everyone with pride that Peredonov had recently taken a great fancy to him--that Peredonov simply could not live without him. "Varvara has fooled him," explained Volodin, "and he sees that I alone am his faithful friend--that's why he sticks to me." When Peredonov went out of his house to look for Volodin, the other met him on the way in his bowler hat, with his stick, jumping along gaily and laughing his bleating laugh. "Why do you always wear a bowler?" Peredonov once asked him. "Well, why shouldn't I wear a bowler, Ardalyon Borisitch?" replied Volodin gaily and shrewdly. "It's modest and becoming. I'm not allowed to wear a cap with a badge, and as for a top-hat, let the aristocrats stick to it, it doesn't become us." "You'll roast in your bowler," said Peredonov morosely. Volodin sniggered. They went to Peredonov's house. "One has to do so much walking," complained Peredonov. "It's good to take exercise, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Volodin persuasively. "You work, you take a walk, you eat your meals, and you're healthy." "Well, yes," said Peredonov, "do you think that in two or three hundred years from now people will have to work?" "What else is there to do? If you don't work, you have no bread to eat. You buy bread with money and you have to earn the money." "But I don't want bread." "But there wouldn't be any rolls or tarts either," said Volodin with a snigger. "No one would have any money to buy vodka, and there wouldn't be anything to make liqueurs of." "No, the people themselves won't work," said Peredonov. "There'll be machines for everything--all you'll have to do is to turn a handle like an _ariston_[2] and it's ready.... But it would be a bore to turn it long." Volodin lapsed into thought, lowered his head, stuck out his lips and said, reflectively: "Yes, that would be very good. Only none of us will live to see it." Peredonov looked at him malignantly and grumbled: "You mean you won't live to see it, but I shall." "May God grant you," said Volodin gaily, "to live two hundred years, and then to crawl on all fours for three hundred." Peredonov no longer pronounced exorcisms--let the worst come. He would triumph over everything; he had only to be on his guard and not yield. Once at home, sitting in the dining-room and drinking with Volodin, Peredonov told him about the Princess. The Princess, according to Peredonov, grew more decrepit and terrible from day to day; yellow, wrinkled, bent, tusked, evil, she incessantly haunted Peredonov. "She's two hundred years old," said Peredonov, looking strangely and gloomily before him, "and she wants me to make it up with her again. Until then she won't give me a job." "She certainly wants a good deal," said Volodin shaking his head. "The old hag!" Peredonov brooded over murder. He said to Volodin, frowning savagely: "I've got one hidden behind the wall-paper. And I'm going to kill another under the floor." But Volodin was not afraid, and kept on sniggering. "Do you smell the stench from behind the wall-paper?" asked Peredonov. "No, I don't smell it," said Volodin, still sniggering and grimacing. "Your nose is blocked up," said Peredonov. "No wonder it's gone red. It's rotting there behind the wall-paper." "A beetle!" exclaimed Varvara with a boisterous laugh. Peredonov looked dull and grave. * * * * * Peredonov became more and more engulfed in his madness, and began to write denunciations against the court cards, the nedotikomka, the Ram--that he, the Ram, was an imposter who, representing Volodin, was aiming for a high position, but was in reality only a Ram; against the forest destroyers who cut down the birches, so that there were no twigs for Turkish baths, and that it was impossible to bring up children, because they left only the aspens, and what use were they? When he met the schoolboys in the street, Peredonov frightened the youngest and amused the older ones with his shameless and ridiculous words. The older ones walked after him in a crowd, scattering, however, when they saw one of the other masters; the younger ones ran away from him of their own accord. Peredonov saw enchantments and sorceries in everything. His hallucinations terrified him and forced from him senseless moans and squeals. The nedotikomka appeared to him now blood-like, now flaming; it groaned and it bellowed, and its bellowing split his head with an unendurable pain. The cat grew to terrible dimensions, stamped with high boots and turned into a huge red bewhiskered person. [1] A double meaning is implied in Peredonov's use of the word, as the word "patchkatsya" means to soil oneself. [2] A musical instrument. CHAPTER XXVIII Sasha left home after lunch and did not return at the appointed time, at seven; Kokovkina was worried: "May God preserve him from meeting one of his masters in the street at a forbidden time! He'll be punished and I shall feel uncomfortable," she thought. Quiet boys always lived at her house and did not wander about at night. Kokovkina went to look for Sasha. Where else could he be except at the Routilovs'. As ill luck would have it, Liudmilla that evening had forgotten to lock the door. Kokovkina entered, and what did she see? Sasha stood before the mirror in a woman's dress, waving a fan. Liudmilla was laughing and arranging ribbons at his brightly-coloured belt. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Kokovkina in horror. "What's this? I was worried and came to look for him, and here he is acting a comedy. What a disgrace for him to dress himself in a skirt. And aren't you ashamed, Liudmilla Platonovna?" Liudmilla was for a moment very embarrassed because of the suddenness of the thing, but soon recovered herself. She embraced Kokovkina with a laugh, sat her in a chair and invented an explanation: "We are going to have a play at home--I shall be a boy and he'll be a girl and it'll be very amusing." Sasha stood flushed and terrified, with tears in his eyes. "What nonsense!" said Kokovkina angrily, "he ought to be studying his lessons and not waste his time play-acting. What will you think of next! Dress yourself at once, Aleksandr, and march home with me." Liudmilla laughed loudly and gaily and kissed Kokovkina--and the old woman thought that the happy girl was very child-like, and that Sasha obediently carried out all her whims. Liudmilla's laughter, at this moment, showed this to be only a simple childish prank, for which they would only have to be lectured a little. And Kokovkina grumbled, assuming an angry face, but her feelings were already calmed down. Sasha quickly redressed himself behind the screen, where Liudmilla's bed stood. Kokovkina took him off, and scolded him all the way home. Sasha felt ashamed and frightened and did not attempt to justify himself. "And what will happen at home?" he thought timidly. At home, Kokovkina treated him sternly for the first time: she ordered him to get down on his knees. But Sasha had barely been in that position for a few moments when Kokovkina, softened by his repentant face and silent tears, released him. She said grumblingly: "What a little lady-killer, you are! Your perfumes can be smelt a mile off!" Sasha gracefully bent over and kissed her hand--and the courtesy of the punished boy touched her even more. * * * * * In the meantime a storm was gathering over Sasha. Varvara and Grushina composed and sent to Khripatch an anonymous letter to the effect that the schoolboy, Pilnikov, had been fascinated by the Routilov girl, that he spent whole evenings with her rather questionably. Khripatch collected a recent conversation. One evening at the house of the Marshal of the Nobility someone had thrown out an insinuation--which no one had taken up--about a girl who was in love with a schoolboy. The conversation had immediately passed to other subjects: in Khripatch's presence, everyone, acting on the unwritten law of people accustomed to good society, considered this an extremely awkward theme for discussion, and they assumed that this topic was not to be mentioned in the presence of women and that the rumour itself was trivial and very unlikely. Khripatch, of course, had noticed this but he was not so naive as to ask anyone. He was fully confident that he would know all about it soon, that all information came of itself in one way or another, but always in good season. Well, here was a letter which contained the expected information. Khripatch did not for a moment believe that Pilnikov was guilty, and that his relations with Liudmilla were improper. "This," he thought, "is one of Peredonov's stupid inventions and is nourished by Grushina's envy and spitefulness. But this letter shows that certain undesirable rumours are current, which might cast a reflection on the good name of the _gymnasia_ entrusted to me. And therefore measures must be taken." First of all Khripatch invited Kokovkina to discuss with him the circumstances which had helped to give rise to these rumours. Kokovkina already knew what was the trouble. She had been informed even more bluntly than the Head-Master. Grushina had waited for her in the street, entered into conversation, and told her that Liudmilla had already managed to corrupt Sasha. Kokovkina was dumbfounded. When she got home she showered reproaches upon Sasha. She was all the more vexed because this had happened almost before her eyes, and because Sasha had gone to the Routilovs' with her knowledge. Sasha pretended not to understand anything and he asked: "What have I done wrong?" Kokovkina was at a loss for a moment. "What wrong? Don't you know yourself? Didn't I find you in a skirt not long ago? Have you forgotten, you shameless boy?" "Yes, but what was especially wrong with that? And didn't you punish me for it? It wasn't as if I'd stolen the skirt!" "Hark how he talks!" said Kokovkina in a distraught way. "I punished you, but not enough apparently." "Well, punish me again," said Sasha defiantly, with the look of a person unjustly treated. "You forgave me yourself, and now it wasn't enough. I didn't ask you to forgive me--I would have knelt all the evening. And what's the good of scolding me all the time?" "Yes, and everyone in town is talking about you and your Liudmillotchka." "And what are they saying?" asked Sasha in an innocently inquisitive tone of voice. Kokovkina was again at a loss. "It's clear enough what they're saying! You know perfectly well what might be said of you. Very little that's good, you may be sure. You're up to mischief with your Liudmillotchka--that's what they're saying." "Well, I won't get up to mischief again," Sasha promised as calmly as if the conversation concerned a game of "touch." He assumed an expression of innocence, but his heart was heavy. He asked Kokovkina what they were saying and was afraid that he would hear it was something unpleasant. What could they be saying? Liudmillotchka's room faced the garden; it could not be seen from the street. Besides, Liudmillotchka always lowered the blinds. And if anyone had looked in, what could they say? Perhaps something annoying and insulting. Or perhaps they were only saying that he often went there. And here on the next day Kokovkina received an invitation to go and see the Head-Master. The old woman was distraught. She did not even mention it to Sasha, but at the appointed time went quickly on her errand. Khripatch kindly and gently informed her of the anonymous letter he had received. She began to cry. "Be calm, we're not accusing you of anything," said Khripatch. "We know you too well. Of course, you'll have to look after him a little more rigorously. But I want you to tell me now what actually has taken place." Kokovkina came home with more reproaches for Sasha. "I shall write to your aunt," she said, crying. "I haven't done anything. Let Aunt come, I'm not afraid," said Sasha, and he began to cry also. The next day Khripatch asked Sasha to come and see him and asked him dryly and sternly: "I would like to know what sort of an acquaintance you have been cultivating in the town." Sasha looked at the Head-Master with deceptive innocence and tranquil eyes. "What sort of an acquaintance?" he said. "Olga Vassilyevna knows that I only go to my companions and to the Routilovs." "Yes, precisely," continued Khripatch. "What do you do at the Routilovs?" "Nothing in particular," replied Sasha with the same innocent look, "we mostly read. The Routilov sisters are fond of poetry. And I'm always home at seven o'clock." "Perhaps not always?" asked Khripatch, fixing on Sasha a glance which he tried to make piercing. "Yes, I was late once," said Sasha with the calm frankness of an innocent boy. "And Olga Vassilyevna gave it to me. But after that I wasn't late again." Khripatch was silent. Sasha's calm answers left him rather nonplussed. In any case it would be necessary to give him a reprimand, but how and for what? He was afraid that he might suggest to the boy unwholesome thoughts which--so Khripatch believed--he had not had before; or that he might offend the boy; but he wanted to remove any unpleasantness which might in the future come from this acquaintance. Khripatch thought that an educator's business was a very difficult and responsible matter, especially if you have the honour of being the head of an educational establishment. This difficult, responsible business of an educator! This banal definition gave wings to Khripatch's almost drooping thoughts. He began to talk quickly, precisely and uninterestingly. Sasha caught only a phrase here and there: "Your first duty as a pupil is to learn ... you should not be attracted by society however pleasant and irreproachable ... in any case I should say that the society of boys of your own age would be preferable ... you must keep high your own reputation and that of your educational institution.... Finally, I may say candidly that I have reasons to suppose that your relations with young ladies have a character of great freedom unpermissible at your age, and altogether not in accordance with generally accepted rules of propriety." Sasha began to cry. He felt distressed that anyone could think and talk of dear Liudmillotchka as of a person with whom you could take improper liberties. "Upon my word, there was nothing wrong," he assured the Head-Master. "We only read, went for walks and played--well, we ran sometimes--we did nothing else." Khripatch slapped him on the back and said in a dry voice which he tried to make hearty: "Listen, Pilnikov...." (Why shouldn't he sometimes call this boy Sasha! Was it because it was not official and there was, as yet, no ministerial circular?) "I believe you when you say that nothing wrong has happened, but all the same you had better put an end to your frequent visits. Believe me, it would be better. I speak to you not only as your schoolmaster and official head, but also as your friend." Nothing remained for Sasha to do but to make his bow, to thank the Head-Master, and to obey. And Sasha from this time on went to Liudmilla's only for five or ten minutes at a time--but still he tried to go every day. It vexed him to be able to make only such short visits and he vented his annoyance on Liudmilla herself. He often called her now "Liudmillka," "silly fool," "Balaam's ass," and he even struck her. But Liudmilla only laughed at it all. * * * * * The report spread about town that the actors of the local theatre were going to organise a masked ball at the Club House, with prizes for the best man's and the best woman's costumes. There were exaggerated rumours about the prize. It was said that the best-dressed lady would receive a cow and the best-dressed man a bicycle. These rumours excited the town people. Each one was eager to win--the prizes were so considerable. The costumes were prepared in haste. No expense was spared. People hid their costumes even from their nearest friends so that their brilliant idea might not be stolen. When the printed announcement of the masked ball appeared--huge bills, pasted on fences and sent out to important tradesmen--it turned out that they were not giving a cow and a bicycle but only a fan to the lady and an album to the man. This vexed and disenchanted those who had been preparing for the ball. They began to grumble. They said: "It's a waste of money." "It's simply ridiculous--such prizes." "They ought to have let us know at once." "It's only in our town that the public can be treated like this." Nevertheless all the preparations went on: it wasn't much of a prize, but still it would be flattering to win it. The amount of the prize did not interest either Darya or Liudmilla. Much they wanted a cow! What a rarity a fan was! And who was going to award the prizes? We know what taste these judges have! But both sisters were captivated by the idea of sending Sasha to the masked ball in a woman's dress, to fool the whole town and to arrange so that the lady's prize should go to him. Valeria tired to look as if she agreed to it. It was Liudmillotchka's little friend, he was not coming to see her, but she could not decide to quarrel with her two elder sisters. She only said with a contemptuous smile: "He won't dare." "Well," said Darya, "we shall dress him up so that no one will recognise him." And when the sisters told Sasha about their project and Liudmillotchka said to him: "We will dress you up as a girl," Sasha jumped up and down and shouted with joy. He was delighted with the idea, especially as no one would know--it would be fine to fool everyone. They decided at once that they would dress Sasha as a Geisha. The sisters kept their idea in the strictest secrecy and did not even tell Larissa or their brother. Liudmilla herself made the costume from the design on the label of Korilopsis: it was a long full dress of yellow silk on red velvet; she sewed a bright pattern on the dress, consisting of large flowers of fantastic shape. The girls made a fan out of thin Japanese paper, with figures, on bamboo sticks, and a parasol out of thin rose silk with a bamboo handle. They bought rose coloured stockings and wooden slippers with little ridges underneath. The artist Liudmilla painted a Geisha mask: it was a yellowish but agreeable thin face, with a slight motionless smile, oblique eyes and a small, narrow mouth. They had only to get the wig from Peterburg---black, with smooth, arranged hair. Time was needed to fit the costume and Sasha could only come in snatches and not every day. But they managed it. Sasha ran off at night by way of the window, when Kokovkina was asleep. It went off successfully. Varvara also was preparing for the masked ball. She brought a stupid looking mask, and she didn't worry about costume--she dressed herself as a cook. She hung a skimmer at her waist and put a white cap on her head, her arms were bare to the elbow and very heavily rouged--a cook straight from the hearth--and the costume was ready. If she got the prize, so much the better; if she didn't, she could get on without it. Grushina dressed herself as Diana. Varvara laughed and asked: "Are you going to put on a collar?" "Why a collar?" asked Grushina in astonishment. "I thought you were going to dress up as the dog, Dianka," explained Varvara. "What a notion!" replied Grushina with a laugh, "not Dianka, but the Goddess, Diana." Varvara and Grushina dressed for the ball at Grushina's house. Grushina's costume was excessively scanty: bare arms and shoulders, bare neck, bare chest, her legs bare to the knee, light slippers, and a light dress of linen with a red border against the white flesh--it was quite a short dress, but broad with many folds. Varvara said with a smile: "You aren't over-dressed!" Grushina replied with a vulgar wink: "It'll attract the boys!" "But why so many folds?" asked Varvara. "I can fill them with sweets for my devilkins," explained Grushina. All of Grushina that was so boldly displayed was handsome--but what contradictions. On her skin were flea-bites, her manners were coarse and her talk was insufferably banal. Once more abused bodily beauty! * * * * * Peredonov thought that the masked ball was planned on purpose to trap him. But he went, not in costume but in a frock coat, to see for himself how plots are devised. * * * * * The thought of the masked ball delighted Sasha for many days. But later, doubts began to assail him. How could he get away from home, especially now after these recent annoyances. It would be a calamity if it were found out at the _gymnasia_ and he would be expelled. One of the form masters, a young man so liberal that he could not call the cat "Vaska," but called it "the cat Vassily," had recently made a significant observation to Sasha when he gave out the marks. "Look here, Pilnikov, you'll have to pay more attention to your work." "But I haven't any twos," said Sasha indifferently. His heart fell--what would he say next? No, nothing. He was silent and only looked sternly at Sasha. On the day of the masked ball Sasha felt that he would not have the courage to go. It was terrible. There was only one thing, the costume was ready at the Routilovs'--should it all be for nothing? And should all the plans and dreams be in vain? And Liudmillotchka would cry. No, he must go. His recently acquired habit of dissembling aided Sasha from betraying his agitation before Kokovkina. Luckily, the old woman went to bed early. And Sasha also went to bed early--to keep away suspicion he put his upper clothes on a chair near the door and placed his boots just outside the door. There was nothing for him to do now but to go--which was the most difficult part of the matter. He had only to follow the same path as when he went to have his costume fitted. Sasha put on a light summer blouse--it hung in the wardrobe in his room--and light house shoes and he carefully crept out of the window into the street, choosing a moment when there were no footsteps or voices in hearing. A small drizzle was falling. It was muddy, cold and dark. Every moment Sasha was afraid he would be recognised. He took off his cap and shoes, threw them back into his room, turned up his trousers, and ran, jumping over the pavements, slippery with rain. It was difficult to see a face in the dark, especially of someone running, and whoever met him would think he was an ordinary boy sent on an errand. * * * * * Valeria and Liudmilla had made for themselves unoriginal but artistic costumes; Liudmilla dressed herself as a gipsy, Valeria as a Spanish woman. Liudmilla wore bright red rags of silk and velvet, while the thin, frail Valeria wore black silk and lace, and had a black lace fan in her hand. Darya did not make herself a new costume, she kept last year's, that of a Turkish woman. She said: "It isn't worth while making a new one!" When Sasha arrived all three girls began to dress him. The wig worried Sasha most of all. "Suppose it should come off?" he kept repeating timorously. At last they strengthened the wig with ribbons tied under the chin. CHAPTER XXIX The masked ball took place at the Club House in the Market Square--a two-storied building of stone, painted bright red, resembling a barracks. It was arranged by Gromov-Chistopolsky, the actor-manager of the local theatre. The entrance, which was covered in by a calico canopy, was lighted by lamps. The crowd standing in the street criticised the arrivals, for the most part unfavourably, the more so since in the streets the costumes were almost hidden under outside wraps; the crowd judged chiefly by guesswork. The policemen zealously kept order in the street, while in the hall itself the Commissioner of Police and a police-inspector were present as guests. Every guest received on entering two cards, one pink, for the best woman's costume; one green, for the man's, which were to be handed to the chosen persons. Some asked: "And can we keep them for ourselves?" At the beginning the attendant at the ticket-office asked in astonishment: "Why for yourselves?" "But suppose we think our own costumes the best?" was the reply. Later the attendant ceased to be astonished at these questions, and being a young man with a sense of humour, said ironically: "Help yourself! Keep both if you like." It was dirtyish in the hall, and from the very beginning a number of the crowd were tipsy. In the close rooms, with their smoke-begrimed walls and ceilings, burned crooked lustres; they seemed huge, heavy and stifling. The faded curtains at the doors looked such that one hesitated to brush against them. Here and there knots of people gathered, exclamations and laughter were heard--this was caused by certain costumes which attracted general attention. The notary Goudayevsky went as an American Indian. He had cock's feathers in his hair, a copper-red mask with absurd green designs on it, a leather jacket, a check plaid over his shoulder, and high leather boots with green tassels. He waved his arms, jumped about, and walked like an athlete, jerking up his naked knees exaggeratedly. His wife was dressed as an ear of corn. She had on a costume of brightly coloured green and yellow patches; ears of corn stuck out from her on every side. They caught everyone she passed and pricked them. She was jostled and pinched as she went along. She said angrily: "I'll scratch you!" Everyone near laughed. Some one asked: "Where did she get so many corn stalks?" "She laid in a store last summer," was the answer. "She stole some every day from the fields!" Several moustacheless officials, who were in love with Goudayevskaya, and who had therefore been told by her how she would be dressed, accompanied her. They collected cards for her--rudely and almost by force. They simply took them away from some who were not very bold. There were other masked women who were zealously collecting cards through their cavaliers. Others looked greedily at the cards which had not yet been given up, and asked for them. These received impertinent answers. One dejected woman, dressed as Night--in a blue costume with a glass star and a paper moon on her forehead--said timidly to Mourin: "Do give me your card." Mourin replied rudely: "What d'you mean? Give you my card? I don't like your mug!" Night muttered something angrily and walked away. She only wanted two or three cards to show at home, to prove that she had received some. Modest desires often go unsatisfied. The schoolmistress, Skobotchkina, dressed herself as a she-bear, that is, she simply threw a bearskin cross her shoulders and put on a bear's head as a helmet over the usual half-mask. This was generally speaking shapeless, but it suited her stout figure and stentorian voice. The bear walked with heavy footsteps, and bellowed so loudly that the lights in the lustres trembled. Many people liked the bear, and she received quite a number of tickets. She was unable to keep the cards herself, and had not found a clever cavalier like others of the ladies; more than half of her tickets were stolen when she was being given vodka by some of the small tradesmen--they had a fellow-feeling for her sudden ability to display bearish manners. People in the crowd shouted out: "Look how the bear swigs vodka!" Skobotchkina could not decide to refuse vodka. It seemed to her that a she-bear should drink vodka when it was brought to her. A man dressed as an ancient German was conspicuous by his stature and fine build. He pleased many because of his robustness and because his powerful arms with their well-developed muscles were visible. Women particularly walked after him, and all around him rose a whisper of admiration and of flattery. The ancient German was recognised as the actor, Bengalsky, who is a favourite in our town. That was why he received a large number of tickets. Many people argued thus: "If I can't get the prize, then at least let an actor (or an actress) get it. If any of us get it they will tire us out with boasting." Grushina's costume was also a success--a scandalous success. The men followed her in a thick crowd, with laughter and indelicate observations. The women turned away in embarrassment. At last the Commissioner of Police walked up to Grushina and said suavely: "Madame, I'm afraid you must cover yourself." "Why? There's nothing indecent to be seen about me," replied Grushina vigorously. "Madame, the ladies are offended," said Minchukov. "What do I care for your ladies?" shouted Grushina. "Now, Madame," insisted Minchukov, "you must put at least a handkerchief on your chest and back." "Suppose my handkerchief's dirty?" said Grushina with a vulgar laugh. But Minchukov insisted: "As you please, Madame; but if you don't cover yourself a little, you'll have to go." Grumbling violently, Grushina went into the dressing-room and with the help of the attendant rearranged the folds of her dress across her chest and back. When she returned to the hall, though she looked more modest, she just as zealously sought for admirers. She flirted vulgarly with any man. Then when people's attention was elsewhere she went into the refreshment-room to steal sweets. Soon she returned to the hall, and showing Volodin a couple of peaches, smiled impudently and said: "I got them myself!" And immediately the peaches were hidden in the folds of her costume. Volodin's face lit up with joy. "Well," he said, "if so, I'll go too." Soon Grushina got tipsy and began to behave boisterously--she shouted, waved her arms and spat. "Dianka's getting very happy!" everyone said about her. Such was the masked ball to which the foolish girls had enticed the scatter-brained schoolboy. The three sisters and Sasha took two cabs and arrived rather late, on his account. Their arrival in the hall was noticed. The Geisha particularly pleased many people. The rumour went round that the Geisha was Kashtanova, the actress, very popular with the male portion of local society. And that was why Sasha received a large number of cards. But in fact Kashtanova was not there, for her little boy had fallen dangerously ill. Sasha, intoxicated by his new situation, coquetted furiously. The more they stuck their cards into the Geisha's little hand, the more gaily and provokingly gleamed the eyes of the coquettish Geisha through the narrow slits of the mask. The Geisha curtsied, lifted her small fingers, laughed in an intimate tone, waved her fan, struck first one man and then another on the shoulder, then hid her face behind her fan and frequently opened out her rose parasol. However, these not over-graceful actions attracted many who admired the actress Kashtanova. "I will give my card to the most beautiful of ladies," said Tishkov, and handed his card to the Geisha with a gallant bow. He had taken a good deal to drink and his face was flushed; his motionlessly smiling face and awkward figure made him look like a doll. And he kept continually rhyming. Valeria looked on at Sasha's success, and felt envious and annoyed; she now wanted to be recognised and to have her costume and slender, graceful figure please the crowd, and be awarded the prize. And now she sadly thought that this was not possible, as all the three sisters had agreed to get cards only for the Geisha, and even to give their own to her. They were dancing in the hall. Volodin got tipsy very soon and began to dance the "squat" dance. The police stopped him. He said cheerfully and obediently: "Well, if I mustn't, then I mustn't." But two other men who had followed his example and were dancing the "squat" dance refused to obey the order. "What right have you to stop us? Haven't we paid our half-rouble?" they exclaimed and were escorted out. Volodin went with them to the door, cutting capers, smiling and dancing. The Routilov girls made haste to find Peredonov to make a fool of him. He sat alone at the window and looked at the crowd with wandering eyes. All people and objects seemed to him senseless, inharmonious, and equally hostile. Liudmilla, in her gipsy dress, went up to him and said in a guttural voice: "Shall I tell your fortune, pretty gentleman?" "Go to the devil!" shouted Peredonov. The gipsy's sudden appearance frightened him. "Give me your hand, dear gentleman, pretty gentleman. I can see from your face that you'll be rich. You'll be an important official," Liudmilla importuned him, and took his hand. "Well, see that you give me a good fortune," growled Peredonov. "My sweet gentleman," began the gipsy, "you have many enemies, they'll inform against you, you will weep, you will die under a fence." "Carrion!" shouted Peredonov, and snatched his hand away. Liudmilla quickly disappeared in the crowd. Then Valeria took her place. She sat down beside Peredonov and whispered to him very tenderly: "I am a lovely Spanish maid, And I love such men as you, But that your wife's a wretched jade, Handsome gentleman, is true." "It's a lie, you fool," growled Peredonov. Valeria went on: "Hotter than day, sweeter than night, Is my keen Seville kiss; Spit in her dull eyes, my light, And see that you don't miss. Varvara is your wife, You are handsome, Ardalyon; She's a plague upon your life, You're as wise as Solomon." "That's true enough," said Peredonov, "but how can I spit in her eyes? She'll complain to the Princess and I shan't get the place." "And why do you want the place? You're good enough without the place," said Valeria. "Yes, but how can I live if I don't get it?" said Peredonov dejectedly. * * * * * Darya stuck into Volodin's hand a letter with a red seal on it. Volodin unsealed the letter, bleating happily, read it and lapsed into thought--he looked proud and a little flurried. It was written briefly and clearly: "Come, my darling, and meet me to-morrow night at eleven o'clock at the Soldiers' Baths. Your unknown J." Volodin believed in the letter, but the question was--was it worth going? And who was this "J"? Was it some sort of Jenny? Or was it the surname which began with "J"? Volodin showed the letter to Routilov. "Go, of course go," Routilov urged him, "and see what happens. Perhaps it's some rich catch, who's fallen in love with you and the parents are against it, so she's taken this way of speaking to you." But Volodin thought and thought and decided that it was not worth while going. He said with an important air: "They're always running after me, but I don't want girls so loose that they run away from home." He was afraid that he would get a beating, for the Soldiers' Baths were situated in a lonely place on the outskirts of the town. * * * * * When the dense, noisy, uproariously gay crowd was pushing its way into every part of the Club House, from the door of the dancing hall came a noise, laughter and exclamations of approval. Everyone crowded in that direction. It was announced from one to another that a fearfully original mask had come in. A thin, tall man, in a greasy, patched dressing-gown, with a besom under his arm, with a hat in his hand, made his way through the crowd. He had a cardboard mask on,--a stupid face, with a small, narrow beard and side whiskers, and on his head was a cap with a round official badge. He kept repeating in an astonished voice: "They told me there was a masquerade[1] here, but no one seems to be bathing." And he languidly swung a pail. The crowd followed him, exclaiming, and genuinely admiring his original idea. "He'll get the prize," said Volodin enviously. Like many others, he envied unthinkingly--he himself wore no costume, so why should he be envious? Machigin was enthusiastic over this costume, the badge especially aroused his delight. He laughed uproariously, clapped his hands, and observed to acquaintances and to strangers: "A fine criticism! These officials always make a great deal of themselves--they wear badges and uniforms. Well, here's a fine criticism for them--very clever indeed." When it got hot, the official in the dressing-gown began to fan himself with the besom, exclaiming: "Well, here's a bath for you."[2] Those near laughed gleefully. There was a shower of cards into the pail. Peredonov looked at the besom wavering above the crowd. He thought it was the nedotikomka. "She's gone green, the beast!" he thought in horror. [1] Masquerade. This word is used in Russia to mean either a ball or a bath, owing to the fact that clothes are taken off on both occasions. [2] Referring to the fact that a besom is used in Russian and Turkish baths. CHAPTER XXX At last the counting of the cards began. The stewards of the Club composed the committee. A tensely expectant crowd gathered at the door of the judges' room. For a short time in the dancing-hall everything became quiet and dull. The music ceased. The company grew silent. Peredonov felt sad. But soon an impatient hum of conversation began in the crowd. Someone said in an assured tone that both prizes would go to actors. "You'll see," someone's irritated, hissing voice could be heard saying. The crowd was restless. Those who had received only a few cards were vexed at this. Those who had a larger number of cards were disturbed by the expectation of a possible injustice. Suddenly a bell tingled lightly and nervously. The judges came out; they were Veriga, Avinovitsky, Kirillov and other stewards of the Club. The crowd's excitement passed through the hall--suddenly everyone was silent. Avinovitsky shouted in a stentorian voice which was heard through the whole hall: "The album, the prize for the best man's costume, has been awarded, according to the majority of cards received, to the gentleman in the costume of an ancient German." Avinovitsky lifted the album on high and looked savagely at the crowding guests. The huge German began to make his way through the crowd. The others looked hostilely at him and obstructed his passage. "Don't jostle, please," shouted in a tearful voice the dejected woman in the blue costume, with the glass star and the paper moon--Night. "He's got the prize and he thinks the women must fall at his feet!" shouted a viciously angry voice. "You won't let me pass yourself," said the German with suppressed annoyance. At last he managed somehow to get to the judges, and Veriga presented him with the album. The band played a flourish. But the sound of the music was lost in the disorderly noise. People shouted abusive exclamations. They surrounded the German, jostled him and shouted: "Take off your mask!" The German said nothing. It would not have been difficult for him to get through the crowd, but he obviously hesitated to use his full strength. Goudayevsky caught hold of the album and at the same time someone quickly tore the mask from the German's face. The crowd cried out: "It is an actor!" Their suppositions were justified: it was the actor, Bengalsky. He shouted angrily: "Yes, it is an actor! And what of it? You gave me the cards yourselves!" In answer came the virulent exclamation: "It's easy to slip in a few extra!" "You printed the cards." "There have been more cards given in than there are people here." "He brought fifty cards in his pocket." Bengalsky flushed and shouted: "It's disgusting to talk like that. You can prove it if you like. You can count the cards and the number of people." Veriga interposed, saying to those near him: "Gentlemen, calm yourselves. There's been no cheating--you can take my word for it. The number of tickets has been carefully checked with the number of entries." The stewards, with the help of a few of the more sensible guests, somehow pacified the crowd. Besides, everyone was anxious to know who would get the fan. Veriga announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, the largest number of cards for the best lady's costume has been received by the lady in the Geisha's costume, who has therefore been awarded the prize--a fan. Geisha, please come this way. The fan is yours. Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly request you to make way for the Geisha." The band again gave a flourish. The frightened Geisha longed to run away. But she was jostled along and led forward. Veriga, with an amiable smile, handed her the fan. The colours of the variegated costumes glimmered before Sasha's eyes, which were half dimmed by fear and confusion. He would have to return thanks, he thought. The habitual politeness of a well-bred boy showed itself. The Geisha made a curtsy, said something indistinctly, laughed slightly and lifted her fingers--and again in the room rose a furious uproar of whistling and abuse. Everyone made a rush for the Geisha. The savage and dishevelled Ear of Corn cried: "Make a curtsy, you little beast!" The Geisha threw herself towards the door, but her way was barred. From the crowd which seethed around the Geisha came malignant outcries: "Make her unmask!" "Mask off!" "Catch her! Hold her!" "Tear it off!" "Take her fan away!" The Ear of Corn shouted: "Do you know who got the prize? Kashtanova, the actress! She stole someone else's husband, and yet she gets the prize! They don't give it to honest women, they give it to that creature!" And she threw herself towards the Geisha, with piercing screams, clenching her bony fists. Others came after her, mostly her cavaliers. The Geisha fought them off desperately. A wild tussle began. The fan was broken, torn out of her hands, thrown on the floor and trodden upon. The crowd, with the Geisha in the middle, swayed furiously across the room, sweeping onlookers from their feet. Neither the Routilovs nor the Club stewards could reach the Geisha. The Geisha, strong and alert, screamed piercingly, scratched and bit her assailants. She held her mask on tightly now with one hand, now with the other. "They ought all to be beaten," screeched some spiteful little woman. The tipsy Grushina, hiding behind the others, urged on Volodin and other acquaintances. "Pinch her! Pinch the creature!" she shouted. Machigin, holding his bleeding nose, jumped out from the crowd and complained: "She hit me straight in the nose with her fist!" A vicious young man caught the Geisha's sleeve in his teeth and tore it in half. The Geisha cried out: "Help! Save me!" And others began to tear her costume. Here and there her body showed slightly. Darya and Liudmilla struggled desperately, trying to squeeze through to the Geisha, but in vain. Volodin plucked at the Geisha so zealously, screamed and cut such capers that he hindered other people less drunk than himself and more spiteful: he did not attack her from spite but from drunken joy, imagining that some very amusing farce was going on. He tore one sleeve clean off the Geisha's dress and he tied it round his head. "It'll come in useful," he shouted, laughing and grimacing. Getting out of the thick of the crowd, he went on making a fool of himself in the open space, and danced over the pieces of the fan with wild squeals. There was no one to restrain him. Peredonov looked at him in dread and thought: "He's dancing. He's glad for something. That's how he'll dance on my grave." At last the Geisha tore herself away--the crowd about her could not withstand her quick fists and sharp teeth. The Geisha dashed from the room. In the corridor the Ear of Corn rushed at the Geisha again and caught hold of her dress. The Geisha almost succeeded in tearing herself away, but she was again surrounded. The scuffle was renewed. "They're pulling her by the ears!" someone exclaimed. A little woman caught the Geisha's ear and pulled it with loud triumphant cries. The Geisha screamed and somehow tore herself away, after having hit the malicious little woman with her fist. At last, Bengalsky, who had managed in the meantime to put on his ordinary dress, fought his way towards the Geisha. He took the trembling Geisha in his arms, covered her with his huge body and arms as far as he could and quickly carried her away, thrusting the crowd aside with his elbows and feet. The crowd shouted: "Rotter! Scoundrel!" They tugged at Bengalsky and punched him in the back. He exclaimed: "I won't allow the mask to be torn from a woman. Do what you like, I won't allow it." In this way he carried the Geisha the entire length of the corridor, which culminated in a narrow door opening into the Club dining-room. Here Veriga managed to hold back the crowd for a short time. With the resolution of a soldier he stood there and refused to allow anyone to pass. He said: "Gentlemen, you can't go any farther." Goudayevskaya, rustling with the remaining ears of corn of her costume, dashed at Veriga, clenching her fists and screamed piercingly: "Go away! Let us pass!" But the General's imposingly cold face and his determined grey eyes kept her from doing anything more. She cried in helpless rage to her husband: "You might have boxed her ears--you gaping block-head!" "It was hard to get at her," the Indian justified himself, gesticulating wildly--"Pavloushka was in the way." "You ought to have hit Pavloushka in the teeth and her in the ear--why did you stand on ceremony!" screamed Goudayevskaya. The crowd pressed against Veriga. They abused him fully. Veriga stood calmly before the door and tried to persuade those nearest him to preserve order. The kitchen-boy opened the door behind Veriga and whispered: "They've gone, your Excellency." Veriga walked away. The crowd broke into the dining-room, then into the kitchen--they looked for the Geisha but did not find her. * * * * * Bengalsky, carrying the Geisha, ran through the dining-room into the kitchen. She lay tranquilly in his arms and said nothing. Bengalsky thought he could hear the strong beating of the Geisha's heart. On her tightly-clutching bare arms he noticed several scratches and near the elbow the blue-yellow stain of a bruise. In a hurried voice Bengalsky said to the crowding servants in the kitchen: "Quick, an overcoat, a dressing-gown, a sheet--anything! I must save this lady." An overcoat was thrown on Sasha's shoulders, Bengalsky somehow wrapped it round the Geisha, and traversing the dark stairs, lighted by dim, smoky paraffin lamps, carried her into the yard and through a gate into the street. "Take off the mask. You'll be more likely to be recognised with it on--and anyway it's quite dark here. I'll tell no one," said he rather inconsistently. He was curious. He knew for certain that it was not Kashtanova, but who was it then? The Geisha obeyed. Bengalsky saw an unfamiliar, smooth face, on which fright was giving place to an expression of joy at an escaped danger. A pair of cheerful eyes gazed at the actor's face. "How can I thank you?" said the Geisha in a clear voice. "What would have become of me, if you hadn't saved me?" "She's no coward. An interesting little woman!" thought the actor. "But who is she?" It was obvious that she was a new arrival; Bengalsky knew the women of the district. He said quietly to Sasha: "I must take you home at once. Give me your address and I'll call a cabby." The Geisha's face again became dark with fear. "You mustn't, you simply mustn't," she whispered. "I will go home alone. Let me down here." "But how can you go home in such mud and with those wooden shoes. You'd better let me call a cab," said the actor persuasively. "No, I'll go by myself. For God's sake let me down," entreated the Geisha. "I give you my word of honour I won't tell anyone," said Bengalsky reassuringly. "I mustn't let you go, you'll catch cold. I'm responsible for you now, and I can't let you go. But tell me quickly--they might get after you even here. You saw what savages they are. They're capable of anything." The Geisha trembled, quick tears suddenly trickled from her eyes. She said, sobbing: "Terribly cruel people! Take me to the Routilovs for the present and I'll spend the night there." Bengalsky called a cab. They got in and drove off. The actor looked intently at the Geisha's face. There seemed to him to be something strange about it. The Geisha turned her face away. The town-talk about Liudmilla and a schoolboy suddenly occurred to Bengalsky's mind. "Ah-ha! You're a boy!" he said in a whisper, so that the cabby should not hear. "For God's sake!" said Sasha growing pale with fear. And his smooth hands under the overcoat stretched themselves towards Bengalsky with a movement of entreaty. Bengalsky laughed quietly and whispered: "I won't tell anyone. Don't be afraid. My business is to get you home safe, and beyond that I know nothing. But you're a daring kid. Won't they find out at home?" "If you don't say anything no one will know," said Sasha in a voice of gentle entreaty. "You can depend on me. I shall be silent as the grave," replied the actor. "I was a boy myself once; I was up to all sorts of pranks." * * * * * The clamour in the Club had already begun to calm down, but the evening terminated in a new calamity. While they were tussling with the Geisha in the corridor, the flaming nedotikomka, jumping on the lustres, laughed and insistently whispered to Peredonov that he should strike a match and let loose her, the flaming but confined nedotikomka on these dingy, dirty walls, and, when she had gorged herself with the destruction of this building where such terrible and incomprehensible deeds were happening, then she would leave Peredonov unmolested. And Peredonov could not resist her importunate whisper. He entered the little dining-room which was next to the dancing-hall. It was empty. Peredonov looked around, struck a match, put it to the window curtain at the floor and waited till the hangings caught fire. The flaming nedotikomka, like an active little snake, crept up the curtain, squealing softly and happily. Peredonov walked out of the dining-room, closing the door behind him. No one noticed the incendiary. The fire was only seen from the street when the whole room was in flames. The fire spread quickly. The people escaped--but the Club House was burnt down. On the next day the town talked of nothing but the Geisha affair and the fire. Bengalsky kept his word and told no one that the Geisha was a disguised boy. As for Sasha he had redressed himself that night at Routilovs and, turning once more into a simple barefoot boy, ran home, crept through the window and went quietly to sleep. In the town, seething with slanders, in the town where everyone knew everything about everyone, Sasha's nocturnal adventure remained a secret. For long, but, of course, not for always. CHAPTER XXXI Ekaterina Ivanovna Pilnikova, Sasha's aunt and guardian, received simultaneously two letters about Sasha--one from the Head-Master and the other from Kokovkina. These letters greatly alarmed her. She put all her affairs aside and drove at once from her village through the muddy autumn roads to our town. Sasha, who loved his aunt, met her with great joy. His aunt came with the intention of rating him soundly. But he threw himself on her neck with such gladness and kissed her hands so affectionately that she could not at first speak severely to him. "Dear Auntie, how good of you to come!" said Sasha, and looked happily at her full, rosy face with its kind dimples on the cheeks and its grave, hazel eyes. "You'd better postpone your pleasure, I must scold you first," said his aunt in an irresolute voice. "I don't mind that," said Sasha indifferently, "scold me, if you have anything to scold me for, but still I'm terribly glad to see you!" "Terribly?" she repeated in a displeased voice. "I've been hearing terrible things about you." Sasha lifted his eyebrows and looked at his aunt with innocent, uncomprehending eyes. "There's one master, Peredonov, here," he complained, "who has invented the tale that I'm a girl. He's been annoying me, and then the Head-Master scolded me because I had got to know the Routilov girls. As if I went there to steal things! And what business is it of theirs?" "He's quite the same child that he was before," thought his aunt in perplexity, "or has he become spoilt and corrupted so that he can deceive one even with his face?" She shut herself in with Kokovkina and talked to her for a long time. She came out looking quite grave. Then she went to the Head-Master. She returned quite upset. She showered reproaches on Sasha. Sasha cried but firmly assured her that it was all an invention, that he did not permit himself any liberties with the Routilov girls. His aunt did not believe him. She scolded him, wept and threatened to give him a good whipping at once--that is to-day, as soon as she had seen these girls. Sasha kept crying and assuring her that nothing wrong had happened, and that it was all very exaggerated. His aunt, angry and bloated with tears, went to the Routilovs. As she waited in the Routilovs' drawing-room, Ekaterina Ivanovna felt very agitated. She wanted to throw herself on the sisters at once with the severest reproaches which she had prepared beforehand. But their peaceful, pretty drawing-room aroused peaceful thoughts in her against her will, and softened her vexation. The unfinished embroidery left lying about, the keepsakes, the engravings on the walls, the carefully trained plants at the windows, the absence of dust and the home-like appearance of the room were not at all what one would expect in an unrespectable house; there was everything that is valued by housewives the world over--surely with such surroundings the young owners of such a drawing-room could not have corrupted her innocent young Sasha. All the conjectures she had made about Sasha seemed to her ridiculously absurd. On the other hand, Sasha's explanations about his doings at the Routilovs seemed reasonable; they read, chatted, joked, laughed and played--they wanted to get up an amateur play, but Olga Vassilyevna would not allow him to take part. The three sisters felt apprehensive. They did not yet know whether Sasha's masquerading had remained a secret. But there were three of them and they all felt solicitous for one another. This gave them courage. All three of them gathered in Liudmilla's room and deliberated in whispers. "We must go down to her," said Valeria. "It's rude to keep her waiting." "Let her cool off a little," replied Darya indifferently, "or she'll go for us." The sisters scented themselves with clematis. They came in tranquil, cheerful, attractive, pretty as always; they filled the drawing-room with their charming chatter and gaiety. Ekaterina Ivanovna was immediately fascinated by them. "So these are the corrupters!" she thought, with vexation at the school pedagogues. But then she thought that perhaps they were assuming this modesty. She decided not to yield to their fascination. "You must forgive me, young ladies, but I have something serious to discuss with you," she said, trying to make her voice dry and business-like. The sisters made her sit down and kept up a gay chatter. "Which of you----" Ekaterina Ivanovna began irresolutely. Liudmilla, as if she were a graceful hostess trying to get a visitor out of a difficulty, said cheerfully: "It was I who spent most of the time with your nephew. We have similar views and tastes in many things." "Your nephew is a very charming boy," said Darya, as if she were confident that her praise would please the visitor. "Really most charming, and so entertaining," said Liudmilla. Ekaterina Ivanovna felt more and more awkward. She suddenly realised that she had no reasonable cause for complaint and this made her angry--Liudmilla's last words gave her an opportunity to express her vexation--she said angrily: "He may be an entertainment to you but to him----" But Darya interrupted her and said in a sympathetic voice: "Oh, I can see that those silly Peredonovian tales have reached you. Of course, you know that he's quite mad? The Head-Master does not even allow him to go to the _gymnasia_ now. They're only waiting for an alienist to examine him and then he will be dismissed from the school." "But, allow me," Ekaterina Ivanovna interrupted her with increasing irritation. "I am not interested in this schoolmaster but in my nephew. I have heard that you--pardon me--are corrupting him." And having thrown out this decisive word in her anger with the sisters, Ekaterina Ivanovna at once saw that she had gone too far. The sisters exchanged glances of such well-simulated perplexity and indignation that cleverer people than Ekaterina Ivanovna would have been taken in--they flushed and exclaimed altogether: "That's pleasant!" "How terrible!" "That's something new!" "Madam," said Darya coldly, "you are not over choice in your expressions. Before you make use of such words you should find out whether they are fitting!" "Of course, one can understand that," said Liudmilla, with the look of a charming girl forgiving an injury, "he's not a stranger to you. Naturally, you can't help being disturbed by this stupid gossip. Even strangers like ourselves were sorry for him and had to be kind to him. But everything in our town is made a crime at once. You have no idea what terrible, terrible people live here!" "Terrible people," repeated Valeria quietly, in a clear, fragile voice and shivered from head to foot as if she had come in contact with something unclean. "You ask him yourself," said Darya. "Just look at him; he's still a mere child. Perhaps you have got used to his naïveté, but one can see better from the outside that he's quite an unspoiled boy." The sisters lied with such assurance and tranquillity that it was impossible not to believe them. Why not? Lies have often more verisimilitude than the truth. Nearly always. As for truth of course it has no verisimilitude. "Of course it is true that he was often here," said Darya, "but we shan't let him cross our threshold again, if you object." "And I shall go and see Khripatch to-day," said Liudmilla. "How did he get hold of that notion? Surely he doesn't believe such a stupid tale?" "No, I don't think he believes it himself," admitted Ekaterina Ivanovna. "But he says that various unpleasant rumours are going about." "There! You see!" exclaimed Liudmilla happily. "Of course he doesn't believe it himself. What's the reason of all this fuss then?" Liudmilla's cheerful voice deceived Ekaterina Ivanovna. She thought: "I wonder what exactly has happened? The Head-Master does say that he doesn't believe it." The sisters for a long time supported each other in persuading Ekaterina Ivanovna of the complete innocence of their relations with Sasha. To set her mind more completely at rest they were on the point of telling her in detail precisely what they did with Sasha; but they stopped short because they were all such innocent, simple things that it was difficult to remember them. And Ekaterina Ivanovna at last came to believe that her Sasha and the charming Routilovs were the innocent victims of stupid slander. As she bade them good-bye she kissed them kindly and said: "You're charming, simple girls. I thought at first that you were--forgive the rude word--wantons." The sisters laughed gaily. Liudmilla said: "No, we're just happy girls with sharp little tongues and that's why we're not liked by some of the local geese." When she returned from the Routilovs Sasha's aunt said nothing to him. He met her, feeling rather frightened and embarrassed and he looked at her cautiously and attentively. After a long deliberation with Kokovkina the aunt decided: "I must see the Head-Master again." * * * * * That same day Liudmilla went to see Khripatch. She sat for some time in the drawing-room with the Head-Master's wife and then announced that she had come to see Nikolai Vassilyevitch on business. An animated conversation took place in Khripatch's study--not because they had much to say to one another but because they liked to chatter. And they talked rapidly to each other, Khripatch with his dry, crackling volubility, Liudmilla with her gentle, resonant prattle. With the irresistible persuasiveness of falsehood, she poured out to Khripatch her half-false story of her relations with Sasha Pilnikov. Her chief motives were, of course, her sympathy with the boy who was suffering from this coarse suspicion, her desire to take the place of Sasha's absent family. And finally he was such a charming, unspoiled boy. Liudmilla even cried a little and her swift tears rolled down her cheeks to her half-smiling lips, giving her an extraordinary attractiveness. "I have grown to love him like a brother," she said. "He is a fine, lovable boy. He appreciated affection and he kissed my hands." "That was very good of you," said Khripatch somewhat flustered, "and does honour to your kind feelings. But you have needlessly taken to heart the simple fact that I considered it my duty to inform the boy's relatives of the rumours that reached me." Liudmilla prattled on, without listening to him, and her voice passed into a tone of gentle rebuke. "Tell me what was wrong in our taking an interest in the boy? Why should he suffer from that coarse, mad Peredonov? When shall we be rid of him? Can't you see yourself that Pilnikov is quite a child, really a mere child?" She clasped her small, pretty hands together, rattled her gold bracelets, laughed softly, took her handkerchief out to dry her tears and wafted a delicate perfume towards Khripatch. And Khripatch suddenly wanted to tell her that she was "lovely as a heavenly angel," and that this unfortunate episode "was not worth a single instant of her dear sorrow." But he refrained. And Liudmilla chattered on and on and dissolved into smoke the chimerical structure of the Peredonovian lie. Think of comparing the charming Liudmillotchka with the crude, dirty, insane Peredonov! Whether Liudmilla was telling the whole truth or romancing was all the same to Khripatch; but he felt that if he did not believe Liudmilla and should argue with her and take steps to punish Pilnikov it might lead to an inquiry and disgrace the whole School District. All the more since this business was bound up with Peredonov who would be found to be insane. And Khripatch smiled, saying to Liudmilla: "I'm very sorry that this should upset you so much. I didn't for a moment permit myself any disagreeable suspicions of your acquaintance with Pilnikov. I esteem most highly those good and kindly motives which have inspired your actions, and not for a single instant have I considered the rumours that passed in the town and those that reached me as anything but unreasonable slanders which gave me deep concern. I was obliged to inform Madame Pilnikov, especially since even more distorted rumours might have reached her, but I had no intention of distressing you and had no idea that Madame Pilnikov would come and complain to you." "We've had a satisfactory explanation with Madame Pilnikov," said Liudmilla. "But don't punish Sasha on our account. If our house is so dangerous for schoolboys we won't let him come again." "You're very good to him," said Khripatch irresolutely. "We can have nothing against his visiting his acquaintances in his leisure hours, if his aunt permits it. We are very far from wishing to turn students' lodgings into places of confinement. In any case, until the Peredonov affair is decided, it would be better for Pilnikov to remain at home." * * * * * The accepted explanation given by the Routilov girls and by Sasha received confirmation from a terrible event which happened in the Peredonovs' house. This finally convinced the townspeople that all the rumours about Sasha and the Routilov girls were the ravings of a madman. CHAPTER XXXII It was a cold, bleak day. Peredonov had just left Volodin. He felt depressed. Vershina lured him into the garden. He yielded again to her witching call. The two of them walked towards the summer-house, over the moist footpaths which were covered by the dark, rotting fallen leaves. The summer-house felt unpleasantly damp. The house with its windows closed was visible through the bare trees. "I want you to know the truth," mumbled Vershina, as she looked quickly at Peredonov, and then turned away her black eyes. She was wrapped in a black jacket, her head was tied round with a black kerchief, and her lips, grown blue with the cold, were clenched on a black cigarette holder, and sent out thick clouds of black smoke. "I want to spit on your truth," replied Peredonov. "Nothing would please me better." Vershina smiled wryly and said: "Don't say that! I am terribly sorry for you--you have been fooled." There was a malicious joy in her voice. Malevolent words flowed from her tongue. She said: "You were hoping to get patronage, but you were too trustful. You have been fooled, and you believed so easily. Anyone can write a letter. You should have known with whom you were dealing. Your wife is not a very particular person." Peredonov understood Vershina's mumbling speech with some difficulty; her meaning peered out through all her circumlocutions. Vershina was afraid to speak loudly and clearly. Someone might hear if she spoke loudly, and tell Varvara, who would not hesitate to make a scene. And Peredonov himself might get into a rage if she spoke clearly, and even beat her. It was better to hint, so that he might guess the truth. But Peredonov did not rise to the occasion. It had happened before that he had been told to his face of the deception practised on him; yet he never grasped the fact that the letters had been forged, and kept on thinking that it was the Princess who was fooling him, leading him by the nose. At last Vershina said bluntly: "You think the Princess wrote those letters? Why, all the town knows that they were fabricated by Grushina at your wife's request; the Princess knows nothing about it. Ask anyone you like; everyone knows--they gave the thing away themselves. And then Varvara Dmitrievna stole the letters from you and burnt them so as to leave no traces." Dark, oppressive thoughts stirred in Peredonov's brain. He understood only one thing--that he had been fooled. But that the Princess knew nothing of it could not enter his head--yes, she knew. No wonder she had come out of the fire alive. "It's a lie about the Princess," he said. "I tried to burn the Princess, but did not succeed in burning her up; she spat out an exorcism." Suddenly a furious rage seized Peredonov. Fooled! He struck the table savagely with his fist, tore himself from his place, and without saying good-bye to Vershina walked home quickly. Vershina looked after him with malignant joy, and the black clouds of smoke flew quickly from her dark mouth, and swirled away in the wind. Rage consumed Peredonov. But when he saw Varvara, he was seized with a painful dread, which prevented him from uttering a word. On the next morning Peredonov got ready a small garden knife, which he carefully kept in a leather sheath in his pocket. He spent the whole morning until luncheon at Volodin's. He looked at Volodin working, and made absurd remarks. Volodin was glad, as usual, that Peredonov fussed about him, and he accepted Peredonov's silly talk as wit. That whole day the nedotikomka wheeled around Peredonov. It would not let him go to sleep after lunch. It completely tired him out. When, towards evening, he had almost fallen asleep, he was awakened by a mischievous woman who appeared from some place unknown to him. She was pug-nosed, amorphous, and as she walked up to his bed she muttered: "The _Kvass_ must be crushed out, the tarts must be taken out of the oven, the meat must be roasted." Her cheeks were dark, but her teeth gleamed. "Go to the devil!" shouted Peredonov. The pug-nosed woman disappeared as if she had not been there at all. * * * * * The evening came. A melancholy wind blew in the chimney. A slow rain tapped on the window quietly and persistently. It was quite black outside. Volodin was at the Peredonovs'--Peredonov had invited him early that morning to the supper. "Don't let anyone in. Do you hear, Klavdiushka?" shouted Peredonov. Varvara smiled. Peredonov muttered: "All sorts of women are prowling around here. A watch should be kept. One got into my bedroom; she asked to be taken on as cook. But why should I have a pug-nosed cook?" Volodin laughed bleatingly and said: "There are women walking about in the street, but they have nothing to do with us, and we shan't let them join us at our table." The three of them sat down at the table. They began to drink vodka, and to eat tarts. They drank more than they ate. Peredonov was gloomy. Everything had already become a senseless and incoherent delirium for him. He had a painful headache. One picture repeated itself persistently--that of Volodin as an enemy. One idea importuned and assailed him ceaselessly: it was that he must kill Pavloushka before it was too late. And then all the inimical cunning would become revealed. As for Volodin, he was rapidly becoming drunk, and he kept up an incoherent jabber, much to Varvara's amusement. Peredonov seemed restless. He mumbled: "Someone is coming. Don't let anyone in. Tell them that I have gone away to pray at the _Tarakani_[1] monastery." He was afraid that visitors might hinder him. Volodin and Varvara were amused--they thought that he was only drunk. They exchanged winks, and walked out separately and knocked on the door, and said in different voices: "Is General Peredonov at home?" "I've brought General Peredonov a diamond star." But the star did not tempt Peredonov that evening. He shouted: "Don't let them in! Chuck them out! Let them bring it in the morning. Now is not the time." "No," he thought, "I need all my strength to-night. Everything will be revealed to-night--but until then my enemies are ready to send anything and everything against me to destroy me." "Well, we've chased them away. They'll bring it to-morrow morning," said Volodin, as he seated himself once more at the table. Peredonov fixed his troubled eyes upon him, and asked: "Are you a friend to me or an enemy?" "A friend, a friend, Ardasha!" replied Volodin. "A friend with true love is like a beetle behind the stove," said Varvara. "Not a beetle but a ram," corrected Peredonov. "Well, you and I will drink together, Pavloushka, only we two. And you, Varvara, drink also--we'll drink together, we two." Volodin said with a snigger: "If Varvara Dmitrievna drinks with us, it won't be two but three." "Two, I say," repeated Peredonov morosely. "Husband and wife are one Satan," said Varvara, and began to laugh. Volodin did not suspect to the last minute that Peredonov wanted to kill him. He kept on bleating, making a fool of himself, and uttering nonsense, which made Varvara laugh. But Peredonov did not forget his knife the whole evening. When Volodin or Varvara walked up to that side where the knife was hidden, Peredonov savagely warned them off. Sometimes he pointed at his pocket and said: "I have a trick here, Pavloushka, that will make you quack." Varvara and Volodin laughed. "I can always quack, Ardasha," said Volodin. "Kra, Kra. It's quite easy." Red, and drunken with vodka, Volodin protruded his lips and quacked. He became more and more arrogant towards Peredonov. "You've been taken in, Ardasha," he said with contemptuous pity. "I'll take you in," bellowed Peredonov in fury. Volodin appeared terrible to him and menacing. He must defend himself. Peredonov quickly pulled out his knife, threw himself on Volodin, and slashed him across his throat. The blood gushed out in a stream. Peredonov was frightened. The knife fell out of his hands. Volodin kept up his bleat, and tried to catch hold of his throat with his hands. It was evident that he was deadly frightened, that he was growing weaker, and that his hands would never reach his throat. Suddenly he grew deathly pale, and fell on Peredonov. There was a broken squeal--as if he choked--then he was silent. Peredonov cried out in horror, and Varvara after him. Peredonov pushed Volodin away. Volodin fell heavily to the floor. He groaned, moved his feet, and was soon dead. His open eyes grew glassy, and their fixed stare was directed upwards. The cat walked out of the next room, smelt the blood, and mewed malignantly. Varvara stood as if in a trance. Klavdia upon hearing the noise, came running in. "Oh, Lord, they've cut his throat," she wailed. Varvara roused herself, and with a scream rushed from the dining-room together with Klavdia. The news of the event spread quickly. The neighbours collected in the street, and in the garden. The bolder ones went into the house. They did not venture to enter the dining-room for some time. They peeped in and whispered. Peredonov was looking at the corpse with his vacant eyes, and listened to the whispers behind the door.... A dull sadness tormented him. He had no thoughts. At last they grew bolder, and entered. Peredonov was sitting with downcast eyes, and mumbling incoherent, meaningless words. [1] Tarakan is Russian for blackbeetle. 
57059	----	+-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ A DOMINIE DISMISSED WHAT THIS BOOK IS ABOUT. In consequence of the Dominie's go-as-you-please methods of educating village children, the inevitable happens--he is dismissed, giving place to an approved disciplinarian. The unhappy Dominie, forced to leave his bairns, seeks to enlist--but the doctor discovers that his lungs are affected, and he is ordered an open-air life. He returns as a cattleman to the village where he has previously been a schoolmaster. Incidentally, he watches the effect of his successor's teaching, the triumph of his own methods and the discomfiture of his rival at the hands of the children, in whom the Dominie cultivated personality and the rights of bairns. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ A DOMINIE ABROAD 7s. 6d. net. A DOMINIE'S LOG 2s. 6d. net. A DOMINIE IN DOUBT 2s. 6d. net. THE BOOMING OF BUNKIE 2s. 6d. net. CARROTY BROON 2s. 6d. net. A DOMINIE DISMISSED BY A. S. NEILL HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED YORK STREET ST. JAMES'S S.W.1. [Illustration: A HERBERT JENKINS' BOOK] _Printed in Great Britain at the Athenæum Printing Works, Redhill_ TO THE ORIGINAL OF MARGARET A DOMINIE DISMISSED I. I have packed all my belongings. My trunk and two big boxes of books stand in the middle of a floor littered with papers and straw. I had my typewriter carefully packed too, but I took it from out its wrappings, and I sit amidst the ruins of my room with my wee machine before me. It is one of those little folding ones weighing about six pounds. The London train goes at seven, and it is half-past five now. It was just ten minutes ago that I suddenly resolved to keep a diary ... only a dominie can keep a Log, and I am a dominie no longer. I hear Janet Brown's voice outside. She is singing "Keep the Home Fires Burning" ... and she was in tears this afternoon. The limmer ought to be at home weeping her dominie's departure. Yet ... what is Janet doing at my window? Her home is a good two miles along the road. I wonder if she has come to see me off. Yes, she has; I hear her cry to Ellen Smith: "He's packit, Ellen, and Aw hear him addressin' the labels on his typewriter." The besom! Well, well, children have short memories. When Macdonald enters the room on Monday morning they will forget all about me. I know Macdonald. He is a decent sort to meet in a house, but in school he is a stern one. His chief drawback is his lack of humour. I could swear that he will whack Jim Jackson for impudence before he is half an hour in the school. I met Jim one night last week wheeling a box up from the station. "I say, boy," I called with a pronounced Piccadilly Johnny accent, "heah, boy! Can you direct me to the--er--village post-office?" He scratched his head and looked round him dubiously. "Blowed if Aw ken," he said at last. "Aw'm a stranger here." Yes, Macdonald will whack him. I sent Jim out yesterday to measure the rainfall (there had been a fortnight's drought) and he went out to the playground. In ten minutes he returned looking puzzled. He came to my desk and lifted an Algebra book, then he went to his seat and seemed to sweat over some huge calculation. At length he came to me and announced that the rainfall was ·3578994 of an inch. I went out to the playground ... he had watered it with the watering-can. "There are no flies on you, my lad," I said. "No, sir," he smiled, "the flies don't come out in the rain." Yes, Macdonald is sure to whack him. I shall miss Jim. I shall miss them all ... but Jim most of all. What about Janet? And Gladys? And Ellen? And Jean?... Well, then, I'll miss Jim most of all the boys. I tried to avoid being melodramatic to-day. It has been a queer day, an expectant day. They followed me with their eyes all day; if an inspector had arrived I swear that he would have put me down as a good disciplinarian. I never got so much attention from my bairns in my life. I blew the "Fall in!" for the last time at the three o'clock interval. Janet and Ellen were late. When they arrived they carried a wee parcel each. They came forward to my desk and laid their parcels before me. "A present from your scholars," said Janet awkwardly. I slowly took off the tissue paper and held up a bonny pipe and a crocodile tobacco-pouch. I didn't feel like speaking, so I took out my old pouch and emptied its contents into the new one; then I filled the new pipe and placed it between my teeth. A wee lassie giggled, but the others looked on in painful silence. I cleared my throat to speak, but the words refused to come ... so I lit the pipe. "That's better," I said with forced cheerfulness, and I puffed away for a little. "Well, bairns," I began, "I am----" Then Barbara Watson began to weep. I frowned at Barbara; then I blew my nose. Confound Barbara! "Bairns," I began again, "I am going away now." Janet's eyes began to look dim, and I had to frown at her very hard; then I had to turn my frown on Jean ... and Janet, the besom, took advantage of my divided attention. I blew my nose again; then I coughed just to show that I really did have a cold. "I don't suppose any of you understand why I am going away, but I'll try to tell you. I have been dismissed by your fathers and mothers. I haven't been a good teacher, they say; I have allowed you too much freedom. I have taken you out sketching and fishing and playing; I have let you read what you liked, let you do what you liked. I haven't taught you enough. How many of you know the capital of Bolivia? You see, not one of you knows." "Please, sir, what is it?" asked Jim Jackson. "I don't know myself, Jim." My pipe had gone out and I lit it again. "Bairns, I don't want to leave you all; you are mine, you know, and the school is ours. You and I made the gardens and rockeries; we dug the pond and we caught the trout and minnows and planted the water-plants. We built the pigeon-loft and the rabbit-hutch. We fed our pets together. We----" I don't know what happened after that. I took out my handkerchief, but not to blow my nose. "The bugle," I managed to say, and someone shoved it into my hand. Then I played "There's No Parade To-day," but I don't think I played it very well. Only a few went outside; most of them sat and looked at me. "I must get Jim to save the situation," I said to myself, and I shouted his name. "P-please, sir," lisped Maggie Clark, "Jim's standin' oot in the porch." "Tell him to come in," I commanded. Maggie went out; then she returned slowly. "P-please, sir, he's standin' greetin' and he winna come." "Damnation!" I cried, and I bustled them from the room. A quarter-past six! It's time Jim came for these boxes. * * * I am back in my old rooms in a small street off Hammersmith Broadway. My landlady, Mrs. Lewis, is a lady of delightful garrulity, and her comments on things to-day have served to cheer me up. She is intensely interested in the fact that I have come from Scotland, and anxious to give me all the news of events that have happened during my sojourn in the wilds. "Did you 'ear much abaht the war in Scotland?" she said. I looked my surprise. "War! What war?" Then she explained that Britain and France and Russia and the Allies were fighting against Germany. "Now that I come to think of it," I said reflectively, "I _did_ see a lot of khaki about to-day." "Down't you get the pypers in Scotland?" she asked. "Thousands of them, Mrs. Lewis; why, every Scot plays the pipes." "I mean the pypers, not the pypers," she explained. "Oh, I see! We do get a few; English travellers leave them in the trains, you know." She thought for a little. "It must be nice livin' in a plyce w'ere everyone knows everyone else. My sister Sally's married to a pynter in Dundee, Peter Macnab; do you know 'im?" I explained that Peter and I were almost bosom friends. Then she asked me whether I knew what his wage was. I explained that I did not know. She then told me how much he gave Sally to keep house with, and I began to regret my temerity in claiming a close acquaintance with the erring Peter. Mrs. Lewis at once began to recount the family history of the Macnabs, and I blushed for the company I kept. I decided to disown Peter. "Perhaps he'll behave better now that he has gone to Glasgow," I remarked. "But he ain't gone to Glasgow!" she exclaimed. I looked thoughtful. "Ah!" I cried, "I've been thinking of the other Peter Macnab, the painter in Lochee." "Sally's 'usband lives in a plyce called Magdalen Green." "Ah! I understand now, Mrs. Lewis. I've met that one too; you're quite right about his character." If I ever write a book of aphorisms I shall certainly include this one: Never claim an acquaintance with a lady's relations by marriage. I wandered along Fleet Street to-day, the most fascinating street in London ... and the most disappointing. To understand Fleet Street you must walk along the Strand at midday. The Londoner is the most childish creature on earth. If a workman opens a drain cap the traffic is held up by the crowds who push forward to glimpse the pipes below. If a black man walks along the Strand half a hundred people will follow him on the off chance that he may be Jack Johnson. London is the most provincial place in Britain. I have eaten cookies in Princes Street in Edinburgh, and I have eaten buns in Piccadilly. The London audience was the greater. Audience! the word derives from the Latin _audio_: I hear. That won't do to describe my eating; spectators is the word. I wandered about all day, and the interests of the streets kept my thoughts away from that little station in the north. Now it is evening, and my thoughts are free to wander. A few of them would see Macdonald arrive to-day, and I think that in wondering at him they will have forgotten me. Children live for the hour; their griefs are as ephemeral as their joys, and the ephemeralism of their emotion is as wonderful as its intensity. A boy will bury his brother in the afternoon, and scream at Charlie Chaplin in the evening. He will forget Charlie again, though, when he lies alone in the big double bed at night. Jim and Janet and Jean and the rest have loved me well, but I have no illusions about their love. Children are painfully docile. In two weeks they will accept Macdonald's iron rule without question, just as they accepted my absence of rule without question. Yet I wonder ...! Perhaps the love of freedom that I gave them will make them critical now. I know that they gradually developed a keen sense of justice. It was just a fortnight ago that Peter Shaw was reported to me as a slayer of young birds. I formed a jury with Jim Jackson as foreman, and they called for witnesses. "Gentlemen of the jury, your verdict?" I said. Jim stood up. "Accused is acquitted ... only one witness!" I used to see them weigh my actions critically, and I had to be very particular not to show any sign of favouritism--a difficult task, for a dominie is bound to like some bairns better than others. Will they apply this method to Macdonald? I rather think he will beat it out of them. He is the type of dominie that stands for Authority with the capital A. His whole bearing shouts: "I am the Law. What I say is right and not to be questioned." My poor bairns! II. I went to Richmond to-day, hired a skiff, and rowed up to Teddington. I tied the painter to a tuft of grass on the bank and lazed in the sunshine. For a time I watched the boats go by, and I smiled at the windmill rowing of a boatload of young Italians. Then a gilded youth went by feathering beautifully ... and I smiled again, for the Italians seemed to be getting ever so much more fun out of their rowing than this artist got. By and by the passers-by wearied me, and I thought of my village up north. The kirk would be in. Macdonald would probably be there, and the bairns would be glancing at him sidelong, while I, the failure, lay in a boat among strangers. I began to indulge in the luxury of self-pity; feeling oneself a martyr is not altogether an unpleasant sensation. I turned my face to the bank and thought of what had taken place. The villagers accused me of wasting their children's time, but when I asked them what they would have me make their children do they were unable to answer clearly. "Goad!" said Peter Steel the roadman, "a laddie needs to ken hoo to read and write and add up a bit sum." "Just so," I said. "When you go home to-night just try to help your Jim with his algebra, will you? I'll give you five pounds if you can beat him at arithmetic." "Aw'm no sayin' that he doesna ken his work," he protested, "but Aw want to ken what's the use o' a' this waste o' time pluckin' flowers and drawin' hooses. You just let the bairns play themsells." "That's what childhood is for," I explained, "for playing and playing again. In most schools the children work until they tire, and then they play. My system is the reverse; they play until they are tired of play and then they work ... ask for work." I know that the villagers will never understand what I was trying to do. My neighbour, Lawson of Rinsley School, had a glimmering of my ideal. "I see your point," he said, "but the fault of the system is this: you are not preparing these children to meet the difficulties of life. In your school they choose their pet subjects, but in a factory or an office they've got to do work that they may hate. I say that your kids will fail." "You aren't teaching them character," he added. Lawson's criticism has made me think hard. I grant that I am not an efficient producer of wage-slaves. The first attribute of a slave is submission; he must never question. Macdonald is the true wage-slave producer. He sets up authority to destroy criticism, and the children naturally accept their later slavery without question. Macdonald is the ideal teacher for the reactionists and the profiteers. Will my bairns shirk the difficulties of life? There is Dan MacInch. He shirked algebra; he told me frankly that he didn't like it. I said nothing, and I allowed him to read while the others were working algebraical problems. In less than a week he came to me. "Please, sir, give me some algebra for home," he said, and in three weeks he was as good as any of them. I hold that freedom does not encourage the shirking of difficulties. I found that my bairns loved them. Some of them delighted in making them. Jim Jackson would invent the most formidable sums and spend hours trying to solve them. Of course there were aversions. Jim hated singing and grammar. Why should I force him to take an interest in them? No one forces me to take an interest in card-playing ... my pet aversion, or in horse-racing. Freedom allows a child to develop its own personality. If Jim Jackson, after being with me for two years, goes into an office and shirks all unpleasant duties, I hold that Jim is naturally devoid of grit. I allowed him to develop his own personality and if he fails in life his personality is manifestly weak. If Macdonald can turn out a better worker than I can ... and I deny that there is any evidence that he can ... I contend that he has done so at the expense of a boy's individuality. He has forced something from without on the boy. That's not education. The word derives from the Latin "to lead forth." Macdonald would have made Jim Jackson a warped youth; he would have Macdonaldised him. I took the other way. I said to myself: "This chap has something bright in him. What is it?" I offered him freedom and he showed me what he was--a good-natured clever laddie with a delightful sense of the comic. I think that his line is humour; more than once have I told him that he has the makings of a great comedian in him. I said this to Lawson and he scoffed. "Good Lord!" he cried, "what a mission to have in life!" "Better an excellent Little Tich," I replied, "than an average coal-heaver. To amuse humanity is a great mission, Lawson." There was wee Doris Slater, the daughter of people who lived in a caravan. That child moved like a goddess. I think that if Pavlova saw Doris she would beg her mother to allow the child to become a dancer. Macdonald would try to make Doris a typist, I fancy, and pride himself on the fact that he had improved her social position. I would have Doris a dancer, for she looks like being fit to become a very great artist. Music moves her to unconscious ecstatic grace in movement. I want education to guide a child into finding out what best it can do. At present our schools provide for the average child ... and heaven only knows how many geniuses have been destroyed by stupid coercion. I want education to set out deliberately to catch genius in the bud. And what discovers genius cannot be bad for the children who have no genius. I want education to produce the best that is in a child. That is the only way to improve the world. The naked truth is that we grown-ups have failed to make the world better than the gigantic slum it is, and when we pretend to know how a child should be brought up we are being merely fatuous. We must hand on what we have learned to the children, but we must do it without comment. We must not say: "This is right," because we don't know what is right: we must not say: "This is wrong," because we don't know what is wrong. The most we should do is to tell a child our experience. When I caught my boys smoking I did not say: "This is wrong"; I merely said: "Doctors say that cigarettes are bad for a boy's health. They are the specialists in health; you and I don't know anything about it." When I tell a boy that a light should not be taken near to petrol I am handing on bitter experience of my own, but when I say that he must know the chief dates of history by Monday morning I am doing an absolutely defenceless thing, for no one can prove by experience that a knowledge of dates is a good thing. Macdonald would say: "Quite so, but could you prove that it is a bad thing?" I would reply that I could prove it is a senseless thing; moreover education should not aim at giving children things that do not do them harm. I don't suppose that it would do me any harm to learn up the proper names in the Bible beginning with Adam. The point is would it do me any good? I once had a discussion with Macdonald on Socialism. He accused me of attempting to force humanity to be of a pattern. "Socialism kills individualism," he said. I smile to think that the Conservative Macdonald is trying to mould children to a pattern, while I, a Socialist, insist on each child's being allowed to develop its own separate individuality. The Socialist would appear to be the keenest individualist in the world, for it is from the heretical section of society that the demand for freedom in education is coming. * * * To-day I visited Watterson, an old college friend of mine. He is now in Harley Street, and is fast becoming famous as a specialist in nervous disorders. "Your nerves are all to pot," he said; "what have you been doing with yourself?" I told him my recent history. "But, Good Lord!" he cried, "how did you manage to find any worry in a village?" I tried to explain. Living in a village narrows one; the outside world is gradually forgotten, and the opinions of ignoramuses gradually come to matter. I found myself beginning to worry over the adverse criticisms of villagers who could not read nor write. "You've got neurasthenia," said Watterson; "what you want to do is to settle down on a farm for six months; live in the open air and do nothing strenuous. Don't try to think, and for God's sake don't worry. Read _John Bull_ and _The Pink 'Un_, and chuck all the weekly intellectual reviews. And ... most important of all, fall in love with a rosy-cheeked daughter of the soil." I have written to Frank Thomson, the farmer of Eagleshowe, asking if he still wants a cattleman. His last man was conscripted, and if the job is still vacant Frank will give it to me. To-night I sit chuckling. The idea of a dismissed dominie's returning to a village to feed cattle is rich. The village will extract much amusement out of it. I imagine Peter Mitchell looking over the dyke and crying: "Weel, dominie, and how is the experiment in eddication gettin' on?" * * * I sit at a bright peat fire in Frank Thomson's bothy. I arrived at three o'clock and no bairn was about the station. I was glad, for I did not want to meet anyone. There was a queer feeling of shame in returning; I feared to meet anyone's glance. To return a few days after an affecting farewell is the last word in anticlimax; it is so horribly undramatic a thing to do. I wish that Lazarus had kept a diary after his resurrection; I fancy that quite a few people resented his return. I cannot write more to-night; I am tired out. The most tiring thing in the world is to rise in one place and go to bed in another. * * * I was going out to fetch the cows this afternoon when I espied three girls in white pinafores at the top of the field. They waved their hands and ran down to meet me. "We'll help you to take in the cows," cried Janet. They accepted my return without even the slightest curiosity, and I was glad. "Righto!" I said, "but wait a bit. I want to sketch the farm first." I sat down on the bank and the three settled themselves round me. "Please, sir," said Ellen, "Mr. Macdonald's a nice man." I did not want to discuss Macdonald with my bairns, and I sketched in silence. I think they forgot all about my presence after that; in the old days they used to talk to each other as if I weren't there. Once they discussed likely sweethearts in the village for me, and I am sure they forgot that I was there. "He's nice to the lassies, Ellen," said Jean, "but not to the boys." "What did he strap Jim Jackson for?" asked Ellen. "Aw dinna ken," said Janet, "but he was needin' the strap. Jim Jackson's a cheeky wee thing." "Eh!" said Jean, "haven't we to sit awful quiet, Jan?" "Weel," said Janet nodding her head sagely, "and so ye shud sit quiet in the schule. Ye'll no be learning yer lessons if ye speak." I went on sketching. Janet is already being Macdonaldised. She accepts his authority without question. Ellen and Jean are critical as yet, but in a week both will have adapted themselves to the machine. They wandered off to pluck flowers. I finished my sketch and hailed them. Then they came to me and took my arms and we took the cows home. In the evening I was mucking out the byre when Jim Jackson came for his milk. "Good morrow, sir," I called from the byre door, "you didn't happen to see Mr. Thomson's elephant as you came up the road?" He looked interested. "Elephant?" he asked brightly. "Yes. The white one; strayed away this afternoon from the chicken coop. Have you seen it?" "No," he said, "not the white one, but the grey one and the tiger are sitting at the dyke-side down at the second gate. I gave the tiger a turnip when I passed it." "Good!" I cried, "always be kind to animals." "Yes, sir," he said, and he glanced down to the second gate. I think that he wouldn't have been very much surprised if he had seen a tiger there. Jim has the power of make-believe developed strongly. A few weeks ago he found a dead sparrow in the playground. He came to me and asked for a coffin. I gave him a match-box and he lined the class up in twos and led them with bared heads towards the grave he had dug. The four foremost boys carried the coffin shoulder high. Jim laid ropes over the grave and the coffin was lowered reverently. A boy was just about to fill in the grave when Jim cried: "Hold on!" Then he took a handful of earth and sprinkled it over the coffin saying: "Dust to dust, and ashes to ashes." I blew the Last Post over the grave afterwards. Jim was as serious as could be; for the moment he seemed to think that he was burying his brother. When he had got his milk he came to the byre door and watched me work for a little. "Please, sir," he asked, "do you like that better than teaching?" I told him that I didn't. "I wish Mester Macdonald wud be a cattleman," he said fervently. "Some folk might say that he is," I remarked. "He gave me my licks the first mornin' he cam," he continued. "We got an essay 'How I spent my holidays,' and I said that I was in France and helped the Crown Prince to loot places. We quarrelled about how much we should get each and I shot him. The Mester gave me three scuds for tellin' lies." "He would," I said grimly. "But you used to tell me to tell lies!" he cried. "I did, Jim. And you see the result.... I muck out a byre." When Jim went away I came to a sudden resolution: I would fight for Jim. I'll do all in my power to help the lad to preserve his own personality.... Frank Thomson is his uncle and I'll try to get Jim to see me often. Professional etiquette! Professional etiquette be damned! I'm not in the profession now anyhow, and all the professional etiquette in the world is as nothing to the saving of a soul. * * * I find that I enjoy my food now. Formerly I looked on a meal as an appetiser for a smoke; now I look on a meal as an event. I feel healthier than I ever did in my life before. The land dulls one, however. The old cry "Back to the Land" means "Back to Elemental Mental Stagnation." I spent this forenoon cutting turnips, and I know that I thought of nothing all the time. I have a theory that great thoughts are the product of disease. Possibly this is only another way of saying that genius is allied to madness. Shelley was a physical weakling; Ibsen and Nietzsche went mad. Yes, geniuses are diseased folk, but the converse does not hold. Macdonald came up to see me to-night; he wanted to ask a few things about the school. We lay on a bank and lit our pipes. "I can't find your 'Record of Work,'" he said. "I never kept one." "But ... the Code demands one!" "I know ... but I didn't keep one. My record of work is my pupils in after life." "Yes," he said drily, "I know all about that, but you are supposed to keep a record that will show an inspector what you are doing to produce this after life record." "Macdonald," I said impatiently, "if you mean to tell me that any man can tell what I am doing to prepare children for after life by squinting at a crowd of entries of the Took-the-History-of-the-Great-Rebellion-this-week order ... well, I don't understand your attitude to life in general." "That's all very well," he protested, "but we aren't there to make the rules; we're paid servants who have to administer the laws of wiser men." "How do you know that they are wiser?" I asked. "They're wiser than I am anyway," he said with a smile. "I'm not so sure of it, Macdonald; they are more unscrupulous than you are. They know what they want, definitely and finally; they want efficient wage-slaves." "That's merely a Socialistic cry." "It may be, but it's true. Who rule us? A definite governing class of trained aristocrats." "H'm! I shouldn't call Lloyd George and that Labour man Hodge trained aristocrats." "They aren't born aristocrats I admit, but they are aristocratised democrats. They've adapted themselves to the aristocratic tradition. They are on the side of aristocracy; you won't find them alienating the good opinion of the moneyed classes. We are governed from above; do you admit that?" "In the main ... yes," he said grudgingly. "Very good! Well, then, our rulers believe in two kinds of education. They send their sons to the public schools where boys are trained to be governors, but they send the rest of the sons of the community to State schools where they are trained to be disciplined and content with their lot." "That's nonsense." "Possibly, but I suppose you know that the members of the House of Lords and the Cabinet don't send their sons to L.C.C. schools." "You are simply preaching class war," he said. "I am. There is a class war--there has been for generations--but it is a one-sided war." "It is," said Macdonald grimly. "The upper class took the offensive long ago, and it keeps it yet. Look at the squire down in the village. He won't ride in the same railway compartment with you or me; he won't sit beside us in the theatre ... why, he won't lie beside us in the kirkyard: he's got that railed-off corner for his family. I don't blame him; he has been educated up in his belief, just as you and I have been educated up in the belief that we are his inferiors. When I was down in the school I lectured the whole class one day because I saw a boy doff his cap to the squire and nod to his mother three seconds afterwards. "Don't you see that this village is a little British Empire? Here there are only two classes--the big house and the village ... the ruling class and the ruled. The school trains the ruled to be ruled, and the kirk takes up the training on the Seventh Day. The minister talks a lot of prosy platitudes about Faith and Love and Charity, but he never thinks of saying a thing that the squire might take umbrage at." I broke off and refilled my pipe. "How are you getting on?" I asked. "Well enough. The bairns are nice." "A little bit noisy," he added, "but, of course, I was prepared for that. I heard about your experiment months ago. By the way, what sort of a teacher is Miss Watson?" "Excellent," I replied. "How often did you examine her classes?" "I never examined her classes, not formally, but her bairns spoke to me, and I judged her work from their conversation." "I examined their work yesterday; her spelling is weak and her geography atrocious." "Shouldn't wonder," I said carelessly. "I never bothered about those things; I judged her work by what her bairns were, not by what they knew. They're a bright lot when you ask them to think out things." "No wonder they fired you out," he laughed; "you're impossible as a dominie, you know." I smiled. "How do you like Jim Jackson?" I asked suddenly. "Cheeky devil!" "He's clever," I said. "You may call it cleverness, but I have another name for it. He is a fellow that requires to be sat on." "And you'll sit on him?" "I certainly shall ... heavily too." I tried to show Macdonald that he was making a criminal blunder, but he got impatient. "I can't stand cheek," he kept saying, and I had to give up all hope of convincing him that I was right. Macdonald is essentially a stupid man. I don't say that merely because he disagrees with me; I say it because he refuses to think out his own attitude. He cries that Jim is cheeky, but he won't go into the other question as to whether humour is impudence. Had he argued that humour is a drawback in life I should have pitied his taste, but I should have admired his ability to make out a good case. III. I have spent a hard day forking hay along with Margaret Thomson. Margaret is twenty and bonny, but she is very, very shy. She attended my Evening class last winter, and she appears to be afraid to speak to me. I tried to get her to converse again and again to-day, but it was of no use. I think that she fears to make a mistake in grammar or to mispronounce a word. I hear her voice outside at the horse-trough. She is bantering old Peter Wilson, and talking thirteen to the dozen. Her laugh is a most delightful thing. I wonder did Touchstone like Audrey's laugh! The Thomsons are carrying out in farming the principles I set myself to carry out in education. They treat their beasts with the greatest kindness. There isn't a wild animal in the place. Spot the collie is a most lovable creature; the sheep are all tame, and the cows are quiet beasts; the bull has a bold eye, but he is as gentle as a lamb. The horses come to the kitchen door from the water-trough, and little Nancy Thomson feeds them with bread. Every member of the family comes into personal immediate contact with the animals, and the animals seem to love the family. There is no fear in this farmyard. Mrs. Thomson is a kind-hearted soul. She never goes down to the village unless to the kirk on Sunday. She works hard all day, but she is always cheerful. "I like to see them comin' in aboot," she says, and she seems to find the greatest pleasure in preparing the family's meals. On a Saturday bairns come up from the village, and she gives them "pieces" spread thick with fresh butter and strawberry jam. "I'm never happy unless there's a squad o' bairns roond me," she said to me to-day. Frank Thomson is what the village would call a funny sort o' a billie. His eyes are always twinkling, and he tries to see the funny side of life. He hasn't much humour, but he has a strong sense of fun, and he loves to chaff the youngsters. "Weel, Wullie," is his invariable greeting when his boy returns from school in the evening, "Weel, Wullie, and did ye get yer licks the day?" On a Saturday Frank always has a troop of girls hanging on to his coat tails, and he is always playing practical jokes on them--locking them in the stable or covering them with straw. "Goad!" he will cry, "ye're an awfu' pack o' tormentors; just wait er Aw tell the dominie aboot ye!" and they yell at him. Mrs. Thomson tells me that he is inordinately proud of having me for a cattleman, and at the cattle mart he boasts about having an M.A. as feeder. I took two stots into the mart yesterday, and when they entered the ring a wag cried: "Are they weel up in the Greek, think ye, Frank?" and the farmers roared. "Oh, aye," shouted Frank, "they're weel crammed up wi' a'thing that's guid!" I think that the Scotch Education Department should insist on every teacher's going farming every three years. Inside the profession you lose perspective. The educational papers are full of articles about geography and history and drawing, but teachers seldom show that they are looking beyond the mere curriculum. The training colleges supply the young teacher with what they call Mental Philosophy or Psychology, but it is quite possible for an honours graduate in mental philosophy to have no philosophy at all. The question for the teacher is: What am I aiming at? Macdonald is aiming at what he calls a bright show before the inspector. To be just to the man I admit that he is honestly trying to educate these bairns according to his lights. He wants to produce good scholars, but when I ask him what he considers the goal of humanity he is at sea. He tells me that education should not be made to produce little Socialists as I seemed to try to do. But I deny that I ever tried to make my bairns Socialists. I told them the elemental truth that a parasite is an enemy of society; I told them that the world was out of joint. And I gave them freedom to develop their personalities in the hope that, freed from discipline and fear and lies, they might become a better generation than mine has been. The Macdonalds of life have failed to produce thinking that is free; I merely say: Let the children have a say now; stop thrusting your stupid barbaric Authority down their little throats; let the bairns be free to breathe. Give up all the snobbish nonsense about manners and respect and servility you ram into the child; if he refuses to lift his hat to you, who the devil are you that you should coerce him into doing it? I think that some of the more important villagers were annoyed at the bairns' obvious lack of respect, or at least the semblance of respect. But they looked for faults. They told me of escapades after school hours, of complaints of bosses against boys who had been with me. I asked George Wilson, the mason, whether he would expand his criticism to include the minister. "Do you blame Mr. Gordon for every drunk and every theft in the village? He has been here for thirty years, and, on your reasoning, he has been a failure." "Aw dinna pay rates for keepin' up the kirk," he replied, "but I pay rates to keep up the schule, and Aw have a claim to creeticise the wye ye teach the bairns." I see now that I never had a chance against the enemy. They could point to what they called faults ... Johnnie didn't know his History, Lizzie did too much sketching, Peter wasn't deferential. I could point to nothing. I had abolished fear, I had made the school a place of joy, I had encouraged each child's natural bent ... and the village smiled scornfully and said: "We ken nae difference." I found myself worrying over the opinions of small men who are of no importance in the world of ideas; stupid fools led me into taking up an eternal position of defence. And I fumed inwardly, for I am not always a ready talker. But now I am able to smile at the men who baited me a few weeks ago. They don't count. In the great world beyond the hills there are people who take the large broad view of education, and some day education will really be a "leading forth" not a "putting in." * * * I met Macdonald to-night, and I asked him how things were doing. "I'm in the middle of prizes," he said wearily, "and if there's one thing I detest it's prizes." I began to think that I had misjudged Macdonald. "Excellent!" I cried, "we agree for once! What's your objection to prizes?" "They're such a confounded nuisance." "Granted," I said. "That's all I have against them. You never know how you are to distribute the things." "Why do you object to them?" he asked. I sat down on Wilkie's dyke and lit my pipe. "I object to them on principle, Macdonald. They're tips, that's what they are." "Tips?" "Yes. I give a porter tuppence for seeing my bicycle into the van; I give Mary Ritchie a book for beating the others at reading. I tip both." "I don't see it." "The porter shouldn't get a tip; his job is to look after luggage. Mary's job is to read to improve her mind." "But," said Macdonald, "life is full of rewards." "I know." Here Peter Mitchell strolled up. "We're talking about prizes," I explained. "Life is full of rewards of all kinds, but the only reward that matters is the joy in doing a thing well. If I write a poem or paint a picture I'm not writing or painting with one eye on royalties or the auction room. I sell my poem or picture in order to live ... in a decent civilisation I wouldn't require to sell it to live, but that's by the way. My point is that prizes are artificial rewards, just as strapping is an artificial punishment." "Goad!" said Peter Mitchell, "do ye mean to tell me that Aw wasna thinkin' o' the reward when I selt my powney last Saturday?" "Competition is a good thing," said Macdonald. "Look at running and sports and all that sort of thing." "I admit it," I said, "you like to beat your partner at golf. But my contention is that the prize at the end is vulgar; the joy is in being the best sprinter in the country. After all you don't glory in the fact that Simpson took seven at the tenth hole; your glory lies in the thought that you did it in three. "Prizes in school are not only vulgar: they are cruel. Take Ellen Smith. Ellen has always been a first-rate arithmetician; she has the talent. For the past four years she has carried off the first prize for arithmetic. Sarah Nelson is very good, but work as she likes she can't beat Ellen. Sarah becomes despondent every year at prize-giving time. Bairns aren't philosophical; they don't see that the vulgar little book they get isn't worth thinking about. The ignorant noodles who sit on School Boards (Peter Mitchell had moved on by this time) stand up at the school exhibition and talk much cant about prizes. 'Them that don't get them this year must just make a spurt and get them next year.' And the poor bairns imagine that a prize is the golden fruit of life." I notice that the men who are keenest on school prizes are firm believers in school punishments. And they are generally religious. Their god is a petty tyrant who rewards the good and punishes the wicked. They try to act up to the attitude of their god ... hence, I fancy the term "tin god." * * * I see that many eminent people are making speeches about "Education After the War." I can detect but little difference between their attitude and that of the commercial men who keep shouting "Capture Germany's Trade!" "Let us have more technical instruction," cries the educationist, "more discipline; let us beat Germany at her own game!" The commercial man chuckles. "Excellent!" he cries, "first-rate ... but of course we must have Protection also!" And the educationist and the commercial man will have their way. Education will aim frankly at turning out highly efficient wage-slaves. The New Education has commenced; its first act was to abolish freedom. Free speech is dead; a free press is merely a name; the workers were wheedled into giving up their freedom to sell their commodity labour to the highest bidder, while the profiteer retains his right to sell his goods at the highest price he can get. Every restriction on liberty is alleged to be necessary to win the war. The alarming feature of the present Prussianisation of Britain lies in the circumstance that the signing of peace will be but the beginning of a new war. If the plans of the Paris Economic Conference are carried out true education is interned for a century. Millions have lost their lives in the military war: millions will lose their souls in the trade war. Just as we have sullenly obeyed the dictates of the war government, we shall sullenly obey the dictates of the trade government. "We must win the trade war," our rulers will cry, and, if the profiteers say that men must work sixteen hours a day if we are to beat Germany, the Press and the Church and the School will persuade the public that the man who strikes for a fifteen hours day is a traitor to his country. Will anyone try to save education? The commercial men will use it to further their own plans; the educationists will unconsciously play into the profiteers' hands; the women ... only the other day the suffrage band was marching through the streets of London displaying a huge banner bearing the words "We Want Hughes." Hughes is the Premier of Australia, a Labour man dear to the hearts of all the capitalist newspapers. His one text is "Trade after the War." Who is there to save education? The teaching profession could save it, but teachers are merely servants. They will continue to argue about Compulsory Greek and, no doubt, Compulsory Russian will come up for discussion in the educational papers soon. The commercially-minded gentlemen of Westminster will draw up the new scheme of education, and the teachers will humbly adapt themselves to the new method. I don't think that anyone will save education. IV. I lay on a bank this afternoon smoking. Janet and Jean and Annie came along the road, and they sat down beside me. "I'm tired of the school," said Annie wearily; "Aw wish Aw was fourteen!" "What's wrong now?" I asked. "Oh, we never get any fun now, the new mester's always so strict, and we get an awful lot o' home lessons now." "Annie got the strap on Friday," explained Jean. "Mester Macdonald's braces broke Aw think, at least something broke when he was bending doon and he took an awful red face ... and he had to keep his hands in his pouches till night time to keep his breeks up." "Did Annie pull them down?" I asked. Jean tittered. "No, but she laughed and he gave her the strap." "Aye," cried Annie in delight, "and they nearly cam doon when he was strappin' me!" "Why do awkward incidents occur to dignity?" I said, more to myself than to the bairns, "my braces wouldn't break in fifty years of teaching." Then I laughed. Margaret Thomson came down the road on her way to Evening Service, and she reddened as she passed. "Eh!" laughed Janet, looking up into my face, "did ye see yon? Maggie blushed! Aw wudna wonder if she has a notion o' the Mester!" "How could she help it, Jan?" I said. "Why, you'll be hopelessly in love with me yourself in a couple of years, you besom!" She stared before her vacantly for a little. "Aw did have a notion o' you when ye cam first," she said slowly. I put my arm round her neck. "You dear kid!" I said. She smiled up in my face. "Ye had that bonny striped tie on then," she said artlessly. I pulled her hair. "Ye shud marry Maggie Tamson," she said after a pause. "Aye," added Jean, "and syne ye'll get the farm when her father dies. He's troubled wi' the rheumatics and he'll no live very long. And she wud be a gran worker too." "Dinna haver, Jean," said Annie scornfully, "the Mester will want a gran lady for his wife, one that can play the piano and have ham and egg to her breakfast ilka morning." "No extravagant wife like that for me!" I protested. "Aweel, an egg ilka day and ham and egg on Sundays onywye," compromised Annie. "An egg every second morning, Annie," I said firmly, "and ham and egg every second Sunday." "Ladies dinna mak good wives," said Janet. "Willie Macintosh along at Rinsley married a lassie that was a piano teacher, and she gets her breakfast in her bed and has a wumman to wash up. Aye, and she's ay dressed and oot after dinnertime. Aye, and she sends a' his collars to the laundry ... and he only wears a clean dicky on Sawbath." "Ah!" I said, "I'm glad you told me that, Janet; I won't risk marrying a lady. But tell me, Janet, how am I to know what sort of woman I am marrying?" "It's quite easy," she said slowly, "you just have to tear a button off your waistcoat and if she doesna offer to mend it ye shouldna tak her." "And speer at her what time she gets up in the mornin'," she added; "Maggie Tamson rises at five ilka mornin'." "Why are you so anxious that it should be Margaret?" I asked with real curiosity. Janet shook her head. "Aw just think she's in love wi' ye," she said simply; "she blushed." * * * I went out with my bugle to-night, and I sounded all the old calls. I finished up with "Come for Orders," and I walked slowly down the brae to the farm. Jim Jackson and Dickie Gibson came running up to me. "Ye played 'Come for Orders!'" panted Jim as he wiped his sweating face with his bonnet. "We'll soon remedy matters," I laughed, and I played the "Dismiss." Jim perched himself on a gate. "We'll hae to fall oot, Dick," he said with mock resignation, "come on and we'll sit here till we get oor wind back." And Dick climbed up beside him. "How are the lies getting on, Jim?" I asked. He shook his head dolefully. "We got an essay the day on The Discovery of America ... and ye canna tell mony lies aboot that. Aw just said that Columbus discovered America, and wrote aboot his ships. The new Mester says we must stick to the truth." "It is difficult to associate the truth with America," I said. "But there is a true side to this discovery business. To say that Columbus discovered America is a half-truth; the whole truth is that America isn't quite discovered yet. Andrew Carnegie was fairly successful, and Charlie Chaplin is another discoverer of note, but--" Jim clearly did not understand; he thought that I was pulling his leg. "How's the pond?" I asked, and was grieved to find that neither of the boys had any interest in it. "The Mester taks us oot and gies us object lessons on the minnows," said Dickie, and I groaned. "And the pigeons?" "Object lessons too," said Jim with evident disgust. "What family did he say doos belonged to, Dick?" Dick had no idea. "The word dove comes from the Latin _columba_," I said sententiously. "Hence the name Columbus who was named after the dove that was sent out of the Ark. When he learned this as a boy he resolved to live up to his name ... hence the American Eagle, which of course has transformed itself into a dove during Woodrow Wilson's reign." Dick listened open-mouthed, but Jim's eyes twinkled. "The Mester gives us derivations ilka day. He telt us the derivation of pond when he was giein' us the object lesson, but I canna mind what it was." "A weight!" cried Dickie suddenly, and I complimented him on his industry. "Aye," giggled Jim, "he _shud_ mind it, for he had to write it oot a hunder times." I made a cryptic remark about ponds and ponderosity, and then I told them of the boy who had to stay in and write the phrase "I have gone" many times in order that he might grasp the correct idiom. He filled five pages; then he wrote something at the bottom of the last page, a message to his teacher. The message read "Please, sir, I have went home." Dickie immediately asked whether the boy got a lamming next morning, and Jim looked at him scornfully. Dickie has not got an alert mind. To-night I am doubting whether I was wise to return to the village. I seem to become sadder every day. My heart is down in the old ugly school, and I am jealous of Macdonald. I know that he is an inferior, but he has my bairns in his control. I confess to a sneaking delight in the knowledge that he is not liked by the bairns. In this respect I think I am inferior to him; I don't think he is jealous of my popularity but of course he may be after all. Jim's answering my bugle call makes me want to cry. I can sit out the most pathetic drama unemotionally; when the hero says farewell for ever to the heroine I sit up cheerfully. It is sweetness that affects me; when the hero clasps his love in his arms I snivel. In the cinema when little Willie is dying to slow music and the mother is wringing her hands I smile, but if Willie recovers and sits up in bed to hug his teddy bear I blow my nose. I am unaffected when Peter Pan returns to find his mother's window shut against him, but when the fairies build a house over the sleeping lost girl I have to light my pipe and cough sternly. I wish I hadn't gone out with my bugle to-night. * * * Macdonald is an ass. He came to me this afternoon. "Look here," he began, "I wonder if you've any objection to my making a few alterations in the school live stock?" "Want to introduce a cow?" I asked. "You believe in utilitarianism in education I fancy." "It's the pigeons and rabbits," he went on; "I was wondering if you would object to my getting rid of one or two." "What's wrong?" "It's the sex matter," he said hurriedly. "I don't like the thing; I don't so much mind the infants asking awkward questions, but why the deuce should they keep them till I am speaking to the infant mistress?" "Refer them to the lady," I said with a chuckle. He looked troubled. "I must get rid of one sex," he said. "Macdonald," I said severely, "I don't know that you can do that without the permission of the children. The rabbits and doos are their's; they bought them with their own money." "That's no great difficulty," he said lightly. "Possibly not ... not for you, Macdonald. If you use authority the bairns will hardly question it. But I don't see that you have the right to be an autocrat in this affair." "It is my duty to protect the children," he said with dignity. "Protect yourself, you mean!" I cried; "you have just confessed that your one aim is to get rid of awkward questions." "But what can I do?" he stammered. "Do! Do nothing, just as I did. Let the creatures breed as much as they darned well please; that's what they are there for. You can't very well make sex an object lesson; the logical thing to do is to give a lesson on pollination of plants and then go on to fertilisation of the bird's egg, but if you do that you'll get the sack at once. But there's quite enough of prudery in the world already without your turning a rabbit-hutch into a sultanless harem." "There are things that children shouldn't know," he said with a touch of aggression. "And there are things that grown-ups should know and don't," I said. "They ought to know that the sex conspiracy of silence is idiotic and criminal." "Anyway," he said sullenly, "I'll tell them to-morrow that there are too many in the house and that I mean to get rid of a few." "All right," I said resignedly, "you can lie to them if you want to." Then I added: "Although, mind you, Macdonald, I feel like telling the bairns the real reason for your action." He looked startled. "Don't be alarmed," I said with a smile, "I won't do it," and he looked relieved. "Why not look in at the school some afternoon?" he said amiably when we parted, "but perhaps you feel that you've shaken off the dust from your feet down there?" "I'll be delighted to come down," I said; "I didn't shake off the dust from my feet when I left ... there was quite enough dust there already." I think I'll go down to-morrow afternoon; it was decent of Macdonald to ask me after all that I have said to him. * * * A man spends his life wishing he had done certain things and wishing that he had not done certain things. I half wish that I had not accepted Macdonald's invitation; I feel lonely up here now: on the other hand I am glad that I went. I think now that Macdonald's real idea was to show me how he has improved the school. From his point of view he has improved it. He showed me exercise books that were models of neatness and care; he showed me classes swotting up subjects laboriously; the rooms were as silent as the grave. When I went in Macdonald shook hands with me formally, and I noticed that his school voice and manner were prim and professional. I turned to the bairns and said: "Hullo, kids!" and they rose in a body and said: "Good afternoon, sir!" "Ah!" I whispered to Macdonald, "I see I ought to have said: 'Good afternoon, children!' eh?" and he smiled professionally. The higher classes were drawing. The model was a vase. I walked round the class ... and swore silently. I had spent two years persuading these bairns that there is no boundary line in nature; a white vase appears to have lines as boundaries simply because it usually stands in front of a dark background. I made them work in the background to show up the model, although I never gave them vases or pails; my drawing was all outside sketching of trees and houses. He was making them "line in" the drawing. "I am not much good at drawing," he explained apologetically, "as a matter of fact I know nothing about it." "In that case," I said, "why not let them go on with the methods I gave them? I know something about the subject." He asked what my methods were and I explained them in a few minutes. He expressed his gratitude and seemed honestly glad to learn something about the subject. "I won't take them out drawing though," he said; "an inspector might come to the school in my absence." "You conscientious devil!" I said, "let's have a squint at their exercise books." As he moved to the cupboard a boy whispered to his neighbour and Macdonald turned like a flash; the lad visibly quailed before his fixing eye. I fancied that the next inspector's report would commence with the words: "The discipline of this school is excellent." The books were much neater than mine had been. I began to look for blots, but the search was hopeless. "Oh! for God's sake, Macdonald, show me Peter Mackay's book; surely a good healthy blot will be found there!" But Peter's book was scrupulously clean. "I had to deal with that boy with a stern hand," said Macdonald grimly, and as I stood looking at the book I saddened. "On the outside of this book you should write the words: 'Peter Mackay ... a Tragedy, by William Macdonald,'" I said, but I don't think the man understood me. The three o'clock interval came. "Stand!" commanded Macdonald, and the class rose as one child. "Front seat ... quick march!" The boys saluted him as they passed out, and the girls curtsied. I tried not to laugh at the fatuous fellow's inculcation of "respect." Poor devil, I think they will hate him in after years; he is of the brand of dominie that is responsible for the post-schooldays habit of shying divots and opprobrious epithets at teachers passing along the road. On the way out Janet touched my arm playfully, but the eagle-eyed disciplinarian saw the action and he glared at her. "Had you any trouble with swearing?" he asked when the last boy had gone out. "Not particularly. Have you?" "I've put it down with a very firm hand." "I never bothered about it," I said carelessly. "I very seldom heard it; if I did happen to hear a boy string together a few strong words I ridiculed him, told him they didn't mean anything. Once I was trying to unscrew a stiff nut from my motor-bike and I addressed it audibly. I heard a snigger and on looking round found that Jim Jackson had come up to watch my efforts." Macdonald raised his eyebrows and whistled. "Pretty awkward, eh?" "Not in the least, Macdonald; I merely said: 'Jim, never waste good bad language; one day you may be a motor-cyclist and you'll need it all then.' Jim nodded approvingly." "You would have persuaded Jim that he never heard your words," I added. I find that I cannot dislike Macdonald. He is essentially a decent fellow with a kindly nature; sometimes I feel that I am quite fond of him. His equanimity is charming; he seldom shows the least trace of irritation when I talk to him. But his mental laziness riles me; he is so cock-sure about his methods of education, and I know that I never can induce him to think the matter out for himself. The tragedy is that there are a thousand Macdonalds in Scots schools to-day. Of course they are hopelessly wrong. I don't know whether I am right, but I know that they are wrong. They stick to a narrow code; they force youth to follow their silly behests regarding respect; they kill the individuality of each child. Why in all the earth does civilisation allow such asses to warp the children? Who is Macdonald that any human being should quail before his awful eye? Is he so righteous that he shall punish a boy for swearing? He spent a whole morning lately cross-examining the bairns to discover who wrote the words: "Mr. Macdonald is daft" on the pigeon-house door. At last one wee chap was intimidated into confessing, and Macdonald whacked him and then harangued the whole school. The bairns were convinced that the lad had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. What a mind the man has! I discovered an obscene writing about myself three weeks after I had come to the school. The bairns held their breath while I read it. I sent for a cloth and erased the words. "What's the use of scribbling silly rot like that?" I said, and lit my pipe. There never was any more writing on the wall in my time. How the devil are bairns to gain any perspective in life if a fool like Macdonald spends half a day investigating nothing? Education should aim at giving a child a philosophy, and philosophy simply means the contemplation of the important things in life. If teachers emphasise the importance of things like silence and manners and dignity and respect, we cannot expect our children to rise higher in later years than the cheap gossipy lying press and the absurd system we call party politics. The Macdonalds start out with the assumption that human nature is bad; I start out with the realisation that human nature is good. That is the real distinction between the disciplinarian and the believer in freedom. When my boys stole turnips, wrote swear words on walls, talked and ate sweets as they sat in class I attached little or no importance to their actions; all I tried to do was to bring out the best that was in a lad's nature ... and I succeeded. Every child improved ... no, I was forgetting one boy! He came from a city school, and his face was full of impudence. He looked round my free school and marvelled; he had come from a Macdonaldised school and he naturally concluded that I was a soft mark. One day I said to him very mildly: "My gentle youth, this school is Liberty Hall, not because I am weak but because I happen to be rather strong.... I could whack you effectively if I started to you." But I never managed to fit that boy into my scheme of things. He left after a few months, and after he had gone he bounced to other boys that he had shoved many pens and ink-pots down a hole in the floor. I found that he was telling the truth. What would have happened if the boy had remained at school I don't know, but I think that he would have gradually adapted himself to his environment. He had been reared in the schools where physical force reigned, and he understood no other system. Yes, I fancy I could have converted that youth. I think of Homer T. Lane and his Little Commonwealth in Dorset, where so called criminal children from the police courts are given self-government and become excellent citizens, and I know that the Macdonalds are wrong. Not long ago Edinburgh School Board passed a motion asking the local magistrates to make their birch-rod sentences severe enough to be effective. Once upon a time people thought that lunatics were criminals and they lashed them with whips. A time came when people realised that a lunatic was a diseased person and they at once began to care for him tenderly. Nowadays the enlightened members of society realise that a criminal is a diseased person ... usually the victim of a diseased society ... and they passionately advocate his being treated as a sick man is treated. And the School Board of the capital of Scotland recommend that extra stripes with the rod be given to poor laddies who steal a few pence. I feel quite sure that no minister in the country mentioned the fact from his pulpit. I expect they were all too busy anathematising the "Hun" to consider what the attitude of Jesus Christ was to men and women taken in sin. I should like to preach to that School Board from the text "Suffer little children to come unto Me." There are two ways in education: Macdonalds with Authority in the shape of School Boards and magistrates and prisons to support him; and mine with the Christlike experiment of Homer Lane to encourage me. I wonder why there are two sides to this question of education? No one but a fool will contend that the birch rod is better than the Little Commonwealth. I think that ninety per cent. of the Macdonalds of Scotland would believe in the Little Commonwealth. Why then would they argue that their system of teaching is better than mine? Obviously coercion and authority make a child less individual than he might be. Ah! it all turns on our respective attitudes to life. "Boys are innately bad," they say, "whack 'em!" "Boys are innately good," I say, "I'll light my pipe and ask them how their rabbits are getting on." * * * Macdonald came hurrying up to me to-night. "I quite forgot to ask you when you came down what you used to do about your desk. The lock's broken; how long has it been like that?" "Since my first week in school," I said. "Good gracious! Mean to tell me your desk was open for two years?" I nodded, and smiled at his consternation. "I've sent down to the joiner. The situation is intolerable. Why, do you know what I found in it to-day?" "A packet of sweets," I hazarded ... "chocolates if you were lucky." "How did you guess?" he cried in amazement. "My dear fellow, my desk was a sweety shop some days; they used to hide their packets in every corner of it, then they would come to me and say: 'Please, sir, my pockie is in the wee corner on the right; dinna let onybody touch it.' Who put them in?" I asked. "Gladys Miller." "You have all the luck," I said. "Gladys always buys liquorice rolls, you know them ... little yellow sweets with the sugarelly inside. Man, I love yon sweets ... and Gladys knew it, the besom!" "Oh! It's all very well for you to make a joke of it," he said with annoyance, "but I tell you I don't like it, and after to-day I guess it'll be a long time till anybody opens my desk again. I talked to Gladys to some tune I can tell you." I sighed wearily and filled my pipe. "Two years!" said Macdonald musingly, "two years! What about all your private books? Anybody might have read your Log Book, or destroyed it even!" and the thought almost made him turn pale. "And what about it? Nobody will ever read it anyway." "Eh?" His mouth gaped at this latest heresy. "What about it?" I continued, "what about the whole damned lot of registers and log books and Form 9 b's? I didn't care a rap who saw the inside of my desk or my log book. As a matter of fact no one saw what was in the log; never a child opened it. Why? Because there was no prohibition. You lock up all the blamed things and put the fear of God on any kid that dares touch your desk ... result! they look on all your belongings as forbidden fruit, and if they can handle your log book when you are safely out of the way you bet your boots that they'll do it. Can't you see that children are really decent kindly creatures with their own philosophy, that is, their own idea of the importance of things? What is important to them is a toy or a dogfight or a quarrel or a love affair. They don't want to touch stodgy official books. But when you say to them: 'This desk is holy ground' why, every self-respecting kid has but one ambition in life ... to poke his nose into your desk and hide your registers." "Well," he said with a grim smile, "what about those tools in the woodwork room? If children are the saints you make them out to be, how did your boys come to spoil good tools?" "I admit that I made a mistake," I said cheerfully. "I set out on the assumption that a boy can be trusted with tools. I dropped the belief. Wood was scarce and often I couldn't get enough to keep the boys working. Result!... they took to hammering nails into benches and walls. I see now that much of a boy is destructiveness. I might have known it, for as a boy I tore the inside out of everything to see how it worked. If I had a small class I could have kept them interested in making an article. Yet I remember seeing Tom Watson, the best worker in the school, make a good rabbit-trough; then when he had finished he deliberately chipped a chunk off a plane with a hammer." "What did you do?" "I simply chucked him out of woodwork; told him he wasn't beyond the infant-room stage, and gave him lessons with a class two grades below his own." "Did you chuck him out forcibly?" "I suppose I did." "Ah!" Macdonald looked triumphant. "In other words you forgot your principles and punished?" "Human nature is weak," I said sadly. "If I saw a boy sticking a pen-knife into the tyre of my bicycle I should kick him ... kick him hard and then kick him again. There is such a thing as elemental rage in every man--even Christ used a whip in the temple. There are times when you cannot reason: you act impulsively. Principle can't touch this, but it comes in when rage is gone. If I am a magistrate and a boy comes before me charged with destroying a bicycle I personally have no rage against the boy, and if I punish him I'm merely serving out juridical vengeance. If I order him to be birched the jailor has no grudge against the boy. The main point is that the owner of the cycle acts before reasoning, while the magistrate acts after reasoning. And his reason cannot prompt him to behave any better than the injured owner did. The owner is primitive man for the time being: the magistrate stands for reasoning civilisation. In other words reasoning civilisation is no better than the barbarian. That's why I object to juridical punishment." "Ha! Ha!" he laughed with a sneer, "when it touches yourself you let all your principles slide, just as the most extreme Socialist turns Tory if he happens to get money!" "Macdonald," I said slowly, "I'm sorry you said that, for it means that you'll reject everything I bring forward. You'll grasp the idea that my views are useless because I tell you I can smite when I am angry, and you'll consequently reject everything I say. You're like the man who cries to a Socialist orator: 'Why don't you sell your watch and divide the proceeds among this crowd?' or like the man who tells a member of the no-hat brigade that he should go naked to be consistent. If I were to adopt your tactics I might ask why you don't get the School Boards to provide muzzles for the children on the plea that so much of your energy is taken up in keeping them silent. If you make them salute you I see no logical reason why you shouldn't carry respect to its extreme and force them to kneel down and kiss your boots. If you insist on perfect truthfulness why do you try to hide the truth about the sex of pigeons? You pretend to be a believer in perfect obedience to authority, and yet I saw you ride a bicycle without a light the other night. I am quite willing to prove that every man is inconsistent. Bernard Shaw would no doubt find some difficulty in explaining how his humanitarian vegetarianism blends with his wearing of leather boots; for I don't suppose that he has boots made from the hides of animals that died of old age. I gave up shooting and fishing because I saw that both were cruel, yet I will kill a wasp or a rat on occasion. If a tiger got loose down in the village I should at once borrow Frank Thomson's gun, but I should refuse to go tiger-hunting in Bengal. My dear chap, I am as full of inconsistencies as an egg's full of meat. So are you; so is every man. The best of us are but poor weaklings, for we are each carrying the instincts of millions of our tree- and cave-dwelling ancestors on our backs. My point, however, is that in spite of our weaknesses and animalisms we are predominantly good. I am a caveman once in five years; I am a reasoning humanitarian the rest of the time. You fasten on my elemental side and refuse to think that there can be any good in my humanitarian side. "You see, I quite earnestly believe that your respect for law and authority is genuine, almost religious, and the fact that I saw you break the law by riding without a light doesn't make me doubt your respect for law." "I had had a puncture," he explained. "Exactly! Extenuating circumstances. That's what I might plead when I kick the boy who deliberately punctures my machine ... but you would laugh. Why, I think I should start in to lecture _you_ on your inconsistencies!" I find that the worst man to answer is the fundamental antagonist. I used to be stumped by the anti-socialist cry: Socialism will destroy enterprise!... until I discovered that the best answer to this was: If enterprise has made modern capitalism and industrialism, by all means let it be destroyed. Macdonald will crow over what he considers my failure to be consistent, but it will never once strike him that my frank self-analysis is a thing that he will never practise himself. Confound Macdonald! He has led me into defending myself; he never defends himself when I attack him; he is far too cocksure to have any doubts about himself. V. I am losing Jim Jackson. The battle for his soul is unequal. Macdonald has him all the day, while I only see him at intervals. He came up to the farm to-night, and he was morose in manner. His face is gradually assuming a sneering expression, and his repartee is less spontaneous and more biting. I managed to bring back his better self to-night, but I fear that a day will soon come when he will sink his better self for ever. His father and mother are people after Macdonald's own heart. They are typical village folk, stupid and aggressive. Oh, I loathe the village; it reminds me of George Douglas's Barbie in _The House with the Green Shutters_; it is full of envy and malice and smallness. There are too many "friends" in the village. Mrs. Bell is Mrs. Webster's sister, and they have lived next door to each other for twenty-five years, during which time they have not exchanged a single word. They quarrelled over the division of their mother's goods. When the father dies they will meet and weep together over his coffin; they will be inseparable for a few days ... then they will have a row over the old grandfather clock, and they won't speak to each other again. Peter Jackson is a loud-mouthed fool, and his wife is a warrior. She has the jaw of a prize-fighter. Jim was dissecting the front wheel of his old bicycle the other night at the door, and I stopped to give him a hand with the balls. His mother came to the door. "Jim!" she rasped, "come away to yer bed!" "Wait till Aw get thae balls in, mother," he pleaded. "Come away to yer bed this meenute!" she bawled, "or Aw'll gie ye the biggest thrashin' ye ever got in yer life!" And the poor boy had to leave his cycle and obey. "What about this?" I said to the mother, and I pointed to the cycle. "He'd no business takin' it to bits," she shouted and she slammed the door. Poor lad! Between Macdonald and a mother like that he will live hardly. Each will break his will; each will insist on perfect obedience to arbitrary orders. I am honestly amazed at the small success I had with Jim. He was leaving my free school every night to go home to an atmosphere of anger and brutal stupidity. Now he is leaving his poor home every morning to go to the prison of Macdonald. No wonder the lad is lapsing. In a few years he will be a typical villager; he will stand at the brig of an evening and make caustic comments on the passers-by; he will sneer at everything and everybody. Macdonald is thinking about the answering Jim will do when the inspector comes; I was thinking of the Jim that would one day stand at the brig among his acquaintances. I didn't care a brass farthing what he learned or how much he attended; all I tried to do was to help him to be a fine man, a kindly man, a free man. I recollect a young teacher who visited my school one morning. "I should like to see you give a lesson," he said. "With pleasure," I replied. "What sort of lesson will it be?" he asked, "geography or history?" "I don't know," I said, and I turned to my bairns. "Why do rabbits have white tails?" I asked, and from that we wandered on through protective coloration and heredity to wolves and their fear of fire. We finished up with poetry, but I don't recollect how we got to it. When I had finished he pondered for a little. "It's all wrong," he said. "That boy in the corner was half asleep; four of these girls weren't really attending to you, and two girls left the room." "My fault," I said. "I took them to subjects they weren't interested in." "No," he said decidedly, "it was only your fault in not forcing them to sit up and attend." "But why should I?" I asked wearily. "Schooling is the beginning of the education we call life, and I want to make it as true to life as possible. In after life no one compels my attention or yours. We can sleep in church and we can sleep at a political meeting. We learn lots of things but we are interested in them. Tell me, what boy in this room answered best?" He pointed to a boy of twelve. "I agree," I said, and I called the boy to my desk. "Hugh," I said, "kindly tell this gentleman how long you have been at school." "A week, sir," he replied. "What school did you come from?" asked the visitor. "I never was at any school in my life," he said, "my father lives in a caravan and I never was long enough in a place to go to school." I explained that Hugh had come voluntarily to me saying: "My father can't read or write, and I can't either, but I want to be able to read about the war and things like that." "I don't know what to make of it," said my visitor. "It is a great lesson on education," I said. "He feels that he wants to read ... and he comes to school seeking knowledge. And that's what I want to supersede compulsion. If I had my way no boy would learn to read a word until he desired to read; no boy would do anything unless he wanted to do it." Then he brought forward the old argument that freedom like that was handicapping them for after life; they would not face difficulties. "Hugh was up against a greater difficulty than most boys ever come up against," I said, "and he faced it bravely and confidently. When you are free from authority you have a will of your own; you know exactly what you want and you set your teeth and get it. You are on your own, you have acquired responsibility. Given a dictating teacher or parent a boy will do the minimum on his own responsibility. Good lord! if I make all these youngsters sit up and attend strenuously to my speaking I am not training them to face difficulties; I am simply bullying them, making them a subject race." "You are training character." "I would be training children to obey, and the first thing a child should learn is to be a rebel. If a man isn't a rebel by the time he is twenty-five, God help him! Character simply means a man's nature, and I refuse to change a man's nature by force; I leave the experiment to the judges and prison warders." I want to ask every dominie who believes in coercion what he thinks of the results of many years' coercion. Obviously present-day civilisation with its criminal division of humanity into parasites and slaves is all wrong. "But," a dominie might cry, "can you definitely blame elementary education for that?" I answer: "Yes, yes, yes!" The manhood of Britain to-day has passed through the schools; they have been lulled to sleep; they have never learned to face the awful truth about civilisation. And I blame the coercion of the teachers. Train a boy to obey his teacher and he will naturally obey every dirty politician who has the faculty of rhetoric; he will naturally believe the lies of every dirty newspaper proprietor that is playing his own dirty game. * * * I have been spending the week-end with a man I used to dig with in London. He is a great raconteur and we sat late swopping yarns. "Did you ever hear a good yarn without a point?" he asked. I said that I hadn't. "Well, I'll tell you one," he said, and he trotted out the following. In a small seaside town on the east coast an ancient mariner sits on the beach and yarns to visitors. When the Balkan War was going on my friend asked him if he had ever been to Turkey. My friend assured me that the man had never been farther than Newcastle in his life. "Man," said the mariner reflectively, "Aw mind when an order cam from the Sultan o' Turkey to the sweetie works here for peppermints. The manager cam doon to me and he says to me, says he: 'Man, Jock, Aw wonder if ye would care to tak oot a cargo o' peppermints to the Sultan o' Turkey?'" "Aweel, the 'Daisy' was lyin' in the harbour at the time, so Aw says that Aw wud tak them oot. "Weel, we got them aboard, and awa we sailed, and a damned rough passage we had too; man, the Bay o' Biscay was as bad as Aw've ever seen it. "Weel, we got to Constantinople, and here was the Sultan stannin' on the pier wi' his hands in his breek pooches. He cam aboard and said he wud like to hae a look o' the peppermints. He had a look o' them, and syne he comes up to me and he says: 'Look here, captain, Aw've been haein' a look o' yer crew, and ... weel, to tell the truth, Aw dinna like the look o' them; there's not wan that Aw wud like to trust up at the harem. So, captain, Aw was just thinkin' that Aw wud like ye to carry up thae peppermints yersel ... ye're a married man, are ye no?' "Aw telt him that Aw was, and Aw started to carry up thae peppermints, and a damned hard job it was, man. They werena the ordinary pepperies, ye ken; they were great muckle things like curlin' stanes. Weelaweel, Aw got them a' carried up, and Aw was standin' wipin' the sweat frae my face when the Sultan comes anower to me. "'Aye, captain,' says he, 'that'll be dry wark?' "'Yes, sir,' says I, 'gey dry.' "'Are ye a 'totaller?' says he. "'No,' says I, and he taks me by the arm and says: 'C'wa and hae a nip!' "Weel, we gaed into a pub, and he ordered twa nips ... aye, and damned guid whiskey it was too. We had another twa nips, and Aw'm standin' wi' the Sultan at the door, just aboot to shak hands wi' him, ye ken, and he says to me, says he: 'Captain, wud ye like to see the harem?' and Aw said Aw wud verra much. So he taks haud o' my arm and we goes up the brae. We cam to a great muckle hoose, and he taks a gold key oot o' his pooch, and opens the door. "Man, Aw never saw the likes o' yon! The floor was a' gold, and the window-blinds was gold. And the wemen! (The mariner conveyed his admiration by a long whistle.) "Weel, Aw was standin' just inside the door wi' my bonnet in my hand, when a bonny bit lassie comes up to me and threw hersell at my feet and took haud o' my knees and sang: 'Far awa to bonny Scotland!' "Man, the tears cam into my een as she was singin'. "Syne the Sultan turns to me. "'Aye, man,' he says, says he, 'speakin' aboot Scotland: Scotland's the finest country on earth; but there's wan thing Aw canna stand aboot Scotland, and that's yer dawmed green kail. There's no a continental stammick will haud it doon.'" My friend informed me that he never met an Englishman who appreciated that yarn. * * * I begin to wonder whether I am falling in love. Ever since Margaret blushed when she passed me on the brae I have been extremely conscious of her existence. I find that I am beginning to look for her, and I go to the dairy on the flimsiest of pretences. I was there three times this afternoon. "What do you want this time?" she asked with a laugh at my third appearance. "I hardly know," I said slowly, "but I think I wanted to see your bare arms again." She hastily drew down her sleeves and reddened; then to cover her confusion she made a show of putting me out forcibly. How I managed to refrain from kissing her tempting lips I don't know. I nearly fell ... but it suddenly came to me that a kiss might mean so very much to her and so little to me and ... I resisted the temptation. She is fast losing her shyness, and she talks to me with growing frankness. She has begun to read much lately, and she devours penny novelettes with avidity. She has a romantic mind, and my realism sometimes shocks her. I happened to meet her in town last Saturday, and I took her to the pictures. She was intensely moved by a romantic film story, and when I explained that the stuff was rank sentimentalism and rhetoric she seemed to be offended. "You criticise everything," she cried angrily, "don't you believe that there is any good in the world?" "You will never be happy," she added seriously, "you criticise too much." "Surely," I cried, "you don't imagine that I criticise you!" "I do," she said bitterly. "You criticise yourself and me and everybody. I am always in terror that I make a slip in grammar before you." "Margaret!" I cried with real sorrow, "I hate to think that I have given you that impression." I was silent for a long time. "Kid," I said, "you are quite right. I do criticise everything and everybody, but a better word is analyse; I analyse myself and then I try to analyse you." "As a boy," I added, "my chief pastime was buying sixpenny watches and tearing their insides out to see how they worked ... but I never saw how they worked." "Yes," she said, "and that's what you would do if you had a wife; you would tear her to bits just to see how she worked ... and you would never find out how she worked either." "Perhaps I might," I said with a smile. "When I dissected watches I was inexperienced; nowadays I could take a watch to pieces and find out how it worked. Perhaps I might manage to put my wife together again, Margaret." "There would be one or two wheels left over," she laughed. "I should like her better without them," said I. "Oh!" she cried impatiently, "why can't you be like other men? What's the use of looking into the inside of everything? Look at father; he never bothered about what mother was; he just thought her perfect and look how happy he is!" "Ah!" I said teasingly, "I understand! You don't want a man to analyse you in case he discovers that you aren't perfect!" She looked at me frankly. "I wouldn't like to be thought perfect," she said slowly. "I sometimes think that mother would think far more of father if he saw some faults in her." "I am quite puzzled," I said; "you grumble because I analyse people and now you grumble because your father doesn't. What do you mean, child?" But she shook her head helplessly. "Oh, I don't know," she cried, and she sat for a long time in deep thought. As I sat by her side in the picture-house tea-room I recollected a saying of her's one day last week. I was sitting at the bothy door reading _The New Age_, and at my feet lay _The Nation_ and _The New Statesman_. She picked up _The Nation_ and glanced at its pages. "I don't know why you waste your money on papers like that," she said petulantly. "You spend eighteenpence a week on papers, and father only gets _John Bull_ and _The People's Journal_." It suddenly came to me that Margaret was not thinking of the money side of the question at all; what annoyed her was the thought that these papers were a symbol of a world that she did not know. And now I wonder whether woman is not always jealous of a man's work. It is a long time since I read _Antony and Cleopatra_, but I half fancy that Cleopatra was much more jealous of Antony's work than of his wife. VI. Dickie Gibson cut me dead to-night, and I think that Jim Jackson will one day look the other way when I pass. It is very sad, and I feel to-night that all my work was in vain. I cannot, however, blame Macdonald this time, for Dickie has left the school. I feel somewhat grieved at not being able to lay the fault at Macdonald's door. I should blame myself if I honestly could, but I cannot, for Dickie was a lad who loved the school. I recollect the morning when we arrived to find a huge stone cast in the middle of the pond. "It's been some of the big lads," said Dickie. "But why?" I asked. "Why should they do a dirty trick like that? Would you do a thing like that, Dickie, after you had left the school?" He thought for a minute. "Aye," he said slowly, "if Aw was with bigger lads and they did it Aw wud do it too." I suppose that if I had been a really great man I might have conquered the spirit of the village. I was only a poor pioneer striving to make these bairns happier and better. Dickie's cutting me proves that I was not good enough to lead him away from the atmosphere of the village. I used to forget about the homes; I used to forget that many a child had to listen to harsh criticisms of my methods. I marvel now that they were so nice at school. I wonder whether we could not form a Board to enquire into the upbringing of children. We might call it the Board of Parental Control. It would bring parents before it and examine them. Parents convicted of stupidity would be ordered to hand over their children to a Playyard School, and each child would be so taught that it could take in hand the education of its parents when it was seventeen. My idea was to produce a generation that would be better than the present one, and I thought that I could successfully fight the environment of home. I failed.... Dickie has cut me. The fight was unequal; the village won. After all I had Dickie for two short years, and the village has had him for fourteen. Poor boy, he has much good in him, much innate kindliness. But the village is stupid and spiteful. I am absolutely sure that Dickie cut me because he wanted to follow the public opinion of the village. Am I magnifying a merely personal matter? Am I merely piqued because I was cut? No one likes to be cut; it isn't a compliment at any time. No, I am not piqued: I am intensely angry, not at poor Dickie, but at the dirty environment that makes him a cad. Lucky is the dominie who teaches bairns from good homes. Last summer when I spent half a day in the King Alfred School in Hampstead I envied John Russell his pupils. They were all children of parents who were intellectual enough to seek a free education for their children in a land where the schools are barracks. "If I only had children like these!" I said to him, but a moment later I thought of my little school up north and I said: "No! Mine need freedom more than these." The King Alfred School is a delightful place. There is co-education ... a marvellous thing to an Englishman, but not noticeable by a Scot who has never known any other kind. There is no reward and no punishment, no marks, no competition. A child looks on each task as a work of art, and his one desire is to please himself rather than please his teacher. The tone of the school is excellent; the pupils are frankly critical and delightfully self-possessed. And since parents choose this school voluntarily I presume that the education we call home-life is ideal. How easy it must be for John Russell! If my Dickie had been going home each night to a father and mother who were as eager for truth and freedom as I was, I don't think that Dickie would have cut me to-night. * * * Dickie came up for his milk to-night, and I hailed him as he went down the brae. "Here, Dickie!" I called, "why have you given up looking at me?" He grew very red, and he stood kicking a stone with his heel. "I don't want you to touch your cap, Dickie, but you might at least say Hullo to me in the passing. Some of the big lads who left school before I came look at me impudently, and I know that their look means: 'Bah! I've left the school and I don't care a button for you or any other dominie!' But, Dickie, you know me well; you never were afraid of me, and I know that you don't think me your enemy. Why in all the earth should you pretend that you do?" I held out my hand. "Dickie," I said, "are you and I to be friends or not?" He hesitated for a moment, then he took my hand. "Friends," he said weakly, and his eyes filled with tears. Then I knew that I had not been mistaken in thinking that there was much good in the boy. Having made it up with Dickie I set off with a light heart to attend a meeting of the Gifts for Local Soldiers Committee. The chairman was absent and I was invited to take the chair. Bill Watson brought forward a motion that the Committee should get up a concert to provide funds. "Mr. Watson's proposal is that we arrange a concert," I said. "Is there any seconder?" "Aweel," said Andrew Findlay, "Aw think that a concert wud be a verra guid thing. The nichts is beginnin' to draw in, and it wud be best to hae it as soon as possible. The tatties will be on in twa three days." "The proposal is seconded. Any amendment, gentlemen?" "Man," said Peter MacMannish the cobbler, "man, Aw was just lookin' at Lappiedub's tatties the nicht. Man, yon's a dawmed guid crap." "Them that's in the wast field is better," said Andrew. "But the best crap o' wheat Aw seen the year," said Dauvid Peters, "was Torrydyke's." "Any amendment, gentlemen?" "Torrydyke ay has graund wheat," said Peter. "D'ye mind yon year--ninety-sax ... or was it ninety-seeven?--man, they tell me that he made a pile o' siller that year." "Ninety-sax," growled William Mackenzie the farmer of Brigend, "it was ninety-sax, for Aw mind that my broon coo dee'd that summer." "Aw mind o' her," nodded Andrew, "grass disease, wasn't it?" "Aye," said Mackenzie. "Aw sent to Lochars for the vet but he was awa frae hame. Syne Aw sent a telegram to the Wanners vet, and when he cam he says to me, says he--" "Any amendment, gentlemen?" I said. "Goad, lads," said Andrew sitting up in his chair, "we'll hae to get on wi' the business." "No amendment," I said. "Are we all agreed about this concert?" and they grunted their assent. "And now we'll settle the date," I said briskly. Peter MacMannish looked over at Mackenzie. "When are ye thinkin' o' killin' that black swine o' yours, John?" he asked. Mackenzie growled and shook his head. "She's no fattenin' up as Aw cud wish to see her, Peter," he replied. There followed an animated discussion of the merits and demerits of various feeding-stuffs. After a two hours' sitting the Committee unanimously appointed me secretary and organiser of the concert. I was given authority to fix a date and arrange a programme. Attendance at many democratic meetings of this kind has led me to a complete understanding of Parliament. * * * It is Sunday to-day. I sat reading in the afternoon and a knock came at my bothy door. "Come in!" I shouted, and Annie walked in. "Me and Janet and Ellen are going for a walk over the hill, and we thocht you might like to come too." "Certainly!" I cried, and I threw Shaw's latest volume of plays into the bed. "Margaret's wi' us too," said Annie as if it were an afterthought. There was a fight for my arms. "Annie was first," I said, "and we'll toss up for the other arm." "Let Margaret get it," said Janet mischievously, and Margaret's nose went almost imperceptibly higher in the air. "Excellent!" I said, and I took her arm and placed it through mine. Janet and Ellen walked behind, and they sniggered a good deal. "Just fancy the mester noo!" said Janet, "linkit wi' Maggie! He'll hae to marry her noo, Ellen!" And poor Margaret became very red and began to talk at a great rate. "G'wa, Jan," I heard Ellen say, "he's far ower auld. Maggie's only twenty next month, and he's--he could be her faither." "He's no very auld, Ellen; he hasna a mootache yet!" "Aw wudna like a man wi' a mootache, Jan; Liz Macqueen says that she gave up Jock Wilson cos his mootache was ower kittly." "Weel, she was tellin' a big lee," said Janet firmly. "If she loved him she wud ha' telt him to shave it off." We lay down in the wood at the top of the hill. Annie was in a reminiscent mood. "D'ye mind the letters we used to write to one another?" she asked. I pretended that I had forgotten them. "Do ye no mind? One day when I wasna attendin' to the lesson ye wrote 'Annie Miller is sacked' on a bit paper and gave it to me?" "Ah, yes, I remember, Annie, now that you come to mention it. But I can't remember your reply." "Aw took another bit o' paper, and Aw wrote: 'Mr. Neill is sacked for not making me attend.'" "Yes, you besom, I remember now. I'll sack you!" and I rolled her over in the grass. "There was another letter, Annie," I said, "do you remember it?" and she said "No!" so quickly that I knew she did remember it. I turned to Margaret. "Annie came to school one day with her hair most beautifully done in ringlets," I explained, "and of course I fell in love with her at once. I wrote her a letter.... 'My Dear Annie, do you think yourself bonny to-day?' and the wee besom replied: 'No, I don't!' Then I wrote her again.... 'Do you ever tell lies?' and to this she answered: 'No, never!' Then I calmly handed her the _Life of George Washington_." "But Aw never read it!" she cried with a gay laugh. "I know ... and that's why you have never reformed, my dear kid," I said. "Ellen," said Janet, "d'ye mind that day when you and me got up and walked oot o' the room?" "What day was that?" I asked; "you two went out of the room so often that I gave up trying to see you." "It was the day when a man cam to the schule and stood in the room when ye was teachin' us. There was a new boy, the caravan boy that had never been to schule in his life, and ye said that he was better than any o' us." "So Jan and me took the tig," said Ellen, "and we went oot and sat on the dike." Janet hee-heed. "D'ye mind what we said, Ellen? We said we werena to go back to the schule; we were to go up to Rinsley schule to Mester Lawson." "Aye," said Ellen, "and we said we wudna gie ye another sweetie ... no, never!" "And I suppose you gave me sweeties next day?" I suggested. "We gave ye a whole ha'penny worth o' chocolate caramels," said Janet. Her head rested on my knee and she smiled up in my face. "Ye were far ower easy wi' us," she said seriously, "we never did half the lessons ye gave us to do." "I know, Jan, but I didn't particularly want you to do lessons; all I wanted was that you should be Janet Brown and no one else. I wanted you to be a good kind lassie ... and of course, as you know, I failed." And she pulled my nose at this. "I didn't like the school when I was there," said Margaret; "I never was so glad in my life as when I was fourteen." "Poor Margaret," I said, "your schooling should be the pleasantest memory of your life. What you learned from books doesn't matter at all; what matters is what you were. And it seems that memory will bring to you a picture of an unhappy Margaret longing to leave school. What a tragedy!" "Is being happy the best thing in life?" asked Margaret. "Not the best," I answered; "the best thing in life is making other people happy ... and that's what the books mean by 'service.'" * * * Margaret came over to my bothy to-night to ask if I would help Nancy with her home lessons. "She's crying like anything," said Margaret. I went over to the farmhouse. Nancy sat at the kitchen table with her books spread out before her. She was wiping her eyes and looked like beginning to weep again. "It's her pottery," explained Frank, "she canna get it up at all." Macdonald had ordered the class to learn the first six verses of Gray's _Elegy_, and threatened dire penalties if each scholar wasn't word perfect. "I'm afraid I can't help you much, Nancy," I said. "You'll just have to set your teeth and get it up. Don't repeat it line by line; read the six verses over, then read them again, then again. Read them twenty times, then shut the book and imagine the page is before you, and see how much of the stuff you can say." I used to find this method very effectual when I got up long recitations in my younger days. Macdonald gives his higher classes long poems. They have learned up pages of _Marmion_ and pages of _The Lady of the Lake_; and now he is giving them the long and difficult _Elegy_. I must ask him some day what his idea is. I made learning poetry optional when I was in the school. I eschewed all long poems, and I never asked a child to stand up and "say" a piece. My view was that school poetry should be school folk-song; I used to write short pieces on the board and the classes recited them in unison. I gave no hint of expression, for expression should always be a natural thing. I have been timid of expression ever since the day I heard, or rather saw, a youth recite _The Dream of Eugene Aram_. When he came to the climax ... "And lo! the faithless stream was dry!" I suddenly discovered that I was dry too, and I did not wait until Eugene was led away with "gyves upon his wrists." I once saw Sir Henry Irving in _The Bells_. I was a schoolboy at the time and I straightway spent all my pocket money on books dealing with elocution; I also would tear my hair before the footlights! Looking back now I wonder why Irving bothered with stuff of that sort; why his sense of humour allowed him to grope about the stage for the axe to kill the Polish Jew I don't understand. All that melodramatic romantic business is simply theatrical gush. It appeals to the classes that devour the _Police News_. Expression when taught is gush. When I gave my bairns a bit of _The Ancient Mariner_ the whole crowd brightened up and shouted when they came to the verse:-- I bit my arm, I sucked the blood And cried: "A sail! A sail!" They understood that part, but they put no special expression into the stanza:-- All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody sun at noon Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon. The boys used to emphasise the adjective in the second line, but that was perhaps natural in a community where strong language is the prerogative of grown-ups. I suppose that a teacher of expression would have pointed out that the right arm must be raised gracefully at the third line, and the voice lowered awfully to show the marvellous significance of the fact that the crudoric sun was no bigger than the moon. All I tried to give my bairns was an appreciation of rhythm. They loved the trochaic rhythm of a poem, _Marsh Marigolds_, by G. F. Bradby, that I discovered in a school anthology:-- Slaty skies and a whistling wind and a grim grey land, April here with a sullen mind and a frozen hand, Hardly a bird with the heart to sing, or a bud that dares to pry, Only the plovers hovering, On the lonely marsh, with a heavy wing And a sad slow cry. And it used to make me joyful to hear them gallop through Stevenson's delightful _My Ship and I_:-- Oh! it's I that am the captain of a tidy little ship, Of a ship that goes a-sailing on the pond, And my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about, But when I'm a little older I shall find the secret out How to send my vessel sailing on beyond! I never gave them a poem that needed any explanation. I picture Macdonald painfully explaining the _Elegy_.... "Yes, children, the phrase 'incense-breathing morn' means...." I'm gravelled; I haven't the faintest notion of what the phrase means. Gray annoys me; he is far too perfect for me. I fancy that he rewrote each line about a score of times in his mania for the correct word. Gray is Milton with a dictionary. I once read that Stevenson studied the dictionary often, used to spend a rainy day reading the thing, and his prose does give me the impression that he cared more for how he said a thing than for the thing itself. I think George Douglas a greater writer; indeed I should call him the greatest novelist Scotland has produced. His style is inevitable; his whole attention seems to be riveted on the matter of his story, and his arresting phrases seem to come from him naturally and thoughtlessly. When you read of Gourlay's agony in Barbie market on the day that his son's disgrace is known to everyone, you see the great hulk of a man, you hear his great breaths ... you are one of the villagers who peep at him fearfully. Every word is inevitable; the picture is perfect. I should be surprised if anyone told me that Douglas altered a single word after he had written it. When I want to feel humble I take up _The House with the Green Shutters_. I have read it a score of times, and I hope to read it a score of times again. VII. Margaret looked up from the novelette she was reading. "Are the aristocracy really like what they are in this story?" she asked. "I don't know," I replied; "I'm not acquainted with the aristocracy, but I should say that they aren't like the aristocracy in that yarn. You see, Margaret, I happen to know some of the men who write these novelettes. Murray is a don at them; he'll turn one out between breakfast and dinner. To the best of my knowledge Murray has never dined in any restaurant more expensive than an A.B.C. shop ... and his characters always dine at the Ritz." "But have you never met anybody with a title?" "I once collided with a man at the British Museum door," I said. "He was a Scot.... I know that because neither of us apologised; we merely jerked out 'Oh!' I am almost sure that the man was Sir J. M. Barrie. And I shook hands with two dukes and three lords at a university dinner, but they possibly have forgotten the incident." No. I don't know the aristocracy well. I met a titled lady last summer. I was staying at a country house near London, and this lady had the neighbouring house. She came over on the Sunday afternoon. My host informed me that she had lost two sons in the war. After she had gone I was asked what I thought of the English aristocracy, and I gave my opinion in these words:--"To the English aristocracy property alone is sacred. That woman has given the lives of her two sons willingly for her country, but if she were asked to give half an acre of her estate to help pay for the war she would go mad with rage and disgust." When I heard that lady grumble about the wickedness of the munition-workers.... "And, my dear, women in shawls are buying pianos and seal-skin jackets!" ... I realised how hopeless was the cry of _The New Age_ for the Conscription of Wealth. The powerful classes will resist Conscription of Wealth as strenuously as they resist the Germans. Yet the Conscription of Men was in very many cases a Conscription of Wealth. One had only to read the Tribunal cases to discover that thousands of men had to deliver up all their wealth when they joined the army. There was Wrangler the actor; his property was his talent to portray character, and from that he drew his income. His property was conscripted along with him. It was fitting that he should give up all when the State required him to give it up. But the State requires all the wealth of the moneyed classes, and because economic power controls political power the State will not conscript the wealth of its real governors. I see now that our education is founded on the unpleasant fact that property is more sacred than life. Teachers are encouraged to make their pupils patriotic; every boy must be brought up in the belief that it is great and glorious to die for one's country. A real patriotism would lead a boy to realise that it is a great and glorious thing to live for one's country; the true patriot would teach his lads to make their country a great and glorious country to die for. Somehow our schools for the most part ignore this branch of patriotism; it does not seem so important as the flag-waving and standing to attention that passes for patriotism. Macdonald is decorating the walls of the school with coloured prints of our warships. "To make them realise how much the navy means to them," he explained to me as I looked at them. "Excellent!" I said. "The navy deserves all the respect we can give it. But, Macdonald, in your position I should give a further lesson on patriotism; I should point out to these bairns that while the glorious navy is defending our shores from a foreign enemy the enemy within is plundering the nation. I should tell them that under the protection of the navy the profiteers are raising the prices of necessaries hand over fist. All the patriotic flag-waving in the world won't help these bairns to understand that the patriotism of the masses is being exploited by the self-seeking of the dirty few." Patriotism! We have popular weeklies that endeavour to make the people patriotic. They lash themselves into a fury over momentous questions: The Ich Dien on the crest of the Prince of Wales Must Go; The Duke of So-and-So must have his Garter taken from him; Who was the Spy who sent Kitchener to his doom? The only way to encourage children to be patriotic is to tell them the sober truth about the important things of life. The invention of the word "shirker" managed to effect that the most timid of men should fight for his country; public opinion will always look after the patriotism necessary for war. But my complaint is that public opinion will not look after the patriotism necessary for peace. If we were all true patriots there would be no slums, no exploitation, no profiteering. And the "patriotic" lesson in school should deal with economics instead of jingo ballads of victories won. * * * I cycled twelve miles to-night, and I raised a comfortable thirst. When I came to the village I dropped into the Glamis Arms and had a bottle of lager. As I came out I ran into Macdonald. "Lucky fellow!" he laughed, "you have no position to maintain now and you can afford to quench a thirst!" "Position be blowed!" I said, "I drink when I'm dry, and I always did. When I was dominie here I dropped in here more than once in the hot weather." "And they sacked you!" "Not because of that," I said, "but in spite of it. Believe me it was the one thing that made one or two villagers more amiable to me." The Scot's attitude to the public-house is entertaining. If you have any position to keep up you must not enter a public-house ... you must get it in by the dozen. When I first went to London and entered a saloon bar in the Strand I was amazed to find women sitting with their husbands; I was also amazed to find no drunks about. In a Scots bar the most apparent phenomenon is wrangling. I never heard an argument in a London bar, and I have been in many: I never saw a drunk man in London, and I was there for two years. The public-house in Scotland is not respectable: in England it is. Why this should be I can only guess. The Scot may be a bigger hypocrite than the Englishman; what is more probable is that he may be a harder drinker. In Scotland entering a public-house is synonymous with getting drunk. Yet there are what you might call alcoholic gradations. A respectable farmer may enter a bar without comment, but a teacher must not enter it. He is the guide of the young, and he must be an example. Teachers seldom enter village bars ... and yet Scotland is notorious for drinking. If the teachers determined to become regular bar customers I conclude that Scotland would drink herself off the face of the map. I have a theory that the Calvinistic attitude to the public-house is the chief cause of Scots drunkenness. When a Scot enters a bar he knows that he won't have the courage to be seen coming out again ... and he very naturally says to himself: "Ach, to hell! Aw'll hae another just to fortify mysel' for gaein' oot!" The public-house isn't a public-house at all; it is the most private of houses. Peter Soutar the leading elder in the kirk here always carries a bundle of church magazines in his hand when he enters the Glamis Arms; when the date is past magazine time he enters by the back door. Jeemes Walker the leading Free Kirk elder goes in to read the gospel to old Mrs. Melville the invalid mother of the landlord, and the village is uncharitable enough to remark in his hearing that he really goes to interview his brother "Johnny." I think that it was the doctor who originated that joke. A public-house is no place for a public man in Scotland. * * * The opening of the coal mines has brought to the neighbourhood a new type of person. He is usually an engineer who has spent a good few years abroad, and he is usually married ... very much married. His wife is always a grade above the wife of the engineer next door, and the men appear to spend most of their leisure time in mending quarrels that their wives began. Most of the men are amiable fellows with the minimum of ideas and the maximum of knowledge of fishing and card-playing. They have a certain dignity, and they instantly freeze if you casually ask where such-and-such a light railway is to run. The wives seem to have no interest other than in servants and their manifold wickedness and cussedness. They hold their noses high when they pass through the village, and they bully the local shopkeepers. When I was a dominie these women patronised me delightfully, but now that I am a cattleman they are quite frank with me. I puzzled over this for some time, and the solution came to me suddenly. They are all English women, and in the English village the dominie is on very much the same social level as the vicar's gardener. Mrs. Martinlake likes to chat to me now. She is a middle-aged lady who loves to reminisce about duchesses she has known. She once complained to me because the boys did not touch their caps to her, and on my suggesting that they hadn't been introduced she became very indignant. She called to me this morning as she passed the field I was working in. "Ah! Good morning! I've been looking for you for a long time. I wanted to tell you how much the children have improved; every village boy touches his cap to me now!" and she laughed gaily. "Good!" I cried. "If this sort of thing goes on they will be touching their caps to their mothers next." "And why not?" she demanded with a slight touch of aggression. I shrugged my shoulders. "As you say--why not? I think that you ought to persuade your little boy to touch his cap to all the mothers in the village. I notice that he doesn't do it. You take my tip and send him down to Macdonald's school; he'll soon pick it up." She went off without a word, and I realised that I had been distinctly rude to her. Somehow I felt glad that I had been rude to her. I told Margaret about the incident afterwards. "I hate manners, Margaret," I said. "But," she said wonderingly, "you are very mannerly." "To you I believe I am, Margaret," I laughed. "But that is because you don't look for manners. Mrs. Martinlake is eternally looking for manners, and to her manners mean respect, deference, boot-licking. She doesn't want the boys to doff their caps to her because she is a woman; no, she wants them to recognise the fact that she is Mrs. Martinlake, self-alleged friend of duchesses. She doesn't care a tupenny damn for the boys and their lives; she is thinking of Mrs. Martinlake all the time. She once talked to me of the respect due to motherhood ... and you know that she sacked Liz Smith when she discovered that Liz had had an illegitimate child. "Women of that type get my back up," I went on. "They are stupid, low-minded, arrogant. They are poor imitations of the Parisian ladies who curled their lips contemptuously at the plebeian rabble that led them to the guillotine. The Parisian ladies had a fine pride of race to redeem their arrogance, but these women have nothing but pride of class. Margaret, if a teacher failed to teach a boy anything except the truth that deference is one of the Seven Deadly Virtues, I should say that that teacher was a successful teacher." * * * The concert was a success to-night. The singing was good, but the speech of the chairman, Peter MacMannish, was great. "Ladies and Gentlemen, "We're a' verra weel pleased to see sik a big turn-oot the nicht. Aw need hardly say onything aboot the object o' this concert, but it's to get a puckle bawbees to send oot a clean pair o' socks and maybe a clean sark to oor local sojers oot in France.--(Cheers). "Weel, ladies and gentlemen, Aw've made mony a speech on this platform in the days when Aw fought for the Conservative Candidate, Mester Fletcher (cheers, and a voice: 'Gie it a drink, cobbler!')" The light of battle leapt to Peter's eyes. "Aw ken that wheezin' Radical's voice!" he cried, "and Aw wud just like to tell that voice that there's no room for Radicals in this war. What was the attitude o' that man's party to Protection? When Mester Chamberlain stood up in Glesga Toon Hall what did he say?" I gently touched Peter on the arm and reminded him of the concert and its object. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we'll no touch on thae topics here, for ye cam here for another object than to listen to me (several voices: 'Hear, hear!') Afore we begin to the programme Aw wud just like to say that we have to thank oor late dominie for gettin' up this concert. Some o' us had no love for him as a dominie, but Aw say let bygones be bygones. We a' ken that he's no a teacher (laughter), but he's a clever fellow for a' that, and we'll maybe see him in Parliament yet. That hoose has muckle need o' new blood. When Aw think o' Lloyd George and that man Churchill; when Aw see the condeetion they've brocht the country till; when Aw think o' the slack wye they've let the Trade Unions rob the country; when Aw see--" I coughed here, and Peter drew up. "Weel, Ladies and Gentlemen, this is no a poleetical meetin', and Aw've muckle pleasure in callin' upon Miss Jean Black for a sang," he peered at his programme, "a sang enteeled: A Moonlight Sonnita." Miss Jean Black forthwith sat down at the piano. During the interval Peter digged me in the ribs. "What d'ye think o' my suggestion, dominie, eh?" "What suggestion?" "Aboot standin' for Parliament. It's a payin' game noo-a-days ... fower hunner a year and yer tea when the hoose is sittin'. Goad, dominie, think o' sittin' takkin' yer tea wi' Airthur Balfoor!" and he sighed wistfully as a child sighs when it dreams of fairyland and wakes to reality. "Aye," he said after a long pause, "Aw wance shook hands wi' Joe Chamberlain. His lawware says to him: 'This is Mester MacMannish, wan o' yer chief supporters in the county,' and Aw just taks my hand oot o' my breek pooch. 'Verra pleased to meet ye,' says Aw ... 'and hoo is yer missis and the bairns?' Man, he lauched at that. Goad he lauched!" Peter forgot the crowded hall; he stared at the ceiling unseeingly, and he lived over again the greatest day of his life. It was fitting that a Scot should have originated the title "Heroes and Hero-Worship." VIII. Macdonald came up to-night. I hadn't seen him for weeks. "I am making out a scheme of work for the Evening School," he said. "What line did you take?" "My scheme was simple," I replied, "and luckily I had an inspector who appreciated what I was trying to do. I made the history lessons lessons in elementary political economy. Arithmetic and Algebra were the usual thing." "What about Reading and Grammar?" he asked. "We read David Copperfield, and I meant to read a play of Shakespeare and Ibsen's _An Enemy of the People_, but I never found time for them. The class became a sort of debating society. I gave out subjects. We discussed Votes for Women, Should Women Smoke? Is Money the Reward of Ability? I told them about the theory of evolution; I began to trace the history of mankind, or rather tried to make out a likely history, but at the end of the session we hadn't arrived at the dawn of written history." "Did you find any pupil improving?" "Macdonald, you are a demon for tangible results. The only tangible result of my heresies I can think of is the fact that Margaret Thomson smokes my cigarettes now." "Have a look at this scheme," he said, and he handed me a lengthy manuscript. The arithmetic was a detailed list of utilitarian sums ... how to measure ricks of hay and fields, how to calculate the price of papering walls and so on. My own attitude to utilitarian sums is this: if you know the principles of pure mathematics all these things come easily to you, hence teach pure mathematics and let the utilitarian part take care of itself. His English part dealt minutely with grammar; he was to give much parsing and analysis; compound sentences were to be broken up into their component parts. In History he was to do the Stuart Period, and Geography was to cover the whole world "special attention being paid to the agricultural produce of the British Colonies." "It is a 'correct' scheme," I said. "Give me your candid opinion of it." "Well, Macdonald, your ways are not my ways, and candidly I wouldn't teach quite a lot of the stuff you mean to teach. Grammar for instance. What's the use of knowing the parts of a sentence? I don't suppose that Shakespeare knew them. If education is meant to make people think, your Evening School would be much better employed reading books. If you read a lot your grammar takes care of itself. "The Stuart Period is all right if you don't emphasise the importance of battles and plots. I haven't the faintest notion whether Cromwell won the battle of Marston Moor or lost it, but I have a fair idea of what the constitutional battle meant to England. The political war was over before the first shot was fired; the Civil War was a religious war. If I were you I should take the broad principles of the whole thing and skip all the battles and plots and executions. "As for the British Colonies and their agriculture you can turn emigration officer if you fancy the job. The idea is good enough. My own personal predilection in geography is the problem of race. I used to tell my pupils about the different 'niggers' I met at the university, and of the detestable attitude of the colonials to these men." Macdonald shook his head. "No, no," he said, "a black man isn't as good as a white man." So we went off at a tangent. I told him that personally I had not enough knowledge of black men to lay down the law about them, but I handed him a very suggestive article in this week's _New Age_ on the subject. The writer's theory is that in India black men are ostracised merely because they are a subject race, and he points out that in Germany and France the coloured man is treated as an equal. When I was told by a friend that the natives of India despised Keir Hardie because he carried his own bag off the vessel when he arrived in India I realised that the colour question was too complicated for me to settle. I have a sneaking suspicion that the coloured man is maligned; the average Anglo-Indian is so stupid in his attitude to most things that I can scarcely suspect him of being wise in his attitude to the native. I regret very much that I had not the moral courage to chum up with the coloured man at the university: prejudices leave one after one has left the university. I wish I knew what Modern Geography means. A few years ago the geography lesson was placed in the hands of the science teacher in our higher grade schools, and the educational papers commenced to talk of isotherms. I have never discovered what an isotherm is; I came very near to discovering once; I asked Dickson, a man of science, what they were, but a girl smiled to me before he got well into the subject (we were in a café), and I never discovered what an isotherm was. The old-fashioned geography wasn't a bad thing in its way. You got to know where places were, and your newspaper became intelligible. It is true that you wasted many an hour memorising stuff that was of no great importance. I recollect learning that Hexham was noted for hats and gloves. I stopped there once when I was motor-cycling. I asked an aged inhabitant what his town was noted for. "When I coom to think of it," he said as he scratched his head, "the North Eastern Railway passes through it." But the old geography familiarised you with the look of the map. Where it failed was in the appeal to the imagination. You learned a lot of facts but you never asked why. I should imagine that the new geography may deal with reasons why; it may enquire into racial differences; it may ask why London is situated where it is, why New York grew so big. For weeks before I left my school my geography lesson consisted of readings from Foster Fraser's _The Real Siberia_. I began to feel at home in Siberia, and what had been a large ugly chunk of pink on the map of Asia became a real place. There is a scarcity of books of this kind. Every school should have a book on every country written in Fraser's manner. I don't say that Fraser sees very deeply into the life of the Russian. I am quite content with his delightful stories of wayside stations and dirty peasants. He paints the place as it is; if I want to know what the philosophy of the Russian is I can take up Tolstoy or Dostoeivsky or Maxim Gorki. To return to isotherms ... well, no, I think I'll get to bed instead. * * * I was down in the village this morning. A motor-car came up, and two ladies and a gentleman alighted. "Where is the village school?" asked the gentleman, and I pointed to the ugly pile. "We are Americans," he drawled in unrequired explanation, "and we've come all the way from Leeds to see the great experiment." "Yes," said one of the ladies--the pretty one--"we are dying to see the paradise of _A Dominie's Log_. Is it so very wonderful?" "Marvellous!" I cried. "But the Dominie is a funny sort of chap, sensitive and very shy. You mustn't give him a hint that you know anything about his book; simply say that you want to see a Scots school at work." They thanked me, and set off for the school. I loafed about until they returned. "Well?" I said, "what do you think of it?" "The fellow is an impostor!" said the man indignantly. "I expected to see them all out of doors chewing gum and sweets, and--" "There wasn't a chin moving in the whole crowd!" cried the young lady. "The book was a parcel of lies," said the other lady, "and when I next want a dollar's worth of fiction I reckon I'll plump for Hall Caine or Robert Chambers. The man wouldn't speak." "I mentioned Dewey's _Schools of To-Day_," said the man, "and he stared at me as if I were talking Greek." I directed them to the village inn for lunch, and I walked up the brae chuckling. I had had my dinner, and was having a smoke in the bothy when I heard the American's voice: "We want to see the dominie!" Margaret came to the door, and I walked out into the yard. The trio gasped when they saw me; then the man placed his arms akimbo and looked at me. "Well I'm damned!" he said with vehemence. "Not so bad as that," I said with a grin, "_had_ is a better word." Then they all began to talk at once. He explained that he was a lawyer from Baltimore: I told him that his concern about the absence of chewing-gum had led me to conjecture that he manufactured that substance. This seemed to tickle him and he made a note of it. "Be careful!" smiled the pretty lady--his daughter--, "he'll hand over his notes to the newspaper man when he goes back home." The lawyer knew something about education, and he told me many things about the new education of America; he was one of the directors of a modern school in his own county. "Come over to the States," he said with eagerness; "we want men of your ideas over there. I reckon that you and the new schools there don't differ at all." I gave him my impressions of the American schools described by Dewey in his book. "It seems to me," I said, "that these schools over-emphasise the 'learn by doing' business. Almost every modern reformer in education talks of 'child processes'; the kindergarten idea is carried all the way. Children are encouraged to shape things with their hands." "Sure," he said, "but that's only a preliminary to shaping things with their heads." "I'm not so sure that the one naturally leads to the other," I went on. "Learning by doing is a fine thing, but when little Willie asks why rabbits have white tails the learning by doing business breaks down. In America you have workshops where boys mould metal; you have school farms. But I hold that a child can have all that for years and yet be badly educated." He looked amazed. "But I thought that was your line," he said with puzzled expression, "Montessori, and all that kind of thing!" "I don't know what Montessorianism is," I said; "I have forgotten everything I ever read about Froebel and Pestalozzi. All I know is that reformers want the child to follow its own processes--whatever that phrase may mean. I heartily agree with them when they say that the child should choose its own line, and should discover knowledge for itself. But my point is that a boy may act every incident in history, for instance, and never realise what history means. I can't see the educational value of children acting the incident of Alfred and the burnt cakes." "Ah! but isn't self-expression a great thing?" "It is," I answered, "but the actor doesn't express himself. Irving expressed himself ... and the result was that Shakespeare was Irvingised. A school pageant of the accession of Henry IV. may be a fine spectacle, but it is emphasising all the stuff that doesn't matter a damn in history." "But," he protested, "it is the stuff that matters to children. You forget that a child isn't a little adult." "This brings us to the vexed question of the coming in of the adult," I said. "You and I agree that the adult should interfere as little as possible; but the adult will come in in spite of us. Leave children to themselves and they express their personalities the livelong day. Every game is an expression of individuality. The adult steps in and says 'We must guide these children,' and he takes their attention from playing houses to playing scenes from history. And I want to know the educational value of it all." "It is like travel," he said. "When you travel places become real to you, and when you travel back into mediæval times the whole thing becomes real to you." "I see your point," I said, "and in a manner I agree with you. But why select pageants? You will agree with me when I say that the condition of the people in feudal times is of far greater importance than the display of a Henry." "Certainly, I do." "And the things of real importance in history are incapable of being dramatised. You can make a modern school act the Signing of Magna Charta, but the children won't understand the meaning of Magna Charta any the better. You can't dramatise the Enclosure of the Public Lands in Tudor Times; you can't dramatise the John Ball insurrection; all the acting in the world won't help you to understand the Puritan Revolution." "You are thinking of children as little adults," he said. "But they _are_ little adults! Every game is an imitation of adult processes; the ring games down at the school there nearly all deal with love and matrimony; the girls make houses and take in lodgers. And if you persuade them to act the part of King Alfred you are encouraging them to be little adults. They are children when they cry and run and jump; whenever they reason they reason as adults. They are very often in the company of adults ... and that's one of the reasons why you cannot trust what are called child processes. Child processes naturally induce a child to make a row ... and daddy won't put up with a row. The child cannot escape being a little adult. It's all very well for a Rousseau to deal abstractly with child psychology. I am not Rousseau, and I tackle the lesser problem of adult psychology. The problem before me is--or rather was--painfully concrete. I set out to counteract the adult influence of the home. I saw Peter MacMannish shy divots at the Radical candidate because Peter's father was a Tory; I saw Lizzie Peters put out her tongue at the local Christabel Pankhurst because Lizzie's mother had said forcibly that woman's place is the home." "I see," said the American thoughtfully, "you used your adult personality on the ground that it was the lesser of two evils? But don't you think that that was a mistake? Was the freedom of behaviour and criticism you allowed them not the best antidote to home prejudices?" "If the children had not been going to homes at night I should have trusted to freedom alone. As it was the poor bairns were between two fires. I gave them freedom ... and their parents cursed me. One woman sent a verbal message to me to the effect that I was an idiot; one bright little lassie came to me one day with the words of the woman next door, 'It's just waste o' time attendin' that schule.' Do you imagine that all the child processes in the world could save a child from an environment like that?" When the American departed he held out his hand. "I came to see a reformer of child education," he said with a smile, "and I discover that you aren't a reformer of child education at all; your job in life is to run a school for parents." IX. The school is closed for the Autumn Holiday ... commonly called the Tattie Holiday here. Macdonald has gone off to Glasgow. The bigger boys and girls are gathering potatoes in the fields here, and I am driving the tattie digger. At dinnertime they come to the bothy and eat their bread; Mrs. Thomson gives them soup and coffee in the kitchen, but they bring their bowls over to my bothy. Much of the fun has gone out of them; the constant bending makes them very tired, and they drop off to sleep very easily. Janet and Ellen lay in my bed all dinnertime yesterday and slept. Occasionally a boy will sing a song that always crops up at tattie time:-- O! I'm blyde I'm at the tatties, I'm blyde I'm at the tatties, I'm blyde I'm at the tatties, Wi' auchteenpence a day! Blyde means glad, but there is but little gladness in the band that trudges up the rigs in the morning twilight. Jim Jackson is sometimes in good form. He has taken on the swaying gait of the young ploughman; he hasn't got the pockets that are situated in the front of the trousers, but he shoves his hands down the inside instead, and he says: "Ma Goad, you lads, hurry up afore the Boss comes roond wi' the digger again!" They call me the Boss now; Macdonald is the Mester. They seldom mention the school at all; if they do it is to recall some incident that happened in my time. But already the memory of our happy days is becoming hazy; life is too interesting for children to recall memories. To-day Jim sat and gazed absently at my bothy fire. "Now, bairns," I said, "Jim's got an idea. Cough it up, Jim." "Aw was thinkin' o' the tattie-digger," he said slowly; "it seems an awfu' roondaboot wye o' liftin' tatties. Could we no invent a digger that wud hoal the tatties and gaither them at the same time?" "Laziness is the mother of invention," I remarked. "But ... cud a machine no be invented?" he asked. "You could have a sort o' basket," he went on, "that ceppit a' the tatties as they were thrown oot." "Dinna haver!" interjected Janet, "it wud cep a' the stanes at the same time." "If spuds were made o' steel," said Jim, "ye cud draw them oot wi' a magnet." "And if the sky fell you would catch larks," said I. "If the sea dried up!" said Ellen, and Jim instantly forgot his patent tattie-digger. "Crivens! What a fine essay that wud mak! Why did ye no gie us that for an essay?" "Take it on now," I suggested, but he ignored the suggestion. "The Mester gae me a book to read in the holidays," he said irrelevantly, "and it's called _Self Help_; it's a' aboot laddies that got on weel." I ceased to listen to their talk. I thought of Samuel Smiles and his Victorian ideals. The book is iniquitous nowadays; it is the Bible of the individualist. Get on! I'm afraid that Smiles' idea of getting on is still popular in Scotland; the country might well adapt the popular song "Get Out and Get Under," changing it to "Get On or Get Under" and making it the national anthem of Scotland. I once compared _Self Help_ with Lorimer's _Letters of a Self-made Merchant to his Son_, and was struck by the similarity of the ideals. Lorimer's book is an Americanised _Self-help_. Smiles is slightly better. With him getting on means more than the amassing of wealth; it means gaining position, which being interpreted means returning to your native village with prosperous rotundity and a gold chain. Lorimer has no special interest in gold chains and symbols of wealth; he doesn't care a button for position. He preaches efficiency and power; to him the greatest achievement in life appears to be the packing of the maximum of pig into the minimum of tin in the minimum of time. A business friend of mine tells me that it is the greatest book America has produced. Evidently it didn't require the Lusitania incident to prove that America is a long-suffering nation. Jim was back to the subject of inventions again. "Aw read in a paper that there's a fortune waitin' for the man that can invent something to haud breeks up instead o' gallis's." "Ye cud hae buttons on the foot o' yer sark," suggested Janet. "Aye," said Jim scornfully, "and if a button cam off what wud haud up yer breeks?" "Public opinion ... in this righteous village," I murmured; "it's almost strong enough to hold up any pair of breeks, Jim," but no one understood me. "Ye cud hae sticks up the side," said Ellen, "and yer breeks wud stand up like fisherman's boots." "And if ye wanted to bend?" demanded Jim. Ellen shoved out her tongue at him. "Ye never said onything aboot bendin', and ye dinna need to bend onywye." "What aboot when ye're gaitherin' tatties?" crowed Jim. Ellen tossed her head. "Aw wasna thinkin' o' the sort o' man that gaithers tatties; Aw was thinkin' o' gentlemen's breeks ... the kind o' breeks ye'll never hae, Jim Jackson." Jim sighed and gave me a look which I took to mean: "Women are impossible when it comes to arguing." He thought for a time; then he looked up with twinkling eyes. "Aw've got it!" "Well?" "Do away wi' breeks a'-the-gether, and wear kilts." "And what will ye do wi' yer hands?" put in Fred Findlay; "there's nae pooches in a kilt." "Goad, Fred," said Jim, "Aw never thocht o' that; we'll just hae to wrastle on wi' oor breeks and oor gallis's." "Ye cud wear a belt," suggested Janet. "And gie mysel' pewmonia! No likely!" "It's no pewmonia that ye get wearin' a belt," said Janet, "it's a pendicitis." "G'wa, lassie, what do you ken aboot breeks onywye?" "Aw ken mair than you do, Jim Jackson. For wan thing Aw ken that it's no a subject ye shud speak aboot afore lassies. Come on, Ellen, we'll go ootside; the conversation's no proper." Jim glanced at me doubtfully. "It was her that said that breeks cud be buttoned to yer sark!" he exclaimed. He jumped up and hastened to the door. "Janet Broon," I heard him cry, "dinna you speak aboot sarks to me again; sarks is no a proper subject o' conversation for young laddies." I think it was Fletcher of Saltoun who said that he didn't care who made a nation's laws if he made its ballads. To-night I feel that I don't care if Macdonald hears the bairns' opinion of Charles I. so long as I hear their opinion of sarks and breeks. * * * A Trade Union official delivered a lecture on Labour Aspirations in the village hall to-night. I was sadly disappointed. The man tried to make out that the interests of Capital and Labour are similar. "We are not out to abolish the capitalist," he said; "all we want is a say in the workshop management. We have nothing to do with the way the employer conducts his business; we want to mind our own business. We want to see men paid a living wage; we want to see...." I ceased to be interested in what the man wanted to see. I fancy that he requires to see a devil of a lot before he is capable of guiding the Trade Unions. Why are these so-called leaders so poor in intellect? Why are they so fearful of alienating the good opinion of the capitalist? If the Trade Union has any goal at all it surely is the abolition of the capitalist. The leaders crawl to the feet of capital and cry: "For the Lord's sake listen to us! We won't ask much; we won't offend you in the least. We merely want to ask very deferentially that you will see that there is no unemployment after the war. We beseech you to let our stewards have a little say ... a very little say ... in the management of the shops. Take your Rent and Interest and Profit as usual; as usual we'll be quite content with what is left over." If a bull had intelligence he would not allow himself to be led to the shambles. If the Trade Unions had intelligence they would not allow their paid leaders to lead them to the altar. The lecturer had evidently been told that I was the only Socialist in the village, and he called upon me to say a few words. I have no doubt that later he regretted calling upon me. "The speaker is modest in his demands," I said. "He has told you what Labour is asking for, and now I'll tell you what I think Labour _should_ ask for. Labour's chief aim should be to make the Trade Unions blackleg proof. When they have roped in all the workers they will be able to command anything they like. They should then go to the State and say: 'We want to join forces with the State. Capitalism is un-Christlike, and wasteful, and we must destroy it. We propose to take over the whole concern ourselves; we propose to abolish Rent, Interest, and Profit ... and Wagery. At present we are selling our labour to the highest bidder, and in the process we are selling our souls along with our bodies. Each industry will conduct its own business, not for profit but for social service; no shareholders will live on our labour; we shall give our members pay instead of wages.' "Gentlemen, I call an organisation of this kind a Guild, but you can call it what you like. It is the only organisation that will abolish wagery, that is, will prohibit labour from being a commodity obeying the Laws of Supply and Demand." "What about nationalisation of land and mines and railways?" said the official. "These are on our programme, and they will revolutionise industry." "Hand over the mines and the railways to the State," I said, "and you have State capitalism. You won't abolish wages; you'll buy the mines and railways, and you'll draw your wages from what is left over after the interest due to the late shareholders is paid." "Ah!" he interrupted, "you want to confiscate?" "If necessary, certainly. We have conscripted life because the State required men to give their lives; why not conscript wealth in the same way? The State requires the wealth of the rich, not only for the purpose of paying for the war; it requires it to pay for the peace to come." "Control of industry by producers has always failed," he said. "_The New Statesman_ Supplement on the Control of Industry proved this conclusively." "Of course it has always failed," I said. "Flying always failed, but the aeroplane experimenters did not sit down and wail: 'It's absolutely no good; men have always failed to fly.' If the Railway Trade Union got the offer of the whole railway system to-morrow to run as it pleased it would make a bonny hash of it. Why? Because management is a skilled business. But if the salaried railway officials had the vision to see that their interests lay with the men instead of with the masters, then you would find a difference. The Trade Unions without the salaried officials are useless. "I read the Supplement you mention. One of the causes of failure given was that the producers had an interest in the plant and they were always unwilling to scrap machinery in order to introduce better machines." "That's quite true," he nodded. "Is it? Why does Bruce the linen manufacturer in the neighbouring town here scrap comparatively new machinery when better inventions come out? He has an interest in the plant, hasn't he? Why then does he not stick to the old methods?" "He knows that he will gain in the end." "Exactly. And a society of workers running their own business would not have the gumption to see that the new methods would be a gain in the end?" "The fact remains that they have tried and failed," he said. "That merely proves that the workers without their managers are hopeless," I said. "What can you expect from a section of the community that has never been educated? You can't make a man slave ten hours a day for a living wage and then expect him to have the organising ability of Martin the cigar merchant, or the vision of Gamage the universal provider. A rich merchant in London said to me when I asked him point blank if he always thought of his profits: 'Profits be blowed! The great thing is the game of business!' I don't see any reason in the world why the manager of say The Enfield Cycle Company should not be as energetic and as capable if he were managing a factory for the Cycle Guild." "The workers would interfere with him," said the official; "every workman who had a grudge against him would try to get him put off the managership." "Lord!" I cried, "for a representative of Labour you seem to have a poor opinion of the democracy you speak for! If that is your attitude to your fellow-workmen I quite understand your modest demands for Labour. If the rank and file of the Trade Unions can't rise higher than squabbling about whether a manager should be sacked or not, the Trade Unions had better content themselves with the programme their leaders have arranged for them. They had better concentrate their attention on trifles like a Minimum Wage or an Old Age Pension." A disturbing thought comes to me to-night. Democracy means rule by the majority ... and the majority is always wrong. The only comfort I can find lies in the thought that the majority of to-day represents the opinions of the minority of yesterday. Democracy will always be twenty years behind its time. * * * To-day has been a very wet Sunday. I did not get up till one o'clock. Margaret came over about tea-time and invited me to sample some drop scones she had been making. She was in a skittish mood, and she began to turn my bothy upside down on the allegation that it was time for autumn cleaning. I ordered her to the door, and she sat down on my bed and laughed at me. I said that I would throw a drop scone at her head if it were not for the danger of shying weights about indiscriminately, and she threw my pillow at me. I rose from my chair and went to her. "Out you come, you besom!" I cried and I seized her by the shoulders. We struggled ... and I suddenly realised that as we paused for breath her face was very near mine. I threw my arms around her and kissed her straight on the lips. Then slowly we parted and we stood looking at each other. Her face had become very serious. "You--you shouldn't have done that!" she gasped. "Why not?" I asked lamely. She gazed at me wildly for a long moment; then she rushed from the room. It happened ... and I don't believe in crying over spilt milk. If I had been a strong man it wouldn't have happened; if Margaret had not been in that skittish mood it wouldn't have happened. Carlyle says somewhere: "Mighty events turn on a straw; the crossing of a brook decides the conquest of the world." Mighty events! Is this a mighty event? I have kissed many a girl. To me, no; but to Margaret I fear that it is. It was most likely her first kiss since she became a woman. I feel very like Alec D'Urberville, the seducer of Tess, to-night ... only I don't think I'll take religion as he did and try to lead Margaret to salvation as he did Tess. It suddenly strikes me that I am more like Angel Clare. He was an educated man learning farming; I am an educated man tending cattle. He fell in love with the dairymaid Tess; I.... But have I fallen in love with anyone? In general I should say that when a man asks himself whether he is in love or not he is not in love. Love over-rules the head; every marriage means a victory of heart over head. Presumably the men who have no heads make the best lovers. Hamlet could not love Ophelia because he had a head; Romeo loved Juliet because he hadn't a head. The whole problem of H. G. Wells' later novels lies in the fact that his men have heads. They are all analytical ... and the man who analyses himself always appears before the public as a selfish brute. The analytical man cannot make a martyr of himself; he is a weakling; he has his fun ... and he pays for it, but he makes a woman pay for it also. I suppose that in ancient times love was a simple thing. You desired a woman, and you hit her father on the head with a stone axe and carried her off to your cave. In the majority of cases it is a simple business yet; you don't knock your prospective father-in-law on the head with a hatchet; you take a filial interest in your prospective mother-in-law's rheumatics instead. When Smith the shopwalker falls in love with Nancy of the hat department his chief concern is to know how he is going to keep house on his salary. He never sits down of an evening saying to himself: "Now, is Nancy my soul-mate? Is her sense of humour something like my own? May we not be absolutely incompatible in temperament?" Smith hasn't the faintest idea what sort of man he is himself, and if you aren't disturbed by doubts about yourself you won't be disturbed with doubts about your future wife. I should guess that Mr. and Mrs. Smith will live happily together ... if she is a passable cook. I fear greatly that the introspective man is doomed to connubial misery. Margaret likes to read penny novelettes, and she will probably take a fancy to Charles Garvice some day soon. She knows nothing about music or painting or literature. Unless we are ragging each other we have not a single topic of common interest; we should certainly bore each other during the first-class honeymoon journey south. Then why in the name of thunder did I kiss her? I suppose that I kissed her because kissing is more elemental than thinking. When she had rushed out I was joyous in the realisation that her lips were sweet, that her neck was gloriously graceful, that her eyes were deep and wonderful. But now her physical charms have gone with her, and doubts crowd in upon me. I wonder what she is thinking of! I know that she has no doubts about herself, but I fancy that she has her doubts about me. Poor lassie ... and well she might! * * * She was milking to-night. I went over and stood beside her. She looked up, and her eyes shone with a new brightness. She could not meet my gaze, and she flushed and looked the other way. "Margaret," I said softly, "I love you!" She held up her lips to me ... and then I walked out of the byre. And, you know, I intended to say something very different. I intended to say: "Margaret, I was a fool last night. Try to forget all about it." I kissed her instead. I'm afraid I was a fool last night, and a fool to-night, and a fool all the time. However, I am a happy fool to-night. X. Macdonald has returned. He has brought a man Macduff with him, a college friend of his, and now the headmaster of a big school in Perthshire. He has mentioned Macduff to me more than once. Macduff is his ideal schoolmaster, a stern disciplinarian and a great producer of "results." When they came up to see me to-night Macdonald's face glowed with anticipation; it was evident that he had come to my funeral. Macduff was to slay me, bury me, and write my epitaph. I thought of agreeing with Macduff as much as possible, so as to rob Macdonald of his triumph, but I found it impossible to find more than a few points of agreement. I managed, however, to carry the war into the enemy's camp, and Macduff found himself acting on the defensive more than once. "I read your _Log_," he said agreeably, "and I must congratulate you on it. I laughed at many of the yarns you have in it." "The worst of being called a humorist," said I, "is that everybody seizes on your light bits, and ignores your serious bits." "I didn't ignore your serious bits," he said, "I read them carefully ... and, to be frank, thought them damned nonsense. You don't mind my saying so, do you?" "Certainly not, my dear fellow! When you've read the evening paper critics' opinion of yourself you can stand anything. I am all for a free criticism; it lets you know where you stand at once." We both became very amiable after that, and I offered him a fill of Macdonald's baccy. Then I brought out a bottle of whiskey, and we sat round the bothy fire like brothers. "And now," I said, "tell me all about the damned nonsensical parts." "Well," he laughed, "it seems a dirty trick to drink a chap's whiskey and slate his ideas at the same time, doesn't it?" "It might be worse," I said with a smile; "you might slate his whiskey and drink in his ideas at the same time; and I've never met a man who could stand being accused of keeping bad whiskey, although I know dozens of men who will sit with a grin on their faces while you tear their philosophy of life to pieces." "They grin at your ignorance, eh?" "Exactly!" Macdonald held up his glass to the light and eyed it thoughtfully. "Macduff's theory is that if you spare the rod you spoil the child," he said. "Yes," said Macduff, "I agree with old Solomon. You know, it's all very well to be a heretic, but you are up against the wisdom of the ages. All the way from Solomon downwards parents have agreed that youngsters must be trained strictly. You can't smash up the wisdom of the ages as you try to do." "The wisdom of the ages!" I mused.... "When I come to think of it the wisdom of the ages taught men that the earth was flat, that the sun went round the earth, that the touch of a king cured King's Evil. Do you mean to say that because a thing has a tradition behind it it must be believed for ever? Because Solomon said a thing is it eternally true? The wisdom of the ages must be made to give place to the wisdom of the age." "Then you would have each generation ignore all that had been said by men of previous generations?" "I don't mean that. By all means find out what wise men of old have said, but don't worship them; be ready all the time to reject their wisdom if you feel you can't agree with it. This using the rod business is a tradition because men found it the easiest method for themselves. A child was weak and he was noisy; the easiest thing to do was to whack the little chap. Do you allow conversation in your school?" "I do not!" he said grimly. "And why?" "They can't work if they are talking." "And that's your sole reason?" "Yes." "If an inspector stood at your desk chatting to you about the war, would you have a silent room?" "Certainly." "But why?" "Oh," he said impatiently, "for various reasons. They aren't there to talk; and they've got to be disciplined, to understand that they are not free to do as they like whenever they like." "Also," I suggested, "the inspector might be annoyed?" "There's that in it," he confessed with a little confusion. "The wisdom of the ages agrees with you," I said, "and I think that in this case the wisdom of the ages is wrong. In the first place I want to know what you're trying to produce." "Educated citizens," he replied. "And since the Solomon tradition has been in vogue for quite a long time, do you consider that it has produced educated citizens as yet?" "More or less," he answered. "I can't see it," I said. "When nine-tenths of the population of these isles live on the border line of starvation you can't surely argue that they are educated citizens. They are bullied citizens ... and the first step in the bullying of them was the refusal of authority in the shape of the parent and the pedagogue to spare the rod." "But look here," he interrupted, "come back to the school. Do you think it wrong for a teacher to compel a boy to attend to a lesson?" "I do. If he has to be compelled the lesson clearly fails to interest him. I would have childhood a garden in which one could wander wherever one pleased; I would abolish fear and punishment." "And do you mean to tell me," he demanded, "that a boy will offer to learn his history and geography and arithmetic and grammar of his own free will?" "It depends on the boy. Here, again, we come up against the wisdom of the ages. The wisdom of the ages has decreed that these subjects are the chief things in education. But are they? I should imagine that it is more important for a boy to know something about feminine psychology than about Henry the Eighth. He will one day be called on to choose a wife, but he'll never be called on to choose a king. Again why should geography be of more importance than anatomy? A man never wants to know where Timbuctoo is, but he very often wants to know whether the pain in his tummy is appendicitis or heartburn." "Go on!" he laughed, "find a substitute for arithmetic now!" "Arithmetic," I said, "is the trump card of the man who wants a utilitarian education. I can do lots of sums--Simple Interest, Profit and Loss, Ratio and Proportion, Train Sums, Stream Sums.... I could almost do a Cube Root. So far as I can remember I have never had occasion to use arithmetic for any purpose other than adding up money or multiplying a few figures by a few figures. Your utilitarianism somehow leads in the wrong direction most of the time. I was brought up under the wisdom of the ages curriculum, and I'll just give you an idea of some of the things I don't know. I don't know the difference between a mushroom and a toadstool; I haven't the faintest idea of how they make glass or soap or paint or wine or whiskey or beer or paper or candles or matches; I know nothing about the process of law; I don't know what steps one takes to get married or divorced or cremated or naturalised; I don't know the starboard side of a ship; I don't know how a vacuum brake works. I could fill a book with a list of the things I don't know ... a book as big as the Encyclopædia Britannica. "What I want to know is this: How are we to determine what things are important to know? From a utilitarian point of view it is more important to know how to get married than how to find the latitude and longitude of Naples. As an exercise of thinking it is quite as important to inquire into the working of a Westinghouse brake as to inquire into the working of a Profit and Loss sum." "Then what curriculum would you have?" "I wouldn't have any curriculum. I would allow a boy to learn what he wanted to learn. If he prefers kite-making to sentence-making I want him to choose kite-making. If he wants to catch minnows instead of reading about Napoleon, I say let him do it; he is learning what he wants to learn, and that's exactly what we all do when we leave the compulsion of the schoolroom." "It won't do!" cried Macduff. "Look at it in this way," I said. "Suppose I am three stone heavier than you. And suppose that I think it would benefit you if you knew all about--let us say Evolution. I come to you, take you by the back of the neck and say: 'Macduff, you get up the Darwinian Theory word perfect by Monday morning. If you don't I'll bash your head for you.' I reckon that you would call in the police ... and they would naturally call in the local prison doctor to inquire into my sanity. That is exactly what you are doing in your school ... only, unfortunately, the police and the prison doctor are on your side. Personally I could make out a strong case for your being certified as a dangerous lunatic with homicidal tendencies." "Ah!" he said, "but the two cases are different. Your arbitrary insistence on my learning all about Darwin has no right on its side; it's merely your opinion that I should know all about Evolution. But when I make a boy learn his history and grammar I am not acting on my own opinion. Personally I confess that I teach lots of things and don't see the use of them." "You obey the--er--the wisdom of the ages?" "I suppose I do." "Education," I said, "should lead a boy to think for himself, but if teachers refuse to think for themselves in case they disagree with the wisdom of the ages I don't see that they are the men to lead children to think for themselves." Later we discussed motor-cycles, and I learned many tips from Macduff. He is a mine of information on the subject. When they had gone I thought out the problem of the curriculum. To abolish the curriculum involves abolishing large classes. I would have classes of not more than a dozen pupils. In the free school I picture, classes would not in fact exist; if there were a hundred and twenty scholars there would be ten teachers. They would act as guides to be consulted when necessary. Each teacher would learn with his or her pupils. A teacher is not an encyclopædia of facts; he is an enquirer. When we tarred the pigeon-house I did not say: "Now, boys, listen to me, and learn how to put on tar." The boys brought chunks of pitch in their pockets (pretty certainly sneaked from the heaps used for tar-spraying the roads). We got an old pail and melted the solid stuff, then we tried to put it on. The trial was a complete failure; the tar would not run. We sat down to consider the matter. "Tell you what, boys," said Cheery Smith, "we'll thin it wi' some paraffin." We thinned it with some paraffin and the stuff ran quite easily. When I told Macdonald of the incident he cried: "Yes, but think of the time you wasted!" What's wrong with Macdonald and Macduff is that they know too much to be good teachers. They have nothing to learn. They know all the facts about curriculum subjects; they know exactly what is right and what is wrong; they know that their authority is infallible; they know that swearing is bad, that cap-lifting is good; they know that obedience is a great virtue, that disobedience to their authority is an unforgivable sin. They are the Supermen of education; their attitude to the school is exactly the attitude of Charles I. to his Parliament. They believe in the Divine Right of Dominies. The dominie can do no wrong. Macdonald's bairns consider him something beyond a human being; he knows everything; he is above temptation. He has no weaknesses; his pipe goes into his pocket when he meets a child; he wouldn't allow a child to see him kiss his wife for all the gold in the Bank of England. But there are expectations down at the schoolhouse. And I would almost sell my soul to be in the classroom on the morning when Macdonald enters it with the word paternity writ large on his prim face. I bet my boots that, without saying a single word, he will manage to give the bairns the impression that he had nothing to do with the affair at all. * * * A friend of mine, a Londoner, came to stay the week-end with me. To-day we rambled over the hills, and a pair of new boots began to make my friend's feet take on a separate existence. We were about three miles from home, and the prospect of walking that distance painfully was rather disheartening to him. Luckily Moss-side milk cart came along, and the boy asked us if we wanted a lift to the village; he was taking the day's milk to the station. When we left the cart my friend turned to me in amazement. "Here," he cried, "didn't you give him something?" "Good Lord, no!" I laughed. "Oh, you blooming Scotchman!" he said with fervour. "If I had known I'd have given the chap a tip myself." "I never thought of tipping him," I said, "and if I had I wouldn't have tipped him all the same. You blessed Englishmen can never rise above your stupid feudal idea of rewarding the lower classes. In your south country a countryman is a Lickspittle; he touches his cap to anything with a collar on. We don't breed that kind of specimen in Scotland. That young lad is a stranger to me, but he and you and I were equals; there was no servility about him; he chatted to us as an equal. He expected nothing, and if you had offered him a shilling you would have patronised him, posed as his superior." "But, damn it all, the chap earned a bob!" "He didn't; all he earned was your gratitude. The boy was doing a decent kindly thing for its own sake, and you want to shove a vulgar tip into his hand. If I had come along in a Rolls-Royce car and given you a lift, would you have offered to reward me? What's wrong with you southerners is that you always think in classes; your tipping isn't kindness; you tip to save your self-respect; you are afraid that any man of the lower orders should think you mean. The Scot is not as a rule hampered by class distinctions, and he often refuses to tip because he hates to insult a man. You Londoners put it down to meanness, but I would have felt myself the meanest of low cads if I had tipped that ploughboy. Scotland is comparatively free from the rotten tipping habit. A few gamekeepers get tips from English sporting gentlemen, and a few porters get tips from English travellers." "You have spoilt that boy for the next unfortunate pedestrian," he said; "the next time he sees a man limping along the road he will say to himself: 'Never again!'" I knew then that he had not been listening to my argument. If tipping is degrading to the man who tips and the man who holds out his palm, I cannot see that school prize-giving is any better. The kindly School Board members who are anxious to encourage the bairns to work for prizes have essentially the same outlook as my friend from town. I fancy that the modern interpretation of Christianity has something to do with this national desire for reward and punishment. To me the whole attitude is distasteful. Obviously I am what I am; I was born with a certain nature, and I was brought up in a certain environment. The making of my ego was a thing outside my direction altogether. To reward me in an after life for being a religious man is as unfair as to punish me for being a thief. We don't award a gold medal to an actress for being beautiful; we don't offer Shaw a peerage because he is Christlike enough to hate killing animals for sport. Shaw can no more help being humanitarian than Gladys Cooper can help being bonny. Down in the school there Ellen Smith can no more help being the best arithmetician than Dave Ramsay can help being the biggest coward. Speaking of Dave ... when Macdonald was worrying over the allocation of prizes the other week, he asked me if Dave was good at anything. "Well," I said, "he holds the record for spitting farther than any boy in the school; I think he deserves a prize for that. Believe me, Macdonald, every boy in the class would rather hold that record than carry off the prize for arithmetic ... and I don't blame them either." The subject of Scots and tipping puts me in mind of what is probably the best "Scot in London" yarn. A Scot, followed by his five children, entered the Ritz Hotel, and sat down in the lounge. "Waiter! A bottle o' leemonade and sax tumblers!" he cried. The waiter was too dumbfounded to do anything but bring the liquor. He stood in open-mouthed amazement as the Scot divided the bottle among the six glasses, but, when the Scot took a bag of buns from his pocket and proceeded to distribute them, the waiter set off blindly to find the manager. The manager approached. He tapped the Scot on the shoulder, and in a stern voice he said: "Excuse me, but I'm the manager of this establishment." The Scot looked up at him sharply. "O, ye're the manager, are ye? Weel, why the hell's the band's no playin'?" XI. Macdonald had a sort of cookie shine to-night, and I was invited. The other guests were Mitchell, the assistant-manager of the railway construction department, and Willis, the head of the water department. We played Bridge, and I spent four hours of misery. I hate cards; I can't concentrate at all, and I never have the faintest idea what the man on my left has discarded. Willis and I won. I always look upon cards as a veiled insult to guests. I want to know what a man is thinking when I meet him; on the few occasions on which I have brought out a pack of cards to entertain guests I have done so on the frank realisation that their conversation wasn't worth listening to. Later when we sat round the fire to chat I grudged the time lost over the game. Mitchell had been for many years in India, and his stories of life there were of great interest to me. He did not theorise about India; he accepted without thought the attitude of the average Anglo-Indian ... the nigger is a beast that has to be knocked into shape; the Anglo-Indian mode of government was tip-top, couldn't be beat; asses like Keir Hardie ought never to be allowed to put their foot in India; what's wrong with India is what's wrong with the working classes here--we give 'em too much education, make 'em discontented. Willis was of a more intelligent type. He had been all over the world, and, although a Conservative to the backbone, he had made some study of modern problems. He had studied Socialism, thought it a fine thing, but.... "You've got to change human nature first," he said. * * * If I were writing a novel I should now head a chapter thus:--Chapter XXIV., in Which Macdonald and I become Brothers in Affliction. He came up to see me to-night. "You've put your foot in it this time," he began. "What is it?" I cried in alarm. "Old Brown--Violet's father--wants to slay you. His wife heard from Mrs. Wylie that you said to Wylie that he, Brown, had the intellect of a boiled rabbit." "That's bad," I said in dismay. "The old fool was talking puerile rubbish about the wickedness of the working-classes. Wylie was there, and after Brown had gone I did make the impatient remark that he had the intellect of a boiled rabbit. But, Good Lord! I didn't want the thing to go back to his ears. How I can ever look the man in the face again I don't know." "You should have thought of that before you spoke," said Macdonald with a smile. "Oh," I replied, "I don't regret saying it in the least; at the time I felt it was the only thing to say. What I regret is the meanness of Wylie or his wife. Brown is a decent old chap, and I'm rather fond of him. Why the devil are people so dirty in mind, Macdonald? We all say things that we don't want carried to the person we are speaking about. I say things about you that I would hate you to hear, and I guess that you are in a similar position with regard to me. But the unpardonable social crime is to tell one man what another has said about him. It's the lowest down trick I know." "What'll you do about it?" "I'll go straight down to Brown and apologise for Wylie's bad taste." "And your own!" "Not at all. I'll tell him I've said worse things than that about him, but I'll implore him not to let them make any difference in our friendship." "I've got a nasty little problem myself," said Macdonald. "You know that confounded committee of villagers that has charge of the Soup Kitchen Fund?" "I do," I cried fervently. "Well, I called a meeting for last night ... and I forgot to post Mrs. Wylie's invitation." "Call that a nasty problem?" I cried; "my dear chap, you've raised a whirlwind and tempest combined ... and there won't be any still small voice at the end of 'em either. You've committed the Unforgivable Sin this time." "She's in an awful wax," he continued; "says that she never was insulted like this before. She came up to-night and gave me beans ... told me that you were a perfect gentleman!" "I took care never to omit her when I called the committee," I said modestly. "She'll never forgive me," said Macdonald dolefully. "Oh, yes she will ... if you play your cards well. Your game is to send a notice of the meeting to the local paper. Then commence a new paragraph thus:--The Convener, Mr. Macdonald, intimated that Mrs. Wylie's invitation to the meeting had been unintentionally overlooked, and he expressed his very earnest regret that his mistake had deprived the meeting of the always helpful advice of the injured lady. "Publicity salves all wounds in the village, Macdonald. Do as I suggest and Mrs. W. will support you for all eternity." "They are so small-minded," he said. "They are hyper-sensitive," said I. "Mrs. Wylie is quite sure that you made a mistake. She can forgive you for that, but the thing that she will find it hard to forgive is the fact that you did not pay special attention to her letter, send it by registered post as it were. No one who knows me would accuse me of self-depreciation, but I tell you, Macdonald, every villager down there has more self-appreciation in his little finger than I have in my whole body. Old Jake Baffers never had a bath in his life, and he would be secretly proud of his record if an urchin were to shout at him: 'G'wa and tak a wash!' Yet if the secretary forgot to send him a notice of the Parish Council Meeting Jake would hate the man for all eternity." "What does it all mean?" asked Macdonald. "The innate love of publicity lies at the root of all the village hate and narrowness. They spend their little lives looking for trouble, and the trouble they look for specially is a personal slight. The village is always full of this kind of trouble. They like to have a finger in every pie. You don't want them to run your Soup Kitchen; you could do it fifty times better yourself." "Perhaps they think I'd sneak the cash, eh?" "No! No, to give them their due, they don't think that. You may rob the Committee of all their cash if you like (think of the fine talk they would have over it!); what you mustn't do is to rob them of their publicity. Some of them will always hate you because you wear a linen collar and don't talk dialect. Also, you are an incomer. I once attended a public meeting in a Fife village. A man stood up to give his opinion about a public matter, and they shouted him down with the cry: 'Sit doon! Ye're an incomer!' The man had been resident in that village for twenty-three years, but he had come from Forfarshire originally." "And this is democracy!" exclaimed Macdonald. "This is education," said I. "All the history and geography and grammar in the world won't produce a better generation in this village. What is really wrong is narrow vision due to lack of wide interest. Obviously the village thinks of small things, things that don't count to us. The villager left school at fourteen and he never had any training in thinking." "Well, and what's the remedy?" "Remedy be blowed!" I cried. "Come on, I'm going down with you and I'll have it out with old Brown." * * * Brown was in no mood to be friendly. Indeed he was quite nasty. He told me frankly that our friendship was at an end, and I felt pained about the matter. Suddenly a brilliant inspiration came to me. As I stood at the door I turned to him sharply. "You've had your say, Mr. Brown," I said sternly, "and now it's my innings. I didn't mean to mention it, but you've forced me to do it." I paused to note his sudden look of alarm. "Yes," I went on, "I want to know what the devil you meant by saying that I suffered from swelled head?" "When did I say that?" he stammered. I shrugged my shoulders. "I refuse to give away the man who told me," I said stiffly. He was now in great excitement. He wiped his brow with his hand. "Graham is a liar!" he cried passionately, "it was _him_ that said it to _me_!" "But you agreed with him?" I insinuated. Brown drew himself up stiffly. "Well, damn you, I did!" "Quits!" I cried, and I held out my hand. Later as we sat together over a hot whiskey I tried hard to persuade him that Graham had never said a word to me; I told him again and again that I had made a lucky guess, and at last I managed to persuade him to believe me. Yet somehow I feel that he'll look askance at poor Graham the next time he meets him. * * * We were threshing to-day. During the dinner interval Margaret and I chanced to meet in the barn. I threw my arms round her and kissed her. A chuckle came from the straw. I looked up to find the eyes of Jim Jackson upon us. "Aw'll no tell!" he cried, and Margaret fled blushing from the barn. "Right, Jim! We'll trust you with the secret. Margaret and I are in love with each other." "When is it to be?" he asked eagerly. "You are thinking of the wedding feast I presume, my lad, what?" He did not answer; he seemed to be thinking. "Bob Scott has a' the luck," he said dolefully; "when he was ten his mither was married, when he was eleven his sister Bets dee'd, and syne when he was twel his father was married. Aw've only had a marriage and a daith. Aw like marriages better gyn daiths; ye get mair to eat, and ye dinna hae to look solemn. A christenin' doesna coont; ye jest get a wee bit o' cake, and the minister prays." "Jim," I said suddenly, "will you be my best man?" He gaped. "Will Aw be yer--?" He was too much surprised to complete the sentence. "Yes, and carry the ring," I said. His eyes danced. "And kiss the bridesmaids," I continued. His face fell. "No," he said slowly, "Aw'm ower young to be a best man." He considered for a while. "But Geordie Tamson wud kiss them for a hank o' candy," he said half aloud. "No," I said, "you can't delegate your powers to another in a case of this sort. But of course if you think Geordie would be the better man to sit on the dickey of the carriage, and lead the bride to the wedding feast, and throw out the sweeties and pennies to the children, and--" "Aw'll be yer best man!" he roared. XII. To-night I made up my mind to speak to Frank Thomson and his wife. I knew that Jim would be miserable as long as he carried so weighty a secret on him; I knew that he was itching to rush through the village shouting: "The Mester's gaein' to be married to Maggie Tamson ... and Aw'm to be his best man!" I went over about eight o'clock. The children were in bed, and Margaret sat in the kitchen with her father and mother. "I want to marry Margaret," I said when I entered. Frank was reading _The People's Journal_. The paper fluttered slightly, and that was the only sign of surprise that came from him. "Yea, Mester?" he said slowly. "Man, d'ye tell me that na? Aw see that the Roosians are makin' some progress again." He buried his head in his paper after throwing a look to his wife. The look clearly meant: "This is a matter for you to tak up, Lizzie." Mrs. Thomson laid down her knitting carefully; then she rubbed her glasses with her apron. She glanced at Margaret, and Margaret rose and left the room quietly. I knew that she left the door half-closed so that she might hear from the stair-foot. Her mother looked at me over her glasses. "She's gey young," she said. "A year older than you were when you married," I said with a smile. She sat in deep thought for a long time. Then she turned to her husband. "Frank," she said in a matter-of-fact voice, "ye'll better bring oot the whiskey." That was all. Neither of them asked a question about my financial position, or my hopes. Mrs. Thomson went to the door and called Margaret's name, and when she entered the kitchen her mother simply said: "Maggie, ye micht bring a few coals like a lassie." A stranger from a foreign land looking on would have wondered at the unconcern of the whole thing. The family talked about everything but the subject of the moment, but I knew by the way in which they made conversation that they were striving to hide their real feelings. When I rose to leave I turned to Frank. "I don't know what plans I have," I said, "but the chances are that I'll go to live in London some day soon." Frank waved a protesting hand. "Never mind that ee'noo," he cried. "Maggie!... ye'll better see the Mester to the door, lassie!" "They're awfu' pleased!" whispered Margaret at the door. "Are they, Margaret?" I said tenderly. "Yes! But it isn't because you are so clever, you know!" "Rather because I am so handsome?" "No. They're pleased because you are an M.A." Then she laughed at my look of chagrin. * * * This morning I met Jim. "Jim," I said, "you are free to speak now." He made no reply; he sprang over a gate and flew towards the village. The girls came up in a body at four o'clock. "Is't true?" cried Janet as she ran up breathlessly. "What? Is what true?" "That you and Maggie are to be married?" "The answer is in the affirmative," I said pompously. Janet's face fell. "Eh, if Aw had that Jim Jackson! He telt us that he was to be yer best man!" "He was aye a big leer!" cried Ellen, then she saw that I was smiling. "It's true after a'!" she cried. "Yes," I said, "it's true, bairns," but to my surprise they rushed off and left me. I understood their action when I turned to look; they had seen Margaret emerge from the kitchen door. Poor Margaret! The whole crowd of them insisted on pinching her arms for luck. They seemed to have forgotten my existence; then suddenly they all came running towards me. "Let me tell 'im, Jan!" I heard Annie cry, but Jan tore herself from restraining arms and was first to come up. "The Mester's gotten a little baby!" cried Janet. "Janet's wrang!" cried Annie; "it's no the Mester: it's his wife!" I tried to look my surprise. "And did you congratulate him, Jan?" I asked. Janet tittered. "He took an awfu' reid face when he cam in this mornin', did'n he, Jean?" "Aye, and he was grumpy a' day. He was ay frownin' at a' body. We cudna help his wife haein' a bairn!" "He looked as if he was angry at his wife haein' the bairn," said Barbara. I recalled my conjecture that he would try to give the bairns the impression that he had nothing whatever to do with the affair, and I laughed uproariously. I suddenly realised that Gladys was asking me a question. "Eh? What's that, Gladys?" "I was speerin' if you and Maggie are to hae a bairn?" Janet gasped and cried: "Oh, Gladys!" and Jean cried: "Look at Maggie blushin'!" "Certainly!" I said with a laugh, "a dozen of them, won't we, Margaret?" "Bairns is just a scunner," said Sarah. "Ye'll hae to stop yer typewriter or ye'll waken them." "That's awkward, Sarah," I said, "for if I stop my typewriter I'll starve them." "The Mester'll hae a big hoose," said Jean, "and he'll type his letters in the parlour and Maggie'll rock the cradle in the kitchen, winna ye, Maggie?" "Perhaps," I suggested, "Jim Jackson will be able to invent a patent that will enable me to rock the cradle as I strike the keys." "Aye," said Janet with scorn, "and kill the bairn! Aw wudna trust Jim Jackson wi' ony bairn o' mine ... him and his inventions!" "Ye'll mak a nice father," said Gladys, and she put her arm round my neck. "Ye'll spoil yer bairns," said Ellen. She turned to Margaret. "Maggie, dinna let him tak chairge o' them, or he'll mak them catch minnows a' day instead o' learnin' their lessons." "G'wa, Ellen," cried Sarah, "they're no married yet! And ye dinna get bairns till ye're married a gey lang time." "Some fowk has them afore they get married," said Barbara thoughtfully, and I chuckled when I saw how the others looked at her. Disapproval was writ large on their faces. "Ye shudna mention sic things afore Maggie!" said Janet in a stage whisper, and I had to hold my sides. Margaret could not keep her gravity either, and she laughed immoderately. Later they pleaded with me to tell them when the wedding was to take place. I told them that I did not know, but that it would be soon, and I promised to invite them all. "But no Mester Macdonald!" said Jean. "Aw wudna feel so free wi' him there." I told them of the widower whose friends tried to persuade him to take his mother-in-law with him in the front funeral coach. After some persuasion he said resignedly: "Verra weel, then; but it'll spoil my day." Then I sent them home. * * * The story I told the girls set me thinking of funeral stories. I have heard dozens of them, but the only other one I can remember is the one about the farmer whose wife was to be buried. As the men carried the coffin along the passage they stumbled, and the coffin came into violent contact with the corner. The lid flew off, and the wife sat up and rubbed her eyes. She had been in a trance. Twenty years later the wife died again. The men were carrying the coffin through the passage when the farmer rushed forward. "Canny, lads!" he cried, "canny wi' that corner!" * * * "Look here," said Macdonald to me to-night, "the School Board election is coming off soon; why don't you stand?" "I thought that I would be the last man on earth you would want on the School Board," I replied. "Not at all," he said with a smile. "You and I differ about education, but our difference isn't so great as the difference between me and men like Peter Mitchell." I thought to myself that the difference between his idea and mine was infinitely greater than the difference between his idea and Peter Mitchell's, but I said: "It's very decent of you to suggest it, old chap, but I'm not standing." "But why not?" "Possibly for the same reason that H. G. Wells and A. R. Orage and Bernard Shaw and G. K. Chesterton don't stand for Parliament." "You place yourself in good company!" he laughed. "I'm not claiming kindred, Macdonald; what I mean to suggest is that I stand to Peter Mitchell and Co. very much in the same relationship as Shaw and Orage stand to Lloyd George and Co. Roughly there are two types of mind, the thinkers and the doers. Orage has better ideas than Lloyd George, but I fancy that Lloyd George is the better man to run a Ministry of Munitions. I've got better ideas than Peter Mitchell (I think you'll grant that), yet Peter is probably the better man to arrange for the gravelling of the playground." I smoked for a while in silence. "The best men don't enter public life," I continued. "No man with a real passion for ideas could tolerate the jobbery and gabble of the House of Commons. Public life is for the most part concerned with small things. The Cabinet settles mighty things like war and peace, but if you read Hansard you'll find that ninety-nine per cent. of the members' speeches deal with little things like Old Age Pensions or the working of the Insurance Act. So in the School Board you have to deal with the incidental things. The Scotch Education Department settles the broad lines of education, and the local School Boards simply administer the Education Act of 1908. What could I do on the Board anyway?... arrange for the closing of the school at the tattie holidays, discuss your application for a rise in screw, grant a certain amount of money for prizes. I couldn't persuade the Board to convert your school into a Neo-Montessorian Play-Garden; if I did persuade them the Department would very likely step in and protest. Besides I haven't the type of mind. I hate all the formalism of public meetings; I had enough of it at the 'varsity to last me a life time; the debating societies spent most of their time reading minutes and moving 'the previous question.' I'm not a practical man, Macdonald. In art I like pure black and white work, and I think in black and white; I see the broad effect without noting the detail. Detail gives me a headache, and the public man must have something like a passion for detail. Look at the Scotch Education Department; it is full of splendid officials who will spend a week nosing out an error of ten attendances in an unfortunate dominie's registers. That's what should be; the official should have the mind of a ready-reckoner ... rather, he must have, else he would drown himself after a day in Whitehall." Macdonald has a passion for detail, and I smiled to note a growing look of aggression on his face. "Somebody's got to do the detail work," he growled. "Most of it could very well be left undone," I suggested. "You have to calculate laboriously all the attendances for the year, how many have left school, how many are of such and such an age, and so on. What for? Simply to allow the busy officials of Whitehall to settle what grant should be paid." "How could they settle it otherwise?" he asked. "In fifty ways. The obvious way is to find out how much the school requires to run it each year. I would go the length of abolishing the daily register. You don't call the roll in a cinema house or a kirk or a political meeting. Why, man, in the big schools in the cities the headmaster is a junior clerk; his whole time is spent in making up statistical returns for the Department." "You couldn't get on without the returns," said Macdonald. "Possibly not at present," I said, "seeing that the system of grants obtains, but if an Education Guild of Teachers controlled the education of Scotland most of the returns could be scrapped. All the returns needed for your school would be a list of expenditure on salaries, books, etc.; main headquarters would control the broad policy and pay the bills." "And attendance wouldn't count?" "Not if I had any say in the matter. To have an average attendance of 96 per cent. is about the lowest ideal a dominie can aim at. The teachers and the school boards aim at a high average because of the higher grant; the Department, with an eye on Blue Book statistics, encourages them to aim at a high average because a high average means a country with the minimum of illiteracy." "Would you abolish compulsory attendance?" "Certainly--so far as the children are concerned. Make their schools playgrounds instead of prisons, and you'll have no truancy. But I would have compulsion for parents. The State should have the power to say to parents: 'You are only the guardians of these children, and we can't allow you to keep them from education to do your work for you.'" "You aren't consistent," he said, "here you are advocating Authority!" "Macdonald," I said wearily, "you must have authority and law of a kind. You must have a law that you take the left side of the road when you are cycling for instance. You must give the community power to overpower a man like that lunatic who assaulted Mary Ramsay the other day, and if the community feels that it must protect children from assaults on their bodies, surely to goodness it must step in and protect little children when parents try to commit assaults on their souls. Compulsion should step in to destroy compulsion." "Now, what in all the earth do you mean by that?" "A man compels his son to stay from school; the compulsion of the State overrules the compulsion of the father. So with compulsion of men for military purposes; in theory at least the Military Service Act compels men to fight in order that they may overrule the compulsion that Germany is trying to force on Europe. The Fatherland and the father are interfering with human souls, but if a boy does not want to go to school he is a free agent choosing as he wills, and interfering with the soul of no one." "What about his children coming after him?" "A good point," I cried; "in other words you mean that no man liveth unto himself and no man dieth unto himself, eh? Yes, that's quite true, but we don't know what the boy is to turn out. Given a home of comfort and food ... as every boy would have in a well-ordered community ... I think that the lad who could resist the attraction of a play-garden school with its charms of social intercourse with other children would be either a lunatic or a genius. Besides we have given up the idea in other departments. I expect that the community is of opinion that the teachings of Christianity are good for a man to hand on to his children, yet I don't think that the community would pass a law that every parent must send his family to a Sunday School. The whole trend of society is to recognise and provide for the conscientious objector, and society should certainly recognise the conscientious objector to school-going." "A boy doesn't know his own mind." "Neither do I," I sighed. "I can't make up my mind about anything; rather, I make up my mind to-day and change it to-morrow. And I don't want it to be otherwise; when my opinions become definite and fixed I shall be dead spiritually. The boy doesn't know his own mind! Well, how the deuce can I claim to help him to make it up when I can't make up my own? It's his mind, not mine. I don't mind telling him what I think of a subject, but I wouldn't compel him to do a blamed thing." "You have a queer idea of education," he said with a dry laugh. "Macdonald," I said, with real modesty, "I don't know that I have any idea of education. I am simply groping. I don't exactly know what I want, but I have a pretty definite notion of what I don't want ... and that is finality. I begin to think that what I want education to do is to train men not to make up their minds about anything." Macdonald rose to go. "Matrimony does that, old chap," he said with a chuckle, "and you'll soon discover that you won't get the chance of making up your mind ever." XIII. I feared that I was losing Jim and Janet and the others, but I have not lost them. They conform to Macdonald's reign of authority when they are in school, but they do it with their tongues in their cheeks. But only the select few have followed my banner. Jim is the only boy, and the only girls are Janet, Jean, Ellen, Annie, and Gladys. Barbara is of divided allegiance. The others are Macdonaldised. I find it a very difficult thing to define Macdonaldisation. Possibly its most distinguishing characteristic is what I might call a dour pertness. The bairns have lost their standard of values; they don't know limits. I pinched Mary's cheek when I met her this morning on her way to school, and she tossed her head in the air and looked at me with a cheeky expression which meant: "What do you think you're doing?" If I rag Eva she answers with brazen impudence. I have given up speaking facetiously to the boys, for they also were impudent. They were not like that when I had them; I could play with them, joke with them, rag them and they took it all with the best good humour; they teased me and played jokes on me, but they did it in the right spirit. I have seen it again and again. Strict discipline destroys a child's values of good taste and bad taste. Naturally when freedom is denied them they do not know what freedom means. The atrocities committed by the super-disciplined German army are quite understandable to me; like Macdonaldised bairns they did not understand the freedom they suddenly found themselves enjoying, and they converted it into licence. I can tell the character of a village dominie when I stop to ask a group of boys the way to the next village when I am cycling. Jimmy Young slouches past me now with a stare of hostility, and it isn't six months ago since he came running to me on the road one night for protection from the policeman who was after him for stealing a turnip from Peter Mitchell's field. The policeman came up and in a loud voice accused the laddie, while at the same time he threw in a hint or two that my lax discipline had something to do with the case. "If they got a little mair o' the leather, things wud be different," he growled. I do not like policemen; their little brief authority somehow manages to get my back up. "What's the row?" I asked mildly. "This young devil has been stealin' neeps," he roared, "and Mitchell's gaein' to mak a pollis court case o't." I said nothing; I took Jimmy by the arm and walked towards the gate of Mitchell's field. I vaulted it and deliberately pulled up a turnip and peeled it and ate it, while the constable stood writing down notes voluminously. "Understand," I said to him, "that I am not primarily encouraging Jimmy to steal turnips; my one aim is to appear in the police court with him if he is charged. I would rather a thousand times be with him in the dock than with you and your farmer in the witness-box." Peter Mitchell did not prosecute. In these days Jimmy realised that he and I were friends; we understood each other. Now he does not think of trying to understand me; I am an ex-dominie, and that's enough for him. Macdonald is the real dominie; Jimmy must be circumspect when he is about else there will be ructions. I don't count: I have no authority. I should like to hear Macdonald's remarks to Jimmy if the constable came to the school to tell of one of the laddie's escapades. I have lost Jimmy and a hundred others, but I thank heaven for the bairns left to me. They come up nearly every night, and they spend Saturdays and Sundays with me. Last Saturday Macdonald came into the field where we were playing. Janet and the other girls froze at once; all the fun went out of them, and they looked at him timidly. He tried to show that he also could be playful and he tried to romp with them for a while. The romp wasn't a success; they were acting all the time, and when a girl "tigged" him she did so with a woefully apologetic air as if she would say: "Excuse my touching you, sir, but it's only a game, you know. I'll take care not to presume when we meet on Monday morning." Luckily he did not stay long, and the girls resumed their attempt to tie my legs together with grass ropes, their motive being to stuff my mouth with brambles. I invited them down to the bothy for tea, and they rushed off to lay the table. "And we'll look into a' yer drawers and places," cried Jean, "and read a' yer love-letters." "If you could read I believe you _would_ read them," I shouted after her. "Eh! What an insult!" she cried. "Aw'll just go straucht doon to Maggie and tell her no to hae ye!" After tea Gladys suddenly said: "Come on, we'll play at schules, eh?" The idea was hailed with delight, and Annie requisitioned the services of my new braces for a strap, and ranged us round the fire. "Now," she said, "this is playtime and you are all outside, and when I blow the whistle you'll all come in." "Blaw yer bugle," said Jean, "just to mak it like it was when ye were at the schule." So I played the "Fall In" and went out to play. I came in late. "Why are you late?" demanded Annie. I looked round the room vacantly. "Yes!" I said with a nod of enlightenment. The girls giggled, and Annie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "Where have you been, sir?" "Oh, no!" I cried, "at least I don't think so!" Annie had to sit down and laugh. "That's no fair," she said, "there shud be nae funnin' in the schule." I sat down on the fender and pulled a face that Alfred Lester might have envied. Annie went into fits of laughter. "Tell ye what, Annie," said Ellen, "we'll put the Mester oot, and we'll play oorsells," and I was dismissed the school. After deliberation they agreed to allow me to be an inspector provided I did not say anything. When bairns play school they always put on the fine English. The teacher's main duty is to call erring pupils out and punish them. "Now, Ellen Smith, what is two and two?" "Four." "Very good. Now we'll have an object lesson. What animal do we get milk from, Janet?" "The cow." "Very good. Now we'll have some geography. Where is the town of--?" "Give us spellin' instead," cried Gladys. "Come out, girl!" and Gladys was punished severely. Then Jean was punished for laughing. "It's my chance o' bein' teacher noo," cried Ellen and Janet at the same time, and a treble scuffle for the strap followed. Janet got it. "Now," she began, "I'll be Mister Macdonald. Put yer hands behind yer backs, and the first one that moves will hear about it!" They sat up like statues. "Now, Jean Broon, you stand up and recite the _Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard_!" And Jean stood up and recited the first verse dramatically. "That'll do. Sit down. Ellen Smith, I want you to say the first verse of Wordsworth's _Ode to the Imitations of Immorality_." "P-Please, sir," tittered Gladys, "the inspector's laughin' like onything!" I laughed immoderately, but it wasn't at Janet's malapropism that I laughed so much. I thought of Mrs. Wilks, the charwoman, who looked after the flat another man and I shared in Croydon. One morning she did not arrive to make the breakfast, and I went out to look for her. I found the old woman--she was sixty-three--standing at the foot of the stairs weeping. "Great Scot!" I cried, "what's the matter?" "My 'usband ain't goin' to allow me to char for you young gentlemen again." "What for?" I asked in amazement. "He ... he accuses me of 'avin' immortal relations wiv you," she sobbed. I hasten to add that her relations with us were not immortal: we sacked her a week later for pinching the cream. "Sorry, Janet," I said at length, "proceed with your Imitations of Immorality, although personally I don't see the need for them; the real thing's good enough for me." "Now," she said, "I'll be Mister Neill now." Annie at once began to sing "Tipperary"; Ellen began to pull Gladys's hair; Jean pretended that she was biting a huge apple ... and the teacher Janet took a cigarette from the box on the table and lit it. "You gross libellers!" I cried, and I chased them out of the bothy. * * * To-night I had a long walk with Margaret. I tried to make her talk, for I want so much to know her views on things. "You talk," she said; "I like to listen." "But," I protested, "I'm always talking to you, and you listen all the time. I want to know what is in that wee head of yours ... although I suppose that I ought to be satisfied with its exterior." "You see," she said slowly and somewhat sadly, "I am not clever; I am only an ordinary farmer's daughter working in the dairy and the fields. If I told you what I was thinking you would not be interested." We walked many yards in silence. "It is all a mistake!" she suddenly burst out passionately. "I am not good enough for you, and when my bonny face is gone you will hate me. We have nothing in common, and if you met me in London you wouldn't be interested in me at all. You will bring clever women to the house and I--I will sit in a corner and say nothing, for I won't understand the things that you talk about. I am afraid to go to London with you." "We'll stay here then," I said quietly. "No!" she cried, "not that! I will stay here, but you must go to your work and your clever friends. O! it's all been a mistake!" She sat down on a fallen tree and wept silently. I sat down beside her and placed my arm round her shoulders. "Margaret," I said softly, "we'll have a soul to soul talk about it. I'll tell you very very frankly what I think about the whole matter, and I'll try to deceive neither you nor myself. "Intellectually you are not a soul-mate to me. That can't be possible seeing that you have never had the chance to develop your intellect. I know girls whose intellect is brilliant and whose sense of humour is delicious ... but I don't love them. I like them; I love a witty conversation with them, but ... I don't want to touch them. The touch of your hand sends a thrill through me, and there is no other hand in the world that can do that. I want to caress you, to hug you, to kiss your lips, to kiss your lovely neck. Margaret, I want you ... and you are not my soul-mate. Margaret, I must have you. "You see, dear, love is a thing that cannot be reasoned with. I once wrote down on paper a list of the qualities I wanted in the woman who should be my wife. She was to have blue eyes, a Grecian nose, auburn hair; she was to be tall and imperious; she was to be a fine pianist. Dear, your eyes are grey; your nose isn't Grecian; you aren't tall, and your limit as a pianist is _I'm a Little Pilgrim_ played with one finger. You're hopeless, madam, but, dash it all!... I'll buy an auto-piano! "According to all the rules I oughtn't to find any interest in you at all. Do you know that popular song _You Made Me Love You_? That's the only popular song I ever struck that has any philosophy in it. It has more real pathos in it than _The Rosary_ and Tosti's _Goodbye_ rolled into one. "'You made me love you; I didn't want to do it,' ... Margaret, that's the true story of love. Love is blind they say, but the truth is that love is mad. I didn't want to love you; my mind kept telling me that you were not the right woman ... and here I sit in paradise because your head is on my shoulder. The whole thing's absurd and irrational. I almost believe that there is a real Cupid who fires his arrows broadcast; of course the little fellow is blind and he hits the wrong people." I turned her face towards mine. "Margaret, do you love me?" "I love you," she whispered and she nestled more closely into my shoulder. "And I love you," I replied, and kissed her brow. "It may be all a mistake, darling, but you and I are going to be man and wife." "Anyway," I added, "we have no illusions about it. We've looked at the thing frankly and openly. We are blind, but we are going into it with our eyes open." "You are getting silly again," laughed Margaret, and we forgot all our doubts and fears, and became two children playing with the toy we call love. * * * Margaret came to me to-night. "Mr. Macdonald's evening school opens to-night. Do you think I should join it?" "Why should you?" I asked. "Oh, I have no education, and I want to learn things." "Well," I said consideringly, "you'll learn things all right down there. You'll learn how to measure a field, and how to analyse a sentence; you'll learn a few things about the Stuart kings, and a few things about the British colonies. But, my dear, do you specially want to learn things like that?" "I don't know what things I want to learn," she said sadly. "I think I want to know about the things you used to speak about at your evening school. Things that I don't agree with when you say them." She laughed shortly. "You know," she continued, "you used to make me angry sometimes. When you said that you didn't object to girls smoking I was wild with you. And I remember how shocked I was when you said that swearing navvies were no worse than we were. When you said that the text 'Children, obey your parents' gave bad advice I nearly got up and left the room." "I expect that I _was_ a sort of bombshell," I laughed. "You made me think about things that I had never thought about before." "That was what I was paid for, Margaret; I was educating you." "What is education?" she asked. "Education is thinking, Margaret. Most people take things for granted; they won't face truth. You don't like your sister Edith; she is catty and jealous. But you won't confess to yourself that you dislike Edith. All your training tells you that brotherly love is the accepted thing, and if you confessed to yourself that you are fonder of Jean Mackay than you are of Edith, you would think yourself a sinner of the worst type. If you want to be educated you must be ready to question everything; you must doubt everything. You must be very chary of making up your mind. Do you believe in ghosts?" I asked suddenly. "Of course not!" she said with a smile. "Do you?" "I don't know," I answered. "Lots of people claim to have seen them, and for that reason I leave the question open. There may not be ghosts, but I don't know enough about the subject to deny that they exist. I am quite ready to believe you if you tell me that you saw a ghost in the granary. I asked the question just to use it as an illustration. Popular opinion laughs at the idea of a ghost, but the thinking person won't accept the conventional view. Keep an open mind, Margaret, and believe when you are convinced. "Education never stops; we are being educated every day of our lives. Why, only yesterday, I was up in the top field, and I heard a great squealing. I hurried to the place and was just in time to rescue a tiny rabbit from a weasel. I had seen a weasel kill a rabbit many a time before that, and I had never thought anything about it. But yesterday a sudden thought came to me. I remembered the words 'God is good,' and I began to think about them. Then I suddenly said to myself that the words were not true. The world is full of pain and terror; the great law of nature is: Eat or be eaten. I realised for the first time that every hedgerow is a horrid den of suffering and fear. Cruelty is Nature's name, Margaret." "But," she cried in perplexity, "isn't there much good in the world too?" "Yes, dear, there is much good in the world, but cruelty is much more powerful. You and I are cruel unthinkingly. We kill wasps before they sting us; we aren't good enough to give the poor brutes the benefit of the doubt. Your father is a very kind-hearted man, yet he never once thinks of the cruelty he perpetrates when he rears sheep and cattle and lambs for the butcher's knife. You and I dined on roast lamb often this summer, and we never thought of the poor wee creature's agony when the butcher cut its throat. Your mother is kind, yet she will kill a mouse without a thought, and the mouse is to me the bonniest creature that lives. Its great big glorious eyes fascinate me. Think of the kindly people who chase a poor half-starved fox with hounds and horses; sport is the cruellest thing in the world. Shooting, fishing, hunting ... men are as cruel and as devilish as the tiger or the hawk, Margaret." "Animals maybe don't feel the same as we do," she said. "Don't you lay that flattering unction to your soul," I cried. "I used to believe that comforting tale of the scientist that the lower animals do not feel. I ceased to believe it when I tried to put a worm on a fish-hook. When I saw it wriggle about I said to myself: 'This is pain, or rather it is agony.' Think of the pain that your mares and cows suffer when they are having their young. You and I heard the screams of Polly when that dead foal was born this year. "When you think of it, Margaret, man's chief end is not to glorify God as the Catechism says; his chief end is to eliminate pain ... human pain. You have heard of vivisection? Performing operations on animals, often without chloroform. What's it all for? Not cruelty, as Bernard Shaw suggests; it's all done with the kindly purpose of finding out new ways to abolish human pain. Rabbits and guinea-pigs are dosed with all sorts of microbes so that scientists might discover how to protect human beings from the pain of disease. The doctors sometimes do manage to discover a new way to abolish a certain pain, and the pathetic thing is that while they torture animals to find a way to abolish pain a thousand scientists are busily engaged inventing weapons that will bring more pain into the world. It is an alarming thought that our doctors and nurses spend their lives trying to keep the unfit alive, while our armament makers spend their lives planning means to send the fit to their death. Lots of people have said that this war shows the failure of Christianity; what it really shows is the failure of Medicine. Medicine's primary aim is to keep people alive as long as possible; War's primary aim is to kill as many people as possible. War is really a battle between two branches of science, between shells and senna. The shell scientist won ... and the medicine man buckled on a Sam Browne belt and went out to help his rival's victims. If the doctors of the world had realised that war was a defeat of their principles they would have gone on strike, and would no doubt have stopped the war by doing so. Every doctor should be a pacifist, but as a matter of fact very few doctors are pacifists." "What is a pacifist?" asked Margaret. "A pacifist is a man who loves peace so much that people look up almanacs to see whether his name was Schmidt a generation back, Margaret. He is usually a nervous man with the physical courage of a hen, but he has more moral courage than three army corps. He is usually a Conscientious Objector, and it takes the moral courage of a god to be that." "They are just a lot of cowards!" cried Margaret with indignation. "No," I said, "I can't agree with you. No coward will face the scorn of women and the contempt of men as these men do. Think of the life that lies in front of a Conscientious Objector. Nobody will ever understand him; he will be an outcast for ever. Dear, it takes stupendous courage to put yourself in that position, and I can't think that any man could do it unless he were following principles that were dearer to him than the judgment of his fellow men. You see, Margaret, ordinary courage and moral courage are totally different things. I know a man who won the V.C. for a very brave deed, and that chap wouldn't wear a made-up tie for all the decorations in the world; he wouldn't have the moral courage to be seen walking down the street with a Bengali. The more imagination you have the higher is your moral courage, but imagination is fatal to physical courage. Moral courage belongs to the thinker; physical courage to the doer. And I can't help thinking that moral courage goes with unhealthiness. I am quite sure that physical courage is primarily dependent on physical health. If my liver is out of order I tremble to open a letter; I can't walk ten yards in the dark; and the arrival of a telegram would give me a fainting fit. Nerves are always unhealthy, and as thinkers are always highly strung people I conclude that thinking is unhealthy. Thinkers are mad, Margaret, mad as hatters." "Mad!" "Yes. The lunatic is merely the man whose brain is different from the brain of the average man. The average man does not imagine himself to be Jesus Christ, and when a man does imagine himself to be Christ we say that he is mad, and we shut him up. He may be a Christ for all we know. I don't know why the community didn't shut up Shaw when he first preached that obedience was one of the Seven Deadly Virtues. The average man didn't agree with him, and we can say that Shaw is therefore mad. You see, dear, man is firstly an animal; Joe Smith the butcher down in the village is an animal, a fine healthy animal. He is primitive man, and thinking is the last thing he could attempt. Thinking is an acquired characteristic; it isn't a natural thing, and anything unnatural is diseased. A thinker is as much a freak as a man born with two heads. And that's why I say that thinkers are unhealthy. Blake the great poet was mad; Ibsen the great Norwegian dramatist died in the mad-house; Shelley was diseased; Milton was blind, Keats a consumptive; nearly every great composer of music who ever lived was mad." "But," laughed Margaret, "you said that education was thinking, and now you say that thinkers are all mad." "Yes, but madness is what the world needs. All these villagers down there are absolutely sane, but the world won't be a scrap the better for their existence. I prefer a world of Shelleys and Ibsens to a world of Jack Johnsons and Sandows ... and Joe Smiths. A great German philosopher called Nietzsche preached the gospel of Superman. He wanted a fine race of powerful men who would rule the world. Some people say that Napoleon and Cæsar and Cromwell were Supermen, but the real Supermen were men like Christ and Ibsen and Darwin and Shelley; a fighter is a nobody, but a man with a message is a Superman." "I don't understand," said Margaret dully; "what do you mean by having a message?" "A messenger is a man who forces people to consider things that they wouldn't consider without being prompted. Christ's message was love; He encouraged men to act according to the good that was in them; the kindliness, the charity, the love. And the fact that shooting and hunting and lamb eating still persist shows that we pay but little attention to Christ's message. Shelley's message was freedom, freedom to think and to live one's own life. You'll find that there are only the two kinds of message ... love and freedom." "The evangelists who were holding meetings in the school last winter used to speak about their 'message,'" said Margaret. "Would you say that they were Supermen?" "They were Superwomen," I said hastily. "They depended on emotionalism. They said nothing new, and they would refuse to consider anything new if you asked them to. They had no power to think; they quoted all the time. Consequently their message evaporated; when the magnetism of their appeal went away the converts lapsed into their old sinful ways. They didn't understand the message they tried to deliver; they had never really thought out Christ's philosophy. They had got hold of a catch phrase or two, and they kept shouting: 'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be made whiter than snow.' But I am quite sure that they did not know what they meant by sin. Christ's chief message was: 'Love one another,' but they made it out to be: 'Love yourself so well that you may cry for salvation from the wrath to come.'" Margaret looked at the clock on my mantelpiece. "O!" she cried, "it's eight o'clock ... and the class began at seven! I can't go now." At the door she paused for a moment; then she came back slowly. "I won't attend his class," she said thoughtfully; "I think I'll just come over to see you every night, and you'll talk to me and educate me." "Well," I smiled, "I will give you a wider education than Macdonald can give you. For example ... this!" "I could get any amount of teaching in kissing," she tittered. "Possibly, darling ... but there is no teacher hereabouts with my knowledge and experience of the art." "You horrid pig!" she laughed, and she pulled my hair. XIV. Janet and Annie came up to me to-night. "Hullo!" I cried, "what's become of Ellen and Gladys and Jean?" "We're no speakin' to them," said Annie loftily. "Cheeky things!" said Janet with scorn. I became interested at once. "Rivals in a love affair?" I asked. They sniffed, and ignored the query. "It was Jean," said Annie bitterly. "She went and telt the Mester that Aw spoke when he was oot o' the room." "Aye," said Janet, "she put doon my name tae. Wait er I get her at hame the nicht!" I understood. Macdonald evidently favours the obnoxious practice of setting a bairn to spy on the others ... a silly thing to do. "Aye," went on Annie, "and she called us navvies' lasses!" "And you replied?" "Aw telt her to g'wa hame and darn the hole in her stockin'. 'Aye,' Aw said, 'and ye can wash yer neck at the same time, Jean Broon!'" "But," I said, "Jean never has a dirty neck, Annie." "Weel, what did she say that Aw was a navvy's lass for then?" she demanded indignantly. "I'm afraid that she has seen you speaking to navvies, Annie." Annie became excited. She clutched Janet by the sleeve. "Eh! What an insult!" she cried. "Janet Broon, div Aw speak to navvies?" "Never in a' yer life," said Janet firmly, "never wance ... unless yon day that the twa o' them speered at ye the wye to the huts." "But Aw didna answer," said Annie quickly; "Aw just pointed." "Are you sure?" I asked. "Sure as daith," she declared solemnly, and she cut her breath. "Aw maybe wud ha' spoken," she admitted, "but Aw had a muckle lump o' jaw-stickin' toffee in my mooth, and Aw cudna speak supposin' Aw had wanted to." "Pointing was as bad as speaking," I said. "If it was," said Annie tensely, "Jean never washes her neck. So there!" They departed, and in half-an-hour the enemy came up. They sat in the bothy in silence for a time. "Well," I said cheerily, "what's the news to-night?" "We're fechtin'," said Gladys, "fechtin' wi' Annie and Janet." "What's it all about, eh?" "The Mester gar me write doon the names o' them that was speakin'," blurted out Jean, "and Aw put doon their names." "Yes," chimed in Ellen, "and syne they ca'ed Jean a tramp, and said that the Mester gae her the job o' writin' doon the names cos she was sic a bad writer and needed practice." "Aye," said Gladys, "and they telt me my mither got my pink frock dyed black when my faither deed." "And it wasna her pink frock," cried Ellen; "it was her green ane." "This is alarming," I said with concern. "But tell me, Jean, did you say anything to them?" "Aw never said a word!" "Not one word?" "They cried to us that we was navvies' dochters, and Aw just said: 'Aw wud rather be a navvy's dochter than the dochter o' Annie Miller's faither onywye.'" "They telt Jean to wash her neck," said Gladys. Jean smiled grimly. "Aye, but they got mair than they bargained for! I just says to them, Aw says: 'Annie Miller, gang hame and tell yer faither to redd up his farm-yaird. Aye, and tell yer mither to wash yer heid ilka week instead o' twice a year!'" "But," I protested, "Annie gets her hair washed every Saturday night!" "And Aw get my neck washen ilka mornin'!" "All right, Jean, but you haven't told me what you said to Janet." "Jan! I soon settled her! I just says to her says Aw: 'Wha stailt the plums that mither brocht hame on Saturday nicht?'" "And did Jan steal the plums?" I asked. "She did that!" "And you never touched them?" "No the plums," she said frankly; "Aw wasna sic a thief as that. Aw only took a wee corner o' the fig toffee." I scratched my head thoughtfully. "This is a bonny racket, girls. I don't know what to make of it. I think you'll better make it up." "Never!" cried Jean stoutly. "Ellen and Gladys and me's never to speak to them again; are'n we no, Ellen?" "Never!" cried Ellen. "No if they were to gang doon on their bended knees!" declared Gladys. "That's awkward for you, Jean," I said. "Do you mean to tell me that you won't speak to Jan when you are sleeping together?" "Aw'll just gie her a dig in the ribs wi' my elbow to mak her lie ower, but Aw'll no open my mooth." "And what if your mother says to you: 'Jean, tell Janet to feed the hens?'" "Aw'll just hand her the corn-dish and point to the henhoose." "And put oot my tongue at her," she added. "Jean," I said suddenly, "I'll bet you a shilling that you are speaking to Jan and Annie by to-morrow night at four." "Aw dinna hae a shillin'," she said ruefully, "but Aw bet ye a hapenny Aw'm no!" * * * To-night Jean came running up to me when school was dismissed. "Gie's my hapenny!" she cried; "Aw didna speak to Annie and Janet a' day!" "Honest?" "It's true," said Ellen, "isn't it Gladys?" "Then I'll pay up my debt of honour," I said, and I held out a ha'penny. Jean took it, and then she set off round the steading in great haste. She returned with her arms round Janet and Annie. "Aw got Bets Burnett to tell them aboot the ha'penny," she confessed, "and to speer them no to speak to me a' day and Aw wud gie them a bit o' sugarelly." "You scheming besom!" I cried and I laid her on my bothy table and sat on her. "Eh! Jean!" said Gladys, "if only ye had said ye wud bet a shillin'!" "Dear me," I said hastily, "when I come to think of it I did bet a shilling. Jean bet a hapenny, but I distinctly remember saying that I was betting a shilling. Here you are, Jean!" but Jean refused it with indignation. Not one of them would touch it. "Right!" I cried. "I'm going down to get cigarettes. Who's coming?" I spent a shilling on sweets and chocolate. No one would accept a single sweetie. "I'll give myself toothache if I eat them," I said. They paid no heed. "I won't invite one of you to my marriage if you don't take them." They wavered, but did not give way. "All right," I said with an air of great determination, "here goes!" and I tossed the bag into the field. They made no sign of interest, and we walked up the brae. Jim Jackson was coming down with his milk. "Jim," I began, "if you go down to that first gate, and look over the hedge you'll find--" I got no farther. "Come on!" cried Janet, "Aw dinna want them, but Jim Jackson's no to get them onywye!" I was glad to note that they gave Jim a handful as he passed. * * * To-day was fair day, and the bairns all went to town. I cycled in in the afternoon, and took the girls on the hobby-horses. I also stood Jim Jackson and Dickie Gibson into the stirring drama entitled: "The Moaning Spirit of the Moat ... a Drama of the Supernatural." I had a few shies at the hairy-dolls, and won two cocoanuts and a gold tie-pin. Then I stood fascinated by the style of the gentleman who kept the ring stall. Several articles were hung from hooks, and you tried to throw a ring on to a hook. His invariable comment on a ploughman's attempt was: "Hard luck for the alarum-clock! Give the gentleman a collar-stud." About five o'clock Jim came up to me. "How now, duke," I said breezily, "how much money have you left?" I was astonished to hear that he had half-a-crown. "Why!" I cried, "you told me at three o'clock that you had only ninepence left!" He smiled enigmatically. "Aw've been speculatin'," he said proudly. "Have ye seen the mannie that's sellin' watches and things at the Cross? Aw was standin' there wi' Geordie Steel this mornin', and the mannie speered if onybody wud gie him a penny for a shillin', and naebody wud dae it at first. Syne a ploughman gae him a penny and he got the shillin'. Syne the mannie speers again, and Geordie got a shillin' for a ha'penny. Syne he began to sell watches, and the first man that bocht a watch got his money back. Syne he held up a gold chain, and the man that bocht that he got his money back. Syne he held up anither gold chain and said he wud sell it for half-a-crown. So Geordie ups and hauds oot his half-croon, and it was a' the money he had. Weel, he gets the chain, but no his money back. 'Don't go away,' says the mannie; 'each and every man as buys an article of jewellery will have his reward.' "Weel, Aw waited for half-an-hoor, but Geordie hadna got onything by that time, so Aw goes and sees the boxin' show. After that Aw had a shot o' the shoagin' boats, and syne Aw went back to the Cross. Geordie was ay waitin' for his reward. So Aw says to him: 'He's likely forgot a' aboot it, Geordie; tell him!' So Geordie hauds up his gold chain and says: 'Hi, mannie, ye said Aw was to get a reward!' 'O, yes,' says the mannie, 'and so you shall! I want you to keep these eighteen carat gold sleeve-links as a memento of this occasion,' and he shoved a pair o' links into Geordie's hands. After that he shut his box and said he wud hae anither sale at four punctual. "Weel, Aw began to think aboot the thing, and when he began again he did the same thing. 'Will anyone oblige me by giving me a penny for half-a-crown?' he says, and Aw was just puttin' up my hand when a man held up his penny. 'Hi!' I cried, 'Aw'll gie ye tuppence if ye like!' and the mannie that was selling the things he lauched and handed me the half-croon. 'You're the kind of lad I'm looking for for an apprentice,' he says, but whenever Aw got the money Aw turned and ran awa, and he cries after me: 'Yes, you are the lad I want, but I see you are too clever for me.'" I asked Jim to show me the half-crown, and I examined it. It was quite genuine, but I said to Jim: "Men like that usually give away bad money." He was off like a flash, and when he came back he carried twenty-five pennies and ten hapennies. "If he starts to sell again," he announced, "Aw'll get Geordie to hand up the penny, but Aw'll no stand aside him." The girls each brought my "market" to me to-night ... a packet of rock. I asked about their spendings. Janet had bought three lucky-bags and nine lucky eggs. She had had no luck, and was somewhat grieved at the fact that Jean had bought only one lucky-egg and had got a new hapenny in it. Janet would have bought another egg with the hapenny, but I was not surprised to hear that Jean had bought sugarelly. Ellen had bought a tupenny note-book and a copying-ink pencil, a rubber and a card of assorted pen-nibs. Gladys had spent her all on lemon-kailie, the heavenly powder you get in oval boxes, with two wee tin spoons to sup it with. Jim came up later. His pockets contained three trumps, or Jewish harps as they are called in catalogues, three copying-ink pencils, a pencil that wrote red at one end and blue at the other, two mouth-organs, a wire puzzle, and ... Geordie's gold chain. The latter he had bought for tuppence and a double-stringed trump. "Aw spent three and fowerpence," he said, "but dinna tell the Mester!" "Why not, Jim?" "Cos he'll be angry. He told us yesterday no to spend oor money at the market, but to bring it and put it in the Savin's Bank." I wonder what becomes of the money that children put into the Savings Bank. I think that their parents usually collar it at some time or another. I half suspect that quite a number of cottage pianos owe their appearance to the children's bank-books. I stopped the saving business when I was down in the school. Bairns seldom get money, and sugarelly is like Robinson Crusoe: you must tackle it when you are young, or you never enjoy it thoroughly. I think it cruel to make a bairn bank the penny it gets for running a message. Spending is always a pleasant thing, but a bairn gets more delirious joy out of buying a hapenny lucky-bag than an adult gets out of buying a thousand guinea Rolls Royce motor. Some parents are foolish enough to give their bairns too much to spend. Little Mary Wallace has a penny every day of the year. I think that foolish of her mother. Spending must be a very rare thing if it is to yield the highest pleasure. I would advise bairns to save when they have a definite object in view. To lay up treasure in the Post Office Savings Bank is, for a bairn, about as tempting as laying up treasure in heaven. Bairns can't entertain remote possibilities. You can tell a boy that a sum in the bank will help him to buy clothes or a bicycle when he is a man, and the prospect does not thrill him. You can't persuade a boy to cast his eyes on the years to come when his eyes are rivetted on a cake of chewing-gum in the village shop window. If he saves it should be for a direct tangible object. He takes up a Gamage catalogue (the most delightful of books to a boy), and he sees an illustration of a water-pistol costing a shilling. If he is a boy of spirit he will deny himself sweeties for a month in order to get that pistol. The self-discipline necessary to enable a village boy to buy a water-pistol will do him infinitely more good than all the discipline of all the Macdonalds in Scotland. I would have all children poor in money, but I would give them the opportunity of earning enough money to buy their toys. A little poverty is good for anybody; I would recommend a young man to live on twelve shillings a week for a year or two; he would begin to see things in proportion. A friend of mine bases his antipathy to Socialism on this view of poverty. He argues that poverty brings out self-reliance, pluck, grit. When I ask him why he doesn't support Socialism as a means of bringing all these advantages to the poor wealthy folk, he is at a loss. In a manner I agree with him; poverty will often give a race splendid characteristics. But Socialism recognises that the wealth of the world is divided most unequally. At one end you have luxury that makes men degenerate; at the other end you have poverty that makes men swine. If Shaw's idea of equal incomes could be carried out each person would be in the position of a member of the present lower middle class; he would be rich enough to be well-fed and happy, and he would be poor enough to discipline himself to make sacrifices to attain an object. I don't think that any man should satisfy more than one desire at a time. If Andrew Carnegie wants a motor-car and a four manual organ he has simply to tell his secretary to write out two cheques. But if I want a motor-cycle and an Angelus player-piano I've got to give up one desire. I know that I'll tire of either, and all I have to do is to sit down and wonder which novelty will last the longer. I want both very much. A 2¾-h.p. Douglas would be delightful, and an Angelus with lots of rolls would charm the long nights away. But ... there is Margaret. I begin to think of blankets and sheets and pots and pans. I don't want any of these plebeian articles, but I want Margaret very much, and I know that along with her I must take the whole bunch of kitchen utensils. I begin to feel sorry for millionaires. One of the finer pleasures of life is the desiring of a thing you can't buy. The sorriest man in story is the millionaire who arrived at a big hotel very late, so late that he couldn't be served with supper. He straightway sent for the proprietor and asked the price of the hotel. He wrote out a cheque on the spot ... and called for his sausage and mashed--or whatever the dish was. No wonder that millionaires complain of indigestion. That story contains a fine moral. I don't exactly know what the moral is, but I hazard the opinion that the moral is this:--Never buy a hotel in order to get a plate of sausage and mashed. Millionaires might be defined as men who buy hotels in order to get sausage and mashed ... and they can't digest the sausage when they have got it. When a Carnegie builds a great organ in a great hall he is really buying the whole hotel. He is taking an unfair advantage of his fellow music-lovers. A plate of sausage and mashed would be of far greater moment to G. K. Chesterton than to the millionaire, but G. K. couldn't buy the whole hotel; he would merely swear volubly and tighten the belt of his waistcoat ... if that were possible. The millionaire should not have this advantage over Chesterton. So a millionaire should not have any advantage over a music-lover. Collinson, the Edinburgh University organist, has no doubt a greater appreciation of organ music than a Carnegie, but he has to go down to his church organ on a winter night if he wants to play a Bach fugue. Money is power, they say, but money is worse than power; it is tyranny. A successful pork-merchant whose one talent is his ability to tell at a glance how much pig it takes to fill a thousand tins of lamb cutlet, may buy up half the treasures of the world if he likes. Priceless pictures and violins lie in millionaires' halls, while students of genius study prints and practise on two guinea fiddles. At first sight this seems a problem that Horatio Bottomley would handle eagerly and popularly, but the problem is really a deep one. When humanity abolishes the power to amass millions who is to have the priceless treasures? In the case of art the community of course. (I see in to-day's paper that Rodin has bequeathed all his works to France.) But what of the Stradivarius violins? I would have them lent to the geniuses. Who is to decide who the geniuses are? That is a question of fundamentals, and if I had left the question to Mr. Bottomley I think he would have recommended his readers to "write to John Bull about it." I begin to feel that I am talking through my hat as the vulgar phrase has it. My baccy's finished, and I can't concentrate my attention on any subject. What I meant to do was to show that a millionaire is a man to be pitied. To buy a Titian painting when your tastes lie in the direction of Heath Robinson's _Frightful War Pictures_ is as pathetic a thing to do as to sit out a classical concert when your tastes lead you to a passionate love for ragtime. And buying a Titian is a simple case of buying the hotel in order to get the sausage and mashed that you can't eat. Millionaires ... no, it's no good; I'll have to fold up my typewriter till I get some more baccy. XV. Margaret was reading a few pages of my diary to-night. "Why," she said, "it's all about yourself!" "Not all," I said hastily, "some of it is about you ... but I won't let you read that part until you are my wife. If you knew the terrible things I have written about you you would go off straightway and marry Joe Smith." "You think quite a lot of yourself," she said with a laugh. "Everybody thinks a lot of himself, Margaret. If I died to-night you would probably have forgotten the shape of my nose by the time you were sixty, but you'll never forget that I told you your neck was the loveliest neck in the county. My old grandmother used to tell me again and again of the man who stopped her on the road when she was seven and told her that her eyes were like blue stars. His name was Donald Gunn ... but she could never recollect the names of the girls she played with. "The people who don't think much of themselves are people who have no personality to be proud of ... personally I haven't yet met any of the brand. We all have something that we're conceited about, dear. You are conceited about your eyes and your neck and your hair. Jean Hardie is about the plainest girl in the village, but I could bet that she thinks her hair the most glorious in the place ... and it is too. "Very often we are conceited about the things that we can do worst. I can draw pretty well, but I'm not conceited about it. I can't sing for nuts ... and if anyone left the room when I was warbling I should hate him to all eternity. I like a man to be an egotist ... if he has got an ego of any value. Peter MacMannish is a type of egotist that should be put into a lethal chamber. He has no ego to talk about, but he imagines that his stomach is his ego, and he will talk to you for an hour about the 'yirkin'' of the organ in question." "What is an ego?" asked Margaret. "I never heard the word before." "It is the Latin word for 'I,' and a person who uses the pronoun 'I' very often is called an egotist. The other word egoist has a different meaning; it means a person who thinks of himself all the time, a selfish person. You can be an egotist without being an egoist, and vice versa. Peter Mitchell never talks about himself; while you talk about yourself he is thinking out a method of selling you something at double its value. "There are two kinds of egotist ... the man who talks about what he does, and the man who talks about what he thinks. When I get letters from my friends they are full of "I's." Dorothy Westbrook, a college friend of mine, a medallist in half-a-dozen classes, fills eight pages with small talk.... 'I went to see Tree in the Darling of the Gods last night,' and so on. I generally skip the eight pages and look at the post-script. May Baxter, another college friend, a girl who wouldn't recognise a medal if you showed her one, writes ten pages, and she usually commences with something like this:--'I was re-reading _The New Machiavelli_ last night, and I think that I begin to despise Wells now.' I read her letter a dozen times. When she does take a fancy for the other kind of egotism she is delightful: she doesn't tell me what she does; she tells me what she is. "I have half a mind to leave you for a year, Margaret, just to give you a chance of writing about yourself. I won't be able to write to you in the same strain: I wrote myself out when I fell in love at twenty-two. You can only be a good letter-writer once, and that is when you are discovering yourself for the first time, and ramming it down on paper as fast as you can. I used to write letters of twenty foolscap pages, but now I never write a letter if I can help it. Life has lost most of its glamour when you realise that you have discovered yourself. It's a sad business discovering yourself, dear. You set out to persuade yourself that you are a genius or a saint, and, after a long examination of yourself you discover that you are a sorry creature. You set out with Faith and Hope at your elbow, and at the end you find that they have long since left you, but you find that Charity has taken their place. Charity begins at home says the proverb, and I take this to mean that Charity comes to you when you find yourself at home, when you discover yourself. I used to be the most uncharitable of mortals, but now I seldom judge a man or woman. Peter MacMannish gets drunk; I do not condemn him, for I have looked on the wine when it was red. Mary MacWinnie has had two illegitimate children; I am a theoretical Don Juan. Shepherd, the rabbit-catcher, has an atrocious temper; I do not judge him, because, although my own temper is pretty equable, I can realise that the man can no more help his temper than I can the size of my feet. Charity comes to you when you have discovered how weak you are, and that's what kept me from being a good code teacher. I was such a poor weak devil that I couldn't bring myself to make the boys salute me or fear me." "You say that, but you don't believe it." "I believe it, Margaret. My whole theory of education is built on my abject humility. My chief objection to Macdonald is that he ignores his own weaknesses. He has never analysed himself to see what manner of man he is. If he could look into his heart and discover all the little meanesses and follies and hypocrisies he would not have the courage to make a boy salute him; he would not have the impudence to strap a boy for swearing. One of the worst things about Macdonald and a thousand other dominies is that they have forgotten their childhood. A dominie should never grow up. I would take away from all students their text-books on School Management and Psychology, and put into their hands Barrie's _Peter Pan_ and Stevenson's _A Child's Garden of Verses_. "Margaret, why can't people see that the Macdonald system is all wrong? What in all the world is the use of dominies and ministers and parents posing before children? What is respect but a pose? What is Macdonald's sternness but a pose? He is a kindly decent fellow outside his school. The bairns meet with pose the first thing in the morning when they enter the school. They stand up and repeat the Lord's Prayer monotonously, and without the faintest realisation of what they are saying. The dominie closes his eyes and clasps his hands in front of him, and I don't believe there is a single dominie in Scotland who really prays each morning. For that matter I don't believe that there are half-a-dozen ministers who repeat the prayer on Sundays with any thought of its meaning. The morning prayer is a gigantic sham. When I said to Macdonald that I would have it abolished in schools he almost had a fit. The bigger the sham is the louder is the screaming in its defence if you attack it. "Think of all the shams that parents practise. They pretend that babies come in the doctor's pocket; they pretend that a lie is as much an abomination to them as it is to the Lord; they imply by their actions that they never stole apples in their lives; they hint that they don't know what bad language means. They live a life that is one continuous lie." "I don't understand that," said Margaret with a puzzled look. "A mother lies to her child when she tells it that it is wicked when it makes a noise; a father lies to his son when he tells him that he will come to a bad end if he smokes any more cigarettes. Worse than that they lie by negation. The father changes his 'Hell!' into 'Hades!' when he hits his thumb with a hammer; the mother says 'Tut Tut!' when she means 'Damnation!' Both go to church as an example to their offspring ... and going to church is in most cases a lie. Nearly every father of a family says grace before meat, and he generally delays the practice until his first-born is old enough to take notice. Then there is the lie about relationship. A child never discovers that its father has about as much love for its mother's aunt as he has for the King of Siam. "Convention is one huge lie, Margaret. You lift your hat when a coffin goes by; you beg my pardon when I ask you to pass the marmalade; you stand bare-headed when a band plays the National Anthem. It's all a lie, dear, a pretty lie perhaps, but a lie all the same. But after all, the manners business is a minor affair; you can't abolish it, and if you try you will only make yourself ridiculous. But the other lies, the hypocritical lies that are told to children ... these are dangerous. An ardent republican will doff his hat when the band plays _God Save the King_, and be none the worse; the unpleasantness that might follow his keeping his hat on his head wouldn't be worth it. But if I pretend to a child that I am above human frailty I am doing a hellish thing that may have devilish consequences." "Your language is awful!" cried Margaret in feigned protest. "I was quoting _The Ancient Mariner_, dear; you read it at my evening class, and you have evidently forgotten it. Since the beginning of humanity children have been warped by the attitudinising of their elders. A child is imitative always; he hasn't the power to think out biggish things for himself. He is tremendously docile; he will believe almost anything you tell him, and he will accept an older person's pose without question. If one of the village boys were to see Macdonald stotting home drunk he would be like the countryman who, when he saw a giraffe for the first time, cried: 'Hell!... I don't believe it!' And the sad thing is that they never are able to distinguish between pose and truth. The villagers who used to tell my bairns that I was daft don't realise what pose is; they have never found the right values. When they criticise the minister or the dominie they invariably fasten on the wrong things. They are beginning to criticise Macdonald because he insists on a bairn's bringing a written excuse when he has been absent, but they believe in all his poses--his love for respect, his authority, his whackings, his hiding of his pipe when a child is near, his passion for sex morality, his dignity, his ... his frayed frock coat that he wears in school." "The poor man's only wearing out his old Sunday coat!" protested Margaret. "I never thought of that, Margaret; I'll cut out the coat. But he shouldn't have a frock coat anyway. When we get married I shall insist on dressing in an old golfing jacket, flannel bags, and a soft collar. The only danger is that men of my stamp are apt to make unconvention conventional. It's a very difficult thing to keep from posing when you are protesting against pose." "Oh! I don't understand the half of what you say," said Margaret wearily. "That means that you think my lips might be better employed, you schemer!" and I ... well, I don't think I need write everything down after all. * * * "There was a venter locust at the schule the day," remarked Annie. I was brushing my boots at the bothy door, and the girls sat on the step and watched me. "A what?" I asked. "A venter locust. Ye paid a penny to get in, and Jim Jackson gaithered the pennies in the mannie's hat and got in for nothing, for he didna put his ain penny in." "What sort of show was it, Annie?" "He had a muckle doll wi' an awfu' ugly face, and he asked it questions." "Did it answer them?" "Aye. It opened its great big mooth." "There maybe was a gramaphone inside," suggested Gladys. "Jim Jackson said that it was the mannie that was speakin' a' the time," said Janet. "Jim Jackson was bletherin'," said Annie with scorn. "Aw watched 'im, and his mooth never moved a' the time." "Perhaps he was talking through his hat, Annie," I said. "He wasna," she cried, "for his hat was on the Mester's desk fu' o' pennies!" "Well," I ventured, "the proverb says that money talks, you know." "Weel," tittered Annie, "there wasna much money to talk, for the pennies was nearly a' hapennies!" "Aw dinna understand how that doll managed to speak," said Ellen, and I proceeded to explain the mysteries of ventriloquism to them. Then I told them my one ventriloquist yarn. A broken-down ventriloquist stopped at a village inn one hot day, and stared longingly through the bar door. He hadn't a cent in his pocket. He sat down on the bench and gazed wearily at a stray mongrel dog that had followed him for days. Suddenly inspiration came to him. He rose and walked into the bar. "A pint of beer, mister!" he cried, and pretended to fumble for his money, when the landlord placed the tankard on the bar counter. The dog looked up into his face. "Here, mister," said the dog, "ain't I going to get one?" The landlord started. "That's a remarkable animal," he said with staring eyes. "Pretty smart," said the ventriloquist indifferently. "I'll--I'll buy that dog," said the landlord eagerly; "I'll give you five pounds for him." The ventriloquist considered for a while. "All right," he said at length, "I hate to part with an old friend like him, but I must live, and I have no money." The landlord counted out the five sovereigns, and the ventriloquist drank up his beer and made for the door. "Better come round and take hold of the dog," he said, "or he'll follow me." The landlord lifted the bar-flap and took hold of the dog by the collar. At the door the ventriloquist looked back. The dog gazed at him. "You brute," it cried, "you've sold me for vulgar gold. I swear that I'll never speak again." I paused. "And, you know, girls, he never did." "Eh," cried Janet, "what a shame! The public-hoose mannie wud leather the puir beast to mak' it speak." "That's the real point of the story, Jan. A story is no good unless it leaves something to the imagination." "The Mester gae us a story to write for composition the day," said Annie. "It was aboot a boy that was after a job and a' the boys were lined up and they had to go in to see the man, and he had a Bible lyin' on the floor, and a' the lads steppit over it, but this laddie he pickit it up and got the job." "That's what you call a story with a moral, Annie. It is meant to teach you a lesson. The best stories have no morals ... neither have the people who listen to them." "We had to write the story," said Ellen, "and syne we had to tell why the boy got the job. Aw said it was becos he was a guid boy and went to the Sunday Schule." "Aw said it was becos he was a pernikity sort o' laddie that liked things to be tidy," said Gladys. Annie laughed. "Aw said the man was maybe a fat man that cudna bend doon to pick it up. What did you say, Jan?" "Aw dinna mind," said Janet ruefully, "but when the Mester cried me oot for speakin', Aw picked up a geography book on the floor, just to mak the Mester think that Aw had learned a lesson frae his story, but he gae me a slap on the lug for wastin' time comin' oot." "Jim Jackson got three scuds wi' the strap for his story," said Annie. "Ah!" I cried, "what did he write?" "He said that the laddie maybe hadna a hankie, and his nose was needin' dichted and he didna like to let the man see him dichtin' it wi' the sleeve o' his jaicket, so he bent doon to pick up the Bible and dicht his nose on the sly at the same time." "Yes," I said sadly, "that's Jim Jacksonese, pure and simple. Poor lad!" "The Mester said he was a vulgar fellow," said Janet. "A low-minded something or other, he ca'ed him," said Gladys. "But he didna greet when he got the strap," said Annie, "he just sniffed thro' his nose and--and dichted it wi' his sleeve." I knew then that all the Macdonalds in creation couldn't conquer my Jim. XVI. Macdonald and I were comparing notes to-night. "I found that Monday was always a noisy day in school," I said; "the bairns were always unsettled." "I don't find that," he said; "Friday is their worst day. I don't understand that." "Friday was my free day," I said. "What do you mean by free day?" "Every bairn did what it liked." "Good Lord!" exclaimed Macdonald. "That's nothing," I laughed, "why, I gave them a free week once." "What was your idea. Laziness?" "Laziness! My dear boy, I never put in such a hard week in my life. A boy would come out and ask for a certain kind of sum, then a girl would bring out a writing book and ask for a setting; by the time I had attended to these, a dozen were waiting." "Did they all work?" "They were all active. Dickie Gibson spent the week in sketching; Geordie Steel read five penny dreadfuls; Janet Brown played at anagrams; Annie Miller read _The Weekly Welcome_; Ellen Smith worked arithmetic all week and Jock Miller wrote a novel. Jock spent half his dinner-hour writing." "That's what a school should be," I added. "Ah! So you think that reading penny dreadfuls is education?" "Everything you do is education." "So you say, but I want to know the exact educational value of penny dreadfuls. My idea is that they do boys harm." "That's what the magistrates say, Macdonald. They trace all juvenile crime to penny dreadfuls and the cinema. The British have a passion for scapegoats. We have war with Germany. 'Who did this?' demand the public indignantly. 'Who's going to be whopped for this?' They look round and Haldane's rotund figure catches their eye. Haldane becomes the scapegoat. So with poor Birrell when the Sinn Fein rebellion occurred. So the magistrates fasten on the poor penny dreadful and the picture-film. Obviously they do so because they are too stupid to think out the problem of crime. Picture-houses have about as much to do with crime as Birrell had to do with the dissatisfaction in Ireland." "Come, come," said Macdonald impatiently, "keep to the point: what educational value has the penny dreadful?" "The educational value that any reading matter has. It doesn't give you many ideas, but you can say the same thing about Barrie's novels or Kipling's. It gives a boy a vocabulary and it exercises his imagination." "Wouldn't he be better reading good literature? Dickens for instance?" "I don't see it," I said; "he isn't ripe enough to understand Dickens's humour, and for a boy I should say Dickens is bad. His style is grandiose and stilted, his periphrasis is the most delightful in the world to an educated person, but it is bad for a child. About half of _David Copperfield_ is circumlocution, but a boy should learn to speak and write boldly. The penny dreadful goes straight to the point. 'Harold looked straight into the blue barrel of a Colt automatic.' Translate that into Dickensese (an ugly word to coin, I admit) and you have something like this:--'Harold contemplated with extreme apprehension the circular muzzle of a Cerulean blue automatic pistol of the kind specifically manufactured by the celebrated world-famous American firm of Colt.'" "Poor Dickens," laughed Macdonald. "But you see my point?" I persisted. "Circumlocution is a Victorian nuisance. Any man who has anything to say says it simply and without trappings. And, mind you, Macdonald, people who use circumlocution in style use it in thought. The average man loves flowery literature, and he loves flowery thoughts. The contest between the plain style and the aureate style is really the old contest between realism and romance. The romantic way to look at crime is to fix your attention on drink and penny dreadfuls and cinema shows; the realistic way is to look bravely at the economic division of wealth that causes poverty and disease, the father and mother of crime." "You're away from the point again," said Macdonald with a smile. "How do you defend Janet Brown's week of anagrams?" "It doesn't need any defence; it was Janet's fancy to play herself and I fail to see that she was wasting time. You really never waste time unless you are under coercion." "Another rotten paradox," he laughed, "go on!" "When I allow convention to force me to play cards I feel that I am wasting time, for I hate the blamed things. But if I spend a day pottering with the wheels of an old clock I am not wasting time: I am extremely interested all the time." "No, no! It won't do! Janet was wasting time, and you know it, in spite of your arguing!" "I'll tell you what's wrong with you and all your fellow educationists, Macdonald," I said. "You've got utilitarian commercial minds. You worship work and duty, and you have your eyes on monetary success all the time. You look upon bairns as a foreman mechanic looks upon workmen, and your idea of wasted time is the same as his. If I were Bruce, the linen merchant, I should certainly accuse a girl of wasting time if I caught her reading a novelette during working hours. Bruce has one definite aim--production of linen. He knows exactly what he wants to produce. You don't, and I don't. We don't know what effect puzzling out anagrams will have on Janet's mentality. We have no right to accuse her of wasting time." "Don't tell me," he cried; "there is a difference between work and play. Janet has no more right to play during school hours than a mill-girl has to read novelettes during working hours." "The mill-girl is a wage-slave, and I don't think that dominies should apply the ethics of wage-slavery to education. Her master, Bruce, goes golfing and fishing on working days, only, he is economically free, and he can do what he likes. And I don't suppose you will contend that tending a loom is the goal of humanity. If you want to make Janet an efficient mill-girl by all means coerce her to work in school. But, Macdonald, I have argued a score of times that education should not aim at turning out wage-slaves. If Janet is to be a mill-girl all your history and grammar won't make her tend a loom any better; so far as the loom is concerned the composing of anagrams will help her quite as much as grammar will." When Macdonald had gone I made up my mind that I wouldn't argue about education with him again. I'll bring out my pack of cards when he next visits me. * * * I have had a sharp attack of influenza, and have been in bed for a week. When my temperature fell I commenced to read a book on political philosophy, but I had to give it up. I asked Margaret to borrow a few novels from Macdonald's school library, and I found content. I read _The Forest Lovers_, _King Solomon's Mines_, and one of Guy Boothby's Dr. Nikola stories, and was entranced. When you are ill you become primitive; the emotional part of you is uppermost, and you weep over mawkish drivel that you would laugh at when you are well. Any snivelling parson could have persuaded me to believe that I was a sinner, had he come to my bed-side three days ago. Luckily no snivelling parson came, but the girls came every night. "Aw hope ye dinna dee," said Annie. "Ye wud need an awfu' lang coffin," said Janet as she measured me with her eye. "You've got a cheerful sort of bed-side manner, Jan," I said. "Wud ye hae an oak coffin?" she asked. "Couldn't afford it, Jan. You see I'm saving up for my marriage." "But if ye need a coffin ye'll no need a wife." "The wedding-cake will do for the funeral feast," I said hopefully. "I've ordered it." Janet laughed. "Eh! It wud be awfu' funny to eat weddin' cake at a burial!" she cried. "Wud'n it?" "I don't think I would be in a position to appreciate the fun of the thing, Janet." "Maggie wudna see muckle fun in it either," said Gladys. "Wud Jim Jackson be yer chief mourner?" asked Ellen. "Possibly," I said, "but don't mention the fact to him. He'll become unsettled. He's an ambitious youth, Jim, and his position as best man at my marriage will merely make him long for other worlds to conquer." "Ye wud hae a big funeral," said Janet thoughtfully. "We wud get a holiday that day," she added brightly. "Ah!" I said, "that settles it, Jan. Leave me to die in peace. Let me see--this is Tuesday; if I die now that will mean Saturday for the funeral. That's no good. What do you say to my putting off the evil day till Friday? That will mean a holiday on Tuesday." "But ye canna dee when ye want to!" she laughed. "I can easily borrow some of Mrs. Thomson's rat poison." "Syne ye wud be committin' sooicide," cried Annie, "and they wud bury ye at nicht, and we wudna get oor holiday." "Ah! Annie! You've raised a difficulty. I hear Jim whistling outside. Bring him in and we'll see if he can solve the problem." They brought Jim to my bedside. I explained the difficulty, and Jim scratched his head. "If ye was murdered they wudna bury ye at nicht," he said after some deliberation. "A brilliant idea, Jim, but who is to murder me?" "Joe Simpson wud dae it ... quick," he answered. "He has a notion o' Maggie." "Aw wud get another holiday," he added, "when Joe was tried. Aw wud be a witness." "So wud Aw," said Annie. "And me too," said Janet. "Ye wudna," said Jim with scorn, "lassies canna swear, and ye have to put yer hand on the Bible and swear when ye are a witness." "We'll have to give up the murder idea," I said firmly: "it's unfair; I can't have Jim getting two holidays while the girls get only one." "We micht get another holiday when Joe was buried," suggested Ellen. "No," said Jim, "they bury a hanged man in the jile." "Ye'll just need to get better again," said Janet. "You'll lose your holiday in that case, Jan." She put her arm round my neck. "Aw was just funnin'," she said kindly, "Aw dinna want ye to dee. Aw wud greet." "You would forget me in a week, Jan." "Na Aw wudna," she protested. "Aw wud put flowers on yer grave ilka Sabbath, and Aw wud cut oot the verse o' pottery in the paper. Aw cut oot the verse aboot my auntie Liz." "What was it?" "Aw dinna mind, but it was something like this:-- "We think, when we look at yer vacant chair, Of yer dear old face and yer grey hair, But ye are away to the land of above Where ye'll never more have care." "Very nice, Jan. Now you'll better set about composing a verse for me." "A' richt," she laughed, "we'll mak a line each, and here's the first one:-- "'He was goin' to be marrit, but he dee'd afore his time "You mak the next line, Annie." "'And Jim Jackson ate so muckle at the funeral that he got a sair wime.'" "Nane o' yer lip," growled Jim. "Come on, Gladys," I said, "third line." "'He dee'd o' effielinza, and he'll no hae ony mair pain." "Last line, Ellen!" "'But in the Better Land we'll maybe meet him again.'" "There shud be something aboot 'gone but not forgotten,'" said Jim. "When auld Rab Smith dee'd his wife had 'gone but not forgotten' in the papers ... and the corp wasna oot o' the hoose." "Aw've got a new frock," said Janet, and the conversation took a cheerier direction. On the following evening Margaret came in when they were with me. "Come on!" cried Janet, "we'll mak Maggie kiss him!" and they seized her. "No," I said, "influenza is catching, and I don't want Margaret to be ill." "Eh!" cried Annie, "d'ye think we believe that? Aw believe she's kissed ye a hunder times since ye was badly." "Not a hundred, Annie," I said; "the truth is that she kissed me once; I had just taken my dose of Gregory's Mixture, and she vowed that she would never kiss me again." "Aw wud chuck him up if Aw was you, Maggie," said Jean, "he tells far ower many lees." "Should I?" laughed Margaret. "Aye," cried Jean with delight, "gie him back his ring!" Margaret drew off her ring and handed it to me, and the girls clapped their hands gleefully. "Very good," I said resignedly, "you girls will better cancel the orders for wedding frocks. And, Jean, just look in and tell Jim Jackson not to buy a new dickie, will you?" The girls looked at each other doubtfully. "Ye're just funnin'," said Jean with a forced laugh. "Funning? My dear Jean, when a girl hands back the engagement ring, do you mean to tell me she is funning?" Children live in two lands--the land of reality and the land of make-believe. A serious look will make them jump from the one to the other. They looked at my serious face and believed that Margaret had really given me up. Then they glanced at Margaret; she laughed, and their clouded faces cleared. I knew that they would try to make me believe that they still considered I was in earnest. "Aw'll cry in and tell Jim aboot the dickie," said Jean. "It's a pity ye ordered the weddin' cake," said Annie. "Ye can gie it to the Mester to christen his bairn," suggested Janet. "It'll be ower big," said Gladys. "Aweel," retorted Janet, "he can gie the half o't to the Mester, and maybe the other half will do for Peter Mitchell's funeral." "What!" I cried, "is Peter dead?" "No exactly," said Janet hopefully, "but he's badly wi' the chronic, and he'll maybe dee." "That settles the question of the cake," I said, "but you have still to settle the question of Margaret." "She can marry Joe Simpson," suggested Ellen. "Aye," said Jean, "and she'll hae to work oot, and feed the three black swine. She wud be better to tak Dave Young, for he has only twa swine to feed." "Be an auld maid, Maggie," said Janet, "and keep a cat. A man's just a fair scutter onywve ... especially a delicate man that taks effielinza and lies in his bed. Ye'll be far better as an auld maid, Maggie. Ye'll no hae ony bairns, but bairns is just a nuisance." "I'll be an old maid then," said Margaret. "Now you've disposed of the cake and the lady," I said, "what is to become of me?" "You!" said Janet. "You can be an auld bachelor and live next door to Maggie, and she'll send a laddie ower wi' a bowl o' soup when she has soup to her dinner." "Aye," said Gladys, "and she'll wash yer sarks and mend yer socks for you." "Sounds as if I am to have all the joys of matrimony without its sorrows," I said. "I'm afraid, Margaret, that we'll have to get married after all. The other way is too expensive: we should require to pay the rent of two houses." "But," cried Annie, "if ye get married ye'll hae bairns to keep, and they'll cost mair than the rent o' two hooses!" "Then in Heaven's name what am I to do?" I cried in feigned perplexity. Janet took Margaret's hand and placed it in mine. "Just tak Maggie," she said sweetly; "and by the time ye hae bairns Aw'll maybe be marrit mysell, and Aw'll mak my man send ye a ham when he kills the swine." So I placed the ring on Margaret's finger and kissed her. Then I drew Janet's head down and kissed her too. "Eh!" cried Annie, "that's no fair!" "What do you mean?" I asked. "Ye've kissed Jan," she laughed, "and she'll maybe tak effielinza and--and get a holiday." Then I kissed Annie and the others three times, and they all went out laughing. The tears came into my eyes ... but then I was weak and ill. XVII. I object to the type of man who practises practical jokes. Young Mackenzie and Jim Brown have just played a nasty one on Willie Baffers, the village lunatic. Poor Willie invented a new aeroplane; he took an old solid-tyred boneshaker bicycle and fixed feathers to the spokes. Mackenzie and Brown inspected the invention, and told Willie that his fortune was as good as made. Next morning the post brought a letter to Willie from the Munitions Ministry, offering him four million pounds and threepence hapenny for the patent rights, and asking Willie to meet a representative at the Royal Hotel in the town. Willie rode the old bike into town, and feathered it in the hotel yard. Mackenzie with a false beard on, handed him a cheque for the four millions, and Willie ran nearly all the eight miles home to tell of his good fortune. Macdonald told me the yarn to-night as a rich joke, but I failed to find any humour in it. It was a low-down trick. "Good Lord!" I cried, "neither of them is much more intelligent than Willie. Any man of average ability could take them in as easily as they took in poor Baffers." "All the same," tittered Macdonald, "the joke is funny." "There always is something funny in idiotic things, Macdonald. If I had seen Willie's invention I should probably have roared; but the glimpse would have satisfied me. I roar at Charlie Chaplin's idiotic actions, but I wouldn't be so ready to roar at them if Charlie were really an idiot. Any fool could spend a lifetime playing jokes on village lunatics. I could write Willie a letter offering him the command on the Western front, and signing it 'Lloyd George,' but that sort of fun doesn't appeal to me." "I'm different," said Macdonald. "I would think that a good joke. You think Jim Jackson funny, on the other hand, and I think there's nothing funny about him." "What has he been doing now?" "I gave them an essay on their favourite pets yesterday, and he wrote one about his pet bee and elephant." "What did he say about them?" "Oh, the thing was just a piece of nonsense. He said the bee's name was Polly, and--I have the thing in my desk," he said, "you can read it for yourself." I copied the essay out to-night. Here it is:-- POLLY AND PETER. Polly is the name of my pet bee, and Peter is my elephant. They are very friendly, Polly often sits on Peter's ear but Peter never sits on Polly's. They eat out of the same dish. Peter ate Polly by mistake one day, but she stung him on the tongue and when he opened his mouth to roar she flew out. Polly used to sleep in Peter's trunk. One night he sneezed and Polly was lying a mile away next morning. In the summer time Polly lives in a wood house in the garden and it is called a hive and that is where she keeps the honey. I take it away when she is not looking and she thinks it is Peter that does it, at least she kicks him for it. I have told her to watch for Zeps. She sits on the roof all night watching, she is to sting the Kaiser on the nose if he comes. She is an old maid. She had a lad called Archibald, but father sat on him one night and then he swore when he tried to sit down for weeks after. Archibald died. Peter is a nice animal and he has a thousand teeth, but Polly only has twenty. Peter looks like he has two tails he wags them both but the front one is a trunk for eating. He is an awful big eater. He says his prayers every night and I hope he will go to heaven when he dies. He had pewmonia and Polly had pendisitis, and the doctor made an operation and put in nineteen stitches. Peter works all day, the road-roller man is at the war and Peter has to roll about on the road to bruise the metal. He fills his trunk with water and wets the road first. Polly tells him when the moters are coming. "I don't see anything funny in that," said Macdonald. "Possibly not," I said, "but Jim's idea of fun isn't the same as yours or mine. A bairn laughs at ludicrous things: I'm sure Jim laughed when he imagined the scene where his father sat on Archibald. The essay is full of promise." Macdonald handed me Alec Henry's book. "That's a better essay," he said. I read the essay. "Its English is better," I said, "the sentences are correctly formed, but there isn't an idea in the whole essay. Anybody can describe a pet rabbit." "That's so, but composition is meant to teach a boy to write good English." "What's the good of writing good English if you haven't any ideas to write about?" I cried. "Every member of Parliament can write good English, but there aren't half-a-dozen men of ideas in the House. Personally, I don't care a damn how a boy writes if he shows he is not an average boy. Jim Jackson has talent: Alec Henry is a mere unimaginative cram. You encourage Henry and you sit on Jim.... I wish he had Archibald's power to sting you!" "But what is his nonsense to lead to?" he said. "We don't know. As dominies our job is to encourage Jim in his natural bent. It is enough for us that he is different from the scholarly Henry. We have a good idea of what Alec will come to; we know nothing about Jim. You have tried to fit Jim into the Alec mould, and you have failed." "Jim knew that you were on his side," growled Macdonald. "I suppose he did, Macdonald. But you have got all the others; surely you don't grudge me Jim and the five girls?" "That's all right," he said with a short laugh, "I've given up wooing them. I allow Jim to choose his own line now ... but I'll never like the laddie." * * * I have always disliked all the pomp and circumstance of weddings. Margaret wanted a quiet wedding before a registrar but her father was eager to make a fete of the occasion, and we allowed him to have his way. Besides Jim and the girls were expecting a great day. I can't say that I enjoyed my wedding. The bairns seemed to have lost their identity when they donned their wedding garments. Jim sat on the dickey beside the driver; there was pride in his face but his smile was gone. The occasion was too great for him. The girls stood about the dining-room in awkward attitudes, and I noted the fine English of their speech. And Jim failed at the wedding-feast. Part of his duty was to propose the health of the bridesmaids, and when the minister called upon him for his speech he fled from the room. Peter MacMannish proposed the toast instead. Margaret and I set off in a hired motor in the afternoon. We were going to London. When we reached the station Margaret suddenly said: "If only we could have stayed for the dance to-night!" "Yes," I said, "the bairns will be in form to-night." "We should really be there," continued Margaret sadly, "it's our dance you know." "And here we are going off to a hotel among strangers, Margaret!" Margaret clutched my arm. "Let's go back," she said eagerly, "we'll spend the first bit of our honeymoon in the dear old bothy!" I beckoned to a taxi-driver. As we drove up the brae to the farm Margaret laughed. "Do you know what I am laughing at?" she said. "I was thinking about you coming back. It's a sort of habit of yours coming back, isn't it? You don't care for me one bit; you are in love with Janet and Annie." "Who proposed coming back, madam?" "I did," she cried in great glee: "I noticed that you didn't seem keen on buying the tickets, and I knew you didn't want to go." When we walked into the dining-room there was consternation. Margaret's mother went very white. "What's wrong?" she stammered. "Goad! They've quarrelled already!" exclaimed Peter MacMannish in a hoarse whisper. "Did ye miss the train?" asked Janet. "No, Jan, we missed the supper, and we made up our minds that it was too good to miss. We're going to do an original thing; we're going to dance at our own wedding." The blacksmith struck up a waltz, and my wife and I waltzed round the room. I don't think that a wedding party was ever so jolly as ours. The bairns escorted us to our bothy at two in the morning, and Margaret insisted on giving them a cup of tea before they went home. Janet looked round the wee room. "Eh, Maggie, what an awfu' place to spend yer honeymoon in!" "Yes," said Margaret, "that's what comes of marrying a mean man. It's disgraceful, isn't it, Jan?" "What do ye ca' it when ye stop bein' married?" asked Annie. "A divorce," I said. "And is there a feed at a divorce?" asked Jim with an interested expression. "No, Jim; you are fed up before the divorce proceedings." "Aw wud divorce him, Maggie," said Annie. "It's difficult," laughed Margaret. "Ye cud say he wudna gie ye a proper honeymoon," put in Gladys. Annie sat down on my knee. "Why did ye come back?" she asked. "I came back to find out how you performed your duties, Annie. I'll begin with the best man. Jim Jackson, give an account of your stewardship." "Aw had three helpin's o' the plum-duff, twa o' the apple-pie, three o' the--" "I'm not taking an inventory of your interior furnishings," I said severely; "what I want to know is whether you performed your duties. Did you kiss the bridesmaids?" "Eh!" gasped Janet, "he'd better try!" "Do you mean to tell me he didn't?" I demanded. "Aw had a broken-oot lip," said Jim apologetically, "and Aw didna want to smit onybody." "And the bairn next door to oor hoose has the measles," he added hastily. "And Aw lookit at a book aboot etikquette and it didna say onything aboot kissin' the bridesmaids." "The bridesmaids didna want to kiss yer dirty moo, onywye, Jim Jackson," said Janet. "Aw've got a better moo than Tam Rigg, onywye," said Jim cheerfully. Janet gazed at his mouth curiously. "Your's is bigger, onywye." "Now, now," I said, "don't you set a newly married couple a bad example by quarrelling." I turned to Jean. "What did you think of the wedding, Jean?" "Jean grat," said Gladys, "and so did Jan. What was ye greetin' aboot?" "Aw dinna ken," said Jean simply. "Aw saw Maggie's mother greetin' so Aw just began to greet too. What was yer mother greetin' for, Maggie?" "I don't know, Jean." "Aw think she had the teethache," said Jim, "cos Aw heard the minister say to her to try a drap o' whiskey." "It wasna the teethache," said Annie scornfully, "but Aw ken why she grat." "To mak fowk think she was so fond o' Maggie that she didna want her to ging awa," suggested Gladys. "Na it wasna," said Annie, "she maybe was thinkin' o' Maggie's auldest sister Jean that dee'd when she was saxteen." "G'wa," cried Jim, "it's the fashion to greet at a marriage and a burial, but ye dinna greet at a christenin'." "Why no?" asked Jean. "Cos ye wudna be heard: the bairn greets a' the time." Janet glanced at Margaret. "That'll be the next party," she said brightly, "the christenin'. Did ye keep the top storey o' the cake, Maggie?" Margaret blushed at this. Janet seized her by the shoulders. "Ye needna tak a reid face, for Aw ken fine that ye did keep a bit o' the cake for the christenin'. Ye'll no need to keep it long or it'll get hard!" "Jan," cried Jean, reprovingly "ye shud na say sic things!" "Why no? The minister said something aboot a family when he was marryin' them." "Aye," said Jean, "but a minister's no like other fowk. If Mester Gordon says 'Hell' or 'damnation' in the pulpit it's religion, but if you say it it's just a swear." "Aw was at the manse when the minister fell over my barrow," said Jim, "and he said 'Hell!' Was that religion or a swear?" "Aw wud ca' it a lee," said Jean with a sniff; "only ministers and married fowk shud speak aboot bairns, and ye shud ken better, Jan." Janet looked at me timidly. "Did Aw do any wrong?" "Of course you didn't, you dear silly! Jean is a wee prude. Why shouldn't you talk about bairns if you want to? The subject of bairns is the only important subject in the world, Jan, and if you find anyone who thinks the subject improper you can bet your boots that they've got a dirty mind. Jean is simply trying to follow the conventions of all the stupid grown-ups in the village." These bairns are all innocent. When I looked at Jim's composition book the other day I read an essay with the title "The Church." Jim did not describe the church: he described an event in the church--his own marriage. He was an officer on short leave from the Front. He described the ceremony, then he went on:--"I spent my honeymoon in Edinburgh and a wire came telling me to go back to the trenches. Three weeks later I was wounded and sent home and found that my wife had had a baby." I wrote at the end of the essay "The speeding-up methods of America are bad enough when applied to industry, but...." They are innocent souls, and already Jean is affected by the damnable conspiracy of silence. And the amusing thing is that there is nothing to be silent about. * * * The Educational Institute has sent a deputation to London to confer with the Secretary for Scotland on educational reform. The deputies dwelt on larger areas, the raising of the school age, and the raising of the salaries of the profession. Mr. Tennant answered them at length in guarded language. Part of _The Scotsman_ report runs thus:-- "Asked by Mr. MacGillivray for his views on the suggestion that the school age should be raised to fifteen, the Secretary for Scotland said that, however desirable that might be in the interests of the child, it was a highly controversial proposal, upon which employers and in many cases parents, and even the State, would have a great deal to say. The expenditure involved would, he was afraid, make such a proposal prohibitive at present." It is significant to note that he places the employers first, just as in his previous remarks on education he places trade first.... "People realised that if we were going to compete in the great markets of the world, in ideas, in the progress of invention, and in the general progress of mankind and civilisation, we must improve our machinery for the training and equipment of the human being." The Educational Institute of Scotland, like the Trade Unions, is very humble in its demands. Why, in the name of heaven, ask for larger areas? Mr. Tennant rightly replied that it was news to him that the County Council is a more progressive body than the small School Board. Introduce larger areas and your village pig-dealer and shoemaker give place to your county colonel and manufacturer ... the men who are interested in the maintenance of discipline and of wage-slavery. What the Institute should really do is to give up thinking and talking of education for this generation. The leading members come from our large city schools, and if they haven't yet realised that their damned schools are factories for turning out slaves they ought to be jolly well ashamed of themselves. I visited a large city school a few days ago. It had nine hundred pupils, and it was four stories high. The playground was a small concrete corner; the discipline was like prison discipline; the rooms were dingy soul-destroying cages. How dare the teachers of Scotland ask that the school age be raised to fifteen when our city schools are barracks like that? I would have the age lowered to six if these prisons are to continue. One of the delegates, Mr. Cowan, showed that he was looking at education in a broad light. "Education," he said, "if it is to be real, is bound up with the questions of housing, public health, medical treatment, and the like; ... hence education should be in the hands of some body that would view the matter as a whole ... viz., the County Council." He might have added that education is primarily bound up with profiteering. Our city schools are necessarily adjuncts to our factories and our slums; the dominie is clearly the servant of the capitalist ... and the poor devil doesn't know it. It's absolutely useless to talk of larger areas and larger salaries and larger children; the fundamental fact is that capital calls the tune, and larger areas will do as much for education as tinkering with the saddle spring of a motor-bike will do for a seized engine bearing. Larger salaries will attract better men and women to the profession, says the Institute representative, and I ask wearily: "What difference will that make? You'll merely get honours graduates to do the profiteer's dirty work more effectively. You can't reform the schools from within. The prisons are built, and you will merely tempt your highly specialised teacher into a soul-destroying hell. The slums and the sweating will go on as usual next door; your city children will be starved and ragged and diseased as of yore." I think it a pity that this deputation ever went to the Scots Secretary at all. Why should the teaching profession go begging favours from the State? The wise business men who rule us will smile grimly and say:--"The blighters gave themselves away when they asked for larger salaries." They won't appreciate the fact that the deputies were honest men with a real desire for a better education. I should like to suggest to the Institute that it might have written a nice letter to Mr. Tennant. Why, bless me, I'll have a shot at composing one myself! Here goes! "Dear Mr. Tennant, "We aren't asking any favours this time; we are simply writing you a friendly letter telling you what we are going to do. "Firstly, we are now beginning to make a determined attempt to take over the control of Scots Education ... and we'll succeed even if we have to go on strike for our rights. Our Educational Institute will become the Scots Guild of Teachers ... a sort of polite Trade Union, you know, just like the Medicine Union and the Law Union--only more so. Is that quite clear? "Well, our Guild, when it is strong enough, will come up to town one fine morning to see the Cabinet. Our words will be something like these: 'We are the Teachers' Guild of Scotland, old dears, and we've come to tell you that we're going to run the show now.' "Of course the Cabinet will get a shock at first. Then they will laugh and say: 'We wish you luck! By the way how do you propose to get the money?' And when we answer that we expect to get it from the State they will roar with mirth. We shall wait politely till the laugh is over, and then we shall calmly tell them our proposal ... rather, our demand. We shall demand money from the State to carry on the whole thing. Education isn't a profiteering affair, and we must draw every penny from the people ... just as the State does now. "Then a member (Lloyd George in all probability) will remark: 'Yes, yes, gentlemen, but don't you see that all your demand amounts to is a change of management? You want to abolish the Education Department and substitute your President for my friend Sir John Struthers.' "We shall shout 'No!' very very viciously at this ... you've heard them shout 'No' when they sing 'For he's a jolly good fellow?' Well, then, we'll shout it just like that, and then we'll explain thus:-- "We aren't going in for a change of management: we are going to build a new house. We are done with grants and Form 9 B's and inspectors and Supplementary Classes for ever. We are going to spend.... Oh! such a lot of money. You'll be surprised when you know what we are going to do. You know Dundee? Mr. Churchill there made it famous.... well, Dundee, is one of the dirtiest slums in creation. At present it has lots of big grey schools. We are going to knock 'em down. After that we are going to build bonny wee schools out in the country; schools that won't hold more than a hundred pupils. There will be lovely gardens and ponds and rabbit-houses; there will be food and--.' At this stage the Cabinet will telephone for the lunacy experts. "Do we make ourselves clear, Mr. Tennant? As you know well the State will be terribly unwilling to give us more money. If we make our schools decent places the poor profiteers will be in the soup, won't they? Our present schools do no harm; the discipline of the classroom prepares a bright lad for the discipline of the wagery shop, and, of course, a girl accustomed to the atmosphere of a city school won't object to the ventilation obtaining in the factory. When we insist on taking the kiddies to bonny wee schools the profiteer will realise with dismay that his factory and his slum-hovels will have to adapt themselves to the new attitude of the kids. "Mind you, we quite admit that we're going to have a hell of a fight. We even go the length of saying that we may be beaten at first; for we have no economic power, and the men with the economic power will crush us if they can. Our only weapon will be the strike, but even the strike will, in a manner, be playing into the profiteers' hands; 'Geewhiz!' they'll cry, 'the teachers are on strike ... now for cheap child labour!' Our only hope is that the citizens will realise the importance of a dominies' rebellion. "Now, we don't want you to take this letter as a personal insult, or even as a vote of censure. You may be of opinion that Scots education is quite safe in the hands of the Secretary for Scotland, and you may imagine that we've got profiteering on the brain. We have. But we can't agree with you that education is safe in the hands of the Secretary for Scotland. Why, you might get another post to-morrow, and your colleague Runciman might step into your job. And it was only the other day that he was defending war-profits on the ground that they were forming a fund to compete with neutral trade after the war. The worst of you political fellows is that you've all got profiteering on the brain, just like us ... only, it's a natural healthy growth in your case, while in our case it is a malignant tumour. We've got profiteering thrust upon us, so to speak; you fellows were born with it. "Well, well, isn't this rotten weather, what? "Best wishes to Mrs. Tennant. "Yours sincerely, "The Educational Institute of Scotland." * * * Jim came to the bothy last night, and his face was troubled. "What's the matter?" I asked. "Aw--Aw didna gie ye a marriage present," he stammered, "Aw didna hae ony money." "The present Margaret and I want from you doesn't cost money," I said; "we want you to write a description of the wedding." He brightened at once. "Can Aw tell lees?" he asked eagerly. "Please yourself," I said, and he went away cheerful. This morning the description came by post. I think I shall make it the last entry in my diary. * * * THE MARRIAGE OF MR. NEILL AND MAGGIE THOMSON. By JAMES JACKSON, Esq., B.M. (Best Man). They were married on Friday and I was the best man. Janet and Annie and Jean and Gladys and Ellen were the bridesmaids, but they were too many to kiss. They got a present each, a ring with diamonds in it, but I don't think the diamonds were real ones. I got a knife with four blades and a corkscrew and a file and a thing for taking things out of horses' feet, and I had a fight with Geordie Brown for saying it didn't have a pair of scissors in it and I licked him, but there was no scissors in it. Their was a lot of people their and some of the women was crying and we got apple-pie and plum-duff for our dinner. Maggie had a white dress on and Mr. Neill had a black soot on with tails on the coat and a big wide waistcoat but you couldn't see the end of his dickey for I looked. He had cuffs on too. I liked the plum-duff, but I liked the wedding cake best but you only got a little bit of it. The girls kept their bit to sleep on and have nice dreams but I ate mine and had dreams too but they were not nice dreams. I dreamt that an elephant was sitting on my head. I had a ride on the dickey to fetch the people and there was a white ribbon on the whip and the horses was gray. I had to scatter the pennies and sweeties and Tommy Sword threw a bit of earth at me and I would have fought him but I didn't want to clorty my clean dickey. The marriage seramany was not very interesting and I had to carry the ring and it was in my waistcoat pooch but I pretended to look first in my breek pooches and had to empty them on the table. I just wanted them to see my new knife. I made a speech about the bridesmaids and I said they were all very nice girls but they are not for Janet is always fighting with me, she will make an awful wife when she is married. The happy cupel went away in a moter for there honeymoon but they came back again at night and Geordie Brown says that it was a tinker's marriage because he did not have enough money to go in the train. Martha Findlay said that they came back because he was ashamed to take Maggie to London because she is just a farmer's daughter and I told her she was wrong because they came back because he gets a sixpenny paper sent by the post every Saturday morning and he would have had to buy one to read in the train, but I don't think she believed me, she is a jelus cat and she is just wild because Maggie has got a man. There was a party at night and I drank seven bottles of lemonade and Frank Thomson sang a song and Peter MacMannish tried to sing a song at the same time and Mrs. Thomson told me to put the bottle at the other end of the table, they were not very good singers, Peter sang five songs after one another so Mrs. Thomson told me to put the bottle beside him again and he stopped singing. He did not sing again but he went round telling everybody that he was not drunk though nobody said he was. I always thought that he was a very stern man but I liked him at the dance. Mr. Macdonald was there but he did not sing and he did not get a drink out of the bottle but Mrs. Thomson took him into the parlour and then she came back for the bottle. After that he was a nice man not like he is in the school, he was laughing and dancing like anything. He was in the parlour four times. Then we sang Auld Lang Syne and Peter McMannish said he would sing it by himself just to show us that he was not drunk but he fell asleep before he got started to the first verse. After it was finished the happy cupel went over to the bothy to there honeymoon and Martha Findlay said it made the marriage common and that anybody could have a bothy for a honeymoon, so I just said to her "Oh, aye, Martha, ye'll likely spend your own honeymoon in a bothy but you won't get an M.A. with a dickey that you canna see the end of for a man, but Margaret deserved him for she is so bonny." Martha was awful wild at me. Geordie Brown says that the best man at the marriage has to hold the baby at the christnin but it does not say anything in the etikquette book, and I telt him he was a liar. He said it would maybe be twins and I got a black eye but he lost three teeth. I hop it will not be twins because I said I would give Geordie my knife if it was twins. P.S.--Please do not have the twins. THE END. ADVERTISEMENTS _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ 1 A DOMINIE ABROAD Always original, A. S. Neill, the author of _A Dominie's Log_, decided to found at Hellerau a school which should embody the educational best of all nations. He bought a dictionary to learn the language, and a notebook to record his impressions. He remains a rebel; but he is now a constructive rebel. Crown 8vo. Price 5s. net. 2 A DOMINIE'S LOG The Experiences of An Unconventional Schoolmaster. By A. S. Neill, M.A. Crown 8vo. Price 2s. 6d. net. TIMES:--"It is to be hoped that we have not heard the last of this author." BOOKMAN:--"A book that is delightful as well as profitable to read." 3 A DOMINIE IN DOUBT By A. S. Neill, M.A. 2s. 6d. net. BYSTANDER.--"_A Dominie in Doubt_ is one of the most delightful books I have read for some time." 4 THE BOOMING OF BUNKIE A novel of laughter. By A. S. Neill. Popular Edition. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. SCOTSMAN.--"A richly amusing skit." BOOKMAN.--"A thoroughly amusing and farcical story." 5 CARROTY BROON A novel full of dry Scotch humour and wit. By A. S. Neill, M.A. 2s. 6d. net. PALL MALL GAZETTE.--"A really first-rate story." TRUTH.--"A racy little book, hard to beat." HERBERT JENKINS, LTD., 3, YORK ST., ST. JAMES'S, S.W.1 _A NEW HUMORIST_ A DOMINIE'S LOG THE EXPERIENCES OF AN UNCONVENTIONAL SCHOOLMASTER. By A. S. NEILL, M.A. Crown 8vo. Price 2s. 6d. net. Postage 4d. extra. SOME EARLY REVIEWS. EVENING NEWS.--"Most decidedly a book to buy." EVERYMAN.--"A delightfully unconventional schoolmaster." TIMES.--"It is to be hoped that we have not heard the last of the author." GRAPHIC.--"If you want to know what might be done buy 'A Dominie's Log.'" BRITISH WEEKLY.--"A bright and lively account of a Scottish schoolmaster's life." SUNDAY TIMES.--"The book is one that should be read. For it is full of illuminating thought." BOOKMAN.--"A book that is delightful as well as profitable to read. No one who begins it will leave it half finished." CLARION.--"I want every one to buy 'A Dominie's Log.' There is a laugh to every page and a valuable thought to every line." DAILY TELEGRAPH.--"Nothing better worth half-a-crown has come one's way in these times of economy." HERBERT JENKINS, LTD., 12, ARUNDEL PLACE, S.W. _HERBERT JENKINS'_ Green Label Novels 1 THE ADVENTURES OF SALLY A new book of laughter by P. G. Wodehouse, author of _Jill the Reckless_, _Piccadilly Jim_, etc. 7s. 6d. net. 2 RACHEL BLAND'S INHERITANCE By W. Riley, author of _Windyridge_. A powerful story of Yorkshire life and character. 7s. 6d. net. 3 AN ORDINARY COUPLE A novel by J. E. Buckrose, dealing with the domestic experiences and adventures of a newly married pair. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. 4 THE RETURN OF CLUBFOOT By Valentine Williams, author of _The Man with the Clubfoot_, further adventures of Desmond Okewood on an island in the Pacific. 7s. 6d. net. 5 THE RETURN OF BLUE PETE Another thrilling adventure of the famous Blue Pete and his horse, Whiskers. By Luke Allan, author of _Blue Pete: Half-Breed_. 7s. 6d. net. 6 The MYSTERIOUS Mr. GARLAND Another Anthony Trent Story by Wyndham Martyn, author of _Anthony Trent_, _Master Criminal_, and _The Secret of the Silver Car_. 7 THE SMUGGLED MASTERPIECE A comedy novel by Edgar Jepson, author of _The Whiskered Footman_, full of humour and dramatic incident. 7s. 6d. net. 8 THE MAZAROFF MURDER By J. S. Fletcher, author of _The Markenmore Mystery_. Who killed Mr. Mazaroff, and why did it become known as "the Mazaroff affair" throughout three continents. By J. S. Fletcher. 7s. 6d. net. 9 THE HOUSE OF MARNEY By John Goodwin, author of _Without Mercy_. The yachting adventure gives a new atmosphere to this striking drama of the East Coast. 7s. 6d. net. _HERBERT JENKINS'_ New Popular Novels +3/6+ net 1 KLONDYKE KIT'S REVENGE By George Goodchild, author of _Colorado Jim_. Out in the icy solitudes of Klondyke, Kit closes the eyes of his pal, and pockets a scrap of paper that appoints him the dead man's heir. He comes to England to claim his inheritance, and finds to his astonishment that it comprises an enormous estate, and that others are in possession. He decides to wait and watch. In the process he falls in love. "Klondyke Kit's Revenge" has all the dramatic qualities of that great popular success, "_Colorado Jim_." 2 THE SECRET of the SANDHILLS By Arthur Gask. In shabby cloths and frayed collar, John Stratton stood watching the life and bustle outside the post office, conscious that his position was desperate. A grey motor-car, a pretty girl, and a dropped pocket-book, temporarily send up his stock. Then comes the murder on Henley Beach, the police, and--danger. John Stratton has to confess that he is in rather a tight corner; but there are always the blue eyes of the girl in the grey car. 3 CONFESSIONS OF MRS. MAY By T. le Breton, author of _Mrs. May_. Mrs. May is a typical cockney, with a cockney's dislike of being "put upon." To call her a woman, or even a charwoman, is to earn her undying enmity. She has very clearly defined views on life, and her own rights. In her confessions she tells of some further episodes in her career. "I reckon I've a 'ead on me," says Mrs. May, and there are few who would venture to question the statement, particularly as she has a brawny arm and an absent-minded habit of rolling up her sleeves. A full list of the famous Green Label popular novels will be sent on application to Herbert Jenkins, Ltd., Three, York Street, St. James's, London, S.W.1. _HERBERT JENKINS'_ New Popular Novels +2/6+ net 1 McPHEE A football story by Sydney Horler. 2 GENTLEMAN BILL A boxing story by Philip MacDonald, telling how Bill Tressider's left made boxing history. Published in the first instance at 2/6 net. 3 A DOMINIE'S LOG The frank confessions of a Scottish schoolmaster, by A. S. Neill, which created a sensation when originally published. Popular edition. 4 A DOMINIE DISMISSED Some further leaves from the note-book of a Scottish schoolmaster, dismissed for his educational indiscretions. By A. S. Neill. Popular edition. 5 A DOMINIE IN DOUBT Still franker confessions of a Scottish schoolmaster that, after all, he may have been wrong in his previous conclusions. By A. S. Neill. Popular edition. 6 CHEIRO'S GUIDE TO THE HAND A practical book on palmistry, based on the system and experience of "Cheiro." With numerous illustrations. Popular edition. 7 WHEN WERE YOU BORN? A book that will bring you success, your character told, your tendencies explained, your future indicated. With engravings illustrating life's mysterious triangles. By Cheiro. Popular edition. 8 HANDY ANDY A popular edition of Samuel Lever's famous story of the man who possessed the ingenious knack of doing the right thing in the wrong way. A full list of the famous Green Label popular novels will be sent on application to Herbert Jenkins, Ltd., Three, York Street, St. James's, London, S.W.1. [Illustration: THE HERBERT JENKINS' WIRELESS] ¶ The Herbert Jenkins' Wireless is published monthly and it is priceless. In other words it will be sent post-free to all book-lovers--and others. ¶ It tells all about the latest Herbert Jenkins' Books. It also contains many good stories and interesting personalities--in the best sense of the term. ¶ There are facts about authors and fictions about publishers. Above all there is _real_ information about books, not just press-opinions and other people's opinions, but what a book is about. ¶ One enthusiastic reader of The Herbert Jenkins' Wireless writes that it has enabled him to discontinue his subscriptions to Punch and The Times Literary Supplement! ¶ The Star in big headlines refers to The H. J. Wireless as "Gingering up the Book Trade," and goes on to say that "nothing so ingenious has yet been issued in this country." Are you going to send for it to Herbert Jenkins Ltd., 3, York Street, St. James's, London, S.W.1? 
46292	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) SELINA [Illustration: "She'd heard I was fond of reading."] [Page 20.] _Selina_ _HER HOPEFUL EFFORTS AND_ _HER LIVELIER FAILURES_ _By_ _GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN_ _Author of EMMY LOU_ _Illustrated by_ _H.D. WILLIAMS_ D APPLETON AND COMPANY NEW YORK · · · · MCMXIV COPYRIGHT, 1914. BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY Printed in the United States of America _TO_ _E. A. M._ _FLORENCE, ITALY_ _You have long urged me to an attempted portrayal of the American girl of the '80's. I take it that you from your viewpoint coming from long absence from your own country, look upon her and her moment as in some sense significant._ _As I read this girl and the conditions surrounding her, born late, Victorian, she came into being when those sincere and fine tenets upon which the Victorian era founded itself, were become the letter of the original vital idea, and the moment itself sentimental, trite and prudish. Outcome and victim of the inefficiencies of an hour so flabby and platitudinous, this young girl of these Victorian '80's apparently not only repudiated her condition made up of absurdities, futilities and inadequacies, but in her maturity has lapsed over into the post-Victorian era as pioneer, she and her companions of that day, who blazed the way for the army of women now following. Following where, you ask? Ah, now, that is another question, and one I am not at all qualified or prepared to answer._ _In the fact that she did repudiate her day and her condition lies the significance which you see, as I take it. That I have read her at the moment of my depicting, piteous rather than pertinent, helpless more than heroic, and groping rather than grasping, I hope will not disappoint you. So she appears to me; her gravest need, the lack of which renders her piteous and helpless, being a sense of proportion; a lack answerable to the false standards around her, or to her sex, or both, who among her sex shall say?_ _And that this epic of her days is chronicle of but the small and the petty happening, you will forgive, because this same day made up of the small and seemingly petty, is one of the things, she will tell you now, against which she revolted._ _Nor am I defending her, nor claiming that she needs defense. As I see her and have tried to set her down. I offer her to you._ _G. M. M._ _August, 1914._ _Anchorage, Kentucky._ CONTENTS PAGE CHAPTER ONE 1 CHAPTER TWO 19 CHAPTER THREE 33 CHAPTER FOUR 47 CHAPTER FIVE 56 CHAPTER SIX 62 CHAPTER SEVEN 73 CHAPTER EIGHT 81 CHAPTER NINE 87 CHAPTER TEN 101 CHAPTER ELEVEN 111 CHAPTER TWELVE 120 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 136 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 143 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 154 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 162 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 171 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 178 CHAPTER NINETEEN 184 CHAPTER TWENTY 190 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 200 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 210 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 219 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 227 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 235 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 249 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 257 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 268 CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 275 CHAPTER THIRTY 286 CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 296 CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 311 CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 325 CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 334 CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 346 CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 352 CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 357 CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 372 CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 385 CHAPTER FORTY 396 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "She referred to the cook, faithful and efficient colored plodder" 2 "Impeccable yard plots, whitened flaggings and steps" 6 "Each lady was sitting by her standing work-basket of cane" 10 "'His name was Aristides Welkin, and we called him Mr. Arry'" 21 "He held back the gate, too, for her to pass through" 30 "Mamma looked around the castor and spoke briskly" 57 "Before the mirror, trying on the dress from Cousin Anna" 70 "Mr. Tuttle Jones ... sat with her through a pianoforte number" 78 "Selina hurried out and joined him" 84 "The two groups had ... gone sauntering out the sycamore-bordered road" 94 "Rooted out his umbrella and tucked Amanthus, pretty thing, onto his arm" 118 "A covered wooden bridge across the river ... seemed older than anything else" 126 "Marcus was there when Selina arrived" 137 "She went to her father" 140 "Selina ... sat down to write her note" 144 "She ... stood looking at them grouped below" 159 "Miss 'Hontas came in ... and talked to her about many things" 168 "Her veil trailed crookedly" 188 "Owner and driver of a hack ... whereby he made a living, meeting trains" 192 "Endeavoring to fit a glass into his eye" 203 "Maud was going in for china painting" 220 "'Mr. Welling looked at me in that ... quizzing way of his'" 223 "They found Mrs. Harrison ... before the open fire" 230 "He... stumbled over a rug and slopped the cream" 240 "He below, lifting his hat" 254 "'You haven't spoken to Papa about it?'" 258 "Selina ... fell on her knees" 270 "They boarded the street car" 282 "Flowers take patience and faith, and tendance and waiting" 305 "She watched the flying scene from the car window" 321 "Culpepper ... leaned over the back of her chair and spoke softly to her" 344 "'More uplift, more culture is the cry of the moment'" 362 "For a full minute he did not speak" 373 "And whistled real softly under Juliette's window" 382 "Everybody waved and Culpepper was left standing there" 408 SELINA CHAPTER ONE "There must be something wrong, Lavinia, with our way of managing," said Auntie. "If you think you can do it better than I, Ann Eliza--" came from Mamma, with dignity. Selina, scant seventeen in years and sweet and loving and anxious, felt that she could not bear it. To sit in consultation thus, with her mother and her aunt because the family purse was at one of its stages of being exhausted, was desperate business enough, but to look from the face of her little mother to the countenance of her auntie under these circumstances was anguish. Negative character has been turned to positive by less, inertia forced into action, the defenceless made defender. And while the endeavors, about to be related, of this young person to add to the income of her family by her own efforts, may call to mind one Baron Munchausen lifting himself by his boot-straps, let it be borne in mind that the boot-straps may be the inconsequential thing, and that where the emphasis is to be laid is upon the good faith put into the lifting. [Illustration: "She referred to the cook, faithful and efficient colored plodder."] "It seemed wise to reduce the grocery bill as far as we could," her mother was saying deprecatingly, "but in doing so, I should have considered that I was leaving myself nothing to pay Aunt Viney." She referred to the cook, faithful and efficient colored plodder. "Last month it was the iceman who was kept waiting because we paid everything to the butcher," said Selina. "Why is it," a little desperately, "there's never money enough to go around?" Her mother disliked such a display of feeling. "If you mean that in criticism of your father--" she began. Auntie interrupted. "The Wistar men have seldom been money-makers. My father in his time was the exception. I'm sure Robert has tried." Selina feeling she could not bear what she saw in these faces of her elders, looked about the room where she was sitting with them. In her time, which was twenty-five years ago, in an inland American city in a semi-southern state, bedrooms were sitting-rooms during the day. What she saw was a ponderously ornate bedstead, ponderous walnut wardrobe, washstand, bureau, fading wall-paper of a pronounced pattern, framed family photographs, and carpet resolutely tacked the four ways of the floor. She did not know the day would come when she would learn that this room with its wool lambrequin above the open grate, its wool table-cover, its wool footstools, was mid-Victorian. Still less did this loving and anxious Selina know that these two dear ladies with whom she sat, were mid-Victorian with their room, and she of the next generation, a victim to their mild inefficiencies and their gentle sentimentalities. In looking about the room, she as by instinct of the hunted, was seeking a clue to escape from her anguish of spirit. "It isn't as though your father were not giving me the same amount of money for the house as usual," her mother was saying. Mrs. Wistar always spoke a trifle precisely. "It is more that having dropped so behind with the bills, and knowing that he is worried so to give me as much as he does, I don't like to tell him so." "The worry'd be no more now than when he does have to know," from Auntie. "I suppose not," allowed Mrs. Wistar dubiously. Selina sighed, and her gaze not finding the relief it sought within the room, went to the window and looked out between its discreet draperies. Thus far indeed Selina had gazed on all of life through discreet draperies. And if as she sat there in the cushioned chair with her eyes so sweetly anxious, she was incontinently young to look upon even for scant seventeen, in any real knowledge of life and of what life had a right to demand from her, she was pitiably younger. This story undertakes to be the tenderly smiling narrative of Selina's inefficiencies, the epic of her small aspirings and her, it is to be hoped, engaging failures. If she, untrained, unarmed and unaware, is typical in any sense of the thousands of American girls of her period, shall it be assumed there are none like her to-day, piously guarded and yet piteously and absurdly unready for life's demands? And if the conditions which surrounded her, and the inefficiencies which marked her, were in any degree usual in her day, may we not the better understand her generation's dissatisfaction with these conditions, as shown in those gropings toward something illy defined no doubt but deeply desired, which now appear to have been the first general expression of woman's discontent in this country? Selina's gaze had wandered to the window to find but doubtful comfort there. For in her mind's eye she saw the relative position her squat, two-storied brick house with its square of grass and its iron fence set in stone coping, bore to the other houses on the block in size, appearance and importance. There were some few smaller and shabbier. She gave neighborly greeting to the dwellers within these homes when she met them, but without any knowledge as to why, and through no volition of her own that she was aware of, her life did not touch theirs. [Illustration: "Impeccable yard plots, whitened flaggings and steps."] Of the other houses along the block, some were three-storied, others two-storied but double in width, the further characteristics of these eminently prosperous dwellings being impeccable yard plots, whitened flaggings and steps, burnished doorsills, burnished doorbells, doorplates. The dwellers within these altogether creditable establishments, Selina did know; their lives and hers did touch; they too were variations in a common inefficiency; they too were products of the same conditions as herself. Amanthus in the one house, enchanting and engaging, or so Selina saw her; Juliette in another, eager and diminutive, cheeks carmine, fiery with the faith of the ardent follower; Maud in a third, luscious, capable, inquiet, overflowing with protest, alert with innovation; Adele in a fourth, stickler and debater, full of a conscience for the pro and con: these four were Selina's own, these and their households, the friends, she would have told you, of her youth. She had gone through measles and through mumps with them; through day school and dancing school with them; through the baby age, the overly conscientious age, the giggling age, the conscious age, the arriving age, when at birthdays and school-closings, she, Selina, and Amanthus, and Maud, and Juliette and Adele, exchanged clothbound and gilt-topped volumes, "Lucille," "Aurora Leigh," Tennyson. But the gaze of Selina right now was out the window of her mother's bedroom, and in her mind's eye she was seeing, not these adored friends of her youth, but the macadamized street she lived upon, with its brick sidewalks and its occasional old sycamore tree, and the homes of herself and these friends along it. And her home was the squat and shabby one, her yard the untended one, and she, Selina Auboussier Wistar, the genteelly poor one of these friends of her youth. Then her attention came back to matters within the room. "I try to save Mr. Wistar everything of worry I can," her mother was saying defensively. "I've been setting a chair over that hole in the dining-room hearth rug for months." "I'm never sure it isn't better to be frank," held Auntie. Selina's concern returned to her own affairs. Selina Auboussier Wistar! Why Auboussier? Because her father was Robert Auboussier Wistar. Why the Auboussier in either case was to be dwelt upon so insistingly and in full, was never very dazzlingly clear, except that Mamma decreed it. The name had brought her father nothing other in his day than a silver mug, so far as Selina knew, and it had not even brought her that. But it did roll off the tongue as though it had claims. In the very nicest sort of way perhaps this was the explanation. The affairs of her elders in the room again intruded. "I paid the bills for all those extras we had not counted on when Selina graduated in June," Mamma was saying, and defensively again, "and said nothing about them. It seemed best at the time. And once I got behind in this way on the other bills I haven't seemed able to catch up." "I needn't have had the carriage and the flowers and the rest of it if I'd known," claimed Selina passionately. "And I'm sure Auntie is right. Everybody in a family ought to know everything." "I cannot allow such a tone from you, Selina," returned her mother decidedly. "And of whom is it you speak in this disparaging manner? Surely not of your mother? And I will not think you mean your father?" Her father? Tradition, which meant Selina's own little mother again, told how Mr. Robert Auboussier Wistar at the beginning of things, which was before Selina at all could remember, had made a bold dash and start in life, proprietor of his own inherited iron foundry. It lent solidity and importance to the past, and support to the present. A structural iron railroad and foot-bridge across a turbulent creek at the city's edge, marks the crest of this gentleman's industrial prosperity. It is an ugly bridge where it might have achieved beauty, Selina is forced to admit this now, but then when the family walks on Sunday afternoons and on holidays led to it with something of the spirit which carries the faithful to Mecca, she obediently thrilled with pride as regularly as her mother pointed out the structure to her. The glittering career of Papa and the foundry had been brief, and Selina had it from her mother and her auntie that this is a sad world for the honorable and trusting man in business. [Illustration: "Each lady was sitting by her standing work-basket of cane."] Mr. Robert Wistar, dear and very real gentleman as he was, and as his Selina saw and knew him, for many years now had had a floor space in a building in an off business street, and bought and sold machinery, new and old, on the varying and uncertain basis of commission. But at home in the squat and ugly brick house owned in part by him and in part by Auntie, who was his older sister, his household of womenkind upheld his prestige and dominance as their male and their protector. His household of women! Selina's eyes went from the little person of her mother, ardent striver to keep up a fairly prosperous front, to the heavy person of her auntie, darling soul, who did not seem quite to grasp why a front must be kept up, but assured that it must, submitted. Big, lovable, personable auntie, could the pity of it be that she was always submitting? Each lady was sitting by her standing work-basket of cane, with work however abandoned into her respective dear lap. Mamma, little person, meant by Heaven to be pretty if she had not in the stead to be so perturbed, just here seemed disposed and almost unreasonably, to harbor feeling against Aunt Viney for wanting what was coming to her. There had been similar feeling on her part toward the iceman, and, preceding him, toward the butcher. "If it were anybody but Viney herself, coming upstairs to me right in my own room and asking for her money, I would feel I could not overlook it," she was saying. "She should have known that as soon as it was convenient for her to have it, I would give it to her." "It is the second time the collector of dues on her funeral insurance has come around," reminded Auntie, "and I dare say he made her feel she had to ask for it." "There's more to it than her merely coming upstairs to me about it," said Mamma. "Two dollars and a half to three dollars is all anyone thought of paying a servant in my day." Her tone would imply that her day and her authority were decades past and other people in this matter of Aunt Viney, altogether and unworthily responsible. "Four dollars to a servant is out of all reason." And so indeed four dollars at that day and in that place would have been but for the agreement fixing the wages of this old person at this sum! Selina's cheeks flamed red. "Aunt Viney is getting four dollars instead of three, Mamma," she reminded her mother, "because you dismissed the washwoman who was getting two dollars, and persuaded Aunt Viney to undertake it for the extra one." Cooking, washing, ironing, dining-room, front door, coal, kindling, fires and something of the rest of it, were the part of Aunt Viney! Honesty drove Selina to defend her--tentatively and timidly, since not for worlds in her day would a daughter venture to hurt a parent's tender feelings. "Four dollars isn't so terribly much more than a pittance, is it, Mamma? For a week's work? That is," hastily and apologetically, "if one were the receiver of it?" Time was to be, and that time soon, when Selina would know more about the place of four dollars in the scale of recompense. Auntie at this point moved heavily and uneasily. One always felt that nature meant Auntie for something more definite. Her ponderous energy was inexhaustible. To see her expend it on irrelevant and inconsequential things, was to gather that after some fashion of reasoning all her own, she drew comfort from such activities even to convincing herself such efforts were contributory to the general relief. "I'm sure I wish there were more brasses I could do," sighed the precious and comely soul. And while Selina here felt again that anguish which seemed more than she could bear, still she blessed the brasses in question, fire-irons, coal-bucket, and fender which adorned their parlor. And she blessed Cousin Anna Tomlinson who had given the brasses to the Wistar household. Japanned coal vases with panel decorations in subjects such as cat-tails, and mantel tiles with swallow flights across them had recently come in, and Cousin Anna was of those who will have the latest or nothing. Selina did not know what the energy of Auntie would do on the occasions of these recurrent money crises, if she could not put it into the polishing of the brasses. "I am sure I'm always wishing there were more of them," she was reiterating now. And then it was that Selina drew breath, a long and quivering breath. There had come to be but one thing for her to do and she was about to give it voice. Never before had she taken the initiative in her life. The exact length for the lowering of her dress skirt for graduation, the chosen fashion for the tying of her white sash on that day, the manner of the arranging of her hair, her flowers, her fan, each detail was for these two dear but hitherto decreeing ladies to debate and decide upon. When their Selina went forth upon her little pleasures and affairs, one saw her off from the front-door step, the other waved a farewell from the window above. When she returned one removed her hat and passed a readjusting hand over her shining fair hair, the other lifted and put away her cloak. The initiative was to be Selina's now. "I told you, Mamma and Auntie dear, of meeting Mrs. William Williams down street yesterday? And of her stopping me?" She had. She brought all incidents to her absences home, and the two relived them with her. They saw Mrs. William Williams now in this recall, large, impressive, with her benevolently dealt-around interests and inquiries, as from a being of credentialed and superior parts to a world of lesser creatures. Though why this arrogance was permitted, the world of lesser beings could hardly say, but since authority even when self-arrogated, and authority's running mate, material prosperity, are ever potent, the world of Mrs. Wistar and Auntie submitted. Mr. William Williams, a successful dealer in leather and raw hides, had married Mrs. Williams late in both their lives, and one William Williams Jr. was the result. Selina was continuing. "And I told you how she said she does not approve of the new methods called kindergarten that are beginning to be used in the schools, and wants William Williams Jr. taught at home, and did I know of any young person among my friends fitted to do it?" "William Jr.'s head is too big," said Auntie, decidedly, "it rolls around on his neck. I've noticed him on the bench at Sunday-school." Selina passed over the interruption. "I told her yesterday that I did not know of anyone. To-day I do. I am going to offer to teach him myself!" But her throat was dry, and her hands were cold as she said it. Selina knew no women wage-earners except her teachers at the public school, who stood apart unique personalities in a world entered into and left behind at intervals, and a scattering of women clerks in the stores of her Southern city. Yes, on the contrary, she did know one, Miss Emma McRanney, a regular attendant at the same church as the Wistars, stolid, settled, and middle-aged, a setter of type at the State Institute for the Blind. Mamma and Auntie made a point of going out their ways on Sundays to stop her and shake hands with her kindly. But she was the exception. In the world of Selina, in the world of her mother and her aunt, in that of the friends of her youth and their mothers and sisters and aunts, the accolading stamp of position, of gentility, of femininity, lay in the monetary dependence of womankind on its men. Nor had life, as Selina came up through it, the private school of her baby days, the public schooling of later days, the friends of her youth, nor Mother, nor Auntie, nor those gilt-topped volumes, nor dancing school, nor Sunday-school, nor her tinkling music lessons, nor traditions, nor precedent, nor standards, nor prides, nor preoccupations, nor day dreams, prepared Selina for this step. And so her throat was dry and her hands were cold as she forced herself to say it. "I am going to offer to teach him myself." And then it was that the unexpected happened. The fight on the part of Mamma and Auntie had been a long one and a gruelling one, as long almost as Selina's life, and they by nature were clinging creatures. With the very note of her young utterance, as at the Gideon shout of the newer generation, their walls fell. This mother of Selina, behold, all at once a little, tearful, dependent, child-like person. "Oh, Selina, daughter, _do_ you think you _could_? The terror of having people come to the door with bills one can't pay!" This handsome, solid, impressive auntie, a bewildered, rudderless, drifting soul. "I might be able to do little things at home to save you here, Selina. There is the canary's cage. Let me take care of that." Thus the walls fell about Selina and revealed to her the inward weakness of that stronghold of dominance and authority she, up to now, had deemed well-nigh impregnable. One instinct with the two, however, held true to its function. "We will not mention the matter to your father, Selina," from her mother, "unless it seems best. He very likely would worry." "Robert would worry," from Auntie, decidedly. "It might seem as if it were in criticism of him if we went to him about it beforehand." No protests! No objections! They were relieved! They were willing! Selina stood up, her voice to her ears coming from vast distances away. "Four dollars is certainly little more than a pittance for Aunt Viney, I am sure you must see, Mamma." There was pronouncement and finality in the tone as if for the first time she sat in judgment on her parent. "As I've made up my mind to see Mrs. Williams, I'll put on my hat and go now." But it was all of an hour before she came from her own room ready to go. "Has she been crying?" Auntie asked Mrs. Wistar anxiously, as Selina went downstairs. "I thought her face showed traces." "Selina has not the control I would like to see her have," said little Mrs. Wistar concisely. "In my day we were not encouraged to indulge ourselves in tears." "In what then?" from Auntie as with one suddenly disposed to be captious. "In self-repression and the meeting of our duties," said Mrs. Wistar. "Ann Eliza," severely, "sometimes I almost think you aid and abet Selina in her expressions of discontent." Auntie looked non-committal. "Do you, Lavinia?" CHAPTER TWO On Selina's return in the late afternoon, she came up to her mother's room, her step light and springy now, to tell the two about her visit. She had made up her mind that if she had to do this thing, she would do it with as good grace as possible. They on the contrary had had time to grasp the idea of Selina as a teacher in its several significances. "Don't think I'd let you do a thing I did not think was proper and right, Selina," her mother hurried to say in greeting. "There's nothing derogatory, I'm sure, in accepting remuneration. I made a set of chemises for your Cousin Anna last year, you remember, and was glad to have her pay me." "Look at _me_," said Auntie, "and don't you make chemises or anything else, unless it's an understood thing that somebody _is_ going to pay you." A wave of protective feeling rushed over Selina, new to her but warming and whelming, and she had forgiven them. "I think, Mamma, that Mrs. Williams meant me when she spoke yesterday. She said she was glad to see I was sensible about it. Evidently there are people thinking I ought to go to work. She did." This was not so rosy as Selina meant it to be for the attentive two; she must do better. "I'm sure, too, Mamma, she meant to be complimentary. She said a whole lot about my being a booky girl, that she'd heard I was fond of reading, and some more of that sort of thing. And about how she laid a great deal of stress herself on cultivation, and how she wanted William Jr. to achieve a taste that way, too. And she said that habits and associations in the person of a teacher--I remember her words--mean so much." "I hope she values 'em accordingly," said Auntie indignantly. "I don't like any such tone from her to you. She was a McIntosh, we mustn't forget that. I never thought much of the stock." "I'm sure all that Selina has told us is most gratifying," Mrs. Wistar hastened to claim. "It only emphasizes the fact that teaching is a calling of accomplishments and refinements. I remember the teacher that I myself recall best." When Mrs. Wistar lost herself in reminiscence, she was more than apt to lose her point also. "His name was Aristides Welkin, and we called him Mr. Arry. He took snuff and recited Dryden and Milton to the class in parsing most beautifully. He was English and sometimes I think now, looking back upon it, drank. My parents paid well for the privilege of having my sister Juanita and myself under him. It was a school of selection and fashion, in the basement under the First Church." [Illustration: "His name was Aristides Welkin, and we called him Mr. Arry."] Selina kept to her narrative. "She said that of course I was a beginner. That she realized it would hardly pay me to come way out to her house for just William, and she thinks she can get three other pupils in the neighborhood who will come into the class. I'm to go on with him while she tries." "If you're valuable as all that sounds," insisted Auntie, holding to her point tenaciously, "she certainly ought to pay you well." Selina paused to steady her voice. So far in her world, and in the world of Mamma and Auntie, money matters were mentioned only when they had to be, and then with embarrassment and reluctance. Hot to her finger-tips and wincing to the fiber, she had had to discuss dollars and cents with Mrs. Williams. Or rather, this lady with her air of large condescension and kindly patronage had discussed it for her. Since Mamma and Auntie had brought her up to feel this shrinking from these things, how could they be so eager now about this part of the interview? "Mrs. Williams said she had inquired at the private schools and the kindergartens, found the charge for a pupil, and would of course fix the price at that." The blood surged slowly over Selina's face. "Yes?" from Mamma a little impatiently. Auntie however had noted the surging signals of distress. "I said that boy William's head was too large," she declared anticipatorily to anything of any nature which might follow. Selina, who abhorred doing an uncouth thing, gulped. It was the painful coincidence of the thing. The identical sum fixed by Mrs. Williams and custom for training youth to a knowledge of the rudiments, culture, good habits and worthy associations, had been in the mouths of Mamma, Auntie and herself, all too recently. On hearing it from Mrs. Williams, Selina had winced, and now shrunk from mentioning it herself until she had to. "I start in to-morrow. Mrs. Williams said why procrastinate things. No, I won't take off my hat, thank you, Auntie." She was winking fast, her eyes swimming behind something suspiciously like tears. She was swallowing, too, at thought of her own especial little world, her world including Amanthus and Maudie, Juliette and Adele, and their prosperous and easy surroundings. And having reached this point, she sobbed. For what would be the effect of the announcement of her teaching on her world? And what, too, would Culpepper Buxton say? The stepson of Cousin Maria Buxton, down here from up in his part of the state studying law, and her, yes, her very good friend? What would be the attitude of Culpepper to her move? She found voice. Moreover, she smiled bravely at Auntie. "No, don't take my cloak, please. I'm going out to find the girls and tell them and have it over with. The price, you say, Mamma?" Unexpectedly she sobbed again. The coincidence was mortifying. "Four dollars." "I quite begin to follow your meaning, Ann Eliza, when you say Mrs. Williams was a McIntosh," said Mamma with dignity. "You are right; her old grandfather, Manuel McIntosh, used to sit outside his doorstep on the sidewalk in his shirt-sleeves." "I've always had a big respect for cooking, myself," said Auntie with unexpected relevancy. "I've never thought we put enough emphasis on it as a calling. Feeding the body is a worthy thing. It comes first." "Who said anything about cooking, Ann Eliza?" from Mamma sharply. "How you wander from the point! If you're going out before dark, Selina, you'd better go." The two dear ladies at their respective windows, beside their respective work-baskets, watching for Selina to go out, saw her run right into her four friends at the gate. The inference was they were coming by on some of their common affairs. There was the weekly dancing club, the last volume from the circulating library always passed around, the new pattern-book, what-not, constantly bringing them together. The group opened to Selina as she came through the gate, each individual of it talking as it did so, and closed about her in its midst. Selina was popular with her friends. Maud Addison was the dashing one with the red-brown hair and the splendidly red and white skin. Maud's father was a solidly prosperous wholesale merchant and a Presbyterian elder, as Auntie was wont to say, as if the two things were bracketed, and Mrs. Addison, her mother, capable and authoritative, was a noted housekeeper. There were four children younger than Maud. "I must say," commented Mrs. Wistar from her window to her sister-in-law at hers, "Maud's rushing the season for October. And Indian summer hardly begun. That's the new sealskin jacket her father and mother promised her at graduation in June. I'd like it better if it did not fit in like a basque." "If only Selina might have suitable clothes," grieved Auntie, "she would wear clothes well with her nice carriage and her pretty skin, and her color that comes and goes. She would justify pretty things. She gets her features from you, Lavinia, and her hair and her skin from Robert." "Thank you, Ann Eliza. I must allow I was considered pretty in my day." The dark and vivid little creature of the group, the little flitting, flashing creature at this moment embracing Selina, was Juliette Caldwell. Juliette's mother was pretty and young to have two daughters younger than Juliette and a son in arms. Her father, young, too, was given to bantering, banging on the piano and making money. "That crimson at the throat of Juliette's coat, and the crimson feather in her hat, become her," went on Mrs. Wistar. Auntie agreed. "And Adele Carter is pretty after her own fashion, after all, Selina always insists she is." "If you like that colorless skin and those big reflective dark eyes," said Mrs. Wistar. "Adele's mother and her grandmother peck at her too much," claimed Auntie. "They're worldly as a lot, the whole family. In their efforts to make Adele into what she'll never successfully be, a fashionable daughter, they're only making her awkward. See how she shows she's got elbows." But of the group of young people down there at the gate Amanthus Harrison was the lovely one. With her cascading, scintillant, positively effulgent hair, amazing skin, laughing eyes, laughing cheeks, laughing lips, she was a radiant creature. "Amanthus laughs like my flowers in the backyard blow," said Auntie, "she hasn't an idea why she laughs." "She doesn't need to have," said Mrs. Wistar promptly and astutely. "You ask any man and he'd tell you that an idea would spoil her." "She's popular," reflected Auntie. "That's what I'm saying," impatiently. "And her mother is pretty and popular before her." "And enjoys it," from Auntie. "I've often wondered she hasn't married again. I wish Selina wouldn't think it so much the proper thing to be bookish, Lavinia," a little anxiously, "and to strew magazines around the house so. It isn't as if she actually reads them." "Selina is quite as popular as she needs to be," said her mother quickly. "She doesn't lack for masculine friends." "You don't have to take that tone to me, Lavinia," said Auntie sharply. "Nobody has to defend Selina from me." Here the four friends of Selina down there at the gate embraced her with a sudden rush and ardor. "She has told them," said Mamma. "Yes," from Auntie. And then both were silent, reading alike in the impetuosity of this ardor on the part of these young persons, commiseration, and more, amaze; amaze that she, Selina, their Selina Auboussier Wistar, pretty Selina Wistar, was to go out to be a teacher, the teacher of William Williams Jr.! A moment later as the group departed silently and as if stunned, and as Selina turned to re-enter her gate, the two ladies at their windows saw Culpepper Buxton appear. "To be sure, it is Tuesday," from Mrs. Wistar, "and we did tell him we should look for him regularly at dinner on Tuesday evenings. I'm sure I hope there's enough to eat. Viney is still resentful over having to give in to Selina's fad, and have dinner instead of supper at any such hour as six, because the Carters do." "They got it from England, I daresay," from Auntie. "Mr. Carter went over there last year, you know." "They got it from Chicago," said Mrs. Wistar tartly. "They visit soap-and-lard friends over there. I hope the roast, warmed over, is big enough to go around. I quite overlooked the fact Culpepper'd be here," vexedly. "We promised Maria, his mother, you and I both did, Lavinia, when she was down, that we'd look after Culpepper. It isn't every stepmother that would see her dead husband's son through as Maria is doing." "Maria has means," said Mrs. Wistar. "We'd most of us do wonderful things if we had means. There, look down at them. From Selina's manner and Culpepper's, I believe she has told him, too." "He's fine looking," from Auntie admiringly. "He's a third as tall again as she is, and Selina is tall enough for a girl herself. He's built on the lines of his country doctor father. He's listening to her in that same close way his father had, too, as though he heard through his gaze. I must say Culpepper is a great favorite of mine. But he's looking at her, rather shocked and pityingly, Lavinia. Is it a very terrible thing we're letting her do?" Now the dialogue down there at the gate, where this Culpepper towered above the slight young person of Selina, was this: From him: "Expecting me to dinner? This thing mustn't come to be a nuisance." "Yes. Why, of course. Auntie would never get over it if you didn't come. It's a serious matter to her, this compact with Cousin Maria. Culpepper?" "Yes?" His eyes were a bold blue, his lashes and heavy brows and his hair black. He looked even blatantly ready for the fight with life. "How--or when did it come to you that you'd have to go to work? Did it just dawn on you sometime? Or did somebody, Cousin Maria for instance, tell you?" "I haven't gone yet; don't give me undue credit." Culpepper gave that almost insolently contented laugh of his. "I'm making ready. I didn't do so badly at college and now I'm making law school. There wasn't any coming to know about it. I just knew. Every boy knows. He's getting ready from the start." "I went to-day and asked for a position to teach and got it. I start to-morrow!" "The devil you--Selina, it slipped out, forgive it. So that's why you wanted to know? I see. Felt you had to?" She nodded. If a lump requiring to be swallowed was perceptible, she was more willing for Culpepper to suspect than most people. She knew him better, and, too, he was the sort, for all his matter-of-factness, that understands. Or she thought so then. [Illustration: "He held back the gate, too, for her to pass through."] He gave a slow ejaculation as they went in together, a sort of prolonged h'm-m between his teeth. He held back the gate, too, for her to pass through, with that manner of his, highly indifferent to the act, the manner of one who opens gates for people not because it is the accepted thing to do, but because it pleases him, in this case or that case, to do it. "Cousin Robert, now, Selina, what does he say to it?" She was quick in her father's defence. "He doesn't know, Culpepper. Mamma thought it best not to mention it to him just yet." He shook his head with dire warning. "When you or some other nice feminine lady marries me, Selina, don't think I'm going to submit to any such female managing." He glanced at her a bit oddly as he spoke. Culpepper was extremely fond of Selina. He had known her since she was a child, and came up to his stepmother's farm for visits in the summers with her aunt. He teased her and indulged her both by manner and by act. He was not the sort to bother with people at all if he was not fond of them. Auntie had come down to meet them and here opened the front door. She adored Culpepper. "Well, ole Miss?" He kissed her, the only person anyone ever had seen Culpepper kiss, not excepting his stepmother to whom he owed everything. "Safe through another seven days in the wicked city! For another week I've kept my hands from picking and stealing, and my tongue from lying and slandering. Gimme a clean slate." "You're mightily sure of yourself, being young," retorted Auntie. "I'll write Maria you're behaving. Selina, your mother says come right upstairs and get yourself ready for supper." "Dinner, Auntie," from Selina quickly and reproachfully. Selina was scant seventeen. "Dinner," Auntie corrected herself obediently. "Dinner," mocked Culpepper with an alarmed air, "how're we plain folk ever going to live up to her, I put it to you, ole miss, If she goes on insisting on these things?" CHAPTER THREE When Selina came down to breakfast the next morning Papa was gone but Mamma and Auntie were lingering over their coffee and waffles, waiting for her. She explained her tardiness. "I'm late because I didn't know just what to put on to teach in. I got out my cloth dress, but that seemed reckless when it's my best, so I put on the old plaid and this linen collar and cuffs." "Which are tasty and yet severe," said Mamma approvingly, "and somehow in keeping." The implication proved unfortunate. Selina's profile as it flashed about on Mamma flushed. Such a young, young profile. Such a young Selina in the plaid dress and the linen collar and the cuffs. Such a child quivering with abhorrence of the act of going to work, and wincing with shame because of the abhorrence. In her pitiful state she was inclined to take umbrage at anything. And what did her mother mean? "Linen collar and cuffs are in keeping with what, Mamma?" she asked in reply, even sharply. Mamma hastened to conciliate and again was unfortunate. "In keeping with the very worthy calling you are entering on. The pettifogic calling as we spoke of it under Mr. Aristides Welkin. He had a proper respect for his occupation as a teacher and saw to it that his pupils had." "If he meant pedagogic, Mamma, he probably said so. And can't you understand if there's one thing _I wouldn't_ want it to be, it's a calling? Mamma, _please_ don't let's discuss the teaching any more. Yes, I've had all I want to eat. I _did_ eat my egg, and I don't _want_ any waffles." "Selina, come here and kiss Auntie before you go," from that dear person. "I learned my a-b, abs, and my parlez-vous's, before the day of Mr. Welkin. In my time we all went to old Madame Noël de Jourde de Vaux, wife of a guillotined French nobleman, as I've often told you. In a little four-roomed cottage it was, not far from the market-house. I tasted my first olive there and sipped orange-flower water and sugar. She was a tiny old personage with twinkling eyes and manners that had served her well at court. She called it her A B C school for the babies." Darling Auntie! Selina threw grateful, passionate arms around her and kissed her. One could see Madame de Vaux and her babies in the cottage near the market-house through a glamour, but one hated Mr. Aristides Welkin in his calling. Why? Selina couldn't have said. Then in a rush of self-reproach, she swept about and kissed Mamma. "It's a quarter past eight and I said I'd be there at nine. I'll have to hurry." * * * * * She walked the ten blocks out to the opener neighborhood of the Williams'. The early morning of the Indian summer day was tinged with blue mistiness and underfoot was the pleasant rustle and crackle of leaves along the pavement. On the way she stopped in a drugstore that dealt in school supplies. She had told Mrs. Williams to have a primer and first reader for William and she must have one of each herself. As the man brought them she recognized them as the same she had used in _her_ day, the primer with a salmon-pink cover in paper, the first reader in a blue cover in pasteboards. She took them in their package and left. In her day? That meant at the little private school where she went at first and where she learned to read. What did happen in her day at that school? She had to teach William, and it might help her to remember? She had held to Auntie's hand who took her to school that first day, she remembered that, and cried bitterly because she was frightened. And then? What had happened then? Why Amanthus had happened then, the most lovely little girl Selina seemed ever to have seen, with bronze shoes on with tassels. And because of Amanthus and the shoes, and more particularly perhaps, the tassels, she had let go of Auntie's hand and consented to stay. And then Maudie had happened, a taller little girl with plaits that were almost red. And after her a little, little girl with black curls in tiers, whose name turned out to be Juliette, and next a little girl with straight hair and big eyes named Adele. And following these, some little boys occurred named Bliss and Brent and Sam and Tommy. And on this first day did lessons begin? Just as lessons were to begin this morning with William? If only she could recall! Miss Dellie Black taught that school, and as Mamma intimated about the stiff collar and the cuffs, her alpaca apron and the gloves upon her hands with their fingers neatly cut off across the knuckles, seemed to be in keeping with her calling. She had a ruler and rapped with it, and a pointer with which she pointed to a primer chart and a blackboard. But what had she taught? And how had she taught it? Selina shut her mental eyes as it were, as she went along, and concentrated all her forces at recalling. Absurd! This picture that came to her of that first day! Auntie had gone, and the class came out and stood in a row before Miss Dellie because she said stand so. And _she_ stood before the chart with the pointer and with a tap of the wood on the page beneath a black mark, said, _"This is A._" Everybody was polite about it, but even so Miss Dellie tapped again and harder as though they had disputed it, and said again and louder, "_This is A._" Everybody accepted it again, but Miss Dellie seemed to want proof of this. "Now say it after me, everybody, '_This is A._'" Everybody said it after Miss Dellie. "Now say it again without me," from Miss Dellie. And after they had said it again without her, the little, little girl with the black curls, the little girl whose name proved to be Juliette, looked up into Miss Dellie's face, her own little face and her eyes full of wondering interest. "Why's it A?" she asked the lady. "What? What's that?" from Miss Dellie Black sharply. "Don't you know I'm talking, little girl? And you must listen!" Half a dozen volunteers explained what she had said, Maudie with the red plaits, Tommy, Sam and others. "She says _why's_ it A?" "She's a naughty little girl not to know her place in school," said Miss Dellie? Black firmly, "and if she can't be quiet she can go to her seat and stay there." Absurd again! So Selina told herself as before. Much good a recall like this could do her this morning! She'd try again. But this time it wasn't a picture of school that came to her at all. But of herself at home going to Papa full of pride in her achievements _at school_, and carrying with her to his knee, her primer open at a picture. "What's this?" Papa had said, full of flattering concern. "A big, big ox gazing down on a frog on a lily-pad? What? No? It isn't any ox? Miss Lizzie gave it to you for your lesson to-morrow, and she said so? Though it may be a frog? If it isn't an ox, then what is it, Selina?" She had told him clear and sure, that funny little fair-haired girl. "'Tain't an ox. Miss Dellie told us what it was when she held up the picture. It's a fable!" Absurd again! And ridiculous! How was any of all this going to help her, the grown Selina, to teach William? * * * * * The Williams' house stood in a long, narrow corner lot. Its windows were tall and narrow; its front door was narrow and high. A white maid, whose manner as she surveyed you, at once seemed to disqualify you, opened the door. Selina remembered her from the other day. It was a very proper house within, very exact, very shining, very precise. One's heart opened a little way for William doomed to live his infant days amid it. Yet it almost would seem Selina had misjudged Mrs. Williams. She appeared now at the head of the stairs as Selina came in, Amazonian, handsome, impressive, and called down to her quite as anybody might. She was so pleasantly excited she forgot to be condescending and reassuring. "Come right up, Selina. I'm sure you're going to feel I've done my best for you. I couldn't feel I quite _could_ let you come way out here for just _William_." She actually radiated enthusiasm as Selina reached the head of the stairs. "I made up my mind some of the mothers in this neighborhood had to be made to take advantage of this opportunity I was offering them. Come with me to the sewing-room. I've turned that over to you for the present. I've put the lap-board across chairs for two to sit at, and the checker-board on a chair for another. William has his own desk. I've got you four pupils." Selina followed Mrs. Williams through the hall toward the sewing-room. "Rupy Dodd and Willy Dodd are midway of the seven Dodd children. Their mother will be over to see you as soon as she can. It was a mercy on my part to insist she enter these two. Henry Revis is our doctor's son. It'll take him off the street, as I pointed out to his father. His mother also will be over to see you." They went into the sewing-room, Mrs. Williams ahead, making the introductions. "Rupy and Willy and Henry and William, this is Miss Wistar, Miss Selina Wistar, the young lady, the very lovely and kind young lady I think we may say, who is coming every day to teach you. Rupy!" And at this one of the two little boys seated at the lap-board, partially desisted from his absorption with some crimson rose-hips and looked up. The lap-board was strewn with stems and husks and some of the rose-hip contents. "Rupy," sharply, "are you quite sure they're _good_ to eat?" "Aw, who's eatin' 'em?" said Rupy the sturdy, red-haired and freckled, spewing out rose-hip fuzz along with disgust at woman's blindness and interference in what she didn't understand. "I took 'em away f'om Willy to bust 'em an' see what's in 'em. Mummer sent 'em over to the teacher." "I'll bust some myse'f soon as he'll lemme," from Willy anxiously, not quite so sturdy and with hair not quite so red and paler freckles. "Rupy's the oldest," from Mrs. Williams as if it were apology and accounted for the whole business. "Willy's his twin. William, you and Henry come and speak to Miss Wistar." * * * * * Mrs. Williams had withdrawn. Selma's coat and hat were on the sofa in the corner and she had taken the chair provided for her beside a small table. Her color came and went, her hair shone with pale luster, her manner was pretty and the collar and cuffs were becoming. At desk, checker-board and lap-board her pupils sat before her and gazed at her. William was at the desk. He was very clean, very shining and very gloomy. His head _was_ too large. It looked tired as from the carrying of an overweight of suspicion. Patiently he eyed her and the whole business about to be with distrust. In a curious way it warmed Selina's heart, causing her to feel banded with William as against some outside cunning force. It was as if she found a friend and ally here in William. Rupy Dodd and Willy Dodd sat at the lap-board. As said before, they had red hair and freckles wherever freckles supposedly might be. Rupy having abandoned the rose-hips by request, looked alert and Willy, his twin, looked at Rupy. Henry at the checker-board was small and lean with a keen blue eye and a keener air. Asked by Selina to tell her again what his name was he gave it with briskness and every off-hand due, as Hennery. A minute before she had heard this Henry sum her up to Rupy. "Aw, she ain't a teacher, she's a girl." And she had heard the contumely of Rupy's reply: "With molasses-candy plaits round her head." * * * * * Selina in the chair before her class held a slate in her hand. She had borrowed it from William and with a bit of chalk supplied her by Mrs. Williams from the machine drawer, had made a certain symbol upon it. This slate with the symbol in chalk upon it she now held up to the class. "This, William and Rupy and Willy and Henry," she said a little tremulously, even while trying to make it sound firm, "_this is A._" William looked tired with distrust of the whole doubtless tricky business. He'd been fooled into this thing called life for a starter, his manner seemed to say, and he'd be wary and watchful about the rest. Let it be A, it was her business since she was claiming it was A, not his. Henry spoke disparagingly. "Pshaw, I know the whole durned business from A to Izzard. It don't need any teacher to tell _me_ what's A." Willy was peevish. But then, as everybody's manner of bearing with him said, including his brother, what was he but a twin? "What's Izzard?" from Willy, peevishly. "I know A. My Mummer, she taught us A. What you meanin' by Izzard, Henry?" But Rupy the flame-headed, spewing some more just-discovered rose-hip fuzz out his mouth through a gap made by two missing incisors, here spread himself across the lap-board and asked a question. Asked it as one asked a question he long has wanted to know. Asked it in faith with a demanding eye, as one who means to bite into more fruits in life than mere rose-hips and reveal their hearts, or know the reason. "_Why's it A?_" And the girl-teacher, this Selina, looked back at him. Why was it A, indeed? Rupy of this decade was asking as Juliette of the last decade had done. And _Juliette_ had had no answer. William spoke up out of what one gathered was the gloom of his own experience, addressing himself to Rupy. "She'll tell you it's because God says so. Eve'ybody tells you that." Rupy flung himself back off the lap-board against his chair with the air of one who had her. "Why's it A?" he repeated. Henry, small, lean, knowing, never had remitted his shrewd gaze fixed appraisingly upon her. Suddenly now he relaxed and his manner changed from challenging to protective, from aggressive to benignant. "Aw, gwan an' say it out. Don't you be afraid. You say what you wanter say about why it's A." For Henry had read her and discovered her. _She didn't know why it was A!_ And Selina drawing enlightenment from Henry upon the wise path to tread, said what she wanted to say, just as he bade her do. "I don't know why it's A. The first day I ever went to school we asked why it was A, but nobody told us." "An' you don't know yet?" from William with the triumph of the certain if gloomy prognostigator. Rupy seemed to feel that he had started all this and was responsible. His air, too, like Henry's, had changed from the demanding and the challenging to the protective. She was a girl, and she didn't know! What further proof needed that she was here to be taken care of? "Well, anyhow this one's A. Go on. The next one's B. We all know 'em." Willy came to as though the burden of the proof suddenly was put upon him. "B bit it, C cut it, D dealt it----" "Aw, Willy," from Rupy disgustedly, "you go on like a girl when she thinks she knows it." William emerged into an outraged being. "Don't go on like a girl. You gimme back them rose-hips. They was mine to give the teacher." "Well," grumbled Rupy as with one willing to take part of it back, "if, 'tain't like a girl, it's like a twin, then." * * * * * They knew their letters, they knew their numbers, up to ten at least, they all had primers and had them with them, and proved to her they knew cat, and rat, and mat, and hen, and pen and men, on the page. Selina didn't believe, however, that any of them could read. As well make a start somewhere and find out. She turned to a page well on in the primer, a page she had met before in her day. She held it up to them. It showed a benevolent bovine gazing downward at a frog on a lily-pad. "Everybody turn to this page. It's a fable and we'll start there." They were on to her at once with contumely and derision, Rupy the freckled, Henry the lean, William the tired because as now of the very inadequateness of most creatures. "Fable?" from Rupy. "What for's it any fable? What's a fable?" pityingly. "Aw, 'tain't no fable, can't you see it ain't?" from Henry in disgust. From William with gloomy patience. "It's an ox. And the thing it's talking to is a frog." Willy bobbed up. He was nothing but a twin, poor soul! But even so, _he'd_ show her! "O-x, ox, f-r-o-g, frog, p-r-i-m, prim, e-r, er, primer." "Aw, Willy," from Rupy in tones of even greater disgust. "Whut's the matter with you? This here's _her_ school. Let her talk. It ain't your'n." For she was a girl! And discovered to be pretty! And twice proven under test not to know! She was here to be taken care of and protected! What further proofs of this were needed? * * * * * Mrs. Williams came out to the hall as Selina was leaving at noon. "I hope you feel you got along fairly well? That your first morning gave you encouragement?" Selina hesitated. Her linen collar was a bit awry and the crown of flaxen plaits about her head had sagged. "It's--it's different from what I thought. I don't think I knew what little boys were like. It's--it's interesting, and I dare say I'll like it. Little girls, as I remember us, tried to think the way we were told to think. It's as if little boys feel that's a reason for thinking the other way." "I dare say," from Mrs. Williams absently. She wasn't following what Selina had to say. But then Selina wasn't at all certain she was following herself. "I feel you're quite justified in coming to us now," Mrs. Williams was saying. "It's a great relief to me that I succeeded in convincing two mothers at least of how greatly it was to their advantage to send their children over. You understand, of course, Selina, that Rupert and Willy and Henry mean four dollars for you, the same as my William?" It was what Selina had been anxious to know but had not quite liked to ask. CHAPTER FOUR When Selina returned from her first morning's teaching, she had much to tell. She almost felt she was growing sordid and mercenary herself. "When I got to Mrs. Williams', Mamma, I found three other pupils waiting for me." "It's an ugly brick front, that house of the Williams', so tall and spare," said her mother, not just grasping what was significant in the information. "Three more pupils it means, Mamma and Auntie, making _four_ in all." "I'm sure I'm glad she proved as good as her word," said Auntie. "I suppose because she needed the others to make up the class for her own child, she made those mothers feel it was entirely her interest in their children's welfare bringing it about. People always go down before that sort of zeal for their benefit. That's Amelia McIntosh, exactly!" Selina tried again. She herself was tremendously excited. If when she arrived at the Williams' and found those four wide-eyed little boys awaiting her, her heart misgave her as to what she was going to do with them, she had no intention of telling it at home, and if damage seemed likely to be done at her novice hands to the innocent William and his equally innocent companions, she was not thinking of that part of it at all! What she was trying to make plain was of a different nature. "Don't you realize what it means, Mamma? Four pupils at four dollars a pupil! Think of that, Auntie!" They saw the point at last and dropping their sewing in their laps, sat up animated and excited. "Four pupils at four dollars a pupil?" said Auntie. "That's how much for a week's teaching, Lavinia?" Auntie always succumbed before figures. "Four and four's eight, and eight's sixteen," said Mamma, dazzled, "and multiply this sixteen by four again for a month's total--four t'm's six is twenty-four, four t'm's one is four and two to carry, is--! Selina, you must have a round-necked, real party dress now!" happily. "And two to carry is what, Lavinia?" from Auntie anxiously. "Sixty-four dollars?" in answer to her sister-in-law's triumphant reply. "I can't believe it! Selina, you must have a hat with a soft feather, too!" Selina was dazzled, too, but endeavoring to hold herself steady. Fifteen dollars was the most she had had for her own at any one time in her life. She had held on to it hoardingly, letting a dozen things go by that she really wanted, to lose her head in the end and spend it for a thing she didn't want at all as it proved. She was going to keep her head and her dignity this time over this sudden wealth opening to her. "I shall pay Aunt Viney from now on; that's to be my part," she said with finality. "Remember that, please, Mamma, in making your calculations." "But nothing more," from Auntie. "Not one thing more, other than for yourself," from Mamma, "and I shall mention the matter to your father, now," happily, "there's nothing in it for him to feel worried over now." Her father spoke to Selina that evening, stopping her on her way up the stairs as he came down. "Your mother has told me about this teaching, since I got home," he said. "Stop a moment, Selina." He lifted her face by a hand placed softly beneath her chin as they stood there on the steps. The refined, rather delicate face with the close brown beard she perforce thus looked up into, was sensitive as her own. The eyes seemed to be regarding her as from a new viewpoint. His own little daughter, this young person with the all too heavy flaxen plaits and the dress-skirt down to her instep! "Your mother assures me you chose to do this teaching yourself, Selina? Am I to decry it, or applaud it?" She was horribly embarrassed, not being accustomed to discuss her affairs in this way with him, communications of an intimate nature between them always being through her mother. The thing was to end the interview as quickly as possible and get away from the disturbing proximity. "It's settled, Papa, so don't decry it," she spoke stiffly and even while doing so was ashamed of it. He was regarding her a little wistfully. "Your mother tells me, Selina, that you will need a winter dress?" Was he groping, perhaps sorrowfully, trying to find some point through which to reach her? "See to it that it comes from me, will you, and that it is a nice one?" Again she was ashamed, this time of the relief with which she fled from his kiss and the touch of his hand on her shoulder. Apparently there is everything in an undertaking being a success, even when it is teaching for your living, and you a woman. Selina told Juliette, what her four pupils were to bring her, and she told the others, they who had been so plainly shocked and full of distress for her, and they came hurrying over, filled with excitement and admiration now. It was the afternoon following Selina's second day of teaching. She was in her own room which overlooked the backyard and Auntie's beds of salvias and dahlias still braving the first light frosts. Now Selina felt that her room didn't lack distinction. She would have preferred a set of cottage furniture like Maud's, of course, white with decalcomania decorations on it in flowers and landscapes, instead of the despised mahogany set that had belonged to the grandmother she was named for. Selina belonged to her own day and hour. "Cottage furniture is adorable and mahogany relegated to attics and junk shops," she once had said discontentedly to her mother. Still, with her books and her pictures, a panel in oils done by Cousin Anna, of cat-tails, and the companion to it in pond-lilies, and a Japanese parasol over her mantelpiece, her room did not lack for distinction. She was looking over the first-reader books she had ordered for her pupils, and wondering what she was to do with them, when there was a tap at her door and Amanthus came in. Lashing the laughter of her cheeks and eyes, and Amanthus did not often stop being enchanted for side matters, this loveliest of creatures came hurrying to her and kissed her. "I've been wanting to tell you, Selina, that Tommy and Bliss and the other boys think you're wonderful and a dear about teaching." Tommy Bacon and Bliss were the quite especial two with Amanthus just now, there never being less than two in her case. "But I came in now because Juliette has told me! Think of you earning all that!" Juliette, who had come with Amanthus and had lingered to speak with Mrs. Wistar and Auntie in the front room, came flashing in here. "Isn't Amanthus' new dress enchanting, Selina? Who but Mrs. Harrison would have thought of fawn color and rose? I heard ribbon bows as trimming were coming in, and I must say I like them. We've been discussing you, Selina. Maudie says you didn't want to teach, and that every step we take toward the thing we don't want to do, as you did, strengthens our characters. She is choosing something for me to take up, that I won't care for, because she says I'm volatile and changeable. Think of you really earning all that, Selina!" The crimson staining Juliette's cheeks was glorious! "I'm not sure Maudie is such a safe one for you to follow, Judy," considered Selina, the fair-skinned. "You're not as volatile, if I know what volatile is, as she is." Amanthus turned away from the bureau where she had been fluffing her sunny yellow hair, and came and sat down before the open coal fire with the two. "Mamma says Maudie is laughable if she wasn't so masterful, taking you all after strange gods. I asked her what strange gods meant, and she laughed and told me I'd never need to find out." "You won't, Amanthus," said little Judy omnisciently, with a nod of her small dark head, "the rest of us, I kind of feel," with big solemnity, "will go far." Then she took a lighter tone. "It's Maudie who's always proposing something to the rest of us, but when you come to think about it, we always fall in. There she is now, calling to your mother, Selina, as she comes up the stairs. She said she'd be over." Handsome Maud, bringing energy and unrest with her, burst forth with her plaint before even she had found a seat, Selina vacating one of the three chairs for her, and taking a place on the bed. "It's giving me such concern, what I ought to be making of myself, Selina, now you've set the way, I didn't sleep last night for considering it. I said so to Papa, and he said 'stuff' which wasn't polite. And anyway, I know I'm right; everyone should center on some talent, only I can't decide on which. Think of the proved value of yours!" And here Adele came in. She had gone by for one and the other, and then followed them here. If Juliette was flashing, and Amanthus enchanting, and Maudie with her red-brown hair and red and white skin, undeniably handsome, Adele, seemingly, should have been lovely. Her eyes were dark, and her cheeks softly oval. But somehow she lacked what Maud called the vital fire. Or was it confidence she lacked? She herself explained it by saying she never was allowed by her family to respect the things she had the slightest bent for doing. As Adele came in now, her dark eyes looked their worry. She took the place indicated beside Selina on the bed. "You're working for what you'll get, Selina, giving something for something? It's just come to me, thinking it over. It must be a self-respecting feeling it gives. It makes me begin to wonder if I've really any right to my allowance from Papa." "While Selina's busy with her teaching, maybe it would be a good thing for the rest of us to get together and keep up our German," burst forth Maud. "Oh, I know, Adele, you mean a different thing, something highly moral and uncomfortable, but meanwhile let's be doing _something_. It's inaction that's galling." "You said the other day," from little Juliette, indignantly, "we'd get a chart and find out something about the stars and astronomy. I went and bought me a book!" Amanthus, flower-like and lovely creature, looked from one to the other of them as they talked. The wonder on her face and the bother in her violet eyes made her sweet and irresistible. "You're so queer," protestingly, "you Maudie and Adele, and yes, Juliette, too. You do get so worked up. I don't see what it is you're always thinking you're about. Selina needed the money. I don't see what more there is to it than that. It's certainly fine she is going to make all she is by teaching. And, Selina, I mustn't forget, Mamma told me to give you her love and consummations, no, I guess I mean congratulations." Amanthus was given to these lapses in her English. "Are the rest of you going to stay longer? I've got to go." When Culpepper came around a night later and heard the astounding news of Selma's good fortune, he pretended to a loss of his usually sober head. "Come go to the theater with me to-night, Selina, to celebrate? That is if your mother agrees? No, certainly I can't afford it. I see the question in your accusing eyes, but you needn't rub it in that I'm a plodding dependent and you're the opulent earner." At the close of her first week at teaching William the gloomy and Rupy and Willy and Henry, Selina did not bring home her expected sixteen dollars. "It probably is customary to pay monthly. I didn't like to ask," she told Mamma and Auntie. "Settle with Aunt Viney for me until I get it, Mamma; she pays the rent for her room by the week, I know, and I'll give it to you in a lump sum at the end of the month." And when that time came, she did, a pale, incredulous, crushed Selina, and fell weeping against Mamma's neck with a hand outstretched to be cherished by Auntie. "She said four dollars a pupil. I supposed she meant a week the same as we pay Aunt Viney. I thought that was little enough. She is amazed I could have dreamed of such a thing. She says I ought to have known, that my common-sense should have told me, that I could have investigated for myself. She meant four dollars a month for a pupil. Education comes cheaper than cooks. The money from all four of them--- here it is." Selina stretched forth the other hand passionately. "It will not quite pay Aunt Viney." "She was a McIntosh, as your Aunt says. I never did think it was much of an alliance for a Williams," from Mamma scathingly. "I said from the start that boy William's head was too large" from Auntie as one justified. CHAPTER FIVE That evening at the dinner table, Mamma looked around the castor and spoke briskly to Papa, tall and slight gentleman that he was, with temples hollowing a bit. "We made a foolish miscalculation in the amount Selina is to receive for her teaching. We women are poor arithmeticians. With her lack of experience it is gratifying that she will be commanding the customary price as it is." By this Selina understood that her father was to be spared as much of her disappointment as possible. She really owed this gentleman something on account in this teaching business, if she were given to considering money received from him after any such fashion. He had smilingly, at her mother's request, advanced the amount needed for books and other material for her teaching, and a second sum for carfare to the Williams' in bad weather. But these transactions were not on the mind of Selina at all. Just as the economic end rather than Aunt Viney was the thing considered by Mamma in the readjustment of the family wash, so Papa, as a source of supply was taken for granted by Selina. It would not have occurred to her, nor yet to Mamma or Auntie, or to any of the mothers and aunts and daughters whom they knew, that the sum of her earnings was offset by the amount advanced for her equipping. On the other hand Selina was loving, and quite understood that it should be the feelings of her father she must spare. [Illustration: "Mamma looked around the castor and spoke briskly."] "The experience will mean everything," she claimed briskly and promptly to her mother's cue, "I ought to be glad to teach for nothing, I daresay, to get it." Auntie looked alarmed at any such view of the matter. "I knew of an apprentice in my young days, our gardener's son, bound out for the experience in a rope-walk, who carried thirty-seven boils at one time from the mildewed cornmeal they fed him. I don't approve of anyone working for anybody for nothing. We're sure to undervalue what we don't pay the price for. It's a poor plan." "How you wander," from Mamma. "Not from my point," from Auntie stoutly. "I've made it." After dinner Juliette and Maud who lived next door to each other, and Amanthus and Adele who lived at the opposite ends of the block, came in in a body. It was a way the group had of getting together at one house when there was nothing else especial on hand. They trooped gaily in, dropping their wraps in the hall and coming into the parlor. No more were they and Selina seated about the open grate fire and Auntie's burnished brasses, and prepared to talk volubly, than Culpepper walked in. He found a chair and joined the group. "Judy and I," Maud was saying to Selina who was pale though nobody noticed this, "saw you starting out this morning to your teaching. We think if you'd coil your plaits round your head, instead of looping them, you'd look older." "If four infant pupils bring in one swollen fortune," speculated Culpepper blandly, "how many fortunes, through how many infant pupils, is one Selina, now she's started, likely to amass?" It was as well! The mistaken matter of such banter indeed was uppermost in Selina's thoughts. The minds of these five friends had to be disabused of their rosy misinformation about her earnings, and the sooner the better. Selina, who in general had a gay little way in talking to these friends, endeavored to take that way now. "I've some interesting data about the market value of education with some other things," she said briskly. "I'm thinking I'd get rich sooner, Culpepper, if I abandoned pupils and decided to cook. I'll have to ask you to divide by four"--did Selina choke a little here?--"that Fortunatus salary I thought I was getting for teaching William and the others." "Selina! Divide by four? What do you mean? Oh, I do wish," plaintively, "you all would ever say what it is you mean, plain out," from Amanthus. "Selina!" from Adele, "Oh, I'm sorry!" "Let me help you choose a better vocation if that's the case," indignantly from Maud. "Don't waste yourself on it." "How did you make such a mistake, Selina? Or was it your mistake?" from Juliette. "Mrs. Williams said I ought to have known what she meant, I should have investigated--" Selina thus was taking up the tale of it once more when she stopped. "Yes?" from Culpepper. "We're waiting?" But with a brisk air of not hearing him, Selina changed the subject. Her father whom she had forgotten was sitting in the back parlor with her mother and her aunt, had lowered his paper and was listening, too. By all the precedents and traditions of her up-bringing, it was hers to change the subject. Her audience all were acquainted with the personnel of her little class of boys by now, for when Selina was interested in a thing she talked about it. They were familiar, too, with Auntie's grievance about the cranial peculiarity of William. The thing now was to turn the matter off with what Maudie would call sprightly nonchalance. "William's head certainly is growing smaller, you must know," said Selina with gayety. "Isn't it some sort of reflection on me? As his teacher? I would have thought it would be the other way." Culpepper from across the circle was looking at her with those boldly blue eyes of his, beneath half-raised lids. Papa's paper was lowered to his knee in the next room. Something was wrong, this brave gayety was assumed and they showed that they knew it was. "Bluffed," said Culpepper still with that keen and appraising gaze upon her, "she's going to quit." Papa's paper floated unnoticed from his knee to the floor. Was he listening for what was to come? "I'm not," said Selina indignantly, stung by these attitudes as of watchers noting her on trial, "I've just begun." "Still, it seems to me, Mrs. Williams was right," from little Judy here in the front room. "You ought to have investigated; you should have known for yourself. Somehow girls and women never seem to know for themselves. I wonder why?" Mrs. Wistar's voice murmuring defensively came in from the next room. "I hardly follow you, Mr. Wistar! I'm sure it was harder on me than on Selina to have her so disappointed. No girl was ever more shielded than she has been from all possible disappointments, and such things, up to now, nor spared where it was possible to spare her!" The murmuring voice in reply came from Auntie. "My father's mother with her eight children followed her husband, she by wagon, he on horseback, over the old wilderness road to settle here where this town is now. She learned to use a gun and an axe as well as she used a spinning wheel, because she had to. She bore him seven more children after they were here. Nobody spared women or children then. Maybe it's been our mistake to spare her too much, Lavinia." CHAPTER SIX There are Olympians in each group of us, and Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle not only was of the Olympians in Selina's community, but was held by some to be _the_ Olympian. Such is the magic of pre-eminence the name Tuttle sounded chaste and euphonious to the ear. Selina's aunt and this lady who had gone to school together and were old friends, met down street. If the weakness of Mrs. Tuttle, who was an august but kindly soul, lay in a palpable enjoyment in the overdressing of her large person, her virtues lay in a well-intentioned heart. Though the details of the meeting between these two ladies were not all given to Selina, what happened at the underwear counter of the drygoods store where they met, was this: "Selina is teaching, Emmeline, teaching in a private way," Auntie told Mrs. Tuttle. "It does not pay, but it is an opening wedge," an explanation she made everybody. "You mean to say, Ann Eliza Wistar, that Robert's child is old enough for that! Her name, Selina, is for your mother, I remember. And a mighty capable and resolute woman she is named for. That stock in our mothers one generation removed from pioneer blood and bone, was fine stock, Ann Eliza. How is Lavinia taking the child's doing it?" "Well, she feels it's a pity, and so do I, and so, I think, does Robert. Selina is pretty, Emmeline." "H'm, I see. I remember now she is. I used to see her once a year at least at the dancing school balls. You send her to me, Ann Eliza, whenever an invitation comes to her from me this winter. No, better, now I come to think about it, you tell her I want her at my house to-morrow night. I'm having a musicale. I'll look out for her. Somewhere before nine o'clock." Selina reached home that day in excellent spirits anyway. She had been teaching her class of four for two months now, and William had been embarrassingly slow starting at reading in his first reader. He seemed to feel he had enough of reading when he finished his primer. This morning Mrs. Williams had come to her in the sewing-room, with reassuring news. "We find William has begun to read at last, Selina. Day before yesterday he couldn't, and last night he seized his book, when we urged him, and deliberately read his father a page about a baby robin, without a mistake. We think it's wonderful how it's come about all at once." Selina thought so, too, but was none the less relieved for that. Not that she was not conscientious, for with the best will in the world she was applying the printed page to her four pupils and her pupils to the page, the moment of flux unfortunately being unpredictable but exceedingly reassuring when it came. Evidently there is more in the phrase "born teacher" than she had been aware of, and she grew a bit heady with the relief of this news. And here when she reached home was the invitation from Mrs. Tuttle awaiting her! Honors were crowding her! She and Mamma and Auntie talked it over eagerly at the lunch table. "There's no ease like that from going about to the best places," said Mamma. "I can't be too glad this has come just when it has. It defines Selina's position. I don't suppose," musingly, "Amelia Williams ever was asked to the Tuttle home in her life. The McIntoshes never were anybody. Not that I'd have you mention to her, Selina, that you're going to this musicale." "Emmeline's even more given to dress now than when she was a girl," said Auntie. "She had trimming in steel and jet all over the bosom of her dress this morning, and big as she is, it looked too much." Just here, as Aunt Viney brought in the plum preserves for dessert, Culpepper walked in with a note from his mother, inclosed in his weekly letter from home. "It says 'Ann Eliza' on the outside, ole miss, so I'll have to reckon it's for you." Auntie took her note, then broke forth with the more immediate news happily: "Selina's going to a grown-up party at one of my old friend's to-morrow night." Culpepper was bantering but practical. He got his pleasure out of these dear ladies, too. "Tomorrow night? How's she going to get there?" True! They all three had forgotten! "To be sure, Selina!" said her mother, "it is your father's whist night." "I can't see why she wants to go. I never see much in these things myself," from Culpepper, "but if you do, Selina, I'll come around and take you, wherever it is, and get you later and bring you home." After he was gone Mamma and Auntie sang his praises. "It was both nice and thoughtful in him to remember about your father and his neighborhood whist club," said Mamma. "I hope he's not inconveniencing himself to do it," from Auntie. It would seem that all those honors right now crowding Selina were gone to her head. Resenting quite so much solicitude for Culpepper under the circumstances, she all but tossed that head. "He wouldn't put himself out, let me assure you Mamma, and you, Auntie, too, if he didn't want to." During the afternoon Cousin Anna Tomlinson, who lived a block away, came around, having heard the news through Aunt Viney, who had stopped to chat with the servants on her way to the grocery. "I always meant to give Selina gold beads," she said as she came in, as if the enormity of the present crisis exonerated her from doing so now. "What has she to wear, Lavinia? Why certainly she can't go in her graduating dress. She's worn it on every occasion since she's had it. It's been dabby for some time." Cousin Anna was rich, the money belonging to her and not to Cousin Willoughby Tomlinson, her husband. Her house impeccably swept and garnished, year after year, was brought up to date though nobody ever went there, Cousin Willoughby entertaining his friends at that newly established thing, the club. And Cousin Anna, who had finery in quantity though she never went anywhere, was fussily dressy, but in last year's clothes. Just as she could not bear to use her house, so time had to take the edge of value off her clothes before she wore them. She had a straight and unswerving backbone; her coiffure as she styled it, was elaborate; and she settled her watch chain and her rings constantly. "And she is every bit as old as I am," Mamma never failed to say. Cousin Willoughby Tomlinson's mother had been a Wistar, and it was commonly told among the older set, that he had tried for Emmeline Knight, she that was now Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle, before he came round to Cousin Anna. This person gazed from Mamma to Auntie. "Certainly Selina can't be allowed to go to a Tuttle entertainment dabby," she said sharply. "You've never had a real dressmaker dress in your life, have you, Selina? Emmeline Tuttle is a little too inclined to look on her invitations as distributed favors. You're going to this musicale in a Vincent dress of mine, if you can wear it, and judging by the eye, I think you can. I'll go right home and send it round." Madame Vincent was the last cry in the community among what Mamma and Cousin Anna and Auntie called mantua-makers. Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Juliette Caldwell, little vivid, affectionate body, and Adele Carter, impersonation of consideration for others, coming over as Cousin Anna left, Selina snubbed them. They were such slaving and believing followers of Maud! And she, Selina herself? Well, she was a follower, too, but with reservations. Maud recently had made sweeping assertions, saying that the group of them as social entities were sadly limited, and she followed up the charge by proposing they each commit a passage of poetry to heart each day, saying she had read, and this really was at base of the whole matter, that it would strengthen the mind, add to the vocabulary, and furnish food for quotation and ready repartee. At the time they all had agreed but Amanthus, who said she did not feel any need for vocabulary or repartee, and in truth as they could see, she did not need them in the least as assets in her business of life. Juliette and Adele were come over now about this matter. They were full of enthusiasm. "We were to begin with our committed passages to-day, you remember," explained Juliette. "We both have ours," added Adele. "I'm really pleased with my way of selecting," from Juliette. "I opened our volume of Scott and took the lines my eyes fell on:" "Stern was her look and wild her air, Back from her shoulders streamed her hair." "I chose mine from a little volume of selections called 'Pearls of Wisdom,'" said Adele: "Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence." Selina was at both impatient and intolerant. "I was fearfully angry at Culpepper one day when he said that girls play at being educated and boys are educated. Sometimes I think Maud is responsible for our seeming to play at it. Don't you see, Judy dear, if there's anything really in this idea of Maud's you must choose your quotation? You want lines that are apt and quotable if you're going to do it at all? These of yours are relevant to nothing." "You can't say that of mine," from Adele, pacific enough in general, but disposed to resent this manner toward Juliette, and from Selina of all persons, usually so full of concern and appreciation. This undreamed of Selina answered promptly. "I certainly can't applaud your choice. Our sex should be the last to admit such an epigram exists." * * * * * Cousin Anna did not send the dress around until the next morning, a note to Mrs. Wistar which accompanied it, explaining the delay: "Emmeline Tuttle is a little too pleased with being Emmeline Tuttle. I am sending a dress this moment home from Vincent for Selina to wear." On reaching home from the morning's teaching, Selina came hurrying up to her mother's room to see it. Unboxed and laid on the bed, it was an impressive affair, and the color rushed to her cheeks, and her hands sought each other rapturously. Satin puffs in a high-light green obtruded through slashes in a myrtle-green satin waist and sleeves. From the throat arose something akin to a Medici collar, and the skirt flowed away in plenitude. A beaded headdress for the hair of a seemingly fish-net nature completed the whole. There was no question Mrs. Wistar and Auntie were dubious. They looked their worry. "Is it Mary, Queen of Scots, in a steel engraving, it makes me think of," from Auntie in an anxiously low voice to Mamma, "or is it Amy Robsart in our pictorial volume of Scott's heroines?" "Madame Vincent is always so ahead and so extreme in her styles," fretted Mamma, "and yet," still more fretted, "Anna may be depended on never to forgive us if she isn't allowed to wear it." [Illustration: "Before the mirror trying on the dress from Cousin Anna."] They looked at Selina with her eager color and prettily disordered hair and shining eyes, already slipped out of her everyday dress of sober plaids, dear loving child, and before the mirror, trying on the dress from Cousin Anna. "Mull and lace and a sash is the proper thing for her at her age, I don't care if her dress is dabby. And it's a poor rule to be beholden to anybody," held Auntie. "We can't get her dress washed and ironed now," from Mrs. Wistar, "and she took her sash down town to be cleaned and has not gotten it home. We'll have to give in this time and let her wear this dress of Anna's." "Come feel the satin of it, Mamma," exulted Selina, "put your cheek against its sheen, Auntie. Or can one feel a sheen?" she laughed happily. "Maud says let the love of dress get in your blood and it will poison your life at its spring, and you even might come to marry for what a man could give you! She meant it for Juliette who cried because her mother wouldn't let her have high heels to make her taller. But I'm not sure I see Maud's logic. When we marry, we take from the man anyhow, don't we? Why shouldn't one care then, in the ratio of what one takes? Don't look so shocked, Auntie, I'm only thinking it out." "Sometimes, Selina," said Auntie, dismayed, "you talk like you weren't the girl we brought you up to be! The dress fits well enough, that's all I can say for it." "It looks a little like a fancy costume," admitted Selina doubtfully, "but anyhow it's wonderful and I love it. I think, Auntie dear," reassuringly, "it isn't that Maud and the rest of us are undependable. It's that we want something, and we don't know what we want. When we're with people who're grandly mental, we think it's that, or religious, it's that, or when it's someone who's a social personage, then it seems as if it's that. Does it sound weak-minded Auntie, veering so?" This evening of the musicale Culpepper came for Selina on the moment, which he did not always do, and he and she in her gorgeousness, went off gayly together, Mamma and Auntie seeing them to the door. "She's really a child at heart, Lavinia," worried Auntie, after they were gone, "a child, I sometimes fear, that has had so little experience in life that it's pitiful. And yet this afternoon she spoke shockingly. I wouldn't have her too helpless and inexperienced, but neither would I have her lose her illusions. There's mighty little left a woman when she parts with these." "If I only felt more comfortable in my mind about that dress," from Mrs. Wistar. "Sometimes I could wish I were a person of more courage and finality; I didn't want to let her wear it." "No, I wouldn't want her to feel we had failed her about it," agreed Auntie. "I wouldn't want her ever to feel we'd failed her anywhere, but sometimes I'm afraid she's going to." CHAPTER SEVEN The night was mild. When Culpepper and Selina reached the car-line on a nearby street, the car with its two jogging little mules was in sight. "There comes the car, and here comes the moon," said Culpepper. "Shall we ride or walk?" They walked. Now Selina and her girl friends knew a sufficient number of boys, always had known a plentiful number in fact, Tommy and Bliss and Brent and the rest, as she termed them. Culpepper, however, was not of these: he was older, he was from away and he was studying law; many reasons in fact combined to make it gratifying to have it Culpepper. He with three other law students had rooms including a common sitting-room over a confectionery, where ordinarily young men away from home in the city would have been in boarding houses. From information dropped by Culpepper, they smoked pipes and played chess and read books by writers known as Darwin and Spencer and Buckle. That they were bold and buccaneeringly adventurous figures thus may be seen. Added to all this, Culpepper did not care for girls, Selina being the only one he went with, and further, he had been so used to a big family connection and an overflowing house and habitual hubbub, Cousin Maria Buxton, his stepmother, being related to everybody in her part of the state, that his avowed dislike to gatherings and affairs was genuine. "You men don't like to do a thing, and you say so and don't do it," wondered Selina; "Papa gave up night church long ago, and Mamma who loves to go, had to accommodate herself to it." Culpepper defended his sex. "We're honest. You're not, women as a class, I mean. My stepmother is, but then she's independent." "Independent?" "Has her own means and manages her own affairs. It makes the rest of you propitiatory," bluntly. "Propitiatory? What does?" "Taking money as it's doled to you, or doing without." They had reached the Tuttle house now in its broad yard. Carriages were arriving, delivering their occupants at the curb and driving away. Culpepper steered Selina in at the gate, up the flagging, and with her mounted the steps. "I'm glad it's you and not me," was his cheering remark. Selina herself was not feeling so glad about it all at once. Why had she not wondered earlier if any persons she knew would be here? As the door opened to admit guests just ahead of them and the light fell on the lady entering and on her evening wrap bordered with swansdown, that elegance of the hour, Selina became conscious of Mamma's knitted throw on her head and Auntie's striped scarf about her shoulders. "You--you'll be for me on time?" she reminded Culpepper, "Mamma thought half-past eleven at the latest?" "Can you fancy I won't?" he returned, handing her in at the door, which was a nice way of putting it and a good deal from him. Evidently it is one thing to be within the gay world and another to be of this world, and Selina in her striped scarf made her way hurriedly up the stairs. And a dressing-room filled with ladies, who know each other and who do not know you, presents parallels with Polar regions for chill and solitudes. Glances fell on her but they passed her over, or traveled elsewhere or beyond. Moods have a protean way of changing from roseate hues to grayness. Even the sustaining glory of Cousin Anna's dress seemed threatened, for as the maid removed the striped scarf, it appeared according to the cheval glass, that the radiance of spirit which earlier had appropriated the gown to its wearer, had flickered and expired, leaving the one Cousin Anna's, and the other, Selina Wistar, frightened and ill at ease and unforgivably young. She moved with the company out into the hall and down the stairs. The walls were white and gold, paneled, and the stair covering was crimson; there were niches on the landing and again down the further flight of the stairs, from which looked busts of, so far as Selina knew, male Tuttles in white marble. It was august and costly and subduing, and though she had yet to live to be told it, Victorian and lamentable. The parlors as seen through the arched entrances as she came reluctantly down the steps, were spacious, with crimson carpets of a piece with that in the halls, pier glasses, crimson curtains and gilt cornices, marble mantels outvying the niched busts for whiteness, prism chandeliers and gilt chairs in rows for the approaching musicale. Mrs. Tuttle was stationed in the first parlor and by custom or arrangement or understanding everything fell away from her as it were, or so it seemed to Selina as she made her way in, the guests as they were presented retreating into the background of the far parlor. A young man of such distinguished and easy appearance as to suggest new standards for judgment of Tommy and Bliss and Brent and the rest, handed the guests on to the person of the hostess. He proved to be Mr. Tuttle Jones, a nephew of the lady's deceased husband. Selina having in time thus reached Mrs. Tuttle, raised her eyes. In the full enjoyment of her large person's sartorial splendor stood this lady, satin puffs in a high-light salmon, obtruding through slashes in a crimson satin waist and sleeves, from the open throat of which arose something akin to a Medici collar, the skirt flowing away in plenitude and a beaded headdress of a seemingly fish-net texture, completing the whole. And in the pier glass just behind Mrs. Tuttle, and repeated again and again and yet and yet again from a confronting pier glass at the far end of the adjoining parlor, appeared a half dozen, a dozen, a hundred, was it a thousand reflected Selinas in myrtle and high-light greens, puffs, slashes, and netted headdress, vanishing into perspective? And multitudes upon multitudes grouped about the back parlor, or so it seemed to Selina, looking on. So, it was the person of that young niece of Ann Eliza Wistar's that Mrs. Tuttle was gazing on? This lady never was known not to speak her mind. "If Vincent made that dress for you, Selina, she's a fool." The mirrors repeated the accusation, but they repeated the salmon and crimson person of Mrs. Tuttle, too. She was not one to spare herself at all. "And when I allowed her to make its original, or its replica as the case may be, for me, I was another." Selina found speech small and arriving from far. "Cousin Anna Tomlinson sent the dress around so that I could come." [Illustration: "Mr. Tuttle Jones ... sat with her through a pianoforte number."] "Well, as for Anna Pope, by the grace of God, Tomlinson, there's never been any doubt in anybody's mind, she's a fool. As for Vincent, it's sheer perfidy! Go over there, in the next room, this one is cleared for the piano and the performers. Find a chair, get a place, I'll send someone to you, but for the land's sake, go and don't come back near me." Selina hurriedly sought a gilded chair in an unobtrusive position, which as the evening went on proved to be an island solitude in an immediate waste of vacant chairs. She had not even a program to bury herself in. True, Mr. Tuttle Jones, the nephew, came and sat with her through a pianoforte number, but at its close he left, to come again in time with a second polite but perfunctory young man who also in time departed. Then it happened. Selina never will forget it, never. A vocal number had reached that point where it reiteratingly bade 'Good-bye to hope, good-bye, good-bye,' and she was bitterly agreeing, when a gloved hand reached out and touched an empty gilt chair a few places beyond, while the young lady owner of the hand and of the brown eyes above it, smiled and in quiet gesture invited her to take it. What the kindly eyes had been seeing, though Selina could not know this, was a young guest awkwardly alone and betraying it in a color coming and going painfully and a chin piteously inclined to quiver. Selina went, seventeen is not so very far along the way, and the sob so long threatening in the throat within the Vincent setting, arose undisguisedly. The owner of the smiling eyes, whose own shoulders emerged from a charming and correct gown, by sharing her program afforded a momentary sheltering for recovery. At the close of the song came an intermission, during which servants came about with ices. Selina's companion chatted. "I should say we both were a little strange here. I am 'Hontas Boswell, Pocahontas Boswell, from Eadston. My aunt and I are down spending a few days at the hotel, and her old friend, Mrs. Tuttle, was good enough to ask us here to-night. Shall you and I agree to stay together?" CHAPTER EIGHT Selina and Miss Pocahontas had supper together at a little table in a bay window with Mr. Tuttle Jones as a somewhat peripatetic third, since his duties as aid to his aunt kept him constantly leaving them. In the beautiful time Selina now found herself having with this new friend, she told her about Mamma and Papa and Auntie, and even some of the rest of it, about the friends of her youth, for instance, and William Jr., whom she taught, and about Culpepper who brought her. For after all, at seventeen, is not one's little world one's world, that is to be talked about? And were not the warm brown eyes of Miss Boswell amazingly tender and encouraging as she smiled back upon this ardent young face? Mr. Jones with a murmuring sigh of further apology came and sank into his place once more with them at the bay-window table. He was a quick and alert young man, with a nice smile and when he had time, a nice manner. Was he perhaps dapper? His small moustache was immaculate, and his tie and boutonnière irreproachable. It would seem he was taking note of Selina as a possible entity for the first time. "My aunt asked me to apologize to you about something I don't seem to understand. She says she can't come herself---- "--without making herself ridiculous," said this hitherto seemingly harmless young Miss Wistar with unlocked for and apparently astute bitterness. Miss Boswell looked surprised. Mr. Jones looked at Selina. He looked again. He might look away, as indeed he did, to concern himself with the final course for their table, but Selina was an entity now. At half-past eleven she came downstairs amid the departing guests, Mamma's throw upon her head, Auntie's scarf about her shoulders, still in the comforting care of Miss Pocahontas Boswell and her aunt, Miss Boswell. Miss Pocahontas was all kindness to the end. "And may we not take you home? Our carriage is double?" she asked as they reached the hall. "Culpepper is to come for me," Selina explained. "He would not know what to do." "My niece tells me it is Maria Buxton's stepson, from up our way, you speak of," said Miss Boswell, the aunt; "I remember him as a very blunt, outspoken little son of a blunt father and outspoken stepmother. If he is to come for you we had surely better leave you for him." But come for her is what Culpepper failed to do. The various groups departed, the crowd in the hallway thinned, a silver-chimed clock somewhere struck the quarter, and the street-cars would stop at twelve. The servants in the hall gathering up this and that, looked at Selina interrogatively, then departed, too. It was here that Mrs. Tuttle came out into the hall and found her. This lady seemed engrossed in the closing of the house by the servants now, and to have forgotten the matter of Cousin Anna's dress and Vincent's perfidy. "Culpepper who? Maria Buxton's boy?" This in answer to Selina's explanation. "Ann Eliza didn't tell me he was living here? Is he personable? A hostess always needs young men. Wait, Reuben," this to the gray-haired negro man in livery moving around in the background, "you know I always want to satisfy myself the window fastenings _are_ secure," Then to Selina, "You say he said he _would_ be here? What on earth are we going to do about it, say _dear_ child?" The lights were out now but for one or two, and everyone had disappeared but Mrs. Tuttle and Selina and Reuben. Seeing a reflected figure in a pier glass opposite her, and recognizing that disheveled and distraught figure to be her own, certain words heard from Juliette that afternoon, and which Selina had held to be inapt and wanting in relevancy, beat themselves to measure on her brain: "Wild was her look and stern her air, Back from her shoulders streamed her hair" [Illustration: "Selina hurried out and joined him."] And when at length, incredible, unpardonable, unforgivable length, Culpepper did come and Selina hurried out and joined him, what had he to say? "Of course you can't, I won't ask you to forgive me, Selina. There was a boxing match on, but I would not go to that. Then I remembered an expert chess game at--er--a place, a Hungarian player against home talent, but I knew I would get drawn into the moves and--well. So I went back to the rooms and the boys were all there, and we got to jawing about this new thing by a man named George, called Single Tax, and I got into the talk and forgot." Selina stopped by Adele's house on her way to her teaching the next morning. She was anxiously sweet and sorry, the natural Selina now. "I was short about those quotations yesterday, Adele," she acknowledged, "and I want to say to you, and I mean to say to Judy, that I've every reason since I saw you both and was so rude, to think they are, well, the one apt and the other true. Men it seems have so many interests, they forget to come for us when they promise!" And she told Adele all about it. "But I made that Mr. Jones acknowledge me," she commented. "I don't believe I could have stood all the rest if I couldn't feel I did that. I'm beginning to believe that we only grow through a sort of self-assertion, Adele. And I owe it to my self-respect, too, to say I think Auntie's old friend, Mrs. Tuttle, was very rude." She came home from her morning's work perturbed, and joined Mamma and Auntie at the lunch table, a worried frown puckering her brow. "It's the last straw. This time yesterday I was so elated on every count. What's that saying of Papa's whist club when they're counting up the score? Honors are easy, isn't it? Mrs. Williams and I were so relieved when she found William could read. To-day she tells me she believes he did it deliberately to stop their talk. He took a page about a baby robin that he's heard the others read so often he knows it by heart." CHAPTER NINE "Girls play at being educated and boys are educated," Culpepper had said. Selina was to ask herself again if this was so. She and her mother went at once to call on Miss Boswell and Miss Pocahontas Boswell at their hotel. And so glowing was the further description given by Selina to her four friends of the charms of Miss Boswell the younger, that she had to go again to take them. Following this the five were invited by Miss Pocahontas to spend an afternoon with her, and she had what Maud called a little collation for them in her hotel sitting-room. Mamma and Auntie had the offer of Cousin Anna Tomlinson's carriage and coachman for this same afternoon, and in order that the young people might be free, they took Miss Boswell the elder for a drive to the cemetery, they being of a mind, and the community with them, that no more seemly spot for innocent recreation and enjoyment might be. The afternoon and its collation were so delightful, and Miss 'Hontas in a semi-formal afternoon gown was so winning, the guests went home in a state of uplift, with the exception of Amanthus who seemed non-committal. But, as Maud said, charming people are so often resentful of other people being charming. Selina spoke at home about this attitude from Amanthus. "She seemed ungenerous over our admiration for Miss Pocahontas, Mamma. Right in the middle of the afternoon she wanted to come home. Lovely as she is, she's hard to stand when she acts this way." "I've never encouraged you to find fault with your friends, Selina," reproved her mother. "No doubt Amanthus had her grounds." "I haven't a doubt she had," from Auntie. "I've watched Amanthus before. If a thing's true, Lavinia, why shouldn't Selina say it? She'll get along the better for recognizing it. Refusing to admit a fact doesn't make it less so." "I've always found Amanthus sweetly feminine," said Mamma concisely. "And there isn't a man won't agree with you," from Auntie. "She's exactly to the pattern of what they look for in women. I found that out before ever Amanthus was born." "Ann Eliza, I'm astonished at your tone!" "The tone goes with the rankle that's been in me a good many years, Lavinia." Selina and her group met with Maud this same evening to talk the afternoon over as was their habit after an occasion. The Addisons were prosperous and their parlors boasted velvet carpets, mirrors over the mantels, lace curtains stiff with pattern and the seemly rest of what handsome parlors at that day should boast. Again Amanthus took exception to the enthusiasm over Miss Boswell. Perhaps there was something in the name of the lady that was suggestive of the especial line of attack. "I don't see anything so good-looking about her," she declared. "She's too dark; she looks like an Indian squab." Amanthus was given to occasional lapses in her words, and while as a rule the others were tolerant with her, this as concerning Miss Boswell was too much. "Meaning squaw, we are to presume?" said Maud--generous-spirited, whole-souled Maud, scornful of such assets as mere red-brown hair and splendid skin, the emphasis with her being laid on loftier attainments! "I can't keep you from presuming," returned Amanthus with dignity, _her_ daffodil yellow head held high, "I said squab." "But it doesn't mean anything used so," pointed out conscientious Adele. "Not a thing," corroborated little Juliette. "You can't prove that it doesn't to me," returned Amanthus, which after all was true. It also was characteristic of Amanthus. It was best to change the subject. Perhaps it was unfortunate that it returned to Miss Boswell. "It seems to Mamma and to me," said Selina, "that I ought to do something in the way of entertaining for Miss Pocahontas. It's more of an occasion to have it in the evening, of course, but it can't be dancing in our little house, nor music, because we can't depend on our piano any longer." "You wouldn't want the ordinary thing for her anyway," said Maud promptly and decidedly. "Selina," one saw the sweep as it were of Maudie's unbridled fancy as it mounted, one braced oneself against the oncoming rush of her enthusiasm, "I have the idea!" Did she have it, or was she merely pursuing it unaware of what it would be until she overtook it? "Unless you actually want it, let me ask Mamma if I may give it myself? I should love to. What I say," she had it now, and brought it forth with the pride of ownership, "is a conversazione!" "But I do want it," Selina hastened to declare, "though," dubiously, "I hadn't thought of attempting anything like that." Amanthus spoke here and almost crossly. "Mamma says the accustomed thing is nearly always the proper thing. She told me to remember that. I can't see why you're always hunting the unusual thing? I don't know what a conversazione is." "A conversazione," said Maud loftily, "is a meeting for conversation, preferably on belle-lettres or kindred topics. It's not unlike the French salons." "I'll speak to Mamma," from Selina still more dubiously, "and if she agrees I'll go and see Miss Pocahontas. If I do decide on it, will you meet with me and help me plan it?" "Meet here," said Maud, "and in the mean season I'll look up the subject further." When Selina went home with her proposal, Mrs. Wistar was more concerned with the obligation than the nature of the entertaining. "Have what you please, Selina, so it's reasonably simple in its cost and we can afford it. I'm glad to have you do it for Miss Boswell." Auntie demurred. "I like the idea of a party, too," she said, "but why not just a party? What does Selina, or what do the others know about a---- what is it you're proposing to have, Selina? A conversazione? It sounds to me like borrowed finery in another guise such as we let her wear to the musicale. Let's don't do it again, Lavinia. I don't fancy mental furbelows that are not her own any more than dressmaker furbelows. Let Selina give a plain party." "Why should you want to discourage the child, Ann Eliza? If she and the others want to have a conversational evening. I can see no reasonable grounds for objection." Accordingly the group met with Maud the next evening and Selina reported. "Mamma approves, but Miss Pocahontas looked a little startled when I said conversazione. Or maybe I imagined she did, for immediately she smiled charmingly and said, 'How very lovely!' Maudie, do you really think we'd better undertake it?" Having originated an idea, Maud never was known to relinquish it. "Just as you please," largely, "as I said before if you don't want it, let me give it." Selina surrendered. "You got our literary club at school into that debate with the boys from the high school," she reminded Maud uneasily however, "and what we thought at the time was applause from them, we found out afterward was laughter." They all moved uneasily at the recollection, all but Amanthus and she had not been in it. "It was the subject Maud insisted on, we can see that now," said Juliette bitterly, "'Resolved that the works of Alexander Pope are atheistical in their tendency.' We ought to have known they were laughing at us when they accepted it." "If we're here to help you, Selina," said Maud loftily, "we'd better get about it. There's more than enough of our sex for the evening as it is. I've been reading up and there's very little said about women as guests at either salons or conversaziones. The important thing seems to have been the men." Amanthus showed more interest at this, but she seemed determined to be trying. "I won't come if you have Tommy Bacon." Juliette was responsible for this. At the Friday evening dancing club she had burst forth to a group of them, impetuously, "What do you suppose Tommy Bacon here has just said to me? That Maud and Selina and Adele and I are the only girls he knows whose hand he can't hold when he wants to." In the pause which had followed Amanthus had grown very red. They could not blame her now. Though Tommy measured suddenly against the requirements of a conversazione did seem very young, still his absence would leave them short. Maud was rising to the demands of the moment again so visibly that her companions as visibly looked uneasy. But her suggestion this time was practical. On the previous Saturday afternoon she and Selina and Adele, out for a walk in the Indian summer briskness had met Culpepper Buxton and his three roommates out for a tramp also. The two groups had joined forces and gone sauntering out the sycamore bordered road that led up-climbing and down-rolling to the old monastery in its secluded and wooded grounds where Louis Phillipe in his exile for a time had stayed. It not only proved a pleasant occasion, the background of the French king lending color and romance to the setting, but it added three masculine acquaintances to the lists of the ladies--Mr. Cannon, easy and talkative, Mr. Welling, provocative and in spectacles, Mr. Tate, tall and studious. Older than their own set, decidedly these three young men were acquisitions. "You must ask these friends of Culpepper, Selina," proposed Maud. "And do you believe if we coax Culpepper, he'll get Algernon Charles Biggs to come? At a conversazione, after it is understood by Miss Boswell who he is, he will seem to be a card?" [Illustration: "The two groups had ... gone sauntering out the sycamore bordered road."] Algy Biggs was a near if collateral kinsman of a very real and great poet on the other side of the English-speaking world, a thing he never was allowed to forget, and which in company rendered him next to mute. Yet he was amazingly big and athletic and good-looking, great in the local militia, in the summer regattas on the river, as a stroke oar on the barge picnic parties, carrying the baskets and luggage, building the fires, fetching water. "A regular Herculaneum, or whoever it was performed labors and cleaned stables," Amanthus had said of him. "He won't come if he knows what we want him for," affirmed Selina, decidedly. "I'll try." Adele here pointed out the flaw in the arrangements, it being her gift from Heaven always to do that. "But the ones you're naming are nearer our ages. There ought to be somebody more suitable for Miss Boswell." "Your Cousin Marcus, Selina." said Maud. Selina felt ashamed of the haste with which she said no for surely it is an unworthy thing to be overly sensitive about your kin, and nobody is any better off as to family than the total average in desirability of its members. Still there was no use running the family in on Miss Boswell if she did not have to. Aunt Juanita, married to Uncle Bruce, was Mamma's sister, and Cousin Marcus was their son. Aunt Juanita wrote letters to the newspapers on every sort of subject that engrossed her from Schopenhauer to Susan B. Anthony, and made impassioned addresses to women wherever she ran into them, at parties, picnics, church societies, anywhere, like as not having forgotten to take down one curl-paper in dressing her iron-gray hair. The subjects for the addresses varied. A forerunner, a feminine John Baptist to her day and place and sex, as Selina was one day to come to see her, then Aunt Juanita Bruce, tall, angular, unmended and ungroomed, stood alone in her community, unique in type but none the less absorbed and none the more abashed for that. As for Uncle Bruce, Mamma called him in as he came by of mornings, with his big bushy-haired head and untidy beard and his mummified and scholarly little trotting body, and brushed him off and tidied him up and retied his old black string cravat, and started him on again. Whereat if he had a book, it being his way to proceed along the streets with his nose and his spectacled eyes within the covers of some abstruse volume, he was as like as not to proceed indefinitely at his little dog-trot speed in whatsoever line started on, the levee and the river, it was said, on more than one occasion bringing him up. Uncle Bruce was a lawyer and Selina was told that he was an authority, but there was small comfort to her young and innocent soul in that in the face of his more salient characteristics. Cousin Marcus, their son, did editorial paragraphs on the newspapers and was clever, but then you never knew what he might be besides, being all of Aunt Juanita and Uncle Bruce and himself together. If he was asked to come at eight he would stroll round at ten, and if one wanted to close the house at twelve, Marcus would produce his cigarettes--he was the only person in town to use them and was looked on askant therefore--and monologue with brilliancy till one. He was a law unto himself and over-rode your laws. Now Selina yearned secretly and passionately, and she feared almost unworthily, to be considered correct and proper, and this, moreover, was an occasion for that charmingly correct person, Miss Pocahontas Boswell. Auntie remembered now, too, just who the Boswells were. She was sure that as a girl she had spent a night at their even then old brick home at Eadston in its setting of quaint garden. Selina was uneasy as it was, over this conversazione business of Maud's, and if the truth be told, always winced at her relatives, the Bruces. "No," she said, and firmly for once in the face of Maud, "I don't think I want Marcus." "Then who---?" began Maud, and stopped. The same thought had occurred at this point, was recurring to each of them, to four of them that is, Amanthus not knowing the person in question this time. A new assistant rector at Selina's church had achieved a notable popularity, and of late these friends of hers, with the exception of Amanthus, had been accompanying her to services whenever they could be spared from their own. Perhaps they all blushed a bit now under detection. "Why not the Reverend Mr. Thomas Wingham if he'll come?" avowed Maud stoutly despite the general abashment. "It's entirely for Miss Boswell we're considering him?" As yet Selina was the only one who had met the gentlemen, he having called upon her household in the performance of his parochial duties. Driven thus into a corner by Maud, there was no reason why he should not be invited. "I'll ask Mamma," she conceded. This person approved, and accordingly the invitation to him went the next day in Mamma's lady-like and running hand, upon her visiting card. It was hard to reconcile her being Aunt Juanita's sister, though to be sure they did have different mothers. To Meet Miss Pocahontas Boswell Conversation Please Reply Friday Evening The Reverend Mr. Wingham, young and good-looking gentleman that he was, promptly replying that it would be his pleasure to meet Miss Boswell on Friday evening, the affair assumed aspects entirely new, and in a different sense, significant. Mamma planned the details. The back parlor, so-called, in the Wistar home, really was the dining-room. "On the evening of your little affair, Selina," she explained, "thanks to the screen which we'll set about the table beforehand, your aunt and I, at the agreed-upon moment, will slip in with coffee, chocolate, sandwiches, and plates of cake. There'll remain only the removing of the screen by your father, to disclose us in our places, I behind the chocolate pitcher, your aunt behind the coffee urn, and the adjournment of your guests to the back parlor. I'm always thankful when an occasion like this comes up, that the Wistar coffee urn isn't plate but silver." After preparations for the affair thus were well under way, Juliette, dependable if she was such a little creature, rounded up Maud and Selina at the Wistars one afternoon. "It's conversazione, of course, but what're we going to talk about?" True! One saw Maud rising to the new demands of the situation. "If we'd only thought about it sooner," she mourned. "On our walk with Culpepper and his friends the other day, Mr. Welling that I was with, the square one with spectacles, told me they were deep in a book round at their rooms that they were having daily rows over, Adam Smith's 'Wealth of Nations.' My uncle has it on his shelves. We might have gotten up on that and showed them." Amanthus happened in here and they explained the trouble. "Why not talk in pairs and not trouble about a subject?" she asked hopefully. "Wouldn't it be a conversazione just the same?" They ignored this whereas they might have said patently tolerant things to her. Amanthus was Amanthus and they must accept her as she was, which meant be magnanimous with her rather than lofty or pitying. "I'll go round to the school to-morrow," said Maud, "and ask permission to look over the old minutes of our Sappho Literary Club. By looking up our program, I'll happen on some subject of general interest that we're all up on. As soon as you're home from your teaching, Selina, come over and we'll decide." "Don't count me in on this conversazione," said Amanthus, "I'll come but I won't talk." True, as she had said once before, lovely creature that she was, sunny-haired, violet of eyes, coral-lipped, she had no need for conversation, no, nor yet wit, nor repartee, in her business of life. It almost would seem that Auntie agreed with Amanthus. "Selina's quite pretty enough, Lavinia, to do without this foolishness," she insisted. "It isn't on account of any brains she's got, or any she'll come to have, for example, that Culpepper comes round here. Selina's pretty and sweet and she looks up to him. So far as he and any other men she's likely to meet go, what on earth more do they want in her? I'm an old maid but I know." CHAPTER TEN It was the evening of the conversazione. Selina, dear child, as Auntie called her, pretty and flushed and frankly excited, wore the discredited graduation dress, furbished up once more by Mamma, and yet once more pressed by Aunt Viney. "Never, never again do we let her wear garments not her own," said Mamma as Selina went down to welcome those first arrivals, the friends of her youth. "Thanks be, Lavinia, for that," said Auntie. "Maybe you'll come around to my view of the mental furbelows next." When Selina reached her friends below, she found Amanthus in yellow. With a pretty mother who dressed well herself Amanthus always had charming clothes. The corn-colored knotted sash and ribbons worn by her to-night were the color of her abundant hair, and her fan of yellow feathers seemed planned to open against her red lower lip while her face dimpled and sparkled above it. It was handsome Maud's self one saw, animated and sure and leading. You hardly thought about, if you noted at all, her val-edged flounces and her string of beads, though you did rejoice in her clear white and red skin and her red-brown hair. Auntie said, you felt the courage and vigor of Maud's Presbyterian forebears in her straightforwardness if she did belie them in her impulsiveness. Pretty Juliette's cheeks subdued her cherry ribbons, little gypsy thing, and Adele's throat rose soft and white from her round-necked blue cashmere. As for Miss Pocahontas Boswell who arrived here--but how put into words that simplicity which is not simplicity at all, about her amber draperies? Or how make plain the appreciation and interest in her smiling eyes? Mrs. William Williams, hearing of the occasion, had sent Selina a box of hot-house flowers, half a dozen kinds at least laid on a bedding of wet smilax, the endeavor in those days being for variety and assemblage of colors. Combined with the smilax the whole made a mixed bowlful for the table between the lace curtains of the two windows and, so Selina felt, lent a riotous air of preparation and festivity to the parlors. And now the remainder of the guests came, or seemed to come, at once. Papa out in the hall, was shaking hands and exchanging little sallies and seeing to the disposition of coats and hats, after which, having sent, seen and brought the arrivals to the last one in, he went back to his paper in the next room. It was restoring to a hostess' anxious spirits now the actual moment was come, to enumerate these arrivals in greeting them and in presenting them to Miss Boswell. What can be more to the credit of a hostess than an excess of the other sex? Here were Bliss and Brent and Sam of their own set. But can it be that familiarity in the long run does breed--well, an uncompromising eye? For Bliss and Brent and Sam looked--it was the dismaying truth--they looked young! They acted young, too, falling back the one against the other at the parlor door, and reddening as they took the hand of the guest as if they did not know what to do with it! And pretty Bliss, rather spoiled on that account if the truth be told, with his ruddy hair and his rosy checks, to have put on a pink neck-tie! Culpepper and his friends arriving just here, made a gratifying and convincing show: Mr. Cannon, alert and good-looking, enlivened by a white vest; Mr. Tate, tall and decorous; Mr. Welling, square-set and in spectacles. These with Culpepper were a force in themselves. Bringing up the close came first the Reverend Mr. Wingham. Was it his high vest or his high calling that gave the distinctive quality to his good looks? And lastly came Algernon Charles Biggs, Culpepper evidently on the lookout for him. Algy was fearfully gloomy. As the company sat down he took his chair with a furtive unwillingness, Culpepper seating himself near him almost as if by intention. With this exception, Selina felt, everything was quite _comme il faut_, as Maude loved to say of an occasion, and even impressive and needless to say, gratifying. Everybody sat around, the open grate the center, so to speak, the firelight flickering on Auntie's especially burnished fender and coal-bucket and fire-irons. By the connivance of the four, Selina, Juliette, Maud and Adele, Mr. Wingham was seated next Miss Boswell. He had shown brisk pleasure on being presented to tall and dashing Maud and seemed willing to linger and parry sallies with her; he had warmed, everybody warmed to Juliette; while within the minute he was taking issue on some general proposition with Adele. But these introductory passages over, they passed him on to his place for the evening. Bliss, pretty, pouty boy, on whom Amanthus had been smiling since she dismissed Tommy, was sulky because she, from some perversity, was off to herself in an unillumined spot as it were, between the bookcase and the door. Yet she illumined it; she was a lovely creature. "'Like sunshine in a shady spot,'" Selina and Adele who were near together heard Miss Boswell say to Mr. Wingham, and his attention thus directed to Amanthus, he heartily agreed. Then Selina charmingly flushed beneath the crown of her fair hair, could she but have known it, and prettily anxious, became aware that Maud had coughed, was coughing again. It was the signal agreed upon. There came a rushing as of the seas in her ears, a sinking in the pit of her person. Had they allowed Maud to coerce them into something ill-advised again? Was Auntie right? Were they about to make themselves preposterous and ridiculous? And what had Culpepper said--Culpepper there across the circle next to Algy? That girls played at having a knowledge that men had? Was he laughing at them now with that same look of lenient enjoyment in his bold blue eyes that he usually gave to Auntie? Tears almost of anger were in her eyes. Not at all! She had had these hideous moments preceding the actual plunge before, precursors always to the later joys of triumph. As, for example, when she used to lead in the debate at The Sappho, and at call for her secretarial report at the junior missionary society, and again at the moment of her figuring at her graduation. Surely she knew them for what they were now! Maud had given definite instructions beforehand. "Let your start seem casual, Selina, the mere off-throw from passing reflections." And, recalling this and drawing a restoring breath of confidence, Selina spoke to the circle of her guests, endeavoring to convey ease along with the proposition which was to furnish subject and substance for the conversazione, in a voice which would not be quite steady. "But is there not a denial of the truth that the moral is necessarily part with the beautiful, in such phrases as 'art for art's sake,' 'beauty for the sake of beauty'? So Selina." Maud, as per arrangement and program, came sweepingly to the retort direct, which she had taken from a volume belonging to The Sappho's library, called "Prepared Debates." As she had pointed out, there's nothing like getting the requisite impetus at the start! "The moral changes with the times, the place and the peoples. Art is as fixed as the gulf between itself and the ethical obligation is wide." Juliette, with cheeks afire, rushed gallantly in, also as prearranged by Maud, she being scheduled to be off-hand, playful and staccato. She was to fling the proposition on at this point to one of the guests, having been instructed which one: "If eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being," said she gayly and insouciantly. "Isn't it so, er--Mr. Wingham?" That very good-looking and well-set-up young clergyman across the circle next to Miss Boswell, started ever so slightly at this call upon him by name. He had been looking at Amanthus, lovely creature, who needed neither vocabulary nor repartee either, in her business of life! "It is," he agreed a little hastily; then gathering himself smilingly together he said heartily, "It is eminently and conclusively its own excuse and justification." This coming from Mr. Wingham was a bit dismaying, as from the nature of his cloth and calling, he had been counted on to take the moral issue up at this point. It brought matters to an unprepared-for pause. "The Puritan--" hurriedly began conscientious Adele, but with a glance at Maud, stopped. The Puritan, as taken from "Prepared Debates," was to follow in logical sequence after the support and exposition of the moral by Mr. Wingham. Adele swallowed, and withdrew. Whereupon support for the moral came from the other side of the circle, from Culpepper nobly and by no sort of prearrangement either. One could wish he would show more conviction and less jocularity about it, however. The progenitors of this evening's business were of no mind by now to be played with. Two of the friends of Culpepper, also, Mr. Welling and Mr. Cannon, would bear looking after. Their markedly polite attention almost would seem to cover ecstacy and enjoyment. "In the ideals of that great old people, the Greeks," queried Culpepper jocularly, "somehow I seem to recall that the symmetry of the human body was the expression of the symmetry of the inner soul?" Mr. Welling, he of the square person, resettled his spectacles. "As for example, Aesop? Or shall we say Socrates?" Mr. Cannon of the white vest burbled, then coughed to cover his defection. "The Puritan--" here ventured in Adele again, with an eye as to its being proper business on Maud, who frowned darkly, whereupon Adele, flushed but obedient again withdrew. Tall Mr. Tate, the third of the friends of Culpepper, had looked across each time at Adele's remark twice ventured and twice withdrawn. With the exceptions of these glances in her direction, he like Mr. Wingham, had been looking at Amanthus. Even so, something of what Maud called scholastic earnestness sat upon Mr. Tate, and he was disposed, too, to treat the evening with gratifying sincerity. There was that in the subject twice introduced and twice withdrawn by the young lady in blue as he afterward designated Adele, which evidently appealed to him to the momentary eclipsing of Amanthus' charms. "The Puritan--" he took the suggestion up the least bit sententiously and with courteous acknowledgment toward the source of its origin, "that great timely force for moral power which is moral beauty, was----" Mr. Cannon indisputably naughty by this time, pulled down his white vest and wickedly concluded the sentence--"'was at once known from other men by his gait, his garb, his lank hair, the sour solemnity of his face, the up-turned whites to his eyes'--how does the rest of the paragraph go, Welling?" Which was not in the least what Mr. Tate nor yet Adele had in mind to say. But even so, was not this the mounting joy of wit? Of give and take? Of stimulation? This the hitherto imagined delight of social intercourse? So Selina. But a hostess must keep a hostess' wit and head! Everyone must be won and led to speak! But wait, Miss Boswell, and smiling as with one lending herself prettily to the moment, is talking: "In speaking of beauty perhaps we're thinking a bit too much of the quality in an object which in regarding it excites pleasing emotions? Surely we're to believe that the terms of beauty apply to qualities that arouse admiration and approval. I for one shall insist on there being intellectual and moral beauty--and beauty of goodness and utility. But if I understand just right, Mr. Biggs here is far better qualified to define beauty than the rest of us. And with a great poet's authority behind him, too!" Big, handsome, gloomy Algy nearly fell over with his chair which at the moment he was uneasily balancing on one leg as some perception of what he was in dawned on him. "I--Oh say now, any of 'em will tell you I've never read a word of him in my life. Never could find the hitch--er--don't you know, between the words and the sense. Quit it, will you, Culpepper, kicking me?" "'A thing of beauty is a joy forever!'" gayly chanted dependable little Juliette who true to the program was to throw herself and her munitions into breaches as needed. "'Handsome is as handsome does,'" suddenly observed Bliss, very young and passing bitter, with an obviousness patent to those who understood the evening's coolness between him and Amanthus, "'Beauty is only skin deep.'" Could it be that Bliss had noted the glances of two of the company, Mr. Wingham and Mr. Tate, fixed upon Amanthus even now? "And yet," it was the first spontaneous contribution to the evening from the Reverend Mr. Wingham, his gaze returning from that retired corner where it had been drawn again and again, "the eternal youth of the beautiful!" Certainly Amanthus did not need vocabulary or repartee in the least! Adele with new courage, and this time at a signal from Maud, began again: "The Puritan through his great exponent----" The doorbell rang. Kind conventions! _Comme il faut!_ Had Selina really been congratulating herself in these gratifying terms? It was Cousin Marcus Bruce; she recognized his voice as Papa let him in. CHAPTER ELEVEN At least the guests were continuing to talk, though in the interruption from the doorbell and the answering of it by Papa, Adele evidently had lost out. For as the divided attention of Selina came back to the circle about her, Miss Boswell for whom all these endeavors and proprieties had been evoked, was doing her best to defend the utilitarian beauty of woolen gloves and ear-muffs, propounded upon her original proposition by spectacled Mr. Welling, backed by Mr. Cannon of the white vest. The while Selina heard Papa urging Marcus to give up his umbrella and to take off his cape which she knew to be a waterproof cloth voluminous affair to which he was much addicted. It gave one a sense of storm and stress of weather and downpour without, whereas in reality it was a dry and mild starlit night. It was merely of a piece with Marcus. And here he came strolling in, casual as always. Marcus was tall, lithe and thin. One lock of black hair fell anywhere, according to the moment, over onto his long, thin-flanked face, to be brushed aside continually by his long fingers, out of his deliberately roaming and observing blue eyes, the remaining black locks throwing themselves anyhow backward onto his old velvet coat collar. You never knew what a Bruce might do, but you could be sure he would do something extraordinary. Papa's overtures in the hall had only partly prevailed, for Marcus coming strolling in, had retained his strapped and buckled Arctic overshoes. "Well, Selina? How are you little people?" This to Maud and Juliette, Amanthus and Adele whom he had seen grow up along with Selina. The meanwhile, Cousin Marcus was cheerfully and as a matter of course shaking hands with--of all persons--Miss Boswell! "Everybody don't get up, everybody don't change places, I went around to the hotel to find you," this to Miss Boswell, "and your aunt telling me you were here, I trusted Selina for grace and followed." Marcus on terms of evident and easy friendliness with Miss Pocahontas? Marcus, whom Selina had repudiated! But in the meanwhile everybody had gotten up, and everybody was changing places. In the readjustment Marcus was found to be in possession of the chair next to Miss Boswell. His keen eyes patently taking in much, roved delightedly, seeing among other things as it proved, the well-set-up and good-looking Mr. Wingham hasten to carry a chair for himself to that bit of obscurity lighted by the sunny hair, the dimples, and the violet eyes of Amanthus. Saw him arrive with his chair just in time to circumvent Mr. Tate who was doing likewise. Saw Maud look incensed as Mr. Wingham contentedly sat himself down in this haven where he would be, saw Selina and Juliette look indignant, Adele incredulous. Else why should those keen eyes of Marcus thus roving, grow delighted as with a comprehending sense of the situation? But they roamed on, their owner accompanying their survey with comment: "So, it's a conversazione, Selina, Cousin Robert tells me? In the name of eloquence, Algernon Charles Biggs, how did you get in it?" The worm turned. Big Algy reddened angrily. "Culpepper here got me in. He swore it was a candy-pulling!" Mr. Cannon snorted; Mr. Welling it was who this time coughed, and tall Mr. Tate, who failing a place by Amanthus had come back and taken his seat in the circle, looked sincerely annoyed. "Apropos of Mr. Algernon," said Miss Boswell, still well-meaning, seeing that Algy had been pointed to her as a card by her young hostesses. She paused. Did the desperate look at her here by the goaded Algy enlighten her as to something being wrong. "No, not Mr. Algernon at all." She went on a little hurriedly. "Mr. Bruce," she turned about to Marcus next to her. "Mr. Bruce here and I are old friends," evidently she meant to be certain of her ground this time, "thanks to his winters for his newspaper in our little city during the legislatures. We've quarreled over such questions as these too often for me not to know where he stands. So, self-avowed seeker after the pleasing even to expedience, what are we to accept as the definition of beauty?" "Exactly," said Marcus cheerfully. "I would call it one thing, you or Miss Maud or Algy here, another," he paused, to give Algy full time to start and be quieted down by Culpepper, "while Mr. Welling and Mr. Cannon stand ready to confute the lot of us. Still, we'll try it around, Mr. Wingham," those eyes of Marcus had been roving as he spoke, "give us an idea of what you hold it to be?" "It--" said Mr. Wingham suddenly and a little tartly as he bandied the impersonal and unenlightening pronoun thus thrust upon him, sparring for time. He had been contentedly talking to Amanthus and as was evident, had lost the trend of the discussion he had been asked here to partake in. "It--er--I should claim, is, admitting of course, the term to be indefinite--" the poor gentleman was floundering. "It's so conceded to be," from Marcus encouragingly. But everybody rushed to say something here to spare the guest, Maud and Juliette as to beauty being beauty, Miss Pocahontas as to ethics and utility being beauty, Bliss, put to it by Mr. Welling and Mr. Cannon, as to beauty being vanity, and Adele with final arrival as to "the Puritans' greatest exponent, Milton, being proof and utterance of the beauty and poetry at the moral heart of Puritanism!" Which indeed she owed to Maud and the "Prepared Debates." And in this general chorus, Mr. Wingham and his impersonal pronoun was lost sight of, or at any rate, sound of. At half-past ten when the removal of the screen by Papa disclosed Mamma with her precious bits of Honiton lace on her head and at her throat, behind the chocolate pitcher, and Auntie in her black silk and long gold chain behind the coffee urn, Mr. Wingham was found to be lost again as well as Amanthus and this time in a more literal sense. Selina had seen it when it happened, and so had Maud, Juliette and Adele. One fancied Mr. Tate was aware of it, and so it now proved, was Marcus. "Wingham," his best and mellowest voice called as the company arose to adjourn to the back parlor, "that cosy corner of sofa and lamp under the stairs is very well for tête-à-tête, but how about bread and butter?" Nor did Amanthus and Mr. Wingham look too well pleased as they came in. As Marcus who was on his good behavior, carried cups and passed sandwiches, he leaned presently and spoke to Miss Boswell, just as Selina arrived with cake: "Your coupé has come, Pocahontas, may I go out and send it away and you walk back to the hotel with me?" This from Marcus whom Selina had deemed unworthy the occasion! It happened, however, that Marcus took Amanthus to her home at the corner first. Mr. Wingham went promptly after supper with somewhat the air of one who has been unfairly treated. Bliss who still was in the sulks went speedily too. Mr. Tate even while he struggled against the coercion, was borne off bodily by Mr. Welling and Mr. Cannon whose delight seemed to be in circumventing him. The two of them in leaving made what Auntie would have called their devoirs, both for themselves and him, though he struggled to make his own. "Minerva over Venus ever, Miss Selina," from Mr. Cannon of the white vest. "It's for that we're carrying Tate off. After his recovery from this temporary dereliction, he'll be grateful to us." "Ear-muffs and woolen gloves for the soul's sake, every time, Miss Selina," from Mr. Welling of the spectacles, "and as a rule you would have had Tate heart and soul with you. He's been adamant to dimples before, so it must have been the hair or the eyes. We're hurrying him off for his safe-keeping." Culpepper and Algy already were gone, taking Maud and Adele to their doors across the street. Juliette here by Selina's side in the hall seeing the last of their guests off, was to spend the night with her. Marcus happening out from the parlor along with Amanthus at this moment, and discovering, so to speak, an empty hall, took in the situation. If he had noted a little chill in manner toward Amanthus since supper on the part of her four friends--and what was there ever that Marcus did not note?--he recalled that chill now and evidently coupled it with her uncavaliered situation. It is so men unfairly judge of all women. He went and found her cloak on the rack and brought it. Humming as he did so, he broke forth lightly into words: "Morality thou deadly bane," He put the soft and hooded wrap about her nicely, for him even carefully and prettily, "Thy tens of thousands hast thou slain." He picked up his slouch hat and donned his disreputable old cape, "Vain is his hope whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth and justice!" Having rooted out his umbrella and tucked Amanthus, pretty thing, onto his arm, Marcus here paused within the doorway and said backward over his shoulder mellowly to Selina and Juliette. "Kindly explain for me to Miss Boswell that it will take me just three minutes to go and return. She's talking in the parlor with your mother and your aunt, Selina. Amanthus," still more mellowly, "shall I make an utterance for you as you are leaving? Your single contribution to the evening's parley? That, so far as I have been present to observe, you have been a silently eloquent and irrefutable argument for the affirmative? Don't ask Amanthus what irrefutable means, my cousin Selina, nor brisk Juliette? That were unworthy of you, and unkind!" [Illustration: "Rooted out his umbrella and tucked Amanthus, pretty thing, onto his arm."] Juliette turned indignantly upon Selina as Marcus and Amanthus left. "It's we who're left in the ungenerous attitudes!" hotly. "How did we get there?" Later, after Marcus in his old hat and shabby cape had returned, and again had departed, with Miss Boswell in his keeping, Selina cast herself upon her mother and burst into tears. "Are we as impossible, as ridiculous and absurd, as we are to judge we are from what they all imply?" she sobbed hotly. "More so, even, no doubt," from Juliette bitterly. A caressing arm and hand came around Selina's shoulder as she wept on her little mother's bosom, the hand of her father. "But even so, delightful," said that gentleman comfortingly, "far more delightful, if an onlooker may testify, than you'll ever quite know." "We sent the borrowed dress home to Anna," said Auntie. "Let's pack the mental furbelows up and send them over to Maud." "We'll borrow them again," came from Selina in muffled tones of bitterness. "We never learn." "Or lend her ours, let's be quite honest," from little Juliette. CHAPTER TWELVE From the evening of the conversazione, Marcus aroused to a livelier sense of his pretty cousin Selina, and she gained a new conception of him. How had she failed to realize that it was not so much that he was singular as significant? She said as much to her mother and Auntie. "He's Juanita's son," said Mamma guardedly. "If she is my sister, I have to allow that she's at times both eccentric and trying." "He's Juanita's son but his own keeper," avowed Auntie. "If he's ever thought in his life for anybody but himself, I've yet to hear of it." But Selina felt that she as well as they were mistaken. Within the next few weeks Marcus took her to the theater several times, and Oh, the wonder not only of seeing Booth's _Hamlet_ and Modjeska's _Rosalind_ through the medium of his kindness and his comment and elucidation, but of seeing how many persons in the audience strove to catch her cousin's eye and invite his recognition! He did editorial paragraphs which were clever for the leading daily paper, of course, but there was more to it than that! Apparently if one can successfully back up some chosen eccentricity, as of an old hat and shabby cape and the rest of it, by exactly the adequate manner, he attains to being a personage! And Selina for the better part of her seventeen years, had been thinking Marcus merely had bad manners! "You must do a bit of reading of a little different nature, pretty cousin mine," he told her about this same time. "Aunt Lavinia and good Miss Ann Eliza keep you a child." And accordingly he brought her books of a flattering nature, among them "The Story of Creation," differing from the narrative in the Pentateuch in a way which would have startled Mamma and Auntie unspeakably. But which she and Maud, adventurous soul that this person always was, set themselves to read faithfully. And lastly, about February, Marcus came round with a letter from Miss Boswell who with her aunt was spending the remainder of the winter in the South. Evidently the intimacy between Marcus and Miss Pocahontas was close. He read Selina one especial bit, which, or so it seemed to her who had seen nothing at all of the world, opened a wide-spreading and dismaying vista! More and more [thus went the letter] I am convinced we ought to do some of our wandering early. Our sense of true values ought to come to us young. These glorious Florida nights of tropical softness and moonlight only gain through their recall of other scenes as lovely met in my wanderings when I was young with my invalid father and my mother in search of the health he was not to find. I don't suppose we ever really deplore the gain through experience, whatever the cost at the time. My love to the little sequestered way-side bloom, Selina. How sweet she was in her sheltered innocence and how touching. Do not forget how we discussed the chances for her, you and I, for a bit more of the world through you, her big cousin? So? That was it? Miss Boswell with her tender eyes of comprehension was behind this kindness from Marcus? Still one must be thankful even for dictated favors once they are accepted. Marcus read her bits again from a second letter full of the soft glamour of tropical scene and beauty. After he had gone, Selina hunted her old school geography and sought the map. A pale yellow lady-finger a little over-run in the baking, Florida was on the page, but in the mind of Selina as she sat there in the shabby parlor with the book outspread on her lap, Florida the ever-blooming and the tropical, was Ponce de Leon in gleaming apparel with banner and sword stepping ashore upon sands flowing golden beneath the fancied fountain of his search, Ponce de Leon the ever glorious and understandable to youth, symbol of quest, of faith in the fabled, of adventuring forth! Maud walked in here on Selina in the parlor in the dusk, the open book still on her lap, the fire died to red embers, Auntie's brasses in the faint glow the one note of brightness amid the gloom. Selina's smile was a bit wan as she looked up and fluttered the pages of the unwieldy folio. "Thirty-seven maps herein of the world and its blue and pink and yellow grand divisions and kingdoms and countries, Maudie! Marcus has just been here and he's left me wincing over what he calls my limitations. I've been to Cincinnati, once, for two days, to the exposition and the musical festival with you and Judy and your mother. And I've been to Chicago for a week with Auntie and Cousin Anna to visit some Wistar kin who live in a dreary house right on the street, one of a row. Though Cousin Anna says it's a very good house and being in a real city is expected to sit on the street in a row, that I merely don't know any better. And that's the extent of my traveling!" "Limitations is a very good word," decided Maudie promptly. "I'm deploring our deficiencies right along! I've a new word myself. Mr. Welling and I are reading German together. I gave up waiting for the rest of you to keep your appointments and asked him. That's what I came over to tell you. We started last night." These friends of Culpepper were their friends now. As Maud put it, since they discovered they were outgrowing Brent and Sam and the rest, these newer acquisitions were a godsend! Mr. Welling, by Christian name Henry, square-set by mind as by body though a wag, had seemed to gravitate to mercurial Maud. "Apparently to correct what he chooses to call my sweeping mis-assertions," was Maud's way of explaining it. Mr. Cannon, Preston by name, and perpetual joker, gravitated to Adele for whom he had to diagram each joke, and assure her he didn't mean it, while Mr. Tate, that scholastic young man, with earnest admiration sought Amanthus who told him wonderingly she'd always supposed Pompey was a buried city till he told her he was a general. Something of the personal histories of these young men were known now to the young ladies. The father of Mr. Welling was a judge in his end of the state. Mr. Cannon's people lived in one of the mountain counties and were what is called land-poor, and Mr. Tate had been raised by a grandmother. "And shows it," Maud said when she heard this. Mr. Tate had money left him by his grandfather too, in a quiet respectable sense, and when his grandmother died he would have a very considerable more. "And his name's Lemuel," again from Maud at the time they were learning these facts, "and it's perfectly patent after you know him, why the others continually bait him." But right now Maud had come over to talk to Selina about her German and Mr. Welling. "What's your new word, Maud?" Selina asked. "_Wanderlust._ We came on it last night. It's apropos of what you were saying about the thirty-seven maps in the atlas." "I see." In April the Boswells returned from the South and Miss Pocahontas wrote asking Selina up to Eadston to visit her. "It will mean a new spring dress," demurred Mamma, "and the price of the ticket besides." "But it will mean three days for her with Marcia and Pocahontas Boswell," said Auntie. "She can go up from Friday to Monday and not miss her teaching either. I must say, Lavinia, they're the kind of people I want to have her visit." "I suppose you're right. We'll have to manage the rest of it. Selina get your pen and thank Miss Pocahontas for her invitation, and say you accept with pleasure." Miss Pocahontas herself was at the Eadston station on the following Friday afternoon to meet Selina. The carriage and horses and colored coachman in livery waiting for them outside were all old and handsome and well preserved. The town as they drove through it was old, too, but not so well preserved. "As though our forefathers planned and builded for us better than we deserve," Miss Pocahontas said in speaking of this. She seemed to regret it and to make a point of it. A covered wooden bridge across the river dividing the town seemed older than anything else. Indeed Miss Pocahontas herself and Selina, as the carriage rolled echoingly across this bridge, full of laughter and pretty exchange of confidences, alone seemed young of all the staid and sleepy place. For the square, brick house they came to presently, on a street of big, square houses, its yard running down to this same river, was old too, and its box hedges and its purple beeches were old with it. [Illustration: "A covered wooden bridge across the river ... seemed older than anything else."] And within the house the big rooms, both above and below stairs, were filled with old furniture, and mahogany at that, not sent to the junk-shop or the attic either, but cared for and revered and openly treasured. And as for other old things there were old portraits and old brasses and old andirons, and soft-footed, pleasant-voiced old colored servants, two at least among them in spectacles and with white hair. There were old candle-sticks, old silver and old damask on the supper table later. The pale-gray dress of Miss Boswell the elder, who was tall and pleasing, trailed with a soft rustle, and the amber-toned dress of the younger Miss Boswell was cut low. Selina's mother had strained a point and along with the new spring street dress, had made her a soft chaille, white sprinkled over with pink rosebuds. Selina here at the Boswell table with it on, could not be too thankful! When the meal was about half over, Miss Marcia Boswell laughed softly: "I saw your Cousin Maria Buxton last week, Selina. She was down here in Eadston for the day to pay her taxes and took her dinner with us. She reminded me that your aunt as a girl, once was here overnight with her to a dance. She also made me admit what I've supposed all these years was hidden in my maiden breast. Which is, that when she and I and your Aunt Ann Eliza Wistar were sixteen--Ann Eliza spent a good deal of her time up here with Maria in those days--we all three were in love with the desperation of love at sixteen, with John Buxton, the father of your Culpepper. He married at twenty according to his own bent and not ours. Maria of course got him later after they were both free again. Maria usually holds to her point pretty well, as I suggested to her when she twitted me the other day. And even with two daughters of her own by her first husband, if she has a downright weakness, and she admits it herself, it's for her stepson by John Buxton, your Culpepper." "Why," said Selina, quickly, "if Auntie's really foolish about any one person in the world, it's Culpepper." "Better and better," laughed Miss Marcia Boswell, altogether a delightful personage. "I'll be ready when next they come twitting me." The next day Miss Pocahontas and Selina in a pretty phaeton, drove about the town with its old state buildings, and out the road along the cliffs overlooking the river. "Tell me about the teaching," Miss 'Hontas asked. "How does it go? Are you satisfied that it's the right thing?" Selina flushed, hesitated and opened her heart. "It's the only thing I can do as far as I can see, if it paid better. My little boys seem to be getting along pretty well. But it don't pay at all, especially when I have to ride in bad weather. I can't talk much about it at home, Mamma and Auntie don't understand, and take it out in disliking the mothers of my little boys. And I don't seem to know how to find anything better for next year." She hesitated, her gaze up the canyon of the rushing river winding between its cliffs of limestone softened with April verdure. She had seen little of any scenery before! "You're so practical and so definite, Miss 'Hontas, you and Miss Boswell, too. Auntie thinks it's terrible to make personal remarks, and I beg your pardon, but I envy it so." "I'm not practical, I'm afraid, my dear, as you'll find. Look at the town there below us, Selina, nestling in its hollow? I'm a bit overenthusiastic instead. But perhaps what you see in Aunt Marcia and myself is the result of depending on ourselves for a good many years. My father died alone with me in Rome when I was fifteen, and my mother had died shortly before. Aunt Marcia and I have our own means and look after them." The next day, on Sunday afternoon, Miss Pocahontas had callers: Mr. Mason, a bluff young man who let it be understood his interests were horses and in a milder degree the new stables he was building on his stock-farm, and Mr. Huger who talked in a prosperous way of the tobacco market and the present dullness in business. One could not associate either of them in mind with Miss 'Hontas. After these callers were gone, Miss 'Hontas went upstairs to her sitting-room to write a note to a Miss Diana Talbot. Why she mentioned this name, Selina did not quite see, but later on she was to understand. She went up to this sitting-room, too, at Miss Pocahontas' suggestion, and finding a seat on the broad white window-sill, not far from the desk, looked out on the gravel paths and the box edgings and the beds of jonquils and tulips in the garden sloping down to the river. Presently Miss Pocahontas laid down her pen and rather tenderly studied the slim figure in the rosebud chaille on the window-seat. "And what now?" she asked with the smile in her eyes she seemed to keep there for Selina, as this person turned. "Mr. Huger was speaking of Marcus, Miss 'Hontas, after he heard he was my cousin. He said what jolly good company men found him. I wouldn't have thought Marcus was such a good mixer? Miss 'Hontas, do you suppose another thing is true? From something Marcus said to me, I fancy he writes verse." Miss Pocahontas laughed outright: "And you have not grasped yet, or will not, my little friend, that your cousin is a really and easily clever person--even to cultivating Mr. Huger, who is prominent and might be useful? Since you say he intimated it, why, yes, he writes verse, writes bits of it even to me. The Austin Dobson its prophet sort of thing my share is, light but clever and graceful, the ballade, the triolet, the rondeau. I even have tried my hand at it under his tutelage and encouragement myself," laughing. Selina fingered a fold of her rosebud chaille and colored: "I don't believe I know Austin Dobson and I'm sure I don't know about the ballade, and the rest of what you mentioned." When she heard more about these ballades and the rest and even was shown some attempts at them by Miss 'Hontas, smiling at herself as she did so, she was charmed. She had caught a new viewpoint, too! By play at these clever things of life, play which one puts a value on as play, life is made prettier! She and Maud and incidentally the others had gone at everything exaggeratedly and too in earnest! By taking self too seriously, you lay yourself open to ridicule! Ardent and dear Selina, she was sure she had it right now! And so pleased was she, that when on her return home the next day the group gathered at her house in the evening to welcome her, she complained to them about the commonplaceness of the average intercourse and disclosed to them the more pleasing and different diversions of persons like Miss Pocahontas and Marcus. The response, however, was not all that she could have hoped for. "Since when this furore about Marcus?" inquired Culpepper, but then he always had refused ordinary grace to him, holding that he was a poseur. "It was I always defending Marcus to you, up to now, Selina," said Maud with a show of truth. "She complains of the commonplaceness of intercourse when you are here, Algy," said Mr. Cannon, "and when Tate, old man, is just through telling Miss Amanthus that no man can say wherein lies the significance of the fifth leg of the Assyrian bull." "This poet person named Austin, and his masterpieces called Dobsons, make a note of 'em, Culpepper," directed Mr. Welling. "Some of us must try and qualify." As the days went on, however, Marcus was not above being pleased by this new attitude from Selina. He met her downtown wearing her new spring hat, and the mail the next morning brought her a communication from him, penciled, off-hand as it were, on the back of an envelope, saying: A broad-brimmed hat upon her head To shade her cheeks' sweet roses, A crown were fit, but she wore instead A broad-brimmed hat upon her head. I'll see her thus until I'm dead And darkness on me closes, A broad-brimmed hat upon her head, To shade her cheeks' sweet roses. Selina discovering more and more that Marcus was sought for, and according to his fancy, went everywhere, felt even gratefully what these lines meant coming from him. Again, on the day later in May when her little class was to close for the summer, she wore her new white piqué that she felt became her, to mark the occasion. When the hour came for saying good-bye to William Jr. and his three companions, they accompanied her to the Williams' front gate, then because it was to be a protracted farewell until fall, went with her to the corner. As she was taking leave of them here with final conscientious admonitions in her capacity of their teacher, Tommy Bacon's younger brother, Tod, came along and stopped to ask her something about the barge picnic up the river, on for Friday. It was here that Marcus, out in that neighborhood in the quest of a book he had loaned, so he explained, came upon the group, Selina looking very well indeed in that new piqué which became her, being kissed in succession by four little boys, and Tod waiting until this be done, to walk along home with her. That same afternoon's mail brought her another communication from Marcus, carelessly penciled in blue this time, which said: The young she loves, The innocent doves, And her heart is quite tender, I ween, And little boys Are ceaseless joys Up from six all the way to sixteen. How she preaches, As she teaches With a glow in every feature, And they, Lack-a-day, Fall in love with their teacher! There was no denying that it was pleasing, and Selina determined, if it was not lapsing too much into that overearnestness again, that she would put this and the preceding one from Marcus away with certain other treasures. There are kinds in straws to show the way the wind blew, that some day surely will be pleasing to bring forth and show, not alone to one's children but grandchildren. Maud did even more in this sort of prudential provisioning; she saved _all_ illuminating and perhaps valuable data, lists of her reading, theater programs, dancing-cards with personal tributes in masculine writing upon them, so that if in time need should come for biographical matter concerning her, it would be there. And she frankly declared, too, that she had every enthusiastic and honorable intention that such material should be needed. But then one had learned not to pattern on Maud too closely! At the close of Marcus' gratifying stanzas he had added a further line: Had no idea until recently you were taking this thing of teaching and earning your way in earnest. Come down to my place at 3:30 to-day and see me. By place, Marcus meant his office at the newspaper building. It was three o'clock when the postman left the note. When Mamma heard about it she demurred at first, saying it was no place for a young girl to be going, but when Selina pointed out that she had only to go up a stairway opening on the street to a door at its head, she gave way. "Put on your spring suit and that jabot I made you to show at the throat of your jacket when you went up to Eadston," she directed, "and wear your best gloves and your good hat. No, the piqué won't do, Selina; a business office calls for wool street clothes." "And let us hope he'll be there when you get there," said Auntie. "It's mighty little dependence I ever put on Marcus." CHAPTER THIRTEEN Marcus was there when Selina arrived, actually and for once in the place at the time he said he would be. A bare floor, a shabby desk, three wooden-bottom chairs, and a framed cartoon of Marcus himself hanging on the wall, was the whole of it. He arose as Selina came in and an elderly lady seated in the second of the three chairs looked at her with expectant interest. "This is my Cousin Selina, Miss Diana Talbot." Selina saw a plump, comely and cheerful person in comfortably sensible dress, mantle and bonnet. It may be interpolated that what Miss Diana Talbot saw was an ardent-faced, pretty girl in a plaid skirt and plain jacket, a hat with roses, and a manner bright with interest and interrogation. The ladies shook hands. "Miss Talbot has plans afoot to open a school in the autumn," said Marcus, "and Miss Pocahontas Boswell has done you the compliment to propose that she consider you as a teacher. Miss Talbot also on the recommendation of the elder Miss Boswell and her niece, has come from her part of the state to have me advise with her about her advertisements and her prospectus." [Illustration: "Marcus was there when Selina arrived."] Miss Diana Talbot took up the narrative cheerily: "Miss Boswell and Pocahontas and I were at the same small hotel in Florida this winter. Pocahontas goes down with her aunt every year. I am returning South later in the summer to open a winter school for girls whose health requires they winter in the South, and whose parents are anxious their schooling be continued. I will say the idea was suggested to me by an acquaintance of the winter staying at the hotel with his family, a Mr. Ealing from our part of the state. His two daughters are the nucleus of my school, in fact my first enrollments. Pocahontas has suggested I let her look after my French and music this first year as she has to be South anyway. And she tells me that she has satisfied herself that you can coach beginners in Latin and algebra, hear classes in the lower branches and be of use to me in a secretarial way. I should say I have taken the hotel where we were staying, for my school. The proprietor died and it seemed opportune." After further conversation and an appointment for a second meeting with Selina, Miss Talbot left. Resuming his seat before his desk with his long person outstretched in relaxation, Marcus smiled with lazy satisfaction over at Selina, flushed prettily with excitement. She was glad to have this word with him: "If it turned out by chance that I could go, would it cost much to get me there, Marcus? To--to Florida?" Her voice almost broke on the magic of the word. "Ticket, sleeper, meals, trunk, something in your pocket to start you on--a hundred or more dollars at least. I tell you though, Selina," Marcus actually roused himself and sat up emphatically, "you must make it. The longer I look at it, the more I can see it is just what you need. I haven't an idea but Pocahontas sees this in it for you, too, in proposing it. A little contact with the larger world, a little assertion and standing on your own two feet will do everything for you. Aunt Lavinia and good Miss Ann Eliza, as I've said before, keep you a baby, whereas naïveté can come to be downright irritating, and so can lack of sophistication. Break away, Selina, and find yourself now." There was that in this unfamiliar view of herself through Marcus' estimate which hurt, and she went away silent. Precedent and training had done all they might to make intercourse between Selina and her father strained and unnatural. She could remember when she was a bit of a thing, how on taking a pricked finger to him for attention, she had been snatched away as from an act of impiety, by womenkind, Mamma or Auntie, for womankind to attend it, and somehow the episode seemed typical. To open confidence with your father was as desperate a violation of custom as to be immodest, and she had not forgotten the embarrassment of going to him for money for her teaching venture of the winter, even after her mother had opened the way. It came to her now that such a relation between a daughter and father was a bit shocking. [Illustration: "She went to her father."] That night after her mother and her aunt were gone together to Wednesday evening service, she went to her father who was reading his paper as usual in the back parlor, and spoke quickly before her courage could fail her. "You--you have been giving me five dollars a month for my carfare and change since I began teaching, Papa. And through Mamma you are paying for my clothes. Isn't it a losing business for you? I've only been giving Mamma the sixteen dollars I make a month, for Aunt Viney, and that's over with for the summer now." "Instead of keeping the sixteen dollars for your carfare and incidentals and such?" smiled Papa, perhaps a little embarrassed, too, at the trend of the conversation. "Won't you sit down, Selina?" "But it seems so much more to Mamma and Auntie to have it come from me this way." "I bow to the processes in feminine logic more intricate than I can follow," agreed Papa. "And what then, Selina?" For a moment she almost abandoned the affair, then rallied: "Would you be willing to advance more, Oh, a great deal more, all of--" Selina nerved herself desperately, cold to her pretty finger-tips with the effort of it, "--yes, a hundred dollars, if you thought good could come to me of it?" "Willing always, Selina; able is another thing. It is not easy for a father to confess to his daughter that as a business proposition he is a failure." "Papa!" "Yes, Selina." The very necessity to get away from the horribly painful embarrassment of this drove her on. "I have a chance to go away and teach, I can be a help then by earning something worth while. Marcus thinks it wise, Marcus says I ought to go, that I need to develop in self-reliance and----" "Marcus be--" began Papa and stopped. The story came forth at this with a rush of detail. "And, Papa, to be a whole, whole winter with Miss 'Hontas, under the same roof, doing the same things! I love her so, Papa, I love her!" There were further questionings from him and answers from Selina and something in his sensitive face as he watched her while she talked, drove her to seek justification. "There is so much in the world, isn't there, Papa? And I haven't seen anything of it yet? Not anything!" By the time that Miss Diana Talbot was ready to return home several days later, it was settled that Selina should go South in October and teach for the winter in her school. CHAPTER FOURTEEN Mamma cried right along through the summer about it, and as the time began to approach, Auntie stopped eating and grew pale. Culpepper had gone home in June without knowing anything about the plan just then afoot, and here at this point, late in August, an invitation came down from Cousin Maria Buxton for Auntie and Selina to visit her. "There's too much to do and to plan getting Selina ready," decided Mamma, "and there'd be the extra expense of it to consider. I don't see how it can be arranged, do you, Ann Eliza?" "I'll write and say so," said Auntie. "And I think, Selina," from her mother, "it would be only polite for you to slip a note in your aunt's letter thanking your Cousin Maria for asking you." [Illustration: "Selina ... sat down to write her note."] Selina got her pen and paper and sat down to write her note, then paused and fell to dreaming. She saw Cousin Maria's farm, three thousand acres she believed it was, orderly, productive and prosperous. In her mind's eye it lay in zones, as it were, the outer boundary being the old stone wall along the encircling limestone pike; the tilled fields came next, of hemp, tobacco, corn and what not; the middle zone between these tilled fields and the houseyard was the wide-spreading, park-like woodland pastures; and heart of it all, reached through the big stone-pillared iron gate, was the house in its houseyard, with the garden behind. She loved this house of her Cousin Maria's, set in lilac and syringa shrubberies, a one-storied white brick, wide and ample and flanked by wings, with big gallery porches front and back, and beneath a high basement containing kitchen, laundry, storerooms and the farm offices. In recall Selina saw Cousin Maria now, too, comely like Auntie, surveying her capably and appraisingly as she welcomed her, had she and Auntie gone. And she saw Culpepper, too, as it were at Cousin Maria's side as they welcomed her, regarding her quizzically. Cousin Maria and the farm and Culpepper, seemed to stand visualized thus in her mind, symbol for some suddenly defined thing. Was it the best of the old things? The worth while of the established things? Then she thought swiftly of the vista opening to her of the unknown, with Miss Pocahontas and her outstretched hand awaiting, and her heart leaped! She began her letter and after thanking her Cousin Maria for the invitation, went on to state her plans. I want you to know, Cousin Maria, and Culpepper as well, that I'm going away about the end of September to Florida to teach, with Miss Diana Talbot who says she knows you, and with Miss Pocahontas Boswell. It's not only to try to help myself and so make it easier for them here at home, but because I want to go so badly I can't pretend this feature of it doesn't come first. I say this because Culpepper would see through me and say it for me if I didn't. Papa knows this part of it and sympathizes, and I'm a little afraid Mamma and Auntie suspect it and don't, as Mamma, for one, cries so about it most of the time, it makes it hard, but I can't feel it possible for me to be unselfish enough now to give it up. Culpepper came down a week before it was necessary for his return to the law school, to see about this thing of Selina going away as he put it to Auntie bluntly. He walked in one evening big and sunburned and bold and blatant with health and stored energy and conviction. It was the first week in September and hot and he found the household, Mamma, Auntie and Selina sitting out on the stone steps in the starlight, Papa inside reading his paper, the aroma of his cigar floating out. "What does it all mean?" Culpepper without preamble demanded of the older ladies--"this thing Selina wrote about of going away to teach? Keep still, Selina, we know your side of it." "And mine, I hope, Culpepper," came out through the open doorway from Papa reading under the gas-jet in the hall. "Kindly accept the fact that I am aiding and abetting her. She came to her father this time first." Mamma, coming in on this tearfully, was most emphatic: "I blame Marcus, blame him entirely. He's Juanita's own child for stirring up trouble or trying to, for other people. He defended himself to my face by saying I had kept Selina so overyoung for her years she's almost ridiculous, and that he's trying to help her to find what I've deprived her of, her right to be a reasoning and thinking human creature." Mamma produced her pocket handkerchief. "Juanita herself came around with him," said Auntie aggrievedly. "She'd better have stayed at home and mended her clothes. Her skirt was without a braid and frayed, and two buttons were gone from the front of her waist. Instead she told us that if we of the older generation didn't face the demands of the present younger one, it simply means they'll cut us out of their working plans and repudiate us. Don't ask me what she meant. You've heard Juanita. And she said the time was at hand and was ripe and she was warning us. What time she didn't specify. That she hadn't been prophesying to her sex all these years not to know the signs now they were here. She talked like an altogether determined and fanatical person, and with no more sense to it than just what I say, but then Juanita's talk is always more or less that way." "Marcus, of course! I might have guessed he was in it," said Culpepper with small patience. But then these two never had struck it off anyway, neither ever willing to concede a thing to the other, Maud always said. "It's a fool proposition, I beg your pardon, Cousin Robert, since you say you're in it, but I'm with Cousin Lavinia and ole Miss here, every time. If Selina's got to teach, she'd better teach for less here at home where we all can look after her." He spoke to Selina presently, suggesting they take a walk about the block. He began to question her almost as soon as they were started, the dry sycamore leaves on the pavement crackling under their feet. This Selina by his side was scant eighteen now. "It's true then, what you wrote in your letter? That it's you who want to go? You're thinner than you were and you're pale. Stop here under the gas post and let me look at you. What's it all about?" He seemed almost to be making an issue of her wanting to go. She colored in the dark with a feeling of vague uneasiness that she was about to disappoint and hurt him by what she must say. And yet when she once was started, she amazed herself by the actual passion with which she spoke. "It's like rosy beckoning fingers, Culpepper, and sweet odors I've longed for, and food and drink I'm desperate for. It's not Florida or Kalamazoo or Keokuk nor any other definite spot, Culpepper. I've thought about it and I know. It's the unknown. It must sound to you that I'm talking wildly and foolishly, but I won't allow it's either of those and I won't allow I'm to blame." He dropped her arm from his at this, and walked back to her gate beside her with no further word. "Good night," then he said. And yet he had asked her for her point of view upon it! She had always thought Culpepper fair! Later in September Cousin Maria Buxton came down for a week's visit and shopping, and brought Selina a dress to add to her outfit for the warm climate. Cousin Maria was solid and handsome, as said before; her hair, still black, was parted and banded down to her ears about her strong and healthily florid face and her black eyes surveyed the world capably. The morning after her arrival she came into Mamma's room from her own room adjoining, which really was Auntie's, with the garment in question just taken from her trunk, hanging over her arm. "It's a dress made last spring for one of Alice's girls. She's never had it on. They have so many they outgrow them before they get around to them." Alice was one of Cousin Maria's two daughters by her first husband. She had married a prominent stock-farmer in her part of the state and was rich. The other had married a tobacco farmer and was rich likewise. "Lavinia," pleaded Auntie, remindingly. "I had said Selina never should wear finery again not her own," explained Mamma. "Well, isn't it her own?" returned Cousin Maria emphatically, "and haven't you and Ann Eliza been playing mothers to my Culpepper? Come now, Lavinia, I shall be downright put out. Ann Eliza, you may as well give in." As for Selina herself, standing by, the good ladies, as was their custom, never for a moment thought of allowing her a voice in the discussion at all! It was a dear dress that she, used to being obedient, here was bidden to try on, just as Cousin Anna Tomlinson happening by, came upstairs. There was not much to it, though in that perhaps lay its appeal. Scant and slip-like, with a show of her pretty throat, and a show, too, of her slim nice ankles, it consisted of hand needlework on a texture of limp mull. "Like our India muslins when we were young," Auntie was obliged to allow to Cousin Maria with satisfaction. "Made by the sisters here in the convent on Madeleine Street," said Cousin Maria. "I always meant to give Selina gold beads," said Cousin Anna. "Why don't you give 'em then?" from Cousin Maria. "Selina, you look dear. With ankle-strap slippers and your finger in your mouth the way you had to be spanked out of, you'd seem about seven again. That's right, look pleased." It was Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle, however, of all unpremeditated persons!--who gave Selina beads. She came trundling in just here to pay a visit to Auntie and her lifelong friend, Cousin Maria, leaving her carriage at the curb. Hearing voices upstairs, she came mounting up. "As if Ann Eliza and Maria and I hadn't slept three in a bed in order to stay together, many a Friday night in our young days," she reminded Mamma. "I'd better add, we all were thinner then. Selina, that dress is something more like what it should be than the ones Anna here and Madame Vincent put on you and me. So you are going South, they tell me, with Pocahontas and my old friend, Marcia Boswell? I wish Pocahontas would make up her mind whom she's going to marry and do it. Huger with all his tobacco money, wants her, I hear, Maria, and young Mason, the jockey club's biggest man, is after her. Marcus Bruce is on her string, too, they tell me. She's too charming a person to grow restless and faddish, imagining she wants occupation and not a husband! That dress, Selina, with its round neck, needs beads." There came a murmur from Cousin Anna. "Well, who's keeping you from giving gold ones, Anna?" inquired Mrs. Tuttle. "I'm going to send Selina some beads on my own account. I owe her on a score she and I know about. I was tried that night of the musicale, Selina; two of my best soloists had failed me, and I can't seem to stand a person being apologetic and deprecatory anyhow. Why didn't you rise to it and tell me what you thought of me? My beads, Anna, are going to be coral, the coral of Selina's cheeks right now. The ingenue style of the dress and of Selina, call for coral." "When a girl is young," said Cousin Maria, "I say have her look young." "She does, Maria," returned Mrs. Tuttle. "Selina looks altogether young. She's pretty, too, and it's not going to hurt her to know it. It'll do her good instead, and give her spirit. I'm going down street and choose my corals now." After Mrs. Tuttle and Cousin Anna both were gone, Cousin Maria broke forth: "I hope Diana Talbot isn't going to make a fiasco of her legacy with this school venture." "We haven't heard anything about a legacy," said Mamma. "We liked Miss Diana very much when she called twice. She seemed very cheerful and certain about the school, and has offered Selina thirty-five dollars a month and her board and washing. She herself and the Episcopal minister at the place, so she said, are to teach the advanced classes." "Diana is as cheerfully volatile and heady as the rest of the Talbots," claimed Cousin Maria. "They are in the county next to ours and I've known 'em always. Old Tom Talbot, the grandfather, built the first brandy distillery in the state in order to distill brandy from beets. Why, with corn everywhere and fortunes, too, to be made in sour-mash whisky, only a Talbot could say. He failed, of course, and later set out vineyards for claret on land that held fortunes in Burley tobacco. He had traveled and read too much to be practical, old Tom Talbot had." "Why, of course," chimed in Auntie, "I remember the stories of _him_. He thought once he'd succeeded in making silk thread for weaving from milk-weed." "It's in the blood," said Cousin Maria. "Bulkley Talbot, Tom's son, and Diana's father, had his craze planting yucca to make rope fiber with all his wife's inherited acres crying to God and nature for hemp. Diana's been kept down until now by her brothers who both married level-headed women who have kept them steady in harness themselves. In turn they've frowned down Diana until this last year when she came into a legacy of some several thousand dollars from an aunt. Immediately she disbanded the little school she had taught for half her life in her home town, and last fall went South. She said our winters were beginning to give her rheumatism and she was going down to sit on the equator or some of its tributaries and think things over. They tell me she has leased this hotel for two years, and I know she has had her school furniture shipped. I don't mean to discourage you, Selina. Diana is one of my old friends. In one sense you'll be as safe with her as with your mother here, or with Ann Eliza or myself. And I must say, too, I agree with Emmeline Tuttle that it looks freakish in Pocahontas to drag her aunt down there this early in the season that she may go to teaching when she doesn't have to. Young women didn't indulge in restlessness in my day." CHAPTER FIFTEEN It seemed as though everyone wanted to do something for Selina as the time drew near. Marcus stopped by one morning about a week before she was to go. He had added a carelessly floating tie to his make-up of cape and old hat, and his manner was even more easily negligent. "Tell Uncle Robert not to do anything about a ticket for you, Selina. The matter's as good as settled and I stopped to tell you I have a pass for you." This was news so astounding that Mamma on hearing it, lost her head. "Then we will get that piece of white opera cloth, Ann Eliza, and make her the evening cape she needs so badly. There'll be money enough for it now." Selina had not forgotten a certain extravagance she longed for. "And those ankle-strap slippers, Mamma, may I have them?" Maud brought her a letter portfolio, Juliette a little crêpe scarf, Adele a case for photographs and Amanthus the dearest bangle for her bracelet, if she'd owned a bracelet. Amanthus didn't always remember things. The four came in a body with their gifts and stood about amid the litter of preparation and packing, with embarrassment, almost with wistfulness. At last Maud broke forth. Judy and Adele flushed as she spoke and Amanthus looked disturbed, but they evidently all stood with her in what she said. "We've been talking about you, Selina. It's as if we still need you and you no longer need us. And watching you, we can see you're different in other ways. You've been giving in, just as you've always given in more than any of us, letting your mother get you the clothes she wants you to have rather than what you want, and pack your trunk when we know how you want to pack it yourself. You're just the same in this way _seemingly_, but in reality you're not the same at all. You know now that you want your own way about the clothes, and you know you want to pack your trunk. You've been slower coming to it than any of the rest of us, except Amanthus, who hasn't any idea what I'm talking about now, and probably never will have. Her mother or her husband or somebody'll always pack her trunks and she'll thank them beautifully and sweetly and mean it. But you _know_ now you want to do it all for yourself, and it makes you different. And we've had to decide you don't need _us_, because you've made all your plans and arrived at your decisions without us?" Selina looked from one to the other of them. Was it so? Did she not need them as in the past? She did not know herself. Certainly it was true that she passionately did want to pack her own trunk! How did they guess? What could she say to them? She embraced them all in turn, and kissed them tenderly. Mr. Tate came round a full day too soon in his dates with roses for her to take on the journey, and Mr. Cannon brought her all the latest magazines. Mr. Welling came with a volume of what he explained were Dobsons by that fellow Austin. Mr. Welling was a wag. "I'm sorry none of us have been able to qualify, Miss Selina, and this has to be the best I can do for you. There are rondeaux in it, I can vouch for that for I've looked to see, and I'm suspicious there are dittoes. But unfortunately there are not batteaux which would mean more in a place like Florida. But then, of course, you'll have Miss Tippecanoe," by which name he invariably spoke of Miss Pocahontas. A dearth in news, or indeed in communication of any sort from Miss Diana, began to prove worrying as the day before leaving arrived, and a telegram was sent to Miss Pocahontas for reassurance. By night her reply came: Have wired Miss Talbot, and had answer. Expected on original date. Miss Boswell and Miss 'Hontas were to leave Eadston in the late afternoon. Selina was to start in the early evening and meet them at one o'clock that night at the junction where she would board their train. This very day, Selina's trunk locked and her satchel ready, Aunt Juanita stopped by with a message. It was a mercy she remembered to deliver it. "Marcus finds he is not going to get that pass; he asked me yesterday to let you know. He put off his application until too late, but he says he can arrange for a lower rate, and to tell Robert it will be about half. And he does hope, Selina, you are going to be self-reliant and not make too many demands on Pocahontas, who is a sacrifice to her aunt and her aunt's asthma now." Selina sat up straight and indignant. She really liked that. And from Marcus who had insisted on her going! Her mother began to worry as soon as Aunt Juanita left. "I'm sorry now I took any of that money from you your father gave you this morning for yourself, and paid the bill for your cape while I was down street, Selina, but your father has been so bothered to get as much together, we won't mention it to him. It isn't as if you wouldn't shortly be earning money for yourself." Cousin Anna came by here. "Willoughby wanted me to give you some money for a present outright, Selina. But I said no--that fifty dollars is a good deal for you to feel free to spend. I am putting that much in your hands, however. I have it here with me now, for you to hold in case of any emergency. Giving it to you with such an understanding we'll know you have funds if need arises." Everybody went to the train in the evening, Mamma, Auntie, Papa, the girls, Culpepper, Mr. Cannon, Mr. Welling, Bliss, Algy even, and Tommy Bacon. Papa had seen Marcus late in the afternoon who said he would meet them at the station with the ticket as he was having a little trouble getting it fixed up and that he wanted to see Selina off anyhow. Five minutes before train time, with Selina's trunk waiting to be checked and everybody agitated since it was known that Marcus was to bring the ticket, there came, not this person at all, but a messenger boy with an envelope, calling Wistar as he came through the gate, a privilege which everybody enjoyed comfortably and at will in those days. Well, it was here at any rate, the ticket, and Papa, his face dark with suppressed rage, jerked out, not a ticket at all, but a scribbled line from Marcus which Selina caught as her father flung it from him, and read at a hurried glance while he in a quick undertone asked for her purse to supplement his. Cheaper rates out of the question. They tell me the regular tickets are on sale at the station. [Illustration: "She ... stood looking at them grouped below."] While her father was gone to see about ticket and baggage, everybody else boarded the train with Selina, only to be hustled off almost immediately by the porter. Her kisses to Mamma and Auntie even were curtailed. She hurried with them as far as the rear platform of her coach, and stood looking at them grouped below, a somewhat bereft young figure had she but known it, up there alone, pale and startled now the actual moment of going was come. And she looked pretty, too, in her new skirt and jacket of blue, with her traveling veil, also new, flung back; quite too pretty and visibly inexperienced to be starting off alone. "That change at the junction by herself in the middle of the night, I don't like it," insisted Mrs. Wistar down on the platform. Auntie, when deeply moved, became cross. "What's the use bringing that up now?" she demanded tartly. "You've known about it all along." "The train's off and where's the ticket?" cried Maud. "Oh, where?" from Juliette and Adele. Selina's father running down the platform here and swinging up the step to her with ticket and trunk check in his hand as the train began to move, met Culpepper swinging up by the steps from the other side. There was a look of determination on the older man's face. It was evident that at this last moment he didn't like the idea of that change for her at the junction either. "You needn't," said Culpepper tersely, taking the ticket and check from him. "My mind has been made up all the time, I am." "On the contrary, I----" "Cousin Robert!" The eyes of the two met. "Exactly," said the younger, "now will you let me go? Reassure ole Miss and her mother. She has to sign that ticket somewhere, doesn't she?" And Culpepper helped his Cousin Robert swing off the now briskly moving train, and he and Selina saw him go back along the platform and join the others. * * * * * At 1:45 Culpepper put Selina, ticket, satchel, umbrella, candy-box, roses, magazine and lunch basket, into the actual hands of Miss Pocahontas Boswell, up and at the steps of the sleeper to receive her. "She's the only thing in the way of a Selina, such as it is, we've got, you know," he remarked cheerfully. "I know, and I'll see she is returned to you such as I take her, except my own part in her which I propose holding," said Miss Pocahontas smiling, too. "When do you get a train back?" "Four in the morning," from Culpepper genially. "He brought me here to the junction to you," Selina told Miss Pocahontas in the dressing-room a bit later as that dear person assisted her to get ready for her berth, "and took every sort of care of me. But he was blunt. He wouldn't even talk." "Why not?" from Miss 'Hontas, plaiting Selina's heavy flaxen hair. "He didn't want me to want to come so much," said Selina, neither very lucidly nor elegantly, she felt. CHAPTER SIXTEEN Thirty-six hours later, Miss Diana Talbot in a comfortably sensible white dress, with a triangle of lace cap on her portly head, stood at the top of the porch-steps of her leased hotel of white clap-boards, the same set in a flanking of moss-draped live oaks with a nice blue lake behind. From the station omnibus at the foot of these steps, with their eyes taking in this pleasing picture of establishment, descended Miss Marcia Boswell, tall and quietly distinguished, Miss Pocahontas, charming and smiling, and Selina in the jaunty new skirt and jacket of blue and the back-flung veil, flushed and altogether lovely, her young eyes dewy with something of joy and more of big and eager wonder. Miss Diana's countenance as they came up the steps to her, however, was by no means so comfortable in its aspect as her comely person. It looked absorbed and anxious, nor did she mince matters nor hesitate in confiding them. Such was not her way. "My dears," she announced, "it is ghastly. Not an application, not an entry but those two original Ealings. Everything in readiness for an ideal winter school for delicate girls, but the pupils. I thought best to break it to you at once!" * * * * * Following an early supper, Miss Diana, the Boswells and Selina gathered on the wide gallery along the south side of the charming old clap-board hotel. The immediate point to decide was, what was to be done? Selina swallowed hard, and then regained herself. She was a little lady, Mamma and Auntie's care had made her that, to give them their dues, and her private troubles now were her private troubles and must be regarded by her as such. She was the favored young friend of the Boswells, and Miss Talbot's guest, but not their first nor their chief consideration even under the circumstances, nor must she expect to be. Miss Pocahontas as though divining something of the nature of Selina's thoughts, leaned across from her chair at this point and took the pretty hand. It threatened to unnerve again, but once more Selina regained herself, and this time to steady herself further, looked about her from her place on the broad and lovely gallery. Close at hand the giant live-oaks that overtopped the roof above, trailed their ghost-beard mosses palely, the fruit on an ancient orange tree crowding the gallery rail, gleamed russet-golden and the water of the shimmering and irregularly wandering blue lake, a hitherto undreamed-of turquoise, quivered silver under the rising moon, and rippled rose beneath the flush from sunset lingering high in the sky. Beyond the lake's farther, darkly verdued shore, a feathered palm tree stood acheek the evening star, and a huge, stork-like bird, its long legs dangling, its white body rose-tinged with the sunset flush like the lake, rose heavily from somewhere and flapped across the scene! And again, this afternoon on a brisk walk into town to the post-office, Miss Pocahontas with Selina at her side, had bowed smilingly to half a dozen delightful looking acquaintances in high traps and buckboards, the men in pith helmets, the women with veils twisted about straw sailors! It was Florida! Florida, the pale-yellow lady-finger on the geography page! The breeze which kissed Selina's pretty cheek was from the Atlantic to the east, that Atlantic which she was to see at Miss 'Hontas' first opportunity. The Gulf of Mexico which she was to see at Christmas, was to the west. And, she, Selina, with Papa and Mamma and Auntie far away and maybe thinking of her, was on the narrow strip of map between. The quiver that ran through her at the realization that it was she, Selina Wistar, who was here, closed her soft hands convulsively. And the quiver at sudden recall of what she was about to hear of her prospects for remaining here, opened and closed them again more convulsively. Miss Diana, as has been said, had gathered them out here on the gallery to give them her whole dismaying confidence. "I've got the lease and little more," she now was stating, "I've spent my money getting ready. What am I to do with the Ealings when they get here to-morrow night? And what am I to do about this dear child, Selina? I couldn't say the school wasn't going to materialize until it didn't." Was Miss Talbot but an elderly, sanguine, impractical child herself? Miss Boswell, the elder, on her part was a gently sensible lady. "Propose to Mr. Ealing that he let Selina tutor his daughters; and they, she, Pocahontas and myself, and anyone else you can get, board with you until you can dispose of the lease." It cheered them all. Selina breathed in fresh courage at the respite. "Make yourself look as dear as you can when they arrive to-morrow, Selina, so Papa Ealing will not be able to withstand you," said Miss Pocahontas, "and we'll have our winter together here in Florida after all." When the time came Selina did her best, then from the upstairs gallery where she had been told to wait, saw the Ealings arrive. The father, a prosperous stock-breeder and horseman, so she had been told, led the way from the 'bus, big and florid in person, the daughters following as it were in his shadow. The resolute tones of Miss Diana who awaited them at the head of the steps, breaking the news with her characteristic promptness, came up to Selina. "And I should feel even more responsible about hoping to the last moment and thus unwittingly allowing you to start before I wired you," she ended, "if I could not offer a substitute plan with Miss Wistar of my proposed faculty for a tutor!" The Ealings coming upstairs with Miss Talbot a few minutes later, by an entire miscalculation on Miss Wistar's part, met this person coming down. Miss Diana at once presented her. "Miss Wistar, Mr. Ealing and the Misses Ealing, the member of my faculty about whom I was speaking." The Misses Ealing crowding upon their father's heels, as everybody paused on the landing, were large and heavy girls with pallid skins and peevish countenances. Miss Wistar on the contrary, in Cousin Maria's limp mull, with ankle-strap slippers below and corals above, looked dear--appallingly, ruthlessly dear! "Good God!" said the florid Mr. Ealing, more startled than offensive, poor man, he was having considerable to bother him just at the moment, too. "Mine are fillies, but this one's a sucking colt." Selina in her own room later, her vaunted self-control altogether gone now, wept piteously against the shoulder of Miss Pocahontas. "You are to stay and visit Aunt Marcia and me, since the stupid Ealings will not have you," Miss Pocahontas comforted her confidently. "Oh, yes you are. It's all decided. And didn't I get you down here? Listen a bit before you shake your head so vigorously. Why should you not, Selina, for all your nice independence, my dear, when I tell you I shall probably marry your Cousin Marcus some day?" "She shall stay so long as I have a boarder to keep the roof over me," said Miss Diana coming in on the heels of this. "I hold myself justly responsible for this child." Selina shook her head again, lifting it from the dear shoulder of Miss Pocahontas to do so. Truly she _was_ a little lady, Mamma and Auntie again must have their dues. "I came to earn my way. I'm sure they would say so at home. I've just written." That night Miss 'Hontas came in to Selina, already in bed, slim, pretty, flaxen-crowned child that she was, in one of her new nighties, fruit of Auntie's skill, tucks hand-run, ruffles about the soft, young throat, rolled and whipped and lace-edged, and sat beside her, and smoothed her hand and talked to her about many things. About character and sweetness and bravery and courage and even some other things, which she said she found in her little friend to love and admire, and--about Marcus! [Illustration: "Miss 'Hontas came in ... and talked to her about many things."] "You are hard on him right now, Selina, and won't admit you are glad I am going to marry him. And as I don't propose to have you feel so, and as you and I are always going to mean a great deal to each other, I want to show him to you as I see him and always have seen him. It won't hurt you now to begin to see life a little more as it is, my own little girl. We women--I mean you by this, too--have to accept our measure for the part in life we are allowed to fill, through what our fathers are if we remain at home, or through what our husbands are, or come to be, if we marry. Fix that in your consciousness right now. I doubt if this is fair, or if it is going to content us as a sex much longer, witness my indictment of it for one. But it's the best that is done for us at present. Our grandfathers and their fathers were merchants and lawyers and farmers; one of mine sold rope, the other raised tobacco. But if we believe tradition here in the South, and the homes they left us seem to prove it, they were something of scholars and thinkers and travelers as well, citizens more or less of the world and public servants, too. And here's my point I've been getting to, Selina. Patience a bit longer, my dear! The men of my class that I have happened to know best in my home town and my state, are merchants and lawyers and stock-raisers, too, like their forefathers, but nothing more. Am I insufferable? I've kept it buried in my bosom so far. I know it's the necessities of the South since the war have made it so, but still I'd come to be murderous, or drive my unfortunate yoke-mate to be so, if I were to find myself inevitably confined within the round and horizon of any one of these men I have in mind. I'm quite horrid, and your mother would never lend you to me again if she heard me. But can't you gather now, something of why Marcus always has appealed to me, and will? Kiss me, Selina, and consider well whether you won't stay and be my guest as I do so want you. No? You are sure that at home they wouldn't agree to it?" * * * * * Some two weeks later, on a cold, drizzling morning, Papa and Culpepper received their Selina from the steps of a sleeper. "She's the only Selina we've got, such as she is, and we're glad to get her back," said Culpepper cheerfully. "Mamma sent this old last year's heavy cloak, my precious," said Papa. "You're to be sure to put it on." "Papa," said Selina, "let me tell you and I'll feel easier. It's what's worried me most. I had to use Cousin Anna's money to get here." When Selina and her father reached home, Mamma was standing out on the unsheltered doorstep of the small squat house awaiting them, despite the drizzling rain. Selina had forgotten quite how tiny and worried-looking her mother was, and how shabby the house! In the background of the open doorway, close beyond Mamma, was Auntie, darling, comely Auntie. "We've got her back," cried Mamma exultantly. "I never approved of her going, not for one moment, in the least!" "She's tried her wings; I see it in her face," said Auntie presciently and sadly. "Lavinia, mark me, she's going to find the old nest too small!" CHAPTER SEVENTEEN When Selina, after the manner of her Ponce de Leon, returned fruitless from her quest, not of the golden fountain of youth, but of the golden fleece of independence, the cotillion long planned by Mrs. Harrison for Amanthus was just over, but the reception by the Carters to introduce Adele to their friends was yet to be. Maud had accused Selina of being absorbed by her own affairs and her own altered point of view. As chance or purpose, as the case may be, was to have it, Selina was to become absorbed for a time in the respective points of view of her four friends. "I have accepted the Carter invitations for your aunt and your father and myself," said her mother the morning after Selina's return, as pleased as could be about it. "Your aunt's black velvet is always distinguished and elegant; no one would imagine it was bought for your father's and my wedding. At that time I said--you remember that I did, Ann Eliza--'why do you get velvet and black at that? You're still a handsome girl.' And your reply was, Ann Eliza--do you remember it?--'I'll live up to it, never fear, Lavinia, I won't be a girl forever!'" Mamma went on happily: "I've looked over my mauve grenadine, and by cutting the tails off the basque and buying new gloves, it will do. And speaking of buying reminds me, you must have underwear with some wool in it, coming up this way from almost the tropics." "And maybe a little wool in her stockings, Lavinia, don't you think?" added Auntie anxiously, "though we're having wonderfully mild and protracted autumn weather for the first day of November, to be sure." "Now that I think about it," amended Mrs. Wistar, "we can't put heavy underwear on her until after this Carter affair. You will recall my regrets for you at once, of course, Selina. I'm glad we made you that one unqualified evening dress." "And cape," from Auntie. By a seemingly tacit consent everyone was very nice about Selina's humiliating return. "I don't want you to think about that fifty dollars now," said Cousin Anna, "and I don't want you to ask Robert to return it for you. Pay it when you can." The girls came over promptly and in a bunch. They were tactful and considerate. Only Maud made any direct allusion to her friend's unhappy failure. "We all have our regrettable moments," she said largely, embracing Selina and kissing her tenderly, as Juliette and Amanthus and Adele in turn released her, "our humiliating moments, I may say, in regard to myself. The other day I told the most distinguished man, come to preach at our church and staying with us, that I always know everything written by him for _The Christian Herald_, by its academic touch, and then went and looked up academic in the dictionary." Generous Maud! It was her way of comforting! "Mamma sends her love," said Amanthus, "so much love!" "We can't be sorry we've got you back, and we hope you won't require it of us," said Judy, dear little Judy. But she looked listless and she said it without her usual animation. Did the others look at her a little anxiously, a little solicitously, perhaps, or did Selina imagine it? "I'm such a disappointment to Mamma and Grandmamma, Selina," said Adele, "thus far in what they're pleased to call my social start. I'm the square peg in the round hole, as I see it myself. If it isn't my physical elbows that stick out, it's my mental elbows, and they get on the nerves of my family even worse. I need you at home, and badly, to be sorry for me." Several days after this Adele came over alone. "Come go back with me for dinner, Selina," she begged. "I haven't really seen you yet, and I've so missed having you to talk to. As I told you the other day, I'm such a disappointment to Mamma and Grandmamma. Why can't they let me alone? Why can't I be myself in my own way? Neither of my brothers was any older than I am now, when they were allowed to choose and follow their ways, Roswell to Tech, and Jim out West with our uncle in business." As Selina, consenting, went to change her dress, she was thinking that even with no interference, it wasn't the simple matter to be one's self that Adele seemed to imply. For her own part she seemed to be the victim of interchangeable selves right now that arranged the matter of possession between them, with no respect at all for her wishes, the result being a sort of see-saw in her personality, up or down, buoyant or depressed, confident or deprecatory, according to the self in predominance at the moment. The buoyant self right now since her return home, seemed born of a knowledge she felt almost guilty about admitting; she was prettier. She was the last person who ought to recognize it Mamma and Auntie would tell her if they suspected her of doing so, and she therefore would keep any show that she was conscious of it hidden. But the fact was there. She saw it in the eyes of her mother and aunt themselves; in the puzzled gazes of Maud and Juliette and Amanthus; in an unwilling admission from the eyes of Culpepper, who was bluntly opposed always to anybody or anything flattering her; in quick comprehension and acknowledgment in the glances of Adele. Was Marcus right? Had her brief glimpse into life, her short temporary dependence upon herself, done it? The knowledge of it, whatever the explanation, gave her new confidence and sudden brave carriage. Her color deepened and despite her cruel disappointment, which yet stung sharply, her eyes laughed and her step was tripping and light. The second day that she was home, she met a former acquaintance down street, Mr. Tuttle Jones, that paragon of correctness, and he stopped at her bow, a thing he never had done before, and with his eyes upon her face, shook hands and passed some of the gratifying nothings of pleasant interchange with her. And here last night, the fourth since her return, he came to call. Papa opened the door to him, and in consequence his card had to go hastily into his pocket; but after all if you're poor, and she, Selina, and Papa and Mamma and Auntie were incontestably poor, the thing is to be frankly what you are and undisturbed about it! She was glad that she had arrived at this point. It made for self-respect! And she could feel that on this occasion she had been pleasingly and successfully undisturbed. It was Sunday evening and nine o'clock when Mr. Jones came. She heard afterward from Amanthus and Adele, that as to day and hour, this was quite the thing of the moment to do, the _en règle_ thing, as Maudie put it. Algy Biggs was already there, calling, too, and apparently wanting to talk about Juliette; and why Juliette? But not being so given to the thing of the moment, he had come earlier. "Papa is an admirable Crichton when it comes to opening doors," Selina said as she shook hands with Mr. Jones, and as she could feel, with complete success; "but I am an admirable Miss Crichton when it comes to other matters." And she took him and Algy, to whom the matter just had been proposed, on out to the pantry which was shabby but big and orderly, trust Auntie for that. And here from cold turkey and other choice bits left from Sunday dinner, they concocted a feast with hilarity and satisfaction. But there was a second and disparaging self which alternated with this more confident and successful one. At the mere call to mind of certain people, Adele's mother and grandmother, for example, or of occasions connected with such people, the Carter reception about to be, as an instance, or of attitudes characteristic of such people, the Carter stress laid upon prominence and prosperity as a further example, at such recall Selina's second self came into its deplorable own, and the self of happier, buoyant mood went down. And presto! assurance was gone, and she was Selina Wistar, unenviable person, limited and obscure, living in the small shabby house of the block, with a father always harrassed and poor; Selina Wistar unworthily ashamed of first one thing and another, as, at this particular moment, not so much Auntie's antiquated velvet as of her veneration for it, nor Mamma's grenadine with the tails cut off, as at her respect for it; and thus ashamed, the more ashamed that she was ashamed, she on whose account Papa and Mamma right now were the poorer, she who was in debt to Cousin Anna! And in this fashion as she finished the changing of her older plaid dress for her newer cashmere and went into her mother's room to rejoin Adele, she found herself at the lowest bump of the see-saw of her personality upon the ground of self-abasement. "The dress looks very well, Selina," said her mother. "I was always sorry we didn't see you in it before you went. It's a nice shade of blue, not too deep and not too washed out, and a good piece of cashmere. It was a bargain though I must say I'm always doubtful of bargains myself. The lace goes with it nicely. I was afraid it was too much of a bargain, too." "I'm glad we left the waist a little open at the throat," said Auntie. "Lavinia, I do believe it's a trifle too long in the skirt. Still we did very well with it; it hasn't that impressed, homemade look I deplore, one bit." A moment later and Selina and Adele were crossing the street through the dusk, with a wave of their hands back to Mamma and Auntie at their windows. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Carter house was a broad, double brick in a terraced, well-kept yard. Herndon, the negro man, opened the door to Adele's ring. Within, the house was sedate with inherited Carter furniture, Carter portraits, the emphasis being laid on the Carter side and not the Grosvenor; one could not but notice, handsomely cased books and, so it seemed, every nature of paper and periodical. "Though really," Maudie always said, "unless Mr. Carter chances to stay home long enough from the club, or from boards of directors, or the toast master's chair at banquets, no one but Adele ever reads them." It was an ordeal to go through a meal at the Carters. A meal at Maud's home was substantial and well served, with Mrs. Addison, her capable, dominant mother at one end of the table and her pillar-of-the-church father at the other end, her younger brothers and sisters and herself along the sides, and most always, some divine or layman of church note, strange in the city. A meal at Juliette's house, was abundant and the family manners natural. Her mother was so pretty one overlooked poor management and poor servants, and Mr. Caldwell, her father, made up for his rather tiresome teasing by lavish tips and royal boxes of candy as recompense to hurt feelings. At Amanthus' home only women prevailed, and a meal there was like Mrs. Harrison and Amanthus themselves, easy and pretty and charming. But here at the Carters as now, the occasion was an ordeal. Being six o'clock dinner, and copied from the Grosvenor soap-and-lard Chicago kin, it truly was dinner, in a sense Mamma and Aunt Viney had no comprehension of, soup to finish. Adele and Selina came downstairs together at the summons, Adele in an overmodish dress in coral pink, in which Amanthus would have looked enchanting, and in which she looked unhappy, and after Selina had been greeted, took their places with the family about the table. Mrs. Carter who was blonde, and whose hair was elaborately dressed, was in blue like Selina; Mrs. Grosvenor, her mother, whose hair was gray and even more elaborately dressed, was in black net with a deal of cascading lace and many rings; and Mr. Carter, a person of parts, with moustaches and an imperial, was in a hurry as always, and too disposed to hasten the meal to its close, to be sociable. Again as Maudie said, his reputation for wit and conversation and charm must have been gained away from home. "Adele tells me you have reconsidered your regrets, Selina, and will be with us at our reception," said Mrs. Carter just a shade languidly. "I'm sure we're very glad." "Selina was in Florida, Mamma, when her mother declined for her," put in Adele quickly. "Naturally she will come. Selina's popular; she may teach me how to be." "If you wouldn't decry yourself in this way, Adele," began her mother. "I tell her so all the time," said Mrs. Grosvenor. "But you both, Mamma and Grandmamma, have decried me for so many years yourselves, trying to improve me, I can't see myself otherwise," pleaded Adele. "For your own good, as you allow," from Mrs. Carter. "A girl has to be formed," from her grandmother. "I was a perfect failure at my first big party thus far, Selina," said Adele, laughing a little desperately, "and with Mamma and Grandmamma there to see. I----" "Can't we let this fish go and have the roast, Adelia?" from Mr. Carter to his wife. "If Adele would not talk so laboredly to men," said Mrs. Grosvenor, to no one in particular that Selina could discover. "Her mother and I overheard her speaking to young Tuttle Jones at this same dancing party. And on my word for it, Adele, I heard you ask that poor man, I put your actual speech to mind that I might confront you with it--if he thought Christianity was a revolt of Hebraism against Hellenism? These were your very words! I told them to your mother and asked her to help me to remember them. It's perfectly understandable why Mr. Jones has declined your affair. Men hate such things." "I had to talk about something," said Adele wretchedly. "I'd been reading about it in Papa's _Quarterly_." "Adele would go to the public schools with the rest of you," Mrs. Carter addressed this to Selina, "and her father permitted it because she cried every time mother and I took it up. Now the little cliques and sets among the young people of my friends are made up when she goes among them, and she feels out of it." "I don't see what there is to it that you and Grandmamma should want me to feel in it," avowed Adele. "Roswell," this from Mrs. Carter to her husband, ignoring the remark from her daughter, "I had a note yesterday that I forgot to mention, from charming old Mrs. Jinnie Hines Cumming. She says in the most gracious way that nothing could prevent her coming to see your daughter and Mamma's granddaughter, launched upon her career, and that she has a graceless great-nephew living now in town who never comes to see her, but whom she asks to bring with her." Now it was conceded among Olympians that the social scepter was wielded by Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle, aunt of Tuttle Jones, only because Mrs. Jinnie Cumming grown old chose to pass it on. "Mamma loves lions," said Adele and laughed a little nervously. "Ergo, my dear young friend Selina," said Mr. Carter, suddenly attentive and kindly and polite, as getting up to go from his untouched dessert and hastily swallowed coffee, he came round to shake hands, "bring a lion or two and find yourself persona grata. And in the mean season, in the face of this discouragement from the cliques and sets, don't go back on our Adele." Nor did he nor Selina dream how literally and triumphantly in this matter of lions she was to obey him! She was to rout disparagement at least for once! But in the immediate mean season she was hot and sore and indignant. When she found herself alone with Adele again after dinner, she burst forth: "Adele, why do you force your mother to ask us to your affairs? She doesn't want us." "Selina, Oh Selina, if you and Maud and Juliette go back on me! What else have I got? Everything pleasant that I've known has come through you or them. One of the really pleasant things, such as I mean, happened the other night just before you got home. Mr. Cannon called for the first time. He is so irrepressible and ridiculous and clever, too, and jokes and quizzes so, I forget to be self-conscious. Mamma wanted to know who he was and if I could vouch for him, but there's always something. I answered pretty crossly, I expect. At any rate she won't let me ask him for the reception. I feel terribly about it." CHAPTER NINETEEN Selina's relatives, the Bruces, figured largely in what now followed, by not figuring therein at all. One always could count on a Bruce to do something unexpected. It began with the absence of Marcus. Selina had not seen him since her return and had a feeling that perhaps she did not care to. She considered that she had grounds for still being indignant with him. The unworthy and the inconsiderate flourish undeservedly, however, as she reflected somewhat sorely. During the political campaign of a year ago, Marcus in a temporary associated-press capacity, had accompanied a presidential nominee and his party on their special car on an unprecedented tour through the South. This nominee was now the president of the United States, and about the time Selina was packing her trunk to come home from the South, Marcus was offered the post of consul to a group of islands in the bluest of semi-tropical seas. As Selina came up from Florida, Marcus had passed her somewhere on the way. "He's gone to ask Pocahontas whether he wants the appointment or not," Aunt Juanita, stopping by to say howdy to Selina, explained to her and Mamma confidentially, "Of course you have grasped before this, Selina, that Pocahontas is going to marry Marcus." Selina nodded. She had not brought herself to feel great enthusiasm on the subject even though she had been given the point of view of Miss 'Hontas to help her to it. And she did wish Aunt Juanita would take time to fix her clothes! Tall and ungroomed, the feather on her bonnet hung dejected by a thread, and three buttons were off her rusty shoe! Still as in the case of Marcus with his questionable manners, you never can tell. And Uncle Bruce, if possible, was the strangest, certainly the most unkempt of the three, and see too what had come to pass about him? At about the same time the consulship was offered to Marcus, the home papers copied an interview from the Washington journals in which the name of Bruce figured gratifyingly. The personage of the interview was an English parliamentarian and historian, the Honorable Verily Blanke. According to the Washington papers, this gentleman was reported as saying: Perhaps I look forward as much as to any individual acquaintance I hope to make in your country, to my meeting with your Mr. Aurelius Bruce, whom I regard as one of the greatest living authorities on the interpretative history of the American constitution. In the course of my correspondence with this gentleman, at the time I was occupied with those chapters in my history of popular government dealing with your constitution, I promised myself if ever I should be in the United States of America, the pleasure and personal gratification of a meeting with this distinguished and profound jurist. From the nature and the variety of the authorities he has been able to point me to, affording me the desired passages from his own shelves, when these authorities were not to be met with readily by me elsewhere, I should rank his personal library devoted to American law and jurisprudence, as one of the notable ones of the country. As Selina said when she read this in the daily paper, truly you cannot foretell! Aunt Juanita on the same occasion of her visit to see Selina, had something to say about this tribute to Uncle Bruce, too. "Marcus made his father write at once, or in the end, I believe, compromised with his father by writing for him, asking this Mr. Verily Blanke and his secretary, who the papers say is a grandson of some big personage or other in England, here to be our guests. There has been no answer to Marcus' letter, so I don't suppose there's a chance now they will come." As if the Bruces were not figuring enough in the public eye, the very day after this talk, a signed communication from Aunt Juanita appeared in the local papers. She was measurably concerned in the honors come to her husband and her son, but her interest was in her own affairs. TO THE EDITOR, Sir: "The number of members of a body or corporation competent to transact business by law or constitution," is a "quorum," Webster, vide Quorum. Under our law a majority of the members of our City Council constitutes a quorum, and a majority of the members present is necessary for the carrying of a motion. Under this procedure, six members out of a total membership of twenty were able to kill the very necessary street watering-cart ordinance at the last meeting of our City Council. By what equity shall the will of a minority thus imposed on that of a majority, be defended? I call the attention of women, and of women's organizations, to wit, The Women's Rights Association of America, now in session in Rochester, N. Y., to the dangers attendant on embodying such fallacies in popular government in its constitution. JUANITA LIVINGSTON BRUCE. The noon of this same day Aunt Juanita came by again. There was an air of preparation about her tall person this time. Her veil trailed crookedly and her glove tips needed mending, but she carried a satchel and umbrella. "On second thoughts, Lavinia, I am going on the afternoon train to Rochester. I can't sit still with this question of what proportion of a representative body shall constitute a working majority, threatening the future of my sex. What I want to know is, will you let Aurelius come here for his meals while I am gone? He can sleep, in fact it is safer that he should sleep, at the house. Hester will go round in the mornings and see to the anthracite in the hall stove, and whatever else there is to be done." Hester was the Bruce's servant, and like Aunt Viney had her home elsewhere. This same afternoon, Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle came rolling around to the Wistar home in her carriage and found Auntie and Selina in. [Illustration: "Her veil trailed crookedly."] "See here, Selina," she said so straightway one inferred it was what she came for, "Tuttle has been around here three times in ten days, I'm hearing. My dear child, look at me! So this is what your fool's errand trip south with the Boswells did for you? Not a fool's errand, I see, after all. Why she's come to real beauty, Ann Eliza! With all that Wistar flaxen hair, and her fair skin, that's right, blush away child, and her fine, clear profile, she's like a cameo. No, it won't hurt her to know it, Ann Eliza. What she needs now is exactly what a little conceit will give her. Now that I've seen you, my dear, I must say I admire Tuttle's discrimination. There's more to him than I've been giving him credit for. I began to be afraid for him about the time when he saw to it that his mosquito bar was tied back with ribbons to match his bureau cover, but that's past. He's mighty grand, I don't dispute it, Selina, and a great beau. But he hasn't got a picayune but what that vault door he keeps at the bank pays him, and that's little enough, unless his father, and I, his aunt by marriage, being fools, give it to him." CHAPTER TWENTY The one and only triumph of Selina's brief day drew nearer. And that she should achieve it through a source hitherto so undervalued! The worst about having Uncle Bruce coming for his meals was that two-thirds of the time he forgot to come, and one-half of the remaining times when he did come, he came trotting in after one had given up expecting him. Mamma always waited a reasonable time, however, insisting they owed this much to Uncle Bruce. Thus dinner was held back on the evening of the reception at the Carters. Though they did not expect to go over before say nine o'clock, certainly no sooner, Auntie and Mamma dressed before dinner. "I've reached a place in life when I don't like to be hurried," explained Auntie. "There's something elegant about dressing for dinner at any time," claimed Mamma, "and if there weren't so many little things to see to in the dining-room and pantry to help Viney along, I'd do it every day. I must say this grenadine of mine has held its own. There's nothing like a good stout cotton bag for hanging clothes away in, and camphor. I'll touch myself up a bit again, one's hair does get so disarranged, before going over to the Carters later." Dinner was put on the table a quarter of an hour late, and they were sitting down, Mamma, Papa, Auntie and Selina, without Uncle Bruce, when the doorbell rang. Aunt Viney having answered it, summoned Papa. As it proved, it was old Uncle Taliaferro Bucklin at the door, a brother-in-law of Aunt Viney, and owner and driver of a hack and two white horses whereby he made a living, meeting trains for passengers at the several railroad stations. His voice at the open door explaining to Papa, came in through the parlor to the dining-room. "Done took 'em to the Bruce resi-_dence_, a' th'ain't arry pusson thar. Went aroun' to the kitchen doah at las' myself----" "And you found nobody there, exactly," in Papa's quick and impatient voice. "Get along with it, Bucklin." Uncle Taliaferro pursued his own line in narrative undisturbed. "Got thar trunks an' contraptions on top er the kerridge, wouldn't heah to comin' long without 'em. Said they was expected on this train by Mr. 'Relius Bruce, so I brought 'em aroun' heah." To get to the point, as Papa discovered on going out to the shabby old hack, the fares of Uncle Taliaferro Bucklin proved to be the Honorable Verily Blanke, parliamentarian and historian, his secretary, the grandson of the personage and their man-servant, the only truly intimidating and disturbingly superior one of the three as it turned out. [Illustration: "Owner and driver of a hack ... whereby he made a living, meeting trains."] Even so. And to get to a further point, the letter written from Washington to Uncle Bruce by the secretary, accepting the invitations sent by Marcus and announcing the date of their arrival, was discovered in the pocket of the disturbed Uncle Bruce next day, unopened and unrecalled. Papa rose to the occasion as he did at those times when he abruptly became the decisive head of his house. One marveled and wondered about it afterward that he should not be this head always! He brought the guests in, explaining to them something of the eccentricities of their host, Uncle Bruce, presented them to Mamma, and accompanied by her, took them upstairs to make themselves a little more comfortable after their journey, for dinner. Leaving them thus employed, he came down, got in the hack with Uncle Taliaferro and the luggage above, and the man-servant within, and drove around to the alley where according to Aunt Viney, Hester, the servant of the Bruce household, lived. Found her, put her up on the box by Uncle Taliaferro, took her to the house, and leaving her and the man-servant there to make the guests' rooms ready, as well as leaving the luggage of the guests, arrived at home again in time to meet the descending gentlemen and take them in to the re-served dinner. This from Papa! There were reserves and capabilities then in him, too, unused and unsuspected, as in Auntie! Who or what had failed to draw them out? The delay had given Auntie and Selina opportunity to open some ginger preserves, and search out some cake that was not too stale, from the cake-box. It gave Selina time to speak her scandalized mind, too. She was horrified! "And they'll sleep there! In that house!" she managed to say to Mamma. She meant the Bruce house, big, three-storied, of stucco, with iron verandas upstairs and down, well enough outside, though needing painting. But inside----! "Certainly, we've nothing to do with that," said Mamma sensibly. "It would have been no more in order if Juanita had been here and they had been expected, you know that. They and your Uncle Bruce will eat here. We'll do our part. "Warn them about the books on the stairs and the landing, Lavinia," reminded Auntie. She referred to Marcus' new Encyclopedia. When the twenty-five volumes of it came home, there did not seem any place for them in the house already overflowing with books, and Aunt Juanita piled them along the stairs until a place for their disposal could be discussed, and nobody ever had moved them. * * * * * Once more Aunt Viney in her best apron now, and a fresh and snowy headkerchief, brought dinner in and put it on the table. The Honorable Verily Blanke, across the table from Selina, was a delightful, elderly personage with grizzled hair, and a well-kept grizzled beard, whose head as if by its splendid weight, was sunk forward between great shoulders. His eyes were blue and keen and kindly, and he kept looking across with a wonderful gleam and smile in them as if he found something there worth the looking at, in Selina, whose cheeks with the wonderful exigency of it all, were their finest coral, and whose pretty concern, nicely held in, was in itself a tribute. Perhaps his eyes wandered in kindly fashion to Auntie, too, comely and restful in her black velvet gown. The Honorable Cyril Doe, the grandson of the personage, was very much less satisfactory. His chin was on a line with the dome center of his head, his body seemed to lack co-ordination and to be about to drop an arm or a leg or two from sheer disinterestedness in holding to them any longer, and on being addressed he started and ejaculated in British. The older gentleman on the contrary, spoke quietly in English of his pleasure in meeting American life and customs. "Will not you and Mr. Doe go with us this evening across to our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Roswell Carter, who are entertaining for their young daughter?" asked Mrs. Wistar. "For myself, I shall have pleasure in going with you," said Mr. Blanke. "How is it with you, Cyril? We will both go. We are desirous to see just as much of the South and its life as we may be permitted to." So after dinner Papa took the gentlemen up to the Bruce house to dress, and Selina hastened upstairs to her own room to get herself ready that she might go across to the Carters ahead of the others, and make the proper explanations. Her new little evening dress of white net was very nice. Auntie had a real genius for making clothes! She viewed herself and her slim bare neck and her smooth young arms in the mirror of her big old bureau, with approval. Her first real evening gown! She took the evening cape of white cloth from her wardrobe and slipped it about her with some complacency. Persons, just as a matter touching on self-respect, she reflected as she viewed the effect of this, have no right to be without those garments reasonably suited to the occasion. It was gratifying, too, to note how readily she adapted herself to them when she became their owner. It seemed to argue an intention in the stamp of her by nature, for these fitnesses and niceties! So pretty Selina! She did not get to the Carters ahead of the others, after all. As she came downstairs in her pleasing array, white fan and white gloves added to the festive rest, Aunt Viney, already delayed in her home-going past all timeliness, was opening the door to Mr. Tuttle Jones in cape overcoat and top-hat, and to Uncle Bruce in Mr. Jones' firm grasp! It was to be an evening of superlatives! Hearing the voices Mamma came hurrying down with her scarf and wrap on, and Auntie with her Paisley shawl about her velvet dress, followed a minute later. Mr. Jones, his small moustaches exquisitely exact, his collar and shirt front protected by his deftly adjusted muffler, the pearl-gray glove on the hand staying and steadying his companion, immaculate, had steered Uncle Bruce in and was setting him down in a hall chair. Then he turned to Mamma and Auntie from a last regard of Uncle Bruce after getting him deposited. One saw now that there were tiny beads as of stress upon the forehead of young Mr. Jones, though his manner to Mamma was perfect. "It is owing to the particular shade of blue in the legal papers Mr. Bruce here had in his hand at something to five o'clock that I'm spared being his unintentional murderer." He mopped his brow with an immaculate handkerchief, the while giving the ladies time to disburden themselves of their ejaculations, then continued his explanation. "While dressing to start out for the evening, dressing before dinner I'm gratefully able to add, this peculiar quality in blue, the exact thing I've been trying to visualize for my mother's projected scheme in her new Dutch dining-room--foolscap blue shall we call it?--kept recurring to me. As I reached for my scarf-pin, the collusion between the recall and the original came to me with a crash. Mr. Bruce here, our lawyer for the bank, has his private box with us as a sort of special privilege. I'd let him go into the vault to this box after hours, reading a bulk of blue papers as he went, and though I couldn't recall seeing him come out, I'd locked that vault door myself at five o'clock and gone home. I've had him in a drug store for an hour since I got him out. If we'd had a modern vault with one of these new time locks, his end would be on my soul." Uncle Bruce came into the talk here. The bow to his cravat was at the back of his neck and his beard and hair stood rumpled wildly. "It was highly important I should finish reading those papers before locking them up. I found myself with only a few matches in my pocket and some loose papers to convert into spills to break the stygian darkness he left me in," he spoke testily. "Aurelius," said Mamma, slowly and with the careful emphasis one uses to some harmless but trying irresponsible whose attention must be held, "that very delightful Englishman and his secretary are here that Marcus sent the invitation to. Robert is up at your house with them now. It's very necessary we should find out from you what you want to do with them." Uncle Bruce, little mummified, scholarly person, from his position of temporary collapse on the hall chair, glared at her. He grasped his beard below his chin with an exasperated hand, and his wild rumple of hair seemed almost to lift and stiffen with his irritation. "Do with 'em? Do with 'em?" said Uncle Bruce with testy finality. "Tell 'em from me to go to the devil." "Mr. Bruce," said Mamma with dignity, "you forget yourself!" "Not a bit of it," from Auntie shortly, who had small use for any of the Bruce family. "Well then," said Uncle Bruce flinging his little person up from the chair and making a snatch at his hat on the hat-tree by him, "if you like it any better, tell 'em from me, I've gone there." CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE It was a gratifying entry that finally was made at the Carters, Uncle Bruce ultimately being pacified and left at home in the care of the English servant, and Mr. Jones, after meeting the guests and hearing the program for the evening, glancing across at Selina in her white net dress and evening cape, and asking to go along. Papa and Mamma were justly proud of their guests, pre-eminently the older one. And Mr. Roswell Carter was equally and as sincerely gratified to find them his guests. He asked Papa to arrange with Uncle Bruce that he be privileged to have a dinner followed by a smoker at the club that the men of the community be given the opportunity to meet the gentlemen. And Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle coming sailing up in all her splendor to Papa and Mamma and the distinguished strangers, asked to be permitted to arrange for a dinner party on the next evening. But while these staid elders were doing the honors thus to the guests from the old world over in the more sedate library, Selina was feeling the thrill and the importance of her entrance into the embowered parlors with Mr. Tuttle Jones. Adele in an even overly-modish dress which sat uneasily upon her, dear Adele with her conscientious face and her serious eyes, stood between her mother and her grandmother, a seeming shrine of palms and floral decorations for background. Selina deep in her heart was proud of the casual manner with which she came up and presented Mr. Jones. There was no question of his welcome being assured. Mrs. Grosvenor, elaborate as to hair and impressive gown, smiled graciously upon this sought-after young man, and anticipating her daughter, spoke first: "It is very lovely in you to challenge our leniency as you put it, Mr. Jones, and come over with Selina. She is like a second daughter in our house, I may say, she and Adele, my granddaughter, being inseparable. Adele, have you spoken to Mr. Jones?" Mrs. Carter, also elaborate as to gown and hair, was equally affable: "Charming old Mrs. Jinnie Cumming has given us the pleasure of having her with us this evening. It is inevitable she is going to demand you come and speak to her? Shall I anticipate and take you to her? My duties to arriving guests seem to be about over. Mrs. Cumming claims to have waived formality, too, and has brought a drolly delightful nephew with her, a recent comer in the city." And Mrs. Carter laid a hand on the arm of Mr. Jones and carried him off, Mrs. Grosvenor turned to bespeak a possible next guest if there be one, and Adele sometimes surprisingly dry-spoken for a girl of eighteen, laid her hand on Selina's gloved arm. "Unfortunately that's just like Mamma, overlooking the fact he was your escort because she wanted him then herself. And who do you suppose the droll nephew is that Mrs. Jinnie Cumming brought with her? The humor of it's helped me bear up under this ridiculous dress. I must look like an irresponsible in its spangles, don't I, Selina, for I feel like one?" "It's really a wonderful dress, Adele. Who's the droll nephew?" "Our Mr. Cannon that Mamma wouldn't let me ask here to the reception to-night. I was perfectly hateful and threw it up to her a bit ago." Did Adele here look away and her cheek grow pink with rare color? Was she pleased that it should be Mr. Cannon? With a change of tone she spoke again. "Juliette wouldn't come at the last moment. Selina, she's unhappy, and I think we ought to tell you so. It happened while you were gone." Again with a change of tone: "Did you ever see anything so lovely as Amanthus and so entrancing?" "Our Mr. Doe thinks so," said Selina. "Witness, please." Across the hall in the open doorway of the library stood Mr. Cyril Doe, the secretary, endeavoring to fit a glass into his eye with all the awkwardness of one about to lose an arm or a leg or two from sheer inability to hold on to them. [Illustration: "Endeavoring to fit a glass into his eye."] "Did you ever before see a monocle except on the stage, Selina? In 'Lord Dundreary' and that sort of thing? I never have," from Adele. "And the truly wonderful grimaces he's making getting it to stay! It's sort of horribly fascinating to see if he's going to succeed. There, it's done, and what's it in place to gaze on?" And following the undoubted line of Mr. Doe's vision, as indicated by Selina, Adele came to Amanthus near the embowered newell post, a dozen feet away from the library doorway. Amanthus! Dimpling for three callow youths surrounding her. Amanthus of the laughing eyes, the laughing cheeks, the laughing lips, Amanthus of the sunny hair and violet gaze, who laughed, as now, as the flowers blow, nor knew why more than they! Amanthus, supple and young and enchanting, in floating clouds of gauzy yellow, a wreath of buds upon her daffodil hair, and slender slippers of daffodil gold upon her buoyant feet! Maud stood near her talking to some other callow youth, handsome enough in her white tarlatan dress with glossy green leaves and their berries in her red-brown hair, and young and vital, too, but not for Mr. Cyril Doe. It was upon that vision known to earth as Amanthus this monocled, British, chinless person was gazing. "And Mr. Jones, after declining our party, came with you, Selina," from Adele. "We'll be regarding you as another Amanthus." Selina arched her pretty throat, then remembered to be modest. It was hard not to be complacent about it just a bit, the more so that Mr. Jones having shaken loose from Mrs. Carter, here was seen making his way through the crowded parlors back to her. But at least if she was not so really modest as she could wish about it, she could dissemble. "Adele, look out in the hall again," thus she sought to put the matter aside. "Mr. Doe has found Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle, and she is taking him to Amanthus." * * * * * The next day Maud spoke accusingly to Selina. One rarely deceived Maud. "Don't be self-deceiving about it. Don't be too scathing of Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Grosvenor. Look into your own heart first, if you please, Selina. You were the more elated over taking Mr. Jones than over any of the rest of it, yourself, and you needn't tell me, for one, you weren't! The big frog in the home pool means more to the little frogs than the big fish from strange waters. I suppose I'd have been, too." The evening of this same day Selina told Culpepper of Maud's accusation. Papa and Mamma, Uncle Bruce and the guests were gone to Mrs. Tuttle's dinner party, and Culpepper on request had come round to spend the evening with her and Auntie. It was a comfort thus to have him in the family, making it possible to ask such things of him, and to talk to him about quite personal matters. He and she were in the parlor before the flickering fire and the burnished brasses, and Auntie in the next room was playing her evening game of Napoleon solitaire on the dining-table. "Maud didn't quite say I was an incipient snob, Culpepper," Selina commented after telling him the story of the whole evening, the rescue of Uncle Bruce by Mr. Jones included. "She didn't actually say I was as despicable as that, but she implied it." Selina flushed and grew even a little more thoughtful. "And the truth of it is, Culpepper, I had to admit to Maud her accusation in a sense is true. I was elated over taking Mr. Jones. But Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Grosvenor could not have been made to acknowledge on any less worldly grounds the something I had come to recognize as necessary to my Wistar self-respect, and especially if I were to continue going with Adele. I've been thinking it over and I'm right about this. But there's worse! I flaunted my new evening cape and was complacent over it. I even felt myself pitying Mamma and feeling cross toward her about her old scarf. Whereas if I come down to facts, Cousin Anna's money which I still owe her, went to replace that used to buy the cape and some other things. It isn't the actual cape I'm meaning, though, nor the literal episode of taking Mr. Jones to the Carter's, Culpepper? Of course you know that? What I'm worrying over is what Maud calls 'the principle back of the thing.' I'm not one bit pleased with what I see in myself that way. Do we go on forever climbing three feet out of the well by day, and falling back two feet by night? Will I ever get anywhere?" The iliad of her little woes, piteously assailing those walls of half-knowledge shutting her out from her mede of common-sense and common understanding! The odyssey of her little wanderings following half-truths, misled by platitudes, failing ever of the haven of truth where she would be! Alas for you, Mamma and Auntie, who with all your yearnings over her, have so pitifully equipped your one ewe lamb for life! Culpepper the while Selina talked, thus guileless of her guilelessness, thus innocent of her innocence, had been gazing at her across the space of the hearth between them, his eyes upon her, but following thoughts of his own. He came to himself with a start. Now that she, this pretty girl here before the fire with him in this intimate aloofness, was growing up, tall and fair, that crown of pale, shining hair distinguishing her, it came upon him at times such as now, with a clutch, a catching of his breath, to have her still so ingenuously sweet, still so honest, still so utterly and so endearingly confiding. It disarmed him. It broke down his control. It got into that blatant blood of his and for moments made him see red and feel afraid for himself. He wanted to seize her hands there in her lap, and kiss their helpless palms! No, he wanted to seize _her_ and kiss _her_, kiss her until she awoke to the facts of life and--understood. And this achieved, lay down the mandate to her that he was here, and all the while had been here, for the man-made and Heaven-sanctioned purpose of taking material and every other sort of care of her, the woman. His stepmother knew it, his Cousin Robert knew it, ole Miss, he'd take his oath, more than half suspected it. True, he had nothing whatever of his own, only a princely allowance from that big-souled person, his stepmother. But God Almighty, what of that? He'd have all that he needed having in his own good time. He was the stripe and make that batters any old thing out of the way of the going if it be mistaken enough to get there--the sort, in fact, that succeeds. The baffling thing here was of a different nature, being Selina herself. You can't crush a bud into its bloom by the mere force of your longing; you can't kiss a child that knows no passion, with passion! Culpepper, twenty-three himself, but no less sophisticated than he would be when he was thirty-three, pulled himself together, big, good-looking young giant that he was, the effect of whose bodily presence here was always to further dwarf the shabby little parlor. The soft flip of Auntie's cards being dealt out on the table came from the next room. It was like a restoring touch from her calm personality. "One thing is cleared up for me by last night's happenings," declared Culpepper cheerfully. "What?" from Selina. She had been thinking how comfy and nice it was, this long chatty evening with him, and the firelight, and the always restful sense of Auntie's proximity. "Why, Tuttle, or Tuts, as we of his class at college called him, was in training for a color-sense those four years, matching suits to socks, and socks to neckties. But for that nicety for color so faithfully attained, where would little Mr. Bruce be right now?" Auntie's voice came in from the next room. "Mr. Jones is a gentleman, and has proved it, Culpepper. I won't have you decrying him." "All right, ole Miss; what you say goes. What we at college kicked about was that he was such a lady." "Culpepper, not another word," from Auntie. "Just to ask how much longer the high and mighties, these Britishers, are with us," pleaded Culpepper, "so I'll know when it's safe for me to show up around here in the old way?" "One more day only," Selina reassured him, "Mr. Carter's giving them a dinner and smoker at the club to-morrow evening. Mrs. Harrison has arranged for them to stop for a day at Selimcroft, her Uncle's stock-farm up your way, as they go. She discovered that they want to see some of our typical horses and stables and training tracks and such, you'll know just what, better than I do. Mrs. Harrison and Amanthus are going up for the day with them. Amanthus is so impressed by Mr. Doe, the secretary, she's overcome. It hasn't often happened to Amanthus. He told her for some reason or other, that everything that's good form in England just now wears bangs. And she asked him, you know how Amanthus does ask such things, if he meant horses?" CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Selina put on hat and jacket the day after Uncle Bruce's guests left, and went over to see Juliette. The Caldwell house was of brick with gables, a bay, a small Gothic porch, pointed windows and clambering, leafless vines. Juliette's father, as said before, was a rising business man, and his own and his pretty wife's people were well to do. There was considerable extravagance and laxity and also waste in the household, and the children up to a certain point, from Juliette, the oldest, down through her two younger sisters and the son just toddling, did pretty much as they pleased. But of late everyone was worried about Juliette. She was dauncie, as the darkies say, in other words, listless and indifferent and pale. In all the years past this same gay little Juliette had stood with her friends as embodiment of life and vividness and enthusiasm. Mrs. Caldwell opened the side door to Selina's tap. She had a gingham apron with a bib over her rather elaborate crimson cashmere wrapper. Dark like Juliette, and like her also in being aquiline and vivid, and still a bit frivolous in her tastes, now she looked disheveled and cross and tired. They were an outspoken as well as a bit haphazard household, these prosperous Caldwells. "No cook since Monday, Selina, and neither nurse for the baby or house-boy to-day. When one of them gets mad, the others always take it up and follow. What we're coming to I'm sure I can't say. The older servants such as my mother's been used to dealing with, are dying off, and the younger ones don't know how to do a thing and won't let you show them." It was a familiar plaint, and Selina was so accustomed to it, it slid nowadays from the consciousness as housekeepers voiced it, like a too-oft repeated platitude. Cousin Anna had such trouble continually; Mrs. Williams, while Selina taught there, never seemed to have her full quota of servants at any one time and never ceased to say so, and the Addisons and even the Carters were complainers, too. Selina took Mrs. Caldwell's grievance as a matter of course. "I've been coming over for a good long visit with Judy ever since I got home," she replied, "but if you're busy, you'll need her, and won't want me, Mrs. Caldwell?" "Juliette? I'm glad you've come hunting her. I'm sure I don't know what we're going to do with her, Selina. She's never been stubborn or ugly in her life before. It's been going on now for sometime, this undercurrent of resentment to her father, and I don't mind speaking out with you, Selina, we look on you quite as one of ourselves, it's come to a break, an open rupture between them. Her father can't see it anyway but that she's been underhand in her defiance, and she won't allow that she cares in the least what he thinks. Of course, I don't know how much she may have told you. Go on up to her room. The little girls are at school, and I'm thankful the baby's asleep. Juliette and I've just finished in the kitchen and she's upstairs starting to straighten the bedrooms." Selina went through the halls to the front stairway. She didn't fancy the Caldwells' house. Everything was over-elaborate and nothing very well cared for and there seemed a regrettable mixture. She couldn't bear the bisque cupid, for instance, which hung from the costly gilt chandelier. And she and Adele and Maud deplored the portrait of Juliette at three which hung over the mantelpiece. Cunning Judy as she really had been, here forever seated on a rose-bank, her curls in tiers, her cheeks carmine, and a sash of blue bound round her tummy so precisely that her embroidered skirts flew out beneath as though released. And Selina disliked the showy pattern in the velvet carpet on the halls and up the stairs. But she did love Juliette. She went up the steps. She knew something of the trouble between Juliette and her father, and could guess what had brought about the present rupture. About the time she went South, Juliette had dared be audacious in a way that caused her friends to hold breath, terrified at thought of what the storm would be when discovery by her father came. Having reached the hallway above, Selina tapped on a door which was ajar at the head of the stairs, the door to Juliette's own room. At the sound, Juliette, in an apron like the one upon her mother, turned, and seeing Selina in the doorway, sat down suddenly on an ottoman at hand and resting her black-tressed little head against the edge of the bureau she was dusting, went into passionate weeping. It was as if the sight of her friend loosed the pent-up flood of her unhappiness. Quickly enough words equally as passionate made their way through the wild sobbing. "It's the stupidity of Papa's position, his utter lack of reason, that's so maddening, Selina. 'I'll see a daughter of mine going to college!' is the whole of it. And his unfairness, too, stops any attempted answering on my part after he's had his say, with 'That'll do now. I don't care to hear any more on the subject.' And what's his argument, I'd like to know, Selina? He hasn't any. Simply none. Just the senseless, stubborn stand he's got from somewhere. 'I'll see a daughter of mine going to college. Get busy and help your mother with the younger children and the house, and don't let's hear any further nonsense on the subject.'" Selina sat down aghast. Yielding by disposition herself, and product of a lifelong submission to a loving if sometimes paralyzing authority against which she had lifted a tentative protest only once or twice, she gazed at Juliette dismayed. At pretty Judy, facing her from the ottoman, she herself now on a nearby chair, their young knees almost a-touch, a miniature, flashing, apparently altogether volatile creature, suggestive of the ruby-throated hummingbirds that darted about Auntie's flowers and vines in the backyard in summer! This little Juliette had been raised under a certain amount of authority, too, but the authority of a young and complacent father who overindulged his family so long as his own mood was genial, but who when his temper was ruffled, as Maud put it, like the heathen raged. Still a parent and father is parent and father. The foundation tenet to all known ethics in the family relation as Selina was familiar with them, that of unquestioning obedience to the man of the household, was being repudiated, and this by seemingly crushable little Juliette. "I've talked college ever since our junior year at the high school," she here reminded Selina. She had. Juliette had a northern cousin in Ohio whose letters to her began to be dated from such an institution that same year. There were several college-graduate women in their own community, too, figures upon whom Juliette and the rest of them had gazed, awed. And about whom they mutually confessed to find, a certain carriage and a definite assurance, a look and manner more common to busy men, of those having business to attend to and the will and the ability to do it. But who had dreamed that seeds so chance as these could have sown themselves in little Juliette's breast to become the dominant possession of that wee abode? Little? Wee? Volatile? Crushable? It was as if Juliette there on her ottoman vigorously using her pocket handkerchief to stay the still welling tears, thus read these oft-repeated and disqualifying diminutives applied to her in Selina's mind. "All of you, in the family and out of it, always infuriate me by fixing the measure of my ability by the size of my body!" The crimson of her fury rushed to her cheeks afresh. "When I read my graduating essay as an honor girl, nobody gave me any credit for having got the honor, whereas everybody clapped and said how cute and that sort of thing." It was so. It had seemed a joke, little Juliette with her crimson cheeks and her unfurled essay. "Judy, poor Judy," murmured Selina, aghast the more at these revelations from this friend she had thought she knew. "You went to teaching," Juliette was continuing, "and that made me think on my part. Then you went South, getting about your business in life as you saw it, and at that I up and told Papa what I wanted. He treated it as a huge joke on my part, chucked me under the chin, I always have loathed his doing that at any time, and said for perpetrating it he'd give me a box at the minstrels and I could ask my friends. He actually did say that, Selina. And when I persisted that it wasn't a joke, that I'd made up my mind I wanted to go to college, and sooner or later was going, he was incredulous at first, and then flew into a rage and told me I was a little fool and there'd been enough of this nonsense, and if I said any more I could go to my room and stay there until I could be sensible. When I took it up the next time and insisted he owed it to me to show me why he felt as he did about a girl going to college, he said he'd show me the only argument he purposed advancing, and took me by my shoulder and marched me up here to my room, and going out slammed the door. I wrote him a note then and sent it to him at the store by mail, saying if he'd show me truly and convincingly, why, I'd give in. He didn't answer, but told Mamma to tell me if there was any more of it, he'd stop the allowance I'd asked for my last birthday." "And all this by yourself, Judy?" from Selina, deploringly. "And I not here near you to help you, nor to comfort you!" "I've never touched my allowance since," hotly, "and I don't mean to. That's why I didn't come to Adele's. I didn't have the dress to wear and I wouldn't ask for it. I haven't said another word to him on the subject of college since and I'm not going to. I just went around to Professor Maynard's boys' school and asked him if he'd take me and get me ready for college, and he said he would. I had some money saved up; you see, both my grandfathers always give us children money at Christmas and birthdays. This was while you were gone, Selina. Mamma and baby were away, staying for a couple of weeks at Grandma's on account of the whooping-cough next door to us, and it made it easier for me to manage." "Judy! And you had the courage! You little--well you _are_ a little thing, and I _have_ to say it. Algy told me something about it, told me that you were being coached but didn't want anything said about it." "Algy helped me plan it. His father quarreled with him because he _wouldn't_ go to college. It's the same sort of principle. He was sent to Professor Maynard's to be made ready and wouldn't stay. That's how I came to go there. Algy told me about him." Algy! The butt of their fond joking and laughter! Truly, as Selina had said to herself along other lines, you never can tell! "And what happened next, Judy?" "When Mamma came back from Grandma's, she began questioning, and I had to tell her. And of course Papa found out then. And because he's a stubbornly limited person, Oh, I'm going to say it, I've thought it long before this especial trouble between us--he thinks, for instance, that horrible bisque cupid in our parlor is the cutest thing in the house--Selina, my life and my wants are to be lopped off to his. I'm not going to stand it. I'm going to college somehow, you hear me now, Selina. I daresay it's his own stubbornness cropping out in me, but that doesn't deter me either. I've a right to my own life, and I'm going if planning can get me there." But at least she disliked the bisque cupid! There was comfort in knowing that! CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE With Juliette avowedly rebellious, and Adele confessedly the square peg in the round hole, Selina when she said good-bye at the Caldwell's, went in the Addison house next door to get some comfort from Maud. It was the middle of the morning, and Mrs. Addison, a big wholesome-looking, capable personage, was overseeing the hanging of fresh lace curtains in the parlors. She sent Selina on up to Maud's room, after, like Mrs. Caldwell, a plain-spoken word. "Now that Maud's through with the novelty of refitting her room, though I saw nothing wrong with it before, she's gone back into complaining discontent again. What's the matter with you all, Selina?" "I'm wondering myself, Mrs. Addison," said Selina truthfully. She went on up. Maud was clearing the litter from a big deal table that certainly did not add anything to the looks of her room with its new blue carpet and blue paper and ruffled curtains and its still a-wee-bit-envied cottage furniture. Maud was going in for china painting right now and kept her equipment on the deal table. She exhibited the pitcher of a tea-set of three pieces. [Illustration: "Maud was going in for china painting."] "There's nothing to it, Selina; painting pink butterflies on a blue background doesn't satisfy one bit. In my heart, and you know it and I know it, too, I don't care a rap for decorated china tea-sets." It was Maud's third essay into the arts since leaving school eighteen months ago. She had tried with two successive teachers to manufacture a voice which was not there, and also had taken a course in Kensington embroidery. A cover of blue felt cloth, done in drab cat-tails was on her reading-table now. "I've just been over with Juliette," Selina explained. "At least she knows what she does want, and that's a good deal," from Maud. "She hates the bisque cupid as much as we do," Selina hastened to relate, "and hasn't said so. It's taken this last to make her disloyal." "Maybe she hates herself at three on the rose-bank, too," surmised Maud. "Tell Adele and it'll cheer her. Algy's so hot over the treatment of Juliette at home, he goes around every single day to see her." "And we didn't half take up his row that time when he wouldn't go to college. I'd almost forgotten till Juliette reminded me. Have you ever thought what a real dear Algy's always been? We haven't half estimated him? When persons do and do for you, you come to take it for granted? Think how we've always called on Algy?" "I suppose," said Maud to this reflectively, as she stood at the washstand rinsing her hands of their paint stains, "we're all fools to some other intelligence. Algy's seemed slower than the rest of us. And now I want to read you a note from Mr. Welling showing where _he_ puts _me_. As I just said, meaning myself as well as Algy, we're all fools to some other intelligence. Of course, Mr. Welling is older and has had college and has been about, but still it's trying. And I've been so altogether complacent, imagining he was getting value received in his visits round here, reading German with me, and all. Maybe he has been getting it in a sense I hadn't reckoned on," bitterly. "He asked me the other night, Selina, in that jocular way of his that one ought always to distrust, if I had read the editorial in the morning paper on our new democratic president's first message. I hadn't. I didn't know there was a message, and I knew I wasn't a bit bright as to just what a president's message is supposed to be. I had to formulate some sort of position though, and so as I went along, I said no, I never read the papers much, that Mamma glanced over the deaths and headlines and reported them while Papa ate his breakfast, and then Papa went off with the paper in his pocket. And I added that we were on the other side anyhow, that the Addisons had been Unionists, and were with the republican interests ever since." "I know," said Selina hastily, this being the one thing about Maud and her family always hard to get around, and therefore a matter to refrain from dwelling on as far as possible. [Illustration: "'Mr. Welling looked at me in that ... quizzing way of his.'"] Maud was continuing: "Mr. Welling looked at me in that prolonged, considering, quizzing way of his, his spectacles somehow always seeming to intensify the effect, you know what I mean, and with his lips pursed as if he were having a jolly good time for some unseen reason. He generally is when he looks that way, and at somebody else's expense, too. I hurried to add that of course I supposed I ought to show more interest in questions of the day and that perhaps I would if the papers were ever at hand around the house." "I never read them much myself," agreed Selina, "except when something comes up that I hear Papa and Culpepper talking to each other about. Then I try to remember to look it up." "Well, listen now to what followed. We're only highly diverting and amusing to 'em, Selina. This morning I received notices by mail of subscriptions in my name to two papers, one local and one not, and a note from Mr. Welling. Listen to it, Selina, and then you'll know what they think of us. He's laughing at me from the very start to the finish." "My dear Miss Maud: "I am going to hope that you will read the editorials in these two papers every day. It is unnecessary to say I have no sinister object in view such as putting that in your way which might influence you adversely to the political faith you say you have elected to move in. It is rather because I consider that newspapers typify the most virile and living English of our day, as well as embody the history of our own times, and for these reasons as well as for their perforce certain amount of incisive logic, are a means of disciplining and cultivating the mind. Such articles as appear in a reputable paper's editorial columns, not now and then, but in every issue of every first rate daily, will gradually effect an undisciplined reader, and cause her to form by absorption--" Maud lowered the sheet of close-written paper and looked over at Selina. An indignant color glowed in her face. "You notice he restricts himself to the one pronoun, Selina, 'and cause her to form by absorption---- '" "I did notice," agreed Selina unwillingly. "Wait till you hear the whole of it," Maud lifted the pages and resumed: --"will gradually effect an undisciplined reader, and cause her to form by absorption, habits of logical contemplation and discussion which eventually will enable her to discern the salient points and the related elements of a question, than which there is no greater conscious pleasure. And when she arrives at that stage of development, to say what she means instead of gradually finding out (?)--" Again Maud lowered the page. "There's a question mark in parenthesis after the 'finding out,' I ought to tell you, Selina. He was afraid the implication might escape me. Well, if he's amused, I suppose we ought to be willing to supply it to him." She resumed: "--to say what she means instead of gradually finding out (?) what she means from what she says. I take it that intelligent thinking requires as much mental discipline as military action requires physical discipline. I trust you will not consider it a _noblesse oblige_ to read the tariff articles too, though their disciplining effect would also be excellent. But if it requires any grinding, I beg of you to be certain you are acquitted of any obligation in this direction, resting upon the claim of so virulent a disciple to free trade as myself, suggesting it." Maud flung the several pages down, and faced Selina. "There! Certainly you can see that he's laughing at me! What else can you make of it? And that's what they really think of us, Selina, and our attainments we rather flattered ourselves over." "It--er--shows trouble he's taken, too," from Selina weakly and as she felt as she said it, without conviction. "It shows an abysmal depth of pity, not to say hilarity with the pity," gloomily. "Maud," from Selina with reluctance and hesitation, "what's free trade that he says he's such a virulent disciple of? Has it to do with the--er--tariff?" "That's the trouble," bitterly. "I don't know." CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Amanthus stopped by one afternoon a week later, to see Selina. If Adele was entirely occupied in going to luncheons, dinners and cotillions, where she did not shine, so that Selina saw little of her, Amanthus was equally occupied in going to these same affairs, where she did shine, and Selina saw less of her. She was returning from a luncheon now, lovely child, and a fawn-colored hat set off her hair and face, and a fawn-colored wrap enveloped her. She had come by with a message. "But first I ought to say, Mr. Verily Blanke and Mr. Doe sent back polite messages. I haven't seen you since the day Mamma and I spent with them at my uncle's stock-farm. They're going out as far as California while they're in this country, stopping everywhere, and up into Canada. They don't go back to England before next summer. If Mamma and I go east to her cousin's summer place, we'll see them again at Bar Harbor. And, Selina, Mr. Doe says everybody in London, to the plainest and the ugliest, even the princesses royal, have bangs. He wasn't talking about horses as I thought at first, but about people. Mamma says bangs are copied from a doubtful person, an actress, and she's not sure she wants to see me have them. And that brings me to what I came for. And first, may I go out to the mirror in the hat-tree and fix my hat on better? It feels crooked and I'm going from here to pay a party call." She went out to the glass and talked back from this point as she resettled her hat. "Mamma is trying this new thing, of serving tea in the afternoon, as perhaps you know, Selina. She thought my coming-out winter was a good time to begin it. It was while you were away we started it, and she wants you and Maud and Juliette and Adele to come for a cup to-morrow." Selina very ardently adored Mrs. Harrison and an invitation from her was a privilege. "There's sure to be some men drop by, too, now it's getting to be understood about it," explained Amanthus coming back into the parlor, "your Mr. Tate, for one," as though this person in kind were a creature entirely peculiar to Selina's world and unclassified in hers, "ever since we asked him to our dance in fact. Lately Mr. Welling and Mr. Cannon and Culpepper have been coming, too, as if they do it to plague him. He told them real testily, the last time, he wished they would not follow him around." "That's why they do it," said Selina, even while she was adapting herself to this new and surprising viewpoint of Culpepper and his group, habitués at Mrs. Harrison's! Amanthus rather unexpectedly resented this imputation on Mr. Tate. She replied almost sharply, "I like Mr. Tate myself, though I suppose he comes more to see Mamma. He talks to me about the Caesars and the Atlantic cable and Garfield. You think I don't know how the rest of you, Maud and every one of you, change the subject when I come and talk down to me, but I do." True enough, every word of this indictment! And true also that Mr. Tate did talk to Amanthus and Amanthus was pleased that he should. "Shall I tell Mamma you'll come, Selina?" "Oh, always, Amanthus, you know I'd never decline a chance to be where your mother is." The next afternoon, Selina went downstairs in best dress, coat, hat and gloves, to join Adele come by for her and waiting on the doorstep outside in velvet coat, velvet hat and furs against a background of early dusk and spitting snow. As they neared the Harrison house at the other end of the block, a brick dwelling with a slate mansard, sitting high in its trim corner yard, they saw Maud and Juliette on the steps. Maud in hunter's green, and Juliette still wan of cheek, but as if a bit defiantly, tricked out in brave scarlet. Hurrying they joined the two as Hetty, the maid, opened the door. [Illustration: "They found Mrs. Harrison ... before the open fire."] Ushered in they found Mrs. Harrison in the second of the two parlors in a big and comfortable chair before the open fire. They loved her fair hair drawn in water waves about her brow and temples; they loved her flowing apricot-toned cashmere with its fichu and hand ruffles and its touches of blue; they loved her fine and frankly beautiful face. They long had known her story, too, from their elders. A rich girl, raised by her uncle, owner of the Selimcroft stock-farm, she had married a man considerably her senior, a person of charm and much social note, who bringing her here to this community, had wasted her property in shocking fashion in his own behalf, and practiced economy almost to scandal upon her. Since his death when Amanthus was a bit of thing, she had managed the wreck of her affairs herself, prudently and thriftily, bringing herself and her child to where they were. Mrs. Harrison laid her book on the table by her as the group came in. She, without being aware of it, was advocate and sponsor for much of their present reading, a recently heard of English writer, one Hardy, being the latest met with at her hands, she claiming for him a new departure in heroines. "A Pair of Blue Eyes," was the volume she was laying down now, as their quick eyes saw. By the end of the week, some one of them would have secured it from the circulating library, and the four would have read it, too. In what way were these heroines of this Hardy new in departure? Just what did Mrs. Harrison mean? Was Hardy defending them in their types because they were what the world had made them? These were the questions the four asked each other after reading each volume. "Well, my dears! Let Hetty have your wraps and come and join me. Amanthus is the victim of her own pertinacity. I gave in at last this morning and agreed she might go down to Miss Lucy at the hair-store and have her hair shingled into a bang. With every one of you now snipping surreptitiously at her hair more and more each day--yes, you well may blush, Maud, you bear the proofs upon you--we opposing elders may as well give in and let you have your bangs. The deed being done, Amanthus had to rush downtown again this afternoon with Mary, the upstairs maid, carrying band-boxes, every hat she owns proving too big in the crown from this cropped arrangement. She'll be in presently. I'm glad to have you to myself this bit." They came flocking back after depositing their coats, and found seats about the fire as near to her as might be. They loved her hands which were white and shapely and well cared for. They loved her generous comprehendings and her unfailing appreciations. They knew, for example, that she already would have noted and with pleasure in the noting, that Adele's new ruche was becoming, that Maud was wearing her first man-tailored suit, that Juliette's scarlet box-coat just removed, was fetching, that Selina in her cashmere that was open a bit at the throat, had lowered her abundant hair to a Langtry knot at the nape of her pretty neck, if her mother wouldn't let her have a Langtry bang over her forehead. "Amanthus told Selina we talk down to her, Mrs. Harrison," burst forth little Juliette. "Though I can't see why, with her dozen to our one of every sort of thing, she should care. We felt we'd have to tell you." "That I might absolve you?" smiled Mrs. Harrison. "Amanthus is a dear goose, a very dear but palpable goose." Did this lovely lady with the sweet and even pityingly tender eyes pause here, as with one deliberating, and in resuming, speak as to a seen end? Or was she by chance a Medea sowing dragon's teeth for these of her own sex from which should spring the discontents of the future? "Amanthus is a dear goose," slowly, "but has it occurred to you alert young people, that so long as things are as they are for us women, so long as our only avenue to place and establishment continues to be through marriage, Amanthus is the enviable one among us, the one forever safe and contentedly sweet and insured within the confines of her own docility and femininity, the one that will never rebel, the one that will never ask why? And that as things are as they are, we perhaps should be the more rejoiced to have Amanthus as she is." "_So long as things are as they are?_" "_So long as our only avenue to place and establishment continues to be through marriage?_" This group of four young people looked at Mrs. Harrison startled, and as though not sure they quite were getting her meaning. The outer door was heard to open and close, and Amanthus quite literally blew in, snow-sprinkled and wind-tossed, Amanthus who brought into dim rooms the golden effulgence of youth and radiance and beauty, Amanthus, the forever safe and contentedly sweet and insured. She tossed off her big, softly plumed beaver hat, and behold, she was shingled to her yellow crown! But also, she was in despair. "Mamma--girls, I'm so glad to see you--I was reading the fashion-paper I bought on the way, while I waited at the milliner's. It's too discouraging. It says Queen Victoria has tabooed bangs. What sort do you suppose tabooed bangs are? The latest thing I suppose! And here, just to-day, I've had mine shingled into Langtry ones!" "And yet," said Mrs. Harrison laughing, even if tenderly, and drawing Amanthus down to her and kissing her, the while she gave a look all whimsical to the others across the yellow-head, "and yet, in the name of every one of us, why would we have her one whit different?" What did Mrs. Harrison mean? Why was she thus including them and not Amanthus in these implications and indictments? The four looked at each other, non-plussed and wondering, and for some reason just the least bit disturbed. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Here Mr. Tate was shown in by Hetty. He was exceedingly tall and his cheek-bones were prominent, and so was his earnestness. His skirted coat seemed ponderous and so did he. Maud, for one, never had cared for Mr. Tate, possibly because he seemed so little aware of her. She was in a gloomy frame of mind anyway, not having cheered up since, so she put it, she'd seen herself as Mr. Welling and his sex saw her. She said afterwards, that this afternoon at the Harrisons only confirmed the point of view. Mr. Tate in his frock coat and his earnestness seemed to provide an outlet for her immediate ill-humor. "When a person's dressed with all that excess of correctness, he only looks ridiculous," she told Selina, by whom she was sitting. Amanthus apparently did not think so. She smiled for Mr. Tate and that marvel of a dimple showed and she gave him her soft hand. Mrs. Harrison smiled for him, too, and offered a hand and told him that she and Amanthus had enjoyed his matinée tickets hugely. "He's never offered us matinée tickets," sotto voce from Maud at Selina's elbow. "That earnestness of his keeps its eye on exactly what it wants and doesn't waste itself elsewhere. He's recognizing we're here now and he's coming to tell us so. That's something to be grateful for." He shook hands with Adele and called her Miss Adelina. She and her identity always seemed vague to him. He shook hands with Selina and asked her about her mother and her aunt; he shook hands with Juliette. He came to Maud. Her attitude to him at times savored of belligerency. She wasn't fond of persons who ignored her, but as she explained afterward, she hardly had flattered herself he'd noticed this manner. "Miss Maud," Mr. Tate having said this in recognition of her as he put out his hand, paused, then said the name over again as if struck for the first time with the sound and significance of it. "Miss _Maud_?" consideringly and reflectively. "There's something then in names? Juliette now," with a beneficent wave of the hand in the direction of that pretty, dark, little person, "diminutive of Julia; Amanda, Amanthus, and the further derivatives," he turned and bowed gallantly in the direction of this young lady, "worthy to be loved--Matilda, Matilde, Maud--mighty battle maid." Perhaps it was fortunate that Hetty came in here, this time ushering Mr. Welling, Mr. Cannon and Culpepper. They seemed to bring in with them the bracing of the outside cold and something of its vigor as to a man they rallied about their hostess, their spirits effervescent. "We had your note," from Mr. Cannon, the good-looking and the debonaire, cheerfully. "We've primed ourselves with the law on the subject of cook-ladies and their husbands and their wages," from Culpepper genially. "We were pricking Tate, old man, into coming this afternoon anyway, before we heard from you, to give us an excuse for following him," from Mr. Welling. "Tate's been right testy because you asked us instead of him for that advice. He prefers to think the whole lien on things around here is his," from Mr. Cannon. They came about the room now shaking hands generally. "You here, Selina? That's good," from Culpepper. "And you won't forgive me, Miss Maud?" from Mr. Welling to this energetically handsome young lady in her cloth suit of hunter's green. "Won't believe me that my motives, far from trying to win you over to my democracy, were unmixed and pure? Wouldn't see me when I called the other evening! Haven't answered my pleading note! I appeal to you, Mrs. Harrison. I've a question in ethics, moral, social and otherwise that Miss Amanthus once told me about. Or perhaps I'd better put it direct to Miss Maud. _Will a lady say she's out when she's in?_ I'm coming around again to satisfy myself as to this, to-morrow night." And meanwhile did Mr. Cannon--perish the thought!--approximate a wink at Adele as he approached her? At Adele who when she used to sportively skip rope did it with such painful conscientiousness one's heart ached to watch her? At Adele who constitutionally would be so embarrassed with a wink thus placed on her hands, one could not figure out the consequences? Certainly this Mr. Preston Cannon the naughty did something with an eyelid quite confidentially as he reached her. And who pray had told him of his recent double identity in connection with the Carter reception? "The vagabond interloper is discovered in the cherished nephew," he was saying jocularly to Adele whose face was scarlet. But even so, despite this effervescence of good spirits bestowed around, the younger ladies could not deceive themselves. The gentlemen were glad to find them here, of course, but incidentally, their own coming and their own ardor being for Mrs. Harrison! For the third time Hetty appeared, now bringing in the tea and its accompaniments, which she put down on a table before Mrs. Harrison. Whereupon the gentlemen rallied to their hostess again, rallied with a zest and heartiness that spelled homage. Culpepper at the table by her elbow, with the silver tongs suspended above the silver sugar bowl, waited her word to distribute the cubes to saucers. Culpepper--the blunt and self-avowed scorner of the lady's man! Mr. Welling went about carrying cups. According to Maud's undertones to Selina, his facetious speeches as he distributed these merely sounded excessive. "And silly," she added a moment later to the first indictment. It was his speech calling attention to the gracious occupation of the hostess at the tea-table, that provoked this last comment. "Juno, to human needs sweetly descent, pours tea," Mr. Welling diagramed it, as he handed Maud a cup of the brew. "He mails mental pabulum to me, and bestows compliments elsewhere," she remarked scathingly as he moved on. Amanthus, artless sight, her shingled yellow bang altogether fetching, followed in the wake of Mr. Welling, with cakes in a silver basket. He called back gallantly over his shoulder diagraming her, too. "Hebe to the children of earth," he explained. It was nauseating, that is if one agreed with Maud. Mr. Tate followed after the cups and the cakes with lemon and with cream. It was a risk to let him. He earnestly and even decorously stumbled over a rug and slopped the cream, and as earnestly and decorously looked annoyed and recovered himself. He also made rejoinder to Mr. Welling. "Juno and Hebe, if you will, Henry," he was the only known soul apparently who addressed this gentleman by his Christian name, "except that in both cases, our Juno and our Hebe are first and last and always, radiantly and commendably, woman!" [Illustration: "He ... stumbled over a rug and slopped the cream."] Selina who earlier in the afternoon felt she was looking her best in her cashmere with its open throat and the knot of her hair at the nape of her neck, but was less fondly hopeful about it now, took her tea from Mr. Welling, her cake from Amanthus, her cream from Mr. Tate, but something of her state of mind from Maud. She did not care for tea. If the truth be told, while she was a little sensitive about the childish look of the thing, a goblet of milk still stood at her plate three times a day, Mamma discouraging even a tentative cup of coffee at breakfast. But it was not her lack of ardor for the tea now in her hand which was dampening her spirits, but the realization that she and her companions were but incidents to a foreground adequately filled for these young gentlemen. A foreground not even shared by Amanthus, but filled altogether by Mrs. Harrison, beautiful, smiling, and serene, too big, too adequate, too honest and too real to put forward one charm, one attribute deliberately to invite such recognition. Too big, too honest and too real? Selina caught at the words as they passed through her mind. Could the secret lie in these? Auntie had deplored the borrowed furbelows with deep distress. Were she and her group paying the penalty of trying to be what they were not? These young gentlemen whose good opinions the group yearned to possess, bantered them instead with jocularity, and gave sincerity and admiration to Mrs. Harrison. If Selina could judge, it was the same nature of homage men offered to Miss Pocahontas Boswell, that most natural and unassuming of persons. Had Selina laid bare the secret? For was not Mrs. Harrison nobly and simply herself? Each charm and each loveliness taking its toll rightfully her own? And her interests and her occupations and her reading, her assumptions and her opinions, were not these too gently and quietly her own? She had faced about from the tea-table now, her own cup in hand and was speaking. How lovely her fair hair was, how pleasing the apricot tones of her dress! And Mamma and Auntie said there was no degradation a husband might descend to that her money was not taken to pay for, no price a humiliated young wife could be taxed, her personal fortune did not stand voucher for! Why should a woman permit it? Why not consider her own to be her own, in such a case? Selina, looking at Mrs. Harrison, wondered. She herself was speaking. "And now about old colored Aunt Hosanna in my kitchen. She has a lazy, ne'er-do-well husband, girls, though I've probably mentioned it before to you, who as regularly as the week-end rolls around, appears and collects her week's wages for her. I have asked to be assured by these young lawyers-to-be, that he has every right to do it, before I give in to him any longer." "He has every right," from Mr. Welling, square-set now like his spectacles, and earnest and definite. "The common law, covering the law of husband and wife, has been modified in some of the states, but here in our own, is practically unchanged." "Culpepper," from Mrs. Harrison still playing with her tea-cup, to this black-haired, blue-eyed young gentleman in a chair to her left, "you promised to look up the case of that little dressmaker for me. Don't think I hunt these things. By some force of attraction seemingly, they seek me." Culpepper took advantage of the opportunity to put his cup down. Its undiminished contents would indicate that he didn't care for tea as a beverage either. He, too, was business-like and definite. "I took the address you gave me," he said, "and went around to see her carpenter husband. She's temporarily left him since you saw her. He admits the house was bought and paid for by her out of her earnings before he knew her. And he admits he mistreats her every time he's drunk. But the house and its contents he proposes to keep if she leaves him." "She lost three sewing-machines once before," said Mrs. Harrison, "and a piano she'd bought by installments that was the joy and pride of her life. They were seized a week after she married him three years ago to settle debts he had contracted before he knew her." Mr. Cannon came into the conversation. Nor was he in the least the jollying, bandying person the younger ladies were familiar with. "Which is proof of where he on his part puts us, too," murmured Maud. "You women, Mrs. Harrison, so seldom take the protection offered you in the ante-nuptial or marriage settlement provisions. We've just been remarking on it among ourselves, the rich women seldom, the working-woman never." Mrs. Harrison played with the spoon in her saucer, as if considering before answering. She had been holding her cup now for some time. "Put it down," said Mr. Welling from his stand near the fender, persuasively; "you haven't tasted it." "No more have you yours," retorted his hostess, "nor Selina, nor Maud, nor Culpepper nor Juliette--I don't like tea myself, and I don't believe one of the rest of you do." There was relaxation at this, and general confession, and a setting down of cups. "Tea as a function is more popular than tea as a beverage," from Mr. Welling, gallantly. Mrs. Harrison reached for her tatting which lay near her book. "You say, Mr. Cannon, you wonder women so seldom take advantage of the marriage settlement provisions?" Her eyes glancing from one to the other of the young girls grouped about her fireside and then returning to Mr. Cannon seemed to say, "Here are cases in possible point to be. Consider them." What she said, however, was, "How many young girls, even in the class you know, are likely to have heard of an ante-nuptial provision? Or as things go in our American life, would conceive any need of protection in her own case? American women usually marry for affection, which implies faith. Though the real truth is, we're not apt to think about marriage in any sense such as this at all, having been trained neither to the knowledge nor the thinking. I take it, Mr. Cannon," smiling, "that you will make it your business to instruct the young lady of your choice in these points beforehand?" Mr. Cannon laughed, but he got red, too. Was Mrs. Harrison too honest thus to be sowing insubordination in the camps of the possible future and not acknowledge it? She put her tatting down. "I am not attacking the institution of marriage in the least, Maudie and Juliette, Selina, Adele and my Amanthus. I am not attacking it at all; I am repudiating woman's helplessness within the institution. Adele knows more of what I am talking about, I see it in her eyes. Adele is a browser among books." "Mills on 'The Subjection of Woman,'" murmured Mr. Cannon still red. "This my defence. I lent it to her." Hetty appeared again, this time ushering Bliss and Mr. Tuttle Jones. "Oh," from Amanthus, "_if_ you knew how glad I am to see you both. They've been talking and talking, and are still talking, and I haven't been able to make out one thing of what they think they're talking about." Bliss ruddy-haired and pretty boy, hurried to her side, his face alight at the welcome. Bliss was twenty-one now, and his father had given him a wee interest in a box factory, and he was up and gone from home by half-past six in the mornings, and was tremendously proud and in earnest and interested, and very much in love with Amanthus. Mr. Jones, his neat person and neat features and small moustache immaculate, finished his greetings without a shade of hurry, then made his way to Selina. Maud had wandered away now, and he took the place she had vacated. Whereupon the color began to rise in Selina's cheek, warm and permeating, and rich. For the eyes of Mr. Jones were sweeping over her face, her brow, her hair, even to the pale burnished knot at the nape of her neck, and sweeping back again over the whole. There were other masculine eyes that might have been doing the same that had declined their prerogative. "I knew the style was yours when I asked you to try it" murmured Tuttle. The color flamed higher. "Mamma and I had cards to-day from your sister, Mrs. Sampson, for her next afternoon. It was nice of her to think of us," from Selina. Selina and her mother did not know Mrs. Sampson. "Promise me to accept and go," from Tuttle, earnestly. "A real promise I want. Exactly. Now I have it. I want you to know my people better, and my people to know you." What could the color do at a speech such as this, but wave almost painfully, higher and even higher? "Oh, I must tell you, by the way, your aunt, Mrs. Bruce came in the bank to-day to see me. She fancies she owes me some sort of thanks about her husband, which, of course, she doesn't at all. That off her mind, she asked me if I could give her any reasonable idea of how many women in town had a vault box, or if I could tell her how to find out how many have bank-books. What do you suppose?" Selina had a nice voice, clear and sweet and when she was happy and merry, full of cadences. It rang silvery in its notes now. "I don't suppose. Nobody does when it's Aunt Juanita. Mamma says she's been hunting information of various kinds about women for fifteen years." It was such a wonderfully pleasing thing to hear that silvery laugh, Tuttle Jones set about awakening it again. * * * * * About the time cloaks were being sought, Culpepper came strolling to hunt Selina. "I'll walk back with you," he said easily. We're all pitiable and ignoble, which is to say, human creatures. If Selina had admitted the slightest feeling of chagrin earlier in the evening, that feeling found satisfaction now. Moreover, she was looking that very best of hers again, which means she was sparkling and coloring and laughing, a thing calculated to increase one's satisfaction. She gave Culpepper a share of this sparkle and this color as she replied: "Mr. Jones is going to take me home, thank you, Culpepper. He says it's quite dark and snowing fast." CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX There were escorts for everybody and Selina and Mr. Jones started out alone. He guided her down the Harrisons' snow-laden front steps. "Give me your hand. There's enough snow to be treacherous. Put your foot here, and here, and here." Was there snow enough in truth on the steps to be treacherous? Selina concluded that perhaps there was but that his solicitude about it was excessive. He led her down the even snowier flagging to the gate. "This drift has piled up since I went in half an hour ago. I don't know that I'd have brought you out in it if I'd realized." Outside the gate he took her hand and placed it on his arm. "Right about," encouragingly. "Only the length of the block and you're there." Then the out-streaming path of light from the Harrisons' doorway was left behind, and the dusk and the silently descending snow shut them in disquietingly and together. Or was it, rather than the storm and dusk, the care of her by Tuttle which brought this disquieting sense of nearness and intimacy? "This way--the snow's deeper near the fence. And yet don't stumble over the broken pavements." And because of this increasing sense of disquiet, she began to talk hurriedly with the gay volubility of embarrassment. "You were wondering about Aunt Juanita and her questions about women? Mrs. Harrison says so many bothering things about women herself. I never feel certain I know just what she means." Tuttle dropped her arm--they had gone possibly twenty steps--placed himself on the other side of her, lifted that hand and put it on his arm. "The wind's veered more to this side. I can protect you better here. I rather suspect Mrs. Bruce is a shrewd enough woman, and we know Mrs. Harrison is a charming one. But what do we care after all, you and I, about their meanings?" Was there just emphasis enough about that "you and I" to render it disquieting, too? Selina clung to her point and talked more volubly. "Miss Pocahontas Boswell, that I met at your aunt's musicale, says things of the same sort as Mrs. Harrison, things that evidently Aunt Juanita means, too, things that won't let you alone afterward for wondering if they're true, and that hurt your self-respect to think they are true." "Give me the end of that scarf," Tuttle referred to the little affair of crêpe about her throat, a present not so long ago from Juliette, and which in the swirl of wind and snow was proving refractory. He caught the end, and halting her there in the snow and dusk again, they had gone perhaps thirty feet farther now, found its mate, and retied them. There was something like a woman in the skilful way he did it, and yet as he put her hand back on his arm for the third time, there was that which was not in the least like any woman, in the overlength of time he took in placing that hand where he wanted it. And there was that not in the least suggestive of any woman either, in the tiny pressure of reassurance he put upon those fingers as he left them. And just what was it these manifestations from Tuttle meant? Even in Selina's day a prude was a prude and no girl wanted to be one. On the one side, Mrs. Harrison and Miss 'Hontas Boswell and Aunt Juanita, possibly, too, would have said bluntly, "Look at the facts and try to find out what he means." On the other hand, Mamma and Auntie, by their profound reticence, conveyed the idea, that once let a young man's attentions to a girl be so marked as to be a fact, and every instinct of maidenliness must erect itself in her mind, making blind alleys of all inquiry, wonder or surmise on her part, as to what such attentions mean. And the facts in this case of Tuttle and Selina, were what? That a really prominent young man in the local little world of fashion, was devoting himself with pertinence and even pertinacity, to a pretty girl unknown in his world, an even _quite_ pretty girl who unless she married, must find some way to earn a living and take care of herself. The point might be held to be, were these attentions from Tuttle a passing thing, or sincere? There was a good deal to make it reasonable that they were but passing. Tuttle was the son of Mr. Samuel Jones, wealthy and eminent citizen. True, some claimed that he was an eminent citizen last because he was a wealthy pork-packer first, but that may be permitted to pass. Tuttle was the son of this Mr. Samuel Jones by a second marriage. His mother in her public contributions to charity signed herself Alicia Tuttle Jones, which is all that needs be said on that score. And Tuttle, twenty-four years of age, neat, dapper, with sense enough of his own, was a beau, a great beau according to his aunt, a beau of such undoubted repute in his world, he even was dubbed the Oswald of it by those outside it and unkind to it, Preston Cannon and Culpepper, for example. He also had the reputation according to his aunt once more, of being rather shrewdly unsusceptible. Or in other words, the words of Mr. Tate this time, used in defending him from the jocular side-thrusts of Preston and Culpepper, "he had a proper sense of his own value." So much for Tuttle. And the assets of this Selina, without a dollar of her own, or of her family's, shabbily established and obscure? Her assets, beyond the lure of nature through her youth and fairness were what? A sound young body. A nature plastic as yet to any mold through place and standing that might be hers. A nature appealingly innocent and unspoiled. And these points on either side ascertained, what did these attentions from Tuttle to this pretty Selina mean? His manner of singling her out? Of separating her from whatever group of the moment she was in, and isolating her to himself? Or as now, of touching her fingers if ever so lightly, with a meaning in the touch that seemed to have a language of its own? Selina being the outcome of Mamma's and Auntie's raising, might not ask herself these things. That tiny wedge of doubt first inserted by Miss 'Hontas Boswell, and again of late driven further by Mrs. Harrison, as to the soundness of the older ideas and traditions and customs, was a mere prick as yet, for the admission of some wonderment and some perturbation. She still was the product of her day and time and up-bringing and being this product, must close the doors of maidenliness and modesty as she knew them upon any such avenues to comprehension and honest understanding. And so she chattered to Tuttle down the length of the snowy block, chattered volubly and prettily, fate having granted her this, that she did most things prettily, chattered gayly and volubly and withal a bit shyly, as cover to her greater embarrassment. [Illustration: "He below, lifting his hat."] And so down the length of the snowy block also, he guided her, and in at her own gate, and to her door. And his solicitude, with its silent language, was all but actually caressing. It was even that. He brought her to her door. A pause here, a space, and his hand left her arm where it had guided her up the steps and dropped, the breath of a touch only, the shadow of a hold--and yet, the blood leaped to it, and the heart stopped--as this Tuttle's hand sought and found hers at her side. "And you changed the wearing of your hair, your pale, lovely hair that would be a poet's joy, as that little Juliette said of it to me, because I asked you?" * * * * * The touch of his hand on hers was gone, she was on the snow-wet step, he below, lifting his hat--correct Tuttle!--even in the swirling snow, bidding her hurry in and change her damp garments, saying good night, gone. And she? Giving herself one moment to stand there, one pulsing, palpitating, trembling moment before she opened the door and went in to shabby, dreary, ordinary things, might not ask herself what this come upon her was? Nor what it meant? Nor what it portended? This warm, stealing, permeating, this vitalizing glow, this rush as of rosiness through her body? Might not ask herself this, but being Selina Wistar, fruit of Mamma's and Auntie's rearing, must close the doors of a so-called nicety upon life and truth and nature, and deny to herself by all she was bred to hold modest and seemly, that it was so. For was she not product of her day and time and up-bringing? CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN It seemed to Selina that at times she failed to get the satisfaction from her mother she could have desired. "Mamma," she said to this little person the morning after the Harrison tea-party, "I can't be comfortable while I owe that fifty dollars to Cousin Anna Tomlinson." "I'm glad to hear that," from Auntie in her own room through the open door. Mrs. Wistar, however, spoke from her place at the window almost peevishly. "Why must you bring up uncomfortable subjects, Selina? And here it is eleven o'clock in the morning and the house just straightened and I this moment sitting down to my church paper!" "But Mamma, I've kept hoping you'd say something about it. You haven't and I felt I'd have to ask you." "I try to spare people, myself," severely. "And just as long as I did not speak you might know it was because there was nothing to say. I must say I think Anna is niggardly to want it back. But one can't help one's blood and she's a Pope. 'Hungry as a Pope nigger,' the saying used to be in slave times, or was it a Groghan nigger? Yes, I believe it was a Groghan." [Illustration: "'You haven't spoken to Papa about it?'"] "You haven't spoken to Papa about it? Then I'm going to, Mamma," Selina spoke with irritation. Her moods were uncertain these days. She opened the door to her father that evening. It was a raw and shivery day. She helped him off with his coat and followed him back to the stove in the hall where he stood warming his hands at the glowing mica. By some unfortunate chance his glance wandered about, resting on the shabby papering and paint, the old sofa, the carpet worn to a monotone almost guiltless of pattern. "Pretty hopeless, Selina? Everything past even patching up this time?" "Papa, why did you take this evening to say it? When I'm here to worry you more? It's hateful to come to you only for one sort of thing. I'm looking about, I'm telling everybody I want almost any sort of teaching, but in the meantime I'm worrying about that money I owe Cousin Anna." Her father smiled. He was a comfort in his looks, tall, slight and refined. "I returned the loan to Anna the day after you came home." "Papa!" She forgot her relief in her greater feeling of indignation. The debt was paid and he had not told her! Had not mentioned it to her mother! She resented it, and only the timidity of a life-time where he was concerned kept her from saying so. He was continuing gazing at the glowing mica rather than at her. "I don't mean the money is not still owing, only that it's always better, or seems so to me, to owe on a business footing and not a personal one. Especially I've never had a fancy for owing one's relations," dryly. "Papa?" The tone was different now. He was taking her into his counsels where she ought to be. Indignation had given place to understanding of the situation and sympathy. "Selina?" "I'm wondering why I haven't come to you about every sort of thing? It's very satisfactory when I do come." "Thank you, Selina." "I'm wondering, seriously wondering, why I haven't come all this time?" "I'm to regard this as an arraignment?" smiling. "Arraignment, Papa?" "Of my American fatherhood? That I've allowed my womenkind to usurp my prerogatives? That it's being borne in on you and me, that somehow we've been kept out of our rights in each other?" Selina hesitated. Then, "Papa, may I ask you something else?" "It's because you haven't, we're both complaining." "It's this," her color came and went a little rapidly, but she stood to her colors; "since you did settle this matter with Cousin Anna, don't you think it was only fair to have told Mamma and me?" "Is indictment added to arraignment, Selina? Culpable as a husband as well as a father?" "Papa, I didn't say so." She threw herself on him, this fair-haired daughter, and went to crying with her face and tears on his poor innocent shirt-front, and her arm around his neck. It was sweet to have her there, and so new and rare a thing for him to see anything but the veriest surface of her nature, that he was willing to take the toll of her tears from her to receive the rest. * * * * * Selina was a creature of many moods these days. She said she wanted work and when it came she acted as badly as possible about it. This same evening as she and her three elders were finishing dinner, the doorbell rang. Miss Emma McRanney who went to the same church as the Wistars and who set type at the State Institute for the Blind, followed Aunt Viney into the front parlor. Auntie and Papa who were through their meal, went in at once to speak to her, and Mamma, waiting only to finish her bit of pudding, followed. Selina poured more cream on her own bit of pudding, and dallied. In her present mood, though what that mood was she hardly could have said herself, other than it savored of a captious disposition to be short with everybody and everything, she felt the one thing she couldn't stand was Miss McRanney. It wasn't that she disliked this person herself so much as she disliked the thing that characterized her. "It's her air of having accepted," Selina told her pudding crossly, with a vicious stab with her spoon into it, "of having accepted and stayed decently cheerful at that!" Accepted! Given in and taken your allotment, however meager, and settled down to it! It's a thing youth cannot conceive of, cannot forgive. For Selina's part, passionately communing with her pudding, she never would accept. Nothing ever, ever, should make her consent to feel poor or to give in to shabbiness. She might be and was amid both these conditions, but nothing but her own will and submission could make her of them. It was feeling this way about them, loathing them, repudiating them, refusing to admit them, that made them possible. Her elders as they went in the parlor had shaken hands with the visitor, a thick-set person with large features, whose dress, cloak, and hat, Mamma would have described as "plain but perfectly decent and genteel." Time was when Selina thought this kindly and cordial attitude of her family toward Miss McRanney came from pity of her because she worked. She knew now that it was because they considered her a fine woman. But, for Selina's part, and again she stabbed the wee remaining morsel of her pudding--if fine character consists in cheerful acceptance of a sordid lot, then she had no patience with it herself. The thing is to repudiate any such lot. Miss McRanney had a paralytic brother, a black sheep whose by-gone peccadilloes had left the two of them poorer even than they might have been. She lived with this brother in rooms over a drugstore, setting type from nine to five and taking care of him and doing light housekeeping between times. It was a shabby and unrelieved picture. Selina hated it. She hated another thing, too--though this one she would not admit--she hated the thought of herself as a wage-earner when she thought of Miss Emma McRanney as one! The visitor was speaking in the parlor in a good-humored voice. "I'm glad of this chance to say howdy," she was saying, "but what I'm here for is to see Selina. No indeed, Mr. Wistar, I don't want you to go, you or Mrs. Wistar, either, and Miss Ann Eliza mustn't go in any event, as I've got my missionary dues in my pocket; I want to pay her. It's only that what I've come to say has to be said to Selina." But Papa and Mamma retreated, the latter calling to Selina for fear she had not followed the conversation. The last vestige of her pudding being gone, this person arose and went into the next room and shook hands with the guest, after which the three of them, Auntie, Miss McRanney and she herself, took chairs. "I want to know, Selina, if you'll coach me for an examination. A teacher out at the Institute where I am, is going to quit. I can't do that myself, so the next best thing is to get his place if I can, as it pays better than my own. I understand the finger-reading, both the Roman and the Braille, working in the type I found myself interested, but the position calls for a grade-school teacher's certificate which I have to pass an examination to get." "Emma!" said Auntie. "And you have the courage? You must have been well along when you went to work and taught yourself how to set type? And to get yourself ready again----" "That's right, Miss Ann Eliza, I'm forty last month. But what's forty when you come to think about it? It's ten, fifteen years younger than it used to be. My grandmother died when she was forty-eight, and I always think of her as an old person in a frilly cap." "I'm forty-eight myself. You're quite right about it, for I certainly haven't any disposition yet toward caps. Emma," almost wistfully, "if I had your advantage of those eight years I'd ask you to show me how to fit myself for something. Many's the time I've asked myself if I wasn't capable of something beyond rolling and whipping cambric bands and polishing brasses. I've looked at you more than once in church, and envied you." Auntie! Darling Auntie! Confessing to Miss Emma McRanney that she envied her! It filled Selina with a greater fury of dislike and distaste for this person. She did want work, and had said so, but she didn't want to teach Miss Emma McRanney! This lady was speaking again. "After I'm home in the evening, I get supper for my brother and myself. Try it a while, Miss Ann Eliza, before you quite envy me. So I'll have to ask you to give me an hour in the evenings, Selina, say three times a week." If anything could make the proposition more distasteful it was this. "I taught in our orphan asylum after I graduated, until I got my present place, Selina, so I'm not on altogether new ground, though no certificate was required there. It's not quite such a crime against your fellow-man to be blind, so I've discovered, as to be an orphan. Anything, even Emma McRanney with no certificate, was good enough for orphans, whereas I have to be guaranteed in this case. You're unfortunate if you're blind, but the state does look after you, but to be an orphan, leaves you convicted of your own guilt, and not a leg to stand on. If you're ever compelled to choose between these things, Selina, don't be foolish enough to be an orphan. They pay teachers so little to instruct them, even I had to leave. I ought to tell you these examinations I want to take come late in March. That'll give us six weeks. I'm promised the place if I can get the certificate, and I've got some former questions from the examining board thinking we could find out from these where I stand and what there is to do." Selina roused herself. She didn't want to teach Miss McRanney! "I've had so little experience, Miss Emma, I ought to tell you I'm not at all sure I'm competent." "Neither was I," said Miss Emma good-humoredly if unexpectedly. "I graduated through our high school, myself, the second class put through after it was established. And looking back in the light of what I've found out since, I'll say there don't seem to be anything in the way of real, actual, everyday sense that a body ought to have, that I didn't succeed in failing to have--I and most of my class." "Why, Emma," from Auntie, "and you had the leading honor, what is it that it's called, the valedictory?" "That's the surest and most damning evidence against me, Miss Ann Eliza; it takes years to live it down," continued Miss Emma. "I thought about you in church Sunday, Selina, wondering if you'd do, and then went and asked Mrs. Williams about you, knowing you'd taught there. She said you did fairly well with your little class, and toward the end of the year seemed to be doing better, but as you told her you were going South to coach in Latin and Algebra, she judged these were your specialties. Well, they're mine, too, where I'm likeliest to fall down, and that decided me." Do our assumptions, then, like our sins, live on to confront us? "But there was no coaching to do when I got there," hurriedly explained Selina. "I never had a pupil!" "Well, that don't prevent its being your specialty even so. I'm the one to risk it. And I'll have to say what convinced me there's something to you, is that you stood Mrs. Williams and her condescension all those months you were in her house and didn't murder her. I have to swallow a good deal of such patronage anyhow, because I'm poor, or because I work, or both, and I'm guiltless of violence only because I can't hope to commit assault and battery on people's persons and not pay the penalty. But it never would do to tempt me too far with that woman. But to get back to the point, are you going to undertake me?" Try as Selina would, she didn't seem to know how to get out of it. She endeavored to throw some cordiality into her manner. "We'll begin whenever you say, Miss Emma. Have you those questions with you, you spoke about? We might go over them and see what there is to do." Auntie got up to leave them. "Thank you for remembering your missionary dues, Emma. You're an amazing person to me. If I was forty instead of forty-eight," longingly, "I'd certainly follow your example." CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT About half-past eight Culpepper Buxton arrived at the Wistar house. He was good-humored and unruffled. Selina had turned him down the evening before for the first time in history. The pretty and lovable little minx! She was waking then! Juliette, who was clever with her dark eyes and her flashing smiles, or Amanthus herself, could not have done it any better. As he came up, Selina was at the door saying good night to a stout, rather pleasant-voiced person. He waited until this guest had gone, then went in with Selina. "Who's your friend?" inquired Culpepper. Selina diagramed the lady and her business briefly, so briefly that Culpepper might have taken it as cue to drop a dangerous subject. "She has to take an examination and wants me to coach her for it." But Culpepper, in his unruffled good humor, failed to know his cue. "That's good. Just the sort of thing you've been wanting. No?" For Selina, having started to push chairs and footstools back into place, here ceased abruptly and swung about on him furiously. "It's not good. I loathe everything she stands for. I hate shabbiness. I hate poverty, I don't like to be near either of them, they always seem to be reaching out fingers to drag me down to them. You're altogether and entirely wrong. I don't want to teach Miss McRanney." Hoity-toity! As Culpepper's stepmother used to say to his early and childish bursts of temper. She _was_ a little minx all at once! He didn't know that he'd put up with it. "You'd better not teach her then, you won't do it halfway right," from Culpepper coolly. "You're very priggish," from Selina, in return, and hot as he was cool. "You speak, I suppose, from the heights of masculine superiority?" "I'll run on up to ole Miss' door, if I may," from Culpepper. "I've a message for her in my home letter to-day from my mother, and I want to get back to the rooms. We've a crowd on for to-night by nine." She heard him run up the stairs, tap at her aunt's door, and at the answer, enter. Whereupon she herself sped up the steps, too, and past that door and in at her own, which she closed softly, if passionately. When he came down again, to call a cool good-bye as he went out, he should not find her waiting there! [Illustration: "Selina ... fell on her knees."] Within her room this child, Selina, young and crude, her tragedies pitiful in their tininess but tragedies to her none the less who did not know them for tiny, fell on her knees beside her big and tolerated poster-bed, and sobbed into her marseilles spread, and passionately arraigned that which she called God. First, because Culpepper had hurt her feelings and next, though she would not have admitted either, because she did not want to teach Miss Emma McRanney. For while Selina said her formulas in prayer, night and morning, dutifully and on her knees, it was only in moments of hurt and passionate outcry against the hurt that she really approached her God. Though she, dear child, did not know this. Self-examined, even here now upon her knees, she would have decided and honestly so far as she was concerned in the opinion, that she was a religious person. She had been brought up so to be. On her little book-rack on her table, stood her Bible, her Thomas à Kempis, "The Lives of the Saints" (in miniature, a rather daring acquisition which pleased her, savoring of Rome as it did), "The History of the Church and Its Liturgy," and a few other volumes. She even felt that she was rather better informed in religious matters than her friends, and in some ways, more catholic in her interests. She talked predestination and free-will with Maud; St. Francis of Assisi, St. Paul and conversion with Juliette, who longed for a light from Heaven; conscience and duty with Adele, and even life after death; and she and Maud found themselves in conversation on virgin birth with a converted Armenian lady missionary staying at Maud's house, though with a startled consciousness, in the light of the lady's contribution to the subject, that they evidently did not know either what they or she were talking about. Selina, honest child, looked on matters such as these as being religious. It did not dawn on her that it was only when the world went amiss for her that she prayed. Only at times, such as now, after the door was pushed to and the bolt passionately shot, and she fell on her knees to that Something brooding somehow and somewhere above its created creatures, only when she held out her arms to it and cried to it through sobs, and even though that cry be but appeal against her own discomfiture, that she prayed, that she ever had prayed, ever had sought a God through need. "I want admiration for what I am, I want applause for what I do, I want my part to be favored and enviable according to my choosing of what is favored and enviable," may be said to be the unformulated gist of this unwitting child's poor little human prayer. As indeed, for the pitiful part of that, it is the prayer of millions of us, every day. But prayer for all its paucity, prayer for all that. * * * * * And meanwhile in Auntie's room, a room of ponderous mahogany akin to Selina's, with a great deal of red and an equally cheerful predominance of green in carpet, curtains and lambrequin, she and Culpepper were having a real heart-to-heart confidence. "I didn't suppose she'd tiff with me. What's got in her all at once, ole Miss?" Ole Miss patted the hand that was holding hers. They were mighty fond of each other, these two, to use their own vernacular about it. But she didn't reply. Yet there was that in her manner which implied she could have done so if she would. "What's the use us two beating about the bush with each other, ole sport?" from Culpepper, who meant she should. "You know just as well as my mother, or Cousin Robert, and I've made a clean breast to 'em both, what's the state I'm in as to Selina. The trouble's the other way round. When she was about ten or eleven, up there at home in the summers, I used to catch and kiss her to tease her. I don't believe she'd read a bit more in it if I caught her and did it now." Ole Miss spoke. "There never can be but one first for a girl, Culpepper. There never was but the one, first and last, for me. I'd like you to know that it was your father. The truth with Selina is, she's waking. She's cross because she's coming to be conscious. It's a trying time and we're human, and we've all got tempers. I think it will break my old worthless heart if it's Emmeline's Tuttle Jones, and not John Buxton's Culpepper who's responsible for it." A pause. Then a breath long and deep and gloriously big and gloriously confident from Culpepper. "And that's it! You've put heart in me altogether, ole sport! You've pointed me the road and shown me the gait. Gimme one before I go, like a real lady!" Ole Miss roused to her own defence. "Stop right now, Culpepper. No, I don't want to be mauled and teased, stop smacking that kiss into my ear--well, put it on my cheek if that's what you meant to do. No, I won't discuss the subject further either now or any other time. I haven't another word to say concerning it, and if that's what you're waiting for, you may as well go long." CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Miss McRanney proved worth while enough, and rather good fun if Selina would have allowed this. She arrived on the appointed evening with a satchel of schoolbooks and an avowed poor opinion of examinations as tests of teachers. She followed Selina to the dining-room where they were to work, and where Auntie was lingering to say howdy, and as she emptied the satchel of the textbooks, emptied her mind of this opinion. "Drat such a test, it's all wrong. What life asks teachers to put into their pupils, or get out of them, as you prefer it, is character. To take a wild flight into the fanciful, and I'm not strong there, one might call it the universal language recognized everywhere and anywhere, whether in a Choctaw or a Charlemagne. Right now I couldn't pass the examination that gave me that valedictory at eighteen, no, Miss Ann Eliza, and don't look so distressed about it, not if Mazeppa's ride in duplicate for me was the consequence of failing. Whereas any character I've got of my own to help a child to his, I've found since then." "Any character _you've_ got, Emma?" from Auntie indignantly. "And starting out again at forty?" The wild daring of this act, as she saw it, seemed to fascinate Auntie. "Well," said Miss Emma, "he must needs go whom the devil doth drive, my devil having been necessity. I've never had a man to rest back on, or I probably would have done so. However we're keeping Selina waiting. The digressions of middle age are mighty tiresome, aren't they, Selina? Well, don't forget they are when you get there. Since I've got to pass this examination I suppose we'd better get to work, especially in your specialties, algebra and Latin, that are my pitfalls." The next lesson came on a Monday evening and Miss Emma had been at church the day before. "There's many a thing to amuse a body, Selina," she said good-humoredly as she took off her wraps. "I earn my way and occupy my small place in the army of producers. The rest of the women in that congregation of ours live sweetly and unconcernedly upon the general store that other people produce. And yet, if their unfailing and admirably ordered patronage of me could overwhelm, I'd long ago have been washed away in the flood." Auntie's voice expostulating, came in from the next room where she was reading the paper laid down by Papa. "Why Emma----" "Here, keep out of this, Miss Aunt Eliza. I'm talking to the next generation. I want to point out a few things to it that may make the way easier for its journeying. Selina, if you're going to teach, come on along with me and take this examination and get your certificate. You've got something to show then, something to go on so long as the public demands certificates." Selina had been thinking about this herself, and wishing she'd done it sooner. If the suggestion had come from anyone but Miss Emma she'd have taken it. As it was---- "What pitiful fools we are!" from Miss Emma at the next lesson. "Far from respecting my job when I first started out teaching, and getting everything out of it there was in it for me and everybody else, I lost my first years at it being ashamed of it. Nowadays I set type well, the job seeks me, and I don't mind saying so. I'll have to feel this same capacity in myself for the new job if I get it. It's a good thing to feel, capacity in yourself for your work, and respect for yourself in it." The doorbell rang. Of course! The wonder to Selina had been that it hadn't rung before on these lesson evenings. The fear that it would ring had been one among many reasons she was so averse to the undertaking. Papa, however, had his instructions in this event to close the folding doors and leave them to their work in the dining-room undisturbed. But Papa now forgot the folding doors. He opened the front door and after a moment's delay in the hall for the removal of hat and coat, ushered the caller in. It was Mr. Tuttle Jones. Again, of course! Who could Selina less have wanted it to be? And here at the dining-table, all too visible to the front room, sat Miss Emma McRanney, plain, shabby and busy. Her textbooks, open over the table, were shabby as herself, and unlovely. Her hands showed manual work. Selina was ashamed of Miss McRanney, ashamed of teaching Miss McRanney, ashamed of being found thus teaching her by Tuttle Jones. Alas for you, Mamma, once again! You with your strained anxiety, your every effort bent toward that front in life which must be kept up! Your one ewe lamb would have been the happier for the truer values held by Auntie! Mr. Jones came smilingly back through the parlor to the dining-room, his hand outstretched to--not Selina at all, but Miss McRanney! Indeed, and indeed, you never can tell! "Well, Tuttle, and how's your mother?" from this lady. "Tuttle's mother and I are old friends from grade and high school days, Selina. Admirable and democratic meeting-ground for the classes with the masses," dryly. "How'd you say your mother is, Tuttle?" "Quite well. Miss Emma, and grumbling only yesterday that you'd not been around for a month to put her in a better humor with the world. What's wrong with my telling her you'll come for dinner Sunday?" He was shaking hands with Selina now. "But I'm in the way here?" Selina was overswept with a passion of loathing for herself, and a need for abasement and self-punishment. "Miss Emma came to me to get some coaching and's finding I'm a very poor teacher. Oh, but she is, and she's too considerate and kind to say so. For fifteen minutes now she's been showing me how to do a page in algebra I, the teacher, couldn't show _her_." "Sit down, Tuttle," from Miss Emma, cheerfully, "and see what's wrong. I'll be jiggered if I've got it either. Figures used to be your strong suit when you were a boy." Selina meant for herself to go the whole way now. Being ashamed, she was very much ashamed. "I've been following every clue and chance for teaching I could hear of since I came home in November," she told Tuttle, "and nobody wanted me. I never quite understood until Miss Emma pointed out that I wasn't qualified as a teacher. I'm going to try for a certificate along with her in March." Miss Emma nodded approval. "Now she's talking, Tuttle. Get busy and applaud her. This child's been going through that circle of purgatory Dante forgot to set down, finding herself a woman that's got to make her way, and taking her cue from the rest of the woman world, ashamed of the fact." Selina dropped her head right down on the page of the open textbook before her on the table. The sob was coming and she could not stop it. Bye and bye when the pretty head with its masses of flaxen hair lifted, they all laughed together. For Miss Emma McRanney was chafing one of Selina's hands and Tuttle Jones the other one. * * * * * Culpepper's visits these days were to Auntie. He got in the way of running in and up to her room for a brief while in the evenings, and out again. "She won't have a thing to do with me, ole Miss, and there's nothing for it but for me to take my medicine! 'Oh, yes, she's quite well, thank you!' when I do stop and speak to her 'and very busy.' She's not only getting Miss McRanney ready as far as she knows how, but trying to get herself ready for these examinations in March. That's about what she says to me, coolly and loftily, and goes on about her own affairs." "I don't like it at all," from Auntie, stoutly, "And here's Emmeline's Tuttle around every lesson night looking like a model out of a store window, helping them with their algebra, both Emma and Selina." Auntie was innocent of guile. "It's his specialty, too, it seems," she added lamentingly. "Why don't he stay where he's put?" grumbled Culpepper. "He's a dude, a dandy dude, you can tell it by his fashion, can't you, ole Miss? What's he got to do with our nice, humble, worthy ways, and with our Selina and her problems? I ask you that!" * * * * * There came a morning late in March when Miss Emma McRanney at nine-thirty, in her 'plain but perfectly genteel' best wool dress, stood waiting at the drugstore over which she lived, instead of being at the Institute mounted on a stool, and wearing a blue calico apron with sleeves, setting type. Nor had she waited above two minutes when a rather breathless young person came hurrying in. A moderately tall, slim, pretty girl, with a good deal of flaxen hair, in obviously her soberest wool dress, and quietest head-gear. "On time, am I, Miss Emma? After lying awake half the night saying over lists of dates and rules and the rest of it, I overslept this morning and Mamma wouldn't wake me." "Plenty of time, Selina. At least _you_ don't have to worry about your particular specialties, algebra and Latin----" "Now, Miss Emma, you said you wouldn't----" "Whereas between you and me, Selina, I'm weakest if anything in the one that's Tuttle's specialty too----" They boarded the street car, the stout, plain lady in her best wool dress, and the slim, pretty girl in her plainest dress. When they alighted before a tall, broad, ugly brick building that bore above its central doorway the words, "Board of Education," a clock in a neighboring steeple said five minutes of ten. "And the examinations are at ten. We're just in good time, Selina," said Miss Emma McRanney. [Illustration: "They boarded the street car."] One week from that day Selina Wistar arriving at her own gate at dusk from one direction, she had walked home from the office of the Board of Education in truth, to avoid getting there any sooner than she had to, met Miss Emma McRanney arriving from the other direction. If one did not fear conveying the impression that Selina was fast lapsing into an eighteenth century heroine so far as weeping goes, it could be mentioned there was that about her face, despite the dusk, which showed she had been crying. Just a preparatory cry, perhaps, of a scalding tear or two, that could be permitted as she hurried along in the dusk, and would not be noticed--an abeyant tear as it were, pending the unrestrained flow that would come when seclusion and her own room were reached. "Well, Selina," from Miss Emma, cheerfully, "it's all over for me. I've just been by the school office to get my report. I'm a type-setter who knows her job and is doomed to stick at it. What--_what_? Don't tell me you've gone and failed, too?" "Oh, Miss Emma----" "Now, Selina, don't tell me a further thing, don't tell me you fell down in your own specialties----" "Miss Emma----" "Well, well, now that's exactly what I was afraid I'd do and that I did, but I'd said from the start they were _my_ weaknesses." Selina was crying bitterly. "My child," from Miss Emma, "it isn't worth it. You've gained enough in other things to make up for the lost certificate. And as for me, I've something that will comfort you, that I've known for two days. It made my middle-aged blood so hot I didn't know if I'd take the place if I could get it. It's almost as despicable a thing to be a woman, as I discovered it was to be an orphan, Selina, and very seldom more remunerative to the individual. At the last meeting of the board out at the Institute, they agreed, to a man, in giving this place to a woman, that it wasn't worth as much, and reduced the salary to exactly what I'm getting now. They did the same thing when they gave me my present job as type-setter. No, I won't come in, thank you. I've got to get on home. One thing I'm as adamant about. I can't feel those blind babies would have missed that Latin and algebra in me, and I've been hungry to teach 'em ever since I've been there. Good night! I'm coming around some evening soon, with Tuttle. We've a date, so it's not good-bye." Whereupon Selina fled into the house and up to her room, and although, this time, it was an absolutely _fresh_ marseilles spread, put on clean _that_ morning, flung herself upon it and cried and cried and cried bitterly. Mamma came in, worried and indignant. "Why did Emma McRanney expect you to know more than she did and instruct _her_? It was a good deal for her to ask anyway. And I'm sure you've just said you failed, too. Why should all your worry be for her?" Auntie came in. "I'm sure Emma knows you did your best, Selina. And think what you've gained? A real friend in a real woman like Emma?" That night alone in her room, Selina took her pen and her paper. The note she wrote was to Culpepper whom she had ignored for six long weeks, and it said: DEAR CULPEPPER: I want to tell you that I've been hateful and I am sorry. I did try, however, with my pupil after the first, and try my best. Evidently my best is an inadequate thing, and unflattering to me, for she has failed. And, deciding to try for a certificate, myself, I have failed, too. SELINA. CHAPTER THIRTY The next day, about noon, Culpepper Buxton rang the Wistar doorbell. Aunt Viney opened the door, still adjusting the apron she had tied on as she came. "No, not Miss Ann Eliza this time, Aunt Viney. Is Miss Selina here?" Viney, cautious soul, true to her race in this, never was known to commit herself or her white household. "I'll go up an' see, Mr. Culpepper." "Tell her it's only for a moment, I've run 'round between classes." Plump brown Viney, not without panting, mounted the stairs and went on back to Selina's room. "Yes'm, I knew you's here, an' I knew you's goin' to see him. But 'tain't my way, an' you know 'tain't, to keep my white folks too ready on tap. Get up f'om that sew-in'-machine, an' turn roun' an' lemme untie thet ap'on you got on. Think you's sewin' foh yo'se'f, don't you? Think it's a petticoat you's goin' to learn to make, don' you? An' firs' time you lay it down an' go off an' leave it, yo' aunt or yo' ma'll take it up foh you an' finish it." "Aunt Viney, you do understand, don't you? And you're the only one here that does! Tell 'em I _want_ to do it, I want to make mistakes, and I want to rip 'em out and do it over again. Tell 'em so for me, won't you, Aunt Viney?" "Go on down to thet thar youn' man. He ca'ies his haid high, but 'tain't no proof we don't ca'y our'n higher. He'n Miss Maria, his ma, ain't got it all; we're folks our own se'f." But for all this by way of support while she smoothed her hair, Selina went downstairs slowly and constrainedly, conscious in the sense she had been conscious when coming home through the snowstorm with Tuttle Jones. She had known Culpepper _would_ come from the moment she dropped her note to him in the letterbox at the corner last night. And now that he had come she was afraid to go down and meet him. Afraid of what? She couldn't have said; instinct didn't take her that far; it only sent her down the steps hesitatingly and constrainedly. Culpepper the undemonstrative, the coolly unflattering in his attitude always, swung about at the sound of her footsteps and met her at the parlor door. She held out a hand, a soft and pretty hand, its mate going up at the same time to push back some imaginary troublesome lock, a characteristic gesture with her when she was embarrassed. But Culpepper having taken the soft hand proffered, put it over into his left one, and---- ("Oh, Culpepper, no, I'm not ten now!") --with the frowning and horrific air of a fearsome captor, undoubtedly an ogre captor intent and not to be deterred, went creepingly after its mate and cunningly caught it and brought it down and put it, with even more diablerie of horrific cunning alongside the other upon his big left palm, and-- ("Culpepper, don't--don't do it, it frightens me still!") --like as when the compassionless keeper of the ogre dungeon into which the victim is thrust, lowers the overhead stone that fits into its place--lowered his big right hand upon these two soft ones---- And why not? So he used to catch her and tease her when she was ten, playing the thing through in realistic pantomime until she, throwing herself on him, clung to him perforce! But she was not that little girl! Nor did she feel as a little girl feels any longer! She tried to take her hands away. As well try any other feat in strength which is impossible. And now Culpepper bending his head a little was trying to make her look up, those bold eyes in teasing wait to catch her gaze when she did. Not for worlds could Selina have looked up. Her heart beat wildly, and the blood pulsed in her throat and pounded at her ears. And as Culpepper holding the hands captive, went on bending to surprise her gaze, her lashes swept lower and yet lower upon her cheeks. As a picture of shy maidenliness, Mamma and Auntie, the thing as you fancy it in perfection, behold your handiwork! As a piteous young creature, ignorantly innocent, or innocently ignorant, as you prefer to put it, Mamma and Auntie, the choice in terms is yours, a piteous young creature suddenly overswept with conscious sex that nor you nor any creature has seen fit to explain to her, behold your handiwork! Groping by her young self, filled with terror and horror of self, of life, even of the God who made her as she was, you have left your child to battle as she may with things hideous to her distorted imaginings, rather than know them as attributes natural, decent, and sanctioned of God! Culpepper bent yet lower to find her eyes through the down sweep of those lashes. The warmth from his young, gloriously alive face, so close to hers, the lift and fall of his breathing, reached her consciousness. "I had your note, Selina. I wonder, writing me that, if you knew how sweet you were being to me?" And here she got her hands away because in truth his heart was touched by her piteous terror, and he let her go. She found a chair and pointed one to him. "You didn't come round any more," she said hurriedly. He looked across at her oddly, those blue eyes of his within their accentuating black lashes, even humorously baffled in their expression. Seeing that this speech from her was honest and not arch, it was disarming to a lover by its very nature. And yet allowing that it was the child in her that was honest, was he not to gather that the maid in her was disturbed? And again allowing that it was the child in her that spoke, was it not the maiden in her whose fingers even now were plaiting her dress nervously into folds, her eyes upon these fingers and her color coming and going? Peradventure, Mamma and Auntie, she does you proud, this proper and becoming picture of fluttered and timid maidenhood. You, Mamma, who have been girl, maiden, wife and mother, and have no woman's word for your woman-child! You, Auntie, who discussed the situation frankly enough with Culpepper, the man, but as with a flaming sword of vigilance, have stood guard lest even a breath of the truth reach the ignorance of Selina, the woman. Culpepper watching her as she sat there, lovely and drooping and fair-haired, with her clear young profile partly averted, spoke, and watched anew to note the effect upon her of what he said. "I concluded I'd keep away, Selina. I wasn't in the least satisfied with what you were giving me. I'm an outspoken brute. If there's no show that my share's going to be any more, I'll go on keeping away." She shrank as though something had struck her. And in truth something had. Comprehension of what he meant, so far as knowledge went with her, the lightning flash of it stunned while it revealed. Yet even as the poor child reeled pale with the shock, she rallied to her womanhood as she had had womanhood impressed on her. Courageously rallied! And bravely dissembled! A thing well-nigh synonymous with womanhood as taught to her! Which is to say the child restored herself with a long, deep breath, laughed with a disarming little throw back to the head, swept her hands across the plaits she had so busily gathered there in the breadths of her dress, as though she swept away with these all but an everyday interpretation of Culpepper's word, and spoke frankly, frankness being a most excellent dissembling weapon. "It's good to have you back, Culpepper." Her voice, traitorous at first, gained in composure. As said before it was a nice voice, and under conditions, full of cadences. When she was ten, Culpepper used to kiss her in her pretty neck to tickle her, because he liked these cadences when she laughed. Meanwhile with the aid of that dissembling weapon, frankness, she was going on. "Don't stay away ever again. And, Oh, there's so much to ask you, and so much to tell you about!" He looked across at her and her pretty dissembling and laughed. "You little goose! You haven't known me all this while to think you can put me off if I'm really ready?" Her gaze at this was hurried, beseeching, pleading. It seemed to beg for time, respite, mercy! He laughed again, and she hurried on. "As I said, there's so, so much to talk about----" "As for instance----?" One saw her hurriedly and desperately searching her mind. "Why, er--of course--Judy!" The tone even implied reproach that he could have thought it anything but Judy. "All right, my lady," his name for her of old. "I accept the cue. Judy it's to be, is it? You're sparring for time, I'm to understand? The idea's planted now alongside any foolishness which Tuttle may have been putting there and I'm to let you get used to it awhile? And what's the trouble with Judy, now? Still sore with her father, or something fresh?" "We're not supposed to know what she's doing," with a rush of evident relief at his docility, "but we do. She's being coached for her college examinations by some college chap Algy found and arranged with. It's mostly done through Algy, too, with an occasional meeting at the circulating library to outline more work. She'll have to go to Cincinnati for the examinations when they come, in June, which her father won't let her do, so we can't see how any of it's going to help her?" "Go on," from Culpepper. "Talk along, amuse yourself. But one of these days when my time comes, my lady----" Selina's breath came piteously in its flutterings. And for all her rallyings to that womanhood, her heart had never ceased its cruel clamberings, and her blood its beatings in her ears and its pulsings in her throat. And on all that vast sea of terror fast returning on her again, terror not of him, that was secondary, but of that within her innocent self she could no longer deny as being there, on all this rising sea of fear and terror, she could see but the one absurd little spar of inconsequence to cling to still--Judy. "We feel so sort of dishonorable toward her father and mother, Maud and Adele and I do, Culpepper. But we're not supposed to know she's doing this. And of all people, little Judy!" "Certainly, by all means, little Judy." She rose with a pretty dignity which seemed to say she didn't like this tone from him. He rose with her. She had to look up to him when they stood thus, which gives the man the advantage. "It's lunch time, Culpepper, though we'll be glad to have you stay?" No doubt he had really meant to be merciful and bide his time when he said he would. Instead, as she finished her little speech with its implied reproof, he laughed and with a mighty sweep of his arms, gathered this suddenly white-cheeked Selina up and kissed her, kissed her roughly, kissed her gloriously, kissed her exultingly. And set her down. She stayed white-cheeked and looked at him. She spoke so quietly it was a bit discomforting. "That was outrageous of you. And cruel. I'll listen to you if ever I make up my mind now I want to listen and not before. Right now I hate you! Yes, I'm sure that's it, hate you! Not so much because you're Culpepper--"and here it became evident she was going to cry, one hates to have to tell it on her so soon again--"but because of something in you that made you think you could!" And the storm of tears now upon her, she turned and fled upstairs. * * * * * Late that afternoon when Selina went into her mother's room, she found Auntie talking about her paragon and favorite Culpepper. "He's his father right over again, Lavinia. Women like to be coerced and decided for. And anything that once belonged to Culpepper, he'd be fierce to the death caring for." "I don't agree with you about what women like, Auntie," from Selina, to this startled lady who didn't know she was around. "Why should a person like to be coerced because she's a woman? And why should she want to be decided for, for the same reason?" Auntie looked not only startled but alarmed. "Why, Selina!" Selina took a calmer tone. "Maybe we're beginning to feel differently about these things, Auntie," curiously, as if wondering about it herself. "Maybe women are different from what you and the ones you knew were?" "Lavinia," from Auntie, "do you hear your child?" Selina overswept by the fury of swift and sudden rage, stamped her foot and--terrible as it is to have to set it down again--burst into tears. "But I'm not a child! That's the trouble! If anybody'd only understand and--help me!" CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE One afternoon toward the end of April, Mamma came to Selina's door. Her manner was both pleased and excited. "Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle is here in her carriage. Tuttle's sister, Mrs. Sampson, is with her. They've stopped by to take you driving." Selina flushed. "I don't know that I want to go, Mamma." Mrs. Wistar looked tried. "When I've already been down to speak to them and tell them you would? Get up quickly, Selina, and slip off that dress and let me take your hair down, and put it up again. Nobody can make it look so well and stay in place as I can. There's plenty of time if you'll come on. Mrs. Tuttle said they would go up to the Harrison's and leave cards and be back for you." Mamma worked swiftly, a hairpin or two for immediate use held between her lips and preventing conversation, while the clear-cut face of Selina before the mirror of the mahogany bureau looked absently at the face of Selina within the mirror. There was something about Tuttle's solicitude and zeal for her which she did not understand. This arrival now of Mrs. Tuttle and Mrs. Sampson was but more of the same vaguely disturbing sort of thing. "Mamma, it's too much, it's forever Tuttle's family. Do you realize I'm about being run by his family?" Mamma got rid of the hairpins. "And why shouldn't you be? They see that he admires you, and I must say it's very generous and sweet of them----" "Generous, Mamma?" "Well, the word was ill-advised. I'll get out your coat and hat now your hair's done, while you slip on your dress." "That's all, Mamma, please. I'll finish dressing quicker by myself if you'll let me." Selina wanted to think, and she sighed with relief as the door closed behind her mother. Was she, in truth, being absorbed, by Tuttle and his people? She ran over the past weeks in her mind. Culpepper Buxton had apologized and she accepted the truce, but did she have time ever to see him? When did she see Maud and Juliette and Adele nowadays? And just how came it about? Quite casually late one afternoon in March, Tuttle and his mother had dropped in. Selina had not met this lady before. Report had it that if Tuttle's father took him calmly, he on the contrary led his mother by her fine, straight Tuttle nose. In the course of the brief call it developed that Mrs. Jones had charge of a booth at the forthcoming Easter kirmess, and wanted to know if Selina would make one of the half dozen young people to assist her? Also in leaving, she held Selina's hand a moment overlong in her beautifully gloved one. She was tall, fair and good looking-herself. "You're very winning and lovely, my dear," she said, "and I quite can see why my Tuttle thinks so." Following this a bevy of Tuttle's girl cousins came to call, and next Selina was asked to a box party given by Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle during the week of the spring opera. It meant a new dress and all but precipitated a breach between Mamma and Auntie. Auntie hotly resented the invitation for some reason known to herself, whereas Mamma was determined that Selina should accept it. "Certainly it means a new dress," she agreed promptly, when Auntie intimated that it did, "and I'm going straight down street now and get it. Write your note of acceptance to Mrs. Tuttle, Selina, and I'll mail it on my way." She came back with an organdie! And French organdies such as this one she triumphantly unfolded, came by way of New Orleans and cost accordingly. "While the ground of it's white," said Mamma, "and there's the faintest blush in the blossoms, the general effect is of the pale apple-green of the leaves. With Selina's pale hair, she ought to look more than well in the green." Auntie set her lips. "I didn't get a pattern-book this time; it seemed more a case for a real fashion-paper. I got sash ribbon and I got lace, and if you think best, we'll have a seamstress in for a day?" "As you please," said Auntie grimly, "I prefer to have no say in the matter." Whereupon Selina had run and thrown her arms around Auntie and cried, but then as Mamma said fretfully, Selina cried and Ann Eliza snapped at everything of late and there wasn't much reward trying to do things for either of them. The dress was a triumph and even Mrs. Tuttle resplendent in her box at the opera said so, while Tuttle whispered--well, no matter what Tuttle whispered--the point being that not even the success of the dress quite removed the sting of hurt feelings behind it. And here three days later were Mrs. Tuttle and Mrs. Sallie Jones Sampson arrived to take her driving! True, report had it again that Tuttle led his aunt in her turn, by her grumbling weakness for himself---- Mamma put her head in at the door. "Ready, Selina? They're here!" The open carriage at the gate, Selina went out to it. Its upholsterings and its coachman were in plum color. Mrs. Tuttle was in strawberry, the newest shade of the day, with a parasol to match, and Mrs. Sampson a stout, lively and good-humored matron, was in raspberry, the next newest shade. The effect of the whole, equipage and ladies, was, well--resplendent. Selina, with a new rose on her last spring's hat, and new buttons and a new satin collar on her last year's coat, got in amid the elegance of it. As to where they were going there was no issue. The carriage world drove out the avenue every bright afternoon and met all the rest of the carriage world. The plum-colored carriage and pair whirled about and started for the avenue. Mrs. Tuttle was talking. "Sally here was just saying, Selina, she didn't know how lovely your shade of hair was, till she saw you in that pale green the other night. And you'll go on gaining in your looks, I tell her. The Wistar women are all handsome to the end. Look at Ann Eliza at forty-eight!" They had been discussing her, Selina! They were taking account of her stock in value it would seem! The carriage turning into the avenue took its place, one of the procession moving in one direction meeting a procession returning in the other. Mrs. Tuttle bowed from time to time, and Mrs. Sampson bowed and at times waved a hand in friendlier gesture. "There wasn't a lovelier and more personable matron in town in my young days, either, Selina, than your grandmother," said Mrs. Tuttle, "the mother of Ann Eliza and Robert, your father I mean. I've just been telling Sally here. Your grandfather was prospering, his foundry was the largest in this part of the state, and Mrs. Wistar as the head of the establishment was both efficient and popular." They had been discussing her further. Her grandmother Wistar, her grandfather, the prospering foundry, the establishment, were to be considered assets! And here in Mrs. Tuttle's pompous, plum-colored barouche, Selina told herself hotly that she understood now what it all meant. It meant that Tuttle in his own mind had accepted her, but not her world and her friends! She saw it suddenly. Instead, she, Selina, was being led to his world, and introduced to his friends! It was she that Tuttle wanted, because she pleased him, but not her setting. It was she he would translate as it were, to his world and his affiliations and familiars. And with such tacit understanding apparently, his coerced family were discussing her as they accepted her? Her face burned, her heart raced, her slim fingers gripped at the plum-colored cushions. Would the mincing, parking drive never be done, and they and their carriage and pair out of this senseless procession, and she, Selina, at home? At home and these polite conversational returns to Mrs. Tuttle and Mrs. Sampson over with, and in her own room and the key turned and alone! She wanted to look at the facts. She wanted to put facts together and apply herself to what they said and try and get at the truth. Put facts together and so get at the truth. That is the way to reach truth. Then why hadn't she found it those many, many times before when she wanted it so? Was it that she failed to know or to admit facts? Had been discouraged, even taught to shut her mind and her eyes _to_ facts? "Tuttle's taken his father's house, room by room now," Mrs. Tuttle was saying to Mrs. Sampson, "and made it over into an absolutely reproachless interior. And you'll have to allow, Sally, that your father's only idea when he built it was to spend money. It's a passion with the boy, a sort of mania to bring things up to convention and correctness. The more amenable his wife, the greater happiness Tuttle will get making her into the perfect thing he'd have her." * * * * * At home at length, and safe within her room, Selina cried bitterly, her hat and jacket thrown on the bed, and she dropped into a chair with her pretty head upon the table that also was desk and book-shelf. So much for Tuttle? She could see it no other way now she came to look at it! And what then? Was it so bad a thing she was finding him guilty of? The repudiation of that world and its people and its things, that she belonged to? The keeping himself, with the exception of the Harrisons, skilfully unidentified with her group or their affairs? And say this was the truth? Was it humiliation at base which Tuttle was offering her in place, part and identity in life through his own? Or was it laudation? In that he could conceive nothing better to offer than his best own? And by way of contrast with Tuttle, what of Culpepper's attitude to her? Certainly he had not sinned along these lines? Culpepper made friends of her friends, made one with her family, easily and serenely, tolerantly and indulgently in fact, just as he took the confidences she gave him about her efforts at self-support, and her failures, just as he played escort and took her to doors and came after her, every way, indeed, but seriously. "Play away," his amused manner seemed to say, "amuse yourself with these things, even improve your character through the effort put into them. When the time comes, the proper time, it's the man who'll sweep these out of the way, and have done with their assumptions, and take care of you." Was this the truth, too? If she was to read Tuttle the one way, was this the way she was to read and understand Culpepper? * * * * * Quickly and passionately she got up and went and laved her face at the washstand, and as quickly and passionately went to the window of her room, through which the while she had heard voices. Auntie down there in the yard was moving about in company with old colored Uncle Taliaferro Bucklin. It was April, buds and blooms were on lilac bush and peach tree, and Auntie and Uncle Taliaferro were looking over the ground-plan of flower beds and borders preparatory to their yearly activities. "Those seedling hollyhocks we put out last spring, Taliaferro, make a good show. They'll bloom this year," from Auntie. "So'll these Canterbury bells I brought down from the Buxton's garden, bloom for the first time. I want to put in quite a good deal this spring with a thought to next fall, dahlias and astors and cosmos and salvia in plenty. I don't know anything that comes at a time you're more grateful to 'em, than the late-blooming things in the fall." "Look at these he'ah lockspuhs, Miss Ann 'Liza," from Uncle Taliaferro direfully. "Same thing as las' yeah. Worm right at the root of ev'ey pesky las' one. Never did have no faith in that wood-ashes you's so sure about, myse'f." Flowers take patience and faith, and tendance and waiting. Would she, Selina, looking down on the little backyard and these two patient workers in it, ever come to a place like Auntie, where she could care for them enough to center time and hope and affection in them? Never! Never! She threw her arms out in refutation of any such surrender in herself! [Illustration: "Flowers take patience and faith, and tendance and waiting."] Which brought to her mind that she promised Mamma and Auntie answers to certain pleas from both of them before another week-end. And at this her hands clenched in further refutation, this time of their claims. For wherever and however she arrived now, it was going to be through truth and for herself! Undoubtedly she would have to hurt Mamma and hurt Auntie, which last was even harder, but at least she would be honest in doing it. Passionately she put on her hat and jacket again and left her room and hurried down the stairs and out of the house. The show and feel of late April were everywhere, in the green of the lawns, in the buds of the shrubberies, in the unfolding blooms of the magnolia trees, in the soft languor of the dusk already falling. Three blocks away Selina turned in at the brick rectory next the church she had gone to all her life. The side-door with a step beneath a little penthouse roof led direct into the rectory study. She tapped at this door and entering, hurried across the room to the elderly little clerical figure in the chair beside the cluttered table. Dropping on the footstool beside this chair, she put her hands, both, into the parchment brown ones outstretched to greet her. The study, with its book-lined walls, its cluttered table, its cluttered open desk, its smoldering grate fire, reeked with tobacco. The scholarly little person in clerical garb in the leather chair seemed mellowed to meerschaum tints with it, from the ivory tones of his close, small beard, to the parchment brown of those shapely old hands grasping hers, while their owner looked in kindly fashion down into her face lifted to his. The volume he had laid down at her entrance, was of a Hebrew character. Report had it that he was equally at home in at least three other tongues as erudite. He had baptized Selina, a wee baby in flowing robes, and fourteen years later had prepared her for her confirmation. From the pulpit he had talked to her nearly every Sunday of her life since babyhood. His wife was fond of her; he was fond of her. In their ways he and this pretty girl were very good friends. And yet in reality he knew nothing whatever about her. "Selina, my child? And what then, my dear?" "A great deal, Dr. Ronald. Mamma feels that I ought to be in all sorts of things connected with the church now, the Rector's Aid, and the Altar Guild, and such things. And that I ought to take a Sunday-school class. She's said so much about it, she's stopped now, and only _looks_ her hurt and disappointment, that I don't do it." She paused. The fine old brown hand went on patting hers. Its owner's eyes went on studying her face not unshrewdly. "And Auntie comes to industrial school every Saturday morning, and every Saturday morning looks disappointed when I decline her invitation to come with her." "And why decline it, my dear? That at least is a little thing to do, to please her?" Selina burst forth. "I'm through with doing things because it pleases somebody. I've done it all--church, confirmation, communion--because they told me to. I've never had a conviction in my life. Tell them for me, please, Dr. Ronald--that's what I've come to you for--tell them that I've a right to find the ways for myself. Tell them, that because I haven't found any of them for myself, it's all perfunctory, and all cut and dried. That I hate the coming, that I hate it when I'm here, hunting God in my Sunday clothes in congregations, and I hate God, too, if he's what they all seem to make him." She sobbed, and her head slipped onto his knee, face down as she sobbed. The wrinkled brown hand merely moved itself to the masses of her hair and went on patting. "My dear, my dear," the old rector said, "I'm surprised, I'm truly distressed. You are young, overyoung and impatient and heady. And you imagine these things you feel to-day are final. As for your mother, Selina, and your good aunt, salt of the earth they are, never overlook that fact, salt of the earth. While on the other hand, these things you are confessing to are traits common to all youth rather than peculiar to you. How many dare I estimate in my forty years' pastorate in this church, have come to me in this room as you to-day, each with youth's cry against the claim of things upon him?" The touch of his hand upon her head was gentle. "Patience, Selina, patience. Do not think we've not been, all of us, where you are to-day. And don't forget that it is as inevitable you also will be where we are!" She lifted her head, staring at him in a kind of horror. She even remembered to be sorry for that long procession of youth coming to him through forty years, her heart seeming to be monotoning in a sort of bitter chanting for them, "Bread and he gave them a stone. Bread and he gave them a stone." "Never," she declared to him passionately, getting up and feeling about for her hat that had tumbled somewhere. "Never! Please, Dr. Ronald, I'd rather go now. And as to my coming to the place that you say I some day will, never, never!" He looked at her as she pinned on her hat, but made no motion to stay her. And the while though he said not one word, it was to her as though he shouted it forth, "So they all said, that procession of youth passing through this room through forty years." It infuriated her so to know he was thinking it, she hurried away with barely a civil word at leaving. Like the rest of them in this also, he could have told her. Her way back took her past the home of Algy Biggs. He was getting home from work just as she got there. The Biggs house, broad and comely, stood in half a square of irreproachable lawn, rolled and clipped, trimmed and impeccable. At the curb the carriage was just arrived with Algy's mother and his sisters in it. When Algy had been told to go to college or get out and find a job for himself and depend on it, he found one at the locomotive shops, working on the inside of boilers. That was two years ago; he was still in the shops, getting thirty-five dollars a week now, for he said so. And at this particular moment when Selina met him he probably was just out of his overalls, for the grime and smudge of the shops were still upon him. Tall and blond chap that he was, his blue eyes gleamed unspeakably funny out of his blackened face. Selina bowed to his mother and sisters. But she--yes--she did--kissed her finger tips to Algy. She understood _this_! She gloried in his act! She exulted in Algy! CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO The last day of April Selina went to Eadston with her Aunt Juanita and her Uncle Bruce, to the wedding of Pocahontas and Marcus. In deference to the occasion the two came by for her on their way to the station in Uncle Taliaferro's hack, drawn by the two bony white horses. "I'd like to be going," said Mamma, kissing Selina at the doorstep, "but to send a present and let you go--is all that could be thought of." "Auntie," from Selina to this person in the doorway, "tell Culpepper I'll see Cousin Maria at the wedding, and give her the latest news about him." She joined the two in their hack and from the start Uncle Bruce seemed outdone. "I ought to be in Washington this very day. The case of the State against the Federal Banking Tax argued there this morning--" He kept up a furious little clicking with his tongue. "Aurelius," from Aunt Juanita, "Marcus told you to have your hair cut and your beard trimmed. You haven't done it." "Let him have his own hair cut! What's he got to do with mine? Have I ever in any way sought to impose my personal ideas and conclusions on him? Have I ever told him to get _his_ hair cut?" Uncle Bruce glared. "Well, it's all one to me," from Aunt Juanita indifferently. "I had it on my mind and now it's off and that's an end to it so far as I'm concerned." There was to be worse from Uncle Bruce. The spring freshets were upon the land, and creeks and rivers were up. The wedding at Eadston was to be at six o'clock at the Boswell home. The train bearing the Bruces and Selina was late, held up by a wash-out, one hour, two hours, three hours! When they did reach Eadston and hurried out the station to the carriage waiting for them, there was one hour to spare. And of this ten minutes at least were consumed driving through the sleepy town and across the covered bridge beneath which the swollen river swept sullenly. And another five minutes must have been consumed disembarking at the Boswell carriage block, their luggage being with them. Uncle Bruce had his umbrella somewhere, too, he insisted, and that found, a tin spectacle-case, much prized, was missing! You couldn't hurry Uncle Bruce! As well give in and turn about on the sidewalk while he plunged around in the recesses of the carriage hunting his property, and enjoy the dignified and fine old house in its wedding consciousness, its purple beeches in tender young leaf, its early magnolias in bloom. And to the side, beyond the borders of the box, and the gravel paths, one caught a gleam of the garden, and beyond it, as one knew, came the terraces overhanging the surging river now at its flood tide. And at last they could go in, Uncle Bruce being ready! The servants awaiting them at the door, remembered Selina, a soft-voiced elderly one in spectacles taking charge of her and a second one of Aunt Juanita and Uncle Bruce. And on the way upstairs, with scarce half an hour to the good now, the door of Pocahontas' room opened, and she calling a greeting to the older guests, stopped Selina, and kissed her through the half inch of space. Selina found that she had her old room, familiar from the visit of a year ago, while Aunt Juanita and Uncle Bruce were in the room next to her. Lights, warm water, English tub, met with first at her former visit, towels, her dress-box thus quickly unstrapped, everything was ready and at hand! She dressed swiftly. The green organdie was a joy and she wanted time at that stage of the toilet to get into it properly. If Uncle Bruce had seemed like an irascible old lion peeved, earlier in the day, right now he was worse. In the next room just here he roared. "Selina!" It was Aunt Juanita calling irascibly herself. Selina struggling into her green dress, hurried in. Aunt Juanita was on a low chair changing her shoes with her bonnet still on. The effect, considering she'd taken off her dress, was startling. Uncle Bruce in his underwear, which ran around in stripes, sat on the bed and glared from out of the jungle of his hair and beard. "You'll have to see if Marcus is anywhere in the house, Selina," from Aunt Juanita. "I can't do a thing with your Uncle Bruce." "You've been a model and praiseworthy wife, Juanita, and I respect you for it," from Uncle Bruce. "You've never tried to do things with me. Damn my son's impertinence, does _he_ think _he_ can begin to do it now after all these years? I go to my telescope to get out my clothes and I take out a suit I do not recognize. And you tell me he's put it there in place of my own. That I'm to wear it. I'll be damned, he can be damned, we'll all be damned before I do. Have I ever interfered with him? Haven't I watched him going about in long hair and a waterproof cape he looked a durned fool in, and held my tongue? I've done my part by this wedding, too. I sent the lady my grandmother's pearls because you and he told me to, and wrote her a letter in addition. And I took him down to my vault box and gave him a bunch of securities, and when I found it was the wrong bunch, double in value, told him to keep it anyhow. I go to this wedding in the clothes I came in, since my others are missing, or I stay here as I am." Selina had been desperately hooking her dress. "Go find Marcus if he's here," said Aunt Juanita, who having buttoned her boots, now bethought her to untie and remove her bonnet. Selina went and found Miss Boswell, serene and distinguished in her wedding array of silvery gray satin, and with her aid and that of the servants, Marcus was found, having arrived from the hotel with his bevy of newspaper friends, and betaken himself to the room given over to him. When Selina returned with him, Uncle Bruce still in his striped underwear, had moved a big armchair under the gas and gotten out some documents from somewhere, and lit an evil-looking and smelling cigar, and dismissed the matter. Aunt Juanita had combed her hair and now was washing her face! "Wear what you please, sir," said Marcus promptly. "Your dress clothes were sleek with age and misuse, but it was damned impertinent of me to interfere. I beg your pardon, sir, it was none of my business." "The principle we as a family have always gone on," said Uncle Bruce. And getting up, he began to draw on the pepper and salt trousers he'd come to Eadston in. "You've got on a tie with flowing ends with evening dress, yourself, Marcus!" suddenly he paused to say. Uncle Bruce saw more than one thought for! "You've put it on to be in keeping with your bid for eccentricity. I only remark on it to let you know I hold my tongue as a matter of principle about other people's affairs, and not because I don't see 'em." "Selina," said Aunt Juanita, "I've never had on this dress before, that the dressmaker saw fit to make me. Can you suggest what's wrong with it?" "You've put it on with the buttons behind, when they ought to be before, Aunt Juanita. If you'll take it off I'll help you." * * * * * It was a gracious house for a wedding, the rooms so ample and the halls so generous. There were guests not only from Eadston but from the neighboring towns and counties, including Cousin Maria and her two daughters. And like Pocahontas herself, coming down the stairs in cloudy, trailing white on the arm of Marcus, everything was punctiliously correct and yet seemingly simple. After the ceremony Selina found herself at the bride's table between red-faced Mr. Mason, the rich young horseman she had met last spring, and Mr. Spragg from her own town, a colleague of Marcus', the city editor in fact of his paper. Beyond the bridal table, with its charming decorations, stretched small tables over the house and out on the porches. "The bride is a wonderful woman," said Mr. Mason doughtily to Mr. Spragg on the other side of Selina. "What's she getting?" They seemed to overlook the fact that she, Selina, the cousin of the groom, sat between them. Mr. Spragg replied: "Exactly whatever he's planned to make of himself. He's gifted and smart as the next, and allows nothing to stand between him and his end. A brilliant editorial paragrapher, thus far, whom we're losing." After supper Pocahontas within the cloud of her back-flung veil, found a moment to draw Selina within the shelter of an embowered window. "Oh, my dear, my dear! And we were cheated of our promised long talk by that delay of your train! You've the sweetest eyes, Selina, I must tell you, looking at me, as now, all intent, impelling the truth from me whether I want to give it or no. But I do, and only that wash-out prevented much conversation. So listen to me sweetly and intently now. It means for me, Selina, all the difference of a life and intelligence satisfied, not hungry, that I waited and found myself, found what I was and what I wanted before I married. Selina, dearest little friend, I want you to have a compensating life, an experience rich and full in contact and opportunity. I tried to play Providence and arrange to some of these ends for you and see what I did in getting you down there to a school that was no school? Does Providence always resent the limited human interference? I wonder? Must the working out all be through the person's own will and character? Kiss me, Selina, while we're hidden away here. There will be no comfort in the general good-bye coming presently." "I still resent Marcus, I feel I ought to be honest and say so," from Selina hurriedly. "As if you had to tell me that," laughing. "As beauty is its own excuse for being, for example, Amanthus," laughing again, "you feel that temperament is its own excuse for using the rest of us--well--selfishly?" "Miss Pocahontas!" "I thought we dropped the 'Miss' by agreement some while back? And if I choose to be a handmaiden to temperament? If I happen to believe in the claims of temperament, and want my share in its later rewards and glories? Marcus and I understand each other, my dear; not for nothing have we thrashed out every step of the way. And now kiss me again. Our train leaves at midnight for the East, and from there we sail at once for our semi-tropical islands in their bluest of seas." * * * * * They were gone, and the guests were departed. Aunt Juanita in her wedding-gown of appalling magenta brocade and passamenterie, and Uncle Bruce in his pepper-and-salt everyday suit, were gone off to their room. There were left Cousin Maria Buxton, who was spending the night and who had on her famous dress of Brussels lace that had done service for ten years and so she claimed, was good to do it for ten more, Selina of the pale, pale hair and paler green dress, Miss Boswell in her silvery gray, and the servants in the background putting out lights and gathering up napery and glass and silver from the scattered tables. Cousin Maria who had insisted they all sit down for a breathing space and a pow-wow over the evening, was full of gratulation over all points of the affair but the groom. Here she stoutly proclaimed herself pessimistic. "Juanita's gone and so we can talk. Marcus has followed his own bent ever since the hour she brought him into the world and returned to her own engrossments. He personifies unthwarted, undeterred individuality. The sort of thing they tell me young people are all beginning to clamor for these days. I don't know myself; my own minded _me_ while they were under _my_ roof, right or wrong; it was _my_ way. But to get back to Marcus. Pocahontas is as adaptable as a person often is, but even so----" Miss Marcia Boswell, very pleasing in her charming gown, looked undisturbed. "In the first place Pocahontas is probably the only person in the world Marcus relies on to put him right. He's a wonderful idea of her good taste and her judgment. As for Pocahontas, she's gone about the world all her life. She was left by herself at school in Switzerland the first time when she was eight years old. She generally has a perfectly intelligent idea of what a situation demands of her. And also of what she on her side demands of it. I wish most young married people understood what they want as well as these two seem to. Pocahontas and Marcus both see a future man of letters in Marcus. They are entirely one in what they're planning on this basis in life." When Selina went up to her room, she sat and thought about it all. "Unthwarted and undeterred individuality!" This it was then in Marcus which she had called selfishness! Was it selfishness, nevertheless, under another name? Or was it the courage of a pronounced character? And _were_ young people these days beginning to clamor for it? And was it better or worse for them who secured it? Selina sat and thought. She wanted, Oh, she wanted to find--truth. * * * * * Selina and her aunt and uncle went home the next day. She watched the flying scene from the car window: the swirling, turbulent creek whose rocky bed the track followed; the towering walls of limestone cliffs mounting from the foaming, brawling water, their ledges white with dogwood and rosy with red-bud and green like Selina's own pretty dress, with the pale verdure of April. Selina was nearing nineteen now. She watched this flying glory of freshet and cliffs and April flowering, but her thoughts were with Pocahontas whom she loved, and Marcus whom despite all she so resented. If anyone had told her that day would come when the personal equation as the factor, would have faded, and to recall this trip to Eadston for the wedding would be to see tumbling waters, wild gray cliffs and tender tints of April, she would have refuted it with young scorn. She turned from the car window and spoke to her aunt. This person's bonnet was over one ear, and her breastpin was unfastened and dangling, but she looked at peace since the thing requiring all this recent sacrifice of a trip to Eadston of her was over. [Illustration: "She watched the flying scene from the car window."] "Miss Boswell says Pocahontas stands ready to complement--that's the word she used to you when she was talking about it this morning--whatever Marcus chooses in life. She, not he, it seems. I suppose the justification is that he considers he's got the talent to be exploited and not she." Aunt Juanita responded but absently. She'd done her part by her son's wedding now, and was through with it, and it distracted her to have her mind drawn any longer from her own affairs. "Marcus has to go the way he feels driven, naturally. We all have to if we're going to amount to any force at all. Selina," abruptly, "I seem to recall in the prospectus of that school you went South to teach in, and which Lavinia gave me to read, that you went down there to do something or other secretarial?" Selina changed countenance. It's hard to live down a false position, apparently, but she wasn't going to have these assumptions hanging over her any longer. "I know now that I didn't realize what it was I was undertaking and agreed to it because I wanted so much to go. Why, Aunt Juanita?" "Mrs. Higginson and I are going to need some help. We're willing to give a hundred dollars each to the advancing of the cause of women, for printing, postage and some clerical assistance. That word secretarial made me think about you. We'll probably need you and one or two more as well, for a morning or so every week, directing envelopes and putting stamps on. I plan to turn my library into working quarters." "Will I do, Aunt Juanita?" anxiously. "I'd like to try. And I might ask Maud and Juliette. What will we have to do?" "Get together lists of the women we want to reach and their addresses." Aunt Juanita was perfectly definite. "Direct and stamp circular reports of what women through organization are doing elsewhere, mark articles in the daily newspapers we'll have printed there and mail these like the circulars. There's so much that might be done it's hard to decide on just what _not_ to do. Aurelius," this to Uncle Bruce deep in his newspaper on the seat in front of them, "I want a list of the women in town who pay taxes on property in their own name." Then to Selina, "We'll find more intelligence among these coming from tending to their own affairs. We'll need it, too. There'll likely prove to be too few of them to raise the general level of intelligence of the rest, woman of the helpless, indeterminate kind I mean, your mother for example, and Miss Ann Eliza, who don't know the first thing about their affairs and are content not to know." * * * * * Their train pulled into the shed about eight in the evening. Selina was in the care of her aunt and uncle, but nevertheless had a feeling that some more especial escort of her own, say Culpepper, with whom she was good friends again, or if not he, Tuttle Jones, would be there waiting for her. What she had not thought about was what happened. Tuttle and Culpepper both were there, Tuttle at the gate talking to the gate-keeper, Culpepper a moment late, as usual, hurrying up through the crowd. Oddly enough he merely shook hands around, inquired if there was anything in the way of baggage to look after, said good-bye curtly and left them. Afterward Aunt Juanita spoke about it. "Now Selina, do be sensible, if, being Lavinia's child, you can. Shutting your eyes to the obvious is only patterning after the ostrich. It was perfectly patent those two absurd young men there at the station were taking each other's measure." CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE The morning after Selina's return from Eadston she spoke to her mother about her Aunt Juanita's proposal that she do some clerical work. "It'll be for only a few weeks, but if she thinks I can do it, Mamma, I'd like to try." "Juanita has a wonderful head for just that sort of thing," said Mrs. Wistar, impeccable little lady, sitting by her window stitching on a petticoat for Selina, "hunting up lists and sorting people and poking figures and facts at them when she's sorted them. I suppose she knows what it's about. I must say I never have grasped it myself. And I do wish she'd mend her clothes. The only concession she's ever made to being a woman is curl-papers. I asked her once how it happened and she said no doubt Hecuba, wife of Priam, had some weakness. I asked her who Hecuba, wife of Priam, was, and she said she'd expected I'd ask just that. Still I'd like you to know your aunt better by being thrown with her. Juanita's a most excellent and high-minded person." "She doesn't think as much of the rest of her sex," said Selina to this stoutly. Wasn't Mamma defending Aunt Juanita who had criticized _her_? "She says _you_ don't know the first thing about your affairs. What does she mean? What affairs?" "I should consider it an insult to your father if I thought I had to know. I had five thousand dollars when I married, the same as she had. It's this she means. She's always asking me where it is. I've never sought to know." Mamma spoke virtuously, even proudly. In the surprise of this knowledge of her mother's affluence, Selina lost her head. "Five thousand dollars, Mamma! What became of it?" "The tone of your question sounds like your aunt Juanita," severely, "I've never asked." Selina found herself suddenly turned stubborn. "Why didn't Papa tell you? Why should you have to ask?" Auntie came into the conversation. They had forgotten her sitting over at the second window also stitching on a petticoat, also for Selina. It was the one Selina had started for herself. It was the first of May, and did they not, these two dear ladies, always endeavor to make Selina two around of everything in underclothes and thus replenish her stock, every April and May? Darling Auntie, who had acknowledged the meager satisfaction of a life given up to stitching underclothes and polishing brasses! She was speaking. "Robert has always insisted on explaining and going over business matters with me. I inherited the same as he did under our father's will, you see, Selina. From the start he has regularly brought me slips of paper written over with figures and those worrying ditto marks. I listen while he goes over them, but when he goes I drop 'em in the fire. I know it's right if Robert says so." Selina turned stubborn again. She felt unaccountably irritated. "Well, I don't just see the merit in that, myself, Auntie. Somehow it doesn't seem quite fair to Papa." "Selina!" from her mother scandalized. "Do you realize what you are saying? And _who_ you're talking to?" * * * * * Aunt Juanita being seen about the matter again, thought that Selina might do, and further agreed that she ask Maud and Juliette if they wanted to come and help her. From this interview with Aunt Juanita, Selina went straight across the street to the Addisons' to see Maud and find out. She found her in her own room with an array of books, including a dictionary, much paper, and a purple smudge from her ink bottle, on her nose. Energetic, restless, and dissatisfied Maud! "I've turned on china painting; it was pretence with me from the start, Selina. Do you realize you haven't been over here for--well--almost weeks? I'm working at my German again. If Marcus and Miss Pocahontas did German verse into English, and even got some of the cleverest of it printed in the back of a magazine, why shouldn't I try what I can do? I'm working at some of the easier verses of Heine. Sit down and tell me about your trip to Eadston." Selina told her about the wedding and then explained her mission. "I don't grasp in the least what Aunt Juanita's about, Maud. She never explains. But she and Mrs. Higginson want to pay us to help 'em advance what she calls the cause of woman." "It's a phrase going the rounds," from Maudie. "I've run on it a good many times lately. Selina, I'm not a snob, and neither are you, but I must say I'd like to know and to work with Mrs. Higginson. And it's not because she's our richest woman, in the finest home, and it's not because she and Mr. Higginson give about everything that's given in the way of gifts to the city. I think probably it's because that sort of person _must_ be fine to know, and interesting." "You'll come then?" "I will if Mamma says I may. Let's go right now and ask her." Mrs. Addison was downstairs lending a directing oversight in her dining-room and ample pantries. The elderly downstairs man of many years' service in the household had died this past winter, and she, capable and impatient person, was going through the trials of a succession of young and inefficient substitutes. Or so she defined them. "They don't know one thing about their duties, Selina, and they won't let anybody tell them. Listen to me and hold on to Viney till she's actually tottering." The same old story it was, differing only in that Mrs. Addison was more fortunate than most in having her troubles deferred this long. Having finished her own recital, she heard what Maud had to say, somewhat testily. "I'll consider the money as part of my mission offering, Mamma, if you don't like the idea of my taking it," this person pleaded. "It will give me something to do and be such sport being with Selina, and with Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Higginson." "Do it then," from Mrs. Addison impatiently. "To have you moping around the house the way you've been, tearful and complaining, is as much of a trial as these worthless houseboys. I've got my hands full enough with them. Thank heavens your sisters are still at school and occupied! Go on if it will satisfy you and content you." The two flew right over to see and ask Juliette. They found her also in her own room. She slipped some textbooks in her desk before she turned round to greet and to listen to them. She proved bitterly heroic. "I'd be most glad to make the money. I happen to need every cent I can get, and under the circumstances, considering what I want it for, I can't take it from Papa. But I haven't time. I'm busy every moment I can get to myself." She didn't say what she was busy with, but the others divined. It was the first of May. She was studying for those problematical college examinations in June. It was well past noon when Selina and Maud left her and started downstairs to go home. The Caldwells had dinner at one, and at the front door the two met Mr. Caldwell coming in. Maud, with her chestnut hair and red and white skin and lively carriage, was handsome, and Selina, slim and fair, was pleasing. Mr. Caldwell liked pretty women. He was brisk and off-hand. "Glad you've been over to see Juliette, both of you. Coax her out with you, get her into the things you're doing, like she used to be, girls. Get this college bee out of her bonnet and you'll do us a favor over here. Advanced learning! College for women! Dr. Mary Walker trousers next! She must have been crazy when she took this idea up. See here, both of you, take these three two-dollar bills. Get Juliette and all of you go to the matinée this afternoon--my treat. Blow in the change on carfare and candy. It'll mean a lot to get her out with you again." In their embarrassment, their faces crimson, the bills were actually thrust in Maud's hand and left there, and Mr. Caldwell gone into the house and clattering up the stairs, before they could collect themselves sufficiently to refuse it. It meant going back into the house now and finding Mrs. Caldwell. She was in the kitchen, a would-be pleasant room, with wide windows and a door opening on a porch. But right now it was unswept, the ashes hadn't been taken out the stove which they overflowed, the sink was full of unwashed, unscraped dishes. Pretty Mrs. Caldwell, flushed and disheveled, taking up dinner from the hot stove, set down a dish to pin up her trailing negligée, and to take the money Maud handed her. "Juliette wouldn't have gone on it anyway, even if we'd felt we wanted to take it," Maud was explaining. "Juliette's behaving abominably," from Mrs. Caldwell. "Yes, of course, girls, the last cook's gone, too. Impertinent! Demanding to know her duties to the dot, and wanting me to specify her exact time off. Saucy! At least, Maud, it's some comfort to know that your mother with her reputation has come into her trouble, too. And, Selina, I hear that someone offered more wages to your Cousin Anna Tomlinson's cook, and she's left. After being with her ten years! Ingratitude! I don't see what we're coming to." That afternoon, Selina and Maud, while they were about it, went over to see Adele. She had on an elaborate tea-gown in peach-blow silk and lace that sat on her dejectedly. When she heard about the offer from Mrs. Bruce, she sighed, and her soft cheeks flushed and longing came into her dark eyes. The awkwardness left her and she forgot the fripperies of the tea-gown that so embarrassed her. "If only I might make the third! I'm _so_ desperate for _something_ to do, I envy the servants." "_I_ envy the men digging gas-pipe trenches along the street," burst forth vigorous Maud. "Do you know they're really considering letting girls come to the athletic club certain afternoons this summer and learn to play tennis? Mamma thinks it's too violent and unladylike, but I'm going to do it anyhow if they decide to let us." "I'm desperate sometimes," from Adele, sighing. "I'll tell you what I did the other day. I was waiting for Mamma to be ready for a reception. Oh, but I'm a dreary weight on her hands when she gets me to them. I was in the library and I took a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote down all the words that seem most full of thrill and lure to me when I say 'em over. Then I wrote at the top of the paper, 'Thesaurus for the Ennuied.' Papa came in just then, home a bit early for him, and for some reason came over to me where I was sitting at the library table and took the slip from me. He read it through and took me by the chin and looked down at me as if he were studying me. Then he said right oddly, "That bad, Adele?" "What were the words you'd written down?" from Maud. "Just what I was going to ask you?" from Selina. "I don't remember exactly, there were so many of them. Any of them will do. Words that I somehow seem to revel in--_hew_, _build_, _make_, _do_, _fashion_, _kindle_, _evolve_! I don't know," wistfully and a little embarrassed, too "that I can make you understand?" Then with a change of manner, "Have you seen Amanthus lately, either of you?" "No," from Selina. "No," from Maud. From Adele suddenly, "Mr. Tate's grandmother's dead. The wife of the grandfather who left him the money." "Who told you?" "Amanthus. He'll come into a great deal of money now, he told Mrs. Harrison so, Amanthus says." CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Monday morning and ten o'clock found Selina and Maud, both more than a little shy, and also a good deal excited, presenting themselves at the door of the Bruce library where Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Higginson awaited them. The room itself was familiar to them both, with its faded solid red carpet, its book-shelving from floor to ceiling behind doors of oak and glass, its framed prints of Washington, Jefferson, Clay and Robert E. Lee, its incredible litter of papers and pamphlets, its overflow of books stacked into corners and upon chairs. But to-day it was visibly made ready for the occasion. The big central table was swept clean by the simple expedient of piling its accumulation on the floor beneath, Marcus' old desk in a corner stood cleared and open, and a kitchen table of deal, piled with stationery and printed circulars, was placed near a window. Mrs. Bruce herself, tall, unmended and ungroomed, and entirely unconcerned as to that, was taking envelopes by the pack out of boxes. Mrs. Harriet Polksbury Higginson, otherwise Mrs. Amos Higginson, was seated at the table. Her iron-gray hair was drawn in rippling bands either side her personable, big-featured face, her silk dress was sensible, her big-faced watch with its short chain and bunch of charms, laid on the table by her, was for utility, though the stones in the rings on her strong, goodly hands, were wonderful. To Selina and Maud, as said before, not the least exciting part in the undertaking, was the thought of working under Mrs. Higginson. "Not that we are snobs," Maud had diagramed yet again, "nor because she's our richest woman in the biggest house. But because being the richest woman in the biggest house, she's famous for being outspoken and independent of the snobs and all the rest of it, and therefore worth while." Aunt Juanita, looking up, saw the two girls standing in the doorway a bit diffidently, both in summer wash-dresses, Maud's gingham pink, Selina's percale blue. As the two dimly realized even then, Aunt Juanita saw femininity in the mass only, as a cause, an issue. Its youth and its diffidence and its pink and blue habiliments were lost on her, and its hesitation to come on in and get to business, only irritated her. "Well, Maud, well, Selina, come in, come in," testily. "Everything's here in readiness," as they entered, "and the first thing's to get our list of chosen names in shape with their addresses. Selina, since you're to work with me, take the desk for the time being. Maud, sit at the table across from--Mrs. Higginson, do you know my niece, Selina Wistar, and my young friend, Maud Addison?" They took, their places hastily, Aunt Juanita palpably having no thought of confusing amenities with purpose. "Selina," from Aunt Juanita brusquely, "here are three lists, a combined church list, Mrs, Higginson's dinner and party lists, and the names of women taxpayers in town that Aurelius secured for me. We're checking these over and want you to make a revised list from them, alphabetically arranged. And here's a city directory, Maud. As Selina hands the lists to you, fill out their addresses." Aunt Juanita, though she abjured amenities, was a credit to her sex in being definite about what she considered her business. Mrs. Higginson, checking names on her lists with a gold lead-pencil, looked up, at the abrupt method of introduction and smiled good-humoredly, at the assistant in pink, and then the assistant in blue. For her woman in the mass still included individuals, and amenities belonged to the life she knew. "Every woman's name on the list you're to make, Miss Selina," she explained, "is a target at which we two are proposing to fire our convictions. It's a glorious thing at any time of one's life to have convictions, let me tell you, if you haven't discovered it." Was she laughing at them? "Mrs. Bruce and I are the two liveliest women in this town, and always will be, because our convictions, whatever they be, ride us." Having finished unboxing the envelopes Aunt Juanita was going around distributing ink. She paused at this point in Mrs. Higginson's remarks, tweaked her nose with the side of the ink bottle in her hand, since that hand was occupied with the bottle, and addressed herself to this lady. "Organize! _Organize!_ If we can just get that word and its significances over to the women in this town! If we can make 'em understand that woman's hope everywhere lies in this one word! If we can show 'em that it's the instrument of the whole era upon us, for class, labor, capital, too, Aurelius points out, as well as the one instrument for them! Organize and discover our strength as women and so on to our rights. That's the phrase. That's the slogan." The clerical force in pink showed a bright spot on either cheek! The open heart and the open mind were ever hers! Her handsome, hazel-brown eyes beneath her red-brown hair were dilating with the beginnings of zeal, of fire! The clerical force with the heavy masses of pale flaxen hair, the clerical force, that is to say, in blue brought some names on a bit of paper over to the visibly impressed force in pink. "Organize for what, Maud? Who'll organize? And where?" "Hush," said Maud, "I don't know. But I feel right from the start I'm with 'em! So you're, Selina." And so were others all over this fair land to be with them; others as great in faith and zeal as Maudie, though no better equipped in comprehension as to what it was about! But it was glorious none the less to be there! Mrs. Higginson was replying to Aunt Juanita. Her voice was good-humored but ripe and decided. She was a person accustomed to being heard. "Now, Juanita Bruce, you haven't any grounds whatever for assuming I'm with you in any position. You know exactly where I stand in this movement among women all over this land. You know the stand I've taken in it as well as you know your own. And you know _why_ I want to organize our own women in this town. _I_ say this movement, this quiver, so to put it, running from side to side of this continent, has some underlying cause. _I_ say it's woman's dissatisfaction with herself. _I_ say she's roused and looked at herself and the sight's not pleasing to her. You put the cause outside of woman. _I_ say to my sex, 'Organize and find out what's the trouble with yourself.' That's _my_ slogan to my sex, and that's _my_ present mission." Aunt Juanita banged down the ink bottle still in her hand. Two hairpins leaped from her hair with the impact, and the switch of gray hair that all too palpably eked out her own scant store, promptly surged forward and threatened her left eye. But the uplift of the moment raised everybody's mind above such as that! The clerical force were so enthralled they couldn't keep to work if salvation depended on it. And on the other hand apparently salvation of some kind depended on their listening and finding out about this thing? _Was_ there a movement among their sex, a movement wide as the continent? Where had they been during it? Why had they not heard of it? How had it manifested itself? Had it spoken? So these young and ardent two! Nor knew that they in their gropings, their dissatisfactions, their restlessness, their eager scannings of horizons, their questionings, their discontents with inaction, they and Juliette in her revolt, they and Adele in her repinings, were part and proof with it and of it! Aunt Juanita retwisting her hair with that impatience called out in the human breast by the depravity of inanimate objects such as hair switches, was flinging back words at Mrs. Higginson. "Don't expect me to believe in any such stand as that, Harriet Higginson? There isn't but one issue to this thing. In a word, women have discovered they haven't their inalienable rights, and they want 'em." "I'm _so_ certain in my stand, Juanita Bruce, that I've come into this local thing with you to work for the issue as I believe it to be. I've given not a little thought and investigation and observation to the matter, for a good many years, and so have you. But I tell you, Juanita, your suffrage bee shall be proved a mere side issue in the final adjustment, whenever this does come, sooner or later. You and your adherents are diverting us from the main issue. We may lose it through you for years. For just to the extent that you do divert us you're putting the final outcome back." Aunt Juanita snorted and started to reply. Mrs. Higginson, using the gold eye-glasses in her hand, waved her to unwilling silence. "No, let me finish, Juanita, and then take your say. This is mine. I claim, and I'll go on claiming--I went up to your meeting in Rochester and stood for it from the platform. I'm going over to Chicago week after next and put it to 'em again from their platform. I claim that our rights, as you call 'em, will come to us as our capabilities push ahead of us, exactly as the flood follows the channel. I see it so plain, it's come to be an obsession with me. Let me illustrate. Take this town we live in, you and I. We're not the big mould of women now our mothers and our grandmothers were. Reasonable and intelligent administration of our homes and our servants and our income is the exception, and who shall say this town's not typical? For my part, my slogan is, and I'm here to cry it from your housetop, 'Organize and find out what's the matter.' Ability engendered among us, Juanita, and the rest of what you want will follow," Mrs. Higginson flipped the air again with her eye-glasses, "as the night the day." The clerical force drew breath. It was a thrilling and momentous morning! They wouldn't have missed it! "As the day the night is rather what my kind is demanding," from Aunt Juanita grimly. "We're benighted enough in all conscience now. Harriet Higginson, hear me. Not one woman in a hundred in this town, no, not one in five hundred or a thousand, owns a bank-book. I've investigated," grimly. "And if _this_ is so in this town, why not the same thing elsewhere?" The clerical force in blue felt this to be a sidelight. It brought in Tuttle Jones. Had he in the end secured the information for Aunt Juanita? How far away from this present battlefield seemed Tuttle and his world? Mrs. Higginson was replying. "H'm, now that's valuable data, Juanita, I owe you some gratitude for giving me that. Putting that with some conclusions I've arrived at myself, sheds light on my problem. The whole cause of our present economic unfitness as I see it in woman, may lie in this fact you give me--no bank account of her own. It's worth looking into. It's only fair a woman should handle and apportion the money through which she is expected to administer the home. And what I've discovered for myself is this. Not one woman in your thousand in this town knows the price of flour, or sugar, or bacon or any other staple she uses every day in her household, except as quoted to her at her nearest grocery. No, nor can tell you her running expenses of this year as compared with any other year under her management. Nor but is so harassed by the servant problem as it's grown to be, that her peace and comfort and almost her self-respect is undermined. And our mothers bequeathed us a wonderful article in servants here in the South, too, in the house-servants of slave-time. Organize and find out what's the matter, I say. If the fault's not in _us_, then find out where it is, even unto bank-books," laughing. "And at all events, Juanita," pacifically and smiling again, "we're agreed on one point, the essential point right now. Organize 'em. Put it to 'em, pro and con, you and I, and let 'em choose. But first, organize 'em." It _was_ a thrilling and momentous morning as may be seen! The clerical force in pink and the clerical force in blue, entirely unable to hold its mind to the task in hand, felt that they were in touch at last with issues, real issues, throbbing, vital and essential issues! And who shall say they were not? Though these issues, a quarter of a century old since then, are still open! And still open perhaps, and again who may say not, because as Mrs. Higginson claimed, the movement mistook the main issue? Undoubtedly it _was_ a thrilling and momentous morning. Youth is eager, youth is full of the ardor of impatient faith, youth is impressionable. It longs to be fired! It yearns for a cause! 'Rights' is a stirring word! 'Organize' is a new one! Had the clerical force found its cause at last? It wondered. On the way home at noon, Maud spoke to Selina. They were confused over a few matters. "Mrs. Bruce is all for rights, Selina, as if it were a personal thing. I don't suppose there can be a person alive, do you, who comes nearer doing as she pleases." "Just as nobody could be more capable than Mrs. Higginson with all that money and children and grandchildren, and the retinue of servants she's famous for running. Or maybe it's because they've each got what they stand for, that they want it for other women?" "'Rights,'" from Maud, ruminating. "It's a thrilling word, Selina. And 'organize' is a new one." "Slogan," corrected Selina, "that's what they called it." * * * * * That evening Culpepper and Mr. Welling and Preston Cannon were at the Wistars calling. By chance Maud and Juliette were over, too. Maud and Selina were eloquent about their new word. "Organize how and for what?" queried Mr. Cannon. "No, I'm not caviling, truly I'm not, I want to know?" So in a way did they, but they were not going to confess it. "For--uh--consolidation," from Maud grandly. "For--well--some general benefit," from Selina hesitatingly. "It's in the air," from Maud authoritatively. She'd heard Mrs. Bruce say it was. Little Judy, quiet as a rule of late, spoke here so suddenly and so unexpectedly, they all started. There seemed no haziness about it to Juliette. They hardly knew her these days. [Illustration: "Culpepper ... leaned over the back of her chair and spoke softly to her."] "It's an impelling," she said passionately. "We're all feeling it. Woman, I mean. It's driving us. We don't know where it's taking us. But it's mandatory. I wouldn't say it's not instinct." "What is?" asked Mr. Cannon breaking the silence which this astounding outbreak from Juliette left behind it momentarily. The young ladies, two of them at any rate, were indignant at his levity. Figuratively they turned their backs on Mr. Cannon and refused to answer him, and went on talking about the morning and its revelations and purposes to the others. * * * * * Culpepper came across to Selina presently and leaned over the back of her chair and spoke softly to her. His breath touched her cheek and her pretty ear. Her heart leaped, treacherous, traitorous heart! And the blood beat in her throat! "Honey, when you going to let me come and talk to you? School's over next week and I'll have to go home. I can't go on finding excuses for hanging around." CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Selina and Maud found themselves more and more thrilled with their work under Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Higginson. "It's the virus of content for one thing," said Maud grandly, "we are occupied, and then, too, of course, it's a cause." There were varying happenings which went with the cause. The business as the days went on, so overcrowded the library, that Aunt Juanita and Selina and the especial medium they worked in, newspaper articles to be compiled, and proofs of circulars from the printers to be corrected, overflowed into the dining-room and onto the dining-table. Mrs. Higginson and Maud in the library folded and directed and stamped all this data in its final form. Everyone was in earnest and the work engrossing. "You'll stay here to lunch," Aunt Juanita would direct. "There's no time to be wasted going off to hunt food." And the impatience in her voice for any quest so unreasonable and unnecessary as one for food, kept anybody from going. Nor did conveniences when they were not conveniences carry any weight with her. "No, certainly you can't have the dining-table," she told Hester on an occasion when they all did stay for lunch, and that person, cloth in hand, presented herself to set this piece of furniture for the meal. It was quite as if Hester had asked for something as irregular and preposterous as somebody's nose or ear. "Don't you see Miss Selina and I are using it? That it is piled with our papers? Put the food in dishes and set it around. Why ask me where?" exasperatedly. "Anywhere. We'll help ourselves when we get ready." And they did, from side-board, window-seat, and mantelpiece, without comment and with equanimity. And be it remarked it was excellent food. And excellently cooked. Trust a Bruce for that! They surprised you by such unexpected characteristics as knowing good food and having it! Another day Aunt Juanita departed betimes for the printer, leaving the others at their tasks. "What? What's that, Maud?" from Mrs. Higginson presently, looking about her as she stood up, tying on her bonnet, "Mrs. Bruce told you to get those circulars to the post-office when you finish them? Why there's five hundred of them! That's Juanita Bruce! Go home and get your lunches, both of you, and I'll send the carriage around here for you. It can take you to the office with the circulars, and wherever you'd like to go afterwards. Girls always have a round of calls to pay. Use it for the afternoon." And the Higginson carriage meant a pair as well and coachman and footman and liveries! "The greenhouses are going to waste," said this lady another day, "waiting for weather to get the flowers out into the beds. Come back in the carriage to lunch with me, both of you, and let the gardener cut you what you want." And the Higginson house meant pictures brought from abroad, and wonderful rugs, and articles of what Maud once inadvertently called virtue! The clerical force were thrilled and enraptured with their secretarial occupation! And it would seem, too, that the time was ripe for the cause which Aunt Juanita and Mrs. Higginson were furthering. Selina for proof of this had only to take the cases of her mother and Auntie. Mail from the outer and impersonal world, coming to either of these two, was so infrequent as to be negligible, their correspondence being altogether personal and intimate. When such mail began to come to both, circulars, and clippings and marked newspapers, despite the fact that their own Selina, or if not she, then Maud, was known to have directed them, they were impressed and fluttered, and put their sewing aside, needles in work, thimbles on sills, read it through with absorption and remark and comment. "'The Ladies' Library Club of Kalamazoo' is the oldest organization of the kind in the West," Mrs. Wistar would read aloud. "'Four book clubs recently were formed in the State of Pennsylvania.' I'm sure such affairs must be altogether beneficial in communities. We think too little no doubt of the things of the mind. Cultivation along such lines as would be proper in a book club would be stimulating for us all here in our community. Now take Anna, for instance," she referred to Cousin Anna Tomlinson on whom she turned thus testily every now and then, "no matter where she is, or what the occasion, she _never_ wants to talk about anything now but the dishonesty or the appetites of her servants. It's come to be wearing." "'The Cosmos Club of West Newburyport, Mass.,'" read Auntie whose vocabulary was circumscribed and confined to the familiar, darling soul, and who conceived of cosmos only as pink and white and magenta, grown on bushes and brought in in the fall and put about in vases, "Now I'd like to see something like a cosmos club started here among ourselves. I've always said it was an excellent plan to exchange seeds and cuttings and ideas with other flower lovers." Juliette Caldwell's pretty mother considered that she'd had a musical training in her day. Hadn't she studied a whole _year_ as a girl at the Conservatory of Music up in Cincinnati? She stopped Selina on the sidewalk to speak about a marked article in a paper sent to her. "It's really wonderful about that B-Sharp Club away out there in a little town in Dakota. I'm so tired when I'm through with the servants, or the no-servants, and the children and the house, I'd be grateful to any incentive which would send me to my piano again." Cousin Anna Tomlinson came by the Wistars with a circular report of various kinds of Woman's organizations. "The Ladies' Tourist Clubs? Are they parties for travel, Selina? I do get so tired when I go on a trip with your Cousin Willoughby, who won't let me do a thing or see a thing my way." Selina one day chanced to report these things to her Aunt Juanita and Mrs. Higginson. "I've known it for some while," assented her aunt. "I've not waited and worked, and worked and waited twelve years for this moment, not to recognize it when it comes. The time is ripe." Aunt Juanita spoke solemnly and as if genuinely moved. "I knew that when Mrs. Higginson and I started upon this local agitation and movement." "I've studied the situation nearly five years myself," from Mrs. Higginson. "Juanita is right, the time _is_ ripe, and the moment _is_ here!" It was the crucial moment! Both ladies admitted it! Acknowledged they had foreseen it and made ready for it! And then turned their backs upon it! Mrs. Bruce met her clerical force of two as they arrived at her door the next morning. It was near the end of May. "Important as I deem the cause here at home," she told Selina and Maud, "and I hold nothing higher than the arousing of the individual woman, Mrs. Higginson and I are called to Chicago. There's a chance that the demand by women for representation on the commission of the projected world's fair in Chicago is to be turned down. Mrs. Higginson hopes to be appointed one of these women representatives if the demand is granted to use the opportunity to spread her ideas about women among women. I am interested on principle. We go to-day." Here Mrs. Higginson arrived in her carriage to pick up Mrs. Bruce and her satchel. She got out and came in for a brief conference. "We had hoped to call on the women here in our own town and induce them to meet and organize this week. We may have to be in Chicago ten days, which will bring it well into June. By that time the various commencements and such are all on, and after them the summer exodus will have begun and the moment will be past. It's most unfortunate." CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX When Selina and Maud became converts to the cause of Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Higginson, they carried Adele and Juliette with them. They also offered of their enthusiasm and their enlightenment to Amanthus but she only looked at them wonderingly. The day after the two sponsors for the cause, Mrs. Higginson and Mrs. Bruce, deserted it, the four were gathered at the Wistars' in Selina's room, discussing the affair, when Amanthus walked in. "You _ought_ to be interested in what we're talking about, Amanthus," said Maud severely, "though you're not. It's a question involving every phase and--er--" Maud had lost the vocabulary of the article she was quoting, "every side of woman" she finished a little lamely. "You ought to be an espouser either for or against such a cause, or you ought to know at least, whether you consider it a cause." Amanthus heard Maudie out. How pretty she was in her attention that didn't do more than just attend. Then she laughed protestingly. The little wonder on her face, the bother in her eyes, made her sweet and irresistible. Made you want to protect and defend her! Want to shield her from the bothering Mauds of life with their perpetual attacks and innuendoes! "You're so queer, Maudie," smiling affectionately; "you and Judy and Adele, and, yes, Selina, too. You all do get so worked up. Last time it was about the reverting, or was it the reversion of the Scriptures? And whether you approve of it? I don't see what it is you all are always thinking you're about." She paused a perceptible time. Then she blushed, dazzlingly, radiantly. While they wasted themselves in all these puzzling fashions, _she_ had been about the real business of life. "Mr. Tate has asked Mamma if I may marry him." A mere puff from the May breeze ruffling the fruit tree outside the window of Selina's room could have felled her audience over. Their faces paled even to their red young lips. The first, she, their Amanthus, for _it_ to come to! _It_, the incredible, the barely formulated in thought, the well-nigh unuttered in phrase! They stared at her, and at each other about the room! It was a space before volition began to come back to them! And with the return of it, they remembered! Bliss' father had just put him into business, Bliss was working like a man, pretty Bliss, thinking it was for Amanthus! Amanthus the meanwhile was continuing to drop further startling information. "Mr. Tate is going to Germany. He wants to study. He says if Mamma will consent to let me be married at once, and all of us go over together, it will be better. We can live in any sort of way or fashion Mamma and I choose, he says. There's a great deal of money." Somebody gasped. It turned out to be Maud. Amanthus, sweet and unruffled and definite, was going on. "Mamma says, however, he's to go away. Quite away. And let her have the summer to take me about. We're going to Mamma's two cousins who married East, one at Narragansett, and one at Bar Harbor, and think it over. But I know now. Mamma needn't bother." Juliette more than ever these days was Spartan and accusing. She spared not herself nor anyone. Her aquiline little face blazed and her dark eyes flashed. "How do you reconcile it with yourself about Bliss?" Amanthus colored. "I don't have to. I told him it was a boy and girl affair all the time. It never would have been Bliss anyhow. There have been several this winter I haven't talked about." That night Culpepper and Mr. Welling and Mr. Cannon came around again to Selina's. As if drawn back by a common need of fellowship, Maud and Juliette and Adele were there. "Wonderful old Tate!" said Mr. Welling. "He's just broken it to us." The four were silent. Maud was by Selina on the sofa, and Juliette who was sitting by Adele, had her hand. They avoided Mr. Welling's eyes, and the eyes of each other. As Amanthus herself had said, they took things hard. Probe beneath this affair of hers with anybody, they could not. Nor could they bring themselves to mention Mr. Tate. It was as if silently and desperately they sought support in each other only, and clung together. Perhaps the others understood. "Fool Bliss," said Culpepper, "but then he always has been." They could not discuss that either. "How's the cause?" from Mr. Cannon suddenly. He having indulged in levity concerning it, was in disgrace in that respect. The ladies eyed him doubtfully, and questioningly. "But I mean it. No cavil. Who do you think called me up at the law class to-day? Got the first private telephone line in town, just put in, lively old girl! Aunt Jinnie Hines Cumming, _ætat_. eighty-three! She was vigorously and impatiently saying, 'Hurrah,' 'hurrah,' instead of 'Hello,' when I got to the receiver, having forgotten the cabalistic word, but that's small detail. She promptly went on to tell me over the telephone that she's always considered women such fools--her words, not mine, ladies--she'd like to see 'em started toward some sort of mitigation of their condition before she died--that she'd been getting all sorts of data through the mail of late about women--that of course, she knew it came from Juanita Bruce and Harriet Higginson. But nevertheless it had given her an idea, and would I come round there?" From Maud, "Of all people, even more than Mrs. Higginson, the right one!" From Juliette, "Do you suppose she _really_ means to do it?" From Selina, "Does she know how unfortunately Aunt Juanita and Mrs. Higginson were called away? We've got the lists of names and all the data. Oh, go on and tell us, did you go?" From Adele, "If anybody can put it through, Mrs. Cumming can!" Mr. Cannon rubbed his hands and eyed his audience delightsomely. "My Aunt Jinnie Cumming, _ætat_. eighty-three, sent for me in my legal status, to tell her how to go about it! She proposes to organize!" CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN It was a momentous assemblage, that gathering of ladies who responded to the call of their erstwhile social leader, Mrs. Jinnie Hines Cumming. This octogenarian person, about to go away for the summer with her two maids and her six trunks when the idea struck her, delayed her going but declined to have the covers taken off the furniture in her drawing-room. "Never put yourself out for women," was her explanation of this to Preston Cannon, her nephew. "If they think you overvalue them, they undervalue you, and the other way round for the reverse of the proposition." Consequently the meeting came to order in due time in Mrs. Cumming's less formal library, which she declared was easier to unswathe and put in order. Thanks to the beneficent offices of Preston Cannon, right hand for all the ladies concerned in planning the affair, Miss Selina Wistar, Miss Maud Addison and Miss Adele Carter were present, established in the dining-room opening off the library in the combined callings of ushers, pages and tellers. It wasn't strictly parliamentary that they should be there, and years afterwards they turned on him and told him so, but then they were only thrilled and excited and grateful to him for arranging it with Mrs. Cumming. On the afternoon in question the three wearing immaculate white dresses, and seated at a small table just inside the door leading from the dining-room into the library, with trays of papers and pencils in readiness, watched the ladies surge in, in pairs, trios and groups, and find chairs. Adele leaned across to speak to Maud and Selina. She had on a white sailor hat with scarlet cherries on it, fruit being the rage in millinery this season, a jaunty type which didn't at all suit her. "How would it do to take some notes of the meeting for Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Higginson? They'll want to know everything." Conscientious Adele! Maud looked stunning in her new white hat with crystallized grapes on it. "Better than that," she whispered in reply, "Selina and I are going to telegraph 'em when the meeting's over. We have their address." Selina had been considerably worried over Mamma's extravagance for her this spring, but since she could not combat it, looked rather nice herself in a soft-brimmed leghorn with a wreath of strawberries, both blossoms and fruit, upon it. She leaned across the table in her turn. "We're going to the telegraph office before we go home. Come with us. Thanks to Maud the message is written out in telling style." "I felt it was a significant moment," said Maud, "a moment we may be proud to feel we witnessed. And I felt the message ought to be epigrammatic in a way and worthy of it. Read it, Selina." Selina produced it from her pocket-book and read it softly, the library filling rapidly with ladies by now: Organization effected. Mrs. Cumming responsible. Congratulations. Our rights and our realms our platform. It was a representative gathering, this, in the library of old Mrs. Cumming. Summer silks, summer grenadines, buntings, and this latest thing, French satines, abounded. While fashion this season decreed trains which swept pavements and floors impassively, the marked characteristic of the hour was bustles. And if bonnets predominated over hats, the bonnets made up for any over-sedateness in form by their wealth in that rage of the moment mentioned, fruit in every shape known to millinery if not to pomology. Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle was there, Mrs. Alicia Tuttle Jones was there, and also Mrs. Jones' three married stepdaughters. Mrs. William Williams was there, and Mrs. Carter, mother of Adele, and Mrs. Grosvenor, her grandmother, Mrs. Harrison, very lovely and very charming and smiling, Mrs. Addison, Mrs. Caldwell, Selina's little mother, Mrs. Wistar, and Auntie and Cousin Anna Tomlinson. And besides these, serried ranks of others even the more impressive because the less well known. "Mrs. Cumming ordered a hundred chairs from the undertaker's, though she wouldn't have this known, every confectioner in town chancing to have his engaged for this afternoon or this evening, I know that," whispered Selina to Maud and Adele, "for Mr. Cannon said so, and there are just ten vacant." Here Mrs. Jinnie Cumming rose from her chair in the front row of the audience, tottery but equal to it, game old girl, as Preston Cannon said of her. And deliberately reading the instructions furnished her by her nephew through her lorgnette after she had risen, found what she wanted, asked somebody near by to pound a chair back, and call the meeting to order. Having gotten it to order, and its attention fixed on herself, she told the ninety ladies gathered in her library that they knew as well as she did what they were there for, or ought to know if they had read the card she'd sent 'em. And thereupon asked Mrs. Alicia Tuttle Jones to take the chair. Mrs. Jones in grenadine, trained and bustled, and red blackberries, had prepared herself for this, so it was understood afterwards, having been told beforehand. She swung matters deftly along from this point, being a capable person and a Tuttle. When Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle in turn should pass the social scepter to the next in line, there was very little doubt as to who hoped to be qualified to receive it. With a few graceful phrases explaining the reasons for their presence here this afternoon, Mrs. Jones appointed a secretary, and this done came to the point. "Since we are here, because we are really interested, ladies, will someone tell us a little of what women are doing elsewhere?" Mrs. William Williams, Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Wistar all got up. Mrs. Wistar explained afterwards that however disinclined she might have felt to do so, there was no choice left her, being Juanita's sister. Mrs. Williams whose bodily proportions were by far the larger of the three, and wearing a summer silk of green, a bustle, and a bonnet with gooseberries, was recognized by the chair, and the other two ladies sat down. Whereupon Mrs. Williams with a sudden change of countenance, looked about her as if for help, colored violently and sat down herself. It was as startling as it was uncharacteristic, and the first exhibition of club-fright witnessed by any of the company. It added verve to the occasion. Mrs. Carter now arose, in bunting, bustle and pink raspberries, smiling and propitiatory. Not for worlds, so said her manner, would she have it thought that she was covering Mrs. Williams' confusion. [Illustration: "'More uplift, more culture is the cry of the moment.'"] "It would seem, ladies, that women everywhere are awaking to a need of more uplift in their lives, are realizing that their lives on the whole are starved. In proof of this, book-clubs, magazine clubs, culture clubs are forming all over this land of ours. More uplift, more culture is the cry of the moment among our sex." One recalled the nature of periodical at the Carter house that no one read but Adele! "And who of us but rejoices that women are awake to this need in themselves?" Mrs. Wistar arose, all of five feet four, but none the less impressive and none the less herself for that. "She was a Livingston, too, like Mrs. Bruce," somebody whispered to somebody. "In our leisure," Mrs. Wistar deplored, "and I hope it is not disloyal to say it, women are too inclined to talk recipes and seamstresses and servants to the exclusion of more elevating and uplifting topics." Was she getting back at Cousin Anna? "From the information on the subject we all have been receiving recently, it would seem woman is lifting the plane of her life to things more worth while. As one eloquent article written by a woman herself, ably puts it, 'Woman has for too long allowed herself to become subdued to the thing she works in.' In other words, as the writer goes on to explain, domesticity." At a signal from the chair that her time was up, Mrs. Wistar sat down, and in compliance with a previous understanding between Mrs. Jones, Mrs, Cumming and Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle, Mrs. Tuttle arose, resplendent, as becomes a leader, in purple silk and train, nature having provided the bustle, and purple and green grapes combined with a modest crop of seckel pears upon her bonnet. She arose and moved that the body of women present organize themselves into a club for purposes to be set forth following organization. Seconded by Mrs. Sally Jones Sampson, and also by Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle herself, in a loud voice, she being on ground new to her, it was put to the vote without remark, Mrs. Jones failing to recall she ought to ask for any; and unanimously adopted. "And the name of this club, ladies?" from Mrs. Jones in the chair. "Perhaps the name will better follow after we determine the club's purposes?" from Mrs. Harrison on her feet for the moment, lovely and smiling in grenadine, bustle, and bonnet garniture of small oranges. "Music," called pretty Mrs. Caldwell in a checked silk, bustle and huckleberries. "Literature," from Mrs. Carter, she of the pink raspberries. "Art," from Mrs. Williams, recovered, with a reviving nod of her gooseberries. "Or," from little Mrs. Wistar impressively arising--surely this lady had belonged to the ranks of the retiring and deprecating only because the way had never opened to her to be elsewhere! "Or may we not include _all_ of these suggestions, and say music, art _and_ literature?" A newcomer, late in arriving, stood up, in a wool street dress, plain but perfectly decent and genteel, though lacking a bustle. It was Miss Emma McRanney, in a plain straw hat, poor, working creature, large of feature, thick-set and good-humored. "Ladies, it may be well here to remind ourselves of the two persons who've done most toward this end of organization and common fellowship among us. And who most regrettably to themselves and to us, I hope I may say, are not with us to-day. I speak, of course, of Mrs. Aurelius Bruce and Mrs. Amos Higginson, who have given of themselves and their time and their money to bring about the present occasion. And I would like to recall that each of these ladies has a conviction which she feels should be at base of any such organization of women as we are effecting now. Convictions which, I'm sure you'll all agree with me, we owe it to them to consider." A murmur went around the ninety ladies, and Mrs. Jones bowed graciously from the chair in recognition of the general agreement to this. Miss Emma McRanney went on. "One of these ladies, Mrs. Bruce, believes and has believed for years that the great factor in the future of woman is suffrage. Mrs. Higginson's conviction is as strong that woman will come into her larger sphere and wider field of usefulness through a better understanding of her own present business of domesticity. I am merely the mouthpiece of Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Higginson, ladies, with whose views I chance to be familiar. They, hearing of the meeting through Mrs. Cumming, who telegraphed them in Chicago to such effect, have replied asking that their views be presented to you this afternoon, and at the request of Mrs. Cumming I am here to do it. Mrs. Bruce believes that the platform of this or any other organization of women for woman's own betterment must be suffrage. Mrs. Higginson maintains that such a club at start should be a forum and clearing-house for the broadening and enlightenment of women as home administrators." But murmurs were many: currants were nodding in emphatic refutation to cherries, blackberries to quinces, apples to gooseberries. Milliners might dictate their common absurdities in head-gear; mantua-makers in dress styles, but not Mrs. Bruce or Mrs. Higginson, hopeless dressers both, their business to these ladies! Denunciations grew audible. Remarks, while unofficial and made from lady to lady, nevertheless, were to one end. "Suffrage, with all apologies to Mrs. Bruce," said some apricots to some Concord grapes next to 'em, "simply stands with and for freaks. Who'd want to look like Mrs. Bruce?" "And domesticity is exactly what we're running away from," returned the grapes, outraged. "We want to turn our backs for a while on the servant problem and its vexations." As a unit the ninety were against Miss Emma McRanney! One only was to rise to her support, and that one Mrs. Jinnie Hines Cumming! Miss McRanney was still speaking. "If woman in any numbers is to become a self-supporting and economic factor, and it looks as if she were going to have to, it's only fair she ask for her part in making the laws she'll work under. And if woman is to be a self-supporting factor as well as a homemaker, it's only wisdom on her part to get about fitting herself to do both things." Mrs. Cumming having struggled up out of her chair by means of her cane, was on her old feet now. "If woman's going to be an economic factor, she's a long ways to travel before she'll be one. If she hopes to see herself arrive she'd better set about starting." Cousin Anna Tomlinson, of all persons, in grenadine, bustle and plums, was on her feet and being recognized by the chair. When one saw her fumbling for her pince-nez, as she called her eye-glasses, and having found the same, peer about until the angle desired was obtained between them and a slip of paper in her hand, it grew clear that she was recognized for reasons, someone, pushing her to her feet as a mouthpiece, having put the paper there. Mrs. Sally Jones Sampson and her clique in truth had put it there, scribbling it hastily on a bit of paper secured from those young girl pages, Mrs, Sampson's clique including Mrs. Williams, Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Grosvenor, and, yes, Mrs. Wistar, a very bright spot on either cheek, torn from the cause of her sister Juanita by the compelling magic of that call to culture. "It is moved," read Cousin Anna Tomlinson stumblingly, and continuing to shift her glasses to keep the angle "that the purpose of this organization of women be for the furthering of its members in the arts, including music and literature, and indirectly the community in which it lives----" This being seconded by loud acclaim, it was promptly put to the vote and adopted with applause, before it was realized Mrs. Tomlinson was still on her feet and still by the aid of her pince-nez endeavoring to complete her motion. "--and further that the name of this organization be The Woman's Culture Club of Blankington." Mrs. Wistar, an even brighter spot on either cheek, was on her feet at this. Truly a star too long eclipsed, she spun madly in this sky of sudden opportunity. Auntie next her, dear soul, sought to restrain her. "At least _act_ as if you remembered Juanita," she begged in a cautious whisper, "if only for the looks of the thing, Lavinia." But Mrs. Wistar shook Ann Eliza's hand off her arm. She had scented culture and it had fired her brain. She even would hold them to culture's finer distinctions. "I rise to deplore Mrs. Tomlinson's use of the word woman. And would suggest that in its place she substitute the customary and more pleasing word, lady." Mrs. Jinnie Cumming at that last reseating of her old self had shown fatigue. But at this she emerged again, reached out a veined and withered hand for a grip on the wrist of her nearest neighbor and pulled herself to her feet. Shrewd and dry she gazed around. Her old eyes ran appraisingly over the faces of that assemblage. With here and there a sophisticated one, as in the cases of Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Carter, for the most these ninety women's faces were naïve, credulous, pleased, the faces of children grown to maturity, eager, excited. Mrs. Jinnie Cumming took her time in surveying them. Ninety women, most of whom she considered fools, if one believed her statements, couldn't hurry _her_! She even communed with herself. "Our mothers and our grandmothers were women with women's capacities. Nobody shielded them as these weakling creatures have been shielded. The world and its brutal facts met 'em square, and sophisticated 'em. I go back eighty years myself and I remember 'em." Whereupon she spoke. "I rise for two things, ladies. The first is to put myself on record with Miss McRanney, Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Higginson and to say that by the platform you've just adopted you've set the impulse among you back into dilettantism by--who shall say how many years? And next to say that I take issue with the last speaker who would have the word _lady_ substituted for that of _woman_ in the name of this organization. It is my feeling the day of the lady, so denominated, is passing, and the hour of woman is come." * * * * * "Great old girl," said Preston Cannon when he heard about it afterwards. But that was later. Right now the meeting adjourned, after the appointment of committees to draw up working plans. And as Mrs. Jinnie Cumming tottered out with the assistance of her maid, the ninety ladies followed in pairs, in trios, and groups; in grenadines, silks, buntings and bustles; in apricots, apples, peaches and plums; whereupon the young girl page and usher, Selina Wistar, slim and fair and aghast, beneath a wreath of strawberries and their blossoms, looked at her companion pages and ushers, Maud Allison beneath white grapes crystallized, and Adele Carter in her jaunty hat with cherries that didn't suit her. "And we have to break it to Aunt Juanita and Mrs. Higginson!" said Selina. Tears were in her eyes. Tears of outrage and indignation! She seemed to have glimpsed something for her sex that loomed big and pertinent! And here was an end to it! "Where's the telegram?" asked Maud tersely. Selina produced and unfolded it and the three of them read it over: Organization effected. Mrs. Cumming responsible. Congratulations. Our rights and our realms our platform. "We can't send that," said Maud. "Give it to me." She seized a pencil from the table and edited the message sternly. Organization effected. Mrs. Cumming not responsible. Apologies. Our rights and our realms rejected. At which light seemed to break upon Maud! And she saw things through a revealing sense of proportion. Glimpsed humor and truth which go to make proportion at last! "They'll be as funny in their war-paint, hunting culture, as we've been carrying around the wisdom that was to die with us!" * * * * * And all the while during this afternoon a note lay in Selina's pocket-book, along with that telegram, a note written on French gray paper, embossed and monogrammed The postman had handed it to her at her gate and she had read it on the way here. The contents came back to her as later, after sending the telegram she walked home in company with Maud and Adele. My dear Selina, I am going as usual to my cottage at the Virginia springs about the middle of June. Bereft of companionship by the marriage of the last daughter in our family, it occurs to me to wonder if you will come and be my guest for July? Tuttle's vacation will lend him to us for part of that time. I need hardly say that he adds his entreaties to mine. Affectionately and sincerely yours, ALICIA TUTTLE JONES. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Selina, reaching home a bit before dinner, read and re-read her note from Mrs. Jones. The springs in Virginia! She felt she knew all that this meant, and knew, too, what it would mean to be the young guest of Mrs. Samuel Jones at her cottage at these springs! After dinner, for some reason she couldn't define, she took the note, not to her mother, but her father. He was alone downstairs with his paper. He looked worn and tired, even a bit broken and haggard. Standing by his chair while he read the letter, she slipped an arm about his shoulders, though again she could not have explained why. His free hand went up, sought her hand there on his shoulder and closed on it. He sat quite still after he had finished the reading, his eyes on the sheet of paper lowered to his knee. For a full minute he did not speak. Then: "Tuttle has made no secret of what he means, Selina. Let's be very honest about it. Are you ready then to accept this invitation at his mother's hands?" "Papa!" piteously. "Unless your own mind is quite made up, I don't think you can accept it. How about it? Do you know what you want?" "Papa!" this time beseechingly. [Illustration: "For a full minute he did not speak."] "Think it over, little daughter, and then come back and tell me what you decide." "I have thought it over, Papa." "The world and the flesh and a very decent and reputable young fellow, Selina?" "Papa, please don't!" "Come around here to me, where I can look at you, Selina." And when she had come, and he had drawn her down on the arm of the chair, he took her face in his hand and studied it, the eyes above all. Then he stood up, drew her to him and kissed her. "We'll decide you won't go, little daughter. Let us say it's a case where we'll give the doubt the benefit for a while yet." "Must I tell Mamma about the note, and about my answer to it, Papa?" "Certainly. Why do you ask?" "She's going to be put out. It's almost a pity she has to know. And, Papa, I'm worried about the money she's spending on clothes for me this summer! She's done it because she's pleased to have me going with Tuttle." * * * * * Selina stood before the mirror in her room, dressing for a barge party up the river. It was the first one of the season and the program was always the same. The crowd met in couples at some agreed on starting-point near the street-car line. On this occasion Cousin Anna's front porch was to be that spot by permission. From here they went down in the car to the river, descended the steep levee to the boathouse, and getting started a moment or so before sunset, if they had luck, rowed up the river a dozen miles to a certain favored spot, ate supper and floating down after the moon was up, reached the boathouse in time for an hour's dancing before going home. With care, Selina told herself as she stood there at her mirror, one can wear a best white dress on such an affair and not get it _too_ dabby. She'd compromise by wearing a ribbon belt and not a sash. Culpepper didn't dance, didn't care for foolishness, was the way he put it, but was going. So were Preston Cannon and Mr. Welling. The rooms over the confectionery were given up, and the three were leaving for their homes in the state to-morrow. Mr. Tate had already gone, sailing from New York for Germany this very day. Tuttle Jones was not of the party, which consisted of Selina's world, a world that Tuttle didn't trouble with. He had been very nice over her declining his mother's invitation. "I was afraid perhaps you wouldn't see your way to it," he said. "I'll only be there with my mother two weeks anyhow. We can put in a very decent time here together, at home." Selina, her dressing completed, caught up her jacket from the bed and went into her mother's room. Culpepper was downstairs waiting for her. "Mamma, will I do? It's the end of the old things, you know, a real breaking up, and I want to look nice." "I thought you were saving that dress to go with Tuttle to call on his cousins to-morrow night," from Mamma. "The older one would have done perfectly well. Yes, you took very nice." "You look more than nice," from Auntie emphatically. "You're looking your best, Selina. If you need the dress for to-morrow night, I'll press it for you." Cousin Anna's porch was gay with the assembled bevy of them. Mr. Welling was with Maud, Mr. Cannon with Adele, and Bliss--yes, poor foolish Bliss, for the last time and at his own behest--was with Amanthus. Then there were Tommy and Tod Bacon and their visiting girl cousins and Brent Wild and Sam Rand for extras. Cousin Anna came out on the porch and shook hands around and laughed at their nonsense and pressed ice-water upon them. Nobody wanted any but still that was a good deal from Cousin Anna in the way of hospitality. Amanthus spoke of her plans to Selina and Maud while they were waiting for Juliette and Algy to come. She was sweet and definite. "Mamma and I are going on to Narragansett and then Bar Harbor, the day after to-morrow. I had a note from your Mr. Cyril Doe, Selina, the other day, I haven't seen you to tell you, written from Ottawa, and he _will_ be in Bar Harbor like he said. Later in the summer Mamma and I go to England and Mr. Tate will meet us there, and we'll be married in London." "What'll you call him?" from Maud, which was altogether nasty of her. "You can't bring yourself to say Lemuel, can you?" "Lemuel is a very good name," from Amanthus with dignity, "and besides his middle name is Worthington and we'll probably call him that." Algy and Juliette came hurrying up just as the rest of them, tired of waiting, were boarding the street car. Juliette across the car aisle, now they could see her, looked pale. She had on her last winter's scarlet coat over a last summer's old white dress and looked dabby, poor, little, dark-eyed gypsy. But when a girl _won't_ take the money her father offers her to buy any new summer clothes---- She had studied too hard, they all knew that. And for nothing. The examinations were but two days off now, in Cincinnati. There had been a final scene and row at her house recently, when she demanded again of her father that she be allowed to go, and again was refused with an almost brutal outburst of temper. "And he said I'm under age," Juliette told Selina and Maud the day after this, "and if I ran off and started as I intimated I'd do, he could bring me back." Juliette with Algy at her side was with the crowd as they left the car, and with baskets, wraps, and what not, went down the steep, rock-paved levee, to the river at its foot, rolling broad and serene, the evening ferryboats just starting on their pilgrimages, and a steamboat here and there laid up at its wharf, the red of the sun at the horizon line, turning their white paint to rosiness. And Juliette and Algy went aboard the boathouse with them, everybody again was sure of that. Though the men couldn't recall that Algy was at his locker when they were at their own, getting into boating togs, and the girls spending their time out on the guards looking at the sunset on the water could not remember Juliette being with them. One thing was sure. After the two barges were well started under the long strokes of the rowers, and as far on their way as the upper bridge, it was discovered that neither boat contained Juliette or Algy. A halt following this discovery and a bringing of the barges alongside each other brought a bit of testimony from Tod Bacon. "I saw them in one of the sculls before we got the barges out of the boathouse. I reckon they've plans of their own." There was a good deal of grumbling over the absence of Algy when they landed for supper on the high, woody bank that overswept the river up and down in a mighty stretch of view. Algy always built the fire, and went to the nearest farmhouse for water, and fetched and carried generally. The girls were unpacking the baskets and Maud had produced a tablecloth. "Here, give me the bucket and I'll get the water," grumbled Culpepper, "but the rest of you fellows busy yourselves with the fire." * * * * * It was wonderful always, floating back those twelve miles downstream by moonlight. And such moonlight as there was to-night! One wondered what Amanthus found to say to Bliss. Culpepper with his orange and black blazer over his boating togs was lolling back in the stern of their barge beside Selina, and she said as much to him. He answered good-humoredly, "It isn't Amanthus' business in life to say, as she's often told you. She won't try to say." Tod Bacon, that nice boy, and Sam Rand, had their mandolins. Their clever picking of the strings ting-ling-a-linged over the broad waters. "Honey, I'm going home to-morrow," said Culpepper, laying hold of a bit of Selina's jacket as it lay unused on her lap and openly fondling it while his eyes sought her face in the moonlight. "You haven't let me talk to you yet? What are you going to do about it?" And here Culpepper's hand, his big, firm hand leaving the cloak he had used for a blind, found her hand. Culpepper took what he wanted of life and people! She had said so before! And resented it! She regained her hand. He didn't seem to hold it against her and went back to his fondling of the jacket. "What you going to do about it, honey?" "Tell you good-bye and a nice summer," said Selina briskly, moving her jacket. "I don't want to hear you talk, as you call it, Culpepper." "Well, I'll be back," from this young gentleman, still without resentment. "My mother has entered me in the best law firm in your town; isn't she the first-class fellow? And I come down to start in August." * * * * * Patently Juliette and Algy did have their own plans and as patently didn't care to discuss them. They were at the boat-club waiting when the others arrived, and it was plain they neither of them cared to talk. Juliette's white dress under the scarlet coat looked dabbier, and she was altogether pale. She danced a little with the rest of them at the start, Tod Bacon, blessed boy, at the piano, but after that sat by herself, tired, she said. But when Algy, after prowling in the lunch baskets, brought her a sandwich and a bottle with shrub in it, she obediently ate the one, and when he had found a glass and got ice from the janitor, drank the other. Algy, big, splendid dear, looked pale himself, and with his straight features so unwontedly grown-up and stern, even looked gaunt. Mr. Welling, romping rather than waltzing by with one of the Bacon cousins, called to Algy. "_'Oh, swiftly glides the bonnie scull!'_ Or did it, Algy?" "Aw, I don't know what you mean," said Algy crossly. "Lemme alone, can't you, Welling?" * * * * * The next morning they learned what the temporary disappearance of Juliette and Algy the night before meant. The Wistars were at breakfast when Maud came flying over and into the dining-room. In her blue gingham dress, her red-brown hair was glorious, but her eyes were big and her cheeks white. At sight of her, Selina in a fresh gingham herself, divined something amiss and rose to meet her. Maud in her blue dress, threw herself upon Selina in her pink one, and burst into tears. "Juliette went across the river last night when we missed her, and was married to Algy!" Selina clutched at Maud and they stayed each other. The exclamations of Mamma and Auntie, and the question or two from Papa, reached them, as it were, from far away. Then Maud recovered herself. She had a tale to unfold and must be at the business! "I was at my window dressing, up a bit earlier than usual to work on my German verses, at my bay window, Selina, that looks out on the Caldwells. And I saw Algy arrive and come round the side way, and whistle real softly under Juliette's window. And after a minute Juliette came out the side-door with her hat and jacket and her gloves on, carrying her satchel. And I called to 'em and hurried down and met 'em at the gate and they told me they were married last night. Algy had come round to take her and put her on the train for Cincinnati. He entered her by telegraph last night for the examinations as Juliette Caldwell Biggs. She isn't of age, you see, Mr. Wistar, and her father told her he'd stop her if she tried to go." [Illustration: "And whistled real softly under Juliette's window."] "Judy!" from Selina, weeping anew. "That little, tiny, pretty, breakable Judy!" "I've known little tiny, pretty people myself," from Papa with humor. "It doesn't always preclude determination." "Determination," retorted Mamma. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Wistar. I call it self-will in Juliette that's outrageous." "Mamma!" from Selina. "I haven't finished," from Maudie, wiping her eyes and looking up. "After she's taken her examination, she's going to her college cousin up in Ohio, to wait and see if she passes. But she'll pass, we all know Juliette. And from there she'll enter college next fall. Juliette's written letters to send back to her grandfathers to see if either of them will help her through her college course with money. And if they won't she'll let Algy lend her enough to get her through." "Algy!" from Mamma, scandalized, "doesn't she realize he's her _husband_?" "Algy put her through _college_?" from Auntie bewildered. "Doesn't she understand she's _married_?" Maud looked startled. She seemed to be seeing it in this light for the first time herself. "I--I don't believe she does. I don't believe it's occurred to Juliette that way at all. But," brightening, "Algy won't expect her to. He's sure to understand. He's always been that way; hasn't he, Selina?" Selina nodded in corroboration. "Accommodating, you know," further elucidated Maud, "and--er--perfectly willing to be--well--an expedient." "Expedient!" from Mamma, "And you're speaking of the girl's _husband_?" "Glorious," from Papa. "We've often thought it about ourselves, we husbands, but it takes the younger generation to admit it." "I don't like this levity," from Auntie, "my head's all in a whirl and I don't understand," piteously. "Marriage is a solemn thing and carries heavy obligations. Hasn't she thought at all of what a very great deal she's taking for granted in this young man? In Algy?" Darling Auntie! "Selina," from her father, "take your auntie's cup out to Viney and get her some fresh coffee. I do believe she's honestly pale. Woman's being driven willy-nilly, to and fro, up and down, finding herself these days, don't you realize that, big Sis? What's a mere Algy or two in the final issue?" "Marriage is a solemn thing and carries obligations," insisted Auntie still piteously. Then she rose for her to vast heights. "For a woman to marry for any end but the one, is like using the chalice of the holy sacrament as a basket to carry her own wares to market." CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE Mamma, who so rarely betrayed herself by an open admission of her real state of mind, sat by the window crying softly. Auntie, at her window, moved heavily as through the act to expend some of her ponderous energy. "I've always felt there _must_ be something wrong with our way of managing, Lavinia? Do you suppose it would have worked better if we'd ever had a _plan_ to fit our expenses to, or made Robert agree as to just _what_ we might have to go on?" "If you think you could have done it better than I have, Ann Eliza--" from Mamma, a bright spot on either cheek as she raised her head and faced her sister-in-law. Little lady, only forty-two now, and meant by heaven to be pretty if instead she had not to be so anxiously perturbed! "How bad _is_ it, Lavinia?" from Auntie. A light footstep sounded along the hall and Selina paused in her mother's doorway. It was September and, after the long summer, pleasures and activities were starting up. She had been to the theater with Tuttle last night, and this morning was allowed to have her sleep out. Here at half-past nine she was just coming up from her breakfast! This Selina standing there in the doorway, looking from her mother to her aunt, was nineteen now and past, but beneath something of gravity now in the face under the very lovely hair, she still was sweet and loving and anxious. "How bad _is_ it, Lavinia?" Auntie was saying. Mamma looking across to the door saw her child. "Come in, Selina. You've heard as much, and you may as well hear the rest. There's no money for Viney. Last month's bills all lapsed over because Robert told me I'd have to wait. And now they've come in with this month's bills. The iceman's been here three times." Here Mamma's hands dropped into her lap with a gesture that carried dismay to the others. It was the gesture of one who abjures any further responsibility, of one who steps aside. No defence was left in her, no air of anxious justification. She would state the whole, her manner seemed to say, without reserve and without mincing, and let somebody else face the issue. The face of this older Selina, standing there in the doorway, had gathered something of decision, too, and something of the inner steady flame that comes with this gain in character. "How has Papa explained it, Mamma? What did he say when he told you that you would have to wait?" "He didn't explain and I didn't like to ask. It's been clear he was worried all along through the summer." "Mamma, I think you should have asked. Or I think Papa should have told you, so you wouldn't have to ask." Mamma made no defence, showed no disposition to reprove, or yet to resent. She searched around for her pocket-handkerchief again, found it, and resumed her crying. "You said something about it to Robert at the breakfast table this morning, Lavinia?" reminded Auntie. Mamma conceded this from behind the handkerchief at her eyes. "You said, 'Robert, you didn't get in from the office till one o'clock last night, and you didn't come up to bed till past three? What _is_ the matter? And this thing of no money again for the bills? What _does_ it all mean?'" Mamma lifted her head again. Her spirit had returned. "And he said," she spoke indignantly, "'For God's sake, Lavinia, when I'm trying to spare you as long as I can, don't come at me now with questions.' I didn't ask him to spare me!" with spirit. "I'm tired of pretending his way of keeping me in the dark's right. I've been pretending so when I didn't feel so for twenty years. I'm going to say it out now. And I didn't ask him to spare me. I asked him to tell me." "Mamma, little Mamma!" from Selina, hurrying across the room to her side. "Of course I wasn't competent at first, and proved I couldn't be trusted with money and the rest of it. I never had been trusted with anything. My mother bought my clothes and my father took the bills from her and paid them. But it doesn't go to prove I couldn't have been made trustworthy if Robert had been patient and showed me a little and trusted me till I could." "Lavinia," from Auntie piteously, "I've misjudged you. You wouldn't criticize Robert and you wouldn't allow anyone else to criticize him before you?" Mamma had resumed her soft crying and Selina was on her knees by her, trying to comfort her. "Have you any idea what _is_ the matter, Mamma? The matter with Papa's affairs, I mean?" "He's been worried all summer, and you've seen for yourself how haggard he's come to be. There was some talk of his losing his two best agencies last spring. The rest of the business doesn't amount to much, and I'm afraid it must be that he's lost them." "Mamma, don't you think we've a right to know? I'll go down to him at his office now, if you're willing I may, and ask him? I'll dress and go down to him, if you'll let me?" "I'm through," said her mother, "I feel that I've failed. The heart's gone out of me. Do what you please." Matters this time were past the point where Selina felt at all that she wanted to cry. She went quietly back to her room and set about putting things in order with rather more faithfulness than usual, the while thinking and planning her morning so that she might go to her father as she said. It was past ten o'clock. By the time she dressed and started it would be near or quite eleven. At one o'clock, Tuttle Jones, his mother, Mrs. Sampson, his sister, and a bevy of young people were coming by for her in a tally-ho driven by Tuttle. Their destination was the jockey-club, where they would have lunch before the races, the fall trots opening to-day. Selina had never been to a clubhouse, and for knowledge of races had seen a derby once in company with her father and Culpepper. But she would have given all chances to come of ever seeing the one or the other, if she'd known how to get out of going to-day. Her soul was sick and also her spirit. Papa, haggard and broken! And Mamma turned on him with reproach, after giving up the fight! And yet this coaching-party was result of the discovery by Tuttle that she, Selina, never had been to so routine a thing as the race-course clubhouse, or to so perfunctory a piece of business as the trotting races. His manner concerning these sins of omission in her bringing-up was perfect, but he filled up the blanks in her all too meager experience as rapidly as possible after discovery. Mrs. Gwinne Tuttle had given her nephew's point of view on the social obligation to Selina one day when she had her out driving. "Tuttle will endeavor to meet his God with a perfect manner and calmly. He'd feel he'd failed 'em both to show gaucherie or surprise. And Tuttle's devout." * * * * * About eleven o'clock Selina showed herself at her mother's door again. She had on a summer silk in biscuit tones, one of Mamma's several extravagances for her that had worried her this summer and her leghorn hat with its wreath. And she was carrying Mamma's further extravagance for her, a silk dust-coat. Tuttle had a smart trap and a fast roadster, and throughout the summer had come around about an hour before sundown to take her for a spin out the avenue, or through town and out the country road following the banks of the river. Mamma said this made a coat for her imperative. Also, as she stood here in the door, she held in her hand a parasol, biscuit-colored too, with a rose lining. Mamma had noticed that everybody in traps or stanhopes, every lady that is, starting forth with the sun still an hour high, had a parasol. As Selina got these things together to-day, she could only hope they were paid for. "Mamma, I'm starting down to see Papa now. I dressed so as to be ready for the races when they come by for me. It's off my mind and easier for me than to have to hurry when I get back. Mamma, I won't kiss you, nor you either, Auntie. It won't do for me to break down and cry." She went downstairs and out into the September midday glare. She would walk the two squares to the street-car line and there for the sake of time take a car. Otherwise even carfare might be an extravagance now. And then as she went along the hot street, Selina with a rush of despair and bitterness began to take stock. As an economic factor--she was indebted to Miss Emma McRanney for the phrase--where was she, Selina Wistar, after two years of effort? "Exactly where I started," she told herself still more bitterly, "listening to Mamma say there's no money to pay Aunt Viney." True, in June just past, she had taken the examinations over again, and this time obtained her teacher's certificate. And to what end? To learn that in lieu of any normal training for teachers in the public schools, she must supply as an assistant without pay for a year to achieve such training. She had answered some advertisements in Mamma's church paper, for private teaching in Southern families. The result had been to learn that French, drawing, music, and in one instance, needlework, were part of the requirements, for which board and one hundred dollars for the ten months was the largest of the offered remunerations. And this last week she had applied for a chance vacancy in a private school here at home. The polite refusal of her application lay at home now on her table. One line of the reply from the lady principal of the school stayed with her, "Experience in my estimation is the most essential qualification for teaching." It was the thing, Selina told herself, she was begging to be allowed to get! Here she reached the car-line and at the approach of the jogging car and its little mules got aboard, and, finding herself alone, resumed her communings. More, she got out a small bundle of letters from the pocket of her silk coat, letters she had taken over two nights ago to read to Maud who was just home from six weeks' travel with some cousins. It had been a long summer for Selina, unbroken except for Tuttle Jones, and since August, by the return of Culpepper. Amanthus had written to her once from Bar Harbor, she had the letter here now, apparently to say Mr. Cyril Doe was there visiting the embassy which had removed itself to that place for the summer. For having said this, Amanthus said nothing else. It was plain that Mr. Doe continued to impress her, and few things in this life so far had. She and her mother since then had left for London. Mr. Tate had written very happily to Culpepper, saying he and Amanthus would be married on his arrival in London. And Maud had been doing her first real traveling. As said, she was just home and, according to her mother, her first sight of the snow-topped mountains, plains and a few of the cities of her continent had not subdued her discontent. She had come across to see Selina only yesterday and to talk about her dissatisfaction. "What does Culpepper hear from Mr. Welling, Selina? Has he decided to settle in his part of the state and practice law under his father? I haven't heard from him. I didn't expect to. I told him I didn't believe I cared to correspond. And I didn't care to. If ever he and I take up our friendship again, his glee is going to be with me, and not at me. Selina, what is it I want? Is it the moon, do you suppose? Or only a path under the moon that goes to somewhere?" Selina here in the jogging street-car, remembering Maud's question, almost cried for her, its appeal was so great! Then the old Maud, in all the old vigor and energy, had spoken up again. "I'm going to New York and spend the winter as one of those chaperoned parlor-boarders at some school, if Papa will let me. I'll take up something, if it's only horseback riding," bitterly. "There's a fad for riding-schools right now. I really think maybe I'll look into elocution. Though some way that doesn't sound distingué, does it? Perhaps it had better be designing for carpets or wall-paper, I read about women doing these." So Maud, splendid, loyal, honest, restless Maud! Selina looked out the car-window and got her bearings. She had time in plenty yet and could resume her communings. Adele had been away since July at Cape May and to the mountains with her mother and grandmother. She would be home about the first of October. Her several letters to Selina had been listless and devoid of much hope. "I don't quite see what I'm coming back to," she said in the last one here on Selina's lap "and can only hope Mamma and Grandmamma do see. Débutantes of the first and second rank when they lapse over to a second winter, I've noticed, form into euchre clubs that play in the daytime with each other, and take classes in the Saturday morning sewing-schools. What becomes of lapsed-over débutantes of the third or even as bad as the fourth rank, apparently I'm being taken back home to find out. I didn't tell you before I left that Mr. Cannon has been engaged all this time to a cousin up at his own home. He told me about it when he came to say good-bye. I thought I'd like you to know, and now we'll drop it." Selina took up the last of the letters. It was from Juliette and she wrote cheerfully in her crisp, spirited backhand. Both Granddad and Grandfather came around in their stands, after they found I'd actually done the thing, and agreed to put me through the four years of college. And Algy went to see them it seems and up and told them he purposed doing this himself! That, as he understands it, and unless he was laboring under a mistake, he was the person whose name I'd undertaken to bear. And he's been sending me money right along while I'm here with my cousin making up my two conditions. But it's the money both Granddad and Grandfather have put in the bank for me I'm using and shall use. And so I can't understand all this talk from everybody at home of the shocking great deal I've taken from Algy in marrying him in this way. He and I, at any rate, understood it when we talked it over. My cousin asked me the other day what I meant to do about it when I got through college? Did I look on myself as Algy's wife, or did I not? I hadn't thought about this, and it's been worrying me considerably. Do you suppose he thinks that's the way of it? Do you know, Mamma never once spoke to me about the possibilities of my being anybody's wife in my life? Selina, glancing up, put her letters hastily together and thrust them in her pocket and rang the bell. She had reached the corner where she left the car, half a block from her father's office. CHAPTER FORTY The street where Selina left the car was cool and dank between shabby brick stores and shabbier warehouses. It smelled of sugar and molasses and leather. The floor-space occupied by her father for fifteen years was in one of these buildings on the second floor. Coming to it she went up the worn stairs by which this second floor was reached from the street, and, opening the glass-sashed door at the head of the staircase, came in on the long floor-space occupied with boilers, pumps, portable mills, what not, most of them second-hand. She went back through the long aisle between these to the office in the rear, which was shut off by a glass partition and overlooked an alley where, as she remembered it, drays drawn by mules forever stood being loaded or unloaded with heavy freight. The door in this partition was open and through it she could see the interior of the office--two tall, shabby, sloping-topped desks, two tall stools one before either desk, two chairs, a stove and a strip of cocoa matting. That was the whole of it! That and her father and his general factotum, old Jerry, who was clerk, office boy, janitor, and, with some help from the outside for the lifting of machinery, porter. The whole of it, this, where her father for fifteen years had spent the larger part of his waking hours! And for the rest paid the bills Mamma made for the family, and played whist with a congenial group of his own sex once a fortnight! Husbands and fathers then did not always get a great deal out of it themselves! Selina had slowed her steps as she came to the open door. Within the office old Jerry was bringing out ledgers, she had a general idea you called 'em ledgers, or daybooks, she'd heard somewhere of daybooks too. And as he placed these on one of the sloping desks and shuffled out of the way, she saw her father leaning against the other desk and talking to, why, so it was, he was talking with Cousin Willoughby Tomlinson! They had not seen her yet, and something made her stop where she was outside the doorway. Perhaps it was the little hand wave of her father, which was quietly eloquent. "Thank you for coming to me, Willoughby. A little counseling with somebody of one's own family at a time like this is a relief." Somebody of his own family! She liked that! This dear, mistaken Papa! He was talking on. "Yes, it's the end of things here for me, I'm afraid. I've lost my only worth-while agencies. I daresay they're right about it. I'm fogy and they want a hustler to represent 'em for a change. The question is--and I want your counsel about it, Jerry's getting out the books for us--can I make it a wind-up in any possible way, or is it going to have to be an assignment?" Selina turned and hurried back through the long aisle between the oily machines. Her heart beat cruelly, but the rest of her, thoughts, feelings, body itself, was numb. She went down the worn stairway and came out into the dankness of the street. They had not seen her, her father and Cousin Willoughby. She was glad of that. What would have been the use? It would have disturbed them in their talk and upset her father, and she knew now what she'd come to ask without his having to tell her. It was early. She still had part of the time she had allowed for her talk with him. Certainly carfare _was_ to be considered. She'd walk home, walk and think. Think? Think of what? She knew! Think how if she had been a poor man's _son_ where she was a poor man's _daughter_, that son would have been prepared and shaped by every condition and circumstance to take care of himself. A son long ago would have been at work. Just what then _is_ expected of poor men's daughters by the world they live in and are to exist by? _What?_ The answer came to her with staggering suddenness and illuminating clarity as she never had grasped it before. A truth is a truism and slips through the consciousness glibly until one discovers it for oneself. Another illuminating discovery! Then it is mighty and will prevail! _Daughters are expected to solve their economic problems through marriage!_ Daughters have but the one business in life, which is to find husbands! Marriage as a solution for all her problems is a daughter's profession! And if she fail? If she find no economic salvation for herself through a husband? Rage, fury, shame, swept through Selina. The symbol of such failure stood piteously before her, Auntie! Auntie with a pittance doled out to her barely sufficient for her church dues and her few garments! Auntie stitching on fine muslin hands with no remuneration from any source for the perfection of those stitches, Auntie with all that magnificent endowment of perfect health and untiring energy that wasted itself so piteously in polishing brasses. Fury swept through Selina again, fury and resentment so hot they scorched and seared her. Say, for instance, that had Auntie been the man, and Papa the woman of the two of them? Selina hurried along, one block, two blocks, three blocks, not that time pressed but that misery and indignation drove. Then as she looked up and saw where she was, at the turn of a block where it touched on the courthouse neighborhood and the region of lawyers and their offices, she knew by prescience what was going to happen. Knew it with such certainty that her heart quickened and her breath caught even as a step came hurrying behind her, a cheerful voice as the steps drew nearer, spoke her name, and Culpepper, catching up with her, joined her. "Our offices are in the second story back yonder. I saw you out the window as you went by." He took off his straw hat and wiped his forehead with one of those amazingly big and wonderful linen handkerchiefs Cousin Maria gloried in keeping him supplied with. In his vigor, his strength, his confidence, he was overwhelming. He towered above Selina. To surrender to masterfulness like his? To lose oneself through such dominance? Could she? And be at peace forever in the certainty of his care, and the knowledge the fight was his, not hers? It all were easy then if one could. Culpepper's blue eyes bold through those black lashes, but softened by solicitude right now, scanned her face, then looked relieved. "You know then?" She nodded, pretty creature that she was, the wealth of her shining hair showing beneath her wreathed hat. "And _you_ know?" "I was round with Cousin Robert at the office last night, going over the books and the chances with him." Here he waved a car. It was a belt line and went the long way round, but in its own good time would get them to their home neighborhood. He led her out to the track, put her on the car, and followed. "How'd you know?" he asked as he sat down by her. "Cousin Robert told me he wouldn't mention it to any of you at the house till matters were decided." "He ought to have told it at home from the start," she cried, and explained how she knew and they talked it and the situation at home over in their sorry details. Then she burst forth again, the more passionately that being here on the street-car, it must be restrainedly. "Look at me, Culpepper? What am I? What am I fit for? What am I able to do as anything should be done? I've been given no way at all to earn my living. I've never been allowed to order a meal, or go to market to fit me even that way. I've never drawn a check, and I've never paid a bill. I'm past nineteen and at as pitiful a beginning as I was at sixteen." She swallowed, looking ahead, her eyes fixed absently on the only other passenger in the car at the moment. Her profile thus was to Culpepper and he loved it. Fair and clear-cut and fine, he had loved it in her when she was a child. She was seeing not the other passenger at all at whom she gazed so bitterly, poor man, but a grievance because of which she was passionately rebellious. "You were made ready from the start, Culpepper; everybody concerned saw to it _you_ were prepared. I'm hard about it. I'm resentful. I accuse--who or what is it I _do_ accuse?" piteously. "Mamma? Papa? Conditions? The system? If there is any system for bringing up girls, and it isn't _all_ just haphazard! And Culpepper, at home they're all so helpless! Mamma and Auntie! And Papa's so sensitive and is going to grow pitiful under this second failure and the having to take, as I suppose he will, some little clerkship, somebody'll be charitable enough to give him. It's up to me. And I want it to be up to me. You must see that the whole measure of what I'll ever be depends on my seeing right now that it _is_ up to me. And, Oh, what way is there for me to meet it?" He laid a hand on her arm and nodded abruptly toward the window. She followed his indicating nod and looked out. The car had turned into a residence street, and they were passing the house where Tuttle Jones made his home with his exceedingly well-to-do parents. Pompous and broad, and of comely stone was this home in its wide yard, its flower vases overflowing with bloom and color. But it was to something more pertinent than the Jones' house Culpepper with his nod referred. Tuttle himself and his tally-ho were just wheeling in at the curb, and the groom at the back was leaping down. And if the whole, horses, tandem, coach, Tuttle himself in his belted dust-coat, groom breeched and booted, were more than a bit spectacular, one could rest easy in the knowledge that it was because in this case it was eminently the correct thing to be spectacular. Tuttle was arrived here at home, Selina judged, to get his mother, preparatory to gathering up the remainder of his party, herself among these. "Tuttle will be by for me by the time we reach home, Culpepper. He's horrified that I haven't had my share in social experience as included in races." The car jogged past, and as it came to the corner, the point nearest their own neighborhood, Culpepper rang the bell. As they reached the pavement he spoke. His eyes were narrowed and he did not look at her. For the first time in their lives he was approaching a subject to her with entire seriousness. "I reckon we'll have to allow it was coincidence offered me Tuttle and his circus wagon just now. What I meant was, honey, that the world and the system, as you call it, would point to Tuttle and tell you you've done everything and even more, expected of you. Catch my meaning?" Did she? Her cheeks blazed. He was only corroborating what within the half-hour she had said for herself. Culpepper was going on, still avoiding all look at her. "And I want to say further, honey, that Tuttle's a great chap, Tut's all right. I gave in when he showed what was in him by appreciating _you_." His eyes swept around to her here with mock challenge. "How's that my lady, for magnanimity toward a flaunting rival?" She didn't pretend not to understand him. She was rising to honesty these days through a force within her which itself craved truth. Color, however, had surged to her face with a violence which the rose lining to the open parasol on her shoulder could not be held responsible for--a growing violence, which finally overcame her, and she stumbled. His hand quick and sure, righted her little gesture. She made a disclaiming with her head. "The world and the system may be mistaken," she said hotly. And as she said it she now looked straight ahead, though her face was spirited. He checked their steps. Their own corner was in sight, a block straight ahead. "So?" from this Culpepper, watching her. "So, honey? All the better then. It clears the decks. It seemed decenter somehow to include his claims. And now for mine. Everybody knows where I stand. What I want. You know. My mother for godspeed, when I came away in August, said, 'Go on down and take your job and marry Selina.' Will you do it, honey?" Her color was gone with the violence with which it came, leaving her white. A tremor went over her. Watching her as closely still, he went on. "What a fool time and fool place to ask it, where I can't pick you up and tell you a few things. Can't comfort you, honey, the way we used to comfort your hurt fingers and feelings when you'd bring 'em to us when you were around five! Remember how I used to cure 'em, Selina?" coaxingly. "And ole Miss'll belong to us? She's a little more mine even than she's yours? What say now, honey, don't let's go teasing each other this way any longer?" Up the home street ahead of them Tuttle, his tally-ho a-blossom now with gay parasols, was wheeling round the far intersection and about to come toward them. A moment or so more, and as they themselves would arrive at Selina's squat house, he would be wheeling in at the curb before it. "As you say, Culpepper, it's a foolish time to try to talk. But I must try, and quickly, before we get there, please." Her color was all gone so that even her pretty lips, a bit compressed to hide their trembling, were white. So white his hand went out to touch hers, hanging at her side, for reassurance. But hers clenched so that he could not grasp it. Blessed child! And yet so obviously now, woman, too, through the child. "Let me talk, please, Culpepper. Thank you for wanting me and for telling me. Though I don't believe you've ever realized that I've resented the way you've taken me for granted, you and Cousin Maria, and Auntie, and, yes, even Papa. But that's not what I want to speak about. It's this. There's no power in heaven or earth right now could make me marry either you or Tuttle! If he asks me to-day, and I won't hold him off any longer, I'll say so to him. When I come to marrying, I see it perfectly clearly and of a sudden to-day, it's going to be beyond any imagining or shade of possibility that's it's because it's a solution for me! I'm finding myself a little bit these days. I'm going to prove what I've found now. When I come to marry, it's going to be because I choose to give up independence to do it. How I'll get the independence I'm sure I don't know now, but I will get it," piteously. Then, "Culpepper, Oh, Culpepper," beseechingly as she turned toward him, a cry as from one bereft and needing help, "_don't_ you see? _Can't_ you see? Put yourself where _I_ am, and understand _for_ me!" They were crossing the home corner now. Tuttle and his glittering show were wheeling in at the curb before the ugly little house. The neighborhood surreptitiously was at its windows. The breeched and booted groom had leaped down. It was this Tuttle up on the box who wouldn't shame his God by meeting him with anything less than entire correctness. Selina would try not to fail this kindly Tuttle now. "Coming," she called with pretty gayety to the company aloft as she came in speaking distance, with a lift and a flirt of her parasol before surrendering it to Culpepper for lowering. Then to Culpepper imploringly. "Speak to Mamma and Auntie for me and reassure them about Papa, won't you, Culpepper? I'll have no chance." The coach was stationary at the curb, and so by now were Selina and Culpepper. He was big and splendid; she was slim and fair. Greetings were pelting down on them, and Tuttle with an eye on his horseflesh had risen on the box. "No," from Selina to Tuttle aloft, "don't get down. Or _can_ Jehu on the box get down? Culpepper'll put me up. Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Sampson, Miss Lyle, Mr. Haven, you all up there know Mr. Buxton? I've never mounted a coach before, and I'm horribly afraid I'll perpetrate what a friend of my youth, when she sprained her ankle, called a _faux pas_. Do give me your hand, Culpepper, and put me up?" Blessed child! And did her hand, as he took it, close on his for the instant, beseechingly as it were? Those soft fingers of hers cling to his? Hold to his as though loath to leave them? He must have thought they did, for after he had put her up on the box to the place directed by Tuttle beside himself, pretty creature that she was, still tremulous but bravely gay with it to wring your heartstrings, this Culpepper made pretence of need for more care of her, and swinging up on the step to arrange her skirt from chance contact with any brake or such matter, whispered softly up in the vernacular he kept for her and ole Miss. "Honey!" [Illustration: "Everybody waved and Culpepper was left standing there."] And the while a chorus was chanting from the back seats, "Listen to us, Selina! Listen, Selina! _Have_ you heard about Amanthus? Turn around and listen to us! _Have_ you heard about Amanthus?" And here Mrs. Jones, leaning forward, addressed herself to Culpepper down again on the curb. "Mr. Buxton I seem to remember that Mr. Tate is a friend of yours? Have _you_ heard about Amanthus?" The chorus resumed itself, arising from Mrs. Sampson, Miss Lyle, and Mr. Haven behind Mrs. Jones. "Go on." "Don't keep 'em waiting." "Tell 'em about Amanthus." "Amanthus," said Mrs. Jones, "was married at St. George's in London, yesterday, to Mr. Cyril Doe. A cable from Mrs. Harrison to her bank, which is Tuttle's bank, came to-day." Amanthus had lived up to _her_ business in life! * * * * * The whip touched the leader, the coach wheeled, everybody waved, and Culpepper was left standing there. Auntie called to him from the door. She had seen him from the window and come down. He went in to her there on the doorstep and put his arm around her and kissed her. "Ole Miss, what do you suppose, I've just been given to cherish most of everything in the world?" "Are you in earnest, Culpepper, or teasing? I never know. I'm a bit unstrung, and so's Lavinia, over this trouble, whatever it is, hanging over Robert. What is it that's been given to you to cherish?" She spoke with concern. "Don't you worry, ole Miss, it's mine for cherishing, not yours. You're no worry. _You_ belong to another generation in daughters of Shiloh that did your dancing in your vineyard according to custom, and have nothing to reproach _your_ past with. The daughters of Shiloh to-day are declining to dance, ma'am, and are plucking the grapes in the vineyard instead. I need your coddling and your comforting. A daughter of Shiloh, among the dancers and the grapes, has handed me for my cherishing fruit of her gathering called a point of view." "Whatever do you mean, Culpepper? I never know when you're in earnest, or not?" "She thinks _she_ is, ole Miss, that fair young daughter of Shiloh. I don't know just what to think, myself!" "Are you speaking of Selina, Culpepper?" "Who else? Ole Miss, I love her so and I want her. Where'd she pick up this whim?" TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES -Obvious print and punctuation errors fixed. -A Table of Contents was not in the original work; one has been produced and added by Transcriber. 
6056	----	THE DESIRED WOMAN By WILL N. HARBEN Author of "Dixie Hart," "Pole Baker," "The Redemption of Kenneth Galt," Etc. WITH FRONTISPIECE TO VELLA AND BILLY PART I CHAPTER I Inside the bank that June morning the clerks and accountants on their high stools were bent over their ponderous ledgers, although it was several minutes before the opening hour. The gray-stone building was in Atlanta's most central part on a narrow street paved with asphalt which sloped down from one of the main thoroughfares to the section occupied by the old passenger depot, the railway warehouses, and hotels of various grades. Considerable noise, despite the closed windows and doors, came in from the outside. Locomotive bells slowly swung and clanged; steam was escaping; cabs, drays, and trucks rumbled and creaked along; there was a whir of a street-sweeping machine turning a corner and the shrill cries of newsboys selling the morning papers. Jarvis Saunders, member of the firm of Mostyn, Saunders & Co., bankers and brokers, came in; and, hanging his straw hat up, he seated himself at his desk, which the negro porter had put in order. "I say, Wright"--he addressed the bald, stocky, middle-aged man who, at the paying-teller's window, was sponging his fat fingers and counting and labeling packages of currency--"what is this about Mostyn feeling badly?" "So that's got out already?" Wright replied in surprise, as he approached and leaned on the rolling top of the desk. "He cautioned us all not to mention it. You know what a queer, sensitive sort of man he is where his health or business is concerned." "Oh, it is not public," Saunders replied. "I happened to meet Dr. Loyd on the corner. He had just started to explain more fully when a patient stopped to speak to him, and so I didn't wait, as he said Mostyn was here." "Yes, he's in his office now." Wright nodded toward the frosted glass door in the rear. "He was lying on the lounge when I left him just now. It is really nothing serious. The doctor says it is only due to loss of sleep and excessive mental strain, and that a few weeks' rest in some quiet place will straighten him out." "Well, I'm glad it is not serious," Saunders said. "I have seen him break down before. He is too intense, too strenuous; whatever he does he does with every nerve in his body drawn as taut as a fiddle-string." "It is his _outside_ operations, his _private_ deals," the teller went on, in a more confidential tone. "Why, it makes me nervous even to watch him. He's been keyed high for the last week. You know, I'm an early riser, and I come down before any one else to get my work up. I found him here this morning at half past seven. He was as nervous as a man about to be hanged. He couldn't sit or stand still a minute. He was waiting for a telegram from Augusta concerning Warner & Co. I remember how you advised him against that deal. Well, I guess if it had gone against him it would have ruined him." The banker nodded. "Yes, that was foolhardy, and he seemed to me to be going into it blindfolded. He realized the danger afterward. He admitted it to me last night at the club. He said that he was sorry he had not taken my advice. He was afraid, too, that Delbridge would get on to it and laugh at him." "Delbridge is too shrewd to tackle a risk like that," Wright returned. He glanced about the room cautiously, and then added: "I don't know as I have any right to be talking about Mostyn's affairs even to you, but I am pretty sure that he got good news. He didn't show me the telegram when it came, but I watched his face as he read it. I saw his eyes flash; he smiled at me, walked toward his office with a light step, as he always does when he's lucky, and then he swayed sideways and keeled over in a dead faint. The porter and I picked him up, carried him to his lounge, and sprinkled water in his face. Then we sent for the doctor. He gave him a dose of something or other and told him not to do a lick of work for a month." "Well, I'll step in and see him." Saunders rose. "I guess he won't mind. He's too big a plunger for a town of this size. He lets things get on his nerves too much. He has no philosophy of life. I wouldn't go his pace for all the money in the U. S. Treasury." "Right you are," the teller returned, as he went back to his work. Opening the door of his partner's office, Saunders found him seated on the lounge smoking a cigar. He was about thirty-five years of age, tall, broad-shouldered, with blue eyes, yellow mustache, and was good-looking and well built. Glancing up, he smiled significantly and nodded. There were dark rings round his eyes, and the hand holding his cigar quivered nervously. "I suppose you heard of that silly duck fit of mine?" he smiled, the corners of his rather sensuous mouth twitching. Saunders nodded as he sat down in the revolving-chair at the desk and slowly swung it round till he faced his partner. "It's a wonder to me that you are able to talk about it," he said, sharply. "You've been through enough in the last ten days to kill a dozen ordinary men. You've taken too many stimulants, smoked like the woods afire, and on top of it all instead of getting natural sleep you've amused yourself at all hours of the night. You've bolted your food, and fussed and fumed over Delbridge's affairs, which, heaven knows, have nothing at all to do with your own." "I suppose I _do_ keep track of the fellow," Mostyn smiled. "People compare us constantly. We started about the same time, and it rankles to hear of his making a lucky strike just when I've had a tumble. This matter of my backing Warner when I went to Augusta they told me they had met with more bad luck, and if I didn't advance fresh funds they would have to go under. It was the biggest risk I ever took, but I took it. I raised the money on my street-railway bonds. For a day or so afterward I was hopeful, but they quit writing and wouldn't answer my wires. My lawyer in Augusta wrote me that they were all three on the verge of suicide, and if they could not close a certain deal in Boston they would go under. That's what I've been waiting on for the last week, and that's why I've been crazy. But it is all right now--all right. I'm safe, and I made money, too--money that Delbridge would like to have." "There are no two ways about it." Saunders reached for a cigar in a tray on the desk and cut off the tip with a paper-knife. "You've got to take a rest and get your mind off of business." "Nobody knows that better than I do," Mostyn said, a sickly smile playing over his wan face, "and I'm in the mood for it. I feel as a man feels who has just escaped the gallows. I'm going to the mountains, and I don't intend to open a business letter or think once of this hot hole in a wall for a month. I'm going to fish and hunt and lie in the shade and swap yarns with mossback moonshiners. I've just been thinking of it, and it's like a soothing dream of peace and quiet. You know old Tom Drake's place near your farm? I boarded there two weeks three years ago and loved every cat and dog about. Tom told me to come any time I felt like it." "No better place anywhere," Saunders said. "I shall run up home now and then, and can see you and report, but you needn't bother about us; we'll keep this thing afloat. I'm wondering how you are going to get away from your social duties. They usually claim you at this time of the year. Old Mitchell and his daughter will certainly miss you." Mostyn stared at his friend steadily. "They are off for Atlantic City Monday. They hinted at my joining them, but I declined. I was worried at the time over this deal, but I need something quieter than that sort of trip. You are always coupling my name with Miss Irene's. I'm not the favorite in that quarter that you make me out." "I have eyes and ears and _some_ experience in human nature." Saunders puffed at his cigar. He felt that his friend was expecting what he was saying. "Mitchell is getting in his dotage, and he talks very freely to me at times." "Surely not about--about me and Irene?" Mostyn said, a ripple of interest in his tone. "Oh yes, he quite lets himself go now and then. He thinks the sun rises and sets in you. He is constantly talking about your rapid rise and keen business judgment." "You can't mean that he's ever gone so--so far as actually to speak of me in--in connection with his daughter?" Mostyn said, tentatively. "I may as well tell you that he has." Saunders felt that the subject was a delicate one. "At least, he has expressed the hope that you and she would care for each other. He knew your father and liked him, and he has been afraid that Miss Irene might fancy some young fellow with no sort of chance in the world. He speaks quite freely of her as his sole heiress, often showing me the actual figures of what he expects to leave her." A touch of red appeared in Mostyn's cheeks. "He is getting old and garrulous," he said. "I really have been of some help to him. It happens that I've never advised him wrongly in any venture he has made, and I suppose he overrates my ability; but, really, I give you my word that I have not thought seriously of marrying _any one_. I suppose some men would call me a fool--a cold-blooded fellow like Delbridge would, I am sure, but I've always had a dream of running across my ideal somewhere and of marrying solely for the sake of old-fashioned love itself." "What man hasn't?" Saunders responded, thoughtfully. "After all, very few men, at least here in the South, marry for convenience or financial advancement. There is Stillman; he married a typewriter in his office, a beautiful character, and they are as happy as a pair of doves. Then you remember Ab Thornton and Sam Thorpe. Both of them could have tied up to money, I suppose, but somehow they didn't. After all, it is the best test of a man." "Yes, that certainly is true," Mostyn said, "the ideal is the thing. I really believe I have two distinct sides to me--the romantic and the practical. So you needn't count on--on what you were speaking of just now. I think the young lady is somewhat like myself. At times she seems to have dreams, and I am not the Prince Charming that rides through them." At his own desk a few minutes later Saunders sat wrapped in thought. "He doesn't really love her," he mused, "and she doesn't love him, but they will marry. His eyes kindled when I mentioned her money. He may think he can stand out against it, but he can't. In his better moments he leans toward the higher thing, but the current of greed has caught him and will sweep him along." At this juncture Saunders's attention was drawn to the paying-teller's window. "I tell you you can't see him this morning." Wright was speaking firmly to an elderly man who stood clinging desperately to the wire grating. "He's not well and is lying down." "So he's lying down, is he?" was the snarling response. "He's lying down while I have to walk the streets without a cent through his rascality. You tell him I'm going to see him if I have to wait here all day." "Who is it?" Saunders asked, being unable to recognize the speaker from his position. Wright turned to him. "It's old Jeff Henderson," he said, "still harping on the same old string. He's blocking up the window. A thing like that ought not to be allowed. If I was the president of this bank, and a man like that dared to--" "Let him in at the side door, and send him to me," Saunders ordered, in a gentle tone. "I'll see him." A moment later the man entered, and shuffled in a slipshod way up to Saunders's desk. He was about seventy years of age, wore a threadbare frock coat, baggy trousers, disreputable shoes, and a battered silk hat of ancient, bell-shaped pattern. He was smooth-shaven, quite pale, and had scant gray hair which in greasy, rope-like strands touched his shoulders. He was nervously chewing a cheap, unlighted cigar, and flakes of damp tobacco clung to his shirt-front. "You were inquiring for Mostyn," Saunders said, quietly. "He is not at work this morning, Mr. Henderson. Is there anything I can do for you?" "I don't know whether you can or not," the old man said, as he sank into a chair and leaned forward on his walking-cane. "I don't know whether _anybody_ can or not. I don't believe there is any law or justice anywhere. You and him are partners, but I don't believe you know him clean to the bottom as well as I do. You wouldn't be in business with him if you did, for you are a straight man--a body can tell that by your eye and voice--and I've never heard of any shady, wildcat scheme that you ever dabbled in." "We are getting away from the other matter," Saunders reminded him, softly. "You came to see Mostyn." "I came to give him a piece of my mind, young man--that's what I'm here for. He dodges me. Say, do you know how he got his start--the money he put in this bank? Well, _I_ can tell you, and I'll bet he never did. He started the Holly Creek Cotton Mills. It was his idea. I thought he was honest and straight. He was going round trying to interest capital. I never had a head for business. The war left me flat on my back with all the family niggers free, but a chunk of money came to my children--fifty thousand dollars. It stood in their name, but I got their legal consent to handle it. Mostyn knew I had it and was constantly ding-donging at me about his mill idea. Well, I went in--I risked the whole amount. He was made president although he didn't hold ten thousand dollars' worth of stock. Then I reckon you know what happened. He run the thing plumb in the ground, claimed to be losing money--said labor was too high; claimed that the wrong sort of machinery had been put in. It went from bad to worse for twelve months, then it shut down. The operatives moved away, and it was sold under the hammer. Who bought it in--my God, who do you reckon bid it in for twenty-five cents on the dollar? Why, the same smooth young duck that is taking a nap in his fine private quarters back there now. Then what did he do? Why, all at once he found that the machinery _was_ all right and labor _could_ be had. Out of his own pocket with money he had made in some underhand deal or other he added on a wing, filled it with spindles and looms, built more cottages, and three years later the stock had hopped up to two for one, and little to be had at that. He next started this bank, and here I sit in it"--the old man swept the interior with a slow glance--"without a dollar to my name and my daughters hiring out for barely enough to keep rags on their bodies. Say, what do you think--" "I am afraid the courts are the only place to settle a matter upon which two parties disagree," Saunders said, diplomatically, though a frown of sympathy lay on his handsome dark face. "The courts be damned!" the old man growled, pounding the floor with his stick. "I _did_ take it to law. I spent the twelve thousand and odd dollars that I rescued from the ruin in suing him, only to discover that the law itself favors the shyster who has money and is sharp enough to circumvent it." "I am sorry, but there is absolutely nothing I can do to help you, Mr. Henderson," Saunders said, lamely. "Of course, I mean in regard to this particular matter. If you are in want, however, and any reasonable amount would be of service to you--why, on my own account I am willing--" "I don't mean that," the old man broke in, tremulously. "You are very kind. I know you would help me, you show it in your face; but I don't want that sort of thing. It is--is my rights I'm after. I--I can't face my children after the way I acted. I simply trusted Mostyn with my all--my life's blood--don't you see? I remember when I was hesitating, and a neighbor had hinted that Mostyn was too high a flyer--going with fast women and the like--to be quite safe--I remember, I say, that the commandment 'Judge not that ye be not judged' came in my head, and I refused to listen to a word against him. But you see how it ended." "I wish I could help you," Saunders said again, "but I don't see what I can do." "I don't either." The old man sighed heavily as he got up. "Everybody tells me I am a fool to cry over spilt milk when even the law won't back me; but I'm getting close to the end, and somehow I can't put my mind on anything else." He laid his disengaged hand on Saunders's shoulder almost with the touch of a parent. "I'll say one thing more, and then I'm gone. You've done me good this morning--that is, _some_. I don't feel quite so--so hurt inside. It's because you offered to--to trust me. I won't forget that soon, Saunders, and I'm not going to come in here any more. If I have to see him I will meet him somewhere else. Good-by." Saunders watched the bent form shamble between the counters and desks and disappear. "Poor old chap!" he said. "The shame of his lack of judgment is killing him." Just then the door of Mostyn's office opened, and Mostyn himself came out. He paused over an electric adding-machine which was being manipulated by a clerk, gave it an idle glance, and then came on to his partner. "Albert says old Henderson was here talking to you," he said, coldly. "I suppose it's the old complaint?" "Yes," Saunders nodded, as he looked up. "I did what I could to pacify him; he is getting into a bad mental shape." "He seems to be growing worse and worse." Mostyn went on, irritably. "I heard he had actually threatened my life. I don't want to take steps to restrain him, but I'll have to if he keeps it up. I can't afford to have him slandering me on every street-corner as he is doing. Every business man knows I was not to blame in that deal. The courts settled that for good and all." Saunders made no comment. He fumbled a glass paper-weight with one hand and tugged at his brown mustache with the fingers of the other. Mostyn stared into his calm eyes impatiently. "What do you think I ought to do?" he finally asked. "I am in no position to say," Saunders answered, awkwardly. "It is a matter for you to decide. His condition is really pitiful. His family seem to be in actual need. Girls brought up as his daughters were brought up don't seem to know exactly how to make a living." "Well, I can't pay money back to him," Mostyn said, angrily. "I'd make an ass of myself, and admit my indebtedness to many others who happened to lose in that mill. His suit against me cost me several thousand dollars, and he has injured me in all sorts of ways with his slanderous tongue. He'll have to let up. I won't stand it any longer." Therewith Mostyn turned and went back to his office. Closing the door behind him, he started to throw himself on the lounge, but instead sat down at his desk, took up a pen and drew some paper to him. "I'll write Tom Drake and ask him if he has room for me," he said. "Up there in the mountains I'll throw the whole thing off and take a good rest." CHAPTER II J. Cuyler Mitchell got out of his landau in the _porte cochere_ of his stately residence on Peachtree Street, and, aided by his gold-headed ebony cane, ascended the steps of the wide veranda, where he stood fanning his face with his Panama hat. Larkin, the negro driver, glanced over his shoulder after him. "Anything mo', Marse John?" he inquired. "No, I'm through with the horses for to-day," the old man returned. "Put them up, and rub them down well." As the landau moved along the curving drive to the stables in the rear Mitchell sauntered around to the shaded part of the veranda and went in at the front door. He was tall, seventy-five years of age, slender and erect, had iron-gray hair and a mustache and pointed goatee of the same shade. He was hanging his hat on the carved mahogany rack in the hall when Jincy, a young colored maid, came from the main drawing-room on the right. She had a feather duster in her hand and wore a turban-like head-cloth, a neat black dress, and a clean white apron. "Where is Irene?" he inquired. The maid was about to answer when a response came from above. "Here I am, father," cried Miss Mitchell. "Can't you come up here? I've been washing my hair; I've left it loose to dry. There is more breeze up here." "If you want to see me you'll trot down here," the old gentleman said, crustily. "I put myself out to make that trip down-town for you, and I'll be hanged if I climb those steps again till bed-time." "Well, I'll be down in a minute," his daughter replied. "I know you have no _very_ bad news, or you would have been more excited. You see, I know you." Mitchell grunted, dropped his stick into an umbrella-holder, and turned into the library, where he again encountered the maid, now vigorously dusting a bookcase. "Leave it, leave it!" he grumbled. "I don't want to be breathing that stuff into my lungs on a day like this. There is enough dust in the streets without having actually to eat it at home." With a sly look and a low impulsive titter of amusement the yellow girl restored a vase to its place and turned into the study adjoining. "Get out of there, too!" Mitchell ordered. "I want to read my paper, and you make me nervous with your swishing and knocking about." "I can slide the doors to," Jincy suggested, as she stood hesitatingly in the wide opening. "And cut off all the air!" was the tart response. "From now on I want you to pick times for this sort of work when I'm out of the house. My life is one eternal jumping about to accommodate you. I want comfort, and I'm going to have it." Shrugging her shoulders, the maid left the room. Mitchell had seated himself near an open window and taken up his paper when his daughter came down the steps and entered. She was above medium height, had abundant chestnut hair, blue eyes, a good figure, and regular features, the best of which was a sweet, thin-lipped, sensitive mouth. She had on a blue kimono and dainty slippers, and moved with luxurious ease and grace. "You ought to have more patience with the servants, father," she said, testily. "Jincy is slow enough, heaven knows, without you giving her excuses for being behind with her work. Now she will go to the kitchen and hinder the cook. If you only knew how much trouble servants are to manage you'd be more tactful. Half a dozen women in this town want that girl, and she knows it. Mrs. Anderson wants to take her to New York to nurse her baby, and she would propose it if she wasn't afraid I'd be angry." Mitchell shook out his paper impatiently and scanned the head-lines over his nose-glasses. "You don't seem very much interested in my trip downtown, I must say." "Well, perhaps I would be," she smiled, "but, you see, I know from your actions that he isn't much sick. If he had been you'd have mounted those steps three at a time. Do you know everybody is laughing over your interest in Dick Mostyn? Why, you are getting childish about him. I'm not so sure that he is really so wonderful as you make him out. Many persons think Alan Delbridge is a better business man, and as for his being a saint--oh my!" "I don't care what they think," Mitchell retorted. "They don't know him as well as I do. He wouldn't be under the weather to-day if he hadn't overworked, but he is all right now. The doctor says he only needs rest, and Dick is going to the mountains for a month. As for that, I can't for the life of me see why--" "Why, Atlantic City with us wouldn't do every bit as well," Irene laughed out impulsively. "Oh, you _are_ funny!" "Well, I don't see why," the old man said. "If you two really _do_ care for each other I can't see why you really would want to be apart the best month in the year." Irene gave her damp, fragrant hair a shake on one side and laughed as she glanced at him mischievously. "You must really not meddle with us," she said. "Three people can't run an affair like that." Mitchell folded his paper, eyed her suspiciously for a moment, and then asked: "Is Andrew Buckton going to Atlantic City? If he is, you may as well tell me. I simply am not going to put up with that fellow's impudence. People think you care for him--do you hear me?--some people say you like him as well as he does you, and if he wasn't as poor as Job's turkey that you'd marry him." Miss Mitchell avoided her father's eyes. She shook out her hair again, and ran her white, ringed fingers through its brown depths. "Haven't I promised you not to think of Andy in--in any serious way?" she faltered. "His mother and sister are nice, and I don't want to offend them. You needn't keep bringing his name up." Her fine lips were twitching. "I'd not be a natural woman if I didn't appreciate his--his honest admiration." "Honest nothing!" Mitchell blurted out. "He thinks you are going to have money, and he believes you'll be silly enough to be influenced by his puppy love to make a fool of yourself. Besides, he's in the way. He took you to a dance not long ago when Mostyn wanted to go with you. Dick told me at the bank that he was going to invite you, and then that young blockhead called for you." Miss Mitchell had the air of one subduing interest. She forced a faint smile into the general gravity of her face. "Andy had asked me a month before," she said, "or, rather, his mother asked me for him the day the cards were sent out." "I knew _she_ had a hand in it," Mitchell retorted, in a tone of conviction. "That old woman is the most cold-blooded matchmaker in the State, and she's playing with you like a cat with a mouse. They want my money, I tell you--that's what they are after. I know how the old thing talks to you--she's always telling you her darling boy is dying of grief, and all that foolishness." Irene avoided her father's eyes. She wound a thick wisp of her hair around her head and began to fasten it with a hairpin. He heard her sigh. Then she looked straight at him. "You are bothering entirely too much," she half faltered, in a tone that was all but wistful. "Now, I'll make _you_ a promise if--if you'll make _me_ one. You are afraid Dick Mostyn and I will never come to--to an understanding, but it is all right. I know I must be sensible, and I intend to be. I'm more practical than I look. Now, here is what I am going to propose. Andy Buckton _may_ be at Atlantic City with his mother, and I want you to treat them decently. If you will be nice to them I will assure you that when Dick gets back from the mountains he will propose and I will accept him." "You talk as if you knew positively that he--" "I understand him," the young lady said. "I know him even better than you do, with all your business dealings together. Now, that will have to satisfy you, and you've got to let me see Andy up there. You simply must." "Well, I don't care," the old man said, with a breath of relief. "This is the first time you ever have talked any sort of sense on the subject." "I know nothing else will suit you," Irene said, with a look of abstraction in her eyes, "and I have made up my mind to let you have your way." There was a tremulous movement to her breast, a quaver in her voice, of which she seemed slightly ashamed, for she turned suddenly and left the room. CHAPTER III At the gate in front of his farmhouse in the mountains Tom Drake received a letter from the rural mail-carrier, who was passing in a one-horse buggy. "That's all this morning, Tom," the carrier said, cheerfully. "You've got good corn and cotton in the bottom below here." "Purty good, I reckon, if the drouth don't kill 'em," the farmer answered. The carrier drove on, and Tom slowly opened his letter and turned toward the house. He was a typical Georgia mountaineer, strong, tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged. He wore no beard, had mild brown eyes, heavy chestnut hair upon which rested a shapeless wool hat full of holes. His arms and legs were long, his gait slouching and deliberate. He was in his shirt-sleeves; his patched jean trousers were too large at the waist, and were supported by a single home-knitted suspender. He was chewing tobacco, and as he went along he moved his stained lips in the audible pronunciation of the words he was reading. His wife, Lucy, a slender woman, in a drab print dress with no sort of adornment to it or to her scant, tightly knotted hair, stood on the porch impatiently waiting for him. Behind her, leaning in the doorway, was her brother, John Webb, a red-haired, red-faced bachelor, fifty years of age, who also had his eyes on the approaching reader. "Another dun, I reckon," Mrs. Drake said, tentatively, when her husband had paused at the bottom step and glanced up from the sheet in his hand. "Not this time." Tom slowly spat on the ground, and looked first at his wife and then at his brother-in-law with a broadening smile. "You two are as good at guessin' as the general run, but if I gave you a hundred trials--yes, three hundred--and all day to do it in, you wouldn't then come in a mile o' what's in this letter." "I don't intend to try," Mrs. Drake said, eagerly, "anyways not with all that ironin' to do that's piled up like a haystack on the dinin'-room table, to say nothin' of the beds and bed-clothes to be sunned. You can keep your big secret as far as I'm concerned." "It's another Confederate Veteran excursion to some town whar whisky is sold," said the bachelor, with a dry cackle. "That's my guess. You fellows that was licked don't git no pensions from Uncle Sam, but you manage to have enough fun once a year to make up for it." Tom Drake swept the near-by mountain slope with his slow glance of amusement, folded the sheet tantalizingly, and spat again. "I don't know, Luce," he said to his wife, as he wiped his lips on his shirt-sleeve, "that it is a good time to tell you on top o' your complaint of over-work, but Dick Mostyn, your Atlanta boarder, writes that he's a little bit run down an' wants to come an' stay a solid month. Money seems to be no object to him, an' he says if he kin just git the room he had before an' a chance at your home cooking three times a day he will be in clover." "Well, well, well!" Lucy cried, in a tone of delight, "so he wants to come ag'in, an' all this time I've been thinkin' he'd never think of us any more. There wasn't a thing for him to do that summer but lie around in the shade, except now an' then when he was off fishin' or huntin'." "Well, I hope you will let 'im come," John Webb drawled out, in his slow fashion. "I can set an' study a town dude like him by the hour an' never git tired. I never kin somehow git at what sech fellers _think_ about or _do_ when they are at home. He makes money, but _how_? His hands are as soft an' white as a woman's. His socks are as thin an' flimsy as spider-webs. He had six pairs o' pants, if he had one, an' a pair o' galluses to each pair. I axed him one day when they was all spread out on his bed what on earth he had so many galluses for, an' Mostyn said--I give you my word I'm not jokin'--he said"--Webb laughed out impulsively--"he said it was to keep from botherin' to button 'em on ever' time he changed! He said"--the bachelor continued to laugh--"that he could just throw the galluses over his shoulders when he was in a hurry an' be done with the job. Do you know, folks, if I was as lazy as that I'd be afraid the Lord would cut me off in my prime. Why, a feller on a farm has to do more than that ever' time he pulls a blade o' fodder or plants a seed o' corn." "Well, of course, I want 'im to come." Mrs. Drake had not heard a word of her brother's rambling comment, and there was a decidedly expectant intonation in her voice. "Nobody's usin' the company-room, an' the presidin' elder won't be here till fall. Mr. Mostyn never was a bit of trouble and seemed to love everything I set before him. But I reckon we needn't feel so flattered. He's coming here so he'll be near Mr. Saunders when he runs up to his place on Sundays." John Webb, for such a slow individual, had suddenly taken on a new impetus. He left his sister and her husband and passed through the passage bisecting the lower part of the plain two-story house and went out at the rear door. In the back yard he found his nephew, George Drake, a boy of fifteen years, seated on the grass repairing a ragged, mud-stained fish-net. "Who told you you could be out o' school, young feller?" John demanded, dryly. "I'll bet my life you are playin' hookey. You think because your sister's the teacher you can run wild like a mountain shote. My Lord, look at your clothes! I'll swear it would be hard to tell whether you've got on anything or not--that is, anything except mud an' slime. Have you been tryin' to pull that seine through the creek by yourself?" The boy, who had a fine head and profile and was stoutly built and generally good-looking, was too busy with his strings and knots to look up. "Some fool left it in the creek, and it's laid there for the last month," he mumbled. "I had to go in after it, and it was all tangled up and clogged with mud. Dolly knew I wasn't going to school to-day." "She knew it when you didn't turn up at roll-call, I bound you," Webb drawled. "Say, do you know a young gal like her ain't strong enough to lick scholars as sound as they ought to be licked, and thar is _some_ talk about appointin' some able-bodied man that lives close about to step in an' sort o' clean up two or three times a week. I don't know but what I'd like the job. A feller that goes as nigh naked as you do would be a blame good thing to practise on." "Huh!" the boy sniffed, as he tossed back his shaggy brown hair. "You talk mighty big. I'd like to see you try to whip me--I shore would." "Well, I may give you the chance if Dolly calls on me to help 'er out," Webb laughed. "Say, I started to tell you a secret, but I won't." "I already know what it is," George said, with a mischievous grin. "You say you do?" Webb was caught in the wily fellow's snare. "Yes, you are going to get married." The boy now burst into a roar of laughter and threw himself back on the grass. "You and Sue Tidwell are going to get spliced. The whole valley's talking about it, and hoping that it will be public like an election barbecue. You with your red head and freckled face and her with her stub nose and--" "That will do--that will do!" Webb's frown seemed to deepen the flush which, fold upon fold, came into his face. "Jokin' is all right, but it ain't fair to bring in a lady's name." "Oh no, of course not." The boy continued to laugh through the net which he had drawn over him. "The shoe is on the other foot now." "Well, I'm not goin' to tell you the news," Webb declared, with a touch of propitiation in his voice; and, not a little discomfited, he turned away, employing a quicker step than usually characterized his movement. "The young scamp!" he said. "He's gittin' entirely too forward--entirely, for a boy as young as he is, and me his uncle." Crossing a strip of meadow land, then picking his way between the rows of a patch of corn, and skirting a cotton-field, he came out into a red-clay road. Along this he walked till he reached a little meeting-house snugly ensconced among big trees at the foot of the mountain. The white frame building, oblong in shape, had four windows with green outer blinds on each of its two sides, and a door at the end nearer the road. As Webb traversed the open space, where, on Sundays, horses were hitched to the trees and saplings, a drone as of countless bees fell on his ears. To a native this needed no explanation. During five of the week-days the building was used as a schoolhouse. The sound was made by the students studying aloud, and John's niece, Dolly Drake, had sole charge of them. Reaching the door and holding his hat in his hand, Webb cautiously peered within, beholding row after row of boys and girls whose backs were turned to him. At a blackboard on the platform, a bit of chalk in her fingers, Dolly, a girl eighteen years of age, stood explaining an example in arithmetic to several burly boys taller than herself. Webb glanced up at the sun. "They haven't had recess yet," he reckoned. "I swear I'm sorry for them boys. I'd rather take a dozen lickin's than to stay in on a day like this an' try to git lessons in my head. I don't blame George a bit, so I don't. I can't recall a thing in the Saviour's teachin's about havin' to study figures an' geography, nohow. Looks to me like the older the world gits the further it gits from common sense." Patiently Webb held his ground till Dolly had dismissed the class; then, turning to a table on which stood a cumbersome brass bell, she said: "I'm going to let you have recess, but you've got to go out quietly." She had not ceased speaking, and had scarcely touched the handle of the bell, when there was a deafening clatter of books and slates on the crude benches. Feet shod and feet bare pounded the floor. Merry yells rent the air. On the platform itself two of the arithmetic delinquents were boxing playfully, fiercely punching, thrusting, and dodging. At a window three boys were bodily ejecting a fourth, the legs and feet of whom, like a human letter V, were seen disappearing over the sill. Smilingly Webb stood aside and let the clamoring drove hurtle past to the playground outside, and when the way was clear he entered the church and stalked up the single aisle toward his niece. Dolly had turned back to the blackboard, and was sponging off the chalk figures. She was quite pretty; her eyes were large, with fathomless hazel depths. Her brow, under a mass of uncontrollable reddish-brown hair, was high and indicative of decided intellectual power. She was of medium height, very shapely, and daintily graceful. She had a good nose and a sweet, sympathetic mouth. Her hands were slender and tapering, though suggestive of strength. She wore a simple white shirtwaist and a black skirt than which nothing could have been more becoming. Hearing her uncle's step, she turned and greeted his smile with a dubious one of her own. "Why don't you go out and play with the balance an' limber yourself up?" he asked. "Play? I say _play!_" she sighed. "You men don't know any more about what a woman teacher has to contend with than a day-old kitten. My head is in a constant whirl. Sometimes I forget my own name." "What's wrong now?" Webb smiled eagerly. "Oh, it's everything--everything!" she sighed. "Not a thing has happened right to-day. George flatly refused to come to school--even defied me before some other boys down the road. Then my own sister--" "What's wrong with Ann? I remember now that I didn't see her in that drove just now, and she certainly ain't at home, because I'm just from thar." "No, she isn't at home," Dolly frowned, and, for an obvious reason, raised her voice to a high pitch, "but I'll tell you where she is, and as her own blood uncle you can share my humiliation." Therewith Dolly grimly pointed at a closet door close by. "Open it," she said. "The truth is, I told her she would have to stay there twenty minutes, and I've been bothered all through the last recitation for fear she wouldn't get enough air. All at once she got still, though she kept up a terrible racket at first." With a grin Webb mounted the platform and opened the door of the closet. He opened it quite widely, that Dolly might look into the receptacle from where she stood. And there against the wall, seated on the floor, was Dolly's sister Ann, a slim-legged, rather pretty girl about fourteen years of age, her eyes sullenly cast down. Around her were some dismantled, ill-smelling lamps, a step-ladder, an old stove, and a bench holding a stack of hymn-books. "She ain't _quite_ dead," John said, dryly. "She's still breathin' below the neck, an' she's got some red in the face." "She ought to be red from head to foot," Dolly said, for the culprit's ears. "Ann, come here!" There was no movement on the part of the prisoner save a desultory picking of the fingers at a fold of her gingham skirt. "Didn't you hear what Dolly--what your teacher said?" Webb asked, in an effort at severity which was far from his mood. "Of course she heard," Dolly said, sharply. "She thinks it will mend matters for her to pout awhile. Come here, Ann." "I want to stay here," Ann muttered; "I like it. Shut the door, Uncle John. It is cool and nice in here." "She wants to stay." Webb's eyes danced as he conveyed the message. "She says she likes it, an' I reckon she does. Scripture says them whose deeds is evil likes darkness better'n light. You certainly made a mistake when you clapped 'er in here--that is, if you meant to punish 'er. Ann's a reg'lar bat, if not a' owl." "Pull her out!" Dolly cried. "I've got to talk to her, and recess is almost over." "Come out, young lady," Webb laid hold of the girl's wrist and drew the reluctant creature to her feet, half pushing, half leading her to her sister. "I'm glad you happened in, Uncle John," Dolly said. "I want you to take a look at that face. How she got the money I don't know, but she bought a dozen sticks of licorice at the store as she passed this morning and brought them to school in her pocket. She's been gorging herself with it all day. You can see it all over her face, under her chin, behind her neck, and even in her ears. Look here at her new geography." Dolly, in high disgust, exhibited several brown smudges on an otherwise clean page. Webb took the book with all the gravity of a most righteous, if highly amused judge. "Looks like ham gravy, don't it?" he said. "An' as I understand it, the book has to be handed on to somebody else when she gits through with it. What a pity!" "I know you are ashamed of her, Uncle John, for I am," Dolly continued. "You see, she's my own sister." "And my own sister's child," Webb deplored. "Of course, she ain't _quite_ as close to me as she is to you, but she's nigh enough to make me feel plumb ashamed. I've always tuck pride in both you gals; but lawsy me, if Ann is goin' to gaum 'erself from head to foot like a pig learnin' to root, why, I reckon I'll jest hang my head in shame." "I've lost all patience," the teacher said. "Go home, Ann, and let mother look at you. Don't come back to-day. I don't want to see you again. I've lost heart completely. I want to be proud of you and George, but I'm afraid I never can be. She can't write, Uncle John; she can't spell the simplest words in three syllables; and as for using correct grammar and pronunciation--" But Ann was stalking off without looking back. Dolly sat down at the table and drew a sheet of paper toward her. "She's got me all upset," she sighed. "Mr. DeWitt, the new teacher, has been sending about a test example in arithmetic to see who can work it. He says he can do it, and one or two other _men_, but that he never has seen a woman teacher yet who could get the answer. I was within an inch of the solution when I caught sight of that girl's face, and it went from me in a flash. Uncle John, if fifteen men own in common three hundred and eighty-four bushels of wheat, and three men want to buy sixty-seven and three-fourths of--" "Oh, Lord--thar you go!" Webb groaned. "Let me tell you some'n', Dolly. The fool feller that concocted that thing to idle time away with never hoed a row of corn or planted a potato. Do you know what that's meant for? It is for no other reason under the shinin' sun than to make the average parent think teachers know more'n the rest o' humanity. In the first place, the fifteen common men must be common shore enough if they couldn't own all told more than that amount o' wheat in this day and time when even a one-horse farmer can raise--" "You don't understand," Dolly broke in, with an indulgent smile. "And I don't want to, either," John declared. "It is hard enough work to sow and reap and thresh wheat in hot weather like this without sweatin' over fifteen able-bodied men that are jowerin' about a pile no bigger'n that." Dolly glanced at the round rosewood clock on the plastered wall and reached for the bell-handle. "My time's up," she said. "I wish I could stop my ears with cotton. They always come in like a drove of iron-shod mules on a wooden bridge." "Your pa's got a piece o' news this mornin'." Webb knew his words would stay the hand now resting on the bell. "What is it?" Dolly inquired. "He got a letter from Mr. Mostyn; he's comin' up to board at the house for a month." The pretty hand dropped from the bell-handle. Dolly was staring at the speaker in surprise. She said nothing, though he was sure a flush was creeping into her cheeks. "I sorter thought that 'ud stagger you," Webb said with a significant grin. "Me? I don't see why." Dolly was fighting for perfect composure under trying circumstances, considering her uncle's mischievous stare. "Well, I do, if you don't, Miss Dolly," he tittered. "You wasn't a bit older 'n Ann is when he was here last, but you was daffy about 'im the same as your ma an' all the rest o' the women. In fact, you was wuss than the balance." "Me? I'm ashamed of you, Uncle John; I'm ashamed to hear you accuse me of--of--why, I never heard of such a thing." "No matter, I wasn't plumb blind," Webb went on. "You kept puttin' fresh flowers in his room an' you eyed his plate like he was a pet cat to see if he was bein' fed right. La me, I'm no fool! I know a _little_ about females, an' I never saw a mountain woman yet that wouldn't go stark crazy over a town man or a' unmarried preacher. I reckon it must be the clothes the fellers wear or the prissy stuff they chat about." Dolly put her hand out toward the bell, but dropped it to the table. "When is he coming?" she asked, her eyes holding a tense, eager stare. "Thursday," was the answer, accompanied by a widening grin. "I wouldn't give the children a holiday on the strength of it if I was you. Part o' these mountain folks is men an' moonshiners, an' they don't think any more about a feller that owns a bank in Atlanta 'an they do of a mossback clod-hopper with the right sort o' heart in 'im. Say, Mostyn ain't nothin' but human, an' if what _some_ say is so he ain't the highest grade o' that. Over at Hilton's warehouse in Ridgeville t'other day I heard some cotton-buyers talkin' about men that had riz fast an' the underhanded tricks sech chaps use to hoodwink simple folks, an' they said Dick Mostyn capped the stack. Accordin' to them, he--" "I don't believe a word of it!" Dolly stood up and angrily grasped the bell-handle. "It's not true. It's a meddlesome lie. They are jealous. People are always like that--it makes them furious to see another person prosper. They are mean, low back-biters." "Oh, I don't say that Mostyn will actually be arrested before he gits up here," John said, dryly. "From all reports he generally has the law on his side, an'--" But Dolly, still angry, was ringing the bell. She had turned her back to Webb; and, unable to make himself heard, he made his way down the aisle to the door. "She's a regular spitfire when she gits 'er back up," he mused. "Now I _know_ she likes 'im. It's been three years since she laid eyes on 'im, but she's as daffy now as she was then. It must 'a' been the feller's gallant way. I remember he used to say she was the purtiest an' brightest little trick he ever seed. Maybe he said somethin' o' the sort to her, young as she was. I remember I used to think Sis was a fool to let 'im walk about with Dolly so much, pickin' flowers an' the like. Well, if he thought she was purty an' smart then he'll be astonished now--he shore will." CHAPTER IV As Mostyn's train ascended the grade leading up to the hamlet of Ridgeville, within a mile of which lay the little farm to which he was going, he sat at an open window and viewed the scene with delight, drawing into his lungs with a sense of restful content the crisp, rarefied air. To the west, and marking the vicinity of Drake's farm, the mountain loomed up in its blended coat of gray and green, growing more and more indistinct as the range gradually extended into the bluish haze of distance. "I'm going to like it," he said, almost aloud, with the habit he had of talking to himself when alone. "I feel as if I shall never want to look inside a bank again. This is life, real, sensible life. I have, after all, always had a yearning for genuine simplicity. It must have come to me from my pioneer, Puritan ancestry. That man over there plowing corn with his mule and ragged harness is happier than I ever was down there in that God-forsaken turmoil. The habit of wanting to beat other men in the expert turning over of capital is as dangerous, once it clutches you, as morphine. I must call a halt. That last narrow escape shall be a lesson. I am getting normal again, and I must stay so. What are Alan Delbridge's operations to me? He has no nerves nor imagination. He could have slept through that last tangle of mine which came within an inch of laying me out stiff and stark. I wonder how all the Drakes are, especially Dolly. She must be fully grown now. Saunders says she is beautiful and as wise as Socrates. I suppose there are a dozen mountain boys after her by this time. For a little girl she was astonishingly mature in manner and thought. I ought not to have talked to her as I did. I have never forgotten her face and voice as I saw and heard them that last night. I see the wonderful eyes and mouth, the like of which I have never run across since. I am ashamed to think that I acted as I did, and she only an inexperienced child; but I really couldn't help it. I seemed to be in a dream. It was really an unpardonable thing--and proves that I _do_ lack character--for me to tell her that I would often think of her. But the worst of all, really the most cowardly, considering her unsuspecting innocence and exaggerated faith in me, was my kissing her as I did there in the moonlight. How exquisite was her vow that she'd never kiss any other man as long as she lived! Lord, I wonder what ails me. Surely I am not silly enough to be actually--" Mostyn's meditations were interrupted by a shrill shriek from the locomotive. Leaning out of the window, he saw the little old-fashioned brick car-shed ahead and heard the grinding of the brakes on the smooth wheels beneath the car. Grasping his bag in his hand, he made his way out and descended to the ground. He saw the long white three-story hotel close by with its green blinds, extensive veranda, and blue-railed balustrade, the row of stores and law-offices, forming three sides of a square of which the car-shed, depot, and railway made the fourth. In the open space stood some canvas-covered mountain-wagons containing produce for shipment to the larger markets, and the usual male loungers in straw hats, baggy trousers, easy shoes, and shirts without coats. A burly negro porter hastened down the steps of the hotel and approached swinging his slouch hat in his hand, his eyes on the traveler's bag. "All right, boss--Purcell House, fus'-class hotel, whar all de drummers put up. Good sample-rooms an' fine country cookin'." Mostyn held on to his bag, which the swarthy hands were grasping. "No, I'm not going to stop," he explained. "I'm going out to Drake's farm." "Oh, _is_ you? Well, suh, Mr. John Webb is in de freight depot. I done hear 'im say he fetched de buggy ter tek somebody out." At this juncture the florid and flushed face of Webb was seen as he emerged from the doorway of the depot. He was bent under a weighty bag of flour, and smiled and waved his hat by way of salutation as he advanced to a buggy at a public hitching-rack and deposited his burden in the receptacle behind the single seat. This done, he came forward, brushing the sleeve of his alpaca coat and grinning jovially. "How are you?" He extended a fat, perspiring hand luckily powdered with flour. "I reckon you won't mind riding out with me. Tom said he'd bet you'd rather walk to limber up your legs, but Lucy made me fetch the buggy along, as some said you wasn't as well as common. But you look all right to me-that is, as well as _any_ of you city fellers ever do. The last one of you look as white as convicts out o' jail. I reckon thar is so much smoke over your town that the sun don't strike it good and straight." "Oh, I'm all right," Mostyn said, good-naturedly, "just a little run down from overwork, that's all." "Run down?" Webb seemed quite concerned with getting at the exact meaning of the statement, and as he took Mostyn's bag and put it in with the flour he eyed the banker attentively. _"Run down?"_ he repeated, with his characteristic emphasis. "I don't see how a man as big an' hearty as you look an' weighin' as much could git sick or even _tired_ without havin' any more work to do than you have. I've always meant to ask you or Mr. Saunders what you fellers do, _anyway._ I reckon banks are the same in big towns as in little ones. They haven't got a regular bank here in Ridgeville, but I've been to the one in Darley. I went in with Tom when he wanted to draw the cash on a cotton check. Talk about hard work--I'll swear I couldn't see it. Me 'n' Tom had been up fully three hours knockin' about the streets tryin' to kill the best part o' the day before that shebang opened up for business, an' _then_ somebody said they shet up at three o'clock an' went home to take a nap or whiz about in their automobiles. The whole thing's bothered me a sight, for I _do_ like to understand things. How _could_ a checker-playin' business like that tire anybody?" "It's head-work," Mostyn obligingly explained, as he followed John into the buggy and sat beside him. _"Head-work,"_ Webb echoed, the cloud still on his brow. He clucked to his horse and gently shook the reins. "To save me I don't see how head-work--if there is such a thing--could tire out a man's legs and arms and body." "There is a good deal of worry attached to it," Mostyn felt impelled to say. "Nowadays they are saying that worry will kill a man quicker than any sort of physical ailment. You see, good sound sleep is necessary, and when a man is greatly bothered he simply can't sleep." "Oh, I see, I see," Webb's blue eyes flashed. "Thar may be something in that, but it does seem like a man would have more gumption 'an to worry hisse'f to death about something that won't be of use to 'im after he dies. That's common sense, ain't it?" Mostyn was compelled to admit the truth of the remark. They had driven out of the village square and were now in the open country. "Thar is one more thing about town folks an' country folks that I've always wanted to know," John began again after a silence of several minutes, "and that is why town folks contend that country folks is green. As I look at it it is an even swap. Now, you are a town man, an' I'm a country feller. I could take you to the edge o' that cotton-field whar it joins on to the woods on that slope thar, an' point out a spot whar you couldn't make cotton grow more'n six inches high though it will reach four feet everywhar else in the field. Now, I'd be an impolite fool to lie down thar betwixt the rows an' split my sides laughin' at you for not knowin' what I jest got on to by years an' years o' farm life. The truth is that cotton won't take any sort o' root within twenty feet of a white-oak tree." "I didn't know that," Mostyn said. "I knowed you didn't, an' that's why I fetched it up," Webb went on, blandly, "an' me nor no other farmer would poke fun at you about it, but it is different in town. Jest let a spindle-legged counter-jumper at a store with his hair parted in the middle git a joke on a country feller, an' the whole town will take a hand in it. Oh, I know, for they've shore had _me_ on the run." "I'm surprised at that," Mostyn answered, smiling. "You seem too shrewd to be taken in by any one." "Humph, I say!" Webb laughed reminiscently. "I supplied all the fun Darley had one hot summer day when all hands was lyin' round the stores and law-offices tryin' to git cool by fannin' and sprinklin' the sidewalks. Did you ever hear tell of the Tom Collins gag?" "I think not," the banker answered. "Well, I have--you bet I have," John said, dryly, "an" it is one thing that makes me afraid sometimes that a country feller railly hain't actually overloaded with brains. Take my advice; if anybody ever tells you that a feller by the name o' Tom Collins is lookin' for you an' anxious to see you about something important, just skin your eye at 'im, tell 'im right out that you don't give a dang about Tom Collins. La me, what a fool--what a fool I was! A feller workin' at the cotton-compress told me that a man by the name o' Tom Collins wanted to see me right off, an' that he was up at the wholesale grocery. Fool that I was, I hitched my hosses an' struck out lickity-split for the grocery. I axed one of the storekeepers standin' in front if Tom Collins was anywhars about, and, as I remember now, he slid his hand over his mouth an' sorter turned his face to one side and yelled back in the store: "'Say, boys, is Tom Collins back thar?' An' right then, Mr. Mostyn, if I had had the sense of a three-year-old baby I'd have smelt a mouse, for fully six clerks, drummers, and all the firm hurried to whar I was at an' stood lookin' at me, their eyes dancin'. 'He _was_ here, but he's just left,' a clerk said. 'He went to the hotel to git his grip. He was awfully put out. He's been all over town lookin' for you.' Well, as I made a break for the hotel, wonderin' if somebody had died an' left me a hunk o' money, the gang at the grocery stood clean out on the sidewalk watchin' me. When I inquired at the hotel, the clerk an' two nigger waiters said Tom was askin' about me an' had just run over to the court-house, whar I'd be shore to find him." "I see the point," Mostyn laughed. "I'm glad you do so quick, for I had to have it beat into me with a sledge-hammer," Webb said, dryly. "I was so mad I could have chawed nails, but I blamed myself more'n anybody else, for they was just havin' their fun an' meant no harm." "I suppose not," Mostyn said. "Well, I can't complain; they have their sport with one another. Dolph Wartrace, you know, that keeps the cross-roads store nigh us, clerked in Darley before he went in on his own hook out here, an' I've heard 'im tell of a lot o' pranks that they had over thar. He said thar was an old bachelor that, kept a dry-goods store who never had had much to do with women. He was bashful-like, but thar was _one_ young woman that he had his eye on, an' now an' then he'd spruce up an' go to see 'er or take 'er out to meetin', but Jeff said he was too weak-kneed to pop the question, an' the gal went off on a visit to Alabama and got married. Now, the old bach' had a gang o' friends that was always in for fun, an' with long, sad faces they went about askin' everybody they met if they had heard that Bob Hadley--that was the feller's name--if they had heard that he was dead. Bob knowed what they was sayin' an' tried to put a pleasant face on it, but it must have been hard work, considerin' all that happened. "Well, one thing added to another till a gang of Bob's friends met the next night in a grocery store after he had gone to bed and still with sad, solemn faces declared that, considerin' his untimely end, it was their bounden duty to bury 'im in a respectable way. So they went to the furniture store close by an' borrowed a coffin an' picked out pall-bearers. A feller that slept with Bob in the little room cut off at the end o' his store was in the game, an' he had a key an' unlocked the door, an' the solemn procession marched in singin' some sad hymn or other with every man-jack of 'em wipin' his eyes an' snufflin'. Now, that was all well an' good as far as it went, but thar was a traitor in the camp. Somebody had let the dead man in on the job, an' when the gang got to the door of the little room he jumped out o' bed with a surprised sort o' grunt an' let into firin' blank-cartridges straight at 'em. Folks say that thar was some o' the tallest runnin' an' jumpin' an' hidin' under counters an' bustin' show-cases that ever tuck place out of a circus. After that night Jeff said the whole town was meetin' the gang an' tellin' 'em that thar must 'a' been some mistake about the report of Bob Hadley's death anyway." Mostyn laughed heartily. Indeed, he was conscious of a growing sense of deep content and restfulness. The turmoil of business and city life seemed almost dreamlike in its remoteness from his present more rational existence. With the handle of his whip Webb pointed to the roof of the farmhouse, the fuzzy gray shingles of which were barely showing above the trees by which it was shaded. "You haven't told me how the family are," Mostyn said, "I suppose the children are much larger now. Dolly, at least, must be a young lady, from what Saunders tells me of her school-work." Webb's blue eyes swept the face of the banker with a steady scrutiny. There was a faint twinkle in their mystic depths as he replied. "Yes, she's full grown. She's kin folks o' mine, an' it ain't for me to say, but I'd be unnatural if I wasn't proud of 'er. She's the head of that shebang, me included. What she says goes with young or old. She ain't more'n eighteen, if she's that, an' yet she furnishes brains for us an' mighty nigh all the neighborhood. You wait till you see 'er an' hear 'er talk, an' you will know what I mean." CHAPTER V The next morning the new boarder waked at sunrise, and stood at a window of his room on the upper floor of the farmhouse and looked out across the fields and meadows to the rugged, mist-draped mountain. The beautiful valley was flooded with the soft golden light. An indescribable luster seemed to breathe from every dew-laden stalk of cotton or corn, plant, vine, blade of grass and patch of succulent clover. Cobwebs, woven in the night and bejeweled with dewdrops, festooned the boughs of the trees in the orchard and on the lawn. From the barn-yard back of the farmhouse a chorus of sounds was rising. Pigs were grunting and squealing, cows were mooing, a donkey was braying, ducks were quacking, hens were clucking, roosters were crowing. "Saunders is right," Mostyn declared, enthusiastically. "I don't blame the fellow for spending so much time on his plantation. This is the only genuine life. The other is insanity, crazy, competitive madness, for which there is no cure this side of the grave. I must have two natures. At this moment I feel as if I'd rather die than sweat and stew over investments and speculations in a bank as I have been doing, and yet I may be sure that the thing will clutch me again. One word of Delbridge's lucky manipulations or old Mitchell's praise, and the fever would burn to my bones. But I mustn't think of them if I am to benefit by this. I must fill myself with this primitive simplicity and dream once more the glorious fancies of boyhood." Finishing dressing, he descended the stairs to the hall below and passed through the open door to the veranda. No one was in sight, but from the kitchen in the rear he heard the clatter of utensils and dishes, and smelt the aroma of boiling coffee and frying ham. Already his appetite was sharpened as if by the mountain air. He decided on taking a walk, and, stepping down to the grass, he turned round the house, coming face to face upon Dolly, whom he had not yet seen, as she came from a side door. "Oh!" she exclaimed, flushing prettily. "I did not think you would rise so early--at least, not on your first morning." He eyed her almost in bewilderment as he took the hand she was cordially extending. Could this full-blown rose of young womanhood, this startling beauty, be the slip of a timid girl he had so lightly treated three years ago? What hair, what eyes, what palpitating, sinuous grace! She was fast recovering calmness. There was a womanly dignity about her which seemed incongruous in one so young. "I am rather surprised at myself for waking so early," he answered. "I slept like a log. It is the first real rest I have had since--since I was here before. Why, Dolly"--he caught himself up--"I suppose I must say Miss Drake now--" "No, I am not that to any one in all this valley, and don't want to be!" she cried, the corners of her mouth curving bewitchingly. "Even the little children call me 'Dolly,' and I like it." "I mustn't stop you if you are going somewhere," he said, still in the grasp of her wondrous beauty. "I'm going down to Tobe Barnett's cabin in the edge of our field." She showed a small vial half filled with medicine in the pocket of her white apron. "His baby, little Robby, was taken sick a few days ago. I sat up there part of last night. They have no paragoric and I am taking some over." "So that's where you were; I wondered when I didn't see you at supper," Mostyn said, turning with her toward the gate. "I'll go with you if you don't mind." "Oh yes, come on," Dolly answered. "We'll have plenty of time before the breakfast-bell rings. It is not far. I am awfully sorry for Tobe and his wife; they are both young and inexperienced." "And you are a regular grandmother in wisdom," Mostyn jested. "Only eighteen, with the world on your shoulders." "Well, I _do_ seem to know a few things, a few _ordinary_ things," Dolly said, seriously, "but they are not matters to boast about. For instance, Tobe and Annie--that's his wife--were so scared and excited when I got there last night that they were actually harming the poor little baby, and I set about to calm them the very first thing. I can't begin to tell you how they went on. Think of it, they had actually given up and were crying--both of them--and there lay the little mite fairly gasping for breath. I made Tobe go after some wood for the fire, and put Annie at work helping me. Then I forced them to be still until the baby got quiet and fell asleep." "You'd make a capital nurse." Mostyn was regarding her admiringly. "It would be a pleasure to be sick in your hands." Dolly ignored his compliment. She was thinking of something alien to his mood and deeper. "Do you know," she said, after she had passed through the gate which he had held open, "the world is all out of joint." "Do you think so?" he asked, as he walked beside her, suiting his step to hers. "Yes, for if it were right," she sighed, her brows meeting thoughtfully, "such well-meaning persons as the Barnetts would not have to live as they do and bring helpless children into the world." "Things do seem rather uneven," Mostyn admitted, lamely, "but you know really that we ought to have a law that would keep such couples from marrying." "Poof!" She blew his argument away with a fine sniff of denial, and her eyes shot forth fresh gleams of conviction. "How absurd to talk about a human law to keep persons from doing God's infinite will. God intends for persons to love each other. Love is the one divine thing that we can be absolutely sure of. Annie and Tobe can't help themselves. They are out in a storm. It is beating them on all sides--pounding, driving, dragging, and grinding them. They love each other with a love that is celestial, a love that is of the spirit rather than of their poor ill-fed, ill-clothed bodies." Mostyn's wonder over the girl's depth and facility of expression clutched him so firmly that he found himself unable to formulate a fitting reply. "Oh yes, their love is absolutely genuine," Dolly ran on, loyally. "Tobe could have married the daughter of a well-to-do farmer over the mountain whom he had visited several times before he met his wife. The farmer was willing, I have heard, to give them land to live on, and it might have been a match, but Tobe accidentally met Annie. She was a poor girl working in the Ridgeville cotton factory at two or three dollars a week, which she was giving to her people. She had only two dresses, the tattered bag of a thing she worked in and another which she kept for Sundays. Tobe met her and talked to her one day while he was hauling cotton to the factory, and something in her poor wretched face attracted him, or maybe it was her sweet voice, for it is as mellow as music. She wasn't well--had a cough at the time--and he had read something in a paper about the lint of a factory causing consumption, and it worried him; people say he couldn't keep from talking about it. She was on his mind constantly. He was still going to see the other girl, but he acted so oddly that she became angry with him and, to spite him, began to go with another young man. But Tobe didn't seem to care. He kept going to the factory and--well, the upshot of it was that he married Annie." "And then the _real_ trouble began," Mostyn said, smiling lightly. "And actually through no fault of their own," Dolly declared. "He rented land, bought some supplies on credit, and went to work to make a crop. You ask father or Uncle John; they will tell you that Tobe Barnett was the hardest worker in this valley. But ill luck clung to him like a leach. The drouth killed his first crop, and the winter caught him in debt. Then Annie got sick--she had exposed herself to the bad weather milking a cow for a neighbor to earn a little money. Then no sooner was she up when a wagon ran over Tobe and hurt his foot so that he could hardly get about. Then the baby came, and their load of trouble was heavier than ever." "A case of true love, without doubt," Mostyn said. "And the prettiest thing on earth," Dolly declared. "Sometimes it seems to make their poor shack of a place fairly glow with heavenly light." "You are a marvel to me, Dolly--you really are!" Mostyn paused, and she turned to him, a groping look of surprise on her face. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Why, you have such an original way of speaking," he said, somewhat abashed by her sudden demand. "I mean--that--that what you say sounds different from what one would naturally expect. Not ordinary, not commonplace; I hardly know how to express it. Really, you are quite poetic." He saw her face fall. "I am sorry about that," she faltered. "I have been told the same thing before, and I don't like to be that way. I am afraid I read too much poetry. It fairly sings in my head when I feel deeply, as I do about Tobe and Annie, for instance, or when I have to make a speech." "Make a speech? You?" Mostyn stared. "Oh yes, these people expect all that sort of thing from a teacher, and it was very hard for me to do at first, but I don't mind it now. One is obliged to open school with prayer, too, and it mustn't be worded the same way each time or the mischievous children will learn it by heart and quote it. The most of my speeches are made in our debating society." "Oh, I see; you have a debating society!" Mostyn exclaimed. "Yes, and as it happens I am the only woman member," Dolly proceeded to enlighten him. "The men teachers in the valley got it up to meet at my school twice a month, and the patrons took a big interest in it and began to make insinuations that my school ought to be represented. They talked so much about it that I was afraid some man would get my job, so one day when Warren Wilks, the teacher in Ridgeville, asked me to join I did." "How strange!" Mostyn said, admiringly, "and you really do take part." Dolly laughed softly. "You'd think so if you ever attended one of our public harangues. I've heard persons say I was the whole show. Of course, I'm joking now, but the women all take up for me and applaud everything I say, whether it has a point to it or not. _'Whole show!'_ I oughtn't to have said that. When I try to keep from using bookish expressions I drop plumb into slang; there is no middle ground for me." "What sort of subjects does your society take up?" Mostyn inquired, highly amused. "Anything the human mind can think up," Dolly answered. "Warren Wilks reads all the philosophical and scientific magazines, and he fairly floors us--there I go again; when I talk I either grab the stars or stick my nose in the mire. I mean that Warren's subjects are generally abstruse and profound." "For instance?" Mostyn suggested, still smiling. "Well, the last one was--and there was a crowd, I tell you, for the presiding elder had just closed a revival in our church and a good many stayed over for the debate. We all tried to show off because he was present, and it was a religious subject. It was this: Is it possible for human beings in the present day to obey the commandment of Jesus to love your neighbor as yourself?" "And which side were you on?" the banker asked. "I was affirmative, and almost by myself, too," Dolly answered. "I oughtn't to say that either; it sounds like bragging, for there were two men on my side, but I saw at the start that I couldn't depend on them. They were weak-kneed--afraid of our premise. They didn't believe Jesus meant it, anyway. I did the best I could. I not only think He meant it, but I am sure the day will come when the whole world will live up to the rule. Christ wouldn't be for all time, as He is, if His best ideas were acceptable to such a grossly material age as ours. Neither side won in that debate--the judges couldn't agree. I wish you had been here last month. We had up a subject that you could have helped me on. The question was: Which is the better place to rear a man, the city or the country? Or, in other words, can the mind of man develop in a busy, crowded place as well as in a quiet spot in the country? I was on the side of the rural districts that night, and we won. We had no trouble showing that the majority of great characters in all lines of endeavor had come from rural spots. I think it is the same to-day. I know I wouldn't live in a big town. City people are occupied with automobiles, golf, dances, card parties, and gossip--of course, I don't mean anything personal, you understand, but it is a fact that they are that way. And it is a fact, too, that here our crowd, at least, will get a good book and actually wear it to tatters passing it around. That is the sort of education that sticks when it once gets hold of a person." "I am sure you are right," Mostyn admitted, and he felt the blood rise to his face as he thought of the emptiness of his own life in Atlanta, which now, somehow, seemed like a vanishing dream. The morning sun was blazing over the verdant landscape, filling the dewdrops on the grass with red, blue, and yellow light. An indescribable aura seemed to encircle the exquisite face of his young companion. There was a restful poise about her, a sure grasp of utterance, that soothed and thrilled him. Something new and vivifying sprang to life in his breast. The thought flashed into his consciousness that here with this embodiment of intellectual purity he could master the cloying vices of his life. He could put them behind him--turn over a new leaf, be a new man in body and spirit. Perhaps he could kill the temptation to gain by sordid business methods; perhaps he could subdue the reluctant intention to marry for ulterior motives regardless of the magnitude of the temptation. It really was not too late. He couldn't remember having said anything to Mitchell or his daughter which would bind him in any absolute sense. Yes, the ideal was the thing. Providence had rescued him from his recent financial danger, and meant this encounter as a chance for redemption. He could make some sort of compromise with old Jefferson Henderson--a reasonable sum of money to one so hard pressed for funds would not only silence the too active tongue, but win his gratitude and the approval of all business men. Then there was the other thing--the thing he scarcely dared think of in the presence of this pure young girl--the disagreeable case of Marie--but there was no use reflecting over what could not be helped. A man ought to be pardoned for mistakes due to uncontrollable natural passion. The woman is generally as much to blame as her companion in indiscretion, especially one of the sort to whom his mind now reverted. She had shown her lack of character, if not her prime motive, by accepting and using the money he had offered her. She had been troublesome, and more so of late than before, but she might be persuaded to let him alone. His conscience was clear, for he had made no promises to her. He remembered distinctly that he had made no effort actually to win her affections. How different was this pure mountain flower from such a soiled and degraded creature! "There," Dolly was speaking again, and the soft cadences of her voice put his shameful memories to flight as she pointed to an opening between the trees of the wood on the right, "you can see your partner's house from here. He has had it repainted. It is a beautiful old place, isn't it?" He nodded as he surveyed the stately mansion in the distance, the white porch columns of which shone like snow in the slanting rays of the sun. "It is Saunders's pride," he said. "Atlanta is becoming more and more distasteful to him. He is never really happy anywhere but up here. He yawns his head off at every party, dance, or dinner down there. They all laugh at him and call him 'Farmer.'" "Well, he is that," Dolly declared. "He works in the fields like a day-laborer when he is up here on a holiday." They walked on a few paces in silence; then Dolly said: "Mr. Saunders has been very kind to our club; he gave us a lot of good books; he comes to our debates sometimes and seems very much interested. We all like him. The boys declare they could elect him to the legislature from this county if only he would let them, but he doesn't care a fig for it." "He is something of a dreamer, I think," Mostyn remarked, "and still he's practical. He has a long head on him--never gets excited and seldom makes a wrong move in a deal." They were now nearing the cabin occupied by Tobe Barnett. It was a most dilapidated shack. It was made of pine logs, the bark of which had become worm-eaten and was falling away. The spaces between the logs were filled with dried clay. It had a mud-and-stick chimney, from the cracks of which the smoke oozed. It contained only one room, was roofed with crudely split boards of oak, and was without a window of any sort. Outside against the wall on the right of the shutterless door was a shelf holding a battered tin water pail and a gourd. Within, as the visitors approached nearer, was heard the grinding of feet on the rough planks of the floor and the faint, tremulous cry of a child. A lank young man appeared at the door. He wore a ragged, earth-stained shirt and patched pants. His yellowish hair was tousled, a scant tuft of beard was on his sharp chin, and whiskers of a week's standing mottled his hollow cheeks. His blue eyes peered out despondently from their shadowy sockets. "How is Robby now, Tobe?" Dolly asked. The man stepped down to the ground, and in his tattered, gaping shoes slowly shambled forward. "I can't see no change, Miss Dolly," he gulped. "He seems to me as sick as ever. If anything, he don't git his breath as free as he did. Annie's mighty nigh distracted. I don't know which way to turn or what to do when she gives up." "I know it--poor thing!" Dolly answered. She turned to Mostyn. "Wait here. I'll be out before long." Followed by the anxious father, she went into the cabin. Mostyn sat down at the root of a big beech tree and glanced over the peaceful landscape. How wonderful the scene! he thought. The top of the mountain was lost in the lifting mist along its base and sides. The level growing fields stretched away to the north in a blaze of warming yellow. A boy was leading a harnessed horse along the road; behind him lagged a dog to which the boy was cheerfully whistling and calling. A covey of quails rose from a patch of blackberry vines and fluttered away toward the nearest hillside. Yes, he was going to turn over a new leaf. Mostyn was quite sure of this. He would take Saunders for his model instead of that crack-brained Delbridge who had the hide of an ox and no refinement of feeling. Yes, yes, and forget--above all, he would forget; that was the thing. At this moment he saw Dolly crossing the room with the child in her arms. It was only for an instant, and yet he noted the unspeakable tenderness which pervaded her attitude and movement. He was reminded of a picture of a Madonna he had seen in a gallery in New York. The crying of the child had ceased; there was scarcely any sound in the cabin, for Dolly's tread was as light as falling snow. From the doorway came Tobe Barnett. He approached Mostyn in a most dejected mien. "This is Mr. Mostyn, ain't it?" he asked. "I heard Tom Drake say they was expectin' you up." The banker nodded. "How do you think the baby is now?" he asked, considerately. "Only the Lord could answer that, sir," the man sighed. "I believe it would have died in the night if Miss Dolly hadn't got out o' bed an' come over." "I was half awake," Mostyn said. "I thought I heard some one calling out at the gate. It was about two o'clock, I think." "That was the fust time, sir. The second time was just before daybreak. I didn't go for her that time. She come of her own accord--said she jest couldn't git back to sleep. She loves children, Mr. Mostyn, an' she seems to think as much o' Robby as if he was her own. I ketched 'er cryin' last night when she was settin' waitin' in the dark for 'im to git to sleep. La, la, folks brag powerful on Miss Dolly, but they don't know half o' the good she does on the quiet. She tries to keep 'em from findin' out what she does. I know I'm grateful to 'er. If the Lord don't give me a chance to repay 'er for her kindness to me an' mine I'll never be satisfied." The speaker's voice had grown husky, and he now choked up. Silence fell. It was broken by a sweet voice in the cabin humming an old plantation lullaby. There was a thumping of a rockerless chair on the floor. Presently the mother of the child came out. She blinked from the staring blue eyes which she timidly raised to Mostyn's face. Her dress was a poor drab rag of a thing which hung limply over her thin form. Her hair was tawny and drawn into a tight, unbecoming knot at the back of her head. No collar of any sort hid her sun-browned, bony neck. "Miss Dolly said please not wait for her," she faltered. "Breakfast at the house will be over. She's done give the child the medicine an' wants to put it to sleep. It will sleep for her, but won't for me or Tobe. We have sent for a doctor, but we don't know whether he will come or not. Doctors can't afford to bother with real pore folks as much out o' the way as this is." "He won't be likely to come," Barnett sighed. "They are all out for cases whar they kin git ready cash an' plenty of it." Mostyn turned away. What a wonderful girl Dolly was, he said to himself, as he strode along, his heart beating with strange new elation. He was sure she still liked him. She showed it in her eyes, in her tone of voice. She had not forgotten his last talk with her; she was so young, so impressionable, and, withal, so genuine! At the front gate he saw John Webb waiting for him. "You'd better hurry," Webb smiled, as he swung the gate open. "The bell's done rung. I seed you an' Dolly walkin' off, an' I was afeared you'd git cold grub. As for her, she don't care when she eats or what is set before her." CHAPTER VI It was the following Tuesday. Dolly, with a bundle of books and written exercises under her arm, was returning from school. Close behind her walked George and Ann. "I'm ashamed of you both," Dolly said, with a frown. "We've got company, and you are both as black as the pot. If I were you I'd certainly stop at the branch and wash the dirt off before getting home." "That's a good idea," George laughed. "Come on, Sis!" He caught the struggling Ann by the arm and began to drag her toward the stream. "I'll give you a good ducking. Dol' said I could." Leaving them quarreling, and even exchanging mild blows, Dolly walked on. "They are beyond me--beyond _anybody_ except an army of soldiers with guns pointed," she said. "I don't know what Mr. Mostyn thinks of us, I'm sure. People don't live that way in Atlanta--that is, _nice_ people don't; but he really doesn't seem to care much. He doesn't seem to notice the mistakes father and mother make, and he lets Uncle John talk by the hour about any trivial thing. I wonder if he really, _really_ likes me--as--as much as he seems to. It has been three years since he first hinted at it, and, oh, my! I must have been as gawky and silly as Ann. Still, you never can tell; the heart must have a lot to do with it. I wasn't thinking of looks, or clothes, or the rich man they all said he was, and I guess he wasn't thinking of anything but--" She checked herself; the blood had mounted to her face, and she felt it wildly throbbing in the veins. "Anyway, he seems to like to be with me now even more than he did then. He listens to all I say--doesn't miss a word, and looks at me as if--as if--" Again she checked herself; her plump breast rose high, and a tremulous sigh escaped her lips. "Well," she finished, as she opened the gate and saw her mother in the doorway, "people may say what they like, but I don't believe anybody can love but once in life, either man or woman. God means it that way just as He doesn't let the same sweet flower bloom twice on the same stem." Mrs. Drake had advanced to the edge of the porch. "Hurry up," she said, eagerly. "Miss Stella Munson is in my room waiting for you. She come at two o'clock and has been here ever since." "What does she want?" Dolly asked, putting her books down on the upper step of the porch. "I don't want to tell you till you see it," Mrs. Drake said, smiling mysteriously; "it is by all odds the prettiest thing you ever laid eyes on, an' she says she is willin' to let it go for the bare cost of the material. She is in a sort o' tight for cash." "A hat?" Dolly inquired, eagerly. "Something you need worse than a hat," the mother smiled. "It is a dress--an organdie, a regular beauty. She made it for Mary Cobb, and you know Mary always orders the best, but, the poor girl's mother bein' dead, the dress come back on Miss Stella's hands. She could force Mary to stick to her agreement, but she hates to do it when the girl has to put on black and is in so much trouble. Even as it is, you wouldn't have had the chance at it, but you and Mary are exactly of a size, an' there'll be no alterations to make." "Oh, I want to see it!" Dolly sprang lightly up the steps and hurried into her mother's room on the right of the hall, where a tall, angular, middle-aged spinster sat with her stained and needle-pricked fingers linked in her lap. "How are you, Miss Stella?" she cried, kissing the thin cheek cordially. "I've already heard about that dress. Winnie Mayfield helped Mary pick out the cloth and trimmings, and she said you would make it the sweetest thing in the valley. Pink is my color. Where is--oh!" She had descried it as it lay on the bed, and with hands clasped in delight, she sprang toward it. "Oh, it is a dream--a dream, Miss Stella! You are an artist." She picked the flimsy garment up and held it at arm's length. Then she hung it on one of the tall bed-posts and stood back to admire it, uttering little ejaculations of delight. "I know it will fit. I wore one of Mary's dresses to a party one night, and it was exactly right in every way. Oh, oh, what a beauty! You are a wonder. You could get rich in a city." "I think Miss Stella is trying to advertise her work," Mrs. Drake jested. "She knows Mr. Mostyn will see it, and he'd have to talk about it. Town men are close observers of what girls put on--more so, by a long shot, than country men. I wouldn't be surprised if some rich person wrote to you to come down to Atlanta, Miss Stella." Dolly was dancing about the room like a happy child, now placing herself in one position, then another, in order to view the dress from every possible point of vantage. She even went out into the hall and sauntered back as if to surprise herself by a sudden sight of the treasure. "Stop your silliness!" her mother laughingly chided her. "You are a regular circus clown or monkey in a cage when you try yourself." "I just want you to put it on, Dolly," the seamstress said, with elation. "All the time I was at work on it I kept thinking how nice it would look on you. Mary is plain; I reckon there is no harm in saying that, even if her mother _is_ dead." "She will look better in black," said Mrs. Drake, "or pure white. Colors as full of life as this dress has would die dead on a dingy complexion like Mary's, or any of the Cobb women, for that matter. They look for the world as if they lived on coffee and couldn't git it out of their systems. Dolly, shuck off your dress and try it on." Dolly needed no urging. In her excitement she forgot to correct her mother's speech, which she would have done on any other occasion, and began at once to divest her slender form of her waist and skirt, dropping the latter at her feet and springing lightly out of the circular heap. The seamstress took up the dress carefully and held it in readiness. "You will be a regular butterfly in it," she said, laughingly. "You are light on your feet as a grasshopper anyway." While the two women were buttoning and hooking the garment on her Dolly kept up a running fire of amusing comments, arching her beautiful bare neck as she eyed herself in the mirror on the bureau. "It will come in handy for meeting on the First Sunday," Mrs. Drake remarked. "Folks will have on their best if the weather is fine, an' I don't see no sign o' rain. It will make Ann awful jealous; she is just at the age to think she is as big as anybody, an' don't seem to remember that Dolly makes 'er own money. But Dolly's to blame for that; she spoils Ann constantly by letting her wear things she ought to keep for herself." "Growing girls are all that way about things to put on," mumbled Miss Munson, the corner of her mouth full of pins. "I know _I_ had all sorts o' high an' mighty ideas. I fell in love with a widower old enough to be my grandfather. And I was--stand a little to the right, please. There, that is all right. Quit wiggling. I was such a fool about him, and showed it so plain that it turned the old scamp's head. He actually called to see me one night. Oh, it was exciting! Father took down his shotgun from the rack over the fireplace and ordered him off the place. Then he spanked me--father spanked me good and sound and made me go to bed. You may say what you please, but that sort o' medicine will certainly cure a certain brand o' love. It did more to convince me that I was not grown than anything else had ever done. From that day on I hated the sight of that man. All at once he looked to me as old as Santa Claus. I had a sort of smarting feeling every time I thought of him, and he did look ridiculous that night as he broke an' run across the yard with two of our dogs after him." "Oh, _isn't_ it lovely?" Dolly was now before the looking-glass, bending right and left, stepping back and then forward, fluffing out her rich hair, her cheeks flushed, her eyes gleaming with delight. "I wish you could just stand off and take a good look at yourself, Dolly," Mrs. Drake cried, enthusiastically. "I simply don't know what to compare you to. Where you got your good looks I can't imagine. But mother used to say that _her_ mother in Virginia come of a long line of noted beauties. Our folks away back, Miss Stella, as maybe you know, had fine blood in 'em." "It certainly crops out in Dolly," Miss Munson declared. "I've heard folks say they took their little ones to school just to get a chance to set and look at her while she was teaching. I know that I, myself, have always--" "Oh, you both make me sick--you make me talk slang, too," Dolly said, impatiently. "I'm not good-looking--that is, nothing to brag about--but, Miss Stella, this dress would make a scarecrow look like an angel, and it _does_ fit. Poor Mary! I hope she won't see it on me. It is hard enough to lose a mother without--" "Go out on the grass and walk about," Mrs. Drake urged her. "An' let us look at you from the window. I want to see how you look at a distance." "Do you think I'm crazy?" Dolly demanded, but as merrily as a child playing a game, she lifted the skirt from the floor and lightly tripped away. The watchers saw her go down the porch steps with the majestic grace of a young queen and move along the graveled walk toward the gate. At this point an unexpected thing happened. John Webb and Mostyn had been fishing and were returning in a buggy. The banker got out and came in at the gate just as Dolly, seeing him, was turning to retreat into the house. "Hold on, do, please!" Mostyn cried out. Dolly hesitated for a moment, and then, drawing herself erect, she stood and waited for him quite as if there was nothing unusual in what was taking place. "What have you been doing to yourself?" he cried, his glance bearing down admiringly on her. "Oh, just trying on a frock," she answered, her face charmingly pink in its warmth, her long lashes betraying a tendency to droop, and her rich round voice quivering. "Those two women in there made me come out here so they could see me. I ought to have had more sense." "I'm certainly glad they did, since it has given me a chance to see you this way. Why, Dolly, do you know that dress is simply marvelous. I have always thought you were--" Mostyn half hesitated--"beautiful, but this dress makes you--well, it makes you--indescribable." Avoiding his burning eyes, Dolly frankly explained the situation. "You see it is a sort of windfall," she added. "I've got enough saved up to pay for it as it is, but if it were not a bargain I could never dream of it. Mary's father is well off, and she is the special pet of a rich uncle." Glancing down the road, she saw the bowed figure of a man approaching, and at once her face became grave. "It is Tobe Barnett," she said. "I want to ask him about Robby." Leaving Mostyn, she hastened to the fence, meeting the uplifted and woeful glance of Barnett as he neared her. "Why, Tobe, what is the matter? You look troubled. Robby isn't worse, is he?" "I declare, I hardly know, Miss Dolly," the gaunt man faltered. "I'm no judge, nor Annie ain't neither. She's plumb lost heart, an' I'm not any better. The doctor come this morning. He said it was a very serious case. He--but I don't want to bother you, Miss Dolly; the Lord above knows you have done too much already." "Tobe Barnett, listen to me!" Dolly cried. "What are you beating about the bush for? Haven't I got a right to know about that child? I love it. If anything was to happen to that baby it would kill me. Did the doctor say there was no--no hope?" "It ain't that, exactly, Miss Dolly." Barnett avoided her eyes and gulped, his half-bare, hairy breast quivering with suppressed emotion. "Well, what is it, then?" Dolly demanded, impatiently. "Why, if you will know my full shame it is this, Miss Dolly," he blurted out, despondently; he started to cover his face with his gaunt hand, but refrained. "I'm a scab on the face of the world. I've lost the respect and confidence of all men. The doctor left a prescription for several kinds of medicine and a rubber hot-water bag and syringe. I went to the drug store in Darley and the one here in Ridgeville but they wouldn't credit me--they said they couldn't run business on that plan. And I can't blame 'em. I owe 'em too much already." "Look here, Tobe!" Dolly was leaning over the fence, regardless of the fact that the sleeves of the new dress were against the palings. "How much do those things cost?" Barnett turned and stared hesitatingly at her. "More than I'd let _you_ pay for," he blurted out, doggedly. "Six dollars. When I git so low as to put my yoke on your sweet young neck I--I will kill myself--that's what I'll do. I tell you I've had enough, an' Annie has, too; but we ain't goin' to let you do no more. We had a talk about it last night. We are fairly blistered with shame. You've already give us things that you couldn't afford to give." Dolly's sweet face grew rigid, the lips of her pretty mouth twitched. "Look here, Tobe," she said, huskily. "You've hurt my feelings. I love you and Annie and Robby, and it is wrong for you to talk this way when I'm so worried about the baby. You are not a cold-blooded murderer, are you? Well, you will make yourself out one if you let silly false pride stand between you and that sweet young life. Why, I would never get over it. It would haunt me night and day. Turn right around and go to the Ridgeville drug store and tell them to charge the things to me. I will pay for them to-morrow. They are anxious for my trade. They are eternally ding-donging at--bothering me, I mean, about not buying from them." "Miss Dolly, I can't. I just _can't._" "If you don't, then _I'll_ have to go myself, as soon as I can get out of this fool contraption," she answered, with determination. "You don't want to make me dress and go, I know, but I will if you don't, and I won't lose a minute, either." "Why, Miss Dolly--" "Hush, Tobe, don't be a fool!" Dolly was growing angry. She had thrust her hand over her shoulder to the topmost hook of the dress at the neck, that no time should be lost in changing her clothes. "Hurry up, and I'll go straight to Annie. I'll have the hot water ready. I know what the doctor wants. It is the same treatment I helped him give Pete Wilson's baby." "Lord have mercy!" Tobe Barnett groaned. "Well, I'll go, Miss Dolly. I'll go. God bless you! I'll go." She watched him for a moment as he trudged away, and then, still trying in vain to unfasten the hook at the back of her neck and jerking at it impatiently, she turned toward the house. Mostyn was waiting for her at the porch steps, having put down his game-bag and fishing-rod. "I declare you are simply stunning in that thing," he said, admiration showing itself in every part of him. "It is a dream!" She frowned, arching her brows reflectively. She bit her lip. "Oh, I don't know!" she said. "I was just trying it on to please mother and Miss Stella. Look at the silly things gaping like goggle-eyed perch at the window. One would think that the revolutions of the earth on its axis and the movement of all the planets depended on this scrap of cloth and the vain thing that has it on." "Take my advice and buy it," Mostyn urged. "It fairly transforms you--makes you look like a creature from another world." She shrugged her shoulders. She cast a slow glance after the figure trudging along the dusty road. She looked down at her breast and daintily flicked at the pink ribbons which were fluttering in the gentle breeze. "It is a flimsy thing," he heard her say, as if in self-argument. "It wouldn't stand many wearings before it would look a sight. It wouldn't wash--man as you are, Mr. Mostyn, you know it wouldn't wash. I'm going to take it off and try to have some sense. I'm in no position to try to make a show. School-teachers here in the backwoods have no right to excite comment by the gaudy finery they wear. I'm paid by people's taxes. Did you know that? I might find myself out of a job--out of employment, I mean. Some of these crusty old fellows that believe it is wrong to have an organ in church had just as soon as not enter a complaint against me as being too frivolous to hold a position of trust like mine." "Oh, I think you are very wrong to allow such an idea as that to influence you," Mostyn argued, warmly. He was about to add more, but Tom Drake sauntered round the corner, chewing tobacco and smiling broadly. He scarcely deigned to notice Dolly's altered appearance. "John says you didn't git a nibble," he laughed. "I hardly 'lowed you would. The water is too low and clear. I've ketched 'em with my hand under the rocks in such weather as this." Leaving them together, Dolly went into the house, where she was met by the two eager women. "I'll bet Mr. Mostyn thought it was nice," Mrs. Drake was saying. "Well, I certainly hope so," Miss Munson answered. "They say Atlanta men in his set are powerful good judges of women's wear." Dolly had advanced straight to the mirror and stood looking at her reflection, a quizzical expression on her face. "Hurry, unhook me!" she ordered, sharply. "Quick! I've got to run over to Barnett's cabin. Robby isn't any better. In fact, he is dangerous and Annie needs me." The two women, eying each other inquiringly, edged up close to her, one on either side. "Dolly, what is the matter? I knew something was wrong the minute you come in the door." "It is all right," Dolly said, in a low tone. "It is very sweet and pretty, Miss Stella, but I have decided not to--not to take it." "Not take it!" The words came from two pairs of lips simultaneously. "Not take it!" The miracle happened again, in tones of double bewilderment. "Well, I can't say I really expected you to," Miss Munson retorted, in frigid tones. "I only stopped by. To tell you the truth, I am on the way over to Peterkins'. Sally is the right size and will jump at it." Dolly's lips were tight. Her eyes held a light, half of anger, half of an odd sort of doggedness. "Please unhook me!" she said, coldly. "There is no time to lose. Annie is out of her head with trouble." "Well, well, well!" Mrs. Drake sank into a chair and folded her slender hands with a vigorous slap of the palms. "Nobody under high heavens can ever tell what you will do or what you won't do," she wailed. "I never wanted anything for myself as much as for you to have that dress, and--" Her voice ended in a sigh of impatience. With rapid, angry fingers the seamstress was disrobing the slender form roughly, jerking hooks, ribbons, and bits of lace. "Huh, huh!" she kept sniffing, as she filled her mouth with pins. "I might as well not have stopped, but it don't matter; it don't make a bit o' difference. You couldn't have it now if you offered me double the cost." Dolly seemed oblivious of what was passing. Getting out of the garment, she quickly put on her skirt and waist, noting as she did so that her father was seated behind her on the window-sill, nursing his knee and chewing and spitting vigorously on the porch floor. "What a bunch o' rowin' she-cats!" she heard him chuckling. "An' about nothin' more important than a flimsy rag that looks like a hollyhock bush with arms an' legs." Without noticing him Dolly hurriedly finished buttoning her waist, and, throwing on her sun-bonnet, she dashed out of the room. "I don't blame you for losin' patience, Miss Stella," Mrs. Drake sighed, "but I've thought it out. It is as plain as the nose on your face. You know an' I know she was tickled to death with it till she met Mr. Mostyn in the yard just now. Mark my words, he said something to her about the style of it. Maybe it's not exactly the latest wrinkle accordin' to town notions." "Yes, that's it." Miss Munson paused in her flurried efforts to restore the dress to its wrapper. The twine hung from her teeth as she stood glaring. "Yes, _he's_ at the bottom of it. As if a man of _his_ stripe an' character would be a judge. I have heard a few items about him if you all haven't. Folks talk about 'im scand'lous in Atlanta. They say he leads a fast life down there. You'd better keep Dolly away from 'im. He won't do. He has robbed good men an' women of their money in his shady deals, an' folks tell all sorts o' tales about 'im." "Thar you go ag'in," Tom Drake broke in, with a hearty laugh. "First one thing an' then another. You would swear a man's life away one minute an' hug it back into 'im the next. Now, I kin prove what I say, an' you both ought to be ashamed. Mostyn not only told Dolly that dress was the purtiest thing he ever seed, but he told me to come in here an' make 'er take it." The twine fell from the spinster's mouth. She eyed Mrs. Drake steadily. Mrs. Drake rose slowly to her feet. She went to the dressmaker and touched her tragically on the arm. She said something in too low a voice for her husband to catch it. "Do you think that's it?" Miss Munson asked, a womanly blaze in her eyes. "Yes, I saw her talkin' to Tobe at the fence," Mrs. Drake said, tremulously. "He turned square around and went back to town. Then you remember Dolly wanted to hurry over there. Miss Stella, she is my own daughter, an' maybe I oughtn't to say it, bein' 'er mother, but she's got the biggest, tenderest heart in her little body that ever the Lord planted in human form." Miss Munson stood with filling eyes for a silent moment, then she tossed the dress, paper, and twine on the bed. "I'm goin' to leave it here," she faltered. "She can pay me for it if she wants to, in one year, two years, or ten--it don't make no odds to me. She needn't pay for it at all if she doesn't want to. I never want to see it on anybody else. She is a good girl--a regular angel of light." Therewith the two women fell into each other's arms and began to cry. A sniff of amusement came from Tom Drake. "Fust it was tittle-tattle, then a bar-room knock-down-and-drag-out fight, an' now it is a weepin' camp-meetin'. I wonder what will happen when the wind changes next." CHAPTER VII It was a warm, sultry evening in the middle of the week. They had just finished supper at the farmhouse. Dolly, with a book, a manuscript, and a pencil, stood in a thoughtful attitude under a tree on the lawn. She was joined by her uncle, his freckled face beaming with a desire to tease her. "What time do you all begin your meetin' to-night?" he inquired, introductively. "Eight o'clock," she said, absently, her gaze bent anxiously on the figures of two men leaning over the barn-yard fence in the thickening shadows. "Who is that father is talking to, Uncle John?" she asked, with a frown. "It's Gid Sebastian," Webb said. "I saw 'im back on the mountain road lookin' for your pa as I come home." "That's who it is," Dolly said, dejectedly, a soft sigh escaping her lips. The man had changed his position, and even in the twilight the broad-brimmed hat, sinister features, and dark sweeping mustache were observable. "Uncle John, you know Gid is a moonshiner, don't you?" "Folks says he is," Webb smiled. "An' fellers that like good corn mountain-dew ought to know who makes it. I reckon Gid is about the only moonshiner that has escaped jail up to date. Somehow he knows how to cover his tracks an' let his men git caught an' take the punishment." Dolly held her pencil to her lips, and, still frowning, looked at the blank manuscript paper. "Uncle John," she faltered, "I want you to--to tell me what he comes to see father so often about?" Webb's face waxed a trifle more serious. "I don't know--never give it much thought," he said. "I don't know but what your pa once in a while sells Gid some corn to help out his still in a pinch when the authorities are watchin' his movements too close for comfort. I've seed the pile in our crib sink powerful in a single night. You remember the time your ma thought some niggers had broke in an' stole a lot that was shelled? Well, I noticed that your pa kicked powerful agin sendin' for the sheriff an' his dogs, an' you know in reason that he would if he had laid it to the darkies." Dolly exhaled a deep breath. "Uncle John, I'm awful afraid--I never was so worried in my life. I'm afraid father is actually mixed up with Sebastian's gang, or is about to be." "Do you think so?" Webb stared seriously. "That would be bad, wouldn't it--that is, if the officers ketched 'im an' had enough proof agin 'im to put 'im in limbo." Dolly's eyes flashed, her breast rose high and fell tremblingly; she grasped her pencil tightly and held it poised like a dagger. "Uncle John, I've been through a lot; I've stood, a great deal, kept patience and hope; but if my own father were actually arrested and put in prison I'd give up--I'd quit, I tell you. I'd never try to raise my head again. Here I am trying to put high manly ideas into George's head, but if the boy's father is a lawbreaker all I do will be thrown away. I want to see Ann grow up and marry well, but what decent man would care to tie himself to a family of jail birds? Hush! There comes Mr. Mostyn. You are always joking, but for goodness' sake don't mention this. If it is true we must keep our shame to ourselves." "I've got _some_ sense left," Webb said, quite earnestly. "It ain't a thing to joke about, I'm here to state. Men, as a rule, say it ain't no lastin' disgrace to be jerked up for distillin' here amongst the pore folks the Union army trampled under heel and robbed of their all, but it ain't no fun to stand up before that United States judge an' git a sentence. I was a witness in Atlanta once, an' I know what moonshiners go through. Your pa ain't to say actually loaded down with caution, an' he's just the easy-goin' reckless sort that Sebastian makes cats'-paws of." "'Sh!" said Dolly, for Mostyn was quite near He was smoking an after-supper cigar. "Got the mate to that?" Webb asked easily. "I don't like to see fine tobacco-smoke floatin' about in hot weather unless I'm helpin' to make it." Mostyn gave him a cigar. "What is this I hear Of your club-meeting to-night?" he asked, smiling at Dolly. "It is an impromptu affair," she answered, almost reluctantly. Then she began to smile, and her color rose. "The truth is, the whole thing started as a joke on me. I could have backed down if I had wished, but I didn't, and now it is too late." "You'll think it's too late"--Webb was drawing at his cigar, which he held against the fire of Mostyn's--"when them fellers git through arguin', an' you the only one on your side!" "How is that?" Mostyn asked, wonderingly. Dolly averted her eyes. "Why," she explained, "for a long time the club has threatened to select some subject to be discussed only between Warren Wilks and myself. I didn't think much about it at the time and said it would suit me, thinking, of course, that it would only be heard by a few club-members, but now what do you think they have done?" "I can't imagine," Mostyn answered, heartily enjoying her gravity of tone and manner. "Why, they are not only holding me to my agreement, but they have selected a topic for discussion which of all subjects under the sun is completely beyond me. They are doing it for a joke, and they expect me to acknowledge defeat. I've been at the point all day of ignoring the whole business, and yet somehow it nearly kills me to give in. I laugh when I think about it, for the joke is on me, sure enough." "But the subject," Mostyn urged her, "what is it?" "Have women the right to vote?'" dropped from the girl's smiling lips. "Oh, great! great!" the banker laughed. "I hope you are not going to let a few silly men back you down." "I don't really see how I am going to escape going through with it," Dolly said. "They have sent notices all up and down the valley, and the house will be full. Look! there goes a wagon-load now. Two things are bothering me. I came out here to try to write down a few points, but not one idea has come in my head. That's the first stumbling-block, and the other is even more serious. You see, up to this time my side has generally won because when it was left to the audience the women all stood up and voted for me. I've seen them so anxious to help me out that they would force their children to stand on the benches so their heads would be counted." "But aren't the women going to-night?" Mostyn inquired. "More than ever got inside _that_ house," Dolly said, despondently, "but, as much as they like me and think I know what I'm talking about as a general rule, they won't be on my side of _this_ argument. They think woman's suffrage originated in the bad place. They will think I'm plumb crazy, but I can't help it. I understand that a lawyer doesn't have actually to believe in his side of a question--he simply makes as big a display of the evidence as he can muster up. Warren Wilks and the other men are tickled to death over the fun they are going to have with me to-night." "I wouldn't miss it for any amount of money," Mostyn said, winking at the contented smoker on his right. "I wouldn't, nuther," Webb chuckled. "Warren Wilks is a funny duck on the platform, an' he don't let a chance slip to git a joke on Dolly. She has downed him several times, but I reckon he'll swat 'er good an' heavy to-night." "Well, I'll certainly have nothing to say if I stand here listening to you two," Dolly said, with a smile. "I'm going to my room to try to think up something. I'm awfully tired, anyway. I was at Barnett's till twelve o'clock last night." "How is Robby?" Mostyn asked. "He is out of danger," Dolly answered, as she turned away. "The doctor told me to-day that the child had had a narrow escape. A week ago he gave him up, and was surprised when he saw him doing so well yesterday." CHAPTER VIII Half an hour later the little cast-iron bell in the steeple of the meeting-house rang. Tom Drake and his wife and John Webb left the farmhouse, and, joining some people from the village, sauntered down the road. Tom was in his shirt-sleeves, for the evening was warm, but Mrs. Drake wore her best black dress with a bright piece of ribbon at the neck, a scarf over her head. Webb carried his coat on his arm and was cooling himself with a palm-leaf fan. Mostyn was on the lawn watching for Dolly to appear, and was glad that the trio had left her to his care. They were out of sight when Dolly came out of the house, a piece of writing-paper in her hand. Mostyn met her at the gate and opened it for her. "Well, what luck have you had with your speech?" he asked, as they passed out. "'What luck,' I say!" She shrugged her shoulders and smiled despondently. "The harder I thought, the fewer ideas seemed to come my way. I give you my word, Mr. Mostyn, I haven't a ghost of an argument. I don't want to vote myself, you see, and I don't see how I am going to make other women want to. Just at present I have so many matters to bother about that I can't throw myself into an imaginary position. I'd break down and cry--I feel exactly like it--if I hadn't been this way before and managed to pull through by the skin of my teeth. You see, standing up before a crowd makes you feel so desperate and hemmed-in-like that you have to fight, and somehow you manage to say something with more or less point to it. If I don't think of something between here and the meeting-house--don't talk, please! I'm awfully nervous. I feel for the world as if I'm going to laugh and cry myself into hysterics. If Warren Wilks were to see me now he'd have the biggest argument for his side he could rake up. If I was running for office and the returns went against me I suppose I'd lie flat down in the road and kick like a spoilt child." At this moment a buggy containing two women and a man passed. One of the women, a fat motherly creature, glanced back. "Is that you, Dolly?" she asked. "Yes; how are you, Mrs. Timmons?" "I'm as well as common, thanky, Dolly. Drive slower, Joe. What's the use o' hurryin'? They can't do a thing till _she_ gits thar; besides, I want to git at the straight o' this business. Say, Dolly, it ain't true, is it, that you intend to stand up for women goin' to the polls?" Dolly swept Mostyn's expectant face with a startled look and then fixed her eyes on the speaker. "It is this way, Mrs. Timmons," she began, falteringly. "Warren Wilks suggested the subject, and--" "That ain't what I axed you," the woman retorted, sharply. "Pull in that hoss, Joe, or I'll git out an' walk the balance o' the way afoot. That ain't what I axed you, Dolly Drake. I want to know now an' here if you are goin' to teach my gals an' other folks' gals a lot o' stuff that was got up by bold-faced Yankee women with no more housework to do, or children to raise, than they have up thar these days. I want to know, I say, for if you are I'll keep my young uns at home. I've always had the highest respect for you, an' I've cheered an' stomped my feet every time you made a speech at the schoolhouse, but if speechmakin' is goin' to make you put on pants an'--" "Git up!" The driver was whipping his horse. "Don't pay no attention to 'er, Miss Dolly," he called back over his shoulder. "She's been jowerin' ever since she stepped out o' bed this mornin'. If she had a chance to vote she'd stuff the ballot-box with rotten eggs if the 'lection didn't go her way." "You see that?" Dolly sighed, as the buggy vanished in the gloom. "This fool thing may cost me my job. Warren Wilks ought to be ashamed to get up a joke like this." "Why don't you throw it over and be done with it?" Mostyn asked, sympathetically. "Because I'm like the woman you just heard talking," Dolly returned. "I'd rather drop dead in my tracks here in this sand than to have those devilish boys beat me. For the Lord's sake, tell me something to say." "I'm not daft about voting _myself,_" Mostyn laughed, "and to save my life I can't be enthusiastic about _women_ doing it." "I wish we could walk through the woods the rest of the way," the girl said. "We'll meet another spitfire in a minute, and then I _will_ lose patience." They were soon in sight of the four lighted windows of the schoolhouse. "Packed like sardines," Dolly muttered. "Who knows? They may mob me. I don't care--those men pushed this thing on me against my will, and I'm going to fight. Do you know when I'm bothered like this I can actually feel the roots of my hair wiggling as if it were trying to stand up, like the bristles on a pig. The women in this neighborhood have been my best friends till now, and if I can't think of some way to stir up their sympathy I shall be down and out." Mostyn looked at her admiringly. She was so beautiful, so appealing in her youth and brave helplessness. Being what she already was, what would not opportunity, travel, higher environment bring to her? She was a diamond in the rough. His heart beat wildly. Lucky chance had thrown her in his way. He might win her love, if she did not already care for him. As his wife he could gratify her every desire, and yet--and yet--The situation had its disagreeable side. How could he think of becoming the son-in-law of a man like Tom Drake? What would old Mitchell say? What would his fashionable sister and his entire social set think? Yes, Dolly was all that could be desired, but she was not alone in the world, and she was absolutely true to her family. Mostyn here felt a touch of shame, and shame was a thing he had scarcely been conscious of in his questionable career. That was one of the advantages which had come of his contact with this mountain paragon of womanhood. In his unbounded respect for her he was losing respect for himself. In the presence of her courage he saw himself more and more as the coward that he was. He was beginning to long for her as he had really never longed for any other woman. He wanted to clasp her in his arms and then and there declare his fidelity to her forever. "Hurry up, we are late!" Dolly warned him, and she quickened her step. They were now among the horses and various kinds of vehicles in front of the meeting-house. A fire of pine-knots near the doorway cast a weird reddish glow over the scene. "Come right on up to the front with me," Dolly said. "There will be a vacant seat or two near the platform. Say, if you laugh at me while I am speaking--that is, if I _do_ speak--I'll never forgive you--never!" There was no chance for a reply. She was already leading him into the crowded room. Every bench was full, and men and boys sat even on the sills of the open windows. Seeing Dolly entering, somebody started applause and hands were clapped, whistling and cat-calls rang through the room, no part of which disturbed the girl in the least as she calmly walked ahead of her escort finding seats for them on the front bench. Eight young men, all neatly dressed, sat in chairs on the platform, and they smiled and bowed to Dolly. "That's Warren Wilks at my desk," she whispered to Mostyn. "He is grinning clear down the back of his neck. Oh, I'd give anything to get even with him." Mostyn took the man in with a sweeping glance. He was nice-looking, about twenty-five years of age, tall and slender, and had a clean-shaven intellectual face which was now full of suppressed merriment. He rose with considerable ease and dignity and called the house to order by rapping sharply on Dolly's desk with the brass top of an inkstand. He announced the subject which was to be debated with great gravity, adding with a smile that, of course, it was only through special favor to the only lady member of the club that such a topic had been selected. But--and he smiled down on his amused colleagues--that lady member had lately shown such strong tendencies toward the new-woman movement that, one and all, the members hoped that she might be convinced of the fallacy of her really deplorable position. "Scamp!" Mostyn heard Dolly exclaim, and, glancing at her profile, he saw a half-smiling expression on her flushed face. "That is the way he always talks," she whispered in the banker's ear. "His great forte is making fun." Wilks's speech consumed half an hour, during the whole of which Mostyn noticed that Dolly sat as if in restless thought, now and then hastily penciling a few words on a scrap of paper in her hand. At the conclusion of Wilks's speech there was great applause, during which Dolly looked about the room, seeing the hands of all the women as active as the wings of humming-birds hovering over flowers. "Just look at the silly things!" she sniffed, as she caught Mostyn's eye. "They are voting against me already. They are as changeable as March winds. Look at Mrs. Timmons; she is actually shaking her fist at me. When I speak I always keep my eye on somebody in the crowd. I'll watch that woman to-night, and if I can win her over I may influence some of the rest." CHAPTER IX Therewith Dolly rose and went to the platform. Silence fell on the room as she made a pretty, hesitating bow. To Mostyn she was a marvel of beauty, animation, and reserved force as she stood lightly brushing back her flowing hair. "I'm going to tell you all the plain truth," she began. "You don't know the facts in this case. The able-bodied men behind me, all rigged out in their best togs for this occasion, simply got tired of having the side I was on win so many times, and they put their heads together to change it. They decided, in their sneaking, menlike way, that I won because the women usually voted on my side, so they asked me one day if I'd let them pick a theme; and, being too busy doing my work to suspect trickery, I consented; and then what did they do? Why, they promptly threw the defense of this--I started to say silly question on my shoulders, but I won't call it silly, because, do you know, as I sat there listening to Warren Wilks reel off all that harangue it occurred to me that he was employing exactly the same threadbare method of browbeating women that has been the style with _men_ ever since the world began to roll. Now, listen--you women that blistered your hands clapping just now--how are you ever going to get at the straight of this thing if you hug and kiss the men every time they tell you that you are narrow between the eyes and haven't a thimbleful of brains? Do you know what is at the bottom of it all? Why, nothing but old-fashioned, green-eyed jealousy, as rank as stagnant water in a swamp. The men don't _want_ you to get up-to-date. Up-to-date women don't hop out of bed on a cold, frosty morning and make a blazing fire for their lords and masters to dress by. Up-to-date women are not willing to stand shoe-mouth deep in mud in a cow-lot milching a cow and holding off a calf while their husbands are swapping tales at the cross-roads store." A laugh started and swept over the room. There was considerable applause, both from the men and the women. "Well, that's one thing I wouldn't do for narry man that ever wore shoe-leather!" came from Mrs. Timmons, who seemed to think that Dolly's fixed glance in her direction called for an open opinion. Dolly smiled and nodded. "That is the right spirit, Mrs. Timmons," she said. "So many robust men wouldn't have skinny-looking, consumptive wives if they would draw the line at the cow-lot." Then she resumed her speech: "The masculine opinion that women haven't got much sense originated away back in the history of the world. _We_ get it from the savages. I'll tell you a tale. Among the Indians in the early days there was a certain big chief. They called him Frog-in-the-face because his nose looked like a toad upside down trying to crawl between his thick lips. He and the other braves loafed about the wigwams in disagreeable weather, and on fine days went hunting. Now, Frog-in-the-face, savage as he was, was a quite up-to-date man. He would please the women in this audience mightily, and the men would elect him to office. He didn't believe squaws had enough sense to shoot straight or catch fish on the bank of a river, so he made his wife cook the grub, clean up the wigwam, and with a wiggling papoose strapped to her back hoe corn in the hot sun. This was the regular red-man custom, but one day a meddlesome squaw began to think for herself. She called some other squaws together while Frog-in-the-face and his braves were off hunting, and she had the boldness to tell them that she believed they could shoot as well as the men. She said she could, because she had tried it on the sly. With that they got out some old worn-out bows and arrows and went into the woods to try their luck. Well, do you know, those squaws killed so many bears and deer and ducks and turkeys that, loaded down with a baby each, they had hard work getting the meat home, but somehow they did. Well, as luck would have it, Frog-in-the-face and his sharp-shooters had got hold of some fire-water and smoking-tobacco, and they didn't do any hunting that day at all, but came back hungry and tired out over a big pow-wow they had had about another tribe infringing on their rights away off somewhere. Then the women brought out the roast meat, owned up like nice little squaws, and expected to get some petting and praise, for they had done well and knew it. But, bless you! what happened? The more the braves gorged themselves on the turkey and duck, the madder they got, and after supper they all met out in the open and began to fret and fume. They sat down in a ring and passed a pipe from one to another, and Frog-in-the-face laid down the law. Squaws were having too much liberty. If they were allowed to go hunting it wouldn't be long before they would want to take part in the councils of war, and then what would become of the papooses? Who would grind the corn and till the soil and do all the rest of the dirty work? So they passed a new law. The first squaw that ever touched a bow and arrow in the future would be severely punished." As Dolly paused at this point there was great laughter among both men and women. Even Mrs. Timmons was clapping her hands. "Warren Wilks," Dolly resumed, with a pleased smile, "drew a funny picture just now of an election under the new idea. You all laughed heartily when he spoke of there being so many fine hats and waving plumes and women with low-necked dresses and open-work stockings about the polls that bashful men would be afraid to vote. But, mind you, Warren Wilks was making all _that_ up. Listen to me, and I'll tell you what one of your elections really looks like. I've seen one, and that was enough for me. At the precinct of Ridgeville, where only two hundred votes have ever been polled, there were at the last county election fully a hundred drunk from morning to night, including the candidates. They had ten fights that day; three men were cut and two shot. The price of a vote was a drink of whisky, but a voter seldom closed a trade till he had ten in him, and then the candidate who was sober enough to carry him to the box on his back got the vote." [Laughter, long and loud.] "Go it, Miss Dolly! You've got 'em on the run!" Farmer Timmons cried. "Swat 'em good an' hard! They started it!" "That's the way men conduct their elections," Dolly went on, smilingly. "But the women of the present day wouldn't stand it. They would change it right away. They wouldn't continue giving the men an excuse two or three times a year to engage in all that carnage and debauchery for no rational reason. Do you know the sort of election the women will hold, Warren, if they ever get a chance?" "I'm afraid I don't," Wilks answered, dryly. "It would be hard to imagine." "Well, I'll tell you," Dolly said to the audience. "They will do away with all that foolishness I've been talking about. That day at Ridgeville a dozen carriages were hired at a big expense to bring voters to the polls. Hundreds of dollars were spent on whisky, doctors' bills, lawyers' fees, and fines at court. But sensible women will wipe all that out. On election day in the future a trustworthy man will ride from house to house on a horse or mule with the ballot-box in his lap. It will be brought to the farmhouse door. The busy wife will leave her churning, or sweeping, or sewing for a minute. She will scribble her name on a ticket and drop it in the slit while she asks the man how his family is. She may offer him a cup of hot coffee or a snack to eat. She will go to the back door and call her husband or sons in from the field to do their voting, and then the polls of that election will be closed as far as she is concerned." "Good, good, fine, fine!" Timmons shouted. "That's the racket!" "But," Dolly went on, sweeping the faces of the masculine row beside her and turning to the audience, "this stalwart bunch of Nature's noblemen here on the platform will tell you that women haven't got sense enough to vote. That's it, Mrs. Timmons, they think at the bottom of their hearts that women have skulls as thick as a pine board. They don't know this: they don't know that some of the most advanced thinkers in the world are now claiming that intuition is the greatest faculty given to the human race and that woman has the biggest share of it. Oh no, women oughtn't to be allowed to take part in any important public issue! Away back in France, some centuries ago, a simple, uneducated country-girl, seventeen years of age--Joan of Arc--noticed that the men of the period were not properly managing the military affairs of her country, and she took the matter under consideration. She stepped in among great generals and diplomats and convinced them that she knew more about what to do than all the men in the realm. The King listened to her, gave her power to act, and she rode at the head of thousands of soldiers to victory first and a fiery death later. Now, Warren Wilks will tell you that a woman of that sort ought never be allowed to do a thing but rock a cradle, scrub a floor, or look pretty, according to her husband's disposition or pocket-book. "Then, after all, did you all know--while you are talking so much about the harm of a woman voting--that if it hadn't been for a woman there wouldn't have been a single vote cast in all these United States? In fact, you wouldn't be sitting here now but for that woman. Away back (as I was teaching my history class the other day) Columbus tramped all over the then civilized land trying to get aid to make his trial voyage, and nobody would listen to him. He was taunted and jeered at everywhere he went. Men every bit as sensible as we have to-day said he was plumb crazy. He was out of heart and ready to give up as he rode away from the court of Spain on a mule, when Isabella called him back and furnished the money out of her own pocket to buy and man his ships. Folks, that is the kind of brain Warren Wilks and his crowd will tell you ought to be kept at the cook-stove and the wash-tub. Oh, women will be given the vote in time, don't you bother!" Dolly said, with renewed conviction. "We can't have progress without change. I never thought about it myself before, but it is as plain as the nose on your face. It has to come because it is simple justice. A law which is unfair to one single person is not a perfect law, and many a woman has found herself in a position where only her vote would save her from disaster. Women are purer by nature than men, and they will purify politics. That's all I'm going to say to-night. Now, I'm not managing this debate, but it is getting late and I want everybody that feels like it to vote on my side. Stand up now. All in favor, rise to your feet. That's right, Mrs. Timmons--I knew you would wake up. Now, everybody! That's the way!" Dolly was waving her hands like an earnest evangelist, while Wilks, with a look of astonishment, was struggling to his feet to offer some sort of protest. "Don't pay attention to him!" Dolly cried. "Vote now and be done with it!" The house was in a turmoil of amused excitement. Timmons stood by his wife's side waving his hat and slapping his thigh. "Stand up, boys--every man-jack of you!" he yelled. "Them fellers got this thing up agin that gal. Give it to 'em good an' sound." The entire audience was on its feet laughing and applauding. Dolly stood waving her hands with the delight of a happy child. She turned to the teachers behind her, and one by one she gradually enticed them to their feet. "That makes it unanimous," she said, and, flushed and panting, she tripped down the steps to the floor. Mostyn edged his way through the chattering throng toward her. He was beside himself with enthusiasm. A lump of tense emotion filled his throat; he would have shouted but for the desire not to appear conspicuous. "Wonderful, wonderful!" he said, when he finally reached her, and caught her hand and shook it. "Do you think so?" she said, absent-mindedly; and he noticed that she was staring anxiously toward the door. "Why, you beat them to a finish!" he cried. "You fairly wiped up the ground with them." "Oh, I don't know!" she said, excitedly. "Come on, please. I want to--to get out." Wondering what could be in her mind, he followed her as well as he could through the jostling throng. Women and men extended their hands eagerly; but she hurried on, scarcely hearing their congratulations and good-natured jests. At the door she reached back, caught Mostyn's hand, and drew him out into the open. A few paces away stood a couple under a tree. And toward them Dolly hastened, now holding to the arm of her companion. Then he recognized Ann and saw that she was with a tall, ungainly young man of eighteen or twenty. The two stood quite close together. "Ann," Dolly said, sharply, pausing a few feet from the pair, "come here, I want to see you." Doffing his straw hat, the young man moved away, and Ann slowly and doggedly approached her sister. "What do you want, Dolly?" "I want you to walk straight home!" Dolly retorted. "I'll talk to you there, not here." "I wasn't doing anything," Ann began; but Dolly raised her hand. "Go on home, I tell you. I'm ashamed of you--actually ashamed to call you sister." Without a word Ann turned and walked homeward. "You certainly got the best of those fellows," Mostyn chuckled, still under the heat of her triumph. "I never was so surprised in my life. It was funny to watch their faces." "I couldn't do myself justice," Dolly answered. "I don't know how it sounded, I'm sure. I know I never can do my best when I have anything on my mind to bother me. I'll tell you about it. You saw that fellow with Ann just now? Well, it was Abe Westbrook, one of the worst young daredevils in the valley. He belongs to a low family, and he hasn't a speck of honor. For the last two months he has been trying to turn Ann's head. I stopped him from coming to our house, but as soon as I stepped on the platform to-night I saw him and her on the back seat. He was whispering to her all the time, bending over her in the most familiar way. Once I saw him actually brush her hair back from her shoulder and pinch her ear. Oh, I was crazy! If I said anything to the point in my speech it is a wonder, for I could hardly think of anything but Ann's disgraceful conduct." They were now entering a shaded part of the road. Ann was almost out of sight and walking rapidly homeward. There was no one close behind Mostyn and Dolly. A full moon shone overhead, and its beams filtered through the foliage of the trees. He felt the light and yet trusting touch of her hand on his arm. A warm, triumphant sense of ownership filled him. How beautiful, how pure, how brave and brilliant she was! What man of his acquaintance could claim such a bride as she would make? A few months in his social set and she would easily lead them all. She was simply a genius, and a beautiful one at that. He had a temptation to clasp her hand, draw her to him, and kiss her as he had kissed her three years before. Yet he refrained. He told himself that, soiled by conventional vice as he was soiled, he would force himself to respect in the highest this wonderful charge upon his awakened sense of honor. He found something new and assuring in checking the passion that filled him like a flood at its height. Yes, she should be his wife; no other living man should have her. Fate had rescued him in the nick of time from the temptation to wed for ulterior motives. Another month in Atlanta and he would have lost his chance at ideal happiness. Yes, this was different! Irene Mitchell, spoiled pet of society that she was, could never love him as this strong child of Nature would, and without love life would indeed be a failure. He walked slowly. She seemed in no hurry to reach home. Once she raised her glorious eyes to his, and he felt her hand quiver as she shrank from his ardent gaze. Another moment, and he would have declared himself, but, glancing ahead, he saw that her father and mother and John Webb had paused and were looking toward them. "I can wait," Mostyn said to himself, with fervor. "She is mine--she is mine." CHAPTER X The next morning after breakfast John Webb met Mostyn as he stood smoking on the front porch. "If you haven't got nothin' better to do," he said, "you might walk down with me to Dolph Wartrace's store, at the cross-roads. Thar will be a crowd thar to-day." "Anything special going on?" Mostyn asked. "If the feller keeps his appointment we'll have a sermon," John smiled. "For the last seven or eight years a queer tramp of a chap--John Leach, he calls hisself--has been comin' along an' preachin' at the store. Nobody knows whar he is from. Folks say he makes his rounds all through the mountains of Tennessee, Georgia, an' North Carolina. He won't take a cent o' pay, never passes the hat around, an' has been knowed to stop along the road an' work for poor farmers for a week on a stretch for nothin' but his bed an' board. Some say he's crazy, an' some say he's got more real Simon-pure religion than any regular ordained minister. I love to listen to 'im. He tells a lot o' tales an' makes a body laugh an' feel sad at the same time." "I certainly would like to hear him," the banker declared, and with Webb he turned toward the gate. "Are you a member of any church?" he inquired, when they were in the road. "No, I never jined one," Webb drawled out. "I'm the only feller I know of in this country that don't affiliate with _some_ denomination or other." "That is rather odd," Mostyn remarked, tentatively. "How did you manage to stay out of the fold among so many religious people?" "I don't exactly know." Webb's freckled face held a reflective look. "I kept puttin' it off from year to year, thinkin' I would jine, especially as everybody was constantly naggin me about it. Seems to me that I was the chief subject at every revival they held. It bothered me considerable, I tell you. The old folks talked so much about my case that little boys an' gals would sluff away from me in the public road. But I wasn't to blame. The truth is, Mr. Mostyn, I wanted to give 'em all--Methodists, Baptists, and Presbyterians--a fair show. You see, each denomination declared that it had the only real correct plan, an' I'll swear I liked one as well as t'other. When I'd make up my mind to tie to the Methodists, some Baptist or Presbyterian would ax me what I had agin _his_ religion, an' in all the stew an' muddle they got me so balled up that I begun to be afeard I wasn't worth savin' nohow. About that time this same tramp preacher come along, an' I heard 'im talk. I listened close, but I couldn't make out whether he stood for sprinklin', pourin', or sousin' clean under. So after he finished I went up an' axed 'im about it. I never shall forget how the feller grinned--I reckon I remember it because it made me feel better. He ketched hold o' my hand, he did, an' while he was rubbin' it good an' kind-like, he said: 'Brother, don't let that bother you. I'm floatin' on top myself. In fact, my aim is to stay out o' the jangle so I kin jine all factions together in brotherly bonds.' As he put it, the light o' God was shinin' on every earthly path that had any sort o' upward slope to it." At this moment there was a vigorous blowing of the horn of an automobile in the road behind them, and in a cloud of dust a gleaming new car bore down toward them. To the banker's surprise, Webb paused in the center of the road and made no effort to move. "Look out!" Mostyn cried, warningly. "Here, quick!" "Humph!" Webb grunted, still refusing to move, his eyes flashing sullenly. "I'm goin' to pick up a rock some o' these days an' knock one o' them fellers off his perch." Still immovable he stood while the honking car, with brakes on, slid to a stop a few feet away. "What the hell's the matter with you?" the man at the wheel, in a jaunty cap and goggles, cried out, angrily. "You heard me blowin', didn't you?" "I ain't deef," John flashed at him. "I wanted to see what _'the hell'_--to use your words--you'd do about it. You think because you are in a rig o' that sort, Pete Allen, you can make men an' women break the'r necks to git out o' your way. If you had touched me with that thing I'd have stomped the life out o' you. I know you. You used to split rails an' hoe an' plow, barefooted over in Dogwood. 'White trash,' the niggers called your folks. You've been in town just long enough to make you think you can trample folks down like so many tumble-bugs." "Well, you have no right to block the road up," the driver said, quite taken aback, his color mounting to his cheeks. "There is a law--" "I don't care a dang about your law!" Webb broke in. "I'm law-abidin', but when a law is passed givin' an upstart like you the right to make a decent man jump out of your way, like a frost-bitten grasshopper, I'll break it. The minute a skunk like you buys a machine on credit an' starts out he thinks he owns the earth." Still flushed, the man grumbled out something inarticulately and started on his way. "I hit 'im purty hard," John said, as Mostyn rejoined him, "but if thar is anything on earth that makes me rippin' mad it is the way fellers like that look an' act." They found thirty or forty men, women, and children at the store awaiting the coming of the preacher. The building was a long, one-story frame structure made of undressed planks whitewashed. It had a porch in front which was filled with barrels, chicken-coops, and heavy agricultural implements. The people were seated in the shade of the trees, some on the grass and others in their own road-wagons. Wartrace, the storekeeper, in his shirt-sleeves, stood in the front door. He was about thirty years of age and had only one arm. "Come up, come up, Mr. Mostyn," he called out, cheerily. "The preacher is headed this way. A feller passed 'im on the mountain road ten minutes ago. If you hain't heard John Leach talk you've missed a treat." Mostyn accepted the chair Wartrace drew from within the store, and Webb took a seat near by on an inverted nail-keg. Wartrace was called within, and the banker began to watch the crowd with interest. Back in the store men were lounging on the long counters, chewing tobacco, smoking and talking of their crops or local politics. "I see 'im!" a woman cried, from the end of the porch, as she stood eagerly pointing up the mountain-road. Mostyn saw a tall man of middle age, smooth-shaven, with long yellow hair falling on his broad shoulders, easily striding down the incline. He had blue eyes and delicate, rather effeminate features. He wore a broad-brimmed felt hat, dark trousers, and a black frock-coat without a vest. Reaching the store, he took off his hat, brushed back his hair from a high pink forehead, and with bows and smiles to the people on all sides, he cried out cheerily: "How are you, everybody? God bless your bones. I hope the Lord has been with you since I saw you last fall. Hello, Brother Wartrace! You see, old chap, I _do_ remember your name," he called out, as the storekeeper appeared in the doorway. "Say, I wish you would have some of those roustabouts inside roll out a dry-goods box for me to stand on." "All right, Brother Leach," Wartrace answered. "I've got the same box you spoke on before. I intend to keep it for good luck." "All right, all right, roll it out, gentlemen. I'd help you, but I've had a pretty stiff walk down the mountain to get here on time, and want to sorter get my wind." He stood fanning his perspiring face with his hat while two obliging farmers brought the box out. "There under that tree," he ordered. "Show me a cheaper pulpit than that, and I'll buy it for kindling-wood. By the way, friends, two preachers over the mountain told me last night that I was doing more harm than good, talking without pay on the public highway as I am doing. I'd like to please every living soul, including them, if I could. It makes them mad to see you all gather to hear a jumping-jack like me. They say it's making salvation too cheap, and quote Scripture as to 'the laborer being worthy of the hire.' That would be all right if this was labor to me, but it isn't; it is nothing but fun, an' fun full of the glory of God, at that." The box was now in the required spot; and, mounting upon it, Leach stamped on the boards vigorously to test their strength. "I'm gaining flesh," he laughed. "Free grub is fattening. I'll have to gird up my loins with a rope before long." Then he was silent. The look of merriment passed from his face. Mostyn thought he had never seen a more impressive figure as the man stood, a ray of sunlight on his brow, looking wistfully over the heads of his little audience toward the rugged mountains. Then slowly and reverently he raised his hands and began to pray aloud. It was a conventional prayer, such as the average rural preacher used in opening a meeting; and when it was over he took a worn hymn-book from his coat pocket, and after reading a hymn he began to sing in a deep, sonorous voice. Some of the women, with timid, piping notes and the men in bass tones joined in. This over, Leach cleared his throat, stroked his lips with a tapering, sun-browned hand, and began to talk. "Somebody over the mountain yesterday wanted to know, brethren, how I happened to take up this roving life, and I told them. They seemed impressed by it, and I'm going to tell you. To begin with, the best temperance talker is the man who has led a life of drunkenness and through the grace of the Lord got out of it to give living testimony as to its evil. Now, I'm pretty sure, for the same reason, that a man who has been through the mire of hell on earth is competent to testify about that. I'm that sort of a man. I was once up in the world, as you might say. My folks had means. After I got out of school I went into business on my own hook in my home town. You will be interested in this, Brother Wartrace; so make them fellers come out of the store and be quiet." Order was restored. The mountaineers who were talking within slouched out on the porch and stood respectfully listening. "I went into the grain business," Leach continued. "I was young then, and I thought I owned the market. My old daddy cautioned me to go slow, but I paid no attention to him. Folks called me a hustler, and I was proud of it. I got into fast ways. I played poker; I had a pair of fast horses, and I was guilty of other habits that I sometimes mention at my 'men-only' meetings. After awhile I slid into the hole that is at the foot of every ungodly slope on earth. I was facing ruin. I had only one chance to save myself, and that was to gamble big on wheat. To do it I actually stole some money out of a bank run by a friend of mine. It's awful to think about, but I did it. I was found out. I was accused and arrested. I was tried and found guilty. Lord, Lord, I shall never forget that day! My mother and father were in the courtroom. She fainted dead away, and an eternal blight fell on his white head. "I was sent to prison. My hair was clipped, and I was put in stripes and steel shackles. All hell was packed in me. Instead of being conquered, as most convicts are, I kept swearing that I was innocent. I'd lie awake at night in my cell concocting lie after lie to bolster up my case and stir up sympathy. I wrote letters to my home papers. While I was clanking along by my fellow-prisoners who were taking their medicine like men I was hating the whole of creation and studying devilish ways to fight. "I got to writing to the Governor of the State. I had heard he was kind-hearted, and I thought I might make him believe I was innocent, so I wrote letter after letter to him. I used every pretext I could think of. Once I told him that I hoped God would strike me dead in my tracks and damn me eternally if I had not been falsely imprisoned. Now and then he would answer, in a kind sort of way, and that made me think I might convince him if I kept up my letters. "I was that sort of a fiend for a year. Then a strange thing happened. A little, mild-mannered man was put in for murder. He had the cell adjoining mine. He wasn't like any other prisoner I'd ever seen. He had a sad, patient face, and didn't look at all strong. I took to him because he used to pass his tobacco through to me--said he had quit using it. Well, what do you think? One night as I lay with my ear close to the partition I heard him praying. And the strangest part of it was that he wasn't praying like a guilty man. He was begging the Lord to be good to the other prisoners, and open their eyes to the spiritual light, which he declared was even then shining in his cell. "Well, do you know, I listened to him night after night, and got so I could sleep better after I'd heard him pray. And in the daytime I loved to find myself by his side in any work we had to do. I never shall forget the thing I'm going to tell you. We were carrying brick to repair a wall where an attempt was made by some fellows to get out. It was out in the sunlight, and I hadn't seen the sun many times for a year past. I don't know how it come up, but somehow he happened to remark that he was innocent of the charge against him. Circumstantial evidence had landed him where he was. He wasn't the one that did the killing at all. I remember as I looked at him that I was convinced he was telling the truth. He was innocent and I was guilty. I had an odd feeling after that that I had no right to be near him. "He used to talk to me in the sweetest, gentlest way I ever heard. He told me that if a convict would only turn to God the most wretched prison ever built would be full of joy. He said, and I believed him, that he didn't care much whether he was out or in jail, that God was there by his side and that he was happy. Lord, Lord, how he did plead with me! His eyes would fill chock full and his voice would shake as he begged and begged me to pray to God for help. I remember I _did_ try, but, having lied to the Governor and everybody else, somehow I couldn't do it right. Then what do you reckon? I heard him in his cell every night begging God to help Number Eighty-four--that was all he knew me by--Eighty-four. He was Number Seventy-two. Every night for a month I would stick my ear to the partition and listen and listen for that strange, strange mention of me. I got so that when we would meet in the daytime I'd feel like grabbing hold of him and telling him that I loved him. "Now, on the first of every month I was in the habit of writing a letter to the Governor, and the time had come round again. I got the paper and pen and ink from the warden, and started to go over again my old lying tale, but somehow I couldn't put the old fire in it. I kept thinking of Seventy-two and his prayers. I remember I cried that night, and felt as limp as a rag. I had changed. Then, I don't know how it happened, but it was as though some voice had spoken inside of me and told me not to write to the Governor about _myself_, but about Seventy-two, who really was innocent. So I started out, and with the tears pouring down my face and blotting the paper I told the Governor about the prayers of Seventy-two, and how good he was, and begged him to give him a pardon, as I knew positively that he was innocent. Then a queer thing took place. I couldn't begin to explain it, but in trying to think of some way to convince the Governor of the fellow's innocence I came out with this: I said, 'Governor, I am the man that has been writing to you all this time swearing he is innocent. I have written you a thousand lies. I am guilty, but I'm telling you the truth this time, as God is my judge. I don't ask release for myself, but I want justice done to Seventy-two. No purer or better man ever lived.' "I sent the letter off; and, friends, I'm here to tell you that I never felt so happy in all my life. The very prison walls that night seemed to melt away in space. My poor cot was as soft as floating clouds. I didn't feel the shackles on my ankle and arm, and the low singing of Seventy-two in his cell was as sweet as far-off celestial music. I remember he called out to me just before bed-time, 'Brother, how goes it?' and for the first time I answered, with a sob in my throat: 'I'm all right, Seventy-two--I'm all right!' And I heard him say, 'Thank the Lord, blessed be His holy name!' "Now comes the best part, friends--I'm glad to see you've been so quiet and attentive. Lo and behold! One morning the warden sent for me to come to his private sitting-room, and there sat a dignified, kind-faced man. It was the Governor. He wanted to talk to me, he said, about Seventy-two. I don't know how it was, but I give you my word that somehow I didn't have a single thought beyond trying to get Seventy-two pardoned. Once the Governor broke in and said, 'But how about _your own_ case?' And I told him I was guilty and had no hope as far as I was concerned. He put a lot of questions to me about Seventy-two, about his habits and talk to me and other prisoners; and I heard him say to the warden, 'This is an interesting case; I must look further into it.' "Then I was sent back, and Seventy-two was ordered out. He was with the Governor for about an hour, and then he came back to his cell, and I heard him praying and sobbing. Once I heard him say, 'Lord, Lord, Thou hast answered my call. Justice is to be done.' "The next day it went around that Seventy-two was pardoned. He put on his old clothes, packed up his things, and come to shake hands with us. When he come to me he pulled me to one side and clung to my hand and began to cry. 'It was all through you,' he said. 'The Governor wouldn't have believed it in any other way.' Then he told me not to feel bad, that--well"--Leach's voice clogged up here, and he wiped his twitching lips with his slender hand--"well, Seventy-two said that a look had come in my face which showed that peace was mine at last. He said he was going to keep on praying for me, and advised me to try to do good among the prisoners. "He went away, and I _did_ try to follow his advice. I read my Bible every spare chance I got and told the convicts that I believed in a merciful God who was ready and willing to forgive all sins and lighten punishment. I got so I loved to talk to them, and sometimes when the chaplain was sick or away he let me take his place on Sundays, and it was there that I learned to preach. I served my time out. A sharp blow met me on the day of my release. I was thinking of going back home to make a new start when a letter from my father told me that my mother had been dead a month. A young sister of mine was to be married to a fellow high up in society, and father wrote me that he wished me well, but thought that perhaps I ought not to come home branded for life as I was. "Friends, that was a lick that only God's omnipotent hand could soften. I was without home or blood-kin. There was nothing I could do to make a living, for an ex-convict is never encouraged by the world at large. That's how I came to take up this work. It seems to me at times that I was made for it--that all my trouble was laid on me for a divine purpose." The speaker paused to take a drink of water from a dipper Wartrace was holding up to him, and Mostyn slipped back into the store. Going out at a door in the rear, he went into the adjoining wood and strode along in the cooling shade toward the mountain. The sonorous voice of the speaker rang through the forest, and came back in an echo from a beetling cliff behind him. Mostyn shuddered. The speaker's experiences had vividly brought to mind many of his own questionable exploits in finance. He recalled his narrow escape from bankruptcy when, by an adroit lie, he had secured the backing of Mitchell and other money-lenders. Old Jefferson Henderson's ashen face and accusing eyes were before him. He had broken no law in that case, but only he and Henderson knew of the false statements which had ensnared the credulous man's whole fortune. The preacher's warning had come in time. Pate had intended it as a check to a perilous pace. He would speculate no more. He would follow Saunders's example and lead a rational life. He would live more simply. He would--his heart sank into an ooze of delight--he would marry the sweetest, most beautiful, and bravest girl in the world. He would win Dolly's whole heart, and in the future devote himself solely to her happiness. What more admirable course could a penitent man pursue? He quickened his step. He was thrilled from head to foot. He had reached the turning-point, and what a turning-point it was! In fancy, he saw himself taking the pretty child-woman in his arms and pledging his brain and brawn to her forever. It was really a most noble thing to do, for it meant the uplifting, as far as lay in his power, of her family. It would materially alter their sordid lives. He could give employment to Dolly's brother; he might be the means of educating and finding a suitable husband for Ann. Perhaps Saunders might sell him his plantation; Tom Drake could manage it for him, and the Colonial mansion would make a delightful summer home. Ah, things were coming about as they should! Dolly, Dolly, beautiful, exquisite Dolly was to be his wife, actually his wife! He sat down on a moss-covered stone aflame with a passion, which was of both blood and spirit. How beautiful the world seemed! How gloriously the sun shone on the pines of the mountain! How blue was the sky! How white the floating clouds! The preacher was singing a hymn. CHAPTER XI One cloudy night a few days later Mostyn was walking home from the river where he had spent the day fishing. Thinking that he might shorten the way by so doing, he essayed a direct cut through the dense wood intervening between the river and Drake's. It was a mistake, for he had gone only a short way when he discovered that he had lost his bearings. He wandered here and there for several hours, and it was only when the moon, which had been under a cloud since sundown, came out, that he finally found a path which led him in the right direction. He was nearing the house when in the vague light, due to the moon's being veiled again, he saw a man stealthily climb over the fence, stand as if watching the house for a moment, and then creep through the rose bushes and other shrubbery to the side of the house beneath the window of Dolly's room. Wondering, and suspecting he knew not what, Mostyn crept to the fence, and, half-hidden behind an apple tree, he stood watching. The figure of the man was quite distinct against the white wall of the building, and yet it was impossible to make out who he was. Then a surprising thing happened. Mostyn saw the figure raise its hands to its lips, and a low whistle was emitted. There was a pause. Then the window of Dolly's room was cautiously raised, and her head appeared as she leaned over the sill. "Is your father at home?" a muffled masculine voice was heard inquiring. "No, he's been gone all day." It was plainly Dolly who was speaking. The stares of the two seemed to meet. There was a pause. It was as if the girl's head had furtively turned to look back into the room. "Then come down. Meet me at the front gate. I'll keep hid." "Very well--in a minute." She was gone. Mostyn saw the man glide along the side of the house, treading the grass softly and making his way round to the front gate. Filled with suspicion and hot fury, Mostyn kept his place, afraid that any movement on his part might too soon betray his presence to the man he now saw near the gate. "My God," he cried, "she's like all the rest! I've been a fool--_me_, of all men! Here I've been thinking she was to be for me and me alone. This has been going on for God only knows how long. She has been fooling me with her drooping lashes and flushed cheeks. I was ready to marry her--fool, fool that I was. She might, for reasons of her own, have married me. There is no knowing what a woman will do. Bah! What a mollycoddle I have been! She, and he too, perhaps, have been laughing at me for the blind idiot I am--_me_, the man who thought he knew all there was to know about women." Mostyn heard the front door open softly. It was just as softly closed, and then the girl crossed the porch and advanced to the gate. She and the man stood whispering for a moment, and then they passed out at the gate and, side by side, went into the wood beyond the main road. Filled with chagrin, to which an odd sort of despair clung like a moist garment, Mostyn advanced along the fence to the gate and entered the yard. Putting his rod and game-bag down, he seated himself on the step of the porch. His blood seemed cold and clogged in his veins. He could not adjust himself to the situation. He could not have met a greater disappointment. The discovery had completely wrecked his already strained faith in the purity of woman. He sat watching the moon as the clouds shifted, now thinly, now thickly, before it. He heard a step in the wood. Some one was coming. He started to rise and flee the spot, but a dogged sort of resentment filled him. Why should he let the matter disturb him? Why should he conceal from any one the knowledge of her shame? He remained where he was. The step was louder, firmer. It was Dolly, and she was now at the gate. He saw her, as with head hung low, she put her hand on the latch. She opened the gate, entered, and paused, her face toward the wood. There she stood, not aware of the silent, all but crouching spectator behind her. Mostyn heard something like a sigh escape her lips. Then a furious impulse to denounce her, to let her know that he now knew her as she was, flashed through him. He rose and went to her. He expected her to start and shrink from him as he approached, but she simply looked at him in mild surprise. "Have you just got home?" she inquired. "Mother and I were worried about you, but George and Uncle John said you were all right." He stared straight at her. She would have noted the sinister glare in his eyes but for the half darkness. "I was lost for a while," he said. "I got back just in time to see a man climb over the fence and whistle to you." "Oh, you saw that!" She exhaled a deep breath. "I'm sorry you did, but it can't be helped. I suppose you know everything now." "I can guess enough," he answered, with a bitterness she failed to catch. "I don't know who he was, but that is no affair of mine." "I ought to have told you all along." She was avoiding his eyes. "I felt that I could trust you fully, but I was ashamed to have you know. I was anxious for you to take away as good an opinion of us all as was possible. You have been so kind to us. I'm sure no such degradation has ever come into your family." "Nothing like _this_, at any rate," he answered. "As far as I know the--women of my family have--" "Have what? What are you talking about? Do you think--do you imagine--is it possible that you--who do you think that man was?" "I have said I did not know," he retorted, frigidly. She stepped closer to him. She put her little hand on his arm appealingly. She raised her fathomless eyes to his. "Oh, you mustn't think it was any young man--any--Why--it was--I see I must tell you everything. That was Tobe Barnett. He has wanted to help me for a long time, and he got the chance to-night. He knows the one great sorrow of my life. Mr. Mostyn, my father is a moonshiner. I don't mean that he is a regular member of a gang, but he helps a certain set of them, and to-day Tobe accidentally heard of a plan of the Government officers to surround the still where my father happens to be to-night. He heard it through a cousin of his who is employed in the revenue detective service. Tobe is law-abiding; he didn't want to have anything to do with such things, but he knew how it would break my heart to have my father arrested, so he came to me late this afternoon to see if father had returned. He was going to tell him, you see, and warn him not to be with the men to-night. But father was still away. Tobe went home; he said he would come later to see if father was back. I sat up waiting for him all alone in my room in the dark. I did not want George or Ann or my mother to know about it. So just now when Tobe came to my window and found that father had not returned, he determined to go to the still and warn him. He may get there in time, and he may not, though it is not far. I promised to wait here at the gate till he returns. I could not possibly close my eyes in sleep with a thing like that hanging over me." Her voice shook; she turned her head aside. The cold mass of foul suspicion in Mostyn's breast gave way to a higher impulse. A sense of vast relief was on him. He would have taken her into his arms, confessed his error, and humbly begged her forgiveness, but for an unlooked-for interruption. There was a sound in the distance. It was the steady beat of horses' hoofs on the hard clay road in the direction of Ridgeville. "It is the revenue men!" Dolly gasped. "Quick, we must hide!" And, catching his hand as impulsively as a startled child, she drew him behind a hedge of boxwood. "Crouch down low!" she cried. "We must not let them see us. They would think--" She failed to finish. Seated on the dewy grass, side by side, they strained their ears for further sounds of the approaching horsemen. Mostyn marveled over her undaunted calmness. She still held his hand as if unconscious of what she was doing, and he noted that there was only a slight tremor in it. The horses were now quite near. A gruff voice in command was distinctly heard. "We'll dismount at the creek," it said, "creep up on the scamps, and bag the whole bunch. If they resist, boys, don't hesitate to fire. This gang has bothered us long enough. I'm tired of their bold devilment." "All right, Cap!" a voice returned. "We'll make it all right this time. I know the spot." A dozen horsemen, armed with rifles, came into view and passed on, leaving a hovering cloud of dust in their wake. Moving swiftly, and paler and graver, Dolly stood up, her steady gaze on the departing men. "Did you hear that?" she said, dejectedly. "He ordered his men to--to fire. Who knows? Perhaps before daybreak I shall have no--" She checked herself, her small hand at her throat. "I shall have no father, and with all his faults I love him dearly. He doesn't think moonshining is wrong. Some of the most respectable persons--even ministers--wink at it, if they don't actually take part. My father, like many others, has an idea that the Government robbed the Southern people of all they had, and they look on the law against whisky-making as an infringement on their rights. I wish my father would obey the law, but he doesn't, and now this has come. He may be killed or put in prison." "You must try not to give way," Mostyn said, full of sympathy. "Don't forget that Barnett has had time, perhaps, to warn them, and they may escape." "Oh, I hope so--I do--I do!" Still holding his hand, she led him back to the gate, and stood resting her arms on its top, now almost oblivious of his presence. Half an hour dragged by, during which no remark of his could induce her to speak. Presently a low whistle came from the wood across the road. "That's Tobe now!" she cried. "Oh, I wonder if he was in time!" Then, as she reached for the gate-latch he heard her praying: "God have mercy--oh, Lord pity me--pity me!" She opened the gate and passed out. He hung back, feeling that she might not desire his presence at the meeting with Barnett, but again she grasped his hand. "Come on," she said. "Tobe will understand." Crossing the road and walking along the edge of the wood for about a hundred yards, they were presently checked by another whistle, and the gaunt mountaineer emerged from the dense underbrush. Seeing Mostyn, he paused as if startled, saying nothing, his eyes shifting helplessly. "It's Mr. Mostyn--he knows everything, Tobe," Dolly threw in quickly. "He's on our side--he's a friend. Now, tell me, what did you do?" "Got to the still just in the nick o' time," Tobe said, panting, for he had been running. "The gang started to handle me purty rough at first--thought I was a spy--but your pa stepped in an' made 'em have sense. They couldn't move any of their things on such short notice, but the last one escaped just as the officers was ready for the rush." "But my father?" Dolly inquired, anxiously. "He's all right--he said he'd be home before morning. He has no idea that you know about it." "I'm glad of that. Oh, Tobe, you have been good to me to-night!" Dolly took the humble fellow's hands and shook them affectionately. "Well, if you hain't been good to me an' mine nobody ever was to a soul on _this_ earth," Barnett half sobbed. "Mr. Mostyn, maybe you don't know what Miss Dolly has--" "Yes, I do, Barnett," Mostyn declared. "I know." "Now, go back to Annie and Robby, Tobe," Dolly advised. "Poor girl! She will be uneasy about you." "No, she won't bother," Barnett answered, firmly. "She'd be willing to have me go to jail to help you, Miss Dolly. She is that grateful she'd cut off her hands to oblige you, an' she will be powerful happy when she knows this went through all right. Good night, Miss Dolly; good night, Mr. Mostyn." Dolly and her companion turned back toward the house as Barnett trudged off down the road. "Well, I'm glad it came out all right," Mostyn said, lamely; but Dolly, still listless, made no reply. Silently she walked by his side, her pretty head down. An impulse of the heart impelled him to take her hand. He was drawing her yielding form to him when she looked straight into his eyes. "I was wondering--" she began, but checked herself. "What were you wondering, Dolly?" The fire of his whole being was roused; it throbbed in his lips, thickened his tongue, and blazed in his eyes. It filled his voice like a stream from a bursting dam. "Why, I was wondering"--her sweet face glowed in the moonlight as from the reflection of his own--"I was wondering how you happened to think that Tobe was some young man that--that I cared enough for to--" "I was insanely jealous." Mostyn put his arm about her, drew her breast against his, and pressed his lips to hers. "I was mad and crazy. I couldn't think--I couldn't reason. Dolly, I _love_ you. I love you with all my heart." "Yes, I know." She seemed not greatly surprised at the avowal. She put her hand on the side of his face and gently stroked it. Then, of her own accord, she kissed him lightly on the lips. "There," she said, "that will do for to-night. I ought not to be here like this--you know that--but I am happy, and--" "You have not said"--he held her closer to him, now by gentle force, and kissed her again--"you have not said that you love me." "What is the use?" she sighed, contentedly. "You have known it all these years. I have never cared for any one else, or thought of any one else since you were here before. I was only a child, but I was old enough to know my heart. You are the only man who ever held me this way. There is no use saying it--you know I love you. You know I couldn't help it. I'd be a queer girl if I didn't." He tried to detain her at the steps, but she would not stay. She entered the house, leaving the door open so that he might go up to his room. CHAPTER XII The next day was Sunday. Mostyn did not see Dolly at breakfast. Drake sat at the head of the table as unconcerned as if nothing unusual had happened to him in the night. He spoke to John Webb and Mrs. Drake about the meeting to be held that day at the church and praised the preacher's powers and sincerity. It was the philosophical Webb who had something to say more in harmony with Mostyn's reflections. "I understand the revenue men made another haul last night," he said, a watchful eye on his brother-in-law. "You don't say?" Drake calmly extended his cup and saucer to Ann, to be handed to George, and from him to Mrs. Drake, for a filling. "Whose place was it?" "Don't know whose still it was," Webb answered, "but they landed the whole shootin'-match--sour mash, kegs, barrels, jugs, demijohns, copper b'ilers, worms, a wagon or two, and some horses." "Who did they ketch?" Drake asked. "I reckon it happened when I was t'other side the mountain." "Nobody, it seems," Webb answered. "The gang was too slick for 'em. They must have had sentinels posted around the whole shebang." Drake apparently found no further interest in the subject, for he began to talk of other matters. He had heard that Saunders was expected to spend the day at his farm, and added to Mostyn: "I reckon you will see 'im an' get news of business." "I almost hope he won't mention it," the banker smiled. "I have scarcely thought once of the bank. I never allow my mind to rest on it when I am off for a change like this." "Fine idea," Drake said, "but I don't see how you can help it, 'specially if you are concerned in the rise and fall of market-prices. But I reckon you've got that down to a fine point." Mostyn made some inconsequential response, but Drake's remark had really turned his thoughts into other channels. After all, he reflected, with a sudden chill of fear, how could he know but that some of his investments were not so prosperous as when he had left Atlanta? He became oblivious of the conversation going on around him. He failed to hear the cautious dispute over some trifle between George and Ann. A little later, Mostyn was walking to and fro on the lawn in front of the house when Dolly came down-stairs. She had on the pretty pink dress he had admired so much the day she had tried it on for the first time. He threw down his cigar and went to the steps to meet her, his troubled thoughts taking wing at the sight of her animated face. "Why have you not worn it before?" he said, sweeping her slender figure from head to foot in open admiration. "For the best reason in the world," she laughed. "I only got the cash to pay for it yesterday, and I would not wear it till it was mine. I collected some money a man owed me for giving private lessons to his children and sent it right away to the dressmaker." "It is simply wonderful," he said, glad that no one else was present. "I'm proud of you, little girl. You are the most beautiful creature that ever lived." "Oh, I don't know!" She shook her head wistfully. "I wish I could think so, but I can't. There are so many other things that count for more in the world than good looks. Do you know I didn't sleep more than an hour last night?" "I'm sorry," he said. "What was the matter?" She glanced through the open door into the house as if to see if any one was within hearing. Then she came nearer to him, looking down on him from the higher step on which she stood, her pretty brow under a frown. "I was bothered after I went to bed," she said, frankly. "I don't think I ought to--to have kissed you as I did there at the gate. I would have scolded Ann for the same thing, even if she were as old as I am. I trust you--I can't help it--and last night I was so happy over Tobe's message that--Tell me honestly. Do you think that a man loses respect for a girl who will act as--as boldly as I did? Tell me; tell me truly." "Not if he loves her as I do you, Dolly," he said, under his breath, "and knows that she feels the same way. Don't let a little thing like that trouble you. It is really your wonderful purity that makes you even think of it." She seemed partially satisfied, for she gave him her glance more confidingly. "It is queer that I should have let it worry me so much," she said. "It was as it some inner voice were reproving me. All sorts of fears and queer ideas flocked about me. I--I am just a simple mountain girl, and you now know what my--my people are like. Why, if my father were now in prison I could not refuse to--to stick to him as a daughter should, and for a man in your position to--to--" She broke off, her eyes now on the ground. "You mustn't think any more about it," he managed to say, and rather tardily. "You can't help what he does." Mostyn's passionate gaze was fixed on her again. "How pretty, how very pretty that dress is!" he flared out. "Are you going to church this morning?" "Oh yes," she replied, half smiling down into his eyes. "I must set a good example to Ann and George." Burning under the memory of her kiss of the night before, Mostyn told himself that he must by all means see her alone that day. He must hold the delicious creature in his arms again, feel the warmth of her lips, and capture the assurance of a love the like of which was a novelty even to him. "What are you thinking about?" she suddenly demanded. "I am thinking, Dolly, that you have the most maddening mouth that ever woman had, and your eyes--" "Don't, don't!" she said, with a shudder. "I can't explain it, but, somehow, when you look and speak that way--" "I can't help it," he blurted out, warmly. "You make my very brain whirl. I can hardly look at you. It is all I can do to keep from snatching you to my arms again, even here where any one could see us. Say, darling, do me a favor. Don't go to church to-day. Make some excuse. Stay at home with me and let the others go. I have a thousand things to tell you." The slight, shifting frown on her face steadied itself. She gave him a swift glance, then avoided his amorous eyes. "Oh, I couldn't do that, _even for you_," she faltered. "They have asked me to sing in a quartette. That is why I put on this dress. The other girls are going to fix up a little." "Then you won't oblige me?" "I can't. I simply can't. It would be deceitful, and I am not a bit like that. I'm just what I am, open and aboveboard in everything. And that is why I know--_feel_ that I did not act right last night." "There you go again," he cried, lightly, forcing a laugh. "When will you ever drop that? You say you love me, and I _know_ I love you, so why should you _not_ let me kiss you? I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll order a horse and buggy sent out from Ridgeville this afternoon, and we will take a nice drive over the mountain." "To-day?--not to-day," Dolly said, firmly. "There is to be an afternoon service at the church. I'd be a pretty thing driving about the country with a handsome city man while all the other girls were--oh, it never would do! I'm sorry, but I couldn't think of it. People talk about a school-teacher more than any one else, and this valley is full of malicious gossips." He was wondering if a little pretense of offense on his part--which, to his shame, he remembered using in former affairs of the heart--might make her relent, when he noticed that she was watching something on the road leading to the village. It was a horse and buggy. Her sight was keener than his, for she said, in a sudden tone of gratification: "It is Mr. Saunders. He is on his way out home." "So it is," Mostyn said, impatiently. "I'll go down to the gate and speak to him. Will you come?" With her eyes on the vehicle, and saying nothing, Dolly tripped down the steps. How gracefully she moved, he thought. They reached the gate just as Saunders drew rein. "Hello!" he cried, cheerily. "How are you, Dolly?" And, doffing his hat, he sprang down and shook hands with them both. "I'm lucky to catch you," he added to the girl. "I have something for you." "Oh, I'm so glad!" Dolly cried. "You are always so kind and thoughtful." "It is only a couple of books." Saunders had flushed slightly, and he turned back to the buggy, taking from beneath the seat a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "Mostyn, they have a most wonderful reading-circle here in the mountains. I have quit trying to keep pace with them." He held the parcel toward Dolly. "I heard you say all of you wanted to know something of Balzac's philosophy. I find that he has expressed it in his novels _Louis_ _Lambert_ and _Seraphita_. The introductions in both these volumes are very complete and well written." "Oh, they are _exactly_ what we want." Dolly was very happy over the gift, and she thanked the blushing Saunders warmly. Mostyn stood by, vaguely antagonistic. He had not read the books in question, and he had a feeling that his partner was receiving a sort of gratitude which he himself could never have won. Then another thought possessed him. How well the two seemed mated! Why, Saunders--plain, steady, ever-loyal Saunders, with his love of books and Nature, and his growing aversion to gay social life--was exactly the type of man to make a girl like Dolly a good husband. Dolly was trying to break the twine on the parcel. "Let me!" Saunders, still blushing, was first to offer assistance. He took out his pocket-knife, cut the twine, unwrapped the books, and handed them back to her. "Oh, they are so pretty--you always get such costly bindings!" Dolly added, almost reproachfully, as she fairly caressed the rich red leather with her hands. "You--you intend to lend them to the club, of course, and we must be very careful not to soil them. I shall have some covers made to--" "Oh no!" Mostyn had never noticed before that his partner was such a weakling in the presence of women, and he wondered over the man's stumbling awkwardness. "Oh no," Saunders stammered. "I have inscribed them to--to you, as a little personal gift, if--if you don't mind." "Oh, how sweet, how lovely of you!" Dolly cried. "Now, I sha'n't even want the others to handle them. I'm awfully selfish with what is _really_ my own. Oh, you are _too_ good!" Her richly mellow voice was full of genuine feeling, and a grateful moisture glistened in her shadowy eyes. Saunders heard, saw, and averted his throbbing glance to the mountain. "Well, well," he said, awkwardly, "I must be going. It is Sunday, but I must talk to my overseer about his work. He was down in Atlanta the other day, and I did not like his showing as well as I could have done. I shall throw up banking, Mostyn, one of these days and settle down here. I see that now." He was returning to the buggy, Dolly having gone to the house eager to exhibit her gift, when Mostyn stopped him. "Shall I see you again before you go back?" he inquired. Saunders reflected. "I hardly think so, unless--Say, why couldn't you get in and go over home with me? My cook, Aunt Maria, will give us a good dinner, and we can lounge about all day." "I don't think I could stay to dinner"--Mostyn was thinking that it might prevent a possible chat with Dolly in the parlor or a stroll to the spring--"but I'll ride over with you and walk back. I need the exercise." "All right, hop in!" There was a ring of elation in Saunders's voice which was not often heard from him during business hours. "These outings seem to do you a lot of good," Mostyn remarked. "You are as lively as a cricket this morning." "I love the mountains," was the answer. "I love these good, old-fashioned people. Back at the station as I left the train I saw some revenue officers with the wreck of a mountain still piled up in the street. I know the moonshiners are breaking the law, but they don't realize it. Many a poor mountain family will suffer from that raid. Do you know, I was glad to hear that no arrests were made. Imprisonment is the hardest part of ft." Mostyn was discreetly non-communicative, and as they drove along the conversation drifted to other topics. Suddenly Saunders broke into a laugh. "You know, Mostyn, you are doing your very best to force me to talk about business. You have edged up to it several times." Mostyn frowned. "I have succeeded in keeping my mind off of it fairly well so far," he declared; "but still, if anything of importance has taken place down there I'd like to know it." "Of course, you would," Saunders answered; "and from now on you'd fairly itch to get back to your desk. Oh, I know you!" "Not if everything was all right." There was a touch of rising doubt in Mostyn's voice. Saunders hesitated for a moment, then he said: "I have something for you from--from Marie Winship." He rested the reins in his lap, took a letter from his pocket, and gave it to his companion. It was a small, pale blue envelope addressed in a woman's handwriting. In the lower left-hand corner was written "Personal and important." Mostyn started and his face hardened as he took it. He thrust it clumsily into his pocket. "How did you happen to--to get it?" he asked, almost angrily. "I see it was not mailed." Saunders kept his eyes on the back of the plodding horse. "The truth is, she came to the bank twice to see you--once last week and again yesterday. I managed to see her both times alone in your office. The clerks, I think, failed to notice her. She was greatly upset, and I did what I could to calm her. I'm not good at such things, as you may know. She demanded your address, and, of course, I had to refuse it, and that seemed to make her angry. She is--inclined, Mostyn, to try to make trouble again." Mostyn had paled; his lower lip twitched nervously. "She had better let me alone!" he said, coldly. "I've stood it as long as I intend to." "I don't know anything about it," Saunders returned. "I could not pacify her any other way, and so I promised to deliver her letter. She would have made a scene if I had not. She has heard some way that you are to marry Miss Mitchell, and it was on that line that her threats were made." "Marry? I have never said that I intended to marry--_any one_," Mostyn snarled, a dull, hunted look in his eyes. "I know," Saunders said, still unperturbed, "but you know that the people at large are generally familiar with all that society talks about, and they have had a lot to say about you and that particular young lady. If you wish to read your letter, don't mind me--I--" "I don't want to read it!" Mostyn answered. "I can imagine what's in it. I'll attend to it later. But you have seen her, Saunders, since I have, and you would know whether the situation really is such that--" "To be frank"--Saunders had never spoken more pointedly--"I don't feel, Mostyn, that I ought to become your confidant in exactly such a thing. But through no intention of mine I have been drawn into it--drawn into it, Mostyn, to protect the dignity and credit of the bank. She was about to make a disturbance, and I _had_ to speak to her." "I know--of course, I understand that"--Mostyn's fury robed him from head to foot like a visible garment--"but that is not answering my question." "Well, if you want my opinion," Saunders said, firmly, "I think if the woman is not appeased in some way that you and I, the directors, and all concerned--friendly depositors and everybody-will regret it. Scandal of this sort has a bad effect on business confidence. Mitchell came in just as she was leaving. Of course, he is not a great stickler on such matters, but--" "I didn't know he was in town," Mostyn said, in surprise. "Yes, they returned rather suddenly the day before yesterday. By the way, he is impatient to see you. He wouldn't mind my telling you, for that is what he wants to do. He has had a great streak of luck. You remember the big investments you advised him to make in wild timberlands in Alabama and North Georgia a few years ago? Well, your judgment was good--capital. His agent has closed out his entire holdings for a big cash sum. I don't know the exact figure, but he banked a round one hundred thousand with us yesterday, and said more was coming." Mostyn stared excitedly. "I thought it would be a good thing, but I didn't expect him to find a buyer so soon." Saunders smiled. "I know you thought so," he chuckled. "He is as happy as a school-boy. He is crazy to tell you about it. He thinks a lot of you. He swears by your judgment. In fact, he said plainly that he expected you to handle this money for him. He says he has some ideas he wants you to join him in. He sticks to it that you are the greatest financier in the South." Mostyn drew his lips tight. "He is getting childish," he said, irritably. "I have no better judgment than any one else--Delbridge, for instance, is ahead of me." "Delbridge _is_ lucky," Saunders smiled. "They say he has made another good deal in cotton." "How was that?" Mostyn shrugged his shoulders and stared, his brows lifted. "Futures. I don't know how much he is in, but I judge that it is considerable. You can always tell by his looks when things are going his way, and I have never seen him in higher feather." Mostyn suppressed a sullen groan. "That is what _they_ are doing while I am lying around here like this," he reflected. "Mitchell thinks I am a financial wonder, does he? Well, he doesn't know me; Irene doesn't know me. Dolly doesn't dream--my God, I don't know _myself!_ A few minutes ago I was sure that I would give up the world for her, and yet already I am a different man--changed--full of hell itself. I am a slave to my imagination. I don't know what I want." Then he thought of the unopened letter in his pocket. Light as it was, he could all but feel its weight against his side. They were now at the gate of Saunders's house. No one was in sight. The tall white pillars of the Colonial porch gleamed like shafts of snow in the sunlight. It was a spacious building in fine condition; even the grass of the lawn and beds of flowers were well cared for. "You'd better decide to stop," Saunders said, cordially. "I will soon get over my talk with the overseer, and then I'll take you around and show you some of the richest land in the South--black as your hat in some places. I wouldn't give this piece of property for all you and Delbridge and Mitchell ever can pile up. Both my grandfather and father died in the room up-stairs on the left of the hall. It seems sacred to me." Mostyn nodded absently. "No, thanks, I'll walk home," he said, getting out of the buggy. He was turning away, but paused and looked back. "Would you advise--" he began, hesitatingly, "would you advise me to return to Atlanta to-morrow--on--on account of this silly thing?" Saunders hesitated. "I hardly know what to say," he answered, frankly. "Perhaps you can tell better when you have read her letter. The situation is decidedly awkward. In her present nervous condition the woman is likely to give trouble. Somehow I feel that it is nothing but your duty to all of us to do everything possible to prevent publicity. She seems to me to have a dangerous disposition. She even spoke of--of using force. In fact, she said she was armed--spoke of killing you in cold blood. You might restrain her by law, but you wouldn't want to do that." A desperate shadow hovered over Mostyn's face. "I'll go back in the morning," he said, doggedly. "Mitchell, you say, wants to see me. I'm not afraid of the woman. If I had been there she wouldn't have made such a fool of herself." CHAPTER XIII When Mostyn got back to the farmhouse he found no one at home, the entire family being at church. He strolled about the lawn, smoked many cigars, and tried to read a Sunday paper on the porch. His old nervous feeling had him in its grasp. Try as he would to banish them, the things Saunders had told him swept like hot streams through his veins. Mitchell had doubled his fortune; Irene was now a richer heiress than ever; Delbridge was in great luck; and a shallow-pated woman, whom Mostyn both feared and despised, was threatening him with exposure. Mitchell, and other men of the old regime, laughed at the follies of youth, it was true, but a public scandal which would cripple business was a different matter in any man's eyes. Besides, the old man must be told of his intention to marry Dolly, and that surely would be the last straw, for all of Mitchell's intimate friends knew that the garrulous old man was counting on quite another alliance. Mostyn heard the voices of the Drakes down the road, and to avoid them he went up to his room, and from a window saw them enter the gate. How wonderfully beautiful Dolly seemed as she walked by her mother! The girl was happy, too, as her smile showed. The others came into the house, but Dolly turned aside to a bed of flowers to gather some roses for the dinner-table. Bitterly he reproached himself. He had won her heart--there was no doubt of it; she was his--soul and body she was his, and with his last breath he would stand to her. From that day forth, in justice to her, he would cleanse his life of past impurities and be a new man. Delbridge, Mitchell, Henderson, Marie Winship--all of them--would be wiped out of consideration. He would get rid of Marie first of all. He would force her to be reasonable. He had made her no actual promises. She had known all along what to expect from him, and her present method was unfair in every way. He had paid her for her favors, and for aught he knew other men had done the same. However, that did not lessen the woman's power. She might even make trouble before he got back to Atlanta--there was no counting on what a woman of her class would do. He would send her a telegram at once, stating that he would be down in the morning. But, no, that would only add to the tangible evidence against him. He would wait and see her as soon as possible after his arrival. Yes, yes, that would have to do, and in the mean time--the mean time-- Mostyn paced the floor as restlessly as a caged tiger. There were mental pictures of himself as already a discredited, ruined man. Mitchell had turned from him in scorn; Saunders was placidly appealing to him to withdraw from a tottering firm, and old Jeff Henderson was going from office to office, bank to bank, whining, "I told you so!" At any rate--Mostyn tried to grasp it as a solace worth holding--there was Dolly, and here was open sunlight and a new and different life. But she would hear of the scandal, and that surely would alter the gentle child's view of him. Irene Mitchell would overlook such an offense if she gave it a second thought, but Dolly--Dolly was different. It would simply stun her. Dinner was over. Tom Drake and John Webb were chatting under the apple trees in the orchard, where Webb had placed a cider-press of a new design which was to be tried the next day. Mrs. Drake had retired to her room for a nap. Ann had gone to see a girl friend in the neighborhood, and Dolly was in the parlor reading the books Saunders had given her. Mostyn hesitated about joining her, but the temptation was too great to be withstood. She looked up from her book as he entered and smiled impulsively, then the smile died away and she fixed him with a steady stare of inquiry. "Why, what has happened?" she faltered. "Nothing particular," he said, as he took a seat near her and clasped his cold, nervous hands over his knee. She shook her head slowly, her eyes still on him. "I know better," she half sighed. "I can see it all over you. At dinner I watched you. You look--look as you did the day you came. You have no idea how you improved, but you are getting back. Oh, I think I know!" she sighed again, and her pretty mouth drooped. "You are in trouble. Mr. Saunders has brought you bad news of business." He saw a loophole of escape from an embarrassing situation, and in desperation he used it. "Things are always going crooked in a bank like ours," he said, avoiding her despondent stare. "Men in my business take risks, you know. Things run smoothly at times, and then--then they may not do so well." "Oh, I'm so sorry," she faltered; "you were getting on beautifully. You--you seemed perfectly happy, too, and I hoped that--" Her voice trailed away in the still room, and he saw her breast under its thin covering rise and fall suddenly. "Don't let it worry you," he said. "How can I help it?" She put the books on the window-sill and raised her hand to her brow. "I know how to fight my _own_ troubles, but yours are too big, too intricate, too far away. What--what are you going to do?" He felt the need of further pretense. He looked down as he answered: "I shall have to take the first train in the morning, and--and--" "Oh!" The simple ejaculation was so full of pain that it checked his tardy subterfuge. He rose to take her in his arms to soothe her, to pledge himself to her forever, but he only stood leaning against the window-frame, the puppet of a thousand warring forces. No, he would not touch her, he told himself; she was to be his wife--she was the sweetest, purest human flower that ever bloomed, and until he was freer from the grime of his past he would not insult her by further intimacy. So far he had not spoken to her of marriage, and he would not do so till he had a better right. "So you really are going?" She had turned pale, and her voice shook as she stared up at him, helplessly. "Yes, but I am coming back just as soon as I possibly can," he said. "Besides, I shall write you, if--if you will let me?" "Why should you say _if_ I will let you? Don't you know--can't you see? Oh, _can't_ you see?" Again the yearning to clasp her in his arms rose to the surface of his inner depths, and he might have given way to it but for the panorama of accusing pictures which was blazing in his brain. "I wish you would try--try to understand _one_ thing, Dolly," he said, pitying himself as much as her. "I have meant everything I have said to you. The little that is good in me loves you with all its force, but I do not want you to--to even trust me--to even count on me--till I have straightened out my affairs in Atlanta. Then--then if all goes well I shall come back, and--and talk to you as I want to talk to you now--but can't." Her brows met in a troubled frown. Her pale lips were drawn tight as if she were suffering physical pain. "I see, and I shall not ask questions, either," she said, calmly. "I realize, too, that you are speaking to me in confidence. I shall tell no one, but I am going to pray for you. I believe it helps. It seems to have helped me many, many times." "No, no, you must not do that," he said, quickly, almost in alarm. "I am not good enough for that." "But I can't help it. Some philosopher has said that every desire is a prayer, and in that case I shall be praying constantly till your trouble is over." It was as if she understood, and appreciated the momentary check he had put upon his passion. They were quite alone. His face was close to hers; it was full of shadowy yearning, and yet he made no effort to repeat the blissful caresses of the night before. Presently he heard her sigh again. "What is it?" he asked, uneasily. She was silent for a moment, then she asked: "Do you believe in premonitions?" "I don't think I do," he said, wondering what was forthcoming. "Why do you ask?" "Because I do to some extent," she said, slowly, a reminiscent expression in her eyes, "and something seems to tell me that you and I are in danger of being parted. I have felt forewarnings often. Once I actually knew my father was in trouble when he was several miles from me, and there was no hint of the matter from any external source." "Strange," he said. "Was it something serious?" "His life was in danger," Dolly said, "and he was on the point of committing a crime which would have ruined us all. It was this way. A rough mountaineer had become angry with me for keeping his disobedient child in after school was out. He was drinking, and he made a disrespectful remark at the store about me which reached my father's ears. My father has an awful temper which simply cannot be controlled, and, taking his revolver, he went to find the man. None of us at home knew what he intended to do, but exactly at the hour in which he met the man, fought with him, and shot him almost fatally, I felt that something was wrong, I was in the schoolroom trying to get my mind on my work, but I could not do it. I could think of nothing but my father and some crisis which he seemed to be going through. So I was not surprised later to learn of his trouble." "I did not know your father had such a hot temper," Mostyn said. "He looks like a man who is not easily upset." "It is all beneath the surface," Dolly answered. "You have no idea how careful I have to be. He seldom is willing for the young men about here to visit me at all. That is his worst fault." Dolly rose. She put her hand lightly on Mostyn's. "I must go to my room now," she said. "I shall see you before you leave. I am going to do my best to subdue the premonition about you and me. It is so strong that it depresses me--fairly takes my breath away. It is exactly as if we are not going to meet again, or something just as sad." Mostyn stood still, looking at her steadily. "Am I to understand, Dolly, that your father might not--not quite like for us to be together even like this, and is that why you are leaving me now?" Dolly's long lashes flickered. She seemed to reflect as she kept her glance on the doorway. "I think I may as well tell you something, so that if anything comes up you may be somewhat prepared for it. Last night when Tobe Barnett called me to the window and I went out, as you know, to meet him, Ann, whose room is next to mine, was awake. She heard Tobe whistle and saw me leave. She couldn't see who it was, but later, when you and I were at the gate, she saw us quite clearly." "Oh, I see," Mostyn said, anxiously, "and she thought that I called you out." "I could not explain it any other way," Dolly answered. "I don't want her to know, you see, about father and the moonshiners. She began teasing me about you this morning, and I was afraid father would hear it, so I simply had to admit that I was with you. I even confessed--confessed"--Dolly's color rose--"that I care a great deal for you, for, you see, she actually saw--saw--" "I understand." Mostyn tried to smile lightly. "You mean that she saw me kiss you?" Dolly's flushed silence was her answer. "Ann is so young and romantic that it has made a great impression on her," Dolly added, lamely, as she moved toward the door, her eyes downcast. "You see how I am placed, and I hope you won't blame me. There was no other way out of it. I think I can keep her from mentioning it. I shall try, anyway. After all," she sighed, deeply, "it is only _one_ of our troubles--yours and mine." "Only _one_ of them," he repeated, with a sudden guilty start--"what do you mean?" She swept his face with a flash of her eyes, seemed to hesitate, then she said, resignedly: "I am quite sure that your Atlanta set, especially your relatives, would not approve of me--that is, if I were thrown with them as an equal." "How absurd!" he began, awkwardly; but she fixed him with a firmness that checked him. "Your sister, Mrs. Moore, would scarcely wipe her feet on me. You see, I met her once." "When? how?" he asked, wonderingly. "She was at the house-party Mr. Saunders gave last summer, and he introduced us on the road one day," Dolly explained, with an indignant toss of the head. "Oh, I could never--never like her. She treated me exactly as if I had been a hireling. She is your sister, but Lord deliver me from such a woman. Well, what's the use denying it--she is part of my premonition. You may settle your business troubles satisfactorily, but if--if you should tell her about me, she will move heaven and earth to convince you that I am unworthy of your notice." "Nonsense!" he began; but with a sad little shake of the head she hurried away. Left alone, Mostyn's heart sank into the lowest ebb of despair. Back and forth he strode, trying to shake off his despondency, but it lay on him like the weight of a mountain. What would the morrow bring forth? To him his sister's objections would be the very least. The real disaster lay in the matter Dolly's pure mind could not have grasped. He took out the letter Saunders had brought and read it again. "She is simply desperate--the little cat!" he cried. "I might have known she would turn on me. For the last three months she has been 'a woman scorned,' and she is not going to be easily put aside. Fool, fool that I was, and always have been, I deserve it! It may ruin me--men have been ruined by smaller things than this. Can this be the beginning of my end?" He sank into the chair Dolly had vacated and rocked back and forth. Suddenly he had a sort of inspiration. "I might take the midnight train," he reflected. "Why, yes, I could do that, and have my trunk sent on to-morrow. In that case I'd avoid riding back with Saunders and be there early in the morning. Surely she will be quiet that long." CHAPTER XIV Mostyn reached the city at five o'clock in the morning. The sun was just rising over the chimneys and dun roofs of the buildings. He lived in the house of his widowed sister, Mrs. John Perkins Moore, in a quiet but fashionable street, and thither he went in one of the numbered cabs which, in charge of slouching negro drivers, meet all trains at the big station. At his sister's house no one was stirring; even the servants were still abed. He was vaguely glad of this, for he was in no mood for conversation of any sort. Having a latchkey to the front door, he admitted himself and went up to his room at the top of the stairs. Should he lie down and try to snatch a little sleep? he reflected, for his journey and mental state had quite deprived him of rest. Throwing off his coat and vest and removing his collar, necktie, and shoes, he sank on his bed and closed his eyes. But to no effect. His brain was throbbing; his every nerve was as taut as the strings of a violin; cold streams of despair coursed through his veins. For the thousandth time he saw before him the revengeful face of a woman--a face now full of fury--a face which he had once thought rarely pretty, rarely coy, gentle, and submissive. What could be done? Oh! what could be done? He heard the iceman stop at the door, curiously noted his slow, contented tread as he trudged round to the kitchen to leave the block of ice. He saw the first reddish-yellow shafts of sunlight as they shot through the slats of the window-blinds, fell on his bureau, lighting up the silver toilet articles and the leaning gilt frame holding a large photograph of Irene Mitchell. He sat on the edge of the bed, thrust his feet into his slippers, and stared at the picture. Was it possible that he had really thought seriously of marrying her? It seemed like a vague dream, his entire association with her. For months he had been her chief escort; he had called on her at least twice a week. He had made no denial when his and her friends spoke of the alliance as a coming certainty, and yet a simple little mountain girl had come into his life, and all the rest was over. But why think of that when the other thing hung like a sinister pall above him? There was a step in the corridor close to the door, then a rap. "Come!" he cried, thinking it was a servant. The door opened partially, and the reddish face of his sister, under a mass of yellowish crinkly hair, peeped in, smiling. "I heard you on the stairs," she said. "I'm not dressed, and so I'll not kiss you. I've told the cook to get your breakfast at once, for I know you are hungry." "Thanks, I am," he answered. "I have been up all night." She was ten years older than he, short, and firmly built. Her blue, calculating eyes had a sleepy look. "You must have been up late last night, yourself," he said, nothing more vital occurring to his troubled mind. "Oh yes, Alan Delbridge gave a big reception and dance in his rooms. Supper was served at the club at one o'clock. Champagne and all the rest. I was the blindest chaperon you ever saw. Good-by--if I don't get down to breakfast it will be because I'm sound asleep. I knew you would cut your outing short." "You say you did?" he cried, his heart sinking. "What made you think so?" "The Mitchells are back." She laughed significantly, and was gone. He had his breakfast alone in the pretty dining-room below, and at once started to town. His first thought was that he would go to the bank, but he decided otherwise. He shrank from the formality of greeting the employees in his present frame of mind. No, he would simply see Marie at once and face the inevitable. The earliness of the hour--it was only nine o'clock--would make no difference with her. In fact, by seeking her at once he might prevent her from looking for him. It would be dangerous, he was well aware of that, but the danger would not be any the greater under the roof of her cottage than at the bank, or even in the streets. He decided not to call a cab. The distance was less than a mile, and the walk would perhaps calm him and might furnish some inspiration as to his dealings with her. Marie Winship lived in a quiet part of the city, near Decatur Street, and after a brisk walk he found himself at her door ringing the bell. He was kept waiting several minutes, and this was awkward, for he was afraid that some one in passing might recognize him and remark upon his presence there so early in the day. However, no one passed, and he was admitted by a yellow-skinned maid. "Miss Marie just now got up," she said, as she left him to go into the little parlor off the hall. "Tell her, Mary, that I want to see her, but not to hurry, for I have plenty of time," Mostyn said, "I have just got back." "Yes, sir; I heard her say she was 'spectin' you to-day." He had an impulse to make inquiries of the girl regarding her mistress's disposition, but a certain evasive, almost satirical expression in her eyes prevented it. He was sure the maid was trying to avoid any sort of conference with him. He sat down at one of the two windows of the room and looked at the cheap, gaudy furniture--the green-plush-covered chairs of imitation mahogany; the flaming rugs; the little upright piano; the square center-table, on which were scattered a deck of playing-cards; some thin whisky glasses; a brass tray of cigarettes. Four straight-backed chairs at the table told a story, as did the burnt matches and cigar-stubs on the hearth. Marie was not without associates, both male and female. He heard voices in the rear of the cottage. He recognized Marie's raised angrily. Then it died away, to be succeeded by the low mumbling of the maid's. Suddenly Mostyn noticed a thing which fixed his gaze as perhaps no other inanimate object could have done. Partly hidden beneath the blue satin scarf on the piano was a good-sized revolver. Rising quickly, he took it up and examined it. It was completely loaded. "She really is desperate!" He suddenly chilled through and through. "She got this for me." He heard a step in the rear, and, quickly dropping the revolver into his coat pocket, he stood expectantly waiting. She was coming. Her tread alone betrayed excitement. The next instant she stood before him. She was a girl under twenty-two, a pretty brunette, with Italian cast of features, and a pair of bright, dark eyes, now ablaze with fury. "So you are here at last?" she panted, pushing the door to and leaning against it. "Yes, Saunders gave me your letter yesterday," he answered. "I thought it would bring you." Her pretty lips were parted, the lower hung quivering. "If you hadn't come right away you would have regretted it to the last day of your life--huh! and that might not have been very far off, either." "I did not like the--the tone of your letter, Marie." He was trying to be firm. "You see, you--" "Didn't like it? Pooh!" she broke in. "Do you think I care a snap what you like or don't like? You've got to settle with me, and quick, too, for something you did--" "I _did?_" he gasped, in slow surprise. "Why, what have I--" "I'll tell you what you did," the woman blazed out, standing so close to him now that he felt her fierce breath on his face. "Shortly before you left you were taken sick at the bank, or fainted, or something like it, and didn't even tell me about it. I read it in the paper. I was beneath your high-and-mighty notice--dirt under your feet. But the next day you went driving with Irene Mitchell. You passed within ten feet of me at the crossing of Whitehall Street and Marietta. You saw me as plainly as you see me now, and yet you turned your head away. You thought"--here an actual oath escaped the girl's lips--"you were afraid of what that stuck-up fool of a woman would think. She knows about us--she's heard; she recognized me. I saw it in her eyes. She deliberately sneered at me, and you--_you contemptible puppy!_--you didn't even raise your hat to me after all your sickening, gushing protestations. I want to tell you right now, Dick Mostyn, that you can't walk over me. I'm ready for you, and I'm tired of this whole business." He was wisely silent. She was pale and quivering all over. He wondered how he could ever have thought her attractive or pretty. Her face was as repulsive as death could have made it. Aimlessly she picked up a cigarette only to crush it in her fingers as she went on. "Answer me, Dick Mostyn, why did you treat me that way?" "My fainting at the bank was nothing," he faltered. "I didn't think it was of enough importance to mention, and as for my not speaking to you on the street, you know that you and I have positively agreed that our relations were to be unknown. People have talked about us so much, anyway, that I did not want to make it worse than it already is. Besides--now, you must be reasonable. The last time I paid you a thousand dollars in a lump you agreed that you would not bother me any more. You were to do as you wished, and I was free to do the same, and yet, already--" _"Bother you! bother you!_ Is that the way to talk to me? Am I the scum of creation all at once? Didn't you make me what I am? Haven't you sworn that you care more for me than any one else? I was pretty, according to you. I was lovely. I was bright--brighter and better-read than any of your dirty, stuck-up set. You said you'd rather be with me than with any one else, but since then you've begun to think of marrying that creature for her money. Oh, I know that's it--you couldn't love a cold, haughty stick like she is. You are not made that way, but you _do_ love money; you want what she's got, and if you are let alone you will marry her." "I have no such idea, Marie," he said, falteringly. "You are a liar, a deliberate, sneaking liar. Money is your god, and always will be." He made no further denial. They faced each other in perturbed silence for a moment. Presently, to his relief, he saw her face softening, and he took advantage of it. "Marie," he said, "you are not treating me right. My conscience is clear in regard to you. I made you no promises. I paid your expenses, and you were satisfied. You are the one who has broken faith. Above all it was understood between us that I was not to be bound to you in any way. I have been indulging you, and you are growing more and more exacting. You are not fair--not fair. You went openly to my place of business. You made threatening remarks about me to my partner. You are trying to ruin me." "Ruin you?" she smiled. "There are things worse than ruin. If I could have gotten your address I'd have followed you and shot you like a dog!" "I am not surprised," he said, calmly. "By accident I found the thing you intended to do it with." Her startled eyes crawled from his face to the piano. She strode to it, threw back the scarf, and stood facing him. "You have it?" she said. He touched his bulging pocket. "Yes, I may use it on myself," he retorted, grimly. "You say you've had enough; well, so have I. I have sown my wild oats, Marie, but they have grown to a jungle around me. During my vacation I made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, but I suppose I have gone too far for that sort of thing. I couldn't marry you--" "You'd rather die than do it, hadn't you?" The woman's voice broke. "Well, I can't blame you. I really can't." Her breast rose and shook. "The devil is in me, Dick. It has been in me ever since--ever since--but it won't do any good to talk about that. I am down and out." "What do you mean?" He sank into one of the chairs heavily, his despondent stare fixed on her softened face. "You may as well tell me. I am ready for anything now." "Oh, it is a family matter." She evaded his eyes. "There is no use going over it, but it has thoroughly undone me." "Tell me about it," he urged. "Why not?" Eyes downcast, she hesitated a moment. Then: "You've heard me speak of my brother Hal, who is in business in Texas. You know he and I are the only ones of my family left. He is still a boy to me, and I have always loved him. He is in trouble. He has been speculating and taking money that did not belong to him. Through him his house has lost ten thousand dollars. I've had six appealing letters from his wife--she is desperate." "Oh, I see," Mostyn said. "That is bad. Is--is he in prison?" "No--not yet." Marie choked up. "The firm has an idea that his friends may help him restore the money, and they won't prosecute if he can make the loss good. He has been hoping to get help out there among his wife's people, but has failed. The time is nearly up--only two days left, and I--My God, do you think I can live after that boy is put in jail? It has made a fiend of me, for if I hadn't taken up with you I would have gone to Texas with him and it might not have happened. There is a streak of bad blood in our family. My father was none too good. He was like you, able to dodge the law, that's all. But poor Hal didn't cover his tracks." "Stop, Marie!" Mostyn demanded, in rising anger. "What do you mean by mentioning _me_ in that sort of connection?" "Humph! What do I mean? Well, I mean that men say--oh, I've heard them talk! I don't have to tell you who said it, but I have heard them say if you hadn't broken old Mr. Henderson all to pieces several years ago you'd never have been where you are to-day." "You don't understand that, Marie," Mostyn answered, impatiently. "Henderson took it to court, and the decision was--" "Oh, I know!" She tossed her head. "Your lawyers pulled you through for a rake-off, and the Henderson girls went to work. They live in a shabby little four-room house not far from here. I often see them at the wash-tub in the back yard. The old man hates you like a snake, and so do the girls. I can't blame them. When you get down in the very dregs through dealing with a person you learn how to hate. The thing stays in the mind night and day till it festers like a boil and you want to even up some way." "Marie, listen to me," Mostyn began, desperately deliberate. "Why can't we come to an agreement? You want to help your brother out of his trouble, I am sure. Now, that is a big amount of money, as you know, and even a banker can't always get up ready funds in such quantities as that, but suppose I give it to you?" "You--you give it to me?" she stammered, incredulously, her lips falling apart, her white teeth showing. "Why, you said, not a month ago, that you were too hard pushed for money even to--" "This is different," he broke in. "Through your conduct you are actually driving me to the wall and I am desperate. I am ready to make this proposition to you. I will get up that money. I'll send you a draft for it to-day provided--provided, Marie, that you solemnly agree not to disturb me at all in the future." "Do you really mean it?" She leaned forward, eagerly. "Because--because if you _don't_ you ought not to mention it. I'd cut off my hands and feet to save that dear boy." "I mean it," he answered, firmly. "But this time you must keep your promise, and, no matter what I do in the future, you must not molest me." "I am willing, Dick. I agree. I love you--I really do, but from now on you may go your way and I'll go mine. I swear it. May I--may I telegraph Hal that--" "Yes, telegraph him that the money is on the way to him," Mostyn said. Marie sank into a chair opposite him and rested her tousled head on her crossed arms. A trembling sob escaped her, and she looked up. He saw tears filling her eyes. "After all, I may not be so very, very bad," she said, "for this will be a merciful act, and it comes through my knowing you." "But it must be the end, Marie," he urged, firmly. "It is costing me more than you can know, but I must positively be free." "I know it," she answered. "I will let you alone, Dick. You may marry--you may do as you like from now on." "Then it is positively settled," he said, a new light flaring in his eyes. "For good and all, we understand each other." "Yes, for good and all," she repeated, her glance on the floor. A moment later he was in the street. The sun had never shown more brightly, the sky had never seemed so fathomless and blue. He inhaled a deep breath. He felt as if he were swimming through the air. "Free, free!" he chuckled, "free at last!" Reaching the bank, he was about to enter when he met, coming out, a dark, straight-haired, beardless young man who promptly grasped his hand. It was Alan Delbridge. "Hello!" Delbridge said, with a laugh. "Glad to see you back. You look better. The wild woods have put new life in you. I knew you'd come as soon as the Mitchells got home." "It wasn't that," Mostyn said, lamely. "Oh, of course not," Delbridge laughed. "You were not at all curious to learn the particulars of the old chap's big deal--oh no, you are not that sort! A hundred or two thousand to the credit of a fellow's fiancee doesn't amount to anything with a plunger like you." Mostyn laid a hesitating hand on the shoulder of the other. "Say, Delbridge," he faltered, "this sort of thing has gone far enough. I am not engaged to the young lady in question, and--" "Oh, come off!" Delbridge's laugh was even more persistent. "Tell that to some one else. You see, I _know_. The old man confides in me--not in just so many words, you know, but he lets me understand. He says you and he are going to put some whopping big deals through, presumably after you take up your quarters under his vine and fig tree." Mostyn started to protest further, but with another laugh the financier was off. "Ten thousand dollars!" he thought, as he moved on. "He speaks of my business head; what would he think of the investment I have just made? He would call me a weakling. That is what I am. I have always been one. The woman doesn't live who could worry him for a minute. But it is ended now. I have had my lesson, and I sha'n't forget it." At his desk in his closed office a few minutes later he took a blank check, and, dipping his pen, he carefully filled it in. Mechanically he waved it back and forth in the warm air. Suddenly he started; a sort of shock went through him. How odd that he had not once, in all his excitement, thought of Dolly Drake! Was it possible that his imagination had tricked him into believing that he loved the girl and could make actual sacrifices for her? Why, already she was like a figment in some evanescent dream. What had wrought the change? Was it the sight of Delbridge and his mention of Mostyn's financial prowess? Was it the fellow's confident allusion to Mitchell and his daughter? Had the buzz and hum of business, the fever of conquest, already captured and killed the impulses which in the mountains had seemed so real, so permanent, so redemptive? "Dolly, dear, beautiful Dolly!" he said, but the whispered words dropped lifeless from his lips. "I have broken promises, but I shall keep those made to you. You are my turning-point. You are to be my wife. I have fancied myself in love often before and been mistaken, but the man does not live who could be untrue to a girl like you. You have made a man of me. I will be true--I will be honest with you. I swear it! I swear it!" CHAPTER XV A little later he and his sister were at luncheon in her dining-room. "I am losing patience with you, Dick," she said, as she poured his tea. "Is that anything new?" he ventured to jest, while wondering what might lay in the little woman's mind. "You are too strenuous," she smiled, as she dropped two lumps of sugar into his cup. "Entirely too much so. I saw from your face this morning that you are already undoing the effects of your vacation. The old glare is back in your eyes; your hands shake. I really must warn you. You know our father died from softening of the brain, which was brought on by financial worry. You are killing yourself, and for no reason in the world. Look at Alan Delbridge. He is the ideal man of affairs. Nothing disturbs him." "It is always Delbridge, Delbridge!" Mostyn said, testily. "Even _you_ can't keep from hurling him in my teeth. He is as cold-blooded as a fish. Why should I want to be like him?" "Well, take Jarvis Saunders, then," she returned. "What more success could a man want than he gets? I like to talk to him. He has a helpful philosophy of life. When he leaves his desk he is as happy and free as a boy out of school. I saw him pitching and catching ball in a vacant lot with one of your clerks the other day. Is it any wonder that so many mothers of unmarried daughters consider him a safe catch for their girls? I am not punning; he really is wonderful." "Oh, I know it," Mostyn answered, drinking his tea, impatiently. "I was not made like him. I am not to blame." Mrs. Moore eyed him silently for a moment, then a serious expression settled on her florid face. "Well," she ejaculated, "when are you going to make a real clean breast of it?" A shudder passed through him. She knew what had brought him home. Marie's hysterical protest had leaked out. The girl had talked to others besides Saunders. "What do you mean?" He asked the question quite aimlessly. He avoided her eyes. "I want to know about your latest love affair," she laughed, softly. "Just one line in your last letter meant more to me than all the rest of it put together. As soon as I heard you were staying at Drake's I began to expect it. So I was not surprised. You see, I saw her a year ago. Jarvis introduced us one day. He put himself out to do it. According to him, she was wonderful, a genius, and what not." "You mean Dolly?" Mostyn's tongue felt thick and inactive. "Yes, I mean _Dolly_." Mrs. Moore continued to laugh. "When I saw her she was young enough to play with a doll, though I believe she was reading some serious book. Well, she _is_ pretty--I can't dispute it--and Jarvis declares she is more than that. To do her full justice, she looked like a girl of strong character. I remember how the young thing stared through her long lashes at me that day. Yes, I knew she would turn your head. Dick, you are a man summer flirt. You are even more; you enjoy the distinction of actually believing, temporarily, at least, in every flirtation you indulge in. You have imagination, and it plays you terrible pranks. You wouldn't have been home so soon--you would even have been in your usual hot water over the girl--but for your obligation to Irene Mitchell." Mostyn tried to be resolute. He was conscious of his frailty of purpose, of his lack of sincerity when he spoke. "I am not obligated to Irene, and, what is more, Bess, I have positively made up my mind to marry the little girl you are speaking of." The woman's eyes flickered, her lips became more rigid. It was as if a certain pallor lay beneath her transparent skin and was forcing itself out. He heard her exhale a long breath. "To think that you could actually sit here and say as ridiculous a thing as that to me in a serious tone," she said, in an attempt at lightness. "Why, Dick, whatever your faults are, you are _not_ a fool." "I hope not," he said, weakly defiant. "I really care very much for the girl. You see, I knew her three years ago. You needn't oppose me, Bess; I have made up my mind." "You have done no such thing!" Mrs. Moore blurted out. "That is the pity of it--the absurdity of it. You haven't made up your mind--that is just exactly what you haven't done. You thought you had, I don't doubt, when you said good-by to her, but already you are full of doubt, and in a frightful stew. You show it in your face. You know and I know that you cannot carry that thing through. You are not that type of man. Jarvis Saunders could. If he ever marries, he will marry like that. It wouldn't surprise me to see him walk off any day with some stenographer, with nothing but a shirt-waist for a trousseau, but you--_you_--Oh, Lord! You are quite a different proposition." "You think you know me, Bess, but--" "I am the only person who _does_ know you," she broke in. "I have watched you since you were in the cradle. When you were ten you fell in love with a little girl and cried when she fell and bruised her nose. You have imagined yourself in love dozens of times, and have learned nothing from it. But we are losing time. Tell me one thing, and let's be done with it. Have you engaged yourself to this _new_ one?" "No, but--" "Thank God for the 'but,' and let it go at that," she laughed, more freely. "I understand why you didn't better than you do. You doubted your own feelings. You thought you would for once in your life think it over." "It was not that which held me back." "I know; it was Irene Mitchell, her fine prospects, and your natural good horse sense. Dick, you couldn't carry that silly dream through to save your life. You are not made that way. Suppose you really married that little country thing. What would you do with her? Well, I'll tell you. You would break her heart--that's what you'd do. You couldn't fit her into your life if you were deity itself and she were an archangel. She seemed perfect up there in her Maud Muller surroundings, but here in this mad town she would be afraid of you, and you would--ask her to keep her finger out of her mouth. Why, you would be the joke of every soul in Atlanta. Mr. Mitchell would despise you. You would lose his influence. In fact, my dear boy, you have gone too far with Irene Mitchell to turn back now. You may not be actually engaged to her, but she and everybody else consider it settled. For you to marry any one else now--to turn a woman like Irene down, after the way you have acted--would ruin you socially. The men would kick you out of your club. You'd never hold your head up afterward. Oh, I'm glad I got at you this morning. It would be a crime against that mountain child to bring her here on account of your--Dick, I have to speak plainly, more plainly than I ever did before. But it is for your good. Dick, passion is the greatest evil on earth. It has wrought more harm than anything else. Passion often fools the wisest of men. To be plain, you think, or thought, that you loved that pretty girl, but you do not and did not. It was simply passion in a new and more subtle dress. Up there, with plenty of time on your hands, you looked back on your life and became sick of it (for you have been wild and thoughtless--not worse than many others perhaps, but bad enough). You were disgusted and decided to make a fresh start. But what sort of start appealed to you? It wasn't to build a hospital with the better part of your capital. It wasn't really to undo any of the little things more or less wrong in your past. Oh no, it was something much more to your fancy. You decided to marry the youngest, most physically perfect girl you had ever found. You may have told yourself that you would lift her a bit socially, that you would aid her people, make her happy, and what not. But passion was at the bottom of it. Real love does not feed on ideal forms and perfect complexions. The man who marries beneath himself for only a pair of bright eyes is the prime fool of the universe--the whole world loves to sneer at him and watch his prize fade on his hands. Real love is above doubt and suspicion, but you would doubt that girl's honesty at the slightest provocation. Let another man be alone with her for a moment, and you--" The remainder fell on closed ears. He was thinking of the night he stood watching Dolly's window in the moonlight. How true were the words just uttered! Had he not suspected Dolly, even when she had been most courageous and self-sacrificing? How well his sister understood him! Just then the telephone bell rang. A maid-servant went to it and spoke in a low tone. Presently she came to the door and called her mistress. Mostyn sat limp, cold, undecided, miserable. "She is right," he whispered, finding himself alone. "She is right. My God, she is right! I am a fool, and yet--and yet--what _am_ I to do?" Mrs. Moore came in at the door, a significant smile playing between her eyes and lips. He was too despondent to be curious as to its cause. "Guess who had me on the 'phone?" she asked, sitting down in her chair. "How could I know?" he answered, too gloomy to fight his gloom. "Nobody but the most rational, well-rounded, stylish woman in Atlanta. It was my future sister-in-law, Irene Mitchell. She has had her little dream, too, and survived it. She thought she cared a lot for Andrew Buckton--or, rather, she liked to think that he was crazy about her, but he is penniless--has no more energy than a pet kitten, and, sensible girl that she is, she took her father's advice and sent him adrift. Everybody knows that affair is dead. He followed her away this summer, but came back with a long face, completely beaten. Dick, you are lucky." "What was she telephoning you about?" Mostyn asked, listlessly. "You." "Me?" "Yes; she asked for you." "And you didn't call me?" He was studying the designing face apathetically. "No, I fibbed out and out. I told her you were not here yet, but that I expected you to lunch every minute. Then, as sweetly as you please, I offered to deliver the message. It was as I thought, an invitation to dinner to-night. I knew you were in no shape to talk into a 'phone--the service is so bad lately--so I accepted for you, like the good sister I am." He found himself unable to reply. Suddenly she rose, bent over him, and kissed him on the brow. "Silly, silly boy!" she said, and left the room. CHAPTER XVI That evening at dusk, when Mostyn reached Mitchell's house, he found the old gentleman smoking on the veranda. "I looked for you earlier," he said, turning his cigar between his lips and smiling cordially as he extended his hand. "You used to be more prompt than this. We won't stand formality from you, young man." "I had a lot of work to do," Mostyn said. "Saunders let it pile up on me while I was away." "I see." Mitchell stroked his gray beard. "He is getting to be a great lover of nature, isn't he? I went in to see him about something the other day, and I could hardly get his attention. He has just bought a new microscope and wanted to show me how it worked. He had put a drop of stagnant water on a glass slide and declared he could see all sorts of sharks, whales, and sea-serpents in it. I tried, but I couldn't see anything. There are plenty of _big_ affairs for fellows like you and me to choke and throttle without hunting for things too small for the naked eye." A flash of light from behind fell upon them. A maid was lighting the gas in the drawing-room. Mostyn saw the cut-glass pendants of the crystal chandelier blaze in prismatic splendor. His mind was far from the lined countenance before him. He was heavy with indecision. His sister's confident derision clung to him like a menace from some infinite source. "A man never marries his ideal." He remembered the words spoken by a college-mate who was contemplating marriage. Mostyn shuddered even as he smiled. It was doubtlessly true, and yet he had gone too far with Dolly to desert her now. He couldn't bear to have her know him for the weakling that he was. The next moment even Dolly was snatched from his reflections, sharp irritation and anger taking her place, for Mitchell was speaking of Delbridge and his recent good fortune. "You two are a wonderful pair to live in the same town," Mitchell chuckled. "I have been in his office several times since we got home. Not having you to loaf with, I turned to him for pastime. He certainly is a cool hand in a deal. He doesn't get excited in a crisis, as you do, and when he wins big stakes he hardly seems to notice it. Ten minutes after he got the wire on his good luck the other day he could talk of nothing better than a new golf-course he is planning." "He is nothing more nor less than a gambler," Mostyn said, with irritation. "He is on top now, but he may drop like a load of bricks any minute. Who can tell?" "Oh, _you_ needn't be jealous of him," Mitchell began, blandly. "He can't crow over _you_." "Jealous of him!" Mostyn smirked. "I am not jealous of any one, much less Delbridge." "Of course not, of course not," and the old man laid a caressing hand on Mostyn's shoulder. "You don't play second fiddle to any man in Georgia in _my_ opinion. I know your ability well enough. If I didn't I wouldn't trust you as I do. Lord, I've told you everything. We are going to work together, my boy; I have some big plans. Of course, Saunders told you of my land deal?" "Yes, that was fine," Mostyn said. "A big thing." "I owe it all to you, and wanted to ask your advice before closing out"--Mitchell glowed with contentment--"but as you were not here, I went it alone. The parties seemed to be in a hurry, and I was afraid they might accidentally change their minds, so I took them up." Throwing his cigar into the grass, Mitchell led the way into the drawing-room. His hand was now on Mostyn's arm. In the hall they met Jincy, the maid. "Tell my daughter to order dinner," he said, curtly, "and ask her to come down." The two men stood near the big screened fireplace and plain white marble mantelpiece. There was a rustling sound on the stair in the hall, and Irene came in. She was beautifully attired in a gown Mostyn had not yet seen. It was most becoming. How strange! There seemed, somehow, to-night more about her to admire than on any former occasion. Was it due to his return to his proper social plane? Was the other life sheer delusion? What exquisite poise! What easy, erect grace! Her whole being was stamped with luxurious self-confidence. How soft was the feel of her delicate fingers as they touched his! Why had he clasped them so warmly? How charming the gentle and seductive glance of her eyes! He caught himself staring at her in a sort of reluctant pride of personal ownership. He thought of Dolly Drake, and a glaring contrast rose darkly before him. He fancied himself confessing his intentions to Irene and shuddering under her incredulous stare. How could he explain? And yet, of course, she must be told--her father must be told. All his friends must know. And talk--how they would chatter and--laugh! "You certainly look improved," Irene cried, as she surveyed him admiringly. "You are quite tanned. Fishing or hunting every day, I suppose." "Nearly," he answered. "Cousin Kitty Langley is here to spend the night," Irene went on. "But I can't persuade her to come down to dinner. She is not hungry and is buried in a novel. She was at a tea this afternoon and ate too many sandwiches." "Humph!" Mitchell sniffed, playfully. "You know that wasn't it. She asked Jincy to bring something up to her. She told me she simply would not break in on you two this first evening." "Father is getting to be a great tease, Dick," Irene smiled. "The money he has made lately has fairly turned his head. Please don't notice him." The colored butler had come to the door, and stood waiting silently to catch her eye. Seeing him, she asked: "Is everything ready, Jasper?" He bowed. He looked the ideal servant in his dark-blue suit, high collar, and stiff white waistcoat. A wave of revulsion passed over Mostyn. He was thinking of the crude dining-room in the mountains; Drake, without his coat, his hair unkempt; Mrs. Drake in her soiled print dress and fire-flushed face, nervously waving the peacock fly-brush over the coarse dishes; Ann and George, as presentable as Dolly could make them, prodding and kicking each other beneath the table when they thought themselves unobserved; John Webb, with his splotched face in his plate; and Dolly--the sweetest, prettiest, bravest, most patient little woman Time had ever produced, and yet, what had that to do with the grim demands of social life? Was his sister right? Was his interest in the girl grounded only in a subtle form of restrained passion? Would he tire of her; would he be ashamed of her, here amid these surroundings? In fancy he saw Mitchell staring contemptuously at the little interloper. After all, had any man the right to inflict an ordeal of that sort upon an unsuspecting child? Plainly, no; and there would be no alternative but for him to renounce city life and live with her in the mountains. But could he possibly do such a thing? Had he the requisite moral strength for a procedure so foreign from his nature? Was his desire for reformation as strong as he had once thought it? Perhaps his release from Marie Winship's threatening toils had something to do with his present relapse from good intentions. He remembered how he had been stirred by the impassioned words of the mystic tramp preacher. How clear the way had seemed at that sunlit moment; how intricate and difficult now! Mitchell led the way out to dinner, Irene's calm hand on the arm of the guest. What a superb figure she made at the head of the splendid table under the pink lights of the candle-shades! How gracefully she ordered this away, and that brought, even while she laughed and chatted so delightfully. And she--_she_--that superb woman of birth, manners, and position--could be had for the asking. Not only that, but the whole horrible indecision which lay on him like a nightmare could in that way be brushed aside. He felt the blood of shame rush to his face, but it ran back to its source in a moment. Dolly would soon forget him. She would marry some mountaineer, perhaps the teacher, Warren Wilks, and in that case the man would take her into his arms, and--No, Mostyn's blood boiled and beat in his brain with the sudden passionate fury of a primitive man; that would be unbearable. She had said she had kissed no other man and never would. Yes, she was his; her whole wonderful, warm, throbbing being was his; and yet--and yet how could it be? "You seem preoccupied." Irene smiled on him. "Are you already worried over business?" "I'm afraid I always have more or less to bother me," he answered, evasively. "Then, too, a hot, dusty bank is rather depressing after pure open mountain air." "I had exactly that feeling when we returned," she smiled. "We certainly had a glorious time. We had quite an Atlanta group with us, you know, and we kept together. The others said we were clannish and stuck-up, but we didn't care. We played all sorts of pranks after father went to bed." "You would have thought so if you had heard them, Dick," the old man said, dryly. "They stayed up till three one morning and raised such a row that the other guests of the hotel threatened to call in the police." "It was the greatest lark I ever was in," Irene declared, with a hearty laugh. "That night Cousin Kitty put on a suit of Andy Buckton's clothes. In the dark we all took her for a boy. She was the most comical thing you ever saw. I laughed till I was sick." Dinner over, they went out to the veranda. The lawn stretched green and luscious down to the white pavement under the swinging arc light over the street. Mitchell left them seated in a hammock and sauntered down to the side fence, where he stood talking to a neighbor who was sprinkling his lawn with a hose and nozzle. At eleven o'clock Irene went up to her cousin, finding the young lady still reading her novel under the green shade of a drop-light. Miss Langley was a good-looking girl, slender, small of limb, active in movement, and a blonde. "Well," she said, closing her book and looking up, sleepily, "I wanted to see what is coming to this pair of sweethearts, but they can wait. I am anxious to know what is going on in real life. I am tired of the poky way you and Dick Mostyn are courting. I want to be a swell bridesmaid, I do." "Oh, you do?" Irene sat down in an easy-chair, and, locking her hands behind her head, she leaned back and sighed. "Yes, I do. You were sure he would propose to-night. Well, did he--did he? That is what I want to know." "Oh yes, it is settled." Irene transferred her linked hands to her knee, and leaned forward. "Kitty, I may be making a big mistake, but the die is cast. There was nothing else to do. You know how silly father is. You know, too, that poor Andy was out of the question." "Yes, he was," Miss Langley agreed. "From every possible point of view. He adores you--he will no doubt suffer some, but you could not have married him." "No, it wouldn't have done," Irene sighed, deeply. "I'm afraid I'll never feel right about it, but the poor boy understands. The way father bore with him and snubbed him on that trip was humiliating." "So Dick declared himself?" Miss Langley smiled. "I wonder how he led up to it--he is a blooming mystery to me." Irene tittered. "The truth is, I helped him out. Do you know, he is more sensitive than most persons think, and that side of him was uppermost to-night. I really felt sorry for him. He spoke frankly of having serious faults and being heartily ashamed of his past life. I think I know what he was hinting at. You know we have both heard certain reports." "Not any more of him than any other man we know," Kitty said, with a shrug. "Andy Buckton, with his Presbyterian bringing-up, may be an exception, but he is about the only one in our crowd. They are all bad, I tell you, and a woman may as well make up her mind to it and hope marriage will cure the brute." "I liked the way Dick talked to-night very, very much," Irene resumed, reflectively. "He declared he was unworthy of me. Do you know he is sensitive over a certain thing, and I admire it in him." "What is that?" the other asked. "Why, out on the steps to-night, after father had gone in, Dick seemed very much depressed. He was worried about something, and I determined to discover what it was. What do you think? The silly fellow was really upset by the money father has recently made; he never has liked the idea of marrying an heiress, and, you see, I am more of one now than I was a month ago." "Somehow, I don't read him that way," Miss Langley mused, "but I may be wrong. So it is really settled?" "Yes, it is settled. It was the common-sense thing to do. I am going to put Andy out of my mind. Poor boy! he is lovely, isn't he? What do you think he will do about it, Kitty?" "Mope around like a sick cat for a month," the girl answered; "then he will marry some one else, and wonder what on earth he ever saw in you to be daft about." "I don't believe it," Irene said, firmly. "Kitty, that boy will never marry; he will never love any other woman. If I thought he would--" Irene hesitated, a deepening stare in her eyes. "You'd not marry Dick--Poof! Wouldn't you be a pretty idiot? If you read as many novels as I do you'd know that sentimental, puppy love is a delusion and a snare. Let it alone. You and Dick Mostyn are doing the only rational thing. You will be an ideal couple. Gosh, I wish I had some of the money you will have!" CHAPTER XVII One morning a few days later Mostyn entered the bank and went directly to his office. He had been seated at his desk only a moment when Wright, the cashier, came in smiling suavely. There was a conscious flush on his face which extended into his bald pate, and his eyes were gleaming. "I want to congratulate you," he said. "We've all been reading the account in the paper this morning. Of course, we've suspected it for some time, but didn't want to talk about it till it was announced." "I haven't seen the article," Mostyn answered, in a tone of curbed irritation. "It was written by some woman society reporter. Miss Langley told me to look out for it. I think she furnished the information." "Very likely," Wright answered. "Women like nothing better than a wedding in high life." "Has Saunders come down yet?" the banker inquired. "Yes, he is at his desk. He just got back from his farm this morning." "Please tell him"--Mostyn deliberated--"tell him when he is fully at liberty that I'd like to see him." A moment later Saunders opened the door and came in. A grave look was on his face, and he failed to respond to Mostyn's "Good morning." He paused, and stood leaning on the top of the desk, his glance averted. "Wright says you wish to see me," he began. "Yes, sit down; pull that chair up." Saunders complied, his eyes on the floor. "I suppose you've seen the morning paper?" Mostyn asked. "You mean the--announcement of your--" "Yes, of course." "I saw the head-lines. I didn't read it through." Silence crept between the two men. Mostyn touched a paper-weight with his slender, bloodless fingers, drew it toward him aimlessly, and then pushed it back. "There is a matter," he began, awkwardly, "which I want to speak to you about. It is due you to know why I drew out that ten thousand dollars. It went to Marie Winship. If you are not satisfied with the collateral I can put up something else." "It is all right." Saunders dropped the words frigidly. "I knew it was for her. The truth is, I supposed that little less would quiet her." "You, no doubt, consider me the champion idiot of the world." Mostyn essayed a smile, but it was a lifeless thing at best, and left his face more grimly masked than before. "However, it is all over now. She is satisfied, and agrees to quit hounding me from now on." Saunders snapped his fingers impulsively, tossed his head, started to speak, but remained silent. "Why did you--do that?" Mostyn demanded, yielding to irritation against his will. "Oh, there is no use going into it," Saunders said, sharply, "but if you think ten thousand dollars will stop a creature of that stamp, your long experience with such women has not taught you much. She will dog you to the end of her days." "I don't think so, Jarvis." Mostyn seldom used Saunders's Christian name, and it came out now in a tone of all but insistent conciliation. "By giving her the money just now I rendered her a peculiar service. She wanted it to save her brother from arrest and disgrace." "And you think that will silence her permanently? Well, it won't. You will hear from her again, if I am any sort of judge." "You take a gloomy view of it," Mostyn protested. "In fact, I don't exactly know how to make you out to-day. You seem different. Surely you don't oppose my--my marriage?" "Not in the slightest. I have scarcely thought of it." "Well, then, what is the matter?" The sudden set silence after such a demand showed plainly that the question was well-timed. Mostyn repeated it less urgently, but he repeated it. "I have just got back from my plantation"--Saunders glanced at the closed door furtively--"and while I was there I heard some slight gossip about your attentions to my little friend Dolly Drake. You know mountain people, Mostyn, usually make as much as possible of such things. The truth is, some have gone so far as to say that you and _she_ were likely to marry." Mostyn's tanned skin faintly glowed. "They have no--no right to go so far as that," he stammered. "I was with her a good deal, for, as you know, she is very entertaining." "No one knows it better," Saunders said, firmly. "She is the most courageous, beautiful, and brilliant creature I have ever met. More than that, she has long been the most wronged. She has her whole family, including her moonshining father, on her frail shoulders. It is because of these things that I am tempted to speak plainly about a certain--" "Go on." Mostyn swallowed anxiously, for his partner had paused. "I have no personal right to inquire into your conduct," Saunders continued, "but a certain thing has filled me with fear--fear for that poor child's happiness. I met her yesterday near her school, and the awful look in her face haunted me through the night. She had nothing to say, no questions to ask, but the dumb look of despair in her eyes could not be misread. I have known you a long time, Mostyn, and I can't remember your failing to make love to every pretty woman you have been thrown with. I hope I am mistaken this time--with all my soul, I do." Mostyn turned in his revolving chair. He tried to meet the cold stare of his partner steadily. "Jarvis, I am in the deepest trouble that I ever faced." "So it is true!" burst from Saunders's lips. "My God, it is true!" "But don't misunderstand me." Mostyn laid an eager hand on the knee close to his own. "My reputation is so bad in your eyes that I must assure you that--that she is as pure as--" "Stop!" Saunders shook the hand from his knee as if it were a coiled reptile. "You insult her even by mentioning such a thing. The man does not live who could tarnish her name. I have watched her since she was a little child. I know her as well as if she were my sister, and I respect her as much." Mostyn was fiery red. "I will justify myself as far as possible," he blurted out, desperately. "You may not believe it, but as God is my Judge, I intended, when I left her, to rid myself of Marie Winship and go back and ask her to be my wife." "I can well believe it, even of you"--Saunders breathed hard--"and I know what happened. You were not proof against other influences." "That is it," Mostyn fairly groaned. "I am as weak as water. I have wronged that noble girl, but it really was not intentional. Knowing her has been the one solely uplifting influence of my life. While I was there I was sure I could be--be worthy of her, but now I know that I am not." "No, you are not!" Saunders cried. "You are not. The man does not live who is worthy of her. And you--_you_, with your past and that foul stench upon you, actually thought of mating with the purest--ugh! My God!" Mostyn blinked; there was no trace of resentment in his manner, only cringing humiliation. "What am I to do?" he faltered, helplessly. "Do? Nothing! There is nothing you can do now. She will read the papers and know what to expect. It was not you she was in love with, anyway, Mostyn, but an ideal of her own in regard to you. I don't know her well enough to know how she will take it. She has had troubles all her life; this may crown them all; it may drag her down--break her fine spirit--_kill_ her. Who knows? You've made a great many successful deals, Mostyn, but this one recently closed for money, as a main consideration, was deliberately advised by the fiends of hell. You have sold your birthright, and if you succeed in your investment it will be because there is no God in the universe. Mark my prediction, the marriage you are making cannot possibly result in happiness--it cannot, because you'll never be able to wipe this other thing from your soul." Mostyn shrank into his chair. "I wouldn't take this from any one else, Jarvis," he said, almost in a piteous whine. "You have got me down. I'm in no shape for any sort of resentment." "You got yourself where you are," Saunders ran on, fiercely. "If I am indignant, I can't help it. I would give my right arm to help that poor child, and this powerlessness to act when her suffering is so great drives me to absolute frankness." "What is the use to talk more of it?" Mostyn said, desperately. "We are getting nowhere." "There is something else, and I must speak of it," Saunders said, more calmly. "I happen to know the character of Dolly's father perhaps better than you do, and I must tell you, Mostyn, that he is the most dangerous man I ever met. It is my duty to put you on your guard. There is bound to be more or less talk up there, for there are a great many meddlers, and Tom Drake is more than apt to hear of this thing. If he does, Mostyn, an army couldn't stop him. When he is wrought up he is insane. He will come down here and try to kill you. I am going back up there to-day, and if I can possibly prevent trouble I shall do it." Mostyn had turned deathly pale. "Surely he would not compromise his daughter by such a--a step as that," he stammered. "Few other men would, but Tom Drake is not like other men. I have seen him fairly froth at the mouth in a fight with three men as big as he was." Mostyn's lips moved, but no sound issued. Without another word Saunders turned and walked away. "Great God!" Mostyn whispered in agony, "what _am_ I?" CHAPTER XVIII That afternoon, Miss Sally-Lou Wartrace, sister of the keeper of the store at the cross-roads, was at her brother's counter eagerly reading an Atlanta paper while he stood looking over her shoulder. She had passed well into spinsterhood, as was shown by the inward sinking of her cheeks, the downward tendency of the lines about her mouth, the traces of gray in her brown hair, and a general thinness and stiffness of frame. "Well, well, well!" she chuckled, her small, bead-like eyes flashing up into her brother's face. "So all this time their high and mighty boarder was engaged to be married. Did you ever in all your life hear of bigger fools? Mrs. Drake has been so stuck up lately she'd hardly nod to common folks in the road. She never come right out and said so, but she actually thought he was settin' up to Dolly. Old Tom did, too." "Yes, I think Tom was countin' on it purty strong," Wartrace said, smiling. "I've heard him brag about Mostyn's money and big interests many a time. He knowed his gal was purty an' smart, an' he didn't see no reason why Mostyn shouldn't want her, especially as he was about with her so much." "That is _it,_" the old maid answered; "Mostyn never lost a chance to tag on to her. Dolph, mark my words, thar's goin' to be no end o' talk. Why, didn't Ann just as good as tell me t'other day, on her way home from school, that she was goin' to a fine finishin'-school in Atlanta? You know Tom couldn't send 'er. Besides, when I spoke--as I acknowledge I did--about Dolly an' Mostyn, Ann grinned powerful knowin'-like an' never denied a thing. Even Ann's got a proud tilt to 'er, an' struts along like a young peacock. This here article will explode like a busted gun amongst 'em an' bring the whole bunch down a peg or two. Do you reckon they've got their paper yet?" "Not yet," Wartrace answered. "The carrier has to go clean round by Spriggs's at the foot of the mountain 'fore he gits thar. He generally hits Tom's place about an hour by sun." Miss Sally-Lou folded the paper and thrust it into the big pocket of her print skirt. "I am goin' over thar, Dolph," she said, with a rising smile. "I wouldn't miss it for a purty." "You'd better keep out of it," the storekeeper mildly protested. "You know you have been mixed up in several fusses." "I don't expect to have a thing to do with this un," was the eager reply. "But I would just like to see if they really are countin' on a man of that sort tyin' himself on to a lay-out of their stripe. Nobody in the valley believed Mr. Mostyn had any such intention. He was just killin' time an' amusin' hisse'f." Leaving the store, Miss Sally-Lou strode briskly along the hot, dusty road toward Drake's. Every now and then a low giggle would escape her lips, and she would put her thin, gnarled fingers to her mouth as if to hide her smile from some observer. "John Webb wasn't tuck in by it, I'll bet," she mused. "He ain't nobody's fool. John's got a long, cool head on 'im, he has. He kin see through a mill-rock without lookin' in at the hole." She found John near the front fence, lazily inspecting a row of beehives on a weather-beaten bench. "Think they are goin' to swarm?" Miss Sally-Lou inquired, in her most seductive tone, as she unlatched the gate and entered. "Wouldn't be a bit surprised," the bachelor returned, as he automatically touched his slouch hat. "It is time. We had fresh honey last year long 'fore this." "Has Dolly got home from school?" was the next question. "Yes'm," Webb answered. "She come in a minute ago. She may be lyin' down. She ain't as well as common; she looks sorter peaked; I told 'er she'd better take a tonic o' some sort. She's stickin' too close over them books; she needs exercise, an' plenty of it." "I hate to bother her if she ain't up an' about"--Miss Wartrace had the air of a maiden lady who had as soon chat with a bachelor as feast upon any sort of gossip--"but I'm makin' me a new lawn waist, Mr. John, an' I want to ask Dolly if she'd put big or little buttons on. She has such good taste an' knows what the style is." "By all means git the _right_ sort, Miss Sally-Lou," Webb jested. "If they are as big as mule-shoes, or as little as gnats' eyes, stick 'em on." "You are a great tease," the spinster smirked. "You always have some joke agin us poor women. You make a lot of fun, but you like to see us look our best, I'll bound you." John's freckled face bore vague evidence of denial, but he said nothing. He moved toward the farthest hive and bent down as if to inspect the tiny entrance. "Well, I'll run in a minute," she said. "Watch out an' don't git stung." "If I do it will be by a _bee_," said the philosopher to himself, "an' not by no woman o' _that_ stripe. Lord, folks advise me to set up to that critter! She'd talk a deef man to death. He'd kill hisse'f makin' signs to 'er to stop." The visitor ascended the steps, crossed the porch, and, without rapping at the door, entered the sitting-room where she found Dolly, Ann, and her mother together. Mrs. Drake was patching a sheet at the window; Ann, sulky and obstinate, was trying to do an example on a slate; and Dolly stood over her, a dark, wearied expression on her face. "Hello, folkses!" Miss Sally-Lou greeted them, playfully. "How do y-all come on?" When she had taken a chair she mentioned the waist she was making, and as Dolly gave her opinion in regard to the buttons she eyed the girl studiously. She remarked the dark rings around the beautiful eyes, the nervous, almost quavering voice. "She hain't heard yet," the caller decided. "But she may suspicion something is wrong. Maybe he hain't writ to her since he went back--the scamp! He ought to be licked good an' strong." "What are you fixing up so for, Miss Sally-Lou?" Ann wanted to know, a bubble of amusement in her young eyes and voice. "Are you going to get married?" "Listen to her," Miss Wartrace tittered, quite unobservant of Ann's sarcasm. "The idea of a child of that age constantly thinking of marrying." At this juncture John Webb came in and approached his sister. He had not removed his hat, but, catching Dolly's reproving glance, he snatched it off and stood whipping his thigh with it. "You wanted to know about them bees," he said. "They don't intend to swarm to-day, so you needn't bother any longer about it." "I was just laughin' at Ann, Mr. John." Miss Sally-Lou raised her voice tentatively, that she might rivet his attention. "Young as she is, I never see 'er without havin' 'er ax some question or other about me or somebody else marryin'." "It's jest the woman croppin' out in 'er," Webb drawled, with unconscious humor. "Looks like marryin' is a woman's aim the same as keepin' out of it ought to be a man's." "You needn't judge others by yourself," was the unoffended retort. "Plenty of men know the value of a good wife, if you don't." Mrs. Drake seemed not to have heard these give-and-take platitudes. She raised her sheet to the level of her eyes and creased the hem of it with her needle-pricked fingers. "What sort o' cloth are you goin' to use in your waist?" she asked. "White lawn," said Sally-Lou. "I got a rale good grade in a remnant in town yesterday at a bargain. It was a little dirty at the edges, but I'm goin' to trim them off." "I'd make it plain, if I was you," Mrs. Drake advised. "At your age an' mine it doesn't look well to fix up fancy." "Humph! I don't know as you an' me are so nigh the same--" The final word was caught up by an impulsive snicker, which Webb muffled under his hat. "Oh, I don't mean to say that I am not _some_ older," Mrs. Drake floundered. "Bein' as you are unmarried, it wouldn't be polite for me with as old children as I got to--" "Oh, I'm not mad about it!" Miss Sally-Lou declared, hastily. "I know I'm not as young as Dolly an' her crowd o' girls." The spinster now frowned resentfully. Nothing could have angered her more than such an allusion made in the presence of the amused bachelor. She nursed her fury in silence for a moment, only to become more set in the grim purpose of her present visit. "Huh, wait till I git through with 'em!" she thought; then, as if merely to change a disagreeable subject for a happier one, she turned directly to Dolly. "What do you hear from Mr. Mostyn?" she asked, in quite a tone of indifference. There was marked hesitation on the part of Dolly, but Ann was more prompt. Her slate and pencil rattled as she dropped them in her lap. "He hasn't written a word," she said, staring eagerly, as if the visitor might help solve a problem which had absorbed her far more than the example on which she was now working. "You don't say!" Miss Sally-Lou's eyes fired straight gleams at Dolly, as if Dolly herself had made the astounding revelation. "Why, I thought you an' him was powerful thick. Well, well, I reckon he told you all thar was to tell before he left. Young men usually are proud o' things like that, an' can't hold 'em in. Well, I hope he will be happy. I don't wish him no harm if he _is_ high up in the world an' rich. I know I was awfully surprised when I read it in to-day's paper." She thrust a steady hand into her pocket, pushing her right foot well forward to give the rustling sheet better egress. There was silence in the room. Webb glanced at his sister and at Ann. No one, save the tormentor, noticed Dolly, who, pale as death, a groping in her eyes, and lips parted, stood behind her sister's chair. "Is there something in the paper about him?" Ann cried, eagerly. "Oh yes, nearly a column on the society page," was the studied reply. "The cat's out o' the bag. He's goin' to get married." "Oh, Dolly!" Ann clapped her hands and leaned eagerly toward her ghastly sister. "Do you reckon he went and told it? I know; he just couldn't keep it--he is so much in love. Oh, Dolly, tell 'em about it. Here you are keeping it so close, while he is sticking it into a paper for everybody to read. I never could see any reason for you to be so awful secret, anyway. It has been all I could do to--" "What's the child talkin' about?" The caller's eyes gleamed in guarded delight as she unfolded the paper and spread it out on her knee. "Accordin' to _this_ account, he is marryin' the richest an' most popular woman in the State. I reckon everybody that reads society news has heard about Irene Mitchell." "Irene Mitchell!" Ann gasped, rising in her chair, her slate and pencil sliding to the floor. "That isn't so. It isn't so, is it, Dolly? Why, what ails--" The half-scream was not finished. Dolly was reeling as if about to fall, her little hands pressed helplessly to her face. John Webb sprang quickly to her side. He threw his arm about her. "Dry up all that!" he yelled, furiously. "Dry up, I say! She's sick." Feeling his support, Dolly revived a little, and he led her out into the hall and saw her go slowly up the stairs to her room. As for Mrs. Drake and Ann, they had pounced on the paper and had it spread out before their wide-open eyes. Sally-Lou was now on her feet. She had gone to the door, seen Dolly's wilting form disappear at the head of the stairs, and was now breathlessly feasting on the bewildered chagrin of the stunned mother and daughter. Ann finished reading sooner than her mother. Pale and indignant, she turned to the caller. She had opened her mouth when John Webb promptly covered it with his red paw. "Come out o' here!" he ordered, sharply. "You go up-stairs an' 'tend to Dolly. She ain't well. She's been ailin' off an' on for a week. You school-children have deviled the life out of the poor thing. What are you all talkin' about, anyway? Mostyn told me an' Dolly all about him an' that woman. We knowed all along that he was goin' to git married, but it was a sort o' secret betwixt us three." Astounded, and warningly pinched on the arm, Ann, with a lingering backward look, left the room and reluctantly climbed the stairs. "You'll have to excuse me, Miss Sally-Lou, here's your paper," Mrs. Drake was slowly recovering discretion. "I'll have to see about Dolly. John's right, she ain't well--she ain't--oh, my Lord, I don't know what to make of it!" "I see she _is_ sort o' upset," Miss Sally-Lou said, "an I don't wonder. I oughtn't to have sprung it so sudden-like. I'll tell you all good day. I'll have to run along. If thar's anything I kin do for Dolly just let me know. I'm a good hand about a sick-bed, an' I know how to give medicine. If Dolly gets worse, send word to me, an' I'll step right over. This may go hard with her. You know I think that idle scamp might 'a' had better to do than--" But Mrs. Drake, obeying her brother's imperative nod, was moving toward the stairs. Sally-Lou and Webb were left together. Her glance fell before the fiercest glare she had ever seen shoot from a masculine eye, and yet Webb's freckled face was valiantly digging up a smile. "I see what _you_ thought," he laughed. "You went an' thought Dolly was in love with that town dude. Shucks, she seed through 'im from the fust throw out o' the box. She liked to chat with 'im now an' then, but la, me! if you women are so dead bent on splicin' folks why don't you keep your eyes open? Listen to me, an' see if I ain't right. You watch an' see if Dolly an' Warren Wilks--" "Pshaw!" Miss Sally-Lou sniffed. "Dolly will never give Warren a second thought--not _now,_ nohow. She's got 'er sights up, an' she'll never lower 'em ag'in." Webb, almost outwitted, stood on the edge of the porch and watched the spinster trip down the walk. She glanced over her shoulder coquettishly. "You are losin' all your gal_lant_ ways, Mr. John," she simpered. "You don't even open the gate for visitin' ladies here lately." "I greased that latch t'other day," he answered, laconically. "It works as easy as the trigger of a mouse-trap. I don't know as I ever was a woman's jumpin'rjack. I ain't one o' the fellers that fan flies off'n 'em at meetin'. If they draw flies an' gnats that's the'r lookout, not mine." CHAPTER XIX Alone in her room, Dolly stood at a window, her distraught eyes on the placid fields lying between the house and the mountains. She was still pale. The tips of her fingers clung to the narrow mullions as if for support. She seemed scarcely to breathe. Her beautiful lips were drawn tight; her shapely chin had a piteous quiver. "Oh, that was it!" she moaned. "I understand it now. He was engaged to her all the time, but wouldn't tell me. He got tired of us here and went back to her. I'll never see him again--never, never, never!" The bed, with its snowy coverlet and great downy pillows, invited her. She was about to throw herself upon it, but her pride, pierced to the quick, rebelled. "I sha'n't cry!" she said. "He is marrying for her money. I sha'n't weep over it. He lied to me--to _me!_ He said something was wrong with his business and when that was settled he would write. He was just trifling, passing time away this summer as he did three years ago, and I--I--silly little gump--actually kissed him. I trusted him as I trust--as I _trusted_ God. I even confided father's secret to him. I loved him with my whole soul, and all the time he was comparing me to her." Far across the sunlit meadows on the gradual slope of a rise she saw her father and George cutting and raking hay. How odd it seemed for them to be so calmly working toward the future feeding of mere horses and cattle when to her life itself seemed killed to its germ. There was a step on the stairs. The door was thrown open, and her sister rushed in. "Oh, Dolly!" Ann cried, her begrimed fingers clutching at Dolly's arm, "what does it mean? Is it so? Do you think he really is going to--" "Oh, go away, go away, _please_ go away!" the older pleaded. "Don't talk to me now--not now!" "But I want to know--I _must_ know!" Ann ran on, hysterically, her young, piping voice rising higher and higher. "I can't stand it, Dolly. Ever since you told me about you and him I have thought about Atlanta and your beautiful home down there and the things I was going to do. Oh, I thought--I thought it was actually settled, but if--if the paper tells the truth--Why don't you talk? What has got into you all at once? Surely--surely he wouldn't--surely you wouldn't have gone out to meet him as late at night as you did and let him--you know, sister, I saw him holding you tight and--" Dolly turned like an automaton suddenly animated. She laid her hands on her sister's shoulders and bore down fiercely. She shook her so violently from side to side that Ann's plaited hair swung like a rope in a storm. "Don't tell that to a soul!" Dolly panted. "You must not--don't _dare_ to! You promised you wouldn't. Sometime I will explain, but not now--not now. I'm losing my mind. Go away and leave me." "I really believe you think the paper is telling the truth," Ann moaned. "You _must_ think so, or you wouldn't look this way and beg me not to tell. Oh, I can't stand it!" For a breathless moment Ann stood staring at her dumb-lipped sister, and then, tottering to the bed, she threw herself upon it, burying her face in a pillow. Sob after sob escaped her, but Dolly paid no heed. Her lifeless stare on the mountain view, she stood like a creature entranced. The sun went down. Like a bleeding ball it hung over the mountain's crest, throwing red rays into the valley. A slow step was heard on the stair, the sliding of a dry hand on the balustrade. Mrs. Drake opened the door and advanced to Dolly. "You mustn't take on this way," she began. "I want you to be sensible and strong. Thar is plenty of fish in the sea. I sort o' thought Mr. Mostyn was talking too much to you for it to be exactly right, but you always had such a level head--more level than I ever had--that I thought you could take care of yourself." "Mother, please leave me alone for to-day, anyway," Dolly pleaded. "I--I'm not a fool. Take Ann down-stairs. I--I can't stand that noise. It makes me desperate. I hardly know what to do or say." "I just asked her to tell me the truth." Ann sat up, holding her pillow in her lap as for comfort, her eyes red with rubbing. "But she won't say a word, when all this time I've been counting on--" "Well, I'm going down and see about supper," Dolly said, desperately. "Father and George have stopped work and they will be hungry." Her mother tried to detain her, but she went straight down the stairs. Mrs. Drake crept stealthily to the door, peered after her daughter, and then, heaving a sigh, she stood before the girl on the bed. "Now," she said, grimly, "out with it! Tell me all you know about this thing--every single thing!" "But, mother"--Ann's eyes fell--"I promised-" "It don't make no difference what you promised," Mrs. Drake blurted out. "This ain't no time for secrets under this roof. I want the facts. If you don't tell me I'll get your pa to whip you." Half an hour later, as Tom Drake trudged across the old wheat-field back of the barn, his scythe on his shoulder, he met his wife at the outer fence of the cow-lot. There she stood as still and silent as a detached post. "Whar's your bucket?" he asked, thinking she had come to milk the cow, which was one of her evening duties. "I'm goin' to let it go over to-night," she faltered. Then she laid a stiff hand on her husband's sweat-damp sleeve. "Tom Drake," she gulped, "I'm afraid me an' you are facin' the greatest trouble we've ever had." "What's wrong now?" he asked, swift visions of moonshine stills, armed officers, and grim court officials flashing before him. Haltingly she explained the situation. He bore it stolidly till, in a rasping whisper, she concluded with the information forced from Ann. She told him of the low whistle in the moonlight at their daughter's window, of Dolly's cautious exit from the house, of the tender embrace on the lawn. Drake turned his tortured face away. She expected a storm of fury, but no words came from his ghastly lips. "Now, Tom," she half wailed, "you _must_ be sensible. This is a family secret. For once in your life you've got to keep your temper till we can see our way clear. After all, goin' out that way to meet 'im don't actually prove that our girl is bad; you know it don't. Young folks these days--" "Don't tell _me_ what it meant!" He bent fiercely toward her. "I know. I've heard a lot about that whelp's sly conduct. No bigger blackguard ever laid a trap for a helpless girl. Oh no, I won't do nothin'. I wouldn't touch 'im. When I meet 'im I'll take off my hat an' bow low an' hope his lordship is well. I'm just a mountain dirt-eater, I am. Nobody ever heard of a Drake killin' snakes. A Drake will let one coil itse'f round his baby an' not take it off. We are jest scabs--_we_ are!" "Tom, for God's sake--" "Look here, woman--you lay the weight of a hair in front o' me an' that devil--that rovin' mad dog--an' I'll kill you as I would a stingin' gnat! I won't bed with no woman with that sort o' pride. You've got to stand by me. I'll kill 'im if it takes twenty years. I'll keep my nose to his track like a bloodhound till I look in his eye, an' then, if he had a thousand lives, I'd take every one of 'em with a grin, an' foller 'im to hell for more." Leaving her with her head on the top rail of the fence, stunned, wordless, he strode away in the dusk. Looking up presently, she saw him standing at the well, in the full light from the kitchen doorway. He seemed to be looking in at Dolly, who, with her back to him, was at work over the stove. The next instant he was gone. CHAPTER XX It was eight o'clock. Jarvis Saunders alighted from the train at Ridgeville, finding his horse hitched to a rack according to the instructions he had left with his overseer. Mounting, he started homeward in a brisk canter through the clear moonlight. He was soon in the main road, and exhilarated by the crisp mountain air, after a sweltering ride in the dusty train. He had reached the boundary fence of Drake's farm when he thought he heard some one crying out. He reined in and listened. "Oh, father, please, please wait!" It was Dolly's voice, and it came from the more darkly shaded part of the road in front of her father's house. Urging his mount forward, Saunders was met by Drake on a plunging horse which he was violently whipping into action. "What is the matter?" Saunders cried out; but with an oath of fury Drake flew past. He was hatless, coatless, and held something clutched in his hand other than the bridle-rein. Fairly astounded and not knowing what to do, Saunders remained in the road for a moment, then the sound of a low sob in the direction from whence Drake had come reminded him of Dolly's nearness, and he guided his horse forward. Suddenly in the corner of a rail fence, her face covered with her hands, he saw Dolly. Springing to the ground, he advanced to her. "Dolly," he said, "what is it--what is wrong?" She uncovered her face, stood staring at him helplessly. She raised her hand and pointed after her father, but, though she tried to speak, she seemed unable to utter a word. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "For God's sake, tell me if there is. I want to help you." "Yes, yes," she managed to articulate, "I know--and you are very kind, but--" "You were trying to stop your father," he said. "Would you like for me--" "You couldn't; he would kill you; he has his pistol; he doesn't know what he is doing." "I think I know--I think I can guess--he is going to Atlanta." Dolly nodded mechanically, her mouth open. "Oh, he is making an awful mistake, Mr. Saunders! He wouldn't let me explain. Ann told mother that I went out late one night to meet--meet Mr. Mostyn when he whistled. It was not Mr. Mostyn. It was Tobe Barnett, who came to warn me of father's danger of arrest by the officers. I can tell you--I can trust you, Mr. Saunders. Father is connected with some moonshiners, who--" "I know it," Saunders broke in. "Now, listen to me, Dolly; this thing shall go no further if I can help it. He wants to catch the southbound train. I am going to stop him." "No, no!" Dolly sprang forward, desperately clutching his arm. "He will shoot you." "I _must_ do it!" Saunders caught both her hands in his and pressed them. "You must let me--I have never been able to help you in any way, and I have always wanted to. I'd give my life to--to be of service to you to-night. I feel this thing, little friend. I must do something--I simply must!" "I don't know what to say or do." Dolly clung to his hands desperately. She raised them spasmodically and unconsciously pressed them against her throbbing breast. "Oh, Mr. Saunders, it is so--so awful to be suspected of being bad when I--when I--" "When you are the purest, sweetest child that ever breathed," he cried, fiercely. "They sha'n't start gossip about you." He dropped her hands and turned his horse round quickly. "I'll overtake him and stop him." He glanced at his watch. "I have no time to lose. I must go. Be brave, Dolly. It will come out right--it _must!_" He swung himself into his saddle; she clung to his foot which he was trying to put into the stirrup. "He will kill you, too," she sobbed, "and I'll have _that_ on my head also. Oh, Mr. Saunders--" Gently he drew his foot from her clutch. There was a look in his eyes which she never forgot to the end of her life. "Excuse me, but I must hurry," he said. "He is on a fast horse, and the train may be on time. He must not get aboard. He mustn't, Dolly--good-by." Away he dashed at full speed, bent to the mane of his mount like a chased Indian on the plains. Once he looked back, seeing the patient little figure standing like a mile-stone at the roadside. On he sped, tasting the dust pounded into the air by Drake's horse, and feeling the grit between his teeth. No one was in sight. The lights of the farmhouses on the road moved backward like ships in a fog. Suddenly, some distance ahead, he saw a rider dismounting. It was Drake, who now stooped down to pick up something he had dropped. As he did so he saw the pursuing horse, and, quickly springing into his saddle, was off again. "Hold! Hold!" Saunders shouted. "Hold--hell!" rippled back on the moonlight. "Bother me an' I'll put a ball in you. Back, I tell you!" "Stop, Drake!" Saunders cried, without lessening his speed. The only reply the pursued man made was the furious lashing of his horse. An ominous sound now fell on Saunders's ears. It was the whistle of a locomotive in the deep cut across the fields. An oath of disappointment from Drake showed he had divined its full portent. It was now merely a question of speed. The race went on. The houses on the outer edge of the village flew past as if blown by a hurricane. Children in the yards looked up and cheered what they took for sport on the part of rollicking mountain riders. Saunders saw that he was gaining, and he urged his horse to even greater speed. He drew so close that the nose of his mount was lashed by the tail of Drake's horse. "Stop a minute--just a minute!" Saunders pleaded. "I must see you." Then, without lessening his gait, Drake turned half round in his saddle and pointed his revolver. Saunders heard the click of the hammer as it was cocked. Drake's demoniacal face in the white light had the greenish luster of a corpse--a corpse waking to life and grim purpose. "Fall back or I'll kill you!" he swore from frothing lips. "I know what you want; you want to take up for that dirty son of a--" "No, no; you are mistaken. I don't. Wait--stop!" They were now entering the open space between the station and the hotel. The train, with grinding brakes and escaping steam, was slowing up. Drake took aim over his shoulder. He fired. Saunders knew he was not hit. Frightened by the flash in his eyes, his horse reared up and almost threw him off behind. This delayed him for a moment, and Drake galloped on till he was close to the last car of the train. Saunders saw him throw the bridle-rein over the neck of his horse and spring down. The next instant Saunders was by his side and also on the ground. Again Drake raised his revolver, but Saunders was too quick for him. With a sudden blow he knocked the weapon from the other's grasp. It spun and flashed in the moonlight and fell in the weeds several yards away. Then Drake began to fumble in the pocket of his trousers for his knife. But again the younger man got the advantage. With the bound of a panther he had embraced and pinioned the arms of his antagonist to his sides. Back and forth they swung and pounded, Drake swearing, spitting, and trying even to bite. The locomotive whistled. It was off again. Seeing this, Drake swung himself free and made a break for the end car, but Saunders was at his heels; and, throwing out his hand, he grasped the runner's arm and violently threw him around. Again they were face to face. Again Saunders pinioned his arms. Drake was helpless. He struggled with all his strength, but it was unequal to that of his determined captor. "You've _got_ to listen to me, Drake!" Saunders said, fiercely. "You've got plenty of time to settle with that man if you insist on it, but you've got to hear me!" "Well, let me loose then, damn you!" Drake panted. "Le' me loose!" "All right, I'll let you loose." Saunders released him, and they stood facing each other, both out of breath. "I'm your friend, Tom Drake--and you know it," Saunders gasped. "I'm your daughter's friend, too. I'm sufficiently interested in her not to let you soil her good name as you are trying to do to-night. She is innocent, I tell you, and you are a coward to--" "You say--you say--" Several by-standers at the ticket-office and hotel, attracted by the combat, were approaching. "Go back!" Saunders held up his hand warningly. "This is no affair of yours. I want to speak to him in private. Leave us alone." The men halted, stared dubiously, and finally, seeing that the quarrel was over, they went back whence they had come. "Let's step over here," Saunders proposed; and he led the way to the railway blacksmith's shop, now closed and unlighted. In the shadow of its smoky wall they faced each other again. "You said--" Drake began, "you said--" "I said she was innocent of the foul charge you are making against her," Saunders said, sharply. "You are a crazy man, Drake. You tried to kill me back there, although I am bent on befriending you and your daughter. She is as sweet and pure as the angels in heaven." "I--I know more than you do. Ann said--" "Yes, I know what the child said," Saunders retorted. "And if you had been the right sort of a father you would not have acted on such slight evidence. Dolly is in this plight simply because she saved you--" "Saved _me?_ What the hell--" "Yes, she saved you from arrest and imprisonment as a moonshiner. The whistle Ann heard was not a signal from Mostyn. It was Tobe Barnett, who had come to warn her of your danger. She did meet Mostyn that night, but it was by accident, and not appointment. Dolly could have explained it all to Ann, but she did not want the child to know of your connection with that gang. Now you've got the whole thing, Drake." The mountaineer stared, his mouth open; the sinews of his face were drawn into distortion. "You say--you tell me--you say--" "That's the whole thing," Saunders said. "Now let's go home. Dolly deserves a humble apology from you--you ought to get down on your knees to her and beg her to forgive you. I know of no other woman like her in this world--none, none, anywhere. She has my admiration, my respect, my reverence." "But--but"--Drake's dead face began to kindle--"Ann said she saw that dirty scamp actually holdin' her in his arms an' kissin' 'er. She said that Dolly made no denial of it, an' now, accordin' to the papers, he's goin' to marry a woman in Atlanta." Saunders's glance sought the ground, his eyes went aimlessly to the two horses nibbling grass near by. "Ah, ha, I see that floors you!" Drake flared out. "You admit that the low-lived scamp did take advantage of our confidence, an'--" "You've got to face that part of it as I would do if she were my child," Saunders answered. "Listen to me, Drake. Mostyn is not a whit better or worse than many other men of his class. He has been fast and reckless, but when he met Dolly he met the first pure and elevating influence of his life. I am in his confidence. He told me the whole story. He determined that he would win her love and make her his wife. When he left here it was with the firm resolution of being wholly true to her. Now, I can only say that on his return home he found himself in a situation which would have taken more strength of character to get out of than he had. You cannot afford to attack him. Such a thing would reflect on your brave daughter, and you have no right to do it, no matter how you feel about it. From now on you've got to consider her feelings. If she cares for--for him, and--and--is depressed by the newspaper reports, that is all the more reason for your sympathy and support. Surely you can realize what she has escaped. As that man's wife her life would have been hell on earth. He is wholly unworthy of her. If she were my--sister, I'd rather see her dead than married to him." Drake stood with hanging head. He stepped slowly to his horse and grasped the rein. Saunders went a few feet to the right, searched on the ground a moment and picked up the revolver. Returning, he extended it to its owner. Drake took it silently, and clumsily thrust it into his pocket. He hesitated; he gulped, swallowed, then said, huskily: "You are my friend, Saunders. I've had some that I depended on in a pinch, but you've done me a big favor to-night. I'll never git forgiveness for tryin' to shoot you--never--never in this world." "That is all right." Saunders extended his hand, and the other clasped it firmly. A man with a polished club tied to his wrist was striding toward them. It was the village marshal, Alf Floyd. Drake eyed him helplessly. "Let me talk to him," Saunders said, under his breath. "You ride on home. Leave him to me. This must not get out." "What's the trouble here?" the officer asked, arriving just as Drake rode away. Saunders laughed carelessly as he reached for the bridle of his grazing horse. "It means that I got the best of Tom Drake. He bet me a dollar he could catch that train and get aboard. He would have done it, too, if I hadn't caught him around the waist at the last minute and swung him back. He didn't like it much, but he is all right now." "Somebody said they heard a pistol-shot," the officer said. "An accident," Saunders replied. "Drake dropped it--horse jerked it from his hand. I suppose we may have violated an ordinance in racing in town, and if so I'm willing to pay the fine. I'm responsible." "There _is_ an ordinance," the marshal said, "but I won't make a case out o' this." "All right, Alf; thanks. How goes it?" "Oh, so-so. How is it in the city?" "Hot and dusty." Saunders mounted deliberately. "Good night, Alf; I must get out home and eat something." A few minutes later as Saunders was slowly riding past Drake's front gate he noticed a figure on the inside of the yard close to the fence. It was Dolly. She opened the gate and came out. He reined in and, hat in hand, sprang to the ground. Her head was covered with a thin white shawl held beneath her chin, and her pale face showed between the folds as pure and patient as a suffering nun's. He saw that she was trying to speak, but was unable to do so. "What is it, Dolly?" he faltered. "I suppose your father got back?" "Yes." It was a bare labial whisper. She nodded; she put her cold hand into his great, warm eager one, and he held it as tenderly as if it had been a dying sparrow. "I am glad I happened to reach him," he said, in an effort to relieve her embarrassment. "We had it nip and tuck," he added, lightly. "My lungs are lined with dust." He felt her fingers and palm faintly flutter. "Oh, oh, Mr. Saunders!" she gulped. "I can never, never thank you enough. I met him down the road just now. He actually cried. I have never seen him give way before." Saunders stared helplessly. He knew not what to say. In the moonlight he saw tears like drops of dew rise in her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. "You must not cry," he managed to say. "Don't break down, Dolly; you have been so brave all along." She released the shawl beneath her chin and began to fumble in her pocket for her handkerchief. Seeing she was unable to find it, he took out his own, and while he still held her hand with his left he tenderly dried her tears. Suddenly she clasped his hand with both of hers. "I suppose you know everything--" she faltered. "How silly I have been to think--to imagine that Mr. Mostyn really meant--" A great sob struggled up within her and broke on her lips. "I know _this_, Dolly." His face hardened to the appearance of stone in the white light from the sky. "I know that from this moment on you must never give him another thought." "You don't understand a woman's feelings," she returned, in the saddest of intonations. "I know what you say is right and true, but--it is like this; he seems to have--died! I think of him only as dead, and a woman with a heart cannot at a moment's notice put her dead out of mind. I can't, somehow, blame him. You see, I think I understand him. He is not going to be happy, and I'm afraid I'll never be able to forget that fact. He was trying to get right. I saw his struggle. I did not fully know what it meant when we parted, but I see it all now. I thought I could help him, but it is too late--too late; and oh, that is the terrible part! I feel somewhat like a mother must feel who sees a son, hopelessly wrong, taken from her sight forever. Oh, I pity him, pity him, pity him!" "Nevertheless, you must try to put him wholly out of your mind and heart," Saunders urged. "You deserve happiness, and this thing must not kill your chances for it. Time will help." "Isn't it queer?" she sighed; "but in moments of deepest sorrow we don't want Time, God, or anything else to take our grief away. Really, I feel to-night like an invisible thing crushed out of its body and left intact to float forever in pitiless space." He led her to the gate and opened it. "You must not indulge such weird thoughts," he said, his features set in a mask of tense inner pain. "You must go to bed and try to sleep." "Sleep!" she laughed, harshly. "I'll have to wake. The happy chickens, ducks, turkeys, and twittering, chirping birds will rouse me at sun-up. I must teach to-morrow. I must answer questions about grammar, history, geography, and arithmetic. I must correct compositions, write on a blackboard with chalk, point to dots on maps, scold little ones, reprove big ones, talk to parents, and through it all _think, think, think!_ I am Dolly Drake. Do you know, Mr. Saunders, the queerest thing to me in all the world is that I am Dolly Drake? Sometimes I pronounce the name in wonder, as if I had never heard it before. I seem to have been a thousand persons in former periods." "Dolly, listen." Saunders bent till his face was close to hers. "I am your friend. I shall be true to you forever and ever. From now on nothing else on earth can be of so much importance to me as your welfare. To help you shall be my constant aim." "I know it, dear, sweet friend." The words bubbled from a swelling sob. "And oh, it is sweet and comforting at a time like this! Don't--don't stop me." And therewith she raised his hand, pressed her lips upon it, and turned quickly away. PART II CHAPTER I Five years passed. Again it was summer. Mostyn with his wife and his only child, Richard, Jr., lived in the Mitchell mansion, which, save for a new coat of paint, was unchanged. Mostyn himself was considerably altered in appearance. There were deeper lines in his face; he was thinner, more given to nervousness and loss of sleep; his hair was turning gray; he had been told by his doctor that he worried too much and that he must check the tendency. Things had not gone in his married life as the financier had wished. One of the most objectionable was the unexpected change in his father-in-law, who had lapsed quite abruptly into troublesome dotage. From a shrewd business man old Mitchell had become a querulous child, subject to fits of suspicion and violent outbursts of anger. At the most embarrassing moments he would totter into the bank, approach his son-in-law, and insist on talking over matters which he was quite incapable of seeing in a rational light. Mostyn had tried to deal with him firmly, only to bring down a torrent of half-wild threats as to what the old man would do in regard to certain investments the two held in common. Indeed, it was plain to many that Mitchell had formed an intuitive dislike for his son-in-law, which, somehow, was not lessened by his great love for his grandson. Saunders became a genial sort of escape-valve for the old man's endless chatter and complaint, doing all in his power to pacify him, though it required no little time and energy. One warm day in the present June Mitchell came to the bank, and, frowning angrily, he went into Mostyn's office, where his son-in-law sat absorbed over some intricate calculations in percentage. "Huh!" he sniffed. "Your nigger porter told me you were too busy to see me. If he hadn't dodged I'd have hit the whelp with this cane, sir. Busy! I say busy! If it hadn't been for me and my money I'd like to know where you'd be to-day. I guess you wouldn't run long." Flushing with combined anger and sensitive shame, Mostyn put his papers aside and rose. "Sit down, and rest," he said. "Albert meant no harm. I told him that I had some important work to do and that I did not want to be disturbed just now; but, of course, I had no reference to _you._" "Oh, I know you didn't!" Mitchell sneered, his chin and white beard quivering. "I know what your plan is. I'm no fool. You are handling my means, and you are afraid I'll want to know what you have done with them. I'll have a statement by law--that's what I'll do." "You really _must_ be reasonable," Mostyn said, helplessly. "Only last week I explained it all in detail in the presence of Saunders and Wright, and you were quite satisfied. You ought to know that we can't go over such matters every day. I assure you that everything is in good shape." "Are you _sure?_ That's what I want to know." The harsh expression in Mitchell's face was softening. "I--I get to worrying--I admit it. You and I used to get along all right, but you never consult me now as you used to do. I'm older than you are, but my judgment is sound. I'm not dead yet, and I won't be regarded that way." "I know you are all right." Mostyn smiled pacifically. "Won't you take a seat?" "No, I'm going back home. I don't like the way things are running there, either. Irene is never at home, it seems to me, and my grandson has nobody to look after him but that trifling nurse. Irene has gone to some fool reception to-day, and says she and Kitty are going to a dance at Buckton's country house to-night. You may call that right and proper, sir, but I don't. The way married couples live to-day is an outrage on common decency. If you had any backbone you'd make your wife behave herself. She is more of a belle, sir, right now than before you married her. She is crazy for excitement, and the whole poker-playing, wine-drinking set she goes with is on the road to perdition." Laying his hand on the old man's arm gently, Mostyn led him toward the door. "Don't let it worry you," he said. "The boy is well and sound, and Irene means no harm. She has always loved society, and when we were married it was with the understanding that she should not be hampered." "And that is right where you made the mistake of your life." Mitchell pulled back from the door. "The way you and she live is not natural. The Lord never intended it to be so. You know as well as I do that Irene used to have a silly sort of liking or fancy for Andy Buckton." Mostyn nodded, his eyes averted. "Yes, yes, of course," he said, hesitatingly. "She told me all about it at the time, quite frankly." "Well, you know, I presume, that his uncle left him a lot of money when he died the other day?" "I heard something about it." Mostyn bit his lip in vexation, as he reached out for the doorknob and turned it cautiously. "Well, it is true, and it has turned the fool's head; he is spending it like water. He is giving a big blow-out to-night, and it is all for your wife, sir--your wife." Mostyn made no reply, though his face looked graver; the sharp-drawn lines about his mouth deepened. "You heard what I said, didn't you?" Mitchell demanded. "Yes, of course." "Well, let me tell you one thing, and then you can do as you please about it. I am not going to take any hand in it. Irene has no respect for me or my opinion here lately. She gets mad the minute I say a word to her. Andy Buckton is as big a fool about her as he ever was. I got it straight, from a person who knows, that he makes no secret of it. And that isn't all, sir--that isn't all. Irene is just vain enough of her good looks to like it. Le'me tell you something, sir. This town is not Paris, and our country is not France, but that fast set Irene runs with is trying to think so. They read about the Four Hundred in New York, its scandals and divorces in high life, and think it is smart to imitate it. You seem to stay out of it, but what if you do? Are you going to sit like a knot on a log and have them say you made a loveless marriage for money, and--" "Stop!" Mostyn flared out. "I won't stand it. You are going too far!" "Ah, I see you can be touched," the old man laughed, putting his hand on Mostyn's arm in his most senile mood. "I just wanted to set you thinking, that's all." When Mitchell was gone the banker sat down at his work again, but he could not put his mind on it. He fumbled the papers nervously. His brows met in a troubled frown. "I can't stand any more of this," he thought. "He is driving me insane--the man does not live who could put up with it day after day." Going to the door, he asked one of the clerks to send Saunders to him if he was quite disengaged. A moment later his partner entered. The last five years had served him well. He had never looked better. His skin was clear, his eyes bright, his movement calm and alert. "Did you want to see me?" he asked. "If you are not busy," Mostyn replied. "Nothing to do just now," Saunders said, sitting down near the desk. Mostyn gave him a troubled look. "The old man has just left," he said. "I thought I recognized his voice," Saunders answered. "He has a way of talking quite loud of late." There was a pause, during which Mostyn continued to stare with fluttering lashes; then he said: "He is giving me a great deal of trouble, Saunders--a great deal." "I see he is; in fact, all of us have noticed it." "It is getting more and more serious," Mostyn sighed, heavily. "You see, it is not only here that he talks. He goes to the other banks and to the offices of the brokers and chatters like a child about our confidential affairs. I am afraid he will do us absolute financial injury. He is insanely suspicious, and there is no telling what report he may set afloat." "I think most persons understand his condition," Saunders returned. "Delbridge does, I know. He goes to see Delbridge often. I see your predicament and sympathize with you. The old man has lost all his discretion, and you really cannot afford to confer with him." "The trouble is, he has his legal rights," Mostyn said, tentatively, "and the slightest thing may turn him against me. There are shyster lawyers here who would not hesitate to advise him wrongly. They would get their fee, and that is all they would want. As I look at it the situation is serious, and growing worse." "It is awkward, to say the least," Saunders admitted, "and I confess that I do not know what to advise." "Well, that is all," Mostyn concluded. "I wanted to speak to you about it. He upsets me every time he comes in, and he is quite as troublesome at home, I assure you. I envy you, old chap, with your care-free life, spent half in the country. How is your plantation?" "Fine--never had better crops." Saunders's eyes kindled with latent enthusiasm. "The weather has been just right this season. Run up and spend next Sunday with me. It will do you good. You stay in town too much." Mostyn shrugged his shoulders. He sighed and bowed his head over his papers. "Not this season," he said, as if his thoughts were far away. Suddenly he cast a wavering glance at his partner, hesitated, and said: "I have always wanted to go back up there, Saunders. That was one period of my life that is constantly before me. I may as well speak of it and be done with it. You always seemed to shirk the subject, and I have hesitated to mention it, but there is no one else I could question. The last time I heard of Dolly Drake she was still unmarried. Is there any likelihood of her marrying?" Mostyn's eyes were downcast, and he failed to see the half-angry flush which was creeping over Saunders's face. "I really can't say," he returned, coldly. "She is still teaching school, and is in the best of health; but, Mostyn, you have no right to think--to fancy that she has remained single because--" "Oh, I don't!" the other sighed. "I'm not such a fool. She knows me too well by this time for that." There was an awkward pause. Saunders, with eyes on the door, was rising. With an appealing look of detention in his worn face Mostyn also stood up. "I'd give a great deal to see her. I'd be glad even to see a picture of her. I wonder what she looks like now. She was scarcely more than a child when she and I--when we parted. I don't think there can be any harm in my being frank in these days when the wives of men make a jest of matrimonial love, and I confess freely that I have never been able to forget--" "Don't tell me about it!" Saunders interrupted. "You have no right, Mostyn, even to think of her after--after what took place. But you ought to have sense enough, at any rate, to know that she wouldn't continue to care for you all these years. I see her now and then and talk to her. I am helping her build a new schoolhouse up there on some land I donated, and have had to consult her several times of late about the building-plans. She is more beautiful and brilliant than ever, though she still has cares enough. Her father doesn't make much of a living, and her brother George is engaged to one of the girls in the neighborhood and so cannot be counted on for help. Ann is a young lady now, and Dolly dresses her nicely at her own expense." "Of course, I know that she has forgotten me," Mostyn said, with feeling. "I made the one great mistake of my life when I--you know what I mean, Saunders?" "Yes, I know," Saunders answered, quickly, "but that is past and gone, Mostyn. The main harm you did was, perhaps, to kill her faith in men in general. I don't really think she will ever give her heart to any one. She seems farther from that sort of thing than any woman I ever met. She has had, I think, many suitors." "Then from what you say I gather that she doesn't mention me?" Mostyn said, heavily. "She has no curiosity at all to know how--how my marriage terminated?" "How _could_ she have?" Saunders asked, frigidly. "We'd better not talk of it, Mostyn. I am sure she would not wholly approve of this conversation. But in justice to her I must insist that she is _not_ broken-hearted by any means. She is as brave and cheerful as she ever was. Her character seems to have deepened and sweetened under the knowledge of the world which she acquired by her unfortunate experience with you." When Saunders had left, Mostyn bowed his head on his desk. "If I had been the sort of man Saunders is, Dolly would have been my wife," he thought. "My wife! my wife! actually my wife!" CHAPTER II That afternoon when the bank was closed Mostyn went home. He walked for the sake of the exercise and with the hope of distracting his mind from the many matters which bore more or less heavily on his tired brain. As he approached the gate the sight of his little son playing on the lawn with a miniature tennis racket and ball gave him a thrill of delight. The boy was certainly beautiful. He had great brown eyes, rich golden hair, was sturdy, well built, and active for a child of only four years. The father opened the gate softly, and when within the yard he hid himself behind the trunk of an oak and cautiously peered out, watching the little fellow toss the ball and make ineffectual efforts to hit it with the racket. Then Mostyn whistled softly, saw the boy drop his racket and look all round, his sweet face alert with eagerness. Mostyn whistled again, and then the child espied him and, with hands outstretched, came running, laughing and shouting gleefully. "I see you, Daddy!" he cried. Whereupon Mostyn slipped around the tree out of sight, letting the amused child follow him. Round after round was made, and then, suddenly stooping down, the father caught the boy in his arms and raised him up. Pressing him fondly to his breast, he kissed the warm, flushed cheeks. Till dusk he played with the child on the grass, pitching the ball and teaching the little fellow to hit it. Then Hilda, the mulatto nurse, came for her charge, and little Dick, with many expostulations, was taken away. Going into the house, Mostyn met his father-in-law in the hall. The old man stopped him abruptly at the foot of the stairs. "Did any mail come for me on the noon train?" he demanded, querulously, a light of suspicion in his eyes. "Not that I know of," Mostyn answered. "It was not put on my desk, I am sure." "Well, some of it goes _somewhere,_" Mitchell complained. "I know I don't see it all. I've written letters that would have been answered by this time, and it wouldn't surprise me if somebody down there was tampering with it." Seeing the utter hopelessness of bringing his father-in-law to reason by explanation or argument, Mostyn went on up-stairs. Noticing that the door of his wife's chamber, adjoining his own, was ajar, he pushed it open and went in. The room was brightly illuminated with electric light, and standing before a tall pier-glass he found his wife. She wore a costly evening gown of rare old lace and was trying on a pretty diamond necklace. "Oh!" she exclaimed, indifferently, as she caught sight of him over her bare powdered shoulder. "I thought it was Cousin Kitty. She promised to be here early. If she is late we'll have to go without her. She is awfully slow. I saw you playing with Dick on the grass. He makes too much noise, screaming out like that, and you only make him worse cutting up with him as you do. Between you and that boy and father, with his constant, babyish complaints, I am driven to desperation." Mostyn shrugged his shoulders wearily, and sat down in a chair at her quaint mahogany dressing-table. Irene had not changed materially, though a close observer, had the light been that of day, might have remarked that she was thinner and more nervous. Her eyes held a shadowy, unsatisfied expression, and her voice was keyed unnaturally high. Noticing his unwonted silence, she put down her hand-mirror and eyed him with a slow look of irritation. "Of course, you are not going to-night," she said. "Hardly," he smiled, satirically, "being quite uninvited." "Well, you needn't say it in _that_ tone," she answered. "You have only yourself to blame. You never accept such invitations, so how could you expect people to run after you with them?" "I don't expect them to," he answered, tartly. "If they asked me I'd decline. I simply don't enjoy that sort of thing at all." "Of course you don't," she laughed. "The last time you went to a ball you looked like an insane man pacing up and down all by yourself. Kitty said you asked her to dance and forgot all about it. Dick, your day is over." "I wonder if yours ever will be," he sniffed. "I see no prospect of it. You are on the go night and day. You are killing yourself. It is as bad as the morphine habit with you. You love admiration more than any woman I ever saw." She arched her neck before the glass and turned to him wearily. "Do you know what you'll do in another minute? You'll talk yourself into another one of your disgusting rages over my own private affairs. You are a business man and would not violate an ordinary business agreement, but you are constantly ignoring the positive compact between us." "I didn't expect at the time to have you going so constantly with a man that--" "Oh, you didn't?" she laughed, tantalizingly. "You were to have all sorts of outside freedom, but I was not. Well, you were mistaken, that's all. I know whom you are hinting at. You mean Andy Buckton. I'm going with him to-night. Why shouldn't I? He's got up the party for me. Dick, don't tell me that you are actually jealous. It would be too delicious for anything." "I can't ask you not to go with the fellow," Mostyn answered, "considering the well-known habits of your limited set to lay down new laws of conduct, but you nor no other woman can form the slightest idea of what it costs a man's pride to have people say that his wife is constantly seen with a man who always has been in love with her." An almost imperceptible gleam of delight flashed into Irene's eyes, and a tinge of real color struggled beneath the powder on her face. "You don't mean, Dick, that he really, really loves me?" she said, lingeringly. "I think he does," Mostyn answered, bluntly. "He never got over your refusal to marry him. He shows it on every occasion. Everybody knows it, and that's what makes it so hard to--to put up with. I think I really have a right to ask the mother of my child to--" "Don't begin that, Dick!" Irene commanded, sharply. "I have my rights, and you shall respect them. It is cowardly of you to always mention the boy in that way. I am not crazy about children, and I won't pretend to be. You know I did not want a child in the first place. I am not that sort. I want to have a good time. I like admiration. I like amusements. You men get the keenest sort of pleasure out of gambling in stocks and futures. All day long you are in a whirl of excitement. But you expect us women to stay at home and be as humdrum as hens in a chicken-house. You are to have your fun and come home and have us wives pet you and pamper you up for another day of delight. Dick, that may go all right with farmers' wives who haven't shoes to wear out to meeting, but it won't do for women with money of _their own_ to spend." "I knew _that_ would come," he flashed at her. "It always does crop up sooner or later." "You are out of temper to-night, Dick," she retorted. "And it is simply because I am going with Andy Buckton. You needn't deny it." "I don't like the gossip that is going around." Mostyn frowned and bit his mustache as he said this. "The people of Atlanta, as a whole, are moral, conservative citizens, and the doings of your small set are abhorrent to them." "_My_ set!" Irene forced a harsh, mirthless laugh. "And for goodness' sake, what do they think of _your_ set? You force me to say this, Dick. There is not a person in this city who has not heard of you and that unspeakable Winship woman." Mostyn flinched beneath the gaze she bent on him. "That is a thing of the past, Irene, and you know it," he stammered, trying to keep his temper. "I can consider it a thing of the past," she returned, coldly, "if I will take your word for it, just as you may or may not take my word for my conduct with Andy Buckton. Oh, I suppose it is nothing for a wife to see the knowing smiles that pass around when the gaudy creature shows up at the theater or ball-game accompanied by gamblers and bar-keepers. The brazen thing stares straight at me whenever I am near her." Mostyn was now white with restrained fury. He stood up. "I will not go over all that again," he said. "The mistake I made was in ever owning up to the thing." "You _had_ to own up to it," Irene answered, bluntly. "I knew it when we were married, and I would not mention it now if you were not constantly nagging me about my actions. Dick, you will have to let me alone. I won't take advice from you." He met her frank eyes with a shrinking stare. "I shall let you alone in the future," he faltered. "I see I have to. You are merciless. For the sake of the boy we must live in harmony. God knows we must!" "All right," she laughed, coldly, "that is another agreement. Harmony is the word. Now, go away. Kitty is not coming. She may be going with some one else." Mostyn went to his room across the hall. He bathed his bloodless face and hands and automatically brushed his hair before the glass, eying his features critically. "Can that actually be me?" he whispered to the grim reflection. "I look like a man of sixty. I'm as old and decrepit as--Jeff Henderson. Why did I think of him? Why am I constantly thinking of that old man, unless it is because he has predicted my ruin so confidently? He seems as sure of it as he is of the air he breathes. If evil thought bearing on a man can hurt him, as the mental scientists believe, Henderson's will eventually get me down. He would give his life to permanently injure me. So would Marie. She can't forgive me for ignoring her. She can't understand any more than I do _why_ I ignore her." There was a rap on the door. It was a servant to ask if he wanted his supper. "Not now," he answered. "Keep it for me. I'll be in later." CHAPTER III He went down to the lawn, lighted a cigar, and began to smoke, striding nervously back and forth. A smart pair of horses hitched to a trap whirled into the carriage-drive and stopped in the porte-cochere. In the rays from the overhead lamp Mostyn saw Buckton alight and ascend the steps to the veranda. A half-smoked cigar cast into the shrubbery emitted a tiny shower of sparks. Mostyn saw the young man peering in at the window of the lighted drawing-room. He noted the spick-and-span appearance, the jaunty, satisfied air of expectancy, and his blood began to boil with rage. "My God!" he groaned. "She may be falling in love with him--if she has not _always_ loved him, and he now knows it. She may have told him so. And when they are alone together, as they will be in a few minutes on the road, what more natural than that he should caress her? I would have done it with any man's wife if I had felt an inclination. I am the joke of the town and must bear it. I must stand by and let my wife and another man--" Buckton was at the door speaking to the maid who had answered his ring. "No; tell her, please, that I'll wait out here on the lawn." Mostyn remarked the note of curbed elation in the voice, and saw Buckton turn down the steps. A match flared in the handsome face as another cigar was lighted. Fearing that he might have been seen from the drive, Mostyn was compelled to step forward and greet the man with the conventional unconcern he had been able to summon to his aid on former occasions. "Hello," he heard himself saying, automatically, as he strode across the grass to the other smoker. "Fine evening for your shindig." "Tiptop," Buckton said, with a sort of restraint Mostyn inwardly resented. "Couldn't have turned out better. Sorry you've cut out the giddy whirl, old man. As I passed your bank this morning I thought of asking you, but you have refused so many times that--" "Oh no." Mostyn heartily despised the role he was playing. "I am no longer good at that sort of thing." "Had your day, I see," Buckton laughed, significantly. "You certainly kept the pace, if all tales are true. The sort of thing we do these days must be tame by comparison." "Oh, I don't know," Mostyn returned, with enforced carelessness. "Men are the same the world over. I have not yet had a chance to congratulate you on your recent good fortune." "Thanks, old man." Buckton puffed his smoke into the still moonlight. "It certainly was a lift to me. I was never cut out for business, and I was at the end of my row. I confess I am not complaining now. I am just at the age to know how to spend money." The talk languished. Both men seemed suddenly burthened by obtrusive self-consciousness. Buckton twisted his mustache nervously and flicked at the ashless tip of his cigar, glancing toward the house. "Oh, I quite forgot to deliver Miss Kitty's message to Irene--to Mrs. Mostyn, I should say. She was to drive out with us, but at the last minute Dr. Regan found that he could get off and asked her to go in his car." "Arranged between them," Mostyn thought, darkly. "I know the trick. Regan doesn't care a rap for Kitty. It is part of the game, and I am the tool." "I understand you have a new car yourself," Mostyn said, aloud. "Yes, and experts tell me that it is the best in town. I'll run around and take you out some day. But I really care more for horses. It may be due to my Virginia blood. I wouldn't swap this pair for all the cars in town. For a trip like this to-night horses come handy. There are some rough places between here and my home." "It does away with the chauffeur," Mostyn said, inwardly, as his tongue lay dead in his mouth. He glanced toward the open doorway. "Irene may be ready," he remarked, moving toward the house. "Yes, I see her coming down the stairs," answered Buckton, dropping his cigar, a look of boyish eagerness capturing his face. "I'll run on and help her with her wraps. So long, old man." Mostyn made some inarticulate response of no import in particular, and dropped back, allowing Buckton to stride on to the veranda, his hat jauntily swinging at his side. Irene was now in the doorway, poised like a picture in a frame. Slinking farther away beneath the trees and behind shrubbery, Mostyn heard the greetings between the two, and saw them shaking hands, standing face to face. Irene looked so young, so different from the calculating woman who had just asserted her financial and marital rights in her chamber. No wonder that her escort was fascinated when she had so long been withheld from him! Mostyn told himself that he well knew the "stolen-sweets" sensation. He peered above a clump of boxwood like a thief, upon grounds to which he was unaccustomed, and watched them as they got into the trap. Irene's rippling laugh, and Buckton's satisfied response as he tucked the robes about her, seemed things of Satanic design. They were off. The restive pair, with high-reined, arching necks, trotted down the drive to the street, and a moment later were out of sight. Mostyn went into the house, back to the desolate dining-room, and sat down in his chair at the head of the table. The maid who came to receive his order and turn on a fuller light had a look in her eyes which indicated that she was aware of his mood. He would have resented it had he dared, but it was only one of many things which had of late grated on him but could not be prevented. "Has Mr. Mitchell had his supper?" Mostyn asked, applying himself reluctantly to the simple repast before him. "Yes, sir, and gone up to his room," the girl answered. "He is out of sorts to-day. I have never seen him so troublesome. He has threatened to discharge us all." "Don't mind him." Mostyn's voice sounded to him as if uttered by some tongue other than his own. He half fancied that the maid, for reasons peculiar to her class, had a sort of contempt for him. She, as well as the other servants, no doubt thought of him as having married for money, Mitchell's fortune being so much larger than his own diminished and ever-lessening capital. Supper over, he went back to the veranda. Should he go to the club, as he sometimes did to pass an evening? He had a feeling against it. He did not care for cards or drinking, and they were the chief amusements indulged in by the habitual loungers about the rooms. There might be some summer play on at one of the theaters, but as a rule they were very poor at that season of the year, and he knew he had a frame of mind which could not be diverted. At this juncture he became conscious of something of an almost startling nature. It was an undefinable, even maternal feeling that he ought to stay with his child. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled at the sheer absurdity of the idea, yet it clung to him persistently. He tried to analyze it; it eluded analysis. It had haunted him before, and the time had always been when Irene was away. Was it some strange psychic sympathy or bond of blood between his motherless offspring and himself? Was his guilty soul whispering to him that he was responsible for the deserted human bud, and that he, man though he was, should give it the care and love denied it? Obeying an impulse he could not put down, he turned into the house and softly ascended the stairs. The door of the nursery was open. A low-turned light was burning in a night-lamp on the bureau. The nurse was below eating with the other servants. He was alone and unobserved. The child was asleep in its little white bed, and he crept forward and looked down upon it. The night being warm, little Richard was not covered, and, with his shapely legs and fair breast exposed, he lay asleep. There was a suggestion of a smile on the beautiful face, the pink lips were parted, the dainty fingers were clutched as if holding some dream-object tight in their clasp. With a sigh that was almost audible the father turned away. At the door he glanced back, having noted the intense warmth of the room. The nurse, as many of her tropical race are apt to do, had forgotten to ventilate the chamber. The two windows were closed. Angrily he crept across the carpeted floor and noiselessly raised the sashes as high as they would go, feeling the fresh air stream in. With a parting glance at the sleeper he withdrew. Descending the stairs, he went out on the lawn again. Even that scrap of Nature's realm had a tendency to soothe his snarled sensibilities. It might have been the dew which was rising and cooling his feet, or the pale, blinking stars, the sedative rays of which seemed to penetrate to his seething brain. He remembered John Leach's sermon that day in the mountains at the cross-roads store. The fellow had found something. He had found the way of the life spiritual, and it had come to him through sin, suffering, humiliation, and final self-immolation. Mostyn recalled the resolutions he had made under the influence of the man's compelling eloquence; he recalled the breaking of the resolutions. He thought of Dolly Drake, and groaned in actual pain of body and soul. He told himself that he had then deliberately trampled under foot his last spiritual opportunity. "Dolly Drake, Dolly Drake!" the words, unuttered though they were by lips which he felt were too profane for such use, seemed to float like notes of accusing music. Saunders had said she was more beautiful than ever. She might have been his but for his weakness. Perhaps she still thought of him now and then. If she could know of this unconquerable despair, she would pity him. How sweet such pity as hers would be! A sob struggled up within him and threatened to burst; he felt the sharp pain of suppression in his breast. It was as if his soul was urging his too-callous body to weep. Dolly was as unobtainable as the heaven of the tramp preacher's vision. For Mostyn only protracted evil was now available, and that was sickening to his very thought. He wondered, seeing that it was now ten o'clock, if he could go to sleep. In deep sleep he would be able to forget. He decided to try. He went up to his room, and, aided only by the moonlight, which fell through the windows, he undressed and threw himself down on his bed. For an hour he was wakeful. He was just becoming drowsy when he heard voices in the nursery across the hall. He recognized the sharp, scolding voice of the nurse, and the timid reply of the child. Rising, Mostyn went to the open door of the nursery and looked in. "What is it?" he asked. "He is begging to go to your bed," the woman answered, peevishly. "You've spoiled him, Mr. Mostyn. He wants to do it every night. He is getting worse and worse." A thrill of delight, yearning delight, passed over the father. He stood silent for a moment, ashamed to have even the black servant suspect what he so keenly desired. "Daddy, Dick wants you," a voice soft, tremulous, and unspeakably appealing came from the little bed. "Hush, and go to sleep!" the nurse called out. "You are a bad boy, keeping us awake like this." "No, let him come," Mostyn said, in a voice which was husky, and shook against his will. "Come, Dick!" The little white-robed form slid eagerly from the bed and fairly ran to the arms which were hungrily outstretched. With the soft body against his breast, a confident arm about his neck, the father bore him to his room and put him down on the back side of the wide bed. "Now you will sleep, won't you?" he said, his voice exultantly tender. "Yes, Daddy." Dick stretched his pretty legs out straight. Silence filled the room; the mystic rays of moonlight falling in at the window seemed to bring with them the despondent murmur of the city outside. The deep, fragrant breathing of the child soon showed that he was asleep. Cautiously Mostyn propped himself up on his elbow and looked into the placid face. "He has my brow," he mused, bitterly; "my hands; my ears; my long ringers, with their curving nails; my slender ankles and high-instepped feet; and, my God! he has my telltale sensual lips. Here am I in the throes of a hell produced by infinite laws. What is to prevent him--the helpless replica of myself--from taking the way I took? The edge of the alluring abyss will crumble under his blind tread as it crumbled under mine, and this--this--this cloying horror which is on me to-night may be my gift to him--for whose sake I would die--yes, die!" Silently Mostyn left the bed and took a seat on the broad sill of one of the windows overlooking the lawn. "What will be the end?" he asked himself. "It can't go on like this. I am not man enough to stand it. If I were not afraid of death, I would--no, I wouldn't"--he glanced at the bed--"I am responsible for his being here. He is the flower of my corruption. God may desert him, but I won't. I will protect him, love him, pity him, care for him to the end." A cold drop fell on his hand and trickled through his fingers. He was weeping. CHAPTER IV Saunders spent the end of that week on his plantation in the mountains. On Saturday morning he dropped in at Drake's to see Dolly. John Webb came to the door in response to his rap. He was quite unchanged. Even the clothes he was wearing had the same look as those he wore five years before. "She ain't here," he said. "I seed 'er, with some books an' papers under 'er arm, headed for the schoolhouse just after breakfast. I reckon she's got some examples to work or compositions to write. They are fixin' for a' exhibition of some sort for the last Friday in this month. Dolly writes a big part o' the stuff the scholars read in public, an' you bet some of it is tiptop. When she is in a good humor she can compose a' article that will make a dog laugh. She is out o' sorts to-day." "Oh, is that so?" Saunders was moving toward the gate. "Has anything gone wrong?" "She is bothered about George," Webb answered. "It is first one thing and then another with her. George's crop is a failure this year and he is up to his neck in debt. On top o' that he wants to get married. You know him an' Ida Benson are crazy to get tied, and it was to come off in the fall, but George won't be able to buy a new shirt, to say nothin' of a whole outfit. The boy is awful downhearted, and so is his gal. Dolly busted out an' cried last night while George was a-talkin'. She says Ida will be the makin' of the boy, but they can't stir a peg as it is, for they hain't got a dollar betwixt 'em." "Well, I'll walk by the schoolhouse and see if Dolly is there," Saunders remarked. "It is on my way home." As he drew near the little building at the roadside he noticed that the front door was open, and, peering in, he saw Dolly at her desk. She was not at work; indeed, she seemed quite preoccupied with her thoughts, for she was staring fixedly at an open window, a troubled frown on her sweet face. She heard Saunders's step at the door, and, seeing him enter, she began to smile. "You caught me," she laughed, impulsively. "I was having one of my silly fits of blues. I am glad you came in. You always make me ashamed of my despondency." "You are freer from it than any human being I ever saw," he declared, as he shook hands with her. "I seldom have the blues; but if I did, one thought of your wonderful patience would knock them higher than a kite." She laughed merrily, her eyes twinkling, the warm color flushing her face, as was always the case when she was animated. "I suppose it is generally due to one's point of view," she said. "When it concerns myself I can manage very well, but if it is any one else--" "A dear brother, for instance," Saunders put in, sympathetically, "and his laudable desire to marry a worthy girl." She looked at him steadily in mild surprise. "I see you know," she nodded. "I suppose half the county are sorry for that pair. George does try so hard, and yet everything the poor boy touches goes the wrong way. It is not his fault. He is young and inexperienced and so full of hope. He is so downhearted to-day that he wouldn't go to work. He got a letter from Cross & Mayhew last night. You know they advanced him his supplies for this season and took a mortgage on his crop as security. It seems that they sent a man out here the other day to see how he was getting on. The man reported the condition of George's crop, and they wrote him that they would not credit him for his supplies next season. That was the last straw. I found him actually crying down at the barn. He had gone into the stall where his horse was feeding and had his arms around the animal's neck. Mr. Saunders, you can't imagine my feelings. I love my brother with all my heart. I offered to help him with part of my wages, but he was too proud to accept a cent. That letter from Cross & Mayhew humiliated him beyond description. It bowed him down; young as he is, he is actually crushed. He is coming here this morning to talk to me. He wants to go West with the hope that he may get started there and come back for Ida. I can't bear to have him go--I simply can't stand it. I want him to stay here at home. It is the place for them both." "I think so, too," Saunders said, sympathetically. "There is no better spot on earth for a young farmer." "I am glad you agree with me"--Dolly brightened a little--"and if you should get a chance I wish you would advise him to stay. You have wonderful influence, with both him and my father." "I didn't know that," Saunders said, modestly. Dolly smiled, a far-off expression in her deep eyes. "They think you are the best and wisest man in the world. And as for Ann, do you know you did me a wonderful favor in regard to her?" "You surprise me." Saunders flushed red. "I didn't know that I had ever--I don't remember-" "No, I'm sure you don't, and I didn't mention it, but I'm going to tell you now, for I am very, very grateful. You know, perhaps, that Ann used to care a good deal for that reckless fellow Abe Westbrook?" "Yes, I remember seeing them together frequently," Saunders answered. "Well, he became more and more dissipated and so bold and ill-bred that he even came to see her when he was intoxicated. I was afraid to call father's attention to it for two reasons--first, father's temper, and then the fear I had that Ann might elope with the fellow. So I had to be very, very cautious. I tried talking to Ann, but it went in at one ear and out at the other. Nothing I said had the slightest effect on her. Then she got to meeting him at different places away from home, and I was almost crazy. Then you, as you always have done, came to my aid." "I? Why, Dolly, I am sure that I have never--" "You don't remember it"--Dolly's voice shook, and a delicate glow suffused her face--"but I'll remind you. You recall the picnic over the mountain last spring?" "The day you didn't go," Saunders nodded. "I remember looking for you everywhere." "Well, that day, when all the girls felt so highly honored by your presence, and you were so nice to them, you paid a good deal of attention to Ann, asking her to drive home with you." "Of course I remember that," Saunders said; "I enjoyed the drive very much." "It wasn't anything you said, exactly," Dolly went on, "but you may remember that Abe was drinking that day and misbehaved badly before every one, even when they were all eating lunch together. Ann told me all about it. She came to my bed away in the night and waked me. She told me she had made up her mind never to see Westbrook again. In contrasting him with you she saw what a failure he was. She said she had never before so plainly seen her danger. She saw the look of disgust in your face while Abe was acting so badly, and your failure to refer to the incident on the way home impressed her. That happening completely turned her round, opened her eyes, and already she has stopped thinking of him." Saunders was modestly trying to formulate some protest when, looking toward the door, Dolly suddenly exclaimed: "Oh, there is George now! Don't leave," for Saunders was rising. "I can see him at home." "I must be going, anyway," Saunders said, rather nervously, "but if you will let me I'd like to take you for a drive this afternoon. We could pass the new schoolhouse and see how it is coming on." "I'll be glad to go," Dolly answered. "I understand the men are making fine progress." Seeing Saunders coming out, George stepped aside just outside the door to let him pass, and they met face to face. The banker's sympathies were deeply touched by the dejected mien of the courageous young man, whom he had always liked. "Hello, George," he greeted him, cordially. "Your sister tells me you are thinking of pulling up stakes and moving West." "Yes, I think it is about the best thing for me, now, Mr. Saunders," George answered, gloomily. "I've given this thing a fair test. Perhaps out there among strangers I may have a change of luck. I can't make it go here. I'm a drawback to myself and everybody else. Even Dolly is upset by my troubles, and when she gives up things are bad, sure enough. You can't imagine how a fellow feels in my fix." "I think I can, George." Glancing back, Saunders noted that Dolly was looking straight at them. He put his hand on the young man's shoulder and let it rest there gently while he went on: "Still, George, I would not advise you to leave home. You see, here you are surrounded by old friends and relatives. Among total strangers the fight for success would be even harder, and I am afraid you'd be homesick for these old mountains. I have met a good many who have come back after a trial at farming out there. They all say this country is as good as any." "But I am actually at the end of my rope." George's voice shook afresh, and the shadow about his eyes deepened. "Has Dolly told you about Cross & Mayhew?" "Yes, and I'm sorry you ever got in with them. George, they are nothing more nor less than licensed thieves. Have you ever calculated how much they make out of you?" "Oh, I know their profit is big," George sighed, "but men of my stamp have to go to them when they need a stake to pull through on." "I have figured on their method," Saunders said, "and I am quite sure that they get as their part fully half of the earnings of their customers. It may interest you to know, George, that our bank lends that firm money at only seven or eight per cent., which they turn over to you at no less than fifty." "I see," George sighed; "the poor man has the bag to hold. Money makes money." "I have a plan in my head, George"--Saunders was somewhat embarrassed, and looked away from the dejected face before him--"which, it seems to me, might help both you and me in a certain way." "What is that?" George stared, wonderingly, his fine lips quivering. "To begin with, George, I think that your bad crop this season is due largely to the poor land you rented. I noticed it early in the year and was afraid you'd not accomplish much." "It was all I could get," George said. "I tried all around, but every other small farm either was to be worked by the owner or was rented already. It was root hog or die with me, Mr. Saunders." "You have seen the Warner farm, haven't you?" the banker inquired. "You bet I have!" George responded. "It is the prettiest small place in this valley." "Well, I bought it the other day for two thousand dollars," Saunders said. "Warner owed me some money, and I had to take the farm to secure myself. Things like that often come up in a bank, you know." "Well, you are safe in it, Mr. Saunders," George said. "You never could lose in a deal like that. It has a good house on it, and every foot of the land is rich. It has a fine strip of woodland, too." "I really have no use for the place," Saunders went on, more awkwardly. "If it adjoined my plantation I would like it better, but it is too far away for my manager to see it often. I want to sell it, and it struck me that if you could be persuaded to give up this Western idea maybe you could take it off my hands at what it cost me." "I? huh! That _is_ a joke, Mr. Saunders," George laughed. "If farms were going at ten cents apiece I couldn't buy a pig-track in a free mud-hole." "I wouldn't require the money down," Saunders went on, still clumsily. "In fact, I could give you all the time you wanted to pay for it. I know you are going to succeed--I know it as well as I know anything; and you ought to own your own place. I am willing to advance money for your supplies--and some to get married on, too. You and your sweetheart could be very snug in that little house." George stared like a man waking from a perplexing dream. His toil-hardened, sun-browned hands were visibly quivering, his mouth was open, his lower lip twitching. "You _can't_ mean it--you _can't_ be in earnest!" he gasped, leaning heavily against the door-jamb, actually pale with excitement. "Yes, I mean it, George." Saunders put his hand on the broad shoulder again. "And I hope you will take me up. You will be doing me a favor, you see. I lend money every day to men I don't trust half as much as I do you." At this juncture Dolly hurried down the aisle, a look of fresh anxiety on her face. "What is the matter, George?" she asked, eying her brother in surprise. "What has happened?" Falteringly and with all but sobs of elation, George explained Saunders's proposition. "Did you ever in your life think of such a thing?" he cried. "Dolly, I'm going to take him up. If he is willing to risk me I'll take him up. I'll work my fingers to the bone rather than see him lose a cent. I'm going to take him up--I tell you, Sis, I'm going to take him up!" Dolly said nothing. A glow of boundless delight suffused her face, rendering her unspeakably beautiful. Her eyes had a depth Saunders had never beheld before. He saw her round breast quiver and expand in tense agitation. She put her arm about her brother's neck and kissed him on the cheek. Then, without a word, her hand on her lips as if to suppress a rising sob, she turned back into the schoolhouse and, with head down, went to her desk, where she sat with her back to the door. "She's gone off to cry," George chuckled. "She's that way. She never gives up in trouble, but when she is plumb happy like she is now she can't hold in. Look, I told you so--she's wiping her eyes, dear, dear old girl. Now, I'm going to run over and tell Ida. Lord, Lord, Mr. Saunders, she'll be tickled to death! Just this morning I told her I was going away. Good-by; God bless you!" When George was gone Saunders stood at the door and wistfully looked in at Dolly. An impulse that was almost overpowering drew him to her, but he put it aside. "She wants to be alone," he reflected. "If I went now, feeling like this, I'd say something I ought not to say and be sorry I imposed on her at such a time. No, I will have to wait. I have waited all these years, and I can wait longer. To win I could wait to the end of time." Turning, he strode into the wood. Deeper and deeper he plunged, headed toward the mountain, feeling the cooling shade of the mighty trees, whose branches met and interlaced overhead. Reaching a mossy bank near a limpid stream, he threw himself down and gave himself up to reveries. CHAPTER V Mostyn took long solitary walks. His habit of morbid introspection had grown and become a fixed feature of his life. Even while occupied with business his secret self stood invisible at his elbow whispering, ever whispering things alien from material holdings or profit--matters unrelated to speculative skill or judgment. He had wandered into the suburbs of the city one afternoon, and, happening to pass an isolated cottage at the side of the road, he was surprised to see Marie Winship coming out. She smiled cordially, nodded, signaled with her sunshade, and hurried through the little gate toward him. He paused, turned, and stood waiting for her. He had not seen her, even at a distance, for nearly a year, and her improved appearance struck him forcibly. Her color was splendid, her eyes were sparkling and vivacious. She was perfectly groomed and stylishly attired. "Why, what are you doing away out here?" he asked, secretly and recklessly soothed by the sight of her, for in her care-free way she, at least, was a living lesson against the folly of taking the rebuffs of life too seriously. She smiled, holding out her gloved hand in quite the old way, which had once so fascinated his grosser senses. "Mary Long, my dressmaker, lives here." She glanced at him half chidingly from beneath her thick lashes. "I come all the way out here to save money. You think I am extravagant, Dick, but that is the sort of thing I have to do to make ends meet. Mary is making me a dream of a frock now for one-fourth of what your high and mighty _Frau_ would pay for it in New York." "Always hard up," Mostyn said. "You never get enough to satisfy you." She smiled coquettishly. "I was born that way," she answered. "My brother sends me money often. He has never forgotten how you and I got him out of that awful hole. He has gone into the wholesale whisky business and is doing well. He paid me back long ago." "And you blew it in, of course?" Mostyn said, lightly. "Yes, that's how I got that last New York trip," she nodded, merrily. "Dick, that was one month when I really _lived_. Gee! if life could only be like that I'd ask nothing more of the powers that rule; I certainly wouldn't." "But life can't possibly be like that," he returned, gloomily. "Even that would pall on you in time. I am older than you, Marie, and I know what I am talking about. We can go just so far and no farther." "Poof! piffle!" It was her old irresponsible ejaculation. "Life is what you make it. 'Laugh, and the world laughs with you.' Eat, drink, and be merry--that is my motto. But, say, Dick"--she was eying his face with slow curiosity--"what is the matter? You look like a grandfather. You are thin and peaked and nervous-looking. But I needn't ask--I know." "You know!" he repeated, sensitively. "I am working pretty hard for one thing, and--" "Poof!" She snapped her fingers. "You used to get fat on work. It isn't that, Dick, and you needn't try to fool me. I know you from the soles of your feet to the end of the longest hair on your head." He avoided her fixed stare. "I'm not making money as I did once. Many of my investments have turned out badly. I seem to have lost my old skill in business matters." "I was sure you would when you married," the woman said, positively; and he flinched under the words as under a lash. "A man of your independent nature can't sell himself and ever do any good afterward. You lost your pride in that deal, Dick, and pride was your motive power. You may laugh at me and think I am silly, but I am speaking truth." "You ought not to say those things," he said, resentfully. "I will say exactly what I like," she retorted, cold gleams flashing from her eyes. "You never cared a straw for that vain, stuck-up woman. Dick, I hate her--from the bottom of my soul, I despise her, and she knows it. Whenever I pass her she takes pains to sneer at me. For one thing, I hate her for the way she is treating you and your child. Dick, that boy is the sweetest, prettiest creature I ever saw, and not a bit like her. One day I passed your house when he happened to be playing outside the gate. His nurse neglects him. Automobiles were passing, and I was afraid he might get run over. No one was in sight, and so I stopped and warned him. I fell in love with the little darling. Oh, he is so much like you; every motion, every look, every tone of voice is yours over and over! He took my hand and thanked me like a little gentleman. I stooped down and kissed him. I couldn't help it, Dick. I have always loved children. I went further--the very devil must have been in me that day. I asked him which he loved more, you or his mother. He looked at me as if surprised that any one should ask such a question, and do you know what he answered?" "I can't imagine," Mostyn replied. "He is so young that--" "Dick, he said: 'Why, Daddy, of course. Daddy is good to me.'" A subtle force rising from within seized Mostyn and shook him sharply. He made an effort to meet the frank eyes bent upon him, but failed. He started to speak, but ended by saying nothing. "Yes, I hate her," Marie went on. "I hate her for the way she is acting." "The way she is acting?" The echo was a faint, undecided one, and Mostyn's eyes groped back to the wayward face at his side. "Yes, and it is town talk," Marie went on. "You know people in the lower and middle classes will gossip about you lucky high-flyers. They know every bit as much about what is going on in your set as you do. They can't have the fun you have, so they take pleasure in riddling your characters or talking about those already riddled. Dick, your wife's affair with Andy Buckton is mentioned oftener than the weather. People say he always loved her and, now that he is rich and rolling high, that he is winning out. Many sporting people that I know glory in his 'spunk,' as they call it. They are counting on a divorce as a sure thing." "Can they actually believe that--" Mostyn's voice failed him; but the woman must have read his thought, for she said, quickly: "Don't ask me what they think. I know what _I_ think, and I'll bet I know her through and through. She is reckless to the point of doing anything on earth that will amuse her. She is so badly spoiled she is rotten. I know how you are fixed--oh, I know! You can't kill him; you don't love her enough for that; and besides, you know you can't prove anything serious against her. Her married women friends go about with men, and for you to object would only make you ridiculous. They sneer at women like me, I know; but Lord, they can't criticize me! I am myself, that's all. I can be a friend, and I can be an enemy. I want to be your friend, Dick." "My friend?" he repeated, with an inaudible sigh drawn from the seething reservoir of his gloom. "Yes, and not only that, but I want to give you some good, solid advice." "Oh, you do?" He forced a smile of bland incredulity. "I will tell you what is the matter with you, and how to get out of it. Dick, you have let this thing get on your nerves, and it is hurrying you to the grave or the mad-house. I know you well enough to know that it is on your mind day and night. Now, there is one royal road, and if you'll take it the whole dirty business will slip off of you like water off a duck's back." "What is that road, Marie?" he asked, affecting a lighter mood than he felt. "Why, it is simply to do as they are doing. Plunge in and have a good time. You made all the money you ever made when you were living the life of a red-blooded, natural man. Marrying that woman has given you cold feet, and she knows it. Forget it all. Sail in and be glad you are alive. Look at me. Things have happened to me that would have finished many a woman, but I took a cocktail, won a game of poker, and was as chipper as if nothing out of the way had happened." "You don't understand, Marie," he said, with a bare touch of his old reckless elation. "That may be all right for you, but--" "Piffle! Dick, you are the limit. I can turn you square about and make you see straight. Think things are bad, and they will be so. Your wife and her fellow are having a good time; why shouldn't you? People who used to admire you think you are a silly chump, but they will come back to you if you show them that you are in the game yourself. I like you, Dick--I always have, better than any other man I know. Come to see me to-night, and let's talk it over." She saw him wavering, and laid her hand on his arm and smiled up at him in her old bewitching way. Some impulse surging up from the primitive depths of himself swayed him like a reed in a blast of wind. He touched the gloved hand with the tips of his fingers. The look beneath her sweeping lashes drew his own and held it in an invisible embrace. He pressed her hand. "You are a good girl, Marie," he muttered, huskily. "I know you want to help me, but--" "I am not going to take a refusal, Dick. I want to see you. I want you to take the bit in your teeth again. Come to see me to-night. I'll have one of our old spreads in my little dining-room. I'll sing and dance for you and tell you the funniest story you ever heard. I am going to expect you." There was a genuine warmth of appeal in her face. In all his knowledge of her she had never appeared to such an advantage. After all, her argument was reasonable and rational. A titillating sensation suffused his being. In fancy he saw the little dining-room, which adjoined her boudoir; he saw her at the piano, her white fingers tripping, as in the old days, over the keyboard; he heard her singing one of her gay and reckless songs; he saw her dainty feet tripping through the dance he so much admired. "You are coming, Dick," she said, confidently, withdrawing her hand and raising her sunshade. "I shall expect you by nine o'clock, sharp. I won't listen to a refusal or excuse. I shall have no other engagement." He hesitated, but she laughed in his face, her red lips parted in an entrancing smile. He caught a whiff of her favorite perfume, and his hot brain absorbed it like a delicious intoxicant. "I know you of old, Dick Mostyn. You used to say now and then that you had business that would keep you away, but you never failed to come when you knew _positively that I was waiting._ I am going to wait to-night, and if I don't make a new man of you I'll confess that I am a failure." "I really can't promise." He was looking back toward the smoke-clouded city, at the gray dome of the State Capitol. "I may come, and I may not, Marie. I can't tell. If I shouldn't, you must forgive me. It is kind of you to want to help me, and I appreciate it." "You are coming, Dick; that settles it." She smiled confidently. "Huh! as if I didn't know you! You are the same dear, old chap, ridden to death with silly fancies. Now, I'm going to run back and speak to Mary. I forgot something. She is all right. She won't talk even if she recognized you, which is doubtful, for she is a stranger here." Turning, he walked back toward the city. Already he was in a different mood; his step was more active; all of his senses were alert; his blood surged through his veins as if propelled by a new force. He saw some vacant lots across the street advertised for sale by a real estate-agent, and found himself calculating on the city's prospective growth in that direction. It might be worth his while to inquire the price, for he had made money in transactions of that sort. Returning to the bank, he found that the activity of the clerks and typewriters did not jar on him as it had been doing of late. He paused at Saunders's desk and made a cheerful and oddly self-confident inquiry as to the disposition of a certain customer's account, surprising his partner by his altered manner. In his office, smoking a good cigar, he found a new interest in the letters and documents left there for his consideration. After all, life _was_ a game. Even the early red men had their sport. Modern routine work without diversion was a treadmill, prisonlike existence. Delbridge was the happy medium. The jovial speculator had never heard of such a fine-spun thing as a conscience. What if Irene and Buckton were having their fun; could he not also enjoy himself? If the worst came, surely a man of the world, a stoical thoroughbred, who was willing to give and take a matrimonial joke would appear less ridiculous in the public eye than an overgrown crier over spilt milk. How queer that he had waited for Marie Winship to open his eyes to such a patent fact! All the remainder of the day he was buoyed up by this impulse. A man came in to see him about buying a new automobile, and he made an appointment with him to test the machine the next morning. It was said to be better and higher-priced than Buckton's. He might buy it. He might openly ride out with Marie. That would be taking the bull by the horns in earnest. He smiled as he thought that many would think his relations with Marie had never been broken, but had only been adroitly concealed out of respect for a wife who no longer deserved such delicate consideration. The town would talk; let them--let them! Its tongue was already active on one side of the matter; it should be fed with a morsel or two from the other. Richard Mostyn was himself again. CHAPTER VI Mostyn remained in his office till eight o'clock that evening, writing letters about an investment in the West which had been threatening loss. Closing his desk and lowering the lights, he decided to walk home and dress for his visit to Marie. The exercise in the fresh air made him more determined in his new move. A society man he knew drove past in a glittering tally-ho filled with young ladies. One of the men recognized him in the arc light swinging over the street and blew a playful blast at him from one of the long horns. The gay party whisked around a corner and disappeared. Reaching home and entering the gate, he saw his father-in-law striding back and forth on the veranda, and as he came up the walk the old man turned, pausing at the head of the steps. "Do you know where Irene is?" he inquired, pettishly. "I haven't the slightest idea." Mostyn's retort was full of almost genuine indifference. "I have quit keeping track of her ladyship." His new note of defiance was lost on Mitchell, who seemed quite disturbed. "I haven't seen her since breakfast," he said, complainingly. "I thought she had gone to some morning affair, but when lunch came and passed and no sign of her I thought surely she would be home to supper; but that's over, and she isn't here. Have you happened to see Andy Buckton about town to-day?" "No, I haven't," Mostyn answered, sharply. "I see your drift, sir, and your point is well taken. If you want to find your daughter, telephone around for Buckton. As for me, I don't care enough about it to bother." "You needn't sniff and sneer," Mitchell threw back, sharply. "You are as much to blame for the way things are going as she is. The devil is in you both as big as a house. Old-fashioned Southern ways are not good enough for you; having a little money has driven you crazy. Irene was all right, no new toy to play with till Buckton ran into that fortune, and now nothing will hold her down. She used to fancy she cared for him, and, now that he has plenty of funds, she is sure of it. The society of this town, sir, is rotten to the core. It is trying to be French, trying to imitate foreign nobility and the New York Four Hundred. I am not pitying myself; I'm not sorry for you, for you are a cold-blooded proposition that nothing can touch; but I _am_ pitying that helpless child of yours. I reckon you can turn in and sleep as sound as a log to-night, whether your wife comes home or not, but I can't." A sudden fear that little Dick might hear the rising old voice came over Mostyn, and he restrained the angry retort that throbbed on his lips. Ascending the steps, he went into his room to prepare for his visit. How odd, but the vengeful force of his contemplated retaliation had lessened! As he stood at his bureau taking out some necessary articles from a drawer he felt his old morbidness roll back over him like a wave. Was it Mitchell's petulant complaints of his daughter's conduct, or was it what he had said about his grandchild? It was the latter; Mostyn was sure of it, for all at once he had the overpowering yearning for the boy which had so completely dominated him of late. He dropped the articles back into the drawer and stood listening. Dick must be asleep by this time. But no, that was a voice from the direction of the nursery. It was the low tones of Hilda the nurse. "Now, go to sleep," she was saying. "You must stop rollin' an' tumblin' an' talkin'." "I know it _is_ my Daddy," the childish voice was heard saying. "He is in his room, and I want to sleep in his bed." "You _can't_ sleep in his bed," the nurse scolded. "You must be quiet and go to sleep." Mostyn crept across the room to the door and stood listening, holding his breath and trying to still the audible throbbing of his heart. He heard Dick sobbing. Pushing the door open, Mostyn looked into the room, feeling the gas-heated air beat back into his face as he did so. In the light at a small table the nurse sat sewing, and she glanced up. "What is Dick crying about?" he demanded. "Because he's bad," was the reply. "He's been bad all day. In all my born days I've never seen such a bothersome child. He began cryin' to go to the bank just after you left this mornin'. He made such a fuss that his mother had to whip 'im, but it didn't do 'im a bit o' good. He has been watchin' the gate for you all day, threatenin' to tell you. He doesn't care for nobody in the world but you--not even his grandfather. I reckon you've spoiled 'im, sir, pettin' 'im up so much." Mostyn crossed over to Dick's bed and looked down on the tear-marked face. The child's breast was spasmodically quivering with suppressed sobs. His lips were swollen; there was a red mark on the broad white brow, against which the locks lay like pliant gold. "What caused this?" Mostyn demanded, pointing to the spot. "It is where his mother slapped 'im this mornin'. She had to do it. He was cryin' an' kickin' an' wouldn't pay no 'tention to 'er. He kept up such a'sturbance that she couldn't dress to go out. He said he was goin' to the bank to tell you, an' he got clean down the street 'fore I saw 'im." The child was looking straight into Mostyn's eyes. To him the expression was fathomless. "What is the matter, Dick?" he asked. "I want my Daddy," the boy sobbed. "I don't like Hilda; I don't like mama; I don't like grandpa; I want to sleep in your room." "Not to-night, Dick." Mostyn touched the angry spot on the brow lightly and bent down lower. "I have to go out this evening. I have an engagement." The look of despair darkening the little flushed face went straight to the heart of the father, and yet he said: "You must go to sleep now. I must hurry. I have to dress. Good night." Mostyn went back to his bureau. The reflection of his face in the tilted mirror caught and held his attention. Could that harsh semblance of a man be himself? Various periods of his life flashed in separate pictures before him. Glimpses of his college days; this and that gay prank of irresponsible youth. Then came incidents of his first business ventures; his dealings with Jefferson Henderson stood out sharply. The old man's first intuitive fears of coming loss rang in his ears, followed by curses of helpless, astounded despair. One after another these things piled thick and fast upon him. He saw his first meeting with Marie; then that crisis, the transcendent uplift in the mountains, when for the first time in his life he actually reached for something beyond and above himself through the mediumship of Dolly Drake, that wonderful embodiment of the, for him, unattainable. He had lost out there. He had slipped at the foot of the heights up which she was leading him. He heard the gate-latch click, and old Mitchell's thumping tread on the veranda steps as he descended to meet some one. Going to a window and parting the curtains cautiously, Mostyn looked down on the walk. It was his wife. He saw her meet her father, but she did not slacken her brisk walk toward the house. "Where have you been all day?" the old man demanded, following behind. "I don't have to tell you," Irene answered. "You are driving me crazy with your eternal suspicions. If I keep on answering your questions you will never stop. Let me alone. You needn't watch me like a hawk. I am old enough to take care of myself." An inarticulate reply came up from the old man, and the next moment Mostyn heard Irene ascending the stairs. The door of her room opened and shut. Mostyn distinctly heard the turning of the key. He looked at his watch. It was half past eight. He would have to hurry to catch a car. He went back to the bureau. At this instant something happened. Hearing a low sound and looking in the glass, he saw a little white-robed figure creeping stealthily across the floor to his bed. He pretended not to see, and watched Dick as he softly crept between the sheets. Turning round, he caught the boy's sheepish stare, which suddenly became a look of grim, even defiant, determination. "Why did you come, Dick?" he asked, and as he spoke he crept toward the bed like a man in a dream drawn to some ravishing delight. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He caught the child's little hand in his own. The nerves of his whole yearning soul seemed centered in his fingers. "Daddy"--the boy hesitated; his words hung as if entangled in a fear of refusal--"let me stay in your bed till you come home. I am not afraid. I don't want to sleep in there with Hilda. I don't like her." Till he came home! The words seemed to sink into and surge back from the core of his accumulated remorse. Till he came home, perhaps near dawn, reeking with the odor of licentiousness--the very licentiousness he was praying that his child might not be drawn into. He put his hand on the little brow. He bent and kissed it. He felt his resistance falling away from him like the severed thongs of a prisoner. A force was entering him which mere flesh could not combat. He slid his hand under the child to raise him up, and felt the little body bound in surprised delight toward him. He pressed the soft form to his breast. He felt the keen pain of restrained emotion within him. Taking the boy in his arms, he sat down in a rocking-chair, holding him as a mother might an adored infant. "Do you want Daddy to rock you to sleep?" he asked. "Oh, will you, Daddy, will you?" "Yes." Mostyn stroked the soft cool legs caressingly and pressed the child's brow against his cheek. The boy was quiet for a moment; then his father felt him stir uneasily. "What is it now?" he inquired. "When I get to sleep what are you going to do with me?" Mostyn thought rapidly. "I'll put you in my bed," he said, slowly. Then he added, with firmness: "I'll go down to the library and read the papers, and then I'll come back and sleep with you. I shall not go away to-night." The child said nothing. He simply put both his arms about his father's neck, kissed him on the cheek, and cuddled up in his arms. CHAPTER VII One morning, during the middle of that week, as Saunders was on his way to the bank, he was surprised to meet Dolly coming out of one of the big dry-goods shops. She wore a new hat and an attractive linen dress he had never seen her wear before. She smiled and flushed prettily as she extended her hand. "You were not expecting to see this mountain greenhorn down here, were you?" she laughed. "As for me, I hardly know which end of me is up. I don't see how you can live in all this whizz, bustle, smoke, and dust." "I am wondering what miracle brought you," he answered. "Well, I'll tell you. It is simple enough when you know," Dolly smiled. "The rural schools of the State are holding a convention of teachers here. We meet at the Capitol at ten o'clock this morning. I'm a delegate, with all expenses paid. I represent our county. Isn't that nice? I feel like a big somebody. I was just wondering if the mayor will call on me. I think he ought to, but I really couldn't see him. My time is all occupied. They have asked me to make a talk. They've got me down for a few minutes' harangue, and I don't know more than a rat what I'll say. We are going to try for a State appropriation in our section, meet the members of the Legislature, and do some wire-pulling and lobby work." "And where are you going at this minute?" Saunders laughed, merrily. "I was headed for the Capitol," she smiled, "but I'm all turned around. I went in at the front of this store, but feel as if I had come out at the back." "I will go with you if you will let me," Saunders ventured. "But I'll be taking you from your business," she protested. "You must not feel called on to show me about. To be frank, that is the reason I didn't let you know I was coming. You can't afford to be nice to all your mountain friends. They would keep you busy jerking them from under cars and automobiles." "I have absolutely nothing to do," Saunders declared. "This is the way to the Capitol. We pass right by our bank, and I can show you where we hold forth." He saw a cloud fall over her face. "I'd rather not--not meet--" She did not finish what she started to say and bit her lip. "I understand," he answered, quickly. "He is not in town. He is spending the day in Augusta." "Oh!" she exclaimed, in a breath of relief. "You will think me silly, but I can't help it. I oughtn't to be so, but I dread it above all things. If I were to meet him face to face I wouldn't know what to say. It would be like seeing some one actually rise from the dead. I wouldn't think so much of my own feelings as--as his. Uncle John saw him in Rome not long ago. He says he has changed in looks--but let us not talk about him. It can't do a bit of good. He is unhappy--I know he is unhappy. I knew it would be so." An awkward silence fell between them. They had to cross a crowded street, and Saunders took her arm to protect her. He felt it quivering, and his heart sank in grave misgivings. He told himself that she would never care for any other man than Mostyn. She was the kind of woman who could love and trust but once in life, and was not changed by time or the weakness and faults of the beloved one. Saunders indicated the bank among the buildings across the street, and he saw a wistful look steal into her grave face as she regarded it steadily. "So that's the place where you men of affairs scheme, plan, and execute," she smiled. "It looks close and hot. Well, I couldn't stand it. I must have open air, sunshine, mountains, streams, and people--real, plain, honest, unpretending people." "I have made up my mind to quit," he returned. "I have been staying in the country so much of late that I cannot do without it. I intend to sell my interests here, and settle down on my plantation." "You will be wise," she said, philosophically. "Life is too short to live any other way than as close as possible to nature. All this"--she glanced up the busy street--"is madness--sheer madness. In the whole squirming human mass you could not show me one really contented person, while I can point to hundreds in the mountains. You are thinking about leaving it while my father is planning to come here. At his time of life, too. It is absurd, but he says it is the only thing open to him. I didn't tell you, but he came down with me. It is pitiful, for he is looking for work." "Oh, really, is it possible?" Saunders exclaimed, in surprise. "Why, I thought he was one man who would always stay in the country." Dolly sighed. "He has changed remarkably," she said, her face settling into almost pained gravity. "All at once he has become more ashamed of his condition than he ever was in his life. He is in debt to personal friends and has no way of paying them. He used to make money moonshining, but he has quit that, and doesn't seem able to make our poor farm pay at all. The storekeepers won't credit him, and he has become desperate. He is trying to get a job at carpenter work, but he will fail, for he can't do that sort of thing. Indirectly, George is the cause of his sudden determination." "George? Why, I thought--" "It is this way," Dolly went on, quickly. "You see, through your kindness George is so happy, is doing so well, and there is so much talk about his good luck that it has made my father realize his own shortcomings more keenly. Don't you bother; it is a good lesson for him; he has not been doing right, and he knows it. It is odd, isn't it, to see a man mortified by the success of his own son? In one way I am sorry for father, and in another I am not. Ann is trying to get a teacher's place in a school, and if she does, between us we may be able, for mother's sake, to keep father at home. Somehow, it makes me sad to think of his being in this hot town tramping about asking for work as a day-laborer, and yet I know it will be good for him. Mother cried pitifully when we left this morning, and he was the most wretched-looking man I ever saw. I don't care if he does suffer--_some_--but I don't like to see my mother sad. Do you know, that poor woman has had nothing but sorrow as her portion all her married life? First one thing and then another has come up to depress and dishearten her. At first it was father's drinking; then he quit that, and became a moonshiner in constant danger of arrest; and now he has left home to try his fortune among total strangers." "It is sad; indeed, it is," Saunders said, sympathetically. "And the worst of it is that it troubles you, Dolly. You speak of your mother's hard lot. As I see it, you, yourself, have had enough trouble to kill a dozen girls of your age." "Oh, I am all right! That is the Capitol, isn't it?" she added, as in turning a corner they came in sight of the vast stone building with its graceful, gray dome, standing on the grassy, low-walled grounds. He nodded, and she ran on with a rippling laugh of self-depreciation. "Think of this silly country yap making a speech in that big building before the Governor, State senators, principals of schools, and no telling who else! Why, I'll want to sink through the floor into the basement. Do you know, when I was a little tiny thing playing with rag dolls and keeping house with broken bits of china for plates and stones for tables and chairs, I used to fancy myself growing up and being a great lady with servants and carriages; but that was crawling on the earth compared to this sky-sweeping stunt to-day. But if they call on me I'll go through with it in some shape or die." "Is the meeting to be public?" Saunders asked. "Because if it is I should like to be present." He saw her start suddenly. She looked down at the pavement for a moment; then she gave him a glance full of perturbation, laying her hand on his arm impulsively. "Jarvis--oh, I didn't mean to call you that!" The color ran in a flood to her face. "It was a slip of the tongue. I _do_ call you that in my thoughts, for--for so many at home do, you know." "I should like nothing better than to have you do it always," he heard himself saying; but the sight of her clouded face checked the words which packed upon his utterance. "Oh, I could never be as bold as that," she put in quickly. "You said you would like to go to the meeting. It _is_ public, but I am going to ask you a favor, and I never was so much in earnest in my life. Do you know, I think I could get through that speech better if not a soul was in the audience that I ever saw before. I would rather have you there than any one else, for I know you would be sympathetic, but I want to face it absolutely alone. I can't tell why I feel so, but it is a fact." "I can understand it," Saunders answered. "I had to make a speech at a convention of bankers once, and the fact that I was a total stranger to them all made the task easier. But when are you going back home?" "To-morrow at twelve," she said. "And this evening?" he inquired. "There is to be a reception given us at the Governor's mansion." Dolly shrugged her shoulders. "Somebody is to take us all from the hotel in a bunch. I have a new dress for it. That will be another experience, but, as it comes after my speech, I am not even thinking of it." "Then I'll see you at the train in the morning," Saunders said. "I want to get the news of your speech. I am confident that you will acquit yourself beautifully. You can't fail. It isn't in you." They had reached the steps of the Capitol. A number of women and men were entering, and Dolly turned to join them. "That's some of my crowd," she smiled. "Can't you tell by the way they stare and blink, like scared rabbits? The men's clothes look as if they still had the price-tags on them--regular hand-me-downs. Good-by; I'll see you at the train." CHAPTER VIII That afternoon, in coming from a lawyer's office, Saunders saw Tom Drake standing in the crowd which was always gathered at the intersection of Whitehall and Marietta streets. Falling back unobserved into a tobacconist's shop on the corner, the young man looked out and watched the mountaineer. With hands in his pockets, Drake stood eying the jostling human current, a disconsolate droop to his lank form, a far-off stare in his weary eyes. "He has tried and given up already," Saunders reflected. "Dolly knows him better than he knows himself. This is no place for a man like him. He is homesick, poor chap! He counts himself the most unfortunate man on earth, and yet he is the most blessed, for he is her father. How can he look at her, hear her voice, and not burn with triumphant pride? Her father! If I only dared, I'd treat him as I'd treat my own father, but she would resent it. It would hurt her feelings. I have to consider her. She didn't quite like what I did for George; but, no matter, I'm going to speak to him." Therewith Saunders skirted the thickest part of the surging mass and suddenly came upon Drake, who, in order to be out of the way of pedestrians with more purpose than himself, had stepped back against the wall of the building. Their eyes met. Drake's wavered sheepishly, but he took the hand cordially extended, and made an effort to appear at ease. "I saw Dolly this morning," Saunders began. "She told me you came down with her." "Yes, I thought--I thought I might as well." Drake's lips quivered. "I reckon she told you that I am sorter strikin' out on a new line?" "She said something about it." Saunders felt that the topic was a delicate one. "I hope you are finding an--an opening to your liking." Drake was chewing tobacco, and he spat awkwardly down at his side. There was a certain timidity in the man for one so bold as he had been in his own field of life among rough men of crude acts and habits. "I've looked about some," he said, a flush creeping into his tanned cheeks. "I've been to the machine-shops and to two or three contractin' carpenters. They all said they was full up with hands--men waitin' on their lists for times to improve. Buildin' is slow right now, an' expert hands already on the spot get the pick of the jobs. Machinery is stealin' the bread out of the workin'-man's mouth. A machine takes the place of twenty men in many cases." "I see, I see," Saunders said. "The country, after all, is the best place for a man brought up on a farm." Drake, thrown off his guard, sighed openly. "I reckon you are right," he agreed. "To tell you the truth, Saunders, I don't think I'm goin' to land anything on this trip, and it makes a feller feel sorter sneakin' to go back empty-handed. I put my judgment up against all the rest. George, Dolly, and her mother, an' even John Webb, tried to get me to listen to their advice, but not me! Oh no, I was runnin' it! I reckon I'm bull-headed. Le'me tell you some'n'. I'd go back an' hire out to George as a day-laborer if I didn't have more pride than brains. He needs hands. He told me so. You are makin' a man out o' him, Saunders, an' I want to thank you." "What have you got to do just now?" Saunders asked. "Couldn't you go to the bank with me?" Drake hesitated. His color deepened. He avoided Saunders's tentative gaze. "I reckon I won't, to-day, anyway," he faltered. "I never was much of a hand to hang about big places o' business." "Then suppose we step into the lobby of the Kimball House; it is close by," Saunders suggested. "There are some seats there, and we could sit down for a few minutes. The truth is, I want to ask your advice about my plantation. You are better posted up there than I can be, staying here as much as I do." "Oh, that's different!" A look of relief swept over the rugged face. "I only wish I could help you some, no matter how little. You did me the biggest favor once that ever one man did another. When you jerked me back from the train that night and forced me to behave myself you saved me from no end o' shame an' trouble. La, me! I've thought of that a thousand times." "Don't mention it." Saunders was touched by the deep surge of gratitude in the despondent voice. "If I had not been a great friend of yours and of your family, I would not have dared to act as I did. But that is past and gone." "Not with me--a thing like that never passes with me," Drake answered, as they crossed the street and entered at the side door of the hotel. They found some unoccupied chairs in a quiet part of the big office. The clerks behind the counter were busy assigning rooms to a throng of passengers from an incoming train. A dozen negro porters and bell-boys were rushing to and fro. The elevators were busy. The tiled floor resounded with the scurrying of active feet. Saunders saw the mountaineer watching the scene with the lack-luster stare he had caught in his eyes a few minutes before. "You said you wanted to ask me something about your place," Drake suddenly bethought himself to say. "Yes, it is like this. You know my manager, Hobson, of course?" "Yes, pretty well," Drake made reply, slowly. "That is, as well as any of us mountain men do. He never has been much of a chap to mix with other folks. To tell you the truth, most of us think he is stuck up. Well, I reckon he has a right to be. He gets darn good wages. Nobody knows exactly what he makes, but it is reported that you give 'im fifteen hundred a year. He has saved most of it, and has turned his pile over till there isn't any telling how much the feller is worth." "Yes, I am paying him fifteen hundred," Saunders said, lowering his voice into one of confidential disclosure. "I want to talk to you about him, and I know you will help me if you can. He has, as you say, laid up money, and he has recently established a warehouse business at Ridgeville. For the last month he has scarcely been at my plantation half a dozen times." "I noticed that," Drake said, "but he told me that he had it fixed so that he could be at both places often enough to keep things in shape. He is a good business man, and I reckon he will do what he contracts." "But I am not at all satisfied as it is," Saunders answered. "I am thinking of disposing of my bank interest and settling down up there for good, and I'd like to have a manager with whom I can be in touch every day. I am interested in farming myself, and I don't want my manager to have too many irons in the fire. The trouble with Hobson is that he is now giving his best thought and energy to his own business." "I see," Drake said. "Well, that's accordin' to human nature, I reckon. They say Hobson speculates in grain an' cotton, an' when a feller gets to playin' a game as excitin' as that it is hard for 'im to get down to humdrum matters." Saunders linked his hands across his knee, and looked down at the floor for a moment in silence. He seemed to be trying to formulate something more difficult to express than what he had already touched upon. "The truth is," he plunged, suddenly--"just between you and me, in confidence, I was compelled to speak to him about the matter the other day; and, to my surprise, he told me bluntly that as he was now placed he would not care to give full time to the management of my affairs. He has his sights pretty high. He is making money rapidly, and he feels independent." "Good Lord! You don't mean that he would throw up the job?" Drake exclaimed, in astonishment. "He's a fool, a stark, starin' fool. Why, I never heard o' the like! It is by all odds the best berth in our county." "He is to quit on the first of next month," Saunders said, "and that is what I want to see you about. The truth is that--well, I've had _you_ in mind for some time, and I was rather disappointed when I heard you were thinking of getting work down here. You are the very man I want for the place, if you will do me the favor of accepting it." The stare of astonishment in the eyes of the mountaineer became a fixed glare of almost childlike incredulity. So profound was his surprise that he was unable to utter a word. His hand, suddenly quivering as with palsy, went to his tobacco-stained lips and stayed there for a moment. Then his imprisoned voice broke loose. "You can't mean that, Jarvis--you can't, surely you can't!" "Yes, I do," Saunders responded, drawn into the other's emotional current. "I want a man who is popular with the people, and you have hundreds of friends. If--if you accept I'd like for you to remain here in Atlanta for a week at least, to help me buy some implements and supplies." "_If_ I accept--_if!_" Drake laughed at the sheer absurdity of the word. "Do I look like a fool? Just now I was ready to go back home, ashamed to look my family in the face because I couldn't find work at a dollar a day, and my board to pay out of it, and now--now--" The voice faltered and broke. "Well, it is settled, then," Saunders said, in relief. "As far as I am concerned, it is." Drake cleared his husky throat. "I know the sort of work you want done up there, and I can do it. I can get as much out of hands as anybody else, and you sha'n't lose by it; by God, you sha'n't!" "Well, come to see me at the bank in the morning." Saunders rose. "You've taken a load off my shoulders. I was worried about it." CHAPTER IX The next morning, as Saunders sat at breakfast in the cafe of his club scanning the morning paper, his attention was fixed by the big-typed head-lines of a report of the school convention at the Capitol. The details and object of the meeting were given in only a few sentences, the main feature of the article being a sensational account of the brilliant speech of a young woman delegate in support of the bill before the Legislature favoring a much-needed appropriation for schools among the poor mountaineers. The paper stated that the youthful beauty, vivacity, and eloquence of the speaker, the daughter of a Confederate veteran, had roused an enthusiasm seldom witnessed in the old State House. She was introduced by the Governor, who was chairman of the meeting, and fully three-fourths of the members of the Senate and the House were present. Miss Drake's speech was a rare combination of originality, humor, arid pathos. Her aptitude at anecdote, her gift for description and dialect had fairly astounded her audience. The applause was so constant and persistent that the brave young speaker had difficulty in pursuing her theme. And when it was over the members of the House and the Senate had pressed forward to congratulate her and pledge their support to the bill in question. Such a complete acceptance of any single measure had never been known before in the history of Georgia politics. Following this account was the report of the reception to the convention of teachers at the Executive Mansion, which had been largely attended owing to the desire of many to see and meet the young heroine of the day. Saunders read and reread the article, in his excitement neglecting his breakfast and forgetting his morning cigar. "God bless her!" he chuckled. "She is a brick. Put her anywhere on earth, against any odds, and she will win!" When the hour approached for her train to leave he went down to the big station to see her off, finding her alone in the waiting-room looking quite as if nothing unusual had happened, though he thought he noticed a slight shade of uneasiness on her face. "Anything gone wrong?" he inquired, anxious to help her if she needed assistance. "I haven't seen my father," she answered. "You see, he went to a boarding-house. Rooms were in such demand that he didn't go with me and the other delegates to the hotel. Then, he had determined to economize as much as possible. I thought he would come around this morning, anyway. I don't want to go back home without seeing him; my mother would simply be wild with uneasiness." "You have several minutes yet," Saunders answered. "He will be apt to turn up." Therewith Saunders began to smile. "Have you read the morning papers?" "I haven't had time to read them carefully," Dolly declared. "Several of the men teachers sent copies up to my room before I came down for breakfast. The teachers had a lot to say about me and my talk. Really, I feel like a goose, and mean, too. It looks as if I thought I was the whole show. Why, there were women in the convention old enough to be the mothers of girls like me, and with a hundred times as much sense." "But you turned the trick!" Saunders cried, enthusiastically. "You did more with that speech than a dozen conventions of men and women could have done. You hit the nail square on the head. You won. The bill will pass like a flash. It is a foregone conclusion." "Oh, I wish I could think so," Dolly cried, hopefully, her fine eyes beaming. Then she began to smile reminiscently. "That was the strangest experience I ever had in all my born days. Talk about the debates we used to have in our club; they were simply not in it! When they put me up there on that platform, side by side with the Governor of the State and three senators, and they were all so nice and polite, I was scared to death. My tongue was all in a knot, and I was as cold as if I had my feet in ice-water. Then when the Governor introduced me with all those compliments about my looks, and I had to stand up and begin, I give you my word, Jarvis, that big stone building, solid as it was, was rocking like a cradle. Every seat, from the front to the back, had a man or a woman in it, but I didn't see a single face. They were all melted together in one solid mass-and quiet! Why, it was so still that I heard my mouth click when I opened it to catch my breath. _It was simply awful._ I remember thinking I would pray for help if I had time, but I didn't have time for anything. It was lucky I thought about beginning with a funny tale, for when they all laughed and clapped I felt better. Then I forgot where I was. There were some young men reporters at a table right under my feet, and they kept laughing in such a friendly, good-natured way that I found myself talking to them more than any of the rest. The audience really made it easier for me, for while they were applauding I had a chance to think of something else to say. I found out the sort of thing they liked, and piled it on thick and heavy. And when I sat down and they all packed round me to shake hands, I was more surprised than I ever was in my life." "It was the hit of the day," Saunders replied. "It was as great a success in its way as the speech of Henry W. Grady at the New England banquet. I am proud of you, Dolly. You will let me say that, won't you?" "If you really mean it." She raised her eyes frankly to his, and a flush of gratification suffused her sweet face. "I would not like to be an utter failure on my first visit to your city. I didn't want you to hear my speech, but I do wish I had asked you to that reception. It was nice. I can see now what you all find in social things. It was like a dream to me--the music, the lights, the jewels, the dresses, the flowers, the brilliant talk, the courtesy of men, and--yes, the congratulations and compliments. I did like to have so many say they liked my speech--I really did. I almost cried over it." "You shall have them all." Saunders restrained the words which throbbed on his lips. "Be my wife, little girl, and I'll gratify your every desire." She was looking into his eyes, and he glanced aside, fearing that she might read his thoughts. "I wish I could have gone," was all he said. "I should have enjoyed your triumph immensely." "It won't spoil me--don't think that." He heard her sigh and saw a slight cloud pass over her face. "I am young in years, but I have had my share of suffering. You are almost the only one who knows my great secret. It makes me feel very close to you, Jarvis. You made it easier for me to bear when you helped me hide it on the night you prevented my father from making my humiliation public. That was good of you--good and brave and thoughtful." "My God, she still loves him!" Saunders thought, with a pang which permeated his whole being. "His very weakness has made him dearer. She never has a word to say against him." Saunders was trying to make some sort of outward response when he saw Dolly start suddenly, her eyes on the doorway. "I see my father. Oh, I'm glad, for now I can find out what he intends to do. I see him looking for me. Wait; I'll run over to him." Saunders watched her graceful figure as it glided through the crowd to Drake's side. He saw the mountaineer turn a face full of pride and contentment upon his daughter; and Saunders knew, from her rapt expression, that he was telling her of his good fortune. The watcher saw Dolly put her hand in a gesture of tender impulsiveness on her father's arm, and stand eagerly listening, and yet with a frown on her face. A moment later they came toward him. Dolly was regarding him with a steady, almost cold stare. Was it vague displeasure? Was it wounded pride? Surely his act was contrary to her wishes, for she made no immediate reference to it. "Well," Drake said, "if you are goin' to put 'er on the train, I'll tell 'er good-by now. There's a feller waitin' for me at the front. Tell your mother, daughter, that I'll be up in a week or so. So long." Drake was not a man given to embraces of any sort, and he was turning away when Dolly stopped him. "Kiss me, father," she said, raising her face to his; and, with a sheepish laugh, the mountaineer complied. "She's like all the balance, Jarvis," he said, lightly. "They believe in things bein' done to the letter. You will be at the bank after a while, won't you?" "Yes, as soon as the train leaves," Saunders, answered. Then he heard the porter announcing Dolly's train, and he took up her bag. She was silent as they walked along the pavement and down the iron stairs to the car, where he found a seat for her. Only a few minutes remained, and the feeling was growing on him that she was quite displeased with the arrangement he had made with her father. How could he part with her like that? The days of doubt and worry ahead of him as a consequence of what he had done seemed unbearable. "Did your father mention the plan he and I--" "Yes," she broke in, tremulously; "he told me all about it, Jarvis, and--and I want to ask you a question. I want you to be frank with me. I don't want the slightest evasion to--to save me from pain. I can't go up home without knowing the full truth. You are so--so kind and thoughtful, always wanting to--to do _me_ some favor and aid _me_ that--Oh, Jarvis, I want to know this: Do you think my father is capable of filling that place as it ought to be filled?" Saunders was sitting on the arm of the seat in front of her. The car was almost empty, no one being near. He bent forward and laid his hand on her arm. "He is the very man I want," he declared. "The work is not difficult; he is so popular with the average run of men that he will make a far better manager than Hobson, or any one else I could get." He heard her catch her breath. He saw a light of joy dawn in her eyes. "If only I could believe that, Jarvis," she said, "I would be the happiest girl in all the world. I would--I would--I would." "Then you may be," he answered, huskily, his emotions all but depriving him of utterance. "He is doing _me_ a favor, Dolly. Of all men he is the first I would select." The bell of the locomotive was ringing. Saunders stood up, now clasping the hand she held out. He felt her timid fingers cling to his. Her blood and his throbbed in unison. Looking into her eyes, he saw that they were full of tears. He remembered how she had kissed his hand on the night he had prevented her father from going to Atlanta, and as he hurried from the slowly moving car he was like a man groping through a maze of doubt and bewildering fears. She could feel and show gratitude, he told himself, but a heart such as hers could never be won twice to actual love. It is said that suffering deepens character, and it was perhaps the fall of her ideal which had made her the heroic marvel she was. Mostyn still loved her in secret; of that Saunders had little doubt, for how could a man once embraced by such a creature ever forget it? And Dolly suspected the man's constancy and had no room for aught but secret responsiveness. But no matter, he would still be her watchful and attentive friend. He had helped her to-day in the midst of her triumph, and he would help her again and again. To serve her unrewarded would have to suffice. CHAPTER X One morning, a week or so later, Mostyn found a note from Marie Winship in his mail. It was brief and to the point. It ran: DEAR DICK,-I am going to leave Atlanta for good and all, never to bother you again (believe me, this is the truth), but I want to see you to explain in full. I shall be at my dressmaker's in the morning after ten. Please walk out that way. I shall see you from the window, and you won't have to come in. Don't refuse this last request. This is not a "hold-up"; I don't intend to ask for money. I only want to say good-by and tell you something. My last effort to get you to come to see me proved to me how altered you are. MARIE. Mostyn turned the matter over in his mind deliberately, and finally decided that he would comply with the request. It rang true, and there was comfort in the assurance that she was about to leave Atlanta, for her presence and instability of mood had long been a menace to his peace of mind. At the hour mentioned he found himself somewhat nervously nearing the cottage in question. She was prompt; he saw her standing at a window, and a moment later she came out and joined him. "Let's walk down toward the woods," she suggested, with a smile which lay strangely on her piquant features. "It will look better than standing like posts on the sidewalk." He agreed, wondering now, more than ever, what she had to say. She had barely touched his hand in salutation, and bore herself in a sedate manner that was all but awkward. They soon reached a shaded spot quite out of sight of any of the scattered residences in the vicinity, and she sat down on the grass, leaving him the option of standing or seating himself by her. "You are wondering what on earth I've got up my sleeve"--she forced a little laugh--"and well you may wonder, Dick, for I am as big a mystery to myself as I could possibly be to any one else." "I was wondering if you really do intend to leave Atlanta," he answered, sitting down beside her. "You seemed very positive about it in your note." "Yes, I am going, Dick; but that is not the _main_ thing. Dick, I'm going to be married." "Married!" he exclaimed. "Are you joking?" "I suppose you do regard it as a joke," she said, listlessly, and with a little sigh. "Such a serious step would seem funny in me, wouldn't it? But I am not what I used to be, Dick. I have been quite upset for a long time--in fact, ever since you married. Then again, your life, your ways, your constant brooding has had a depressing effect on me. Dick, it seems to me that you have been trying to--well, to be good ever since you married." He shrugged his shoulders. "What is the use of talking about that, Marie?" he asked, avoiding her probing stare. "It affected me a lot," she returned, thoughtfully. "I tried to keep up the old pace and care for the old things, but your turn about was always before me. Dick, you have puzzled me all along. You do not care a snap for your wife; what is it that makes you look like a ghost of your old jolly self?" He shrank from her sensitively. "I really don't like to talk about such things," he faltered. "Tell me about your marriage." "Not yet; one thing at a time." She dropped her sunshade at her feet and locked her white hands over her knee. "I shall never see you again after to-day, Dick, and I _do_ want to understand you a little better, so that when I look back on our friendship you won't be such a tantalizing mystery. Dick, you never loved me; you never loved your wife; but you _have_ loved some one." He lowered his startled glance to the ground. She saw a quiver pass over him and a slow flush rise in his face. "What are you driving at?" he suddenly demanded. "All this is leading nowhere." She smiled in a kindly, even sympathetic way. "It can't do any harm, Dick, for, really, what I have found out has made me sorry for you for the first time in my life--genuinely and sincerely sorry." "What you have found out?" he faltered, half fearfully. "Yes, and it doesn't matter how I discovered it, but I did. I happened to stay for a week at a little hotel in Ridgeyille last month, and a slight thing I picked up about your stay up there five years ago gradually led me on to the whole thing. Dick, I saw Dolly Drake one day on one of my walks. One look at her and the whole thing became plain. You loved her. You came back here with the intention of marrying her and leading a different life. You would have done it, too, but for my threats and your partial engagement to your wife. You went against your true self when you married, and you have never gotten over it." He was unable to combat her assertions, and simply sat in silence, an expression of keen inner pain showing itself in his drawn lips. "See how well I have read you!" she sighed. "I always knew there was something unexplained. You would have been more congenial with your wife but for that experience. You are to blame for her dissatisfaction. Not having love from you, she is leaning on the love of an old sweetheart. Dick, that pretty girl in the mountains would have made you happy. I read the article about her in the paper the other day. From all accounts, she is a remarkable woman, and genuine." Mostyn nodded. "She _is_ genuine," he admitted. "Well, now you know the truth. But all that is past and gone. You forget something else." "No, I don't," she took him up, confidently. "You are thinking of your boy." Again he nodded. "Love for a woman is one thing, Marie, but the love for one's own child passes beyond anything else on earth." "Yes, when the child is loved as you love yours, and when you fancy that he is being neglected, and that you are partly responsible for it. Oh, Dick, you and I both are queer mixtures! I may as well be frank. Your struggles to make amends have had their effect on me. For a long time I have not been satisfied with myself. I used to be able to quiet my conscience by plunging into pleasure, but the old things no longer amuse. That is why I am turning over a new leaf. Dick, the man I am to marry knows my life from beginning to end. He is a good fellow--a stranger here, and well-to-do. My brother sent him to me with a letter of introduction. He has had trouble. He was suspected of serious defalcation, and the citizens of his native town turned against him. All his old ties are cut. He likes me, and I like him. I shall make him a true wife, and he knows it. I am going to my brother in Texas and will be married out there. Dick, I shall, perhaps, never see you again, but, frankly, I shall not care. I want to forget you as completely as you will forget me. I only wish I were leaving you in a happier frame of mind. You are miserable, Dick, and you are so constituted that you can't throw it off." "No, I can't throw it off!" His voice was low and husky. "I won't mince words about it. Marie, I am in hell. I know how men feel who kill themselves. But I shall not do that." "No, that would do no good, Dick. I have faced that proposition several times, and conquered it. The only thing to do is to hope--and, Dick, I sometimes think there is something--a _little_ something, you know--in praying. I believe there is a God over us--a God of _some_ sort, who loves even the wrong-doers He has created and listens to their cries for help now and then. But I don't know; half the time I doubt everything. There is one thing certain. The humdrum church-people, whom we used to laugh at for their long faces and childish faith, have the best of the game of life in the long run. They have--they really have." He tried to blend his cold smile with hers, but failed. He stood up, and, extending his hand, he aided her to rise. "This is good-by, then, forever," he said. "Marie, I think _you_ are going to be happy." "I don't know, but I am going to try at least for contentment," she said, simply. "There is always hope, and you may see some way out of your troubles." Quite in silence they walked back to the cottage gate, and there, with a hand-shake that was all but awkward, they parted. He tipped his hat formally as he turned away. Ahead of him lay the city, a dun stretch of roofs and walls, with here and there a splotch of green beneath a blue sky strewn with snowy clouds. He had gone only a few paces when he heard the whirring sound of an automobile, which was approaching from the direction of the city. It was driven by a single occupant. It was Andrew Buckton. Mostyn saw the expression of exultant surprise that he swept from him to Marie, and knew by Buckton's raised hat that he had seen them together. The car sped on and vanished amid the trees at the end of the road. Looking back, Mostyn saw that Marie was lingering at the gate. He knew from the regretful look in her face that she was deploring the incident; but, simply raising his hat again, he strode on. All the remainder of the morning he worked at his desk. He tried to make himself feel that, now that Marie was leaving, his future would be less clouded; but with all the effort made, he could not shake off a certain clinging sense of approaching disaster. Was he afraid that Buckton would gossip about what he had just seen, and that the public would brand him afresh with the discarded habits of the past? He could not have answered the question. He was sure of nothing. He lunched at his club, smoked a dismal cigar with Delbridge and some other men, and heard them chatting about the rise and fall of stocks as if they and he were in a turbulent dream. They appeared as marvels to him in their unstumbling blindness under the overbrooding horrors of life, in their ignorance of the dark, psychic current against which he alone was battling. All the afternoon he toiled at the bank, and at dusk he walked home. No one was about the front of the house, and he went up to his room. He had bathed his face and hands, changed his suit, and was about to descend the stairs when his father-in-law came tottering along the corridor and paused at the open door of the room. "This is a pretty come-off," he scowled in at Mostyn. "Here you come like this as if nothing out of the way had happened, when your wife has packed up and gone off for another trip. She said she was going to write you--did you get a note?" "No; where has she gone?" Mostyn inquired. "She didn't even mention it to me." "One of her sudden notions. The Hardys at Knoxville are having a big house-party, and wrote her to come. I tried to get her to listen to reason, but she wouldn't hear a word. She is actually crazy for excitement--women all get that way if you give them plenty of rein, and Irene has been spoiled to death. I have never seen her act as strange as she did to-day. She cried when I talked to her, and almost went into hysterics. She gave the servants a lot of her clothes, and kept coming to me and throwing her arms around me and telling me to forgive her for this and that thing I forgot long ago. When she started for the train I wanted to go with her or telephone you, but she wouldn't let me do either--said I was too feeble, and she did not want to bother you. Say, do you know I'm to blame? I had no right to influence you and her to marry, nohow. You have never suited each other--you don't act like man and wife. You might as well be two strangers hitched together. Something is wrong, awfully wrong, but I can't tell what it is." Mostyn made no reply. He heard little Dick's voice in the hall below, and had a sudden impulse to take him up. Leaving him, old Mitchell passed on to his own room, and Mostyn went down the stairs to the child, who was playing on the veranda. "Poor child! Poor child!" he said to himself. CHAPTER XI The next morning at the bank a financial disappointment met him. A telegram informed him of the sudden slump in some stocks in which he was interested. The loss was considerable, and the tendency was still downward. He was wondering if he ought to confide this to Saunders, when his partner, of his own accord, came into his office and sat down by his desk. "Busy just now?" Saunders inquired. "No; what is it?" Mostyn returned. "Fire away." Saunders seemed to hesitate. Through the partition came the clicking of a typewriter and an adding-machine, the swinging of the screened door in front. "It is a somewhat personal matter," Saunders began, awkwardly. "I have been wanting to mention it for a month, but hardly knew how to bring it up. You may know, Mostyn, that I have been thinking of giving up business here altogether. I have become more and more interested in my farming ventures, and my life in the country has taken such a grip on me that I want to quit Atlanta altogether." "Oh, I see." Mostyn forced a smile. "I thought you would get to that before long. You are becoming a regular hayseed, Saunders. You are like a fish out of water here in town. Well, I suppose you want to put a man in your place so you will have freer rein in every way." "Not that, exactly, Mostyn. The fact is, I want to realize on my bank stock. There are other things I'd like to invest in, and I need the money to do it with. I am planning a cotton-mill in my section to give employment to a worthy class of poor people." Mostyn drew his lips tight. He stabbed a sheet of paper on the green felt before him, and there was a rebellious flash from his eyes. "Come right out and be frank about it," he said, with a touch of anger. "Are you afraid your investment in this bank is not a safe one?" Saunders looked steadily at him. "That certainly is not a businesslike question, Mostyn, and you know it." "Perhaps it isn't, but what does it matter?" Mostyn retorted. "At any rate, that is a shrewd evasion of the point. Well, do you want to sell _me_ your stock?" "I would naturally give you the preference, and that is why I am mentioning it to you." Mostyn sat frowning morbidly. There was a visible droop to his shoulders. "There is no use having hard feelings over it," he said, dejectedly. "You have a right to do as you please with your interests. But the truth is, I am not financially able to take over as big a block of stock as you hold." Saunders hesitated for a moment, then began: "I was wondering if Mr. Mitchell--" "Leave him out of consideration, for God's sake," Mostyn broke in. "He has grown horribly suspicious of me. He would have a regular spasm if you tried to sell to him. He would be sure we are on the brink of failure, and talk all over town. Don't mention it to him." "And you say you are not in a position to--" "No; many things have gone against me recently, but that needn't bother you. You can find a buyer." "I have already found one, and the offer is satisfactory." Saunders glued his glance to the rug at his feet. "In fact, I have been approached more than once, Delbridge wants to buy me out." "Delbridge!" Mostyn started. His lips parted and his teeth showed in a cold grimace. "Ah, I see his game!" "I don't understand," Saunders said, wonderingly. "Well, I do, if you don't. I suspected something was in the wind last month when he took over Cartwright's stock at such a good figure. Do you know if he gets your stock that he will hold a larger interest than mine?" "I hadn't thought of it." "I see his plan plainly. He wants to be the president of this bank, and he can elect himself if he buys you out. He has always wanted exactly this sort of thing to back up his various schemes. You must give me a little while to think it over, Saunders. I don't like to give in to him. He has always fought me, you know, and this would be a feather in his cap. Perhaps I can induce some one else to make the investment." "Take all the time you want," Saunders answered. "I want you to be satisfied." "Well, I'll let you know to-day, or to-morrow, at furthest," Mostyn said, wearily. "If I can't make some arrangement I'll have to give in, that's all. My affairs are getting pretty badly tangled, but I'll come out all right." When Saunders had left him and the door had closed, Mostyn leaned his head on his hand and tried to collect his wits, but to no avail. What was the intangible thing which had haunted him through the night, causing him to lie awake, reciting over and over old Mitchell's account of the scene with his daughter just before her departure? What was it that kept coupling this hurried trip of hers with Buckton? Was thought-transference a scientific fact, as many hold, and was the insistent impression due to the bearing of culpable minds upon his? He might telephone here and there and find out if Buckton was in town--but no, no, that would not do. The porter opened the door and came in with a bundle of letters and papers which he put down before him and withdrew. A grim foreboding settled on him. Something seemed to whisper from the mute heap that here lay the revelation--here was the missing communication from Irene of which her father had spoken. A bare glance at the bundle was enough, for he recognized the pale-blue envelope belonging to Irene's favorite stationery. With bloodless fingers, breathlessly, he drew it out. It had been posted the night before. Surely, he told himself, there was meaning in this slower method of delivery, for what had prevented her from leaving it at home in his room or in her father's care? Or, for that matter, why had she not telephoned him? He laid the communication down, unopened. He was afraid of it. Had the skies been stone, their supports straws, his dread could not have been greater. He went to the door and softly turned the key. There should be no eye upon him. He came back. Taking a paper-knife, he slit the envelope and spread out the perfumed sheet. It read: DEAR DICK,--There is no use keeping up this senseless farce any longer. I am sick to death with my very existence. I have been hungry for love all my life, and never had it. When I married I mistreated the only man I ever cared for, and I have resolved to do so no longer. Andy and I are leaving together. God only knows if we shall find the happiness we are seeking, but we are going to try. Father thinks I have gone to the Hardys'. Perhaps he may as well be kept in ignorance for a few days longer. The truth will leak out soon enough. Though you may do as you like about this. As for your following us and making things unpleasant, I have no fears, for, as you well know, I am entitled to my liberty in this matter. You have certainly not been molested by me in your own private life. I now know all about the cottage in the outskirts of town, but I am not blaming you in the least. I confess that I thought you had ceased your attentions in that quarter, but that was because I attributed a certain spiritual and remorseful quality to you which you do not possess. I am not blaming you at all--_at all_. In fact, somehow the discovery has had a soothing effect on me. It has confirmed the feeling that both you and I have been and are the mere playthings of Fate. As I see it, I am doing my duty. I led poor Andy on before my marriage. I kissed him--I've kissed him a thousand times, both before and since my marriage. He can't live without me, and I can't live without his love and future companionship. Life is too short to spend it in the sheer misery I have been in of late. He and I are going out into the great world to live, enjoy, and die together. People will talk, but we can't help that--the truth is, we don't care. You will blame me for leaving the child, for you do love him, but I can't help that. He was born out of love, and was always a reproach to me. You will take care of him; I know that, and better than if I were there. Good-by. IRENE. Mostyn folded the sheet and thrust it into his pocket. Going to a window, he stood looking out on the dusty street. Drays and cabs were trundling by. Had his back been bared to the thonged scourge of the public whipping-post and the blows been falling under the strokes of a giant, he could not have cringed more. He saw himself the laughing-stock of the town, the fool provider for another man's passion. He saw his adored child, now worse than motherless, growing up into open-eyed consciousness of his hereditary shame. He saw his wreck of a father-in-law glaring at him in senile indignation. What was to be done--what _could_ be done? Nothing--simply nothing. Men of honor in the past had been able to wipe out stains like those and keep their heads erect, but to assume that he was "a man of honor," as matters stood, would be the height of absurdity. He certainly would not announce the news to Mitchell. He would ward off the disclosure as long as possible, and then--well, there was no knowing what would happen. Going to the door, he unlocked it and peered into the busy bank. His glance fell on Saunders's desk. Saunders was not there. He had decided to speak to him with finality in regard to the disposition of his stock. What mattered it now who held the office of president? In fact, the unsullied name of a man like Delbridge might rescue the institution from the actual ruin which was apt to follow such a scandal and the accompanying report of old Mitchell's financial estrangement from his son-in-law. Mostyn approached Wright, the cashier, with the intention of inquiring where Saunders was when he heard Wright speaking to a man through the grating as he turned a check over in his hand. "I am sorry," he was saying, "but, while it is small, we could not cash it without identification." "That's why I brought it to you," the man answered. "I know Mr. Saunders. I've seen him several times up in the mountains. He cashed a check for me up there once, and said if I ever happened to be down here to drop in to see him." "He is out just now, but will be in very soon," Wright said. "Won't you come into the waiting-room and take a seat?" Stooping down a little, Mostyn was enabled to see the face of the applicant. It was that of John Leach, the tramp preacher. Their eyes met. Mostyn bowed and smiled. Then he touched Wright on the arm just as he was about to shove the check back to its owner. "I know him," he said. "It is all right." Mostyn noticed a look of astonishment struggling on the tanned features of the preacher, but he turned away just as Wright was counting out the money. He would go out and find Saunders, he decided, and get the detail pertaining to the sale of stock off his mind. Outside he looked up the street, seeing Saunders and Delbridge standing on the corner in conversation. "Delbridge is crazy to make the deal," he said, bitterly. "That is what he is talking about now. Well, he may have it. I am down and out. I am in no shape to attend to business. Besides, I'll want to hide myself from the public eye. Yes, he will protect my interest, and I shall need all the funds I can rake together. Great God! how did this ever come about? Only the other day I had some hope, but now not a shred is left. Delbridge was my financial rival. Neck and neck we ran together, the talk of the town; but now--yes, he can wipe his feet on me. Look at him--he's grinning--he's laughing--he is telling one of his funny yarns to pretend to Saunders that he is indifferent about the stock. Huh! Well he may laugh. Who knows, perhaps _his_ luck will turn? The man that counts on luck is God's fool." Mostyn took out a cigar as he approached the two men. "Match?" he asked Delbridge. The financier gave him one, and Mostyn struck it on the canvas back of a small check-book and applied it to the end of his cigar. "Saunders says you have made him an offer for his block of bank stock," he puffed, slowly. "Yes, I made him a proposition." Delbridge's face fell into sudden shrewd rigidity. "I have about that amount of money idle just now. Saunders says he feels that you are entitled to a preference of the stock, and that until you decide what you want to do my offer must hang in the air." Mostyn flicked at the ashless tip of his cigar. "I have thought it over," he said, "and, on the whole, Delbridge, I am sure your name will help the bank's standing, and I hope you and Saunders will make the deal." "Oh, that's all right, then," Delbridge beamed. "Well, Saunders, I'll consider it settled, then. I'll walk into the bank with you now. I may be too busy later in the day." Mostyn moved on. He crossed the viaduct over the railway tracks and walked aimlessly for several squares, bowing to acquaintances on the way. Presently he turned and began to retrace his steps, without any plan of action other than keeping his legs in motion. At the corner of the street he came face to face with Leach. The man smiled cordially and brushed his long hair back over his ear with his delicate hand. "I was just wondering where I've seen you before." He extended his hand. "You certainly surprised me in the bank just now when you stood for me like you did." Mostyn explained that he had heard him preach at Wartrace's store five years before. "Say, I remember now," Leach cried. "Wasn't you sitting on the porch of the store?" Mostyn nodded. "Yes, and I enjoyed your talk very much. I have thought of it a good many times since." "I remember you now powerful well--powerful well. I seldom forget a face, and if a man shows that he is listening close, as you did that day, it helps me along. Do you know, I put you down as about the best listener I ever had. I saw it in your face and eyes. You got up and left before I was through, or I'd have spoken to you. It seemed to me that you was bothered powerful over something. Being in prison as long as I was gave me what you might call second-sight. You may not believe it, but I can actually feel a stream of thought coming from folks now and then. I can detect trouble of any spiritual sort in the face or in the touch of a hand. It isn't any of my affair, but right now I have a feeling that you are bothered. I reckon you business men have a lot to trouble you in one way and another." "Yes, it is constant worry," Mostyn answered, evasively. "This ain't no time to preach," Leach went on, with his characteristic laugh; "but I feel like scolding every town man I meet. This place is no better suited to real happiness than a foundry is for roses to bloom in. If you want to breathe God's breath, smell the sweet perfume of His presence, and walk in the wonderful light of His glory, throw this dusty grind off and go out into nature. Get down on your all-fours and hug it. Stop making money. When you've got a pile of it as high as that sky-scraper there you haven't got as much actual wealth as a honey-bee carries in one single flight through the sunlight. I never saw Heaven's blaze in the eye of a money-maker, but I _have_ seen it in the black face of a shouting nigger at a knock-down-and-drag-out revival. I intimated that I was happy when you heard me five years ago, I reckon. Well, since then I have become so much more so that that time seems like stumbling-ground, full of ruts and snags. Oh, I could tell you wonders, wonders, wonders! There never was an emperor I'd swap places with. If you ever get in trouble, come talk to me. Hundreds of men and women have opened their hearts to me and cried their troubles out like little children. I couldn't tell you how to get the best of a man in a speculation here in this hell-hole of iniquity, but I can show you how you can tie a thousand of God's spirit-cords to you and be drawn so high above all this that you won't know it is in existence. Going to the country this summer? I am. I'm headed for the mountains now. I just dropped in here to collect the little money that comes to me every quarter. I see you are in a hurry; well, so long. God be with you, friend. I'm going to pray for you. I don't know why, but I am. I'm going to pray for this whole rotten town, but I'll mention you special. Good-by." "He may be right," Mostyn mused, as he strode on toward the bank. "He _is_ right--he _is_!" CHAPTER XII Irene was on the train bound for Charleston. She was seated in one of the big easy-chairs in the parlor-car, idly scanning a magazine and looking out at the dingy and sordid outskirts of Atlanta through which the train was moving with increasing speed. The conductor passed, punched her ticket, and went on. He had glanced at her with masculine interest, for she showed by her sedate dignity, smallest detail of attire, and every visible possession, that she was a passenger of distinction. Presently Buckton came in at the front door and approached her. An exultant smile swept his flushed face as he bent down over her. "Thank God, we are off!" he chuckled. "I was simply crazy at the station--first with fear that you would not come, and next that we'd be noticed, but I don't believe a soul recognized us. I was seated behind a newspaper in the waiting-room watching for you like a hawk. I saw you get out of the cab and come in. God, darling, you don't know how proud I felt to know that you were actually coming to me! At last you are mine--all mine; after all these years of agony you are mine!" She raised a pair of eyes to his in which a haunting dread seemed to lie like a shadow. "Oh, I feel so queer!" she sighed. "I realized that we had to hide and dodge, but I did not like the role. For the first time in my life I felt mean and sneaking. Already I am worried about father and the boy--father, in particular. He is getting old and feeble. Perhaps the shock to him may seriously harm him." Buckton smiled, but less freely. He sat down in the chair in front of her and turned it till he faced her. "We have no time to bother about them, dear," he said, passionately. "We deserve to live in happiness, and we are going to do it. I am so happy I can hardly speak. Oh, we are going to have a glorious time! You should have been mine long ago. Nature intended it. We are simply getting our dues." "I am doing it solely for your sake," she faltered. "Because you've suffered so on my account." "And not for your _own_ sake? Don't put it that way, sweetheart." He took her hand; but, casting a furtive glance at the backs of the few other passengers in the car, she withdrew it. "Don't," she protested, smiling. "We must be careful." She dropped a penetrating gaze into his amorous eyes, and applied her handkerchief to her drooping lips. "I've been thinking, Andy, about a certain thing more seriously since the train started than I ever did before. Do you know, many persons believe that if a woman acts--acts--well, as I am doing now, the man to whom she gives in will, down at the bottom of his heart, cease to respect and love her--in time--in time, I mean?" "Bosh and tommyrot!" Buckton fairly glowed. "Never, never, when the case is like ours. We are simply doing our duty to ourselves. Love you? Why, I adore you! You have saved my life, darling. I would have killed myself. I've been on the very brink of it more than once. I've suffered agonies ever since you married. The birth of your child fairly drove me insane. I groveled in blackest despair. It made me feel that--that you were, or had been, actually his. Oh, it was awful! Don't regret our step. Think of what is before us. We'll stop in Charleston, see the quaint old town, go on to Savannah, stop a day or so, and then sail for New York. The ships are good, and at this season the sea is as smooth as glass. When we get to New York we will simply paint the town red, and if you wish, then, we'll go on to Europe. What could be more glorious? Why, the whole world is ours." She smiled, almost sadly, and then, as if to avoid his gaze, she glanced out of the window. He saw her breast heave. He heard her sigh. "You are a man and I am a woman," she muttered. "I suppose that makes a difference. In a case like ours a man never is blamed by society, but the woman is. They class her with the lowest. Oh, won't they talk at home? Nothing else will be thought of for months. Old-fashioned persons will say it was the life we led. Do you suppose it could possibly--in any way--injure Dick's business?" "How could it?" Buckton said, with caustic impatience. "What has this to do with his affairs?" "Oh, I don't know!" She exhaled the words, heavily. "I have heard my father say that depositors sometimes take fright at the slightest things concerning the private lives of bankers. Andy, I would not like for this to--cost Dick a cent. I couldn't bear that." "Do you think you ought to entertain such fine-spun ideas in regard to him when--when he is living as he is?" "That has bothered me, too," she said, quickly. "Somehow I can't believe that he ever really went back to that woman--that is, to live with her. I met her only a week ago on the street. She looked straight at me, and, somehow, I was sure that he and she were not as they used to be. Call it intuition if you like, but intuition is sometimes reliable. It may have been by accident that they were together when you saw them out there. He takes lonely walks in all sorts of directions. He is a strange combination. His love for little Dick, his constant worrying about him is remarkable. It used to make me mad, but in a way I respected him for it." "Let's not talk about him," Buckton implored. "All this rubbish is giving you the blues. They have called dinner. Let's go back to the dining-car. The service is fairly good on this line." "I couldn't eat a bite," Irene answered. "Well, let us go in, anyway. It will be a change," he said, "and will take your mind off this gloomy subject. Think of what is ahead of us, darling, not behind." She rose, and, with a smile of resignation to his will, she followed him through the vestibule into the dining-car. As they went in they met a portly man who stood aside for them to pass. "How are you, Mr. Buckton?" the man smiled, cordially. "Oh, how are you?" Buckton answered, with a start and a rapid scrutiny of the passenger's face. Moving on, he secured seats at a table for two. As they sat down facing each other he noticed that the man, who had paid the cashier for his meal and was waiting for his change, was eying him and Irene with a curious, almost bold stare. "Who is that man?" Irene questioned, rather coldly, as she spread out her napkin. "His name is Hambright," Buckton answered, with assumed lightness. "He is a whisky salesman. Somebody brought him to the club the other night, and he told a lot of funny stories. He seems to have plenty of money; his house may give it to him for advertising purposes. He fairly throws it about to make acquaintances." "I don't like his looks at all," Irene said, her lips curled in contempt. "Just then he stared at me in the most impertinent way. His hideous eyes actually twinkled. Do you suppose he could possibly know who I am?" The compliment that every visitor to Atlanta would know her, at least by sight, rose to his lips, but he suppressed it as decidedly inappropriate to her mood. "It isn't at all likely," Buckton answered, instead. "Besides, even if he _did_, what ground would he have for thinking that our being together on a train like this--you know what I mean." "I know what you _want_ to mean," Irene said, disconsolately. "I also know what such a creature as that would go out of his way to _think._" "There, you are off again!" Buckton laughed in a mechanical tone, which betrayed his uneasiness. "You are going to keep me busy brushing away your fancies. I see that now. Pretty soon you will expect the engineer to shut off steam and come back to take a peep at us. Your imagination is getting the upper hand of you. Stop short now and smile like your true, sweet self. I am happy and care-free, and I want you to be so." She said nothing, but gave him a faint, childlike smile. "You are a dear, good boy, Andy," she faltered. "I am going to try to be sensible. It isn't the first time persons have acted this way and come out all right, is it? I don't want anything but tea. Get a pot. I think it will do me good." Half an hour later they returned to their seats in the other car. The tea seemed to have exhilarated her, for she smiled more freely. There was a touch of rising color in her cheeks, a faint, defiant sparkle in her eyes. In passing from one car to the other she had allowed him to take her hand, and he pressed it ardently. He was swinging back into his joyous and triumphant mood. They had not been seated long when the train came to a sudden stop. There was no station near, and several of the passengers looked out of the windows, and one or two left the car to see what had happened. "Wait, and I'll see what is the matter," Buckton said. "I hope we won't be delayed. It is my luck to be behind on every trip. I'm a regular Jonah." The stop had been made evidently to take on passengers, for a wretchedly clad woman and a little barefooted girl in ragged clothing were courteously helped into the car by the conductor. Both the woman and the girl were weeping violently, their sobs and wailings being distinctly heard as they sat locked in each other's arms. The sight was indeed pitiful. The conductor bent over them, said something in a crude effort at comfort, and then left them alone. Buckton came back, a look of annoyance on his face. "What is wrong?" Irene questioned him as he sat down by her. "It seems that the woman's husband was a track-hand," Buckton explained. "He worked down the road a few miles from here, and was run over and killed about an hour ago. They nagged our train to take her and his daughter to him." "Oh, how awful--how awful!" Irene cried, in dismay. "You can see she is broken-hearted." "Yes, they both take it hard," Buckton said, frowning. "I wonder what we'll run up against next. I wouldn't care for myself, but such things upset you. Don't look at them. What is the use?" "I can't help it," Irene answered. "She is the most wretched-looking woman I ever saw. I am going to--to speak to her." He put out a detaining hand, but she rose, a firm look of kindly determination on her face. Going to the weeping woman, Irene sat down in a chair opposite her, and as she did so the woman raised her anguish-filled eyes. "I am so sorry to hear of your trouble," Irene began. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" The woman, who was thin, short, and of colorless complexion, wiped her eyes on a soiled apron. The scant knot of brown hair at the back of her head seemed a pathetic badge of feminine destitution. The eyes, peering from their red and swollen sockets, held an appeal that would have shaken sympathy from the heart of a brute. "Thar is nothing you kin do, Miss." The voice was a wail which rose, swelled out, and cracked like floating ice against the shore of a mighty stream. "Thar ain't nothin' nobody kin do. My John is dead. Even God can't do nothin'. It's over, I tell you. Dead, dead! I can't believe it, but they say it is so. He wasn't well when he left the house this mornin', but he was afeard he'd lose his job if he didn't report for work. He was so sick he could hardly drag one foot after the other. But he just would go. We had no money. Thar was only a little dab o' meal in the box, and just a rind o' hog meat. Thar is two more littler children than this un, an' they was cryin' for some'n' to eat. I know how it was; John was jest too weak to git out o' the way o' the wheels. Oh, don't mind me, Miss! He's dead--he's dead--dead--dead! Oh, God, have mercy! Kill me--kill us all an' put us out o' pain." Tears stood in Irene's eyes. Her breast shook and ached with sympathy. She was trying to think of something to say when the whistle of the locomotive sounded. "Here's the place now!" the woman screamed. "Oh, God! oh, God! Where have they put 'im--where have they put 'im? Maybe he is mashed so bad I won't know 'im. Oh, God! oh, God--kill me!" The conductor, his face set and pale with pity, had come to aid her to alight. Through the window Irene saw a stretch of wheat-fields, a red-clay embankment, a wrecking-car, a group of earth-stained laborers leaning on their picks and shovels, and something lying beneath a sheet on bare ground. Hastily opening her purse, Irene took out a roll of bills amounting to a hundred dollars and pressed it into the woman's hand. "Keep it," she said, huskily. "Thank you, Miss," the woman said, without looking at the money or seeming to realize that she had taken it. She dropped it to the floor as she rose to go, and the conductor picked it up and gave it back to her. "Keep it," he said; "you will need it." Irene watched the three pass out at the door of the car and then turned her face from the window. All was still outside for a moment, and then a loud scream, followed by a fainter one, rent the air. Irene covered her face with her hands and remained in darkness till the train moved on. Buckton came and sat beside her, a disturbed look on his face. He waited for several minutes. Then she dropped her hands and sighed. "I'm sorry this has happened, darling," Buckton said, softly. "You are so sympathetic that such things unstring you." She bent toward him. There was a haunted, groping expression in her eyes. "I'll never forget this as long as I live," she half sobbed. "It will cling to me till I die. The very pores of my soul seemed to open to that wretched woman's spirit. If she had been my sister I couldn't have felt--" A welling sob checked her words. He stared at her blankly. He tried to formulate some helpful response, but failed. It was growing dark outside. The porter was lighting the overhead lamps, using a step-ladder to reach them and moving it from spot to spot between the chairs. "I want to--to ask you something--something serious," Irene said, presently. "Do you believe in omens?" He saw her drift and forced a smile. "Yes, in this way," he said, lightly. "Things go by opposites all through life. Something good or jolly always follows on the heels of gloom. We are going to be so happy that we won't have time to think of anything disagreeable." She sighed audibly. That was all. It was past midnight when they reached Charleston. He led her, still silent and abstracted, to a cab and helped her in. He then gave the name of their hotel to the driver and got in beside her. He took her gloved hand and held it tenderly as the cab rumbled over the cobble-stones through the deserted streets. "It is too warm for gloves, dear," he said, his hot breath on her cheek; and with throbbing, eager hands he drew one off. He kissed the soft fingers and felt them, flutter like a captured bird. A moment later he put his arm about her and drew her head down to his shoulder. She resisted feebly, turning from him once or twice, and then allowed him to kiss her on the lips. As they were nearing the hotel he suddenly bethought himself of something he had intended to say by way of precaution. "You must understand that I sent separate telegrams for rooms," he said. "I took the precaution for absolute safety. I ordered yours in your name and mine in my name." "I understand," she replied. His arm was still about her, but she shook it off. "Was it--was it wise for us to arrive like this--in the same cab?" "Oh, that is all right," he answered, confidently. "I am a friend of your family, you know, and I have often traveled with ladies. It will not excite comment. Besides, we know no one here." Leaving her at the ladies' entrance to go alone up to the parlor, he went into the office. A sleepy-eyed clerk bowed, turned the register around, and, dipping a pen, handed it to him. "Lady with you, sir?" he inquired. "In my care, yes." Buckton wrote the two names rather unsteadily. "She and I both telegraphed for your best rooms. Please show her to hers at once. She seems to be quite tired." "I should think so, on a stuffy day like this," said the clerk, affably, "and coming south, too. I see you are from Atlanta. That is a higher altitude than ours." "You bet it is." The voice was at Buckton's elbow; and turning, he saw Hambright, his fellow-passenger, smiling on him familiarly. "Well, I see you got through all right." Though highly displeased by again meeting the man, Buckton nodded and forced a casual smile. "It was pretty dusty and hot," he said. "Won't you take a smoke before you turn in?" the drummer asked, extending a cigar. "No, thanks; not to-night," Buckton declined. "Take a drink? I've got the best samples on earth. My customers say I carry better samples than stock, but that's a joke. Name the brand and I'll lay it before you. I'm some drink-mixer, I am." "Not to-night; thank you, all the same." "Show the lady to suite seventy-five," the clerk called out to a bell-boy. "The gentleman goes to seventy-four. See to the ice-water for both parties." "Dandy rooms you got," Hambright said, his eyes twinkling significantly. "I know this house like a book. I swear you Atlanta bloods are sports. You certainly keep the old fogies of the town wondering what prank you will play next." Buckton thought rapidly. To a certain extent he was a judge of human nature, and he realized that no explanation to such a man was safer than the most adroit and elaborate one, so he elected to ignore the obvious innuendo. Chatting with him a few minutes longer, he turned away. Half an hour later Buckton was in his little sitting-room, seated under a drop-light, with a newspaper spread out before him. Through the rather thin partition he heard Irene moving about the adjoining chamber. He sat for a moment longer; then, rising, he went to the connecting door. He caught his breath and held it as he rapped softly, very softly. The sound of movement on the part of Irene ceased. All was quiet for a moment; then he rapped again. He heard her coming. She unlocked the door, turned the bolt, and opened the door the width of her face. She had changed her dress. She now wore a pretty flowing kimono which she held over her white neck with her jeweled hand. "What is it?" she asked. He leaned against the door-jamb, and gazed into her eyes. "I must see you," he panted. "There is--is something I want to tell you." She hesitated, holding the door. "I'm tired," she faltered. "Besides--Oh, Andy, I've been thinking that perhaps I ought to take the first morning train for the Hardys'! I could get there soon enough to--" He leaned his flaming face closer to hers. He caught her hand and drew it down from her fluttering throat. "No, it is too late, sweetheart," he said. "We have burnt our bridges behind us. We can't go back now. We don't _want_ to. We couldn't if we tried. We are human. You were cruel to me once; you can't be cruel enough to close this door to-night. _You know you can't, darling_." He saw her glance waver. Her hold on the door was less firm. He pushed against it. She fell back, and he took her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. CHAPTER XIII With Irene's farewell note in his pocket and ever present to his mind, Mostyn spent the remainder of the morning on which it was received mechanically instructing the elated Delbridge in his rival's new duties at the bank as its future president. At noon he tore himself away, plunging again into the streets, there even more fully to face himself and his coming humiliation. The hot, busy thoroughfares, steaming under the water sprayed upon them by trundling sprinkling-carts, were a veritable bedlam--canons of baked pavements and heartless walls of brick and mortar, plate glass and glaring gilt signs. Cries of newsboys--and cheerful, happy cries they were--fell on his ears in sounds so incongruous to his mood that they pierced his soul like hurled javelins of steel. The affairs of the world, once so fascinating, were moving on; a juggernaut of a thousand wheels was rumbling toward him. He drew near his club. On the wide veranda, in easy-chairs, smoking and reading newspapers, sat several of his friends. He started to turn in on the walk which bisected the beautiful greensward, but quailed under the ordeal. How could he exchange platitudes, discuss politics, market-reports, or listen to new jokes? He walked on, catching the eye of a friend and saluting with a wave of his cane. He decided that he would go to his sister's for lunch, but he was not sure that he would reveal his woe even to her. He found Mrs. Moore in her cozy library, a handkerchief over her head, dusting the furniture. "Got anything to eat?" he asked, seating himself on a divan and watching her movements with a bland stare. "Will have in a few minutes." She turned on him, laying her duster on a book-case and removing her handkerchief. "I really believe there is something in thought-transference, Dick, for I felt that you were coming. But I don't know that this is a fair test, either, for it may have been because I knew Irene was away." "How did you happen to know that?" he asked, in dumb, creeping surprise. "She left rather--suddenly." She smiled knowingly. "If you want me to be frank, I'll say that it is because your doddering father-in-law is getting to be worse than a gossipy old maid. He was around here an hour ago. He tried to be sly and throw me off, but I saw through him. He said Irene had left for Mrs. Hardy's house-party. There wasn't anything in that alone, you know, to make him bother to come around, for she certainly goes when and where she likes, but it was the way the silly old man went about what he was trying to discover. He asked me if I knew who had gone from here--the men in particular; and then I saw his hand. He wanted to find out if Andy Buckton went. He beat about the bush for a long time with a crazy, nervous stare in his eyes, and as soon as I told him I did not know he rose to leave. Irene is no doubt acting imprudently, as many of her set do, but if she doesn't look out her own father will start talk that never can be stopped." Mostyn suddenly rose, walked to a window, and looked out. "What time do you have luncheon?" He glanced at his watch. Mrs. Moore made no reply. She suddenly fixed a curious, groping stare on him and moved to his side. "Dick, what has happened?" she demanded, touching his arm. "Nothing," he answered. "I've been busy; I'm tired. I thought a cup of strong coffee might--" Her fingers clutched his arm. "Out with it, Dick. Something has gone wrong at the bank. You are in trouble again. You've been plunging. I feel it. I see it in your eyes. I have never seen you look like this before. You haven't a bit of blood in your face." She grasped his hand, stroking his fingers. "Why, you are actually cold. What is the matter? What is the matter, brother? You can trust me." He avoided her eyes, going back to the divan and sinking upon it. "You may as well know," he blurted out, in desperation. "Irene and Buckton have gone off together." "No, no, no! Don't tell me that!" The woman paled; her lower lip fell and hung trembling. "You have heard gossip, as I have, and as every one has, and in your excited frame of mind--" He told her of the note from Irene. He started to take it from his pocket, but changed his mind, recalling the allusion to Marie Winship, and not having energy enough to explain it. "Lord have mercy!" she gasped. She sat down by him, her hand on his knee, her horrified eyes glued to his. "It is awful! I didn't think she would go that far--nobody did, because she refused him when she married you. I wish I could advise you, but there is nothing to be done now. Of course, she left the child." "Yes, I'd have killed her if she had taken him. I would, by God! He's all I've got." "And worse than motherless," Mrs. Moore sighed. "It is awful--awful! Irene is crazy for excitement and novelty. She has been getting worse and worse. She thinks she loves Andy Buckton, but she doesn't. She never loved any one but herself in her life. Mark my words, she will leave him. She will tire of him. She will never stand the disgrace of the thing, either. She has been petted all her life by society, and its cold shoulder will kill her. What a tragedy! But she brought it on herself." "She didn't!" he said, grimly. "I had a hand in it. Her father had a hand in it. She was a straw in a mad stream. I can't blame her. I can't even be angry. I pity her. I'd save her if I could, but it is too late. The insane set that helped to wreck her life will chuckle and grin now." A musical gong in the dining-room sounded softly. "That's luncheon," Mrs. Moore said. "Let's go out. Do you want to run up and wash your hands?" He shook his head dumbly, looking at his splayed fingers with the vacant stare of an invalid just recovering consciousness. "I want only the coffee; make it strong, please. I really am not hungry. The thought of food, somehow, is sickening. I've worked hard this morning." Late that afternoon, still shrinking under his weighty secret, he went home. The slanting rays of the setting sun lay like kindling flames on the grass of the lawn. He saw little Dick and Hilda seated on the lowest step of the veranda; and, seeing him entering the gate, the child rose and slowly limped toward him. "Dick got a stomach-ache," the boy said, a wry look on his rather sallow and pinched face. Mostyn paused and bent down. "Where does it hurt you?" he asked, automatically, for the complaint seemed a slight thing compared to the tragedy lowering over them both. "It's here, Daddy." Dick put his little tapering hand on his right side. "He eats too many sweet things," the nurse said, coming up. "He's been complainin' of his stomach for the last week, but he will eat what he oughtn't to. I've got some good stomach medicine. I'm goin' to dose 'im well to-night an' make 'im stay out o' the kitchen. The cook lets him have everything he wants." "Give him the medicine, and tell the cook she must stop feeding him." Mostyn took the boy in his arms and started on to the house. "You will stop eating trash, won't you, Dick?" The child nodded, worming his fingers through his father's hair. He took off Mostyn's hat, put it on his bonny head, and laughed faintly. Reaching the veranda, Mostyn turned him over to Hilda, who said she was going to give him a bath and put him to bed. When they had gone Mostyn went into the library. The great portrait-hung room in the shadows seemed a dreary, accusing place, and he was turning to leave when the rustling of a newspaper and a little nasal snort called his attention to a high-backed chair of the wing type in which his father-in-law reclined and was just waking from a nap. "Oh, is that you?" Mitchell yawned and stretched his arms. "I was wondering when you'd get here. I've been to the gate several times." "Anything you want?" Mostyn regretted the impulsive question the instant the words had been spoken. The old man put his hands on the arms of the chair and stood up, feebly. "Yes, I want to know if your wife has written or telegraphed you since she got to Knoxville?" "No," Mostyn thought rapidly, "but--but I hardly expected her to. She doesn't usually when she is away." "It is the very Old Nick in you both!" Mitchell sniffed. "I don't expect you to know or care what she's up to; but I'm her own flesh and blood, and supposed to be interested more or less. Home is lonely enough when she is here in town, without her being off so much. Besides, I know some things--humph! Well, I'm no fool, if I _am_ a back number. To-day I made it my business to inquire if a certain party--you know who I mean--was in town. I knew in reason that he wouldn't be, but I just asked to satisfy my mind. Do you get at my meaning, sir?" "I think I do." Mostyn's own words seemed to him to come from the heavy folds of the portiere hiding the desolate drawing-room beyond. "I thought you would." The retort was all but a snarl. "And, do you know, when I asked some of his friends about the club if they knew, I caught them looking at one another in an odd sort of way with twinkles in their eyes? Oh no, they didn't know where he was. But I found out, all the same. I met his mother down-town. She said he had gone on a hurried trip to Norfolk. You can see through that, can't you? I can, if you can't. Knoxville is on the way to Norfolk. The two are at that party together; and, not only that, I'll bet this whole town knows it. That ought to be stopped. I know my daughter, if you don't, sir. She is not acting right. She has plunged into pleasure and excitement till she doesn't know what she wants. A new string of diamonds wouldn't amuse her a minute. This giddy, fast life has actually cursed her. The other night I caught her taking morphine tablets to make her sleep--said she'd lie awake and think till morning if she didn't. She hasn't contracted the habit yet, but she can easy enough if she keeps it up. She takes a bottle of them wherever she goes. When I was young, a woman who was a mother of a child like hers loved it, nursed it, petted it, got natural joy out of it; but Irene seldom speaks to Dick, and he doesn't care for her any more than for a stranger, but he loves you--God only knows why, but he does. It is 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy' with nearly every breath he draws." Mostyn felt a force within him rising and expanding. A sob lodged in his tight throat and pained him. He was grateful for the deepening shadows, for the droning prattle from the old lips. He sank into a chair. The droning continued, sounding far off. A thousand incidents and faces (smiling and blending) sprang upon him out of the past--the happy, irresponsible past, the seductive, confident, ambitious past. Surely Fate was a mental entity, capable of crafty design against the heedless young. He remembered the vows of chastity and honor he had made during a revival in a country church under a blazing faith. He recalled how soon they were forgotten, how sure he was, later on, that Nature's physical laws were the highest known. Man was made to live, enjoy, and conquer all if he could. And he had succeeded. He had become rich and prosperous. Next he found his memory swimming through that black period of satiated desire and disgust of self. "I wish folks would not mix _me_ up with your private matters." The words rose sharply from the senile prattle and penetrated Mostyn's lethargy. "There's old Jeff Henderson--he had the cheek to come to me to-day to borrow money. Said his family was in rags and starving. Said you euchred him out of all he had and got your start on it. What in the name of common sense does he come to _me_ for? I don't own you, and I knew nothing about that transaction, either. I reckon he's going crazy, but that doesn't keep him from bothering me." Seeing the futility of explaining a thing he had many times explained, Mostyn rose. Before him the open doorway framed an oblong patch of calm gray sky, and toward it he moved, his mental hands impotently outstretched, a soundless cry welling up from the depths of himself. CHAPTER XIV On the first morning after his permanent removal to his plantation Jarvis Saunders waked with a boundless sense of freedom from care, which had not been his since his boyhood. Through all his short visits to the spot hitherto he had been haunted with the unpleasant thought of having to return to the city and the rigid demands of business. But it was different now. He lay in the wide, high-posted Colonial bed, stretched himself, looked at the sunlight on the small-paned windows, and sighed with complete content. From the outside came the chirping of birds, the crowing of roosters, the cackle of hens, the quacking of ducks, the scream of geese, the thwack of an ax at the wood-pile, the mellow song of the lank negro chopper, Uncle Zeke, one of the ex-slaves of his family. Rising and standing at a window, and parting the pink and blue morning-glories which overhung it in dew-dipped freshness, Saunders looked down into the yard. He saw Aunt Maria, Zeke's portly wife, approach from the kitchen door and begin to fill her apron with the chips his ax had strewn upon the ground. "You go on en ring dat fus' breakfus'-bell, Zeke," she said, peremptorily. "De fus' litter o' biscuits is raidy to slide in de stove, en de chicken en trout is fried brown. Everthing is got ter be des right dis fus' mawnin' dat Marse Jarvis is home ter stay. Fifteen minutes is long 'nough fer 'im ter dress." "Ring de bell _yo'se'f_, 'ooman!" Zeke laughed, loudly. "Yo' gittin' so heavy en waddly yo' don' want ter turn yo' han's over. Look yer, 'ooman, Marse Jarvis ain't gwine ter let yo' cook fer 'im regular, nohow. He gwine ter fix de house up spank new, fum top ter bottom, en git de ol' 'fo'-de-wah style back ergin. He gwine ter sen' away off som'er's fer er spry up-date cook. Yo' know what, 'ooman? I'm gwine be his head house-servant, I is. My place'll be in de front hall ter mix mint-juleps fo' 'im en his frien's fum de city when dey skeet by in deir automobiles en stop over fer er smoke en er howdy-do. He gwine ter order me er long-tail, jimswingin' blue coat. He done say dat he'll look ter me ter keep you-all's j'ints oiled up so yo' won't walk in yo' sleep so much in de day-time." "Go 'long, yo' fool nigger!" Maria sniffed, as she shook her chips down into her apron. "When Marse Jarvis stick er black scarecrow lak yo' in de front part de house he shore will be out his senses. He gwine ter mek yo' haul manure wid er dump-cart, dat what he is." Saunders smiled as he stepped back and began to dress. "God bless their simple, loyal souls!" he said. "They shall never suffer as long as I live. My parents loved them, and so do I." At the sound of the second bell he went downstairs. How cool, spacious, and inviting everything looked! The oblong drawing-room, into which he glanced in passing, with its white wainscoting and beautiful oriel window at the end on the left of the entrance-hall, brought back many memories of his childhood and youth. He recalled the gay assemblages of summer visitors to his father and mother from Augusta and Charleston--the dances, the horseback rides, the hunting-parties, the music, the singing of hymns on Sundays. "I must bring it all back," he mused. "That was normal living." These memories followed him to the great dining-room in the rear of the house. As he took his usual seat at the head of the long table the delicious aroma of fine coffee, the smell of frying meats and hot biscuits came in from the adjoining kitchen. The wide fireplace had been freshly whitewashed, and was filled with the resinous boughs of young pines. The several windows were open, and through them he had glimpses of his verdant lands and the mountains beyond. The portraits of his mother, father, and grandparents seemed to smile down from their massive frames on the white walls. The same silverware and cut glass which they had used were before him on the mahogany sideboard; the same china. Aunt Maria had put the hot, tempting dishes before him and gone away. The pot of coffee was steaming at his side. Suddenly an impulse, half sentimental, came over him which he could not resist. He recalled how his father had always said grace; and, bowing his head, he whispered the long-silent words over his unturned plate and folded napkin. How odd! he thought: it was as if the short prayer had been laid upon his lips by the spirit of his father; the fervent "Amen" seemed to be echoed by his mother's voice from the opposite end of the board. Saunders's soul was suddenly filled with a transcendent ecstasy. His parents seemed to be actually present, invisible, and yet flooding his being with their spiritual essence. "Surely," he said, the wonder of the thing bursting upon him like ineffable light, "there is 'a peace which passeth understanding.'" After breakfast he went to the front veranda to smoke. He saw Tom Drake walking across a meadow to some drainage ditches which were being dug to destroy some objectionable marshes. The results of the man's work as manager had been more than satisfactory. Presently Saunders descried a few hundred yards down the main road a woman on a horse. It was Dolly Drake; and, throbbing with delight, he hastened down to the gate, thinking that she might be coming to speak to her father, and would need assistance in alighting. But she had no intention of stopping, and with a merry bow was about to ride by when he stepped out and playfully held up his hands. "Your money or your life!" he cried. She reined the spirited young black horse in and sat jauntily on the side-saddle. Her color was high; she wore a pretty riding-hat, a close-fitting gray habit, and her eyes were sparkling from the exhilaration of the gallop along the level road. "Take my life, but for Heaven's sake spare my money!" she retorted, with an ironical laugh. "I think I have some news for you," he said, approaching and testing the girth of her saddle. "Sit still and let me draw it tighter." "News," she said, with the eagerness of a child, as he pulled upward on the strap, "for me?" "Yes, for you. I knew you would be interested in the bill before the House and Senate, and so I asked the Governor to write me if it went through." "Oh, oh! and did you hear?" She leaned closer to him, her lips rigid with expectation. "I'm afraid there was a hitch after all. The taxpayers are so opposed to spending money." "It went through like greased lightning," he smiled. "Your name and suggestions were mentioned in every speech that was made in both houses." He saw her face fill with delight. She put the butt of her riding-whip to her lips, and her breast heaved high and sank, quivering. "Oh, isn't it splendid--splendid?" she exclaimed. "Thanks to you, Dolly--you, and no one else." "No, no, it was growing all along. I only helped a little, perhaps. But it doesn't matter who did it; it is done. They will build the schools." "And you and I will help with suggestions, won't we?" He looked at her, quite timidly. "I mean, of course, that we have learned some lessons in the house we are now building. We have made mistakes here and there that may be avoided in the future." She said nothing, and he was sure that she purposely avoided his tentative stare. She bent over the horse's neck, ran the thick glossy mane through her fingers, and gently patted the animal's shoulder. "Jarvis, you must tell me something about this horse," she said, firmly. "I'm going to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." "You want to know his pedigree?" He was staring sheepishly. "Well--" "No, I don't, and you know I don't. My father said that you wanted the horse kept in the stable at home in case--in case any one had to ride over here to communicate with him. But no one uses him but me, and he has to have exercise or he will be ruined. It is almost all that I can do to control him now. He breaks into a run the instant another horse passes him. Father said yesterday that he did not understand why you wanted us to keep him at our house." The blood mantled the young planter's brow. "They say an honest confession is good for the soul," he stammered; "and, Dolly, the truth is that I sent the horse there simply for you to ride. You love riding and need the exercise. You are so peculiar about--well, about some things--that I was afraid you would be offended, but I hope you won't refuse this. I do love to see you on a horse. You ride as if you were born in the saddle." She looked down on the farther side of her mount. "It is very, very sweet and kind of you," she said, falteringly. "I believe you mean it, still--" She broke off and failed to finish what she had started to say. "You must not object," he went on, urgently. "It suits your father and me to keep a horse there, and if you are good enough to exercise him for us, well and good. If not, we'll send one of the negroes over to take him out once a day." He saw her smile faintly. "Nobody could get around you," she answered. "Well, it really would break my heart to give him up now, and I shall ride him whenever I feel like it." There was silence for a moment, which he broke. "I am arranging a little surprise for your father." He nodded toward the grounds behind him. "Won't you get down and come in a moment?" "What is it?" She was already kicking the stirrup from her eager foot. "Come in and see." He held out his arms, as if she were a child willing to jump. "You know my awful curiosity," she laughed, putting her hands on his shoulders and leaning downward. Her face sank close to his--so close that her breath fanned his cheek. He took her slight weight on himself as he helped her down. Throwing the rein over one of the palings, he opened the gate and stood aside for her to enter. "What is it? Why are you so awfully mysterious?" she asked. "Because my surprise may not come up to your expectations," he said. "Come with me." He led her across the lawn to a small one-roomed brick house at the side of the main building, adjoining the white glass-roofed conservatory. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and pushed it open and invited her to go in. She found herself in a well-lighted room comfortably furnished with easy-chairs, rugs, and a fine roll-top desk, supplied with new account-books and writing-material of all kinds. "It is to be your father's private office," Saunders explained. "But he doesn't know it. It struck me that he would need a place like this to meet the hands in on pay-days and to do his writing. The furniture came yesterday. He superintended the unloading himself. He thinks the office is for me." Involuntarily Dolly clasped her hands in sheer delight. "Oh, how good you are!" she cried. "Nothing you could possibly do would please him more. You have given him his old pride back, Jarvis, and this will add to it. I have been wanting to speak to you about him, but I hardly knew how. He is absolutely a new man in every way, and it is all due to your confidence and encouragement." He found himself without available response. She sat down in the revolving desk-chair and picked up a pen and pretended to write. "It is simply 'scrumptious!'" she laughed, merrily. "Oh, I should like--" she stopped abruptly, stood up, and looked at the door. "I must be going. Why, you've even given him a clock. And the maps on the walls will be very useful. That's our county, isn't it?" As he nodded he followed her to the grass outside. "You started to say that you would like something," he ventured. "What was it, Dolly?" "I should really like to be present when you show it to him and tell him that it is for him. Jarvis, I almost lost respect for him once. I almost ceased to love him, but it has all come back. I am proud of him again, and you are responsible for it. Why did you do so much for him?" "Because he is _your_ father!" He nipped the words as they were forming on his lips. Instead, he said aloud: "He is just the man I needed. We are working finely together. You must be present when I tell him about the office; he will be here this afternoon. I will detain him with some pretext or other till three o'clock. Couldn't you be here then?" "Oh yes, and I'd like to bring my mother, Uncle John, and George." "A good idea," Saunders said. "We'll have some fresh cider and cakes--the old-fashioned gingerbread sort." When they had reached her horse, he held out his hand for her foot. She placed it in it, and he lightly lifted her to the saddle. He stood at the gate and saw her vanish down the road. "Why didn't I say what I want to say? Why didn't I tell her how I feel and throw myself on her mercy? What is it that always checks me? Is it Mostyn? My God! does she still love him, and will he always stand between me and my happiness?" CHAPTER XV For Mostyn the week which ensued after his wife's secret elopement was a period of sheer mental torture. Every minute he expected the startling tidings to reach his friends and associates. Every morning at breakfast he studied the crafty and sullen face of old Mitchell and the swarthy visages of the servants to see if suspicions of the truth were dawning. At the bank he tried to overhear the conversations of the bookkeepers, sometimes fancying that a burst of low laughter or a whispered colloquy had him for their incentive. He was sure that it was little less than a miracle that the matter had not leaked out. With Delbridge getting into harness at his desk, he had considerable time on his hands, which he spent in long nervous walks, generally in the suburbs of the city. For that week he wholly neglected his child. There was something unbearable in the thought of the boy's future social status, left in the care, as he was, of an all but witless grandfather and a father upon whom the contempt of the public was so soon to fall. Infinitely horrible was the reflection that little Dick would inevitably grow into a comprehension of the family calamity and inquire as to its causes. It was Saturday night, eight days after the elopement. Mostyn had that day been irritated--that is, as much as a man in his plight could be irritated by any extraneous incident--by Delbridge's open criticism of the negligent condition of some of his accounts. The work of going over the books with his successor in rectifying really glaring mistakes detained him at the bank till late at night. It was twelve o'clock when he finally reached home, ascended to his room, and began to undress. He had thrown off his coat, when he heard voices and movements in the nursery adjoining his room. At once he was all attention. He had his usual overpowering yearning to see his child. It was as if the touch of the boy's little hand or a glance from his innocent young eyes might mildly soothe his lacerated spirits. It was the cry of kindred blood to kindred blood from the darkest deeps of despair--the incongruous cry of parent to offspring. He overheard the impatient tone of the drowsy nurse, and the fainter, rather rambling accents of the child. "You go to sleep!" Hilda called out. "You'll disturb yo' pa. He just come home, an' he don't want no noise fum yo' this time o' night." The gas was burning in the nursery, as was shown by the pencil of light beneath the door. Mostyn turned the bolt and looked into the room. A breath of warmer air told him that the servant had again neglected to open the windows sufficiently. He went to Dick's little bed, turning the overhead gas higher as he did so. The child looked up, recognized him, and with a cry of welcome held out his arms. Mostyn, bending down, felt the little hands clasp his neck. They were dry and hot. Dick's cheeks were flushed red. "What ails him?" Mostyn cried, aghast, turning to Hilda, who had risen, thrown on a wrapper, and stood at the table, where a bottle and a spoon lay. "I think he's got er little bit er fever, sir," she said. "It is his stomach gone wrong ergin. I'm givin' 'im his fever-mixture now." "It hurts right here, Daddy." Dick made a wry face as he bravely pressed his hand on the lower part of his right side. "Dick couldn't play to-day." "How long has he had fever?" Mostyn demanded, sharply. "Jes' to-day, I think, sir. I never noticed it till dis evenin' about an hour by sun. He's been complainin' of his stomach fer mo'n a week, but dat is 'cause he eats--" "It may be something serious." The words shrank back from utterance. "Why didn't you send for the doctor?" "Huh!" the nurse sniffed, resentfully. "Yo' all expect me ter ten' ter everything. I _did_ tell his grandpa, but he didn't even know what I was talkin' about, jabberin' all de time about Miss Irene stayin' off so long, en--en I don't know what all--_you_ an' _yo'_ doin's 'long wid de rest." The woman was approaching with the bottle and spoon. "Don't give him any more of that stuff." He waved it away. "I'll send for Dr. Loyd at once." "Oh, Daddy, I don't want the doctor!" Dick began to whimper and cling more tightly round his father's neck. "He won't hurt you; he is a good man," Mostyn said, tenderly. "He will give you something to make you cool off, so you can sleep." Mostyn left the room and groped his way down to the telephone in the lower hall. A new fear had clutched him, a fear so compelling that all else was forgotten. A chill of grim, accusing horror was on him. His brain was in a whirl as he tried to recall the desired number. Did Providence, Fate, or whatever the ruling force was, intend this as his crowning punishment? Had the impalpable hand, reaching for him, descended on his offspring? He finally got the doctor's servant on the 'phone, then Dr. Loyd himself, who had just arrived in his automobile. "Have you taken his temperature?" was the doctor's first question. "No, we haven't a thermometer, and do not know how to use one, anyway." "Well, I'll be out immediately," was the brusque answer. "I must see him to-night--don't exactly like the symptoms. I saw him in driving past your home the other day, and did not quite like his looks." Mostyn dragged himself up the stairs. Passing Mitchell's room, he half paused at the door. Should he wake him and explain the situation? He decided against it. The child's condition would only loosen the man's pent-up wrath in the presence of the physician and perhaps delay the examination. He went back to the nursery, and, lifting Dick in his arms, he bore him into his own room, which was cooler. He dampened a towel in ice-water, folded it, and laid it on the flushed brow. "That feels nice, Daddy," Dick smiled, grimly, "but it hurts here," putting his hand gingerly on his side. A few minutes later the doctor's car was heard on the drive. Mostyn descended to meet him. They shook hands formally, and Mostyn led him up the stairs to the patient. The doctor was past middle age, iron-gray, full-whiskered, and stockily built. He took the child's temperature, and looked grave as he glanced at the thermometer under the drop-light, and washed it in a glass of water. "One-hundred and five!" he said, crisply. "Big risks have been taken, Mostyn. I only hope my fears are groundless." "Your fears?" But the doctor seemed not to hear. He raised the child's thin night-shirt and passed his fingers gently over the abdomen. "Tell me where that pain is, Dick," he said, softly. "Where does it hurt most when I press down?" "There! there!" Dick cried out in sudden agony. "I see. That will do. I sha'n't hurt you again." He drew the shirt down and moved back toward the lamp. "I'm sure you will give him--something to reduce that fever." Mostyn knew that the remark was a mere tentative foil against the verdict stamped upon the bearded face. The doctor slowly wiped the tiny tube and restored it to its case. "I must be frank," he said, in a low tone. "My opinion is that he must be operated on at once--without delay--early in the morning at the very latest." "Why--why--surely--" Mostyn began, but went no further. The objects in the room seemed to swim about him. He and the doctor were buoys floating face to face. "It is appendicitis," Loyd said. "Of course, I'd call another doctor in consultation before anything is done, but I am sure I am not mistaken." Mostyn's soul stared from a dead face with all but glazed eyes. He nodded toward the door opening into the hall and led the doctor from the room. In the hall he put his hand on Loyd's shoulder. "I am sure you know best," he gasped. "What do you propose?" "That I take him at once to my sanitarium in my car. In warm weather like this you won't have to wrap him much. You'd better get him ready now. I'll telephone the nurse to have a room prepared." "Very well." Mostyn was stalking back to the child when the doctor detained him. "And his mother--I don't see her about; is she at home?" "No, she is out of town. Just now she is away." "Well, you had better telegraph her." "I--I don't exactly know where she is." Mostyn was vaguely thankful for the dimness of the hall light. "You must find her--locate her at once." "Is it really so--so serious as that?" "I may as well be frank." The doctor cleared his throat. "It won't do any good to mislead you. The little fellow has a weak heart, as I explained the last time he was ill, and it seems worse now. Then--then, I am sorry to say that I detect strong symptoms of peritonitis. If I could have seen him a week ago--I presume the fact of your wife being away, and you being busy at the bank--" Mostyn's head rocked like a stone balanced on a pivot. "Yes," he said. "I am afraid we were not attentive enough. Will you be ready soon?" "Yes; tell Dick it is for a ride in my car. He won't mind it. He is a plucky little fellow. He has fought that pain for several days. We would have known it earlier but for that." Five minutes later Mostyn sat on the rear seat of the automobile with his child in his arms. The doctor sat in front beside the colored chauffeur. Mostyn chatted with Dick about the ride, about the "nice, cool room" he was to have at the "good doctor's house"; but, to his growing horror, Dick had lost interest in all things. He lay passive and completely relaxed, a lack-luster gleam in his half-closed eyes. "Am I speeding him to his execution?" Mostyn's very dregs whispered the query. "Is this my last word with him?" Seeing the faces of the doctor and the chauffeur directed ahead, and half ashamed of his tenderness, he bent down and kissed the child's forehead. In vague response Dick lifted his little hand to the overbrooding cheek, but immediately dropped it to his side. "Go slowly over this rough place," the doctor ordered; and the speed lessened, to be renewed a little farther on, where the asphalt pavement began again. Reaching the sanitarium, a spacious white building in pleasant, shaded grounds, they alighted. Mostyn, with his boy in his arms, stepped out. At the door a nurse took Dick into the house and bore him to a room on the floor above. She spoke to him in a motherly way. As she vanished up the stairs Mostyn saw Dick's small limp hand hanging down her side. Was it, he asked himself, a farewell salute? "You may sit here in the waiting-room if you wish, or you may return home in my car," Loyd suggested. "I shall send it at once for the other doctors. You are really of no service here, and, of course, I can communicate with you by 'phone as to our decision." "I'll be here, or close about on the outside," Mostyn answered. "I presume it will be some time before the consultation?" "It must be within half an hour. I am not willing to wait longer." Mostyn sat alone in the sitting-room. A clock on the wall ticked sharply. He heard the wheels of the automobile grind on the pavement as it sped away under the electric lights. He went out on the lawn. He felt in his pocket for a cigar, but, finding none, he forgot it. The dew of the grass penetrated to his feet. It seemed to him that he felt Dick's fever coursing through his own veins. He was still outside half an hour later, his eyes raised to the windows of the lighted room occupied by his child, when the automobile returned. Two doctors whom he knew got out and sauntered into the house. He heard them laughing over the mistake a so-called quack had made in the case of a credulous patient, Mostyn lurked back in the shadows--he would not detain them by a useless greeting. He followed them into the house. The nurse at the foot of the stairs was beckoning them to hasten. Mostyn was again alone in the sitting-room. Presently the nurse came in, evidently looking for something. Mostyn caught her eye, and she gave him a hurried but sympathetic look. He decided that he would sound her. "Do you think an operation will be necessary?" he asked. Her glance fell. "I have only Dr. Loyd's opinion. He thinks so, and I have never known him to be wrong in diagnosing a case." "He thinks, also, I believe"--Mostyn's voice sounded as hollow as a phonograph--"that the child has hardly strength enough to resist the--the ordeal?" She raised her eyes as if doubting her right to converse on the subject. "I think he _is_ afraid of that," she admitted. "Your child is very, very sick." "And you--you, _yourself?_" Mostyn now fairly implored. "According to _your_ experience, do you think there is a chance of his living through it?" "I really can't say--I _mustn't_ say," she faltered. "I am only judging by Dr. Loyd's actions. He is very uneasy. Mr. Mostyn, I have no right to speak of it, but your wife ought to be here. The doctor says she is out of town. She ought to get here if possible; she will always regret it if she doesn't. I am a mother myself, and I know how she will feel." Mostyn stifled a reply which rose to his lips. He heard, rather than saw, her leave the room, for a mist had fallen on his sight. In the patient's chamber above there was the grinding of feet on the floor. The chandelier overhead shook. The crystal prisms tinkled like little bells. Presently the nurse came to him. "Dr. Loyd instructed me to say"--she was looking down on his clasped hands--"that they have agreed that the operation must be performed at once. They all think it is the only chance." An hour later the aiding doctors came down the stairs, glided softly past the sitting-room door, and passed out. He called to one of them. "Is the operation over?" he asked. The doctor nodded gravely. He had taken a cigar from his pocket, and was biting the tip from the end. "It was the worst appendix I ever saw, fairly rotten. Loyd will show it to you. It is a serious case, Mostyn. If Loyd pulls him through it will be a miracle. Peritonitis has already set in, and there is very little heart-action. He is sleeping now, of course, and every possible thing has been done and will be done. He is in the best of hands. We can do nothing but wait." It was near dawn. Mostyn was pacing back and forth on the grass in front of the house. The dark eastern horizon was giving way to a lengthening flux of light. A cab drove up to the door, and a man and a woman got out. It was Mrs. Moore and old Mitchell. Mrs. Moore reached her brother first, and tenderly clasped his hands. As well as he could he explained the situation. "Hilda telephoned me," Mrs. Moore went on, in a low, matter-of-fact tone. "She was almost in hysterics, and I could not understand her fully. I thought the operation was to be done there, and so I dressed and went in a cab. Then I found that Mr. Mitchell wanted to come, and so I brought him on." The old man tottered forward. For once he had no comment to make. He passed them, slowly ascended the steps, went into the waiting-room and sat down, leaning forward on his stout cane, which he held upright between his knees. "We'd have got here sooner, but he stopped at the telegraph-office. Dick, he has sent a telegram to Irene in care of the Hardys. I saw by that that he didn't suspect the truth. I tried to think of some way to prevent it, but couldn't. I told him I was in a hurry, but he would stop. Now I suppose the truth will have to come out." "It makes no difference," Mostyn answered. "It might as well come now as later." They went in and took their seats against the wall in the waiting-room. Mitchell stared at them half drowsily, betraying the usual complacency of old age in regard to serious illness or death. "Are they going to operate?" he asked. Mrs. Moore told him that it had already been done. "And Irene wasn't here," the old man sniffed, in rising ire. "It is a shame! I reckon she will have the decency to take the first train home now. This will be a lesson to her, I hope." The nurse came down the stairs hurriedly. Her face was swept with well-controlled dismay. She paused in the doorway. Her eyes met those of the brother and sister. "Dr. Loyd thinks you'd better come up." "Is the boy--is--he worse?" Mrs. Moore asked. "You had better hurry," the nurse answered. "There is only a minute--if that. He is dying." A few minutes later Mostyn and his sister came down the stairs. "Try to realize what the poor little darling has escaped," she said. "It may be the merciful hand of God, Dick. I know it is killing you, but that ought to be _some_ comfort." CHAPTER XVI Irene and Buckton were still at the hotel in Charleston. On the second morning following the happenings of the foregoing chapter they were having breakfast served in Irene's little sitting-room. In the light from the window he was struck, as he had been struck before, by her listless mien and the thickening shadows of disillusionment in her eyes. He had to remind her that the coffee-urn was at her elbow, and that he would not take his coffee from any hand but hers before she filled his cup. Her eggs and bacon she had barely touched. He saw her hands quiver as she passed his cup. He tried to enliven her by his cheerful talk, telling her that she was getting weary of the town and that they must move on to Savannah to take the steamer. "New York is the place for us," he said. "There we will have so much to do and see that you won't have time to get homesick. I really believe you _are_ homesick, darling. You see, you are a belle at home, a favorite with every one, and here you have to be satisfied with just me. I know I am a poor substitute, but I adore you, while they--" "Don't speak of home!" she suddenly burst out, almost at the point of tears. "One never knows what home is till one leaves it forever. Just think of it--why, it is forever--forever! When we left I did not consider that at all. I want to tell you something very strange. I almost feel--I hardly know how to put it--but I almost feel that a--a new spiritual nature is hovering about me, trying to force itself into my body. Why, I feel so tenderly about my father that it seems to me that I'd rather see him at this moment and undo what I've done than to possess the world. Whenever I start to--to speak affectionately to you a cold hand seems to fall on my lips. That is why--why I locked the door last night. It was not the headache, as I claimed. I had been thinking of Dick--my husband. I believe he is trying to undo his past. I don't believe a man could love a child as he loves ours and be very bad at heart. Something tells me that I ought to have stayed by him at all costs. We were wrong in marrying, no doubt; but once it was done, once a helpless little child was in our care--" "Ah, I see, Irene, it is the boy, after all. You don't mention him often, but little things you drop now and then show which way the wind blows. Your eyes are on every child we pass in the street. Without knowing it you are a motherly woman." "Ah, if you only knew--if only I could tell you _something_--" She broke off, lowered her head to her hand, and he saw her breast rise on a billow of emotion. "Something about your child?" Buckton queried, jealously. She nodded faintly. He heard her sigh. She remained mute and still for a moment; then she said, falteringly: "I have a strange conviction that there is truth in the belief of some psychologists I've read about who claim that in sleep our souls leave the body and see and experience things far away." "I don't believe such rubbish," Buckton said, uneasily. "Do you know that people who harbor such ideas generally go insane?" "I had a strange experience night before last." Irene quite ignored his protest. "It was something too vivid to be a mere dream. You know there is a difference between a dream and a real experience. I mean that one seems able to tell the two apart." "Perhaps we had better say no more about it," Buckton suggested. "Don't you think a drive in the open air would do you good?" But Irene failed to hear what he was saying, or was treating it as of little consequence. "Listen," she persisted. "It was between midnight and dawn. I had been brooding morbidly, and sank deep, deep into sleep, so deep that the darkness seemed to close in and crush my spirit right out of my body. Then I was floating about, free to go where I liked. I felt awfully lonely and desolate. Presently I found myself on our lawn in front of the house, but unable to get in. I heard some one crying inside; it seemed to be Hilda. I couldn't tell what she was crying about, but I had the feeling that it was because something was happening to the boy. I went to the door and tried to ring, but had no hands--think of that, I had no hands! Suddenly I found myself in the hall, but unable to go up the stairs. Something seemed to clutch me and hold me back. I tried to cry out, but had no voice. I thought I heard my husband talking to the child, tenderly--oh, so tenderly! I was crying as I had never cried before. I wanted to see the boy. It was as if a new heart had been born in me or an old one resurrected. Then I heard the door of my husband's room open, and I shrank back afraid to meet him, for I thought of--of you and me being like this. Then I waked and found myself here in bed, my pillow drenched with tears. Oh, I wanted to die--I wanted to die then!" "It was a nightmare," Buckton commented, uneasily. "It has all the earmarks of one. We are always, in such dreams, trying to get somewhere or away from something horrible." "It haunted me all day yesterday," Irene sighed. "And last night I had to take one of my morphine tablets to get to sleep." "I wish you'd give that up, darling," Buckton said, reproachfully. "I saw them on your bureau yesterday and started to throw them out of the window. Doctors say it easily becomes a habit, and a bad one." "I don't take it often, I really don't," Irene answered. "But I sometimes wonder if it would make any difference. I can sympathize with a hopeless drunkard, who, in a besotted condition, is able to forget trouble and sorrow." "Finish your breakfast," Buckton cried, forcing a laugh. "We are going to take that drive. The fresh air will knock all those ideas out of your pretty head." They spent the day driving about the country. They had supped at a quaint and picturesque cafe, and returned to the hotel. He was in her bedroom at ten o'clock, still active in his efforts to set her mind at ease, when a sharp rapping was heard on the door of his sitting-room adjoining. "It is something for me," Buckton said. "Wait, and I'll see what it is." Before he had finished speaking there was another and a louder rapping. Buckton hastened out, closing the connecting door cautiously. Irene stood up. She had a premonition that something disagreeable was about to happen. She heard Buckton unlock his door. Then she recognized the voice of the proprietor of the hotel. "I want to see you privately, Mr. Buckton," the voice said. "All right; won't you come in?" Buckton replied; and immediately the latch of the door clicked as it was closed. There was a pause, during which Irene, holding her handkerchief to her lips, crept to the connecting door and stood with her ear close to the keyhole. She held her breath. The pounding of her heart seemed to fill the still room with obtrusive sound. "You must pardon me, but it is my duty"--the proprietor's voice rose with sudden sharpness--"to speak of your relations with the woman you brought here with you." "My--my relations?" Buckton's voice had fallen low, and the tone was cautious. "Please don't talk so loud. She is not well and might overhear. What do you mean, sir--do you mean to insinuate--" "You may call it anything you like," the proprietor retorted, in evident anger. "I've been in the hotel business for twenty-five years, and have never been charged with keeping an indecent house. When you arrived here I thought your companion was all right, but I now know who and what she is. I can rely on my information, so we won't argue about that." Irene heard a scuffing of feet which drew the two men closer to the door at which she stood. The truth was that Buckton had drawn back to strike the man, who caught his hand and held it. "Don't try that on me!" the proprietor said, calmly. "Your bluff is weak. Now, let me give you a piece of advice, young man. I've watched this thing with my own eyes and ears, and I know exactly what is going on. This is a strict, law-abiding, old-fashioned town. Decency has been reigning here for over two hundred years. The average citizen of Charleston has no sympathy for the sort of thing you are evidently trying to foist on us. You've got sense enough to know that all I have to do is to telephone the police to take charge of this matter and air it in open court. You might get it whitewashed in _your_ town by some pull or other, but not here. I think, since you want to be insulting, that I'd better send for an officer." Irene heard the proprietor moving to the outer door; his hand touched the latch, and it rattled. "Wait!" It was her lover's voice, and it was contrite and imploring. "For God's Sake, don't give us trouble! We are leaving for Savannah in the morning. Surely you will not put us out to-night?" "No, the train leaves at ten. See that you take it. I am not any more anxious to have this dirty thing get out than you are. Good night." "Good night." The door closed. Receding steps sounded in the corridor outside. Irene reeled back to her chair and sat down. A moment later Buckton appeared. He was ghastly pale, trying to recover calmness and invent a plausible explanation as to why he had been called to the door. She gazed at him steadily. "You needn't make up a story," she said. "I overheard." He stood looking down on her helplessly. He swayed to and fro, resting his hand on the back of her chair. "You say--you--heard?" She nodded. "He told the truth about me. That's actually what I am," she said, grimly. "That is exactly the way the world will look at me when it knows all. It was lucky that I heard. As he was talking I kept saying, 'That's so--that's so,' and I wasn't a bit angry--not a bit. A bad woman--a bold, bad woman would have flared up, but I'm not that--God knows I am not. I have been tricked, blinded, led along by my imagination and ideals ever since I was a child. Now my head is on the block, and the Puritan world is swinging the ax. Oh, how I cringed just now! I, who have heard nothing but the compliments of men all my life, heard the truth at last. I've been vain, silly, mad. I could crawl in the dust and kiss the feet of an unsullied shop-girl. Well, well, what's to be done?" "We leave for Savannah in the morning, and from there sail for New York," he answered. "I'm going to kill your despondency, dear. You must sleep now. Don't pack to-night. I'll wake you early in the morning, and will help you do it then." "Well, well, leave me," she sighed. "I'll go to bed. I'll take a tablet. I want to forget. That voice--oh, God! that man's voice! He was a judge on the bench--all arguments in my defense had been set aside by a jury of truthful men. He pronounced my sentence. I'm to be swept out in the morning along with the dirt from men's boots. I--I--Irene Mostyn--no, no, not _Mostyn_--Irene _Nobody_, will not dare to look into the faces of black servants as I slink away in the morning with you--you, my choice, a man whom--before God I swear it--I no more actually love you than--" "Don't--don't for God's sake; I can't bear it!" He was on the verge of tears. "I've been afraid of that. I thought you'd be happy with me, but so far you have been just the reverse. But I won't give up--I won't! You are my very life." "Well, go, go!" she cried. "I must sleep. I rolled and tossed all night last night. I'll go mad if this keeps up. Get me a tablet from the bottle, and a glass of water--no, I'll take it later. Oh, oh, oh! I am sure now that my child is dead, and that his father is crazed with grief. That was what my strange dream meant. People say such things are prophetic, and I know it is so--I feel it through and through. The child of my breast died while I was here like this with _you_--with _you here in my bedroom_." "You really must try to be calm," Buckton urged. "Those are only morbid fancies. The world is before us, darling, just as it was when we left home. There is really no change except in your imagination." A shrewd look settled on her face. She waved her hand toward the door. "Well, leave me alone then. Please do." "All right, I'll go." He bent to kiss her, but with a sharp little scream that was half hysterical she raised her hands and pushed him back. "Don't do that!" she cried, almost in alarm. "Don't do it again!" She glanced furtively about the room--at the closet door, under the bed, and, leaning to one side, peered behind the bureau, as if her mind was wandering. "Don't touch me. Little Dick will see you. He is here--I know it--I feel it. I can almost see him, like a misty cloud. He seems to come between you and me, as if wondering why you are here. He seems to be trying to comfort me. Lord, have mercy on my soul! Go, go! For God's sake, _go!_" "All right, dear." Buckton moved away. His feet caught in a rug and he stumbled awkwardly. Passing out at the door, he softly closed it. Finding herself alone, Irene rose and began to walk the floor. Back and forth she strode, wringing her hands, the flare of insanity in her eyes. She unfastened her hair, shook it down her back. Suddenly she fell on her knees by her bed, clasped her hands and tried to pray, but words failed to come. Rising, she went to the table and filled a glass with ice-water; then, going to the bureau, she took up the small bottle half full of morphine tablets and held them between her and the light. "Ah!" she cried. "I see the way--the only way, but I must be quick, or I'll lose courage! Quick, quick, quick!" She took a tablet into her mouth and drank some water. She took another, and another, then two, then three, and so on, till the bottle was empty. She walked to a window and threw the bottle away. She heard it crash on the pavement. She went to her bed, lowered the light, and lay down. Presently she felt drowsy; a delicious sense of restfulness stole over her. Shortly afterward Buckton, who was up packing his trunk, heard her gleefully laughing. Wondering over the cause, and vaguely afraid, he opened the door and went to her. She was lying with her eyes open, smiling sweetly, and staring as if at some dream-object or person across the room. "What is it, dear?" he asked, touching her forehead gently. He fancied that she was slightly delirious, and that it would soon pass away. A sweet, girlish, rippling laugh escaped her lips. He had never seen her look so beautiful. A spiritual radiance had transformed her face, which was that of a young girl. Her eyes had lost their somber shadows. Ineffable lights danced in their depths. "Little Dick and I were having so much fun. We were playing hide and seek in the clouds with thousands and thousands of angels like himself. He said that he felt no pain when he died and came straight to me because I needed him--think of that, I, a grown woman, needed a little boy like him, but that is because he is wise now, wise and old in the wisdom of Eternity." She closed her eyes for a moment, only to open them again. "Leave me quick! I want to sleep. Don't disturb me again to-night. Shut the door and don't open it. He is coming back, and--and he must not see you here. Oh, I love him--I love him! He is the only one I ever loved. We understand each other perfectly. He is the sweetest, dearest thing in the world. I had him in my arms just now, and he seemed to melt into me and become myself and yet remain himself. He is coming to take me away. Go, I am sleepy--so sleepy and--happy--oh, so happy! It is all peace and bliss out there, and endless light and--Love. Go, hurry! He is coming! I see my mother, too. She is holding him by the hand. They are beckoning to me." She closed her eyes. Tints of dawn were in her cheeks. He bent to kiss her, but, fearing that he might wake her, he refrained, and softly tiptoed from the room. CHAPTER XVII Saunders was reading a letter one morning as he walked along the shaded road from the store to his house. It was from James Wright, the cashier of the bank, who was giving him some of the particulars in regard to the double tragedy in Mostyn's life. "The whole city is shocked," the letter ran. "Nothing else is spoken of. Mostyn has the sympathy of all. He is bearing it like a man, but he is terribly changed. He seems more dead than alive. You'd hardly know him now. Of course, when Mitchell was unable to locate his daughter, to inform her of the death of her child, everybody began to suspect the truth, especially as Buckton's mother was almost prostrate, and made no secret of her fears. "Mitchell happened to be at the bank when the telegram came from Buckton announcing the death of Mrs. Mostyn. Buckton called it heart-failure, but everybody knew from the wording that it was suicide. Mitchell did, I am sure. He read the telegram with scarcely a change of face. I happened to be close to him at the moment, and heard him mutter: "'It is better so!' "He sat alone in Delbridge's office--seeming to shun Mostyn--without saying a word for half an hour; then he asked me to telephone the facts to Mrs. Buckton. I did so, and she drove down to the bank, so weak that she had to be helped from her carriage. She and the old man held a consultation. They agreed to go together to Charleston, and thought for the present, at least, that it would be better to bury the poor woman there, so as to avoid further publicity here. "Mitchell returned to-day. Nobody knows exactly what took place between him and the young man, but it is thought that out of consideration for Mrs. Buckton he kept his temper. It is rumored that she and her son have left for New York, and that they may not be back to Atlanta for a long time. "Mitchell's trouble seems to have strengthened his mind rather than weakened it. He is not so flighty or talkative. He is offering his home for sale, and has ordered it to be closed at once. He says he is going to live with his nieces in Virginia, who will now, I presume, inherit all his property. He is not likely to leave a penny to Mostyn, who, to do him justice, does not want any of it, I'm sure. "Mostyn is staying at his sister's. She is doing all she can to help him bear up. His condition is truly pitiful, and it is made more unbearable by old Henderson, who has made many bold efforts to see him. Henderson is openly gloating over Mostyn's misfortune. He goes about chuckling, telling everybody that the retribution for which he has prayed so long has come at last. I had to drive him away yesterday. He was peering through my window with a grin on his face, and started to shout in at Mostyn. Mostyn saw him, I think, but said nothing. The poor fellow is losing flesh; his eyes have a strange, far-off glare, and his hands and knees shake. I see now that we must persuade him to go away for a while. A man of iron could not stand up under such awful trouble." Saunders folded the letter, and with a profound sigh walked on. A man on a wagon loaded with hay passed. It was Tobe Barnett, who looked well and prosperous. He was working on Saunders's plantation, and getting good wages under the friendly direction of Tom Drake. Tobe tipped his hat, as he always did to Saunders. "Awful about Mr. Mostyn, ain't it?" he said. "I read it in the paper yesterday." Saunders nodded. "Very sad, Tobe. He is having hard lines." "I never had nothin' agin the feller _myself,_" Tobe remarked. "He always treated _me_ right. Some folks said he was sorter wild in his ways, but I never blamed him much. He was young an' full o' blood. I've knowed fellers as wild as bucks to settle down in the end." Tobe drove on. Saunders pursued his way along the shaded road. How peaceful the landscape looked in the mellow sunshine! How firm and eternal seemed the mountains, the highest peaks of which pierced the snowy clouds. Saunder's heart fairly ached under its load of sympathy. "What can be done? What can be done?" he thought. "I'd like to help him." Presently down the road near his own house Saunders saw a trim form on a black horse. It was Dolly. She was coming toward him. She had not seen him, and he noted that she was constantly reining her restive mount in while she kept her eyes fixed on the ground as if in deep thought. In a few minutes they met. She looked up, nodded, and bowed. "I rode over to take a message to father," she announced. "He was in the wheat-field. I didn't want to bother to go around to the gate, so what do you think I did? I made my horse jump a fence eight rails high. Oh, it was fine! I rose like an arrow in the breeze and came down on the other side as light as a feather." He caught her bridle-rein and held it to steady the impatient animal. "You really mustn't take such risks," he said, firmly. "If the horse had caught his feet on the top rail he would have thrown you. Don't, don't do it any more. Don't, please don't!" She avoided his burning upward glance. Suddenly a shadow swept over her face. "Of course, you've heard about Mr. Mostyn?" she said, softly. "Isn't it simply awful?" He nodded, telling her about the letter he had just received. When he had concluded she sat in silence for a moment, then he heard her sigh. "I thought I'd had trouble myself, but, really, Jarvis, if I tried I could not imagine a more horrible situation. He is proud, and his humiliation and grief combined must be unbearable. Losing his son was the hardest blow. I think you told me he loved the boy very much." "He adored the little chap," Saunders said. "And well he might, for the boy was wonderfully bright and beautiful. He doted on his father." Dolly was silent. Saunders saw her white throat throbbing. "It is bound to produce a change in him," she said. "It will either kill him or regenerate him. He has a queer nature. He is a two-sided man. All his life he has been tossed back and forth between good and bad impulses. How awful it must be for him to have to remain in Atlanta and be thrown with so many who know what has happened! His friends ought to beg him to go off somewhere." "I am going to write him a letter to-day," Saunders said. "I shall assure him that my home is his, and beg him to come. Nature is the best balm for keen sorrow, and here in the mountains--" "Oh, how good and sweet and noble of you!" Dolly broke in, tremulously. "You are always thinking of others. Yes, that would do him good. A city is no place for one in his trouble. I imagine that nothing will help him much, but you can do more for him here than any one can down there." Saunders tried to meet her eyes, but they were steadily avoiding his. "My God, does she still care for him?" the planter thought. "Does she still actually love him, and will not this trouble and his presence here unite them again? She has too great a heart to harbor resentment at such a time, and she may suspect that he still loves her. If that is so, I am simply joining their hands together--I who, if I lose her, will be as miserable as he. Oh, I can't give her up! I simply can't. She is my very life." Dolly seemed to feel the force back of his agonized stare, for she kept her eyes averted. "He will come, I'm sure," she said, musingly, and, as he thought, eagerly. "When will the letter reach him?" "To-night," Saunders said. "I'll urge him to come at once. I'll make the invitation as strong as I can. Shall I--mention you--that is, would you like for me to express your--sympathies?" "Oh no, I have already written him. I wrote as soon as I heard. I couldn't help it. I cried till the paper was damp. Oh, he will know how sorry I am." "You have written!" Saunders formed the words in his brain, but they were not uttered. A storm of despair swept through him. He shook from head to foot. She and the horse floated in a swirling mist before him. "He will appreciate your letter," he managed to say, finally. "He will value it above all else." "Oh no, I don't think that." She gave him her eyes in what seemed to him to be a questioning stare. "In a deep, heartrending sorrow like his he will scarcely remember my words from one day to another. Do you know what I think, Jarvis? Down inside of him he has a deeply religious nature, and I predict that he will now simply have to turn to God. After all, God is the only resort for a man in his plight." "You may be right," Saunders returned. "His whole spirit is broken. But hope will revive. In fact, all this, sad as it is, in the long run may be good for him." Dolly shook her rein gently. "I must go," she said, smiling sadly. "Good-by." The horse galloped down the road. Like a fair, winged creature she floated away in the sunlight. "Am I to lose her at last?" he groaned. "After all these years of patient watching and waiting is she going back to the man who could have had her but would not? God knows that is not fair. Surely I deserve better treatment--if--if I deserve anything. Can I urge him to come--will it be possible for me sincerely to pen the words which may seal my doom? Yes, I must--if I don't I would not be worthy of her respect, and that I must have, even if I lose her." CHAPTER XVIII The letter was written. It was full of manly sympathy and friendly assurances. It brought the afflicted banker three days later to the plantation. A delightful cool and airy room was assigned to him. The open sympathy of the mountaineers and the negroes about the place was vaguely soothing. Looking back upon the city, it seemed a jarring place of torture when contrasted to the eternal peace of this remote spot. Free to go when and whither he liked, Mostyn spent whole days rambling alone through the narrow roads and by-paths of the mountains, often reaching all but inaccessible nooks in canons and rocky crevices where dank plants and rare flowers budded and bloomed, where velvet mosses were spread like carpets, and ferns stood like miniature palms. One morning Mostyn saw Saunders hoeing weeds out of the corn-rows in a field back of the house; and, taking another hoe, he joined him, working steadily by his friend's side till noon. And here he made a discovery. He found that the work furnished a sort of vent for the festering agony pent up within him. It seemed to ooze out with the sweat which dampened his clothing, to be absorbed in his heated blood, and after a cooling bath he slept more profoundly than he had slept for years. He now saw the reason for Saunders's partiality to country life. It was Nature's balm for all ills. In fact, he was sure now that he could not do without it. Nearly every morning after this he insisted on working in the fields. Sometimes it was with a plow, which he learned to use under the advice of Tobe Barnett, a scythe in the hay-field, or a woodman's ax in the depths of the forests. But still sorrow and shame brooded over him like a material pall that refused to be put aside. As he lay in his bed at night he would fancy that he heard little Dick calling to him from the nursery, and the thought that the voice and love of the child were forever dead to him was excruciating. One evening after supper Saunders informed him that Dolly and some of her literary friends were to hold a club-meeting at the schoolhouse to discuss some topic of current interest, and asked him if he would care to go along with him. Mostyn was seated at the end of the veranda smoking. He hesitated, it seemed to Saunders, longer than was necessary before he answered: "I hope you will excuse me, but you mustn't let me keep you away. I am very tired and shall go to bed early." A little later Saunders left for the meeting. Mostyn saw him pass out at the gate under the starlight. The bell was ringing. Mostyn recalled the night he had gone with Dolly to a meeting of like nature, and the impression her speech had made on him. "All that is past--gone like a wonderful dream," he mused. "In feeling I am an old man, bowed and broken under the blind errors of life. Saunders and I are near the same age. Look at him; look at me; he walks like a young Greek athlete. I have nothing to expect, nothing to hope for. My wife died despising me; my friends merely bear with me out of pity; my boy is dead; I have to die--all living creatures have to die. What does the whole thing mean? It really must have a meaning, for many great minds have seen nothing but beauty in it, not even excluding sorrow, pain, and death. There must be an unpardonable sin, and I have committed it. Some say that all wrong-doers may get right--I wonder if there is a chance for me, _a single chance?_ No, no, I am sure there is none--none whatever. But, oh, if only I could see my boy alive again! I would be willing to suffer any torment for that, but better still--if only he might be immortal--if only he could live forever in happiness on some other plane, as good people believe, I'd ask nothing for my part--absolutely nothing! I brought him into the world. I am responsible for his marvelous being. I'd give my soul to save his--I would--I would--I would!" He went to bed. He said no prayer. He accepted his lot without any idea that it might be otherwise. The night was profoundly still. He heard singing. It was at the meeting-house. Softened by distance, the music was most appealing. It seemed to float above the tree-tops, touch the clouds, and fall lightly to earth. His mind, weighted down by care, induced slumber. Dream-creatures flocked about him. He was a child romping in a meadow over new-mown hay. He had a playmate, but he could not see his face; it was ever eluding him. Suddenly he ran upon the child, and with open arms clasped him to his breast. The child laughed gleefully, as children do when caught in such games. It was little Dick. He held him tightly, fearing that he would get away. He spoke soothingly and yet anxiously. Endearing words rippled from his lips. Presently his arms were empty. Little Dick was gone, and standing near, a scowl of hate on his face, was old Henderson, who was shaking fierce fingers at the dreamer. "Retribution!" he cried. "Retribution! Now it is your time--your time to suffer, and I am appointed to lay on the lash!" Mostyn waked. The moonlight was shining in at the window. In the distance he heard voices. They were coming nearer. Standing at a window, Mostyn saw Saunders and Tobe Barnett as they were parting at the gate. "As soon as Dolly stood up," Tobe said, with a satisfied laugh, "I knew she had it in for the whole dang bunch from the way she looked. An' when she swatted 'em like she did with them keen points o' hers I mighty nigh kicked the bench in front o' me to pieces. I throwed my hat agin the ceilin' an' yelled. She's a corker, Mr. Saunders." Mostyn could not hear Saunders's reply. As he came on to the house he began to whistle softly. Mostyn saw him pause on the grass, light a cigar, and begin to smoke as he strolled to and fro. "Happy man!" Mostyn said, as he went back to his bed. "He's never had anything to bother him. There must be a correct law of life, and he seems to understand and obey it. He used to try to get me to listen to his ideas, but I thought he was a fanatic. Lord, Lord, I thought he was a fool!" CHAPTER XIX The next morning, Saunders having left home on some business pertaining to the building of his new cotton-factory, Mostyn started out on one of his all-day rambles in the mountains. As he was passing the store Wartrace called out to him cordially. "You ought to come around about one o'clock, Mr. Mostyn," he said. "A big crowd will be here to listen to John Leach, the tramp preacher. He's billed for my store, an' he never fails to be on time." Mostyn passed on after exchanging a few labored platitudes with the storekeeper. He shrank from the thought of meeting a crowd even of simple mountain people. The high open spaces above silently beckoned to him. Never before had solitude in the breast of Nature had such appeal for him. He found growing interest in plants, flowers, insects, and birds. He wondered if they, too, suffered from grief and pain. At noon, when the day was warmest, he reclined on the mossy bank of a clear brook. He took off his shoes and bathed his feet in the cool, swift-running water, feeling the chill course through his veins. What was it that kept whispering within him that here and here alone was the balm for such wounds as his? Contrasting the mystic quiet of his surroundings with the snarling jangle of the life he had led in town, a faint hope of eventual peace began to spring up within him. Once he raised his hands to the infinite blue above him, and his thought, if not his words, was all but a prayer for mercy. He was descending the mountain road near sunset. The valley into which he was going was already in shadow. Suddenly he heard a mellow masculine voice singing a hymn, and, turning a bend in the road, his body bent downward and swinging his hat in his hand, was Leach, the preacher. "Well, well, well!" Leach exclaimed, gladly, when he was near enough to recognize him. "I heard you were in these diggings, and was sorry not to see you out at my meeting." Leach took his hand, pressing his fingers in a tense and sincere clasp while he looked into his eyes tenderly. His strong face filled with emotion; his big lower lip actually shook. "You needn't tell me about it, brother," he said, huskily. "I've heard it all, and I never was so sorry for a man in my life. You have been sorely stricken--you've had as much as you can stand up under and live. As soon as I heard it I said to myself: 'Here is a man that has to suffer as much as I went through.' Brother"--Leach still hung on to his hand--"you can't see it as I do now, and you will think I am crazy for saying it, I reckon, but if things work out right, you will see the time that you will thank God for giving you the load that's on you. Everything that happens under the Lord's sun is according to law, and is right--so right that average human beings can't see it. You've heard me tell about what I went through in prison, and I thank God for every minute of it. The backbone of my pride had to be broken, and it took that to do it. Are you in a big hurry?" "No," Mostyn faltered. "I have plenty of time." "Well, if you don't mind, let's sit here on the rocks," Leach suggested. "I want to see the sun set. I never miss a sunset on a mountain if I can help it. That's why I walked up here. A fellow asked me to spend the night with him on his farm in the valley, but I refused. The longer I live the more I want to get away from houses, tables, beds, and chairs. They are just babies' rag dolls and playing-blocks. I'll rake up a pile of pine-needles at the highest point I can reach on this mountain to-night and lie with my eyes on the stars-pin-hole windows to God's glory. Sometimes I can't sleep--I get so full of worship. I was reading the other day that it would take a fast train forty million years to get to the nearest fixed star. Isn't that awful? And think of it, when you got there, a billion times more would lie beyond--so much more that you wouldn't even then have touched the fringe of the wonderful scheme. It is too big for the mind of man to grasp, and so is the other, the realm of spirit, which is, after all, the main thing--in fact, the _only_ thing." They sat in silence for several minutes. The sun was now a great bleeding ball of crimson. Leach's big hands were locked over his knee. Now and then his lips moved as if in prayer. He smiled; he laughed; he chuckled. The sun sank lower and finally went out of sight. The sky along the horizon was an ocean of pink and purple, with shores of shimmering opal. "Forgive me, brother." Leach turned his soft glance on his companion. "You don't want to talk, I reckon, but the Lord has given me the power to sort o' feel human trouble. I can see it in your face and feel it ooze out of your body like a sad, murky stream. I don't want to part with you to-night without helping you if I can. I wouldn't talk this way if I hadn't helped hundreds. I never have failed where they would open their hearts plumb wide. All I'd want to know would be what particular thing was standing in your way. Something must be in the way. You may think it strange, but I can almost feel it hanging over you, like a thing that ought to be jerked off." Mostyn was tempted to reply, but he said nothing. Half an hour passed. It was growing cool, damp, and darker. He rose to go. The preacher stood up with him, and grasped his hand. "I may never see you again, brother," he said, "and I'm sorry, for I feel drawn powerful close to you somehow. I'd like nothing better than to have you along with me. I'm going to leave this part of the country pretty soon. I want to see more of God's beautiful world. I've always wanted to go to California, and I'm going to do it now." "That will be fine," Mostyn remarked. "I am going somewhere soon myself. I don't know where, but somewhere." "You'd better come along with me," the preacher said, eagerly. "We could pull together all right. I'd do my best to make you happy. I'd hammer at you till you saw the truth that has lifted me out o' the mire. God loves you, brother--He really does, and you will find it out some day. The worst sin in the world is simply not knowing God's goodness. It is as plentiful as rain and air. What do you say? Couldn't we go together?" Mostyn was fairly thrilled by the idea. It was a strange suggestion, and appealed to him strongly. There was a soothing quality about the man that attracted him beyond anything else. "When do you leave?" he asked. "In a couple of weeks. I wish you would go--by Jacks, I do! I know when I like a man, and I like you. I don't want to part from you like this. What do you say?" "I'll think over it," Mostyn promised. "Shall you be in Atlanta again this summer?" "I'll leave from there," Leach answered. "I have to go there to draw a little money that is coming to me." "Well, look me up down there," Mostyn said. "I shall want to see you again, anyway." They parted. Mostyn trudged down into the deeper shadows. He heard Leach singing along the rocky way as he ascended higher. How odd! But the going of the man left him more deeply depressed than ever. He felt like running back and calling on him to wait a moment. There was something he wanted to tell him. He wanted to tell him about a certain haunting circumstance and ask his advice. He wanted to reveal the whole story of Henderson's loss and his gain--of the old man's fall and his rise on the ruins of that wrecked life. But what was the use? He knew what Leach would say. He would say: "Make restitution, and make it quick, for God's eye is on you--God's wide ear is bending down from that sky up there to hear the words you speak." Mostyn stood still in the lonely road. "Yes, he'd advise that," he muttered, "but I can't do it. It would take almost all I have left, and I must live. Leach can talk, but I am not in his shoes. I might be better off if I were. I know I ought to do it. I ought to have done it years ago. How can I refrain now when I have no one depending on me and Henderson has that helpless family of his? I robbed them--law or no law to back me, I robbed them. A higher law than man's holds me guilty. I wonder what--" He stumbled along through the thickening shadows beneath the trees, the boughs of which were locked and interlaced overhead. "I wonder what Dolly would say. I needn't wonder--I know. Many women would tell me not to bother, but she wouldn't. She would be like Leach--so would Saunders. Great God! I really _am_ vile. I know what I ought to do, but can't. Then there is my child. If I have a hope left it is that he is safe with--God. Yes, that's it--_with_ God. There must be a God--so many say so, and He must love my little boy, and both of them would want me to do my duty. "Oh, Dick, Dick! my son, my son!" he cried aloud, "are you close to me now? Tell me, tell me what to do. Take my hand, little boy. Lead me. I need you. I am your father, and you are only a child, but you can take me out of this, for you are stronger than I am now." The echo of his voice came back from the rocky heights. A cricket snarled in a tree. A nightingale's song came up from the valley. He heard sheep-bells, the mooing of a cow, the bleating of a calf, a farmer calling up his hogs. Groaning, and bowed closer to the earth, he continued his way. CHAPTER XX A fortnight later Mostyn returned to Atlanta. He spent the first day at his sister's home trying to pass the time reading in her library, but the whole procedure was a hollow makeshift. Had he been a condemned prisoner awaiting execution at dawn, he could not have suffered more mental agony. Unable to sleep that night, he rose before sun-up on the following morning and walked through the quiet streets for two hours. What a mad, futile thing the waking city seemed! "What are these people living for--what, after all?" he asked. "But they may be happy in a way," he added. "The fault is in me. I am seeing them through self-stained glasses. It wasn't like this in my sight once--the town was a sort of heaven when I first entered it and began to attract attention. Yes, I am at fault. I have disobeyed a spiritual law, and am getting my dues. What is the use of holding out longer? I see now that I am beaten. I have got to do this thing, and be done with it." After breakfast he went straight to the bank. Wright, Delbridge, and the clerks and stenographers seemed unreal creatures, with flaccid, vacuous faces, as he shook hands with them and answered their conventional queries about his vacation. "Vacation!" The word was not in his vocabulary. "Business!" That, too, was a corpse of a word floating on the still waters of past usage. "Money, stocks, bonds, market-reports!" They seemed like forgotten enemies rising to stop him. How could Delbridge smile in his smug way, as he chewed his cigar and boasted of a new club of which he was the president? How could Wright put up with his moderate salary and stand all day at that prison window? What could the limp, pale-faced stenographers in their simple dresses hope for? Did they expect to marry, bear children, nurse them at their thin breasts--and bury them like close-clipped flowers of Heaven just opening to fragrance? Seated at his desk, he asked a clerk to go to the vault and bring him his certificates of bank stock. Delbridge was passing, and, seeing them in his hands, he said, with his forced and commercial shrewdness: "If you have any idea of selling out, Mostyn, I'm in a shape now to take that stock off your hands." Mostyn's stare resolved itself into a glare of indecision. "What would be your price?" he asked, under his breath, and yet audibly--"that is, in case I--I found another use for the money?" "The same price I gave Saunders," Delbridge answered. "You couldn't expect to make a better deal than that long-headed chap. If you really want to do this thing you'd better act at once. I have another plan on hand." "You make it as an offer?" Mostyn asked. "Yes." "Then the stock is yours," Mostyn answered. "Figure it up and place the money to my credit. I may check it out to-day. I am thinking of leaving town." Delbridge suppressed a glow of triumph in his eyes as he took the certificates into his hands. He spread the crisp sheets out on the desk. "Indorse them while the pen is handy," he suggested. Mostyn dipped the pen and wrote steadily on the backs of the certificates. "That's O. K.," Delbridge mumbled, dropping his cigar into a cuspidor. "Now I'll credit your account with the money. Check on it when you like." When Delbridge's back was turned Mostyn drew a blank check from a pigeonhole and began to fill it in. The amount was for one hundred thousand dollars. He made it payable to Jefferson Henderson. He was about to sign his name when a great weakness swept over him like a flood from an unexpected source. How could he do a thing as silly as that? A gift of one-tenth of the amount would delight the old man and take him out of want--perhaps win his gratitude for all time. Mostyn started to tear the check up, but paused. No, no, that wouldn't be in obedience to a higher idea of justice. If the old man had been allowed to hold on to his investment in that early enterprise his earnings would have come to fully as much as the written amount. Suddenly Mostyn saw the dead face of his child as it lay in the coffin surrounded with flowers, and a sob struggled up within him and burst. "For your sake, Dick," he whispered. "I know you'd want me to do it. I know it--I know it." Half an hour later he was out in the open air, walking with a strange new activity. His very body seemed imponderable. He crossed the railway near the Kimball House and went on to Decatur Street. Along this street he walked for a few blocks and then turned off. Before long he was in the most dilapidated, sordid part of the city. He knew where Henderson lived. He had seen the old man pottering about the narrow front yard of the grimy little cottage as he drove past it one morning with a friend. As he drew near the house to-day its impoverished appearance was more noticeable than ever. It was out of repair. Shingles had fallen from the sagging roof. It had not been painted for years; the slats and hinges of the outside blinds were broken, and they hung awry across the cracked window-panes. There was a little fence around it from which many palings were missing, as was the gate. On the narrow front porch a ragged hemp hammock hung by knotted and tied ropes between two posts. There was a broken baby-carriage in the yard, a child's playhouse at the step, a little toy wagon, a headless doll, a piece of bread, and some chicken-bones. Mostyn went to the open door and rang the jangling cast-iron bell. It brought a young woman from a room on the right of the bare little hall. She held a baby in her arms as she peered questioningly at the visitor. Mostyn knew who she was. She was Henderson's youngest daughter, who had married a shiftless carpenter and been deserted by him, leaving two children to be cared for by their grandfather. It was evident by her blank stare that she did not recognize the caller. "I want to see your father," Mostyn said. "Is he at home?" "He's in the back yard," she answered. "He hasn't been feeling at all well to-day, and he didn't go to town as usual. Who may I say it is?" "Tell him it is Mr. Mostyn," was the answer. "I won't keep him but a moment." "Mostyn--Dick Mostyn!" The woman's tired eyes flashed as she jerked out the name. "So you have come _here_ to devil him, have you?" She shifted the infant from her left to her right hip and sneered. "I don't suppose he cares to see you. I'll tell you one thing--he's my father and I have a right to be plain--you and your treatment are driving him out of his senses. He can't think of anything else or talk of anything else. Sometimes he rages, and sometimes he breaks down and cries like a child. I never have fully understood what you did to him, but I know you ruined him. Come in. I'll tell him you are here. I hope to the Lord you won't hit him any harder than you have already. We are in trouble enough. Two days last week we went without anything to eat except what a neighbor sent in, and that nearly killed my father, for he is proud. One of my sisters is sick and lost her job at the factory. If I thought you was any sort of a man I'd ask you to have pity." With her disengaged hand the woman shoved a door open and hastily retreated. He went into a little sitting-room and sat down. There were only a few pieces of furniture in the room. A worn straw mat lay on the floor; three or four chairs, all but bottomless, stood here and there; a small square table holding a lamp and a family photograph-album bound in red plush was in the center of the room. Oil-portraits of Henderson and his dead wife, in massive frames, hung on the walls. Henderson's wore the prosperous look of the time when his means and good will had been at Mostyn's service. Holding his hat between his knees, the caller leaned forward tensely, wondering over the present spectacle of himself. He heard loud words in the rear. "I know what he wants." Old Henderson's voice rose and cracked. "It isn't the first time he has tried to browbeat me into holding my tongue. He's heard what I've said, and wants to threaten me with prosecution. But that won't stop me. I'll tell him what I think to his teeth--the low-lived, thieving dog! He _did_ steal my money--he _did,_ he _did!_" Heavy footfalls rang on the bare floor of the hall; an outer door was slammed. The voice of Henderson's daughter, now full of fright, was heard admonishing her father to be calm. "You'll drop like the doctor said you would if you don't be careful!" she advised. "The man isn't worth it." With dragging steps old Henderson advanced till he stood in the doorway. His long white hair was unkempt; he wore no collar or coat. His trousers were baggy, patched at the knees, and frayed at the bottom of the legs, where they scarcely reached the gaping tops of his stringless shoes. Mostyn had risen and now stood staring at his former patron, unable to formulate what he had come to say. "My daughter says you want to see me," Henderson blurted out. "Well, you are welcome to the sight. You've dodged _me_ often enough lately. Do you know what I tried to see you about the other day when I was there? It wasn't to get money, for I've given that up long, long ago. I wanted to tell you that I spend my days now thanking both God and the devil for the plight you are in at last. I believe prayers are answered--you bet I do--you bet, you bet! I've prayed to have you hit below the belt, and it has come in good measure. I see from the way you look that you feel it. Ah, ha! you know now, don't you, how it feels to squirm under public scorn and lose something you hold dear? They tell me old Mitchell sees through you and is leaving all he's got to Virginia kin. The dying of your child knocked all that into a cocked hat--your own child, think of that! I've laughed till I was sick over it. First one report come, then another, till your three staggering, knock-out blows was made public. I don't know how true it is"--Henderson wrung his talon-like hands together tightly--"but business men say there isn't much left of your private funds." "Hardly anything now, Mr. Henderson," Mostyn answered. "Now that I have decided to--" "Ah! _that_ is true, then!" Henderson ran on, with a sly chuckle. "It is reported that Delbridge, the feller you started out to race against so big, has swiped the bank presidency right from under your nose, nabbed the cream of the business, and put it on a respectable footing." "That is all true," Mostyn admitted. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he drew out the check he had written. It fluttered in the air, for he held it unsteadily. "Here is something for you," he said. "It is late coming, Mr. Henderson, but it is yours. You will find it all right." "Mine?" The old man's limp hands hung down his sides. He saw the extended check, but failed to understand. He gazed at the quivering slip, his rigid lips dripping, his eyes filled with groping suspicion. "Yes, it is yours," Mostyn said. "I've been long getting to it, but I am now bent on making restitution as far as possible. I can never wipe out the trouble I've put you to during all these years, but this may help. If you had held your interest in that factory as I held mine it would have been worth one hundred thousand dollars to-day." "I know it--I know it--what the hell--" Henderson stared first at the check and then at Mostyn. "What do you mean by coming to me at this late--" "It is my check for a hundred thousand dollars, payable to you," Mostyn answered. "The money is yours. You may draw it any time you like." Henderson's hand shot out. The long-nailed fingers grasped the slip of paper and bore it to his eyes. He stared; he blinked; he quivered. A light flared up in his face and died. "You don't mean it; it is another one of your damned tricks," he gasped. "You can't mean that I am to have--" "I mean nothing else, Mr. Henderson," Mostyn faltered. He moved forward and laid his hand on the old man's shoulder. A flood of new-born tenderness rose within him and surged outward. "I have wronged you through the best part of your life. This is your money, and I am glad to be able to return it." "Mine? Oh, God! oh, God! oh, God!" Mostyn's hand fell from the sloping shoulder, for Henderson was leaving the room. "Wait, wait, wait!" he called back, imploringly. "I want my--my daughter to read it and see if--if it is like you say it is. I can't see without my glasses; the letters run together. I don't know what to believe or--or what to doubt. Wait, wait, wait!" Mostyn heard him clattering along the hall, calling to his daughter in the plaintive voice of an excited child. "Hettie, Hettie, here! Come, daughter, come look--read this! Quick! Quick! What does it say?" Mostyn stood at the little window. He heard the infant crying in the rear as if it had been suddenly neglected by its mother. He heard the young woman's voice reading the words written on the check. "He's paying it back!" Henderson's voice rose almost to a scream. "It is twice as much as I put in, too. Oh, Het, we are rich! we are rich! He isn't so bad, after all! He's more than doing the right thing! Not one man in a million would do it; he's white to the bone! He's had sorrow--maybe that's it. They say trouble will turn a man about. Oh, Lord! oh, Lord!" The next moment Henderson, his face wet with tears, stood in the narrow doorway. He held out his hand and grasped Mostyn's. He started to speak, but burst into violent sobbing. Mostyn was shaken to the lowest depths of himself. He put his arm about the old man's shoulders and drew him against his breast. A thrill of strange, hitherto inexperienced ecstasy passed through him. He thought of his dead child; he thought of his dead wife; he thought of the mystic preacher of the mountains; he thought of Dolly Drake. The whole world was whirling into new expression. It now had transcendent meaning. At last he understood. The heights could not be seen except from the depths. Joy could not be felt till after sorrow--till after total renunciation of self. What need had he now of money? None, that he could see. The world was full of glorious things, and the old man weeping in his arms was the most glorious of all. CHAPTER XXI The various rural Sunday-schools were holding an annual singing convention at Level Grove within a mile of Saunders's home. They were held once a year and were largely attended. Saunders had driven over with Mostyn, who had just returned for a short visit. A big arbor of tree-branches had been constructed, seated with crude benches made of undressed planks. At one end there was a platform, and on it a cottage organ and a speaker's stand holding a pitcher of water and a goblet. Several years before Saunders had offered a beautiful banner as a prize to the winning Sunday-school, and year after year it was won and held for twelve months by the school offering the most successful singers. To-day it leaned against the organ, its beautiful needlework glistening in the sunlight. Wagons and vehicles of all sorts brought persons for miles in every direction. The weather was delightful, being neither warm nor cool. In the edge of the crowd were lemonade and cider stands, surrounded by thirsty customers. In the edge of the crowd a Confederate veteran with an empty sleeve had a phonograph on the end of a wagon, which, under his proud direction, was turning out selections of the most modern vocal and instrumental music. Another thing which was attracting attention was Saunders's new automobile, which had been driven up from Atlanta by the agent who had sold it. It stood in the roadway near the arbor, and was admired by all who passed it. Saunders himself had been busy all day helping place the seats and arrange the program. While he was thus engaged Dolly and her mother and Ann arrived. He saw them pause to look at his car, and then they came on to the arbor. Dolly was to play the organ, and she went on to the platform, some music-books under her arm. She had on a new hat and new dress, which he thought more becoming to her than any he had seen her wear. Happening to glance across the seated crowd, he saw Mostyn by himself on the outer edge of the arbor, his eyes--wistfully fixed on Dolly. "He still loves her; he can't help it," Saunders groaned, inwardly. "I can see it in his eyes and face. Oh, God, am I really to lose her after all? She will pity him now in his loneliness and grief and turn to him. She can't help it. She won't harbor resentment, and is not a woman who could love more than once. She knows he is here, and--and that accounts for the glow on her face and tense look in her eyes. She knows he was weak, but she will hear of his repentance and atonement, and take him back. Well, well, I have no right to come between them, and yet--and yet--oh God, I can't give her to him--I can't--I can't! I have hoped and waited! It would kill me to lose her now." He caught Dolly's glance. She smiled, and he went to her at the organ, where she stood opening her music. "What do you think?" she laughed, impulsively. "They have asked me for a speech." "Well, you must make it," he said, a catch of despair in his throat, for she had never seemed so unattainable as now. "I've made up my mind," she said, firmly. "I sha'n't do it. I'm in no mood for it. They needn't insist. I shall play the organ, and that is enough for one day." "She's thinking of Mostyn," Saunders reflected, bitterly. "She knows he is free now. She reads his regret in his face, and, woman that she is, she pities him--she loves him." To her he finally managed to say: "I saw you looking at my new car." "Yes, it is beautiful," she answered. "And are you going to take me riding in it some day?" "This afternoon, at the first chance you have to get away," he answered. "I had it brought over for that reason alone. I want you to be the first to ride in it." "Oh, how sweet of you!" she smiled. "Then immediately after lunch we'll go, if you say so, Jarvis. I'm nervous about this dratted music. I've been practising it on the piano, and it is different to have to work the pedals of this thing and keep time with singers, half of whom want to go it alone because they have been practising in the woods with the hoot-owls." He laughed with her, but his laugh died on his lips, for he saw her glance in Mostyn's direction, and thought he saw a shadow flit across her eyes. The fact that she did not mention Mostyn's return was in itself significant, he decided, and his agony became so intense that he was afraid she would read it in his face. He had never known before the full depth and strength of his love. All those years he had waited in vain. Fate was shaping things to fit another plan than his. Morally, he had no right to come between those two lovers. Mostyn had perhaps been unworthy, but God Himself forgave the repentant, and Mostyn showed repentance in the very droop of his body. Dolly would pity and forgive. She had already done so, and that was what had kindled the spiritual glow in her face. It was said that Mostyn had given away most of his fortune, and would have but a poor home now to offer a wife, but that would count for naught in Dolly Drake's eyes. She had loved Mostyn, and she could love but once. Just then the director of the singing came up; and Saunders, after admonishing her not to forget the ride, left her. "I must be a man," he whispered to himself. "I have had few trials, and this must be met bravely. If she is not for me, she is not, that is all; but oh, God, it is awful--it is unbearable! There was hope till a woman and a child died, and now there seems to be none. The angelic pity for another in Dolly's white soul means my undoing." Passing out from under the arbor, he found himself alone outside among the tethered horses and mules. Looking back, he saw Mostyn, his eyes still fixed on Dolly as she now sat at the organ turning over the music with her pretty white hands. "I must conquer myself; I simply must," Saunders said, in his throat. "My supreme trial has come, as it must come to all men sooner or later. If she still loves him, then even to be true to her, I must wish her happiness--I must wish them _both_ happiness." At this juncture he saw John Leach, the roving preacher, approaching, swinging his hat in his hand, his fine brow bared to the sunlight. "How are you, brother?" He greeted the planter warmly. "I heard over the mountain that you all were holding this blow-out to-day, and I struck a lively lick to get here before the music commenced. Somebody told me that your friend Mostyn was here." "Yes, he is staying with me," Saunders answered. "He is over there under the arbor." "Well, I'll look 'im up," Leach answered. "Me 'n' him has struck up a sort of friendship. I tie to a fellow in trouble quicker than at any other time, and he has certainly had his share. He wants to make a change, he tells me--thinks of going off somewhere for a while. I've asked him to go to California with me, and he's thinking it over. Say, you know him pretty well; do you reckon he will go?" "I hardly think so--_now_," Saunders replied. "He may have thought of it at one time, but he is likely to remain here." "Well, I'll talk to him anyway," Leach said. "Ah, I see a fellow on the platform with a cornet. I reckon the fun is about to begin. Do you know, I enjoy outdoor singing more than anything else under the sun. It seems to be the way the Lord has of giving folks a chance to let themselves out." He turned away, a rapt expression on his poetic face, and Saunders moved back among the horses. He caught sight of Dolly's profile against the boughs of the arbor beyond her. Taking a step to one side, he brought Mostyn's face into view. Mostyn was now all attention, sitting erect and peering between two heads in front of him, staring at Dolly, his tense lips parted. The first contesting choir began singing, and the stragglers about the grounds drew to the edge of the arbor and stood listening attentively. When it was over there was applause. Then a young man, the superintendent of a Sunday-school beyond the mountains, made a brief address. After this there was more singing, and so the morning passed. At noon it was announced from the platform that, as the singing contest was over and the award of the banner would not be made by the judges till the afternoon, lunch would now be served. Thereupon the audience rose to its feet and began to surge outward. There was much scrambling for baskets and hunts for suitable spots about the grounds for spreading table-cloths. Saunders, as had long been his custom, had prepared food for all who could be induced to accept his hospitality, and he now had his hands full directing his servants and inviting friends to join him. While he was thus engaged he happened to see Mostyn alone in the edge of the bustling crowd, and he strode across to him. "Don't forget you are to eat with me," he said. "They will have it ready in a few minutes." He thought that Mostyn's eyes wavered. He was sure his lips quivered slightly when he answered. "I have promised some one else." Saunders failed to see the call for such slow indirectness of response to an ordinary request. Indeed, a touch of color lay in Mostyn's cheeks. "John Webb came to me just now and said that Dolly--or perhaps it may have been her mother--in fact, I'm sure that it must have been Mrs. Drake---" "Oh, I see, _they've_ asked you!" Saunders broke in. "Well, I'll have to let you off. You may be sure you'll get something nice. They can beat my cook getting up a spread. Well, I'll meet you later. I see Leach over there by himself. I'll run over and get him on my list." Saunders tried to jest. "They say he lives on wild berries, and nuts, and anything else he can pick up. I guess he won't find fault with my lunch." Saunders was the host of fifty or more men, women, and children. He was doing his best to see that all were provided for, and yet he had an eye for a certain group under a beech on a near-by hillside. His heart sank, for he saw Mostyn seated on the ground at Dolly's side. He saw something later that sent a cold shock hurtling through him. He saw the group after lunch rise from the cloth and gradually scatter, leaving Dolly and Mostyn standing at the foot of the hill. A moment later they were walking off, side by side, toward a spring in a shaded dell not far away. The drooping boughs of the willow trees shut them out of sight. Saunders, with a hopeless griping of the heart, went about directing his servants and helping some belated guests to get what they wished to eat. He heard himself joking, replying to jokes, and smiling with lips which felt stiff. The remains of the food had been taken up and replaced in the big baskets when he saw Dolly and Mostyn strolling back from the spring. Mostyn held her sunshade over her, his arm touching hers. The distance was too great for Saunders to see their faces distinctly, but he would have sworn that both reflected joy and peace. "Oh, God, is it actually to be?" he groaned, inwardly. "_Ought_ it to be? Here am I, eager to gratify her every wish, while he can give her only the dry, crushed remains of his manhood, a bare scrap of his past affluence. He scorned the sweetest flower of womanhood that ever bloomed, and now crawls through his own mire to pluck it. It isn't right--it isn't right! God knows it isn't right to her; leaving me and my hopes out altogether--it isn't right to _her!_" Cold from head to foot, Saunders retreated out of sight behind a clump of bushes. Figuratively, he raised his hands to the impotent sky and dumbly cried within himself: "Oh, God, give me strength to bear it like a man! I was wrong in hoping. She is his; she loves him. She loves him. I am an outsider. I now know why I never dared tell her of my love--my adoration! It was the still, inner voice of warning telling me to keep in my proper place." Presently he saw Dolly alone near the arbor, and, remembering his engagement with her, he went to her. "I have come to see if you would care to go now," he began. "I believe there is only some irregular singing and speech-making to follow." "I am free," she said. "My part of the work is over. I refuse to touch the stiff keys of that organ again to-day. My wrists are sore, and my ankles ache. But I've been thinking over that ride, Jarvis. I want to go, of course, but--Jarvis, I hope you are not oversensitive. In fact, I know you are not, and will understand when I say that somehow--don't you know?--somehow, I don't like to leave this particular afternoon, when there is so much to be done here. There are several boys and girls who are anxious to sing and be heard, and some of my young men friends are to speak. We might take our ride some other day." "I understand, Dolly," he said, forcing a smile. He told himself that this last hint ended all. She and Mostyn were reconciled, and she wanted him to understand the situation. They were quite alone. No one was near enough to hear their voices. Suddenly an overpowering impulse possessed him. Why should he beat about the bush? All was lost, but she should at least receive the tribute of his love and despair. There could be no harm in telling her how he felt. His forced smile died on his lips. His eyes met hers. "There was something I was going to tell you," he began, firmly. "All these years I've been holding it back, but I can't any longer. Dolly, you must have known that--" "Stop, Jarvis!" she broke in, laying her hand on his arm. "I know what you are going to say, but don't! Some day I'll explain, but not now--not now!" "Well, you know what I mean." he gulped, "and that is enough. You must have seen--must have understood all along." "Don't--don't be angry with me," she pleaded. "You will understand it all fully some day. I may be an odd sort of girl, but I can't help it--I am simply what I am." "I think I understand now," he said, "and I wish you all happiness in the world." The singing under the arbor had begun, and with a helpless, even startled look in her eyes she moved automatically in that direction. "I don't think you do, fully," she faltered. "I'm sure you don't. Men never quite understand women in such delicate matters." She left him; and, finding himself alone, he crossed the sward and sat down in a group of farmers who were discussing crops and planting. CHAPTER XXII That evening after supper Saunders and Mostyn were on the veranda smoking together. The exchange of remarks was formal, even forced and awkward. Presently Saunders said: "I saw Leach looking for you at the arbor. Did you run across him?" "Yes," Mostyn puffed, and Saunders heard him heave a sigh. "I had quite a talk with him. I can't fully account for it, but I like the man very much. It may be his optimism or wonderful faith. I know that he has a very soothing effect on me. The truth is, I have promised to go to California with him." "Oh!" Saunders leaned against the balustrade, steadily scrutinizing the face of his guest. "He told me something about his proposition, but I thought that perhaps you would not be likely to go--not now, anyway." "Oh yes, I shall go at once. I must go somewhere, and with him I'd have the benefit of a companion." "But, of course," Saunders flung out, tentatively, "you will not remain away long?" "I can't say for sure that I shall _ever_ come back," Mostyn said, sadly. "Of course, I can't say positively as to that, but there is nothing--absolutely nothing to hold me here now." The eyes of the two met in a steady stare. "You can't mean _that_--I'm sure you can't!" Saunders faltered. Mostyn seemed about to speak, but a tremor of rising emotion checked him. He smoked for a moment in silence; then, with a steadier voice, he began: "I must be more frank with you, Jarvis," he said. "You have been a true friend to me, and I don't want to keep anything from you at all. Besides, this concerns you directly. To tell you this I may be betraying confidence, but even that, somehow, seems right. Saunders, to-day at that meeting as I sat there--" Mostyn's voice began to shake again, and he cleared his throat before going on. "As I sat there looking at--at the purest, sweetest face God ever made I began to _hope._ I confess it. I began to hope that God might intend to give me one other chance at earthly happiness. I even fancied that He might purposely have led me back here out of my awful darkness into light. I might not have dared to go so far, but she had her uncle invite me to lunch, and as I sat by her side the very benediction of Heaven seemed to fall on her and me and all the rest. It made me bold. I was out of my head. I was intoxicated by it all. Don't you see, I began to think, late as it is--shamed as I am before the world--I began to think that I might again take some sort of root among men and be worthy of--of the only woman I ever really loved? She and I walked off together. Her consenting to go gave me fresh courage. I determined to speak. I determined to throw my soiled soul at her spotless feet. I did." "Don't say any more; I know the rest," Saunders said, under his breath. "I congratulate you. I congratulate you with all my heart." He held out his hand, but Mostyn warded it off, his cigar cutting red zigzag lines in the darkness. "Congratulate me? My God, _you_ congratulate _me_. Are you blind? Have you been blind all this time? She not only spurned my love, but in a blaze of righteous indignation she told me she loved you. She said she loved, adored, reverenced--_worshiped_ you. She seemed to look on my hopes as some sort of insult to her womanhood. She didn't want _you_ to know of her love, she said, but she wanted _me_ to know it. She seems to feel--she seems to think that in all your kindness to her and nobleness you deserve a wife who has never fancied another, even in girlhood. She told me that her feeling for me was only the idle whim of a child, and that she pitied me as a weak and stumbling creature. She put it that way, with blazing eyes, and she put it right. I _am_ weak--I've always been weak; and to-day, in trying to win her from you, I did the weakest act of my life. I confess it. You have the right to strike me in the face. I knew you loved her. I knew she had become your very life, and yet in my despair and damnable vanity I wanted to take her from you. I am trying to get right, but I fell before that dazzling temptation. In telling you of her love now I am tearing my soul from my body, but I want to atone--I want to atone--as far as possible." Saunders turned his transformed face away. He said nothing, and the two stood in dead silence for a moment. Suddenly Saunders put out a throbbing hand and laid it on Mostyn's shoulder. "I thank you; I thank you," he said, huskily. "You must excuse me this evening. I hope you can pass the time some way. I am going to her, Mostyn. I can't wait another minute. I must see her to-night!" CHAPTER XXIII CONCLUSION Six years passed. It was autumn in the mountains. The air was balmy and crisp. The landscape was gloriously tinted by late wild flowers and the colors of dying leaves. A far-off peak, catching the rays of the afternoon sun, rose above the dun valley like a mound of delicate coral dropped from the cloud-mottled blue overhead. A stranger, walking from the station at Ridgeville, was nearing the front gate of Saunders's home. He moved with a slow, thoughtful step. He was gray, even to the whiteness of snow. His skin was clear and pink, his eyes were bright and alert. As he opened the gate he became aware of the nearness of two children playing in a vine-clad summer-house on the right of the graveled walk. The older was a handsome boy of four years; his companion was a pretty little girl of two, whom the boy held by the hand quite with the air of manly guardianship. "Now, see how you have soiled your dress," the boy said, brushing the child's lap with his little hand. "Mama wouldn't like that." The clicking of the gate-latch attracted the glance of the children; and they stood staring curiously at the man who, with an introductory smile, was drawing near. He bent down and shook hands with them both, first with the little girl and lastly with the boy. "I have come to see your papa and mama," he said. "Are they at home? I think they are expecting me." "They are down in the meadow getting flowers," the boy answered. "They are coming right back. You can see them from here. Look, there by the spring!" The stranger followed the direction indicated by the little hand, and his eyes took on a wistful stare as they fixed upon a couple strolling across the meadow, holding flowers and ferns in their hands. They walked quite close together, those two, and the distance seemed to enfold them with conscious tenderness. "They are both well, I believe?" the man said to the boy, as the more timid little girl turned and toddled away. "Yes, thank you," the boy answered, in words which sounded stilted in one so young. "They got your letter. I heard papa say so. You are Mr. Mostyn, a very old friend of theirs. They said I must love you and be good while you are here, because you have no little boy yourself." "Yes, yes, that's true," Mostyn answered, taking the child's hand in his. "Now you know my name, you must tell me yours." "Richard," the child said. "I was named for your little boy that died and went up to God. Papa used to love him long, long ago in Atlanta." Mostyn drew the child along by the hand. The delicate throbbing of the boy's pulse thrilled him through and through. Steps sounded in the hall of the house, and John Webb, not any older in appearance than when last seen, crossed the veranda and came slowly down the steps. "Well, well, well!" he cried. "Here you are at last. It must be a powerful long trip from Californy. The folks didn't seem to think you'd git here till in the morning. They 'lowed you'd stop for a while in Atlanta." "I finished my visit there sooner than I expected." Mostyn shook the thick damp hand warmly. "I've been living out in the open so much of late years that Atlanta seemed stuffy and crowded; besides, my sister has moved away, and I have no blood-kin there. I wanted to get into the country as soon as I could, and this seems like home in a way." "That's what Dolly and Jarvis are goin' to try to make it for you," Webb went on. "Lord, they have been countin' on this for a long time! Seems like they don't talk of much else. I heard 'em say they was goin' to try to break you of your rovin' habit. They've got your room fixed up to a gnat's heel. It is the best one in the house--plenty of air and light. That's what they are out pickin' flowers and evergreens for now. They want it to look cheerful." "It is very kind of them, I am sure," Mostyn answered, "but I wouldn't like to be in the way very long." "You won't be in nobody's way here," Webb declared. "If this ain't an open house there never was one of the old-time sort before the war. Jarvis runs the place like his pa and grandpa did. You never saw the like o' visitors in summer-time. They pile in from all directions, close an' far off. Every friend that comes anywhere nigh has to put up here. Them two live happy, I tell you, if ever a pair did. They've got 'em a fine home in Atlanta, where they spend the winter, but they both love this best. Jarvis is writin' a book about mountain flowers, an' Dolly helps him. They travel about a lot; they take in New York nearly every year, but love to get back home where they say they can be comfortable." "And the rest of the family?" Mostyn said. "Your sister and Drake, how are they?" "Fine, first rate. Tom still bosses the plantation. Jarvis tried to git 'im to quit when he married in the family--said he didn't want his daddy-in-law drawin' pay by the month--but Tom had got interested in the work and hung on. He's turned out to be an A1 manager, I tell you. He knows what's what in plantin', an' makes his men move like clockwork from sun-up to sun-down." "And George and his wife?" Mostyn inquired. "Are they doing well?" "Fine, fine. Got four likely children--three boys and a girl baby that gave 'er first yell just a month ago. That pair has struck a lively lick hatchin' 'em out, but it is exactly what they like--they say they want just as many crawlers under foot as they can step over without stumblin'." "And you, yourself--" Mostyn hesitated. "Have you--" "Oh, me?" Webb's freckled face reddened. "Not on your life. I'll stay like I am till I'm under ground. Not any of it for me. Other folks can do as they like, but not me--no siree! I reckon you hain't never"--Webb hesitated--"married a second time?" "No," Mostyn answered. "I am still quite alone in the world." Webb glanced toward the meadow. "I'll walk down there and let 'em know you are here," he said. "They would dilly-dally like that till after dark, an' then come home swingin' hands an' gigglin' an' sayin' fool things to each other. They make me sick sometimes. I believe in love, you understand--I think married folks ought to love each other, in the bounds o' reason, but this mushy business--well, it ain't in my line, that's all!" He passed through the gate and started toward the meadow. Mostyn leaned on the fence. He saw the couple again. They were standing face to face arranging the flowers. "I don't think I'd disturb them if I were you," he called after the bachelor. "There is no hurry." "Oh, they would want to know you are here," Webb answered over his shoulder, as he strode away. "They will come in a trot when they know about it." Presently Mostyn felt a small hand creep into his. It was the little boy. "Do you see them?" the child inquired. "I can't look over the fence." "Yes, let me hold you up." Mostyn lifted the boy in his arms. "Now, now can you see?" he asked, the words sweeping from him in suddenly released tenderness. "Yes, yes; and they are coming. Let's go to meet them. Will you?" "Yes, and you must let me carry you. You know I used to love to carry my _own_ little boy like this--just like this." The child's arm, already on Mostyn's shoulder, slid closer to his neck till it quite encircled it. The soft, warm hand touched Mostyn's chin. "Mama and papa said I must call you 'Uncle Dick,' but you are not my really, _really_ uncle, are you?" "No, but I want to be. Will you--would you mind giving your old uncle a hug with--with _both_ your arms?" The boy complied. "There, there!" Mostyn said. "Once more--tight--tight! Hug me tight!" The child obeyed. "Oo-ooh!" he cried, as he relaxed his tense pressure. "Thank you--thank you!" Mostyn kissed him; then he was silent. With one hand on Mostyn's cheek the boy leaned forward and peered into his face curiously. "Why--why," he faltered, his little lips puckered sympathetically, "what is the matter?" THE END